ppalenni

🎀24🎀

[emotionalmessss]

hope you’re well ♥️ may i request a headcanon where yan!chrollo’s partner escaped but when he confronts them (or however you write it-it’s up to you!) they are really remorseful like “i knew i shouldn’t have left” on their own volition? thank you! ♥️

Note: ouu, I really like this. I can never say no to Chrollo content. Thank you for the request, enjoy! :) Also, this ended up being much longer than I originally intended lol.

Warnings: yandere themes, unhealthy relationship, stalking, forced captivity, brief mentions of dub/non-con, hardcore manipulation would it really be chrollo without manipulation?

Chrollo is no saint, but he definitely has the patience of one–though only to a certain extent. With you, however, he seems to have all the fucking patience in the world. Because of Chrollo’s emotionally complex nature, I kind of feel like it’s difficult for him to form emotional attachments, especially with those outside the Troupe. Connections have never really been a priority for Chrollo, nor do they come easily to him. But, with you, it’s different. You’ve always stood out, and his relationship with you is something that he treasures deeply. In his own twisted way.

Ever since Chrollo first laid eyes on you, he’s been utterly fascinated–a reaction that probably confused him at first, considering his interests usually only involve the wellbeing of the Troupe, books, and stealing valuable objects and Nen abilities. Chrollo has utilized all his available resources to gather as much information about you as possible, spending countless hours studying every single aspect of your life. Say goodbye to your privacy because there’s no such thing when it comes to Chrollo. And sure, a few members of the Troupe probably found Chrollo’s behavior unusual, but they knew better than to question the boss.

Chrollo might be completely infatuated with you, but he’s not blind to how difficult the situation is for you–he is well aware of human nature, and even more familiar with you. In fact, he completely understands your struggles. But, does that mean he’s going to let you go? Fuck no. As far as captors go, Chrollo has been incredibly lenient with you, hoping that you’d eventually realize that there is no one else in the world that could cherish you the way he does. And when you escaped from him, you betrayed that sliver of trust he gave you.

Your escape was successful, congrats. Managing to slip past Chrollo’s defenses was a challenge in itself–and you should be proud–not everyone can outsmart the head of the Spider. But, that’s just the beginning, don’t celebrate just yet. Surely, you’ll have to deal with a fuck load of complications, like starting your life over from scratch, fending for yourself, constantly watching your back, and maybe, just maybe, going as far as adopting a completely new identity. Things couldn’t get any more complicated, could they? Oh, they can and they will. 

It wouldn’t be long before you started to doubt and question everything–your thoughts, your feelings, your emotions, your choices, and most importantly, Chrollo. You might’ve thought you had the upper hand, but somehow, for some fucking reason, Chrollo always has the last laugh. Chrollo would never allow himself to show it, but he would definitely feel slightly irritated with the situation and your behavior. You actually had the audacity to run away from him? Have you forgotten who he is and what he's capable of? It’s not very often that someone would defy him, and part of him secretly applauds your pathetic–yet somewhat amusing–actions. Did you truly believe that he wouldn’t be able to find you again? 

I’d imagine that Chrollo probably saw your sudden absence as nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Annoying? Yes. Unexpected? No. Would he have expected you to be remorseful after escaping? Not entirely. Fortunately for him–and unfortunately for you–Chrollo knows you very fucking well. So well, in fact, that he’s become really good at predicting not only your next moves, but also what goes on in your head. He knew it wouldn’t take long for your mind to overwhelm you–that fresh start of yours isn’t feeling all that fresh anymore, is it? 

Chrollo wouldn’t go find you right away, no, he’d let you struggle for a bit before he made a move. The Troupe would probably question their boss’ somewhat unusual approach to the situation, but they wouldn’t push their luck–they knew better than to risk overstepping any boundaries, especially when it involves you and Chrollo. Just because his love for you is fucked up unconventional doesn’t mean he’s going to act impulsively to get you back, that's not how Chrollo operates, his methods are much more refined and efficient than that. 

But, that doesn’t mean Chrollo won’t be thinking of you. You’re always on his mind. He’d deny it, but the mental image of you–somewhere far away and stressed out, trying to move on with your life–was oddly satisfying. Some might say that’s cruel, but Chrollo sees it as conditioning. And Chrollo is a master manipulator. He may appear relatively passive on the outside, but you should never underestimate him. I feel like nothing is off-limits with Chrollo, and he’ll do anything and everything to make it impossible for you to leave him. Not just physically, but emotionally as well. So, it's really not much of a surprise that you’re remorseful about running away. That’s exactly what he planned. 

From the very beginning, Chrollo has been subtly manipulating and conditioning you, instilling doubt and dependency within you. He’d isolate you from the outside world and from the other people in your life, both physically and emotionally. He kept you by his side, never allowing you to stray too far. Even when you thought you were alone, he was watching. He gave you the illusion of freedom–a door that was occasionally left unlocked, access to his entire apartment, the opportunity to go outside, but only with him. He’d make you question the relationships you had with everyone that wasn’t him, slowly turning you against them. Do they actually care about you? Do they actually understand you like he does? Those were his ways of making sure there was nobody else you can interact with, forcing you to become dependent on him for everything.

Chrollo wouldn’t stop there. There were times when he would let his guard down, allowing you to see moments of vulnerability. He would tell you things–his past, his thoughts–enough to make you believe there was more to him than the monster you feared. When you eventually opened up to him about your own thoughts, he’d listen. He always listened so fucking carefully. He made you feel like he understood you better than anyone else ever had, or ever could.

And it all paid off in the end. For him, at least.

It’s almost been two months without Chrollo and surprisingly, it doesn’t feel as good as you thought it would. In fact, your newfound freedom feels fucking horrible. It doesn’t make sense–you should be thrilled that you’ve managed to escape after being held captive for one year. You had planned this escape for months, spending countless nights going over it again and again in your head until it was foolproof. It worked, yet you were far from satisfied.

Feeling more than a little conflicted about your state of mind, you move to sit on the couch in your living room. The old, faded piece of furniture creaks beneath your weight as you settle into the cushions. It felt cold and unfamiliar. The couch was probably older than you–faded, torn, and pilling–unlike the expensive plush one that Chrollo has. That one felt warm and familiar. Anxiously, you stir your half drank cup of coffee and take a sip, grimacing slightly. Even his fucking coffee was better than yours. 

This new life was supposed to be a fresh start, but instead, it was a constant reminder of everything you left behind. It seems that no matter how hard you try, you just can’t get Chrollo out of your mind. Every little sound–footsteps, doors opening–sent you into fight or flight mode, always on edge. It felt like you were living with a shadow that was slowly closing in, but you weren’t entirely sure if you wanted to run away from it. Fear, longing, and resentment were just a few of the emotions you’ve learned to cope with, but it never got any easier. 

Part of you missed the late night, deep conversations, the way he listened intently, as if your words were the most important thing in the world. Now, your nights are restless, haunted by constant nightmares involving a certain raven haired man. Maybe it's Stockholm syndrome? There’s no way to be sure–therapy costs money, and you aren’t exactly rolling in it. Your hands tremble as you place the mug down, spilling the dark liquid all over the side table. Still trapped in your mind, you get up from the shitty couch and head towards the kitchen, moving to grab a rag to clean up the equally shitty coffee. 

A small creak from behind catches your attention, making you pause momentarily to glance over your shoulder. Like countless other times, there's nothing there. Maybe you don’t even need a psych to diagnose you, since you’re already going insane. Sighing, you grab the rag and start walking back toward the living room. 

“A bit late for coffee, is it not?” The smooth sounding voice instantly makes you freeze in place, suddenly feeling overwhelmed with a rush of emotions. There’s a certain lightness in his tone that’s not usually present–it’s almost like he’s teasing yet chiding you. Either way, you weren’t going to concern yourself with the semantics.

It feels like your body has been completely paralyzed. Yet, somehow, you manage to summon the courage to slowly turn your gaze towards the source of the voice, finding it at the front entrance of your apartment. What you see is enough to make you feel faint, your head spinning and your stomach dropping like a stone–it’s Chrollo, looming in the doorway, his large eyes focused solely on you as a soft, enigmatic smile plays on his lips. Unconsciously, a whimper escapes your lips and your mind suddenly kicks into overdrive, frantically attempting to process the overwhelming reality of what’s happening. All those conflicting thoughts from moments ago flood back into your mind.

You find yourself caught in a whirlwind of emotions, torn between the relief of finally seeing him again and the chilling fear of what this unexpected encounter might bring. You had started a new life here, a life that was simpler, quieter, more peaceful. But as you stand there, facing Chrollo and the flood of memories he brings, you can't help but question–was it truly peace? You must’ve only been standing there–stuck in your thoughts–for a few minutes, but Chrollo seems to notice your dazed state and decides to speak up again, effectively snapping you back to reality. 

“May I come in? We have so much to discuss.” Chrollo says, his voice as gentle and as reassuring as you remember. Without waiting for your response, he's already stepping across the threshold and moving into your apartment, making his way toward the living room. His approach is calm and measured. It’s almost as if he’s been in your apartment a thousand times before, and as if he has all the time in the world. Rooted to the spot, your hand trembles as you clutch the damp rag, watching as Chrollo takes your previously occupied seat on the couch.

“Chrollo?” You find yourself whispering, your voice barely more than a shaky exhale, hesitant and filled with uncertainty. Saying his name after the silence of these past months feels strange, foreign, but oddly enough, you find yourself not hating it. Chrollo doesn’t immediately respond. Instead, his gaze remains fixed on you as he sinks deeper into the couch, leaning back casually and letting his hands rest on top of his thighs. The silence stretches on, lingering too long, and a part of you believes he’s doing it on purpose. 

“You seem troubled,” Chrollo observes, his dark eyes softening a fraction. “Come, sit. Let’s talk.” He insists softly, tilting his head toward the empty spot next to him on the couch, a silent command for you to join him. Despite his calm demeanor, it’s quite clear that he won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. He won’t deny it–your little escape was mildly infuriating. But he wasn’t entirely without compassion–at least, that’s what he liked to believe.

Your chest tightens painfully at his words, each breath feeling like a struggle, as if your lungs are refusing to expand. Your vision blurs as tears gather, threatening to spill over at any moment. You’ve reached your breaking point–the emotions you’ve been painstakingly avoiding have finally surfaced. The ache of remorse gnaws at you, a torrent of regret and guilt that you've been desperately trying to suppress. You open your mouth to respond–to say something, anything at all–but find yourself choking pitifully on a sob, no words coming out. 

The tears start to fall, pouring down your cheeks as you stumble blindly toward the couch, dropping the rag on the ground and barely registering the resigned sigh that Chrollo lets out. You plop down onto the couch next to Chrollo, feeling utterly pathetic about your current state. Not even a second later, Chrollo’s arm slips behind your back and wraps securely around your waist, pulling your trembling body toward his. You don’t fight it, instead allowing your face to bury into the comforting warmth of his chest, while his hand gently cradles the back of your head.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat over and over again, your voice cracking as you sob into his chest. 

Chrollo’s quiet again, the silence only broken by your sniffles and unsteady breaths. His fingers thread soothingly through your hair, softly shushing you. “You’re okay, I’m right here,” he reassures, his voice stripped of its usual firmness, now softer, gentler, almost tender. His expression remains unreadable as he looks down at you, his eyes revealing nothing of thoughts that are undoubtedly coursing through his mind right now. Internally, however, he feels a tinge of satisfaction upon hearing your apologetic pleas. Maybe things can go back to the way they were, or maybe they'll morph into something new, something better. 

There’s another pause, a moment where he lets you compose yourself. He doesn't mention your escape, or the remorse you've shown–not just yet. In truth, Chrollo is not the least bit surprised by your emotional spiral. He knows you well enough to understand that this is not merely a reaction to his relentless pursuit and eventual discovery of your whereabouts. No, this is an entirely different kind of response, one born out of internal conflict.

If it were any other man in this position, they might have felt guilty for putting you through so much torment. But Chrollo is not ‘any other man.’ Far from it. As he watches you break down in his arms, he doesn’t feel any guilt. He doesn’t see your suffering as something he should apologize for. Why would he? For Chrollo, he sees this as a necessary consequence of the bond he’s carefully created. And he can see that you’re finally starting to understand.

During your time together, Chrollo had a way of making you question everything. Slowly but surely, he instilled a sense of doubt and dependency within you. It was never obvious. That wasn’t his style. 

He had a way of making you believe that the outside world was cruel and dangerous. Every time he caught you looking at the door, he’d remind you–without even needing to say a word–that he was the only one who could truly protect you. A raised brow and slight tilt of his head was more than enough to remind you of everything he had told you before. He was never threatening about it, he didn’t need to be. A simple look from him was all it took for you to hesitate, to second-guess walking out that door. 

Would it really be better out there than here? Could you really handle Yorknew City? Surely, there were people out there much worse than him, right? People who wouldn’t think twice about taking advantage of someone like you. You could imagine it so vividly: faceless men with rough hands that wouldn’t give a shit about you, your struggles, or your pleas. They’d only see you as a pretty little thing to use. Chrollo never said it outright, but the implication was always there: he wasn’t like them. His touches, though somewhat unwelcome and borderline possessive, were never violent. 

At least with Chrollo, you knew the rules and boundaries–his rules and boundaries. And he never lied to you, not really. The world really was dangerous. There really were people out there who would hurt you. He made sure that you believed he was the best choice. And who else was there for you, really? Not your friends, the ones he slowly convinced you that they didn’t care as much as they claimed. Not your family, who couldn’t possibly understand the complexity of your situation. No, it was just Chrollo. He wasn’t the monster you wanted him to be. He was something far worse: he was everything you didn’t know you needed. And that was much more fucking terrifying.

Finally pulling himself from his thoughts, Chrollo decides that he’s made you suffer in silence for long enough. “You should not have tried to escape, [name],” he says, his voice gentle but carries a clear note of criticism and disappointment. He deliberately uses your name, refraining from the endearing nicknames he usually employs. It's a subtle punishment, a way to remind you of your mistakes. He knows exactly what kind of impact it has on you–how the distance it creates makes you feel small, like a reprimanded child. “Predictably, it didn’t end well.” His tone is soft, almost conversational.

Chrollo pauses again, his fingers suddenly halting their soothing rhythm in your hair. Abruptly, he withdraws the comforting contact, depriving you of the warmth you didn’t even realize you’d come to depend on. You can’t stop yourself from tensing in his arms, struggling to stifle a choked sob. You can’t see it–not with your teary face buried in his chest–but there’s a faint curl of his lips, a flicker of satisfaction at your reaction. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing. He lets out a deep, exaggerated sigh, his hand pulling away from your scalp completely. Now it rests on the frayed backrest of the couch, lazily tracing patterns on the rough fabric. 

“Running… it doesn’t suit you.” The words are so plain, so final. It's not suggestion or opinion, but a fucking fact. It’s the way he always spoke to you, as if he knew you better than you knew yourself. “It only leads you to pain and suffering. Surely, you’ve realized that by now?” There is no anger or frustration in his voice, just that same steady, disorientating calm that makes you second-guess everything. He speaks as if this entire situation is simply an inconvenience to him, which makes it near impossible to decipher his true thoughts and feelings. 

And then, Chrollo gently but firmly tilts your head up, leaving no room for you to resist him. Not like it would do you any good. Forcing you to meet his gaze, he studies you intently, his dark eyes partially shielded by the strands of raven hair that fall across his pale face. “You’re an intelligent woman,” he murmurs, and for some reason, it felt more like he was mocking you rather than giving you a genuine compliment. “I’m certain that you can grasp the situation.” As he speaks, his grip on your face tightens significantly, hinting at the threat that lies beneath his words. It’s his little way of telling you that you should know better.  

You wince as his fingers dig into the soft flesh of your jaw, more out of surprise than pain. The pressure isn’t unbearable, but it’s enough to remind you of his control. You don’t have much faith in your ability to form a coherent sentence right now, not when your throat feels tight and your thoughts are a jumbled mess. Instead, you nod in response, hoping it’s enough. 

Chrollo’s eyes flicker with approval, and maybe a hint of amusement. It’s impossible to be sure with him. He releases your jaw as he lets out a satisfied hum of acknowledgement, now wiping away a few stray tears from your damp cheeks. The gesture should feel comforting, but instead, it leaves you feeling hollow, like being soothed after a punishment you never deserved. “Good girl.” The praise rolls off his tongue easily, but there’s no warmth in it. “You’re emotional,” he says, almost to himself. “But you’ll understand in time.”

“It’s time to go home. We’ll continue this conversation later,” He adds, reminding you that this matter is far from resolved.

[ddarker-dreams]

in love with the idea of Chrollo's s/o liking another troupe member more than him, especially if it's one of the male members

But I guess if he wouldn't mind sharing with feitan that'd mean that he wouldn't necessarily be that jealous

there are a few diverging paths it could take, but generally speaking, it'd be an uncomfortable situation for all parties involved.

his usual tried and true method — aka offing anyone you have a serious romantic interest in — becomes a no-go. at his core, he's surprised. that surprise fades into mild irritation. this threatens a key underlying assumption that guards his ego. namely, that your repulsion to him can be attributed to his spotty morals. had it not been for your exposure to his immorality, surely he would've wooed you successfully by now. it's a comforting notion, one that this new development threatens.

he prefers to keep you separate from the troupe on principle. if your worlds do collide, the other members keep to themselves out of respect for chrollo. the more social among them may strike up a conversation, but it's brief and rarely substantial. should you initiate, they won't ignore you. you'll just get the sense that they're trying to keep it short and sweet.

the specifics of what goes down will vary, depending on who you set your eye on. naturally, he cuts your interaction with them off. he'll refuse to give a satisfactory response should you press him on why. his jealousy doesn't manifest it a normal, comprehensible way; no, that'd make too much sense. instead, he really is hung up over the fact that you can develop an interest in a person you know to be morally bankrupt, you just haven't with him. is he not a charming young man? has he not put a great deal of time and effort into winning you over, only to be stonewalled at every turn? it boggles his mind. he doesn't dwell on this dilemma for long so as to avoid bitter emotions festering and interfering with the troupe. eventually, he'll take a half glass full approach. in a strange, roundabout way, this means there's still hope you'll come around! or so he reassures himself.

down another path, in what would undoubtedly be classified a bad end in a visual novel, is feitan. if chrollo were to 'share' you with anyone, it'd be fei. this grants him a wide array of advantages. feitan's disturbing presence would make him appear all the more agreeable. chrollo believes that even if you have a passing fancy in feitan, just spending time with him will have those positive sentiments fizzling out. another benefit is the bolstering in security. realistically, chrollo can't always keep an eye on you. feitan's presence would help fill in those gaps when he has to be away. chrollo trusts feitan and since feitan's fascination with you rarely involves anything physical, jealousy isn't an issue.

everyone gets something out of the arrangement, aside from you.

[wri0thesley]

the soul-charged blue of night - flins x reader (13k)

and a small lamp, kindness, is gleaming in his heart flins 'rescues' you.

cw: yandere flins. mostly sfw (intimacy occurs but are not explicit). a mishmash of fae lore. captive reader. hypnotism, i suppose? reader wears a dress and chemise but no gendered terms are used. injury. not quite canon-compliant, i make my own rules here.

a/n: the gothic horror romance yandere flins fic i have been promising! i hope you enjoy it, it's been a while since i sat and allowed myself a nice long fic! reblogs or comments or asks or anything is appreciated i would LOVE to hear if you enjoyed this one!!!

Nod-Krai is cold at all times – you are on the borders of the nation of ice, after all – but at night, the temperature drops to below freezing. So one ought to be prepared for this, if they are going anywhere once the moon has risen high in the sky – a fur-lined coat, a heavy alpaca wool sweater, a cloak that feels heavy upon their shoulders. You’ve heard of pyro-infused packages one can put in their pockets to warm their hands – you’ve known people who swear by the warming properties of certain foods.

But if one is running away in the middle of the night--

Well. Suffice to say that you did not have much time to prepare for this journey. You had sensed an opportunity to finally slip from your older brother’s grasp and his suffocating control of your life, and had decided to seize it with both hands and pursue your dreams. To live your life for yourself, and not for what he insisted your parents would have wanted had they lived to see both of you reach adulthood.

It was evening when you slipped into the forests surrounding your village. The moon was a distant glow; the horizon still had a faint hint of pink and purple from the sun setting. The air had been crisp, but your jacket had done much to alleviate the sting. You hadn’t noticed how thin the soles of your boots had worn, because the ground was not yet so frigid that the chill would leach into them.

You simply hadn’t thought it through – and that had been perfectly fine when it was barely seven, when you had only been walking for twenty minutes . . . but now, as the midnight hour approaches and you realise you’ve been on your feet for coming on to five hours and you’re far, far away from anywhere you might find remotely familiar . . . now, all of the things that you didn’t think about are starting to weigh more heavily on your mind.

Where will you sleep tonight? Even if you thought yourself shameless enough to beg shelter, you don’t think you’ve seen a proper dwelling for miles. What will you do if it rains? The skein you had brought with you to drink from is running dry, and you know that dehydration is an unkind master. Your stomach is beginning to rumble – you had forgone your evening meal, anxiety roiling hot and heavy in your stomach at the thought of what you were going to do. You are shivering, the cold wind chapping your lips and your face, and you think that you are only a particularly sharp rock away from the soles of your boots ripping through.

You do not know where you are.

And if it were to start to rain--

No. You shake your head to try and rid yourself of the thought – there is no point trying to curse your journey any further, and it seems bad luck to speculate on what else could go wrong. You hug your arms closer to your body to try and pilfer any residual warmth left in them, though you’re beginning to feel as though you’re half-frozen to death already. You stumble over roots and trees, sighing, squinting, trying to force yourself to think positive thoughts.

Maybe you should have simply done as your brother had wanted. Maybe you should have agreed to spend the rest of your life living in your little house on the outskirts of Nasha Town, accepted your lot was to be his housekeeper and eventually nanny his children for him because your parents had always thought the two of you would help one another out . . . he had interpreted this as you always being ready to help him out, but perhaps he was right. You have few skills of your own beyond the ones you’ve had to learn, and nobody in the village has ever caught your eye (or, if you are being honest, ever shown interest in you). Perhaps you are, after all, an ungrateful and spoilt monster like he had accused you of being--

You stumble out of a thicket of trees and into a clearing. For one moment, you’re grateful – a clearing will allow you to sit for a moment, to rest your back against a tree trunk, to re-evaluate the path that you’ve been taking so far. And then you see the ripple of a violet glow in between the trees, hear the whispering noises of something gaining on you, and realise the mistake you have made.

The Wild Hunt.

You have been lucky enough to never have come across them before; you’re not ordinarily in the habit of wandering around alone, and your brother and you have lived a somewhat sheltered existence even after your parent’s deaths.

But you, like every child of Nod-Krai, have heard stories. You remember your Papa warning you to stop picking the vegetables out of your stew and feeding them to the family dog, or the Wild Hunt would come and take you away. When you got older, you’d learnt more – heard whispers of people who had walked outside alone at night and been taken by the Hunt, or who had been gored and their corpses left to be found. You had, like so many, been taught that if you were ever lost and alone and saw a Lightkeeper, they would be a safe person to ask to guide you home.

You do not see a Lightkeeper now.

You freeze up, your blood somehow running even colder than it was before. When you had thought about the ways you could die out here, all of the awful things that could befall you – you had not even considered the Wild Hunt. The very idea of it was too terrifying, too terrible to even consider. But now, the violet-fired monsters are shambling out from the trees and your heart is in your mouth.

Perhaps they won’t see you, you pray, but then you stumble – a sharp rock, your damn boots – and you hear the crack of twigs beneath your feet, and one of the monsters raises its awful, flaming head.

The effect is instantaneous. The creature’s trajectory changes, and suddenly it is walking towards you, and you can see the full breadth of its body. You could stand shoulder to shoulder with two other versions of yourself and not match its width; its arm alone seems to be wider than your waist. If a creature like this were to strike you . . .

You can see, too, the weapon it wields – an axe that crackles with fire and abyssal energy, the blade wickedly sharp. It is making noise as it approaches you, a whispering, chattering kind of language you don’t understand. Desperately, you stumble back – but even as you turn your head to look where you are going, more and more of the Wild Hunt are emerging from between the trees. It is like you are at the epicentre of a hunting party; a fox surrounded by baying hounds.

It’s almost like you’ve stumbled onto some kind of gathering, or like they’re looking for something . . . You feel sick, your limbs moving so much slower than you want them to. You should be running! But you have been running - and walking, and jogging for hours . . . and you are so, so tired.

The big one lifts its axe, and you do not realise that you have even opened your mouth until your helpless yelp of fear is cutting through the air. The blade slashes through the air, just missing your side; and then you are trying to run, stumbling, falling . . . And the other members of the Wild Hunt are upon you, and hands are tugging at you with grips that feel like fire burning through to your bones. You scream as the axe once more rends the air in two.

Your shoulder goes white hot – a shock to your system, when the rest of you still feels so terribly ice cold. Something hot and liquid trickles down your arm, inside of your clothes, and you wonder if this is how you are going to die. You feel light-headed. You feel sick. You feel . . .

Almost relieved.

If you are killed here, you won’t have to worry about anything else. You won’t have to think about carving out a brand new life, about maybe having to slink back to your brother with your tail between your legs and apologise to him. Your life will end here, but with the cessation of your breath will come a cessation of your worries. And just lately, it has seemed like your entire world has been nothing but worries.

You never expected that accepting your own death would come with such an immense sense of peace.

Your eyesight flickers as you fall onto your knees, as you pitch forward and your cheek meets the dirt of the forest floor, stones and debris grazing your face--

And then your vision goes all blue flame.

You aren’t in control of yourself well enough to fully understand what is happening around you. All you see are feet; the Wild Hunt, with their slow, dragging footsteps . . . and then, another pair, clad in long dark boots.

The source of the blue flame, you realise, as the battle that was waging around you comes to a surprisingly abrupt stop. The feet of the Wild Hunt dissipate almost as quickly as they’d come – but those long boots do not. In fact, they stride closer and closer to you. A lantern hanging from a hand enters your vision.

A Lightkeeper. How lucky could you be?

Well. Your arm still feels white hot, so not that lucky.

“Are you injured?” A voice comes floating from above you, cultured and polite. “Ah, yes, I see. I’m going to roll you over. I’ll be careful.”

He takes to one knee, and as firm but gentle hands roll you onto your back (carefully avoiding touching anywhere too intimate, you notice), you get your first glimpse of your rescuer and you have to fight back the gasp at his appearance.

It perfectly matches his voice; gentlemanly, calm, courteous. His eyes, a strange shade of yellow like a cat’s, bore into you in a way that manages to be interested without being intense. His skin is almost pale enough to glow in the moonlight – but when he sees you looking, he gives you a smile that’s obviously intended to reassure. He wears the traditional garb of the Lightkeepers, though his lantern seems rather old-fashioned – but Lightkeepers are not known for their interest in fashion and, in fact, have a reputation for being oddballs . . . so it does not seem as surprising as it could.

“My name is Flins,” he tells you. “I’m a Lightkeeper. I’ve seen such injuries before, so please do not panic. I’ll make sure you get the help you need.”

Your mouth is dry when you tell him your name in return. There is no point hiding it – your brother probably won’t have informed anyone you’re missing yet, but . . . it’s not like you can continue fleeing with your shoulder the way it is.

However it is. You haven’t seen it yet.

As your name slips from between your cracked lips, a strange shadow passes over his face. In the shadowy night time light and the eerie glow of his lantern, you might have called it greed – if, that is, it had been on the face of anyone but the Lightkeeper who just saved your life. But there is no reason for your name to inspire that in anybody – your family is neither wealthy nor well-known.

“Where do you live?” He asks. “Let me escort you back and we can see if we can get you the medical attention that you need. You’re fair in the middle of nowhere here. You must be far from home.”

“I can’t go home.” It bubbles from your mouth before you can stop it. You had no intention to say anything incriminating – but with the cold air nipping at your face, the hard ground beneath you, and your shoulder . . . It feels as though your mouth and your brain are not fully connected to one another.

Flins’ face doesn’t so much as twitch. He keeps his eyes on you, and simply gives you a slow, considering nod.

“Is there anywhere else I can guide you?” He asks, and you want to cry at the question.

“N-no,” you whisper – and then, because what does it matter if you are going to die, you whisper: “I ran away.”

He softens his features into sympathy, and you can’t help but notice how handsome he is. You almost hate that he’s being kind to you – but as he speaks, you’re grateful for his presence.

“I understand,” he says, in that calm, low voice. “Sometimes a home is not the refuge that it ought to be. Sometimes uncertainty feels better. Do you have nobody I could take you to?”

You swallow, and shake your head.

“Nobody,” you whisper. “I-- I was not allowed to make friends. I can’t go back. Please—”

He looks down at you, and almost to himself he repeats your name like it’s a prayer. Again, there’s a strange quality to the way he says it – something almost possessive, something wanting and hungry. But you must be imagining things, surely? You’re no prize. You’re nothing, not really. Isn’t it one of the symptoms of an infected wound that the receiver begins to hallucinate and grow paranoid? It surely can’t be long enough for your wound to have become infected, but who knows what kind of weapons the Wild Hunt wield?

Is there abyssal rot infecting your bloodstream, pumping towards your heart, even now?

He nods as if he’s making a decision.

“It is the duty of a Lightkeeper to protect and guide,” Flins says. “You seem in need of both. I will take you to my dwelling and administer your aid – and perhaps once you have recovered, we can examine your circumstances once more.”

“You don’t have to,” you whisper. You feel light-headed and strange. Even speaking is taking more effort than you can bring yourself to expend. Flins’ gloved hand smooths over your hair, your cheek.

“Do not give me your gratitude too profusely,” he says. “You have not yet seen my abode. I find it peaceful, but you may yet be . . . unsettled.”

You swear, as you finally lose consciousness and his low words fade into a hum, that the Lightkeeper is warning you that he lives in a graveyard.

When you awaken, you are underneath a blanket on what is unmistakably someone else’s bed; a rickety thing that groans when you shift. It takes you a moment both to recall what has happened and for the panic at finding yourself in an unfamiliar place to subside – and then it all comes back at once. Your flight from your home, the hours spent fleeing, the cold dark night and the Wild Hunt and--

And Flins. The Lightkeeper.

Your shoulder.

