୧ ‧₊˚ My Miner's headcanons from Clash Royale 'cuz I'm addicted to him fr *:･₊˚.
⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ ABOUT HIM:
His name is Miler Feldor, a young man who is following in his father's footsteps through the mines. When he was younger, he enlisted in the knights' school. It was his big dream, but he was rejected on the second day of school because he wasn't fit enough. There he met 🔗Marcus🔗, a young man who was bullied almost all the time by others.
Marcus and Miler became very quick friends, a mutual welcome even, one too weak the other too strong. Miler was very happy to know that his friend had graduated before everyone else and was now The Mega Knight, the highest office of knights in the kingdom of Bluestone and for his friendship, Marcus gave a mining helmet as a gift, which he has worn ever since.
Miler is kinda of a foodie, especially cheese bread. He takes two or three breaks during work just to make a snack.
He can't/likes to swear.
He also has a little secret crush on Marcus, but prefers to just keep the friendship going as he knows of some of his "private conversations" with Dark Prince.
I’ll add more stuff to this post in the future (๑¯ω¯๑)
⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ Lumberjack x Hunter fluff fanfic requested from Twitter yaayayya ୧ ‧₊˚⋆
A\N: I made al the blog on my cellphone, if something is wrong just tell me 🙏🏾
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
"You're Dumber Than I Thought"
Lumberjack rubbed his swollen eye and spat on the dirt floor of the cabin. The nearly empty bottle of rage spell dangled in his hand, dripping a fuchsia-colored liquid that smelled of spoiled yeast and something that must have died in a forest three weeks ago. "Damn it, where's the axe?" he muttered, rummaging through a pile of dirty clothes that looked more like a skunk's nest.
Outside, a bat cut through the air, followed by the dry crack of a rifle. Lumberjack stood motionless, listening to the heavy footsteps in the undergrowth. Only an idiot walked like a bull in that part of the woods – and he knew that idiot well. "Hank, you bastard!" he roared, bumping into a metal bucket that rolled like thunder across the cabin.
But the hunter didn't even care about the shout echoing through the forest. He was more concerned with the hare he'd managed to catch – skinny, but it would make a decent broth. His calloused, bloodstained fingers ripped the empty cartridge from the rifle with a swift movement. "You hear me, Stanford? Stop yelling or you'll scare away the rest of the game!" he replied, spitting a piece of chewed tobacco onto the ground. His voice was hoarse, as if he'd swallowed sand his whole life.
Hank heard the metallic screech of the axe being sharpened on the whetstone coming from the direction of the cabin, that sharp sound that cut through the silence of the forest like a knife through crumbs. "That bastard," he muttered, shaking his head as he rubbed the soot from his rifle barrel on his coat sleeve. He knew that rhythm—three quick strokes, a pause, then two more. It was the lumberjack's signature when he was furious and ready to fight.
Stanford emerged from the trees, staggering, the axe gleaming in the weak morning sun, the bottle still dangling from a cord attached to his belt. "Hank, you son of a bitch!" he yelled, spitting on the ground. The smell of his furious spell emanated from him like old engine fumes—an acidic mixture of rotten yeast and decaying lotus flower. Hank wrinkled his nose and took two steps back, feeling his stomach churn. "What the hell, Stanford? You stink like a dead skunk on a rainy day!"
The lumberjack chuckled, swinging the nearly empty bottle like a trophy. "That smells like a real man!" he boasted, patting his own belly, which was covered in dirt and grease. "That smells like someone who fell in Hog Rider's pig shit last week!" Hank rolled his eyes, but couldn't help but grin crookedly.
At that exact moment, a rustling of dry leaves crackled in the dense undergrowth behind them. The hunter reacted before he could even think—his hand covered Stanford's mouth forcefully enough to make the lumberjack choke on his own breath, while Hank's gray eyes scanned the bushes like magnifying glasses. "Shut up, you drunk," he whispered, his voice so low it was barely audible. The smell of tobacco and aged leather from Hank's boots mingled with Stanford's stench.
That's when the shrill metallic sound cut through the air—"AÑA!"—followed by a small, gleaming figure darting through the trees like a silver lightning bolt. The Mini Pekka suddenly appeared, short sword raised, and headed straight for the staggering lumberjack. His little blue eyes nearly went out in the middle of his face, distorted with hatred, when he smelled the lumberjack. "Shit," Hank spat, searching for the net cartridge in his pouch.
