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skyloftian-nutcase · 1 year

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Elastic Heart Ch 4 (Linked Universe story)

Summary: When Sky goes missing, the Chain scrambles to figure out where he is and what happened before it's too late.

(AO3 link)

Chapter 1

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Chapter 4: Too Slow

It had been a fairly busy night at the bar, and Telma was thankful that it was emptying out. She loved the cheer and bustle that came with her business, but not when the majority of them were soldiers.

Sighing as she wiped the counter, she glanced over at Auru, Shad, and Ashei. The three were murmuring feverishly as they stared over a map, marking different places where monster attacks had been increasing. She was beginning to grab a round of drinks for them when her cat, Louise, started meowing incessantly at the door.

“Now, why would you possibly want to go out?” she asked the fluffy white feline as she headed for the entrance. “Don’t you know it’s pouring outside?”

Opening the door, she watched her cat scurry outside into the water. That wasn’t completely unusual, but…

Lightning flashed, and Telma gasped.

Leaning heavily against the railing was a small figure, shivering and half collapsed. Telma hastened outside, ignoring the water sloshing at her sandaled feet, and she quickly climbed the flight of stairs to reach him.

At first, she almost felt her heart skip a beat. The green the boy wore was all too familiar. “Link?!”

The boy twitched, his gaze rising to meet hers in acknowledgement, but the face was not Link’s. Who was this boy, and why was he dressed in the Hero of Hyrule’s attire?

Either way, he was clearly ill or…

The crimson stains told her enough.

“Come on, sweetie,” she said as she pulled him off the fence. She stumbled a little as he leaned nearly all his weight on her, limping badly on his right side. He seemed completely unaware he was even being guided anywhere by a stranger, just following along.

Telma shuffled as best she could while supporting his weight and immediately called for the others once she got inside.

Auru was there first, getting on the boy’s other side to assist him before his leg finally gave out entirely. The boy became dead weight, making Telma yelp and nearly knocking her over as Ashei hastily sprang forward to catch him by the shoulders. Auru took a deep breath, grunting a little as he picked the boy up and carried him to the nearest table.

Ashei scowled at the kid. “Why is he impersonating Link? Idiot child probably went gallivanting around as the Hero and got himself hurt for it.”

“That’s not the issue right now,” Auru said pointedly as Telma grabbed first aid supplies.

Shad hesitantly approached, his eyes scrutinous and curious. They settled on the sword still strapped to the boy’s back, still unnoticed by the others. “That blade…”

“Yes, we’ll have to get it off—” Auru said as he unstrapped the belt holding the sword in place, and then he froze.

“Isn’t that Link’s sword? Or it was?” Ashei asked, her tone growing sharp.

Shad glanced around the room warily, scanning for other patrons and seeing none. He took a step closer. “This isn’t just Link’s sword, it’s the sword of the Hero of Hyrule. The legendary Master Sword.”

Telma plopped the first aid kit on the table. “Whatever sword he has, he won’t be here much longer if we don’t get to work. Get his shirt and chainmail off.”

The sword was placed to the side, Auru hissing as it sent a stinging, burning sensation up his arm when he grabbed it, and they sat the boy up to remove his clothes. When the tunic, chainmail, and undertunic came off, though, all they saw were the angry red remains of freshly healed wounds with some blood clots caked around them.

Telma stared at it in confusion. “What… but then where did all this blood…?”

“Never seen fairy magic before?” Auru asked with a smile. “He may not be in danger of imminently dying, but he might have lost a lot of blood before he was healed. What he needs is rest.”

Telma huffed. “And something warm, he’s shivering. I’ll get some blankets.”

In the meantime, she rolled up the boy’s undertunic so it could serve as a pillow; it was damp with sweat and blood but not soaked all the way through like the rest of his clothes. When she walked away, the others grew more somber, staring at the sword.

“What could this possibly mean?” Auru wondered aloud. “Only Link can wield that blade. It tried to injure me from just touching it for a few seconds. How is this boy carrying it?”

“You think he took it from Link?” Ashei asked darkly. “Surely the sword can’t be won over, right?”

Here she glanced at Shad for advice, and he only shrugged. “Legend says that only the Hero of Hyrule can wield it, but it doesn’t specify how that works. But the blade is sacred, so… surely it can’t be from underhanded tactics.”

“A duel isn’t underhanded,” Auru pointed out.

Ashei huffed. “Link would never duel anyone.”

Telma returned with a veritable mountain of blankets, settling them over the teenager, who stayed asleep despite all the jostling. Just as she was about to say something, there was a loud knocking at the door.

“Now what?” she muttered, making her way to the entrance. “This is far too much excitement for this late at night.”

Ashei hastily threw a blanket over the sword lying beside the boy.

When Telma opened the door, she stared in mild surprise as the postman stood in the entrance. “Oh! Is there mail for someone?”

“For you,” he said triumphantly, and then, upon noticing the others behind him, smiled in delight. “Ah, for all of you! Here, I have a letter for each of you.”

Exchanging confused glances, the others approached as the post man handed out letters. Telma looked back at him, raising an eyebrow. “Do you ever sleep?”

“Oh, I do,” he replied with a laugh. “But I was told this was urgent. I’m relieved I found all of you. Now I can go home to my family and get a good night’s rest for more deliveries in the morning!”

With that, he left in haste.

Telma slowly closed the door, baffled. “He… has a family?”

Ashei snorted back a laugh and opened her letter, her brow furrowing. “It’s from Rusl.”

“So’s mine,” Auru announced, having already been reading his letter. “And I think I understand who this boy is now.”

“What?” Telma glanced between her letter and the others. “What does it say?”

“Rusl says Link knows about the source of the monster attacks and is attempting to track it down with the help of other Heroes of Hyrule,” Auru explained. “…Heroes from all over Hyrule’s history, he says.”

“Like… from different… from different eras?” Telma parsed out, bewildered. “Oh, my. I’ve seen some things, but this… are you sure that’s what he’s saying?”

“That’s what mine says too,” Ashei agreed.

Shad was positively beaming. “This is fascinating!”

“So then that boy…” Telma trailed off, her eyes drifting to the teenager on the table.

The others looked his way as well as he started to moan and shift. The group walked over to him, filled with curiosity but still a degree of wariness.

The teenager’s eyes fluttered open and he coughed a little. When he registered his surroundings and state of undress, he started to grow more flustered, breath quickening as he sat up.

“Easy, hon,” Telma said gently, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You’re okay. You practically collapsed right outside my bar.”

The young potential hero watched her, eyes wide and expressive. He was obviously frightened, but he had a sense of awareness to him, quickly taking in the others and growing more guarded.

“Who are you?” Ashei asked, cutting to the chase. “And why do you have that sword? Do you know Link?”

He bit his lip. His eyes settled on the letter clutched in Ashei’s hand, barely visible as she crossed her arms. Then he noticed the one stuffed in Telma’s belt and wide open in Shad’s hands as he pored over it and then looked at the teenager in unmistakable curiosity.

“Are those from Link?” he asked quietly.

“No,” Auru answered. “But you know him, don’t you?”

The teenager’s hand subtly slid to his right, finding the blade hidden underneath.

“Hey,” Telma cut in sharply. “No fighting in my bar. Nobody’s here to hurt you, sweetheart. They’re just worried about Link. We all are.”

The teenager immediately started to shake his head, grabbing his hair with one hand as if he was going to pull it out. Telma took his wrist and brought it down. “Easy, hon. It’s okay. Why don’t you tell us what’s going on?”

“I have to go,” he muttered. “I’m sorry I bothered you, but I have to go.”

“You passed out less than ten minutes ago,” Ashei said flatly. “I don’t think you’re going anywhere until you rest.”

The teenager raised an eyebrow at her, clearly annoyed. “You look like you need the sleep more than me.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Ashei snapped as Auru laughed.

The teenager sighed, moving a little more and wincing. Telma finally coaxed him back down gently. “Whatever your quest is, young man, you need to rest first. We can figure it out in the morning, okay?”

“’n the morning…?” the teenager slurred, already falling back asleep. When his breathing evened out, Telma sighed.

“All right,” she said, tucking the boy in a bit more before stepping away and eying the others. “I’ll contact Rusl. Could one of you take him to the back? I don’t think it would be good if word got around about this.”

XXX

Wild would be lying if he said he was okay. But at least he was hiding it better than he used to.

When Twilight had been hurt, the champion had nearly—well, had actually had a meltdown. How could he not? He’d lost so much; he couldn’t bear to lose anyone else, especially someone he cared about so dearly.

Yet here he was, staring at an empty space where Sky should be.

The camp was still, as it was the last vestiges of the night before dawn broke through the darkness. Wild had offered to take third watch, knowing well enough that he would wake around this hour whether he was on guard duty or not. He’d slept uneasily the night before, and the longer Sky was missing without so much as a hint to what was going on, the more anxious he became.

He just… he didn’t know how to process it. He was trying to keep his anxiety to a minimum, but it was a fear of the unknown, a dread that slid into his core like ice creeping through cracks in a foundation and ripping it apart from the inside. With Twilight it had been agonizingly straightforward - he’d seen his brother go down, and there was a clear culprit. He’d felt helpless to stop Twilight from dying, but the issue at hand had been apparent. Here…

This felt like his past, like the painful ache of everyone he’d known before the Calamity haunting him. He didn’t know their circumstances, he didn’t know what had happened to them, he’d barely been able to start piecing it together. He’d barely even resolved to try to piece it together, stories and people from another life a century ago gnawing steadily at his sanity.

But Sky wasn’t a phantom from a past he couldn’t remember. Sky was a part of his life now, and he was terrified he’d become another lost Champion, another piece of his life that just vanished into thin air with no explanation, no closure, nothing.

Wild hugged himself a little, feeling ice cold and alone. Goddess, he hoped Sky was okay. He wanted to get up and look for him now. The sunlight was beginning to make the horizon glow, and he shot to his feet to wake the others. He doubted they’d mind the early start.

A bush rustled and snapped, and Wild grabbed his bow and arrows in a heartbeat, yelling, “Everybody up!”

Snores and yelps sounded around the camp, and a figure shot out of the bushes with its hands held high in the air, eyes wide and terrified.

“Easy!” the figure said shakily, and Wild recognized the skinny, muscular physique and voice after a few seconds of confusion. The postman took a steadying breath as Wild lowered his arrow while others scrambled for weapons and then froze in bewilderment. “I have a letter for a Mr. Rusl, I’m just passing through to get to Ordon.”

Legend dropped his sword to throw his hands in the air. “Do you ever sleep?!”

Twilight stepped forward and smiled apologetically with bleary eyes. “I know Rusl. Who’s it from? I can deliver it for you.”

“I’m afraid I can’t say,” the postman answered, taking a step away. “I have to protect my client’s privacy!”

“You could also try not scaring us half to death,” Legend threw in while gathering his blankets that he’d tossed everywhere in his panic.

Twilight sighed. “I understand. We had just spoken to Rusl yesterday about an urgent matter, and I know he sent word to others. I was hoping it was information we were looking for. You could expedite our search.”

“Your search…?” the postman asked confusedly. “Mr. Link, I’m afraid I’m not following.”

“We’re on a very important quest,” Warriors piped up. “Link is the leader of our team and was sent personally by the queen. We had spoken to Rusl to help widen our search, and he’d been expecting word from others to help gather information. If you at least tell us who the letter is from, it’ll give us a better idea of whether this is helpful information you’re carrying.”

Twilight shrugged, trying to set the man at ease. “You know me. You’ve followed me all over Hyrule—”

“And beyond,” Four interjected quietly.

“—And so you know I’m not a dishonest or untrustworthy sort. At least tell me who it’s from.”

The postman sighed, pulling out the letter. “It’s from the barmaid, Lady Telma.”

Twilight immediately perked up, more alert. “Telma! That has to be in relation to Sky.”

“I’m afraid that’s for Mr. Rusl to decide,” the postman said as he moved his arm back towards his pouch.

Wind slid in beside the man, giving him a beaming smile, his expressive eyes twinkling. “We understand, Mr. Postman. You have your own heroic duty that you have to maintain.”

Legend opened his mouth to protest and Wind cut him off immediately, crossing his arms. “The postman delivers valuable conversations, gifts, and information all across Hyrule. He’s a Hero of Hyrule just like Link. We should respect that. Have a good day, Mr. Postman!”

With that, Wind stepped away and waved the man off, who practically glowed with pride and happiness at the compliment, bidding them a good day and running into the forest.

“Sailor, what the hell, that could have—”

Wind’s smile widened, eyes narrowing in mischief as he held the letter up in the air.

“You sneaky little pickpocket,” Warriors huffed with a smile as Hyrule laughed.

“I am a pirate,” Wind replied with a shrug, handing the letter to Twilight. “Now open it up! I want to know if it has to do with Sky.”

Twilight tore into the envelope, perusing the letter quickly before gasping.

“What does she say?” Time asked, facing him fully.

“Telma’s seen Sky!” Twilight immediately said, his face flushed with relief and joy. “She says he’s at her bar. He’s not hurt but he looks like he was at some point, she says he’s resting there now. We have to go!”

The camp burst into excited movement in an instant, and then Time held his hands out to calm everyone. “Easy. If the letter says he’s resting then we have time. Let’s eat so we have the energy to get to him.”

Although the anxiety to reach their friend was palpable, Time’s words made sense. Telma’s letter didn’t indicate that Sky was in serious condition or going anywhere, which gave them all time to take a collective sigh of relief. The slowly building tension within everyone eased and released itself through enthusiastic and cheery chatter.

Wild grabbed the cooking pot and tossed some ingredients in to make a large batch of oatmeal. It would be quicker to eat and everyone could have their bowl individually flavored as they pleased. He would save the majority of his ingredients for a celebratory feast when they found Sky. He grabbed his ladle automatically and then paused as his fingers brushed over the elaborate carving in the handle. Holding the cooking tool with both hands, he felt his chest clench as he traced the woodwork, his heart filled with sudden worry.

Sky’s position was known, and he seemed to be safe for now… but he’d been injured at some point. And that still didn’t explain why he’d left in the first place. Had he been captured and had escaped? Had he waited for them to come rescue him and then decided they weren’t coming? If the postman had been around for Telma to reach him, why hadn’t Sky himself sent a letter to one of them?

Four traipsed over, collapsing beside him with a heavy air, and Wild held back an unamused laugh. Their smallest brother was also quite the worrier; he shouldn’t have been surprised that the cheerful news didn’t help him for long. “I miss him too. But we’ll see him soon.”

“Hopefully,” Four muttered.

“Hopefully?” Wild repeated as he ladeled the oatmeal, stirring absentmindedly.

“I mean… he disappeared for a reason, right?” Four asked himself as well as Wild. “I just don’t understand.”

Wild whistled to catch the others’ attention. Everyone was already packed and nearly finished dressing for the day (Wind was complaining that the soles in his shoes were beginning to wear thin, distracting Twilight temporarily), and they hastened over to eat and head out.

“Guess we’ll find out soon,” Wild said, giving Four a reassuring smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

XXX

Link’s entire body hurt.

More pressing than that, though, was the buzzing in his mind that seemed to reverberate into his chest. Confused, his eyes snapped open as his body tried to process all the sensory input. His chainmail was off, and he was wrapped in what felt like a robe and a handful of warm blankets. His head rested on something that was too hard to be a pillow but too soft to simply be a hard surface. And that buzzing was—

People?

Turning so he was laying on his back rather than his side, he blearily took in the sight of a small room, an antechamber of some sort, that was hidden from a larger room by a curtain. The people were on the other side of the curtain except for one, who was sitting in a chair by the entrance. It was a young man who was heavily preoccupied with a book he was reading.

Where was he? The last thing he remembered was stumbling into the town and being completely overwhelmed by its scale. He was lost, it had been the middle of the night, and he’d been too exhausted to see straight.

He… he’d spoken to someone, hadn’t he? He vaguely remembered doing so. Was this that person’s house? Was that who was reading? No, no… it had been a woman’s voice for sure…

He smelled food and heard murmuring from beyond the curtain. Breakfast? He smelled something else, the smokiness of a hearty fire, the sharp scent that whet his tongue with a flavor he’d had in the past.

Mead? He remembered having some with the others a few worlds back (he had conveniently left out that he wasn’t considered of age on Skyloft - he’d been curious, after all). The smell was definitely something with alcohol, he was certain of that.

…A tavern?

The man in the chair shifted, pulling at his collar a little as he got more comfortable. The blue embroidery on it caught Link’s eye, familiar in its design to his own people’s clothing. What in the—where was he?

Shaking his head, Link turned back towards the wall to see his clothes folded neatly in a pile. His adventure pouch was leaning against them, just within reach.

The longer he stared at his belongings, the less hazy last night became, until it all crashed into him with sudden clarity.

Those people—they knew Twilight! Link had long since figured out this was Twilight’s Hyrule, based on the stories he’d told and hearing familiar names tossed around in different areas he’d visited. He didn’t want to stay here any longer than he had to - what if one of them sent a letter to Twilight and that bizarre postman actually found him? He’d somehow traveled through worlds to deliver mail in the past, after all. Link didn’t want them to know what he was doing, he didn’t want them to get hurt. It was best that they stay in the other Hyrule where he’d left them. The less they knew, the better.

Just like in his own adventure. He’d handled being alone before.

…Well. He’d had Fi. And Gaepora. And Impa, and eventually Groose. But it had been his first journey - he was more experienced now. He’d figure this out on his own. He had been doing fine so far.

You almost died, idiot, he argued with himself. Then he argued back, But I didn’t, so it’s fine.

Glancing around, he saw his escape route: there was a ledge of sorts that framed the walls, and one of them had access to a hole leading somewhere away from here.

Reaching forward slowly, he slid his adventure pouch under the blanket, fishing out his faithful little beetle. Aiming for the rope holding the curtain, he fired the little helper, which flew directly into the rope, snapping it and sending the curtain falling onto the man on the stool, who yelped. He then flew the beetle to a ledge and knocked a few pots over to the ground before summoning it back. In the mild chaos that ensued, he leapt off whatever he’d been resting on, grabbed his belongings, and used the half severed rope to climb up the ledge towards the exit he’d spotted.

The passageway was dark and stuffy, making Link’s skin crawl. He felt like he was underground digging through Mogma tunnels. He tried to ignore his heart rate steadily increasing in a panicked frenzy.

As he stumbled through the darkness, crawling since it was too small and narrow to stand, he saw a dull light up ahead. Eyes widening with hope, he ignored how many scrapes he’d gotten on his knees through the robe as it separated from the movement and hastened his pace. When he reached the opening, he stared in bewilderment.

Was this… a house? Why was it buried in coins? The place smelled strange, coppery and metal, but also damp. Sliding to the ground, he hissed as his bare feet slipped on coins and was cut by glittering stones. He hastily threw off the robe and put his clothes and gear back on properly before nearly rolling his ankle on another mountain of some sort of currency.

Growing frustrated, he grabbed on to a nearby open chest for purchase, and the damp smell slammed into his nostrils. Was it… coming from the chest?

Curious, Link peered into the treasure chest, which was larger than even the ones that held boss keys. He couldn’t see a bottom. He grabbed a coin and dropped it into the chest, listening, and eventually heard a splash.

There was water in there! Where did this chest lead? He couldn’t see any other exit since what was probably the door was held in place by more decadence than he could count, if he knew what value it held. It would take a while to shovel the coins and jewels away from it.

But this…

Pulling his sailcloth off his shoulders, he held onto it tightly and leapt into the abyss. The fall honestly wasn’t that long, but the lighting of the new environment hit him so suddenly he didn’t have time to deploy his sailcloth. This wasn’t an issue, though, since Link slammed into frigid water, making him gasp and nearly inhale a mouthful of it. He slid down a little flooded slope into more water, and as he looked around he was heavily reminded of the lower levels of the ancient cistern where he’d had to retrieve the sacred flame to temper the Master Sword.

Swimming through a few tunnels to a shore, he saw the vestiges of webs and went on high alert. A few keese were flying around and were easily dispatched, and thankfully he didn’t see any skulltulas… yet.

What he did see, though, was a dead end. What was the point of this place? It had to lead somewhere. It looked pretty dilapidated, maybe it used to lead somewhere.

With no other options (it wasn't like he could go back to the place he’d just escaped), he searched for clues. After crawling over some crumbling stone walls, he found something promising: a mound of exposed earth, loosened from being torn into fairly recently. In fact, if Link just moved some of it…

Poking hesitantly at the ground with his Mogma Mitts, he saw it give way into an already-made tunnel.

Wow. This really was like his last adventure.

Tying his sailcloth around his waist so it wouldn’t pull at his neck underground, he took a deep breath and entered the tunnel. He… hated these closed spaces. He already missed the sky. But he could manage. He had in the past, after all. He kept his focus on moving forward, crawling little by little through the passageway. The air grew clearer, and light started to pierce through the darkness. Relieved, Link climbed upward as the tunnel fed to its exit point.

Blinking a few times as the sunlight blinded him, Link dusted himself off and grew even more bewildered. He was in a tower now?

Did anything lead outside?!

Sighing, Link started to climb, noticing that the steps spiraling around the tower’s wall were broken in places, with attempts at construction evident. It looked like maybe a battle had happened here. Link wondered if it had to do with Twilight’s adventure.

Either way, some support ropes were strewn all over the place, allowing him to tightrope walk his way across. When he finally reached the top, the source of the sunlight, he smiled in relief. The windows flanked the doorway, and he exited out to stone walls high in the air. Then he finally got his bearings.

He was in the castle.

“Link?

Link’s head snapped to the side to see someone in ornate attire watching him. He almost asked how she knew his name when the realization sank in: she was talking about Twilight. She must have thought he was Twilight because their clothes were similar.

His stomach churned. He wondered why their attire was similar.

The beautiful brunette woman in the elegant dress watched him with such a… strange look. At first it was surprise, which was expected, as she registered that the person she thought she was speaking to was not, in fact, Twilight. But then her eyebrows returned to their resting place, her mouth closing slightly, and she cocked her head to the side, eyes scanning him. There was something… almost magnetic about her gaze. Link couldn’t move.

“It’s you,” she whispered as if she herself was entranced as well, taking a slow step towards him. Link took a nervous step back. “The one from…”

Here she hesitated, her hand rising to her chest and resting over it. Link watched her, disoriented but unable to look away. She held herself with such an aura of otherworldly… something. Power? Familiarity? The woman closed her mouth entirely, along with her eyes, and she tipped her head forward in a graceful bow.

Link shuffled in place, even more perplexed, but his uneasiness was starting to settle. She wasn’t a threat, at least, but who was she? And how did she recognize him?

“It’s good to see you again, Hero,” she said as she rose once more, a gentleness crossing her features as she clasped her hands in front of herself. “But I must ask… where is Link?”

…What?

Good to see me again? When have we seen each other before? Is that why she seems weirdly familiar?

Link shook his head a little, focusing on answering the question. “He’s… busy. There are monsters in a distant land that are enchanted with dark magic and he’s getting rid of them.”

“There are such beasts here as well,” she commented. “Did… did he send you here to assist? I didn’t know such a thing was possible.”

Possible? This was making less and less sense. But it seemed she had valuable information he could use to track the Shadow, so he tried to ignore his returning unease. “I’m here to help. Tell me where they are.”

“I’ve heard reports of their presence near Faron, Eldin, and the Gerudo Desert.”

“I eliminated the first two hordes,” Link said. “How do I get to the Gerudo Desert?”

The woman’s brow furrowed together almost imperceptibly, her poise remaining intact and trying to hide her seeming confusion. “There is a passageway that is protected by my guards by Lake Hylia. They can escort you there.”

Her guards? Oh… this lady was important. He definitely didn’t want to ask her name - she obviously seemed to assume that he knew her. That would just make things incredibly awkward.

Wait.

She… she was someone of importance. Who had guards. Who knew Twilight. Who had authority to take Link anywhere in Hyrule.

Oh, goddess. This was… this was Twilight’s queen, Zelda.

Zelda. When Link had first learned that there were others who also bore her name in each Hyrule, he… hadn’t known what to think. He'd assumed that perhaps girls were named after her because of the impact she had on history. But with the curse… the only other possibility was…

Those who share the blood of the goddess and the spirit of the hero.

The spirit of the hero was shared among Link and the others whom he had left behind to protect them. Which meant those named Zelda were… well… his Zelda’s descendants. And seeing as it was highly unlikely she was romantically interested in anyone aside from him…

This woman was his descendant.

Did she… there was no way she actually knew that, was there? How did she claim to know him?

Goddesses. His bloodline. His descendants had to fight Demise on a regular basis as well. He’d cursed his own family.

Link felt his chest tighten and his mind grow numb as the emotions were too overwhelming to process. He pulled anxiously at his sailcloth, words failing him, and leapt over the side of the wall to make a hasty escape just as the woman called out to him in surprise.

Lake Hylia. Gerudo Desert. He didn’t need an escort. He didn’t need to be near anybody. This was—he was—

Goddesses above, he just wanted this to be over. He would restock in the market he remembered seeing last night and then get the heck out of here. There were already too many people here, just adding this to it was—

Link shook his head as he hastened by confused guards. Shouts started to echo across the pathway and he pushed past the last pair to lead out into the square.

And then he nearly had a heart attack. Was that—were those—

What the hell were they doing here?!

Hiding behind a pillar, he sucked in a breath as Hyrule froze in mid step, turning to scan the area where he had just been standing while the other heroes pushed ahead towards the opposite pathway. Legend called for his friend, whose intense gaze finally turned away to follow the veteran.

