#either to the body doing the task or to the outcome of the task

[butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway]

.

#you ever see a bunch of lesbians swooning over a cute butch doing manual labor #and suddenly realize that none of them have ever actually been taught how to perform that labor? #because when they excitedly pass it to you to swoon over #you are immediately confronted by the fact that the cute butch is actually pretty bad at doing the thing #like don't get me wrong total lack of capacity and needing your help to do a thing is cute #i love being asked to do things my wife can't and she's the same with me #but a person who CAN do the thing and is just....doing it in a way that causes problems #either to the body doing the task or to the outcome of the task #that's sooooo frustrating to me

[brucewaynehater101]

Hello I have an idea for Tim.

What if he got those game screens pop up whenever he's doing some side missions or quests. And after that he'll get some cool and valuable stuff like: cool weapons with superpowers that are not from his world, advantages of gaining more information than the whole hero community, etc..

The Batfam probably thought that he was doing those missions because he was bored and wanted to relieve some stress, which is kinda true but whenever he does these quests he also makes a lot of allies from across the planets and helps him through it while also being part of the "Tim protector squad".

Also the screen will always congratulate him and give him some praise, plus the screen can also help Tim by upgrading his stuff or watching him from any danger and giving him a warning to be careful. Just a guy with his screen, what could go wrong? Hahah-

But. The screen can also give him some weird quest like "protect your loved one from [Redacted]" which confuses Tim but the screen doesn't have any power only providing him so who's the one controlling the screen???

Anyway these are just silly thoughts that I want to give :333

Heck yeah! I love exploring unusual/non-typical powers.

I really really want to develop this some more, so let's set up a power!

My favorite genre of games is horror. The fighting styles, gameplay, concepts, stick layouts, and all of that can be drastically different between games [at least Tim isn't stuck with game powers where he can't fight back]. Because of that, the end goal may be impossible to reach and thus changes to a new objective.

Here is an example of where this happened with Tim:

Convince Dick Grayson to become Robin Become Robin

Tim's thoughts and feelings can affect the missions he's given. He will never be given an objective he would not do (e.g. Kill Alfred). Not completing any task (side or main) can have consequences. Main ones have drastic outcomes that he can only somewhat control if he attempts them.

Upon completion, he gets points and rewards. His rewards are anything from new skills, connections, weapons, resources, etc.

His points can be used either in the "shop" or for his skill tree (Tim desperately wishes it was a "pay to play" game so he can get more points).

The shop has weapons, elixirs (one of which is Lazarus water), one use spells, maps, information/clues, outfits with effects, armor, etc.

His skill tree has three main branches: Body, Mind, and Soul.

For Body, he can enhance any of his characteristics to the upper limits of humans: eye sight, health, stamina, strength, sense of smell, etc. His points can also lower the difficulty or time needed to learn a very specific skill (ex. spending 5 points to decrease time needed to learn how to wield a pistol).

For Mind, he can hasten his thinking speed, create defenses against multiple mental attacks (including emotional manipulation and telepathy), decrease the mental energy required per tasks, decrease time spent learning languages/information, etc.

For Soul, this includes abilities to protect himself from magical/whatever interference, increase charm, increase ability to understand/read others' emotions, etc.

If he sounds OP, worry not! Tim suffers from never having enough points (he learned the hard way that he also needs to keep an amount saved up in case he suddenly needs to buy a tool or skill to save his or someone else's life.). There's so much he can buy, but there are only so many hours to complete side missions

Tim's least favorite quest was when he was chilling alone with his Zesti and suddenly got the notification:

Run

Jason's a jerk for scaring the shit out of Tim like that at TT

#dc comics #tim drake #dc universe #thank you for the ask!!!! #dc au

[sminiac]

Piwon after an argument 👉🏾👈🏾 -Kyokopi

💌 — I’m sure it’s just bc I started my period but I’ve been so fucking sad lmao, thought now would be a good time to write a lil angst HEHE

⋆ Y. Keeho

Gen overview — He moves around your space very cautiously, slow in a way, like he’s scared of his presence being fully perceived. I feel it’s one of the very few times he isn’t tackling the problem when both of your wounds are so fresh in fear of further irritating them due to his eagerness that could come off as pushy or bitter. Forces himself to endure the silence, the lack of acknowledging each other’s presence even in close proximity, it hurts but he knows everyone processes things differently, including the timeframe of how long that’ll take.

Reconnecting — Truthfully, normally it doesn’t take very long before either of you come back with a “I’m sorry” at the ready, it’s never a you or him situation, in fact a lot of the time it doesn’t matter, the most essential part is communicating, which also consists of a lot of tears- but there’s something so sweet about being able to let go like that with someone else, sharing another one of your most vulnerable moments with each other, gaining an understanding of how his brain works in a way no one else can.

Remainder of members under the cut!

⋆ C. Taeyang

Gen overview — Forces himself to apologize first because he knows if he doesn’t, it’ll just never come. Puts his struggles to the side for you but that doesn’t mean it’s easy, he goes through with it though, and although the process is sore and sometimes difficult the outcome is always worth it. He’s good with noting his own faults and the crowding of his ego that he has to overcome, it’s just the daunting task of reconciling, what if it isn’t so easy? What if you won’t accept his explanation? Would another disagreement arise? Learns that a simple ‘I’m sorry’ with a genuine sense of humility is worth a lot more than he thought it would have.

Reconnecting — This is where Theo’s feelings really show, fighting can be exhausting, and you can tell by the look on his face- even his body language, that he’s really drained and sad now that there’s no other emotions left to cloud over. The most he asks is just allow him to be by your side. Showers or baths together are usually taken after. You don’t need to shower him in gifts or written letters conveying your regret, but you can wash his hair for him, massage his arms and back the way he likes while he hugs you under the comforting stream of hot water.

⋆ C. Jiung

Gen overview — The quickest to feeling irritated if he deems your behaviour as ‘excessive’, but don’t let that intimidate you, he gradually comes to his senses, just give it a minute or two for the bad feelings to settle down. Opposed to Keeho, Jiung isn’t so quick to feel the need to apologize or talk it out, he puts himself at quite the distance, buries his head in work to keep him distracted from the guilt, or the fear of having over done it this time. Coming back to each other is always the most fragile part, the culmination of all the hurtful moments make for quite the emotional reconnection. Apologies are always mutual, you dissect things with each other.

Reconnecting — Jiung’s typically more on the serious side, but after seeing you so upset it’s like a need to allow his silly side to slip. Puts away any distractions and focuses all of his attention on you! Do you wanna go get a drink? He doesn’t want you dehydrated after all those tears. Crying makes you tired, do you want to take a nap? Crying makes you hungry, do you want to go grab some food? He’ll pay, anything you want. Crying makes your nose stuffy, what about a walk outside?

⋆ H. Intak

Gen overview — Feels his emotions very deeply, they almost overtake his entire being, when he’s frustrated there’s not really a filter there to keep his mouth from running away which splits the two of you off, if you’re reactive he’s like gasoline to your fire. It doesn’t happen often, arguing or the spitefulness, he’s normally good with managing his emotions in a healthy way, so he’s extremely regretful when it gets out of hand and the both of you are upset with the other. Exudes penitence to the fullest extent when he’s coming to you with a tearful apology, holds you, just wants to hold you. The feeling of someone crying while being close to them always makes me emotional, it’s just such a deep, inexplicable connection, and that’s exactly how it is with him.

Reconnecting — Very physical and vocal after you’ve both settled. Intak will remain as close to you as possible without actually touching you, scared that his clinginess will be too much until you’re the one initiating it, and every few minutes he’ll try talk to you about anything that interests you, because if you’re talking then surely you’re okay. He’s so puppy, asking: “That new bubble tea place you’ve been talking about is opened, do you want to go soon?” “What happened to that shirt you’ve been looking for? Did you find it? Should we go get you a new one instead?” “We should go to an aquarium, you can dress all pretty so I can take pictures.”

⋆ H. Shota

Gen overview — Learning how to be supportive and respectful of each other’s functions is definitely a process, but it makes you all the more closer with Soul. Not being familiar with these intricacies prior to your arrival in his life means that he does struggle with admitting his own feelings. Soul tends to catch the wavelength of your discontent quickly and immediately molds himself to fulfill whatever your needs are, in doing so he unintentionally disregards his own. He’s at your every word, but he also needs someone who will be there for him just as willingly. Apologizing is easy, he’s quick to admit his mistakes and really takes the time to understand you even if he didn’t to begin with, but he is a little hesitant when asking something of you, all he needs is a little encouragement and reassurance that he deserves just the same treatment.

Reconnecting — Things transition back to normal very smoothly, the both of you silently agree to do your best to end the day off on a good note, which doesn’t take a lot, and by the time you’re in each others arms on the verge of falling asleep it’s like nothing ever happened. Soul’s just very.. you can never outright tell what he’s thinking or what he’s about to do, so even as you’re talking it out in the end, your argument is settled once he says or does something silly because once the both of you are laughing there’s no way the seriousness of the situation could be dragged on for any longer. He’ll kiss you with a big pretty smile, adding on a final “I’m sorry stinky”.

⋆ K. Jongseob

Gen overview — He hates nothing more than the tense atmosphere that post arguments have, and the thing that gets to him the most is not being able to approach you like nothing happened. He knows your feelings are hurt. His are too, but god does he ever miss feeling you curled into him, giggling with each other about stupid things no one else would understand. The silence and ignoring each other only ever lingers for so long, usually he breaks it by pulling you into him when you least expect it, quickly subjecting you to his kisses and a near constant reiteration of how sorry he is for being mean. He snaps out of things quite fast, because he can’t bear the thought of your day going sour because of him, so he does his best to make up for it.

Reconnecting — Immediately tells you how silly he thinks it is to be so upset like this in an attempt to wipe away any negative feelings that were left behind, because he wants to be with you until not even the existence of your souls can live on, why dwell on something so trivial? Why feed into it any more than you have to? Seob likes keeping you busy after, is it odd that he suddenly wants to build things together in your Minecraft world? Maybe a little, but it’s hard to say no when he’s suggesting you make a day out of it with snacks and cuddling included.

ᰔ sminiac’s P1Harmony M.list

Update, after listening to my Laufey playlist and writing Seob’s ‘reconnecting’ bit I’m not as sad, just hungry.

ANOTHER UPDATE I ATE AND NOW I FEEL NAUSEOUS ???? I CANNOT WIN.

#kyokopi <3 #p1harmony imagines #p1harmony x reader #yoon keeho x reader #yoon keeho imagines #p1h keeho x reader #choi taeyang x reader #choi taeyang imagines #p1h theo x reader #choi jiung x reader #choi jiung imagines #p1h jiung x reader #hwang intak x reader #hwang intak imagines #p1h intak x reader #haku shota x reader #haku shota imagines #p1h soul x reader #p1h soul imagines #kim jongseob x reader #kim jongseob imagines #p1h jongseob x reader #piwon imagines #piwon x reader

[bearhugsandshrugs]

A Job Well Done – Gortash x gn!Reader

The giveaway fill for the lovely @snapo-wan! Thank you for the great prompt and I hope you'll enjoy this.

Read on AO3 | Explicit | Blowjobs, Deepthroating, Praise Kink afab but gn Reader

You're Gortash's scribe, and one of his favorites. After a particularly successful day, the Archduke decides to reward you. But he has something very specific in mind. So specific, that he decides to praise you through it...

It is late when you are hurrying through Wyrm’s Rock Fortress, on your way to Lord Gortash’s office. He gave you another project just last night, “With utmost importance” he declared, and as usual, you’d been diligent and efficient in gathering the required information he asked for. 

After several months of service, you already know that he prefers to have any type of mission outcome be delivered to him immediately, no matter the time of day. When you first started working for him there had been an instance where you had waited with the report until after breakfast, even though you’d had all intel available hours earlier, and when Gortash figured out that you’d waited for him to wake and eat, he lectured you in front of the entire staff, your head burning with embarrassment and frustration long after. 

So. You won’t make the same mistake twice. 

Knocking at his door, you wait for the familiar “Come in” from the Archduke before you enter, quickly tucking a strand of hair behind your ear to look not quite as messy and exhausted as you feel. 

“Ah”, he greets you when he glances up at you from his desk, “my favorite scribe.”

You can’t help but smile at the compliment – Gortash has been using more and more favorable words towards you over the past tendays, sending a small blush to your cheeks each time. 

“I have the information you asked for on Duke Portyr, Lord Gortash”, you say without formalities, quickly making your way over to his desk to hand him the report. You know he likes it that way, a professional familiarity. Both of you know what you are here for, after all. 

“Marvelous”, he replies, a genuine sense of excitement on his lips. “Do wait while I read it, will you? I might have another task for you.”

This isn’t unusual either. He often asks you to stay while he follows up on the documents you provide, immediately tasking you with something new afterwards. Over the many times this has happened before, you have come to appreciate the way his eyes settle on the pages, stern and focused. The way he licks his lips whenever something particularly interesting makes itself known. The way the corners of his mouth twitch up as he plots his next moves. If you’re being honest, watching him work is the best part of your job.

"Great work”, he mumbles when he finishes the last page, nodding. “Thank you.” 

Tearing his gaze away from his work he looks up at you, taking you in without another word. His eyes fall over your body, slowly, intently, as if he’s seeing you for the first time. There’s a bit of tension building as he continues to stare, wetting his lips absentmindedly as he seems to consider his next steps. 

Standing there in the middle of the room, being so shamelessly examined, you suddenly feel rather warm. Your face burns and your hands get sweaty, nervously expecting Gortash’s instructions. But he doesn’t tell you what’s next quite yet – instead, he stands up from behind his desk, sighing softly, satisfied.

“Say”, he addresses you head on and walks over to where you stand. “How do you feel about a promotion?”

Oh. Now this, you like. You’ve been working your ass off trying to make your way up the ranks, and you try to suppress the most blatant of grins as you gather the words for your answer. 

“That sounds great, my lord.”

He smirks at the address, eyes sparkling with something intense. A tease? A challenge? You’re not quite sure, but it’s exhilarating. 

“Then you shall have it”, he chuckles, and it’s the first time you hear him so relaxed. It’s so unlike him and absolutely in character all the same, and the deep sound of his amusement stirs something in your core. “Congratulations, dear.”

The last word drags out of his mouth almost obscenely, and you’re briefly confused, wondering if there is something else hidden underneath it all.

“Thank you”, you smile, taking a short bow like you’ve seen other, more senior members of his staff do. “I will not disappoint you, my lord.” 

“I have no doubts about that”, he smirks, stepping even closer to where you stand. He’s all in your personal space now, and you smell his perfume, smell the light scent of cigarettes, smell him, as he looks at you. “Now, for your reward.”

Reward? What else could he give you? He already promoted you, after all. 

“Have you ever tried Absinthe?”, Gortash asks, pushing past you to his side table. Pouring a dark green drink into two glasses, he continues: “It’s one of the rarest – and one of the strongest – liquors in Toril. I find it makes one more agreeable to life’s pleasures.”

You take the glass from him, clink it against his, then down the drink in one go: It’s sharp and hot against your throat, and you can immediately tell what he meant about Absinthe being one of the strongest drinks, the aftertaste reminding you of licorice. A small cloud of dizziness envelopes your mind, nearly as if you’ve had four, instead of one glasses.

“Life’s pleasures?”, you ask after a brief pause, picking up on his comment a tiny bit too late as the alcohol burns through your chest down to your stomach. 

Gortash chuckles, the entire sound a tease. “Yes, dear. You’ve been working so hard. I think it’s time you get to enjoy yourself a little.”

Oh? You’re surprised, but not unpleasantly so. Spending time with the Archduke has been a wish of yours for a while, and your heartbeat picks up as you realize that this is likely what’s going to happen. 

But Gortash pulls you back to reality as his deep voice echoes a command through the room: “On your knees then.”

Confused, you look at the empty glass in your hand, the floor, then back at him, but he eyes you sternly, slowly raising an eyebrow as you don’t comply. 

“Don’t make me repeat myself”, he whispers, and the tone is low and dangerous. 

You quickly set the glass down on his desk before kneeling down in the middle of the room. Banites had weird rituals. Lots of secrecy. Maybe this was all part of the promotion?

Gortash leisurely steps up to you and cups your face with his palm, gently pulling your chin up so you look at him. 

“Yes. Well done. I shall forgive that little display of hesitation, but I’d appreciate it if it would not happen again. Understood?”

You nod, quickly, eager to please. “Of course, my lord.”

The way he looks at you is different from all the times before. You briefly wonder what he wants you to do – but the intention becomes clear as his hands find his belt, undoing his buckle and then his pants, letting them drop to the floor. Your mouth falls open in surprise.

His hand wraps around his cock, half-hard already, and he sighs as he gives himself a few tentative strokes. You’re impressed by his girth, eyes locked onto the way he drags the foreskin back again and again, getting himself hard within a short moment. 

“I–” The words don’t find you, but you feel heat pooling down between your legs. To say you’re not turned on would be a lie. 

“Look at me”, Gortash instructs, and you look up to see him wet his lips in anticipation. “You’ve been so efficient, so reliable. Show me how good you can be with this”, he looks down to his cock, then back at you, “and I’ll make sure you’re rewarded.” 

Swallowing, you briefly consider if this is a test, but you don’t understand what it could be testing besides obedience. Plus, the way his cock stands hard at eye-level while you’re on your knees is so inviting…

You lean forward and Gortash, understanding that you’re ready to start, steps closer to you, letting his hand fall to the side. Bringing your lips to his tip and your hand to his shaft, you guide him into your mouth then let him drag back out. He feels heavy and warm inside your mouth, his skin smooth, and you massage him with your hand, adding a tighter pressure that your lips can’t match. Repeating the motion a few times until you taste the salty blend of precum on your tongue, you’re really starting to enjoy the way he’s hard for you, at your mercy, at your service .

“Good”, he sighs, and his hands find the top of your head as he starts guiding you, thrusting into your mouth with increasing need. “That’s it, dear.”

A soft whimper escapes your throat at the praise, and his cock twitches against the inside of your cheek in response. As he picks up the pace, holding you in place, you find yourself lost as to what to do with your hands – so you run them up against his thighs. He will likely enjoy that, won’t he?

But to your surprise, Gortash slows down instead. 

“Why don’t you put those hands to good use elsewhere?”, he chuckles, languidly moving in and out of your mouth. 

You sigh an unspoken question in response, not really sure what he could mean, but he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, freeing your eyes so that you can see him. 

“Look at me”, he demands, and when you look up, straining with his cock still inside of you, he smiles. “You’re so good for me”, he praises, “can you be good for yourself, too?”

Oh. Oh. 

Humming in agreement you direct your gaze down, trying to help you find the buttons of your shirt and the buckle of your belt. As you free yourself from your clothes, his movements slow down, and you don’t have to see his face to know that he is watching you intently. 

Tentatively stroking yourself between your legs, you moan involuntarily at the sensation. You had been so focused on him, on servicing him, that your own arousal eluded you until now. But the way your finger circles your clit feels good, and it adds to the lust you feel at his full girth pushing through your parted lips again and again. 

Gortash groans at the sight of you pleasuring yourself, and his hips bump against you with greed, pushing his cock to the back of your throat. Your gag reflex kicks in, briefly, and he pauses as you fight it. He caught you by surprise – you’re annoyed at yourself, you’re usually so good at this– 

“Let's try that again”, he suggests, voice so low and mellow it sends even more heat to pool between your legs. “Relax.”

You take a deep breath and relax the back of your throat as he pushes back in, deeper, and this time, it works. 

“Such a lovely mouth”, he sighs, and you feel his tip brush against the back of your throat. “Can you take more?” 

You groan around his cock in agreement, temporarily torn between readying yourself for him and touching yourself, and you notice in passing that you’re steadily climbing towards the edge of a cliff you never thought you’d face when you walked into his office earlier today. 

Gortash curses quietly under his breath as he bottoms in your throat, and you take slow, steady breaths through your nose as his cock glides back out of your mouth. Saliva drools down your chin, onto your breasts, and his hands tighten in your hair at the sight of it. 

“Fuck”, he pants, continuing to fuck you, “you’re taking it so well, you’re beautiful, spit running down your chest, you’re–”

He moans as your tongue brushes along the underside of his shaft, interrupting his praise. You feel so hot, and you know you won’t last long this way, so you pause, stopping your own tease, just for a moment. 

“Keep going, dear”, he begs, “use those clever fingers on yourself, show me how good you can be for yourself.” 

His voice is breaking as he instructs you, and you can tell by the way his hips move jerkily and irregularly that he’s close as well. 

When you reach back down between your legs, you whimper at your own touch. A few swift strokes, a couple of circles–

Moaning around his cock you tip over the edge, coming undone so forcefully he has to hold you by your head. Your voice vibrates around him, and he groans so loudly that it startles you, just as he twitches inside of you, spurting his cum deep down your throat.

When he pulls out of you, both of you are breathing heavily, sweat rolling down your foreheads and the back of your necks. 

Gortash reaches down to cup your cheek, brushing a thumb over your lips. “Great work, dearest”, he sighs, and this time around his praise is filled with appreciation. 

“Th-Thank you”, you reply, voice still hoarse, but you mean it. This has been rewarding in more than one way. 

He chuckles and helps you up, then refills your glasses as you fix yourself. “Here”, he says, offering you your glass back, “Do consider staying a little while longer.”

#enver gortash #gortash x reader #gortash x oc #bg3 smut #my writing #reader is afab #forgot to add

[mothwingwritings]

WOW!!! I LOVED "The Innocent Act Of Dredging Up The Past", IT WAS VERY GOOD!

I wonder how Y/N reacted when she found out she was pregnant and how Fox allowed herself to keep the baby because he doesn't seem like someone who likes sharing attention.

Thank you so much darling!!! I am so glad you asked me this because I have been thinking about Ren as a father nonstop since that request. My brain has been full of many thoughts and opinions and I am happy to have an outlet for sharing lol. That being said, forgive my blathering. ^^;

(18+ and warnings for noncon, pregancy/baby birthing talk, incredibly unhealthy relationships, abuse, and being kidnapped/held against your will.)

Being impregnated by Ren would be absolutely dreadful for you, causing you to spiral into a pit of fear and despair the moment you miss a period or begin to feel queasy in the morning. With the signs starting to show, your brain comes to the instant conclusion that you are with child-his child, and it frightens you like nothing else before. At first you try and convince yourself nothing is wrong, that you are probably just late due to stress, and your upset stomach can be any number of things, it doesn’t necessarily mean you are pregnant. Any of your symptoms can be explained away by something else, so in an effort to try and maintain your sanity your brain churns out explanation after explanation, no matter how nonsensical they may be, in hopes of calming your rampant nerves by coming to some other resolution. A stream of constant lies and false reassurances play on repeat in your brain, forcing the thought that you may actually be a mother to the farthest reaches of your mind.

But the longer you wait and the more you dwell on it, the more you are faced with the inevitable. He never wears protection, you haven’t had access to birth control, and despite your warnings of it being a delicate time of month for you, his base instincts always won out in the end. There was nothing else this could be.

Faced with the reality of the situation, you were now tasked with the burden of sharing the news with Ren. You didn’t want to tell him, terrified of what his response would be, worried that he would somehow blame this all on you and hurt you because of it, quite possibly worse than he ever has before. But an even more horrifying concern than that is if the news actually pleases him. What if he wants to keep the baby? What if you were forced to carry this pregnancy to term while trapped in this grim environment, left to raise another human that shares half their dna with a man who has done nothing but cause you irrevocable damage?

No matter what the outcome, none of them are favorable.

But you didn’t have a choice, and you knew it was better to break it to Ren sooner rather than later, lest this whole nightmare become irreversible. In the event he saw things your way, you wanted this thing out of your body as soon as possible (though you loathed to consider what strings Ren would pull to achieve this, and what backwater procedure would be done to do so).