Stanford barely had time to react. He tried to spin to escape, but the fury coursing through his veins blurred everything. His right foot struck a stone hidden beneath the leaves, and he fell face-first to the ground, rolling like a stripped log. "Damn it!" he groaned, trying to get up while seeing stars—more dizzy than usual, even for a professional drunk like him. The axe slipped from his hand and landed in a thorny bush.
The Mini Pekka raised its silver sword in a deadly arc, its blue eye, electrified with hatred, blinking like a faulty lightbulb. The blade hissed through the air inches from Stanford's neck, who was still trying to get up from the ground, his knees trembling. Then the dry crack of the net exploded in the silence of the forest – Hank had hit the target at the last possible second, the cartridge spinning like a top before opening like a metallic spiderweb and capturing the little creature.
Stanford used the second the Mini Pekka was entangled in the net to retrieve the axe and spin it with an awkward – but efficient – movement. The blade grazed the creature's metallic arm, leaving a deep scratch that gleamed like exposed copper wire. "Take this, you old tin can!" he growled, his tongue heavy with so much fury. The Mini Pekka cowered like a startled cockroach, letting out a sharp screech that sent birds flying from the trees.
"Stanford, you idiot with a worm brain!" Hank yelled, grabbing the lumberjack by the collar and pulling him back forcefully. The smell of dirty clothes and sour sweat almost made him cough. "Do you really want him to go berserk right here next to us? Those scratches only make him angrier, you animal!" The hunter's fingers dug into Stanford's shoulder like claws, feeling the hard bones beneath the soft, drunken flesh.
The two men froze mid-argument when a heavy tremor shook the ground, making the dry leaves jump like startled popcorn. The growl came from behind the trees – "BUTTERFLY!" – so hoarse and metallic that even Stanford's teeth chattered. Hank felt his blood run cold as he recognized the tone: it was that furious mother's timbre that even the wolves of the forest feared.
The woods parted like a theater curtain as the real Pekka emerged, three times larger than her imprisoned son. Her metallic chest creaked with every step, throwing blue sparks against the tree trunks. Her sword – wider than the lumberjack's torso – reflected the sunlight like a beacon of death. "BIG... problem," Stanford swallowed hard, realizing for the first time that maybe it wasn't his day to die drunk.
Hank didn't wait two seconds to understand the magnitude of the mess they were in. "RUN, YOU DRUNK ASSHOLE!", he yelled, kicking Stanford hard enough to send the lumberjack rolling downhill like a runaway barrel. Pekka let out a roar that made pine cones fall from the trees, but as everyone who had ever been hit by her knew, the thing was slower than a square-wheeled cart.
Hank slid through the soft mud to the bottom of the slope, his muddy boots leaving deep ruts in the damp ground. Stanford lay face down on the grass like a sack of potatoes, his chest rising and falling in jagged movements—harder than usual even for a chronic drunk. "Shit," the hunter spat, turning the lumberjack over with a growl. Stanford's skin was cold and clammy, his lips purple and cracked like old tree bark. The bottle of rage spell still dripped from the cord attached to his belt, the pink liquid forming small puddles on the ground.
Hank dragged Stanford across the ground like a wet sack of flour, the hunter's back muscles tensing beneath his shirt stained with hunting grime. "I can't believe you let yourself get to this point…," he growled through clenched teeth, feeling the lumberjack's bones almost piercing his skin through the worn shirt.
The cabin was messier than usual—and usual was already a pigsty. Empty bottles rolled beneath Hank's feet as he threw Stanford onto the wooden bed, making the straw mattress creak like a dying rat. The smell of dried vomit and musty clothing hit the hunter like a punch. "Damn it, Stanford, you're living like a pig!" he spat, snatching the empty bottle from the lumberjack's lanyard and throwing it against the wall where it shattered into pink shards.
Hank kicked open the jammed window, letting the icy forest wind clear some of the stale air. He returned to the bedside and gripped Stanford's swollen face between his rough hands, examining the dilated pupils that looked like two wells of black ink. "Listen here, you bastard—if you die from an overdose of cheap magic, I swear I'll hunt down your ghost just to kill you again."