How did they find the portal so quickly?! How were they here in the capital?! What were they doing?! They… surely they weren’t… there was no way they were looking for him, were they? Link felt his heart clench and mouth go dry at just the thought, and he immediately shut it down. No. That wasn’t why they were here. He wasn’t even going to think about how his absence was affecting the group. He was the slowest member, he’d gotten Warriors and Hyrule hurt when he couldn’t keep up - this had nothing to do with him.

They must have heard about the monster attacks and were trying to clear out Twilight’s land. But that put them too dangerously close to the Shadow. There was no time, there was no time!

Trying to catch his breath, Link rushed away from the group to find directions to Lake Hylia and get to the desert as quickly as possible.

XXX

Wind hovered so closely to the others that he nearly tripped over their feet. As exciting as it was to see Castle Town, this place was overwhelmingly large and crowded. Wind was fairly certain this city alone held double the population of Outset Island. The entire place was floored with uneven cobblestone that reflected some of the sunlight in little puddles, and the air was filled with voices and footsteps and water trickling from the fountain and singing and dancing and calls for sales on acquired goods and—by the sea, this was a lot.

Warriors wandered around with an air of command, making the crowds part out of his way, and so Wind practically clung to his scarf, carried through the crowd like someone caught in a rip current. Hyrule was similarly quiet and subdued while Legend meandered between different market stalls and alleys, hanging near the periphery of the large plaza. Twilight was in the front of the group, leading the way to Telma’s Bar while Time hovered towards the edge of the plaza as well, staying in the shadows. Wild had to drag himself from every food stall he saw, snapping himself back into focus. The energy of the group was a strange mix of relieved, elated, and anxious, as if their quest was almost over but they weren’t sure if Sky was just out of reach or not. Wind was certainly relieved they finally had a location and confirmation that he was alright, and he was eager to see his friend again and give him the biggest hug he could muster.

Four paused just ahead of Wind, glancing somewhere in the plaza at the same time as Hyrule. Wind turned to face them as he continued to walk, nearly tripping over Warriors’ scarf once more.

“What are you guys doing?” he asked.

Hyrule didn’t move, simply staring at something. Four, however, rushed to the other side of the plaza where some musicians were playing and singing. He stood there for a moment, a smile on his face, and then dropped a few rupees in the pan on the ground before skipping back to the group.

“I always love the street performers when I go into Castle Town,” Four explained breathlessly as he caught up with the group. Wind had to smile at his flushed cheeks; Four had been pretty morose despite the good news, but he’d been growing steadily more excited the closer to the city they’d gotten. It seemed he’d finally caught the infectious relief that was swimming through the group.

At least through the younger members of the group. Time seemed strangely quiet, and it made the sailor a little worried and curious. What was the Hero of Time seeing that Wind wasn’t?

“Hope the money’s the same in this Hyrule,” Legend remarked as he joined the group once more.

Four froze in mid stride, horrified that he might have insulted the street performers with useless money, and Wind grabbed him by the wrist. “It’s okay, it’s the thought that counts!”

Meanwhile, Legend called to Hyrule, who hadn’t moved an inch. The traveler finally snapped out of whatever daze he’d been in and hurried to them just as the group entered another street.

As they moved, Wind’s eyes finally lingered long enough on his overwhelming surroundings for him to register something he actually wanted. It was a smaller market stall, which was a relief, and it was absolutely overflowing with apples. The apple looked scrumptious and he was honestly pretty hungry after hiking across Hyrule Field at an accelerated pace all morning. Wind tried to get the seller’s attention, but the man didn’t pay him any mind, seemingly too busy with other clients. When he glanced at Wind after the sailor had done his third polite “excuse me, sir,” he waved dismissively with a comment about street kids and don’t have time or something of the sort.

Indignant, Wind furrowed his brow and snatched an apple anyway, whirling and getting ready to take a bite out of it when it was hastily yanked out of his hand. He let out a protesting whine, but it fell on deaf ears as Warriors plopped the red, juicy, life sustaining fruit back on the stall before the seller had a chance to notice what had happened.

“Sailor, you know better,” Warriors said in a low, chiding tone. “Why are you trying to steal?”

“He was being rude and I’m hungry,” Wind replied, annoyed. “And that was with me being nice.”

The captain raised an unconvinced eyebrow, putting a guiding hand on Wind’s back and pulling him away from the stall. “We’ll get food once we get to Sky.”

Wind understood that. It wasn’t like he didn’t recognize they were moving with a good degree of urgency. This wasn’t some foreign or unintelligible concept to him - he’d lost his sister for Farore’s sake. But the letter had said Sky was safe - Wind also understood that as well, which meant they shouldn’t be so frantic about everything. Being hasty meant not thinking, and despite his exuberance and young age, the Hero of the Winds did try to be measured in his pace.

Most of the time.

He supposed there was more to it, a reason the excitement the younger heroes felt was tempered with a degree of unease in the elders. Ignoring his growling stomach, he let the captain get a step ahead of him, still in sensory overload with everything around him and also wanting some space from more chastisements. Then he saw an apple appear directly in front of him, held by a hand decorated in rings.

Wind blinked, registering the sight, and then gasped, grabbing the fruit with a grateful smile glowing upward at the veteran hero. “Thanks, Vet! Wait—did you buy it from that jerk?”

Legend scoffed and then winked, bumping his elbow against the younger hero’s shoulder. “Guy was rude, anyway. Don’t tell the captain.”

Wind practically gasped in delight. Finally, someone who understood! He took a bite and skipped to keep up with everyone else.

Twilight led the group to the end of the street, but before exiting the city entirely, he veered left down some stairs in a side alley. Wind hastily stuffed his half eaten apple into his adventure pouch as the group huddled together at the entrance to what had to be Telma’s Bar. They entered single file, and Wind felt his anxieties from the city settle with the familiar sight of a tavern.

The place was small and cozy, just as the young sailor liked them. There weren’t many people in at this hour, which was a bonus. But there was something very apparent.

Sky wasn’t here.

“Telma?” Twilight called uncertainly.

A woman who was sweeping what looked like clay shards paused in her work, glancing up. “Link! Oh, honey, what a sight for sore eyes. I’ve had quite the encounter and I think you’ll be interested to hear it.”

As the others huddled around Twilight to see the woman and listen to her words, she raised an eyebrow and lowered her voice. “I see you brought... are these the other Heroes that Rusl wrote about?”

“Where’s Sky?” Wind immediately asked, his earlier cheeriness dissipating.

The woman, presumably Telma, cocked her head to the side. “I’m sorry, dear, but I don’t know who that is.”

Time laid a hand on Wind’s shoulder, and the young hero understood the motion, sighing and biting his tongue as Twilight spoke. “Rusl's right. These are the others, but we're still missing one. He goes by that nickname. I got info saying you might have run into him.”

“Actually, yes,” Telma answered, and Wind perked up. “But you just missed him.”

“Where’s he going?” Legend immediately questioned.

“I’m afraid I don’t know, hon,” Telma said with a sigh, sweeping the last of the shards into a bin. “He certainly caused quite the stir. Found him stumbling outside the bar last night, soaked to the bone and exhausted. I let him rest here the night, couldn’t get much out of him. He seemed like a nervous fellow. But just earlier he disappeared right as half my bar seemed to fall apart!”

Wind wilted under Time’s hand. They were right back where they started. But Sky had to be close, maybe Twilight could follow his scent—

Oh. Of course he couldn’t. He couldn’t turn into a wolf here. Wind blew out a hiss of a breath, blinking frustrated tears away.

I just want my brother back.

“I’m sorry,” Telma said genuinely. “I wish I had more for you. It’s midday and you look exhausted. Why don’t you stay here and eat something while my associates keep an eye out? They were already looking for him.”

“Associates?” Four repeated, raising an eyebrow.

Twilight, though clearly worried, gave a reassuring smile to the smithy. “They’re friends, and they’re reliable. If anyone can find Sky, they can.”

His words did little to ease the tension in the room as everyone was growing more concerned with Sky’s disappearance, especially since he couldn’t be far. Wind wanted to turn right around to track him down, but his stomach growled loudly, and it was practically like a death knell to his plans as Time said, “Let’s eat.”

To everyone’s relief, though, he added, “Quickly.”

The group took a couple tables and pulled them together. Wind noticed a keg on one of the tables he was moving and excitedly reached for the sweet smelling mead when both Twilight and Warriors pulled him away. He pouted. “Oh, come on! Linebeck lets me drink, and rum’s way stronger than mead!”

“You’re too young,” Twilight argued.

“Not on an empty stomach,” Warriors chided at the exact same time, garnering a horrified look from Twilight.

“What do you mean not on an empty stomach, the answer is not at all!”

“He goes through what we do,” Warriors fired back with a shrug. “He should be allowed to partake as we do.”

“That’s—that’s literally the worst logic I’ve ever heard—”

“Just shut your traps and eat, will you?” Legend interrupted, throwing a loaf of bread at the pair.

Hyrule picked up a bowl of stew by the hands immediately after it was placed in front of him. Wind did the same and the two caught each other’s eye. For a moment their anxieties were channeled into mischief instead, and the pair set off to racing to see who could gulp the stew down the fastest.

“For the love of Farore, you’re going to choke,” Four groaned, rubbing his face tiredly.

Wild slurped the remains of his stew, plopping his bowl on the table. “I win.”

Wind coughed, flabbergasted and affronted. “You weren’t even in the race!”

Before the atrocity could be further addressed, the entrance to the bar burst open and multiple soldiers rushed in as if they were about to arrest everyone in the room. The heroes quieted, hands subtly sliding to their weapons, but the soldiers didn’t lay a finger on anyone. Instead, they were scanning the area with a strange frantic energy, poking at corners as if the barrels of wine would come to life.

“What’s with all the fuss?” Twilight asked the soldiers as they scurried about the place.

“Her Majesty ran into the Hero of Legend himself,” the soldier answered.

The entire group stared at the armored man. Then at Twilight. Then at the soldier again.

“Really?” Time asked, eyebrow raised and tone denoting exactly what he thought of the man's intelligence.

“The Hero of Legend,” Legend deadpanned. “Oh boy. Wow. That’s—wait, the Hero of Legend?!”

Everyone stared at the veteran now, bemused. Then it hit Four.

“He was seen here?” Four asked quickly. As soon as the question left his lips, everyone went on alert, figuring out exactly who the soldier was talking about. This wasn't about Twilight at all, it was about Sky!

“We have been tasked with finding him and escorting him to Gerudo Desert to eliminate the beasts that plague the land!” the soldier explained.

“Yes, he’ll get rid of the monsters! We're just doing escort duty,” another added. “Now stand aside; we must fulfill our duty!”

The soldiers pushed by them with high importance and haste, leaving the eight heroes in their wake.

Wind blinked, processing the exchange they’d just had and then looked at Twilight. “Your knights are idiots.”

Twilight huffed. “I won’t deny that. But now we know where to go.”

"You think he already headed out?" Hyrule asked.

"Of course he did, at the rate he's going," Four answered. "Why is he doing this?"

The group went silent.

“We should leave now,” Time said, putting money on the table for Telma as he stood. “We can’t fall too far behind.”

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missink01 · 7 months

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Connwaer: Can I bother you for a second?

Embre-Wing : You're always bothering me, but go ahead.

#the magic thief connwaer #embre wing #connwaer #the magic thief #ok but is it just me who imagines Conn visits Embre all of the time??#imagine conn just strolling up to the new Dusk House #the minions dont even stop him #he interrupts meetings

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wonderwyrm · 4 months

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After countless recommendations, I am finally reading The Book Thief.

Ten paragraphs in, it strikes me that Death (the narrator) has spent the entire time expounding upon the beauty of the sky, and how it’s not just a few colors as most assume, but an infinite gradient of hues from dawn until dusk

#The Book Thief

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amethyxtnix · 2 years

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My June 2022 Book Haul

i was in a reading slump for how many months.

so to say that i was so excited and happy to get back to reading would be an understatement.

#personal #books #book haul #bookworm #the atlas six #sorcery of thorns #book of night #the stardust thief #the city of dusk #sherlock holmes escape room puzzles

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netherfeildren · 4 months

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Honey, Stomach, Mine ; 2. More Intelligent Than a Face

Series Masterlist ; Part 1. ; Part 3.

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics; Dystopian Society; Outbreak not Cordyceps AU; Angst & Yearning™️; Slow Burn; Sexual Inexperience; Cock Riding; Size Difference; Size Kink; Sex Ed for Omega’s 101; Power Dynamics; Creampie; Discussions of Heats and Knots and Slick, Oh My!; Virginity; Emotional Hurt/Comfort; Young and Needy Omega; Possessive Behavior; Age Gap

A/N: FYI I do mention that she has small breasts in this one only because I usually write big boobs and thought it was time for some itty bitty titty committee representation.

Word Count: 13.9K

Read on AO3

Tip Jar

2. More Intelligent Than a Face

Existence is a strange thing, a needful thing. Something to be sated, filled, satisfied, this ordeal of being a living, breathing person. And to be an unusual sort of person, someone with needs extra to what the regular sort would require, doubly strange.

You had always thought, in different ways, that the mating program, although a choice thief, a freedom thief, was also benevolent in its control in some ways. After all, it gave those of you who were of the not usual sort, alphas and omegas, that such thing that you needed so badly.

Each other.

A bad, terrible, devastating thing that in turn gives you something necessary, life changing, life fulfilling, even, perhaps.

When your aunt had died and you’d been taken away and then put away and then shut away for what seemed would be forever, it had not, at first, in your child’s mind, seemed so terrible. But with the years, that existence you bore that needed, it began to hurt. It eventually became a very terrible thing that in turn, had taken away your ability to recognize yourself, as well. The reality that you’d been caged because of what you were, perhaps not particularly who, but certainly, what, was, at first, difficult to see. And then, when you did see it, even more difficult to look at.

A thing caged because of what it is. And again, existence is a strange and needful thing. Caged because of what you exist as; caged because of what you need because of what you are. Caged because they can give you what will sate you.

You open your eyes slowly, the bright, waning golden light of dusk shooting over the edge of the end of the world; bleeding pinks and violets feeding the fire. And he’s there, in a deeply set arm chair pulled up by the hearth, staring into the flames, and you realize, like you’d never truly considered before, that the cage was in part also his fault. That in ways, you’d been put away also because of what he is. You wonder if this should make you angry, resentful. If it should mean you should not want to be here, langoring so comfortably in his home that he’d brought you to. This man who you do not know, who does not so much even look like he wants to know you. In ways, your caging is his fault. And certainly, concretely, the prolonging of that caging was entirely of his doing. So why is there no resentment?

Once, one of the other omegas had said that they were brainwashing all of you. Preparing you, ripening you for slaughter. He’d come in later than the rest of you, when he was more grown, more mature, when he’d seen more things in his before life. He had lots of opinions, lots of thoughts, said that your before life, those ten years of living with your aunt, of only being a child like all the rest of them and not an omega, did not count. He said you’d been too young to understand all you’d lost. A boy named Leo. He was kind, but he was angry. And his anger frightened you. It was something you did know, in the sense that you could recognize it, for you’d seen anger before, but you could not understand it. For some reason, maybe you were built wrongly, and Leo was right, and you should have been angry like him, but you could never find it within yourself to muster it. Maybe there was nothing wrong about it. Maybe everyone was simply built and made and felt differently and that was fine too. But you knew that he was wrong on some accounts, particularly, that your before life had counted, that your aunt, who you remembered with so much love, had counted. And most of all, what he was most painfully wrong about, was that you did, and deeply, understand all you had lost.

After all, you could only see the sky for one hour a day, every other day, now, and that one hour made your understanding of everything around you, everything happening to you, keen and painful and humiliating in a very clear way.

The last rays of the sun wash Joel in vibrant orange reds now. A slash of glowing vermillion across his face, something almost violent about the streak of light, something possessive, and you focus your eyes intently on the sight of his face. This man, this alpha, who for all intents and purposes would or could own you as declared by the government or nature or even Leo and all he’d said would happen once you’d been claimed.

But there was one last thing he’d been wrong about, that young, angry boy, and what you felt was the greatest chasm between the way the two of you had existed within your new designations, which was that, at one very recent point in Leo’s memory, he had belonged to someone, to somewhere. He’d had a place and a home and a family, and he had belonged, and you had never had that. Your aunt, despite her love for you, had been too old and tired to want you, truly want you. You had never been wanted in any soft, true way by anyone before. And looking at him now, you don’t think Joel could ever be capable of wanting anything in a soft way, but you do think he could want something in a true way, and you’re certain that could be more than enough for you.

“Why didn’t you come for me?” Your voice, scratchy and small from sleep, floating away from you towards him. He jerks, the twitching returned, head snapping towards you, eyes wide, moving forward in his seat as if he’d spring out of it and towards you without thought. His scent seems to be heightened somehow now. As if your sleep had awakened your senses in new, keener ways. You can feel him tickling the back of your throat, threading his way through your hair, beneath your clothes, between your legs.

“Are you hungry?” He asks, ignoring your question. “When was the last time you ate? You need to eat.” And again that frown, too many fast words.

“Why didn't you come for me?” You press. “They told me you didn’t know if you wanted to come, that you wouldn't answer. I want to know why.”

He sighs a heavy, heaving thing, falling back in the chair, and turns back to the fire, and you want to whine and cry until he puts his attention back on you. You feel so… so– you don’t know. Little, unmade, with a need to be big, to grow and grow and grow so that all the things you feel and want might fit inside of you, so that he might fit inside of you. You feel hungry as if your gums ache and sting with a desire you’ve never tasted before. But also, and despite all of these conflicting, churning things, you also feel so inexplicably at ease. He’s just there, and you are just here, and you’ll make him answer, you know you have it in you to make him do the things you want, and you can’t say how, you don’t know how, but you understand that you do.

There’s power in that – even as you are, all you are not, you can see it – the ability something small possesses to make something big move, do, be. There’s power in that.

You whine low in your throat, and he turns back to you, something dark and tumultuous in his eyes, brow crooked sternly, but he opens his mouth. “I was going to leave you there,” he says, and you immediately wish he’d shut it. Never mind, you want to tell him, you say all the wrong things.

“But why? I was waiting for you.” Whine, whine, whine.

“I didn’t want this. I never have.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t want me?” You ask again, just to be absolutely certain you’re understanding that you’ve once again found yourself in a place where you are not wanted for, or despite of, the thing that you are. The logistics, the intricacies of it don’t seem to matter as much anymore, after everything, the before life, the not life, all that matters now is the yes or no.

But he goes silent again, attention back toward the fire, the sun set, no more glowing vermillion slash, very little hope now too.

He ignores your question again. “Tell me about the place they kept you,” he says instead.

“There’s nothing to tell.” You want to cry now, for the first time, besides the tears of initial happiness when he’d finally walked into your white box, you want to cry. You dig stubby nails into the round of your knee, hard as you can, trying to make it hurt and distract. “It was very calm and very quiet.”

“Did you have friends?” He won’t turn back to look at you, and it makes you feel very lacking. Very much like the nothing they tried to make you feel you were before.

“No. They wouldn’t let us.”

“They wouldn’t let you have friends?”

“No. They said it would agitate us – too much socialization. Really, they just didn’t want us realizing, becoming angry and aware”

This makes him turn, makes you feel, within yourself, the anger you’re telling him of, like oh, now, when I’ve been shocking and honest, you look at me – after I waited all that time for you. There is no resentment about the cage, only for the waiting. You should stick your tongue out at him, make him an ugly face, turn over and go back to sleep and ignore him the way he’d ignore you. But no, you think, let him see that you do understand, and you do know some things, that you are angry, and Leo was right.

“What did you do then?” He asks.

“I read. I learned about myself, about you. About what we are.”

His gaze is so intense now, a ricochet, a scream, something very persistently sad. “And what are we?”

“People just like all the rest of them. But with more necessity.”

“How do you mean?”

You tip your head side to side, bright fire eyed gaze to bright fire eyed gaze. Your cheeks feel molten, sweltering, sweat at your nape, the fire in the hearth so bright, but not as bright as you; your belly glows. This is what you are, this is what you’d been made into. “There is so much necessity in existing, don’t you think?”

He tips his chin, he doesn’t understand.

“We need so many things. We require so much to be alive, to be what we are, to be satisfied and content.”

“Do we?”

“The things we are, yes. I think so.”

“You don’t seem like you spent years in that place,” he says, voice slow, molasses in the notes. There’s something hypnotized slumbering in him that forces something satisfied to swell within you. Your belly glows.

“I had a before life. People forget that.”

“I read in your file — you lived with an aunt.”

You wait for the: only for ten years, but the diminishing does not come. “Yes. She was kind, and I remember all of it, even if the rest of the world forgets it happened.”

“Did they ever mistreat you? At the facility–”

“No. Never. There was nothing.” You’re the one to turn away now. The sun has entirely gone away, a single glowing sliver just at the drop off of the end of the world. You stick your hand out straight ahead of you, fingertip following that line of fading light through air and space and sea.

He watches you unblinkingly, and asks, “What do you mean?” The far off light glows through your skin, through your fingernail; he follows the path of your hand.

You can pretend in your mind that you feel the warmth of it against your fingertip, that it scorches the way it glows, heats the length of your limb, feeds the same glow in your belly, but there’s no more possessive streak of light to wrap around you; now, the heat only lives within you. This is what you are, this is what they said would happen, and now it’s finally happening. You let your arm fall back to your lap, limp, and turn to look at him again. He looks so angry, and you feel so incredibly sad for him. This cold perch, this cage that is not white like your box, but dark and struck right on the edge of peril, this place he chose to exile himself to. They were honest, in the things they'd told you all, the truth of the way alphas exist out in the world. Lonely and ostracized and feared, brainwashed to your reality maybe, sure, the way Leo claimed. But in certain things, they’d been honest, and you’re glad for it, that you have the ability to understand him now from this vantage point. The reality of how he exists, the reason for that look in his eyes, it all makes sense to you.

“I suppose that can be a kind of bad thing… a mistreatment. Making nothing of us, of our lives, taking the whole world away until someone chooses to come and give it back to us.”

He flinches, the look shutters, clicks and flashes, a camera capturing the truth of what the two of you have already done to each other without even really knowing one another at all. “I’m sorry I waited. I’m sorry I took so long.” The words cost him something the way all truths cost something. “That I wasn’t there for you as soon as I should have been.”

“Why weren’t you?” You ask, although you know.

“I couldn’t. I can’t. I’m not– I’m not right. I’m not well.” And this costs him more than the rest, you can see. The thump, thump, beat of his heart in his throat. You should tell him to stop, mercy is power, but you think, feel, that this pound of flesh you’re demanding via his truths is what you’re owed for your life and a year of waiting. And anyways, you’ll pay your own pound of flesh in kind eventually, and it’ll cost, even if it’s freely given, it’ll still cost. Everything is equal here, it’s only that it takes a certain kind of eye to realize the truth of that.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Everything, what I am, the whole thing of it and this. It’s all wrong.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t know.” And he looks suddenly angry, aged, wearing all his years and all his very obvious loneliness, teeth bared but on the verge of falling out.

“No…” you say slowly, thinking, rationalizing, a rolodex of truths in your mind. What you are, what I am, what we all are and all the honesties that compromise us. “I don’t, but I understand anyway. They make you all nothing, as well, don’t they? They take it all away, all nothing until you have one of us. It’s a terrible way to live.” And you don’t ask him, it’s not a question, only a very obvious thing.

Your words upset him, put him right at the mouth of madness, all those shakes and jitters returned, but you only lay your head back down on the soft pillow he’d tucked beneath you, hands folded undercheek to wait for the explosion that does not come. There’s something in you that wants to see him angry, angry like Leo, like the boy who’d said you didn't have to be what they told you to be, that reminded you that you could choose for yourself. One of the few things you’d agreed on, despite and inspite of the friendship that they would not let you have but that would have blossomed anyways if they’d given you the time. They wanted to make you nothing, but you didn’t want to be nothing. You wanted very much to be alive and to belong.

You realize, watching Joel muzzle his nature before your very eyes, wondering if the truth of him would have him springing up out of the chair to smother you with his weight and temper you with his knot, subdued with his teeth sunken into the gland at the back of your neck, that you want to see him angry. You realize that you want to see him break, that you want to hear that truth no matter what it costs the either of you. You want to see him honest.

He struggles, a dog fight right before your eyes, but when he wins, it changes the game, turns the truth chimeral. Makes you see him in a different way, and all at the same time, makes you aware and even more comfortable than you’d already been. You’re safe here. He is safe. Most importantly, you want to be here.

“Let me show you your room,” he says after a deep breath.

“My room?” A little seedling of dread and sadness and disappointment.

He shows you to a bedroom hued in soft blues. The sea when it is gentle, the sky when it’s joyous. Everything comfortable, nothing white, like he’d known already.

He stands awkwardly at the mouth of the entry, as if scared to step foot into this serene pool of azure and marr it’s peace. You watch him out of the corner of your eye as you move around, no shoes, no socks, slowly running your fingers over all the soft surfaces, sweaty little toes sunken into the deep pile of the rug underfoot.

“I wanted you to have somewhere to adjust– where you’d have privacy. I’m sure this– that I– that it’s all a shock…” he stutters.

One of his boots inches forward, snaps back, like he wants to follow, like he needs to follow, like nature is right here in the room with the two of you, but he wins that dog fight again, holds back. Frustrating.

“I’m not shocked. But I– I won’t stay with you?”

“No,” he says with a finality that makes that seedling bloom in full. “I also got you clothes. And– and soft things. I know your sort–”

You give a soft huff of air through your nose, my sort… our sort.

