#Pallid Bloom

[theinnerunderrain]

Love Me Dead [Yan!Boyfriend x Fem!Reader]

Warnings: Yandere themes, manipulative behaviors, heavily dialogue bc it's just mostly talking and gaslighting, college life, may be somewhat confusing but it's that story that is up to your interpretation!

+

"[First Name]."

A sizable and gentle hand enfolds your wrist, eliciting a startled leap at the unexpected touch. Casting a curious glance over your shoulder, you discern the hand's owner—a figure with a tousle of rich brown locks. The air on campus carries a lingering blend of pumpkin spice and damp rain, while vibrant leaves in hues of red, yellow, and orange blanket the cement walkway, creating a tapestry beneath your feet.

It was none other than your boyfriend, Asuka.

"Why do you keep ignoring me?"

In a hushed plea, etched with concern and confusion, he inquires, his pallid complexion a canvas for the anxious query. A delicate flush graces his cheeks and ears, a subtle scarlet trace, suggesting an earlier pursuit in an attempt to bridge the distance between you.

"Did I do something wrong..? If I did, then just tell me..."

A dance of confusion painted upon your countenance, a pirouette of bewilderment as you gracefully turned, aligning yourself to face him fully. Brows knitted in contemplation, coral lips drawn into a slender seam, your expression spoke the eloquence of perplexity.

"I'm not ignoring you though..?"

"You are..! You barely text me anymore and avoid me around the campus like I'm some sort of infectious disease.."

He spoke anew, his voice ascending to a higher pitch, an accusatory gaze fixated upon you as though your uttered words were mere echoes of deceit. His other hand delicately enveloped your wrist, creating a symmetrical hold that left you suspended in a still, unsettling equilibrium.

"No I'm not..? Asuka, we both have been busy and I can't spend all day messaging you."

In the chill of the season, you grapple with an awkward attempt at reasoning, noticing the warmth and clamminess of his hands. The contrast, his heated touch against your soft skin, sends an uncomfortable shiver down your spine. Asuka, momentarily lost in contemplation, lets his lips curve into a frown. In that moment, he resembles a kicked puppy, the weight of his next words settling heavily in the air.

"..Are you mad at me..?"

In a suspended breath, he momentarily halted, drawing nearer to you. Amidst the bustling backdrop of students hurrying to their classes, you couldn't help but wonder if curious gazes were directed your way, recognizing the peculiarity of your shared moment beneath the open sky.

"Are you still hung up about last time..? If that's the issue then I'm really sorry, and I've already apologized before...!"

As Asuka continued to speak, words flowed incessantly from his lips, a torrent of increasing urgency evident in the rapid cadence of his cherry-toned voice. A palpable hysteria seeped through his every syllable, mirroring the rising heat radiating from his fervent body. It was as though he embodied a ticking bomb, gradually approaching the brink of overheating, poised to unleash an explosive torrent of emotions.

"Hung up on what?"

Inquiring, you sought release, gently weaving your fingers to disentangle from his grasp, a delicate dance to temper the heat that enveloped. Yet, his clasp remained unyielding, an unspoken embrace refusing to relent.

"Hung up on that time when I was being unreasonable and it made both of us late to our classes."

"No..? Why would I be mad about something like that?"

In the labyrinth of his spoken thoughts, you weave a delicate tapestry, attempting to decipher the cryptic echoes of his mention of unreasonableness. Despite the elusive nature of clarity, you gracefully surrender to the intrigue, deciding to waltz within the enigmatic dance of his words, a willing participant in the artful play of understanding.

"No, there's something wrong but you just won't say it...."

Persistently, Asuka insists, and a subtle irritation blooms within you, despite your inner plea for calm. Yet, his next words delicately wound your heart with a touch of sorrow.

"Do you not love me anymore..?"

"What..?"

In incredulity, you queried, gazing at the young man whose eyes teetered on the brink of cascading tears. The threat lingered in the wells of his eyes, poised to spill over and trace the contours of his fevered cheeks. Yet he continues to rambled.

"Ha! Everything makes sense now. All that cold attitude, and you avoiding me everyday. You lost feelings for me, didn't you?"

His voice crescendoed, rising in both volume and pitch as he advanced, closing the distance until his face hovered mere inches from yours. In this intimate proximity, you couldn't help but sense the burgeoning awareness among fellow students, as they subtly turned their attention toward his unfolding, hysterical unraveling.

"Asuka, how can you say something like that?"

You try to calm him down, speaking in a much softer and calmer tone compared to the man, as if you were a mother trying to calm down a crying child.In the hushed cadence of your voice, a gentle river of reassurance flows, seeking to temper the tempest within him. Your words, soft and serene, weave through the tumult like a mother's lullaby, an attempt to pacify a sobbing child.

"You know...If you had just told me normally that you didn't like me anymore then I would have just accepted that as it is."

Yet, like whispers through the air, your words glide past him. Though a subtle calm embraces him, his voice, now a gentle breeze, unveils a softer cadence, a stark departure from the turbulent tone that had echoed before.

"But why'd you have to go ahead and treat me like that?"

He inquires, guiding your hand to caress the contours of his cheek, gently pressing it against the tender warmth of your palm as if seeking solace in its soft embrace.

"Asuka...I understand you're frustrated but I do love you, and I haven't stopped loving you.."

In hushed tones, your words tenderly caressed the air, coaxing him to nestle against your palm. With a gentle touch, you traced the padded side of your fingers across his cheeks, a soothing rhythm to quell the tempest within him. A graceful guidance led you both to a tranquil refuge, where a brown bench cradled the quietude. There were no other students in sight.

"It's just that, everything has been so stressful with finals and stuff....I swear, I'm not trying to ignore you."

You painted on a smile, and Asuka, with an intent ear, absorbed your words, as though orchestrating a delicate symphony of comprehension within the corridors of his mind.

"But how can I be so sure?"

Once you convince yourself of soothing the man's agitation, his voice resurfaces, posing a question that resonates within your chest, setting a subtle cadence to the rhythm of your heartbeat.

"That you're not just saying that, and that you actually mean it? That you still love me?"

In the quiet expanse of a moment, you pondered his words, delicately crafting a response to safeguard the delicate balance of his emotions. At last, your voice returned, accompanied by the gentle caress of your other hand, tracing a tender path beneath the canvas of his eyes.

"I do love you and you should already know that, Asuka."

Your words, like a subtle elixir, lingered momentarily before gracefully permeating his being. He surrendered to your touch, a gentle immersion into the warmth of your embrace, his grasp on your essence unwittingly tightening. Closer he drew, until the shared touch of both your knees wove a delicate closeness, an unspoken harmony.

"I do...?"

"Yes, you do."

In a graceful motion, you extended your arm, inviting the young man into an embrace willingly embraced. He leaned into your touch, his hand delicately finding its place on the small of your back, creating a tender connection. His body emanated warmth, reminiscent of an oven preheated for hours, yearning for the moment when it could be tenderly turned off. In that intimate embrace, moments stretched like delicate strands of time. His hands held firm against your waist, and his chin found solace upon your shoulders, a subtle dance of closeness. The air bore the comforting aroma of cinnamon and coffee, a fragrant reminder of his presence. As the embrace gently loosened, you parted, a reassuring smile gracing your lips.

"Then, it's settled? I promise to make more time for you, so don't go around thinking I don't love you anymore, alright?"

His countenance eased, a gentle nod painting the canvas of his expression. Where tears once traced delicate paths on his visage, they now evaporated, leaving behind a softened countenance. His lips, once adorned with the weight of sorrow, now curved into a tender smile.

"You promise?"

Once more, you inquire, drawing him into a tender embrace. Your hands cradle the back of his head, granting him the sanctuary to bury his face in the crook of your neck. Unmindful of the ticklish dance of his warm breath upon your skin, you remain oblivious to the subtle curvature of his lips into a contented grin. Nor do you discern the palpable brightening of his eyes, responding softly to your words.

"I promise."

#yandere #yandere x reader #yanderecore #yandere imagines #yandere oneshot #yandere x you #yancore #yandere bf #yandere blog #yandere boy #yandere drabble #yandere male #yandere love #possessive love #possessive #yandere writing #yandere imagine #yandere insert #yandere idea #yandere original character #yandere oc #yandere fanfiction #yandere x darling #yandere x y/n

[psychidion]

ancient greek words for colors:

On the whole, the Greeks were not really concerned with giving names to specific colors. Their color terms were vague, often had more to do with shade than color difference, and drew in a sort of dynamic physicality that is honestly incredibly interesting.

μέλας and λευκός, which were commonly used to refer to black and white respectively, were still more involved with shade than the particular colors that we perceive as black and white. μέλας also meant dark, murky, and swarthy. λευκός was light, bright and clear, referred to any white color from a pure white to a light grey, and could also refer to someone with lighter skin.

χλωρός meant pale green or greenish yellow, but also commonly meant pale or pallid when referring to people and fresh or blooming when referring to plants and liquids (including blood and tears).

πορφύρεος is where we get the color term purple. And when it was referring to clothes or things, it did mean purple. But when it was describing people, especially their complexions, it meant bright red or flushed. This definition originates from the basic meaning of the word: heaving, surging, gushing, coming from the verb πορφύρω.

ξανθός and ἐρυθρός are perhaps the only straightforward terms, meaning yellow or golden and red respectively. ξανθός was typically used to describe blonde (ish) people; Achilles is described as having ξανθή κόμη (golden hair).

γλαυκός was commonly used to refer to the color grey, or simply to describe something as gleaming. When it refers to eyes, it usually describes the color; the most famous example being Athena and her epithet of γλαυκῶπις or grey-eyed (or gleaming eyed).

And now let's talk about κυάνεος. We get the color term cyan from it, and the word is popularly considered to refer to a dark blue. But that isn't exactly accurate. If we look at what this word typically described: hair, people, etc., it is clear that the concept of blue that we have nowadays wasn’t really coming into play. In fact, the more general translation is dark or black, conveying a shade rather than a color, like μέλας. If I were to attribute a color term to this word at all, I would probably say blue-black, or a cool black, to convey the depth of that shade, which is probably what the Greeks were describing.

#ancient greek #vocab #vocabulary #language learning #greek language #greek vocab #classical literature #classics #colors #words for colors #how to describe colors #dys blurbs #i had to make my own list because every other one i've seen has colors that aren't referred to by texts with as much frequency #achilles #athena #the iliad #the odyssey

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

By His Command 1

Summary: you arrive at your new household to serve. (Handmaid AU)

Warning: this series will contain violence, dystopian aspects, rape and noncon, blood, coercion, possible pregnancy and other dark elements. Please read these warnings and beware.

Character: Lloyd Hansen

Note: you're screaming at me, why are you starting another AU and I got my fingers in my ears like na nana boo noo.

Oh and there may be more commanders to come...

Anyway, thoughts and prayers welcome for my lost soul. Also feedback and comments if you dont mind. Maybe a reblog. 💕💕💕💕

You watch the cloud of your breath in the cold air. The grey sky stretches endlessly on, as flat as anything else in this pallid world. A white blur trims the edge of your vision, that every present brim, a facsimile of a halo. You are not a fallen angel but a disgraced sinner, sentenced to penance, fated to serve another's salvation.

You clasp your hands together, red gloves chafing roughly, wool scratching your raw skin. You look down at the scarlet ripples, the endless crimson that marks you for exactly what you are. You pull at a stray thread and let it fall away.

You raise your head and stare at the opaque screen that separates you from the man in black. The guardian drives on across the fields paled by an early frost, dried grasses wilted beneath the premature winter. You take another frigid breath and lean forward, hovering your hand before the small vent in the door. Nothing.

You sit back. You know better than to complain. There is no one for you to complain to. No one who cares. You are not a person with feelings and thoughts. You are a vessel, to be filled and emptied over and over. You repress a shudder and keep your welling eyes aimed out the tinted window.

You dip your head and hide beneath the broad brim of your white bonnet. You clutch your hands tight and wade through the mounting panic in your chest. The women who left the centre didn't often come back, and when they did, it was never pleasant. Still, you would give anything to go back. There you know what the worst and the best is.

You don't know much of what awaits you, only that it floods you with dread. A commander and his wife, but what else? Will he be cruel? Will she hate you? Will you be able to do what you were trained to?

You part your hands and bring them up your arms, hugging yourself. You can't remember the last time anyone held you. The last time anyone dared touch you. Even when you laid screaming before the other handmaids, hands bloody, back welted, no one dared come near you, no one thought to comfort you.

The SUV turns and you force your eyelids apart. You sniffle and wipe your nose with the coarse wool glove. There is a low stone fence that trails the long winding road towards a tall gate. The tires slow as your heart piques and you choke on terror.

At a halt, you hear the man's voice in the front seat, through the barrier that divides you. For order, for chasteness, for your debasement. You are not worthy. You are emblazoned as a blasphemer.

The car rolls on, jerking you back against the seat. A slow draw that brings into view shedding hedges, stone benches, a fountain, a lawn that expands before you. You watch the birds flutter, marveling at their peace, and a leaf drifts down in a calm path to the ground. A serenity that so starkly counterbalances the chaos blooming in your chest.

You veer around the curved arm of the driveway and once more stop. The engine rolls over and quiets. The front door opens and you flinch. Steps tramp and come around, a shadow awaiting you on the otherside as the locks slide back.

The guardian opens the door and you grab the red valise on your feet. You turn your legs over the side of the seat and step out, heels clacking off the hard stone. The man steps back, gripping the strap of his gun.

"Go," he nods his chin in the direction of the house.

You look over at the grand facades, stone and mortar in a centurion style, rooves high and looming, a balcony with a naked trellis below. You gulp and march forward, grasping the round handle of your bag with both hands. The man trails you, keeping you on course as his steps echo your own.

You get to the first step and raise your foot, setting in on the stope edge. The front door opens and steals your attention from the hem of your skirt. You look up as a Martha emerges in her green smock and apron. Her faces is blotchy and her grimace is deepset.

"Come, OfLloyd," she beckons you with a curt wave, "we must prepare for the Commander's return."

#lloyd hansen x reader #dark lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #the gray man #by his command #handmaid au #au #series #drabble

[offshore-brinicle]

Thinking about the three characters we've met who had already found and claimed the Golden Bough before the Sinners, Kromer, Dongbaek and now Ahab it's very interesting to me that they all have in common being women leaders of groups where they are seen as messiahs of sorts, much like how Carmen herself who is the origin of The Light was the one who united the original LobCorp team and had such supernatural charisma that she could convince anyone she wanted to join her cause of "saving humanity".

Kromer is the most blantant and cartoonish example, she's worshipped as a messiah and goddess by her followers to the point they consider basking in her grace a priviledge to the point of genuine insanity beyond what any regular person could comprehend, pure religious fanatism for their savior they believe in who will bring them a "pure, untainted" world, so much that they have cast away their individuality in their adoration, inquisitors being indistinguishable from one another.

Ahab who is a more realistic example of this kind of person even if not as infallible as the seemingly perfect Carmen; she's strong, confident, passionate, revered as a hero and makes convincing cases for herself while having the unnatural ability to appeal to people's desires and cut through them, and in her case the way the Pequod Town have come to bend to her isn't unfounded given their situation. I think that's what makes her significantly scarier and more effective as a villain and character in general; she's not just a comically evil woman in a position of power, you can very easily see why some people would fall for her words and bend to her will. She is paradoxically both the savior of the Pequod and the one who doomed them to the hell inside The Pallid Whale, yet after being isolated from society for so long with no other choices or escape and having their sense of self degraded by the Pallidfication the Pequod crew only came to see the first part.