Outside, the distant roar of the Pekka still echoed among the trees, but Hank was already plunging his hands into a rusty cauldron, brewing a tea strong enough to resurrect the dead. "You're going to drink this shit to the last drop," he ordered, throwing a handful of bitter roots that smelled of old kerosene into the boiling water. "And if you vomit, I'll hold you by the hair until you swallow it again."
Stanford barely managed to lift his head from the filthy pillow. His field of vision was reduced to a blurry sliver, where he saw Hank moving like a blurry shadow—but the smell of the old blanket the hunter had thrown over him was unmistakable: tanned bear hide, dried tobacco, and the characteristic rancidity of decades without washing. "Hank... you..." he tried to speak, but only a hoarse groan came out, more like the snort of a sick pig. His tongue was swollen, sticky with recycled rage spell.
The hunter ignored the silent protest and rubbed his rough hands against Stanford's chest, trying to warm the cold meat that looked more like a piece of dead meat hanging in a roadside butcher shop. "You're colder than a witch's heart, you idiot," he grumbled, throwing more wood on the stove until the flames almost licked the low ceiling of the cabin. Shadows danced on the wooden walls, drawing grotesque shapes that followed the lumberjack's tremors.
Hank reached into the leather bag hanging on the wall and pulled out a scratched enamel bowl—a gift from some drunken goblin years ago. The greasy chicken soup inside the can was still steaming, spreading a homemade smell that seemed alien in that den of rancidity and cheap alcohol. "Open your mouth, Stanford, before I rip your jaw off," he growled, grabbing the lumberjack by the chin with one hand and pouring the broth down his dry throat with the other. Some drops fell onto his unshaven beard, dripping like acid rain onto his dirty shirt.
Stanford's palate was so wrecked by the spell of rage that he barely tasted the cinnamon and garlic—just something hot going down like an anchor in an empty stomach. His body writhed in an involuntary spasm, but Hank held on tight like a vise, forcing him to swallow every last drop. "That's it, you bastard, swallow it all," the hunter spat, rubbing the lumberjack's back with brutal movements that almost tore the skin off. "You're living off canned food like a beggar, that's why you're weaker than a wolf pup."
A burp escaped Stanford's lips, followed by a groan that could have been of relief or pain—even he was confused. His swollen eyes blinked slowly, trying to focus on the piles of crushed ham cans that surrounded the bed like a lunatic's fortifications. Hank gripped the empty bowl like a weapon, his knuckles white from gripping. "The next bottle I see in your hand, Stanford, I swear on everything that's holy I'm going to shove it up your ass." His voice cracked at the end, less from anger and more from something he didn't even want to name.
Outside, the sound of metal creaking against tree trunks still echoed, but now accompanied by a new noise—the snapping of thick branches being ripped off like twigs. Pekka was making her way, and by the pace, she wasn't just looking for her son anymore. Hank looked at the cabin door, where a crack was beginning to form in the woodwork, accompanied by a bluish glow that penetrated the gaps like lightning. "Damn it, Stanford," he muttered, tugging at the lumberjack's arm like a sack of potatoes. "Now we have two problems: you dying and that damn metal mom wanting to turn us into jelly."
Stanford tried to crawl toward the forgotten axe in the corner, but fell face-first to the ground, spitting out dirt and wood splinters. His fingers closed around the broken bottle he'd thrown earlier, the shards cutting the thick skin of his palms without him even feeling it. Hank looked at the scene with a tightness in his chest that wasn't fear—it was that damn guilt that always surfaced when he remembered he could have intervened sooner. "Forget the axe, idiot," the hunter growled, shoving his hand into his inside coat pocket and heading for the door, "you're lucky I'm an experienced hunter..."
From there, even Stanford could hear the metallic screech of the Pekka rolling down the hill like a steamroller, tearing up trees in its path. But it was the high-pitched squeak of the Mini Pekka on top of her head that made the hairs on the back of Hank's neck stand on end. The little creature was making a racket that sounded like a rusty jackhammer, pointing its injured arm at the man. A large pine needle was tied to the cut with a perfect bow, as if someone had taken care of that little devil.
