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papiliotao · 11 months

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꒰ 𝒎𝒊𝒅𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒄𝒍𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒚 ✩࿐

pairings: alhaitham, diluc, kaeya, and zhongli x gn!reader (separate)

content: hurt/comfort, fluff, established relationship, arguments (unspecified reason), reader and character live together

summary: after a heated conflict with your boyfriend, you decide to sleep on the couch instead of together on your shared bed. how does he react?

a/n: shockingly, i'm not writing for any anemo boys this time. that's mainly because this is a gift for @spiritingawaytoanime for @favonius-library's gift exchange event! i hope you enjoy!

The sound of the front door closing is the only sound that can be heard as ALHAITHAM steps into your living room. An ocean of pitch-blackness threatens to drown him. The space lacks illumination. Darkness floods into every crack and crevice of your home, invading an otherwise peaceful space.

He breathes out a sigh as he walks down the hallway of your shared apartment. Alhaitham doesn’t bother flicking on the lights. He knows you’re probably asleep already, and he’d rather not disturb you, especially since you were in a foul mood earlier. So unpleasant, in fact, that you got into a petty argument with him. However, Alhaitham isn’t really that worried. He knows that in the end, you’ll be able to sort out your differences.

But when he enters the bedroom, he immediately feels that something is off. The air feels colder than usual, biting his skin with the ferocity of a thousand cuts. It’s unsettling and especially disturbing to Alhaitham because such feelings don’t often overtake his frozen heart. It almost feels as though the atmosphere has the ability to thaw his emotions, awakening a sentimental side of himself that doesn’t often show beyond his rational demeanour.

When he approaches the side of your bed, he instantaneously realizes what’s wrong. You’re not here. You’re not here. An unfamiliar feeling drives pinpricks into his heart. The sensation is strange, irritating, and it won’t go away. He hasn’t ever felt this way before. Perhaps this is another emotion to add to the list of new feelings being with you has caused him to experience.

Alhaitham sighs. It’s not like he wasn’t expecting this outcome. He had been far too cold earlier while you had been far too emotional. Ice and fire would never coalesce into a single being.

The feelings that accompany the situation are all a complete mystery to him. Nonetheless, he buries his emotions so that he can focus on finding you, maintaining his logical front in the face of such a precarious situation.

As your lover, he knows you well, so he’s almost entirely sure he knows where you’ve gone. Alhaitham shakes his head. He should have checked right when he entered the house. After all, the couches were right by the door.

Once again, Alhaitham walks blindly through the darkness, taking it step-by-step without so much as a stumble in his gait as he makes his way down a hallway that has long engraved itself in his memories. It’s odd. Alhaitham doesn’t usually go out of his way to become involved in the affairs of others, much less memorize details about their lives. But with you, everything is different. He remembers every single intricate thread of information in the web that forms your identity.

And perhaps that’s why he feels a sense of calm wash over him like cerulean waves on a pristine summer day as he approaches your sleeping form. As he takes in the sight of your silhouette against the backdrop of night, he notices that you appear to be shivering slightly. You don’t have a blanket on.

“Typical [name],” he whispers under his breath.

Although his words sound rather harsh and slanderous, he utters them with hints of a small smile gracing his face.

Quietly, Alhaitham walks over to a closet in which you keep a multitude of blankets. He takes his time selecting one — after all, he’s in no rush. Eventually, he settles on a velvety blanket that feels soft to the touch. Although Alhaitham can’t exactly picture it in the dark, he knows that it will be sufficient.

So with an insurmountable level of care, he drapes it onto your body. Even though he can be insensitive at times, Alhaitham knows that you most likely want some space for now, so with a gentle ghost of a kiss to your cheek, he leaves the room.

The silence that fills the house rings in DILUC’s ears, shrieking in a manner reminiscent of thousands of crystal glasses shattering into pieces. It’s deafening. The space feels as though it is full of nothing but misery and doubt and yet it’s so, so empty at the same time.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The sound of a clock’s arms snapping into place in one second intervals is the only sign of life within the building. Every space on the canvas of night is blank as if awaiting wonderous stars to fill the nothingness with inquisitive light. However, the illumination doesn’t come. Tales of galaxies serendipitously brightening worlds are simply idealistic fantasies from the minds of children. In the real world, things seldom end so well without any intervention.

So he decides to slowly get out of bed, leaving the warmth under the covers — a heat that feels far too stifling without you — in order to search for you. But as the abyssal air of night brushes against Diluc’s skin, he feels a shiver run down his spine. Nothing feels right without you by his side. He needs you. Now.

Diluc knows you’re sleeping on the couch. He saw you there when he was going to bed, but at the time, pride and petty emotions whispered words of spite in the depths of his soul, phrases that prompted him to ignore you.

As he navigates the dimly-lit hallways of your shared home, a wave of regret washes over him. If only things hadn’t gotten so heated when you were still immersed in the waking world together. Now you’re asleep, and he’s lost any chance he has of making things right today. If he wants to apologize, then patience will be crucial.

However, at the same time, Diluc wants to check up on you. So when he finally makes his way through the doorway of the living room, his eyes immediately land on your figure, burning with the light of a thousand fires, almost as though they are casting a glow upon your silhouette. The moonlight illuminates you, caressing every strand of your hair and highlighting every dip and curve of your features to make you look absolutely ethereal.

As Diluc approaches you, he notices that you’re barely covered by a thin blanket, and despite the feeble layer of protection, the frigid atmosphere of night seems to permeate your soul. He shakes his head slightly, sighing as he stares at you. No matter how angry he was at you during the day, Diluc can’t just leave you here to freeze.

So with bated breath, he picks you up while you’re still immersed in a universe of dreamy fantasies and carries you to your room. He thanks all his years of training with a claymore for giving him the ability to lift you. Although you’re not on the best of terms, Diluc is sure that you’ll make up once morning comes, and thus, a vibrant new dawn will overlook the horizon for both of you.

Shivers wrack KAEYA’s body as he tosses and turns restlessly in a bed that feels far too large and far too empty for his liking. It’s peculiar. The cold rarely bothers him, yet now, without you by his side, the frigidness of the night air is far too potent for his liking. Tendrils of night creep under the covers overtop him, wrapping around him with an icy fervor, and no matter how hard he tries to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he can’t.

It’s as though the brighter part of himself has faded away with the radiance of the sun, giving way to an indescribable melancholy that settles into every inch of his being, taking all that he has and becoming all that he is. The cold is so much more unbearable without your warmth, and it doesn’t take long before he realizes that he won’t be able to close his eyes peacefully and drift into a tranquil world full of glacial wonderlands. Instead, he’ll lie awake, alone in your freezing bed — a place that feels far too desolate without your presence.

Hours stretch on and on, twisting and turning in a way that morphs them into a neverending story. As time goes on, the unsettling embers that had once singed the pit of Kaeya’s stomach grow until they blaze brightly, morphing into a raging fire. It’s unbearable, and he knows that he has to do something or else his mind will continue nagging at him for the remainder of the evening.

With cautious movements, he sits up and climbs out of bed. It’s awfully quiet in the house. Usually, flirtatious remarks and passionate displays of affection fill the void within your home, transforming it into a utopia overflowing with wonders. However, at the moment, none of that exists. Perpetual darkness and transient flashes of anxiety are the only things present at the moment. However, he manages to carefully make his way down the hallway without much issue. The creaking of the floorboards is the only noise that cuts through the silence hanging in the air.

As Kaeya enters the living room, his eyes land on a figure lying on the couch. It’s you. He breathes out a sigh, approaching you. Kaeya can see the rising and falling of your chest, hear your gentle breaths, and feel you exhaling once he leans in to examine your face. You look as though you’re at peace — a stark contrast to your earlier demeanour, an act fueled by feelings of rage and spite.

A small smile tugs on the corners of his lips. You look ethereal, although slightly pitiful, your face tinted with the light of the moon. His heart breaks. You appear lonely without his arms wrapped around you. Kaeya feels the urge to pull you into his embrace, hold you tight, protect you from the unknown monsters of the night.

But instead of doing anything, he simply stands there. After your explosive argument, he’s still hesitant to touch you. However, upon closer examinations, Kaeya sees you shaking like a leaf in an intense gale. You’re freezing. And that’s the final straw.

Your boyfriend finally breaks under the weight of your needs and his desires. With steady movements and a fragile touch, he lifts your body just the slightest bit — barely enough for him to climb onto the couch under you. Gradually, he sets you down, laying your head down on his chest. His fingers graze over your features as he eyes you with a gaze full of admiration.

“Sweet dreams, babe. We’ll figure everything out once the sun rises.”

ZHONGLI sighs as he settles atop the plush covers of your shared bed alone. It feels cold — far too frigid for his liking as darkness encroaches, and although he glances out the window in hopes of seeing a single shard of fragmented starlight, he is greeted with nothing more than the sight of an endless abyss devoid of radiance.

A chill permeates every bone in his body, gnawing at him in a way that serves as a perpetual reminder that you’re not beside him right now. It’s strange. For once, Zhongli feels restless. He’s usually so calm, so composed. But at the moment, he can’t help but worry.

You’re not here with him. Instead, you’re out in the living room, curled up alone on the couch. Zhongli can picture you in flawless detail — every dip and curve of your troubled face, the shadows that shroud you in a cloak fashioned from midnight, and the rise and fall of your chest as you breathe in and out. He feels a longing that he hasn’t felt in centuries. He wants to be beside you to trace your features, to prevent the glacial fingers of night from creeping down your back, and to feel your breath fanning his face.

However, he knows that no matter how hard he wishes, his hopes and dreams will have to be put on hold for now. In hindsight, it was a bad idea to let you escape into the land of slumber without trying to work things out with you first because now, Zhongli feels as though he won’t get a wink of sleep. At least, not without you by his side.

Eventually, he caves to all the thoughts running through his head; guilt threatens to swallow him whole. So instead of continuing to chase sleep, Zhongli gets out of bed, and although the night air sends a shiver down his spine, the sensation is nothing compared to his need for you. Quietly, he makes his way into your living room, trying to keep his footfalls light out of fear of waking you up. His eyes have long since adjusted to the darkness, so he navigates the house without any real trouble.

When he arrives at his destination, his gaze immediately zones in on a silhouette lying on one of the couches in the room. Although obscured by darkness, he knows that it’s you. Cautiously, he bends down to observe you. Zhongli raises his hand in order to caress your cheeks, his touch feather-light as if he’s afraid that you’ll shatter.

He wants nothing more than to wake you right now and talk things out, but he doesn’t want to disturb your slumber. You seem so peaceful despite everything that happened earlier, and besides, Zhongli is sure that with time, the two of you will make up. Your love for each other is much stronger than any form of false resentment fostered by petty arguments. After all, the illusions created by a deceptive heart are far too easy to dispel with feelings of everlasting passion and affection.

So instead of rousing you from the oneiric realm of dreams, Zhongli sits down on a couch beside the one you’re lying on. Although his mind has not completely settled yet, it feels less perturbed with you by his side. As a master of patience, he decides that he’ll wait for you to wake up. He’ll wait for the first rays of light to grace the face of the earth in order to greet you with a smile and an apology once you open your eyes.

Thank you for reading!

#r.archives *ೃ༄#favoniuslibrary #astronetwrk #alhaitham x reader #diluc x reader #kaeya x reader #zhongli x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin fanfic #genshin imagines #genshin headcanons #genshin x you #genshin fluff

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ilyuu · 1 year

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. . . skill issue tbh.

scaramouche x gn!reader x xiao smau.

cw ; crack, teasing (lots of it), angst, (subtle) pinning!

something of a cold air crept in. although, the room was relatively warm, tepid, the windows are all tightly shut, and the conditioner wasn’t even on.

“no.”

“there he is,” heizou sighs. he curls further into the couch. “go start building a palace out of ice while you’re at it.”

“now, now, it is hardly the time to ridicule him.” kazuha runs his hand through his hair, skimming his scalp with his fingers - something that he does occasionally, and yet, still flusters the other. “he’s still a bit shy.”

heizou looks at him. a pause. “…yeah, no. definitely not.”

“oh, screw you.”

“hm, interested in someone else so i’ll pass.”

“oh?” kazuha lets his hand hover. “someone else is in the picture?”

“…don’t think too much about it.”

“god, you two are going to be the absolute death of me.” scara pinches the bridge of his nose, and with that alone, either of the two can notice how much this is weighing on him.

for the last few hours, just around when the sun was setting on the skies, and the world around them started to slow down a bit, he’s been on edge.

where did this edge come from? it’s no surprise to either kazuha or heizou in where, and yet, more in when and why. it isn’t the first time they’d seen him in a state such as this, and, they hope silently, it would be the last.

kazuha shuffles out of his spot from the couch and finds himself by his side, looking at him with something that comes close to concern (with something else that he can’t decipher.) “i still stand by to what i said earlier.”

“so do i.” he turns his head. “no.”

“i’m aware, but you’ve been beating around the bush for quite too long now.” he settles a hand on scara’s shoulder. “these feelings you hold are infinite, i see that, yet that isn’t the case for them, who doesn’t know said feelings exist.”

“what if the day comes that they find someone to call their own?” something seeps into his voice, something that scara, over the years, has learned to call rue. “i cannot, and will not, see you in a state of desolation.”

“you’re saying it as if the world would end if they said no, let alone if someone that’s by their side that isn’t me.”

“isn’t it true?” as soon as the words are said, scara feels another presence on his other side - heizou. he stares at him and it feels as though he can see everything - every corner, crack. “i mean, it isn’t too far to say you’re practically head over heels for them.”

“and something that much can’t be held inside for too long. you have to tell them.”

he bit his lip. “…then what?”

“well,” kazuha spoke up again, and this time, a soothing undertone that, while he wouldn’t admit it in any way, shape, or form, that has calmed him more than he’d realized. “that is up to them to decide. either way, at the very least, will they be aware of how you feel for them.”

he takes in their words in silence. and they give him such, giving him space.

an old memory resurfaces (is it really an old one when he thinks about it all too frequently?)

thunder thrums; leaves shivers; unrelenting rain falling with little to no mercy; an umbrella meant for one. and words that melted along with the cold of the downpour.

that day coalesced with one another and such fragments were lost to the rain and time. but the darkness of that one day, so simple, crawled back into its corners for a bit. for a bit. that’s all it took now that he looks back on it. and every time he did, he only felt, for a lack of a better word, selfish.

(was it really all it took for him to like you?)

he thinks back to that day one more time.

(yes. yes, it was.)

“…so?”

“so… what?” heizou asks, as if he as no idea what’s to come. the small smile on his face, growing bit by bit, says otherwise. “need to be a bit more specific there.”

“do i have to spit it out for you?”

“perhaps.” a lilt in his voice, as teasing as it is soft, touches his voice as kazuha joins in. “one’s thoughts tends to be a turmoil others cannot come to comprehend.”

“i hate you both.”

“and we love you too.”

it was when he rolled his eyes that he felt his phone vibrating in one of his pockets, and he was all but too ready to switch it off to silent before he saw who sent a message to him.

“oh.”

the two sidled up to his side, looking over his shoulder to see what he sees. and when they did, their reactions differed.

“oh indeed.”

“god, that is the driest reaction i’ve seen out of either of you and that’s saying something. a lot.”

it was you.

“scara, it’s these types of things that you do that makes me wonder whether you like them at all.”

“is that the reason why you’ve changed their profile and their contact name? again?”

“i said it once and i’ll say it again - you’re as dry as the sahara desert,” he drawls. “i’m doing your a favor.”

“what you’re doing is giving me a headache.”

“hold your thoughts.” it’s only then that the two of them feels kazuha bristle slightly, on edge. his eyes take on a darker shade than what either is used to. “it seems as you both overlooked the point of this.”

“…the drunkard.”

“yes, although i’d appreciate if you call him by his name. nonetheless, it seems as though something had happened.”

it takes the sound of something rustling for the two to look over their shoulders, seeing heizou zip himself up in a thin jacket that appeared out of thin air. when he sees little to no movement from the corner of his eye, he sighs once again.

“man alive… c’mon! we can’t let them wait a second longer!”

“for someone of his disposition,” a small smile that gives off but a helpless feeling shows on him, “this must akin to child’s play.”

“he’s just itching for a new case to practice on with his hands.” scara clicks his tongue. before he knows it, he’s already typing out a response to your messages. the other one beside him simply huffs, an amused sound that he can’t seem to hold back.

prev. | masterlist. | next.

taglist (open!) ; @yzeniko, @yukiipc, @starz222, @the-ghost-0f-t0m0, @mondaymelon, @wanderchive, @kyouzki, @mamafly, @beriiov, @crucnhice, @neigesprincess, @sxiaoul, @mikctp, @sukunasrealgf, @abvolat, @st0pthatsgay, @h-8chi . . .

#genshin impact smau #genshin smau #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin x you #scaramouche smau #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x you #xiao smau #xiao x reader #xiao x you #‘til dawn.

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darklyndivinely · 2 years

Text

Fake it till ya make it

Fandom(s) - Obey Me!

Character(s) - Mammon

Summary - 'Maybe he deserved this; this eternal existence of disdain and disappointment.'

Warnings - ANGST, Mammon is feeling very much under the weather, mentions of death, self-deprecating thoughts.

Wordcount - 600+

A/N - Have another 'protect Mammon at all costs' fic. Not as angsty as I had hoped this would be, but I wanted to post something so have this. Also this is super short; I wish it could have been larger but this took a surprising amount of time. Hope y'all like it!

Leave a tip! • OM!Masterlist • Taglist Form

Will it ever stop?

The question comes up often in Mammon’s mind.

Some days, it’s a gentle whisper, a soft flutter of uncertainty through the cavities between his thoughts. Other days it’s a wail of anguish and desperation that rips through his mind and coalesces into a convoluted stream of undecipherable pleads.

Will it ever stop?

