#or am i just floating here barely existing

[muddyorbsblr]

onyx pt2

See my full list of works here!

Summary: Thor's return to the Compound reveals that your new pet kitten wasn't quite what you thought he was

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: language (it's like 2 cuss words but i'm still not sorry, Rogers); the lightest sprinkle of angst [let me know if i missed anything!]

Things to be aware of: himbo Thor hours

You couldn't believe what you were hearing from Thor. Implying that the sweet tiny kitten on your shoulder was actually the god that wouldn't even spare you a single glance sideways. The one that barely even registered that you existed.

"Thor no. It can't be. This little bub is small and baking biscuits on my cheek. He purrs. He's cat-shaped. Onyx is a cat. He's my cat. And right now you're scaring him being all up in his face like this. I say this with so much love…Thunder? Back the fuck off." Your kitten shivered even harder as he snuggled into your neck, keeping his little face buried in your hair.

"Lady Y/N, I know my brother's eyes anywhere. Especially after he disguised himself as a snake when we were merely eight years old and--"

"Changed back and stabbed you. Bleh it's me. I know the story, Thunder," you finished for him, suddenly exceedingly aware of the weight of maybe-Onyx-maybe-Loki on your shoulder despite the tiny feline frame. "But I'm telling you there's just no way that my cat is--"

You looked into Onyx's eyes and immediately your shoulders dropped, realizing that it wasn't a coincidence that his eyes were a familiar shade of blue. Thor was right; he knew his brother's eyes anywhere. The kitten embraced your face, pressing his nose to your cheek repeatedly.

"Onyx, look at me." He stilled against your cheek, his wide pleading eyes looking into yours with something that looked akin to resignation. "You were hissing at FRIDAY and Shaun about getting chipped because you understood everything we were saying. Am I right?" He didn't move, the pupils in his eyes growing wider and the corners of his eyes starting to fill with tears. "Because you're Loki?"

He took a deep breath, this little chest puffing up with air and suddenly looking significantly less cat-like than he did a minute ago. Onyx -- actually, Loki -- pressed his face to your cheek again, the action now making your breath hitch in the back of your throat. Then finally he nodded,  and the air left your lungs.

You walked over to  your apartment, Thor's heavy footsteps following just behind you, and placed Onyx/Loki on your desk in front of a notepad and a pen. "Talk." He looked up at you again with those wide pleading eyes. "Please," you added, unsure of what to feel now that the last few hours you spent with your newfound pet was being colored with the context of who he actually was.

Too many thoughts, too many questions, floated around your head, nearly overwhelming you, as your last round of pain meds began to wear off and the discomfort you were feeling gradually became a throbbing pulsating sensation throughout your left side.

Most of them revolving around why he acted the way that he did in this tiny form with you, and how long this could have gone on if Thor hadn't revealed his identity within ten seconds of seeing him. The blond god pulled out a chair for you to read along as Loki's green magic surrounded the pen and words began to form on the paper.

I made a misstep while practicing my magic and cast a spell that turned me into this diminutive feline form. I had exited my quarters earlier today to find assistance in retrieving the spell I require to reverse its effects.

"Hold on." The pen stopped mid-stroke, the cat looking at you with your hand held up. "If you can make things move with your mind, why couldn't you just get the spell book--"

"Grimoire," Thor corrected you. "He gets a bit testy when you use the other word."

"Right then, why couldn't you just move the grimoire down and reverse the spell on your own?" The pen lifted again, you and his brother crowding around the paper to read his answer.

When I scale down my form to something so vulnerable, my magic is not as potent. In theory the grimoire is only just at the limit of my powers' reach in this form and I run the risk of crushing myself with the tome.

"Loki, are you telling me you need help reaching the top shelf?" Thor chortled at the question, sounding like he was struggling to keep his chuckles at bay. "Can it, Thunder, it's not that funny." The cat nodded at you, starting to stand on his back legs again. "Okay, so why not ask your brother? He's way taller than me."

"Oh that I can answer for him, Lady Y/N," he quipped, raising his own hand up in the air. "My brother doesn't trust me around his possessions. Something about how I have a tendency to break his things."

"You know what, that tracks," you muttered, standing and presenting the kitten your hand. "Come on then, let's get you back to normal." He hopped onto your hand and you were about to put him on your shoulder before you stopped, keeping him perched on your hands instead. He meowed at you, starting to climb up your arm before you picked him up again, keeping him in your hands.

"Think my brother wants to be on your shoulder, Lady Y/N. Seemed quite comfortable there," Thor spoke up, letting out a soft chuckle when the kitten started nodding enthusiastically, agreeing with him. "Perhaps you should--"

"I let him stay there earlier because he was my cat," you shot back. "Now he's your brother, it's not the same thing." He whimpered, his little cat body shaking in your hands, taking every ounce of strength you could spare not to give in and just place him back there. He kneaded at your palms the entire way to his apartment, Thor carrying around your stepping stool.

You all got to Loki's study, setting him down on the desk as he guided you to the grimoire he needed, shaking his head at each tome on the shelf that you'd pointed at so far.

"My word, Brother, your attention to detail in these sketches is remarkable, you even got--" Loki hissed at his brother, who was currently standing by a stack of journals, a small sketchbook in his hand. "Alright alright I desist. I shall take my leave. You shall be the one to divulge this information once you are yourself again."

The blond Asgardian's heavy footsteps sounded throughout the apartment until he left, then a few moments afterward you faintly heard his booming voice as he rejoined the rest of the team. You pointed at another grimoire that finally had him nodding his little head, stepping aside on the desk to make room for you to set it down.

"Okay then," you spoke up once you stepped back down to the ground, suddenly feeling more awkward as you stood alone with him in his apartment. "I'll uhh…I'll leave you to it."

You made it to the door of his study before you heard his tiny meow again, seeing him standing on his back legs at the edge of his desk, grabby hands outstretched towards you.

"I'll see you when you're…you again. Later, Loki." The sound of his little meows tugged at your heartstrings, nearly making you turn around and…honestly you didn't even know why he'd want you there with him but you'd stay if only to wipe the sad look from his face. You couldn't deny the adorable little cat much anyways in the hours he was yours.

Then again, you probably couldn't deny him anything in his Asgardian form, either.

An hour after you walked out of Loki's apartment you were hobbling your way back to yours, having eaten enough to take your next round of medications and toting a compound that Banner whipped up in his lab that could maybe help your injuries heal a touch faster. You had half a mind to just cut the sweatshirt off of you once you got inside to avoid the lingering discomfort, but ultimately decided against it.

That wasn't a good enough reason to let a perfectly good forest green sweatshirt go to waste.

You were about to start using the compound on your ribs first when a voice stopped you. "Darling…"

That voice. You recognized that voice anywhere. Giving you butterflies whenever you heard it in mission briefings. Haunting your vivid fantasies regardless of the time or appropriateness. The voice that had you incapable of forming words on any other day.

"Good to see you back," you said, trying to keep your composure around the god.

You reached for your sweatshirt again to cover yourself from his piercing stormy gaze, but before you could, he stood before you, his hand gently grasping your arm while the other rested on your waist. "I received a message from my brother while I was in my feline form, asking if I could check on your injuries. Aid in your healing somehow, if I feel inclined. His words, not mine." Your breath hitched when his thumbs stroked at your skin more tenderly than any of your former lovers had ever touched you. "I would have done it regardless."

Your pulse was thumping in your ears from his proximity, from the way he held your gaze. From the way he held you like he was fighting every urge to pull you to him. Like he would let you step out of it if that was what you wanted.

But all you wanted at the moment was to ask him, "Why didn't you tell me who you were the second you saw me in the pantry?"

The journal Thor was holding earlier materialized on your desk, diverting your attention to the open page. Probably the page that he was commending earlier that made the raven-haired god hiss at him in cat form. The image on the page had the air leave your lungs.

It was a sketch of you.

"My refusal to look at you before was not from disdain, little mortal," he spoke, taking a step closer to you, his hand traveling up your arm and framing your face. You could feel his breath on  your skin. "It was because every time I would look upon your features, I had to fight back every compulsion to do this."

He tucked his finger under your chin, turning you to face him before pressing a tender kiss to your lips that had you weakening in his hold, your stomach violently fluttering as his lips moved against yours. You whimpered against his lips, making him pull you into his arms, weaving his fingers into your hair.

"I've longed for you, precious mortal," he whispered once he pulled away, pressing kisses along the side of your face while you caught your breath. "To know the taste of your lips on mine. The feel of your supple body pressed against me." He kissed you again, lifting you off your feet and carrying you deeper into your apartment. Into your bedroom. He laid you down on your bed, briefly licking into your mouth before pulling away, making light wash over the room with a wave of his hand. "May I heal you, darling?"

Words failed you at the sight of him hovering over you, eyes wide and pleading as he looked on at the bruises and cuts that colored the left side of your torso. You wordlessly nodded your head to grant him the permission he needed to go forward, giving you a soft smile before he leaned down and pressed his lips to your bruises.

"Much better," he breathed out, nipping at your skin before moving his hands down to the waistband of your leggings, lips traveling down to your thigh and kissing you over the fabric. "Once I have seen to your injuries, you should know that I have every intention to make you mine." He kissed you just below your belly button, humming against your skin as you squirmed underneath him, deft hands working the tight fabric down your legs. "If you wish to be, that is."

"I do," you gasped out, ceasing to give a flying fuck how desperate and wanton you sounded at the moment. "I'm yours, I'm all yours."

He smiled against your skin, kissing away at the injuries you sustained on your left leg before making his way back up your body. "You've no idea how delighted I am to hear those words from you, my darling." You felt what remained of your clothing melting away along with his, your moan when skin met skin muffled by him slanting his mouth over yours.

You woke up the next morning to the feel of Loki's nose brushing against yours, pressing kisses along your face until you let out a soft giggle from his attentions. "Good morning, sweetheart."

Your response had him running his fingers along your sides, turning you into a squirming giggling mess as you tried to wrestle your way out of his hold. "Good morning, Onyx."

A/N: I heavily debated w/ myself if I was gonna put smut in this but ultimately decided not to because it's a fluff story and I wanted it to stay a full fluff story 🥴 Just know that he did, in fact, give her plenty a mango ride 😏😏

This is probs the last story I'll post for 2023, so I'm gonna wish you all a Happy New Year and here's to the whorish insanity we'll all get up to in 2024. I have a whole lot planned out, starting with more horny bitches cuts and…a certain celebration I've been putting off because I'm drowning in a sea of WIPs 😂

'everything' taglist: @simplyholl @loopsisloops @imalovernotahater @coldnique @loz-3 @huntress-artemiss @salempoe @vickie5446 @athalialaufeyson @lokiprompts @kats72 @kikster606 @asgards-princess-of-mischief @lokixryss @thomase1 @mischief2sarawr @peaches1958 @lovingchoices14 @lunarnights95 @goblingirlsarah @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @creationsbyme @maple-seed @mjsthrillernp @ladyofthestayingpower @mygfloki @sititran @glitterylokislut @ozymdias @fictive-sl0th  @lokidbadguy @mochie85 @silverfire475 @joyful-enchantress @elizabethmidnight2017 @holdmytesseract @smolvenger @gigglingtiggerv2 @lokidokieokie @lunarnights95 @superficialdomina @anukulee @kmc1989 @november-rayne @goddessofwonderland @buttercupcookies-blog @peaky-marvel @lokiified @tom-hlover

#loki x reader #loki x female reader #loki fluff #loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #loki laufeyson fluff #loki laufeyson fanfic #marvel fanfiction #marvel fanfic #mcu fanfic #muddyorbs writes

[alastorss]

𝑭𝑶𝑹𝑬𝑽𝑬𝑹𝑴𝑶𝑹𝑬 — 𝑨𝑳𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹 𝑿 𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑫𝑬𝑹

𝑨𝑪𝑻 𝑰 — 𝑻𝑶 𝑫𝑬𝑽𝑶𝑼𝑹 ☽ series masterlist | other works

syn. The Radio Demon gathers your wrist and presses kisses along your pulse, stopping when he feels it racing beneath his lips. Gently, he sinks his teeth into your flesh just above your vein, enough to draw a taste of blood, before lapping at the spillage like nectar.

He’ll let you frolic around in his daydreams a little longer—allow you to sip from the chalice and taste mortal life again. It would make your flesh all the sweeter when he finally digs in.

“You are strange,” he murmurs against your skin.

“And you bite too hard,” you complain.

warnings: literal and metaphorical cannibalism, non-sexual biting, soul selling, blood and violence, co-dependency, probably slightly toxic relationship, alastor is a whole walking warning. wc: 5.7k

𝑰 𝑺𝑯𝑨𝑳𝑳 𝑬𝑨𝑻 𝒀𝑶𝑼𝑹 𝑯𝑬𝑨𝑹𝑻

The Devil is beautiful beyond comparison.

Wrapped in silky red and black from head to toe; drenched in the colour and stench of blood; he’s dressed to the nines as if tonight will be his last. He stands seven feet tall—eight or nine if you trace all the way to the tips of his antlers now strung with the flesh and sinew of freshly slaughtered buffalo. 

You think for a brief moment that he is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, hypnotized by the twirling of his cane. Only divinity could dare to be this breathtaking, yet here he is before you defying all heavensent rules. Unsure of whether you’ll ever stand so close yet so far from Heaven again, you reach out to touch him just to test if he is even real.

The Devil has a suave smile that makes his eyes crinkle in joy, teeth yellow and baring at you. A threat, you think, but you don’t care. His smile shrinks and grows in an endless cycle as you run a hand up and down the front of his coat, corduroy smooth beneath the pads of your fingers.

You recognize this look he’s giving you: who do you think you are? A filthy sinner begging The Devil for salvation? How pathetic.

And yet he seems equally entranced by your touch, as if you are the first. Somehow, he pierces you with his eyes but you can tell that he’s looking straight through you. A silly, powerless fool like you isn’t even worth his eyes.

Despite his apathy, he was the one who intervened with your early demise when he could have just as easily been on his merry way. Venison is best when fresh—that’s what he told the butcher. But it was spoiling in his hands the longer he stood there between you and the door, urging you to leave and simultaneously gluing you to the floor.

The Devil saved your life framed in the harsh red of the underworld.

Light pours in through the door he has blocked, illuminating his frame in warm shades of amber and crimson. His eyes shimmer in the shadow it casts on him, you realize. They glow like fireflies—yellow and flickering.

“You are wounded,” he suddenly points out as he towers over you. At first he seems taken aback by his own observation, as if he hadn’t meant to speak his thoughts into existence, but then it mellows into something along the lines of morbid amusement. Amused by your mortality—the mark of a demon.

Sinners were nothing more than sacks of meat and blood, after all. No less than they were when they were alive on Earth.

The question drifts dangerously through your mind: is he not a Sinner just as much as I am?

Static cracks in his throat, an eerie jazz tune faintly floating through the air, and you know then that you must be wrong. Regular Sinners do not know souls like the dozens you can hear screaming in the background of his smooth jazz.

“Help me. Please?” Your fingers dip into your wound and you cry out weakly in pain. His smile only grows.

Poor little lamb, so sweet and trusting. If he didn't know any better, he'd have thought you waltzed right into this shop knowing that the butcher wanted to flay you open.

“Unfortunately, I am not interested in…” He leans down so his face hovers just above yours. “Charity.”

From this angle, he can see the subtle widening of your eyes. The way your pulse jumps in your throat, deliciously afraid. You reek of fear and something else he can’t quite place. It makes him salivate.

The Devil is cold to the touch—death incarnate. You hadn’t noticed until your hands were on his face, his neck, lathering down his chest, nails raking deep marks into his skin.

“I’ll give you my soul.”

“I have plenty of souls, my dear. More than you could possibly imagine! What good would yours do in my collection, hm?”

Yes, what good would your soul be to someone like him? At the end of the day, your name would be drowned out by the endless sea of his other contracts. Forgotten and abandoned, the last piece of your identity. There’s only one way you could be more than those before you.

“I can do anything. I can be anything. Just name it.”

“Oh?” He hums with a raised brow, intrigued by the offer of the soul and body. “And if I said I wanted you to be my dinner tonight?”

You swallow nervously. “Then I would present myself to you on a silver platter.”

He laughs at this, clearly humoured by your answer. “You’ve got yourself a deal!”

And that is how it came to be: a lowly Sinner and an Overlord of Hell—forever intertwined by the messy entanglement of your souls.

Forevermore, you used to joke with your fingers braiding marigolds into his hair. Oh, how he misses that laughter so.

𝑨𝑺 𝑫𝑬𝑽𝑰𝑳𝑺 𝑫𝑶

The four walls of Alastor’s radio station become your only friends.

You learn that there isn’t much to talk to besides the walls anyhow, since the microphone and anything else on Alastor’s sprawling desk is off limits. Even he himself is not around very often, sometimes disappearing for days on end and coming back stinking of rotten flesh and blood, of which you have become acquainted.

You also learn that he likes things in a particular way.

For example, you may only see your reflection once every day. I hate it when my food has an ego—that’s what he had told you once. And you are only allowed to eat whatever he hand-feeds you. That is the life of a pet, after all, and you are nothing but a glorified domestic animal he has chained to his wall.

One day passes and he does not devour you like he originally intended. Then two. Then five. Eventually, you lose space on the wall to make another tally mark, so you resort to counting in your head until you forget how to track time.

“Usually people take their dogs for walks,” you once jested to him after he signed off his morning broadcast and sat there staring at the wall for a while.

He only gazed at you lazily from across the room for a moment before rolling his chair over to you and tilting your head back by the chin. He dipped his thumb between your teeth until you chewed on him and told you:

“How convenient it is that you aren’t a dog, then!”

You never brought it up again, not because you were afraid of him swallowing you whole where you stood, but because he tasted of death itself and you would rather avoid having his thumb in your mouth.

The third thing you learn is that he’s not all that scary so long as he deems you entertaining and obedient enough. Overlords—that’s what Alastor calls the ones who own souls—come and go and usually never return.

You earn raised brows and questioning looks. He often challenges them with his eyes: go on, ask me! Ask about my new pet so I have a good enough reason to dirty my coat with your filth.

The ones who pipe up about your presence are the ones who end up as wavelengths in his show. Alastor is quite protective of his pets, you see. What’s his is his, and what isn’t will be his one day. In his own sadistic, twisted ways, he is actually quite a good owner.

You’ve learned the loneliness that comes with being his pet, too.

Loneliness so empty that it swallows your lungs until you can’t breathe. A loneliness that crushes your ribs to dust. The familiar hum of jazz music became your most cherished companion.

Solitude is a funny thing. It plays tricks on the mind, drives people mad. Even Alastor can’t be immune to it, in his defense. You wonder if that’s why he’s opted to do nothing but stare at you from his desk for the night.

Soft whispers and laughter fill the room, voices enchanting you with their poetry. They buzz from the demon’s radio which is perched by his head where it rests on the table.

The room is illuminated only by the tiny lamp on his desk and the artificial glow of moonlight. He has decided to grace you with several blankets after weeks of your complaints of the radio tower being too drafty. They’re wrapped unceremoniously around you.

“What?” You ask him from the sofa after he’s been staring for far longer than he usually would.

He offers you a moment of relief as he tears his eyes away from you, like he had not even realized he was staring so intensely. But then they’re back on you in an instant, boring through your soul.

The soul he owns.

“I’ve never…” He trails off, seeming as if he can’t decide whether or not you are worth conversation.

Your head tilts to the side in confusion, watching him carefully consider his next words. Finally, he goes back to listening to the whispers and chattering from his noisy radio, pretending as if you no longer exist.

You take the opportunity to observe. It’s not like you hadn't had chances to discreetly watch him before—you live under the heel of his boot, after all. But to see him off of his show, face tired and dark despite the permanent smile that paints it, something stirs in your chest.

The final thing you learn is that the only soul more lonely than yours is the one which belongs to the demon who holds your heart.

He keeps friends in his shows. Voices to keep him company. You suppose that before you showed up, there wasn’t much else to talk to, and Alastor is a man of habit. He never stopped collecting those voices, no. Not even with you right there.

Thinking back, you wonder if he ever went as mad as you did when he first brought you here. If he counted days on the walls he talked to. If he would sit in deafening silence after his broadcast ended until deciding he wanted venison for dinner.

If he ever appreciated your presence, even as nothing more than his pet.

It was the only explanation for your beating heart. Why he had not devoured you down to the marrow yet.

You slowly shimmy off the couch and drag the blankets along with you, trailing behind you like a cape. The sudden movement makes his head turn at lightning speed, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

His body is impossibly rigid—it’s the first thing you notice when you drop to your knees by his side to rest your chin on his thigh. Alastor’s claws are threading through your hair before he can stop himself, feeling your warmth beneath his palm.

A dog and their owner. Only this pair could know silent adoration this way.

It’s twisted, you think, that he still holds this spell over you. That he’s still the most beautiful being in all of Hell.

It doesn’t matter anymore, though. Without him, you were nothing more than a plate of dinner that sprouted legs to all the other demons. You may not have your soul, but for some reason, you find comfort being seen by a monster like him.

“You look ridiculous, darling.”

“It’s not my fault you keep me suspended twenty feet off the ground,” you grumble, eyes drifting shut under the gentle smoothing of your hair.

“That’s what the blanket is for!”

“You’re about… five months too late,” you deadpan.

If it were any other Overlord, such a badmouth would have gotten you eaten already. But he only chuckles in response, quiet and lovely.

A long beat of silence passes before realization crashes down on you. Your eyes fly open as you peer up at him in curiosity. His voice is missing its usual lively buzz of static, as if a switch had been turned off. He sounds…

“Beautiful,” you breathe.

The demon raises a brow at you in question. You quickly shake your head, embarrassed by your sudden declaration. His hand stops atop your head. Laughing at your flustered expression, he suddenly removes you from his lap to stand.

“Come. It’s a nice night for a walk.”

“A walk?” You repeat, dumbfounded.

Alastor smiles ear to ear.

“That’s what dogs do, is it not?”

𝑳𝑰𝑲𝑬 𝑨 𝑹𝑶𝑻𝑻𝑬𝑵 𝑫𝑶𝑮

The difference between you and Alastor is that the only soul you’ve ever known is your own.

You’ve memorized its shape, the way it flickers like a flame within your chest. Like it has its own tiny heartbeat—a separate being residing in your body. You know its colour and its tendency to leap when adrenaline courses through you. You know every part of it. Even then, it had taken all of your afterlife to grasp.

Alastor understands something you cannot.

He has long since memorized the collective weight of a thousand souls. The way they all sigh at once, like waves in the ocean bellowing and sinking.

He is an Overlord of Hell. Someone destined to be greater than you. You’ve known this all along.

He’d always been involved in shady business, coming back to the tower stinking of new souls, meat and booze. You remember that he once boasted about his skills in gambling.

“Isn't it just luck?” You asked.

He laughed at your question, “It’s never just luck, dear. That is why you sell souls, and I own them!”

You resented him for those words, even if they were true. Reminders that your soul was sitting in the palm of his hand. That your entire life was that tiny, flickering flame he could blow out at any moment.

At the same time, you were strangely relieved. Alastor offered you more than just protection. He gave you a home, regardless of how boring, and gifted you whatever your heart desired so long as you were obedient.

And no matter how much he denies it and pretends it isn’t so, he’s also a friend. A companion. You have the nights you’ve spent awake talking to him until sunrise to prove it.

Perhaps that is why ugly guilt bubbles in your stomach when you see his bloody body and the first thought you have is:

Does this mean my soul is free?

You’ve smelled blood before. At some point, it became a comforting scent. The smell of Alastor—the scent of home. But you had only smelled the blood of others as it stained his clothes and skin. Never the demon’s.

His shady business was bound to catch up with him eventually.

Your first reaction is to panic. To turn his body over and scour his torso with your hands until you find where the bleeding starts.

“Alastor? Alastor!” You call his name over and over to no avail.

Again, the terrible thought crosses your mind: I should leave him to die. But then he groans in pain, and the thought vanishes just as quickly as it came.

To wish for him to die after all he’s done—you couldn’t stomach that. You would be no better than he who owns souls for his own amusement.

He had stumbled all the way home in the end. To you. There had to be a reason for that. For him to crawl back to you despite his animal instincts.

“I’ll fix you,” you promise with shaking conviction.

You piece him back together with your own two hands, however clumsily. You’ve never stitched together skin before—only sewn fabrics and crocheted yarn that Alastor brought home to keep you entertained.

It’s disturbing how easily your needle threads together flesh. How it writhes under your touch and how much blood really comes out of it.

Alastor bleeds red.

For some reason, you had always thought that he didn’t bleed at all. But he does. He bleeds the same colours as those that stain his face when he returns from long nights out. It smells the same, too—nauseatingly metallic and rotten.

You do your best to piece him together fully, clean the wound, and bandage him up despite his weak efforts to struggle and the bile that pushes up your throat.

“Stop moving!” You yell in frustration.

This is the last thing Alastor remembers from that night: your arms flung around him to stop him from squirming around; your pounding heart pressed against his while you carefully pin him down whilst trying to avoid disturbing his wound; your lips beside his ear as you chant—please, just go to sleep.

When he wakes in the morning, he’s delirious.

At first, he isn’t sure why he’s asleep on the sofa. Your sofa, as you’ve claimed. His head lolls to to face the window to gauge the time of day.

Bright morning light sears his eyes and momentarily blinds him. Groaning, Alastor brings his hand up to cover his eyes. There’s a sudden white hot pain from that action that shocks his system awake.

He hisses, body involuntarily curling in on itself to ease the pain, but it only exacerbates it.

His hand changes route from shielding his eyes to feeling for the spot where it hurts the most. To his horror, he can feel bandages sloppily wrapped where his skin should be.

“The… Hell?” He mutters, trying to push himself onto his elbows to see his stomach better. But he freezes halfway up, propped back on his elbows when he finally catches sight of you. 

You’re seated on the floor with your head in your arms, seemingly sound asleep by his side despite the ruckus he’s caused.

The demon slowly pieces the puzzle together, eyes drifting to the trail of blood smeared from the door to where you’re sitting. He assumes the sofa under him fares no better than his floor, and he groans in disgust.

He takes a minute to stare at the ceiling, trying to remember whatever else he can from last night. But the ache deep in his skin is too pressing to ignore, and eventually he returns to moaning and hissing in agony. Again, he turns his head to you.

You look peaceful this way. Drool pricks at the corner of your lips and as mundane as it is, Alastor can’t help but be a little endeared.

It’s strangely human. You are strangely human.

One hand falls atop your head and the other on his bandages as he watches you slumber. Perhaps it was in your human nature to help him, your terrible captor, when you could have just as easily left him for dead.

You look like an angel basking in the orange glow of the Underworld. His saviour. Beautiful and human.

Fondness boils in his stomach at the idea and he quickly retracts his touch, instead laying an arm over his eyes.

It’s too bright. He can’t think straight.

He considers counting this as an eye for an eye. Your life for his. It would only be fair to set you free now that you’re even.

Dread creeps up his spine at the thought of spending his days in lonely silence once more. You were originally meant to be nothing more but a companion for entertainment. But he was growing quite attached to you as pathetic as it was.

He had gotten used to your witty remarks and dry humour. The way you laugh before you tease him. How you sit on the floor and rest your chin on his thigh even though he’s told you before that his lap is available. And he finds your flustered and exasperated expression after his comments to be more amusing than death.

It would be a shame for it all to end, even if it were the right thing to do. He’s a demon, after all. Hell was for those who knew right from wrong and still became Sinners.

His silent reverie is interrupted by your shuffling. You groggily straighten up, blearily wiping the sleep from your eyes. It takes a minute for the realization to kick in, but when it does, you’re blinking at him in bewilderment.

You’re on top of him in seconds, clinging to his neck and wailing like a child. He hisses in pain, doing his best to sit upright for you and grimacing though his smile.

“You’re okay!” You exclaim, hugging him tighter and tighter.

“Darling—” He grunts, trying to shimmy away from you despite the warmth blooming in his chest. “My stitches!”

You scramble away from him, retreating as if he’d bitten you. Your back hits the other end of the sofa by the time he sits up. “I’m so sorry! I just…”

He watches as your face dims considerably. His heart drops to his stomach for a reason he can’t explain.

“I thought you were going to die,” you whisper. It’s followed by sniffles, and he can tell even without looking that you’ve broken out into tears.

“Come now, dear. Don’t cry. I’m very much alive, thanks to you.”

You nod, using your sleeves to pathetically wipe at your cheeks.

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” you quietly admit with an embarrassed laugh.

Alastor also can’t explain the relief that floods him at that moment. Relief that you’re smiling. That you’re still by his side. That he’s alive. That you saved him.

If he had died, would you have blamed yourself? Even if he hadn’t returned home, would you have waited by the door for him until your soul came back to you?

Would you be sad then, too?

It’s a strange feeling that rises in his throat. He’s never been so grateful to be alive before.

“But you did it,” he tells you. “See?”

You nod again. From the other end of the couch, he can see your shoulders relaxing. It settles him, too—calms his fraying nerves.

He understands, then, the spell you have cast over him in return. He would do anything to see that smile.

Trust is not his forte. Demons are not to be trusted.

However, he can’t help but think that you’d save him over and over again if you needed to. And at that moment, he swears you have a halo glowing atop your head.

An angel in a Sinner’s world.