Hank pulled a rusty little jar from his pocket that had "corn" written on it in peeling letters. Inside, two blue butterflies were frantically flapping their wings against the fogged glass. "If it worked once, it'll work again…," he muttered to himself as he shook the jar, making the bright little wings create patterns of light. Stanford's swollen eyes widened, trying to understand what that crazy old man was doing—until he remembered the stories Hank used to tell while drinking cheap moonshine about the weaknesses of the Kingdom's warriors.
The Pekka's approaching roar was so loud it knocked the last intact bottles off Stanford's shelf. But when Hank snapped the jar open and the butterflies flew out in crazy spirals, even the Mini Pekka silenced its metallic cry. The Pekka froze mid-step, its head spinning to follow the movement of the blue wings with a clinking of gears. For a second, only the soft beating of wings and the creaking of metal could be heard. Stanford took the opportunity to let out a wet fart that echoed in the cabin, making Hank roll his eyes at the sky as if asking the gods for patience.
The Pekka took two unsteady steps after the butterflies, its gigantic sword falling to the ground with a dull thud that made the ground tremble. Hank grabbed Stanford by the collar of his shirt and dragged him behind the fireplace, expecting the worst—but the metallic mother just kept walking, completely ignoring the two men. Her eyes shone with a soft blue hue, reflecting the mesmerizing patterns of the wings. The Mini Pekka jumped to the ground and chased after her, still whimpering, but now more out of spite than anger.
Hank stood still until the last creak of the armor faded into the forest, then sank into a wooden bench as if someone had cut his ropes. "For God's sake, Stanford…," he muttered, wiping the sweat from his brow with his already soaked sleeve. The smell of tobacco, dried fear, and forgotten chicken soup filled the cabin. Stanford could barely keep his eyes open, but still had the breath to laugh—a hoarse, broken sound that ended in a coughing fit that felt like it tore a chunk out of his lung.
The hunter looked at the dying lumberjack, then at the empty butterfly jar, and finally at the broken door, where only the cold night wind now entered. "The next time I see you drinking that pink crap…," Hank began, but stopped, rubbing his face with his rough hands. There was no point in threatening a man who was more like a corpse than a drunk. Instead, he picked up the forgotten soup pot from the ground and poured some more into Stanford's half-open mouth. "Swallow, idiot. You're not going to die today."
"Hanky…" Lumberjack tried to speak, but the spoon went into his mouth. Hank only mumbled something in Dutch, wiping the sweat from his brows with his arm. The iron of the spell still simmered in that poisoned blood, but the lukewarm soup somewhat eased the burning sensation.
When silence finally fell over the forest, he let out a nervous burp and yanked the empty pot from the ground. "I spent my last butterflies to save your stinky ass."
Stanford was half-dead, with one foot in the grave, but he managed a crooked laugh that ended in a cough. "Afraid of getting away without me, hunter?" His eyes were so red they looked like they'd been rubbed with pepper.
Hank threw the jar against the wall hard enough to leave a mark. "Afraid? Of you?" He grabbed the hot water bottle from the table and threw it in Stanford's face. "Drink this shit before I change my mind and leave you here for Pekka to play with when I get back."
͙͛ ˚₊⋆ Electro Wizard x Night Witch fanfic 'cuz i love nerd x goth dynamic ୧ ‧₊˚
꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶
"You're Gonna Sleep Anyway."
The coffee spilled on the counter was still steaming when E-Wiz bumped into the third empty cup of the night. His fingers trembled against the notebook, filled with hastily scribbled circuit diagrams.
"Two entangled photons can communicate instantly, did you know?" he muttered to the walls, twirling a pen between his singed fingers like a lightning bolt about to strike. In the next room, Wizard and Ice Wizard snored in ridiculous synchronicity after giving up on sleep, exhausted from their younger brother's frenzy.
The laboratory window creaked softly, and Night Witch slipped inside like a shadow accustomed to the routine. Her eyes gleamed at the sight of E-Wiz, his hair disheveled and his expression as if he'd lost track of time. "Sleepless again, my mad scientist?" she whispered, approaching with feline steps.