Dongbaek is an interesting case, unlike the two women described before who are undeniably villains and egomaniacal, she's portrayed as much more sympathetic and even an outright tragic figure, however at the same time unlike them we never directly see the relationship she has with her followers. They never talk about Dongbaek herself and not even mention her in any way, only the ideology she gave them: destroy the current order to create an ideal world free from the shackles of The Wings and technological advancement, and unlike the two before who are always aided by their lackeys, Dongbaek was always seen alone, less like a hero or a goddess but more like a ghost that haunted everyone, much like Carmen's role in LobCorp. This "ghost" motif is doubly emphasized by her sickly dying appearance and how she contantly dissapeared and appeared without a trace, never letting those around her forget about all they have lost or sacrificed trapped in her vendetta.

But ultimately Dongrang, herself and even Yi Sang come to admit her motives were just as self-centered and she was just as manipulative, yet rather from a place of hubris it came from a place of deep despair and yearning.

Like Kromer, the TLA believed she would make a better world, but like Ahab, she was ultimately someone taking advantage of people in despair and giving them false hopes, all while deluding herself further, and much like Carmen, she's associated with trees and vegetation, both expressing the wish to be like one and having a disdain for The Wings, though in Dongbaek's case, she only represents half of Carmen's wish; being the plant blooming across the land, while Yi Sang is the one who would reach the sky.

In the end, all three of these women were false saviors, much like how Carmen's idea of bringing salvation to humanity led to all of the suffering within Lobotomy Corporation, the unleashing of chaos upon The City even her own endless torture as The Well giving birth to Abnormalities...it makes me wonder if all of this was intentional, as a way to parallel Carmen herself. Yet all three of them appear to us clearly untrustworthy while Carmen does not.

Kromer, Dongbaek and Ahab are immediately stablished as dangerous presences; Ahab and Kromer being the sources of Ishmael and Sinclair's suffering and tormenters they have to overcome --the source of their nightmares, and Dongbaek is introduced stabbing Yi Sang and being called "dangerous" yet Carmen is introduced as her best self and all the best memories everyone has of her, it isn't until Ruina, away from Ayin's perspective that she's questioned, it makes me wonder if they will continue to bring these characters contrasting Carmen in further chapters.

#project moon #limbus company #Canto V spoilers #Lobotomy Corporation #Carmen LobCorp #lcb Kromer #lcb Dongbaek #lcb Ahab #analysis #Limbus Company analysis #I should properly tag these now #idk I'm having a lot of thoughts

[mycoblogg]

HORROR WEEK- FOTD #144 : apple bolete! (exsudoporus frostii)

the apple bolete (also frost's bolete) is a mycorrhizal fungus in the family boletaceae >:-) it typically grows near the hardwood trees of the eastern US, southern mexico & costa rica. it was chosen for horror week due to its appearance being reminiscent of muscle tissue !!

the big question : will it kill me?? nope !! however, although they are edible, they are not recommended for consumption as it is quite easy to confuse them with other red boletes. ^^

e. frostii description :

"the shape of the cap of the young fruit body ranges from a half sphere to convex, later becoming broadly convex to flat or shallowly depressed, with a diameter of 5–15 cm (2.0–5.9 in). the edge of the cap is curved inward, although as it ages it can uncurl and turn upward. in moist conditions, the cap surface is sticky as a result of its cuticle, which is made of gelatinized hyphae. if the fruit body has dried out after a rain, the cap is especially shiny, sometimes appearing finely areolate (having a pattern of block-like areas similar to cracked, dried mud). young mushrooms have a whitish bloom on the cap surface.

the colour is bright red initially, but fades with age. the flesh is up to 2.5 cm (1.0 in) thick, & ranges in colour from pallid to pale yellow to lemon yellow. the flesh has a variable staining reaction in response to bruising, so some specimens may turn deep blue almost immediately, while others turn blue weakly & slowly.

the tubes comprising the pore surface (the hymenium) are 9–15 mm deep, yellow to olivaceous yellow (mustard yellow), turning dingy blue when bruised. the pores are small (2 to 3 per mm), circular, & until old age a deep red colour that eventually becomes paler. the pore surface is often beaded with yellowish droplets when young (a distinguishing characteristic), & readily stains blue when bruised. the stipe is 4 to 12 cm (1.6 to 4.7 in) long, & 1 to 2.5 cm (0.4 to 1.0 in) thick at its apex. it is roughly equal in thickness throughout its length, though it may taper somewhat toward the top ; some specimens may appear ventricose (swollen in the middle). the stipe surface is mostly red, or yellowish near the base ; it is reticulate — characterized by ridges arranged in the form of a net-like pattern."

[images : source & source] [fungus description : source]

#• fungus of the day !! • #• horror week >:-) • #[exsudoporus frostii] #: frost's bolete : #: apple bolete : #144 #|| #image undescribed #fungi #undescribed #mushroom #mushrooms #earth #nature #cottagecore #fungus #foraging #forestcore #mycology #fotd #fungus of the day #exsudoporus frostii #frost's bolete #apple bolete #bolete

[spacesquidlings]

It Is The Time You've Spent On Your Rose

When she wakes before Xavier, she finds herself compelled to free herself from his arms, to show him that she cares, to spend time on him and making his smile bloom

Pairing: Xavier x MC Tags: Fluff, domestic fluff, sleepy morning cuddles, cooking Taglist: @aluneposting

“It’s the time you’ve spent on your rose that makes your rose so important.” Antoine de Saint-Exupery, “The Little Prince”

Sunlight tracked across the floor, illuminating the fallen bodies of all the plushies that had tumbled from the precipice of the bed. Only one lone survivor remained, the purple unicorn they had won together. She had tucked it in her arms, clutching it tightly through the night, even as the others had toppled to the floor.

Just as tightly as she held onto her plushie, Xavier held onto her. His arms looped around her middle, his face buried in the back of her neck. He clung to her as though he was worried she would vanish, that she would be snatched away while he was lost to his dreams.

She didn’t even remember falling asleep, only that she’d been tucked against his chest, reading quietly, her precious unicorn plushie in the crook of her arm. Her eyes had been heavy, and he was always so warm, and his heartbeat had been so soothing. Slow and steady, like the pulse of a soundless lullaby.

She felt that slow thrum against her back, her mind relaxing as it pulsed steadily against her. His breath feathered against the back of her neck, warm and ticklish. When she shifted his arms only tightened, unwilling to let her go.

She brought the plushie up to her face, propping her cheek against its head as she watched the sunlight stretch across the floor. It was still early morning, the light pallid and watery, not yet the rich gold of late morning that painted the world in gold. The air was touched with warmth, another chord in the lullaby still lilting quietly in her ears, a siren song coaxing her back to sleep.

It was far too easy to doze off, snuggled so comfortably in his arms, his body a reassuring weight behind her. She felt as though she could sleep the entire day away if she remained her, caught in his gravity like planets orbiting the sun.

Yet as time ticked by she slowly woke more and more, the allure of sleep lost to her as her shoulder began to ache from lying on her side for so long, as dull pangs of hunger rioted in her belly. Comfortable as she was, and captivating as lying in bed until well past noon was, she knew she had to get up soon.

She squirmed, testing the strength of his hold. Each time she shifted his arms seemed to tighten, remaining locked around her, stronger than iron. How he managed to keep his hold so firm even in sleep baffled her.

As she flopped back against the pillow he murmured something incomprehensible, breath tickling her skin as he nuzzled against her neck, as he curved his body around hers. It made her wonder what he was dreaming about, what scenes were playing out in the galaxies of his mind that made him move closer still, that made him cling to her the way he did.

Although she was resigning herself to her fate of being trapped in bed until Xavier finally awoke, her stomach was not. It grumbled, dissatisfied with her singular attempt at escape, pain ricocheting through her empty belly for good measure.

Groaning under her breath, she steeled herself, twisting around as much as she could. “Xavier?” She searched for his face where it was buried against her. He only grunted in response, head lolling back, giving her just a sliver of space, enough to see the flush of his cheeks as he slept.

She tried again, managing to fully roll onto her other side to face him as she murmured his name. “Xavier? Love?”

And all she got for her efforts was a quiet snort, his head falling forward, nearly colliding with hers.

She held her plushie up to her face, giggling.

This sweet, sleepy man was so at odds with the hunter she knew on missions. In battle he was so serious, focused, his emotions guarded. Sometimes she couldn’t even tell when he was in pain, not until she pressed him and he caved to her badgering.

Even when they were not on missions, when they were enjoying a little peace, visiting the arcade or looking for new restaurants or quietly reading together, he was still stoic, quiet. Often his lips would be quirked into a small smile, like the first silvery crescent after a darkened new moon. His eyes would be warm, like water dappled with summer sunlight. But he would be calm, almost aloof, so much hidden behind that serene smile and his placid expression.

It was in the rarest of moments, the ones that she cherished most, precious memories that found their way into her dreams, he would smile brightly. His cheeks and ears would flush the colour of spring blooms, his lips would curve upwards, soft and sweet as honey-stained tea, as a bouquet of peonies filling the room with the smell of something warm and tender that she dared not yet name.

Those particular moments were few and far between, when she could coax out a smile that put sunlight to shame, that made her heart ache for all the mirth and unguarded joy in his eyes, in the creases of his face. They made her knees weak and her stomach sprout gossamer wings, flying as high as it dared, trying to escape beyond spun-sugar clouds.

There was something about this moment that reminded her of those times. He was not awake, not laughing, not rolling star-touched eyes at her for saying something that made him blush. But as she listened to him sigh, as she watched him settle once more, head sinking into his pillow, she could feel her heart pressing against her ribs, bone cracking and cartilage rending from the pressure as she peered at his sleeping face.

He seemed so young, almost vulnerable, and it made her heart ache all the more that he would let her see him like this. His hair was a mess, a halo of moonlight around his head, soft and fluffy as the plushie now wedged between them.

There were depths in his eyes that she could not reach, her lungs failing her before she could swim that deep. But tangled in the blankets together now, he was not fathomless, he was not so unknowable as the starlight left behind from celestial bodies that had long since burned out. He was just…

He was him. He was Xavier, warm and sweet, his heartbeat keeping time to the song of his blood, his smile like starlight lighting up her life.

She reached for him without thinking, her hands trembling as her fingertips brushed against the feathery edges of his hair. It was soft, as moonlight puddling on water, spilling through the glass of her windows at night.

When he did not stir she grew bolder, tracing her fingers down the side of his jaw, gingerly caressing his cheek, feeling the heat of his breath as she sketched her fingers over his lips. Her mind tripped, thoughts spiralling away as she imagined, like the sun emerging from the horizon in the morning sky, the curve of his smile beneath her fingers, against her skin.

Her cheeks heated and she moved her hand away quickly, brushing against his neck as she tried to banish the treacherous thoughts. They were chased by the echo of his breathy laughter, dredged up from her memories as her face continued to burn, as her stomach twisted and somersaulted with abandon. His laughter in the air, his fingers encircling her wrist, slowly drawing her hand to his lips, pressing kisses into her palm as her pulse thrummed like hummingbird wings.

It was as she lowered her hand in distraction, fingertips barely grazing his throat, that Xavier shifted.

Not so subtle of a movement as shifting, but flinched, breath catching before he settled once more, the momentary lines in his brow melting away.

And she remembered exactly how ticklish he was.

It was easy enough to put her plan into action, now that it was more than wiggling around helplessly in the hopes he would loosen his hold. Now all she did was reach for the sensitive places on his throat, behind his ears, along his shoulders, down his sides. She didn’t even need to add that much pressure, nothing more than a soft graze of the pads of her fingers over his skin, a light touch that could have been nothing more than the wind.

The results were instantaneous. One moment he was nestled comfortably in the blankets, his face serene, relaxed. The next he was shivering, twisting from side-to-side as he tried to escape her hands. He huffed, his brow furrowing, and then his arms were growing slack, just as he was rolling onto his back in an attempt to flee.

Biting the inside of her cheek to hold back her laughter, lest it be the final straw that woke him fully, she bolted from the bed, still clutching her unicorn plushie in her arms as she made her daring escape.

It wasn’t until she had fled from the room, flinging herself down the hall, that she allowed herself to laugh. She shoved her face against the plushie’s side, giggling maniacally, shocked that her plan had worked, and that Xavier somehow hadn’t woken up.

She couldn’t stop smiling, dancing on her toes as she made her way into the kitchen, energy crackling along her nerves like lightning as it cut through a storm-darkened sky.

She had slept much longer than she usually did, her dreams deeper, her sleep more restful with Xavier beside her. And now she was filled with energy, as though a million stars had bloomed in her veins, as though she were made up of galaxies of light.

She would have to put all this liveliness to good use. Maybe they could go out today, try to win more plushies at the arcade. Maybe they could go to the store and find new books now that Xavier was nearly done the ones she had lent him. They could take a walk by the water, or they could try out a new café she’d been hearing about for weeks, or-

Her stomach cramped, cutting off the excited flurry of her thoughts.

Before she got ahead of herself, she needed to eat something. And Xavier would need to eat something too, when he finally did wake up.

“I should probably make some breakfast, huh?” She lifted her plushie up, voicing her thoughts aloud. “What do you think Xavier would want to eat?”

He’d been talking about crêpes lately, and soufflé, although the last few times he’d tried making them he’d ended up setting off the fire alarms in both their apartments.

“Why not…” She trailed off, tapping the unicorn’s horn to trigger the miniature fireworks. “Why not something like soufflé pancakes? That’s a thing, right?”

The plushie watched her quietly, and she imagined it was telling her that she’d come up with a wonderful idea. That Xavier would be so delighted that he’d smile one of those sweet, heart-rending smiles that made her knees weak.

She swiped her phone from where she’d left it the night before, searching up recipes as she snuck back to the bedroom to change. She’d never tried making this before, and she didn’t want to splatter ingredients all over her pajamas.

She didn’t bother tiptoeing as she dressed, knowing how deeply Xavier slept. She was certain he could sleep through an earthquake if he was tired enough. Still, she dressed quickly, snagging what she thought was her sweater and pulling it on before she grabbed her plushie and slipped from the room.

“Alright, it’s time to get to work.” She spoke to the plushie, settling it on the kitchen table to supervise.

Perhaps it was childish, but it made her smile all the same. It was her most precious of all the plush and dolls she had won with Xavier at the arcade, and she’d gotten attached. She’d often set it somewhere to keep watch while she cooked in her own apartment, or she’d settle it next to her while she watched a movie, and she would always tuck it into bed beside her when she slept alone.

Getting started was easy enough, collecting all the ingredients she needed. Xavier may have been more dangerous in the kitchen than he was during missions, but he always kept his fridge and his cupboards stocked. It only took her a few moments to collect everything she needed, the eggs, the sugar, the flour, the milk and butter, the vanilla.

All her ingredients collected and organized beside her plushie, next was the more difficult part of the process. The actual cooking.