“Like things like that. And I also… I also put some of my own things in the drawers,” he nods towards a dark mahogany dresser shoved up against the wall; shy and boyish and hesitant all wrapped into a package that would seem to be none of those things. “They say that helps.”

“Okay… thank you.”

“Went into town to get it,” he says of the robin's eggshell blue duvet, a more dove gray blue wash for the silk soft sheets beneath. It’s all beautiful and delicate and lace trimmed and looking at him, huge and rough and something like a lonely mountain, you can’t believe he’d chosen this for you. “Lady at the store said you’d like it when I picked it out.” And that makes satisfaction smother the seedling, yes, he’d chosen it for you. A good sign.

“You went into town to get me things?”

“I told you I want you to be comfortable while you’re here.” Something about the sentence tickles your mind, but then you’re lowering yourself onto the cloud soft bed, cool silk and cotton beneath your skin, sliding against his clothes, your belly glows bright. You’re full of distractions and truth. “There’re a couple of young women that live down aways.” Young women? You perk up at the thought. Friends? “Ellie and Dina. Two young alphas, and they’re good people. I’ll take you down to meet them soon, when you’re ready.”

“Two alphas?”

“They’re a couple.”

“Like– like in love?”

He hovers at the edge of the rug with that strange look in his eyes again, the one from before – I’m only an omega, you don’t have to be afraid of me – and a palpable desperation to cross the border you don’t think he’s even aware he’s letting you in on, but that you can see nonetheless. Two fingers tucked into the line of his belt, twisted there as if grasping for restraint.

“Yeah, they’re together.”

“I didn’t know alphas could do that… that they’d let you.”

“Reckon it’s why they came all the way out here, to be honest, for freedom. But ‘course they can – be together, that is. We can do what we please, despite what they’d have us believe.” And Leo’s words ring in your mind again. Perhaps everyone sees the truth of what you are except for you. The seedling grows vines, suffocates. All the hope you’d thought would live here seems to have never even existed at all. You feel, for the first time, heavy with all the things you do not know, all the things you lack, all the inexperience and naivety like ignorance thick and cloying in your blood. “From what I understand, Dina presented late, after they’d already gotten together. And by that time it was a done deal, they were in love, no going back. And anyway, they make it work, make it look easy as nothin’, to be frank.” He runs a big hand over the back of his skull, and the way he lifts his arm has the thick of his bicep bunching, fat ball of muscle just there for your teeth to sink into. You shift restlessly on the bed.

“Easy as nothin’,” you say slowly, trying to imitate the dip and pitch of his drawl. Your fingertip follows the line of stitching in the duvet, petting at the seams holding it together. “Is that how we’ll be too?” And although you mean the words, intend the question, you’re suddenly awash with shy regret for asking, even though you can’t say exactly why. Probably for the look on his face, which goes immediately dark and serious, and even yet, you persist. “Will it be easy for us too?” And you’re sure your voice must sound like you’re begging.

“No. It won’t. It won’t be like that between us. You’ll stay here as long as it takes for you to acclimatize to being out of that place,” that place, he says like a curse, and it makes you angry, “To bein’ out in the world, and then we’ll find somewhere for you. Somewhere that’s safe and comfortable where you’ll be able to make your own life.”

“I don’t– I don’t understand,” you tell him, but it’s a lie. You do understand, you see, and very clearly, that all you’d waited for during your life, the before, the not life, the extra year, it had all been in vain, for nothing. It would not be given to you here.

“What don’t you understand?” And his tone is cruel and spitting, making you flinch. “I’m sending you away soon. This is what I’m saying.”

“But I don’t– No–” You’d waited so long. He’s being so mean, and you tell him so.

“Yes. You need to be with people your own age. You need to see the world and grow up,” and what a horrible thing to say, you think – to grow up. As if it were not a thing you’d been forced to do already all on your own, without anyone to help you.

“Well then what do you care about what I need? You make no sense!” And you bare your teeth at him. “If you don’t want me–”

But he cuts you off, broad palm held up in a staying gesture, and it’s so incongruous with all the rest of it, that you want to laugh in his face. “Didn’t say I don’t want’cha.” And that frown again, he makes no sense, the tip of his boot makes landfall in the high piled rug, halfway in, hypnotized and compelled in full. You settle on the bed and feel very calm despite the too fast beat of the thing that moves and lives within you, despite your anger and confusion.

And through the beat and the heat and the sweat on your neck, despite the shyness you’ve forgotten is shyness right at this moment, but that you’re sure will return later because this is what you are and this is what you were made for: him. You ask, “Then are you going to knot me now?” Because if he’s going to send you away, then surely he’ll give you that before you go, surely he’ll still want that from you.

He splutters, going all red in the face as if the notion of a young omega asking the experienced alpha she’s been presented with to do that most basic thing his nature demands, is something out of the ordinary. “What? No– no.” But despite his supposed refusal, he takes two steps forward towards you. Venturing further onto the soft piled rug, leaving large crushing footprints in his wake.

“Later then?” You ask very pragmatically.

“No. Absolutely not. There will be no knotting.”

You shake your head at him, small frown between your brows, but still feeling calm despite the tragedy. Forcing that horrible seedling down into submission, the vines smothering all your hope. “But what do you mean?” And you feel like a child.

“I’m not going to fuck you. We aren’t doin’ any of that. You’re too– you’re too young, practically a girl.” A child. He has an accent that thickens with agitation, the ends of his words sluicing off between his tongue and teeth and anger while he hurts you.

“You don’t want me,” you say, and it isn’t a question anymore, only an obvious thing.

His eyes go very dark, and you want to turn away, look back at the edge of the world and the bright glow of the sun being swallowed by it. “I don’t want that.” And the way he spits the words hurts, making you a thing impossible to desire.

“You don’t want me,” again, repeated, so the both of you can bask in the truth of it.

But it snaps something in the room, or in him, or amidst the honesty being brought out here and now. He takes two ground-eating steps forward to loom over you aggressively, forcing you to fall back on your elbows, looking up at him wide eyed but still inexplicably not afraid, only a greater thing than what can be called merely disappointed. And yet, not disappointed enough to not notice the way one of his knees presses against the inside of one of yours. “I should get to have a fucking choice too, shouldn’t I? Like you, locked away in that horrible place–”

“It wasn’t horrible,” you try and say, but you don’t think he hears.

“The way you had all your choices and freedoms stripped. Shouldn’t I also be allowed to have one single goddamn thing?” Where else would I have gone if not there? “A choice – to say, no, stop, I don’t want this.” He’s so angry, and it is all suddenly so clear, and he finally grabs you, pulling you up by the bend of your elbow, the small joint almost crushed in his massive fist to pull you halfway up off the bed and towards him, getting in your face with all his anger.

Leo’s voice again, you don’t have to be what they tell you to be, you can choose for yourself. This is what Joel wants too.

“You can’t end up stuck out here at the end of the world with some washed up old alpha who can’t give you a quarter of what you need and deserve. I won’t let you. I won’t,” he snarls.

But despite your greenness, your naivety or your ignorance or your youth, you think: how dare he? “And what about what I want? What about my choices? Or are you going to be just like all the rest of them? Like the whole world telling me I’m too insignificant and too stupid to decide for myself? Just locked away in another cage–” You spit at him, trying to claw and shove at him, stubby nails digging at the sun pebbled skin of his throat, yanking at his too long hair and patchy beard, inadvertently pulling yourself closer to him. He grunts, struggling to take you in hand, slippery thing you can make yourself into when you really want, and you, trying your mightiest to hurt him any way you can as he’s already decided he’s going to hurt you with his rejection. “Is that what you are? Just like all the rest of them?” You cry amidst your struggle, choked with tears and being too little to be effective but too big for your own skin.

You shove at his jaw, trying to scratch at his cheek, but he grips you full around either arm, locking you in place and gives you a swift but measured jerk, jostling you into submission, trapping your hands bent as they are up by his neck so that one small palm is sliding to the back of his nape, over the gland behind his ear, at that soft vulnerable hollow, and coming to rest at the one in back, at the base of his neck beneath his collar. Both of you go still as stone, frozen by the truth of what you both are and how inescapable it all is, reality held in the palm of your hand.

Obvious: a designation is not a thing you can ever hide. Alphas and omegas wear it on their bodies like markers. Glands scattered at different places: behind the ears, at the base of the neck, inside the wrists and ankles; vulnerabilities that when acknowledged, bitten, seal a mating bond. Places that if handled properly, turn you into nothing but what you are at your basest nature. And you can’t help yourself – at the feel the spongy patch of skin, slightly raised and slightly rougher than the rest of him, a place that when in rut or in heat, would become, will become, extra sensitive, extra swollen, extra ripe – when you slowly slide your fingers against it, feeling the texture of it, the way it’s even hotter than the already sweltering rest of him.

He growls low and rumbling in his chest, that sound again, and he’s so angry, it’s painted all over his face in shades of defiance; coming off of him like radiation, angry at you, angry at the truth of what you both are, angry at himself and the world and all of it, but he pulls you closer anyways, tugging your forward by his grip on your arms which is starting to mimic the ache you’re suffering at that place between your legs you long to show him, pulling you in so that the tips of your breasts, covered beneath his thick sweater and the too thin, soft bra they gave all the omegas who needed them, brush against the thick of his chest, pulling a soft breath of a moan from your tongue.

“You’re being so mean to me,” you whisper. “And I don’t deserve it. And I waited so long for you and you never came for me, and now this is how you’re treating me,” you say with a hiccup and a tear, and you feel little and big and that place that calls for him pulses and hurts and leaks. He’s so mean and you’re so sad and you want him and you can’t understand why he’s being this way when you were made for him and he for you, and if nothing else was right in this world, then this was the thing that was supposed to be.

His eyes shift quickly back and forth between both of yours, that frown, mouth turned down, his mustache that connects to the patchiness of his beard showing how contrary he finds you. You frown back at him, trying to pull away, whining when he tightens, pulls you closer, right up to his face as if he needs to inspect you even more closely. Your toes aren’t touching the rug anymore, scraping against the thick round of his boots, and you won’t have it. You’ll give him a piece of your mind, you’ll show him. “You think that because I’m little and young and easily bruised that I’m not in control.” It’s not a question. If you could grow fangs, you would. If you could rip him to shreds, you would. “That I can’t control you. But I made you come for me, didn’t I?” Now you laugh at him, now you show him. “I knew if I wrote to you, you’d come, and you did. I made you come. I made you.” And saying it feels like victory, so you don’t care that it makes his face crack, you don’t care that he pushes away from you, letting you fall back onto the bed with a limp bounce, storming out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him. You don’t give a thistle for choices. You want to be selfish, you want to be alive, you want to see the sky. You have the sea now, and you want to be this thing you are because this is already you, this is what you were made into, and you have no choice but to bask in it, and you won’t bend to him or give it up for him only because he can’t accept the same of himself, only because he’s still trapped in his own white box.

He knows, as soon as you make whatever stupid decision it is that you’re making, that something’s off. A shift in the air in the house, his heart beating funny, his scent changing because his body knows you’re not in its immediate vicinity anymore, something that tells him off, off, off, be vigilant, she needs you so much, you can’t fail again. He reminds himself of all the decisions he’s already made, of what he knows he wants and does not want, of what he is and what he is not.

After he’d stormed out of your room – I made you – he’d retreated to hide in his own bedroom, to the other big chair by the fireplace in here, cowering like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, forcing himself to listen to you cry for hours, the whine and whimper of an omega in need of something he was made to give, and yet will not. As if a little thing like you could make him do anything. Him. He grits his teeth, chews on his own tongue, digs his fingers into the arms of the chair to force himself to remain seated in place, to not return to you, to not give you all the things he knows you need and want to be soothed by.

He can smell your scent changing already, reacting to him, reducing him to nothing, entirely effective in your conquering. And he’d stupidly thought that perhaps the heat, and the rut that it would yield, would wait, give him a moment of reprieve or compassion before it came for him. A moment to think. He thought he’d have more time, a chance to escape the thing he so desperately wants but cannot and will not let himself have, refuses to give in to. His body stirs and smolders, and like he’d done for eleven years and then one, he ignores it. He ignores the truth of who and what he really is.

He sits in his chair, head propped up against the back, and listens to your cries and mewls ebb and quiet until finally, he thinks you might have sobbed yourself to sleep. He doesn’t want to hurt you, he doesn’t mean to hurt you. It’s the absolute last thing he could ever, ever want. Everything, not only in his nature, but in his character, in the things that make him up as a man who’d want a woman like you, is clamoring within him to go to you, to give you what you want, to sooth you with his voice and his scent and his cock. To fuck you into your heat until you’re soft and slick and fevered enough to take his knot, to let him breed you, to let him mate you. His cock stirs and thickens beneath the rough confines of his jeans, that thicket of skin at the base where his knot waits in ready for you, simmering with heat and tightness. He digs his knuckles into his temple until it hurts.

You don’t want me… Of course he fucking wants you. He’d have taken your cunt for himself right there in that white box room, on your rickety little iron cot for all the surrounding omegas and witless betas to hear without giving a single shit what anyone said or thought if he had any sort of right or will or choice. If he had anything more to give you. And then watching you go right to sleep when he’d brought you into his home, the sight of you feeling so immediately safe and content, ready to nest amongst his things and his scent – that feeling of having within himself the things that he needs to be what he is – indescribable.

Pretty little omega – and truly, you’re so pretty. All he’d never let himself imagine or desire or hope for. He’s too old, past his prime and forgotten by the world, but he’s still a man with a working cock, still an alpha, even if only in the simplest of ways. Of course he wants you.

He lets himself languish miserably before the fire, eyes going hazy with exhaustion, the comedown of adrenaline, the presence of warm omega all around him, the taste of your pre-heat scent coating his tongue and throat. He pulls his socks off and lets the heat of the fire warm his feet and thinks he should’ve given you his room instead, let you sleep in his bed, near the fireplace, between his sheets and amongst his scent. He can sleep out in the dirt for all he matters as long as you’re comfortable. And the rational part of his brain wants to laugh at the thought, sitting here alone, realizing that despite his battling, his nature will always win out in the end, that all this fight really means shit. His cock gives a faint throb, his deflated knot rhythmically pulsing in time with his heart, ready to swell and claim what everyone including nature, but excluding Joel, has said belongs to him. Of course he wants you. And if he’s honest, or a fucking liar, he can’t really say which, all his truths and deceptions have become so muddled within his own mind, his past and his present and this future he’s never thought he wanted or had a right to, the year of waiting was more a form of self punishment, restraint as proof of fear, than anything to do with you.

Anger, yes, that everything had been decided for him for so long. That he isn’t even allowed to decide what he is, what he wants. But fear, more than anything, that interminable curse of failure he’s so haunted by and so afraid of. How could nature ever look at him and think him strong enough to take on the role of caretaker, protector, alpha – whatever it is that you need him to be, the whole world in the eye of a young and untried omega – when he can hardly stand the sight of his own face in the mirror? There’s nothing but tragedy setting the stage the two of you stand posed on.

Finally, your cries fade to soft hiccups, and then a peculiar silence he doesn't trust. He waits, ears peeled, his head turned slightly towards the cracked open door of his bedroom, sensing the shift in scent and after a few beats of too loud silence, a thud and a huff, the music of a little mind thinking too loudly and mischievously for its own good. Even the wind seems to blow differently as if it knows you’re scampering about amidst it now, vulnerable to its lashings, and he’s shooting up out of his chair and charging through the house. By the door, he realizes his boots are gone, stolen from where he’d dropped them discarded after he’d left you in your room to cry your salt tears. He forgoes a coat and his flannel, braving the icy wind in nothing but his white undershirt, stepping silent but no less frantic out onto the deck. The truck is dark and quiet, still in its usual spot, and this quells his fear minutely. It occurs to him that you likely don’t even know how to drive.

But when he comes around the western facing corner of the house, it’s worse than he could’ve imagined, and the scar slashed across his right temple suddenly zings like copper, burns like fire at the sight of you. You are, for some inexplicable reason, crawling on all fours, towards the edge of the cliffside. And he’s frozen solid for a second, shocked and terrified, and then moving forward like lightning, tripping over his own two feet and breath before he realizes you’re right at the very edge now, and he needs to move very fucking carefully to ensure he doesnt send you spilling in fright over the edge.

He alters his movements, continues forward slowly, his bare feet over the freezing ground and sharp bric-a-brac of the forest floor, the slabs of stone turning to ice as he nears the edge, and he watches the uncoordinated wallop of your movements, banging your knee with a small yelp, as you crawl like a slow and drunken spider in his too big clothes, dragging his too big boots around your ankles, to the very edge of the cliff side, slowly lowering yourself to plop down with your head and arms hanging over the edge.

He pauses about ten feet away from you and waits for your next move, but you lie still, quarter part of you draped over the edge of the cliff, and he realizes that you’re watching the water far below crash against the rocks.

“Sweetheart,” he calls slow and gentle, crouching down low so that his voice travels along the ground where you lay. “Sweetheart, what’re you doin’?” You start, turning back towards him, one palm coming to the edge of the rock to shove yourself up to peer back at him, rock pebble spraying out over the void with your movement, and his heart and stomach lurch to his throat, almost gagging at the terror. Your eyes are hazy and bright, and he recognizes the beginnings of the fever, it’s tendrils wrapping themselves around you, making you a little confused, a lot needy, and he’s so fucking stupid, he should’ve never left you alone. But he hadn’t thought it’d come on this fast, that you’d affect each other so.

“I wanna go down there,” you call over the small hill of your shoulder, turning back to peer down at the beach. You point down at the shoreline with your other hand, wagging your finger as to emphasize what it is you want.

Jesus fucking Christ, he’s going to have a goddamn heart attack. “Alright, baby. Come back here, I’ll take you down. Let’s go together.” You mumble something, arm flopping out, waving him away. “Please, sweetheart, come back here with me,” he begs, and there must be something in his tone, he’s sure, because you turn full back at that, looking at him suspiciously like you remember his earlier words of rejection and no longer trust him now.

“I’m glowing, sir. I need to feel the sea and the cold.” Your voice sounds not your own, like it comes surfing off the wind to his ears.

“Not, sir. Joel. Only Joel, remember?”

You push yourself up, moving to sit back on your knees, but still right at the edge, still too close. Sweat slides slick and frigid down his spine, the complete opposite of what you must be feeling right now. Only Joel. Only Joel, he hears you mutter at the sea. “There isn’t anything only about you. Leave me alone. Go away–”

“Please, baby. Come back here. Let’s go inside, I’ll give you the sea, I promise. Just come over here – with me.” You turn back at that, shifting on your knees to face him. If you lose your balance, stumble, you’ll topple back over the edge. He just needs to be good enough for you to want to come to him, convincing enough. He puts his palm out towards you, all supplication now. “Come here, sweet thing. I’ll show you the sea, I promise I will.” You start your slow spider crawl back towards him and his scar burns, a sharp pain through his brain, piercing behind his eye, heart beat to death between his ribs. As soon as he gets his hands on you, he’s going to fucking throttle you, he promises. But he’s almost got you, and he dares not move, barely even breathes, his hand is shaking so badly it interrupts his view of you on every other painful heartbeat, and he realizes his eyes are blurry with terrified tears, and suddenly, that anger doesn’t matter even half an ounce as much anymore because then you’re here and crawling into his arms, up into his lap so that he’s falling back onto his ass on the cold, hard ground. He pulls you into himself, clumsy little spider legs wrapping around his waist, your arms going around his neck so that you’re clinging to him.

One of his boots lies lost and discarded back by the edge of the cliff.

“Please, don’t ever fucking do that to me again.”

“I’m glowing,” you sigh into his neck.

“I know you are, baby. It’s okay, we’ll fix it.” He feels you nuzzle at his collarbone, his neck, the gland, already sensitive and swollen behind his ear, already, already, already, God help me, and his heart feels like it’s beating so hard he can feel it move through your chest cavity and reverberate against his hand on your back. Christ, it wasn't supposed to happen this quickly, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to have more time, more choices, more control. The wet of your lips mouthing at his skin, and then the peek of your tongue tasting his gland, and he rumbles deep in his chest, his mind going loose and slacken like an old rubber band, and then snapping back to clarity at your surroundings. Cold wind and now the beginning sprinkling of needle freezing rain, your shivers jittering into his chest.

“We gotta go inside – let’s get up,” he murmurs into your ear, unable to resist nosing at your hair, the small, freezing cold seashell hidden within.

Wait, wait– and then the scrape of small, blunt edged teeth just there at the vulnerable patch of skin. He swallows a scream, and the caged thing rattles and howls inside his chest, his arms going iron and binding around your back, pressing you to him, chest melded to chest. “Wait, please,” again, and now a tiny kiss. “If you don’t want me,” and he never should’ve even insinuated it, it’s the worst thing he’s ever done in his entire miserable fucking life. “Then will you please–” another soft press of lips to his jaw, the corner of his mouth. His hand slides down your spine, he can’t help himself, presses down on the base of your vertebrae, the heat of your cunt along the pulse of his cock, through cotton and denim and cold, just there, just there, he’s so fucking close. “Will you at least kiss me–” but you’re not waiting for another rejection, you’re just licking clean across the slash of his mouth, taking his bottom lip between both of yours for a shy little suck, unsure and inexperienced with desperation. And then there’s nothing caged about any of it, no more white box, no more perch at the end of the world, he squeezes you to himself so that it hurts, and he kisses you.

Hand twisted too tightly in your dampening hair, he pulls your head back, and with a rumbling grunt sends you deep and languid into easy submission, the steady deep timber of the sound wringing the desired effect on you. You twitch once, as if he’d tugged on your strings, his pretty puppet, and then go soft and open and easily penetrated, jaw hinging open so that he can lick inside of you, tasting all you have to offer which he refuses to accept he’s actually taking and which you’re all too desperately eager to give.

He takes it all regardless.

Slick mouth against slick mouth, out there in the cold rain and wind, rolling around in the dirt, he tastes you the way the two of you were made for. Pulling your hips closer, rolling his up to meet all the heat you have to offer which will only get hotter and hotter the more he continues down this path. You claw at his hair, the gland at your wrist rubbing against the one at his ear, marking him with your scent and pheromones, marking him as yours. And he swears he can almost feel that glow in your belly too, a little wriggling comet in his hands, set to burst. The crescendo of your whining climbs higher, your mouth hungrier, and Joel feels insane for a second, entirely outside of himself, lost to his senses. All he is, is what you need him to be, something hard and strong and solid for you to mold yourself around, and it’s so right it’s wrong. Not what he’d planned, not what he’d decided.

He rips his mouth away from yours, panting, forgetting his name and his sense and everything else he is besides a hard cock and a now equally smoldering belly. “Wait– wait,” he begs, burning comet, too willful to tame without teeth, surging in his arms. You rub yourself against his face, your hair sluicing through his, your soft tits against his chest, his neck, bumping his chin while you try to climb him perched in his lap like you are. “Wait, please–” he tries to sooth over your huffing whines, and then a sharp stinging little bite to his jaw line.

No, no.

“Stop. We have to stop, please. This isn't what’s supposed to happen. This isn’t what I want.” And you hear that.

The comet burns out, you go still in his arms, and it feels worse than anything. He wishes he could swallow the words back immediately because then you’re pushing back and away from him. Scrambling out of his lap, escaping his arms as fast as you can.

“You’re horrible! Get away–” He dodges a small, kicking foot – the bootless one. And you’re stumbling to your feet, tripping over the too big shoe wrapped around your too small foot. He pushes to stand, as well, gripping you about the elbow, avoiding a weakly punching little fist now. This is truly getting too ridiculous. The two of you need to come to terms with each other, meet in the middle, forgo the theatrics you seem all too desperate for. He ducks away from another ineffectual punch, grips you by the scruff of the neck, unruly kitten that you are, and pushing you forward, hooks you under his arm, lifting you clear off the ground and rendering you entirely captured, bent in half, a wilted flower over the strong of his forearm.

You squawk indignantly, kicking your feet against the back of his leg as he stomps over to his abandoned boot, slowly filling with rain now, fuck this shit, and trudges through the mud back to the house, ice cold droplets dripping off the tip of his nose. The two of you are well on your way to soaked, but he thinks it might not be such a bad thing, considering the ball of heat radiating from your belly, the one in his own mimicking you. It seems to pool in the palm of his hand, where he’s got you hooked and caught over his arm, honey collection of magma.

Let me go! You’re screeching. “Leave me alone! You don’t even care about me and I hate you and I want to see the water!” More kicking and clawing.

When he finally dumps you back onto your rumpled bed, undignified yelps and pathetic little growls, he’s at his wits end. Taking you firmly in hand, heavy hand back at the nape of your neck, thickly calloused palm scraping against the quickly swelling gland there, other pushing at your hip to drape you over the edge of the bed like a rag doll, he folds himself over you, smothering you with his weight and heat, forcing you into calm. You go shocked frozen, wracked with shivers and then finally, blessedly still and quiet. This was all you needed, for Joel to follow his instincts.

He presses you into the bed with his too heavy weight, thick arms caged around your head, pert little ass tucked up against his pelvis, and he breathes you in, lets you settle.

“You need to behave,” he rumbles, and all you do is sigh bleary eyed and exhausted by your own willfulness. “You’re not to go outside all alone at night like that again, do you understand me? And you are especially, never, ever, to go that close to the cliff edge again.”

“But the sea–” you whine and shift, rubbing your little cunt against his now fully hard cock, perfect position that he’s got you in, presented to him like this. He presses tighter against you, growling deep in his chest to shut you up.

