The daughter of a legendary thief, who sewed winter coats out of stolen purses. Herself a thief, pickpocket, swindler. My savior who came to ruin my life. My Tamako, my Sookee.
Summary: You got separated from Laios’s party and the dungeon eats you alive, until the Lunatic Magician starts showing up.
Warnings: Implied stalking, implied kidnapping, one-sided obsession, Thistle is mentally unstable but what else is new.
Author's Notes: I wrote this a while back on AO3 lol.
You were not raised for disobedience.
Taken in by the Nakamoto clan since you were a child, your early years were spent scavenging for scraps in the bustling streets. You learned to lower your head before you learned to read, you were taught that honor is heavier than armor, and duty and loyalty became your guiding principles. You dedicated your life to fulfilling the will of your master, sharpening his blades and standing unwaveringly by his side.
Falin, the Western girl who captured his heart, was resurrected with black magic and turned into a chimera. You were there when she attacked—her talons dug into the rock, claws tore through the floor. Toshiro didn't scream, didn't weep. He keeps pushing forward like a man possessed. But you knew him too well. Behind that fury when the blade was drawn at Laios was heartbreak, a love never voiced, and now, never returned.
You couldn't bear to see him continue to torment himself. You know you ought to have stood by his side, but what he needed now wasn't another sword. He needed hope, and that was something he no longer believed in. But Laios' party did.
So after Falin escaped, you made your decision.
Laios and his friends didn't trust you at first; you can't blame them. You told them to call you by your alias; you never did particularly care for your birth name, anyway.
You'd explained your past well enough to suggest you weren't here to wreck things. Marcille kept glancing at you like you were a time bomb. Chilchuck—gods bless that skeptical little half-foot—he'd searched through your belongings three times over. Senshi nodded at you in greeting. Laios, on the other hand, launched into a full-throated defense of monster cuisine that would make even the most adventurous stomach turn with all the passion of a prophet discovering divine truth.
"Have you ever tried candrake and Basilisk Omelet?" he asked earnestly, gesturing with both hands. "Imagine a perfectly fluffy omelette made from fresh basilisk eggs—rich, golden, almost shimmering—and layered with crisped shards of smoked basilisk bacon. Then folded in tender chunks of mandrake root." He leaned forward slightly. "Crucially," he added with solemn intensity, "if the mandrake is killed with its head still intact, the resulting flavor is far less acrid."
He then went on about Giant Bat tempura and grilled parasite kabayaki balanced on skewers—all delivered without irony.
You almost laughed, until you noticed he wasn't joking.
You and they follow along behind the track of blood, hand out, seeking along the wall. The snowstorm came on quickly, the tunnels deeper in the dungeon had begun to twist, and the wind howled like this labyrinth itself was grieving. You were never built for the cold. Not the way other species are, with their thick furs and bubbling internal heat. The tall-men species—born for the sun-soaked steppes—don't take kindly to tunnels soaked in frost, nor the narrow, jagged confines of the dungeon's lower levels.
One moment, you were with them, helping Senshi pack down for shelter. The next, you heard Marcille scream something. And then the wind ate the world.
That happened too fast; you had only just joined Laios' party, and now you got lost somewhere in the deep frost. Your cloak weighs heavily with ice, the dungeon clearly has an eye for when you are vulnerable.
The wind no longer feels cold.
That's how you know you're close to dying.
Your breath rasped out in uneven clouds not long ago, but now it's just silence. The tunnel winds down and down, a glimmer of bioluminescent moss smeared across the walls. The deeper you go, the more the tunnel feels wrong, like it's reshaping around you. You keep reminding yourself that Falin is why you're here. This is not for your sake, nor even hers, but for Toshiro, the man whose sorrow could split the dungeon walls.
You're on one knee now, boots frozen to the stone. Your hands are trembling around the hilt of your sword. If you can just find your way back, if you can just stay alive a little longer—
Something moves in the darkness.
Crunch.
Crunch.
You force yourself to stand, limbs like iron stakes driven into the ground. From the corner of your eye, half-emerged from the frost-covered rock, is a warped deer head fused with spider limbs. Pale ice-glass eyes and a jaw that grinds with crystalline teeth. It lets out a sound like shattering glass.
You bolt.
It's slow. You're slower. The creature scuttles, limbs cracking into walls and floor, shattering the stone.
You duck into a narrow crevice, slide on your knees, scraping them bloody. The monster rushes forward, and you lift your blade anyway. If you're going to die, you will die as a servant, with steel drawn, spine straight.
"Heel."
The command slices cleaner than any blade. The monster shudders mid-lunge, it backs away, whimpering like a whipped dog, and vanishes into the dark.
Boots crunch into the snow behind you, you twist your neck and see him. He's less monster, more man than you imagined. Draped in a hooded cloak of muted black, he seems to blend into the shadows. His platinum-blond hair crowns him in light, braided in a regal circle about his head, like a halo spun of silk, contrasting sharply with his tanned skin. However, it is his eyes that truly captivate—their violet hue, like bruised petals. Yet, there's something manic creeping behind them you can't quite place. That's when your gaze drops to the book in his hand, and you can't make sense of it at first. The book has an intricately designed cover, no title, with an eye on both covers that opens on touch to show a pupil shaped like a figure 8.
He stands alone in the dimly lit depths of the dungeon, far beneath the fifth floor, perhaps even further down into the dark abyss. You haven't seen a single human sign for hours. Yet, remarkably, he remains unbothered. Clad in only the simplest of garments, he bears no weapons, no protective armor, and his skin shows not a single scratch or bruise.
That's when your thoughts start racing, searching for an explanation. He could be a survivor from an elite party. A spellcaster, maybe. Or a monster disguised as a man, there are enchantments like that. Gods, maybe he's a dungeon spirit...
But your mind keeps circling back to one thing. The monster obeyed him. That deer-headed abomination with spider legs and crystal fangs had just stopped. It whimpered with just a single command; he didn't even need to shout. It clearly feared him.
You try to stand upright, part of you still wants to believe he's just a mage or an eccentric loner. Your body wants to run, but your legs are shaking too hard.
"Oh, how disappointing." He's blocking the only way out. "I expected better from those thieves' little friend."
"You mean... Laios' party?" You cough, instinctively glance at the monster watching from the dark, waiting for the signal to tear you apart.
He steps closer, seems impervious to the chill that wraps around the dungeon, and even the stone walls almost appear to lean in closer, holding their breath as he passes.
No one lives down here. No one survives this deep without food, or fire, or friends. No one stops a monster like that with a word. No one except...
The blade clangs from your hands. Rumors rush back to you all at once. You'd overheard them in the halls, in the hushed words of injured adventurers half-delirious with fear. Stories not meant for you, but you listened anyway. Of a man who appears when someone is involved too much with the dungeon, the architect of this wretched labyrinth, he appears when adventurers get too close to the truth. No one knows what he looks like, no one sees him and lives. You've heard a name passed between frightened lips.
The Lunatic Magician.
You don't know it's him.
But you know.
He watches your expression shift. "You're with that party."
"Not with," you speak up. "Just... joined. Barely know their names."
You flinch at your own words. It's true, you barely know these people. You weren't there when they killed the red dragon. That doesn't add up. Then, why is he here if you haven't been involved with the dungeon enough? Why did he stop the monster from killing you? He should have struck by now; this conversation shouldn't be happening.
You saw his fingers twitch at his sides as if itching to finish what fate apparently refused to. "Then you joined that little band of thieves," he sneers. "You all trample through King Delgal's domain, disturbing what was meant to be left untouched."
"Not that I'm on their side," you say, lifting your hands slightly, "but... it's a dungeon. Isn't that kind of the point? Exploring? Figuring out what's inside?"
Thistle's expression flickers—disbelief, then irritation. "Exploring," he echoes, voice heavy with disdain. "Wrong, you are just scavengers. Parasites. Tearing apart what is beyond your comprehension."
The air around him warps, distorting like heat rising off stone. "You should be dead," he watches you with idle disgust, fingers tracing sigil patterns in the air that shimmer with arcane energy.
He chants a spell, and the magic surges. Shadows coil like living serpents, twisting through the air before they strike. You barely have time to brace yourself, cursing yourself for being such a failure at negotiating—Until the attack dissipates inches from your skin, fading into mist.
For the first time you've met, a frown flickers across his face, his fingers twitch, as if searching for something unseen. He breathes in sharply, and the magic surges again—again—but when it reaches you, he hesitates. He himself knows this should be effortless. He has done it countless times before.
"Ridiculous," He clutches his head with one hand, his voice now quieter, more like mumbling to himself. "I exist to serve Delgal... Only Delgal..."
He isn't looking at you now. The violet eyes flick toward the monster, then the walls, then back to his own fingers. He takes another step back, and another. The monster behind him shifts, scraping its claws against the stone, unsure what to do without orders.
"Not that I want to be vaporized," You look up through frostbitten lashes, rubbing at your arm still numb from where the failed spell had brushed against you. "But you usually don't have this much trouble with it, right?"
He jerks toward you. The sharp snap of his glare could've murdered. But it's not just anger behind it now—it's horror creeping there.