She had to separate the egg whites from the yolks, combining the yolks with a number of the ingredients, mixing them together until they were well blended. Then she had to whisk the egg whites until they formed little peaks. Only then could she mix everything together, carefully folding a small portion of the egg whites into the batter before adding in the rest.

She had to be meticulous, the recipe demanding careful precision. It was far more complex than what she usually made herself for breakfast, usually content with fruit or toaster waffles or eggs. And sometimes, when she was feeling particularly extravagant, all three together.

But the intricacies of the recipe were worth it, certainly. She wanted them to be worth it. Even if there were a hundred more steps requiring perfection, they would certainly be worth it.

Xavier had undoubtedly grown used to whatever charred remains that could be scrounged from his attempts at cooking, or greasy takeout on the days he was most exhausted. But making him something warm and fluffy and delicious for when he awoke would surely make him smile, wouldn’t it?

She imagined him in her mind, glowing bright as a star, loosening his hold on his evol while in the midst of his delight. The blue of his eyes would glow, a serene cerulean like the surface of a lake. His lips would quirk up, a soft laugh spilling from him when she showed him what she’d made.

It was nothing more than a daydream, and yet yearning tangled around her ribs, working its way through her heart as ivy found its way through stone and brick. She wanted to see his smile, she wanted to make him happy. She wanted to bask in his warmth as though she were napping beneath a summer sun.

As she began warming up the skillet, watching as the rectangle of butter she’d tossed onto its dark surface began to melt, she wondered if there was anything else she could make. Xavier was prone to sleeping late, sometimes well-past noon, which would give her plenty of time to make something else.

He’d been talking nonstop about a pop-up bakery he’d missed while away for work, specializing in pies and tarts. He’d even shown her a menu in a moment of bright-eyed fervor, telling her about how the bakery had advertised a cranberry cheesecake tart that he’d wanted to try.

“I’ve been dreaming of it for weeks!”

She’d laughed, mussing his hair as he’d laid back, his head falling into her lap. “Do you even like cranberries?”

“Of course I do, I like most foods.”

Could she make one of those tarts, too? She’d never made one before, but surely there was a recipe she could find?

Although she’d definitely have to run out to the store to pick up more ingredients. Xavier kept his apartment well stocked, but she doubted even he had the ingredients to make a cranberry cheesecake on hand.

The sizzle of the butter drew her back to the present, away from the starless depths of her thoughts. She had pancakes to make first, before anything else.

Yet even as she tried to focus on the task at hand, her mind still wandered. She should get some fruit anyways, to go with the pancakes. Something fresh and sweet to balance it out. Strawberries, maybe? Or raspberries? Maybe she could get mangos, if they were in season, peel them and cut them into cute shapes and pile them next to the pancakes.

She flipped one pancake, two, three, nearly an entire plate of fluffy soufflé pancakes still warm, resting on the counter next to the stove as she mulled over what else she could do. What else she could make to coax a smile from Xavier, to give him even a twinkle of happiness when he first awoke.

She hummed, oblivious to everything but the task in front of her and the glimmering ideas blooming in her mind. So when arms slipped around her waist, warm breath ghosting over the shell of her ear, she very nearly screamed. 

Like a window slamming shut, condemning a room to shadows and darkness, she was cut away from her quiet musings. She spun, struggling to process what was going on, the imaginings in her mind overlaid with the very real present.

A huff of laughter, a crinkle of sky blue eyes. “It’s just me, it’s only me, love.”

“Xavier!” His name was a plea, a prayer. And it was a song, a sigh, sunbeams gilding everything they touched in gold.

His answering chuckle was warm, his arms tightening around her as they had before. Sleep still clung to him, in the lines of his face where his cheek had been smushed against the pillow, in the disarray of his hair.

“Good morning.” His words slurred together, a burgeoning yawn he barely managed to cover his mouth. His brow fell against hers, the tickle of his soft bangs making her smile.

“Good morning to you, too.” She reached up to cup his cheek, the weight of his head leaning against her palm as he sighed. “What are you doing up so early? Don’t you usually sleep in much later than this?”

“Usually I do,” he agreed, nuzzling the tip of his nose against hers. “But I was so cold that I woke up.”

“You were cold?” She couldn’t keep the incredulity from her voice, not when she knew how warm he could become, when he was content and happy, the light of his evol warming him.

He nodded, his head falling to the side, resting on her shoulder. She thought he would close his eyes, but they remained open, fixed on her, a glimmer of something that seemed an awful lot like mischief sparking in his eyes before vanishing into that cloudless blue. “I was cold, and then I woke up and you were gone.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said, running her fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry, my love.”

“That’s okay.” Now his eyes did close, a pleased smile on his lips.

She would have happily stood with him like this until the day ended and night drew them into sleep once more, but a part of her mind screamed at her to remember the pancakes.

She patted his cheek until he lifted his head, his eyes wide and round, his lips pulled into the beginnings of a pout. She wasn’t even sure if he was trying, and yet he made the most devastating puppy dog eyes she had seen. Glassy as a quiet lake of moonlight, fathomless as the space between stars.

But the pancake she’d only just flipped when he’d surprised her would burn soon if she wasn’t paying attention, and she couldn’t afford to turn to jelly now when breakfast was on the line.

“Why don’t you go sit down? You still look a little tired.”

That was an understatement. He yawned again, sleep a mantle that weighed heavy on his shoulders. His head drooped, ashy bangs obscuring the starlight in his eyes.

“But I missed you.” The admission was cotton-ball soft, a swirling mote in a beam of butter-yellow light. It was quiet, gentle as a breeze rustling amongst leaves, and yet it cleaved apart the cage of her ribs, her traitorous heart bleeding as the shards of bone sliced through her.

A dramatic response to four little words, chased by another yawn and accompanied by the smell of pancakes on the cusp of burning. But something in her heart, in the marrow of her bones, was forever reaching towards him. She was a newly bloomed flower and he was the sun, emerging from the horizon to fill her heart and veins with warmth.

She couldn’t put her finger on it, the yawning chasm of the wound that had only seemed to make itself known now that he was a part of her life. She was bleeding and he was the stitches, the balm, the bandages that made her whole again. She needed him or she would surely exsanguinate like a hunted beast.

The strings of her heart and the hollows of her bones sang in resonance with him, with his light. She hadn’t realized she’d felt so restless and alone, like an unfinished chord severed from its song. Yet his quiet presence was the final note, music drawing her in, filling in the blanks she hadn’t known were missing.

Her lost harmonies, his warming melodies, an echo blooming between them both. A reverberation of ‘I know you,’ and ‘I miss you,’ threatening to shatter her and rebuild her like a crescendo.

And softer still, trailing after the pinnacle of the song, a twist of languid notes like fingers twined and palms pressed together, like a lonely, keening cry, ‘I need you.’

It didn’t make any sense to her, the feeling that she knew him, that she missed him. But when he spoke in the downy soft, hushed tones she was growing used to in the quiet of their moments together, her breath held, her heart stopped. His words echoed, and she nearly crumbled beneath them.

It was with a shaky breath that she managed a terse “fine,” before twisting in his arms, focusing her attention on the pancake, quickly lifting it from the pan and settling it on the pile of them on the counter beside her.

Saved, just in time, or it would have been nothing but charcoal.

Behind her now, Xavier nestled closer, his arms tightening around her waist, his chin perching on her shoulder. “Did you miss me?”

‘Yes,’ her bones screamed. ‘I missed you so much,” cried her heart.

There was no sense to it at all, the yearning, the ache in her marrow. Perhaps though, there was no sense to be found in it. She could feel a nameless thing lurking in the burning tributaries of her veins, gaining strength each time it passed through her heart, although she still refused to give it form.

There was never much sense in such things, in the waxing of feelings that grew and grew until they ruled over the tides in her veins, the ebb and flow of every beat of her heart.

“Yes,” she said at last, as she poured batter onto the skillet, watched as it grew fluffy and brown. For now she didn’t have to give it form; she didn’t have to define its shape and its name when it was not much more than a seedling beginning to sprout.

For now she could be content in the warmth of his arms and the weight of his body against her back and the growing pile of pancakes at her side.

“I missed you very much.”

From the corner of her eye she saw as he lifted his head, regarded her with sleepy curiosity. “Why did you get up?”

“I was hungry,” she said, tossing another pancake onto the plate. There wasn’t much batter left, and she would be done soon. “And I wanted to make you something you would enjoy.”

He hummed, resting his cheek on her shoulder. “Pancakes?”

“Soufflé pancakes.”

More humming, the press of his lips to her throat. “That sounds good.”

“Well you were talking about soufflé the other day, and I thought you might want to try this!”

He chuckled, sighing into her skin as he kissed her again. “Thank you, beloved.”

“And…” She hadn’t been sure if she would make anything else for him, but his tender murmurations against her throat made her weak, needy for even the smallest of praise. “I was thinking of making something else later, if you’d like.”

“Oh?” He straightened, rubbing his nose against her jaw. “What is it?”

Like the never-ending pull of gravity that spun the planets of the solar system around the sun, she was caught in his orbit, illuminated by the light that spilled from him. Already she knew she was lost to him, a moon cradled in the hold of its planet, its star.

But even moons had hidden sides to them, and she wanted to surprise him, wanted to delight him. Before she hadn’t been sure, but she was resolved. Even if she failed, she would try to make him more treats, if only to coax the embers of his smile into brilliant flame.

“It’s a secret,” she said, smiling when he groaned. “You’ll just have to wait.”

She could feel his frown, dangerously close to a pout as he pressed his face against her cheek, trying to ply the truth from her. She caved to him so easily, crumbling like an overbaked crust beneath the slightest of touches. He just had to fix those soft blue eyes on her, had to take her hand or nuzzle against her cheek.

How could she ever say no to him? How could a moon deny her star?

“Nope!” Her voice wobbled even as she turned her head away, not wanting to fall for the trap of meeting his eyes. “I’m not telling.”

Xavier made a soft, disgruntled sound in the back of his throat, but he didn’t press her further. Instead, he only held her tighter, resting his forehead on her shoulder again.

For a while there was silence, the quiet sizzle of the batter on the pan and their twining breaths the only sounds in the kitchen. She returned to her humming, idly running her fingers through his hair, leaning into his embrace. They swayed gently to the rhythm of her song, the slow, steady beat of his heart thrumming against her back, keeping tempo.

She was certain he had fallen asleep again, his breaths even, feathering against the side of her neck, his arms ever-so-slightly loosening their grip.

But when she called his name, no louder than the rustle of leaves sprouting in the spring, he roused quickly. His eyes, sapphire blue and bleary as they found hers, seemed to glow.

“Yes, beloved?” The nickname sent ribbons of sunshine twisting through her, illuminating every bone and tributary, warming her all the way to her curled toes. It was something a prince would say to his princess, what a knight would say to his queen.

It had fled from his lips once, and although his ears had tinged pink and he had looked away for the briefest of moments, he had smiled, and it had clung to her ever since.

Clearing her throat, she quickly looked away, focusing all her attention on scraping out the last of the batter, and not on the heat that danced across her nerves, sent tingles flaring in her fingertips and toes. “I wasn’t sure if you’d fallen asleep.”

“I might have for just a minute.” His hand found hers, fingers interlocking. “But can you blame me? I’m so comfortable.”

“Standing up?” She laughed, doing her best to flip the final pancake one-handed.

His soft laughter ruffled her hair, warm as a caress, as sunlight falling against her cheek. “With you, silly. It’s so much more comfortable with you in my arms.”

She was thankful she was facing away from him as her face flamed. She didn’t have to look in a mirror to know her cheeks were stained the colour of overripe tomatoes. Even her ears felt like they’d caught fire, his words a match held to her skin, burning until fiery sunset red was all that remained.

She ducked her head, her unbound hair falling over her face, veiling her flush from Xavier’s keen eyes. She could only hope he hadn’t spotted the heat flaring at the tips of her ears.

She swallowed, her voice a warble when she was able to find her words. “If you’re tired, you should lie down. Breakfast shouldn’t be too much longer.”

“I don’t want to.” He spoke with the susurrus of the wind, hiding beneath it the telltale petulance of a whine, childish in its refusal.

It surprised her, coaxed a smile from her as realization dawned on her. She turned in his arms, the batter used, the tower of pancakes cooling, reminding her of the turret of a princess castle.

She cupped his cheeks, his brows disappearing beneath the fringe of his bangs as she held his face. “Then what do you want to do, my sunshine?”

Now he was the one to blush, a delicate pink unfurling like cherry blossoms in spring. It spread from his cheeks, creeping up to his ears as the colour deepened to the flush of dawn. But unlike her, Xavier didn’t look away. His eyes seemed to darken, a deep cobalt that bordered on midnight, the soft lights of the kitchen catching like starlight.

“I want to stay here,” he murmured, bringing her palm to his lips. “I want to stay with you always.”

Needy hunger yawned wide inside of her, a chasm where her heart should have been safely nestled between her ribs.

He wanted always, and she wanted always. She wanted his always, his forever, his chivalrous promises of staying with her forevermore.

But as much as she yearned, she also wasn’t quite done with breakfast yet. She would happily melt beneath the touch of his lips and the brush of her fingertips, after she’d finished up and cleaned everything.

“I need to finish breakfast,” she said, toes curling when his teeth scraped the skin of her palm. She gave a half-hearted tug, giggling when his eyes met hers, bright with laughter and devilry. “Xavier! I need my hand!”

“And what if I want it?” He kissed her palm again, his brows raised. There was laughter in his voice, finding his own teasing hilarious.

“You have two hands!” She wriggled helplessly, biting back her own laughter as he watched her, amused.

No, not just amused. Delighted.

“And I want this one too!” He chuckled, holding her hand tighter.

“You’re being greedy!”

He nipped her index finger, his smile bordering on joyous. “It’s for a very important mission.”

“Which one?”

“It’s classified.”

As his smile turned smug she was reminded of her secret weapon, Xavier’s ultimate weakness.

With her free hand, she reached out as quickly as she could, still half-caught in his grip. It was easy enough to find the sensitive spots on his sides, under his arms down his throat.

His eyes bulged, his grip loosening as he dissolved into giggles, her name broken up by snorts as he tried to get away. With her newfound freedom she gave chase, backing him up against the wall as he squirmed and laughed. 

He might have been pleading for mercy, but it was hard to tell from how breathless he was becoming. He did manage a breathy “please,” but she wasn’t keen on stopping just yet.

“Ask me nicely.” She was having too much fun and she would undoubtedly pay the price later. But for now her heart was caught in the wind, chasing after his laughter, losing itself in the crimson of his face and the moon of his smile.

“Please, beloved!”

She did pause then, feeling satisfied.

“Alright,” she conceded, smoothing her hair back as he sighed, as though he’d been indulging her.

He took her hands, catching them swiftly and bringing them both to his lips. “What am I going to do with such treacherous hands?”

She hummed, tapping his lip, goosebumps racing across her skin from the tickle of his breath. “You’ll let them go so I can finish breakfast? So I can make you a surprise treat?”

The corners of his eyes crinkled as he tipped his head to the side, his bangs falling like moonbeams across his brow. “I’ll let you off with a warning this time. Although next time my mission will be to capture them.”

“Is that a threat?”