He looked up, his pupils dilated with caffeine, and gripped her wrist with desperate urgency. "Nighty, I need to explain quantum entanglement to you! If I can replicate it in the tower's circuits—" Night Witch placed a finger on his lips, but E-Wiz continued babbling about particles and probabilities, his hands gesturing like a conductor in a frenzy. She sighed, feeling his accelerated pulse against her skin.
"Honey, you haven't slept in six days," she murmured, trying to guide him away from the workbench cluttered with wires and papers. He resisted, clinging to the project like a shipwrecked man to a plank. "B-but the answer is here! It's just missing… it's just missing…" His eyes blinked too rapidly, the words jumbled in his dry mouth.
"You smell like stale coffee and stress," she said, burying her nose in his neck. The frantic pace of E-Wiz's words slowed as her fingers slid down the nape of his neck, finding the right spots. "N-Nighty, the magnetic field…," he stammered, but she only tightened her arms around him, stifling his protests. "Silence, my scientist. You're going to sleep tonight."
He wanted to argue—he always had—but his muscles began to give way as Night Witch started to sway gently, as if rocking a restless puppy. His eyes were heavy, but still resisted. "What if… w-what if I…"
E-Wiz shuddered suddenly, as if an electric shock ran down his spine. "N-no, not now!" He pulled away sharply from her embrace, almost tripping over loose wires on the floor. His fingers gripped the workbench covered in schematics, his nails scratching the paper as his breathing quickened. "You don't understand, it's all connected! The circuits, the particles, the tower—"
Night Witch frowned at his glazed eyes, jumping from schematic to schematic as if following an invisible trail. The pungent smell of burnt coffee mingled with the metallic odor of his perspiration. "You're seeing things that aren't there," she murmured, trying to move closer again, but he recoiled like a frightened cat.
"They are there! They're the patterns!" E-Wiz waved a chaotic drawing of wires and numbers under her nose, his fingers leaving ink stains on her pale face. "The t-tower will shut everything down i-if I don't—" His chin trembled, the words coming out in disjointed fragments. Night Witch felt a chill down her spine; she had never seen him so far from reality.
Night Witch let out a sharp whistle that echoed through the lab, and in seconds three bats emerged from the darkness, flapping their wings around E-Wiz's head. "H-Hey! What—" He tried to shoo them away, but the little vampires persisted, pecking at his hair and tugging at his ears with theatrical care. Meanwhile, Night Witch slid behind him, her light hands gripping the collar of his clothes.
With a fluid movement, she sat on the counter and pulled him close, wrapping her fleshy thighs around his neck like an armor of flesh and bone. "Rest," she ordered, her fingers sinking lightly into his tense shoulders.
E-Wiz tried to protest, but the heat of her body was already beginning to suffocate his resistance. His racing thoughts collided with the softness of her thighs, the scent of damp earth and night-blooming flowers. "B-but… the e-electrons…" he murmured, before darkness finally overtook him, his heavy head sinking into her soft lap like a shooting star.
It was at that exact moment that Wizard pushed open the lab door, his robe hastily tied and his face, still swollen with sleep, covered in moisturizer. "For the love of King Royale, boy! Shut your trap or else—" his voice died in his throat at the sight: E-Wiz passed out, motionless as a rag doll, his face buried between the goth woman's legs. Night Witch slowly raised her eyes, a mischievous little smile dancing on her lips as she kept her fingers intertwined in the boy's tousled hair.
Wizard stood paralyzed, alternating between embarrassment and relief at seeing his brother finally asleep. "I… um… is he…?" he stammered, pointing at E-Wiz, unsure where to look. Night Witch gave the sleeping scientist's limp ear a light flick.
"He's dead tired, but alive enough for you to carry him to bed," she replied, stretching her legs in an invitation for Wizard to take on the burden.
The crimson wizard swallowed hard, carefully picking up E-Wiz by the armpits while Night Witch unwrapped his legs like silk ribbons. "Will everything be alright?" he asked, avoiding her eyes as he dragged his limp little brother. Night Witch jumped off the counter, adjusting her corset with a snap of her laces.
"As long as you and your older brother learn to control his caffeine intake," she sighed, disappearing into the shadows of the hallway with one last worried look at E-Wiz.
