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orbital-inclination · 11 months

Note

I requested more of the scenario Molt meeting og nightmare

I'm sorry for the wait anon! For a change of pace, you get a one-shot this time! word count: 3411 general content warning for canon typical violence and angst.

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Something grainy, like gravel and sand, crunched under the soles of his boots as he shuffled back a step. One looping tendril made contact with a roughly cut boulder behind him. The height of the stone reached his hip. Clumsily, he ran his phalanges along its surface. He stepped around it and stopped once he stood on the south side, uncertain of how to proceed from there.

It was rare that he found himself in a space so wide open without someone nearby. He’d like to think he was better at navigating now than he had been when he was younger. Yet, regardless of how much time passed, he could never seem to quite outgrow the sudden spike of anxiety he felt whenever he entered a space that seemed... empty.

He didn’t know what he was walking towards or away from. He could be approaching a canyon for all he knew.

A steady, lonely wind howled above him. It caught the tail of his tunic and the fabric slapped against his side. Something rustled in the distance.

The wind turned cold.

Ley lines of magic, negative and positive, wrapped around this world in a vast net of ever-shifting ripe tides. Instinct had directed him to follow the nearest positive swell but now he felt it move again. Bending as though to make way. Just as suddenly as the air had turned cold, a well opened up, and negativity cascaded down the pit and condensed into a single point of black frost.

A shiver ran down his spine. “Nightmare…?”

Something about Rem’s magic didn’t feel right—

“How unlike you to make the first move. Was it not enough for you to…” his brother’s voice trailed off. “You are not my brother.”

No... no he was not. Rem’s magic felt cold, but not this cold. Though, the undercurrent of bitterness was painfully familiar.

“… the sentiment is mutual,” Molt murmured. He steadied himself on the boulder behind him. Silently, he tried to gauge the other’s intent.

An air of suspicion and curiosity rolled underneath the cold. He had the sense he was also being appraised.

“And yet, you are Dream.”

He did not sound—did not feel happy about that.

“If it were not impossible, I would wager you were from a divergent timeline.”

“Our world had only one timeline,” Molt confirmed cautiously. His voice remained low. “… it’s tied to the multiverse itself. No resets. Just the one.”

“Ah, so you are informed,” his brother's voice mocked. “Your presence here suggests a paradox, then. For all my searching, I have never met another iteration of us who could breach the confines of their AU on their own. It seemed there was some law restricting the role of Guardian to Two.”

He nodded because that more or less described the situation back home. With a renewed sense of scrutiny, Nightmare said, “Can I assume then, that instead of your brother, you were the one who bit the apple?”

And Molt stalled. The question was so direct. It felt a bit like a verbal slap to the face.

Nightmare hummed. “I see. That expression you’re making... It makes sense for my alternative self to have other motives if you are like this yourself.” He heard the grin in his tone, even if he could not see it. “Tell me, Dream. What do you say to adding to that collection of yours?” He— he couldn’t be serious.

“In this multiverse, you have the opportunity to increase your power. If you collect the last apple from my brother, perhaps we can reach an agreement.”

His mouth felt suddenly dry. He had to consciously still his tentacles to keep them from lashing defensively.

“You… you want me to kill my counterpart.”

He struggled to wrap his mind around that. Less so the threat itself and more so that it was Nightmare who was asking him to do it. He felt sick.

His brother’s alternate rumbled a low laugh. “It would not be difficult for you. You dwarf him in raw power. I’m confident you could easily subdue him... Ah, but I see I cannot convince you. The thought distresses you. A pity.”

Gravel and sand crunched underfoot. The sound came quietly. “ … hmm just as I thought, you are blind.”

“...what are you doing?”

Nightmare was amused by the question. Dread washed over him. Nightmare had been speaking to him civilly until that point, and while this mirror of his brother gave off an ambient feeling of danger, he had not taken the feeling as seriously as he should have.

“I am considering what to do with you. Since it seems you are reluctant to cooperate. But you would be of a dull mind not to suspect that already. If you are anything like the thorn I have in my side now, I’m sure you will quickly surmise why I simply cannot let your existence go unchecked.”

Molt slowly shuffled a step back.

“… where do you think you will escape to? Are you even aware of what is behind you?”

Molt froze.

He sensed no one behind him but— the subtle rustle of fabric. A step was taken closer and it dawned on him that Nightmare had been trying to distract him.

Molt’s hearing was keen. It had to be. He learned to rely on it when sensing nearby emotions, and the flow of positive and negative wasn’t enough. But his haptic memory was better, and with one tentacle brushing against the boulder behind him, he knew which side he stood on and which direction he originally came from.

He darted around the boulder, squarely placing it between himself and Nightmare. His brother’s alternate self stood still, contemplative and mildly surprised.

“Hm. You cannot see, and yet you are able to pinpoint my position. Interesting.”

Molt didn’t feel like providing a reply.

Nightmare didn’t move for a width of time that felt like years. And then, he vanished. The cold sucked out of the air in a blip of distorted space-time.

Alarm seized him. Given no time to think, he picked direction and distance at random and took a shortcut through. As he felt his bones materialize in reality again, a dense frame of cold magic solidified where he had stood seconds prior.

Displeasure radiated off of Nightmare in waves. “Come now. Don’t run. It’s unbecoming. We can discuss the terms of your departure from this world with maturity.”

Molt shivered. “Don’t. I would return to my reality if I knew how.”

“Then allow me to assist you,” Nightmare said, and the malice in his words sent needles crawling up his spine. He vanished again in a wash of cold. Molt leaped back, grasping at the nearest tide of positivity to carry him away.

He found his feet again on the sand. The sudden incline made him stumble. The seconds it took to catch his balance nearly cost him. A frustrated growl and the sensation of ice to his right was the only warning he had before a sharp object whistled past his skull. He teleported again and Nightmare followed.

“Enough! Cease this childishness.” The burning cold struck his side. Molt tumbled to the ground. He rolled, gasping in pain, and launched himself to the side. “Stop! I don’t want to fight you.” A loud crack sounded where he’d just been. Gravel pelted his arm.

“Then what happens next is your own fault,” His brother’s voice snarled.

He took another shortcut. Aiming north of the dense vortex of cold desperately trying to put some distance between himself and his brother’s counterpart. He needed that distance to escape this AU. If he attempted the jump too close to Nightmare he might unintentionally drag him along, or Nightmare would be able to sense where he went and this fight would never end. The temperature plummeted. In a split second, a cold tendril snapped around his middle. And then he was flung. His body hit the ground once, twice, and his skull was knocked against something hard.

A hiss shuddered through his ribcage. Molt clenched his teeth as the world spun, attempting to swallow back the sound.

“You brought this on yourself, Dream.”

Gravel and sand crunched at a steady pace. Malice approached slowly.

He struggled to push himself upright. The ground beneath him swayed dangerously. His tendrils lashed, writhing in defense of their host. But the ground beneath him lurched, his arms buckled, and the ground swung up to meet the side of his skull again.

His soul pulsed so fast and hard in his chest, he thought he was going to be sick.

“Poetic, isn’t it? I wonder... did the same desperation drive you?”

Cold wrapped around him and slammed his back into a hard, stone wall.

Claws dug into his jaw, roughly pinning his skull to the stone slab behind him. A strained hiss tore from his bared teeth. He found the strength to wrestle one arm free and dug his claws into the wrist pinning his head down. Nightmare’s strength didn’t waver, but an involuntary noise rattled through him, a jolt that was close enough to a flinch to be nothing else.

Faintly, Molt felt the phantom echo of a hot brand race up Nightmare’s arm, starting from where his claws dug into his wrist.

“W-why are you doing this? I am not from your timeline, so why?”

“The distinction is irrelevant,” the grip on his jaw tightened. “This fate, it’s the least you deserve. For everything you put me through. For every day I was left to defend myself while you selfishly basked in undeserved praise.”

Exhaustion crept into his limbs. He felt weaker and heavier by the second.

“Would you have always resented me?” Molt gasped out. “If things had been different... If our lives had been better—”

Nightmare barked out a bitter laugh. “Even as you are now, you are naive. No. I cannot imagine a world where I did not hate you. For us, no other outcome was possible.” Molt flinched. “... you doubt me? Do you actually believe my alternate self doesn’t resent you?”

The knife in his heart gave a sharp lurch. It would make sense... wouldn’t it. For all he hadn’t done, who wouldn’t resent him?

“N-Night...”

“You neglected your responsibilities, Dream. You were selfish. I’ve always wondered if you had known what I stood to lose that day. If you had known what they had planned to do—” “Nightmare!” Molt snapped. He was terrified, his soul shook, and he was painfully cold. “That was my home too!” Something snapped. He felt the abrupt, quaking shift in Nightmare’s demeanor. Rage colored all rational thought. Molt didn’t know what he intended to do and he didn’t have time to think about it. That rage solidified into a single, sharp tool. Malice soaked the thing so vividly, he could almost see it. A serrated bone dagger.

Molt jerked his head to the side, the claws on his jaw slipped, and something sharp and blisteringly cold scraped the side of his skull.

He might have blacked out for a few seconds. He couldn’t be sure. One moment, his vision was black. Then it was white. He’d yanked a tentacle free in the next. A resounding crack thundered through the stone lab behind him. Nightmare’s grip on his head slipped, caught off guard. Molt kicked his shin, and as Nightmare staggered, snarling, he flash-stepped out of immediate reach.

A safe distance away he sank to the ground.

Head swimming, he lifted a shaky hand to the side of his skull. He felt bone. The dry, clean surface of a malar bone. The muddy, blurred shape of his palm swam in and out of focus.

Nightmare stood very still for a long moment. His emotions felt stunted and Molt could not identify the feeling that had rendered him so still. Moments ago, Nightmare had been content to hurt him in every possible way.

“Get up,” Nightmare said. And he couldn’t identify the emotion behind that command either. It felt like anger but brittle. “I said get up!”

A tremble racked through his body. He felt a forbidden spark of anger ignite in his throat and shakily rose to his feet.

As he slowly lifted his gaze, palm still pressed to the side of his skull, he saw black tar and went still.

It was one thing to guess the shape of the magic that had tossed him around the field like a rag doll, but it was another thing entirely, to see it.

The ground felt like it was tilting. Nightmare was taking too long to respond. And though he hid it well, he was clearly in pain. Head swimming. Pounding. Red-hot needles. Nausea pricked through his brother’s bones.

Nightmare took one step closer. Molt flinched back, and a bitter smile crawled over his brother’s teeth—

“NOT SO FAST!”

A sharp ping. His vision was eclipsed in hazy blue. Before Molt could blink, he found himself yanked to the side, several feet away.

He was released, gently at that, and stumbled once as gravity resumed its normal weight. The world erupted in a cacophony of noise. With color and light sloshing together, it was difficult to make out shape and form, but the stirring magic immediately in front of him was familiar.

“Blue?” Molt whispered, but like Nightmare his magic felt just slightly off. The hope in his soul withered. He was surrounded by strangers.

“MWEH HEH HEH FEAR NOT STRANGE INTERDIMENSIONAL CITIZEN! WE ARE HERE TO SAVE THE DAY. NIGHTMARE! YOU WILL NOT GET AWAY WITH THIS!”

Whatever his brother’s mirror said in reply it was drowned out by noise.

“Wait.”

But his voice was too low. Too quiet. And his plea went ignored.

Too much happened at once after that. The Swap Sans launched himself into the fight. Light. Movement. A flash of white. Bones summoned then shattered by the furious sweep of a black arm. Nightmare’s strength was weakening. The balance had tipped. And battling three by himself? Nightmare couldn’t keep this up for much longer.

Most of the fight happened too fast for his barely stable eyelight to track.

So he did what he always did when the world around him became too chaotic to follow. He reached for the cold pitch of his brother’s magic.

He followed the current of cold as it funneled into a singular point. Pushed back, and back again by a burning white star. Hope. Concentration. Concern for the other, yet the courage to see his actions through to the end. The familiarity of the magic here was disconcerting. But his head already ached something awful and he didn't think his nausea could get much worse. The phantom lashes he’d endured at Nightmare’s hand still burned. But... Nightmare. He felt his twin’s exhaustion, felt the unsteady slip to his heel, and his alternate was closing in now and—

The shortcut was rough. Poorly executed. And finding his balance on the balls of his feet was not fun. He raised his arm defensively, anticipating the attack seconds before, and found his hand closing around the pole of a golden staff. It smacked into his palm with a solid clank. It hurt only a little bit. His own magic absorbed the brunt of the blow to feed itself. To lessen some of his own pain. And staring into the wide eyes of his own face was...

Dizzying.

Everything was dizzying.

That startled look melted into one of fear, and it didn’t make sense. His own rib cage hitched, sharing that fear second hand and then it dawned on him how this might look. Oh. He thought. …oh.

He released his counterpart's weapon and yanked his hand back. The other skeleton flash stepped out of reach, his soul pulsing with the rhythm of a terrified rabbit.

Within the pool of frigid cold at his back, he felt a spark of something that felt suspiciously like gratitude. Nightmare struggled to stand for a moment, winded, then laughed. The sound was not pleasant. “Recklessness must be a universal trait.”

“That’s enough,” Molt rasped. “Please. Just stop…”

“You should have taken my offer when you had the chance,” Nightmare sneered, words bitting. But more than anything, they felt defensive. The darkness pinched into a small, black star, and then he was gone.

“I SEE. WAS I MISTAKEN THEN? ARE YOU AND NIGHTMARE ALLIES?” Blue had taken a defensive stance beside his teammate. His weapon was drawn, but he didn’t move yet. His soul hummed with grim focus. The suspicion hurt.

Molt struggled to speak for several precious seconds. Unsettled. He was reeling from the fight, from everything he had learned about this reality and the cruelty of his brother's words and actions and he was trying ever so hard not to let a tremble snake its way into his voice. It was very hard... to hear someone say those awful things in Rem’s voice.

He shook his head and said softly. “We aren’t.”

Blue’s brow furrowed. “THEN, WHY DID YOU DEFEND HIM?

The words ‘because he is my brother?’ were on the edge of his teeth but the hostile edge to Blue’s magic and tone made him pause. It was less a question and more of an accusation. And that answer wouldn’t have been exactly true besides.

The tendril on his back coiled defensively.

He hadn’t stopped to think before he leapt in front of Nightmare. It hadn’t been a “should I or shouldn’t I” situation in his mind. In that moment he was unable to look past the pain and hurt his brother’s mirror was experiencing. In that moment, the distinction didn’t matter. He had to put a stop to it, that’s all. He couldn’t fight his brother. In any form he took. He just couldn’t do it. It reminded him of too much. And he couldn’t stand to watch that either.

But how could he possibly explain that?

A step behind his teammate, Dream was trying to calm down. Blue’s presence helped but he was struggling. Molt took a step back. He was causing someone pain and distress. He didn’t want that. Blue’s stance shifted. Bracing.

That felt like betrayal too. Molt swallowed something bitter behind his teeth and tried not to think of it that way. Ignored that small part of him that hissed and felt a little bit angry. It didn’t make sense. He knew the person in front of him wasn’t his friend.

“FRIEND, I WANT TO GIVE YOU THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT BUT... YOU ARE ACTING SUSPICIOUSLY.”

“I’ll leave,” Molt said. His head was pounding, and the last thing he wanted was to be dragged into another fight. “Wait...” Dream took a breath. “You’re hurt. Stay for a minute, let’s talk.” “DREAM IS RIGHT, POTENTIAL ENEMY OR NOT, IT WOULDN’T BE RIGHT TO LEAVE YOU THIS WAY. NOT TO FEAR HOWEVER, I AM ALWAYS PREPARED!” “It’s okay. I don’t need candy,” Molt said and felt vaguely like he was reading the lines of a script. If Rem or any of the others were here, they’d be calling his bluff. “Then, what do you need?”

“Somewhere calm, with hope. That’s all.”

The two exchanged a look. Surprise, suspicion, resignation, dread. “I SEE. SO YOU ARE LIKE DREAM THEN. BUT SURELY THAT'S NOT ENOUGH. I... I CANNOT SEEM TO CHECK YOU FOR SOME REASON, BUT YOU DO NOT LOOK WELL.”

Blue seemed to ask to Dream something silently. Concern. Suspicion. Acceptance. Dream sighed. “I know somewhere. It’ll be okay. We’ll be keeping an eye on him together, right? The place I’m thinking of is isolated so...”

“IT’S SETTLED THEN.” he finally dismissed his weapon, and Molt felt the tendrils on his back slowly lower. “SO THEN, NEW FRIEND, WHAT DO YOU SAY TO A TRUCE? WILL YOU COME WITH US?”

He gauged their intent for a moment. Rem had sometimes remarked that his empathy made him gullible. But Molt was tired, and sore, and aching. The others weren’t here. And he let them make decisions for him too much anyway. He hated to admit it but Nightmare was right. Dream wasn’t a physical threat to him. He was scared and trying so hard to be brave, and Molt was trying equally hard not to feel rattled.

“Okay,” he said.

Blue made a noise, something between acknowledgment and mild confusion. Dream offered a strained smile. He supposed they had a lot of questions.

#orbital chatter #moltendreams!au #molten!dream #nightmare!sans #nightmare sans #OG Nightmare meeting Molten!Dream situation but its longer #it doesnt go well #ink arriving late w/ starbucks: so what did i miss?#everyone is gone #ink: wow so alot #one shot

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notknickers · 7 months

Text

this fic took too long to commit to digital paper than it should have, but it's done, so let's focus on that. i have incorporated a few of the headcanons i listed in another dedicated post. or, at least, i tried. synopsis: a strange routine has settled between you and colonel könig, your direct superior. one unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome, after you got over the shock elicited by the reserved, dreadful giant seeking you out for comfort you did not imagine him needing… and the fact that he seems to need it from you more often than you from him. but an unspoken agreement is still an agreement.

warnings: unethical power imbalance, ptsd, dub con to full con, muffdiving for comfort, maledom to malesub, crying, heavy petting, orgasm control and denial, könig is a pet, slight degradation, praising, humping, cum eating, dispassionate fingering, second-person narration in present tense, no gender mention, but reader assumed to be afab, military-related inaccuracies, probably.

word count: 3887

A/N: if you're unsure whether to read this fic or not, here's something about me that might help you decide:

i like my porn grotesque and sentimental;

i like my men dangerous, submissive, pathetic (affectionate) and in tears.

a less blurry tentakönig than his previous appearance is once again here to kindly remind us that the following is aimed at an adult audience. please, respect this.

you are walking with a couple of new recruits along one of the corridors of the base’s building. from out the windows, the light hardly makes a difference, too weak at this early hour to lighten the interiors. chill still blankets you like dew on the grass outside: it hasn’t abandoned you since you woke up for drills.

this isn’t the fastest route to report for training, but there is still time, so you don’t fret. you chat lightly, nodding here and there in spite of the little interest you have for the banality of the noobies’ small talk, when the sound of heavy footfalls echoes ahead.

you hear him before you can see, the sight of colonel könig’s imposing frame following close behind the sound of his stomping gait. your comrades hesitate only a moment, going quiet and halting to salute the higher-ranking official. you don’t.

you are too busy taking in könig’s haunted eyes locking on you, a shiver running down your spine as soon as you notice how crazed they look. two dark pits in the holes of his mask, staring ahead through heavy eyelids smudged in black. your body has stopped moving before your brain could take stock of it; his pace has only increased.

there is not a doubt left: you are his target.

the colonel ignores the recruits and, without even slowing, seizes you by the waist with an arm, lifting you bodily and dragging you along with him. you do not fight it. instead, you gesture towards the hesitant others to go on without you and, after an awkward glance exchanged with one another, they are swift to follow your unspoken advice.

if something unethical is going on between an official and a private, neither of them wishes to witness it. the less they know, the safer their positions within their employer’s company.

you watch their shadows disappear on the wall, behind a sharp corner, and the bitter stench of tobacco mixed with acrid breath hits your nostrils, even through the fabric of the colonel’s mask. it makes you think how many hours he has been up, how long he has been storming the base looking for you, how many times he has choked the desire to drag you from your cot in the middle of the night with yet another cigarette for that smell to linger so thickly…

until the distraction of smoking stopped being enough to help him hold back.

he drops you to your feet, unceremonious, back against wall and falls to his knees, masked head reaching above your waist as he hastily unbuckles your belt. it jingles sharply in the gloom of early morning quiet, the padding of his thick gloves hindering the deftness of his movements, but not his will.

