#faeriefics

It towered impossibly high, a strange fusion of cathedral-like scale and fortress-like strength. Every spire stretched toward the dark heavens, their tips nearly swallowed by the thick clouds above. The sheer scale of it was almost incomprehensible— it begged the question; who could possibly need a castle this massive? The archways were wide enough to fit entire caravans side by side, and the doors stood taller than any building you’d ever entered. It felt less like a home and more like a monument to something far beyond human understanding, and the thought made your stomach churn uneasily.

You clutched your lyre tighter, the polished wood now slick under your damp palms. With the backdrop of the full moon, combined with the surrounding, never-ending forest… this place reeked of foreboding. And truthfully, you were never meant for such things. There was a reason you’d stayed behind while Ace and Deuce chased glory. Ah… even in childhood, it seemed, they were always two daring boys with swords (stolen from your father’s collection, mind you), and you, a shy little girl with her worn lyre.

Somewhere ahead, said duo stumbled through the shadows with all the grace of a pair of toddlers in a glass workshop. Some things truly never change. Count on Ace and Deuce to foolishly decide to explore a castle well after daybreak, with nothing but lanterns and weapons in hand. You huffed lightly, observing their clumsy demeanour with a nostalgic fondness before forcing yourself to catch up with them.

The inside of the castle was just as strange as the exterior. The moment you stepped inside, the lanterns’ glow spilled across the vast interior, casting flickering shadows on walls that stretched unnaturally high into the darkness above. The sheer size of the space felt overwhelming— too… massive for what it actually seemed to hold. Sparse clusters of comically normal sized furniture scattered across the floor, each piece dwarfed by its surroundings. The tables and chairs, though intricately carved, seemed misplaced, almost absurdly small against the towering columns and endless walls. It were as if the castle was designed for something far larger, and these furnishings were added later, an afterthought to make it appear more lived-in.

Candlesticks stood upright yet unlit on the tables, their golden polish dulled by time but not tarnished. Tapestries, faded yet untouched by the dampness that often claimed abandoned places, hung from the walls, depicting scenes you couldn’t make sense of. It was all just so... odd.

"Guys... check this out." Ace whispered in awe, his voice cutting through your thoughts. 

He stood crouched in front of a giant door, the iron bands reinforcing the wood looking thick enough to withstand a battering ram. He pushed it open with a groan, revealing a grand hall beyond. The room was cavernous, lit faintly by beams of pale moonlight filtering through the countless high windows lining the hall. Better lit than the rooms before, at least. You stepped inside hesitantly, the soft echo of your footsteps engulfed almost immediately by the sheer space. Despite its grandeur— or perhaps because of it— there was something unsettling about the hall.

“Doesn’t it feel...” Deuce trailed off, glancing around nervously.

“Empty?” You offered, to which your companion nodded in agreement.

“Yeah. That.”

Ace, of course, seemed entirely unfazed, already crossing to the center of the room where a massive stone table sat. He ran a hand along its surface, then rubbed his fingers together, inspecting the layer of dust. 

“Whoever left this place behind had some serious cash...” he muttered, “look at this stuff! That chandelier alone could probably buy us a small town.”

You glanced up. The chandelier was an intricate mass, all crystals and gold, hanging precariously from the ceiling like some kind of jewelled leviathan. It looked heavy enough to crush anyone unfortunate enough to stand beneath it if it fell. It was mesmerising indeed… but the unsettling feeling only grew stronger. It wasn’t particularly that the castle was too big (though that’s not to say it wasn’t ornate and strange), so much as it was the sense that it wasn’t as abandoned as it seemed— that somewhere, in the silence and stillness, something was watching.

"I’m telling you," Ace hissed, his voice a notch louder than a hush, "this place has to be loaded with treasure. No one would’ve guarded a dump like this unless there was something worth hiding."

Deuce shot him a glare. "Yeah, and what if the 'guardian' is still here? Just look at the size of this place! That’s nothing any ordinary human would live in. Did you forget what happened in Greystone Keep?!"

Your expression was utterly blank as you listened in the background, trailing a finger against the surface of the table in front of you. You… had no fucking idea what the hell these two were prattling on about. ‘Greystone Keep’ might ring a bell— you think you’d heard of it in the drunken gossip in an inn, once— but that was the extent of your knowledge.

"Relaaax," Ace drawled from somewhere in the background, snapping you out of it, "if anything’s still alive in this shithole, we’ll hear it before it hears us."

As if on cue, a deep, bone-rattling rumble echoed through the hall.

The three of you froze in your tracks.

"Uh…" Ace’s voice cracked. "That was the wind, right?"

Another rumble followed, this time accompanied by a tremor that shook dust from the ancient rafters above.

Your heart plummeted. "Ace. Deuce."

"Yeah?" Their voices came in unison.

“…I fucking hate you two.”

It all happened in a blur.

Ace shrieking, Deuce yanking him by the collar— you think the two of them blindly threw around some of their weapons all for three seconds, before they bolted back down the corridor. And you in all your inexperienced glory… made the terrible, terrible mistake of looking back— something Ace and Deuce hard learned the hard way to never do. Something you couldn’t have known not to do.

The creature that emerged from the shadows stole the breath from your lungs. Black scales gleamed like a finely polished obsidian, and its enormous wings stretched out, blotting out the light trickling through the panes of the windows. Eyes like shining pools of emerald— and though it had no pupils, or any slits you’d associate with all things reptilian, you knew that it must be glaring down at you.

Deuce was right. Of course such an impossibly large structure… would be made to house an impossibly large creature.

You tried to swallow, but your throat had turned to sandpaper.

The dragon moved so very slow, each step sending tremors through the floor that reverberated up your legs. Its wings curled inward— even folded they dwarfed your form— giving the illusion that it loomed even closer than it already did. If you had to guess, you’d say it was at least fifty feet long.

You stood immobile. Every gasp was painful to your lungs, heavy with the scent of ash and metal, and every shallow breath you managed only served to fill your insides with that suffocating presence. Your limbs betrayed you, rooted to the spot as if the sheer weight of your terror had anchored you to the floor— some poor joke played by your body, leaving you to face this monstrosity upright; a lamb awaiting slaughter.

Your breath hitched as it lowered its head, its sharp snout a mere few feet from you now. It sniffed its surroundings, a low growl rumbling deep within its chest. The sound so loud it vibrated down your spine to the rest of your body, and the pull of air so strong it almost brought you closer to the dragon.

…In being the local bookworm, you’d read about death a great many times. Reports, studies, stories— all speculations and beliefs of what it must feel like to be inches away from death— to know you're about to have your life taken from you. To have your life flash before your eyes was such a timeless concept… something you'd admittedly thought of in the past. You had always contemplated how you’d die— what it would be like at the end of your life. But never would you have thought it would be like this. So visceral, so immediate, so unrelentingly real.

And as you stood in the face of certain peril, head beginning to grow hazy in overwhelm, there was only one conclusion to be drawn, one conclusion to be written within those odd reports, studies, stories—

Life does not flash before the eyes. There are no poignant memories or final epiphanies to bring you solace. Instead, you are entirely in the moment, every fiber of your being hyper-aware of the being before you. 

Is this truly how you die? Will you stand in place like a fool— let yourself die before you can hardly experience life? This can’t be. 

All you’d hoped for was to become close to your only true friends once more— and look where that led you. Straight into the jaws of an inconsolable beast, ready to end your life for simply stepping past an entrance.

The realisation clawed its way through the reaches of your mind. 

What a cruel jest, this all was.

You’d read about moments like this— when sheer terror renders someone deathly still, when survival instincts fail, and they can only wait for death to claim them. You’d always assumed that, if ever faced with such a fate, you would at least scream and run. But no— here you stood, the perfectly pathetic portrait of fear, awaiting the inevitable.

You are nothing to this creature. 

Every emotion, thought, memory, and experience that has made you who you are— it might as well be dust on the wind. You are but another insect to be ground beneath its heel, another trespasser to be erased from existence.

And yet, a desperate, absurd thought flickered to life in the back of your mind. If this was truly the end, why not go out with words? You were, after all, a bard. Words were all you had— all you ever excelled at. Maybe, just maybe, they could save you now. Or, at the very least, delay what was coming to you.

"Y-You are…" you stammered, your voice barely more than a whisper, "you are magnificent. Truly. To stand in the presence of such power and beauty… I— I can hardly believe it."

The words tumbled out shaky but oddly eloquent, as if your fear had sharpened your tongue rather than silenced it.

"If this is how I die," you continued, your trembling hands clutching the lyre so tightly your fingers ached, "then I suppose… I can’t think of a more fitting end than being claimed by a creature as awe-inspiring as you.”

The words barely got to settle in before the dragon’s glare sharpened. Its wings stretched, the tips brushing the walls, making the vast hall feel small. …If anything, the flattery only seemed to agitate it further— and as it directed that nasty glare onto you, its expression was impossible to misread;

It wasn’t buying your bullshit.

You froze, feeling uncomfortable beads of perspiration form at your brow. This wasn’t working. Of course it wasn’t working! What kind of dumbass tries to butter up a dragon like this? You were seriously, seriously done for. Your shoulders slumped in defeat, the weight of its stare pressing you further down. The act, the excuses— they all melted away, leaving only the raw truth. 

In the face of death, is it really worth not being yourself?

“Alright, listen man, I’m sorry. I give up, damn…” you admitted, "I shouldn’t have come here. None of us should have. I didn’t mean to disturb you, or your home, or anything else. I didn’t even WANT to be here. I was just trying to get on my friends’ good sides, y’know? I mean, they’re all I have— otherwise I’d just be a sore loser stuck in my home with nobody to talk to but the pigeons in my ceiling."

Truly, is it worth wasting your last moments? 

…You know what? If this damned lizard was going to kill you, it might as well hear all of your life problems first. Let it be known that you are more than just vermin— that it is taking your life away before you can even make it all right.

“I mean, all I do is sit in my room all day reading books and strumming the lyre all night for what— less than minimum wage? I’m not interested in your ‘treasure’ don’t get me wrong, but I just wanted ONE thing to spice up my life, you know? It’s just so frustrating being… being…” You paused, stumbling over your words.

“Being so damn idle all the time.”

The dragon stilled. The growl in its throat subsided, replaced by an eerie silence that felt, strangely, even heavier than its anger. It tilted its head slightly, as if your new words had been entirely unexpected. The nasty glare had yet to fade, but upon further inspection of its face, there was something different in its gaze now. It wasn’t anger, but rather it was something else entirely— Curiosity, perhaps? …Nevertheless, encouraged by the lack of immediate incineration, you continued.

“Now I’m going to fucking die for just trying to look out for my friends. Do you know how pathetic that is? To go out for ONCE in your life only for it to end so abruptly. I’ve hardly seen twenty winters— I can’t even legally DRINK in any of the taverns I play in. Would a dragon like you know what that feels like—?” 

You paused, your own words cutting you deep. Are you really going to die with nobody to hear your last words but a merciless dragon? What a pathetic fucking death.

At your sudden silence, the creature’s massive eyes narrowed— fully studying you. Then, after what felt like an eternity, it huffed— a short, sharp sound that sent a gust of warm air ruffling your hair. Its posture eased just a little, and you almost dared to hope that you weren’t about to be a snack.

"…Ah,” you leaned your head back in defeat, examining the ornate decor of the ceiling above you, “you really are magnificent, you know." 

The words slipped out before you could think them over. As you looked back at him, into his eyes… this time there was no ulterior motive, no desperate attempt to placate. It was the simple truth, spoken without expectation.

“All my life, I’ve only read about things like you. Dragons. Faeries that watch over sleeping children. Talking gargoyles that come to life… They were all precious stories in picture-books of unknown authors that I clung to while the other children played outside. I could only dream of seeing things as marvelous as you. Everyone else, even those two jackasses…” 

Your took a peek to the nearest window, thinking about Ace and Deuce— you wondered how far they must have gotten, by now.

“They all fantasised about slaying great beasts like you while I only ever dreamed of getting to SEE one.”

“…And how I so feel like a fool, being the only child to be killed by one, now.”

You couldn’t place the feeling in your chest— nor could you place the look in the dragon’s eyes, anymore.

Now… one thing about you is that once you begin to talk, you never seem to be able to quiet yourself. Thoughts spill into voice— words that spill into a spiel— and soon, that stream becomes a river too swift to dam.

Perhaps, in this case, it was the fear wound tight within your chest. Perhaps it was despair— despair of the last rites belonging to a person who knows they are not long for this world. Or perhaps— and most shamefully perhaps— it was because some wretched part of you liked being listened to… even if your audience was a beast large enough to gobble an army whole.

“…It is wonderful. Your home, I mean. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. I never even knew such… grand structures could exist. I can’t even begin to think about how much effort must have gone into constructing something like this. This kind of architecture just isn't possible for humans, I’m sure of it.”

“Honestly, it’s not even fair.” You continued, shifting your grip on the lyre. “People like me… We’re not… afforded the luxury to see things like this. We read about them. Hell, maybe even dream about them when it’s raining too hard outside and we’ve got nothing better to do.”

You gesture vaguely at the spires, the windows, the endless dark beauty around you. “And now it’s all just… here. Right in front of me. It’s like falling into the pages of the oldest book on the highest shelf. You know, the ones you’re not supposed to touch because they’re so fragile and cursed and probably bound in someone’s skin.”

Your voice trembled on a laugh. Now you find yourself remembering the old, superstitious woman who ran the local bookshop. A little sweet and a little crude. Clearly lived to see many things. Sometimes, she reminded you of yourself— of who you would become. A lonely lady with nobody to talk to but those who would kindly spare a little time out of their day to lend an ear. That’s what you did for her. And oh, she filled your head with such magnificent stories… and warnings that were twice as so. You always found her endearing, but now you realise you should’ve invested a little more than just affection when listening to her— for she was completely right; ‘Never fuck around and find out’.

“And I’m not even going to get to tell anyone about it. That’s the worst part, really. All of this. Every column, every decor, every inch of this ridiculously excessive, ludicrous chandelier— what is WITH this, anyway? Did you bedazzle it with your entire hoard?” 

You pressed the heel of your palm into your forehead in an attempt to soothe the oncoming headache. “It’s not fair. It’s really not fair— YOU’RE not fair. Am I really going to get slimed by an overgrown lizard with six limbs? Why do you have four legs and two wings? Is that biologically feasible—?”

“Do you play…”

The voice that reached you did not reach like any other you’ve heard. 

Perhaps it would be wrong to even refer to it as something to be heard. The words arrived all at once, like cold iron plunged straight into your brain— inside you before you even registered they were said. A voice with no mouth. A breath without ever having been breathed. It clawed its way into your head, heavy and wrong, vibrating beneath your skin. You did not hear this dragon speak— rather you felt it. Something never meant for a human’s mind. 

“…As well as you prattle?”

Do you play… Do you play… Do you—

It looped ceaselessly within the confines of your mind, ricocheting against the walls of your skull until it bloomed into a headache. Yet, by sheer force of will, you bit the inside of your cheek, willing the voice into silence.

“Uh—” you managed, voice cracking in a sharp wince as the sound of your own vocals nailed the coffin on your internal agony, “…depends on what you want played…?”

“Anything that will convince me to spare your life.”

Fortunately for you, the second time he spoke settled in your mind with greater clarity than the first. Yet it was hardly a comfort, for the only thought that gripped you in that instant was that you would much prefer to die here and now. Were you… really understanding this correctly? Did this dragon honestly mean to… Must you really—

Play your stupid little lyre to a dragon to save your life?

“…Just kill me…” 

Only a fool would mistake the growl that followed as anything but a warning. Low and guttural, it rolled from deep within his chest and rattled the very air, vibrating through the floor and up your legs. He stepped forward, one singular footfall—

That was all it took to send a primal jolt of terror through your spine.

“NO— No no NO—!” You scrambled back, clutching your lyre tighter to your  chest. “That was just— a force of habit, okay?! Just sarcasm! I didn’t mean it, I swear—!”

You shut your mouth so fast your teeth ached within the muscles of your jaw.

Music. He wanted music… Okay. You could do music. You’ve done music for coin, for food, for polite applause and for drunken sobbing. You’ve done it at weddings, at funerals, in taverns so loud no one even noticed. Surely, this was no different… except for the whole ‘dragon threatening to end your miserable life’ part. You shifted your grip on the instrument, fingers twitching. Think… Your hands were trembling, so you should play something easy… Something that always works, that gets a reaction from the crowd just from a few plucks drawn from muscle memory…

And so— 

Greensleeves.

Reliable… check. Calming… double check. The song that makes even the angriest drunk at the far table soften his glare and listen if only for a moment and hopefully, in your case, enough to soothe the slightly sadistic— who the hell makes a poor bard play for their life?— dragon before you… hopefully check?

Still, there was something humourlessly funny about it all. A song written for a queen… by the man who would later send her to the executioner’s block. That’s how some rumours go. You glanced at the dragon— your possible executioner— and huffed a weak breath of laughter through your nose.

Fitting, you thought. How very fitting.

You don’t think he’d know the tune or its history. You doubt he cares… But you care. That’s the joke, isn’t it? Playing the supposed ballad of an ill-fated queen while trying to soothe the king of the castle who could very well kill you before the last note. The notion almost pulls a dry laugh from your lungs. Just why the hell have you of all people ended up in this situation? But if there had to be a light at the end of the tunnel, however… you would like to think that you're rather skilled with your fingers— adept enough, at least, to strum a lyre with confidence. So if this was the task required to preserve your miserable life, perhaps you haven’t drawn the worst hand imaginable… yet.

The melody that spilled forth was as lulling as it usually was— each note coaxed into existence by trembling fingers that, thankfully, needed not be steady to sound true. The lyre didn’t betray your panic, for its strings sang the same whether touched by grace or desperation. The sound drifted, delicate and sure, and were you not the one clinging to life with every pluck, you think you could almost fall asleep to it.

Truthfully, you dreaded the moment the final note would fall silent. So you slowed the tempo, drawing out each chord as long as your trembling fingers would allow, desperate to stretch the moment between life and whatever came after. If this was to be your death ballad, then better it last— a painful, aching farewell rather than a sharp, sudden cut. The thought gnawed at you, and a persistent ache twisted low in your belly; what fate awaited you once the music faded?

And when the dreaded moment finally arrived… silence was not what you were expecting. Your death, perhaps. A growl. Maybe even an ego-shattering belittlement for mediocre playing— anything but silence. And after enduring the excruciating discordance of experiencing the creature’s voice for the first time… you could say you were qualified to know that his silence was infinitely worse. You wiped your clammy palms against the folds of your skirt, fingers trembling despite yourself. Your eyes flicked upward, searching his immense face— almost pleading, though you’d never want to admit it aloud. 

The dragon’s massive head tilted, his glowing eyes narrowing as he studied you. Then, with a deliberate slowness that made your heart skip, he lowered himself closer… and the faintest puff of air brushed against your face as he sniffed around.

“Uhm…” 

You breathed out, flinching backward as his massive snout brushed against you. The roughness of his scales was undeniable— each one like a hardened shield, easily the size of your hand, scraping softly against the tender skin of your chest. You squirmed, eyes fluttering closed as your lips parted just barely before pressing into a thin line of restrained breath. Times like these were when you cursed the low neckline of your kirtle— as turning your head away only bared more of your neck to him. The heat was so scorching you swore it would melt you down to the bone.

For a long, heavy pause, you stayed just like that; eyes wound shut in anticipation of something more. Every exhale from the dragon stirred the fabric of your clothes with a force more powerful than any storm’s gust, and you were almost convinced a spike of fire would follow.

“Play it again.”

It was a request no sane person would dare refuse. So there you stood, like some hapless jester, fumbling to recreate the melody you’d just played. This time, though, you let the notes unfurl as they were meant to, each one ringing truer than before. The dragon seemed to notice the difference in quality; his great head inched nearer, closing the space between you. You could only assume he was studying your hands, tracking the nimble dance of your fingers across the strings.

It was on his fourth time demanding the same song in a row that you paused. Your brows knitted together as you stared up at him, confused. “You want to hear the same song again? Would you not rather I play something else?”

"Do as I say. There will be time enough to wring every last melody from that clever little head of yours… but for now, I wish to hear that song.”

The words sank in slowly, much akin to spilled ink bleeding into paper— seeping deeper, staining more than they should. ‘Time enough’. Enough for what? Enough for him to hear every song you’d ever known, ever made… to keep you until there were none left?

You forced a laugh, though it came out thinner than you’d have liked. “Right… ‘time enough’. I’m guessing that means I’ll have to charge by the hour.”

The dragon stilled completely. For a moment you’d begun to wonder if you’d broken him— but eventually his nostrils flared, sending another puff of hot air over your face. “You will not be leaving until I say so.”