Wizard sighed, carrying his brother, supported on his shoulder, to his bed, finally sleeping peacefully. "I don't know how he managed to get a girlfriend like Night Witch being so… hyperactive," Ice Wizard commented, finally adjusting his pillow to sleep. E-Wiz let out a genuine snore when Wizard tucked the blanket over the younger brother, and they both chuckled. "What matters is that he's finally switched off now."
"And so are we, I couldn't stand his chatter in my head anymore." Both brothers exchanged a 'goodnight' before snuggling into their beds.
Sitting on the table, the wizard held notebooks stacked on top of each other, open to pages filled with notes he had written himself. He read them meticulously over and over again in a low voice. Due to the obvious marks on the paper, the letters had been rewritten in dozens of failed attempts. His gaze, fixed on every trace of graphite left by the pencils broken on the table, showed his focus on what he was doing. In addition to the exhausting effort, he missed studying tirelessly to present his work; it reminded him of his years as a student, which he missed so much. That day, he was waiting for a long-time friend to spend the afternoon together and explain some basic concepts of physics in a superficial way; that was why he was studying static energy again, as was to be expected. Time had not been able to take away his passion for electricity, even though it hurt him every day.
He returned the notebooks to their previous place, among the messy table covered with books and loose sheets of paper, which he organised efficiently, yet sloppily. This was so that it would take as little time as possible. Getting up from the table, he walked lightly across the room to erase one side of the blackboard, which was held in place by a stand. Once again, he walked in search of a box of chalk, which was on the table where he had previously been sitting. As he walked, his thoughts were interrupted by four soft knocks on the bedroom window, followed by a gentle laugh and the recognisable sounds of bats, which grew fainter as the footsteps approached the window. “Welcome!” The professor greeted her, pulling back the curtains and opening the window, still awkward because she had arrived so suddenly. It was 6:00 p.m., as they had agreed. But he easily lost track of time when he was focused on something.
“Thank you very much... Good heavens, it got cold so quickly that I had to hurry before it started raining.” She smiled back, looking away in embarrassment, entering the room as quickly as she could. She left her shoes next to the axe, which was leaning close to where she had arrived, avoiding accidents and making it easier to see if she needed it. “I would have left it for another day if I had known the weather would be so bad today, sorry for the inconvenience…” He closed the windows, going around the bed so he could sit on the edge of it. He also invited the woman to sit next to him, patting the spot lightly.
“No problem, I love rainy weather, it's only bad when I forget to bring something to protect me from the water. Thank gosh I arrived before the rain.” She sat down next to him, superficially hurting her own fingers with her sharp nails, looking around the room to get her bearings. She turned her face towards the wizard, but did not see him there. He would have gone to one of the sideboards while pouring hot water from the kettle into a cup. He was very quick when he wanted to be, but too slow without realising it. “Do you like cinnamon tea? I remember seeing you buy a whole packet in the boroughs a few months ago.” He glanced at her quickly, continuing to pour hot water into the other cup on the tray.
“I actually love it, but I use it more for spells than for consumption. Cinnamon is great for improving self-confidence.” The young man offered her cup, she nodded her head in thanks for the tea, blowing on the steam rising from it. “I figured that was why, but I don't know anything about magic.” He admitted, drinking the content of the cup without caring about the temperature, which was already reasonable for consumption. At least for him.
“Wasn't you a wizard?” She asked in explicit doubt, wondering if she had misheard something. “Well, I don't think anyone else knows this, but I can only externalise electricity from my body because I drank a whole bottle of a shock spell. I was so tired that I thought it was my coffee. I'm just an inventor who had an accident, I didn't want to be a wizard. But I've changed my mind from dealing with so many problems because I don't have much control over my “property”...” He replied to her calmly, leaving the empty cup on the tray and returning to the Night witch's side. She had fallen completely silent, feeling guilty for the question she asked. “No need to feel bad, I'm used to it.” Said the electrician, lightly touching her shoulder with a gentle, carefree smile.
“I can help you with that, if you'll let me,” She said after another sip of tea. “Send me a letter when you're available, and we'll sort this out at the first opportunity we have.” She added, lighting a small blue flame on her fingernail as if it were a match. She tilted her index finger towards him, indirectly asking him to blow it out; he blew on it, impressed by the physical self-control she demonstrated with an act that seemed so simple.