«colonel…», you hazard, voice small. but all you receive in response is more of his frenzied panting and a jolt as your belt is finally torn from your trouser’s loops.

one of his hands disappears under the trail of his mask, teeth pulling at glove, before brash fingers are back to tug at your button and zipper. you relent, disliking the idea of having to request another standard-issue uniform so soon and manage to get your hand under his, removing every obstacle along his way.

könig barely glances up at you in approval. he swipes down trousers and underwear in one pull with a groan. you barely see the pale, scarred skin of his lower face flash in the dim light as he lifts the dangling ends of his mask just enough, that his head already dives between your legs.

his thick fingers hold the softer flesh on your inner-thighs apart with such urge you sense with certainty you will find them bruised, as the colonel easily covers the length of your cunt with the flat of his tongue, uses it to spread your lips, so his can attach to your soft, delicate folds and suck enough to make you ache in both discomfort and desire.

«colonel…», you try again to little avail, the wet, smacking sound of his mouth on yours getting louder as he presses his lips, his chin, hard against you, his panting soon turning to satisfied groaning.

«make me…», he rasps hot against your skin while snatching one of your hands and planting it firmly on top of his own head, pale stubble of hair stinging your palm through the neck-hole of his t-shirt-mask.

as if you could really make colonel könig do anything in this state.

so desperate that his hips thrust back and forth of their own accord. they have been since the moment the colonel dropped in front of you to lose himself in his self-assigned task. they always do when his lips can taste your juices – or those of any other, you presume. they fuck empty air, occasionally swatting your legs as he laps at your cunt with wanton greed unknown to you before you and the colonel were introduced, large, gloved hand still covering yours, squeezing your fingers as he fantasises about you forcing him to pleasure you, like he requested.

it’s more of an instinct, an uncontrollable tic for him, than a genuine attempt at release for himself. he doesn’t even register how he could dry-hump your boot to get himself off, so completely taken by his visceral hunger for you while in the unshakable grip of whatever darkness stirs within.

the one that guided his actions so far. the one that guides his actions often.

you are certain he revels in the feel of your sex against his tongue more than you in the feel of his tongue against it; as if every lick and suck brought him closer to a salvation otherwise denied.

this confirms the initial suspicion that formed in your head as soon as you looked at his grey, dire eyes as he came at you like a battering ram: another one of his night terrors. another phantom lingering in his wake.

you don’t know what it is he sees in the back of his skull every time he blinds himself from sight, when exhaustion claims him and he has no choice but to succumb to it. that is the one thing that still remains a mystery and you won’t prise. you can imagine the horrors, you have seen it before, and that is not the kind of information you force out of someone, no matter how erratic they behave because of it.

his messy slurping is getting out of hand; the way he traps your lips and folds in his teeth and pulls on them, before burying his tongue in your slit to harangue your too-sensitive nub with his nose becoming unbearable; his feasting off of you far rougher than usual.

«col--- könig!», you finally call, voice stern, and his head lifts, chin glistening with spit, before the lower hem of his mask falls back down, sticking to it.

he looks at you as if he were seeing you for the first time today, fury, if not sated, at least subdued, for now. the troubled look so vivid in his eyes moments ago dulls enough that it’s only a pale, threatening glimmer on their glassy surface.

you carefully pinch the hem of your clothes, slowly lifting them to cover up. he stops forcing your thighs apart, so you can adjust your uniform around your hips, gaze still boring into his as you refuse to avert it from his unreliable nature, hoping it will be enough to stay his brash hand.

instead, he helps you with the button, then shuffles back a little, signalling he is no threat to you. he never really was. not willingly, at least.

«belt!»

he swiftly collects it from where he discarded it earlier in his state of rash lust and mysterious turmoil and coils it tidily around his fist, before placing it in your outstretched hand.

he watches, still on his knees, as you loop it back in place and buckle it close, his breathing quiet again.

«könig», his eyes are back to yours as he expectantly awaits for your next words, «to your quarters, colonel.»

you are the one to lock the door behind the two of you with the colonel’s implicit blessings. both of you know what comes next, yet könig does not move, waiting for your say.

so you do. you inhale deeply, closing your eyes for a moment to recollect yourself, knowing now that the distance between you, modest though it may be, will still be the same when you reopen them.

«kit off, colonel», there is no harshness in your voice, but it sounds authoritative all the same.

könig complies, ridding himself of any encumbrance save for his mask, then stands there, further waiting. you don’t allow yourself to indulge in his attractive figure too long, even when his arousal is difficult to ignore, pointing straight at you, leaking thickly.

«come», you barely open your arms and he goes down to the floor, crawling towards you. you meet him on the tiles, slipping your back against the door and settling in a squat as you invite him to join you, invite him closer.

now he can touch you.

he hugs your waist tight, almost dragging you down with him, but careful not to. his head immediately finds shelter in the hollow of your neck, silently begging for comforting touch you are now willing to provide. your hand is soon going through his short-cropped hair, mindful not to lift his mask.

not until he is ready to do it himself, or give you leave to.

there, on the floor, you both find your peace. the peace of liminality: fleeting, for it won’t last and, therefore, all the more precious. he barely moves, trying not to burden you with his conspicuous weight, even when, after a while, even your well-trained thighs and knees need reprieve from the squatting.

you sit down, legs spread wide to make room for könig as he slots himself between them, ruined, scarred lips tracing your throat downwards, then up again as his hands open the top of your fatigues, where more of your skin can be freed for him, covered only by your tank top.

he needs that contact. close. warm. reassuring. even when he unshackles your breasts from the trappings of your attire, mandated down to your underclothes, it is not out of need of his loins that he does so.

you hold him to your chest and soon, you feel his throat tremble. hot, wet tears melt his face, safely hidden against you, breaking the soft murmur of quiet breathing in low, reluctant and shameful sobs the colonel holds in until he cannot any more. a litany of exhalations and mutterings in his native tongue pushes out of him to take their place.

delirium

you hold him tighter as one of your hands finds its way under his mask to contour the battlefield that is his face. unevenly raised scars older and newer that litter his skin welcome the pads of your fingers as you wipe the tears with your palms, gently stroking.

he glances up at you, miserable, bloodshot eyes supplicating for things he couldn’t name if he knew what they were called.

«shhhh», you reassure him that there is no need to ask for anything as you begin to lift his mask, slowly enough to give the colonel time to object. he doesn’t and the fabric swishes off his head quietly.

now he is fully bare. a level of nakedness that you are sure not many have had the chance to witness.

your hold tightens around him and your hand runs through his matted hair, his damp cheeks, contouring the crooked shape of the left cheekbone, the one that broke and never healed right, dabbing at ever-renewing tears as he curses a past to you unknown.

the colonel shifts his heavy eyes, voice louder as he hisses at an invisible figure that hangs in the air of his memory, right next to your head, then shelters his face in your bosom again, crumpled on his knees, fingers digging the sides of your back, which he easily hugs.

you haven’t stopped stroking his hair a moment, holding the colonel as tightly as you’re capable of, trying to hush his whimpering with voice steady and secure.

you don’t know what could reduce the epitome of man such the colonel is, or at least, presents as, to this shaky mess and, at this point, you hope you never learn. the slump of his otherwise proud, muscled back looks pitiful as you stare at it. it brings a bitter scowl to your lips. what, indeed, could possibly have brought reserved and competent könig this low, in front of you?

you remember a tune you once heard him hum when he thought no one was there, or when he was so lost in thought that he did not even realise doing it, more likely. you intone it to the best of your memory.

this seems to soothe the colonel, enough that he is quiet, save for the occasional shaky gasp that still seizes his throat. he soon joins you, voice off-key and hoarse, to complete it with sparse words you couldn’t possibly know.

you try not to think of the consequences of missing the daily training, yet have no intention to ask the colonel to vouch for you. you want to keep this strange moment all to yourself, separate from your quotidian routine. a slice of time in an alternate place, cut away from your everyday reality.

yours and könig’s alone.

your thoughts are interrupted by the colonel’s mouth, warm and hungry. it wraps about the tips of your tear-stained tits and sucks, finally driven by different needs than consolation. your body responds right away to the ravenous love bites he marks on your skin, another blemish of his you will carry with yourself. a memento that this was not some daydream that never really was outside of your imagination.

your nipples pebble in his mouth and, as he steals another gasp from your throat, his demeanour emboldens. his large, rough hands cup your breasts while his teeth move to your neck, your jaw, your lips.

you are weak to his advances. you don’t deny him. yet it leaves you wondering who is taking advantage of whom.

«turn around, colonel», you forcefully grab a tuft of könig’s hair and pull the roots to show him you meant it. again, he complies, even though you can sense a note of disappointment.

he sits in front of you and you kneel at his back, bodies pressed tightly together as you reach around to knead his stomach, muscles flexing involuntarily as your hands descend. the thickness of könig’s abdomen forces you to struggle to reach his cock, but you can work with it. you already have in the past and the fingers now curling around the root of it confirm it.

your hand barely contains his heft, but it is quick to move along the heavy organ all the same. you squeeze, a groan reaching your ears as his flesh throbs back your touch, fingers tracing pulsing veins along it until they come away wet, foreskin rolling down softly almost on its own.

enough with the toying. you want to hear the colonel, könig, gasp and whimper as desperately as when he was weeping, but for rather different reasons. your determination spurs your movements and you start stroking his cock in earnest, wasting no more time.

it feels more aggression than service, almost violent, the way you abuse his cock with your hand, but you know he can take it. can take it. the man demands it. you know by the way, uncomfortable though it is sitting on the floor like that, he bucks his hips into your fist, meeting your downward slide with a jolt from his loins.

and when you torture him with your delightful touch, only to open your fist, enough for him to feel the silky warmth of your palm, but none of the friction, he whines for your hand back. he wines oh-so-sweetly for it as you mock him in pointed whispers in his ear.

this only riles him up more, forcing the most endearing of sounds through his broken lips. so you grant him his wish, hugging his girth in your fist and returning to your task, skin sliding smoothly with könig’s own wetness.

you repeat one, two, three more times, delighting each one in his reactions, until you force him to pleasure himself with your hand.

you hold it still around him, making him work for his release, his hips back to their frantic bucking, until you cheat him out of his pleasure one last infuriating time.

he curses in his tongue, that much you understand without need for translation, as you rise from the floor to stand a little distance away, in front of him.

«silence, dog! you know what i want, now.»

his chest heaves visibly as he peers at you from below, almost hateful in the intensity of his leer, but he obeys. back on all fours, he crawls towards your outstretched hand, seeking contact once more.

you stroke his face, damp and exhausted-looking, by now: «you’re a good, obedient dog, colonel.»

he hums at the praise and lets you guide him closer to you by his hair as you extend your left leg towards him, planting the heel of your boot to the floor. he observes while you let a glob of saliva trickle down on its tip and shuffle your foot to spread it on the rest of the black leather surface.

you lean towards him: «you know what i want from you now, pup.»

könig nods, then positions himself atop your boot, thighs straddling each side of it, disappearing it from sight with their large, powerful muscles. he stares up at you as he rubs his cock against the squeaky-clean, smooth leather you maintain in impeccable condition. he would do so even if that hand of yours caught in his hair weren’t twisting his neck backwards enough to relish in the sight of him.

his slower, sensuous movements begin to grow more haphazard once more. you are sure he will give himself rope burns with the laces if you don’t let him find relief.

«go on, colonel. i want you to come. now.»

he buries his face between your thighs as his hips keep working your boot, rubbing his cheeks against the rough fabric of your fatigues, lapping at it with his tongue, mouth hungry for the warmth and sweet taste of your cunt, just below the clothes, yet out of reach for the colonel until you decree otherwise.

he will have to settle for breathing in its scent, especially after those theatrics of his, earlier this morning.

finally, his penance is served in full. he moans against your crotch as he floods your boot with his seed, breath scorching as his mouth seals against your trousers to quiet his pleasured utterings.

his tongue is dry when he sits on his haunches to recover his breath.

you pet könig’s head, sweat wetting your palm as you run it along his skull: «you are a good pup, colonel», he basks in your praises, eyes almost beaming, «but do you know what a really good pup would do, now?»

he nods, sparing you the breath to tell him and immediately goes down to your boot again, lips and tongue working, relentless, to clean it from his mess. he doesn’t come up until not a single trace of his juices is left on your footwear, nor the floor around it, where it trickled.

you watch him swallow the last of it. No complaints.

that’s when you kneel to encase his jaws in your hands, so you can tilt his head towards you: «you were perfect, colonel.»

you can feel all the tension leave könig’s body. as for the anguish that plagues his spirit, you have done what you could.

colonel könig’s uniform looks impeccable on him. it hugs him perfectly, as if every piece of it were not lying crumpled on the floortiles only minutes ago. his mask is back on his head, shrouding his face as he likes. he waits by the door, gaze illegible, with a glass of apricot brandy in hand whose bottle he retrieved from one of the drawers.

he offered you some, but you declined. even if you could bear its taste, you don’t feel like indulging in spirits when your day has yet to begin. he shrugged and went to lean against the egress wall. he’s still sipping on it to rinse his mouth as you readjust your own fatigues.

you nod your head in goodbye and make to leave, but his figure doesn’t budge. you wait for an explanation. all you get is his gaze trailing behind you as he eyes his large desk, instead.

you sigh, considering what he is offering. your absence must have been noticed, by now and you don’t think a few more minutes will make a difference. in truth, your unsatisfied arousal is probably tainting your common sense, but you already said no to the brandy. it wouldn’t do to leave you superior without saying yes to a kindness he offers.

you nod and he sets his glass aside after emptying it. the temperamental giant easily lifts you again, this time much calmer and gentler, allowing you to find balance by gripping his shoulders as he walks towards the elegant wooden surface.

he rests you on it, sheltering your head with his arm and taking a few steps back as he waits for you to undo your trousers and pull them down enough. you do, clumsily, but quickly and you see him return, towering from above, eyes vacuous and inexpressive now that his mask is back on his face.

he repositions you to his liking, bending your knees to your chest to grant himself a nice view of both your face and your cunt, dripping from all the pent-up energy you accumulated during your session.

he ungloves his right hand, bringing the fingers to his mouth to wet them more out of habit than need, then plants the left one beside your face as he leans over you, mask hovering above you, brushing your face as his fingers find easy way inside you.

he gets working right away, no preambles, rather utilitarian in his approach. his thick index and middle finger squelch rhythmically inside you as his thumb covers your clit. he attacks your sweet spot right away, curling his fingertips as you bite hard on your lower lip to stifle your noises.

the recent memory of him kneeling at your feet, obedient and desperate, coupled with a few more pointed, circular motions and you’re convulsing around his hand, arms instinctively sheltering your eyes from his as your back arches. you feel him retreat right away, his job done and you can finally readjust your clothes for good.

you glimpse könig sneak the fingers he used on you under the hem of his mask, the sucking sounds you hear as you buckle your belt around your waist eloquent enough. he doesn’t seem satisfied until he has licked all of your humours from them, then his glove is fitted back on.

now you can leave.

thank you for reading. let me know what you thought, if you feel like it. and please, if you enjoyed it, consider reblogging.

#call of duty #cod #cod fanfic #könig #konig #könig cod #konig cod #könig mw2 #konig mw2 #könig mwii #konig mwii #könig x reader #konig x reader #könig smut #konig smut #submissive!könig #minors dni

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markscherz · 9 months

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Hi! A zoo near where I am has free roaming snakes in a big room you can visit, where a bunch of snakes (carpet pythons mostly) live. Is this ethical/ok for the snakes?

https://www.denlilledyrehage.no/opplevelser/slangejungelen

My opinion is that as long as the animals are being taken care of and carefully observed, then interactions with humans can be a source of enrichment for their day-to-day lives. The keepers will have to keep an eye on them to make sure they are not overly stressed, as overly stressed animals get defensive and irritable. But it can definitely be a good thing for the public to be able to interact with snakes, because it reduces fear of them, which in turn reduces human-wildlife conflict. Even though Norway only has three species, only one of which is venomous, and none of which gets particularly large, increasing people's awareness of, and sentiments towards, snakes is important. This kind of outreach is a net positive, in my view.

#animals #reptiles #snakes #herpetoculture #outreach #zoos #queerpunk #Answers by Mark

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shwarmii · 4 months

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i am so happy for the increase of people like Clarisse La Rue in the new show (and im ignoring the people who don't like her) (also, i have not watched the show yet, in support of Palestine's boycott against Disney+ and am currently too sick to figure out the safest way to 🏴‍☠️) because she is such a good character and i would cry for a well-written book/fanfic series from her pov

like. she truly is the epitome of "my dad is the worst man alive and i am his favorite daughter" and i super respect the decision that this adaptation has towards going towards the whole "in my version, Clarisse will never win her father's approval because she isn't his son" sentiment. not to mention, the decision to couple that by having her be cast as a person of color in addition to her pre-existing character having been someone who has been frantically trying find the opportunity to prove herself, being indirectly one-upped by white boy Percy coming into camp day 1 having fought a minotaur. the intersectionality of her misdirected fury is impeccable. fantastic, no notes

but im also just psyched for her and Chris Rodriguez and i really wish they had more focus in the books. because they are as fantastically amazing as all the other S-tier ships in the series. i think they could even rival Percabeth (notice: i didn't say "could beat", i said "could RIVAL", no Percabeth fans send me hate), honestly, if Clarisse/Chris had been given a chance to somehow be of focus. because you're telling me angry, overlooked Daddy Issues(TM) Clarisse gets to find love with Chris "calm and patient while caring greatly for Clarisse" Rodriguez? the son of Hermes who said "fuck Camp Halfblood, fuck these gods" and went to Kronos and Luke's side? who went into the labryrinth and was driven to insanity? by King Minos himself? who Clarisse was so gentle and sympathetic for, even when others thought he might be a lost cause? even when others debated even helping him because he was "the enemy"? who, after Dionysus (and lets be honest, also Clarisse, because she was his caretaker until he could be brought to Dionysus) cured Chris of his insanity, this guy saw what a catch Clarisse was to have in your life, seeing her as someone sweet and loving (because she can be! she is!!), that who she is as a person single-handedly conVINCED HIM TO LEAVE KRONOS' SIDE AND COME BACK TO CAMP??? SO HE COULD BE HAVE A CHANCE TO BE WITH HER??

their love is so iconic. and that's just the one big moment we get from their story; im so sure there is more that we dont get to see all due to them not being focused on in the story. im so glad theyre still together and so in love. its what Clarisse deserves. i hope the show shines a light on how powerful their love is too. Chris fixes none of Clarisse's tragic father-induced issues, but it helps to remember that at least she has Chris, and im so glad she does. Clarisse is a warrior that deserved a great love-story

#clarisse la rue #chris rodriguez #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo #percy jackson show #im ngl i dont trust riordan to write their story well but id be so down for a riordan presents book focused on them #riordan has had some Writing Women As Characters issues (esp women of color) and has also had some bad takes in politics like with Palestin #but also someone doing a ''hunger games from peeta's pov'' level fanfic all about clarisse instead would be amazing #anyway. dont mind me im just gonna go cry about clarisse/chris some more amidst my time of frail health 🥺😔🥺😔

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oxygenbefore1775 · 10 months

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am i wrong giving my all making you stay tonight

➥zeke x fem!reader

➥tags: canonverse, the year is 850 just before zeke is deployed to paradis

➥cw: major mentions of hatred towards eldians, star-crossed lovers and forbidden relationship trope, zeke is a narcissist and a dick here, the reader is also not that nice tbh, twisted marriage proposal and all that comes with it, zeke has some morbid fascination with his death, derogatory treatment from zeke (it's hella toxic); nsfw! (mdni) but it's at the very end so don't hesitate to scroll all the way down if you wanna skip all the explanation to them fucking, rough fucking, man handling, prone bone, kinda dacryphillia, talking during sex, one instance of hair tuggung

➥wc: 8.4k — no beta we die like my sleep schedule while writing this

➥summary: the night zeke tells you about his upcoming mission on paradis doesn't go without its consequences.