"Don't," he immediately hisses. "Don't test me."
His cloak snaps around him as he turns, one swift motion like the wingspan of a harbinger. "I'll paralyze you," he adds, lower now. "Let the beast eat your legs while you watch."
You freeze, no doubt in your mind he means it, he might even want an excuse. But then, slowly, Thistle exhales. The sharp rise of his shoulders drops, his hand loosens from his temple. He raises one arm, and for a moment, you think that's it; he will carry out his threat against you.
But instead, the moss-lined wall to your left quivers, then blooms into a trail of bioluminescent arrows, bright with cold mana. They pulse softly, pointing into a tunnel that wasn't there before.
"That path might lead you out." He doesn't look at you. "Or it might kill you. Either outcome suits me."
You don't move. "Why bother to help me?"
"I'm not helping you." His voice was unwavering, as though he were stating an undeniable truth. "Because you're pitiful to be in the presence of. Nothing more."
Your fingers curl around the hilt of your sword. You lift it cautiously, sheathe it with a trembling hand, half-expecting him to strike. Yet, he doesn't.
"If you're saying I'm pitiful..." You step forward slowly, can't help but question, "Why show up at all?"
His gaze flickers to you now.
"Don't make me change my mind."
The word was almost spit out, and without another glance, he strode away, as if sickened by your very existence. You don't ask more, you step forward, spine straight. But the last thing you see before the wall seals behind is his face—furrowed, eyes unfocused as he stares at his hand—fingers slightly splayed, palm tilted toward the faint arrow-glow of the moss.
_
You should know it was a mistake to follow that fool Laios into the depths of the dungeon. Days have passed, at least, you thought they had. This place is far from safe for traveling alone. You've only been able to nibble on the nutrient bars you packed, scavenging what you can from the ground. Sleep has been elusive since you got separated from your party, with no one around to keep watch for lurking monsters. Yet, those artificial nutrients do little to quell the gnawing hunger, making you contemplate the unthinkable, trying some monster for a change.
You still remember the last time when you encountered the Lord of the Dungeon himself, unsure if you had been spared or simply discarded. You had heard stories of the Lunatic Magician, but never had you expected to have him save you. Was he truly letting you go? If he had wanted you dead, he would have done it. He did not suffer intruders lightly, and yet... here you were.
Why?
You'd staunch the wound earlier with part of your cloak, but that fabric's been torn away somewhere between being mauled by a rock golem and falling into what you're pretty sure was some sort of giant bird's latrine shaft. You don't care anymore. You're sprawled on your back, shoulder dislocated, ribs vibrating like snapped lute strings, breathing wet and sharp.
It hurts. Gods, it hurts. Blood bubbles at the corner of your mouth, and you choke on it, coughing weakly.
"Should've stayed with Toshiro," you stare at the ceiling. You think it's the ceiling. Might be the floor. Of course, this is how it ends. Not in a noble battle. Not beside Master Toshiro or even near Laios' absurd, persistent optimism. Useless. Pathetic. Alone.
Then boots.
Crunch.
Crunch.
"If this is the rock golem again," You groan. "I swear to every god—"
But it's worse.
"Not so tough now," says a voice coolly.
You blink up.
Thistle.
Of course.
He's standing over you as if you're a stain on the carpet he found. He looks as pristine as ever. Not a speck of dungeon grime or a scratch on him. The black cloak is still spotless, and his hair, sculpted into perfect curls, seems to defy the very laws of gravity and shame you for existing.
"No," you shake your head on the floor. "Nope. Not this time. I'm not hallucinating you again."
"I'm real," Thistle shrugs, kneeling beside you. "I'd also say you're not very good at staying alive."
Even his smugness looks moisturized.
"What do you want now?" You try to push yourself up, wince, and slump back down with a grunt.
Thistle remains stoic, neither speaking nor offering any assistance.
"You're bleeding internally," he observes, "with one functioning lung left."
"Thank you. I was wondering what the pain was."
He stares at you for a long moment. Then, with a flick of his fingers, he casts something. Warmth spreads through your ribs, smoothing the burn. Your breathing evens just enough that you no longer feel like you're inhaling knives. Though the pain doesn't stop, it's duller now.
You blink, confused. "...Did you just heal me?"
"I didn't say that."
"You literally just—" you cough again—" magic-ed me."
"Magic-ed?" He grimaces. "That's not a verb."
You make another attempt to sit up, squinting against the dim light that filters through the room. Just as you begin to rise, he firmly presses a finger to your forehead to halt your movement. With a deliberate ease, he guides you back down, ensuring you remain anchored to the soft surface beneath you.
"Stay down. I didn't fix you. I just delayed the dying part."
You wheeze a half-laugh that immediately turns into a wince. "Generous of you."
He remains utterly still, watches you with that same tight-lipped scowl etched across his face. You recognize once more the depth of what he's holding back, a tempest of power that could easily crush your lungs with a mere thought. Yet, instead of unleashing that potential, he just stands there.
You exhale slowly. "Well? Not going to rant about Delgal's legacy again? Or kill me for trespassing on his majesty's ground?"
"I considered it," he says, looking down, then he kneels beside you again, pulling your ruined cloak aside to check the wound. "But frankly, I'm kinda curious what kind of half-baked plan your merry band of culinary fools is cooking up this time-"
"It's not a plan," You interrupted, letting your head roll to the side, breathing through your teeth. "It's just... we want to bring Falin back properly."
The words feel heavy in your mouth. You used to believe there was something that could undo what happened to her. That if black magic broke her, maybe something else could undo it. And maybe, just maybe, your loyalty to Toshiro means saving her right this time. But lately, after coming face to face with the Lord of the Dungeon, you're not so sure anymore.
"...I don't think it'll work," you admit.
"Oh?"
"But I don't have a better idea."
"That's refreshing. A thief with a grain of self-awareness."
A beat of silence.
You try to speak up, but the next cough nearly folds you in half. Your vision flashes white at the edges. You don't even feel yourself hit the ground again. Thistle leans back on his heels, lets out a long, exasperated breath, and flicks his fingers. You feel magic spill over you again, dulling the pain.
"I don't get you," you rasp.
Thistle has already got to his feet, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve. He looks down at you one last time with that same cold measure in his gaze
"Don't die in a hallway." He says. "It's undignified."
After that encounter, you thought Thistle might just decide to immolate you the next morning. But instead, you woke up in a chamber filled with bioluminescent moss, your wounds stitched closed by magic.
You left your bloodied undershirt near the wall. When you came back the next day... it was gone. The room was empty, and you tried not to think about who took it, or why.
You've been walking in circles for days. At first, you believed you were trapped in the depths of the dungeon, but reality soon dawned upon you. Each pathway that promised to lead you back to Laios' group twists and veers away, mocking your sense of direction. Doors appear and shut before you and familiar landmarks fade away, dissolving like shadows in the fading light. At times, the hours stretch into what feels like a week, only for you to find yourself standing at the very spot you initially left. Once, you stood in disbelief, watching your own footprints spiral back toward you.
Sometimes Thistle is there unannounced; he barely spoke the first few times. Just silently watching you eat, or patch your wounds, or swear at the dungeon wall after a trap reset for the third time. Then, slowly, he started talking. The third time, you fell through a floor trap. He was waiting on the other side, flipping through his book while a big bat gnawed on your boot.
He didn't help.
"Still not dead," he said, eyes still on the pages.
"Disappointed?" you grunted, kicking the bat off.
He said nothing, vanished in a flash of sigil-light, but you caught the faint sound of him muttering something about "parasitic persistence." The fourth time, you woke up with his cloak draped over your shoulders. You left it folded neatly in the next room. Hours later, you passed through that hallway again, the cloak was gone. And a fresh set of bootprints were next to where you left it, facing yours.
He never mentioned it.
By the seventh time, you get your boot caught in a mechanical trap disguised as stone.
Thistle passes by.
He stares at you. You stare at him.
He lets out a sigh. With a flick of his finger, the trap breaks apart in a clean puff of smoke. He doesn't move on, just stands there, gaze locked on you a little too long. And you shift under the scrutiny.
One time, you're both sitting across from each other beside a burning fireplace. Neither of you says much at first. Thistle is working on a complex magic array, adjusting the runes; you don't understand the spellcraft, and if you're being honest, it looks like something a goblin with crayons would draw.
"I can notice those dark circles under your eyes." You reach over, tear off a piece of fried dungeon moss, and hold it between your fingers. "Ever managed to sleep?"
"Sleep is inefficient." Thistle pauses without breaking his focus.
"So that's a no."
"Waste of time," he adds.
You allow yourself a small, rueful smile as you flick the moss into the fire and watch it hiss as it meets the heat. "You remind me of my old sword instructor," you say softly, the memory bittersweet. "He died of stress at thirty-eight."
Thistle's gaze briefly lifts from his work, and you catch the corner of his mouth twitching.
You blink. "Was that—did you just laugh?"
"It was a noise of mild amusement," he replies, his tone deadpan. "Don't let it go to your head."
