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Synopsis. Five times Gojo Satoru - the hottest k-pop idol right now - gets exposed for wanting you, his pretty, totally-not-girlfriend best friend. And the one time he gives them headlines to talk about.
Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, idol!Gojo, k-pop idol au, 5 + 1 things, best-friends-to-Iovers, PINING, dispatch, fandom shenanigans, lie detector tests, variety shows, ISAC, he’s SO down bad, matíng presses, oraI (fem. rec.), spítting, chokíng, p sIapping, Gojo’s tongue píercing, PÚSSYDRÚNK Gojo, manhandIing, semi-public, he’s BIG, tummy buIges, D slipping, running from it, bIindfolds, talking you through it, first times (Gojo’s), creampíes, cúmplay, getting together, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 11.8k
A/N. Guess who’s back from the beach-each and watched Kpop Demon Hunters-
“And here we have the goddess, the myth, the-”
It would take quite the feat to leave Gojo Satoru - self-proclaimed king of idols (debatable), world-class chatterbox (not debatable) - of all people gaping soundlessly at his screen.
For a second. Two. Three- before he’s sputtering at the blur of incoming comments, “O-oi! Don’t you lil’ perverts think you can get away with flirting with my best friend.” Arms crossed, he nods seriously at his fanbase, “Even I don’t get away with flirting with my be-”
“Satoru, they’re about to cut the cameras.”
“A joke. Obviously.” Smooth. Ever-so-smooth, Gojo’s flashing a winning smile at his stern-faced manager behind the tripod.
It was hard enough to convince Yaga into letting you join his livestream, but as a near-veteran in the entertainment industry, Gojo knew how to handle a little slip-up like this. He’s got this- “Because I am definitely not in love with my best friend, and am definitely not held hostage to say this.”
“...”
“A…a joke?”
In mild concern, the two of you can only watch as stoic, composed Yaga lets out what sounded like a strangled sob. Before whispering to another PR manager on-site, “Write a company statement.”
“Oi-” Gojo pipes up, “Why would you need a company statement when I’m perfectly- user Fushidaddy type another pick-up line and I’m blocking you.”
The dark-haired man chokes through almost tears, “Just start writing already.”
You try to smooth things over from your seat right beside your best friend, this was not what you’d anticipated after Gojo had practically begged on his knees asking for you to join him in one of his Bubble lives. Then again, what else could you expect from anything to do with him? “Ah, it’s alright. I don’t mind-”
“I do.”
Snowy brows furrowed, he’s leaning in closer to the camera to take in every traitorous word-
satorusxkitten: okay but guys think ab it!! he’s rlly talented but no actor so it’s okay if he’s ass at pretending to not be a simp!! can u blame him??
“Blocked.”
P1BANG: took a shot every time he stares at her thinking he’s slick now I’m at the hospital (this live started 3 minutes ago)
“Blocked.”
Fushidaddy: Pretty girl, blink twice if you’re being held hostage x.
“Blocked and reported what the-” Gojo frowns glancing over at you from the corner of his eyes, (thinking he’s slick, thank you very much). Before catching the way you lean in dramatically to flutter your eyes- “Don’t you dare blink.”
As you’re bursting into ribbing laughter, so are the sheer amount of comments asking about you- and he can’t help but entertain the sneaking suspicion that his own viewers were here simply because of you.
At least, that’s why he would’ve kept watching.
Fushidaddy2: Put us out of this pining misery or end the live, kid.
“I thought I blocked you.”
“Okay then.” You clap your hands once to gain the room’s attention, slightly worried about the blood vessel about to burst near Yaga’s temple. “Satoru, I think you brought me here to do a Q n’ A, right?”
“Well yes…” Gojo’s grumbling underneath his breath - that was the initial plan, to finally introduce one of the most precious parts of him to the fandom.
He just didn’t account for the possibility that everyone on the livestream would fall in love with you - when that was clearly supposed to be his job! “Alright- ask away, and no funny business. I’m looking at you, user Fushidaddy.”
sugu-rizzed: Are you single?
“How dare you-”
“Yes. Yes, I am.” You’re nudging the towering man right next to you, subtly moving his hand off of that treacherous block button. “Lighten up, Satoru—”
“Yes, ma’am. Correct, ma’am.”
What a sight it was.
Honestly, you’re sure you hear at least several management staff gasp at just how easily you’d shut up their arguable star. Being the center of one of the fastest bands to sky-rocket into the k-pop world hadn’t made it any easier for an agent to pose authority over Gojo Satoru - Yaga was barely hanging on by a thread and he submitted at least a few resignation letters every week.
Once the on-set whispers break out, you’re squirming in your seat. Rattling off yet another question-
ge.akuge: what do you think about the allegations of him wearing wigs?
“Well-”
“Blocked.”
KunaLuvrr: does he wear wigs?
stanjutsu: will he wear wigs?
Fushidaddy3: Y’know I don’t wear wigs, baby, x.
“I-”
“You- blocked.”
haibarabias: Did u know he was yapping about you non-stop on the last live?
You’re blinking in slight surprise, turning to Gojo - who’d now stuffed himself into his oversized designer hoodie until you could only make out the tips of his ears. His bright, burning red ears. “Really?” Turning to the feverishly nodding staff at his silence, “Really?”
One of the fresh-faced interns in charge of lighting tries to hold back a squeal, “Y-yeah! We tried to keep a tally of your name to edit on-screen but it went into…the triple…digits- eep!”
“E-hem.” Gojo cuts the newbie off with a slight glare, snitches. The whole lot. “I was just talking to them about what a boor you are and to be prepared-”
realistic.one: liar, you were giggling and kicking your feet the whole time-
“-which you would have known if you actually watched me.” Finishing off with relish, he’s mockingly glowering down at you. The perfect vision of a neglected best friend - if it wasn’t for the way that he was flushed all the way from his cheeks to the back of his neck, that is.
And then your fingerpads reach out to pat the silky crown of his bangs, soothingly. “I do watch you, Toru. I must have missed that stream, sorry about that.”
He melts. And there’s tens of thousands to watch him.
“Y-yeah?” Gojo’s briefly snapping a scowl at the screen, already knowing that this particular clip of his voice breaking would be making rounds on the internet tomorrow. Crossing his arms with a huff, he acts like he isn’t nuzzling his head even closer for you to caress, “Tch, you make a shitty best friend, my star.”
Somewhere across the room, Yaga puts his head in his hands and sighs.
sugu-rizzed: My star?? Guys is he…
CandyKento: that moment when you highkey ship them but realize bro has no game
sunflowerboy: Gojo-san fighting!!
Fushidaddy7: I could treat you better, girl x.
torutoaster: wonder what her type is from our boys^^
It’s as if the room itself had hiked a few degrees in temperature, and you’re darting your eyes away from Gojo’s burning ones. From the staff that was snickering behind their hands, giving you knowing looks.
Instead, choosing to distract yourself by answering that last question– “Hmm, my ideal type from Six Eyes, huh?”
“Hah- what a silly little question.” Your best friend cocks his head with a smirk, “Why- tell ‘em, my star. Who else has the visuals? The dance moves? The charisma? Of course, it’s-”
“Suguru.” You smile innocently, whilst the flashy idol next to you crumbles. “He’s such a sweetheart.”
returnofP1BANG: five more shots for that wet cat look he gave her
Fushidaddy9: Ouch (lol).
sugu-rizzed: F in the chat
CandyKento: f
sunflowerboy: F
Fushidaddy10: F
ge.akuge: F
“Tch- childish.” Gojo scoffs at the wave of that same letter flooding his comment section, he’s counting about twenty…before typing his own ‘F’ in there.
Immediately reinvigorated, he’s stabbing a determined finger in the air. “But- but I have something that none of y’all and that stinky Suguru doesn’t have-” And it takes every ounce of will, every shred of shamelessness in his body to wrap two strong arms around you and crash you to his broad chest. Emulating all those hours he’s spent watching k-dramas with you, Gojo’s barking out. “-she’s mine!”
Fushidaddy14: Yeah. Your best friend. LMAO.
“Blocked-”
Masamichi Yaga handed in yet another resignation letter that very same night.
Which was likely why the livestream didn’t last too long after that little catastrophe- and it’s about a few hours later once you’d safely made it home with excuses of work the next day, and Gojo was lying wide awake on his phone, that it happens.
It is sent to him, by none other than Geto - the most unthinkable, unspeakable link to a fan-made YouTube video aptly titled ‘100 Gojo Satorus vs. trying not to make a fool of himself in front of his baddie best friend challenge (failed)”
Edited and clipping every single moment he’d completely n’ utterly destroyed his cool idol façade during the brief live. Every (fine, not-so-slick) glance your way, every blush, every voice crack.
Fuck.
In two seconds he’s sending Geto a paragraph of middle finger emojis, and in one he’s slowly downloading the video…for research purposes.
.
.
.
As a celebrity hair stylist, Miwa Kasumi had never felt that she wasn’t paid enough - after all, nearly unlimited contact with her favorite idols and she gets to see her work come to life on stage? What could go wrong?
Well…she’s feeling her weary eyelid twitch just about the twelfth time she hears the same repeated meme audio blaring from Gojo Satoru’s phone.
Headphone-less. On full volume.
All on the set of one of the most important comeback shoots of this year, the much-anticipated music video for their single ‘Blue.’ Penned by none other than the giggling idiot that was her client.
And it was only considering all her years of professionalism that she didn’t whack the phone out of his hands the way she’s been dying to for the past hour. “Gojo-san, you are quite the fan of that video, hm?”
Subtle cues- subtle cues!
But Gojo was never one for subtle cues, as she has the misfortune of learning. And he only blinks up from his padded seat in front of her, “Huh? Oh yes-” In fact, increasing the volume of the dramatically edited fan video - one of those crack compilations she had the guilty pleasure of watching before bed sometimes.
But Gojo didn’t seem to be watching for the laughs, his twinkling sapphire eyes were only locked on one thing on-screen - you.
Sighing at a short clip of you from the livestream a few days ago, grimacing at one of his bragging monologues. Giggling, he zooms in on you- “Isn’t she gorgeous–?”
“O-oh!” Now, introductions and love for artistry might be two of the main perks of working in such close proximity to idols - but who could forget the gossip. Immediately perking up, she’s setting down one of the curlers and working on fluffing up Gojo’s ethereal white hair for the camera. “Girlfriend, Gojo-san?”
“Not at all.” Dreamily, he’s taking a blatant screenshot of the zoomed-in visual of your face. A man in heaven. “Not. At. All.”
Huh? Maybe all celebrities were just eccentric. What was that one saying about never meeting your heroes?
Well, it seems that the universe decided that Miwa hadn’t learned enough of her lesson just yet- which is why she’s startled by the swoosh–! of curtains being drawn back in the dressing room, and the heavy footsteps of none other than Gojo’s bandmates.
Who could mistake them?
Geto Suguru, long inky hair tied back, slow strides almost predatory, is the first to reach the two - one of them shivering in rapt excitement, the other glued to his phone. “Oi- Satoru, they want you for your solo shot.”
Gojo grunts noncommittally, hands gripping his phone. “Hm-”
Irritation gripping the other’s tone, his best friend taps his feet. “Satoru.”
“Mm.”
“Satoru.”
“…”
“You little-”
It’s a damn miracle that the thin glass of Gojo’s phone screen doesn’t crack with how swiftly Geto’s snatching it from the other’s hands. Only to get a glimpse of the screen and have his mouth drop.
“Satoru…”
“…Suguru.”
Pierced brows furrowing, Adam’s apple bobbing with a guffaw at the blatant screenshot of you displayed. Clearly taken from that one compilation video that he had sent the link to a few days ago. Their center gulps. “Satoru, what…the…f-”
“Gojo-san! Gojo-san–!”
The youngest - Haibara’s - sweet, sing-song voice dips through the tense dressing room as he stumbles in - all sunny smiles and the cutest bowl cut. Followed excruciatingly closely by a cameraman recording behind-the-scenes content, “Kento and I are done, so Director Shoko wants you on set now or she said she’ll do some violent things that can’t be said on camera~”
“Of course, of course– you should go, you strange little lecher- I mean, Satoru.” Geto waves the other over, “C’mere Yu, let your elder show you a little something.”
Gojo blanches, “No-”
“Oh? What is it–?”
Gripping onto Geto’s jacket, “No.”
Careful of the rolling camera, he’s mercilessly sidling up to the other and flashing the latest addition to Gojo’s photo album - that soft, slightly blurry screenshot of you. Simply smiling. “Oh.”
“‘Oh’ is right.” Geto’s smizing out such a cat-like grin at the camera- this was sure to have the internet talking. Maybe even screaming. And as the staff with the lens steps closer in curiosity, he’s swiftly covering the screen, “Let’s just say our Satoru is ah- quite the fan of our cute little fans’ creations.”
Haibara titters, “Enough that it’s filling up his phone storage-” Catching Gojo’s groan, ready to jump out of his seat- “Ah, my apologies, Gojo-san~”
Geto nods, “No no, he’s right.”
“He’s not.”
“I am?”
“And remember, kids—” The pierced man calls out, finger hovering over the glaring screen of the phone.
Gojo gasps- “No-” Realizing. Shooting to his feet. “No no no-”
Registering the way his other best friend was giving particular attention to that bright, burning DELETE button. “-always help your friends in need.”
The scream that Gojo Satoru, most polished idol of the 21st century, lets off is devastated.
Enough that the cameraman - watching each interaction like a hawk - jumps, enough that even ruthless Geto Suguru himself feels a semblance of slight regret. Almost turning his thumb over to click on the recycle bin before Gojo can cry himself hoarse- until he’s scrolling just an inch - an inch - along the full camera roll and finding…more…screenshots?
About 75,328 in his album, to be exact. Of you.
He looks at Gojo Satoru - knees cradled in such a pitiful fetal position on the floor, whimpering at the loss of his prized screenshot. And he looks at the 75,328 screenshots. He looks back at Gojo. Then at the screenshots, all 75,328.
Then back at Gojo.
And Geto doesn’t even feel bad about the good kick he’s planting on the other’s back, “Get out.”
If the dressing room was a hellhole made to ruin Gojo’s life - Geto being the devil incarnate, of course - then being on set wasn’t any better.
The long lens of Shoko’s famed camera stares him down like it knew exactly how he was acting minutes prior, and any false façade of coolness would easily break through.
“Ugh…” Shoko’s crinkling her nose in slight distaste at the footage playing on her screen, motioning for the rest of the crew to start putting each prop back in place for a reshoot.
Make-up airy, white bandages haphazardly falling from his eyes, surrounded by sparkling ivory decorations of stars; it was supposed to be something on theme with the song, something romantic, something that didn’t make her want to hack up her coffee in a bad way.
But she could feel her stomach churning already. Leveling a glare at Gojo that’s enough to make the much-taller man flinch- “You- if you can’t do the sparkly idol thing, just try looking at the camera and smiling. It’s all we need for the solo shot today.” Tapping her camera, “Look at the lens like you’d look at a lover.”
Voice octaves higher, “A-a lover?”
His dignity was scarred!
“You got this, Gojo-san! Twentieth try’s the charm–!” Haibara’s voice echoes. “Ah- or was this the thirtieth…somewhere along the line I lost count.”
“Thirty-seventh.” Nanami helpfully supplies.
His reputation as a reliable elder ruined!
“Satoru, good luck! Geto called me- I don’t know why but um, good luck!”
He didn’t call himself the king of idols for nothing!
In a split-second, Gojo perks at the slightly-metallic sound of your voice through the other end of the line. Breath hitched, flashing irises widened- it doesn’t take him even a nanosecond to snap his head towards where Geto was holding his phone up for the sound to project.
Your name flashing on the caller ID, Geto’s smile priggish at the reaction wrenched out of his best friend.
And Gojo can’t help but let the mere sound of your voice make him smile—
“There we go- that’s the shot! That’s the shot.”
The music video is edited and uploaded only a few weeks later, that behind-the-scenes following hastily afterwards.
It was a hit, of course, as every management and billboard had already predicted it would be. But what was unpredictable were the eagle-eyed comments-
SIX EYES - ‘BLUE’ MV
torutoaster: KYAAA THEY REALLY FED US LOOK AT HOW OUR TORU AND SUGU LOOOKKK
ryomichael: not even a satoru bias but…wow…his visuals…the way he looked at the camera made my heart just go…wow
zbstan: stream this song (and esp Gojo’s bridge) for clear skin guys!!
SIX EYES - ‘BLUE’ MV Behind [All]
getosuggs: Geto and Haibara giggling at Gojo’s phone screen…wonder what they were looking at…
torutoaster: wonder why the filming of toru’s solo shot was muted?? strange but as long as we get more content of my bias oh well^^
sugu-rizzed: @torutoaster I think because they were on a call? Oooo imagine if it was Gojo’s best friend from the livestream…
mahitoe: @sugu-rizzed smh delulu shippers
zbstan: @mahitoe STFU look at that caller ID ik they tried to blur it but like there was an anonymous hair stylist on set who said it was so GUYS IT COULD BE-
Fushidaddy17: I would’ve had no problem looking cool for her aha x.
.
.
.
“Takada-chan! Takada-ch-AAAAAAN–!”
Honestly, what a woman to be able to smile politely in the face of a big, beefy high schooler ripping his shirt off from the stands of the stadium. The Idol Star Athletics Championships were always quite rambunctious considering the star-studded players, especially this year.
All lined up in their groups, donning flashy colored tracksuits.
And as the boy starts crying, Geto winces–looking back at their own section of fans invited to attend the annual celebrity sports tournament. Some squealing at the feeling of Geto’s stare, some waving banners hysterically - but thank goodness that none were as bad as-
“MY STAAAAR–!”
Geto takes that back very quickly.
Deadpan, exhausted- the leader of Six Eyes is turning to stare down their infamous center, the exact one who’d been hogging every headline for the past few weeks for his exact antics with you. “Satoru…what are you doing?”
Ignoring him for your figure seated at the very front row–“MY STAR, YOU BETTER CHEER FOR ME.” You pretend not to hear him as he waves frantically, and Geto reaches over to tug Gojo back in line. “Oi- OIII, DON’T LOOK AT NANAMI LOOK AT ME!”
On second thought, he backs away into another group’s line.
You weren’t the only one looking at him now- so were the announcers. Seasoned entertainers who’ve probably never seen a scene in all their years, “Aaaand over in this row we have Six Eyes. Their center - that Gojo boy - seems to be a little preoccupied, no?”
“With the girl? Oh, when is he not? Have you seen the clips from that livestream?”
“Ahh–you know my wife showed me and-” Seemingly catching the eye of whatever higher-up, or maybe the way that Yaga was swooning in his bench as if he was about to faint right then and there. “Ehem- anyways, welcome all to this year’s The Idol Star Athletics Championships–!”
It goes off without a hitch.
Well, as much as it could with Gojo Satoru being in attendance.
Which meant having to wrangle him back by the scruff of his neck every time he meandered off to the shrieking stands to ask you to pet his tired head - “for good luck.”
Which meant having him blow kisses to the stands suspiciously near you as he dribbled expertly during the basketball event, their team tied with yet another idol group.
With only a few seconds on the clock, every eye glued to his sprinting figure - breath stilling just as soon as he does near the netted hoop. Gojo had jumped, and pointed straight at your figure—“This one’s for my star.”
Before he swung.
And…
…missed.
But that was all water under the bridge.
It didn’t matter that it was a failure recorded in 4K on hundreds of cameras, it didn’t matter that you’d been the one laughing the most while watching his precious shot completely miss the hoop and bounce sadly on the floor.
It didn’t matter that his ears were still burning red from embarrassment by the last leg of the tournament - the track-and-field events.
Geto had already won the gold medal in archery, Haibara with silver in football, and even woe-is-me Nanami had snagged a silver in fencing.
And this time, this year’s new addition - one of those borrowed item races you’d play in middle school, those ones where he’d have to run to a box and pick out something silly to bring over the finish line - was about to be his turn.
“Ready…”
Gojo’s steadying into position, making sure his back flexed just right so that you’d be able to see from the stands. And if the way that Nanami sighed was anything to go by then it was working, right?
“Set…”
Azure eyes locked on the small wooden box that loomed a few yards in front of him.
“Go!”
It’s a blur- one moment his expensive designer sneakers touch the ground, and the next he’s one of the first idols to run over to the box. Fighting to stick his hand inside, Gojo’s sure he elbows someone’s dolled-up face to grab the first slip of paper he can.
Tugging it out with a grin, the neat typing stares back at him mockingly—‘Someone you love.’
Fuck.
Why did it have to be this one?
The announcer’s booming baritone breaks through- “What’s this? Six Eyes’ Gojo seems to have stalled? What could that paper say?”
“Run!” Geto’s voice calls over the chaos of countless other artists bee-lining towards their own missions, their own ‘item.’ He’s waving at Gojo impatiently, “Run, you fool-”
“Gojo-san, you got this–!”
In a confused hurry, he’s darting a look down at the staff manning the box - some older, dryly deadpan man who merely takes a peek at his slip of paper and gives a thumbs up. And Gojo could have sworn he smirks.
Well.
“Oh- oh, he’s running.” Both hosts gripping onto the edges of their tables, “The legs on that boy- Gojo Satoru is overtaking his peers easily- ah, we promise we’re not biased.”
Yaga and the rest of his overworked PR team would have to forgive Gojo for this later- but his legs are turning towards your direction in an instant, just as they always have. Running. Sprinting.
“Gojo- Gojo! Is it true you two eloped?”
“An insider source is saying that your best friend was present on-set of Blue- any comment?”
“Are you two dating?”
It’s like he’s running through a tunnel where the only thing he can see is you at the end. Announcers’ voices cotton in his mind- “Oh, we think we know where this is going, ladies and gentlemen.” The only voice his popped ears can hear are yours-
“S-Satoru–!” You’re shrieking, nearly as loud as the throng of fans and cameras surrounding you. Clawing down his beefy upper bicep as your best friend leans his long torso over the barrier of the stands and throws you into an easy princess carry, “Are you crazy-”
“Nah, we’re gonna win, my star.” He has his arms steady, jaw clicking - and you can’t help but feel his strength thrum gently in his arms. Those lucky to be near enough for the entire ordeal would later claim to tabloids that they’d never seen Gojo Satoru this serious.
This…responsible when he’s carefully striding with you in his hold - an easy first place running past the finish line.
Stars in his eyes, mouth turned up into a smile that twitched when he gazed down at your own. Wantingly.
But he only hugged you in thanks, and took your half-joking swats with a smile.
They couldn’t quite blatantly show the cameras what Gojo’s little paper had required him to bring, but you got to keep Gojo’s gold medal after the tournament - it was always meant for you, anyway.
And he gets an earful from Yaga, Geto, Haibara (though that was more grumbling about why those last two weren’t the ones carried like a pretty princess instead), and a few articles speculating your relationship, and a Twitter timeline having a complete meltdown over clips of his race.
A video of those particular few seconds with you in his arms racked up a solid few million views in only a few hours since it was posted- but honestly, one million of those views might just be from him alone.
@torutoaster: THE WAYYYY HE CARRIED HER OMG- GOD I SEE WHAT YOU’VE DONE FOR OTHERS-
@CandyKento: did anyone watch the isacs? no but i am soooo curious what gojo’s item was-
@chorusito replying to @CandyKento: no but to bring his ehem ehem- “best friend” it has to be something scandalous right~
@CandyKento replying to @chorusito: right??
@mahitoe replying to @chorusito: lmfao idols can’t date. you guys cant handle anything it was obvs just a friend or something. delulu.
@sugurusshampoobottle replying to @mahitoe: FIGHT ME.
@satorusxkitten: gojo and geto’s arms are so big!! fuck!!
@sugu-rizzed: That staff-member manning the box saw what the paper said oh what I would pay to know…
@fiendingforsixeyes: AHHHH I BET IT WAS SOMETHING OR SMTH HE LOVED IK U GOJO U LOVERBOY
@Fushidaddy33: She would’ve looked better in my arms tbh…
Gojo reports that last account.
.
.
.
“So, who do you think is the cutest from Six Eyes?”
“Me.”
“And who do you think is the best dancer?”
“Me.”
“The most romantic?”
“Ah…” Regular interviews could be tedious - but an interview with a lie detector strapped to you somehow surpassed even the ninth chamber of hell. And Gojo thinks that anyone would shrink under the beady, unwavering gaze of the hostess interrogating- ah, interviewing him right now.
Not a hair out of place, not a lie she wouldn’t be able to catch.
Damn that management for signing him up for one of those lie detection interviews - part of him already felt that this was punishment for rejecting Yaga’s seventh resignation letter since the chaos of the Idol Star Athletics Championships.
And damn Geto for goading him into going first.
The rest of the group watch leisurely from their comfort of a sofa away from the spotlight - thankfully lie detector-less for now - tittering as their bandmate cowers. Gulping through a slightly-wobbly grin, “Me. I’m the most romantic.”
Nodding as the polygraph examiner gives the thumbs up for truth.
“Not quite humble, but quite honest aren’t you, Mister Gojo?”
Gojo’s cracking his neck in his uncomfortable seat, the sooner he can get this over with, the better. Still strapped with leather buckles, “I think you’ll find that I’m very honest about things I truly feel.”
Geto sputters through faux coughs- “Pfft– Liar.”
Nanami looks away- murmuring just loud enough for the microphone to pick up, “Ehem…fibber.”
And Haibara? Haibara merely snaps his fingers in realization- “Aaaah–! I see, they’re calling you a ‘liar’, Gojo-san, because you aren’t honest about your feelings towards-”
“Ah ah!” He tries to make a motion to shut up, but only ends up rocking the chair from side-to-side. And Gojo already knew he was done for the very second he’s catching the hostess’s eyes gleam at this juicy morsel of information.
“Well, I actually did have…” Trailing off, she’s shuffling through her pack of pre-written questions. Painted nails fingering one at the very back that she seemed to have stowed away for when the interviews took a particular turn, she clears her throat. Saying your name-
“Impressively high heart rate.” The examiner drones out, bushy brows raising at what his screen flashed. Just from hearing your name.
As his self-proclaimed friends cackle - those traitors - the hostess shows off her pearly smile, “Mister Gojo, is it true that she’s your best friend?”
Gojo shifts slightly, “Very true.” Truth.
“And she is very beautiful- correct?”
“Very true.” Truth.
“And smart?”
“Very true-” Truth.
“And you’re in love with her?”
“Very tr-” He gasps, “Wait no-”
To which the older lady cocks her head in genuine confusion, “Despite all the shipping- well, it’s all everyone’s been talking about online these days- you’ve never done anything? You don’t have feelings for her, young man?”
“N…no.”
Geto raises his hand in a split-second, almost as if he was some model student in a classroom. “You’re mistaken, my lady, he doesn’t have feelings for her. He has a lot of feelings for her-”
“Suguru!”
The final nail on Gojo’s coffin might just have been the way the polygraph examiner tries - and fails - to keep a largely neutral face. Instead raising his fist in the air, into a blatant thumbs down, next word tinged in amusement. “Lie.”
Gojo fights against the belts tied to his wrist, monitoring his heartbeat, his deception. “It’s faulty, I tell you- faulty. Did you know that polygraphs are actually only 80% accurate and–”
“So you honestly wouldn’t mind if your best friend showed up with a fresh new boyfriend to introduce to you?”
“-I would rather die.”
It’s silence.
Gojo basking in the shock of what he’d just blurted out, everyone else squinting at the overtly clear thumbs up that the examiner was gesturing. A truth. Trying to see whether it would change shape whether they stared hard enough.
Clearing her throat, their seasoned hostess is the first to speak- “Ah- well, that was certainly, um.” Shuffling her cards, she stares at the rest of Six Eyes in bewilderment and they stare in bewilderment right back.
Muttering, “I wish my husband was more like that- anyways.” She leans in close to Gojo, “So if I showed you…” Waving her hand at a few of the tech specialists in charge of the projector behind him, “-this picture with a particular known tattoo artist?”
It wasn’t even a question.
And a damn good thing it wasn’t, because as soon as the screen behind Gojo lights up with a paparazzi shot - one of you, from years and years ago when you were dating that damn tch- asshole Ryomen Sukuna. All bathed in the light of the city at night, pretty hands in his, smile blinding - oh-so-gorgeous that he feels his heart stop.
Literally.
There’s a slight, sharp beeeeep–! that emanates from the lie detector—
Geto stands, “Satoru, what-”
“Gojo-san, are you okay-”
“I know CPR.” Hell, even Nanami was looking on with some degree of concern, “But I wouldn’t do it on you, no offense.”
As the examiner fiddles with his contraption, the hostess is the one to wonder whether she should call over the medical personnel in the studio. Reaching over her lil’ interrogation table to tap Gojo’s pale hand lightly- “U-uh, Mister Gojo-”
Gojo gasps- “Huh? Oh yeah-”
The steady rhythm of his pulse beeps once more on the monitor, albeit it slightly faster than before after he’s setting his eyes on you. After his poor, pathetic heart had skipped a beat just at the mere sight of you.
“He’s ruining the picture.” Gojo’s nose bridge wrinkles, gaze straying back to your smile the way an anchor follows a ship to see. No matter how far and deep they may go. The examiner signs out ‘truth’ as the other man continues, “Can you crop the buffoon out and give me five printed copies of that photo, please?”
“Eh?”
“Eh?”
“Gojo-san, eh?”
Nanami rubs his aching temples, “This is why I’d never give him CPR.”
That particular episode easily became one of the most watched of the season.
Six Eyes’ Gojo Satoru Takes a Lie Detector Test | Heart-stopping Revelations!
torutoaster: WHAT THE FUCK WHEN THEY SAID HEART-STOPPING THEY MEANT IT FRFR-
eathaibara: the pure aura to have your heartbeat stop then the first thing you do is simp over your girl.
100menvsmpreg: @eathaibara wait so are they actually dating?
fluffykento: @100menvsmpreg worse
jennyk10: @100menvsmpreg I meannn-
ButterSixKpop: Need me a real freak like this.
CandyKento: kento is so real ngl
getosuggs: @CandyKento the only thing we love more than satoru is bullying satoru
fiendingforsixeyes: LMAO GUYS HAVE YOU SEEN THAT PERSON GOIN’ ON RANTS UNDER SUKUNA’S INSTA-
Gojo didn’t read these comments, unfortunately, or see any of the edits they were making of him on tiktok. He was too busy spamming comments of his own on Sukuna’s official instagram.
Very colorfully-worded ones.
.
.
.
“What’s your name?”
“Gojo da strongest.”
“What are you drawing?”
“A star.”
For an eight-year-old, Gojo thinks you had the most pensive expression on your face after that particular answer. Brows scrunched cutely, and your tongue sticking slightly between missing teeth- and it was alright, Gojo wasn’t a stranger to the staring.
He knew how to handle all the cooing from aunties at the marketplace, he was used to all the praises for being the fastest kid in all of primary school.
So surely the great, wise, nine-year-old Gojo Satoru could give a fellow classmate as much time as you needed to muster up the very best compliment-
“It’s kinda ugly.”
“Wha- huh?” How dare you- Gojo’s pouting, snowy brows scrunching until you’re giggling. “My star is not ugly.” Sticking a thumb proudly between his puffed-up chest, “And I should know because I’m going to be a star.”
You’re nodding, seriously. “Mm, that’s good.”
And that makes him falter- just a bit, because true superstars never falter. “Y-you think so?” Okay, maybe they falter a bit. But in Gojo’s defense, no one had ever taken his little daydream so seriously, “You don’t think it’s stupid? That I can’t go up on stage?”
“No, why would it be?” Oh. You’re tapping his smudged crayon drawing, “But that’s still an ugly star.”
Stomping, “Is not.”
“Is too.”
“Is…” He looks at you - in all you sparkly humor - then back at his fifteen-pointed star. He looks at you, then back at his brown-colored star for “artistic purposes.” He looks at you, then back at his star with a spotty face on it because it reminded him of Patrick Star. He looks at you and-
“Fine…”
“Let me teach you how to draw an actual star.” You’re stumbling over your words a little, and it offends the great Gojo Satoru that he should be taught by such a child like you, a year younger.
But he does have to admit that you drew pretty nice stars.
Crossing his arms with a pout, “Fine then- teach me how to draw stars-” And the grin breaking your tiny face was too bright, too pretty. Suddenly the classroom is too humid, and he’s scrambling for something - anything - to throw back in your face. “-star.”
“‘Star’, huh?” But you only smile, “I like that.”
Only to have it thrown back in his.
In a way he’s remembering nearly two decades later, your hand in his, your mouth near his earpiece. Quieter than the producers screaming in his ears, but louder than his very own racing heartbeat.
“Take it easy, Satoru.” You’re humming, over the velvety-smooth voice of the MAMA award announcer. The one that was ecstatically saying the name of the very band that Gojo might just have forgotten he was a part of the moment your hands wound ‘round him.
You lift up his dark blindfold, part of his outfit for the day. “Go up, you fool.”
It wasn’t every day that Six Eyes won a MAMA grand prize, and it also wasn’t every day that the best friend he’d begged to be let in as the group’s honorary plus one (also the very same best friend he’d been in love with since he knew what love was) was in his arms like this.
But you’d been in them when after he’d drawn the first star all those years back that you’d deemed ‘acceptable.’ You’d been in them when he decided to take up dancing lessons in middle school, waiting all those hours after dark to walk back home with him. You’d been in them when he entered high school and told you he’d be a trainee slaving the days away in some dingy company basement. You’d been in them even tighter when they debuted.
And you’d been in them the very second their name had been announced as artist of the year.
In front of all those cameras. All those gasping audiences.
And Geto who thumps him heartily on the back, “Get a room later, lovebirds- if Yaga doesn’t kill you that is.”
“Come on, Gojo-san, we have to go up for our award–!”
Nanami flashes you what you swear was a slight smile, “I am happy for you.” Before frowning at a shining-eyed Gojo, “Not quite for you, though.”
“Aww Nanamin, you love me~”
“O-kaaay-” Once the 6’4 mess of limbs had finally set you free, Geto was pushing them all to climb up the stage. In time with the blasting background music of their very own Blue, “Let’s have the aneurysms when we’re on stage.”
But what Gojo had on-stage wasn’t anything to make Yaga wish to retire, or to have Nanami’s pounding migraine throb harder. It was a single, sliding tear - and if the lights glaring down on them were bright enough that no one could tell for sure, then all was well with him.
“To our fans, our family-” Gojo’s starting off into the mic in the middle, deep tone dry and hoarse, metal award cool in his hands. He’s looking at you. “-and my star, this one’s for you.”
It’s all.
And later they’d write articles about the hug, the speech, and what it means that you’re his ‘star’ - but for now, that was for Gojo to know. And for him to step away from the booming mic, letting Geto take his place with much more eloquent words; knowing that in future interviews they’d joke about all the speeches that they had planned.
That Gojo had planned in particular, but nothing came out just right.
Later, he would also wonder why he waited so long - when you were always there in the audience, clapping louder as if it was just for him.
And your best friend mouths—all bedazzled in his dangling earrings, white suit starkly handsome. “Meet me after the show.”
That very same clip is made into a gif that gets replayed about twelve million times before the award show actually ends.
.
.
.
“O-oh fuck-” Your tongue lolls out until it’s hitting midway down your chin, mouth watering with every curly swipe n’ prod of Gojo’s tastebuds.
His nose hits the edge of your treacly cunt and he whines, watchin’ the cute way your pupils roll allll the way to the back. The front of your chest polishing with a few wads of saliva that he can’t lick up right now- no.
Not when his mouth was already so occupied.
All it took was a single step - a single step - inside Gojo’s personal dressing room after the MAMAs, before he’d crashed your lips against his in a way he’d just been dying to do.
Folding you easily over the armrest of the fluffy pink sofa, door locked, sparkly dress hiked up. Gojo hadn’t even bothered to take off your flimsy panties before he’d started making out with your sweet, sweet pussy from behind.
Lavishing his tongue between the crevices of your cunt like he was a man parched- “Fuck, my star.” With your underwear just pushed to the side and his throat vibrating with a guttural groan once he’s feeling your tight, cozy hole clench ‘round his tastebuds.“Fuck- s’all I want-”
“A-are you seriously- ngh–!” And you couldn’t believe anything your hazed mind was telling you right now - not of those familiar lyrics, and not of the smooth, frigid brush of something metallic studding just the end of Gojo’s tongue. “-quoting your song right now?”
“Mmm– can’t help it. Wrote it just for you y’know…” Voice just a bit hitched, just a bit raspy.
There was something in it that made you oh-so-much wetter, and Gojo’s summer blue eyes flash as he’s taking in the sappy slick gluing your shivering thighs together.
“Sh-shit.” Gurgling out the candied taste of you, you were dripping all down his tongue. He’s pulling you close with a hand stuck on your hip, letting your slick splash at the bottom of his throat- and it still wasn’t enough.
“Shit, my star.” His usual lip gloss smeared all over your pussy, Gojo takes the time to lean in and lick it all clean off. Before pursing his lips to once more spit—“Shit-”
He didn’t know what to say.
Your pretty pussy had him speechless, and it’s a damn miracle that he’s not tearing that suit off of his body. Stained all down the front with a snail-trail of your sappy juices-
“Need- this-” Once his heavy fabric strikes the floor, Gojo’s inching even closer in his kneeling position. Thick fingers slide-slide-sliiiiding teasingly between your swollen folds, before tugging on your poor panties. “-off.”
Ripping.
And his little prize is now finding a home somewhere inside his pocket for later, but right now Gojo has to stop himself from fucking salivating as you’re exposed for him.
It takes one kiss before he pants- “Oh my god.”
And another- “O-oh fuck- oh my god.”
Fully shoving his face between your legs and letting you shiver at the feeling of his bejewelled earrings. That sunken in.
Flattened tongue slapping down between your driveling slit, Gojo takes his agonizing time lapping up every inch n’ cranny you have. “My star—” Humming almost drunkenly, his pointed muscle swerves between the insides of your pussylips.
“F-fuuuck–!” Just where you were most sensitive, Gojo lets the stubbed piercing on his tongue slip inside your hole and streeeeetch you out. Slipping out to draw a wet, sickly sweet star– “Since when did you have a- nghh- a tongue piercing, Toru?”
The first answer you’re getting is a sharp swat on your pussy, “Mmm- ever since you dated that fucking bastard with a tongue piercing.” Sukuna. Gojo croons out, more honest than he would’ve usually been. “Never put it in but…I got it because I thought it was your hah- type.”
Another smack!
Another squeezing inch of his pierced tongue trying to fuck into your entrance, he’s impatient. He’s throbbing in his pants with every tiny clench of your gooey insides, “Got buffer, too- cooler.”
“Oh my…god- your tongue, it’s- hck! going in-” Crying out through whines.
“Wrote so many songs for you, my star–” He’s drawling out, and you can feel the scorching breeze of his hot breath. The way that Gojo’s parting his lips even wider to let his tongue glue against your cunt, grinding all the way inside- “Well- heh- not for her, but…”
You’re still hypnotized by the sensual massage of his ridged taste buds rubbin’ across the front of your dripping pussy.
So much so that the lecherous sluuuurp–! drawn out into the claggy air almost shocks you. Your cunt’s letting off the most sexual noises once Gojo’s dragging up a hand to tease your wet clit. “-but I’ll write a song for her as well.”
His metal rings are just sparkling with coats of slick, and your best friend doesn’t waste even a second latching onto your sensitive nub. Dexterous fingers drawing cute circles over and over that have your hips lurching off of the sofa-
“Please- ngh- pleeease-” Your head throws backwards, legs already starting to quake at the utter pressure of having his fingers on your clit. Tongue inside your pussy.
So lengthy that the slimy tip of it mazes between your walls, and Gojo’s purposefully stirrin’ around your insides with the icy edge of his piercing. Chin rubbing all red with friction as he’s leaning in even closer to dig the muscle of his tongue into your sweetest spots, “Yeah- yeah n’ I’ll have her sing-” Another hand this time, another finger - pushin’ deeply inside you. And the syrupy sound is enough to make him close in on the side of the couch and rut- “-lead…h-heh.”
And if you thought being fucked into the cushy surface by Gojo’s tongue was making your head spin, then you’re being driven positively mad by the wild lashes of his fingertips.
Two ringed fingers fighting for space right along with his sticky tongue, Gojo glues the thick crowns of his digits to the top of your g-spot and watches as you shrill. “All the reading paid off, hmm–?”
“Y-you read about this?” You’re blinking through your tears, mouth dangling open once he’s pulling back. All the way to the rotund tips of his fingers- and slamming right down to press on your favorite nerves like a button. “Fuck- fuck fuck fuck- just for- for me?”
“You don’t know what I’d do for you, my star.” And it would sound sweet coming from your usual best friend.
But Gojo right now looked feral - pale eyes half-lidded, hair unruly, light make-up replaced by slimy oodles of your slick. Worn like a badge of honor, he’s gnawing down on your outer pussy, voice turning into something breathy. Octaves higher. “Noooo fucking idea what I’d do.”
Gripping onto the dampening covers of the sofa, you’re bucking animalistically like you don’t know whether you want to pull away or grind back down for more, more, more. Yelping, “T-Toru-!”
“No- no no no- come back.” Gojo panics, beefy arms wrapped enough around your body to haaaul you backwards.
And when that wasn’t far enough, Gojo’s lust-fogged mind tugs off the blindfold still looped ‘round his neck. Tightly restraining one over your thigh and manhandling you deeper onto his face-
“Sh-shiiit, Satoru–”
“Fuck- haven’t had anything so sweet- so addictive, my star.” He’s murmuring into your pussy, knuckles getting sloppier with all the spanks against the front of your cunt. Tongue lurching in n’ out until his jaw was sore and raw with all the movement- but he’s still rummaging his muscle along your insides.
Gojo’s eating you out like a man lacking a proper meal for eons, and you swear you could feel the way his Adam’s apple bob with each heavy gulp of your saccharine slick. “N’ now I don’t think I can- haaaah- live without your sweet pussy on my face, sweetheart.”
The furniture creaks with every bump of his ravenous hips against the sofa, because Gojo didn’t even want to spare a single handle to jerk himself off.
Not when he could target the throbbing nub of your clit, rolling over it until the harsh pleasure makes you squeeeal. “Don’t have to- don’t- ngh-”
“D’you think so?” That overeager thumb latched to your clit does a quick circular motion that renders your mouth drier than the Sahara. Swooping. Pressing down. “Really really th-think I can?”
“Yes- fuck- yes-” Whining, back arching into such a perfect curve. “Just make me cum, Satoru-”
“Yes, ma’am.” Gojo huffs out a cloud of breath, long lashes fluttering. The rapid thump-thump-thumps of his two fingers burrowing into your g-spot hasten, “But only if you mmmm– say my name.”
“Satoru.”
“Louder?”
“Satoru.”
With your wailing tone knocking off each corner of the wall, it’s like he’s rattling off all the unspeakable dreams he’s had of you. “Thennn– spit in my mouth?”
Almost like he’s testing it out- and you’re snapping your head over your shoulder. Not knowing whether to give him a piece of whatever’s left of your mind, or whether you would spit in his mouth.
But you didn’t need to wrack your pretty brain over it any time soon.
Because Gojo’s shaking his bleary head, “Hmm- guess you already have, though- heh.” Partially-closed eyes locked onto your agape cunt every time you’re suckin’ his tongue in- and it’s only then that you realize he’s talking to your pussy.
Letting your pussy spit out wads of juices that slip n’ slide down his throat, that get fucked back in by his relentless mouth.
Your hands grip the couch, “S-stop teasing– please, m’so close.”
“And then finally—” The tender edges of his fingers scrape your sweet spots in that strangely swooping motion that makes your toes curl restlessly. Dragging it oooon with his lilted bass, “-spell this out, my star?”
Your thighs twitch, the semicircles he’s drawin’ on your g-spot taking the formation of an ‘S’. Then an ‘A’-
“Sa-sa-”
“You got it. You got it, sweetheart.”
With the probin’ deepness of his fingers, he’s flicking his fingertips until your vision flashes white. ‘T’, your favorite dragged-out ‘O’ that makes his pierced tongue swoop in tiny circles, too. “Sato-”
You knew where this was going. Faster. Harder.
You knew, and yet, you’re still letting him finish off a soppy ‘R’ and ‘U’ - branded in big capital letters from the gooey, heated insides of your pussy until you’re finishing off, too. “Satoru- Satoru. M’cumming, oh fuck, m’cumming…ngh.”
With a slight, stiled sob, you’re being run over by your high - just in time for Gojo to twist the orbed piercing on his tongue over in a S-A-T-O-R-U as well. Sloppily salivating down the sides of your slit, your thighs trickle with every ounce of sap you’re spraying out.
Whimpering, deep into the cavern of his mouth- “Sh-shit-” Gojo’s hissing in that airy tone of his, feeling hot wetness seeping into his pants the very second you’re cumming - he is, too.
And yet, the only thing he can think about is dragging out your high.
To strike the bruised n’ battered areas of your walls until your thighs are shaking with every peak of your orgasm, mouth slobbering everywhere and anywhere.
From the pearly spatters of slick sheening your legs, to the pulsing top of your clit. Fucking and fucking your quivering entrance until your body feels all raw and sizzling. Every thrust of his fat, velvety tongue makes your pupils whirl stupidly in the whites of your eyes. “Sh-shit- nghhh- shit.”
And it takes him such a long time to let go of you - especially when he’s this drunk on your pussy.
Pulling back with a final push of his piercing on top of your clit, and the loudest squeeelch—!
“H-heheh.” Gojo whispers against your pussy and you mewl, falling onto your elbows over the cushions of the sofa.
Wearily, you look over your shoulder to take a good, solid look at him - only to feel your heart stutter at the utter grin on his face. Dopey. Glittered with slick. It beads down your best friend’s sharp jawline as he speaks, “Replaced my lipgloss- heh.” He cocks his head to the side, sapphire eyes fluttering priggishly. “Did I ever tell you that was my first time? Been savin’ myself for you, my star…”
Your mouth drops open at his words.
Oh.
Oh.
You weren’t making it out of this alive.
Within a few bats of your teary lashes, Gojo has you pushed onto your back on top of the springy cushions. His towering form hovering over you-
Pinkish tongue snagging at the end of one glistening lip, “You should know…I’ve never done this before either.” He shivers, top layers shrugged off into a pile, golden clasps of his pants unbuttoned—pop! pop! pop!
With your stringy panties pulled out of his trousers, n’ the rest pushed down until he’d sexily bare in front of you. You can’t tear your widened eyes away as Gojo wraps your underwear ‘round his thick, bulging cock and jerks.
And fuck- did it make your mouth water.
Oh, fuck.
Because Gojo was just so big - in every sense.
From the width of his towering shoulders, all chiseled with bouncy pecs. To the way he was so ripped with lean muscle that you couldn’t stop imagining how it’d feel to have them pressed down against you.
A feverish blush drifts down the back of his neck, alllll the way down between his pale happy trail. And right up to the fat, pinkened globe of his cock - all heavy and long. So, so long that it had your thighs squeezing in both fear and anticipation.
You breathe, “Y-you’re so…”
Gojo gnaws down on his bottom lip with a moan, “Mm- yeah, tell me, sweetheart.” Vein-covered fist flying up and down his shaft, the rub of your panties was just so delicious that he’s splurging out a thick wad of precum straight down your slit. “Tell me- tell me.”
“So big.” You’re wondering where he even hid something like that.
Making such a mess.
And he’s made a mess before too - cumming in his pants just from eating you out. So your cunt was being soaked with a few wires of his ivory sap.
Being pushed in the very second Gojo slouches over your body and slaps his thick mushroom tip between your pussylips. Rutting his sloppy hips without even realizing-
“You don’t think it’s weird, my star?” Head hunched, white bangs covering his eyesight. The tone in his voice is thick with something primal, “How I was- haaaah-” And so was his cadence, sandwiching between your soppy folds back n’ forth back n’ forth. “-fisting my cock to the thought of my ngh- pretty lil’ best friend for yeeeears?”
Dragging it out.
Just aaaaaching with a particularly sensual slide of his vein-covered shaft down your cunt, “Just aaaaching.” The knobbled top of his length slips against your oversaturated pussy and plugs up your hole. Hitting it with a damp plop! “For one taste- for anything.”
Your hands claw up to the tufts of his soft hair, pulling and it makes his cock twitch. “Want it in. Please, Satoru?”
“A-are you sure I- hah-” And fuck- his eyes gape as he looks down between your cute, shivering legs. Marvelling at the sheer size difference between the plump girth of his cockhead, and your tight hole. “If it’s too much, I can just put the tip- oh, fuck.”
But you were impatient, and you’re wrapping your legs ‘round his toned waist to tug him closer. Deeper. Inside.
To feel the tender underside of his length scrape your walls, each n’ every zig-zagged vein snaking inside your cunt. Gojo was just so big that your vision flashes black and white with just a few inches stuffed-
“I take it back.” He gasps. He heaves - pants so labored that it was like he’d given up on catching his breath. Trying to hold his head up - failing.
“Take- oh, you’re so big- take what back?”
And the only thing Gojo can do is grab both sides of your waist and use the lecherous leverage to pull and pull you further down his rock-hard shaft. Straining out, his thumb cranes over to push inside a gluey wad of cum. “I t-taaake it back. Just the tip- n-never-” Just one singular taste of your sopping wet pussy on his cock and his voice cracks. “-never gonna be just the tip, my star.”
He’s so untouched, biting down furiously on his lower lip.
Biting down furiously on your sodden panties just as soon as he remembers they’re still in his hands, muffling every whimpering wail that threatens to leave his maw.
“Ngh- ngh- what the f-fuck.” Gojo’s ripping from the back of his throat, head falling backwards to bare his attractive throat as he slips deeper in. Fighting against that snug resistance with a few good half-thrusts, not even able to pull out properly. To even move. “It can feel this good?”
And through your half-closed eyes you’re making out the fact that he’s pinching himself with a free hand. “Or m’I just in heaven?”
You feel his big, bulbous tip swab near your g-spot and start to mewl- “Mmm– and what if you are?”
“Don’t even wanna know if s’real.” Strings of saliva stick to Gojo’s lips as he babbles, still lathered in a layer of your pussy juices from before. And his mouth only waters even more when he’s feeling your hot insides clench around him, “Don’t need to know anything else- ngh.”
Every syllable is punctuated by an almost vulgar rut.
You’re screaming as he’s bullying his slimy, pre-glazed tip inside. Letting the rotund crown of his cock pry apart your cute walls, harder. Deeper.
Gojo smears your pussylips further open with one of his thumbs, letting just the top part of his digit fit into your entrance. Just so that he can fit his cock in fully.
“P-please fit.” Muttering underneath his breath, teeth clenching tight on your panties. Looking up at you ferally through his lashes, “Please- please, didn’t wait s-so fucking long for you not to take it, my star. For this pretty pussy to be left unsatisfied.”
Your nails dig into his back, “Fuck- please- oh my god.”
“It has to fit-”
“Will it?”
“Yes- yes, you’re gonna take it alll, my girl.”Fucking you furiously, sloppily. No rhythm or rhyme - or even sanity in each of his jagged strikes aiming for the very bottom of your pussy, “Has to it has to it- fuck! It has to-”
And when it does - when it finally, finally does - Gojo Satoru is left gaping, your underwear now dropping from his mouth and cleanly onto the floor. Speechless.
Shit, if he hadn’t cum just minutes prior then he’d be creaming himself all over again.
Blinking once, twice down wordlessly at the sultry vision of your bloated pussylips kissin’ his pelvis. Bottomed-out until his cock was swallowed all the way up until those tufts of white at his base-
And then it all happens at once.
In a singular split-second, Gojo has your legs thrown over his shoulder, your knees pushed all the way down to your tits. Striking your spongy cervix with a dull thud of his weepy cocktip, before he’s reeling out halfway and doing it all over again.
And again.
And again and again and again-
You’re just shrilling– “Toru- hck!” Feeling your weary throat clog up with so many sobs n’ whines every time his globular head was piercing your cunt, pushin’ all the way into your womb. “Toru Toru Toru-”
“M’on vocal rest after this, y’know?” He blurts, seemingly out-of-the-blue.
That is, until Gojo stares down at you with such a heady grin, leaned down just close enough that his hot respiration wafts the shell of your ear. And his tongue lurches out to lick up the drooling spittle leaking from each side of your mouth, “So you hafta scream twice as loud f’me, my star.”