𝑳𝑰𝑲𝑬 𝑨 𝑴𝑶𝑵𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹, 𝑳𝑰𝑲𝑬 𝑨 𝑩𝑬𝑨𝑺𝑻

You wake up to the familiar stench of blood, as you do most mornings.

It isn’t what makes you jolt awake. Rather, it’s the other smell wafting through the air. Mixed with the iron sting is the soft smell of flowers and the deep earthiness of grass and soil. Stirring, you blink the blurriness out of your eyes and take in your surroundings.

Dewy grass pricks at your palms as you sit up. The outline of your body has flattened the moss down and packed it into the earth, downy shrubbery now crushed beneath you.

Alastor sips at his mug, lips nursing the rim as he watches you slowly wake over the top of his newspaper.

“Someone slept well,” he sings with a cheshire smile, ears flopping from one side to the other with the movement of his head. You blink at him from the ground, legs curled under you.

“Where are we?”

“My room, darling.”

You take another look around. A gentle breeze shakes the trees weeping with leaves and vines, tousling the branches so they appear to dance in the wind. You’ve learned never to be surprised when it comes to this demon. He’s a bottomless well of them, after all.

“It doesn’t look like a room,” you observe flatly. He only laughs, shaking his paper flat to continue skimming through the morning column. Dissatisfied by his lack of an answer, you press on

“Does your room come with air conditioning? It’s too humid.”

Alastor snorts. “I prefer it when my dinner marinades without complaint.”

“It’s been months and you have yet to eat me up for dinner,” you point out.

“Tonight will be the night,” he replies nonchalantly, as if it were just any other day. You can’t help but notice the slightest hesitation in his conviction. Like he hasn’t yet made up his mind.

Silence follows his statement and you can only stare at him in response. After he shows no signs of elaborating, you sink back down to the earth with a thud and a sigh. Watching the dark, eerie sky as clouds float by, you pipe up again.

“The sky’s dark. Isn’t it morning?”

“I prefer the night. Calming, isn’t it?”

Your nose scrunches up into a playful sneer. “The big, scary shadow man loves the dark. Who knew?”

“Sarcasm isn’t very cute on you, my dear.”

“Ha ha,” you deadpan. “I think I’m hilarious.”

The Radio Demon sets down his paper and peers at you from his seat at the garden table, chin propped on his knuckles. “Entertaining, yes. Hilarious? Not quite.”

“It’s apparently my last day alive,” you grumble, rolling over onto your side so your back is turned to him. “Let me have this.”

Your eyes drift shut as another breeze washes over you. The smell of grass and mossy waters—you never thought you’d have the chance to remember what this was like. What it’s like to be alive. How it feels to have grass between your toes and listen to the distant cries of insects and birds.

When you blink your eyes open again, you expect it all to vanish. To be back in Alastor’s radio tower, banished to your own little corner where he can watch you and entertain himself. To feel the rattle of the chain around your neck while he pulls you closer just to have a taste of your soft flesh.

But when you finally allow your surroundings to sink in again, you’re met with nothing but open night skies freckled with globs of stars. It feels free. You had forgotten what that felt like, too.

“I don’t enjoy it when my dinner feels sentimental, either,” he suddenly hums. You roll onto your back, head lolling to the side so you can glare at him. Slowly pushing yourself up, you haunch back on your palms with your legs outstretched toward the flowing water. 

“I’m not sentimental,” you argue.

“Oh? Is that so?”

You scoff in lieu of a proper reply. On your hands and knees you drag yourself toward the luminescence hovering just above the water. You come so close that your hands sink deep into the mud of the riverbank, surely dirtying your clothes in the process.

Fireflies swirl in the air and make the surface of the water shimmer like the stars in the sky above you. You carefully collect a firefly between your muddy palms.

It flicks around in a panic, knocking against the tiny cage you’ve built with your hands until it finally settles down in defeat. You can’t help but feel a little sorry for it. 

Trapped. Like you.

Alastor watches you curiously, your face dimly illuminated by the glow of the firefly. He’d usually prefer enjoying his swamp alone, but in a final act of mercy had decided to allow you in just this once. Perhaps he had made a mistake, however. There was a reason he killed swiftly.

He never did like getting attached to his food.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

The demon blinks at you. “Fireflies?”

You shake your head.

“Life.”

But it’s not alive, he wants to say. This is all just a grandiose daydream, after all. Soon enough you’ll offer yourself up to him and he’ll devour you without second thought. The dream will end and reality will come crashing down.

He’ll be alone again, the way a monster like him deserves to be.

He slowly rises from his seat and makes his way to your side. Sinking to his knees, mud cakes his pants and his coat. You look at him in confusion, hands unclasping to release the insect to the wild once more.

“Are you that impatient for dinner?” You ask jokingly, albeit with a shake of nervousness underneath.

The Radio Demon gathers your wrist and presses kisses along your pulse, stopping when he feels it racing beneath his lips. Gently, he sinks his teeth into your flesh just above your vein, enough to draw a taste of blood, before lapping at the spillage like nectar.

You suck in a sharp breath, perfectly still beside him. Your free hand comes up to cup his face carefully, causing him to release his bite. Thumb smearing mud along his cheekbone, you look at him in wonder.

It causes him to withdraw, recoiling from you as if you just burned him. The weight of your eyes is too heavy—like you know every part of him at just a glance. He loves being the center of attention, but with you it’s too much.

You always did look at him like he was beautiful. Like he was life itself.

He can see it in every inch of your expression—some kind of twisted longing. It awakens something burrowed deep in his stomach, primal and wanting.

For all these decades he had been utterly alone. And for once in his afterlife, he had felt what it was like to be wanted. To be worshipped.

Does it really have to end so selfishly?

He’ll let you frolic around in his daydreams a little longer—allow you to sip from the chalice and taste mortal life again. It would make your flesh all the sweeter when he finally digs in.

“You are strange,” he murmurs against your skin.

“And you bite too hard,” you complain.

He only licks at your wound apologetically.

𝑶𝑷𝑬𝑵. 𝑹𝑨𝑽𝑨𝑮𝑬. 𝑬𝑨𝑻.

The word devotion does not exist in Alastor’s dictionary. The fiery depths of Hell incinerated whatever meaning it held for him long ago.

Nothing is forever—that’s what his mother said to him with a quiver in her voice and trembling fingers captured in his. Her final words to him, not that he was all that sentimental about it anymore.

If you took a peek into Alastor's heart, you might expect to find some select choices of rye from the speakeasies he danced at in his youth. Or perhaps you would see the endless bog of contracts for every soul he owned, the names signed on them lost as if they were nothing more than grains of sugar in his coffee. 

He does not know how to love.

To be honest, he can’t quite remember if he ever learned how to love in life. He remembers what it was like to have his head in his mothers lap after he quit his first job, sobbing pathetically while she hummed to him about how proud she still was. He remembers running his hands over the smooth wooden desk of his radio station in New Orleans, the feel of fresh lacquer under his fingers.

Love was not something foreign to him. He was surrounded by it—the way rye burned in his chest; the feeling of his mother’s hands in his hair; the smell of coffee and wood lacquer. And even in death, he was surrounded by love. By you.

The scent of your blood. The vulnerability of your skin and how easily he could pierce it with his claws. You were fragile and sweet, something strange in a place permanently stained with blood and reeking of death.

Before he had memorized the pattern of your snores, or the way you cradle his face when he bites you like an untamable beast, or the racing of your pulse beneath his lips, amusement was all he ever pursued. His next plaything, whatever would keep him entertained until they inevitably joined his broadcast.

But you had overwritten his heart too long ago to remember what that was even like. The thought of your voice screaming in the back of his show only makes his stomach turn until he feels like he is about to vomit. 

The thought of losing you—his single treasure in the underworld—was more than he could bear. Amusement and a good meal were not worth your life.

Once, too many moons ago to count, you had promised yourself to him on a silver platter. In all that time you had kept him company, regardless of your sarcastic quips and your disinterest in his hobbies of killing for fun. You had become something worth cherishing. Worth protecting.

He hadn’t accounted for the fact that the only one he needed to protect you from the most was himself.

Here's what you would really see if you looked into Alastor's heart: you, with your jaw slack and eyes squeezed shut so tight that your brows are furrowed. Blood—lots of blood—spilling from your skin like liquid gold.

You, and those tears that he hates so fucking much. Don't cry, he would tell you, and you would listen to him because you adore him. Your flesh between his teeth as he sinks them deeper, plunging his fangs into your skin. A devouring so slow that it's agonizing, and finally your blissful little sigh.

He loves you so much that it aches, that it burns in his stomach. He's ashamed of it, of your effect on him—the spell he can't break.

No, that's wrong. He doesn't love you. At least, he doesn't think he does. Monsters do not love.

That's why you are being swallowed up whole, isn't it? Because he's a monster?

Your hands collect his face just as his mind starts to wander. You gaze at him so softly, so tenderly, as if he isn't all claws and teeth and blood soaked antlers. He wonders if you even realize what's in your arms.

"Alastor..."

His name is a whisper of a prayer on your lips—sweet and beautiful like you. If he could devour you like this he would, just to immortalize you. The iron stench of blood fills his nostrils as you cradle him. 

Ah, he's gone too far.

Slowly, he laps up the blood trickling down your skin. A silent apology. And you forgive him—you always do. It's just in your nature to trust monsters. To trust him.

"I love you."

He realizes, then. He's no monster in your eyes. He's just the devil. A beautiful, charming demon who you signed your soul away to.

Alastor doesn't say it back, but he loves you. He's sure he does. He would love you into flame if he could.

☽

notes: this series was inspired by this post from like 2 months ago that i finally got around to!! shoutout to too sweet by hozier and morbid cannibalism poetry on pinterest for getting me through this

taglist: @the-lake-is-calling @dragons-and-dwarves-are-nice @averylonelysea @bri22222 @cxrsedwxrlds @amarokofficial @anae-naea-zacheria @for-hearthand-home @fantasy-is-best @angixyc @th3-st4r-gur1 @i-am-nonbinary-bean-deal-with-it @dilemmaiscool @concentratedconcrete @squiword7 @clarakainda @princekeerys @iicarused @lillylovesalastorsm1 @veroneverleft (send an ask to be added to the taglist!)

© ALASTORSS — DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, MODIFY, OR DISTRIBUTE TO OTHER SITES.

#forevermore — ☁︎ #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin x reader #alastor fanfic #alastor fic #alastor headcanons #alastor x you #alastor fanfiction #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin hotel fanfiction #hazbin hotel fanfic #alastor hazbin x reader #🍓 faye's thoughts <3

[starwrighter]

I am not a baby!! (yes you are)

(Ao3) (Masterpost) (Previous) (Next)

(Chapter 8)

Cutting through the water with practiced ease, he snapped his tail, an audible crack sounding as he boosted forwards. A rotten egg. He was tasked with watching a rotten egg. Did Father think him incompetent? A mockery of his skills and a slight against him as a person. Why did he have to guard a dead egg while the others fought reapers and patrolled dangerous waters?

Safe shallows, a place mainly inhabited by herbivores, bright and colorful. His tail dragged uncomfortably against the seabed waters too shallow for this form to move at full capability. The egg was in site, floating at the surface. Strangely, it smelled better than it had before. There was still the lingering scent of festering rot but weaker than before.

Peaking through the see-through bottom, the egg appeared to be empty. Not a peep was heard inside the egg, lights glowing brightly. All the babies who lived for more than a few seconds had eggs that glowed inside. This egg wasn't glowing before, but now it was, and there still wasn't a baby.

Did it hatch while he wasn't watching it? They were under the assumption the egg was dead. If it hatched earlier, no one would've been there to protect them. Fragile creatures with a tendency to die spontaneously. They stood no chance on their own. The shallows were relatively safe, with barely any predators, if the baby did hatch its body should still be floating around here somewhere.

Using his arms to drag himself through the shallows, some oddities began to arise. Metal boxes that used to be firmly planted into the ground were gone, fish frazzled, drifting curiously towards something in the distance.

Damian had expected a corpse or the sight of red blood from a baby freshly killed. A metal building standing strong near the borders of the grassy plateaus was something he never would've expected. It was a purer white, maintained, or recently built. Unlike any of the buildings in Jellyshroom caves or the deep grand reef, this building was active, functioning not a speck of rust-coating metal tubes.

Like the previous buildings, part of it was see-through. He couldn't help but wonder if this baby would be like the friendly, curious one who'd stare at everything through the clear barrier in awe. The babies never strayed too far from their nests unless they were migrating or collecting materials. Chances were, if a hatchling were alive, it'd be in there. Drifting over to the see-through tube, he peered inside...

It was tiny...

Smaller than any of the babies that ever hatched. Larger than the Peepers swimming around the base, yet no bigger than a Mesmer. Smaller than what Father said he was when he hatched more than a thousand years ago. A hatchling running in circles, more active and excited than any of the other babies ever were. Running too fast for him to get a good look, it was unclear whether this was normal behavior of a healthy hatchling.

When the hatchling finally exhausted himself, it slowed down to a pace. Fluffy black hair with splotches of white barely reached his ears, the hatchling occasionally running pudgy fingers through it. His face was a bit red, but a feeling of excitement radiated off the child in consistent waves.

Tap...Tap...Tap

Claws clinking against the tube, the hatchling froze in place. Vibrant, blue eyes stared directly at Damian, widened, shocked by his sudden appearance. It wasn't his intention to scare the hatchling, he just wanted to check on them. Preparing to give another gentler tap, the hatchling raises his arms, a tool in his hands, a flash of light blasting Damian in the face. Not quite blinding but blurring his vision enough for the baby to dart away deeper into the tube so he couldn't see him anymore. A shy hatchling was easier to keep alive, but it still hurt seeing the baby hiding from him.

For a minute, he entertained the thought of keeping the hatchling's existence a secret. To bond and secure his place as favorite sibling early on. Only remembering the sheer fragileness of the children changed his mind. Being the favorite of a dead child would do him no good. If the hatchling was smart enough to survive this long, he'd be smart enough to see that Damian is the superior sibling.

"Father, the hatchling from the shallows is still alive,"

The utter chaos that erupted through the bond was almost worth risking a potential title.

@ashoutinthedarkness @avelnfear @meira-3919 @thought-u-said-dragon-queen @hugsandchaos @blep-23 @zeldomnyo @bytheoldwillowtree @justwannabecat @shepherdsheart @starlightcat04 @stargazing-bookwyrm @pupstim @dragongoblet

#Danny's not hiding he's preparing to bite people #dp x dc #dc x dp #dpxdc #dcxdp #subnautica au #DPXDC #DCXDP

[louroth]

Listen man I just gotta know how the ros dream of receiving love from mc. I wanna know what they stay up at night imagining with mc and their life together. I eat that shit up man

💀 you're the best. Thanks for the ask! Here's some daydreams the ro's keep for whenever their eyes slide closed:

Yor//Yana: the hunter sleeping in their cabin, beside them, and the whole place smells of fresh cedar wood, the fields whispering outside as they bend to the wind; to live simply, just the two of them, outside of the magnitude of responsibilities they have, to just be, within each other's orbit. To think of nothing but how fresh coffee smells, or how hunters breath feels on their skin, to just get to exist, free and floating like a cloud without anywhere to be. And maybe they would go to the market, and maybe they'd cook dinner together. Just a soft, quiet kind of love.

Auryn: There is a courtyard that is largely unknown, of an abandoned house on the outskirts of Riven east, where they would like to take the hunter. The skewed, rotten floors would creak as they led them through the house to get to it, hands softly clasped around hunters eyes and waist - and they would unveil a hidden world of rare frogs, plants and flowers that live around the neglected pool. They'd spend hours watching the life growing there, pointing and whispering, until voices grew husky and touch lingered longer than necessary - they'd fuck the hunter slowly, splayed out on the beautifully tiled floor around the pool, moss sticking to their skin.

Sene//Selene: dreams of bringing the hunter to Oakwerth as it once was, to see their life's work- to hopefully make the hunter proud of them. They'd lavish the hunter in expensive shopping, opera and theater, showing them off at dinners and balls before retiring to the clock tower they call home, and watch the sunrise together on the balcony overlooking all of Oakwerth, wrapped in each others arms, and perhaps a fine bottle of champagne.

Idren//Ida: they barely dare to think that far- to even have the hunter smile at them, laugh at their jokes, seems like dream enough. They imagine touch, sensation, more than anything; to just wake up and the first thing they feel is how hunter is wrapped around them, the weight of their leg on theirs. They quickly school those thoughts though, opting to treasure the real moments instead. Is hunter telling a story by the campfire? They won't tear their eyes away. Oh, but a true, heart-cinching, silly dream of theirs- Id sitting against a tree-trunk, hunter settled between their legs and resting their head against Id's chest, the hunter opening a book and asking Id to read aloud. You have to hold it, Id dreams of murmuring in their ear, dragging their fingertips up and down hunter's arms. If I am to hold you.

Leith//Custom: They just want to go back to how things were, in that run-down little cabin. They dream of painting a room together, chasing each other with paintbrushes until they are both covered in paint-streaks, or making clay pots together a la Ghost, or finally turning that bureau into something beautiful. They also dream of showing hunter what they have discovered, but I can't get into that here.

#basically every RO: I just want to be a couple with you!!! You belong to me and I belong to you!!! Unequivocally!! Forever!!! #hihihihi #RO reacts #OUROBOROS #ouroboros-if #interactive fiction

[fatuismooches]

I'm in love with the "Traveler finding fragile reader" scenario I've seen floating around your blog because this scenario is super interesting for Dottore specifically. Actually caring about someone else, perhaps even more than he does himself and his ambitions, not having the upper hand, and being almost wholly at someone else's mercy in a meaningful way are all probably very foreign things to Dottore. Since I suck at writing proper stories, here are some scattered thoughts.

After all the times they've encountered and clashed with the Second Fatui Harbinger, the Traveler had subconsciously realized that they would have to be just as ruthless, just as cruel as he is to neutralize him. They'd truly come to terms with this after learning about your existence, and muster the will to act upon this knowledge as the doors to the location you were being hidden in slammed open. Paimon's gaze snapped to the source of the sound, and in that split second the Traveler summoned their blade and held its edge against your throat. (As an aside, imo the Traveler would totally do something like this if they had to. We saw how they were willing to coldly execute you-know-who in the Aranyaka quest.)

As he burst through the doors, Dottore was greeted with the sight of the accursed Traveler's determination-filled glare, their white floating imp's wide-eyed stare… and the lab's dim lights gleaming off the blade held over your throat. Their surprisingly calm voice grates against his ears. "Paimon, keep your eyes on Dottore. There's no telling what he might try."

The only other time Dottore had ever felt this alarmed in his centuries of existence was when you just didn't wake up one day, reduced to barely clinging to life with the support of his modified Akasha terminal. This was a new first for Dottore - the first time he lost his rationality. Objectively, this was a favourable scenario - he knew the terrain here like the back of his hand, which would be a major advantage against an opponent as powerful as the Traveler. With this, he had a decent chance of permanently removing possibly the biggest obstacle to the Fatui.

The above should have been what went through Dottore's brilliant mind, devising scenarios to bring it to fruition. Instead, every cell in Zandik's brain was working in overdrive, trying to find a way to somehow get the Traveler away from you, to keep you safe. He knows the kind of person the Traveler is - if it were anyone else, he'd have no problem calling their bluff and striking at the slightest hesitation, but this was you, the only life he couldn't afford to gamble with.

(How the actual confrontation goes down is anyone's guess, since I don't have any concrete ideas. A proper fight is likely out of the question because a clash between two of the strongest beings in Teyvat is going to be incredibly destructive - you're almost definitely getting caught in the crossfire somehow, and Zandik can't have that.)

oh MY GOSHHHHH I AM LITERALLY DEVOURING EATING THIS UPPP

Anon. Im. I have no words. Your writing IS SUPERBBB. ITS AMAZING. All those things you said are so true. Even to this day sometimes Dottore is surprised he cares about you this much. He would have never thought he had the capacity for that previously. He always thought he had the situation and his emotions always under control, yet his love for you still blossomed. That was the one time he felt as though he could not predict something. The Doctor was known for his meticulous plans and actions, with no room for counterattacks or opposition. He was used to the cowered figures, terrified expressions of the people beneath him.

Until now. 

Dottore doesn’t have much regrets in his life. He doesn’t regret his countless experiments or people he hurt. That didn’t really matter to him. But right now, he was thinking that he should have killed the Traveler when he had the chance. Then you wouldn’t be stuck in this situation, the Traveler’s blade held dangerously close to your throat, hanging you on the thin line between life and death. (Traveler’s dull blade never seems to disappoint ig…)

The sight has him slowly losing his normal composed, rational train of thought. The tone the Traveler takes with him only worsens his thoughts, and he can’t help but think back to the time when he nearly lost you. From then he swore to never put you in more harm than you already were. But it seems like that was a broken oath now.

Scholars must plan for every possible situation and take everything into account. And now, he has to consider the possibility you may… 

There are innumerable amounts of plans and actions unfolding in his head, but each of them leaves you at risk, the one thing he has to avoid at all costs. He simply cannot risk your life. You still have a life ahead of you, the one that you deserve, one when he finally cures you. And he shall not let this Traveler stop him, no matter what he has to do.

Even as this goes on, the Traveler still can’t help but be fascinated by the fact they have the Doctor in a chokehold, not by sheer power, blackmail, knowledge, or anything along those lines. But rather from a person who didn’t seem to be anything special. If the situation was different, they would have liked to see the kind of person you were to be able to change the normally ruthless, unfaltering Doctor into a hesitant one.

I enjoyed this tremendously infinity/10, I loved how u described Paimon as an imp 😭 Traveler better watch themselves after that because when he gets you to safety, he ain’t holding back 🚶‍♀️LIKE I WISH I HAD MORE TO ADD BUT THIS IS PERFECT. I can only imagine maybe the Omega clone stepping in somehow, or a very tense verbal confrontation between the two of them where he has to give up some secrets in exchange for you. Or a crash/explosion from somewhere else distracting the Traveler enough to be able for Dottore to retrieve you.

#smooches talks #fragile reader <3 #dottore love notes <3 #traveler being ready to kill always gets me 😭 #ok but i want to see traveler actually get beat in a serious fight #omfg i cannot wait for the dottore boss fight

[chickenparm]

Tiny Little Teeth (cat!Scara/f!Reader) Pt 1

it's a rite of passage for anyone that writes for scara to at least do ONE scarameow fic. anyway, 3 chapters for sure on this one, maybe a 4th if i feel like party rockin.

---

AO3 LINK Next Part

cat(boy)!Scaramouche/f!Reader - Reader is Traveler 2,628 Words - SFW (future NSFW) (no warnings this chapter - smut tags on AO3)

---

“Traveler, pleeeeease?”

Paimon struggles to float under the weight of the kitten, her arms wrapped around his torso as he wiggles and wiggles and wiggles and hisses. You watch for a moment how his little teeth are bared, the pupils of his eyes wide enough that only the thinnest purple iris is visible as he glares at you. Can a cat glare?

This one is. You think you like him. 

“Alright, fine. But he’ll have to stay in the teapot, he’s just too little to travel around with us now.”

At the sound of your agreement, he starts writhing even more, and you reach out to take the kitten from Paimon to keep her from sinking like a rock. Holding him by the scruff, you lift the cat to look him over - ink-colored fur, pretty violet eyes with strange markings around them, the whitest feet and ears you’ve ever seen… 

“You’re a cute thing, aren’t you? What should we name you…” You use your other hand to support under his back legs, holding him closer to your chest as you release his scruff and instead run those fingers down the raised hair along his spine. “Angry little thing. Kinda reminds me of…”

“That’s what I thought! So grumpy!” 

Paimon already agrees before you get the name out, and the two of you giggle amongst yourselves. Ducking your chin to look at him, he stares up at you with a vicious little hiss, just before you say, “Oh, if he finds out he’ll be so mad. Let’s do it. You’re my little Scarameow now.”

Razor-sharp tiny claws sink into your skin at his visceral reaction to the name, teeth bared as his face scrunches up in rage. But it’s not frightening - only cute enough to make you coo and bend to press a kiss right on that angry little forehead. “C’mon, let’s get you home. Paimon, can you watch the teapot for a while? Maybe take it to Nilou for safekeeping?”

“Can do! Oh, can you use the kamera and take a picture if he does anything cute? Paimon wants to see!”

The kitten grumbles, and taking a little pity on him, you falsely make the promise to her and withdraw the teapot from your inventory to head home for a little while. Paimon’s voice trails off with her goodbye as your navel is pulled, and the world shifts from one reality to another, leaving you in a field of wildflowers that wave gently in the breeze. 

The kitten goes slack in your arms, the whipping of his little tail petering out as his furry head turns left and right, taking in the sights of the field, the smattering of buildings not so far in the distance, and the backdrop of other landforms beyond it. Even if he probably can’t understand you, you still can’t help pride from filtering in your voice as you begin your walk to the main house and explain. 

“This is my home. Well, our home, now. You’ll be comfortable, safe, and warm. Nothing bad will ever happen to you here. You must’ve been awfully scared, being all alone like that.” You say, unaware of how the kitten’s head tilts up to look at you. “What sort of food do cute little kitties eat, anyway? Fish?”

Of course, he doesn’t answer, but he does prickle a bit when you refer to him as cute and little, like he isn’t aware of how small he is. Or how soft his tummy is on your forearm. Somehow, you feel like he’d be mortified if he knew just how much you wanted to put your face in his fur and blow raspberries. 

You’d probably lose an eye, you think. 

Stepping into the home and shutting it behind you, you don’t bother to lock it as you call out, “Tubby! You home?”

“I am always home, Traveler.” The bird sparkles into existence, the kitten’s fur stands on end as those little claws sink in again. Dipping your head, you shush him and scratch behind one of his tiny little triangle ears, but it doesn’t do much. It almost makes him madder. Narrow red lines well up on your arm from where he’s been scratching and biting you. Tubby waits patiently for the exchange to finish before asking, “Is this a new resident?”

“Yes! This is Scarameow, he’s going to stay here for a while. Do you think you can sift through the storage and see if there’s any furniture that will be good for him?”

“Miss Diona did pass along some of the furniture blueprints they use at the Cat’s Tail when they need to replace something too clawed-up…”

“Perfect!” You agree, holding the kitten awkwardly as you start to kick off your boots. Tubby doesn’t like it when you track dirt into the house, and you’re not feeling up to suffering passive-aggressive comments about your cleanliness today. Tubby flickers off, and you’re once more left with a kitty that’s wiggling desperately to be let free. 

Not just yet, though. You wander into what serves as the living area, a few couches near a fireplace that’s already lit. You grab a throw blanket and bundle it up on the couch, then carefully set him there. “That’ll have to do for now. I’m going to go and see what I can find you for food. I bet you’re hungry.”

Purple eyes look up at you, unimpressed. Your face twists in minor annoyance, “C’mon, I’m doing the best I can. If I expected to get a kitten today, I’d have prepared a little better. Maybe you should work on your timing.”

The kitten meows, a loud thing that can’t hold the weight of his own annoyance at you. Planting your hands on your hips, you bend a little and say, “‘Meow’ to you, too. Y’know, if you want to be menacing, you’ll have to work on not being so cute. If you keep being grumpy, I’m going to get your belly and it’s going to be very embarrassing.”

Another meow, teeth bared like needles, fur starting to raise on his tail. In fact, he stands, his back arching and the rest of him puffing up as if to look bigger, scarier. And you only laugh, reaching out with a palm and pushing him over into the blankets. “Cute little thing. Scarameow is a good name, you really do remind me of the Balladeer… uh, Wanderer, I mean. Don’t tell him I messed the name up, I’m still getting used to it.”

The cat pauses in getting up, head tilting as if curious. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to vent to him a little, he is just a kitten. It’s not like he can tell anyone unless he suddenly learns to talk like Neko. Standing straight, you let your arms fall to the side with a sigh, “It’s weird, he and I are the only people that actually remember what happened before. He’s kind of a jerk, but… I’d hoped that maybe, if anything, he’d be willing to let me… oh, I don’t know. Be his friend?”

Settling on the couch, you abandon the idea of food for now. The kitten doesn’t seem interested anyway. But he does settle down to sit on the blankets and seems to be listening intently to what you’re dumping out on him, even if he doesn’t understand. Leaning back against the couch, then letting your head roll to look at the ceiling, you continue, “I want to talk to him, but honestly, I’m not sure how to do it without him assuming I’m just taking pity on him for it all. I’m not, really, but he just seems kinda… lonely?”

No answer from the kitten. Maybe he’s fallen asleep already, maybe he’s not listening at all. 

“Despite everything, I kind of get it. Y’know, after everything he’s been through, I’d probably be the same way. So I can’t really fault him for a lot of it. Well, maybe I can, just a little. But people can change, and it seems like he’s putting in some effort.” Your hand reaches out to the blankets, searching for the kitten to try and pet him absently, but your hand comes up empty. 

Lifting your head, the blankets are empty, but in the space between your lap and the makeshift bed, the kitten is frozen mid-step, like he’d been sneaking closer. It looks up at you, and you look back, and carefully you turn your gaze back up to the ceiling. Maybe if you don’t give him so much attention, he’ll be a little more accepting of it all. 