You’re aware of a bone-deep ache in it as you use your uninjured hand to pull at the scratchy blanket. Your face goes hot as you pull it down – you’ve lost the vast majority of your clothes, and though the simple chemise you wore underneath them covers all of the most important areas of your modesty, it’s hard to get the thought of the elegant Flins undressing you out of your mind. You chide yourself for being so prudish – you had been wearing quarter length sleeves, and if he had any hope of cleaning your wound it’s only natural that he’d have to remove your clothing to do so.

A Lightkeeper would not have made any moves on your virtue; if anything, the stories you hear of the abyssal monsters of the Wild Hunt would suggest that you were in more danger of being used as plaything there. You wonder if it’s better or worse that they had instead tried to hack you into pieces, and if you should be offended – and then you huff at yourself for the maudlin thought, and force yourself into a seated position to be able to take a better look at your wound.

It’s been wrapped in a fresh, clean bandage – there’s a little blood staining it, but nothing that makes you feel as though you’re in immediate danger of passing out from blood loss or blurting out your whole life story to a stranger. You bring your hand up gingerly to touch the bandages and hiss through your teeth at the pain that resonates all the way down to your elbow. You try to flex the fingers on your injured arm, to bend your elbow – and though you’re successful, twinges of pain go ricocheting all through the extremity.

It’s your dominant arm. You’re not going to be doing any housework for the foreseeable future.

“I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of dressing your wound,” comes a voice, dark and deep and velvety, from the corner of the room. You jump at the intrusion – you hadn’t heard so much as a door open.

Actually--

You make yourself look around the room you’re in. A perfectly circular, open plan room . . . one small window, set high on the wall. The furniture here is sparse, but most of it looks to be of good quality – even the bed you lie in is, though it’s very obviously old. It’s almost as if Flins doesn’t use it – perhaps he sleeps somewhere else? No doors that you can see – because Flins has come up from a flight of stairs, through a hole in the floor.

“A lighthouse?” You blurt out, and Flins gives you a small smile.

“Welcome to the Final Night Cemetery,” he tells you, and you recall stories about Lightkeepers and lighthouses from old folk tales you’d once read. “Yes. This lighthouse is where I spend my time when I’m not out in the wilderness. It must seem terribly cold and unappealing. I’m rather used to being alone and I don’t much notice it nowadays.”

“N-no,” you say, shaking your head, your cheeks going hot again. “No. I’m thankful, Sir Flins. Thank you for everything.”

There is a small lamp burning beside you, and it throws off just enough light as Flins steps into the centre of the room that you can see he is carrying a tray loaded with sustenance. Your throat goes dry, your mouth watering. You don’t know what time it is, so you have no idea how long it’s been since you last ate – but with everything that has happened to you, it feels like a lifetime.

“I’m sorry I had to disrobe you,” he says – and where some gentlemen might have found themselves blushing, Flins keeps his voice and his face studied. “I had to dress the wound before it began to fester – abyssal weapons can cause even more permanent damage than an ordinary blade, and it would be a terrible pity to lose someone so lovely to the abyss. If you don’t mind, I’d like you to stay here for a few days whilst I monitor your recovery.”

Did he compliment you? You don’t have time to properly parse it – you’re too busy looking at the food that’s piled on his tray, and realising the consequences of what he is proposing. A reprieve from figuring out what to do with your life.

“Thank you,” you say to him, again. This time, you hope that he understands exactly what he’s giving to you. “Of course I’ll stay, Sir Flins. Rescuing me, monitoring me, making sure that I’m alright – you’ve already done so very much for me. I . . . I can’t think of a way I could possibly repay you.”

That strange shadow passes over his face again; a hunger, a wanting, a greed.

“That’s of little consequence right now,” Flins says pleasantly, stepping forward. He pulls a chair up to your bed – another old antique, of unpopular and outdated style but good craftsmanship. You wonder how many other Lightkeepers have been master of this lighthouse before it fell to Flins. “Please – you need to regain your strength. It would please me greatly if you would eat.”

The tray that he places gingerly on your lap is perfectly set, like a dining room from an old party. The silver that sits by the plate is expertly polished, and the food on it looks delicious and freshly made. You can’t help but notice, though, that he has brought nothing for himself.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” You ask him, your brow furrowing. It seems impolite for you to enjoy the hard work he put into preparing this veritable feast whilst he simply sits and watches you. Flins folds his hands in his lap and smiles at you.

“I’ve already eaten,” he says. “I’ll be out on patrol in a few hours myself; though the food is appetising, I’d rather have something lighter in my stomach in case I need to engage in combat. This is . . . heartier than I would ordinarily make, but it felt worth it when I had a guest. I so seldom do, you see. Please, indulge me and eat as freely and deeply as you wish. You must recover your strength, after all.”

It makes sense, but . . . something about it feels a little off. Surely he would at least have brought himself a cup of water? It seems strange for him to sit and watch you eat, with nothing else to do--

You try and shake the suspicions off as quickly as they come. Who are you to be judging the man who saved your life? Perhaps he just wishes to ensure that you are eating – you’ve heard as much as anybody else that you cannot recover if you do not nourish your body. Perhaps he has already eaten. Perhaps he doesn’t like the food he’s prepared for you and just doesn’t wish to say so! There are a hundred reasons, you tell your suspicious mind, why Flins could have brought you food and decided not to indulge himself.

Flins did not need to do this for you; did not need to rescue you and save your life and bring you to his home – his private sanctuary – and feed you and dress your wounds and make sure you were perfectly alright! A Lightkeeper may have some duty to their citizens, but Flins has proven himself to be willing to go beyond the call of it. And for that, you should feel gratitude and nothing else.

“Thank you,” you say, instead, and turn your attention to the meal that Flins has prepared for you.

“I hope it’s to your liking,” he says, watching with an unerringly focused gaze as you pick up a knife and fork and begin to cut the meat. “Ratniki often subside on field rations – cured meats, hardtack, and such. The kind of food that can last through wars. I thought those to be neither conducive to your recovery nor,” and here he gives you a secret smile, “particularly delicious. I’m no chef, but it is sometimes pleasant to do something unusual, don’t you think?”

You take a dainty bite of the meat, worried by what Flins has just said. If it isn’t good, you tell yourself, you will pretend to like it – but flavour bursts onto your tongue, and you realise that it is in fact more than good. You make a noise of enthusiasm and pleasure in the back of your throat and almost miss the way that his fingers flex in his gloves.

“It’s delicious,” you tell him, when you can speak again. “I would never have guessed you didn’t cook often! And . . . I suppose that this is a deeply unusual situation so far, for me. I don’t know if I would describe the part where an axe met my shoulder as ‘pleasant’, though.”

You win a polite little laugh from Flins.

“I hope your stay will be pleasant, at the very least,” he replies. “I will be out most nights; I take my duties as Ratnik seriously, you see. Nothing ought to bother you here, but I’ll lock the lighthouse up whilst I’m gone even so. Please let me know if there’s anything at all you may need.” Here, he looks at you, and you think he is trying for an expression that one would call ‘earnest’. There’s a peculiar shine to his eyes, though. A strange way of holding himself. “It is nice to have a little company. I hope that you will feel the same way.”

You give him a confused smile.

“I already do,” you assure him. “Like I said: I . . . I don’t know how I could ever repay you. I suppose I owe you a favour, but all I can give you is my thanks.”

A smile quirks Flins’ mouth. The lamp by your bedside gutters, throwing his features into a sharp relief that could almost be considered ghoulish. His eyes, though . . . that shine could almost be called a glow, a firebright inhuman kind of light--

“Oh,” Flins says. “People never really realise how much such a thing is worth.”

For the first two days, he will only let you leave your bed in order to keep yourself hygienic. In a way you think is terribly quaint and rather sweet, he primly calls them ‘ablutions’, and he stands outside of the small room built onto the lighthouse on the ground floor whilst you do them. He brings you some more chemises that can be shrugged on and off without hurting your shoulder – your face burns at the thought that he had bought them, asked for them, perhaps had to show a stall-owner your old clothes in order to get the size correct . . . but you are grateful, at least, that you don’t have to keep wearing the same thing. Your chemise had mostly survived unscathed, but there’s a splattering of blood on it, and the reminder of how the axe had felt slicing into your skin can only be relived so many times.

The ladders that lead from one level of the lighthouse prove tricky, but with practise you get quite good at navigating them with only one hand.

It is queer, though, that you never see another bed.

You don’t bring it up to Flins, because you don’t want to make him think you are being ungrateful. You try and rationalise the strange quirk to yourself as much as you can – wondering if he sleeps at the very top of the lighthouse where you have no need to go, if perhaps he sleeps in another one of the small, dilapidated buildings that dot the island, if he prefers to sleep outside amongst the stars . . . but you can never think of a satisfying solution.

At any rate, he doesn’t seem to suffer from poor sleep. Though his eyes have shadows beneath them, whenever you have seen Lightkeepers passing through the village they have had the same haunted expression – they must see terrible things. His voice never sounds scratchy or tired. He is always bringing you exquisitely prepared meals with polite smiles – and he never misses an opprtunity to sit with you and talk.

He tells you all kinds of things.

You have heard fairy stories, of course, and you had a collection of books . . . but the way that Flins tells stories is of an entirely different calibre than even the most beautiful books that you’ve ever lost yourself in. He seems to know so much, and he never runs out of them – and all of them are told in that low, lovely voice, calm and serene and polite.

He tells you about stories that the Lightkeepers have passed from Ratnik to Ratnik as if he were there, a sorrowful cast coming over his eyes when he speaks of the losses that have plagued the organisation over the years. He describes battles carefully, leaving out the bloodiest details, but always with an edge that reminds you that battlefields are places of horror. He talks, too, of nicer things – tells you folk tales and myths and legends from the time of the Fae, when Snezhnaya was a glittering luxurious whirl of parties and hedonism, when the Belyi Tsar ruled over the lands.

“Oh, but listen to me go on,” he says one night, when you have finished the soup he has brought you and you have been listening with rapt attention to the story of the Tsar and the King of Summer Oak. “You must get so terribly bored of hearing me prattle. These are all ancient stories.”

“No,” you’re quick to blurt out, and then you feel your face grow hot at just how quickly you’d argued. “I could listen to your stories forever, Sir Flins. You . . . Sometimes it feels as though you were there, and when you tell me about them I feel as though I’m there with you.”

He gives you a smile that feels wistful, leaning forward to take your tray from your lap and rest it on a bureau.

“Your arm is healing,” he says. “Better than I could have hoped. It doesn’t seem as though you’ll have any lingering issues from the abyss.”

You swallow. You understand what he’s saying; soon, he will have to find a way for you to leave his lighthouse and he will return to his solitary existence.

“I hope I haven’t been too much trouble,” you whisper to him, looking down at the bedclothes. There’s a lump in your throat that you hate yourself for, and you will yourself not to cry. You always knew that this day would come; Flins cannot keep you here forever. He has a life. Just because you have imploded yours, just because you had went off into ther wilderness with no thoughts of plans as to what you would do when you escaped beyond the concept of escape . . . he has been kind to you.

Flins’ brow creases once again, and your breath catches as he leans in and he catches your chin in his hand, tilting your face towards his.

“You’ve been no such thing,” he says to you, softly. Your heart feels like it beats faster in your chest. “It’s my duty to take care of people like you.”

Ah. Of course. Duty. You’d thought, for one stupid, foolish second, that the man was about to kiss you. Flins runs his thumb over the apple of your cheek, and a strange, secret smile alights upon his lips.

“Did you mean what you said?” He asks you. “About listening to my stories forever?”

He doesn’t seem the kind of man to be insecure about his storytelling skills – he carries himself with a quiet confidence that you envy terribly. Nobody would ever have bullied a man like this into becoming an unpaid skivvy, like your brother had somehow bullied you into. So why would he ask? Does he just want to hear you compliment him?

Well. He’s already seen you at your most pathetic. There seems to be no point in trying to save any kind of face.

“I could,” you say to him, with a small smile. “Sometimes I feel like I could stay here forever.”

You expect him to respond with a chuckle, a shake of his head, a warning that you ought not get too comfortable or perhaps even an estimate of how much longer he might let you stay with him, avoiding any and all responsibilities that might be out there in the world. Any consequences for what you’ve done.

Instead, though, he tilts his head in a way that seems almost considering.

“You can call me Kyryll,” he says, instead. “Flins is the name I mostly go by nowadays, but . . . I think I would prefer to hear you use something different.”

With that mystifying pronouncement, Flins lifts the tray up from the bureau and disappears down the ladder.

But . . . the question remains, tugging at your heartstrings, haunting your dreams and making you lie awake and stare up at Flins’ ceiling at night.

When is he going to make you leave?

It’s two nights later, when you can’t sleep, that you decide you will explore the lighthouse a little more. Up until now, you have only ever been out of the level you sleep in either with Flins with you – to sit in the kitchen once, and drink a hot cocoa he had made (he had not made himself one, though you have long since grown used to the fact you never see him eat and you have only ever seen him drink a glass or two of wine) – or to use the facilities, that are downstairs in order to be more easily plumbable.

It’s been some hours since Flins had left, locking the door behind him as he has been doing whenever he has gone out on duties. He has reassured you that there is nothing on the island itself that would hurt you, and given you another of those small, inscrutable smiles when you had reassured him that you were not afraid of ghosts – but he worries, he says, about mortal man instead of the spirits. He worries what might happen to you when he is gone, and it feels far safer to mitigate any risk.

You start on the bottom floor, poking around with some interest. Flins may be free with his stories, and may make you feel as though you are indeed there with him – but he never speaks of the recent past. You do not know anything about his family, or what drew him to become a Lightkeeper; and you are merely curious what clues you can find to your enigmatic host whilst he is gone.

You know that you are being nosy; you feel bad that Flins may yet come home to find you snooping . . . but he fascinates you so utterly! You wish to know his secrets!

He has learnt more about you in the past few days – you’ve told him the truth about why you had run, and he had laid his gloved hand atop of yours and looked at you with those piercing yellow eyes and assured you that you were worth far more than you realised, and that the life you fear is waiting for you when you go back will not come to fruition. You have told him stories about your childhood, little things that have floated across your mind when the two of you have been chatting. But he remains . . . frustratingly tight-lipped.

Oh, you don’t think it’s on purpose – but somehow, whenever you ask a question, he answers it without really answering it. You’re halfway through another subject before you realise that he never told you if he had any pets as a child and somehow now he knows that your family had gone through three dogs and a cat. He twists his answers, tying them into bows and knots, and they always seem to come back to you and him finding out more about you.

And sometimes--

Sometimes you tell him things you do not mean to, you have realised. Sometimes he asks you a question, your name falling from his lips at the end like it is a sugar-coated question mark, and you are replying to it with a frankness that frightens you. Like something is compelling you to answer him and tell him nothing but the truth, even when you would prefer to keep some of your own secrets.

So he knows, then, that you had accepted your death back there with the Wild Hunt. That you had in fact, almost welcomed it (he had looked sad at this confession, a soft sigh falling from his mouth, a whispered apology that you would feel like that). He knows that you resent your brother so much you had once thought of slitting his throat in his sleep, though you would never go through with such a thing. He even knows that you think he is handsome, and that you have never had a serious relationship because nobody in your village has ever interested you--

He had laughed at the confession that you found him handsome, and then looked at you with those yellow eyes almost playful and reassured you that he found you, in turn, just as pleasing to the eye. It had not seemed, though, that such a thing had tumbled unbidden from his mouth – his words had seemed perfectly thought through.

So, then, you tell yourself, if Flins knows some of your secrets . . . don’t you deserve to at least know a little more about him?

The kitchen and bathroom do not provide you any intelligence about Flins.

You do find it odd that there appears, beyond the rations that Flins had mentioned to you, no other food in the lighthouse other than those that he has been using to prepare your meals. This puts an end to your theory that perhaps he eats something else, because he doesn’t like the food he makes you. The quantities, from what you can see, all seem to point to you being the only person who is eating anything. The silverware drying by the sink, too, is only that which you have used, beyond the cups you have occasionally seen Flins drink wine from.

It throws up more questions than answers, and you have to force yoursef to stop ruminating on it in order to be able to move on to your next stop on the snooping tour.

The second foor of the lighthouse is the floor in which you have been sleeping, so you bypass that one – in the time you have spent with Flins, you have grown rather too intimately familiar with it. You know that there are no secrets to be found here. There are a few spare Lightkeeper uniforms in the armoire, another pair of boots, a few very old books in a bookshelf . . . but other than that, the room he has made you guest in does not bare open much of Flins’ personality to you.

So you ascend the ladder again, higher up into the belly of the beast.

You have been using an old lantern to light your way – not one of the ones the Lightkeepers have, but something of rusted iron that had taken you far too long to figure out how to light. Your shoulder remains unhealed, though you can at least use your hands a little now – holding the heavy lantern, though, had proven a step too far. Consequently, you have to put it onto the floor with your good hand, groping sightlessly onto the next level, and then hoist yourself up after it – and there is something that’s rather . . . unsettling about the way the shadows dance on the wall in the next room.

This one is undoubtedly Flins’ domain, and you give your eyes a moment or two to adjust and to second-guess what you might be seeing.

This is no second bedroom.

The simple, kind thing to call it would be a ‘study’. There are more books lining the walls, after all – but taking up most of the space is a grand desk-come-worktable, covered all over with the projects Flins is working on. You see that there are many glistening jewels and coins and other such shiny trinkets covering the desk and taking their place on the shelves, but that is hardly a concern.

What is a concern, though, is the unmistakable objects that are scattered all over Flins’ desk, in a disarray that seems at odds with the man’s practical mind. They gleam, too, but in a very different way – the gleam of these objects almost feels like a warning, that you ought to descend back down the stairs and forget that you ever saw what he was doing up here.

Because covering Flins’ worktable is a veritable mountain of bones.

You’re glad you hadn’t yet picked up the lantern from the floor, because your hand flies to your mouth to stifle your gasp. Some of them are obviously animal, or perhaps even monster – but some of them have a certain angle to them, a certain colour and size that makes your blood run cold and fear nestle heavy in your gut that they are, in fact, human.

You should go back down to your own level and tuck yourself up in your bed (‘your’ bed) and pretend you have not seen anything. You should try and forget that this is above you, and smile at Flins and ask him questions and act as nothing has changed, whilst trying to leave as soon as you can lest you become one of that mountain of bones yourself.

But something inside of you – a curiousity that you can’t quell – drives you onwards. You know you are being foolish even as your feet move across the wooden floor of the lighthouse, closer and closer to Flins’ desk. This is how hapless mortals die, in the folktales and stories that Flins has been telling you (now, when you think of them, they seem almost like a warning).

But there is something to be said for the lure of knowledge, and before you know it you stand before them. You reach out, your fingers brushing against both smooth and pitted bones, both small and large. You have never seen a skeleton in real life – the closest you have come is the bones in some of the meat that you used to prepare for your brother and you to have for meals. But you know these to be more than simple rabbits or chickens.

Your hand grasps the thick pole of one of the bones, as you try desperately not to think of what it used to be.

Next to the pile of bones is another construct; this one, meticulous and careful. Besides this one is a scalpel, and other tools you have only ever before seen woodcutters use. This is a collection of bones, you realise, that has been carefully reorganised and reshaped to bear the likeness of a rabbit. Something that may once have been the fang of a great beast, carefully carved into a curling ear – a small bone like a kneecap reshaped into the rabbit’s face, it’s twitching nose. You ought to be in awe of the craftsmanship, but all you feel is a kind of crawling horror that this is the medium in which Flins has chosen to work.

And as you move to put the bone you are holding back down, the mountain of unsorted pieces falls to one side, revealing what is undoubtedly a human skull.

Your hand does not fly to your mouth in time to muffle the muted scream that falls from your lips as you stumble backwards away from it.

And into something cool and solid.

Flins’ voice comes against your ear, calm and cultured, polite to the end.

“Ah,” he says. “I see you’ve stumbled upon my little divertissement.”

You whirl back to face him, your eyes wild and open. Your mouth opens and closes as you desperately try to think of something. He’s a Lightkeeper, for Archon’s sake! He’s supposed to protect! But here, in this workroom, it seems as though he’s doing the very opposite of that. You don’t know what to say, but what comes out of your mouth is this:

“Please don’t hurt me.”

Flins tilts his head to one side curiously.

“Didn’t you tell me, only a few days ago, that you’d accepted your own death? That you almost thought it would be easier?”

You curse yourself for the unnatural openness that you’ve shown to the man before you, your lip trembling as your eyes stay locked to his own. But then, Flins gives you a slow, small smile.

“Ah. Apologies. I’ve frightened you.” (That seems like an understatement, all things considered, but you do not think you are currently in a position to say anything about it). “I have no intention of hurting you. You can trust my integrity as a Lightkeeper on that.”

Your eyes flicker to the carved bone rabbit, and you can’t quite hold back all of your fear.

“A Lightkeeper protects!” You protest. “These-- whoever these belong to weren’t protected--”

A furrow of his brow.

“Do you see a full skeleton upon my table?” He asks. “Do you know how many bones the average mortal carries around in their frame? I assure you that these bones came to me in bits and pieces, through entirely ordinary means. One comes across all kinds of things when their patrol takes them across almost the whole of Nod-Krai.”

You let out a slow breath. This makes sense. But--

“Wh-why would you pick them up?” You ask. “Why would you want to be surrounded by all of this . . .” You helplessly gesture to everything around you. “All of this death?”

This gets a little laugh out of him, a noise that makes a hot flush rise into your cheeks. His laugh is as low and courtly as his voice.

“That seems like a loaded question to ask somebody who makes their home in an isle that doubles as a graveyard,” he says, and you pull in a rattling breath. Your heart is starting to calm somewhat, now. Perhaps there is a reasonable explanation for all of this.

“I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t . . . carve wood, or something,” you say, your voice a little helpless this time. Flins gives you a small smile and bows slightly to you, proffering his hand towards you to be taken. A little nervously, you allow yourself to place your finger into his palm, and he draws you closer to the worktable and to the carefully arranged rabbit sculpture.

“I think you understand things more if you handle them,” he says. “Whilst carving mortal bones into something else – the power of transformation – you come to a kind of comprehension that would otherwise evade you.” He gazes at the rabbit with what you realise is fondness. “I carved this and thought of you.”

You’re taken aback.

“Of me?”

That strange, secret smile alights on his lips again. His eyes caress the lines and the curves of the rabbit, flickering only momentarily to you as if he is comparing the two of you. You realise, with a strange start, that his eyes almost seem to be glowing in the shadows that the lantern is still throwing over the room. Your shadow is as it has ever been – but Flins’ . . . Flins’ shadow almost seems to waver and wobble on the wall, like he is keeping hold of a form that he isn’t meant to be in.

You are so far away from anything else, here in the Final Night Cemetery. Nobody knows you are here but Flins himself. You’re so terribly vulnerable, along and injured and relying on the Lightkeeper for absolutely everything--

“Mortals are delicate things,” he says. “So prone to death. So prone to injury. And yet – beautiful. Rabbits are like that, too – but despite everything stacked against them, despite the knowledge that they are soft and easy to hurt and prey for forces they don’t understand. . . they persevere. Like you.”

And he keeps using the word ‘mortal’, as if it is not a word he would ascribe to himself.

The lack of food, the lack of sleep, the strange glow in his eyes and the antiquated way of talking and all of the stories he tells you as if he was really there.

Your hand is still within his, your palms still pressed together, and not for the first time you think about how he is always so very cold.

“What are you?” You whisper to him, and Flins smiles enigmatically at you again. You pull your hand out of his, fear hot and sour in your throat. You’ll go no matter what, you think. You’ll fight and you’ll claw and you’ll swim, injured or not, to get away from this not-a-man.

And as you back away from him, Flins murmurs your name in that same soft, cool tone that he always uses.

“Stay.”

And your feet are suddenly rooted to the ground. This is different from the suggestion wrapping around you that you share with him the truth when asked; this is some magic you cannot fully understand, bearing down upon you fully. This is something vicious and deep, fighting against what you want.

“Do you remember what I told you about the Belyi Tsar?” He asks you, not yet crossing the room. “About how the Snowland Fae used to be so important, so venerated? So magical?”

Oh.

Oh.

All of the stories that you’ve heard come crashing into you again. Do not give a fae your true name; do not accept their hospitality, do not owe them a favour, do not eat faerie food . . . All rules you have broken, again and again and again. All things that Flins can use to do whatever he wants to you. You feel your legs begin to tremble.

Flins’ steps towards you are slow and considering, like he is indeed approaching a rabbit – an animal he doesn’t want to spook lest they run into the forest never to be seen again. You wish that were the case here. Even if you wanted to, his magic is ensuring that you cannot run and hide from him.

Do you want to? Is it the worst thing he could be? When he could have revealed himself as some kind of abyssal monster, some murderer or such?

(Fae are not without blood on their hands, though; you know the stories. You know the whispers. But why, then, would be don the garb of a Lightkeeper and actually bother to save poor unfortunates such as yourself?)

Flins seems to sense the way that your mind churns. He comes to a stop before you, so you have to tilt your face up to look at him.

“Don’t fret,” he whispers, and gives you a smile that lights his face – and now, he lets it. Now, he does not hold it back into something mortal. Now, his eyes seem to flame from inside and there is something just slightly inhuman about the way his face moves, almost too beautiful to be looked at full-on. You wonder how you could ever have been fooled by him. “You may remember something else from the stories. You may remember that the fae can only twist, can only set riddles and puzzles – you may remember that we cannot lie.”

He leans down, his face coming close to yours. Your heart pounds in your ears.

It’s hard not to think of how he has taken care of you. How he has saved you. How he could have left you for dead, but he brought you back here and understood your plight and brought you food and stories and treated you like something precious and important. It is because of that, you tell yourself, that your gaze fixates on his lips and the feel of his cool palm, as he cups your cheek with his hand.

“So perhaps it may comfort you to know,” he continues, “that I have absolutely no intention of hurting you.”

And his lips brush against your own, cool and smooth and soft.

The first command he gives you, now that you know exactly what it is he is doing when he says your name, is simply to stay in the lighthouse. You imagine it like some shimmering spectral chain wrapped around your ankle; once, when he has gone for the evening to complete his patrol, you go to the front door and rattle it helplessly in the doorframe. He has locked it, of course – but even just by the door, it is as if the magic that binds you can sense your intention, and you feel a strange sense of mooring to the spot. Your stomach feels empty, your head swims – and none of those feelings abate until you give up, and go sit at the table in the kitchen to glare at the offending entryway.

“Where would you go?” Flins asks you, when he comes back in the lilac dawn light to find you, mutinous, sitting there. “You have already said you’re alone in the world; where would you go, if you found yourself out there?”

It’s a question you have asked yourself, but somehow from Flins’ mouth it seems all the worse. You press your lips together and try to fight the traitorous hot tears that you can feel springing into your eyes. Your fists clench. Flins must see the way that you react, because he comes towards you again, taking a seat beside you at the table, those elegant gloved hands once more coming to cup your face.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Don’t cry. You are not alone in the world any longer, dear one. Not now that you have me. You ought to know that you have carved out a space in my heart, don’t you?”

“You barely know me,” you breathe out to him in response, your voice cracking. Flins tilts his head and smiles, leaning in to you. His cool lips brush against your forehead now, your cheeks.

“I know what you look like when you bleed and what you sound like when you cry. I know the way your eyes sparkle when you listen and how your heart calls out for someone to understand it. I know . . .” And here, a faint flush crawls over the tip of his ears. “I know the feel of your heartbeat. What else need I learn? When I have so long with you to look forward to?”

“You haven’t-- you can’t--”

Sometimes, when he speaks like that, you are reminded that he is a being something more than mortal. The words don’t make sense – he doesn’t know your history, not really, or your family or the way you get angry when someone stands over you whilst cooking . . . But if you were to try and say that, you don’t think he would understand. He is of a higher being than that – and though you think such things are important when in a relationship, you’re sure he would dismiss them as mortal foolishness.

You can’t call this a relationship by any ordinary means.

“But you could tell me,” Flins breathes, pulling back. His eyes are yellow as a wolf’s, his smile almost too perfect, with a few too many teeth. A creature playing at being human. He corrects himself. “I could make you tell me.”

You shiver, sitting there beside him, at all of the sharp edges hidden in his syllables. There is so much he could make you do, with nothing more than the whisper of your name. It’s hard to forget just how much power he holds over you.

“Will you?” You ask him, wetting your lips. “Will it feel the same, knowing that you had to force me to spit it out? Do your kind care?”

A brief twitch of his lips, as if he is amused you are fighting back. The rabbit, again – versus the hunter, versus the faerie, versus the all-knowing.

“Most would not,” he says. “But I have been playing at being mortal for too long. It will be all the sweeter for me knowing you told me yourself.” He strokes his thumb over the apple of your cheek. “But . . . until then, I still wish to take my pleasure from the one I love.” Your back goes cold, and Flins clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “No, no – please don’t misunderstand my desire as intention to force you, dearest. For now . . .”

He takes his hand away from your cheek, and you sit there in terrified silence, waiting to see what he will do. You watch as he peels his gloves off, to reveal his bare hands and fingers – long and pale, elegant. Somehow, this feels just as intimate as any other touch would, when he takes your face between his palms and pulls you in and kisses you, deep and wanting.

You want to fight him off. You want to bite him, when his tongue brushes against the seam of your lips. You want to be able to say, when you open your mouth and sigh, that it is because he has told you that you must.

But that would be a lie.

When Flins kisses you, your mind goes blank of everything but his chivalry, his devotion, his handsome face and his lilting voice and the fact that he has shared with you something he has not been able to share with another soul for centuries. You forget that he is keeping you here by force. You forget about the enchantments that he dangles over your head.

For just that moment, and just that kiss, you think you might love him back – and when Flins pulls back and smiles at you, you realise that he could tell.

“I need to go to sleep,” you blurt out, though you have done nothing but sit stewing at this table since you got out of bed in the evening when he left (your schedule, you notice, has started to adhere more to his than to any you might once have kept). Flins’ eyes do not leave your face.

“Sleep well, beloved one,” he says, inclining his head. “It has been some time since I took refuge in a warm bed, myself. But . . . I do not think it will be much longer.”

The words should feel ominous – it was only a short while ago, after all, you thought he was making a threat on your virtue. But instead, they make a heat run through your veins that you can barely stand. It rushes into your cheeks, your skin hot to the touch, and you turn away from him before he can see what effect he is having on you.

It’s foolish, of course.

He knows.

You are starting to feel as though it is not possible to keep secrets from him.