His smile was far too tender, hiding mischief in its fathomless depths. He kissed her hands once more before releasing them. “I wouldn’t say it’s a threat.” He swept his gaze over the kitchen, the corners of his lips quivering as if he was trying to hold them in check. “More like a guarantee.”

“I’m being threatened! I made you breakfast and you’re threatening me!” Her distress would have been more believable if she hadn’t been grinning so broadly, debating whether she should push her luck and see if he would make good on his “guarantee.”

Seeming to sense her impending shenanigans, Xavier took hold of her hands again, the stained glass of his eyes glittering in the light. He could not contain his laughter, even as she watched him try and fail to press his lips together to staunch the flow like a rift in a dam.

“I’m not threatening you,” he huffed, rolling his eyes.

She squealed, wiggling in his grip. “I’m being attacked! I’ve done nothing wrong and I’m being attacked!”

Another roll of his eyes. “We both know that’s not true.”

“I’m innocent! I’ve never done anything wrong in my life ever!”

There was no need for a verbal response as the corners of Xavier’s eyes narrowed, conveying just how much he believed that. From the slant of his lips and the furrow of his brow there was no doubt he was remembering when she’d pinched his backside the night before.

But in her defense, it had been necessary. He’d wiped the floor with her in kitty cards that past afternoon and she’d needed to take revenge somehow.

Yet rather than bring up the day before, he instead settled his hands on the flare of her hips, her hands free to pinch and squeeze his cheeks in retaliation.

Xavier only grinned wider, submitting to his fate. “Do whatever you want, beloved. I’m all yours.”

She frowned, sliding her hands to his chest, feeling the slow thrum of heart beneath her palm. “You’re being awfully mean to me.”

“Maybe it’s because I missed you.” Soft as feather-down, as blankets fresh from the wash, as the brush of flower petals against her fingertips, Xavier’s words quietly fell from his lips. He lowered his head, peeking up at her from beneath the silver of his lashes and the ashy fringe of his bangs. “And I was upset because I woke up alone.”

Already she could feel herself wavering, succumbing to Xavier’s puppy-dog eyes. He watched her, silent, his words hanging in the air like stars blossoming in the night sky, guiding her through the dark.

How could she even pretend to be upset when he was looking at her like that?

She had to turn away before her knees gave out from the strength of his sweet, apologetic stare. His weakness might have been his ticklish spots, but her weakness was him.

“Love?” Xavier’s hand cupped her cheek, gently turning her face back towards him, giving her no way to escape. “What can I do so you’ll forgive me?”

“Um… Uh…” She trailed off, unable to think of anything but the heat of his hand on her skin, the sincerity in his eyes. He was close, too close, his breath tickling her lips. There was hardly any space left between them, and even the smallest of movements would bring them together.

Her bones were nothing but kindling, catching flame at the first strike of flint, at the cadence of his voice and the warmth of his touch and that look he was giving her that made her feel like she was in freefall.

“Um?” He cocked his head to the side, the corners of his lips twitching, a smile rising like the dawn. “What are you thinking?”

“I need fruit,” she blurted, her mind a mess of his lips and his hands and the pancakes rapidly cooling on the counter and the unfinished breakfast.

Xavier blinked, brows rising. “Fruit?”

She nodded, the motion robotic and strange. It felt like she’d never moved her head before, like she’d completely lost control of her body. “Y-yeah, I need fruit. And a couple of other things so I can bake some more.”

He hummed, more surprised than anything. For a moment she wondered if he would agree, or if he would vehemently refuse to go out like he had refused to rest on the couch while she’d cooked. Perhaps he would try to tease her more, until she really did lose every scrap of her mind to his storm, until the threads of her self were held in his hands.

But then he smiled that tooth-achingly sweet smile that made her melt, his eyes bright, his cheeks touched with pink. “Is this for that surprise you mentioned earlier?”

“Maybe.” She ducked her head, staring down at the floor. She pushed her bottom lip into a pout, hoping to ply him into agreeing to fetch groceries for her by sulking. “So will you do it?”

He chuckled, taking her chin between his fingers, his thumb pressing against her lips. “Won’t you look at me? I missed you so much.”

Slowly, reluctantly, she looked up. The first thing she found was his eyes, cerulean as a cloudless summer sky, the kitchen light reflecting in their depths like sunshine, like fractals of rainbows illuminating the world.

“Why don’t you write me a list,” he suggested. “So I know what to pick up.”

His thumb stroked her bottom lip as he spoke, and his words flitted between her ears, wispy and gossamer thin, unable to catch in her mind. It wasn’t until he snorted with quiet laughter and dropped his hand, murmuring “beloved?” did she snap out of it.

“Just a minute.” She hurried from the kitchen before he could enthrall her once more, snatching up her phone and a notepad, jotting down a messy list of everything she needed.

She could hear Xavier humming tunelessly from where she scribbled out her list, a siren song crafted to ensnare her heart and mind. It made her heart flutter, her breath catching like she was on the precipice of a cliff. Her mind slipped, forgetting for a moment what she was listing, caught up in the sound of his voice, in the warmth unfurling in her belly.

She had to give herself a shake, jostling her thoughts back into place. She had a plan, didn’t she? To make something that would make him happy.

Although it was seeming more and more like teasing her was more than enough to keep him happy.

Rolling her eyes at the thought, she tore the list free from her notepad, returning to the kitchen to pass it to Xavier.

“This is everything I need.” She watched as his eyes scanned the list, his expression placid. “I hope it’s okay.”

He hummed, nodding before slowly lowering his hand. “It looks good. I can get all of this for you, but…” He trailed off, lips quirking up.

“But?” Her heart lurched. What was he plotting? “What’s wrong?”

“There is one thing I need first.”

Frowning, she shook her head, not expecting that response. Did he want her to add something to the list?

Before she could ask what he needed, he was closing the distance between them, the calluses on his palms scratching her cheeks as he cupped her face, pressing his lips to hers.

She felt breathless, all the air in her lungs rushing away as the warmth of his lips enveloped her, as his hands held her steady. He groaned against her, the sound reverberating through her, singing in the hollows of her bones.

It would have been so easy to lose herself to him entirely. To forget about breakfast and her plans to bake, to forget about all his teasing, to forget about everything but his heat, his embrace.

And then he was pulling away, and dimly, through the lovesick haze he had left in her mind, she registered that he was smirking at her. But before she could do anything he was bolting from the room, calling that he would be back soon.

She was left standing in the kitchen alone, blinking as she heard the front door open and shut, Xavier’s footsteps disappearing down the hallway.

Part of her wanted to be annoyed, but her heart was a traitor, her lips in league alongside it, conspiring against her as they spread into a smile.

She couldn’t stop the flit of delight taking flight in her heart, nor could she hold back the buoyant joy that made her feel light as air, as spun sugar so sweet her teeth ached.

These little moments of mischief that he was slowly revealing to her, as he unwrapped each layer of his heart the closer they grew, made her happier than she could find the words to describe. To know he trusted her enough to bare a little more of himself to her every day.

To the world, he was a sleepy, stoic deepspace hunter. But to her? To her, he was Xavier, the man who usually let her beat him at kitty cards, the man who helped her collect more plushies than she knew what to do with, the man who clung to her tightly in the mornings and teased her until her face burned.

The warmth of his embrace stayed with her, lingering on her lips, filling her heart, as she started to clean up her mess. Settling the pancakes on the table, moving her plush unicorn to sit beside them, guarding her fluffy creations while she moved on to the dishes.

She was just finishing up the last of the dishes, wiping down the countertop to clear it of flour, when Xavier returned.

The click of the door and his footsteps echoed through the apartment, and she tossed her washcloth to the side, racing to the entrance to find him again.

He beamed when he saw her, his arms laden with shopping bags. “You know I’m very curious about your surprise, some of the things I had to get were very strange.”

“You’ll just have to be patient, because I’m not telling.”

He arched a brow, looking amused. “Oh really?”

“Really.” She snatched the bags from him before he could try and tease her any further. “Now go wash your hands, I’m going to cut up some of the berries for our breakfast.”

He snorted, murmuring a soft “yes ma’am” before heading towards the bathroom.

She made quick work of washing and cutting up the berries, settling little bowls of them on the table for the two of them to have with their breakfast. Then she stashed the rest of the ingredients, humming as an idea came to her, fizzing like bubbles of glittering champagne.

“Xavier?” She called to him as he emerged from the bathroom, hands washed, dressed in his favourite hoodie and worn jeans.

He came towards her, brows drawing together in curiosity. “What is it?”

She bit the inside of her cheek to hide her smirk as she clasped her hands in front of her. “You forgot to get me something.”

“I did?” Now there was worry saturating his words, his expression. “What did I forget?”

Now it was her turn to surprise him, taking his face in her hands and catching his lips in a kiss.

She could feel the widening of his smile, feel the vibrations of his sigh as he melted in her embrace. His hands fell to her waist, holding her close as she tipped her head to the side, trying to deepen the kiss.

His lips were soft, and warm, and they tasted of sugar and berries, like he’d snacked on them as he’d been bringing them home. It suffused her senses, until all she could taste was him, was his lips, his tongue. His hair tickled her brow, her nose, and she couldn’t help but smile against him as his teeth grazed her bottom lip.

She was far from satisfied when she drew away, but she was breathless, dizzy, the world spinning round and round like she was trapped in a carnival ride. Her lungs ached, screamed, even as all she wanted was to fall into his arms once more and give him the last of her breath.

“How could I be so forgetful?” He cupped her chin, stroking her bottom lip as she swayed. It was only when his other arm settled around her, holding her close, did she finally feel steady, leaning against his solid chest, his breath tangling in her hair, his cheeks red and his lips swollen from the embrace.

She licked her lips, caught in the gravity of his gaze. “It was awfully silly of you to forget. It was the most important thing I needed.”

He ran the pad of his thumb over her lip again, his smile soft, adoring. Like she truly was his princess, his queen, like he was a knight charged with caring for her heart. Like she was the most precious of stars in his sky.

Silence draped over them like a veil, a blanket tangling around them, a quiet comfort that swathed them in this little moment. Xavier’s eyes focused on her face, on her lips, his hand cradling her face so gently.

When he spoke, his words the flutter of gauzy wings on a breeze harkening spring, it was like a balm, a soothing melody for her heart. His lips brushed against her ear, his voice a sigh. “I’ll make sure I never forget it again.”

“Good.” She smiled, her ears burning hot as a newborn star, her face a galaxy of heat. Still, she couldn’t help but smile at the softness of his words, at the devotion in his eyes.

She took his hands, squeezing them gently. “I’ve finished breakfast, if you’d like some.”

“I would,” he bumped his nose against hers, dropping a chaste kiss to the corner of her mouth. “I’m very excited to try it.”

She tried leading him to the table, where she’d set everything up, but Xavier slipped away, collecting their food and moving to the couch instead.

“Where are you going?” She frowned, staring at the now barren table.

He settled the food on the coffee table in front of the couch, unfolding a blanket. “It’s more comfortable sitting here.”

She frowned. “What if you spill? Or fall asleep again?”

He snorted, his brows arching high. “I’m not going to fall asleep, not when I’ve been looking forward to this since all morning.”

Xavier held out a hand, beckoning her towards him, and what reason did she have to say no? He looked happy, content, spreading blankets and pillows over the couch for them to sit together, to enjoy their food in comfort. And it did mean she could sit snuggled beside him, which was quickly becoming her favourite everything.

“Alright,” she conceded, moving towards him, fingers lacing with his as she let him draw her down into his arms.

Xavier beamed, fussing over the blankets, making sure they were comfortably tucked around the both of them before he retrieved their food.

“See?” He asked, once they were both settled, food balanced in their laps, the television a murmur in the background. “Isn’t this better?”

She couldn’t disagree, nestled beside him, basking in the glow of his smile. “You’re right, this is better.”

He readjusted the blanket wrapped around them, catching it as it slipped from her side. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be, you know.”

“Hm?” She’d started eying his plate, watching it tip precariously in his lap. For someone who was obsessed with food, he seemed awfully focused on everything else.

“Are you listening to me?” She flicked her eyes back towards him, to his teasing smile and the deep blue of his eyes.

“I am,” she said, quickly, too quickly. It was a lie and he knew it, eyes narrowing and brows drawing low.

“I don’t know if I believe you.”

She huffed, pointing to the plate in his lap before he could tease her. “I worked hard on those, you know! Aren’t you going to try it?”

He blinked, his eyes wide.

Without thought, she grabbed his plate, cutting up the pancake before spearing a piece with the fork.

“Try it,” she insisted, lifting it to his lips. “Please? I want to know if you like it.”

Xavier’s eyes widened further, round as saucers, their deep blue stark against the sudden crimson of his cheeks. A beat passed, then another, and she began to worry that maybe he didn’t want the pancakes, maybe there was something wrong with them.

But then his hand came up, fingers curling around her hand, his lips parting as he brought the fork the rest of the way to his mouth.

He chewed slowly, clutching her hand like a lifeline. Then, like the first flicker of starlight as dusk gave way to night, his smile grew, and grew, her bright, guiding star.

“Well?” She didn’t want to push, but she also did, so impatient it hurt, like cracks were forming along her bones, like they were fracturing, splintering beneath the weight of her restlessness.

“It’s delicious.” He brought her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss to her wrist. “It might be one of the best things I’ve eaten.”

She snorted. “It’s only my first time making it, I’m sure it’s not that good.”

But Xavier shook his head, looking earnest, sincere. “I mean it, I think it’s amazing.”

She hummed, smirking. “Maybe you need another bite? Just to be sure?”

He chuckled, releasing her hand so she could spear another forkful of pancake for him. “I think you might be right. I might need quite a bit, just to be sure.”

“Oh really?” She fed him another bite, flushing with delight, with pride, to see his smile. He’d hardly eaten anything at all, and yet already he seemed so happy, so bright. Had there ever been such a smile before, had there ever been someone who filled every darkened space in her body, the life-giving light of the sun to the devotion of the flowers?

“Maybe I should make something else for you, just to test if my cooking skills are any good.”

He nodded quickly, so fast his hair fluttered around his head, boyish and silly. More pieces of him he had shown to her, more reasons to hold him in her heart. “I think you should. We really need to test your cooking skills. But first…”

“But first what?” She frowned as he trailed off, confused. “Is something the matter?”

“First, I want to finish eating this, with you,” he finished, catching her hand again. “I want to enjoy the morning with you first, beloved.”

Her heart stuttered, an uneven melody that made her tongue stumble, her words awkward and strange as she tried to respond. “O-oh. Oh. Are you sure?”

His brows drew together, disbelief etched in the lines of his face. “What else could I possibly want to do? I always want to spend time with you.”

Always. He wanted her always, and she wanted his.

“Even if it means waiting longer for more food?”

“I think I’ll survive.” He plucked up her fork, snagging a piece of pancake and a berry, dark pink juice spreading across the food as he brought it to her lips. “Now. You need to eat, too.”

His words were soft, but there was something sturdy behind them, something that brooked no arguments. So she took a bite, the mellow flavour of the pancake and the tartness of the berry bursting across her tongue.

And then she took another, and another, until she found an opening to feed Xavier more, berry juice staining his lips. She tried to lean forward to wipe it away, and he laughed, nipping at the pads of her fingers whenever she tried.

“Xavier!” She chastised. “I’m trying to help!”

