yandere! enderman who hates it when people stare at him (including you) but LOVES staring. "it's not fine if others do it but when it's me..." ahhh enderman
"um..."
"look at me, i DARE you."
you could be doing some mining expedition in the caves or some shit and he'd randomly spawn beside you. eyes staring right at you, body too close for comfort...
it's uncomfortable. suffocating, even.
he looks at you with such an intensity that it's scary. no, scary is an understatement. it's downright terrifying.
"i swear I'm going to look into your eyes if you don't stop."
"do it. I'm waiting."
he follows you everywhere and usually he's, yeah, a pretty chill guy but for some reason if you as much as glance in his direction, you're cooked. don't even think about looking him in the eyes, he'll tweak the hell OUT.
well... and all's fine and shit until he follows you into the water. thinking about running from him? too fucking bad. we all know endermen hate water but if it means he gets to look at you...
A/N: I’m not even going to try and explain myself. One minute I was playing Minecraft, and the next I was writing 2,000+ words about a seven-foot-tall shadow man in the Warped Forest. If you’re also into being hoarded by an obsidian giant with boundary issues, welcome to the club. Bone appétit. 🍄✨ (lowkey inspired by a certain...animation. iykyk)
The Warped Forest was a hallucinogenic fever dream of cyan fungus and drifting spores. The air thrummed with a low vibration that could rattle your teeth. For most, the Nether was a realm of scorched earth and screaming soul sand, but the blue warped forest was a silent, twitchy sanctuary.
You adjusted the strap of your leather satchel, the weight of your offerings pressing against your hip. The rumors in the overworld villages were whispered like ghost stories: The Collector. They said he wasn't like the other Endermen who aimlessly plucked blocks of grass.
This one lived in the heart of the forest, possessed a mind like a vast repository of knowledge, and—most importantly—held a hoard of treasures that rivaled a Bastion.
You needed Blaze Rods.
The local fortress was swarming with more Wither Skeletons than usual, and your brewing stand sat dusty and useless back home. If the stories were true, this Enderman traded. If they were wrong, you were just a delivery service for a very tall, very lethal predator.
The "hut" wasn't so much a building. It was a massive, hollowed-out Nether wart tree, reinforced with obsidian slabs and twisted weeping vines. It stood near a ledge overlooking a lake of stagnant lava.
Stepping inside, your mouth opened in shock. The interior was an organized chaos of things that shouldn't even be in the Nether. There were cracked sea lanterns illuminating the corners with a cold, ghostly light. Shelves made of polished blackstone held delicate glass bottles, rusted iron swords, and even a dried sunflower—brown and brittle, but preserved.
"Hello?" you called out. Your voice was swallowed by the thick, fungal moss carpeting the floor.
No answer. Only the sounds of a distant Ghast and the crackle of fire from across the ravine.
You moved deeper into the dwelling. In the center of the room sat a massive table carved from a single block of ancient debris. On it lay a pile of golden ingots, a compass spinning wildly, and a stack of shimmering Blaze Rods. Your heart skipped. There were dozens of them, glowing with a dull, sunset orange.
You didn't touch them. You knew the rules of the End: looking is fine, but touching is a death sentence. Instead, you reached into your bag and pulled out your trade goods. You laid them out on the edge of the table.
A pristine, carved pumpkin (minus the seeds).
A bundle of dried sweet berries from the overworld taiga.
A small, hand-held mirror made of polished silver.
Then, you sat on a nearby crate and waited.
Time in the Nether is a fluid, unreliable thing. You might have been waiting for ten minutes or two hours when the air behind you suddenly tore open.
Vwoop.
The sound wasn't loud, but it felt like a vacuum pressing against your eardrums. The temperature in the room dropped instantly. You froze, staring straight ahead, remembering the golden rule: Do not look at the eyes.
Long, spindly fingers—far more elegant than you were told and seen of Enderman's in the Overworld—reached over your shoulder. The skin was the color of a moonless night, dusted with a faint, iridescent purple shimmer. You caught the scent of approaching rain and burnt copper.
"A traveler," a voice vibrated. It wasn't spoken through vocal cords; it sounded like several layers of voices playing at once, some reversed, some pitched into a low hum. "A small, soft thing in a sharp, harsh place."
He moved around the table, his movements fluid and unnervingly graceful. He was tall—impossibly so—with limbs that seemed to stretch longer than physics should allow. He wore a tattered, dark cloak cinched with a belt of gold chains, giving him a regal, albeit lonely, silhouette.
He didn't look at you. Instead, he leaned over the table, inspecting your offerings. His head tilted at a sharp, bird-like angle.
"Berries," he murmured, picking up the bundle. He brought them to his face. He didn't have the flat, simplistic features of a typical Enderman. His face was structured—a sharp jawline, a straight nose, and thin lips that pulled back to reveal rows of straight, white teeth. "They smell of rain."
He set the berries down and picked up the mirror. He went silent. For a long minute, he stared at his own reflection. His eyes, glowing a deep, pulsating violet, narrowed.
"Why bring me a window to my own solitude?" he asked, his tone dropping into a dangerous growl.
"It's not for solitude," you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs. "It's for... perspective. So you can see what the rest of us see when we look at you."
He turned his head toward you. You reflexively looked down at his chest, focusing on the silver buckle of his cloak.
"And what is that?" he challenged. "A monster? A thief of dirt and stone?"
"A keeper," you said firmly. "The stories say you’re the only thing in this dimension that remembers what the world looks like outside this place."
The tension in the room seemed to shift. The static hum in the air softened. He let out a long, shuddering breath that sounded like wind through a cave.
"You want the rods," he stated, gesturing vaguely at the glowing pile.
"I do. As many as you’re willing to part with."
The Enderman, who you eventually learned went by a sound that translated roughly to Elias, didn't just take your items and shoo you away. He was starved for conversation—or perhaps, starved for an audience.
"Sit," he commanded, though it felt more like an invitation.
He pulled a chair made of warped stems toward the table. As you sat, he began to sort through his collection, his long fingers dancing over the items.
"The rods are easy to get," Elias said, his violet eyes fixed on the mirror he still held. "The Blazes are mindless. They burn because they know nothing else. But these..." he touched the carved pumpkin. "This required intent. A blade. A mind. Why the face? Why make the fruit scream?"
"To ward off the dark," you explained. "In the overworld, we put lights inside them. It makes the night feel less scary."
Elias went still. "The night is not scary. The night is the only time the stars can speak." He looked at you then—not a direct stare into your pupils, but a soft, searching gaze that lingered on your face. "You have the scent of the stars on you."
He reached across the table. You flinched, but he didn't strike. Instead, he picked up a handful of Blaze Rods and slid them toward you.
"I will give you these," he said. "But not for the berries. Nor the pumpkin."
"Then for what?"
"A story," he said, his voice overlapping in that strange, haunting harmony. "Tell me about the water. Not the oceans—I know the oceans are death. Tell me about the small water. The kind that falls from the leaves after the rain. The kind that stays on your skin without burning."
You took a breath and began to speak. You told him about the morning dew in the plains, how it turned the world into a field of diamonds for ten minutes before the sun rose too high. You told him about the sound of a creek over smooth stones, a sound that wasn't like the bubbling of lava, but like a lullaby.
As you spoke, Elias leaned closer. He seemed to drink in the words. For a creature that could teleport across dimensions, he seemed trapped in a prison of his own making.
"You speak of it as if it's a gift," he whispered. "To me, a single drop is a searing brand. And yet... I find I envy the burn."
By the time you finished, the orange glow of the Blaze Rods seemed to dim against the growing intensity of the forest's blue light outside. You reached out to take the rods, your fingers brushing against the cold surface of the table.
Elias’s hand shot out, covering yours.