Slamming the lines of his chiseled hips against yours, Gojo’s shaft was oh-so-veiny enough that you’re feeling your mind melt at the constant massage of your g-spot. “Like that- nghhh please-”
“Like- like this?” And it’s so difficult to remember that this was still Gojo’s first time– especially when he roams a palm over your tummy to feel for a particular bulging outline and press.
Carnally caressing the cylindrical bump that he was pounding into you, branding the fatness of his length right against your girth. “Shit- you really took it all.” He’s in awe at the feeling of his rotund cockhead pokin’ your very womb, “You wanna be fucked like hngh- this, don’t you? Want it hard? Fast?”
He was speaking utter filth, but his cadence was even filthier.
Shivering hand pushing down on your stomach, the other slithering between your sheeny legs to toy with your neglected clit.
“Your legs are shivering, my star- m’in trouble.” He arches his sculpted back to pick up the ruthless pace, throbbing cock stirrin’ within you to bash constantly straight into your g-spot. “S-sooooo much trouble.”
“More- ngh! Satoru, more-” You’re crying out through wobbly lips, “Want it even harder.”
“Fuck-” Hissing underneath his breath, Gojo’s doughy fingertips speedily smack your slope. Making your legs grow all numb, “Fuck fuck fuck fuck- then ngh- yeah, open those pretty legs and take this fat fucking cock-”
With a few more strokes he’s holding onto your throat, pinning you down so that Gojo can scratch the rough texture of his happy trail down your clit until you cry. “This fat- haaah- fuckin’- cock-”
You’re so dumbified by the size and sheer pleasure that you can only repeat after him, stupidly. “Fat- ngh- fuckin’...”
A velvety tongue drags over your salty beads of tears, “Atta girl—” Grindin’ the circumference of his thick cock against your g-spot, Gojo’s biting down on your earlobe just to hear the way you sing. “Louder.” The dangly metal of his earrings are frosty against your own clammy face, sensual. “Louder- let them hear, let them know.”
Uncertainly, your eyes drift over to where the door of the dressing room was innocently positioned. Notably closed. Notably locked.
But your moans were reaching a fever point at the rough bludgeons of Gojo’s cock, the way he was swervin’ his hips juuuust right to snag your sweetest spots.
All those years of dancing helped him expertly target long glides down your g-spot. Leaving a trail of wet mucus from that particular bundle of nerves, n’ straight down-down-dooown to your cute cervix. “Let them all see-”
“S-see?” You’re gasping out in disbelief.
With what almost sounds to you like a growl, “Mhm- yeah, fuck!” Gojo spanks his hips hard enough against yours that the impact leaves his v-line reddening, the papping sound echoing within the dressing room. “You think I wouldn’t fuck you in front of every nosy lil’ camera out there?”
You don’t even know what to say - what to do.
The only thing your pathetic body is capable of doing is gyratin’ back down to meet his tempo. Letting your limp legs tighten over his shoulders, “Y-you would?”
“Oh, my sweetheart—” Gojo’s crooning, snowy brows scrunching together. Giving your treacly cunt yet another hard jackhammer, “If this pussy wasn’t mine and mine alone, then that door wouldn’t even be- hah- locked right now.”
And he was drilling into you like he meant it - like he was furious with himself for holding out this long on the heaven of your sweet, sweet pussy.
Wailing, your eyes crossing at the sheer pleasure.
Now that he’d slurped up one sip, he was eager for the next- and before you know it, the blindfold that’d been dangling on your thigh was suddenly coiling ‘round your ankles. “You’re not getting out of this- oh.” Gojo’s beefy biceps flex as he’s tying your legs behind his neck, all for him to pull back on—“Gonna- gonna fill you up so we hafta be- ngh- prepared.”
Your salivatin’ chin hits the front of your chest and you whine, “Please- please make me cum, mm-”
“Yeah? Gonna make you cum- hah-” Gojo’s mouth hangs ajar, blush so rosy. He feels your goopy walls tighten on reflex and that makes his hardened cock twitch, “Then- then m’gonna fuck you through that.”
Strike after strike.
His swollen lips lean down to suckle on one of your fingers - your left hand’s ring finger, to be precise. “Then m’gonna put a ngh- ring on it. Gonna- gonna I swear-”
Push after push.
“Toru—” Your tits jut up as you’re bowing your back off of the drenched sofa, “-not gonna- gonna- fuck!”
You don’t even have the privilege of letting that sentence finish before your orgasm takes you over, thrumming white-hot zaps of pleasure through your veins. Your teeth set on edge at how utterly good it feels to have Gojo’s fattened cock swabbing your tight hole through every peak, “Oh my god- oh my- fuuuuuck, there’s jus’ so much, Toru.”
Toes curled, mouth unfastened.
Pinching your clit until you’re squeeealing- “So- so much.” He’s echoing in a whisper, crushing you tight to him once Gojo’s finishing off, too.
Abs plastered against your front until you memorize each ridge, his pecs smooth n’ plump against your tits. Your best friend just looked so pretty with his pearly whites grit in a snarl, brows knitted as he’s pumping you with cum until you overspilled.
With thick, seedy knots of cum that blanketed your pussy - his pointed cockhead nudges every droplet inside until you can feel your walls stretch with the utter size.
Thighs shaking with your release, his mess sploshing around inside of you. Your vision was still completely hazy- “Fuck- fuck, Satoru.”
And it’s like the sound of his name plummeting from your mouth sends shockwaves down his spine.
Because Gojo’s staring at you - mushroomy tip still leaky, still slidin’ through the sappy puddle he’s formulating at your cervix. For a good few seconds, maybe even minutes until he’s chuckling–“God, they could see right through me. Everyone could.”
More to himself.
Although those next words were entirely for you.
“I love you.” Gojo’s pale lashes flutter, almost shyly, and you’re speechless at the fact that he was still fucking you. In slow, aching grinds that have him fucking his cum deeper n’ deeper inside you. “I’ve always loved you, my star.”
Your heart quivers, and you can’t help but reach a hand out to run through the sweaty valleys of his locks. Smile dazzling - something he could write songs, ballads, sonnets about some day. But for now it only makes his azure eyes wet, “And I love you, my Toru.”
Something weeps out of Gojo that sounds like a husky, drawn-out groan— and you can feel his thick tip twitch inside of you with a few more beaded dollops of seed.
Cumming for the nth time tonight until all his heavy balls could let out was misty white, just from hearing that you loved him back.
And for once it’s silence.
Calm, warm silence— that is, until Gojo’s pulling his ravaged, red cock just far enough that your cunt lets off the soppiest wet sluuuurp!
You’re gasping, still feeling the rush of your high make your head whirl. Thighs clenching around his broad deltoids automatically, “Satoru- wh-what are you-”
“Oh, well…” Long, pale hands reach for the pile of fabric on the floor - your boyfriend’s pants. And Gojo has the sleaziest grin on his face as he’s digging his fingers into the depths of his pockets, promptly pulling out a lengthy line of condom foils. One he’d packed just in case, just for you.
You’re mentally counting about twenty before he’s letting his proud stack drop right down to your front. “You didn’t think we were done, right, my sweetheart?”
Oh, fuck.
Neither of you are making it out of this alive.
.
.
.
“There’s the wall of perfume, my books- especially songwriting books. And these clothes and, yeah, that’s really it for my room…” Gojo kicks away the pile of his Digimon socks on the ground with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
Something he was sure the cameraman intruding his dorm room would capture, and yet still edit to make something cute out of it anyway.
Ah- such was the life of an ever-popular idol.
And here he was, up bright and early in the morning to let some variety show stomp all through the Six Eyes’ penthouse as a sort of ‘house tour.’ Well, sure he knew that this was bound to be a hit with the fans that probed into his life, but was it really necessary to not even give the man a heads-up?
Plastering on his most polished smile, he nods politely as the camera records a few more details. The hosts cooing over each little thing - all those fan letters he kept, a pretty crayon drawing of a blue star from years ago, and the-
“Eh?”
“Eh?”
“Eh?” Geto’s poking his head in, grin already plastered just in case there was to be some sort of chaos upheaved in Gojo’s room. And why wouldn’t there be?
Gojo’s following both hosts’ lines of vision, all the way down to his bed, “Eh?” Was it not made properly? Was it an offense to have sheets of his own boyband at this day and his age? Or was- “Oh.”
And then Gojo sees it - that.
The familiar, gauzy fabric of your panties that he’d stolen all those nights ago. Hidden neatly underneath the puff of his pillows - well, almost hidden.
Because obviously it was exceptionally still in the bedroom right now- fuck, even Geto had gone quiet from his station near the door, realizing what it was. Attracting the attention of two very curious other members that were currently fighting to get a glimpse-
One of the hosts clears her throat, “Um- Mister Gojo, is that…” Eyes dazzling at the possibility of a scoop this big - all in their almost-family-friendly home-touring show. “Is it possible there’s a lady in your life the fans and world may want to know about? Is this that very same best friend everyone says you pine over?”
And the other host cackles, “Well, they certainly don’t seem to be your size, boy. And ones so skimpy- oho, kids these days.”
Unabashedly pushing a mic into his face, “Anything to say for yourself?”
“Ah-” Gojo coughs out, jumping once the cameraman immediately swivels his lens towards him for his response. “Aha, well- you see-”
Gojo looks at Geto.
“…”
At Haibara.
“…”
At Nanami.
“…Fucking idiot.”
And finally at the camera itself- “Cut the cameras. Deadass.”
Yaga might have bribed the network to never air that particular episode, and Dispatch might have done their best to leak it, anyway.
Right along with a few grainy paparazzi shots of figures that looked undeniably like you two. Hand-in-hand, suspicious blemishes on both your necks, wandering down the sidewalks of Han River.
And if Yaga was having a tough PR day with just that then it would’ve been too merciful of the universe. Because how could you discount the fact that Gojo Satoru, notorious dodger of paparazzi questions, had proudly held up your joined hands and exclaimed at a few buzzing reporters—“Fuck yeah- my girlfriend now, suckers!”
No resignation letter would ever be enough.
@sunflowerboy: let it be known that I always believed in Gojo-san!!
@eathaibara replying to @sunflowerboy: we bow before you great sunflowerboy (the only one to believe in toru’s loser rizz)
@torutoaster: i luv how #go(jo)outthefriendzone is trending worldwide- LOSER RIZZ ALWAYS WINS
@fiendingforsixeyes: HE DID IT?? MY BOY ACTUALLY DID IT??
@mahitoe: tch whatever
@zbstan replying to @mahitoe: womp womp
@sunflowerboy replying to @mahitoe: LMFAOOOO SUCK IT YOU LOSER HATER FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK-
@eathaibara replying to @sunflowerboy: omg sunflowerboy??
@sunflowerboy replying to @eathaibara: sorry got a little excited^^
@sugu-rizzed: I just know pr is SCRAMBLING rn but not as much as my boy scrambled to get that cookie.
@satorusxkitten: bi panic is wanting both of them!!
@ge.akuge: idk what she sees in him it must be the wigs
@CandyKento: the ‘my star’, isacs, the awards speech, the PANTIES?? gojo satoru it was always meant to be idk what to tell ya. now get married
@Fushidaddy107: I still think she’d be better with me smh.
@officialgojosatoru replying to @Fushidaddy107: Blocked.
A/N. This was SOOO self-indulgent omg- ALSO DADDY TONY’S BAAAACK!!
The murder of a wealthy merchant’s daughter shakes Nod-Krai. As a private detective for the Voynich Guild, you race to solve the case before Snezhnayan diplomats can interfere. But a mysterious Ratnik—despite him being your prime suspect—throws a wench in your plans at every turn. Unprepared for the case like this, you must push through countless challenges to uncover the truth, even as someone seems to be watching your every move. word count: 32,2k.
✧ CONTENTS: SOMEWHAT DARK, detective!reader with no gendered description, mild descriptions of gore, death and murder, body desecration, topics of classism, psychological games, mystery, mentions of cannibalism and organ trafficking, toxic family relationships, supernatural activity, OC characters created for the sake of the plot, angst, getting injured, gun shooting, stalking, obsessive and pushy Flins, Flins playing 4D chess, reader has killed in the past (in self-defense), reader has some backstory, possible spoilers—at least involving Flins’s lore (i finished the 6.3 quest.)
✧ A/N: Gif divider is from @/cursed-carmine. This is a repost from my previous account. I thought I worked on this story for far too long to let it go, and I like it enough to keep it here too🫶 Apologies ahead for any possible discrepancies in the plot. I hope you’ll enjoy this brick of text, whether you’re reading it for the first or another time, hah. [READ ON AO3] [DEDICATED PLAYLIST]
A storm is brewing in Nasha Town, playing a dirge for a young woman whose life was brutally taken.
Dark, gloomy clouds have gathered over the region to mourn with rain.
You feel the moist air on your tongue and shudder as it coats your cold nape, unwelcome, while you remain crouched over the crime scene, shielding it from the gawking reapers.
It is not so uncommon for dead bodies to be found around The Flagship tavern.
Some lose themselves in their liquor so immensely, they fail to notice the passage of time spend in this indulgence—their own undoing. They spend their final moments all opaque, with breaths heady and laughs hazy, their vitality already exhausted. Like flowers in the drought, they wilt and wither.
Murders of all kinds—especially between rivals going for each other’s throats in the most literal sense—are not unheard of either, as their culprits are emboldened by the land close to being lawless.
It was only when a well-off daughter of one of the richest merchants in the city is found dead, discarded near the hub of vices and information sharing, unfit for someone like her, that the crowd gasped resoundingly, and all hell broke loose. More so when Milena Tojadska’s body was ascertained as gutted, now left as little more than an empty shell, devoid of both organs and life.
Milena lived a tragically short existence of twenty-one years, largely devoted to proving she was more than the privileges her father’s wealth afforded her. In the end, it didn't matter—people formed their own opinions anyway, both before and after her death. Spoiled, born with a silver spoon in her mouth, and while she was known to be kind, she could never have understood any real struggle.
You draw your own conclusions, but unlike the denizens of Nod-Krai, yours are not meant to judge her scruples. For a detective like you, only facts hold weight, and while one’s subjectivity can help in deriving oracular clues from others, you shove your own personal feelings aside.
And you might as well be the ghost yourself—haunting the nook behind the wine crates gathering dust in the entrance corridor of The Flagship, as you linger in the dark, post-mortem oppression to gather evidence.
With no true governing body in Nod-Krai to handle crime, someone like you must step in, confronting the pandemonium consuming the city. The Voynich Guild, whose focus is disputes involving merchants, requested you specifically.
Unfortunately, the conundrum surrounding her death isn’t made more soluble just because it occurred near a lively spot. If anything, the throng of suspects roaming around the busy hour Milena’s body was found only complicates your job. Though there is one particularly distinctive delinquent you intend to put under your microscope later.
People talk too. They live in fear of being next. They speculate, and pry for every grisly detail. The pressure to calm them weighs heavily on you. And knowing that the Curatorium of Secrets—or Snezhnayan diplomats—might meddle, drawn by the grotesque specifics of the slaughter, or even possible political implications, makes this perhaps the most important case of your life.
As an operative of the Voynich Guild, you heard of her murder long before most citizens, gathering evidence before the story could be distorted with each retelling, reshaped by bias, until the truth would turn into almost unrecognizable.
Still, they scurry toward you: excited, confused, curious, scared, fascinated by death even as they are repulsed by it. “Me! Me! I want to know! How? Why?” Only to be disappointed, for the body is no longer here, removed hours ago, even if you still can taste your coffee from four in the morning. You are no stranger to morbid curiosity yourself, but there is a certain debauchery in wanting to turn Milena’s death into a spectacle.
“Please, allow me to work in peace. There’s nothing of interest to be found here. The Guild is doing everything in its power to catch the culprit and will provide updates as necessary,” you urge, after yet another disruptive question lands.
The man behind it curses you, indignant, his accusation falling off his tongue like a whip: you must be withholding information, and you are definitely money-hungry.
You sigh. Adjusting your jacket, you glare at him until he turns his head away, uncomfortable by the sight of a revolver peeking underneath your leather brown.
He’s another fool anyway—the monetary value of your work leaves little room for sentiment. Still, you do believe you deserve a bonus, especially after this. Being considered an adept detective doesn't necessarily earn you luxuries; if anything, the pay is meager, and you break your back for the sake of the game. You refuse to accept every case deemed as not interesting enough.
Your supervisor didn't mind waking you up early for all that clamor. It’s your third time here too. No hidden weapons. No fingerprints, hair, fibers, or any other organic trace overlooked during your first or second sweep. Nothing remains after Milena’s body has been already taken to the morgue—not even blood speckles—adding to the mystery of her death.
From what you've been told, her body is in an unusual condition, and so you’re eager to run to her, like a hound catching scent. A notepad full of testimonies from bunch of strangers, mostly drunk people, weighs heavily in your other pocket. Yet little within those offers anything specific that wouldn’t be a drunk man’s daydream.
On your way back, you stop by a food stand, taking in familiar faces and the lively scenery of Nasha Town, before you will move forward to find Milena in what must be her deadliest form. The scene moves on. Children scamper and tumble until they blur, melting into the cold metal of buildings. Merchants bicker over inches of space despite their mature age. An old woman leans on her husband and hurries him home, impatient for safety, rattled by the atmosphere of death she has long anticipated for herself. Life continues, stubborn, indifferent, yet beneath it drums a tension that everyone feels, inching towards suffocation, just like you have heard that Milena was strangled.
“Milena…”, “that Tojadski merchant's daughter, “poor girl”, “don’t be stupid; it was clearly a lovers quarrel”, “some sadist”, “people disappearing”, “Wild Hunt”, “I heard she was gutted”,—you hear whispers of theories from every direction, each making their own credence. But you’ll make your own judgment—impartially.
A private morgue, too expensive for most to afford a cozy spot at, as the place where the dead rest, should have brought you some repose from the bustling restlessness outside. Instead, it’s hard to organize your thoughts even if the space is clear of the crowds you just escaped.
The unsettling, low, droning hum of the cooler—run by whatever machinery technicians of Nod-Krai conjured—could convince anyone it’s the dead rising. Their psyche would be affected by the dim scene with flickering lights too, making one wonder if the next blink might reveal someone, or something, lurching forward, especially when the light scarcely illuminates the white tiles of the floor and the walls, forcing the imagination to work and fill the gaps.
The metal, diagnostic bed at the center of the room hosts the object of the detective’s scrutiny. Naked as the day she was born, Milena lies on the ghastly white sheets, marred with drops of blood left behind by hands too careless to properly clean the table between examinations. You suspect that, if you were to lower your head to lend your ear, she would beg to be taken away from this overladen vision of an afterlife.
You are now drowsily listening to the doctor’s talk. There’s no specialized forensic pathologist to be found around, so this simple doctor, Daroslav, does his best. An old man with barely any hair left, yellow scleras and once-white shirt, inherently as tired in his appearance as you are tired today, finally fixes his glasses that were constantly trying to slip from his nose—something he had not bothered to correct until now. It’s the least he could have done after you’ve been bothered by his obtuse mannerism.
Everything needs to be noted by you, yet everything feels irritating today. Nothing makes sense so far, and people work far too slowly for what your brain is desperately trying to solve.
You drill holes into the dead woman. So pale is she now, that every blue vein beneath her skin becomes visible. However, that pallor, along with purple of her lips, the bruising encircling her neck, and petechiae scattered across her eyelids are the only assurances that she is no longer alive. She could be simply a fresher body, but it had been hours since she ended up on the table—enough for the lividity process to appear. And yet, something resists. It’s as if her body and blood froze in time, for it rejects decomposition—no livor mortis yet, no settling of blood in the lower part of the body—defying every logic. Even her limbs are unnaturally pliable when the doctor lifts her hand, bending with a softness that suggests sleep rather than death. With her like this, it’s the only way you can look at her without grimacing more than the vermilion exposed house of body provokes you to.
“You mentioned that her organs are missing,” you say, wriggling at the thought, “some of them, that is.”
“Yes. Liver, heart, stomach… and uterus,” Daroslav informs with a sigh, removing his obnoxiously long gloves. “She was killed before they were removed, likely very short after, for her to remain in such a… preserved state. The body must have been handled soon after death.”
“Liver, heart, stomach, and uterus…” you repeat quietly. “I see. Although, I believe we have a bigger problem.” You inhale deeply before speaking with rare for you uncertainty. “Doc… I understand her body is cleaned of those organs, but how come she’s staying such a pretty lady?” Your perplexity and the reminiscence of sleep, you rub off from your face.
It’s confusing—and unsettling. She is still an angel, dark hair framing an alabaster face, and if you were to lift her eyelids, they would reveal bright, lilac eyes—the same eyes that once brightened her father's days.
“I wonder about that myself. There is barely any sign of decomposition,” he spits on his glasses before he polishes them with the hem of his shirt. “However, we weren’t given enough time to draw conclusions too definite. Cold conditions can delay the process, and the removal of internal organs, along with significant blood loss—especially if the body was thoroughly cleaned—may further slow bacterial activity. Still…” he pauses, placing his glasses back upon his nose, crooked as ever. “Not to this extent.”
Your eyelid twitches faintly, though you let him continue.
“As I said, she must have been killed recently… or stored in a cold, maybe even in a cooler like ours. You see this incision along her torso? It is far too precise for an amateur. Whoever did this, they are clearly experienced in slicing and eviscerating people,” his appalled tone is the only thing that allows you to believe he himself won’t kick the bucket due to his age soon. “And yet, there’s marks consistent with strangulation, suggesting something far less controlled, as if rage came first, and only after, deliberation.”
You nod, and nod, and nod, committing each detail to memory.
“Additionally, her body has been cleaned externally as well—her nails are spotless underneath, but chipped, so Milena fought, yet we don’t have any biological trace of the assaulter to collect and send to a more qualified facility. Outside of that, there is no signs of sexual penetration.”
All of this is a lot to gather, so it is hard to comprehend—you understand the logistics, yet the concept behind her killing eludes you. The feasibility of such act especially.
“Hm…” you sink into his chair, ignoring the frown derived from your intrusion, “But… if her body will continue like this… if it resists decay… is that truly possible?” Your gaze sharpens, cutting as cleanly as the scalpel resting nearby. This situation… is still fascinating, frustratingly unfathomable or not.
“No,” Daroslav answers, oddly flustered by your engrossment. “Or rather… not under normal circumstances. I have never seen anything like this. If there is a cause, it is beyond what I know.” His voice lowers, now edged with something conspiratorial. “If such a method exists—a compound, perhaps—it would not be something readily available. Not to the public.”
“A compound?”
“You never know, with the Fatui spreading through these lands as they do. They are always eager to recruit our young.”
“But… what would even be the purpose of preserving a body?” you are skeptical about his claim, now trying to look for a logical explanation in the gray ceiling above you. “A dead mass, ought to be buried anyway…”
“Organ harvesting, perhaps,” he suggest with enthusiasm, hoping you’ll entertain his theory.
“But that can be done with a body as it is,” you make a counterpoint, counting irregularities in the structure above you. If you squint your eyes enough, surely you will be able to see an outline of Milena’s open body already imprinted on your mind.
“You might want to transport them long-distance. Clients from all across Teyvat, able to find their perfect match only across the continent…” the attempt to feed you some weird ideas continues, Daroslav’s voice taking a naughty beat.
You sit straight, suddenly redirecting your gaze at the doctor who flinches in response. “Are you saying we’re dealing with a black market organ seller?” you now ask with more alertness.
“I mean—”
You cut him off next second, waving your hand. “Forget it. That’s plain stupid,” you grumble.
“How so?” he deflates in his enthusiasm, a balloon of perverse hope you have burst unabashedly.
“That would be inefficient,” you reply flatly. “The body was left in plain sight, in the very center of activity. The organs risk damage through strangulation. And most importantly: Milena is far too prominent of a target for such a purpose.” Even Fatui usually goes after those in need and on their own, children especially.
“Right…” he concedes quietly. All of this suddenly seems to be too much for the doctor, as he gesticulates at you to free his seat. You stand up, yet your now soliloquy continues.
“A body displayed in such a condition is not concealment—it is declaration. A mark left behind.” A realization settles in your head. “A serial killer, perhaps… one announcing themselves at last, or newly arrived in this region. Someone experienced… A doctor even, maybe. Precision like that…”
You can't recall anything like this happening around here before. Possibly a boastful killer… You'll have to dig into the guild’s archives.
“You didn't kill her, did you?” you ask humorously.
Daroslav’s mouth opens wide. “That's just—”
“I know. I’m pulling your leg!” you clarify before you could give him a heart attack.
He huffs at you, collecting himself. “In any case…” The doctor peers at you with mustered solemnity, patting down his clothes after you ruffled his feathers. “I’m no psychologist, but if there’s anything serial about this tragedy, it’s the fact they must have done this plenty of times before. Whatever it might be, people of Nod-Krai would do well to exercise caution. No more… drunken escapades after dark.”
Your laugh earns you a narrow look. “My apologies, it’s just that…” you say lightly, though your humor fades quickly, “I doubt many will abandon The Flagship so easily. It’s their second home, you know? Much like it has now become a resting place of Milena’s soul…” you drawl the last sentence, finally donning on some seriousness yourself.
Arms crossed, you soak in the severity of the situation, your gaze settling at the poor woman veiled in sheets, or rather, what would be of be her leftovers. Incomplete in her physiology, her skin hangs more loosely over her hollow beneath, like a curtain over a broken bird cage. As unsettling the visage is, you trail the cut line awaiting its sewing, and you notice a certain craftsmanship behind the work. Only someone lacking heart would be capable of tearing her apart and playing with her body like a butcher…
No. Not heartless like she is now. Sensitive perhaps; making sure there is no impurities left post death, whatever symbolism the missing components suggest. And yet, Milena was judged unworthy of staying on this earth with you, in this world, her killer playing a god of her life.
Alas, even the angels are hated; if anything, they take the most venom, since it cannot penetrate those already poisoned. Not that you know her personally, but she has never caused enough harm for it to be recorded.
When Daroslav turns around to note down your observations, you wipe the single tears of sympathy.
“The question that remains is,” you continue talking, “where are her organs? Is this really a work of a serial killer? Could they be consumed? Will they be later utilized in some way?” your voice is fueled with immense verve, dangerously close to enthusiasm.
You’re excited—as inappropriately as others are—you hate to admit. It’s once in a blue moon that something truly worthy of your attention surfaces… Even more so when all of Nod-Krai is forced to play along, circumspect about where will they wander with their feet, avoiding any ghoulish arms waiting to seize them in the dark. And yet, that newness is what makes you feel as if you are an amateur again; the most you were taught about didn’t encompass elaborate-murder solving. Corruption and missing people is the pinnacle of your responsibilities.
The doctor clears his throat, taken aback by all the fantasies you throw at him. He refuses to look you in the eye, unwilling to foster the freak-detective’s fascination. “How do you arrive at such conclusions so quickly, may I ask?”
You smile, evening out your tone as if suddenly remembering your manners. “Please, forgive me. I have some experience in situations like that, and sometimes, that’s what people do.”
In truth, you are still guessing—but the human mind tends towards patterns that you follow, maybe alone with a couple of old detective stories.
“Now,” you say, gathering your jacket, your legs trembling as they beseech you onward. “I’m really grateful for your insight. I will return as needed… Meanwhile, I have many other things to take care of…”
“Oh? Do you have a suspect already?” Daroslav asks curiously.
“Yes. I was informed he was seen near Milena’s body.”
And judging that his man was seen leaving the very spot where Milena was found, the future seems very promising.
The road leading from the Nasha Town to the Final Night Cemetery is long. The further you go, the more it sinks its claws into you, the fog hugging you from every side. Visibility is mercilessly taken away from you, yet while it should stir disquiet, you embrace it with curiosity.
The search for the culprit cannot halt simply because the path becomes frightening; you let the lighthouse’s light to guide you, as intended, hoping it might grant you some clarity for the case as well. Your leather jacket, an old memento from your mentor, shields you from the wind. It is as though you are wearing her skin, as you have espoused much of her wisdom.
You were informed about the man seen at the crime scene. Nestled at the exact spot, shortly before the time Milena was found, secluded from the usual clusters that gather at The Flagship— he fled the moment other visitors noticed him, naturally casting suspicion upon himself in the eyes of Nod-Krai’s citizens.
Of course, it could have been anyone who drank at The Flagship the last night, perhaps someone even entirely unrelated to the location—many pass through these grounds. Except, vanishing as though caught in the act is suspicious, and a man already branded eccentric will always be the easiest to accuse.
The Ratnik, Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins.
You cannot help but question the sanity of a man who chooses to live here. A place so steeped in somber stillness could easily turn one queasy; all the more when the ghosts begin to appear, as though drawn by the wind itself. When they do, they trail alongside your path like they're street lanterns. You assume they were once warriors, fallen to the persistent Wild Hunt that has plagued Nod-Krai for countless years.
Dead people, you suppose, need nothing more.
At the lighthouse’s base, besides the dilapidated wooden veranda, nothing of note greets you. To reach the door, you must cross the garden of gravestones, the largest monument looming at its center, frostlamp flowers bowing beneath your boots—their shades reminds you an old tale of blue light that Lightkeepers supposedly prayed to for protection. It’s quiet here; it is no peace. The grotesque swirl of blue and purple of grasses drains the land of vitality—no green as a connotation with nature—leaving something hollow in its place, especially with the never-ending darkness here. Anything to avoid a pesky neighbor? Not that you have guarantee to find Flins here.
“Is the owner here?” you throw humorously towards the cluster of ghosts encircling a bonfire, as if they could be warmed once more. You stare hard at one of them, its head barely balanced upon its shoulders. Charming.
None reply, all hurry away from you after they look through you as if you are not even present. Odd. You would have thought spirits might take delight in haunting you, but then again, what do you know about ghosts. They either don’t like newcomers, or…
Finally reaching the lighthouse door, you give it a knock so loud it would shake even the dead from their rest. Nothing. The silence remains after you knock again. You take it as permission to snoop around, pulling on the handle—surprisingly, the mechanism gives away. “Jackpot!” Or a bear trap.
You lift your foot, ready to step inside—
“There is nothing worth stealing here, I quite assure you.”
Your foot slams down in shock, nearly sending you stumbling as your head snaps towards the voice. There he stands, the missing man himself, suddenly before you. Your chest immediately takes you on the route of driving you near a cardiac attack. The ghosts, it seems, have departed for reasons unrelated to you, despite your original assumption.
“Whoa!” you exclaim, all startled. Someone appearing out of thin air is unsettling enough, but he resembles a specter in his own right, dark-clad like night, pupils all yellow-lackluster. The blue glow of his lantern has your eyes blinking rapidly, in chase to adjust to the bright force. “I promise, I’m not a thief!”
The man smiles, placing his hand on his chest, inclining his head in a short, courteous bow. “Hello there, not a thief. I hope the curious spirits around have not caused you any undue distress…?”
You step back, closing the door behind you, letting the space between you stretch with you sinking onto the collapsing bench in front of the lighthouse. You shake your head in answer, narrowing your eyes as you take in his appearance, trying to gauge his intentions. A humorous entrance is something you would have done yourself, but should an average person take a possible break-in so lightly…?
The Lightkeeper—you assume must be the man in front of you—is still a suspect. You ought to be cautious. “No, Mr. Flins,” you say at last, forcing your voice to convey something more than disregard for his politeness.
“Oh?” His brow lifts ever so slightly at your recognition, something faintly amused touching his expression. He makes no move to close the distance—thankfully, instead lingering by the metal door, observing you. “You seem to know who I am. Are you coming here with something specific in mind? That is, if you in were, in fact, not stealing from me,” he cannot help but crack another joke.
Something about him and his exuberance irks you—that’s the sensation you’re given right off the bat. You have met many types in your life, yet this sensation is… different. It could also be that chucklesome persona, the contrast between it and his gloomy appearance, or even the way ghosts seem to be reverent of him. You can’t put your finger on what it might be exactly.
The weird lantern he carries, a strange blue light unlike any kuuvahki flame you have seen, heightens the unaware. Lightkeepers have a duty to take them with them everywhere, as a sign of ongoing service, and yet… Hopefully, it’s only Electro-Vision-infused. The idea of catching a malefactor now feels less thrilling and far more precarious.
Recognizing his sharpness, you decide discretion is prudent. “I meant the part about not being a thief…” you reply, “I hope you can understand my entrance was only because you of concern for your door. You’re making things easy for thieves, you know.”
He nods in agreement, allowing you to continue your introduction.
You recline on the bench, remembering the authority of confident body language. “As for the why I’m here—my apologies for the intrusion. It’s an urgent matter. I am a detective who works for the Voynich Guild…” You produce your insignia, dangling it in the air. It has no legal power, though it distinguishes you from a simple comer. “I’m sure you have heard about the morning incident in the Nasha Town.”
He raises his brow again, then smiles politely. “The Voynich Guild…” he repeats thoughtfully. “Then I gather this must be a grave affair indeed, for there to be someone sent to a humble me. Though I confess, I am not certain what matter would require your presence here of all places.” He maintains eye contact without the slightest flinch. “Would you care to enlighten me?” Crossing his arms after he hangs his lantern on the hook dedicated for it, he pricks up his ears.
You turn slightly as you tuck the badge away, allowing a fleeting grimace to cross your face unseen. He should know. Anywhere near The Flagship should. The entire Nasha Town, if not the most of Nod-Krai knows about the incident too, and while he lives in seclusion, he surely is coming back from somewhere while having people talk behind his back. It’s quite hard to determine whether he’s purporting his oblivion, or if he’s actually unaware—too smug to be innocent, too calm to be obviously guilty.
You face him again, with solemnity, hoping there’s enough humanity in him to reciprocate that emotion. “Very well. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but...A body was discovered this morning. At The Flagship. The daughter of a merchant. Murdered… quite brutally.”
“Oh.” His lips form into a circle, and he sighs softly, more contemplative. “That is unfortunate,” he says after a moment, lowering his gaze briefly, as if paying respects to the deceased. “She must have been young.“ Then, looking back at you: “What happened?” he asks, all troubled.
“She was strangled. Then… her organs were removed. We have yet to locate them,” you blurt out quickly—watching him. It’s not impropriety speaking, but a way to catch him off-guard, go see a reaction unfiltered by expectation.
Flins’s brows knit together, his body stiffens ever so slightly. Then he lets out an awkward chuckle, as if to disperse the tension you suddenly manifested in him. “That severe, you say…” His surprise looks rather genuine. Yet there’s something off about the man. A bit too calm for someone step by step being implied to be a suspect, apathetic even. Still, his gaze pierces you, yellow eyes void-like, as if he claims to know you better than you know yourself.
“And certainly unprecedented,” you add. “With that, it’s hard for us to gain a foothold, or form a… modus operandi,” it’s a term you've borrowed from some fancy novel imported from outside the border, “especially with how little clue there is.” You inform him of those few things—letting him be involved in the case should paint a right illusion: he’s not yet accused of any wrongdoing, which could lure to more cooperation.
Frustratingly, he only hums in acknowledgment, then turns the conversation around. “May I ask how does this concern me?” A small tilt of the head, more curious than worried about the prospect of being accused of crime of a high range. If anything, he’s more interested in swallowing every inch of you with his eyes, something haughty being cast at you.
You rise, brushing off your jacket, agitation pricking at your nerves. You serve him another serious look. “There was a report placing you at the scene shortly before the body was found. Alone. Squatting behind the same empty crates where she was later discovered. Of course, you could have been a simple passerby, like anyone else, which means you’re not accused of anything at the moment. Yet your sudden departure upon being noticed casts shadows of suspicion. We’d like to ask you a few questions that could help us out—especially, what were you doing here, and whether you have seen anything suspicious yourself,” you try to cajole him, keeping your tone solemn yet respectful.
You see no real worry—only a small frown, more as if you were inconveniencing him by making a scene. “We?”
“Yes, I act on behalf of Milena’s father, Drogomir Tojadski.” The name is big, so you anticipate his reaction. He gives you one, allowing you to witness his eyes widen slightly under the blue light spread over his face; your stomach flutters with excitement at the telltale sight.
“Milena…?” he sounds surprised.
“Yes,” you nod eagerly, “Did you know her?”
“Yes. Albeit, briefly. She would come here sometimes,” he says solemnly. “What tragic news you are relaying to me…” he clutches his chest, as if pained, his eyes full of sorrow. “Sadly, we we weren’t given too much time together…”
“Can you tell me a bit more about this?” you ask urgently. Him knowing her only earns him more consistency as a main suspect.
“Your diligence is… commendable,” he’s ready to shoot you down. “It is only that…” Flins starts thoughtfully, turning his head to the side, already sympathizing with your disappointment. “You are well aware there is no real law established in Nod-Krai. Nonetheless, factions exist, and anything that concerns someone like me, concerns us Ratniki also, falling under that jurisdiction. If any investigation were to occur, it can only proceed by their decree. Your only choice with me is, well…”
You know all these rules; technically, you have no power over him, and so you hoping for cooperation is hoping for benevolence. “Forcing me to answer your questions,” you finish the sentence for him, your excitement dissipating. You come a little closer to him—a small show of trust. You're not here to disincorporate him entirely. “I assure you, I have no intention of fighting or hurting you.” Brains over brawn. Unless he attempts aggression himself. “I know Guild often moves motivated by financial, or any type of beneficial gain for that matter, but my own goal is singular: to unravel this poor girl's tragic death.”
“Is that why you have a weapon in your inner pocket?”
Your breath hitches.
“Do not fret. I understand that someone like you must protect themselves. Who knows the next person that dares to cross you…” he says lightly. Flins studies your frown, and smiles again, all understanding. “You strike me as a person with a good head on their shoulders.”
The compliment catches you off guard—especially with how earnest it sounds. Yet you’re no illustrious detective. You think you don't even know what you're doing. Your boss threw you into the situation like into deep waters. He could have asked that woman Nefer for help, however, she… is far more rapacious than you are.
“Thank you,” you say, with slight fluster. “So, I’ve heard that… a ghost of an unjustly death lingers on earth…” you allow a wry humor.
That could solve all of your issues—if only you could ask Milena about what she witnessed in the zenith of her tragedy, even beg for the leftover smudges of her bleary memory. You would ensure the culprit is caught without any hesitation, cleaving through the truth.
“You are quite astute about the fate of ghosts. Alas… as it has been said—I fear such matters are not mine to discuss,” Flins replies, regretful-sounding.
You almost click your tongue. You have barely scratched the surface today. “Can’t I have a small peak inside, at least?” you laugh after saying that, trying to keep the atmosphere light.
He laughs too, yet answers bluntly, “I’m afraid not.” Then he adds, “Though I would have welcomed the opportunity to host you. I’m certain the journey here can be somewhat… onerous.”
Gratefulness for his refusal is what you should feel now, as suddenly, you can no longer imagine the idea of being alone with him. Something about the possibility of being his ghost makes your skin prickle—call it a detective’s intuition.
“I see,” you say dryly, yet carefully polite, “In any case, thank you for lending me your time. Please… keep yourself safe.”
Flins extends his hand. “You as well, little detective. I do hope your efforts bear fruit.”
“… Little detective?” you visibly tense up, not fond of the nickname he gave you enough to reject his handshake.
He withdraws, as if realizing something. “Oh, where are my manners,” he says kindly, yet undeterred by your coldness. “Please, excuse me, it’s a force of poor habit I have, teasing my coworkers.” You don’t buy his sudden humble apology. “Pay it no mind—little is a form of endearment, not condescension.”
Fondness. From a stranger. Does this man know you? No, that cannot possibly be…
Still, the encounter gave you enough reason to keep your wits about you, around this peculiar Lightkeeper. “I see,” you say slowly, “It’s okay, I do that a lot too. Some whimsy doesn’t hurt…” you trail off, stepping past him. “Have a nice day. We might meet again soon.”
“Please, wait,” he calls, and you turn around, “Yes?”
Flins and his damned lantern join your side, falling into step beside you, “Allow me to escort you back to the shore. It’s getting late, the fog thickens, and the time Wild Hunt favors such conditions.”
It’s as if he’s trying to give you a headache on purpose, being unbearable.
“I’m alright,” you assure curtly.
“No need to be modest. It is really not an issue, only my utmost duty,” he insists, frustratingly chivalrous.
You want to tell him it isn’t modesty, especially when he places a guiding hand on your back, as if you two are old acquaintances.
Observing you walking expeditiously in response, he chuckles softly. “Are you truly so concerned about them? Fear not—I will protect you, should it come to pass.”
“Nope. Just a hectic schedule,” you reply dryly.
“Of course. I don’t intend to disturb it.”
The walk to the exit is filled with a stream of exceptionally curious inquires from his side; some less or more personal, mostly about your expertise—never quite crossing a line, yet coming close to. Your mind works carefully, avoiding revealing anything that might compromise either yourself or the investigation. However, it’s really the last words he gives you before he’d let you go that leave the deepest mark. “You know, I have heard of you.”
Under regular circumstances, they shouldn’t matter. You are rather famous around Nod-Krai’s veterans; infamous, you’d even call yourself. You're not exactly known for being strait-laced. But when you peer at him properly, analyzing his eyes dancing like a flame put on by your very presence, you get a sense of something deeper being laced into his admission. There is depth that transcends mere curiosity.
You wrap your jacket more snugly around yourself, letting the sea breeze carry his words and envelop you in thick silence.
“I’m sure whatever your ears caught, it was doubtfully anything flattering about me,” you scoff at the thought, but you are frozen in spot by his lantern you find yourself transfixed by.
“Hm…” pressing a finger to his chin, he hums to himself. “In the traditional sense, no…”
“Is there any positivity in an unorthodox sense, then?” you mock, meeting his eyes again.
As the thunder cracks and strikes overhead, the smile that forms on his face sends a shiver down your spine; you really need to get out of here.
“Yes,” he says softly, “One might say so. Because…” his face leans in close to yours; you don’t show cowardice, standing with steel in your feet. “… labels, after all, oftentimes stem from the fallacy of perception. And I would be eager to see what else is there beyond them, detective.
Until next time.”
You watch him go before you could demand some good explanation. His long, blue hair swaying like a midnight ink touching moonlit frost—disappearing into the evening like a ghost. Much the same, you feel unable to expose your back until you are sure he’s gone. You take a few steps after. Still propelled by distrust towards the Ratnik, you turn around a beat later; you blink rapidly when you notice his sudden disappearance. He should have been there, in your vision’s field, for a few more seconds.
You cannot yet parse him. The devil is in the details, yet you cannot form any coherent opinion about him, for he blocks anything truly vulnerable about himself with a sprinkle of sophistry and immaturity.
True to his words, he does seem to know you.
People pride themselves on understanding others, yet seldom embrace the responsibility that insight demands. To claim knowledge of another is to stand at the precipice of something far less comfortable than mere observation—understanding does not end at recognition, it insists acceptance, and acceptance, more often than not, is where people falter. Going from acceptance to hatred so fluidly is often a reflection of one’s own fear and limitations—isn't it human to be imperfect and ugly? To see them not only in the moments they present to the world, polished, but in those concealed ones where their less agreeable qualities reside. It is easy to admire what is agreeable. Therefore, there is courage in facing someone wholly—both their beautiful and their vile, their unguarded and the uncompromising.
Flins, in his own peculiar manner, seems almost willing to offer that from the very beginning.
Leaving the cemetery, you don't see another pair of eyes watching you from behind the biggest grave of the yard.
On your way back to the city, your thoughts involuntarily drift to Kyryll. If you were accused of murder, at least in the eyes of people around you, would you wander and chatter freely, as though nothing weighs upon you? Perhaps, he is simply accustomed to worse than such scrutiny, having faced death countless times as a Ratnik. Still, the notion of spilling blood by your own hand should unsettle even the iron stomach.
It seems certain you will encounter this man again. You must have left him with the the impression of someone respectful. Someone who, despite he appearing peculiar to others, is not judged by you for no sound reason. Yet, you failed to avoid showcasing any suspicion: he got you good, as you’re not used to allowing one to frustrate you enough to betray yourself… In this profession where composure is currency and every expression can be bartered against you. If only for a moment, you allowed yourself to become something of a spectacle for a man who clearly delights such things.
Nonetheless, for now, you shove that blunder to back to the back of your head, recognizing your priorities—finding the missing organs of the poor Milena, the only clue in the grotesque game that could lead you somewhere at the moment.
Especially that, Nod-Krai would disapprove of Snezhnayan diplomats getting involved in the sub-field; already, the nature of the crime stirs the gossip mill easily.
As you kick pebble on your path, sauntering tiredly, you think nothing aligns. There's no practical reason for Milena’s body yo have been left in such an exposed location as The Flagship, nor for it to have been treated with such meticulous care, bordering on reverence.
For anyone willing to think outside the box, there is clearly something psychological in the act, the message to decipher. To uproot the killer, you must think like the killer. Leaving a body clean from the inside, in a pristine condition… As if to mummify it…
Such practices evoke the practices of Sumeru, or at least someone inspired by its culture. Yet those who partake in the custom do not create death—they honor it. They do not carve life away. they tend to what remains. Her brain remains intact, too.
The killer could be trying to be respectful, making sure no part they deemed dirty is left in her after her death. Or they could be degrading her, leaving an empty shell to lower the woman’s value, or even steal from her. They could be eating those organs right as you’re thinking about it. So many questions, and yet, no one to answer for them so far.
You do not get to be the one who finds Milena’s organs; at least, when it comes to one of them. Her liver is delivered to you and her father a day after she was found—casually left outside The Flagship, in a white porcelain box that comes off as far too expensive to be ordinary, imported, suggesting someone from her sphere. Would Flins really be able to afford such container?
A liver that will never filter anything impure again, cleansing Milena from the filth of this world. Her ability to protect herself was stolen from her. The thought settler heavier than it should: it’s not merely a missing organ, but something once responsible for her persistence. She no longer can metabolize the world and remain whole through it. The killer’s choice feels like selection, not entirely disposal. She cannot judge anymore.
Finding nothing else inside the box that brought horrors to the workers ending their shift, you deliver her belonging to the morgue, only to learn nothing about her condition has changed. Worry gnaws at you—perhaps the doctor was right about the possibility of a substance that slows, or even stops, decomposition—all kinds of things can happen or be made in Teyvat. Perhaps it’s used differently than assumes; not as preservation for transport of organs, but something about a sick display of body.
It’s not healthy to let the gruesomeness get to your head too much, so you only let your nose scrunch at the inconvenience of it all—being pulled away mid-breakfast only to end up handling what will, in time, be placed back into her coffin. A coffin currently in making, surely to be lined with white silk befitting an angel.
At the very least, it’s becoming evident it was a killing with motive. Your case truly has grown into something of a paramount importance.
With you in constant motion, it’s time for another questioning. The father of Milena, Drogomir, is also a suspect, having been the closest with his daughter. It is quite often that the family member is the one responsible. You have been stalling this meeting, largely because his state is… delicate. It cannot help him that he looks like an older copy of her—dark hair, purple eyes. It’s only his short posture, wrinkles of she, or strands of gray that do not hold a candle to her. Every peer into the mirror is peer into Milena’s eyes.
So far, his grief is gut-wrenching to witness. And unless he is deliberately performing grief in front of The Guild, he has been cooperative, guiding you through possible scenarios with eagerness. Unlike Flins yesterday, there is no weird friction between the two of you. If you were to frame someone in his position, you would do so without reaching for paranoid detective like you; pantheons of his standing are not above pulling some strings, and there are still several women missing in Nod-Krai.
“She was such a beautiful and smart girl… even after her mother died, she still pushed through everything…” the man weeps… right onto your shoulder and its favorite jacket. “People judged, me, her, me for not marrying another woman, and her for not settling down instead of focusing on her studies, but we endured! We only had each other, and now I have no one… Heavens, my poor Milena! And now some monster is scattering her organs like they’re dandelion seeds!”
You cringe at the dampness staining you, imagining it going past your flesh layers, his grief soaking into your pores and painting you with melancholia just the same. You try to ignore the growing pool of misery for the sake of maintaining good connections with a client. You have to be nice and empathetic, laments difficult to take or not. Especially given how unstable his condition has become. From what one of the maids informed you, Drogomir has already been seen by a doctor three times. Not for some heart condition, but his mental state, although these two can easily go hand in hand.
“I'm sure she was everything you describe her to be and much more. I’m sure she felt loved by you,” is the reassurance you muster, best to your ability.
As you let Drogomir sacrifice your jacket as necessary collateral, glad it’s made of impenetrable leather, you take one more look at the small mansion’s common room. It’s easy to notice how he has it much better than most people. Marble—had to be exported from Snezhnaya trade, royal purple velvet everywhere—a self-made title?, lacquered, polished parquet—will Milena’s coffin have the same finish? And of course… a gigantic portrait of his very daughter.
It would not be surprising if someone resented Milena for such disparity. But envy alone rarely produces such precision. This is not disorder, jealousy. This is controlled.
Then you spot her—a tiny figurine of Tsaritsa. It sits quietly among opulence, but you recognize the possible implications. A household that openly trades with Shezhnaya, perhaps even aligns itself with it more deeply than mere commerce. You’ve already heard about Drogomir making business with its merchants, skimming over his profile the moment you received the case. If he spills too much to the other side, they might complicate the investigation. Especially that, murders of high-profile causes panic that spreads faster in such circles; merchants fear instability more than crime itself. Who will pay for their damages?
Drogomir finally lifts his head, and you sigh inwardly. You take in one more glance at the figurine, fascinated by the way it made cold Tsaritsa look benevolent. A small, warm smile pulling you in, having you wonder if she’d weep over Milena too, or call it a common tragedy humans face daily, secular even…
“Goodness me, I am terribly sorry,” he’s embarrassed, “here I am, sobbing on your shoulder like an outgrown baby,” the widower suddenly remembers himself, and frees you from the grasp of his waterworks.
Now freed, the expensive settee feels like the safest place. You resist the urge to clean your shoulder in front of him. Thankfully, he offers you a handkerchief, feeling guilty for leaving a track of burden on you.
“No, it's quite alright,” you clear your throat. “I cannot comprehend even half the pain you are experiencing. I also understand this is difficult, but, can I depend on your cooperation for your daughter’s sake?” you speak solemnly.
Drogomir, still all flustered, nods his head rapidly, and sits on the armchair across you, only to stand up a moment later and spin around the room. How can he rest, knowing someone is playing with his daughter’s body?
“Ask me anything. Anything at all. I will answer everything if it means that monster is caught!” he demands fervently.
You like such vigor better. More lively, more human, more beautiful, raw and asking you to poke it further—but now is not the time.
“Very well,” you say. “When was the last time you saw your daughter?” you ask, clasping your hands together. You already made such inquiry yesterday, yet he was in a shape worse than today.
The man's brain overheats, for he stops his stops crying at the question, unable to form a coherent sentence.
"Take your time. I understand if your head is addled with grief.”
"Y-yes… yes, it is…” he says nervously. “I… I think it was… goodness, it feels as if it was just yesterday,” he shakes. “B-but… that cannot be. She already was dead… oh… the staff said… she’s been gone for a week… yes… that seems right…” he mumbles to himself, his voice destabilizing.
"A week?” you repeat, sharper now. “Where was she?”
"She was away for a trip. Research related,” a maid, older Anastasya with red hair, interrupts, coming in with water for the poor man. He gulps it down immediately, nearly choking on it. “I understand the importance of finding this despicable murderer,” she says firmly, “but I must beg you to start wrapping up things, detective.”
"I wish I could,” you reply dryly. “Alas, we can’t seek justice for Milena without proper evidence.”
“No, let them search for truth, Nastya…” he Drogomir mutter, “I cannot rest until I know my Milenka receives peace and honor.” He collapses into an armchair, “Ask me more, detective. I place her fate in your hands.”
That is a dangerous sentence.
You’re reminded of the weight of the situation. There is no time to waste, even if a dead woman can't walk, yet you also cannot expedite things carelessly—dare you not leave some stones unturned.
“Alright. I’ll be frank with you. How many enemies do you have, and, was any of them especially angry with you in last span of weeks?” you ask seriously, not beating around the bush. It’s not a question of if, but of how many. A man well-prospering in Nod-Krai is a man already hated, yet in this case, it’s also about possible rivals from the guild itself.
Flush appears on his face, as he tries to come up with some clincher to clear his merchant name he wants to keep spotless; only sighs with acquiescence after. “I’ve always had many adversaries. Other sellers, people jealous of the way I live, men offended by my refusal to marry off my daughter…”
The last picks up your curiosity. Someone obsessed with his daughter surely would be capable of killing her should she had said no… right? Suffocating her… then dispensing her organs for everyone to see… the show of ownership.
