Series Summary: An AU where clone squads are sometimes assigned an Emotional Support Partner who is equal parts counselor, mediator (and spouse) in order to keep morale and loyalty as high as possible—somebody gets a job and at least several fairly loyal not-on-paper-but-you-know husbands, while the squadron of clones are less inclined to do things that, you know, make accidental babies happen.
Featured Clones: Domino Squad (Hevy & Cutup)
Rating: Explicit
It’s… quiet. Almost. Even with the sound of the music echoing from the command deck and the boys in various states of jokes and bickering, it’s somehow still… quiet, in a fashion.
Though you want to use it, peaceful isn’t really the right word—the Rishi moon outpost exists solely as an early warning system in the case of Separatist invasion, so you suppose that life on it can never quite be truly ‘peaceful’ by the most traditional of definitions. Always waiting for an attack, always worried that you’d wake up to the sound of blaring alarms and blaster shots; the anxiety never quite left the back of your thoughts.
Of course, you literally signed up for a life like this; the officers handling your papers in the Companion Program had been very overt in what would be expected if you decided to be with Domino Squad. Their assignment to the outpost arrived quickly after graduating from Kamino, and your arrival was all but scarcely afterwards.
That had been a while ago, and you had long-since lost track of the days when it became apparent that the Rishi Moon Outpost was… less than active, which is technically a good thing. The boys call it boring—or, most of them do. Hevy and Cutup tend to be the first to grumble whenever someone brought it up, but Echo never seems bothered.
You’re always catching him with a holopad in his hands and, without fail, he wants to ramble to you about some obscure regulation or rule that you’d never realized existed. His current policy obsession seems to be the Companion Program, and you do have to admit he helped you figure out quite a lot in just the first few weeks of knowing him. The man’s ability to memorize information was fantastic.
“Did you know that, technically, you are part of the chain of command?” he had asked one day over dinner, a bland mix of rations and shipped fresh goods that only came once a month.
You of course didn’t know such information, but Echo had been ecstatic to tell you about it. He shot off immediately into a ramble about various details of the program you doubted anyone else would find even a quarter as interesting.
But that was several days ago, though the memory still felt fresh enough with how little did genuinely seem to happen from one day to the next—and today you are ‘helping’ to keep an eye on the security cameras with Hevy and Cutup. ‘Helping’ of course is in the loosest sense of the word, given the fact that you technically have no obligation to do the same job as any clone in your assigned squadron. But, like many spouses in a similar position outside of the front-lines, you try to do so anyway… even if the job is as entertaining as watching grass grow.
”At least the meteor showers break things up,” you offer, waving a hand towards the console, “So you can’t say there’s nothing that happens here.”
The next wave of raining rocks would be in an hour of course, though the only thing different to do for the two men manning the station is press the button to activate the facility’s shields.
Hevy rolls his eyes. “Baby,” he says, voice almost cooing the pet name he’d started calling you, “you’re starting to sound like Echo.”
You glance at him for a moment as your lips curl into a smile.
“So what if I am?”
”Then that means I should start callin’ you Echo-2.”
”Maybe jus’ ‘Two’,” Cutup offers with a chuckle. “It’ll stick much better that way.”
”You’re right,” Hevy agrees with a nod of his head and a smirk on his lips. “And then we’ll hafta tell Echo himself when he wakes up.”
In almost any other situation, you’d be touched to get a nickname from your squad. Names were a precious thing, after all, and earning a nickname as a spouse is no less important than a clone earning their own—it’s not something you’d expect an outsider to understand the subtleties of.
But, as much as you’d be touched otherwise, their teasing is obvious. You feel your cheeks go red-hot as the two clones laugh, but Hevy’s gentle hand on your shoulder keeps the feelings of embarrassment from getting too sharp against your thoughts.
”We’re not really gonna start callin’ you that, baby.”
”It would be the silliest nickname ever,” you huff, crossing your arms over your chest. “Even Droidbait’s name sounds like it has a better story behind it.”
”Not really!” comes a call from across the room, where the namesake clone sits at another monitoring station.