His skin was freezing—not the chill of ice, but the absolute absence of heat. It felt like touching the void between stars. You didn't pull away. You looked up, and for a fleeting second, your eyes met his.
The world didn't end. He didn't scream or fly into a rage. Instead, his pupils dilated, the violet light swirling like a galaxy.
"You are not afraid," he noted.
"I was," you admitted. "But you just seem... lonely, Elias."
He recoiled slightly at the use of the name, his hand retracting. He stood up, his tall frame nearly hitting the ceiling of the hut. He turned his back to you, his shoulders tense.
"Take the rods," he snapped, though there was no heat in it. "And the berries. Keep them. They will rot here, and I cannot bear to watch another thing die in this forest."
"I'll come back," you said, starting to pack away the rods into your bag.
He stiffened. Vwoop. He was suddenly behind you, his breath cold against the nape of your neck. "Why? To bring more trinkets? To see the freak in the blue trees?"
"To tell you about the snow," you said, turning around slowly. "You haven't heard about the snow yet. How it covers the world in a blanket of silence. I think you'd like the silence."
Elias stared at you for a long beat. A small, almost imperceptible tilt of his head was the only sign he had heard you.
"Bring a piece of it," he whispered. "If you can find a way to carry the cold without it melting, bring it to me."
"I’ll try."
"Go now," he said, waving a long hand. "The Piglins are moving toward the ridge. They are greedy, and they do not value stories."
As you stepped out of the hollowed tree and back into the vibrating blue haze of the Warped Forest, you looked back. The entrance to the hut was already obscured by thick vines and shifting shadows.
The weight of the Blaze Rods were heavy in your bag, but your mind was on the mirror that you left behind to make room. As you walked toward the portal, you didn’t know he was currently staring into that silver surface, looking at a face he had forgotten how to love, waiting for the girl who promised him the snow.
The trek back to the Warped Forest felt shorter this time, though the Nether was no less treacherous.
You carried a heavy glass canister, double-walled and packed with packed ice, containing a single, perfectly formed snowball preserved by a lingering touch of a Silk Touch enchantment. Beside it in your pack were other curiosities: a bundle of dried lavender, a small brass clock, and a silk scarf dyed the color of a summer sky.
The cyan woods groaned under the weight of their own spores. As you approached the hollowed-out tree, the air began to hum with that familiar, static-heavy frequency.
Vwoop.
Elias didn’t wait for you to knock on the obsidian-reinforced frame. He appeared on a jagged outcropping of netherrack above the entrance, crouching like a gargoyle. His long, dark cloak billowed in the hot updraft from the lava lakes, but his violet eyes were fixed solely on you.
"You returned," he said. The overlapping layers of his voice sounded almost... relieved. "I had calculated the probability of your demise at sixty-four percent. The Ghast activity near the delta has been high."
"I’m sturdier than I look," you called up, offering a small smile.
He descended in a single, fluid blur of motion, appearing on the ground before you without a sound. He was so tall that you had to tilt your head back significantly, though you kept your gaze strictly on the silver buckle of his cloak.
"Inside," he murmured, a long, spindly hand gesturing toward the gloom of his sanctum. "The air is thin today."
Inside, the atmosphere felt...different. It felt less like a museum and more like a home. He had arranged the mirror you gave him on a pedestal of polished basalt.
You set your bag on the table and began to unpack. "I brought the snow," you said, sliding the glass canister toward him.
Elias leaned in, his movements precise. He stared at the white orb behind the glass, his violet eyes widening. "It is... so still. Like a trapped cloud." He reached out, his long fingers hovering just an inch from the glass. "And it does not scream? It does not boil?"
"No. But if you touch the glass, you can feel the cold."
He pressed a palm against the canister. A low, rhythmic purr—a sound you didn’t know Endermen could make—vibrated in his chest. "It is quiet," he whispered. "I understand now why you said I would like the silence."
You moved on to the other items. You showed him the clock, explaining the concept of linear time, and the lavender, which filled the sulfurous air with a floral sweetness that seemed to make him dizzier than the spores.
But as you spoke, your focus began to wander.
You were sitting on a low bench, and Elias had taken a seat on the edge of the great table, his long legs crossed elegantly. Because he was relaxed, his cloak had fallen open. You found yourself watching the way his throat moved when he spoke—the sharp, line of his jaw that seemed to be carved from by the Maker himself.
Your eyes drifted to his hands. They were resting on his knees, fingers impossibly long and tipped with blunt, dark nails. They looked strong enough to crush stone, yet you had watched them handle a brittle sunflower with the delicacy of a breeze.
You wondered if his skin felt like velvet or like polished marble. You wondered if the purple light that pulsed in his veins felt warm to the touch, or if he was truly made of the void.
"You are staring," Elias said.
The vibration of his voice snapped you back.
"I—sorry," you stammered, shifting your gaze to a stack of books in the corner. "I was lost in thought."
"You were not thinking," Elias countered. He stood up, stalking toward you with a slow, predatory grace that made the air feel suddenly very thick. "You were observing. Not the items. Not the trade."
He stopped inches from you.
"You were...looking at me," he whispered, the layers of his voice syncing into a singular, dark velvet tone. "Why? There is no gold on my skin. No stars in my hands."
"I think—" you breathed, the honesty slipping out before you could check it. "I think you’re the most beautiful thing in this entire dimension, Elias. And the most lonesome."
The tension in the room snapped like a tripwire. Elias’s breath hitched—a sharp, ragged sound. He reached down, his large hands hovering near your waist, hesitating for a fraction of a second before he gripped your hips and lifted you as if you weighed nothing more than a bundle of lavender.
He sat back down on the bench, pulling you onto his lap.
You gasped, your hands instinctively flying up to rest on his shoulders. The contact was electrifying. His skin was cold, yes, but beneath it, there was a thrumming energy, a literal heartbeat of the End that felt like a low-voltage current.
"You shouldn't be here," he growled, though he pulled you closer, his long arms wrapping around your waist like iron bands. "You are soft. You are made of sun and water. I am made of the places where the light forgot to go."
"Then let me be your light," you whispered.
You finally dared to look up. You didn't look at his eyes—not yet—but you traced the bridge of his nose, the slight curve of his lips. Up close, his face wasn't monstrous. It was ethereal, and filled with a longing so profound it made your chest ache.
Elias leaned down, his forehead resting against yours. The purple particles surrounding him intensified, swirling around the two of you in a frantic, glowing dance.
"If I touch you," he warned, his voice vibrating through your own bones, "I may not be able to let you return to the world of rain."
"Maybe I don't want to go back just yet."
He let out a sound that was half-groan, half-shudder. One of his hands moved from your waist to the back of your neck, his long fingers tangling in your hair. He tilted your head back, and for the first time, he defied his own nature. He looked directly into your eyes, and he didn't blink.
He didn't scream. He didn't teleport away.
He leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.
The kiss was a collision of worlds. He tasted like cold air and ancient magic. It was clumsy at first—he had clearly never done this, his movements hesitant and sharp—but it quickly deepened into something frantic. You pressed yourself against his chest, your fingers digging into the dark fabric of his cloak, chasing the chill of his skin.
Elias made a low, needy sound in the back of his throat, his grip tightening until you were fused to him. The static in the air peaked, a high-pitched ring that felt like the universe itself was protesting the union of two things that should never have met.
But as he pulled you closer, his lips moving against yours with a growing, desperate hunger, the Nether outside ceased to exist. There was only the rhythmic tick of the brass clock on the table and the impossible warmth blooming between a creature of the void and a girl who brought him the snow.
Every time you moved, the silk of your clothes hissed against the rougher weave of his cloak, a sound that seemed to echo in the sudden silence of the hut.