A pause stretches. You expect him to return to the array, but instead, he keeps watching you, eyes reflecting the firelight, unblinking long enough for the hairs on the back of your neck to rise.
Then, as if nothing is unusual, he asks:
"Where are you from?"
You're caught off guard. It's the first time he's asked anything that feels genuine, and for a second, you're not sure how to answer.
"Eastern provinces," you say slowly. "Raised in Nakamoto manor."
"Clan-servant?" He hums.
"Yeah. I was supposed to be a ceremonial guard." You shift uncomfortably. "Turned out I had a better sword arm than the nobles I was guarding."
"That explains the chronic posture issues."
You can't help but glare at him before changing the topic. "You ever had a job before turning into whatever you are now?"
"Court magician," he finally straightened a little. Thistle's eyes flick toward you again. His lips curve, which is not quite a smile, his fingers trace absent patterns in the glow of the array. "I'm supposed to be a court jester at first. Might even have passed for a royal advisor. Depends on which king."
"A court jester?" You were flabbergasted.
You picture Thistle, in bells and bright silks, standing in the marbled halls, makeup smeared across cheekbones. His hair done up in elaborate loops, a grin too wide cut into his face as he juggles balls and tells riddles.
"That sounds... like a lot."
_
It became a pattern. You'd wander, trying to retrace your way back to Laios' party—you have no choice, not that you want to rot in here. Somehow, some way, you'd cross paths again with Thistle, though you know better than asking him to get you back to the party. Sometimes just a glimpse in the distance, occasionally awkward silence beside a campfire.
You've encountered her on several occasions as well. Falin. Or rather, what's left of her. At times, when your gaze strays, you catch sight of her lurking behind him; the lower half of her body has been grotesquely transformed, replaced by the sleek, scaled form of a dragon, its feathers glistening like polished armor. Her wings are dragging behind her like a big dove. But it is her eyes that unsettle you—they almost looked like hers, yet there's an unmistakable darkness within them. It's clear that her very soul is twisted under the control of the Lord of the Dungeon.
She didn't lunge forward or show any aggression; instead, she observed you intently from the shadows. Thistle caught your gaze, lingering on her and remaining silent; he never mentioned her, and you were wise enough to avoid probing into the subject.
Initially, you hardly noticed the shift, caught up in the adrenaline of survival. But as the days dragged on, a subtle change became evident: the monster's attacks were occurring less frequently. In the beginning, you had braced yourself with each step, anticipating the sharp pain of fangs sinking into flesh or the fatal snap of a trap cleverly disguised. Now, however, instead of a flurry of attacks, the creatures had abandoned their violence. They revel in the shadows, tucked between stone ribs and watching from the darkened recesses. But they don't strike.
At first, you thought it was luck. Until one of them crept close—enough for you to smell its breath, to feel the static of its hunger on your skin—and then it'd just... stop. As if some unseen leash yanked it back. You back away slowly, and it lets you. You tell yourself maybe they sensed the blood, the stink of injury marking you as already dying. But deep down, you knew that they were restrained, and that could only mean one thing.
Someone told them not to touch you.
One day, you spot Thistle pacing back and forth, his brow knitted with frustration, while he's grumbling. You hear enough to recognize venom in his voice.
"Always meddling, never considering this is for our own good. Just handing everything over to the thieves..."
You lean against the moss-slick wall, watching him from a distance. He doesn't notice at first, too busy unraveling himself in loops.
From the scattered pieces that reached your ears — Thistle doesn't exactly hide his frustration well — you've pieced together that Laios, Marcille, and their companions had made it pretty far. They successfully reached Yaad, grandson of the king Delgal, and the villagers below the earth had offered them sanctuary. That, however, seemed to have struck a particularly raw nerve.
"Talking to yourself, Thistle?" You cough, interrupting whatever villain monologue you're catching the tail end of.
He freezes mid-stride. You see annoyance crossing his features before he scowls and turns away, refusing to look back.
"You're eavesdropping."
"Wait," you say, pushing off the wall and limping toward him. "They're still alive?"
Thistle didn't stop walking, nor did he turn to face you. Instead, he gave a dramatic wave of his hand. "Unfortunately."
You struggle to mask your relief, and hastily shove it deep inside where it won't betray you.
"So, uh." You keep your tone light. "How badly are you going to murder them?"
"I haven't decided."
You exhale sharply, resisting the urge to rub your temples. "So... where exactly are you going?" you ask, jogging a little to match his stride
"Nowhere in particular."
"You mean you don't know."
"I mean I don't care."
Fantastic. You had been under an all-powerful magician's wing this whole time, only to realize he navigated the dungeon the same way Laios did—blindly and with zero regard for personal safety, although you are certain that nothing would even think of hurting him.
Thistle must have noticed your expression because he let out a huge sigh. "You're limping more than yesterday," he comments.
"You noticed?" You blink, surprised. "Well, I guess I really do attract the dumbest traps."
Thistle hums noncommittally and turns sharply into the dimly lit corridor.
"...You know," you trail him, "back when I came here with my master, I was told stories about this place."
He raises a brow. "The dungeon?"
"You. The 'Lord of the Dungeon.' Tall tales of those who ventured into your realm but never returned. But here we are. I'm limping, my body weak and half-starved, maybe hallucinating, but we're... talking."
That earns you a slight glance over the shoulder. He studies you for a moment. "Should I kill you to preserve my reputation?"
"You could've killed me multiple times by now." You snort. "That ship's sailed."
Thistle rolls his eyes and stands.
"You're not important enough to kill," he says. But there's no venom in it, just irritation, maybe a little resignation.
That night, alone again, you lie in your sleeping roll, stare at the ceiling, and wonder when this became your life. You'd trained your whole life to serve and die with honor if asked, you remember the cold steel of your old armor better than you remember the warmth of your mother's hands. That's how long you've been in service—you know Maizuru wouldn't forgive you.
Time is slipping away, and every moment spent here feels like treason against your commitments. You were meant to do something, rescue Falin, the one who fell into The Lunatic's Magician's control. Your master, Toshiro, is still buried in grief of his lost companion. Now, here you are, chatting with the very man who distorted Falin's form that you meant to fight. Meanwhile, Laios' party is out there, probably bargaining with monsters and making stew out of them. While you're just here and do nothing, stuck between a plan you don't believe in and an enemy who doesn't kill you.
"...I'm sorry, Master," You roll over, groaning.
The dungeon doesn't answer. But somewhere deeper in the stone, you swear you hear footsteps that aren't yours.
_
Your sword's somewhere behind you.
You're really starting to hate how familiar bleeding feels—Your leg is open to the bone, blood already freezing in the open air. The stone beneath your cheek is slick, warm with what's leaving you. You didn't see what hit you. Maybe a blade trap, you realize that you've become more careless lately, especially now that the dungeon hasn't come after you as often.
The ceiling warps like melted glass, or maybe that's your eyes failing.
You whisper something, your sister's name, maybe. Or your old sword instructor from the monastery, you can't tell. The memory slips. Everything is slipping. You've never been good with death.
You think of Toshiro, the way he clenched his jaw when he saw Falin that first time, how heartbreak in him looked like rage. You think of Laios' party, cheerfully trudging through the abyss like it's an afternoon picnic. You'd barely known them before the dungeon peeled you away.
You don't even notice he's there until a shadow blocks your light.
Boots. Always with the boots.
Thistle stood over you.
You didn't hear him arrive, but you guessed he'd been there for minutes. He's never anything but immaculate; his expression is unreadable, rendered even more striking by the lowlight. He doesn't say a word and turns, leaving you bleeding. His boots whispering across the blood-wet stone, his cloak flares slightly as he pivots, even that movement feels dismissive.
You watch it happen, and all you feel is nothing. Of course, he turns away; you already know that. Of course, he lets you to death, this is what he's supposed to be, not the one who heals you and spares your life again and again and sits across from you at a fire like a man. You understood it held no significance.
He's not meant to care, and you were never meant to be saved. So instead of crying out, you lie there, staring at the ceiling through blurred vision, feeling that strange, hollow weight settle in your chest like stones packed into your ribs.
You don't even realize Falin's presence until her massive, scaled form glides past you, mere inches from your outstretched hand, her sharp claws clicking rhythmically against the cold stone beneath her. There's no menacing growl or even a flicker of interest in the scent of your blood; instead, her gaze sweeps past you with an air of indifference, as though you were nothing more than a patch of moss or an unsightly stain she's encountered before. She walks alongside him with a grace that belies her size, her powerful tail swaying elegantly, curling with strange affection around him. The feathered wing trailing behind her flutters softly, making soft flap-flap-flap noises like a broken metronome as it brushes against the stone.
You're not sure how long you've been lying there.
It could be minutes. Hours. Maybe you've bled out already, and this is some kind of spiteful life after death. The air tastes like iron. Your vision comes and goes, your blood spilling into the stone, collecting at the base of your back.