Deep in his being Mammon knows the answer. It flares up to scorching embers when Lucifer’s whip cracks against his skin and the pain throbs through his body at the insults his brother carves across his back. It leaps to his throat when he tries to defend himself from Levi’s crass words and loosen the younger’s fingers grasping at his collar.

No.

Nothing will ever change. Things have been like this since the day they had fallen and they would remain so until he draws his last breath. He was born in this realm a nuisance and that’s how he’ll die.

But Mammon likes to believe himself a reckless optimist, so the next time one of his siblings use his name synonymous with ‘stupid,’ he convinces himself that they are just joking around with him. Even if they are not, he forces his chin up and moves on.

Late at night, however, he can’t help but chew on their words. His tongue has attuned itself beautifully to the bitterness of them, as has his heart. Only his eyes remain vulnerable, and so he perfects the art of makeup for the morning after. A bit of eyeliner here, a touch of concealer there, and no one can tell he slept with his face muffled against the pillow.

Soon House of Lamentation cedes to be the safe space he had thought it was. Instead, the bright casinos replace his dreadful house as his haven. They call out his name with the tender love of a mother he never had. He finds himself reveling in the flashing lights and the sense of freedom with unrestrained laughter bubbling from his throat. Here, he isn’t worthless. His charm is appreciated, his jokes acknowledged with genuine laughter, and his companionship respected. He isn’t the Avatar of Greed or Lucifer’s younger brother, nor is he one of the Demon Lords. Here, he is Mammon, and all who talk to him do so from sincere desire.

Before he knows, he has signed a ten year contract with one of the casino’s regulars’ modeling agency. His career is taking off and the pay is amazing, the challenges right up his alley; his life is almost perfect.

Almost.

Because the moment he returns to his house, his smile turns strained, a cape of faux bravado wounding across his body. Where frequent critique of his model walk or his work ethic from professional experts never cracked through his skin, his family manages that with a single glance.

He just wanted a tiny, ‘you did a good job’ when he insisted all of them watch his newest ad campaign. Was that too much to ask? Maybe the praise would have been undeserved but did that warrant these crude insults disguised as jokes?

That night when he cries himself to sleep, Mammon whispers the answer again and again till his eyes fall shut from the weight of it.

No.

How long will this last? How long will he come home to a family whose gaze holds so much contempt? How long before he finally splinters under the weight of their combined disdain for his mere existence?

Maybe he deserved this; this eternal existence of disdain and disappointment. Wasn’t he the one who had done nothing but lament in numb silence as his sister had fallen so far out of his reach? He deserved this lifelong punishment for that, for being such an utter failure.

The next time when one of his brothers dismisses his presence sharply, he doesn’t even try to muster up any defense. Regardless of what he says, he’ll always be the stupid, scummy Mammon.

He’ll have to make do with ‘almost perfect.’

That’s all he deserved, after all.

#shall we date obey me #obey me shall we date #mammon #shall we date mammon #om! mammon #obey me #mammon angst #mammon deserves love #mammon deserves better #darkly and divinely written

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a-wolf-at-the-door · 3 months

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Hey, it just occurred to me that in a recent authors note you said you're writing an original novel. (Sorry if you completely forgot about that, My brain is a sieve) Any Basic summary on the plot so far, or subject if it's non-fiction? Or is it more of a wait and see situation? I would love to hear more about it!

Hi hello yes I am working on an original novel! 💜 I can’t talk about it too much bc if I tell the story I lose motivation to Tell The Story, but I can tease a little!

First off, writing update: I just hit that classic point about 40k words in where you realize you started in the wrong spot and made a few sideways turns and you have to start from scratch again so that’s fun.

Genrewise it’s a bit of a hodgepodge of speculative fiction, psychological thriller, murder mystery, and coming-of-age novel.

And a brief excerpt from the 40k discard pile that I vibed with and might try to preserve in some way:

The exit was miles away, leagues, lightyears. The exit was a memory more than a reality. People pressed in on all sides, eager to get a look at her, to touch her, to confirm her identity.

She couldn’t hear much of anything in the din of crosstalk, scraping chairs and stomping feet. The air was warm and redolent of maple syrup and cinnamon, book glue and aftershave, coffee and general human musk. She didn’t recognize the people peering at her, the hands extending towards her. Faces became carnival masks, fingertips grew talons. REDACTED was the best prize in a backwards sort of claw machine, one with only a single plush target sought by dozens and dozens of swooping pincers.

The buzz of the noise started to shift in tone. Where initially it was curious, disbelieving, possibly even a little joyous, it turned sharply like the whine of cicadas in summertime. The questions around her took on an increasingly severe tone, veering from open vowels and soft consonants to nasal diphthongs. She couldn’t pick apart and process each separate sentence in time, not as they wove in and out of one another, but the sounds started to coalesce on two words, soft as a sigh and sharp as a knife: REDACTED and why?

Note my MC’s name isn’t actually REDACTED nor is it particularly rare or unique or special, I just don’t feel quite ready enough to share her with people beyond that excerpt.

Anyway hope this sufficiently answers your questions! I’m feeling optimistic despite the setback, drafting is discovering!

#ask Lia #nice people are nice #my fiction

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hurtthemgently · 2 years

Text

All knowing. All undone

Masterlist

Cw: meta aware whumpee, existential crisis, paranoia, non con touching, invisible whumper, heights, falling, creepy whumper

Cato sat on the park bench, the cold wind piercing through his gloves and jacket. He was getting a creeping suspicion that he was being watched. No.. watched isn’t the right word.. it felt like.. something in his mind, listening to his thoughts.

He tried to shake it off. It’ll probably go away soon.

Getting up, he decided he’d had enough of the cold weather air. Maybe he’d make some tea when he got back to his apartment.

——

A solid grip around his ankle sent him sprawling. He crashed to the ground, the breath knocked out of him. There wasn’t anything there. At least.. he couldn’t see anything. But the fingers had felt so real. Maybe he was losing it.

As he was getting up, hands pushed down on his shoulders. He crashed back to the ground. How could he not see anything?

“Hello? Who’s there?” An edge of fear in his voice. He looked around frantically for anything to explain what was happened.

“Hello.”

He heard a voice, quiet and calm

“I do hope everyone likes my creation.”

Invisible hands gripped his chin, turning his head to face foward. It looked like empty space in front of him, but something was there, just out of view. He pulled out of the grip, baring a grimace, trying to pinpoint his aggressor.

“He’s a defiant one, but I like them when they’re defiant. Makes things more interesting when they fight.”

“Who are you!” Cato shouted at the empty surroundings. “What kind of sick joke is this?”

“Oh how rude of me not to introduce myself. You can call me Writer. Or Creator. Whichever you think is more accurate.”

“Well writer- or whoever you are, leave me alone! I don’t want any part of whatever’s going on.”

“No that’s not quite right.”

A finger brushed against his jawline, and he jerked to get away from the invisible touch.

“What’s not right?” He spat in the direction the touch had come from.

“It’s Writer. Not writer. But I’ll say again, Creator works too.”

“I don’t know the difference! What? You want me to switch to creator?”

“No. Creator. Or Writer.

“I’ve given you options and already you refuse to cooperate. I might have to take things a little quicker than originally anticipated.. how do you feel about heights? Oh right, you’re terrified of heights, just as I intended.”

Hands wrapped around his arms, pulling him up. The sprawling city disappeared beneath him, and soon he was looking down at clouds. The uneasy feeling rose in his stomach, as he tried to not think about falling.

The hands let go.

He was already screaming, wind rushing past him, limbs flailing uselessly.

Then, he was held up by an invisible force. Not like the hands.. more like a cushion. The clouds swirled around him, forming a cage. It hardened into a light yellow metal. The base was solid, no gaps or holes, and the bars spaced just enough that he could fit tho if he wanted.

He didn’t want to go through the bars.

“Welcome to my workspace. Now, most days you’ll be free to live your own life, normal job, normal classes, normal roommates.

But every once and a while, I’ll come and pick you up, and we’ll have some fun. Well.. I’ll have some fun, and they might as well. You probably won’t.”

He sat sobbing on his hands and knees, breathing heavily. Looking up out of the cage, he saw a blurry figure. Glistening yellow mist, coalescing into the shape of a person. Like how the cage had appeared.

They looked.. not tall. The particulate that made up what should be their hair gave the impression of a bob cut. They walked through the bars, easily dissipating then reappearing.

“Now that we’ve met, I think it would be prudent to send you back, let you have some time to process what you’ve been told.

“I myself am curious to see what you decide to believe. I haven’t gotten that far yet, and you’re still to stressed to figure much of anything.”

They placed their finger over their face, as if adjusting glasses.

“I do hope I get some suggestions as to possible.. ‘activities’ we could do. It’s always more fun with input from others, don’t you think?

“I wish you a nice day, Cato. Or rather.. I’ll create a nice day for you. Better for you to have some time to think on this. I don’t want your daily life getting in the way of what happens here.”

He didn’t so much fall as the ground rose to meet him. One second he was sitting on the floor of the cage, the next he was sitting on the ground where he had fallen just minute ago. Just a lifetime ago.

The figure.. they couldn’t be real. He didn’t know what to think of the interaction. Only that they terrified him.

——

Taglist: @whumpsday

#all knowing all undone #heights tw #non con touching tw #creepy whumper #claracognizant whumpee #defiant whumpee #I put so much symbolism in this #like so much #I can’t believe I wrote this in thirty minutes

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littlemourningstarr · 3 months

Text

Coalesce in Darkness

Sekh'met is convinced his pining is hopeless, but that doesn't stop the way his heart soars for Astarion. A trip out with Karlach ends with him returning to camp covered in blood, and the vampire showing what he can only wistfully hope is concern. Little does he know, Astarion's own mind is in just as great a tumult, as he tries to reason through exactly what he's doing with the drow.

Read below or on AO3!

Read Astarion's take on the experience.

Pairing: Astarion x transmasc Tav

Tags: Mutual pining, Blood drinking, Blood kink, Vaginal fingering, Frottage, Underwear theft, Masturbation

“I have blood everywhere,” Sekh exclaimed, attempting to shake it from his hands and arms, as he could just see the borders of camp coming into view. Next to him, Karlach laughed, quite loud, as if to announce their return.

“You’re the warlock that insists on getting his hands dirty, soldier.” She attempted to brush a thick rivet of blood off her armor, and only smeared it. Karlach frowned. “It is a bit much this time, isn’t it?”

“We look like we got massacred,” Sekh whispered, which was very true. It was in their hair, smeared on their faces-

But they were fine. The Gnolls they had run into, well- that was a different story.

They stepped into camp, could hear the usual evening bustle. The sun would be setting soon, and if they wanted to clean up at all, they’d need to hurry, or they’d get the joy of freezing water.

“Holy hells.” They paused, Wyll a few paces ahead of them, holding a large pot full of water- presumably for whatever he and Gale was concocting for dinner. His voice drew the party’s attention, and everyone began glancing up from what they were doing, taking in their blood drenched comrades.

“Uh, hey,” Karlach managed, waving with her free hand. She had a sack thrown over her other shoulder. Sekh sighed, was going to let her handle this- but then he noticed Astarion, pushing his way past Wyll, eyes going rather wide at the sight of them.

The vampire crossed the small space between them in a quick pace, eyes roving over Sekh, seeming to try and take in every detail. Before the drow could say anything, Astarion’s hands were on his shoulders, holding him steady as he inclined his head, studied his face, seemed to be searching him for discomfort.

Sekh realized Astarion thought the blood was his. Or at least, some of it.

“I’m fine,” he said, rather softly, his voice nearly breaking. His chest squeezed so tightly he swore his ribs might shatter, might puncture his skin and make the two words a lie. The thought of Astarion caring enough to worry-

He needed to shove it away, so far down he forgot about that wish. They’d had one night, and that was it. And of course the man would be worried- they were all better together, they had come to realize.

“The Gnolls we met, not so much,” Karlach burst in, grinning. Sekh glanced over at her, then past Astarion- and realized they were all watching them.

Astarion cleared his throat, took a step back, broke their contact. Sekh missed it instantly. “Good, it would have taken all night to stitch the two of you up.” His eyes still clung to Sekh, and the drow wanted to reach out, touch his hand, reconnect in even the smallest of ways. Every brush of a hand, every glance, since their night after their camp hosted the Tieflings- they all resonated in Sekh with a ferocity that could render him senseless.

Astarion turned on his heel, walked briskly past everyone, ignoring any lingering glances. Sekh didn’t know what to say, felt like his tongue had died- and was grateful when Karlach announced they were going to get cleaned up, and that whatever Wyll and Gale were cooking up had better make the bloodshed worth it.

They had camped near a large stream, and once the rest of the party had dispersed, Sekh and Karlach made their way over. It was far enough to be out of sight of camp- so when Karlach began stripping down quickly to just her skin, Sekh wasn’t exactly shocked.

“I feel like I should just dive in, robes and all,” he mused, even as he began stripping off each layer. “It’s going to take ages to get all this blood off.”

“Metal is easier to clean than cloth!” Karlach yelled, as Sekh heard the sounds of the water splashing around her as she waded into the stream. “Take note, soldier.”

He rolled his eyes lovingly, shucking his robes to the ground, then his pants- before he exclaimed, very loudly, “Gods below there is blood in my underwear.”

Karlach laughed loud enough to shatter the realms as Sekh stripped the bit of fabric off, chucking it away into the long grass in dismay. He took a few quick steps into the river, before he yelped, the water like ice on his legs. The sun had begun to set, and with it, the temperature had begun to drop. The water was going to be freezing if he wasn’t quick.

He forced himself to wade in, until the water was to his waist at the deepest point. Karlach was a few paces away, the water not quite reaching the juncture of her thighs, seeming to not care about her nudity around him. Sekh glanced away, and she snorted. “Don’t act all prim now,” she said, “and get closer- I’m keeping the water warm.”

He couldn’t say no to that invitation.

True to her word, Karlach’s sheer hellish heat had warmed the water around her nicely. Sekh sighed, scooping some up and pouring it over his shoulders and chest, watching as it ran pink down his dusky skin. “It’s in my hair,” he lamented, as he pulled his long hair free of its knot and looked at the streaks of blood matting the ginger strands.

“Under you go!” Karlach dared to touch him, for just a moment, pushed her hand between his shoulder blades and shoved. The touch was hot enough to make his flesh scream- but the burn was welcome, considering the dropping temperature. Sekh pitched forward, stumbling, before he gave in and simply dropped to his knees, allowing himself to lean forward and fully submerge.

The water was a sharp chill to his nerves, but Sekh ignored it. He shook his head beneath the surface, let his hair fan around him in the water, before he pushed himself back up to his feet, breaking the surface with a gasped breath. He opened his eyes, pushed his hair back, watched as the slow current carried away the pink tinged water.

He heard an annoyed click of the tongue, and then, “You’ve left your clothes everywhere.” Sekh turned his head to the shore, noticed Astarion was standing by his pile of robes, frowning at the mess. He had a bundle of something tucked under one of his arms.

“Come to join us?” Karlach yelled- and despite the fact that Sekh could see Astarion was trying not to, his lips quirked up into the quickest of smiles.

Karlach had that effect on everyone.

“Absolutely not.” He said the words never once taking his eyes off Sekh. The drow stared back, held those eyes, felt goosebumps rising up along his arms and shoulders. He couldn’t blame the water, not with how close he stood to Karlach. “You never bothered to grab anything clean,” Astarion said, speaking directly to Sekh. He set the bundle that was under his arm down- and Sekh realized he must have gone into his tent, grabbed fresh clothing for him.

He smiled and couldn’t stop, to the point that his cheeks hurt.

“Aren't you a sweetheart,” Karlach mused, folding her arms across her breasts. Astarion said nothing, and Karlach shifted closer to Sekh, speaking softer. “You two are cute enough to make me gag.”

Sekh splashed her, laughing as he did so. “Shut up,” he teased, “we’re not anything.”

“Right. Okay soldier. Sure.” Sekh opened his mouth to retort again, but Karlach turned her shoulder away from him, a mock silent treatment. He only shook his head.

Sekh stretched his legs out, sighing as he flipped quickly through a few pages of the worn book in his hands. There was another next to him, dog eared from his earlier pursuit. The books held information, sure, but not what he was actively looking for.

A reminder as to what bloody language was carved into Astarion’s back.

He reached up, pinched the bridge of his nose. His candle was burning low, and around him, outside his tent, camp was slumbering. He needed to turn in himself, rest, fall into his trance so he could be ready for the coming day. He was a bit sore from he and Karlach’s adventures, if he was honest.

His hand fell from his face and he looked back down at the book. He hadn’t paid attention when he’d grabbed the few he’d found, while he and Karlach were sifting through the remains of the Gnolls and the victims they had claimed before the pair had found them. He didn’t pay much attention to any of the books he had grabbed, since his night with Astarion. He just took and hoped.

This one was nothing but potion recipes- and while this was very much useful and something Sekh wanted for his own personal knowledge collection, it didn’t help. He glanced over at his pack, considered if it was worth attempting to transcribe some of the information tonight into the old tome he carried with him. Years of learning all etched into an old, falling apart book in his sketchy hand, for his forever reference.

His eyelids were heavy. It would have to wait.

He closed the book, was about to set it aside, when he heard the faintest of footfalls, outside his tent, pausing at the entrance. There were only two people in camp that could be that quiet- and Lae’zel was not about to be standing outside his tent when the moon was as high as it was, currently.

“Astarion?” he asked, very softly. A moment passed, and maybe he was imagining the shape outside his tent, more fatigued than he had first thought- but then the flap was untied and Astarion was sliding in.

Sekh hadn’t seen the vampire since the sun set. He’d offered him his wrist, almost sheepishly, wanting the intimacy so badly that his bites always gave- but Astarion had glanced at his still healing skin, taken a moment to study his face, and denied him.

He hadn’t bitten Sekh since their night together.