“Promise me.” But you whine, shifting, starting to cry a little, too far gone to the start of the fever he’s done nothing to really sate. There’s still time yet, for your full heat, but these beginning symptoms, they need to be soothed just as well, tempered just as diligently as the full blown heat would be. If for nothing else, than for the sake of the omegas' comfort and happiness. He bends his knees, shoving the thick of his erection up against the apex of your thighs, pressing you further up onto the bed and tighter beneath him, and nosing through the mantle of your hair, he finds the gland at the back of your neck beneath the collar of his sweater and bites down gently. Not breaking skin, only giving you teeth to feel, to be soothed by, that blunt clasp that’ll dull your own sharp edges for now.

He laves his tongue along the scorching patch of skin, the texture different to the rest of you, different, even, to his own glands, like silk, like water, something liquid about the feel of you here beneath his tongue and teeth. You let out a terrible little sound that has the threads of his control snapping, providing cause for concern, and he growls softly, pleased, in response. It’s a sound of submission and acceptance and praise, from the both of you equally, all at the same time. He lets you settle like this, petting at you with his tongue, giving you the scraping edge of his teeth like a threat, every so often. Grinding, because honestly he can’t even fucking help it, against that scorching little cunt he knows would already, even now, be so soft for him. Perhaps, not soft enough yet, not ripe enough yet, to take his knot and everything else he wants to force on it, but soft enough for him to teach you how to take a good fucking.

A virgin, never even had a heat before, and trapped here between his teeth and beneath his cock. It would all be so easy, it would all feel so right.

But that is, Joel thinks, just the thing of it. It would feel right – but would it be right? He can’t yet tell.

You cloud his judgment, seduce his nature into wanting to give you everything and anything you could ever even think to ask for, and he can’t yet tell if it’s just you, that sparkle and that light and that heat like a comet that lives inside of you that he’s coming to suspect is wholly yours, nothing to do with biology or designations or markers that tell of what you should and should not be, that’s got him so desperate to please you. Or if it’s only nature, trying to force him into another choice he’s not made for himself.

You wake slowly, disturbed out of your sleep the way one feels when they’re being spied on by something too large and too scary to look at right in the eye.

You shift in the blue bed, cool and calm now, all that glowing heat from before that’d forced you out into the cold and the wind, hungry to throw yourself through space and time out into the sea, reckless and free, gone away now. All you feel as your eyes blink open slowly, is a shivery, damp cold rattling down the line of your spine. The room around you is dark, the glow of the slumbering fire out in the living room peeking in through the slightly left ajar door of your bedroom.

He’d stayed until you’d gone boneless and calm, trapped beneath his weight and between his thick strong arms, letting you suck on the gland inside his wrist as you’d pleased. And when finally, you’d been just on this side of awake, he’d changed your clothes and slid you beneath the soft sheets and weighted duvet, and sat in the cozy sofa chair by the window until you’d been too exhausted by the embers in your tummy and the tight want between your legs to fight sleep any longer.

The chair sits cold and empty now, and above it, the wide window, the pitch black of the world beyond is bright with unknown terrors, and you huddle into your nest of pillows and blankets, hiding beneath the edge of the duvet.

You’d never had a window in your bunk, had not experienced the night in years and years, and looking at it now, put on display as it is through the clear pane of glass separating you from all of that unknown, you feel suddenly terrified, nothing but little. It feels as if you were to look away from it, it’d reach through the glass and pluck you out of your bed, whisk you far enough away that he’d never be able to find you, come for you again, and also, like if you don’t stop looking, it’ll eventually begin to look back. You wiggle backwards, bum finding the edge of the bed, and then sliding out, feet first, gaze still peeled on the window and the night, walking backwards out of your room and pulling the door shut on your way. At the very last moment, you peek through the sliver of the door edge and frame, nothing but your nose remaining in the blue room, and you swear the night stares back now.

You shut the door with a snick, and turn to rush on tipped toes in search of his room.

He’s sleeping on his back, one thick arm thrown over his head, the other laying across his belly, and you peer over the edge of the bed, hands clasped beneath your chin, watching the up and down of his breathing, the flicker of his eyes beneath his lids. He has long eyelashes and funny whiskers and hair everywhere. Under his arms, and across his chest and his belly, leading down below the sheet covering him, to the thick lump there, that place you don’t know yet, but do understand. He’s hairy, and he’s big, and the aching place you want to show him comes awake in response to all this man you have before you. And although the house is warm, the fires stoked diligently to keep you as toasty as you need, another shiver runs its way down your back. So taking hold of one of his thighs, you hoist yourself up onto his too tall bed, knobby knee stabbing him in the side as you climb on top of him, planting yourself right in the middle of his broad expanse. He gives a rough grunt, shocked awake by the little creature climbing its way all over him, hands shooting out to steady you by the hips as he jerks startled.

“What in the Sam Hell–” You ignore his spluttering, rubbing your bottom against his stomach, finding a comfortable position to drape yourself over him, wilting like a felled weed snuggled up against his chest, tucked just below his chin, giving an entirely contented sigh when you settle. “What the fuck’re you doin’?” He has such a nasty mouth. Someone should wash it with soap for him.

He tries to roll over, but you cling, bearing your sharp little teeth to latch at his collarbone, holding tight, refusing to be shoved away again. “M’cold–” you fuss, chewing and slobbering all over him as you pull yourself closer, hitching a knee over his hip, burrowing your foot between the bed and his back.

“You have t’go back to your bed. You can’t sleep here.”

You whine, chewing harder, and he grumbles, but his hands slide from your hips to your back in a soothing pass and you slick your tongue against the flavors of his skin. He tastes so good, and he smells so good, and in a tiny voice you know will get you what you want, you say, “The window is too big and it’s so dark. I’m scared, alpha.”

He groans, grip going tight and strangling around you, fists bunching in the oversized clothes he’d swaddled you in after he’d dried the rain and outdoor chill off of you before putting you to bed. “Can’t I just stay here? I promise I’ll be good like you told me to,” and you nuzzle against him, making sure to thoroughly cover him in the headiness of your scent. Everything is so warm and right, and he’s so thick and comfortable and strong everywhere, perfect for laying on top of like this. The hair on his chest is prickly, tickling your face where you rub yourself against it, and he rumbles low, a deep sort of purring sound that you feel vibrate in your tummy, big wolfish man that he is, but his grip goes loose and soft after a while, stroking and soothing and petting along your slopes and planes. Convinced. Ha.

You hold very still, breathe very slow, make sure not to spook the beast while he accepts the fact of you here atop him until he finally says, already sleepy and relaxed again, “Alright… but you’ll behave like I said.” And eventually he rolls the two of you over, little omega barnacle that you’ve turned yourself into, and tucks you into his warm side.

The third time you wake to him, there’s fire everywhere. And an ache in your womb so sharp it sends shivers through your whole body. You cling and grind and tremble; forget your name, where you are, nothing more than that sticky throb in that place that you want to give to him so, so badly.

He’s draped atop you, heavy arm caging you in, thick chest covering your back, smothering you between incredible strength and, soft, Joel smelling sheets. You cup the ball of his bicep, it’s big and hard and hot, and drag your palm along the thick slope. He’s so strong, he could crush you, hurt you, make you into anything he wanted, and you want all those things, you think. You want him to do whatever he wants if only he’ll make the ache go away. Fire and glowing bright heat everywhere, most of all your belly, your heart, somewhere so deep inside you’d never known it existed until he’d come and made you aware of it.

Your fingers slide along his wide forearm, hairy here too, thick wrist, hard, strong bone beneath, and then the soft spot on the inside that belongs to you now. You stick your tongue out, tasting the spongy patch, scraping your teeth along it. If you bite him, you’ll be able to keep him forever, he won’t be able to send you away, but there still remains – even if just for a little bit longer, before the heat you’ve been waiting your whole life and a year for to finally take you – a part of you that’s still rational, head only halfway gone to the clouds. That part which reminds you that more than anything, you want him to choose you. Without the bite as a deal breaker, bond sealer, only because he wants you, only because he likes you.

But you can taste him, it doesn’t mean you have to bite him, and you the tip of run your tongue along the inside of his wrist, gently suckling at his gland, the flavor of him so much stronger here, as if his essence is more concentrated at this small place. And the ache between your legs, in your tummy, deepens, spreads and blooms and ravages. The inside of you feels sensitive and swollen and big and little all at once, and you shift your bottom, trying to rub yourself back up against him, your sucking mouth pulling sharper, a whine bubbling in your throat because you need something, something more, and you think you know, and you know you understand, but you’re not sure, and if he could just wake up and show you it would all be so much better.

You press back harder, arching so that the aching place feels the heat of him behind you, that hard ridge there that makes your heart pound all through your body. You’d shucked off your leggings and the sweater he’d put you in through the night, too hot and sweaty with the big beast smothering you as he’d been, so now you’re left in nothing but one of his too big t-shirts and the soft, cotton white panties all the omegas always wore. You whine again, gnawing on his wrist for real now, and a big paw of a hand comes up to wrap around your hip, stilling your wriggling. You feel him lean closer, burying his face in the back of your hair, groaning, hot bullish breath fanning across your nape. He rumbles deep and it only makes you feel worse, more desperate, more hungry for that thing you don’t know how to ask for. You want to cry his name, beg him, but your tongue feels fat and swollen inside your mouth, too full of blazing heat to form actual words. He just has to know, he just has to be able to tell.

“I know,” he mumbles against your nape, nosing around to your ear where he presses his mouth. “I know, it’s alright.” You gurgle again, pulling his wide palm to cover your face completely, nuzzling against his rough palm, muffling your pathetic animal sounds of supplication. It’s okay, it’s okay, you can hear him murmuring and you’re not sure who the words are for, but you feel certain they’re not for you. He’s scared, you know this. Between all the things you’re so uncertain of, this you’re sure of. He’s afraid, and it’s your job to reassure him, to show him how well it will all be once the two of you come together.

You push your face harder into his palm, and you feel him hook his fingers into the elastic of your panties, tugging the soft fabric wide, tugging them down your legs, and there’s that same need, yes, that comet bright glowing heat, but also, and something you can recognize as more your usual self, a desperate sort of shyness. Something coming unraveled and unspooled for the whole world, him, to see. You can feel the slick uncoveredness at the apex of your thighs, running down your legs, a blossom of heat and vulnerability there at that place, the core of you, and it doesn’t feel shameful, necessarily, but painfully exposed. Your softest place bared for him to see. And yet, alongside that, the knowledge that this soft place is only for him, that you only ever want it to be for him, and so this can, again, be nothing but right.

“Look at all this slick you’ve made for me, what a sweet girl you are.” There’s such reassurance in the timber of his voice, it makes the heat change, something swirling but steady, constant. You spread your own palm against the back of his hand covering your face, line your fingers along the backs of his, little and big, matched alongside each other, and you press his fingers against your forehead, squishing your nose against his palm, Hiding there in the cup of his hand from the whole world and him, waiting for this truth of yourself to finally be revealed to you.

His palm strokes along your bare thigh, I know, I know, he keeps saying, and they’d told you all that your alphas would know, that they’d show you, and there’s reassurance in this, that some part of what’s happening is unfolding as they said it would. It makes you feel not so small, not so untried and naive. You try and lay as still as possible, willing the flames into patience, breathing in your own hot breath from the cup of his palm. I know it hurts, we’ll make it better, I promise. He shifts behind you, the rustling of fabric, and then his hand on your bottom again, moving in a slow circular motion, steady and reassuring. He moves to your leg again, lifts it and then something hot and hard and big, coming to rest on your inner thigh, and he lets your leg down, starts the soothing rub of your bottom again.

“We’re gonna go so slow, alright. Only a little at a time and not the whole thing today. We gotta wait for your heat to settle in all the way, time it all right so that my rut doesn’t start before you’re ready to take me. How does that sound, sweetheart?” But your tongue is still fat, your words still jumbled and missing, and all you really want to ask is if he’s changed his mind now, if he’s finally decided he wants you, and you think you’re crying, sipping salt water from the palm of his hand. “I know I wasn’t how you needed me yesterday, and I’m sorry for that.” He presses his forehead against the back of your shoulder, hand sliding up your hip to your waist, dragging his shirt along as he goes, uncovering you for himself. And you feel so intensely, that you belong to him, and you can’t understand how he could have ever not felt the same way.

You hitch an agonized little sob, muffled by his hand, and he rolls slightly so you’re half draped atop his chest, his palm rubbing soothing circles low on your belly now. And forcing you out of your hiding place, he pulls your face back to look at him, gripped around your jaw. His face is very serene, and this settles you, makes the words he’s saying clearer, more meaningful. “Can you hear me silly thing, or can all you think about is taking a cock right now?” You scrunch your nose at him, you know that word, it’s his hard thing between your legs.

“It’s so heavy, alpha,” you sniffle, feeling the weight of it pressing against you there.

He nods, warm look in his eyes that crease at the edges. “That’s how it’s going to feel inside you, baby.”

“The knot?” A seedling blooms again, this one very different now, full of hope once more. You realize you’ve found your missing words.

He shakes his head, not yet, and drags his palm up the inside of your thigh, squeezing and kneading as he goes, and you want to complain that he moves so slow, that he needs to do something else, you don’t know what, but something. You want to click your teeth at him, bite him again, anything to make him go.

And then: “Drippy little girl,” and he’s finally there and a moan that’s almost a scream because he’s cupping a place that is so unbearably sensitive and raw and full of heat and wet like you’d never known was possible.

Oh, oh, ah, ah, ah. “It’s alright,” he says, rubbing gently back and forth, a slick sound that is loud and embarrassing coming from between your legs. “It’s alright. This’ll help for now. We won’t go inside.” And he grips the heavy thing, his cock, in his own palm that’s all slick from your leaking and presses it against you. He rolls over completely now, shifting higher in the bed so that you’re sitting full on top of him, back to chest, bum to belly, and he spreads your thighs wide with his other hand, pulling your shirt up to bare all your nakedness for him to see. You wonder if he can also see all that burning shyness you’re suddenly so chock full of.

“Look at these pretty little tits,” he murmurs, cupping one small morsel in his palm, squeezing so that you’re arching against him, mouth agape like a fish, trying to find sounds that seem to have suddenly gone missing once again. “That’s right, I know.” He moves to the other one, squeezes and pinches and shakes it so that it jiggles in the cup of his hand. All the while he strokes his cock between your legs, pulling his hips back every so often so that it slides against you, coating it in all that wet slick you’re spilling for him.

You look down at the place where it juts out between your thighs, and it’s so big. Dark and angry looking at the end, thick and covered in veins that make it look even angrier and about to burst. You ask him if it hurts him, and he laughs a little and says it isn’t anything you can’t fix which makes you seven different shades of pleased.

The hand at your breasts moves up to your face again, and he turns your head, searching for your eyes. “We started off badly yesterday, yes? But we’re gonna do better today. I promise.” He slides his hips back again and this time he presses harder against you, his hand flat against the underside of his cock so that the top is slicking all along you. Sensitive little cunt, he says when you tremble and shiver and keen, and that’s when you know that’s what it's called. Your cunt. That place that belongs to him, that you want to give him so badly, that you want him to want so badly but that you barely even know yourself. No more experience than the greedy, frantic digging at the soft, hot flesh beneath your hand in moments when everything had felt too tight and needy to do anything else.

“Gonna break you in so well, baby. Gonna teach you how to come, how to fuck, how to take a knot.” And now the wide head presses against you, against a place that is so, so incredibly sensitive it almost hurts. You suck in a sharp gasp, trying to jerk away from the hurt, but he holds you in place against him, presses again, yeah, I know, yeah I know, like he’s trying to put it inside you, and yes, you think that’s what it is, that’s what you need, even if it might hurt. “You’re gonna get everything you need jus’ from me,” and his words are slurred and dripping slacken from his tongue.

He starts to move faster, you think he’s swallowed the same stone of desperation you did, rough grunts and huffing pants, and “So fucking small, it’ll never fit.” Jesus fucking Christ. And on every slick slide forward that wide angry head of it, his cock, bumps the crest of your sex, catches at your hole. You watch it in shock as it presses in just a little, and it hurts and feels like you’re full of bubbles and everything is sticky and your tummy glows with heat.

“Your little cunt needs this,” he grunts, the head catches, he presses, presses, pulls away, you want to bite and scratch and demand he go all the way, and you’re nothing but a pounding heart and a clenching cunt and you want more, and when he slides again it notches full on at the tiny opening, he pauses, lets it rest there before he presses not even half a centimeter further, only giving you the wide stretch of it, letting your cunt flutter and grip around the very head.

“Look at that–” And he peers over your shoulder to look at what he’s doing to you. “Look at your tiny cunt stretching for me.”

You cry, trying to pull away, trying to shove yourself deeper, to take the whole of it like the greedy thing you are, but he holds you in place and lets you flutter and flutter and cry until something in your womb pulls tight, and with his fingers swirling at the apex of your sex, the little nub that is so sensitive it pulls a warbled, baying moan from your tongue, an ah, ah, ah, he gives you your first orgasm with him. A desperate thing, too much and not enough, and with his other hand he’s squeezing, shoving his fist along the rest of the length of his cock, pressing it hard where you meet, and then he’s feeding you a blazing heat, filling you with it, stirring your insides to flutter and shiver harder. Forcing you to cry and beg for more, “Please, please, please,” more.

“You’re not ready yet.”

And although you’re not entirely certain for what, you promise, “I am, I am, I can take it.” You know he’s supposed to put it all the way inside, that then, the knot will come. And although you’re unsure what it will specifically be like, what will become of you during or after, you know you’re ready to discover it all.

“Not yet.” And he’s grunting it through clenched teeth, his hips churning, spitting tip grinding at your hole, something hot and thick sliding wetly all over and between the two of you. “You’ll do as I say. Your little cunt needs this, needs me to be patient with her.”

He lets the slick weight of himself fall away from you, leaving you feeling stretched and bruised and all shivery on the inside, yet still hungry for more. And he pulls his hands along the slopes of you, leaving trails of sticky wet along your skin. The proof of all you are, invisible but tangible, with a taste and a smell and a feel.

You lay your head back on his shoulder, the heat swirls and simmers for now, and your cunt, your cunt, your cunt, you want to give it to him in full, it throbs and trembles against his slick cock. “I’ve never had a heat before,” you tell him although you know he knows. He probably knows everything there is to know about you, which, admittedly, is not much.

“That's alright.”

“It will come soon, yes?” You peer over your shoulder to look up at him, and he nods down at you, that warm, eye creased look on his face again. You like the sight of it so much.

“Will I go away from myself?”

“No,” he says gentle, “I won’t let you. I’ll keep you here with me. You have nothing to be anxious about.”

He rolls the two of you over, keeping you in the comfort of his embrace, and he’s huge and steaming and naked behind you. His hairy chest, his hairy legs all along the smooth and sensitive curves of you. And his thing, it’s still trapped between your thighs, heavy and sticky with your wet, and still kind of hard but not as much as before. You reach between your legs to touch it, and he jerks and hisses but lets you do as you please. Curious fingertips gently along the thick round end of it, down the long length to find two heavy and hot weights hanging lower.

“Where is the knot?” You ask uncertainly, shy with all the things you don’t know.

“Here,” and he grabs your hand, moving your fingers to the base of it where there’s an area of skin, of a different sort of texture, rougher, thicker, around the circumference of it. You prod gently at it, not understanding. “See, it’ll swell when it’s inside of you, and then we’ll stay connected for a time, and I’ll fill you, and that’ll help your heat. And after a while it’ll go down, until you need it again. Did they explain to you how it’ll happen?” His cock is thick between your thighs again, beneath your exploring fingers. A little harder and bigger than it was before. His body, something like a wonderful miracle you need to know everything there is to know about it.

“Yes, but not– not all the way, I don’t think. They said you’d show me.” You turn back to look at him, searching for confirmation, reassurance, but instead ask: “Why did you change your mind?” And finally, of his own choosing, he grips you by the throat, and presses a small kiss to your mouth. The greatest victory of the day, and it’s only just begun.

“It’s exhausting, not letting yourself have what you need.” Need, not want. He shifts over you, coming up on his elbow and rolling you so that you’re on your back and looking up at him. You bring your fingers up to explore along his face: the hooked nose, soft mouth, heart brandished beard. He sighs that bull sigh, and you giggle as it tickles your throat and cheeks. Need, not want. That stings. “Fighting against what you are constantly– and you reminded me that we still have control in what we are. That there’s still choice in this, decidin’ to be what we are without resenting it. And we need each other, after all.” Need, not want.

“I don’t think you need me.”

“No?”

“No.” The truth that you very much feel like you need him, you keep to yourself. And anyways, he knows. You know he knows.

“M’thinkin’ I didn’t know I did. Or couldn’t say it out loud.” And he mimics your exploring fingers: thumb against the fan of your lashes, up the slope of your cheekbone, prying your mouth open to catch the edge of your bottom teeth and look inside. There’s a warm look in his eyes, like he’s pleased with you, like you’ve done a good job. “Think I’m realizin’ how wrong I was. How I want this all too.”

Want, not need.

He bends his head and kisses your mouth, kisses your breast, shows you how much he wants it.

3. I Was a Child Once, I’m Not Any Longer

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angry-geese · 4 months

Text

The Weight - Sukuna x Reader

Warnings: smut//not osha compliant. arranged marriage au. blood/cannibalism mention. biting/size kink. unprotected sex, creampies. afab reader

synopsis: an arranged marriage au where the reader chooses sukuna instead of one of the men from her village

word count: 10.3k

a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts since probably last february and I finally got around to finishing it lol

jjk masterlist

As mid-afternoon turns to dusk, you realize you have nothing to show for your hours in these woods. You know, reasonably, you should cut your losses for the day, and return home. In a little over an hour, it’ll be dark, and navigating these woods will become a challenge. But winter has come and gone with a vengeance, leaving food stores low. The thought of fresh meat is too much for you to quit now.

Fresh tracks mark the once-smooth creek bed. Deer. At least three. They’ve bedded down here, as evident by the smell, and flattened patches of grass. For several meters, the tracks nearly overlap themselves, before heading off in separate directions. It's been years since you’ve traveled this deep into the woods, and those few times were accompanied by your father, or uncle. Your solitude has you jumping at every rustle of a leaf, and snapped twig. It's when the woods fall silent that you need to worry. That means a predator is near. As long as you can hear bugs, or birds, you'll be okay.

Further ahead—maybe twenty yards—is a buck that stopped to drink from the creek.

You knock an arrow, lining the broadhead up with your target. Something feels wrong. The string feels too taut. It slips from your fingers prematurely. The arrow hits just behind the front shoulder, and—in theory—should puncture the heart. A shot like that—in theory—should drop an animal like this where it stands. Today it doesn't. The buck takes off running.

Between the footprints, and little droplets of blood, a clear trail is left behind. When you do finally come upon your prey, the crickets have fallen silent. The buck lays on its side in the grass, chest heaving. You ready your knife to put the poor thing out of its misery when something—someone—emerges from the treeline on the opposite side of the clearing.

Your body is moving before you can fully process the situation. You flatten yourself out on the ground, hiding under the cover of some bushes. If the man does see you, then he makes no note of it. He draws closer, stopping to kneel beside the buck. It’s too dark to make out his face. Something about him has the hair on the back of your neck on end. He hauls the carcass up onto his shoulder, turning to return in the direction in which he came.

The absurdness of it all has you frozen. You blink several times as if to make sure this isn't your mind playing tricks on you. Once reality sets in, you’re back on your feet, chasing after him.

“That's mine!” You say, hoping the volume of your voice is enough to scare off the thief. It isn't.

What you first assume to be another trick of the lighting becomes a horrifying reality as you notice the true size of the man. The man—being, or whatever he is—towers over you, completely dwarfing you in size. Mild annoyance is all that is visible on his face as he turns to you. From the deer, he rips out your arrow, tossing it at your feet. The broadhead has snapped off, as well as the shaft is bent. If you so desire, you suppose you could repair it. Not that you have any wish to. Sometimes it is simply better to cut your losses.

But you have more pressing things to deal with right now.

“And just what do you plan to accomplish, little lamb?” He asks. “A deer like this can weigh as much as a grown man. Do you plan to carry this back all by yourself?”

It’ll be tiring, but not impossible. Gutting and dressing it here would remove a lot of unnecessary weight, but would render plenty of valuable meat and organs useless. All that extra meat and skin could be used better elsewhere…

You are overcome with the urge to run, yet his gaze has your feet firmly planted on the ground. Your eyes fall to a small red splotch on his kimono—a blood stain. It can't be from the deer, it's far too old. It’s not until your knees knock together that you realize you’re trembling.

The action of him moving closer causes a cry of panic to leave you, unintentionally calling out for your father.

“What—who are you?!” You ask as you scramble backwards.

“I am Ryoumen Sukuna, the King of Curses, my dear,” he says. “Now, shall we get this back to your home?”

Fear threatens to overcome you. Even if you could draw an arrow in time, you doubt it would truly hurt him. Yet, in spite of your fear, you know he has no plans to harm you. Once you’re in sight of the village, he sets the deer down, and gestures for you to take the lead.

“Why are you helping me?” You ask. You’re certain the look on your face suggests you still expect him to eat you.

“Why do you ask?” He says. “Maybe I wanted the location of your home. It seems there are plenty of sacrifices here for me.”

“Wait a minute!” You say, eyes widening with fear. A mix of panic and guilt consumes you. “You can't-”

A look resembling amusement crosses his face. “I mean no harm to your village,” Sukuna says, “but in five years, I will return to claim what is mine.”