And the idea strikes you enough that you speak it into the world, “Maybe that’s the key. I’ll give him some space, just make it known that I’m willing to accept him and then back off. If I come on too strong, he’ll just get annoyed.”

There’s a pressure on your thigh of a small paw pushing in, then the opposite, and as you covertly look down, you can see he’s making biscuits on your lap. Not quite sitting on you, just off to the side, but it’s a start and you can’t help the giddy smile on your face. Biting your tongue, you don’t draw attention to it and instead bring one hand to curl around his back where he sits next to you, a warm presence against your palm. 

“Do you think that’ll work? Ah, you’ve never met him, how would you know. I bet you’d get along, though. Two angry little guys.”

Claws poke against your leg in a warning, and you laugh a little as you finally lift your head and look down at him. “Alright, alright. Hm… y’know, I have an idea. If I promise not to get your tummy, will you put up with me doing something else less demeaning?”

A head tilt, a cautious ask of what you’re planning before he accepts anything. You guide him away from the copious amount of biscuits he’s been making and settle him in the blankets again before getting up. “I’ll be back, just going to go to the workbench for a bit and make something. If you hate it, you don’t have to ever look at it again, but I think it’d be… cute.”

Scarameow growls, looks at you unsure, but you’re already walking away and leaving him alone in your home. Before leaving the room, you look at him over your shoulder. He’s sitting where you left him, looking suddenly very small, and a little coo leaves you that makes him bristle and stand, back arched once more. 

Your laughter is what remains in the room with him as you leave. 

The kitten waits while standing, then sits down to wait more. Then he lays, curled in a tight ball, eyes watching the doorway that you left through. The fireplace crackles nearby, lulling him into a calmness that makes him relax a little. Eyes drooping, he watches with disinterest as that weird little bird appears in the room, floating around and materializing what looks to be furniture suited for a cat. 

A little tower with multiple levels, a wooden bowl-shaped bed filled with soft pillows, a box with a paw print on it filled with unknown contents. Then, the bird moves to the window and opens the curtains, letting the sunshine in. Suddenly, the kitten perks up a little, getting to his feet and streeeetching before all but tumbling from the couch. Annoyed at himself, he wanders over to the window. 

There’s just enough of a ledge that he can sit up there, so he backs up and lowers himself, rear end wiggling a little before launching up. Still unpracticed, his claws catch on the edge as he undershoots the distance and has to scrabble on the rest of the way. Looking over the edge, he sees a few marks left in the wood, and his chest puffs up a bit. Good, serves you right.

Outside the window is that same view he was greeted with on arrival. Wildflowers fill the field, waving in unison as each breeze wafts over. His eyes follow the patterns as he lowers himself and tucks his limbs in, then his tail around himself. You said he’d be comfortable, happy, safe. He’s heard it often enough, but when was the last time he felt it?

Mildly disgruntled, he realizes he’s feeling it now. 

He’s not sure how long he looks out the window, feeling the sun warm his fur as it moves across the sky. But his ears twitch, your footsteps returning, and he doesn’t have time to get up before you enter the room and coo, “Oh, you’re loafed up. How adorable!”

You clasp your hands around something, then tuck your hands beneath your chin at the sight of him looking so comfortable in the window. You don’t miss the scratches left from his journey up there, but you don’t really mind. It’s not like he did it on purpose, and it’s an easy fix. 

Wary eyes watch as you approach and kneel at the window to be on an even level with him. With a little smile, you reassure him once more, “I made you something. If you really don’t like it, you don’t have to wear it, but you really do remind me of him, so…”

You set the little object down in front of him. A bright red cord of expert make, looped into a necklace and tied with a red bow around a little white puff ball. And on the end a golden ornament lacking the depth of detail of the original, but still a good enough mimicry that you feel proud of it. The kitten stares and stares, almost as if his eyes are unseeing. Patiently, you wait, considering he hasn’t batted it away like you initially expected. 

And then, one of those soft white paws untuck from beneath his body to reach out and paw at it, tugging it closer. A quiet acceptance that’s solidified by how he doesn’t fight you when you carefully settle it over his head and around his neck, ensuring it isn’t too loose or too tight. “There, you could get it back off if you wanted, but…”

And then, with a little laugh, you fold your arms on the window ledge and prop your chin on them to look at him with a pleased smile, one that’s absolutely fond. “Anyway, don’t let him see you wearing that. He’d probably blow a blood vessel seeing you wearing it and having that name. Ugh, he’d probably think I want to keep him as a pet.”

The kitten looks at you unamused, one paw still resting out, claws starting to flex in a quiet warning. All you can do is grin, scrunching your nose at him, “And then I’d have to explain that I did it because I’m already fond of him. Is that weird? I’ve known of him for a long time, and we’ve been enemies for almost the entirety of it. One soul-searching journey and now I’m fond? I must be crazy.”

The kitten nods. A delighted laugh leaves you and you reach with one hand toward him, your cheek resting on your other arm. To your surprise, he doesn’t bat you away as your fingers start to scratch beneath his ear, but he doesn’t seem entirely pleased, either. 

“I think it’s been a long, long time since anyone was fond of Wanderer. After all he’s been through, don’t you think he deserves a little softness, now?”

The kitten doesn’t say anything, but if you hold your breath and stay very still, you swear you can hear a quiet little rumbling coming from him as his eyes start to droop closed. 

#scaramouche #wanderer #genshin impact #genshin #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #reader insert #reader-insert #x reader #f!reader #female reader #afab!reader #scarameow #mdni #nsft

[jo-harrington]

Hell - Vampire!Eddie Munson

Summary: Vecna, weak and wounded after the events of March 27th 1986, seeks to enact revenge on those who foiled his plans. And his key to such revenge? A boy left behind, barely clinging to life.

Warnings/Themes: Angst, Violence, Kas!Eddie/Vamp!Eddie, Vecna Lives, Body Horror, Blood, Physical and Psychological Torture, Manipulation, Brainwashing, Necromancy, Loss of Soul, Transformation, Major Character Death and Rebirth, Other Biblical and Literary References

Note: So…welcome to my take on Vampire/Kas!Eddie. This fic, entitled Hell, can be read as a stand-alone, but is essentially going to be one of three companion prequels to a Vamp!Eddie AU fic I have in the works. I want to finish FF and get a few more chapters of Store Manager Verse published before I really start working on this idea…but with tomorrow being the “anniversary” of Eddie Munson’s “death” in the Upside Down, it only seems poetic to explore this first.

That being said, this fic and the subsequent fics/chapters in the series will not be for the faint of heart. Please check the above warnings and ask yourself if you are in the correct headspace to proceed. I am happy to answer any questions via PM or Ask.

You can find the As Above, So Below masterlist here.

Please do not interact if you are not 18+.

Enjoy!

"And I looked, and beheld a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him."

—Revelation 6:8

In the beginning, there was pain.

Enough pain that it should have been The End.

Eddie believed the pain meant The End.

But he had never been so lucky to experience the end of any suffering before, so he should have known better.

He couldn't recall the moment Dustin's hands were wrenched away from his body, leaving him floating in the darkness. Or the way his body felt before the teeth ripped into him. Or the act of kindness that led him to this horrible punishment.

The road to Hell was paved with good intentions. It vaguely echoed in the back of his mind, taunting him.

And in some way, Eddie Munson always knew he was going to Hell.

Just not like this.

First it seized his body and paralyzed him, as acrid tendrils poisoned his veins and his heart and his mind; he briefly recalled reading about Komodo Dragons in 5th grade. The way they ripped into their prey and let the venom work slowly and painfully to overtake them before the feast could begin.

He would not be a feast for the creatures of this realm but for their Master. Repentance for their failed tasks. They would not feed again until he did, wouldn't taste power until his was regained.

And feed is exactly what Vecna did.

The tendrils carded through Eddie's memories and poisoned them: his hopes and fears, everything and everyone he loved and held dear. His joy and indifference and hatred.

They decimated everything good; ripped them up from the roots and salted the ground below them, only leaving unrecognizable scraps behind. Then they latched onto the bad with no intention of ever letting go. Suckled on his sorrow and his hatred gluttonously.

Vecna especially liked to graze on the pain though; those morsels were most succulent and came in abundance. It was never enough, though; in the howling silence, even more pain was willed into existence.

You are alone. They are at fault. They tricked you. Sacrificed you.

Eddie never had a reason to let the pain weigh on his heart before, but his tormentor would see that rectified. He would break him down...

They left you behind. Left you to this fate. Left you to me. To do with you what I please.

...Until he no longer felt anymore.

And do to you I shall...

After eternity had passed, Eddie's body was unceremoniously dragged across the barren, uneven earth of the Upside Down. He watched the chilling, sizzling, flashing of the unfamiliar sky as he was transported for miles and miles, ad infinitum.

Until a threshold was crossed, and he entered the next circle of unending torture.

His carcass was rent into unnatural shapes, bones cracked, the marrow scraped out. Skin was flayed, flesh split open, until his barely-beating heart was on display and blood splashed weakly onto the over-saturated ground.

His eyes though...remained.

For some reason, Vecna wanted him to see.

The eyes are the windows to the soul, after all.

So he let Eddie stare at the rest of his collection—an unfinished one, but an impressive one nonetheless. He let Eddie stare at the looming pillars; at the empty sockets and gaping maws. At twisted husks that would never truly be filled again.

Because he wanted Eddie to choose to lose his soul. Wanted him to sell it. To trade it for salvation, lest he end up like the others.

It was almost disappointing at how short a time it took...

It was only a day—a day of staring at Chrissy and Fred and Patrick—before he wailed so wildly and begged so loudly that his jaw unhinged and every part of him truly became broken.

And at that moment, everything Eddie Munson was or had been or could ever hope to be no longer belonged to him. He was ripped apart both literally and figuratively. Whatever damage the bats had instinct to cause, it was but a mere drop in the sea of carnage that their Master endeavored to create.

He could sense the creatures around him, sense their anticipation to frenzy. Whether that was to fight or to feed, only time would tell.

They had worked tirelessly to stitch him back together. Followed their Master's instructions. Some were sacrificed to the cause: their bodies freely given, because their minds would remain.

Part of the greater whole.

He would never be considered whole anymore, but he was possible more than whole; the extra pieces sustained what would have perished due to the crucial part of him that was missing.

"Rise," a groaning, creaking voice sounded and all went silent. As all the creatures of the Upside Down witnessed the completion of a wicked metamorphosis.

The product of their collective toil began to writhe and twitch as it was reborn.

Resurrected.

"Rise," Henry repeated, "and become what you were always meant to be."

And in a realm full of monsters, the thing that rose was truly monstrous.

Leathery wings. Rows of teeth, too many to fit so they left his jaw unnaturally wide. Talons that could rip. Eyes that could cut through any sort of darkness.

He wouldn't bow. His Master remade him so he would never bow. But he still knew his place.

This gift he was given could easily be taken away. He wouldn't squander it.

He made a vow. A promise.

He would serve.

But he made a promise before, he recalled.

A promise not to be a hero.

And as a consequence of breaking that promise, he could never be one again.

Eddie always knew he was going to Hell.

He simply never thought he would become the Prince of it.

“You are privy to a great Becoming and you recognize nothing. You are an ant in the after-birth. It is in your nature to do one thing correctly: before Me you rightly tremble. Fear is not what you owe Me[.] You owe Me awe.”

—Thomas Harris, Red Dragon (1980)

#Eddie munson imagine #Eddie munson angst #Eddie munson horror #Eddie munson stranger things #vampire!eddie #kas!eddie #stranger things fic #As Above So Below

[ups3tti]

Hi yeah sorry me again with more DOTD thoughts, it still makes me lose my mind sometimes I know this is probably all in my head just because I think about these two characters a concerning amount but it always interested me how Cole paralleled/contrasted Morro on a scaled-down level. I can't get this out of my brain in a way that makes total sense but bare with me here. I just can't get over the going-it-alone-out-of-anger/desperation-and-the-terrible-consequences-that-followed. He goes after Yang out of anger and desperation and unleashes the souls of departed enemies (accidentally) on his friends. He fought through all of Yangs students on his own to reach Yang himself in a confrontation surrounding an interdimensional rift, and we get yet another scene of a Sensei trying to talk sense into a student except this time Yang is the one forcing Cole to let go and not the other way around, sending Cole back to life instead of to another death. After everything is said and done he has a bright green scar/rift on the left side of his face which always reminded me of Morro's bright green hairstreak on the right of his. The visual parallel is less important to me but still neat yk. Also one being sent high into the air and one being sent deep into the sea, floating temple vs. underwater tomb, yeah. You don't have to tell me that I'm overanalyzing this and looking for connections that probably don't exist because I know I am, but I still lose it everytime. Cole only survived because Morro was able to remind his friends and Sensei that he even existed and it sent them to go find him and give him the strength he needed to keep going. It just makes me think about how Morro could've turned out in different circumstances constantly. Like, what if he had sources of worth and love that weren't tied to the idea that he was the green ninja. What if he had friends to keep him grounded like Kai or family to worry about or an identity of his own before ever being introduced to the idea of the green ninja like everyone else did. God day of the departed should've been so much longer I wanted SO MUCH MORE out of it ALSO also would've loved to see Cole and Morro actually interact. In my head they're such a duo and I care about them greatly I'm also definitely not insane over Wind and Earth and their twin connection to death and also destiny and legacy. Definitely not. Topic for another time I've rambled too long

#sketti rambles #morro ninjago #cole ninjago #ninjago #ninjago dotd #ninjago day of the departed #sorry yall. when i remembered i could actually post my thoughts on tumblr i started becoming more insufferable

[missmaywemeetagain]

Pink Scarf - PART 8! (Elvis/Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: kinda

(Read more here--Pink Scarf Series Masterlist!)

Prompt: You are part of Elvis Presley's coveted inner circle, and the currently-disgruntled wife of one of the members of Elvis' famous entourage, the Memphis Mafia. After Elvis' dynamite first performance in Vegas, you find yourself in deep water when his magnetism finally gets to you after all these years.  [ Fem!Reader ]

TW: Mentions of sex. Nudity. Cussing. Infidelity. Historical inaccuracies in the Vegas timeline. Priscilla doesn't exist in this timeline.  

Rating: PG-13 (ish?) (but other parts are very NSFW, 18+, so minors Do NOT Interact)        ||     Word Count: 4994

A/N: Our Reader is feeling it, y'all! I am, too! Getting into the right headspace for this part was tricky for whatever reason, and it's a bit long, so thanks for your patience. I wanted to get a bit more backstory in there, so hopefully the flashback scene works well. And a little Young!Elvis doesn't hurt anyone, right? I also couldn't help myself and HAD to include the detail about his stutter because I just keep finding all these deliciously real and human parts of him that make him such a rich, full person/character, so forgive me my indulgence!

To all the babies, honeys, and lil' mamas supporting me out there, your reactions, reblogs, messages, asks, and comments mean the absolute WORLD to me. Finding out that some of y'all are liking it enough to be reading it MULTIPLE times blows my freakin' mind. Like whaat?! This story (and EP) has taken over my heart and soul, so for those of you still with me, and to all the newcomers, I'm sending you all the love! And I promise there's more good stuff coming ahead, complete with more smut, angst, and tension.

I did start cross-posting Pink Scarf to my long-neglected AO3 account (which some of you already discovered!), so if you are so inclined, you can check it out over there, though it's not all updated yet!

If you feel so moved, please let me know what you think or how you're feeling (or send me asks since now I know how they work lol)! I put everyone on the taglist who requested it, but please let me know if there are any issues.

I imagined this with Elvis in mind, but Austin!Elvis works here, too, whatever floats your boat! 

Apologies in advance if there are any grammatical errors or TW that I didn't catch. 

1957

“So, I hear you’re gonna make an honest man out of our Jacky Boy.”

You look up from your seated spot on the cool grass, Elvis’ tall frame lording over you in the dark of this humid midsummer night and you smile.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that,” you blush happily, playing with the small, simple diamond that now adorns the ring finger of your left hand. It’s not much, but it’s yours. You can barely stop staring at it, you are so excited.

Elvis folds himself down next to you on the lawn, his long limbs a little less lanky than they used to be. A couple of years of being well-fed after a lifetime of poverty has done him well. He looks good, albeit tired. Hollywood and fame have certainly made him more beautiful, his resting face now always looking like it’s ready for a close-up, but the lightness that used to surround him is a little heavier, a little darker now, like he has the world resting on his shoulders.

He turns his head to really look at you, taking you in. It’s a look that might’ve made you self-conscious at any other time, but it’s dark and you’re too distracted by your engagement ring to really notice. “You happy, doll?” he asks, but answers it himself, “You look happy.”

You can’t stop smiling. “Yes, I’m most certainly happy,” you reassure him.

“Good,” he nods as if this has satisfied him in some way. Then he leans back, laying down in the grass, and stares up at the stars. That look comes over him again, the heavy one. It worries you a little. He’s been gone so much lately, and things have been moving so quickly for him, you’ve barely had a moment to talk in what feels like forever.

“How ‘bout you, E, are you happy?” you ask quietly, looking down at him.

He is silent at first, and you almost don’t catch the sigh he lets out before speaking, “I ain’t got nothing to be unhappy about, baby. All my dreams are coming true.” He says it almost as though he’s trying to convince himself of it. He doesn’t look at you, instead focusing all his attention on the sky.

“You didn’t really answer the question,” you say gently.

He finally looks over at you, those big blue eyes of his exhausted, rimmed with dark circles. “It’s all been moving so fast, I barely got time to catch my breath. I’m constantly around people, but sometimes I feel so lonely, y/n…and Hollywood ain’t all it’s cracked up to b-be,” he says quickly, but in a whisper, as though he’s terrified to be overheard.

You open your mouth to speak, but he rushes to continue: “And I don’t w-w-wanna seem ungrateful or nothin’ b-b-b-because I-I-I am gettin’ to do what I love to do and I’m supportin’ my family and it makes lots of folks happy, and God’s b-b-blessed me with that…b-b-but so many people hate me, makin’ it their mission to misunderstand me and they don’t even know me.” He takes a deep shuddering breath, frustrated and trying to get the words out.

You know he’s emotional and tired because his stutter keeps getting in his way as he tries to speak. Most people don’t even know he has one because it doesn’t happen when he sings, and he sure as hell doesn’t let it stop him from doing what he wants to do, but you’ve heard it pop up now and again in conversation over the years, usually with nerves or when he’s “excited,” as he calls it. He told you how he thought he’d blown his initial screen test in Hollywood because of it, because he was so nervous that he couldn’t get the words to come out like he needed them to. Luckily, he said the director liked it and even said it made his acting seem more genuine. You find it endearing because it’s a very real part of him and his humanity, which you think is something much needed when the world is striving to make him a commodity. It still makes him a little self-conscious, though, so you don’t rush him or react, you just wait for him to continue.

 “Sometimes I-I feel like I’m b-b-being pulled in a dozen different directions, all at o-once. I-I-I constantly feel like I’m tryin’ to prove myself. Sometimes it just gets to me, is all. So, to answer your question, yes, I am happy, but it sure comes with a price,” he pauses. “I’m sorry, I-I shouldn’t’ve unloaded on you like that, today of all days,” he says, eyes now downcast and concerned.

“Don’t you feel sorry. I asked, and I’m glad you answered me truthfully. Seems like you needed to get that off your chest,” you say kindly, with a small smile. You hate to see him so weighed down. But you are pleased and surprised by him being so vulnerable with you. It makes you feel like you’ve got your friend back.

“You won’t go tellin’ no one, will ‘ya? Not even Jack,” he pleads, looking at you wide-eyed.

“Of course not, Elvis. I swear it,” you say seriously. You wouldn’t dream of betraying his trust.

He nods, relieved, and looks back up at the stars.

“I’m real proud of you, E, all of us are. It takes a special person to do what you do with the grace you do it with. God knows I couldn’t do it,” you say, suddenly feeling a little shy.

Elvis looks at you with surprise. “Thanks, y/n, that means a lot comin’ from you,” he says and the way his pretty eyes search your face sends a strange feeling through your body.

You don’t know what to say to that, so silence sits heavy, but not uncomfortably, between you.

Playing with your engagement ring, knees pulled into your chest, you look into the night sky.

“How’d ya know? That Jack’s the one?” he suddenly asks, out of nowhere.

The question both surprises and delights you. “Hmmm, well, let’s see,” you ponder. “He’s there when I need him. He makes me feel special, like the only girl in the world. I know he’ll always take care of me. He is mine and I am his. Sometimes I almost feel like we were made for each other, ya’ know, like we were meant to be,” you rattle off. “That may seem silly and saccharine and hopelessly romantic, but it’s true. So, I suppose that’s how I know I love him and want to spend the rest of my life with him,” you say, a giddy excitement running through you.

Elvis is quiet, his face unreadable. You’re not sure why, but you feel like you’ve said something to upset him.

“Why? You got a special girl or three, Mr. Presley?” you ask, in a faux-reporter voice, holding a pretend mic to his mouth to try and lighten the mood.

“Ha!” he scoffs with a laugh and a roll of his eyes.

“Oh, it must be so hard for you, to have thousands of beautiful girls to choose from, all clamoring for a piece of you,” you tease. You know he is dating quite a bit because he brings some of them home, whether from Hollywood or somewhere on the road. He always seems to be falling hard and fast for a new girl, but they never seem to last.

“No, there’s no one special I’m datin’,” he says, sitting up, intently playing with a blade of grass. “I mean, I’m seein’ lots of nice girls, great girls, even. It’s just…none of them’s the one.”

You are a little taken aback by his honest answer. “Well, you can’t force it, E. You’ll know when it’s right,” you say, patting his hand.

Elvis looks down sharply at your hand on his, almost like it’s burned him. “Yeah, I reckon I will,” he says, looking back up at you, his face unreadable once more. He’s gotten too good at that in Hollywood, you think, shutting the vulnerable parts of himself off from an untrustworthy world.

For the second time this night, silence hangs over you. This time it feels charged, but by what you do not know. You can’t figure out what’s going on with him.

“You gettin’ enough sleep, E?” His moodiness has always been worse when he’s tired.

“Oh, you know me, doll. I was barely sleeping before all this and now I sleep even less,” he replies. “There’s too much to do and I got all this-this crazy energy, ya know?” He wiggles his limbs, exaggerating. You can’t help but laugh.

But your laughter dies out quickly. “Seriously, Elvis, promise me you’ll at least try to get some rest while you’re home. It worries me to think you’re running yourself ragged.”

He nods but doesn’t say anything, as if he doesn’t want to make a promise he can’t keep. Instead, he abruptly changes the subject.

“C-c-congratulations, y/n. Jack’s a lucky guy and I-I’m glad you’re happy. You—you both—deserve all the happiness,” Elvis says, his gaze kind but guarded. Then, unexpectedly, he leans over and presses his lips softly to your cheek. They are warm and plush against your skin, lingering there for just a moment too long. Your breath catches and you can feel heat blossom through your body and into your cheeks in a way that surprises you.

Then, just like that, he pulls away, getting up and brushing himself off, like nothing happened. He holds his hand out to you to help you up off the ground. “We should get back,” he says.

You blink rapidly, trying to process the last few moments. You are glad the darkness hides the red on your cheeks. Elvis seems unaffected, so you take his hand and let him help you up. You chalk whatever strangeness that has happened up to Elvis being exhausted, pushing whatever silly, fleeting thoughts you have far, far away.

*

The long-buried memory hits you hard as you stand at the door to Elvis’ bedroom, poised to knock. You’ve spent all night in anticipation of this moment, excited and nervous about whatever comes next, but this memory shakes you, knocking something loose in your brain. Something you had forgotten until just now.

You are trying to grasp it, the thing that is niggling at the corners of your mind, but before you can lock on to whatever it is, the door swings open, startling you. You didn’t remember knocking—it’s like Elvis just knew you were there.

And immediately everything else is forgotten because the tantalizing smell of him wafts over you, and your heart starts to pitter patter in your chest because he’s just so beautiful, and the brilliance of his light blue, dark-rimmed eyes nearly knocks you over.

Elvis pulls you in to the room quickly, trying to avoid any possible prying eyes, shutting the door quietly. The light is much dimmer in here and it’s silent, save for the sound of your breathing. He is so, so close, his eyes travelling over your body approvingly. His eyes ignite flames within you wherever they linger.

“I knew you’d be a showstopper in this, baby. And the tan is a nice touch,” he says, smiling coyly, running a finger down your bare arm, sending a shiver down your spine.

Words get lost in your throat because all you know is that you need him. So instead of words, you grasp his face and kiss him as if your life depends on it. You sense his surprise at your boldness in the way he tenses at first, but it takes only a second before his arms wrap around you, and those soft, pliant lips open to yours.

But the butterflies happening in your stomach now are different than the heat you’ve experienced when kissing him before and that surprises you. Scares you, even, because the heat and the sex make a certain kind of sense. It’s biological, you think, natural to be drawn to him. Everyone is drawn to him. What you’ve already shared physically, what he is teaching you about pleasure, is addicting—you want more. Of course, you do. But what’s happening to you now is more than that, as much as you want to push it away and deny it.

You pull back from him slowly, his lips chasing yours with another gentle kiss. Your eyes raise, meeting the endless blue of his, and you are caught there, drowning, as you try to understand the man he is now. You can’t help but think that these are the same eyes that looked upon you on the lawn of Graceland so many years ago. Reconciling that Elvis with this Elvis feels so utterly strange. So much life has happened between then and now, yet under it all, you can still see that sensitive young man, striving and eager for everything life has to offer.

“Well, hello to you, too, honey,” he says softly, searching your face, trying to gauge what is going on with you.

“Hi,” you breathe out, “I missed you.” It just falls out of your mouth, a truth you aren’t sure you should reveal, but it’s too late now. It feels silly—you saw him less than 24 hours ago, but it feels like a lifetime.

This pleases him, his mouth turning up in a small smile. “I missed you, too,” he replies, giving you another soft kiss.

This invokes your own smile, a shy one. Your stomach continues to flutter like a schoolgirl’s.

He pulls you into the room, your hand small in his, the Vegas skyline bright outside the huge windows. To think, just a few nights ago, you stood in this very spot, furious and ripping him a new one for ruining your life. Feels like a million years ago now.

Elvis is barefoot, wearing a set of satiny deep blue pajamas, which somehow, even though they are sleepwear, still flatter him. You suddenly feel quite overdressed. You’re not sure what he has in store for you because his countenance doesn’t quite match the sexual fire from when he dominated you on the couch and sent you to the stars last night, but he is somehow no less intense.

His fingers brush through the pink fringe of your top, feathering over the bare skin of your back as he moves around you to a box on top of the piano. Curious, you move with him, stopping as he lifts out a slip of a nightgown that matches his pajamas exactly. Your eyebrow quirks.

Setting it back down, he glides towards you, wrapping his arms around your back. “Let’s get you more comfortable,” he says, unzipping your top slowly, removing it, throwing it to the side. You shiver under his gaze, exposed in the lacy petal pink bra he bought you. He looks delighted that you are wearing it, though his gaze is still light and controlled, even though he is undressing you.

“Shoes,” he tuts, and you slip out of your heels, kicking them to the side. Your eagerness builds, the fluttering in your stomach wild and catching fire, but you let him guide you, as he seems wont to do.

He reaches around and unzips your skirt, pulling it gently over your hips and it falls in a heap at your feet. He hums and looks over you approvingly in your matching underwear, and the look alone has you weak in the knees. It’s criminal how handsome he is and what it does to you. Based on your previous encounters, you half expect him to take you right there, but he makes no move to do so. Your breath is shallow, your body on alert, waiting on pins and needles.

Next, moves in close, his fingers brushing up your spine. A shudder courses through you. He unhooks your bra, sliding it off you and placing it on top of the piano. You think for sure he will now devour you, but he waits.

“Fuckin’ gorgeous,” Elvis whispers, taking in your figure and you suddenly feel shy under his adoring gaze. You resist the urge to cover yourself, your nipples standing at attention in the cool air. He doesn’t touch you (you desperately want him to), though you can see by the smoldering in his eyes he wants to, too. Instead, he hands you the nightie. “Put it on,” he requests, and while you are confused, you do as he asks. The expensive, silky softness drapes over you, hanging perfectly off your frame.

Nodding as though some requirement that is unknown to you has been fulfilled, he pulls you into him, kissing your forehead. His embrace is warm and comforting against the cold of the air conditioning and you wind your arms around his neck, fingers weaving into his fine hair. While there is heat growing in your belly for him, it is like glowing embers rather than an engulfing flame.

This feels different. And then you realize, it all feels so domestic.

The thought is jarring, yet not unwanted. You had assumed (rightly so) that he wanted you here so you could fuck all night long. But this, this is a decidedly different vibe to your uninterrupted night together. And while you are a bit confused and surprised by it, you are curious.

“Elvis,” you say quietly, without expectation, “what is this?”

A boyish grin spreads across his face, reminding you of the memory that blindsided you before, the one you still need to dissect. “I want all of you, not just a part of you,” he says, nuzzling your nose with his. It sends tingles down your arms. You’re not quite sure exactly what it means, but you get the gist that he wants more than sex from you and that is surprising.

Is it, though?

He pulls you up and onto the huge bed with him. You lean back against the pillows, the ornate headboard, and he turns to you, brushing flyaway hairs off your face. His crystalline eyes have an openness you haven’t seen in a long time, as though all the glitz and glamour of “Elvis” is stripped away and it’s truly just the man here in front of you.