He only tried to bite her again in response, and she drew back, snorting with laughter when he tried to toss a berry at her, staining both his fingers and her cheek pink.

The morning melted away around them in gold-touched laughter and smears of deep cerise. The food quickly vanished, yet even once there was nothing but crumbs left on their plates and flecks of berries spattered on the tines of their forks, still they remained tangled together, content in the other’s arms.

She sighed, tucking the blankets higher around the both of them. Xavier was beginning to doze once more, a contented smile on his lips, and although she’d wanted to get started on her next baking project, she was loath to rouse him. He’d snuggled close once their plates had been set to the side, his arms looped lazily around her, and she knew if she moved that it would disturb him, upsetting him once more.

So she remained in his arms, running her fingers through his hair as drowsiness crept over her. It was a blanket being tucked around her shoulders, her thoughts turning sluggish, her body growing heavier with each breath. But she couldn’t bear to move, not wanting to leave Xavier alone again.

She was content to stay right where she was, nestled in his embrace. She could always bake later in the day, or tomorrow. But right now all she wanted was to stay in his arms, to listen to the beat of his heart and feel the hush of his breath in her hair. She would slip away into dreams of starlight and soft words and baked goods, and when she awoke it would be to his smile, to his happiness, that shone brighter than all the stars ever could.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace xavier #lnds xavier #lads xavier #shen xinghui #xavier love and deepspace #xavier x mc #xavier lads #all the stars are a-bloom

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

heyyyy i love your series so much. I’ve read it so many times and its always amazing. Can you pleaseeee write an AU blurb to daemon’s reaction of babey dying.

Someone wanted to suffer so OMG I AM SO SORRY FOR THIS! (Also sorry it took a while to get out, I wanted to finish off 'Worship' before getting to this little blurb, but I hope it feeds your need for pain!) THIS IS AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE BLURB, DO NOT PANIC!!!

the stranger ('terms of endearment' au)

On the night of your child's birth, Daemon's world implodes.

Triggers: death in childbirth.

When had the world gone cold?

His was a body formed from fire and blood, a raging inferno that sweeps away all who dare to cross him in a maelstrom of heat and passion and fury. He burned bright, deep, dark, and all who knew his tempestuous nature feared it. Feared him.

But he is frozen and hollow now, a carcass left abandoned in the dying light for the vultures to pick upon. The emptiness swallows him whole.

He barely registers Rhaenyra’s sobs, or Viserys’s remaining hand upon his shoulder, or the Hightower bitch’s snivelling murmurs. When the attendants seek to move you, he thinks he snaps at them, but he cannot be certain. The noise is insensate, like trying to hear words under the waves of the ocean. His pulse fills his ears with useless sound, every beat a reminder that your own heart toils no longer.

Your hair – moonlight spilling over the pillows in luminescent shine – is as bright as ever, as soft and perfect and you as it had always been. He takes your jaw in hand, thumb tracing the bow of your petal lips, fingers across your cheek. You are so, so beautiful; it is a tragic beauty, the bloom of colour gone from pallid skin, pigment leached from stone. You were warm once, he recalls, but it is fading, oozing black and red across the mattress. It soaks through his breeches, wetting it with the life essence that ought to have remained within you, kept you vivid and buoyant and everything that is real and necessary. One of your small palms is clasped in his own, and they have always been cold, he has always warmed them for you. Why is it not working now?

“… the boy… his name?”

Ah, yes, he recalls. The babe.

His brave, brave girl. You had rocked and moaned and pushed and wailed as the child tore his way through you, retreating to that instinctive bestiality of ancient womanhood. He cannot recall the last words he had ever spoken to you, if there even were any, so lost in the haze of pain and torment as you had been. It was overwhelming, alarming, utterly destroying to do nothing but watch as new life had made you undone, had ripped itself from you and left you fractured beyond repair. He barely remembers it; hopes he never will. Those flashes of tears and screams and the lingering scent of doom will haunt him forevermore.

Dimly, he senses someone shifting your arm, something wiggly and squalling being deposited into the crook of it. Silver braid, black sleeve. A woman. He looks down at it, at that small, small lifeform, rosy flush and bow lips and pale hair so like yours. The child’s cries abate at the feel of his mother around him, a bond that will never break, not even when you are ash upon the wind.

The boy looks like you. Perhaps that’s impossible for a babe so new, but he does. His rosebud mouth is suckling, rooting for the milk that will never come from you, his little brows scrunching in frustration. He smiles. It is a broken, desperate thing.

Well done, my darling.

“Good girl,” he whispers, caressing your face. “My clever sweetling.”

Here, in this bed of blood, a part of him dies.

Don't worry, this WILL NOT HAPPEN in the main series - but I am happy to add these little blurbs to the Alternate Universe train! Thanks for reading!

#terms of endearment au #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen fanfiction #daemon targaryen x you #daemon targaryen x oc #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd #hotd fanfiction #terms of endearment blurbs

[lemongrace]

Mine, all mine

Content Warning: vague corpse description, grave-robbing (whoops!) The ancient stone cracked like ice as the spell that had sealed the tomb came undone, snapping along the lines her fingers had traced over its surface. The destruction brought her no pleasure - hands of a skilled artisan of a bygone era had chiselled an intricate bas-relief into its walls, vines of coiling ivy that choked out the crescent moons they seized; the Venomleaf family’s chosen sigil. The lid shaped into a silhouette of a sleeping elven woman rested on top, her features vague and unidentifiable; subtle enough for tweaks to be applied at the hour of the passing. Now she lay split in half where the stone had ruptured, her solemn visage marred forevermore.

But the dead didn’t so much as stir, and no voice rose to stop her– not even when Eluein pushed the lid aside, the whisper of death and decay not nearly harrowing enough to prevent the Highborne from desecrating the grave. Skeletal fingers still held onto dry blooms woven betwixt them, colour long gone from their petals. An elegant gown of once vivid crimson gently wrapped the remains of the elf laid to rest inside, wisps of dark hair sparsely clinging to the skull. The late Lady Venimeux, reduced to naught but bones and dust.                                                                                                             Canting her head, Eluein regarded the corpse– what was left of it. Though the marble was millennia old, the ward placed upon the sarcophagus sealed it for no longer than a few weeks - yet the body decomposed unnaturally quickly despite its protection, leaving only a skeleton to be found inside. She’d never seen bones so beautiful.

By all means, she deserved to be damned for the mere thought of it - hadn't she caused Idyssa enough grief already? Even in death, the Nightborne had known no peace. But the notion of what they would call her upon her return vanished the moment Eluein slipped the glove off of her hand, exposed digits grasping at the stone. Insults stopped cutting so deeply when the mere utterance of her name fell like a curse from their mouth. Like a graceless feline, starved, Eluein scaled the tomb of her late lover. The damaged lid groaned beneath her weight, threatening to break at any moment, but she cared not for its protestations. The gauntlet-encased arm propped her up while the other, bare and yearning, reached out for the bones within. Following the length of the spine with her fingers, she found it - the misaligned vertebra she had broken out of place, a part of it still stubbornly clinging to the skull. A firm snap of her hand was all it took to free the latter.  The surface of her felt familiar despite the deathly chill that had embraced the remains - the outline of her jaw, the curvature of her cheeks; elegant and timeless, more akin to an art form carved in ivory than just a simple piece of bone. Eluein’s fingertips traced the intricacies of the cranium with a gentle caress, sweeping away the ghastly remains of the Nightborne’s hair. Death wasn’t fit to lay claim to one such as her. Slipping the hand beneath the skull, Eluein carefully removed it from within the tomb, not once breaking away her gaze from the empty sockets. Unbeknownst to the Highborne, her own features relaxed as she beheld it - frown that seemed permanently seared to her brow softened, thumb brushing against the skeletal cheek to wipe away a non-existent tear. If the ghost of her was watching, it had remained silent. Quiet even when Eluein leaned in, pressing her pallid forehead against the equally bleached skull. Death wasn’t fit to lay claim to one such as her - not while the other yet lived.

#writing #oc stories #eluein #idyssa #oc #highborne #night elf #world of warcraft #the ravencallers #least unhinged sapphic relationship

[owlespresso]

dipped under the sheets characters: ayato, kaeya, kaveh, alhaitham. tags: Spice beneath the cut, AFAB!reader, use of the word wife,

Ayato lures you into bed with soft lilting tones. Pianist's hands play gently across your shoulders, his breath balmy against the shell of your ear as he bids you rest. It's a reversal of your normal roles. Commissioner's duties keep him up late into the night. Sometimes you don't bother to call him to bed at all.

Tonight, though, it is you he devotes his precious time and meticulous attentions to, sweet siren song of his voice promising breakfast in bed—"all of your favorites"—if you abandon your roost on the couch and accompany him to that sea of silken sheets.

Ayato undoes you slowly. Dips you onto the mattress, wrinkles under his eyes crinkling with his coy smile. No matter the status of your relationship, he fucks you like a husband does. The intimacy is inescapable, foreheads pressed together, praise whispered against your tacky skin, your kiss-swollen lips. It's all meant to pry you open, to reveal the soft, ripe core of you.

He confesses, in the small spaces between you. He tells you that he misses you, that he's considered dropping entire projects just so he can keep you here, pinned underneath him, safe in his bed.

"What an awful husband I've been," he murmurs wryly, whether you are married or not. "You'll forgive me, won't you?" he asks between open-mouthed kisses he paints down the column of your neck, tongue swiping over stray beads of sweat. You shudder every time he does it, fingers rooted in his hair trying to pull him away from where he feasts.

He just laughs, airy and fond.

Turn your face away and he kisses your temple, mouths his words there instead. He holds your hand whether you want him to or not, fingers intertwined and squeezing with each slow, pointed thrust.

The molten heat rolls slowly down your spine, pools in the crux of your inner thighs. He pulls your climax from you with the most horrible ease, velvet head of his cock hitting that spot that makes you twitch and writhe over and over. Worst of all, he talks you through it. Coaxes you to face him by your chin. His eyes are glassy, but infatuation blooms like sweet rot in the subtleties of his expression, in how delicately he handles you when all is said and you are finished. Laid out beneath him like a meal.

He stands up. Those long fingers drag through spatterings of cum which streak your inner thighs, casual and kind as setting the table. You pretend you don't see his tongue rasp over the digits. You try to not comprehend it, roll over and shove your face into the pillow. Get a few minutes of rest before he sweeps back into the room with a glass of water and an offer to carry you to the bathroom.

---

kaeya

Starlight bleeds into the room through the open window. It colors Kaeya's undone blouse pallid grey, slicks his hair with a silvery sheen. Winter's stubborn chill has filled the apartment, still and solitary. A far cry from the Angel's Share, where bodies packed the room with warmth and the smell of fermented fruit mixed with fried food.

But the air here smells only, faintly like camellia, and the chill serves to somewhat sober you from the long night you've had. Kaeya must feel you shiver, because he laughs and pulls you closer to his side. The two of you stumble into his bedroom, a clumsy balter of misplaced footsteps that ends with you plopped onto his mattress, fingers still curled into the silk of his top.

The fabric winds up over one of his shoulder. The dip of his collarbones fully exposed. He blinks, wide-eyed, before huffing out a laugh.

"That eager to get me out of my clothes, hm?" he looms over you, nose nuzzling from your cheek to your temple. Soft lips roll across your skin.

He unwraps you with his practiced fingers, only shrugging off his shirt before he hooks your legs over his shoulders. Kaeya fucks you like he's indulging in you. Like you're his favorite dessert. That clever tongue plays across your twitching, throbbing cunt. He draws one climax, two climaxes, three and more. Crouched between your thighs, from behind, greedy hands squeezing handfuls of your ass.

He ruts his hips on the mattress, panting into the seam of you. He waits until you're fucked stupid on his tongue to slide his cock home deep—and you cry when he bottoms out, wrung out and oversensitive. He folds himself atop of you, lets you feel every inch, heat of his body searing against the chill that hangs in the air.

He fucks you slow and deep. Builds you up with long, pointed strokes that make your legs spasm, your cunt drool. You sob and moan, sweet sounds muffled by his pillow. They float through the room and out the window, but you're too dazed to realize.

---

kaveh

Dappled sunlight warms your skin. Port Ormos smells fresh and clean with sky and sea, with earth and water. The breeze sends slight goosebumps across your bared arms, drives you further into Kaveh's lap. You burr

"Are you sure you want to do this here?" Kaveh asks, a little breathless. Need belied by blown wide pupils. You answer him with a another slow kiss. "You're—" A shudder rolls down his spine. "—really something." But he lays onto you with palms warm and touch soft. Impossibly reverent.

His forehead rests against your own, arms wrapped around your lower back, limbs furled together like blooming petals. In your defense, you hadn't intended for your picnic to become an impromptu romp in the sheets (atop of the comfortable blanket you brought) but the canopy shields you from prying eyes, and the path you took to get here is far from worn.

Kaveh fucks you with disbelieving awe. Fingertips trace the curves and ridges of your body, roaming in idle worship. His eyes flutter shut as he sinks into the warm clutch of your cunt. He's looking att you constantly, sometimes with eyes wide and wild, sometimes with fingers gripping you tight enough to bruise. He's afraid you'll disappear, you think, vanish into the void alongside everything else he's ever cherished.

He fucks you like you're his air to breathe. He fucks you like he'll die if he stops jackhammering inside of you for even a moment. Every thrust of his lean hips sends you upwards, makes you gasp for breath. Your back arches, curve of his cock pinpointing a spot that makes stars burst behind your spasming eyelids. It's hard to make out anything he's saying over the frissions of pleasure jolting over your nerves.

Artist's fingers dance across your clit, roll over the bundle of nerves in spine-tingling strokes.

You'll need to wash this blanket, you realize—and that's the last coherent thought you have, stuffed full with cock, head cottony with bliss.

Later, when Kaveh's rambling hushed apologies into your temple and rubbing you down with the dish towel you brought with you, you'll remember. A stripe of sun will make your eyes scrunch shut, lips pulling into a grimace when you feel him leak out of you. You'll laugh at him regardless, miss his awed, slow blink at the sight of you in such resplendent joy.

---

alhaitham

Permits himself to your skin with the same, cool ease he approaches the rest of his everyday life with. Slipping underneath your clothes is second nature—a hand brushed idly over your stomach whilst you're seated in his lap, his attention otherwise focused on some report or tome he's picked up. His fingers delving between your thighs, toying idly with the hot seam of your cunt until you're squirming in his lap. Only the press of his hard cock to your lower back belies his interest. Otherwise, you would think he isn't invested at all.

It's difficult for him to communicate just how much he enjoys unraveling you piece-by-piece, layer-by-layer. He puts the sentiment into action instead, lets the foreplay last four hours if he feels he isn't making you feel adequately tended to. He fucks you like he's tending a garden, pruning your petals in places where he sees fit, pushing you to blossom in others.

"Louder," he commands. "I won't know what you want if you don't tell me."

And how unbearable he can truly be.

"Don't hide your face. Since you are so determined to keep quiet, I'll have to evaluate based on your expressions," he instructs coolly. Awful man. Not letting you have even a moment's reprieve to gather your bearings.

He holds you fast and he holds you firm, lilting praises little in supply. The weight of his cock and the fervor with which he thrusts. The quiet is taken up by the sound of skin against skin, the noises you inevitably let loose as you climb your third climax.