“Okay… however, was there anything that stood out more, that has brought you trouble lately? Any threats, breaking in, complaints from your daughter?”
Milena’s father ponders over your question, then shakes his poor head. “No.”
“Does Milena have any ex partners that might have been aggressive towards her?”
Shaking his head again, it’s more aggressive. “Absolutely not! She was focused on school. Boyfriends are… distraction,” he says with repulsion.
“You didn't think of preserving your family's name? You do care about it. She was twenty-one, not a child,” you prod with suspicion.
“She was twenty-one,” he insists. “There was still time. She deserved better than impulsive choices.” He’s definitely protective of his daughter. Typical father.
“I see. Did Milena behave in any unusual way?”
“No. She seemed… quite happy instead,” he admits reluctantly.
“Happy, huh…” you wonder what could have gotten her in such good spirits. “Did she mention anything about the reason behind that mood?” you ask eagerly. Perhaps, she’s been pulled into something, manipulated to become one’s victim.
Something resurfaces in his addled mind, as the man looks at you with realization. “Wait, could this be it? She mentioned seeing him,” he says suddenly, straightening. “I thought of it as nothing relevant at the time, but now—”
You stand up from the comfortable cushion and approach the mourning the father with motivation, almost shaking from excitement. “Please, every detail is important for the case. Who was he?”
“Well… She said she helped him out sometimes, just tidying up things around his... graveyard,” he recalls with recognition, as well the frown at his beautiful daughter seeking out obscure spaces like that. “That man was a bad influence on her, you see. Distracting her.”
It’s him, you summarize immediately. “Did she mention anything suggesting he behaved inappropriately with her?”
The poor man looks up at you with confusion, flustered by you squeezing his shoulders with the aberrant for the situation energy. “No, I mean, yes— she said he’s quite a strange man, living there alone. He frightened her sometimes. She was a good girl, you see, worrying about everyone despite their shortcomings…” he trails off, then snaps his eyes wide open and his breath stutter. “Are you saying he did this?” He trembles and you know you're stepping into a steep territory of his mind.
You can't make any promises just yet. It's easy to jump to conclusions and allow yourself to be fooled by them. “He’s only our suspect, might as well be innocent. It’s not smart to go after him at the moment,” you warn, sensing his growing agitation. “One wrong move, and the real killer might get away.”
Drogomir’s hands clench, and he slouches his body under your palm. “If you say so… but if it’s him in the end, I will…” he balls his hand into fists.
“Please, let us take care of the rest. For now, I need you to focus staying safe,” you pat him and let him go. “You don't know if you won't be the next target.”
He gasps. “Yes, yes… I have men guarding me,” he says to comfort himself, “And I really am placing my faith in your hands. For Milena… thank you, detective…”
As you watch Anastasya usher him to rest, you promise yourself you will work your hardest to earn that need permit to question Flins. Flins will be questioned again—properly this time—and you’ll make sure of it.
Right as you're about to enter the grounds of the scraggly city, your hurried stride is interrupted. “Excuse me, detective…!”
Hearing your name, you turn around, finding a young boy with a notepad jogging towards you. “Yes?” you ask tentatively, already anticipating vexing curiosity.
Your thoughts have begun to agglomerate into a dark, heavy cloud on your mind, dense with fragments that refuse to equate into anything coherent. It is hard to entertain anything beyond your primary objective, and so your walk has turned sharp, almost aggressive in its intent. Any interruption now feels like inconvenience and more like intrusion. Especially that it’s not unwise to believe this boy has been following you ever since you left Drogomir’s house—pretty much in character for a journalist. Those that are still children are particularly cunning.
“I’m from the local newspaper, Nasha Express. My name is Anton,” he says, slightly out of breath but bright-eyed. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about your case, to, you know, comfort people of Nasha Town.”
You take a proper look at him. Blond. Puny. Yet brimming with a kind of restless energy that seems out of place in the shadow of what he is asking about. Of course. Press. There’s always inquiry, and while you don’t fault people for their interest, not entirely, they have a way of circling the truth like carrion birds, incorrigible when denied. This one is surely asking about the genesis of the murder.
“Well, I can’t promise anything too insightful at the moment. We are still in the middle of an investigation, and sharing certain details prematurely may aid the culprit,” you say in one breath, as if reciting a protocol you know like the back of your hand.
“Of course,” he nods with understanding, “I can only assume it’s nothing rudimentary of work, right?”
“Have you ever heard of someone scattering organs around for fun?” you reply dryly. “It is the sort of thing one encounters only in Inazuman crime novels.”
“N-no…” he falters, blushing at your bluntness, “That’s why everyone is curious. We haven’t seen anything like this for ages. And… we do have many people disappearing. Especially with… Fatui recruitment.”
“I’m pretty sure this murder is not connected to any abduction,” you clarify.
The boy furrows his brows, struggling against a conclusion that refuses to be practical. “Then… why would someone do something like this?”
“Well, you sort of answered your own question—everyone is curious.”
He tilts his head, not quite following.
“That murder became a show rather quickly, did it not?” you sigh. “It’s not hard to imagine that someone might have intended it to become one.”
“So they did it for attention?” he asks, concentrating hard on your words.
“In a way.” Your lips curve slightly, although there is little humor in it. “Which is precisely why I would beseech the citizens of Nod-Krai to restrain themselves from indulging in speculation. Conspiracy has a way of feeding vultures like that.”
“Is that even possible?”
“If they wish to know what truly happened, they have little choice,” you answer, a trace of scorn in your voice. “Now, if that is all—”
“Detective,” young voice stops you in tracks. “Just one more question.”
“Yes?” you acquiesce, turning around.
Anton studies you—no longer with an erratic curiosity of a boy chasing a story, but with something more calculated.
“Have you ever thought of murdering a person yourself? Have you ever killed a person before?”
You go still.
It’s the sort of question that can easily put you at disadvantage, even if the truth is, everyone has thought of killing someone. The thought is universal, it’s only committing the act that’s rare—albeit, not too rare in Teyvat. And life is measured differently by everyone. Some see it as sacred, the mere act of breathing a miracle—yet take it from others without hesitation. Some reduce it to currency, assigning value where it profits them and discarding it where it does not. Others—perhaps the most dangerous—slap moral exceptionalism on murder, so long they’ve committed them in the name of greater good. Maybe even think world demands blood—necessary evil. Wars will always start and end, for people are greedy—maybe inherently. Some have no choice but to kill. Life can have no meaning at all. Reduced to biology function. A system that simply starts and ends.
If you say yes, you look like a psycho. If you say no, you are dishonest. So you settle for a golden medium. “I have thought of killing another person to defend another person. But I have never considered pulling a trigger for my own pleasure.”
You make your exit right after, not waiting for his reaction. Then you hear it and your steps falter.
“Thank you, little detective. It was an interesting answer.” The words land lightly, almost playfully.
You think your ears have to be deceiving you. Did Flins send you after me? is what you almost ask but stop yourself. “Little?” you whip your head around with a question. The boy doesn’t answer, already running away.
You’ve gotten yourself involved with a rather curious trio. The commander, the doer, and the jester. They have their respective names, yet your mind refuses to retain them in that form; instead, they settle into categorized by you functions. You find yourself wondering where Milena would have belonged among them—or whether she had floated between roles, adjusting herself to fit whatever shape was required of her. Perhaps she had been simply desperate enough to remain close to them, as you don’t like her friends at all. Their appearances don’t matter to you either. You focus on the look in their eyes: demanding, pliant, and amused—expression that do not waver, fixed deeper than bone marrow, immune to circumstance.
People's filth begins to encroach your mind, with persistence that unsettles you. Milena’s friends present only simulacrum of humility, feeling constructed. At first glance, they appear saddened, yet there is a dissonance beneath it, misalignment between what is shown and what is felt. Nonetheless, you attempt to dismiss it for now, to instead focus on the matter at hand—gathering information.
You sit across from them in a coffee shop Milena loved to visit. Everything is supposedly comforting: beige walls without any holes in them, a fireplace that keeps the place warm, and red carpet that pronounces their shiny shoes. The coffee, you note, is expensive—another proof of the world Milena once lived in.
“Has Milena been acting strange before the last time you saw her?” you ask, repeating the same question you posed to her father. Answers tend to shift depending on the listener; friends, after all, are often entrusted with truths that never reach family
“She’s been giddy…” says the jester, tracing with the rim of their cup, their tone light and almost entertained.
“Giddy? Do you know the reason?” you lean over the table, your voice turning intimate.
“She liked that weirdo,” the commander answers, “Although, I suppose, he is somewhat handsome… chivalrous even… enough for even someone like Milena lose her mind over,” the commander says. “‘You know, a different status.”
“Flins, you mean?” you ask.
They all nod.
“Did any of you meet him personally?”
“I saw him from afar…” the jester replies. “He has a… certain posture. Surprisingly, very eloquent.”
“Did she have feelings for him?” you cannot help but wonder.
“She denied that when we asked…” the doer tears up at the thought, their voice shaky. “But whatever it was… she seemed happy. Truly happy, for the first time in a long time. Why couldn’t we make her feel that way too…?”
“Don’t be a crybaby,” the commander cuts in abruptly, and the doer immediately apologizes, shrinking into themselves with shame. The jester only observes.
“Don’t torment yourself,” you say instead, as nice as you can. “If she was your friend, I’m sure she valued your presence as well.”
You find yourself thinking that the doer frustratingly lacks a certain resistance. Unless… that is what sustains their and the commander’s arrangement—symbiosis, disguised as companionship, where the doer has a place without having to face the world on their own.
“Thank you, detective,” they murmur.
You stir your coffee slowly, and feel the trio’s attention on you, mostly expectant, as if awaiting the next source of stimulation.
There is vultures everywhere these days.
“Say, earlier, you mentioned she likes traveling? Where was the last place she visited.”
“Oh, you know, she went here and there…” the commander says listlessly. “Probably somewhere interesting.” So they don’t really know.
“What was she like, anyway?” you try another question, squirming in your seat from irritation.
“She was… kind,” the doer answers immediately. “Helpful. And her smile, wow, so bright! Like the sun. She was always there for us, for me,” the doer says fondly. “Always so inquisitive.”
No pejorative terms, at least. It seems many people loved Milena, despite the bad word spoken about her by strangers.
“And helpful,” the commander repeats the doer’s words, as though to reinforce the statement with their own claim. “What a plight her death is, truly… we won't be able to attend those charity events again.”
You drop your teaspoon. “Charity events?” Your mind reels from the topic change.
“Yes,” they shrug. “The cause matters, obviously, but many attend for the gathering itself. Milena always ensured we were invited.”
You pause, feeling your throat tighten. “Is that… what concerns you the most?”
“N-no, of course not!” the commander responds quickly. “We simply had plans—events we were meant to attend together. It is only now we realize she will no longer be there with us, for us…” They hesitate again. “How unfortunate…” The jester lets out a quiet laugh.
“I see,” you acknowledge, your tone cooling, “Thank you. That will be all.”
It’s the third day of the investigation led by you. Milena’s murderer seems to run a strict schedule.
What’s found next is… her stomach. Placed with the same audacity as before, in the very coffee shop you visited only yesterday. There is a certain irony to it that does not escape you—that her remains seem to follow you, appearing where you have just been, as though the killer trains not only her memory, but your steps well. For now, you dismiss it as coincidence. These are still places tied to Milena first and foremost.
Her stomach that no longer can consume, inert and stripped of all purpose. It will no longer consume, process, or indulge. Gluttony and consuming obsession have been excised from her entirely. The stomach is not simply an organ of excess—it’s also about necessity, survival, breaking down the world into something the body can endure. Her indulgence was condemned, so was fuel harvests and meat a body renders into another form of life. Perhaps the killer deemed her greedy, for the craving of what only few can have, for all these extravagant meals especially. Or maybe they turned her into a real prey, with no stomach acid to wash them down. Maybe they’re hungry themselves. Hungry for more than food.
At the morgue, you inquire about Milena’s state once more. When the doctor slides her body from the cooler and you are met with the same unchanging visage, you cannot help help the quiet gasp that escape you. She looks untouched by death as always. No progression, no surrender to the natural process, and you were just told that the doctor conducted an additional experiment—leaving her in the warmer room for hours—just in case truly nothing happens. The theory of some foreign interference, unnatural preservative, gains your respect again.
After the quick run, you end up climbing that damn Piramida city where Ratniki make their place, steeling yourself for an unpleasant meeting. You approach Kyryll’s superior, after a few others tried to stop you, knowing an explosive collision is bound to happen again.
“Oh… it’s you.” Nikita, the Starshyna of the Lightkeepers, does not bother to disguise the distaste that appears beneath his dark mustache as he recognizes you.
In retrospect, it’s rater amusing, that you have never had the (dis)pleasure of meeting Flins through him—proving the latter’s hermit lifestyle. Although, you heard he’s quite a storyteller, admired for it.
“I see you've been informed about my interest already, Sir Nikita,” you greet with a wry smile. There’s just something invigorating about being being dislikes so thoroughly, it can have your blood pumping—perhaps it’s that they already made assumptions, only to be surprised when you show them it’s been merely the tip of the iceberg called you. “How is Illuga faring?”
Nikita doesn’t stand up from his desk to greet you, nor does he offer to shake your hand; instead, he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms—gruff. You, in turn, make yourself comfortable against the wall of his office, uninvited yet unbothered.
“Listen,” he begins, rubbing his face with a weariness that’s here even if it’s just morning, “I’ll make this clear from outset—anything pertaining to flins and that dead woman’s case remains within the confines of our duty.”
“You’re withholding information from a heartbroken father who has just lost his daughter,” you counter bluntly, idly swinging the bag at your side, “much like he lost his wife years prior.”
He doesn't budge, as if anticipating such antics from the infamous detective. A certain reputation precedes you, as always. “I know well of your kind,” Nikita chides, “You care for coin and amusement. Your glibness makes a mockery of matters that require restraint. The man’s well-being is not your concern, is it?”
Under different circumstances, you might have laughed—there is, after all, a sprinkle of truth somewhere within that accusation. But today, for once, you don’t find it amusing—not when the case has begun to root itself beneath your skin. “It is not about me, nor about you,” you say sharply as you point at him, “How exactly is Drogomir meant to find his daughter’s killer otherwise? Or do you not intend to question Flins at all? Are you investigation, or are you protecting him?
It works out for you a little. Nikita’s eye twitches, and he's itching with a sudden need to defend himself underneath discipline. “Protect him?” he scoffs. “The Lightkeepers exist to protect others. At the cost of their own lives, and for the compensation that scarcely reflects it. Flins is no exception.” He shakes his head. “Have you seen the conditions he lives in?”
“There’s always a black sheep in some vacuum,” you oppose and step closer to his desk. “People playing a Johnny-on-the-spot are not a rarity.”
His anger grows. “Flins might be peculiar at times, but he is no murderer—”
“I never claimed he was,” you interrupt, watching him turn dumbfounded, “Nor did I suggest that his eccentricity makes him suspicious. That assumption was entirely on your own.” You let your words sink in. “My concern is simple. He was present at the scene. He fled. That warrants questions.”
Nikita’s mouth opens, then closes again, his argument disappearing. Your berating seemingly embarrasses him, as you are right it’s him who immediately assumed Flins is being seen as a murderer—he is used to people finding his man shady.
“I am not here to arrest him. I don’t even have enough legal power to do that,” you continue, “I am asking for permission to question him. Not whether he killed Milena—but whether he saw anything of importance.”
“It's still a part of our investigation that’s ongoing,” he argues a little bit more, but now, he’s thinner in confidence.
Exhaling through your nose, you take a walk in front of his desk. Nothing in this case is proceeding copacetic so far.
“An investigation from which you excluded the victim’s own family,” you point out with a sigh. “If you don't want people start questioning your good deeds, or The Guild breathing down your neck, you would do well to demonstrate your openness. Before some Snezhnayan diplomats will storm into the crime scene, to restore the disrupted trading route—that is, if they aren’t coming here already. Those who station here are already gossiping.”
He suddenly realizes that you must be right—for once, there is something he can agree with you on. News spread fast, and if the father will tell others about the Lightkeepers withholding information from him…
“If it helps you to be at more ease,” you add, almost conciliatory, “I can question him in front of you. No hidden agenda will slip past you, hm?” It’s really for your safety. You don’t trust Flins enough to be alone with him, and he’s also no yes-man. But you will certainly not let him bog you down in your process of discovering the truth.
“I’d much rather speak to the Guild directly—” his gaze flies to your bag at your side. “Hold on, what’s in that bag?” It is just now he starts noticing the stench emitting from it.
You smile. “Oh, this?” you lift it, “One of Milena’s organs. I’m delivering it to the morgue after it was found in the town. Your office just happened to be on the way. Do you want to take a gander?”
Of course it’s not her organ. It’s your dinner. The morgue is not even this direction, and her stomach is already secured. But the first sounds funnier, and knowing you, and with his nose overwhelmed by the putrid smell, he doesn't question the validity of your words.
Nikita turns green. You’re horrifying and disrespectful. “Tomorrow, eight in the morning sharp. Now, leave this office this instant!” he barks, throwing himself up to open the window.
When the day of set meeting comes, fourth, another organ is found—Milena’s uterus, withing the premises of the school she once attended. Of all the gestures thus far, this one gives you chills in a manner far more insidious. It is not merely the violence of the act, but the implication of what is being said. Some would reduce a woman to singular function of bearing life. And yet, even within that fertility, there is something worth grieving. Perhaps Milena did want children. Perhaps she envisioned a future not dictated by her father’s shadow, nor the expectations of others. That too, has been stolen. But uterus is not solely a vessel for birth. It is creation in its most cyclical, most enduring form—a testament to persistence, to pain endured and survived in silence, a body that renews itself even as it suffers. It is vulnerable, yes, but oh so resilient. For the killer, perhaps, it’s only about any type of creation, especially with someone whose mind was so bright and promising.
With the organ safely transported to the morgue, another piece to restore the art piece her body is, you return to your own office.
You are currently being reminded just how verbose people can get. You have gained the permission to interrogate Flins, but not to search his lighthouse—Ratniki’s property. What if he hid some substance here? Not that it matter much—should he be guilty, he would have long since ensured nothing remains to be found. A man like him does not leave loose threads. Nikita brought Flins to your tiny office, as per his promise. You immediately noticed how the suspect does not look worried, but rather… amused. No, amused is an ineffectual word. He’s like a child exploring a new environment. And your office hardly deserves such fascination.
A rented attic above one of the Guild’s checkpoints, dim when there’s no windows for light to enter—some items are photosensitive, with mismatched furniture you have accumulated over time to your whim. It’s all practicality—tools of all manner arranged randomly, each somehow useful. In the center, your heavy desk stands, bearing the brunt of your labor.
The chair across it awaits to be warmed by Flins, yet he’s choosing to be a busybody to your equipment displayed on the shelves instead... As if the dead woman back in the morgue can wait a bit longer. Your jaw tightens. She of course won't move anywhere, but any delay in solving the case invites unforeseen contingencies.
Your office stores a plethora of tools, not limited to one specialization—anything could come in handy for you one day. Amid those more dull ones, rests a small balance scale, copper bowls weighing it down on the both sides—he takes great interest in this one.
“Tipping the scales—did you know that’s how they conclude justice in Fontaine? I find it to be—” “Mr. Flins, please don't touch that scale,” you interrupt his antics sharply—as well the unwarranted lecture on the foreign law to be spouted by the loquacious man.
“Oh,” his mouth forms nearly a petulant line at your denial, “Does this scale serve a decorative purpose?” his finger hovers, then presses. Consequently, there's a pressure strong enough to be weighing one of the bowls down. Anxious, you stand up from your chair, reaching with your hand to stop him.
“No. But it’s been calibrated and any indelicate touch will sabotage that setting,” you scold. “Please leave it alone.”
“Hm... but a scale is meant to handle a load..” he frowns, pressing on it again.
“It has a weight limit,” you deadpan. “And you’re about to exceed it with your hand.”
Push it down too hard and the modules inside will shift their assumed shape; you need your scale to be as precise as possible, down to milligrams.
He pauses, as though considering this sincerely. “I see,” Flins acknowledges with an exaggerated politeness. “That makes perfect sense.”
“Yes, so…” you sit back down, thinking the crisis’s over.
But of course, he “accidentally” presses his hand on one of the bowls, when standing up from his crouching position. Your breath hitches, stunned. “Oh,” he says again, as though surprised at his own mistake, “my apologies. I fear I misjudged its sensitivity. Though I believe I saw a similar device once in a souvenir shop in passing. It functioned quite well, if memory serves. Tarno’s establishment is where I purchase my gems. My collection is constantly expanding; in fact—”
You can tell he’s been testing you rather than being arbitrarily disrespectful; gauging how easy it is to provoke you, even though he's the one to be interrogated. What makes you crack. You cannot tell why. Nonetheless, you tuck the mention of the gems to the back of your head—if he owns them, then what about porcelain boxes?
“Would you please sit down,” you point at the chair in front of your desk, sighing with exasperation he probably wanted, but… “Your tea is becoming cold,” that's your workaround excuse.
It works out for you, thankfully. “Ah, yes. Where are my manners,” he concedes, stepping away from the shelf as if nothing happen. “I must be talking your ear off.” He takes the seat—finally. He greets you properly, at last, smiling, “So we meet again, dear detective. I do hope I can be the best of help for you.”
While there finally was an earnest recognition of the weight of the situation, you can still sense that he, in his own Flins way, is happy to see you—quite an aberration, considering the circumstances. Something warm, yet misplaced. You have encountered obsession before—aspiring minds enthralled by the romance of deduction, having read too many middling novels—(well, you did too, but with a bit of skepticism.) Flins seems like a bigger evil than those dilettantes. He also has a rather noble speech and mannerism, counterintuitive for a regular soldier—and you assume Nikita knows a little more about his background.
“That we do,” you say, your tone clipped. “I’m glad to see you willing to cooperate.”
He’s not shaken by your phlegmatic attitude. “Of course. It is only proper to assist in bringing a grieving father some measure of peace… should it come to pass.” So archaic.
“Right, your boss…” you remember, with displeasure. “He is not with you? I thought he wanted to be present during your… interrogation.”
Kyryll shakes his head. “He was otherwise detained. It would seem he places his trust in you. You must have made quite the impression,” his voice carries a ring of amusement. A good impression. He probably knows about your brazen show.
You don’t entertain his mention. Instead, you gesture toward the untouched plate before him. The medovik he brought as a gift sits untouched—honey and walnut that can make anyone's mouth water. Only that you don’t trust him enough to eat his food. You offered to share therefore—especially that sugar loosens tongue, and you could use him being drowsy.
“You're not eating? Are you allergic to any of the ingredients?”
“No, nothing of the sort,” he waves his hand. “I like to maintain a healthy discipline. Healthy body, healthy spirit.”
“And yet you frequent taverns?” you ask skeptically. From what you’ve been told by others, he was a regular comer, too.
“A glass of red wine is often recommended,” he replies, unperturbed. “It gladdens the liver.”
You wiggle at the liver mention. He notices, still smiling. “Very well,” you force the conversation forwards, “I’ll try to keep it brief,” you say curtly. “Can you confirm that you were near The Flagship at approximately four thirty in the morning?”
“Yes,” Flins says with no qualms. Quite cooperative. “A rather customary hour to depart such established. The air, just before sunrise, the breeze—they are very pleasant and bring clarity,” he says with pleasure in his sigh, as if he’s right there in the ambience.
“Then, can you tell me what exactly where you doing here, around that time?”
“Drinking. Conversing. Enjoying myself one does in such places. There's this brand of wine I particularly enjoy… delivered straight from Mondstadt. The nation of freedom, yet not—”
“Mhm,” you say with boredom, “Is there anyone that can vouch for you and confirm that you were there?” you ask impatiently. Your pulse is spiked, drumming against your neck, and this room is so hot.
You seriously can’t tell what it is about this Ratnik that plays on your nerves; you’re not used to losing your cool… At least, to this extent. And yet, he keeps nudging you toward it, making you something uncomfortably close to a foil character in your own investigation.
Perhaps it's the way he constantly looks as if he knows something you don't—and is self-indulgently holding it out of your reach. Not the first person to do so, but only few ever manage to introduce real uncertainty—others were mostly cocky, loud with confidence they would never substantiate, brittle when tested. It’s almost like encountering that one person that bothers you for no tangible and sensible reason, yet insists on occupying your mind, isolating you from the broader group that perceives them differently.
“Yes. I was conversing with Demyan. You recognize him, yes?”
“Yes. The bartender of the Flagship.” That’d give him some alibi, if he factually has a witness. You hate that. “Did you leave the tavern at any point during the night?”
If he were to be a killer, perhaps he would first deposit the body before entering, to linger for a few hours as though seeking closure, and then, on his way out, be unable to not take a final glance at his work—confirming that reality had complied with his intension. It’s not as if someone was babysitting Flins and keeping an eye on him, an adult. It was difficult for the doctor Daroslav to precisely ascertain how long the body had remained there, given the artificially slowed progression of decomposition, which distorted any correct estimation of time of death. Still, you assume Flins would have sufficient time to soak in the atmosphere.
“No,” he replies simply, his eyes glinting with mischief. Your pulse rises, and you rake desk with your nails.
“Not even briefly?” “Precisely.”
“What time did you arrive?” You move in your chair, squeaking it on purpose. He doesn't budge.
“About midnight.”
“When you finally left, at… four thirty?” “Yes, four thirty.”
The tension between you two escalates. While your grows, so does his interest, and yet, he keeps his posture in chair impeccable. It’s really the tiny twitches of his lips and his eyes appealing less dull that allow you to know Flins isn’t a lifeless machine.
“Then why,” you ask irritably, leaning forwards just slightly, “were you seen hugging the crates outside The Flagship, hiding behind them?”
“You see…” his tone shifts into a… flustered tone. “When I spoke of my fondness for that particular wine… I did not exaggerate.”
You furrow your brows, unsure what he’s getting at. “What about it? Was it the wine in the crates?”
“For a fleeting moment, I entertained the notion of appropriating a bottle for myself,” he admits as if ashamed, from the fall of his blue hair. “An unseemly impulse, brought on by indulgence. But I did not act upon it. The moment I realized I had been observed, I abandoned the idea entirely.”
You stare at him. “You… tried to steal wine.” The absurdity of his claim hangs between you. Flins has never admitted to killing Milena, nor has he been troubled by the thought of doing so; yet he acts culpable about stealing a bottle of wine.
“Yes,” his smile turns embarrassed, however, I am no thief. It was a result of… inebriety. A most undignified act of mine.”
“And this occurred minutes before Milena’s body was discovered.” “Yes.”
You watch carefully, dissecting the way he scratches his cheek and chuckles nervously. A perfect actor. At least, the levity finally recedes. Flins dons on some seriousness, straightening his posture that already left little room to complain. “I understand I may have appeared… flippant,” he says politely, “It was not my intent to diminish the gravity of the matter. Rather… it is simply how I navigate such… disquieting circumstances.” Now he claims it to be a coping mechanism. Being mature. Interesting. It doesn’t last for too long, as something… warmer enters his gaze—meant for you, and the way you passionately inspect him. Disgusting.
You take a route of being blunt, as your last resource to derive truth from him. No pretense. “Mr, Flins,” you begin firmly, “it is entirely plausible that many were still drinking at that hour. I am not disputing that. Wrong place, wrong time. However, you must understand—you were seen emerging from the very same secluded crevice where Milena was discovered merely seven minutes later or so.” Your gaze sharpens, pinning him in place. “She may have been here for some time already. That alone suggests you could have been the first to encounter her body. An entire group witnessed you, no one else that wasn’t simply passing by was noted. And as it happens, you knew her personally. Of course,” you pause, gathering your breath, “it could be as your claim. A moment of stupid drunk decision. But…” you trail off.
“Yes…” he hums softly, fingers resting against his chin as though weighing your words on your own scale. “I suppose that would make me… a most convenient suspect.” Yet his gaze doesn’t waver, penetrating you—staring at you like a picture, enough to make your heart race in a different way with how captivated it is. “However, I did not see any body.”
“What? Why are you staring at me?” He’s making this entire interrogation cumbersome, yet you still take the bait. Your hand lifts to your cheeks, instinctively. “Do I have something on my face?” you ask with both irritation and fluster.
“No.”
Is he trying to derail you? “Then enlighten me.”
"Your eyes,” he murmurs, “they take on a certain… luminosity when you pursue an answer. It is quite phenomenal,” he praises. “One might almost forget the grimness of the subject, watching you think.”
You stare at him with bemusement, though your stomach twists in a surprising way, not entirely immune to his silver words. Whatever glow you might have, it’s irrelevant at the moment!
"Thank you?” you say with a gulp.
"You are most welcome,” he replies with a chuckle following, as if he has been granted something precious.
“Anyway,” you grab the cake for yourself, more out of displaced agitation than hunger. You miss his satisfaction. “You knew her personally,” you finally go back on track, now pushing away your prejudice against him. “Tell me about it.”
Flins observes you with particular attentiveness as you take that first bite, as if the simple act was bringing him pleasure too. “She was a frequent visitor to the island I inhabit,” he begins at last, his tone softening into something intimate.
“For what purpose?” you ask with intrigue.
“At first, it was curiosity… She has heard the usual tales about the cemetery—a place of fog and unrest, of ghosts that refuse to be forgotten. Such stories tend to attract certain groups...” He’s getting distracted by you, taking longer pauses between his statements. “There’s some people that occasionally wander into that territory, enticed by the idea of something unexpected happening. Yet upon discovering that the reality of my living consists of merely… humble existence, her interest shifted into some kind of pity.” He wets his lips. “She began to insist on bringing me provision, or tidying up some neglect. A funny notion, considering that the son of Starshyna Nikita, Young Master Illuga, has already thought of doing the same.”
Two people caring about him, as if he’s some man in need and not a walking trouble. Did he manipulate them, or does he seriously read as someone poor to these two? He is still making himself to appear an outcast, after all. To be able to infer, you’ll have to ask Illuga yourself later.
“And during these visits, Mr. Flins, ” you lick your teaspoon and he stares at you harder, “did she ever mention anyone troubling her? Did she appear distressed to you?”
“Well... Nothing that would strike me as unusual…” but his words are careful picked as ever, “The usual tribulations of youth—academic burdens, persistence of suitors, the… complexities of familial expectations.”
The last picks up your curiosity the most. Conflicts with a parent could be normal, so they can be an issue downplayed. Drogomir seemed enthusiastic about loving his daughter, but you’ll never the know the half of their real relationship, unless Milena were to rise from dead and tell you herself. You notice the way he lets his words settle, like bait cast into your waters.
Pushing your face closer to his, you lower your voice. “Can you elaborate on what exactly they were arguing about?” the attempt to hide your excitement does not go unnoticed by him.
You still cannot clarify and say it’s Drogomir who killed his daughter, and not possibly the Ratnik trying to throw the shady light at him, yet there’s something worth exploring in this providential offer, as you find each clue to be a prompt for gambling with fate, seeing if it’ll offer anything real good this time. If anything, both sides have been attempting to blame each other.
The recipient languidly stirs his tea, doing the same to your emotions as he knows well your patience is running thin, before he puts on a worried look. “You see… I had reason to believe that Miss Milena… may have… developed certain… feelings towards me,” he says carefully.
He chuckles at your look of disbelief. Milena wanting… him? Although, it cannot be said he’s unattractive, her father told you she was scared of him—sometimes.
“Her father,” he continues, “appeared to arrive at a similar conclusion. I was informed, through her, that he wanted our meetings to cease.”
“Why? Does he dislike you?” you ask with a shake of your head, expelling the cursed thought of Flins being your own love interest.
“This is beyond dispute,” he snickers, “Sir Drogomir maintains rather… exacting standards regarding those he deems worthy of his daughter. And I—,” he nods at himself, mocking his humility, “am but a humble Ratnik, living in a dilapidated lighthouse.”
Humble is the last word you’d use to describe Flins. “Did he ever get physical with her? Has she mentioned ever feeling unsafe with him?” you plant your hands against the desk, leaning forward again.
“To be honest with you…” he says quietly as if it’s a secret between you two, “I believe she implied a certain… possessiveness. A sense of obligation beyond filial devotion. She spoke often of her duty to remain by her ‘papa’s side, so he is not left alone.” He looks around your office in thought, his gaze hanging on an empty bird cage, “Yet there was hesitation in her confessions. Unease. As if the choice were not entirely her own.”
A father being possessive of his daughter certainly could be a motive; if she were to insist enough on leaving his nest, finally shaping the independent boundary, he could take on the mindset of “it’s me or no one.” The approach to her killing would be reverent if he still loves her despite deriving her of life. Old Drogomir really is lonely; if anything, he stubbornly froze himself in the old times’ prime, vicariously fantasizing through what used to be.
It’s amazing how selfish some parents can be. Growing a smaller version of themselves, frustrated when they tread their individual paths. Using children as a pawn to their loneliness, or recalling what the sacrifice they committed as though it grants them eternal claim. Reclaiming their rights when things don’t go as planned—calling their children ungrateful even. Tale as old as time. Instilling fear trough protectiveness is also another possibility. To raise a life, only to refuse it its own. It is not always malice-driven, but neither is it innocent.
“Detective?” Flins gently waves his hand in front of you, pulling you back from the recesses of your head.
“There could be guilt involved, yeah,” you blurt out. “But we need more than implication. Every family faces some kind of struggle. It’s not much, unless he’s been actually abusive with her,” you set the dish aside, brushing your thumb absently over your lip.
Flins eyes them, lingering here.
“I suppose she offered nothing more substantial,” he continues, although his voice has a faint distraction, “only the persistence to remain by his side. She was inclined to take upon herself the greater share of responsibility in many things. That girl…” a small shake of his head, almost disapproving, almost fond. “So accommodating. To a fault.”
For once, you let him ramble. "Go on.”
“One time comes to mind,” he says, setting back against the chair that the light above him halos him with something creepy, “She abandoned her exams after receiving a letter from her father that suggested grave sickness, though with reassurances that a physician was present.” He purses his lips, looking intensely at you so you don’t dare to avoid him. “She rushed to him regardless, only to discover it was no more than a common flu. A dramatization, nothing more.”
The more you hear Flins blabber and feel a bloom of headache behind your eyes, the more you believe Drogomir might—with emphasis on might—have some possessive issues. The event showcased is worth looking into. Unless it was actually one of the prescient event.
“Well,” you drawl, steepling your hands, “Loneliness can make some parents… inventive. Not always maliciously, although it does complicate things.” You stare back, challenging him. “Instead, I will ask you this—you say her father was aware of her supposed feelings for you?”
“Yes.”
You hum with interest. “Did he ever initiate contact?”
“Not directly,” he taps your desk. “Instead, I received a very lengthy letter, written by him. Ardently speaking about his dissatisfaction with me.”
Your mouth pops open. Drogomir told you he heard of Flins, but not about any attempt to contact. “And you’re telling me this just now?”
“Yes, but I replied accordingly to the question which was about her relationship with him, not my with him, nor our vendetta,” he says innocently.
You take a deep breath, one worth many regular ones. “What was in that letter exactly? Were there any threats?” You don't like throwing many questions at once, as they tend to give people an opportunity to fake a correct answer based on what these questions imply. With him, it’s mandatory to not let him omit anything. “In fact, I’d love to see it myself; if you still happen to have it, of course…”
“Yes,” he nods, reaching for his inside pocket. You examine the letter he places right under your nose.
Unraveling it and recognizing Drogomir’s writing, your mind makes connections. This specific line you catch, after reading other cursive speaking about how the possible fiance is undeserving and should stay away:
“[…] I won’t let my precious girl be stained by a grimy man like you! I raised her on my own, I spoiled her, fed her, taught her, made sure she lacks nothing! What can you give her?! She’s mine, my daughter! My child! If you want to keep your job, you better stay away from her! […]”
The rest of the letter is somewhat repetitive, with Drogomir highlighting all the aspects of how his ownership.
“It is certainly something,” you murmur to yourself, humorlessly laughing. “What did you do after?”
“Sir Nikita advised me to discontinue relationship with her. For the sake of avoiding… unnecessary repercussions.”
“And how did she react to your rejection?”
“She was quite sad,” he says gently, “then furious at her father. I had to beseech her to not plead in my case,it would have served neither of us,” Flins says solemnly.
“When was this?” “A week ago.’
“A week— a week ago?” you ask, aghast. The same span given by Tojadski household. If what Flins says is true, it meant Milena must have been alive until at least a week ago—and that some fight might have broken out between her and her father. “Mr. Flins, do you even realize how much this short notice changes things?”
“I would have never considered Sir Drogomir capable of hurting her,” he replies calm as ever, ”so pardon me for having faith in him.”
“This…” you sputter, then sigh, “This isn’t about giving someone benefit of doubt. Your personal feelings don’t matter in the investigation,” you reproach him for his secrecy.
He only blinks at you, as if unable to reciprocate your desperation.
“Forget it. I’ll deal with you later,” You now know the father’s passion for making sure his daughter stays alone is nothing to ignore. “You haven’t heard from her since then, until she was found dead?”
He shakes his head.
Back to the old man, then. “Thank you for today, Mr. Flins.”
“Oh,” he frowns. “Our meeting is concluding?”
You nod.
“Very well.” He stands up, and extends his hand like he did last time. Wanting him gone already, you are ready to shake his hand—only for him to lift it to his lip and press a kiss.
Your heart stills. “What are you—”
“Expressing my gratitude and respect,” he says fondly, looking at you from under his lashes.
He knows how to mess with your head, always throwing something unexpected at you. You yank your hand back before quickly approaching the door which then you shove open. Wordlessly, he follows and thankfully leaves. But the erratic rhythm of your heart does not.
“But… you went through her things and found nothing … why again?'“ You can tell Milena’s father is nervous about your unsolicited visit, something he couldn’t have steeled himself for. You want to believe it is nothing more than a man guarding a shrine—his late daughter’s room, meant to stay untouched, as if she still lived here. Yet your suspicions, newly seeded by Flins, do not allow leniency.
With a reassuring hand on his shoulder, you speak calmly, “Routine checkup. Some things are not obvious the first time… only incremental inspections can help us find something less obvious.” You could press him further, corner him with deeper questions, but it’s too early for that. To accuse him outright would be to provoke a man with means enough to vanish, and a mind too brittle to endure pressure without additional fracture. He lost weight and went even grayer.
“Well… I don't think there’s anything interesting left…” he argues defensively.
You’ll decide that for yourself. It's hard to believe a man at the brink of losing his sanity anyway. “Is there something you believe could be missing?” you press on further.
“No.. I don’t think so,” he shakes his head fervently.
You sigh. Then an idea strikes you. “Did your daughter possess a diary of kind?” Many women do. And Milena, burdened by expectations, strikes you as one who especially would confide in ink. She was smart enough to hide it, from her father capable of trespassing.
Perhaps Drogomir did that, judging by the sudden panic arising in his eyes. “A diary?” he stutters. “I mean… she probably did like any young lady, but I wouldn’t know where she kept it… she was a clever girl…”
“Please don’t lie to me,” you say bluntly, watching his breath hitch in response.
Drogomir gulps and shakes his head again, rebuking any accusations. He wipes his sweaty hands. “N-no, I assure you, I don’t know its location. Please try to find it in her room, maybe she hid somewhere, how would you even not know if I had taken it?! You’re the detective here, not me!”
You decide to play his ally for now, taking on a decile intonation. “Mr. Tojadski, I’m not accusing you of anything. The diary might shed some light on your daughter and Sir Flins’s relationship. I already know your own relationship with her was… strained, but I understand you didn’t want to lose her.”
Your words visibly relax Drogomir, his shoulder sagging. “Right! This Flins… he’s up to no good. He is no good at all! Are you saying you suspect he might have killed her?” He’s happy to shift the narrative and make him the perpetuator again.
You smile. “We’re destined to see the truth. So, you say you don't have that diary?”
He exhales deeply, eyes darting in hesitance to tell you. “No… but! I’m really not a bad man! The truth is, I did want to keep some sake after her to myself. A memento. I wanted to take it for myself. But I couldn’t find it. I don’t wish to make your investigation any more difficult. So I’m telling you the truth. I swear, I don’t know where it is,’ he trips over his own words.
You nod sympathies. “Of course. I understand. That’s what any loving father would do—preserve something of his daughter,” you agree, all sycophantic.
He clings to that, nodding and nodding until his head might fall, slowly forgetting your implications.
You resume your search therefore, lifting digging underneath Milena’s mattress. Her room could belong to the one of princess—floor to ceiling pink curtains, a spacious bed with canopy, heavy wardrobe, and silk rugs muffling every step.
“She misunderstood,” he says, panting above your shoulder. You pause. “Misunderstood what?” you ask, a little bit squeamish from his closeness. “She misunderstood…” he rambles to himself. Barely anchored in presence with you. And then, he collapses.
The man suddenly sinks down to his knees, clutching to your legs with broken sobs, more terror than grief. “I mean it! She must have hidden it, I really didn’t hide anything! I didn’t hurt her! I’m not dastardly!”
Look at him. A wrack of the man, saturated with grief, looking for the last source of comfort and hope. Yet there is nothing left to grip, and so he must succumb. If he is the murderer, the guilt must have set him insane. The dichotomy of guilt and brutality, in which affection meant to be warm, would be a catalyst to relinquish object of possession with mercilessness. A blade and hand can easily end life in an instant, so does possessiveness, only so so slowly, drip by drip drilling tracks in a stone. One may commit atrocity and weep over it in same breath, as terrifying it is.
In the end, you end up calling his maid for help. Drogomir is becoming delirious, the more the killer taunts with days. You wouldn’t blame any father for grieving this awful level, setting you back with your suspicions.
He could have killed her all right, that much remains true. But the precision, the ritual, the almost reverent disassembly—it does not belong to trembling hands such as his. Not alone, at the very least. What if Milena’s murder was not the work of a single individual? There’s so many discrepancies in the entire affair. That makes you realize you must be missing a crucial point. With Milena’s diary as a possible source of truth, you hope to discover it soon. It may speak where the dead cannot.
On your way to the Voynich Guild’s archives, you stop by the morgue where Milena's body rests. Nothing has changed. Not a shade, not a slackening of tissue. Her idiopathic condition has been keeping you awake at night, haunting you with her ghost—or the rare naps you manage to catch, as you barely sleep.
You’ve asked around about the theoretical drug organ traffickers use. What little you unearthed was nebulous at best. A broker named Valethi spoke in half-truths, mere rumors, hinting at a compound whispered among those affiliated with The Fatui. Except, there’s no proof or evidence. And if you were to dig yourself, you suspect there would be no one to save you. So you turn to what, for now, is achievable—the archives.
It is just now that you find time to browse through the Voynich Guild’s archives. It does not encourage comfort. You sneeze more than you read, irritation prickling at your eyes as you sit into one of the sparse chairs. Metal shelves stretch endlessly, swallowing the place whole. No windows, no warmth, only paper blurring at the edges, storing past.
Digging into the past, it seems Nod-Krai had its fair share of serial killers—who wouldn’t take their sweet chance, in an autonomous land like this? Men and women alike, who carved their names into history. Brutal. Scared. Stupid. Genius. But nothing matching the paradigm of Milena’s murder—removed organs, or purposely slowed decomposition, meticulous work… all these articles talk about rather a messy work in comparison—sadistic and panicked especially. Nothing to earn this person a title of serial.
“You are causing quite a sensation in Nod Krai, detective.”
People really like scaring you these days. And you are growing rusty, for you jump in your seat and scrape the floor in result. “Illuga,” you exhale with surprise and annoyance, seeing the Ratnik you were supposed to find yet had no time for.
“I thought I might find you here,” he says, stepping closer, “Old pops told me you were looking for me. Something about Mr. Flins. But you’ve been difficult to catch.” With no spare chair, he perches on the edge of your table, glancing over the scattered documents with curiosity.
“Oh, right,” you mutter, rubbing your forehead. “I meant to find you. Got… distracted along the journey.”
Illuga’s expression turns more disapproving that judging, as he’s a bit worried about your sorry state. “You look like you haven’t slept,” he remarks, crossing his arms. “That’s not going to help you see things clearer.”
“I see enough,” yu wave him off, though the edge in your voice lacks its usual bite. “Anyway. Since you’re here, it saves me the trouble.”
He nods once. “Go on, then. What do you need?”
“Well, my questions were mainly about you helping Flins. He said you visit him regularly,” you look back at the papers, deciding to multitask.
“I do,” Illuga confirms, “Mostly delivering supplies. Food. Sometimes food.” He rubs his face too, and you wonder just how often Flins troubles him. “I still don’t understand how he manages out there on his own.
“Does he even eat?” you joke dryly.
“He does. Just not too much.” A faint smile tugs at his mouth.
Flins and his quirks. Then there’s that lantern… Lightkeepers are expected to carry one, yet his is like no other.
“How does he maintain his weight then,” you mutter. “He’s not exactly frail.”
“I dunno. All that wine probably,” Illuga laughs quietly.
You huff. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“Two weeks ago. I usually drop enough to last for a month,” he says, swinging his legs.
“Hm, and during that visit, did he behave in any odd way?”
Illuga tilts his head, considering. “Nothing beyond what you’d already call usual foor him.” Which is to say—everything and nothing.
Seeing no promising results, you push the archives aside, shifting your chair to look at Illuga properly. “What do you think of him?”
“He’s strange,” he admits plainly. “Likes to push people. Observe their facial contortions,” he pauses, smiling modestly, “But he’s also pulled me out of trouble more than once. Others too. There is many who owe him for saving their lives.” He brushes his pants, as if fondling a precious memory. “He’s no evil,” he adds, more firmly. “I know that’s the part you’re clinging to.”
You wonder if Flins really is such, or he paints himself to be. You decide to be blunt with Illuga. “I cannot help but think that Flins of yours is pulling wool over my eyes.”
He adjusts his position, suddenly heaving a very big sigh through his nose. Not irritated… more accustomed to such accusations. “People’s feelings about him tend to be ambivalent,” he starts carefully, “And never does he help them think otherwise. But… he’s not a bad man. I think he’s just…”
“Yeah?”
He glances at you, almost amused in his purple gaze. “I think he likes your attention.”
You blink rapidly, trying to take in his assumption. “Um. Why would he.” You play with your hands, shifting a pen in them.
“He likes things that are not mundane. Especially those with latent potential…” Illuga doesn't want to defend his friend about that part—you can tell—yet he doesn't want to lie to you either.
“So he’s waiting for some sort of spectacle?” you snicker cynically.
“Are you that much better?”
You stiffen. “Excuse me?”
“You're curious about him too. You came all the way here. Dug through all this, even his files.” He gestures vaguely at the papers in front of you. “You chase things other people would rather leave alone.”
“That’s my job!” you say stubbornly.
“Is it?” there’s annoying insistence in his voice. “Or is that just what you tell yourself so it makes sense?”
You frown, your blood boiling. “I’m curious for the sake of investigation.”
Illuga nods as if accepting your words, but not quite believing in them. “And not curious about him as a person? Be honest, how often do you meet enigmatic people like him?”
You don’t answer immediately. He doesn’t press—not that he needs to. The silence does all the work for him.
You click your tongue, breaking it. “So you don’t think he killed Milena?”
“Never.” His hand moves to rest on his chest, as an oath. “Flins might unsettle people, come off as peculiar. But he wouldn’t do something like that.”
You search for cracks in his conviction and find none. “How do you know you’re not biased?” you ask almost desperately. How can you trust Flins to be innocent, seeing all the clues leading to him?
“How do you know you’re not biased yourself? He’s a perfect suspect,” he backtracks bluntly.
You wince. Maybe you are biased somewhat. But there’s just too many coincidences.
“My approach is still multifaceted,” you say defensively. “I consider everyone. Even her father. Maybe it was neither Flins or he and I still don't have a killer. All the evidence I have left is her diary… which I shouldn’t have said but whatever,” you groan and slap the table with frustration.
“Is it lost?” Illuga asks more kindly, understanding your fatigue, knowing well your case isn’t for faint-hearted.
“Something like that.” You stand up and move to gather papers. The conversation already begins to slip from your grasps ass your mind returns to the case “All right. Thank you for your time.”
Illuga slides of the table, stretching his limbs.
You hesitate, then add begrudgingly—“I’ll try to give that Flins a benefit of doubt—but just for you, Illuga.”
His expression softens, not really triumphant. “Don’t do it for my sake,” he says politely. “Do it so you don’t miss something important.” He steps aside, giving you space to pass. “And get some rest, detective,” he adds. “Even the best lantern burns out if you don’t tend the blame.”
You scoff, as if you think you’re no child—but you allow his words to follow you nonetheless.
You had sought only a momentary reprieve before you would move forthwith into the investigation again, as an impulse brought you back to The Flagship, the very locus where it all had begun. To sit here, to breathe the same air the killer might had, to let the atmosphere steep into your senses—as if to reconstruct some events. You attempt to inhabit the moment of death, imagine what others were doing and not doing at the deadly hour in the morning, to approximate its texture, its immediacy, until you can almost taste the fear that must have permeated it. Not that it’s any pleasant here. The stench of vomit and alcohol, the heated air, loud voices, gossip about nothing and everything—
“Detective.” A familiar sound withdraws you from your constant battle within your mind. Unbelievable. That insufferable Ratnik is here, in the same tavern.
You stare at him, already moving in your seat with an intention to block the bench across from you before he could impose himself— Too late. He is already seated.
“Mr. Flins.” Is he seriously not worried, to roam around freely? You can hear people’s whispers and see them pointing fingers. “What are you doing here?”
“Please, Flins will suffice,” he says, all kind, as though this were a simple social call. “I hope it is not intrusion if I join you. I was having a drink myself, until I noticed you on my leave… You appeared… rather lost in thought. I wonder whether I might offer some measure of comfort.”
“Comfort?” you bat your lashes at him with an incredulous perception. “Do I look despondent to you?”
“I am certain even a renowned detective such as yourself is not exempt from moments of frailty. I find myself concerned by your… lassitude.”
Before you can reject that implication and be offended by it, he adds, “Needless to say, such a state would not render you weak. You are merely fatigued. I have been contemplating whether you might benefit from an outside perspective… or perhaps from additional information regarding Miss Milena.”
Like he is any erudite. What can he even know, other than how to stir chaos? You wonder what is it for him, approaching you, then being generous like he's your sidekick. If he is the murderer, this could be reconnaissance—an attempt to gauge progression of your investigation. Yet he does not strike you as careless enough to expose himself so brazenly… unless he considers himself beyond consequence. Or maybe he’s here for pure amusement, prodding at you already so worn out.
The question of the diary burns at the forefront of your mind—but to ask it directly would be to cede ground. “I’m as right as rain,” you deflect, taking a sip of mulled wine. At this point, the heat and alcohol do their best to anchor you, and keep you from slipping into the disarray gnawing at the edged of your head. From these floating cloves in your drink that form into thorns about to pull you down and drown you. “You, however, should not be roaming freely. You are yet to be cleared.”
“And what, pray tell, would I gain from killing my friend?” Flins taps the table lightly; the sound reverberates too loudly in your exhausted ears. It’s not him trying to outsmart or prove you wrong; it’s a rhetoric question.
“She’s your friend,” you counter, voice turning coarse. “A friend I do not see you mourning. Do you even care?” You're not afraid to get uncouth with him at this point. He must think of you as a joke anyway. Just enjoying himself at your expense.
“Of course I do,” Flins reassures with a hand on his chest. “Alas, we weren't that close. I permitted her closeness because she seemed… in need of it. To reject her outright would have been unnecessarily cruel.” He pauses, peering at you with curiosity. “May I ask you something in return.
“What is it?” you scowl.
“Why is it that you believe I murdered Milena?” he asks quietly.
The question hits you deeper than it should. If he were to be the killer, you’d be giving him extra joy, answering this question. Why. Why. Why. Everything is why and nothing is definite. You could construct the answer easily. His composure. His physical strength. His presence at the scene. The precision require. Mental fortitude. He’d never be a butcher, but an arranger.
Maybe the kill was messy because he doesn’t care about killing, wants to get over it, but anticipates the part that comes after. Or maybe he enjoys watching the victim’s reaction, them unable to stop the holy fact they will never take a breath and perceive again. Maybe he’s throwing you off on purpose. Maybe you will never solve your case, damning your entire career. But why make himself known only now and never before? It wouldn’t be his first kill, judging by the killer’s experience.