At first Ren brushes it off, not truly believing your concern. He’s had sex with you countless times without protection and just now you get pregnant? Seems suspicious, so he concludes you’re either overreacting or trying to get a rise out of him, potentially both, and that in and of itself riles him up. Are you telling him this as some kind of ploy? Are you using a false pregnancy as a means to get him to ease up on you a bit or as an attempt at escape? After all you had gone through together, after all the love he has lavished upon you by sharing his home, his life, his heart, with you… Would you really tell a lie like this?

He struggles with that possibility. Despite his inclination to feel otherwise, he has a hard time believing you would use a pregnancy scare for your own selfish benefit. You have always been a good girl, his good girl, and deep inside he knows this is not something that is within your nature to do, even if he does have some major doubts.

So, though he doesn’t truly believe your claims, he buys the pregnancy test more as a means to shut you up and prove a point than because he actually believes you. Needless to say, he ends up biting his tongue over that one.

When hit with the truth, his emotions are mixed. On one hand, he wants nothing to do with children or child rearing. He didn’t have to do much of a self-assessment to recognize he would be a shit father, and he never particularly wanted to be a father to begin with. His own upbringing wasn’t the best, he himself never really having a father figure that was worth a damn to guide him or show him any love or support. He had no parenting manual to go off of, and was sure that a culmination of having no positive family experience and maturing into the warped individual he had become led to no other conclusion than NOT being cut out for fatherhood in the slightest.

More than that however, the thought of sharing you, even with a life he helped create, really REALLY pissed him off. Thinking of all the nights you would be spending tending to the baby when you could instead be wrapped up in his arms, or all the attention and affection you will be giving some inept kid that could instead be going towards him, truly gets under his skin. He doesn’t WANT to share you. You’re HIS. And while a baby isn’t going to change that, he doesn’t want the needless competition to begin with.

But on the other hand, having a baby does have its appeal. It would be nice to bring a life into this world that loves him from the get-go, completely relying on him while being totally oblivious to all that has happened in the past. That sort of pure, blind love is hard to come by in this world, and the fact that he could obtain it so easily from a life he created with you, a human that has your blood running through its veins, is EXTREMELY appealing. And on top of that, you are sure to love the child whether its conception was wanted/planned or not. If you loved a child that was half his for the remainder of your life, would that not bind you to him for just as long? Though he didn’t doubt your loyalty (or his ability to keep you tied to him with no hope of escape), it would be a nice assurance to have in the rare event things did not end up going his way.

Once that thought enters his head, it’s over. No further thinking or future planning is required-he is going to be a father, and YOU are the beautiful mama! Congratulations! (Does he get off to you being pregnant? Did this pregnancy make Ren Hana realize he has a breeding kink??? Sources say yes and that’s your problem to deal with now. :))

♡

Holding his newborn for the first time, he has never been so nervous. Tears flood his eyes as he watches the small bundle squirming in his arms, his heart aching as they stare up at him with wide, pure, inquisitive eyes. He was no stranger to ending lives, but creating them? This was something entirely new, as exhilarating as it was scary. His smile grew as he stared at her small face, pleased that she looked so much like you. He could only hope that her personality would mirror yours as well.

♡

As time passes and the baby grows, you find out quick that Ren has a very ‘hands off’ way of parenting, which is to say he relies on you to do most of the work. And honestly, he feels that is fair. He’s the breadwinner who works hard to provide for you and the newborn, which leaves all other parental duties in your capable hands. You are left to be the child’s main caregiver, their guiding force to lead them through life, their teacher, confidante, and friend. It’s a daunting task, all residing solely on your shoulders.

Ren won’t readily admit it, but he much prefers it that way. All the abuse that he has suffered through from an early age, every heinous act of violence that has been carried out by his own hands (your wounds, included), all of it has turned him into something unrecognizable, something grotesque. Even if he wanted to have more of a presence in his child’s life, he knows he doesn’t deserve it. If he had too much sway in the kids development there’s a good chance they will grow up to be like him in some way or another, which would be a waste of all the love and hard work that you had put into raising them into being an upstanding person. Ren had made peace with who he had become, but that didn’t mean he wanted to keep a cycle that someone like Strade had begun going either.

So, the baby more or less becomes your soul responsibility, and god is that a burden for you. It’s bad enough that you have such little support from Ren to begin with, but the fact that this is YOUR first time being a parent as well makes it all so much worse. You have no idea what the hell you are doing, and with Ren making sure to keep you as isolated as possible you had no one else to turn to for help, either. It was just you and this brand new life with no one else to rely on, if you fucked up in even the smallest way it could be devastating to the baby. If your daughter got truly hurt, sick, or worse in your care, you didn’t know how you would live with the repercussions, let alone handle Ren’s reaction.

If your life with Ren hadn’t already made you a strung out, nervous, irritable wreck, being a mother certainly would. As she continues to grow, Ren refuses to discipline the child at all, not wanting in any way to appear like a ‘bad guy’ to your daughter. Given the circumstances, part of you is thankful for that (you honestly don’t know what you would do if he turned his ire towards her), but it also just makes things more difficult with you. You are already beyond stressed about trying to raise a child in this type of environment, having no united front and constantly butting heads makes raising her that much harder, especially when any kind of rule you attempt to establish can so easily be overridden by her father who has no remorse over the frustration this causes, nor care as to how his flippancy may affect your child’s development in the long run.

It’s also not lost on you that being the sole disciplinarian also paints you in a less than favorable manner in your child’s eyes, something you are sure Ren has thought about as well. Being the ‘strict’ parent means your child will be more likely to hide things from you, or seek out her father instead of you for support, approval, and advice. Given whom Ren was as a person, this thought didn’t sit particularly well with you.

All you can really hope and pray for is that somehow despite the lack of social interaction and outside influence she will grow up to be a decent human. Even maturing under the delusion that her father is a noble man, even if in some instances you have to make yourself the villain, as long as it helps her out in  the long run you’ll do everything you can to insure your daughter lives the best life she possibly can, whether her father helps you or not.

I think the REAL problems will begin when the child gets older. When she truly comes into herself and forms her own opinions, develops her own personality, and starts to forge her own way of life… It’s gonna be messy. :/ Your child’s autonomy is definitely going to be a point of contention for Ren in the future, and he won’t be so pleased if/when she catches on to his true nature and begins to rebel or straight up reject him. God forbid she tries and join forces with you or attempt to become your savior. It’s going to take a lot of cunning on her end to make it out unscathed.

Also, I kind of touched on it previously, but Ren would be incredibly horny the whole pregnancy. Not that he isn’t already incessantly slavering over you, something about seeing you round and full just makes him snap. Which is scary in its own right, Ren isn’t the most gentle of lovers to begin with and has a tendency to lose himself more often than naught, hurting you in the process. It’s a constant struggle to satiate him while protecting yourself and the unborn baby, best of luck to you! :D

(And he’ll definitely breastfeed from you. He’s gotta make sure you are producing enough for the baby, ya know? :))

#overall I think he would really grow to love the fun and cute aspects of fatherhood #but all the hard and gross stuff hes like OK I am out moms turn fuck this #and he would be fixated on making himself out to be the coolest dad ever. He yearns for it. His kid HAS to think hes awesome in every way. #If his child makes fun of him he will cry and think about it for the rest of his life. #it will be 3am 8 years later and he will randomly mention the time they laughed at him to you while lying in bed together and you are like #why do you even remember this? lul #anyway THANK YOU FOR THE ASK I HOPE YOU ENJOYED!!! #ren hana x reader #ren hana headcanon #ren hana x y/n #ren btd x reader #ren btd x y/n #fox tpof x reader #fox tpof x y/n #fox tpof headcanon #mothresponse #mothwingswritings

[skinnyazn]

I Will Not Ask and Neither Should You

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader (Jaguar) Chapters: 1/3 Notes: inspired by Hozier's Like Real People Do, this is unlocking a big chunk of Jag LORE (based off of her dossier I made), also Simon's backstory, there may be smut there may not be we shall see where the fic takes it, it's gonna be angstyyyy,

Part Two | Part Three | AO3 | MASTERLIST Why were you digging? / What did you bury Before those hands pulled me / From the earth? I will not ask you where you came from / I will not ask and neither should you

___

“Ya ‘eard from her?”  

“No, Simon,” there was a pause on the other side of the phone line. A flick of flint and a few inhales. “Think I’d be the first to know anyway?”

Simon wandered the sparse room like his namesake. The cracked curtains let in a dull, yellow light from the streetlights outside. It was raining again, as it does in Leeds in November.

“Supposed to be enjoying time off, not working holes in the carpet,” a longer inhale this time.

“They’re hardwood.” and Price chuckled on the other side. “‘Something I have to do.’” Simon read aloud your note again, not caring that his captain heard him. The paper was warped slightly from the warmth of his hand.

It was the only thing you’d left, when you left, two nights ago. He’d woken to an empty bed and an emptier room. The flat was Simon’s—a simple place to crash when he was on leave between missions. He never bothered to decorate since he was rarely there. Just kept the minimal furnishings that came with the gaff. But somehow you and your black duffel and your warm body had turned it into a place he wanted to stay.

“Have you even called her?”

Simon stilled in front of the window.

“Christ, Simon,” was all Price could manage, then a long exhale.

“If she wanted me to know about it she would have said something by now.” Simon stared out the sliver of window at nothing in particular; the beads of rain created a bokeh effect against the glass. "Think she’ll be back?”

“Dunno with that one,” and it was honesty. “Tends to not stick around.”

“She’s stuck this long.”

“Yeah?”

There was a lingering silence as Ghost set the note down next to his skull mask on the nightstand. The mattress sunk under the weight of him. 

Price sighed on the other end of the phone. “People like her—like you—like their autonomy.”

Ghost let out a sharp exhale. “And yet ‘ere I am, still runnin’ headlong into shit missions with you.”

“Aye,” the other man chuckled. “You’re more desperate than she is, though.” There was a long drag of his cigar. “Needed somewhere to hone all that hate.”

Simon only grunted in response.

“It’s late, Simon. Sleep. You can figure out if you want to call her in the morning.”

“Sure.” There were a few breathes before, “Thanks, John.”

“Anytime.”

Laying down on the bed, Ghost stared at the dial-pad, contemplating what to do next. The archaic phone dimly illuminated his chest and face in the dark.

Missions were so easy—straightforward. Infiltrate and navigate all the unknowns until you reach the best outcome. But life outside of the task force was a muddle of grey. Simon never did fully figure you out; never fully made peace with himself either. He shut the phone and turned on his side, willing futilely for a sleep that would not come.

___

if you'd like to be (un)tagged for updates let me know! @deadbranch @solidly-indulgent @aalxrose @dotcie

#my fic #my fics #my writing #Simon ghost riley #Simon ghost Riley x reader #Simon ghost Riley x f!reader #cod ghost #cod fic #mw2 fic #ghost #ghost mw2 #oc #ghost x female reader #ghost x you #ghost x reader #ghost x jaguar #cod mwii #simon ghost Riley x you

[tonkatsubowl]

separation anxiety.

▼ caelus x fem!reader

▼ nsfw themes. mdni.

your separation anxiety starts to make you panic while caelus was out on a mission.

caelus was well known to be handling tasks at the station, as well as throughout the cosmos. during your guys' relationship, you often accompanied him on missions, like jarilo iv, xianzhou luofu, and now... penacony. but one night, caelus had a mission he had to urgently be present for. you were half asleep when he woke you up to notify you that he would be gone for the rest of the morning until he had returned.

so, you went back to sleep, hoping that by the time you woke up, caelus was already on his way back... or even better, he was home.

but it was past noon.

you were known to have a form of separation anxiety whenever he was gone, and he always did his best to stay around or inform you he had to leave soon for a mission. and you trusted him—for you always had his location and he texted you whenever he could.

but for some reason... he hasn't texted you all morning, and it was already three in the afternoon, and he hasn't responded to you. you sent a few texts to him here and there, to which he didn't respond.

so, you began to worry.

himeko had stayed behind while welt and the others accompanied caelus on this mission. you decided to approach himeko for some sort of reassurance... but to your dismay, she goes,

"i'm not sure why they're taking so long either. i'm not getting any response from welt."

so, you began to panic. but you nodded in understanding, giving himeko the false illusion that you were okay.

"i wouldn't worry too much about it. i'm sure they will return soon."

you went back to you and caelus' room, but you were panicking now. you began to blow up his phone, asking if he was okay, if he was hurt, if he was coming home soon. but everything was hitting you all at once. your body began to shake, your vision began to blur, and you began to hyperventilate.

is he dead? what happened? why hasn't he been responding? did the planet blow up?

all these possibilities of the worst outcome ever began to flood your mind as you began to sob quietly. you paced around the room, but your legs gave up, trembling like a cold pup, and you felt yourself fall to the floor. you breathed, trying to stabilize yourself as you attempted to get up, only to fall.

you were panicking. and you couldn't calm down.

it was like your world went dark, and you were desperate to see the light. you were losing feelings in your body and you felt like you were going to die at this rate.

but unbeknownst to your episode, warm arms immediately wrap themselves around you. your eyes wide, familiarized by the sensation of these limbs. your body didn't calm down, yet, but your mind had realized who it was.

"caelus-?"

you sobbed quietly as the male pulled your trembling figure close. he breathed, unhurt as you can see, and he buried his face into the back of your neck.

"sorry i'm late. i knew this was going to happen. we were in an area with no reception and we were lost." caelus explained, before scooping your figure up before wandering towards the bed you both shared. "i'm sorry, (y/n). are you feeling alright? i should've brought you with me, but you were too exhausted."

"n-no... don't apologize. i'm.. okay now." your voice slurred as your visage tingled. panic attacks tend to paralyze your skin and body movements, numbing everything for you. you couldn't even feel your face. but you could feel the warmth that radiated from the stellaron-infused man.

"do you want me to grab you anything for you to eat or drink?" caelus asked in a soft whisper.

"...in a bit. i want you to be with me."

caelus formed a soft smile across his lips as he sat on top of the mattress, watching as your body began to calm itself.

"you don't need to ask me to do that. i'll always be here for you."

you faintly smile, before slowly and weakly brushing yourself against his side, where he began to gently move your hair out of your face.

"did you sleep well, at least?" he asked.

you nodded, "i did, but it would've been better if you were here."

caelus smiled, "sorry. listen, i even got stuck in a trash can. i dropped my phone in there by accident and it turned out to be a cosmic entity... so it took me a bit to grab it back."

"... what's with you and trash cans?"

#honkai star rail #hsr #hsr x reader #hsr caelus #hsr caelus x reader

[allexthakatt]

Hi there!

I would like to request something with angst/fluff with Derek Morgan! He does not have enough fics.

Have a nice day:)

Heyooo! Thank you so much for this request! You didn't specify whether you wanted it fem! Or male! So I'm gonna just stick with gender neutral! I hope that's okay!!

PAIRING- Derek Morgan x FEM! Reader

CW- None really, just mostly fluff and some mutual pining. Lots of self doubt from reader tho, does that count?

Mixed Signals

"Reid, Prentiss, I want you both to go to the coroner's office. JJ, go with Dave to the police station. Y/n, you and Morgan go look at the crime scene, see if there was anything we missed. I need to see the Mayor about his ties to the victims. We'll all meet back here."

Hotch's authoritarian voice ordering the team to their respective tasks. You look over at your partner, already with a smirk on his face.

"Looks like it's me and you sweetheart. You ready?"

With a nod, you both get in the SUV, you preparing yourself for what you'll be exposed to in the next 20 minutes. It's one thing to see it in photos in your binder, but to see right in front of you can always be a bit unnerving. No matter how long you've been doing this job, you never really get used to the dead bodies you see almost daily. Especially the more brutal murders.

"You okay?"

Morgan's voice pulls you out of your thoughts, nodding your head in response.

"Oh yeah. You know me, just gonna prepare the ol' noggin before we see some fucked up shit, ya know?"

He nods in agreement, keeping a mental note to check in on you periodically.

Yours and Morgan's friendship is a weird one. There's always been this lingering tension in the air when it's just the two of you. You have a guess as to why, but never really let yourself explore those outcomes.

If you were honest with yourself, you really liked him. More than a friend. Morgan was there for you when you needed him most. He was so charming, so charismatic, yet such a goofball in his own way. Not to mention how stupidly handsome he is.

A big reason as to why you never made a move or said anything is because he confuses you to no end.

He flirts with you constantly, and not the playful flirting he does with Garcia, either. It's genuine, he checks you out, your hugs are longer and closer than with all your other friends. It's times like those where you think he may reciprocate the feelings toward you.

But then, every single time the team and you go out for drinks, he's getting all these women surrounding him. Which, of course he does, look at him! It wouldn't make you feel as bad if he didn't so obviously enjoy the attention. The confidence oozes from him, he grinds right back on them, more often than not going back home with one of them at the end of the night. And that's not even mentioning the numerous female detectives he's got in his phone.

You'd never been so confused about your feelings in your life.

Reid had been quick to attempt to ease your insecurities. 'Morgan is... a ladies man, he never really has had a serious long relationship before. I know he likes you, he wouldn't flirt with you like he does if he didn't. However when it comes to feelings, Morgan isn't exactly known for putting them in the spotlight. He deflects it by showing his flashy personality around the people he's afraid to be vulnerable with. That way he has the upper hand at all times to avoid getting hurt.'

Reid rambled on that night after you'd confided in him about it. You have to admit, it does make sense- Show the confident side so you'll never have to show the vulnerable one.

Doesn't make it hurt any less, nor any less confusing.

-

The case was prolonged yet again. The unsub had an upper hand in knowledge of what the police and FBI were doing regarding the investigation, due to a certain police officer having a hand in some of the victims untimely and unfortunate deaths.

After all was done and unsubs were apprehended, the flight home was... tense.

There's always that dread hanging in the air on the way home after every case.

We could have saved more.

We should have seen the signs.

We should have done this specific thing sooner.

Regardless, you were all happy to be going home after almost two weeks of dealing with this case.

All the team was doing their own thing on the jet. With about an hour and a half left in the air you were just busying yourself. Reid, of course, is reading. Prentiss and JJ talking about something Will said over the phone. Hotch and Rossi discussing the case that is now closed. You attempting to write in your journal; something your therapist had suggested a while ago that is now almost a daily thing.

And then there's Morgan. Who's trying to sleep. Trying.

You keep doing little things that just drive him crazy. The hair flip you have to do to get hair out of your face. When you think, you push the back of the pen near your lips, puckering them in the process.

That? Right there? Is going to be the death of him.

He's trying to keep it cool, trying to make it seem like he definitely isn't harboring the fattest crush on you. But with you just being... You; it's getting harder and harder to pretend he isn't thinking of all the ways he could call you his.

This was new for him. He's usually so confident and suave. When it comes to you, though, he's tripping over his words, second guessing himself, trying his hardest not to embarrass himself in front of you. It's like he's 13 again.

-

When you finally land, Emily suggests the idea of going to the bar. It's not too late, and you could use a little something to take the edge off. All but Hotch and JJ agree, having to go home to their children.

After agreeing to a bar, you, Garcia, and Reid pile up in your car. Due to Reid not driving and you and Garcia carpool anyway, it's easier to all go together.

"So... Y/n are you finally gonna make a move on Mr. Derek Morgan?"

Penelope's voice breaks your concentration on the road, having to clear your throat and shift your legs to cover up your embarrassment.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, pen pen."

"Oh I think you know exactly what I'm talking about, my sarcastic love. Derek talks about nothing but you and you give him the heart-eyes every time you see him! When am I finally gonna see some action!?"

Penelope, while you hadn't told her, it doesn't take a lot for her to put two and two together. She sees the way he hugs you, the longing stares you give each other. However Penelope was not known to sit and watch, she had to get involved.

"Look Pen, I love you like a sister. But I don't really think anything is gonna happen between the two of us. Even if I did like him like that, I truly doubt he likes me back."

You're trying to focus on the road and not on the fact there's going to be several girls dancing on the man of your dreams in less than an hour.

"Y/n I told you he does! We're profilers, you'd think you'd know to trust us."

You rolled your eyes slightly,

"It's not that I don't trust you guys, because I really want to believe it. Fuck, I wanna believe you so bad but then nights like these happen and there five girls surrounding him dancing on him and he's dancing right back. Then he goes home with one of them and does God knows what with them and I gotta watch from the sidelines and pretend it doesn't hurt."

You were rambling now, you couldn't stop yourself.

"You've just admitted to liking him, I hope you know! And if him grinding up on all these women bothers you why don't you do the same? Find a hot guy and dance all sexily with him. Hell, why not go home with him? If Derek really likes you (which I'm confident he does), give him a taste of his own medicine!"

Penelope was getting excited! Was tonight the night? Was it finally going to happen? She couldn't wait to see this evening unfold!

'She has a point...' You thought, doing your best to keep up the nonchalance you'd grown to fake very well.

If he could do it, there was no reason you couldn't either. It's not like you had to be faithful, you weren't even close to being an item. There truly was nothing stopping you, and honestly, you could use a distraction from him for a night.

"You know what, maybe you're right, Pen. We'll see where the night goes then, I guess."

Penelope squealed in her seat, Reid rolling his eyes. 'This is definitely coming to a head tonight..'

-

The music was loud and the lights were dim, the air was a little stuffy and people were crowded on the dance floor. By the time you three got there Derek was already on the dance floor, and you noticed a few women lock in their target with him.

Typically, you'd spend your night at the table nursing your mixed drink with Emily and Reid. Watching from the side the man you loved catch the attention of every lioness in the club. Tonight was different. Tonight, you were joining the hunt, it was time you weren't on the side, but a lioness herself.

Reid and Penelope waved you off, wishing you luck as you made your way to the bar to get the first drink of the night. Regardless on if you find a 'distraction man' tonight, you were planning on getting tipsy at least.

Ordering a simple rum and coke, you see a fine man in the corner of your eye.

'Let the hunt commence', you gave yourself a quick pep talk and sent him a small smile. One you know he saw, as he was already eyeing you as well.

He raised his glass and took the last drink, before making his way to you.

"Hi there, I'm Tucker."

He held his hand out not sitting down next to you quite yet. Something you take notice of. You also take notice of his handsome features up close. Ear-length dark fluffy hair, dark eyes that looked so cute, button up flannel, slacks, and a heart throbbing smile slapped on top.

You shake his hand, giving him your name in response and sending him a matching smile his way.

He took that as his okay to sit in the empty seat next to you, immediately striking up conversation.

'He should be a fine distraction man, I think..'

Derek decides maybe it's time to sit down for a sec, finding Penelope's bright red hair easily in the midst of tables. Emily and Reid were there too, but where were you?

Promising to meet up with the pretty blond again later that evening, he makes his way to the table, Penelope seeing him and pulling out a chair for his arrival.

"Hello hello y'all, how are we doing this fine night? Where's Y/N?"

Reid and Penelope shared a quick look, before Penelope smirked and pointed to the bar where you sat, sipping your drink and laughing along with some guy.

It was quick, but Derek's facade broke. So quick if you weren't a trained profiler you wouldn't have noticed. Oh, but the table noticed, and they won't forget it.

"Looks like Y/n might get some action tonight, huh?"

Emily subtly studied Derek's face and- oh there it is. The wall slowly breaking as Penelope spoke up too.

"I told her she needed to get laid. 'Put yourself out there' I said. She seems to be enjoying herself, too."

She too was watching Derek like a hawk, looking for a reaction. It was subtle, but it was there.

Emily kept going,

"He's cute, too. Nice and tall, strong arms. He's not getting too close to cause discomfort but he's leaning in quite a bit. Certainly interested in her."

All three noticed Derek's stiffness, the silence radiating off him. He still hadn't sit down, instead standing tall watching you like a hawk, not even knowing he's gripping the back of the chair visibly hard.