➥a/n: so i have this huge-ass zeke fic that i'm writing in my mother-tongue and because i'm sooo original w my content on tumblr rn i'm just gonna translate some parts of it here with some alterations - prepare for some incoherent shit, i warned you, that's like the most delulu zeke i have ever written

He is not to be trusted.

There's a deceit lacing his each word.

Cold and cunning, he was nonetheless charming. You would be lying if you denied the scorching languor that the ice of his blue eyes kindled in you.

Fleeting sentiments filled your mind in his presence, renderring you deaf and numb to your own thoughts. Not to mention his words, their poison failing to fill your absent body as you often lost the thread of the conversation. A lopsided grin curled his lips whenever you found yourself confused and unable to answer his simplest of questions, yet again, your thoughts a molten and twisted mass. You knew no end to his teasing for your frivoulness that he elicited from you with naught but a look.

Who were you, compared to the War Chief Yeager? Neither wits nor status was on your side to rebuke his taunts. Courage was failing you, fleeing at the mere sight of the red gracing his left arm. Retaliatory jabs never landed, the harsh words melted at the tip of your tongue before ever reaching him. How he reveled in seeing you like this, feeble and helpless. Just some stupid Eldian girl, that's what you were in his eyes. Unfit to be by his side.

And yet, he yearned for it nonetheless. Otherwise there was no other explaination to the slight arrogance bleeding into the way he spoke to you, leaving no other interpretation but that of a hunter taunting a mortally wounded beast. A whim, display of power, oversaturated and evident.

Occasionally he would condescend to your polite and humble requests, presenting them in a way that painted him as virtuous, as if you should be overflowing with gratitude and praises for his mere consideration of your proposals. He, however, never stooped to an open request himself, whether it be willful ignorance or inability to put thoughs into words. In such cases you were left to rely blindly on your own insight, forced to navigate through the murky water of his genuine intentions.

But witnessing this facade of complacency that masked his features most of the time disappear never failed to amuse you. How easily it could be shattered with a simle act — merely increasing the distance between you by a few steps during your routine strolls or better yet vanishing entirely from his line of sight amidst the crowd. That's all it took for the cold arrogance to crumble away and give way to a barely palpable unrest as he sought to bridge the unfavourably long gap that had grown between you unbeknownst to him. Not too close, though, being wary of avoiding the contact between your bodies.

The game he played to you was cruel yet he persisted in subjecting you to it, time after time. The true nature of his motives eluded you. The shadow of pleasure he took in poisoning your thoughts was hard to deny. Until he inhibits you whole, there would be no stopping to the suffocating hold over you. You were keep falling victim of this, though, the torment gnawing at your body and mind.

His unbroken gaze was the image etched in your memory for eternity. As well as the burning need to keep you near, by his side. Like you not staying at his apartment for the night could cost him his sleep. Like not laying his eyes one you could cost him his peace.

He remained oblivious to the fact that you noticed all of this. How could he possibly entertain those suspicions? A stupid Eldian girl would never. And still...

His gait lacked definition for someone who got the military drills beaten into him from the young age. Strange — even the deepest of thoughts usually failed to lure out a reaction from his body. Always static and phlegmatical, now he paced up and down the room, forgetting you were here in this room with him altogether.

With quick glances, you attempted to read his expression whenever he would pass your form curled up on the couch, and all in vain. His features remained an unpenetrable mask robbed of any emotion. Maybe it was the coffee. Shifting your gaze to the table covered with dirty mugs, your assumption had some reasoning behind it but you quickly brushed it off. He'd been like that long before resorting to the caffein.

Hesitation coursed through your every movement as you struggled to come up with a proper reaction. As intriguing as it was to find out what exactly had been plaguing the mind of steadfast War Chief, you couldn't muster up the insolence of striking up a conversation first. Who were you to inquire, anyway.

"One could hear your thoughts from a mile away."

His voice shook the cushioned silence of the room, bearing the same shadow of amusement he usually graced your way, as if the last hours weren't filled with restless pacing. Looking up to meet his gaze, a spark of amusement melted the cold of his eyes. The chance to divert his churning thoughts towards such a trivial remark seemed to bring him a little relief.

He prompted you with a quirk of his brow. "Speak what is it you have on your mind, or else you might burst."

There was that grin again, dark and painting his features in shadows. You shifted on the couch, nails digging into the flesh of your palm. At this point, each word you were going to say hardly veiled any obscurity since he'd already knew the nature of her question. He liked being proven right.

"Nothing really," your voice lacked the lively rebuke that usually sounded in your constant bickering back and forth, his unrest had seemed to rub off onto you as well. "You just seem off."

Your overtly careful choice of words elicited his soft chuckle. For a few moments he looked down on you, pondering just how much of information he should tell you. If he should tell you. After all, it was the knowledge not meant for the likes of you, civilians.

The light-hearted tone of his voice bore a stark contrast to the atmosphere and the words he was saying. "They're sending me to the island." His lips pressed into a thin bloodless line once he fell silent, his unbroken gaze on your face.

A deep line etched between your eyebrows. Still puzzled, you looked up at him searching for some sort of visual purchase.

The island of devils — any warrior would be elated at the prospect of proving their worth to Marley in battling the spawns of Paradis. Yet this sense of pride never captivated Zeke. More than anything, frustration seemed to have bled into his fair features.

Question, perhaps stupid in its naivete, plagued you so you let it leap off of your tongue. "Is this good or bad news?"

"And what do you think?" He retorted, pained playfullness still lingering in his voice. "When you send four Titans to an important mission and this is followed by five years of silence, how good can those news be?"

The air in the room became thick with smoke and smell of tobacco — Zeke must've lit a cigarette without you noticing. Your nose wrinkling, you slid to the other side of the couch where the gray thick cloud couldn't reach you. Uncanny thoughts soon started festering in your mind.

You cringed at your own way of thinking yet you couldn't help but to ask once more. "Are you—" unflattering crack snaked its way into your voice. "Is it going to be for a long time?"

He must've found your seeming worry endearing. His shoulders trembled in a fit of silent laughter, taking amusement in you. Like a pet who suddenly pulled a trick unbefitting of their intelligence. Artificial light cast dark shadows on his face as he neared the kitchen table, taking a sip from one of the half-empty mugs.

"I can only imagine." He stole a gaze at you, eager to capture the row of fleeting emotion painting your features. "Those four must've done a gravely mistake and now fear to face the punishment or died a long time ago. Now they expect me to clean up after them." Benevolent grin tugged at the corners of his lips. "Warrior children, what a joke to Marley's army."

You shunned the way you had received the news. The insolence to fear, to assume the worst when you'd come to imagine him away on his mission was unacceptable of you, stupid Eldian girl. Your mind shouldn't be a harbor for such doubts. Zeke Yeager is a powerful warrior, the strongest in the unit. The red armband akin to the blood he'd spilt as an honorary Marleyan, a testament to hsi long service for the country. The island devils would be a little challenge for someone like him as his strength a prowess doomed him to imminent success. Your eyelashes fluttered as you sought solace in embrace of your arms, hiding your face in between your knees, away from his piercing stare. And yet you had the worries and you let them slowly eat away at you.

A temper tantrum would hardly influence Marley's decision and rid you of your predicament, but it didn't make you backtrack on your blind desire nonetheless. And he'd be thrilled to see your tears, especially if he was the cause of them.

Solitude started to weigh over your head like a dark stormy cloud. To be apart for such a long time rang so foreign to you. Foreign and cruel. Being at Yeager's side bore its benefits which you didn't hesitate to reap and now that the threat of those upsides being ripped away from you hung in the air, you felt... annoyed. You smiled to yourself at the fact that you'd finally been able to pin down your emotion. Annoyed sounded about right. And nothing else.

Noticing your downcast look, he decided to seal off your state with another barbed remark. "Spare Liberio your distraught sentiments. You weren't supposed to know about this in the first place. And I'd like to keep it that way in the eyes of the other people."

The ice in his gaze was persistent as he locked eyes with you. Not persistent enough to prevent the lopsided grin from twisting your lips.

In a fit of distorted glee, you inquired, your voice barely above whisper, "Why did you tell me about this then?" The words dripped with a mix of curiosity and spite, as if you had unraveled a hidden agenda beneath his carefully constructed facade. Your eyes bore into his, searching for a glimpse of vulnerability or truth amidst the web of deceit that surrounded him.

He was never easy to nail down so you didn't believe your luck when you caught a glimpse of emotion, as weak and light as the candle's flame, flicker in his eyes. And you didn't care for the nature of it — be it the amazement at the precision of your question or the anger with your insolence — it pleased you as long as it wasn't the usual cold spite. You found comfort in the knowledge that he, just like you, may be subservient to something other than his logic. That you're not the only one affected by the news of departure. The satisfaction was short-lived though as his features quickly acquired the same expression as before, a blank canvas you couldn't read.

The nicotine must've cleared his senses seeing as he scoffed at you in a condescending rebuke. "So that you won't make any fuss once you find the house empty." His hand reached to rest under your chin but you didn't accept the gesture, turning your head the other way. Stubborn behavior befitting the image of a stupid Eldian girl he painted you as in his mind. "It's still very much a secret mission so only limited number of people are allowed to know."

His touch rejected, he returned to the table, from which he continued keeping his unwavering gaze on you.

Did his remark suggest that his family was included in this selected group? Meaning, he went out of his way just to tell you? And for what? For you not to worry? Watching him form the corner of your eye, you couldn't help but to adore the stark discrepancy between his words and actions.

"I'll consider this your act of courtesy towards me." You shot back meekly, the tone of your voice suddenly growing more humble. At least you would have the satisfaction of having last word even if it meant resorting to your obsequious self.

Now, after a cigarette or two, he appeared utterly unfazed as if he weren't gambling with his own life by venturing onto the island of devils. When it came to his life, he never seemed to hold it at great value. You were the one to do it in his stead.

Curiosity took the better of you as you turned your head to face him, a hint of concern seeping through your facade. "How dangerous will it be? If the other Warriors had been on the island for five years, then those devils must be strong enough to pose a threat." You couldn't help but shudder at the thought of the mission potentially stretching beyond five years for Zeke. As capable and talented as he was, five years to his life were something that he just didn't have.

Zeke leaned back in his chair, the lazy twirling of smoke rising up out of his cigarette in contrast to the sharpness of the sneer that quickly appeared in the depths of his eyes. "For someone so uninvolved in the military campagns of Marley you seem to have too many questions about this mission. What's with the constant inquiries?" His words dripping with misleading benevolence.

His question momentarily silenced the room, knocking the air out of your lungs. Perhaps you indeed asked too many questions for someone of your station, someone who's supposed to be in a strictly comradely relationship with Zeke. You felt the tension growing more palpable the longer you kept him waiting. The glint in his eyes spoke volumes, a mix of amusement and knowing, hinting at the fact that he'd already got himself a satisfactory answer to his own inquiry. Part of you sensed that he'd guessed it right.

Nonetheless, you rushed to state the opposite in a futile attempt to undermine his own conclusion. "I think it's only logical of any Eldian to take interest in this mission." You pursed your lips before speaking again, feeling how artificial your words sounded leaping off your tongue. "The fate of the whole world depends on its outcome, does it not?"

At this point you'd grown too weary of him, his presence already intoxicating as it is. Why'd he brought you into his house? Just to tell you about his leave, take joy in seeing you shedding a shred of worry towards him but to mock you later for expressing those? Your drilled, bordering on automatic, response didn't win any favour with him yet managed to amuse him to some extent, evident in the way a mischevious grin split his face as he stood up from his chair.

His steps rang louder and louder with him approaching the couch you were sitting on. You let out a relieved sigh, cradling the hope that he'll finally grant you with leave, having had his share of playing games with you.

His eyes told otherwise. "No." He simply shook his head, denying you the last opportunity to leave his house. "I'll argue that there's more to it."

With that, his voice took on more sweetness that he usually allowed himself whilst talking to you which surprised you. At this point of your conversation he'd usually stoop down to tasteful taunts, a stark contrast to the moderation he was currently excercising, making your mind teem with thoughts.

"All the correspondence is forbidden for the Marleyan warriors whilst on the mission. Were you aware of that?" Still lacking a full comprehension of his motives, you nodded your head, your eyes big and doe-like. Nonetheless, he accepted your curt response, elusive benevolence seeping through his features. "Not if it's meant for the close family members, though. Also honorary Marleyans, like me. On that front Marley had been exceptionally allowing."

Again with the obscureness, as if expressing his thoughts in straight sentences would rob him of his last breath. Still, you continued to look at him, your eyes fixated on the enigma that was the fleeting chain of emotions lacing his features. The tips of your ears burning, the supressed frustration at having to sit here and listen to him welled up inside you. His monologue had just took off yet he was already dousing you with mental excercises you were unwilling to solve at this late hour.

Feather-light touch grazed against your temple, his fingers tucking an unruly strand behind your ear, bringing you back to the sound of his musings. "Wouldn't you be worried not knowing about my whereabouts on the Paradis?"

You rushed to deny his groundless assumptions but you found your lips too heavy to utter a word. Thus, he continued, a sliver of benevolent amusement in his tone. "Who knows, perhaps I would be captured or even killed and you would have no idea of my fate?"

The words sounded strange coming from him. He never paid any mind to the morbid consequences that may happen to him whilst on a mission and now that he was shedding light to it in front of you, it filled you with more confusion.

Still, you leaned in closer, intrigued by this newly discovered oddity of his, wanting to her what else he had to say.

"Aren't you?" He called out to you yet there wasn't a hint of condescention to his voice. As if he genuinely took interest in your answer, waiting for you to respond.

And you did answer, with a shallow "yes" whispered in the room. Usually you refrained from such vulnerability as this was often followed with barbed taunts, punishing you for the display of affection to someone as unfeasible as him. But this time, he seemed to had welcomed it.

The spark in his eyes was warm, an exception of his facade you rarely got to see. "Well, I just might help you to get rid of your worries. Would you like that?" You let him touch under your chin, lifting your gaze to see his.

In that moment, the fog of confusion clouding your mind began to lift, revealing glimpses of his true nature. Your eyes widened in surprise as you finally captured what was lurking behind the blue irises. He captured your gaze, too, as well as the sudden recognition, hence the smile, soft and warm, melting the curve of his lips as he opened his mouth to speak. You didn't have to listen to him to know what he was about to say yet it didn't substract from the surrealism of the situation.

"Be my wife."

Out of all the blows, this was by far the most cruel and perverted. The idea seemed too far-fetched, too out of reach for it to have any meaning behind it. You had grown accustomed to his teasing, his banter and the way he seemed to enjoy keeping you on your toes. Can this be another one of his games? Another way to rattle your composure?

Your gaze quickly turned skeptical. You couldn't risk remaining vulnerable in his presence and at this moment. You kept waiting for the mask of pretense to slide right off his face, for him to announce that he had indeed tried to trick you. Yet it stayed all the same, as if the expression was genuine, eyes brimming with inviting warmth like before. Still, doubt lingered within you.

Why should this day be a precedence? An upcoming operation on Paradis couldn't possibly cause this shift inside him. He'd been on other missions before and never before had his unwavering level-headedness left him.

He is not to be trusted. The words that were still echoing in your head are not to be trusted. The mantra sealing your lips, you tried to ward off the terrible temptation to give into what he was saying. He wouldn't hesitate to drag you through the mud if he finds out that you'd fallen prey to his words.

"You can't mean that." It was your final verdict. If he wasn't the one to aknowledge it then you had to be.

The smile on his lips gave way to a lopsided grin, as if your response didn't come as surprise to him. So it had been a game after all, you mused as you allowed yourself a mental praise for your own foresight.

"But I can." The rebuke remaining soft, he kept looking at you, waiting for your eyes to meet again.

It was of no use to you, though. All that you would see in the icy pools would be either that inviting warmth again or a blind wall. And neither of those would cast any light on what had been truly driving his actions all along.

The air felt silent and still. This — all of this — wasn't happenning to you. No night being spent at his house, no awkward pause between you two, no twisted words of proposal. It was all too much for the likes of you, common Eldian girl.

Regardless of your thoughts, he rushed to crush them, bringing you to the undeniable and inevitable reality.

He called out to you again, "So what?" the grin that seemed to appear on his features so often suddenly faded. "Will you be my wife?" You could only chuckle at his courtesy to having finally asked you, instead of bluntly stating his wishes.

With that, he sanked down on the sofa cushions, sitting next to her. The knowledge of his taunts, sometimes ruthless in their nature, implored you to momentarily refrain from answering his question and allowing him to continue, instead. The sincerity had no place in the words he was directing towards you. His statements were not to be held at face value, you had to remind yourself.

Nevertheless, you succumbed to the temptation that had been gnawing at you for a long time as you let your head fall onto his shoulder, the precise movement leaving no room for interpretation of your intentionall gesture. He would be hardly angry with you for such a display of weakness. Quite on the contrary, as your begrudgent vulnerability flattered him immensly.

The weight of the gone day suddenly crushed over you in waves, robbing you of any strength. "A lovely young captain's wife." The saccharine in his tone started to taste bitter. "Mrs. Yeager who would wait for her husband to return from military operations, her body and and soul devoted to him only. Who would meet me with joy and every evening after a working day take off my boots for me."

Wrinkling your nose, you otherwise didn't let your momentary disgust become apparent to him via your posture.

Alerted by your silence, he turned his head in your direction. His breath, hot and tart with tobacco, seared your face. "What do you say?"

Wife. The time had long come for you to forget this word. At this moment and in your position, it was an unthinkable thing for you. Who were you in comparison to the prized asset that Zeke was to the country? He was also no exception, even if the red armband signified otherwise. Bound by his service to Marley, he would never be allowed to dedicate even a sliver of his attention to something not pertaining to his warrior duty.

But on rare occasions you granted yourself the indulgence but also the freedom to your own dreams and you intended to do it today as well. Even if it was the first time for you to voice your hidden desires to someone else, let alone someone who figured in your dreams so often.

The warmth slid along her thigh where he ran his palm across your skin in a thoughtless caress, his touch radiating with heat. Just as thoughtlessly, you caught his movement, taking two of his fingers into your palm.

Being an Eldian in an internment zone, your fate had been sealed long ago yet you found comfort in the knowledge. With your future set in stone, you had all the freedom to fantasize about your chimerical impossible life.

Soon enough you started speaking, your words bearing the same bliss that his were. "Then your huge bath would be all mine and I would bathe in it every day. Definitely with bubbles. And you wouldn't be able to tell me anything against it."

Your ears caught a faint chuckle escaping his lips, accompanied by a subtle exhale.

The prospect of sharing a life with the captain held an irresistible allure. Despite all the taunts lacing his words, a grain of truth resonated within them. This was perhaps the best outcome an Eldian from the internment zone such as yourself could ever hope for. A sharp-tongued and occasionally unbearable husband aside, the advantages of such a union far outweighed the disadvatages. As the capitan of the warrior unit, his duties would often take him outside of Liberio, leaving you to revel in the opulence of your home for many days and even weeks to come.

Contrary to his words though, you would hardly harbour any sentiments over him not being by your side as he had teasingly described to you. Your heart would be unlikely to languish in lamenting the frequent separation, seeing as the luxury of your home would occupy your whole mind, sparing not a single thought for your warrior husband. Even in your sweetest dreams the love that typically exists between the spouses was conspicuously absent in your marriage. Such an emotion was barred for the two of you, as you remained essentially strangers to one another.

Your eyes dropped to the entanglement of your fingers from which he was in no hurry to free himself.

You started to forget yourself, as the most sincere of words weighed heavy on the tip of your tongue. "But also the coffee that you would brew every morning. I really like it."

His lips momentarily twitched, as if your timid praide had either amused or touched him.

A casual impudence found its way into his retort. "Oh no. After I get married I won't go into the kitchen at all so it will all be the responsibility of Mrs. Yeager." He dragged out the last words a little. "I don't want a wife who can't even make me coffee."