“I don’t believe you did it,” you answer at last, irritated. “You are a suspect. Nothing more.”
“Is that so?” he raises his brow, smiling knowingly.
“Yes.”
“And yet,” he leans in, lowering his voice to exist only for the two of you, “if you were to imagine me as the perpetrator… what would compel such the other conclusion?”
You shouldn’t entertain this. You really shouldn’t. But words fall freely when you are irked by him, and your defenses are lowered by exhaustion. Or perhaps you’re just another freak like him. “I doubt a murder of this… particular nature is about accomplishment,” you begin, leaning forward despite the short distance from his nose, your eye contact grasping his. Flins’s eyes hood with a tinge of desire. “But if it were you… I imagine it would be to provoke.”
He’s not offended, as his interest is piqued. “Whose?” he asks softly. “The world’s? Nod-Krai’s? Or is it yours?”
“You tell me.”
His hand moves across the table, suddenly grabbing yours. No gloves, pure skin on skin. You freeze.
“I would not wish to inflict unnecessary headaches like that,” he chuckles. “You are already overburdened. It seems you lose yourself rather easily when something… unsettles you.”
He unsettles you. “I'm used to headaches.” You attempt to withdraw as if burned by his touch, but his grip does not relent—it’s not forceful, yet still resolute.
“I still would not take your wellbeing so cavalierly,” he says, as if affectionately, “for you have no one to compel to rest you when you ought to.”
“You don't know me well enough to care about me,” you reply, disgusted by something enamored with you. Some creature, not a human, as he possesses everything you do, everything you say, feel—everywhere you go. This makes him enough evil in your eyes.
“Is kindness towards strangers a bad virtue?” “It is rarely bestowed without motive.”
“My kindness,” he says, thumb idly tracing the faint line of your vine, “is merely a byproduct of clarity. Once you perceive the world as it is, cruelty feels… embarrassingly primitive. Childish, even.”
His words perk you up, giving food for thought. Those are rather surprising words—him speaking against cruelty, rather than being passive as always.
“What does that mean?” you stop struggling for a moment.
“When you truly understand people—truly understand them—there is little impetus to inflict harm. Cruelty reveals itself as a form of ignorance. Kindness becomes the more intelligent response.”
So he thinks of himself as kind?
“And what if cruelty is not not primitive or immature,” you question, calmer now, “but deliberate? A choice made in full awareness?”
“That too,” he concedes lightly, “is part off being human.”
You press further. “Do you believe humans are inherently evil? That they must claw their way out of some intrinsic descent into their own depravity?”
“Who can say?”
You narrow your eyes. Suddenly, no answer? “You said you know me, right?”
“I know of you,” he corrects gently. “Why do you ask?”
You shrug, feigning innocence. “You just seem to like me a lot,” you say with sarcasm, though your gaze betrays a flicker of something less certain as it drops to where your hands remain joined. Speaking heart to heart. His hand is a bit cold yet still warm. Blood rushes underneath, alive like you are. It’s an important reminder that Flins is still another person.
“I am,” he says without hesitation, his grip tightening just slightly. “Immensely curious. The way you pursue truth, the manner in which you dissect the human condition that’s somehow as complicated as alchemy… It is, if I may say, rather exquisite,” he praises genuinely. “Albeit, I must admit—the timing of such fascination may be considered in poor taste.”
“It is,” you say dryly, “By most conventional standards, I think.” You breathe in deeply. “Although, curiosity is common. People theorize to soothe themselves, when fear demands explanation. But yours…” You shake your head. “Yours isn’t like that.”
He inclines his head, accepting the critique with grace. “I suspected as much. You have not been particularly subtle in your distaste.”
“And yet you persist.” Then after a second, you decide to shame him. “You know, Flins,” you say as if he’s your old friend. “I don’t like fearmongering, everyone around running like headless chickens. But there’s positivity in it. Occasionally, even a broken clock is right. People have interesting theories, giving you new perspective, less biased from what you already saw. You, on the other hand… you add little with your curiosity.”
Flins shakes his head, more so amused with the delineation so accurate, as well respect for you. “I cannot help it. There is always more to learn about humanity. As they say… nothing that is human is alien to me.”
“You omitted I am human from the beginning of this line.”
You swear you see something sharpen in the depth of his empty eyes. It gives you chills your mind telling you to stop dwelling.
“I am pleased you recognized it,” he smiles wryly. “It seems you live by it.”
It’s insane you’re still entertaining this conversation. You lean back slightly, uncomfortable enough to keep distance, and you study him as if he’s an entirely new person. “How much do you know about me anyway?”
“Everything that is readily available,” he says simply, even if his tone suggests nothing is simple, his thumb still moving absentmindedly over your pulse rising.
You decide to test his claim. “Oh, so you must have heard about that one time I caught a money laundering operation?”
“I have.”
Your mind raises alarms at his admissions. That was never public, nor did you ever hear about any leak. Does he actually know the case, or is he saying so to play with you? If he knows, how? You could chalk up everything he does to provocation. .
“Can I call you my fan then?” you ask with a forced smile.
“I would be honored” Flins replies warmly.
“Still…” you muse. “Most admirers attempt contact.”
“I dislike divided attention,” he says honestly, “I was hopeful for… an intimate encounter.”
And fate, it seems, obliged him. What if… he killed Milena for you? No. Too much wine. Too little sleep. Who’d that for an unassuming detective like you.
“Detective?” his hand brushes yours again, more openly, and you jolt. “Are you well?” he asks softly.
“Yes,” you answer quickly. “Just tired, that’s all. A-and, whatever floats your boat. You are lucky to receive three of them in a short amount of time.”
“Four,” he corrects, rising from his seat. He leaves a mora coin on the table—despite you not needing any money. “And do rest. You are no longer operating at the full capacity. It would be… inefficient to continue.”
But your mind only zeroes in on the number. “Four?” You don’t remember more than three. Each meeting with him was memorable enough to know the exact count. “Flins, what are you talking about?”
He’s gone.
“Four…” you suppose he plans to meet you again. Unease brews in your chest. Which shouldn't be the case, considering there’s still a lot to go through. “Like I’ll be there with bells on…” you scoff to yourself. But then you realize. Right. A fourth organ is still missing—Milena’s heart.
Milena seemed to favor leaving the city behind whenever she could. From what you gathered, after bothering her so-called friends once more, outside of loitering near Flins’s cemetery, she often wandered into the grounds of Barrowmoss Barrens. A perilous idea, given the Wild Hunt’s frequent activity in these lands; yet is struck you as less reckless and more defiant. Or a deliberate seclusion, seeking a place vast enough to contain what she cannot name.
The territory itself carries a certain malignancy—not solely because of its dangers, but because of the pattern coming to your mind. The killer has been returning Milena to the places she once loved—their own cartography. If they knew her well enough to chart her habits, there’s a chance of you coming across them.
You step onto the muddy grass, petrichor in the air, a tremor passing through you growing cold. Hours passed in your futile wandering, of not finding any place with a diary, yet you barely felt the passage. The sky now dimmed, and clouds thickened into an ominous ceiling, reducing the world below to shades of gray. Just as you will to abandon the search and return to the city, something finally emerges through the fog. An abandoned watchtower, standing crooked at the northern edge of the plateau. Once, Lightkeepers must have climbed it to patrol the land, before abyssal influence it obsolete. Now it lingers with a wood turned ashen roof overtaken by moss, its structure trembling with each passing gust of wind.
Standing at its feet, you think it is exactly the kind of place someone like Milena would choose: distant, forgotten, removed from the suffocating expectations of life. You try to imagine her here. Alone with her thoughts, the wind threading through her hair, her mind expelling questions you now form: What does one do when love begins to resemble a cage? When duty becomes indistinguishable from a submission? When your future feels like a script written by someone else’s hand?
Your hand rests on your revolver as you approach, the other gripping your lantern. Every sound is amplified with hollow vastness around you. Finding nothing at the bottom, you test the ladder with your foot before climbing. Each step protests under your weight, but thankfully holds.
Inside, to your frustration, the space is empty. Dust, splintered wood, the faint scent of rot. You hang your lantern, spreading light across the walls, and begin to search. Milena would not leave something important in plain sight. She was not careless, you know, even if you don’t know her.
Then, a sound breaks through. A percussion with no clear direction. You freeze. Maybe it’s qualia—hopefully. “Wind,” you murmur under your breath, though you feel alarmed even with the explanation. The silence that follows is heavier than ever.
Then comes another noise, drawn-out and almost like a yawp. Not quite human, not quite like anything you have heard before. Maybe it’s the wood expanding. Hopefully…
You continue palpating the walls of the house, looking for any loose board. Any hidden compartment--. You swear that, when the tower shakes more rapidly, it’s not the wind that suddenly howls with more sharpness. Your breath catches as you glance downward and spot no animal or monster that would have rationalized the movement.
Something’s coming. “Little detective, little detective! Always prying where you're not welcome!” It’s a female voice. Jagged, distorted with some glitch, full of bitter mockery for you. Your stomach drops.
Oh, how much you despise that nickname. They all teamed up against you to taunt you with your past. “Milena?” you ask tentatively. “Is that you?” You don't know why it would be her and not a vertigo caused by your exhaustion, yet she sounds too real. Maybe she’s shackled here, her only safe spot.
You receive no answer, only impact. Your head slams against the wall with brutal force, your vision bursting into white. You collapse onto the floor, your world tilting violently. A weight forms against the back of your skull, and while there’s no hands on it, it’s undeniable. You hear a laugh right in your ear.
Wait. It’s not solely Milena’s this time. It’s another voice too, far more crueler, etched into your mind with surgical precision, taking turns with her. “She wanted you. She wanted to hurt you.“
Your breath is ruined. No, no, not here and now!
“And you let her, thinking she’s a good woman! But she wasn’t!”
Her laugh. Her smile. Her guiding hand that caused so much hurt. Her voice.
“Shut up!” you scream, clutching your head as if you could physically tear the sound out. There is no figure to see, no ghost, only you being violated by some echo, leaving you helpless when there’s nothing to grip and strangle so it could go away.
“Did she bleed out much!” she screams back.
Her words split something open inside you. You cannot understand how Milena, if it’s truly her, could reach into this part of you and drag it out so effortlessly. Flins, that little boy, now Milena and another ghost of your past—it all weighs heavily on you, forcing you to acknowledge feelings you tried to bury deep inside.
“Yes,” you choke, your hand striking the floor. “She bled, she bled so much. I killed her. I did.” You had to— you had no choice!
“But she hurt you!” Milena insists relentlessly. “She would have hurt others too!”
You remember it all too clearly. Admiration turning into horror. Your mentor chased brilliance and entertainment like a starving carnivore, and manufactured someone’s tragedy just to solve it. A grotesque parody of desire. And you were so foolish, not knowing the truth for a long time, always revering her. When you understood, it was you who had to stop her, and when she threw herself at you—you ended her life, terrified. Of the same woman that used to call you fondly a little detective as if you were her own child…
You are terrified till this day—what if one day, in the absence of challenge, you might follow the same path. That the hunger for thrill might corrupt itself into something indistinguishable from cruelty.
“Say it!” the voice shrieks. “Say her name!”
“M-Milena, what do you want from me…” you beg her to stop, as the tower groans and shakes.
“You’ve been snooping around! It’s none of your business!”
“I’m helping you!” you yell with desperation.
“Why must you always get in my way! Say it! Say her name!”
“No!”
“Say it or I’ll bring this whole place down!”
“A-agata… she was… Agata… are you happy now…” you whimper, the name tasting like vile.
Silence falls, but only as a shift. The pressure lessens, just slightly, as if you momentarily appeased her.
You force yourself upright, swaying on your feet. “Enough. Enough about me,” you rasp, anger cutting through the lingering terror. Where is that diary of yours… before I’ll have you die again!” You’re so sick of all of this nonsense. This investigation has been on for what? Four days? And you’re already down on your knees, thinking you might die here.
“It’s mine! He’s mine!” Milena rambles.
“W-who? Flins?” you ask dizzily, your vision swimming.
“My future is mine! Not my father’s!”
She’s not making any sense, caught between memory and emotion, incapable of linear thought. You have to work with what you’re given.
“Four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon, three in the evening… I died at just two!” she cries out hysterically into the air.
“I know. I’m trying to help you. I want to help you,” you say fiercely. “Please, tell me- was it your father who killed you? Or was it Flins? someone else?!”
“My papa! That scoundrel!” She doesn't deny anything the same way she doesn't confirm. “And that beautiful man… he broke my heart…” she wails. It’s all a ghost’s lament, nothing logical. You have to read between the lines.
“Milena…” you say more carefully, softening yourself despite the pounding in your skull. “Your diary. Your pages.”
“Pages! Pages of life so short!”
“Diary pages.”
“My diary!” she murmurs, almost tenderly. “My only real friend!”
“Yes… friend. And your father wants it.”
She gasps, even if she has no lungs to draw air with. “My papa wants them?!” she sounds indignant. “That naughty man!”
“Yes… I’ll… protect them for you…”
“Protect… yes… you need to protect them…” she says desperately. “He was too intrusive…”
“Yes,” you say tiredly. “So where is it?”
“On the bottom.” That’s the only warning she gives you before you plummet hard. You fall down, with a scream. The impact steals breath from your lungs as you hit the ground, pain radiating through your body in waves. For a moment, you can do nothing but li there, stunned, the sky curtains spinning above you and twisting into nightmarish shapes. But that’s also when you see it—beneath the structure, tucked where only invasive searching would reveal it, is a small bundle, tied carefully against the underside. Milena’s diary.
You drag yourself forward with a strangled noise, fingers trembling as you reach for it. But the moment you clutch it to your chest, the wind rises violently around you. “No! Give it back! It’s mine!” she howls and sends wind at you.
“Please, Milena!” you shout back, breaking. “I know it’s yours, but I need it to help you!”
“Can’t help the dead!” she laughs miserably.
“What do you want then!” you’re so tired of her nonsense.
“Leave.”
“I can’t leave,” you try to sit up but she pushes you down again, “I’ll give you anything. Let me help you.”
“Anything?” she suddenly calms down, excited by your offer.
“Yes.”
“I want to leave,” she whispers. “I can’t take this torment anymore!”
Your grip tightens on the diary. “You will. I’ll bury you properly. I promise. It all will be over soon.”
Another tremor in the air, as if her grief.
“But I can’t let him win!”
“Did Flins—”
“Do not speak his name! That traitor!” she shrieks.
She must be heartbroken about his non-reciprocated feelings too, but what if there’s more to her rage?
“How did he betray you? Tell me!” you press, finally sitting up despite the protests of your bruised body.
“He stole my heart!”
Words too ambiguous, you still make a promise. “I’ll grab it back for you,” you swear with all your chest. “No one will touch you again.”
A pause. Hopeful. “You promise?”
“Yes.”
“... I’ll be waiting for you, little detective.” And she is gone.
You force yourself to stand, hissing at your muscles constraining, so you can climb back towards the lantern’s light. There is no time to rest—not anymore. You open Milena’s diary with shaky hands. And so, her words spill out. Hopeful, in love of her future, wanting to make change in the world. Painfully human as she writes of Flins too, not with fear Drogomir stated, but something far more softer. He brought her comfort when no one else did. A refuge even, just by letting her stay here. Then comes the entries about Drogomir himself—layered with guilt, obligation, and quiet dread. She writes of wanting to leave, of fearing what would mean for him, of the invisible leash that kept her bound.
And then there’s the favorite places. Every location the killer has used, described fondly yet with a tinge of loneliness in this big world. Among these lines, you derive one as utmost crucial. The Final Night Cemetery. You never were informed just how much she enjoyed the place, as otherwise, it would have been obvious from the start. Flins Drogomir claimed her to saw sporadically. With three organs dropped elsewhere and none here, there’s a big chance the final piece of her heart is waiting here. And dawn is already beginning to break.
You are in a wretched state by the time you arrive at the cemetery. Whether the encounter with Milena’s ghost was real or merely the effect of a mind overextended, you cannot tell. Your thoughts put you into amok, that even with your body protesting every step, something far more visceral propels you forward.
You didn’t report anything to the Guild, and ask for an assistance. Inconsiderate of recklessness of what you are about to do, you simply have no time for anything else. With dawn already threatening the horizon, and the certainty that another organ and its message will be placed, you challenge yourself to confront Flins directly. You are aware this is foolish, you walking into this alone, armed with little more than a revolver and your dwindling clarity, borders on suicidal. However, what can a Vision do against a good old bullet?
Yet it’s not an attack of Vision that stops you in tracks. He’s here—he’s been waiting for you, hoping you manage to find out everything in time, and now he has a bloody gift in his hand. As if the entire world has been arranged for this moment. Under the pallid wash of moonlight’s reminiscence, Flins stands beside a grave, full of composure that tells you death is just a result to him. In his hand rests something that does not belong to him: Milena’s heart, dulled and with its color wrong. And yet, it fits. This grotesquely intimate image makes him almost resplendent. You don’t justify this, but it completes him like a missing puzzle you strained from solving, for the final answer might scare you. The image is abhorrent, yet… befitting.
The heart is the cruelest organ to take, all the more when Milena’s heart was never entirely hers to begin with. It was divided long before it was even removed, split between yearning for more and obedience for her father. Then Flins stole her heart too; beyond the incision, as he hurt her feelings too. The heart that was a symbol of what was never allowed to fully form. Heart governs what reason cannot. The heart full of love, the heart full of pain, hoping and wanting and bonding—her ability to feel was taken away from her. Never to plump blood again, pulsing with essence of life.
The killer stole her entire life. The image of someone holding her heart so intimately, intrusive dominion, pains you. It says: what made you live no longer belongs in your chest, what made you live never truly belonged to you at all.
Those jaundiced eyes lift to meet yours. “Are you perhaps looking for this?
Your throat tightens, and all of the theories thus far collapse into one question—did he do it? Did he truly reduce Milena to this—scatter her parts like some perverse offering, desecrate her body with such coldness? He must have know you would eventually come here. He led you here, dropping clues like bread crumbs, down to this rabbit hole. Betrayal at its finest.
“Kyryll!” his name tears from you with a yell, raw from shock. You stand just a few meters from him yet you feel his influence over here too.
In return, he takes in your goggle-eyed form, ignoring your accusation for a moment. Bruised and slovenly, you barely standing on your feet, as if you came here straight from hell. “What happened to you?” he asks with worry misplaced for the situation.
You don’t accept it. “You’ll be coming with me, Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins.” Your voice hardens as you point your weapon at him, forcing steadiness into your shaking grip. If you're going to pass out, it’ll happen only after you arrested him.
“On what grounds?” he asks calmly. “Have you perhaps made a miscalculation? You do seem… tired.” He frowns.
You don’t need his condescending comments at the moment. Your jaw tightens. “On suspicion of desecration of a corpse and involvement in Milena Tojadska’s murder,” you reply sharply. “And you will comply. Hands on the stone.”
“So I’m to assume,” he continues, as though not taking you seriously, “that the true killer will be allowed to walk free?”
He turns away from you—not in dismissal, but to place the organ into a porcelain box resting nearby. Slow, in a way that seems reverent. Then he removes his gloves, revealing bare hands—clean—as if preparing for something else.
“The real killer,” you snap, “might very well be standing in front of me. You’ve staged enough in your sick theater. Whatever you were trying to prove, whatever sick amusement you derived from Milena’s death—it all ends now.”
“And you were the most interesting participant of it; however, “ he replies, turning back to you, “such brutality could not have come from my hands.”
You scoff, impatient. “What are you talking about?”
“My greed is of a different nature than that of humans,” Flins say softly, meeting your gaze fully with hands behind his back. “I think we both know who the real culprit is.”
You wave your weapon with a childish irritation. “Enough of the riddles!”
“For someone so valiant, you rely on impulse more often than you would admit,” he observes thoughtfully.
The remark hits you deeper than it should. You almost drop your weapon, yet your anger flares again. “And you think you’d be speaking for me, for some reason?”
“Was the killer not hiding in the plain sight all along?” he smiles faintly. “Though I suppose I should express my gratitude. Without his actions… we would have not come this close to one another.”
“You mean yourself?” you retort.
“Don’t tell me that your thoughts are not already occupied by that man.”
Drogomir. You have considered it—of course you have. Him motivated by Milena’s insistence to be independent. His possessiveness. This aligns well. It’s just the image of a grieving father, so visceral, that did not align with the precision and coldness of the crime. But perhaps that was your error—you are still a fresh fish when it comes to cases as such. But there's still Flins’s interference, him playing chess with you. And now, it’s as though he's claiming it’s Drogomir who killed her, and Flins “simply” played with her organs after, for whatever reason. You’ll have to figure out everything once both sides are locked somewhere.
“We don't have time to talk. Come with me,” you say sternly.
“I'm afraid we will be staying here.”
“We?” you taunt.
“There is much to discuss.” He clasps his hands together, looking at you with eagerness, finally pure and unfiltered.
Brevity was never his strong suit. Now especially.
You exhale slowly, adrenaline the only thing keeping you up. This is no longer a negotiation.
You don’t like doing this, but it’s the only way to keep yourself safe. No Vision means you are vulnerable against a season warrior like Flins. But your revolver isn’t. A bullet aimed well enough to wound but not kill. You have pulled a trigger before. You can do it again.
You aim at him properly—his outer thigh to avoid hitting femoral artery. “Flins. You will come with me,” you don’t do any wheedling. “You’ve played enough sick games.”
“I cannot,” he replies calmly. “That would require admitting to a crime I did not commit.” Then he taunts you, fox-like, “But tell me—can you truly do it?”
Your voice is steady, even if your pulse is not and your own heart beats mad. “I’m counting down from ten.”
Your thumb draws the hammer back with an audible click into the fog around you, the revolver suddenly feeling heavier in your hand, as if the mechanism itself understands there will be no second warning—despite him zeroing in on your rapidness with only appetite in response. You can’t be safe here on your own. The fact he’s unperturbed in front of the weapon only adds to his danger.
“Ten… nine… eight…”
He doesn’t move, penetrating you with his gaze—delighted by your intensity.
Your palm sweats. “Seven… six… five…”
“You won't do it,” he says surely.
You have to adjust your grip. “I'm not kidding! Four… three… two…”
He raises his eyebrows and laughs.
“One.”
You pull the trigger with no hesitation. Your entire life freezes in this moment, each nanosecond passed by with your heart going up by one tempo note. There’s a rare taste of fear—real, raw—and you only feast on it, ecstatic by something human in you staining you, as well repulsed by the inferiority of it. If Flins somehow dies from your bad aim, you perhaps will thank him for making you important for a moment.
The trajectory of bullet allows it to land in his knee, and you expect a lot of shock pushing the man back onto his grave—with the inscription Chudomir Aarnivalkea. Instead, there is nothing. No recoil of flesh, no blood. Flins stands exactly where he was, unmoved, but his expression speaks of something ecstatic born by your choice. And then he lifts his hand, where the bullet rests in his palm—caught by him in blink of an eye, a flicker you missed. Caught. Not harming him and making him spill the blood all over the purple.
“Who—or what—the hell are you?” you ask with astonishment.
He peers at you with his own surprise, but it is no fear; he did not anticipate you trying to shoot him instantly. He's now excited. You are so so brave. “It takes much more than this to kill me,” he informs shortly.
“Kill who? Are you even human? No wonder you were giving me creeps…” while you rot in your dumbfounded state, scratching head with the tip of revolver, he approaches you.
“Stay back!” you command, fear overriding bravery. Because what do you do now? He can’t be killed with a simple bullet, and you have no vision.
With your haphazard step back, his swift legs make three—your vision blurs, and you believe even his movements turned inhumanly fast. You brace for impact, yet it never comes. He stops in front of you, close enough for the tip of his shoes to collide with yours. He must be breathing, as you feel the mist on your face, but it’s so cold, colder than the current weather would cause, that you wonder just how long you have missed something so important about him.
Before you can react, his hand closes around your wrist—firm, but not enough to hurt. Your revolver is gone in the next instant, wretched from your grasp and thrown aside—it thumps on the grass in the way your heart does. Everything happens so rapidly, you don’t even have any time to insult him; it’s right before he pulls you into his arms.
“What—” your voices is stuck in your throat, and your muscles spreads tension everywhere. “Flins, what are you doing?”
“Thank you,” he murmurs into your hair.
“Kyryll… n-no, Flins, seriously, what are you doing?” You’ve calculated many possible outcomes; none came even close to what’s currently happening. “What are you even thanking me for?”
“You might say,” he begins, his voice soft, “that when you chose to cast me as your primary suspect, you stepped precisely where I had hoped you would.”
You really don't understand. Flins barely knows you—at least, not personally, and yet he holds you as if this moment had been rehearsed in his mind long before fate even consented. There is nothing hesitant in the way he holds you, nor anything accidental in the patience in which he waits for your breathing to settle against his chest. It is not the first time you have stood close to him, and now, there is something altogether different in his manner: no more teasing, no theatrical courtesy, but the strange pleasure of someone receiving what he had quietly expected for too long. He has no business liking you, in your opinion.
“Do you know me from the past or something? And you still haven't answered my question! And let me go, would you?” the words leave your mouth in one breath, tangled with irritation as you trash against him, though your limbs are too heavy and your head still rings from everything that came before.
“Please,” he says indulgently, his hand brushing slowly over your shoulder as calming some startled animal, “allow me to hold you a little longer. In return, I shall answer whatever you wish. Sounds equitable?”
Equitable. As if this is a romantic exchange and not an absurdity, being held by the man who may yet prove deadly, who stood moments ago with a human organ in his hand, who cannot be felled by a bullet, whose body receives your fear without the slightest offense.
You grow ever tenser, unused to being held; you’ve been married to your work only. Still, there are words possibilities than his arms if the alternative is provoking whatever power he has withheld thus far—so you force yourself into compliance in his arms. “Alright…” you mutter. “Starting with the first question, what are you? I guess you not being a human is a given.”
You think it’s a perfect inquiry to be made first; judging who he is, you could gauge how much danger are you in. It's just being held like a lover that's not so satisfactory to you. You remember all these tiny affectionate gestures towards you.
“You are correct,” he says, almost satisfied at your curiosity. I am not human. I belong to the fae kind.”
“A fae?” you squirm your body enough to look at him properly. “As in… the Snowland fae? Those from old Sneznaya?” You remember the old stories you’ve read as a child—one that caused your mind a lot of phantasmagoria, childish wonder—except they were supposed to stay a legend. “I thought your kind no longer exists.”
“Many things persist after some people decided they not ought to,” he replies, charmed by your effort to place him historically. “And yes, those very same ones. I lived long before you.”
A long-lived species, then. You grimace when his fingers move to your nape, unable not to think that those same hands held Milena’s severed heart. “So you are older than Tsaritsa’s reign.”
“Yes.”
“Wonderful,” you mutter. “That explains why bullets are apparently beneath your dignity. A noble.”
A soft laugh escapes him.
You suddenly feel vulnerable. Small in front of a creature like him even. “Then what could an insignificant human like me possibly offer a fae like you?”
At this, his hold on you shifts—tighter, more selfish. “Humans,” he starts quietly, “are considerably more interesting than gods and mortals alike pretend they are. Some, at least. You among them.”
You should suppose Illuga was right. He likes your attention. “How long were you stalking me for?” This is obvious to you now; his strange familiarity, the details he should not know, a certain fascination with you that takes time to brew, as well the confidence with which he names different theories about you.
“Months,” comes out the honest answer; worse, with no shame. If anything, it’s twisted with excitement, perversion, now that he may finally confess openly. “You might strike me for that if you find it necessary.”
You do. Your first lands between is shoulder with more indignation. It earns nothing but laughter.
“You watched me for months like some depraved voyeur?”
“Is that worse than you taking a life? You must be still shaken,” he asks brazenly, and the suddenness of the comparison stills you more effectively than his hold.
He knows even that. It’s not fair. You did that in self defense. He must be testing your expressions again.
“That’s apples and oranges” you say with dry throat. “I was forced to.”
“I know.” For the first time, his tone loses amusement entirely. He loosens his hold just enough to look at you directly, his face close enough that his cold breath touches your lips like a kiss. “I do not accuse you. I know well enough you would have never done so had there remained another path. Nor was that woman innocent.”
He’s so sure about you. It’s scary. It’s—
“Then why bring it up?” You frown.
“Because it changed you,” he says simply. “And I watched that change before I understood its source.” His eyes carry no typical sympathy, and yet, yet—they find a soulmate in you. Understanding transcending any human emotion. It makes you hot all over your body, and for once, you can’t tell excitement and fear apart.
“Are you getting off to it?” you ask coarsely.
“No,” his fingers brush your cheek, tracing the tremor that appears underneath them. “Only am interested. You are a person perpetually resisting what fate appears to expect of you. There is beauty in that.”
“You promised answers,” you remind him, your voice now lower.
“I am giving them.” He draws you back against him. “Yes, I observed you for months. Your cases. Quietly. I wished to see whether the pattern would hold.”
People call you crazy sometimes. Flins must be the crazy one.
“What pattern?”
“That a person may hold a fracture and still remain functional without surrendering.”
“Why me?” leaves your lips hesitantly.
The moment your heartbeats sync together, his hand brushing your back, you are eager to find out what could be there to you. From one to another. The value perhaps you or others have missed in you that he didn’t. Because if there’s something that makes you more human that the ability to steal life, it’s the ability to live on. You don’t know who you are supposed to be, if the gods created you—you were reshaped by your circumstances, perhaps far from their original ideal. And maybe you are no one in the eyes of gods.
“Because,” he speaks fondly, “it is uncommon to witness someone so willing to inhabit the less flattering compartments of human nature without disguising them. Most people hide their contradictions poorly. You do not even attempt concealment once absorbed in thought. Your mind is eclectic, undisciplined in the way I find remarkably coherent.”
You almost recoil at the assessment. “What would you know about me?” his psychoanalyzing is rubbing you wrong. And yet… it makes you feel understood, as invasive as it is.
“Enough to see that you believe yourself subtle while remaining astonishingly forthright.” You don’t need to see his face to know Flins is smirking.
You should have guessed that… you’ve allowed more than one opening—feeding him to his pleasure. “That’s… just your influence. In any case, I deserve no accolades.”
“You deserve all of my attention,” he says into your ears, enjoying your squirms as his breath ghosts them.
Your heart skips a beat. What is he doing?
“And still,” you say, refusing to let the fluster in your voice dictate tone, “for all this devotion, you remained hidden.”
“I wanted our first true meeting to be special,” he answers. “Something memorable and earned. I waited—patiently, I assure you—for circumstance to offer me a proper threshold through which I might enter your life without anyone’s interference. Then Milena died. He pauses, tickling your ear until you squirm in his arms so delightfully again. “Or rather… Milena died and arrived before me with purpose. Her tragedy became… my silver lining. An opening.”
Your stomach turns. You can’t believe he used Milena for something so selfish.
“You used her.”
“I accepted what she proposed,” he corrects mildly.
His words greatly confuse you. Something is missing too, so you withtrack to another issue.
“How did you know about…” you grimace, “little detective”?”
“From Milena herself.”
You blink rapidly. “What? How would she even know that?”
“She asked questions where questions ought not to have asked. She was diligent when curiosity possessed her. I had a chance to tell her a bit about you.”
The answer is infuriatingly incomplete, but you guess what he’s saying, it’s Milena who dug around your past, using her father’s connections—for still unknown to you reason. But he interrupts you.
“Do not linger too long on one question. Your mind has too many others queued behind it.”
You slap him in response, unable to handle your anger at all of this mess. He merely inclines hid head, scoffing with weird joy—and no pain. “This one too was deserved.”
As you ponder over your next question, worried he’ll finish the discussion too soon, everything around ceases to exist. It is only you and Flins, removed from the rest of the world. A trap, or, a gold mine.
Nonetheless, you calculate any possible weak points in his body, wondering if you can make exit soon.
“Did you kill her?” you ask the most important question again.
“I didn't.”
“Then who did?”
“He was drunk,” Flins says, and something colder enters his voice now. “And already wounded by the thought of losing possession over what he believed belonged to him.”
He knew the truth the entire time and yet he held it from you. Made you run around for the sake of indulging himself. “Her father, you mean.” “Yes.”
“Were you there?” “No.”
“Then how do you know that? Are you lying to me again?” “Because Milena came to me.”
Milena told me—again. “That doesn't make sense! She’s dead. Unless she knew she’ll be killed but then you—”
“Oh, dead can speak just alright. With me, at least,” he chuckles, soothing you with touch between your shoulder blades.
“As a specter?” you ask incredulously. Still, you did see her a few hours ago.
He nods. “She came already aware she was dead. More lucid than, as I suspect, when she troubled you. Grief fragments people further when they understand no breath remains to give them another chance.”
Your eyes drift to the porcelain box, yet to be transported to the morgue. “Then… why did you disrespect her body? That much you can’t deny…”
His expression changes into solemn, not guilty. “I did not desecrate her. I preserved what she asked preserved.”
Your mouth falls open from the shock.
“Why would she?” Everything he says sounds insane, yet it somehow has a logical explanation right after.
“To punish her father,” Flins says seriously. “She understood at once that simple accusation would not satisfy what had already happened. She wanted him frightened, unmoored from any sense of safety. Forced to watch certainty abandon him piece by piece.”
“That’s… why would you go this route… Sure, there’s not much a dead woman can do, but…” you trail off. “Madness. Just madness!” you exclaim.
“It was her grief,” he justifies, “and perhaps some measure of justice twisted into a show of all Nod-Krai.”
You do not know whether to be horrified of Milena or him.
"The lesson had to impactful. It was impactful, I hope.”
“He’s losing his mind,” you admit.
Flins holds you tighter, as if to shield you from the bad man.
“Enough to deny the reality and doubt his own memory.”
You now need his honesty more than ever. “Why agree to such a plan?
His eyes scan the horizon, in search for your answer. For once, words don’t come easily to him; but he knows what he wants well. There is nothing to regret, not when he finally has you. His eyes return fully to you, the most precious element. “Because I thought of you.” No false pretense of a smile. “I thought of the possibility of speaking with you, uninterrupted. And maybe because I found her desperation difficult do dismiss. I’m not a heartless man, believe it or not.”
Just peculiar, you wish to end the thought for him. You suppose you never had someone… who would do so much in their power to reach you, even if you were never outside of their reach. You feel disrespect, yet this is no disrespect—only Flins’s worship of you, your mind, and you as a human, seasoned with selfishness to have you all for himself. He did more than anyone else, and you cannot tell whether you should be scared or grateful.
“So you placed yourself at the crime scene,” you deduce tiredly, resting your head against his shoulder, as you linger in that pushy hug slowly becoming less offensive. Having you question yourself. “Let the suspicion gather until it points to you. Let me chase you.” You laugh dryly.
“Yes,” he laughs too, listening to your heartbeat—it tells him all he needs to know, and the result is better than expected.
“Do you hear yourself?”
“I do.”
The sincerity is unbearable. You now understand why some people stay oblivious on purpose, while you search for truth like a mad dog. You gulp. “Then… how did you preserve the body?”
He nods at the lantern resting at the grave, a dancing blue flame that never stops. “You would be surprised by the flexibility of this lantern.”
“It’s…” you push your head up, observing the source with nearly fascination. “It’s not a normal lantern, is it? You being a fae…” As if powered by some type of magic.
A certain legend of a blue flame Lightkeepers pay respects to…
“The flame can arrest decay, if used correctly,” he watches your expression eagerly. That is—sacrificing some of his living years, but that part… he omits for the sake of you not losing your mind any further.
“And your Vision?”
“It’s not a real Vision.”
“What then? A dummy?”
“One secret at a time,” he teases gently before continuing. “She died over a week ago, you see.” Some rare flicker of anger flashes in his eyes—not really scaring you, but drawing you in. “The morning she intended not to depart for a journey as she told everyone, but to leave her home entirely. Her father learned it, and with wine of sorrow already softening his restrain… anger completed the rest.”
“A-a week ago? She’s been dead for that long?”
“Yes.”
“He kept her body?”
“For two days. Unable to reconcile what he had done with what stood before him. By the time she came to me—as a ghost—he had already begun teaching himself disbelief. Alcohol only made things easier to forget.”
You do remember the bruises on her neck well. Everything slots together with almost elegance.
“And you stole her body from his house...?”
You wrench yourself free from his hold at last after he nods. This time, he allows it, although reluctantly. “Why go so far with all of this…?” your head hurts. Maybe you are dreaming, or hallucinating, your imagination coming up with something as delusional as Drogomir’s mind, as means to comfort yourself. “You are insane,” you say angrily, stepping back. “Entirely insane. You and Milena both. You could have reported him. Instead you staged a grotesque liturgy and used me as your witness.”
“I thought it prudent,” he says sharply, following only half a pace, “that he should taste consequence law would not fully allow.”
He tries to place his hands on your shoulders. You shake him off.
“How do I know you’re still not a murderer yourself? How were you able to detach her organs with such precision?!” Even if with a big chance Flins was honest and open, everything is too much to take.
“I had never opened a human body before, if that is what troubles you,” he sigh wearily, looking down at his bare hands. “I would not flatter myself by calling it mastery. Merely… familiarity with what remains when life retreats. Bones have accompanied me for many years; perhaps you have heard that I fashion little figurines from those I find abandoned in the wild,” he chuckles as if for once acknowledging how quirky he must appear to others. “Birds, foxes, deer when fortune permits—whatever death leaves behind without protest. Such things teach one experience in body care, if nothing else—even if they’re no human body. Besides, I’m used to… staining my hands. Until they no longer trembled.” His eyes lift to yours, faintly luminous beneath the pale light. “And, as you have already witnessed.”
“That I did…” you remark with difficulty.
There is no boast in his other words, merely facts. “The dead are, in a certain sense, cooperative. They do not recoil. They do not plead. The first incision demanded thought more than courage; afterward, the body became a matter of structure—of following what was already arranged beneath the skin. Human anatomy is not so unknowable a scripture when one has spent enough centuries observing how life is assembled.” His voice lowers there, quieter, almost reflective “I moved slowly because she wished precision. Every organ carried meaning she insisted upon. I merely followed the symbolism she entrusted to me.” Then, after the briefest pause: “Cruelty lies not always in opening a body, detective. Oftentimes it begins much earlier—while the heart is still beating.”
His words do something unexplainable to you. After death… there is nothing to fix, not if you don’t exist anymore. Only present can still save you.
You sit down onto on of the stones, and at least, you admit to yourself, “Then perhaps there is no evil at all. Only greed wearing different garments.”
He smiles widely, accepting this version.
“You can say hunger awaits under every name. Her father’s possessiveness. Your exhilaration before a puzzle. My… interruption of death.”
You scoff despite the fatigue threatening your eyes to give in to sleep. “I’m not… excited. And…. gods play with the menagerie of humans all the time,”
“They do. But they pale in comparison to you,” Flins says earnestly, offering you a warm look.
You feel your cheeks flush. “Don’t utter blasphemy like that!”
“If you must punish me for it, then I will endure it.”
“Do not think this absolves you,” you mutter, adjusting your jacket. “I still have to decide what to do with you.
“Are you heading off already?” he frowns.
“Yes. I have to arrest Drogomir, this merchant—that is, if what you’re saying is true. It’s only little time before he figures out I suspect him and attempts to flee Nod-Krai.”
“I beseech you to stay here and catch some respite. You’re barely standing on your feet,” his request sounds serious.
“I took worse. I can’t lose my rhythm. Since her father is a seller, and his murder disrupted everything, it goes against the rules of the Guild enough to warrant an arrest.”
But suddenly, blue flashes in front of your eyes. So that’s another thing his lantern can do… You fall straight into his arms.
“Flins… I change my mind…” you and your voice feel heavy, “I will kill you…” you glare at him, only making him smile.
“No,” he says lightly, gathering you upwards, “not tonight.”
“Why are you doing this…”
“Because,” he murmurs, carrying you towards the lighthouse as if the answer was obvious, “you have hit the wall and insist on pretending you are still fine.”
“Cimelium,” he then mentions, as if to himself, “is a rare treasure; oftentimes the most valuable one. Can you be my cimelium?”
Darkness arrives before you can see how greedy you’ve made him.
You wake up to the sensation of something slow and careful brushing across your hair, a touch so gentle it takes you good time to swim back into consciousness. The room around you would be comforting too, were it not for how oppressively small it is, a narrow chamber fitted into the upper body of the lighthouse, low ceiling slanting overhead, walls of aged timber carrying the faint smell of salt, resin, and lantern oil. The bed beneath you is absurdly soft compared to the rest of Flins’s austere surroundings, layered with fur blankets, a concession perhaps for a guest he had no intention of allowing to leave soon.
Above you, inevitably, is Flins himself, his back resting against the metal headboard, your head pillowed upon his lap.
“Flins?” your voice finally emerges, drowsy from sleep and the headache lingering. You blink rapidly, trying to regain your bearings. “What…”
“I am sorry for what I did,” he says, quietly for your sake, fingers moving over your temple and cheeks. “You left me no better alternative.”
The memory sudden returns in vivid fragments: blue light especially, his confession, you using your weapon…
“I can’t…” you gasp, trying to sit up as urgency overtakes you. “I have to go. I still have to tie every loose end!”
His hand presses lightly against your shoulder and guides you back before you are fully upright. “Do not get up yet.”
“What’s up with that cursed lantern of yours!” the panic takes its hold. “That man will escape.” You have come too far to let him get away now.
“He will not,” Flins replies, with so much conviction that it immediately worsens your suspicion. “I have already seen to that.”
That jolts you upright anyway. “You what?
“I brought him here,” he repeats, as if discussing a dinner rather that a man under accusation of murder. “Quietly.”
“Why would you do that?” Your eyes widen so far they hurt. “What if someone had seen you carrying him through half of Nod-Krai?”
“They did not,” he says, amused by your horror rather than troubled by it. “And as for why… his daughter wishes to see him.”
Your shock continues. “Milena? She's here?”
“She is. Her ghost, that is.” Flins pats your shoulder. “She’s been rather resolute.”
“So this is about closure?” you ask hesitantly, yawning.
“In a way.”
“More like seeing whether her lesson has landed enough?”
At that, he exhales something near laughter. “Yes. That too. Although, regardless of how well-known she proved herself, she does not deserve to linger in pain longer than necessary.”
You rub your face, still half in this disbelief. “You dragged this on for too long.”
“Only by a few days.”
“That is still too long when one is dead,” you grumble.
He offers no defense to that, and finally allows you to stand up.
By then the small table beside the bed has already been laid with breakfast you did not notice before: bliny folded in neat stacks, a dish of smetana, dark jam, and tea steaming faintly. The domesticity of it feels almost offensive after everything.
…
“She was jealous of you, you know,” he says over the breakfast. He’s not eating himself—has told you he finds human food dull and that he absorbs nutrients with his lantern he’s physically connected to.
“Me? But I had never even met her,” you say with confusion. “Well, when she was still alive.”
“No, but she heard about you from me.”
Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth. “What exactly did you tell her?”
“She once demanded to know why I could not return her affections.” His expression turns pensive. “When I admitted my heart was occupied with someone else, she insisted upon detailed. I obliged, telling her what a wonderful person you are, though not so carelessly as to give your name.”
You soak in his implication. That’s why she was so mad with you. She once found someone she thinks can love her differently than her father does, separated from her world. Love her unconditionally. But Flins was in love with you. Everyone was connected the entire time.
“You… you have feelings for me?” you ask awkwardly. It… was perhaps shown by him many times, but at the time, you’ve taken it as a game.
“I believe so…” he shakes his head before he corrects himself. “No, I am quite certain I do.”
“That’s…” he barely knows you. Or he knows you too well, having learned everything from distance. About your past too, like some creep. “Disgusting.”
“Possibly,” he chuckles. “I am still adapting to mortal etiquette. My kind are less disciplined where intensity is concerned.”
“Well, thanks to your affection for me, she rocked my bones. She was furious. At the time, I didn't know why.”
“Now you do.” He leans closer, his voice turning nearly scary, “Although, I will have to reprimand her for hurting you.”
The fact he accepts rejection without hurt unsettles you more than protest would have. He simply continues feeding you, something about it making him happy—your enjoyment is his. After you have replenished some fuel, before you could think of leaving, he lifts one toward you who’s still in fact hungry.
“For a weirdo,” you mutter between bites, “you make rather good food.”
“I am relieved to hear it,” he smiles widely, “I worried my skill was insufficient.”
“It’s digestible. And I could eat a horse at this point.”
“Digestible… perhaps I should work on my cooking skills for you.”
“For me?” But he simply watches you, nearly like a puppy. Does he imply he wishes to see you more often? Cook for you like some lover. You disperse the thought. “Whatever. Can I see her now?”
“Should you not rest another hour? Your body still objects—”
“Flins,” you almost snap, “I can demonstrate how little patience fatigue leaves me with.”
He smiles, as if enamored with your passion. “As you wish.” After standing up, he quickly tides up things. He then offers you his hand. Begrudgingly, you take it. His fingers close around yours with a familiarity that still feels illicit, and he leads you down the narrow staircase, out into the afternoon still pale in the cemetery.
There she is. Her eidolon stands among the graves, belonging here naturally. Except, she’s now whole, not fragmented by distortion or fury, dressed exactly as she must have been before death interrupted her body but not her will—in a lilac dress that matches her eyes.
“Detective,” she greets pleasantly, much nicer than the last time you’ve seen her—smiling.
“Milena… you look… well.” The normalcy of it unnerves you more than her screaming had.
“Thank you,” she says, almost teasing. “You have seen better days yourself, but I’m sure you’ll feel better soon.”
Your mouth falls agape at her teasing, or rather, condescending words. But you force yourself back to what matters. “Do you… confirm what Flins said?”
“And what precisely did he tell you?” she hums, tiptoeing around.
“That your father killed you when you tried to leave your home. That you sought Flins after death. That all of this—” you gesture vaguely around, breath somehow being stolen from you again, “—was arranged because you wanted him to believe madness had found him before justice did. That… there’s a second killer even, and he’s an innocent victim being punished for no reason.”
“Yes,” she says simply. “That is true.”
“And… are you satisfied with the result?”
She ponders wistfully. “More or less… however… I regret I had to give up on Mr. Flins for you.”
“Um…” you’re flustered, staring at her with confusion, all the more when you feel Flins’s burning gaze on you. “Me and him are not…”
“Not. Not yet.”
She comes closer and whispers into your ear, as if a friend sharing secret, “You and he fit better than you wish to admit.”
“I beg you pardon?” you squeak out.
Before you can protest, a violent thud interrupts—heavy, somewhere behind the lighthouse wall.
“That would be him,” Flins says.
You nod your head rapidly, your heart pounding as you’re about to face Drogomir again, now with an exception of your knowledge about him.
Flins disappears briefly and returns dragging Drogomir by his arm, the older man bound at wrists, stumbling so hard his shoes scrape dirt. The instant he lifts his head and sees Milena, all pale as if he’s a ghost himself, whatever denial he had starts evaporating.
“M-Milena?” his voice shreds itself over her name. “Is that you, dear child?”
“Papa.” The warmth vanishes from her at once. Her entire figure sharpens with grief made blade-like.” I can’t believe what you’ve done to me!” Milena immediately throws her laments at him, no tears spilling but her face moving as if she cries.
Drogomir is terrified, confused, and shakes as if she struck him. “D-did what? N-no! The real killer stands behind you! He has deceived you even now!”
“Just how much more do you plan to delude yourself, hiding for comfort in your own lies!” Her voice raises, carrying not distortion, but clarity full of agony. “You killed me, for you were unwilling to let me go!”
“You’re playing tricks with me! That useless man has fed you so many preposterous ideas even after your death!”
“Do you not remember how I struggled beneath you? The way your hand closed around at my throat?” she points at her throat still wielding bruises, undeniable, “The pulse you crushed because your life mattered more than mine?”
“No… no…” he says with horror, rolling on the grass with refusal—all these memories befall, lifting the vail off his brain, “I would have never hurt my precious child… I loved you!”
“And yet you killed me! You selfish swine!” Her words are harsher than any judge’s would be.
“Oh god… I did that… I… my own daughter…?” “Yes! How could you do that!”
“I was devastated, I remember—” “You were possessive.”
“I did not mean—”
“It happened regardless! It is no one else’s fault!” Her voice is so loud it could knock you down too.
His knees weaken, and he collapses with tears to feed the soil of dead, wriggling under his bindings, “I couldn’t… how could I ever let my precious bird fly out of our nest…”
“That bird is dead anyway. You lost me anyway!”
None of you say anything for a moment. Drogomir thinks of more excuses, Milena dares him to, Flins watches it all with something condemning for the man… and you barely stop your tears.
“You feared distance as if you think I was willing to abandon you,” she says with a tremble. “But you didn't understand. I only wished to breathe, not disappear. I would have visited. I would have written. I only one wanted one room in the world where I belonged to myself. Distance was supposed to help us.”
Drogomir begins sobbing before she finishes.
“I worried over you more than myself,” she continues, grief gathering force for him him again. “I comforted you, excused you, stayed when I wished to run because every guilt became mine to bear. I was your daughter, and yet, I lived as I was merely an answer for your loneliness.”
“I am so sorry,” he chokes out. “I am—”
“No. You are sorry you are finally forced to remember.”
When he lunges suddenly, not towards her, but blindly standing up and charging towards who happens to be you, your hand moves before thought does. You catch him, twist him hard, and press the gun to his chest. “You still wish to argue?” you ask coldly.
His breath transmits into terrified sobbing. “S-stop, this is cruel!”
“Look at her,” you force, gripping his jaw and turning his face toward Milena. “Look at your daughter properly.” He cries harder while you manhandle his cheeks. “You are cruel.”
He does look, yelping.
“I loved you dearly, father. I worried about you. All I wanted was to be loved.” She weeps. “It hurts so much. We had no one but each other and you have taken it for granted.”
“I’m sorry! I didn’t want you to leave me! But I know everything now!”
“No,” she says bitterly, looking down at him as if he’s a bug, “you know only now because I stand dead before you.”
He falls onto the ground again, as he grips the air behind his back with hand, wishing he could get closer to her. He will never hug his daughter again.
“I’m so sorry… I’ll repent… I’ll do anything…”
“Yes,” she says resolutely, becoming her own judge. “You will. You will walk yourself to the Guild. You will surrender. You will confess every fraud, every hidden scheme, every crime as a merchant you thought is small enough to survive.”
He nods frantically.
“You will also tell Nasha Town what you did to me.”
He hesitates, not out of refusal, but fear “B-but… what if they kill me?”
“Our detective will stop them before they can. Not because I pity you. But because you deserve to live, knowing what you did for the rest of your life. Anything else the detective says, you will obey too. ”
He bows until his forehead touches to the ground. “Go, my child… go and rest… I won’t make excuses anymore…”
Then, at last, Milena’s outline begins to thin. The anger leaves first, then grief. It’s tiredness that remains. She looks towards Flins, hopeful for a moment, then you.
“Thank you,” she says, and this no time, there is no bitterness. “Both of you.” She smiles, telling you she will be alright. The air shifts, as if some invisible portal opens after centuries of suffering. And so her figure loosens into pale light, candle flame disappearing, then most, then… nothing.
For a moment, you and Flins don’t speak. You tear up. His hand settles at your shoulder, carefully asking you if you are well. You jolt, but less than before.
“No,” you say honestly. “Not really…” you look at the true murderer you will soon walk towards his final sentence. “But I will be.”
You already know what report you will fabricate and which truths must remain altered if the affair is to close without opening question Nod-Krai is unequipped to answer. Yes, Drogomir murdered Milena, his own daughter… but for the disrespect behind her body is one of mercenaries he hired to shift any suspicion, a category typically harder to catch. In your opinion, Flins deserves punishment too; in practice, the dead have chosen their own justice, more than the law of Nod-Krai can guarantee. It is no Fontaine.
“This… this cannot be our last meeting…” Flins says, sudden sadness crashing his voice like a tide.
You glance sideways at him. “I suspect it won’t be, now that you’ve abandoned subtlety entirely.”
A relieved smile touches his mouth, unmistakably pleased. “Then, next week, please come visit. I should like to know what shape your thoughts take once this affair is over.”
You ought to refuse. Every prudent instinct suggests so. Yet prudence has already lost too many times where he is concerned, and your oldest vice of curiosity has never been weaker than when confronted by something incomprehensible that looks as if understanding you were a vocation. “We shall see.”
“She was a baby.”
“I beg you pardon?”