“You’re still awake,” Astarion noted, eyes meticulously working over Sekh. The drow tried very hard to not react, to act as if he wasn’t feeling Astarion pull away every layer of his existence, as the man so easily did.

He was sure he was failing. Miserably.

“Just doing some reading.” He tapped the book in his lap, before he remembered that he had been lounging in his shirt and underwear- and felt almost compelled to try and cover himself.

A ridiculous notion, considering there wasn’t an inch of skin Astarion hadn’t seen.

Astarion got on his knees, before he crawled over Sekh, his hand covering Sekh’s own on the book. The drow’s breath escaped him, the smallest shocked sound. “A good book?”

Sekh swallowed. He felt utterly weak, beneath that stare, with Astarion in his space again, setting his orbit askew. “A let down,” he admitted. Astarion hummed, took the book and set it aside. His hand returned to Sekh’s bare thigh, fingers dancing along the smooth, freckled skin. Sekh couldn’t stop the way his eyelids fluttered.

He knew Astarion saw- the man gave a pleased little hum.

“Anything enticing in the forest?” Sekh managed, still unsure why the vampire was here, but wanting to talk enough to keep him there forever.

Or for a few minutes.

He’d take anything, honestly.

Astarion leaned closer. He smelled of blood, just faintly, beneath everything. The liveliness to his skin told Sekh that he’d fed, at least. Which was a relief. A stupid, pathetic relief, because Sekh knew he wasn’t the only blood source for the vampire- but, still.

He wanted to make sure Astarion’s needs were met.

He wanted him to thrive.

“No,” Astarion admitted, “nothing as…delectable as I could have found here.”

Sekh shivered, opened his mouth before his mind had the words to speak- but it never mattered. Astarion took it as an invitation, closed the space between them and took Sekh’s mouth with his own. Sekh sighed, eyes falling shut as he reached up, grasped at Astarion’s shirt. Astarion’s mouth was soft, as soft as Sekh remembered- and gods above, he was glad he hadn’t fantasized that whole night, dreamt it in a wine induced, feverish, needy delirium.

The tent seemed to close them off from the world, much like the trees had. Sekh was lost in the liquid sound of their mouths, sliding easily in an effortless rhythm. Astarion sucked at his lower lip, before he finally pushed his tongue past Sekh’s lips.

He tasted of blood.

Sekh didn’t mind, found he rather liked it, even if it wasn’t his own. He fisted his hands tighter in Astarion’s shirt, felt the hand that was on his thigh touching the tender, inner skin now- fingers brushing over where Astarion had bitten, nights before.

And then pressing against Sekh’s clothed cunt. Sekh broke away, gasped, eyes fluttering open. Astarion was smiling, all devil, all control, except-

Something at the corner of his eyes, the edges of his lips- something was almost feral, needy. And Sekh swore he wasn’t supposed to see it.

Astarion dipped his head to Sekh’s neck, mouthed at his dark skin, before he nipped at his earlobe. Sekh gasped, found his hips rolling, trying to grind against Astarion’s fingers as they gently rubbed at him, through his underwear.

“I thought I could go without a taste,” he whispered, his voice breathy. The control Sekh had seen seemed to be melting away. “I was wrong.”

The pressure at Sekh’s cunt increased, Astarion’s fingers pushing harder. It was making Sekh’met dizzy, his head beginning to spin.

And then Astarion’s deft fingers were pushing fabric aside, rubbing up his bare slit. Sekh mewled, his hands moving to Astarion’s sides, then his back, as the vampire continued to mouth desperately at his neck.

“Can I?” Astarion asked, fingers still teasing, not touching Sekh’s clit directly, which he wanted, so badly. Sekh swallowed thickly, tried to nod, but wasn’t sure he actually moved. He must not have, before Astarion finally did touch him where he wanted, fingers pushing past his lips, dragging wetness up to his heavy clit, rubbing over it slowly. “Sekh?”

His name was music, a prayer, a song, everything and nothing on Astarion’s tongue. Sekh moaned, head dropping back, and he was babbling, yes, yes, yes over and over again.

Astarion could drain him dry, send him to the brink of death, let him tumble over. It didn’t matter. To meet an end at his lips, his fingers, his fangs- it would be euphoria.

Sekh swore Astarion purred, a pleased rumble, as he continued to touch. He rubbed slow, circular motions along Sekh’s clit, dragged his mouth, his tongue along every inch of Sekh’s exposed throat. But, oh, he didn’t bite.

Sekh let his hands roam along Astarion’s back, felt the ridges of his scars beneath his shirt. He was panting, all the desire he had harbored since their one night together blossoming, spreading like a wildfire beneath his skin.

Astarion slid his fingers off Sekh’s clit, just as the pleasure sparks igniting his nerves were beginning to hum. Sekh whimpered, before he gave a little cry, two of Astarion’s fingers sliding with such ease into his body.

No one had ever turned him on, like Astarion. He’d never been so ready, so willing, so fucking wet before. But he swore, just a glance from the vampire, and he was melting, wanton.

“You get so wet for me,” Astarion murmured, thrusting slowly, lazily, with his fingers. He finally pulled from Sekh’s neck, stared down at him with eyes that wanted. Sekh had this feeling, in his gut, that he wasn’t supposed to see that want.

Sekh moved a hand along Astarion’s back, cupped the back of his neck, leaned into him for a kiss. Astarion tried to take control, but Sekh nipped at his tongue, got a hiss from the vampire. His fingers tangled in the curls at the base of Astarion’s neck, as the drow sucked at his lip, shaking as Astarion’s fingers thrust faster, curling in such a delicious way.

“I want you,” Sekh finally whispered, not denying himself as his hips met Astarion’s rhythm, an easy grind against his hand. There was no reason to deny it, now. “I thought you wanted me…”

He tilted his head, bared his neck in emphasis. Astarion groaned, bared those glorious fangs. “Oh, I do, darling,” he whispered, voice deep, but catching in his throat. “But your blood is best burning.” He thrust his fingers harder, on emphasis, and Sekh shook from his very core, body trying to clench around Astarion’s fingers. The vampire chuckled. “Oh, how you do burn for me, Sekh.”

He pressed his palm to Sekh’s clit then, let the drow grind desperately into him. Sekh felt a wave of euphoria building in him, his muscles reaching for Astarion, clutching at him in a building rhythm. Sekh sought his mouth, pulled Astarion to meet him for a desperate, rhythmless kiss. Astarion gave, and it was around his blood-blessed tongue that Sekh came. His whimpers, his mewls, his offerings of Astarion’s name all taken in, drunk down by the vampire, as his fingers thrust roughly into Sekh’met, dragging his orgasm out.

Sekh was panting, body still on the edge, the last precipice of his orgasm, when Astarion pulled his fingers out, roughly shoved him down. Sekh sprawled out, feeling limp, as Astarion grasped his thighs, hoisted his legs up to his hips. Sekh managed to wrap them around him, as Astarion bowed over him, growled into his neck as he bit with a ferocity barely muted.

Sekh gasped, arched, felt Astarion grinding against him desperately. He could feel the shape of his cock, through his pants- thought to try and get his hands to work enough to try and free Astarion of his clothing-

But he didn’t get the chance.

When he moved his hands Astarion pulled from his neck, grasped them, pushed his wrists up above his head. He held them in one hand, the other supporting himself as he rutted against Sekh like a desperate beast in heat. His breaths were ragged, lips smeared with the drow’s blood.

His eyes were wild, feral, unhinged in a glorious way, as if he wasn’t thinking, he was simply acting on whatever he so desperately wanted.

Sekh’met shivered, didn’t fight Astarion’s hold on him as the vampire bowed over him again, went back to his neck. His moan as he lapped at the wound, sucked gently, reverberated through Sekh’s bones, into his very marrow. Sekh moaned himself, grinding against Astarion to meet his desperate ruts, that sweet, tingling knot building at the base of his spine again, the pit of his belly.

Astarion squeezed his wrists tighter, so tight bone could grind, but the ache was welcome. Sekh felt his hips losing rhythm, his clothed cock rubbing against his cunt desperately now, hard- and then Astarion was whining into his neck, gasping, his hips stuttering.

Had… had he-

Before Sekh could put thoughts into words, Astarion was pushing himself up onto his knees, staring down at Sekh as he panted. His mouth was still smeared crimson, his cheeks and ears flushed. Sekh pushed himself up, didn’t think- just reached for Astarion, kissed him achingly, licked at the blood on his lips.

Another whimper, a desperate whine, and he felt Astarion trembling. Before Sekh could get lost in the kiss though, Astarion was pulling away, looking shocked at this, at himself.

“I shouldn’t have…” he trailed off, reached up, touched his wet lips with his fingers. He glanced at the blood that wet his fingertips. “That was more than a taste.”

Sekh smiled. It was honest. “So long as it was what you needed.”

Astarion stared at him, eyes seeming to buzz with a thousand questions. Instead of voicing a single one, he simply mumbled at Sekh to get some rest, and then he was gone, nothing but a whisper, a promise, a myth in the dark.

Sekh stared at the flap of his tent, at the space Astarion had taken up a moment before. With an exasperated groan he flopped down to his back, closed his eyes. How in all the hells did Astarion sweep in like a storm, leave him ravaged, and then be gone, in the very next breath?

Sekh bit at his lip, one hand moving to his neck, pushing at the wounds there. They ached- and perhaps Astarion had taken more than he meant. He’d seemed unable to deny himself.

The thought made Sekh hot all over. Seeing something push through in Astarion, something uncontrolled, it made him ache. The man was too put together for his own good.

Sekh shifted his hips, still pushing at his neck. He felt as if he could have come again, if Astarion had simply kept rutting against him like they were desperate youths. His other hand roamed down his belly, pushed his underwear aside, fingers rubbing slowly over his clit. He sighed, and in his mind, he let himself fall into the idea of Astarion never leaving. Of Astarion burying his face between his thighs again, groaning with need as he made Sekh come again and again, until his chin was dripping with Sekh’s delight.

He let himself wonder, if Astarion could have anything from him, what it would be.

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion #tavstarion #astarion ancunin #sekh'met #astarion/tav #astarion x tav #sekstarion

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valorxdrive · 2 years

Text

♕ - “Nara Spiky, Nara Spiky!” A gentle tone wrought with panic quickly states, stopping their companion in the midst of their advance.

Hovering through the use of their naturally gifted magic and a spin of the leaves, the Aranara quickly hoists up higher, levitating the male’s side as it surveys the grounds ahead. As it hears the echoing cries and dying melodies of the land around them, the very grounds themselves being drained as the vibrant greenery found itself falling victim to a dulled, paler color. It was enough of a sight to make Sora’s eyes narrow in pure distaste as a familiar dark energy found itself coalescing here, greedily taking each and any foothold of life it can in order to spread what his newest friends describe as Marana.

“This is it, isn’t it? I’ve come across a couple of these places before..” Nara Spiky better known as Sora notes, causing an instance of surprise to the round Aranara. Tucked within it’s valley of memories was a curious tale, of brave Nara who held considerable strength despite their stature. It remembers catching the sight of few particulars that could harness the beloved power of the elements.

Could he also be one of these..? No, he has to be considering the energies relatable to Lesser Lord Kusanali found themselves singing a song that shimmer deeps within, as if their very being promoted such happiness.

It caused the plant sprite to find not only comfort, but courage as it gave a nod. “Correct. The Withering as you nara describe it. It’s the Marana attempting to steal power once again.. and spread more Marana, alongside those dangerous fungi. They work close to iron giants...”

”Then don’t you worry.” Sora gently intercepts, patting a soft hand of reassurance upon their head. A touch that held such good intention despite the surrounding gloom managed to reduce the way they shivered, this Aranara here clearly not holding grounds as a seed born to fight. In that end, the keybearer never found an issue to begin with. It’s this invading force on the other hand that grew to stir his ire. “That just means I have to do what I learned the last time? Destroying those tumors thrumming with power should.. should? !” Oh, wait a second.

Sora’s sentence dwindling like that stirred forth in an instance of confusion. “???” It could only ponder if Nara were always so distractable.

“This feeling.. more like a rhythm, I know this!” Before we head in, we should definitely take note of this. C’mon!”

“Ah, hold on Nara Spiky! What did you see!?” Nonetheless the sprite would kick into gear and follow along this human who held such a nimble stature. Cliffsides, high walls, somehow they held the constitution to run up these very walls as if they were forest floors. It was a view that only kindled a brighter hope as soon, the both of them launched over the cliffside only for.. Another Nara, one that held blues and golden hair to be seen?

It was a view that made a cheerful laugh bark from the warrior’s lips as the circumstance. While the presence was only gentle sparks before, the higher he acclimated, Sora soon came to discover how Teyvat had all sorts of unique means of sensing signatures. So for the sight to be a familiar, stalwart gaze to be in the midst of investigations of his own, it warmed his emotions akin to a refreshing dip at his island’s ocean. “Haha! Dain, hey! It really is you!” He declares while effortlessly diving with the air time, performing a seamless landing. In moments like this the heart enjoyed speaking a touch clearer than any words, so actions were formed, leading to him embracing the Twilight Sword in quite the energetic hug.

“And looking better than ever too! Man do I have so much to..” Oh. Blinking once, twice, it dawned exactly what he was doing, again.

Quickly retracting back, a small moment was taken to once again let his hand clear any sweeps of imaginary dust within such a moment.

“Er.. My bad on that.”

Meanwhile, the Aranara curiously watched this exchange as it curiously floated all the closer.

“I figured if you were around, you’d be on the same case, there’s so much going on..” Sora began, leaving an opening for response.

@reginrokkr

#reginrokkr #| Threads #THERE WE GO #showtime!

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calicostorms · 2 years

Note

-Vega chuckles-

Yes, we’re considered as one of the outbreaks. Though doesn’t that give you a sense of freedom? True, it’s different than mine. I was inside the containment ward while you were outside it my dear warden.

And yet you seem relieved to be free of that even if this wasn’t what you thought would happen. A break from the monotonous dealings of what is expected of you.

You should never feel shame for what your preferences are. I can only imagine the buffet of feelings that could satisfy you, to fill your hunger. I can sample them, let them linger on my tongue but most will never satiate my hunger.

Perhaps one day I will get to see you indulge in your secret pleasures and be well fed.

I can’t provide those feelings with who we have now but I hope the bitterness of his feelings isn’t too off putting on your tongue.

Many things have kept me from Aria. Projects and prison are a few examples. It’s easier to be there since I find demons have a better understanding that when we coalesce we have no choice in what kind of demon we become and what our energy source is. Though there certainly are those who spend enough time in Elegy to begin to look down on certain demons.

But I must admit humans are fascinating to me, but only from a distance. There's more than one reason I keep myself cloak from them. Observation is key for both my amusement and to feed.

What was it like to observe me in that prison darling?

-Vega reaches to run his fingers through their hair, keeping it hovered in case they do not want to be touched and pull away-

-Vega 🚩

I wouldn't say I'm relieved, given the company but I will admit it's a welcome break from the expectations of the Department, rigid as they are. Speaking in your mind like this, is freeing, in a way I'd nearly forgotten.

Not feeling shame about your feeding preference is easy for you to say though, isn't it? As a specialized demon, you're not exactly able to choose those preferences like I am. Savoring frustration or anger is...unsavory, to most people on Elegy.

The bitterness of his emotions is offputting, I'll admit, but it's been...growing on me- to my discomfort. There's a sweetness to it on the back of your tongue if it lingers long enough, like you'd said.

I guess the whole prison thing would keep you from Aria, that makes sense. Aria's beautiful, but I miss Elegy if I stay away very long- and as an inchoate I need to feed here more often than you do.

Humans are the same as demons, barring the fact that they're not weaved of magic. They have their own lives, their own concerns. Most of my human colleagues avoided me. Not on purpose on their part, but I think being a demon is something that disquiets them. I did have a few human charges, though, and found observing their life progress comforting.

Observing you was...interesting. I found you intriguing, and usually visiting you was a welcome change to the monotony of Department life. I can't say I agreed with you, but you never failed to make your arguments compelling.

-warden hesitates, then leans to press their head against his hand in silent assent-

You might not be able to feed on them, but you could feel my emotions, back in the Department prison. You hardly need to ask whether you held my interest, Vega.

#vega anon 🚩#hello again dearest!!!#thank u for your message <333 #the thought of warden feeding on their chosen emotion while vega watches is living in my head rent free now thank u #many thoughts all vega

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transmogrified-in-the-void · 1 year

Text

stay for the night (i'll sell you a dream): ch 24

The First Step

AO3

A young boy with a cane made of wood wanders around the murky river that separates Piltover from the Undercity. It’s hot outside, with the sun bearing down on every unlucky soul to be within its rays with no covering. At one point, he would have wandered inside the waters of the river to hopefully escape the smothering heat, but not anymore. The way that it clings to his skin when he leaves, the way it says, lingers, it frightens him.

There’s a hand on his shoulder, and a whisper in his ear. “It’s hot outside, isn’t it?” The quiet voice murmurs. “Go on, enter. This is the least of the muck that coalesces within you.”

The boy looks up, his eyes catching the sun and turning his irises a glowing, vibrant golden color. They fall upon a face of his past, pale and sallow. There are scars that he doesn’t remember being there last time they met.

The face of a burned man grins, mouth twisting up, up, up until the corners meet his eyes. “Shimmer and glow in the poisonous depths below.” He says, words echoing around over and over again.

The boy stumbles backwards, one of his legs collapsing under him and only avoiding falling into the river because of his cane. The man stalks closer until he looms over the boy. “He isn’t coming for you this time. I will make you understand.”

Viktor wakes up feeling distinctly aware of two things. The first is how warm he is, and the second is how much he hurts.

The top half of his body is curled around a large and very warm body, Jayce, his wakening mind supplies. Jayce’s arms are curled around Viktor’s back, with one hand resting at the base of his spine and the other at the back of his head. Viktor’s head is carefully tucked into the junction of Jayce’s neck and shoulder, sucking in every ounce of warmth that he exudes.