Elias’s hands, normally so precise, were trembling. They drifted from your hair down to your shoulder blades, pressing you firmly against his chest. He was a creature of vast distances and empty spaces, yet here he was, seeking to eliminate every millimeter of air between your skin and his.
As you shifted on his lap, your hips caught against the ridge of his thigh, and then, more pointedly, against the stiff, heavy weight straining against the fabric of his dark trousers.
The contact sent a jolt through him. A low, glitched warble escaped his throat—a sound of pure, unadulterated shock. He went rigid, his long legs tensing beneath you, but he didn't push you away. Instead, his fingers dug into your hips, anchoring you there.
"You feel that, don't you?" you whispered against his lips, your breath hitching.
"It is... a fever," he rasped, the violet light in his eyes pulsing in time with his ragged breathing. "A hunger I have no name for. It feels like the world is collapsing inward."
You didn't answer with words. You moved again, setting a slow, purposeful pace as you grounded your weight down against him. The friction was intoxicating. Through the layers of fabric, the heat radiating from him was unlike anything you’d felt—a cold fire that seemed to sear right through your clothes.
Elias let out a choked gasp, his head snapping back against the obsidian pillar behind the bench. His throat worked as he swallowed hard, the sharp line of his Adam’s apple bobbing. He looked overwhelmed, his senses clearly firing in ways he wasn't built to handle. Every time you moved, a fresh wave of purple particles erupted around him, coating your skin in a faint, shimmering dust.
"More," he hissed, his voice dropping into a guttural register that made your toes curl. "Do not stop. I have spent centuries in the cold, and I... I did not know I could burn like this."
His hands slid down to the tops of your thighs, his long fingers splayed wide, gripping you with a strength that bordered on bruising. He began to meet your movements, his hips hitching upward in a desperate, uncoordinated rhythm. He was learning the language of your body in real-time, reacting to the small moans you made with an intensity that threatened to shake the very foundations of the hut.
The clock on the table ticked away, a rhythmic reminder of the world you’d left behind, but in here, the only time that mattered was the friction of skin on fabric and the desperate, heaving breaths of a monster discovering he had a soul—and a body that wanted to be claimed.
Suddenly, you stood up from his lap, your legs feeling like jelly, and moved toward the jagged opening that served as a window. Outside, the warped forest glowed in an eternal, sickly cyan, but inside, the shadows were long and inviting. With trembling fingers, you unbuckled your leather pouch, letting it thud heavily onto the fungal moss of the floor. Your boots followed.
Then, you reached for the waistband of your trousers. You had dressed for travel, for utility, but a bold impulse that morning had led you to leave your undergarments behind. As you slid the heavy fabric down your legs and stepped out of them, the cool, spore-heavy air hit your bare skin, making your nerves jump. You leaned forward, bracing your forearms against the cold, polished obsidian of the windowsill, and arched your back.
You didn't have to look back to know Elias was watching.
Vwoop.
Suddenly, Elias was behind you, his massive frame looming over you like a shadow come to life. The sheer scale of him was terrifying and exhilarating all at once; he was so tall that even as you bent over, his chest was level with your lower back. You felt the cold, sharp tip of his nose graze the sensitive skin along your spine as he leaned down, his breath hitching in a series of glitched, rhythmic gasps.
His hands—those long, elegant, lethal hands—found your hips. His grip was firm, his blunt nails digging slightly into the softness of your flesh as he pulled you back against him.
The first contact was a shock. He had discarded his own clothing with the terrifying speed of his kind, and as he pressed into you, you felt the sheer size of him. His cock was a heavy, pulsing rod of obsidian-dark heat, already beading pre-come at the tip.
He didn't move to enter you. Instead, he began to rub the length of himself between your cheeks. The friction was maddening. The silkiness of his skin was a stark contrast to the raw, hard power of the muscle behind it. He moved with a slow, agonizing deliberation, the tip of his cock dragging upward toward your tailbone and then back down, grazing the tight, puckered heat of your entrance.
"You are so... small," Elias rasped, his voice a distorted harmony of three different tones. "So fragile. I feel as though I could break you just by wanting you this much."
Your words seemed to have failed you in that moment as a broken moan was the only thing that escaped your mouth. You reached back blindly, one hand finding the solid, cold muscle of his thigh, the other reaching further, guiding him. Your fingers brushed against the base of him—he was thick, thicker than any human man, and his skin felt like living velvet stretched over steel.
Wordlessly, you pushed your hips back, an explicit invitation.
Elias understood. He let out a low growl that vibrated through your entire body. He adjusted his stance and positioned the blunt, broad tip of his cock, not against your cunt, but against the restricted heat of your ass.
"The water," he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear. "You said the water doesn't burn. Tell me... tell me if this burns."
He pushed.
Your breath left you in a sharp hiss as your muscles were forced to stretch and accommodate the sheer size of him. It wasn't the searing pain of fire, but a deep, heavy fullness that felt like it was rearranging your insides. Elias groaned, a sound of pure, unbridled agony and ecstasy, as he sank inches deep into you. He stopped for a moment, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder, his entire body shuddering with the effort of what little self-control he had left.
"Elias," you gasped, your fingers clawing at the obsidian sill. "Don't... don't stop."
He didn't need any more reassurance than that. He began to move, a slow, rhythmic drive that sent ripples of purple light shimmering across your vision. Every thrust was deep, bottoming out against you with a wet, heavy thud. Because he was so long, he seemed to reach parts of you that had never been touched, a profound fullness that made your head swim.
As he picked up the pace, the sounds of your joined bodies picked up.
The sound of his slick, dark length sliding in and out of your tight heat became the only music in the room. He wasn't gentle anymore. The lonesome collector had found something he didn't want to just observe; he wanted to consume it. His thrusts became harder, more frantic, his hips slamming into your backside with a force that had you reeling.
You were a mess of sensations—the cold stone under your arms, the biting coldness of his skin, and the incredible, stretching heat of him inside you. You began to meet him, rocking your hips back into every lunge, your voice rising in a series of high, desperate cries that would have surely drawn the attention of any passing Enderman or Piglin if they weren't all so terrified of the Collector’s territory.
Elias reached around, his long fingers finding your breats, his touch both alien and perfect. He leaned in, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear as he kept thrusting into you.
The transition from the window sill to the floor was a blur of sudden violet sparks. Elias, overcome by a desperate need for more surface area and more control, didn’t walk you to the center of the room. He blinked. In a sudden vwoop of displaced air, the cold obsidian sill was gone, replaced by the soft, springy texture of the cyan fungal moss that carpeted his sanctum.
The floor was soft, but you were radiating heat, and Elias was a furnace of electric energy. Before you could even catch your breath, he was pulling you up onto his body. His height made the logistics of the floor different, but he adapted with a terrifying, predatory grace. He moved behind you, his long, dark limbs weaving around yours like the very vines that strangled his hut outside.
He reached under your arms, his large, cool palms flat against your chest, and hauled your torso upward. He locked his fingers behind your neck, pulling your arms back until your chest was thrust forward and your shoulder blades touched. It was a position of total vulnerability that exposed the entire front of your body if someone were to walk in.
"You are so vibrant," he rasped into the crook of your neck, his voice a jagged harmony. "I can feel the blood rushing beneath your skin. Like a storm trapped in a bottle."
He didn't wait for a response. He re-aligned his slick covered length, to the battered heat of your rear. Having already been breached, you were open for him, but the angle of this new position made the entry feel twice as deep. When he thrusted his hips up, burying himself to the hilt in one fluid motion, you let out a strangled, high-pitched cry that was cut short as he tightened his grip on your neck, pulling your head back against his shoulder.