The basement you two are in echoes every of your thought. As you sit perched on the table with papers scattered, Flins ensures to stay standing between your legs, obstructing your vision just so he doesn’t miss any expression enlightened by the candle nearby.
“She was an adult woman, yes—but she was also once only that; a child hidden beneath her mother’s ribs, carried before she even knew langue, before fear, before disappointment. Someone waited for her first cry. Someone wrapped cloth around her when she first entered cold air. She learned life gradually, then voices, then names. At some pointed she must have laughed for no reason at all, simply because the world had not yet taught her pain. And later she became what everyone called accomplished, educated, promising…” Your voice falters. You’ve been crying a lot lately. Some mechanism inside you is still left loose. You lower your gaze, yet it changes nothing; tears gather regardless.
Flins reaches for your face before you can wipe your tears yourself, thumb brushing beneath one of your eyes with a tenderness almost too precious to bear. His gaze softens in a way that still startles you, for there remains something faintly improbable in being looked at by him as if vulnerability was not inconvenience but revelation.
“I am certain she’s eternally grateful,” he says quietly.
“I hope so,” you sigh shakily. “You know… Sometimes, I think we suffer from what may not be cruelty itself, but is still a gradual atrophy of empathy. And yet, empathy is what should be inherent to us. How can this be? We can be conditioned, but… there is plenty who understand suffering… yet inflict suffering.”
“You tend to make yourself indifferent,” he instigates you on purpose, eager to see if the thought deepens—maybe even lifts your spirits.
“Indifferent but never ignorant,” you say passionately, staring at him. “Indifferent but never do I want to stay passive to someone’s pain. I make distance because if I did not, every case would devour me whole. I protect myself so I can protect others. But I still refuse to become one someone who sees suffering and merely catalogues it.”
Flins watches you with that particular brightens that comes over him whenever conviction overtakes your voice—as if every principle you utter confirms something he already wished to believe… and consume. “We do not wish for people to keep killing one another,” he murmurs.”
“They will always kill.” Your answer comes with tired certainty, not cynicism. “Some deaths will always be dressed as justice, other excused as necessity, others forgotten because no one in But whatever language is built around it, I will still go after the one who crossed that line. I will always chase the one who chose wrong. If there is evil, then I will continue chasing it and the justice… even when the pursuit changes nothing except proving that someone looked.”
That visibly animates him; the strange stillness in his eyes gives way to life entering them almost greedily. “That is exactly what I mean,” he says, smiling in full. Before you can ask, he leans forward and buries his face into your neck, the warmth of his breath startling your sensitive skin.
You tense, though less that you would have weeks ago. “I cannot exactly announce to the Guild that I am seeing one of my former suspects.”
Because as for Nod-Krai… people still talk about Milena. Come to visit her grave, so do you. The Guild accepted your explanations, happy the trouble is resolved before Snezhnaya—or Nefer—could interfere, right in time. Although, the latter occasionally sends you a letter and asks you to work for her. Life continues, just with something missing, that you suspect soon will be forgotten anyway.
But Drogomir will not forget anything, losing his mind after the loss of his daughter and public punishment. He no longer trades with anyone. Word spread too quickly, and even merchants accustomed to dirt wanted no hand near a man who had strangled his own daughter. It was said he still lives inside that half-empty house, though now with shutters drawn and no visitors but silence, lonely and slowly losing his money.
And as for you… There remains wariness in you, but your feet keep returning to him regardless, and it is no longer accidental. Flins unsettles you, stimulates you, sharpers your mind than dulling it. Perhaps it’s about danger too. Flins knows what to say to make your head spin and heart sing.
“Hm,” he says near your collarbone, “Them let them remain uninformed. I should rather prefer what concerns us to remain intimate anyway.”
You give him a look half suspicious, half amused. “And how am I to know this is not merely one of your passing fascinations? Men such as you strike ma as volatile in infatuation,” you mock.
He suddenly withdraws from you, and before you guess his next step, he lowers himself to one knee before you. So old-fashioned. “I promise you,” he says, looking up with an earnestness made strange by how intense it is, “this so no brief affection. My regard for you increases with each day.”
For a moment, you can see the old Kyryll. His hand lightly poised near yours, his spine elegant… It forces your imagination. For one instant, you can almost see him not as lighthouse keeper nor Ratnik, but as whatever he must have been centuries ago: moving beneath chandeliers, silk cuffs, polished floors, smiling in rooms where music governed hierarchy and every gesture possessed inherited meanings. The nobleman he once mentioned reveals himself.
“O-okay, enough,” you stutter, suddenly embarrassed. “Just stand up. You're being absurdly cheesy!”
He obeys at once, though his amusement flickers openly as ever. “Very well. However…” he extends his hand again, this time with invitation. “Dance with me.” You accept.
The gramophone near the wall has already been turning softly, its worn melody filling the small room with antique music. Outside, the lighthouse remains wrapped in everlasting darkness and chatter of ghosts; inside, the world narrows down to his hand in yours. He leads with effortless confidence, one hand settling at your waist, the other enclosing yours with delicacy. It’s an old discipline, and his hips or feet never collide with yours.
You, on the other hand… “I know, I know. Hardly is there any chance to practice waltz in Nod-Krai,” you say with sarcasm.
“There is no judging,” he says warmly near yours ear. “I will be delighted to be your teacher. His hips guide rhythm without forcing you, correcting you when needed or keeping you away from the wall to bump; your body begins adapting and awkwardness thins into something nearly digestible. There is even comfort in being held by him, as well his never ending patience.
“I don’t think I will forgive that case anytime soon…” you chuckle into his shoulder. A bit tense, but entertaining him, to see what else is there to him. Maybe Flins will be the next person you’ll chase, trying to fight for justice. Or maybe… he’ll steal your heart too, if he hasn't done so already.
He laughs too, quiet enough to not disturb. “I suppose it left a monumental impression upon everyone,” he eyes your lips. “You, most of all, on me. I have no intention of looking away now.”
“But you’re not a human,” you say with torment. “I still don’t know what exactly you seek from me. A game? Possession? Something else than curiosity?”
“I seek only to continue witnessing you shine with that enchanting intensity.”
“I won’t shine forever.”
“No,” he says with something akin to regret, facing you directly, “Utterly disappointing. Have you ever…”
“Yes?”
“Have you ever wondered what it’s like to live forever?”
“Who didn't.”
“If offered the chance—would you accept it?” You’re given that look again—when Flins tries to split you open, digging for some undiscovered part of you.
His mysterious words give you a startle, enough for your steps to falter. “Is there such opportunity or are you only theorizing?”
‘Who knows…” he jests, maddeningly to you.
“Well, I need to leave some space for a detective successor.”
He smiles against your temple before pressing a light kiss here. “I doubt any successor could hold a candle to you.”
“I am no prodigy. Just a layman. This wasn’t my magnum opus or anything.”
“Are you?”
“Don't get any weird ideas, Kyryll.”
“I would not dare,” he murmurs, eyes closed as he allows his head to rest on your shoulder, “to desire anything except your continued happiness.” And your presence.
When the music ends, he leads you the final half-turn before ushering you to the room upstairs. You end up on the edge of his bed, him next to you. “Do you want Ben sleep?”
“I do sleep. It’s quite pleasant.”
“So it’s not merely decorative,” you him.
“I’m not that indestructible. Although, I confess I have often preferred resting inside my lantern.”
He grabs your hand again, absentmindedly turning your palm upward as if reading lines here. “I once slumbered for centuries,” he admits wistfully. Probably awaiting for you, he thinks.
You study him for a moment, curious what troubles a man like him? Does he fear like you do, yearns like you do, misses like you do? “I still do not fully know what you want from me,” you bring up again, but this time… you lace your fingers with his.
Kyryll lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckle. “Would be greedy to say that I want you?”
“Greedy, yes. Abnormal, no.”
That answer pleases him, as he kisses it again. “Then I shall endeavor everything necessary to deserve the permission of your heart.”
Silence follows. Not so strained as usual, only oddly soft. He draws you gently to his side, and you let him. Somewhere in the back of your mind remains the stubborn though that you and Flins belong to different orders of beings, different durations, different… natures. Yet beside him, with evening bringing in yet another opportunity to open yourself and the gramophone winding down as the sign of him still being here with you, you wonder if this place has become a kind of home. A home unusual, unpredictable, a home… nonetheless. How does a fae love? You wonder. Hungry, devoted, tender, an ancient curse?
“She will be all right,” you say eventually, voice warm, “Wherever she is now. In the wind, listening to us maybe.”
“She will,” he answers surely.
Flins’s face tilts towards you, slow enough to give you a chance for refusal. You don’t move away.
“She will never see the daylight again,” you murmur as your breaths tangle together, “but I will. For her, and for anyone else like her.” Milena might be in everyone, you think.
As you kiss, the world finally feels still, almost enough to be merciful.
so far we have sweet!reader and broodmare!reader but now let me bring you...
unbothered!reader!
she's married to aerion (im obsessed with him sorry) and she's from a westerosi house (like lannister/tyrell/tully, etc) and there's not a drop of valyrian blood in her - which infuriates aerion so much because he believes he deserves a pure valyrian bride like his targaryen cousins (even though baelor and king daeron are trying to stop incest marriages)
she births him a son (whom she adores and in the apple of her eye) and as far as she's concerned - she's done
she has seen her dad have multiple mistresses and whores (much like aerion) and she knows a woman's duty is heirs - which she has fulfilled by giving him a son who looks exactly like aerion
she's content to sit back, enjoy the life of a princess and pour all her love and adoration on her sweet baby boy (the child could be like 1-2 years old probably) and ignore aerion
sure, does it make her want to kill him when he doesn't acknowledge her trueborn son as his heir but rather only a half blood whelp? of course she does, but she knows maekar and baelor will always be by her side.
that's why she's stopped bothering herself with him - not getting upset when he spends his evenings with his targaryen cousins and his nights fucking whores that look like them.
which is why one night aerion comes to her chambers (a rarity, he always spends nights in a brothel) she's dead asleep not waiting for him, or hoping he'd come see her
he wakes her up and she's confused as hell - what is he doing in her room? she's done her duty, born him a son who looks like him and helps running summerhall as his lady wife. what more does he want?
when he tries to take off her nightgown (i imagine it's a pastel color because she prefers those colors compared to aerion's reds and blacks) she's even more confused lol
aerion is pissed when she asks him why should they sleep together again when she's already had his son lmao
I'm obsessed with him too, it's ok, we're in this together!!!
Aerion lowkey would be like this though... he doesn't care about what she does until he suddenly decides that he wants her attention, and when he doesn't get it, he just doesn't know what to do.
Unbothered!reader is happily living her life, enjoying the luxuries that come with being married to a member of the royal family and enjoying the time she can spend with her son. She has nice dresses and luxuriously decked-out chambers (which resemble no other room in Summerhall, nary a black or red velvet in sight), her pick of the succulent fruits that grow by Summerhall, and, by all accounts, an easy life. She barely sees her husband, which to her is all the better – it makes running Summerhall far easier. Aerion sees their son every now and then, but he's an absent father for the most part.
So, when he appears suddenly in her chambers, drunk and rudely pulling her from her peaceful slumber, she's annoyed. Her pathetic husband has crawled into her bed, pawing at the linen of her nightgown eagerly as he tries to bare her skin to him, and without thinking, unbothered!reader swots his hands away. Aerion stills, unsure how to react to the offence.
"Take it off, wife. It's time you did your duty," he'd mutter, his words slightly slurred.
To his shock, she'd stare at him indignantly and say no. No? She was saying no to him?
"No?"
"No," she repeated, "I have done my duty and given you your silver-haired heir. Why should I entertain you in my bed?"
Aerion stared silently, his anger and rage growing at the flippant tone his wife used with him, realising she was rejecting him. This was his right! She was his wife, and wives were to obey their husbands, not rudely scoff as he tried once more to tug the straps of her nightgown down.
"Go away, Aerion. It is late and your son has taken to waking with the sun. I wish to return to bed before he needs attention once more."
Unbothered!reader shuffled further down into the mattress, covering herself with the duvet and turning her body away from the prince, leaving him staring at her back in anger.
Drunk, angry, and also a little dumbfounded, Aerion groans and throws his limbs off the bed, pulling himself towards her chamber doors. Part of him wants to scream at her, rage and anger, and mayhaps even force her into his arms, but Aerion simply returns to his chambers, unsure what to make of this odd behaviour his wife is showing.
Unbothered!reader faces the shock of her life when she rises the next morning, venturing out to the nursery to collect her son for the day, only to see him seated in the arms of his father. Now it was her turn to be dumbfounded, staring as her sweet boy plays with the collar of Aerion's doublet, intrigued by the silver dragon embroidery that encases his throat.
"Good morning, wife. I do hope your rest was... peaceful."
In which Aerion’s wife is the opposite of him in all aspects, her gentle nature is less of something to break, but rather protect. Like a dragon guarding his plunder.
word count: 1,366
cw: 18+ mdni, talks of toxic relationships (not readers), consented biting, this is just pure fluff, sexual themes, characters are adults always - YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT AND MEDIA THAT YOU CHOOSE TO CONSUME
Ashford tourney was supposed to be for mending long lasting alliances with the houses of the Reach. Instead, your father-by-law had lost two of his son’s on the journey, and the one that remained had managed to kill a horse during his first and now only joust. He had been banned from competing for fear the small-folk would try and pelt him to death with stones in the arena. You had been there all of three days, and you were all as sick of it as the people were of you.
Therefore when the evening jousts commenced at sunset, you had urged your husband to join you on a walk in the meadows. No one else will venture there you had said, they are preoccupied with the tournament.
And your words rang true, the meadow was deserted. Insects flew freely, birds sung loudly, an orange glow cast across the entire scene. It was picturesque. Utterly beautiful. That’s where you led amongst the flowers of the field, your head resting in your husband’s lap as his fingers fell idly through your hair.
“You are going to get filthy led down there.” He uttered, fingers tangling several strands together in a pattern which slightly resembled that of a plait. “You worry too much about things that do not matter my dragon.” You reached up a hand, pressing your two central fingers against his lips as he parted them, welcoming their taste against his tongue before biting down lightly. A pout fell across your face as you yanked your hand back, little red crescents bled across your fingers from the rawness of his touch. Biting was a known affection of your husband. He did it playfully, he did it endearingly, he did it in bed, he did it when he thought you needed a reminder of to whom you belong. You had grown used to it being a silent form of I love you, this makes you mine.
In retaliation to his brute touch you kissed his palm tenderly, pressing his fingers flat against your cheek as your lips caressed his callous hands. “You do not always have to be so gentle.” He murmured, his unused hand resuming its place at the crown of your head, massaging gently. “I do not seek to hurt you, husband.” It was true, did his immature actions like killing a horse in a friendly tourney make you want to suffocate him with your pillow? Yes. Would you ever do such a thing? No. Because you maintained impulse control, something your husband feverishly lacked. “People talk of our marriage you know.” It felt like a confession from his lips, he desired to be feared but he hated the whispers that carried pity in your direction, that he would dare lay a hand to his own wife, he would sooner cut it off himself than do such a thing to you. He was rough when he knew it brought you pleasure only, never would he strike you down for merely existing, why would he have taken you to wed if your thoughts and feelings deserved to be silenced at his hand? But he knew what people thought, he was publicly careless in his actions, he hurt others without thinking twice. They pitied you publicly, his own family even contributed.
The Mad Prince’s Poor Wife
Brightflames caged dove
The living ghost of Summerhall
They truly believed you to be so unseen. Sure you were quieter than most, but your husband was devoted to your every need. They did not see his affection, they had not earned it. You had never had to, but to hear the whispers on the wind of their blatant pity was painful. You were not ignored, far from it. But in Summerhall there was few that made good company, you often found yourself wandering the halls late at night when sleep would not find you, resulting in the living ghost becoming an unwanted nickname - because the servants truly believed you were wandering due to the fact your husband was bedding whores in your shared bedchamber, another misconception, he just snores very fucking loud.
“I know of what they say.” You looked up to meet his eyes lightly, his contrasted your own heavily “but again, it does not concern me for they do not know me.” He scoffed, untangling his fingers from your hair “Yes but maybe it should, they speak as if I hate you, I bed whores in our shared bed, I make you suffer when I do bed you.”
“Maybe they think that because you make me scream.” You giggled, you caught the amusement flash across his face in a subtly proud smirk before he shook his head “That is absolutely beside the point. Do not be so vulgar, it is not befitting of a Lady.” He was teasing, abundantly so, he lowered his face until he was inches from your own, upside down from your perspective. The tip of his nose brushed against the bridge of your own, however in his distraction you placed several kisses to his taught jaw. His eyes fell shut with a hum, you tangled your hands in his hair, pulling his face as close as you could get it to your own, kissing his forehead to his cheek tenderly, before releasing him and turning onto your stomach, resting your arms in his lap. You were propped up that way, giving him better access to the entirety of your face. He seized the opportunity to entwine his hands with your hair full, locking them at the base of your scalp so that you were forced to maintain eye contact with him. “Look at this dress. Have you any idea the coin I spent on it?” He tutted, the once flush pink skirts were saddled with marks of dusty mud - it would undoubtedly brush off but he enjoyed the game of making a fuss. “Probably more than was necessary.” You smiled, meeting his lips in a devastating kiss as he groaned into your mouth.
“It is growing late, we should return to bed.” He pulled away ever so slightly but you chased his lips with your own, “I do not wish to depart yet! No need to stay in that dreary place when this is the view.” He groaned against your lips before he was silenced by your tongue fighting its way back into his mouth. You settled yourself into his lap now, allowing you a better reach to his face as he chuckled quietly at your desperation for closeness.
“Do not laugh at me.” You whined, his hands settled to your hips in an attempt to settle your dispute. “You are desperate.” He titled his head, a lazy smile planted onto his face, such a vast separation from the brute man that held his own on a tourney field. “I am allowed to be desperate you are my husband.”
“Yes well, if you would come with me to bed I would be able to satisfy your desires.” He raised an eyebrow, a kiss pressed to the side of your face. “I desire your company and your affection and I want it here in this field.” You demanded, maybe it did sound a bit desperate in hindsight but you didn’t have the care for it. He only laughed louder as you pouted at him, “you sound childish. Lose the attitude my flame it does not best suit you.”
“Childish! How dare you!”
“Oh how dare I? Gods I do forget myself.” His lips joined to your neck in a flurry of hurried kisses that only forced your laughter to join with his. “There, is my wife now satisfied?”
A hazy smile joined your face, you adored your husband more than anything because to you this was who he was. It brought you pain more often than not to know how those around you viewed your relationship. They did not see his affection, they saw your withdrawal from public affection. You did not hold hands, you did not kiss or even touch where others could see. Because it was not for them to have. What you shared was gentle and sacred and entirely your own.
A/N: shorter and entirely out of character for aerion i know, but i couldn’t resist. sometimes i forget im literally writing fanfiction and i can write whatever i want however i want so yes this is not who aerion is as a character but i had a lot of fun so i hope you all enjoyed.
as always: likes, comments, reblogs + any interactions at all are always always appreciated - take care everyone!!
DISCLAIMER: All themes, plot, images used in general and characters from A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms + elsewhere belong to the rightful owners, I hold no rights to the original media - but my writing belongs to me.
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modern!aerion have sweet angelic!reader as his best friend (no one knows how this cruel asshole has the sweetest angelic girl as his closest friend though)
except.... he keeps perving on her all the time but she's too innocent to notice it
his hand is on her thigh, he kisses her, and gropes her all the time. she just thinks he's being friendly to her and that he likes her (not like that)
so it's summed break and he takes reader to his family vacation house (reader can be loaded too, just a lot more sheltered) and the entire family - baelor, maekar, daeron and valarr - seeing their satan spawn perving on this angelic girl who's kind and gentle to everyone
egg, daella and rhae would love her though and she'd love spending time with the girls (and egg)
No, because everyone would be so confused about how they became friends, but also what do they even talk about? It's one of the world's biggest mysteries. When the pair went to Dorne for a holiday a few years back, the paparazzi went crazy because there was Aerion... and angelic!reader? Maybe angelic!reader's family rarely made it into the news, but this certainly had more eyes her way.
But now, they're both in the summer home and Aerion cannot stop eyeing angelic!reader up like he wants to eat her. More than eat her, actually... devour her. And yet, she's none the wiser.
"Aerion's so kind!" she'd say to Maekar, making him gape. Aerion had applied her sunscreen for her, sliding his hands far too close to the strings of her tiny bikini bottoms, and had spent far too long sliding his hands over the planes of her back.
Daeron walks out to the garden one day to see the pair cuddled up on a sun lounger, their bodies intertwined in a way that friends wouldn't do – not to mention, Aerion's hand resting upon her ass, fondling the flesh to his heart's content.
Egg is confused too, but, selfishly, he doesn't want her to go away and so he will try to ignore his brother's weird behaviour. But then, after angelic!reader had offered to take the younger children in to town for a ice cream, he watches wide-eyed as Aerion drags angelic!reader into his arms and places a firm kiss on her lips. "Don't spoil them," Aerion mumbled. It was clear he was mad about having her push back their plans for the day.
Egg would be even more confused when they sit outside the ice cream parlour and angelic!reader asks, very poorly attempting to be nonchalant, whether Valarr has a girlfriend. He thought they were just lying to his family about being friends, but now he's worried because this might be worse. He doesn't think Aerion will be happy.
♡ TW: dystopia, sex-trafficking, sexual slavery, vore-ish, forbidden love kinda, angst, size difference, predator x prey, subjugation, sexism allegory, master/slave dynamics
♡ FEM reader
Rabbits are born sluts.
That much has always been clear. Damn useless creatures except for one thing—being used. They’re everywhere, in the several hundreds, easily hunted, easily trained by carrot and stick, and easily broken when put under it.
And you, you’re the same, a dime a dozen among the other dumb bunnies in the burrow. You’re not any different.
And yet, from where he stands atop the mezzanine, lording over the pleasure den down below, his own empire, time and time again his eyes stray from admiring his rich guests and the cold cash they spend on his fluffle only to land on you.
His hunters had come back with you a month ago in a cage of a few dozen others. Dwarf rabbits—nothing special. Cute though, like any other bunny breed.
You didn't need any taming nor much training. You were the first of your batch to make it out onto the floor. In fact, he’s sure you made record timing if only they kept track of such things.
But you’re not broken. No, that would suggest there was something there for them to break. No, with you there wasn’t any pride or dignity for them to strip away. You were just slaphappy from the get go, showing no resistance, going with the regime like resisting wasn’t even an option. Of course, it wasn’t an option. But most animals, even docile ones such as rabbits, will put up some type of fight, however meaningless. You, however, remind him more of moon jelly—no matter the harsh waves, it’s still going to continue to do what it always does and drift along like nothing matters.
He’s never seen anyone be so casual about being treated like dirt. Looking at you, it doesn’t make any sense to him.
He’s well-aware of how plenty among his slaves try to fake it the best way they can, eager to avoid the bitter bite of unsatisfactory customers, while some have had their bodies trained for so long they enjoy it now—but in either case, he’s still able see the defeat and animosity behind their painted expression, if not anything at all. Others who’ll play along all sweet and nice such as you do ultimately prove themselves to be dumb little things who thought that if they could just bide their time with good behaviour, they would somehow make his handlers lower their guard enough to create an opportunity of escape, only to test their luck and fail miserably or come to the conclusion that such an opportunity would never exist, then be left with nothing but that same catatonic look of utter brokenness.
But there’s none of that in your eyes. You’re not trapped in the moment like the others, nor do you hoard any such silly agenda as trying to escape it.
For you, it seems somehow like you’re simply at ease with it. It’s almost as though it falls natural to you, but he’s not sure what to call it. You’re just… happy-go-lucky about it—like a doll come to life, programmed to do what a doll does—eyes round and blank like two polished marbles, only ever looking far off into the distance as though you can’t see the things around you.
At the same time, he gets this annoying feeling as though you’re seeing something no one else can.
In all honesty, he’s got no idea what you are. And it bothers him like you would not believe.
Which is why he’s decided he needs to keep you closer. Friends and enemies and all that. Though, he doesn’t find it prudent to give you so much credit as to call you his enemy as that would imply you pose a threat. Still, he doesn’t enjoy things he doesn’t understand, and you, well, even though you’re nothing scary, he’s taken by this desperate need to put his finger on you for some reason. And to do that, he figures he’ll just put you under his thumb and be done with it in the best way he knows how.
He’s certain he’ll feel better about it all after he’s had you beneath him. Then, all these thoughts he’s been having will be proved as nothing more than a waste of time after he’s reduced you to what he knows is true for all bunnies. Prey at his mercy, and nothing more.
The girls that get handpicked for the mezzanine are usually all on their knees trying their best to earn their keep and not get sent back down to the den where customers get to do what they please with them any way they want. Being on the risen floor is like a blessing in that way—a chosen few, honored ones, saved from the fray below given an opportunity to please just one man instead of a dozen a day.
Typically they’ll be rare breeds, red-listed, and now, even though you don’t stand out as anything special, mundane dwarf rabbit that you are, you’re going to be one of them. You should see it as a fucking godsend.
And yet, you don’t seem to grasp the value of it in the slightest.
Two girls a little way from you are putting on a show for him, kissing and touching each other all for his viewing pleasure. Despite their performance, from where he sits on his comfy throne of pillows and throws, his eyes look past them onto you where you’ve placed yourself before the balustrade, peacefully staring passed it into the thin air, beyond the cesspit below, ahead at something unknown like always.
Only this time, he demands to have his answers.
“What’s got you looking so pleased?”
It seems you hadn’t noticed his approach, and yet you don’t spook by it either, that way your head slowly turns, looking up at him for the first time with those very big eyes, to where he looms above, stone-faced with his hands down his pockets.
Being a polar bear, he’s used to his size and presence invoking fear in everyone around him. It’s a natural response to the largest predator. He’s always viewed it as a sign of respect. A fact that everyone knows he’s not the one you should test your luck against.
You, however, don't regard him any differently than you would a fellow bunny. Giving him no signs of being in a rush to please him. You just stare, as though waiting for him to explain himself.
“You seem like you' got something you’re looking forward to.” His voice is brisk, demanding, “I want to know what it is.”
You blink then. Slow in your answer—way too slow to understand the dire situation you’ve landed yourself in, or maybe, simply unbothered. He really can’t tell, and it’s beyond frustrating at this point—trying his very hardest to read your mind and failing so miserably in the pursuit he has no other option but to wait oh-so-patiently for you to indulge him.
“We’re getting stew for supper today,” you say at last, looking back through the guardrail at his workers, flooding through the gate on the ground floor, carrying sacks of potatoes over their backs.
His nose scrunches at the prospect. You're really looking forward to that slop? Suppose you have to be that humble when you’re at the bottom of the food chain. Even so, he hasn’t heard any single one of his bunnies, of which he’s had hundreds, ever show any type of enthusiasm regarding the food.
“You like stew?” he asks. Patience tested, but curiosity unsated.
You shake your head then, a small smile of all things gracing your face, contradicting yourself, “Not really.”
His brows furrow. Is this a game or something? If so, it’s not amusing. His teeth grind. “Not really? Why are you so cheery then?”
You look up at him once more, blinking again, both like you’ve never really thought about it as well as though you think it’s obvious—so obvious that you find it odd to even be sparing it a thought.
“Well, you see… When there’s stew, they serve carrots on the side. And I really like carrots.”
You look back to the potato sacks just in time to catch sight of the crates of carrots now being brought in, and the smile on your face as you watch them is unlike anything he’s ever seen—warm, excited, blissful even.
Affronted by it, he leaves you abruptly, thinking an expression like that has no right in a place like this.
Content slaves are never a good thing. Content slaves forget that which they are—slaves. They start taking what little they have for granted. They become ungrateful, and demanding, and then the uproars happen. That’s it. That’s what he dislikes about you. That’s what’s been making him so uneasy. You don’t beg or scramble. You’re nonchalant, and that type of sangfroid is nothing short of insolent. What’s worse, it could inspire others.
He won’t have that.
You think you have something to be happy about? Perhaps it’s time he reminded you—you have nothing.
He regards you keenly from the mezzanine, watching you enter the dining hall down below. The spring in your step is pitiful to behold and so is the dead still you come to when you're wandering eyes can’t find the tub of chopped carrots usually on display right next to the potatoes.
You keep the metal dinner bowl to your chest, this tiny rumple between your brows as your eyes become more searching the farther up the line you get. And then, when it’s finally your turn, you cock your little head over the display, voice softly inquiring to the workers on the other side, “Are all the carrots finished already?”
“No carrots today. Dietary restrictions. Boss-man’s orders,” is the strict reply that returns, given like a slap to the face.
“Oh…”
You blink then, as you do—that very empty type of blink like you’re resetting yourself the way he’s seen you do with other customers.
And then, just as always, you slip right back without a hiccup. “I guess I’ll just have some potatoes then.”
It’s disappointing. He’d thought for sure you’d give him a little more grief than that. But no. You even tack on a polite little “Thank you,” after being served, before hopping out of line like there was never anything more to be wanted.
You don’t make moves to sit with any of the others, he notices. Instead, you make your way alone up the stairs to where he is like you’ve already accepted the mezzanine as your new place.
He’s not sure why, but for some reason he hides himself so as not to spook you into going somewhere else. And from behind the coverage of a pillar, he continues his stalking, observing you as you sit yourself in the same spot as before, in front of the balustrade.
You proceed like earlier to look through the bars down at the burrow below. It’s empty and quiet now with everyone busy in the dining hall, and he realizes he’s never actually spared it a glance during supper before. It’s a strange sight. Like a battlefield after the battle.
You don’t eat in a mad hurry like the others. Actually, it takes five minutes before you even touch the potatoes, and when you do, it’s one piece at a time, calmly, taking your sweet time, like you’re trying to enjoy yourself.
He finds himself wondering if you’d eat carrots the same way. And before he even knows it, he’s standing right behind you once more with the same question as earlier.
“What’ you looking at now?”
And just as before, you don’t spook by his presence. This time, you don't even bother turning to acknowledge him as though you might have known he was there all along.
“The burrow,” you answer. “How different it looks when it’s empty.” His thoughts exactly. “It’s sort of peaceful like this, don't you think?”
No. Peaceful is not the word that came to mind. “I think you’d have to be mad to find peace in a place like this when in your position,” he states plainly, as if in an attempt to shake you out of whatever sordid outlook you were trying to impose on him.
“That might be,” you agree, a soft smile gracing your face. “But I think… you have to find beauty in the dark when you can, or else dark will be all there is.” The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end listening to you. “It’s like, sometimes good madness will save you from bad madness. You know?”
“No.” And that’s the problem. He doesn't know. He has no fucking clue. And he’s starting to realize it’s not because you’re withholding the answers.
“Why aren’t you upset?” he asks then. A fair question, he thinks. But you only look at him oddly, making him explain once again just like you did earlier. The gumption of you is unbelievable, he thinks as he supplies the requested context on your behest, “I took away the thing you were looking forward to. Typically, that would make someone upset.”
You look as though you still don’t quite understand, but then a light breaks across your face. “Oh, you mean the carrots?” You don’t seem any more upset by understanding he’d removed them on purpose. Instead, you just give your head a tiny shake. “It was only a small thing.”
“Don’t lie to me.” His fists ball at his sides.
“But I didn’t.” Your head tilts, gesturing down at your tray. “I should have told you I liked potatoes. Then you’d have taken those away instead.” You then snort with a giggle, but he doesn’t get why or how you would find it funny.
And again, he’s left with the same question. “Then why aren’t you more upset?”
You think about it for a moment—a moment like another eternity to him.
“Well, I… I am upset…” you admit—the smile on your face positively unnerving. Perhaps you really have gone crazy. But then that would mean you were crazy from the start, from before ever even coming here. “But… I can’t exactly let my life fall apart over carrots. That would just be silly. Wouldn't you say?”
He swallows thickly, trying to stifle the many foreign things he’s feeling inside, finding that he can’t exactly argue with your answer, even though it makes little sense. People get upset over smaller things all the time.
Just look at him and how upset one bunny is making him.
He turns away and starts walking then, muttering under his breath, “Silly, indeed.”
He goes to his bedroom alone that night. Some of the chosen had tried cheering him up, but they all failed miserably. You were not one of them. No, you made zero effort trying to earn your keep.
He knows you’d come if he called for you. You’d have to, and you’ve never been one to refuse a direct order. Still, somehow, even though he’s the one with all the power, having to call on you makes him feel like you’re stripping him of it.
The next couple of days pass all the same, with you continuing to drive him nuts.
At this point, he doesn’t know what he’s doing or why. Lounging on his throne, his chin resting on his palm as he appraises you with jaded eyes. Having come up with a new strategy—if robbing you of your small delights doesn’t enact a response, maybe he’ll have better luck in spoiling you…
“Eat,” he says, but like always you don’t seem to take it like an order, standing there, in front of the big platter of carrots he’d had his workers bring up.
It’s not the same kind they serve with the stew—flecked and spotted with mold, boiled to get rid of the bugs. No, these are quality. Crisp, bright, freshly plucked and washed just this morning.
And still, instead of throwing yourself at them, you have the nerve to act calm, asking, “Where’ the other girls?” while looking around like you’d feel ashamed starting without them.
“They’re for you,” he clarifies, sanctioning your approach.
Still, you stay put. Chewing your lip with your buck teeth. “Is that really okay?”
He can’t believe it. Are you really feeling guilty—in a place like this that only ever takes and gives nothing back?
No one in their right mind would be asking about others when standing in your shoes. He knows for a fact that all the other girls you seem so concerned with would have been halfway finished gorging that platter without sparing you a single thought.
Suppose he’ll make it easier for you. “Eat it all, or I throw it out.”
With that, a new smile takes your lips—one of which he’d not seen before or expected—small, bashful, coy, like you’re having a different conversation than the one you’re having. Bowing your head with a soft-spoken, “Thank you.”
You’re quiet as you eat. Slow with it like you’d been with the potatoes. Taking your time, enjoying yourself, savoring it, eating like he’s not right there observing you. It’s like you’re back in the wild. You, an oblivious little thing in a carrot field, and him, stalking you through the long grass.
“Aren’t you gonna ask?” he questions after a while.
“Ask about what?” you wonder, peering up at him from where you sit.
“Why I’m being nice.”
You seem to find that funny. “I don’t ask you why you’re cruel.”
That’s fair, he thinks. Though he’s never really thought about it like that.
And then you say, “I’m sure I’d have little luck understanding the mind of a man like you anyway.”
“A man like me?” he repeats, finding it interesting—wanting to arrest you on it. “And what kind of man do you think I am?”
It’s a dangerous question—you seem to understand that—taking your time to answer it just like you were with the carrots. “I suppose… a confusing one.”
You’re not wrong, though it’s a cleverly safe answer. He’s sure you’d have liked to have said something different if only it weren't for the likely threat it would pose to your life.
“Do you want me to ask?” you say then. And this time, he’s the one waiting for you to explain, looking at you with a halfway raised brow. “Why are you being nice to me?”
He scoffs. You’re proving to be a little more cheeky than what he was expecting. “I’m fattening you up to eat you.”
You laugh again. This time from your chest, bursting with it. He’s not sure a genuine laugh like it has ever rung out through the chamber. In fact, he’s not sure he’s ever even heard one like it whatsoever.
“Well, it’s a pretty good final meal.”
He dismisses you after you finish.
Days pass without the two of you speaking. And he, stewing in it, is more confused than ever.
He used to lord over his palace like a king, fuck all day and watch his subjects with gold coins and power in his eyes. Now, he can’t remember the last time he spared even a single glance over the mezzanine without it being to look for you. He still hears the squeals and sighs of pleasure. But he can’t even picture the scene. No, his mind is otherwise busy.
Busy doesn’t even cut it. Plagued might. Yes, he’s plagued by you.
Plagued by you and he hasn’t even fucked you yet. It’s a joke. He’s never been one to edge himself. But now he hasn’t fucked in ages. And you’re to blame.
What’s the matter with him? All his life, he’s known what’s been what. People like to complicate things, make it sound like more, make it sound different from what it actually is. They romanticize and they fetishize, but at its core, it’s always been basic. Bunnies are weak and easily broken, and deserve to be treated accordingly. There’s nothing more to it than that.
He’s going to find you, and when he does he’s going to do to you what he should have done from the very start—break you like the weak and breakable thing you are.
“Know your place, slut,” a catty voice bites out. “You might have been popular down on the ground, but up here, I'm the fucking favorite.”
From behind the pillar he witnesses the scene, forgetting his objective. Five chosen ones all stand in a ring around you, who’s pinned to the ground by three others, two holding your arms down and the last of them on top of you with a fist wrapped tightly around the root of your ear. She’s got something in her hand—a shiv, fashioned from some scrap-piece of metal with unknown origins—pointed with a poke up under your chin, looking just shy of drawing blood.
“If any of us see you trying to take my spot again, I’m gonna fucking gut you from cunt to belly button—understand?”
You don’t say anything—unable to with the make-shift blade threatening to slice your throat open. But your silence is an answer in and of itself, if it weren’t interrupted by him clearing his throat and stepping into view.
“Master–” all eight of them gasp, those standing shuffling away with a bow whilst the three others remain deadly still, waiting for his verdict with eyes wide.
“Get up. All of you,” he says, passing his judgement swiftly, not giving any one of them room to plead innocence or condone their crimes with silly reasonings, “There’s customers downstairs in need of attending. Go make yourselves useful.”
A wave of displeased moaning followed, nearly amounting to a protest. Even so, their disgruntled pouting was premature. He wasn't finished.
“And once you’re done, you can all stay down there.”
Pouting turned to pleading fast, all of them shaking their head with hands clasped together in prayer, “But, master, please—she had it coming, she never does anything, she—”
“One more word,” he stops the tangent, closing the gap with a slow saunter, standing multiple heads taller than all of them, even the one who thought herself so high and mighty just a moment ago. He makes sure to return her look of entreaty without mercy, saying, “And I’ll be the one gutting you.”
They all scurry shortly after that, tears in their throat as they hurry down the stairs.
You get up to join them—never one to make the wrong assumption, probably thinking he’s one to tar everyone with the same brush. And normally, he’d do just that, because in his eyes, there’s no telling people apart in any other way aside from separating product from customer, with himself being the only outsider. But then came you.
“Not you, Carrots,” he says, stopping you. “You stay right there.”
You remain still as he approaches. You don’t flinch, your eyes don’t flitter—it’s utterly uncanny, he’d believe it if you told him you were without senses, like a ghost.
“Why didn’t you fight back?”
It’s the question that’s been on his mind since you first showed up here—not a lick of resistance in you.
“I’m not fond of pain,” you answer. “So, I try my best to avoid it.”
His teeth grit, very nearly growling. “You have a bad habit of not answering the question being asked.”
You chew your lip, looking as though you’re not quite sure how to explain yourself. “Well… fighting it would only make it worse, wouldn’t you say? And besides… I don’t want to do to others what I don’t want being done to me.”
So, you believe in karma. That’s an interesting mental state—not one he’s ever understood too well. It’s always seemed like a comfort to those who don’t have the strength to take their own revenge, hoping that some higher power will do it for them.
“Also, we bunnies have a saying,” you continue, now with that unseemly smile of yours. “If you’re at first getting fucked, you might as well try to enjoy it.”
Something violates him at that—a chill of all things. Thinking, that’s not karma. No, not at all.
That’s resignation. An even odder mental state.
“Though… I don't think most of us take it to heart,” you add with a small laugh.
It makes no sense to him. In fact, it shocks him like you’ve just pulled out a knife and stabbed him with it. And yet, he thinks he might finally get you now. Any moment might be your last and you’ve accepted that as a fact of life. The same way he accepts and expects his stomach to growl, you accept and expect yourself to be the one to sate it.
You’re the only one so far. The only one to successfully internalize that truth without breaking under the pressure.
“Will you bring the girls back?” you ask then, seemingly taking his silence as an invitation, and using it as an opportunity to think about others as if you can afford it.
He doesn’t know why it angers him the way it does. “Why the fuck would I do that?”
Like always, you don’t quiver under his growl like others would have. No, instead you keep insisting, “It’s cruel to send them back down after—”
“I thought you said you didn’t question cruelty.” he cuts you off.
And still, it’s like you don’t even care. “Well, I'm only asking because… it sort of feels like my fault, is all. I don’t want to be the reason they’re punished—”
“I’m not punishing them for you,” he interrupts, affronted by the mere suggestion. “I'm punishing them because they were cocky enough to think they could create a hierarchy not governed by me.”
He picks the shiv up from the floor, holding it up and inspecting it with a grimace like its very existence is an insult.
“Tch—I should have killed them, and you’re asking me to save them.” He shakes his head, then finds your face again.
“You wanna know what bores me more than anything? When beggars start thinking they can be choosers.”
Gracing your jaw with the blade, he sneers. “Do you think you can be a chooser?”
And just like expected, you reset yourself with a blink, then utter a passive, “No.”
“And that’s why you’re up here, and they’re down there.”
In all your time up here, he hasn’t once touched you, but within the next passing second he’s got your small body caged in his, trapped between himself and the balustrade where he always finds you, sitting, staring, thinking about things hidden from him.
“You’re the only one who gets it.” Knife cast aside, he uses his paw instead, dwarfing your chin and cheeks as he aims your head out to look across the den below. Fangs by the lop of your ear, blowing on the soft fur with his whispers, “You’re the only one who understands the laws of true wilderness. The rightful order of things. You know what you are and have accepted your place—made nature your common sense.”
Your feet dangle below, toes gracing the floor just barely, slipping in their stance where he has you hoisted against the guardrail, clutching onto it with your hands—knowing if he’d let go, you’d go toppling over it. And yet you don’t fight back. Knowing it’s all out of your hands, you remain just like putty in his.
“Look at them,” he continues, a disgust in his voice and in his narrowed eyes, spitting, “They all think they can be something different. Prey thinking they can hunt the hunter. Hunters thinking they can be loved by that which they hunt. It’s all false.”
He slips his hand from your chin to your neck, keeping a firm hold, though not squeezing, just enough to feel your pulse on his finger.
“You and me, we’re the only ones who see it for what it truly is,” he murmurs. “And why… I’ve decided I’m not gonna fuck you…”
His other paw, which up until this point had been holding the guardrail just shy of yours, now lifts and places itself over your heart, feeling it beat in his palm as he continues, “No, you deserve more respect than that… Which is why… I'm gonna give you the honor of being my first live kill.”
Betraying yourself, your heart does, nearly to his surprise, skip a beat upon him confessing his intention. But of course, despite your seemingly perfect composure, it would be utterly unnatural were it to remain steady.
“I’m gonna give you more carrots than you can eat,” he resumes, now forgoing your ear, nuzzling your cheek instead. “Then, when I've finally fattened you up enough, I'm gonna eat you whole—live and kicking.”
Swallowing thickly, he chuckles under his breath, setting you down on your own two feet again. Leaving your body cold as he begins walking away, with his final sentiments being, “And then we’ll both at last be done with this farce and become what nature intended.”
Weeks pass, and you remain alone on the mezzanine. He doesn't bring the old girls back, nor does he enroll any new girls either. It’s just you and him, in a silence so loud it’s gutting. And still, you’re fed a platter of carrots every day, and you never fail to finish every last one.
He doesn’t touch you again. No, instead, he maintains a distance. You catch his gaze linger though, just like it had since the beginning—on you while you eat, while you mind your business, even while you sleep, you’ll hear the low rumble of his breath, stalking you. It’s as he’d said, like hunter and prey.
Also now, on his throne, watching you where you sit, by the balustrade, looking outward at the burrow. No one wants to be there—not the girls, and not the men who come to see them either—they might think they do, but the truth remains. What they want can’t be found here.
And yet, you suppose it comes close enough.
“You’ve been fattening me up for a while now…” you announce, cutting the silence. And then you turn your head back, flashing him your signature smile from over your shoulder. “Is this the part where you finally eat me?”
He doesn’t say anything. Just continues to stare at you like he’s waiting for you to make the decision for him.
“Do you want me to run?” you propose then—not sure if you’re trying to make it easier for him or perhaps harder.
“Do you really think you’ll be able to stand still?” he mutters back. No mockery in his words. No humor in it at all.
You shuffle around to face him better, still smiling even though you know it probably doesn’t look too convincing anymore. “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t matter either way. You’d be much quicker. I wouldn’t get far.”
His voice seems tight, suggesting, “I’m sure you could if you tried.”
You sigh then, “We both know that’s a lie.”
And then you get up, chest getting tougher the tighter your throat snares, making it hard to breathe, and so you take a big one and release it just as sharply, scoffing, “Besides, I don't think my heart would be able to take it. I’d die from the ache before you could make the kill—and I wouldn't want to spoil the fun.”
You place yourself about halfway toward him, before his throne. Submissiveness being your only weapon, you present yourself just so, linking your hands behind your back. “I think I’ll just stand right here and close my eyes if that’s okay.”
You hear him get up. You’ve always been so good at turning everything off, but right now you’re just not able—feeling the burn of salt swell up beneath your eyelids, pressing for release. You don’t want to let them, but they escape despite that, trickling down your cheeks.
You’re not afraid of dying. You’re not really afraid at all. That’s not it. It’s not fear. It’s something far less reasonable than that. Something audacious that couldn’t care less about the circumstances, even when it makes no sense. No sense at all.
His finger brushes your cheek, catching the wetness and wiping it away. You don’t open your eyes, but you feel the air from his breathing reach you, getting warmer with his approach, soon on your lips.
“Don’t,” you object before it can happen. “You said so yourself…” Voice a soft croak, sniffling, “It isn’t natural for prey and hunter to mate.”
You hear him swallow thickly, abiding by your words as he mulls them over again the same way the two of you had done now for the last month since your first meeting.
“I know…” he says at last. Voice no louder than just for you to hear, very nearly desperate, “So let’s forget about it. We can pretend, can’t we?”
It’s tempting, but too fickle. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”
“So, what can I do? Tell me.” His paws brush your arms, carefully, without claws. “What do I have to do to make you mine?”
“Well… that’s a question you have to ask yourself, isn’t it?” Your eyes peel open, meeting his. “It all depends on one thing.”
You appraise each other like that. Him, waiting for your conditions, and you, feeling your heart rift for reasons beyond being prey before a predator, as you state the ultimatum, “Do you want me to be afraid of you? Or do you want me to be in love with you?”
You bite your lip and look down, as though planting your foot. Even though you know what you’re asking is an affront to nature, it remains true nonetheless, “You can’t have both.”
There’s a pause. Your heart beats out of your chest, fearing what to expect—a bite or something entirely different you don’t have the nerve to name.
“You’re right…” he says at last. “Hunters don’t mate with prey.”
The beating in your chest ceases—gets cut loose and drops. You knew it all along and yet that does nothing to ease the desolation it leaves behind.
A hooked finger slips under your chin, lifting your head.
maybe its still early on in his fatui career where its his first formal ball. he's got you to help him master the proper waltz and dances, practicing around his lab with a record that occasionally skips while it plays. he does his best to observe you, too, seeing how your face reddens when he dips you or how you stumble over your feet when his hand squeezes your side mid motion. the reactions are archived in his head for later, when you retire to your room and he's still in his lab, biting his lip thinking about how many more reactions he could get from you if he pushed upon the unspoken line dividing you both from friends to something else...
໒⦂ 𝐌𝐀 𝐌𝐄𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐄.
notes. hello anon — THIS IS SO USHHFFJJF i love this so much, the yearning here is so augh.. i hope you don’t mind me writing a drabble for this.. and yes the title was completely necessary.
genre. fluff + suggestive?
tw. use of ‘dear’
dottore x gn!reader.
“you haven’t stepped on me once today.” you pointed out — softly, amused, yet audible enough for the man holding you to him. “that’s commendable, doctor.”
scoffing lightly, dottore gave your hip a small squeeze — whether in warning that he still could- step on you, that is.. or merely to remind you of his presence. one of the two, but you weren’t certain which, unless there was a secret third option that hadn’t quite crossed your mind as yet. “i would never do something so brash, unless requested explicitly and sweetly from you, my dear.” he finally said, carefully avoiding the lab equipment he had not bothered to move out of the way.
you always did say that obstacles were good for being able to avoid other pairs at formal events that called for dance, so they stuck around even now. a far cry from his first ball, which was.. well — it wasn’t horrible, but he wasn’t quite as loose as he was now with you. he moved more or less like lamb gaining its first footing, fortunately not stepping on you, however there was.. a constant self conscious feeling that he might.
a feeling that was all but unrecognizable now, slightly older and more familiarized with your teachings.
“i once recall a pair of pastel pumps i had worn, covered in light gray layers strikingly ressmbling the soles beneath your own.. perhaps my imagination?” you parroted back, twirling when the hand holding yours raised, puppeting you almost.
leading was the term, you’d corrected him several times in his earlier days in joining the fatui, but he insisted on calling it that. he just preferred the control the word had, perhaps. “a very wild imagination, indeed, but i suppose a figment of my inexperienced youth.” the harbinger finally said, returning his hand to your hip once you spun back into him.
perhaps a little too strongly, as your hand met his chest in place of his shoulder, eyes raising to his masked gaze for the briefest of blinks before you cleared your throat — awkwardly. “i didn’t think you had it in you to admit such a thing, doctor. has your arrogance subdued with age?”
“i prefer to call it being well-mannered and matured, my dear. two qualities that most of the male population lacks, and takes an awful deal of time to discover for themselves.” that included even him, to some degree — though he’d outgrown his immaturity.
the record — dated and worn, skipped the smallest of beats, but it did nothing to deter either of your movements. your hearts had known the steps, having reached sufficient proficiency in being able to fill in what was missing in your heads. a track in fontainian lyrically speaking, but with a beat that might possibly have sumerian origins.
for all that he despised the place he should have been able to call home once upon a time ago, he couldn’t deny the nostalgia that washed over him hearing the music that was only sparse. sumeru was a nation that focused little on the arts, after all, but in the smallest corners — found in impromptu performances and as entertainment in small bars or eating establishments, there was talent to be found.
although being welcome to such spaces was often a rarity for someone like him. so he typically listened from afar or watched from whichever window might have been left open to provide some circulation.
staring at him a second longer than you should have permitted yourself to, it was your turn to be the one stumbling, nearly stepping on his pristine boot. so much for that speech from before. “well-mannered, yes. whether you’re matured, hm..” you looked away, feeling your cheeks warm from having gazed at him for too long. “debatable.”
because such details and changes in your expression were impossible for a man like dottore to miss — always attentive of even the smallest things, he let out a low hum. “perhaps i should step on you just for that, but i’ve grown above such pettiness.” mostly, at least. “i must say, though, that last step was awfully unlike you, dearest.. whatever happened, hm?” dottore pressed, allowing the corners of his lips to curl as he gave your fabric-covered flesh the smallest of squeezes. a silent request on what your status was.
archons forbid you sprained an ankle or over-exhausted yourself.
“a miscalculation.” you responded as measured as your voice could possibly manage, shifting your hand upwards to rest on the curve of his shoulder as you squeezed him back — a silent reply of your own. “worry not, i can still continue. a misstep won’t be what cuts our session short.”
dottore chuckled at that, weaving the two of you between equipment he hadn’t touched in weeks. “i’d hope not, but it’s a good thing we are where we are. i could assess your condition rather easily, after all.” he mused out, splaying his fingers far enough to support your lower back before allowing your body to dip in his grasp.
a move that was not foreign — he’d done it before, and you were often prepared for the occasional rush of gravity.. but because of that little hiccup from before, you were unable to quite stop your arms from flying around his neck, even despite the mutual trust that he wouldn’t drop you.
he never did, not even back then — despite being on the scrawnier side upon joining the fatui.
swallowing the lump that had formed in your throat for the handful of seconds spent frozen in your places — like figures found on the snow globes often sold at the opera house the doctort often extended boxseat invitations to, you held his masked stare, music drowning out.
this.. didn’t happen very often. but whenever it did, it was.. difficult to pull yourself out of.
and dottore wasn’t saying anything. he was quiet, for once, patiently awaiting confirmation to continue your dance.
your heart skipped a beat in the way the record would.
“i-i’m fine.” you began when you finally remembered your voice, and that you may have allowed your eyes to roam his sharp features longer than one should. “another.. miscalculation.”
helping you upright, the scholar let out a soft hum, as though contemplating whether he should buy your obvious lie or play into it as he always did.
he opted for the latter. “perhaps we can leave it here for today. shall i examine you for good measure?” he then offered, using his now free hand to move some straying hairs back into place, as he knew well enough by now where each belonged.