Of course, when you get up to the level which is yours and you sequester yourself in bed, you cannot sleep. You toss and turn and think about the mess you have found yourself in, trying to keep your mind from thoughts of your captor. But thinking of anything else is worse – thinking of the life you have left behind, of the life that could have been, of all of the dreams you had once harboured . . . You stare helplessly at the ceiling and recall how it had been before you had discovered his secret.

It means you are awake when Flins ascends the ladder.

“Kyryll?” You ask. You have been using the name he gave you since he asked you to; you had briefly thought about returning to ‘Sir Flins’ when he had made it clear you were his prisoner, but you had not found yourself able to after you had used it once and he had outright flinched to hear it fall from your lips. He had not used his enchantments to command, but . . . something about the hurt that had flickered across his expression had made sympathy pang inside of you. You could not bring yourself to do it again.

“You’re still awake?” He asks, and you hear his footsteps come closer to the bed. You sit up, letting the coverlets gather over your lap instead. You’ve long grown used to being bare shouldered around him; he has seen to your wounds, after all. It is mostly healed over, now. You do not think you will need to wear the bandages for much longer, though there will be a scar there forever to remind you of the mistakes you made to lead you to the Final Night Cemetery. “You’re not dreaming?”

“Were you going to play with your bones?” There’s a sharp edge to your word that, if Flins were like the cruel captor fae of legend, you’re sure you would be punished for. Instead, he breathes out slowly and evenly.

“Perhaps,” he says. “Perhaps I just wanted to check on you. Perhaps I have watched you sleep every night since I brought you here, just to be sure you are sleeping soundly and undisturbed.”

The thought makes you shiver at the same time as it makes you feel . . . strangely safe. It has been so long since anybody has truly cared about your wellbeing; your mind bitterly cannot help but wonder if your brother has even reported you missing to anybody. Though Nod-Krai does not have formal laws, he could still probably get the Voynich Guild or some passing adventurer to search for you . . .

If he was willing to part with the Mora, of course.

“Does anybody know I’m here?” You ask, trying to ignore the warm tug of tenderness in your heart for the idea your captor may stand watch over you at night. “Do you know if anybody has asked about me?”

You think you see a flash of pity cross his eyes.

“There have been no reports of anyone missing matching your description,” he says. “Ratniki are often told of such cases. Too often, those missing have fallen afoul of the Wild Hunt. And I . . . I would rather keep you to myself than let anybody know what a treasure I have found. It is not unusual for those of my employ to be solitary in nature.”

Your brother was not willing to part with Mora, then. It should not surprise you as much as it does. The inside of your mouth turns to ash. For all he had said about needing you there, to cook and to clean and to do all of the things he promised he could never do alone . . . it had just been a way to keep you tied to him, hadn’t it? You have escaped one cage and gone into another.

At least in the cage Flins keeps you in, you are valued. You have gone from prisoner in jail cell to pretty bird in an iron cage, a pet to be adored and cherished and taken care of.

Flins has said your name. He’s settling on the edge of the bed now, his yellow eyes seeking out your face. You don’t realise that frustrated tears have spilt from your eyes until they wet your cheeks and clump your lashes.

“They did not deserve you,” he says, voice urgent. “They did not see the value of you; your beauty, your strength, your worth. Not as I do.”

“Do you think me beautiful, then?” You ask. You try to make it barbed; but it comes out, as such a question is always likely to do, as almost pathetic. Hopeful. Flins swallows, and for the first time you see a touch of nervousness touch his composure, flickering at his edges.

“. . . More than you realise.” He says, wistful. “I think it must have been fate, the Wild Hunt delivering you to me like this. Knowing that I would see the worth of such a precious gem where others have not.”

You think of his shelves, and the precious gems and coins he has hoarded like a magpie. They say that the fae have a fondness for pretty things; you imagine him collecting them and polishing them, thinking of their lives and their stories as he holds them. You are a gem, too. Flins’ collection made flesh. The thought should chill you – you hate that, instead, it makes something that feels like pleasure prick up your spine.

“Thank you,” you say to him, and mean it.

“You were undervalued,” he says, in that way he has that is both intense and calm, a perfectly smooth galleon cutting through a rough and stormy sea. “I am lucky that it was I who saw it. I was lucky that I stumbled upon you in time. But . . . fate has a way of working these things out for us, I find. Fate has a way of rewarding those who are willing to play with her.”

You don’t understand his meaning. He must see how your brow pinches, your face scrunches, because he gives you a smile. His hand brushes over your cheek – and then, with only a small amount of hesitation, further down and over your neck, your shoulder, your bare arm. The cool touch of his flesh makes you shiver, and it is not entirely unpleasant.

“I have spent more time than I care to admit in the service of justice and protection,” he says. “Perhaps she has seen fit to send me a reward.”

“I am not some spoils to be won,” you say, your voice dry. Flins’ smile, enigmatic, lighted as if his lantern burns within him and not simply upon the end of his hand, echoes through your mind for the rest of the night.

“I would not dream of it,” he replies. “You are something far more precious than that. You will be protected too, dearest one. You will be protected most resolutely of all.”

He could make your life difficult. He could make you hold his hand; use his command and his power to make sure that you followed every order he gave. He could demand you kiss him, that you open your heart and your bed to him. He could tell you to hold a knife against your throat and you would be forced to comply.

But he does not.

It does not seem right, to use the word ‘chivalrous’ to describe the inhuman creature that holds you hostage in solitude on an island full of bones. But that is what he is. He avoids commands whenever possible – the only things he ever uses your name to force your obedience are either for your own good (an order to stop scratching, when the healing scars of your arm have felt like they are filled with burning hot ants crawling over them), or in order to maintain his hold upon you.

Flins has a visitor, some three weeks into your tenure as his captive – another Lightkeeper who calls himself Illuga, who Flins later tells you is the son of the current Starshyna. When he knocks on the lighthouse’s door, dropping by unnanounced, Flins’ voice is urgent as he tells you to only respond with niceties and to not tell the truth about why you are, that you ran away and that he is holding you captive. He gets it all out in a rush, but you understand – the fae are known for being tricksy themselves, and he is trying to cover his bases.

You oblige. You smile sweetly at the younger Ratnik and answer questions with a blandness that Flins clearly finds pleasing. You do not even shudder when Flins calls you his beloved, and asks Illuga not to spread gossip about him. Lightkeepers value their privacy, Illuga assures him, and he gives you a smile and sounds quite pleased when he tells you he has glad Flins has found somebody to share this lonely life with.

(You wish your heart didn’t jump at this; you wish that you didn’t think about how much easier it would be to give in to what Flins wants from you).

After he is gone, Flins brings you out a treat; a sugar sculpture he bought in Nasha Town, made carefully and beautifully in the shape of a rabbit.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, and – because you have not yet learnt, even after everything, you thank him. This time, though, as the words leave your mouth . . . you feel something shift within you, like cogs and gears moving in a lock and locking something in your heart in place. You look up in wild alarm at Flins, to see that his expression has gone terribly soft and loving again.

“Every time you do that,” he says, laying a hand atop of yours on the table (he has started forgoing his gloves, now, and the shock of his cool skin never fails to make you shiver), “it strengthens our connection. The enchantment that binds us to one another. You felt it that time, didn’t you?”

You swallow, your eyes darting away from Flins’ face. There is something unsettling about openness when it makes a home in Flins’ eyes – knowing what he is, you cannot help but feel that it should not come naturally to him. It makes you wonder what trickery brews beneath the surface.

“Yes,” you admit, the word coming out bitter. Flins chuckles and shakes his head.

“You have nothing to be afraid of,” he tells you. “I will not hurt you. You know this to be true.”

“There are things worse than hurt,” you whisper, and Flins tilts his head again, like this is a human concept he is still yet to understand. “There are things that . . . mortals need and crave, that you have taken from me.”

“You have shelter and food and protection,” he says. “What else do you need? You have . . . affection, when you are willing to accept it.”

You should not have expected him to understand. You try to ignore the voice in your head that whispers that you should accept the affection; that you should embrace the life he has proffered to you, simple and easy and safe. What other mortal in the world could call themselves beloved of a fae, beloved of something that has lived for centuries and will live for centuries more, and yet still finds them fascinating enough to tether themselves to?

(You have suspicions, about Flins and his lantern, about legends of protection that he has told you in the past. You do not think he is any ordinary fae).

“Freedom,” you say to him, lifting your head to meet his yellow gaze head-on. He looks at you with an adoration that is sharp at the edges; an adoration that says he will love you and venerate you, but you will have to fit into the box that he has designated. You will have to be what he wants you to be. “I ran away from home because I did not wish to be forced into a life I did not choose for myself. What is different about my life here?”

He does not break the eye contact. Looking into Flins’ eyes, it feels like you are seeing the centuries he has lived through; you think of the stories he has told you. Looking into his gaze, you feel as though you are in ballrooms swirling with people, on battlefields full of raging swords and screams with blood soaking into the ground, far asleep beneath the ground in a slumber that you think you will never wake from.

“Here,” he says, “you are safe. You are adored. You are mine.”

“Does it not upset you to know that I would leave if I could?” Your voice comes out dry and quiet and afraid. “Do you really wish to keep me here against my will, if you adore me?”

“I am not upset,” Flins replies. “Such a thing is not in my nature. If I were mortal, perhaps I would let you go. But I am not. If I were mortal, perhaps I would tell you I am doing this for your own good. But I am not. It is foolish to hold me to those ideals, beloved. I adore you. I love you. And I have you. And . . . because I have you, because you are mine, because the enchantment ties our souls together – I have absolutely no intention of letting you go.”

“Kyryll,” you repeat, voice broken, staring at him, as the waves of finality crash all around you. It does not matter what you say. He has made up his mind.

A Lightkeeper is a stubborn creature, you have always been told. They live away from society; they give themselves to their work. They are strange and not particularly social, with ways that can seem antiquated.

The stories say, too, that a fae is a stubborn creature. They do not easily give up their prize.

You have the misfortune, then, of stumbling across both.

You will never be free.

You do not think you will ever be happy here; not with the call of what could have been. Just because you are away from the life you had run from does not mean you have stumbled into a life you would have chosen. Flins, for all of his good manners and his handsome face and his courtly grace, is no replacement for your own adventure.

But he is handsome. And you think, insofar as he understands it, he does care for you. You do not think a fae truly understands what love is – but you think Flins must think he does feel such a way for you. You pull your hand back from his, clenching your fists, your nails worrying crescent moons into your palms.

One moment to feel the pain and the reality and the truth.

“Will you do something for me, Kyryll?” You ask him, your voice tremulous. Flins looks at you, and you feel his greed and his want and what he must think is his love. Perhaps it is. Who is to say what love is, for a creature like him?

“Almost anything that is within my power, dearest.”

You swallow. You will not allow yourself to look away from him; you will not allow yourself to choose the coward’s way out at the last moment. If you are making this choice, you will stand firm in the fact that you chose it.

“Use my name,” you say to him. “Tell me to love you.”

You grow flowers in boxes on the thick sills of the lighthouse, in carefully chosen arrays. They ought not to flourish in the Final Night Cemetery the way that they do, but whenever it seems a bulb is going to falter and die, you ask Kyryll to take a look at it and it springs back to life within a few evenings. Their scent fills the air, and it makes you smile to see them there.

You bake at the oven in the downstairs kitchen; krumkakes and sweets that Kyryll never partakes of, but always takes a great inhale of and assures you of their deliciousness. You ply him with them when he goes out on his Lightkeeper patrol, and tell him to share with anyone he saves. Sometimes he gives them to other Lightkeepers, when he comes across them, and he tells you they gently tease him about his little homemaker.

You dust the lighthouse to keep it nice; you bother Kyryll until he brings you trinkets and other things to light up the dull interior. There is a tablecloth of red gingham over the kitchen table now, and a vase of flowers cut from the window boxes. You sweep and hum, mend Kyryll’s clothing for him when it gets ripped (despite his laughter and insistence that you need not do any such thing. You tell him that you like looking after him, and a look that almost seems like sadness flits across his face).

Sometimes, when you are looking after the home that you and Kyryll share, you get a strange hollow feeling in your chest. When you are rearranging files and clicking your tongue because he’s left his worktable in a muddle, a flash goes through you, a whisper that you have been trapped in a role that you never wanted to play. You ignore it. Everybody has such feelings, you tell yourself: and you are lucky.

You are in love. You are loved in return.

You curl up beside Kyryll in the bed, his hand brushing through your hair with the utmost gentleness as he tells you stories about his time in the courts of the Belyi Tsar, about the things he has seen. Whenever he tells you of something beautiful, he always takes a moment to pause and tell you; “But that beauty could not hold a candle to your own, beloved”.

You kiss him soft and slow and tender, and he gives back the same. His hands on you are like he is handling a precious artifact. He treats you like glass, and he plays you like a violin, hands caressing curves and plucking strings until music flows forth from you and he curls his body about yours.

Sometimes you stroke his shoulderblades, the spot where his wings would be, and he shivers in pleasure and arches like a cat. He promises one day he will show you his full, true form.

And sometimes . . .

Sometimes, in bed, when you are both panting beside each other and you are slipping into a pleasured doze, you look up to see your beloved Kyryll awake. He looks down at you with that yellow-fire gaze as if he would raze cities to the ground if they threatened your safety. As if he would do anything in the world to preserve this moment, to keep you here, to make sure that the two of you will never be parted.

And when you think that, when the thought slips into your mind before you lose yourself to the haze of unconsciousness--

A scar that slices across your shoulder – one you don’t remember getting – suddenly seems to ache.

[after-witch]

The Village in Winter [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Title: The Village in Winter [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Synopsis: You meet a strange man in the museum one day.

Word count: 7500ish

Notes: yandere, autistic coded reader, kidnapping, manipulation, Chrollo is an asshole

Tuesday. Thursday. Saturday. 

Each of these was a Museum Day. Well. Not officially. It wasn’t on some city-wide calendar or anything as glamorous as that. It was, however, a simple fact of life: every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, you came to your city’s famous art museum for the afternoon. 

It was easy enough to take a long lunch during the week–the missing 2 hours on your pay wasn’t exactly something to weep over and if you wanted to cry, you could always come in an hour early to make up for it. 

And you didn’t work on Saturday at all, so it was your time to spend as you wished. So why not spend it at the most famous museum in the city?  

Maybe infamous was a better word. Outside news agencies never got tired of remarking about the dubious and potentially illegal origins of some of its works, rumored to be stolen hundreds of years ago by some king-or-another from a formerly favored lord. 

The infamy wasn’t why you went, of course. You went for the art, dubious origins or otherwise. More specifically, you went for the paintings. Sculptures weren’t the same. They were often boring, blank imitations of life that captured nothing but smooth solid porcelain. 

It was paintings that drew your eye and kept your interest. The brushstrokes, the way the lighting was specifically designed to pull people’s gazes this way and that; the hidden secrets behind a subject’s expression. All the little details that you could count on being there time and time again. 

And so, like clockwork, you went there time and time again. To admire, to walk. Some of the guards and docents knew you by name at this point and, if they’d given it, you knew theirs, too. 

It was nice to remember things when you went to the same place. It was nice, too, to visit the same paintings. The museum rarely moved pieces–it had happened only once in your memory–and that was especially ideal. Your steps and path could be familiar day after day. 

What was not nice, however, was the fact that there was (today, of all days, a Tuesday) a man standing in front of your favorite painting at the exact moment you wanted to approach it. 

The man’s presence wasn’t the not-nice part. (It was often nice when people admired the same things you did, because it meant they might ask you about them. And as many years as you had under your belt visiting these same paintings, these same steps, you knew quite a lot.)

The not-nice part was that there was a man standing in front of your favorite painting, and he was staring at (horror!) the wrong thing. 

As you trace your familiar steps, coming agonizingly closer, you can see that he’s not looking at the painting but the frame. The frame! Of all things! He’s got his head tilted just-so, looking at it this way and that. Like he’s admiring it. He stops only when your footsteps get close enough to make it clear that you’re about to stop at the same spot.

“The frame isn’t period authentic,” you say, perhaps a bit too loudly, “There’s no point in looking at it.”

The man hums. You half-wonder if he’ll snap at you, people sometimes do.. But instead he looks back at the painting, as if he’s trying to see what you mean. “What makes you say it isn’t period authentic?” 

His voice is low, a murmur. Out of respect for the museum, maybe, or he’s just embarrassed at being called out. You don’t bother trying to figure it out, because the question he asked is more than enough to have you ready to spill out the words.

“Well,” you begin, swallowing because you can already tell it’s going to take a while. “For one, it’s gilded with aluminum.” When he doesn’t respond, you smile, unbidden. “And of course, aluminum isn’t suitable for water gilding.” Your finger points to the frame (an unwelcome frame, in your opinion–but again, it was the painting, not the frame, that one ought to look at) and wiggles. “The era this painting was made, water gilding was the most popular. They certainly wouldn’t have used an inferior material like aluminum to do water gilding.”

“I see,” he says, after a moment. “Is that all?”

It is, naturally enough, not all.

“No!” You say, maybe too loud, because he raises an eyebrow. But you press on. “If it was just the frame material, that would be one thing. Not everything was water gilded, of course, it was just the most popular. But the real tell…” 

And you might be reading him wrong (you do that a lot) but he does lean in, doesn’t he? Because he’s interested in what you have to say. You think. It would be welcome, anyway.

“The real tell,” you continue, pointing here and there on the frame. “Are the fasteners. Especially around the joints..” You press on before he thanks you, because he shouldn’t thank you before you give him the really important detail here. 

“When the painting was made, they didn’t have keyed stretchers yet.” You point here, and there. “These made it easier to expand the frame, or make it smaller, simply by sliding the keys and tightening the screw. Before,” and there’s a laugh in your voice, “it was a pain when you wanted to take a painting out and swap it for something else. But with these newer ones, it was much simpler!”

There is a beat or two, and you wonder if he’s going to scoff and give you that smirky little smile people give when you’ve shared too much information that they apparently didn’t want. (Even if it was fascinating information, nonetheless.) 

But he doesn’t. Curiously, and it’s a pleasant sort of curiosity, his smile isn’t smirky at all–it’s pleased. Happy, even, if your guess was as good as gold. 

“Thank you,” he says, eyeing the frame–still the wrong part, you think–again. “I wasn’t aware that frames held such nuance.” He glances at you. “I appreciate your insight.”

Insight. Huh. No one has ever called it that before. Word-vomit, yes. Over-explaining, definitely. “Stuff no one cares about,” that one was pretty common. But insight–that was new. And it was, like his smile, perfectly pleasant. It made you feel almost fluttery. 

“Most people don’t appreciate it,” you admit, too honest. “But the frame isn’t the important part of the painting, anyway…” 

The next time he looks towards the painting he, thank goodness, actually looks at the painting within the frame. “Is this your favorite painting?”

“Of course.” The words come quick and sure.

“Why of course?”

Sometimes you wonder if other people have a switch that lets them choose when to hold back, 

and when to indulge in their words. Because you find it very, very hard. Especially when it’s something like this, something like a painting you adore, something like being asked to explain why it is your favorite painting.

But this stranger asked about it, so even if this mysterious switch did exist, you certainly would have slammed the “full speed ahead” setting without hesitation.

“Well…”

This stranger gets to learn about it all. About the artist (Henri Lamorliere) and why he chose the subject (a village scene in the winter) and who commissioned it (a prince who owned the land and later died from complications related, presumably, to his gout) and how it ended up here, in this city, of all places. (That was, indeed, a longer story–involving said potentially dubious origins that you were more than happy to indulge in, considering the stranger’s interest.)

As for why it is, of course, your favorite–it is because of all the tiny details, small things, inconsequential and silly to most, but details that keep you coming again and again. A child depicting playing in the snow with friends; a couple ice skating, with one leg clearly losing balance, forever frozen before the young man falls straight on his bum; a woman with a bucket, frowning, staring into a frozen water well; a farmer carefully draping warm blankets over his horses; a streak of mud revealed underneath the pristine snow as a cart of firewood is pulled along; and on and on. It’s not just a painting, it’s a frozen moment, people forever engaging in these mundane or delightful or simplistic moments.

When you are done (and you must admit, you talked for quite a while) the man doesn’t roll his eyes or sigh or say that he must be off, which is very often the case when you talk too much. 

Instead he, of all things, smiles.

“Thank you,” he says, and before you can ask why, continues: “How fascinating. I didn’t know the history of the piece as well I as I thought.” His eyes roam over the painting, the details you cling to. “And I never thought much about the scene being depicted.” He glances at you. “Not in the way you have, at least.”

It might be an insult. It might not. 

“When you come here as much as I do, you learn a lot.” 

He hums. Seems to consider something. And then, he asks:

“Would you like to share a coffee?” If you’re not mistaken, there’s a warmth to his voice. A bit of humor, too. Maybe he didn’t hate your diatribe about the piece, in the end. 

But–well. It won’t work out, at least not without a concession on his part. (And yours, too, not that he’d understand it.)

“I only get coffee after I see the rest of my paintings.” A pause, something heated piercing the apple of your cheeks. “Um. They’re not my paintings. I didn’t paint them. I don’t have any work on display,” you explain, as if he needs that clarification. “I think of some of them as mine, because I visit them when I come here.”

Sometimes, when there’s time to ponder on it, you liken actions to machinery. It starts with thoughts. They go through a certain process before resulting in an expression or a word. That’s what you think of, now, as you watch this stranger taking in what you said. His own thoughts are no doubt moving through the cogs, being sent this way and that on some conveyor belt, ending in his final action. 

Though it isn’t one you expected.

“Well then,” he says. “May I accompany you to see the rest of your paintings, so that I could join you for coffee?”

Huh.

It’s a break in the routine, sure. But he didn’t roll his eyes while you talked or quickly excuse himself to get out of hearing what you had to say. And if he was willing to listen, and follow your route, well–it might just be okay.

You don’t exactly plan to smile when you answer, but it creeps along your lips all the same.

“I suppose you could,” you say, and that smile quirks. “If you can keep up.”

“My name is Chrollo,” he replies, oddly, like it’s an answer. 

–

Chrollo does, in fact, keep up. More than that, he engages in conversation with you, offering counterpoints, asking questions, even going so far as to ask how you learned such-and-such a detail. 

Despite the interruption that he presents, it’s not unwelcome. It’s nice, actually, and as the afternoon goes on, you almost regret that there aren’t more paintings on your usual stop. But it’s not like the afternoon stops when you visit Boy and his Dog, one of the museum’s quirkier paintings; it is, yes, a Boy and his Dog. But the dog is wearing human clothes, and the boy is running wild on a broken leash. 

(The painting always makes you smile. When the stranger asks why, you’re almost–well, perhaps actually–rude when you explain: “Because it’s all backwards, of course.”)

After Boy and his Dog comes coffee. And if your newfound companion is relieved to have finally gotten to the part he asked you about earlier this afternoon, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he watches; he watches as you approach the counter and the barista greets you by name, already starting your familiar order before you say a word.

“You come here often,” he says, and it’s not a question.

You nod and eye the pastry case. “It’s tradition,” you say, not taking your eyes off the goodies displayed inside the climate controlled glass. If they have fresh cinnamon buns, you get one of them. If they aren’t fresh, you stick to the prepackaged cookies. “Every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday.” 

The glaze isn’t hard, but smooth, a bit of it still runny along the edges.

Fresh.

“One cinnamon roll, please,” you order. Then pause, because that isn’t quite right today, is it? “I mean, two.” But is that right, either? You eye Chrollo and something like a smile plays at the edge of his lips. “Er, well, if you’d like one, that is–”

“I would, thank you.” It’s a relief to not have to walk back the order, and the barista behind the counter swiftly bags them up.

Chrollo orders his own coffee before you can offer to add his to your tab, but that’s all right. At least you’re buying him the cinnamon bun. It’s nice to help others, especially someone who was patient enough to listen. (Not just listen, though, you remind yourself. Actively engage with you, which is far better. And more rare.)

You’re in the middle of your cinnamon bun–literally, fork stabbing the middle part first, which is the softest, gooeist part–when he speaks up.

“I enjoyed our conversation today.” Soft, almost as if he didn’t say the words often. Maybe, and this was perhaps too egotistical of you, he didn’t. 

“Mm,” you say, because you really did want to eat that middle part first, and the explosion of sticky-sweet cinnamon goodness in your mouth prevented further words for a few moments. Something about this seems to amuse him, and he places a hand over his mouth before he chuckles.

“What?” There is still some cinnamon roll still clinging to your teeth. 

“Nothing,” he murmurs, though it wasn’t nothing at all. “I was simply thinking that I might see you on Thursday. If that’s all right.”

Your mouth quirks. It’s not irritation that you’re feeling. Not really. But he was something new, a blip in your schedule. Still, he didn’t make a mess of things. He listened, and it was nice, actually, for someone to not shoo you away like some gnat the moment you got going on a favorite topic.

“It’s all right,” you say, mind still wavering, but voice already made up. “If you can still keep up.”

He snorts, and nothing more.

–

On Thursday, he’s there. Standing by your favorite painting. And staring, again, at the unimpressive, unimportant frame. Of all things–again! 

“You–” And it’s strange, how easily the indignation bleeds into your words. “But I already told you about the frame–”

But when Chrollo turns, he’s smiling, and it takes you a few slow moments to realize that he was kidding. Ah. It was… It was a joke. 

There’s a flush in your cheeks as you stuff your hands into your jacket pocket. “I’m not good with jokes,” you admit. 

He stuffs his own hands in his pockets and you can’t decide if it’s intentional mimicry or if he simply does the same thing in an awkward situation. (And which of these options is better, really?) 

“Nor am I, it seems.”

That, for some reason, makes you laugh.

Makes him laugh.

Makes the afternoon start off on a better foot.

Later on, after paintings and coffee, Chrollo insists on coming to the museum Saturday to see you again. 

You don’t protest.

–

It’s remarkable how quickly Chrollo becomes a part of your daily routine, and how swiftly he moves from being solely within your once-tidy museum routine to the outside. 

To things like asking you out to dinner, and when you explain that on Tuesday evenings after work you go home and make breakfast for dinner, he insists on taking you to a diner-style restaurant to maintain your breakfast meal while not intruding on your home life.

Which is considerate, you think, that he understands that you’re wary of inviting a relatively new acquaintance into your home. But–going out to eat is not what you usually do. At least he doesn’t comment when you fidget too much, when you don’t look in the waitress’s eyes as you order, and when you seem relieved when the check comes. 

You like him better for it. 

–

Chrollo doesn’t tell you that you’re doing things wrong. Which is nice. It’s not that most people tell you flat out that you’re doing something wrong, at least not since you’ve become an adult. But you can tell by their looks; pinched eyebrows and frowns, glances, murmured comments to their peers. 

Chrollo does none of this. 

Chrollo does, however, often forget how you like things; or rather, how you don’t like things. 

He gets too close. A hand that brushes your thigh when you sit together for lunch or coffee, his arm slung around your shoulder when the museum gets too crowded and you start to feel the crush of it crawling up your back. A term of endearment slipped in at the end of the night. Goodnight, dearest. 

Maybe it’s a lot to remember, or maybe he’s just forgetful. There are other options that sometimes sneak up in your mind–maybe he’s doing it on purpose–but they are swiped away so quickly. 

Because it’s Chrollo. He listens to you, he actually pays attention to what you say. He doesn’t mind that you sometimes have trouble making eye contact or that you get flustered in ordinary situations. 

More than that–

He’s your friend. Someone who listens, who has something interesting to say, who seems to actually care about you. He’s the first friend you’ve had in a long time, and you were willing to put up with his forgetfulness in order to keep that friendship alive and well.

Even if it meant having to bat his hand away from your thigh on more than one occasion. 

–

It’s Friday evening. 

Friday evening should be relaxing. The end of the work week, a time to grab a favorite frozen dinner from the freezer and relax in front of the TV with a show that you’ve seen a thousand times. 

Once it’s over, you’ll turn on the news and you might work on a puzzle or write in your journal or slowly make progress on an embroidery kit you picked up 2 years ago and have only ventured into a few times.

You might do these things, except–well. 

Except everything has fallen apart.

Your shaking fingers almost don’t manage to pick out Chrollo on your contacts, and it’s a wonder your phone doesn’t crash to the ground and break into a million pieces with how much your hands tremble.

“Hello?”

He barely gets the word out and you’re already blubbering into the phone, incoherent, words bubbling out with no time to make them more understandable. They choke out, stuttered and half-baked, before you finally beg for the one person who might understand your distress. 

“It’s–it’s–and–they–and–it’s–g-g-g-...Chrollo–please-come-over.”

He manages the trek in record time, impossibly fast, but you don’t pay attention. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s here and you don’t even protest this time when he sees your sobbing form and immediately scoops you into his arms.

It’s almost comforting, the way he squeezes you, gives you something to feel grounded. One of his hands inches a bit lower on your back than you’d like but even that doesn’t matter, doesn’t even register, because his presence has calmed you down enough to spit out the terrible truth:

“They stole it.” You gulp in a great, heaving gasp. “The Village in Winter. Someone… someone stole it.”

Chrollo’s body tenses. The news drones on in the background, but it’s moved on to something less important now. As if something could be less important than this. There’s a great big hole where the painting used to be, on the wall, in your mind.

Chrollo steps in or rather, steps back, placing one hand on your chin–the sensation makes something itch down your back, but you ignore it, because such things can be ignored in a time of great distress. “You are truly upset,” he says, finally, slowly. 

“Of course I am!” Your own hands come up now, grabbing the one on your chin, tugging it down so you can squeeze it with great abandon. Chrollo doesn’t seem to mind. “It’s all wrong–” It’s wrong, too, the way that other hand still rests far too low on your back. “It won’t be there. I love that painting. I love it and now when we go to the museum tomorrow, it won’t be there!”

Chrollo’s hand on your lower back begins to stroke. Maybe it’s soothing. Or meant to be; you have to give him credit, you think, for rushing over and trying to calm you down. 

“We don’t have to be there,” he murmurs.

Which does nothing to calm you down at all, because of course–

“We do have to be there.” Bitterness sets your jaw hard. “We do have to be there, and it will be all wrong.” The thought of all those precious details lost to you forever, the stories you’ve wound through again and again in your head. Even the new routine of admiring them with Chrollo, who always takes interest in the wrong part of the painting–that will be gone, too.

And it’s wrong, wrong, wrong. The world feels worse for it. What would be the point of going to the museum, when you’ve lost some integral part of yourself, all thanks to the work of some lowlife thieves?