“How was your day?” he asks.

It’s such a simple question, yet the fact that he asks it of you almost has you in tears. Perhaps it’s because until this moment you haven’t realized that it feels like no one has asked you that, or truly cared to, in a very long time. And the fact that it is coming from him, of all people, makes your heart simultaneously break and leap at the same time.

You clear your throat, pushing the emotion away. “I…uh, well, I went to the pool with Sandy. Hence the tan. She happened to be in the room when your gift arrived, though, so that was interesting to try and explain,” you say.

“And what did you tell her?” he asks, resting his head on his hand, looking up at you with puppy dog eyes. You are distracted by them and almost forget what he asked.

“Um, I basically told her I couldn’t tell her anything. How could I? I mean, we haven’t really talked about…” you motion between you two, “us, this. I couldn’t very well talk to her about it before I talked to you.”

He smiles that crooked smile of his, the one that melts your heart. “And how did she take that?”

“Oh, she was disappointed but didn’t pry. As soon as she saw the underwear, though, she’s made it her mission to figure out who the mystery man is. She’s been my shadow all night. It’s gonna be hard to keep this from her for very long,” you say dismally.

He laughs. “You can tell her, honey,” he says.

This floors you. “What? But aren’t you afraid…I mean...?” you worry.

Elvis puts his hand on your cheek. “Baby, I wanna keep seein’ you, and I think you wanna keep seein’ me.” The way he says it sends warmth radiating through your chest. But that warmth is quickly chased by cold, pragmatic fear.

He continues, “And I know she’s your best friend and y’need someone y’can talk to. Jerry knows already, anyway. I’ll make sure she knows to be discreet.”

Your mouth opens then closes. To say you are flabbergasted by this response doesn’t quite describe what you are feeling. It’s a mixture of relief, surprise, elation, confusion, and terror, and what seems like a hundred other things, all at once.

If Sandy knows, it makes this all real. Too real. This was only supposed to be a one-time thing. A way to stick it to Jack. A way to take some power back. A way to quell the unbridled sexual tension that had grown between you and Elvis.

But now you feel wildly out of control. Mind-blowing sex with the ethereal man in front of you has morphed so quickly into a passion you didn’t expect that you feel like the air has been knocked from your lungs. The more you think about it and the more you remember, no matter how much you are shoving it away, you know that this was never going to be a one-time thing for Elvis. He knew it, too. The fact that you are here right now, like this, is proof. And you are not sure if that makes you elated or angry. Maybe it’s both.

This is too dangerous. Go back to Memphis and forget this ever happened.

Maybe that would have worked two nights ago, but the thought of leaving him now fills you with more despair than the anxiety of staying.

What happens if this all blows up in our faces? Because you think it will. You can feel the pressure building even now, though you aren’t sure to what end.

Elvis seems so utterly calm, so sure. You don’t know if this is because he lives in a world so above everyone that everything seems possible, like a strange naivety, or if he is just an optimist, but either way, you don’t know how to respond. You know you have to say something, though, because of the way he is looking at you, his eyes expectant and watchful.

“How? How are we gonna keep seeing each other, E? I go home tomorrow. And what about Jack?” you say in a whisper, all your emotions caving in on you at once. Tears spring to your eyes, which is not at all what you want or expect, and you are mad at yourself for ruining the mood.

“Hey, hey now, darlin’,” Elvis says with concern, sitting up and taking your face in his hands. “Don’t cry, baby, don’t cry. I got it all figured out. I’ll take care of you, honey,” he reassures you. He kisses your tears as they fall down your cheeks, his lips soft and warm.

Then, unexpectedly, he leans over and presses his lips softly to your cheek. They are warm and plush against your skin, lingering there for just a moment too long.

The memory flashes back to you, startling you as the past and present meld together.

He kissed you then much like he’s kissing you now. You pull back and look at him with wide eyes.

“Baby, y’look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours?” he asks, eyes searching your face.

So many seeds have taken root, blossoming in your mind. (Or maybe they’ve always been fully bloomed, and I just never saw them.) You shake your head. Your heart is beating too fast. This isn’t the time to dive into this.

But when? you wonder.

How long has he…?

No, absolutely not. You won’t let yourself go there, you can’t, not now, not when he’s looking at you like this.

“I’m sorry, E, I just got caught off guard and got overwhelmed,” you finally respond, wiping your cheeks. “You—you said you have it all figured out?”

Throwing it back to him is the right call because now he’s excited. “You’re stayin’ in Vegas, honey.” He says it so matter-of-factly that you want to believe him, but you don’t understand.

Your heart drops into your stomach, as if you are plummeting down a roller coaster, the feeling where fear and excitement meet. “Elvis, you’re not making any sense. If I stay in Vegas, Jack is gonna want to know why, and I certainly can’t say I’m here for you. And I’m pretty sure Jack doesn’t particularly want me here, anyways,” you say with distain.

“Jack’s got his fuckin’ head wedged so far up his ass, he can’t see straight,” Elvis says, blatantly annoyed. “Don’t you worry ‘bout him.”

Don’t worry about him? He’s my husband! You almost say it, then think better of it, not wanting to get into that right now. Plus, you are curious as to this solution Elvis has miraculously come up with.

“Baby, remember the other night when you’s was tellin’ me you’re unhappy, that you don’t know where you belong, what your purpose is?” he says, practically bouncing.

You nod. How could you forget? That’s what started this all in the first place.

“Well, I figured it out. You belong here, with me, with us,” he says, beaming, taking your hand in both of his. You can feel him vibrating with energy.

“Wait, what…? Us? Who’s us?” you say, utterly confused.

“Us, the show. We’ve been talkin’ about needin’ someone to sing the high voice parts, along with the Sweet Inspirations. And it just came to me, after you were singin’ in the shower. It’s you. Of course, it’s you. Now you have a reason to stay. We get to be together, and the show will have a new member. It’s perfect.” His excitement is palpable, he’s nearly glowing with it.

Oh, this man is outta his goddamned mind. You shake your head, shock and fear like ice in your veins. “Elvis, do you not remember me telling you how terrified I am of singing in front of people? I could barely sing in front of you without having a meltdown!” you practically shriek, dousing his elation.

“Hey, there’ll be none of that!” Elvis raises his voice at you, eyes darkening. It’s not a yell, but it’s stern as hell, and you realize that Elvis probably doesn’t like having his “good idea” shot down before it’s barely out of his mouth. His change in demeanor shakes you enough to calm down a little. You know him well enough to know his mood can change on a dime, and you don’t think you can handle that on top of your own panic right now. You force yourself to take a long, deep breath.

“I’m not sayin’ you’re gettin’ up on stage with me tomorrow, honey, but I am sayin’ that maybe you need a little trainin’ to prepare you for the possibility that it could happen. And that trainin’ needs to happen here, in Vegas, with a vocal coach I already got comin’ in,” he explains more gently.

You are starting to understand what he’s getting at, and your fear abates a little. He’s not saying you’re joining the band (yet), but if you are training for it, whether it happens or not, you have a reason to stay.

“Now, I know you love music, baby, I know it in my bones cuz I see it in you, always have, plain as day. Maybe this is that purpose you’ve been lookin’ for. It’s kismet, I’m tellin’ you, honey, all this happenin’, here at once. You and me. Us needin’ another singer. Even Jack bein’ a dipshit. Can’t you see, baby? It’s meant to be,” he says fervently, holding onto your shoulders, his eyes wild with passion. He’s so enthusiastic, it’s hard to not be swept up with him.

It's meant to be…

You nod, letting him pull you along down this road. You do love music. You have been searching for something, a purpose. And you’d get to be here with him, not thousands of miles away, being sad and lonely in Memphis. What do you have to lose?

A lot, a voice counters. This is a bad idea.

You quash that voice, wanting to believe in this as much as Elvis does. As scared as you are of how out of control he makes you feel, how your feelings for him (and his for you) terrify you, you know that the stifling sadness of your old routine is slowly draining the life out of you.

If nothing else, Elvis makes you feel alive.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Elvis beams. “Really? Okay?” he asks.

“Okay, I’ll try it. I’ll work with your coach. But I can’t promise I’ll be any good or even be able to get up there,” you add pointedly.

You have to give him credit, though, because the more you think about it, the more genius the idea becomes. It could actually work in terms of your relationship, whatever it may be. But more importantly, the thought of doing something with music, something outside yourself, is enticing.

“That’s okay, we’ll just take it one step atta time,” he says, ecstatic. He grabs your cheeks and kisses you. “I just want you to be happy, baby. I wanna make you happy.”

God, he says it with such fervor, such sincerity, that you can’t help but be enveloped in it with him. The fact that anyone out there has your happiness at the forefront of their mind is amazing to you, much less it being Elvis Presley. And he seems to believe in you in a way you haven’t even believed in yourself in a very long time.

And that does make you happy.

Even if it scares the hell out of you.

**

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[scuttlingcrab]

Mortals 

The Curse of Lady Luck

Summary: Raphael calls upon his old friend, a priest, who he reluctantly made a deal with many years ago.

Notes: This is the first part in a collection of short stories I'm writing about Raphael; various mortals who have impacted him someway or another throughout his existence, loosely tying into the main plot of Baldur's Gate 3.

Seren lay on his deathbed, he knew that much was for certain. His lips were cracked and his tongue stuck to the bottom of his mouth as he cried out in thirst.

His gaunt body barely made an indent on the straw mattress and his bony hands were growing unfamiliar. As of late, whenever he opened his eyes, it was as if he was looking through a thick coating of evening fog. 

Seren could just about recognise the silhouette of a small statue of Tymora, his deity, on the bedside table. When his sickness grew worse, the watchful apathetic eyes of Tymora taunted him. What he had placed there initially for comfort grew into a deep loathing. 

He floated in and out of consciousness, stumbling into a dream. He allowed himself to get lost in a memory from his youth; running through the thick forests, chasing after his sister, he could just about hear the faint sounds of his mother calling out to him… when he suddenly awoke, his nostrils filling with an all too familiar scent of sulphur. 

Seren scrunched his nose as he inhaled, letting out a wheezing cough. Somehow the air around him was thicker, wearing heavy on his chest. 

“Seren.” 

A smokey, deep voice spoke from somewhere in front of him. Seren opened his eyes, but could not see where it was coming from. 

“Raphael, old friend,” Seren responded, through a whisper. “I’ve been waiting for you...” 

Seren soon found himself fading into another memory. 

––

When Seren first met Raphael, he had just joined the clergy of Lady Luck. He was fresh faced and naive, thinking that with the power of Tymora guiding him, he could save anyone, conquer anything. 

On a cold autumn morning, mere days after Seren was ordained; he came across a distraught woman standing on a bridge in the outskirts of town, teetering back and forth. The woman was barefoot and only wearing a thin nightgown. Her hair was matted, like tangled vines planted against her head. She was muttering to herself, staring into the rushing water below her, as if possessed. 

Seren held his breath as he slowly approached the woman, readying his hands for a spell if the situation called for one.

“Whatever you are thinking, that is not necessary…” Seren quietly called out to her. 

The woman turned to look in the direction of Seren’s voice, nearly losing her balance on the slippery stones. Her eyes were impossibly wide and wild, darting around her to find the source of the disturbance. When she saw Seren, donned in his pristine clerical robes, her face shifted as if a mirage. She jumped into his arms, nearly knocking him off his feet. 

Seren let out a relieved sigh, his heart felt like it was about to fly out of his chest. How foolish he was that day, thinking it was merely Tymora’s luck that brought him to that bridge. 

“Oh hells. I pleaded for so long… I didn’t think anyone would answer me. M-my family… my home was attacked, they’re… all dead.” Ketta pulled away from Seren, covering her face in shame as she wept.

“You are not alone, no matter how deep your grief is. I am from the Church of Tymora, we have a place for everyone there.”

Seren hesitated, placing a hand on her shoulder. She turned to him, and fell back into his arms, her limbs practically shards of ice in his hands.

“What is your name?” Seren asked.

“Ketta,” she responded through chattering teeth. 

“Ketta, do you reside far from here?”

She shook her head. 

“The inn, just up the road.” 

Seren knew the temple was at least a thousand paces from the bridge, and she was in no condition to travel there.

“Please allow me to accompany you back.”

Ketta nodded. 

The sun was just starting to peak over the horizon, soft golden rays leading the way to the inn. The sound of dirt crunching under their feet and the chorus of early bird songs kept them company until they finally reached the lodging. 

The tavern was still dark when they entered, the sun fighting to come in from the closed shutters. A broad shouldered barmaid was busy cleaning up tables, her wooden tray stacked high with empty glasses. She acknowledged Seren with a rough nod as he entered, and curiously eyed Ketta. A few drunk patrons, still asleep at some of the crooked tables, snored loudly.

Ketta directed Seren up the stairs to her room, situated at the very back of the inn. Once inside, Ketta collapsed on her bed, hugging a pillow close to her body. 

Seren watched from the entranceway. 

“If you will allow it, I shall return this evening to see that you are well. If there is anything you need, I will leave directions to the temple with the barmaid.”

“Thank you, Seren.” Ketta said, she turned to smile at him, her eyes red and puffy. 

Seren bowed and closed the door. 

Later that evening, Seren returned to the inn. The bar was full to the brim with drunkards, men and women alike. They were laughing and shouting; despite the early evening hours, a few were already passed out on the floor.  A jolly old bard occupied a table near the bar, standing atop it and strumming his lute to the high heavens. 

Seren squeezed his way through the crowd to the staircase. He climbed the creaky steps to the second floor of the inn, following the dark hallway to the back of the establishment, as Ketta had shown him. When he found Ketta’s room he rapped on the thick wooden door with his knuckles. 

There was a pause, followed by muffled footsteps. 

“Raphael –” Ketta nervously spoke as she opened the door. “I’m glad y–” she froze when she eyed Seren standing before her instead, her cheeks turning bright pink. Her hair was no longer matted, but tied up in a high bun. Her face, once covered in dirt and tears, was now slightly done-up. She wore a thick shawl around her loose fitting dress. Ketta was barely recognisable from the frantic woman he pulled from the bridge mere hours ago.

“Raphael?” Seren chuckled, “I am sorry to disappoint, I am merely calling to–”

“Speak of the devil…” A low growl came from behind Seren, causing the hairs on his back to stand up. 

Seren spun around, coming face-to-face with a mysterious man, this Raphael, who seemed to have materialised from the shadows. Raphael loomed over Seren, his thick dark hair perfectly styled and his deep brown eyes fixed on him. The eyes, Seren noticed, seemed to swallow him whole the second he looked into them. 

“And he shall appear.” Raphael beamed, stepping into the light emitting from the open doorway. 

Goosebumps covered Seren’s arms and chills ran down his spine despite the lodging suddenly feeling warmer, more humid. 

Raphael was wearing an intricately woven doublet, fitted with a silk ruffled collar; the warm colours complementing his tanned skin. It struck Seren as curious that Raphael was dressed a little too eloquently for this particular inn. 

Seren wrinkled his nose at the sudden smell of sulphur that followed Raphael as he sauntered past him and into Ketta’s room. 

“My dear, Ketta, what a delight to see you again.” 

Raphael extended his hand in an invitation. Ketta accepted, and Raphael delicately kissed her palm. She quickly glanced away from Raphael, the pink colour on her cheeks deepening. 

Seren cleared his throat. 

“I shall let you both get on with your evening. Ketta, I am pleased to see you are well.” 

Seren bowed, and began to make his exit. 

“Are you not joining us, dear priest? For a drink at least?” Raphael teased, “I insist… a toast to my little pet's saviour.”

Raphael beckoned Seren inside with a flick of his wrist. All Seren wanted to do was leave; his gut telling, no screaming, at him to run as far from this inn as possible, but he felt his feet leading him into the room.

The door clicked shut behind him. 

The inn’s room was cramped, Seren could barely stand up straight without grazing his head on the ceiling as he entered. A small single bed was stuffed against the far wall, complete with a wardrobe on the room’s opposite end. There was a tiny table in front of the bed and a square window looking out into a back alley facing the door.  

Ketta leaned against the wall by the window, her hands tightly clasped across her chest. Raphael stood tall in the centre of the room, seemingly unaffected by the tight quarters. 

“A drink before we begin.”

Raphael clapped his hands twice and an expensive looking bottle of wine appeared on the table, glimmering in the candlelight; followed by 3 of the finest crystal glasses Seren had ever seen. 

Raphael moved towards the table, simultaneously uncorking the bottle of wine and pouring the liquid in one swift, graceful motion. 

“This will calm your nerves, my sweet.” 

Raphael handed Ketta her glass. With his back still to Seren, Raphael twisted his index finger and a glass flew into Seren's hands, all without spilling a single drop of wine. 

“Chin, chin.” 

Raphael turned his head to acknowledge Seren, eyes shimmering, as he raised his chalice.

Ketta downed her wine in one loud gulp. Seren’s hand started to shudder, he placed both hands on his wine glass to keep the facade of composure. What in the gods had he gotten himself into? 

“Now, to this evening's main event.” 

As Raphael took a sip of wine, he snapped his fingers and with a low sizzle, a glowing contract appeared in front of Ketta. It floated, slowly pulsing as it waited for a signature.

Raphael snapped his fingers again and a quill appeared beside it. 

“My little pet, if you would so kindly review the terms and conditions. Once satisfied, please sign your name at the bottom… then we can start our celebration.” 

Raphael’s smile grew wider in anticipation. 

“What is this?” Seren blurted out. 

“Why… we are making a mere business transaction, dear priest.”

“This is absurd. What sort of transaction?”

“Only the best kind, an infernal one.” 

The shimmer was back in Raphael’s eyes. 

Seren’s heart dropped to his stomach, the room starting to close in around him. Suddenly, all the frayed pieces connected; the sulphur, the stifling heat, the sheer amount of magnetism oozing from Raphael. A devil. 

Growing up, Seren heard stories of these types of deals; devils so clever and manipulative they could practically get you to sign away anything for your soul. He thought it was merely a cheeky bedtime story to scare him and his siblings, to keep them in line.

“Ketta, you cannot be serious. What do you hope to gain? The temple can help you recover and mourn. There is a place for you there, please I beg you.”

Ketta’s eyes were pinned to the floor, she held the empty wine glass close to her chest; as if trying to hide behind it.

“You don’t understand. I am from Elturel. My family… they were attacked by…” Ketta covered her face to hide the onslaught of tears, “by vampires and they were taken away from me. I-I can still hear their screams.”

Raphael took care to refill Ketta’s wine glass, and she immediately took another large swig. 

“This morning, after… you stopped me from jumping, Raphael found me, he heard my cries. I know they’re still alive. I can feel it in my heart. He said I’d be able to see them again.” 

Seren threw his glass down on the floor in protest, the crystal shattering, and the wine staining the wood like blood.  

“If what you say is true… by now they are likely vampire spawn! Nothing can bring them back once they’ve turned. You trust HIM to cure them? To reunite you? A death wish!”

“I’ll give my soul to see them again, Seren, if even for a moment.”

Raphael silently nodded to himself in agreement, sipping more wine. It seemed his glass refilled itself. 

Seren charged in front of the floating contract, using his body to separate it from Ketta.

“Ketta, you are in mourning. Please! Do not be daft –” 

“Seren, I thank you, truly, for earlier… but this is my choice.”

Seren could feel the devil glaring into his back as he grabbed Ketta’s shoulders, shaking her as if trying to wake her from a nightmare. 

“You cannot simply believe this devil will solve anything! If your family is alive, they will never be human again.” 

Ketta collapsed on the floor, bringing Seren down with her. She howled as she curled herself into a tight ball. 

“Now, now… look at what you’ve done to my sweet little pet. I will not allow this sort of behaviour to continue, priest.” 

There was a different flash in Raphael’s eyes now; one that sparkled yellow and red, hinting of a dangerous flickering flame.

Seren was somehow covered in sweat, his robes clinging to his chest. He rose to face Raphael. 

“Raphael. Devil. I will not allow you to make this deal.” 

A low growl came from Raphael, his hand tightening on the wine glass. 

“What is this creature to you?” 

“I am merely doing my duty as–” 

“Duty? Let me tell you about duty, priest. I have been promised a soul and I will not leave this inn until I have one signed to me. This deal will not go to waste. There is an importance of maintaining order and balance in my line of work.” 

“Then let me sign in her place.”

“You? Ha!” 

Raphael’s laughter was deep and seemed to echo throughout the room. Seren clenched his sweaty fists. 

“Is my soul no different?” 

Raphael titled his head, studying Seren. 

“What would be your terms, priest?” 

“Terms?”

Raphael curled his lips. 

“When clients seek my services, it is usually for a reason. You, a priest, of all mortals should know. They must be letting anyone into the clergy nowadays.” Raphael sighed, massaging his temples. “What do you seek? Untold riches? Higher power? Name your price and I will consider it.” 

Seren bit his tongue, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth.  

“My terms…” Seren thought out loud. 

After joining the Tymora temple, Seren believed he had everything he needed in this life and the next. What more was he to ask for? Surely, his deity would protect him, no matter what sort of situation he got himself into?

“I just ask… you leave Ketta alone.”

Raphael raised his eyebrow. 

“A priest signing away his soul to save another… well, how fitting and… dull.” 

Raphael swiped his hand and Ketta’s contract burst into flames. As the fire subsided, a new contract appeared from its ashes, beating like a roaring heart. The quill continued to hover next to it. 

“Your contract. Do make this quick, priest. I have other business to attend to.” 

Seren's pulse quickened as he approached the pending contract. He stared at the text, burning red on the page, and realised he could not understand a single word. Infernal text. Of course. Sweat was pouring from Seren’s forehead as he waited. He dared not look at Raphael. He could barely hold the quill still enough as he wrote an illegible signature at the bottom of the document. 

Seren shut his eyes, expecting to be consumed in fire and brimstone and sucked straight to the depths of the 9 Hells. But nothing happened. Raphael was only scowling at him.

“Well, I suppose this saves me the hassle of speaking to that despicable Master Vampire. We never did see eye-to-eye…” Raphael muttered to himself as he snapped his fingers, making the contract disappear. 

“Priest, I will be watching, in case you change your mind. I can always alter my contracts. I thank you for your… business.” 

And with that, Raphael disappeared into a fiery inferno, leaving Seren alone with Ketta.

––

“Priest… wake up.” The sound of Raphael’s low voice pulled him back to the present. 

Seren heard soft footsteps approaching him and couldn't help but gasp. This is it, my reckoning. He waited for Raphael to strike him down, but there were no claws; just the sound of a chair scraping against the wooden floor, stopping by his bed. 

Seren heard another sound, a loud snap and his eyes burned deep into his sockets. He grunted and instinctively raised his hands to his eyes, rubbing them until the pain subsided. When he opened them again, the world was clear around him. 

He immediately sat upright in bed, the first time in… he couldn’t remember. 

“My sincere apologies for having kept you so long. I have been distracted by more pressing matters as of late, and in truth, this was one collection I have been adjourning.”

Seren’s eyes immediately focused on Rapheal, sitting in the chair next to his bed. Raphael was relaxed, crossed legged and studying him like a creature in a cage. He grinned at Seren, that devilish glint in his eyes. Seren suddenly felt light headed as he experienced a moment of deja-vu.

“You look well, as always.”

“The curse of infernal blood, my dear priest.” 

“Perhaps I should’ve opted for everlasting youth…” 

Seren looked down at his arms, so boney, and frail… he touched his face only to be met with sharp cheekbones and tight skin.

“I must admit, you have continued to surprise me… ” The devil crossed his arms, resting his chin on a fist. “Not all souls are an achievement, some… consolations, a trifle in the shadow of what I have planned. What I thought was a transactional flop, so many years ago, turned out to be much more rewarding.” 

There was a long pause, as the two enjoyed the silence.

“You know, I have often thought about our old games of lanceboard.” Seren responded. 

“Mmm, you never seemed to have any luck, priest. I constantly wiped the floor with you.”  Raphael chuckled, full of bluster. 

“Then perhaps one last game, devil? For old times sake?” 

“I’d be honoured.” 

Raphael snapped his fingers and a chequered lanceboard appeared out of thin air, floating above the bed. The ebony and ivory game pieces were placed perfectly on opposing ends. Seren allowed himself to pick up a knight piece, playing with it in his palms. 

“One thing that always plagued me, why did you insist on visiting? Even after the deal was struck?” Seren asked, “I had assumed devils had better things to occupy themselves with than pestering priests.”

“Merely curiosity. I wanted to see if you would crack under the pressure, that my presence would tempt you into something, anything more than the boredom of priesthood… which makes a soul so… flavourless. And perhaps I enjoyed seeing how you writhed whenever I entered that sacred temple.” 

"I suppose that makes sense.” 

Seren felt time slow around him as he played against Raphael. It had been years since he faced the devil in a game of lanceboard, and yet, he remembered all the moves, all the tricks; the memories came flooding back to him. Despite constantly losing, Seren enjoyed the thrill of battle. There was always a possibility that he could win, wiping the devil’s smug smirk off his face once and for all. And, funnily enough, Seren came to enjoy Raphael’s company. Oh, the absurdity of it all. A priest and a devil, playing a silly game of lanceboard until the wee hours of the morning.

“Your move, priest.” 

Seren shifted his final piece, the coup de grâce and thus, ended the game. 

“Alas, your streak is over, devil.” 

It was Seren’s turn to grin. Raphael jumped to his feet, vigorously applauding Seren. The lance board evaporated into a puff of smoke.

“Well played, priest! Brava! I never thought I’d see the day…” 

There was another pause as Raphael’s face grew stern, the air in the room getting denser. He momentarily looked off into the distance, gazing intently, as if peering through another plane of existence.

“Do you have any regrets?” Raphael asked, focusing his attention back on Seren. 

“Perhaps…” Seren sighed, “I shouldn't have fallen so blindly into my faith. I might’ve left this world with my soul intact.” 

Raphael placed a hand on Seren’s shoulder. Seren could feel the heat radiating off Raphael's fingertips; despite the warmth, his touch didn’t scald him.

“It’s time.” 

––

It wasn’t a painful death, Raphael saw to that. It was swift and effortless, only taking a mere snap of his fingers to end his friend’s life. 

Raphael held a hellfire weapon in his hand, now glowing green with Seren’s throbbing soul. He placed it carefully into a pocket, thinking about what he would do with this new acquisition. Oh, the prospects… 

As he continued to stare at the priest’s hollow body, another thought crept into his mind. The lanceboard. He never lost. Was he so preoccupied with his pursuit for the Crown and those confounded heroes that he allowed himself defeat? All those pieces were already in place… No, no matter, he simply won’t let it happen again.

Raphael looked up, catching sight of the dusty statue of Tymora sitting on Seren’s bedside table. He frowned, before disappearing into a fiery blaze.

#bg3 raphael #raphael the cambion #baldurs gate 3 raphael #raphael bg3 #raphael baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #baldur's gate 3 #fanfic #bg3 #writing #raphael x reader #raphael bg3 x reader #mortals

[bi-bard]

And Sit Unseen, With Only the Inner Upheld - Jack Kline Imagine [Supernatural]

Title: And Sit Unseen, With Only the Inner Upheld

Pairing: Jack Kline X Reader

Based On: De Selby (Pt. 1)

Word Count: 1,189 words

Warning(s): mention of loneliness

Summary: Two Nephilims find themselves taking shelter with the Winchesters. However, no safety and security could match up to true connection and understanding.

Author's Note: Here we go! It's started!!

Also, if you have a problem with me using they/them pronouns for Jack, then don't fucking read this. Just leave it alone. I am not going to change it, so sitting and complaining to me about it is just gonna waste both of our time.

UNREAL UNEARTH - HOZIER WRITING CHALLENGE MASTERLIST

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I don't remember when I had started to sit in the armchair in the corner of the bunker library when I couldn't sleep.

I just knew that it had become a habit that I had no interest in changing.

It was nice in there. The light of the table wasn't too bright. The chair was nice. Well, nicer than any of the other seats in the bunker. It was the only one that seemed to have a halfway decent cushion on it besides the couch in the Dean Cave.

That small chair, lit by that small lamp, in the quiet of the night, had become my safe space.

It was the only peace that I had.

There was no pressure about my existence. No push for me to live up to this concept that had never been allowed to exist long enough to be proven true or false.

I was a Nephilim. I had done a very good job hiding it. My father- some unknown angel that was hunted almost as soon as I had been born- had done all he could do to protect me. He taught my mother everything that she could do after he was gone.

I had been hiding my whole life. From angels, demons, and humans alike. I was a target. I knew that all too well. I was a timebomb in their minds.

I was the same thing to the Winchesters.

They could hide it all they wanted. Deny it and promise that they trusted me. I could see through it. I saw their worried looks whenever I got upset. I saw their fear whenever my powers needed to come out. I saw that this bunker wasn't just the "permanent place to stay" that they tried to promise it was. It was a cage.

To the Winchesters, I was the scariest thing that they had ever been met with.

And then, Jack was born.

A Nephilim. Just like me.

Expect, they weren't.

Jack was a special case. Not simply a Nephilim, but the child of an archangel. Not simply the child of any archangel, but the child of Lucifer.

If I was a timebomb, Jack was a dying star waiting to expand.