“Oh…!” Your fingers tightened around the strings. “So… I’m under your patronage, then?”

Slowly, he bowed his massive head until it pressed heavily against the floor, his eyes locking onto yours with a piercing, jagged sharpness that sent a cold shiver clawing beneath your skin.

“Label it as you might, but in the end, your freedom is no longer yours to barter.”

You forced another, even shakier laugh— clinging to the tattered edges of your playful facade. Some instinct within you whispered that if you kept playing dumb, you’d soon be playing dead— but nonetheless, you persisted. 

“B-Barter…? What, like a pig? Two pigs? For my lyre? I’ll take it—”

“Foolish mortal.” 

The dragon snapped at last, for it seemed even Lady Luck had become tired of your imbecilic ploys. 

"Must I spell it out for you? I intend to keep you for myself. You will speak. You will play. And it will be for me, and only for me— whenever I so desire. Now, the song?”

The harsh finality of his words stunned you into complete, feeble stillness. Whatever gambit you’d been trying to play was dismissed outright— This creature wanted no part of your tricks or pleas. And in that moment, it became painfully clear to you that your fate rested solely at the impulses of this beast. 

There was really no way out of this. 

Quietly, you accepted that you might very well end up as nothing more than dragon kibble, and let your fingers resume their candence— the melody of Greensleeves.

At the very least, for all that, you were able to console yourself with the notion that Ace and Deuce had gotten away unscathed. So perhaps, in the grand scheme of things… this wasn’t the worst possible outcome. And in any case—

When, in all the years of your life, had you not taken the suffering for your boys’ betterment, anyway?

𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐃𝐀𝐘, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 dragon seemed utterly enthralled by every minor thing you did. He was no stranger to commands, either, and you were not one to deny a monster within its own dominion. For a good hour, he was transfixed by the way your body moved— so he instructed you to walk, to run, to leap, to climb atop heaps of gold… and then delighted in the way you slipped halfway through that. But to be fair, you couldn’t exactly gain proper footing on a great stack of metal. 

Furthermore… he appeared to be fond of suspending you from various heights to assess the strength of your arms— a habit you most definitely did not share an affection for in return. In fact, he seemed drawn to the idea of arranging you in different corners of the chamber altogether… almost like finding the perfect place on a shelf to set down a flowerpot. So in a matter of that first day, you were intimately acquainted with the vast cavern he called his own.

But for all his partiality to seeing you in different corners of his hoard, the same could not be said for the rest of the castle. On the second day, you were near certain he would kill you when he cast that glare down upon you for setting a single foot past the entrance’s threshold. …After that, you did not try again. The subsequent nights were spent curled on an old carpet (this particular one reminded you of the one displayed in your own home) spread across a mound of gold, so high that every shift or stir set coins sliding. It was a trap disguised as bedding; if you moved, the sound would wake him.

Though you were no doubt used to a solitary life, this one was unbearably dull— the sort of dull that made hours drag like weighted chains. Day in and day out, you found yourself trapped in the same cycle of gilded idleness, with nothing to measure the passing time but the whims of your captor. And those whims, you soon learned, could be mercurial at best. Some days he would lounge nearby, trading quips with you as if the two of you were old companions; other days, he became so cold and severe you swore the very air in the cavern sharpened around you, and you found yourself imagining the pyre that would follow. 

Yet without fail, what always framed this idleness was the music you brought him. Other nights, when you weren’t lazing around (the dragon was quite the sleeper himself, you see, so  his routine quickly became yours), you would pluck the strings until dawn. You offered him every melody you knew, every melody you were refining, and every melody you could conjure on the spot. Above all, though, his most beloved remained the first you’d ever given to him— Greensleeves. 

You weren’t sure how many days had passed— only that it was several, and that some days you went without speaking to the creature at all. The silence should have been a relief… but instead it gnawed at you, until the only highlight of your day became those rare moments he deigned to speak. You told yourself it was only because it broke the monotony— because in this endless, stagnant gold-dusted prison, even a single new word was a change in the atmosphere. Yet somewhere between one meaningless exchange and the next, you began to notice how your ears pricked at the sound of his voice, how you found yourself measuring time not by the sun or moon, but by when he might next decide you were worth probing at.

You knew not if he had a name, or if he even knew yours— for you never told him, and he never asked for it.  But over the days that ignorance festered into an insatiable curiousity, and the longer you remained in his company, the more intolerable it became not to know. Every word he withheld felt deliberate, a game you hadn’t agreed to play but could not stop participating in. You caught yourself watching him when you thought he wouldn’t notice— straining to glean something, anything, from that tilt of his head or the pause between his sentences. Even the smallest slip, the briefest hint, felt like a stolen jewel in a hoard you had no right to.

In the end— and you had realised this suddenly, with much bitterness— he had essentially made you into his mirror; just as fixated, just as incapable of letting go. Your hunger for the workings of his mind was as ravenous as his hunger for yours.

Perhaps it was because of this that you never ran, even when the chance was laid bare before you. 

On occasion, the dragon would vanish into the wilderness, returning with some unfortunate creature— scorched beyond recognition, its flesh blackened and bitter, the sort of meal meant only to keep you alive rather than thriving. (It was such a pitiful sight that you felt cruel each time you sliced into it with the knife at your girdle— the knife Ace had pressed into your hand on the eve of your birthday.) And during these times, when the dragon was gone, the opportunity presented itself to you on a silver platter. The world beyond was there, waiting, the open mouth of freedom gaping wide before you. Yet… your feet remained rooted. So the only taste of freedom you permitted yourself came in those rare, fleeting moments when you leaned out of the gargantuan windows (and you mean this quite literally… they were large enough for the dragon to crawl out) of the chamber, flask in hand, to catch rainwater for drink.

Ah… You remembered the times you’d complained of thirst, buzzing in the dragon’s ear (the general direction of it, at least) like some persistent mosquito. He would only huff (just a singular huff, without fail) and turn his head away— yet, almost unfailingly, a storm would break minutes later. The coincidence occurred so often you began to wonder if the rain answered to him, bending itself to his whims as easily as the rest of your world seemed to.

Because of all this… at the very least, life here had been survivable. You had food, you had water— and little else, perhaps, but that was enough. Enough to keep breathing, enough to carry on, and in these idle days… you were able to get by on the fact that this small mercy had seemed sufficient. 

…However, as of today— as you lay atop your carpet staring up at the unnecessarily high ceiling— 

Sufficient… was not that sufficient.

There was a certain… ‘problem’ with your life here— one that you could no longer ignore. Every part of you strained toward confronting it, until it made your skin crawl, your garments clung damp and close, and you felt swallowed whole by your own body. 

With a weary sigh, you let yourself sink down, sliding along the mound of gold until the coins shifted and clattered beneath your weight. The sound stirred the resting dragon; But when he saw your path bent not toward escape, but toward him… he merely closed his eyes again— completely unbothered by your presence.

“Ahem… Oh, fair dragon… I DO believe I am wasting away inside this dreary place!” 

Your voice carried an annoyingly theatrical flourish as you beckoned. Had you been any more familiar with the beast, you might have clambered onto his immense frame and made your boredom his problem. But alas… intimacy had not yet reached such heights— so you were reduced to planting yourself before his head, hands holding tightly to your lyre lest he request music as some odd payment.

One great eyelid lifted, revealing a pool of green that regarded you with indifference. (For a brute lizard, he was disarmingly expressive— and that made the weight of his empty stares all the more cutting when he chose to use them.) But after a single second his eye shut again, head angling away with deliberate dismissal.

“I do not recall requesting the sound of your voice or music. Why do you disturb my rest?” 

Your jaw fell open at the sheer audacity. (Yet beneath the offense was a flicker of gratitude; as it meant your strange companionship had evolved far enough that you could be sassed rather than sizzled. It was a dangerous kind of luck, perhaps, but luck all the same.) Still, you were not so easily deterred— so you darted around his muzzle once more, determined to recapture his attention.

“Won’t you at least hear me out…? I have a request… and— it’s an important request, too! I’ve been putting off asking you for days… But now it’s very unavoidable…!” 

The dragon did not agree to hear you out… but he did not refuse, either.

“I… I need…” 

Now that you actually stood here, having to say what you needed out loud… it dawned on you how odd (i.e, embarrassingly human and therefore belittling in the face of a mighty dragon) your ‘problem’ was. Your shoulders slumped, and you fidgeted, glancing around as if the walls themselves might bear witness to your mortification. 

“…I need to bathe…!” You admitted in a rush, each word heavier with embarrassment than the last. “It’s… it’s been a few days, and I’ve been… coping, yes, but… it’s— well, it’s uncomfortable, and, frankly, humiliating!”

The dragon cracked his eye open again, narrowing. “Bathe?” His tone was flat— and dare you say amused. “Surely, you can survive without it. You have managed thus far.”

“Yes!” You said, waving your hands— taking your instrument with it. “I have MANAGED! But I’m a human, remember…? We clean ourselves regularly, and I… I insist upon it! It’s only natural!”

A low, almost imperceptible bellow sounded from his throat, the closest thing he had to a laugh. He stood from where he laid, peering down at your ant-like form. 

“You… insist upon it?”

You puffed your chest out despite the heat rising in your face. “Yes, yes that’s right. I insist upon it.”

The dragon lowered his head, eyes boring into yours with unflinching scrutiny. 

“…Do not say that phrase again. Such language ill suits your youth. You sound like a fool.”

Yikes. You were quiet for a long time after that. 

“…So do I get to bathe, or…?”

What the dragon did next… it would only be right to say that it scared the living shit out of you.

His colossal jaws began to part, until a cavernous darkness framed by jagged pearls yawned before you. Heat and a faint smoky scent rolled over you, making your stomach pitch. You stumbled backward, a comically high-pitched scream tearing out of your throat. 

“Wait! Please don’t eat me! I didn’t mean—!”

“Shut up. Why would I eat you for that?” He interrupted sharply, the word vibrating through your body. “Just be quiet.”

The sheer absurdity of it struck you like a slap— this massive, terrifying dragon, scolding you like a schoolchild. Your terror cracked, and you froze mid-apology, lips pressed together to stifle the snort threatening to escape. Oops…

“Climb inside.” He ordered bluntly. “I am taking you outside. You will bathe in the mountains’ stream, but it’s quite a while to get there on foot. I have seen you move about— you’re not good at it. I shall carry you.”

…Ouch. You flinched, but forced yourself to ignore the jab at your physical capabilities. “C-climb… inside? You mean… like an alligator?”

A low exhale of impatience rolled from him. 

“…Yes, like an alligator. Now move.”

He tilted his monstrous head and, with an almost unnerving delicacy, scooped you into his maw. The gesture was more reptilian than draconic— really like an alligator ferrying its hatchlings— jaw unhinged just enough to cradle you in the cavern of his mouth. You hardly dared to breathe, lest a twitch of his tongue press you against the serrated ivory surrounding you.

Then the ground lurched. Stone groaned beneath his weight as he coiled through the tower’s circular chamber— your gilded idleness, your prison. For all its grandeur, you were beginning to resent it; the massive doors that never once opened for you unless it was to relieve yourself in the nearby chamberpot (and even then the dragon followed closely behind); the jewelled relics heaped in careless mounds; the shafts of light that pierced the gloom only when the sun angled through the windows— On such days, the chamber glittered like a cathedral of glass, colours scattering across the ceiling in rainbows, and it truly was a beautiful sight. …But more often than not, it had been little more than a dark vault, its treasures piled high as though mocking your insignificance.

The scrape of his talons along the walls reverberated as he pressed forward, squeezing through the window large enough to fit lesser beasts whole. 

And then, suddenly— wind.

You felt the air through the cracks of his mouth. Gone were the shadowed piles of metal and velvet— before you stretched an endless canvas of green and blue, rolling hills veined with rivers that caught the shining sun like threads of silver. The horizon unfurled into forests bristling like emerald seas, into distant mountains hazed in storybook blue. And the sky felt impossibly vast, clouds rearing like little castles of their own, shifting all the while.

Despite yourself, you leaned forward, craning your neck past the bars of his teeth to drink it all in. The wind whipped at your hair, tugged at your sleeves. For one delirious moment you felt as though you might tumble into the wide, bright world below— free at last.

“Back inside.” His voice came, low and warning. “Do you have a death wish, Child of Man?”

…But you barely heard him. Your heart pounded against your ribs as though trying to answer the sky itself, every page of every story you had ever read suddenly made real before your eyes.

“You have these sights around you all day and you choose to stay in that tower—?” You shouted, your voice nearly put away by the rush of wind.

“I have watched these lands for centuries, long before your bloodline ever came to be.” He responded, and that was all he chose to say.

“Oh… I guess even beautiful sights can get boring, huh…? You know what, I actually understand that. When I was a kid the whole town was my playground and then it became…” 

The words died off on your tongue, your shoulders sagging with them. At the mere thought of your hometown, your mind began to unravel. First came the memory of your solitude there— quiet, unremarkable, utterly stifling. Cobblestone streets washed in grey, hemmed in by rows of timber houses so tightly packed they seemed to lean over the narrow lanes. Air that always felt heavy, steeped in the dark smoke that came from a hundred chimneys. Yet the longer you dwelled on it, the sharper the irony became to you; For all its monotony… you found yourself missing it, now.

“It became merely the place you lived?”

“Huh?” You snapped out of it, blinking a few times in surprise. Hearing his voice invade your mind after thinking to yourself was always a sort of whiplash. “Oh, yeah! Just… where I lived. When you’re young everything seems so magical and when you’re grown it just…” You paused. “…I told you how I always read storybooks as a kid, right? Well… This is a sight straight out of one, I swear. Your… ‘mundane’ really is amazing.” 

“I would say your mundane holds its own fascinations, as well. But what draws me most is your sharpness of opinion. Only twenty winters you’ve lived to see, was it? How swiftly your kind ripens.”

…It seemed, perhaps, that fortune had favored you today— for the dragon seemed to be in a talkative mood for once. Such moments were rare, and you’d be damned to let this chance slip from your grasp.

“I just like to talk, that’s all!” You blurted, your voice fraying as the wind tugged it thin. In hindsight… maybe sticking your head out of his mouth to get a good view wasn’t the smartest idea.

A low, rumbling sound rolled in his throat— shaking you with it. His great wings beat once, twice, and the whole world seemed to shudder with the force of them. “That much is evident.” He said at last, his tone even. “And I would call it one of your strengths, little one. You… amuse me. When I was younger, I was often told that I was a quiet one myself.”

You gawked up at him, squinting past the press of his jaw. “Really?” The mental image of a cute, quiet little baby dragon got a snort out of you. “Can’t imagine you being young…” You muttered, a laugh finally breaking loose. “What, were you also once a tiny thing, getting scooped up in a bigger dragon’s mouth? Ooh! Wait— do all dragons carry their kids like this?”

“Hm.” He only hummed, and nothing else after that… leaving you to wonder if you’d actually close to the truth or missed embarrassingly by a mile. You were still caught in that thought when his voice finally followed;

“You may want to hold onto something.”

“Wha—?” 

Suddenly, your stomach was lurching out of your mouth alongside a scream. The world tilted on its axis, and you found yourself clinging to one of the dragon’s teeth. Wind battered your face, sharp and unrelenting, tearing tears from the corners of your eyes as the once dazzling outside spun into an incomprehensible blur of green and blue.

The dragon had plunged downwards… and like a complete and utter jackass— hadn’t bothered to actually warn you. The sheer drop made your insides somersault, so you pressed yourself tighter against the tooth— arms scrambling for purchase on smooth enamel. Every bone in your body swore you were about to be flung free, hurled into the dizzying expanse of sky.

But suddenly, as if the whole ordeal had never happened— all was still. At some point, you'd shut your eyes, and now they refused to open. You didn’t know where you were just yet, but as you stayed there in silence, you let yourself listen to the world around you. The low roar of rushing water rolled steady in your ears, a constant thunder that seemed to seep into your bones. Beneath it came the lighter sounds— the trickle of smaller streams, the soft lapping of water against stone, the sigh of a breeze stirring through unseen leaves.

And then— without ceremony— you were dropped. One moment surrounded by warmth and shadow, the next colliding with damp grass and stone, a startled yelp breaking out of you before you could stop it.

“Honestly!” You huffed, pushing yourself up, brushing at your clothes. “I could’ve climbed out on my own, you know—” You stopped, shaking your head with a mutter. “Whatever. Fine.”

“Oh? I believe what you mean to say is ‘thank you for bringing me here’.” His voice rolled over you, smooth as ever— if the dragon had eyebrows, you were certain one would be arched right now.

You froze. Then, with a reluctant sigh, you parroted back, “...Thank you for bringing me here.”

A soft puff of air came from his nostrils, and you could swear it was amusement.

At last, you dared to lift your eyes. The sight stole the rest of your irritation clean away. What you saw could only be compared to a scene being opened to you in a book— the kind that makes you wonder if such places could even exist outside of imagination. But the waterfall spilling into a clear, running stream cradled in by a meadow of bright, swaying green and scattered stone, with tall pines climbing skyward beyond was proof that they really, truly could. Your chest rose with a sigh you hadn’t meant to release. Almost without thinking, you stepped forward, drawn by the sheer beauty of it all.

The ground trembled with the weight of the dragon’s sudden growl. You froze mid-step, heart kicking against your ribs. The reminder was sudden and brutal; you weren’t here alone— nor were you even with a friend.

“Sorry—!” You blurted quickly, turning back toward him, hands raised in peace. “I’m not trying to run away. I just— this place is beautiful. I got a little carried away.”

“I brought you here to bathe. Do not run off, unless it is to the water.” 

To your relief, the dragon did not seem irritated. If anything, it felt more like a gentle correction. Swallowing, you turned toward a broad rock near the bank and moved to stand before it. Your hands found the ties of your bodice— but as you tugged them loose, unease prickled at the back of your neck. Slowly, you turned around to look at him once more.

“Uhm, can you… look away…?” 

He did not respond to that. So for a moment you hesitated, before continuing with what you were doing. With deliberate care, you pulled the lacing free, your kirtle slipping from your shoulders in one smooth motion to pool at your feet. One by one, you released the sleeves tacked over your shift, letting them join the rest of the fabric in a small heap. You were still clothed— your shift hung modestly over your form— but even so… you couldn’t help but feel a little more conscious of your body and your being under such an intense gaze.

“…I will do as I please.” He quipped suddenly, as if reminded abruptly that a response was still needed. “Now tell me, Child of Man… are such garments common where you come from?”

“Oh?” Your mouth parted in surprise. “You want to know about my clothes, is that it? Well… Yeah, it is common, I guess. Everyone wears uhm…” Your line of sight fell to the kirtle, now laid across a large rock. “Well, that right there is a kirtle. That’s the outer garment. If you’re not royalty, that is. Royalty will wear a gown over that, and—”

“I am aware of the garments of nobility. Tell me about you.”

You flinched at the interruption. There was no cruelty in his tone, and yet… he spoke with the kind of easeful command that left no room for disobedience. How could someone manage to speak like that in such a casual manner? 

“Me…?” You pointed to yourself, pursing your lips in thought. “…This is an old kirtle. I wear it when I’m running errands and don’t really care about what happens to it. Next to it is my girdle— that’s what I hold my flask and knife on, see?” You picked up the items, the ones you’d been sustaining yourself with for the past weeks. “I’ve never really understood the point in attaching a girdle book and well— pomanders would be nice but that’s much too expensive for me. And… this is my shift. And petticoat.” You ran your hands over the cloth on your body for emphasis. “There’s meant to be a bum pad too to support all the weight but I forgot it… Uhm, anyways, I… change and wash these often and that’s what helps keep the kirtle clean. That one is just a pain in the ass to wash…” 

You grumbled, reflecting back on all those dreadful wash days. It was times like those you truly did appreciate your mother, who used to take it upon herself to launder not only her family’s clothes but the neighbours’ as well. If she were still around, she would no doubt chide you for your disdain of washing.

“Oh! And these are my stockings. They’re tight on my skin so I never have to tie them in place like other people do.” 

You gathered the weight of your petticoat into your hands, lifting the firm fabric with care. Beneath it, your leg was sheathed in soft white— stockings pristine as porcelain. You’d long since outgrown them, but you took a satisfied sort of pride in how spotless you’d maintained them over the years. 

“I even say that they’re my lucky pair. That’s why I haven’t replaced them, you see…” A fond smile ghosted your lips. It was nice to talk about the niche things— things you’d kept to yourself with a quiet passion.

Then, as though doused with cold water, the warmth in your expression faltered.

Right. You were explaining stockings… to a dragon. You blinked hard, fighting the flush threatening to creep up your neck.