The warmth of his body enveloping you, you pulled your knees to your chest and settled into the comfort of your position. Usually, neither of you was insolent enough to seek proximity in each other's presence in this way. Besides sex, your bodies rarely touched, but at this moment it was all too tempting to mind your self-restraint. And yet, your move didn't provoke irritation in him. Instead, it seemed to have awakened a temporary surge of affection within him. He even opened his arms wider, as if embracing you more deeply. However, you couldn't ignore the subtle stiffness in his gestures, a reminder of the hopeless underlying truth about your relationship. You two were far from being a married couple and the likelihood of you ever becoming spouses seemed increasingly remote.

Possible or not, the illusion was sweet enough to numb the cynicism of your predicament.

Yet another breath of his scorched the shell of your ear. "But will you teach me? How to make coffee?" Your inquiry laced with naive politeness, you smiled as you felt his chest, a barely audible hum rumbling the air. "Will my husband have any other expectations of his poor tireless wife?"

In a feigned attempt to challenge him, your palm closed around his fingers even tighter, as if she wanted to attract even more of his attention to her.

This ploy of yours appeared to be succesfull, seeing as his hold of you grew closer. "Your husband would like you to spoil him with your cooking every day." He said with a soft chuckle. "Not that I have tried your food but that is all trivial. My regeneration can withstand the effects of any poison so your cooking would hardly deal any damage to me, no matter how disgusting it may be."

You fell silent at the lack of a proper rebuke, letting yourself get lost in this moment that you doubted you would see again any time soon.

And you were proven right. Just as you began to embrace the newfound comfort of your position, your hopes to have this moment last a bit longer were swiftly shattered. The warmth in his voice dissipated, replaced by a chilling tone as he leaned in to whisper into your ear. "Why deceive yourself?" His words dripped with cold determination. "I know all too well why someone like you would like to meddle with someone like me."

With no further explanation, he presented you with his armband, bright red fabric carelessly thrown onto your hand. The shift in his disposition was so sudden that you took a second to even register the feel of rough cloth against the skin of your palm. Disturbed by the intrusive nature of his inquiry, you tried to pry yourself away from him yet he didn't let you, his fingers finding their place under your chin to turn your face to him. The pools of his blue eyes were colder than ever, studying your expression, not losing sight of each fleeting emotion painting your features, as if the silent observation would provide him with more answers instead of just asking you directly.

Yet you didn't feel fear. In all the time that you had known each other, he never gave you the reason to be afraid around him. This surely had to be attributed to his charms since his each action, no matter how twisted or condescending, held a certain allure over you. Even now as you were pinned down in your place and forced to continuosly look back at him, all you could feel was frustration welling up inside you.

Your exasparetion started to overflow, evident in the way your brows knitted together. "You're hurting my neck," you voiced your discontent in a soft manner, only to be met with his unamuzed gaze.

He only got closer to you, your bodies pressing up against each other, his lips so near to yours that your mouth began to water at the bitter taste of tobacco dancing on your tongue.

Your protests were heeded, and he released his hold on your chin, seemingly satisfied with gazing at you. Another whisper, hot and sibilant, flowed into your ear. "It was hard not to notice, you stared at it too often." Instinctively, your hand tightened its grip on the red fabric, drawing it closer to your chest. "But I can understand your fascination with that thing. What is it that you want exactly?"

Considering all his past actions, his question sounded almost too caring, too soft and too thoughtful for someone like him. Were you a bit more perceptive in that moment, perhaps you would have been touched by his genuine interest but instead you couldn't help but to feel exposed. Maybe you did stare at it too much, as hardly a conversation with him went by without your excessive attention being drawn to some piece of fabric instead of the person it belonged to. You hoped that he hadn't been awake during the nights when you dared to harbor enough insolence to take the armband from his nightstand and pose with it in front of the mirror, the reflections of you with a red ring circling your left arm looking so dreamy and beautiful.

Hardly any Eldian in the internment zone didn't want to be an honorary Marleyan, and you were no exception. In fact, you were the most trivial showcase of this bold desire. It can give you a better life and safety and freedom, most of all. Freedom to go beyond the stone walls of the internment zone, even if for just a while.

In all your life you never came to think that the armband could be attained through the means Zeke had proposed to you not so long ago.

You were thankful to him for still keeping his composure. At least one of you had to. "So what is it? Everything, I assume?" You felt his breath hitch as soon as you answered with a curt nod. "Then everything it is. And I will give it to you."

The right words were coming hard to you yet you couldn't wait any longer to voice them. Pulling away, you finally put some distance between you two, finally free from his suffocating warmth. "Are you hearing yourself right now?"

Your attempts to reason with him were quickly put to rest with a single gaze he graced your way. The intensity in his eyes made your words falter on your lips, as a knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Right now, each of my word has weight so listen to me while I'm still talking."

Surprisingly, it worked. But it wasn't for his concise argument but rather the oddly familiar expression in the depths of his eyes. As you gazed deeper into those pools of blue, you saw a reflection of your own yearnings, a crack in his flawless facade. A pained smile bent your lips as you reveled in the realization that Zeke had given way to the same sentiments as you. And you thought once that he was insusceptible to this. A dark chuckle escaping your lips, the gravity of your predicament started to set in. Fools, both of you.

In a haste you took off his glasses before kissing him. You didn't want the metal frame to poke you in the eye again should the angle be not right.

His lips felt dry against yours, the tart taste of tobacco doing little to prevent you from sliding your tongue into his mouth. He smiled into the kiss as he felt you settling back into his embrace, the cushions collapsing under the collective weight of your bodies.

Your aggressive initiative was a welcome dynamic, with you quickly straddling his lap as he was left to take in the feel of your body. The coil in your stomach began to wind up with each painstakingly slow movement of your hips. The sloppy sounds of kissing rang loud in the room, interrupted only with your breathy whimpers whenever you grazed your sweet spot.

It took him all his strength to pull away, fake and long-soiled paragon of self-restraint lacing his tone when he spoke to you. "The couch would be too narrow for this." The voice barely above whisper.

With that, he grabbed you under your knees, drawing your legs closer to his body for a better purchase. Instinctively, you wrapped your hands around his neck and leaned into his chest so you wouldn't fall when he picked you up. His fingers sank into the pillowy flesh of your thighs as he carried you into the bedroom, your body barely a burden for him. A curt laughter rose from your chest and got lost in the tussels of his fair hair. You hadn't thought him to be so strong outside of his Titan form.

The springs of the mattress wailed as he let go of you, initiating your short fall. He looked down on you, his movements suddenly lacking resolve but his eyes still transfixed on your form. Reluctant to give any more thought to the ponderings teeming his mind, you didn't intend on waiting idly for him to join you. In the growing heat of the room your clothes became a nuisance, just another one of the barriers standing between you two.

Your fingers untypically spry for the state that you were in, you reached for the rows of buttons on your clothes, unburdening yourself layer by layer all the while watching him watch you.

Evidently, the sight of your naked form helped him come to his senses quickly as he stepped closer to the edge of the bed. In a bout of anticipation coursing through your veins you extended your arms towards him in an alluring invitation, starving to taste the tobacco on your tongue again.

All the same dark grin of his told otherwise. Instead of granting you the satisfaction of having his mouth on yours, he grabbed the hold of your hips to flip you over, tight grip sure to leave marks on the skin in the morning to come.

His weight came crushing over you, knocking the air out of your lungs and pinning you in place. Although he was using both of his hands to support his body, with each at the either side of you, it brought you little relief.

"Like I was saying," his lips pressed against the shell of your ear, you felt as if the reverberations of his voice reached your brain. "Marley allowing me to marry is more real than you think. Don't think they would refuse their most valuable asset in such a trivial matter. Maybe I'll even start winning more wars for them."

Your mind refused to give any more attention to his words, demanding a tangible satisfaction instead. You tried to arch your back in hopes that the sudden contact of your pelvises would make him forget his musings, forcing him to stoop down to the same level that you found yourself on, but it was all futile. Under the immense pressure your lower torso was rendered immobile, as if fused with the plush mass of the mattress.

The skin on your shoulder tingled with faint prickles where he rested his chin. "The armband, as significant as it may seem, is not the solution to each of your problem in the internment zone. A glorified scrap of fabric signifying that you're just a bit less miserable than all the others, that's what it is, really." he spoke, his voice tainted with sullen knowledge.

You absolutely hated how he remained so stationary while in arguably the most compromised position and how you lacked the power to change it. "Then why are you willing to go through the trouble of giving me one?" You hissed into the cradle of your palms, tone brimming with impotent dissatisfaction.

The next moment you felt him grabbing a fistful of your hair, with a violent tug forcing your head to turn to the side, your neck almost snapping from the sheer power of the motion. You were met with his gaze, angry yet at the same time seemingly insulted by your insolence to question his motives again. You responded in kind, your eyes watching his lips in anticipation of yet another one of his countless self-serving musings to be voiced. But you didn't hear any. He let go of your hair just as suddenly, nudging you to face away from him.

Sitting up straight, his body weight shifted towards your thighs as he was straddling them. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed his shirt falling to the ground. The sound of the belt buckle coming unfastened was the next thing you heard, the soft clang of the metal clasp filling you with thrill.

His hand snaked its way to your abdomen, pressing against the small of the belly to make you raise your hips and you felt happy to oblige, displaying yourself nicely to him. His touch lingered on you for quite some time after that as both of his hands traveled to the back your thighs, absentmindedly caressing the supple flesh in lazy broad strokes. A surge of goosebumps cascaded across your body, each wave driven not only by his scorching touch but also by a sudden flash of realization.

He must have noticed how shamelessly wet you were. The positioning of your hips left barely any room for his imagination and presented him with the delectable view of your slit, slick covered and pulsing with heat. Exasperated, you bit down on your lower lip to supress a desperate moan all the while he took his sweet fucking time to revel in the way your cunt flutterd around nothing begging to be filled. As much as you wanted to feel him inside you, you kept your pleas to yourself, left solely at the mercy of his self-restraint which you hoped had started to diminish already. You'd rather die than make your weakness for him known again, as if your body wasn't enough of an indicator already.

Eternity might have passed but he eventually moved, shifting some of his weight back onto his arms as he mounted you.

You couldn't help but gasp at the way your walls enveloped him, struggling to take his girth at first. A drawn-out raspy fuck emitted from his chest once he entered you, his motion slow yet persistent as he slid his cock deeper inside you. Careful not to harm you, he halted whenever your breaths became too shallow and frantic from the stinging of the stretch, not moving any further without your leave.

Minutes later you felt him reach the deepest part of your cunt, the immense pressure from his continuous thrust built at the bottom of your stomach, so unbearable that it rendered all the other sensations non-existent. There was no way he couldn't feel your body tensing up below him. Nonetheless, he kept on pushing, as if trying to break you. Even as you tried to get away from the uncomfortable feeling, he stopped you, putting his palms over yours as another way to pin you down. The weight of the pressure bore down on you relentlessly, within mere seconds, tears began to bead on your lashline, threatening to cascase down your cheeks and fall onto the sheets.

The skin of your nape grew hot where he doused it in kisses. Twisted sense of comfort welled up inside of you in hopes that his caresses, so out-of-place yet so warranted, would at the very least provide some relief to you. It seemed that he would persist until you fully succumb to him. A whispered praise poured into your ear once all the struggle left your body and your flesh became pliable to him.

Only then did he back down. Letting you catch your breath as one of his hands traced its way to your face, brushing a strand aside to get a better look of your eyes glistening with tears.

Little did you know that it would be the final act of gentleness he bestowed upon you for a long time, leaving you yearning for more. You didn't even had the time to savour it as he set a new unforgiving pace.

Beyond the tingling sensation of his cock dragging against your walls in a brutalizing manner, sharp hissing grazed your ear. "Why in hell would I go through the trouble of giving you one," he tantalised, each of his thrusts only adding to the mockery. "So you won't forget that you're mine while I'm be away".

"Mine and safe," he murmured then, confident that you won't hear him.

It wasn't his voice. It sounded so unlike him in this moment, frail and vulnerable, but you were the only people in the room so it must've been him.

A jolt of pleasure railed through your body with the tip of his cock hitting your sweet spot over and over again, driving you wild. Your pleasure became apparent to him as well, his motions gaining more precision to increase the blissful sensation for you.

Struggling to form words you nonetheless tried to, your lips and tongue heavy. "So this is what comes with being your wife?" You couldn't believe the tenderness lacing your tone at this moment. The sentiments were a cruel thing, not something you were supposed to have towards him, nor he towards you.

His reply was overtly eager, as he leaned closer to you, your bodies pressing together almost seamlessly. "Pretty much," his voice rang in your ear. "You must admit that you're very fortunate."

You craned your neck to face him, curiosity sparkling in your eyes. Taking in your alluring look, he couldn't resist the glowing skin of your shoulders, so transfixed on tasting the salt of your sweat on his lips that he ground to a halt inside you.

All you could do was rile him up even further, a chuckle escaping your lips. "Oh yes, the prospect of having you cater to my every whim sounds like a remarkably enticing endeavor on my side."

As your words hung in the air, a mischievous glint danced in your eyes, reveling in the effect they had on him. The corners of his mouth curled into a sly grin, mirroring your own playful demeanor and growing heavy with somber tone. With that, his hold on you became tighter, his hand groping at the fat of your thighs.

His hips snapped against yours with such a force that you nearly mewled, feeling the reverberations of his thrust echoing throughout your body. "Enjoying it while you can." His voice dropped to a low, husky timbre, tinged with a hint of challenge and sneer. "You've got only five years left for that."

This level-headed bordering on indifferent demeanor in a blind disregard of his own words struck a nerve with you. You gulped some air, desperate to conceal the outburst within you.

You wished he hadn't remind you of the imminent futility of your secret musings. You wished he would just carry on with pounding into your leaking heat with no thought to it. As he moved inside you, sinking his cock inch by delicious inch, the pleasure of it faded even if your own body continued having visceral reaction to the process, your gummy fluttering around his girth. Now, only lament had residence in your mind. If it wasn't for your unfortunate fate of having been born as Eldians, perhaps you could have a chance at a normal life. Without the constant thoughts of him slipping away.

His resolve undying, he pressed your body deeper into the mattress, the pressure of his hands driving the air out of your lungs all the while his cock kept winding the coil in the pit of your stomach.

"Widowhood would suit you so good."

His voice remained just as mocking as before, as if the life that was put on the clock wasn't his. You, on the other hand, were precisely the one not entertaining such remarks. "Tell me." You could barely make out the words amongst the squelching sounds. "Tell me, will you mourn me? Funeral would be hard to organize, admittedly, with no body left for you to bury, but-"

You rushed to hide your face in the sheets. You heard enough. You didn't want to hear anymore of his taunts.

The words still reached your ear. "Will you cry for me like a good wife should for her husband?" He came to a halt deep inside you yet again, ready to break you should you not answer. "I've never seen those eyes cry before. So will you or will you not?"

The satisfaction wouldn't come so easily to him as you remained motionless under him. Only your shoulders quivered with subtle tremors, betraying the hidden distress that stirred within you. As simple thing such as breathing brought you a lot of struggle so you could only hope that your poise would last through all of this.

"It's not like I've taken your tongue away," he mocked.

A gesture of feigned compassion, you felt his fingers card through your hair, lulling you into false sense of security in hopes of luring out a desired reaction out of you. The sweet tone of his voice came off as cruel and mocking as he coaxed you for an answer, his fingers toying with your clit only adding to the torture.

Sick twisted pleasure, that's what he was getting from all of this. Your answer to his inquiries evident to him, he nonetheless wanted to hear it falling from your lips, dry and bitten at.

Yet, when he spoke again, his voice shed all its malice, barren as it trembled slightly. "At least remember me after I'm gone, would you do that for me?" He called out your name and it sounded vulnerable coming from him, his tone etching deep within your memory.

With a lump forming in your throat, you struggled to find your voice as well as enough air to form a response. There was no purchase for your mind as a scorching wave of orgasm coursed through your body, your face contourting in pleasure and your cunt squeezing in around him. With that, the last bit of poise left you and you broke down completely.

"Yes!" you pushed past your lips, hot tears streaming down your cheeks and your shoulders shaking with each sob.

In this moment you suddenly grew unaware of your surroundings, deaf to his whispers pouring into the ear and numb to the tingling stretch of your core as he was chasing his own high.

The skin of your inner thighs soiled with his seed, you would normally rush to the bathroom to wash away the stench of sex but this time you thought against it, curling up on the bed instead once he rolled off of you. Only now you began to feel the weight of your confession. Why did it have to be you alone to crack under the surge of sentiments that held immense power over you?

He decided to stay in bed as well, watching you struggle to come to terms with what you had just said, complacent grin plastered across his face. Evidently, you made him very happy this night.

"When are you leaving?" you asked in a raspy voice, watching him as he watched you in the enveloping darkness.

His fingers reached for a stray strand, sliding it behind your ear. His tone was thick with mindless glee. "In a couple of weeks, plenty of time for me to convince Marley to green light the marriage." The kiss he left on your lips acquired a bitter taste with time. "What will you say?" At the lack of suitable words, you just nodded dumbly.

He is not to be trusted.

There's a deceit lacing his each word.

But as you gazed deeper into his eyes, glinting in the dark shroud of the night, you let him deceive you yet again.

(phew)

#zeke x reader #zeke yeager x reader #zeke x you #zeke yeager x you #zeke smut #zeke yeager smut #aot smut

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lime202 · 20 days

Text

A Match Made in Hell

Vox hears of Alastor’s post-extermination survival, and goes to the hotel to prove it for himself. He also aims to discuss the increased disturbance of radio waves that have been coming from the radio tower. He is not worried over what the meaning of the signals are… He only plans on discussing them professionally. Overlord business, that’s what it is.

(feat. Charlie being an aggressive matchmaker to see her Voxal ship come to life.)

(This is radiostatic/radiosilence crack treated seriously. I’m not sure what I was aiming for with this. Very dialogue heavy so I will not be posting it on ao3 (although I do plan on posting 2 other polished radiostatic fics on there some time later). Enjoy.)

Vox is standing in front of the entrance of the hotel, contemplating turning back. From the last time he had seen it, it was run down, dilapidated, and hardly able to be called a functional facility. There have been many refurbishments, with it being nearly twice as tall and grand.

He is only here for business.

The Princess of Hell opens the door.

“Hello—” She extends the “o” before cutting herself off. “An overlord!”

He gives her a fake smile. “I need to speak with someone.”

There is a beat of silence.

“Oh? Would this someone happen to be the Radio Star?” Charlie asks curiously, and Vox is made to believe that she had witnessed the whole… escapade from a few months ago.

There was a quick flurry of anger at the thought of Alastor causing the docile Princess of Hell to not even bear an ounce of fear in front of him. But, it vanished when he caught onto the implication of Alastor being alive and well.

“A Star is an awfully generous title, for him…” Vox mutters.

“Well, it is part of his title. Although, it seems as if you have a more… personal relationship with this Alastor. Maybe, your- well… friend?”

Vox scoffs at the accusation.

“Absolutely not, the radio and the television overlord are not friends.”

Vox is bemused, impatient, and unwilling to confront any sentiments the Princess decides to spew.

And, now she is holding a clipboard - when did that get there?

“You sound.. like you two have some kind of history together…”

Charlie is looking through some sort of file on her clipboard, making slight notes.

“Not necessarily. I'm simply here to remind him to get off my turf and to have a quick chat,” Vox answers dismissively, automatically plastering an artificial smile on his face.

“Hm,” the princess hums and notes something more. A spark of irritation makes way through the TV demon’s circuits. “So you’re here to ‘talk,’ nothing else?”

There seems to be an investigative soundtrack droning from the vintage television from inside.

“This is nothing for you to be concerned about, your highness,” Vox replies smoothly, now beginning to associate her with some of the more invasive reporters that he occasionally runs into. “Will you lead me to him so we can get this over with? Business calls.”

Charlie looks up from her damned clipboard (—Vox is able to make out childish drawings of Vox and Alastor). There seems to be an amusement in her eyes.