The three of you laugh together with Droidbait’s answer, a moment of gentle absurdity breaking up the otherwise dull hours of the shift at the consoles. If nothing else, your presence seems to be offering entertainment to Hevy and Cutup both, which are particularly bothered by the concept of boredom.
A few minutes pass without a word to break up the silence, just the gentle beeping of the monitoring station and the occasional song humming through the outer-rim broadcast that Droidbait has playing from one of the speakers.
It’s… quiet again, as it always is in the background of things. There’s scarcely a thing to do but stare at the empty screen and feel a gentle lull of drowsiness start to tug at your eyes—so you shouldn’t have been surprised when Hevy started to get handsy.
He’s had a hand on your shoulders since the moment you decided to sit down with him and lean into his side, so you don’t notice when that hand shifts from idly stroking the back of your neck and instead starts curling around your body so that his fingertips are at your throat, then slipping beneath the collar of your shirt to stroke your collarbone, then sternum, then-
Your body jumps almost instinctively when his fingertips pinch one of your nipples.
”Hm?” Hevy says, acting as if totally unaware. “Something wrong?”
You stiffen your back and reach a hand up to touch where his is /clearly/ still half in your shirt, eyes locked with his.
”Hevy,” you say, expression mixed between surprise and embarrassment while you try not to think about how he keeps teasing you between a thumb and forefinger, “you are actively on a shift.”
”Really? I haven’t noticed,” he turns his gaze momentarily to a screen showing the empty swath of the moon’s landscape, pockmarked by previous meteor showers. Afterwards his eyes turn back to you.
They are absolutely mischievous.
You are desperate not to let his touch break your firm expression—not of non-consent, just flushed-face judgement.
”I swear, if sergeant O’niner catches you…”
”He’s busy on the other side of the outpost with Fives,” Hevy purrs, his hand getting bolder as he gropes at your chest with open interest. “Besides, if he really gets mad then I’ll take all the blame.”
There's a gentle couch beside both of you, and your eyes quickly turn to see Cutup watching with eager interest. He raises a brow and chuckles.
”If I take half of th’blame, can I get in on half the action?”
”Fuck yeah,” Hevy answers before you can even open your mouth. “Last I checked, sharing is quite the virtue—wouldn’t you agree babydoll?”
”I didn’t-“ you fumble for words, warm face growing even hotter as the man turns so that both hands are actively trying to remove your shirt. “This is a horrible idea. Why /here/?”
”You said it y’self,” Cutup coos, his voice suddenly much closer to your ear, “We’re on duty. Can’t leave the console ‘cause someone’s gotta keep an eye on it.”
”Well, if only one of us needs to be looking…” Hevy‘s words trail off, but you can imagine that he and Cutup are sharing a look with one another—a horrible, dreadful, mischievous look.
It doesn’t take them more than a minute, tops, in order to get your shirt off. It’s lined with an anti-blaster material, but offers just as much resistance as you do in slipping it over your head: absolutely none. For all you protest, there really isn’t a sizeable part of you that doesn’t want to give into the clone’s hormonal urge. There is something a bit hot in getting fucked like this admittedly, in the open of the command room. You can feel Cutup’s eyes watching every motion as he sits back in his chair, glancing only occasionally at the observation feed from outside while Hevy continues to run his hands over your naked chest and purr in your ear.
”You must really wanna get fucked like this if you’re not stoppin’ me, baby.”
The petname sounds positively lascivious when he says it like that, voice so low that it’s nearly a growl. His hands roam further down, until they’re playing at the top hem of your pants and slowly undoing the belt holding them up—the joy of clothes for spouses often being too small or too large, simply depending on what was available.
While Hevy is messing with that, Cutup leans forward in his chair and props his chin on the heel of his palm.
”C’mon, sweetheart, give us an answer.”
”… please…”
“What’s that?” Hevy asks, lips brushing the back of your ear. “Thought I heard somethin’.” And just to make a point, he pulls his hands away from where they’ve practically undone your pants, just one movement shy of stripping your body of clothes from the stifling heat.
The soft noise of dismay you make must have been arousing, because both men stare at you like starving animals, pupils blown wide and their breathing quick. They look at one another as if confirming that to be a positive answer before you finally whine and pull Hevy’s hand back towards your pants.