“So… yeah! That’s… what I wear.” You rushed, the words tumbling out in a panic. “And most people in my town wear it like that too. Uh, some people don’t bother to tack on extra sleeves because, well…” You gave a little gesture to the sleeves of your shift, flapping them for emphasis. “But I think extra sleeves are pretty, and they’re nice to perform in. The ones from the shifts are just so plain, you know? Actually, those ones over there were a gift from—”

Deuce. 

A gift from Deuce.

It had been raining that day, you remembered. Not hard— just the soft, steady kind that darkened cobblestones and made everything smell of petrichor thereafter. You’d been practicing an original composition beneath the awning of the smithy when he’d come bounding over, soaked to the bone, with a grin far too wide for someone dripping water onto your clothes.

The smithy was owned by a kindly widower with two children— a son and a daughter who reminded you far too much of yourself and Ace in your younger years. Perhaps that was why you so often chose to practice there, where you knew their curious ears would catch your music— especially the little boy, who thought you hadn’t been aware of his presence each time he hid behind the workbench. In time, it became your favoured haunt whenever you were not engaged in some performance— rivaled only by the old woman’s bookshop. More often than not, you could be found in one of those two places— so much so that your boys had long since learned to seek you there rather than at your own lonelier, emptier home.

Deuce hadn’t even waited for you to ask when he’d arrived in town or what he was doing there. He hadn’t said a word either— merely held out a strange parcel to you.

“I bartered for them in town!” He’d exclaimed, breathless and proud. “The man said he’d done work for nobles, even— and… well, you deserve nice things too.”

…You deserve nice things, too.

Your hand tightened around the folds of your petticoat, fingers curling into it until your own nails began to dig into your palm. For a moment, the forest around you seemed quieter, as though it, too, had been caught in the warmth of that memory. Every luxury you owned, from your beautiful sleeves to your beautiful knife— all of it was thanks to your boys. But then you shook your head— just enough to scatter the mist from your thoughts, just enough to return to the reality of where you were and who was watching you.

“They were a gift.” You said, voice quite soft now. “From a very good friend.” A pause. Then, with a sharper breath, you straightened your shoulders and cleared your throat. “Now… I have to bathe, so…” You met the dragon’s eyes, steady as you could manage. “Will you look away?”

The dragon did not speak for a long, long time.

“No. I do not think I will. I have not looked upon anyone in a very, very long time, you see… Allow me to indulge myself.” He said at last, and lowered his head so as to allow him a better view of you. 

Indulge…? Your shoulders tensed as you measured him in quiet disbelief. He truly meant to… watch you as you bathed? You swallowed thickly. …Well, you supposed there wasn’t any point in arguing. Not with something that could rend the forest apart with one lazy swipe of its claws. And certainly not with someone who thought your discomfort counted as indulgence. So you turned without a word, sliding your shoes off in the process, and you let the river greet you with its hush. Its waters trickled gently over stones worn smooth by centuries. Moss clung to the banks, soft and vibrant, and the air hung heavy with the scent of pine and something older still. 

Your hands trembled as you peeled your lucky little stockings from your legs. One, then the other— timid and slow, folded neatly away. You moved on to your shift without pause, lifting it over your head in a single breathless motion, folding it with a similar, rushed sort of precision.

The breezy air pressed in at once, cool against the places of your body it ought not touch. Places another person— let alone a dragon— ought not see. And only then, as you stood fully exposed, did you cover yourself— one arm curling instinctively across your chest, the other dipping low in a gesture both modest and childlike.

The dragon chortled. His head tilted, ever so slightly, as his eyes grazed slowly over you in a manner too measured to be anything but deliberate.

“You… You’re seriously laughing at me right now—?”

“Oh, why do you look at me so?” He asked, voice lilting with false innocence. “Your cheeks are flushed, and you seem even smaller than before. Surely you are not… embarrassed? Tell me— why is that, little one?” 

…What an unfair dragon. That stare of his couldn’t possibly warrant anything but embarrassment. Had it come from a person— you’re sure it would have sent ghost-hands trailing down the slopes of your hips, cupping your breasts without so much as a whisper of permission.

“Humans—” You winced at the crack in your voice. “We don’t… show ourselves bare to just anybody! You wouldn’t know because you’re… well, you’re…” You squeezed your legs together to conceal the meeting of your thighs, using your now free hand to gesture vaguely at the dragon’s entirety. “You’re a dragon! You’re covered in scales…! I don’t have scales.”

“You don’t have scales, no.” The dragon agreed, and you couldn’t tell if he was missing your point out of genuine ignorance or pure spite. “Quite the observant Child of Man, you are.” 

…So it was pure spite.

“Oh, haha.” You laughed dryly, completely unimpressed. “Yes, very funny. Quite the funny dragon, you are. Now SHUT UP.” You huffed, inching toward the river with the stiff caution of someone very much aware they were being watched.

It was harder than it should’ve been— because you refused to turn your bare back to the creature. Instead, you moved in clumsy reverse, each step accompanied by the rustle of grass and your own mounting dread. Then, your foot caught on a root— or a stone, or a curse sent by your worst enemies— and you very nearly wobbled straight into the water. A sharp yelp escaped you as your arms pinwheeled for balance. The cool splash that followed as you stumbled knee-deep was insult enough. 

But worse— so much worse— was the dragon’s laughter.

“Ugh…” You grimaced, kneeling on the riverbed with your hands curled into fists on your lap. You glared up at the dragon, a newfound sense of bravery now that you were covered by the water. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up!” 

The dragon only responded by inching his massive head closer— close enough that the weight of his breath stirred the water and sent your hair dancing behind you. You squinted against the gust and stiffened as the tip of his snout brushed against your shoulder— then he pressed.

“Hey—!”

With a gentle nudge, he tipped you clean off balance. You fell back with a splash, the cold closing over your chest before you managed to scramble upright again— sputtering, soaked, and thoroughly humiliated.

He chuffed at that. A pleased sound, low and rumbling, not unlike a purr.

“Go on.” He urged, eyes gleaming with that slow-burning curiosity of his. “Bathe. As you normally would.”

You froze.

He tilted his head— again. That strange little habit, as though mimicking the mannerisms of something more human than beast.

“I want to see.”

The river curled at your waist as you reached down, cupping water in your hands and dragging it up the length of your arms. There was no cloth, no soap, no oils to perfume the air— only the biting chill of the stream and the weight of his expectant gaze. It was either this dragon was a massive (and you mean that quite literally) pervert or…

“Oh. You want me to tell you, huh?” You murmured, voice barely louder than the sound of the current. “You want to hear how I do it, am I right?”

The dragon was silent for only a moment. 

“Tell me.”

“...Okay.”

You reached again, dragging water up over your chest this time. Your hands swept over your collarbones, then slowly circled— palms flat, pressure firm— just above the area of your breasts.

“I start here.” You said, as clinically as you could manage. “Over the chest and under the arms. It’s where I sweat the most.”

Your hands slipped lower, dipping beneath the surface, dragging slowly along the undercurve of your chest. The motion was smooth, habitual— but under his stare, it felt foreign. Lecherous. Was it wrong to feel violated? He’s just a dragon, after all. Though his gaze may have felt like that of a man… he still wasn’t.

But as you worked your way down your sides, your waist, your hips— you couldn’t convince yourself of that. You shifted, twisting lightly as your palms swept over the place where thigh met pelvis.

“…I wash here after.” You whispered. “And then here. Between the legs. It’s… delicate, so I go gently.”

Your fingers slowed at your inner thighs, a feigned act of precision masking your trembling. Then your hands slid back up, along the swell of your hips and the gentle dip of your lower belly.

“Then the arms. The legs. Behind the knees. The back of the neck.”

He’s just a dragon. You hated that your voice had gone breathless. He’s just a dragon.

“Every part.” You finished finally. “Until the skin is clean. Uhm…” You quickly submerged yourself beneath the surface of the water, relieved that you were done with it. “It’s normally easier at home because I have a brush to scrub myself with. And… soap. I mean, you can clean yourself with water and your hands just fine but… it’s just nicer with soap and…” 

You trailed off. You couldn’t hide your bashfulness behind rambling any longer. …Why was he staring at you so intently? Your skin prickled at the sight. He’s just a dragon. He’s just a dragon… You had to keep reminding yourself, over and over. He’s just a dragon… but why did his wandering eyes, wandering over every bare inch of you feel so human? 

He hadn’t moved since you’d begun, nor spoken. It was as if he were memorising the sight of you… and not with the hunger you’d expect from a predator of his kind— but with a strange, unnerving persistence that made you wish you could vanish beneath the riverbed entirely. Is this what blushing brides felt on their wedding nights—? You wondered. It was only when you were completely finished did his voice break the uncomfortable silence;

“Play for me, Child of Man, the song I like best. Let me hear it, just as you are. I want to remember you like this, for I find I much prefer you in this state.”

…Any discomfort you may have felt— clearly, it mattered not to him. So you did the only thing left to you; reached for your lyre, where it rested beside the folded remnants of your dignity, and kneeled once more in the water, body still bared to this creature of stories. And you knelt there in the river, and you played— fingers steady despite the heat of his looking. 

And you pretended for your own sake that the music— Greensleeves— was for your ears alone. That in this act of playing, you may reclaim something that no eyes, not even his, can take from you.

𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐀𝐘, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍 allowed you to explore the forests— as long as he was there to accompany you. He had taken to overseeing— like a parent supervising their giddy child running around the streets— never interacting or partaking in the fun, but never letting you out of his sight. But even if he were not there, you couldn’t say you would have been alone. As you soon realised… the woods were far from empty. 

One day you strayed from the path with a laugh, chasing after the scatter of wildflowers that grew in the shade of the towering pines. Sunlight spilled through the branches in broken shafts, catching on your hair as you darted from mossy rock to fern-covered hollow. It felt almost like play, (and it would have been exactly like when you were a child, had it not been for the absence of your boys) though you could sense the dragon’s gaze following your every step, heavy and unblinking. Still, you spun through the clearing as if the whole forest might belong to you, and for a fleeting moment you’d nearly forgotten the dragon’s presence. 

It was just then, you noticed, that there were tiny lights which blinked in the canopy. Darting quick and erratic, they couldn’t have possibly been beams of the sun. In a sense, they almost looked like fireflies… and upon further inspection you realised they were not fireflies or any insects to name— but rather little beings no larger than your hand. They came in twos and threes, flickering just past your vision— glimpses of wings, comforting laughter that sounded just as the windchimes of your town did. They circled you the way minnows dart about a dropped crumb, not quite daring to touch, not quite able to resist. 

It continued this way for a few days, until they realised that the dragon took you here quite frequently— and that you were a new addition to their world. So eventually, they learned to interact with you as a dynamic being, rather than something to be observed.

And today, it seemed, the silent little things had unanimously decided to confront you directly. 

One creature stood on your shoulder and pulled at a strand of your hair until you swatted it away by reflex. You felt terribly bad at first, but if anything, it only served as entertainment to them. Another hovered near your ear, whispering syllables like secrets in a language you thought you understood at first— only to listen closer and hear nothing but nonsense. When you tried to swat at that one, three more tugged at your boots until you stumbled. Their laughter rose, the sound of the wonderful windchimes, high and bright.

You were absolutely charmed. They plucked flowers and wove them into chains to drape around your wrists, your throat, your crown; they tugged your fingers toward them and danced along your palms as though the creases in your skin were paths to follow. You laughed and played along— because how could you not? Nothing in your books or stories could compare to the delight of having them here, weaving daisies into your hair and tugging at your nose.

A bold one fluttered before your face, balancing a ring of blooms precariously on your head. You clapped your hands at their craft, only to feel a sudden warmth stir the crown. The dragon had lowered his head to peer at you more closely, and with a faint, amused huff of breath, the crown tumbled from your hair into your lap.

Your laughter spilled out— but for once, the faeries did not share it. In the instant the dragon’s shadow fell over you, their tinkling mirth snapped silent. They darted for the safety of leaf and branch, vanishing so quickly the clearing seemed empty again. Only when he drew back did one or two daring stragglers peek out from the undergrowth, their glow faint and watchful.

“You’re scaring them!” You chided playfully, putting the crown back atop your head. “These are my only friends now, you know. Please don’t run them off like you did my other ones.” 

“Ha.” The dragon laughed dryly. “They merely observe the proper respect that I require. You alone are the exception, little one.”

You tilted the crown slightly, glancing toward the shrubbery where more faeries trickled out. Watching, but not quite approaching— like how they first treated you. 

“Huh. So I guess they’re respectful, huh? Can’t say the same about me. You’ve really got to stop sabotaging my friendships, though.” You murmured, still smiling, though your thoughts had begun to drift elsewhere. For a moment, you imagined Ace and Deuce running through these woods instead of you. How would they have reacted, seeing these creatures? How you wish they could be here to experience it with you.

“Hm? What is the matter? Your mind is suddenly elsewhere.” The dragon said quietly, almost as if to tease. “Do not tell me you are thinking of those two?”

“Who? Ace and Deuce?” You questioned, not quite present in the conversation. But as soon as you uttered their names… 

Everything in the forest stilled. 

The tinkling of the faeries vanished; their movements froze, suspended in midair. Every sound seemed to drain from the clearing. The dragon’s stare snapped to you, sudden and unwavering, his attention fixed with an intensity that made the air feel heavy.

“Those are their names, then?” He leaned in, so much so that his snout brushed against you.

…You hadn’t really thought about it. Hadn’t really dwelled on the old, cautionary tales— the warnings murmured about the nature of fae. You’d assumed the ones you were warned about would be different than the ones you interacted with here, considering that these ones didn’t seem malicious. And therefore… you hadn’t really thought about one of the biggest cautions;

Never give a fae your name. 

A cold shiver ran down your spine. Words caught in your throat, and for a heartbeat, you froze, unsure how to respond. Surely, if that superstition were true… it could not have applied to your boys, as well?

Then, forcing your voice steady, you shifted the topic. 

“Ah, those boys… always argued about the silliest things.” You began, describing the way Ace and Deuce bickered over trivial matters, laughing quietly at the memories. 

You told of their little quirks, the clever tricks they played on one another… things you knew the faeries would find appealing. But you never, ever repeated their names. You just spoke about them, letting the warmth of the recollection fill your words, attempting to draw attention away from what you’d just revealed. At some point, you weren’t even sure of what you were saying— only that, at the very least, you weren’t confirming or denying the dragon’s question.

By the time you had stopped— and this was only because you’d become overwhelmed by the dragon’s undivided attention to every last word— the forest seemed a little more normal now.

The dragon was silent, looking down at you rather blankly.

“…You speak of these… cowardly fools rather fondly.”

Your chest tightened at the words, but you didn’t respond immediately. You shifted the crown slightly, your fingers lingering over the delicate petals as if they could anchor your thoughts. …Cowardly fools? Fools, for sure. But… cowardly?

“My friends…” You corrected carefully, almost to yourself at first. “They’re… wonderful. Clever, brave, and kind in ways you couldn’t understand unless you were there with them.” 

You glanced at him, and though you tried to keep your voice light, a subtle edge crept in— a rising passion within you. 

“When I was a child I had nobody else but them— they were the only people who didn’t ridicule me for being such a recluse. You like me, don’t you? They were the ones who taught me how to be like this in the first place… How could you be so quick to insult them like that?”

The dragon’s lips curled upwards in a snide manner. You didn’t know he could smile— let alone look so deliberately… cruel. 

“Friends? Is that truly what you insist on calling those who dragged you here? Who left you trembling at my mercy while they fled with their tails between their legs? So you have fond memories of them. What good does that do now, now that they have abandoned—”

“Oh, come on, you’re talking nonsense— that’s not fair!” You interrupted sharper than you initially intended— but you did not regret it.“They didn’t abandon me on purpose… it was you that was the problem—! They wouldn’t have left me otherwise…”

But the rest withered on your tongue. You knew the truth of your friends. You knew them better than anyone. Yet when you tried to pull the memories forward, tried to shape them into something solid to hold against the dragon’s claims, they slipped like water through your grasp. The more you reached, the less you caught.

Your thoughts tripped over each other, a dozen reasons surging to the surface only to tangle in your throat. It was a horrible, nasty feeling— one that brought tears to your eyes. You were certain, weren’t you? You were certain they would never leave you on purpose. So then why couldn’t you say it? Why couldn’t you answer him civilly, simply, the very way he spoke to you right now?

The heat rising in your chest wasn’t anger alone— it was panic, it was humiliation. He was speaking to you as though this were nothing more than a fair discussion, and you were the one floundering, flustered and foolish. But how could you argue against him, when your own thoughts betrayed you?

“Do not cut me off.” What scorned you most was that he did not even seem offended by your attitude. “It is the truth and you know it, don’t you? I did not think you to be blindly unreasonable. Tell me, am I wrong?”

His composure stung worse than any raised voice. Among all of the questions he presented to you, there was only one on your mind; How could you lash out at him so, when he is only trying to talk to you—?

“You stand here because they abandoned you. If they still valued you as you claim they did, they would not have let you fall into my claws. Yes, I intimidated them. Yes, I intended to kill you all. But circumstances do not matter when, in the end, your loved ones chose their own lives above yours. Selfishness is the nature of men— but nature can be changed, if one loves another enough to do so. But did they change that innate, selfish part of themselves for you? Did they strain every fiber of their being to shield you from me? I think not. I think they fled at the first hint of danger, and now you are here with me. Is that not exactly what happened, in truth?”

Too many questions. Too many questions. 

An unrelenting torrent of information coursed directly into your mind, each fragment pushing insistently for attention. You had grown accustomed to his voice— had come to accept its intrusion without the need for spoken words. Yet, just as it did in your first meeting, it began to reverberate within you, echoing with an almost unbearable insistence, and in an instant, all of your composure shattered.

A tear slid down your cheek before you even knew it. 

You jerked at a soft brush against your skin— tiny hands, delicate wings. A faerie hovered near, carefully wiping the tear away. The gesture, meant as comfort, only burned deeper. They were watching. All of them. Your humiliation laid bare before a court of silent eyes.

You stiffened, curling your fingers so the little creature had no choice but to rest on your palm. You forced yourself to meet the dragon’s eyes again, calmer this time, though the tear track on your face betrayed you. 

“…We will agree to disagree.” You said, and your voice almost held.

He regarded you for a long, unreadable moment before inclining his head. 

“As you wish.”

Your attention was already turned back to the faerie in your palm, who had now taken to toying with your fingers. It tugged gently at your fingertip, tiny hands pulling your attention down to where it played. You let it, stroking its gossamer wings with a trembling thumb… though your thoughts were far from present. 

Every word you’d thrown in anger replayed in your head, harsher with each remembrance, until you almost wished you could snatch them back. It was… incredibly embarrassing knowing that this faerie, along with all its companions, had to witness you in such a state. So letting the little one inspect your finger, tolerating the surprising and odd strength of its vigour, was your way of apologising to it— for making it get caught in your outburst.

“You will not speak of them again.”

Your head jerked up, startled. “What?”

“I do not want to hear their mention on your tongue. Not once more.”

The words landed like an unavoidable command— the ones that are final and absolute. You stared, mouth parting, some protest fumbling to rise— Why? Why can’t you? He can’t tell you to do that— But nothing left your lips.

“But… why?” Your voice cracked.“Why can’t I—”

“Because you must not.” His interruption was firm, and he offered no explanation beyond that— only expectation.

And suddenly, you felt it again— that cornered, breathless shame, as though your refusal alone made you childish, and as he’d said; unreasonable. You shook your head, cradling the faerie closer as if it may bring you comfort.

“…I hope you’re not trying to make me forget them. You can’t expect me to.”

“That is not what I ask of you. I merely ask for your obedience in what I command. Hm… How should I explain this?” 

The dragon mused to himself. It only served to make you feel even more of a dimwit— something you knew he must have intended.

“Look around you, Child of Man—” His words eventually fell with an even tone. “The trees that crown this valley, the skies stretched above them, the very grass beneath your feet. The faerie that perches in your palm, and the ones who hide among the leaves. Do you not see how they bend to my will?”

He looked to the river— and though he did not tell you to go… that is what you did. So you stood there, where the current caught the light in a resplendent show of glittered little dottings.

“Look there. Look at your reflection. I wonder, do you see it? That, too, is mine. The face you wear is not your own. The hand that holds the faerie is not your own. You breathe because I allow it. You live because I keep you. Every part of you has been claimed. Now do you see why you must listen to me?”

(And just like that, any affection you’d gained for him throughout the weeks seemed to vanish in all but an instant.)

As if you had fallen into an enchantment to forget the chains beneath the flowers, it was clear that you’d forgotten your place— grown much too comfortable, much too bold. But the dragon did not need to reprimand you for that. You did that just fine on your own. For you understood, then, the purpose of his words; not to reason with you, but to leave you cornered with nothing to stand on. To remind you that you were in no position to deny him, that disobedience itself was made absurd when the very earth bent to his command. 