Chrollo finally pulls himself away from you, a frown set on his lips. He glances around your living room, the disrupted Friday evening routine that is begging to be set back into place without all the pieces. 

“Have you had your tea? You always drink it while you watch the news, don’t you?”

You do. Yes. Not tonight, though. At least not more than that first sip before it was interrupted by the horror of the news report. 

“I was too upset to finish it,” you admit. “It’s on the counter.” But if you could finish it, maybe it would help. Now that Chrollo’s here to set everything back into order. It wouldn’t make things right–nothing could, except the restoration of that pivotal painting–but it’s a start. A comfort.

 “Could you…” 

He’s already on his way to the kitchen, a hand slipping into his pocket. “Of course. I’ll warm it up for you.”

“Thanks,” you force out, the word heavy on your tongue. Yes. Thank goodness Chrollo is here to set things into place. He knows what you like and need, wandering hands notwithstanding. So it comes as no surprise when he emerges from the kitchen with a newly warmed cup of tea and you stumble on shaking legs to the sofa.

Microwaved tea never tastes the same, and it’s no exception here. It’s almost too bitter now. But you choke it down anyway while Chrollo sits next to you, eyes on the screen, the flickering bar underneath the next program that repeats the news about the museum break-in.

Theft suspected to be the work of professional thieves. More updates on stolen paintings will emerge as staff inventory the losses. At least three security guards found dead…

The world spins. Literally, the world spins, and you reach out a hand and stand up on reflex with the anxiety that spreads through your chest.

“Chrollo?” He’s there, sitting next to you, but he falls in and out of focus as your vision wobbles.

“Yes, love?” 

“I don’t feel very…” The word never comes before everything goes black, and you only just register the awful sensation of falling and being caught in someone’s sturdy hands before you faint.

–

Someone has shoved cotton into your mouth. That’s the only explanation your mind comes up with when the world returns and all you can taste is stale dryness. Someone must have shoved cotton into your mouth at some point before the blackness and this bleary, foggy wake-up.

But why would they do that, and why does your head feel so fuzzy, and why does the world feel like it’s moving? There’s an awful sound underneath you too, almost like rushing and wheels mixed together, like heavy traffic or–or a train. 

Oh. Oh, no.

Air comes in great gulping gasps as you heave yourself forward and sensations assault your senses. A leather seat underneath you, the sun dimmed by drawn curtains, warm, stale air, the sound of rolling wheels and ground underneath you–and Chrollo. Chrollo sitting your opposite, on the same type of leather seat.

You’re on a train. You’re awake and on a train and Chrollo is sitting in front of you.

It’s a dream. Maybe. That’s what you think as you swallow up the cotton feeling, smacking your lips, craving the realization that this is nothing but a bizarre nightmare.

But nightmares don’t feel like this. This is real. It’s your body that feels sluggish and heavy, your eyes blinking away an awful, long sleep. Your voice that croaks out the words that half-stick to the roof of your mouth:

“Chrollo? Where… am I?” 

There’s another question that clings to the back of it–What happened?--but the low curl in your gut makes you avoid it for now.

Chrollo, for his part, looks appropriately serious for the bizarre situation you’ve woken up in. He leans forward, folding his hands together, as he scans your face. For what? An injury? Is that why you’re here? You fell and hit your head and the only solution was a specialist who is only available in the next city, so Chrollo booked you the first tickets on the next train and he didn’t have time to warn you before–

“Dearest.”

The low curling in your stomach squirms, too. He knows you hate those pet names. It was easier to ignore them back then. When the two of you were strolling through the museum or he was indulgently watching you reorganize your books. When you weren’t suddenly on a train, feeling like you got hit over the head with a hammer.

A strange place, a strange Chrollo.

An answer might come, but your mouth is still too sticky and Chrollo interrupts what you might have said, anyway.

“We’re on a train.”

After a moment, a slow word comes. “Yes.” You swallow. “I know that.”

Chrollo smiles. It might be indulgent, but all you can think is: has his smile always been so condescending?

“Do you know why we’re on a train?”

Well. It would be stupid to say “yes,” when you don’t know the answer. 

So you spit out the runaround thought from earlier, though even to your ears, it sounds more ridiculous with every passing word.

“I fell and hit my head and the only solution was a specialist who is only available in the next city, so you booked the first tickets on the next train and you didn’t have time to warn you before–”

He doesn’t call you an endearing nickname (thank goodness) this time but instead his smile widens, just enough to make it look like he wants to coo at you. It’s gross and sticky and you rub at your arms to make some of the feeling go away.

“Stop that. I’m not a child.” 

His smile doesn’t waver, which only sparks a rush of indignation. The world has stopped feeling quite so heavy and when you sit up, you move to pull aside the curtains, if only to find out where in the world you’re at. 

The countryside that’s rolling by isn’t remotely familiar. All lush and green and pretty. Are you even in the same region? The same country? 

“How… how long was I asleep?” No, that’s not the right question. “Why was I asleep? I don’t remember…” Falling asleep at all. And what you do remember doesn’t fit inside this puzzle. You’d been watching the news, and there was the terrible report about the theft at the museum, and then Chrollo came over, and you drank your tea. One plus one should equal two, not waking up on a train.

Chrollo hums, and the sound brings you back. The ground rolls heavy underneath you two, separated by the carpeted floor. 

“I drugged your tea,” he says, plainly enough. 

It can’t be what he said, though. You’re hearing things. Maybe you suffered a blow to the head. That might actually make things.

“You what… my what?” 

“I drugged your tea,” he repeats. Calm and clear and you’re certain that you’ve heard him right this time, only it’s still all wrong. Because this is Chrollo. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t. But he did. He said so. So the only thing left to wonder is:

“Why would you do that?”

“I enjoy your company,” he says, still leaning forward. “Very much so. And it was time for me to leave town, but the thought of leaving without you, well…”

Now, there are no “right” answers to this question. No one ever catalogs the proper responses to a hypothetical question about drugging one’s tea. Still, what he tells you doesn’t sound like the sort of answer one should give. 

Kidnapping someone for ransom, sure. Kidnapping someone because they found out some terrible secret and no one else can no, understandable. Kidnapping someone to kill them because you’re secretly a murderer, again, makes sense.

Kidnapping you because he likes you? 

It’s so wrong, so out of place, that you don’t answer. Can’t answer. There’s something sticky keeping your mouth shut and that something is Chrollo’s lack of common sense.

And then, of all things, he puts a hand on your shoulder. Firm. Irritating. A touch you want to shake but when you try, his grip keeps you in place. It’s too much. Too heavy and personal. It was something to be brushed off before, swept under the rug while you focused on what you liked about him.

But now? 

You must be glaring. There’s a moment where you take stock of your expressions. Your eyebrows feel low and heavy, so they must be furrowed. Your mouth is dry and open. And your eyes are… well. It’s understandable to cry. 

Worst of all, though, is that Chrollo’s hand goes from your shoulders to your cheeks, and it’s when he wipes at your tears that you finally fling your body backwards with enough force that the back of your head smacks against the wall.

It helps, this pain. This motion. So you do it again. Move your head forward and then back, feeling the firm smack of the wood against your head. 

Thump. Thump. Thump.

An ordinary person might look shocked. An ordinary person might cry out and tell you that you're hurting yourself.

Chrollo, however, simply looks like he’s admiring a painting. He takes in the details, his head tilting just so. 

“I packed some of your favorite things,” he says after a while, over the sound of your skull smacking against the wall. “Once we arrive at our destination, we can unpack some of them. It could help you calm down.” 

“I want to go home,” you reply, between thumps. “I want to go home.”

He doesn’t reply, which is as good as a “no.”

“I’m taking you with me,” he says, still calmly, like you aren’t trapped on a train, like you aren’t banging your head with increasing intensity against the wood.

“I don’t want to go with you,” is all you can say, helplessness straining your voice. “I want–I want–” And when you look around, all you can see are these walls, the window, Chrollo. There are a thousand things that you want right now, and none of them are here.

You want your old microwave with the 7 button that sticks so you have to push it hard every time, you want the pink flower rug in your living room that you’ve had since childhood, you want your pumpkin-shaped mug with the chip on the handle, you want your blankets and your bed and the alarm clock on the side table on the left side, so you can wake up and easily roll over to hit the snooze button–

It’s only when Chrollo says your name that you realize you’ve been saying all of this, to him or to yourself, you’re not sure. There’s something stupidly hungry in the way he looks at you. It’s in the way he listens, too. Like he’s hanging onto every word so he can pick them all apart, splaying them open to reveal something inside.

But what? And why?

He doesn’t tell you. Instead, he hums. It’s a low grounded sound. It makes you feel–and you hate it, it’s gross, this feeling–comforted. Almost. Sort of. The way it used to, when you were feeling out of sorts and he swooped in to get you off the ledge.

Only this time he’s the one who pushed you to it, first.

“I’m not taking you home,” he says with a finality that makes your body jerk. “But you can view me as your new home, if it helps.” The smile he gives is warm and kind and if you were sitting in the museum over a cup of coffee, maybe you’d believe it.

“But you can view me as your new home, if it helps.”

It doesn’t help.

–

Your upper arm hurts from the way Chrollo gripped you in the hotel lobby.

“Don’t try anything, dearest,” he’d said, on the way in. Quiet and calm and sticky on the dearest. He might as well have been telling you that he was ordering in for dinner. “I’ll kill everyone in this hotel if you do. I’d rather not have to clean up any messes tonight. I’m sure you understand.”

The words should have shocked you. Or maybe they did, and you’re still in such an inward frenzy that you can’t seem to react to anything within the freezing utter bewilderment of your present situation. 

So you didn’t say anything, though he gripped you hard all the same. And now you’re sitting on some oversized sterile hotel room bed that smells too much like sharp laundry detergent. There’s a mint on the pillow. You bet it tastes like soap.

“We’ll be staying here for a few nights,” Chrollo murmurs. The pair of suitcases he’d brought in are on top of the bed, and there’s a shock to your system when he unzips one of them and you recognize what’s inside.

It’s filled with your things–your hairbrush, a wellworn paperback copy of your favorite book, a bottle of your tried-and-true face wash.

Your clothes. (Well. Some of them.) Right down to your underwear, neatly folded on top. Chrollo had–taken them. Touched them. Been through your things, clearly. 

“You…” The word comes out all strangled, and heat rises to your cheeks for more than one reason. “You really…” You really kidnapped me, you really planned it out, you really went through my private things and plucked them up. 

He takes the pause in your thoughts to crouch down, peering into your face like he might yank the words out himself.

“Yes? What is it?”

“You... you…” And the words you want to ask are stuck between your teeth until you force them out. “Why did you do this? It’s not just… it can’t be just because you,” and your mind reels to remember what he said on the train. “Because you enjoy my company.”

Chrollo says nothing for a moment. A whole lot of nothing. Your mind is working too fast and you expect him to smile or grin, expect him to give some terribly wicked speech like a villain in a movie you’ve seen a thousand times.

Instead he blinks. Instead he frowns.

Instead his hand reaches out to grip your chin and you don’t have time to register the uncomfortable buzz from being touched when says something so softly that you have to strain to hear it.

“Oh, dearest. Don’t you know?”

When your chin does try to jerk away from his touch, it grows tighter, even as his gaze seems to soften. It’s a strange look on Chrollo’s face. Chrollo has looked contemplative, yes; contemplative and intrigued and annoyed, even, when some museum-goers were being too loud for your liking. He’s even looked sympathetic.

But soft? It’s new. It’s unwanted. And the expression stays on his face despite both of those terrible qualities.

“I care for you,” he says, repeating his earlier words. “Not just as a friend. But…” He turns your head this way and that. It makes you feel like a prized horse at auction. “I believe… as something more.”

Not just as a friend… 

Not just as a friend–

“Not just as a friend.” Your repetition comes out all stilted. Maybe because of the hand on your jaw. Maybe because the words seem to creak out of you, every syllable one step down the staircase you’d rather avoid descending.

Something like a film reel flickers through your memories. Little moments, brought back to the forefront with a disgusting clarity. Why had you brushed him off so often? Because you were lonely; because he was your friend. Or so you thought.

But the way he pushed past what you wanted so often seems calculated now. The times he sat too close and let his thigh brush against yours; the way he didn’t hear you, or so he said, when you’d asked him to please stop calling you those soft, sweet pet names. The times he claimed not to be hungry only to ask if he could share your meal afterwards–the way his fingers brushed against yours when he accidentally (or was it?) reached for a bite at the same time.

“The whole time,” you bite out, acid rising in your throat. Your fingers curl against your thighs and there’s a terrible urge to knock them into something. “Were you like this… the whole time?”

Amusement crinkles through the softness in his face. It’s just as grating as nails on a chalkboard. “Did you really not notice?”

Shame flushes through you, heating up your cheeks, your chest, the very air in the room. “Of course not,” you spit out, words sounding more stilted with every passing moment. “Most people wouldn’t notice–notice that.”

At some point, he’s let go of your chin, and you take the moment of the realization to scoot backwards on the bed. Away from him and closer to the dingy looking headboard, which might have been pretty once upon a time, but was now scratched and chipped.

“Of course they would,” he counters, climbing onto the bed like some sort of terrible cat. “And they have, with far less effort on my part.” He pauses, a smile. “Not out of any genuine affection, of course. Don’t worry about that. Only to get something I wanted.”

He’s closer, now. Too close. His hand cups not your chin this time, but your cheek, and there’s only a few moments in between his face and yours. What if he…? 

“Stop,” you say, desperate, helpless. “Don’t touch me.” He doesn’t stop. He leans in closer and you smack against the headboard. “Why aren’t you listening to me?”

What he says makes about as much sense as jello salad. Which is to say, no damn sense at all. “I am listening.” The almost-coo in his voice makes you want to hurl. “I’m hearing what you can’t say out loud, that’s all.”

But that’s not true. Is it? There’s too much going on. He’s too close and this room smells like soap and you ought to be home, not here, with yourself, not Chrollo. The muchness of it all has you aching to get away and make sense of it all, some way, some how.

“I always say what I want to say,” you manage, but you can’t hide the question in it. Isn’t that true? Isn’t that how it’s always been? It’s why people tend to look at you strangely sometimes. It’s why you were often too much for them, when it came down to it.

“You think you do, my dear.” His thumb rubs against your cheek. The touch is sandpaper. “But there’s something else inside you, I think. Something stuck that I’d like to crack open and pull out, if I could.” The fondness in his tone is out of place with the world around you. “If you’d let me.”

You need him to stop touching you. You need him to get away. You need this entire room to vanish, the sight of it, the smell of it, the feel of the unfamiliar sheets underneath you. A sound comes out, something short, stacatto–

“No.” 

And Chrollo doesn’t leave and his thumb keeps rubbing your cheek, so you bring your arm up, smacking him away. Only his arm doesn’t move at all. It’s like hitting a pole–sturdy and impossibly strong.

So you try again, and again, and the sensation of hitting his arm isn’t helpful or soothing. It only makes your breath come in faster, makes the world spin. His breath grows faster, too, and you can’t begin to imagine why.

“You’ll grow to like this in time,” Chrollo says, finally, a touch of a sigh in his voice. “You’ll grow to like me.” 

“No,” you say again, even though it doesn’t help. 

In response, Chrollo simply continues to stroke your cheek.

–

In his defense–not that you are defending him–Chrollo said nothing when you’d taken the first opportunity to abandon the bed and build something like a fort in the corner of the room. It wasn’t anything like the pop up tent you used to have as a child (then a teenager and, sometimes, in a pinch, as an adult) but it would do. A fort made from blankets and some of the bed pillows, despite the detergent stink.

Anything to avoid sleeping in the same bed as Chrollo. More than that, anything to be alone, or something like it. You rocked yourself to sleep and dreamt about the museum. 

In the morning, you wake up and remember everything in one great gulping heave. Your body tenses when you hear Chrollo walking around the room–the sound of the sink, the toilet, the rustling of clothes–until his footsteps stop outside your makeshift shelter.

He pops his head inside without so much as a warning.

“Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

The glare he receives is enough of a response. He chuckles it away, easy as a gnat.

“I’d like to show you something. It’s a surprise.”

“I don’t like surprises,” you reply, voice tired and dull. He’s going to show you anyway. He knows it, and you do, too.

He holds open the drape of your fort but you don’t have the energy to be grateful that he at least didn’t drag you out of it. Your limbs feel heavy and awful as you crawl out, and the hotel room in the daylight looks no better than it did at night. 

But Chrollo must have done some unpacking while you slept, because there are a few more things scattered around. His clothing, slipped into hangers. Toiletries–his and yours–on top of the chest of drawers.

And something set against the wall, covered in a plain black tarp. 

The surprise, it seems. Curiosity prickles at you. Maybe it’s a good distraction from everything else. Maybe you’re just genuinely interested in what could possibly lay underneath.

Chrollo’s smile almost looks youthful as he tugs at the edge of the tarp, and you see a flash of black as he pulls it away, revealing the treasure underneath.

The Village in Winter.

It’s all wrong. It’s naked, without the frame, propped up in some hotel room surrounded by chipped furniture and laundry smells.

There is no air left in the room, no water left in your lungs. You could cough up a thousand years of dust right now and still not run out.

“You stole it,” you manage to say. Chrollo simply nods and looks for all the world like he’s showing you something he’s proud of; and he is, you think. Proud of everything. The urge to fall down swims through you, and you grip the wall.  

“You were a great help,” Chrollo says, voice soft and confident and anything but assuring. “We were struggling with the best way to remove it without damaging the work underneath.” He tilts his head, just so, the same way he did that first morning in the museum. 

Nothing is the same as that first morning in the museum.

And nothing ever will be again.

[danijaci]

Hello, sorry if I come across as rude or if this had been answered before. But how do you color your art? Do you just use flat color and continue with shadow, then light, then ??? — or do you color in grayscale and tweak it?

Your art is real pretty!

I finally had some (little) time on my hands so I decided to finally,,, make a simple tutorial on coloring (and i get a lot of asks for these) feel free to check it out! ^.^

Note: This is just how I color and render things myself, this is not objective so you don't have to treat it like a handbook heheheh feel free to be creative about it

COLORING TUTORIAL

Start out with the flat colors.

2. Do some soft airbrush coloring on it. (Usually a blush thingy and a soft skin air coloring on the edges of the hair)

3. Do a simple shadow layer. (be mindful of where the light hits tho so it's more comprehensive:)))

4. (These are all in this one multiply layer) Grab the AIRBRUSH, ERASER, a SOFT PAINT, and the BLURRING PEN. Put some airbrush on the shadows (don't do too much tho), just lil dab there and there.

5. Using the blurring pen, smooth SOME of the edges, DON'T blur them all. Basically make some edges soft but also leave some edges hard.

6. Use the ERASER and delete some of the shadows for where the light bounces back (it's okay if it sometimes doesn't make sense) but again,,, don't overdo it, just erase what feels right for you :333

7. Grab a hard pen,,, as for my case, I used a lasso pen for the little details and again,,, don't overdo it. Grab a lighter color for the light part and use a darker color for the shadow part. You can just make lil strokes there and there, just enough to show depth and details.

8. (THIS IS A REALLY LONG PROCESS TO DO)vBalright now grab the soft painting brush, and all the brushes that I mentioned before. Use the soft painting brush for mixing the colors and use the dark/light colors accordingly. Along with that step, do the coloring method that was mentioned before too (the erasing, airbrush, lasso, etc.) u pretty much mix all the techniques,,, this is what we pretty much call the rendering phase or sumthn like that :>>

9. For tweaking some colors, use the alpha lock (THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT as it only goes to where you did the coloring to) and grab the airbrush again. Pick a saturated color closest to the shadow and dab it a lil on the edges (don't do it to everything, it's gonna ruin your render tehee)

as u can see from the image, the color lightened up a bit and also became a lil saturated.

10. Still with the alpha lock, we're going to use a bluish color (this is optional because i used a different color triad, so it's different for everyone) i went with that color bc it's a common one. Same with the step 9, you do the same thing but ONLY do it on the edges (and to wherever you feel like placing it heh)

11. Now, go to the line art layer and enable the alpha lock again. Choose a saturated color closer to the color over it. Use the airbrush, and dab it a little, more specifically on the lighter side. Treat it like another rendering phase, put it accordingly to where it's light and where it's dark.

12. Now do the same thing on other aspects (eyes, lips, clothes, etc.) Go crazy go stupid with it heh

[]

[wingssomnia-art]

✨Reblogs are appreciated✨

[riricatria]

Flins: The Graveyard

⋆˙⟡ ⋆.˚ ⊹₊⟡ ⋆

Just in time for his birthday ( ദ്ദി ˙ᗜ˙ ) This was supposed to be the last post of October, but I have a little catching up to do, so it's not actually that, oops. Welcome to the (almost) winter theme!! I also wanted to do a proper banner for this one since it's way longer than the other fics of the series, around 5k words.

I'm a whore for this man, just so you know

Content warnings include: NONCON, cisfem!Reader (mentioned she/her), yandere content (imprisonment, possessiveness...), spoilers for Flins' backstory and heavily freestyled lore relating to that, he's lowkey an asshole, manipulation, fucked-up sort of hurt/comfort, horny with horror-esque plot, fingering, penetration, and crossing into dacryphilia territory. ⋆ Around 5,0k words. Minors, do not interact.

Disclaimers can be found in my pinned post. See right here for the full list of October's plans!

You can’t say you’ve ever quite understood what it is that people find so difficult about running downhill. You’ve seen people, especially tourists who aren’t quite used to Nod-Krai's hilly terrain, tumble down the steep roads of Nasha town, yet you yourself have never lost your footing on the twisting paths, not even in a hurry. Certainly, you wouldn’t consider yourself to be the most agile person in the room, but even then, you would be lying if you said you’ve ever considered the challenging properties of the sport. 

However, better late than never, you think as you scurry down the hill on top of which the Lightkeepers’ lighthouse stands tall. 

You’re all too aware that the window for the escape you’re about to conduct is a narrow one. It took way too long for you to fiddle the lock on the door open, and with what little time you have left before his return, you scamper away from your prison in nothing but your nightwear. Sharp pebbles dig into the soles of your bare feet, but you can’t afford to stop, not even for the single second it would take for you to kick the stones off. With your blood rushing in your ears like the river that streams below the Light-Bathed Platform, you sprint past the countless headstones and blooming frostlamp flowers and dash towards the islet’s shore.

A dense fog has settled over the Final Night Cemetery. Your heart trembles at your throat as you push through the mist without as much as a match to guide your way. The air is heavy with a humid, earthy scent. Glancing at the pitch-black sky, though the bright white circle of the moon illuminates the ether, you’re hardly able to make out the sight of the stars that speckle the dark canvas.

A weight in your shorts’ pocket sways along with each stride you take. Though it would be wise to keep both of your hands free in case you were to stumble, one of them lingers by the side of your thigh, holding tightly onto the ace up your sleeve, just in case the man were to catch you by surprise. 

It took a considerable while to put all the pieces of the puzzle together, but finally, finally, you’ve got him figured out. From the very start, you had a suspicion that he who calls himself Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins isn’t the ordinary sort of a person. At the very beginning, you thought that perhaps the eccentrism could be explained away with his profession, but the further you were pulled in, the more suspicious you became. In hindsight, you wonder if that very thing was what landed you in the position you are in now, but despite the thought stirring up boiling hot vitriol inside you, you push the memory aside: With what you have taken on tonight, you have no time to dwell on past affairs.  

All along, it was in much plainer sight than you thought. Though he conceals it exceedingly well, he’s unable to entirely get rid of the certain, distinct sort of an aura he has around him. After mulling the matter over in your mind for a while, it wasn’t a difficult task to come to the conclusion that his nature couldn't be a consequence of him simply having wisdom beyond his years. 

He doesn’t have the pointy ears, no, nor does he have a pair of wings growing on his back. Truthfully speaking, there’s nothing about his appearance that could be connected to the mystical Snezhnayan race, yet you have never been more certain about your deduction. The moonwheel, the lamp, the peculiar flames he wields — you weren’t born yesterday. 

Truly, you are in luck, for he is one who appreciates literature, at least to some degree. Though the dust covering the bookshelves was an indicator that he himself hasn’t exactly touched the tomes in a while, he was trusting enough to allow you the liberty of inspecting them. Little did he know that one of them had a crucial piece of information written on its pages.

“Fae may be repelled with iron”, is what was scribbled on the frail, yellowed paper. 

The scraps you have managed to gather mostly consist of old bolts, screws and some rusty coins you found lying beside the graves. It’s a blasphemous thing you’ve done, one could say — robbing the dead of their offerings for nothing but your own gain — but you’re certain that even the perished stand behind you on your journey. If anything, their tender should be the one they ought to turn their backs to. 

Making it to the base of the hill, you finally reach the edge of the sandbanks that connect the cemetery to the rest of the Paha Isle. You’re hardly able to make out the outline of the gargantuan metal structure looming in the distance, yet you waste no seconds sinking your bare feet into the cold, damp sand. 

In a mere minute, your legs have gone so frigid that you can hardly feel them anymore. The lack of clothing isn’t of your own accord: Flins has a habit of keeping you indoors for days on end aside from the short strolls he allows you to take at the yard. Naturally, you don’t require much to keep you warm inside the lighthouse, and your shoes, deemed unnecessary by him, are carefully hidden somewhere in the building. Wasting your time on searching for the pair would have served little to no purpose, and besides, knowing him, they’ve been placed somewhere you would have no chance of reaching. His strategy is so simple yet so incredibly effective and all the same infuriating that your fingers yearn to rip the long strands of his hair right off his scalp. 

Left? No, maybe it was more towards the right?

It’s difficult to make sense of your surroundings in the mist. Moreover, the shoal’s shape is a curved one, and as much as you don’t wish to lengthen your run, you don’t trust yourself to be able to swim all the way to the opposite shore. Still, even as you squint your eyes and observe the water ahead, you’re unable to determine where the shallow part of the bank continues. 

Nevertheless, your time is running short — you can practically hear the clock ticking in your ears. Without any further hesitation, you step leg-deep into the freezing cold sea. 

The Snowland Fae, a mysterious race. The majority of them are said to have been wiped out when a calamity from the skies befell their realm. There was an abundance of folklore in the book you read: Everything from ritualistic offerings to small things like not telling them your real name or expressing gratitude via words — though the information got to you a little too late with the latter two. You’re not certain how much of any of it is true, and you never got the chance to try anything besides salt out. 

You wade through the icy cold liquid, doing your best to ignore how pins and needles prick at your submerged legs. Firmly keeping your gaze on what lies ahead of you, you clench your jaw and bear the pain. Scampering further and further away from the cemetery, you leave diverging lines of waves in your wake.

Salt, that one certainly didn’t work. The most reaction you got out of Flins when you ”dropped” the shaker on the floor was a soft sigh and a pat on the head.

You’re nowhere close to giving up the fight, however. No matter how much fear he instils in your heart, you’ve decided he won’t get the best of you just yet. He could swing his polearm all he wants, he could scorch you with his lantern, he could chant-

The chanting. 

Your running comes to a halt. Stopping completely still in the midst of the darkness, you hold your breath. 

You wonder if your mind is simply playing tricks on you. By now, the sound of his voice speaking in his kind’s ancient tongue has even breached your dreams, and with your thoughts rushing all over the place, hearing things wouldn’t be too far-fetched of an explanation. 

But you’re certain. 

The stillness of the night has been stirred.

”Let all mortal flesh keep silent before the light.”

A pale blue light appears over the murky waters. Above it, the harrowing sight of the reaper’s flame-clad smirk splits the mist. 

You take a step back. Then another. Your tremoring heart sinks into your stomach. 

”Let the dead bury the dead, and let the living mourn the living.”

The fog gathers around you. Suddenly, your sense of direction slips out of your grasp. 

”As I stood by the door of the Golden House, guarding the eternal flame.”

His silhouette comes into your view. With his lamp in one hand and his weapon in the other, his unhurried footsteps break the water’s serene surface as he approaches you. 

Frantically, you look around, whisking your head left, then right, then over your shoulder, but it’s all the same. It’s like the rest of the isle has disappeared in its entirety, only leaving a single patch of land in its wake — the one your trembling feet are standing on.

”And yet, the eternal flame herself refuses to be guarded.”

There’s a faint, unintelligible smile on Flins’ colourless features. You’re not sure what his expression entails, but you find that very fact to be more petrifying than anything his face could convey.

”The night is beautiful. I can see why you would want to take a walk”, he comments. 

The terror threatens to rise into your throat. A tingling feeling of weakness spreads in your extremities.

”Stay away!” you warn him, raising your hand in front of you, yet you can muster no courage behind your words. 

Flins lets out a quiet, amused huff. 

”That is a request I won’t be granting, I’m afraid”, he says, hooking the lantern on the side of his overcoat. ”I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Your limbs grow stiff. Though you perceive the imminent danger, though you watch him grow closer and closer to you, your feet are frozen to the sand. It’s a sort of a primeval fear you feel — the kind that paralyses your entire body from head to toe, no matter how dire the situation. Even as the distance between you grows shorter, five meters, four, three, your legs won’t listen to your commands. 

And then, you remember the weight resting against your thigh.

He walks closer, closer, closer.

Your hand flies into the depths of your pocket. Not caring how the scraps scratch red lines across your palm, you seize a fistful of the metal pieces, fling your arm back, and hurl the fragments towards his form.

The majority of the pieces land in the water around you, moulding rings on its still surface. Some of them, however, hit Flins’ arms, legs, chest, before bouncing off of him and landing around his feet with quiet splashes. 

For a moment, both of you stand still as statues, silently staring at the ripples. The circles expand larger and larger, gradually losing their form until no trace of the disturbance remains.

You hold your breath.

Nothing happens. 

Your gaze shoots up to find Flins’, yet you come to find that his own is fixated on the sight of the iron coins that now flecked the sands of the shallow bank.

There's a peculiar, curious glint in his irises.

He raises his brows. Then, blinking a few times, he closes his eyes, and the corner of his mouth twitches. He raises his chin slightly, just enough for you to be able to see how his Adam’s apple bobs, and finally, though he evidently does his absolute best to suppress the action, his shoulders twitch with the laugh he fails to properly stifle. 

You can’t believe your eyes.

Your hands ball into fists. Glaring at the man with your mouth hanging ajar, you watch as his chest rises and falls along with the deep breath he takes in.

”My apologies. That was uncouth of me”, Flins then sighs, shaking his head. ”I should commend you for the effort.”

Quicker than you would like, the terror inside you turns into sheer mortification. Even though your knees threaten to buckle underneath you, a blush finds itself on your features. 