”Yes,” you whisper, mouth suddenly feeling quite dry. “Please, take me like this. Here.”
”The man seems all too eager to remove the last bit of clothing from your body, leaving the layers in a pool of cloth at the base of the consoles and chairs. Before you can even breath you’re sitting on Hevy’s lap, his strong arms tugging you so that your back is to his chest and your hips precariously grinding back into a hard shape swiftly realized to be his cock. When the man had the time to undress you, remove the plastoid plate between his thighs and undue the fasteners, you’re not quite sure—and at this point, you’re just grateful to feel his naked flesh against your own.
”C’mere, baby,” the man coos in your ear, one arm wrapped securely around your waist while the other is out of sight—you’re not sure what he’s doing with it until he brings bare, gloveless fingers tips to your lips. “Why don’t you get these wet?”
You allow them with silent consent between your lips and against your tongue, sucking on Hevy’s fingers albeit sloppily as he purred dirty, half-heard whispers in your ear while grinding his cock between your thighs. The ache in your belly has twisted into something truly horrible, a need so strong that the mere debauchery of the moment is enough to make your nerves feel raw. Your tongue presses between the two fingers in your mouth, trying desperately to make them split-slick enough to meet the man’s satisfaction; it doesn’t take more than a minute before he’s gently pulling them back out, gleaming wet with saliva.
”Good job,” he murmurs, appreciatively. “Wanna make sure we get you wet enough for me, babydoll.”
His words send a shiver down your spine—for all his rugged personality, Hevy was never anything but a gentleman to you, even in moments like this. He seems to know all the buttons to push to make you need him all the more.
Still with one arm wrapped around you, his other moves down between your legs, fingertips prodding gently at your entrance. The spit may have not been entirely necessary in terms of lubricant, but it certainly did help in terms of arousal; you need him so much, want him so dearly, it’s hard not to shiver when Hevy finally dips his fingers inside of your body and harder still not to moan his name too loudly.
”Would’ja look at that,” Cutup says, his voice bringing you back into the moment. Your eyes shoot open (not realizing they were closed) and upon a glance to the other side of the console chairs, you find the man equally disrobed as Hevy—cock out and wrapped in a gloveless hand. He’s stroking it over carefully as his eyes linger over your body, hungry like a predator.
He smirks even wider when he sees you looking. “Don’tcha you worry now, sweetheart, you’ll get your turn on me soon enough.”
Oh. Oh. You had known somewhere in the back of your head that you would wind up taking care of both Hevy AND Cutup—it simply came with the territory of being in a polyamorous relationship with several men under a lot of stress—but you didn’t think about the /how/. Somehow, the idea of being passed between them, used and watched like a toy and show, it only made you more aroused. Your skin prickled with nervous desire, your heart racing and your belly hot and twisting with eagerness that only grows the longer you watch Cutup stroke himself while watching you.
You smile at him as best you can, face hot but body knowing exactly what to do in the moment as Hevy’s careful fingers ease your body open.
”You good, baby?” He asks gently. You nod, arms reaching so that you’re almost hugging yourself where his arm is around you already. Hevy breaths out, and then growls, “Good. Need t’ make sure you’re ready to take my cock—don’t wanna be breaking our precious little spouse now.”
He slides in with relative ease. Though the working of his wet fingers had helped a little, it’s mostly your arousal and need that helps him slide balls deep within the aching grip of your body.
Hevy wastes no time to start thrusting; the motions are hard, slow, and deep, angled so that they are almost perfectly striking what feels like a deep bundle of nerves desperate for stimulation. As if that isn’t enough, his free hand reaches down between your thighs and reminds you, keenly, of how deftly those fingers are with the many weapons he likes to train with.
You moan, words a garbled mess of need, and hold his arm around you in a desperate need to be anchored.
”Yeah, yeah—hold onto me, babydoll…” Hevy purrs, voice straining. “Tell me how much you want me.”
”… Hevy…” the sound of his name is a whisper. You’re getting closer, closer—and then, suddenly, the man stops moving. His cock sits inside of you.
”Say it louder,” he growls. The words are firm, a command. You’re hesitant to speak much louder if only out of embarrassment, not wanting to draw attention towards the carnal act of desperation you are partaking in with Hevy and Cutup—but the need to orgasm outweighs the nervousness.