The pounding that followed was just as relentless when he took you against the window sill. Elias had abandoned the cautious curiosity of a collector; now a force of nature. Every time his hips slammed against yours, the impact sent a shockwave through your body that made your toes curl. He was using his superior leverage to drive himself upward and inward, hitting the depths of your ass with the accuracy of a beacon.
Elias was breathing in short, glitched hitches, his chest heaving against your back. With your arms pinned, you had no choice but to take every inch of him, your body rocking violently under his assault.
"Is this... what the overworld feels like?" he groaned, his grip tightening until you could feel the strength in his fingers. "This much friction? This much noise?"
"Yes," you choked out, your head tossing back and forth. "Elias, please...go harder."
He obeyed with a guttural groan. One second he was driving straight in, the next he had shifted his weight, his thick, pulsing shaft rubbing against a new spot. It was a sensory overload that no human could have prepared for. The purple particles in the room were so thick now they looked like a fog, swirling around the two of you as the barrier between the human and the End became nothing but a smear of sweat and friction.
He began to lose his rhythm, his thrusts becoming jagged and desperate as he neared his limit. He leaned forward, burying his face in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he let out a long, low-frequency hum that might have signaled the end. The pressure inside you built until it was unbearable, a heavy, throbbing fullness that felt like it was going to burst.
Suddenly, he reached down with those long, dark-fingered hands, grabbing your waist and hoisting you off his cock. With a strength that made your bones tingle, in the best way possible, he shoved you down onto all fours, his palms flat against your shoulder blades to pin you into the carpet. He adjusted your stance, dragging your knees apart until you were splayed wide, your spine arched into a steep, submissive curve that left your backside pointed towards him like you were offering.
The view from behind must have been devastating. Your hole was already weeping, slick with his pre-come and the friction of the previous rounds, your skin flushed a deep, bruised rose.
He knelt behind you, his massive thighs bracketing yours, and guided his heavy, throbbing cock back to your slightly gapping hole. He buried himself within you once again.
The impact was violent. You lurched forward, your forehead hitting the mossy ground, but Elias’s hands were like iron clamps on your hips, pulling you back onto his length as he began a relentless pace. He was driving into you with a frantic, desperate energy, his long torso hovering over you as he used the full weight of his frame to bury every inch of himself inside.
With every deep, punishing thrust, his heavy, dark balls slammed against your clit. The sound was a rhythmic, wet thud-slap that had your ears ringing. The contrast was maddening—the cold, electric friction of his shaft inside your ass, and the heavy, fleshy weight of him battering against your front. Each strike sent a fresh wave of lightning through your nerves, making your vision go white for a split second.
"You are... so loud," Elias hissed, his voice a distorted chorus of reverse-audio and deep velvet. He reached down, grabbing a handful of your hair to pull your head back, forcing you to look at the ceiling as he hammered into you. "Your heart... I can hear every beat. I can taste the heat coming off you."
He began to pick up speed, his thrusts becoming short, sharp, and brutal. He was bottoming out with every hit. The purple particles in the room had become a literal storm, swirling in a vortex around the two of you, stinging your skin with tiny pricks of energy that only added to the overstimulation. You were a mess of tears and moans, your fingers clawing at the moss as you tried to find purchase against the sheer force of his thrusts.
Just as you felt your own climax beginning to crest, Elias suddenly growled, his grip on your hips tightening until his knuckles turned a lighter shade of grey. In a blur of motion—a literal teleportation of inches—he flipped you over.
One second you were looking at the moss carpet; the next, you were flat on your back, your legs pinned up against your chest. Elias was looming over you, his eyes glowing like dying stars. He grabbed your ankles, folding your knees past your shoulders until you were nothing but a small, open target of pale skin and desperation.
He dove back in.
The angle was even deeper now. He was folded over you, his entire weight pressing you into the softness of the carpet, his chest crushing your breasts as he resumed his frantic pace. The friction was absolute. You could feel every ridge of his cock, every thrum of the void-energy as he drove into your ass. He was claiming the only thing in this dimension that made him feel like he existed.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a guttural rasp.
You forced your eyes open, meeting that violet gaze. The world was disappearing. There was only the sensation of him filling you, the weight of his body, and the crushing heat of his arrival.
Elias let out a glitched moan, his back arching as he hit his limit. He didn't pull out. He drove himself as deep as physically possible, his hips locking against yours as he began to dump his load. It felt like a flood of hot, thick liquid—an impossible amount of come that filled your ass to where some started dripping out of you. You could feel the heat of it coating your insides, thick liquid that felt like it was branding you from the inside out.
He stayed there for a long time, his chest heaving, his forehead resting against yours as the last of the tremors left his long limbs. The silence of the blue forest returned, but for the first time, to Elias, it didn't feel lonely.
Oh, but he was far from finished.
With a low, glitched growl of curiosity, he pulled out, hooking his long arms under your knees, dragging you towards him until your hips were elevated. He knelt between your legs, his massive frame casting a long, violet-tinged shadow over your trembling form. For a moment, he simply stared, his glowing eyes tracing the path of his cum leaking from your rear and the heavy, translucent moisture coating your folds.
"I have spent my life collecting stones and stars," he whispered, the layers of his voice vibrating against your inner thighs. "But they are cold. They do not weep like this."
He leaned in, his face disappearing between your legs. The first touch of his tongue was a revelation—it wasn't soft like a human’s, but slightly textured. He didn't just lick; he was practically making out with your pussy, his mouth wide and hungry as he sought to consume every drop of you. He used his nose and jaw to nudge your labia apart, burying his face in your heat until you were breathing in the scent of his skin and he was drinking in the salt and honey of your climax.
As his tongue flicked over your swollen clit with the precision of a needle, he reached up with one of those massive, elegant hands. He didn't hesitate, driving two of those dark digits into your pussy.
The stretch was immense. You were already sopping wet, but his fingers were so broad they filled you instantly, stretching the delicate walls of your entrance until you were sure you’d tear. He began to hook his fingers, mimicking the curved, grasping motion of a claw, dragging them against your G-spot.
"You are so tight around my fingers," Elias rasped, his voice muffled against your heat.
He picked up the pace, his mouth working frantically against you, sucking on your clit while his thick fingers hammered into you. The sensation was a chaotic mix of cold and heat, of sharp electricity and dull, heavy thudding. You were pinned to the moss by the sheer weight of his attention, your fingers tangling in the dark, tattered silk of his hair as you arched your back, your cries a melody to his ears.
He was relentless, his massive fingers opening you up, stretching you further than you thought possible until you were nothing but a raw nerve ending. He didn't stop until your entire body went rigid, a violent, shaking orgasm rippling through you that left you gasping for air while the Collector finally pulled back, his lips stained with your essence and his eyes shining with a dark, satisfied hunger.
Before you could even beat again, your back was slammed into the rough, spongy bark of a massive warped-wart tree.
The forest was darker here, the cyan light filtered through heavy, weeping vines. Elias had you pinned before you could even register the change of scenery. His massive frame crushed you against the trunk, his hands like iron shackles as they gripped your thighs and hoisted you upward. Instinctively, your legs wrapped around his waist, your ankles locking behind the small of his back to keep from falling.
He didn't wait. He crashed his mouth against yours, a messy, desperate collision of teeth and tongue. You could taste yourself on his tongue, the mere thought had you moaning into his mouth.
His cloak was discarded somewhere back in the hut, leaving his lean, muscular torso bare against yours. The contrast was startling—your soft, flushed skin against the dark, midnight-grey silk of his. He adjusted his grip, one hand sliding from your thigh to the back of your head, his long fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your face back.
Below, where your heat met his, the tension was unbearable. His slicked covered cock was pressed firmly against the heat of your cunt. You were leaking, a steady trail of juices running down your inner thighs, and the blunt, broad head of his length was caught right in the center of your mess.