"Don't go anywhere," he says when you claw at the sheets, trying to scramble out from underneath him for one, frenzied moment. He's close. You can tell from the hitch in his voice and the way he doesn't even bother to insinuate that this is somehow all your fault.

You buckle underneath his weight and submit yourself to the honey-slick pleasure he pushes inside of you with each piston of his hips. Try as he might, he can't disguise the animal want his rutting devolves into—the marks over your shoulders attest to it.

#alhaitham #kaveh #ayato #kaeya #gossiping abt genshin #oz write #alhaitham/reader #kaveh/reader #ayato/reader #kaeya/reader #imagine genshin impact

[arclundarchivist]

Enough of Dreams, What of Nightmares?

Spoilers C3E90.

-

-

-

I... I worry about what we have brought into our city.

We call them Dreamers...

They give us a view into the world we could never reach.

Yet... I know of Nightmares.

And I fear we have brought them into the heart.

That the Volition cavorts and prods at something beyond our reckoning.

A Scion of the Storm, a tempest of herself, rose above the city a day before, but she is not alone.

Whispers of another, wearing her face, younger, yet a Scion all the same, but one defiant. Clawing back from the call of the Heart.

She walks hand in hand with a specter of pallid skin and dark shadow. Grasping claws, ever hungry. Emerald eyes, ever seeking.

Why do they clutch to each other so? How are they anchored, ships sinking or moored securely?

Then there are the others.

The Green Bearer is hardly taller than a Myceit, yet it carries bounties none have tasted before. Not a nightmare, you argue, but then I point to the corpses blooming with unfamiliar flowers torn asunder as if caught in the grasp of the storm.

She of Cloven Hoof and Cunning Smile, hiding amongst our beasts, whispering clever lies, another of the Sleeper's, yet I hear at her Core she is Fire. Barely tamed, ever eager.

The Earthern One, a shifting mass of stone and chaos. An old soul, older by far than most can comprehend. A broken mind, yet drawing from it potential unburdened.

The Shined Metal, his touch brings a warmth alien to all we have ever known, and yet beneath the surface is a darkness just as deep as any of the others.

And then there is the Beast. Under the guise of an elderly dreamer lurks a demon of Catha, surely. Snapping jaws, flaming claws, scythe rising to reap that which we can not give.

The Volition cavorts with monsters.

But monsters lurk at the side of the Willmind and have for some time.

So perchance, as the saying goes, you need fire to fight fire.

(Inspired by the random thought that the Bells Hells really are just a bunch of Cryptids at this point.)

#critical role #critical role spoilers #cr imogen #cr laudna #cr orym #cr fearne #cr ashton #cr fcg #cr chetney #ruidus

[tally-kiza]

A Kind Stranger

Summary: You're just the clerk of Arkham State Hospital's information desk. The days are long, the paperwork is innumerous, the people who approach your window are uncaring. But for whatever reason, you just can't help yourself from being moved when you are approached by one Arthur Fleck.

Words: 3223

“Wait!” you yelled, watching with fear as a man sprinted away from your window with his mother’s file clutched to his chest.

Not fear of him. Fear for him.

Arthur Fleck had approached your information desk shortly earlier with exhaustion painting every deep line of his face, introducing himself and requesting to read Arkham’s file of his mother, Penny. A file from 30 years ago, stored deep in the halls of Arkham’s basement. You hadn’t had the heart to refuse. His long, curly hair was greasy and unwashed, his ill-fitting clothes rumpled, and the bags under his eyes were heavy and dark, like he hadn’t slept in days. He kept his head bowed, hands stuffed in his pockets, and the quiet rasp of his voice was halting and unsure. This man had just looked so... deeply sad. 

As reluctant as you’d been to go hunting through decades-old records, you couldn’t send this poor man away empty-handed. If it was his mother’s file, he must’ve had an important reason for needing to see it.

Arkham Hospital’s basement’s organization system was a living nightmare. The room itself was dark with flickering and broken lights. Your footsteps and drips of something echoed through the cramped space. Nothing was ever in order, alphabetical or otherwise; it had taken you longer than you liked to finally find the box the file was stored in, with blooms of mold creeping up one of the lower corners. As you hunted, you were afraid this Arthur had gotten tired of waiting and must’ve left, but he was still patiently waiting at your window when you returned. Your footsteps announced your arrival. As you approached you caught a glimpse of him pushing his hair back and running his hands over his face as he faced your window.

Arthur hadn’t seemed bothered by the wait, almost as if he’d hardly noticed. He was clearly lost in thought while you apologized. As you rooted through the decaying box for his mother’s file, he’d asked a question: how someone could even end up in Arkham. You’d glanced at him; the shadows of his face looked heavier under Arkham’s harsh fluorescent lighting, his skin pallid. Well, some had hurt themselves, you’d responded. Some had hurt others. Or both. And some just had nowhere else to go. Arkham was the only safe place they had. 

Arthur had accepted this answer with the smallest smile tugging at his thin lips, not quite looking you in the eye. 

“Yeah... being in here is better than dying on the sidewalk,” he’d joked. His delivery was flat and cadence off but you’d smiled and quietly laughed anyway.

“That’s funny,” you’d mumbled down into the box, growing shy.

A drop of eagerness creeped into Arthur’s voice. “You know, I’ve been in here before, a few times.” 

You paused and glanced at him. “...Oh, yeah?”

“The accommodations left something to be desired,” his smile turned wry, like he was letting you in on a secret. And you suppose, in a way, he was. Most wouldn’t share something so personal. “But you can’t beat the views.” 

“Views? But there’s bars over the windows, aren’t there?”

“Exactly.”

Arthur’s eyebrows were raised, tired face almost expectant, as if trying to gauge your reaction. It was cute how hard he was trying to joke. You shook your head with a soft laugh. “Bars. Average Gothamite’s favorite place, I suppose. Oh, here it is―”

As you finally discovered Penny’s file, still intact and safe from the creeping mold, you hadn’t noticed the sparkle in Arthur’s green eyes, or his small wry smile growing more genuine. When you looked back up at him to show it to him, it was difficult to tell through the plastic grate but he’d almost looked... lighter in a way. Softer. Not by much―Arthur still looked pretty haggard, shoulders still heavy and still leaning his tired head against the grate―but the difference was plain.  You preferred this lighter look to him.

Penny’s diagnosis hadn’t shocked you as you read it aloud to him: you’d been a file-keeping clerk at this crummy window for years and had read files that were tougher to stomach than this. But you’d faltered when you reached a mention of the endangerment of her own child. Arthur. Coldness washed over you. Your eyes skimmed the rest of the first page quickly and caught bits of descriptions of the abuse he’d suffered as a child, too young for him to possibly remember, but severe enough to leave marks that would never heal. On the inside at least. And there were so many more pages.

Your heart grew heavy and sunk in your chest as you met Arthur’s wide, unblinking eyes staring into yours. He was as frozen as you were. 

You couldn’t let him see this. This man had looked so sorrowful and close to breaking already; you didn’t want to think about how reading this file would affect him. He clearly had little idea of what was in it. When Arthur questioned you, with a small, broken ‘what,’ you had fumbled and tried to make up an excuse as to why he couldn’t read the full thing. Something about rules and regulations, but your excuse sounded flimsy even to you. 

Arthur remained silent, still staring wide-eyed at you, then after a moment lowered his gaze towards the file in your hands on the counter. His jaw set. You’d barely registered his very quiet ‘sorry’ before he’d snatched the file out of your hands through the aperture of the window grate and bolted away. 

You shouted after him, stunned and scared, but he was halfway down the hall already. Arthur spared one glance back at you over his shoulder. Even through the grate and the distance, you could see the fear shining in Arthur’s eyes. 

He stumbled slightly as he turned back around, and sprinted around the corner out of sight. Your heart pounded in your chest. He was desperate. Despite barely knowing this man, you couldn’t stop yourself from following after him. 

The distant heavy slam of a door almost didn’t register to you. Almost.

You’d been stuck behind this dead-end window for years, unable to get employed as an actual therapist at Arkham. This minimum wage clerk job had been your best foot in the door here, but before you’d known it, three years had passed. All you’d ever wanted is to help a struggling person in need. That was your dream, the whole reason you’d wanted a career in mental health. But who could you have helped through a window, reciting information to? 

But Arthur could be helped. Something about him cried out for it, like he’d been reaching out for a little bit of kindness his whole life. In the way he carried himself, in the way he spoke, in his tense gait, in how he had seemed so eager to make you laugh―a complete stranger―in the fragile vulnerability wrapped around him like his tan jacket.

But you could reach back to him. Or you wanted to try, at least.

If you caught up to him first. 

Uncaring of who would man your desk, you dashed out of the side door and down the hall after him. Stragglers in the hall watched you with dazed confusion. You felt just as confused as to why you felt so strongly for this near stranger. Crossing the corner, you froze. Arthur wasn’t in this hallway. There’s no way he could’ve crossed the next corner so quickly, and every door on this level was locked to unauthorized personnel.The memory of that one distant slam of a door flashed in your mind. The stairwell, you thought, before darting to the heavy door. 

It slammed shut behind you. You were preparing to race down the stairs, but froze in your tracks. 

The echoes of agonized laughter bounced through the empty stairwell.

The voice was unmistakably Arthur Fleck. Your heart caught in your throat and you swallowed. Energy faded, replaced by unsureness. You creeped down the stairs cautiously, peeking over the guardrail to try to see him on one of the lower levels, to no avail. Arthur’s laughter pulled at you, pulled you down step after step. It shook you. How could laughter sound so much like crying?

You crossed a corner and finally saw him on the level just below. Arthur, looking so small, hunched over and clutching his mother’s file to his chest. Pained laughter shook through him, mixed with sobs, chest heaving with tears streaming down his face. A deeply private, vulnerable moment. Tears pricked at your eyes. You shouldn’t be here, you knew. This wasn’t a sight meant for a stranger. But now that you were here, you couldn’t leave this man to suffer alone. 

He seemed like he’d been alone for a long, long time.

But what could you even do...?

“Arthur?” you called out softly.

Arthur startled, making a surprised, scared noise and hunching over farther. He ran his sleeve against his nose. His voice was thick with emotion: shame, fragility, horror, and a dozen others you couldn’t place. “I― I’m sorry. I had to―”

―Was all he got out before laughter constricted his chest again and wrung itself out of him. It was a pained, wheezing sound; your heart squeezed. Before you knew it, the distance between you had disappeared, footsteps clinking on every step, until Arthur was right before you in arm’s reach. 

“Are...” You trailed off, unsure of what to say. Or what to do. 

You gently placed a hand on his shoulder, small and boney under your hold. Between guffaws beginning to sound more like sobs again, Arthur shook his head and choked out in ashamed defense, “I’m― sorry; it’s a― a condition.”

He took one small shuffle towards the next flight of stairs leading down, but didn’t retreat any farther. You vaguely remembered a condition that caused uncontrollable laughter from your studies, though the name escaped you. It had always looked painful. As painful as Arthur’s laughter seems to be now. His eyes were red and squeezed tight, face brightly flushed. Just as Arthur ducked his head and wrapped a hand over his mouth, you couldn’t help yourself. You wrapped your arms around him. In an embrace.

The embarrassment of hugging a near stranger was absent at that moment, though you shook with nerves and emotion regardless. So many times you had been in his position, distressed and suffering, and no one had ever been there to console you; you wouldn’t let this man struggle through the same. 

Arms around his back, every rib and vertebrae prominent and shaking under you, Arthur against your chest. His laughter faltered for just a moment as he froze; he inhaled sharply trying to catch his breath, before a new, albeit quieter attack seized him. Though he didn’t embrace you in return (and you didn't expect him to), his head fell against your shoulder. Echoes of laughter through the stairwell became muffled into you. Tears and mucus were staining your work shirt but none of that mattered.

“You apologized,” you murmured. “Don’t. I’m the one who’s sorry. I wish I knew what to say.”

You weren’t sure how much time passed like that, holding Arthur protectively until the traces of his muffled laughter and tears petered out. Until all that was left was a haunting silence. But he didn’t pull away. 

Neither of you said anything for a long time, as Arthur sniffled and tried to catch his breath. 

When Arthur finally pulled away from you, his eyes were downcast. Brows remained knotted, redness still colored his face. He was still hunched over his file, like an attempt to keep himself small so he couldn’t be noticed. Or hurt. His gentle, raspy voice was now raw and numb when he finally spoke. 

“I don’t... ...Are you real?”

Your eyes softened. “I think so, yes. As real as you are.”

Arthur didn’t react, didn’t move, didn’t speak.

Ah. You added on, “And you are. Real.”

The shake of Arthur’s head was almost imperceptible. He didn’t believe you. Your heart grew cold and heavy anew in your chest. Had he struggled to believe that? That he was real?

A moment passed. He gazed down at his file, the many pages containing pain you couldn’t have fathomed for him. You couldn’t read the look in his eyes. Steely anger and hollow vulnerability swirled around Arthur. Then he looked away and held the file out to you.

“...Here.”

Concern twitched on your face. Not quite taking it from him, you held one of the worn edges. After a brief pause, you said, “You can keep it... if you want to.”

“I don’t,” he whispered. 

You didn’t need to ask if he was sure. After such a painful episode, it was no surprise to you if he never wanted to read a single word of this file again. As if it was made of glass, you took it gingerly. 

Before you could say anything, Arthur spoke. “Why...?”

“Why what?”

For the first time since he pulled away from your embrace, Arthur looks at you. His pale green eyes were hollow. “Why are you nice to me?”

Caught off-guard, it took a moment to collect your response. But you didn’t shy away from his gaze. “Because there’s something good about you, Arthur. I can tell. ...Look, I’m just a clerk at a shitty information desk. Nobody asks me nicely for help. Nobody is respectful. Everybody just...” your tone grows more frustrated now, “makes demands. And treats me like dirt. Like they’re entitled to it, just because my job doesn’t mean shit. But you’re... one of the very few who... seem like you understand. You’re kind. That’s special, here in Gotham.”

Your face felt warm. Being this vulnerable wasn’t second nature to you; it was tough to get the words out. But all of it was true. Something about this man drew you to him, and you couldn’t make yourself pull away. Not in actions, not in words.

Arthur retreated into silence again; he stared at you as you spoke, expression impossible to read. Wet eyes searched your face, as if looking for lie or deception. When you finished, after a long moment, he hung his head. Brown curls flopped. He slid his hands into the pockets of his tan jacket and made a quiet lilting noise. Somewhere between amused and disbelieving, but still with an air that in his mind, Arthur was somewhere else entirely.

It was difficult to read him, difficult to figure out what was going through his head . Something about him felt fragile, as if made of glass. Yet he wasn’t transparent, like glass was. The vulnerable walls of Arthur’s heart seemed opaque, concealing―protecting―its contents.

Finally, Arthur sniffed and turned away from you, just slightly. The lower level of the stairs beckoned him. “I should go.”

“Oh... will you be alright? Do you have... someone you can talk to?”

For a moment, it looked like he was considering; something in his expression twitched. But then he shook his head again. You didn’t know which question his shake was reply was to, but you had a feeling it was both. 