The strange man would vanish upon reaching the outskirts of your village, and in the nearly five years that follow, you would not once traverse so deep into the woods. On several occasions, you would try to retrace your steps, but would never once come across that clearing. When you would bring it up to your father, or any of the other village elders, your concerns would be brushed off, or outright ignored. Years would pass and slowly, achingly slowly, you would forget about the man in the woods entirely.

The coming spring brings your twenty-eighth birthday, and the looming threat of being an “older” unmarried woman.

If you had any say in the matter, you wouldn't get married at all. Plenty of older women exist, happily unmarried, yet your mother insists that you must find a husband. Any attempts to convince her that you’re fine with the way things are, fail. Once it became clear you weren't going to seek a husband on your own, your mother took upon the task of finding a suitor for you. Over the course of several months, meetings were arranged with various men, and with each rejected one, your mother grew more desperate to find the perfect match.

Your mother insists you're cursed. Your father thinks you’re simply unlucky. When you asked how marriage was supposed to fix that curse, she had no answer for you.

In the months prior to your birthday, your mother proposed a deal to you: meet with another man—the son of a wealthy merchant. That if this meeting went well, even if you didn't marry him, she would stop pestering you about getting married. Tired of her pestering, you relented, and agreed to meet him. And as the days draw closer, you only feel dread towards him.

The outcome of tonight has already been decided by you: failure. Whether your mother knows this or not is hard to tell. Judging her tense nature, you suspect she knows your plans.

“I was already married at your age,” she says, tightening your obi, “I used to have a dress just like this.”

“The difference is, you knew him already,” you say, “and I am meeting a stranger.”

“I am simply doing what I think is best for you,” she says. “This is your chance to get out of this village—to live a better life! Don't you want that?”

Her eyes meet yours in one last pleading glance. It makes you wonder; did she have such a conversation with her mother? Did your grandmother go through such trouble to match her to your father? Or did this come easier to her, than it did to you?

You suppose he’s handsome. The silks he wears are clearly expensive, with threads like woven gold. His features are sharp—what one could describe as noble, but you find him truly dull. But he is scrawny—squishy, with hands that show he has never worked a day in his life. The little conversation he makes is dreadfully boring. His father is an older man, with a graying beard, and sagging eyes. His mother is considerably younger, dressed in blue, with a small scar on her chin. Her silky black hair falls down her back. The little conversation you do have is short, but polite. The typical small talk you would have with a stranger.

Your mother does her best to talk you up. She’s gotten pretty good at that over the past few years. Your father interjects here and there, but it's your mother that does the majority of the talking.

“She’s strong. A talented hunter. Good with a knife.” Your father says. This time, you’re paying attention when he speaks.

Your potential father-in-law seems unimpressed with your father’s attempts to talk you up. Perhaps if you were a son, this conversation would go differently. If you were a son, your mother wouldn't be so stressed about you being married before 30. Your growing irritation mounts when you set down your cutlery, turning to look the old man in his eyes.

“And what about him?” You ask, motioning to his son. “Look at him—how is he supposed to give me a strong child?”

The energy in the room seems to shift entirely. Your father nearly chokes on his wine, but his eyes are firmly trained on your mother. She glares daggers at you, gripping her spoon so tightly that her knuckles turn white.

“What?” You ask. “I am the one getting married. Don't I get a say in this?”

Are you trying to screw this up? Your mother’s face seems to ask.

“A good father controls his daughter,” the man says, “especially one with such a sharp tongue.”

“I can serve this village, or I can control my daughter, but I cannot do both,” your father says, “she’s not a child anymore, she can make her own choices.”

That earns a small smirk from you. Leave it to him to stand up for you.

“That is exactly why this is so grievous,” the man says, “my son will not marry an old maid with an attitude problem!”

“And I will not have in-laws as insufferable as you!” You bring your knife down on the table, narrowly missing his fingers. This little outburst of yours at dinner will certainly have consequences. Your mother’s wrath is only the beginning.

They don't leave in nearly as big of a hurry as you’d expect from a man who was just threatened with a knife, but they do hurry out, making certain not to look back.

“Maybe we should have offered to let them stay,” says your father, “it’s not safe to be out on the road after dark.”

“We’re lucky to not have them send guards after us for that,” your mother says, and for once, you agree with her. “Threatening a man like that is a new low, even for you.”

After such a disastrous dinner, you’re not particularly eager to go find your parents. You linger towards the outskirts of your village for as long as daylight allows you to. Once it grows too dark to stay out, you begin the trek back to your home, praying your parents—or at least your mother—have simply gone to bed. Maybe your father will forgive such a night, but your mother certainly won't. Over the past year you’ve done enough to earn her ire, this will not help your case.

Sitting outside is your mother, her eyes trained on a dying fire. Although she doesn't acknowledge you, you know she’s noticed you. Part of you wonders if you should speak first. Would that even improve your situation, or simply make it worse?

“You win.” She says.

“What?” You ask.

“You win. I told you I’d stop after this, remember?” She asks. “Besides, I stopped liking him after that comment he made about your father.”

You still don't believe it's over. No tone of accusation clings to her voice, yet you can't help being suspicious.

“I don't get it.” You say.

“I just want what's best for you.” She says. “I want you to live a long and happy life. Are you really content to spend the rest of your life in this village? Stuck taking care of your brother and father?”

“That sounds like the preferable outcome,” you say, “compared to having in-laws I can't stand.”

“Where does he get off calling you an old maid anyway?” She says.

A small smile crosses your lips. This is about the best she'll get, and she knows this, a grin crossing her own face. A moment that should be one of triumph—at least for you—seems to be more sorrowful. The older you grow, the further apart you drift from her, and with that comes a strange, aching loneliness. You long for a time in your youth; the days when she would play dolls with you in-between house chores. You miss the tiny clothes she’d sew for them. The furniture made of timber scraps she’d hand paint. Oh how long has it been since she last braided your hair? Or brushed it? Or helped you wash it?

Did she have these same feelings about her own mother? Or was it easy for her? Does she too mourn those moments you used to share?

You don't remember her always looking this old. That’s not to say she isn't beautiful still—age does not nullify beauty. But she looks tired now. The dark circles under her eyes are more prominent than ever. The skin around her eyes crinkles when she laughs, or smiles. Her hair is littered with grays—like little silver threads. She looks like you.

From within the nearly pitch-black woods comes a scream; not that of an animal, but of man. When the scream rings out again, it’s much easier to understand. It’s a cry for help.

Emerging out of the treeline, and following the main road is a man, half hunched over and clutching his stomach. He makes it several yards into the village before collapsing. Enough blood pours from the wound on his side that you can smell it. A metallic taste lingers in the air, stuck to the back of your throat. Blood.

You’re the first to run over, followed shortly behind by your mother. The injured, shambling figure collapses upon the road. It’s only as you draw closer that you recognize him, albeit barely: the man from dinner. His clothes at one point in time were yellow in color, but are now stained a deep brown in color from a mix of dirt and blood.

“We need a doctor over here!” Mother cries out, her voice echoing against the wall of trees.

Someone must hear, because eventually a group of men burst out of a nearby house. They make quick work of rolling him onto his back, granting you a better look at his wounds. Three long slashes across his stomach. From your mother comes a gasp, followed by her clamping her hand over her mouth. The young man succumbs to his wounds before anyone is able to help him. He’s lost too much blood. People don't come back from that.

“Was he stabbed?” One man asks.

“Looks like knife marks,” comments another.

“Not a knife,” the oldest of the three says, “claws.”

“Do you think a mountain lion got to him?” You ask.

The oldest of the men shakes his head. “Cats like that don't get this close to towns. They avoid people if they can. A bear, maybe; if he got in between a mother and cub. But even that seems unlikely…”

This is why you don't go into the woods after dark. This is why you lock your doors and close your shutters tight when the sun sets. Bad things lurk out there, but they are not bears, nor are they mountain lions.

Something about the height of a person bursts from the treeline. Atop the legs of a chicken is a head only humanesque in the way corpses are. Sunken eyes sit atop a shriveled nose, and cracked lips. Its skin seems to be hanging off bone. Still, it takes you a moment to register that it’s fear you feel. Your palms prickle with sweat, the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. The urge to flee is nearly unbearable.

More of these creatures emerge from the direction of the nearly-set sun. They appear to come in all sorts of horrid shapes, and sizes, the smallest being no larger than a bird, and the largest about the size of a cow. Fear threatens to overcome you entirely. At least twenty of the creatures leave the treeline, although you suspect more remain hidden within it. The temperature must drop by ten degrees. It’s as if all the moisture has been sucked from the air. Those who dared leave their homes to look at the source of the commotion have now retreated, locking their doors behind them.

The collar of your dress jerks backwards as your mother struggles to drag you back towards the house. “Get your father!” She says. “Hurry!”

“What about you?!” You ask.

“Just get your father,” she says.

And you do so, running as fast as your feet will take you. The chilly night air renders your fingertips numb, and your face burning. He’s asleep in his chair, and wakes with a gasp as you shake him, motioning frantically to the door. The words that leave you are incoherent, but he must understand your panic. He retrieves his sword, telling you to lock the door behind him. You don't listen. You never listen, you can hear your mother say now. A sudden burst of light draws your attention—a nearby house has caught fire. Those strange, horrid creatures swarm around it like flies. Several neighbors have exited their houses, and begun throwing buckets of water upon the blaze, but the fire is too strong.

And from the treeline emerges that man from the woods all those years ago.

In five years time, he has not aged a day. His cruelly sharp features appear the same within the flicker of the firelight. They fall before him on their hands and knees, heads bowed in fear. You only realize you’re shaking when you move closer to the window, peeking out through the crack in the shutters.

The King of Curses, he called himself, all those years ago.

His mouth moves as if he's speaking, but you can only make out about half of what he says. The ringing in your ears is too loud to make sense of much.

“My offerings lessen, my shrine lies defiled,” he says, “and you humans sit here complacent. I gave you five years to make amends and this is what you do with it?”

You know, logically, that your father is going to die. He is no match for the creatures, let alone that strange man. You must do something. Even if it is beyond logic, or reason, you would not forgive yourself if you did not act.

“Then what is it you require of us?” Asks father, his hands trembling slightly. You can tell it’s more than just the dancing light of the fire. He is truly frightened.

“An offering,” says the King of Curses. “A sacrifice.”

“We have nothing to offer,” says father, “the river has run dry of fish—our crops have withered! We have nothing to offer, we’re starving regardless!”

The King of Curses eyes drift to your hiding place, before landing back on your father. “You said it yourself.” He says. “You’ll starve regardless. What difference does it make that you should give up one of your own? Won't there only be less mouths to feed?”

Your arrows rattle loudly as you pull one from your quiver, knocking it. From this angle, and sitting half crouched on the ground, you can't bring it to a full draw. Not only does that mess with your aim, but alter the power of the shot too. That can be accounted for. You adjust your angle to be a little higher—right above his head. When you release the string, the arrow gives way with a thunk! The shot is dead on; your arrow whistling towards the demon king’s head. He brings his spear up, knocking it aside. Several heads whip back towards you, their faces contorted in a mix of anger, and fear.

You’re not quite sure who grabs you first—it must be more than one person. Several sets of hands are upon you, dragging you from the house. Any attempts to fight it fail on your part, there are simply too many people to kick off. They drop you in the dirt beside your father. You don't dare look at him. You know his eyes are filled with fear.

“We’ll—we’ll put it to a vote,” says one of the elders. “All those in favor of sending this woman as an offering…”

Two other elders raise their hands. Then several of the men. Then, reluctantly, the mother of a neighboring family. Even more hands pop up after that. Although maybe a minute passes, it feels like hours. At least a dozen sets of eyes are on you.

“Out of all of you,” the demon king says, eyes following across the crowd that’s now gathered, “she was the only one of you to fight back, yet you punish such an action?”

Silence is the only response the crowd can conjure up. A groan so loud that the ground rumbles beneath it rings out as the house gives way, collapsing in on itself in a rain of ash and embers.

“Wait!” Your father cries out, “let me go in her place!”

Several more incomprehensible sentence fragments leave him. He pleads and pleads to no avail. The last view you get of your village is of the spirits retreating back into the woods.

It must be hours before your state of shock wears off. Dawn breaks bleak and gray over the horizon. The temple he brings you lies in ruin. You must be one of the first people to set foot in here in years. A cracked foundation gives way to walls overtaken by vines. Dust and ash layers the ground, and every surface imaginable.

Sukuna must not expect you to try to run. Nothing is done to prevent you from escaping. There are no doors to lock. No ropes or cages. The only real barrier of escape is the trek home through miles of woods. Should you wait until sunrise, the trip won't be impossible. It is the fear of what remains for you that prevents you from returning.

Would there even be anything to go back to? Is it even worth it after what they did? They did not hesitate as they offered you as a sacrifice. Whatever happens to them… they have it coming.

Such thoughts do little to comfort you. If anything, they make you feel worse. What little strength you have left goes into stopping the tears that threaten to spill down your cheeks. You manage. Barely.

Unable to find it within you to do anything else, you sit. Only a thin, woven mat separates you and the hard floor. Footsteps draw closer down the hall, the noise only amplified by the high ceilings of the temple.

Uraume. That’s what Sukuna called them. A strange being that looks human, but appears to be more than such. They enter the room, a shock a white hair visible before the rest of them is. They wear the kimono of an unmarried woman, in vibrant shades of orange, blues, and pinks woven in the pattern of flowers. Hooked around one arm is a pail of water. Under the other arm is a roll of cloth. Contained within the cloth is a mix of hygiene supplies; a sponge, comb, various vials of oils and creams.

Uraume treats you like one would treat a frightened animal. They kneel on the ground before you, leaving about the distance of a foot. When you don't flinch, or shy away, they move closer.

“You’re covered in ash,” they say, “let me help.”

With the sponge, they dab away the bits of dirt and ash that have caked to your skin. Human contact like this should, in theory, be intimate, but in this situation it feels like anything but that. Uraume’s touch feels cold, and clinical. With them comes a strange, uncanny feeling, like you are not looking into the eyes of a human, but of a corpse. The reason behind their kindness is a mystery to you. It feels wrong to question them, but you can't help but think there is something sinister behind their actions. Their casualness suggests this isn't the first time they’ve done this. That thought does nothing to comfort you, so you quickly push it aside.

Next, they move on to your neck, then down to the exposed bits of your chest, and shoulders.

“Such a beautiful dress,” they comment. You reply weakly, saying it belonged to your mother. Their response to that is little more than a hum.

They take your hands, scrubbing the dirt from under your nails with a small brush. After that, a comb is worked through your hair, taking great care to not pull on any knots that have formed. Once they can work their hands through your hair with no resistance, they stop.

Uraume leans back to examine their work, deeming you presentable. Gathering what they brought with them, they make their way towards the door, turning back once to say: “I’ll bring something to eat.”

The events of the night have left you without an appetite. You probably should eat something. It’ll be important to keep your energy up. The little adrenaline left within you has you jumping at any small noise, or shadow. Sleep feels like an impossibility right now.

About ten minutes pass before Uraume returns carrying a platter. Tea, pickled vegetables, a hunk of bread, a bowl of some kind of stew. It smells quite good, but you merely pick at it. Like your hesitation to sleep, you can hardly eat. Uraume sits with you, picking at their own food, but never finishing it. A million questions race through your mind, although you can barely bring yourself to ask them.

Would they even answer you? Or does this have a more sinister plan behind it?

Finally, you find enough of your voice to ask: “Where is…?”

“I’ve prepared a bath for master Sukuna,” they say, “he’ll be joining us shortly.”

Your attention turns back to the bowl in your hands, which soon slips through your fingers, breaking upon the floor. What little appetite you had is soured entirely. This is it. You’re nearly certain you’re going to die here.

Your attempt to clean up the mess is stopped by Uraume. They insist upon cleaning it themselves, taking great care not to cut their hands on the shards.

“Why are you helping me?” You ask, shocked at how small your voice sounds.

“Master Sukuna likes to play with his food before he eats it,” they say.

Uraume leaves shortly after, taking the leftover dishes with them. You remain seated, eyes moving between the two exits of the room. One takes you to the entrance of the temple; you’re not certain where the other leads. The first is almost guaranteed to be guarded, though. Trying to run now is a bad idea. But when will you get another chance?

You will not sit idly by as death draws closer. Like the previous night, you feel as if you must do something. It was your own foolish actions that got you into this mess, says a small voice in the back of your head.

Trapped under your heel is a small pottery shard, left over from the shattered bowl. It’s small enough to conceal in your palm. Sharp. Better for stabbing than it is slashing, but it will be good enough at either. Once Sukuna returns, you’ll get your chance.

The rush of adrenaline has started to wear off now, rendering your arms weak, and your legs shaky. If you were to sit down now, you’re certain it would be a while before you get back up. It is the body fighting itself; fight or flight mode mixing with exhaustion. If you do not stop and rest, your body will give out on you eventually.

So you stand there and pace, clutching your shard of pottery close. Maybe thirty minutes pass in the time it takes Sukuna to enter, but it feels like hours. Adrenaline turns into fatigue.

Tears burn at your eyes again, but you’re able to blink them back. A mix of shock and betrayal has left you nothing short of exhausted. Sukuna’s towering stature only helps to make you feel like a lamb about to be devoured by a wolf.

“I trust Uraume has been of assistance,” Sukuna says.

Unsure of how to respond, you simply nod.

“What now?” You ask. “Is this the part where you’re supposed to eat me?”

That earns a laugh from him, although it’s strange sounding, as if the very action is foreign to him.

“Many decades ago, the people of your village—among others—would hold a festival during harvest season,” he says, “it was meant as a sign of peace. An offering in return to not raze their homes,

“The people of your village have grown laze, and complacent. They have forgotten their place as humans, and needed to be reminded of it. You are simply another offering. Something to tide me over.”

Sukuna draws close enough for you to feel his breath across the back of your neck. You shudder. Adrenaline courses through you once again.

This is it, you think, you are going to die.

In one last attempt to preserve your dignity, you aim for his jugular, and swing the shard of pottery towards it. A hand wraps around your wrist before it can make contact. A second set of arms are trapping you against his body before you can even register it. His breath is warm against your cheek, teeth inhumanly sharp in the dim light.

“You are entertainment.” He says.

That same set of sharp teeth drag up your neck. Some sick sense of pleasure runs up your spine at the feeling: being a little lamb in the jaws of a predator. It would take so little effort from him to render you lifeless that it’s almost comical. Adrenaline turns to delirium in your mind.

What happens if he finally grows bored of you? It’s not a matter of “if” in this case, it’s a matter of “when”. You have an idea of what will happen once he does.

You don't hear him leave, so much as you notice his lack of presence.

Sukuna is gone for most of the following day. In that time, you explore much of the temple in an attempt to gain your bearings. It’s sparsely furnished, and dilapidated for the most part, but there are some signs of life. On a lower level of the temple is a bedroom, where the bed alone is as big as a room in your home. Must be Sukuna’s. Another, smaller room appears to be Uraume’s quarters. A small kitchen branches off the hallway not far from this.

The later half of the day is spent trying to familiarize yourself with your surroundings. Thick woods surround the structure, spreading out for what must be miles. To the North is a creek. If you followed it, you might possibly meet up with the river by your village. Whether you could do so before nightfall is another question entirely. Finding yourself stuck in unfamiliar woods past dark may prove to be a death sentence.

Even if you could go back, would you want to? Their lack of hesitation towards sacrificing you still rings clear in your mind.

Sleep seems to be the best way to pass the time. There isn't much else to do around here. In the hours before dusk, you manage to drag yourself out of bed, and into the woods that surround the temple. You justify it by saying that fresh air will do you good, not that anyone asks you. The only person around to do so would be Uraume, though you don't see much of them.

Heavy fog settles upon the trees, causing the day to take on a quiet, sleepy nature. Little cream-colored mushrooms pop up through the layer of moss and dead leaves that blanket the forest floor. Carved out over years of use is a dirt path, barely wide enough for a person to walk through. Following it for about ten minutes brings you to a pond. At one end, the start of a small creek leads downhill. Little fish are visible just under the surface. Leaving your socks and shoes at the shore, you wade out into the water. It’s cool, but not chilly. The mud feels soft underneath your feet. Being outside helps settle your nerves a bit. Outright terror is replaced with uneasiness now. While not entirely better, it’s an improvement to your previous mood.

From the treeline opposite of the path you took, a figure enters the clearing. Sukuna. Adrenaline spikes through your body at the sight of him. Your pulse quickens, and fear prickles in your palms. Every cell of your being is telling you to run.

Sukuna motions with his hand for you to follow him. It is not an offer, so much as it’s a command. Following a short walk on a stoney path, you find yourself overlooking a rock cliff-face, and a small wood hut. Scattered about are several steaming pools, which bubble up from the ground, layering upon the cliff-face like stairs.

Sukuna undressed at the wood hut, leaving his clothes hanging upon the rafters. Your gaze remains firmly on the ground. You should not be seeing him like this. This feels far too intimate. You try not to let your gaze linger too long, but can't help it. The sight of his back alone is hard to tear your eyes away from; the muscles, the tattoos, the curve of his spine. There is a strange, supernatural beauty to him. You eye him with caution, yet curiosity.

Why has he brought you here? What does he want? Is this simply a ritual before he eats you?

Certainly, if you were to scream, no one would be nearby to hear you.

It strikes you just how easily his teeth could tear through your jugular. How his sharp nails could shred your flesh to ribbons. Sukuna is far faster and stronger than you, outrunning him is not an option.

Following his lead, you undress, and leave your clothes folded neatly upon a rock. Next comes the task of taking down your hair, and combing through it with your fingers, finding it still knot-free from the events of the previous night. Only then do you approach the largest of the three pools, and wade into it. At its deepest, it's a little above your waist. You could walk all the way across and never once have your feet leave the ground.

You settle upon a rock towards the edge, half submerged in the pool. The hot water feels nice upon your sore muscles. Your eyes trail ribbons of steam as they curl off the water. A wave of self consciousness rolls over you. You sink further into the water, crossing your arms in front of your chest. It’s up to your chin now. Sometime during this, it starts raining. The droplets leave little ripples across the surface of the water. Fall brings the smell of damp earth, and decaying leaves with it. Something that should be comforting only makes your stomach turn.

“You look frightened, little lamb,” Sukuna says.

Is it so obvious?

“I still don't believe this isn't some attempt to eat me.” You ask, though you’re not certain you want the answer.

“Had I wanted to eat you, I would have had Uraume make preparations.” He says.

You still don't believe him. How many people met their fate at his hands before you? There is no reason why you would be lucky—why you would escape your fate.

“Then what is it you want from me?” You ask.

His expression softens, shoulders lowering with a sigh. The space between his eyebrows is not so harshly creased anymore.

“I am not like the typical curses you have met,” Sukuna says, “I require your permission.”

“Permission for what?” You shrink back as he draws closer, stopping mere inches from you. He’d tower over the tallest man, let alone someone like you.

A kiss. Hungry, and overbearing, but a kiss nonetheless. Sukuna has to lean down, and you have to crane your neck up to complete the action. His movements feel stiff, clinical, as if he hasn't done this many times before. The action causes warmth to bloom in your chest, and spread out to your limbs. The hands that cup your face are nearly large enough to encompass it entirely. He tastes like wine, and something vaguely metallic. The thought that it might be blood crosses your mind for only a moment. You’d much rather think about other things.

“Will you devote yourself to me, completely and entirely?” He asks.

Funny, you think, had a human man asked you the same thing, you would have laughed in his face. Yet you find yourself bewitched by the King of Curses. Curious, and cautious all the same. This is not a feeling of love. It is something else entirely. You are a sacrifice, you remind yourself, this is the fate of a sacrifice.

“I devote myself to no man,” you say, “I don't see how you'd be any different.”

He hums in amusement, circling around you in the water. He stops behind you, slightly to your right. Sharp teeth graze across your shoulder. Large hands trace their way up your hips, then your body, coming to rest just below your breasts. You squeeze your thighs together in an attempt to relieve the strange pressure that has built up. Your heart rate picks up in pace. Sukuna must be able to sense this. A low laugh leaves him as he pulls away.

“Well then,” he says, “do I have your permission to continue?”

Continue what? You wish to ask. As if against your mind’s wishes, your head moves in a nod. “Yes,” you say.

You can only imagine the look on his face as you have your back to him. He’s close enough you can feel the warmth radiate off his body. Is he pleased? Amused? Smug that all it took was a kiss to make you let your guard down?

Hands that should be calloused and rough are quite gentle with their touch. One comes to rest upon your hip, before trailing down to the space between your thighs. Seconds in and your knees seem to give out, your body supported only by him. One finger presses into you, then a second. You sigh at the intrusion. There’s little resistance as he presses into you. You’re too wet. Sukuna’s fingers are much larger than your own, though the stretch you feel is pleasant, not painful. Your thighs squeeze around his hand, drawing a low laugh from him. You can feel it rumble within his chest, which your back is pressed flush to.

Being so close to another being feels odd. The only intimacy you know is a platonic one. A familial one. This is different. Stronger. More intense. He finds the spot that makes you squirm and abuses it, toying with you like prey. It must be a game to him, you think, like cat and mouse. With one of your hands over your mouth, you try to muffle the lewd noises that spill from you. It’s a losing battle. All sorts of pleased sounding noises—from both you and him—echo through the clearing. Secretly, you’re glad this place is so remote. Should someone hear the lewd noises you’re making, you wouldn't recover from the embarrassment. He brings you just to the edge, but refuses to let you cross over. Frustration turns to desperation as you grind against him, chasing your own release. Sukuna doesn't appear opposed to your actions. He lets you work yourself up to—and through—your own release, the noises you make growing gradually more obscene until they come to a head in the form of an orgasm.