His legs, however, feel like they’ve been lit on fire from the inside out. An agonizing and burning sensation that crawls up his bad leg to both joints in his hip and slowly crawling up his spine. Not to mention the headache slowly creeping up on him. The familiar sensation of coppery, choking liquid threatening to come out of his throat, across his tongue, and past his lips has Viktor struggling to leave. He doesn’t want to worry Jayce, not now, not yet.

“Hmm, g’mornin.” Jayce’s voice rumbles out of his chest as his fingers move to thread through Viktor’s hair.

In an effort to ignore every sensation going through his body, Viktor curls up closer and swallows the blood trying to well up in his mouth. He moves his hand to caress Jayce’s face, and moves his head slowly to gently kiss the corner of his jaw.

Jayce laughs slightly, the vibrations moving through Viktor’s own chest. He feels a soft kiss being pressed to his head, and even though half of him is in agony, he wishes he could stay here forever.

“Do we have to go in today?” He manages to string together, and Jayce’s fingers move from his hair to rest at his neck.

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“Mmm.” Viktor hums, rubbing his thumb across Jayce’s cheek. “I think we deserve a day off.”

Jayce hums in reply, his arms carefully squeezing Viktor closer to him. “Of course.”

Finally, Viktor opens his eyes and moves just enough to take in Jayce’s face. His hair is mussed up, as it usually is in the mornings. The skin under Viktor’s hand is soft and weathered from years spent under the sun and the forge. And his eyes, looking back with a softness and kindness not often given to Viktor, are dark brown, almost as dark as the night sky, and endless.

Slowly, their heads move closer together until their foreheads are touching, and Viktor bathes in the small gesture.

The moment is broken when someone bangs at the front door. Jayce takes a deep breath through his nose, body tensing minutely. He doesn’t make any move to leave, as if hoping that they weren’t here for them.

The banging comes again.

“I need to get that.” Jayce whispers. “I’m sorry.”

Viktor sighs, moving his hand to run through Jayce’s hair once. “Don’t be, you aren’t out there being loud.”

The barest smile breaks onto Jayce’s face, and his lips press to the crown of Viktor’s head before he leaves the bed, creating a vacuum of cold in his absence.

Sighing again, Viktor moves to sit up, hissing at the spike of pain. He slowly puts on his various braces, then his clothes and wishes he had some sort of anaesthetic as he slides his cane under his arm.

Moving out of the bedroom, Viktor is surprised to see Mel Medarda sitting on the couch. Jayce looks up from where he’s standing at the entrance, and smiles at Viktor.

“She says she has important information for us.” He says.

“I don’t do important information without something inside of my body.” Viktor rubs his face, already exhausted. “Preferably coffee.”

A warm mug is put in his hands, and he notices that Jayce is holding coffee mugs already.

“Your sugar-caffeine concoction.”

“Thanks, lovely.”

He takes a large sip from the mug, focusing on the feeling of it moving down his throat instead of how he wants to burn in a fire. Then, and only then, he looks at Mel. “So?”

“Someone broke into your lab last night after setting fire to one of the Progress Day tents.” She says, looking directly at Viktor. “They used explosives and a prerecorded message that said ‘you’re going to regret hurting him’. Then they took one of the Gems.”

Pain and anger rises in Viktor’s mind. “Stop looking at me.” He’s tired. “I don’t know who the fuck did this.” He’s so very tired.

He doesn’t look at either of them, he doesn’t want to see if they looked worried. He’s fine, just tired. “What do you want from us?”

“I need to know if it could be dangerous for the Gem to be out there.”

Now he looks at Medarda again, watching every micromovement on her face. “If they knew what they were doing.” He leans slightly more on his cane. “And hardly anyone ever does.”

Medarda nods, taking a deep breath. She looks slightly less put together than she usually does, the only sign of how bad the situation is right now. “I . . .” She starts, trailing off as her eyes start to flick between Jayce and Viktor. “I would like to make a proposition.”

“Yes?” Jayce asks, still slightly tense.

“I want to try and get you onto the Council.” Medarda looks right at Jayce as she says that. “Gods knows how much we need someone who knows what they’re doing on it.”

Jayce twists the leather bracelet that Viktor got him. “I-I don’t think I’m the most qualified for politics.” He mutters, voice quiet. “Viktor is better at that than I am. I’m better suited to be in a forge or a lab than in the Council.”

“Look, Councilor Medarda, with all due respect,” Viktor cuts in before Medarda can start speaking again. “We both would much rather spend today resting. If that is all, please, be on your way.”

Mel Medarda stands up, a faint smile on her face. “There is a Council meeting both of you must join tonight.” She tells them both. “I will see both of you then.”

The door clicks shut behind her, and Jayce immediately finds himself on the couch wrapped in blankets. Viktor makes his way over, sitting down and leaning against Jayce.

“We’ll figure it out.” Viktor promises him. “We always do.”

There’s another spike of pain, Viktor resists the urge to hiss and wince. He doesn’t know how much longer he can run from this. He’s so tired, so very very tired. A soft clicking sound rings through Viktor’s head as he lets himself float away next to Jayce.

#stay for the night (ill sell you a dream)#viktor #viktor arcane #jayce talis #mel medarda #arcane #arcane league of legends

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latentletters · 2 years

Text

Eclipse

Oh, I am weary. My soul has travelled far among the stars, sailing through time and in-between spaces just to arrive, present, here.

How long I have waited for this precious encounter, lifetimes of longing have culminated in this tiny pocket of the universe.

Don’t you know the fullness of my heart upon our breathing the same air? Can’t you feel my pulse beating tender and sorrowful in my chest? Has your heart ached so, from our being apart?

Touch me, let your fingers imprint on my skin, meet gently my wounds with yours, let our lifeblood coalesce.

What a concept, that shadows the size of planets would still reach out, crossing paths on the moon the sole opportunity for these hearts to unite in cosmic embrace, social distancing made manifest in a dance of celestial bodies.

Spark a connection: look into my eyes and see all the hidden realms, the neglected creations rising to greet your light with a hope unseen yet tangible which waits in all things.

Linger a little longer that I would give you my heart for safekeeping, that you would tuck this moment away and cherish it like a seedpod latent with infinite potential.

I would place my heart in your hands because this universe is a road of many roads for all of us wandering souls, and to me, you feel like home. And isn’t that enough to overshadow the space between us?

Where do I end and you begin?

#poetry

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sillyrabbit81 · 3 years

Note

Hey can I request something with sy like he’s having a rough day and comes home to his pregnant wife and she tries to cheer him up and when they cuddle or something he pleases like a baby to get a drink of her milk sooo basically lactation kink

Hi Anon. I’m sorry I misread your prompt and didn’t realise you wanted a pregnant reader! I hope this is ok though, it hits most of the rest of your request and I sincerely hope you like it.

Summary: Sy takes comfort in you after a rough day.

Pairing: Captain Syverson x Female Reader

Word Count: approx 1.3k

Warnings: Lactation Kink, body fluids, smut, sex (p in v), suggested Daddy/Mummy kink, fluff, Dad!Syverson

Authors note: Thanks to @amberangel112 for being my partner in crime and for the beta read. Basically unedited though, there will be errors.

Masterlist

Rough Day?

You know as soon as Sy comes in that he’s had a rough day at the base. He had a languid way of entering the house when he did and his normally confident voice seemed a bit tired. It doesn’t stop his smile though, as he wanders over to the small crib you keep in the lounge room and checks on his little boy.

He takes off his outer shirt and bends over to unlace his boots as he asks, “How was our little man today?”

“Really good, feeding well, sleeping well,” I say cheerfully hoping to improve his mood. “He will probably wake soon and want to feed again.”

“And how’s Momma doin' today?” he asks picking his boots up and placing them on the rack by the door.

You smile as he calls you Momma. You don’t remember exactly when he started doing that, it was sometime during your pregnancy, but it wasn’t until the last few days that you started to feel your core clench when he said it.

“I’m feeling better, not so tired,” you reply.

Sy hums and lays on the lounge. He places his head on your lap, buries his face into your belly. Yeah, he’s had a bad one. Part of you doesn’t want to ask, worried that he’s possibly going to be deployed again. He isn’t supposed to be, but new wars started all the time, and he could be called at any moment.

Pushing the horrible thought from your mind, you stroke his head. His hair is so short you think of asking if he would grow it for you since you’ve never seen it much longer than this. You dismiss the idea, as you run your fingers over his cleanly shaved jaw feeling the hint of stubble that was always evident by this time of day. You missed his beard, missed feeling it as he kissed you. You missed a lot about him these days, it had been five weeks since you had given birth and you weren’t sure if you were ready for sex just yet, the scar at your belly still twinged sometimes. But you want it, and you want him.

A little breathlessly you ask, “And how’s Daddy’s day been?”

“Not great,” came his muffled reply. You feel his hand slide your shirt up as he kisses your exposed skin. “I missed you,” he says, his tone is deep, desirous, full of lust as he kept raising your shirt.

You suck in breath as his fingers tickle the underside of your breasts and your core is throbbing as you feel your sticky arousal pool in your underwear.

“Poor baby,” you whisper as Sy grunts in return. You know what he wants and aren’t sure if you should just yet.

“I need you,” he groans as he lifts your shirt over your breasts.

He looks up at you, his eyes pleading as he kneads your beasts with his big, calloused hands. You moan, it feels so good, you’ve missed his touch and he’s missed you. You feel relief as he touches you, he still wants you, wants your body despite how it has changed.

You both watch as small white beads of liquid form on your nipples as he plays with your breasts. Sy has been fascinated by them since he first noticed they had grown larger during your pregnancy and when your nipples darkened and seemed to grow bigger, he became obsessed. But this was the first time he had touched them since your milk came in and his eyes grow wide as small drops coalesced together and dribbled down your breast.

“Fuck,” he grunts, and his tongue flicks out, licking the rivulet of milk following its path to your bud.

“Sy!” you cry. You cover your breasts. “Don’t do that!”

“Why not?” Sy says as he sits up. He brings you onto his lap now and lifts your shirt all the way off. “You’re so beautiful,” he continues and brings your mouth to his, his kiss more passionate than any he had given you in the past few weeks. “So soft,” he says between kisses. “So sweet.” Sy’s kisses move down your throat, your chest and onto the soft flesh of your breast. “I just want to taste you.”

His mouth feels so good on you, but you have doubts. However, you say nothing and as you watch Sy’s lips move closer to your nipples, you feel an ache is them, a tingling soreness. When his mouth encloses on your nipple you feel an intense relief and you cry out his name. Sy growls as he swaps nipples and you start to search for some kind of friction, something to quell the burning desire between your legs.

Sy knows what you need and slides his hand into your loose yoga pants. You mumble pleas as his fingers slide down your slick core.

“You’re so fuckin' wet,” Sy grunts, his voice deep and rumbling.

You know that tone, that animalistic primal timbre and he fumbles with your pants pulling them down one leg as you desperately tug at his belt. Sy helps you with his pants and you pull out his cock, moaning as you feel it for the first time in ages. You start to move your fist up and down the shaft, reacquainting yourself with it, feeling its pulsing, veiny thickness.

“You missed me too,” Sy says, and you nod in agreement.

You line the broad head of his cock up with your entrance and slowly sink down inch by excruciating inch, digging your nails into Sy shoulders as your poor neglected core stretched around him, the pain ignored as your desperation overtook all other thoughts.

“You’re tight as fuck,” Sy groans and he doesn’t wait for you to take him completely before he latches onto you, taking your milk filled breasts in his mouth again.

His hands grip your hips as he guides your motions. Your head falls back as intense pleasure overwhelms you and you feel heat bloom from your core. You cry out as you start to pulse around Sy’s cock, your orgasm shattering you, surprising you with its swiftness and intensity.

As if it was a sign Sy, lost all restraint and wrapping his arms around you, he clutches your listless body as he pumps into you. His primal cries are muffled in your chest as his thrusts became sloppy and you feel him thicken within you and he coats your insides with his seed.

He loosens his hold on you and lays his now sweaty brow between your breasts, panting, slowly getting his breath back. You let your hands run over his back, he likes it when you caress him after sex, he likes how the intimacy doesn’t stop with the act. But soon you would have to get up, you can already feel him softening and slowly falling out, despite how he keeps trying to stay in you.

He eventually admits defeat and giving you a parting kiss, he says, “Go on, have a shower, I’ll keep an eye on our boy.”

He doesn’t let you go immediately, he looks you over and now that your passions have been sated you become unsure of your body again. You get off Sy and as you walk away you felt the sting of Sy's hand as it hit your ass.

“Sy!” you cry, rubbing your smarting cheek. “What was that for?”

“For havin' a cute ass,” he says as he tucks himself back into his pants. He smirks and adds, “You know I can’t help it. I see a cute ass and the hand flies on its own.”

You feel another surge of emotions as you see Sy’s grinning face. He still thinks my ass is cute, you think and as you go to the shower you watch as Sy goes over to Little Man. His smile is even bigger as he just stands there watching, the stress of his day apparently forgotten. His face is full of pride and your heart fills with love for the two precious boys in your life.

Tag List 1

@henryobsessed @omgkatinka @legendarywizarddetective @posiemax @nostalgicb-txh @moonlacebeam @anitababi @agniavateira @blakerogue @shadesofarrogance @mansaaay @stxlemate @wheretheriversrunintothesea @amberangel112 @madbaddic7ed @eldarwen333 @wolvesandhoundshowltogether @summersong69 @littlefreya @littlebirdofrivia @luclittlepond @myloveforhenrycavill @mary-ann84 @tellingyouastory @beck07990 @zealoushound @sofiebstar @sweetlybigdragonn @bloodyinspiredfuck @marantha @diegos-butt @greensleeves888 @endofalldays01 @justaboringadult @ysmmsy @offroadinjandals @littlewrenofrivia @pussyverson @foxyjwls007 @kebabgirl67

#henry cavill fic #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill #captain sy x reader #captain syverson x you #captain syverson fanfic #captain syverson fanfiction #captain syverson x reader #captain syverson smut #captain syverson #captain sy #syverson fanfiction #syverson x reader #syverson smut #cpt syverson #syverson fic #syverson x you #syverson

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delldarling · 3 years

Text

bearberry bargain | pyre

male arctic fox shifter x gender/body neutral reader 10,261 words lemon | older shifter, knotting, oral, penetrative sex, no choking but there is throat touching, tricks and bargains, getting lost note: this was the Story of the Month for December 2020 over on my Patreon! It is loosely tied into the same world as my dragon fellow Arroven, but reading Arroven’s story first is most definitely not required.

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The tundra is a gorgeous, but unforgiving landscape. You can hear the words on repeat in your head, clear as a twice damned bell. Worse than that, you can see Bristle, the orc woman that had served as your guide out here, in your mind's eye saying the words as she gestured to the fog drenched terrain. And The Mirrored Teeth are a little more dangerous than most. In the rain, or like now, in the fog, the stone spires gleam. They are beautiful, and all too easy to mistake for a far off porch light, or street lamp—but that isn’t what’s truly dangerous out here.

Bristle’s partner, a curly haired satyr by name of Rhim, with coins jingling in his carefully coiffed beard, had then stepped up to speak. Unfortunately, The Mirrored Teeth weren’t named for the teeth-like spires alone. The mirroring, or in this case, echoing, is the real danger. Voices carry strangely out here when the fog is thick, and if someone is lost? Our first instinct is to travel towards a light, or someone shouting. Whether the voices are our own, bouncing back to us from the spires or the mountains, or they’re the product of a still-living magical area?

They’d both spoken in unison then, smiling at each other with the ease of familiarity: Don’t follow the voices.

Each person in the tour group had been given a small token after their list of safety precautions, to serve as a tracker in case someone was separated. One person had asked if it was likely to get lost, and Bristle had snorted before she’d adopted her tour guide voice again. To come out here in the first place, everyone had been asked to sign a waiver because, inevitably, someone did end up wandering away. They followed voices that sounded like loved ones from past or present. They followed voices that sounded like themselves, calling out warnings. It was generally why people ended up taking the tour in the first place, listening eagerly for a voice they’d long since thought lost, or some kind of warning from their future self, so compelling and entrancing that they must be the product of magic. Most, though not all, of the people were generally found. Overtired and aching from sleeping on the ground out in the cold, but otherwise unharmed. Whatever caused the voices, magic or not, didn’t seem to hurt people, only leave them confused.

A few of the others currently with the group had come out for more academic reasons. Art and science in most cases, but otherwise those going on the tour were magic chasers, looking to record the fog voice phenomena for further study.

You might not have come out here with a recorder, but you can’t exactly deny that magic chaser applies to you as well. Claims of The Mirrored Teeth holding tangible residual magic are terribly rampant. You’ve wanted to witness it for yourself, to hear the voices, or feel the soft ache of magical energy on your skin, just the once. You’ve wanted… Well, it’s hard sometimes, not to want to feel the call of magic.

“And look where it’s led you,” you mutter, searching your pockets for the hundredth time. You know you won’t find the token, that you must have lost it when you slipped on some slick moss about an hour ago, but you can’t stop yourself now. It’s like trying to leave a loose thread alone once nervous fingers have found it. You keep reaching for the token, keep trying to find it, even though you know nothing you do will help any longer. You don’t recognize any of the surrounding terrain.

When you’d started out with the tour group, there hadn’t been anything but fog and the scrubby ground, hardened by a hidden layer of permafrost. You’d seen pictures of the teeth-like spires, but hadn’t been able to spot any when you first arrived. Now, every time you turn around it feels like you’re surrounded by the damned things. They radiate a soft glow, magnified further by the heavy mist and from far off? They look just like the teeth they’re named for. “Done in by moss,” you add, straining your eyes to see further through the fog. ”Not even by the voices!” Which, frankly, was disappointing. Not that you wanted to be lost in the first place, but hearing some of the voices the Mirrored Teeth are known for would have at least given you a better reason. An expected reason to be lost or wandering away from the group. Instead you’d simply slipped, brushed off a handful of withered greenery and pebbles, and had gotten back to your feet to find yourself alone.