Thunder rumbled distantly outside. It was muffled through the thick concrete slabs of Arkham’s wall, but the sound remained foreboding. And it was going to rain, you suddenly remembered. The news had been predicting a furious rainstorm today all week long. The thought of letting Arthur go home, however far home may be, all alone, in that rain... You would feel horrible if you did nothing. You felt horrible already. 

An idea sparked in your head, probably an unwise one, all common sense considering. After a moment of fidgeting, you made up your mind. “Arthur, I, um. I wouldn’t normally do this―”

Stuffing the file under your arm, you dug through your pockets to find a scrap piece of paper. Nothing. Your pockets were as bare as your heart right now. You made a noise of frustration and swore under your breath. 

At least you had a pen though, tucked into the pocket of your work shirt. Arthur’s paper-thin lips were parted when he turned back, a hundred questions running through his tired eyes. 

You grabbed the pen, before gesturing to his hand. “May I?”

Confused and almost dazed, Arthur gave you his hand; you held it tenderly in your own, palm-up. Not surprisingly, his hand was freezing, almost shocking you with the frigidity. Surely the cold seeping into this stone stairwell wasn’t helping any. The weight of his hand though was solid and real against you, sturdy fingers thin and stained with nicotine―a smoker, then. 

You held the tip of the pen to his palm, not quite touching yet, before trying and failing not to sound too self-conscious as you ask, “May I write my number on you? I don’t... ah, have any paper on me.”

“...Okay,” Arthur said after a moment, watching with wide, wet eyes the careful strokes your pen made against his palm, as you gave him such a personal part of you. The pungent smell of the wet ink curled around the two of you, the only sound in the empty stairwell the soft scratching of the felt tip against dry skin.

“Um, I still have work for another few hours, but you can call me later, when I get home? Around seven.” Anxiety setting in, you continued in a ramble, “If you want to, I mean. If you need someone to talk to. Or someone to listen...? I dunno. Whatever you’d like. Forgive me, if this is too forward.”

As the final number dried, before you let go of his hand, Arthur mumbled something you couldn’t make out. 

“Pardon?”

“I don’t even know your name...” 

“Oh. Sorry,” you flushed, and gave your name to him. Arthur’s hand finally dropped from yours. It didn’t slide into his pocket again just yet, hanging at his side. Not ready to pull away from you completely.

Arthur repeated it softly, just under his breath. It sounded special, in his gentle voice, and your heart thrummed. 

“Thank you,” Arthur said. “...You’re one of the only people who’s ever been nice to me.”

He shuffled to the stairs, murmuring a quiet, bye. 

You watched him go dolefully, and a part of you went with him. “Get home safe, Arthur.”

When he didn’t respond, with a soft sigh you turned away and pushed yourself back up the stairs, back towards your window, back towards your dead end. You never saw Arthur pause on the bottom step of the next flight for just a moment and bring the hand you penned your number on up to his chest. As if grounding himself. Or making sure he was real. Arthur still doubted that you were real, either. He didn’t know anything anymore, not after reading that file. The whole world felt muffled and dull around him. 

Arthur delicately traced a finger over each number. Though mostly dry, the ink left the faintest stain on the pad of his index finger. But this was real, Arthur realized. This was real. And against his better instincts, Arthur allowed himself a small, quiet moment of hope. Maybe this kind stranger was the first good thing to happen to him. For maybe the first time in forever. 

#arthur fleck #joker 2019 #arthur fleck x reader #fanfiction #arthur fleck fanfiction #mine

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

I'm in the mood for Steve to manhandled me 😞 please give me some nice input. Do I want medivial Steve, mob Steve, cop Steve, lumberjack Steve? What Steve? Help me 😭

I'm giving you medieval Steve

Merciless

Summary: You're caught in the spoils of war.

Warnings: noncon/rape, violence/hitting, blood, death. You know what it is, mind the warnings.

Notes: this turned out much longer than intended. As usual, I would appreciate feedback, reblogs and likes. Love yall 💓.

You clamp your hand over Agnes' mouth as you lay hidden from the furor. The screams of horror and agony, pleas for death and life, and the slash of steel and flesh. She quivers, her salty tears flowing between your fingers. Your own trickle down your cheeks and patter into her orange hair.

The loft is poor protection, you know it, and to stay would be as dire as to yield yourself to the soldiers and their bloodlust. It is undoubted that they will strike flame to the barn as they have the rest of the settlement.

Tales of brutality and blood precede them but the common farmers and serfs never imagined it would strike the insignificant hamlet. The huts and the fields are too sparse to offer bounty to pillagers but it seems their desires are not uniquely material.

You shudder as Agnes gulps, the hooves growing closer and closer. You can't stay. You hear the men calling for torches.

You squeeze your hand around Agnes' lips and lean in to whisper, "be very quiet."

She nods and you cautiously peel your palms away and slowly push yourself up from beneath the straw. You mop your cheeks as fear blooms anew in your stomach, causing you to quake as you crawl towards the edge of the platform, peering down the ladder.

The orange light of flames flickers faintly around the barred doors, the night drifting in between the cracks in bitter gales. You wave Agnes closer and point her down first. She descends as you watch the door, the crack of fire eating at wood noisily without. Closer and closer.

You follow her down, the girl you've known since you were barely able to walk. She's pallid with terror, her eyes dilated in the shadows of the barn. You grab her wrist and pull her around the bales.

"Here," you point to the loose slat hidden along the rear of the structure.

"We can't go out," she hisses, "they will see us."

"It's our only chance," you whisper, "otherwise, we'll burn as easy as the hay."

"Please," she clings to you, "I'm scared, I can't."

"I am too but we must," you insist, voice quavering as you recall the desperate whimpers of your mother, "to stay is a certain death, Ag, so we go."

She sniffles as a new wave of tears overflows and she wipes them away with her wool sleeves. You carefully inch the slat aside, angling it on the loose nail so you can peek out.

The forest isn't too far, not if you run. Your heart swells as you ponder the expanse.

"Don't look back, right? I'll watch from behind and you run."

"What– aren't you coming–"

"I will be only steps behind, I will only keep an eye for any soldiers," you assure her, "you go out first and I will follow." You reach for her hand and squeeze, "don't look back."

She shudders and you can't help but do the same. You angle the board enough for her to step through and she kneels in the tall grass. You come out in quick succession and ease the plank back into place.

"Buncha old man and their forks," a soldier growls from somewhere on the other side.

"Likely sent the young ones to the church for refuge," another scoffs, "women too."

"Not all, Wilson found a pretty little thing up a tree," a third snickers.

"Oh, she got good hips?" The second japes.

"Didn't notice, cunt is a cunt," the other slithers.

You wince in disgust as Agnes looks at you in horror. You shake your head as if to say, don't listen. You press a finger to your lips then point across the field. Your gazes meet in wordless consent.

You make a fist, a signal, then open your hand. In a moment, she's sprinting through the grass with her skirts raised to her knees, the rustle and snapping of twigs marking her flight. The men's voices carry on in their nasty repartee then pause as the noise draws their ears.

You hold your breath as she bounds without a glance over her shoulder. You hear metal clinks, the friction of leather and mail as a man comes around the corner. He doesn't see you as he sights Agnes flees and he gives a smirk before leaping into pursuit. Your chest knots as you quickly follow suit.

You chase after him as you hear Agnes give a pitiful cry at the realisation of her pursuer. You can barely keep stride with the man and jump forward to grasp at him desperately before he's completely beyond your grasp.

Your fingers cling to the pommel of his sword and the back of his thick leather belt. He staggers and shouts in surprise as you throw your weight into him. He topples as you land atop him.

He's face down in the grass as you scramble to climb off him. You get one foot down, then the other, fighting for balance as you heave and look ahead as Agnes nears the treeline.

You take a step, then another, your third is caught by the man's thick gauntlet and you hit your elbows as you fall forward. You kick blindly and call to Agnes to keep running. Several other man clatter by in mail as she delves into the forest. You can only pray she loses them.

"You're a tricky one," the man grabs your other ankle and crawls up your body.

His hand snakes to the back of your neck and pinches, crushing your face into the bent grass. He's large, made heavier by his armor, as he curls his arm around your throat and forces your head up. You writh and claw at the ground as you try to squirm out from beneath him.

"Ah, you're going to be good fun, aren't you?" He snickers as he keeps his thick arm around you, hauling you up with him as he stands, bending your back painfully with the awkward rise, "let me get a good look, hm?"

He spins you, grabbing your chin as the scales of his gauntlet dig into your skin. A streak of blood crusts his hairline and continues down to his jaw, defined and trimmed on dark blond hair. He smirks as his other hand gropes through the layers of your apron and dress, "full-bodied in the least."

You try to shove his touch away and he squeezes your chin until you whimper, bracing his wrist in a silent plea for mercy. He chuckles as your eyes prick and the pain furrows in your brow.

"Please, sir," you murmur, "I am only the daughter of a reaper–"

"No doubt he's somewhere among the traitorous corpses," he snarls and yanks you closer, his hand slipping around to knead your bottom, "but he does breed good stock."

You flinch at the depths of his blue eyes, striking but sinister. His blond hair is pushed back, shiny with sweat and blood, as a single shank hangs down his forehead. He smells of battle, a gut churning stench.

His chestplate is marked with a large five-pointed star with thorny vines wrapped around its arms. It is armor due to more than the common soldier. He must be a knight.

"Oi, Rogers, caught yourself a fawn, eh?" Another man chuckles as he appears just behind your accoster.

The loud lick of flames rises behind them, rising up the boards of the barn. The orange hues tinge your eyes as your forebodding burns in the evening dim.

"She would go well with the cask we found in the farmer's cellar," the dark-haired man reaches to touch you but is stopped as the knight, Rogers they called him, releases your skirts to fend him off with a swat.

"Not for you," he growls.

"Eh, you lords, always so selfish," the other retracts his hand and scowls, "I suppose you won't need the wine anyhow."

You try to pull away, drawing his attention back to you as he jars your neck painfully. You grunt as the other man stumbles of, muttering discontently. Rogers turns his wrath on your, his hand quickly spreading across your skull, threatening to crush it.

"Let me tell you, bunny," he sneers, "you'll pray you'd burned up in that wreck," he turns you, forcing you to look at the smoke billowing from the sparking wood, "or at least hopped a little quicker."

"Why--" your hand slips down his bracer, "why are you doing this?"

"We take no mercy on treasonous rats," he snarls as he leans in, his nose pressing to your temple, "especially not their whorish daughters."

"We... we are no traitors, sir, we are commonfolk--"

"Raise not your axes and scythes for the king, but wallow in your fields," he shakes you, keeping hold of your scruff, yanking you along with his sudden march, "indifference is as good as an assault upon the crown."

You reach back as he twists the fabric of your dress tight, choking you as he drags you around the rabid heat of the burning barn. You stumble on your toes, held up by his unyielding grip

"My horse, where is my horse?" He barks out.

You hear a shrill cry and turn to see. He pulls you back meanly and throws you onto the hard ground, your knees scraping even through the wool and linen.

"Mind yourself, wench," he growls as you look up from the dirt.

"Please, don't--"

You glance over as you press your scratched palms against your skirts. Agnes struggles between two captors as they tug at her dress, the laces already loosened as her bodice droops down. You go to stand as you call out to her.

Once more, you're hauled back as Rogers catches your arm and spins you around.

"Lost cause, now," he girds, "less you want to join her."

You quiver and sniffle as you watch Agnes weep, barely able to fend off the men grabbing at her. Her helplessness compounds your own, suffocating you as tears gleams along your eyelids and spill over.

"Tears won't help you," he sneers callously as he accepts the leather reins from another man, a great white warhorse snorting at the looming fire, "up." You hesitate and he shoves you, nearly under the feed of the steed, "suppose you've no need of manners tilling the soil but you'll learn, bunny. Go on."

He doesn't wait for you to grab onto the horse, instead he takes you by the hips and lifts you, so swiftly you feel as if you'll fall over the other side. You latch onto the saddle and bring your leg around, clinging unsteadily on the sturdy beast, never sitting more than the old mule in Theo's stables.

He's swiftly up behind you, body flush to yours as he crushes you against the curve of the saddle. You can hear Agnes still as she whimpers and whines, wailing as the tear of fabric cuts through the air. You glance around frantically, trying to find her.

"Stubborn thing," he raps along the crown of your head with his knuckles, "be grateful you only have one master, she'll see a dozen by dawn."

"Please--"

"Please?" he challenges as he snaps the reigns, the sweat dripping down your chest as the heat of the burning barn permeates the night. "Please, what? Shall I take you down and pull your skirts up for those heathens? By all means, make your choice, bunny. Me or them?"

You shiver, despite the boiling gusts of the flames. You hear Agnes and other women, shrieking, crying, groaning. There are shadows limned in shades of orange and yellow, violent jerking, flailing limbs. You're dizzy with the repugnant visions all around me.

"What shall it be, bunny?"

You shake your head. You can't speak. Your mouth is dry, your throat lumped in dread. Your slump your shoulders and hang your head, sobbing in shame. You cannot protect Agnes, you're too weak, too cowardly.

Rogers snaps the reins, the horse breaking into a cantor. You sway with its motion, the world blurring behind the wall of your futile tears.

⚔️

The tall walls of the tent billow with the night winds. You stand in a haze, the soreness of the horse's gait lingers in your thighs and back. You weren't abreast long but the frantic energy of your fear recedes and leaves you wilted.

It is indeed a rich man's tent, not like the short poles of the common soldiers you passed along the outskirts of camp. There is a four-postered bed with a feather mattress and canopy, a war not waged without luxury. The oaken furniture and brocade cushions or finer than any piece found in your village, even before it was raized to cinder.

You press your hands together as his movement distracts you from grief. Several pieces of armor lay on the round trestle table, lain over a map drawn on hide. His sword leans against the side, still attached to the slack belt hanging from it.

He lifts his mail over his head, further messing his blood-streaked hair. He glances at you but says nothing. Only the glean of impatience in his eyes speaks his irritation.

You stare, witless, then look over your shoulder at the canvas flaps.

You wince as his shadow nears and you turn back to him as he snakes his arms around you, yanking loose the not of your apron. He whips it away from you and traces his fingers up your bodice, bracing the round neckline and renting the wool down the middle to reveal your linen shift.

His gruffness jerks you as he strips, ripping your dress to the hem and making short order of your shift. You hug yourself, trying to hold the fabric around you and he shoves your arms down, tugging the sleeves past your hands.

"Bed," he jabs his thumb behind him.

You swallow and shiver, rubbing your upper arm as you cover your chest and hover your other hand before your vee. You step back fearfully as you eye the mattress. He growls and grabs your elbow, dragging you away from the ruin of your clothes.

"Must I say everything twice?" He snaps and tosses you ahead of him.

You hit the bed and fall onto your stomach. You roll over, bringing your legs up to your chest and hugging them. He sighs as he pulls his tunic off and crumples it before throwing it away.

He stretches his fingers then furls them as his eyes graze over you hotly.

"You act like a virgin," he scoffs, "I've never known your ilk to be chaste."

You push yourself away from him as he nears the edge of the bed. He picks at the laces along the top of his breeches as he approaches. You dig in your heels as you awkwardly evade him.

"Not that the modesty of a peasant is worth anything," he sneers as he shoves down his breeches, revealing the thick muscle of his thighs.