“that won’t be necessary — i’m alright.” you tried dismissing, nearly shivering at the lightest brush of leather on your countenance. it was.. warm for a change. “i should.. probably get going, anyway. you have that event later tonight, and i’ve got- um..” well, you had nothing, truthfully. not this evening, at least.
“you’ve got?” dottore prompted, tilting his head with a smile of his own. “nothing, i presume?”
feeling your eyes widen, you turned your head almost immediately, huffing out a breath, “no need to sound so happy about making that discovery.” you chided, sliding your gaze back to his as you unwrapped one arm around his neck, adjusting one of the curls that framed his face.
it caught him just slightly off guard, though it didn’t quite meet his face. or at least, what had been visible to you. “a scholar should take enjoyment in a breakthrough, my dear, and i am no exception to that rule.” he chuckled once more, lowering his hand to your opposite hip. “in any case, since you have nothing scheduled for later into the evening, perhaps you might like to accompany me?” he offered softly, giving your side a small squeeze. “for old time’s sake.”
letting out a hum of your own, you let go of his hair to return your arm where it had previously accompanied the other around his neck, tilting your head to mirror his own. “is that right?” you questioned — rhetorically, of course. “all this time and you still haven’t taken a partner, doctor.” you teased, though there was.. this strange feeling of relief that bloomed in your chest.
dottore seemed to bring himself forward at that statement, confidently. “what need have i to do that when i have a perfectly good partner standing right in front of me right now, dear?”
and the hits just kept on coming — each more flustering than the last. sure, you had often teased one another, and the harbinger had certainly been a victim of that when you initially met.. but now?
being on the receiving end more often these days was.. certainly something else. especially when crossing into territory that began to blur the lines between the relatively platonic relationship you had both shared until now.
something that was happening more often these days, the longer you pondered on previous interactions.
food for thought, perhaps.
strumming your fingers against your arm, you let out a final noise of consideration before letting out a mixture between a chuckle and sigh. “i guess when you put it that way, how could i possibly refuse?” you returned, shfiting your weight to your other leg. “time and place, doctor?”
notes. saw my life flash before my eyes on this flight and almost shat myself but i managed to finish this so i hope it is somewhat enjoyable and not too rushed💔 maybe the ao3 author curse rlly is real
tysm for reading! consider leaving a tip if you enjoyed<3
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You are walking home through a snowstorm when you find a dying flame trapped in an iron lantern, and against every warning your grandmother ever gave you about the Fae, you breathe it back to life. It vanishes. So, it seems, does the ordinary shape of your life.
Now the wind goes soft when you're cold. The wood never runs low. Someone is watching from the treeline, and it keeps showing up right when you need saving most.
You're starting to think all he's ever wanted is you. And what you offer him in return is the one thing you have always had plenty of: yourself.
Featuring. Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins
Word Count. 20k (please, I promise it's worth it)
Trigger Warning(s). SMUT (18+) ♦ fucking in the woods ♦ slightly horror-adjacent? but extremely tame, dw
Notes. I have tried to incorporate accurate Russian culture into this work, but keep in mind that I'm not Russian, so beware of any inaccuracies, esp in terminology! Feminine terms/pronouns used for reader throughout the work.
By the time you were ten, you had buried your mother in the ground so hard the priest cracked two shovels trying to dig her a grave deep enough for God to find her.
You remember thinking, even then, that this was the trouble with Nod-Krai. The dead were always closer to the surface than they ought to be. Frost kept them honest. It pushed coffins up through the soil come the spring thaw, the way a sin pushes its way up through a confession, and the men would go out with their hooks and their crosses and put the bodies back where they belonged, muttering prayers with the particular tiredness of men who did not quite believe them anymore.
You think of this now, several winters later, because you are walking through a storm that wants very badly to make you one of the dead it puts back.
The wind does not blow so much as it arrives, all at once, from every direction, as if the forest itself has exhaled. It finds the seam where your shawl meets your collar and works its fingers in. Snow has filled the road past your knees, and the birches on either side have become something else entirely in this light, white bones standing sentry, their black eyes watching you pass with the patient indifference your Babulya always warned you trees like that could feel. They remember who walks past them in the dark, she used to say, crossing herself, then crossing you, two fingers pressed hard to your collarbone like she could pin the blessing into your skin so it would not slip off. And they tell.
You are walking to her now. Babulya Marfa, who has not left her izba on the far side of the wood in nine years, who sends word twice a season to whoever is fool enough to make the crossing. Who is, as of three days ago, very possibly dying. Your uncle wrote it in a hand so unsteady you had to read the letter twice to be certain the words were asking for you and not something crueler. You left before the ink on your reply had dried. You did not think, until you were already an hour into the trees, to ask why a storm like this had chosen tonight, of all nights, to come down off the mountains and bury the only road that led to her door.
Your father would call this foolishness. He would say a woman with sense waits out the weather in town, drinks her tea, says her prayers to the Tsaritsa by the stove, where the only thing she has to fear is whether the samovar needs more coals. But your father is three days behind you, and you are not, despite what people say about you, entirely without sense. You are simply the kind of fool who has always believed that love is owed in person, paid in full, while there is still time to pay it.
So you walk. Your valenki are soaked through to felt that no longer remembers what dry feels like. The lantern you carried from town gave up its flame an hour ago, smothered by wind that seemed almost deliberate in the way it found the glass, and you have not had the courage to stop and relight it, certain that if you stood still even a moment, the cold would decide you had made its decision easier and simply keep you.
.
It is in this dark, this particular shade of black that swallows the difference between shut eyes and open ones, that you see it.
A flame.
Blue, and so small you mistake it at first for the storm playing tricks on your sight.. It hangs low among the birches, perhaps thirty paces off the road, no taller than a candle's flame and twice as faint, guttering as though some unseen hand keeps pinching it nearly to death and then, at the last possible moment, relenting.
Your whole body goes still with the particular stillness of a hare that has just understood the shape in the grass is not grass.
Bolotnik fires, Babulya's voice says, clear as if she stood beside you, clearer than she has sounded in any letter these nine years. You were seven the first time she told you, the two of you wrapped under the same wool blanket while the stove ticked and settled, her hands smelling of tallow and dried dill as she traced the story into your palm like she was teaching you to read by touch alone.
The wisps. The Fae's own lanterns, lit from a coal they stole out of the first fire that ever burned, before God made the sun to make fires honest. They do not burn for warmth, devushka. They burn for hunger. You see one in the marsh, in the wood, anywhere the dark pools like water, and you do not go to it. You let it call you sweetheart in your mother's voice if it likes. You let it weep. You keep walking, and you do not look back, because the moment you go to comfort it, it has already won.
You know this. You have known it since before you knew the shape of your own name in your own handwriting.
And still, fool you are, your feet have already turned off the road.
You tell yourself it is only that the flame is so weak, so clearly wretched in the way it strains and dims and strains again like something genuinely about to gutter out, that some animal part of you, the same part that once spent a whole spring nursing a crow with a broken wing back into the sky, simply cannot leave it to die. You tell yourself a great many things, in fact, in the time it takes you to cross those thirty paces, snow past your knees, breath turned to frost-lace at your lips, and every one of those things is a lie you are telling so that the truer, stupider reason, it looked so alone out there, the way you feel most nights, and you have never once in your life been able to leave a lonely thing alone, does not have to be looked at directly.
You should know better. Babulya spent half your childhood making certain that you did.
But you have never been able to walk past a thing that is suffering, not a crow, not a dog, not the old beggar woman outside the church whom the other girls crossed the street to avoid, and some buried, stubborn part of you has already decided, before your mind has caught up to agree, that whatever this flame is, it is hurting, and that this, more than any warning whispered over a childhood blanket, is the only fact that matters.
The snow grows strange beneath your feet as you near it, packed too smooth, untouched by wind in a perfect ring no wider than a grave, and the flame does not flicker the way fire flickers when it is fed by wind. It flickers the way breath does when it is being held back on purpose.
You stop within arm's reach and understand, all at once, two things.
The first is that there is no marsh-light hovering free in the air the way Babulya's stories always told it. It is caught, contained, burning low and blue and dying inside the soot-fogged glass of a small iron lantern, the kind a traveler might once have carried. Its handle hangs from nothing, from no hand, from no branch, suspended at the exact height a person would hold it if a person were standing there. It turns, very slightly, on its nothing-chain, as if it has only just noticed you, too.
The second is that you have already reached out your hand.
You have seen weirder things than a dying lantern with no one to hold it. You were twelve the night the Wild Hunt cornered you to a cliff, and whatever you carry from that night you have never spoken of to anyone, not even Babulya, who you suspect already knows because she never once asked. Set against that, a flame guttering in its little iron cage seems almost a kindness of a haunting, the sort a girl could reasonably survive.
Still, fear comes, and it settles less on the lantern itself than on the air pressing close around it, the way the cold here seems to bend slightly inward, the way the silence holds itself with a kind of attention. A shiver moves through you that has nothing to do with the wind. You know its name. You have felt it before, kneeling too close to the iconostasis with its rows of painted eyes, in the breath before a held secret decides whether it wants to stay held. It is the body's oldest language for something here is watching you back.
You ought to turn around now. Babulya told you this part too, the part that comes after the warning has already failed, where you are meant to drop your hand, walk back to the road, and let the wind keep whatever pity you were about to spend on a thing built to spend you in return.
But the flame dips low again, nearly to nothing, a wick about to surrender its last claim on burning, and something in your chest answers it before your senses can intervene. You think of the crow. You think, absurdly, that nothing this weak could possibly still be dangerous, the same lie every soft-hearted fool has told herself walking up to every wounded thing that ever bit her for the trouble.
You pull it from the air. It is lighter than it has any right to be, the iron cold enough to ache through your mitten, and you tuck it inside your coat against your ribs the way you'd carry a half-frozen kitten, your other hand coming up to shield the little glass door from the worst of the wind.
The clasp is iron too, plain and old, sized for fingers larger than your own, and it takes three tries with numb hands before it finally gives. The moment the door swings open, the flame leaps, rising thin and furious, bending away from your fingers like something startled out of sleep that wants nothing to do with being seen this close, this raw. You nearly snap the door shut again on instinct, certain you have woken something better left to die in peace.
But it does not strike you. It cannot, you understand a breath later. It has not the strength left to do anything but flinch, and the flinch costs it; it dips lower than before, and something in your own chest twists with a tenderness that makes no earthly sense, pointed as it is at a marsh-light, a Fae's stolen coal, a thing your own grandmother spent half your childhood teaching you to fear.
You cup your hands around it anyway. You bring your face close, the way you would to coax a coal back to life in a dying stove, and you breathe.
Not hard. Not the way you'd feed a fire that wanted feeding. Soft, the way you'd breathe warm air over fingers gone white, willing the blood back into them before it could be lost for good. The wind itself seems, for one strange suspended moment, to hold off from you, as though even it is waiting to see what you'll do.
The flame catches your breath the way a starving thing catches the smell of bread.
It does not simply grow. It answers. The blue of it deepens to something nearer violet at the root, then climbs to gold at the crown, and the little glass casing fills with light so sudden and so warm against your numbed face that you gasp and nearly drop the whole lantern into the snow. Heat rolls off it, real heat, more than a flame that size has any business giving off, and for one heartbeat you feel something unmistakably like relief, though whether it belongs to you or to the flame you could not say.
Then the air around the lantern draws tight, the way air draws tight before lightning finds its mark, and a crackle of something that is neither quite fire nor quite frost races up the iron in a bright thread, snapping hard against your fingertips. You cry out and let go.
The lantern does not fall.
It is simply gone. No smoke trails where it hung, no sound marks where it might have struck the snow, only the smell of scorched air left behind and the ghost-shape of the flame still printed on the inside of your eyes, the way a candle leaves its light behind even after you've shut them.
You stand there with your scorched hand cradled to your chest, the wind rushing back into the silence all at once as though it, too, had been holding its breath, and for a long moment your mind refuses to agree with what your eyes have just told it.
It is only when you finally look down, half expecting to find iron and broken glass scattered somewhere in the drifts, that you see them.
Two prints, pressed deep into the snow before you, where a moment ago there had been no prints, no one standing at all. Not a hare's tracks. Not a wolf's. Boot prints, large, larger than any foot you have ever stood across from, sunk into the snow with the full weight of someone who had been standing there, close enough to have reached out and touched you himself, for who knows how long before you ever noticed him at all.
The wind is already filling them in, patient, the way it fills in everything in Nod-Krai eventually. By the time you find the nerve to step back toward the road, there is almost nothing left to prove they were ever there.
Almost.
.
.
.
The izba is a smear of gold across a field gone the colour of spilled milk, and the sight of its one lit window does something to your knees that the whole night of walking had not managed. Smoke threads up from the chimney in a thin grey rope, bent sideways by the wind, and the gate hangs in its drift with a crust of ice fused so thick along the latch that you have to work your fingers under it to lift the bar at all, your scorched hand screaming where the cold metal finds the rawest part of it.
You do not let yourself think about why that part is raw. Not yet. There will be time for that later, in the dark, when no one is asking you to be brave in front of them.
Babulya does not wait for the knock. The door opens before your knuckles ever reach it, spilling stove-light and the smell of tallow candles and dried dill out into the storm, and there she is, smaller than you remembered, wrapped in three shawls against a cold that lives in her bones now more than it ever lived in the air, one hand braced on the frame as though the doorway itself might decide to abandon her if she let go.
"Devochka moya." Her voice cracks on the second word, half scold and half prayer. "What kind of fool walks Nod-Krai in a storm like this one?"
"The kind whose grandmother is dying," you say, and step into her arms, and you hear her sardonic chuckle at your humor, the particularly dark kind you have only been comfortable enough to use with your grandmother.
She is thinner than the letter let on. You feel it through the shawls, through your own numbed hands, the way her shoulder blades sit too close beneath the wool, like a bird's, like something built for leaving. She smells the same as ever, woodsmoke and beeswax and the particular bitterness of the herbs she keeps strung along the rafters, and for one long moment neither of you says anything at all, because some reunions are better held in silence than spoiled with words.
It is she who pulls back first. It is she who takes your face in both her hands the way she always has, thumbs pressed to your cheekbones, eyes narrowed in the candlelight like she is reading something written beneath your skin.
Then her gaze drops to your hand, and whatever she finds there stops her cold.
"Show me."
"It's nothing, Babulya."
"Show me, or I will know you for a liar before you've even taken off your coat."
You hold it out. In the stove-light the burn looks worse than it felt, an angry welt curled across two fingers and into your palm, the skin gone tight and shining where the crackle caught you. Babulya's mouth presses into a line you know from a hundred childhood scrapes, the line that means she is deciding how much of her fear to let you see.
"A frozen latch," you say, before she can ask. "On the gate, two farms back. I grabbed it without my mitten, stupid of me, and it stuck like a tongue to iron in January. I had to pull it free."
It is not, strictly, a lie. There was iron. There was cold enough to take skin. You have simply rearranged the order of things, set the lantern's clasp where a gate latch ought to be, and you tell yourself this is mercy and not cowardice, that a woman with a chest like a creaking floorboard does not need to hear about lights that should not exist hovering in Nod-Krai at midnight.
Babulya studies you the way she studies bread to know if it has risen properly, with the whole of her attention and none of her trust.
"Mm," she says, which from her has always meant I do not believe you and I am choosing, for now, to let it be.
She makes you sit by the stove anyway. She fetches the little clay pot of goose fat and honey from the shelf where it has lived since before you were born, the same salve she has smeared on every burn and chilblain and skinned knee of your whole life, and her hands, though they shake now in a way they did not used to, are still steady enough for this. She works in silence, mostly, her lips moving now and then in something too quiet to be speech and too rhythmic to be anything else, a prayer worn smooth from decades of use, the kind that does not need the saint's name spoken aloud anymore to still reach him.
"You were always like this," she says at last, winding clean cloth around your fingers with a practiced, gentle pressure. "Even as a small thing. Found a wounded sparrow once, hid it under your bed in a shoebox, fed it bread soaked in milk for a week before your mother found the smell." She ties off the bandage and holds your hand a moment longer than the task requires. "Soft hearts make for hard living, in a place like this one, devochka. The wood does not reward you for your kindness."
"Then it is fortunate," you say, "that I did not do this out of kindness. I did it out of carelessness."
She looks at you the way she has looked at you your entire life, the look that has always meant I see straight through to the lie and I love you regardless, and says nothing further on the matter. She only crosses herself once, quickly, before she rises to bank the stove for the night, the gesture so old and so automatic it might be aimed at God or at you, and you are not certain, even now, that there is much difference between the two as far as Babulya is concerned.
That night you lie awake on the bench by the stove long after her breathing in the next room has gone slow and even, listening to the wind worry at the shutters, your bandaged hand cradled against your chest. The pain has dulled to something distant, banked the way Babulya banked the coals, and you are nearly asleep, the line between waking and not gone thin and porous, when the warmth finds you.
It comes first as a hum beneath the bandage, faint, almost ticklish, the way a struck glass keeps singing long after the spoon has stopped touching it. Then heat blooms beneath the cloth, gentle and total, spreading up through your wrist and into your arm like sunlight remembered rather than felt, and for one disoriented moment you think you must be dreaming of summer, of the river before it freezes, of your mother's kitchen with bread in the oven.
You do not open your eyes. Some animal instinct keeps them shut, the same instinct that once told you not to look directly at the flame in the wood, and you lie there in the dark and let whatever this is finish what it has come to do, half terror and half something perilously close to gratitude, until sleep takes you before you can decide which one ought to win.
In the morning your hand does not hurt.
You notice it before you are even fully awake, the absence of pain so total it takes you a moment to understand what is missing, the way a sudden silence can wake a person faster than any sound. You unwind the bandage by the grey light coming through the shutters and find skin beneath it unmarked, no welt, no shine of new scar tissue, nothing at all to say that iron and lightning had ever touched you there.
Babulya finds you staring at your own palm like it belongs to someone else.
She takes your hand without asking, the way she always has, turning it toward the window, running her thumb once across the place where the burn should be. Her face does something complicated, disbelief and suspicion and something older than either, something that might once have had a saint's name attached to it before the church got hold of the old fears and dressed them up as sin.
"This was not nothing two days ago," she says.
"It must not have been as bad as it looked, Babulya. The cold makes everything look worse than it is."
"Mm," she says again, and this time the sound carries more weight than before, a whole unspoken sermon folded into one syllable, but she lets your hand go and does not press further, the way a woman learns not to press a wound that has decided to close on its own.
You spend the rest of the day telling yourself the same thing in a dozen different ways, peeling potatoes at her table, feeding the stove, listening to her cough in the next room with a sound like wind through a cracked window. You tell yourself the cold does strange things to the body, that burns from frozen metal heal faster than burns from fire, that you imagined the hum beneath the bandage the way exhausted travelers imagine all manner of things in the dark.
But some quieter, more honest part of you keeps circling back to the lantern.
You think of the way it had answered your breath like a starving thing answers bread, the violet at its root, the gold at its crown. You think, before you can stop yourself, that perhaps this is its doing somehow, some strange debt repaid across whatever distance separates you now, a kindness returned for a kindness given.
Silly, you tell yourself, almost fiercely, the way you might scold a child caught believing too easily in things that want to be believed. Why would a Fae's stolen flame trouble itself over the burned hand of a girl who'd only meant to save it? You are not even certain it was Fae at all, not truly, only that it matched every word of every warning Babulya ever gave you. And warnings, you have learned, are not always honest about what they are warning against.
It is only later, scrubbing the supper pot in water gone cold, that the other thought finds you, the one you had managed, until now, not to look at directly.
The footprints.
Someone had been standing in that ring of undisturbed snow. Someone large enough to leave a mark like that, close enough to have watched you take the lantern from the air, to have watched you breathe life back into a thing that should not have had breath left to take. A lantern does not simply float along a forest road for no reason at all. A lantern belongs to a hand, even one that does not show itself.
You wonder, scrubbing harder than the pot requires, whose hand that might once have been.
The dead, perhaps, lost and wandering as the dead in this country are said to do when the ground freezes too hard to properly hold them.
Or something else. Something that does not die in any way the priests would recognise, that only loses its light for a while and waits, patient as the wind filling in footprints, for someone soft-hearted enough to give it back.
.
.
.
The days that follow settle into a rhythm so ordinary it almost convinces you to forget the forest entirely. You boil oats and feed them to Babulya by the spoonful when her hands shake too badly to manage the bowl herself. You mend the hole in the second shutter where the wind has been getting through and complaining about it all winter. You sit by her bed in the evenings while she tells you, again, the story of how she met your grandfather at a spring fair, embellishing some new and entirely impossible detail each time she tells it. And you let her, because a story told a hundred times is still a gift the hundred-and-first time it is given. The cough in her chest does not improve, but it does not worsen either, and you decide to count that as something close enough to mercy.
It is on the fourth morning that you notice the woodpile under the eaves has shrunk to almost nothing, and you rise before the sky has so much as considered turning grey to do something about it.
The hour before dawn in Nod-Krai has always had a particular quality of dark to it, a dark that seems to have weight, that presses against the lantern glass and the backs of your eyes both, and you have walked it before with your heart in your throat and your axe held tighter than was strictly useful against a forest that does not, as a rule, care how tightly you hold anything. You bundle yourself into your tulup, wrap the strap of the hand-sled twice around your palm, and step out into a cold so total it feels less like weather and more like a held breath, the stars still hard and bright overhead, Orion's belt hanging just where Babulya taught you to find it as a child, a line of three lights she always called, with no apparent irony, God's own measuring rope.
The walk to the deadfall stand should take the better part of an hour in this dark, picking your way around drifts and roots buried under the snow with nothing but memory and starlight to guide you. Tonight it does not.
You notice it first as an absence rather than a presence, the way you notice a missing tooth with your tongue before you understand what is gone. The drifts that usually swallow you to the knee along this stretch of path have firmed beneath your feet into something almost like a road, packed and even, as though some patient hand swept it clear before you arrived. You tell yourself it is only the wind, that drifts shift and settle on their own logic, and you keep walking, and the feeling does not leave you even as the explanation does its best to.
Then there is the light. Not moonlight, which has none to spare behind tonight's thin cloud, and not starlight either, which has never in your life been bright enough to throw a shadow. This is something low and blue, hanging at the edges of your sight the way a held thought hangs just behind the eyes, never quite where you look but always present in the place you've just stopped looking. Each time you turn your head to find its source it slides away into the black between the birches, patient, unbothered, content to let you doubt it rather than be caught.
The sled grows lighter as you fill it. This, more than anything else, is the detail you cannot make peace with later, turning it over in your mind the way you'd turn over a coin to check it wasn't counterfeit. By the time you have stacked it with as much deadfall as you can reasonably drag, the weight across your shoulder where the rope bites should be considerable, should ache the way it has ached every winter of your life doing this same chore. Instead the sled seems to glide, its runners finding the smoothest line through the snow as though the ground itself has tilted very slightly in your favour, as though some unseen hand has taken up the back end of it and is bearing the worst of the weight without once asking to be thanked.
A raven watches you from a low branch the entire time you work, untroubled by your nearness in a way no wild bird ought to be, its head tilting with what you could swear, if you allowed yourself to swear to such things, looked very much like curiosity. When you straighten and meet its eye directly it does not startle into the dark the way it should. It simply watches you a moment longer, as if deciding something, and then lifts off without a sound, not so much as a single wingbeat disturbing the snow it leaves behind.
There are other small wrongnesses too, the kind you would not think twice about alone but that begin, stacked one atop the other, to take on the shape of something deliberate. Frost ferns bloom across a fallen log in a pattern too symmetrical to be weather's careless hand, fanned out like fingers pressed flat against the bark.
The cold that should be biting at your scorched fingers, the ones that healed too fast and too clean to ever properly explain, seems instead to skirt around them, leaving every other part of you numb while that one hand stays strangely, impossibly warm.
Once, you are certain you hear footsteps falling in time with your own, just beyond the treeline, matching your pace exactly, and when you stop dead to listen, they stop too, a half-beat too late to be only an echo of your own boots.
You do not run. You tell yourself this later as though it were a point of pride rather than the simple fact that your legs, full of wood and cold and four days of grief held carefully at bay, would not have carried you far even if you'd asked them to.
It is on the walk back, the sled heavier with cargo and somehow no harder to pull, that the ice on the little creek crossing gives way beneath you.
You have crossed it a hundred times in your life, this narrow vein of water that cuts the path near the old stone marker, frozen solid every winter you can remember, safe enough that Babulya never once warned you off it the way she warned you off the deeper water further south. You do not know, would not know, until much later from a neighbour's offhand mention of overflow ice swelling beneath the surface this year, that the crossing has turned treacherous, the visible ice no more than a skin stretched thin over a slow black current still moving underneath, waiting for exactly this kind of trust to be placed in it.
The crack beneath your boot sounds almost gentle, a small dry note like a knuckle popping, and then the world tilts and the cold reaches up through the broken ice to close around your shin before your mind has finished understanding what your body already knows.
You do not fall further than that. An arm comes around you from behind, solid and sudden, an entire wall of warmth pressed flush against your back where a moment before there had been only forest and falling, and you are hauled bodily off the cracking ice and onto solid ground with a strength that does not strain, that lifts you the way you might lift something you were never in any danger of dropping.
For a long moment you do not move at all, and could not if you tried. The cold has not finished delivering its verdict on your soaked boot, the creek still hissing behind you where the ice gave way, and your whole body seems to be arguing with itself over which sensation deserves your attention first, the water working its slow way through wool toward bare skin, or the warmth at your back, vast and improbable, radiating clean through your coat the way the stone bench beside Babulya's stove holds its heat on the rare nights the fire has been fed too generously. Your heart has not slowed since the ice cracked. If anything it climbs higher now, hammering against your ribs with a fear that has only just caught up to the danger that provoked it, several breaths too late to be of any use to you.
He has not let go. One arm remains banded firm across your middle, his hand spread wide against your stomach through the layers of your coat, and you understand, distantly, almost academically, that you ought to fear that more than you fear the water. You are not a fool. Babulya did not raise you to mistake a stranger's hand for safety only because it happens to be warm. And yet some unguarded, traitorous part of you leans back into that warmth before you can stop it, the way a half-frozen thing will press itself gratefully into the very palm that may, in the end, decide to do it harm.
You try, on instinct, to turn and see him properly, and find you cannot. Not because his hold has tightened, though it has, slightly, but because some older instinct, the one Babulya spent your whole childhood sharpening in you, insists that turning would be the worse mistake of the two. Still you catch fragments at the edge of your sight: a sleeve of something dark and heavier than wool, rimed white at the cuff the way iron rimes over in a hard freeze; a hand broader than your own and entirely bare despite air that numbed your own fingers through two layers of mitten; breath fogging out over your shoulder in a plume gone faintly, impossibly blue at its edges, like woodsmoke caught the instant before it remembers how to be flame.
Fear and something far less sensible move through you in the very same current, indistinguishable by the time either reaches your throat.
"Who's there?" It comes out smaller than you intend it to, edged with a tremor you cannot quite master, though you make yourself say it regardless, because Babulya also did not raise a girl who goes quiet simply for being afraid.
"Forgive me." His voice meets you low and unhurried, courteous in a way you were entirely unprepared for, the voice of a man who might once have bowed over a lady's hand at some fair now long since swallowed by frost, strange and out of place against the cold breathing out of the dark beyond the treeline. "I startled you. That was never my intention, only to keep you from going under." A pause, faintly rueful. "Though I confess you make it remarkably difficult to be merely a passing rescuer and nothing more."
Some inkling of bravery seeps into you, "Let me see you, then, if your intentions are so honest."
"Not yet." Said so gently it costs the refusal nothing of its firmness. "Forgive me the discourtesy of denying you twice in one night. You have done enough looking at things you oughtn't for one winter, brave as you are foolish."
The hand at your stomach shifts, just slightly, fingers spreading wider as though to better hold you upright, and you feel it then, through the wool, the unmistakable ridge of scarred skin across his palm, a burn healed over rough and old in a shape the too-observant part of your mind recognises at once, because it is the very shape your own hand wore for one single night before it healed too clean to be natural.
You do not have the chance to ask him about it. "Mind the ice on your way home," he says, close enough now that you feel the words against your hair before you hear them, something almost like a smile threaded through the courtesy of it. "I find I would rather not make a habit of fishing you out of it."
Then the warmth at your back withdraws all at once, the cold rushing in to fill the space he leaves so completely that you sway on your feet from the shock of it alone, and when you finally turn, breath fogging hard in front of you, there is nothing left but a scatter of frost already creeping back across the broken ice and a low blue light receding fast between the birches, swallowed by the dark before you can take a single step after it.
You stand there a long while with your soaked boot going numb and your heart going the opposite of numb entirely. It is only the thought of Babulya waiting on you, of smoke needed for the stove and oats needed for the pot, that finally turns you back toward the road at all.
The rest of the day passes you by the way a current passes a stone too heavy to be carried along with it.
You are aware of moving through it, of sweeping the floor and feeding the chickens and changing your soaked boot for a dry one before Babulya can ask why your stocking is wet halfway up your shin. But none of it quite reaches the part of you that is still standing at the edge of a cracked creek with a stranger's hand spread warm against your stomach.
By evening you have not managed to put it down. You feel it still as you set the pot to simmer, the cabbage and the last of the autumn carrots going soft in water, gone the colour of weak tea, a phantom warmth pressed flat against your middle that no amount of cold air or honest work seems able to chase off. Twice you catch yourself with the ladle hovering forgotten over the pot, your mind thirty paces into Nod-Krai instead of in the kitchen where it belongs, and twice you have to scold yourself back into your own body before the soup scorches.
"You'll put a hole clean through that pot, staring at it so hard," Babulya says from her chair by the stove, not unkindly, her knitting needles clicking along at their own steady rhythm. "Or did the soup insult you somehow, that you mean to murder it twice?"
"I’m only tired, Babulya. I was up before the birds."
"Mm. The birds in this house keep later hours than they used to, then, because you've been somewhere else since you walked in that door, and it was not in the henhouse." She does not look up from her needles. "I am old, devochka, not blind."
You busy yourself with the bread instead of answering, and she lets you, for now, the same way she let the lie about the gate latch stand for now, and you understand, even as you're grateful for it, that her patience has never once in your life been the same thing as her forgetting.
The samovar takes longer than usual to come to a boil, or perhaps it only feels that way with your thoughts circling where they keep circling, back to the shape of a scar pressed into your stomach through two layers of wool, the precise, impossible warmth of a hand that should have been as cold as the air around it and was not. You wonder, not for the first time today, whether a thing like that leaves a mark a person cannot see. Whether you are walking around now carrying some invisible brand the way livestock carry the burn of their owner's iron, claimed by something that never once gave you its name, only the warmth of its hand and the courtesy of refusing to let you see its face.
You do not know if you should be afraid of that thought. You find, uncomfortably, that you are not nearly as afraid of it as you ought to be.
Outside the window, far off toward the mountains, light flickers once through the clouds, a soundless, violet-white flash that has no business existing in a sky this cold. Lightning in a Snezhnayan winter is rare enough that the old wives count it an omen, one way or another depending on which old wife you ask, and you stand very still at the window with the kettle forgotten in your hand and watch the dark for a second flash that does not come, and think, with a certainty that has no reasonable foundation at all, that it was watching you back.
Dinner is quiet in the comfortable way, the bread torn instead of cut, the soup eaten straight from the same pot it was cooked in because Babulya has never once seen the sense in dirtying a second dish for two people who already know each other's faces too well to bother with manners. She tells you, between spoonfuls, that the priest's wife caught her husband talking to the goat again, and that she is fairly certain it is the goat doing most of the talking these days, and you laugh harder than the joke perhaps deserves, grateful for anything loud enough to crowd out the violet flash still printed behind your eyes.
After, you kneel at her feet with the little jar of warmed juniper oil and unwrap the wool from her legs, and she hisses through her teeth at the first touch the way she always does, more out of habit now than real pain.
"Careful, devochka, I am not yet so far gone that you may simply knead me like dough."
"You complain every winter, and every winter you ask me to do it again the very next evening."
"A woman is allowed her contradictions. It is one of the few luxuries left to me." She watches you work for a while in silence, her swollen ankles giving slightly under your thumbs, and then, in the same mild tone she might use to remark on the weather, she says, "You have the look of a girl who has met something in the wood."
Your hands do not still, though it costs you something to keep them moving.
"I met a cracked creek and a wet boot, Babulya. Nothing more interesting than that."
"Mm." The sound carries the whole weight of a sermon again, the way it always does. "I have lived a long time in this house, devochka, longer than is strictly polite for a woman to admit to. I know the smell that clings to a person after the strange has had its hands on them. Ozone and woodsmoke and something underneath both that has no right name in any tongue I was ever taught." Her eyes, when you finally look up, are not angry. They are only tired, and old, and afraid in a way she is trying very hard not to let show. "You have carried that smell into my house twice now."
You say nothing, which is, between the two of you, its own kind of confession.
She sighs, long and rattling, and reaches down to touch your face the way she has since before you could properly remember being touched at all. "Even as a babe you reached for the spider before the flower," she says, almost fond despite herself. "Strange things have always known a soft heart when they find one, dear. They collect hearts like that the way magpies collect anything that shines, not always out of cruelty. Sometimes only because shine is rare, and they are hungry for it in a way you and I will never properly understand."
"Is that a warning?"
"It is an observation. The warning is older and you have heard it from me a hundred times already and ignored it on the hundred-and-first." She lets her hand drop back into her lap. "So I will give you something more useful instead. If it comes to you again, and I think we both know it will, do not give it your name. Not your true one, not even in jest, not even to be polite. A name is a door, devochka, and you do not hand a stranger the key to your own house no matter how warm his hand felt on the threshold."
You think of the creek, of a voice low and unhurried against your hair, of how easily a name might have slipped free of you in that moment if he had only thought to ask for it.
"And if I lose my way," you say, half a question, "out there. In the dark."
"Turn your coat inside out and put it back on," Babulya says, as plainly as if she were telling you how much salt the soup wanted. "It will not save you from everything. But it confuses the kind of thing that leads by tricking the eye, and confusion, in my experience, has saved more fools than courage ever has."
You finish the oil in silence after that, and she lets you, watching the fire instead of you for once, and when you finally rise to bank the stove for the night her hand catches your wrist, briefly, only long enough to say, without words, that whatever else she is, she is not finished being afraid for you yet.
Sleep does not come easily. You lie on the bench with the blanket pulled to your chin and your thoughts will not stop circling the same low orbit, danger and warmth tangled so closely together you cannot any longer find the seam between them, the way you never could as a child either, always the first to climb toward the high branch instead of away from it, always the one who followed the strange sound into the trees instead of running from it. You have always been like this. Babulya is right to fear it in you. You are not entirely certain you would change it even if she asked.
You rise once, near midnight, drawn by nothing you could properly name, and go to the window.
The yard is empty. The snow lies smooth and undisturbed all the way to the treeline, lit faintly violet by clouds that have not yet decided whether to give up their lightning again, and you stand there with your palm pressed flat to the cold glass and your heart doing something unsteady in your chest, half hope and half dread, both feelings so similar in your body that you cannot say with any honesty which one you are hoping will win.
For one heartbeat, just at the treeline, a shape resolves out of the dark. Tall, still, edged faintly in the same violet-white as the lightning, the suggestion of a man standing exactly where the birches grow thickest, watching the house, watching, you understand with a certainty that settles into your bones like cold water, you.
You blink, and the shape is gone, swallowed back into the trees as completely as if it had never stood there at all.
You stay at the window a long while after, your breath fogging the glass in slow, even clouds, waiting for it to come back.
It does not. But you find, lying back down in the dark with your pulse still unsettled and your skin still remembering the precise shape of a hand it will not soon forget, that some part of you is already certain this is not the last you will see of him.
.
.
.
You are not, at first, certain anything has changed at all. The morning after the lightning, you wake expecting the world to have settled back into its ordinary shape, the way a held breath settles once the danger that provoked it has passed, and for the length of breakfast it seems to have done exactly that. It is only later, hauling water from the well, that you notice the rope has come up without its usual stiff fight against the ice, sliding through your palms smooth as something freshly oiled though you know for a fact no one has touched it since autumn. You stand there a moment with the bucket dripping at your feet and tell yourself it is only a milder morning than most.
The bread proves you wrong by midday, rising fuller and faster than the same dough has any right to in a kitchen this cold, the crust coming out of the oven a deep, even gold instead of the patchy brown you have made your peace with every winter of your life. The hens, who by this point in the season usually offer you one egg between the four of them if you are fortunate, give you four whole eggs that morning and four again the next, and you carry them inside cradled against your chest like something stolen, glancing back over your shoulder at the coop as though it might explain itself if you looked at it hard enough.
You do not mention any of it to Babulya at first. You tell yourself this is only because none of it seems worth mentioning on its own, a softer rope, a better loaf, a generous hen, the small unremarkable mercies that any winter might occasionally offer a person without there needing to be a reason behind them at all. You know, even as you tell yourself this, that you do not entirely believe it.
By the third night you have stopped pretending not to notice.
The wind that has been needling its way through every gap in the shutters since the first snow falls strangely quiet around you on your way back from the woodpile, the bite gone out of it so completely that for a few startled paces you could swear something has wrapped itself bodily around you, warm and close as a held breath, before retreating back into ordinary cold the moment you cross the threshold.
Your lantern, when you light it that same evening to check on the chickens one last time before bed, catches on the first strike of flint instead of the usual three or four, and burns brighter than the wick should allow, its flame threaded through at the very root with the faintest, most fleeting hint of blue, gone again before you can be entirely certain you saw it at all.
You stand in the yard with that lantern held up before your face for far longer than the chickens require, watching the flame for some sign of itself, your breath fogging white and even in the cold, and you do not know, even now, whether what you feel watching it is fear or something far less easy to name honestly.
Babulya notices before you find the courage to bring any of it to her.
"The wood from that last cord is lasting longer than it ought," she says one evening, not looking up from the sock she is darning, her needles moving with the same steady rhythm they have kept your whole life. "I split that cord myself, in better years, and I know its measure. We should have burned through half of it by now."
"Perhaps you split it more generously than you remember."
"Perhaps." She does not sound convinced, and does not pretend to be. "Or perhaps God has finally taken an interest in this house after forty years of looking elsewhere, which I confess would surprise me less than the alternative, which is that you have struck some manner of bargain with someone considerably less patient than He is, and considerably less inclined to wait for a proper prayer before deciding to help." She glances up at you then, sharp despite the candlelight softening every other line of her face. "Tell me, at least, that it was a charming devil, devochka, if you've gone and doomed the both of us. I should like to know I died for good company."
"I haven't doomed anyone, Babulya."
"Mm." The sound again, that whole unspoken sermon folded into one syllable, and she goes back to her darning without pressing further, though you can feel her attention on you for a long while after, the way you can feel the cold radiating off a window even with your back turned to it.
It is Babulya herself, in the end, who gives you the clearest proof that something has indeed turned in your favour, however little you understand the shape of it.
Her cough, which has rattled through this house every night since the letter that first called you home, begins, gradually and then all at once, to ease. The colour comes back into her face in a way you had stopped letting yourself hope for, a faint warmth returning to cheeks that have been the colour of tallow for weeks, and one morning you wake to find her already up and dressed and humming something tuneless over the porridge pot, her hands steadier on the spoon than they have been since before the snow came. You stand in the doorway and watch her for a long moment, your chest aching with a gratitude too large and too frightened to hold comfortably, because you cannot account for it, cannot point to any medicine or prayer or change in the weather that would explain a recovery this swift, and the not knowing sits in you alongside the relief like two animals forced to share the same small cage.
"Don't look so pleased with yourself," Babulya says, catching you staring, a wicked little glint surfacing in her eyes for the first time in longer than you can remember. "A woman my age improving this fast smells less of mercy than of mischief. Though I'll say this much, devochka. I'd rather die of mischief, in the end, than of that cough. At least mischief has the decency to be interesting."
You laugh, because the alternative is to weep, and she lets you, watching you with an expression that holds both her old wit and a far more careful underneath it, the look of a woman who has lived long enough to know that gifts given without a clear giver are rarely given for free.
The hearth proves the strangest mercy of all. Some nights now you wake near dawn to find the stove still glowing warm and low though you banked it hours before with barely enough wood to last until midnight, the coals at its heart burning that same faint, impossible blue you have started to recognise the way you'd recognise a voice in a crowded room, low and constant and entirely too familiar for something you have only properly heard once in your life. You lie there in the dark on those mornings with your blanket warm around you and your heart going much too fast for sleep, and think, with a certainty that frightens you more than any cold ever has, that the very fire keeping you alive through this winter has decided, for reasons of its own, to keep you.
You should be more afraid of this than you are. You know this the way you know the catechism, by rote, without it changing anything about how your chest tightens each evening as the light fails and you find yourself listening for footsteps that do not come, watching the treeline from the window with an attention that has nothing to do with wolves.
It is the nights, more than anything, that betray you.
You tell yourself, the first few times, that it is only natural to think of him. He saved your life. He has, perhaps, gone on saving it in a hundred small ways you cannot prove and cannot quite bring yourself to refuse. It would be strange, you reason, not to think of a man like that, however briefly you knew him, however little of him you actually saw.
But the thinking does not stay brief, and it does not stay innocent for long.
You lie awake long after Babulya's breathing has gone slow and even in the next room, and you feel again, with a clarity that should by rights have faded by now, the exact warmth of his hand spread wide across your stomach through two layers of wool, the way it had not felt like a stranger's hand at all but like something that had always meant to rest there, patient, certain of its welcome. You feel it settle low in your belly each time you let yourself remember it, a warmth that does not stay politely where it started, that creeps, slow and unhurried as melt water finding the path of least resistance, further down than any decent thought has business travelling, and you lie very still in the dark and let it, because some traitorous part of you has stopped pretending it wants to stop.
You imagine his voice some nights, low and unhurried, frost caught somewhere in its register the way it had been at the creek, murmuring things you cannot quite construct into full sentences even in the privacy of your own skull, only the shape of his breath against your ear, warm where everything else in this house is cold, his chest a solid wall at your back the way it had been for that one suspended moment before he let you go. You wonder, in the dark, what those hands might feel like elsewhere, hands broad enough to span your whole stomach, scarred in a shape that matches your own, gentle in a way that does not feel remotely safe.
You try, more than once, to quiet the wanting with your own hands, alone beneath the blanket with your jaw set against the sound of your own breath. You chase the memory of him down through your own skin in the dark, palm pressed flat where his had been before letting it wander lower, into the ache that has pooled there for days now, slick and insistent and entirely unmoved by reason. For a moment, sometimes, it is almost enough. Your back arches off the bench, your breath catches high and helpless in your throat, your thighs tense around the hand that is trying so hard to be his and so plainly failing to be anyone but your own.
It is never enough. You come back to yourself each time a little emptier than before, your fingers slack and your chest still tight with a frustration that has very little to do with your body and everything to do with the fact that the only hand you actually want is one that does not belong to you, has perhaps never belonged to anyone, and chose, for reasons you cannot fathom, to belong for one single moment to you instead. You lie there afterward in the dark, spent and unsatisfied in the same breath, and feel, underneath the shame of it, something far more dangerous: the dawning, helpless certainty that no hand but his will do.
There is a darkness coiled inside the wanting that you do not examine too closely, not at first. You know what he is, or near enough. You know what Babulya's stories say about things that wear kindness the way a wolf wears sheep's wool, patient, generous, building a debt in small mercies until the debt comes due all at once. You know you ought to fear a creature that mends your grandmother's lungs and warms your hearth and never once asks what it wants in return, because nothing in this world, mortal or otherwise, gives so freely without eventually wanting something back.
And still you find, lying awake with your blood still unsettled and your own hand gone still and useless atop the blanket, that you do not only fear it.
Some small, dark, unguarded part of you wants to be wanted that badly. Wants to be worth the trouble of a wood that lasts longer, a cough that eases, a fire that burns blue through the coldest hours of the night. There is something in being chosen, even by something monstrous, even by something that may yet prove to want you only the way a magpie wants anything that shines, that you cannot make yourself entirely wish away.
You go to confession in your own head most nights, the old habit too deep to fully shed even now, and find you cannot make yourself properly sorry for any of it.
It builds like this for the better part of two weeks, favour and longing rising together in the same slow tide, until one night you simply cannot lie still in it any longer.
You do not plan it, not really, not in any way you could explain afterward to Babulya or to yourself. You wait until her breathing has gone deep and even, until the stove has burned down to its low blue coals and the house has settled into the particular silence that only comes once every living thing in it has finally stopped fighting sleep, and then you rise, and dress, and take down your cloak and your lantern from beside the door, and nothing else.
You do not know, stepping out into a cold gone strangely gentle around you, what exactly you mean to do if you find him. Demand to know why he has been so generous with a stranger's house. Ask him what the lantern was to him, what it cost him, what it meant that you were the one foolish enough to breathe life back into it. Or something else entirely, something you do not let yourself name even now, something carnal and reckless that lives lower in your body than any decent question ever has.
You walk without any clear destination, only the pull of something you cannot properly describe, the same instinct that once sent you reaching for a wounded sparrow before anyone could tell you it was foolish to. Your thoughts wander as your feet do, back to the creek, to the crack of ice and the arm that caught you before you'd finished falling, and a new and uncomfortable thought surfaces in you, unbidden, sharp enough to stop you mid-step in the snow.
What if the ice had never been an accident at all.
What if a creature patient enough to warm a hearth for weeks without once showing his face was also patient enough to know, long before you ever set foot on it, exactly which crossing had gone treacherous this year, and exactly when you would cross it.
A strange new heat moves through you at the thought, equal parts fury and something far darker and more thrilling than fury has any right to be tangled alongside it, a feeling you do not have a clean name for and would not say aloud even if you did. You do not know whether you want to scream at him for it or thank him, and the not knowing frightens you more than either answer would on its own.
It is full dark by the time you notice you are no longer alone.
The wind parts strangely around a stand of birch ahead of you, the falling snow bending visibly to either side of some shape you cannot quite see, the way mist parts for a body moving through it even when the body itself stays hidden. A pale light flickers at the very edge of your vision, the same low impossible blue as your lantern's flame, gone the instant you turn to look at it directly. Somewhere behind you, soft and unhurried, footsteps fall in a rhythm too deliberate to be the wind, matching your own pace exactly, the way they had once before, only this time you do not stop to test them. This time you keep walking, your heart loud in your own throat, something fierce and unwise blooming behind your ribs.
Fool I may be, you think, but who is being imprudent now, following a fool like me out into his own woods at midnight.
You catch yourself smiling at the thought, alone in the dark, and the smile frightens you more than the cold does.
It is only then, with the trees pressing close on either side and that light still flickering at the very edge of what you can see, that Babulya's voice surfaces in you, clear and sharp as it had been by the fire. Do not give it your name. Not your true one, not even in jest. You hold that one close, easy enough to keep, a door you have no intention of handing anyone the key to, however warm his hand had felt on its threshold.
Turn your cloak inside out, if you lose your way. It will not save you from everything. But confusion has saved more fools than courage ever has.
Your hands rise to the clasp at your throat almost on their own, the old obedience deep enough in you to move.
And then you stop.
You stand very still in the snow with your fingers resting against the cold metal of the clasp, your breath fogging slow in front of you, the light still flickering somewhere just out of reach, patient, waiting, and you think of warm hearths and healed lungs and a hand spread wide and certain against your stomach, and some small, dark, long-buried part of you, the same part that has always reached for the spider before the flower, decides, quite calmly, that it does not want to be found its way out of this at all.
You let your hands fall back to your sides, the cloak left exactly as it is.
If you are going to be led astray tonight, then astray is precisely where you mean to go.
You walk a while longer with that decision settled warm in your chest, the light still flickering somewhere ahead of you through the birches, patient as a held breath, and you let yourself believe, for a few more minutes, that the prickling at the back of your neck is only anticipation. It would be like him, you tell yourself, to make you work for it. To let you walk a little further into his woods before he finally let himself be found.
It takes you longer than it should to notice that the feeling crawling up your spine has stopped resembling anticipation at all.
The wind is the first thing to turn honest with you. It has been strangely gentle since you stepped outside, the bite gone soft around you the way it has been most nights this fortnight, and you do not register the moment it changes back, only the moment you realise it already has, cold enough now to needle straight through your cloak the way winter always has, the way it always should have, and something in your stomach goes very still and very cold in a manner that has nothing to do with the temperature.
It is, you tell yourself, only the ordinary cold reasserting itself. Even kindness must have its limits. Even a fire banked all winter eventually burns down to ash.
You do not entirely believe yourself, and the forest, in its own way, seems determined to prove you right not to.
The quiet comes next, and it is the wrong kind of quiet. The Chernyles at night is never truly silent, not even in the deepest cold, always some small business of owls or settling snow or wind worrying at branches to fill the dark with ordinary sound. Tonight that ordinary sound simply stops, all at once, the way a held breath stops, and you become aware of your own heartbeat with an intimacy that feels almost obscene in a silence this complete.
Then the smell reaches you. Not woodsmoke, not the clean mineral bite of frost you have grown almost fond of these past two weeks, but something underneath both of those, faint at first and then suddenly, sickeningly present, the smell of meat left too long past its honest use, of earth turned over somewhere it was never meant to be disturbed.
You stop walking.
The light ahead of you flickers once, low and frantic, and for the first time since you left your own door you understand, with a certainty that drops through you like a stone through black water, that it is trying to warn you rather than lead you.
The dark that comes pulses before it arrives, the way thunder sometimes announces itself in your chest before the sound of it ever reaches your ears, a pressure against your sternum that has no business being felt rather than heard. When it finally breaks across the treeline it does not come as light at all, but as its absence, a bruised, hungry black that swallows the snow's pale glow wherever it touches, and within that black, shapes.
You know the shapes from a hundred half-remembered stories before your mind even finishes assembling them into something whole, riders sat too straight in saddles built for bodies with proper weight to them, horses whose legs bend in places no living horse's legs were ever meant to bend, the whole procession dragging that swallowing dark along behind it like a hem too heavy to lift clear of the ground. The riders themselves are worse for being almost familiar, the shape of men and women both, faces collapsed in on themselves around hollows where eyes should be, mouths hung open on hinges too loose to be holding anything resembling breath. You understand, distantly, sickly, that these were people once. That something has worn them the way a hand wears a glove long after the glove has stopped fitting properly, and gone on wearing them regardless.
You were twelve the last time you stood this close to something wearing the dead. You have spent nine years building a wall around that night thick enough that you rarely have to look at it directly, and the wall comes down now in pieces too fast for you to stop it, the cold of a hollow tree trunk pressed against your back, the smell of rot passing close enough to taste, the particular, specific silence of a child too frightened even to weep. You remember thinking, at twelve, that you would surely die there. You remember surviving anyway, and never once feeling, since, that survival and luck were properly different things.
You do not have a hollow tree to press yourself into tonight. You have only open snow, and a lantern with no flame, and a cloak you deliberately, foolishly, left exactly as it was.
The Hunt sees you the way a storm sees a single standing tree, not with malice exactly, only with the simple, terrible inevitability of a thing that has never once had to ask permission to take what stands in its path. The lead rider turns its ruined face toward you, and whatever sound comes out of that hinge-loose mouth is not a word, has perhaps not been a word in longer than you have been alive, but you understand its meaning regardless, the way you understand a wolf's bared teeth, the way your whole body understands, all at once, that it is about to run out of road.
You do not get the chance to run. The lead rider's hand closes around your wrist before your single backward step has even finished, more claw now than hand, cold enough that it burns, and the wound it leaves does not wait politely for the rest of the world to catch up. Something rakes hard across your cheekbone in the same instant, parting skin, the pain arriving a full breath behind the shock of it, hot where everything else has gone numb, and you are being dragged forward into the reek of old earth before you've even managed to scream.
The world breaks open before the scream finishes leaving you.
There is no warning to it, none of the patient, gathering dread that announced itself before. One heartbeat the claw is closing tighter around your wrist, dragging you into the dark whole, and the next the night simply splits down its middle with a crack of violet light so total it scours every shadow from the clearing at once, the sound of it less heard than felt, a blow against your chest that drives the breath from your lungs before the cold ever could. The claw is gone from your wrist in the same instant, torn away by something too fast for your eyes to properly follow, and you go down hard into churned, blackened snow with your ears ringing and your cheek still bleeding and no clear memory of the half second between captivity and freedom.