Thistle stands just ahead, enveloped in the ethereal blue radiance of bioluminescent moss that glimmers like stars scattered across the forest floor. His back is turned to you, the contours of his silhouette softened by the gentle light. He holds a silver flute, its surface gleaming with a sheen that catches the ambient glow. As he plays, the sound unfurls into the air, a haunting tapestry of notes that would never grace the halls of a tavern or the sacred stone of a temple in the Eastern provinces. It's an unsettling melody, almost spectral; the notes stretch impossibly long, echoing off the damp walls of the chamber and curling around the edges of your skull.
Beside him, Falin sprawls in languid repose, her clawed hand reaching out toward the hem of Thistle's sleeve. Her wings rise and fall with slow, steady breath.
It's peaceful. In the worst possible way.
You're still bleeding, the stone is sticky beneath you, the warmth is fading. You thought about dying in the dungeon, watching the Lunatic Magician serenade a chimera.
Your vision flickers again.
The flute stops.
You blink.
He's gone.
The moss-light ahead glows on empty stone. Falin is still curled where he left her.
You blink again.
He's in front of you.
One moment, he's across the room, and the next, he's kneeling before you. The soft glint of the silver flute catches the light as he gently lowers it down. His eyes, deep and mesmerizing, capture the greenish hues of the moss-lit surroundings, sparkling like polished amethyst, fixated on yours with a weight that sends an inexplicable dread coils within you, tightening like a noose.
And then you hear someone whisper, low and almost frantic. But they're not to you, and more like to himself.
"Only Delgal... only Delgal," he whispers. You thought he was chanting a spell at first. "I serve the King. I must find... I must find him..."
His voice cracks on the third one.
You barely catch it, until you realize his hands are trembling. He's chewing on his thumb hard enough that you see a bead of crimson blood slide down his knuckle.
"I— I remember —I must serve—only him. That's all. That's all it is. That's all I am."
His breath comes in shallow, ragged pulls, his eyes flicker hastily over your face, and you sense an unmistakable fracture that he is teetering on the brink of madness. Perhaps you should feel fear, but in this moment, you realize you may be too far gone for fear to find purchase in your heart. Instead, you find yourself fixated on him for once; he appears more lost than the divine being you've always seen him as. You keep reminding yourself that he's the Lord of the Dungeon. He kills people. He—
You're not sure if it's fear or blood loss making your head spin harder. You try to lift your head, say something bitter. Nothing comes. The words never make it past the blood in your mouth.
This time, Thistle doesn't react. For a fleeting heartbeat, he remains quivering—fingers curled, blood welling around his thumbnail, his breath shallow and frantic, desperately attempting to synchronize with the rest of his body. His eyes, wide and wild like a tempestuous sea, the restless movement of his pupils holds an unsettling intensity that radiates a manic energy.
And then, just like that, they slide back into the usual pristine cold.
His spine straightens, hands lower with deliberate grace, settling at his sides as his breathing evens out, leaving no trace of its earlier faltering. Your heart jerks violently in your chest, a wild animal thrumming against the confines of your ribcage. Adrenaline surges through your veins, but it's no use. Every muscle in your body feels paralyzed; you can't even draw a full breath. His hand reaches toward your face this time, fingers glide gently along your cheekbone, tracing the curve before sliding over to your temple. His touch is bizarrely cold—not in a temperature-wise. It's just—off, as if he were a specter measuring you for your own coffin.
He doesn't stop. He simply gazes at you, his head tilted ever so slightly to one side. The expression on his face isn't steeped in pity nor softened by affection, but something else you can't quite place.
His hand presses gently against your throat, fingers cool against your skin just above your collarbone. His thumb glides over your pulse point, the pressure light yet insistent, as if he's tracing the very essence of your vitality. A smudge of warm blood escapes, but he seems oblivious to it, his attention fixated solely on you. The thrum of your heartbeat fills your ears, a frantic rhythm drowning out everything around you. Thud. Thud. Thud.
Then he speaks, almost too quiet to catch.
"I've served Delgal for millennia... followed every order, upheld every thread of the kingdom's law..."
At first, you think it's another one of his mad rambles. But his voice falters—like it caught on something in his throat.
"...Is it so wrong," he murmurs, "to want just one thing for myself?"
You think: What thing?
What do you want?
What am I to you?
The blood loss has made everything feel far away; you would compare it to watching your own death through glass. His hand withdraws from your throat, the sudden absence leaving a chill that penetrates the warm air around you. A breath of cold rushes in where his grip once held. As you regain your senses, he leans forward, and your entire field of vision is engulfed by his hand; the world outside this moment fades.
You feel something cold flood down your spine, coiling tight around the base of your skull. You can feel your heartbeat stutter under his thumb—once—twice—
dreamt about annoying zandik via sipping his coffee randomly and every time he caught me doing it, he smacked me with his cane while hissing out: “go make your own coffee, girl.” and i feel like dottore just really awakened something inside me because his character isn't something i normally usually wouldn't even given 3 shits about but i guess i learn something new about myself everyday by playing this game and i MAYBE like being called girl but i'd kms if i was called that irl, thank you for listening to my dreams (￣︶￣)
warnings: implied age gap (reader is mid to late 20's, ana is mid 30's to early 40's), disassociation, self-isolation, unhealthy work ethic, drinking, drunken "confessions", quite a bit of yearning, death, grief & moving on, making out, nipple play, hair pulling, biting, thigh riding, 69, face riding/fucking, oral sex | read at your discretion
notes: Did I stay up all night after the teaser dropped to write this? Yes. Do I regret it? Not one bit. I saw a beautiful woman that could kill me, what else was I supposed to do? 🧎♀️ Anyway, please enjoy the ride of my first Tsaritsa piece! There will be many more to come >:)
Read it on ao3!
Milf!Tsaritsa who you meet through a referral from Arlecchino. After years of babysitting Lyney and Lynette, she decided to pass your name and number over to her boss. You wake the next day to a formal text, inviting you to dinner that night to get to know you. Her bodyguard escorts her to your table, sitting in a nearby booth afterward. Her eyes are cold, worn by endless work and something far deeper… Her posture and mannerisms are elegant, her tone wistful and calculating. She asked after your experience, and how you could help enrich her son’s life. When your bottle of wine reached its end, her questions became more personal – inquisitive almost, if it weren’t for her flat features.
Milf!Tsaritsa who ends up driving you home. Or rather, she rides with you in the backseat while her driver heads to your address. She stares out of the window, her fingertips gently tapping her knee along to the classical melody filling the car. It was old, something you began to recall the longer it played. Soon you were mimicking her movements, and the smallest smile spread on her face. She gave you a curt farewell, watching from behind frosted glass as her bodyguard walked you to your door.
Milf!Tsaritsa who texts you again the next morning, thanking you for a lovely night and providing you a “trial” date. You would be spending time with her and her son, so he could familiarize himself with you and she could observe your attitude and behavior towards him. You readily agreed, and she responded with a simple “Good. See you then.”
Milf!Tsaritsa who sits beside you at the city park, her son sipping on hot chocolate to her left. He had grown tired from playing with you, now enjoying a treat from one of the various food trucks. His mother simply stared forward, watching the world pass by in a daze until he leaned into her side with a happy sigh. His gaze peeked beyond her figure, a chocolate moustache on his lip as he asked if you would be playing again. “I don’t have many friends, and mama’s are all boring.” You grabbed your handkerchief, gesturing at your lips with it before handing it over to him. Anastasya observed your interaction, passing the stained cloth back from him to you. “Of course. She will be watching over you while I am at work.”
Milf!Tsaritsa who sends her driver to you on your first official day. They don’t converse, merely taking you from point A to point B. Anastasya’s house is as grand as you expected, an old gated manor with a lush garden of perennials. Cool tones, sharp angles, and bright silver form it, the wooden front door dressed up with swirling stained glass. Her butler lets you in, her son rushing down the stairs to greet you. He’s still in his school uniform, yet listing all of the games and books he wants to show you. “How about you go change, then we can do whatever you want!” He cheers, taking off back up the foyer’s large staircase. You take the time to adjust, noting the precise and perfect positions her furniture and decor sit at. Not a speck of dust haunts any surface, everything organized neatly to match. Her hearth is lit, a photo of her and her son on the mantle. Another rests beside it, though it lays down on its face.
Milf!Tsaritsa who sighs when she finally gets home, the moon high in the sky. Her brows are furrowed, and it seems as if the weight of the world is on her shoulders. She hides in her office, behind double doors inlaid with starry stained glass. Blue light fractures across her wooden floors as you approach, a hot cup of tea and warm soup in hand. She turns sharply as you weave through the cracked door, smiling sheepishly. “I thought this might help.” She says nothing as you place the tray on the corner of her desk, straightening everything on it. A small smile grows on her face, gone as soon as you blink again. “Thank you. You are dismissed for the night.” You shut the door quietly, though her butler still manages to surprise you. “She has turned me away every night that I have tried to tend to her.” “What do you mean by that?” “I simply thought you might wish to know.”