“Thank you... bat” He nicknamed her, with another weak laugh, accompanied by more laughter from the vampire, who seemed to have liked what she heard. “I can't imagine taking shocks every day, I'll introduce you to magical practices.” She hated the idea of him suffering for most of his life, restricting himself from normal activities because of something seemingly irreparable. On the other hand, she saw the chance to spend more time with him, but she also put herself in his shoes. “I almost forgot, do you still want to hear a little lesson?” He asked as he got up, took a piece of chalk from his pocket and stood in front of the blackboard. “Whenever you want.” She also stood up for a moment, just to adjust her back and sit down again in the same place, while trying to keep her eyes focused on the board and attention in the voice lecturing her.
The inventor gestured sometimes to soften his rhetoric, pointing to parts of the blackboard, sometimes underlining phrases and repeating words already written there, defining concepts topic by topic as if he were talking about his own life. The minutes flew by, and little by little, the Witch lost focus in class. She found herself caught up in the sound of that gentle voice, uncertain in the intrusive thoughts that her mind projected with every movement of the lips of the man in front of her as he pronounced words she could barely understand. An involuntary twitch of one of her eyes brought her back to reality. The teacher was still talking, but already concluding his class. She would have listened to that passage with difficulty, but she did. Noticing the end of the class, she clapped her hands lightly in gratitude for his willingness to share his knowledge with her. “Gods, you explain so well... Have you ever been a teacher?” With the hand she used to support herself on the bed, she now retracted her muscles to hold the sheets. Still oblivious to her surroundings, her eyes did not stray from his lips for a single moment. And as always, he noticed no difference in the other's behaviour, who seemed intoxicated by her own consciousness, doing everything she could not to show it; it didn't work, but the wizard didn't even notice. “I have the necessary training to be one, but I've never actually worked in that field. I gave several lectures during my studies, and even earned some certifications.” He pointed to the wall next to the window, where the headboard of the bed rested. There were about fifteen certificates hanging there from courses in algebra, physics, chemistry, biology and their specificities, all organised in chronological order.
“Some? There are so MANY.” She would have turned to look at the wall, then taken a few steps forward to simulate a view of the documents. She was sure he would go in the same direction, probably to explain about his honours.
Finding herself exhausted from waiting, the woman touched her own face, between her lips to attract the young man's attention. “I think you have something in your face, here, on this side…” She spoke in a slightly lower tone of voice, while repeating the touch on her mouth two more times; without missing the opportunity to take another step forward, bringing him closer and closer to that wall, but maintaining a safe distance between the two people. “Where? Here?” He tried to do the same on his lips, also cleaning his moustache a little, in case something really was there. She licked her thumb and started to drag it across his mouth softly, while beginning an indiscreet caress on the back of his neck using her other fingers, taking another step closer. “More towards here…” The touch on his neck made the alchemist seemingly paralyzed, finally assimilating what was happening; silently agreeing, with almost no reaction beyond the blushing on his face. A few minutes ago, they were having a normal conversation. Now, the distress made his heart beat in a speed that could make him faint at any moment. He had never imagined getting this far with a woman like her, and he hardly knew what to do. He was just trying to improvise gestures that showed consent without knowing if it would work, hoping she understands.