His stare honed to a point, striking through you as clean and cold as steel. It was clear, now. Unlike the faeries, who accepted you as a guest in their realm— the dragon did not see you as so. It was all so, very clear. So clear, in fact, that you found yourself finishing his words in your mind before he put them there.

“You are mine to keep. Body, voice, and mind. And I shall eliminate anything to preserve what belongs to me. So, I will say it again; I do not want to hear of these boys— not even once."

𝐈𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 wonder about your captor, you’d have to wonder if he knew exactly what he was doing. Too quickly, too cruelly, he had reminded you of your reality— while robbing you of the one thing that could have kept you sane; the freedom to speak. Now, what had once consoled your captivity was the belief that you could tell the dragon anything. A foolish hope, perhaps, but it softened the edges— that if all else was lost, at least you had someone to confide in. Someone to keep your memories alive, to let your thoughts spill into air instead of festering and wasting away inside you. But what you had failed to truly digest then… was that this ‘someone’ was the very being who had caged you here in the first place.

You never felt the need to go outside after that— and so, you never did. You never felt the need to talk to your captor, either— and so, you never did. (Unless he demanded it— which was something you used to find almost endearing… However, now it only makes you feel sick.) There was a fleeting thought that he would become irritated at your silence— but surprisingly (and if you cared to wonder, you’d wonder if you should be offended) he didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did notice, he didn’t mind it.

Yet even above the grief of settling into this quick, cruel reality… something else ran deeper still; offense on behalf of your friends— Ace and Deuce. To be trapped with a creature who, magnificent in his malignity, mocked to death the two boys you loved most in the world made a black, sticky hatred curdle inside your heart. So you sank into the carpet most days, refusing even to glance at him— because to look at him meant remembering, and remembering meant rage.

But for all your hatred, you were obedient. And so your captor, with a twisted tenderness, gave you one small allowance; to walk the corridors alone. It was meant as mercy, you supposed— though the stone passages did not feel merciful. And you could not enjoy the secrets within the walls either… for what purpose would it have served, if it was not in the company of the boys who were the ones truly interested in the first place? Still, you wandered those corridors, if only to keep your flesh from melting into the carpet.

It was during one of these meanderings that you saw them.

At first, you thought the castle was playing tricks on you, as everything else in this strange, new world did. Too many days in silence, too many nights curled in on yourself, and now your mind conjured what your heart ached for most. Two figures stood at the far end of the hall, blurred and trembling in the torchlight, as though stitched from memory itself. You rubbed at your eyes and blinked hard, then you looked again— expecting the mirage to vanish. It couldn't have been them. You had thought you heard their laughter before too, had felt their hands brush yours in dreams. You had woken to the echo of voices that weren’t there. This was no different. It had to be no different.

…But this time— not like the other times— they didn’t vanish.

Instead, they moved. And not like tricks of the eye, either. One careless and quick, the other desperate and wild. Ace’s sprint, Deuce’s charge— exactly as you remembered. And when they shouted your name, the sound split the silence so violently that your heart nearly stopped. No dream could shout like that. No vision could breathe your name so raggedly— breathe life into you.

“What are you doing here—?” 

But before you could finish your own sentence, you were already rushing to meet them. For a moment you were terrified your arms would pass through empty air— until they didn’t. You were able to take both boys into your arms. And you kissed them— right at the corner of their mouths as you always used to do. Right as you’d always dreamt of doing. And soon that kiss turned into multiple, and you weren’t sure where you were peppering them anymore— only that it was all over both of their faces as you squished their cheeks together.

“We came back for you, of course. Fuck… I didn’t think you’d be alive…” Ace breathed in between your flurry of affections, wrapping a single arm around your waist. The intimate gesture confirmed to you that this couldn't have been anything but real— and that was enough for you. 

So for the first time in months, your soul crawled out of its hiding place. 

“You could say it less like an ass…!” Deuce choked, glaring at his companion as he, too, cradled his arm across your back. “We’re so sorry, (Y/N), we thought bringing you here wouldn’t have been a big deal— we just wanted to let you go out and experience something with us for once… If we’d known that thing was here we’d never even have thought of letting you come— let alone have left you by yourself. I could’ve sworn I was holding your hand as we ran but…” His words came forward all at once and you could tell they must have been waiting to be let free for a long, long while. His shoulders slumped, and he looked nothing short of dejected. Then his hands moved to cup both sides of your face, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’m sorry. That was my fault.”

But you didn’t care for any of their apologies. All you were glad for was that they were here— that they were really here… and more importantly, that they were here for you. Every mean-spirited word from your captor, every implication of doubt he tried to force onto you— it all abated. Now, you were reminded just how much you loved these two— and how much they loved you in return. 

He was wrong— your captor; he was wrong. They love you. You love them. Nothing could change that.

You shook your head in dismissal, an overjoyed smile plastered on your face. Soon you were nuzzling your face into their necks, pushing yourself into them with such force they nearly lost their footing. Deuce was stroking the back of your head— you knew his hand by heart, so even though you couldn’t see, you knew it was him. And you knew it was Ace’s hand trailing from your waist to the small of your back— then down to your hips in a comforting gesture.

But the reality you had been forced to swallow… came rushing back as quickly as it fell away.

“I love you. And there’s so many things I wish I could tell you but you need to go… now! Before he finds you—!” You ushered, face contorted with worry. You pressed your hands against their chests, urging them back.

Ace didn’t seem deterred by your warnings. In fact, it only seemed to strengthen his resolve. He caught your arm and held it firmly. “Yeah, I don’t doubt you on that.” He said quickly. “All the more reason we have to move. Let’s go, before it DOES find us!”

“We won’t leave until we’re sure you’re with us.” Deuce assured, taking your other arm into his. “You have to trust us, okay? Just listen to what we say and we’ll explain everything after.”

Your feet dragged a little, the way a child drags when they don’t want to go— but your boys were strong and it did not slow them. They carried you along those long corridors you had never walked alone, past doors you had not dared to open, under arches where the lamps burned low. And then you looked at them proper and saw how their faces had gone solemn. You had never seen them like that before.

Outside waited for you like a basin of cold water. The air hit your chest and the night was wide. And with the night came the sound. Steel on steel like many bells. Men shouting and calling to one another. And above all of it a great roaring, the kind that shakes a rib. You knew that sound without seeing it. Your captor, the dragon.

Your head went light, full of the noise. “What’s going on?” You asked. “What’s going on? What’s going on—?” You asked again, because the answers did not come.

Now your boys looked troubled. They did not answer, only tightened their hold and pulled you from the noise. The clash of men and the roar of your captor slipped further, further, muffled as if under water. Your heart beat wild against their silence. Still they would not explain. Still they drew you on— and the forest opened to swallow you whole.

The trees grew thick and dark about you, branches low, shrubs scratching at your shift, and you had to keep close to them or else be lost. This wasn’t like the clearings your captor had carried you to, no meadows, no open sky. Only dark, and the hush of leaves, and the three of you moving quick through a new side of the world you were forced to accept— the one you were finally being taken away from.

Ace’s mouth was tense, set like stone. Deuce kept looking back, eyes shining too much, like he might cry if you asked him. And you did ask. Whispered, quick, before your courage left you— “Tell me what’s going on.”

Neither answered at first. They pulled you on, gaining quite a bit of distance until the noise was all gone. At last Deuce spoke, voice low, heavy;

“We sent those men to die.”

It caught you off guard entirely. You didn’t understand it much at all— but you did see the sorrow in him. You did see the guilt under Ace’s scowl. And in that moment you knew; Whatever fight had been raised behind you— for you… it wasn’t one to win— wasn’t one that could ever be won.

An execution.

Your eyes blurred. The steps went on, but you couldn’t stop the tears, sliding hot down your face. “I’m sorry.” You sobbed. “Fuck… I’m so sorry—”

Ace’s grip softened then, his fingers threading through yours, squeezing warm and steady. “Don’t. None of this is on you. If you were a burden, we wouldn’t have even come. All of this is worth it. Don’t cry now.”

Deuce leaned in close on your other side, pressing a kiss to your temple without the slightest bit of hesitation. “You hear him? Nothing’s your fault. Just keep walking. We’re never letting you leave us again.”

And so you cried between them, their hands sure, their words a shield, their closeness like shelter in the dark. And to be in their presence again was of the utmost reassurance. So for a little while, you let yourself believe what they were telling you; None of this was your fault. You’ll be with your boys forevermore, and that is all that could ever be.

Your boys, forevermore.

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 to an end. That was what the old woman of the bookshop told you once, her voice quiet as she stacked the shelves, her back bent, her eyes lost far past what she was looking at. You had respected her words, for she carried a wisdom you never doubted, but you did not know what to make of them. At the time you thought— perhaps one day their meaning would come clear, and perhaps then you would understand. And so you put them away with the rest of the things that elder folk often said, the riddles and warnings, laid deep in the mind and left to rest. And that is where they stayed.

But you knew now. The time had come, it seemed, to understand what she meant. You understood because the sky parted with a roar, and the forest shuddered and bowed to him— as all the other things in this world did. Wings beat overhead, blacking the stars, and the air rushed cold against your face, past the shrubbery which was meant to be your cover— and down onto you. Your captor had come. Your captor had come for you. So now, you understood. 

As abruptly as it started, the good times… had now come to an end. 

The time of execution had come. Now, it was only a matter of who would be the executed. But you weren’t afforded the luxury of grief. Ace caught your wrist, Deuce pressed a hand to your back; both urging you down into the cover of particularly dense bushes. 

“Stay low.” Ace hissed. “Keep to the trees. He can’t fit in here.”

“Run.” Deuce urged, eyes too bright in the dark. “Don’t look back. No matter what you hear.”

And in that moment you understood what they meant to do for you. The memory of that first day returned— their flight, their fear— but tonight they did not run. So you kissed them, and they kissed back. Quick, desperate, a blessing and a promise all at once. Your lips to Ace’s, your lips to Deuce’s. It was something you wished you could take your time with, but no such thing was given. Tonight, you were the one running. 

You ran with the thicket tearing holes into your shift and wounds into your skin. Sharp branches and brambles opened streaks of blood across your arms and legs. Each inhale burned in your lungs; each heartbeat pounded like a drum in your temples. Behind you came the sound of battle— the crash of trees, the shatter of branches, the cry of your captor, the cries of your boys. Your strength wavered, hot pain and fatigue coiling through your limbs, yet still you ran, and you never looked back.

…But under all the weight— your fragile soul, which had only now gained freedom, finally split apart. 

So, though you had fought it, darkness had taken you for a while. Blood and screaming and execution put you under, and it laid heavy on you till it let you go. You did not know how long you were out, but you knew it couldn’t have been for much time— for the forest looked no different than when you left it momentarily. But when you regained all senses, it wasn’t to your boys calling you, nor to safety waiting— 

It was to arms pulling you up into a chest. 

A body was there to hold you up. But when you turned— no face was given to you. Your eyes went searching, but nothing would settle there. The shape of a man was made, yet the head was not made for seeing. Something blurred, something refused. Mind reaching, mind slipping. Your breath quickened, your chest rose hard. …Who was this? Why couldn’t you see his face? It was as if everything in the world came together to stop you from seeing the man in front of your eyes.

“Had I known what a sight you make from this close, I would have taken this form sooner and never let my eyes off you.”

The voice that reached you now was nothing like before. No iron in the brain, no thought forced beneath your skin. This one came pressed from lungs, shaped by a throat. A sound in the air, a sound the world could hear. That was what made it worse. For all its human weight, for all its mortal sound, you knew it was the same. The words came walking to you dressed in flesh. Your ears took them in, but your mind rejected them, staggering back from what it knew and what it could not bear to know. It was a voice with breath now— real breath, living breath— when it should never have been so.

Your captor, the dragon, the executioner; had taken the form of a man. 

And this man touched you in ways you never thought you would be touched. His hands gathered your shift as if he meant to wring it dry, bunching it slow, slow, hiking it higher up your thighs till the night air kissed what should have stayed covered. His palm slid over the dip of your waist, the soft hollow under your ribs, the valley of your chest, pressing as if to mold the shape into his own keeping. There was no shame in him— only the same hunger you had felt in his eyes when he watched you before, when his stare alone had set ghost-hands on your hips. Now those hands were real, and they traveled bold as any thief, claiming, groping, learning you as though proving you were his to unmake.

You looked down and saw the truth of his hands at last; claws dragging blood across you, smearing red into the white of your clothes. Not your blood. Not his.

Your boys. Your boys, your boys, your boys—

That thought alone was enough to bring the world rushing back. You shoved at him, desperate, and slipped free of his arms— and of his lips against your nape. You fell hard onto your stomach, then hastily flipped yourself over, scrambling backwards on hands and heels, dragging your body away from the monster who looked like a man without a face.

Roots clutched at your clothes, stones pressed themselves into your palms, until your hand slid across something sharper still. You hissed, pulling back instinctively— only to see blood beading on your fingertips. And there, half-buried in the dirt, was the knife. Your knife. Torn loose from your girdle at some point in time, now waiting as though it had been set there for you to find.

The opportunity was not lost to you. So with a shuddering breath, your fingers closed around the knife. And before you could think, you moved— heaving yourself up from the ground in a wild lunge. You drove it into him with all the strength you had, the blade sinking through his flesh with a sickening resistance before it slid deeper. And you twisted— savagely— dragging the steel down. 

You felt it tear a jagged path through muscle, felt the tremor of his ribs beneath the force of your strike, hot gushes of blood spurting over your hand, your wrist, your sleeve. For one frantic heartbeat, hope flared— surely, this was not a wound any living human should bear… But he only looked down at the ruin of his own chest with something almost like mirth, lips curving into a weary smile; a smile without a face.

Leisurely, he wrapped his hand around the knife’s hilt and pulled it free, the steel singing as it grated against torn bone, opening the wound wider so that blood spilled in torrents. He held the blade up between you, crimson dripping steadily. (It was a horrifying sight; the flesh of his chest flayed open, and yet he smiled at you.)

“Little one,” he murmured, “did you think iron could part me from you? An army? Come, now. I expected better from you.”

His hand caught your chin, forcing your lips apart. Then the knife— your knife, your wonderful knife given to you by your beloved Ace— was pressed into your mouth. 

Its edge carved messily against your tongue as he shoved it deeper, slicing its way past soft flesh, filling your throat with fire and iron. The taste was unbearable, metallic, salt-thick, a mingling of his blood and yours. You gagged, choking on the bubbling liquid as the blade cut its way down your gullet, warm rivulets running back up and over your lips, staining you in a mixture that was both him and you.

“Good.” He breathed, eyes without a face fixed on the convulsions of your body. “Even your rebellion leaves you stretched open, swallowing me whole. You’ll never be empty of me again.” 

Inch by inch, he dragged the blade back out, its edge rasping cruelly against torn muscle, leaving your mouth spilling blood instead of sound— your scream mangled, trapped forever in the ruins of your throat. You clutched at your neck with shaking hands, nails raking desperate fissures into your own skin as if you could claw the agony free, but it only spread like fire through every nerve, leaving your limbs trembling, your body buckling beneath the weight of it.

Your vision swam red, not just from the blood in your eyes but from the sheer, consuming hatred that clawed at your chest. You did not know if he was still smiling, for whatever sense you had was lost in the haze of your fury. Fury to him. Fury for your boys. Fury for everything he had taken from you and everything he was still tearing apart. You wanted to fight, to sink your nails into his skin, to scream until your throat shredded further— but the pain pinned you down, a white-hot spike through every vein. 

(It hurts—it hurts—it HURTS—) 

Instinct drove you to move, to escape. You clawed at the ground, dragged yourself forward, every twitch of muscle sparking agony through your ruined body. (You had to get away. You had to—) But before you could even crawl more than an inch, his hand clamped around your ankle. The strength in it was effortless, dragging you back into the shadow you hated more than death itself.

Crouching low, his shadow blocked out what little light you had left. Your legs kicked weakly, uselessly, until his hand caught at your thigh and tore downward. The delicate stockings you had cherished— once white, once untouched, once yours— ripped apart in his fist. The once pristine white, now soaked through with blood, clung wetly before peeling away— the ruin of it a mockery of everything that had been clean, everything that had been yours alone. A desecration of all things innocent.

“Where are you going?” He asked softly, as if you were a child caught in some silly mischief. The faceless smile reappeared to you as he leaned closer, voice curling into your ear. “I intend to fill you with much more than just blood, you see… So don’t go anywhere.”

“No—!” 

The word should not have existed. The very utterance of it should have been impossible— for just a moment ago, you know he pushed the knife into your mouth. Had your tongue shredded against steel— and you know the taste of nothing but iron and fire. You should not have been able to speak, and yet here you were— screaming, protesting… as though you had never been torn apart at all.

Your mind reeled, grasping for what was real— What was real—? You swore the memory was clear; of him split open from collarbone to navel, of the blood pouring in the torrents, of the sight of his chest flayed raw— …Was that real? What was real—? Here he crouched, looming over you— whole, unbroken, skin unmarked save for the grin that stretched widely across his lips. Nothing made sense. Nothing held. Pain drifted, sharp and sure, yet the evidence of it dissolved in front of your eyes.

Now he was crawling over you. The ground took your spine, and his limbs closed in, claws biting earth on either side of your head till you lay inside the prison of him. Now you could see that he was bare of any clothes— his body sculpted and naked like the statues meant to represent gods. But there was no beauty in this bareness, in the art of the pure human body; because this man could hardly be considered a man at all.

His mouth came onto yours, but this was no kiss. This was not a kiss at all. Kisses were supposed to be sweet, or passionate, or tender. A kiss was supposed to carry laughter and sorrow and every vulnerability hanging upon the lips, love spilling easy and steady out into your beloved. That was a kiss— you already knew about kisses. Your boys had taught you that much— shown you it, let you experience it. But this? What was being done to you? This was no kiss.

This was a brand, hot and heavy, but not in the way that made the world seem brighter and made life feel good. You wonder, was the world always so dull? Was it only your boys that filled your life with light, or did this monster just sap everything out naturally? Now everything seemed lifeless to you. Were the trees always dead? 

…And were these thorns always here? 

Now there were thorns wrapping around you. Barbed vines crawling, twisting, finding every soft place to bite. Thorns in your arms, in your legs, in the thin skin over your ribs. His claws too, cutting and wandering, so that you couldn’t tell where the plant ended and the man began. The air stung, the earth swayed. Breathing hurt. Thinking hurt. The thorns kissed and tore. He kissed and tore. His claws pressed and opened. Everything was red and black and moving. You felt his eyes on you as much as you could see them, and you felt them deeper than the wounds on your body. You wanted to close your own, but you couldn’t. You wanted to run, but there was nowhere left to run.

And through all of it, the questions fell away, one by one, until only one remained. 

What have you done to deserve this?

A gasp tore free at last from you, sharp on the lungs and wet upon your lips, for it came blood. It bubbled up your throat and spilled from your mouth in a thin red stream, slipping past and staining your chin. You choked on the taste of iron, gagging, coughing, spattering yourself.

And he— he bent to it as though you were a chalice poured for him alone. His mouth found the spill, tongue dragging up the line of your jaw, greedy as a beast lapping from the ground. He licked you clean as though none of it belonged to you at all. Then his lips pressed hard to yours once more. But this time the action managed to be even worse, and you hoped you would die before he did what he wanted to do; His tongue forcing its way past your teeth, sweeping the blood from the inside of your mouth, your cheeks, savouring it with a deep groan. 

But no matter how erotic and obscene he sounded, it would never make it a lover’s touch. He drank your pain but it was for himself— not in the selfless way a lover would.

“Ah…” His head lolled backward, and he licked his lips clean of any remaining fluid. “When I realised you were gone, I was going to find you and kill you. I would have kept your corpse around… but I think I’ve found a much better purpose for you. You shall be my mate. Would you like that?” 

Anything but that. Anything but this. 

Your head jerked side to side before the thought could stick, before the sentence could even take shape in your conscious thoughts. 

Not that. Not this. Not him. Not ever. 

The thorns knew what you wanted before you did, and they didn’t like it. They tightened at your throat, coiling and biting deeper, drawing a wet heat up into your collar, pressing, constricting, silencing. More gagging, more choking, more sobbing. Spit and blood and the hurt of it. Tears spilling hot. All you knew was that you were shaking your head no, and that you couldn’t muster a single word.

‘Please, just let me die’.

The thorns were angry at you for that. They hated you. They hurt you because they hated you. But he didn’t hate you. The sick glint in his eye said so. He smiled at you— right at you, only at you— and that made your wish all the more apparent. You wanted to die. His finger pressed to your lips, shushing you so sweetly, so softly, consoling you as one would with a child. You wanted to die then, too. Then the finger left your mouth, a claw snagging at your lower lip and leaving blood behind. He hurt you because he wanted you. That made you yearn for death. And then there was the way he held your head and kissed your temple in kindness— but it was no favour. 