Milf!Tsaritsa who comes home early one night. She unpins her bun and removes her blazer right in the foyer, her heels clicking into the dining room. Her son gets up and runs to her, hugging her waist tightly before bouncing back to his seat. She took her own at the head of the table, directly to your right. Her butler beamed as he brought out her meal, her etiquette still the same as your first dinner together. She asks about your day, seemingly engaged in the stories shared by you and her son. Strawberry shortcakes came out for dessert, and a small bit of cream stained the corner of her mouth. “You’ve got something there.” She looked a little surprised , before simply licking it away. You couldn’t help but grow a little flustered, and her amused eyes drank in your flushed features.
Milf!Tsaritsa who invites you over on her day off. Her hair is down in curls, her business attire traded for a black sweater and light blue slacks. Still classy and presentable, yet more casual to suit the day. She sat in the garden with you while her son watered and played in its greenery. She poured tea for the both of you, providing how much cream and sugar you preferred. A chess board lay on the veranda table, pieces set in place. “Have you ever played?” “No.” “Then I shall be happy to teach you.” And that she did. Her smooth voice recited the rules and different plays, her expression remaining cold as her foot rose up and down one of your legs. She pretended to be none the wiser to your flustered state. Today however, you decided to give some back. While she focused on her next move, you shifted your own foot against her leg, meeting her thawing gaze and taking a long sip of your tea. The lightest blush spreads across her cheeks as she reaches for her own cup.
Milf!Tsaritsa who stays up late with you one night. The hearth burns bright, it has been for the last three hours. A half-empty handle of firewater sits on the coffee table, two drying shot glasses beside it. Anastasya sat on the opposite sofa, her bun disheveled, her jacket and heels removed. Her skirt rides up her thighs as she shifts, her legs sliding beneath her. Her bleary eyes were transfixed by you, by the tales of your life falling from your lips. She wanted to kiss them, and that thought turned her veins to ice. What would the man on the mantle think? Her greatest love and only weakness tossed aside for what? Could anything ever compare? Could she truly deserve love again, after failing to prevent his death? “What are you thinking about?” Suddenly you were at her side, thighs brushing hers as you sat far too close. Part of her craved it… part of her wished to run. “Have you figured out why I needed your help?” You shook your head no. “I… I lost my husband many years ago. He was the love of my life, and like the young fool I was I thought I would have him forever…” “You still do, in that sweet and kind boy sleeping upstairs.” Her eyes widened, one of her hands slipping into yours. “I… I suppose you are correct.” Her tone was surprisingly soft, “Do… Do you think I can find someone after him?” Your gaze focused on her lips, her own darting between yours and your heated eyes. “I think… if he loved you as much as you loved him, he would just want to see you happy.” Her cold palm held your cheek as she leaned into you. Your heart hammered when her plush lips brushed yours, a single tear slipping down her cheek as she finally kissed you.
Milf!Tsaritsa who knocks on the guest room door the following morning. You open it groggily, unprepared for her serious tone. “I apologize for what transpired last night. I should not have taken advantage of your state. I understand if you wish to leave today and never return. I shall find a new babysitter and you can move on–” Your lips sealed over hers, silencing her rambling and guiding her into the room. She shut the door behind her, turning you back on it and finding your lips again. You pressed into her, leading her hand to your hair and your body even further into the door. “My room. Tonight. Please,” she panted.
Milf!Tsaritsa who fidgets with your appearance before she leaves. Old clothes had been dug up from around the manor, presentable and cozy enough for you to wear. She kept brushing and patting your shoulders, toying with your hair as her brows furrowed. You caught her hands, leaving a kiss on the back of them both. Her son’s shoes clack as he jumps down the last two steps of the grand staircase. “Are you dating?” Anastasya froze, taking her hands back. She clears her throat and replies, “We are courting, a process you shall understand when you are older.” He turns to you excitedly, “So will you be going with mama to the Krsnik Noc festival?!” “Let’s allow her to decide–” “Yes.” “Yay!” He ran out of the front door to his car, while Anastasya stayed behind. “I mean it, I would love to be your date.” A gentle smile blossoms on her face, “Then you shall.”
Milf!Tsaritsa whose affection arrives as a blizzard. Her night with you starts simple and slow, her lips moving over yours with cultivated patience. She relishes in every glide, in the growing heat of your body against hers. The winds begin picking up when her kiss travels along your neck, her chilled palm supporting its back as you lean to allow her more room. Her touch is reverent and grateful, this second chance a precious thing.
Milf!Tsaritsa who lays you on her bed with tenderness. She worships your body in a daze, one bred by loneliness and isolation. She has rarely felt anything since Saarelainen’s passing, plunging her heart into icy depths just to keep living. Only now, you’ve walked into her stagnant life with a torch, ready to love and aid the woman beneath the permafrost. Her clothes shed with her guard, allowing you to show Anastasya what she thought she would never have again.
Milf!Tsaritsa who moans when she first feels your tongue. Its heat slides down her throat, ending between her breasts. It finds one of her nipples, and another sharp moan falling into her bedroom. Her hands entwined in your hair, her thighs squeezing yours. “More,” she commands, and you obey – your lips wrapping around it and sucking. She whined and you sucked harder, her cunt grinding down on one of your bare thighs. You bit the top of her tit softly, soothing it with your tongue as her pale skin began to bruise. She guided your lips back to hers, her kiss sloppy and heated.
Milf!Tsaritsa who pushes you down into her pillows, turning around and placing her cunt over your swollen lips. She spreads your thighs and licks down your folds, groaning when your tongue satisfies her in turn. She works in time with each of your movements, slowly melting into you as she pays special attention to your clit. The blizzard is here and her affection is fierce. She wants even more of you, riding your face the more you work her up. Her hands dig into your thighs, savoring the sensation of your warmth against her chill.
Milf!Tsaritsa who loses herself in you when she comes. She whines again, pressing her cunt further into you, desperate to prolong her orgasm. You follow shortly after, her rough and hard sucks enough to have you trembling beneath her. She turns back to you, collapsing over your figure and stealing kiss after kiss. She groans at the mixing of your tastes, swiping her tongue over yours.
Milf!Tsaritsa who lays beside you, brushing your hair from your forehead and gazing at you with unbridled love. Her fingertips trace your cheek and jaw, her own smushed into her pillow. “Thank you. For everything.”
Milf!Tsaritsa who finally smiles when you cuddle into her, a long lost sense of peace and happiness washing over her.
taglist: @diluted-calico @zyrexaels-stars
masterlists | genshin masterlist | tip/commission me on ko-fi
⋆˚࿔ ㅤ― " baby, i'm yours " honkai star rail males x gn! reader i'll do separate post for ladies! || argenti, blade, dan heng, dr ratio, gepard, jing yuan, mydei, phainon, caelus x gn! reader
⋆˚࿔ cw: modern au implied, 100% established relationship (or situationship, wtv u see fit...), modern songs mostly used, yes i picked out from my playlists HAHAH
⋆˚࿔ synopsis. what songs would they soft launch you to?
⋆˚࿔ wc: ~1.5k ; not proofread, might be ooc!
⋆˚࿔ argenti is a man of taste, taste of the older times of course! he's super into songs that are much older than you both, and posts a video of you two slow dancing to any of the said songs. he's the type to post the very, very long letters he wrote to you as well,
caption 𔓕⠀⠀⠀ﾟ⠀never met a heart this sweet
hopelessly devoted to you ༉‧₊˚. olivia newton-john
can't take my eyes off of you ༉‧₊˚. frankie valli
misty ༉‧₊˚. lesley gore
⋆˚࿔ blade... i dont know what you expected me to say, if it's anything that isn't emo/2000s/scene, then it's not blade. the picture will have the two of you kissing behind an album you both like, or you holding his guitar whilst he holds you!!
caption 𔓕⠀⠀⠀ﾟ⠀butterflies? more like spiders
partners in crime ༉‧₊˚. set it off & ash costello
love at first sight ༉‧₊˚. the brobecks
join me (in death) ༉‧₊˚. him
⋆˚࿔ dan heng is your classic, daniel caesar-w2e-clairo-faye webster man, he is not performative, he just really thinks of you when he hears those songs LOL. probably would let you choose which one he posts, but you didn't end up choosing any of the ones on his phone, because he really liked one where he was tying ur shoes <'3
caption 𔓕⠀⠀⠀ﾟ⠀just as shocked as you are.
bad ༉‧₊˚. wave to earth
l-o-v-e ༉‧₊˚. rocco
right side of my neck ༉‧₊˚. faye webster
⋆˚࿔ dr. ratio, aka veritas says he's a man of taste, but in reality? he's just a man who struggles very badly with the yearning-but-can't-express-it-properly syndrome. so yes he has a hard time choosing what he wants to caption, what he song to put over it, what would people think; but honestly feels a lot better when he sees the story you post; yes he does just repost urs instead :)
caption 𔓕⠀⠀⠀ﾟ⠀p.s. they liked my cooking
helpless ༉‧₊˚. hamilton cast
genius ༉‧₊˚. sia, diplo, labrynth, lsd
como debe sur ༉‧₊˚. kali uchis
p.p.s yes ratio is a musical lover stfu i dont wanna hear it!