All this time he'd been hoping you'd get jealous and take him for yourself. That you'd stomp onto the dance floor and steal him away from these other women and make him yours. How could he be so foolish? Trying to make you jealous? He should have known, he should have been straight up with you on how he's feeling rather than try this wild act of being a ladies man. Of course you'd not rip him off these girls, you're a grown woman. He's not in high school anymore, this old trick won't work on a real woman.

But now you're sitting another man, sending him flirty smiles and leaning in just as much. Could he have missed his chance? Missed the opportunity to finally confess all these feelings he's been hiding deep inside for so long? Why couldn't you lean to him like that, wink at him like that? How could he fix this?

Penelope has seen enough, her friend was suffering and to be completely honest, she was a little fed up with the whole 'dancing around each other' thing.

"You know if you don't act now, she'll be going home with that guy instead of you."

She continued to eye him as she brought her drink to her lips. Derek snapped back to reality, loosening his death grip on the chair.

Finally he looked to the table, catching eyes with everyone seated and he knew they knew. Of course they would, that's their job to know things. He couldn't keep up the facade for much longer, and that scared him.

"So I guess you all know, huh?"

Finally taking his seat and rubbing his hands together.

"Yup. We also know about the poor show you put on every night with these other women. You know you're sending the completely wrong message, right?"

Emily didn't really want to scold him, but to be fair he wasn't exactly making all the right choices.

"It's occurring to me now, thank you," Sarcasm dripping from his tone. "Now I have no idea what to do. I'm all outta tricks."

His hope was dwindling, and everyone could see it.

"How about you just try being honest with her? She's confused, Derek."

Penelope pushed his arm a bit, trying to emphasize the weight of his situation.

Looking up, he sees you stand up and shake his hand in a friendly manner. With that, you walk back to the table with your drink in your hand.

"And who was that tall delicious specimen?"

Penelope was the first to want the gossip. Did you get his number? Will there be more than just a flirty conversation later tonight? What about Derek??

You finally notice Derek sitting still as a stone, but decide to not mention it.

"Well... That was Tucker! He's a professor at the university, and he was actually really cool. I told him I'll meet up with him again later tonight."

Your voice got lower as you went on, all that confidence about tonight gone now that Derek was sitting right in front of you listening to it all. You tried not to look at him that closely, knowing you'd get blushy and awkward even more than you are right now. Plus, you were scared that if you did look at him you'd see him uncaring or even worse, supporting you.

Boy, did he wish you would look at him.

"I think we all know what that meannsss!"

Penelope had a few drinks in her, getting more uncensored the more she drank. Spencer chuckled slightly, a brandy or two in him as well. However that was all for him though.

Emily patted you on the back, "just remember to use protection, pretty lady."

Derek knew they were all trying to drum up a reaction from him. He knew it. But fuck, was it working.

He'd let this go on for long enough.

"Y/n, can I talk to you real quick? Just you and me?"

His eyes were pleading, almost hopeful. Really, how could you say no to him?

With a nod, your hands gesture for him to lead the way, and before you know it you're both leaning against the wall outside the bar.

You tried not to be awkward, you really did- but with how Derek was standing next to you, all stiff and puppy-eyed, it was hard to keep your composure.

Eventually, you'd had enough.

"Okay, Derek. What did you wanna talk about?"

You hoping-no you were praying- that this was the moment. That he was finally gonna be upfront with you and you'd finally get your answer. Will you have to suck it up and move on? Or will this be a happily ever after?

He was silent for a few more moments, trying to find the right words to set the record straight.

"Look... I'm.. Not the best at admitting what I'm feeling, okay? But my bag of tricks are all up and frankly, none of them seem to be working..."

He pushed himself off the wall, standing directly in front of you now staring deep into your eyes.

"I think it's time I'm actually honest with you, Y/n. No matter where I am, whether it's at home, or on a case somewhere on the other side of the US, Or at some bar I never even knew existed until that night, you're the only one on my mind."

Your eyes gave him a pleading look; begging him to continue.

"I've never been good at being open and vulnerable with the people I like. But I think, with you, I really want to be. There's not a day that goes by where I don't think about you in my arms. I want to be there for you in so many new ways I'll never have enough time to list them all. I'll be honest, it wasn't my most clever idea to try to make you jealous with these other women. I should have known better."

He grabbed both of your hands, rubbing soft circles in them with his thumbs.

"If I can have a chance with you... I promise I will make it up to you for the rest of my life. I want to be in your life as more than just a friend from work."

At this point the tears in your eyes are dropping down your cheeks, makeup be damned. He's looking at you with so much love and adoration you can practically see it flowing off him. There's nothing you can say that will top that, so you opt for showing him instead.

Wrapping your arms around his neck and leaning in, he knew what that meant, and met you halfway.

His lips finally met yours and holy shit did it feel good. It was like your lips were supposed to be molded together like this. His arms wrap around you and pull you tight against him, leaving no room for escape. Not that you would, anyway.

When your lips finally part, you stay in his arms, swaying a little from side to side.

"So I'll take that as a yes?"

A slight giggle escapes you before giving him another kiss on his cheek.

"Of course it is."

🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

Holy shit i suck lmao I'm so sorrrryyyyy this took so long!!! I don't even have an excuse I'm just the worlds best procrastinator 😅

I hope this was worth the wait... If not then... welp.

#requested #derek morgan x reader #derek morgan #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader

[estro-gem]

Jax x Ragatha: Blood in the Water

The Amazing Digital Circus AU: Oasis

Author's note: Happy Valentines day! (even if it's belated) Have some angst and psychological torment~ (And a teensy bit of fluff) This entry has a lot of Jax, Gangle and Ragatha mixed together. I don't know how to label it, because it's not a Ribbun fic, but it's not entirely a Bunnydoll fic either. It's just a little mix of things.

Warnings: Abusive/Unhealthy relationships Depression Mania Implied violence Threats Talks of character death Animal instincts (RIP to the people who understand the signs)

SUMMARY:

Gangle is accompanied by Jax, who had requested her assistance with something unexpected. As the two spend some time together, Jax realize that there is more lurking beneath the mask she chooses to hide behind. Due to the outcome of a quarrel, the rabbit is left to his own devices and ultimately seeks out Ragatha's company to make a special delivery. As the odd couple eventually part ways, Ragatha is left unaware of a bloodtrail enticing an evil that they hadn't encountered in a long time. This is literally the only way to summarize the story without spoiling anything.

BLOOD IN THE WATER

Tissue paper. He wanted tissue paper to make paper flowers.

While the use of tissue paper could make for beautiful, simplistic, soft flowers, it wasn't something that Gangle would consider Jax to use. Tissue paper was frail and hard to handle without running the risk tearing them - especially for the rabbit, who was known for his rough grip and impatient streak.

But to Gangle's surprise, Jax insisted for tissue paper as bright and blood-red as it could be.

The ribbonoid could provide; happy hand over her stash she usually kept for the sole purpose of bleeding tissue-art, since the bright colour bled the best when compared to the other shades of red she had used in the past. It wasn't often for her rabbit-friend to partake in crafting arts, so she milked the moment for what it was worth, curious to find the reason behind the sudden interest.

Explaining and demonstrating the process of making the flowers was easy enough. The rabbit was delighted to see that they were simple to make - following her instructions with white sheets to practice with, before jumping to use the red sheets once he got it down. She sighed, a little annoyed by how she was going to have to beg Caine to replenish her green pipe cleaners, but happy to see Jax take the activity so seriously.

"Who knew that some people would spend their whole life wasting time on things so stupid?" Jax mused to himself as he picked at the thin, upper sheet of red paper to seperate it from the others.

...Well, as serious as he could manage it.

"And yet, here you are; wasting your oh-so precious time on the very thing you are calling stupid." Gangle smiled sarcastically as he finally managed to grip onto the sheet, then moved it painstakingly slow to fluff it up without tearing it.

He could insult the activity all he wanted, but he was taking it seriously.

"Because it's not stupid when I do it~!" Came the smug chime of Jax's voice that Gangle anticipated.

"No, no, you're right!" She said in mock agreement, before taking the chance to jab at him, "...because calling what you are doing 'stupid,' would still be considered as a compliment."

"Watch it, sister!" the bunny warned, clearly annoyed at his slow progress. He pointed the blades of his scissors to the ribbon that was acting as Gangle's neck, before snipping at the air and making the girl internally freak out for a moment, "Yer one snip away from bein' decapitated."

Breathe.

"Nothing you haven't done before~!" The masked ribbon teased, attempt to mask her moment of surprise.

"Didn't do a good enough job before, by the looks of it..." Jax sneered, before abruptly dropping the scissors and resuming his tedious task of fluffing up the flower.

Slowly, the tension left the ribboniod's body and allowed her curiosity to seep into her mind once again, as she tried to figure out his motivation for this task that he was so clearly annoyed by.

Earlier, he almost bit her head off when she offered to help him make the flowers. 'Many hands do light work' was her reasoning, but Jax was having none of it. He insisted on doing it all himself, leaving Gangle to busy herself by using her other coloured tissue paper to bleed it into some of her silhouette drawings she made a while back. They were mostly trees and little birds sitting in branches.

She liked how staining - tainting - something could be considered as 'art.'

If the colours were overlaid atop each other by having complimenting shades and colours positioned just right, her tissue bleeding art could resemble a stain glass styled background. 

And what others would see as a mess, could become something beautiful.

"Finally!"

She heard Jax exclaim, like he was spitting a curse. She peeked up and saw Jax eagerly counting the flowers he made over the course of the long while they had spent together. There was a moment of silence. She saw him freeze - before scrambling to count them again, more carefully the second time. He picked up the long, fuzzy, green steels of the pile, placing them down in a new pile as he counted. One by one, he counted them until he placed the last one down and buried his face into his hands with a groan.

"Not enough?" Gangle mused, not bothering to look at him, but unable to resist the urge to tease him.

"Shut up!" He spat, grabbing other green pipe cleaner and picking up the tissue paper to cut them into singular sheets again. "I need one more and then I'm finally done with this $*%@."

The masked ribbon looked up to him, then rolled her black eyes towards his pile of red, rose-like flowers. By how they were piled together, she couldn't count them all.

"How many did you make?" She asked, not expecting him to give a straight answer.

"Not your business, crybaby."

Typical.

"Ok, sure... but the number of roses you give really matters, you know~?"

Jax scoffed as he finish cutting the paper and carefully started layering them. He scrunched them in the middle and twisted the pipe cleaner around it to hold it together.

"I don't care about those things." he mumbled more to himself than to actually answer.

"And yet you are so determined to have the number right...?" Gangle asked, skeptically.

"Ugh, shoo!" the rabbit tried to wave her away like a pestering fly, making her snicker to herself, "Get out of here and let me focus."

"It's MY room!" Gangle accused, "YOU get out."

"Alright, alright! Geez, just let me finish this one, you drag." Jax chuckles to himself, pleased to see Gangle worked up.

It grew silent for a while, but the silence wasn't uncomfortable. Neither of them were mad. Neither of them wanted the other to leave. They were content and comfortable in each other's presence, despite the harsh words and use of blades to threaten each other. It wasn't normal, that was for certain, but it was theirs - and they would remain closely intertwined, yet never merged.

No... they had their significant others for that. The ones they truly wanted. They never wanted each other...

They only needed each other once in a while.

Like they did the other day, when Jax was driven by the mercy of his animalistic urges to... well... to do whatever it was that they wanted him to do at the time. He motives were never easy to predict when he was in that state. Some of the things he did, was probably something that only a rabbit would understand. Or maybe even a rabbit owner...?

Once Gangle found him in his room, vigorously clawing at the crumbled tiles beneath their feet, causing the glitching mass that the void of the hole he was creating, to crawl up his arms and almost invade his entire form.

Another time, he would loom behind Ragatha and shadow her movements like he wanted to EAT HER. While the doll insisted that he was no danger to her; and that he was being playful when trailing or circling her, Gangle always felt the need to intervene when he'd started to nip at her shoulders. He was never happy be dragged away in those cases - always running tight circles around Gangle in attempt to avoid her grasp - even going as far to virosciously swipe at here in jagged blurry movements. He'd take hours to calm down and he hide away for just as long when he'd clear his thoughts after those particular episodes.

She didn't know why he would be exceptionally embarrassed about it those specific instances he'd go feral. He never really did anything strange other than acting like a creepy stalker, but in a weird Jax-kind of way. As he was capable of recalling what he did and thought after his feral episodes, Ragatha once asked him why he would act as he did and pry about what his train of thought was during said times. The chasing. The circling. The nipping. 

Jax would clam shut at the very mention of it, simply shrugging them off in dismissal and refusing to even acknowledge it.

It probably didn't matter all that much anyway.

The ribbinoid pondered for a moment, before deciding to take the chance to get some answers.

"So bunny, what set you off this time?" She asked casually, seeing him fumble with the flower he was fluffing up, "Why did you go 'rabbit' on us the other day?"

"Same old, same old, Ribbons..." Jax mumbled, clearly not keen to talk about it, "Just a random triggered event, nothing special."

He blinked away the clear image of milky fabric dorning a purple heart.

"You sure?" Gangle asked gently, "I won't judge, you know! I won't even tell a soul."

"Drop it, Bowtie." Jax said with a bit of a forced grin, "I said it's nothing important."

"You know... I don't think that's true! I'm worried about you. You'll feel better when you talk to someone about it-"

Jax gruffed and bared his teeth in a menacing smile, causing Gangle to raise an eyebrow as he hissed harsh words at her, "What, are you trying be Raggs now? You should know your place - stick to what you're good at, Crybaby."

"I'm not trying to BE Ragatha, Jax." Gangle spat back into his face, matching his snarling grin, "Is it that hard to believe that I could actually care about you?"

"You shouldn't. It's not what YOU do."

"Just like telling people what they should and shouldn't do, isn't what YOU do."

"Yer right, that guy's GONE." Jax snarled, dropping the flower to get up in challenge. To his surprise, Gangle didn't back down. She just smiled back eerily, sending a quiet shiver down his spine. He knew she saw it.

She knew.

"He never told me that I SHOULD do anything~!" she purred, her voice no longer raised, "We were a team, but you wouldn't understand that, would you? You have no one. You bound to be alone for the rest of your pathetic existence~"

Jax looked disturbed, then enraged, but determined to hide it, "Kaufmo was nothing but a tutorial that prompted everything you did." he sneered, "If he was anything more, he'd still be here, or you would be gone too."

"Oh, you think I am so reliant on him!" The girl huffed, dismissing his accusations, "I didn't need him to know what my purpose is. I don't need him to fulfil my role and I don't need him to be replaced by anyone. I don't need him. So don't you go accuse me for trying to take Ragatha's place while you're clearly trying to take his."

"Well, someone has to get you to clean up your act with your housekeeper going AWOL." Jax swiped to knock Gangle's cold grin off her face, but she was faster, slinking her lanky form up and stretching to grab onto the high canopy of her bed and crouching atop it to sneer a grin down at him.

"You think I can't handle myself? Bunny, I've been doing that for a while now~"

"So that's it, huh?" Jax thump his foot as his frustration grabbed a hold of him, "You don't care? You're not bothered about what needs to change for us to survive without him?"

"Nothing needs to change!" Gangle laughs, but it sounds like nails on a chalkboard, "Things will go back to how it was eventually."

"With him gone and that new sucker around?" the rabbit barks a bitter laugh, "I doubt it! Don't think I didn't notice your little grudge~ And don't come to me with that crap about her 'checking you out' or 'trying to mess up your thing with Zooble' or any other bull@$&#! I KNOW there's more to it than that."

"We don't need her." Gangle slowly stalks along one of the beams above her bed, crawling closer to the wall, "She's useless to us. It's only a matter of time before she'll be gone. You saw her. She barely made it through her first day!"

"So it's survival of the fittest now?" Jax's eyes widen, realising that she's walking down a familiar route - a route he was made to obstruct.

"So you are on HER side, now? You're no better than me for implying that she could replace Kaufmo."

"Oh my god... I never said that, you $@&#@!"

"Then what are you saying?" Gangle asked with quiet tone, laced with false innocence, "Before, you said if Kaufmo meant more to us, then he'd still be here... or I'd be gone. Are you saying that I'm not needed here anymore? Am I useless now that Kaufmo's gone?"

Jax was at a loss for words - he was at a loss for anything. She was beyond reason. She was in denial. He never saw her cry or mourn her friends death. He missed all of the red flags, while wasting his time chasing his dolly around. He neglected his role.

He neglected his friend.

Jax saw her idly crouch close to the wall. He knew that she was moments away from disappearing into the rafters above his head.

He could still save her from herself. He had to stop her.  He had to get that damned, grinning mask off.

"Gangle, get down. Now."

...

She leaped to the dark ceiling, above the lights and up into the rafters, among the beams that supported the impossibly large tent. The rabbit could only watch as she slipped out of sight, cursing his incompetence in the silence of his mind.

He flopped down, holding his head in his hands.

How long has it been since he saw her cry?  When last did he make her cry?  For how long did he allow her to cling to that damned mask now?

She seemed fine before...

"@#&$!" Jax exclaimed, wishing nothing more than for Ragatha to be there with him. His doll.

No.

Maybe Gangle needed Ragatha more than he did?

Damn it, Kaufmo... Where are you?

He turned to take a hold of the unfinished flower and continued to fluff up the petals. He had to keep his hands busy as he desperately raked through his thoughts to figure out a plan of action.

He would go find Ragatha, as he originally planned, to go do his thing.

And then he'd find Zooble to bash their triangular face in, to get rid of his frustration.

Then finally, maybe, they could find a way lure Gangle to them, before she does anything destructive.

To them. To herself...

Jax sighed as he finished his last flower; and then he cursed Kaufmo for leaving them in a mess that HE was meant to clean up. He would've known what to do.

Jax's ears drooped to his back now that he was alone. He allowed a moment for himself to breathe. He was the snake. He was coldblooded and opportunistic - not meant to show compassion. He was their outlet. He was their scapegoat. He was in control and he would give the others control.

Control over what they hated.

He just had to crawl a little further...

Jax huffed as he stood up and grabbed his self-made bouquet, modifying it to his own vision and his liking. I simple, large white sheet of paper he could nick from Gangle's supply would to wonders to tie the bouquet together. It's a shame he couldn't hold onto Ragatha's blue ribbon he plucked from her hair

It would've made for the perfect tie...

The rabbit adjusted his clothes and patted down his big front pocket, briefly thinking about it's infinite pocket space cartoon-features. In times like this, he really appreciated the neat little quirk of his form. He tried not to think about the logic behind it for too long - it made his head hurt.

He straightened up his ears before leaving Gangle's room, modified bouquet in hand and walked down the hall. His eyes trailed up to the unseen beams and structures above him, trying to shake the feeling of being watched.

What are the chances...?

Shaking his head, Jax hurried his way down the hall. He had to be quick. It had to be perfect. Just like he planned. She would never see it coming. He just had to make it to her room without being noticed...

As he passed Kinger's door, he noticed it to be open and stole a glance inside as he marched passed it. What he saw didn't shock him, per say, but it was something he wished that he could watch a little longer... maybe get a little context while he was at it...

Ragatha and Kinger were sitting on the rug in the middle of the chess piece's room, with the ragdoll allowing the king to rest his head on her lap. They seemed to be sharing a tender moment and Jax felt a surge of emotion at the sight of Kinger seemingly being of sane mind again. It was definitely happening more and more now the Kaufmo was gone... Or maybe he just didn't notice it before...? Hell, maybe Kinger felt the need to fight off the madness a bit more, in order to compensate for their loss in a way? He could only guess, but the fact of the matter was that the king was definitely more... all there... than he was in a while.

Jax couldn't take too long to dwell on that thought.

He reached Ragatha's room and hurried to summon the key to unlock it. He was sure that his doll's keen eyes spotted him in his haste passed Kinger's open door; and the prominent bouquet in his hands would look, suspiciously, a lot like a weapon in passing, so it was only a matter of time before his dolly-dearest came running. It only took him a few moment's to slip inside, work his magic and carefully exit the room again.

No sudden movements...

He smiled to himself as he was just in time to stand away from the door - not looking suspicious at all - with the bouquet in his hands as he wore a bright smile that would put the very sun to shame. Ragatha stumbled out of Kingers room, looking like she was trying to find any excuse to... well.. excuse herself from Kinger's company to make her way down the hall.

He knew she would come running~

"Dollface~!" Jax called in mock flirtation, as she approached with a curious, yet suspicious look on her face, "How lovely to see ya on this fine day-"

"What did you do this time, Jax?" Ragatha asked with an amused sigh, eyeing the paper flowers with intrigue gleaming in her eye.

Jax dramatically gasped, putting a hand to his chest as if his heart was ripped out by her mere question, "Yer breakin' my heart here, Doll! Can't I just get my most favourite ragdoll in the entire Circus some flowers?"

Ragatha laughed, amused by his charm, "Honey, I'm the only ragdoll in the Circus!"

"Not the only one~" Jax winked, casting her a knowing smile.

He had another doll... in his room. One Ragatha made just for him. One that proved to him just how much his ragdolly cared for him, even if it was just by making a mere plushy. It was her promise to him.

Ragatha give him a fond smile, while shaking her head, "Oh, Jax..."

"Yeah... Uhm..." Jax cleared his throat, trying to move the conversation along, before things got too sappy, "Speaking of... These are yours. See it as a peace-offering after destroying your door and all..."

Ragatha's eye lit up by the sight of the deep red flowers that the rabbit practically shoved into her face, "Oh, Jax... These are paper flowers! They look handmade too... Did Gangle-?"

"Oh no you don't, Sweetheart~ I made these myself! Too bad I couldn't get ya real roses... I'd love to make a 'smell the roses' joke out of that!"

Ragatha unwrapped the flowers from the white sheet of paper, eager to see how he made them. She chuckled in wonder when she saw the green pipe cleaners acting as stems and took the chance to quickly count them.

"Nine roses, huh?" She spoke, almost breathless as her cheeks started glowing bright red.

"You like them?" Jax asked, looking her in the eye with a definite fondness.

How he would cherish this moment...

"It's perfect." Ragatha breathed, like a prayer, mirroring what he had told her in the past, "Perfect."

Jax gave her a smile that seemed to be laced with a strange melancholy as he absorbed her words. For a long, heated moment, the two only looked at each other, getting lost in their gazes. They were so close.

So close.

"You maybe wanna put them in your room? Ya know... before I get an earful from Zooble for being sweet on ya?" Jax smirked as he softly spoke, almost hypnotizing his Dolly into melting.

"Oh you~!" Ragatha sighed dismissively, yet fondly as she walked by her bunny to open her door.

Jax took a breath as she passed him, calming himself.

Don't laugh.

Don't laugh.

DON'T-

It was over in a matter of moments, just as Jax had anticipated. Just as he had planned.

Ragatha, knowing that Jax had keys to everyone's room, didn't think twice about her door being open by a mere crack after finding him standing right next to it when she found him in the hallway with a bouquet in hand. Hell, she was too distracted by the bouquet in her hands to pay attention to anything else. She didn't anticipate the full bucket of water balanced atop her door... or how it tumbled to spill water all over her form as she entered he room, cradling the soft, tissue paper flowers. The mass of water drenched her from head to toe and caused the bloody red tissue paper to crumble and melt into a big, soggy mass in her arms, matting all over her milky fabric she had as skin.

Her precious gift, melted and ruined. His time and effort, wasted.

Jax couldn't contain his laughter any longer, bursting into a fit as he saw her freeze in her doorway, before slowly turning to face him with a shocked, dead, expression. Her eye was glossed over with tears welling up at the sight for the flowers being completely ruined - a soggy sludge she tried so desperately to hold onto, only for it the sloppily drip to the floor as it seeped through her fingers.

"You should see your face, Raggs! Oh my god!" Jax laughed, gasping for air as he barely managed to speak simple phrases.

He should feel bad... but after this day he's had...? He really enjoyed a good laugh.

"My..." Ragatha spoke in a quiet, broken voice, "My flowers..."

"Ha! More like your SLUDGE now, princess~" Jax taunted, before harshly grabbing her wrist and holding it up for her to see.