“You don’t want to be my mate?” He frowned, and tilted his head in that familiar way. Now he was back to your cheek, holding your face gently. “Why?”

…Why? Why? Your mind grew all fuzzy with anger and confusion. Why? Finally, your voice returned. A strangled cry left you, ragged and raw, spilling out in a sound that was no longer despair— rather the unbridled rage that had simmered just beneath the hopelessness. Why? The vines constricted your arm, but you didn’t care anymore— you didn’t care for pain, or even in this moment; death. You jerked your limb upward with all the force you could muster. The thorns ripped through your flesh, tearing open your skin in long, jagged strips. Muscle knotted and pulsed beneath the exposed wounds, sinew stretched and glimmered wet with blood. 

Every nerve sang agony, every heartbeat roared, but still you tore free— and your hand struck for all your anger. Why? Your nail plunged into his eye, and it gave way beneath the pressure with a wet squelch— a horrible sound that made your stomach twist in disgust. You gripped, twisted, yanked at him with a feral desperation, and threw him off— and every muscle trembled but you ran.

…But why? Why were you still on the ground? Why was he here? Didn’t you just throw him off? Didn’t you just—? Why? Why? Why? Your arms strained, your legs kicked, but nothing moved. The weight— his weight pressed you flat. His hands— his impossibly heavy, unyielding hands, a constant to your body— pinned you to the earth. Why? Why? Why? Didn’t you hurt him? Didn’t you—? And yet, he was whole, above you, pressing you into the soil, bending everything you knew into something you could not understand. Why? Why? Why?

Now his fist was in your hair, yanking your head back harshly until his lips grazed your ear. Then his voice was back to how you always knew it to be— felt, not heard. And it felt horrible.

“I was going to make our first time sweet, but I think you need some discipline.”

(All you remember was the feeling of cool air against your bare skin. The feeling of being split apart, of blood running down your thighs, of other fluids filling up your insides. Of bites to your nape, your back, your shoulders. Of begging, pleading the word no— over and over. Yet through it all, only one thing stands out to you, now—)

“Look at me in my face, (Y/N), tell me… do you still think I am magnificent?”

(…That was the first time you heard him say your name. You couldn’t recall ever giving it to him— but you couldn’t think of that, then. You couldn’t even think of looking at him. No matter how hard he clawed at your neck, twisting it to force your eyes upon him— you couldn’t. No matter how roughly he made ‘love’ to you— you couldn’t. Instead, you closed yourself shut and let yourself drift off to what you could only hope was a land of no return. But even as you had shunned all the sights of the cruel world you would never escape… all you would see were the lifeless eyes of your boys forevermore; And that was all you could think of—)

(Your boys, nevermore.)

𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏, 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 you was a constant nightmare. Normally, rest was solace; a moment of respite from the every day— but what happened to you was far from what was normal. What happened to you was so traumatic that your mind was unable to do anything but relive it— even in sleep, which so often provided you peace. Ironically, when you opened your eyes and sank yourself back into the living nightmare, it was all much calmer than what you saw behind closed eyelids— and what you’d experienced before that.

You shot up from your position, atop your ragged carpet strewn. (The uneven surface is just as uncomfortable as it has been all these days, but at the very least it is something that is yours. The same could not be said for your body.) The first thing you noticed about yourself was how ordinary you felt. Your body was… fine. Unexplainably so. It was strange. How present the sensation of thorns did feel upon your skin— just as they did before, but there were no marks to show for it. You traced your clavicle lightly with the tips of your fingers to confirm, and indeed all that was met was smooth, untouched skin. You are fine. Your skin was unblemished, free from the physical scars you were so sure he would leave. 

A soft exhale escaped you, and your eyes drifted around the room. It looked the same, just as it always did. All towering arches and gilded patterns carved into dark stone, the faint flicker of candles casting shadows onto everything but what you actually wanted to see. You didn’t dwell on the sight— what would be the point in that? You already knew this place by heart.

And then your gaze found him.

Malleus. 

For whatever the reason, the name appeared to you, and it felt wrong to think of it— so you knew it must have belonged to him. So this was the dragon. And this was what he truly looked like.  

He sat atop a pile of gold, still as a statue, and like a living portrait; something too perfectly framed to be real. Regal, and utterly otherworldly. Dragon horns curled back from his head, wicked in their shape but elegant in design. His green eyes gleamed, brilliant and luminous in the dim, and there was an old cruelty hidden behind them. His face was as pale as it was beautiful— feminine in its elegance, masculine in its structure. He’d be perfectly handsome by any society’s standards.

What was most curious was the garments he adorned. Faintly, at the back of your mind, you recalled him assuring you that he was well aware of royalty’s embellishments. Now, you understood why— for the clothes he wore currently would be fit only upon the body of a king. They were not clothes typical of any fashion you’d associate with modern times, but that didn’t negate the fact it was gorgeous. Midnight velvet clung to him in sweeping folds, parted at the chest to reveal the pale expanse beneath. Silver wrapped around the base of his horns, casting a faint gleam over their black surfaces— framing a single emerald set into the metal like a crown jewel. But nothing commanded your attention so wholly as the shoulder guards— carved from gleaming metal, curved like the wings of the beast he once was.

You wouldn’t be surprised if he were a king, himself. 

You, by contrast, wore only a shift. Even your lucky stockings were gone. But like the body it clung to, this shift did not belong to you— for it was much too clean to be so. You were sure your old one, the one that was yours, had been ruined— stained with blood and whatever fluid that had passed between you and the man before you. (You think the same could be said for your own being, as well).

Your hand slipped from your neck and came to rest in your lap. You found yourself unable to look away from him, and in the silence of his gaze, fixed so intently upon you… all you could see were the things he had done. Yet for all the terror, disgust, resentment and humiliation— your expression remained empty. As long as you held his wordless stare, those ugly emotions became muted— just as the cusp of bubbling over, but ultimately unable to as you wish they could.

“You asked… if I still thought you were magnificent.” You began, and if you weren’t feeling the way you felt, you would have been surprised at the flatness in your voice. You looked him over once more, taking in the sight of him in full. You didn’t see him properly while he…

“I didn’t answer you then. But I have my answer now.” 

Malleus’ eyes narrowed, a sight you’ve long since been acquainted with— if only in the form of a great dragon. But no longer did you feel anything by it, not even with his new appearance. What should have made you sink back into the carpet instead made you rise. And you approached him— not with the caution you should have exercised, but with a sense of tranquility that could only come from one who’d already accepted their fate. 

For a moment, you remembered the song that forced your involvement with this man. And suddenly, the irony of it all became much more apparent. You approached him… as a queen approaches the executioner’s block.  

It was a cruel joke just waiting to deliver its even crueler punchline.

“I think you are horrible. The very sight of you makes me sick to my stomach.”

Malleus rose slowly. You had braced yourself for a snarl, perhaps even a threat— but none came. Instead, his ashen lips curved into something resembling a smile, and he drew himself closer to you. In moments, he stood mere inches away.

“You are rather cruel in your words.” He muttered. In this form, and in the still silence, his voice was no longer one that resounded within your head. It was grounded and real and it came from his throat— and it was right in front of you, just as he was. “I cannot imagine what I’ve done to deserve such disdain from you.”

“What you have done to me goes beyond cruelty! You are a vile, perverse creature.” 

His hand lifted to your face, a caress too soft for the malice you knew he carried— yet still, you did not falter.

“Hm? I have no recollection of doing such things to you. I merely presented you the most intimate parts of myself, and loved you to my fullest.” He responded quite calmly for an accusation that should have enraged the average person. Instead of that, he sounded almost amused.

“Stop that. Don’t say that. You always do this, you’re always getting in my head…! Telling me half-truths and giving me an illusion of choice— I know what you do to me! I should… I should strike you for what you’ve done. I should be terrified. My insides should be shredded. My body should be cut. I’m sure I should be dead…! And I should lash out at you for that— But when I look at you, when I look into those eyes…”

Cool palms, careful and deliberate, cradled you now— one on either cheek, as though you were something delicate and precious. It was obscene, and surely was audacious on all accounts, but you couldn’t pull away; neither physically nor mentally.

His face was inches from yours now, eyes fixed and unblinking. Everything else seemed to fall away, swallowed whole by the green glow of his gaze. It was all you could see— two glaring, unnatural lights, boring into your own.

“What is it that you feel?” His voice was impossibly soft. “Look into my eyes— do not look away. Tell me, how do you feel?”

“What do I feel…?” You echoed, as soft as him. “I hate you. That… That is what I feel.”

Now his nose brushed against yours, and you could feel his breath brush against your lips. His eyes eclipsed the world. He eclipsed your world. Everything you were, are, and would be. And without realising it, your body leaned in— drawn forward, head angled just slightly, as if pulled by the magnetic gravity of his mouth. His gaze flickered to your lips. Yours to his.

“Is that so?” He smiled, the words nearly a kiss themselves. “Do you truly hate me?”

Your lips trembled against the air that separated them. “Yes.” You whispered— if it could even be called that; for your voice had all but died in your throat. “I hate you…”

“Mmh… Do you know what I think?” Malleus asked, studying your face in between his grip. “I think you’re hiding something from me. You’re not telling me how you truly feel. How I make you feel. What were you going to say earlier, hm? Tell me, (Y/N), what do you feel when you look into my eyes? You know I do so adore when you start with your spiels. I have missed them, you know.” There was a pleading look in his eyes, one that was more mocking than genuine.

“…I feel… like a shell. But I also feel… like a pot that is about to boil over. When… the bubbles are just at the edge of spilling— then you take it off the heat, and they simmer down. Only to put it back on, and repeat the proccess… Everytime I think about what you did, how you killed them, how you raped me, violated me in front of them… I want to lash out at you but I just…” 

Now, your head was starting to feel hazy. You couldn’t say you were entirely aware of what you spoke— only that, somehow, you meant every word and that Malleus hummed thoughtfully at them. A simple conversation, he made it seem like.

“I want… I want to hate you. I know I should hate you. I… I do hate you. I shouldn’t be talking to you like this. But I… just—”

“But you just can’t bring yourself to act on your hatred, is that right? Clever girl. Then let me be honest with you, as you’ve been with me. All of this, everything you feel, and everything you cannot feel… is because of me. And it will always be so, and never has been anything else.” His lips, still curved in a small grin, brushed against your eyelid. It was a soft kiss. You’d shut your eyes to block him out, but even that small refusal was trespassed— just as he’d trespassed into your conscience. 

“Because of you…” 

The voice that came out of you was not a voice that you recognised. Soon, you were leaning into his touch, into his kisses— peppered all throughout your face. (You swore you didn’t want it. You’ll always swear that. By God, you didn’t want it.) Even more did that confirm your suspicions— he was doing something to you. You didn’t know what— only that it was something that subdued you. Something that rendered you immobile, standing in the worship of a man made of everything unholy in the world. The man you hated most.

You had so many questions. So, so many. (Why bother with all this? Why was he kissing you so tenderly? Why was he revering you? Why was his touch so loving? Why did it feel worse than any act of hate he could’ve given to you? Did he always intend to do this to you? Just what about you could have been so possibly alluring— Why you? Why your Ace and Deuce? Your boys?) But every one seemed to die on your tongue before you could get it out. You stood there in silence, letting him practically drape himself onto you.

“Your friends are dead.” 

He’d said it after a moment of silence. So plainly, so without warning… that for a moment you thought you’d misheard him. 

“I devoured that foolish army in its entirety.” He went on, almost idly in thought as he continued with his affections. “But those boys… I reserved them. I placed them at the fore, impaled them upon stakes myself. A fitting display.”

…Something within you surged— the pot just about to boil over. For a single second, the heat stayed on. And in that second, you shoved him away, staggering back so hard you nearly lost your footing.

“What are you talking about? What are you talking about—? Tell me this is your poor attempt at a joke—!”

But there was no reply. No correction. No cruel smile to betray a lie. If anything, the man only seemed confused at your sudden parting from him. You staggered back another step as if it would distance you from the images forming in your mind—

Ace, mouth open in a scream that never finished, lips split down the center by a sharpened stake. Deuce, crumpled around the spike like a rag doll, impaled clean through the gut. Their skin waxen and bloodless, eyes wide and dry in the sun. Or worse— already picked out by birds, the sockets hollow and oozing, tongues black with rot, flies and maggots and every parasite of the world nesting, wriggling in their throats.

You stared down at your hands.

Would you even recognise them, if you touched their faces now? Would you be able to kiss them tenderly as you always did— or would their jaws fall slack at your contact, flesh sloughing off like overripe fruit, teeth slick with decay clattering to the mud?

A sharp breath hitched in your throat. The pot boiled over— only to be yanked from the fire again. And in that space, something else returned. Your pain.

You remembered the feeling of thorns burrowing into your body— how easily they’d split your skin, tracing lines down your arms, your thighs, your ribs. Slicing through muscle, tearing through cloth, and everything else that belonged to you. But when you looked now, there was no mark. No sign that you’d ever bled. He had done that— the destruction and the mending. With a flick of his wrist, no less, or perhaps not even that.

“Surely, if you healed me completely when I was in such a state… You could bring them back? And let them go far from here, never to bother you—” You paused as you rethought your phrasing. Every word was a dance upon jagged glass. “…Never to bother— us… again.”

Malleus’ face contorted into an expression of what you could only describe to be pure, unfiltered disgust. As if the very proposal of showing your loved ones mercy were an insult to his very being. It was apparent, he wasn’t going to entertain the idea— not in the slightest.

Terror, disgust, resentment and humiliation. Of all those emotions within you— desperation was what surged through. You stumbled forward, right into the arms of the man you hated most, bunching the fabric of his clothing in your trembling fists. And you looked up at him with shaky eyes so pleading, with tears gracing just at the cusp of your lashline— if you could feel anything other than mania, you would feel ashamed of yourself.

“We have spent so much time together. You have listened to everything I have said about them— you know how much I care for them, how much I cherish them… and you take them away from me? Was taking me away from them not enough? Why must they suffer for—”

One moment, the words were still scattering from your lips. The next, they were strangled mid-sentence, caught in your throat as sobs often are. 

His fingers wrapped tight around your jaw— his palm flat across your windpipe, not quite crushing, not quite letting you breathe. You were silenced. He was silencing you. And soon after your silence did his grip on your throat loosen— though not in mercy, but in transition. Fingers that had crushed the words from your windpipe slid higher, curling beneath your jaw, then sweeping up the sides of your face. His palm held your cheek while his thumb and forefinger pressed in— firm and deliberate— squishing your cheeks until your lips jutted out in a helpless, involuntary pout.

"I recall telling you that I would kill for anything that belonged to me. I also recall saying that I never wanted to hear of them again. I do not understand why you are so confused… Was their deaths not the only plausible outcome from your foolishness?” His brows furrowed. “You know I am positively enraptured by your way of thinking, but I must caution you… this subject wearies me, (Y/N). For now, I merely wish to dote on my mate. Is that so horrible?”

You couldn’t believe what he was telling you. You wish you were too rattled to understand what he was saying— for that would have been a much more merciful fate. But you were painfully aware of the point he made— and of the blatant, twisted barbarity of it.

Malleus tilted his head in the way he frequently did as a beast. His eyes were half-lidded, almost curious as he stared down at the shape he'd made of your mouth. Then, with a ghost of a smile, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the center of your puckered lips— so soft, so chaste it may have very well been mistaken for tenderness, had it not been him.

The kiss broke, but he didn’t move far. Instead, his fingers uncurled from your face only to slip around the back of your neck— and in the same breath, he pulled you back in. His mouth found yours again, no longer light nor gentle. His right arm remained firm around your back, caging you against his chest as his left hand held your nape fast, keeping you exactly where he wanted.

“Mmfh—!” 

Your mind only caught up to your body once the bastard’s mouth was already on yours again— hot and consuming and relentless. You gasped into that kiss, and that alone seemed to urge him on, as though the sound was something he’d been starving to hear. But then your hands, shaking but certain, found his chest. You pushed.

At first, he didn’t budge. Then, slowly, the pressure of your palms seemed to guide his mouth lower, until open-mouthed kisses scattered down your cheek, your jaw— no less fervent, but less precise. 

You thought that might buy you a moment, but it didn't. His right arm crushed tighter around you, locking your spine to his chest with such force it emptied the air from your lungs. His left hand at your neck kept you fast in place. Your head tipped backwards— and in that second, your fingers shot up.

You found them; the smooth curve of his horns.

You grabbed hold and tugged it as tightly as you could. He hissed— and it was a rather inhuman sound. Sharp and serpentine-like, and forced through bared teeth. Such a noise paired with the utter rage painted across his features took you back to the moment you’d first met him— a jolt of primal fear passed through you. This was the first time you’d ever seen him like this.

And in that singular moment as you found yourself paralysed in fear— in that singular moment… that was when he struck.

In one swift, brutal motion, his grip vanished from your neck— only to reappear elsewhere. Your body was yanked from the cradle of his chest and thrown down hard. The air punched from your lungs when you landed on your stomach. Your arms had scrambled to brace the fall, but they barely slowed it, and now your palms stung harshly.

“…You beg for your idiot friends, yet you’ve not once mentioned the countless lives they threw away in the process of ‘saving you’.” 

He spat the last phrase as if it were poison to his very tongue. 

“Are you so selfish a person? Do you not cherish the other men of the army who came to save you? I see… So, you only cherish those boys? Then, listen to me well.”

You were on the ground. You didn’t want to get up from there and you didn’t want to look at him. But you felt his footsteps stop right near your legs, and even without looking… you knew he must be looming over you right now. Your tears had begun to fall.

(And when he spoke, he killed you with words—)

“You would do me wrong, my love, to cast me off so discourteously— for now, I am all that you have. Those boys are dead, and I will never bring them back no matter how much of your pleas I must endure. Do you understand me? They will rot upon those stakes as long as I live to see it through. Therefore…”

(—your execution, your death.)

“You will either cherish me, or cherish nothing at all.”

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐍’𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐏𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌 and it’s a lazy sort of day. The sort of day which slows time to a crawl. Still, the street is far from empty. Carriages rattle by, and the scent of bread and ash drifts from a nearby baker’s stall. The tavern behind them groans under its usual weight— creaking doors, clinking tankards, the low roar of patrons arguing over dice games and spilled drinks. Its crooked sign swings above the entrance, the painted name faded, almost illegible, from too many summers. 

A brother and sister have gathered just outside, sitting on the step where a young bard once perched with a serene smile and a lyre in her lap, weaving melodies so lovely they made even the loudest drunk hush to listen.

“She’s not coming back.” The brother says, arms folded tightly across his chest. “Told you. She’s gone.”

“You don’t know that!” The sister pouts, sticking her tongue out with a childish stubbornness. “But… Papa did say she might have run away…” She deflates at that, puffing her cheeks in thought. Then, just as quickly, her eyes light up again. “Ooh! Maybe she ran away with a prince!”

The boy groans, tossing his head back with exasperation. “She didn’t run off with a prince. That’s dumb.”

“You’re dumb!”

“Maybe she got married?” A smaller voice pipes up from behind a stack of crates. One of the siblings’ friends peeks his head out shyly, cheeks round and flushed with the heat of the day. “When you get married, you have babies. That’s what happens. She’s probably really busy…”

“Hmm? How many babies?” The sister asks, already invested.

The two children fall into thoughtful silence, squinting up at the sky as if the answer might be written among the fluffy clouds. The brother rolls his eyes and mutters under his breath, but he doesn’t walk away.

“Maybe three!” The friend chirps at last, grinning. “Like… One for each wish, you know?”

“Two boys and one girl.” The sister adds, beaming. “Just like us! And like the bard and her two friends… Ooh, do you think I could be a bard one day? I’ll play the lyre just like her!” 

The girl’s eyes sparkle and her friend nods along fondly to her words. He’s clearly engrossed in her ramblings— but the same could not be said for the brother.

“She left us behind for some other kids? That sucks.” He mutters, scowling now as he kicks at a loose stone by his feet. “I bet you she only plays for them, now.”

His words carry a bitter edge, but they don’t fool anyone. Any adult watching would see it for what it was— a boy sulking not out of anger, but because he misses the songs of the pretty bard under the awning. The pretty bard whose name could never be remembered, no matter how beloved she was by all. The pretty bard who was only truly understood by the old woman of the bookshop.

Alas; no more bookshops, no more laughter in the smithy or melodies floating out into the street. Just rumours now, of over the hills and far, far away.

Somewhere no man shall ever reach.

𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘, 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐍 to the lyre. The memory eludes you; the last time you’ve played it. But for whatever neglect that has been shown to it on behalf of yourself over the past few years, your daughter certainly makes up for it. She seems positively obsessed with the old thing, grabbing at it with chubby hands that look too much like yours, pestering you to no end to teach her to play. And unfortunately for you, her father is just as fond of pestering you over it as she is. So you sit for hours at a time, with four pairs of the same, carbon copied green eyes (your sons love to do whatever their father and sister are doing) watching you strum strings with a rusted muscle memory.

A faraway part of you— a fond part that you suppressed a long time gone— reignites with an assured affection when you see your children stumbling around together. Two daring boys with swords (stolen from their father’s hoard, of course) and a shy little girl with her worn lyre. It’s all too familiar a sight, and really, it’s a miracle that your husband let you name them what you did—

Ace, Deuce, and (Y/N). 

Oh, your precious babies… They’re all you have, so you try to make it count. You wonder, is it wrong to project your childhood onto your little ones? To give your daughter your own name, and your sons the name of the boys you yearn for? Ah… maybe it is wrong. (Your husband, for one, never seems to try to hide his discontent for your frequent reminiscing of the life you’ll never get back.) But you can’t help it; pestering your boys to treat their sister just a little bit nicer— because they’ll never know when they may interact for the last time. You’ve yet to tell them the last part, though— they’re much too young to have their head filled with old musings like that. Such musings belong in bookshops, spoken to young bards by older, lonely women.

Buried deep within the confines of your subconscious, you have a hope that someday you will regain some sense of normalcy. That some day, your husband will bring back what was lost to you. But the present part of you that has long since wilted with an idle content reminds you that the only life he would allow is the life that you both have created. And that is all that will ever be.

Ace, Deuce, and (Y/N). 

As far as the rest of the world is concerned,  the three of them are dead. But you know. You know it is not entirely so. The rotting bodies of your boys rejuvenate in the little ones you and your husband call your own. You, as well, live on through the little girl who sits atop her mother’s carpet and her father’s gold. You may not rot with your boys upon stakes, but your spirit has long since rotted with them. 

There are always two deaths— the real one, and the one people know about. That is how the saying goes, and you couldn’t agree more. Death has rocked you asleep; brought you to quiet rest. So for your first death, you’ll give yourself to your husband— to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, till the second do you part. You’ll let your boys prance around the castle grounds, a little too close to the bodies from which they received their namesakes. And you’ll let your daughter live where you couldn’t, and carry on the refrain of your death’s ballad—

Greensleeves.

❝ Farewell … my pleasures past,

Welcome, my present pain!

I feel my torments so increase

That life cannot remain. ❞

— O Death, Rock Me Asleep

From six until twelve (maybe thirteen?) he was your whole world, your partner in scraped knees and secret dares, the almost-boyfriend who walked you home until the day you had to leave. You remember that day clearly— you were both young and curious and that was the only time you ever kissed someone so passionately.

And though years have folded and unfolded since, and other boys and girls have passed through your life, the memory of him and the house atop the hill lingered like the last line of a bedtime story you never got to finish. Now, at eighteen, with your suitcases unpacked and the town you wander both changed and unchanged since, you find yourself wondering; 

What became of the little boy with rosy cheeks and crimson hair within the elusive house atop the hill? And more importantly… Had he waited for you as he promised he would? As you’d waited for him?

Oh, but the town, if anything, had waited for you. The same sloping lanes curled around themselves like the pretty ribbons every little girl has in her hair, the same shopfronts blinked their painted eyes beneath eaves of chipped wood, and the same cobblestones carried the same weary cracks as though not a day had passed since you last tripped across them. 

…Yet look closer; the illusion thins. The bakery that once smelled of sugared dough now carried the sterile tang of coffee beans. The playground, once rusted and loud with shrieks, had been repainted into silence. Faces that might have belonged to childhood friends now belonged to strangers instead. It was everything and nothing like you expected. 

You chastised yourself for the disappointment that rose in your chest. What did you think would happen? That the town would remain suspended in amber, unchanging, preserved exactly as it was on the day you left? That if you rounded the corner at just the right hour, you might find your younger self skipping along, hand in hand with a boy whose laughter always rang louder than the church bells? Perhaps you did expect it, though you would never confess it aloud. Perhaps a part of you did think the whole town had been frozen, a snow globe shaken only when you returned to stir its pieces back into place at your liking. 

But above it all— silhouetted against the sky that was as bright as you remembered— loomed the elusive house atop the hill. The house that did not blink when years passed, that did not repaint or refashion itself to meet the times. Its windows glimmered darkly, shuttered but watchful, and its slanted roof cut into the horizon like a blade. You told yourself it was only a house, only wood and brick and rose bushes, but you felt its presence all the same; patient, everlasting, a shadow stretched across your childhood, a shadow that had never quite receded from the corners of your mind. Did the boy with rosy cheeks and crimson hair still live there?

What was completely new to the town, though, was the music. 

Loud and brazen, the sort that rattled windowpanes and startled sparrows into flight. It did not belong to the town you remembered, yet you found yourself drawn, drawn toward it— pulled, pulled as surely as a tide toward the moon. Each step carried you further down the lane, until instinct led you to the very corner you used to round as a child.

And to your surprise, there the boy with rosy cheeks and crimson stood… with a microphone in hand?

His rosy cheeks were painted now, half-concealed beneath a mask of dark cosmetics. Nor did he wear a full crown of crimson hair, for black had been streaked through it, deep and dark as ink spilled across parchment. He was clothed in splendour you’d hardly seen anyone wear in person— an oversized coat of luscious red fur spilling from his shoulders, shoes so tall they lifted him out of reach— and there was no mistaking the passion that set his whole frame alight as he sang.

So you stood there at the edge of the forming crowd, mesmerised by the sight of him. Riddle. The name trembled in your chest like a secret only you could bear. He was beautiful in a way that startled you, sharp and dazzling all at once, his face carved in light and shadow, every line of him made for a stage rather than a playground. You scarcely dared to breathe, lest the vision collapse. 

And because you were so transfixed, you did not notice at first— did not see how his gaze broke from the crowd to find you, how his eyes locked as though they had been searching for you all along. It was only when the music faltered and the cheering dimmed that you realised; he was moving. 

He was moving toward you. 

Every stride devoured the distance, until suddenly he was there, close enough for the smell of perfume and faint cigarette smoke to cling to his coat, close enough for his arms to sweep you into him with a ferocity that stole your breath.

“Oh—!” 

The sound barely escaped you before he crushed you tighter, burying his face against your shoulder. His grip was iron, desperate, achingly familiar, and the years of silence seemed to mean nothing to him. If anything, they spurred him on more— he clung as if he meant to reclaim every missed moment in one embrace, as if you had never been estranged at all.

“(Y/N)! You’re back!” Riddle exclaimed, his cheeks puffing up in a smile like you remembered it to. “I missed you so much! Oh, you look so cute…!”

“Wh—” You sputtered. You’d been so caught up in what was different that you hadn’t anticipated being thrust into such affections so soon— nor did you expect him to hang off of you like this. Why, he clung to you like he used to on the monkey bars all those years back…!

“Mm, and you still smell the same!” He murmured, his words muffled by the fabric of your clothes. “I could pick you out of a crowd blindfolded.”

“Riddle! You don’t even seem surprised…?” You found yourself looking at the floor. You were scared of whatever emotions might come forward if you looked at him directly— for you wouldn’t be able to hold yourself back from kissing him.

“Oh?” Riddle’s lips pursed in thought as he pulled back. You knew he was examining you, but frankly… you were much too shy to look at him in return. “Why would I be surprised? You told me you’d come back, didn’t you?” 

“…I did say that, didn’t I?” You muttered, surprise softening your features. You had always meant it, of course, yet seeing him know it too, feel it as surely as you had, made your heart jump up out of your chest and into your eyes. 

Suddenly, the world around seemed to be tinted a shade of rose and devotion. And when you mustered the courage to look at him… through his eyes, you saw it—

His soul. 

In his soul, he knew you would come back, because you told him you would. So in that tender pause, the years of locked-away feelings slinked out of the depths, up to the surface.

For the first time in years, you let your own soul come out, and your hands found his, and it was as if you’d never left on that hot summer day; as if no time had ever come between you at all.

“…I’m not going anywhere this time, Riddle. So tell me, how have you been?”

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐏 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐋 was elusive and that was all it ever was. It was intangible, something to watch and be watched by, but never touched. Never approached, or lived in, or any of the other things that houses were made for. So you never truly imagined what the inside might look like; somehow, you had never considered that there was an inside at all. And yet here you sat upon the living room couch, your shoes tucked neatly beneath you. 

Now, what struck you most were the photographs. If there was anything that you were expecting as Riddle dragged you up the hill— it certainly wasn’t this. 

Framed portraits littered the walls, frame after frame, almost cluttered in its quantity. Smiling children— you and Riddle together on the playground swings, faces pressed cheek-to-cheek. Candid portraits of you laughing, caught mid-motion. Family photos— Riddle between the mother you had always heard about but never actually seen until now, and a tall man you had never known existed. 

You did not recall these pictures being taken. You did not recall Riddle even having a father.

A warm breath brushed your neck, followed by the scrape of teeth against your skin. “What are you looking at?” Riddle hummed, his voice low and petulant, lips skating over the curve beneath your ear. “Kiss me back, won’t you?”

“Riddle…” You tried for composure, but the sound was already shaky. His hands were splayed over your waist, tugging you closer, closer still, and you could barely manage to push words through the heat curling in your chest. “These… photos. When did we take so many together?”

He hummed against your throat, but he did pull back— if only to resettle himself. His weight settled into your lap, his arms winding back round your neck. Your hands, hesitant, slipped from his shoulders to the edges of his coat, peeling it from him. The intimacy of the gesture struck you— it was everything you’d ever dreamt of— and yet your gaze returned inevitably to the wall.

He followed it, but not before pressing a lazy kiss to your jaw. “We always did. You’ve just forgotten, you silly thing.”

“…I think I would remember this many pictures.” You murmured. “I mean… I didn’t even know you had a father.” Your eyes stayed on the tall man, that easy smile, the hand on Riddle’s shoulder. There was a slight abashed feeling, having to admit it. Not knowing something so obvious about your friend was… embarrassing.

“My papa…” Riddle supplied smoothly, his lips grazing your cheekbone as though punctuation. “Of course you met him. He liked you.” He said it almost fondly, followed by another kiss, softer, more insistent. His nose brushed yours, his voice dropping to a whisper. “But your memory was always bad. That’s why I remember for both of us.”

His words weren’t particularly untrue. You never did have the best memory— you were always forgetful. That was fact, you weren’t going to deny it. But still, your brows pinched together in confusion. “I… I guess?” Your hand raised to brace your companion’s hip. “But I wouldn’t forget something important like that. I mean— I knew you had a mother even though I never met her… I can’t believe I’d forget you had a father, let alone meeting hi—mmh?!”

Your protest was cut short by the sudden press of his lips against yours. It was playful in its abruptness, yet deep enough to make your pulse skip. His mouth moved insistently over yours, stealing the rest of your thought before it could form. He tasted of sugared strawberries and the faintest trace of smoke, and when he finally pulled away you were left breathless, your words scattered.

“Don’t pout so much.” He teased, eyes glinting as he slid off your lap with eagerness. “I’ll prove it to you!” He straightened his coat, then tossed it carelessly over the arm of the sofa, already turning toward the stairs. “I’ll fetch the pictures from my room— the ones with Papa!”

You blinked, still gathering your bearings. “Your… your room?”

“Oh, and speaking of Mama…” He glanced back at you with a mischievous smile, as though he’d just remembered to mention something small and inconsequential. “Why don’t you go say hi?”

You froze sharply. “She— she’s home…? While we were—?”

“Of course!” He laughed, bright and carefree, the sound so at odds with your racing thoughts. “You’ve gotten so uptight over the years, you know. What’s a little kiss on the sofa between us?” He reached over to pat your head, almost condescending in its fondness, before pivoting toward the staircase in the hall.

“I’ll be right back!” He called, already bounding up the steps, leaving you alone with the walls of smiling photographs and the sudden, pressing knowledge that you were not quite alone in the house. 

At once, you made motions to neaten yourself— and rub the lipstick stains from your face. You rose, because the motions were better than sitting and staring, and because ‘one could not be frightened while busy with tasks’— as was what your own mother taught you.

So you began in the parlour, touching the picture frames to confirm their authenticity. Then the hallway opened up into a kitchen that smelled faintly of lemon polish and something sweet, as if a tray of scones had been set down and then, deliberately, removed. Drawers were closed. Chairs were pushed in. The kettle sat innocently on the hob. You opened the door to the back room on a whim and found nothing but a slant of sunlight and a chair with a forgotten scarf draped over it. Each room you moved through gave the same answer; empty.

The house, which had watched you from the hill for so many years as if it were merely an ornament on the horizon, felt suddenly hollowed and personal in a way that made your skin prick. All at once you were aware of how alone you were— not alone in the comfortable, peaceful sense, but alone the way one is when a room holds its breath and refuses to exhale. You thought of Riddle upstairs; he was only a flight away, and that ought to have comforted you. He had promised to fetch the photographs; he would be back in a moment. It was absurd to be afraid.

Still, when you reached the foot of the stairs you hesitated, the wooden banister sticky beneath your palm from some remembered summer, sweat gathering, small and hot, at the nape of your neck. You told yourself you were being ridiculous. Riddle was there. His mum was, too, probably bustling somewhere with the sort of domestic efficiency mothers showed only to those they loved. You took the first step.

That was when the voice came.

“My dear, what are you doing all alone? A house like this can swallow a girl whole if she is not mindful.”

The words did not arrive from one place but from many— blooming and settling over you, soft and impossibly near. From the parlour, the kitchen, from the walls, from every room you went in and from every room she wasn't present in— the voice had already unfurled itself into the house and claimed each corner. You turned, trying to place her— Mrs. Rosehearts— but there was no one to face.

“Ah, don’t look so startled…” Mrs. Rosehearts continued, each syllable sugared and coaxing. “There’s nothing to worry over, not here. You’re very welcome in this house. Very welcome indeed.”

The warmth of the words pushed in on you, invading the space where reason would sit. You listened to them as though to music you already knew the melody of, yet with a growing, illogical tension at its edges— a note just a fraction out of tune, the sort that sets teeth on edge only after the song has finished. Your throat tightened. Your mouth, which had been rehearsing a thousand sensible replies, went suddenly blank.

“My, my!” She chimed, an obvious smile audible in every line. “What a timid little thing you are. Won’t you sit down properly? I’ll fetch us some tea. Or perhaps you’d prefer cake? You do like cake, don’t you? Oh, I’m quite certain you must.”

You felt very small then, and very exposed. Where was she? Where was she calling you from? There was a basin in the mind, one full of thoughts that would never be answered. Why couldn’t you see her? Why hasn’t she shown herself? And in your confusion, there was only one sensible reply.

“Oh, Mrs Rosehearts…! I— I’d really like to see you, please. Could you… show yourself?”

For a moment there was silence— so complete it felt as though the whole house had leaned in to listen. The ticking of the grandfather clock stopped mattering, the creak of the rafters vanished. Then above it all was a laugh, elegant and affectionate.

“If that’s what you wish, little dearest. Of course I’ll oblige…”

A beautiful woman with cheeks of rose and hair of crimson. 

A hot flush came down the back of your neck, and suddenly every sense of unease you’d had went away. How stupid of you… Honestly, how ridiculous! Working yourself up over nothing, prowling around the house like some silly child afraid of the dark. You’d gotten way too in over your head— jumping at shadows, inventing ghosts where there weren’t any. This was only Riddle’s mother. His mother. Just what were you thinking?

Her thumbs brushed over the apples of your cheeks before you even realised she was approaching you. The touch was soothing, her smile impossibly fond as her eyes roved over your face. “There now…” She whispered, and now her voice felt normal. “So timid… no wonder my darling boy kept you all to himself.”

“Oh…” You breathed out. Was there still lipstick on your face? Sevens, you hope not. How could you explain your way out of that—? Or find another boy with black lipstick in a ten kilometre radius to pin the blame—? “It’s lovely to finally meet you, aunty.” Finally, you remembered your manners, straightening your spine and lifting your chin just the way your parents taught you.

The woman before you laughed. It was the kind of laugh that felt both indulgent and knowing, as though she were in on a secret you weren’t yet privy to. She leaned closer, her perfume sweet and heady— she smelled like smoke, too— and you felt her breath stir your hair as she murmured, “Go to him, won’t you?”

The words remained in your ear long after she’d withdrawn, and for a strange, uncertain beat you couldn’t remember if she had actually touched you or if it had only been imagined. Either way, by the time you blinked, she was gone. The house seemed oddly empty again. So you found yourself drifting up the stairs, each step taken half by will, half by instinct to not be alone, until you reached his doorframe. 

There, Riddle was kneeling on the floor, hunched over a small wooden box. His shoulders jumped when you knocked gently against the doorframe, but the startlement quickly dissolved into a bright smile and he sprung up to his feet.

“Look, look!” He beckoned, tugging you to his side with boyish excitement.

You lowered yourself to kneel beside him, smoothing your skirt with careful hands before folding them neatly in your lap. And then you did look—

Photographs. Polaroids. Dozens of them, stacked and scattered, all of you, all real. You, and Riddle, and a man whose features echoed his son’s. The man downstairs, who you swore you’d never met. His father. And in the background of one, unmistakable as day— your own parents.

It made perfect sense by all accounts— a family outing. Yet still you were shocked. You had… no memory of this. 

Riddle giggled, tilting his head towards you with a grin that was both triumphant and fond. “I told you so, silly girl.”

The words made you flush with a sudden, sheepish heat. …Perhaps he was right. Perhaps you really were being ridiculous. A laugh slipped from you, small and uncertain, but you forced it into something lighter, more natural. Your memory had always been poor— everyone knew that. It wasn’t impossible that you had simply… forgotten. Yes. That had to be it.

“…You’re right. Yes, silly me…!”

So you allowed yourself to relax, let the questions fall away like loose threads unpicked (even though you were always taught to flounder until everything was perfect). What did it matter, when everything here made such perfect sense? Riddle was beside you, his delight radiating like sunlight, and suddenly you became aware of something else thrumming beneath the surface; the low, insistent pulse of your own arousal. You’d been so caught up in what did and did not make sense that you hadn’t fully allowed yourself to enjoy what was finally yours.

Riddle seemed to notice your change of heart at once. His hand slipped over your shoulder, his fingers grazing the slope of your collarbone in a gesture so casual it made your breath hitch. You answered without thinking, leaning into him, closing the small distance— as your body had been waiting for, all along.

“Do you remember? You promised we’d do so much more when we saw each other again.” He whispered against your jaw, leaving new traces of black lipstick along your skin— and after you’d worked so hard to rub the last set off, too…

This promise, you did remember. It was all those years ago, that day, after you’d separated from him with nothing but a string of saliva connecting you; You’d swore that you’d come back, then you could do all the things that adults in love did with each other. You were so young, then— but you were filled with affection, and passion, and all the other things that growing teenagers felt when they kissed each other. Much like how you felt now— hot, bothered, desperate to arch and cling to the boy beside you and never let go.

You tilted your head, allowing his mouth to trail down the hollow of your throat, a sharp gasp torn from you as you leaned back on both hands. Riddle wasted no time in mounting himself atop of you, letting his kisses trail down to your chest. Thank God you wore a low neckline today— A contented, lazy smile crossed your face as you took a deep breath in, relishing in the way his fingers moved to cup your breast. 

“I do remember…” You hummed, moving to unbutton the first few buttons of his shirt. When his pretty, supple collarbone was exposed to you, you trailed your hand across them, before cupping the back of his neck. Pulling him close, you whispered against his lips; 

“So, take me in any way you want.”

𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓. After the way his body had pressed into yours, after the way your throat still ached from moans you hadn’t known you were capable of, after the way you had given yourself up entirely— there should have been nothing left but exhaustion and contentment. Your skin was still warm from the heat, your core still weak from the aftershocks, your lips bitten and sore from the force of his kiss. You should have been lulled into the deepest, sweetest sleep, drunk on pleasure and closeness.

But sleep had other plans for you. When you pushed yourself from the plush duvet, it was not in the sluggish, half-conscious manner of one roused from slumber, but rather with the sharp and unthinking urgency of terror. There was nothing deliberate in it; it was instinct, the body leaping to preserve itself from some danger already forgotten— for the memory of the nightmare had fled the instant your eyes opened. Its claws had been deep in you, of that you were certain, and yet by the time you sought to grasp at its particulars, it had already dissolved into nothing. All that remained was the undeniable certainty that something had been there, and that you had to escape it.