”Hevy,” you whine, “Please, Hevy, make me cum—“ lungs burn with a need for air, your breathing too quick and shallow. “Hevy, Hevy, Hevyyy-!”
”Perfect,” he murmurs, then immediately begins moving his hips again—so fast and hard that it makes the chair squeak beneath the weight of both of you. No more than ten seconds pass before both of you are cresting over orgasm, the sweet blossom of heat coming unfurled with a shout into the cold air of the outpost.
The man growls as he presses inside you one last time, deep and possessive, and fills you with his seed that you don’t need to think twice about for one reason or another and enjoy the messy warmth all the same. Hevy takes a few moments to press a kiss to the nape of your neck, then carefully helps to lift your hips enough that his cock slips out from you.
You’re not able to take more than a moment to think before Cutup, who has pushed his chair closer to you, reaches out a hand and carefully takes your chin in his hand.
”Doin’ alright?” He asks, tone delicate with concern. The nod of your head confirms that you’re alright, simply tired from the orgasm and settled in the sweet afterglow.
With one hand still stroking his cock over, Cutup smirks and pulls your face towards his so that he can kiss you—it’s deep and needy. “Lil’ sweetheart lookin’ all tuckered out. Don’t worry then, I’ll do all the work for you.”
It doesn’t take much for the two men to shift you from one lap into another. You’ve seen their strength firsthand, their bodies perfected physically and biologically to handle gear and weapons that must have weight as much or more as you do. Cutup positions you comfortably astride his hips, and it doesn’t take much effort for his cock to slip inside you, your orgasm leaving muscles lax and Hevy’s orgasm leaving you dripping wet.
He was honest about doing all the work; Cutup’s hands hold your hips firm, but gentle, lifting you just enough so that his own body can close the gap between you over and over again as he races towards his own orgasm. You don’t think that you’ll be able to cum again, but there’s a satisfaction in feeling the man inside you and knowing that you are making him feel so good.
”Cutup,” you lean forward and whisper in his ear, voice low and sweet. “Oh, Cutup—please—won’t you cum inside me too?”
The poor thing must have been so pent-up watching you and Hevy fuck, because that’s all it takes for him to find release. You feel his grip tense on your skin, his motions go stiff and desperate, and the telltale warmth of his orgasm flooding your channel. It drips down your thighs in thick pearly droplets when you shakily pull yourself off of him, a dopey smile on both of your faces all the while.
“Well,” Hevy says, “that’s always a good way to waste some time n’ take the edge off.”
”You turn to look at him, and he’s already seemed to compose himself again—plastoid plate back in its spot, gloves on and even your clothes collected and laying in his lap as neatly as he could gather them up.
The smile on your lips is fueled a bit by the afterglow, but you laugh and raise a brow, “I think you should give me more credit than that.”
”I can say you always make my shifts at observation a helluva lot more interesting.”
A moment passes in silence before, suddenly, a forgotten fourth party in the room finally speaks up.
”So uh,” Droidbait says evenly from his faithful spot at another console, “you guys are done… right?”
Summary: When a rainstorm threatens Tanjiro's travels through the countryside, he takes refuge in the home of a kind stranger. During his stay, he discovers that not only is his host of half-demon blood, but their mother had also been a member of the Demon Slayer Corps.
Tanjiro is nothing if not curious, and learns more about the multifaceted world of demonkind, hopefully growing ever closer to undoing the curse upon his sister.
Tanjiro could tell that something was off. From the moment that the man had entered into his physical perception he knew that something wasn't quite right. The man -- you -- weren't entirely human. Neither were you entirely demon, but he couldn't get much detail behind the simple fact of otherness that permeated the air around you with every shift of your body.
It wasn't a bad smell either. In fact, when you bowed in greeting, he found the gesture scented with honesty and friendliness instead of hidden malice or insincerity. He bowed in turn, and the two of you exchanged names. It didn't take long before you took note of his weapon, and much less after that to realize that the wooden case hefted against his back held something far less trivial than one would have assumed. Not something, but someone.