Ragatha's eye widened as the sight of her pale fabric-skin; stained a smudged red as the tissue bled the bright red colour onto it. It would take hours of washing to get it out... or a hassled conversation with Caine to snap it back into it's former glory. Ragatha's heart sank into her shoes at the sight of her ruined flowers and the stains they left tainted onto her hands and arms. A lone tear crawled down her cheek.

It was such a thoughtful gift too...

"Looks like I'm not the one that's caught... red-handed! Ha!" Jax joked, seemingly unphased by her distress, before looking down at her with a cold look that she couldn't decide to be alluring or heartless "I've gotta say though... That look isn't half bad~"

He always thought that she looked so beautiful when she was crying. Now there she stood, tainted by his on doing. Beautiful... One could call it art.

"Anyway~" Jax dropped her hand like it was trash, shaking his glove as if he could shake off the sludge that the flowers had become, "This was fun and all, but I gotta go harras Zooble now, mmmkay? Don't miss me too much, Sweetheart! You wouldn't wanna hurt yourself~"

Ragatha stood silent as she watched Jax saunter off until he was out of the hall and out of sight. Her heart felt like it was shattered into millions of pieces, before being stomped on; only to ultimately resemble the blood red mass that now laid on the floor in her doorway.

He was... He was...

She couldn't think of a suitable thing to call him as she numbly looked over to her bed, wanting to collapse onto it and refuse to get up the next morning.

...But something caught her eye...

He was...

On her pillow, clear as day, laid a single, red flower, just like the ones he had gifted to her in the form of the now ruined bouquet.

One blood red flower, put aside and spared from harm, for her to keep. For her to admire.

He was her monster.

Hypnotized, Ragatha was lured to her bed, idly letting her door slowly swing shut by it's own accord as she fully entered her room. She was too distracted to see the glimmer of red ribbons ooze through the shrinking crack of her door...

As it clicked shut.

Author's note:

And there you have it, folks! Everyone in Oasis is messed up, hooray! There's a storm coming~ RIP Ragatha, I guess...

By the way... did you know that there were special meaning behind the number of roses you gift someone? Did Jax gift Ragatha 9, 1 or 10? All of the above? Who knows~ Bet he does... Mister 'I don't care about those things' (...asshole.)

Oasis: TADC AU list

Masterlist

#the amazing digital circus #tadc oasis au #oasis #tadc jax #tadc ragatha #tadc gangle #fanfiction #angst #tadc kaufmo #oasis kaufmo lore #jax x ragatha #mutual pining #jax x gangle #platonic relationships #cw: suggestive #depression #mania #abusive relationships #unhealthy relationships #unhealthy coping mechanisms #everyone is traumatized #everyone needs help #rip ragatha #i don't know what to tag for this #a little bit of fluff #a little bit #fluff #RIP rabbit owners who understand Jax's feral behaviour #animal instincts

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

Wednesdays mean a new chapter of Wídfara and Guthláf!

Part 5 of 8, in which Wíd gets a glimpse of what it’s like to lose Guthláf, and it helps him make a big decision. Thank you to the small but mighty crew who support this story—I deeply appreciate all of you!

Catch up on previous parts here: One. Two. Three. Four.

Wídfara was back in the stables again early the next morning, having spent the hours since his confrontation with Guthláf in tortured sleeplessness. Maybe we just shouldn’t be together. His own words echoed in his ears, so foolish and so hasty. He wanted nothing more than to take them back, to undo everything about the night before. And yet, he wasn’t sure there was any better outcome.

If he did as Guthláf wanted, he was sentencing himself to a life lived in abject fear of a tragedy he felt certain was coming. But if he managed to impose his will on Guthláf instead, their relationship would be forever poisoned by the acrid taste of resentment. Even worse, he ran the risk that the Guthláf who remained would no longer be the same man Wídfara had fallen in love with, that some irreplaceable part of him might die along with his discarded dreams. No matter what he did, he seemed destined to lose Guthláf somehow, and his aching sorrow was mixed with a heavy dose of grievance toward a world that was giving him only impossible choices. He didn’t know what to do, but he knew that he needed to talk to Guthláf again. Things couldn’t end as they had last night.

As more men arrived to prepare for the day, Wídfara withdrew into himself, taking up menial tasks – changing out bedding, refilling feeders, polishing tack – to keep his hands busy while his mind struggled to work out his thoughts. Ordinarily, these simple barn chores would be his novice’s work, but Freogan seemed to intuit from just a glance at his face that this was not an ordinary day. He gave Wídfara a wide berth and posted himself a short distance down the aisle, where he could quietly discourage others from unnecessary disruptions.

Even Freogan’s dutiful attentions, though, could not stop the eventual inquiries that came when Guthláf’s continuing absence began to draw notice in the stable. Several of the senior men of the éored came to Cypren’s stall to ask Wídfara if he had yet seen his friend that morning, and he was forced to shrug off those inquiries, feigning ignorance as to Guthláf’s doings since leaving the tavern. But amidst his bitter sadness and confusion, a chord of worry now also sounded in the back of his mind. Guthláf was never late and rarely alone, and yet now he seemed to be both at once. Wídfara couldn’t help but worry about what this unusual behavior might mean.

It wasn’t until an hour after the start of training that Guthláf finally appeared, and his arrival did nothing to assuage Wídfara’s concerns. He had never seen Guthláf as he looked that morning — dark circles under his eyes, pale, listless and with none of his usual spark or good-natured easiness. He walked slowly and with an awkward remove from his surroundings, as though his body was present but his spirit was elsewhere. He ignored the teasing innuendo of friends about overindulgence in either drink or women, and he silently accepted a reprimand for tardiness from Déorwine before mounting his horse and taking his place in the ranks. But while others soon went back to business as usual, it remained painfully obvious to Wídfara that Guthláf was not alright. His riding was sloppy, he was frequently out of position, and his reactions to the movements of others were delayed.

Widfara watched him carefully from the periphery of his vision, one eye always on Guthláf even as he followed commands and executed his own drills. When they lined up to practice defensive tactics, with some riders occupying the roles of hypothetical enemies, Wídfara could see right away that Guthláf was out of position again, leaving himself dangerously exposed. Elfhelm saw it, too, and called out for an adjustment as the drill began, but it was too late – Herubrand, in one of the enemy positions, easily knocked Guthláf from his saddle, and his helmet, poorly secured, slid off as well. Far closer than he should have been to the adjoining paddock fence, his head struck a wooden rail with a sickening crack on his way to the ground.

All organized action came to an immediate halt as men rushed toward Guthláf from all directions, but no one got there faster than Wídfara, who was off his horse and across the open distance before much closer men had even been able to dismount. He skidded to his knees at Guthláf’s side and felt his own heart stop at the sight of a halo of bright red blood quickly pooling in the dirt behind Guthláf’s head.

“Guthláf? Can you hear me?” He patted Guthláf’s cheek a few times, but his eyes remained closed and he didn’t stir even as Syndrigan nosed heavily at his shoulder. With trembling fingers, Wídfara reached down to check his pulse and let out a shuddering sigh of relief when he found a faint but steady beat.

“Get on his horse, Wídfara. Now.” Elfhelm had elbowed his way into the tight circle that had formed around Guthláf’s crumpled body and taken in the circumstances in a quick glance.

“What?” Wídfara looked up, wild eyed at the thought of being sent away from Guthláf in this moment.

“Get in the saddle and we’ll hand him up to you. You’ll get over to the healers much faster by horse than trying to carry him yourself.”

Wídfara jumped up and pulled himself onto Syndrigan’s back. She stomped a foot and shook her head in agitation at bearing an unfamiliar rider but calmed as soon as Herubrand, Elfhelm and a few others lifted Guthláf up and set him in front of Wídfara, his limp body leaned back onto Wídfara’s chest and shoulder. He clasped an arm across Guthláf’s middle, gave Syndrigan a nudge and rode off to the healers as fast as she would carry them. A horn was sounded behind him, the notice to the healers of an incoming injury, and by the time he arrived at the right building, several men waited out front, ready to carry Guthláf inside.

The next hours were the longest and most desperate Wídfara had ever known. The healers whisked Guthláf away from him before he could protest, and they blocked him from entering the room where they worked to treat the injury. Once again, Wídfara found himself standing in a hallway, listening to the appalling sounds of distress drift out to him from behind a closed door. Groaning and vomiting as Guthláf regained consciousness. Raised, urgent voices speaking short, barked commands. Cries of pain. He paced a dogged path back and forth in front of the room, certain that he would wear a groove into the stone floor if he was kept outside much longer, and his entire body thrummed with frantic energy, the charged sting of panic. He clung to the very edge of his sanity and felt even that slipping from his grasp when, at last, the door opened and a woman in a bloodstained apron emerged. Wídfara nearly tackled her in his fervor to hear news.

“There is a break in his skull,” the woman said, “but it’s a relatively clean break. The external wound is now sewn closed and we are satisfied that there will be no critical swelling. He needs a lot of rest, but the bone should heal on its own over the next few weeks. You can go in, but he’s been heavily dosed for his pain and won’t wake up for several hours.”

The sudden easing of Wídfara’s fevered anxiety was so strong that he almost lost his balance, and he slumped back against the wall for support. “Thank you,” he managed to rasp out. “Will you please send an update to Marshal Elfhelm as soon as you can?”

“Of course. And someone will be back to check on him regularly.”

Wídfara let himself into the room as the remaining healers went out, and he looked down at Guthláf’s still, fragile form, sleeping curled on his side with drying, rust-colored blood matted through the back of his hair. Out of sight of others at last, he finally allowed himself to cry, the tears that had brimmed his lashes for hours now spilling at last down his cheeks. Through those tears, he took a clean cloth left by a water basin in the corner and tenderly washed away as much smeared blood as he could from Guthláf’s face, throat and hands. When he was finished, he sat quietly in a chair at the side of the bed and gratefully studied all the little signs of life he could discern – the slow rise and fall of Guthláf’s chest, the minute movements of his eyes behind his closed eyelids, the faint pulsing in a vein at his temple as his heart did its work.

Minutes slipped by, and then hours, and Wídfara sat silently, interrupted only by the woman in the apron, who came in every hour to briefly check on Guthláf’s condition.

When it began to grow dark outside, Wídfara rose to light a lamp, and just as he sat back down again, Guthláf stirred at last. His eyes slowly opened, unfocused and with the black of his pupils so large that the light blue surrounding them was almost entirely obscured. The eyes searched around, disoriented, but when they landed on Wídfara, they stayed there.

“What time is it?” The question came out as a hoarse whisper, the words slightly slurred.

“It’s getting late,” answered Wídfara. “But that doesn’t matter. There’s nowhere else you need to be.”

Guthláf’s eyes traveled from Wídfara’s face down to his chest and shoulders, where his shirt was soaked in blood from the ride to the healers. “Did someone hurt you? Whose blood is that?”

“It’s yours,” he said gently. “There’s been an accident. But don’t worry. You’re alright now. You’re going to be alright.” Tears flooded back to his eyes, and he choked down a sob.

One of Guthláf’s hands slid across the bed and grasped Wídfara’s, the grip weak but determined. Wídfara held onto it tightly, so desperately grateful for the gesture that in that moment he didn’t even care if the healer walked back in to discover them this way. He held Guthláf’s hand as his eyes drifted closed again and for long minutes after, but just as he decided that Guthláf had fallen back to sleep, his eyes fluttered open once more.

“Wíd?”

“Yes?”

“I love you, too. I should have said that yesterday, and I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“You don’t have to apologize for anything. I’m the one who is sorry.” Wídfara raised Guthláf’s hand and pressed it quickly to his lips. “We can talk about it all later, but now you need to rest. I’ll still be right here when you wake up.”

Wídfara was there when Guthláf next woke, but he wasn’t able to maintain his hold on the seat by the bed for long. As they always did when there was a major injury or illness, the éored posted a rotation of men to Guthláf’s sick room, each taking six hour shifts to either watch over him while he rested or, as his strength returned and his head cleared, to keep him company while still confined to bed. After the blur of that first evening, Wídfara had been forced to yield to procedure, allowing Brunloc to take his place early the next morning. What’s more, the presence now of others forced him to stifle any excess emotion or expression that might expose to others the true depth of his feelings. As a result, the most he could manage over the week that Guthláf was in the healers’ care was to drop by for short visits, always in the company of the many others who lined up for the chance to sit with a beloved friend.

The weight of their fight in the stable still sat between them, unresolved. Every hint of Wídfara’s anger and resentment had washed away cleanly in the flood of his panic and then relief after the accident, but his fears were as potent as ever, if not even further heightened now. His frustration at being unable to address them was tempered only by his relief at Guthláf’s continuing improvement, which allowed him to maintain a basic semblance of calm as he went about his daily routines – attending to duties, adding regularly to the pile of small offerings to Béma that sprang up outside of Guthláf’s room, and taking care of Slaga, Guthláf’s dog.

It wasn’t until Guthláf was finally released back to the barracks for another few weeks of general rest and recovery that the opportunity to be alone again returned. On the day of his release, Wídfara went to the central market, buying up all of Guthláf’s favorite things – plums and honey sweets and walnuts and spice cake and anything else he could find that would bring a smile to Guthláf’s face and show him how much he was loved, fight or no fight. It was far more than he could have afforded on his own, but the old women at the market stalls always doted on Guthláf when he came by each weekend and they loaded Wídfara with extras when they found out who he was shopping for.

He stopped off on his way back to pick up Slaga and headed eagerly to Guthláf’s room. He arrived at the door just as Guthláf himself came slowly down the hall from the communal baths, a towel around his waist and a steadying hand on the wall. The sight of him filled Wídfara’s heart with both warm relief and the sharp bite of concern.

“Should you be walking around by yourself?” Wídfara shifted the bag in his arms so that he could put a supporting hand under Guthláf’s elbow.

“Maybe not, but after a solid week trapped in that bed and not even able to take a piss without three people watching, it was nice to get washed on my own for a change.”

“Oh.” A sudden nervousness gripped Wídfara. Maybe it had been presumptuous of him to assume that Guthláf would be ready to talk to him now or would even want to. “I can just drop this off if you’d rather be alone for a while…”

Guthláf glanced quickly around the empty hallway before moving his hand from the wall to Wídfara’s arm. “No. I’ve missed you, and I want you to stay.” He eyed the bag in Wídfara’s other arm and smiled. “And I’m not just saying that because you’ve brought gifts.”

They went inside and Guthláf spent a few happy minutes fussing over Slaga, who was positively vibrating with joy to be back in the crook of his arm, and sorting through the bounty Wídfara had brought him. He tasted a little of everything as he pulled each item from the bag with a delighted exclamation, and he insisted that Wídfara share in his own gift, giving him generous portions of all the best treats. Wídfara was grateful to see that both Guthláf’s appetite and manner seemed normal, though his movements remained slow and hesitant.

After receiving many profuse thanks, Wídfara held Guthláf’s arm again as he stepped gingerly into his trousers, tossing the towel to a corner of the room. Before he picked up a shirt, though, he gestured to his hair and the brush that sat on a small table beside his bed.

“Could you help me with this, too, Wíd? I can’t see the back of my own head, and I don’t want to snag my stitches.”

“Of course.”

Guthláf carefully lowered himself to the ground, sitting between Wídfara’s knees, and leaned back with a sigh as Slaga curled up contentedly in his lap. Wídfara raised the brush to begin his work, but his hand faltered at the first sight of the many small loops of thread that cut across the back of Guthláf’s skull and the inky black bruising, easily visible through the light blonde of his hair, that still spread all across his head and down his neck, where it slowly faded first into dark purple, then blue and finally a greenish-yellow. The sense of calm that Wídfara had worked so hard to maintain over the past week dissolved in an instant, and every word he had planned to say vanished from his mind just as quickly, leaving behind only the bitter taste of fear in the back of his throat.

When he heard Wídfara’s breath hitch, Guthláf reached back to squeeze his leg. “It’s alright. It’s not as bad as I’m sure it looks, and it feels better every day. In a few weeks time, it’ll be fine, and everything will be back to normal again.”

Back to normal. His words were meant to be comforting, but they terrified Wídfara instead. Because he wasn’t sure that he saw a way back to normal. If Guthláf could really put all this behind him – wait for his physical wounds to heal and then just move on – what would happen if Wídfara simply couldn’t? How could they ever be together if Guthláf moved steadily forward and Wídfara languished where he was, an eternal prisoner of his own dread? He dropped the brush to his lap and covered his face with his hand. “But how?” The words came out with a pleading tone that embarrassed him, but he was helpless to control it. “Every time I close my eyes, I see your head hit that rail and my heart is in my throat all over again. I’m not sure that terror will ever leave me, and the idea of maybe living through that again each time you’re out there with the banner, where you’ll be defenseless and exposed and targeted…I can’t face it.”

Guthláf set Slaga aside and hoisted himself up to sit next to Wídfara on the bed. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said, pulling Wídfara’s hand from his face to look into his eyes. “I really am. And I understand how you feel. I worry about you, too, you know. That’s what happens when you love someone. Your own happiness gets tied up in their well being, and that’s always going to be risky. Because we don’t get any say in how much time we have with anyone else.”

His hand trailed absently across the scars on his chest, and after a moment’s silence, he looked back to Wídfara with a sad smile. “Trust me on this, Wíd. You can run yourself ragged trying to change the past or control the future. You can even force me out of achieving my dream if you really want to. But sometimes a candle is going to catch on a bedsheet in a neighbor’s house on a windy night, and no amount of fear or precaution will stop everything you’ve ever known and loved from going up in flames. So you’ve just got to make use of the time you’re given before anything like that happens. Enjoy what you have while you have it, and don’t let regrets or worries take it away from you any earlier than necessary.”

Wídfara heard the wisdom of those words, coming from one much better acquainted with tragedy, and he was humbled, as always, to contemplate the strength that Guthláf needed to live his life with optimism and spirit despite that tragedy. But Wídfara had never been tested that way and still doubted that a similar strength was in him. “I…I don’t know if I can.”

Guthláf squeezed his hand. “I’m asking you to try. And I know that’s no small thing, but I wouldn’t ask it of you if I thought you couldn’t do it. You’re much stronger than you give yourself credit for, and I promise that I’ll do what I can to help. And if it turns out that you never can bear it, then…I don’t know. I guess we’ll deal with that when it comes. But I need you to try first. Please. For me.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips softly to Wídfara’s, once, twice and then a third time before Wídfara caught hold of him and didn’t let go.

Whatever dark uncertainties plagued him, the one thing he knew to be true was that this was where he wanted to be. In Guthláf’s arms again, he felt his defenses and objections begin to relent, thinning like river ice in the first sun of spring and then giving way entirely under its spreading warmth. If he had to swallow his fears for his heart to get what it wanted — to get this — then he would try his hardest. He couldn’t just walk away from everything that was good in his life. If the last week had made anything clear to him, it was that the only thing worse than losing Guthláf later would be to lose him now.

“I will,” he said. “I’ll try for you. For us.”

Guthláf answered by kissing him again, and Wídfara fairly melted into the embrace, savoring every element – the pleasing roughness of his beard, the warmth of his breath, the scent of his skin. All the things he had missed so desperately since everything had first gone wrong.

He would have been content for that kiss to last forever, but he didn’t want to overtax his patient and so he lay back on the bed with Guthláf beside him. For a time they talked of other things, seeking respite from the high emotions of recent days by gingerly turning instead to the lightness of gossip Guthláf had picked up from those who sat at his sick bed or a recounting of how many pairs of Wídfara’s boot laces Slaga had chewed through while staying with him. Eventually Guthláf, still easily tired from even small exertions, began to show his fatigue, and Wídfara encouraged him to sleep. When he had drifted off, a cheek resting comfortably on Wídfara’s chest, Wídfara kissed his forehead and lay quietly, staring up at the ceiling in aimless thought.

From the hallway, he could hear the faint voices of men, friends being summoned or someone’s whereabouts sought. It reminded Wídfara of his youth in the plains, when his cousins would call to him and to each other from their places at far ends of the herd. Back when his life was basic and uncomplicated, and everything he feared was just the standard fare of childhood. The low rumble of thunder in the dark. The shadowy specter of a wolf prowling around in his dreams.

Back then, his mother would sit by him in the night, hold his hand and tell him to find one small thing to focus on very hard, something that brought him peace and calm. No matter how often his mind tried to veer back to the storm or the nightmare, he was to return it again and again to the small thing and think only of that. And he would listen carefully to his mother’s slow, even breathing, counting each inhalation, changing the pace of his own breaths until they matched hers, resting a hand on his chest so that he felt the movements in sync with the sound. And soon, inevitably, his fear would begin to recede and he would find himself able to return to rest.

He set a hand on his chest again now, just next to Guthláf, and he concentrated on their breathing. How it sounded. How it felt, both in the rise and fall of his own ribs and in the warmth of Guthláf’s exhalations on his hand. How it looked when the whiskers of Guthláf’s beard fluttered slightly as air left his nose. He counted breaths and brought his mind back to the count each and every time it slipped to darker matters. And many long minutes and many hundreds of breaths later, he eventually closed his eyes and drifted into uneasy, dreamless sleep.

Guthláf’s first months as banner bearer passed in relative quiet as he finished his healing and the éored was confined to exercises and training, there being no other need for them at the time. Even so, Guthláf was happy in a way that Wídfara had never seen before. Pride poured out of him when he returned to service, and he greeted each opportunity to practice and drill as one who had been given an unexpected but precious gift. It couldn’t cure Wídfara’s misgivings and dread, but it did help him to see the joy and fulfillment that his endurance allowed. And for his part, Guthláf did all that he could to show Wídfara his loving appreciation for the sacrifices he knew were being made on his behalf, for Wídfara to give up his peace of mind in support of Guthláf’s dreams and ideals that far surpassed any of the modest ambitions Wídfara had for himself.

They held onto a tenuous calm, and Wídfara slowly grew accustomed to the presence of his fears. They were never gone, but they receded into the background, as constant yet indistinct as the sound of the surf to those who live by the sea. But his ability to withstand the present was one thing. It remained uncertain what would happen when the first call for relief brought those fears racing back to the forefront and sent them off to battle with Guthláf in his new role.

That call eventually came from the West-mark, where the need for extra assistance was becoming increasingly common as forces of Isengard grew bolder and more aggressive toward the Rohirrim. Of the éoreds in the city, Elfhelm chose to send the king’s to keep their skills sharp after a period of inactivity, and the order went out around midday for a departure first thing in the morning. Guthláf’s eyes had gone right to Wídfara when the announcement was made, but the busy press of preparations kept them from a moment alone until long after the sun had gone down and the rest of the garrison was settled for sleep.

In those small hours of the night, Wídfara was stretched out on his side, a hand on his chest and counting his breaths, when Guthláf quietly slipped in. Without a word, he lay down alongside Wídfara and pulled him back into his arms. A tall man himself, with broad shoulders and a solid build, it wasn’t easy to make Wídfara feel small, nor was that a sensation he necessarily enjoyed. But held in Guthláf’s long, strong limbs and pressed tightly into the niche made by his body, he surrendered to the feeling and let himself be wholly enveloped.

“Are you alright?” Guthláf whispered the words, his lips so close to the soft, curving edge of Wídfara’s ear that he felt each one.

“I’m trying,” he answered. And Guthláf kissed his ear, pulled him even tighter, and held him that way all night, until the morning bells called the éored to its muster point and they left for battle.

In the next chapter, Wíd sees Guthláf carry the banner for the first time with surprising results. Click to part 6!

@emmanuellececchi @hobbitwrangler @dreambigdreamz @konartiste @sotwk

Dividers by the wonderful @quillofspirit

#guthláf #wídfara #rohan #obscure blorbos #rohirrim #lotr #lord of the rings #guthlaf #widfara #diacritics really mess with my tags!