”I did wonder what you needed these for”, he bends down and picks one of the coins out of the water. ”There certainly is a charm to them”, he inspects the piece between his fingers, ”but I would vastly prefer if you didn’t steal them off the graves. The ghosts tend to be fond of what was theirs in their past lives, you see.”

You can’t comprehend how he’s able to do it; to ramble away like it was an ordinary midnight stroll you were sharing. During moments like these, the side of him that could be called human seems to disappear completely. Though his form appears to be that of a person’s, the energy that emanates from him belongs to something else entirely. 

Cautiously, you take another step backwards. Flins raises his gaze from where it’s fixated on the sight of the coin in his hand. 

”Well”, he then speaks, adjusting his grip on his weapon. ”I think it is time for us to return inside. Your attire doesn’t quite seem to be suited for this sort of weather.”

As if his words had broken a spell that kept you frozen still, you regain control of your legs. A surge of adrenaline shoots down your limbs, and in moments, the uncontrollable jitter of fight-or-flight wipes your mind crystal clear. Resisting the urge to spit him goodbye, you turn on your heels and rush head first into the fog behind you. 

”Ah, please.”

A silvery crescent moon shape cleaves the water’s surface ahead of you. You only barely manage to stop yourself in time before you run right into the crackling rune. 

”Allow me to escort you”, Flins’ voice rings out right behind you, as nonchalant as ever.

”Stay the fuck away from me you-!”

”Ah, there it is. I almost thought you had lost your spirit.”

You turn your head to look behind you just in time to meet the sight of his black overcoat’s chest.

"Now, then."

His free arm hooks itself around your waist, and you’re hoisted into the air. 

Flins throws your body over his shoulder like a sack of rye flour. You yell out a shriek so loud that anyone in the islet's vicinity would be pricking up their ears, but alas, the land is as bereft of life as his soul is barren of sympathy. Letting out a huff, he briefly steadies his grip on you, and just like that, your trip’s direction is reversed.

Having been humiliated more in the span of a few minutes than you ever have in your entire life, as a latch-ditch attempt to have it your way, you start flailing. You beat your fists against his back with all your might and swing your legs in all possible directions, but alas, you don’t get him to as much as flinch. The only thing you’re granted as a response is a mildly fatigued sigh.

”Watch it”, he tells you, landing a light smack on the back of your thigh, though there is not an ounce of actual concern in his tone. More than anything, he sounds mildly entertained. ”Or would you like me to drop you?”

”Let me down, you son of a bitch!” you scream at him, tearing at the long strands of his hair, yet he doesn't seem the least bit bothered by the way his neck is jerked backwards.

”How lovely of you to say”, Flins merely remarks.

Oh, you know he’s seething inside, no matter how hard he tries to make you believe that he’s unbothered. He prides himself in being calm and collected at all times, yet it’s so easy to see through his facade that it’s almost laughable. It’s the snarkiness, namely: He tends to get a keen edge to his tongue whenever he’s vexed, and now, it’s perhaps more evident than ever before. 

Your view changes from the endless expanse of foggy water to the familiar soil of the Final Night Graveyard. With your body swinging side to side along with his footsteps, you try to land one last kick at his chest. The disobedience rebounds, however: Sighing, he hikes you up into a better position, inadvertently punching the air out of your guts. 

You want to screech his ears deaf, to sink your nails into his pale skin, to rip the man into shreds so he may never lay his touch on you ever again, but alas, as you rise further and further up the hill, carried right back towards your prison like hunting trophy, your hunger for strife gradually morphs into panic. 

Swallowing down the trepidation bubbling up inside you, you force yourself back into survival mode. Holding your breath to quell the hysteria that threatens to overtake your senses, you take a look around you. Your eyes fixate on the sight of his lamp hanging on the side of his waist, just within your reach. 

Much more desperately than you were planning to, you outstretch your hand towards the lantern. However, as if having foreseen your action, Flins’ twists his arm back, and the haft of his polearm comes in between you and your aim. His shoulders rise with a sigh.

Soon enough, you arrive at the foot of the lighthouse. One by one, Flins climbs the crooked steps of the stairs until he reaches the building’s base. Using his elbow, he pushes the ajar front door open. 

”Watch your head, if you wouldn’t mind”, he warns you as he steps through the doorway. 

”You-, let go of me!”

Your attitude has lost some of its flame, and the tone you’re left with is more on the pleading than the demanding end. Still, not quite ready to give up the fight yet, you beat his shoulder blade a few more times as if to compensate for the loss of believability due to your wavering voice. 

Your command goes on deaf ears. Instead of letting you down from his shoulder and making his way to the basement where you usually spend most of your time, Flins closes the door behind him, sets his polearm to lean against the entrance, strides across the room and heads to the staircase leading upstairs. At first, you don’t quite understand where his intentions are leading him, but as he walks past both the bathroom and the kitchen, dread begins swelling up in your stomach. 

Sure enough, he carries you all the way to the makeshift bedroom on the third floor of the lighthouse. To be frank, the space could hardly be called that: The man himself hardly ever sleeps, so the flimsy bed he has set out is mainly for you to use. More often than not, you get to rest alone due to him having his nocturnal responsibilities to fulfil, and so, the times he himself has actually utilized the bed have been for another purpose entirely. It takes a moment for the thought to dawn on you, but as it does, the earlier adrenaline surge gets an encore. 

”Flins, what are you doing!?” you question him as you frantically tug on his hair, once again yanking his head back with force that would have any ordinary person screeching out in pain. "Flins? Flins?!"

Every course of action available to you suddenly seems like a dead end. Rarely have you felt the sort of terror you do now, and even with the brave expression you’re still fighting tooth and nail to keep up, you’re certain that the flood gates aren’t going to hold for long anymore. 

Apologize? Beg and plead? Maybe you would, if it meant that you could save yourself. But, alas, things have never been that easy with Flins. He doesn't forgive-and-forget, nor is he swayed by half-hearted attempts at reconciliation, even if they’re coming from the apple of his eye. Your lips purse up into a thin line.

In an unceremonious motion, your body is dropped over the bed. A yelp resounds around the dim room as your back lands on the mattress with a bounce. Immediately, you attempt to make your escape by rolling off the edge, but you’re stopped by a heavy hand on your leg. With fright written all over your face, you whisk your head towards your lower half. 

Flins, having taken a seat by your thighs at the edge of the bed, sets his lamp on the nightstand and proceeds to gently brush his glove-clad palm along the length of your bare calf. There’s an indiscernible look on his features. A toneless chuckle makes its way past his pale lips. 

”Ah, you’re freezing”, he comments as his hand caresses over the curve of your knee. 

The only thing keeping you from rolling your eyes are the tears stinging at them. 

His touch moves along, creeping further up until his fingers rest at your inner thigh. Gently, he strokes his thumb over the sensitive flesh.

”That won’t quite do”, he then says. ”What do you suppose we do about it?”

His eyes find yours. The couple of yellow irises stare right into your soul’s very essence, digging deep into the disquiet bubbling up inside your chest and picking your resolve apart with as little as the intensity of his gaze. 

You don’t know what the correct answer to his inquiry is, or if there even is one. The question itself sounds rhetorical, but the faint, wily smile on his face is one that expects a reaction from you. 

So, you shake your head — the only response you’re able to give him. There’s no doubt that he can see the simmering terror in your eyes, yet he isn’t quite satisfied still. 

”Flins, please”, you prop yourself up on your elbows and try to crawl away from the man, but you’re once again halted by his grip, this time on your hip. 

”Relax”, he shakes his head. 

”No, I-”

”Relax.”

You try to force down the lump in your throat, but it has grown much too large to swallow. What used to be a valiant expression on your face quickly crumbles into a pitiful, demeaned pout. 

Sighing, Flins’ hand leaves you and instead goes up to the straps of his collar. He promptly unfastens the clasps before sliding his overcoat off his shoulders, revealing the lavender purple waistcoat underneath. Folding the piece of clothing over his arm, he lays it beside him on the mattress. 

”A shame it is that you happened to choose tonight for your escape”, he says as he turns his attention back to you. ”Had the night been a little more eventful than usual, you could have evaded me.”

It’s difficult to tell what’s going on in his head, and truthfully, you’re more concerned about your own well-being than what he might be thinking of. The ever-so-polite smile still lingers on his face, yet the words that come out of his mouth convey something akin to bitterness. 

”Nevertheless”, Flins continues his monologue, ”you shall atone for your mistakes.”

Your eyes widen. 

”Flins, no, no-no-no, don’t-!”

The hand on your hip flies to your face. Taking hold of your jaw and cheekbones, his glove-clad palm rests over your mouth, heavy and unforgiving. 

”Shh”, he brings a finger to his lips. ”Do not fret. You’re in capable hands.”

His words, as icy cold as his soul, sow despair into your very being, and finally, the glimmer gathered at your lashline spills over. Through the blurry sheen of tears, you send him the most hostile, murderous glare you could possibly muster up. 

Gently, his hand slides down from your face to the crook of your neck where he tugs on the shoulder strap of your top. Hooking his finger underneath it, he slips it past your arm.

Despite finally having managed to bring you to your lowest, there isn’t anything much to be seen on his face. His countenance is recondite; devoid of any feeling you could grasp onto.

Flins has never quite shown any emotion in one direction or another towards your expressed misery. He doesn’t really strive to comfort you beyond a caress on the shoulders and a pat on the head — unless you were to seek him out of your own accord, of course — and the situation is no different now. With an anodyne gaze, he silently observes your expression as your distress finally boils over. 

”I hate you, I fucking hate you!” you hiss at him through your clenched teeth, yet the brave front you do your best to put up suffers from the sob that slips out right after. 

Flins raises his brows as a half-hearted attempt to seem surprised at your words. 

”You may”, he closes his eyes for a moment, ”but you might want to conserve that zeal for something else. It would be a pity for your energy to be wasted on things you cannot change.”

The next to go is his vest. He takes his sweet time undressing: Though you only torture yourself by watching his fingers slide each of the buttons open, you can’t tear your eyes away from the sight. The choice is between observing him or turning your back to him: You know exactly what’s going to happen next, yet still, a kind of a morbid curiosity keeps your gaze glued to his form. 

”Now”, he then says, working his gloves off, ”how would you prefer we approach this?”

”Flins, please, I don’t want to!” you shake your head at him, desperately trying to find a single ounce of commiseration in his gaze — only to find none. 

”Ah, but where would the meaning lie in your actions not having consequences?” Flins fiddles with the collar of his shirt. Slipping the article of clothing off his shoulders, he reveals his pale chest underneath. ”Besides, it has been quite a while since we last had the chance to indulge, has it not?”

It has. He doesn’t often have the time to entertain whatever sexual needs he has, and you would rather not think about the occasions where that hasn’t been the case. 

A horribly cold palm plants itself on a bare patch of your abdomen that peeks out from under your shirt’s hem. You shudder at the skin-to-skin contact, yet the reaction does nothing to deter Flins from going further. He hunches over your form, intently observing your face as his touch creeps up your ribcage. 

Twisting his body, he moves so that his free hand is able to find purchase on the back of your head. Gently weaving his fingers in your hair, he bends down to catch your lips in a kiss. 

You dodge the attempt, and his mouth lands on the side of your jaw instead. With as much strength as you’re able to put into the action, you push against his chest, but the man doesn’t as much as budge. He merely sighs at the pitiful show of defiance, and simultaneously, his freezing digits change their direction. Instead of going for your breasts, his touch slides downward, slinking past your waist and dipping under the waistband of your shorts. 

The sensation has your legs flexing off the bed in an effort to rid yourself of the intrusion. Nevertheless, no matter how much resistance you put up, what he has set his mind on can no longer be changed. 

A cry breaks past your lips. Flins, licking a long stripe up the side of your face, chuckles to himself. 

”Ah, there is no need for tears”, he sighs against your skin as he plants a few pecks on your temple. ”You shall feel no pain. Or is it that you’re frightened?”

Squeezing your eyes shut and clenching your teeth, you beat your fists against his chest. There’s not much force behind the hits — at this point, the action is more for your own sake than for him. 

With a tender hand, Flins tugs your shorts and underwear down your legs before his fingers return to your lower abdomen in a featherlight, daunting brush. Weakly, you kick at him, but as the cool air hits your skin, you switch to clenching your thighs together. 

”Please don’t, don’t...!” you whimper, pressing your palms against his sternum. 

Your breaths, having grown rapid and irregular, come out as short, airy gasps that have your shoulders heaving up and down. He lets out a quiet sigh through his nose. 

"Flins, Flins-...!"

Repositioning himself once more, Flins moves to plant his knees on either side of your thighs, properly climbing on top of you. Raising the hand on the back of your hair off the pillow, he brings your head to his chest to cradle it against his heart. Simultaneously, the fingers that linger on your navel dip in between your legs. 

His touch is so cold. The sensation of his digits dancing along your folds is so unbearably strange that it has your core constricting around itself. In contrast to the warmth that emanates from you, the pads of his appendages feel freezing against your core. 

Gently, after giving a few leisurely rubs to your clit, he moves past the bud and instead goes for your entrance beneath. 

There’s something deadening about Flins’ embrace, almost. Along with his fingers breaching you, the last bits of your resolve trickle out of your veins as if his presence had soaked them up. Your hands which were still pressed against his ribs mere moments ago now go to cover your own mouth to suppress the inconsolable sobs that jerk through your vocal cords. 

Two of his digits drag along the edges of your hole, pushing in, then pulling out, in, out, in, out in an unhurried pace as if testing the waters. Coaxing you to loosen up around the invasion, his nails tenderly scratch the back of your head. 

”Flins, please, no...”, you whimper against him, yet all you get as a response is a curl of his fingers inside of you. 

”There, there”, Flins hums with a hint of amusement in his soft tone. ”You’re quite alright. Doesn’t this feel pleasant?”

Adding a third digit to the other two, he proceeds to work on your insides in a digging motion. 

It would be no use trying to deny the warm, gentle pressure that jabs at the depths of your stomach. He knows your body inside and out, and it took him no more than a few times to learn just where to prod to have you unravelling under his care. It’s deplorable, really; the weak thing he has managed to reduce you to. 

The tingling pleasure travels up your abdomen and along your spine, slowly making you arch your back off the sheets. Your thighs quiver with each bend of his fingers, your breaths grow more and more laboured, your hands tremble. Gradually, he sedates you with his proximity alone, lulling you into the faux consolation only he is left to offer you. 

Then, after a while, his digits draw out of you. Giving your bits a few more tender caresses, his hand retreats and pulls away from between your legs. 

Your midriff jolts along with your shaky sobs. You’re uncertain how the loss of his touch inside you feels: The contradicting sensations and thoughts have tangled your emotions into a tight knot, and you’re unable to find either end of the lace it has been tied with. 

The sound of a buckle opening reaches your ears. You know even without looking that Flins isn’t quite yet done with his routine. Continuing to pour your misery out against his chest, you don’t do much to resist him as he parts your legs with his own and slips in between your thighs. Still cradling your head in his hand, the other takes hold of the back of your knee, gently bending the joint and pushing it towards your shoulder. 

Soon, his cock prods at your cunt. You feel the tip of his member search for your hole for a moment before it begins pushing in in a steady yet merciful motion.

It doesn’t hurt — not really. Flins isn’t of the brutish sort, and he takes no enjoyment in inflicting that sort of pain on you. Yet, the sting of the final shreds of your resolve shattering ache all the same. 

Quickly, within a few experimental prods, he gets into a stable rhythm as he begins thrusting into you. His member pushes into your deepest parts, gently persuading your bits to allow him further inside you. The deep murmur of his exhales rings in your ears. 

”Now, then”, Flins whispers against the crown of your head. ”Let us clear up a few misconceptions.”

You can hear the faint smile in his voice. 

”What is capable of harming me is no stranger than the keen blade of a sword”, he tells you, all the while his cock drags in and out of you.

Gently brushing across the outer side of your thigh and raising goosebumps in its wake, his unoccupied hand slides down to where you’re connected. Once more, his touch finds your clit, and he begins circling the pearl with the pad of his thumb. 

”It is not salt, it is not iron, not the sonorous song of bells, nor am I afraid of my own reflection in the mirror”, his voice vibrates through his chest with every word he speaks. ”You may try as many times as you would like, but it is in your best interest to accept that whatever it is that you come up with, you cannot hope to rival me.”

Softly, the tips of his fingers massage the base of your skull as if to comfort you. 

”The sooner you relent, the less of a burden you will have to carry”, he says. ”Whenever you fall, I shall be there to catch you.”

A/N

Flins when you throw the scraps at him:

I kid you not, while trying to find suitable synonyms for certain words in the starter lines of this piece, I fell down a rabbit hole of researching what the fuck happens in the annual cheese rolling contest in Cooper's Hill, Gloucestershire. If you watch IG reels, you might’ve stumbled upon a reel of a guy falling backflips down a hill, and that’s exactly where it’s from. Ouch.

Writing this piece, I had to genuinely stop myself from describing Flins' eyes as orbs because of the garbage reputation the word has built for itself, but like, those are genuinely orbs. That's what they mean when they say orbs. The texbook definition of yellow orbs that stare right into your soul. Also, where the fuck does the coat end and the shirt start. Where. Is the purple thing a vest? I decided it's a vest.

This is meant to be the piece of writing for my this year's October, and I hope I was able to deliver. I've had tons of fun writing for all sorts of topics and characters, so big thanks to everyone who has hanged on for as long as they have (੭ ˊ^ˋ)੭ ♡

[jessamine-rose]

˚ ༻✿ Herbarium ✿༺ ˚

I would like to blame @bye-bye-sunbird​ and @yandere-romanticaa​ for my descent into Capitano hell. All I could do was write my longest fic in hopes of purging the brainrot……yeahh so pls enjoy my humble contribution to the Capitano agenda ;-;

Thank you so much to my dear friend @diodellet​ for peer reviewing this and helping me out with the Genshin lore!! I delighted in watching you suffer  ପ(๑•ᴗ•๑)ଓ ♡

Tw:: YANDERE, unhealthy relationships, kidnapping, violence, blood, murder, psychological trauma, mention of abuse, spice, mention of nsfw, MINORS DNI

Note:: Female reader described as physically weak and smaller than Capitano, this fic will most likely be considered OOC in a few years

♡ 10.1k words under the cut ♡

i. dandelion

You adore dandelions for the same reason that you despise them.

A tiny flower symbolic of love and freedom. The ethereal ghosts of golden petals adored even—or perhaps only—after losing their vibrant, sunlike forms. A soft blow is all it takes to breathe new life into the flower, for the seeds to embark on new journeys in a scatter of liberated parachutes and hopeful wishes.

Not all dandelions have the fortune of finding new homes, however. Some are plucked for human purposes and imbued with new value as sentimental gifts. Many are transformed into entirely different products such as food and wine. Others are simply forgotten, doomed to remain in their original area until death finally claims them. Regardless, dandelions are transient like any other flower and will eventually disappear from the world.

Your flowers are deprived of that fate.

Keep reading

[jessamine-rose]

┣[̲̅:̲̅❥:̲̅❥ Chemistry :̲̅:̲̅]═─

Well, would you look at that……I wrote smth for Dottore. To think that @diodellet was right when she read his scene in my Pantalone fic and joked that it was “totally not a reference to what [my] next fatui fique will be” ;-;

For Dottore’s twisted love story, I took a darker different approach for the yandere’s methods and Darling’s personality!! This was quite fun to write, so I hope you all enjoy reading this. And thank you again to Diodellet for your excellent feedback  ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝

Tw:: YANDERE, unhealthy relationships, kidnapping, stalking, blood, violence, death, medical malpractice, drugging, needles, Dottore being himself, spice, mention of nsfw, MINORS DNI

Note:: Female reader, characterization is based on both Webttore and Primettore, written before the 3.3 update

♡ 13.5k words under the cut ♡

i. endorphins

The Nilotpala lotuses are in full glow.

You examine their shadows. It won’t take long for the flowers to close.

Over the past hour, the world has gradually responded to the sun’s arrival. The stars disappeared. The night sky was repainted with pastel colors. The Nilotpala lotuses ceased to be your only source of light.

Concentrate. You can’t miss this.

You hold up your pocketwatch and continue staring at the flowers.

The sunlight reaches the swamp. The Nilotpala lotuses react immediately, gold centers dimming and blue petals closing. One by one, each flower is put to sleep by the sun’s kiss.

You wade past the lilypads and return to dry ground. Your first course of action is to document the observation in your journal.

-

Time: 5:20:11.

Location: Devantaka Mountain, western swamp.

Notes: Photonasty triggered two seconds after direct exposure to sunlight. No variations in individual speed, light intensity, and overall process.

-

About time. Picking up your lantern, you leave the swamp and return to the mountain trail. Halfway down, a strange noise alerts you.

Metal. Sparks. Has a Ruin Machine been activated?

The mechanical sounds are followed by excited murmurs.

Is someone there?

Keep reading

[wri0thesley]

the soul-charged blue of night - flins x reader (13k)

and a small lamp, kindness, is gleaming in his heart flins 'rescues' you.

cw: yandere flins. mostly sfw (intimacy occurs but are not explicit). a mishmash of fae lore. captive reader. hypnotism, i suppose? reader wears a dress and chemise but no gendered terms are used. injury. not quite canon-compliant, i make my own rules here.

a/n: the gothic horror romance yandere flins fic i have been promising! i hope you enjoy it, it's been a while since i sat and allowed myself a nice long fic! reblogs or comments or asks or anything is appreciated i would LOVE to hear if you enjoyed this one!!!

Nod-Krai is cold at all times – you are on the borders of the nation of ice, after all – but at night, the temperature drops to below freezing. So one ought to be prepared for this, if they are going anywhere once the moon has risen high in the sky – a fur-lined coat, a heavy alpaca wool sweater, a cloak that feels heavy upon their shoulders. You’ve heard of pyro-infused packages one can put in their pockets to warm their hands – you’ve known people who swear by the warming properties of certain foods.

But if one is running away in the middle of the night--

Well. Suffice to say that you did not have much time to prepare for this journey. You had sensed an opportunity to finally slip from your older brother’s grasp and his suffocating control of your life, and had decided to seize it with both hands and pursue your dreams. To live your life for yourself, and not for what he insisted your parents would have wanted had they lived to see both of you reach adulthood.

It was evening when you slipped into the forests surrounding your village. The moon was a distant glow; the horizon still had a faint hint of pink and purple from the sun setting. The air had been crisp, but your jacket had done much to alleviate the sting. You hadn’t noticed how thin the soles of your boots had worn, because the ground was not yet so frigid that the chill would leach into them.

You simply hadn’t thought it through – and that had been perfectly fine when it was barely seven, when you had only been walking for twenty minutes . . . but now, as the midnight hour approaches and you realise you’ve been on your feet for coming on to five hours and you’re far, far away from anywhere you might find remotely familiar . . . now, all of the things that you didn’t think about are starting to weigh more heavily on your mind.

Where will you sleep tonight? Even if you thought yourself shameless enough to beg shelter, you don’t think you’ve seen a proper dwelling for miles. What will you do if it rains? The skein you had brought with you to drink from is running dry, and you know that dehydration is an unkind master. Your stomach is beginning to rumble – you had forgone your evening meal, anxiety roiling hot and heavy in your stomach at the thought of what you were going to do. You are shivering, the cold wind chapping your lips and your face, and you think that you are only a particularly sharp rock away from the soles of your boots ripping through.

You do not know where you are.

And if it were to start to rain--

No. You shake your head to try and rid yourself of the thought – there is no point trying to curse your journey any further, and it seems bad luck to speculate on what else could go wrong. You hug your arms closer to your body to try and pilfer any residual warmth left in them, though you’re beginning to feel as though you’re half-frozen to death already. You stumble over roots and trees, sighing, squinting, trying to force yourself to think positive thoughts.

Maybe you should have simply done as your brother had wanted. Maybe you should have agreed to spend the rest of your life living in your little house on the outskirts of Nasha Town, accepted your lot was to be his housekeeper and eventually nanny his children for him because your parents had always thought the two of you would help one another out . . . he had interpreted this as you always being ready to help him out, but perhaps he was right. You have few skills of your own beyond the ones you’ve had to learn, and nobody in the village has ever caught your eye (or, if you are being honest, ever shown interest in you). Perhaps you are, after all, an ungrateful and spoilt monster like he had accused you of being--

You stumble out of a thicket of trees and into a clearing. For one moment, you’re grateful – a clearing will allow you to sit for a moment, to rest your back against a tree trunk, to re-evaluate the path that you’ve been taking so far. And then you see the ripple of a violet glow in between the trees, hear the whispering noises of something gaining on you, and realise the mistake you have made.

The Wild Hunt.

You have been lucky enough to never have come across them before; you’re not ordinarily in the habit of wandering around alone, and your brother and you have lived a somewhat sheltered existence even after your parent’s deaths.

But you, like every child of Nod-Krai, have heard stories. You remember your Papa warning you to stop picking the vegetables out of your stew and feeding them to the family dog, or the Wild Hunt would come and take you away. When you got older, you’d learnt more – heard whispers of people who had walked outside alone at night and been taken by the Hunt, or who had been gored and their corpses left to be found. You had, like so many, been taught that if you were ever lost and alone and saw a Lightkeeper, they would be a safe person to ask to guide you home.

You do not see a Lightkeeper now.

You freeze up, your blood somehow running even colder than it was before. When you had thought about the ways you could die out here, all of the awful things that could befall you – you had not even considered the Wild Hunt. The very idea of it was too terrifying, too terrible to even consider. But now, the violet-fired monsters are shambling out from the trees and your heart is in your mouth.

Perhaps they won’t see you, you pray, but then you stumble – a sharp rock, your damn boots – and you hear the crack of twigs beneath your feet, and one of the monsters raises its awful, flaming head.

The effect is instantaneous. The creature’s trajectory changes, and suddenly it is walking towards you, and you can see the full breadth of its body. You could stand shoulder to shoulder with two other versions of yourself and not match its width; its arm alone seems to be wider than your waist. If a creature like this were to strike you . . .

You can see, too, the weapon it wields – an axe that crackles with fire and abyssal energy, the blade wickedly sharp. It is making noise as it approaches you, a whispering, chattering kind of language you don’t understand. Desperately, you stumble back – but even as you turn your head to look where you are going, more and more of the Wild Hunt are emerging from between the trees. It is like you are at the epicentre of a hunting party; a fox surrounded by baying hounds.

It’s almost like you’ve stumbled onto some kind of gathering, or like they’re looking for something . . . You feel sick, your limbs moving so much slower than you want them to. You should be running! But you have been running - and walking, and jogging for hours . . . and you are so, so tired.

The big one lifts its axe, and you do not realise that you have even opened your mouth until your helpless yelp of fear is cutting through the air. The blade slashes through the air, just missing your side; and then you are trying to run, stumbling, falling . . . And the other members of the Wild Hunt are upon you, and hands are tugging at you with grips that feel like fire burning through to your bones. You scream as the axe once more rends the air in two.

Your shoulder goes white hot – a shock to your system, when the rest of you still feels so terribly ice cold. Something hot and liquid trickles down your arm, inside of your clothes, and you wonder if this is how you are going to die. You feel light-headed. You feel sick. You feel . . .

Almost relieved.

If you are killed here, you won’t have to worry about anything else. You won’t have to think about carving out a brand new life, about maybe having to slink back to your brother with your tail between your legs and apologise to him. Your life will end here, but with the cessation of your breath will come a cessation of your worries. And just lately, it has seemed like your entire world has been nothing but worries.

You never expected that accepting your own death would come with such an immense sense of peace.

Your eyesight flickers as you fall onto your knees, as you pitch forward and your cheek meets the dirt of the forest floor, stones and debris grazing your face--

And then your vision goes all blue flame.

You aren’t in control of yourself well enough to fully understand what is happening around you. All you see are feet; the Wild Hunt, with their slow, dragging footsteps . . . and then, another pair, clad in long dark boots.

The source of the blue flame, you realise, as the battle that was waging around you comes to a surprisingly abrupt stop. The feet of the Wild Hunt dissipate almost as quickly as they’d come – but those long boots do not. In fact, they stride closer and closer to you. A lantern hanging from a hand enters your vision.

A Lightkeeper. How lucky could you be?

Well. Your arm still feels white hot, so not that lucky.

“Are you injured?” A voice comes floating from above you, cultured and polite. “Ah, yes, I see. I’m going to roll you over. I’ll be careful.”

He takes to one knee, and as firm but gentle hands roll you onto your back (carefully avoiding touching anywhere too intimate, you notice), you get your first glimpse of your rescuer and you have to fight back the gasp at his appearance.

It perfectly matches his voice; gentlemanly, calm, courteous. His eyes, a strange shade of yellow like a cat’s, bore into you in a way that manages to be interested without being intense. His skin is almost pale enough to glow in the moonlight – but when he sees you looking, he gives you a smile that’s obviously intended to reassure. He wears the traditional garb of the Lightkeepers, though his lantern seems rather old-fashioned – but Lightkeepers are not known for their interest in fashion and, in fact, have a reputation for being oddballs . . . so it does not seem as surprising as it could.

“My name is Flins,” he tells you. “I’m a Lightkeeper. I’ve seen such injuries before, so please do not panic. I’ll make sure you get the help you need.”

Your mouth is dry when you tell him your name in return. There is no point hiding it – your brother probably won’t have informed anyone you’re missing yet, but . . . it’s not like you can continue fleeing with your shoulder the way it is.

However it is. You haven’t seen it yet.

As your name slips from between your cracked lips, a strange shadow passes over his face. In the shadowy night time light and the eerie glow of his lantern, you might have called it greed – if, that is, it had been on the face of anyone but the Lightkeeper who just saved your life. But there is no reason for your name to inspire that in anybody – your family is neither wealthy nor well-known.

“Where do you live?” He asks. “Let me escort you back and we can see if we can get you the medical attention that you need. You’re fair in the middle of nowhere here. You must be far from home.”

“I can’t go home.” It bubbles from your mouth before you can stop it. You had no intention to say anything incriminating – but with the cold air nipping at your face, the hard ground beneath you, and your shoulder . . . It feels as though your mouth and your brain are not fully connected to one another.

Flins’ face doesn’t so much as twitch. He keeps his eyes on you, and simply gives you a slow, considering nod.

“Is there anywhere else I can guide you?” He asks, and you want to cry at the question.

“N-no,” you whisper – and then, because what does it matter if you are going to die, you whisper: “I ran away.”