You remain in the water for a while afterwards. The layer of fog overhead makes the day take on a lazy, sleepy nature. His hands comb through your hair as you lay against his chest. Such a moment feels uncharacteristically tender for him. While you expect them to be sharp, his nails feel nice against your skin. The mouth on his stomach resembles a smirk, although the expression on his face is flat. Unreadable. A slight pang of disappointment shoots through you. You know it’s unreasonable of you to expect humanity from someone inherently inhuman. He does not—he can not—process things the way you do. Humans must appear so small and fragile to him.

You’re uncertain of how much time passes as you lay there, your limbs tangled with his. It doesn't feel like long enough. No time would feel long enough. You crave the touch of another being whether you want to admit that or not.

“It’s getting late,” he comments. Without another word, you watch as Sukuna dresses himself, and leaves.

You follow him as quickly as you can. You’re not quite fast enough, arriving back at the temple long after him. Dusk follows soon after.

You find no sign of the King of Curses upon your return. Finding yourself with not much of an appetite, you head straight to bed. Uraume stops by once to offer tea, but you decline, insisting you’re tired, and just wish to sleep. Whether or not they believe you, you can't tell. That’s about the extent of every conversation you have; polite, but short.

Sukuna must not need to sleep. Not in the same way you do. You dress down into your underclothes, leaving the rest folded neatly upon a chair. They’re not dirty, just slightly wrinkled from the events of today. You crawl into the bed much larger than you, and attempt to sleep. When he crawls into the bed beside you, you do nothing to protest.

As time passes, you grow used to his presence. Falling into a routine takes mere days. In that time, you don't see much of Sukuna, or Uraume. Maybe it’s for the best. You’re not certain what you’d say to either of them. You figure it best not to question what Sukuna gets up to in his free time. If the events at your village are anything similar, you figure it best to pay them no mind.

The longer you spend here, the more curious you find yourself. At least twice you find your way back to the hot springs. Familiarizing yourself with the surrounding woods has you growing more confident when navigating it. Animal tracks and trails reveal themselves, bringing more life to the woods.

Fall turns to winter. Rain gives way to snow, bringing in a bitter stormfront. It’s hard to tell how many days pass as the storm hits, rendering the three of you confined to the temple. Sukuna doesn't appear bothered at all by the cold, but you spend many bleak nights huddled by a fire. Sukuna approaches you on one of these nights; perhaps the bleakest and darkest one before the storm finally breaks. Your inability to leave the temple has you ready to claw out of your own skin. Never were you one to stay in one place very long.

Days have passed and you haven't spoken much to one another. Not since the day at the hot springs. You find yourself especially longing for them on a day like this, where the cold makes your joints ache, and your lips cracked. Winter is among your least favorite of the seasons. A hot and sticky summer day was always preferred over a day like this. Sukuna must sense it. He finds you curled by the fire, wrapped in an assortment of quilts and fabrics. You can't tell if it’s morning, or evening. Snow has rendered midday as dark as dusk.

You know you should get up, and toss more wood onto the fire. Should you let it die any further, it’s unlikely you’ll get it started again. Sukuna joins you in the room, sitting on the mat to your left. Finding yourself searching for warmth, you move closer to him. It’s an unconscious action at first. Once you recognize it, you can't find the willpower within you to stop.

You offer the edge of the blanket to him, basking in his warmth as the quilt is wrapped around both of you. One of his hands comes to rest upon your knee. Your gaze is trained on his face, while his remains on the dying fire.

“I don't suppose you do this to every sacrifice you get,” you say, not expecting an answer.

The corners of his lips twitch into something that resembles a smile. Much life his laugh, his smile is stiff, and rather foreign feeling. Like he hasn't done such a thing in centuries.

“You are different from the sacrifices I have received in the past.” He says.

You get the impression he is still figuring out what to do with you. Such a thought doesn't inspire confidence on your part, though you assume your situation could be worse.

You're nearly in his lap now. The hand on your knee soon moves upwards onto your thigh. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he palms himself through his clothes. Some sick part of you wishes to taunt him. To tease him in the same way he has done to you. You part your legs just enough to encourage him. There must be something wrong with you, you think, no normal woman would enjoy the company of the King of Curses.

This is not your typical virgin sacrifice. It is little more than that. Pleasure for the sake of pleasure. To fuck without the intent to procreate.

“I always assumed you wouldn’t have these… urges.” You say.

“Many things lost their potency,” he says. “Food was never enough to satiate, drink was never enough to quench thirst. Sex has remained the same. Primal pleasure never loses its potency.”

So he was human. At least at one point in time…

“Like I said,” he hums, “I am not like the typical curses you have met. I require your permission.”

“You have it,” you say.

Oh how dearly you wish to recreate the event at the hot springs. To feel the same build-up of emotions, and the following release. Such mindless pleasure has remained in your head, unable to be stifled by your own hands.

Off comes your kimono, guided down your shoulders by his hand. Your nipples stiffen when exposed to the open air. It is not the cold that has you shivering, but the expectation of what’s to come. His size, and calloused hands suggest his touch would be harsh, but you find to be the opposite. Sharp nails graze down your sides as he moves to kneel before you. You prop yourself up on your elbows to get a better look at him.

His own clothes are left among the growing pile on the floor. He pumps his stiffening cock in his hand, the head of which weeps across his palm. A different kind of heat blooms in your stomach.

Sharp teeth graze across your jaw, down your neck, before eventually nipping at your shoulder. A sting both painful and pleasurable radiates from the bite. Blood beads from the two points where he managed to break the skin, quickly lapped away by him. Part of your brain is telling you to push him away. The other part is telling you to expose your neck further. You’re not certain which to listen to as you lay under him, caged within his arms. Your breaths grow ragged, turning into quiet moans as his knee nudges your legs apart. This is different from the day at the hot springs. Sukuna is seeking something more—he is seeking his own pleasure this time.

A hand finds its way into your hair, gently tugging at it. Guided by his hand, you expose your neck further to him. He laps at the droplets of blood that form, sucking dark marks into the skin of your neck. Pain and pleasure overlap in your mind. Your thighs are a mess of your own slick, and the precum that leaks from the heads of his two cocks. It’s almost comical how you work yourself up in knots at only the slightest provocation by him.

You taste yourself on him as he kisses you. The bleeding from your neck has mostly stopped now. What remains will barely leave a scar. His lips trail down your neck, through the valley between your breasts, and down your stomach, before eventually stopping just shy of your cunt. The look of him alone has you growing as wet as a virgin; his hair disheveled from your hands running through it, the muscles in his shoulders appear more prominent now. His arms hook around your thighs, although he doesn't need to bother holding your legs open. You’d do it without prompt by him. Eager for your own release, and worked up into a soaked mess, you’d do anything to please him.

You shouldn't be enjoying it as much as you are. You know you should be afraid. It would take no effort from him at all to tear through your femoral artery, and let you bleed out. You would be helpless in the matter anyway; you’re nothing more than a little lamb trapped under a big bad wolf.

The feeling of his tongue is strange. With him on his knees, bowed in what resembles worship, has your stomach in knots. The lewdness of it all has you more worked up than anything else. A strange, pleasurable tension builds within you. He is not toying with you this time, but working you over. When you do finally cum, you cum hard, riding out your high on his face. The noises he’s making suggest he’s enjoying this almost more than you do.

He must be painfully hard now. The head of his cock is an angry shade of red, and leaking precum. Using his hand to guide him, the head of his cock presses into you. You’re too wet from his previous actions to notice much of a stretch. What little pain there is crosses over with pleasure in your mind. He groans as he sheathes himself within you fully. His expression softens just enough for you to take in the features of his face. He’s quite handsome now that you’re close enough to appreciate his looks. It makes you wonder what his life as a human was like. Was he royalty, or a commoner? What was his job? Did he ever have family?

You won't get an answer out of him no matter how hard you try. This is the most human the king of curses will ever appear.

His thrusts are slow at first. Lazy. More like grinding, not proper fucking. With as sensitive as you still are, this doesn't make much of a difference. You’re still a writhing, moaning mess beneath him. Judging by the noises he’s making, he’s not far from cumming himself. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and that seems to only encourage him. The muscles in his arms and shoulders gradually grow more tense before he shudders, then visibly relaxes. A warm sensation in your cunt follows soon after; he’s cum inside of you.

You lay like that for a while: limbs entwined, bodies curled around each other. He lets himself soften inside of you until the desire to pull out hits. You can tell your hips will be sore in the morning—whenever it decides to come. What little of his seed spills out of you is forced back in by his fingers. You assume it ties into his possessive nature. It must be a way of marking you as his. The fire has long since died out, though you find the warmth from his body adequate enough.

“I don't think I can walk,” you lie, “carry me?”

Sukuna feigns annoyance, but relents, carrying you to the bed too large for any human. You quickly find your way under the covers. He finds himself in the space beside you. Fatigue hits you soon after, yet you find yourself unable to sleep.

“You were human once?” You ask.

The mood in the room seems to shift entirely. Sukuna is not one for conversation. You expected no different from a man like him. He looks at you with mild annoyance, as if deciding on his answer.

“I was. Once.” He says.

Your fingers trace across the tattoos on his wrist. “Do you miss it?” You ask. “Being human, I mean.”

“I am far stronger now than I was when I was a human.” He says. “I no longer need to eat, nor drink. I have the gift of eternal life so long as I am smart with my actions. I do not miss the fragility that comes with humanity.”

His words almost irritate you. So much more exists to humanity than what he says, from little things like sharing a summer even with a friend, tearing into ripe persimmons. Spending an evening hunched over a stew pot helping your mother. Kisses shared between a lover in the woods, or out in the fields. Stories exchanged by firelight. Intricately woven fabrics and paintings that might as well be indistinguishable from real life. So many beautiful things exist within humanity. Maybe he’s been away from it so long he’s forgotten the extent of it.

Would the King of Curses even admit he’s lonely? Or would he be too prideful to admit such a thing?

“You're sad. Why?” He questions.

“Was just thinking about my mother. That's all.” You say. “She wanted me to get married before I…”

You’re mad at her. More mad than you’ve been at anyone in your life. Yet you wish for nothing more than her comfort in this moment. A wound exists that time won't heal. Anger is not productive in fixing it. Anger only makes it worse.

This time, you are the one to initiate the kiss. You wish for it to distract you, but it only amplifies the ache in your chest.

“If you were to lose what little fight you had left in you, then this would no longer be fun,” he says.

You grow used to the ever-present shadow that is Sukuna, talking to the space beside you as if he is there because hell, sometimes he is. He is more than a mere man. He exists on a level different from you or anyone else. Your existence at this temple feels less like confinement and more like living.

“Will you join me?” He asks one day by the river.

The two of you sit upon the riverbank, watching as the water swirls below you. Spring snowmelt, combined with a recent storm, has stirred up the river bottom, turning the water murky. What was meant to be a fishing trip has proved unsuccessful.

“I would be lying if I said I haven't grown used to your presence.” He says.

“Don't be getting soft on me,” you say, half joking.

The most emotion you get out of him is an amused sounding huff.

“I want you to join me,” he says, “not in life as human, but in eternity as a curse.”

“I will,” you say.

No thought is needed for your answer, nor is there any hesitation on your part. Sukuna simply nods. That is what love is to him. Devotion. Worship. Throwing away your humanity means nothing if humanity is so quick to reject you.

Gifts begin appearing around the temple after that. Priceless jewelry, and expensive dresses. Hair pins and cosmetics. Seasons pass in what feels like no time at all. Before you know it, your third fall here is quickly approaching. Winter comes and goes—uncharacteristically bitter this year. Spring brings a sense of rebirth. The ground thaws slowly, and plant life is in full bloom. Animal life returns to the surrounding woods, showing signs in every trail around the temple.

A hunting trip brings you further out into the woods than you’ve traveled before. You don't realize you’re nearing a human settlement until you’ve stumbled upon it.

The village has changed drastically in the time you were gone, so much so that you almost don't recognize it. A full blown mill has sprouted up along the river. At least twice as many houses stand now. Years ago this street was little more than a dirt path. Sometime over the years it has been paved over with river stones. Children play in the streets. Men walk home with pails of fish slung over their shoulders. These strangers notice you and pause, returning to their homes quickly.

Your house remains mostly the same. Age has not been kind to it. One corner of the roof sags, and the wood trim has grown bleached with time. The path up to the front steps is overgrown. Sitting outside, hunched over a wash bin, is your mother.

Her hair is mostly gray now. Wrinkles mark her skin, and her joints are knobby, but you would still consider her beautiful. The face of the woman she once was is still there. The clothes she wears are of rich fabrics, suggesting your family has not hurt for money. Her sturdy figure suggests they never lacked food either.

When she sees you, her eyes grow wet with tears. And it’s as if the weight of the world has lifted off your shoulders. You want to be angry at her. You want to unload years of anger upon her. You want her to feel just a fraction of the fear you've felt. But you can't bring yourself to do it. The look in her eyes tells you she’s felt all the emotions you have.

Her movements are laced with hesitation, as if she’s deciding whether or not you're real. One of her wrinkled hands takes yours.

“I love you,” she says, “and I am so sorry.”

“I know,” you say.

She invites you in for tea, setting the table up with the nice dishware—the kind she only uses for guests. The interior of the house hasn't changed much. Your room is eerily the same, as if it hasn't been touched since the day you left. Your father’s boots, and hunting coat remain by the door, although they look as if they haven't been moved in years. Makes sense, you think, hunting is a task that grows difficult as you get older. There comes a time in every hunter’s life where they grow old, and it becomes their turn to stay home and tend the fire.

“Where's…?” You never get the chance to finish your question, the solemn look on your mother’s face is enough of an answer.

“He passed,” she says, pausing to think, “two springs ago now? Maybe three.”

Believing you would never see them again, you grieved your parents long ago.This particular grief is like an old wound to you.

“The village looks prosperous,” you comment. A bitter tone clings to your voice.

“Yes,” she says, “the past years have been kind to us. I suppose we have you to thank for that?”

She sits across from you, her eyes still wet with tears. It feels like you are holding a conversation with a stranger. Your mother regards you with a certain weariness she only reserves for strangers. Maybe it would hurt more if you had more room within you for grief.

“He never stopped looking for you, you know,” she says, setting a cup of tea in front of you. “Even after the village held a funeral for you. He never wanted to believe it. Until the day he died, he was out in the woods thinking he could bring you home.”

“I was under the impression I wasn't wanted here.” You say.

“You know that’s not true,” she says. “What happened that night was a result of fear. The elders did what they thought would preserve the safety of everyone.”

“Except for me.” You say.

Fear. Right. To them, you were simply a sacrifice. You drain the last of your tea, standing from the table. Your mother stands as if to stop you, but freezes before she can.

“Does he treat you well?” She asks.

“Yes,” you say.

“Better than any human man?”

“Yes,” you answer, although you can tell she doesn't believe it.

“Do you love him?” She asks. “Does he love you?”

“I suppose so.” You say. “As much as he is capable of loving something.”

“But do you love him?” She asks again.

“As much as I am capable of doing so, yes.” You answer.

It is not the answer she wants, but the one that is the truth. With her hands folded in her lap, she nods solemnly.

That following night you leave your village not as a human, but as a curse.

Enough time would pass that the story of a young sacrifice would be forgotten by its people; what would remain, is a tale of a love so infamous that it survived centuries.

#jjk x reader #sukuna x reader #ryoumen sukuna x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x reader smut #not osha compliant #jjk #my writing

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flowersandbigteeth · 1 year

Text

Meeting your alien husband

General Plot: You've been sold to aliens so you are taking the bus to meet your new husband, only you are attacked and a kind alien steps in to help.

A/N: this is a longish multi part one that I'm editing and posting as I edit it. I've been wanting to do some yandere vs. yandere so that's kinda what this is, lol

Kherae alien x female reader with glasses

💕 SFW MASTERPOST 💕

Word Count: 4K

W: kidnapping, forced marriage, sfw alien fluff, yandere vs. yandere

Prince Levell grasped Elaine’s thin wrist, drawing her towards him.

“You are the jewel of this court, my love, I’ll never let you go,” his tenor whispered in her ear.

Your heart fluttered. You were almost finished with The Prince and the Dawn and it was even better than the prequel, The Thief and the Dusk.

The villain, the first prince from the previous novel, having lost the object of his desire to the dashing hero, finally gets his happy ending with a blind hermit who softens his cold heart. Your eyes prickled with tears.

Their love story…the way she changed the prince from a cold tyrant to a sensitive, benevolent ruler and brings happiness to the kingdom was incredibly romantic. You sighed, sniffling a little. If only such romances were real. Instead, you were trapped in a tragedy.

The bus you were riding came to a stop and you hopped up to get off. You took a deep breath and put one foot in front of the other. You were on your way to greet your fate.

You had been sold to the Kherae, the aliens that had descended on Earth and saved humans from the horrible Golt. There had been a long and brutal war, but finally it seemed as if The Golt had retreated and the galaxy was safe-er. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. When the Kherae discovered human females could breed with them, they promised humanity they only wanted voluntary relationships...mates, they said. They would not take.

Maybe that was true for 98% of the handsome aliens, but there was a rotten apple in every bunch and you were about to meet one of them. Your father owed some nasty people a lot of money and they’d facilitated your sale to the corrupt Kherae archduke to clear the debt.

You could have run away, disappeared and started a new life somewhere else. You didn’t owe your father anything, but you had a soft heart and you loved him. He’d built his business as a single dad with his blood, sweat, and tears. When organized crime moved into the neighborhood he wasn’t immune to their influence. Your father wasn’t a bad man and you wouldn’t let him lose everything he built or his life over mistakes he couldn’t have avoided. That’s why despite his protests, you were turning yourself in to your future husband.

You steadied your breath as with each step your future came closer.

A shriek escaped your lips as large hands latched onto your arms. You looked around to find you were surrounded by three or four human men.

“This the one?” one of them said.

“Yeah, (Y/C) hair, glasses, this is her,” another said.

You struggled and tried to break free but they were thugs and there were more of them than you. You tried to scream for help, but a large hand clamped over your mouth and your glasses flew off of your face.You heard the glass crunch under someone’s foot. Your world had gone blurry. You were basically blind without them.

Disoriented and terrified you kicked and scratched, but it was no use, the group was dragging you towards an alleyway.

Suddenly there was a THUNK and the hands holding you released. Around you blurry figures moved and you could hear bone breaking, but you couldn’t process what was happening and just stood there clutching the hem of your skirt. Before long it was quiet and a large purple blur approached you.

You held out your hands, trying to orient yourself and met firm forearms.

“Are you okay, miss?” a deep voice asked in Kherae. The translator you all had installed since the Kherae came to integrate worked out his words for you. His large fingers twined with yours to steady you.

“I’m fine. I just can’t see without my glasses,” you said, clinging to his strong fingers, “do you see them anywhere?”

You heard the tinkle of glass.

“I don’t think you will be able to use these,” he said and you knew your precious lifeline was destroyed.

“Where are you going? I can help you get there,” he offered.

You gave him a wan smile.

“That’s really kind, but I couldn’t trouble you,” you said.

He chuckled.

“You aren’t going to make it very far on your own, let me help. Where are you going?”

“The Zovith building,” you explained. You were headed to the building owned by your future husband, a brand new glass and steel monstrosity in the middle of downtown.

He halted.

“Why are you going there?” he asked.

The words tumbled out of your mouth before you thought better of it.

“I’m going to meet my future husband,” you explained.

“You look frightened,” he commented.

“I committed to this and I want to make a good impression but I can’t go back home to get new glasses. I’m already late and if I don’t show up there are consequences.”

He paused for a moment.

“Then let’s get you there quickly,” he said and swept you up in his arms.

You shouted in surprise, but he took off at a jog down the street. When you arrived he gently set you in a chair in the waiting room.

“I’ll let someone know you’ve arrived. Just wait here,” he said.

Your heart pounded in your chest. Almost being kidnapped had started the beat and now you panted as you waited for your fate. It was even worse because you couldn’t see anything. You wouldn’t even know what your husband looked like.

–

“I don’t want to marry a filthy human,” Idreod’s brother sneered for the thirtieth time.

Idreod ordered him to marry so that their family name would continue on. He had no interest in a wife, but if Dessin wanted to keep his monthly stipend he’d demanded that he would seed his family an heir. A wife seemed like a lot of trouble to him that could easily be delegated to a lesser, Dessin. He wouldn’t have their name be associated with a slew of bastard children, either. He would have a proper wife and represent the Zovith family well.

Unfortunately for him, Dessin had a thing for Elians and had no interest in children. He planned on falling in love with a pleasure worker and pulling her out of destitution to earn her love. Elians weren’t biologically compatible with Kherae, so they would never bear children, but he didn’t care. It was a foolish plan, but at least he had romantic dreams.

Up until that day Idreod’s plan for him was to buy him a wife, force them to marry, and take their child as his heir to hand down the Zovith duchy. He wasn’t a kind or benevolent Kherae. He made demands and his lessers followed them.

Dessin did nothing but throw money away at pleasure houses, he could take on the small responsibility of fucking a human to pay for his good fortune to be born his brother. He’d never have to worry over the child. Idreod would continue to pay his stipend and raise it in his image. He and his wife could spend his money and take as many lovers as they liked as long as they were discreet. That was the cost of doing business.

When the Kherae females had been extinguished all hope had been lost for a future for his family, but now that he’d learned that humans were universal breeders, the legacy he’d built could live on. The Zovith would become a dynasty. That was his vision. Human females could have two handfuls of children. He would herald in a prosperous generation.

“Fine,” Idreod said, “you don’t have to marry her.”

“What?” Dessin asked, looking at him, “what game are you playing at? I’m not donating my sperm if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

He walked across his office to a drink tray one of the maids had provided and took a sip of some nutty alcohol. He poured some for his brother and handed him a glass, winking at him.

“No game. I’m releasing you from your duty,” he said, smiling.

He was in a good mood. That day had been productive. He’d almost made an egregious mistake marrying the beautiful woman he’d met on the street off to his idiot brother. He could already see his kits running around with his black horns and your (Y/EC) eyes.

Dessin took a step towards him.

“So you’re cutting me off then,” he said in a low voice.

Idreod chuckled to himself. Of course he would be worried about that. Dessin couldn’t do anything for himself. If he were on his own, he’d already be living on the street. He relied on Idreod for everything. Fortunately, as the only other surviving member of the Zovith family, his brother indulged him. Someone should enjoy the wealth he accumulated and he had enough to last lifetimes.

“Don’t panic. I’m not cutting you off. I’ve just had a change of heart. I’ve decided to take a wife after all,” he explained.

He snorted.

“You? Goddess, poor woman,” he chortled.

“Well you can express your sympathy yourself when you meet her,” he hit a button on the tablet on his desk, “Airies, bring up Miss (Y/LN).”

Dessin grinned.

“This I’ve got to see,” he laughed, taking a seat in one of the plush chairs in his brother’s office, “what hideous shrew were you trying to stick me with?”

A few minutes later Idreod’s secretary, Airies led the woman who would be his wife, you, in by the hand.

You still couldn’t see and you were a bit unsteady on your feet, like a doe taking its first steps. You’d dressed for the occasion, wearing a chaste navy dress. You wore sensible, low navy heels. Idreod appreciated that you were demure. You’d make a perfect wife to an archduke. In front of you, you could only make out the brown of the office walls and a tall purple blob in front of you.

“Um, hello,” you said, waving vaguely in the blob’s direction, “I was told to come here to meet my husband.”

There was a thunk as a glass hit the table. A blob, who happened to be Dessin, rose from his chair and you looked at him startled, narrowing your eyes as you tried to focus.

“You have to forgive me,” you said, “my glasses were broken in an attack on the way here. I can’t really see anything. I’m legally blind without them.”

“That’s all right, beautiful,” Dessin said, taking your hand. Idreod glared at him, unsure what game he was playing. Was he trying to goad him?

He led you to the chair he’d just risen from.

“Take a seat, I wouldn’t want my precious fiance to hurt herself stumbling around,” he went on, “you had a difficult time, please rest.”

“You’re my husband?” you asked quietly, shaking a little.

“No, he is not.” Idreod snapped, crossing the room and yanking Dessin away from you.

“My brother is playing a little joke on you,” he said, “I am your fiance.”

“Now wait a minute,” Dessin said, putting his hand on your shoulder, “I think I pushed my future wife away too easily. Now that I see her-”

“No.” he bit out, “she is mine.”

“But you promised her to me! Now I’m agreeing to it and you’re changing your mind. I’ll do it, okay? It’s fine!”

“Absolutely not, if you are going to keep playing this game, get out,” he boomed.

“I want her!” Dessin shouted like a petulant child.

“That’s a shame, because. She. Is. Mine.” Idreod replied, slowly so he would understand. Dessin didn’t dare defy his brother. His whole life hung on his whims.

You trembled openly in front of them and you couldn’t see it but Dessin glared, before storming out and slamming the door behind him.

Your husband didn’t seem quite as nice as the male he had driven off. Of course, you would have that sort of luck. If only he could be more like that Kherae on the street who saved me. I didn’t even get a chance to thank him.

“We’ll get you new glasses tomorrow,” he said curtly.

“I didn’t bring anything with me, I wasn’t sure if I would be allowed to go home for my things,” you said, “they just told me to show up here.”

“We will buy you new things,” he assured you.

So no, then.

He walked across the room, back to his desk and pressed a button on the tablet pad.

“Airies, bring tea for Miss (Y/LN),” he said in a clipped tone.