“Well first, let me ask a few questions. If I deem you as not a threat, I’ll take you straight to him!” Charlie says, now acquiring a more regal accent, then crossing her arms in a failed attempt to appear serious.

Vox does not understand her insistence. Her laughable character results in only a mixture of pity, mild amusement, and impatience. He knows Alastor is only hosting the hotel for his own entertainment—everything he does is for entertainment, even if it’s at the cost of someone else—

“Even if it happens to escalate into a fight, he would be able to handle himself, anyway. Your little hotel will be just fine.” Before it inevitably falls, Vox wishes bitterly.

“Oh, I’m aware he can handle himself. I’m just wondering if you can handle him, sir.” Charlie gestures towards him, and he sees the now reddish light of his screen reflect on her face.

Through grit teeth, he responds: “I can handle myself just fine, thank you, your highness. It's not like we haven't fought before. He just needs to learn to stay in his place, and I'll stay in mine.”

She steps forward, continuing to block his way into the hotel.

“How often have you fought before?”

“Again, that does not require your concern.” The edges of his smile begin to feel tired from strain.

There is another moment of silence, and Charlie’s eyes narrow.

“I believe it is! You two fight each other regularly without confronting any feelings. As Princess of Hell, it’s my job to make sure that hell is running correctly, so I need you to be honest!”

She says it confidently, as if the overlord in front of her were simply some fool. Clipboard hugged against her chest, Charlie leans closer to Vox, making the comment unnecessarily personal.

“Feelings? What in the world are you implying?” He sputters. “Have you never seen overlords deal with each other before?”

Charlie is still leaning close to him when she asks:

“Do you, by chance, fancy the Radio Overlord?”

“Absolutely not.” He answers immediately. “I hate—loathe him. And those feelings are mutual. So, I advise that you tell me where he is or I'll find him myself.”

His television screen becomes a rosy hue, embarrassed and angered by the condescension of her smile. His sensors take notice of a vague fragrance perfume from the limited distance.

Then, she steps back, still watching his face to make an impression of his emotions. Although it was good for his brand, he found himself increasingly (and uncomfortably) aware of how there were more than two million pixels highlighting his every change in emotion. Alastor calls him easy to read.

“You hate him?” Charlie asks, stupidly.

“Is that not what I said?” Then, taking advantage of her disbelief, Vox brusquely enters and pushes past the princess—courtesy be damned. He only planned on meeting Alastor, not satisfying the Princess of Hell.

“Hm… but— what if I told you he has feelings for you?” She giggles boyishly, as if she had not walked Hell’s ground for practically two centuries.

Regardless, Vox continues to walk past her, trying to find a way to the hotel’s radio tower. Alastor does not have any sort of affinity for Vox. He had made that clear nearly a decade ago.

“Then I wouldn’t believe you.”

Charlie steps in front of Vox.

“What if I could prove it?”

Vox buffers for a quick moment before reminding himself of the absurdity of the situation.

“Then— I wouldn’t care!” He stops in place. “I’m not here for anything personal.”

(But if what she said held even the slightest bit of truth, then the TV would want nothing more than to rub it in his face and reject him brutally. But, that’s not what he was here for.)

Charlie, almost in response to his afterthought, continues.

“I think you do care.” She leans close again, like she had at the door. “Your screen looks conflicted anytime I bring him up!”

The bluntness of the statement seemed almost unfitting of her character. Vox always saw her to be a little less aggressive in her pushiness when it came to other people—perhaps his cameras had not picked up on her more ruthless edge, or maybe she simply wanted to humiliate an enemy of Alastor. He has no time to deal with this.

“Fine. I’ll just leave and come back another time, since you keep spewing out fatuities.”

Vox turns to leave. He could just find Alastor another time when he was alone.

“Wait—” Charlie grabs his arm with a surprisingly strong grip. “You can’t go” –she spins him around– “I want this to be sorted out!”

“Just because you want something, doesn’t mean it will happen,” Vox says with a personal bitterness. “How sheltered are you?”

Perhaps if there were an audience, he would compose himself a bit more for his image. But, it seemed that the hotel was just as empty as it was before, despite all the refurbishments.

She ignores the insult, continuing: “What happened? Did Alastor reject your advances? Or was he just oblivious to them?”

Vox’s screen flickers before he replies.

“I don’t need your interrogation. Are you going to let me leave or are you going to lead me to him?”

She ignores his question.

“I bet he was oblivious to your feelings… And here you are. Stubborn and alone.” She looks into his screen for a moment and grabs his arm harder, holding firm with a tight grip. Vox can manage to see a softer sympathy in her eyes. “If you don’t have Alastor, who else do you have?

Vox is made uncomfortable with her sympathetic hand on his arm.

“I have a business to run. There were never "feelings" in the first place. I'm just here to remind him that he should have stayed away.”

Charlie seems to perk up at the response.

“Oh? Is that it? You’re just here to prove something to him? Prove to him that you have power—prove your worth to him? You don’t think that you meet Alastor’s requirements?”

Vox's screen expression sours as he forces his screen back to the typical blue.

“Alastor has no effect on me. He's only inconvenient when he gets in the way of me collecting souls. Stop persisting with these moronic ideas. Are you going to show me where he is or not?”

He attempts to pull away once more, but Charlie seems dissatisfied.

“I’m gonna make you see. I’m not letting this potential relationship go to waste!”

Charlie starts pulling the overlord more firmly by the arm towards the radio tower. Vox sputters disagreements as she guides him, only falling silent when he notices they are standing outside the entrance to the tower.

The princess of hell begins to call out: “Alastor, I’ve brought you a visitor!”

Vox can hear Alastor mumble out a frustrated response. At that, she continues.

“Alastor, Vox is here! Vox! Your special business man is here–”

She is cut off when Alastor steps out of the room, with a slightly annoyed look on his face. He looks at Vox, then back at Charlie. Then at Vox again when he begins to retort:

“We are not friends, I am here for a professional conversation and just want to finish what was started earlier.”

When Charlie releases him, Vox crosses his arms, looking at Alastor expectantly. Alastor’s eyebrows raise with indifference.

“Hm, well, that’s a shame. I was hoping for some entertainment, considering how… boisterous you are.”

Alastor looks over at Charlie, who is practically bouncing up and down. Then, she approaches the Radio demon, giving him a few hushed whispers.

Vox does not know what she says, but Alastor seems to accede to her words.

“Oh, fine…” He focuses his attention back to Vox. “What is it?”

The overlord freezes in place, not actually expecting Alastor to be open to his presence. He hasn’t been able to see him in person for years. He didn’t really think he’d get this far, to be honest. Before he could be caught staring, he stumbles over his words.

“Uh–well—your radio waves are getting in the way of mine. It’s distracting. Keep them somewhere else!”

An flustered spark of electricity comes from one of his antennas. He is still irritated by the conversation earlier, and now he simply spoon-feeding Alastor more ways to humiliate him. Alastor easily catches onto Vox’s obviously unprepared excuse, giving him a mocking expression.

“You do know how a radio tower... works... right? It’s supposed to be for everyone, it was built for the public radio broadcast!”

The condescension of the tone makes Vox more irritated.

“Televisions use radio waves also, of course I would know. Why do you think I'm annoyed in the first place? You're the one causing the interference.” There was no interference, but Alastor didn’t need to know that.

Alastor scoffs.

“I own half of the radio wave spectrum!” He puts his hands on his hips and leans forward. “And your television frequencies are on another set of radio waves! We’re not conflicting to one another, and they’re being broadcast for the public for heaven’s sake!”

Vox internally retracts at how miserably his excuse landed.

Alastor sighs. “I can't believe my time is being wasted on this.”

Trying to get the last word, Vox gives a huff.

“Fine, this "discussion" is over then, since you're so mature.”

There is a beat of silence. Then another. Vox hasn't left yet.

“Of course, someone has to be if you can’t—”

Alastor stops mid sentence as he notices Vox just staring at him intently, as if the television were expecting something else.

In the silence, Vox turns his eyes away. “What?”

Alastor suddenly looks confused, and a little annoyed. “Did you... come here just to see me?”

Vox bristles.

Well, with Alastor's face hidden in the radio, Vox had not been able to see him for years. And, after hearing of his survival, he would end up being a little curious as to what Alastor looked like in person. Despite this, he denies it and turns around immediately.

"No." His screen beams a bright pink as he leaves, and he makes sure to accidentally step on the clipboard that Charlie dropped earlier as he makes his exit.

Alastor just watches him walk away, a bit confused. But, the edges of Alastor’s smile do curl up somewhat at the first meeting with his old friend. His failures were always the most charming.

Charlie still stands next to him, seeming to examine the side of his face as his thoughts play out. Alastor faces her.

“I’m not sure what you were trying to achieve, Charlie,” Alastor says, his smile somehow feeling like a scowl.

He crosses his arms, and Charlie mumbles a small apology.

“I just felt… I needed to help him. To help you.”

Alastor does not respond.

—

Vox leaves the hotel, somewhat annoyed but mostly satisfied. He has no answers, but Alastor isn’t gone. Charlie's drawing crumbles in his hand as it turns into a fist. Alastor isn't gone, just yet.

#hazbin hotel #radiostatic #radio silence #alastor the radio demon #charlie morningstar #yeah I made Charlie draw fanart of Alastor and Vox so what #also the title is not serious either please I know it’s cliche #I also don’t know how radio waves work which makes this sillier whoops #"I'm just here to remind him that he should have stayed away.” lmaoo #fanfic #hazbin hotel vox #I haven't written in so long and this is what I end up doing during my break #don't look at how I struggle with present tense

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tokkias · 9 months

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my lonely days are gone ship: natsu dragneel x lucy heartfilia summary: A little trip through Hargeon wouldn't be complete without a few tears shed in the name of nostalgia. ao3

Nalu Week 2023 Day 6: Nostalgia @allaboutnalu @thenaluarchive

The salty sea breeze was a welcome change from the stuffy train carriage that brought them here. It felt great against Lucy’s skin and went in easy as she stretched out her arms and inhaled a deep breath.

She was certain Natsu would feel the same way, once he finally managed to pull himself together, that was.

He let out a gurgled moan as he hobbled behind her, his head still spinning from what seemed to be a particularly hard train ride for him.

Lucy stopped for a few seconds while she waited for him to catch up to her pace, and once he did, she let her hand rest on his back, rubbing comforting circles into his back to try and sooth him. It seemed it worked a little, as he stopped retching as often and managed to take a few deep breaths.

"I’m never riding a train again," he grumbled. "Never."

Lucy merely rolled her eyes at the all-too-familiar declaration that she was certain she would hear again the next time they boarded one.

"You say that every time," she pointed out.

"I’m serious about it this time," he groaned, resting one hand on his stomach to try and settle it.

Rather predictably, their conversation was interrupted by a loud gurgle from his stomach, indicating Natsu’s impending need for food.

"Yes, fine," she answered to his unspoken question. "We can find somewhere to eat, and then we have to head out to meet our client."

Any ailments he had immediately left him, and his eyes lit up at the prospect of a meal. Lucy found herself unsurprised by his sudden recovery and the subsequent increase in his pace as he grabbed her hand and dragged her through the streets in search of food.

It had been a long time since they had been in Hargeon, and while the streets carried a sense of familiarity with them, some of it felt like they were seeing these streets for the first time all over again.

Even though it had been more than a decade since they had been here, not much about it had changed, like it had stayed stuck in time as they continued on with their lives, going on new journeys and adventures every day. She vaguely recognised the stores they walked past from the first time she had come here, though one in particular that she had been acutely familiar with from her time here was now vacant, with a for sale sign hung up in the window, no doubt due to the dwindling base of magic users in the town.

"Hmph, serves him right," Lucy huffed as she felt the taste of bitterness lingering on the tip of her tongue, still not over the grudge she held for that measly 1,000 jewel discount.

"Geez, what’d this place ever do to you?" Natsu asked, confused by her sudden hostility towards a random vacant lot.

"I don’t want to talk about it," she grumbled back in reply.

That little reminder of that fateful day sparked something in her heart that had her feeling sentimental.

This small port town had been a little out of the way of where she was supposed to be headed, but once that now-defunct magic store came on her radar, she had made sure to go out of her way to make the detour.

Instinctively, her hand moved to her keys, running a finger across the silver key of Canis Minor, and suddenly she wondered if maybe she should summon him, just for a while.

Never in her life would she have imagined that that trip to a small-town magic shop would change her life into what it is today. She was the person she had become, all thanks to Natsu.

He had saved her that day, and from then on, he would save her again and again and again, in more ways than one, and she, in time, would return the favour.

She had to bite back tears as they walked, her heart completely and utterly overwhelmed with gratitude to have Natsu in her life, but just when she thought things couldn’t get more nostalgic, she suddenly noticed where they were passing by.

She stopped in her tracks, eyes stuck on the edge of the town square, as Natsu kept walking, not noticing she was gone until a few feet later.

"Lucy?" He called out, turning towards her to see why she had stopped. "Everything okay?"

Lucy didn’t reply immediately; instead, she walked over to the spot that had caught her attention before coming to a stop as her heart began to race and she felt herself reliving that fateful moment all over again.

"This is where we first met," she breathed out. "I was standing here, and you were over there."

She pointed to the ground where he had been sitting when she first introduced herself to him. Part of her wondered what would have happened had she never thanked him for breaking out of that spell, but another part didn’t want to think about it.

A life without Natsu was inconceivable to her now. She had known the pain and heartache of their separation and was unwilling to think about a life without him by her side.

Thankfully, she knew she never had to.

He had promised that they would always be together, and she had faith that he was going to follow through on that promise until the very end.

She didn’t have to look up to know that Natsu had returned to her side, joining her in her nostalgia.

"Do you remember that?" She asked, lifting her gaze up to meet his.

"Course I remember that, weirdo," he grinned down at her. "Cause that was the day I met my best friend."

He tossed an arm around her shoulder, pulling her in close, and in that moment, a feeling of indescribable happiness washed over her.

Natsu had a lot of people in his life, all of whom he cared for deeply, but none of whom held the coveted title of his best friend. No one but her.

She was his best friend, and he was hers. They were an inseparable duo, seemingly bound together by the red string of fate, destined to encounter each other, again and again and again.

Lucy wouldn’t have it any other way.

Her heart began to thump quick and loud in her chest, and suddenly there was no holding back the tears that began to form in her eyes and they began to run down her cheeks.

What had just begun as a silent stream of tears had quickly devolved into choked up sobs, and Lucy had to bury her face in Natsu’s chest to hide herself from the stares that she was beginning to attract. She wrapped her arms around his chest, and he responded in turn by holding her close, resting one hand on the back of her head, cradling her as she sobbed.

"I’m s-so happy you’re here," she choked out between tears, her voice muffled as she buried her face in his chest, but she didn’t care too much, knowing he could still hear her despite it. "I’m so glad th- hic -that every day I wake up and I get to be with you. I’ll always be grateful that I got to meet you."

"I’m real glad I got to meet you too, Lucy."

Overwhelmed with emotion and with no words to adequately express her emotions, Lucy squeezed her arms around him, and as if taking it as a challenge, Natsu replied by squeezing her even tighter. That didn’t stop the tears from falling, however, and the two continued to stand there as Lucy cried, holding each other in their arms.

At some point, Natsu realised that they probably weren’t about to leave any time soon, so he rested his cheek against the crown of her head, nuzzling his nose against her hair, letting the familiar scent of her shampoo sooth him.

Lucy didn’t need to look around to know that people were staring. She had certainly caused a little bit of a scene, but she didn’t care. If her love for her best friend was a spectacle, so be it. She would never find herself embarrassed by the feelings she had for those she cared about.

When her sobs began to subside and she finally began to collect herself, Lucy shifted slightly in his arms, causing him to raise his head and loosen his grip.

Wiping away her tears, Lucy looked up at him and found him looking back down at her, grinning from ear to ear as he looked down at her.

"You’re making fun of me!" She whined, sticking her lips out in a pout.

"I’m not makin’ fun of you! I didn’t say anything!" He defended, not keen to take on her false accusation.

"You’re making fun of me in your head!"

Natsu chortled at her words and the pathetic-looking pout on her face.

"I’m not making fun of you," he assured. "I’m thinkin’ about how awesome my life is now that I have you in it."

Lucy couldn’t argue with that, so instead, overwhelmed with emotion, she shoved her face back into his chest, eliciting another laugh from Natsu.

"I love you," she mumbled into his shirt.

"I love you too," he replied.

They stood there together in their embrace for perhaps a few moments too many before Lucy finally stepped away, wiping away any stray tears that may have fallen since earlier. She looked over at Natsu, who was still grinning down at her, and she couldn’t do anything but smile back.

"Now how about you buy me lunch again?" Natsu tried, a smile plastered across his face from ear to ear. "Y’know, for old time’s sake?"

"Oh yeah? What’d you do to deserve it this time?" Lucy replied, arms crossed over her chest and eyebrows raised, not feeling nearly as generous as she was the first time they met.

"Being the greatest best friend ever?"

She couldn’t deny that one, but if she was buying him lunch for that every time he tried to use that excuse, she’d be sufficiently broke.

"Not a chance," she shot back, only feeling a little bit bad about his dejected expression. "Maybe you should buy me lunch, just so we’re even."

Natsu grumbled something that she couldn’t quite catch, seemingly unhappy with his unsuccessful attempt at getting a free meal out of her, which she took as a rejection of her idea.

That was fine.

After all, he had a whole lifetime to repay that favour.

#nalu #fairy tail #natsu dragneel #lucy heartfilia #naluweek2023 #fan fiction #fanfiction #mya writes things

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dr3mvaalmar · 7 months

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Showers of Sentiments | Kinktober Day 6

Pairing: Asra x Gn! Reader

Prompt: First Kiss (sfw)

Summary: Asra and the reader spend the day inside the shop on a rainy day.

Warnings/Tags: none that I know of

Author's Note: I didn't have time to edit and go through this thoroughly because of work and lack of sleep. It might sound a bit robotic. Thank you for your patience.

My eyes peered to the skies, a veil of pregnant clouds overcast above. Peering back down towards Asra, he seemed none the wiser to the looming storm. We were walking in the market after a midday excursion. Our feet hit the cobblestones as we strolled to various stalls and attractions. Today was the weekly bazaar, where new tents and goodies were spread across in succession—the colorful array of fabrics billowed in the growing wind. The shouting of merchants and customers resonated across the entire street, a cacophony of voices melding into one. Various stalls had everything from fruit and vegetables to crafts and necessities. It was hectic in the market. The lively crowd was so dense I could hardly see in front of me.

Asra turned towards me, a fleeting glance to ensure I was steadily behind him. He didn’t dare leave me behind, but it was certainly hard to keep up. He weaved through the crowd with graceful agility I couldn’t compare with. Seeing my newfound struggle as people entrapped me between them, Asra took my hand in his. It was gentle, yet I trusted him not to let go.

“It’s about to rain,” I shouted towards Asra. He didn’t seem to notice the first time, so I repeated it. He gazed upwards. The clouds were now upon us. Asra’s nose scrunched up as a droplet plummeted onto his face. “We should go back to the shop.”

“I was hoping we could pick up some mandrake root before we go,” Asra said, his lips puckering in disappointment. I squeezed his hand tighter just as the rain started to pour on the two of us. “Well, it can wait for another day. How about we have a little fun, (Y/n)? It’s not often there’s rain this time of year.”

My lips curled upward, which only encouraged him further. He took my hand, guiding me through the crowd. By now, everyone was getting soaked as the rain increased in vigor. It was much easier to maneuver by now.

Asra took me to an alley nearby before undoing the straps of his shoes. I could only watch miraculously as he set the shoes aside. Asra looked up from his crouched position, beckoning me to do the same. Reluctantly, I followed suit.

“Isn’t this exciting? I can’t remember the last time I felt rain like this,” Asra said, his arms spreading out from beside him. He twisted and hopped in the puddles, never minding the mud he was stepping on. Asra took me along as we reveled in the coolness of the downpour. I paused to close my eyes, enjoying the trickling of water and the giggles of Asra before me. The smell of petrichor was heavy in the air. Even though the rain was cold this time of year, it felt like a blanket across me. Water cascaded across my exposed flesh, dripping onto the ground below.