The Winchesters were far more scared of Jack than they were of me. Dean was ready to kill the kid as soon as he could. Sam tried to be kind, but I could see his nervousness. Not that I didn't understand it; he was bad at hiding it.

So, yes, I found peace in the night. Peace in the silence and loneliness. If I couldn't have someone near me that would understand my thoughts and anger, then I would find that comfort within myself.

I had spent what felt like hundreds of nights in that library.

I had been caught there once.

It was like any other night that I had spent there. I was quiet, staring up at the ceiling. Nothing in particular on my mind. I was merely allowing myself to float. Exist in the darkness.

"(Y/n)."

I jumped when I heard my name. I could barely see Jack standing in just on the other side of the table. They put their hands up when they saw me flinch.

"Sorry," they muttered quickly.

I ran a hand over my face. "What are doing up, Jack?"

"I... I don't know," they confessed. "I just... I felt like I needed to come out here."

I raised an eyebrow. "Okay... did you want to sit?"

"Can I?" the grin that crossed their lips made my heart swell a bit.

"Grab a chair," I nodded toward the table behind them. I had no intention of giving up my spot.

Jack sat in the space next to me. They didn't talk for a while. Instead, we both just sat in silence together, waiting as the seconds ticked by.

"I know what it's like," I said quietly. Jack looked at me with furrowed eyebrows. "We don't sleep as much as the Winchesters. I know the feeling of not wanting to hide in those covers the entire night when you aren't tired."

"Is that why you sit out here," they asked.

"Partly."

"What's the other part?"

I paused, scanning my eyes along their facial expression for a moment. I don't know what I was looking for. It wasn't going to be judgment. Maybe I was looking for that ever-so-familiar look of fear.

Jack had been the only person to never offer me that worried look that I had come to know so well from the Winchesters.

"I like the nighttime," I explained. Another set of furrowed eyebrows. "I didn't know what it was like to have time to relax before I came to the bunker. I was always running or at least, ready to run. And now that I can relax when it's late, I like to properly enjoy it. It's the only time that I'm not reminded of how dangerous I am."

There was a small pause before Jack spoke up, "I don't think that you're dangerous."

I grinned. "Thanks. If only Sam and Dean felt the same way."

Jack was silent after that, just looking at me.

"They mean well, but they don't keep us here just to keep us safe," I said. I felt dread bubbling up in my stomach. "To them, keeping us here is also the easiest way that they can... deal with us if one of us turns out... evil. They may never fully trust either one of us and there's nothing we can do about that."

"Oh," they muttered.

"Sorry," I looked down at my hands.

"It's okay."

Another silence consumed us. I tilted my head back, looking back at the ceiling above us. The space that once felt empty and peaceful now felt like it was suffocating from the reality of our situation. And it was my fault. I had disrupted my own sanctuary.

"I trust you," Jack added, cutting through the weight of the silence as if it were nothing.

I looked at them.

They grinned at me.

"Thank you," I replied. "I trust you too, Jack."

"Can I stay out here with you a little while longer?"

"As long as you'd like."

The silence that followed was calming. More calming than any of the nights that had occurred before that.

I had gotten so used to being alone that I never thought about how nice it would be to have someone. Not just have someone but have someone who could truly understand how I felt and how I thought.

It was nice.

I reached over and grabbed Jack's hand.

For the first time, I didn't feel a need to push away the thoughts of who or what I was. I was able to exist in this peace without separating my powers from the rest of me.

I found myself begging to feel like this forever. To finally have a place with no fear or anger or confusion. To finally feel as if what I was wasn't some mistake that was made.

I closed my eyes.

Suddenly, the lamp seemed to be too bright of an interruption.

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#fanfiction #imagine #x reader #supernatural imagine #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural x reader #jack kline imagine #jack kline fanfiction #jack kline x reader

[venerable-sun]

La Danse Macabre (Ticci Toby x Reader)

Everyone must meet you, in the end. A Creepypasta x Death!Reader story.

TW: Mentions of violence, gore, and overall very dark themes. If you are uncomfortable in any way with the thought of what comes after life, I would not recommend reading.

A/N: This is a fic I wrote about two years ago, originally published on Quotev. I am aware that the creator of the character of Ticci Toby does not desire for anyone to use him in content, but seeing as this fic has existed on the internet for two years- I am merely just reposting it here. This is part one of a series involving various Creepypasta characters and the reader, the personification of death.

The first time you meet, Toby mistakes you for an angel.

You gaze down at him through shattered glass and twisted metal with nothing but pity in your eyes. Even as the car burns around him, all he wants to do is continue looking upon your beauty. His breath catches in his throat as you reach towards him, a dainty hand emerging from your billowing robes.

Toby prays you will grace him with your touch, but he is not what you have come for. Only then does he become aware of his sister slumped against his side, her head lolling forward at an unnatural angle.

That can’t be comfortable, Toby thinks as he watches you brush away the hair stuck to Lyra’s forehead. A red substance trickles from her nose, but he pays no mind to it as you press three fingertips to her skin. When you withdraw them, a gold light follows, morphing around your fingers in warm whisps. They settle into a glowing orb that floats in your palm, its soft light illuminating the sharp features of your face before you tuck your hand into your robes once more.

Where are you taking her? Toby wants to ask, the words unwilling to spill out. His desperate eyes lock with yours. Take me with you!

As if you heard his plea, you shake your head once softly. A sad smile twists your lips as you take a step back.

Please don’t leave me! Toby tries to shout. All he can manage is a garbled groan, his dry throat constricting with the effort. He blinks and you’re gone, not a single trace of you left behind.

Despair takes over him, and the next thing he’s aware of is the harsh fluorescent light of his hospital room beating down on him. His mother is in the chair beside his bed, her fingers interwoven tightly in his own.

He barely registers her words as she tells him of the accident, the fire, his sister. Numbness creeps over his senses, until the memory of your face gazing upon him is all he can see. 

~ 

The next time you meet, Toby believes you are the devil.

You are a shadow in his periphery from the moment his service to the Slenderman begins, a blight in the corner of his vision that disappears every time he turns his head.

He can always feel you there, watching him. He wants to hate you. A part of him does, if only for the fact that you left him to continue living alone. However, as time goes on and your presence becomes as familiar as a second skin, he finds himself doing just the opposite. You are the only thing that ties him to who he was before, the only thing that bridges his current life to his previous one.

It isn’t until one fateful night that you make yourself truly known.

Toby stands over the slaughtered family, blood dripping from his hatchets. He is breathing heavily, the strong scent of iron and tears filling the air. A little girl lays at his boots, her eyes blown wide in terror, her last scream forever frozen on her lips.

You morph into being from the shadows, bending down and closing her eyelids. Her soul is malleable and warm, glowing with a pale pink. Your heart is heavy as you tuck it into your robes.

“You are trying very hard to make me regret sparing your life,” You say, your gaze glued to the child’s face.

Toby scoffs, ignoring the twinge of guilt deep in his gut. “It sh-should have b-been me th-th-that day.”

“Do not play this game with me,” you warn, finally standing to face him. “You will lose.”

Last time he saw you fully, Toby thought you were his guardian angel finally showing yourself. He thought you bright and beautiful as the starlight. Now he knows you to be as terrible as the dawn. He holds your gaze defiantly even as desire sweeps through him.

You soften slightly, reaching up and cupping his cheek. He keens into your touch, twitching slightly. You sigh. Times like these make you detest the immortal blood running through your veins. “Life is a sacred gift, my love.” you say, your fingers deftly lowering his mouth guard. “Please don’t waste it.”

For once, Toby- shy, demure, Toby- is bold. He leans forward, capturing your lips with his. You taste of honey, you taste of wind. You taste of all that has been and all that will be, and he would gladly drown in it forever, as long as it was by your side.

You reluctantly pull away, the moment having gone on too long. You can feel the souls from around the world crying out for you, begging for their release.

“Will I see you again?” Toby asks hopefully.

You bow your head. “Not if you continue along your current path,” you whisper, your eyes filling with tears. They spill over as you meet his gaze once more, the edges of your form beginning to flicker. “You tread a way I cannot follow.”

With that, you are gone. Blood from the corpses at his feet pools in your place. They are the only thing that bear witness to his agonized screams. 

~

The last time you meet, you are his salvation. Toby stands with his back against the wall, shaking hands in the air. Spots of red dot his form as cops surround him, their guns primed and ready to fire.

You stand behind them, a shade in the mist, barely a whisper. He catches sight of you through the night, your eyes piercing even deeper than the first bullet does.

Time stills as you move towards him, picking your way to him with ease. You are just as beautiful as the day he first saw you. He watches your lips move, his name falling from your lips like a pour of sugar.

“Toby.”

Your voice carries to him over the din, and his eyes close in pleasure as the second bullet hits. His knees hit the ground with a thud, and he can barely register the shouts of the police through the roar in his ears. When he looks up, you are standing over him, your eyes filled with love and the secrets of the universe.

“It is time to go, my love.” You say, your three fingers coming to press against his forehead. He shudders at the impact of the third bullet, but still remains kneeling. 

“Will you keep me with you?” He asks, another bullet shattering through him. He falls backwards this time, the hard reality of the earth rising to greet him. His vision blurs until all he can see is your face close to his. You peck both his cheeks before finally settling your lips on his. With much strain, he weaves his fingers through your hair, holding you against him even as you pull his soul from his body.

It is so large you require both hands to hold its shimmering mass. Instead of placing it in your robe, you press it against your heart, allowing it to seep into you.

A translucent form of the corpse laying in front of you appears as he once did in life. Sleek brown hair flops in front of his handsome features, and a boyish smile tugs at his lips. He offers you a hand with flourish, eyes twinkling with mischief.

You take it with a smile, walking with him hand in hand into the stars.

“Always.”

#texts #reader insert #creepypasta #ticci toby #ticci toby x reader #creepypasta fandom #x reader #female reader

[thecagedsong]

Hehe, this prompt gave me the excuse to finish this one, I wasn't quite sure where it was going until I added the prompt. @zeldaelmo Great job on the followers!

You may notice some similarities to Dear Hero. But that's just how fic writing goes. I hope you enjoy some more TP zelink, this time just after midnight.

Lanayru’s glow lit every corner of her cavern, the collapsed archways and hidden nooks, the clawshot grips and underwater plants. The lights spirit hadn’t been physically manifested for this long, in a long time. It felt nice, being allowed to truly stretch and lounge in her domain. She smiled down at the floating mortal, one of the few whose courage, wisdom, and power made it possible for the divine and mundane to co-exist.

“We’ve gone over economy, prophecies, politicians, military, agriculture, and I’ve told you all I know of the old legends and your ancestors.” Lanayru said, “What else would you like to discuss?”

“Marriage is my next important decision, I know,” Princess Zelda said, floating on her back in the cool spring water. Her white dress had been soaked hours ago, when she first dove in. “I haven’t let myself think about it beyond mental lists of people I’ve met that I don’t want beside me. I knew I wanted the decision to come up only after I claimed the throne, otherwise the decision of my husband would be highly influenced by either my father or the council. As queen, the decision is completely mine. For some reason, that almost makes the concept more frightening. I’ve asked for guidance on this decision from the goddesses, but they have yet to answer that particular prayer.”

“Of course they are silent,” Lanayru admonished, flicking her tail against the water, “When life was created, it was the goddesses, your patron Nayru in particular, who bestowed mortals with free will. They cannot violate their own laws by taking this choice away from you.”

“What if my choice is to turn it over to the goddesses?” Zelda asked, drifting to a standing position on a rock, her shoulders barely clearing the water, “What if my choice is to bow to their infinitely superior wisdom and foresight? Will they then send me a dream or a sign of my future husband? Perhaps inscribing their name or their next words to me on the inside of my wrist, letting me know that they are chosen for me?”

“That is a coward’s answer, and a fool’s,” the light spirit scolded, “Nothing is truly fore-ordained. Even your battle with the Hero against the Usurper was not pre-decided. At any point you could have made a different choice and let darkness reign. The goddesses merely know your soul and trusted you to make the right choice. When you made the right choice, then they were allowed to help you. That is the order set forth by their rules. Being afraid of making a mistake, so choosing not to choose, mocks Nayru’s gift and begs for you to be led astray.”

“So despite all my powers, despite the importance of this decision to the wellbeing of Hyrule, I must make this decision without aid?” Zelda asked with a frown.

Lanayru flicked water at the princess with her tail, “Work for goodness, and trust the goddesses to keep Hyrule from ruin. They will warn you if your decision is poor. In the meantime, while I am here, I can offer what wisdom I have. What do you seek in a consort?”

This may have been an odd conversation for most people to have with a guardian light spirit, who was most likely asexual and without gender, despite the feminine tones of her voice. Zelda imagined most women had this conversation with their mothers or other female relatives. Lacking those figures in her life, Zelda was here.

She hadn’t been sure what to expect during her Cleansing, a twelve-hour ritual before she would make her way to the Temple of Ages in Castletown, where she would be coronated by the three priestesses. Solitude, self-reflection, and possibly a visit from Lanayru, where she would ask the light spirit for a blessing, be blessed, and be sent on her merry reign, possibly.

Instead she spent time being rejuvenated, her magic and body were absorbing and rejoicing in the power of the spring, while picking the brain of the ancient being who saw Zelda as a naive younger relative. Zelda didn’t mind the implication and embraced a being who was willing to be blunt with her. It wasn’t as though she could discuss her future husband with anyone in Castletown, not without rumors sprouting.

“I want someone…who is good for Hyrule in the long run,” Zelda answered, “Someone who can bear their half of the crown well. So many proposals are based on the immediate aid they can offer Hyrule, like a noble’s wealth or a foreign prince’s trade agreement, but I want someone who will be good for Hyrule lifelong, and someone I can trust. The crown is heavy, I want someone who will be willing to bear their share, and only their share, for the rest of our lives.”

Zelda was expecting the ‘humph’ this time.

“Those sound like things that can best be learned over the course of your marriage. If you spend everyday waiting for someone to show who they will become, life will be ending when you find the right person, and they will have taken a chance and be with someone else. Try again,” Lanayru demanded.

Zelda thought a little longer, but the light spirit was patient, and it wasn’t like they were going anywhere until tomorrows’ dawn. “Very well, I want a suitor who has shown the potential for those things previously mentioned, by having enough life experience under their belt already to know they wont crack under pressure. I want someone who treats me as capable and respects my decisions. I want someone who knows how to work, but not someone too old to learn and be taught how to be king beside me.”

Lanayru snorted, but a little more good-naturedly, meaning Zelda was getting closer to the wisdom the spirit wanted to impart, “Hard work is the domain of commoners. Either marry one of them or listen to them and what they say about the suitor. Amongst other commoners, they will speak their mind about work ethics.”

“Maybe I will marry a commoner,” Zelda teased, “After all, the decision is completely mine. I know of two ancestors that did.”

“Politics and governance can be brutal. If you do pick someone unaccustomed to it, ensure it is someone either charismatic enough to win over your court, or someone who can call a nest of vipers home.”

Zelda kicked off her rock to float on her back again, “Sound advice. Although, it sounds as though you already have a type of someone in mind. Are you willing to share? Or is that too close to relying on the goddesses’ wisdom to be my own choice.”

Instead of the expected eyeroll, Lanayru was serious as she continued, “My final piece of advice is not to discount affection, as you have thus far. Much of what you will need your consort to be can be achieved if they care for you beyond your power.”

Zelda treaded water to look up at the large serpent. The serpent nodded at Zelda’s unasked question.

“Another is coming, and while his presence does not drive me away, the goddesses call me back to the sacred realm as midnight strikes. Go forward with my blessing, Your Grace, Daughter of Din, Farore, and Nayru, our Beloved Hylia. I predict you will reign with courage, wisdom, and power, my friend.”

Zelda swam to the center stone platform and raised her hand to touch the snout of the light snake with care. “Thank you for speaking with me, for setting me on a good course. Return home now, Lanayru, may you go with peace. Until we meet again.”

The spirit’s eyes closed and the body faded under Zelda’s touch. The scruff of a boot against gravel brought her to the other part of Lanayru’s parting message.  

            Another is coming.

Zelda took a silent but deep breath and slid under the water. She didn’t know what she was going to do, and she needed time to prepare. There were guards surrounding the cave, no one should have gotten through. They were stationed to have visual in every approachable direction, but far enough away that they would not be able to hear her.

This danger would have to be faced alone.

Her fingers pressed into the vines that grew down into the water, anchoring herself. Zelda’s magic wasn’t an issue at this spring, she could summon a Bow of Light, and she had enough knowledge of water magic to hold herself into the air.

Come out ready to attack, assess the threat, then dispose of it.

Zelda swam to a spot where she wouldn’t catch on any plants and set her plan into motion. A surge of water at her feet, air rushed around her and into her as she breached the surface with water continuing to support her, and she didn’t give herself more than a second before summoning her weapon, twisting in air to locate the intruder, aiming for the head.

“Link?” she gasped. The half-naked hero gaping broke her concentration. The Bow of Light dissolved from her fingertips and she flopped into the water below with a yelp. Water rushed into her nose and mouth as she involuntarily sucked in a breath, and it took a couple of seconds of treading water to expel it.

After wiping her face clean of tears and snot, she swam to an underwater pillar for standing, the water only coming to her knees here, and glared at the still gaping hero.

“What-what are you doing here?” she coughed out, her voice scratchy with the recent water intake.

“I…I can’t remember,” Link said, clearly flustered, “Ah, apparently I was being attacked by a water goddess, Milady.”

“Don’t mock me,” Zelda huffed and coughed out a bit more water, “I have seven guards surrounding every possible entrance to this cave, did you not think to ask them why?”

Link blushed and couldn’t seem to meet her face, “Oh, er, I didn’t see anyone because I swam directly to the spring entrance from the water temple. I didn’t mean anything improper by it, honest. I’ll just leave now.”

The clothes he had already discarded belonged to a set of Zora armor, that part was true enough. He turned to don the tunic again and flinched.

“It seems you remember your purpose for coming here,” she said, her voice amused now. The hero of her land was another human Lanayru said could commune with the light spirits with ease, especially now that Twilight has left his shadow. It was some mystery of the goddesses why Lanayru had to leave.

“Er, I was in the water temple cleaning up something nasty that had settled there, Ralis asked me to. It’s a small injury though, a red potion and some sleep will cure it just as well. I’ll leave you to your business Princess,” he explained, giving up on dressing in front of her and starting to limp towards the entrance with his clothes in his hands.

Zelda watched him for a moment, then shook her head. Four hours of conversation with Lanayru was already a strange purification ceremony beginning, might as well try for consistency if normality was unattainable.

“Come in the spring,” she encouraged. Link stopped hobbling away, “What I’m doing would be rather sullied if I refused the healing powers of the spring to another.” His brow pinched, but he softened when she smiled and gestured to the water. “As you can see, there is clearly enough space for two.”

Link hesitated for a moment, glancing back at the entrance to the spring, before limping towards the water. None of the pain he must have been feeling could be seen on his face, the only evidence was his uneven gait. At this angle she could finally see the injury, a large gash that started near his knee and carved a jagged line up to his hip, and another bloody line from the tip of his right shoulder across his collar bone.

Slowly, he made his way to the side of the cavern, where he could just drop in. Too slow, some water magic would pull him in quicker. No, that would be rude.  

Once he was in the spring, Link couldn’t look at her, or speak, and he seemed to have decided that the best course of action would be to obey her commands while pretending not to exist.

 If Zelda had tossed him into the water, there would at least be disbelief, possibly indignation, instead of painfully awkward silence.

“So, do you still spend your days solving problems for other people?” she asked with honest curiosity.

As a princess that among her greatest skills would be getting people to talk and listening to them. Her second greatest skill would be using that information well. Her third greatest skill would be talking so that others would listen and obey. Link’s discomfort with her presence would be dispelled before he was healed, she would make certain of it.

He jumped at her voice, and tilted his head, “Pardon, but what do you mean by ‘still’?”

“Midna was often irritated with your efforts to help others, much of the time she felt the bigger picture of saving Hyrule was neglected as you spoke with and aided Hyrule’s denizens. And something about petting cats. She was often irritated with your progress, but wise enough to not comment. I was wondering if you still spent your days listening to people and helping them when you can.” Zelda explained.

Link’s eyebrows rose and his mouth fell open as she talked. Apparently, Midna had never explained Zelda’s presence and limited awareness during the second half of their adventure. She waited for his answer.

“I suppose I do,” he said slowly, turning away from her to talk at the wall. “Someone’s got to help the little guy.”

“Midna was irritated with it, but I never was,” Zelda clarified for him, her eyes drifting to the wall as she recalled that time, “I was glad. I was glad that the chosen hero knew how to serve others, that it is a way of life for you. Growing up in a community as small as Ordon, everyone must have helped each other.”

“Yeah, I reckon so, Princess,” Link said, and she saw him start to tap his fingers. His body was almost turned towards her, but he kept his eyes in the other direction. His fingers stilled, and his body turned back to face the wall.

Eventually he sighed and looked away. No good.

Well, no good for conversation, but it would be a lie to say the sight of his bare back to her was entirely unwelcome.

“You may call me Zelda,” she said.

He spun around, “It wouldn’t be proper, Princess!” 

Zelda smiled, letting her eyes crinkle, “Neither is calling Prince Ralis by his first name alone. Titles are verbal signs of respect, while lack of titles, when respect is present, signifies closeness and… familiarity. Do you extend this closeness to Prince Ralis, but deny me?” Her voice was light, teasing.

Hopefully she got her tone right. She hadn’t been able to speak like this since her father died. Back when she was a woman first and a monarch eventually. Back when marriage was her largest decision, and she was concerned with flirting and diplomacy over power and politics. It seemed like an age, instead of a measly three years.

Link’s gaping mouth was enough of a reason to keep going. Marriage was once again her largest decision, it wouldn’t hurt to practice flirting, she reasoned. He was certainly handsome enough to warrant a little of it.

“I-um, I didn’t mean,” Link stumbled over the words, eyes drawn downwards as a flush crept upwards. “It’s just you’re my princess, and Ralis—I mean Prince Ralis and I didn’t want-I didn’ mean you’re mine like a possession—”

Zelda laughed, softly, cutting him off.

“Don’t fret, I’m only teasing.”

Zelda swam closer to where he was leaning over the ledge. She gripped the vines beside him. He blushed redder and redder the closer she got. She pulled herself up to mirror his position, their elbows touching.

“Please look at me,” she asked.

He forced his eyes upwards.

“I would like for you to call me by my name, Link.”

Link swallowed, his throat bobbing, “O-okay, Zelda.”

Zelda smiled and nodded, then dropped back down into the water, hooking her foot around a vine to anchor herself near him. She wasn’t looking at him now, but his eyes were still on her.

Good.

She took the time to play with her unbound hair in the spring water, waiting.

Link spoke next, “Er, can I ask what you’re doing here? And who you were talking to?”

Ah, that had been his question. She released her hair and looked over the cavern.

“I was consulting with the Light Spirit Lanayru,” Zelda said, imagining the warm serpent that had been there minutes before. “It was her voice you heard. My coronation is tomorrow, and spending the night bathing in a sacred spring is a purifying ritual to prepare me, as well as seeking the blessing of the Light Sprits over my reign.”

“Apologies!” Link said, shaking his head, “Thousand apologies, Milady-I mean Zelda. I didn’t mean to interrupt something so grand!”

“You didn’t,” Zelda quieted him, “Lanayru has spent the past three hours counseling me, it was time for her to return. As for the purification ritual, well, I was planning on meditating for the next several hours, which is as boring as it sounds. Stay and talk for a while, please?”

Link seemed to struggle, but eventually said, “If you’d like, Princess.”

Despite his agreement, he seemed content to heal, tense and silent beside her, instead of speaking.

“Tell me Link,” Zelda said eventually, “I was a little cut short with Lanayru when I asked her about the proper qualities for a King. What are your thoughts?”

“A king?” Link asked, his eyebrows pushing together, “A ruler should be concerned with the needs of his people foremost. They should be someone that can make alliances, and someone who prefers peace, but is prepared for conflict. You are already all that and more, P-Zelda,” he forced himself to correct when she made a face, then repeated, “You are already that and more, Zelda.”

Zelda pulled herself out of the water to sit on the ledge, taking a moment to wring out her hair, “I’m glad you think so highly of me,” she smiled, hopefully hiding the way hearing him say her name made her blush.

Link had turned to face the wall as soon as she pulled out of the water, but his shoulders were relaxed as he responded, “All of us in the kingdom think that highly of you, I’m just one of the lucky folk that get to see it for myself on occasion.”

Zelda never seen a man completely undressed, and despite the wound splitting his thigh and hip, Link retained the Zora greaves. Zelda had seen soldiers practice without their shirts occasionally, and, if memory served, Link was muscled differently than most of her soldiers. A breadth and sturdiness that must come from farmwork as well as swordsmanship. He was certainly shorter than many, but the picture of coiled power rather than a runt. Broad, strong, and hair like the wheatgrass that covered Death Mountain’s foothills in summer.

Zelda shook her head, wringing her hair some more. A couple of minutes of practice flirting and she was back to silly daydreams.

“My question wasn’t concerning the qualities of a good ruler for myself, per se, but rather, what qualities I should seek in a husband. I was hoping you would have some insight as to what makes a good couple, possibly a good match for me. What should I take into account when deciding on a consort?”

He had tensed up again, and Zelda refused to entertain the thought of massaging his shoulders for more than a moment. There was flirting, then there was abuse of her station and harassment.

“Why would a husband be on your mind?” Link asked carefully, still staring at the vines climbing the wall in front of him, “Lots of folk assumed that you fought so hard to be crowned unwed so that you could guide Hyrule without a king trying to tell you how to do it, but I want to know from you before I say anythin’.”

There were many answers to his question. One prominent answer was that Zelda only wanted the choice for herself, and she wasn’t foolish enough to leave Hyrule without a successor forever. Dismiss the question by saying Hyrule knew little of her motives. Explain the greater political position being crowned while unwed would give her in the future, as her husband would become a prince consort and need her approval to become king, rather than both her coronation and her husband’s being at the discretion of the Council. All these answers were true.

 Something about the moment drew out an answer far more personal. Maybe it was the lingering peace from the light spirit, maybe her already soaked appearance and his half-dressed state encouraged vulnerability. Or maybe it was the fact that he was one of the few people who asked questions about her reasoning before telling her what to do or what she was thinking.

“The decision is entirely my own now. As a queen, no one could possibly have authority to decide for me. And . . . and I think I’m tired of being alone,” she said softly, combing her hair with her fingers and staring at a dripping stalagmite across the spring. “I have proven to myself and my kingdom that I am worthy of my crown, that I am strong enough alone. I know I don’t need anyone. But I want someone. Is that…okay? Am I allowed to wish for someone to serve Hyrule by my side? To want . . . to want to be loved as a wife is?”

Zelda glanced at Link, who was finally looking at her. He seemed to be studying every aspect of her face, committing it to memory, and she felt pinned in place. No, he wasn’t trying to memorize her, he was shifting his image of her. This had happened a couple of times before, with very special people, when they realized that there was a person behind their princess. She let out a breath and gave a smile, letting him see her, forcing herself not to shy away.

“Rusl and Uli,” Link said at last, looking away abruptly, his ears turning pink at the tips. “When I think of marriage, I think of this young married couple from Ordon. Rusl taught me how to fight and hunt, Uli taught me everything else. They just…love and respect each other so much. Though they have different responsibilities and skill sets. They complement each other, and listen to each other, and they have the same goal for a happy home they are both always working towards.”

She let his words hang in the air, and she knew that one day soon she would have to meet these two. Perfect complements. Rusl of Ordon sounded familiar though, maybe she had already met one of this pair. She shook her head.

“I believe that you choose who you love,” she said, letting herself slide onto her back and stare at the ceiling, “My current plan is to pick someone who will be good for Hyrule, someone who I know respects me. I will choose to love them each day for the qualities I originally admired and look for new things to love about them each night. Is that possible, do you think? Will that give me a relationship as supportive as Rusl and Uli’s. Or is that an Occa’s milk dream?”

There was nothing but the sound of water for a while. Her feet dangling into the spring, she laid on her back and watched the mysterious light of the spring reflect through the water and dance upon the ceiling. The one daydream she allows herself still, one that had supported her through the worst of the Invasion, to lie beside someone she loved with perfect peace.

“Love always seemed more like blowing up a boulder to me,” Link said at last, and Zelda raised herself and twisted to raise an eyebrow at him. He shrugged and continued, “Telma, for instance, she was making her way through life, then met Renaldo, and boom, she sees things differently, a boulder is cleared from her path, letting her be somewhere new, someone new. You can’t re-wind time so that the boulder isn’t smashed anymore, you’ll always love that person from there on out. Renaldo didn’t have a boulder smashing moment, so Telma’s there alone, grown some and in a new place, until another boulder smashes and she goes somewhere else, hoping that person meets her there.”

Zelda couldn’t help it, she giggled. She couldn’t force it into a more respectable laugh, and was stuck there, giggling at the Hero of Twilight, “Love is like blowing up a boulder. I love it.” She turned around and flipped onto her belly and folded her arms to match Link, only she was out of the water completely while he was still soaking his body. Their faces a foot apart. “So, have any boulders blown up for you?”