[fieldsofbats]

simon riley x waitstaff! reader : getting coffee

okie dokie, the second part of the waitstaff au bc i like it when authors have a reoccurring au and i write what i like to see from others. i am also open to exploring other peoples au’s and discussing ideas. i don’t like the idea of having requests because i don’t wanna put that pressure on myself but i want to work with people and explore lots of ideas i see from people. tl;dr, send me ur ideas but not requests.

part one, part two

ghost would take the longest to ask you out, like he is a confident man (have u heard his lines???) and isn’t afraid of confrontation or anything, just doesn’t like the idea of potentially ruining anything you guys have going because he has ~feelings~

would make sure to do it either after your shift or when it is very quiet and you are the only floor staff on, wants it to be the two of you in an open and casual environment

your comfort and feelings are of the utmost importance to him always thinking: “are they okay with his?” “i’m not over stepping?” “this is okay, right?”

personally strikes me as someone who needs verbal confirmation of others feelings.

he can read a battlefield no problems, can predict movements from a mile away. your feelings??? nah, dude has no clue and needs verbal reassurance, not that he would ask for it but is amazed when you figure that out yourself. ‘fuck they are literally made for me.’

i don’t think he could actually say the words ‘let’s go on a date’, strikes me as a ‘when r u free? Let’s do this…’ kinda person. 

would have the whole thing planned out though, has prepared himself for every possible response and outcome. thinks of it as a sort of mission. 

i like the idea that he did get advice from price (daddy)

it wouldn’t be the actual task of asking you out that freaks him a bit, but the uncontrollable factor of your response. 

he can’t plan for that so is anxious about what you might say or think, hence the over planning and the private obsessiveness.

BUT YOU SAID YES, “yeah, I finish my shift at 4, we could get a coffee or snack if you want?” YES WE CAN GET COFFEE “sounds good.” SOUNDS AMAZING.

waits out the front of the restaurant for you, has been waiting since 3.

figuring out who he should wait, wants to appear casual but wants you to think he is cool. leaning on his bike? no, a bit asshole-y. casually smoking? no, you might not like that. just standing? why does it fuckin’ matter?

oh shit here they come, fuck they look so nice in the sun light. 

you smile that sweet smile of yours to him and his knees buckle as he turns to face you fully. he grips the door jam so he doesn’t fall in front of you. He’s already fucked it. 

“where were you thinking?” you asked him, completely ignoring his near face plant into the pavement.

he directs you over to a close by coffee shop, you’ve been there before so wave politely to the staff and point to the best seats in the shop. he nods and follows to the back, a small semi-private nook at the back.

he thinks it went well, he tried to avoid the topic of his work and asked you as many questions as possible. but it wasn’t to the point you were talking the entire time.

he could feel himself blushing under his mask, the slightly larger surgical style mask reaching just under his eyes. He was thankful you didn’t push him to take the mask off or tell you his real name. 

you understood that military people have a lot they can’t share, particularly someone in SAS. those folks are intense and have extremely private lives. 

one coffee turned into two, a few biscuits turned into soup for dinner. then into being asked to leave by the owner. 

“oh sorry matt. thanks for putting up with us.” you laughed and began to pack up to leave. ghost, ever the gentleman, paid and you thanked him. 

“next one is on me.” NEXT ONE?! dudes heart near leaves his body and race through the street at illegal speeds. 

he nods and quickly walks out of the shop to hide his little shiver of excitement. you ask him about his bike (i fuckin love motorcycle men omg), something he is more than happy to chat about and explain to you. 

you patiently listen for about ten minutes before he notices he hasn’t taken a breath since he started. “sorry, I’m keeping you.”, you quickly shake your head

“i like hearing you talk, mostly about things you are passionate about.” omg he lov- likes you so much. 

he nods and looks away, hiding the massive blush that comes over his nose and cheeks. 

“i’ll see you next week ghost.” you smile and wave goodbye.

he waves back and whispers to himself “for the rest of my life darling.”

okay this is kind of shit but i have written this in one sitting in the evening. feedback is always welcome as well, be respectful though. i will probably come back and edit this but enjoy :)

#simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #cod mwii #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley x reader #waitstaff!au #ghost riley x you #ghost riley imagine #fanfic #headcanon #rambles

[artbyblastweave]

Gideon The Ninth Liveread, Chapter 18

Teacher’s order at the end of the last chapter to bring the bodies up isn’t followed by a jump cut to the parlor scene, as it easily could have been; instead, we get some insight into the logistics of getting two mutilated corpses and an unresponsive cavalier up a narrow ladder. The physical comedy implied by the process of getting Colum up the ladder is good bathos, but the fact that this takes them over an hour seems salient; whatever boogeyman Teacher was afraid of had over an hour in which to attack prone targets. And it didn’t show up for the hours on end that the houses spent attempting necromantic workings. My inclination is that either Teacher is feigning ignorance in order to scupper the investigation, or Teacher is genuinely afraid of something that still lies dormant and is projecting his longstanding anxieties onto the first blank crisis that presents itself.

Corona is very casually cited as one of the Colum liftees, alongside Gideon, which I feel like reading into a little. A quick runthrough of who’s even left reminded me that Corona actually is one of the most physically capable people remaining at Canaan house- Magnus being dead, Colum being in his state, Pro being attached to Dulcinea at the Hip, the teens being pubescent, Babs being mildly eaten…. Corona is, like, one of the taller/stronger people in the assemblage, right? But this gives off the vibe of a task that you’d assume, from her social butterfly persona, that she’d get someone else to do. And she’s doing it in her nightie, as well.  I pegged her and her sister coming down in the skimpy nighties as… not a head game, exactly, but part of their attention to presentation. This is not body-hauling attire. But she switches modes without hesitation, with only one word of textual acknowledgement that she’s the one who knuckled down. She actually spends a good bit of time in this chapter abruptly cutting the bullshit and knuckling down to try and address the situation at hand. I’m starting to like Corona.

The Second House were the ones to run and get Teacher. I’m reiterating my initial read on them; they’re there to keep up with the Joneses, with limited investment in the trial outcome or their own path to ascension through it. The Necro/Cav pair are barely visually delineated from each other, in contrast to basically every other dyad. They are not Of Necromancy, beyond its utility; they are Of The Military. They have limited respect for Teacher’s religious edicts about lines of communication off-world, and while it’s difficult to tell how much stock any of these people put in the theology vs how much they’re going along to get along, it’s telling that they lead the push to undermine the foremost religious authority in deference to military authority.

As an aside, I’m well-versed enough in this series via tumblr osmosis to know that the Emperor is, like, very much all that, and his personal power eclipses and obviates what any other house could hope to bring to the table, so usurpation as a goal is unlikely. Adherence to his religion is less like a matter of doctrine and more like acknowledging the sun’s ongoing contribution to the ecosystem. But inter-house infighting isn’t unheard of; the Eighth has it out for the Ninth, after all. I wonder if we’re witnessing an internal fracture between the military dynasty and the hardline religious elements of the empire; if this attempt by the Second to call things off and bring in reinforcements isn’t JUST a practical plan but is also them finally making the kind of power grab they actually know how to make.

“A Second captain don’t outrank a Third official.” Wait. Is Naberius supposed to have, like, a genteel southern drawl? Also, interesting that this is where Ianthe chooses to intercede on his behalf. “Prince Tern, if you please.” The Third does circle the wagons against outside threats.

Alright, Key ownership rundown. The Sixth has a key, Dulcinea’s gambit using Pro to brute-force check all the doors apparently netted her a key. It turns out that both mine and Harrow’s suspicions were correct; Silas did cue Abigail and Magnus in on the facility, using both the rationale that they aren’t NOT supposed to work together, but also under the rationale that the hated Ninth can’t be allowed to be the only ones with access to the facility. Unfortunate that Harrow does have someone ready and willing to validate her paranoia.

The exchange between Silas and Dulcinea is fascinating. Silas clearly likes Dulcinea; everybody does. When he finds out it was the Seventh Cavalier who put him out, he seemingly takes this in stride, and he’s unwilling to sic Colum on Dulcinea… but he is willing to have Colum duel Pro, which Dulcinea (and Gideon, by extension) gets predictably up in arms about. Dulcinea and Silas run parallel in that they’re both radically reliant on their cavalier to get anything useful done, more so than any other necromancer we’ve seen; Silas requires Colum for soul siphoning and general henchman work, while Dulcinea uses Pro as a caretaker and mobility device. Silas is significantly more, uh, cavalier about imperiling Colum over petty bullshit than Dulcinea is; the charitable read is that Dulcinea’s reliance on Pro gives her a significantly greater appreciation for him. The uncharitable read is that anything happens to Pro, she’s going to be in a pickle; he’s already saved her ass once by putting Silas out, and the crisis has barely started.

Coronabeth puts her foot down; “The Golden Butterfly was gone.” Her rousing speech noticeably gets everybody moving in the direction of productive action- The Second Cav passive-aggressively entertaining Teacher’s theory, Isaac committing to hunting a monster if it exists, with Palamedes putting on the brakes on his enthusiasm with a commitment to a scientific autopsy, an implied deference to Coronabeth’s call for unity, and a (not unreasonable!) entertainment of the possibility there really is a horde of vengeful ghosts in play. He even folds in Harrow and Silas’s dispute by making it clear that collaboration on the murder issue isn’t incompatible with continuing to compete in the lyctor trials. Third House’s hat, so to speak, is that they’re the rulers and governers- but Sixth house were previously mentioned to be the house with policy wonks, and there’s a synergy there! Palamedes knows how to align himself with Corona for maximum productive effect.

Ianthe admits to being in possession of the last key, distressing both Babs (who she took the key from) and Corona, who expected to be privy to this information. Something I find interesting about this is that Ianthe is pretty clearly a Machiavellian operator; if nothing else, she had the key, and kept that fact to herself. But! When it comes down to it, she’s also willing to come clean and put her cards on the table in a crisis situation. She was in the trenches necromancing right along everyone else; there are parallels here be drawn here to her sister’s willingness to drop the butterfly routine in the name of getting the situation under control. On the other hand, it’s also possible that this is a rehearsed ruse; Ianthe, as the obvious evil Twin, publicly taking the fall by positioning herself as the only one from Third House who hypothetically could have had access to the facility at the time of the murders. This is conceivable even if the Third genuinely have nothing to do with it; an implementation of a general strategy they’ve worked out amongst themselves, painting Ianthe as the heel in contrast to the Great Golden Butterfly, establishing the narrative that Coronabeth doesn’t have complete control over what Ianthe does. Campy Wickedness as a cultivated affect, overlaying a subtler, realer scheming nature. “Ianthe is a Vriska,” “Ianthe is Rancid,” all these no-context Ianthe posts have got me going full Charlie Kelly over here. 

The meeting adjourns. Palamedes works off Coronabeth’s cue to lead all interested parties to the freezer, including the Second and Seventh houses. Gideon chalks this up to Seventh Houses broadly morbid tendencies, but it also strikes me as likely that Dulcinea might have applicable medical knowledge as an outgrowth of constantly dealing with her condition, or at a minimum could effectively rubber-duck for Pal while he talks out the implications aloud. Second House I’m assuming are along for the ride because they realize they live in a universe where they have to at least begrudgingly entertain the ghost thing, but they want to be in the room concurrently with any autopsy that might reach “ghost murder” as its conclusion, to make sure there’s no funny business going on.

Pal, conspicuously, stops to have a word with Harrow. Harrow is characteristically concerning; her singlemindedness (on display in full force at the end of the chapter!) is poorly suited to such a radical shift in the circumstances. She’s the least willing to change her focus during the meeting beyond what’s necessary to avoid getting fingered as the murderer, and Pal’s word might very well be words of warning or reprobation that he had the tact not to deliver in front of the peanut gallery.

The scene with Silas starting the process of bringing back Colum is interesting; I think that Silas’s utmost confidence in Colum’s ability to make it back is the first time we see any expression of regard from Silas towards his Cav, and while it’s a strong endorsement of Colum’s capabilities, it’s part and parcel with the extent to which Silas is taking Colum for granted. Earlier I drew parallels between the necro/cav dynamics of the Seventh and Eighth houses, but there’s also a strong parallel between the Eighth and Ninth houses- each with a zealous, thoroughly stick-assed Necromancer , each of whom are paired at the hip with a Cav with a stoic demeanor and a frosty-and-best attitude towards their Necro. This line of thought is causing me to re-evaluate the lens through which Gideon has been assessing Eighth house; no Necro/Cav pairing is remotely Normal About It, but Eighth and Ninth have some parallels in their dysfunction. The key difference being that Silas routinely, habitually makes use of his Cav, and Gideon’s beef with Harrow is at least partly informed by the fact that, up until very recently, Harrow gave her absolutely no opportunity to be of use. Colum represents the path not taken, the grass that’s greener, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Gideon pays so much attention to the Colum situation right before Harrow shows up to drag her off towards another once-longed-for stint as an accomplice. Is Harrow’s attention an improvement in her circumstances, or has she this whole time unwittingly been dodging Colum’s sorry lot?

The sequence with Jeannemary is heartbreaking. They’ve hit the hero-worship beat a couple times now, the idea that she’s looking up to/admiring/(crushing on?) Gideon. It’s interesting that the “Bad Teen,” up till now an irksome background presence, is the one to finally break Gideon’s composure in a semi-public, not-technically-a-live-emergency setting- quietly and quickly enough that the illusion is probably still largely intact, but it’s a significant break! Also significant is Jeannemary’s insight into a suspicious detail nobody else seems to have touched on in the meeting; Abigail specialized in Ghost magic. Jeannemary’s love of Abigail means that her awareness of this fact cashes out as a belief that Abigail should have been able to defeat a ghostly threat regardless of magnitude. But the unstated second truth is that whoever or whatever killed Abigail, simultaneously got rid of the necromancer best suited to the necromantic forensic work everyone else was struggling with in the last chapter. This doesn’t feel like a coincidence. 

Harrow’s barreling forward on the heels of Colum’s return to the land of the living feels like a great for-want-of-a-nail moment, and another example of Harrow’s too-clever-by-half tendencies snipping a thread that she really, really should have followed up on. Jeannemary has an important insight here! If Colum had been seventeen minutes late instead of fifteen, Harrow might have limped into the middle of a very illuminating exchange.

In closing, I’m pretty sure we’re looking at two memes in one here. Harrow’s “I’m sick of these people” bit reads to me like a reference to Dr. Manhattan’s, “I tire of Earth. These people” monologue and the resultant meme panel. “An admirable attempt at comedy in these trying times” reads like a reference to the Egg bit from It’s Always Sunny. Bonus points because the specific Dr. Manhattan line that I believe is being referenced here comes during his myopic dark night of the soul, where he’s conflating his own depression with the true meaning of the universe and letting his heartfelt belief that he already knows everything important blinker him to some important fucking details he hasn’t noticed. Just like how Harrow is overlooking potentially massively important information in her rush to capitalize on her perceived information advantage. Assuming I’m correct that this is a reference and not just random apophenia, this is, like, sliding past the point of mere pop-cultural meme reference into the realm of meaningful literary allusion. Which is a real good way to integrate your meme references! Nothing there just to convey that you’re hip and with it, everything acting as a character beat or a thematic vector. I’m going to go right ahead and adopt a hardline policy of treating every apparent meme reference as an indicator of deliberate thematic depth, and there is absolutely no way that this might potentially cause me to spill over 500 words of ink over something that just turns out to be a vaguely similar sentence construction to another work.

#the locked tomb #gideon the ninth #tlt #gtn #gideon the ninth liveread #tlt liveread #tlt spoilers #the locked tomb spoilers #gideon liveblog #blastweave livereads #thoughts #meta #tlt analysis #gideon nav #harrowhark nonagesimus #silas octakiseron #colum asht #dulcinea septimus #palamedes sextus #coronabeth tridentarius #ianthe tridentarius #judith deuteros #marta dyas #jeannemary chatur #isaac chatur

[separatist-apologist]

Clear Blue Water

Summary:

In the middle of a storm, Elain Archeron hears a song that pulls her outside. There, laying among the wreckage of the beach, is a dying man who needs to be rescued.

Or is it her who needs to be rescued from the wreckage of her life?

OR: blah blah VANMERMAN blah blah blah

Read on AO3

Elain couldn’t remember the last time she’d witnessed such a vicious, violent storm. As if the god of the sea had opened his yawning mouth and decided to scream his fury, wind and water pounded at the coast line in an endless deluge. At first it was a reprieve—Elain was supposed to be announcing her engagement, officially, that evening. Lord Graysen would make a fine match, even if his motivations were purely money.

He was handsome and he seemed kind, and Elain thought that was the most she could hope for. Certainly better than a match to a man twice her age, if nothing else. And still, Elain was grateful for a little extra time where she could still be just herself, still unattached without the heap of responsibilities about to be placed upon her shoulders. Graysen was merely a lord, while Elain was a princess. He’d inherit her kingdom, her throne, and take over as King Graysen, while she remained merely his queen consort. 

She tried to pretend that it didn't disappoint her, if only a little. Her father had loved her mother so deeply that he’d made her his equal until she passed. Graysen, while pleasant, had been quite clear that Elain would only ever be his wife. He’d seemed genuinely surprised to learn she had any training in politics at all

Elain shuddered to imagine what kind of education the women of Graysen’s home were allowed. She supposed she’d learn, and perhaps would be able to sway him in the way that wives could. There was a small amount of peace to that thought. She could still have her say in small ways.

Alone in her bedroom with nothing but the howling wind and pelting rain, Elain could do little more than pace across the marble floors in a thin nightdress. Arms wrapped around her body, hair unbound, feet bare. She had a vision of herself flinging open the double doors of her bedroom balcony and letting the wind sweep her away. Not so she would die, but so she might wake up somewhere else. 

She might pretend she was someone else, too. 

More than once, Elain reached for the silver handle and almost turned it. And then the wind would knock at the glass, daring her to actually do it. Elain knew the more likely outcome. She’d slip and fall to the river's mouth just below and either drown miserably or dash her head against the rocks. 

Among the rageful world was a thread of music—something mournful and sweet. Something that beckoned her to follow through, to go outside and just see. Palm to the cold window, knees drawn to her chest, Elain tucked herself onto the window seat, wrapped in the heavy duvet from her bed, so she could listen.

It might have just been the storm playing tricks on her. But something made her think that there was something out there. Some creature in genuine pain mourning some unspeakable loss. It made her heart ache as she wondered what could produce such sounds, even as her mind screamed that it was just a trick of the trees or some building clinging desperately to its stone foundations. 

The night wore on, evidenced by her shrinking candles, until Elain was all but bathed in shadow. She knew the morning would bring gray clouds and destruction—none of which was her problem to solve any longer. Her new soon-to-be husband would be tasked with the cleanup, the rebuild, and everything else. It would be his first test before he ever wore the crown, and if he succeeded, he’d be beloved by a populace otherwise not inclined to trust a mere nobleman’s son.

A nobleman’s son in desperate need of money given how his father had squandered their fortune building his high walls and funding an army of mercenaries. 

Now his son would be a king, and his money problems would forever be over. His father could build stone walls to the heavens themselves, and privatize her kingdom's military so they served him first, her people second, and there was nothing Elain could do about it.

Her father was charmed, and every other suitor had been awful. 

In the morning, a new engagement party date would be set and the noose around Elain’s neck would begin to tighten again, inching her higher and higher until her legs dangled and she couldn’t catch her breath. 

And when the wind seemed to die down, and the rain softened, Elain let the duvet slide from her shoulders, pooling on the floor like gold threaded daylight. She pushed open the door, letting cold air whip the curls of her hair around her face. The wailing was louder, though the notes had begun to shift into something almost joyful. A revelation of the world, as though it knew the sun was coming eventually, that the storm would fade.

Ignoring the rain running over her cheeks, Elain gripped the slipper balcony and looked toward the sandy shoreline. It was hard to make out much in the darkness, but there, among the scattered trees and debris, was a sprawled, glowing object. A beached animal, she thought at first, caught in a silvery beam of moonlight.

But the clouds overhead shrouded any light that might have been had, which meant the light was coming from the creature. Elain leaned forward, trying to make out what sort of fish was slowly dying in the sand. It was too small to be a whale—perhaps a shark? Or a dolphin, even? Though, neither had fins that color, for the creature laying on the beach was covered in what she thought was gold scales. 

The music that had beckoned her out abruptly stopped and Elain’s heart ached knowing whatever it had been was finally gone. She stayed, just in case it was merely unable to sing but still needed to die with someone nearby when the creature twisted onto its belly. And she realized it was no sea animal at all, but a human.

A human likely tangled in something gold, which from a distance, made it seem like a fin. Elain gasped, turning back for her bedroom without thinking about anything but helping that injured person. If she’d stopped, she might have remembered she was in a now soaking nightdress or to call for a guard in order to help. 

Time felt as though it moved impossibly fast, and every step toward the beach was another that man might die. Elain knew the secret way out, through winding corridors where her bare feet slapped over smooth, dark marble and doors that opened on hinges that were still well-oiled.

Elain was her fathers perfect daughter, in part because she was careful never to get caught. 

She wasn’t prepared for the outside world. There was still a storm, even if the worst had died down. Lightning flashed the moment her feet touched spiky grass, bringing with it rumbling thunder and that strange, mournful wail. She knew now it was just the wind and not a dying whale, which made her strangely sad.

Still, she needed to get to the injured man. Elain could bring him inside if she could get him on his feet. He must have washed up from shore, his boat wrecked when it was thrown off course. The docks were far off, further in and impassable given the swirling mouth of the river, and she supposed he’d tried to outrun the wind.

Foolish, but he wasn’t the first to attempt such a thing. She still remembered a shipwreck years before in which bodies washed up on their private beach for months. She didn’t want to see another unmarked grave dug.

Elain’s steps didn’t falter, even when grass became nothing but wet, soft sand. Not even when, certain her eyes were deceiving her, she made out the thick, long outline of a gold-scaled tail. It wasn’t a tail, merely a trick of the light.

Elain fell to her knees beside the man…if that was even what he was. Because surely no man was half as beautiful as the one laying before her, nor had any man ever been born with slits against his neck. 

Or scales carved against his warm brown skin. He peered up at her, one eye slashed with a trio of scars, and opened sand caked lips. Auburn hair, tangled around little sticks, fell unbound around his powerful shoulders, just as finely scaled as the rest of him. She caught sight of little fins running the length of his spine, a sight she didn’t know what to make of. 

“You,” he whispered, reaching a clammy hand for her cheek. “It’s you.”

Elain blinked. She’d heard stories of creatures like this. Half human, half fish…with a song capable of luring those to a watery grave. She couldn’t move, battered by rain and wind. Not when those cool fingers brushed over her skin, tracing the outline of her bottom lip. A vicious gash was cut over his bare torso, still weeping blood and making a mess of his lovely skin. 

She should run—she knew she should. They were too far from the shoreline for a wave to drag them both out now, and he was clearly hurt. If she left him, he might die. The kind thing was the drag him back to the water and hope someday he repaid her for it. That he’d find her near death, clinging to a life raft and settle the score between them.

She looked back at his face, intense despite his wound. Waiting, she realized.

“You need to get back to the water,” she finally managed, inhaling a breath of salty sea air. “Will you let me drag you?”

He hesitated for a moment before raising himself with a loud grunt of paint up on his elbow. “Good,” she said, terrified to touch his skin. Golden scales ran over his naked biceps, powerful and heavily muscled from a life of swimming. His whole body was like that—carved and broad like she imagined a warrior might be. 

Perhaps among his kind, he was. 

Elain outstretched a hand and he took it without hesitation, though that wariness remained. Together, they managed to drag a path through the storm, leaving the dragging imprint of his tail in the sand. Elain tried hard not to think about that or she might have begun to panic. Only when her feet hit the foamy, debris cluttered water, did she release him. 

He vanished for a moment, quicker than she’d thought possible. One moment he’d been sitting in the surf and the next he was gone. Elain waded out just a little, waiting to see blooming red in the water or some proof she’d made things worse and not better.