Asra’s shoulder brushed against mine as he returned to my side. His eyes were filled with wonder as we enjoyed the scene before us. Houses were dripping with water, the pitter-patter making music along the cobblestone. The sky was dark, and the sun was long obscured.

At that moment, I couldn’t help but admire Asra. The way the rain soaked into his white curls, dripping onto his long lashes. His face was slick and glimmered in the dimness of the storm. His clothes clung to his form, leaving little to the imagination. The way he stomped around like a child was so endearing. When Asra drew near again, I leaned into his touch, savoring the warmth against my cold skin. Yet, I felt a hole in my heart. Something was missing.

I grabbed both of his hands, bringing them up to my face. I didn’t heed his flustered expression as I laid his fingers across my skin. They were wet but comforting. I nudged into them, inciting a delicate sound to escape from Asra’s throat. I giggled.

“Maybe we should go to the shop,” Asra said, turning away. “You’ll catch a cold if we stay out here too long.”

“What about the fun?” I asked, putting a hand on his shoulder. His golden skin was gorgeous under the reflection of the rain.

“It wouldn’t be any fun if you got sick, now would it?”

We both returned to the shop, soaking wet from the torrent of rain. The sky was getting darker by the moment. Lightning would pierce the clouds, and a bang of thunder would resume. It was getting more unruly by the moment, but Asra was able to shield us with a magic barrier above us.

When we opened the doors, the shop seemed so inviting. The aroma of the potion ingredients brewing in the kitchen hit my senses. It was intense, almost overpowering. Asra used a spell to disperse the heat throughout the house, warding off the chill of the raging storm outside. Thunder shook the house with every strike of lightning. As Asra prepared, I went to our shared bedroom, stripping my wet clothes.

“(Y/n), what kind of bakhoor do want?” Asra said, calling my attention. I turned towards the closed door, sensing his presence on the other side. “I’m also preparing tea in the other room.”

I told him my preference before he scurried off. We collected some perfumed wood chips from a traveling merchant. It complimented the house and our clothes with a flourish of enticing fragrances. I chuckled to myself before putting on some warm night clothes. I hung my old garments to dry before I would clean them tomorrow.

I entered the room to find Asra curled on the floor in a pile of blankets and pillows. He must’ve changed already, as his attire was dry and very gaudy compared to his usual garments. The bakhoor smoke wafted around him, inviting coziness and leisure. Beside him was a pot of boiling water, sustained purely on a small brazier. He invited me in with a smile.

I walked towards the window, peering through the curtains to see rain spilling down the side of the shop. It didn’t look like it'd die down anytime soon. The droplets seemed to dance wickedly across the windowpane. I walked back to Asra as he patted the spot next to him.

“What tea did you make for us?” I asked as Asra started pouring the cup. He waved his hand, clearing the steam away from my face. I eagerly peered into the amber liquid as it gyrated with each subtle movement.

“Today it’s elderflower and echinacea,” Asra affirmed. I leaned over to savor the smell. It was very floral and soft with slightly fruity notes. I took the cup in my hand, the heat radiating into my fingers. Tentatively, I took a sip.

“It’s hot, but I—” I said before scrunching my nose. In one fluid motion, I sneezed, tossing the liquid in my hand. Asra had strong reflexes to stabilize the cup, but it wasn't near enough to protect me. The hot liquid tipped over the edge, spilling onto my lap. I jerked but tried to stay calm in front of him. Asra looked pitifully at me as he set my drink aside.

“Ah, (Y/n)!” Asra said, frantically finding a rag to soak up the tea. “I knew you would get sick. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have taken you out in the rain.”

I only giggled, the initial heat subsiding. I dabbed at my clothes, paying no mind after a moment. I laid a hand on Asra’s shoulder reassuringly.

“Don’t apologize,” I assured, his eyes dull and half-blinking. “I enjoyed our time together.

Asra seemed aloof, refusing to look me in the eyes. However, I knew no matter how much I reassured him, he would still feel guilty. It wasn’t even his fault. I wouldn’t even get sick this quickly.

“Can I make it up to you?” Asra asked, hands folded together. “I have a remedy that may help.”

I nodded enthusiastically. Anything to make him feel better. He got up from his criss-crossed position. He disappeared briefly before reappearing with a bottle of viscous liquid and some wool socks. I arched a brow.

“Lie down, (Y/n),” Asra instructed with a tender smile. I did as I was told, lying on the nest of fabrics below. Asra seemed determined as he grasped my right leg.

“What are you doing?” I asked as he poured oil over his hand. He looked up from his task.

“There’s a tradition,” Asra began, “that taking care of someone’s feet is seen as a deep act of respect and care. The feet, after all, carry all of our burdens. They are deeply connected to the body.”

Asra rubbed my feet with gentle pressure. His hands glided gracefully along the skin from my ankles to my heels, to the pads of my feet, all the way to my toes. I giggled, his touch tickling with every movement. The sensation of the oil on my skin was slightly uncomfortable, but his love and devotion put me at ease. I felt a pressure lift from my shoulders as he finished his massage. He glanced at me curiously as he put on the socks for me.

“Thank you, master,” I said, descending into the blankets. “Why don’t you join me?”

Asra didn’t need to say anything as he enveloped himself in the blankets. His body was so close that I could see every detail. Everything about him brought peace to my mind. Yet, I felt a slight longing for more…

We both lay on our sides, face to face. It was awkward for a moment. Asra’s breathing was faint, and he closed his eyes as if about to fall asleep. I lifted my hand, letting it brush the hair from his face.

Asra seemed so serene. So calm. His gentle breathing was enough to tempt me to sleep. However, not just yet.

“Master,” I called as he let out a disgruntled moan. I gently ran my finger along his skin, causing his eyes to flutter open slowly. “Do you mind coming closer? I’m cold.”

Asra mumbled out a sleepy response that I didn’t quite hear. His arms caressed my side before tugging me into an embrace. His cheek rests delicately against mine. I felt every vibration from his voice as he said, “Is this okay?”

I hummed in agreement, my body sinking into my surroundings. It felt like I could stay here for eternity, forever bound by the comfort of Asra’s body. His touch was softer than anything I could ever experience. I spent a few moments in bliss.

“Master, are you awake?” I asked, feeling shame in waking him again. However, each time, he was patient with me. Asra never raised his voice or caused a commotion. He was always attentive to my wants and needs. “Can I kiss you?”

Asra chuckled, dropping a limp arm around my waist, “Don’t be silly.”

Putting on a brave front, I took his head into my hands. Asra’s eyes immediately darted open, disbelief ridden all across his face. I leaned forward, letting my lips graze his forehead. One gentle peck of a brief kiss, and I was satisfied. The sinking pit in my chest drifted away.

“You really make it hard to sleep when you do that,” Asra whispered bashfully. “Kiss me more, but do it right.”

I giggled as Asra beckoned me with his violet eyes. My lips opened slightly, but I hesitated, his sweet face disintegrating every ounce of confidence I had left. He looked very pleased with himself every second that passed by. Asra inched closer as if coiling for a strike. As his lips paused before me, I breathed in his scent, letting it consume me entirely. I closed my eyes, letting his lips clash with mine. It felt soft and tender, beyond anything I could’ve imagined. As Asra pushed against me, I felt the ties of our bond tighten.

Asra peeled away, but his entire body seemed to motion for more. As we comprehended what just happened, time seemed to still until it was just the two of us. Nothing else mattered but us.

“Not bad for a first,” Asra chuckled, focusing solely on my lips. “How about we try this again?”

Our lips entwined as one, moving in waves of passion and zest. Asra’s motions became bolder and hungrier, the sounds of our kisses reverberating off the walls.

“More,” Asra would say. “More.”

We spent the time entangled in the midst of endearment, kissing until the taste of Asra was fixed on my lips. My mouth tingled, urging me for more. Yet, I knew time was dwindling, and I wanted nothing more than to sleep with Asra with the muffled song of the rain.

Asra wrapped the blanket around us. His warmth cradled me and soothed every inkling of sickness that I could’ve possibly had. His presence was my panacea.

“Good night, my soul’s delight,” Asra whispered, planting a final kiss on my lips. I melted into him, allowing my eyes to become heavier. As my mind flittered into sleep, I heard him utter one final phrase…

“I love you.”

#asra alnazar x reader #the arcana #kinktober 2023 #day 6 #fanfiction #asra the magician

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blinkpen · 5 months

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you cannot keep telling the people around you "guys, cmon, sometimes you just... sometimes you just gotta let the genocide slide, okay, things will stay slightly more okay Here if we co-sign ethnic cleansing over There, we gotta do it, its just common sense, things are just, soooo precipitous in Our country right now, aren't you scared?" and be surprised when increasing parts of the population start going "ah. okay. so you admit, it really is Death no matter what, huh, just weather or not it comes for me specifically, or rather, when" and start stuffing a gas soaked rag into a bottle without breaking eye contact

because some people, when they see a trolley problem where the body stack for BOTH tracks are both SO MASSIVE the difference is measured only in its sentimental relativity to the individual given access to the rail lever, ask "who the fuck is still setting these up", and bolt across the tracks to pry the kill switch off that fucker, even if it gets their ass run over for nothing, or shot when they get too close all while someone cries out Nooooo you should have just pulled the leeeveerrrr to save MY people at least, nooo the others would have been slightly more acceptable collateral bc they aren't My People nooooo (and that someone may well have pulled the trigger themself, or at least, called the cops to complain about All This Ruckus)

these "who set up the trolley problem" people will always exist and the worse shit gets, the more they are going to resent Blue No Matter Who types who can never put in more effort towards progress than fingerwagging trying to tell them No Boy! Down! Sit, sit! No! Bad Dog! Very Bad Dog! No Biting!

Unfortunately for myself, and perhaps others, i am a bitch who will bite the hand that feeds me if i see it plainly beating another dog

#i woke up on the wrong ass side of the bed clearly #people say Time Is a Flat Circle but increase how wide that circle is for a second #past 'this is how we got truuuuump' diameter used to neuter anything that requires more effort than tweeting #increase the size of that fucking circle. reread my first paragraph. and realize what groups all throughout history YOU are mimicking #then again i am insane so what do i know

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bimboficationblues · 5 months

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what is the connection you see between liberalism and "prevent suicide at any cost"? i get the other two but not liberalism

oh I'm so glad you asked, this is a super fascinating topic imo.

One of the interesting shifts that goes on in the philosophical conversation around suicide in early modernity is that while religious objections to suicide were being undermined, this didn't necessarily stop objections. (Hume is one of the few bigger names that doesn't seek an alternative secular grounding for opposition to suicide and instead just rebukes the religious argument.) Instead the anti-suicide attitude became sociopolitically driven. On the ideological level, anti-suicide thought assumed a particular kind of social and political subject and image of society that would have been alien to earlier Christian writers like Aquinas. On the more material level we see the modern state developing an increased interest in the health of their populations (though only on an abstract, utilitarian level, for the purposes of maintaining security and control) via the disciplinary institutions of law and medicine.

A really good example: while John Stuart Mill, Boy Genius, never explicitly addresses suicide in On Liberty, he does indirectly discuss it when carving out exceptions to his "harm principle." While generally intervening in the behavior of others for "their own good" is politically and socially undesirable for Mill, there are some exceptions. He uses the example of selling yourself into slavery as an "extreme example" of how one should not be permitted to give up their own liberty and ability to make reasoned decisions about their life. Personally, I think this passage might cut either way on the question of suicide; Mill's primarily interested in social and political liberty and so the idea of removing one's own "metaphysical" liberty through self-annihilation seems outside his scope.

But he also argues that, despite the harm principle, society can intervene if someone is putting themselves at risk or going to harm themselves if they are a "child, or delirious, or in some state of excitement or absorption incompatible with the full use of the reflecting faculty" - i.e. a non-rational agent in some way. Even if it's not what Mill is directly addressing, there's a clear line to be drawn between his ideas about the ability to exercise reason as a foundation for autonomy and modern, non-religious anti-suicide sentiment. This is a recurring theme of modern liberal attitudes towards suicide, which regard it as a fundamentally anti-rational act and therefore grants society permission to override, restrain, and act upon you in ways contrary to your individual desires. (For the record, this same supposed lack of ability to govern oneself effectively is also Mill's self-absolving justification for authoritarianism and colonialism: "Despotism is a legitimate mode of government in dealing with barbarians.") You and I might conceive of suicidal ideation as a rational or at least quasi-rational response, but that's not typically, or at least consistently, something that liberal thought grants.

You can find similar views (if unique to their own frameworks) in Hobbes (natural right), Kant (deontology), even Spinoza to some extent (egoism), even as each of them is (in some form or another) trying to resist a religious justification for their opposition.

Contemporarily, in response to Washington v. Glucksberg (an assisted suicide SCOTUS case), Rawls, Nozick, Judith Jarvis Thomson, Ron Dworkin, and a couple other schmucks filed an amicus curiae brief arguing in defense of assisted suicide. That might seem to cut against my claim - maybe this is a change in the shape of liberal thought? But! I think what's noteworthy is that 1) their argument still takes place entirely on the terrain of rights, i.e. what the state is willing to grant and enforce (which is appropriate considering the venue, but still relevant), and 2) assisted suicide has been the main contemporary avenue of discussion in philosophy and policy regarding suicide. You don't see a generalized defense of suicide too often these days. it's taken as something of a given that while it may or may not be okay to end your life because of physical illness or debilitation, and this is an acceptable debate for public policy, it is definitely NOT okay to end your life because of mental illness or because you want to.

I'm pointing to political philosophers because it comes immediately to me, but I think they serve as good representatives of how the anti-suicide perspective can have a political "liberal" shape beyond just religiosity or psychiatric intervention, and how it's changed over time. sadly don't have the time to do a full historical genealogy effortpost on this subject, but to put on the Foucault hat for a very brief moment: suicide is decreasingly arbitrated by religious institutions. Instead we find it governed by secular law and judges (e.g. Washington v. Glucksberg), and by health regimes of psychiatry and medicine, all of these forces that developed and intensified their discipline over large populations as part of the contemporary science of statecraft.

Anyway, so when I say that anti-suicide attitudes are rooted in bad values and institutions like liberalism, that's what I mean - the idea that suicide is an irrational act that needs to be suppressed by state power, in the process producing a "suicidal subject" that needs to be contained by law and medicine.

An interesting article on some of this stuff, by way of Hobbes, Foucault, and ideas around the legality and social convention of suicide.

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novoaa1writes · 1 year

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worthy

pairing(s): queen ramonda x reader, queen ramonda & okoye (platonic)

summary:

“No.” You’re quick to stop her, scurrying forth and taking her hand in yours. Speaking out of turn, laying hands upon a member of the royal family… all punishable offenses. If the Dora Milaje saw it, they’d have you face-first on the ground surrounded in a ring of gleaming spearheads before you could blink. But now, here, she is not Wakanda’s Queen. She is Ramonda—your Ramonda.

Her hand is warm and lax in yours, and the way she’s looking at you… so open, so trusting. So patient. “This is my home, s’thandwa. A place where I feel safe and loved. But it cannot be that if you do not feel it, too.”

Or: Okoye can be a little overprotective sometimes, especially when it comes to Ramonda. You cannot fault her for it.

cross-posted on ao3.

word count: ~1,600

rating: general audiences

warnings: spoilers? for wakanda forever? i guess? tbh the only “spoiler” here is just that i mention ramonda’s hair in brief detail, because it’s different from the first movie’s look. also vague allusions to reader’s past relationship(s) being not terribly fulfilling.

notes: reader’s gender is not specified here. with me, i write these with the reader-insert characters in mind being typically female, non-binary, or transmasc, but it’s really all up to you

— —

The Queen returns in a mood. The way she strides through the rounded entrance to her chambers with downturned lips and all the intrepidity of a woman on a mission is enough to tell you as much.

You’d only been lounging about in her chambers for a short time, having stopped to visit with Shuri in the laboratory on your way over.

You were not native to Wakanda; as such, your visits spanned few and far between. Though, admittedly, that had been subject to change as of late—what with your increasing… familiarity (for lack of a better term) with her Queen.

With this familiarity, you were granted certain privileges. The most obvious one being: You were permitted access to her private chambers—yes, even when they were empty. A weighty concession, to say the least.

The others, though not quite so rife with implication, were no less significant: You could walk freely around Birnin Zana as you pleased, provided you wore a set of Kimoyo beads and checked in with Ramonda—or someone she trusted—every hour or so. As guest of the Queen, you were permitted an additional (non-Wakandan) companion to Wakanda—that is, a plus-one—provided that they were vetted first by the Dora Milaje, and second by the Queen herself. You’d never exercised that particular exemption, and did not foresee a point in time that would find you doing so—but the offer was there all the same, and its connotation was not lost on you.

And so on, and so forth.

These allowances aside, your, shall we say, place in Wakanda is in its infancy, still. Fragile, one might say. Since the start, the Wakandan sentiment towards you has ranged from wary acceptance to unequivocal mistrust.

… This, as evidenced by Okoye’s unwavering presence at the doors of Ramonda’s chambers. She’s been watching you like a hawk since the moment you arrived, spear poised, ready to strike at any moment.

You’ve not bothered asking her why she does so. Despite what people seem to think, there do indeed exist stupid questions, and that would unequivocally be one of them. Similarly, you do not dare do her the injustice of attempting to offer any well-meaning sentiments, or assurances that you do not seek to do the Queen—or Wakanda—any harm. Actions speak louder than words, they say. And Okoye—who’s said scarcely more than five of them to you since your first meeting—quite plainly agrees.

You do try. You tell her ‘Hello’ and ‘Goodbye,’ and, when the setting permits, you’ll even ask her how she is, or communicate that you hope she is faring well. (More often the latter, since any question you ask of her—those excluding an official matter—are continually left unanswered.)

It helps that you’re not white, as Shuri told you. Ramonda had scoffed at her daughter’s impudence, but did not disagree.

And yet, the fact remains that you are not Wakandan—nor African, even—and before you lies a long, uphill path to gaining the Wakandan people’s esteem. For better or for worse, you are determined to climb it.

Regardless—in the present moment, you shut the book you’d been reading when Ramonda enters, turning to give her your full attention. She displays no indication that she’s noticed you, merely dismisses both of her trailing attendants and Okoye with a wave of the hand and a quiet, “Out.”

The attendants exit swiftly, and Okoye is quick to follow—though, not before giving you a look. You imagine it translates (roughly) to: If you make this worse, I will not hesitate to skewer you.

You give the barest hint of a nod in reply, but it is in vain—Okoye is gone. The doors shut behind her with a quiet noise, leaving you and the Queen alone.

Wordlessly, Ramonda divests herself of her headpiece—a gorgeous, deep-purple, crown-like thing—and discards it neatly on the dresser. Her hair is shorter these days, a neatly-trimmed ‘fro with springy, platinum-white strands. You know it was not done out of vanity, but you cannot help thinking it suits her all the same.

As you watch, her eyelids flutter shut and she lets loose a long, measured exhale. You can practically see the tension seeping out of her; the taut line of her shoulders easing, the furrow between her brows dissipating. The queenly affect, the burden of her crown—all of it seems to divest itself of her in waves. And, in its wake: the woman herself, tall and proud.

Your heart clenches, strangled with affection (and, perhaps, something stronger), but you do not speak. You dare not tarnish the moment. You know all too well that it is likely the first truly quiet moment she’s had all day.

You’re content to wait patiently until her eyelids flutter open and her calm gaze sweeps the room, seeking—

She looks down. The furrow in her brow reappears when she spots you sitting cross-legged on the carpet, her painted lips pushed out to form a frown. “S’thandwa sam,” she murmurs, “why are you sitting on the floor?”

An embarrassed flush heats your cheeks. Your skin is too dark to render it visible, but Ramonda will notice it all the same. She notices everything about you.

“I, erm…” You scramble uncouthly to your feet, cheeks aflame. “Okoye was here.” You feel quite underdressed, all of a sudden; Ramonda, a vision in her ceremonial robes before you, and you in… socks and street clothes.