Link huffed and turned his head to look at a wall, “Okay, so I stink at metaphors. Point is, there are parts of it you can’t control. I think your way of thinking and acting would forge a really strong bond and partnership. A steady love with a solid foundation, but pick someone that affects you and is affected by you. Makes you guess, makes you think, makes you shiver occasionally, otherwise there’s nowhere to go and nowhere to grow, as Uli would say.”

“Someone’s a romantic,” Zelda teased, and watched his cheeks and ears grow red again, all the while thinking about what he said. It was uncomfortably familiar. More seriously she replied, “Lanayru said the same thing, or close enough. Her advice was to remember that affection and attraction can build the rest of the qualities I would like to see my future husband display towards ruling the kingdom, and it would make me happier, knowing he found me beautiful and loveable.”

Link fidgeted, but it was a much shorter silence before he asked his question, which Zelda considered a roaring success.

“What guys are available for you to consider? Is there a pre-approved list somewhere?”

Zelda giggled, and then sighed at the thought, her head coming down to rest on her folded forearms. “I suppose it is important to have suitors before choosing between them. Several people presented themselves as suitors for me before the council, but all were rejected at my insistence that my energy was needed for re-building, not courting. After my coronation, any potential suitor would have to come before me on my throne and ask permission to court me. It would certainly be a test of courage.”

“So men have to present their suit?” Link asked, raising an eyebrow. “Seems like a poor system, those who go after power are rarely those who should be trusted with it.”

Zant and Ganondorf were present in both their minds.

“I could always go a courting,” Zelda mused then laughed, ducking her head to hide her smile. “That would be hilarious. Nerve racking surely, but men have been doing it for ages, I’m sure I have enough courage in me to try my hand at it.”

“You mean…” Link asked, trying to picture it.

“Exactly,” Zelda said, laughter still evident in her voice, “I go knocking at his door, gift in hand, and ask for permission to court him from his family. I invite him on rides through the countryside and I ask him to dinner. We discuss families and politics and friends. I’ll brag about my scars from the war and he’ll ohh and aww over my grit. Then I ask him to marry me. A perfect fairy tale, right?” She laughed again, eventually having to put her head all the way down to quell the snickers. “Oh my, the man willing to let me court him would certainly have enough humor to be king.”

“I think it’s a brilliant plan,” Link said, grinning at her, “You’ll stay in control of the relationship without forcing anyone to do anything, like it would be if you asked straight out as queen. You would know they respected you and your decisions, and you can practice finding things to love about them before anything is irreversible.”

Zelda started, “You really think so? I assumed a man would be embarrassed to let the relationship be so far out of his control. Would you let a woman court you, instead of the other way around?”

“I’d be flattered. I’d want a bit more a say though, so maybe we switch off choosing and organizing activities, show off some of my own scars. Though if I didn’t like her, I’d also be okay with sayin’ no during one of the dates.”

“Hmm,” Zelda said, closing her eyes and letting herself imagine it. Knocking on a little house (say it was in Ordon) The nerves of being turned down combatted by the fluttery feeling of not being alone as he opens the door. (Link smiles because he said he’d be okay with it and this is just an example imagining anyway.) Of taking control of her life and going to court someone, asking only for their time in the beginning. (Maybe they could ride Epona together, it had been exhilarating last time, though much of that due to the battle.) She stayed in her day dream for a minute, feeling warm and safe, then she felt a small splash.

“Link?” she asked, dragging herself onto her elbows.

“Of, Er, sorry,” Link said, shaking out his hair, “It’s just, I think I still have some slime from the monster in my hair. I was trying to rinse it without bothering you.”

“I don’t mind,” Zelda said, shaking the relaxation out of her eyes, “I’m not supposed to fall asleep anyway, and I was fairly close. Do you have any other questions to keep me awake? Do you need soap from your pack?”

“No, I’m fine,” he said, blushing.

Zelda sat up again, shifting to put her feet back over the water. “So Link, you’ve told me that you want a complimentary and respectful relationship modeled after your friends Rusl and Uli, but what does that mean for you? What would you like to see in your future spouse?”

“I’m not quite sure,” he admitted, “Give me a second to think and get this slime out.” Zelda nodded and he disappeared under water. While she waited, Zelda used light magic to make figures of light above the spring.

Once upon a time, Zelda would have been scolded for doing so, her teachers demanding she treat her magic with reverence and save her power only for the most dire of circumstances. But Zelda wasn’t a student anymore, she wasn’t a child, and with the constant magic rejuvenation of the light spirit’s spring, there was no reason not to practice. Using beams of light, she drew a triforce, then the Master Sword. Hyrule’s crest came next, a ladybug on a flower. The ceiling looked like her notepad after one of Councilwoman Myra’s excessively long rants about the Gorons and how difficult trade was with them because they didn’t need the same things that Hylians and Zora needed.

That was when Link surfaced. The portion of the Zora armor he was wearing must have expanded his ability to stay underwater, but not indefinitely without the full set. Her light doodles were reflected in his eyes as he glanced between her and her creation.

“That’s beautiful,” he said, letting himself drift back next to her.

“Thank you,” she said with a smile, then let the light disperse, “Sometimes I like to remind myself that magic can be used for more than life and death. Now, do you have an answer for me yet, or do you need more time?”

Link sighed and pulled himself up to sit beside her. A quick glance showed the cut on his thigh had become a thinner red line, their time would be up soon.

“I said I wanted a complement, but I don’t know what that means for me,” Link admitted, “Someone as independent as me, I guess. I have lots of friends in lots of places, and I wouldn’t want a wife who would keep me from visiting them. She could be willing to come with me, or be fine on her own while I go out helping people and visitin’. I want her to have her own hopes and dreams, something to work towards, and I could help her with. I want to know that she’s fine when I’m gone, but happy to see me, because I’m me and while she doesn’t need me, she wants me.”

“A woman of ambitions and goals? I could see that,” Zelda said, smiling at the thought of Link’s partner being a force for good, just like he was, but with direction.

Link laughed, “Really? I’ve felt like it’s a stupid idea. I feel tired a lot of the time, and logically the cure for that is someone who’s peaceful, knows how to make a home to come back to. But a larger part of me says that ain’t right, that when I’m somewhere peaceful, I enjoy it for an hour before I feel un-needed and move on. I know what a home looks like, thanks to Rusl and Uli, but they aren’t my home. I guess I want my company desired on a personal level, but not needed, and my abilities needed on a different level, but not always wanted. So not only am I a romantic, I also seem to be real picky.”

“I wouldn’t consider someone picky because they wanted a partner of ambitions and goals,” Zelda argued back. “Those are the most interesting people.”

Link made a noise of agreement, then changed position to float on his back in the water. Zelda made herself slip back into the spring, to help her stay awake and cool some of the blush in her cheeks.

Zelda might not be the most experienced in relationships, but the only thought on her mind when Link spoke about someone with ambitions and goals, was I have ambitions and goals. She was twenty-two, she was the literal bearer of the Triforce of Wisdom, and it was still a little embarrassing to admit she and Link had basically been describing the other.

She let herself look over his floating form, safe from him knowing about her assessment. Was the answer both so simple and so complex? Did Link realize what he had been describing? Could he ever be interested?

Tired of these thoughts, she took a deep breath and dove under the water. On the stone floor, she let out the rest of her breath and folded herself into a mediation pose, closing her eyes. Leaving her sunk. Here, she could hear her heartbeat. Here was a warmth to the spring. When her lungs grew tight, she used her hands and a spell to draw air from the water, separating the molecules at the edge of her lips, and took a breath to sustain her peaceful meditation.

Her heartbeat. Her rule. Her family.

The goddesses would not let her stray down wrong paths. She had a plan, even if just her silly courtship idea. Zelda could meditate properly now, eyes-closed, magic being expended at a sustainable rate, and she could truly think about all the things she had talked about with Lanayru. The kind of person she was, and who she needed to continue to become to be the queen the people of Hyrule needed. She wanted to build. She wanted to research and start a university. She wanted to build up trade with Holodrum, and start political relations with Termina. She wanted to build two new bridges now that the old—

Her head was thrust forward, and foreign air forced into her lung through the press of lips. Her eyes burst open, only to be covered a second later as a helmet was jammed on her head, and she was pulled upwards.

“Zelda! Princess Zelda!” Link yelled, as soon as they hit air, hauling her onto a pillar only a few inches below the water level.

She slapped away his hand, startling him into being quiet.

“What are you doing?” she demanded and yanked his Zora helmet off. Angrily, she then had to yank all her hair out of her eyes to glare at him properly. It took only a second of looking at him to realize what had happened. In her efforts to get away from thoughts of him, she hadn’t told him her plan. He had seen her, looking lifeless at the bottom of the spring, and had done everything he could to save her from drowning.

“I, er…” Link fumbled. Zelda knew she should calm down, it was a perfectly reasonable assumption to make, and all actions taken were for the preservation of her life, but he had kissed her to breath air into her, and he was still shirtless, and they were both bright red and she didn’t feel like calming down. “I thought you were drowning,” he said at last.

“I figured that out,” she said haughtily and opened her mouth to say more, but Zelda didn’t have a logical continuation of the thought. Nor was this the proper road to take if she wanted him as her friend. Certainly not if she ever wanted him as something more.

Taking a deep, obvious breath, she slowly released the air, making her focus on that. A better course of action.

“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” she said, her cheeks burning. “I had cast a spell that allowed me to extract air from the water around me, and I should have told you to keep you from worrying. I’m sorry.”

It was the best she had come up with in her flustered state. Link let out a breath of his own, though it looked like they were back to square one in terms of how comfortable he was with her. She needed something better.

“I could show you,” she offered hesitantly. It was common curtesy to never bespell anyone, and rude to even ask. It was all she could come up with, as flustered as she was.

He looked at her and her cheeks flushed. This time her eyes darted away, remembering the brief moment of warmth and air when his lips breathed for her. She couldn’t look him in the eye, and for some reason, that made him relax.

“Sure, that sounds like an interesting experience,” Link said, and she glanced up at him. This time he was smiling, trying to put her at ease.

Sitting on the edge of the underwater pillar, Zelda took a couple of extra breaths to steady herself, regain control and focus. When she was ready, she started making the proper motions and pulling at the magic inside herself, the magic that sang through her blood.

Link was sitting beside her, watching her hands, and she hesitated only a moment before reaching forward and brushing her fingers against his lips, laying the spell there. He blushed again, but didn’t do anything else as she finished.

“It’s pretty pure oxygen, so unhealthy for an extended period of time, but it pulls it directly from the water and releases the hydrogen in bubbles,” she explained while crafting a second spell for herself, “While I can support one person indefinitely in this spring, we should be good for ten minutes, with me supporting the spell for the both of us.”

 “I just dive?”

“Breathe normally. You’ll feel water at your lips, but only air will enter your mouth.”

“Here goes,” and Link slid off the pillar.

Zelda took another few steadying breaths, reapplied the spell to herself, then slid after him, her skirt was carefully tied to her thighs to prevent it floating up too much.

Link smiled as she joined him in the center of the spring. He hesitated, then asked, “Can we talk?”

 “Yes,” Zelda answered needlessly, “How does it feel?

Link examined his fingers, “It’s different than Zora armor. Your magic feels…bright. Bright and clean. I like it.”

“How did Twili magic feel?” Zelda asked.

Link shrugged, “Zant and Ganondorf felt clogged and confusing, like the spells didn’t know what to do, just that it wanted to harm. Kinda like the Castletown sewers. Midna’s felt deep, I think. Old and deep, like being in an underground temple. Kinda musty. Sorry, but that’s the best I got.”

“No, I understand what you mean,” Zelda said, thinking about her own experiences with the respective magics. She shook her head, and let out a flirty smirk, “Want to race?”

“I still have the zora greaves on,” Link said, flicking the fins on his feet.

“Well, what do you usually do while under water?”

Link shrugged, “Get to wherever I’m going, usually. Sometimes watch the fish if I’m taking a rest. I’m not normally underwater with someone else. What do you do when you’re underwater with someone, besides racing?”

Queen Rutela had been the one to teach her this spell during her nineth summer at the Domain. Zelda had learned to swim, they had played with metal ball toys, and . . .

“Were you taught how the Zora dance?” Zelda asked.

Link shook his head.

“Would you like to learn?”

He searched her face for something, and evidently found it, because he nodded.

“I’ll teach you the simple step, since there is no music,” Zelda said. “Maybe I can teach you more if you are going to Ralis’ coronation at the end of the summer. But for now, take my hand.”

His hand was wider than hers, his fingers thick with callouses. Zelda arranged them in the proper grip and stepped slightly out of alignment with him.

“The dance is meant to be accommodate currents and circular within this singular space. The best dancers don’t move  out of a six foot radius from their starting position during the entire dance. These hands press flatly,” she said, holding up her free hand, which he pressed lightly against hers. “And think of this like a scissor step. We both move our right feet out passed the other’s hip, then snap our legs together.”

She did one, and Link was slowly dragged through the water by their held hands, until they returned to the starting position.

“Step 1-2, Snap 3,” she paced the motions to the count. “Step 1-2, Snap 3.”

She repeated it until Link caught on. First over spinning them, then off count, making her laugh as she was accidentally flung wide. His greaves were the real problem, but she didn’t mind, she was having fun as they figured out the medium of his steps. Then the reverse when Zelda’s right leg grew tired. Zelda taught him how to counterbalance the movement so you didn’t go too far towards the surface or the floor.

Finally they were moving on count, and Link grinned at her, breathing heavier for the workout. Zelda automatically reached forward and touched the corner of his mouth, checking her spell work.

She caught his eyes in that moment and froze.

His breathing didn’t get lighter as her fingers continued to linger there. Zelda knew she was taller than him on an intellectual level, but at that moment he seemed to engulf every part of her vision, and part of her thought that this was how he would always look, if his outward appearance reflected even a smidge of the greatness he had found inside himself since the first time they met.

Her eyes drifted down to his shoulder, where the wound was long gone, then back up to his eyes. A wolf, for all that they were in the terrain of fish.

Link’s free hand copied her motion, his thumb pressing against the corner of her mouth.

“Is this the next step you’re going to teach me?” he asked.

“No, I wanted to check my spell,” she said, dropping her hand. He dropped his at the same time. “I don’t remember the other moves well enough to teach you.”

“Then I suppose we’ll learn together at Ralis’ coronation party,” Link said. “Though I should probably go tell him he can use the temple for it, now that it’s cleaned out. He couldn’t plan anything until I killed the scalera there.”

“Oh, of course,” Zelda said. “You are healed, and you should probably find a way to leave through the lake, my guards might take issue with your presence, should you be noticed.”

He nodded, and began to swim upwards, Zelda a beat behind him, only letting go of hands once they reached the surface.

They both climbed out of the spring, and Zelda turned her back to allow Link to re-don his zora armor.

“Thanks for the dancing lesson, Zelda,” Link said, and she turned back to see him all packed up. “And for letting me use the spring even though you’re here for something special.”

“Of course, any time,” Zelda said, a little helplessly.

He gave her a last smile then headed for the exit.

No, Zelda was brave enough for this.

She got to her feet and latched onto his gauntlet. Link turned back to her. The words she wanted to say shriveled on her tongue.

“Prince Ralis is attending my coronation, you won’t find him at the Domain this eve,” Zelda said instead. “There is a seat for you, during my coronation I mean, if you wish to attend. You can inform Prince Ralis there of what you have accomplished.”

“Oh, alright then,” Link said. “Why would you have a seat saved for me?”

Because there is no Hyrule without him? Because she hoped he’d come, even though he hadn’t set foot in Castletown since dropping her off after their return from the desert? Because if he did come, Zelda wanted him to see her accept her crown, and so he needed a spot she would be able to find quickly.

            Be brave.

“Because I had hoped you would come, even if the invitation I sent to Ordon went unanswered,” Zelda said. “Is that alright?”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I guess I haven’t checked my mail at home for a while. Thanks for saving my seat. I’d love to see you take up your crown. Though it’s not like anyone else could after the light spirits acknowledged you as the rightful ruler.”

Awkward. She wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that.

“Is . . . uh, that it?” Link asked, lightly tugging on his hand to remind her she still grasped it.

            BE BRAVE.

“No, could I . . . may I call upon you in Ordon?” she said, unable to keep the red from her cheeks. “Perhaps, two weeks from now? During the day, not just after midnight.”

Zelda helplessly watched Link put it all together, hoping she looked more confident than she felt. Hoping she hadn’t been imagining things and that he hadn’t just been polite.

Slowly, his lips spread into a smile. “I’d like that, Princess.”

#tp zelink #zelink #just after midnight #zelelmo prompt #Flirty zelda for once #TP Zelda #TP Link #Princess Zelda

[nightcourtseer]

What a Smile’s Worth

Chapter 2 - Azriel

Summary: Almost two years after the events of Solstice, Elain comforts Azriel after he reaches a breaking point.

My love letter to Azriel. ❤️ Thank you for reading, and hugs to anyone reading this who’s struggling.

For Elriel Month 2023

Read on A03

“I still can’t believe it,” Elain murmured softly in wonder, staring at her sister across from her, both of them tucked underneath the covers of Elain’s old bed in the House of Wind.

“A baby, your baby.”

Nesta’s smile was radiant in the dark of the room, as bright as the silver moonlight seeping in the open windows. Even the house seemed to sigh in contentment at Nesta’s happiness, as the airy curtains fluttered in a non-existent breeze of the late autumn evening.

“I’m so happy,” Nesta confessed, her grin wide as the covers moved where the eldest Acheron reached down to the slight swell of her belly. “Happier than I ever imagined to be possible.”

Elain smiled back at her, beaming, although she hoped Nesta would not see the hint of tightness that was held in the back of her jaw. A hidden pang of jealousy that had struck her when Nesta shared the news with her earlier that night, the two of them sharing an evening at the House of Wind while Cassian was away at Windhaven.

“I am happy for you,” Elain spoke honestly, “For you and Feyre, both.”

Her first nephew had grown taller and more brash with each day, tiny wings growing fuller and wilder over the past two years. Nyx’s proud parents watching in awe as he stumbled around and flapped his small wings for balance.

Over the past almost two years, Nesta and Elain had grown closer, and the two of them with Feyre as well. Nesta could now read more clearly what her sisters were thinking - what their tells were.

In Elain’s case, the tightness that pulled at the back of her jaw, making her full lips stretch ever so slightly when she was upset.

Nesta was about to say something, to offer some vague reassurance without admitting that she might know more than she let on, when Elain froze, her brown eyes widening as she looked past Nesta to the closed door of the room.

Elain felt it as strongly as if a slammed door had rattled the house. A certain blanket of quiet that settled over the place - not a sound, but rather, the absence of it.

She had always been able to sense him before any of the others. Had always been able to see him, even when he didn’t wish to be seen.

Her eyes flicked to her older sister, who was watching her curiously.

“Azriel’s here?” Elain asked in a soft voice. Holding her breath as she awaited the answer.

Nesta gave her a strange look.

“I didn’t hear anything,” she responded cautiously, but at something in the look in Elain’s eyes, Nesta turned, looking up as she addressed the House itself.

“How many of us walk these halls?” Nesta inquired quietly.

The sisters fell silent, waiting for the House to respond. If anyone had told Elain when she was still human that she would one day be talking to a house, she would have thought them mad.

And then, movement.

A bell hung beside the door began to ring softly, as if an invisible hand had pulled its velvet cord.

One toll. Then a second.

Elain held her breath.

And then a third. The bell fell silent.

“I suppose he is, then.”

Nesta broke the silence as she looked at Elain curiously.

The House’s answer was proven true when a moment later the sound of glass clinking and a rush of liquor from a bottle floated to them from the direction of the library just down the corridor.

“He isn’t here much, is he?” Elain whispered, so softly that Nesta could barely make out her words.

She could hardly bear to say his name.

It was as if a hand was wrapped around Elain’s heart and squeezing. Each day she felt it, its grip growing tighter and tighter. She no longer woke with a smile on her face, but breathless, as if she had run a great distance in her dreams. Sometimes following a nightmare where she indeed had been running after someone. A hand, moreover, that had dropped hers and disappeared into the cool mist of the evening.

And then when she tried to give chase to the male in her dreams, in the garden of the townhouse, she would inevitably lose him in a tangle of thick brambles and thorns, ivy blocking her way in a maze of overgrown hedges.

She never had to question what those dreams meant, as those same thoughts filled her mind each day as she searched for him at the dinner table, in the skies, in the streets of Velaris.

He was never quite close enough to touch. Not after that night.

And oh, how it made her angry. That the male she had handed her shattered heart to in an open box had put it back together so lovingly only to smash it right back on the ground.

She hadn’t thought him to be so careless.

As if Nesta saw the conflicting emotions fluttering across Elain’s face, she cleared her throat slightly, and then spoke, in a voice so surprisingly gentle that Elain sometimes wondered if it was reserved solely for her.

“He isn’t well, Elain.”

Elain’s breath caught in her throat as her heart warred over whether to be concerned or selfishly smug.

“He hasn’t been well for a while now.”

In the end, her stubborn, lingering love for him overcame - as it probably always would.

“How so?” Elain whispered back, her pulse beating wildly in her neck as she awaited Nesta’s response.

Nesta hesitated, as if wondering if it was proper to reveal more information about the shadowsinger’s condition to her sister. Weighing the secret that she knew went unspoken between them, but remained all the same.

As the world was round, so did Elain love Azriel. And so Azriel loved Elain.

“He’s barely slept, or eaten properly in months,” Nesta confided carefully, watching her sister’s expression. Brown eyes glittering in the dark back at her. “He barely speaks to Cassian or I at all anymore. It’s only gotten worse.”

Elain felt lightheaded, as if the earth itself were spinning faster even as they laid in bed.

So she hadn’t been presumptuous then, to take notice of how the spymaster had changed since that Solstice night. When everything had been broken between them. No, others had taken notice as well.

And here he was, down the hall from her. Only her sister in the house, who she knew would not stop her if she went to him.

It might be the only chance she had to see him, even as her broken heart still pierced her chest from the inside, shards of glass still pressing against her ribs as she awoke each morning, and as she laid awake long into the night as she replayed that Solstice over and over again in her mind.

“Go,” Nesta urged with a whisper.

Elain looked back at her older sister in shock. Nesta’s blue gray eyes insistent in the dark.

As if to urge her further, Nesta pulled the blankets back from over the top of Elain. A whip of cool air struck her skin, leaving her bare flesh pebbled with goosebumps. The house eerily quiet once more besides their fervent whispers.

Elain had no words, and she wasn’t yet sure if she should thank Nesta. Unsure of what she would find of the spymaster who she had once thought she had known so well.

…..

- Azriel -

It had been three days. Three days of torturing a high-ranking general of the human queens, who may or may not know something about the death god who had continued to slip through their fingers.

Rhysand was becoming desperate. His son was now a toddler, but just as innocent and hunted as the day he had been born.

The High Lord of the Night Court would take no chances, accept no odds that Koschei and the human queens could obliterate their fragile peace. Rhysand would spare nothing when it came to his family.

Which meant that Azriel could take no chances. Azriel could spare nothing.

What many did not understand about his position, about his work, about torture… was that to break someone, to truly infiltrate their deepest held secrets, you often broke right alongside them.

While the prisoner had barely been allowed to eat, sleep, or drink for three days, so had Azriel suffered the same. Truthteller remained a constant presence in the damp of the cell, slicing through muscles and skin and when they healed, doing it all over again.

The prisoner had broken, eventually. Providing a small piece of intel that could help them follow the ghost of a lead of how to defeat a death god.

But what the cost had been, beyond the dead body now rotting on the floor of the keep in the deepest chambers tucked away in the Court of Nightmares… well, no one had ever bothered to ask.

When Azriel had landed clumsily and opened the balcony door to the House of Wind, he had nearly stumbled back over the threshold.

She was here.

She was somewhere in the house, he realized, as he breathed in her scent of jasmine and honey like a man starved. Because truly he had been, for nearly two years.

The House seemed even more alive with her in it, he thought to himself as he made his way inside. Though he knew he should turn right back around and leave, put as much distance between her and him as possible, he found his tired legs leading him further inside the house, to the library, close to the quarters where Elain and Nesta had once slept after first being Made.

There would be alcohol in the library, in a small bar cart filled with finer reserves not offered in large enough quantities to occupy the typical service stations around the house.

If he could just be in the same house as her, asleep down the hall from her for the first time in over two years, maybe he could find rest. Maybe he could stave off the nightmares as he let her scent wash over him, along with the memory of her smile, better yet maybe the distant sound of her laughter.

Shadows twisted around him as he reached for the decanter, their master lost in his thoughts of the female who had shed light on his dark heart like the sun itself.

His hand shook as he brought the full glass to his lips. Specks of blood dotted the ridges of his scarred flesh, reaching all the way past his elbows.

This would prolong sleep, for just a little while. After what he had spent the prior three days doing, it would most likely be inevitable that he could seek peace in his dreams.

The nightmares had never stopped. Subsided perhaps, especially after the days spent under the sun in the garden, when his mind had been blissfully distracted by soft conversations filled with dreams and flowers and hope.

But they had returned, as they always did. Following the ebb and flow of over 500 years.

It always began the same.

Azriel, seeing through the eyes of the boy he once was - before he was a shadowsinger, before he was part of the Inner Circle. Before he knew just how cruel one creature could be to another.

And through his young eyes, he once again felt the mind-numbing, life-altering pain of flame clinging to oil upon his soft skin. The small, delicate hands of a child, chained to a wall where they burned and smoldered in front of him, smoke curling up and blinding him. The smell of charred flesh so nauseating that he had thrown up on himself, wet himself.

How he had wished his young life would end in that moment. Snuffed out like a candle, so that he could find peace away from the light of the fire.

But when the smoke cleared, in his nightmare, it was not his half brothers who stood before him.

No, it was himself, as he was now.

Adult Azriel glowered down at him, shadows wreathing his towering form as he watched his younger self burn and thrash and cry for help. His eyes empty of any empathy, any compassion or care.

The same eyes he recognized from staring in the mirror each morning, scarred hands braced against the sink as his mouth turned downward at his reflection.

Standing behind him, with a hand on the older Azriel’s shoulder, would be Rhys’ father. The former High Lord whispering in the shadowsinger’s ear.

“No mercy.”

And then as young Azriel he would blink, and Rhysand’s father’s face would shift ever so sublety, revealing someone else in his place. Stormy violet eyes with a dark smirk. Rhysand taking the stead of his father, his hand still clasped on the torture master’s shoulder.

In the dream, he cowered before that look, and the words that his High Lord commanded of the shadowsinger at his beck and call. Rhys turning his mouth to whisper in his adult self’s ear while reaching to unsheathe the gleaming dagger at the spymaster’s side. The cold metal reflecting the firelit flesh of his boyhood hands as he screamed.

“Don’t stop until you break him.”

……

Elain had never really given the age of the Illyrians a second thought, as they looked so similar in physical maturity to her and her sisters.

But as she silently watched Azriel throw back the three fingers of whiskey and sit heavily on the sofa in the shadowed portion of the room, she could see his 500 years wearing on him more than ever before. As if a weight had been slung over his shoulders, pulling him down to the ground, his wings dragging behind him.

He all but collapsed when he sat, resting the empty glass on the table in front of him and folding in on himself, elbows braced on his knees as he stared at the ground.

Without a second thought, Elain began to cross the room. Her bare feet silent on the thick carpet as she made her way to where he sat on the couch, head held heavy in his hands. Shadows blanketing him, sluggishly drifting over his hunched form as if they, too, were exhausted.

His darkness did not frighten her. The emptiness in his eyes did not scare her away.

So Elain sat, the skirt of her wispy nightgown floating around her as she quietly took a seat next to Azriel. The only sound in the room the ticking of the grandfather clock, as steady as a heartbeat.

Azriel said nothing, and did not object to her presence.

Her heart pounded in her chest at being so close to him - closer than she had been in nearly two years.

Sitting beside him, she did see the male who had left her heartbroken in the hallway of the River House, her hand clutching her heart to keep the pieces of it from falling at her feet.

But more than that, Elain also saw the male who had led her out of the darkness, his hand in hers. A kindred spirit; a familiar soul that had seemed to understand the depths of hers from the very beginning.

Elain could not leave that man behind.

She turned to him and reached out a trembling hand, lifting his chin from where his head rested heavy in his hands. Guiding him to lean his weight into her, his body warm and solid as he shifted so that his head was now resting on her shoulder.

His much larger body relaxed into hers, his shadows stilling and then fading slightly as she held the shadowsinger.

What a wonder it was, that someone so soft could soothe his sharp edges. What a miracle that he could find comfort in such a small gesture, an insignificant moment of his head finding a resting place in the crook of her neck. Her own steady pulse a guide for his racing one.

When he did not move, but rather melted into her body like a quiet sigh, she moved again, this time to push back his dark hair from where it fell over his eyes so that she could brush a chaste kiss against his forehead.

A kiss without expectation, or agenda, except to console. To soothe a weary soul who ached for the simplest of comforts.

At the touch of her lips to his skin, at the tenderness in which she held him in her arms, Azriel’s eyes closed of their own volition.

He was warm, beneath her lips, as if he was running a fever. The pulse in his neck audible, beating wildly.

Elain moved to take his hand in hers. Unbound curls curtaining her face as she bent down to ghost her lips against his shaking, blood-dotted fingers.