Nothing but the turbulent water sloshing up to her knees greeted her. Stupid, she thought, to have come out on a night like this. She was soaked to the bone, was likely to catch her death in the cold. 

Fingers curled around her ankle the second she started to step away, dragging her under so quickly that when she tried to scream, she nearly inhaled a lungful of sea water. He was going to kill her, then. That was her very first thought. But the next moment her head was back above the waves, her body carefully bracketed in his strong arms.

“No!” she exclaimed, twisting against him to look at the palace in the distance becoming smaller and smaller with each powerful stroke of his tail. “Please, my father—”

He stopped, cocking his head to the side curiously. Waiting, once more, to hear what she had to say.

“My father needs me,” she managed, heart racing in her throat. “I’m supposed to be married—”

A soft, animal-like snarl slipped from his throat. She saw gleaming, sharp teeth in his mouth and shuddered. He didn’t understand, but she wasn’t a meal.

“Please,” she tried again. “You owe me your life.”

He held her gaze in the dark, the only light emanating from his skin. She could just make out the curiosity etched over his features. There was no hatred, no malice. 

“Tell me your name, princess,” he finally demanded. His voice was rich and warm and somehow familiar to her. 

“Elain,” she said before foolishly asking, “Do you have a name?”

Perhaps fish didn’t get names, after all. Or, mermen, which she assumed he was. He paused again, considering.

“Lucien.”

“Lucien,” she repeated, forcing her best courtiers smile despite her feet dangling in the open ocean and how shivers wracked her body. “That’s a nice name.”

He didn’t respond to that, which left her to repeat her plea. “Please, Lucien. Will you take me home?”

He nodded his head, and all at once they were moving again. Elain clung to his neck, telling herself she was merely afraid she’d slip and vanish to the bottom of the world, though in truth she wanted to know what his scales felt like.

Not much different than those of a fish, she learned. If he knew she was running his fingers over them, he didn’t say anything. 

Elain had a million questions, and yet only thought to ask once. Still holding him as tightly as he held her, though she could feel the sand just beneath them, Elain asked, “Were you singing?”

His eyes widened in the dark. “Yes.”

“Why?”

A smile ghosted his features, as both mournful and joyful as the song he’d been singing had been. “It was a mating call. I could sense her near.”

“A…” Elain didn’t know what that meant, didn’t know what he was saying. By the look of understanding, and then satisfaction that seemed to warm his features, Lucien did.

“You’re my mate.”

Elain pushed away from him, slipping from his arms because he allowed it. Lucien merely watched, his auburn hair floating gently in the water which hid his form to his neck. It did little to disguise his gills, his scales, or the strange orangey-brown of his eyes. A lie was forming in her mind as she raced back toward the palace—one that said the whole evening had been a dream. Concocted from the stress of her impending engagement and the storm around her, she’d found a man lying dead in the sand and decided she’d found a merman instead.

But even as she made her way back to her room, leaving a trail of wet footprints against the marble, Elain couldn’t get the feel of those scales off her finger tips.

Nor could she stop his parting words from ringing in her ears.

Mate. You’re my mate. 

Elain had been right about one thing—being out in the storm had caused her to wake with a scratchy throat. Bleary eyed in the gloomy morning light, Elain was certain her night had been, for the most part, a dream. There had been no man, no mermaid, no talk of mates. Just her awake too late and scared because of a storm. It made sense the stress of everything would cause her mind to split a little. She needed a hot meal, maybe some tea and honey, and a reminder that things were going to be okay.

Elain got a bath and fussed over by servants who reprimanded her for leaving her balcony doors open in a storm.

You’re so pale, they moaned, touching rouge to her cheeks. Elain didn’t bother mentioning that her father hadn’t allowed her out all last year for fear of her skin freckling. Back then there had been a lot of suitors competing for her hand, and who knew which of them would like a woman who spent so much time in the sun? Better not to risk it, had been her fathers thought. 

Elain made her way downstairs where her father, his advisors, her betrothed, and his father all sat at the dining table. They rose, this group of dull-eyed men, the moment she swished into the room.

“Lady Elain,” Graysen said, unaware of how that title made her cringe. She was princess, technically, but Graysen had never addressed her as such. Charitably, Elain had wondered if someone had told Lord Nolan that she didn’t like all the formalities…which would have included lady as well.

But privately Elain suspected he disliked that she outranked him, and so she was restyled to be Lady Elain for Lord Nolan. 

Still, Elain let him take her hand and brush a kiss over her knuckles. “You slept late.”

“It seems the storm kept me up,” she admitted, her eyes sliding to her father. Where was she supposed to eat? 

He answered before she could ask.

“I’ll have breakfast sent up to your rooms,” her father began carefully as Elain pulled her hand from Graysen’s. “It may be best if you keep to your quarters for a while. Some of the fishermen were displaced and will be staying in the grand hall. I would hate for one of them to harm you.”

“Why would they harm me?” Elain asked, her temper rising in her chest. 

“Because you’re so beautiful,” Graysen said quickly, smiling as though she must know it. “Come, it’s only for a short time and then we’ll announce our engagement and everything will be as it was.”

“A masquerade ball, this time,” her father said, eyes sparkling with delight. Just like he’d had with her mother—it was where she’d first met him, hidden behind a mask and unaware she danced with a future king. Her mother had once said that she’d been allowed to fall in love with him as little more than a man, and Elain had always wanted that. 

It was a bribe. Her father must have known his request would upset her, so he dangled the promise of getting to know Graysen under the guise of anonymity to pacify her.

All the fight wooshed out of her. “That sounds lovely,” she told them. “Will you ask for honeyed tea to be sent up as well?”

A nod was all it took to eject her from the room. She wondered what would have happened if she’d pushed, if she’d demanded to be included in the recovery and rebuilding efforts. They didn’t even bother pretending and that was her fault. 

She felt anger, but she swallowed it because that was what a good princess would do. What a good wife, a good queen, even, would do. Elain wanted to make her father happy, and as she made her way miserably up the steps, she wondered what would make her happy. Maybe nothing, and she was still a bad daughter and a terrible choice in wife because she couldn’t just be grateful for everything she’d been given. 

Elain’s door was ajar when she stepped back inside. A cool, windy draft whistled through the room, and as she made her way through her sitting chamber to her bedroom, she found she wasn’t alone. A man in a rather fine green tunic was crouched beside her balcony doors with a box of tools set just beside gleaming black boots. He seemed too polished to be a repair man, and his clothes far too nice. 

“Can I help you?” Elain asked. He turned and her stomach fell to her feet. “You.”

He raised well-groomed, auburn brows. It was the man from the water—the merman, though gone was his tail, the fins, the gills. Replaced by unblemished, warm brown skin and that thick, long auburn hair now neatly pulled off his beautiful face. When he offered her a smile, Elain counted two rows of perfectly normal white teeth.

“Me?” he asked in that same warm, honeyed voice. “Have we met, princess?”

Yes, she wanted to scream. Those russet colored eyes sparkled with mischief, practically daring her to say what she was thinking. Already, Elain was second guessing herself. Maybe she’d seen him around the palace and the whole thing had just been a dream, featuring a normal, if not beautiful, man. 

“Yes,” she heard herself say even as she felt that old, familiar temper rising in her chest. Everyone else could make her feel stupid, but not him. 

He grinned, twirling a screwdriver in one broad, large hand. “Tell me more. Was it how you came to break the lock on your balcony door?”

She held his gaze. “How is your chest today?”

He ran his free hand over his gold buttons. “Would you like to take a look? The rest of the locks in your suite work quite well, I’m told.”

“Just—” Elain forced herself to take a breath. He knew—he knew, and it hadn’t been a dream, and he knew. “Just tell me your name.”

He took a step toward her, his smile softening into something that made her heart race. “You already know it, princess. I told you last night. Don’t you remember?”

“How are you here, Lucien?”

He shuddered a breath. “You know why I’m here—”

“I’m not your mate,” she hissed, pointing a finger between them. “I’m not your anything. I’m going to be engaged, and I will marry him, so whatever notions you have ought to be abandoned right here, right now.”

There was no growl this time. “Oh? Princess Elain is going to marry the ruined son of some minor nobleman?”

“How do you know that?”

“You fascinate me,” he said simply, daring another step. “What sort of woman runs out in the middle of a deadly storm to risk her own life on another's? You could have been swept away.”

“You lured me,” she accused. His smile faded into something a little darker, something laced with pain.

“How was I to know my mate was you?” he asked her, inching even closer. Close enough he could reach for her pointed finger and hold it gently in his hand. Elain yanked back, stumbling a step to get away from him. “I would have employed more care had I known you were so fragile, so—”

“I’m not fragile!” she snapped, furious he’d think so. She would never have dared to use that tone with Graysen, but with Lucien it was safe. He wouldn’t hurt her, though she couldn’t explain why she thought so. Only that she was certain he wouldn’t—that he couldn’t. And something about the way his eyes sparked when she raised her voice made Elain think he rather liked her irritation.

“No, I suppose you’re not. You haven’t screamed for help, though I am most definitely not supposed to be in here alone. Why is that?”

“You don’t scare me,” Elain told him with all the defiance she could muster. Lucien’s grin returned. 

“That makes one of us, then,” he replied, turning back to her door. “I think I fixed it, by the way.”

“So it’ll keep you out?” 

He chuckled. “Oh, quite the opposite. You’re not engaged yet. Until you make a choice, I intend to visit you again.”

“What if I don’t want you to? What if I want you to stay out?” she demanded. Lucien picked up his tools, a contemplative look on his face. 

“Do you?” he asked.

No. Lucien was, despite being a fish or a monster or a little bit of both, the first person in what felt like forever who’d actually looked at her and heard the words coming out of her mouth. Elain felt the pull to him, but more than that, she didn’t want him to go and leave her to people who looked beyond her, who spoke at her without caring about what she said in return.

“Yes. I do want that.”

He snorted. “Liar. Your breakfast is coming. You should eat.”

Lucien stepped past her, and she thought he might leave without another word. As if he couldn’t resist, he slid a hand around her waist and drew her closer, dipping his head so he could breathe in the scent of her hair. 

“You should sleep, too,” he murmured. Elain was suddenly very aware of how close they were. The memory of the night before, of their slick bodies pressed together as he held her tight, flooded through her. Was he thinking about it, too? 

Lucien spoke again. “What would it take, princess? To see you smile? What is it that makes you happy?”

She should have told him to shut his mouth. That the only thing that could possibly make her happy was him leaving, swimming back to wherever it was he’d come from. But Elain, perhaps over tired and wrung out, told him the truth. “I want to be outside again. In the sunlight,” she added, just in case he didn’t catch what she meant.

He tugged her close enough she threw her hands out against his chest, leaving a whispered breath between them.

“Doing what?”

Elain thought of her rotted, ruined garden that had once been so beautiful. “I had a garden,” she admitted, holding his gaze. What had caused those scars, she wondered. He’d been lucky to keep his eye, which seemed a brighter shade of gold than the other. Magic, perhaps? Or something else entirely. 

His free hand came to her face, stroking her cheek. “What’s stopping you.”

Lie, don’t give him ammunition to use against you, lie— “My skin might freckle.”

He didn’t understand. There was a helplessness in his eyes, an unspoken explain this to me that saw her trying to rationalize her first statement. “I’m to be Graysen’s wife, and the expectations—”

“Fuck his expectations,” Lucien snapped, realization dawning against his features. “Why should he get everything and you get nothing at all?”

“I gain a husband,” she told him, though it was hollow even to her own ears. “And someday, children.”

“Is that all you want?” he asked sharply, eyes searching her expression. The question broke whatever spell had settled around them. Elain shoved at his muscular chest and Lucien released her without complaint. 

“It doesn’t matter what I want. You need to leave—don’t come back.”

If her father or Graysen learned she’d entertained a man alone in her bedroom, the whole engagement would be called off and worse still, no other suitor would want her. She could not be a fish man’s bride, nor did she want to be. 

“It matters to me,” he said, a ringing finality to the words. “And I will be back. All the things you dream of, princess? We share those dreams. I can give them to you.”

“You can’t give me anything but a miserable, watery death,” Elain snapped, arms crossed over her chest. 

Lucien’s smile told her she didn’t know enough. “We’ll see, pretty mate. We’ll see.”

And that was the last thing he said before vanishing through the archway that led to her sitting room. Elain took a breath, and then another before chasing after him, but he was gone and the only tell he’d ever been there at all was a puddle of water sneaking toward a rather nice rug. 

Leaving her to once again wonder if she hadn’t made the entire thing up.

One day trapped in her bedroom, and the western wing it was housed in, stretched into two and then three. By day four, Elain woke up burning hot and with a throat so sore she couldn’t stand to speak at all. That was the day Graysen crept up to see her. Under the watchful eye of a servant, Graysen held her hand and urged her not to speak.

“A date has been set for the engagement,” he said in soft tones. His eyes were strangely earnest and though Elain’s body ached and her heart pounded, she wondered if Graysen didn’t prefer her like this. “Once things are settled, I thought you might like to visit my home up north. Spend some time there recovering…and I thought that, once you and I are with child, it would be a good place to convalesce.”

Elain tried to speak, but her throat burned from the effort. Still, she managed a soft spoken, “No.”

Graysen leaned as though he might kiss her before thinking better of it. “You’re delirious. Your father says the commotion of the palace often overwhelms you. Just consider it, Lady Elain. A little solitude up by the mountains…someplace safe, where you can be free to roam the grounds…I think it would do you well.”

Elain merely closed her eyes and drifted back into sleep. Her dreams were fraught, cut by moments of lucidity when a servant would prop her up against a sea of pillows and force broth or water down her throat. Elain did as she was told, still thinking of Graysen.

And when she felt hands on her shoulders, gently propping her up, she blurted out, “Don’t lock me away.”

Cool skin pressed against her hot cheek. “You really don’t understand how the sea works, do you?” An all too familiar voice was teasing her. Exhausted, Elain twisted in the grip of the merman, half naked like before. No tail—he’d shucked on some pants at least. Damp hair told her he’d come from the water some time recently, but not so recent he’d leave her bed wet. Elain reached for the braid arched over his ear. Little gold cuffs jangled softly when he turned his head, metal clanking against metal. 

“He’s going to lock me away,” she whispered, letting the monster hold her.

“I’m sure he’ll try,” came Lucien’s murmuring voice. “For now, all you need to worry about is getting well.”

“Why are you here?”

“There is a rumor my princess is sick. I came to see for myself. You should be more careful, running around in storms,” he said, though Elain detected a note of worry in his voice. 

“I thought you wanted to eat me,” she grumbled, huddling closer to his body. Elain hadn’t felt anything so deliciously cold in days, and his skin eased some of the burn from the fever.

“You have such tempting ideas,” he replied. “But tonight is for my good ideas. It’s like your human healers have never heard of cold water.”

“What?”

No healers had come to see her. Elain might have told him so, or she might have merely thought it. The world spun, causing her to once again cling to him desperately. Elain understood what he meant when she saw the bathing chamber illuminated by candles.

“Took me forever to haul water in here,” he grumbled, stepping straight into the tub filled with what she assumed was sea water. “Don’t suppose you’d take off your dress?”

“I’ll kill you if you try,” she whispered, knowing full well even at full strength she couldn’t hurt him. Still, the merman merely chuckled. 

“I believe you would. Stop thrashing,” he added, perhaps unaware that the sight of his massive, golden tail curled around the large tub had frightened her. When had that changed? 

“How do you do it?” she whispered, closing her eyes again. “The tail…the legs?”

“I can call a two-legged form when it suits me, though it’s taxing. I’ve never had to before I met you.”

“How long can you stay like that?”

“Not long,” he murmured into her hair while gently scooping cool water over her shoulders. Elain shivered, though the cold was reprieve from the constant heat. “It risks being trapped this way forever.”

“Why risk it?”

He didn’t answer that. Elain drifted back to sleep, her dreams shifting from high walls and gloom to glittering water and a sun so hot the bridge of her nose was perpetually burned. Elain didn’t feel Lucien return her to bed which was for the best given she woke up in a new, dry night dress. Her body still ached but the burning in her throat and beneath her skin was gone. 

Bastard, she thought when she ran her hands over her form. He’d picked the slinkiest he could manage, with thin straps and a short hem. It was designed for summer when the heat was unbearable and there was no one to see her but herself.

Herself and a monster who’d decided they were mates. Maybe letting Graysen send her away was for the best. Lucien wouldn’t be able to get to her behind those high walls. Lucien had said he couldn’t use his legs for long stretches of time, and Elain happened to know that Graysen was landlocked that far into the continent and the river had become foul and polluted. He’d never find her. 

The thought filled her with misery. She didn’t want that. And as she dressed that morning, it occurred to Elain that she ought to figure out what she did want, in order to know what she didn’t. 

What she wanted was some semblance of freedom. Even if she was only ever consort to Graysen, who took all the things that ought to have been hers by birth, she wanted to remain in her home, wanted to be permitted on her own grounds, where she would raise her own children. Graysen wasn’t allowed to erase her and Elain wouldn’t help him do it, either.

There was no one in the dining room, nor any fishermen in the great hall when she made her way down. Nervous servants averted their eyes when she passed, but otherwise it was as though the castle had been emptied out entirely. 

Her slippered feet made no noise as Elain traveled room to room, searching for some sign of her father, her would-be fiance. It was later in the morning, and yet she had the feeling they ought to be out and about. Elain marched into the courtyard. Her garden, wilted and dead as it likely was, should have been just to her left. Just through a low, stone wall and arching, iron gates. All of it was gone, demolished by some unseen hand.

And its place lay rows and rows of tents. Soldiers, she realized with no small amount of horror. Her garden had been torn apart and trampled and she told to stay inside so her father could camp an army within the palace walls. Why? 

Elain spun, hiking up her lavender skirts to track him down. She knew if her father wasn’t sitting on his throne hearing out his citizens, then he’d be in his study. Since when did he keep secrets like this? 

She flung open his door, stunned by the sight greeting her. There, behind his usual desk, sat her father. He looked exhausted, run down and bone tired. Dark circles lined the hollows of his eyes and his cheeks seemed sunken somehow. 

Lord Nolan and his son sat across from her father, the picture of perfect health. Elain was plagued by a vision of what was coming before anyone spoke. Even as they all turned to look at her, sharing mixed expressions of disapproval and curiosity, Elain knew. Somehow the Senior Nolan was behind her fathers appearance, even if his son had no idea. It wouldn’t be long before Graysen ascended to the throne—likely just after an extravagant wedding that cast no doubt over Graysen’s right to rule.

And she already knew her fate. She’d be sent away, far from the water, far from everything she loved. 

“Elain?” her father murmured, his voice a soft rasp. “You’re feeling better.”

“Are you?” she asked him bluntly. She wasn’t sure what possessed her to do so, to speak so out of turn. “You look like you need rest.”

He waved a hand, earning a smile and an eye roll from the elder Nolan. “Women are so fussy,” he said, dismissing her concerns entirely. Graysen stood, earnest as ever. It was so hard to dislike him, though some small part of her wanted to scream in his face. Don’t you see what he’s doing? Don’t you see how he pulls the strings? 

“Come, Lady Elain,” Graysen said in that smooth, placating voice. “Have you eaten? His hand was on her elbow before she could stop him, leading her back into the hall and toward the dining room. “It’s so lovely to see you again. You look radiant.”

“My father–”

“Stress,” Graysen interrupted smoothly, stroking his thumb over her elbow. “What with the storm, and the protests, and the engagement—”

“What protests?” she demanded, but Graysen merely shook his head.

“It's handled.”

The army, then. The army was putting down these nameless protests against a people who had once loved her father. Elain took a breath, thinking she’d force Lord Nolan to just tell her, when a new idea slithered into her mind.

Lucien. 

Surely he’d return. He didn’t seem content to stay away, so why not pry for information? Perhaps he wouldn’t think so much about it, or care  given he was merely a fish. She’d get no where with Graysen, and it occurred to Elain that a difficult wife without anyone to protect her wasn’t too difficult to dispose of, one way or the other. 

“When is the engagement?”

“In three nights,” Graysen said, his expression relaxing. This was what he wanted. A wife who gave him no trouble, who did exactly as expected. He stopped her just before the doors of the dining room, cupping her cheek with warm, callused hands. What did it say about her that the touch revolted her? It felt all wrong—clammy, somehow, and too rough. “I am looking forward to announcing to the world you will be my wife. I…I have kept my feelings guarded for fear they will not be returned, but I am—I feel—”

What he felt clearly could not be put into words, though Elain thought it didn’t warrant being shoved up against wooden doors and accosted by his mouth. She squeaked with surprise, eyes wide open even when his own shuttered closed. It was strange—like watching someone else be kissed by Graysen rather than experiencing it herself.

But Elain felt nothing but aloof detachment, accompanied by a feeling that it was best not to  fight, but to let him get on with it so she could go. It wasn’t pleasant or unpleasant. It just was, like taking a breath or swallowing a glass of tepid water.

He pulled away, breathless and eyes out of focus. “I…” he raked his fingers through his sandy brown hair. “I should go.” “Yes,” she agreed, fingers touching her lips. “Yes, I think that’s best.”

Graysen shot her one last lingering look, the sort that promised all the things that might happen between them, and then turned without a glance back. Elain watched him though, wondering why she felt nothing at all. Surely she should. He was nice enough, and likely to be a good husband, even if he wasn’t particularly attentive. 

It was a question that plagued her long after Graysen had gone.

Lucien, Elain learned, was crawling up her balcony. She waited for him rather than sleep, tucked against the window seat of her bedroom with nothing but a singular candle burning. Not even the fireplace, though the cool air certainly could have benefited from the heat. 

She saw his fingers first, gripping the edge of the rail to haul himself up. Legs clad in those same well-fitted brown trousers hid his lower half, but no shoes and no tunic, along with his damp hair, told her he’d gone straight from the beach.

He was surprised to see her, eyes glowing in the dark. The left was practically all gold, glimmering like its own sun against his handsome face. For a moment they merely faced off against the other, staring silently—wordlessly—waiting for the other to speak.

“You look well,” he finally said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Though I’d have chosen a different nightdress.”

He was outrageous. “Yes,” she hissed, wrapping her duvet tighter around her body. “You undressed me.”

He didn’t look ashamed at all. “I thought you’d be cross with me if I put you to bed soaking wet. And crosser still if you woke up in a tub with a merman. I could have left you naked, I suppose, but that also seemed undecent.”

It occurred to her that never once had she considered that he might have touched her. Lucien’s expression dared her to ask, but Elain hated to give him any self-righteous satisfaction. So instead, she told him, “There is an army in my fathers courtyard. I heard there are protests across the land. What do you know?”

He shrugged powerful, naked shoulders as he made his way over to her.  Lucien dropped on the padded bench while Elain drew her knees closer to her chest. “I’ve heard a lot of things. Things I might be willing to exchange for the right price.”

Elain sighed, exasperated. “What could you possibly want? Krill?”

His laugh was like warm honey dripping down her throat. “Tempting. I do love krill. But no, I was thinking of something different. A kiss,” he added, when she didn’t immediately take his meaning. “And maybe more, if you enjoy it. After all, I hear you’ll be engaged by the end of the week.”

She hadn’t imagined the bitterness that plagued his words, nor the regret etched in his eyes. There was almost a plea to it, as if Elain could ever choose a man who was half fish. Elain swallowed, even as a little thrill raced through her. Where had that been when Graysen kissed her? 

“Okay,” she agreed, because she thought it might be fine to kiss him. “A kiss, and nothing more—

“Negotiable,” he interjected smoothly. “I know a lot of things.”