He softens his features into sympathy, and you can’t help but notice how handsome he is. You almost hate that he’s being kind to you – but as he speaks, you’re grateful for his presence.

“I understand,” he says, in that calm, low voice. “Sometimes a home is not the refuge that it ought to be. Sometimes uncertainty feels better. Do you have nobody I could take you to?”

You swallow, and shake your head.

“Nobody,” you whisper. “I-- I was not allowed to make friends. I can’t go back. Please—”

He looks down at you, and almost to himself he repeats your name like it’s a prayer. Again, there’s a strange quality to the way he says it – something almost possessive, something wanting and hungry. But you must be imagining things, surely? You’re no prize. You’re nothing, not really. Isn’t it one of the symptoms of an infected wound that the receiver begins to hallucinate and grow paranoid? It surely can’t be long enough for your wound to have become infected, but who knows what kind of weapons the Wild Hunt wield?

Is there abyssal rot infecting your bloodstream, pumping towards your heart, even now?

He nods as if he’s making a decision.

“It is the duty of a Lightkeeper to protect and guide,” Flins says. “You seem in need of both. I will take you to my dwelling and administer your aid – and perhaps once you have recovered, we can examine your circumstances once more.”

“You don’t have to,” you whisper. You feel light-headed and strange. Even speaking is taking more effort than you can bring yourself to expend. Flins’ gloved hand smooths over your hair, your cheek.

“Do not give me your gratitude too profusely,” he says. “You have not yet seen my abode. I find it peaceful, but you may yet be . . . unsettled.”

You swear, as you finally lose consciousness and his low words fade into a hum, that the Lightkeeper is warning you that he lives in a graveyard.

When you awaken, you are underneath a blanket on what is unmistakably someone else’s bed; a rickety thing that groans when you shift. It takes you a moment both to recall what has happened and for the panic at finding yourself in an unfamiliar place to subside – and then it all comes back at once. Your flight from your home, the hours spent fleeing, the cold dark night and the Wild Hunt and--

And Flins. The Lightkeeper.

Your shoulder.

You’re aware of a bone-deep ache in it as you use your uninjured hand to pull at the scratchy blanket. Your face goes hot as you pull it down – you’ve lost the vast majority of your clothes, and though the simple chemise you wore underneath them covers all of the most important areas of your modesty, it’s hard to get the thought of the elegant Flins undressing you out of your mind. You chide yourself for being so prudish – you had been wearing quarter length sleeves, and if he had any hope of cleaning your wound it’s only natural that he’d have to remove your clothing to do so.

A Lightkeeper would not have made any moves on your virtue; if anything, the stories you hear of the abyssal monsters of the Wild Hunt would suggest that you were in more danger of being used as plaything there. You wonder if it’s better or worse that they had instead tried to hack you into pieces, and if you should be offended – and then you huff at yourself for the maudlin thought, and force yourself into a seated position to be able to take a better look at your wound.

It’s been wrapped in a fresh, clean bandage – there’s a little blood staining it, but nothing that makes you feel as though you’re in immediate danger of passing out from blood loss or blurting out your whole life story to a stranger. You bring your hand up gingerly to touch the bandages and hiss through your teeth at the pain that resonates all the way down to your elbow. You try to flex the fingers on your injured arm, to bend your elbow – and though you’re successful, twinges of pain go ricocheting all through the extremity.

It’s your dominant arm. You’re not going to be doing any housework for the foreseeable future.

“I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of dressing your wound,” comes a voice, dark and deep and velvety, from the corner of the room. You jump at the intrusion – you hadn’t heard so much as a door open.

Actually--

You make yourself look around the room you’re in. A perfectly circular, open plan room . . . one small window, set high on the wall. The furniture here is sparse, but most of it looks to be of good quality – even the bed you lie in is, though it’s very obviously old. It’s almost as if Flins doesn’t use it – perhaps he sleeps somewhere else? No doors that you can see – because Flins has come up from a flight of stairs, through a hole in the floor.

“A lighthouse?” You blurt out, and Flins gives you a small smile.

“Welcome to the Final Night Cemetery,” he tells you, and you recall stories about Lightkeepers and lighthouses from old folk tales you’d once read. “Yes. This lighthouse is where I spend my time when I’m not out in the wilderness. It must seem terribly cold and unappealing. I’m rather used to being alone and I don’t much notice it nowadays.”

“N-no,” you say, shaking your head, your cheeks going hot again. “No. I’m thankful, Sir Flins. Thank you for everything.”

There is a small lamp burning beside you, and it throws off just enough light as Flins steps into the centre of the room that you can see he is carrying a tray loaded with sustenance. Your throat goes dry, your mouth watering. You don’t know what time it is, so you have no idea how long it’s been since you last ate – but with everything that has happened to you, it feels like a lifetime.

“I’m sorry I had to disrobe you,” he says – and where some gentlemen might have found themselves blushing, Flins keeps his voice and his face studied. “I had to dress the wound before it began to fester – abyssal weapons can cause even more permanent damage than an ordinary blade, and it would be a terrible pity to lose someone so lovely to the abyss. If you don’t mind, I’d like you to stay here for a few days whilst I monitor your recovery.”

Did he compliment you? You don’t have time to properly parse it – you’re too busy looking at the food that’s piled on his tray, and realising the consequences of what he is proposing. A reprieve from figuring out what to do with your life.

“Thank you,” you say to him, again. This time, you hope that he understands exactly what he’s giving to you. “Of course I’ll stay, Sir Flins. Rescuing me, monitoring me, making sure that I’m alright – you’ve already done so very much for me. I . . . I can’t think of a way I could possibly repay you.”

That strange shadow passes over his face again; a hunger, a wanting, a greed.

“That’s of little consequence right now,” Flins says pleasantly, stepping forward. He pulls a chair up to your bed – another old antique, of unpopular and outdated style but good craftsmanship. You wonder how many other Lightkeepers have been master of this lighthouse before it fell to Flins. “Please – you need to regain your strength. It would please me greatly if you would eat.”

The tray that he places gingerly on your lap is perfectly set, like a dining room from an old party. The silver that sits by the plate is expertly polished, and the food on it looks delicious and freshly made. You can’t help but notice, though, that he has brought nothing for himself.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” You ask him, your brow furrowing. It seems impolite for you to enjoy the hard work he put into preparing this veritable feast whilst he simply sits and watches you. Flins folds his hands in his lap and smiles at you.

“I’ve already eaten,” he says. “I’ll be out on patrol in a few hours myself; though the food is appetising, I’d rather have something lighter in my stomach in case I need to engage in combat. This is . . . heartier than I would ordinarily make, but it felt worth it when I had a guest. I so seldom do, you see. Please, indulge me and eat as freely and deeply as you wish. You must recover your strength, after all.”

It makes sense, but . . . something about it feels a little off. Surely he would at least have brought himself a cup of water? It seems strange for him to sit and watch you eat, with nothing else to do--

You try and shake the suspicions off as quickly as they come. Who are you to be judging the man who saved your life? Perhaps he just wishes to ensure that you are eating – you’ve heard as much as anybody else that you cannot recover if you do not nourish your body. Perhaps he has already eaten. Perhaps he doesn’t like the food he’s prepared for you and just doesn’t wish to say so! There are a hundred reasons, you tell your suspicious mind, why Flins could have brought you food and decided not to indulge himself.

Flins did not need to do this for you; did not need to rescue you and save your life and bring you to his home – his private sanctuary – and feed you and dress your wounds and make sure you were perfectly alright! A Lightkeeper may have some duty to their citizens, but Flins has proven himself to be willing to go beyond the call of it. And for that, you should feel gratitude and nothing else.

“Thank you,” you say, instead, and turn your attention to the meal that Flins has prepared for you.

“I hope it’s to your liking,” he says, watching with an unerringly focused gaze as you pick up a knife and fork and begin to cut the meat. “Ratniki often subside on field rations – cured meats, hardtack, and such. The kind of food that can last through wars. I thought those to be neither conducive to your recovery nor,” and here he gives you a secret smile, “particularly delicious. I’m no chef, but it is sometimes pleasant to do something unusual, don’t you think?”

You take a dainty bite of the meat, worried by what Flins has just said. If it isn’t good, you tell yourself, you will pretend to like it – but flavour bursts onto your tongue, and you realise that it is in fact more than good. You make a noise of enthusiasm and pleasure in the back of your throat and almost miss the way that his fingers flex in his gloves.

“It’s delicious,” you tell him, when you can speak again. “I would never have guessed you didn’t cook often! And . . . I suppose that this is a deeply unusual situation so far, for me. I don’t know if I would describe the part where an axe met my shoulder as ‘pleasant’, though.”

You win a polite little laugh from Flins.

“I hope your stay will be pleasant, at the very least,” he replies. “I will be out most nights; I take my duties as Ratnik seriously, you see. Nothing ought to bother you here, but I’ll lock the lighthouse up whilst I’m gone even so. Please let me know if there’s anything at all you may need.” Here, he looks at you, and you think he is trying for an expression that one would call ‘earnest’. There’s a peculiar shine to his eyes, though. A strange way of holding himself. “It is nice to have a little company. I hope that you will feel the same way.”

You give him a confused smile.

“I already do,” you assure him. “Like I said: I . . . I don’t know how I could ever repay you. I suppose I owe you a favour, but all I can give you is my thanks.”

A smile quirks Flins’ mouth. The lamp by your bedside gutters, throwing his features into a sharp relief that could almost be considered ghoulish. His eyes, though . . . that shine could almost be called a glow, a firebright inhuman kind of light--

“Oh,” Flins says. “People never really realise how much such a thing is worth.”

For the first two days, he will only let you leave your bed in order to keep yourself hygienic. In a way you think is terribly quaint and rather sweet, he primly calls them ‘ablutions’, and he stands outside of the small room built onto the lighthouse on the ground floor whilst you do them. He brings you some more chemises that can be shrugged on and off without hurting your shoulder – your face burns at the thought that he had bought them, asked for them, perhaps had to show a stall-owner your old clothes in order to get the size correct . . . but you are grateful, at least, that you don’t have to keep wearing the same thing. Your chemise had mostly survived unscathed, but there’s a splattering of blood on it, and the reminder of how the axe had felt slicing into your skin can only be relived so many times.

The ladders that lead from one level of the lighthouse prove tricky, but with practise you get quite good at navigating them with only one hand.

It is queer, though, that you never see another bed.

You don’t bring it up to Flins, because you don’t want to make him think you are being ungrateful. You try and rationalise the strange quirk to yourself as much as you can – wondering if he sleeps at the very top of the lighthouse where you have no need to go, if perhaps he sleeps in another one of the small, dilapidated buildings that dot the island, if he prefers to sleep outside amongst the stars . . . but you can never think of a satisfying solution.

At any rate, he doesn’t seem to suffer from poor sleep. Though his eyes have shadows beneath them, whenever you have seen Lightkeepers passing through the village they have had the same haunted expression – they must see terrible things. His voice never sounds scratchy or tired. He is always bringing you exquisitely prepared meals with polite smiles – and he never misses an opprtunity to sit with you and talk.

He tells you all kinds of things.

You have heard fairy stories, of course, and you had a collection of books . . . but the way that Flins tells stories is of an entirely different calibre than even the most beautiful books that you’ve ever lost yourself in. He seems to know so much, and he never runs out of them – and all of them are told in that low, lovely voice, calm and serene and polite.

He tells you about stories that the Lightkeepers have passed from Ratnik to Ratnik as if he were there, a sorrowful cast coming over his eyes when he speaks of the losses that have plagued the organisation over the years. He describes battles carefully, leaving out the bloodiest details, but always with an edge that reminds you that battlefields are places of horror. He talks, too, of nicer things – tells you folk tales and myths and legends from the time of the Fae, when Snezhnaya was a glittering luxurious whirl of parties and hedonism, when the Belyi Tsar ruled over the lands.

“Oh, but listen to me go on,” he says one night, when you have finished the soup he has brought you and you have been listening with rapt attention to the story of the Tsar and the King of Summer Oak. “You must get so terribly bored of hearing me prattle. These are all ancient stories.”

“No,” you’re quick to blurt out, and then you feel your face grow hot at just how quickly you’d argued. “I could listen to your stories forever, Sir Flins. You . . . Sometimes it feels as though you were there, and when you tell me about them I feel as though I’m there with you.”

He gives you a smile that feels wistful, leaning forward to take your tray from your lap and rest it on a bureau.

“Your arm is healing,” he says. “Better than I could have hoped. It doesn’t seem as though you’ll have any lingering issues from the abyss.”

You swallow. You understand what he’s saying; soon, he will have to find a way for you to leave his lighthouse and he will return to his solitary existence.

“I hope I haven’t been too much trouble,” you whisper to him, looking down at the bedclothes. There’s a lump in your throat that you hate yourself for, and you will yourself not to cry. You always knew that this day would come; Flins cannot keep you here forever. He has a life. Just because you have imploded yours, just because you had went off into ther wilderness with no thoughts of plans as to what you would do when you escaped beyond the concept of escape . . . he has been kind to you.

Flins’ brow creases once again, and your breath catches as he leans in and he catches your chin in his hand, tilting your face towards his.

“You’ve been no such thing,” he says to you, softly. Your heart feels like it beats faster in your chest. “It’s my duty to take care of people like you.”

Ah. Of course. Duty. You’d thought, for one stupid, foolish second, that the man was about to kiss you. Flins runs his thumb over the apple of your cheek, and a strange, secret smile alights upon his lips.

“Did you mean what you said?” He asks you. “About listening to my stories forever?”

He doesn’t seem the kind of man to be insecure about his storytelling skills – he carries himself with a quiet confidence that you envy terribly. Nobody would ever have bullied a man like this into becoming an unpaid skivvy, like your brother had somehow bullied you into. So why would he ask? Does he just want to hear you compliment him?

Well. He’s already seen you at your most pathetic. There seems to be no point in trying to save any kind of face.

“I could,” you say to him, with a small smile. “Sometimes I feel like I could stay here forever.”

You expect him to respond with a chuckle, a shake of his head, a warning that you ought not get too comfortable or perhaps even an estimate of how much longer he might let you stay with him, avoiding any and all responsibilities that might be out there in the world. Any consequences for what you’ve done.

Instead, though, he tilts his head in a way that seems almost considering.

“You can call me Kyryll,” he says, instead. “Flins is the name I mostly go by nowadays, but . . . I think I would prefer to hear you use something different.”

With that mystifying pronouncement, Flins lifts the tray up from the bureau and disappears down the ladder.

But . . . the question remains, tugging at your heartstrings, haunting your dreams and making you lie awake and stare up at Flins’ ceiling at night.

When is he going to make you leave?

It’s two nights later, when you can’t sleep, that you decide you will explore the lighthouse a little more. Up until now, you have only ever been out of the level you sleep in either with Flins with you – to sit in the kitchen once, and drink a hot cocoa he had made (he had not made himself one, though you have long since grown used to the fact you never see him eat and you have only ever seen him drink a glass or two of wine) – or to use the facilities, that are downstairs in order to be more easily plumbable.

It’s been some hours since Flins had left, locking the door behind him as he has been doing whenever he has gone out on duties. He has reassured you that there is nothing on the island itself that would hurt you, and given you another of those small, inscrutable smiles when you had reassured him that you were not afraid of ghosts – but he worries, he says, about mortal man instead of the spirits. He worries what might happen to you when he is gone, and it feels far safer to mitigate any risk.

You start on the bottom floor, poking around with some interest. Flins may be free with his stories, and may make you feel as though you are indeed there with him – but he never speaks of the recent past. You do not know anything about his family, or what drew him to become a Lightkeeper; and you are merely curious what clues you can find to your enigmatic host whilst he is gone.

You know that you are being nosy; you feel bad that Flins may yet come home to find you snooping . . . but he fascinates you so utterly! You wish to know his secrets!

He has learnt more about you in the past few days – you’ve told him the truth about why you had run, and he had laid his gloved hand atop of yours and looked at you with those piercing yellow eyes and assured you that you were worth far more than you realised, and that the life you fear is waiting for you when you go back will not come to fruition. You have told him stories about your childhood, little things that have floated across your mind when the two of you have been chatting. But he remains . . . frustratingly tight-lipped.

Oh, you don’t think it’s on purpose – but somehow, whenever you ask a question, he answers it without really answering it. You’re halfway through another subject before you realise that he never told you if he had any pets as a child and somehow now he knows that your family had gone through three dogs and a cat. He twists his answers, tying them into bows and knots, and they always seem to come back to you and him finding out more about you.

And sometimes--

Sometimes you tell him things you do not mean to, you have realised. Sometimes he asks you a question, your name falling from his lips at the end like it is a sugar-coated question mark, and you are replying to it with a frankness that frightens you. Like something is compelling you to answer him and tell him nothing but the truth, even when you would prefer to keep some of your own secrets.

So he knows, then, that you had accepted your death back there with the Wild Hunt. That you had in fact, almost welcomed it (he had looked sad at this confession, a soft sigh falling from his mouth, a whispered apology that you would feel like that). He knows that you resent your brother so much you had once thought of slitting his throat in his sleep, though you would never go through with such a thing. He even knows that you think he is handsome, and that you have never had a serious relationship because nobody in your village has ever interested you--

He had laughed at the confession that you found him handsome, and then looked at you with those yellow eyes almost playful and reassured you that he found you, in turn, just as pleasing to the eye. It had not seemed, though, that such a thing had tumbled unbidden from his mouth – his words had seemed perfectly thought through.

So, then, you tell yourself, if Flins knows some of your secrets . . . don’t you deserve to at least know a little more about him?

The kitchen and bathroom do not provide you any intelligence about Flins.

You do find it odd that there appears, beyond the rations that Flins had mentioned to you, no other food in the lighthouse other than those that he has been using to prepare your meals. This puts an end to your theory that perhaps he eats something else, because he doesn’t like the food he makes you. The quantities, from what you can see, all seem to point to you being the only person who is eating anything. The silverware drying by the sink, too, is only that which you have used, beyond the cups you have occasionally seen Flins drink wine from.

It throws up more questions than answers, and you have to force yoursef to stop ruminating on it in order to be able to move on to your next stop on the snooping tour.

The second foor of the lighthouse is the floor in which you have been sleeping, so you bypass that one – in the time you have spent with Flins, you have grown rather too intimately familiar with it. You know that there are no secrets to be found here. There are a few spare Lightkeeper uniforms in the armoire, another pair of boots, a few very old books in a bookshelf . . . but other than that, the room he has made you guest in does not bare open much of Flins’ personality to you.

So you ascend the ladder again, higher up into the belly of the beast.

You have been using an old lantern to light your way – not one of the ones the Lightkeepers have, but something of rusted iron that had taken you far too long to figure out how to light. Your shoulder remains unhealed, though you can at least use your hands a little now – holding the heavy lantern, though, had proven a step too far. Consequently, you have to put it onto the floor with your good hand, groping sightlessly onto the next level, and then hoist yourself up after it – and there is something that’s rather . . . unsettling about the way the shadows dance on the wall in the next room.

This one is undoubtedly Flins’ domain, and you give your eyes a moment or two to adjust and to second-guess what you might be seeing.

This is no second bedroom.

The simple, kind thing to call it would be a ‘study’. There are more books lining the walls, after all – but taking up most of the space is a grand desk-come-worktable, covered all over with the projects Flins is working on. You see that there are many glistening jewels and coins and other such shiny trinkets covering the desk and taking their place on the shelves, but that is hardly a concern.

What is a concern, though, is the unmistakable objects that are scattered all over Flins’ desk, in a disarray that seems at odds with the man’s practical mind. They gleam, too, but in a very different way – the gleam of these objects almost feels like a warning, that you ought to descend back down the stairs and forget that you ever saw what he was doing up here.

Because covering Flins’ worktable is a veritable mountain of bones.

You’re glad you hadn’t yet picked up the lantern from the floor, because your hand flies to your mouth to stifle your gasp. Some of them are obviously animal, or perhaps even monster – but some of them have a certain angle to them, a certain colour and size that makes your blood run cold and fear nestle heavy in your gut that they are, in fact, human.

You should go back down to your own level and tuck yourself up in your bed (‘your’ bed) and pretend you have not seen anything. You should try and forget that this is above you, and smile at Flins and ask him questions and act as nothing has changed, whilst trying to leave as soon as you can lest you become one of that mountain of bones yourself.

But something inside of you – a curiousity that you can’t quell – drives you onwards. You know you are being foolish even as your feet move across the wooden floor of the lighthouse, closer and closer to Flins’ desk. This is how hapless mortals die, in the folktales and stories that Flins has been telling you (now, when you think of them, they seem almost like a warning).

But there is something to be said for the lure of knowledge, and before you know it you stand before them. You reach out, your fingers brushing against both smooth and pitted bones, both small and large. You have never seen a skeleton in real life – the closest you have come is the bones in some of the meat that you used to prepare for your brother and you to have for meals. But you know these to be more than simple rabbits or chickens.

Your hand grasps the thick pole of one of the bones, as you try desperately not to think of what it used to be.

Next to the pile of bones is another construct; this one, meticulous and careful. Besides this one is a scalpel, and other tools you have only ever before seen woodcutters use. This is a collection of bones, you realise, that has been carefully reorganised and reshaped to bear the likeness of a rabbit. Something that may once have been the fang of a great beast, carefully carved into a curling ear – a small bone like a kneecap reshaped into the rabbit’s face, it’s twitching nose. You ought to be in awe of the craftsmanship, but all you feel is a kind of crawling horror that this is the medium in which Flins has chosen to work.

And as you move to put the bone you are holding back down, the mountain of unsorted pieces falls to one side, revealing what is undoubtedly a human skull.

Your hand does not fly to your mouth in time to muffle the muted scream that falls from your lips as you stumble backwards away from it.

And into something cool and solid.

Flins’ voice comes against your ear, calm and cultured, polite to the end.

“Ah,” he says. “I see you’ve stumbled upon my little divertissement.”

You whirl back to face him, your eyes wild and open. Your mouth opens and closes as you desperately try to think of something. He’s a Lightkeeper, for Archon’s sake! He’s supposed to protect! But here, in this workroom, it seems as though he’s doing the very opposite of that. You don’t know what to say, but what comes out of your mouth is this:

“Please don’t hurt me.”

Flins tilts his head to one side curiously.

“Didn’t you tell me, only a few days ago, that you’d accepted your own death? That you almost thought it would be easier?”

You curse yourself for the unnatural openness that you’ve shown to the man before you, your lip trembling as your eyes stay locked to his own. But then, Flins gives you a slow, small smile.

“Ah. Apologies. I’ve frightened you.” (That seems like an understatement, all things considered, but you do not think you are currently in a position to say anything about it). “I have no intention of hurting you. You can trust my integrity as a Lightkeeper on that.”

Your eyes flicker to the carved bone rabbit, and you can’t quite hold back all of your fear.

“A Lightkeeper protects!” You protest. “These-- whoever these belong to weren’t protected--”

A furrow of his brow.

“Do you see a full skeleton upon my table?” He asks. “Do you know how many bones the average mortal carries around in their frame? I assure you that these bones came to me in bits and pieces, through entirely ordinary means. One comes across all kinds of things when their patrol takes them across almost the whole of Nod-Krai.”

You let out a slow breath. This makes sense. But--

“Wh-why would you pick them up?” You ask. “Why would you want to be surrounded by all of this . . .” You helplessly gesture to everything around you. “All of this death?”

This gets a little laugh out of him, a noise that makes a hot flush rise into your cheeks. His laugh is as low and courtly as his voice.

“That seems like a loaded question to ask somebody who makes their home in an isle that doubles as a graveyard,” he says, and you pull in a rattling breath. Your heart is starting to calm somewhat, now. Perhaps there is a reasonable explanation for all of this.

“I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t . . . carve wood, or something,” you say, your voice a little helpless this time. Flins gives you a small smile and bows slightly to you, proffering his hand towards you to be taken. A little nervously, you allow yourself to place your finger into his palm, and he draws you closer to the worktable and to the carefully arranged rabbit sculpture.

“I think you understand things more if you handle them,” he says. “Whilst carving mortal bones into something else – the power of transformation – you come to a kind of comprehension that would otherwise evade you.” He gazes at the rabbit with what you realise is fondness. “I carved this and thought of you.”

You’re taken aback.

“Of me?”

That strange, secret smile alights on his lips again. His eyes caress the lines and the curves of the rabbit, flickering only momentarily to you as if he is comparing the two of you. You realise, with a strange start, that his eyes almost seem to be glowing in the shadows that the lantern is still throwing over the room. Your shadow is as it has ever been – but Flins’ . . . Flins’ shadow almost seems to waver and wobble on the wall, like he is keeping hold of a form that he isn’t meant to be in.

You are so far away from anything else, here in the Final Night Cemetery. Nobody knows you are here but Flins himself. You’re so terribly vulnerable, along and injured and relying on the Lightkeeper for absolutely everything--

“Mortals are delicate things,” he says. “So prone to death. So prone to injury. And yet – beautiful. Rabbits are like that, too – but despite everything stacked against them, despite the knowledge that they are soft and easy to hurt and prey for forces they don’t understand. . . they persevere. Like you.”

And he keeps using the word ‘mortal’, as if it is not a word he would ascribe to himself.

The lack of food, the lack of sleep, the strange glow in his eyes and the antiquated way of talking and all of the stories he tells you as if he was really there.

Your hand is still within his, your palms still pressed together, and not for the first time you think about how he is always so very cold.

“What are you?” You whisper to him, and Flins smiles enigmatically at you again. You pull your hand out of his, fear hot and sour in your throat. You’ll go no matter what, you think. You’ll fight and you’ll claw and you’ll swim, injured or not, to get away from this not-a-man.

And as you back away from him, Flins murmurs your name in that same soft, cool tone that he always uses.

“Stay.”

And your feet are suddenly rooted to the ground. This is different from the suggestion wrapping around you that you share with him the truth when asked; this is some magic you cannot fully understand, bearing down upon you fully. This is something vicious and deep, fighting against what you want.

“Do you remember what I told you about the Belyi Tsar?” He asks you, not yet crossing the room. “About how the Snowland Fae used to be so important, so venerated? So magical?”

Oh.

Oh.

All of the stories that you’ve heard come crashing into you again. Do not give a fae your true name; do not accept their hospitality, do not owe them a favour, do not eat faerie food . . . All rules you have broken, again and again and again. All things that Flins can use to do whatever he wants to you. You feel your legs begin to tremble.

Flins’ steps towards you are slow and considering, like he is indeed approaching a rabbit – an animal he doesn’t want to spook lest they run into the forest never to be seen again. You wish that were the case here. Even if you wanted to, his magic is ensuring that you cannot run and hide from him.

Do you want to? Is it the worst thing he could be? When he could have revealed himself as some kind of abyssal monster, some murderer or such?

(Fae are not without blood on their hands, though; you know the stories. You know the whispers. But why, then, would be don the garb of a Lightkeeper and actually bother to save poor unfortunates such as yourself?)

Flins seems to sense the way that your mind churns. He comes to a stop before you, so you have to tilt your face up to look at him.

“Don’t fret,” he whispers, and gives you a smile that lights his face – and now, he lets it. Now, he does not hold it back into something mortal. Now, his eyes seem to flame from inside and there is something just slightly inhuman about the way his face moves, almost too beautiful to be looked at full-on. You wonder how you could ever have been fooled by him. “You may remember something else from the stories. You may remember that the fae can only twist, can only set riddles and puzzles – you may remember that we cannot lie.”

He leans down, his face coming close to yours. Your heart pounds in your ears.

It’s hard not to think of how he has taken care of you. How he has saved you. How he could have left you for dead, but he brought you back here and understood your plight and brought you food and stories and treated you like something precious and important. It is because of that, you tell yourself, that your gaze fixates on his lips and the feel of his cool palm, as he cups your cheek with his hand.

“So perhaps it may comfort you to know,” he continues, “that I have absolutely no intention of hurting you.”

And his lips brush against your own, cool and smooth and soft.

The first command he gives you, now that you know exactly what it is he is doing when he says your name, is simply to stay in the lighthouse. You imagine it like some shimmering spectral chain wrapped around your ankle; once, when he has gone for the evening to complete his patrol, you go to the front door and rattle it helplessly in the doorframe. He has locked it, of course – but even just by the door, it is as if the magic that binds you can sense your intention, and you feel a strange sense of mooring to the spot. Your stomach feels empty, your head swims – and none of those feelings abate until you give up, and go sit at the table in the kitchen to glare at the offending entryway.

“Where would you go?” Flins asks you, when he comes back in the lilac dawn light to find you, mutinous, sitting there. “You have already said you’re alone in the world; where would you go, if you found yourself out there?”

It’s a question you have asked yourself, but somehow from Flins’ mouth it seems all the worse. You press your lips together and try to fight the traitorous hot tears that you can feel springing into your eyes. Your fists clench. Flins must see the way that you react, because he comes towards you again, taking a seat beside you at the table, those elegant gloved hands once more coming to cup your face.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Don’t cry. You are not alone in the world any longer, dear one. Not now that you have me. You ought to know that you have carved out a space in my heart, don’t you?”

“You barely know me,” you breathe out to him in response, your voice cracking. Flins tilts his head and smiles, leaning in to you. His cool lips brush against your forehead now, your cheeks.

“I know what you look like when you bleed and what you sound like when you cry. I know the way your eyes sparkle when you listen and how your heart calls out for someone to understand it. I know . . .” And here, a faint flush crawls over the tip of his ears. “I know the feel of your heartbeat. What else need I learn? When I have so long with you to look forward to?”

“You haven’t-- you can’t--”

Sometimes, when he speaks like that, you are reminded that he is a being something more than mortal. The words don’t make sense – he doesn’t know your history, not really, or your family or the way you get angry when someone stands over you whilst cooking . . . But if you were to try and say that, you don’t think he would understand. He is of a higher being than that – and though you think such things are important when in a relationship, you’re sure he would dismiss them as mortal foolishness.

You can’t call this a relationship by any ordinary means.

“But you could tell me,” Flins breathes, pulling back. His eyes are yellow as a wolf’s, his smile almost too perfect, with a few too many teeth. A creature playing at being human. He corrects himself. “I could make you tell me.”

You shiver, sitting there beside him, at all of the sharp edges hidden in his syllables. There is so much he could make you do, with nothing more than the whisper of your name. It’s hard to forget just how much power he holds over you.

“Will you?” You ask him, wetting your lips. “Will it feel the same, knowing that you had to force me to spit it out? Do your kind care?”