A minute later the shorter Kherae came in with a tray of tea, which he set down in front of you. You fumbled around the tray with your hands for the cup.

You heard a chair scrape the floor and the blob was in front of you.

“Here,” he said, his large fingers gingerly guiding you to the cup. They were a bit familiar, but you were too nervous to worry about it.

You drew the tea to your lips and took a shaky sip. The warm water and jasmine scent was a blessing. You felt like you were walking a tightrope. You could feel the heat of his body near you and just barely caught the scent of familiar cologne. Maybe you had smelled it in a shop before. What will he do with me? The teacup hit the saucer with a rattle. He rose and retreated across the room, back to his desk.

“Our wedding will be in a month,” he said, getting right to the point.

No, “let’s get to know each other.” Just, “We’re getting married.”

“It will be a large event because of my status as archduke, so I will need to prepare you. It’s likely the king will attend and you cannot offend him,” he stated crisply.

He’s quite arrogant.

“Sure,” you said, looking at your shoes, “I’ll do my best.”

“You will be perfect because I will prepare you,” he said.

Great.

You tried not to groan in front of him. He didn’t seem like a male who tolerated attitude.

“Can I ask you something?” you said, still looking at your feet.

“You can ask me anything,” he said, which surprised you.

“Will you be gentle with me? You know…when it’s the first time…?”

There was a pause.

“We’ll speak more about bedroom matters when we are better acquainted. I have no interest in taking a stranger between my sheets,” he said and you felt silly for saying anything.

Your new husband surprised you again. You assumed he would be cold when it came to passion, but he seemed a bit sentimental.

“What should I call you?” you asked, trying to change the subject quickly.

“Idreod, you will be my wife so you may call me by my first name,” he said.

“I’m (Y/N),” you offered.

He paused.

“I know.”

“Oh.”

There was a bit of an awkward pause.

“Um…so what do you do for fun?” you asked the first thing that popped into your mind.

“Fun?” he asked in a chilly tenor.

“Right, you probably don’t-” you trailed off and blushed.

“I’ve never done anything in my life for fun,” he said blandly.

“Of course not,” you agreed.

“I do like training…” he offered, sounding suspiciously shy.

“Do you think I could train with you?” you asked.

There was silence.

“Why would you want to do that?” he asked, “you’ll hold me back. You are nowhere near my skill level.”

You blushed.

“You’re right. That was stupid of me…I just thought…”

You paused.

“You thought…? Don’t leave sentences unfinished. It’s a sign of poor will.”

You gulped.

“I just wanted to get to know you better since you’re going to be my husband and all,” you said the words all in one rushed breath.

“Ah, that’s wise. You’re quite clever. You should know what pleases me. I will compose a document of my likes and dislikes and have Airies pass it to you when it’s complete. You can study it,” he said.

You blinked.

“Um…okay, then,” you mumbled. That wasn’t exactly what you’d meant.

“Do you have any aptitude for mathematics?” he asked.

“I’m sorry?” you asked, unsure where this was going.

“You are a Zovith now. Starting today I will need to train you to be my replacement as head of the family in the case of my untimely death. As you saw, my brother is an idiot. If you are remotely competent, I’ll need to show the basics of running the estate.

“You came here, unsure of what to expect on your own two feet, so I know you have enough spine for it. Of course, your main role here is mother to my heirs, but it is always a good idea to prepare contingencies and I am very thorough.”

Your mouth hung open. You weren't sure if you were being complimented or insulted. Were you a broodmare or future head of the family?

“I worked in finance,” you said, “I can handle a bit of business arithmetic.”

“Hmph,” he said to himself, “she can’t be worse than Dessin.”

“Allright,” he went on, “tomorrow I will bring your father to the estate and you will begin working with me on it.”

“My father?” you gasped. You were sure you’d never see him again. A bit of the ice in your heart melted in relief.

His tone got stern.

“Yes, (Y/N), I am an archduke. I can’t be associated with street level criminals. Your father will be brought here and given some frivolous role to disconnect him from organized crime. It can’t get out that he sold you to me, so it must appear that we are in some way associated. He can be vice president of a vineyard or something. I’m told we have some in our portfolio.”

You stood up, annoyed.

“But my father built his business from the ground up!” you snapped, “you can’t just yank him away from it. That was the whole point of all this!”

“Being father of the archduchess of Akhet is a far more important role than some silly laundry shop!” he barked back.

“You don’t know anything about what’s important,” you griped.

“I will educate you on that,” he said firmly.

You huffed, but you couldn’t even see him to give him a proper stink eye.

“I think we’ve all had enough excitement for today,” he said, sounding a bit tired, “I’ll have Airies take you to your room.”

You took a deep breath, trying to gather control over my emotions.

The shorter blob that was Airies came a moment later and escorted you out, by the hand.

“Please excuse the archduke, my lady. I can see he’s upset you,” Aries said as your heels clicked on the marble floor, “he’s never been in the company of a female for more than a paid hour. We’ve all gotten used to his prickly attitude, but it must be shocking to someone new.”

You snickered a little and pressed your lips together to try and hide it, but you could hear the smile in Airies’ voice.

He led you to a room and helped you find the bed.

“I’ll have the optometrist come see you in the morning and we will have your prescription prepared,” he said, handing you a soft, folded negligee. He guided your hands over to a small tablet screen. His fingers were much more soft and narrow than the archduke’s.

“Press one of these buttons if you would like a maid to come help you,” he said.

He paused at the door.

“If you don’t mind me saying this, my lady, it’s been a long time since we Kherae have had someone fair and soft to care for, please take full advantage of that. If you want anything at all, you only need to ask.”

You nodded and thanked him and he left you to change into your nightgown. You wished you could have seen it properly, because it was very soft and cozy. You were just tucking yourself into the covers when there was a knock at the door.

“Hello?” you asked, “come in…”

The door wasn’t locked. You wondered if it was a maid. Instead a purple figure filled the doorway. It wasn’t Airies, because he was shorter, but it wasn’t quite as tall as the duke.

“It’s me Dessin,” the archduke’s brother said, “we didn’t have a chance to be properly introduced.”

You blushed.

“It’s a little strange for you to come so late,” you said, a little frightened.

He chuckled.

“I have no ill intentions. I just wanted to say something to you privately without my brother around,” he said, “since you will be my sister soon, there are things you should know about him.”

“Oh?” you asked, “well then say it quickly. I was just going to sleep.”

“It’s just that…I want you to know I’m on your side (Y/N). My brother is a monster. He doesn’t deserve you. He doesn’t know anything about love or passion, he just wants another pawn to play with. If you need help or a confidant…just know you can rely on me,” he said.

You chewed your lip. You weren’t sure what to make of that, but there is one thing you needed help with.

“Well there is one thing. You probably know everyone in the building, right?”

“Yes, of course,” he said.

“When I was attacked today, I was saved by a kind Kherae. I didn’t have my glasses on so I couldn’t see him and I was frightened so I hardly remember anything about him. Do you think you could ask around? I’d like to thank him personally.”

There was a pause.

“Oh…(Y/N). You don’t recognize me?” he asked.

You blinked, confused.

“You?”

You could have sworn your protector had been taller, but you’d been frightened, you may have inflated his assets.

“Yes, I was the one who found you today,” he said, “and I brought you back here.”

That didn’t sound quite right, but who would lie about something like that? You must have just remembered him incorrectly.

“Oh, silly me. I must have really been frightened,” you said and wobbled across the room to him. You leaned up on your tiptoes and kissed him on his cheek. He didn’t smell quite right either, but you brushed it off. Perhaps he’d had a shower.

“Really, Thank you,” you said, “I think I’ll head to bed now, if you don’t mind.”

Dessin was silent for a moment before he cleared his throat.

“Right,” he said, “well…goodnight (Y/N). Remember what I said. If you need me, I’m here.”When you were under the covers, you sighed. What luck did you have that the brother of your soon to be husband was the nice one? What would your life be like if he had been the one to win the fight over you earlier? This was a tragedy of course, not a romance, you reminded yourself as you fell asleep.

#alien fluff #sfw alien fluff #monster fluff #sfw monster fluff #exophelia #x reader #monster x reader #alien oc #alien x reader #yandere male #yandere fluff #yandere x reader

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sitp-recs · 26 days

Note

hey!

do you have any recs for underrated fics, say fics with less than 50 comments (this is just a number i pulled out of thin air, actual number doesn’t matter).

i feel like i’ve read most drarry fics with more than 100 comments.

bonus points if draco is still a bit of a dickhead and doesn’t included them as auror partners!

thank you!

Hi anon! I definitely got some recs for you, my heart belongs to hidden gems ❤️ I tried to focus on your preferences otherwise this list would get too long bc I got some Auror fics that would be a good fit lol I hope you enjoy these!

Between Two Fires of Beltane by secretsalex (E, 5k)

push and pull you down by M0stlyVoid (E, 5k)

Harmony (Left-Handed Melody Remix) by mindabbles (M, 6k)

Heart to Hearth by @jtimu (E, 7k)

Service Bell by @shiftylinguini (E, 8k)

The Page Eleven Wars by fireflavored (E, 8.5k)

Saltwater Stain by @the-starryknight (M, 9k)

Clear As Mud by scoradh (M, 10k)

The Taste of Magic by @romaine2424 (M, 10k)

Nothing Left to Burn series by @skeptiquewrites (E, 10k)

draco malfoy's substitute murder service by @oknowkiss (E, 10k)

Kissed by @potteresque-ire (M, 12k)

The Year of Non-Magical Thinking by whiskyandwildflowers (E, 13k)

Voices From The Fog by noeon (E, 13k)

With Hands Full of Dusk by @corvuscrowned (E, 15k)

The Years That Walk Between by Femme (E, 15k) - past Draco/Snape

Harry Potter and the Werewolf Consultant by 0idontknow0 (E, 15k)

Turn and Face the Strange (time may change me) by @punk-rock-yuppie (T, 16k)

A Truth Universally Acknowledged by @sorrybutblog (M, 19k)

Poor Unfortunate Souls by @doubleappled (E, 19k)

Unfinished Business by cupiscent (E, 20k)

We Might Be Too Old for a Bildungsroman by calrissian18 (T, 21k)

Let's Go Outside by cryptonym (E, 24k)

The Good Guys by Frayach (E, 26k)

Stain of Silence by brummell (E, 28k)

Sun Thief by BlackRose532, @floydig (E, 28k)

War Wounds by SilentAuror (E, 30k)

In Dreams by @moonflower-rose (E, 38k)

Unseen by RenVeree (T, 47k)

Truth to Materials by lately, @toomuchplor (E, 54k)

Reparo by Amalin (E, 85k)

#asks #anon #Drarry reclist #underrated gems

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toastnotonfire · 3 months

Text

Velvet ring

pairing: Daryl dixon x (fem!) reader

summary: yes the song by big thief is what this is based off pls and thankyou it's just a little fluffy drabble of life with Daryl in the quiet moment's between constant fighting.

P.S: this is an unfinished mess written at like 3am, it's a combination of ideas for a longer oc fanfic I'm cooking up so it's rlly just my boredom rn

The rain throws itself against the windows of you and Daryl's shared room, it was a quiet night in alexandria after a much too long and strenuous day. One of the walls had caved in and it took nearly all day from dawn till dusk to fix the gap, rendering the community safe once again.

And, while the walls may make everyone else living there feel perfectly safe, it wasn't the walls for you. it was him.

You had known Daryl for long enough, considering how time sort of warps itself all together in this apocalyptic world, a year is a day and a day is an entire eternity. You and him had bonded at the start, on the Greene farm when you saw past the harsh exterior he tried to put up, you saw he was kind, and probably lonely underneath the lone wolf act. He was sweet in the way he fumbled his words almost as if he was pushing them out faster out of nervous habit.

He of course also saw into you, past what you had been through. He didn't see the scar on your cheek, or the great effort you went through to steady your constantly shaking hands. He didn't pry, dig to know the answers to your puzzles, he just understood in a way no one ever had before.

Now, after what had felt like a lifetime on the road, fighting to survive, the act of simply living together felt foreign. Not unwelcome of course, but foreign all the same.

"whatcha' readin'" Daryl asks, his voice thick with exhaustion from the long day, making his southern drawl more apparent in his voice.

"just something I picked up on the last run, some... 'the secret history' it's allright" you reply, pausing in the middle of your sentence to check the name of the book.

"ah" Daryl replies simply, as he crawls into bed beside you, letting out a huff as he makes contact with the soft mattress.

You close your book over slightly, turning your attention to the man who's currently face down in the pillows next to you, his dark brown unruly locks sticking in different directions, after a few seconds he moves his head to meet your eyes.

"quit starin'" he chuckles, laying on his side facing you.

You find yourself at a loss for witty replies, to enamoured by his face, the way a small curl of brown hair lays across his cheek, and his eyes are already starting to fall closed, his body losing the battle to sleep. You bring up a hand to push back the small curl from his cheek, and like a domesticated cat Daryl leans into the touch, making your heart twist.

You lay down next to him, bringing the blankets up under your chin to shield yourself from the cold nipping at you. curling closer to Daryl under the covers, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off the man -who is best described as a human furnace- and wrap your arms around him, just wishing too be that little bit closer to him. You place a goodnight kiss on his nose, and he returns one just on your cheekbone, his lips ghosting the scar which also sits there, a gentle reminder of his unconditional love.

These quiet content moments are the ones that you live for -litterally live for-. Moments watching the rain with him, talking about life before, life now, what you miss,your favourite foods and favourite songs. The mornings when the sun starts to filter through the white lace curtains, the suns rays dancing across your exposed skin, painting you both in a warm orange glow. The small kisses to say goodmorning, and the smell of coffee filtering through the house.

The way he notices when you leave the bed early, rolling onto his side, reaching for you only to find nothing but some warmth on your side of the bed, proof you were there not long before. He allways gets up to find you, middle of the night or crack of dawn, he will always search for you and bring you back. Back down to earth, home to him. Safe and sound.

It's the small moments with him.

#Spotify #daryl dixon #the walking dead #daryl fanfiction #daryl x reader #twd daryl #the walking dead daryl #fluff #daryl dixon fluff #fluff fanfic

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kat-nevayra · 2 years

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[TToD] Chapter Eleven - Her Nightmares

I looked up to realize that Elae was crying. Tears streamed down his face, although he tried to wipe them away.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said, trying to smile as he sniffled. “That kinda got away from me…”

“No, no, don’t be! Are you okay?”

“I’m more concerned with you! I’ve made you cry too.”

I touched my face to find damp cheeks. I hadn’t even noticed them before, being so distracted by his story. There was something about the way he spoke that channeled memories of the past. It took me away with him, back to the places he described. It was almost like I was reliving it with him.

“I’m okay, I’m just moved by what you told me.”

“I suppose that’s a good thing then… thank you,” he said. “And don’t worry about me, I’m alright as well. Mostly, anyway. It’s just hard to relive those memories, given how much has changed. Our old village doesn’t even exist anymore.”

“You two seem to have grown apart as well.”

He sighed. “Indeed. I miss being close with my sister. But I suppose, one does not simply steal the title of the gods without sacrifice.”

I knew he was referring to her status as an empress. It was a title many of the most powerful royals didn’t dare to use. For most of Areth, it was considered a position for deities like the Jade Empress or the Mother Faerie. Titles like emperor or empress were believed to be far too powerful for a mortal being to hold. In taking it for herself, Ophelia had told the world she believed herself to be a god.

“Indeed…” I shuddered at the memory of her gaze.

Seeking to move on from the topic at hand, Elae took a torch off the wall and relit it in our fire. Then he told me to wait here while he went to find the kitchen, hoping to find some pots that we could make dinner with. The idea of being left alone made me anxious, but he reassured me that he wouldn’t be long. According to him, most forts were built following a similar layout.

Luckily for me, he was right. Only a few minutes later, he returned carrying a small pot and some supplies to set up on the fire. He also had some other things, which he excitedly showed to me.

“I found some spices in the cupboards. Some nice teas, too. Combined with the ingredients I already have, I can probably make some florathian tea soup.”

“Florathian tea?” I presumed it was another elven creation.

“It was a really common flower a few thousand years ago, and made really popular tea. You could just drink it, but it was also used in desserts and even entrees. There was also a prevailing belief that it had the power to bring clarity to prophets, which led to people drinking it in an attempt to have prophetic dreams. I never really bought into all of that, but the tea itself is really good.”

“I’m inclined to try it, then,” I said, then laughed. “Impress me once again with your cooking.”

He chuckled, then quickly got to work. After setting up the pot, he waited for the water to boil before steeping it with tea. Slowly, the room began to fill with an unusual floral scent. It was nothing like what I had experienced before, but it was pleasant. Already, I was beginning to understand why it was popular.

I watched as the water became infused with the color of the flowers, the magenta purple dancing with bubbles as it boiled. Ever so carefully, he scooped out the flowers and began preparing his other ingredients. There was something about watching him cook that I found calming. He was so gentle with all the plants he worked with, as if in respect of what they once were. I knew it was probably a way all elves of his time acted, but it felt distinctly his. It wasn’t just his behavior; it was a part of who he was, like he was a fragment of the past that had survived the test of time.

Against my rational thought, there was a part of me that wanted him to look at me the way he looked at those flowers. Adoration.

“It’s ready,” he said softly.

Quickly, the thoughts disappeared as I took in the scent of what he had made. It was exquisite. And it tasted just as good as it looked. The taste was otherworldly in a way, deliberately crafted in a balance of sweet, savory, and floral flavors.

Elae sighed. “It’s a little stale, and lacks proper flavor, but it’ll do. I suppose that’s what happens when tea expires…”

It seemed to disappoint him. Most likely, he was used to the taste when it was still fresh. Back when it was still popular, when the elves were still around. Perhaps he was homesick for it.

“I like it.”

“You do?” He looked rather surprised.

“Of course, the flavors are like a luxury in food! I’m almost upset that I’ve lived twenty years on this planet without ever trying it before.”

That got a laugh out of him. “Good. I shall have to make it again some time… with fresh flowers of course. Though that may be difficult considering how much the landscape has changed. Florathian is much rarer these days than it used to be.”

“I shall eagerly await your remake, then.”

We continued to chat while eating dinner, and long into the night. With a lack of sunlight appearing through the clouds, we had no idea how dark it had gotten. But I felt better about the storm with a fire going and Elae beside me. So even as the thunder occasionally resounded in my ears, I wasn’t as afraid. When we eventually went to sleep, I felt safe with my cloak wrapped around me.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, I pretended I could feel his warmth.

When I awoke, I wasn’t in the fort anymore. I was back in that forest, masked in fog. However, a patch of the stone floor I had fallen asleep on surrounded me. Slowly standing, I began looking around. The mist parted a little, revealing the path of torches I had taken before. Only this time, I could see the eyes in the forest as well.

They watched me as I started down the path again, the faint glow worsened my nerves. I knew it was them, the Banished who had been watching me during my travels. As their eyes laid upon me, I could sense their anticipation. They were waiting for something…

It felt like things had changed since I had last found myself here. Other than the Banished, I knew there was no one else here. Last time, I was afraid of something hiding in the mist, ready to attack me. But now, this place felt empty. Somehow, I could sense that there was nothing out there.

When I saw the wall up ahead again, I braced myself for the horrific sight I would behold this time. But it helped me little; I was still repulsed to see the corpses that littered the ground beneath me. It felt like there were more of them this time, carved open with black blood still pooling on the ground. I knew I was just dreaming, but there was still something about them that unsettled me. It felt far too real.

When I looked up, tearing my eyes away from the ghastly sight below, I saw the new message: He is not like you… He is a creature that does not sleep, nor can he dream.

#writers #my writing #my ocs stuff #elsie sparrowood #the elven knight elae #the thief of dusk #its been a while #its good to be posting a chapter again #i feel bad i havent been posting in a while #ill try to post more often again #but i have school and no wifi in my free period -_-#but ill do my best #revised by my editor (aka my bf)

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clanwarrior-tumbly · 4 months

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om gosh just- alister getting into some trouble with some mean people but then, out of no where- a odd looking & powerful Zoroark (Hisuian) comes out to protect them! and they're badass! they got one eye damaged, their body is littered in scars and maybe a arm is missing? they been through some tough stuff but they see Allister as one of their children. and surely, allister has them on their team now? also, what would the other gym leaders think of his new pal?

"How does a kid like him get a gym leader position?"

"It should've been me, I have way better ghost types!"

"And he's always wearing that creepy mask. What's he hiding from us?"

Allister could feel his heart hammering in his chest every minute he was out in public. All he wanted to do was take a quiet walk through the Slumbering Weald and not draw too much attention to himself.

He really didn't want to be seen by anyone right now.

It's already been a bad enough day for him; the last thing he needed were cameras and phones being shoved into his face--he's gotten enough of that during today's interview.

He was asked how he felt about Victor/Gloria defeating him in the championship tournament, and he didn't have a solid answer. He only found himself getting upset over the whole thing again.

Even though Leon always told him to take his defeats in stride..it was still hard.

So he cut the interview short and ran away, making it clear he wanted to be alone without the company of bodyguards.

Why would he need them when he had Pokémon like Gengar? They're the only ones who really understood him. They never gave him weird looks for talking to the dead.

Yet he suddenly began to second-guess his decision, considering he now had no shelter from the comments of passerbys.

They doubted him all because he was the youngest of the gym leaders and wasn't as confident as the rest of them..and it wasn't right. They didn't know him like the others did.

He worked so hard to get to where he is now....not to be heckled and ridiculed for just being a kid.

Luckily, the Slumbering Weald was rather quiet at this hour-

"Use Thief!"

A flash of black and orange suddenly dashed in front of Allister, causing him to help as he stumbled forwards and collapsed to his knees, scraping them hard into the stone. The shock of the surprise attack led to his mask falling off and clattering to the ground.

Before he could reach for it, a Thievul snatched it up in its jaws, darting back to someone who was whistling for it.

He looked up, a hand over his face as he stared at the duo who attacked him: a teenaged trainer boring a smug grin, and their dark type by their side, holding his mask hostage.

And they weren't alone, as another trainer showed up with their Obstagoon, who took the mask from Thievul and wore it on its own face as mockery, laughing.

"You better give that back!" He cried out, horrified and angry. "Y-You two don't know..who you're messing with.."

"I think we already know." The Thievul's trainer sneered cruelly. "You're just a weak little kid. Did you know that you're the most unpopular gym leader in this week's poll?" They waved around their rotomphone

"..I-I don't care about popularity.."

"Pssh. That's a bloody lie if I've ever heard one." Obstagoon's trainer huffed. "Ya really showed your fans how selfish you actually are. Ya wouldn't stick around for autographs and just ran off...how do ya think Leon and the rest of 'em will feel when they hear about that?"

"Stop it..please." Allister begged, his hand grasping Gengar's dusk ball in preparation.

"I doubt they'd want someone like you representin' the-"

"VUL!!"

Out of nowhere, a blast of dark purplish energy careened into Theivul, causing it to slam into the nearest tree and flop to the ground like a ragdoll. Its trainer looked bewildered, confused as to where that shot came from.

Then a blur of white appeared and snatched the mask straight out of Obstagoon's hands, much to its shock as it looked all around...unable to see who it was.

But soon they all heard a spine-chilling howl, spinning their heads to find out that the source was you.

A white Zoroark standing in the fog.

Yet while you certainly looked like one, your hair was drastically different compared to the usual tied-back look of normal Zoroarks. Instead, it appeared as long shaggy wisps with red streaks waving all over the place and covering one of your eyes.

Not only that, but your whole body looked as though it's been through the toughest of battles: scars littered your torso, some patches of fur were entirely missing, and--to Allister's shock and sadness--you only had one arm. The other was nothing more than a stump.

Even so, you weren't backing down as you stalked towards him, the bullies, and their Pokémon, teeth gnashed in anticipation.

Thievul and Obstagoon both took up protective stances, ready to attack on their trainers' commands.

Except..

No commands were uttered for a few long moments, and they looked back to see the sheer horror plastered on each of the humans' faces.

"I-It's...a...a....IT'S A ZOMBIE!!!" Thievul's trainer shrieked, forcing their fox partner back into its ball. "So the rumors are true..y-you really CAN summon the dead!!"

"...huh..?" Allister blinked in immense confusion.

He didn't summon you..

"W-We were just kiddin'. You're great!! You're worthy of wearin' that ghost badge!!" The other stammered, recalling Obstagoon. "We won't bother ya..e-ever again...just...."

They took one look at you, and as you growled lowly, the two trainers screamed and ran away.

"WAAAAAAHHH!!!!"

"DON'T EAT OUR BRAINS!!!"

After their voices faded and Allister watched them disappear for good, he looked back up at you in wonder. No longer was he covering his face, so you could see his eyes practically sparkling.

"They were wrong." He whispered. "You're no zombie. You're...the Hisuian Zoroark I've read about."

Of course you were. He's heard about this variant from what he believed were just myths of the Hisui region that existed long before Sinnoh. From what he knew about them, and judging by your current appearance...the agony you suffered in life was also reflected in your death.

Had he not been a ghost trainer with such a unique connection to the type, he would've thought you were a zombie, too.

As your gaze pierced through his soul, he remained on the ground, feeling as though he got hit by a frozen status effect. He didn't dare to move, knowing that a Hisuian Zoroark's anger was not to be trifled with.

Perhaps you saw him as just another human to take your rage out on.

For you likely held the same grudge as all the others of your kind...

One that was bitter, eternal, and cold as the frost that took your life after you've spent all your energy and hatred in battle; your scars and lost arm were simply the products of you flinging yourself into vicious fights with humans and Pokémon alike--no self-preservation instincts to be found.