You blink at the golden hair across his legs, that thickens around his turgid length, and thins against along his stomach, trailing up to and across his chest. You've seen men before as they bathe in the river, but never more than flaccid.

"Come," he reaches for you and you roll away.

You get your hands and knees beneath you, crawling towards the other edge with a squeak. His grip closes around your ankle and pulls your leg out from under you. He flips you over as he climbs onto the mattress and snarls, a low guttural noise.

"I should've known," he pulls your legs apart and moves to kneel between them. You slap at him and catches your wrists, pulling you up as your back curls tenuously, "you stop or I'll make you stop."

He threatens to crush your bones with his strength, only easing up as you still and whimper. He scoffs and pushes your hand down, sliding his fingers along yours and guiding them around his cock. You gasp as he holds you there, letting your other hand fall to the bed.

"You should be so honoured that you can get me hard, wench," he bristles as he moves your hand up and down his length, "perhaps it is that the road has made me too eager."

He pushes your shoulder down so your hand slips from him and he pins you flat to the bed. He sidles closer to you on his knees, shifting his hand to your chest and resting his weight there.

You turn your face away from him as the air rushes from your lungs. He rubs his tip along your pelvis, trailing along the creases of your thighs, as if teasing you, taunting you with what he's about to do.

You bite down as tears rise again, the thick cloud once more clogging your nose. He presses against your entrance and grabs your chin.

He forces your head up and you close your eyes. He taps along your folds and tuts as a pang radiates through your jaw. You look at him through glossy eyes, tears trickling down your temples.

"That's it, bunny," he growls, "it is improper to disregard a lord... or his will."

He pushes on you, slowly, the resistance of your body keeping him out. Still, a twinge of pain flickers in your pelvis and he pokes harder at you, stretching you around him as he grunts. He exhales and shifts his posture, dipping his hips lower.

You whine as he inches into you. The pain is immeasurable, a deep ache in the bones, the strain of flesh around his intrusion like a blade tearing through you. You grasp his forearm, reaching to touch his thigh with your fingertips.

"Ow," you whine, "please, it hurts, sir. Stop--"

You're struck suddenly, the world spinning as your head snaps to the side with the sheer fury of his slap. You hold your head as you babble cluelessly.

"You do not issue me orders, bunny," he sinks in further and your back arches as you cry out, curling your fingers in agony, wanting to claw at your own face. "That's it," he rocks back then in again, still barely inside you, "you cannot keep me out, bunny, I have never left any unconquered."

You murmur and slap your hands down on the woven blanket, fisting the fold of it as he tilts into you, each time deeper than the last. Your toes clench as he moves your thighs over his, pulling you closer as he topples the last of your resistance.

You gurgle at the stunning pain, the dizzying rattle in your head as your cheek sears from his assault. He bends over you, his rough hand covering your breast as he gropes you, rolling his thumb over your tender bud. He rocks steadily, long strokes in and out, stretching you over and over.

You grit your teeth as the tears wet spill out freely and gather in your throat. His body moves against yours, the hair along his torso tickling you as the heat and friction entwines you. His blue eyes drink in your tortured sobs, watching you as he thrusts deliberately, your squeaks and squeals goading him on.

He slides an arm beneath you as your hand spreads over the corded muscle of his chest. He impales you to his limit and you shriek. It's as if you will split in half.

He turn you over as he rolls with you, bringing you up over him as he lays on his back. You sink deeper onto him and brace his stomach as the pressure tingles down your thighs.

He chuckles at your struggle to take him from below, your body shaking violently as you mewl. He slaps your ass and squeezes the hot flesh, his other hand on your hips as he guides your motion.

You hang your head, breathless as he works you atop him, wiggling his hips and adding to the torment within. Your nails dig into the lines of his stomach as you tremble over him, tensing each time he tilts you against him. He groans and purrs as he moves you faster and faster.

"Oh, bunny," he slaps your rear again, then pinches you until you squeal, "you are such a weak thing."

You shakily cover your face in humiliation, unable to stem the flood of tears as they well over. His hand slips up your back and he pulls you down against him. He grips the back of your neck as he holds your body flush to his, stilling you as he bucks from below.

You wail as he hammers into you. All restraint is lost to his lust as his growls underline your pathetic babbling. You cling to him with nothing else to ease your pain.

He guides your hips, slamming you down onto him as he thrusts up into you. You huff and puff as your eyes roll back and the shadows swirl in your head. You can't take much more.

"Shall I gift you with a bastard, bunny?" he growls as he slows, "hm? Something to recall me by."

"Sir..." is all you can get out as his motion turns erratic.

He groans and grunts as his fists your hair and a warmth erupts inside of you. His voice falters with his pace and he quakes as he spills his seed across your walls. He shudders as he falls limp, keeping you pinned against him as he pants.

You're stuck there, not only by his will but your weakness. Defeated, defiled, you lay over him, desecrated.

"If the lord wills it, you will have it," he rasps and wiggles his hips, "but it is said that it often takes much sowing to plant a seed."

#fic #dark!fic #dark fic #marvel #mcu #au #captain america #steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #medieval au

[fatalelity]

@clawsextended said : ❛ you don’t have to be so gentle . ❜ shut up selina.

leather seat reclined, long, creamy legs straddling on either side of the cat as the velvety material of that red dress bunch up. there's no effort to undress, only impatient surgeon hands dipping beneath to caress , to lightly rake her nails along the soft flesh of her hips — while the other hand wanders along the back of her neck before slender fingers thread between golden tresses, the pads of her digits pressing firmly against selina's scalp.

selina's words comes as a surprise to her. with everything she knows, pain is a painfully perplexing ordeal to unravel. pain brings pleasure but pain also brings more pain — human beings are so fickle, so delicate, yet so reckless it confuses her. the image of her biting selina kyle the first night they touched lingered in a near troublesome way. the doctor was never nearly as feral as she had been that night. that intensity still scares her, makes her wonder if one day should she let go of that leash, snap the reins ... would she simply be too much?

she doesn't know. all she knows is how she loves the responses selina elicits when her teeth teasingly nip, graze, and playfully dig in. but then selina's words ring in her mind with urgency — her breath hitching and all she can do is bite down, it's like bloodlust. it's purely carnal, it's purely selfish but there is nothing more gratifying than seeing the ways how galaxies bloom across the pallid skin of her neck, how the nebula hues distinctly contrast her pallor.

fingers wind tighter, coiling the warm golden curls around before she tugs hard enough to tilt her head back, leaving her more space to further vandalize, further mark her for the doctor's own selfish intents.

" hm ... "

satan hums, pulling back to obtain an objective distance. she's like an artist, admiring her canvas — revelling in the ways how she mastered a technique, how well those delicate colours blend so well together.

" well, well, if only you could see how pretty you look right now, my love. "

an exaggerated rueful pout, emphasized by the slight furrow of her brows.

" if only. "

𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑬𝑵𝑶𝑹𝑴𝑰𝑻𝒀 𝑶𝑭 𝑴𝒀 𝑫𝑬𝑺𝑰𝑹𝑬 . / accepting

#clawsextended #* 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 : ic #* 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 : inbox #nsft / #this was the only thing she wanted to reply to HELP #yeah u wanna fuck in the maserati selina?? u got it!!

[justminawrites]

it was only her (first) invitation

AO3

Summary: A little one-shot exploring the aftermath of Tonny's invitation to the bonfire Party.

The circus was a strange place for Julia Lazarett.

Painful in its unfamiliarity, every unexpected sound, every unwelcome color scraping at her already withering moral compass, paper cuts bleeding her of everything she’d once known. Everything she’d once been.

Julia mouthed the word into the mirror slowly so she wouldn’t have to say it out loud: alive. She’d once been alive. The girl in the reflection stared back at her in bemusement, brown hair hastily braided, loosely at the roots and far too tight at the ends as though the braider had tried to correct their mistake halfway through.

Light bounced off the glass, into her eyes and for a second a shadow loomed over her. The same heavy breathing, writhing, glowing mass that had found her in the attic; the smell of rotting fruit as it sighed into her mouth. The same eyes that chased her out of her dreams, silently reminding her how she’d signed her life away; reminding her the hourglass hadn’t yet stopped spilling, grains of borrowed time gradually trickling to the bottom.

Julia tugged the tresses free and tried to weave them into submission again. One year left; that’s why she’d agreed to attend the party. At least, that’s what she’d admit out loud anyway. It definitely didn’t have anything to do with the way she’d been serenaded into accepting the invitation.

“I’ve left you to deal with this madness by yourself.. I’m sorry..”

Tonny had sounded so sincere in his apology that Julia was sure she’d agreed only so he wouldn’t see how close she was to dissolving into tears. He’d been the only one to acknowledge her death, her loss, her mourning, while everyone else was quite content to sweep all this dying business under the rug when they’d welcomed her into the circus.

Julia’s hand slipped and the riotous curls tumbled around her shoulders. But it wasn’t just that, was it?

“I want to be there for all of you..”

How long had it been since someone had tried to take care of her? Shame overran her cheeks and washed down her neck, watercolor against her pallid nightgown; and she feebly bunched up her hair in an effort to hide it from the girl in the mirror.

Julia had always been good at taking care of herself, she didn’t see the need for any of that to change even after her mother disappeared. Her father had been content to accept her silent steadfastness, relied on it even during the months following the absence, as the warmth seeped out of the house just as steadily as the loneliness seeped in.

She hadn’t even noticed the switch until she’d met Kamille.

A quarter of a year had passed and her father had been away on one of his military trips, and nine-year-old Julia had convinced herself she could sew a loose button on one of her mother’s old dresses.

The house had remained eerily quiet all day, holding its breath as she bought the shiny new buttons, spare silk she threaded through the needle, and inevitably pricked her index finger with the sharp silver point.

A tiny red droplet blossomed onto the cuff of the ivory gown, blooming peony, and it was as though the room had momentarily become submerged under water. Isolation rushed through the open windows and Julia found she couldn’t hold her breath fast enough to keep the waves at bay.

Her heart spasmed with panic and she became aware of a sudden, painful tightness in her chest that seemed to have been there all along, waiting for her to notice. Her empty hands had begun to shake and the dress slipped onto the wooden floors; she couldn’t remember where she’d put the needle and half-heartedly wondered if she’d swallowed it.

The waves of seclusion threatened to overwhelm her, her father was gone and Julia was alone. Alone, alone, alone. She was all alone in this world, and she was drowning in an empty house and she was drowning and drowning, and nobody would find her because she was–

“Ow!”

The waves retreated momentarily as a voice drifted through the open windows. Her neighbour’s daughter had somehow wandered into the rosebushes, and was peering into her room with the doe-like confusion of someone who’d never lived in a flooding house.

Julia had managed to get Kamille untangled from the thorns and Kamille had offered to sew on her button. The two had been inseparable ever since; and the waves had stayed away.

But lately, Julia had begun to feel them steadily lapping at her feet, in sync with the rocking of the cart-ship-vehicular-monstrosity carrying the entire circus. Cold seeping through her socks as she crawled into bed, goose-pimples on flesh, she could feel them watching, lying in wait to take her to her mother. Even Dotty had remarked on the chill in her fingers before she’d quickly snatched them back.

Julia could always feel the water. Until she couldn’t.

“I can’t let you stay alone in this room every night... I’d like you to come to the bonfire party..”

It retreated under her bed when Tonny knocked, and sulked like a child as he fidgeted by the doorframe, unwilling to rob her of modesty. It stayed away the rest of the night too, long after he’d gone, and for once Julia’s bed had been blissfully warm.

Julia put on the fuzzy pink-and-yellow vest Plip had lent her and fastened the buttons, trying to ignore the rosy hue of the girl in the mirror. It must be the vest; pink had never been colour.

She couldn’t put a finger on what had tugged at her heartstrings (as Dotty would call it), the sincerity of the apology or how nervous Tonny was giving it.

Perhaps it was the way he sensed how Julia’s fate hadn’t been her choice, maybe even related to it a little, and was bent upon allowing her as much say as he could.

Perhaps it was even something as simple as shouldering her happiness, making it his responsibility. Offering a hand to help her up; and how she couldn’t remember the last time someone had done that for her unprompted.

“I want to be there for all of you..”

“–for all of you..”

for you.

Kamille had always needed taking care of; her naiveté had led her into more trouble than Julia had been able to get them out of, but Kamille was gentle in a way Julia had never been.

Gentle, trusting, kind.. too kind. Kind enough to be swindled by a Three– by someone like Sahed!

Julia shook her head in disbelief. That’s right, she’d never be Kamille. She’d always be Killjoy Lazarett (as her classmates kindly pointed out), but for a moment she imagined taking his words at face value.

She wondered how he’d react to the contract she signed, chicken scratch on golden paper; pondered how to bring up the conditions of her release. The girl in the mirror mouthed the words because she couldn’t. “–to kill you.”

Julia felt her chest stir as she recalled the softness in his dark, dark eyes; gentle with understanding. But would he truly understand, she wondered, if she’d said she had no choice? Would he understand what it felt like to be so wary, so afraid to take a breath for fear of it just being water? 

Would he understand if she told him the needle might still be in her throat?

I have to kill you.

Tonny hadn’t tried to scold her into submission; he hadn’t growled or grumbled or berated her for her purposefully shutting herself out from everyone else (even if some of her prejudices were warranted). He’d made her feel safe, feel wanted; even Kamille acted like she hadn't wanted Julia around lately.

Out of everyone in the circus, it had to be Anthonn Gremminger, the one person she was predestined to end. Though Julia occasionally wondered whether he had the capacity for unkindness, what with the way he let himself get pushed around by everyone- even children.

I have to kill you.

The girl in the mirror looked back at her sadly, hair undone and for the first time, Julia was struck by how much she felt like a puppet. Slick golden threads descending from above to wrap around her knees, her wrists, her neck; steadily guiding her knife to the ringmaster’s throat.

No– telling him was a stupid idea.

Julia pinched the blush out of her cheeks; who knew what these crazy circus people would do to her when they found out why she was actually here? They’d probably lock her up in the basement and perform some voodoo-magic nonsense on her until she lost all her memories and Kamille.

No, there was only one way out of this. Julia would just have to do something about it herself.

She gave herself a long, hard look in the mirror: This circus was the enemy; Tonny was the enemy; but she wasn’t about to kill him.

There must be some other way to get rid of the contract, some way to break the seal. She was sure Sahed was hiding something from her - she’d need a way to break into his room later.

Yes, there was only one way.

Julia half-heartedly smiled at her reflection and tried to ignore the ominous swooshing of water in the distance.

‘It's the wind,’ she told herself as she left to attend the bonfire party, ‘A storm must be brewing.’

Right, just the wind.

_______________________________________________________________________

A/N: So I was in a deep deep writing slump but then I happened to catch up with the most recent episodes of Marionetta on Webtoon and it just {DID SOMETHING} to me man. The way Míriam does the expressions?????? *chefs kiss*

#webtoon #webtoon fic #marionetta webtoon #julia lazarrett #anthonn gremminger #julia x tonny #kamille bernaud #dotty #marionetta #ao3 #ao3 fic #marionetta kamille #miriam bonastre tur #hooky webtoon #marionetta sahed #tonyjul #tony x julia #justminawrites #tw: anxiety