A brief twitch of his lips, as if he is amused you are fighting back. The rabbit, again – versus the hunter, versus the faerie, versus the all-knowing.

“Most would not,” he says. “But I have been playing at being mortal for too long. It will be all the sweeter for me knowing you told me yourself.” He strokes his thumb over the apple of your cheek. “But . . . until then, I still wish to take my pleasure from the one I love.” Your back goes cold, and Flins clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “No, no – please don’t misunderstand my desire as intention to force you, dearest. For now . . .”

He takes his hand away from your cheek, and you sit there in terrified silence, waiting to see what he will do. You watch as he peels his gloves off, to reveal his bare hands and fingers – long and pale, elegant. Somehow, this feels just as intimate as any other touch would, when he takes your face between his palms and pulls you in and kisses you, deep and wanting.

You want to fight him off. You want to bite him, when his tongue brushes against the seam of your lips. You want to be able to say, when you open your mouth and sigh, that it is because he has told you that you must.

But that would be a lie.

When Flins kisses you, your mind goes blank of everything but his chivalry, his devotion, his handsome face and his lilting voice and the fact that he has shared with you something he has not been able to share with another soul for centuries. You forget that he is keeping you here by force. You forget about the enchantments that he dangles over your head.

For just that moment, and just that kiss, you think you might love him back – and when Flins pulls back and smiles at you, you realise that he could tell.

“I need to go to sleep,” you blurt out, though you have done nothing but sit stewing at this table since you got out of bed in the evening when he left (your schedule, you notice, has started to adhere more to his than to any you might once have kept). Flins’ eyes do not leave your face.

“Sleep well, beloved one,” he says, inclining his head. “It has been some time since I took refuge in a warm bed, myself. But . . . I do not think it will be much longer.”

The words should feel ominous – it was only a short while ago, after all, you thought he was making a threat on your virtue. But instead, they make a heat run through your veins that you can barely stand. It rushes into your cheeks, your skin hot to the touch, and you turn away from him before he can see what effect he is having on you.

It’s foolish, of course.

He knows.

You are starting to feel as though it is not possible to keep secrets from him.

Of course, when you get up to the level which is yours and you sequester yourself in bed, you cannot sleep. You toss and turn and think about the mess you have found yourself in, trying to keep your mind from thoughts of your captor. But thinking of anything else is worse – thinking of the life you have left behind, of the life that could have been, of all of the dreams you had once harboured . . . You stare helplessly at the ceiling and recall how it had been before you had discovered his secret.

It means you are awake when Flins ascends the ladder.

“Kyryll?” You ask. You have been using the name he gave you since he asked you to; you had briefly thought about returning to ‘Sir Flins’ when he had made it clear you were his prisoner, but you had not found yourself able to after you had used it once and he had outright flinched to hear it fall from your lips. He had not used his enchantments to command, but . . . something about the hurt that had flickered across his expression had made sympathy pang inside of you. You could not bring yourself to do it again.

“You’re still awake?” He asks, and you hear his footsteps come closer to the bed. You sit up, letting the coverlets gather over your lap instead. You’ve long grown used to being bare shouldered around him; he has seen to your wounds, after all. It is mostly healed over, now. You do not think you will need to wear the bandages for much longer, though there will be a scar there forever to remind you of the mistakes you made to lead you to the Final Night Cemetery. “You’re not dreaming?”

“Were you going to play with your bones?” There’s a sharp edge to your word that, if Flins were like the cruel captor fae of legend, you’re sure you would be punished for. Instead, he breathes out slowly and evenly.

“Perhaps,” he says. “Perhaps I just wanted to check on you. Perhaps I have watched you sleep every night since I brought you here, just to be sure you are sleeping soundly and undisturbed.”

The thought makes you shiver at the same time as it makes you feel . . . strangely safe. It has been so long since anybody has truly cared about your wellbeing; your mind bitterly cannot help but wonder if your brother has even reported you missing to anybody. Though Nod-Krai does not have formal laws, he could still probably get the Voynich Guild or some passing adventurer to search for you . . .

If he was willing to part with the Mora, of course.

“Does anybody know I’m here?” You ask, trying to ignore the warm tug of tenderness in your heart for the idea your captor may stand watch over you at night. “Do you know if anybody has asked about me?”

You think you see a flash of pity cross his eyes.

“There have been no reports of anyone missing matching your description,” he says. “Ratniki are often told of such cases. Too often, those missing have fallen afoul of the Wild Hunt. And I . . . I would rather keep you to myself than let anybody know what a treasure I have found. It is not unusual for those of my employ to be solitary in nature.”

Your brother was not willing to part with Mora, then. It should not surprise you as much as it does. The inside of your mouth turns to ash. For all he had said about needing you there, to cook and to clean and to do all of the things he promised he could never do alone . . . it had just been a way to keep you tied to him, hadn’t it? You have escaped one cage and gone into another.

At least in the cage Flins keeps you in, you are valued. You have gone from prisoner in jail cell to pretty bird in an iron cage, a pet to be adored and cherished and taken care of.

Flins has said your name. He’s settling on the edge of the bed now, his yellow eyes seeking out your face. You don’t realise that frustrated tears have spilt from your eyes until they wet your cheeks and clump your lashes.

“They did not deserve you,” he says, voice urgent. “They did not see the value of you; your beauty, your strength, your worth. Not as I do.”

“Do you think me beautiful, then?” You ask. You try to make it barbed; but it comes out, as such a question is always likely to do, as almost pathetic. Hopeful. Flins swallows, and for the first time you see a touch of nervousness touch his composure, flickering at his edges.

“. . . More than you realise.” He says, wistful. “I think it must have been fate, the Wild Hunt delivering you to me like this. Knowing that I would see the worth of such a precious gem where others have not.”

You think of his shelves, and the precious gems and coins he has hoarded like a magpie. They say that the fae have a fondness for pretty things; you imagine him collecting them and polishing them, thinking of their lives and their stories as he holds them. You are a gem, too. Flins’ collection made flesh. The thought should chill you – you hate that, instead, it makes something that feels like pleasure prick up your spine.

“Thank you,” you say to him, and mean it.

“You were undervalued,” he says, in that way he has that is both intense and calm, a perfectly smooth galleon cutting through a rough and stormy sea. “I am lucky that it was I who saw it. I was lucky that I stumbled upon you in time. But . . . fate has a way of working these things out for us, I find. Fate has a way of rewarding those who are willing to play with her.”

You don’t understand his meaning. He must see how your brow pinches, your face scrunches, because he gives you a smile. His hand brushes over your cheek – and then, with only a small amount of hesitation, further down and over your neck, your shoulder, your bare arm. The cool touch of his flesh makes you shiver, and it is not entirely unpleasant.

“I have spent more time than I care to admit in the service of justice and protection,” he says. “Perhaps she has seen fit to send me a reward.”

“I am not some spoils to be won,” you say, your voice dry. Flins’ smile, enigmatic, lighted as if his lantern burns within him and not simply upon the end of his hand, echoes through your mind for the rest of the night.

“I would not dream of it,” he replies. “You are something far more precious than that. You will be protected too, dearest one. You will be protected most resolutely of all.”

He could make your life difficult. He could make you hold his hand; use his command and his power to make sure that you followed every order he gave. He could demand you kiss him, that you open your heart and your bed to him. He could tell you to hold a knife against your throat and you would be forced to comply.

But he does not.

It does not seem right, to use the word ‘chivalrous’ to describe the inhuman creature that holds you hostage in solitude on an island full of bones. But that is what he is. He avoids commands whenever possible – the only things he ever uses your name to force your obedience are either for your own good (an order to stop scratching, when the healing scars of your arm have felt like they are filled with burning hot ants crawling over them), or in order to maintain his hold upon you.

Flins has a visitor, some three weeks into your tenure as his captive – another Lightkeeper who calls himself Illuga, who Flins later tells you is the son of the current Starshyna. When he knocks on the lighthouse’s door, dropping by unnanounced, Flins’ voice is urgent as he tells you to only respond with niceties and to not tell the truth about why you are, that you ran away and that he is holding you captive. He gets it all out in a rush, but you understand – the fae are known for being tricksy themselves, and he is trying to cover his bases.

You oblige. You smile sweetly at the younger Ratnik and answer questions with a blandness that Flins clearly finds pleasing. You do not even shudder when Flins calls you his beloved, and asks Illuga not to spread gossip about him. Lightkeepers value their privacy, Illuga assures him, and he gives you a smile and sounds quite pleased when he tells you he has glad Flins has found somebody to share this lonely life with.

(You wish your heart didn’t jump at this; you wish that you didn’t think about how much easier it would be to give in to what Flins wants from you).

After he is gone, Flins brings you out a treat; a sugar sculpture he bought in Nasha Town, made carefully and beautifully in the shape of a rabbit.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, and – because you have not yet learnt, even after everything, you thank him. This time, though, as the words leave your mouth . . . you feel something shift within you, like cogs and gears moving in a lock and locking something in your heart in place. You look up in wild alarm at Flins, to see that his expression has gone terribly soft and loving again.

“Every time you do that,” he says, laying a hand atop of yours on the table (he has started forgoing his gloves, now, and the shock of his cool skin never fails to make you shiver), “it strengthens our connection. The enchantment that binds us to one another. You felt it that time, didn’t you?”

You swallow, your eyes darting away from Flins’ face. There is something unsettling about openness when it makes a home in Flins’ eyes – knowing what he is, you cannot help but feel that it should not come naturally to him. It makes you wonder what trickery brews beneath the surface.

“Yes,” you admit, the word coming out bitter. Flins chuckles and shakes his head.

“You have nothing to be afraid of,” he tells you. “I will not hurt you. You know this to be true.”

“There are things worse than hurt,” you whisper, and Flins tilts his head again, like this is a human concept he is still yet to understand. “There are things that . . . mortals need and crave, that you have taken from me.”

“You have shelter and food and protection,” he says. “What else do you need? You have . . . affection, when you are willing to accept it.”

You should not have expected him to understand. You try to ignore the voice in your head that whispers that you should accept the affection; that you should embrace the life he has proffered to you, simple and easy and safe. What other mortal in the world could call themselves beloved of a fae, beloved of something that has lived for centuries and will live for centuries more, and yet still finds them fascinating enough to tether themselves to?

(You have suspicions, about Flins and his lantern, about legends of protection that he has told you in the past. You do not think he is any ordinary fae).

“Freedom,” you say to him, lifting your head to meet his yellow gaze head-on. He looks at you with an adoration that is sharp at the edges; an adoration that says he will love you and venerate you, but you will have to fit into the box that he has designated. You will have to be what he wants you to be. “I ran away from home because I did not wish to be forced into a life I did not choose for myself. What is different about my life here?”

He does not break the eye contact. Looking into Flins’ eyes, it feels like you are seeing the centuries he has lived through; you think of the stories he has told you. Looking into his gaze, you feel as though you are in ballrooms swirling with people, on battlefields full of raging swords and screams with blood soaking into the ground, far asleep beneath the ground in a slumber that you think you will never wake from.

“Here,” he says, “you are safe. You are adored. You are mine.”

“Does it not upset you to know that I would leave if I could?” Your voice comes out dry and quiet and afraid. “Do you really wish to keep me here against my will, if you adore me?”

“I am not upset,” Flins replies. “Such a thing is not in my nature. If I were mortal, perhaps I would let you go. But I am not. If I were mortal, perhaps I would tell you I am doing this for your own good. But I am not. It is foolish to hold me to those ideals, beloved. I adore you. I love you. And I have you. And . . . because I have you, because you are mine, because the enchantment ties our souls together – I have absolutely no intention of letting you go.”

“Kyryll,” you repeat, voice broken, staring at him, as the waves of finality crash all around you. It does not matter what you say. He has made up his mind.

A Lightkeeper is a stubborn creature, you have always been told. They live away from society; they give themselves to their work. They are strange and not particularly social, with ways that can seem antiquated.

The stories say, too, that a fae is a stubborn creature. They do not easily give up their prize.

You have the misfortune, then, of stumbling across both.

You will never be free.

You do not think you will ever be happy here; not with the call of what could have been. Just because you are away from the life you had run from does not mean you have stumbled into a life you would have chosen. Flins, for all of his good manners and his handsome face and his courtly grace, is no replacement for your own adventure.

But he is handsome. And you think, insofar as he understands it, he does care for you. You do not think a fae truly understands what love is – but you think Flins must think he does feel such a way for you. You pull your hand back from his, clenching your fists, your nails worrying crescent moons into your palms.

One moment to feel the pain and the reality and the truth.

“Will you do something for me, Kyryll?” You ask him, your voice tremulous. Flins looks at you, and you feel his greed and his want and what he must think is his love. Perhaps it is. Who is to say what love is, for a creature like him?

“Almost anything that is within my power, dearest.”

You swallow. You will not allow yourself to look away from him; you will not allow yourself to choose the coward’s way out at the last moment. If you are making this choice, you will stand firm in the fact that you chose it.

“Use my name,” you say to him. “Tell me to love you.”

You grow flowers in boxes on the thick sills of the lighthouse, in carefully chosen arrays. They ought not to flourish in the Final Night Cemetery the way that they do, but whenever it seems a bulb is going to falter and die, you ask Kyryll to take a look at it and it springs back to life within a few evenings. Their scent fills the air, and it makes you smile to see them there.

You bake at the oven in the downstairs kitchen; krumkakes and sweets that Kyryll never partakes of, but always takes a great inhale of and assures you of their deliciousness. You ply him with them when he goes out on his Lightkeeper patrol, and tell him to share with anyone he saves. Sometimes he gives them to other Lightkeepers, when he comes across them, and he tells you they gently tease him about his little homemaker.

You dust the lighthouse to keep it nice; you bother Kyryll until he brings you trinkets and other things to light up the dull interior. There is a tablecloth of red gingham over the kitchen table now, and a vase of flowers cut from the window boxes. You sweep and hum, mend Kyryll’s clothing for him when it gets ripped (despite his laughter and insistence that you need not do any such thing. You tell him that you like looking after him, and a look that almost seems like sadness flits across his face).

Sometimes, when you are looking after the home that you and Kyryll share, you get a strange hollow feeling in your chest. When you are rearranging files and clicking your tongue because he’s left his worktable in a muddle, a flash goes through you, a whisper that you have been trapped in a role that you never wanted to play. You ignore it. Everybody has such feelings, you tell yourself: and you are lucky.

You are in love. You are loved in return.

You curl up beside Kyryll in the bed, his hand brushing through your hair with the utmost gentleness as he tells you stories about his time in the courts of the Belyi Tsar, about the things he has seen. Whenever he tells you of something beautiful, he always takes a moment to pause and tell you; “But that beauty could not hold a candle to your own, beloved”.

You kiss him soft and slow and tender, and he gives back the same. His hands on you are like he is handling a precious artifact. He treats you like glass, and he plays you like a violin, hands caressing curves and plucking strings until music flows forth from you and he curls his body about yours.

Sometimes you stroke his shoulderblades, the spot where his wings would be, and he shivers in pleasure and arches like a cat. He promises one day he will show you his full, true form.

And sometimes . . .

Sometimes, in bed, when you are both panting beside each other and you are slipping into a pleasured doze, you look up to see your beloved Kyryll awake. He looks down at you with that yellow-fire gaze as if he would raze cities to the ground if they threatened your safety. As if he would do anything in the world to preserve this moment, to keep you here, to make sure that the two of you will never be parted.

And when you think that, when the thought slips into your mind before you lose yourself to the haze of unconsciousness--

A scar that slices across your shoulder – one you don’t remember getting – suddenly seems to ache.

[ewnamored-deactivated20260512]

𓉸 THE GRAVE HARVEST, BLIGHTED BY LOVE 

Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins x female!Reader

SUMMARY: Tremendous confusion is the sole possession you wake up with in the middle of a cemetery. While you're unsure if the man who has found you is worthy of your trust, hiding the corpses of the truths underground, he is seemingly delighted to have you with him.

contents: reader isn't a human, mystery, some angst, amnesia, blood drinking, obsessive but devoted Flins, murders, non-sexual nudity, 6.0 quest spoilers. Word count: 6,5k.

Note: Divider by @/diviniyae. Save me from this man's clutches, I didn't anticipate I'll make this story so long, haha...

Coffins are never to be made comfortable for disgusting creatures like you. A few pieces of dull-brown, splintering wood nailed together is merely a box intended to contain your flesh.

You don't know who the dark-clad lantern holder is when he digs you out of this confinement from the underground. With the common knowledge your brain has maintained, you understand it is the dead who are kept in the soil. You, personally, experience a drowsiness closer to having woken up, and nothing makes sense when you look back to spot a gravestone with a name you suspect to be yours.

He eyes you up and down, scrutinizing the state of your deteriorating mourning black dress, closer to a ball gown, hanging by threads and covered in dirt; it also poses a question about what people have loved you to grant you such a grandiose one. He swings a shovel out of the earth once and twice, and offers you his hand to hold. "Please, if you could, come with me. These grounds are not a place for wandering. I promise, everything will be alright."

Lingering in the unexplainable for you stupor, you cup his gloved hand in yours, allowing it to lead you to the nearest lighthouse, standing gloomy amid the midst and ghastly spirits spread across the purple graveyard. The ghost of the bell chime follows you two, with the bright blue light of this stranger’s lantern illuminating your route.

Inside the metal, dark, and narrow walls, filled with broken burgundy furniture, trinkets scattered everywhere, and stone floors, he dresses you in a white dress, lighting up your form after the prolonged darkness you have both worn and lived in. It's a long cut, wide, almost translucent from the thinness of the cotton, with the only feminine touch being white lace ribbons at the hems. You assume it to be a nightgown of sorts.

As he pats down any wrinkles and you gaze around, catching a wooden frame threatening to fall, pooling wax candles, and scattered papers, giving this man a bad image of being untidy, you mindlessly argue. “It’s not white. It’s yellow.”

He stops and looks at you with a slight surprise, before he laughs gently, warming up the dullness in his eyes at least momentarily. “Ah, you are right. The dress must have been stained by time. I have kept this dress in my closet for a rather long period now, you see. You must forgive me for this inconvenience, I will make sure to expand your wardrobe soon.”

“Who did it belong to…?” You can’t spot any other woman here, and since it was unworn...

He narrows his eyes into heavy with nostalgia. “An amazing, warm and kind-hearted woman. Perhaps, you will hear about her one day. Until then…” he guides you under a dark duvet, and still dizzy, you don’t really protest. “You must stay here and recuperate.”

“But what’s wrong with me?” you ask, worried. You don’t like how your head is a hole full of nothing — no clues or explanations. Whether you are a human, it doesn’t seem to be true, and that much you can deduce yourself — thinking about known patterns, no human can awaken in a coffin. “I can’t remember anything.”

“Well…” he begins quietly, taking two steps back away from your bed. He looks outside, observing the open grave in the barely visible nightmoon. “I suppose amnesia is just a symptom of your ailment. For what is wrong with you… you needn’t worry about that too much now. I wouldn’t want you to stress yourself pointlessly if you should be focusing on resting. Sleep — it should help. If anything arises, I will be there to help you.”

The secrecy is no good for you; however, you are tired indeed. You’ll dig for truth later. “Then, can you at least tell me your name? You must know mine…”

He smiles. “It’s Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins.”

With that, he leaves to bury the traces of your awakening, leaving you to slumber.

Flins — or rather, Kyryll he insists you call him — watches out for any smallest signs of displeasure signaled by you in the span of the next couple of days. He’s been keen on hosting you properly, constantly asking if you are comfortable.

Yet, you cannot feel domestic — the real source of your state remains unknown due to either his inability to diagnose you or his his own self-order to lie to you. He only tells you about how safe you are right now.

The rest of his time, if not being spent by him haunting and hunting the outside creatures, he offers to you, doing rather mundane things next to you; he’s a rather eccentric man, and you wonder if the real you is any better. The only treatment you receive is a rest so boring and weird concoctions.

You’re desperate to grasp the unknown about who you are and settle it it back in your head where it belongs. Unfortunately, he makes your identity a secret. In fact, he tells you he’s not entirely sure himself, but you get the sense that he’s lying when all he lets you hear is that he has been assigned to treat you of your ailment.

“Assigned by who?” you inquire, helping him set the impossibility small table, nestling some corner with two stools. Any suggestions to improve his space, he brushes off, oddly content in the claustrophobic construction.

“Other Ratniki. You're an unusual case… a being suddenly waking up in the middle of what was supposed to be their afterlife, six feet underground, ringing the bell to be let out. Normally, a walking dead is a part of Wild Hunt, yet you are closer to a conscious and docile being. It is natural one of us was asked to investigate your state,” as he ends the explanation, he finishes his task and sits down, rolling up the sleeves of his dark outfit’s shirt after.

“So I’m an anomaly?” you sit down as well, troubles by the mystery.

“That would be astute, yes.” He nods and gathers roasted meat onto your plate. You've been eating a lot of it. His eyes observe your hands, happy there is no rot. “I understand that you are not fond of this…” He slices the meat for you despite the fact you didn't ask for assistance. “Uncertainty. It must be awful. Yet, even the most ambiguous and obscure phenomenon usually have a logical reason. Please, be patient — for me, and most importantly, for yourself.” He smiles with encouragement.

You sigh, defeated. The unknown remains the unknown, it seems. “H mph, why didn't you kill me? I'm dead but walking— isn’t that scary? Am I not a risk?” Although, you for sure know is the odd insatiable feeling that doesn't go away no matter how much you drink or eat.

“Would you have preferred to be given no chance at all?” he taunts a little, fork hanging in the air. He doesn't eat much, you have noticed recently.

“No, but I’m questioning the course of action here! Will you explain this gap for me or not?” you grumble.

“So impatient,” he chuckles. “If you are dead, you have all the time in the world, is that not the case? Spend it with me a little longer.”

When his joke doesn't land as a contagious humor, he finally budges. “It would be irresponsible to not investigate a new occurrence, be it for the future reference or in a situation where you are not made of any harmful intensions and instead are a… freak of nature, innocent and deserving to stay in this world.”

You chew on his answer as you chew on the meat, messily. “So, do you have any clues already?” He clicks his tongue at you speaking with a full mouth and wipes bloody lips with a napkin.

“Well, I have heard about a zombie from Liyue.”

You almost choke and gulp nervously. “Are you saying I could be one?”

“The possibility remains, especially with a memory loss common for zombies, however… I haven’t noted any rot or stiffness in your body which would be typically a call for suspecting ongoing rigor mortis phase. There’s a chance you are something completely else.”

“That’s a relief! Then, do you think I can regain my memories?” you ask with hope.

Flins looks at you for a few seconds, intensely to dim your hopes without reaching out for verbal brutality. “I can’t make any promises, I’m afraid.”

And now your head hurts again. Your heart doesn’t pump blood anymore, but you still experience all the vitality of your body, so to know who you are has been most important to you.

The dinner follows in silence with Kyryll occasionally glancing at you with worry, until you break it.

“Flins?” you ask over the plate of a baked ibis, bones still attached. You find their marrow to be quite delicious.

“Yes, my dearest guest?” curious, he sets his fork and knife down, looking at you with those empty citrine eyes. They are troubling when you are also empty with no real life, soul inheriting the empty husk; but those eyes also widen with wonder and perk up occasionally, like they did just now when you uttered his name.

“Is it just us around?”

His eyebrows compress together, concentrating on the context of your words. “If you were to exclude ghosts and the Wild Hunt creatures, then yes, it is just us around.” You sigh with relief, interesting him by the gladness. “Why? Are you scared of something?” he asks gently. “Have you been… thinking of leaving? I assure you, you can and should stay here for as long as it's necessary.”

You play with your fork, looking at him with hesitation. “To be fair… I can’t stop having this sense of unease, as if I’m expecting something to happen.”

He nods with understanding. “Ah, I see. It’s probably to be expected when you’re experiencing a memory loss. You don’t know much about the world around you, so your mind comes up with paranoid thoughts to fill in the blank gaps. But you shan’t worry, because…”

He lifts your hand and kisses it, a surprising gesture; then you guess it’s probably a custom in Nod-Krai.

“… I will protect you, whatever dire situation you may find yourself in.”

You look at him with another portion of hesitation, this time it being a skepticism towards someone’s charity. “But you don't know me.”

He smiles, undisturbed by your suspicion. “I don’t. Still, it is my duty as a Lightkeeper to guard you until no conundrum is present, remember?”

When another week of boredom and restlessness makes its mark in a calendar, your headaches grow, now also abetted by twists in stomach and chest. Flins’s omitting behavior only feeds your misery worse. He constantly leaves you alone, on duty of his patrols, but you're not allowed to leave on your own — or at all. When you try to, you’re always met with an impenetrable barrier he has set, explained by a momentary quarantine you are supposedly in.

You have tried to pinpoint the mystery behind his power to no avail.

The unawareness of what's troubling your body and what’s missing in your memory capacity hurt your feelings as well.

When pains get worse, he feeds you some weird mixtures, yet they bring relief merely momentarily. He sometimes holds your shaking body in bed, playing with your hair and stopping your hands trying to wring your bones out. And you, as shameful you find it to be comforted by a total stranger, you cling back, not having anything else to rely on, curled under his coat draped over you.

Huddling and cuddling ironically is the closest you have been to discovering something new so far. This proximity brings an odd feeling, indescribable déjà vu — your mind screaming and trying to tell you something that unfortunately still never comes forward in the end.

Worse, a physical need grows.

“Shh… This too shall pass soon. I will make that a fact,” he murmurs, holding you tightly on the cramped up space of his metal bed always squeaky with spring serpents.

It would be cozy if his neck wasn’t right there, provoking and torturing your senses with a river underneath. You cry harder.

“Flins, why do you smell so good?” you moan into his throat.

You have been trying to resist the urge under his request, but today… you paradoxically are convinced you can die if you don’t satisfy it. No longer controllable, you’re licking his skin and salivating onto it.

As soon as you do that, he pins you down onto the bed, entwining his fingers with yours. His fast dexterity takes you by a surprise; yet in this state you’re a wild animal, trashing to get away and continue the exploration.

“Perhaps you have misunderstood, but I am not your source of food. You need to eat meat and vegetables like anyone else. Otherwise…” he trails off, with a troubled expression. Even when you’re misbehaving he’s being so kind.

“Otherwise?” you repeat with a growl, a new anger growing within you. You try to free yourself and scratch at him, mad that he's denied you.

He sighs wistfully, and shakes his head. “I have once mentioned you might be allowed to stay on earth if you are no threat to anyone. Your behavior is contradictory to that rule. Please, stop struggling, or I’ll have to reach for more drastic measures.”

That condition pauses you in tracks shortly; you actually don’t want to be exorcised, at least not until you know what you are. But when another thrum of life is heard in his jugular vein by your sensitive ears, you no longer question the consequences of you stepping out of line; so he uses that weird lantern few steps outside the bed and you’re out.

With a circle month past since your resurrection, your need for whatever goodness is stored in him grows — you also have come to be weirdly dependent on his presence. Both traits drive you insane, especially when he locks you up inside all day and night. The only reparation you receive is constant apologies, with fractured promises that he soon will help you; at least his guilt sounds real.

It's another night when he leaves to fight what he has told you troubles local people and spreads with a fog. You’re restless, unable to sleep, but also stuck in a limbo when you’re unable to do anything productive to help around in such state either. Some ghost moans outside, and you look like one yourself, wearing thin nightgown flowing through the staircase you descend and ascend constantly to different small floors, whirl-winding and waiting to erupt like a ticking bomb.

The vast waters spread outside a round window and you yearn to swim, observing will-o’-wisp dance.

Upon frustration and restlessness, you end up rummaging through his stuff in the tiny office of his. Breaking in was relatively easily, considering he keeps most things bordering on the state of disintegrating; the state of this room is far more atrocious than what the bedroom and kitchen has allowed you to believe about him. Flins is also a true hoarder — there’s tons of old coins and gemstones lying around, accumulating with a lot of papers in the language you can’t decipher.

He probably will be mad at you when he finds you in the middle of this mess, but he also will forgive you soon after, with no skill to be truly mad at you. That much you understand and know to take advantage of.

A drawer in his shaky and burgundy wood is locked, soon broken with a few shoves from you — you suspect you are stranger as a non-human. Wired with boredom, you imprudently throw things in the drawer around, and the last item you decide to inspect before you’d hit that drawer shut with rampage is a pocket watch.

“Hmm... Finally I’ll be able to keep up with the flow of time. It’s always so dark here, regardless of the hour.”

You spread it open, excited to regain some control in your life by reading it’s midnight. What your eyes fall on immediately after is a photograph inside of it, on the other half of the watch. The woman depicted looks just like you, based on what you sometimes see in a cracked mirror; except, she doesn’t like sick like you do.

For a moment, you wonder if it’s yours, even if you would find it weird to carry your own picture; however, you see the initials engraved in the silver, reading K.Ch.F.

The finding crushes your gained comfort though finally explains things. The entire time, Flins has been making you believe he doesn't know you, that he has found you after you escaped your own grave, and yet, the watch suggests otherwise.

You feel betrayed. He has lied to you all along this road, withholding the knowledge about your identity from you, calling himself your protector, but having this watch like some… what? A lover? A besotted bastard? It’s hard to establish what exactly he’s trying to gain, but you for sure know you can’t be safe with him.

You inspect the drawer for anything else, and find a small box with a lock of hair in exactly same texture and color your own is — that creep has even kept your hair as a keepsake.

You need to leave, with that barrier in the way or not.

There isn’t much you can come up with on your feverish brain nor do you possess power similar to his. You circle the room, your mind grows addled with nerves, and you look at the disgusting hair again, condemning his—

Right, the hair. It’s a part of you, and if the barrier is made to detect your presence, perhaps leaving your hair scattered in different areas of the lighthouse you spend most time in might trick the barrier into thinking you’re still there; especially when that hair must have been infused with whatever emotions Flins has towards you.

So you finally break out of his lighthouse, stepping onto the muddy grounds barefooted. You ran outside of the isolation, not looking back, finding that your legs are rather fast for you are a supernatural being. Even more so you have a motivation to run when bunch of sweet scents come at you from different angles, sudden and rapid, overwhelming any sense of control and promising to bring the most ecstasy.

You finally spot a first human ever since Kyryll has dug you out. They look no far different from you, other than their eyes or skin aren’t dull. Oh, they smell so delicious, the feral and lively blood in them, the rush of it through their flesh, the rust that ages with them—

It’s easy to snatch one from the group and hide into the forest; it’s easy to disappear when a group storms in, having heard the pained whines.