Azriel let out a warning growl and sharply pulled his hands from hers. Elain moved back in shock, eyes wide.

Violent pain churned in his hazel irises, his expression dark as he turned away from her own.

“You say they are beautiful.”

Azriel gestured to his hands, his beautiful face twisting with disgust. “But all I see is a reminder that I’m now the one pouring the oil, and striking the match.”

The room went quiet.

Elain wondered if he expected her to get up and leave, at his words.

But she wasn’t frightened of him, and had never been so. She didn’t see his admission as a door being closed, but rather, a window being opened to the thoughts he so rarely let others close enough to see.

Elain’s eyes bared into his as she remained.

“If Rhys offered you a different role in the Night Court, would you take it?” She asked, voice low.

Azriel said nothing, gaze still locked on his trembling hands now held in his lap.

“You would,” Elain murmured assuredly. “I know you, Azriel. You would, if given the chance. You would have never taken this role if it had not been for Rhys’ father.”

She reached once more for Azriel’s hands, slowly taking them in hers, delicate fingers tracing the fissures of his scars and the tops of his knuckles and the deep grooves in his palms.

Elain stared at them as if they were the most wondrous things she had ever laid eyes upon. Because in many ways, they were.

As she caressed his scarred hands, she spoke a truth that she had held in her heart for years but had never had the chance to share.

“You want to know why I think they are beautiful?”

She spoke breathily, and did not leave a pause for his response, or a chance for him to take his hands away once again.

“These hands have healed.”

Azriel could only watch in quiet amazement at the gentleness in which she held him. The hands that had killed a male not three hours before.

But Elain did have a penchant for seeing the things that others did not.

“They have carried an innocent human girl to safety. They have taught my sister how to grow wings and fly.”

Elain’s eyes lit up in wonderment at the thought, at how beautiful that moment must have been - the picture of it in her mind nearly stole her breath away. Her baby sister, feeling the song of the wind - finding freedom in the skies after all that she had endured.

“These hands took me into the garden for the very first time, and made tea for me day after day, just the way I like. These hands have cradled an infant child.”

Seeing Azriel hold Nyx, the look of fear in his eyes as his scarred flesh had held the future of the Night Court, had brought tears to her eyes so quickly that she had had to turn away and slip from the room. Because she knew, in that moment, that he had felt unworthy of his skin even brushing against the babe.

The smell of salt filled the air, and Elain looked up.

At some point after she had started talking, silent tears had begun to fall from Azriel’s hazel eyes, dripping silently and mingling with the drops of blood still staining his clothes.

Elain gave him a small smile, her mouth trembling as she spoke her final truth.

“These hands cared for me, when no one else took the time.”

She gave them a gentle squeeze between hers, the warmth of her skin washing over his like the light of the sun.

With a whisper, she concluded, “These hands touched me in ways that I wished you would never stop.”

Azriel closed his eyes tightly, body shaking slightly as he sat next to her on the couch. The room silent once more, as another quiet tear slipped down his golden cheek. And then another.

She knew that he was too exhausted to offer her any words or truths in return that night, and she did not expect it of him. That was not the purpose, in sharing what she did.

“I’m staying,” she murmured, as she tugged them back further on the sofa, tucking herself into his side as she pressed a gentle hand to his chest. “Sleep. I’ll watch over you.”

He had no energy to argue with such an offer, and so Azriel closed his eyes. Sleep finding him sooner than he ever expected.

Elain watched over him as she promised, observing the slowing of his breath and the evening of his pulse. The gentle rise and fall of his ribs beneath her palm.

No matter what she was to him, she knew that she would always love him. And maybe that was how she had finally come to understand the feelings he had held for Mor, after 500 years - even if he had finally accepted that they would never be together, he would always hold that place in his heart for her.

Azriel had seen her when no one else had. Had taken the time, when no one else had. Had pieced her back together, smile by smile. How could she not love him, after that?

Elain knew she would not help him find his peace after one night. But she could be patient. She could be there, as he was for her.

One smile at a time.

Tag List: @ultadverb @impossiblescissorspeachpaper @reverie-tales @illyrian-dreamer @123moiaussi @nivem565 @demarogue @gracie-rosee @elriel-month

#elriel #elain archeron #acotar fanfiction #pro elriel #azriel #pro elain #elain x azriel #elriel fanfiction #azriel shadowsinger #elriel fic #acotar

[the-french-belphegor]

So I wrote down three fic ideas for @critter-genfic-events's bingo card, one funny, one bittersweet, and one bittersweet with a heavy helping of sad, and for some reason my brain went "SAD. SAD FIRST", so here I am. Writing something with cuddling/missing someone/angst/post-campaign. I'll post it on AO3 (user name "Belphegor") ASAP.

—

The night was soft, warm, and silent. Pike barely heard the bedroom door open and a quiet footfall pad closer, floating as she was in that particular state between half-asleep and half-awake. She liked to try to stay up on the nights Scanlan played a Westruun tavern, but she was so comfortable despite the empty spot in the bed that she’d given up fighting off sleep long ago.

The mattress dipped a little on Scanlan’s side, tipping the balance towards consciousness. Then, surprisingly, nothing happened for a few long seconds.

Outside, an owl hooted.

“How’d it go?” she murmured eventually. Through the mattress she felt her boyfriend give a start.

“Sorry,” he said in a low voice. “Didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“Eh. I wasn’t sleeping anyway.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yup, absolutely,” she mumbled around a smile, very aware that she was slurring her words so much only someone who’d known her for as long as Scanlan had could make sense of them. Burying her face into the pillow probably didn’t help, either.

Scanlan didn’t make a witty remark or huff out a laugh. From what she could feel, he didn’t even move from his spot.

The silence and stillness jarred Pike awake completely.

“Scanlan?” she asked, rubbing her eyes to get them to focus faster. “Is everything okay?”

He was sitting on the edge of the bed with one leg tucked under him, bare-chested but wearing the short loose trousers he liked to sleep with.

(Scanlan liked to keep pants on at night in case of emergencies – or in case Grog barged in, which did happen occasionally. Pike had slept naked for four decades, most of them under the same roof as or a stone’s throw from her adopted brother, and saw no reason for things to change.)

When she spoke, he half turned to her and schooled his face into a smile instead of the half-lost look she could have sworn had been there a second ago.

“Sure. I should play the Golden Buck more often. You should see the fortune I made in tips!”

But the thing was, if Scanlan had known her long enough to decipher her words even when she was drunk, exhausted, or loopy from blood loss, Pike had learned a thing or two about him in that time, too. Kaylie remained the only person in existence who could tell in a heartbeat when he was lying, but Pike was getting pretty good at that as well.

She sat up and scooted closer. He’d placed a small candleholder on his bedside table, most likely to avoid tripping in the dark; the tiny flickering flame outlined the slope of his shoulders, the ridges of his worst scars, the vulnerable spot where his neck met his shoulder that she loved to kiss.

No point in calling him out for lying, even by omission. That would only be stating the obvious. Thus Pike jumped directly to the next logical step.

“What’s wrong?” she asked softly.

Scanlan’s shoulders slumped a little.

“Nothing. Just…” Emotion rippled across his face, like a breeze on water, and something about him crumbled. “Somebody requested ‘The Raven’s Wings’ again.”

Oh.

Scanlan had written many songs since the rise and fall of Vecna, mostly about Vox Machina. (Many were about Pike in some way or another. Her favourite of those was probably ‘The Lady’s Favour’, a cheerful ballad with the kind of lyrics that had to be sung after making sure the kids had all gone to bed.) A few of them were about Vax, of course, some cheeky, some solemn. ‘The Raven’s Wings’ was melancholic and haunting and unabashedly heartfelt; Scanlan had written most of it in one night while getting absolutely shitfaced with Pike and Grog. It had taken all of Pike’s powers of persuasion to convince him to actually make a real song out of it instead of burning the stained paper he’d scribbled the lyrics on.

She loved that song. Sometimes the melody snuck into her mind unexpectedly, and it felt both like poking a bruise and soothing an old hurt.

But she suspected it was somewhat different for Scanlan. Like everyone else, really.

Scanlan shivered a little when she gingerly wrapped herself around him from behind, skin to skin, scars to scars.

“It is a beautiful song, you know,” she said softly. “He’d love it.”

“It’s sappy, though.”

“What’s wrong with that?” The fact that Scanlan didn’t have a rejoinder was a good sign. Or a bad one, depending. “It’s a lovely tribute.”

This drew a sharp sigh from beneath her hands. She held him just a little tighter and waited.

“Yeah, but that’s… That’s it, it’s just a tribute. It doesn’t even say anything important about him. There’s nothing about what he was like, or… You know, like he was both really simple and really complex at the same time? I mean, he was such a shit, and he could brood worse than Percy, but also he was this ray of sunshine when he was happy… And he laughed, and he cried, and he wore his heart on his fucking sleeve and he let the whole world see it like it didn’t matter, and I never…”

He let out something that might have been a chuckle if not for the catch in his throat.

“I meant to ask him how he did that. Missed my shot in the end.”

“He made it look real easy,” murmured Pike, putting her chin on his collarbone, “but it’s really hard. But… I guess sometimes we do need reminders that it’s okay to, you know, feel things and show it. Even the bad stuff.” She paused. “Like the world’s not gonna stop because I say out loud that my friend is dead, and I miss my friend, and I’m sad.”

The worst thing about losing someone dear, Pike had found, were the regrets. The I should haves. The might have beens. She knew Scanlan still carried the weight of the wish he didn’t get to make; Scanlan knew about the quiet poisoned voice in her heart that sometimes whispered that her words to Vax – if the Raven Queen fucks with you, or hurts you, or doesn’t change you for the better, then she’s going to have to deal with me, and we’re going to have a problem – turned out to be meaningless and empty promises. She hadn’t been able to save him any more than Scanlan had, or any of them.

But at least she’d learned to stop pretending she was fine so everybody else could be okay. And start remembering they had each other to be not okay with.

Scanlan shifted a little in her arms to press a kiss into her temple and rested his forehead there for a moment.

And he prided himself on his words, that man of hers, but he didn’t give himself enough credit for his silences.

After a while, she asked him in a low voice, “Did you play the song?”

A two-tone hum answered her, then a wry chuckle. “I mean, I had asked for requests. And I know it’s not, you know, terrible music. Just… I could write all the songs I want and it still wouldn’t do him justice.” A beat. “What would you say? In a song about Vax, I mean. What would you like remembered?”

A soft smile with sharp edges. Warmth shining through sadness. Long hands with clever fingers, always gentle, even covered in blood. A trickster’s love for pranks. Mostly a heart so wide it could have contained enough love for a whole world and more.

“Fun buns,” she said softly.

“Hm?”

“We had this… thing, this little habit of doing each other’s hair up into fun buns. And… You know how he’d have a nickname for everyone? Nobody else ever called me ‘Pickle’. Just him. That’s a good thing to remember, I guess.”

Scanlan gently ran a hand up her forearm, rubbing the little hairs there the wrong way.

“I could work that into a song, if you’d like. Might even have a melody ready.”

Pike immediately shook her head.

“Oh no, it’s… That’s…”

Those memories were precious, and private, and hers. Sharing them with Scanlan, Grog, Vex, Keyleth, Percy, Tary – each of whom had their own set of precious private memories of Vax – was fine. But perfect strangers, who only knew of the Champion of the Matron of Ravens through what was essentially becoming folklore? That felt almost sacrilegious, in a way.

“…Don’t,” she finished lamely. “I know it’s stupid, but I kinda… want to keep some part of him for myself, I guess.”

“It’s not stupid,” murmured Scanlan into her hair. She could have sworn she could feel him grin just before he added, at the same low volume but in a very different tone, “Guess I’ll have to make it about the musician and the brave, strong sailor with the perfect breasts again. Sea shanties are always a win, right?”

“Idiot,” said Pike with a laugh that warmed her chest on the way up.

She knew she’d made her point, though – nicknames and fun buns would remain in the family. That still left Scanlan with plenty of material to write about Vax, anyway.

The conversation faded naturally after that. Pike blew the candle after she realised she was falling asleep right there against Scanlan, whose shoulders were still slumped, but for entirely different reasons than when he’d come in.

The night was still soft, warm, and silent. The bed felt much more comfortable with Scanlan clinging to her, one leg sprawled across her thighs and his head resting in the crook between her shoulder and her left breast. Everything was just as it should be – or the two of them were, at least. That was something.

She was teetering on the brink and starting to think him asleep too when she felt a touch of moisture on her chest, under his head, just where the corner of his eye would be. Then another.

“…Scanlan?” she mumbled.

He didn’t move; he only said thickly, in a voice so low she barely made out the words, “My friend is dead. I miss him. And I’m sad.”

Magic couldn’t fix everything, no matter how powerful. Words couldn’t really bring someone back, no matter how enticing. Sometimes the only thing left to do was to hold each other and let themselves grieve together.

Scanlan’s breathing came heavy and halting against her skin. She closed her arms tighter around him and murmured, “I know. Me too.”

They did fall asleep eventually, before their tears had dried.

—

I loved my friend.  He went away from me.  There’s nothing more to say.  The poem ends,  Soft as it began,— I loved my friend. 

(Langston Hughes)

(I almost went with Bastille's "Poet" but Hughes' poem rewired my brain long before I knew about either Bastille or Critical Role, so. I'm not ruling out the song one day, though.)

Here's hoping the next one is more cheerful! In the meantime, hope you liked 💜

#critter genfic bingo #critical role #vox machina #pike trickfoot #scanlan shorthalt #vax'ildan #pikelan #fanfiction #tlovm spoilers

[alilbihh]

thorns&mildew

pairing: yoongi x reader

summary:  “you’re not human.”                    “did you think I was?” yes, you want to say. or maybe. something that sounds at least halfway believable. but the truth is that the day you’d first seen him your very first thought was oh. you are not like me. you are not like anything I’ve ever seen before.                   (or: you’ve had weird dreams all your life and a boy with a heart too big for his chest seems to fix them.)

genre: soft!witch!yoongi, fantasy, fluff

word count: 9.4k

a/n: hi ! i have nothing to say for myself. i am simply. scum... i am rusty but please enjoy !

As a child, you have been warned away from magic for as long as you could remember.

It is a wicked thing; countless tales of wicked sorcery, ranging from sacrificial rituals bathed in blood to the disappearances of young maidens from their homes. It is tragic, it is dangerous, and most importantly, it is forbidden.

Maybe that is why you have so many dreams about it.

It is very clearly a dream this time, as well; mind dipped halfway underwater, your lungs heavy with it, your body moving on its own but at the same time following your will, as if acting on what you want before you even want it. You find yourself on the edge of an endless spiral staircase, a subterranean chill wafting from below, the stone itself bleeding the feeling of an ancient thing, a consciousness of its own. It has sat in darkness for centuries, your mind knows, the way dreams always do.

Except you have been here before. Your bare feet work their way down, the stairs stretching without end, your hand brushing over the bannister. The walls itself shudder with your touch.

You walk for what feels like forever, the silence deafening, muffled by what must be thousands of pounds of earth, and then-- a light, a flash of a cloak, of a face, and then--

You are awake.

The silence is such that you only hear the pounding of your own heart. You clutch at it, taking a fistful of your shirt, sweat trickling down your back. There is a second where you take in your surroundings, your room, and feel, suddenly, the mundaneness of it all, as if you are not supposed to be here. A sudden longing for a place that does not exist.

“God..” You hold your head in your hands, and breathe for what must be a long time.

Magic is forbidden. Maybe that is why you crave it so much.

It’s raining.

Not the heavy kind that drowns, but the annoying kind that tickles and lulls you into a false sense of security, and you’re well into your walk before you realize that you’re slowly being drenched by mist and it’s seeping into your bones. You reach out a hand, feel the trickling bounce off your skin. Heave out a sigh that’s been buried under your ribcage and then deeper.

“I have to get there before the witching hour,” What must be a middle-aged man huffs over the phone beside you once you’ve taken refuge under an awning, his brows creased in annoyance, “Even an old man like me doesn’t want to get caught outside at that time.”

You feel the sudden need to say something, when you’re suddenly and viscerally reminded of the time you’d woken from a dream of rain and an open field and a moon so big and heavy you wonder how it still hung in the sky. One by one, dandelions had lifted into the air, floating around and past you in swirls of ocean-blue light, and you woke up with your heart in your throat, feeling wounded and raw, like you’d just seen something you shouldn’t have.

You’d stepped out of your home that night, the streets so empty it felt like you were the only living soul for miles, your only company the moon and a flickering lamp post. It was the witching hour back then, too, and you half hoped something would happen to you. Nothing had.

You’re shaking so badly, but maybe it’s just on the inside. You’re so used to holding all your pieces together. You’re not sure why it’s so hard all of a sudden.

The old man lifts a jacket over his head and takes off into the streets, facing the ever-growing rain. You stay still under the awning, watching the streets, the coffee shop behind you smelling of pastries with a touch of winter, and you allow all your organs to clobber around in your body for just a second. Just one second.

Then you hear it. A far-off piano.

A car horn blares just as you look around frantically, wildly. Where is the piano? The places playing music are on the Top 40 rotation, and besides those, there are only second-hand clothing stores and bars and tucked away coffee shops. None of them would ever play music like this. Soft and lilting. A haunting lullaby.

You push past the rain and follow the piano into a paved street lined with coffee shops and galleries instead of bars and boutiques. The sound trickles past a side alley, and then another. A cobbled sidewalk dotted with a few blue colored steps, hand-painted, and a road so thin a car couldn’t even fit through, with some far apart and tiny store stoops. They lead to open doors of small glass fronted shops, and the goods range from books to plants to glass jars filled with bubbling liquids. There are no names to the stores, so you don’t know if they’re even stores at all.

You know this is insane. That, logically, you shouldn’t have been able to hear the piano from where you were. That if something isn’t logical, there’s only one real explanation for it.

There’s no one around, but still it feels like there’s a hand on your back that’s pushing you forward, and you’re helpless to do anything but let it.

Then, suddenly, as you step over a wide circle of oddly-placed mushrooms, your world becomes awash with color. Below a canopy of trees, tucked behind this small moment within space and time, tapering into endless evening, is a red bricked building, the stones laced with moss and weeds.

Above, the last of the sunset blazes on the upstairs’ windows, as if the rooms inside had been set on fire. It draws long shadows from the maple tree guarding the front corner of the yard in an overgrown, grassy knoll, an iron gate painted green left open to a cobbled path leading to the front stoop. You look behind you, and it’s the same path as before, separated only by a circle of brightly colored mushrooms. It feels like the you that hadn’t walked through it is another person entirely, like a piece of you has strayed off the path.

For a second, you think of the time you’d spent hours outside, bathed in moonlight, during the witching hour. It felt right. It felt safe.

You look back at the building. It’s in the middle of an oddly-placed patch of forest that looks to stretch well past the bricked walls of the building. Its walls bleed of something living, as if it were beckoning you forward with a wild desperation.

You let yourself think of how insane you are for only a second before walking through the iron gate, creaking open in protest. In that same second, the piano stops in its tracks.

Once you step into the small entry you’re struck with the scent of herbs, an almost smothering amount of sage hanging from the ceiling in dried clumps and bumbles, and beneath it something heavier, more woodsy and dark. The windows are open to let the spring breeze in, petals slipping inside like overeager children.

Your chest is swelling, everything behind your ribcage twisted tight, but you blink blink blink and look down and realize you’re dripping rain all over the sparkly floor. Also that the doormat says “go away” with a grumpy cat next to it. Huh.

You scrape your shoes over it and take a step into the shop, half-thinking you’ll spontaneously combust on the spot, and when you decidedly don’t, you take off towards the shelves. You skim over labels on the jars and pick up something purple and shimmery, turning it over in your hand. It says “Hyssop, consume by mouth,” and when you pick up another one, it has its name scratched off with a shakily written “DO NOT CONSUME.” You feel there’s a story there.

The glass front has a collection of greenery and different flowers of pinks and purples and blues. You recognize a hydrangea growing in a peanut butter jar. To the right, a neat counter with scattered papers sits between some well-loved shelves lined with glass jars of paintbrushes and canisters of pencils and markers and a couple old film cameras.

You think you hear whispers, but every time you turn, there’s no one there at all.

Then, as you’re following the trail of vines crawling over the pastel- blue walls, you hear hasty but lazy footprints above you, as if whoever it is is dragging their feet with the urgency of an old man late for an appointment. You freeze in place. God, what are you doing? What if you’re not supposed to be here at all? What if you really did disturb an old man, and that you’re really just going insane?

You can’t bring yourself to move an inch, and by the time the footsteps reach the bottom floor and you hear a door creak open, you’re doomed.

Beside the counter with the register, a narrow corridor you hadn’t noticed before is suddenly surrounded by misty smoke. The door opens wider, inviting more fog, and a person waves a hand over their face as they cough up a lung, face contorted into disgust.

“Namjoon-ah, I told you, no coming before six,” They cough, “I’m-- fighting my demons in there.”

For a second, you’re too caught up in the person’s voice. Daegu. Daegu, but a little off. A little old. The kind someone’s grandparents would have.

You blink. You remember all of the things you were taught about staring at people, namely that it’s rude, and then you proceed to stare anyway. It is not an old man at all. It’s a boy. There’s a mess of black hair streaked with what looks like cobwebs. He’s wearing slippers and pajama pants and a long shirt twice his size, and when he blinks into awareness, he’s staring at you like you’re not real.

The boy has a presence that takes up the whole room. It’s not dominance or power, but something soft and bright, like the moon through an open window, even in the cold winter. Warm.

You shuffle in place for a bit and make for a hesitant wave, and for only a second, every available inch of the boy’s face shatters into something like wretched devastation. Your hand lowers with a flinch, and it seems to bring him into awareness.

He stands up straight, but makes no move to speak. “Uh,” you start, wringing your hands, “This... Well. I’m-- very sorry for this.” You clear your throat, “It’s just, how do I say this without making it seem as if I’m insane? God, that’s what you think, isn’t it. Of course it is. I am to be stopped, like, immediately.” You shuffle towards the door, “Really, really sorry about this! You will not be seeing me again, I promise!”

Your hand is on the doorknob when you feel a frantic touch on your arm, pulling you back, “No!” He says it as if it were being physically torn from his lungs, having been buried somewhere deep. You flinch back. He pulls away from you as if burnt.

“I-I’m not a thief, I swear!”

“I--know!” He breathes heavy, then takes one slow, deep breath in. He lets it out. The longer you meet his gaze, the more it feels as if you’re dipping under the surface of a lake and can’t break away. “I know.” He says, slower. He collects himself. “Sorry. I was having... troubles.”

You blink. “Troubles.”

He nods.

“You don’t mean the demons, right?”

He blinks, slow. “Demons?”

“The demons!” You gesture towards the open door, still inviting in smoke. “You were fighting demons in there, you said!”

His hand lowers to his side, and he seems to be taking in his surroundings for the first time. “Oh.” A second passes. “You know I’m a witch.”

“HAH! So you admit it! It’s true! You’re,” You let out a breath. “You’re not human.”

“Yes,” The boy says, soft in a knowing that you don’t understand. “Did you think I was?”

Yes, you want to say. Or maybe. Something that sounds at least halfway believable. But the truth is that from the moment you’d first seen him your very first thought was oh. You are not like me. You are not like anything I’ve ever seen before.

You breathe and breathe, then scratch at where he’d touched your arm. It was a light touch, not to hurt-- never to hurt-- But there’s a gentle sort of fire that’s burning somewhere deep under your skin, there. A contained sort of energy repurposed into making a human being feel so bright and warm. A campfire maybe. Or an early morning on a summer day. Something that envelops.

“Real,” you say almost hysterically to yourself. “So... No sacrifices?”

His mouth twitches, amused. “No.”

“And the witching hour?”

“When the moon is just right, it’s the ideal time to make potions.” He rethinks, for a moment. “And jam. It tastes better.”

“And the-- the demons?”

He breathes out a laugh, a soft one. “No demons.” He looks back at the smoke. Shrugs. “Just jam.”

“Oh.”

Your world is a bit wobbly, now. Slightly off-kilter. Not in a bad way, but maybe in a way that lets a little more light in.

The boy suddenly lets in a breath, as if to prep himself for something. Looks back at you. Then, “So. What brings you here?”

“Um.....” You think. “A piano.”

“A customer, then. Though we usually don’t get any humans.” He hums, pleased and somewhat eager, then beckons you towards the shelves. “How can I help you?”

“I...” You linger by the door, but he waves you over to have you walk closer. After a second, you do. “How can you just let me in like this?”

“You’re in the shop,” He points out. Leans against the front desk. “It wouldn’t let just anyone in.”

“And you trust it?”

“It’s a part of me, and I trust myself, so.” He does a series of tiny little nods. “Yeah.”

“So it... led me to you?” You hum. “That’s neat.”

He softens impossibly. A puddle of mush, he is. Soft around all the edges. “It has.” He answers simply. “So how can I help?”

“I don’t know, really. I just followed the pretty music. I guess I’d take some magic jam.”

“Oh. Pretty, huh.” The boy trails a finger over the jars’ labels, skipping over the ones suspiciously written with DO NOT CONSUME. He takes one that simply says strawberry. “Flavor?” He makes a noise. “Actually, no. D’ya want one of each? Yes, you do.”

“I do?”

He places one of every flavor on the counter; strawberry and red plum, apple and rosemary, dandelion and grape jelly. He lines them carefully inside an enviromentally-friendly bag that has little cats on it and says treat nature as you want to be treated!

“Ah.” He mumbles, sucking air through his teeth as he thinks, “And your sleep? How is it going?”

It’s then you realize he pouts when he speaks. His lips are just perpetually puckered. It’s the most endearing thing.

“How’d you know I wasn’t sleeping well?”

Something impossibly soft crosses over his face. It’s gone as soon as you see it. “I’m what people would call a genius.” He says, placing the potion along with the jams, “And you have some wicked eyebags.”

You quickly cover your eyes with your palms, pressing so hard you see stars, and mumble unintelligible curses into them. You don’t know how, but you’re sure he’s smiling.

“I’ve had nightmares for most of my life.” Your hands flop back to your sides. “I don’t think that’s something even magic can solve.”

He hums. “And why not?”

“Some things just seem like they’re.. beyond magic, I guess.” You say. “Not that I know anything about it. It’s nice there’s one thing the government didn’t exploit!”

He chuckles, and it weighs lightly in the air for a second, as if he’d rather taste the words on his tongue before answering. It feels like a trait of his, more than anything.

“Nothing is beyond magic.” For a second, something impossibly bitter seems to cross his expression. An ancient grudge. “Most things.”

He digs out a small glass something out of a drawer. It looks like a perfume bottle, maybe. When he pops the top off, the whole room smells lightly of lavender.

The boy hands it to you. It feels calming, as if it had been laid under the sun. It bubbles like sparkling water.

“And this will help me sleep?”

As you turn your head to look, he’s already watching you. Slowly, his eyes close, as if he were counting each of his breaths.

“No. But something else might.” He presses a finger to your forehead, gentle gentle, right where the worry sits. When he pulls back, nothing changed. And yet everything changed. “When you come back, look for Min Yoongi. I’ll be here.”

When you walk home it’s in the moonlight, hugging a still-warm potion and clinking jars of jam, your stomach in shambles, feeling as if you’ve woken from the deepest slumber.

When you return a week later, the road leads to a dead-end.

You stare at it for a moment, then another. This isn’t right. You followed the exact same route, but here you are, staring into nothing. Something builds up in you, something sharp with gnashing teeth, and you beat a fist against the stone wall. It couldn’t have all been a dream. Not with the potions and jams still sitting on your bedside table.

(Just that morning, you’d squinted blearily at the mid-morning sun shining through your window and came to two realizations. The first is that you slept better than you had in a long time. The second is that you forgot to close your curtains.

Your limbs were too heavy to lift, though, so you lay there for a while, pulling a sheet over your head and ignoring the light, your bones not attached to your muscles. Then, a third realization.

You have been seduced into having a better sleep schedule. And into buying jams.

How absurd.)

A chord is struck, and the familiar green iron gate comes into being. You let out a breath, half relief and half something else, then walk over the mushroom circle all over again. The light is on, a warm orange glow, and just as you’re lingering outside the door, hand half-raised to knock, it tears open with a disheveled Yoongi.

He looks half-mad. “You’re--back?”

“Yeah?” You hastily lower your hand. “What? Am I not supposed to be?”

“No, no,” His eyes, half-lidded with what must be sleep, widen just so. “I mean. Come in, please.” He widens the door invitingly, and you rub your shoes over his silly doormat before stepping inside. The door clicks closed and you hear the swoosh swoosh of Yoongi’s dragging feet over wooden tiles as he walks over.

He stops in the middle of the room, as if lost in his own home. “Did the potion work?”

“It did! The first few days, anyway.”

Yoongi begins walking towards the array of plants by the glass front of the store, grabbing some pruning shears from a nearby shelf. “M’listening.”

“Well, I usually wake up because of my dreams, but I didn’t dream anything the first few days. But after a while they started coming back.” You stare at Yoongi’s back as he crouches to inspect the plant. You don’t know what it is, but it has long stems and seems to be swaying on its own. Yoongi opens and closes the scissors in a little chop chop motion, brows furrowed in thought. “Potion tasted pretty good, too. Like candy.”