You’d shouted yourself hoarse after the first half hour, calling out for Bristle and Rhim, staying in the same place, or assuming you’d stayed in the same place. You’d bent to find the token again, but even that had apparently been too much movement. Every time you lifted your head to look away from the ground, there was a different bit of flora springing up in front of you—and then you’d nearly smacked yourself head first into one of the spires, none of which are clearly marked on the map you have of the surrounding area. There’s always too much mist to plot them.

“Bristle! Rhim?” You call out again, cupping your hands around your mouth, not knowing if you should even hope for some kind of answer. What if they don’t answer because of the echoes? What if that’s the reason they’ve yet to answer in the first place?

The soft crack of a branch makes you whirl, throat growing tight when you spot the shadow of three figures through the fog. They straighten up, huffing, and the fog slowly spins away, shadows coalescing and revealing an older man shouldering a pack that he’s clearly just dug up from the ground. For a moment, he’s silent, staring, hand clenching tight at his pack as his eyes rove over your face. His gaze dips to your feet and lifts quickly back to your face before he wipes the surprise from his expression. “I hoped I was mistaken,” he grouses in a soft voice, tossing his head to get his ragged mane of salt and pepper hair out of his eyes. “But ‘lo, a human. Those tours are getting earlier and earlier every year, aren’t they?” He sighs, not asking like he expects an answer, but more like he’s just making an unpleasant statement. For half a second you have a retort on your lips, but the longer you stare, the more words vanish from your vocabulary.

The man has clearly tried to tame his ragged hair, weaving it into a messy, short braid that’s just long enough to hang over his right shoulder. There are earrings hanging from his right earlobe, dangly things that clink softly while he brushes impatiently at the dirt on his knees. His jacket, once a lovely heather gray, and obviously a match to a long lost suit, is patched and worn in multiple places. His jeans are nothing to write home about either, with frayed hems and patched knees. He has silvery stubble on his cheeks, and crows feet at the corners of his copper eyes, and—and a long tail, like a bottlebrush, fur standing on end. Until he sees that you’re watching. The tail vanishes behind his legs and your eyes zero in on his sharp nailed fingers, the backs of his knuckles covered with pale, soft looking hair. He grimaces, baring razor edged teeth, and promptly makes to stride past you, not even bothering to wait for you to get out of the way. He draws a rough breath as soon as he bumps into you, flinching away from actually knocking you to the ground, but it’s near enough to set your temper stoking.

Frankly? His manners are atrocious. But you’re also lost somewhere out in the tundra, and even if he doesn’t know where your tour is, he knows of them. You wrestle your temper into staying silent and rush after him.

“Wait! Hey, wait up,” you ask, ignoring the thrill that runs through you when you snag hold of his jacket sleeve and his tail bristles again. He’s not just hiding a tail either. His feet look more like great canine paws, which means—

The man whirls, and you spot two furred ears hidden under his uneven hair before he yanks his arm away from you, breathing far too fast. “Surely you know better than to grab at a shifter?” He hisses, leaning in close to your face. For half a second, he’s close enough for you to feel warmth radiating off of his body, but then his nostrils flare and his voice grows quiet. “Or are you from one of those backwater humans only villages in the East?”

“I’m—I’m sorry for grabbing you,” you blurt, mildly startled by his proximity to your face. “And while yes, that wasn’t a smart idea, I’m lost out here. Would it have been smarter of me to let you leave me in the dust before I asked for directions?” You take a slow step back, though you don’t let your eyes drop from his. You’re not going to take your eyes off of him for even a second if it means the fog is going to swallow him up and leave you all on your lonesome again.

The shifter narrows his copper eyes, highlighting the faint wrinkles in his brown skin. “Lost, you said?” He straightens, and keeps staring, eerily still. His frown only grows more pronounced when you nod your head. “You’re three days out from where the tours start. How long have you been lost?”

“Three days,” you repeat, uncomprehending. For another few seconds, the words don’t make any kind of sense. You’ve been separated from your group, according to your watch, for just over an hour. When you glance at the timepiece, only another handful of minutes have passed, but not enough time to even come close to explaining three days worth of travel. Your pulse is already racing, but it’s beginning to grow past the point of discomfort and into painful territory with how hard your heart is working. How the hell are you supposed to get back? “That’s not possible,” you breathe.

He doesn’t soften, but for a few moments he doesn’t look quite so irritated. “If you heard anything at all on that tour, then I’m sure you know it is possible. Residual magic, yes? It can do quite a bit more than just throw voices like a puppeteer.” He shifts his weight, like he’s ready to leave the moment you give him a chance.

“I’ve been lost for an hour,” you say, hoping that will spell out exactly how ridiculous you find his claims. “And I did my best to stay in one place. I’ve barely even begun to walk anywhere, and I didn’t—didn’t feel anything magical.”

“Isn’t it terribly rare to feel anything magical?” He asks, only gently mocking. “So few people even notice when something magical has happened to them. Now, it sounds as if the fog leapfrogged you through space,” he adds, wrinkling his nose. “Or did those green guides of yours not mention that something like this might happen?” He waits, but when you don’t immediately answer, the shifter sighs again, shakes his head and pivots, heading back into the still-swirling fog, ready to leave you behind.

You make another desperate grab for his sleeve, thankful that he only grimaces when he turns back to face you again. “In fact, yes, they did forget to mention! If you happen to have a satellite phone, or maybe-”

The shifter laughs and your grip on his sleeve grows slack. He’s rather handsome when he smiles, and looks like some kind of down-on-his-luck musician, dreaming of his glory days. You hastily let go of his sleeve, before he decides to yank himself away a second time. “Me? Ol’ Pyre, wandering about the tundra with a satellite phone?” He lifts his bag, clumps of dirt still falling from it. “I’m coming out this way to spend the winter in my other skin, and generally? Foxes have no use for phones.” He lifts his chin, scenting the air, and then nods his head in the direction behind you. “Head that way and the fog is likely to lead you right back.”

“Likely or certain?” You press, scowling. “Because there’s a rather large difference between those two options, and I’m not going to risk myself on likely.”

Pyre huffs out a sharp edged: “Which do you think?” before he registers the way your hands are starting to shake with nerves. His mouth opens, and then snaps shut. For a long moment he’s quiet, gritting his teeth, eyebrows furrowed. “You’re not prepared for more than an evening trek through the tundra, are you? Enough food for a snack and dinner round a campfire before they herd you back?”

A small wave of relief loosens your shoulders. If he’s asking, then surely he’s not going to turn tail and leave you all by your lonesome? You start to smile, ready and willing to ask for further help, but Pyre turns away with a quiet curse.

“Pitiful idiots,” he says, glancing up at the sky, even though he can’t see anything but the vague hint of daylight through the thick fog. “Three days. And leaving would be akin to murder.” He bares his teeth, still looking up for a few seconds longer before he turns a sharp look your way, fingers curling and uncurling at his side. “I’ll lead you as far as the Slavering river. If you stick to that and keep yourself from wandering off into the fog again, you’ll certainly make it close enough for those idiot guides to find you.”

Slavering, the river is called, Bristle’s voice picks up in your head again, because they once thought the tundra a hungry thing, with teeth besides. She’d gestured to the West, though none of the group had been able to spot or hear the roar of the water yet. It had just been another wall of fog over hard earth and low growing shrubs. We’ll end our hike there.

You offer Pyre your hand, still worried about the trek, still ill at ease with what the fog has done, but feeling decidedly less panicked. Residual magic my ass. As soon as I’m back, the guides are going to expand that little safety speech of theirs.

“Thank you, really. I appreciate it. If I hadn’t—”

“Save your breath for the walk,” Pyre mutters and fully ignores your outstretched hand, skirting around you in a wide arch so he won’t risk touching you accidentally. He doesn’t get more than a few paces away though before he’s turning to look at you over his shoulder. “And keep up. If the fog decides to deposit you somewhere else, there aren’t many other helpful shifters wandering about the area.” He saunters off ahead, trusting you to make your own way, but the fur on his tail doesn’t lay flat until you’re jogging to catch up with him.

“Are there dangerous shifters then?” You risk asking, thankful for your heavy coat and the weight of your own pack. Bristle and Rhim hadn’t mentioned any shifters in the area at all, but then they also hadn’t told any of you that the residual magic might move you without your knowledge. Perhaps they would have, if you’d been allowed to stick around, but it feels like a glaring oversight, now that you’re all the way out here. Maybe this is why they make everyone sign the waiver. Not because of some idiotic, siren-like voices, but because of magical fog.

Pyre’s ears twitch, visible for only a split second through his hair. “Don’t wander off,” is all he chooses to add before he falls silent, doing his best to stay several steps ahead of you to discourage speech.

“That’s encouraging,” you mutter, and his ears twitch again, but he doesn’t respond. The walk to the Slavering is going to feel like a very long one from the looks of it, and it isn’t just because everything looks much the same no matter which way you turn. You shove your hands deep in your coat pockets, watching the middle of Pyre’s back, and do your best not to unconsciously search for the lost token. You already know your pockets are still empty.

————-　🦊　————-

Despite Pyre’s desire for absolute silence, he mutters about things without thinking. He comments quietly on a hare speeding away when a noise startles you. He grabs up handfuls of wild berries off of the scrubby bushes you pass, promptly dropping any that are too spoiled to be edible. He flicks some of them away with soft, but mocking farewells until he recalls that you’re not far behind him, listening to everything he says. Pyre’s threadbare shoulders always rise with embarrassment, but after the third time it happens and he remembers you’re there, he sighs, shaking off his chagrin. He pauses just long enough to grab your arm and slap some of the berries into your open palm, doing his best not to meet your eyes.

When he speaks, he keeps his eyes on your fingers, touch careful and tense. “Eat those if you’re feeling peckish, or save them for this evening and you can boil them down into tea. Don’t dive into any of your stores if you can until sometime tomorrow.”

“What about you?” You ask, noticing that he’s barely kept any at all for himself. A berry or two slips away, rolling off of your hand and dropping to the ground.

Pyre arches a brow, closing your hand around the berries so no more can fall before he takes a step back. “I’ll be hunting as soon as I leave you by the river. I’m more than well equipped to look after myself out here. A few berries won’t make much of a difference.”

“Is this a regular thing for you then? Coming out here to the tundra once a month for shifting?”

“For the winter,” Pyre corrects in a sour tone, and then turns back to his chosen path again. “Coming out to the tundra isn’t a regular thing for you though, is it? Or was it just the magic that left you so frightened?”

The berries he’s given you are small and gleaming red, and you don’t much care for his continued irritable attitude. You pop three into your mouth while you ignore him, expecting it to be, at the worst, bitter. Instead it’s dry. You make a noise of distaste, which makes Pyre glance back again. He stops, confused for all of two seconds before his eyes widen and he chokes on his laugh. The sour twist of your mouth is clue enough. “Definitely not a regular traveling spot,” he states. “Unfamiliar with bearberries?”

“I hope that isn’t what they taste like when they’re boiled,” you mumble, doing your best to refrain from scrubbing at your tongue. “And no, the tundra isn’t really a prime vacation spot for me or most anyone else. The draw of lingering, tangible magic is a little too much for some people to ignore though. Maybe not everyone, but some of us.”

Pyre hums, tail raising when he hops over a strange looking crack in the earth. “Feeling a call?” He asks, voice far too even to be pleasant.

That’s a personal question in most places, and Pyre has already quietly mocked your interest in magic once. He does seem the type to poke at uncomfortable topics though, to try and get a rise out of someone. His tail is still bristled out as well, quietly hinting that he’s not in a pleasant mood. “Is that why you come out here during the winter? I don’t hear much about other shifters vanishing for an entire season, fox or not.”

“The only call I’ll ever feel is the one to shift,” he grumps, but he does smack his lips and slow down for a moment, letting you keep pace. “I make bad decisions,” Pyre finally adds, as if that clarifies anything at all.

“All the time? Or-”

“Smartass.”

“That wasn’t even hard, are you really going to fault me for that one?” You wait, patiently, but no answer is forthcoming, and then he rushes forward a few steps ahead. “I’ll take that as a yes?” You call out, but Pyre just keeps walking, like he’s reached the end of his tolerance for speaking politely with another living being. “Well, that was nice while it lasted,” you mumble, frowning when you spot his shaking shoulders. He’s—he’s laughing. Maybe he isn’t suffering from lack of manners entirely, but instead has been too long out of practice.

“Not all the time,” Pyre calls back when he trusts his rasp of a voice not to betray his amusement. “Just a fourth of it.”

For the season, he’d said. You snort and don’t even try to hold back a smile when Pyre tilts his head to look at you. His head immediately snaps forward and he shakes it, as if to ward off an unhappy thought. He’s grumpy because... he’s awkward and shy? The last of your fear, still borne aloft by the way he’s spoken thus far, by his quiet mutter of akin to murder eases immeasurably. You follow after him now in less strained silence, a bit more confident now that you’ll make it back to the tour group in one piece.

————-　🦊　————-

Your confidence lasts until early evening, when visibility is becoming a huge issue for you. No matter how well you might see in the dark, the fog feels like it’s pressing in on you from all sides. Pyre hasn’t slowed by much, but then you see the pale, rapid swish of his tail, moving so fast it looks for a moment like he has more and then you recall that he’s a shifter. His eyesight, as well as his sense of smell, are by far better than your own. He might be able to keep going well into the night, but—You grunt, catching your toe on a white rock the height of your ankle. Before you can fall, or do much more than exclaim in quiet pain, Pyre has his hands on your shoulders, keeping you up and steady.

“It’s dark,” he says quietly, by way of apology. “We’ll stop for the night just up ahead. Can you make it?”

“Without tripping over rocks or falling on my face, you mean?” You breathe in, and promptly swallow. He smells a bit like fresh campfire smoke and the faint citrusy scent of the bearberries and he’s entirely too close. You don’t necessarily want him to move away though, not with the darkness growing thick around you. “Probably not,” you admit quietly.

Pyre hums, breathing in slowly, and the sound is terribly intimate. “...you need a hand?”

“Unless you’d rather I trip and skin my knees and palms in the dark? Yes.”

“Humans,” Pyre says, amused, and clucks his tongue as he takes hold of your wrist, turning away to continue on and pull you after him. He only pauses when you try to tug your hand away.

“You can hold my hand instead of towing me along like a kid at the fair. I don’t even have sticky fingers.” You turn your hand, thankful when he lets you adjust his hold. His fingernails, thicker due to his shifting nature, dig a little too hard into the side of your hand before he reflexes his grip.

He pauses, tense, even though his palm is a soothing warmth against yours. “Not sticky,” he finally agrees. Pyre hesitates, like he wants to say more, but a low, strange voice calls out something from far off. As soon as you hear it, the voice has it’s hooks in you. Your entire body grows tense, hair prickling, listening as hard as you can to try to make out the words. “No,” Pyre says in a low growl, trying to interrupt your concentration. He’s only barely louder than the voice. “Don’t listen. It’s all too easy to-”

“That sounds like—”

“It sounds like nothing that matters. Even if you know the voice, it doesn’t matter.” Pyre grunts when you turn your head, trying to follow the fading voice with your ear alone. He rips his hand out of yours so he can take hold of your face, pulling you close until you’re nearly nose to nose with him, thumbs on your cheekbones, fingernails scratching gently behind your ears. “Right now, the only thing that matters is making camp for the night. We’re heading this way and you are not going to go looking for that voice in the dark.”

You suck down a fierce breath, closing your eyes as the last of the echoing voice fades away. As soon as it’s gone, your shoulders start to slump, and you feel strangely hollow. “That is why they make us sign that waiver?” You ask, opening your eyes to find Pyre still terribly close, his hands still cradling your face.

For a moment, he lingers, breath warm against your lips, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening the longer he stares at you up close. The bright copper of his eyes is muted in the darkness, but the white in his hair, in his eyebrows, stands out brilliantly, and you think there might be more of it now than there was earlier this afternoon. “I knew you’d be a bad decision,” he whispers, and inexplicably, you think he might be about to kiss you. Your heart begins to gallop around your chest, your hands lifting to grasp at his wrists, his own still on your face—and then Pyre pulls away, dragging his nails over your skin. He tangles his fingers with yours and leads you quietly through the dark.

You’re not sure whether you should ask about his other bad decisions again… But you desperately want to.

Putting together the camp is a chilly affair at best. The shelter you help Pyre fumble through in the dark, though of course he has no trouble navigating the process, is little more than a heavy tarp tied securely between two of the tall, white teeth. There isn’t much wind, but now the mist is heavy enough to dot your eyelashes and bead along your sleeves. You don’t quite believe Pyre when he says he can get a fire going, forcing you to sit next to the small ring of stones he’s gathered. “There’s a copse of trees not far from here,” he explains, tilting his head to your right, though you can’t see anything through the fog, and especially not in the dark. “And I’ll be able to scrounge up enough for a fire.”

You want to ask him if he’ll be able to find his way back to you. If he thinks you’ll be safe sitting here on your own, especially after the voice from earlier. Voicing your concerns feels a bit too much like an invitation for bad luck though, and you still don't know Pyre very well. He might be helping you out of the goodness of his heart, but he's already dubbed you a bad decision. You're not sure you want to push things. “Won’t the wood be wet?” You ask instead, chafing your hands together to stir up a little bit of heat.

“No fear of shifters,” Pyre scoffs, straightening up and pulling his bag off of his back. “No screaming at strangers when you're lost in the foggy tundra, but you're worried about damp firewood?" You scowl, knowing full well he can see your expression. That surprises a rough sounding laugh out of him. "I may choose to spend my winter as a fox, but that doesn't mean I don't turn back into a man when spring comes." Pyre brandishes a small box, a tin filled with what sounds like matches. He rattles them about for emphasis. “Charmed matches are a necessity out here, not optional. Even if the wood is damp, they’ll catch well enough to last us the night.”