"You're dripping for me," Elias growled, his violet eyes glowing with a predatory intensity. "Even after I filled you, your body is still pliant for me. Tell me, little traveler... what happens if I don't stop until there's nothing left of you but my seed in your cunt?"
"Then do it," you gasped, your fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders. "Destroy me, Elias. Fill me until the overworld is nothing but a mere memory."
A glitched, dark chuckle vibrated in his chest. He shifted his hips, the tip of him snagging on the edge of your folds before he gave one sharp, brutal thrust.
With your legs wrapped around him and your back braced against the tree, there was nowhere for the sensation to go but straight to your core. He buried himself in one fluid motion, the sheer girth of him stretching your wet, plush pussy to its absolute limit. You let out a rather pleased moan, your head snapping back against the bark as the rough texture of the tree bit into your back.
"Look at how you take me," he whispered, leaning down to lap at the pulse point of your neck. "So greedy. You want every inch of me, don't you?"
He began to fuck you then. Every time he thrusted up, your body was crushed between his unyielding strength and the warped wood. The sound was filthy—the wet, rhythmic squelch of his length sliding in and out of your over-stimulated heat, punctuated by the heavy thud of his hips hitting yours.
"Talk to me," he commanded, his voice dropping into a guttural, terrifyingly low register. "Tell me how it feels to have a monster inside you. Tell me what I’m doing to your little human body."
"It's... it's too much," you sobbed, your eyes rolling back. "You're stretching me... you're so big, Elias... I feel like you're going to touch my heart from the inside."
"I am," he rasped, his pace quickening into a blur of motion. "I’m taking everything. Every breath, every moan. I’m collecting you, and I’m never putting you back on a shelf."
He started to use his teleportation in short, jagged bursts—not to move you, but to increase the friction. One second he was withdrawing, the next he had blinked back into you with twice the force, the purple particles stinging your skin and making your internal muscles spasm around him. It was an assault on every sense you possessed.
He reached down, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing it with a callous, heavy pressure even as he continued to hammer into your pussy. You were a mess of fluids, your voice rising in a frantic, high-pitched wail that echoed through the cyan trees.
Elias was nearing his limit, his breath coming in sharp hitches. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as his thrusts became shorter, faster, and more violent.
"I’m going to fill you again," he hissed, his body beginning to vibrate with the coming discharge. "I’m going to leave so much of myself inside you that you’ll smell of the End for a week. You’re mine. My little star. My only piece of the light."
With a final, bone-deep lunge, he locked his arms around you, pinning you so hard against the tree that you thought the wood might crack. He let out a long, haunting cry—a sound of pure, dimension-shattering release—as he pulsed inside you, a massive, hot torrent of come flooding your pussy. Your head collapsed against his shoulder, your legs shaking in his grasp as he continued to hold you through the aftershocks of both your orgasms.
The transition back to the hut was softer this time, a gentle fold in space that deposited you both onto a surface that was startlingly out of place for the Nether. It was a massive bed, or rather a nest, framed by polished obsidian and dark warped-stems, but the mattress was a sprawling expanse of white wool and silk—materials that would have required a small fortune to smuggle past the Ghasts and Piglin patrols.
For a long moment, the only sound was the noises outside of the hut, the ticking of the brass clock on the table and the ragged, syncing breaths of two bodies cooling down.
Elias didn’t pull away. He lay on his side, his impossibly long limbs tangled with yours, one arm draped over your waist with a possessive weight. The violet glow in his eyes had dimmed to a soft, pulsating lavender, casting a dreamlike light over the room.
He reached out, his long fingers trembling slightly as he brushed a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. His touch, once so predatory, was now almost reverent.
"The bed," you murmured, your voice raspy and small in the quiet of the room. "Elias... how did you get all this wool?"
He let out a low, vibrating hum—a sound that felt like a purr against your ribs. "I took it. A few piece at a time. Over many years. I didn't know what it was for, initially. I only knew that when I touched it, it felt like the opposite of the Nether." He shifted closer, his nose grazing yours. "I suppose, thinking on it now, I think I was building it for someone who hadn't arrived yet."
You smiled, reaching up to trace the sharp, elegant line of his jaw. "You're a very strange Enderman, Elias."
"And you are a very brave sacrifice," he countered, though his tone was devoid of its earlier sharp edge. "Do you truly intend to go back? To the world where the water falls from the sky and the sun burns the eyes?"
"I have to," you whispered, seeing the flash of ancient loneliness flicker in his gaze. "But I told you... I’ll bring the snow. And I’ll bring more stories. I’ll bring you the smell of the pine forests and the sound of the wind through the wheat fields."
Elias went silent, his violet eyes searching yours. He looked down at your hands, fascinated by the difference in scale—your small, warm fingers resting against his large, midnight-grey palms.
"I have spent centuries watching the stars from the End," he said softly, the layers of his voice finally settling into a singular, haunting melody. "I thought I understood distance. But I didn't understand it until I felt you move three inches away from me just now. That is the greatest distance I have ever known."
He pulled the silk covers up over both of you, the fabric cool against your sensitized skin. He tucked your head under his chin, his chest acting as a solid, thrumming pillow.
"Stay," he commanded, but it wasn't a threat. It was a plea. "Stay until the clock stops ticking. Just for this one night, let the Overworld wait."
You closed your eyes, snuggling in closer. "I'm not going anywhere, Collector. You’ve already caught me."
As sleep began to pull at you, you felt him press a cold, lingering kiss to the top of your head, his long arms tightening around you as if he were afraid you might turn into a puff of purple smoke and vanish back into the world of rain.
How Characters Would React: If you told them that you have a headache
Masterlist
Hey guys! Just trying out something new to get back in my groove I suppose :) I have been busy with school and uploading on my AO3 actually LOLL I have a nice project going on over there at the moment that I'm kind of proud of ^w^
Characters:
~ Michael Thane ~ Enderman ~ Hermes ~ Tron ~ Ahkmenrah ~ V1 ~ Silent Salt Cookie ~
Multifandom ~ Headcanons ~ Fluff
Words: 881
Published: 11/29/2025
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Michael “Mike” Thane - Fallen Aces
“You have a headache? I have the perfect solution.”
The man would give his own mixture of alcohols and assorted medicine
You should probably refuse the drink
He has dealt with headaches enough through both of his careers, so he wouldn’t try to push you to work or force you to get better quick
Mike would actually be helpful, insisting you stay in his apartment if you guys live separate
He would take any work that you needed to finish, like another detective case or tending a bar or any career you have
Mike may be an ambitious and driven man, but he isn’t stupid
Enderman - Minecraft
Brother can’t speak any human languages, so they wouldn’t understand when you tell them what’s wrong
Enderman would probably be confused and worried about you when you get dizzy or irritated at the pain
They can’t understand your words, but they do recognize pain, a universal feeling
Prepare for multiple grass blocks to appear next to your bed
They would hover nearby your bed, if you have a tall enough roof, or outside your base
Confused but doing their best
Hermes - EPIC: The Musical
“A headache? Dahling, you mortals are so fragile…”
Hermes would offer to get Apollo to fix you right up immediately, making up some random excuse about owing a favor
If you’re on Apollo’s good side, you’ll be right as rain immediately
If not, or if the sun god is busy (or just mad at his half-brother), then I suppose you’re on your own with the other deity
Hermes would spend his time with you, offering ways to cure boredom without increasing the headache
Most likely rambles on about random stories to help you sleep and stop all thinking to lessen your headache
With his luck and favor, the headache should leave quick… unless he keeps talking /j
Tron - Tron
“A… headache? Like… buffering?”