Allister had no clue what you were thinking, but as you suddenly crouched down in front of him, he flinched back, arms shielding his face in fear of what you might do.

"Zo...."

"..wh-what..?" Uncovering his face, he was stunned to see something familiar in your grasp being handed over to him:

His own mask.

Of course. He forgot you swiped it from that mean Obstagoon earlier.

Yet he didn't take it back right away, instead looking up at you and seeing nothing but warmth in your eyes. He noticed the one covered by your hair was blind, given the milky look and the deep scar that went through it.

Despite seeing how you've suffered countless hardships, likely endured an agonizing death, and came back out of pure spite and hatred for humans...

You reached deep into your cold, dead heart and rediscovered strength and kindness--both of which you used to protect this young ghost trainer when he needed it most.

You knew he wasn't like those who exiled you.

No.

He was a friend.

He reminded you of all your children back at home: the Zoruas who followed you in life, death, and the after..fearful of what they've become, but feeling safe when you were around.

You couldn't reach them anymore, yet you wanted to protect someone. Anyone.

And you found Allister.

A small sniffle and whimper snapped you out of your thoughts, noticing the tears rolling down the young boy's face. You frowned a little, looking down at the mask.

Was this not his?

"D-Don't worry, I'm....so happy, Z-Zoroark..thank you.." He whispered shakily, smiling as he took it back, putting it on to hide the rest of his tears. "I..d-don't know how you got here, but you saved me. You put those bullies in their place. Nobody takes me seriously as a ghost type gym leader..much less a trainer..but you do, don't you?"

"Ark-ark.." Nodding, your gaze went to the dusk ball clipped to his belt, and you tapped on it with a rugged claw.

At first, he flinched at the sudden motion, before realizing you just wanted to see the pokeball. "Oh, this? I-It's a dusk ball..a version of a pokeball that helps me catch Pokémon at night. Or in caves.." He showed it to you, allowing you to sniff it curiously-

Only to accidentally boop your nose against the button, causing it to open and capture you.

At first Allister panicked, dropping the dusk ball to the ground as he watched it shake several times, scared out of his mind.

A million thoughts were running through his head right now:

Was it going to break?

Were you going to be angry?

Did you want to be captured?

What if-

*click*

'Huh...?' Bewildered, he looked down to see that the accidental catch was successful. And he picked up the dusk ball, opening it and letting you back out, expecting you to be enraged.

Yet..you seemed content.

You looked surprised, sure, but you soon smiled upon seeing him and nodded your head.

Indeed, you wished to become his partner Pokémon.

"O-Okay..I guess you're coming with me from now on." Allister quietly laughed, brimming with joy on the inside. "But first you should meet Gengar. I think..you two will get along well."

"Zor...ark, ark!"

#sorry i tried writing the gym leaders into this but it just wasnt working bc i kept adding and deleting stuff so i had to omit them </3 #but id say they would be thrilled that allister found himself a unique pokemon who acts like a parent #clanask #pokemon x reader #pokemon swsh x reader #pokemon sword x reader #pokemon shield x reader #pokemon allister #hisuian zoroark #pokemon reader

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auroravictorium · 3 months

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vigilante shit (k.b.)

Summary: set nearly two years before the events of midnights, reader is fighting for survival in ketterdam after escaping her indenture contract before it can be stamped. after a confrontation with a few merchants, a certain bastard of the barrel arrives and offers her a deal that may ensure her survival in the city.

Pairing(s): kaz brekker x reader (eventually) Word Count: 4.8k Warnings: violence (stabbing, bludgeoning, shoving, reader killing four people), blood, injuries (dislocated shoulder, stab wounds, cuts, gashes, etc.), numerous mentions of indentured servitude (reader escaping this, exploitation of indentures in the city, etc.) Genre: action and lil angst Author's Note: rue publishing a new part just a few days after the last one?? who IS she?? anyway, here is reader's backstory + how she and kaz met :)) this will be important for the next part (back in the present) because it'll be mentioned, so i'm choosing to share this one first for lore purposes

masterlist

Summer in Ketterdam was unbearable. The near-constant cloud cover trapped the heat low, threatening to make residents collapse as they made their daily commutes and errands. Bright costumes of the West Stave stuck to the skin of their wearers. Good-for-nothing bureaucrats dabbed at their foreheads and pulled at their collars, trying desperately to find relief from the heat. Even gangsters had halted their usual brawls in the streets, preferring to drink themselves into a stupor until dusk arrived or avail themselves of whatever cool water could be found.

As the government ceased its already pitiful operations due to the heat, and gangsters took the day off, the city lapsed into a sleepy state. You took advantage of the sluggishness, ducking through the streets of the Financial District and nimbly swiping what you could as you went. Wallets, loose jewelry, colorful kruge poking out of pockets. Everyone was too hot to notice the thief among them, and those who did a few moments later didn't bother to give chase.

Finally, you heard a bell chime seventeen times in the distance. The Exchange was closed for the day, and merchants would be making their way home with bulging wallets and smug faces. Perfect.

You headed north, disappearing into the crowds of merchants and regular citizens alike and searching for wide eyes or furrowed brows, darting glances, and those who kept to themselves. New merchants, unaware of the dangers of being near the Exchange after it closed.

A few merchants trailed toward the Geldstraat, packets of papers in their hands with thick red seals at the top that you would recognize anywhere—indenture paperwork. From the looks of it, each man held a dozen fresh indentures in his hands, ready to be stamped to confirm the transfer of a human being from one bastard’s hands to the next.

Yet, moving in the opposite direction, a lone merchant with a poorly-tailored coat and bulging pockets filled with colorful kruge that needed to be deposited.

Freedom, or the funds that could make a difference in whether you made it to the end of the week.

If you were wise but heartless, you'd chase the lone man and tackle him once he was out of sight of the Exchange. Ketterdam had a way of ripping the soul from a person, making them make the worst decisions for survival.

But you'd almost been one of those indentures, had your name on one of those papers that almost got stamped. You'd been just blocks from the courthouse, huddled in a clunky carriage with five other women when you'd gotten the courage to stab the driver through the small window with the sharpened edge of a piece of cutlery you'd swiped.

One moment, you'd been stuck in that carriage, passing over a cobbled bridge. The next, you had those bloodstained papers in your hand, snatched from the inside of the driver’s coat pocket, and were running. You ran until you felt your lungs would give out, until you were sure the dots in your vision would turn to full-blown darkness and you’d collapse right there in the street amongst garbage and empty bottles.

But you'd made it. You'd disappeared into the Barrel, tossed the papers in a rubbish bin, and lit it on fire. Partially an act of self-preservation, partially an act of helping the indentures who'd scrambled out of the carriage after you. Had they made it? You didn't know. You hoped so.

Thinking of the women who’d been taken into Ketterdam with you made something spark in your chest. Swearing under your breath, you wove through crowds of merchants and market prodigies and started to trail the group of merchants heading toward the Geldstraat. Conversations of auctions, trade deals, and under-the-counter offers flowed in one ear and out the other. At any other time, those conversations would catch your interest; but you’d set your mind to something, could feel an urgency running beneath your skin like electricity, and the words passed in and out of your ears without sticking.

These damned merchants walked fast, even in the heat, and you soon made your way onto the packed Geldstraat. Glancing around for an opportunity to gain some leverage–a rooftop would be nice, or a distraction–you found none. This was the part of the city reserved for the wealthy; clean and filled with well-dressed residents who eyed you as you passed by in your loose-fitting tunic and well-worn trousers. Your boots were in an even worse condition, and you felt the ridges and dips in the cobblestones beneath your feet as you tried your best to look inconspicuous.

The Government District was fast approaching as you headed north, and your time to swipe these papers was running out. Fuck it.

As the mouth of the Geldstraat opened up to let people pour into the Government District, you made your move, darting forward and to the right of one of the merchants; as you passed, you yanked hard on his pocketwatch, pulling it from his pocket with enough force that he definitely noticed. “Oy!” he shouted, reaching for you in an attempt to apprehend you, or maybe grab the pocketwatch dangling from your hand. “Thief!”

You skirted to the side, high-tailing it back toward an alleyway you’d passed not thirty seconds ago. There’d been something metallic on the ground–a piece of pipe, you hoped–that caught what little sun came through the clouds and reflected it.

Boots pounded against the ground behind you, sending a rush of adrenaline through your body, enough to stave off the sluggishness of your muscles from the heat. Come get me, you son of a bitch, you thought, your legs burning as you skidded into the alleyway and scooped the object you’d seen from the ground: a rusty, jagged piece of drainpipe that had fallen from the edge of one of the roofs. It was perfect, especially since you had yet to acquire a better weapon than the flimsy dagger strapped to your hip and wanted to keep these bastards as far away from you–an eligible person to be indentured if they got their hands on you, as far as they were concerned–as possible.

You barely had enough time to survey it to decide which end would be better for bludgeoning before the sound of pounding boots caught up to you, and you adjusted your sweaty grip on the metal and faced the mouth of the alley as four tall shadows blocked it.

The merchants were bigger than they looked when you’d trailed them, and you recognized their clothing as being Fjerdan, rough material that did little to keep them cool in this heat. Oh, fantastic. Leave it to me to pick a fight with some wannabe Druskelle.

But their height gave you an advantage, one you’d quickly learned to utilize in the few months you’d been on the streets: being taller made them slower. And, judging from the lack of bulges at their waists and ankles, they were unarmed.

Tall and dumb; your day was starting to look up.

The merchant you’d robbed stuffed his papers into his coat pocket. “I believe you have something that belongs to me,” he said, his accent thick as he spoke. His eyes fell to the pipe in your hand, then the pocketwatch dangling out of your pocket. “If you hand it back now, I’ll reconsider how much I rough you up.”

“You should have armed yourself before making threats you won’t be able to follow through on,” you shot back. Your voice was remarkably steady, even as you were realizing there was a good chance at least one of them would land a strike on you while you were trying to get their papers. You wouldn’t be walking out of this uninjured, but when had you ever escaped a fight without scrapes and bruises? Such was the nature of the city. It took, and it took, and it took until its people had nothing left to give aside from their bones.

And this cause had settled itself on your shoulders like a weight you couldn’t shake. So let Ketterdam have your bones, but only after you wiped these bastards out first.

The merchant lunged, and you swung the pipe. The weight was unnatural in your hand, and you couldn’t get a good grip on it; but the pipe landed true, smashing into the merchant’s skull with a sickening crack as the other three rushed toward you. One of them took a detour, catching his comrade as he crumpled to the filthy ground, while the other two went straight for you.

You swung the pipe like a bat, bashing it into one’s stomach and making him hunch over before whirling to land a hit on the other. You didn’t have enough momentum to do lethal damage, but the very edge of the pipe made a long cut across your new foe’s face. Redness bloomed on the skin, and blood seeped down; his progress was slowed, but not stopped.

He shoved you back against a brick wall, and the impact knocked the breath from your lungs. Son of a– Your muscles burned as you gasped, pain rocketing up and down your spine, and your grip on the pipe almost loosened.

Almost.

The man tried to wrench it from your grasp, taking advantage of your breathlessness, but you kept ahold of it. “Give it,” he growled, yanking the pipe hard enough to make your shoulder pop as you fought to keep possession of it. Pain shot up and down your arm, and you were forced to release the pipe as your shoulder popped out of place.

You swore in pain, tears pricking your eyes and your good hand dropping to your belt and unsheathing your dagger before twisting it in your hand and jabbing it as hard as you could toward the man’s chest while he grabbed at the pipe. It drove home, embedding in an upward angle beneath his ribcage; it wasn’t perfect, and you were sure it wasn’t a lethal blow, but it caused the man to stagger back and drop to his knees. You ripped the blade from his chest and the pipe from his hand, pausing only to stomp your foot down over the wound hard enough for a few ribs to crack.

He cried out in anger, writhing against the ground, but you didn’t have time to savor the noise before another merchant was on you, the one you’d bashed in the stomach with the pipe.

With the dagger in your good hand and the pipe in your limp one, you dodged his attempt to punch you. The heat pressed down on you, and sweat soaked through your clothing as you and the merchant circled each other around his comrade on the ground. The one you’d initially hit was still being worked on by his companion; apparently, the pipe had done more damage than you’d thought, which filled you with a twisted sense of satisfaction.

The last merchant standing launched himself at you, and you dodged, slamming your injured shoulder against the opposite wall with a hard enough impact that something crunched. The pipe dropped from your hand again, and you were forced to let it fall for good. Leaning to grab it would be a death sentence.

Well…

You ducked slightly, letting the merchant think you’d gone for the pipe, only to twist at the last moment and slash the dagger across his chest in a wide arc. Blood bloomed beneath his beige tunic, and you slashed again as he stumbled in pain. More blood splattered, sliding down the blade of your knife and onto the handle, making your hand slick with red. It was warm, unpleasantly so, and your stomach twisted with nausea.

No matter how long you were in the city, you weren’t sure you’d ever get used to the feeling of someone else’s blood on your skin.

The merchant cried out as you drove the knife through his throat, cutting the noise off with a nauseating gurgle. He slumped to the ground, nearly falling onto you, and you stumbled out of the way to avoid it. A hand grabbed at your ankle, and you toppled onto the merchant you’d stabbed earlier.

Grunting, you pushed yourself away, skin scraping against gravel and glass shards on the alleyway ground, and grabbed your blade, driving it down into his chest one more time. Without your bad arm, you couldn’t hold yourself steady. Or maybe it was the adrenaline wearing off that caused the trembles. You weren’t sure. Either way, you managed to gasp out, “For them,” before staggering to your feet once more to handle the final merchant who was tending to the now-dead man you’d robbed.

“The indentures,” you rasped as you approached, your knees shaking as pain took hold. It was getting harder to stay upright, especially with the heat weighing you down and making the pain feel ten times worse. “Where are they?”

“I-I don’t–” the merchant began, his voice wobbling.

“Shall I help you remember?”

Your boot made contact with the merchant’s face, and something crunched with the impact. His nose, judging by the way he toppled over and cupped his face. A sob passed his lips, but you didn’t stop your advance.

“I won’t ask again,” you said, stopping over the man as he lay on the ground, nearly curled in a fetal position. Your heart raced in your ears, loud enough to almost drown out the next words that left your mouth. “Where are they?”

“Warehouse district,” he sobbed, trembling as you stopped before him. “One of the big ones owned by one of the–one of the councilmen.”

That was all you needed to hear.

You could have left him alive. Could have let him scramble to his feet and leave the alleyway to report what had happened to one of the pigs that called themselves the Stadwatch, not that they’d do anything. Could have let him recuperate and return to the Exchange in a few days with too much pride to admit a girl on the streets had briefly held his life in his hands.

But you thought of those indentures, probably trafficked, waiting in the warehouse for news that their lives had been determined for them. You remembered the fear you’d felt after being captured and taken into the city with several other women your age, women whose fates were unknown after you’d been forced to leave them behind in a bid for survival. You remembered the desperation as you’d ground that piece of cutlery against the stone floor in your holding room, sharpening it into something that would free you.

You thought of them, and you dropped to your knees, driving the knife into his throat hard enough that you faced some resistance once the hilt met flesh. The man’s sobs went quiet. His body twitched, his eyes rolling for a moment before going still. His chance to live disappeared as quickly as that.

Though you longed to sit back, to collapse into the ground and catch your breath, you feared two things. One, you wouldn’t be able to get back up. Two, the Stadwatch would find you and have you hauled to jail. You’d managed to avoid it thus far, but today was not the day you wanted your luck to change. Not when you had a job to complete.

Numbly, you searched the men, one by one, until you collected all of the paperwork and kruge you could find from their bodies. Dozens of indenture contracts, a few hastily scribbled receipts from transactions at the Exchange, and a few notes recording debts to be paid.

The contracts needed to be burned. The rest could be thrown away; let someone find them and wonder what happened to the bastards who’d written them.

As you collected your dagger and wiped it off on the tunic of the man you’d robbed, the hair on the back of your neck prickled uncomfortably. It wasn’t from the heat, nor from your conscience being stirred into an upset at what you’d just done. No, someone was watching you.

You turned your gaze to the rooftops, slowly turning on your heel as you searched for the source of that gaze. It wasn’t threatening; if it was, the person would have attacked. It was merely surveillance. Soon, you spotted a shadow pressed against a chimney, one that hadn’t been there before. Perhaps more obviously, the shadow moved, slinking closer to the edge of the roof before grabbing hold of the remaining pipe along the edge and swinging itself over as if on someone’s signal.

You stumbled back toward the mouth of the alley and raised your dagger, but the person made no move to attack. The figure was short and slim, and you saw wayward hairs peeking out from beneath their hood; a woman. Another person trying to survive on the streets? No, she was too well-dressed for that, with new-ish shoes, and clothes that fit with no visible tears or stains.

The woman didn’t approach, and you continued taking slow steps back, hoping to get out of the alley before the woman changed her mind and tried to stab you. I don’t think I can take down another person, you thought, least of all her, with at least five daggers strapped to her that you could see; you were willing to be that there were more.

There were soft footsteps near the mouth of the alleyway, followed by a tapping between each step, the sound of wood against the cobblestones. Your heartbeat picked right back up again, and you swiveled, pressing your back to the alley wall as another figure stepped into the mouth of the alleyway and blocked your escape.

The horrendous hat on his head made you think it was an officer with the Stadwatch, but the face beneath that hat was one of a boy no older than you. His skin was pale, drawn across angular cheekbones that cast sharp shadows down his face in the poor amount of sunlight filtering through the clouds. You couldn’t see his eyes, but you felt them; they pierced you with ease, scrutinized you, and evaluated everything from your messy hair to the blood soaked into your boots. They settled on the limpness of your arm for a moment, and you fought the urge to hide it behind your back.

“You’re a difficult person to track down, Y/N L/N,” the boy said, his voice raspy like sandpaper hissing across unfinished wood. His tone was devoid of humor. Instead, he spoke with a bluntness that told you this was merely business for him. A business that somehow involved him knowing your name.

You clamped your mouth shut, fighting the urge to ask how he knew your name. You were getting the sense that you didn’t want to know the source of that information, though you were willing to bet it was the woman standing just feet away from you. “Is that so?” you said instead, keeping your voice as steady as you could.

You were cornered, and you didn’t like that at all. Your skin itched with the urge to make a run for it, to shove this boy out of the way and bolt as far as your legs could take you. You’d done it before, had escaped from that carriage and gotten to this point. But this boy reeked of danger, of power, of a willingness to be cruel, if need be. He was not someone you wanted to make an enemy with.

The boy shifted his weight, twirling the head of the cane in his hand with a precision that told you he’d been using it for a while. That piercing gaze left you for a moment, and you assumed he was examining the damage you’d done to the four merchants in the alleyway. He was silent for a few long moments, then spoke again. “Aren’t you supposed to be serving one of the councilmen at his residence right now?”

Your blood turned to ice. He knew you were supposed to be an indenture. He knew you were not where you were supposed to be. He could turn you in, could get you taken back into custody for your paperwork to finally be stamped. Somewhere, there had to be a copy of your indenture paperwork. Just my luck.

“Come to collect me, have you?” Somewhere alongside your shock and terror was anger. Your knuckles tightened on the hilt of your dagger like you might throw it at the boy, and you saw the girl with the hood shift her fingers ever so slightly toward a dagger at her waist. Definitely allies.

“No.”

“So, you’ll let me leave the alley and go on my merry way after you finish making poorly disguised threats?”

“No.”

Throwing the dagger was looking more and more tempting if only you could ignore the fact that you’d also get a dagger to the chest if you did so. You were in enough pain as it was. “State your business, then,” you said, trying to keep your chin held high as you struggled to puzzle this out. This boy had power and allies, that was clear. But who was he, and why did you get the sense that you should know who he was?

“I’ve heard some of the chaos you’ve caused,” the boy said, tapping his cane against the ground a few times, almost impatiently. “A string of robberies on the outskirts of the Barrel, pickpocketing after the Exchange closes for the day, a few brawls here and there.”

“How can you possibly attribute those to me?” you said, though every word he’d spoken was true. The Barrel was rife with crime; nobody batted an eyelash at robberies anymore, and reporting them to the Stadwatch was useless. That was gang territory, and everyone knew it.

The boy tilted his head, ignoring your question. “Now, I’m curious why you’ve graduated to murder. These men are merchants?” He nudged a limp hand with his boot. “It’s quite a jump, petty crimes to killing.”

“You speak as if you know from experience.”

He ignored you again. “I have a deal for you, Y/N.”

“I don’t make deals with strangers, especially not those who particularly enjoy hearing themselves talk.” Your words were short and deadpan, but you noticed the hooded girl’s shoulders shake slightly with silent laughter. The prickling gaze that had been on you disappeared for a moment, likely to direct a glare at the girl, and it returned to you twice as sharp as before.

“Have you heard of the Dregs?” the boy asked, tapping his cane against the ground again as if this was all a tedious chore for him. You didn’t bother answering, because he proceeded on anyway. “We control a wide area of the Barrel, and the Dime Lions and a few smaller groups control the rest, which I’m sure you know since you’ve only robbed from disputed areas where you think nobody can catch you.”

“But you have caught me, and now you’re here to enact justice,” you said. Some mocking seeped into your voice before you could stop it, and the boy sighed in exasperation. If he was concerned about getting you to agree to whatever deal he had in store, he had to realize he wasn’t earning much approval from you.

“No. I see a use for you, and I want to capitalize on it.” The boy rolled his shoulders back and tightened his gloved fingers on the head of his cane. “In exchange, you’ll have a roof over your head and get paid for each job.”

Some of your desire to be sarcastic disappeared when he mentioned housing and wages. You couldn’t deny how tempting that was; to have a roof over your head instead of fabric wrapped around you when the rain came down would be bliss, and to have an income you could regularly count on? You’d feel like the wealthiest girl in Ketterdam, like getting taken to the city had been a good thing.

“What type of jobs?” you finally said, not wanting to agree so quickly. You refused to exchange one terrible contract for another. Ketterdam could make the worst situations appear like a blessing from the Saints themselves if you didn’t ask the right questions as to their nature.

“Robberies, mostly. Tracking leads on opportunities for kruge. Working shifts at the Crow Club in between.” He tightened his grip on the head of his cane again as if he could tell that you were considering his offer. “At the very worst, you’ll be taking out those who threaten my business. Dime Lions, mainly, but you seem to be quite comfortable with the idea of murder.”

Dregs. Crow Club. My business.

Recognition struck you. You remembered hearing about a shift in power in the Dregs that happened just before you arrived in Ketterdam. The leader, Per Haskell, had been ousted by his lieutenant, a boy called Dirtyhands. Saints, what was his name? The whispers rarely mentioned it, as if he had ears everywhere and could strike at any moment. From the tales you’d heard, you wouldn’t be surprised if he could; they’d been enough to deter you from robbing anywhere in territory firmly controlled by the Dregs. He’d been right about that, just like everything else about you.

“How often do you personally recruit people to your cause, Kaz Brekker?” you said, unhitching yourself from the wall. Slowly, you held up your dagger before making a show of sliding it back into the sheathe at your waist. The hooded girl who’d been watching you and the boy size each other up relaxed, dropping her hand from the dagger she’d been prepared to grab.

Kaz Brekker’s lips quirked upward on one side, a half smile indicating he knew exactly what you’d just been thinking. “Only when they serve my interests,” he said. “Do we have a deal?”

“Only if it serves my interests,” you said, and you thought you saw the ghost of approval cross the parts of Brekker’s face that you could see. You grabbed the stack of indenture paperwork from where you’d propped it under your bad arm and held it up, showing the vivid red stamp to Brekker and his companion. “These people are being held in the Warehouse District, awaiting their indenture notice. I want them released.”

You expected a long silence to stretch between the two of you. It was a bold move for you to make a demand as part of your deal, especially since Brekker made it clear it was a rarity for him to bother recruiting people personally. But, to your surprise, Brekker nodded once.

“Alright,” he said. He held out his hand, and you took a few steps forward to pass the paperwork into his gloved fingers. He skimmed the pages briefly before tucking them into his black coat. “Did these men tell you which warehouse?”

You cast a glance toward the last one you’d killed, frowning slightly. “One owned by a councilman. He wasn’t more specific.”

Brekker didn’t seem bothered by the limited information. Instead, he only nodded once toward the hooded girl who had observed all this. “Inej, see what you can find. I’ll escort our new recruit back to the Slat.”

Inej disappeared as quickly as she’d arrived, effortlessly climbing back up the wall and onto the rooftop before darting off without making a single sound. You watched her go, feeling awe burn in your chest as she disappeared without a trace. How long had it taken her to master that? Would she teach you, if you asked? She radiated such quiet power, and you wondered if the new mess you’d found yourself in would teach you just the same.

Kaz Brekker jerked his head back toward the alleyway entrance. “Let’s go. I don’t fancy having to deal with Stadwatch when they find the bodies.” He turned on his heel and strode off without another word, his cane tapping lightly against the ground as he went. He didn’t bother to wait for you or make sure you were following.

Another chance to back out, to reconsider joining the Dregs and binding yourself to a gang known for its leader's brutality. But maybe… Maybe the Dregs could give you some leverage and a better chance of survival in the city. You would no longer be fighting for enough food to make it through the week, would no longer be considered on the run; you could wipe your past clean and destroy whatever copy of your indenture paperwork Brekker had found that could come back to bite you and start over.

And the thought of starting over, of becoming someone new, was enough to make you follow after one of the most dangerous people in Ketterdam.

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