Charmed matches aren’t exactly common. A package of them, when used only in dire situations, should last someone a score of years at least, and as the spells to make them are some of the few guarantees of still working magic… They cost a pretty penny. “...should you be wasting them on me when I’m supposed to find the tour guides tomorrow?”

Pyre shakes the box at you, silently insisting you take it from his hand. When you take it from him, there’s more hair, more fur on his fingers than there was earlier in the day. You wonder if it’s a conscious change to help stave off the chill, or if it’s simply too close to when he shifts. “We need some way to boil a bit of water for bearberry tea, don’t we? Unless you’d rather eat them plain.” He sounds like he’s smiling, but the dark is getting more oppressive and you can’t see it. Pyre’s tone turns a little more serious, a little more apologetic as he continues: “And using them seems to keep away the voices, so yes. As I’ve taken responsibility for your safety—”

“Responsibility,” you murmur, arching a brow, but you can’t exactly disagree.

“—I’ll do exactly as I said. You’ll get to the Slavering, and I’ll even give you a match as a gift. You can make a torch as you head back and the voices should leave you be.”

You don’t shake the tin of them, knowing that they’re valuable, but you stroke your finger over the top, following the raised patterns of letters. “Will they work, even if they’re unlit?”

Pyre waits, and you don’t know whether he’s reluctant to give you an answer or he doesn’t actually know. “Are you worried about me going to grab the firewood?”

Well, it was kind of ridiculous, trying to hide your nervousness from him anyway. You’re lost in the tundra with someone you don’t know. No matter how resilient you are, it’s going to be nerve wracking. “I’ve never felt quite as strange as when I heard that voice, even with you pulling me back from it…” You stop, a frown growing on your lips. “But the voice didn’t do anything to you. You had no problem telling me not to listen to it.”

Pyre crouches, his knees popping, and groans quietly, rubbing at the patch just under his left kneecap. You can see his hands, pale fur the only spot of brightness in the night. “They don’t much affect shifters. We’re…. We’re already rather full of magic ourselves, even if it isn’t the kind one can use by uttering spells or mixing ingredients in a pot. Whatever the reason, the voices don’t seem to like magic. So a box of those matches?” He reaches out to tap on the tin with one long nail. “It should keep you from falling prey for the few moments it will take me to gather wood. I still wouldn’t get up though, then you might risk dropping it.”

You don’t know everything about the tundra, even with what research you did before you came on the trip, and the talk of magic here? It’s still something people want to study. One of the ones that came with a recorder would probably be thrilled to hear this much about the place from… Pyre might not be a year-round local, but he knows quite a bit. If he can hold off his shifting, maybe you’ll ask him to talk to one of them. “I’ll be safe,” you say, extrapolating, “as long as I stay sitting here. You’ll be able to find me again?”

“...I’ll be able to follow your scent, yes,” he admits, like he expects you to be irritated with the thought. Far, far away, another voice echoes, much fainter than the one you’d heard before. It doesn’t sound pained or panicked though, it sounds a bit like—Pyre takes your fingers, almost crushing them around the tin box in your hands. The voice vanishes. “You’ll be safe,” Pyre repeats, and a breeze whisks through the area, catching at his wild grey and white hair.

“Then get the wood,” you say, before you lose your nerve. “I’ll wait.” Pyre’s hand, still curled tightly around your fingers, eases. He brushes his thumb over the valleys between your knuckles and then pulls away.

“A few moments only. I promise,” he whispers, and then his canine-like feet are scuffing through the hard dirt and lichen covered rocks.

As soon as he’s gone, you soothe yourself by running your fingers over the tin of matches, trying to figure out what words are written along the top in fine, curling letters. There are too many loops though and when you do your best to try and focus on it, bringing it up close to your face, all you can see is that places on the tin have been worn down. Whatever it might say, the color on the tin won’t help you figure it out. It feels like only seconds, but another noise echoes in the darkness, your heart jumping back into overdrive. You clutch at the matchbox, but then Pyre is stepping out of the heavy fog, dropping a heaving armful of twisted branches and thick tangles of what looks like weeds.

“Moments, I thought you said! What was that, 30 seconds?” You ask, trying to calm your racing heart.

Pyre laughs. “I think you were just lost in thought, hm? It’s easy to lose track of time in the dark.” He kneels at the ring of rocks, cursing, even though you can’t hear any popping in his limbs this time. “Now, give me the matches and let’s get things a bit warmer, hm?”

You hand them over, and then get to work. You feel more than see Pyre’s surprise when you start picking up the branches and weeds. “I may be human, but I can help do a bit of work. It’s the last I can do after you helping me like this, what with your shifting getting close.”

“Noticed that, did you?” He asks, tin creaking as he opens and closes the lid. You glance over, but other than his pale fur, you can’t make out what he’s actually doing. A second later and he’s striking one of the charmed matches over a rough rock, and then it blazes merrily in a bit of fire smaller than a penny. “I won’t be a danger. I’m old enough to keep my wits. My… I should warn you, my breed of shifting isn’t always so pretty as others though.”

“Is that why you come out here?”

“One of many reasons,” Pyre mutters and holds the match to the wood in the fire pit. The match doesn’t burn down immediately though, or even catch the weeds when he touches it to them. Pyre deposits it carefully in the exact middle of arrangement, planting it almost like a seedling in the wood and weeds. Only after he removes his hand does the match start to spark, and then fire twists open like a blooming flower. It’s gorgeous. You lift your eyes to Pyre, awe clear in your gaze, and then you have to blink. He’s still the older man you saw this afternoon. He still has a mostly human face, but his arms look longer now, and his copper eyes flash strangely in the firelight. He glances at you, and you see that his mouth has grown wider, the edges either curling back towards his cheekbones or… Or his jaws are elongating. “Frightened?” He asks, and then you realize that you’ve been staring.

“Mildly startled,” you correct, refusing to look away. Whether he’s a pretty kind of shifter or not, you can still see him in his eyes and the way he holds himself.

He chuffs, and the noise warms something deep in your chest. “Smartass,” he says, sounding very fond. “I’ll make some of that tea now then, if you’d like it.”

“Bearberry tea,” you muse, reaching in your pocket for the rest of the berries he’d given you. Pyre unearths a small cooking pot from his bag, as well as an earthenware mug, glazed some kind of deep green. He hands you the mug and then holds out the pot, nodding his head when you lift your berry filled hand over it. It takes longer than you would like. Pyre has to mash the berries down and then he surprises you by standing and tugging at the tarp edge of your shelter. Water, mist really, beaded so heavily along the taut plastic that there’s enough to fill the pot near to overflowing. It’s much more than you would have thought, but Pyre seems unsurprised, even though you’ve both been relatively dry since he started building the fire.

“Alright,” you finally say, watching Pyre stir the faintly pink water with a metal spoon from his bag. “You mentioned bad decisions, and I’m not wise enough to leave it well alone. What are all these ‘bad decisions’ that drive you out into the tundra for an entire season? And, I can’t not clarify, were they flings?”

Pyre stares at you, eyes gleaming in the firelight, his too wide jaw falling open due to your blunt questions. When he laughs this time, it’s a sharp bark and more fox-like than human. “Oh, you are one of them. Much more perceptive than many of the others.” He licks his lips, still human-smooth, but his ears have grown longer. They’re peeking out from the sides of his head, poking through his hair now. “Some of them were flings. Some of them were just… A way to stave off loneliness, even if they were unpleasant.”

“And where am I falling on that scale?”

Pyre arches a thicker brow, baring his sharp teeth in a slightly eerie smile. “I wouldn’t be opposed to a fling with someone like you, but your companionship is more than enough if that’s all you want to give.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Then how, exactly, am I a ‘bad decision’? Making friends isn’t a bad thing, is it?”

Pyre’s smile wavers. “No, no it isn’t.” He looks away, into the middle of the fire, where the charmed match is still blazing like a seed of flame. “The bad decision is that my loneliness drives me to go looking in the first place.”

You let a few moments pass in relative silence, puzzling over his words. It sounds more than strange, but you can’t put your finger on why. “What does that mean?” You finally ask, noting the way he’s digging his nails into his thighs.

He looks back at you. “Anyone who wanders out here is an offering, of sorts. To help bear the brunt of winter. The tours… They’re more like a ritual than those guides of yours realize.”

Your head feels strangely empty. Ritual, he’d said. Slowly, you think back to the myths linked to the tundra, to the Mirrored Teeth, to the folktales attached to cities and Serpent Towers. There had been something about bearing the brunt of winter, holding it back from sweeping over the land…

“Your time here will be no more than the three days I promised. You will be taken back to the Slavering, with only this time gone from the memories of others, and I will do nothing but what I promise: to lead you back, if that is all you desire.” Pyre creeps closer, long arms and long fingers bracing himself on the dirt. All it takes is a single stretch and he’s by your side, towering over you in his half shifted form. “The bad decision was that I was given the right to choose without any warning. That I could only claim those I charmed away.”

“You charmed me?” You whisper.

“You heard my voice,” Pyre explains and your heart beats painfully in your chest. He is why people vanish from the tours and come back tired and dirty but… But most of them come back unharmed.

“What happens to those that don’t make it back?” You ask, trying to quell your panic.

Pyre’s shoulders hunch. “Sometimes people react poorly, and they run. Running in the fog is never wise.”

“How am I… How am I supposed to help you keep winter from swallowing the world?”

Pyre barks out another laugh, though he’s grimacing. “Those years I don’t have a companion, winter escapes my hold. It’s much easier to keep in check with help.”

“Helping how?” You ask, voice going brittle.

“Companionship. You’re already bound to the three days,” he says quietly, nodding his head to the pot of slow boiling bearberries on the fire. “You ate three of them. If…. If you choose to help, to spend the winter with me, then you can drink. You’ll be with me through the entire season—”

“Out in the middle of the tundra, with nothing but a tarp and an evening's supply of food?” You ask, getting to your feet. You take a step away from the fire, nervous energy making you move, and then freeze when you hear a far off voice again. You glance down at Pyre, angry and convinced it must be him, but then you recognize it. The voice, low and soft as it echoes strangely through the fog, is you.

“The voices are possibilities only,” Pyre says, talking over the needy sounding moan. It vanishes, like nothing more than smoke on a fast moving breeze. “And I would take you back to my home, I wouldn’t make you wander out here and sleep on the freezing ground!” Pyre starts to get to his feet and then thinks better of it. He stays where he is, looking up at you, holding out a hand. “If you drink, all I require is companionship. Loneliness lets the ice creep further out, but friendship, or, or anger or passion keeps it at bay. With your help I can bind the overflow of ice in the teeth. But if three days is all you’ll allow, then I’ll find another, I promise. You’ll be free of this, and you’ll forget this ever happened.”

You’re out in the middle of the tundra, wreathed in magical fog and standing before a shifter, a… a spirit? A deity? That keeps winter at bay. You did want magic, didn’t you? You ask yourself. You look down to his open hand, brown palm calloused, nails long and sharp, white fox fur growing longer along his arm.

“No one will even notice I’ve been gone?”

“You’ll be lost in the fog for three days, according to them. What life you’ve missed will feel like a blink, but no. They won’t realize you’ll have been gone for the entire winter.” Pyre’s mouth closes, stubbled throat working as he swallows.

Slowly, you sit back down, picking up the glazed green mug and holding it out for Pyre to fill. “The winter then. If we end up hating one another? You have no one to blame but yourself.”

Pyre doesn’t answer, but he watches like a predator after he fills the mug with bearberry tea, copper eyes caught on your lips. You finish half the cup, and what chill lingered in your bones slowly fades away. Carefully, Pyre takes the cup back and downs the rest, long tongue licking stray droplets off of his lips.

————-　🦊　————-

You travel with Pyre for three days before you reach the banks of the Slavering, only when you do, the tour guides aren’t waiting for you. This is where the Slavering begins, the thick snowmelt coming off of the high mountaintops and rolling down through the craggy rocks to make a river. There’s a cave entrance not far from the rapids, covered over with weeds and just large enough for Pyre to stoop over and fit into. You stop at the entrance, with him close behind you, and stare into the far off dark.

“It’s not like a dungeon in there, is it?”

Pyre grumbles, somewhere between indignation and a laugh. “You always know just what to say. No, it’s not like a dungeon. There’s plenty of modern day amenities inside. I’m a shifter, not a beast.”

Cautiously, still not entirely trusting him, you head inside. It’s dark at first, and earthy smelling, just like a cave, but then Pyre strikes another one of his charmed matches and pulls you to the side so he can lead. There’s a lamp up ahead, the frosted glass globe just big enough for Pyre to reach in and set the match. Heat and light seem to roll through the entire area, a locked, wooden door revealing itself to the side of the lamp. The cave floor, still cold and a bit damp, is actually stones, pieced together into what looks like a strange little map. You frown down at the stones, eyes tracing the edges of a single, deep blue vein, wondering why the chips of pale rock surrounding it strike you as strange.

“The Teeth,” you murmur suddenly. “You have a map of the teeth in front of your door?” Some of the spots are much smaller than others, more like a pinprick of pale stone as opposed to some of the hefty chips. If you unfocus your eyes, the map looks like a reflection of the stars.

“Magic,” Pyre explains, though he doesn’t sound pleased with his own answer. “There’s plenty to talk about when it comes to the Teeth, and the voices, just… Let’s go inside. It’s going to start snowing soon.”

When he opens the door, all the lamps inside are lit. Much like Pyre himself, his decor is frayed and worn down. There are heavy furs on the walls, and tapestries too, both simple and grand, but fragile looking. There are furs on some of the furniture as well. There’s a large stone fireplace, with hooks over the mantle made of horn and a set of stone stairs that curve out of sight. There’s no sign of things like phones or televisions, but you feel like you should have expected that. Companionship through a screen probably didn't fulfill the parameters of his… his curse?

That’s something you decide to ask about later. After all, you have the rest of the winter to spend with him, and he explained plenty over the three day trip to the mountain. The teeth are made of contained winter. The larger the teeth are, the more someone helped Pyre through that season. Through friendship, or anger, or passion, they melted the ice and snow. Pyre would take the melt and bind it in magic-made spires, but he couldn’t build on only one. Each spire was the product of a different person, each fling or friend made or fight had melted the snow at different rates. If your help has already begun, then you know some of the snow must have melted already due to your anger over the past few days, but it’s not something you think you can hold onto. Pyre tricked you into the three days, gave you the bearberries and bid you eat if you were hungry. You’d eaten three of them. The rest of the winter though? That you chose yourself. At least for a while, you’re ready to try and enjoy a little bit of the magic, keeping back winter or no.

“It’s not quite past midday,” Pyre says quietly, voice a strange melding of fox and man. “If you’d like food, I will make it for you. If you’d like a rest, I’ll show you to your room.”

“My room?” You ask, only sounding mildly sarcastic.

Pyre narrows those coppery eyes of his. “Sometimes I think you say these things on purpose. Yes. Your room.” He heads for the staircase, his toenails clicking on the stone floor before he reaches the layers of rugs, the soft padding of his feet on them makes you smile. “I would hardly complain if you decided to join me in mine, but even so, you will have your own space.” He tosses his head, earrings catching in his hair and then vanishes up the stairs.

You move at a much more sedate pace, still examining your surroundings. There’s a very old looking table, covered with the remnants of a puzzle that looks to be from forty years ago at least. There’s a rack of old bottles, some of them look like wine, but others are clearly beer, and still others look like glass bottles of soda, the liquid half evaporated. Pyre’s house is going to be a treasure trove of history, of things left behind by others. The winter is going to be very long, you’re certain, but it won’t be forever. All of the people that left these things behind have obviously left and returned to their homes. You turn on your heel, slip your bag off of your shoulders and leave it at the foot of the stairs. You can come back for it later.

The lamps, all seemingly lit from that single charmed match, spiral up the staircase. There aren’t any doors that open up off the sides, only a hallway at the very top and three open doors leading to the far end. The first one you pass is a bathroom, with a large tub carved out of the stone of the mountain. There are elderly looking cupboards in there, and what looks like a wood burning stove, though it’s empty. The toilet, you assume, is behind the drawscreen, and when you peek your head farther in, there’s also a shining, copper mirror hanging on the wall. The second room is where Pyre is, hands fussing over the thick curtains around the bed. There’s a fireplace against the wall, and a nightstand next to the bed, and more furs draped over a chair made of wood and horn in the corner. There’s a worn desk, obviously hand-made by someone unskilled, but a beautiful bookcase next to it, filled with books in various states of wear. Some of the spines are cracked, but others still are pristine. To the right of the bed, there’s a single paned window. Snow is coating the sill outside, thick flurries weighing down the weeds that are growing in the cracked stone.

Despite the magic, despite the voices and his promise, it still hadn’t felt quite so real, wandering through the tundra with him. He’d said the snow would be coming down soon though.

“It’s lovely,” you answer, honestly, even if not everything is to your taste. It almost makes you want to laugh though, because it definitely looks like it’s somewhere removed from the normal world, some kind of strange mish-mash of time periods all pressed into a two story place. You wonder, without Pyre, would anyone ever find this place?

“Parts of it,” Pyre says, strange looking hands pausing in their tying of the curtains. He’s looking at the headboard, you realize. There’s a faint gouge in the dark wood, but it doesn’t look like it was from Pyre. It looks like a very human scratch. Warmth crawls over the back of your neck, though you’re not sure whether it’s embarrassment or eagerness. You’d been feeling a healthy dose of attraction with Pyre before he told you about everything, and it had taken a bit to sort through your feelings on the matter, even with you making the final choice to come here. You still don’t know how things will continue, but for now…

“Let me see what I can do to help make a few more lovely memories then,” you say suddenly. Heat is pulsing through you now, warming your cheeks and the tips of your ears and zinging down along your spine. Pyre’s head snaps to the side to find your hands working slowly at your clothes. He doesn’t move any further, doesn’t even tip back his head, just stares at you over the crest of his shoulder, pupils swallowing down the copper of his irises.