Ramonda’s lips twitch with something like amusement even as she cocks a single brow and prompts, “Oh?”

Something twists in your gut. This time, it’s not anxiety. You shove it back down; tell it to take a Valium. “She… She does not trust me,” you manage.

Concern flares in Ramonda’s gaze. “You did not wish for her to see you in my bed,” she surmises, the teasing pretense having fled entirely from her tone.

“I don’t… I don’t wish for her to think that I take my…” you pause, wanting for the proper word, “position here for granted.”

Ramonda considers this for a moment. “Okoye will think what she wishes to,” she tells you gently. You nod. “But,” she adds, her features hardening as her tone grows cutting, “it is certainly not her place to make you feel unwelcome. I will speak with her—”

Warmth erupts in your chest at her sincerity. You stroke gently over the skin of her knuckles in an effort to convey it. “Okoye is protective of you—” Ramonda cocks a brow as if to say ‘You think? ’ “—but I’m sure it will not be news to you when I say it is because she loves you. I cannot fault her for that.” The ‘because I love you, too’ goes unsaid. (For now.) “To be entirely truthful, it actually reassures me, somewhat.” At Ramonda’s inquisitive glance, you shrug and add: “I know you’re in good hands.”

Ramonda’s brows creep higher up. “I am more than capable of looking after myself, you know,” she retorts, though her tone is not contentious—but rather, tinged with mirth.

“I know, my Queen—you are very strong and mighty,” you acknowledge, only partly in jest.

She doesn’t miss a beat. “And you, my little minx, are quite mouthy today.”

You feel a renewed flush heat your cheeks (again), and a telltale clench in your belly, but you refuse to let it derail you. You still have more to say, and, by the slight tilt of Ramonda’s head, she can tell.

“Maybe…” you trail off in a quiet voice, all pretense discarded. “Maybe I’m just a little protective of you, too.”

The effect is immediate: A broad, delighted grin splits Ramonda’s features. Her hand drops yours and snakes its way around your waist, the other reaching to cup your jaw and hold you like you’re something precious, something treasured.

“I will not leave you, dearest,” she soothes, tracing circles into your cheek with the pad of her thumb. “I am yours, and you are mine.”

Your throat swells with emotion, a dam bursting in your chest. You bite your lip to bear it. When you speak, your voice is hoarse, choked with oncoming tears: “No one’s ever treated me like you do,” you murmur quietly, so quietly it’s like a confession—a secret. The truth of it burns like magma in your lungs, and the tears that trace your cheeks are not nearly hot enough to match. And Ramonda—bless her—she wants to reply, seeks to comfort you, but refrains because she knows you have more to say. Because she’s listening, truly and earnestly. That just makes you want to cry even harder. “I am going to be worthy of you, Ramonda. I promise.”

“Oh, s’thandwa sam,” she murmurs, placing a feather-light kiss upon your forehead. Her fingers nudge your jaw, raising your teary-eyed gaze to meet hers. The sheer measure of love and care you see in her eyes is enough to make your heart feel as though it’s imploding in your ribcage—all butterflies and warmth and love beyond measure. “You already are.”

— —

end notes: okay, i did some reading up on xhosa language and term of endearments for the couple that i used here, and i'll toss those sources down below (along with other sources i used) if anyone's interested. (also, if you've read this, and you're knowledgeable about xhosa + have some corrections / commentary /etc., please please please do not hesitate to message me! i did my very best to make sure i wasn't throwing any terms around, or refusing to do my due diligence, but this is not an area of knowledge i'm terribly well-versed in, and as such, i'm kind of bumbling around here despite my best efforts. let me know!)

update: a special thank-you to a reader on tumblr who messaged me and corrected the xhosa terms of endearment!! i have included the updated ones below. much appreciated<3<3

s’thandwa sam | my love, love of mine s’thandwa | love, sweetheart

sources:

queen ramonda | just an extra source to inform upon ramonda's character and canonical background

symbolism behind the hairstyles in wakanda forever | a brief article about, well.... what it says on the tin

traditional south african dress | since the xhosa-speaking people are indigenous to a particular region of south africa, i wanted to look into traditional south african dress, particularly where it pertains to the marital status of a woman. but then i read up on queen ramonda's headdresses ('cause i wanted to know if i should take that part out for this fic if i wanted to make my canon a little different and say she was never married), which does indeed draw inspiration from some of the traditional headpieces worn in southern africa by married women, but in a wakandan context, it seems that her headdresses (particularly in this second film) are also to indicate her queenly status. so.... uh. yeah

“love, courtship, and marriage in africa” | this is the seventh chapter of a book titled a companion to african history (first edition). this particular chapter gives writing credits to nwanda achebe, who is one of the editors of the book. it includes pretty much what it says on the tin—traditional courting rituals and the like—along with terms of endearments in various african languages.

“wakanda forever: wakandan for emphasis” | this is an academic article written by sarah scott-nelson and alyssa penner. they delve into a sociolinguistic analysis of the use of isixhosa as a national language of black panther's fictional country of wakanda. it's a shorter read (~9 pages), and one i thought was pretty interesting!

— —

link to masterlist

#queen ramonda x reader #ramonda x reader #queen ramonda #stuff i wrote #reader-insert

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thatspookyagent · 1 year

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Being Jaskier's S/O (Bard!Male!Reader) would include...

Warnings: None!

a/n: These headcanons are sadly shorter than most that I write up (probably because I’m not writing and describing a whole relationship from very first meet up to finish lmao) but I hope that y’all enjoy this nonetheless. I am open to writing up more headcanons that are Witcher based in the future. And since Jaskier is lacking in some departments (Male!Reader & Black!Reader wise), I’ve decided to start with him first. Anyways y’all know the drill, if ya liked what ya read, REBLOG IT!

If you want to be tagged in any of my content, don’t be afraid to tell me via my ask box or through messages! Just remember to be clear about what specific kinds of content, characters, and fandoms you want me to tag you in or if you want to be put on my general tag list! I’m always looking to add more people and I’d be more than happy to add you (if you wish)! :3

Being a bard and Jaskier’s boyfriend means ultimately being both his muse and best friend

Would confide in you about his newest songs ideas and you’d always be the first to hear them whenever he performs a sample of it for you

You both first met in a bar, were you held an open challenge to see if anyone could out sing you or earn more applause than you while performing

Since you out played him significantly, he's been entranced by your skills ever since and decided to strike up a relationship with you, friends first but gradually lovers next

Takes your opinions personally and with utmost seriousness since you’re not only his partner but also a bard yourself

Gladly will always be there in order to lend you an ear or piece of advice as you would the same for him

Loves to discuss how different lutes sound and which ones look aesthetically the best with you because you can actually understand his excitement towards sexy lutes

Also you're the only one willing to make a ranking of best and worst materials to make lutes from with him

Speaking of lutes, he names the lute that he was carrying when he first met you after you

Will not let anyone but you use it or even touch it because it’s just that sentimental to him

If you name the lute that you were carrying when you first met Jaskier after him, he’ll probably have a good cry about that one later

And Jaskier will absolutely lose his mind (affectionately) if you carve his initials into your favorite lute

Enjoys talking and swapping stories with you while polishing each other's instruments around a campfire

A campfire is actually where you first confessed your affection for Jaskier, it was within a love song about two male bards just trying making their mark on the world through song alongside a white haired Witcher and his steed

From then on singing and laughing around campfires has been one of your top ways of bonding with the other male

Other ways you’ve expressed your love to Jaskier is by making and singing duets with him

Y’all are actually quite well known for singing together specifically ballads but also really romantic songs that touch just about everyone’s heart deepy

If Jaskier becomes your muse and you open up to him about this, he’ll also confess that you’re his muse as well

The two of you truly haven’t written and sung as many songs as y’all have now until you met one another

You’d also never been invited to perform at a ball before but since you and Jaskier became so popular, both of your voices have now had the honors of gracing many halls of kings and queens alike

It reflects with the amount of coin increasing in your pockets and fancy hand tailored matching outfits that both you and him adorn

If you’re not one for crowds particularly royal crowds, both you and your coin tossing boyfriend frequent many bars while traveling with Geralt, and are known on a more humble and local level than noble and global

The poor and hopeless citizens of many kingdoms, look to both you and Jaskier to entertain them, and distract them from their everyday worries

Either way, you’re both the ultimate bard power couple in any lands that y’all happen to be in

Now when it comes to specifically being a companion of Geralt’s, he enjoys having two bards at his side more than he likes to let on

While yes both and you Jaskier can be rather dramatic (and also noisy) as well as pretty much target practice when it comes to how useful the two of you are in battle, Geralt needs company beyond that of a horse from time to time whether he openly admits this or not

Not to mention you and the babbling brown haired nuisance named Jaskier, help to spread the word of Geralt and his deeds in a good light

Your penchants for being able to talk people’s ears off and distract them, can at times help the Witcher out whenever he’s in a pinch or when brute force isn’t really an option

Also Geralt can use both of you to look after Roach in various ways especially whenever he’s not around or doesn’t have the time to

You and Jaskier like to run your songs in progress by Roach who always proves to be a tough customer in that regard similar to her Witcher owner

After long days of walking, wailing, and song writing, a much needed rest is in order with your brown haired accomplice

Ways in which you and Jaskier wind down include taking baths together or preparing a bath for the other

Since there’s never really a silent moment between the two of you, reflecting on how both of your days went to each other is a recurring topic of conversation

At times that can drift off into convos about music or musical instruments but moments like this are for you and the other male to check in with and dote on one another

Which means that there’s quite a bit of pampering and more gentle laughter being shared as well as forgetting about all the other people that there are in the world

As far as you and Jaskier are concerned, you’re the main characters, it’s your shared story, and everybody else are just background characters

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dredgenvale · 9 months

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relatively long rant about destiny, bungie, and player sentiment. no salt here. not towards the game at least. just the community.

i read the state of the game update. it made me really fucking excited and optimistic for what's coming next with destiny. turns out that's not the majority opinion and most people are just. so salty and so angry over things that i genuinely don't see as a problem. moreover, i often don't even understand why it's such a perceived problem in the first place. i mean, i'm usually the first to call out greedy developers. i've watched james stephanie sterling's videos for at least half a decade now. (kinda off topic but when we were both pre-transition and when i was like 14 i had sent them an email about how they helped us a lot with body image and they sent a really sweet reply even though i was the most awkward of awkward autistic kids)

point being - i fucking HATE greedy AAA game companies. and now bungie is being accused of the same practices for [checks notes] updating the game at their own pace and telling the stories that they want to tell? it's bullshit. sure, the eververse isn't perfect. sure, there are definitely some fucky monetization practices. i'd definitely prefer if the whole silver system was done away with entirely. but is it as bad as with activision? FUCK no. i saw a comment a bit ago saying 'the biggest trick bungie ever pulled was convincing us activision was the problem'. haven't been able to get that outta my head cause of how little sense it makes. as far as i can tell, nothing's really changed with destiny other than the price of seasons going up like 5 bucks with lightfall. would you rather have a price increase and keep buying ala carte, or pay like 40 bucks monthly like with other live service games?

bungie is still a big gaming company, definitely still have Opinions about those. but (knock on fucking wood) i haven't heard any of the horror stories i usually hear from those, ubisoft for example. bungie seems to genuinely care about the game experience. why else would they go independent again when they were making assloads of money with activision?

anyway. kind of rambling at this point. i guess my main point is that i have no clue what's gotten the d2 community all worked up recently when as far as i can tell nothing's really changed.

#to clarify - i'm not a corporate shill or anything and i definitely don't think bungie is immune from criticism #but at least make the criticism fair #rant post #destiny 2 #d2 #destiny the game #james stephanie sterling #jim sterling #destinythegame #bungie

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ladyhoneydee · 9 months

Text

With Your Hand in My Hand

zelink | multi-game | 5.7k

“Hey, Zelda?” She stills, finger pausing in the air. “Hm?” He swallows. “Do you ever feel like…your past lives were all leading towards this moment?” She turns off her slate and places it on the pillow beside her before wriggling around in his arms to face him. “Mm…maybe sometimes? But I don’t really know if I believe in those. So mostly…” She trails off. He waits patiently. “Mostly, I feel like I want to live all of this one with you. Everything it has to offer.”

Sometimes, a soulmate is the person whose hand you reach for, over and over again. A collection of vignettes exploring one love over the course of many lifetimes.

Written for the @zelinkcommunity Zelink Week event! Day 4: Hand in Hand.

Read it on AO3, FFN, or under the cut!

The predawn air was chilly on his face, but Link had seldom felt warmer.

Epona took the trail at a trot, navigating the loose dirt and stones with her footfalls sure despite the darkness of the path ahead, barely lit by the last dregs of light left by the moonset at their backs. Her quiet trustiness gave Link the security needed for him to examine the dark crevices in the cliff face to their left; to listen to the wind whispering through the foliage and conifers on their right; to tip his head back so carefully to look up at the stars as they gently faded along with the sky’s lightening.

And it left him free to bask in the warmth of Zelda’s embrace.

Hours before, as they finalized their plans to set out overnight for Zora’s Domain and the political summit Prince Ralis had so excitedly written of in his invitation, they had agreed that it would be wise to share Epona rather than riding separately, given the likelihood that either might fall asleep while in the saddle. Zelda, usually stoic, had been almost giddy at the thought of doing something so uncharacteristic: a midnight excursion, rather than waiting for a safe departure at noon; the company of her lover instead of a platoon of guards. And yet, despite her exuberance earlier in the journey, as she pointed out constellations above their heads and they traded stories about the same stars, she had been the one to drift off first, lulled by Epona’s gentle sway.

Her chin rested on his shoulder, a slightly pointed weight he wouldn’t trade for anything else. Neither Master Sword, his chosen and fated partner in destiny—or the Ordon Sword, with its sentimental meaning of the village that was his family—had laid upon that shoulder so sweetly. Her arms wrapped around his waist, a precaution against falling off that had the secondary purpose of making his heart skip a beat at least once per minute. Her torso rested flush against his back as she slumped forward to rest on him, with no breath of air between their bodies.

They were so close, and the world so quiet, that Link could count her every heartbeat as it pulsed steadily against his back.

Above them, the damask sky lightened to a shade of dusky, deep purple that would be the envy of any royal clothier, shot through with bands of hazy red. And as the trail they followed twisted more east than south to round the cliff’s bend, the horizon opened before them over Hyrule.

The only light more beautiful than the rising sun was the light Link saw every morning in Zelda’s eyes.

Epona seemed to be heartened by the breaking dawn as well, her trot increasing in speed and jaunt ever so slightly. Link smiled at the mare’s simple joy.

Yet the change in pace had an unexpected effect. From where their bodies pressed together like muscle memory, Link felt Zelda’s frame stiffen briefly, and then relax. Her head tilted just a bit, pressing her left cheekbone further into his neck. The soft puffing of her breaths strengthened and sped up so subtly that the change would’ve been imperceptible had he not been so close and captivated by the feeling of her.

And then, with a soft, wordless mumble, Zelda truly woke.

“Mm…what a blessing, to see a sunrise like that.”

She stretched, a move that Link could feel with every nerve in his back as it set them all alight. Not trusting himself to speak, he soundlessly nodded, knowing Zelda would feel the motion where her head rested against the muscles of his neck.

“You should have woken me to see it sooner, darling.” Her words softened and lightened with sleepiness as she spoke, until the pet name came out as little more than an affectionate exhale. Still, it was one he could recognize anywhere.

“It would have been a waste to wake you before. It was hidden by the cliff,” he murmured.

“No dawn with you could ever be a waste.”

Her right hand slipped free from his waist, and he felt it glide over him until it came to rest atop his own hand, where it clutched the reins against his thigh. Her fingers settled in the gaps between his own, and then slipped between them to hold him gently.

Link’s heart sang. “You’re right, as always.”

He pressed a kiss to Zelda’s hair, and urged Epona onward, towards the diamond glittering of dawn on the waters of Lake Hylia.

I would go anywhere you want to go, with your hand in my hand.

Zelda squeezed her knees together gently and clung just a bit tighter to the leather harness in anticipation. Below her, Jabun took the hint. His wings beat once, twice, thrice—and they went shooting out past Link and Valoo, who had been holding steadily neck-and-neck to their left.

“Keep up, sleepyhead!” Zelda shouted. “If you can’t get that red terror of yours to beat me, you’re gonna have a big storm coming in the Wing Ceremony!”

If Link could’ve seen her face, there was no way he would have missed the enormous grin stretching across it. He must’ve picked up on it in her voice, regardless, because—

“You wish!”

With a whoop from Link and an excited cry from Valoo, Zelda watched proudly (and a bit jealously, but could you blame her?) as a crimson streak soared above and overtook her and her own loftwing. Zelda patted Jabun’s azure feathers with one hand, and leaned even further forward in the saddle until they were a singular, streamlined form.

“Let’s show them how we fly, aera!”

Whether it was the customary endearment Skyloftians gave their soul partners, or the encouragement in her voice, something in her urging filled him with delight. She felt the sensation bloom in her own chest, creating a feedback loop with her own excitement. With a shriek of his own, Jabun rushed forward once again.

Link must have sensed their approach—or heard it, she supposed—because he shot them a look over his shoulder. His excited, open-mouthed grin mirrored Zelda’s own. She watched suspiciously as it took on just a hint of mischief in the split second before he turned back around.

Whoa! Suddenly, Valoo banked to the right, curving into Jabun’s own flight path, and Zelda was forced to waste her bird’s precious energy by urging him up above the sudden obstacle.

“Cheater!” she hollered. Oh, she’d show him!

She leaned even closer in the saddle, her torso now hovering only millimeters above her bird. What had Professor Owlan said, in that last lesson with her, Pipit, and Karane, the newest members of the senior class?

Get close. Check. Make sure to hold tightly to the safety loops—falling off your bird is not part of a successful application of this technique. Zelda hooked her ankles fully into the straps by her feet, and clung to the ones for her hands. Check. Remember that the acceleration effect will last much longer than anything else you’ve ever tried. Maintaining stable flight can be tricky. Zelda took a deep breath, matched her center of balance to Jabun’s, and exhaled. Check. And DO NOT practice this move without an instructor present! Very much not check. Sorry, Professor Owlan.

Zelda screwed her eyes shut in preparation, and then pressed her heels and the meat of her palms down into Jabun’s back simultaneously.

Below her, every muscle in Jabun coiled and sprang all at once. Zelda held on for dear life as he tucked in his wings and threw himself into a tight corkscrew that only increased in speed as his momentum built. Suddenly, the bird snapped his wings back out again, and they caught the wind of his own making like a sail, launching them even further forward at a mind-melting speed.

Eyes still sealed shut, feeling nothing but wind above and feathers below at a speed she and her partner had never reached before, Zelda let out an elated yell of her own.

When the air on her face finally slowed down to a more reasonable pressure, Zelda cracked her eyes open. No crimson loftwing or cream-tunicked rider in front of her, only blue sky. She flipped her head around. Far, far behind her, Link sat on a glowering Valoo, his mouth gaping open.

“Th-that was incredible, how’d you even—” he shouted. “Wait! Was that an advanced move!?”

Zelda let her self-congratulatory grin do the talking for her, and allowed Jabun to relax a bit in his pace.

“And you called me a cheater!” Link complained. With a shallow dive, he and Valoo swept forward to keep pace beside Zelda and Jabun. “Totally unfair to use techniques I’m not allowed to even learn yet.”

“Well, if you win the Wing Ceremony, you’ll be able to!” Zelda teased. Link rolled his eyes at her.

She faced forward again for a moment, checking that there weren’t any sky islands or debris they’d need to avoid. Far below them was the Lumpy Pumpkin and its surrounding farmland, but fortunately, there was nothing in their flight path—just open sky and peach-hued clouds.

“Hey, look–!” Link said suddenly, pointing downwards. “Plumers!”