Disoriented, the man blinked as if he tried to wake up from a hallucination. It made her stop running her wet fingers over his moist lips, and began to simply observe his clear eyes, waiting for some answer. Without a break, he brought one of his hands between her chin and face. The Witch immediately pressed her lips against his, leaning his head against the wall with a weak impact. They finally felt the heat of a kiss run through the rest of their bodies, like a poison radiating from the heart to every vein under their skin. The pleasant cinnamon taste of the tea they had drunk earlier made that kiss even sweeter, making his muscles relax for a short time, allowing her to continue pressing him against the wall. In this way, their bodies were close enough to feel each other's heartbeats, accelerated by the same desire that consumed them. Their lips touched in an initially calm kiss that started intensifying with some touches on her waist, which she responded to with light scratches on the back of his neck. Sometimes they exchanged glances and smiles without many pauses for breath. No other sound could be heard in the room except their low moans and the wet sounds of tongues touching themselves, combined with the almost inaudible friction of hands against the fabric of their clothes. While the rain ran down the rooftops outside the window on the dark sky; The cold of the night and the warmth of their emotions filled the room with a comfort capable of keeping them disconnected from the rest of the world for hours. The only thing separating them was breath, the absence of which made the wizard feel momentarily dizzy, while his heart, though calmer than before, was still accelerating. Both longed to continue what they were doing, but the woman started to feel some non-normal behaviour; his shaking hands and one of his eyes that were blinking repeatedly, which were not direct reactions to what they were doing. The vampire broke the kiss, caressing his face in an attempt to calm him down of whatever was happening. She was relieved to feel that flushed face return to its normal colour and temperature. But before she could ask what was wrong, she felt her hands slip away from him as if by reflex, the result of a momentary discomfort that he also felt instantly; a shock. His anxiety made the electrical problems worse, and the kiss had triggered this nervousness, which had been there since she entered the room. “Are you okay?” Asked the Witch, without ceasing to fondle his face, followed by a few kisses on his nose. These left traces of lipstick, as there already were on his mouth, before he got another shock. “It…It's just a few shocks, it happens all the time,” His right eye blinked two more times, while the Witch covered his face with quick kisses to deliberately mark his face, not caring about feeling any other electrical discomfort. As they panted after such intense kisses. This situation made her move a little further away from the man, glancing at the bed for a moment and then instantly returning her attention to his eyes. “ I was getting tired of the cold wall.” He obeyed the woman's silent gaze, returning to rest his legs by sitting on the bed. “Yeah, so was I.” She removed her cape, throwing it on the floor with complete naturalness as she revealed her blackish-blue hair. Carefree, she sat on his lap, touching one side of his neck as she kissed him from his chin to his collarbone. Sometimes forcing her thighs to stay closer to his hips, while he caressed one of her legs during that hot contact. Even though he seemed to know how to handle the situation, he had no experience. As much as things were flowing, facing his ‘fear’ was not easy. But he liked the troubles she was doing in his head; he was exactly where he always wanted to be.
Lying with his head on one of the pillows leaning against the headboard, the witch was on top of him, again. But now playing with the sensitivity of the skin of his neck. Between licks, slow kisses, strong bites and hickeys that would not disappear anytime soon. With one hand, the young man was stroking the girl's wavy hair, and with the other, touched the back of her neck, while muttering inaudible words amid heavy breathing and frequent grunts, which worsened when she discreetly moved her kisses up and down. Hearing his voice in that state made her delirious with thousands of dirty desires that would not be fulfilled at that moment, forcing her to remain neutral about all the things she was feeling in every moment. At this point, the man beneath her was in the midst of a kind of awake unconsciousness, with his eyes half-open, sensorially overwhelmed, but happy, as if he were dreaming while half awake. After an interval, he found the strength to extend his arms around her in an embrace, strong enough to rest his face in the middle of her cleavage, and she paid no attention to it. There was explicit sexual tension, but he seemed too in love to think only of that, and they both indirectly agreed with this.
Another comfortable silence filled the room as they embraced, warming each other on a night that was growing colder under the rain. The separation from that embrace had lasted seconds before continuing again. This time, face to face, sharing the blanket that was already on the bed. The taller one kissed her forehead, with lips pigmented enough to leave a mark there, much softer than the others that were on his own skin, unaware of it. He took one of her hands with pointed nails and caressed it lightly and linearly until he fell asleep in her arms. In a matter of minutes, before he could say anything. Completely ignoring the risks, the vampire intertwined the fingers of her free hand through the wizard’s black hair in a gentle but constant caress. When she later noticed that his hair wasn't standing on end while he slept, she smiled at his calm expression; she had never seen him look so peaceful. Some time later, she returned that kiss on his forehead with others on his hair, before whispering ‘good night’ close to one of his ears. She gave up fighting sleep and let that comfort embrace her chest in a rest, after persisting in staying awake. Without realising it, she was also asleep, with smudged lipstick and loose hair, in an embrace that would have changed her perspectives about what existed between them, which was not born that same day, but only detached from the fears that suffocated their feelings.
jacobvanloon
tangentwithtanner
vaporwave
gracieabrams
prguitarman