This stoic program of strength of diligence… oh he is so amazing
Having a headache would assume that you are a User, or maybe just a faulty program
Tron wouldn’t understand the feeling, being a literal program
But goodness, he would try his best
He’s not obliviously idiotic with it, but rather curious and questioning
Before Legacy, Uprising, and Betrayal, Tron is more a gentle and protective program that isn’t fully briefed on the anatomy of Users
After being around Flynn for ages, though, he was given basic understanding of Users
Tron would follow your advice mostly, but would also urge you to take it easy and relax
He is a security program; of course he’ll make sure you are fully healthy and operational
Ahkmenrah - Night At The Museum
“A headache? Let’s get you some rest; I can arrange for anything you’ll need.”
He is so kind and careful with you, knowing that modern humans can’t be revitalized with ancient spells
Ahkmenrah makes sure that you have somewhere to lay down comfortably, already having the other exhibits sent out to get blankets, water, pillows, medicine, etcetera
Teddy can manage the museum dwellers for one night surely
He’ll lay next to you the whole night, humming quiet lullabies he remembered from eons ago, or whispering stories that he would never forget
Ahk will even take it upon himself to order the exhibits to return to their areas, with the help of the tablet, of course
By morning, he knows you’ll both have to go back to where you belong, with you returning home and him sitting back in the sarcophagus
But for the night, he could at least help you recover from cognitive pains
V1 - Ultrakill
He’ll give a whirl of beeps and code, not exactly understanding what you mean
Are you hurt? He can get you some blood!
Yeaahhh, expect a lot of blood and gore to be honest
You can’t blame the machine, though; he is programmed to rely on blood as fuel and a healing source
You can try to explain that you don’t need blood, but the insistent bot might not care or even attempt to comprehend your point
Well, it’s the thought that counts, right?
Silent Salt Cookie - Cookie Run Kingdom
“A headache? What caused this?”
Pre-corruption
Salt is protective; he cares for literally everyone
But with you, he indulges in just a little more favoritism
As much as he denounced the idea of playing favorites, the commander has always given you a little more care, subtly, of course
While he does help you lay down and relax, he also wants to know the cause too
What’s the use of a solution if you don’t know the origin?
If you have a genuine answer, he’ll solve it as quickly as possible
Too bright? You can pull tapestries over the windows of the upper rooms
Too loud? He’ll walk you to a quiet room deep in the keep and away from any bright lights
Stressed? You can leave training early just this once to take a walk and a breather
If you don’t have an answer immediately or you just don’t know, that’s alright too
Salt will do what he can to help you out while not being overbearing or becoming the cause to a second headache
He truly cares for you; it’s just difficult to prove it sometimes
A/n: why did I write this? I don't know. Endermen are cute and I am sleep deprived. If there are any grammatical errors, it's not my fault, blame the school system and the fact that English isn't my first language either. Happy reading!
Your trip to the flower biome was successful, you found the roses you had wanted.
It was getting dark as you rowed through the small river that led you back home. Chills run down your back as the breeze pushes into your face. God, it was getting cold out. Yet you still had quite a way to go to get back home.
Out of the corner of your eye, you spot two shimmering purple balls of light. Staring. You decide to not engage with it, not wanting to harm it considering your circumstances. You were not only tired, but also cold. Maybe even a bit hungry.
Nevertheless, as you row and row, the inky figure teleports to match your pace. You row a bit faster, it also speeds up. You slow down, it simply walks alongside you.
Confused. You come to a stop and look at it's body. Although, you could see it still staring at you through your peripheral vision, you dare not look it in the eyes. You knew better than that. After a few seconds, it abruptly teleports away leaving only a pile of violet and pink particles in it's wake.
For a moment you're left a bit confused, looking around to see if you can spot it, only to look up and see those same purple eyes staring right at you. 'woah, so pretty and soft' it crouches down and sniffs your neck, burying its face in your skin as if it had some primal urge to do so...and then the realisation hits you. FUCK. YOU JUST LOOKED AT IT AND IT WAS IN YOUR BOAT, RIGHT BEHIND YOU, YOU TURN AND REACH FOR YOUR SWOR-…why isn't it attacking? ….or screaming?
You pause, hand on the hilt of your weapon. It's tall lanky frame made you feel like an ant as it just stared at you. That's all it does. Stares.
"…..Are you gonna attack me or-..?"
Your confused tone only makes it reply with a deep gutteral noise. Your hand moves away from your sword.
"…..Ok, I'm confused, you guys usually just attack me or at least scream..?"
Another gutteral groan.
"…Do you….want this?" You take one of the roses you had picked earlier and hold it out for the enderman to take.
Very slowly it tilts it's head, gaze going to your hand. After staring at it for a while, it takes the flower and looks back into your eyes, it makes another very deep noise that almost resembled a "thank you" of some sort before teleporting away again, leaving you in confused a bubble of pretty particles that slowly fade away.
A soft chuckle escapes your lips and you sit back down in your boat, returning to your journey back home while pondering what the fuck just happened. There has to be some scientific explanation for it….right?…..right?
Finally, you open your front door and after gently placing the flowers onto a table, fall onto your couch.
And yet you couldn't shake off the feeling that you were somehow being watched still, even now, while at home. Didn't feel like a serial killer though…this gaze felt more…just curious?
You try to ignore it and assume you're just imagining things, eventually standing up and walking upstairs into your bedroom, doing your night routine and getting into your pijamas.
But even while trying to sleep. Purple clouded your mind. It's eyes looked so gentle And mesmerizing…maybe…maybe one day you'll see those violet oracle's again.
hello! i made a minecraft x reader fic // hola! hice un fic de minecraft x reader
you can find it on ao3 or wattpad. The fic name is "A place you don't belong" and my user (in both sites) is "Drimurio". I dont know how to put a direct link to the fics, sos sorry for that :(
There is a version in english and a version in spanish of the fic btw
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lo podes encontar en ao3 o wattpad. El nombre del fic es "A place you don't belong" and my user (en ambos sitios) es "Drimurio". No se poner un link directo al fic, mil disculpas por eso :(
El fic tiene una versión en ingles y una versión en español de pasada
There's a very specific reason why it's so taboo for endermen to look eachother in the eyes. That reason? One, it's taken as a challenge. Two, they can actually hypnotize mobs with their eyes, including eachother. In their culture, looking someone in the eyes is the same as if you were to spit on someone, if they don't know eachother or aren't close partners.
Endermen all have different body sizes and shapes!! Some are more muscular (but still slim) and some can even be somewhat chubby compared to the average enderman. Some can even reach 10 or 11 feet tall.
Endermen are extremely cold to the touch. They don't have warm blood, so their temperature is either freezing, or they're just a little under room temperature.
If you were to theoretically be picked up by an enderman, it's fully possible for them to teleport with you in their hands. It's also very disorienting for humans. Do with this info what you will.
If you happen to be hypnotized by an enderman, the hypnosis can last from 10 minutes up to an hour, and usually the hypnosis just makes the body relax and go into a nearly unconscious state. Sucks to be you, lmaoo... Unless you're into that, like I am.
Endermen can purr! Kinda. Okay it's a little weird, it's kind of like if a dragon were to growl or snore, that's what their purring sounds like. But a purr is a purr, right?
They have VERY spindly fingers, and I have VERY normal thoughts about that.
Their feet are more like hooves in a way, but not hooves? It's hard to describe. Basically imagine foot binding and then the foot hardened into what is basically a hoof, and overtime, their anatomy simply evolved to match that.
A lot of endermen have comfort items or prized possessions. One may keep a shiny rock with them, another may keep a rabbit pelt on their waist to touch. Endermen generally love textures and scents, as despite having great vision, it's their favorite way of analyzing the world. (Autism?)
Endermen have their own language, kind of like how villagers and piglin do! Those weird noises they make? That's them talking. I have no clue what they're saying either, don't ask me, I'm just the author.
[[X READER!!]]