Somehow, you’re aware he’s listening even without looking at you. It just feels like he’s that sort of person. The kind that listens well to someone’s words, tucking each one away for safekeeping.

“Hm. I’ll have to change the ingredients, then.” He chops off a piece of the plant’s node, a dead limb, and you almost hear the sigh of relief from it. This feels more like a dream than your dreams ever had, but maybe it’s not a dream at all. Maybe it really is just magic. “Rosemary, apples...” He mumbles with a chop. “Cranberry?”

“Sounds tasty.”

Yoongi chuckles, but it’s more breath than anything, half-air. You wonder what he would look like if he smiled, all teeth, his belly into it. You wonder if there’s something holding him back.

You open your mouth to speak, when suddenly the hallway past the front desk-- where the smoke had been-- is noisy with foot traffic and bustling movement and a passing train, all compressed into one place. A door slams and it’s cut off at once, then a man walks in through Yoongi’s own home with a neon pink scarf rolled up to his nose and heavy snow boots.

You look outside to see if by god the sun gave way to snow. It hasn’t.

You look back at the man, then to Yoongi in question. He clicks his tongue, then simply says, to your complete astonishment, “Joonie, you’re dripping all over my nice floor. I just cleaned that.”

“Sorry,” The man says, “But I got you something!”

The man hands over a plastic cup, steam still rising from its mouth. Yoongi makes a small hum of delight, melting into the floorboards, holding onto his cup with both hands, as if happy with its warmth.

“You’re a lifesaver, Joon-ah.” He sips, then smacks his lips like he’s parsing the taste of aged wine. “Tastes like milkshake.”

The man grins, delighted, and upon seeing your ongoing confusion, simply tips his head with a pleasant smile.

You have many questions. Starting with, “What.”

The man, dubbed Joonie, is now diligently rubbing his boots over the welcome mat in what’s probably more time than necessary, hanging his scarf over the coat hanger, setting his boots by the door. Yoongi is right back to pruning, but offers you a dismissive wave with no explanation.

By the time you’ve all moved into the kitchen to talk, Yoongi’s hands are muddy and his hair is sticking up in odd places. He’s whining something to the man in that almost-whine of his, with pouted lips and the occasional high pitch and slow drawl. They say something, hushed, then both turn to look at you. You stand up straighter.

“Hello,” The stranger says, offering a little wave.

“Hi,” you say with a wave of your own.

There’s a strained second where you’re both just staring. Yoongi, unaware, chews on his straw.

“Hm.” The man, Joon, is still eyeing you. He takes a loud sip of his own drink, “Hyung, who’s this?”

“A regular.” Yoongi grunts. “Be nice.”

“I should be telling you that.”

“I’m nice.” Yoongi frowns.

Namjoon solemnly pats his shoulder. Pat, pat. “You’re nice.”

Yoongi offers another grunt, but there’s no bite to it.

“Hyung hasn’t had regulars in a while,” His chair creaks when he scrapes it backwards to stand, offering you a handshake. “I’m Kim Namjoon.”

You tell him your name, and when you shake hands, his cheeks dimple. Two small craters in both his cheeks. Makes you want to poke them.

“Joon-ah,” Yoongi mumbles, holding tighter to his mug. “We’ll talk later. Sorry for dragging this out.”

“It’s no problem, I’m sure you had your reasons.”

At that, you frown. “I’m sorry, was this a bad time? Should I have... scheduled, or something?”

“S’okay,” Yoongi’s eyes soften, just the tiniest bit. So small you might just have imagined it. “It was on purpose. Joonie could help you.”

You look expectantly, and Namjoon leans against the fridge with a nod. “I could. Or maybe not. Dream witches serve to tell people the meaning of their dreams; a divination, of sorts. Doesn’t stop you from having them, though.”

“Dream witch?” You say. “Woah. That’s cool as fuck.” Namjoon lets out a few embarrassed chuckles, and you’re both surprised to hear a quick, raspy laugh from the stove. You turn, and Yoongi is staring intently at his rice cooker, utterly still.

You are positively beaming. “And you, Yoongi?” You ask, expectantly. “What kinda witch are you?”

He clears his throat. Turns slowly, deliberately. “I’m a kitchen witch. I make potions and whatnot.” Yoongi says, then cocks his head to Namjoon. “Joonie’s a dream-seer. He also dabbles in various other areas. I say dabble, but really I mean he’s fluent in...” He counts on his fingers, “Five? Five languages.”

“Stop it.” Namjoon is a big guy, but now he’s curled in on himself, abashed.

“N’he’s published in many scholarly journals. Basically a genius.”

Namjoon scratches at the back of his head, “He’s exaggerating. Hyung, you’re really cool too, y’know.” He grins. “Cool as fuck, even.”

“Now you’re both turning this on me. I hate you.”

You laugh. Above, a light bulb brightens.

“Namjoon, so you said you interpret dreams? Does that mean every dream has a meaning?”

“Mostly,” Namjoon grows serious, as you feel he does whenever work is brought up. “There are studies, but there can’t be a meaning for every dream in the world. But there are nuances. Patterns.”

“And you study them all? That kinda sucks.”

“I enjoy it,” He says, a tinge of defensiveness in it.

“Hm... Then is there a meaning to not remembering your dreams when you wake up?”

“Depends. It could just mean that your brain doesn’t retain all the dreams you’re having. In your case, since they interrupt your sleep, it could mean your subconscious is trying to protect you from itself.”

“What does that mean?” You frown.

He taps his temple, “It means your mind knows something you don’t.” He shrugs. “Sorry, I really can’t help if you don’t remember anything.” Your back slumps in defeat, and Namjoon sheepishly pats your shoulder. “Don’t worry, kiddo. I’m sure it’ll make sense eventually.”

“Hm.” You sigh, “So, hypothetically, what if I were to dream about a..” You look around. “Curtain?”

“An open curtain means new beginnings. Closed means you’re closing yourself off to new possibilities.”

“A bunch of horses.”

“A longing for freedom.”

“A zucchini.”

He blanks. “Zucchini...”

“Looks like you need to study more, Joon-ah.” Yoongi says from the stove.

“You stop it. A zucchini is a silly thing to dream of!” He says that, but he’s already fishing for his phone, as if to look it up in his defense. Is there a google for witches? A yahoo for witches? That would be sick.

Yoongi joins you both with a teasing half-smile, and he’s been so quiet you would have forgotten he was there, if you weren’t so embarrassingly aware of him all the time. To your surprise, he then offers you a mug, which you take without much thought. You would imagine a witch’s utensils to be refined, all porcelain and fine edges, but the mug is chipped on one end and has a Santa Claus printed onto it. When you take a sip, it’s warm and fuzzy on your tongue, makes you feel floaty.

“Is this a magic tea?”

“Who knows.” Yoongi sends you a secretive tilt of his mouth. Not quite a smile. Something in your ribs flutters all the same.

“Zucchini!” Namjoon bursts into the room, and you realize you hadn’t noticed him leave. Blood rushes to your cheeks at that. “It’s a bad omen. Who would have thought?”

“An evil vegetable.” You add maliciously.

Yoongi frowns. “Zucchini’s a fruit.”

“You’re lying.”

“I swear it.”

“No way.”

“It comes from seeds, so it’s technically a fruit.” Namjoon adds, unhelpfully.

“I hate witches.”

Some time passes. Yoongi asks you about your jams, and after saying there’s plenty left, he decides to give you more anyway, throwing in some more floaty tea and magic bath soap. He tells you he’ll find more ways to help, and asks you to come back. You find that you don’t mind the trek.

As you’re leaving, Yoongi shuffles you back towards the entrance, waving a dismissive hand flap. You turn to wave goodbye to Namjoon and find him already looking, something calculating in his eyes. It’s gone when he catches you looking, and he politely waves you out.

That night, you pop the soap in the tub and watch expectantly. It sizzles for a good few minutes before unfurling into a pile of petals, floating languidly to the top of the bath, the bathwater fading from a pretty pink into seafoam green and smelling of lime and citrus. You sit there so long it goes cold, and when you leave your bones are gooey.

 You don’t have any good reason to visit again for one, almost two weeks. There’s plenty of jam to go around. You still feel tingly from the bathwater. Overall, you’re pretty satisfied.

Until the dreams are back.

You dream of bare walls of warm, white wood, faded and creamy from age. Behind a painting of a sunflower, you’re intimately aware of the fact it’s there to hide a crack of paint. There’s a fireplace on one wall with just a few trinkets lined along the mantle, and you’re not sure if you’re warm from the fire or something else.

There’s a queen-sized bed in one corner, and in the other, a grand piano.

You try to move but your feet are locked in place. Then, as you feel yourself blink, you sink into the floorboards like water.

You wake with a gasp and stumble out of bed. You hurry to grab your phone, but when you go to write the dream, it’s already slipped away.

 You never would have thought you’d be glad to have recurring dreams, but here you are.

“Yoongi!” You grin. “Hi!”

“Hello,” he says in his slow Daegu drawl, hurriedly waving you inside.

“What is it? Is there a special occasion?”

”Something like that. C’mere,” he says, beckoning you deeper inside, his expression feigning disinterest but something eager hidden in his tone. “I think you’ll like this.”

So he says, but there’s a fierce sort of surety in his tone that he can’t seem to hide.

You follow through where the smoke had been the first day, then past three sets of corridors until, at the very end of one layered with paintings and candles and creaky floorboards, sits a wide set of double doors. Yoongi looks back at you only once before pushing them open, and--

The outside is a small, humble shop, but the inside; it is far bigger than it logically should be. This goes beyond magic, you think wildly. It is something otherworldly.

It all seems to belong to a victorian cathedral, a long-ago world; On the walls are a collection of stained glass windows that color the inside a reflection of yellows and blues, inviting light to the two-story library painted directly from a childhood fairytale. There are high beamed ceilings with murals hand-painted an abstract wash of blues and greys. The scene looks like fog shrouded mountains. Or the outside of an open window. Or ocean waves crashing into each other.

“Oh,” is all you manage, awe tearing your throat raw.

You turn to Yoongi, maybe to share the wonderment, maybe for something else, but when your eyes meet, his are all still and fond and devastated. Something in his face slips, like a mask melting away, and a part of you likes the wide-eyed wonderment you find left behind. When you first met Yoongi, he didn’t seem human. Too polished. A little hungry. But this look is tender and welcoming and makes something small and bewildered start behind your ribs.

You’re suddenly all too aware of how you’re standing here, surrounded by magic and books and this beautiful boy, and that something is missing. It must be. It’s a feeling you’re used to, but it’s new all the same. A different something. A weird sort of empty, and a weird sort of full.

The illusion shatters as he blink blink blinks and hastily looks down to his slippers. Bunny slippers, you realize. “So you like it, then.”

“Who in their right mind wouldn’t like this?” You gesture wildly towards, well. Everything.

His mouth twitches, as if he were fighting back a smile. “You would be surprised.” Then he straightens, clears his throat, and starts towards a hallway of shelves. You blink into awareness and hastily follow.

“These books are a pain, actually,” He stops to pull one out, shuffles through its pages, and places it back. He continues walking, “I’m the only one who ever knows where everything is. They always switch places by themselves.” A huff. “Namjoonie hates it. Especially since he can’t seem to return books on time.”

You make an inquisitive sound. “What happens then?”

He looks at you over his shoulder. “Depends. Sometimes, the books return by themselves. Other times he gets smacked by them.” He lets out a smug little heh. “S’funny.”

As you walk, you brush a finger over the spine titles; leather and paper and buckram and, sometimes, wood. At your touch, the whole building seems to breathe out a long-winded sigh.

“And how do you know where all the books are?” You hum. “Is it ‘cause you’re, like, the owner with supreme power?”

In a second, his hands burst with ocean-blue light, bristling like fire. Books from the higher shelves float neatly down to eye-level, and many of them circle around Yoongi as he looks over them without touching them even once. One of them says How to deal with a Goblin invasion; and another, Flowers: is it edible? And another just has a giant eye in its center. You swear it blinks once before being stowed back into place.

He hums, “No, not quite,” He says without looking back, “Rather, it’s because I am the owner with supreme power that they trust me.”

“Um.” You blink. “The books?”

“Yes. The books.”

“Oh.” You look back at the shelves. Pat one of the books, politely.

Yoongi’s magic places all the books back, and he turns back to you. You straighten, and he raises a brow. “I have some work to do. You can... hang around, I guess.”

“Oh!” You grin, “I will!” Your enthusiastic shout echoes throughout the corridor, and you shrink into yourself for a second. Yoongi is patient as you clear your throat and say, lower, “I.. will. Thank you, mister Min Yoongi-ssi, sir.”

He lets out a small, breathy laugh. “Alright. You do that.”

He doesn’t ask about the dreams, so you don’t get the chance to explain that they’re growing softer. Less like a nightmare and more like a familiar, far-off memory. You’re simply left to look at his retreating back.

Formal wear does not coexist well with bunny slippers, but you think that maybe it does with Min Yoongi. Some of the books rattle in their leather-bound tombs, as if they were agreeing.

 You’re lost.

It’s a pain to admit it, but you’d like to think it’s not entirely your fault. Amidst your walk through open spaces and yellowed portraits and ladders too high for your liking, everything started to seemingly blend together.

At one point, you’d resigned yourself to your fate and sat on a long reading table, only to hear shuffling by your feet. When you look, it’s booklice, grown out into the size of rats, fed on magic or words or something else.

(You hope your yelp of terror and your undignified fall backward shooed them away for good.)

You don’t sit down again.

You’re half tempted to call out to Yoongi, but he did say he was busy, and you can probably find your way back on your own. Maybe. You hope.

As you walk, you pass by distant rustling pages and are accompanied by the pitter patter of rain, tapping lightly against the stained glass windows. There’s the far-off clicking of a typewriter that never seems to get close, only farther. At one point you pass by a simmering hearth, and you think you should be worried, but you somehow trust it not to burn anything down.

There’s something dreadfully vulnerable at being allowed to wander like this, you think. A show of trust, or maybe something more. A peek into Yoongi’s soul.

You flip through books on your way, and when your gaze drifts over the spine titles, a candle flickers to life and floats above you, just out of reach. Enamored, you look through the shelving unit and find things like Comparative Mythology and Voodoo, A Century of Herbs and Root Magic; then, a dictionary for plants. You go straight to sage, the most consistent herb used in the shop, and discover that it’s used for self-purification. That it promotes healing and wisdom and rids of negative energy. That it’s meant to help with grief and loss.

Grief and loss. The shop smelled of death before you ever even got here.

You slot the book where you’d found it, finger brushing over the others, when you stumble across one that’s worn and well-read and yellowed from age. A Century of Forbidden Spells, you read, about to flip through when something heavy sounds behind you, like cobblestone being dragged over concrete. You drop the book with a flinch and whip around.

A door opens up behind you, the wooden floor making way to stone. It’s a long corridor, dark if not for the torches lining the walls.

You don’t want to go. But something is beckoning you closer. Something a little beyond curiosity.

“No,” You say resolutely to yourself. “I won’t. Yoongi trusted me not to.”

You’re about to pick the book up, and realize it’s opened to a well-worn page. As if whoever’s read it had dwelled on it for too long.

“Dark magic?” You read. “Why would Yoongi...”

It could be a misunderstanding. After all, you doubt all the thousands of books in the library had all originally been Yoongi’s; maybe this one had belonged to someone else.

But. But. The shop is a gateway to Yoongi’s own being. Why would he have a passageway like this?

“No no, I can’t,” You place the book back where it’s been, and hear the groaning of the walls as it begins closing. You take a deep breath. Then two. Your hands close into fists.

Just as there’s a sliver of space left, you slip inside, holding your breath as you just barely pass through, your chest scraping the closing wall. The torches light up as you approach them, and you look back only once. The door is firmly shut.

You’ll figure a way out later. For now, you take another deep breath, holding it in for too long, and trek through the hallway.

You walk for what feels like a long time. Then, a light appears, and the gloomy hall opens up into lush forest.

Leaves crunch underfoot as you step into dense greenery. Cicadas buzz and trees reach into the skies, morning dew still trickling down branches. You think that, if you were to breathe deep, it almost feels like there’s something real underfoot. Something alive.

You’ve been in the forest for maybe five minutes, and you don’t know if you like it or not. The city was noisy with foot traffic and people and cars, and the forest is noisy with the sound of trees growing and birds calling and little things chitter-chattering as they leap through the undergrowth, and the difference is startling.

Your heels squelch onto spongy moss when you come across a glade of daisies. The trees surrounding it are droopy, their leaves brown at the edges, but that’s not what makes your breath catch. A patch of sunlight shines through the foliage, and in its center, lies a person.

Their hands are clasped lightly over their chest, eyes peacefully closed. They’re surrounded by a patch of thorns that seem to consciously grow around them, never over them. The dandelions underfoot seem to grow over each other the closer they are to them, and over the person’s hands and eyes and legs are patches of moss that makes their features indistinguishable.

No; they’re not a person anymore, not with how rotten they are.

Except they’re not rotten. As if the forest is not letting them be.

The reality of it all is beginning to weigh you down. And suddenly magic is not all that it appears to be.

“You are not supposed to be here,” You gasp as Yoongi growls, dragging you back by your wrist. For a second you think you’re shaking, but in the next you realize it’s the forest. As if the foundation of what was holding everything up is breaking apart.

Your heart is trying to climb its way up your throat, and it doesn’t seem to care if it chokes you on its way out.

You look back only once, but only see a nature-made casket of roses and thorns, pillowed by overgrown moss.

 (“Please,” He pleads. He’d lead you to the entrance of the shop, looking both eager and unwilling to let you go. “It.. It wasn’t me. God. It wasn’t.”

You don’t answer him, don’t know how. You’re hyper aware of your tongue resting uncomfortably in your mouth. Hands. You should do something with your hands. You should say something, anything, but what? What do you say after seeing something like that?

“How long?”

”What?”

”How long has it been there?”

He doesn’t answer for a long, long time. Then, under his breath, raspy and low and so terribly sad that you wonder who it could have been that’s left him like this.

”Longer than you’ll ever know.”

You let out a breath.

He’s suddenly bending over, his body hunched as if he were absorbing the force of a physical blow. He looks so small and torn open, as if he’s too scraped raw to come up with excuses for it. Not quite close to breaking, but it is a near thing.

Ah. Yoongi’s reluctance to let go must be what is keeping the body here, you think.

You’re filled with an ache so sudden and gut wrenching. You were so close to loving him. But it is salted earth. Nothing can bloom.

There is nothing for you to say, so you say nothing at all.

That night, you forget to use your pretty bathwater and don’t eat any of the leftover jam --left to sit by a window to bathe under a half-moon, as instructed on the packaging--, but when you sleep that night, it’s dreamless. As if they’re being eaten up by leftover magic.)

A month passes. It seems as if, ever since you realized you’d fallen in love, you never had dreams again. The worst part is that you don’t know if you have what it takes to walk inside the shop and make up excuses, so you simply-- don’t.

Except you don’t have to.

When you open your eyes after having gone to sleep that night, you wake up on a cloud, an endless expanse of it. It feels as if you’re laying on pillows. When you look up, Yoongi is looking at you, something unbelievably soft in his eyes.

He offers a hand to pull you up. You take it, and he doesn’t let go, just begins walking with your hands locked together.

All the surroundings look the same, but it seems as if he knows where he’s going. Then, he stops, and the sky, which had been all blurry and wrong, opens up into a mix of pinks and oranges and purples. Almost like a sunset, but something a bit more otherworldly than that.

“Do you know what being a witch means?”

You shake your head.

“It means I’m born with a sense of duty and responsibility already placed on me. I love what I do, but sometimes I wonder what I would have done if I had ever been given a choice.”

You stand there holding hands with him, watching the colors blur together for a bit. There’s a brief moment where Yoongi’s thumb slides over your knuckles and you feel some sort of magic, or maybe some sort of moment, taking your mind and whisking it away.

“Doesn’t it ever get lonely?”

“Hm. Yeah. It does.”

Then you wake up, your hand still warm, and you’re not sure if the sadness you’re feeling is your own or someone else’s.

 You walk inside the next day. You slam open the door and Yoongi is already standing there, expectant and waiting.

It’s silent for a moment too long. Then, “D’ya wanna help me make soup?”

“Oh.” You nod nod nod. “Yeah.”

So you help him make soup, which basically consists in the biggest demonstration of athleticism you’ve ever had to do. Yoongi stands there in his jeans that are more hole than denim and mixes his wooden spoon in the biggest pot you’ve ever seen. He’s standing over a ladder and everything. When he asks for sesame seeds, you’re racing around the kitchen looking through all his jars, and he just kinda stands there to stare and laugh and be generally unheplful because he’s mean like that.

“Peel the potatoes,” Yoongi hands you a colander with three thick potatoes inside, “This soup is gonna blow your mind. Be the best soup ever.”

“What’re you gonna do if it isn’t?”

He thinks for a second, lips pouted. “You can hit me.”

“Okay!”

He breathes a chuckle at your enthusiasm.

You peel the potatoes and Yoongi cuts them into neat little cubes before tossing them into the pot. “The birds will eat the peelings,” Yoongi says. “And they’ll be your friends.”

So you venture out to an open window and place them by the windowsill, and a cheerful little bunch of finches are already landing onto it. A blue one, wrapped in potato peel, flutters its feathers at you.

“Don’t mind them, they’re awfully arrogant.” Another finch, yellow this time, says. “Can I have one? Oh, you’re very kind!”

“Oh, and you’re not, I suppose!” The blue finch huffs. “Just be glad the owls aren’t here. The other day I heard one say about Yoongi--”

”Don’t reveal his secrets!” The yellow finch puffs out its chest. “And you, human? What do you think of him?”

You think for a while, setting the peelings in neat bundles. “I guess you could say I think of him often.” You grin. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

They both huff, settling themselves over their share of potato peelings. They don’t say anything after that, but when you leave, you’re sure you hear hushed, high-pitched whispers.

When you walk back, you peek curiously over the pot. It’s starting to glow golden brown, and you’re not sure if it’s the potatoes or magic or the extra cinnamon stick. If there was any doubt before that magic was all a dissociative dream of yours, it’s gone now. This is absolute magic. You wonder if the shop works with him if he ever burns anything, or if maybe it just protects itself. Must be hard to call the fire department for an invisible building.

”Hope they weren’t too much trouble,” He says, fond. “Chatters, they are.”

”They seem to like you a lot. The whole forest does, honestly.” You grin. He turns red.

Without looking away from his pot, Yoongi holds out his hand expectantly. Half-confused, half-delighted, you hold it.

“Aish, not that,” He shakes off your hand, reaching over you to grab more sesame seeds.

You are in shock. Flabbergasted. Stupefied. You’re about to object, eyebrows up to your hairline, when you catch his shoulders shaking.

“Are you laughing right now?”

“No.”

“You’re laughing right now.”

“M’not.”

When you look twice, Yoongi is wearing an impossibly soft smile, his whole body melting with it. Your grin settles into a fond thing, and the tenderness-- it must be showing on your face. It must be.

Unfortunately, you never get the chance to hit him, because the soup is the best soup ever. You’re disappointed as you bring spoonfuls of it to your mouth. Yoongi decides to hit you instead, a light little slap to the shoulder, but you’re offended anyway.

“You’re so mean,” You say through spoonfuls. “Mean and soft.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re mean. And soft.”

“Huh.”

Setting down your spoon with a sigh, you stare him straight in the eyes. "You're.. A marshmallow. Kinda burnt and icky on the outside, but like, gooey and soft on the inside."

Yoongi, with as much sincerity as he can place into three syllables, says, "What the hell?" His brows furrow, "So you're saying soup killed my street cred?”

“You never had any to begin with!”

“This is preposterous.”

Warm with soup and something else, you accompany him to water the plants by the storefront, your heart in knots, fiddling with your fingers. He hasn’t asked about the dreams in a while. Almost as if he knows they’re gone, that you don’t need to be here anymore.

You’re not sure if he’s just being nice or if he genuinely likes your company, and the thought that your whole relationship is built on politeness makes something terrible fill your ribcage.

“Um... Yoongi?” You say, and he looks up with a hum. “I think I need to tell you something.”

You breathe and breathe, steeling yourself. You’d been prepared for this ever since you walked in, but you hadn’t expected the warm smiles and soup and laughter and finches.

“Oh.” He stands up, dusts off his pants, and doesn’t quite look at you. He looks around your edges, as if he’s afraid of facing you. “It’s okay. I know.”

“You do?”

“Uhum.” He looks terribly sad. This isn’t what you want. He’s not supposed to look sad when you confess to him. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“I don’t?”

“I’m sorry for always making up reasons for you to stay. If you want, I can give you enough jam to last you a year--”

“What?”

“What?”

You hear far away chirps of anguish.

“You’re scared of me, aren’t you?” He sounds unnervingly calm, like he’d rehearsed this. “That’s okay. I said I’d let you go. Which bath bombs are your favorites?”

“Yoongi, no. I don’t want to leave. In fact, I get upset every time I have to leave! And I love the library and the talking animals and your pretty kitchen and you!” You shut your mouth as soon as you’d said it. “I mean--”

His hands frantically reach for your own, and when you look, there’s a terrible tenderness to him, an inhuman relief. “You do?” He laughs, and it sounds wet. “You really do?”

And you don’t know how to tell him, what loving him does to you. How it aligns every misaligned, sharp-cornered thing inside you. How it makes sense; fits into you like nothing else ever has.

You don’t trust your mouth not to spout something stupid, so you nod furiously instead.

He laughs, half joy and half disbelief and half something else. “God,” he lets in a shaky breath. “You really do?”

You nod again, so violently you get dizzy.

Then, so, so softly, hands cup your cheeks and you’re squeezing your eyes shut and there’s a damp sort of giggle, and your lips meet.

Yoongi doesn’t sigh, but it’s a near thing. Like an ancient thing has finally settled into place.

He’s so soft in your arms. It shouldn't be a shock; it's not as if he dresses himself in stiff angles and hard points. But he's just always so —solid. Implacable. It's strange to know him now as such a warm, pliant thing.

Your breaths mingle together, your thumb brushing over the under of his eyes, and Yoongi puts a lot of effort, melted as he is, into linking your hands together, touch feather-light. You kiss him again because you like how it makes him smile, and then he does and you’re forced to push down the bubbling laughter in your throat.

“Ah, Yoongs. Did you know I like you so much?” You whisper, because your heart is too big to carry on your own. Because it’s nearly impossible to get close without saying it, without letting the words spill.

When he looks up, he’s so, so fond, wide eyes and all. It makes you want to crack and lay it all down at his feet, let him know you’re just whittled down bones.

The world lets itself breathe for a moment. Then, he lets out a sigh, like he’s breathing along with it. “I missed you,” The sigh Yoongi lets out is shaky. He plops his head back on your shoulder, resigned. “So much.”

“Silly boy,” You hum, softly giddy. “I was only gone for a month.”

It’s quiet for a long time. Then, when you think he won’t answer at all, a low: “Yeah. You were, weren’t you?”

One day, when the light hits the ceiling just right, you will find the spot where time is the weakest. You will touch it, tear it apart, and wake up again in this moment, this bridge between time.

There's a moment of stilled silence where you feel the world pause and then align, as though to wait for you, for this moment, and he stares almost reverently over your features until a smile spreads and the world continues the turning of its gears. And suddenly you’re aware of how delicate, how fragile it all is.

Yoongi begins to sway you over and over, humming a soft tune that you don’t realize until much, much later, is the same melody as the piano song that led you here.

(Once, there was a witch kneeling in the dirt, barefeet trodden with mud, in the middle of the windswept moors. Overhead, a mackerel sky with hints of rain. In his arms, a corpse.

Callouses cover his palms, bruises on his knuckles, and he can barely hear past the heavy breaths he’s taking, the wind howling in his ears.

For a moment, the entire sky, pitch-black, crackles an ocean-blue of his magic. The witch checks; the body is still unmoving. Blue again; He checks, half expecting it to sit up and tell him he’s being silly, that this is all just a dream. Nothing.

Again. Again. Again.

By the end, the witch is hacking up blood, a wretched agony through his lungs and bones, air giving way to fire. Red is in his hands, his hair, his vision. He can’t see anything past it. He’s unsure if he wants to.

He’s trembling, has been for a while, and he doesn’t know when it started or when it will end and oh god, will it ever end?

The world continues to move. It is cold and unforgiving and, distantly, the witch wonders why it gives only to take. Why it bothered to give at all. Why he’s still here. Why he’s still breathing. Why he’s still alive.

Soon, the body will decay. Soon, the only thing left will be rot, and it will be no different from any other bundle of bones in this world, and the witch will have to live with the fact that the only thing left of him will be all the leftover love with nowhere to go. That with this death, everything soft and beautiful and bright would be buried along with it.

The witch sits there for a long, long time. Then, when his body can no longer hold itself upward, he lies himself delicately on the ground, grass tickling his cheek, and lies there for even longer. It wouldn’t be too bad to die here, too, he thinks. Right there in the woods, so early the sky is dark and there’s no frost, only dew. There, where he can almost pretend there isn’t nothing else inside of him but the slow and ghastly beat of his heart. More grief than he is a person.

Except he doesn’t. Die, that is. Not for a long, long time.

And there, cushioned by overgrown moss and guarded by a forest of thorns, is a corpse refusing to rot.)

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