His nose was sharp -- for a human, at least. Yours was just as honed, though the ability came from your mixed blood than from a rare natural gift. It took but one breath with a defined focus to realize the young man you'd met was hardly a normal person.
Demon Slayer.
The words held some semblance of meaning. Nothing with coherent form; they were words passed down to you from your parents, spoken with such fearful vitriol that you had to wonder what kinds of people became such Slayers of Demons. Surely they would be bloodthirsty, heartless souls that would so willingly strike down such simple people without due thought or consideration to what their sins truly were -- assuming that existence itself wasn't a sin for a demon.
But as Tanjiro stood before your eyes, you had to reconsider the image that had built up behind the words. He did not look bloodthirsty. He didn't even seem aggressive. But he still carried the nichirin blade that you'd been warned of, and you had to wonder how many demons had been killed at the mercy of its sharpened edge.
So you, a half-demon standing before one so named a demon slayer, do the careful thing:
You invite Tanjiro to stay with you for the night.
Truthfully, Tanjiro isn’t in a position to reject the offer. he’d been traveling for several days through the rolling landscape between the mountains, and he could smell a thunderstorm coming in. For all that he couldn’t understand you or your strange scent, Tanjiro really had no reason not to trust in his kindness.
The house you called your own is humble, too far from the nearest village for anyone to randomly stumble upon you without incredible forewarning. Tanjiro is actually quite the rarity, one that you find some manner of joy in meeting — the last person you’d met was half as kind and barely a fraction as patient.
“Are you a demon slayer?” you find yourself asking barely a moment after the two of you have stepped into the narrow threshold of the front doorway. Beyond is a home consisting of a few rooms at most, minimally furnished but meticulously cared for.
Tanjiro barely has the chance to set his gear down, but he flashes an earnest smile in your direction.
“I am,” he says. There’s pride in his tone. “Though I’m a little surprised. Not a lot of people recognize us that quickly, unless…”
“No. I don’t have any connection,” you quickly dash his assumption aside. “But I recognize the uniform and weapon you’re carrying. Nichirin blade, correct?”
Tanjiro blinks, but the look of warmth never quite fades from his face even as he nods to affirm your suspicion. It sates your surface curiosity, but it doesn’t offer any sort of clue as to what is in the box he’d carried upon his back. For a moment you wonder if it would be rude to inquire about it, but shrug the notion off quickly when you remember how strange the box smells. Not weapons, not rations, but something softer.
“What’s in that box of yours?”
Tanjiro’s entire frame stiffens. In barely a breath’s worth of time, his demeanor tightens up and leaves the young man looking tense and unsure. With one hand gently laying upon the wooden surface of his cargo, he says, “Something… very important to me,” he then reaches his other hand up, fingers splayed open and shaking as if to ward off concern. “-but I promise it’s nothing dangerous.”
You can smell a soft trace of anxiety around him. While the unexpected reaction incites a spark of curiosity within your chest, it’s not without a resounding sense of restraint and mannered respect for Tanjiro’s privacy. If he doesn’t wish to share the nature of it’s contents with you — someone who is little more than a stranger to him, admittedly — then he is under no such obligation. Still, you purse your lips for a moment in disappointment before lightly gesturing for him to step further into the house with you.
“I’d been cooking food when you arrived,” you say gently. “Clean yourself up and I’ll serve us both something hot to eat.”
It doesn’t take very long before the two of you are sitting together, sipping at the brothy soup that had been bubbling away for the entirety of the earlier afternoon. Though the majority of the meal is somewhat silent, Tanjiro’s eyes move about the room, taking in every detail that raises above the floor and out from the walls. It doesn’t take a genius to realize how well he fits into the ideal of a Demon Slayer — Tanjiro is perceptive and foolhardy with at least some basic talent for the blade on his hip.
Beyond that, however, you’re not quite sure what is to be expected of him as a slayer. He’s very kind and respectful… but those are hardly the traits you’ve come to associate with the title. Everything about the young man demands curiosity, so much that you don’t realize how his gaze has settled onto one particular spot on the wall behind you. By the time you remember what is hanging openly, Tanjiro’s lips are already forming a question -
“Whose sword is that on your wall?”