The first thing you noticed, when you steadied yourself, was the absence of all things comforting. The bed was empty. Riddle was gone. The room around you was steeped in a kind of darkness that did not belong to ordinary night. So you turned toward the window, hoping for the pale reassurance of moonlight, or the faintest suggestion of a starry sky— but instead, you were met with nothing. 

The view opened only onto a smooth, endless black, as though the house were suspended in a void. How? How was this possible? You pressed your hand against the pane, half-believing that some obstruction had been drawn across it— but the glass seemed bare on both sides. You tried the latch; it refused to yield. You pushed harder; the frame rattled, but the window would not give.

And then— you could not help but feel it— the blankness outside seemed to shift, as if it were not absence at all, but a presence. A presence that had been watching long before you thought to look.

You shivered, though the air was not exactly cold, and your arms folded around yourself in a poor attempt at comfort. The room, so plush and indulgent only hours ago, now seemed stripped bare of safety. A thought struck you— maybe he had gone to the bathroom? You crossed to it at once, each step uncertain, and threw the door open with more urgency than you intended. Empty. Utterly empty.

So maybe you were still dreaming. Yes, that had to be it. That this was merely some cruel continuation, a lucid dream from which you had not yet parted from. The notion made a fragile sort of sense, enough that you pinched the soft skin of your forearm until the flesh protested. Pain flared sharp and real. But you did not wake up. Shouldn’t pain wake you?

Heart quickening, you returned to the room and slipped out into the corridor. 

What met you there was worse. Every picture that had once lined the walls— faces, new and old, of family… forgotten memories preserved— was black. Every window that ought to have revealed the night instead opened only onto the void. They were pools of nothingness, eyes of nothingness, gazing down upon you in silent judgment. Their regard was so heavy, so oppressive, that you yourself began to feel like nothingness, as though your body, your mind, your very name might dissolve beneath their stare. In that moment, as you clutched yourself closer, you found yourself deeply missing Riddle. What is going on? 

“(Y/N)?”

It should have been a comfort. You had been yearning for him with such aching desperation that the sound of his voice ought to have undone you. Yet the instant it reached you, your heart recoiled. It sounded like him, yes, but it did not feel like him. The warmth was gone. The intimacy was gone. Something was wrong. Something was terribly, irreparably wrong.

You ran.

You did not wait to see from where it came; you only fled. The corridor stretched before you, longer than you remembered, the familiar turns and doors rearranging themselves into a maddening geometry that led nowhere. You ran blindly, driven by the certainty that what followed you was not him and must not catch you.

And as you ran, the house changed. The pools of nothingness— those blank, oppressive eyes in the pictures and the windows— began to bleed red. First one pair, then another, until they multiplied, until the whole corridor swam with them. Blood-red, glaring, dripping. The black backdrops glowed as though veins had burst within them, and each new eye threw its own cast of crimson light. The glow spun across the walls like sirens, one moment lancing straight at you, the next wheeling away, only to return from another angle. 

The house atop the hill watched you all your life— now, so did the eyes. 

Some tracked you directly, following every frantic step; others swivelled without pattern, disorienting in their ceaseless movement. The corridor pulsed red and black, black and red, until you no longer knew which way you were running, only that you had to keep moving— because what was behind you was not the Riddle you loved. But your body betrayed you. Breath tore at your throat, your legs faltered, and at last you stopped. The silence that followed your ragged breathing was almost worse than the chase.

In the black and the red and the red and the black, and in the silence and the deafening sound of your breathing and heartbeat— you heard her; you did not see her.

“Dearest, where are you going?”

“Oh, Mrs. Rosehearts…! My parents will be wondering where I am.” The eyes knew you were lying. The eyes knew you were lying. The eyes knew you were lying. The eyes knew you were lying. “I was going to tell them I’ll be spending the night—”

“Why don’t you go back to bed? My darling boy will be missing you.” When it spoke again, its voice had drifted closer, though no figure stood before you. 

“…Mrs. Rosehearts,” you called into the darkness, forcing the words through a throat gone tight, “could you show yourself again?”

“You look so beautiful, dearest.”

“Please,” you tried again, your voice trembling on the edge of a plea, “I really want to see you…”

“Why don’t you go back to bed?” Its suggestion came sweetly. “Or, would you rather sleep beside me?”

No. No, no, no. This wasn’t right. The walls breathed red, and the eyes turned, one by one, until you were their singular focus.

“I’d rather like to see you, Mrs. Rosehearts.” You pleaded to it. “Please show yourself?”

For a long moment there was no sound but your own breathing. And then, very softly, the voice returned;

“…Go back to bed, dearest. He will be missing you.”

This wasn’t right. Why wouldn’t it answer you? Just one request. You only wanted to see its face. You knew it wasn’t Mrs. Rosehearts, but still, you wanted to see. It sounded like her, but it wasn’t her. It wasn’t her. Was it ever? And yet, even knowing that, some small, frantic part of you still wanted to see.

Then there was the sound of heels on the floor, approaching your direction from the right. You turned toward the sound and saw, not a body, but a shadow stretching far and thin across the red-washed walls. It was his shape— Riddle’s— the body you knew intimately, yet every familiar movement was made strange. The distortion of the light enlarged it until the silhouette blotted out half the corridor, crawling closer with every click of those unseen platforms.

Your heart lurched painfully against your ribs. Something was very wrong. You staggered back, despite the voice of Mrs. Rosehearts coaxing you to stay put. The shadow grew longer, wider, swallowing the corridor with every step. You didn’t wait for it to reach you. You turned and ran.

“Don’t let the walls cave in on you!”

The voice chased you down the hall, bright and ringing with laughter. A sweet giggle, laced with the happiness of childhood. It was the sound of afternoons in the park, the sound of hide-and-seek when you were young and innocent and unafraid. But here, in this corridor of red light and nothingness, it was wrong. Horribly wrong. The memory itself had turned against you.

Run, rabbit, run. The beloved childhood song pounded in your skull, faster, faster, a cruel song keeping pace with your desperate feet. Run, rabbit, run—

But your legs betrayed you. The floor clung to them, thick and sticky. You looked down— Black, searing tar had bubbled up under you, gripping your skin, dragging you down into its suffocating heat. Each step was slower than the last, every movement an agony of resistance. But when had it appeared? Where had it come from? 

The answer was nowhere and everywhere. The walls themselves were bleeding now. Every picture frame that had once held some cherished memory was spilling over rushing tar. Childhood portraits, family photographs— the father you never remembered hearing about, the photographs you never remembered being taken— all of them slick and running with molten black. The void was pouring out of them, flooding the hallway, surging around your ankles, your calves, latching and dragging and choking.

You tried to lift your legs. The liquid pulled tighter. The red light spun madly across the corridor, eyes upon you from every angle, watching as the black tide swallowed your steps. Now you were stumbling, hardly able to see. It invaded your eyes, and you were weeping salt and tar. So you shut them hard, and frantically felt around for something, someone to hold onto. Hands clawed at the floor, arms pushing through the sticky drag, every movement a battle against the tide. Your knees buckled, slipping, dragging you backward. 

With a final, desperate heave, you surged forward, feeling the resistance thin beneath you— and then gravity took you. You pitched forward, tumbling onto something soft and warm, the world lurching before settling.

When you lifted your head, the burning tar was gone, stripped from your skin as though it had never been. No suffocating heat. No tide dragging you under. Only the parlour, neat and whole, dressed in the red glow. The walls still writhed with shapes you could not name, eyes dripped wetly from the cluttered picture frames, but the flood had vanished.

And there, seated upon the couch as if he had been waiting all along, was Riddle. Your Riddle. At your gaze, a smile curled his lips.

This was right. This was right. You wanted to cling to him. To crawl on your hands and knees and cling to his legs— to hug his body which sprawled in casual elegance. …But— wasn’t he the one chasing you? You turned, wild with confusion, to the hallway. Red walls, glowing eyes— but no tar. Nothing but silence. …So it couldn’t have been him.

When you looked back, he was crouching before you and you had no time to question anything. His hands clamped your face, cold and firm, and he dragged you into a kiss. 

…You love his kisses— but this time it felt different. You could’ve sworn this was your Riddle— not what was chasing you in the hall. So why did this feel wrong? It didn’t feel like you were kissing him— you knew what it was like to kiss him; Erotic, tender, passionate. That’s what kissing him felt like. Empty, fierce, unyielding. That was what you felt now. 

So, who are you kissing? Who is kissing you?

Panic bloomed in your chest. You shoved him away, desperate for space. Now, everything judged you. Now, everything watched you. The house atop the hill, the eyes of nothingness, the eyes of red, the eyes of the boy in front of you— all honed in on you, you, you.

“Why did you push me away?” His voice was low, then cracked, higher, a whisper of someone else threaded through it. “Why did you try to leave? Surely you’re not trying to leave?”

You’d never seen him like this. Never so angry, so livid, so certain in unforgiving.

“Don’t leave us again.” 

The words split and weaved together until you couldn’t tell which voice was his and which wasn’t. Where he ended and his mother began no longer seemed clear.

“Won’t you come back to bed?”

How dare you look at him like that? With those eyes filled with such empathy and understanding, as if he needs such a thing from the likes of you. Is he so pathetic all at once? It sends a shiver of distaste down his spine whenever he thinks of it. He cannot stand your pity. He cannot stand those dumb little eyes and that dumb little expression. It really gets his blood pumping, boiling just at the thought of you— so much so that you become like a parasite to his mind, clinging to his thoughts night and day until he finds himself squirming in frustration. Even worse yet, there seems to be only one remedy to this malady of his that plagues him each night.

As Azul stands over your sleeping form, he can’t help but think… 

He much prefers you like this. When your eyes are closed, so that they cannot stare at him. When your pretty lips are parted in content sleep, immobile such that you cannot make obvious how you walk on eggshells around him with your words like he’s some delicate morsel in need of mindful mercy. There’s a small, upturned quirk of his lips as he observes your helpless form. There’s an extra benefit, too… When your shorts ride up and display to him the precious fat of your thighs. 

Azul loathes you… but he loves being able to touch you. 

To knead your flesh in his hands and imagine what it would feel like to crush you with his limbs— it’s a wonderful fantasy of his. At first, never expected to think such things… but once it came, he could not seem to rid of it. Perhaps it was because he himself found solace in the feeling of having something weigh down on him— he couldn’t help but wonder in fleeting bouts, would you like it too? Would you enjoy the feeling of being climbed on top of, weighed down, crushed?

Azul hates his body… but he most certainly reveres yours.

To see your supple flesh dip when manipulated under the pads of his fingers as he allows himself to indulge in his desires. You’re asleep, so it shouldn’t even matter what he does, where he does it, and how he does so, right? And what would you do, anyway? Reject him for all his repulsiveness? Say ‘no’? Azul scoffs. Yeah, right— you’re much too nice for that. In Azul’s mind, all you exist for is to be taken advantage of. You’re too charitable, you see, and charitable people only exist to be used. That’s yet another thing he hates about you. Sometimes he thinks you’re due for a good lesson; maybe then you wouldn’t be so damn oblivious all the time.

Azul simply despises your presence… but climbing into your bed come nightfall just has to be his favourite thing in the world.

It sends a manic glee of sorts throughout his whole body, and calms that feeling of hatred he feels for his entire being. It’s almost as nice as being inside an octopot…! A wide grin splits his face. This may be the best solution he’s ever conjured up… And the only one paying in this situation is you. Now isn’t that something?

Azul despises when you look at him… but he cherishes being able to look at you. 

He keeps his eyes trained solely on your thighs when he mounts himself atop of you— Sevens forbid his gaze wanders to a mirror and breaks his only bit of fun. The bed sinks drastically under his weight, but clearly you must be as airheaded in sleep as you are when awake— because you don’t stir one bit at the change. Any joy he may have felt melts away in an instant. Why are you so oblivious all the time? Do you not get tired of that charade? He clicks his tongue as he straddles you, perching himself on your hips. The smile falls just as quickly as it came when he looks you over, a perfectly neutral expression upon his face as his gaze lifts to the exposed bit of your stomach that he raised your shirt to see.

…He can’t help but be a little jealous of you, you know. You walk around with such a perfect body, flaunting it to any boy who will watch, seducing all his customers with that dazzling smile without a damn care in the world— You must have it so fucking easy, huh? The work he gives you must be the only hardship you ever endure in your simple life.

Azul's brows pinch together as he leans forward, hands moving to encase your waist. 

He hates you, he really does. He hates how at peace you look right now. (Why does someone like you get to sleep so soundly— while he must rot from the inside out, resisting the urge to claw and peel at his skin layer by layer to strip down some weight?) He hates how badly he needs you every day. He hates how you’re the only thing he can think about— obsess over. He hates how the only way he can sleep at night is by getting off to the image of you beneath him, crying and sobbing and as miserable as he. 

He hates you. He hates you. He hates you. He HATES you.

The grip of your waist tightens. You shift in your place at the pressure, the sheets crinkling at your adjustment. Azul sneers. What an idiot, you are. You can’t even fend for yourself, yet you think you’re in a position to feel bad for him? Don’t make him laugh. His hands travel upwards, fingers following in dips with every contour of your body. They take your shirt with them, peeling it upwards until your bare breasts expose themselves to him. Your nipples are all hard and perky from the cold, a sight that nauseates him so much as it serves to arouse him. (…He really, really loves your body, he’ll give you that.) As much as it annoys him to rely on slinking into your room at night to quell his inner turmoil, he really won’t complain much when he gets to do this.

Would you finally hate him for this? He wonders. Whenever you look at him so tenderly, that is the question at the forefront of his mind. If you only knew what he does to you, what he fantasises about doing to you… would you hate him, as everyone else does? Oh, if only you knew how hard you make him whenever he sees you in a state such as this. He knows you’d hate him. You’d hate him just as much as he hates you. If you knew how addicted he is to caging you in with his thighs and hands, grinding his clothed cock against your hip and thigh with clenched teeth for some sort of release— if you knew this, surely you would hate him. You wouldn’t smile anymore at him, if you saw how he smiles at you when he does this.

The thought gets his breathing all hard and heavy, soft pants escape from him that make him seem like a desperate little bitch in heat. It’s so fucking hard to keep it in his pants. You just look like you’d feel so good… Azul’s hips come to a stop. He rests his head against your shoulder, peering up at you through the strands of hair that fall in front of his eyes. …You wouldn’t mind if he went a little further this time, would you? You’re always so eager to help him during the day, so what’s the difference now? Poor, poor Azul just can’t get the question out of his head—

Does your pussy feel as warm and tight as an octopot? 

Would it be nice to bury himself inside of you, snug and soothing? He wants to know. He has to know. Help him, won’t you? You will help him, will you not? His hands toy with the edge of your waist band, flicking the elastic between his fingers. There’s a fond look in his eyes as he hooks it around his index, catching the other side with his thumb. It’s not a good grip by any means, and it takes some effort to tug it down… but when he finally gets your shorts to your mid thigh, a soft laugh escapes him.

You aren’t wearing any panties. 

Is it that you wanted this to happen? Is that it? Is that why you’re so incessant on being around him, tempting him, clawing at the edges of his mind and splitting him apart with lust? You absolute slut. 

Azul’s mouth salivates at the sight before him. How long has he thought about this? About that diamond at the meeting of your thighs? He can’t help but smile in triumph when he moves to palm himself through his pants. He can feel the precum soaking through the fabric, a notion that both disgusts and appeals to him. Do you know the effect you have on him? 

Ah… He should prepare you first, shouldn’t he? That’s how these things go, don’t they? He needs to get you all wet before he fucks you. His lips purse as he stops his motions, his eyes narrow in scrutiny. Do you even deserve to be pleasured, too? He thinks this when he lowers himself, down, down, down until his face hovers right above your pussy. Now that he actually has you to himself… He licks a singular stripe up your slit, coating it in his saliva. He just has to get you wet. He doesn’t actually care about making you cum. That’s what he reminds himself as he experiments with the different directions of his tongue. His lips, lubricated with spit and just the slightest bit of slick, attach themselves to your clit (it’s not nearly as hard to find as Idia swears it is) and detach themselves with a subtle ‘pop’. 

…That’s what makes you jolt. Perhaps you’re lighter of a sleeper than he thought. For a second, Azul panics. You’re opening your eyes… He can’t let you see him. Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him. You can scream all you want, but don’t, don’t look at him—!

His hand works faster than his brain does, slapping itself rather harshly over the upper half of your face. He’s embarrassed to admit how much his hand shakes— whether it’s from anxiety or the sweet adrenaline boost you just gave him, he can’t tell— as he fumbles to pull his pants down. Damn you. Damn you…! You just had to ruin it didn’t you? He grumbles under his breath at your hyperventilating. You really do have the survival instincts of a fucking manatee, huh? You’re not even screaming.

Beneath his palm, he can feel you beginning to tear up. Part of him wishes to yell at you, but it would be in his best interest to keep quiet and just get this over with. Maybe he can fuck you back into unconciousness, and you’d never even know it was him. Maybe you’d think this was a dream. Azul huffs at that. He’d really love to laugh at you right now… but unfortunately for him, his laugh is quite recognisable. 

His grip around your face tightens. Stop squirming. Normally, he’d be troubled at his weight, but his thighs are thick and they keep you from flailing around beneath him, and that’s quite enough in his favour. He's always been strong for human standards; perhaps he should pin you on your stomach?

…He really should pat himself on the back for these wonderful, wonderful ideas. Azul grins, and he does just that. For a moment, he’s worried he’ll snap your neck from how roughly he turns you— but any slower a movement and you might’ve caught a glance… and he can’t have that now, can he? The need for haste makes him brutal. He shoves you onto your stomach, his weight following to smother any cry you might make into the mattress. One hand plants firmly between your shoulder blades, pinning you down, while the other keeps your head twisted to the side, buried in the duvet to obscure his form. He holds his breath, listening, every muscle tense. Not a glimpse. Good.

What amuses him most is how silently you sob. If he weren’t so entertained, he’d almost be jealous. Whenever he cries, he drowns the room with his sound as much as he does with his tears. How do you manage to do that, he wonders? And how do you manage to be so pliable even in the face of being assaulted? Oh, don’t tell him he’s not the first man to touch you like this…! But as he looks down at your perfect ass, stuck up in the air just for him, he understands why he wouldn’t be the first to want it. 

The feeling of your gummy walls, squeezing so tightly around him… it really does feel like an octopot…! He’d missed the sensation so dearly, so it’s relieving to find a solution. 

He’s never gone this far with you before, so having you hiccuping below him, bare and wet and ready to be split apart on his cock gives him such an addictive rush he almost forgets what troubled him so much in the first place. His breathing weighs heavier and heavier as he runs his tip up against your pussy. He had no idea it could sound so squelchy… how lewd. There are so, so many options for him, now that he has you like this. He could use any hole he wants, put you in any position he wants— it’s all so overwhelming!

The thought makes him giddy, and it sends so much blood rushing below it’s almost painful. So Azul wastes no time in taking just what he came for— sinking himself into your slick warmth, until he’s sheathed in his entirety inside of you. 

There’s a crazed grin on his face when he rocks his hips, and he doesn't care for the pained yelp that leaves your lips. Now, there’s only two things on his mind; how wonderful you are, and how he can’t wait to fill you up, up, up with all of his sticky cum. He wants to see it overflowing and dripping out— but before sunrise, at least.

He has a busy schedule tomorrow, and night activities are an inconvenience.

it wasn't to say it was shocking; the sight of your love tugging at your shorts, dragging the hem with his fingers well past your hips. but what was most curious was why he wanted to do this at such an hour. bleary eyes darted to the clock upon your nightstand. 23:50. by all accounts, it made no sense, really. but, oh… who were you to complain?

nuzzling back into the pillow beneath you, your hand found its familiar place through the silky locks of your boyfriend’s hair. “a bit late isn’t it, pretty boy? what’s the matter with you?”

jamil only smiled, puffing a cold breath of air onto your exposed pussy. the feeling sent a shiver down your spine, and you found yourself resisting the urge to clamp your thighs around his head already. the quirk of his brow showed you his amusement, a kind that you couldn’t discern the origin of for the life of you. “you don’t know? ah. just stay still and enjoy it, then. maybe it’ll click later.” 

you’d no time to question his statement— because he was already licking one stripe up your slit. it was so sudden, sending one strong jolt up your spine. if your relationship were any less established, you’d almost be embarrassed at how aroused you were becoming… with just a few kitten licks, you were already clenching down hoping for more. soon his lips were attaching themselves to your clit, sucking sloppily at the bundle.