Zelda didn’t know how she’d missed them, but Link was right. A small herd of the colorful creatures had come into view in the sky below them. Named for their colorful plumage—each group often contained at least one of every shade of the rainbow—as well as their penchant for plummeting down through the sky in a form of play, the creatures were beloved around Skyloft, but Zelda hadn’t seen any in moons. Then again, she’d been cooped up working on the Sailcloth and her costume for the upcoming Wing Ceremony for moons, too.

“Guess the octoroks didn’t get to this year’s hatchlings like we thought! They look like they’re all doing well now.”

Zelda’s gaze returned to Link, and she smiled warmly at the delight on his face as he craned his neck down to watch the plumers. She loved seeing him happy. She loved hi—

Nope! Not getting into that!

“Hey, let’s dive for them!” she suggested brightly. “I haven’t done that in ages.”

Link looked unsure. “I dunno…”

Zelda grinned. “Don’t be a scaredy-cat, sleepyhead! How are you ever going to be a successful knight if you don’t practice falling, too?”

Without hesitation, she slipped her hands and feet free of the harness, and rolled right off her bird.

“Hey!” Link said, startled.

“Come and get me, silly! You know Valoo will catch you.”

“Fiiiiine,” Link groaned, and launched himself into the air.

Zelda had been descending in a picture-perfect skydive, with her limbs spread to catch the air and slow her plummet. Link had to tuck his limbs in and angle his body to catch back up to her, his face screwed up in concentration, but catch her he did.

“Okay, sleepyhead, you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Link grumbled. Still, she could see the pleased twist to his lips that he was trying so hard to hide.

“Perfect.” She reached out across the sky between them, and took his hands, ignoring the butterflies the gesture set aflutter in her stomach. “We fall together, okay?” I wish we were both falling together. “Remember, we just have to tap them, and they’ll join right along with us!”

“Together,” he repeated, and gave her hands a squeeze.

Wind rushed past their faces and cushioned their bodies, holding them in a summer hug. Zelda couldn’t tear her eyes from Link’s laughing face as they brushed into rainbow-hued feathers from every angle and more and more plumers circled them, twittering with shared glee. His happiness was beautiful. He was beautiful.

Maybe soon, she’d tell him. For now, she contented herself with the sensation of how his fingers felt when intertwined with hers.

I would go anywhere you want to go, with your hand in my hand.

Sometimes, the isolation of the crow’s nest was a good thing.

Usually, Link hated it. Knowing the rest of the crew was below, on the deck or in the hold or prepping dinner in the galley or heck, even swabbing the poop deck, sharing jokes and smiles that he couldn’t be privy to, stung. But today, after waving goodbye to Grandma and Aryll until his arm ached and they disappeared into the horizon, Link was pretty sad. And he was pretty sure he did not want to be around anyone at all.

Sure, it was a privilege to work on Tetra’s crew after all these years and adventures; to help her in her search for new land that could support the peoples of the Great Sea. And at sixteen, four years after he’d first met her in the Forbidden Forest, Link could confidently say there was no one’s side he’d rather be at. But leaving his family behind always hurt just as much as that first time, when he was twelve and still in shock, chasing a stolen sister and waving, tear-sodden, to where the only family he had left stood alone on the Outset dock.

Thank the goddesses Grandma wasn’t alone anymore, anyway. And at twelve, Aryll now had enough personality to cover for the both of them.

But Link was still sad. And so he was going up to the crow’s nest, even though it wasn’t his shift. Maybe if he begged whoever was up there, they’d let him take over so he could wallow without an audience.

Link pushed himself up into the crow’s nest with a grunt, gaze on the weatherbeaten wood to make sure his feet would land safely on the planks and not tangle in the rigging. When he looked up, his eyes met amused brown ones.

“Four years, and you’re still scared of climbing up here?” Tetra teased. “Guess you’ll never outgrow that.”

“Hey, at least I know what the word ‘safety’ means. You wouldn’t know it if it bit you in the ass,” Link parried, but it was half-hearted at best. He sat down heavily beside her.

Tetra’s eyes narrowed. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m—” Link cut himself off as Tetra aimed a fiery glare at him. “Not really.”

“Was it the goodbye?”

“...yeah. It’s hard every time.”

Tetra nodded, her gaze slipping from his face to stare up at the sky. “I get that. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to farewell any family of mine, but…” She trailed off, and Link knew she was thinking of her mother. “Sometimes, I wonder how you can bear to leave them.”

“I think Grandma would throw her sandal at me if I tried to stay,” Link said, straight-faced. Tetra laughed. “I mean it! She knows that I’m happiest at sea. She doesn’t want me to stay just to stick around her. And Aryll would be upset for sure. She wants to work on your ship too, you know. She’d probably kill me in my sleep for giving up her dream job.”

“Well, I’m glad they support you.” Tetra scooted forward to put some space between herself and the back of the crow’s nest, and then laid down on the deck. “That’s worth more than a lot of treasure.”

“The Pirate Queen of the Great Sea, saying something is more valuable than treasure?” Link gasped dramatically.

Tetra reached up and whacked him in the side. “Shut up. That’s Captain Pirate Queen of the Great Sea, to you.”

Link laughed lightly and joined Tetra in lying back. The wood of the crow’s nest felt hard, sturdy, and dependable beneath his shoulder blades, even though both he and Tetra knew just how far down solid ground actually was.

“I don’t think I need to take this from someone who used to be a rock.” He poked her in the side, which fortunately felt just like the flesh and blood she was, and not the marble statue she’d been cursed into when they had been set adrift in the waters of the Ocean King.

Tetra snatched at his hand, and Link expected her to throw it back at his own face or something, but instead she held it by the wrist. And kept holding it.

Link turned to face her, confused. “Tetra…?”

“Shut up. I’m thinking.”

“Okay?”

He turned back. Above them, the sky churned with grey clouds. Link stared at the steely mass dubiously. It was definitely going to rain, but probably not storm—not something they needed to warn the crew about.

Tetra’s grip was warm around his wrist, a shackle he didn’t ever want to be free of. They were friends, and adventure partners, and the longer he spent in her company, the more sure he was that he wanted to be part of her life in some way until the day he finally died.

Rain speckled his cheeks. Link went to turn his head again so that none of it would get in his eyes, and it was as his gaze met Tetra’s that she made her decision.

Link froze at the feeling of her fingers releasing his wrist and, instead, entwining with his own. He opened his mouth to speak—

“Don’t. Don’t…say anything. Let’s just lay here until Nudge comes up and tells us that it’s time for dinner or that you need to empty out the latrines or something. Can we just lay here?”

In response, Link squeezed Tetra’s fingers.

She rolled her eyes. “Ugh. You can talk, okay? I just didn’t want you to…say no, I guess.”

“I definitely don’t want to say no.”

“Well, good.”

“Good.”

They sat in silence for a moment, until Link spoke up again. “Tetra…thanks.”

He didn’t need to say for what. She already knew.

“Any time.”

The rain showered on down.

I would go anywhere you want to go, with your hand in my hand.

It was a sight Sheik had seen a hundred times before. Gowns in a rainbow of shades swept across the floor in unison, their silks and satins and brocades and damasks and the finest of linens collecting nary a hint of dust at the hems, a result of the standard of cleanliness the floors were polished to. Courtiers and commoners alike stood up straight in dress tunics they were debuting that night and weren’t quite comfortable in yet. Smiling staff—genuine in their glee, Sheik imagined, from the happiness of the occasion as well as the promised time off and bonuses in their wages after the event’s completion—slipped surreptitiously among the guests with trays of refreshments.

And yet everything was different, because Sheik was dancing with the new King of Hyrule.

He had scarcely seen his son so happy. Even before the crown—still warm from resting on Sheik’s own head—was placed atop his auburn curls, the man was smiling. Proud of himself and of the thirty-two years he’d spent learning from his predecessors; proud of his country and the citizens that had come to watch this momentous occasion; proud of the parent who, with tears in his eyes, had passed the crown and scepter over after long, hard decades of service. Now, Daphnes smiled at him as Sheik spun him out and guided him back in for the final steps of their waltz.

“I love you, Yaya,” the new king said, and kissed his hand. Ever the gentleman. “Please enjoy the rest of the night. All eyes will be on me, so…you’ll finally be able to rest.”

“I love you too, my son,” Sheik answered, and stretched up on tiptoe to reach his forehead for a kiss, before stepping back and into the crowd, searching. He found what he was looking for after only a moment.

His son was almost correct. There was one pair of eyes that would always linger on Sheik, no matter how much time passed.

“Link,” Sheik breathed.

His lover smiled. Handsome still at fifty, even with his blond hair beginning to grey, he still filled out his leaf-green dress tunic as well as he always had.

Link held out a hand. “Come away with me?”

Sheik felt his facade shift for just a moment, weakened by the gentle adoration in Link’s gaze. Hot tears swam in eyes, blurring Link’s face, before he blinked them back. “Gladly.”

Link led them carefully across the crowded ballroom floor, through a doorway on the side of the room, and out into the castle gardens. The dull roar of conversation muted as the door closed behind them, leaving only a distant murmur and the whisper of an orchestral melody.

Even with the din of the ballroom removed, Sheik felt his body trembling, overstimulated. The evening had just been…so much. So much, to see his son crowned. So much, to remember how Sheik’s first husband had looked in that crown, before Sheik had learned how happy he could be with the space to be himself and the right partner at his side. So much, in this sapphire dress tunic and trousers that matched his blue eye and contrasted handsomely with his red, that he had been so proud of and felt so right only hours ago, but were starting to feel too tight in all the old familiar ways.

“Thank you for that,” Sheik said, feeling the hot tears from before stream from the corners of their eyes. They stood there, inhaling one sobbing breath, two, as Link rubbed their back gently.

“Always,” Link said quietly, as Sheik dried their tears and let out a final shaky breath.

Sheik knew he meant it. Even before they’d married, back when Sheik was another man’s spouse and Link was still warming Malon’s bed, they had been the closest of friends. He had never faltered in his care. He never would.

“Dance with me?” Link asked. He smiled gently, as if to say, You can always say no.

No way in hell did Sheik want to say no.

They took the hand Link offered, and spun away once again into a waltz.

A good waltz was slow and close, and Sheik never danced more slowly or closely with anyone than they did Link. Their waist tingled under the weight of Link’s hand, even after all this time, and Sheik could tell from the way his eyes glimmered that he felt the same.

Link spun Sheik out, and when they returned to his arms, they smiled at him. “So, my dearest one, where would you like to go for our first getaway in years? Now that we’re free of any and all responsibility.”

The slightly smoldering stare Link gave them made something inside Sheik quiver. “Untrue, my love. I still have one responsibility.”

“And what would that be?”

“Making you see stars.”

Sheik’s heart skipped a beat, and they felt a flush rise to their cheeks that had nothing to do with the way their trousers increasingly felt like they were constricting all blood flow to their legs—how they longed for a skirt!—and everything to do with thinking about all the ways Link had made them see stars in the past.

Sheik fixed him with a heated stare as they edged in closer to Link than would be proper for a waltz. “And are you willing to take responsibility now?”

“Always,” Link breathed.

“Take me upstairs, then,” Sheik murmured, staring into the eyes of the person she loved more than anything. “I need to get myself into a nightgown, and we can—ah!” She broke off as a grinning Link took her literally and began to tug her along in the direction of their chambers. “We can, aha, get started on our…getaway.”

Truthfully, Sheik already had stars in her eyes whenever she looked at Link. But she certainly wouldn’t say no to anything else he wanted to show her, too.

I would go anywhere you want to go, with your hand in my hand.

Link didn’t think he would ever be tired of this view.

Well, yes, the vantage point from the summit of Satori Mountain was pretty nice. He couldn’t deny that looking out over Central Hyrule like this, with all its hills and valleys and rivers and caves to explore in a million earthy shades, didn’t make his heart want to soar right out of his chest. But none of it compared to her.

“Come over here, Link! Isn’t it so strange that the blossoms on this tree are still blooming even though it’s almost autumn? I want to take a picture—you have the Sheikah Slate, right? Can you bring it over, please?”

Zelda scampered over the twisted roots of Satori Mountain’s crowning glory like a mountain goat. She was halfway up the trunk before he could blink. She really had come a long way since the defeat of Ganon, and those hard first days where her atrophied muscles could hardly hold her up, Link thought proudly.

“Link?”

She was beautiful. A nature spirit, up there surrounded by whirling pink petals, the light blue of her climbing tunic not dissimilar to the ghost blue of the Lord of the Mountain himself. Green eyes that mixed excitement for the world with fondness for him with mild concern at how long he was taking, that never failed to leave him brainless at her radiance. The deep tan of her skin—the only thing she had inherited from that deadbeat dad of hers—and how she nearly seemed to meld with the tree if his gaze unfocused. The gold of her hair as her braid dangled off her shoulder and winked in the late afternoon sunlight as if to give new meaning to the phrase ‘golden hour’. The scrapes across her bare shin from when they’d taken a tumble during their hike up to the peak. The overstuffed pack on her back, full of research materials and specimens. Her smile. Her.

Zelda.

“Hello? Link?”

Spellbound, he slipped the Sheikah Slate from its well-worn pouch at his hip, and raised it to his face.

Click.

“Link? Did you just take a picture of me?”

The Slate lowered. Link realized all of a sudden what he had done, and his face flushed a deeper pink than the flower petals.

“I–I–yes, I did, I didn’t mean to, I wasn’t thinking, you just looked so—”

“Silly, if you’re going to take a picture of something other than this tree, it should be of us together.”

Zelda smiled at him, and Link felt his heart combust.

“C’mere.” She patted the tree branch beside her invitingly.

Link had never climbed a tree so quickly in his life. The branch rocked beneath their combined weight, but held firmly. He held up the Slate…and then kept holding it up. Turned it around in his hand. How…was he supposed to take a picture if the screen that showed the image was on the other side of the Slate from the camera?

Zelda laughed, but not meanly. “Link, have you never used the selfie function?”

Selfie function?

She plucked the Slate from his hand, and pressed an icon he’d never taken notice of before. The display, which had been capturing the view from Satori Mountain, instantly changed to one of the two of them.

“It has a front camera,” she explained cheerfully. “Here, I’ll press the button. Smile, Link!”

How could he not? For her, he would do most anything.

With his gaze on the Zelda smiling on the screen of the Sheikah Slate, a shy grin bubbled to his lips. He prepared for the picture, and then—

The warm of a hand suddenly taking his own—

The press of lips, slightly chapped from mountain air, against his cheek—

Click.

“Oh Link, look! It turned out so nicely!” Zelda grinned down at the Slate, and then held it in front of his face. “Look, the lighting is so flattering! And you can see half of Hyrule past us! It even captured the Satori blossoms—I’m going to call them Satori blossoms, I think, for the name of the mountain—”

She continued her lovely rambling, and Link tried to listen to every word. Truly, he did. But…it was a bit hard to take in her words when his brain was so full.

Because now he had a picture of Zelda kissing his cheek and holding his hand on the Sheikah Slate that they shared, and he knew what her lips felt like, and she was even now right there, next to him, so beautiful and present and alive, alive, alive.

And he, besides being alive, alive, alive, was…hers. Forever, probably.

I would go anywhere you want to go, with your hand in my hand.

“Link, are you awake?”

Zelda’s whisper broke through the still air of the Spirit Train. For hours, she had been hovering quietly in the aisle of the passenger car, listening to the sound of the metal wheels and engine groaning quietly as they cooled from the day’s travels, watching her companion’s chest rise and fall under the blanket as she slept on one of the plush red velvet seats. It was her nightly distraction—after all, she hadn’t been able to sleep in moons, since she last had a body—but tonight, it wasn’t enough.

Link shifted, and cracked one eye open to stare at Zelda’s dimly-glowing silhouette. “No.”

“Funny.”

Link yawned, and if Zelda had a heart, it would have squeezed in her chest like a squeaky toy at the cuteness of it. “What’s wrong, Zel?”

“Can’t sleep,” she joked, yet melancholy soaked through her tone despite the levity of her words.

Link’s eyes softened. Zelda didn’t like her pity ever, didn’t even want her sympathy most days, but tonight, she needed this from her—the acknowledgement of her pain, of how deeply it ached to be so unrooted from herself and the world around her.

“I know,” she whispered. “Well, I don’t know. I don’t think anyone knows what it’s like to be you except you. And by that I mean what it’s like to be a ghost—” she waved his hands in front of her rambling face exasperatedly. “Or what it’s like to be you! Only you can be you.” She huffed. “Sorry. I’m tired.”

“That’s okay. Me too.”

Link bit her lip, and Zelda watched curiously. Obviously she was going to say something new, maybe a little uncomfortable. It was unlike Link to be unsure. After all, it took a certain amount of foolish, optimistic self-confidence to drive a train as a newly-minted teenager, or to sneak past a company of royal guards because of one letter from a princess, or to follow said princess on a trek around the country to save everyone in it.

“Do you…wanna cuddle with me? I know you can’t sleep. And I know you can’t…feel anything.” Link winced. “Maybe it’s a stupid idea. I just thought it might be…nice. A change of pace.”

Zelda’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “That is a stupid idea.”

“Oh.” Link grimaced.

“And it’s also so, so sweet. I accept.”

Zelda floated over to Link’s preferred bunk/bench, and hovered there hesitantly. It was wide enough for Link, of course, but for two…?

Oh. That’s right. She was a ghost. She didn’t need to have something to lay down on—the whole world was her cushion. She bedded down on the air between Link’s bench and the back of the bench in front of them, snuggling close enough that she could just barely feel the tingling of whatever weird ectoplasm light particles she was made of now as they phased into Link’s own flesh and blood. For good measure, she flung one arm over (and slightly into, but she wasn’t thinking about that part) Link’s back in a loose hug.

Link stretched out a hand in offering: the same one Zelda’s own hand had sunk a full inch into when they had attempted to high-five in the final rail map room of the Tower of Spirits. At the time, she’d frozen in midair, shocked and disappointed by the sensation, until Byrne had forcibly broken into their moment of celebration. Now, Zelda looked at Link’s hand, took a trepidatious breath that her lungs didn’t need, but her soul did, and tried to hold it.

She couldn’t, of course. But Link’s answering smile as she closed her eyes again and snuggled further down into the bench made Zelda almost feel warm.

I would go anywhere you want to go, with your hand in my hand.

One night, Link wakes.

He has no clue what time it is. It’s pitch black in their room. Zelda, ever the insomniac, lies awake in his arms, on her slate. She’s watching a news video with the audio muted and subtitles on. Still, he doesn’t think the light from the screen is what woke him up.

He remembers—

a strong grip around his hand, hauling him up a cliff—

a smile brighter than the sun—

a berry-flavored first kiss—

saltwater spray and laughter in his face—

the sanctuary of her arms—

runningflyingrushingdancingholdingreaching—

A hand slips into his.

“You okay?” Her eyes glitter in the darkness. “You never wake up like this.”

“I think…it was a dream?” he whispers. “It felt so real, but there’s only flashes…”

“Hey, it’s okay. Just a dream.”

“No, it was a good one…”

“Go back to sleep then. Maybe it’ll still be there.”

His arms tighten around her. “I think it will be.”

Zelda turns back around and snuggles more deeply into his back. Her finger extends to press the play button on her video again.

“Hey, Zelda?”

She stills, finger pausing in the air. “Hm?”

He swallows. “Do you ever feel like…your past lives were all leading towards this moment?”

She turns off her slate and places it on the pillow beside her before wriggling around in his arms to face him. “Mm…maybe sometimes? But I don’t really know if I believe in those. So mostly…”

She trails off. He waits patiently.

“Mostly, I feel like I want to live all of this one with you. Everything it has to offer.”

He brings her palm up to his smiling lips. “That’s…yes. That’s exactly right.” A kiss, a second, a third. He maps the lines of her palm like a cartographer. “I love you.”

He releases her hand eventually, but she doesn’t lift it from his mouth. Instead, she takes his other hand, and holds it between their chests. “I love you too.”

Link closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of her. He drifts back to sleep.

I would go anywhere you want to go, with your hand in my hand.

#legend of zelda #zelink #shink #telink #wind waker #twilight princess #skyward sword #ocarina of time #spirit tracks #soulmates #zelink week 2023 #hand in hand

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