Yet it is not enough. Not after so long. But also, it’s too much after a period of starvation.

Flins must have found you, as an unknown time later, you wake up enveloped in thin warm and his scent.

“I am really glad you are safe. It's unimaginable how immensely I was worried about you when I realized you left,” he informs soon after, with not an ounce of anger. Instead, his voice if full of disappointment. “I have found you in some ditch — passed out, wet, dirty, and… bloody. Your plan to omit a barrier was rather unexpected, and certainly witty.”

That explains the stench, your slimy skin, and the black water pooling around your hips. You’re seated in a metal bathtub, as he meticulously scrubs every crevice of your body, and expels any blood from your hair. Even when you’re naked, he does not dare to make any inappropriate moves, kneeling in front of you.

You're still drowsy, confused about what has happened before you blacked out like a drunkard, full of something new in your belly that isn’t drained by your body instantly like regular food is, so you have no energy to be mad at his audacity. “Are you not mad at me?” your voice is a ghost, still connecting with reality. You lean your head against a tub, closing your eyes.

He looks at you, soap bar raised in the air. “Mad? No, I could never be angry with you about what you did. I understand why you did what you have gone so far. I am only… dissatisfied with what a trouble it has caused.”

“Really?” You peak at him with one eye open, skeptical.

“Yes. There should be no shame in providing yourself for your ailment. If anything, I would say it was my fault. I should have helped you sooner, and now you are in this state.” He sighs with regret.

Then it finally hits you, that you have done something awful. Shaking yourself out of the bloodlust, you sit up straight. “Wait, what did I do?” you ask with panic, pupils blown with emotion. You forget about his own misdemeanor you found out about before leaving.

He sets the sponge to the floor and cups your face, also wiping off some blood tormenting your conscience. “Look at me. Everything will be alright,” he guides gently. He takes in your features, vulnerability, and leans down to at least for once press a kiss to your cheek—

You don’t accept it. “Don’t bullshit me, Flins, and tell me what have I done!” you yell. The grasp falls, and he stands up from the kneeling position.

“Very well. You, my unfortunate guest, have killed a person last night,” he admits bluntly to be done with your unbecoming, preparing for the worst.

Your eyes threaten to pop out from their sockets, stuck in terror. You gasp and cover your mouth. “N-no… what… why…” You shake.

The hunger. The metal taste in your mouth. Rising from death… Whatever you are, you realize you must have been a monster all along.

“I’m afraid you indeed have feasted on an innocent life,” he admits, lowering his voice to not startle further.

“I did that…” you must were in some sort of rage to not even remember something so awful, “I’m a monster! And now…” a sob is ripped from your throat, “Now you have to kill me. Have to end me…”

You break down completely.

He moves towards you again as you wallow in fear and guilt. He wraps you in a clean towel, and before you could beg him not to finish your existence, he lifts you into his arms.

“W-what are you doing?” your question comes out worried, paranoid about his motives.

“I will not kill you,” he says seriously, on his way to your room.

“H-huh? Why?” you exhale the answer with tremor, confused about his choice — you do remember his given ultimatum.

He lies you down in bed, not answering yet. He swiftly throws a clean dress over your shoulders and only then he sits down on the edge.

“I suppose it is time I should reveal the truth to you. However, I can do that only if you calm down at least a tad bit first.”

It’s a great question if you can handle the truth he is about to enlighten you with.

You’re incapable of finding any peace at the moment; although, hearing you won’t be killed is a sufficient relief for now. An uglier side of you tells you what you did was only natural for your being on top of the food chain; as much as you hate it, this creation helps you stay sane more than the humanity trails within you.

As soon as you cry yourself into only a weary blur in your head, you bring up your find to him. “The truth, you say… you know I have found a pocket watch with my picture in it…? You have lied about not knowing me, I assume. I’m guessing it’s all connected and me waking up here wasn’t coincidental.”

He heavies his eyes with sorrow. “You connect the dots rather gracefully.” He opens them wider and looks at you. “You will know about everything. Otherwise, I will risk you hating me entirely, and that, I cannot afford.”

Does he care about you that much?

“First things first, will you forgive me if I let you know why I hid everything from you?” he asks with a sudden desperation and pain on his face nearly boyish.

“… That depends on how bad the truth is,” you answer, wary still. Not to mention, you find his calmness to be unusually unwavering in the face of your crime.

He purses his lips and nods with respect. “It is to be expected, I suppose. You are right that I need to earn your forgiveness first. It’s only… fair. In that case…” he grabs your hand, as if comforting himself as well. “You should know you and I were never meant to be here in the first place.”

Your eyebrows furrow, trying to understand the implications. “Here, where? And why?”

“In Nod-Krai; among humans in general. Why? Because…”

“Are you saying we’re not humans?” you interrupt, catching onto the implication. You would have known you're different from one — but Flins might be not a human himself, it seems, and what exactly are you?

“No, we are not. For you…” his thumb brushes your veins, steadying himself except no pulse comes to greet him. “You are what nowadays people call a vampire. However, in the original tellings, you’d be described as many different terms. Your kind is extremely rare, born out of a witch curse placed on them before they die tragically due to such curse, and after death, they rise to be a blood-lusting creature. Additionally, if a person dies tragically, they are even more vulnerable to have their soul separated from their body and thus become vampire. Stronger, still immune to sun, but extremely hungry. You and I have met years ago when you were turned one already. I saw you leave your own grave, but since you were aware and not hostile, soon we grew rather close.”

Your mind tries to organize the gained knowledge, and many things suddenly make sense. It also brings many new questions. Regardless, you find yourself more relieved than shocked — you have known you’re something unnatural like this from the beginning, suggested by your actions and events happening when living with Flins, and knowing what you are at last is intensely soothing. “Vampires … so you gauged my kind right from the start.”

“Yes.”

“But… how does that all connect to my current situation? If I have met you years ago, how did I end with you and dead again?”

“About that…” he clenches his jaw, angry — not at you — and speaks with sudden fervor, squeezing your hand at that. “You have made a mistake. An innocent one, in my opinion. You have lost yourself in your hunger and hurt someone’s child, but they weren't killed, not even hurt badly as you — a very kind person I know you are — have stopped yourself before you could injure them more. Unfortunately, when people realized your identity and risks that could be brought with it, they demanded that you become buried. The only way to kill a vampire like you is to cut off your head and shackle it to your legs. At the time, they didn’t know you and were in love, secretly lovers. So I have offered to take care of you as a Lightkeeper, but in reality, made sure you survive by putting you into a deep sleep instead.”

“So you saved me…” you trail off with astonishment, soon with your heart birthing gratefulness as well. As soon as that sticks, you analyze the further lines, “Wait, you and I were in love?!” Not just Flins, which was predictable, but the love being mutual?

“No, I am in love with you,” he corrects proudly.

“Humans kill each other all the time and many get away with it. And then you, makes one mistake, trying your hardest and earnest to be a good person despite your nature, and they suddenly deem you as dangerous or unworthy of living,” he says without any bashfulness or hesitation. “Would we be here if I wasn’t protecting you from their rage and injustice, especially when I had my heart buried next to you in your coffin, every second you spent in the dirt instead of in my arms?” he utters with affections and lifts your hand to kiss it, removing any stains humans’ acts might have lingered on those years later.

His gesture makes you feel worse, so do the beautiful words of devotion. A ray of something tries to break through your mind; however, you still don’t remember, incapable to break the blockage. “I’m sorry, Flins, but I can’t bring up any memories of my… uh, affections for you,” you sound guilty.

Surprisingly, his spirit doesn't turn much sad. “I know. I don't hold that against you,” he replies rather mysteriously, so you bring another question to the puzzle still enigmatic.

“So how did you save me?”

“Here comes my own nature. I’m a fae, hailing from Snezhnaya. We were once prominent and prosperous kind… I was meant to drown and end my line, but then, I was saved by humans and started living among them, fascinated by their own life and the light they carry within themselves. They have lost many companions against the Wild Hunt, and soon, I became one of them. In order to survive, I have been playing a role of another human, and I hope you can admit I navigate it rather well,” he chuckles at the last sentence. “It’s not many people that know I’m a fae.”

“So you really are not a human, like me…” you say almost in awe. In a way, you feel better to share this mutual trait.

“Yes,” he smiles softly at your reaction. “And as a fae, I used my power to protect you.

I buried you in the ground as I was told, however, I also kept your body whole, with no one verifying me if they trusted me. Instead, I sunk you in a coma so you can wait for me and the right moment to resurface, in the coffin without any struggle, fear or suffering you don’t deserve to experience. They think you're dead while you’re with me.”

“I see…” it’s certainly a sad story, but it's perhaps the most romantic — Flins had done so much to avoid your end and losing you, putting himself at risk and waiting for you for years. You adjust your hand under his, holding it in return until his breath hitches with emotion. “What exactly were you waiting for?”

It would not be your eyes’ mistake you could spot a blush in a candle light. He has to make himself decent again, clearing his throat. “I have waited for a moment that I can have you back, that is, the moment they’d stop talking about you, just to be on a safe side when I dig out your coffin. Years. Expect, once you would be with me, you were never meant to return as a vampire. I… planned to turn you into a human, back to your original form. After years of the research, I have found a ritual to bring your soul to a healthy body, belonging to someone else…”

You withdraw your hand, bemused by the admission, drawing out a wince. “What? Why?” you ask, shaken by a possible betrayal. Why would it be a betrayal is hard to understand by you — you suppose your life would be easier as a human — but it brews a certain feeling of rejection at least. Stealing someone’s life in exchange for yours new one sounds horrible as well.

“Please, do not think it is because I am ashamed of your nature. Rather, I recognize this is the only way you can keep on living, finally accepted only as a human,” he swears passionately with a hand on his chest. That stings nonetheless.

“Is that you will do to me?” tears pool in your eyes.

Whatever heartfelt answer you were about to receive, it’s interrupted with a scream from the outside of the lighthouse. “Chudomirovich, you and that disgusting monster woman, get out! I know it was her! You had the insolence to lie everyone about her state!”

While you panic, Flins turns only annoyed, as if suspecting that ‘guest’ would appear. “It’s him,” he groans.

“Who?”

“Yaroslav. He was part of the group that voted for your death years ago. Which brings an issue... Others believe it was a Wild Hunt that has that killed their companion, not you supposed to be dead and inactive all these years. He used to be the one particularly sensitive to your existence, so I imagine he suspects you have returned somehow. If he goes around and tell others the truth…” he sighs like it’s a bother, and stands up. “Stay here.”

“What are you going to do?” you ask nervously.

He leans closer to you and strokes your cheek, gazing at you with the solemnity of a devoted lover. “What needs to be done. I have changed my mind about your fate. You do not deserve to be forced into a change for such an ungrateful group.”

Before you could ask more questions, he leaves, allowing you to sink in the fact you will remain a vampire.

You run to the lighthouse’s tiny circle window, observing a show of purple lights.

When you pat down space next to yourself, on fire to hear what he did, he instead kneels down in front of you and buries his head in your lap in a needy manner.

Your hand hesitates, but it moves to stroke his long blue hair. He sighs with pleasure.

“He won’t torment us anymore.”

“Did you kill him?” you ask with worry.

“No. I might have… interfered with his convictions about what he saw a little,” you murmurs into your lap and nuzzles it.

“You mean, you have used your lantern?”

“…”

“Hey, speak up!”

“Does that really matter? You’re safe,” he mutters rather petulantly and you tug on his hair a bit.

You sigh, bringing up the previously mentioned. “Are you really going to let me stay as a vampire?”

“Yes. They don't deserve your mercy,” he snarls quietly.

“But… doesn't that mean I’ll have to stay in hiding forever?” you point out and he finally lifts his head to look at you with determination.

“That… might be true for now. However, I will figure out a way to have you socialized with them, if it’s so important to you...” he grumbles a little, believing you don’t need or require much more than him, but he is eager to fulfill your dreams nonetheless. “I do not desire to keep you locked here, as much as the idea of being alone with you sounds most delightful…” he jokes.

You’re not entirely sure. Living in hiding, trying to not kill other people… all sounds difficult. “Would it be so bad if I were a human?”

Flins grips your thighs and looks at you with oath written to be commitment to your wellbeing. “Yes. Humans, while full of light and constant desires to do better and achieve more, they don’t carry enough of those to appreciate you. They don’t want you as long as you don’t fit their established agenda. And they…

They do not comprehend what love actually is.”

“Huh? How can humans, them out of all the conscious beings, misunderstand love?” you’re confused and he softens.

“Because they don’t love like I love and have loved you. Ever.”

Your heart, if it still worked, would have beaten madly at his words. You don't remember who Flins was, but your body does, trembling with something familiar again. “S-still… I need to drink blood or I will hurt someone again… but for that, I need to hurt someone.”

“Hurt me, then. Except, it’s not harm if I offer myself and my blood to you willingly and dutifully. It wouldn't be the first time you drank from my neck,” he swears with dedication to your health.

“But—”

“Come here,” he stands up and swiftly maneuvers you onto his lap, having you straddle and face him.

“What are you doing?” you ask, flustered.

Flins brushes your hair back and smiles at you with love, reassuring you. “Your memories were enchanted with my blood so I can have more ease turning you into a human. But since you are staying as who you are, it's about the time you regain your memories and remember my love is, and… what your own feels like. This same fae blood is also a tie we once made, bonding you to me forever.”

He adjusts his hand to the back of your head and presses your lips to his neck.

“F-flins, I’ll hurt you—”

“Bite me. Bite me, my love, and thrive again. I beg of you,” he beseeches.

There’s no much hesitation when you’re directly at the source of the fae blood — it has smelled the most delicious from the beginning, and you lap your tongue at his skin with extreme hunger. Your fangs extend and snap into his neck, drinking all you can before he'd deny you.

Flins shivers under you, but it’s no pain — he takes pleasure in fueling you. His arms hold you tightly to him, promising to never let go of you ever again.

Flushes and flashes of memories hit you, allowing you to suddenly remember the importance of him in your life. Your life as a human ending tragically in a carriage accident and a group of bandits attacking it, then your life reappearing at his cemetery as you now crave blood. You’re crying, lost, until he takes you in, not without empathy for another non-human.

Life, or death, is good and simple. Feeding on him every church bell, collecting shells with him every storm, talking to him every night, doing each other's hair every morning.

Then your tears and pained begs to not hurt you when he tells you people want you dead and he has to stop you, not fully explaining his true intentions. You though he was killing you, and yet, he was saving you.

You love him, as much as your dead heart can afford, perhaps more than a live one would. “K-Kyryll…” you croak out with bliss, drunk on his blood and presence.

You love him. You love him. You love him, the only one for you for even as you walk as a corpse—

Kyryll himself cries, staining your hair with his head thrown back. “Yes, just like that. I am here, always. Drink for me, for yourself, show them how wrong they are and survive—”

Drunk and dizzy, red-mouthed, you separate your lips from his neck to look at him with yearning.

“Do you remember?” he asks most hopefully.

“Yes. I have missed you so much. I forgive you, I apologize, I love you—”

He kisses you fervently, holding your head and soothing any doubts, rejoicing and rejoining what you both have lost and gained again. He tastes his own blood on you and it’s only beautiful; you eat from it and his love, clinging to his hair.

When it ends, he adds another kiss to your forehead, nose, and mouth again, unbelieving he has a whole you again.

“Welcome back, my love,” gentle and loving, he promises you no more goodbyes.

TAGLIST: @latolover @plastictreex @love-of-the-red-star @imbibitorz @fancyfeathers @cashmiersworld @kakashismain

[kestrelteens]

Finally I'm releasing Westbrook Cove for download! Thanks so much to everyone who's asked for it and waited for it, I appreciate you all so much! ♥ Unedited preview under the cut! Please make a backup of your game before installing.

Creating a custom 'hood and releasing it for download is not hard and not a big deal at all, but since I was doing it for the very first time, of course it wasn't all smooth sailing- hence the wait. I had to recreate it 3 times lmao, due to not knowing all the facts (silly me) but it was all in good fun honestly and I'm super happy it's finally shareable! 🐸

Sooo, this 'hood is completely clean, no characters and no stealth 'hoods or anything. It was created using the Baskerville terrain which, of course, is included. You can play it using your own defaults, but here are the ones I use that you can see in the preview pics:

these trees

these roads

this grass replacement

Some useful mods you might need:

'hood deco placed anywhere

busy roads

gunmod's camera mod

The folder with the 'hood (N025) goes to your 'Neighborhoods' folder in the Documents/EA Games/The Sims 2 Ultimate Collection (or just The Sims 2)/Neighborhoods 🐛 I debated whether I should include a folder with all the custom neighborhood deco you need, but I figured that probably most of you already have all the CC needed since the buildings and houses I used have been in the community for years! So instead I have made a CC list (under the cut) so you can easily download and/or check if you already have the needed deco. 🦓

There is also a folder with 10 residential lots created just for this 'hood to match its vibe and the aesthetic. They have all been cleaned, compressed and the little CC they have is included and the preview pics are under the cut. 🦔 But, just in case, download these build mode sets (in case you don't already have them):

Bespoke

Well Crafted Windows

Townhouse Windows

Cottage Living Windows

I didn't end up placing the lots anywhere 'cause i wanted you to have the freedom to organize the neighborhood whichever way you want!

Please enjoy and have fun! I'm here if you need anything ♥

neighborhood download (sfs) // alt neighborhood download (mediafire)

lots download (sfs) // alt lots download (mediafire)

Neighborhood deco you need:

basically just get everything by Criquette, I have most definitely used all of it, but I'm sure you already have these, they're the best

these adorable houses

gorgeous veranda houses

amazing 4t2 houses

town hall & school

vervainwort buildings 1 & 2

pub

these various rabbit holes

downtown rabbit holes by curiousb

snowy escape 'hood deco

leoz94 misc conversions 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

these vehicles

tennis courts and soccer fields

misc deco

forestry buildings

campus buildings

Unedited 'hood preview

Virginia Lane 6- 30,961$

Green Court 8- 26,231$

Pear Tree Lane 25- 34,200$

Roslyn Road 12- 26,974$

Coventry Lane 16- 27,294$

Hidden Lane 12- 19,416$

Moorland Drive 12- 18,400$

Blairmoor Court 4- 26,032$

East Emory Court 13- 13,144$

Wedgewood Drive 8- 24,423$

[ewnamored-deactivated20260512]

hihi, i love your work!

For your thank you prompts I‘d like to request prompt 1 (skin to skin cuddling) with a yandere Chrollo.

maybe a bit of a soft yandere core? A long time into being captured

#1. Skin to skin cuddling for my 1k special.

cw: gender neutral reader, forced relationship, non-sexual nudity, slightly suggestive, forced proximity, mentions of being punished, quite affectionate Chrollo. Word count: 2,2k.

Note: Thank you! 😊

One of the disadvantages of traveling often or spontaneously under a sudden threat is the limited space for luggage. In your situation, it has been made worse, as it means your only pair of clothes is rain-drenched and has to be currently drying while you and Chrollo remain nude.

This criminal wannabe lover of yours has made you take a bath together to exploit that disadvantage before he put you both in bed. There’s no space left between you two, and disgustingly, you have no choice but to cling to him — it’s due to the outside air freezing and chilling your bones. To make your losses worse, you don’t hate the ‘cuddling session’ in amounts you’d like to be present, whether it’s due to resignation chiseled into you or loneliness.

You’re bound chest to chest, as he keeps you on top of him with strong and vicious arms keeping you close by your waist. The hand that strokes your hair makes you flinch every few slides, naturally. Your cold skin in collision with his soaks in all of his warmth but wants to repel all ensuing intimacy.

“Are you comfortable?” what’s smoothly spoken is not a question about your emotional comfort, considering there’s always something about you that’s haunted by him. He’s merely acknowledging your physical easement. You don’t dare to lift your head away from your vision field gathered on the wall, worried you’d see content, or worse, a satisfied look on his face; so you nod.

“Good,” he murmurs. “It’s quite the weather today, isn’t it? You know what they say about circulating warmth, it works best skin to skin, so I hope you’re not holding a grudge against me.”

Of course you do. It’s an unfortunate situation of using an old blimp with a barely working heater, leaving you no choice but to cling to him for heat. If you don’t crash in that old aircraft, that will feel like a miracle. The microscopic and ugly bedroom inside the transport isn’t most welcoming either.  “Isn’t that a solution for the case of hypothermia? Cause I’m not hypothermic.”

“You’re not hypothermic because I’m preventing that state from developing,” he says bluntly. There’s no mocking you: it’s him pointing out the fact.

“Are you sure hogging the blanket all for myself wouldn’t have worked on its own? You clearly are a case-hardened man, you could manage sleeping without a blanket,” you go as far as pinch his bicep your hand is rested on to accentuate your dissatisfaction. He returns the gesture by gently pulling on your scalp and making you wince.

What comes next you might not see, but you do hear and feel it — he must be smiling at your cheekiness, because his chest rumbles with a quiet laugh. You almost pout. He finds you to be at your fullest potential, or endearing for that matter, when you try to annoy him. Defiance speaks of your fortitude and is a sign he hasn’t eradicated your personality that has drawn him in many months ago.

This is the only reason he hasn’t hurt you too badly in the past: any traumatic experience is a risk of him ruining your true essence. You’d have to do something truly egregious for him to consider punishing you severely. Besides, it’s much more fun — unpredictable and honest — when your dynamic isn’t constantly of a thief and his property. Fear instilled in you would mean limiting your behavior he enjoys to observe.

“Keep talking to me like that and I’ll manage to distract you from freezing.”

When you sigh at his equanimity, he adjusts you in his arms, as if to remind you of your position. He pulls your body even more upward, until the top of your head is a rest for his chin. Your ear is now closer to his heart that’s running sturdy; if you didn’t know it’s an indication of how easily he can commit violence, you’d have found it relaxing. Your chest against his, your legs tangled together, his arms now dragging their hands up and down your back under the covers… there is definitely too much skin connected together, yet it all brings warm relief you’ve been missing after getting caught in the pouring attack at the airport.

A short silence follows, with as much silent implication that he’s giving you time to get used to this obscene closeness. He speaks only when you’re no longer squirming around. “But your observation indeed is astute. Lack of warmth is a small issue for my trained body, making its presence a mere, secondary comfort. In fact, I’m used to sleeping in freezing temperatures. Which doesn’t mean I don’t have to ask, do you truly hate being this close to me?” he asks, steady-voiced. When you freeze up at his question and squeeze his arm — you’ve been taught admitting your vulnerabilities is selling some part of yourself to him — he soothes you with fingers gently digging into your shoulder. “Relax. It’s an innocent question.”

This time, Chrollo seems to mean his clean hands. He hasn't done anything unusual all night; you didn't notice any strange tone, and he appears comfortable by himself. Chrollo often carries a sense of tension within him, even if it isn’t visible; it’s a preparedness for any situation that may arise, knowing he will handle it eventually, regardless of the outcome. Maybe everything has been going well today. 

Or maybe, he’s hiding something beneficial for him, from you. None of which is good. You don’t like changes as they bring unanswered questions and unanticipated problems.

When you don’t satiate his curiosity, he doesn’t force you to. He continues speaking for you. “You have been under a lot of pressure lately. At some point, I thought you’d bite my head off,” he chuckles.

“… Are you saying I made you scared for once?” you mutter dryly into his chest, albeit hopeful even if doubtful. A treasure can only wish.

“Hmm, no. But it’s certainly an appealing sight when you express your anger. It’s a sign of you caring there, somewhere,” he notes teasingly. He gathers your hair to the side, eager to see whatever skin is still peeking out of the blanket.

“Not in a positive way, so that’s no compliment for you!” you huff. He chuckles again, “I’ll take any attention, as long as it’s coming from you.”

The way he says it, all nice and gentle, it stirs something within you; unwanted sensation, too ignited to be from his touch. “Shut up, Chrollo,” you say with fluster. That’s not how things are meant to be. You don’t want to like his presence.

“If that will finally put you to sleep.” He cups your nape and massages it. It feels too good to be an involuntary pleasure.

“I’m not sleeping because you’re talking to me,” you talk back with annoyance. You even dig your nails into his skin, and he doesn’t even budge.

“You didn’t tell me to shut up until just now. I couldn’t have known,” he feigns innocence, using your words against you.

“I’m telling you that now.”

“Are you sure you want me to stop talking?” he teases again.

“Yes, I’m sure!” you finally gather courage to lift your head up and look at him, trying to prove your conviction about your call for him to glue his lips shut. It is just now you are able to see his relaxed face, with slightly droopy eyes; he truly is snug tonight, suspiciously. Your change in position was a mistake if you’re forced to lock in an intense eye contact exchange; his darkness is as disturbing as ever, and an abstruse glance at your lips lowers your confidence.

His hand disconnects from your nape and moves to caress your cheek, observing how quickly your eyes begin to flutter with vulnerability upon his affectionate touch — shifting between a slight fear and subversion. Your hesitance hasn't been eliminated yet, and he can feel you tremble under his hand on your waist.

“You’ve been unusually well-behaved tonight though,” he observes, taking delight in your lips parting in immediate protest. “You didn’t really attempt to get away from me.”

“That’s…” you stumble on your words, “I’m cold. You said it. Not to mention, I’m tired.”

His face leans in to meet yours crumbling properly. “Are you sure? You could have still tried to put us in another position. Instead, I see you lie on me quite like a lazy cat in my arms,” he draped your hair behind your ear as he states the humbling of your person.

“Because this mattress is uncomfortable–” When your eyes widen further, your mind whirling to desperately look for an excuse, he lifts your hand adjacent to the elbow resting on his chest. He presses the first kiss of today into the inner part of your wrist. 

Your chest flutters and you gasp slightly. You feel flush everywhere. “Chrollo, you—”

“Yes?” he says low-toned. The next kiss lands on the top of your hand. 

“Stop teasing me,” you beg, uncaring about how pathetic you may sound.

“I’m not teasing you,” he says with a wicked glimmer in his grey eyes. “Because if I wanted to tease you, I’d do this…” he flips your hand around and kisses your palm. When you try to withdraw your hand instinctively, viscerally as it happens, the tip of his tongue licks against your skin, spreading tingles down your arm.

When you yelp from the tickle and yank your hand away, he allows you to take it back with a soft laugh. He’s quite merciful tonight; where is that good mood coming from?

“That was disgusting.” It is now when you try to finally untangle your body from his, even if you’re not warm enough yet. That one, he doesn’t permit. He lets you move to be on your side, but he stops you from moving further: he seizes you by your hips and turns around to end up on his own side, before pushing your chest against his once more. His leg ends up between yours as a precaution in case of your escape.

“Don’t run. You’ll get cold again,” he orders, although patiently. “You need to rest. You’ve been through quite a lot of stressful ordeals lately.”

“And whose fault is that?” your anger is muffled into the old pillow yet still palpable.Touching him with your own skin becomes unpleasant for another second. 

“We went through this discussion on several occasions in the past already.” He doesn’t acknowledge your complaint further. Instead, his palm travels to rest between your shoulder blades. You received a whole view of his face once more and it’s making you nervous. “Go to sleep. You’ll have your clothes to put on in the morning.”

You know it’s non-negotiable. Not only you won’t be able to skip this revolting domesticity any other way than through sleeping, you also are exhausted. However, a certain question lingers on your mind at the end of this day. “Chrollo, before I do that, can you please tell me where we are going tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” he repeats, deciding whether he should tell you that and risk your whines before sleep or wait until morning where you can’t avoid his plans from happening. “We’re landing in Meteor City.”

Thankfully, he doesn’t make a comment when your eyes bulge from shock. You’ve heard him mention it a few times in the past; you’ve been with him long enough to know he’s from there or about the existence of this place. “Why are we going there all of a sudden?” The wasteland doesn’t seem most promising. He’s donated some of his steals in the past but usually through someone.

“I don’t think it’s all of a sudden— it’s time you get to know me a bit more and I show you around,” Chrollo informs, curious of your judgment.

Hearing revelations about his past is not something you have ever agreed to. Nonetheless, if it might make you help understand the mystery this man is… “That’s why you’re so nice to me tonight. Going back to old roots makes you giddy,” you at last get your chance to tease him in return.

“I’m always nice to you,” it’s all he says in response to your taunt. “As I said, go to sleep. Or should I read you to sleep?” he threatens, well-aware he can bore you into sleep with his books.

“Fine,” you acquiesce. You can always bother him about his nostalgia tomorrow. “Goodnight, Chrollo.” You yawn and close your eyes. Your head falls to rest your face in the hook of his neck, your cold cheeks needing some warmth also.

“Goodnight, darling.” He begins to stroke your hair, having noticed it worked wonders on you a few minutes ago. He’s enjoying a rare moment where you’re not trying to scratch his eyes out. 

Only once you have fallen asleep, does he allow himself to do the same — same priority reserved for you as always.

[kirsicca]

art above ceiling floor

♡  d o w n l o a d ♡ sfs / google drive

[simmattically]

The EZ Sale Gallery Label

Sell your art from any wall!

The EZ Sale Gallery Label lets you create a clean, minimalist gallery to sell paintings, wall-hanging crafts and collectibles as part of a Small Business!

🌟 Early Access available now! 🌐 Public on April 22nd

> AVAILABLE HERE <

[lightdeficient]

Enchanted Bedroom Set (Maxis Match Build/Buy CC!)

I really enjoy the mystical, magical vibe (I mean if you know me you know), and I wanted more of that in the game. This set was super fun to make and I learned a lot of things for it, one of them being how to make custom bedding deform properly while animating. It was very frustrating for a while, but satisfying once I got it.

One item I find very fun in this set is the Geode Lamp, which is technically a lamp but can be a plain crystal geode if you turn it off. It emits a soft glow which also lets you customize its hue to your liking in-game as well! The Sun Goddess Mirror can also be placed at any height you choose, similar to paintings in the game.

Download (Patreon, Early Access until February 17th!)

12 New Assets are included in this set!

Comfort: Celestial Slumber Bed.

Decoration: Divine Drapery, Sun Goddess Mirror, Antique Charm Rug, Hanging Ivy.

Lights: Eternal Flame Candle, Geode Lamp, Celestial String Lights.

Surface: Antique Elegance Dresser, Antique Elegance End Table.

Activities: Mystical Incense (Functional SPA DAY Version, or Base Game Decorative Version!)

Wall: Wood Paneling.

Enjoy🤍

[uslessnoahtall]

Twisted Tarot Legacy Challenge