He is already among them by the time your knees find the ground, as though he had never once been anywhere else, as though the Hunt itself had simply made the grave error of existing in the same dark he already occupied. There is no warming up to the violence in him, no measured beginning. Chains uncoil from somewhere beneath his coat and find their marks before you can track the movement that threw them, and where they strike, riders that should not still be moving simply stop, the bruised black light bleeding out of them into the snow like ink swallowed by water. The lantern at his hip flares violet with each turn he makes, throwing his shadow huge and shifting across the trampled ground, and within a handful of heartbeats far too few to properly count, the clearing belongs to no one but the two of you and the wreckage left behind.
He crosses to you before the last of it has finished settling, kneeling in the bloodied snow with a quickness that has nothing courtly left in it at all, and his hand finds your jaw before you can flinch away from it, tilting your face toward what little light remains.
"Hold still," he says, low, and you do, though whether from obedience or simple shock you could not honestly say.
His thumb finds the cut along your cheekbone and the pain there does not so much fade as forget itself entirely, warmth blooming beneath his touch and spreading outward in slow, deliberate waves, the same impossible heat you have spent two weeks chasing through your own hands in the dark and never once managing to properly recall. You feel the skin knit itself closed beneath his thumb, feel it with a clarity that makes your breath catch high in your throat, and he does not hurry the work, his palm cupping the whole curve of your jaw afterward as though reluctant to relinquish a thing he has only just finished claiming back from harm. His other hand finds your wrist next, the bruise already purpling there fading to nothing under the same slow, deliberate warmth, his thumb tracing once, lightly, over skin that remembers, beneath the new healing, exactly how his hand had felt the first time it held you.
"There," he says finally, and does not move away as quickly as the word suggests he might. His face is close enough now that you can feel the cold coming off him in waves even through the lingering warmth of his touch, close enough that you understand, with a lurch low in your stomach that has nothing to do with fear, that he is in no particular hurry to put any distance back between you. "The debt's settled, then. Though I doubt that will stop you coming to find me again regardless."
"You sound very certain of that."
"I am." Something almost fond moves behind the exhaustion in his eyes. "You have a particular look about you, little fool. The one that has never once in its life known how to leave a wounded thing well alone, even when the wounded thing in question is considerably more dangerous than it looks."
You hold his gaze, breath unsteady, and find some reckless scrap of courage still left in you despite everything the night has already spent. "Then tell me your name, and I'll know exactly how dangerous to be afraid of."
He laughs at that, properly, the sound of it melodic and surprised and entirely too warm for something that came out of a face built like winter, and the laugh does something complicated and unwise low in your chest.
"Bold," he says, "for someone who was warned, I expect, never to give away her own. Did your grandmother not also tell you what a name is worth, before you go demanding mine so plainly?" His thumb moves once more along your jaw, absent, proprietary. "Names are not handed over for the asking. Not by anything like me."
"Then how am I meant to find you again?"
"There is a stone marker by the creek that already owes you a debt of its own," he says, the amusement settling into something quieter, more deliberate. "Leave something there that was truly yours, given freely and not by accident, on a night the moon hides her face completely. Choose carefully what you part with. I am not always so generous with what I take in return as I have been tonight."
His gaze sharpens then, holding yours with an attention that feels almost like being read rather than looked at. "But you already know that, don't you? You knew it walking out here tonight with your cloak left exactly as it was." A pause, soft and certain. "You know precisely what you're doing."
He leans closer before you can answer him, close enough that his breath, when it comes, is warm against your skin in a way nothing about him should by rights be, his fingers ghosting once down the line of your throat with a touch too light to be anything but deliberate.
"Perhaps," he murmurs, "you will come to find out in time."
One final step closes the last of the distance between you, his breath heating the air at your temple, and then he is smoke before he is anything else, the whole solid weight of him unraveling into a low coil of violet-blue flame that gathers, impossibly, back into the small lantern at what had been his hip, and the lantern disappears with a single soft crackle, leaving nothing behind but scorched air and your own ragged breathing in the dark.
You kneel there a long while in the ruined snow, your skin still humming everywhere he touched it, heat pooling low in your belly with a persistence that has nothing left to do with fear at all. Some small, dark, unguarded part of you, the part you will not yet admit to even lying alone in the dark tonight, has already begun turning over what you might leave at that stone marker, what among your few poor possessions could possibly be valuable enough to be called truly yours.
You are, you understand with a thrill you cannot entirely call unwelcome, already looking forward to the choosing.
.
.
.
Whatever guides your feet back through Nod-Krai that night does so with a generosity that borders on tenderness, the drifts parting ahead of you the way a crowd might part for someone it had decided, for reasons of its own, to let pass unharmed. You reach the izba in half the time the walk out had cost you, your wound healed clean beneath cold-stiffened skin, and you let yourself entertain, somewhere between the gate and the door, a thought too dangerous to examine closely in daylight. Perhaps he is not the only one waiting on this. Perhaps, wherever he goes when he is not chains and violet flame and a voice low enough to live somewhere beneath your ribs, some part of him is also turning over what you might bring him, the way you cannot stop turning over what there is in your whole poor life worth giving.
It takes you the better part of two days to understand exactly how poor that life is.
You go through what little you own with the methodical, increasingly desperate attention of a woman searching for something she is no longer certain exists. Your mother's handkerchief, edged in thread gone soft and grey with age, feels too easily lost to trust to a roadside stone. The single coin you've kept since the spring fair, pressed flat and smooth from years in your pocket, has value only to a moneylender, and you doubt very much that a creature who heals wounds with a thought and unmakes the dead with a glance has any particular use for coins. A wooden comb, a chipped clay bead from a necklace long since scattered, a ribbon worn thin from braiding and rebraiding the same hair through a dozen winters, each in its turn seems too small, too cheap, too easily mistaken for an accident rather than an offering, and each in its turn you set back down with the same hollow, mounting frustration.
You are not, you are forced to admit somewhere in the long second afternoon of searching, a woman who has ever owned very much. You have only ever had people, and people, you suspect, are not the sort of thing a stone marker is built to hold.
Babulya notices long before you find the nerve to tell her anything at all.
"You smell of him again," she says on the second evening, not looking up from the stocking she is mending, her voice gone careful in a way that frightens you more than any sharpness might have. "Worse than before. Like something has gotten its hands properly on you this time, rather than only its kindness."
You set down the basket you've been pretending to sort and find you cannot, this time, manage another easy lie. "He saved my life, Babulya. The Hunt found me in the wood."
The needle stills entirely in her hands. When she finally looks up, the fear in her face is not the gentle, half-affectionate worry she has worn through every other strange thing this winter has brought you. It is older than that, and far less willing to be teased into something softer.
"The Hunt," she repeats, and crosses herself, quick and instinctive, the gesture of a woman who has spent a lifetime not quite believing and never once daring to stop hedging her bets regardless. "Bozhe moy. And you went looking for him anyway, after that. I can see it on you, devochka, you needn't lie to spare me the trouble of guessing."
You kneel at her feet then, the way you have a hundred times before for the oil and the wool, only this time it is your own hands that are unsteady. "I have to tell you something, and I think you already suspect most of it." You tell her about the lantern, finally, the whole of it, the blue flame guttering in the snow that first night, the warmth of it answering your breath, the crackle that took it from your hands and left only frost and footprints behind. You tell her about the burn that healed itself in a single night, about the wood that lasts and the hens that lay and the hearth that burns blue and unaided through the coldest hours, every small mercy you have spent weeks quietly refusing to question aloud.
She listens to all of it in a silence that does not soften, her hands folded too tightly in her lap, and when you finally finish she does not scold you, which somehow frightens you more than scolding would have.
"You did not save a lantern," she says at last, quiet. "Whatever you saved that night, devochka, it was never only a lantern. You understand that now. I think you understood it before you ever told me."
"I think I have, for some time."
"And still you went looking for him in the dark, with your cloak left exactly as it was." It is not quite a question. She studies you for a long moment, something complicated moving behind her tired eyes, equal parts grief and a reluctant, painful tenderness. "Do you remember what I told you, the spider and the flower, when you were small enough to still believe me about everything?"
"I remember." You hold her gaze, surprising yourself with how steady your own voice comes out. "You said strange things have always known a soft heart when they find one. That they collect hearts the way magpies collect anything that shines." You pause, something turning over in your chest that has been waiting, you realise now, a very long time to be said aloud.
"But you never finished the thought, Babulya. A flower only ever gives sweetness back to the hand that reaches for it, and nothing more, no matter how long you hold it. A spider, if you let it close enough, might actually look at you while it decides what to do with you. I think some part of me has always wanted that more than I wanted to be safe. To be looked at. Properly. Even by something that might, in the end, choose to ruin me for it."
Babulya says nothing for a long moment, her hand coming to rest, light and trembling, against the side of your face. "Then God help you, devochka," she says finally, "because I do not think I can anymore. I can only hope whatever you've gone and let yourself love has at least the decency to be careful with you."
She does not forbid you from going back. You understand, watching her turn back to her mending with hands that have not quite stopped shaking, that this is its own kind of permission, the only kind she has left to give a girl who was never, by either of your own admissions, built to be talked out of a thing once her heart had already decided it.
You go on searching after that with no greater success, the third day bleeding into a fourth without anything in your possession rising to meet whatever standard he meant by truly yours, until you find yourself, on a still, solemn afternoon with the light already failing early the way it does this deep into winter, sitting before the small cracked mirror in your room with no particular purpose beyond simply being tired of looking everywhere except at yourself.
You have not looked properly in some time. The face that meets you in the silvered glass is not unfamiliar, only tired in a way you had not let yourself notice until this exact moment, the eyes a little hollowed by weeks of broken sleep, though something else lives in them too now, something restless and faintly bright that was not there before the night a lantern first answered your breath, a spark that survives, stubbornly, beneath all that weariness. Your chest rises and falls in the glass with each unsteady breath, the simple, ordinary motion of any living body keeping itself alive, and it is that motion, that small private rhythm of your own breathing, that finally drags the memory up whole and entire, the way it has been waiting, patient as frost, to be properly let in.
You tucked him there. Against your ribs, beneath your coat, pressed close to the very same body breathing in the mirror now, on the first night you ever saw him, when he was nothing more to you than a dying blue flame too pitiful to leave to the cold. You carried him against your own skin like something small and helpless, warmed him with nothing but the heat your own body had left to spare, and you understand now, sitting here with your own reflection watching you understand it, that he had been that close to you from the very beginning. Closer, perhaps, than he has been at any single moment since, closer than the creek, closer than tonight's ruined snow, his whole guttering self held against the place where your heart keeps its most honest rhythm, and you had not even known enough to be afraid of how intimate a thing that was.
Heat floods through you at the thought, slow and total, and you let it, alone in your room with the light failing and no one left to see your face but the mirror.
You wonder, for the first time, whether an ancient thing's patience is built the same way a mortal one's is, with a thread that frays a little more each time it is asked to hold, until eventually, inevitably, it simply does not. He has watched you for weeks now, mended your hearth and your grandmother's lungs and the small soft wounds the world keeps handing you, has come to your aid twice now with a violence that cost him nothing visible and a tenderness afterward that cost him, you suspect, considerably more. You think of his hand at the creek, of his thumb against your jaw healing skin that had only just finished tearing, of the particular unhurried way he had let his palm linger at your wrist long after the bruise beneath it had already gone. You do not think a creature moves that slowly, that deliberately, over a debt it considers fully settled.
You let yourself imagine it properly for the first time, sitting alone in the dying light, what it might mean if the patience fraying in him is not so different from the ache that has been fraying in you. What it might look like, the moment that thread finally gives. Whether he has lain awake, in whatever cold and ancient place things like him go to rest, turning over the memory of your breath against his dying flame the same restless way you turn over the memory of his hand against your stomach. Whether wanting, for something built of frost and old violet fire, feels anything at all like the slow, low-bellied ache that has kept you from sleeping properly more nights than you have admitted even to yourself, or whether it is something colder, hungrier, a wanting with teeth in it, patient only because patience has always been the surest way for a predator to make certain of its meal.
You think you would let him have you either way. The thought arrives calm and entire and frightens you with how little fight you have left in you to argue against it.
You imagine, because you cannot any longer stop yourself from imagining, what it might be to be wanted by something that old, that careful, that has spent weeks proving itself willing to set a wood untouched and a grandmother's lungs whole simply to keep a single mortal girl comfortable through her own ordinary winter. You imagine his hands again, broad and scarred and entirely too gentle for what you know they are capable of doing to anything that crosses him, moving the way they moved at your jaw, only slower, only further, learning every cold and ordinary inch of you the unhurried way a man learns a prayer he intends to keep saying for a very long time. You imagine his mouth finding the same places his thumb has already mapped, his breath the only warm thing left in a world gone entirely to frost around the two of you, and the ache low in your belly answers the thought so immediately, so thoroughly, that you have to press your own hand flat against your stomach simply to feel something solid beneath all that wanting.
Your hand does not stay at your stomach. It rises, slow and unthinking, to the soft underside of your breast, to the exact place a small iron lantern once rested against your own racing heart on a night you still cannot properly account for, and you hold it there a long moment, feeling your own pulse beat hard and unhidden beneath your palm, and understand, with a clarity that settles through you like the first true thaw of spring, exactly what it is you have been searching your whole poor life for these past two days without ever once finding.
It was never going to be a thing. Not a coin, not a ribbon, not anything you could set down on cold stone and walk away from with both hands still empty.
You have already decided, you realise, sitting there with your hand still pressed warm against your own chest and the last of the daylight finally giving out around you. You decided it, perhaps, the very moment you chose not to turn your cloak.
You know exactly what you mean to give him.
You dress, on the appointed night, the way a much younger version of yourself might have dressed for a spring fair she had no business attending, and you catch yourself at it halfway through lacing the bodice of the one good dress folded at the bottom of your chest, sky-blue thread worked into the collar by your mother's own hand, kept for Easter liturgy and your own nameday and almost nothing else in between.
What are you thinking, you ask yourself, hands stilling over the laces, he will not even see it under the cloak.
You finish lacing it anyway.
The goodbye you give Babulya is shorter than either of you pretends not to notice. She does not ask where you are going, though you suspect she has guessed well enough by now, and only takes your face in both her hands the way she has since before you could properly remember being touched at all, her thumb tracing once over your cheekbone as though memorising the shape of it against the possibility that this might be the last time she is given the chance to.
"Come home," she says, which is not quite the blessing it sounds like, and not quite a prayer either, though it carries the weight of both.
"I mean to."
"Mm." She crosses you, quick and certain, two fingers pressed to your collarbone the way she has done since you were small enough to need carrying. She does not say be careful. You think, perhaps, she has finally understood that careful was never going to be a road open to you.
The night holds no moon at all, the sky scoured down to bare, hard stars, and heat crawls over you the entire walk to the creek despite the cold, a current that will not lie still no matter how the frost outside tries to claim it, settling low in you the way water settles beneath ice and goes on moving long after the surface above it has stopped looking like anything alive.
You wait at the stone marker a long while once you arrive, your pulse keeping time the way the rosary beads by Babulya's icon keep time, fast and overworked, counted out one bead at a time against a silence that gives nothing back. You do not know what to call him, have never once been given anything to call him by, and so when you finally find your voice it comes out smaller and stranger than you intend.
"I've come," you say, to the dark, to the birches, to whoever or whatever might be listening. "As you asked."
For a moment nothing answers you at all, the night holding its breath the way it had before the Hunt found you, and your heart climbs into your throat with a fear that has, this time, almost nothing to do with danger.
Then he is simply there, the way a held breath becomes, all at once, the air you finally let go.
You have seen pieces of him before, his back in violence, his hand at your jaw, his eyes catching low firelight, but nothing has prepared you for the whole of him standing before you now beneath bare winter stars, and the sight of him knocks the breath clean out of your lungs the way the ice once had, sharper, colder, and far more dangerous to your continued survival. He is beautiful in the particular, merciless way a blizzard is beautiful, all sharp pale elegance and midnight-blue hair bleeding to ice at its tips, his mouth made for something caught exactly between a smile and a threat, his gold eyes holding yours with an attention so total you feel it land somewhere beneath your sternum.
He smiles, slow, and it does something unforgivable to your knees.
"What have you brought?"
The question is not unkind. It is, somehow, worse for being asked so gently, and you feel the heat climb your throat and settle high in your cheeks under the particular focus of his gaze, the same gaze that watched you mend yourself back together from a dying flame, now turned wholly and unbearably toward whatever answer you are about to give him.
He steps closer when you do not immediately speak, tilting his head, one dark brow lifting with the patient, knowing amusement of someone who has already guessed and is only waiting, with some private cruelty, to hear you say it aloud yourself.
"Myself," you say first, and then, quieter, your voice nearly lost beneath your own racing pulse, "my body."
He goes very still.
Whatever courteous mask he has worn for you until now slips, for one bare, unguarded instant, and beneath it you catch something far sharper, hunger and amusement tangled together so closely you cannot tell where one ends and the other begins, his mouth curving into something that is not quite a smile anymore, something closer to a sneer, cruel and delighted both at once.
"How generous." His voice has dropped, gone low and edged in a way that raises the hair along your arms. "Mortal flesh, freely offered, as though I have not had my fill of soft, foolish bodies a hundred times over before your grandmother's grandmother was so much as a thought in her own mother's womb." He circles you slowly, unhurried, the way a wolf circles something it has already decided is not, in fact, any real danger to itself. "You think yourself a gift, little dove. I wonder if you understand yet that you are closer to a sacrifice."
You should feel smaller for it. Some part of you does, heat rising shameful and furious in your chest at the easy, contemptuous certainty in his voice, and yet beneath the shame something else coils tighter still, something that does not want him to stop looking at you like that, like a thing worth picking apart slowly simply to see what it is made of.
He stops in front of you, too close now, close enough that the cold coming off him raises gooseflesh along every inch of skin the cloak fails to cover, and leans down until his face is level with your throat, breathing you in slow and deliberate, the way a man might breathe in bread fresh from the oven, helpless to it despite himself.
"Are you sure, little dove?" His mouth brushes the shell of your ear, and you feel the words more than hear them, frost and heat both at once. His hand finds your waist and draws you the last small distance forward, until there is no cold left between you at all. "I will unmake you."
You do not have the chance to answer him with words. His mouth finds yours instead, slow at first, almost reverent, as though he means to memorise the shape of your hesitation before he takes it from you entirely, and then it is not slow at all, not reverent, only deep and certain and utterly unhurried in its thoroughness, his hand sliding from your waist to cradle the back of your skull as though he means to keep you exactly where he has decided you belong.
You lose the night somewhere in the middle of it. You lose the cold, the stars, the stone marker digging into your hip where he has walked you back against it, lose every coherent thought beyond the slow, devastating drag of his mouth against yours, his other hand finding your jaw, your throat, the fevered pulse beating there, tracing it like something he intends to learn by heart. Your own hands fist in the heavy fabric of his coat, in the cold chains looped beneath it, anchoring yourself to him the only way you have left, and the kiss only deepens for it, lengthens, builds the way a held note builds before it finally breaks, until your knees have gone entirely unreliable beneath you and the only thing keeping you upright at all is the solid, immovable wall of him.
When he finally draws back, just far enough to let you breathe, you are dizzy in a way that has nothing to do with the cold air rushing back between you, your lips swollen, your pulse a wild, unsteady thing beneath his still-resting palm, and the satisfaction low in your belly has not eased so much as sharpened, gone taut and aching and entirely unwilling to be soothed by anything less than more of him.
He watches you come back to yourself with an expression that has finally, fully abandoned anything resembling courtesy, hunger sitting plain and unhidden in those hollow gold eyes now, and his thumb drags once, slow, along your bottom lip, as though tasting the effect of himself on you for his own private satisfaction.
"Well," he says, low, rough at the edges in a way his voice has never once been before tonight. "It seems I have only just begun unmaking you at all."
He has you pressed against the stone marker, but the rigidness of the rock is nothing compared to the absolute pleasure he delivers through you. In seconds, as though it took no thought at all, he hikes the skirt of your frock, and pulls down your underwear. He grins in absolute, dark glee at the shining slick of your core. You gasp as the cold winter air hits your skin.
“How long have you been dreaming of this, dove?” He asks, slow and deep. He pulls your thighs apart, holding you by the waist as he pins you to the stone. “Those nights spent trying to satisfy yourself, imagining it was I?”
His tone is mocking and you whine. He is so slow, so unhurried, he has not even touched you yet, and yet the breath of his mouth against your clit, his fingers pressing hard against the plush of your inner thigh has you squirming. You can’t help but move closer to him, like a desperate dying moth fluttering towards the blue lamp, knowing for certain a lick of its tongue would lead to your unfettered death right there. You want that death. You want his fingers in you. His mouth over you. Him.
And then he inserts his finger into you. You cry out, sharp and furious, the same cry you had let out when the lantern had burned you, left your skin charred. It’s unfair, really, how long his fingers are. They curl just so perfectly against your gummy, wet walls. Your eyes fill with tears, damp little drops decorating your lashes. You swear you see stars dancing over you, little flames. He smiles, and it’s a mocking smile, one that is so egotistical, to be the only one that could undo you like this.
He leans over you and presses hot, open mouthed kisses against your skin. His lips press against your cheek, your throat, your collarbone. It travels down and down, and soon enough he has your carefully tied bodice undone. The dress gathers at your waist. It leaves you bare underneath, your breasts perfect round mounds of soft flesh. Sweat gathers in the valley between them. And the Fae reaches up and gathers one of your breasts in his hot mouth. You moan out loud, the sound echoing across the forests, the sounds are so lewd you think, for one dizzying second, that it could ward off even the fiercest of creatures. His finger works magic inside of you, curling and pinching, it has you writhing beneath him. The carefully tied knot low in your belly unspooling with each curl of his finger. It’s all so much. His mouth on your chest, his finger bullying its way inside, hitting that sore, aching spot you’ve never been able to reach on your own.
“P-Please! Ah… mhm, I—” You cry out. You feel, at your entrance, the skin of another long finger, it dancing over your entrance. You shiver in its ghostly hold. And then, for one shocking second, for one nauseous clarifying moment, you think to ask a question that out of all moments, this moment precisely, you ought to ask. You heave in his hold, before you stutter out desperately, “Y-You, haahn…. Your—name?”
The Fae laughs, the vibrations travelling over your stomach, and then plunges a second of his fingers inside you. He relishes in the lewd moan you let out, the way your legs come up around him, bucking at his digits. And then, all too cruelly, before you can finally come undone, finally have the knot inside you untangled, he pulls out his fingers; they come away glistening and sticky, a thin strand of your arousal liquid connecting his digits to yourself. The sudden cold, the sudden absence of his flesh has you gasping. Tears spill from your face, and you look down dumbly, at his face twisted into a courteous yet mocking expression.
“You never stop asking, do you, golubka?” He sneers at you. He watches as your hole clenches around nothing. And then almost taking pity on you at the sudden punishment, he breathes against your clit. His voice comes low, “Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins.” And then his tongue darts out, pressing itself flat and hot against your flesh. Your back arches.
The name, Kyryll, Kyrll, Kyrll, floats around your mind. “Satisfied, are you?” He asks. You don’t get to respond to that as his tongue darks out like a spike into your entrance. Almost subconsciously, you give him your name, too. And it seems to be at that moment that he seems to truly gain a different glean in his eye. He hauls you by your waist, his large hands keeping you elevated against the giant stone, your legs thrown over his shoulder, as he fucks into you relentlessly. You swear you see stars as you feel your folds open and licked clean with his tongue, long and flexible.
Kyryll presses his mouth between your thighs, and feels the way your body convulses before you even realise it. “Yes, ah…” He murmurs low, keeping the pace. “Come undone for me, dove.” Your body relinquishes in an instant, your body nearly lifts from the stone as your weeks-awaited release washes over you in waves. “Hnah…. Kyryll, ah!” You writhe.
For one second, as your orgasm comes over you, it’s all euphoria. You pant, your breath laboured and heavy, and you dare to glance at the man, no, Fae, that kneels at your feet. His mouth is covered in your slick and you feel the heat rise to your cheeks when you see his tongue come out to lick at his lips, as though the minutes he spent between your thighs, feasting on your bud and its liquids have not yet quenched his thirst. His eyes, you take note, have turned into slits, snake-like as he pierces into you. He takes a hold of the fabric of your frock and discards it to the side.
“You’re beautiful like this,” He murmurs. “Bare, your eyes wide, your body squirming, given to me like an offering.”
“Kyryll…” You whisper. His eyes get blown wide. Your mouth is heavy with his name, your tongue tasting the consonant of its writing. You realise, belatedly, that you hold some power over him. He had given you his name, his most sacred possession, and you could dangle it in front of him like you would dangle a wad of feathers in front of a cat. You try again, “Kyryll.” And this time, he pants. His grip on your thigh tightens, so tight in fact that you don’t doubt that red marks have been plastered all over your skin, like you have been branded to be his for eternity.
Kyryll moves before you can properly register it. It is as though the utterance of his name has him completely, absolutely, totally ensnared by you. He has your back pressed against the stone in an instant. His hands come up below your thighs and circles your plush legs around his waist.
You don’t know if it is simply your imagination or not, but the woods around you blur at the edges of your vision, and it seems for one dizzying moment that you are not in the wild at all, and rather that you are in a synagogue of sorts with your back pressed against a large marble pillar. Certainly, this is the most sacrilegious thing you have done so far. But your surroundings do not matter. It does not matter where you are or what local sacrilege you are committing. All that matters is that Kyryll is looking at you with a stare so penetrating it could cut through you. His clothes have come undone, discarded who knows where, and you dare to glance downward.
His cock is hard and erect. A long pink thing with precum leaking from its head. It has your mouth salivating. You realise that you need it, that all the magic his hands and mouth could do would pale in comparison to how full he could make you feel. He could press it in you to its hilt, have you see the world in a way you never could before. You can hear the snarl in Kyryll’s voice when he says, “Say it again, baby.” You realise, belatedly, thoughts clouded with lust, that his speech is far less controlled now, far less pompous, it rather takes on a base and vulgar tone. “Say my name.”
And you do. Or, rather, you moan it loud and harsh.
Kyryll whines, bites you hard enough on the throat you whine, hips bucking against him. You shiver when he lets his tip catch your clit a few times until you manage to tilt your pelvis enough for him to slide in. Just a bit, but enough for his breath to catch and a hurried curse in a language you do not recognise, to fall from his lips as your walls eagerly flutter around the intrusion.
“Oh, ah, I—,” you whine softly as he finally presses closer to you. Your hands scrabble for purchase on his back as his body surrounds you. chest brushing against yours and sending pleasure from the pressure against your breasts. You are reminded of his lantern heat, and you nuzzle into him. One hand grips your thigh and holds your legs open as he sinks to the base. He places kisses and marks along your collar. His teeth, sharper than most, graze against your skin. It leaves stinging marks on your supple flesh, marks that you are sure will leave deep purple bruises come daylight. “...Feels good!”
“Ha–Hah… I, dear… God,” Kyryll mutters, but at the utterance of the word ‘God’ his entire body convulses. His length stutters inside your walls breaking the pace he had set. You moan louder. It was almost as though any utterance of ‘God’ sent shocks of pain and repulsion through him. Kyryll snarls and sinks his teeth into your collarbone. You cry out, clawing into his back with marks that are sure to leave half-moon scars on his pale, smooth skin. You like that thought. You like having carved yourself into him, the same as he is doing to you now.
And then he moans out your name, over and over and over again, a substitute for God. Each brutal thrust is punctuated with a cry of your name. Your vision turns white at the edges. You feel as his cock hits your cervix. Pleasure and pain entangle themselves together, your legs press tighter and tighter. You can feel and see and hear only him. His thrust speeding up, his breath against your ear, you take it all as the creature inside you comes undone.
All it takes is one final moan, “Kyryll!” And he comes undone.
Your orgasm floods you yet again, stronger and more potent this time, overtaking all your senses. And you swear that Kyryll loses it. He fucks you through it, hard and fast, and you feel it in the way he chases his own release, rutting into your soaked entrance like he had not had an offering this good before. You could bet, if you were braver, that he truly had not had someone like you at his whim before. Thick white ribbons of cum release and it coats your insides, dripping down your thighs onto the ground below. He stays there for a minute longer, ensuring all of his seed would nest deep inside you.
You pant, sweat gathering at your temples, but he does not seem to mind. Kyryll cups your jaw in hand and smiles, slow.
.
.
.
.
When you finally surface back into your own body properly, you find the snow beneath you has melted in a wide, perfect circle, bare earth steaming faintly where frost has no business yielding at all. He has kept you warm the entire time, you understand, distantly, the same patient heat that has lived banked in your hearth all winter now spent freely on nothing but you, and the realisation settles through you with a tenderness that aches almost as much as anything else tonight has.
He does not move away from you after. This, more than anything else, is what undoes you completely, the way he stays close, unhurried, his mouth finding your shoulder and pressing there, soft, before moving on to the curve of your collarbone, to the inside of your wrist where your pulse still has not properly settled, to each of your knuckles in turn as though every part of you deserves its own separate, private reverence. You lie still beneath the slow, deliberate attention of it and feel something in your chest crack open even further than your body already has, because this, the gentleness of it, the patience, frightens you in a way his hunger never quite managed to.
You ache everywhere, a soreness that has settled deep and low and entirely pleasurable, the particular satisfied heaviness of muscles finally, properly spent, and you think, with a breathless half-laugh you cannot quite suppress, of every restless night you spent these past weeks chasing this same release with nothing but your own poor, insufficient hands. Nothing in all those long, frustrated hours came anywhere close. You are sated now in a way that reaches all the way to the bone, and some small, smug, satisfied part of you decides, lying there in the steaming snow, that the weeks of wanting were worth it simply for the contrast.
He helps you dress afterward with the same unhurried care, and it is this, more than the kissing, that you will remember longest. He laces your bodice the way you imagine a much gentler world might have taught him to, slow and careful, his fingers brushing your skin with each pull of the cord, pressing a kiss to the join of your shoulder once it is closed, to your collarbone above the sky-blue embroidery your mother once worked there. He kneels to tie your boots himself, an act so absurdly domestic for something built of chains and old violet fire that you have to look away from him for a moment simply to keep your composure, and even that small task he performs as though it were a rite rather than a chore, his thumb tracing once over your ankle before he lets the laces fall closed.
He settles your cloak back over your shoulders last of all, drawing the clasp closed at your throat himself, his knuckles grazing your jaw as he does, and presses one final kiss, soft and lingering, to your temple, as though sealing something shut that he has no intention of letting come undone again so easily.
"Kyryll," you say, quiet, savoring the shape of it now that the urgency that first dragged it out of him has burned down to embers. It sounds different in this voice than it had in the other, softer, almost shy of itself, and you watch something in him answer that softness in kind, his composure slipping for just a moment at hearing his own name spoken so gently after spending however many centuries hearing it, you suspect, mostly in fear or in screaming.
"Do not waste it," he says, though there is no real warning left in the words now, only a kind of fond, weary resignation, his thumb tracing slow over your knuckles. "I am told I am rather difficult to get rid of, once properly summoned."
You laugh, and the sound surprises you both, bright and unguarded in the cold dark.
He walks you to the edge of the treeline and no further, some old instinct in him apparently still unwilling to be seen too near Babulya's gate, and there he stops, drawing you in by the waist one last time, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm against your mouth.
"This was never going to be a single night's bargain, golubka." His smile, when it comes, is dark and slow and entirely too pleased with itself, and yet underneath the danger of it lives something that looks, unmistakably, almost embarrassingly, like tenderness. "I have spent weeks now learning the shape of you, one small mercy at a time. I find I have no intention whatsoever of stopping simply because the debt's been paid twice over."
He brushes one last kiss against your mouth, lighter than all the others, almost careless, almost a promise.
"You will see me again," he says, already drawing back into the dark between the birches, his eyes holding yours until the very last possible moment. "Sooner, I expect, than either of us has the sense to properly prepare for."
And then he is gone, the way he always is, all at once and without sound, and you stand alone at the edge with your lips still warm and your whole body humming with a satisfaction that finally, finally, feels complete, and find that you are already, helplessly, counting the days until he keeps his word.
The Trump administration is cynically exploiting calls for stricter AI regulation to pass broad censorship measures at the federal level.
So, in terrible news, Trump's trying to pull some strings to pass this massive internet censorship bill, featuring all the kinds of internet censorship we're terrified of, including mandatory ID for accessing basically any website, specifically to crush state regulation of AI, because apparently this man will always see the moral bottom of the barrel and start digging.
So, if you live in the US and hate censorship and AI you know what to do, contact your congresspeople and tell them do not fucking dare let this through or so help us god...
IMPORTANT UPDATE: The bastards just worked out a deal on the package, and they're going to try and ram it through the House in the next couple of weeks.
So, if you've been waiting to call, the time is NOW. Do it ASAP, be polite, be informed, but light up those phones like a Christmas tree!
» reader doesn't know Zhongli's true identify, marriage out of convenience, wealthy!reader, pillow princess!Zhongli
There is something close to naiveness in the way Zhongli sees your relasionship, something mixed with the hope and the ilusion of love, something that he feels close and familiar, after all he was treated similar when he still holded the title of Rex Lapis, he used to be worshiped in a similar way you seem to do, in the way you look at him, in the way you shower him in compliments and love, sometimes he even wonder if it is that you know his secret but decided to keep it as that, perhaps it is true that you love him just as much as he does love you
Zhongli has always seen all the gifts you give him and the way you show him off so shamelessly as your way to love him, he is far from realicing that the main reason you have marry him it was because of his looks, because with that porcelain skin, with that elegant way to carry himself, with his precense alone it is enough to show off, that he truly is worth his value, the fact that you always dress him in the finest clothes and decorate him in jewelry it is to show off and not just an act of love
Everything his heart may desire is put in his hands by you, money is something neither you or him worry about, you are always showing him off, walking at his side with a hand on his waist, like a silent threat to everyone around that they are allowed to look but not to touch, you always bring him to meeting with important people because you want to show off what you have and what you can achive, because he is a candy to the eye and his knowledge over Liyue always manage to mesmerize anyone who looks at your direction, because he is your porcelain doll, he is yours to dress and show off, to use and impress, to walk at your side when you needed
And even if Zhongli is not fully aware that he has been leveled to a trophy wife, as something pretty to show off, deep down he knows he is being showed off and he loves it, it makes him stand as prideful as when he was Rex Lapis but also to stand silent at your side, to act as you expect and just look pretty while walking at your side, to await at your comand before saying anything, because he is a man of patience and always knows that if he behaives he will be rewarded
Because even if for you Zhongli is far from being more than a pretty face, of being a pretty doll for your to show of and enjoy, for him your love is the most adictive way to be worshiped. To be praised and loved is not new for him, he is Rex Lapis after all, but in all his centuries of life he has never feel so loved and worshiped like with the way your hands hold him close and the way your lips leave kisses all over his skin, like when your lips meet leaving him barely enough time to get ready before you find your way to proclaim him as yours again, before your toungue makes him shiver by savouring his existance, that victorious smirk that takes his breath away because of the pride you hold on the fact that, no matter how much people look at him there is no one else who gets to touch him, to devour him in the way you do
Because even if for you he wasn't more than a pretty face to show off, a trophy to bragg about with others, the way you praise him, the way you touch him makes him think that he may as well has born to reach this point, because as your pretty doll of husband you know how to treat him, how to lay him down and fuck him in a way that is the closest to true worship he had experience in all his life, in a way that nothing else can compare, not when he feels like he is truly becoming one with you, when you are reaching deep inside of him to the point that he lose all his mind and there nothing but the need of you left
Because even if he no longer is worshiped god, even if he has been reduced to a pretty face and an obedient trophy wife, someone who moves and speaks under your silent comand he will never regret it, because of the way you make him feel, they way you fill him completely and make his body tremble, the way you are willing to take the whole control and left him just having to worry about small things, to even let him just flow under your rythm until he has become a whimpering mess, weting the mattress with not only his saliva and tears, the way you worship him as your pretty doll it is what he loves now, what he is addicted to, he is right where he belongs now
SYNOPSIS: Seeking to deepen his understanding of the human mind, The Doctor offers a ‘special’ experiment to his favourite subordinate—you—and his dear friend, Regrator. Amidst the heat of the study, the fine line between scientific curiosity and personal intrusion blurs as the Second Harbinger finds himself joining in on the fun.
CONTENT WARNING: DUBCON, fatui!reader, reader is dottore’s subordinate, reader is referred to as ‘miss’, petty bickering between the old men, slight scientific jargon, prob inaccurate science stuff (sorry), slight pervert pantalone, smut (mdni), nipple play (?), pantalone-centric in first half of smut, p*rn w/o plot, exhibitionism, dottore gets FOMO lowkey, implied use of aphrodisiac (m), p in v, protected sex but eventual unprotected sex, threesome, double penetration, anal sex (f receiving), fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, not beta read.
WORD COUNT: 8.2k
NOTES: happy june :”3 !! i hope you enjoy this very self indulgent piece! i haven’t written a threesome in ages so apologies if its a bit clunky </3. div: babyg4rlhelps
The hallway leading to The Doctor’s laboratory was eerily quiet, his subordinates—like yourself—were currently on break at the cafeteria indulging in much needed fuel to power through yet another hectic day. The soles of your shoes echoed throughout the metallic floors, it served as a reminder at how deserted the corridor was; even though you’ve walked down this same path for years, the atmosphere never once failed to lick an icy shiver down your spine. It didn’t help how lifeless and dull these hallways were. As for the purpose of your early return in The Doctor’s laboratory, one of your colleagues had told you that the Harbinger required your presence urgently, and given your colleagues' words, it seemed to be a matter of importance.
Though, you wondered why The Doctor had specifically asked for you; as far as you were aware, your ranking as his subordinate wasn’t anything special—merely conducting experiments and quality control were your tasks, just like all the other subordinates under his authority. Ah, you didn’t mess up anything, did you? You always always followed protocols and it wasn’t like The Doctor had previously given you an earful for messing up an experiment.
In fact, he had been nothing but full of praise towards you; there was one instance where the Harbinger gleefully praised your intellect. Although to others, he never held back on his dissatisfaction whenever a colleague of yours messed up certain experimental procedures. The Doctor always spoke to them of the importance of materials as they were not easily obtainable, and to always carefully read the protocols. Unfortunately, his rather strange bias towards you made you the butt of the jokes amongst your colleagues in cafeteria conversations, and you were more than certain they were currently laughing at you behind your back.
“Hah! She’s like a teacher’s pet but instead of a teacher it's Lord Dottore! Hahahahahaha!” One of your colleagues started right after you were told The Doctor needed you back at the laboratory.
Of course, it was all light hearted but you wished they were a bit more mature about the situation because sometimes you couldn’t help but feel . . . weird around Lord Dottore at times—especially at times where he’d lean over your shoulder to inspect your task for the day. Maybe he simply needed a closer look but the way his chest ghosted against your back had you biting the inside of your cheeks.
Stepping inside the laboratory, you were greeted with an empty space, devoid of the man you were looking for. The room was how everyone left it before heading to the cafeteria—powered equipment turned off, hazardous chemicals stored away, and several documents sprawled across counters. For a supposedly urgent matter, you expected him to be at least present in his own laboratory.
Confused, you called out, “. . Lord Dottore?”
Silence stretched for a few moments before you received a response, “I am in my office. It would be preferable if you joined me.”
At the sound of his familiar voice, you followed its origin where it led you to the slightly ajar door to his office. Your heart pounded against your chest, you’ve only been inside there once to drop off research notes because the person who usually did it was absent that day, The Doctor also wasn’t inside when you had entered previously so this was your first time in his office with him.
Something about that unnerved you. Sure, he was somewhat ‘nicer’ to you but there wasn’t denying the fact that he was an interesting individual but you were under the same organisation, so it wasn’t your place to question the Harbinger nor his motives.
As you walked inside, you quietly closed the door behind out of politeness before turning around to get on one knee and bow your head. During the brief movement, you caught a familiar tall figure standing just off to the side of The Doctor’s desk.
“Lord Dottore, Lord Regrator.” But what was he doing here?
There wasn’t much you knew about Lord Regrator other than he was the Ninth Harbinger who was in charge of economic policies in the nation.
“There’s no need for formalities. Sit. I called you here to discuss a special experiment.” Dottore gestured a gloved hand at the empty seat before his desk, the corners of his lips slightly curled.
A special experiment? At the mention of an experiment, your heart calmed a little—it was your expertise after all, so there was no point fretting over it but the strange tension in the room seemed to scream otherwise. It also didn’t explain why Regrator was present, it wasn’t like they were about to start discussing finance with you.
You nodded, standing up to quietly make your way to the empty seat, “Of course. May I ask what this experiment is about?”
As you sat down, Dottore spoke up once more, both elbows atop the wooden desk, leaning a little closer, “Recently, I have been expanding my research on the human brain and its connection to the body regarding its response to bodily sensations such as touch. I have appropriate non-invasive equipment in my personal laboratory, however, the procedure is rather . . invasive.”
Invasive? What could Dottore possibly mean by that?
“Naturally, such an experiment necessitates a suitable candidate and their willing consent.”
A participant—you assumed that was your supposed role, the reason why Dottore required your presence. Once more, your heart thrummed out of nervousness, you weren’t going to conduct an experiment, you were going to be experimented on. The mention of an invasive procedure already had your mind spinning in a million different scenarios; he wasn’t going to cut you open, was he . . ?
“Your intelligence precedes your colleagues which is why I have found you to be the suitable candidate. Of course, it all comes down to your decision but it would be a delight to have your involvement.”
You sucked in a small breath, “May I . . read over the research proposal, Lord Dottore?” He wordlessly nodded, opening a drawer on his desk before sliding a neat stack of papers over.
Written in bold letters was the title: ‘Sensory cortex activation by stimulation’
The human mind remains an imperfectly understood mechanism. This study aims to document and analyze cerebral activity in response to external stimuli such as touch and pressure in order to better identify the relations between the human brain and body. The implications of this experimental research extend beyond mere academic curiosity, a more complex understanding of neurological behaviour under euphoric conditions may provide valuable insight into artificial human enhancement procedures. Experimentation of this nature requires a fully informed and consenting participant.
Methodology: The participant will be situated within a controlled laboratory environment under my supervision to maintain consistency of neurological readings throughout the duration of the experiment. Neurological activity will be monitored and recorded through the use of neural-imaging apparatus for high resolution cerebral observation. The participant will be gradually exposed to sexual stimuli in certain body areas as follows: nipple, clitoral and vaginal (penile penetration) leading up to orgasm which is the expected peak readings.
To ensure authenticity of collected data, the participant must remain aware and capable of providing continuous informed consent during all stages of experimentation and contraception will be used. Furthermore, a second participant (assigned to Pantalone) is set to carry out sexual stimuli mentioned above and is considered a controlled variable along with the primary participant. Collected findings will subsequently be analyzed for potential applications in the fields of cognitive enhancement and artificial synchronisation of human neural patterns.
In simpler terms, Dottore wanted to observe human neural activity during a euphoric state to better understand the connection between the brain and body? In all honesty, you were speechless. Not only was the former supervising the entire experiment but Lord Regrator was also a participant, at this point you were convinced this was some kind of humiliation ritual. There was no denying that The Doctor was extremely professional when it came to research, and you were more than certain it wasn’t going to be his first time seeing a naked human body—he had even written a formal proposal which further confirms that this experiment wasn’t some kind of perverted shenanigan.
“Do I, uh—Does the experiment require the primary participant to be . . fully naked?” You feigned a cough, flipping a page as you tried your best to avoid eye contact with Dottore. Though he wore a pointed mask, you were certain his eyes remained solely on you.
“It is not a necessity. Only stated areas in the proposal are required to be exposed for efficiency. I’d also like to mention that a generous compensation will be given once the experiment concludes.”
At the mention of compensation, your ears perked up. Even though the Fatui was an influential organization in Teyvat, the pay you received was fairly enough to get by but if you were being honest, you could use a bit more mora especially with this month’s bills rolling around. Without another word, you nodded, finally looking up at the Second Harbinger.
“Alright. I will participate in the experiment, Lord Dottore.”
Beneath the pointed mask, his rosy lips stretched into a wider smile, “Excellent. I require you to sign this contract then I shall conduct a pre-experiment interview to obtain better understanding of the participant.” Reaching over the desk, he flipped over to the last page of the proposal and slid a fountain pen over, silently tapping his gloved fingers against the wooden surface as he watched you sign.
With your participation officially sealed with a signature, The Doctor carefully placed the document inside the drawer and fixed his attention on you, gloved hands loosely clasped around one another, “Are you sexually active?” His question settled into the thick silence awkwardly, it stuck out like a sore thumb—all too sudden and personal yet your commander had simply asked it as if he were asking about today’s weather.
You were aware this was part of the protocol but having Regrator present in the office seemed a bit much for you; what was he even here for? Surely, he wasn’t about to start asking you medical related questions, he didn’t even work in the field. Discomfort enveloped your warmed skin, a thousand kisses akin to small prickles—hot and itchy.
Shifting ever so slightly in your seat, you spoke, “N-No . . but I have had intercourse before.” Archons, if you were given the option between Her Majesty unleashing her unforgiving ice on you or to explain your sex life to The Doctor, without hesitation you’d pick the former. Dottore was still your boss, after all but thankfully, he was as professional as you expected, keenly listening to your reply while nodding—nothing more, nothing less. If he had any reaction to your answers, he didn’t let on.
“And when was the last time?”
God, when was the last time you had sex? You simply couldn’t remember. Being a Fatui wasn’t a walk down the park, days in The Doctor’s laboratory were long and tedious, by the time you return home late in the afternoon, you’d only have the strength to eat and wash up before welcoming the night. The routine was monotonous, yes but there wasn’t room to mope around and complain.
“I cannot accurately say but most likely a month ago.” With your boyfriend then but The Doctor didn’t need to know about your past relationship.
The Second Harbinger’s questions continued for a couple more minutes, he asked about every single medical related question you could think of—medical history, current medications, prior injuries, and existing neurological conditions. Naturally, you tried your best to answer as accurately as advised by The Doctor and each response was recorded with meticulous precision.
“Good.” The word sounded less like praise and more like a conclusion. “If at any point you wish to withdraw from the study, you will retain your right to do so.”
Silence stretched inside the cold room.
You stared at Dottore. Through his pointed mask, he stared back. Neither of you spoke as his words lingered in the icy atmosphere like wisps of smoke, light and airy yet it held a bitter taste. A beat passed, then, very slowly, one corner of his mouth curved upward.
“I assume you’re wondering whether I genuinely mean that.”
So The Doctor was aware of your growing suspicion regarding his previous statement; you knew well enough how he worked, his experimental endeavours weren’t obtained through ethical and considerate experiments, and for him to state something like that was clearly out of character. Or maybe he actually housed an ounce of decency in him.
“Pardon my brazenness but yes, a little.”
The smile on his lips widened, “Reasonable.”
“Coerced participation produces unreliable results, especially neurological results.”
It wasn’t concern nor ethics but merely data quality, you didn’t know whether to applaud him for being such a dedicated scholar. Surprisingly, his reasoning was sound, emotions can and will affect neurological scans; factors such as stress can create physiological ‘noise’ which would increase variability in data.
At the lack of your reply, The Doctor merely dismissed your silence as acknowledgement and spoke up once more, “As you’re already aware, this study requires two participants. The reliability of the data is dependent upon minimising external variables and, unfamiliarity constitutes as such.”
“In other words, you’re making us socialize.” Lord Regrator finally spoke up, his dulcet voice curling around your body like a serpentine predator.
Well, it wasn’t entirely odd to familiarise oneself with a fellow study participant, especially if intimacy was on the table but the whole situation felt rather awkward. Under more casual circumstances, you’d feel at ease but being confined in your commander’s office with another Harbinger felt nothing but forced; you felt nothing less than a puppet being forced to interact with another toy at the hands of a naïve child.
“Call it whatever you prefer. Participants exhibit measurably different neurological responses when interacting with unfamiliar individuals.” A gloved finger tapped the wooden desk, “Trust levels, social comfort, perceived predictability—they all introduce inconsistencies. Unless, of course, you want me to find another willing participant. After all, you do have the right to withdraw from the study, Pantalone.”
Hidden beneath Dottore’s words was provocation but to Pantalone, the taunt was clear as day. From where he stood, he could see the way the former’s lips curled into a smug smile—a silent challenge between both of them. But Regrator didn’t bite, no, instead, he shifted his attention toward you.
“Well.” He smiled pleasantly, “It seems we’ve been assigned homework. If Dottore wishes us to become familiar with one another, I suppose introductions are in order.”
Satisfied that events were proceeding according to plan, the Second Harbinger immediately returned to his notes. Lord Regrator watched his companion for a brief moment, “He’s actually taking notes. How amusing.” A gentle laugh escaped his lips, he moved a tad closer to get a better view and the scent of tobacco faintly invaded your senses.
For the next hour, conversation between you and Regrator drifted from formal introductions to declassified Fatui affairs to Snezhnayan politics, and for the entirety of it, Dottore wordlessly sat in his seat, taking notes of everything. The conversation started off stiff as expected—Pantalone may be a participant but he was still a Harbinger, and with it came formality but as words flowed, you eased slightly. You learned about his role as a high ranking Fatuus and despite your lack of interest in his field, you simply nodded along.
Lord Regrator differed from Lord Dottore, and whether that observation was positive or not, you were uncertain. Different in a way that the former was clearly built for conversations, he gave flattery when needed, smiled at your words, and gave colourful responses; you assumed he obtained his mannerisms through his role but even with his authority, he was easier to converse with.
“Alright, that is all for today. I shall require both your presence next week once I have the appropriate equipment set up.”
With that, you excused yourself first and headed back to the cafeteria with a racing heart. On the way over, you questioned whether what you were getting yourself into was something you’d regret in the future but all your mind could think about was the coming week. The mere idea of Lord Regrator intimately touching you shouldn’t have invited heat between your legs but with every step taken closer to the cafeteria, the more it grew. It didn’t help how obscene visuals of you and him flashed in your mind every second or so.
The new week rolled around with slight anticipation; it was embarrassing, really, the slight excitement buried in the depths of your core pulsing with expectation. It was weird to anticipate such an erotic experiment but pure lust fogged your mind primarily due to the fact that you simply haven’t had sex in a month. Weeks of pent up stress and emotions? You were definitely overdue for release. Though, you did have to constantly remind yourself that it was a formal study within a controlled environment, and not some kind of one night stand with your commander’s colleague.
“I trust you’re both well rested?”
The three of you were back inside The Doctor’s office, it was late afternoon, the warm glow of the sun spilled through the frostbitten windows, painting the rather dull room in a mellow hue. The rest of your colleagues had already left the laboratory which meant you, along with the two Harbingers were the only ones present. It made you a little nervous—being alone in a room with two of Snezhnaya’s influential individuals.
Pantalone hummed and you replied with a small nod, already feeling your skin starting to prick.
Dottore led you both into another room connected to his office, it wasn’t as vast and you assumed this was strictly out of bounds to everyone but him. The room felt unnervingly sterile, its walls were constructed from smooth metal panels with narrow seams, and bright white lighting illuminated the space.
At the centre of the room stood the experiment’s primary apparatus—a reclining examination chair surrounded by an intricate arrangement of cables, a machine, and polished metallic arms suspended from the ceiling. The most striking feature of the room was the wall opposite the entrance—a single pane of reinforced observation glass stretched nearly from floor to ceiling; beyond the glass you assumed was the control room, housing machinery responsible for operating the experiment.
“For the entire duration of the experiment, I shall remain inside the control room to oversee the study and note down all results. Remove any unnecessary layers of clothing such as overcoats and gloves, and meet me by the apparatus.”
Left in your blouse and pants, you headed to the center of the room where Dottore stood with Pantalone just a step behind. The former tinkered around the apparatus, pressing a few buttons and flipping switches with a gloved finger, causing the machine to whirr to life; it hummed a low, almost quiet tune that somewhat settled your nerves.
“Lie down.”
The Doctor looked over his feathered shoulder, pointed mask gleaming beneath the harsh lighting before turning his attention to the suspended metallic arms for inspection. You did as you were told, positioning the entirety of your body along the examination chair, the leather was cool against the fabric of your clothes which left tiny goosebumps from the difference in temperature. Wordlessly, you watched as he positioned the metallic arms near your head, several inches away from contact; its tips were equipped with a semi-circle that encased your head. So, this was what The Doctor meant about non-invasive equipment.