⋆˚࿔ gepard barely gets on social media to be very, very real. he just gets on to like ur posts half the time, but the first story he posts? it's you and everyone is asking who is that angel right there!! just you, him, and your daughter(stuffed bunny named ystelle)
caption 𔓕⠀⠀⠀ﾟ⠀they're a keeper :)
beautiful crazy ༉‧₊˚. luke combs
sweet/i thought you wanted to dance ༉‧₊˚. tyler, the creator
my heart it beats for you ༉‧₊˚. grentperez
⋆˚࿔ ohoh jing yuan already has a pinterest board on this and lets you pick one for his story and yours. huge ass smirk in both if you choose anything with his face in it (so you didnt LOL). and chose to show off.. wellllll you know.
caption 𔓕⠀⠀⠀ﾟ⠀save a dumbbell lift a cutie
double take ༉‧₊˚. dhruv
make it to the morning ༉‧₊˚. partynextdoor
fine shyt ༉‧₊˚. vedo
⋆˚࿔ mydei is super duper similar, except he requests you include the bouquet he bought you earlier LOL!!! legit wants it in frame, and you barely have any idea until you tell him to pose on a stack of stairs (he complains and makes u retake it like 5 billion times so u just settle on the one where he wasn't ready)
caption 𔓕⠀⠀⠀ﾟ⠀ok guys we're getting a room.
jealous ༉‧₊˚. nick jonas
love grows (where my rosemary goes) ༉‧₊˚. edison lighthouse
die for you ༉‧₊˚. the weeknd
⋆˚࿔ phainon tutors you on stuff you didn't know (even when you two werent a thing yet) so you wanted to snap a photo whilst he was teaching. showing it to him after just gave him the warmest feeling ever, made you send it to him and had a crisis not knowing what song to put
caption 𔓕⠀⠀⠀ﾟ⠀gatekeeping my photographer
made to fall in love ༉‧₊˚. daniel caesar
butterflies ༉‧₊˚. denise julia
fuzzy feeling ༉‧₊˚. grentperez
⋆˚࿔ caelus is a simple man with simple wants. one of which is to make custom lego figures of you and him!! he's a geek, a nerd, and gosh do you love it so much!! he captions it with the song he sent you in order to confess in the first place :3
Summary: Messmer decides to surprise you in more ways than one.
Spoilers for both Elden Ring and Shadow of the Erdtree. No warnings tho, just me loving my fiery redhead.
MESSMER LOVERS COME EAT!
I finally got the courage to upload the fic I was working on! Everyone was so nice (and starving for Messmer content) so I folded lmao. Please enjoy and understand that I have never written anything like this, especially with ye olde English. It's a pain.
“I have something I wish to show thee.” Messmer’s low voice cut through the silence reverberating in his chamber.
“What is it?” You look up from patching a hole in one of his cloaks.
“I cannot say. It is a surprise.” His eye twinkled with something akin to mischief. You put down your needle and gently fold his cloak, putting it on your chair to finish later.
“A surprise for me? Are you feeling alright, My Lord?” You smile at him from where he towers above you.
“Shush. Wilt thou follow?”
“Always,” you say.
He leads you down countless flights of stairs and through the castle’s corridors. Down a hallway, you follow him as he steps into a lift that takes you to a part of the castle that is unfamiliar to you. You assumed you had explored everything by now, but it seems you were wrong. Messmer had given you permission to freely roam the castle, and you had spent a lot of time exploring the various rooms. You had gotten lost many times within the many twisting and confusing hallways, but the castle staff always led you back to your quarters.
The path from the lift leads out to a part of the castle almost entirely flooded. This seems like a place that hasn’t been occupied in many years. Some of the buildings you can see appear to be collapsing and debris litters the area. The water churns uneasily below you, as if something lurks in the depths. Taking a few steps away from the ledge, you stare out into the water that swallows surrounding buildings.
“What is it?” Messmer asks. He senses your trepidation in going any further, though you don’t think you have much to worry about with a powerful demigod at your side. Still, this place sets your nerves alight and has you on high alert.
“I’ve never seen this place before. Where are we?”
He speaks as if it’s common knowledge. “The Church District.”
“What happened here?”
He takes a second before he responds in a flat tone. “It does not matter.” Noticing your face falling slightly, he gives you a small smile. “Thy surprise is near. Come.”
You continue to follow him, your footfalls mere echoes of his much heavier ones. You wonder where he is taking you, and why he decided to surprise you. Though you have gotten much closer to him throughout your time in the Realm of Shadow, you can’t wrap your head around the fact that he wants to show you something himself. So many unanswered questions, though Messmer brings about many of those. Still, you cannot complain about how well he treats you now after you’ve earned some of his trust. You are safe within his walls, and you are welcome.
Though you wish he’d let you into his heart and mind more often, you take what you can get.
Finally, he stops in a room with a large, and complete, statue of Queen Marika. Many throughout the Realm of Shadow have been beheaded, sending icy chills through you when you first arrived, but this one is intact. The only signs of damage have been from the apparent age of the statue.
“Dost thou trust me?”
His question catches you off guard. Looking up at him, he looks vulnerable and almost uncomfortable.
“Of course I do. I wouldn’t have followed if I didn’t.” You smile at him to ease his tension.
He relaxes slightly. “Of course. I will ask thee to trust me again.”
You shoot him a puzzled look. How could you trust him any more than you already have?
“Close thine eyes. I shall lead thee, hand in hand.”
The prospect of him holding your hand makes heat rush to your cheeks, but you comply. Closing your eyes, you hold out your hands, and a few seconds later, he grabs them in his much larger ones. He holds them delicately, as if you might break if he dares to squeeze your hands. His skin is surprisingly smooth and warm.
“I will ensure thou dost not fall and injure thyself..”
“I’d appreciate that.”
He chuckles at your comment, a sound so rare and pleasant you want to hear it again and again. He begins walking, gently guiding you down a hill and you soon feel sunlight on your skin. The air feels lighter and there is a pleasant smell of lavender and fresh grass in the air. You wonder where you could possibly be. You haven’t seen much greenery in the Realm of Shadow.
After a few minutes he stops and lets go of your hands. You instantly miss his warmth, but you soon feel the heat of him behind you. You keep your eyes closed out of obedience and trust; you know he would not harm you.
His hands gently find your waist and he moves you a few steps to the left. Satisfied, he lowers a hand over your eyes to ensure you will not open them prematurely.
“This place is sacred. Inviting thee here was not a spontaneous act.” His voice is a mere whisper in your ear. You can’t tell whether to be scared or excited for what he will soon allow you to see.
He moves his hand away from your eyes, but they remain closed. You will not sully his trust.
You can hear the smile in his voice. He’s pleased by your obedience.
“Open thine eyes.”
You do, and you are immediately greeted with a grassy field speckled with vibrant flowers. You’ve never seen so many in one place. You think it would take all day to identify them. Trickles of gold sit suspended in the air like shattered stained glass and the sunlight kisses your skin sweetly. Not far up a hill is a small village made up of a few wooden houses. They look old and mostly abandoned. You take in the beauty before you. Not even Leyendell was this spectacular.
“Thou’rt pleased, I take it?” His voice wavers slightly with uncertainty.
“This is a most wonderful surprise, My Lord. Thank you for bringing me here.” You look up at Messmer, whose golden eye seems to shine brighter in the sanctity of this place.
“Forget formalities here.” He sits down in the soft grass and you are soon to join him. He looks relaxed, even happy, here.
“May I ask where we are now?” You idly skim your fingertips over the silky petals of the flowers swaying in the breeze around your skirt.
“Mother’s home. Her village before she became a God.”
Your mouth hangs open in shock. It takes you a few moments to gather yourself enough to speak. “Queen Marika lived here?”
“Yes,” he answers. “Long ago.”
You wonder if Marika wanted Messmer to guard her old home, or if he does it out of love for her. You’ve seen the state of other Shamans within his infirmary, his medics working day and night to try and reverse the torture they’d went through. You knew Marika was a Shaman herself, but you’d never realized this place was originally her home. Your heart hurts for the God-Queen. Behind all her power was a girl who wanted her people safe.
You sigh, and Messmer shoots you a curious look. “This is the first time I’ve seen Marika as a person. Knowing she lived here, knowing she suffered… I understand now.”
Messmer reaches up and takes his helmet off, gently placing it to his side. “Mother desired revenge for her peoples’ suffering, and I became her instrument to do so here, in the Land of Shadow.”
“Did you want this?”
He closes his eye. “Mother has endured what a thousand people could not. I will ensure she receives her long-awaited deliverance.” He dodged the question. He does not want this, but he desires to avenge Marika.
“I know you won’t answer me truthfully, and we don’t have to talk about this anymore. But know this: you are not ‘The Impaler’ to me.”
“Thank you.” His response is so quiet you almost can’t hear it, despite being right next to him.
As promised, you change the subject. “Have you brought others here?”
He looks away and you can see a faint blush creeping up his cheeks.
“I have not. The first to lay eyes on this place is thee.” He admits.
“Why?”
“I-“ he begins. “Surely thou must know thy importance to me, yes?”
The realization hits you.
This is his way of saying he loves you.
You scoot closer to him and lay your head against his arm. You feel him tense, then slowly begin to relax. One of his snakes gently perches itself on your shoulder. You smile.