And she didn’t think he was talking about mere politics. Still, Elain nodded her head. He could negotiate to his heart's content. That didn’t mean she’d have to say yes. Just the possibility was enough to settle him, though, as he drew a breath through his mouth and said, “I don’t involve myself much in your kind's business, so long as it doesn’t interfere with mine. I do know your kingdom is very poor, and your people suffer. Marrying the Lord’s son is, supposedly, supposed to make you seem like some kind of champion of the people. But there are revolts, because a marriage doesn’t fill empty bellies, and the Lord is well adept at putting down rebellions. It doesn’t help that two princesses have gone missing to the west and the north, and their kingdoms have fallen to democracy. Elected rulers seem appealing when your king shuts himself up in a castle and allows himself to be guarded by an army of mercenaries.”

“So…so I might marry Graysen, and the kingdom might still fall to revolution?” The thought genuinely scared her.

Lucien merely shrugged. “I can’t tell you the future, princess. You may marry the lord and he might quell the rebellions and you have a long and happy life.”

“And my children…” Elain chewed her lower lip nervously. “It merely delays the inevitable?”

Another shrug. “If you asked me…”

Their eyes met, held in the flickering glow of the candle.

“Asked you what?”

“To help,” he finally said, squeezing his fingers into a nervous fist. “I would.”

She didn’t mean to scoff, but the words tumbled gracelessly from her lips all the same. “What could a fish do to help me?”

She didn’t imagine the pain that flitted over his expression. Elain swallowed—that had been unkind. He was the only person offering her any information, who didn’t treat her like a decoration, and she was venting her anger on him. 

“I–”

“I know,” he said, holding up a hand, though Elain didn’t think he did. So instead she scooted a little closer to him, holding his now wary gaze. 

“I’ll take that kiss, I think,” she said, hoping to soothe his wounded ego. But Lucien merely shook his head and stood, filling the air with a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.

“Not tonight, I think.”

And he would have left. By all rights he should have left. But Elain jumped to her feet, blanket pooling to the ground, and grabbed his wrist.

“Graysen kissed me today,” she told him when he turned his head to look. Anger replaced hurt, which was only a modicum better. “And I felt nothing. I just want to know…”

He waited, his head cocked like it had been that first night they’d met. Curious, again, to see what she might do, what she might say. 

Elain took a breath. “I want to know if the problem is me or it's him.”

Lucien turned fully then, his eyes a brand on her body. “And if it’s him?”

“Then you can negotiate for more.” Truly, Elain didn’t know what else to say to him. It was enough to bring that mischievous spark back to his eyes, to draw him closer to her. And Elain, who’d spent so much time alone, found she wanted his attention, though she didn’t know how to admit it. 

The thought crawled through her mind before he ever touched her. Don’t leave me. 

He ducked his head, one hand cupping her cheek just as Graysen had done. She stiffened, bracing herself to watch another man kiss her. But Lucien didn’t shove her against something, nor did he press his body against her own. He merely threaded his free hand in the unbound curls falling around her face and brought his lips to hers.

It was the softest brush—tentative, a testing to see how he might go about it. Letting her adjust to him being so close, to sharing a breath. Excitement skittered up her spine as warmth spread through her limbs. He was watching her, gauging her reaction. 

And Elain knew, mere seconds before he truly kissed her, that when he decided to negotiate with her, he’d have far too much leverage. Need raced through her at that soft touch. Lucien slotted his lips against her own, exhaling a soft breath that could have been a groan, though she wasn’t sure. Elain, who’d kept her arms at her sides, slid her hands up his bare chest without even thinking about it.

And she’d closed her eyes. She didn’t know why—maybe because she thought it would make things feel better, or simply as a reaction to being so close. All Elain knew was it was better to kiss him like this, touching his skin in an attempt to bring them closer. It was her who reached for his neck, and she suspected, her fault that the kiss didn’t stop right there.

A soft sigh escaped him, drawing them flush against the other. It was scandalous, having this half naked man in her bedroom—a fish, as she’d called him earlier. Kissing her like she was sweet, like she was special. He was kissing her like he wanted her to enjoy it, which was a problem because Elain was enjoying it. 

What did it say about her that she liked kissing the monster, while kissing Graysen had elicited nothing at all? She had a flash of vision in which she left with Lucien—ran away, leaving this wretched kingdom filled with warmongering men to their fate so she could be with Lucien. And what, then? She’d live in a little cottage by the sea and Lucien would come by when he could? How long before he tired of her, of the novelty of a human? How long—

“Elain,” he groaned, teeth nipping her bottom lip. Elain gasped as pleasure bolted through her and Lucien took advantage of this momentary lapse to slide his tongue into her mouth. It was shockingly ridged but still pleasant, adding to the desire rapidly coiling through her. Tentatively, Elain returned the gesture, meeting him with her own tongue.

She felt his knees buckle. “I want to renegotiate,” he panted, gripping her face in his strong hands. “I need to renegotiate.”

“Okay,” she replied, unsure what else to say. Meeting his gaze, Elain found those mismatched eyes practically burning against her skin. “What do you want?”

He kissed her again, fervent and desperate, his tongue licking her own as his arms wrapped around her body so they were flush, without an inch of space between them. Elain squirmed, needing something to help alleviate the pressure that had begun to build between her legs. 

He’d forgotten his negotiation skills or was merely utilizing what he knew worked best. Elain didn’t mind when he swept her up and walked her to the bed, nor did she complain when he joined her, breaking the kiss only long enough to settle beside her. His chest covered her own, one leg through between hers and when he pressed, Elain found it helped with the building need. She arched against him, fingers tangled in his surprisingly soft hair while Lucien groaned and grabbed her hips, stilling them firmly. 

“I need to taste you,” Lucien whispered against her throat. She didn’t understand what he meant, though she knew he was asking for more than just kissing. And she wanted that, too—wanted all of it, all of him, which was maybe dangerous. But she blinked up at him, fingertips grazing his soft jaw, and said, “Please.” Another soft, almost desperate sounding groan fell from his swollen lips. He kissed her again, the sharpness of his real teeth glinting in the dark. Would he transform back into the tail, she wondered? And would she be upset if he did?

No. Elain was so curious how he made any of this work with his tail. Surely his kind must reproduce, and some depraved part of her wanted to know how, exactly. Maybe he’d show her if she asked. Not then, though. Not when he was slowly skimming down her body, his breath shockingly warm through the thin material of her night dress. He didn’t remove it, though she would have let him if he’d wanted to. Instead, he teased her against it, nipping and licking at her breasts while using the fabric to add additional friction. Elain writhed, trying to grind against him only to find there was nothing but air.

And then he was gone, laying between her legs and spreading her wider. Elain leaned up on her elbows, heart banging against her ribcage. “What are you doing?” she whispered. Lucien’s greedy eyes drank her in, realizing she had no underthings on. Not to sleep. 

“Tasting you,” he replied, his eyes flicking back to her face. Elain swallowed her nerves while Lucien waited for her to revoke his permission. He seemed to expect it if that carefully guarded expression was anything to go by. 

Elain laid back. She trusted the monster not to hurt her, to stop if she told him to. And more than that, Elain wanted to know what he’d do next, what she could expect when it came to the bedroom. She was nervous, but she wasn’t afraid. 

“You’re so pretty,” he whispered, slicking a finger through her. Elain swallowed a gasp though she was unable to hide how much she’d enjoyed that one feather soft touch. Closing her eyes,

Elain rolled her hips in an attempt to get him to touch her again. She’d touched herself, of course—many times throughout her life, though she knew technically she wasn’t supposed to. Who was going to stop her? Her body was her own, not the property of some man she’d never met. 

Elain’s thoughts were cut short by a new, wetter, softer touch between her legs. His mouth, she realized when she flew upwards to look. He’d licked her. Their eyes met, his wicked with delight and hers…well…Elain wasn’t quite sure. Heat throbbed through her, prompting her to say, “Do it again.”

It was with a deliberate slowness that he ran that ridged tongue up the length of her. He liked it, she realized with wonder. He liked the taste of her, liked the licking, and if she didn’t make him stop, would keep going until she finished. His mouth was nothing like her fingers—it was better. Lucien didn’t look away as he licked again and again, slow and soft as though working her into the sensation.

Elain reached for a pillow behind her, careful not to disturb her lower body or his clever tongue. She needed to watch him do this, well aware it was heightening her own burning pleasure. Elain intended to commit him to memory just in case it all went wrong. At least she’d have this—something selfish, something that was only for her. If he left, if she ended up with Graysen, she’d at least have this. 

A sensual smile spread over his face. “You want to watch, princess?”

“Do it again,” she said instead. And again and again and—

He obliged her, a chuckle rumbling in his throat. She thought she ought to feel outrage that he found this whole thing amusing, but Elain could only feel the burning want coiling through her. Watching him only heightened her pleasure, though she couldn’t quite explain why. Only that the sight of him dragging his tongue over her cunt for the filthiest kiss she’d ever been given was driving her wild.

She was going to come far too quickly. Elain reached between her legs for his hair, still as soft as she remembered. Lucien groaned when she tugged at his hair, urging him to go faster. Elain had only a vague awareness of her own body and the way she was grinding against his face. Desperation clawed at her chest as tension built in her body. 

“Please,” she whispered into the darkness. “Lucien, please.”

He drew her clit between his lips and Elain came apart faster than she’d anticipated. Clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle the scream that threatened to rip from her, Elain clenched her thighs tight around her head. Lucien didn’t stop, licking her through the orgasm until she was exhausted and overwrought.

“No more,” she begged, planting her foot against his shoulder to shove. Lucien pulled away looking wild, more monster than man. It ought to have frightened her, but as he rose up on his knees and she caught sight of the strange bulge in his trousers, it only thrilled her.

“It’s not enough,” Lucien told her, unaware she was thinking of undressing him. He grabbed her face, kissing her so thoroughly Elain didn’t think she’d ever get the taste of herself out of her mouth. The kiss was ruthless, his teeth sharp as they grazed her bottom lip. His tongue pushed and licked and danced with her own, concealing her hands pulling at the laces of his pants.

He gasped at the same time she did. Elain had been pretty sheltered, and what she knew of the male anatomy was limited. However, Elain was positive he was only supposed to have one appendage. 

They looked between their bodies, panting heavily at her hand attempting to grip them both. In the dim light and the glow from his skin, Elain could make out a lot of things she didn’t think normal men had. The ridges, for one—and the scales he hadn’t bothered to hide with whatever magic he used to hide the rest of them. Rather than the rounded head she’d been shown in an illicit diagram, his tapered to a point. Thick and long, which the one just beneath a little longer—Elain understood the mechanics well enough.

The purpose, though, not as well. 

“I meant,” he gulped, eyes rolling up into his head when she added her other hand so she could hold them both, pressed together as she circled her fingers around him, “To ease you into this knowledge.”

“I’m not fragile,” she replied, though perhaps some warning would have been nice. It was too late now, though, and Elain wanted to see him to completion, too. Besides, curiosity had gotten the better of her, filling her with a million questions. Why? Why could anyone possibly need two cocks? 

Lucien quickly pushed off her, spreading his legs wide so she could better stroke him. He liked her touch, clumsy as it was, though she still asked, “Does this please you?”

“Yes,” he groaned, hips bucking into her hands. “Too much.”

The ridges were strange against her hand—firm, yet flexible. Not quite soft, but not so hard she thought they’d hurt. The sensation was rather pleasant against her fingers and Elain could almost imagine them rubbing against her still fluttering cunt. 

How had she gotten here, imagining she’d sleep with the mermonster? But Elain wanted to. She almost regretted not offering herself up to him when she’d had the chance. It was too late now, given the pooling fluid at the tapered head of his cocks, beading against her thumb. Elain slicked through it, using his own moisture to help her hands glide over him. Lucien groaned again, throwing his head back as his chest rose and fell rapidly.

Elain had never felt more powerful in her life. He could have drowned her days ago. Could drag her back out to sea if he wanted to. And certainly, the merman possessed a strange sort of magic that allowed him to walk on land for short bursts of time. Something she’d never manage no matter how hard she tried.

And yet he was powerless beneath her, at her mercy as she stroked those double cocks. Lucien’s fingers gripped the silken sheets of her bed, his back arching toward the ceiling as he panted and moaned softly. It seemed obscene for a man to make those kinds of noises and Elain was desperate to hear more of them. 

This was her doing. 

Lucien came all over her hand, clenching his jaw to keep himself quiet. Elain marveled at the white that coated her skin, matching what she’d gleaned from the library book before it had been banned with reality. Lucien gulped down great breaths of air, relaxing his posture as he fell back to the bed. Elain felt shy, embarrassed almost to be sitting beside a man with his pants tangled around his ankles. 

“Come home with me,” he rasped after a moment, his eyes closed.

“I—”

A shuffling in the hall silenced them both.

“Lady Elain?”

Lucien was already dressing himself hastily, eyes wide. Elain smoothed her hands over her nightdress and said nothing. Lucien vanished a moment later, back out the balcony without an answer.

Unaware she was about to tell him yes.

That if he’d offered, she would have left even with the maid just outside her door.

Lucien didn’t return the next night, much to Elain’s dismay. Nor the next, or even the one after that, leaving her to face the masquerade engagement on her own. Elain dreaded what was coming. Graysen was so earnest with his intentions, unaware she was desperate for escape. Elain was forced into a chair for the better part of the day so she could be laced into a dress within an inch of her life. Her face was painted, her hair pinned and a mask carefully glued against the rest of her skin.

And then…and then. It wasn’t quite night, and Elain, desperate to escape, slipped down the same emptied halls in her blush colored gown, thinking that the gold beaded accents reminded her of the monster's skin and scales. She just wanted to see him again. She wanted him to explain how they might be together—how they could make this work.

More than anything, though, Elain wanted him to just come back. Had he left her? Decided it wasn’t worth the trouble, that a mate wasn’t as interesting to him as he’d first thought? Maybe Lucien was filled with regrets that he’d hadn’t been given one of his own and had decided to cut his losses.

The sound of footsteps echoing down the hall sent Elain turning quickly, making her way toward an unused, dark room and then, when she heard the steps hurrying after her, to the balcony just outside. Go away, go away, go away—

“Princess?” 

A gruff voice pulled Elain from her thoughts. 

“Lord Nolan?” 

What was he doing out at such a late hour? Unmasked, but in a finely cut jacket and well-tailored pants. He looked at her, blinking eyes the same shade as his sons. He wasn’t nearly as handsome, wasn’t nearly as kind. Elain’s slippers were made of satin, slick as she stepped toward the stone wall overlooking the sea. 

“What are you doing out so late?” he asked, advancing a step. Elain had the sense she ought to run back inside—run straight to his son without looking back. Elain couldn’t help herself, twisting to look at the water lapping far below the marble balcony she stood on. It was a straight drop to the sea below, sparkling beneath the setting sun. This view was beautiful and treacherous. 

Nolan was here, too. Casual as he took another step in those polished, dark boots.

“Just taking in some air,” she lied. 

He took another step, and then another. Towering over her, he said, “The most curious thing happened today.” His hand was on her upper arm, tight enough she couldn’t easily pull away, but not so hard he was hurting her. Pink and violet light framed his sharp features, doing very little to soften him. 

“What?” she whispered, reading the accusation in his eyes.

“Chests of gold from some far off prince were sent to you.”

Elain blinked. “I…” She didn’t know who would send such a thing, though truthfully was Nolan so surprised? He had no money at all, and princes had been courting her from the moment she developed a woman’s body. “Who?”

“Prince Lucien. From Rhodes. I’ve never heard of such a place,” Nolan said, searching her expression for some answer. Elain was certain her face was too expressive, her shock too easy to read.

Nolan backed her up against the railing, the edge digging painfully against her back. 

What could a fish do to help me? She’d demanded. And he’d stood there, hurt and silent, well aware there he could do a lot of things. Prince Lucien. He was no mere fish, then. He was a prince and he’d… “Why would he send gold? Surely he’s heard of my impending engagement.”

Elain knew for a fact Lucien had heard. 

“Perhaps he understands what you so obviously do not. You don’t need a husband if a benefactor is willing to dig your kingdom out of poverty. No army to quell the rebellions, no uprisings—”

“You make that seem like it’s a bad thing. People are starving,” Elain interrupted, her heart pounding as she understood the danger she was in. “Our marriage can usher in a new era of peace.”

“When I was a boy,” Nolan interrupted, his voice low and lethal, “my father used to tell me the story of the legendary city of Rhodes. Lost to the sea and built of nothing but gold. Many sailors have gone looking for it…and before yesterday, it was nothing but a myth.”

“I don’t know this prince,” she lied. He knew it, too. His grip tightened on her arm.

“My son doesn’t require you anymore. And frankly, I find you troublesome. Meddlesome,” he added with a soft snarl. “Did you beg the monsters of the sea to help you escape? Is this the price you demanded? Your maids swear they’ve heard a man’s voice in your bedroom at night.”

Elain’s blood froze. “They lie,” she whispered. 

He only shook his head. “What a shame to see both the king and the princess die on the same day. What a tragic accident, to slip and fall to your death..”

“Don’t—” Elain’s panicked scream was swallowed by the air as Nolan shoved her back. She almost wished she’d smashed her head, if only to blot out the fear she felt when she hit the cold water. Elain’s dress ballooned around her, dragging her toward the silty bottom. Elain reminded herself she could swim. She could figure this out.

It was the battering waves that were the problem. They shoved her against the slimy wall only to suck her back out, preventing her from reaching the surface for a gulp of air. Elain knew Nolan would be watching, counting the seconds until he was certain she’d drowned. Her body would eventually wash up on shore, given credence to his story that she must have slipped.

Panic flooded her body. Think, she demanded. She reached the wall and clawed at the stone before she was dragged back out, doing little more than slicing open her palm. Salt stung at her wound as blood wound through the water. Relief filled her burning lungs—one more push of the wave, one more pull toward the sea.

And that was all she needed. Elain felt an arm wrap around her waist while a rough, musical voice murmured, “What are you doing down here, princess?” Lucien. 

Elain wrapped her arms around his neck. She needed air or she was going to drown, but the merman kept her below the water. She could see him, hazy under the dimming sun. 

“Do you trust me?” he asked her. She nodded, pushing her hair from her face. Lucien opened his mouth, drawing in a watery breath and then, with those viciously sharp teeth, bit the side of her neck. Elain tried to scream, given the pain was no small thing. Jerking in his arms, Elain tried to get away from him, to push toward the surface but he held steadfast, teeth buried in her skin.

Something was happening. Something terrifying, something…something that was filling her with air. Elain took a greedy breath, and then another. The pain subsided even as her vision had become spotty and black around the edges. 

Lucien ran his fingers over her neck where her own joined him a few moments later. Little slits, just like the ones against his own, seemed carved into her body. Elain could taste the water the way she’d once tasted the air. Salty at first, and then nothing at all. Just warm air filling her body.

“I’m told the tail takes a little longer,” he said ruefully, looking at her kicking legs. A week to grow in.”

“Where were you?” Elain demanded, tears blurring at her eyes. She couldn’t bring herself to be horrified with what he was telling her—he’d changed her. Made her into the same sort of monster he was.

Freed her. 

“I had to track someone down,” he replied, raking his fingers through her hair. “My brother took a human as a wife and I needed to know how he managed it. She has the loveliest gold tail now, and has given him several younglings. Did you get my gift?”

Elain twisted. Was Lord Nolan still waiting, counting the time? “He’s going to kill my father,” she said with no context at all. And then, well aware of what she was asking of the scaled, terrifying man still holding her, she added, “Please.”

Lucien’s russet and gold eyes flashed with fury. “Did someone push you?”

“Please,” she repeated. 

His lips skimmed her cheek. “Consider this another gift, then.” Lucien paused, face angled toward the surface. “A gift for my new wife.”

He gave her no time to protest, no time to argue. Though, Elain didn’t plan to. She wasn’t going back. Lucien surged upward, bringing her back to the surface. They broke into crisp spring air that tasted foul to her now. 

“What are you going to do?” Elain rasped, not wanting to be out here. Lucien looked at her as if she hadn’t just pleaded with him to kill Nolan before he killed her father—well aware it was likely too late. She couldn’t go back, not without acknowledging what she’d become. 

And maybe it was better to give the kingdom to Graysen. He’d treat it kindly so long as his father was gone. He’d be fair—and he had Lucien’s gold. Elain had never had the sense that Graysen wanted endless war. When he’d talked to her, he’d spoken of family. 

“I’m going to kill him,” Lucien replied evenly, reaching for the cliffside like it was made of putty. 

“Not his son!” Elain said, reaching for Lucien’s naked bicep. “Promise you won’t hurt Graysen.”

She could see he didn’t like that—that he didn’t understand why she’d asked that of him. But Graysen had been earnest, had cared for her in his way. He probably would have been a decent husband by all accounts had it not been for Lucien. 

Lucien looked at her, his expression unreadable. But finally he nodded his head. “Not his son.”

He left her in the water, crawling up the cliffside toward the palace. Elain watched until the air began to burn and then, because she was curious, dipped her head back beneath the water.

It was an alien world beneath the waves. Where once the salt had stung her eyes, blurring her surroundings, now Elain swore she saw clearer. Saw for miles in every direction, could hear the soft sounds of creatures moving about, of sand shifting and even the waves which reminded her too much of the wind. 

Lucien had told her she’d get a tail—that there were others like her, who’d been human once before pulled beneath the depths. Elain wondered where, and if she’d get to meet them. If they’d be friends, even. She wondered how far she’d get before Lucien found her, and without considering what other horrors might be lurking in the now pleasantly warm water, Elain began to swim.

It was a dream, to glide beneath the waves. Even with her kicking feet and her pumping arms, her body seemed designed to cut through the water the way her legs had once run through grass. Would she have fins along her forearms, her neck? Scales like he had? Elain tried to imagine it with delight. No one would ever lament over her beauty, would never try and lock her away like a delicate doll.

She’d have sharp teeth, she’d have fins and scales. Elain would be a monster, too, and after a lifetime of being thought of as fragile, she felt free. She wondered how long it would take Lucien to find her—if he’d be angry that she’d left. That would be the test, she decided. He wanted her as his wife?

Then had to accept she was not his to control. That she would do what she wanted or she’d leave and he wouldn’t have her, either. That was a sticking point, so critical that Elain didn’t realize he’d returned and was looking for her until she felt his arm snag around her waist.

“The son is alive,” he told her, his lips ghosting the shell of her ear. “The father is not. Your father is also alive.”

Elain twisted in his arms. “Really?”

There was no anger on his face, though there was the faintest trace of blood on his teeth. Elain could guess how Lucien had done it, what had motivated him to maximize both fear while prolonging that final moment of death.

And she found she didn’t much care.

“Really,” he agreed. “I’m sure he’ll mourn you, but…”

There was a question hanging at the end of his words. Elain reached for his face, her legs tangled along his powerful tail. “Sometimes I think I should have let you take me that first night.”

“I wish,” he agreed solemnly. 

Elain drew a breath of warm water. “But maybe it was better for you to see what life was like for me. So you understand what I can’t go back to.”

Lucien looked beyond her. “The ocean is vast and open. There is nowhere I could cage you, even if I wanted to.”

“And do you?” she questioned, sliding her hand up his bare chest. He wore a golden circlet over his bicep, made of the same gold she supposed he’d paid to her kingdom. A bride price, she realized, done backwards—it should have been her family who paid him. 

“I want,” he began, pulling at the laces of her dress. Elain had forgotten she was wearing it—had forgotten about the mask until she reached up and peeled it from her skin. “To show you the world. I want to see your legs gone, replaced by a pretty pink tail—”

“How do you know it’ll be pink?” she demanded. 

Lucien huffed out a laugh, bubbles escaping from his lips. “It will be, princess.”

Princess. That reminded her. “Prince,” she replied, catching his flashing grin. “Why didn’t you say so?”

Lucien drew her closer, his fingers combing through her floating, swirling hair. “Would you have liked me better if you’d known?”

“No,” she replied petulantly. His smile didn’t dim.

“So why mention it? It never mattered to me, I suspected it didn’t matter to you. What mattered was the matter of mates,” he replied, lips ghosting her own. “I would have had you regardless of the status you occupied. It might have been easier, in fact, if you’d lived in a little seaside cottage rather than that miserable palace.”