“If—you don’t have to do anything,” he insists, and his tail swishes, slowly, just the once. It doesn’t bristle out as it had when you’d first spotted him.

Your coat drops to the floor, and his eyes follow it. “I know. We were flirting though, before you told me about all of this, and I still…” You glance away, only for your eyes to snap back to Pyre as he drags his patched suit jacket off of his shoulders.

He slows when he realizes you’re watching, but doesn’t stop. A slow grin pulls at the corners of his wide mouth. “You still want to feel magic?” He taunts, and laughs when you roll your eyes. He stops laughing when the rest of your clothes hit the floor, the hint of a whine escaping him when you take a step closer, shivering when you feel the temperature of the stone on your bare feet. “My room,” Pyre says roughly, though you can’t tear your eyes away from him. He’s still a wonderfully strange mix of man and fox. His face is still humanoid, with lips and stubbled cheeks, and so is the shape of his shoulders through his holey t-shirt. There’s soft curls of hair peeking out of the stretched neck of his shirt, but along the backs of his arms it looks more like fur and his feet are still wholly canine. His tails, tails plural, are starting to grow longer too, and you recall the way he’d seemed to coalesce into one person when the fog had rolled back.

Pyre crosses the room, hesitating before he places his hands on your shoulders, thumbnails scratching gently at your bare skin. The chill of the room had been seeping into you, but at his touch, warmth chases it all away. When you slide your hands up his chest, Pyre’s eyes fall closed, gray lashes bright against his skin. “M’ room,” he repeats again, but pulls you into a kiss as he tows you out the door. There’s no more time for examining the hallway or the knick-knacks he might be keeping in his own space. There’s his lips and his stubble scratching at your skin and his hands splayed over the back of your neck and the base of your spine. He coaxes you into his room with deep, slow kisses that leave your head spinning, whispering things that make your pulse speed. “Want, want the smell of you on my sheets,” he says against your neck, dragging sharp teeth carefully over your throat. He growls when your hands dip to undo his trousers, your thumb following the trail of hair that vanishes beneath his underwear. “If this is, if it’s—”

“I agreed to the winter,” you remind him and then he’s turning you and letting you fall back onto his bed. You have a moment to register soft fur, and crocheted blankets, and comforters too, before Pyre is pulling his shirt off and tossing it across the room. He wrestles with the rest of his clothes, leaving you another moment to admire him. The hair on his chest and trailing down his abdomen looks human, much coarser than the fur on his arms and below his knees. Between his legs is a thick cock, hard and beginning to leak, with a small bulge near the base of him, and then your gaze is drawn back up as he crawls onto the bed, moving much slower than he had in the hall. He doesn’t press, doesn’t rush, just leans his body over yours to kiss you again, careful with his teeth. He groans when you reach up and tug at his braid, pulling the rough tie away and tossing it to the side. You comb your fingers through his hair, tangling your fingers in it to keep him kissing you and tense when his cock slides over your thigh, hot and hard and enough to make you buck up, already seeking friction. Pyre kisses you until you’re breathless, leaving you sucking at your own lips and trying to calm yourself as he urges you further up the bed, back to a veritable nest of pillows.

He isn’t slow when he settles himself between your legs, hands curling around your thighs and pushing them carefully back towards your chest. He isn’t slow when he drags his tongue over you, hot and slick and slightly rough. He’s careful as he can be with his teeth, but there are a few pinches that make you gasp and tremble. He laves his tongue over them, soothing the sting, but his nails are pressing hard into your skin and you’re fairly certain you’re going to bruise, simply from the continued pressure. Pyre is noisy too, whining and groaning as he tastes you, as you do your best to rock yourself against his tongue, hand tugging at his hair while he sucks and eats. The ache of orgasm, painful-but-sweet, is starting to build, starting to make you tense everytime he opens his jaw, teeth dragging over tender skin, leaving you wet and shuddering. He huffs when you whimper, and pulls away before you can come, copper eyes as bright as flame when he moves to sit back against his headboard. The loss of him feels sudden, and the cold is sharp without his warmth against you.

“That was on purpose,” you murmur. Pyre arches a brow, trying to keep from smiling when you scowl at his crooking finger. You still get up, on shaking knees and gasp when he tugs you over and onto his lap, your back against his chest, cock slick and sticky against your ass.

“I want to feel everything when you shake apart,” he murmurs, hand splaying over your sternum as he helps you arrange your legs. By the time you’re straddling his thighs, his fingertips are dipping into the hollow of your throat and his cock is rutting against your thigh and every part of you is on edge, desperate for more. You’d been so close. Pyre licks at the side of your throat, pressing his hand harder against your chest to keep your back still. “Lift your hips,” he urges, and takes his cock in hand, dragging the head over you as you do your best to listen. Like fitting a key into a lock, Pyre finds the correct angle, breathing raggedly as you press yourself down. As soon as you’ve taken enough of him, he lets go of himself and then presses on the top of your thighs, making you gasp out his name as you take him in deeper. He eases off after a moment, letting you adjust, letting you wriggle and groans out your name roughly as you do your best to ride him.

You think for a moment about saying something, about teasing him or trying to rile him up, but it’s all you can do to keep up what rhythm you have, heart beating terribly fast against the hand he has on your chest. He lets you move, lets you reach back and clutch at the messy locks of his hair, his breath warm against your throat and the top of your shoulder and then Pyre pushes roughly against your thigh again, thrusting up until his knot is grinding against you. “Fuck, fuck, Pyre, that—”

“Too much?” He asks, waiting while you shake, trying to steady your breath. You’re probably going to ache later, probably won’t want to do much but doze or take a bath in that massive stone tub, but right now? Right now you want to be greedy.

“More,” you get out and Pyre laughs, that eerie, fox-like noise echoing in your ear as he teases you with the knot, pressing you down and then pulling back his hips. Pillows cascade off the edges of the bed, spilling over the floor. You start squeezing, doing your best to drive him over the edge, so sensitive it almost hurts. “Please,” you whisper and then you’re too busy for speech. His knot stretches you and his hand dips between your thighs, stroking and his fingers press into the base of your throat. He’s not choking you, but he’s starting to squeeze and then you’re coming. Pleasure washes over you in a fierce, pulsing ache that shoots down to your toes and fountains back up your body. You shout out his name and shake in his arms, eyes falling closed as his knot expands, locking you in place. Your eyes flutter open and closed and drift to a steamed up window, much like the one in your own room. Weeds are still poking up through the cracks, but now it’s not snowing outside, it’s raining.

Pyre turns his nose to the space behind your ear, breathing deep, his own limbs growing loose. “The winter might well be softer this year,” Pyre mumbles, voice raspy, his hand smoothing down your sternum and over your hips. “And I have you to thank for that.”

“We still have the rest of the winter ahead of us,” you remind him, but you’re too sleepy to argue with him any further. Whether you end up enjoying the rest of your time here, you do know one thing: Passion will definitely be a huge part of fulfilling your bargain for the winter.

————-　🦊　————-

#exophilia #werefox boyfriend #male werefox #shifter boyfriend #d.darling writes #d.darling queues

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tales-unique · 3 years

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FAITH, LOST V

Spicy spicy spicyyyyyyyy! Minors DO NOT enter here!

@buckysbaby1 && @chelseareferenced ♥

Chapter 5

The world spins when you finally pull away; motion blur. You lick your lips, savoring the bitter sting that he leaves behind. Strong liquor and cigar smoke. It’s intoxicating and it takes all you have not to dive back in for more. “Well, well,” he drawls, voice low with desire, “I didn’t know you had it in you, kitten.” A deep chuckle rumbles in his chest and you’re suddenly aware of how close you are to him. He has you pressed against the wall, an iron grip on your hips keeping you in place. Your arms are wrapped around his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his coat. Being this close you can feel the heat that radiates through his clothes, amongst other things. The grin he gives you is downright filthy, making your cheeks burn. God, you want to slap him. You want to kiss him again, too. It’s a strange kind of feeling, a constant state of push and pull that throws you off balance; a subtle kind of vertigo. Even though he’s the one in control again, the one with the power , it’s not quite the same as it was before. The dynamic has shifted between you; now you feel as though you can keep pace with him, perhaps even outdo him. You realise, suddenly empowered, that you rather enjoy the idea. You also realize that you’re not in the mood for his mocking pet names. Looking up at him, you fix him with a piercing glare. “Fuck you, Heisenberg.” The words dart off your tongue before you realize you’re saying them, briefly gripped by mortification before you realize how good it felt to say. You’ve never cursed, not in your whole life, but you’re not about to take shit from him anymore. Fuck his teasing, fuck his attitude, and fuck him . You feel giddy, knowing your parents would be turning in their graves, you assume if they were buried, over your blatant disrespect. It’s short lived, though. “What the fuck did you just say to me?” It’s dangerous, the tone of his voice like a razor's edge. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand to attention. You stiffen, adrenaline coursing through your blood. You’re drunk on it, feeling like you can take on the world and then some. “I—” you swallow the last of your panic, puffing up your chest, “you heard me.” In his circular glasses you see yourself reflected; resolution hardens your features, but it quickly morphs into shock when his hand shoots up with alarming speed to grip your chin. It reminds you of when you were first brought before the Lords, but now the memory is tainted with a deliciously sinful filter. He pulls your head up sharply, throat bared in a beautiful expanse of unblemished skin. Your pulse dances wildly under his fingertips and it takes every ounce of control that he has at his disposal not to sink his canines in up to the root. It’s the innate drive of the beast within that cries out to mark you up, his boiling blood demanding it. “Y-you’re hurting me,” you whimper, hands coming to claw at his wrist, though it doesn’t make a difference. “Oh? Am I now?” he purrs, feigning remorse. There’s a pause in his predatory movements and you think for a gleaming moment that he’s going to let you go, only to be pulled headfirst back into the fray when feel his knee shift to pry you trembling legs apart. It’s a more direct pressure than you’ve felt before, searing heat coalescing downwards to a single point. Your breath hitches and you struggle against him, painfully aware of just how worked up he is over this. It’s driven home with a derisive rut of his hips against you and your stomach twists in pleasure. The friction of the movement, deliberate in it’s languid pace, sets your whole body on fire. You were already on the cusp of something foreign and intense, but this was going to send you hurtling over the edge before you even had a chance to savor it. Heisenberg takes in your dishevelled appearance; how flushed your skin is, red hot to the touch, set alight with the sinful desire he’s eliciting from you and growls in satisfaction. You whimper and whine for him to let you go, but it isn’t from pain so he isn’t inclined to pay you any mind. Even as aroused as he is he can control himself with strict discipline, so he knows that his grip is just enough to have you squirming underneath him, but not be in any real danger. Turning your head just so, he takes the opportunity to scent you. You’re a tantalizing mix of adrenaline and lust, with a sprinkling of naivety that makes him ache. You may have known enough to enter the race, but you’re nowhere near ready to compete with the likes of him. You couldn’t even take a little grinding! Heisenberg smirks; a fumble in the hay with a village nobody didn’t mean shit in the face of what he could do to you. “H-Heisenberg—” You say his name in a fervid whisper, clutching desperately at him. You tug on his coat sleeve, nails biting into the skin of his arm. It’s the kind of pain that only serves to spur him on. Especially when he feels how tight your thighs are pressed around his knee, locked in a grip that betrays just how much you’re enjoying yourself. “That’s it, just like that.” He caresses your hip with his free hand as he praises your eagerness, gingerly dipping his fingers beneath the hem of your shirt to slide over your bare skin. The lilting moan this little touch elicits from you is almost enough to have him throw caution to the wind right then and there, but he stays his hand. He can’t give in just yet; he needs you near boiling point, when the only thing you see and hear and feel is your desire for him. "Please, stop," you beg, breathless, but it lacks conviction. In response Heisenberg presses his tongue flat against the junction between your neck and shoulder, licking a burning path up to your jawline in a swift, sensual stroke. "Do you really want that?" He murmurs against your skin, temptation prickling his skin. God, he wants you so bad. He grinds into you again, delighting in the way you writhe against him. He can feel the way you tremble, the curve of your body fits against him so perfectly. It’s like you were made to be his. You’re so close to giving yourself over to desire that he can practically taste it. That’s why he’s so fucking pissed when everything suddenly goes to shit. It’s bedlam in a matter of seconds. Something deep in the bowels of the Factory explodes in a spectacular fashion, causing damage so profound it makes the very foundations of the building rumble. Emergency power is tripped in the fallout and everything is abruptly bathed in an ominous red glow. “Are you fucking kidding me!?” Heisenberg howls, practically feral, “what the hell is going on now !?” His hands are suddenly ripped from your body to slam against the walls either side of you in anger so hard it indents the metal. You jolt at the sudden burst of sound, but it’s all on autopilot. You’re stuck in sensory overload, mind in a tailspin, still on the cusp of a euphoria that has turned from sweet ecstasy to bitter shock. It paralyzes you in place and leaves you with a terrible case of longing. Watching with pupils blown wide, you see Heisenberg look over his shoulder down the corridor with a snarl curling his lips; the distant cries of his Lycans sound, a call to their Master. In this lighting his scars seem to glow, just like his eyes do when you catch a glimpse of them behind his signature glasses. In that moment he’s wild and untamed and you don’t want to let him go. That smouldering gaze turns to you and you forget how to breathe, electrified. A part of you hopes that he’ll ignore the mayhem, but you know that he can’t. It could be serious, likely is, and he has a reputation to maintain, and a hoard of monstrous Lycans to keep in line. Your lips part in a would-be plea, but he doesn’t give you the chance to speak it. His lips are immediately on yours in a bruising kiss, all teeth and tongue and hot-blooded hunger. You soak up the seconds, your fingers knotting in his hair, desperate for more. It doesn’t last. It’s forced to be over before it could really begin. “We aren’t done here,” Heisenberg growls, catching your lower lip between his teeth for an instant. It feels like an electric shock, leaving static in its place when he pulls away. Searing heat swells in your stomach anew and all you manage is a shaky nod in reply. With a handsomely devilish smirk Heisenberg pushes himself back from you, turning fluidly on his heel to investigate just what the hell is going on in his Factory. It’s only when he’s turned the corner at the end of the hallway that all the momentum finally overwhelms you. Your knees grow weak and wobble and then you’re crumpled in a heap of jellied limbs on the cold metal floor. Your mind reels— oh merciful Mother Miranda what have you done?

#RE #RE8 #RE 8 #Resident Evil #Resident Evil 8 #Resident Evil 8 Village #RE Imagine #RE Imagines #RE8 Imagine #RE8 Imagines #Resident Evil Imagine #Resident Evil Imagines #Karl Heisenberg #Karl Heisenberg Imagine #Karl Heisenberg Imagines #Karl Heisenberg x Reader #Heisenberg Imagine #Heisenberg Imagines #Heisenberg x Reader

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cuttoothed · 3 years

Text

For day 1 of @aspecarchivesweek for the prompt “wish”. Someday I will write something that isn’t jmart, but that day is not today.

Ace Martin character exploration; Jon/Martin; some Martin/OMC

Warnings: internalized homophobia (brief); internalized aphobia (ongoing); reference to having sex while intoxicated; reference to having sex reluctantly (though not coerced); outing of ace character in their absence

Martin spends a long time wishing he was normal.

It starts when he’s fourteen. Well, no, it starts much earlier than that, but it’s when he’s fourteen that the nebulous muddle of feelings coalesces into something impossible to ignore. That’s when all the boys and girls in his class start making eyes at each other while pretending they aren’t; start talking about who they’d like to snog behind the bushes at the bottom of the sports field, and Martin feels something twist in his stomach when he realizes that the person he’d like to be behind the bushes with is Stephen Dowling, who has dark hair and blue eyes and snaps gum between his teeth all day long.

Martin never says anything about it, of course, tries not to even think about it, but he knows it’s not normal. As if he needed one more weird thing about him along with all his sick mum and his jacket that pulls tight across his shoulders, the seams fraying because he needs to get another year out of it before they spend money on a replacement. He keeps his head down and secretly believes that this part of his life will never be over.

Eventually, this part of his life is over.

He is nineteen and living in London in a cheap flatshare with three other people, he has a job at a real academic institution, and he has a boyfriend.

Ramesh is sweet and funny and has soft brown eyes with the longest eyelashes Martin’s ever seen. His heart flutters in his chest every time they’re together, his breath catching in his throat and spilling out as laughter. Martin feels normal, because this is London and nobody cares if he walks down the street with Ramesh’s hand in his, if he kisses his boyfriend in the queue for the chippie. It’s like a weight Martin never knew was there lifted off his chest and he can breathe properly for the first time in his life.

He and Ramesh go out for almost a month before they’re in Martin’s flat alone one night, all the others gone out, and Ramesh presses him down on the sofa and kisses him and crawls a hand inside Martin’s jeans. Martin feels hot and cold all at once, his stomach coiling sick and every muscle in his body tensing up for fight or flight. He pushes Ramesh away—too hard, too clumsy—and guilt courses through him at the hurt look in Ramesh’s soft eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Ramesh asks, and Martin can’t say, his heart pounding and his hand clenched painfully tight against the arm of the sofa.

“Sorry,” he’s able to say eventually. “I just, umm…”

“It’s all right,” says Ramesh, though he still looks hurt and confused and Martin has the feeling it’s not actually all right. “I probably surprised you. We can wait for next time, yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Martin, grateful at the reprieve. They sit on the sofa and watch a film instead, and Martin scarcely follows the plot as he tries to calm the adrenaline rushing through his veins, making him want to flinch every time Ramesh’s shoulder touches his.

Next time is the same. Martin apologizes again, and Ramesh says it’s all right again and then two days later breaks up with him.