“jamil…” your breath hitched in your throat, fist tightening further into his hair. a few tears slipped past your eyes as you clenched them shut, tossing and turning your head to the side. the feeling of his tongue endlessly lapping at your quickly-building arousal was forcing a tight knot into your belly— one that felt on the verge of bursting any time now. you were always so quick to cum, and once you started you could never stop; something jamil knew fully well— and frequently abused.

the first time he’d found out was when you first found out as well. you couldn’t quite remember what had made you so angry that day, but you and your boyfriend had argued and argued until you’d become doped with your own fumes and emanations. till your clothes had been torn away; till he hurled you to the floor and held you there, melting your resistance not with his hypnotic voice, but with the heat of his body. you’d done things with your bodies to express the inexpressible; kissed until you arched your body to meet him and fell asleep in sweet exhaustion. that was your first time. you couldn’t count how many times you’d reached your peak, then— but it seemed that jamil was determined to best it every time he serviced you.

and as his mouth continued against your cunt, his hands slid up your thighs, coming to rest upon your pelvis. it was a terribly intimate gesture. so you pushed yourself up, lifting your hips to meet him. closer, harder. you could feel the bonds inside of you coming undone, each one snapping a little more as more blots and stars appeared in your vision. one of your hands trailed down to intertwine with his, while the other grabbed at the sheets right next to your head.

for a moment, your eyes blew open and all you saw was white. you pushed your boyfriend’s face against your pussy, your body curling into itself as your abdomen tightened up. then a loud cry slipped past your lips, tearing from your throat as the knot inside of you snapped. only your first climax of many, no doubt.

jamil groaned, his adam’s apple bobbing as he greedily drank whatever drop you gave him. once he’d had his fill, he pulled back. but he’d only intended to separate himself from you for a moment, it seemed— because now, he was crawling over you. he gently pried his hand from yours, using it to caress your face. and how beautiful he looked; hovering above with the loose, black curtain of his hair falling down, enclosing you both from the world… you loved your pretty boy best this way. 

his fingers pushed little crescents into your cheek, forcing your mouth into a slight pucker. lowering his face to meet yours, jamil carefully studied your wearied expression, the glistening sweat upon your brow. “beautiful.” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your lips thereafter. it was comically chaste, especially after what he’d just done.

but you both knew he was far from done. you could feel him rubbing against your pussy, lubing himself up with your juices, so you did both of yourselves a favour and spread your legs, allowing his cock full access to wherever he so desired. you relaxed back into the sheets, slinging your arms around his neck. 

“don’t you get tired after such a long day? why are you so full of energy now…?”  you mused in content, enjoying the haze of your post-orgasm, and the feeling of his tip actively teasing at your entrance. in response, your boyfriend’s only reaction was to stare blankly in the way he always did. then a small smile crossed his lips.

“oh? do you want to stop now? because i can—”

“i did not say that!” you rushed, pulling his face down to yours. “don’t you dare stop now, jamil. i mean it. i want more.”

jamil huffed, cupping one hand gently around your neck. he squeezed it just slightly, enough to intensify the dazed-out feeling in your head. that moment of paralysing bliss was when he chose to push himself into you... catching you completely off guard. how mean…!

“shit—! a little warning next time? mmh... you know how sensitive i get! what’s gotten into you?” you yelped, squeezing your thighs around his hips with a shaky exhale. the string of whimpers that followed only spurred him on more. his hips paused for only one moment— before he picked up his own pace.

“you still haven't figured out what time it is?” he grinned widely, folding your legs over your chest. fat globs of cum seeped out of you with the movement, displacing whatever arousal filled you, leaving a white trail along the valley of your ass. you were sure, by now, the bedsheets you’d just recently washed were stained with fluids. 

with the feeling of his cock driving deeper into you, kissing all the right spots against your gummy walls, your back arched— until your neck craned to catch another glimpse of the clock.

midnight on the dot, and… ah.

the start of a very special day for you indeed. now it all made sense. your boyfriend loved to serve you, and it seemed your first gift today would be from him— to become a dumb, fucked out mess.

“happy birthday, pretty girl.”

“𝐎𝐇, 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘! 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 hold out on me, too? You should’ve told me you were coming!”

Essentially, your fate was sealed with two (three?) sentences— sentences that absolutely no version of reality could prepare you for. Because in what fucking world (out of the two you’ve been in) would Riddle Rosehearts be on top of you, smothering you in affections that would normally send him into cardiac arrest? Answer: NONE. So, what the fuck is all this?

There’s so many questions racing through your head all at once. Why is he dreaming about his hair being dyed? Why is he dreaming about being in a band with Chenya of all people? Why is he dreaming about his mother not being a cunt? 

Why is he dreaming about being in a RELATIONSHIP with you—?

If the real, lucid Riddle could realise this circus of a dream he’s having— you think he’d finally clock out of his shift of life. You, in all your confused, midly uncomfortable glory— strewn across his bed after practically being dragged off and tossed onto it. And him, straddling your waist, caging your legs in with his legs— arms around your neck and kissing you into oblivion.

‘Just kill me, just kill me, just kill me—’ Is what you would say if you could talk. But now, his mouth is on yours and you genuinely cannot get a moment to breathe. 

His lips trail down from yours in a feverish rush, scattering kisses along your jaw, the hollow of your throat, that one point of your collarbone that makes your head all fuzzy— And his grip only slides up to your neck and tightens— not choking you, per se (you think you’d kill yourself if he was that freaky), but enough to keep you from moving.

“Long distance is so torturous. Do you have any idea how much I’ve missed you? Why did you have to go to that stupid school, anyway?” He murmurs against your skin, and you think you die inside a little. 

Theoretically… maybe you should lock in and try to get some kind of info out of this— so that you can wake him up…! But it’s kind of hard when the boy you’re just PLATONIC (keyword: platonic) friends with is rubbing up on you like he hasn’t had game for year— Oh, God. He’s sucking on your neck now. HELLO?

You flail an arm, trying to push his head away, but he only nestles closer, nuzzling into your chest with the desperation of a starved man. You were ninety-nine percent sure he was trying to unbutton your shirt with his teeth. Oh, brother. . .

Now, it’s not as if you’re not totally into this… but for the sake of Riddle— the REAL Riddle— you should NOT be entertaining this.

“Uh— Riddle, hi, hello, yes babe I missed you too!” You blurt out, craning your neck back as far as humanly possible. How do Vil and Neige act? How does Ace lie to a motherfucker’s face like a jackass? Because this is genuinely the hardest thing you’ve ever done in your life. “But you can’t just DRAG me away from everyone when you have guests over…! Aren’t you, uhm, excited to see Trey, too…?” 

Your words don’t seem to deter him in the slightest. If anything, he pulls back just long enough to flash you a grin so ridiculously lovesick you almost want to call the nurse. “Oh, forget about them! They’re not going anywhere, anyways. Can’t I love up on you in peace?”

WHAT THE FUCK. Riddle would NOT say this?? Why is he mischaracterising HIMSELF in his own dream???

“…Buddy. You have some fucked up dreams.” You deadpan.

Riddle rolls his eyes. “I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but just shut up and kiss me back, already.” His hand moves to your face, squishing your cheeks so hard your lips are forced into a pucker. Riddle giggles, tilting his head at the sight— before placing a series of chaste pecks right to the center. 

. . .Right. So. Your dignity officially jumps out the window the moment he starts making little mwah, mwah, mwah noises against your lips.

“Ohhh, you’re just so cute!” He croons, and you’re sure he’s damn near buzzing with excitement. “I could just eat you up. You’re so lucky our clothes are still on.”

HUUUUUUHHH?

“WHO is YOU?” Your mouth falls agape, and you shimmy backward until your back hits the grand headboard. You can’t keep up this charade, you genuinely can’t— “I THINK it’s time to go get to know your new bandmates better— you know, the guys waiting in your living room—?! Let’s just—”

“Oh, don’t tease me!” Riddle exclaims, falling into your lap with such a dramatic flair you can hardly believe you’re not the one dreaming here. “I missed you so, so, so much! Please? Just kiss me back once, baby? Pleaseee—!”

There are… even more questions in your head, now. Is he… begging to let him hit? Why is he desperate in his own fucking dream? …WHY is he BEGGING you to LET HIM HIT?

“…If I kiss you, will you go back downstairs and talk to the others?”

“Ugh, I guess…”

Gang. Genuinely, why is he mischaracterising himself? Like unironically? What the hell is going on?? You know it’s just because he’s in a dream Malleus created… but Malleus could NOT possibly be blamed for ALL of this.

So you do just what you promise. You take his face into your hands and you kiss him. One firm, proper kiss.

But unfortunately, Riddle is just big and greedy. One big, gargantuan, gluttonous beast— one that could rival even the fatty Riddle in Trey’s dream. Because one kiss is not enough to satisfy your… temporary boyfriend…?

The second your lips meet his, it’s safe to say he positively devours you. As if the act of you initiating it had greenlighted all of his perverted needs. He surges forward like a drowned man finally given air, hand sliding up sporadically to cradle your jaw. Now, his body is flush against yours, encasing you against the mahogany word of his bed.

You groan despite yourself, surprised at his boldness. It’s a sound that makes Riddle shiver atop of you, and he deepens the kiss instantly— swallowing every noise you make. His thighs clamp tighter around your waist, hips rolling against yours in an action you’re not even sure he’s aware of doing— but it sends a warm feeling between your own thighs nonetheless. 

“Mmgh— ah—!” The little sounds slip out of you whether you like it or not, your hands fisting his shirt as he drags his mouth down to your throat again. He sucks, biting lightly, then laves the sting with his tongue. 

It makes you squirm— you can’t help but do it. But his arms only coil around you, locking you in place.

“Oh, blast… I can’t keep it to just a kiss.” He pants, voice breaking into something whiney and needy. “You’ll let me have more, won’t you? Tell me you will— I need you… I need you right now… right here—!”

It’s all a mess. Hot, sloppy, and just plain greedy. He moans into your mouth and he barely lets you gasp for air— everytime you break away just ends in being pulled in for more— tilting your face just so, thumb brushing over your cheek as if he can’t stop himself from doting on you.

“Fuck, Riddle! Behave yourself—?!” You gasp, feeling his hand trail beneath the hem of your skirt. It’s a gesture far too obscene for the Riddle Rosehearts to be making— but… shit, he certainly drives a hard bargain. However, at the end of the day. . .

You’re lucid, and he’s dreaming. So you do the responsible thing and wrench him off of you, sneaking one last kiss before it.

But seeing the poor pout on his cute face and the obvious tent in his pants… There's only one question you have, now;

When he does wake up… will he agree to continue this?

At once she stirred, her lips puckering in sleep, a soft coo escaping her. That tiny sound tightened something deep in your chest— and if you had been any more a fool you’d think it your heart. So you kissed her again, just to hear it once more, and again, your insides fluttered. Her fat little cheek warmed against your lips, and what was still strange to you was that she was soft. She was alive; A little, living thing. And her brothers made their protest at being ignored— one wriggled in his wrappings, a small fist punching the air; the other loosed a half-formed cry that never quite found its strength. They were living, too. That was even nice.

“Little brats…” You murmured, and bent to them too, brushing your lips over their brows, their cheeks. The restless one gave a wet, squeaky sigh; the other gurgled, content. You had not thought such sounds could exist outside of dreams.

Malleus shifted them faintly, not out of discomfort but as though to remind himself they were real— something you often did yourself. One of the boys yawned, mouth opening like a little fish, chubby cheeks stretching as if the world itself were too heavy a burden to hold in such a small body, and Malleus’ chest rumbled with something close to laughter. He bowed his head, the sweep of his hair falling forward to curtain them, and for a moment you thought he might hide them from you altogether; a dragon folding its wings over its hoard. Typical. 

“This one looks just like you.” He gestured, dipping his head to your daughter. 

You scoffed, though softly, scrutinising him through your lashes. “This one? You know these are your children, right?”

He smiled in return— if the slight curve of his lips could even be called that— though his gaze was fixed and heavy, like he was studying some detail you’d rather leave unnoticed. “Do you?” He asked finally. “You’ve yet to name them. Perhaps you’d rather not admit they’re yours.”

“What nonsense are you spouting now?” You quipped. It should have stung, maybe, but you had long since lost the energy to let words wound you. So you only leaned closer, let your lips brush your son’s head, and said without hesitation, “Ace."

Malleus stilled, and you felt the shift in his body even though he didn’t move, his eyes burning down into you, searching. 

You ignored him. Your lips passed over the restless boy next, the one forever wriggling against his wrappings. “Deuce.” You whispered, with no more ceremony than one gives to a passing thought. Then at last, the smallest— your little girl. And to her you gave your own name, not minding if now it belonged to someone other than you.

When you straightened, the weight of Malleus’ gaze was still on you. Murderous on all accounts, really, but you didn’t exactly have a problem with that anymore. It wasn’t as though it was shocking. 

“Do you have anything better?” You asked finally, your tone flat, almost wry, as if the exchange were no more than idle banter.

For a long moment there was nothing, only the soft little sounds of your children rustling in his arms. Then he inclined his head, just faintly, and his voice came low. 

“…Hm. I suppose not.”

You exhaled, something like satisfaction curling in your chest, though it was thin, though it was fragile. 

He looked down again at the small bundle pressed nearest to his heart and adjusted his grip with a gentleness you would have never thought him capable of if you hadn’t witnessed it yourself. His lips shaped the name slowly, almost warily, as if he had to try it on his tongue before he could accept it. 

“(Y/N).” He muttered, and the irony between you was not lost to either of you.

“She wears it better than me. I do not like hearing you call me that, anyway.”

The words left your mouth without thought, and you let your head tip sideways until it found the slope of his shoulder. Your babies pressed gently between you both, small bodies shifting now and then with sounds that vibrated faintly against your ribs, so that your chest rose and fell in time with theirs and his. You felt caged by it— his size, their softness, the sheer inevitability of it all— and yet you held still, because they were yours, and that was all that ever was, and all that would ever be.

Malleus turned his face then, just enough for his breath to ghost your temple, and you lifted your chin the slightest bit, a motion so small it could have been mistaken for nothing at all— until his mouth found yours. 

Kisses were supposed to be sweet, or passionate, or tender. A kiss was supposed to carry laughter and sorrow and every vulnerability hanging upon the lips, love spilling easy and steady out into your beloved. That was a kiss— you already knew about kisses... But this? What was being done to you? This was no kiss.

…But no matter what it was, it was yours now. All of it; the man in front of you, three little bundles embraced between two hearts—

Your husband, your children. Now, and forevermore.

CAITLYN ‘CATER’ DIAMOND, ONE of the first upperclassmen to wrap an arm around your waist and pull you in for a warm, sisterly hug. Just pay no mind to that other arm which carefully wraps itself around your neck, ensuring your face plants itself right between her breasts. It honestly becomes a routine every time you see her, to be pulled into that embrace— and to be stuck there until she decides to let you go.

CATER, who is so eager to see her favourite girl every time she pays you and your little first-year friend group a visit. She always makes sure to have one hand resting on you at all times— those nimble fingers with those short, well-kept nails deftly fidgeting with anything nearby— your hair, your hand, the hem of your skirt... CATER always keeps herself on you, refusing to let up no matter who you two find yourselves in front of. For some odd reason, however, you let her. So even when she seeks you out and plays with you right in front of your friends— you can’t exactly say no…

Perhaps it’s the way in which CATER carries herself; the charisma that she has. The way in which she can so easily talk you into anything— whether it be convincing you to go on a little shopping date— ‘Just one on one, the two of us! Best friends—’ or even to your bed, insisting on doing all things trendy and girly. And for some odd reason, you always seem to agree to whatever she proposes.

You’ve lost track of how many times CATER has carried you around the shopping district of the island… always so insistent on taking you into those stores with those cute lingerie sets out front in the windows’ display— a bit too lacey and a bit too revealing for the eyes of someone you aren’t in a relationship with. Even so, CATER always ends up pulling you into a changing room, those skillful fingers tugging at both your skirt and hers as she insists you model for her— even try on a matching pair with her. You always end up doing it too, you know… even taking pictures with matching poses— her soft legs often entwining with yours as she tugs you closer, phone in hand and pointed towards the body-length mirror.

You can only pray to God she chooses not to post them— CATER has never been a stranger to posting promiscuous pictures, after all.

On the bright side...? CATER is very good at doing your nails, even owning a nail tech kit herself. She herself seems to be obsessed with those long nails with the 3D artworks, and it begs the question in your mind a few times— though you never ask her— if she loves long nails, why doesn’t she have them herself? Whenever CATER sweet-talks her way into your dorm— just for a girls’ sleepover, she says— her fingers are always running through your hair as she encourages you to lay in between her legs. Her nails are not long or sharp by any means, so it's always so soothing against your scalp that you never seem to realise how fidgety her lower-half becomes, and how hard her thighs encase themselves against your head.

CATER loves to tease you, at how flustered you become when you deem her antics a bit too far. Of course, ‘We’re both girls, it’s nothing serious! This is common in this school!' is always her go-to excuse... and with the way she so proudly says it as she tugs on your arm, you’re inclined to believe her. So, you allow her to continue to use you as her little dress-up doll, and you allow her to continue climbing into your bed at night when she wants you— willing yourself to ignore the way her hips subtly grind against you as you find yourself in that familiar position of laying between her legs, willing yourself to ignore how convenient those short nails would be, and how good the gems decorating them would feel if they rubbed up against your inner-walls...

Oh! And that’s not to forget that damned tongue piercing of hers that CATER just loves showing off to you in all the subtlest of ways. Just how would that cold metal feel when flicked against your—

CATER just loves seeing the effect she has on innocent little cuties like you— even if she has to manipulate her way into getting it.

TRACEY ‘TREY’ CLOVER, YOUR sweet upperclassman who is so, very gentle with you the moment you meet her— just like a big sister! Knowing that you have someone like her in your life, especially after being displaced into another world so suddenly, almost brings you to tears. TREY is happy to let you know that she will be by your side whenever you need her, for whatever you need her for. And she's even happier when you begin to actively seek her out on your own accord.

TREY gladly indulges in your childish requests to be held and reassured, and coos at the sight of those pretty tears rolling down the little apples of your cheeks when a new school— let alone a new world— just becomes too much for you. Why, TREY just adores knowing how helpless her little girl is; All putty in her arms and unable to stop the waterworks...!

There’s just something about being held in TREY’S warm embrace, with those hands— calloused from all the work she does at home— stroking the back of your head, that makes you hiccup and sniffle, pressing yourself into her more and unable to resist when she guides you to lean into the crook of her neck.

TREY’S tongue is as sweet as the pastries she insists on baking for you, terms of endearment rolling off so naturally, smooth like honey as she buries her nose into your hair, whispering sweet nothings against your scalp as her hands rub circles into your back.

And oh, those words have such an effect that you hardly even notice those fleeting moments where TREY’S hands reach down to the back of your thighs, squeezing them ever so slightly— nor do you realise how her breath hitches in her throat, or the glossed over look in her eyes.

TREY is someone you can trust, and she seems almost hellbent on burning that into your mind. It becomes so normal for you to run into her arms whenever you’re feeling down, that every time you feel tears well up in your eyes your body almost craves TREY’S touch. The influence TREY has over you is one that has you laying in your bed at night, your own hands wandering your body in a cheap replacement of hers, time moving agonisingly slow each night she cannot be with you when the night gets dark.

The times where you do get to see her are always a highlight in your day. You look forward to sitting down with her as she spoon feeds you those delicious tarts of hers, each bite you take boosting that wonderful haze in your mind, until all you can focus on is the sight of TREY smiling sweetly as she looks down on you, thumb pressing against your bottom lip as she wipes away crumbs from your messy eating. Every time you ask her what she puts into those filling that makes it absolutely divine— almost addicting... and every time you’re shut down with a smile, and a finger pressed to her lips.

...In a matter of weeks, it’s almost scary how dependent you become on her. Suddenly, every pastry that isn’t TREY’S— and being fed to you by her hand— doesn’t taste quite right. Suddenly, every time you find yourself sitting in your bathtub without her at your side— or inside it with you, roughened hands trailing across your entire body, slathering those soapy suds all over you— it feels empty. Without your sweet TREY, everything just doesn’t feel quite right, and the thought alone brings you to tears.

TREY simply thrives off of having you in her embrace, so worked up that you’re unable to even so much as refuse her advances, when her sweet lips move to kiss away your tears, or when her hands— so rough, and yet, so gentle— press and knead against the fat of your thighs and stomach like dough. TREY adores how she can do anything she puts her mind to with her sweet, pliant little girl— how she can convince you to do absolutely anything she wants, and how you so easily nod your head and gaze up at her through those teary eyes. You become so obedient for her, so much so that she doesn’t even need to feed you those tarts, anymore.

So very innocent, and so very stupid you are— not even beginning to question how you end up in TREY’S bedroom after curfew, back against the plush surface of her bedsheets.

…Unfortunately for you, sweet ‘big sister’ TREY does have a little bit of a mean-streak.