“If you’re a prince, does that make your father a king?” she asked, curious about the sea politics she was about to wade into.

Lucien was still smiling, his hair a halo of red around his beautiful face. “Yes. And my mother is very excited to meet you.”

“No pressure, then,” she murmured, wondering what it would be like to kiss him under water. Lucien reached for her face, holding the entirety of it in his large hand. 

“Exactly. Only freedom, exactly as you imagined it.”

“Will you take me to meet the other human?”

“I’ll take you anywhere you like,” he promised before slanting his mouth over her own. Elain tried to imagine that—anywhere she wanted in the entire world, assuming she could move between a tail and legs. They could leave the water and travel on land, or swim through the water. 

Together. 

Elain’s back pressed against something smooth, pinning her between Lucien’s more powerful frame and wherever he’d brought her. Night had settled, turning the water into an inky abyss without the benefit of a silver hanging moon or twinkling stars. She expected to open her eyes and find the salt stinging her eyes again, but when she did she found Lucien’s glowing, brown skin and his auburn hair floating around his face.

And his tongue, in her mouth. Elain clung to him, drawing him closer and closer until her legs were wrapped around his waist. Using a sharp claw, he shredded the rest of her well-knotted laces, leaving her only in her shift beneath. Elain twisted, watching that gown float away. Would her father find it one day? She hoped so. And she hoped he knew that she was safe somewhere. 

“Don’t,” she breathed when he reached for the scooping neckline of the last piece of clothing she owned. “I don’t want to meet your mother naked.”

A bubbling laugh slipped from between his lips. “Okay, princess. But—”

“No buts,” she breathed, running her hands down the length of his chest. Lucien shuddered when her fingers met his scaled tail, beautiful and golden in the otherwise dark water. He was beautiful, so achingly lovely it almost hurt. “Let me have this.”

Holding her face, Lucien swept his thumb over her cheek. “You can have whatever you like.”

She wanted him. Elain made that apparent by pulling him back against her, though not before twisting to see what they were propped against. Behind her lay a sprawling, ruined palace, crumbled and eroded from both the cruel embrace of time and the salty water. Beyond it, though, Elain swore she could see something glittering. Something warm, just like the man holding her.

And she knew without having to ask that they were near his kingdom. She ought to have asked him to take her home, to show her where he lived, where he slept. To have her first time be among the softness of his bed, assuming he had one.

But Elain was tired of waiting. She suspected her arrival would result in a big fuss and by the time her and Lucien were able to find a moment of peace together, they’d be too exhausted for anything but sleep. Elain wanted this. Wanted him.

Wanted the monster. 

Their mouths collided with a hunger that should have scared her. Instead, a thrill shivered up her spine. She was far below the surface, so well hidden that no one would ever find her. In the morning, when the sun’s rays cut through the water, she intended to bask in the beams of light and warmth until she couldn’t stand it. She’d float on her back, kicking her legs until her tail finally came in. 

And then she’d have Lucien take them everywhere. Places he’d never seen and places he had. Meeting the human who’d become a mermaid, too. But until then, she’d have this and she’d have him. Elain kissed him like he was the only way she could breathe, as if this were the only way to keep air in her lungs. He tasted warm like sunlight, his fingers tangled in her hair. 

“How does it work?” she asked him, running her hands back over his stomach, touching the scales where his cock ought to have been. Panting, Lucien looked between them.

“You want to watch?”

“Yes,” she replied brazenly. Just as she’d done before when he’d licked her. Groaning, Lucien shifted, his fin flipping out behind him. Hands braced on the stone structure behind her, he pushed his hips out. Two panels right in the front pushed out, allowing the erect cocks she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since she’d first touched them. Mesmerized, Elain watched them bob like a spring that had been coiled back too far. She reached for them, holding them both in one hand so she stroke them just as she’d done before.

Lucien exhaled another bubbled breath. 

“Why do you have two of them?” she asked as his own hand slipped beneath her shift.

“The only way my kind is able to reproduce is if our females enjoy themselves,” he managed, his voice little more than a rough rasp. “I suppose two cocks help maximize pleasure. I’ve never thought much about it. One seems insufficient.”

Elain might have told him one was standard among humanity, but his clever fingers had begun rubbing slow, almost lazy circles around her clit. Perhaps he was right—or maybe she just didn’t care anymore. 

“Relax,” he murmured against her neck, teeth grazing her sensitive skin. Elain could feel the pulse point where he’d bitten her throbbing, but when her hands flew to her neck, she found the wound was gone. She’d forgotten about it entirely right until that moment. What sort of magic could do such a thing? 

“Relax,” she repeated, capturing his mouth for another messy, desperate kiss.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he groaned, bucking into her slowly stroking hands. “I won’t hurt you.”

One kiss became two, became an eternity of kissing him with nothing but the sound of her own frantic heart and the music of the sea gently churning around them. Elain spread her legs wider, letting Lucien slick his fingers through her own wet heat, spreading it over her clit until she was grinding against his hand.

Elain whined when he pulled away, catching how he brought his finger to his lips for a taste. “It’s better on land, I think,” he said ruefully. Elain supposed the water washed away most of the taste and wondered if that wouldn’t make licking her better—or if he’d miss it. She’d ask him later and perhaps still suggest that little seaside cottage for when they got tired of the water. Even if it was just for a day, it might be nice to put their toes in the sand on occasion.

Lucien reached for her thighs, holding her up until she could feet that tapered tip rubbing against her clit just as his fingers had done. “Take a breath,” he said, head thrown back with obvious pleasure. He wasn’t even inside her yet. 

“Do it all at once,” she said, certain it would be worse if he dragged everything out. All Elain had ever heard her entire life was the act of sex hurt, at least the first time. She suspected that might not be entirely true, but just to hedge her bets, Elain wanted to get the first moment of it over quickly. 

He pushed, stretching not just her cunt, but her ass, too. Elain hadn’t really considered they’d both go inside her, nor had the thought of the implications beyond just wanting him. For a moment she forgot to breathe while he wedged himself into the tightness of her body, his eyes wide, pupils big and blown out. At no point did he stop, nor did Elain ask him to, though the stretch at one point almost became unmanageable. 

Underneath all of it was an undercurrent of pleasure wounding itself tightly in her chest. She tried to keep her discomfort from her face until he gave one last small thrust, seating the largeness of himself entirely within her.

“Breathe,” he ordered and Elain did, sucking in a warm gulp of water. 

“I’m fine,” she said, squeezing herself around him in an effort to adjust to the intrusion. “I’m fine.”

“I’m not,” Lucien replied, resting his forehead against his own. “I’m wrecked, Elain. You feel…your body…I…”

She’d never thought she’d see the day the monster was at a loss for words. Reaching for his face, Elain pressed a kiss to his mouth and squeezed again. This time, the fullness only felt good.

The ridges of his cock were nestled against each other, separated by only the thinnest layer of skin. She wanted to feel them rubbing against her.

Elain wanted to know what it was like to be with a man she desperately needed. That she cared about.

That she loved. 

She wiggled, snapping him out of whatever trance he’d fallen under. Lucien withdrew nearly to the tip before pushing himself back into her, watching her expression the entire time. He could have gone harder, she reflected. Elain gasped as pleasure spiked in her gut, threatening to overwhelm her. Lucien panted, thrusting into her again all the while watching her expression. Elain had been right—the rubbing ridges was unlike anything she could have imagined. Delicious friction had her tightening both holes around him while Lucien used his hands to spread her wider, which only heightened her pleasure. 

“Touch me,” he pleaded, pumping into her with wild, feral abandon. “Please.”

Elain reached up, fingers finding purchase in his hair. Elain pulled, ripping a whine of need from his throat. They collided for another kiss, teeth scraping against her bottom lip, hands digging into her thighs. Elain reveled in the sensation, the fullness of both cocks thrusting in and out of her, of this scaled tail teasing her clit with each pass. She was going to come—and as it built higher and hotter with each wild thrust, Elain decided she was going to be loud.

“Please,” she whispered into the sweetness of his mouth. “Lucien, please.”

Each new stroke was rougher, harder, until it all blended together. Pleasure frazzled through her, unspooling until Elain couldn’t do anything but breathe. Lucien whined, the veins in his neck strained. Elain came with a scream that echoed through the world around her. Lucien fell just behind, filling her with his own vicious orgasm. She could feel it, wet and warm in a way the water wasn’t.

Lucien clutched her to his chest, still buried to the gills in her body. “Mate,” he panted into her hair. “My mate—my wife. I love you, Elain, I—”

“I love you,” she agreed, arms around his neck, kissing just below his jaw. “Lucien?”

“Yes?”

“Are you going to take me to meet your mother now?”

He laughed, raising his head to look at her. “Yes. Let’s go meet my mother now, princess.”

“You have to pull out—”

“Let’s meet my mother in a little bit,” he said, his voice dark and sultry. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Elain grinned. “Good.”

#elucien #vanmerman #mermay? #back on my nice monster bullshit #mean monsters another day

[akutasoda]

Hello <33 would it be alright to request Kurapika and a reader who is understanding, independent, smart, but also relatively quiet/analytical? I can see them quietly leaving him as he focuses on his goals (like the end of the anime) so they don’t distract him because I love angst :3 I think his s/o would love him deeply but refuse to keep him from revenge yknow? :3

up to you how you’d like to do it or if you do it at all! Wishing you a lovely night or day <3 C:

to let you free

synopsis - you didn't want to distract him from the one thing that was so important to him, but you didn't know how much he cared for you

includes - kurapika

warnings - gn!reader, angst no comfort, fluff, strangers-friends-strangers?, wc - 605

a/n: hello! wishing you a lovely day or night too <3

↪you had met kurapika during the hunter exams, a very short, brief encounter which only lasted long enough to weasel out each others names. you both were more concerned for passing the actual exam than making acquaintances right now - they could always be made later.

↪you met him a second time after you both passed the hunter exams. this time, having recognised one another from the exam, you both had the time to be more friendly and have conversation, despite your quite nature. then you parted ways again.

↪the third time you met him he was accompanied by his companions. three coincidental meetings had led you both to believe that you would always cross paths like this and so kurapika offered you to join him and his friends as they may be able to help you in whatever your journey was for.

↪you would then come to learn of all the goals for his friends, each individual having a completely different reason. your interest piqued when kurapika finally told you his intentions for his journey - his motivation for revenge was rather admirable.

↪your understanding nature made kurapika subconsciously open up more to you in particular, he felt as if you actually listened and cared for his story and the tasks he set out for.

↪your analytical and intelligent side only attracted him more, you offered him opions and facts that made him think. made him evaluate his options more to receive the best outcome.

↪it would be no surprise that these opinions are what lead to his developing crush on you. however his dedication to seeking revenge put a halt to his attempts at getting closer to you - he wanted to achieve this first as then nothing would be able to stop him from pursuing a future as he would no longer dwell on the past.

↪no words were exchanged for this issue but you felt the same. you too had developed a crush but you didn't feel it was the right time for either of you. his revenge would keep him glued to the past, not yet ready to see out his future, and you had your own issues to fix.

↪this would be were you quietness and independence would come in handy. you were both young with goals on mind and the last thing you would want to do is stop him from his and so you made a conscious decision to leave undetected - his friends too busy with their problems to notice.

↪while you would deeply miss his companionship, you felt this was for the best. the day you decided to slip away you left his friend a note to relay to him as he was too busy with revenge to care what anyone else was doing and then you left to pursue your life.

↪kurapika would admit that his revenge became selfish toward the end. he was so dead set on doing it by himself and avenging his clan that he would realise how much that affected his friends and himself afterwards.

↪it took him a painfully long time to even realise you disappeared - it pained him that he didn't notice sooner. it was a short enough time that his friend remembered the note but long enough that they didn't even remember where the note was and your last message to kurapika was gone.

↪he knows the long lasting affects that hos abilities have placed on his body and he'd do anything to see you again. now, his only mission is to find you and confess.

#x reader #x gender neutral reader #hxh x you #hxh x reader #hunter x hunter x reader #hxh kurapika #hunter x hunter kurapika #kurapika x reader #kurapika x you

[amaranthsynthesis]

So….does Ballard know math? (Or does he think he won’t die?) Because BG alone has like 125k people in it. It’s not even the biggest city on the Sword Coast (and has been keeping up that pop despite a lot of Bhaalspawn). Going out further, there’s about 68 million peeps to murder in Faerun. A standard drow can live up to 750 years, chosen certainly can live longer than that. It seems like the Urge taking over takes a decent bit of time, so it doesn't seem Daddy dearest is mathing it out hard either. (Also, the Illithid side quest seems a new of tactics.) Now sure, some other people will help out with the murdering. But….I have questions about what assumptions and internal narrative Ballard had prior to being tadpoled about his lifespan.

The jokey non-answer is no, Ballard can't count, he told Gortash already!

The second and objectively true answer to this question is that's the stupid lore, which I don't love but must needs work with. I don't have much background knowledge of the previous games or the forgotten realm setting (or even 5E if we are honest) so I don't know if that's also Bhaal's goal elsewhere, or if he has more nuance instead of dumb evil, but. yeah.

The third answer, where character lore has to work around and fill in the gaps of the source material, is that faith necessitates a certain amount of cognitive dissonance.

I attended thirteen years of Catholic school, with mandatory religion classes every year, very few of which were concerned at all with other world religions--I do not believe, and have not since the third grade, but that's a point for another time. One of the topics we would revisit every few years that I found fascinating was the idea of the sacred mysteries, which are events or acts that we cannot explain and will never understand, but we must accept as true without seeking to apply logic. That is what faith is, fundamentally; believing in something that has, physically, limited to no evidence to support it.

Religion in the forgotten realms is clearly a very different beast, as there is no way to deny the gods are real, their acts are real, magic is real, etc. They're right there! And they won't leave our shit alone!! Ballard knows he is the son of Bhaal because Bhaal is real and talks to him; he knows how he was made, he knows his purpose, he knows the punishments and rewards that are offered to him. But you're right, you are absolutely right in that Bhaal's vision of the end of the world is fundamentally impossible. It's a numbers game and he is boned before it even begins. He has set Ballard an impossible task--there is no way to complete it, and no outcome but failure.

That's..... not information Ballard can have and remain sane and stable. Perhaps other Bhaalspawn could accept the inherent futility, but it would shatter him and his core of duty and purpose. Him ignoring it isn't conscious, it isn't 'Hm. Well, let's put that back in the vault and never think about it again!', it's a very real survival mechanism his body is invoking to keep him safe. He can build the temple up, he can restore it to it's former glory and drive the influence of Cyr from it's halls, he can swell the ranks of the faithful, he can obediently complete his own mandated murders and whatever show of faith necessary for the Ecclesiastic calendar and regular worship. Those are the things he can control, those are numbers he can change.

So that's as far as his mind will go.

Ballard has never had a vision of the future further than a few years, enough time to complete this plan, to finish this stage of temple refurbishment, this recruitment effort. He will live as long as his father wills it, doing his will, for as long as there is. Beyond that it is darkness--trying to probe that darkness, envisioning a future future with Gortash, after the Crown plan, is what lands him in the Illithid Colony having a full crisis of faith and vulnerable to Orin's attack and the tadpole itself. A Ballard who can dream about the future is very fundamentally not a Ballard who can remain faithful to Bhaal, and the two are tearing him apart.

I've got some fic and art percolating that delves into that crisis and the what-if future, and all I can say is........ sorry in advance. About that.

#ask meme #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #the dark urge #durge #ballard #me holding what was intended to be a quick little sketch based on a klimt and laughing very nervously

[object-headed-characters-yes]

Day 8- Role Swap

Click and RGB swap; Click regrets his decision. Very much regrets it (I’m still thinking about their interaction, so this one-shot happened.

(Some tags: role swap, resentment, angst, betrayal)

A possible to-be soldier in his old world, a hero in this one, yet denied the heroic end to his journey in this world of make-believe.

He refused to let this he end of his journey, as he’d been told it was. He refused to accept that this was how it ended.

Broken and bleeding, clothing in tatters.

Click thinks that he demanded another chance. A do-over, as it were, to change this outcome. It must have been allowed, for She was amused by his words (Click rankles at the amusement; he should have succeeded, not lost as he had). But Click was allowed to try again, but unlike before, he was not the hero. He was instead tasked with finding one instead, which was not what he wanted but what he got.

Click’s body was no longer human, either. It was a rigid, mainly inorganic body. A facsimile of a soldier; a tin soldier whose body was made up of weapons that he had used on his initial journey. As much as Click disliked being put in this position, he still existed, and that allowed him to attain the goal from before, just in a roundabout way.

First, he needed to find a hero.

He went back to the world he’d come from, and took his time choosing the person he would bring back with him. Click didn’t want to have to try again, especially if he may not have another chance from Her if the hero Click found failed as he had.

Click was drawn to an actor, who had flair and a presence on the set that brought attention to him versus the others. This man handled himself with a cool air of confidence and preciseness that would aid him well in the world of make believe. The longer Click watched the actor on set, the more he believed that this man could be a good candidate. Even more so when Click observed that the man appeared to do well at close quarters parrying and joking prodding with a bamboo cane between takes. This would mesh well with Click’s preferred long-range attack style. He would be able to avoid striking then man should he agree to what would likely sound absurd, especially coming from someone who looked as Click now did.

Most unfortunately, Click didn’t have time to follow the man around outside of the set to be sure of his assumptions; already Click had taken too much time to find someone to bring back with him. So, a few days after observing the man, Click followed the actor home. And once it was clear they were alone, Click made himself known to the man.

Click-click-click.

“I say, where in the dickens did you come from?!” The man practically yelped, putting a chair between himself and the tin soldier that was suddenly just there. He reached a hand to his head, fingers tangling through a short mop of wavy hair. “I’ve gone and hit my head, haven’t I?”

It was a rather entertaining reaction to something inexplicably appearing from out of nowhere when one thought they were all alone.

Click greeted the wary man with a tilt of his fake head, not bothering to explain that his eyes were the six golden buttons on his chest, and three mouths could spilt open along the trailing black decoration between the buttons with sharp teeth.

Later.

If and when it was necessary for this would-be hero before him, should the actor choose to play along.

Click-click-click.

“Is that normal for you to be making that noise?” The man asked. “It doesn’t seem natural, you know. How is it that you’re moving? Is this some kind of new hazing within the studio?”

More chatter than Click had seen from the man when he’d been in the studio, as the actor had mentioned.

No matter.

There wasn’t enough time to pick someone else, now that Click had shown himself to the man. Before the actor could ask even more questions, Click spoke.

“Do you want to be a hero?”

~

Click had regrets.

Many, many regrets, really.

But choosing this current hero?

The biggest regret of Click’s entire life (or death, whichever way one wanted to look at it).

This hero was not who he appeared to be, this hero.

Click should have known better than to choose someone based off how they acted on the job, versus how they acted when eyes were off of them.

This hero was utterly insufferable.

The man ran his mouth ceaselessly, whether or not Click had any answers in-between. Despite wanting nothing more than to hate this hero who had taken on the role Click had held before, this hero was frustratingly capable of getting through dicey situations (at times with intervention from Click himself when the tin soldier deemed it necessary). Click had gotten some grim amusement out of the first time he used his rifle made up of his arm to fire on some Fears that had surrounded himself and his hero.

The hero?

“I say, that was quite a shoot of a surprise.” He just laughed (nervously) and tipped his boater hat to Click in thanks. Then the hero tapped his bamboo cane to the ground alongside the remnants of the Fears shot down. “What good aim, too. Though I don’t suppose we could be a tiny bit more careful about possible ricochets?” The hero lifted his suit coat out to the side to proffer the hole that had gone through the fabric during a dodge.

“I missed you, didn’t I?” Click responded indifferently, as his arm shifted back to an arm, metal hand flexing. “With all of your scrambling about as well, I might add.” Smoke finished curling out from his multiple mouths on his chest, and out the mouth of the fake head. Click’s mouths twisted in ire when the hero came closer, the man not having to stoop to look at Click’s golden button eyes.

“That you did, and for that, I’m grateful.” Swinging the cane up over his shoulder, the hero hummed thoughtfully. “Where did you say we were headed before that interruption?”

“…the Market.”

“I see. And from its name I gather that there are goods to trade and such?” The hero looked around, then turned back to Click, a frown slipping across his face. “Something the matter, Click?”

“Nothing.” The three smiles twisted into cooked smiles when the hero’s eyes studied him closely. “All is well, with the Fears dealt with.”

“If you’re certain…” The hero replied dubiously, staring at the immobile tin soldier’s face, before falling into step alongside him as Click continued on whatever path that apparently would lead them to the Market.

~

This hero made it to the Market after all.

What a surprise.

Click wondered how much longer this hero would last, with the close calls that had been had on the way here. Yet onward they travelled, until something became clearer than ever before that Click felt he’d noticed but hadn’t really paid much heed to.

This hero was a damned coward, the bravado, the confidence a front to hide a crippling fear of inadequacy to fulfill the role of ‘hero’ he had agreed to when he accepted Click’s offer.

But infuriatingly, luck was on the hero’s side, though it was through Click’s weapons and precision at shooting the enemies that helped the hero be that lucky. Click could count a few times where, had he not intervened, the hero would have been overtaken, and fail as Click had failed. This hero would be doomed to be twisted to fit this world’s inhabitants, no longer human, but something else.

Maybe even a monster.

Already the hero had lost his suit coat, the braces over the dress shirt fiddled within an inch of its life. The cane was twirled absently through the dark journey to the market (hitting Click several times; it didn’t hurt, but it was rather irritating).

Click was uncertain how much longer the hero could go on should the tin soldier choose to stop assisting him, stepping in to prevent injury and schisms. But if this hero could get to the end, Click believed that he could cut in last minute to fulfill the role of ‘hero’ that had been denied to him.

Time would tell…except Time wasn't easy to pin down with how often Time moved about.

After a visit for new amour (and surviving the hero’s inane chattering about the logistics of it all), they were off from the relative safety of the Market. The hero would have to last until the end, and it was to be seen if he could manage it without Click’s continued interference, and the knowledge that the hero’s bravado and calm was false.

It was simply too much to deal with, Click decided, coupled with the hero’s incessant chattering that continued on, that led Click to his decision not too far from the safety of the Market. With an excuse of needing to gather more material than intended, Click backtracked to the Market with the unwitting hero.

The hero only realized what was going on when he suddenly noted that he no longer had his guide.

Where had the tin soldier gone?

Onward without him?

From the shadows nearby, Click watched dispassionately as his hero was slowly overwhelmed by Fears and Doubts. Turning away, Click waited until the deed was done. He doubted that there would be much left of the human that had come here to the world of make believe with him.

Click waited, until a shiver ran through him as a shadow loomed over him. Click kept his golden button eyes forward in the dark as he spoke.

“He wasn’t the hero I thought he would be. A coward of an actor who hid behind a grandiose guise and ceaseless chattering like a telly someone left on. His cool and calm demeanor in the face of danger was a lie made manifest here time and time again.”

A twinge of guilt that rose was crushed when Click saw the former hero collapse nearby after being seen to by Her. Seeing as he was in one piece, Click assumed this meant he would be allowed to find another hero, since he was still standing. Click stared down at the former hero, unbothered by the static pleas that rose from the now-television headed monster that lie on the ground near the Market entry, a trembling hand held out toward Click.

The tin solider turned away, abandoning the former hero behind him to whatever fate this world would bestow upon him from that point forward, as there would be no returning to his old life. Click needed an actual hero and not a coward; Click needed who the former hero had been when he was acting.

The next time Click passed through the Market with a new hero, his former hero now went by the name ‘RGB.’ Click avoided him, and told himself that it wasn’t guilt that kept him away from RGB.

It was better that way, for both of them.

#the property of hate #the property of may #tpoh fanfic one shot #tpoh click #tpoh rgb #Moar fic yee