“I just don’t think it’s working out,” he says, and Martin knows it really wasn’t all right after all.

Martin’s sick of wishing he was normal, and what is it they say: fake it ‘til you make it?

He gets drunk and takes home a man he doesn’t know and has sex. He scarcely remembers it the next day and he’s too hungover and miserable to try, but he’s proven to himself that he can have sex and that’s the important thing.

Having sex is normal. It’s what people in relationships do. Martin doesn’t know why he has the hang-ups he does, but he just needs to get over them and learn to relax a bit. Having a couple of drinks helps, he finds.

He has a few boyfriends here and there, and having sex really isn’t a problem. There are better things he could think of doing with his time, but it’s fine. There are even some nice things about it, like feeling close to someone. Intimate.

Eventually, he thinks, maybe he’ll stop feeling like he’s faking it.

It isn’t that he gives up on relationships. It’s just that there are so many expectations that Martin feels he always fails to live up to, so many rules that it seems like everyone but him instinctively knows. Trying feels like more hassle than it’s worth.

And then he gets transferred to the Archives and there is Jonathan Sims with his imperious glare and devastating voice and Martin is fourteen all over again watching Stephen Dowling snap his gum in Geography class.

“You really need to stop mooning,” Tim tells him. They’re at the Institute holiday party and they’re all a bit sloshed, and Martin can admit to himself that yes all right he was mooning a bit over Jon, who’s stood at the bar with his back to them, talking animatedly with Elias.

“I am not mooning,” he says, because there’s no reason he has to admit it to Tim as well. “I was just...contemplating.”

“Contemplating Jon’s arse,” Tim snorts, and then Sasha plonks down three shot glasses on the table in front of them and sits down in a rush.

“Who’s contemplating Jon’s arse?”

“Martin, of course.”

“I am not—” Martin begins to protest, but Sasha shushes him, pushing a shot into his hand. It smells of cinnamon and the liquid inside is bright red.

“Hopeless case,” sighs Tim, and drinks his shot. Sasha does the same and then gives Martin a sympathetic smile, her eyes a little bit unfocused.

“If it’s any consolation, Jon doesn’t shag anyone.”

“Sasha!” Tim scolds, and she suddenly seems to realize what she’s said, her eyes going wide.

“Shit,” she says. “Sorry, god, I shouldn’t have said anything. Martin, please pretend you never heard me say that.”

“Okay,” Martin promises but his brain is snagged on ‘Jon doesn’t shag anyone’, how she said it so easily, matter of fact, as if it wasn’t a big deal at all. He looks up at the bar where Jon is still standing with Elias, his slim hands gesturing as he talks.

“Drink your shot,” Tim tells him. “It’ll help you forget about Sasha’s big mouth.”

Martin drinks his shot, which is absolutely sickening, but he doesn’t forget.

There is one bed in Daisy’s safe house.

It’s evening when they arrive and Martin is exhausted, a bone deep weariness that might be from the travel or the fear or the fog that’s seeped under his skin. Jon looks tired too, dark circles under his eyes and now that Martin’s really looking at him for the first time in months, he’s amazed Jon hasn’t just shivered apart at the seams by now. He is filled with the desire to take Jon in his arms, as if he might hold the fragile pieces of him together, and he thinks that he could.

He saw Jon, in the Lonely, even if they haven’t talked about it since. Saw how Jon felt about him, so yes, Martin thinks he could put his arms around Jon and it would be welcome. He isn’t sure why he doesn’t, except that there’s a part of him that still feels like it’s trapped behind glass, abstracted and numb, and it keeps his arms by his sides while his heart yearns against his rib cage.

In the meantime, there is only one bed, and they both stand looking at it for a few moments, considering the implications and the fact that they have only just found each other again after months of absence.

“There’s enough room,” Jon says eventually, his voice soft and tired. Martin nods; there is enough room.

It’s cold, and they both climb under the covers in socks and tracksuit bottoms and long sleeved t-shirts, pile the thick feather duvet and two blankets over them. It feels like being cocooned, their combined body heat gradually warming the mattress, the slow even sound of Jon’s breathing warming something in Martin’s chest.

He’s here, he’s here with you. You’re here with him.

In the gentle dark they gravitate together, drawn close by the longing that’s suffused all their months apart. When Jon’s lips press gently against his, Martin thinks his heart might burst. He kisses back, and at last that trapped part of him breaks free and he lifts his arms to wrap around Jon, pulls him against his chest. Jon makes a soft, surprised sound and he breaks the kiss.

“Martin,” he says, careful the way he has been since he brought Martin back, as if a wrong word might shatter him. “I need to tell you, before this goes any further—”

“It’s okay,” Martin tells him. “I don’t want to have sex with you either.” It feels so good to be able to say it that Martin could cry or laugh or both.

“Oh,” says Jon, and then huffs a soft laugh. “Well that’s—that’s good, then.”

He kisses Martin again, and leans in against him, close and warm and filling every part of Martin’s awareness. Martin knows he left all hope of normal behind years ago, before worms and fog and evil circuses. But the fact that he gets to have this—just this, with the man he loves; no expectations and nothing to fake; and for the moment at least, no fear. This is far, far better than normal.

And Martin couldn’t wish for anything else.

#the magnus archives #tma #aspecarchives #jonmartin #my fic

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whumpinggrounds · 3 years

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Hide n Seek

sooo this doesn’t have a title but Liam came into my head and would not leave so? here we go?

lmk if you like it or you hate it or want to see more. or if you have a title or anything to say or for any reason at all :) talk to me!!

CW: failed escape, escape attempt, environmental whump, big whumpee, tiny whumper, female whumper, nonconsensual drug use, drugged whumpee, scrapes and bruises, gaslighting, uhhh i forget what else. nonconsensual touching but it’s also nonsexual

Dark branches tear at Liam’s skin hard enough to draw blood, but he won’t stop running. On either side of him, trees loom up, huge and bristling with needles. The ground tilts sickeningly under his pounding feet, and as he slips and skids over icy ground Liam throws his body from side to side, trying to dodge the obstacles that pop up, seemingly out of nowhere. He’s pulling it off – barely – and then a towering red spruce appears out of nowhere. One of its lower branches, thick around as a lead pipe, catches Liam in the side of the head and sends him reeling.

Liam lands on his knees, breath whooshing from his lungs. The blow to his temple makes his head spin worse than it already was, and his whirling vision isn’t doing any favors for his roiling stomach. An unbearable heaviness in his limbs makes him long to stop, rest, maybe lie back on the frozen, muddy ground and let the blessed chill ease the fever heat in his brow.

As the desperate, exhausted thought crosses his mind, a faraway sound reaches his ears.

“Lavender’s blue…dilly-dilly…lavender’s green…when you are king…dilly-dilly…I’ll be your queen…”

The words are sung in a voice that’s high and light and almost fey. The sound stops Liam’s heart, makes ice water run through his veins. Dashing frightened tears from his eyes, Liam scrambles to his feet, ignoring the bleeding scratches, the ache in his bruised and frozen knees. Behind him, the voice drifts piercing and eerie through the trees, and, driven before it like a sacrificial lamb, Liam picks himself up and crashes onward.

Head reeling, body aching, so sick to his stomach he spends every step fighting not to vomit, Liam runs. He runs until he slips and falls, hitting the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of himself, mark bruises on his skin. Then he gets up and runs some more, staggering, faltering, missing steps, head empty of any instinct besides move forward, get away. The headlong sprint through the woods feels like it lasts forever. Snatches of song reach Liam’s ears, distorted and giggly. The forest rears up on every side like so many dark green walls – towering large, endless in every direction. Liam’s ears are ringing, his throat is dry, he can hear his own breath heaving unevenly in his chest. The terror in him is so raw and real that he can almost taste it, salt and iron, blood on his tongue. He’s choking on tears as he staggers onward, but scared as he is, all he can think is what if his sobs are too loud?

When Liam sees light through the trees, he thinks he’s dreaming. Stumbling forward, hardly daring to believe, he feels new hot tears spill down his face. Like a drowning man, he stretches his arms toward salvation, straining as if it’s something he can hold in his hands. Then he’s stumbling again, toppling forward, knees and then hands and then body kissing pavement.

Unable to stop himself, Liam sobs in simple, blessed relief. Pavement. The ground beneath him hard and unforgiving, solid and uniform. Above him, big plate glass windows spill yellowy light into the gathering darkness. The miracle of sidewalk, of concrete, of buzzing phosphorescent light!

Liam is weeping like a baby into his scratched up, icy hands. Now that he’s horizontal and staying there, now that the adrenaline has done just about all it can for his body – now, Liam starts to let go. His body feels both distant and incredibly close. He can feel every individual bit of concrete against his skin, and he can feel himself buzzing against the inside of his skin, and there’s a cloudiness in his head, a big and growing white threatening to envelope him, leave him blissfully out and unaware.

“What in the - ? Son? What the hell is wrong with you, son?”

The voice is gruff, incredulous, more than a little suspicious. Peering up through hazy eyes, Liam sees an older man coalesce into a hazy double-focus, bearded and grizzly as his tone suggests. The flannel-clad bear of a human recoils at the sight of the tears on Liam’s face, lip curling as he takes in Liam’s disheveled appearance.

“H-he-e-elp,” Liam manages, one hand reaching up, wavering and buzzing static in his vision. Even to his own ears, his voice wavers, rises and falls, distorted by hoarseness and God knows what else. “I n…need hel-l-l-p.”

Narrowing his eyes, the man continues to regard Liam with blatant doubt. Liam tries to morph his face into something acceptable, an expression that’s beseeching without being desperate or deranged. His muscles respond slowly, sluggishly. He can’t remember how to manipulate his face. Giving up, Liam leaves his mouth slack and just looks up, inches a little closer, pushing his body over the pavement, ignoring the way the cement rasps against his skin. He doesn’t want to try standing, yet.

Strange things are happening to the man’s face – his cheeks bloat, blow up grotesquely as he talks. His eyebrows, thick dark beetles, worm and writhe over his deep-set eyes, which are more like holes than real eyes. He’s towering over Liam, so tall the man on the ground can’t help but shrink a little bit against the pavement. His mouth is moving and Liam watches it with a dull kind of fascination, forgetting to pay attention to the words that emerge as shapeless sounds from that dark cave of a mouth.

“Help,” Liam tries again, seeing the way the word feels on his tongue. It sounds like it’s coming from very far away. “Huh…help?”

“Boy? What is wrong with you, boy?”

The man is waving his hand around in front of Liam’s face, looking for some kind of a reaction. When Liam just keeps staring hazily up, the man shakes his head. He starts talking, but the words dip and circle around Liam’s head, refusing to find his ears, refusing to find his brain. Every so often a word or two comes through – a revelation.

“…fucking cops…”

“Hellllp,” Liam whispers, turning his head to rest one hot cheek against the concrete. His head is pounding so bad it makes him feel sick. Or maybe he just feels sick. Either way, he’s wrung out, exhausted, ready to be done. Liam is tired. He gives up. He’s ready to be done.

Shutting his eyes to try to block out the loud and angry spinning world, Liam forces words out as best as he can make them. “Pl-l-l-e-e-eease. Please.” In his chest, he feels a little hitch come with the word, a shaky breath that prefaces a whimper. The sound is so small, so utterly pathetic. Liam didn’t know he could make a sound like that. “Ple-ease help me.”

The man squats down now to peer a little closer at Liam, at the young man laid out flat on the ground, not even trying to get up. “…what is…come from…”

The words aren’t landing with any greater frequency, nor are they making much sense, but Liam imagines he hears a grudging warmth in the tone that wasn’t there before. Maybe concern, instead of suspicion. Maybe aid, instead of exasperation. He lets himself slit his eyes open, see the hazy outline of the figure above him, leaning in. He lets himself hope.

Then he hears the gasp from behind him, long and loud, high and flighty and dramatic. Suddenly, Liam can’t breathe. He shuts his eyes again, trying to block the nightmare out, but it’s too late. She’s already here.

She throws herself down beside him, drapes herself on top of him, small hands roaming from his broad shoulders down to his waist, as if checking that he’s still whole. She’s so small. She’s always been so small. Doesn’t make sense that she can be all over him, everywhere at once when she’s so…damn…small.

“Philip!”

She trills it, sweet as any songbird. There are tears in her voice, real tears, and a burbling wet kind of laugh of relief that would tug at the heartstrings of anyone who had a heart. “Oh God, Philip, oh, don’t scare me like that.” She presses a warm kiss to his temple and Liam groans out loud. “Oh, sweetie. Oh Philip. Oh.”

One finger traces down the side of his face. The feeling comes through hideously clear and sharp. If it were a picture, it’d be Technicolor, while the rest of the world scrapes by in staticky black and white. Liam presses his face harder into the concrete, wanting to escape, to sink through, to disappear. She picks up his head and cradles it with one little hand.

“…know this…?”

Liam wishes, more than he’s ever wished for anything before, to understand the words of the man standing over them. Instead, the man remains indistinct, distant, unreachable, while every word she says rings loud and perfect in his ears.

“Philip is my brother,” she explains, voice so sweet it conjures honey on the tongue. “He’s…he’s…well, he’s not right.”

“…see that…”

“Well.” A firm but gentle hand smoothing over his wild hair. “We don’t know what exactly it is that’s…wrong.” Locked inside his head, Liam is screaming. All that emerges from his mouth is a low, indistinct moan. Above him, Delilah chatters on, her voice taking on a tragic tone. “We suppose it could be genetic. Or it could be…well, he was in a bad way with drugs, my brother.” She strokes his back, a long, possessive touch. “It’s not his fault.”

The man above them grunts. His voice is still so distant, coming in and out like radio waves. “…damn fool thing…cold.”

“I try. I really do try. He’s just…he gets away from me sometimes, I guess.”

“…huge motherf…little thing like…”

A laugh, carefully calibrated to sound just a little forced. “Philip is my brother.” Another long, tender caress down his back. Liam pants into the pavement, head spinning. “I love him. Of course I’m going to look after him. I have to.”

“…need help?”

Sprawled out on the ground, Liam heaves a dry sob. Those words, words he wanted to hear so badly just minutes before, now offered to the exact wrong person. The conversation goes on above him, but Liam can’t waste his focus listening to it anymore.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Liam takes stock of his aching body. His knees are bruised and sore, his body scratched all over. He’s exhausted and cold and his muscles feel distant, tingly and out of touch. Even lying on the ground, his head pounds and spins. If there was anything left in his stomach, he’d definitely have thrown it up by now. All he wants is to stay where he is and rest. He wants to feel right again, in control of his body and his mind. He wants to give up, give in, be allowed to sleep and heal and rest. Liam just wants this to be over.

But he can’t just yell surrender and expect Delilah to leave him alone. She’s hopping to her feet now, standing to shake the stranger’s hand. If he has a last chance, this is it, so Liam grits his teeth. Dredging up every last bit of meager strength, he places his palms on the ground beneath him and pushes up. His arms are shaky, and nearly give out, but he manages to slump into a sitting position before his strength fails.

From his place sitting on the pavement, Liam can peer up pitifully at the two people above him. The flannel-wearing man is facing Liam, which means Delilah is facing away from him. He has a window, a precious small amount of time, in which he can just maybe make his escape. Swinging his head to the side, Liam examines the storefront he’s ended up outside of. The vinyl booths, the matching countertops – it’s a diner, all the lights inside aglow. If Liam can just make it inside. If he can just get his story out.

He has to move quickly. Sucking in a quick puff of cold air, Liam leans back and pushes off the ground, flinging himself to his feet. Almost before he’s all the way up, he’s throwing himself into his next step, staggering forward with all the grace and control of a drunken grizzly. Speed is his only chance, and also his greatest enemy. As Liam lunges forward, his body gives out under him. He stumbles, wailing in frustration, stretching his hand out for the door even as he goes down.

Before he can hit the pavement for the second time in ten minutes, the stranger catches Liam. It sounds like it takes a good amount of his strength, because the man grunts as Liam’s chest smacks his shoulder, but he stays where he is, all but holding Liam up.

Even though the guy seems to have decided to take Delilah’s side, gratitude leaves Liam breathless.

“Your brother is heavy,” the man complains, his gruff voice booming through the air right next to Liam’s ear.

“He was a football player,” Delilah explains, and surely anyone could hear that smug, faintly covetous tone in her voice? Surely, this man can see the way she squeezes his bicep as she runs her hand down his arm?

The man throws one of Liam’s arms over his shoulder and drags his unresisting body toward a parking lot. Stumbling along, Liam tries to stay on his feet, though now his hectic vision is starting to fade entirely. On his other side, Deliliah hovers along, her hand so light on his back that he should hardly be able to feel it. Somehow, though, while his entire body is distant, prickling, offline, that handprint burns in his awareness, heavy and hot and stinging like nettles. Liam whines under his breath, trying to make his thick tongue form words.

“Shh,” Delilah soothes, drawing so close he can feel her breath on his arm. “Shh, Philip, honey, it’s gonna be all right.”

Still whining like a kicked dog, Liam is dumped unceremoniously in a foreign backseat. Crawling up next to him, Delilah waits until the man is seated in front of them to perch herself basically in his lap. With greedy, grasping fingers, she tugs his leaden body over so Liam’s head is resting on her shoulder. At first, Liam fights it, but when the car starts up the winding mountain road, he subsides. The curving motion of the road sets his stomach roiling, so he’s too nauseous to do anything but let his head flop back as he tries to open his airway and breathe.

Cooing, Delilah cards her hot little hands through his hair. “Poor Philip,” she murmurs, voice sweet and conciliatory. “Poor honey. Didn’t I tell you no one would believe you?”

#whump #whump writing #big whumpee #tiny whumper #female whumper #environmental whump #hypothermia #escape attempt #failed escape #failed escape attempt #drugged whumpee #bruises #gaslighting #nonconsensual drug use #headache #original characters #original writing #liam #delilah

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