Most endermen are very calm and composed, but can become extremely defensive over their partners. Many are also very lonesome creatures, and being flirted with is rare. Depending on how timid the one you're trying to rizz up is, they may just teleport away with a small surprised growl. Sad.
Based on how an enderman views the player (you!) they'll either treat you as a possession, or a friend. One may keep you close by as a comfort item or show you off like jewelry, another may come to you to playfully annoy you, much like a human or villager would.
Oh yeah, some endermen are tricksters! Have fun having your weapons be placed in completely different spots or a few blocks missing from your house. Some might even leave signs for you to read- Problem is, they speak enchantment table. Literally. They usually don't write in english or any human language.
Speaking of speaking, they quite literally take your voice. Doesn't matter if you're opposite genders, they will mimic your voice and that will be the way they speak to you. Either that, or they take small tidbits of a villager's voice, but that gives them an accent. (Yup. Villagers have accents. Sigh i love theorizing on language)
If the enderman that likes you sees you as a comforting person, and they're especially anxious, expect to be followed closely and your hand held. Even when you're sleeping. Endermen don't usually sleep often, but if you're sleeping, they may choose to sleep next to you. They're still human in the way some want connection still. It's actually quite sad.
There's a small chance that they might allow you to look them in the eyes, even if just for a short moment. It's a sign of trust, and only allowed between people who are close. Careful though, more mischievous ones may hypnotize you randomly for the sillies!
_____
UGHHHHHH I WANNA MAKE ONE ABOUT PIGLINSSSUHHHHH I find it so fun theorizing about species and culture and language and ITS SO FUN AÀAHAHAHA
Summary: Amidst the struggle of surviving in an unfamiliar world, you find an unusual friend.
Relationships: Platonic Enderman & Reader
Rating: 12+
Warnings: Background violence and injuries typical of Minecraft in survival mode; not gratuitous.
Word Count: 3009
Author's Note: After six months of gathering dust in my drafts, this story is finally here! I originally planned to post this around October just in time for Halloween, but life got in the way. Luckily, uni has died down for me enough to wrap this up. Apologies if it's a little unpolished. Happy holidays, and cuddle your local Enderman!
You could almost forget how lonely you were here.
You had no memory of your life prior to this place. Nothing behind you to hold on to, and nothing in front of you to guide you when your own instincts weren’t enough. The hours spent reaching backwards in your mind for any trace of the past yielded only a blank slate.
Not that it would have helped you. The world you found yourself in was unforgiving of error and punished hesitation. Any unnecessary deliberation on your part was asking for disaster. Nostalgia couldn’t soothe the hunger pains in your belly.
Time moved quickly, leaving you precious few hours to forage and build during the day. Minutes slipped through your fingertips like silt, and by the time you finally got your bearings, the dipping sun was already beckoning you to bed from its cradle on the horizon. A night out would mean braving the monsters that crooned in the tall grasses beyond your home. In the few weeks you scraped together an existence here, you had more than your share of close calls, often stumbling home under the meager light of the moon with a skeleton’s arrow lodged in your armor. Hissing, you would nurse your wounds on your bed with the scrappy gauze you salvaged from a dead spider’s string.
Just half a moon ago, you nearly lost your life and all of your ore after one of them scared you senseless in the caverns. You lost your footing on the ledge and would have plummeted to your death had you not grabbed hold of a tangle of vines at the last possible moment. You swore never again would you be so careless.
So for the time being, you were playing it safe. No going out into the mines, even at the height of day when you brought plenty of food and torches in your rucksack. No exploration beyond the trough of the valley that lay as far as you can see. Definitely no picking fights with monsters that you didn’t need to.
Instead, you would use the opportunity to recuperate and revise your strategy. Take inventory before trying everything again. And, if luck would have it, devise a course of action to expand your humble base.
Sometimes, you wished you had more to look forward to than just surviving.
Your plan lasted about a day before an unfortunate complication forced you outside.
It was bound to happen. When you could rely on nothing else, luck was a resource to be rationed wisely. Use it all trying to stay alive, and it runs out when you least expect it.
The fence you erected along the perimeter of your house was missing a few chunks. Certainly not because you were working there. You had taken a break from that project to smelt iron for axes and swords for your next escapade into the woods. Those green beasts weren’t to blame, either. You saw the destruction they caused whenever their bodies detonated, and the explosion would have taken out your entire shelter.
What could it have been?
You heard a warble behind you and spun on your heel, wooden sword unsheathed in an instant to face whatever took you by surprise.
It shuffled backwards with a startled croak, long legs stumbling for purchase in the grass.
With some distance between yourself and the creature, you could get a better look at it. He was tall—so tall that your head barely met his torso. His limbs were similarly elongated, and clutched between its spindly hands was the very clay block you were looking for.
He warbled again, and the sound was vaguely avian with…something else. You didn’t meet his eyes, focused instead on the subtle patterns adorning his dark body. It wasn’t fur, exactly. More like a soft layer of down covering plush skin. If you looked carefully, it seemed to morph between shades of violet—like the milky traces of the galaxies above you reflected on a pond at night.
Your fingers splayed out and reached for him before you knew what you were doing. But in the blink of an eye, you heard a poof and your visitor was gone, leaving only a faint aftershimmer in his wake.
You hadn’t even registered that your blade slipped from your hand. You stood there for a few minutes, empty hand slack at your side, staring at the trampled grass in front of you.
You needed to find him again.
You hummed to yourself in the kitchen, feet shuffling on the checkered floor as you bounced your head to the jaunty tune playing from your jukebox.
That was a new fixture in your home, and already your favorite. After some recent introspection, you decided there was no use in staying cooped up in your base—not when your finite supplies were dwindling and there was so much yet to be seen beyond your home.
Your curiosity rewarded you. What you thought was a humble vein of coal led gave way to a gaping ravine teeming with layers of ore. Even up high on a granite alcove, you could see the unmistakable glint of diamonds somewhere at the bottom.
You just couldn’t help yourself.
Hours later, haggard and slickened with sweat, your legs threatened to give out beneath you. Fortunately, the treasures you found were more than enough to spur you on to the mouth of the cave.
You dropped your loot at the foot of your bed and surveyed the pile, every piece looking more tempting than the last. Heaps of gold and iron ingots twinkled by the light of your lantern. An upturned saddle revealed dusty tomes of books in a language you couldn’t quite translate—something that would make for an interesting conversation with the librarian on your next trip to the village. Best of all, though, were the pumpkins!
Maybe it was frivolous. But you scooped out the insides of a pumpkin to make soup during your first week and it made your insides feel warm and relaxed like nothing else did during those grueling days, when you didn’t know the first thing about this world or your place in it. When you had a taste, you could almost feel like things would turn out alright.
You figured you could afford this little piece of comfort, if nothing else.
You spent all morning experimenting with the gourds to bake a special treat to commemorate your accomplishment. Now, your mouth watered as you pulled the sweetly spiced pumpkin pie from the oven.
You placed the warm dish on your open windowsill. The aroma was so tantalizing that you had to remind yourself to let the pastry cool off for a few minutes—just enough time for you to set your tiny table and prepare the whipped cream that would taste delicious dolloped on top of your slice.
By the time you looked up from your handiwork, though, something was amiss.
The pie you so eagerly prepared now bore a gaping hole in its side—decidedly bite-shaped, as though a passerby had come and saw an opportune moment for a snack.
It didn’t take you long to find the culprit. One look out the window, and you were face-to-torso with your pie thief. Caught orange-handed, he let out a strangled choke, custard still stuck to his cheeks.
The situation was so absurd that you couldn’t help but snort. “Too hot?”
The creature gurgled in what must have been confirmation. Still, he stuck his claw once more into the dish only to draw it back sharply, as if stung.