“Once I operate the machine, you may feel a slight sensation but do not fret, it is simply the apparatus emitting pulses of energy to record neural activity. And as for you, I require complete obedience—every single word.”
“Hah, you act as if I’m some kind of disobedient mutt. I’m wounded.” Regrator pressed a hand over his chest, a mocking smile directed at his colleague.
The latter didn’t bother replying and instead walked off to the control room, the soles of his boots clicking with every calculated step. Pantalone softly shook his head, muttering a faint “Lovely as ever.” beneath his breath, full of sarcasm.
“Any command given will be spoken through this intercom.”
Your attention quickly moved from Regrator to the mounted speakers on the corners of the room as Dottore’s amplified voice filled the space. Gaze darting over to the foot of the examination chair, just past the Ninth Harbinger’s torso, you watched your commander on the other side of the observation glass. Heat warmed your cheeks at the realisation that you directly faced the latter which meant he’d be able to see everything you exposed.
“Base readings first. In the meantime, Pantalone, I trust you have already taken the concoction I made prior?”
With the metallic arms whirring to life, you could barely hear The Doctor’s words over the pulsing of the machine. Just as he mentioned, there was a slight foreign sensation in your head, it felt like pressure but also not at the same time, though, it wasn’t painful. You could only watch as the two conversed over the observation glass.
“Indeed.” Regrator nodded.
Two days ago, Dottore had given him a curated substance meant to increase one’s libido, thus concentrating blood flow to the genitalia. He had no qualms consuming it but it was foreign, indeed, he had never taken such a drug before and it took all his willpower not to take you right then and there. It didn’t help how his semi-hardened cock twitched inside his pants, involuntarily rubbing against the fabric of his underwear.
Dottore jotted down a few notes as the monitors displayed your real-time cerebral activity; so far, everything looked good, “Commencing the first phase of the experiment: nipple stimulation. Duration: 30 seconds. For the entire duration—without stopping—the nipples are to be stimulated via gently pinching or twisting.”
Thirty seconds didn’t seem too long, right? With that, you slightly lifted yourself off the examination chair, bringing your blouse over your chest before attempting to unclip your brassiere. Seeing your struggle, Pantalone brought himself closer, a faint whiff of tobacco following, “May I?”
Despite his chivalrous offer, his amethyst gaze kept darting at your clothed breasts and the smoothness of your skin—he knew it was impolite to do so but being under the influence of Dottore’s concoction had him acting a tad out of character. He cleared his throat as his cock twitched at the sight before him, swallowing down the low moan he almost let out. Could you really blame him? The garment was a black lace adorned with intricate patterns, not to mention the fabric being slightly see-through—a feature he found rather brazen. Pantalone could almost assume you wore this specific garment today for him to see. And maybe for your commander, as well.
“Thank you . .” You nodded and allowed Regrator to help.
“Pardon the intrusion.” He laced an arm through the narrow space between your back and the chair, lithe fingers expertly unclasping your brassiere with one hand.
Your heart may or may not have skipped a beat.
In one swift movement, the garment loosened around your torso, threatening to slip off. With slight hesitation and a burning face, you removed the fabric and shyly placed it on the chair right by your thigh. Almost immediately, icy air kissed your warmed skin which caused your nipples to harden, a small hiss almost slipping past your lips. While you were occupied with embarrassment, Pantalone’s gaze traced the curves of your chest, each mound sinfully beckoning his large hands—maybe even his mouth too. Obviously, it wasn’t his first seeing a naked woman but how his mind reeled with selfish fantasies was beyond childish.
In the control room, Dottore was unfazed—he had seen many nude bodies before and yours weren’t any different. It was nothing special, really but your cerebral activity on the other hand . . . That was more interesting.
“Whenever you’re ready.” He spoke into the intercom.
“I’ll be starting now, Miss.” Regrator sat on the narrow space of the chair, his clothed thigh brushing against your own; you tried not to think of the warmth which radiated from his body or how your name effortlessly rolled off his tongue like it was meant to be.
A silent nod was all you could muster—not even a split second eye contact to acknowledge his presence out of politeness but from the looks of it, Regrator didn’t mind at all as he proceeded to bring both hands up to your chest. If only you’d look his way you’d see a shy hue of crimson dusting his pale cheeks and ears but alas, your gaze fixated on the ceiling above.
A small yelp forced its way past your lips; Regrator used both index fingers to gently trace your areolas a couple of times, mere centimetres shy from your pebbled nipples, the tips of his fingers were cold—not icy but enough to send a strong shiver down your spine. You missed the way the corners of his lips subtly curled upwards in utter amusement—who would’ve thought Dottore’s lovely subordinate hid quite melodious tunes? There was no doubt his Harbinger colleague thought of the same thing.
As a matter of fact, despite being behind an observation glass, Dottore heard the sound you made all too clearly. The door to the control room was slightly ajar which caused any noise—minute or not—to spill through. It wasn’t foreign for his experimental subjects to create any noise but today differed, what was usually tunes of pain turned into hums of pleasure, and he couldn’t decide between the two which he preferred.
Maybe, just maybe by a tad bit—from how his core twisted with delight—it was probably the latter.
But Dottore had no room to ponder over that, not when your neurological activity displayed exquisite images on his monitor. As expected, a small cluster of highlights illuminated the somatosensory cortex which indicated its activation; he quickly jotted down notes, eyes trained on the screen before him, trying not to let your saccharine noises get to his head.
Another twitch of his now fully hardened cock had him letting out a low groan beneath his shaky breaths. The sight before him was simply exquisite; Pantalone may not have the best eyesight but he didn’t need a perfect vision to deduce the divine beauty—breasts splayed flat, torso arching ever so slightly, your head turned to the side, bottom lip tucked between your teeth, and brows furrowed in embarrassment.
Oh, what a shy little thing you were.
“Lord R-Regrator—!” He gently pinched your nipples which spread a sharp, quick shock across your chest. Another arch of your back pressed your skin closer to Regrator’s digits, he experimented with a slight twist, turning them between his index fingers and thumbs.
Archons, how embarrassing! You tried. You truly tried to hold back any unwanted sounds but the Lord Harbinger seemed to know what he was doing—how to please a woman—you couldn’t help but moan out his name from how amazing his hands felt against your feverish skin. Save for the low hum of machinery, the room was filled with complete silence and any noise made stuck out like crimson ink on a blank ivory canvas.
“Do let me know if my actions hurt you at some point.” Pantalone mindlessly murmured, mind completely fogged with lust, and senses drowned in your muffled moans.
You finally looked up at him through glassy eyes and wet lashes, it didn’t help how the bright lights above drew sparkles in your irises. He almost missed the wordless nod you responded with, too focused on the growing haze painted on your face. As Regrator continued his stimulation, shallow pants filled the space above your face and by this point, your face was as warm as it could get. Occasionally, your body shuddered beneath his expert touch, slowly and steadily driving you over the edge as each second passed.
Before another embarrassing moan could spill from your lips, The Doctor’s voice flooded the room via intercom, “First phase has concluded. Moving on to the second phase: clitoral stimulation. Duration: 30 seconds. As previously mentioned, stimulation has to be continuous for the entire duration.”
Even though embarrassment had slightly subsided, you hesitantly reached for the button of your pants, undoing them with trembling hands. Once more, the Ninth Harbinger offered assistance to which you thankfully accepted—there was no reason getting shy now, he had already played with your nipples earlier. Driving the soles of your shoes onto the cushioned examination chair, you lifted your hips and pulled your pants down along with your underwear with the Harbinger’s help—just enough to expose your cunt.
His eyes zeroed in on your glistening entrance. All for him? Oh, he was being spoiled, indeed. The sight of your cunt fanned the blazing flames of Pantalone’s ego—all this just from mere nipple play? How adorable. You must’ve been really touch starved.
“Before we commence the second phase, Pantalone, I trust you can find the clitoris, right? Perhaps you need my assistance?”
“I am not ignorant, Dottore.”
“I am simply making sure. No reason to get snappy.”
You wanted to laugh. Two Harbingers bickering should not have amused you but the pettiness behind your commander’s voice and the slight annoyance laced with Lord Regrator’s words was all too amusing. If you were to tell a fellow colleague about them two bickering whether one could find the clitoris or not, they would not believe a single word that’d come out of your mouth. Who knew they could talk about trivial matters, too, how interesting.
Lord Regrator returned his rightful attention to you, his dull expression immediately shifted into the soft smile he always wore, “Ready, Miss?” Meek, you nodded. The Harbinger repositioned himself, right knee slotted between your parted legs to get a better view of your wet cunt.
He gathered the slick coating your cunt, spreading it on the pads of his fingers before pushing back your clitoral hood to reveal the swollen nub of flesh all in its needy glory. Embarrassingly enough, a simple ghostly touch on your clitoris had your entire body jerking against the leather of the chair, followed by a wanton moan of the Harbinger’s title. You quickly turned your head to the side and pressed the skin of your forearm against your lips—a futile attempt as the moment you obstructed your face, Lord Regrator’s digit began rubbing your clitoris in tight circles, as though a wordless protest against muffling the sounds you made.
His fingers were good—amazing, even, to the point where you wished thirty seconds went as quickly as a single second. In your head, clitoral stimulation of that duration was doable but you wholly underestimated yourself and the Lord Harbinger’s skills, on top of that, you were still trying to recover from earlier. You weren’t supposed to orgasm on this phase of the experiment otherwise it would ruin it entirely but it seemed like he had a goal: to drive you over the edge before the thirty seconds were up.
“L-Lord Regrator, I think—Mhm!”
“Hm? Were you saying something?”
The arm slung over your face immediately flew downwards to grasp his wrist, attempting to slow down his actions. Your free hand gripped on the side of the examination chair, nails digging crescents into the leather to ground and steer yourself from the impending orgasm. You arched your back and moaned aloud once more, earning a satisfied smile from the Lord Harbinger.
Dottore’s gaze ripped away from the monitors and landed at the centre of the room where you and Pantalone where, he carefully watched as your body pathetically writhed under the latter’s eager touch. He could barely see your lust-bitten face but judging from the moans you let out, his friend was doing exceptionally well at pleasing you—even the activity displayed on the monitors could back that fact; more regions of the brain were now highlighted indicating an increase in activity,
It was indeed fascinating to observe how one’s brain lit up from mere stimulation.
The tune of shallow, soft pants filled Regrator’s ears, it was amusing to watch you scramble and gather the threads of sanity in your palms, refusing to let pleasure take control of your body. Did he feel bad? A little but he was no saint. He switched from tight circles to figure eights, pressing onto your sensitive nub with a little more pressure. Your legs shook with bliss, fingers wrapped around his wrist tightening as you teetered to the brink of an orgasm.
“Ngh—ah! Lord Re—Haah!”
“I suggest you use your words otherwise I cannot understand you.” Mockery laced his dulcet voice but with the hum of machinery mixed with your shameless moans, you didn’t pick up on it.
When did Pantalone last have fun like this? Sure, he was powerful enough to control the nation’s economic state with a mere snap of his fingers but being able to control the pleasure you felt? Beyond satisfying. Not only was he rewarded with your lust-fogged expressions but also how your body squirmed beneath his touch—desperate and pathetic.
Your core tightened, it stretched and stretched further waiting for the recoil called climax but before you could reach it, your commander’s cold voice filled the room once more, “Second phase has concluded. We’ll be moving on to the final phase after a short interval.”
With that, Regrator pulled away his hand which elicited an embarrassing whine of protest from you. In a daze, you stared up at the ceiling and silently thanked Lord Dottore for the short interval because you knew well enough you’d be a complete mess once the third phase began. Though, the Second Harbinger’s reasoning was most certainly experiment-related rather than pure concern for the subject.
The tight knot deep in your core disappointingly dissipated as each second passed without stimulation—it was beyond frustrating to say the least, especially after weeks without sex. Despite the cool air inside, a sheen of sweat lightly coated your entire body and you felt stuffy; suddenly, the fabric pulled halfway down your legs felt too restricting, the blouse pooled around your neck didn’t help either. At this point, you just wanted one thing, and judging by the crimson blush on Lord Regrator’s cheeks, he wanted it too—release.
Dottore simply wasn’t being nice with the interval, the main reason for it was to let your cerebral activity return to baseline, otherwise readings from the second phase would carry on to the third phase and mess with the experiment. But he did have a more selfish reason that didn’t need disclosing—the growing tent between his legs.
He only needed a few moments to recollect himself. His bodily response to the scene before him was normal—he was still a man, after all— but in a professional setting, it was undesirable. Dottore knew what he was getting into when he first wrote the proposal for this serendipitous experiment but he didn’t expect to be aroused by it. He leaned back in his seat, a subtle glance at the prominent bulge before letting out a soft sigh.
How truly inconvenient.
After a couple moments of recollecting himself—or simply trying to—Dottore spoke into the intercom to commence the final phase, “The third will be slightly different, there will be no set duration as the end goal of this phase is an orgasm but restrictions will be in order. That means strictly no touching aside from vaginal penetration, this would count as kissing, groping or holding one another. Doing so would interfere with results.”
Since Dottore observed the sensory cortex, other forms of stimulation besides penetration would also be recorded, lowering authenticity of the results.
“Contraception is located above the machinery.” He added.
Pantalone reached for the smooth surface of the machinery next to the examination chair where he grabbed a sealed packet. Lithe fingers curled around the waistband of his pants, you watched as he unbuttoned and pulled it down just enough to reveal his hardened, leaking cock. It slapped against his clothed abdomen, donning a crimson blush that mirrored the hues on his pale cheeks. The pearlescent glob of pre-cum coating his slit had you salivating a little, tongue subtly swiping over your bottom lip.
Wide eyed and lips slightly parted, you could only wordlessly stare at the foreign sight before you, he was decently thick and merely looking at it had you clenching around nothing—eager to have all of the Lord Harbinger inside you.
Pantalone let out a low hiss, expertly rolling the latex down his shaft, “Ready?” Amethyst eyes clouded with lust found your gaze. Lord Regrator’s expression was different from what he usually wore, the cunning, unreadable smile was gone, leaving room for a flustered one.
With a wordless nod from you, the Harbinger fully situated himself between your legs, both hands each circling around the back of your knees to push them to your bare chest, “Hold your legs open for me, will you, dear?” You did as you were told, hooking an arm on each knee, keeping your legs in place and eagerly waiting for his next move.
Knees digging on leather, Pantalone placed a hand on the wide headrest of the chair while the other curled around his base, slowly guiding his cock inside your sopping entrance. A mix of your moans lingered in the air as he bottomed out, the entirety of his shaft sat inside you—heavy and hard. The stretch was delicious, it almost felt purely sinful, you’ve never taken a cock that stretched you this good before and it was dangerous because you might just get addicted to it.
Pantalone leaned over you, free hand now joining the other on holding the headrest. The silvery chain of his glasses dangled mere centimetres from your face, teasing and ghosting over your feverish skin. He sat still for a moment to relish inside your tight, velvety walls, he felt like a boyish virgin all over again with how stimulated he was, and he hasn’t even started thrusting yet.
But Pantalone had a job to do: to bring you to an orgasm because that’s what he agreed to upon signing the contract of this study—to put your pleasure before his own.
A beat or two passed ‘til he slowly drew his hips back—with only the bulbous tip remaining inside—and languidly thrusted, your nails dug into your soft skin, leaving small crescent-shaped indents. You could really only hold on to your legs and take the steady yet forceful pace Lord Regrator had set which caused your body to jolt repeatedly with every smack of his hips against your own.
It was pure torture for Pantalone, you looked absolutely divine yet he wasn’t allowed to hold you—to grope and squeeze at your bouncing breasts, to rub at your clit, to suck on every part of your exposed skin and finally taste you for himself. Alas, he could only rake his gaze up and down your semi-naked form and fantasize how you’d react beneath his palms.
The examination chair groaned underneath the weight of Pantalone’s thrusts, high pitched squeaks interlaced with the string of moans and whimpers filling the entire space. Pantalone carefully shifted his weight to his upper body, anchoring his hands on the headrest to piston his hips into your own.
“O-Oh, god! Lord Regrator!”
“God? H-Haah! Ngh—‘M no god, my dear.”
Bitterness laced his trembling words, it's almost as though he took offense and now he expressed his disdain by merely picking up the pace, rendering you a babbling mess to shut you up. Skin slapping and the smell of sex dangerously danced in the air, one Dottore couldn’t simply ignore—especially the former.
The Second Harbinger messily jotted down notes, fingers tightening around the pen every now and then whenever you let out a loud moan. He didn’t stop his gaze from wandering to where you and Pantalone were, crimson gaze locked onto your jolting form while his friend eagerly pounded you like a starved man. How your legs vigorously bounced in the air was enough to let him know how roughly Pantalone went on you.
The problem between his legs worsened and Dottore may or may not have rubbed his hard on a few times beneath the desk. Just to get a small taste of friction his hardened cock desperately wanted. Childish? Perhaps but fuck he would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of trading places with Pantalone—even for a mere second or two. He was more than curious what you’d feel like around him.
“Lord Regrator! I’m—aah! I’m close—ngh!” Legs burning from holding the position, you let go and opted to wrap them around the Harbinger’s waist, locking him in a rather intimate distance. Pantalone let out a breathless chuckle and changed his pace into deep, short thrusts, he grinded into you every few strokes or so, allowing you to see the stars.
A few more sharp thrusts and the knot inside your stomach snapped violently as pure bliss engulfed the entirety of your body. Pantalone, unable to move due to your legs tightening around him, sheathed his cock deep inside and grinded on you, his fat tip rubbing against your sweet, sweet spot. He watched your limp body convulsed beneath him as shocks of pleasure came crashing into you.
He followed suit, spilling his warm seed into the latex while relishing in the tightness of your walls, a loud grunt forced from his rosy lips.
The two of you stayed still for a moment, individuals merely reduced to a heaving mess as the fog of orgasm slowly dissipated from your bodies. As if on cue, Dottore spoke through the intercom,
“The final phase of the study has concluded. Your cooperation is appreciated.”
A breathless laugh from the Harbinger above you, “I sure hope you managed to collect ample findings, Dottore.”
The latter could only scoff, of course he was able to do so. As opposed to his hypothesis—where he had only hypothesized two regions would be active—a handful of regions were active during an orgasm. It gave him a better understanding of how to map the human brain.
At the latter’s silence, Pantalone spoke once more, “Though, I am rather curious,” He let out a small hiss while pulling out. “Why did you need a second participant? Surely you’re more than capable of executing this task yourself, no? Unless . .”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you simply can’t do it.” To please a woman, he wanted to add.
There was only one way to interpret the Ninth’s words and despite it being ‘friendly’ banter, annoyance bubbled in Dottore’s chest, “Obviously, I would need to record findings hence my lack of participation in the study. But if you ask me, I would have done a better job.”
“Really?”
Silence followed.
Solely due to their brief exchange—or was argument a better word?—you found yourself sandwiched between Lord Dottore and Lord Regrator; every article of your clothing long discarded on the cold tiles, and machinery turned off, long forgotten. With the former laying on the examination chair, you straddled him, trembling legs on either side of his waist while the other Harbinger pressed his clothed chest against your back.
“Lord Dottore . .” You bit your lip.
In a haste, he had unzipped his pants and pulled out his leaking cock, rubbing the bare tip up and down your sensitive slit. Behind you, Pantalone’s hands mindlessly wandered all over your naked form—from the plush of your breasts to the fat of your ass, he left no skin untouched. But it wasn’t his hands alone, his lips trailed open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck, leaving a few small bites in between.
Pantalone gently ushered you forward, one hand splayed across your back to bring you closer to Dottore ‘til your breasts squished against the latter’s chest. Both Harbingers lined their cocks to your entrances and slowly pushed inside. Slumped against the Second, you trembled violently as they stretched your holes out—one wrong move and you were sure to come undone.
With both cocks fully sheathed inside, all you could do at that point was pant like a mere mutt in heat, you haven’t had proper time to come down from your previous orgasm so any form of stimulation quite literally melted your brain and brought tears to your eyes.
Dottore cupped your jaw with a large, gloved hand and angled your face, he examined your fucked out expression momentarily before closing the distance. Messy and desperate, the Lord Harbinger’s kiss simply knocked oxygen from your lungs, he eagerly plunged his tongue past your lips and explored the inside of your mouth.
The kiss and the sting of his pointed mask digging into your cheek was enough to briefly distract you from their experimental thrusts. Shameless, you wailed into your commander’s mouth, knuckles turning into a lovely shade of ivory as you gripped the collar of his coat.
The examination chair groaned beneath the weight of the Harbingers’ merciless thrusts and one could only hope it was sturdy enough to last an entire round. Creaks of the chair mixed with the sinful harmony of your moans filled all four corners of the room, thankfully this space was a bit more secluded in comparison to your commander’s laboratory which meant anyone else walking down the corridors wouldn’t be able to hear the lewd sounds as much.
Despite the eagerness behind their thrusts, it was certainly surprising to have their movements coordinate with one another—an unspoken rhythm with the sole purpose of bringing you and themselves to release.
Dottore pulled away to catch his breath, leaving a thin translucent string of saliva connecting his kiss-bitten lips to your own, hot breaths mingling together through rough pants. The corner of the Harbinger’s lips curled upwards upon seeing your drunken expression—who knew you looked utterly divine stuffed with two cocks? It made him twitch.
Pantalone’s gaze fixated on your lower half—how your ass bounced and jolted with every powerful thrust he gave. The mere sight of his wet cock appearing and disappearing between the globes of your ass had him heaving a little harder. Maybe it was also due to the tightness of your rear, or the fact that having another cock inside you intensified the pleasurable friction he felt.
A few more harsh thrusts, the coil inside you finally snapped once more, bringing you to a rather earth shattering orgasm. Your body violently trembled in pure bliss as you tried to moan their names to no avail. With the sensation being too much, you fisted Dottore’s clothed chest as if doing so would somewhat ease the pleasurable pain your entire body felt.
The Second soon followed suit, a couple of desperate thrusts into your sopping cunt—ones that had you wailing in overstimulation—before sheathing himself deep inside and releasing thick, warm ribbons of cum. A string of colourful curses in his mother tongue slipped past his kiss-bitten lips as he came inside. Dottore filled you all the way to the brim ‘til his seed slowly seeped out of your greedy hole and onto the leather cushion beneath.
Ah, he’d have to get it cleaned now.
This left Pantalone who greedily hauled your limp body against his chest; one hand expertly rubbed your swollen clit while the other held your jaw to angle your face upwards so he could plunge his tongue inside your mouth. You choked on the messy kiss as the new angle invited him deeper inside. Dottore’s cock slipped out from the change in position but he didn’t mind, instead, he sat up and took it upon himself to plunge two long digits in your cunt.
His fingers were already long enough to reach far but the added thickness of his gloves had you arching your back. If it wasn’t for Lord Regrator’s firm hold, you would’ve already been slumped against the chair long ago. The former’s fingers moved in a ‘come hither’ motion which allowed him to brush against your sweet spot. Surely you could handle another one, right?
“Oh—hng! Close! Ah—haah!” Hands flew down to circle around Dottore’s wrist, you attempted to pathetically remove his fingers from your cunt which shortly proved futile as he remained unmoved.
You came once more, another blinding orgasm ripping through your orgasm but this time, you could barely even muster a whimper—only a soundless cry and fresh tears streaming down your face. Pantalone grunted and bit your shoulder as orgasm hit him, hot cum painting the walls of your rear; he grinded his hips against your ass to ride out his orgasm before releasing your skin from his bite.
Nothing but the sound of harsh breathing filled the walls and for a long moment, the three of you remained still to catch your breaths with reality slowly seeping in to replace what was once lust. You wanted to sleep right then and there, exhaustion weighed heavy on your body from how hard they both worked you—too tired to even think of the consequences.
None of this was supposed to happen—at least not the unexpected threesome but now that both Harbingers have had a taste of you, they might just come back for seconds.
Aerion is meant to be marrying your sister - not letting his attention drift to you...
⊹₊⟡⋆
You were trying on precious jewellery you had brought from home for the wedding.
Around your throat rested a jewelled collar so elaborate it seemed spun from frost. Strands of glittering diamonds cascaded from the top of your throat down across your collarbone and lower like frozen vines, filigreed yellow and white gold framing deep purple and navy blue stones.
Staring at your reflection in the mirror, it looked wrong. It felt wrong, the precious metal and stones pressing into your skin. The same necklace your mother often wore when she was alive.
You spread your hand across it as though you mean to tear it from your throat, feeling the cold beneath your fingers.
But you could never break such a thing.
Gently, you unclasped it and slipped it from your neck, securing it back into its case and tucking it beneath the vanity table, substituting the grand piece for a simple slim steel choker and drop amethyst and fang earrings.
There were only five more days until the alliance was sealed and your sister was a Targaryen. The physical distance that would come in between you two was a given you had tried to bury, but you hadn't truly taken it into consideration how you would both be separated on a personal level now.
She would no longer be a Sterling, and you will be the only daughter back home.
A harsh whiny from a horse outside dragged you from your thoughts.
You moved from the vanity table and stood behind the thick, draped curtains, peering out the window at the ordeal that was happening down below.
There Prince Aerion was on his stallion. It seemed he had just come back from who knew where, dressed as though he was anticipating war.
His armour was steely and dark, and when he removed his dragon-esque helm from his head, his frost white hair was slick with sweat and his expression was taught with adrenaline.
A knock on the door.
Derella partially opened it to see you looking back at her, then she swept into the room in a beautiful ivory and and violet gown.
"Good, you're awake." She began.
Your gaze cut to the Targaryen kingsguard now stationed at the door.
Derella didn't seem to mind. You gestured to her purple fabrics running along the floors. "They mimic his strange eyes."
Your sister smiled back at you, "Now, you can't go talking about eyes, can you?"
Your smile tightened. "I suppose not," your glance fell down, then your brows furrowed as you met her gaze. "Have you exchanged gifts yet?"
"Well, father has presented the dowery and other finery to the crown, and Aerion's father reciprocated with his own diplomatic gifts," Derella lounged across your bed, "Whilst Aerion was off somewhere, I was presented to the nobles and ladies of the court. The council members too. One lady gave me a gift," She beamed as she turned her head to show you the ruby hairnet bestowed upon her.
You arched a brow, "I wonder what she meant by it."
Derella hushed you softly, not wanting to know the realities and politics of gift giving within the court.
"You know Aerion and I aren't meant to be acting 'intimately' with one another yet?"
You gave her a long look. "As in?"
"We can only be in each other's presence when guards are present," she gestured to the one at the door.
"Is he so crazy?" You asked.
She rolled her eyes. "Our private conversations are to be held in the gardens for the next few days," she continued on.
"And is that where you will be giving him your... gift." Your stare became a steady one at that.
When you had initially brought this up with her, Derella hadn't taken it so lightly.
"But I already have a gift for him."
"Then give him this one too."
She'd given you that funny look. "Derella," you had shaken your head, "I know you're skeptical about these things, but-"
"It's not that I don't hold the same beliefs, y/n, I am just not from the exact same lineage as-"
"Never the matter," you had waved her off. "Don't you think the man you will have to depend on for the rest of your life should be protected too?"
Come on. You'd heard what they said about those born into the House of the Dragons.
She seemed to understand now, or at least understand where you were coming from. Besides, just because she was to no longer be a Sterling didn't mean she was no longer your little sister. And you had an oath as the eldest to protect her.
Derella followed after you as you quietly moved back to the vanity table, eyeing the guard as you did so.
You pulled a small velvet pouch from your belongings, giving it a little shake before her eyes. She took it and pulled out the gift you had meticulously made for Aerion.
Inside was an elaborately made brooch, carefully decorated with the finest materials and carved with intricate etchings.
Derella looked to you as she turned it, watching the facets gleam against the early sun. The determined, though uncertain, expression on her face was the very same one she had worn when she told her father she would agree to the marriage.
˖⟡ ݁˖· ─
You were on the balcony again, arms lounging across its cool, coarse stone as you watched on.
You had spotted them in the distance a little while ago; Derella walking politely behind him with her hands folded neatly before her. Aerion leisurely walked down the slim path, leading and talking with one of his hands resting upon the hilt of the sword on his hip.
Aerion plucked a small lilac flower and turned to hold it up against the fabrics of her dress, the colours matching beautifully. Then he tossed it back into the garden.
You scoffed at his ways.
Your father appeared beside you, watching the two in the garden as well.
"I hope you are not planning anything my little blade."
"Of course not," you assured, your eyes never straying from Derella and Aerion. "I am merely observing."
"It's not proper," your father raised a brow, though an amused smile was present when you turned to face him. "Spying in such a way."
You both knew he didn't truly care. "Let me be nosey a little while longer, father."
He chuckled, placing a hand on your shoulder before turning to leave you be. Your eyes shifted back to the couple and their two guards in the gardens.
Derella finally stilled, her head lowering and lips shifting into a blossoming smile. Aerion stopped too and circled back, looking carefully at the velvet pouch she pulled from inside her flowing sleeves and held out to him. You wished you could hear what they were saying.
He accepted the pouch, pulling out the glittering brooch in one swift movement. Derella was still talking - explaining something to him as he inspected it.
Aerion looked up at her, an interestingly soft smile dusting his face.
And then his gaze easily found you. Less harsh but still sharp as it honed in on your figure high up on the balcony.
Despite the distance, it was heavy, and you gave him one last stare before turning to leave.
˖⟡ ݁˖· ─
Dinner was a little more ornate that night.
Black banners hung from the stone walls like great flags of pride and honour. The room was larger, the table longer. The food more decorative; from roasted venison and roasted goose and root vegetables, to herb-seasoned potatoes and thick sauces.
Your mouth watered at the sight of it all.
Many nobleman, ladies, and people of the court occupied the space, hands and bellies full with rich wines.
Derella seemed to be the star of the show - and this time, she didn't seem to mind. Though they would watch her fiercely, like a dragon watching its prey, she performed effortlessly - mannerisms elegant and smile charming.
You scanned the crowd. The bustling and rushing deadpanned servants with their trays. The Targaryens and your father conversing at the centre of the High Table. Your father must have already been a little inebriated; his cheeks ruddier than usual as he laughed. Harpists and lute players let their tune lace the heavily scented air.
Aerion was no where to be found. You found that to be quite interesting, for he did seem to love any kind of attention he lulled his way - whether it was good or bad.
So deep in thought, you hadn't even realised Derella was beside you until she grabbed your arm.
"Dear sister," she smiled a tight smile.
"Derella. You looked as though you were enjoying yourself over there."
"I was. You do know how I enjoy such events, especially now that they all seem to be warming up to me quite nicely." Her smile didn't reach her eyes, and she watched you as though you were meant to read her thoughts like literature.
A frown touched your brows. "So what is the matter? Did someone say something?"
"No, it's none of that." She quickly shook her head, "It isn't the courtly matters and finery." Her voice lowered, and it felt as though the entertainers were suddenly determined to make it harder for you to hear.
You leant in, "Ok Derella, so what's the matter?" Your lips thinned, then you asked. "Is it Aerion?"
Your sister's lack of response made your stomach churn. Her hold on your arm tightened. "Do not pick a fight, y/n." She warned, "He has not harmed me. I swear. It's just..."
And just like that, a perfectly fabricated alliance was dwindling before your eyes.
But what was an alliance compared to your sister's wellbeing?
You gently moved her to the side of the room - not so suspiciously that it would draw attention - pretending to examine fine tapestry that hung from the walls. You suddenly pictured your father's reaction to her wanting to no longer go through with the marriage.
"Derella, there are no easy arranged marriages. All brides feel just as you do leading up to their wedding."
"I know, I know," she began. "But Aerion has a fire in him that's alarming to me. Not that I think he would hurt me-"
"You're quite lucky," you reminded her. "Unfortunately, many are harmed by their own husbands."
Derella nodded in agreement. "Yes, but just because he has spared me doesn't mean he is kind." Her voice dropped down to a whisper, "Do you know what he does to those who disrespect him? Not even! All one has to do is look at him funny and he retaliates."
Your eyes narrowed in thought, then blinked. "Is it so bad to put people back in their place sometimes?"
Derella stared back at you, and then she was summoned by one of the older lady's of the court - the jewels on her neck ruby and her dress the same colour.
You didn't want to leave the conversation like this, but your sister merely looked back to you before letting herself be whisked away.
You caught your father's eye from across the room.
˖⟡ ݁˖· ─
You grabbed a small bit of fresh bread with finely sliced meat on top and left the Great Hall, searching for the courtyard for some for air.
A gentle, humid breeze raked through your hair, your heels crunching against the rocks in the courtyard. It was beautiful, of course, much like everything else in Red Keep.
The stars twinkled high tonight, and you wondered if there was someone somewhere far away reading and mapping them out.
The clinking of chains pricked your attention. There ahead of you lied a hunting hound on the ground, his round eyes blinking as he rested his head against his paws.
That was when you noticed the dishevelled man slouching against the wall the hunting hound was chained to. The man saw you too.
Wobbly forward and squinting his eyes to make you out, recognition finally melted across his rugged features. Recognition then also hit you.
It seemed you couldn't get away from the one that had made such a heinous toast on your first night here.
"You." He pointed his finger to you, head bowed and eyes glaring through his heavy-set brows. "You know what the Prince did to me for speaking about your sister?" He mocked, anger in his voice.
"You mean the next Targaryen Queen?" You arched a brow, "I believe he should have done more."
You were disappointed to see the man was still able to walk. Though you had to admit, he did look awful; dried blood in his brow, his right eye black and swollen and jaw bruised.
He staggered forward with vigorous momentum, and it made adrenaline race through your veins. Your body stiffened, readying itself. Then your eyes cut to the hound as its ears shot up from the man's movement. It appeared he was moving dangerously close to it.
"You've got a smart fucking mouth for a lady. Maybe you are just a bitch after all."
Something strange gleamed across your eyes. "Maybe." Your whisper was soft, and though your response and eyes took him aback, it would not deter a man drunk on wine, insecurity and rage.
You shifted to the side, hoping he would follow and consequently move closer to the dog he hadn't yet noticed. "So, what? Are you going to continue bitching about it?" You taunted evenly.
And you watched him seethe. "Fuck you."
You waited for him to come forward, and just as he stepped onto the dog chain, you added fuel to fire and threw the meat from your bread onto his shirt.
The hunting hound drove forward like a rabid animal, its calm demeanour quickly dissipating as its jaw locked around the man's leg. A wicked smile tugged at your lips as you watched him thrash and yell.
How awful you could be.
Oh well.
But that was when you saw another two men further back look over. They pushed themselves off a wall, stepping out of the shadows as they began to near you.
One of them called out. "Hey, why don't you come play with us?"
You knew when to fight, and you knew when to leave.
Turning on your heel, you decided to go the back way so that you could walk through the corridors instead of directly back into the Great Hall. Their calls didn't cease, and your head began to thud a little as you quickened your steps.
Could you somehow lure them into another trap?
You hadn't meant to gasp when you rounded the corner and slammed into yet another man. Only he was dressed in fine, bold clothes.
Only he had hair reminiscent of moonlight.
Initially, Aerion snarled, eyes darting down as his posture remained unmoved and unchanged. His arm shot out to grab at yours before he realised that it was you.
Instinctive made you throw up your own hands too, pressing them against his chest before you could will yourself not to.
You both watched each other until you pulled yourself back, shock written across your face as you stared up at him. "I didn't mean to," you rasped, eyes draping over him. "I didn't even hear you coming."
His eyes skated over your figure too. "You're fleeing. From what?" He asked the question almost as though he was annoyed.
"Nothing, I just took a wrong turn." You went to move past him, but Aerion shook his head and moved to block your path. "Bold of you to lie to a Prince, Sterling."
Your expression deadpanned, mock evident in your eyes, but before you could respond you looked over your shoulder.
He caught the shifting silhouettes behind you, and their faint, alcohol-laced taunts. You would be lying if you said your heart didn't race a little at the sound. After all, those men knew your face now.
Aerion quite easily picked up on the shift - the unease that rolled subtly off of you in waves. But he didn't ask, and you didn't explain, because you were already bowing your head at him.
"I need to go." Hastily, you slipped away with all the composure you could muster down the hall towards the doors.
You heard his heavy footsteps recede and slowed down your pace. A steady breath escaped you, and then heard the sound of impact. Yelling and loud grunts too.
You gingerly came to a stop and considered going back. Curiosity cooed in your ear as you stopped and listened to what sounded like a fight. How you itched to turn around, but you decided not to give in. Grabbing your skirts as your chatelaine shifted, you pulled them up as you began to ascend the stone steps.
Something heady laced Aerion's voice. "Don't go any further. I've been looking for you."
You rolled your eyes whilst your back was still towards him.
Why was everyone seeking you out today?
You turned to see the Dark Prince striding towards you, and he looked every bit Aerion the Monstrous with his bloody knuckles under the shadows and shifting candle light.
"You know those men?" He asked when he came to a stop before you.
"No," you exclaimed, coming off of the step. "Of course not."
His eyes gleamed as he looked back at you, and suddenly - for the first time since you ventured to these lands, you felt the full weight of his stare.
Your breathing had finally evened out, and you stood there staring back at him with a sort of confusion and intrigue melting together within you. "What did you do to them?"
Aerion tilted his head to the side. "Would you feel pity for them if I told you they were now broken little toys?"
Eyes steady, you shook your head. He was intrigued with your honesty - not many would admit such a thing.
"No." You said, and now you tilted your head at him. "Why have you been looking for me, Aerion?"
He shifted his weight onto one leg and slipped his hand into the inside of his vest, eyes pinned onto yours.
Aerion pulled something sparkling out and held it up where the candles shone brightly.
You exhaled through your nose. "My sister's gift for you?" Your heart had only a moments rest before it started beating again at the sight of it in his hold.
"I know strangeness when I see it. This reeks of it."
"It's a jewelled brooch," you replied, the ordeal of such a night chipping away at your patience. He arched a brow as if he could sense it to.
You tucked your hands behind your back. "It's merely gold, ruby and shadow glass."
"Shadow glass." He repeated. Aerion held it up closer to his eyes in inspection, then let his violet eyes snap back to you. "It has sigils all over it."
You moved in closer, "It's said to ground the mind." You explained, frustration tainting your quietened tone.
His eyes briefly grazed your lips - just a flicker - before he gave a venomous scoff. You lifted your chin as he shifted closer, black amber and a metallic scent wafting in the space between.
"Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin. Don't think of me so lowly, I've heard it too," you felt his hiss against your skin. "Grounded mind," he mocked, "I know what this gift implies."
His whisper was too smooth for such a conversation. For such a man.
Faded cheers from the Great Hall sounded in the background, followed by the faint clinks of chalices and laughter.
You shook your head at him. "I am no sorceress, Targaryen. And this isn't some scheme. I can assure you, House Sterling wants this alliance as much as House Targaryen, and I will not be the one to jeopardise that."
He purposefully stretched out the silence like honey, waiting to see if you would break under his stare. You didn't, and he knew you wouldn't, but he still enjoyed trying.
Still, you worried he was going to carry this doubts and let them build up so much so that he would call the wedding off.
"Weirwood carved beads." You said finally, "That's what Derella wears beneath her sleeves." Aerion's eyes narrowed. "It's said to quieten attention from magic." That blunt edge in your voice softened.
It made him wonder. It made him want to simultaneously lean into your presence and viciously search for a betrayal that wasn't there.
"Does she now?" He asked. His tongue ran across his teeth as he weighed up the argument you presented.
"Alright, as proof," you held out your hand to him. "I shall wear it. Give it to me."
He shook his head and ignored your offer. "I hadn't realised I was marrying someone so mystical." Something in your chest was pulled taught like string.
"She isn't," you quickly cut in. "But does this... deter you, Prince Aerion?"
A fleeting smirk touched his face. Prince. Since when did you refer to him as such?
Aerion held the brooch up before your faces again. "So, it is a gift from you then?"
Had he somehow shifted closer? You pulled your eyes away from his and gave another scoff. Aerion smirked.
"Goodnight, Targaryen."
And with that, he watched as you disappeared beneath the shifting shadows, heart heavy with something unfamiliar.
It wasn't heavy with that comfortable anger or roguish schemes. Nor with his self-proclaimed significance or thirst for violence.
It was heavy with something he would not name, but instead dream about and think about more than he should.
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But I'm gonna be honest. We need a story where neglected reader is adopted by Talia and Ra’s al Ghul. Like, how funny would it be if, after Damian comes to the mansion, Talia shows up for a mother and son date, but her little gremlin totally stands her up.
She isn’t mad, just disappointed that her son is buying into Bruce’s dramatics. She respects that he can’t kill criminals, but he completely loses his mind because her family does. She should have known he was like all Americans... preaching respect until it doesn’t fit his standards.
She’s about to leave when she sees Bruce’s daughter—the civilian one, the one her beloved left outside his inner circle.
Her reserve is for two people, and two people will go.
"Child, come. We are going to have dinner."
"What?"
"And then we are going to the opera to see Madame Butterfly."
"I’m sold."
Reader had asked for tickets, but Bruce forgot.
Talia was ready to be tolerant, but she ends up setting another date and calling her beloved’s daughter almost every week.
She loves Damian, but she finds herself enjoying being a mom’s girl very much. Damian’s sister has a sensitivity her son lacks.
Some of Talia’s old clothes end up in her dresser. When summer comes, Talia invites her to Nepal; her beloved thinks she’s going to a summer camp, but Talia starts training their daughter. She can bear that she’s a civilian, but not that she’s defenseless.
Still, they take time to do a mini tour all around Asia, tasting local cuisine and shopping for clothes that actually fit her daughter.
Ra’s is curious but not really interested at first.
"So you are the detective’s runt."
"Unwanted, you mean."
"And that doesn’t bother you?" he asks, intrigued.
"I’ve decided my best vengeance is being unbothered by it."
He smiles briefly.
"What would the detective say if he knew you lingered with my daughter?"
"Sir, if you want a video reaction when he finds out, just pay me."
He sends her $10,000 when she ends up sending him high-resolution footage.
To everyone’s confusion—except Talia—Ra’s al Ghul acts like a normal grandpa when he’s around reader.
When Damian finds out, he accuses her of trying to steal his position as heir (he knows he’s already lost it, but he’s jealous). She looks at him like he’s dumb.
"Why would I be the heir when I’m the favorite grandchild?" she asks. "The heir thing is just some game gramps plays for fun. Why would he need one when he’s basically immortal with no plans of dying?"
That pretty much silences Damian for a long time.
No one understands their relationship. She’s welcome to join the League of Assassins, but it’s okay if she doesn’t, they still want her around.
And you know how messed up it is that Ra’s knows more about Bruce’s daughter than the detective himself? Ra’s al Ghul enjoys very much throwing it in his face.
you should totally do one where dottore is using the trilune powers and the part where the rest burst in after columbina, he ends up recognizing reader as his old lover who went missing back in his akademiya days. not sure how i would want it to end but happy ending… knowing writers, you’ll be creative enough to know 🫵🏽
໒⦂ 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖.
notes. hello, tysm for the request! i apologize for the delays aaaa i was saving longer form content to do after i finished the semester since i was quite swamped.. that said, hope this was worth the wait! i also very much recommend willow by taylor swift — the lyrics very much fit this drabble aksjskdj
genre. hurt / comfort
tw. mentioned bullying
trilune god!dottore x gn fae!reader.
ocean tipped needles the size of blades halted in midair just before they could quite puncture or break skin, hovering dangerously close. if you breathed incorrectly, you were sure that crimson was sure to bloom beneath your clothing.
but the doctor was scrupulous. precise, even amidst the battlefield — where it called for combat prowess and not the clinical kind.
his expression was unreadable behind that crow-like mask, the one you’d only heard rumors about, and you couldn’t help but wish to see what those rubies were conveying underneath. was he angered? disappointed? satisfied? surprised that you were alive after all these years spent apart after his expulsion?
it was difficult for you to pinpoint. back at the akademiya, his face was on display for your eyes to observe at all times — watching the way his features pulled together so easily depending on the circumstances. he was.. incredibly expressive, from what you’d burned into your memory since his departure.
maybe that was why he hid it now, for no one to ever know what he was thinking — what he was expressing beneath the guise.
“..what is the meaning of this?” dottore cut through the silence — slowly, carefully, yet each word had come out more frigid than the last. an obvious distance between you both, and yet a yearning melancholy.
the traveler helped columbina back to her feet after a particularly harsh blow, the rest of their comrades following suit to their side just a few steps behind you. if the doctor had to guess, this farce looked more or less like a pathetic attempt at shielding themselves using his former partner as a wall of some kind.
it filled him with ire, and yet as he set his divine gaze upon your face — all that seemed to dull and dissipate into something quiet and almost in disbelief. you were still alive after all these years — even after he’d gone back to sumeru and found through his intelligence that you were no longer there.. you’d managed to live as long as he had.
doing what, he wasn’t sure — and part of him had desperately wanted to know how, given the lengths he had gone to exceed the expiration of most humans.. but that seemed to die on his tongue as he approached you with meticulous steps.
you always held firm when it came to him, never once intimidated by his presence. his village scorned him for his existence, either choosing to run away or at him with pitchforks and torches for his way of thinking, meanwhile his fellow alumni kept a safe distance, whispering among themselves when they thought he could not hear.
but you? archons, either you were a fool, naive, too kind for your own good, or all the above.
he admired your persistence, attempting to drill your way into his heart with the second lunch you always brought him ( because his was somehow always sullied one way or another- typically by students who simply wanted to make his day unbearable ) or through the bandages you’d conveniently kept on you to tend to some cuts and bruises that came not from experiments but from some daring hands or blades. whatever the reason, if anything ever went bad ( not that he really cared, it was mostly just an inconvenience ), you were always there to pick up the pieces even when he didn’t ask.
eventually he’d realized that nothing could push you away. even his unethical practices and hereditary mind were not enough to deter you, which only made him wonder how much longer you’d be able to stand him before fleeing or casting him out, too.
and when the day of his expulsion came, it was him that was forced to take his leave. because he knew you’d fight it, he left without a say. the akademiya was already holding him back enough from reaching his full potential, and although you made being there more bearable.. he did not belong there.
you deserved better, as well.
but did you?
“zandik..” you spoke his name quietly, like an ancient spell that very little could chant, as though lost in the winds of time. he’d long since forgone that name, associating it with someone weaker — more pathetic than his current self. a scholar with academic constraints.
zandik would never have created a god or become one himself. he paled in comparison to the person he now was, and yet, when you uttered that name so gently.. in the way that you called it so warmly back at the akademiya, or whispered it so tenderly during lectures — he found himself berating it less.
despite the audience, it mattered little to him that they knew his given name. as of this moment, you were here — in the flesh. and although you were intervening with his experiment, carefully crafted to take from the world what had never been granted to him.. he found trouble being put off by this occurrence.
if anything, he was more intrigued by this variable. he’d never considered the possibility of you intervening with his plans, and for that he had to pay respects to whoever managed to find or create this potential projection of you. no one had known about your importance to him, or even your existence — he made sure to never bring you up to his colleagues, and willed his mind to forget.
you had your own life, something that should not be thrown away or contaminated by your previous association to his existence. and if that meant never seeing you again, pushing down those memories of his- the only fond ones he would have of his youth.. then he was willing to make that sacrifice.
even now, when he might have had you back.
“you shouldn’t be here, if you even are here.” dottore said in lieu of greeting, waving away the needles just slightly away from potentially damaging your body — fresh out of the sweet memories he’d long since buried. just in different clothing — with the green akademiya robes long gone, and features that were slightly more matured. “for all the time you’d spent around me, you should know better than to interrupt my experiments.”
“and you should know that i always remained even as you sighed and rolled your eyes. the vacant seat was never there without reason.” you returned, challenging his integrity in the way that you would centuries ago. he was glad to find that you still had that spark in you — the one that dared to question his intelligence even though it was clear that he was the top student.
you never shied away, and he admired that you tried — that you even bothered to test yourself against him.
a soft chuckle left his lips. “the vacant seat was a default, my dear. have you forgotten that desks were coupled?”
“how could i?” you returned with an airiness, braving the trek towards him. “it meant i always had a seat guaranteed beside you.”
as your footsteps slowed just a few inches away from his much larger stature — far different than the feeble man you came to know at the akademiya — you allowed your hands to find the long locks that had spilled over his shoulder, humming thoughtfully to yourself. “you grew your hair out.”
“that’s what you notice?” he scoffed, though there was little bite behind his words, and he made no effort to stop your curious hands.
it made you smile a little, looking up at him with a longer hum this time as your brows knitted together. deeply concentrated, or at least- that was what you aimed to convey. “i think you got taller as well — late growth spurt?”
that earned you a click of the tongue, and despite the mask, you knew he was rolling those rubies underneath that crow-like mask.
some things never changed.
“very funny, dear. your observations never cease to leave me questioning how your scholarly career had persisted for as long as it had.” he parroted back, yet his hand reached to cup your cheek — cradling it as though it were an ancient artifact dug up from an era once lost to time.
which, in a way, it was.
and instead of pushing it away or recoiling, you leaned into it, placing your two hands over the back of his as your eyes fluttered shut. “my degree would say otherwise, i could show it to you sometime.” you offered sweetly, unbothered by the mild insult — but you knew to read between the lines, having dealt with his speech patterns time and time again. “though, that might be difficult with the way things seem to be playing out here.”
as though struck by reality, dottore found that behind you — there was still the traveler and their ragtag team along with his treacherous colleagues.
colleagues that eyed him skeptically, yet equally as fiercely. likely planning to turn him over to her majesty for his experiment.
pursing his lips together after looking between the group and yourself, dottore snapped his fingers with his free hand, space warping. the moon marrows might have been stolen back, but he still had the ability to wield the artificial one- albeit less stable now.
the familiar lab of the false moon institute greeted the two of you as he let his shoulders fall, exhaustion creeping up on him. leave it to the descender to sully his plans, but no matter. experiments could go either way, he knew that well. and while results are the end goal, he quite valued the process — certainly whenever outliers presented themselves like this.
“i meant what i said before.” the harbinger finally spoke again, running his thumb over the curve of your cheek. “you should not be here. it’s.. not possible.” he followed up quietly, still not quite believing that you had been there- in the flesh.
but you were.
moving closer, you reached up to peel off the mask that hid one of your favorite features of his, smiling at the softened, glistened hue of scarlet that greeted you. “you’d be correct on that,” you answered breezily, placing down the accessory on a desk scattered with his notes. “except for long living species. fae tend to live longer — or age slower, i suppose.”
that made his eyes widen. a fae? you’d never once mentioned that — or had you said it and he tuned it out with how engrossed he usually got with his studies?
either way, it made his breath hitch just enough for you to notice. “i never really got to tell you, did i?” you continued with a small laugh, though it lacked the mirth he remembered. “i was hoping to, but the day that i finally felt okay enough to tell you- you were suddenly gone. expelled.” you finished a little lower, though your words never wavered in clarity and confidence. “i just never said it because i didn’t want you to think less or more of me — i liked what we had, you made me feel.. normal.”
now that made him huff out a laugh of his own, seafoam locks bouncing with the shake of his head. “i could say the same, given my own reputation and how you still spoke or hung around me as though i were anyone else.” if you were worried about being abnormal, then what would that make him? alien?
saying that only seemed to make your smile stretch, however. “maybe that’s why i felt drawn to you. we shared something in common, although differing, but it brought us together.. and that still seems to hold now,” you continued, reaching up to hold his own cheek. “right, zandik?”
pink collected on his pale cheeks as his eyes fell to your hand and then back to your face before flitting elsewhere. without the mask, he felt.. naked, for lack of better wording — vulnerable.
and yet he couldn’t find a better person to share that with. consider yourself lucky, or unlucky. “a rather bold hypothesis with little grounds and a clear bias.” he remarked, returning his gaze to you. “but perhaps.. a welcome one.”
without constraint, he pulled your body into his- smaller against him because of the power he had partially inherited, but that didn’t stop you from squeezing back. centuries had gone by building up to the moment you would one day find him again.
and you weren’t going to be picky about a height difference of all things.
“you don’t know how many nights i’ve spent dreaming of this day, zandik.”
pressing his lips to the crown of your head, he basked in your familiar fragrance, reminiscent of the nation he could never called home. “as i have missed you deeply, my dear.”
notes. this is how the archon quest ended? right? like uh, y’know he didn’t kick the bucket and just tp-ed back to the lab with us, right? right..?
tysm for reading! consider leaving a tip if you enjoyed<3
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