“You can touch me, you know.” You reassure him. “You won’t break me.”
Silence hangs in the breeze as you wait for him to respond.
“Dost thou understand my reason for bringing thee here?”
You nod against him. “I think so.”
He moves away from you, earning himself a confused look, then he slowly grabs your hands and pulls you closer until you are comfortably sitting between his legs. You look up at him and see that his face is almost as red as his hair. He is adorable when he blushes.
You could get used to this.
“You will forgive me if I am too presumptuous. I am… not accustomed to touch, yet I want thee closer.” His soft, silky voice makes your heart melt.
“I want you closer too. It’s okay.” You cup his face with both hands, and though it’s a simple gesture, he relaxes into your touch almost immediately. His eye closes and you try to memorize the look of peace etched on his face.
“With thee, I am content.” He whispers to you.
“Then I’ll see to it that we’re never separated.”
His eye flutters open and he hazily looks down at your lips. His hand engulfs your cheek and you feel the warmth radiating from his palm.
So many have met their demise from the man sitting in front of you now, content and complacent, and that thought sends shivers down your spine.
“No man nor God could tear thee away from me. That is a promise.”
He leans forward and kisses you. His lips are soft and he pulls you closer to him and his hands are splayed possessively over your face and back. You don’t want to pull away, and you get the feeling he doesn’t want to either.
Trying different flavors of lip-smackers with segments!
Warnings: Making out? Kinda smut? (not with 8 years old one of course, its a cheek kiss for him.) Humiliation kink(idk)?
It's kinda long eheh. Also, I couldn't make the text smaller in some places, so I apologize if it looks strange.
Assistant reader!f (in her +20ies) x Dottore Segments
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ summary: You buy a pack of lip-smackers and you try each flavor with one segment at a time, which is best done by kissing them.
8 years-old (a kiss on the cheek!) cherry-cola You found him in your room again, it was his usual spot when he escapes from olders’ bullyings. Curled up near the edge of your bed with his notebook resting against his knees, scribbling down something with that tiny serious expression he always wore whenever he thought too hard. He barely even noticed you entering.
“I bought these a few days ago,” you said while dropping beside him onto the mattress. You held up the little package of lip smackers in front of him. “I still can’t decide which flavor to try.”
The eight-year-old glanced up briefly. "And…? I don't see the problem that relates me here?"
“Hm. Fair point, Doctor.” You liked calling 8 years old one Doctor a lot, and deep down he liked it too, made him feel important among them.
You looked through them dramatically before pulling out the cherry one.
“This one then.” He watched carefully as you applied it, quiet as always. Probably trying to understand your reasoning.
Then before he could ask anything, you leaned over and pressed an exaggerated kiss against his cheek.
“Mwah.” A loud one.
He blinked. Slowly, his fingers touched the spot you kissed. Then he sniffed faintly, brows furrowing in curiosity.
“…Cherry?” You smiled immediately.
“Yeah, aren’t you a smart cookie?”. “I’ve never seen a cherry flavored one before.” He said while ignoring your teasing.
“Well,” you answered while nudging his shoulder lightly, “that just means there are still lots of things left for you to research, Doctor.”
Then he quietly pulled his notebook a little farther away from you, to hide his face before you could try kissing the other cheek too.
18 years-old, lemon-fanta! Finding the eighteen-year-old was always funny because he acted like he wanted to disappear while leaving the most obvious trails possible.
With a pile of stolen books from other segments, and dragged chair to the corner of the library he builds a castle from books and then tries to hide himself in them.
And somehow, every single time, you still found him.
He even once told you:“You can find me whenever you want. I only find you when you want.”
You approached quietly, fingers brushing over his shoulder. He startled immediately.
Actually jumped a little.
His head snapped toward you before he tried recovering his dignity by looking back down at the book in front of him.
“…What are you doing here, handsome?” you asked with a teasing tone.
“Ugh…Nothing.”
He answered with that sappy-sulky voice.
“Why did you even come here and disturb me?” he muttered while turning a page he clearly wasn’t reading anymore. “Don’t you have things to do? Be a useful assistant and maybe bring me coffee.”
The moment he saw you, he always tried acting annoyed first.
But you knew him too well.
“Oh, of course I have things to do,” you said. “And I should probably bring you your coffee too.”
He hummed with agreement.
“But before that,” you continued while stepping closer, “I need to do something else first.”
That finally got his attention(which was actually long lost the moment he heard your voice).
He lifted his head from the book slowly, chair sliding back just a little as he looked up at you with obvious curiosity hidden behind forced indifference.
“…What thing?”
You leaned down before he could think too hard about it and kissed him.
Bright lemon flavor spreading instantly against his lips from the gloss you had applied earlier.
He reacted immediately. He never misses his chance. One hand grabbing at your hip so fast it almost made you laugh, like he’d been waiting for an excuse all day. Eager.
And then you pulled away. A quiet, frustrated whine escaped him before he could stop it. This made you burst into laughter instantly.
His face went red so quickly he covered half of it with his left hand, glaring at you from behind his fingers.
“Just because I’m not as scary as the others,” he muttered bitterly, “doesn’t mean you can tease me whenever you want.”
You stood up again, pretending not to notice the way he tried to cover the immediate bulge occured when you sat down.
“I don’t know,” you said lightly while fixing your sleeve. “I think I’d love to see you act all crazy and scary too.”
His eyes widened slightly.
And before he could recover enough to say something smug back, you were already leaving the library laughing while he sat there completely flustered in the middle of his little book castle.
25 years-old, sprite! The twenty-five-year-old’s room was always quiet in the most unwelcoming way possible. He had papers scattered across the desk, lots of half-written reports, open books etc.
The faint scratching sound of his pen moving across paper that you could hear behind the door. You knocked twice against the door.
“You can’t come in,” he answered immediately.
You leaned against the doorway dramatically. “I mean, there was something urgent I had to ask you.”
“Well then,” he replied flatly from inside, “go find someone less bothered by your existence. I’m busy.”
You rolled your eyes.
“The earlier you help me, the earlier you’ll get back to your report.”
A long groan came from behind the door. But since he didn’t actually tell you to leave again, you pushed the door open anyway.
He didn’t even look up at first. “You’re too stupid to figure out your own unimportant problems?” he asked while continuing to write. “Why do they even keep you as their assistant? You clearly lack the ability to assist anyone.”
You barely reacted anymore honestly.
Every segment had their own way of being awful. His just happened to involve constant humiliation wrapped in distinct wording with attractive voice. So instead of getting offended, you simply smiled and walked over beside his chair.
“I don’t lack the ability to assist,” you corrected lightly. “You’re simply too good to require assistance.” That made him glance up.
You leaned your elbow against his shoulder, close enough for him to smell the sweet artificial citrus from your gloss.
He huffed quietly under his breath.
Then suddenly his hand grabbed your waist and pulled you directly into his lap.
You yelped softly from the force of it, which made him enjoy more.
“I’ve never seen anyone as interested in being bullied as you are,” he muttered near your ear while squeezing your thigh harshly. “It’s almost concerning.”
“Well,” you said sweetly, “if it’s coming from you, who am I to reject it? I am your assistant after all.”
His fingers tightened briefly before he leaned back in his chair with obvious annoyance.
“Whatever you needed, ask quickly,” he sighed. “I’m too busy to deal with your lame ass.”
Instead of answering, you kissed him.
He reacted instantly to that. One hand gripping your hip harder while he bit down lightly against your lower lip in that mean way of his that was always more provoking than affectionate.
You were kissing him with that sprite flavor he would definitely despise.
You almost laughed into the kiss. Especially when he started to make you lean back towards the desk like he intended to keep you there much longer.
Before he could though, you pushed against his chest lightly and stood back up.
He looked irritated immediately. “Well, I was actually going to ask about my new lipstick,” you said while fixing your clothes. “But I guess you didn’t like it?”
He stared at you for a moment.
Then grinned slowly.
“I hate it.”
35 years-old(Omega), vanilla-cola! Omega’s room was usually quieter than the others and with Nod-Krai trip approaching, the atmosphere had only gotten worse. Documents scattered across the desk, unfinished calculations glowing faintly across screens, reports waiting for signatures. You’d spent the last hour helping him organize materials for the trip without daring to distract him even once.
The moment you entered earlier, you had planned to greet him properly.
With a small kiss, you know.
But the second he started giving instructions, you abandoned the thought immediately. It felt too risky making him wait over something so trivial.
So instead, you focused entirely on being useful. Exactly what his assistant should be, as you could feel that he likes you most when you show usability. So, you barely even remembered the vanilla-cola you had applied beforehand.
Until... “Why,” Omega said suddenly from somewhere behind you, “am I smelling vanilla?”
Your fingers immediately flew to your lips.
Right. The new lipstick.
You turned toward him with a small smile. “Oh, I tried a new flavor earlier. Didn’t realize the scent was that strong.”
His eyes settled on your mouth instantly. “Get up.”