“You have to wait for it to cool, buddy.” You chuckled. “Or else it’ll burn your mouth!”
He crooned sorrowfully, shifting in place.
“Hey,” you said softly. “That doesn’t mean you can’t eat it. You just have to wait. Then it’s really tasty.”
He croaked thoughtfully and gave the dish a light poke. Needs some more time to cool. Luckily, pie wasn’t the only thing you made.
You removed the lid from another pan on your counter and tore off a hunk. You cradled your hand under the piece as several crumbs broke off onto your palm. “Pumpkin bread. It’s just as good as pie!”
Your visitor perked up at that. With a flourish of purple, he was standing in your kitchen.
With your coaxing, he gingerly pried off a piece of his own, pensively chewing for a minute before downing it with a comical gulp.
He crooned happily. You could have sworn that his patterns glowed a little brighter.
“You like it?” you slid the pan towards him. “Here. Have as much as you want. I could use someone to share this with.”
The table was quickly forgotten as the two of you made yourselves comfortable on the ground. Clinking forks and creaking floorboards were the music to your conversation as you dug into your dessert. Tales you never thought you would have the chance to share now leapt from the tip of your tongue in your newfound courage. From the way your friend trilled and nodded his head during the lulls between your stories, you were certain he could understand you.
It should have been crazy. If you were someone else observing this, it would have looked nonsensical; laughing and sharing your food with something you couldn’t pretend to understand without drawing your sword. Whatever deity watched over you knew that was the only strategy you’d known for as long as you’ve tread this soil.
Somehow, that was the last thing on your mind.
The earthy smell of petrichor filled the air as you padded out to the field beyond your house.
There he was again. He’d picked up the habit of lingering by the fence while you were out planting your crops. A faithful sentinel guarding your produce from whatever stray forest critters or monsters may peck at them. The thought was reassuring. You started leaving out scraps from your kitchen in a chest by the lot for him—a leg of baked chicken here, a browned apple there. He tore right into whatever you gave him as though it was his last meal.
Which, given the lengths of time he would disappear into the caves, it just might be.
The thought worried you more than you would admit. Still, he returned to your paddock without fail, bearing gifts of hunks of dirt and shiny rocks from the mountains. You made a place for them all in a mound by your front door lined with poppies and dandelions. It gave your home a strange charm.
In turn, you decided to let him in. It was an awkward fit—the top of his head barely missed the ceiling, and his long limbs had the unfortunate tendency of knocking things over. Everywhere. Your potted daisy was the first casualty of his large form. He made a noise of remorse, shrinking into himself as you swept up the broken shards. You reassured him that you had plenty of surplus clay to make a new pot, and his pelt returned to its original luster.
Your kitchen was a source of endless fascination to him. No doubt because of the menagerie of sights and smells on display. He helped himself to the remnants of your last meal, and you didn’t stop him. He looked hungry.
Yet the dampened basin startled him, a harsh gasp ripping its way from his throat as he vanished into the corner of your living space. You rushed to his side.
Ah. He didn’t like water. That explained a lot. You hoped to catch a glimpse of your acquaintance from the shore when you rowed out to sea to replenish your stocks of fish. No such luck. You’ll have to remember that for the future.
For now, though, you would offer what you could; comfort.
“Sorry, buddy,” you whispered. “I didn’t know that would happen. I’ll make sure it doesn’t again, okay?”
Your companion croaked in whimpered assent, rocking in place. You learned from observation that he tended to do this when stressed or overwhelmed, after hours of failed hunting or when caught in broad daylight by the boisterous village, without friends or family of his own kind to guide him to safety.
But rocking grounded him. Swaying in place like the reeds clustered by the river brought him back to himself, new and strong and ready to face the world again.
So you let him do just that. Eventually, you joined, limbs yielding and following his motion, forward and back, two gusts of wind softly tousling the woolen carpet.
Your sword broke.
It was a long time coming and you knew it. Your wooden blade, once sturdy in the face of overgrown thicket and engorged arachnids, had now snapped in two. Blunted and cleaved straight through the hilt, you cast it into the grass paces behind you.
If only it lasted longer.
Even so, it was meager protection against the horde of monsters that followed you as you made your way from the village. It was sundown; that alone should have made you stay in place. But you would have overstayed your welcome, bickering with a villager for shelter in their already crowded home.
Doing it twice was enough. A third and you would have lost your place in the only trading outpost around within a day’s distance of walking.
Granted, it would have saved you from the gashes that stung as you shuffled to your front door.
You barely made it to your bed before collapsing onto the sheets, cradling your wounded leg. You haphazardly fumbled with the vial of elixir stashed away just for these days, hissing as the fluid left a burning trail in the wake of your tender skin. Best not to strain it now.
Except you needed your gauze. Which, upon inspection, was in a dwindling ball at the bottom of your crate. Barely enough to cover your injury, let alone with the pressure you needed to fix it in place.
Tears sprung to your eyes.
This was it. Your wounds would remain open and infection would ensue. The inflammation would make the pain unbearable and rob you of whatever capacity for movement remained in your body. You would die right where you laid, alone and growing colder by the minute. The world would not miss you; the sun would rise as it always did and the elements would take over your home, burying what little evidence of your existence you’d eked out for yourself over the months.
You thought you would last longer. For as long as you could remember, you strived to make it happen.
Yet not even the smallest bug in this valley could decide their own end.
Maybe you should try going to sleep. Even if dreaming couldn’t end your pain, it could dull it, lulling you into rare memories warm as sun-leavened grassbeds where nothing could find you.
You closed your eyes and thought of the moon, round and silver in the sky.
Until a faint crooning woke you from your reverie.
You looked up, though you could have recognized him blind. You would have answered the call of his familiar melody anywhere.
And clutched in his outstretched claw was your salvation.
You sat up with a grunt, but that was all the motion he allowed you, silently taking your leg in his grasp. You all but embraced your friend, yielding to the warmth of his lap as he bandaged your wound. It was clumsily done, but less so as you guided and helped his claws with your own fingers.
With the final fastening of the gauze, it was done. Affixed above your knee and aided by your healing elixir, the bandage would speed your recovery. You would live through this and emerge ready to explore again.
All because of your loyal companion. The one that awaited your return when no one else could, ready with the fruits of foraging that he saw you use to sustain yourself.
One of which saved your life.
You stayed in his arms, head nestled in the smooth fur along his chest. His heart beat a steady tempo behind your ear. Soft yet reliable.
Just like him.
“Thanks, buddy,” you murmured. From the corner of your eye, the faint shimmer of purple confirmed all that he would have said.
You will not be alone in this.
Your breathing slowed as you curled in closer, and he returned the gesture, bringing you closer to his warmth. He let out a tired chuff against your hair.
The morning was kind to you both.
Now able to ambulate around your home, you nibbled on some leftovers your friend brought to you in bed. You could have grabbed them yourself, but he made sure you didn’t need to.
Pumpkin pie.
You savored the sweetness on your tongue and took your time finishing the slice. You could afford that now. Your crops were harvested from the paddock and sorted in your kitchen and the chickens fed. Two things your companion made sure of.
He’d been around long enough to learn the ropes of things and proved himself a quick learner. You encouraged every step of the way, taking his errors in stride while learning more yourself. All thanks to him, you knew exactly where to search in the caves for the richest veins of ore. You would never run out of iron now.
All the while, your friend followed you and familiarized himself with every place you frequented along your journey. Though laying next to you underneath the covers was, by far, his favorite.
There, the two of you were safe from the rain that pattered against your window, warmed by the dance of the flames in your hearth and the tinkling song of your jukebox.
You were a strange pair, but you worked together when nothing else could.
There was still much you didn’t understand about this world, but if you learned one lesson, it was that things did not have to make sense to be beautiful.