You obeyed before thinking twice. The chair scraped softly against the floor as you stood, and Omega stepped closer without another word. Then his fingers slid beneath your chin, tilting your face upward carefully. Neither gentle nor rough. His gaze stayed fixed on your lips with a level of attention that made your breath catch embarrassingly fast.
“I don’t think you wear these because your lips are chapped,” he said calmly. “They always look shiny regardless.”
Your eyebrows lifted slightly. You didn’t realize he paid attention to things like that or maybe you simply weren’t supposed to know?
“Well,” you answered softly after a moment, “of course I applied this for you.”
That earned the faintest smile from him. Then he leaned closer.
Close enough that you could already feel the warmth of his breath against your lips. If either of you moved even slightly, the distance would disappear completely.
You waited but Omega stopped there.
“It smells lovely indeed,” he murmured quietly.
Then he released your chin, turned away from you entirely, and continued gathering the papers for Nod-Krai like nothing had happened.
Leaving you standing there like that, made you think that everyone was somehow getting a taste of his cruelty.
45 years-old, strawberry-fanta! The meetings of the Harbingers were sometimes unbearably long. So, even after an hour passed, you were still waiting. Despite the fact that he specifically told you:
“If it takes too long, leave.”
You sat quietly on one of the hallway benches outside the meeting room, legs crossed while absentmindedly applying the strawberry-flavored gloss you had bought earlier. Mostly just to distract yourself from boredom.
Then finally you heard the doors opened. You immediately stood up as the Harbingers began leaving one by one. Voices echoed through the hallway, coats brushing past marble floors, conversations overlapping carelessly.
You spotted him instantly. But before you could approach, you overheard Pantalone’s amused voice.
“After you’re gone, perhaps I should steal that assistant of yours,” he said lazily. “Even someone like you seems interested in her. There must be something exceptional there.”
Dottore laughed softly. “Well, ask her after I leave. If she wishes to join you, she may.”
Then he glanced toward you briefly. “Though, for your sake, you should know she only shows interest in me. I doubt she’d perform quite as enthusiastically under your supervision.”
Your lips curled into a smile before you lowered your head slightly to hide it.
Eventually the hallway emptied, leaving only the two of you. You approached him quietly and took the bag from his hand before he could object, naturally falling into step beside him as you both walked down the long corridor.
“I told you not to wait if it took too long,” he said after a moment. “Why are you still here?”
“Because I’m your assistant,” you answered simply. “If you had to stay in that room for twenty-four hours, then I’d stay here for twenty-four hours too. I’ll wait whenever you need me.”
That made him smile faintly.
The two of you continued walking side by side. Then suddenly he spoke again. “Am I hallucinating,” he mused lightly, “or do you smell like strawberries?”
You smiled immediately. “Nothing escapes from you, hm, Doctor?”
Compared to the other older segments, he was surprisingly easy to talk to. Easier to tease too. But he glanced at you from the corner of his eye.
“Well, if I fail to notice the changes in my lovely assistant,” he said calmly, “or the little shenanigans she keeps pulling, then I’d simply be ignorant of my surroundings.”
Slowly, you linked your arm with his as he allowed it naturally.
“So?” you asked while looking up at him. “Is that a bad thing or a good thing?”
He turned his head toward you fully then. “You shouldn’t ask such obvious questions.”
And before you could reply,he suddenly pushed you gently toward the wall beside the hallway. You let out a surprised sound as your back touched the cold surface behind you. His hand guided your arms down instinctively so he could cage you there easily.
For a second, you just stared at him. And then he kissed you.
The strawberry flavor mixed between you instantly while his hand rested against your waist with terrifying ease. He made you feel overwhelmed in a completely different manner. Like standing too close to someone entirely aware of their own charm.
When he finally pulled away, you almost stumbled forward from how weak your knees suddenly felt which caused a laughter from him.
“You know,” he mused while watching your expression carefully, “I think I understand why the eighteen-year-old is so obsessed with you.”
You immediately smiled back. “Oh?” you teased softly. “Is it only him?”
He extended his arm toward you again patiently, waiting for you to take it.
“No,” he answered after a moment. “I don’t think it’s only him.”
65 years-old, fanta! You found him exactly where he always was. Sitting near the large window of his office with a book resting in one hand while the other tapped slowly against the armrest of his chair. The room was quiet except for the ticking of some old mechanism nearby.
He acknowledged your presence immediately but didn’t look up.
“You’re lingering,” he said dryly. “Which usually means you’re about to become troublesome.”
You smiled to yourself and walked closer. “Maybe only a little.”
A quiet hum escaped him at that. You had applied the Fanta flavored one earlier, and honestly, compared to the others, you weren’t even sure if he would tolerate it. He always acted above things like that.
Still, you leaned carefully against the side of his chair.
“So, what are you reading about? Maybe something interesting?”
He answers back without waiting, “Not everything we read needs to be interesting, sometimes you just read to… read.”
Which caused a small nod from you. To change the topic, to make him talk to you more, “I bought something new today,” you said casually. “Though you’ll probably hate it.”
That finally made him glance at you over the edge of his book.
“Probably.” You laughed softly.
“See? You're too uncurious for a research doctor.”
“Experience allows me to predict disappointment accurately.”
“But no matter what, don’t you think you should try first, there’s always possibility for a different outcome.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. He already understood what the new item was you found. Of course, it wasn’t a dagger or an elixir you came up with. The smell of orange was too heavy to not to notice.
You slowly reached toward the lower edge of his mask then, fingers brushing lightly against the material. Waiting, giving him enough time to stop you if he wanted.
Surprisingly enough, he didn’t. Instead, he sighed quietly like you were exhausting beyond reason.
“Ridiculous girl,” he muttered. But he tilted his head upward anyway. Just enough for you to slide the lower half of the mask away and reveal his lips.
You were not seeing his eyes but you were aware that his gaze stayed on your face the entire time as you leaned closer. “You always act like you’re above these things,” you whispered softly, “but you indulge me every single time.”
“Someone,” he replied calmly, “has to tolerate your nonsense.”
And then he kissed you. The citrus flavor lingered between you while his hand rested briefly against your jaw, keeping you there for just a second longer than necessary before he finally pulled away.
You blinked at him quietly afterward. And he simply lowered the mask back into place with complete composure.
“…Didn’t you have something else?” he said after a moment. “That’s too sweet.”
You stared at him in disbelief. “That’s your review?”
“That was your objective, was it not?”
80ies, OG Zandik, coca-cola! When Zandik first took you in, he noticed very quickly that you liked flowers and though he never commented much on it, a greenhouse had quietly appeared not long afterward.
At first, it was yours. Then eventually, somehow, it became his too. Now half the plants inside were labeled with small notes in his handwriting, some altered for experiments, others growing under strange conditions only he understood. The greenhouse smelled less like a garden these days and more like a research facility pretending to be one.
Not that you minded. You found him there again that evening, standing beneath the warm glass ceiling while examining one of the glowing flowers near the center table.
“You’re stealing my greenhouse,” you complained lightly while approaching him from behind. “It was never yours exclusively,” he replied without even turning around. “You simply lacked the intellect to use it efficiently.”
You smiled. There he is, you thought to yourself.
The old man carefully adjusted one of the leaves between his fingers before speaking again. “The western section requires watering tomorrow. You’ve been neglecting it.”
“Wow, Im surprised that you noticed.”
“I notice everything.” You moved closer until your shoulder brushed against his arm. He didn’t move away. At this point, Zandik tolerated your clinginess with the same exhausted acceptance one would have toward a persistent cat.
Your gaze drifted toward the flowers surrounding him. “You know,” you murmured softly, “I think you spend more time here than I do now. Perhaps green makes you feel at ease, hm?”
With dodging your last words, he speaks “That is because unlike you, I possess consistency.”
“But you’re also turning my flowers into experiments.”
“They should be honored.”
You laughed quietly under your breath before gently taking his hand and guiding him toward the nearby table set. He looked mildly annoyed the entire time, but he still sat down, and after a second of hesitation, you settled carefully onto his lap sideways, arms slipping loosely around him while resting your head against his shoulder.
The old man let out the deepest sigh imaginable.
“Hopeless girl.”
Yet his hand still rested against your waist automatically. You smiled against his doctor coat that smells like… science!
The cola-flavored gloss still lingered faintly on your lips, and eventually he noticed too. “That scent,” he muttered after a moment. “Artificial. Overly sweet. Also, very unpleasant.”
You looked up at him innocently. “Maybe it tastes good though.”
His eyes narrowed immediately. “You cannot know without trying it, right?”
For a long second, he simply stared at you like he was debating whether or not you were worth the trouble. Then his hand moved slowly to your jaw and despite all the criticism, he kissed you anyway.
The faint cola flavor mixed between you while the greenhouse remained completely silent around you except for the soft hum of lamps overhead.
When he finally pulled away, his expression remained perfectly composed.
“…Still artificial,” he decided calmly. You burst into laughter instantly and though he clicked his tongue in disapproval you still caught the faint amusement hidden beneath it. He was now, too tired to deal with you, but still managing somehow.
yousharknotpass
kaledo-art
gummygunk
origamiaround
turnnoffyourmind