You don’t even turn your eyes around to look at it. The object has taken a defined place within your memories — you can’t forget the shape of the blade, the texture of the hilt, or the soft smile of it’s previous owner even if you genuinely wanted to purge them from your thoughts.
A sigh escapes your lips after a few moments. “It belonged to my mother,” you explain after a moment. When Tanjiro’s rust-colored eyes light up, you decide to answer the question just behind his lips. “And yes, it’s what you think it is. She was a demon slayer herself.”
“Oh,” the syllable falls with a sense of understanding of was rather than is. A misjudged understanding, given the ambiguity of your answer, but a respectful one nonetheless. “I’m sorry.”
A moment passes.
“And… your father?” Tanjiro asks.
The speed at which you shake your head is almost comical. No. No. The visual image is a joke in itself, and Tanjiro doesn’t even realize why his question is so humorous to you.
“My father was not the kind of person for that line of work.” a gentle chuckle does manage to escape the poised line of your lips. “…I doubt he’d be able to wield a blade like that in the first place.”
It feels as if the conversation is going to continue out from there, a gentle rolling of waves upon the edge of a beach after the brief storm of near-realization to what was hiding just beneath the surface of half-dodged answers. But it doesn’t manage to get farther than another breath before a noise sharply echoes out from the wooden box set out near the doorway and shocks both of you into a gazing silence.
“Tanjiro,” your tone is careful and your eyes hone in on the item. Caution prickles in your fingertips and against your tongue as claws and fangs slowly emerge from behind a carefully-kept glamor. “what is in that-”
“What are your thoughts on demons?”
You blink, turning to face the man again with a look that does not hide an ounce of your confusion. It takes a few moments for some of the dots to connect to one another. The reason for him asking your opinion is hanging right above your head, a heavy reminder to half of your heritage — but it doesn’t quite match all of the points of confusion all but emanating from Tanjiro and the strange box he carried with him.
Still, his question deserves an answer. And even as your eyes settle carefully on the square shape across the room, you offer one.
“Asking my thoughts on demons is no different than asking my thoughts on humans,” you say, words careful and tone oddly tight. “Some are good, some are bad, and none-” a sharp breath passes over your lips. “-none are perfect.”
Tanjiro’s eyes linger on you for a long while, longer than what feels comfortable for the silence between you. For a few moments you wonder if his question was a test and your answer had failed it abysmally, but it didn’t change your feelings on the matter in the slightest. Nothing ever will.
Another sharp noise echoes from the direction of the box. Your eyes begin to dart towards it, but the motion of Tanjiro’s body commands your attention towards him instead, he as if ready at any moment to launch himself towards the box, but his eyes meeting yours openly and earnestly.
“So you’re saying you think some demons can be good, right?”
You watch him, but sense no malice in the young man’s gaze.
“Of course.”
Relief seems to flood across his expression. When another, more rhythmic sound comes from the box, he doesn’t so much jump towards it as he does shuffle to his feet and step across the room. Before he’s able to reach it, however, the door suddenly opens to reveal a shape of pink fabric spilling out from within. You blink and watch as the fabric moves, and ever so quickly does your mind realize that there is a person within it, wearing the kimono that reminds you of cherry blossoms in springtime.
By the time Tanjiro is at the side of the wooden box and holding out an outstretched hand, you’ve come to realize that it’s been a young girl inside of it the entire time.
A demon. The scent doesn’t escape your nose for a moment, though it lacks the underlying sharpness of iron you’d come to expect from others of her kind and yours alike.
And Tanjiro regards her with tolerance, nay, respect. It seems to take the young woman a few moments to orientate herself to her surroundings, but he smiles at her with all the same gentleness.
“It’s okay, Nezuko,” Tanjiro says brightly, pulling the woman onto her feet. “This is a safe place.”
Despite all the words that press up behind your tongue, you can’t help but stare at the young duo. Tanjiro smiles and gestures towards the young woman beside him, Nezuko.
“This is my… younger sister,” he says at last. The air settles around the room in a nonverbal confirmation of information that doesn’t take more than a heartbeat to confirm, but it leaves you equally confused and curious all the same.
“Tanjiro,” you murmur, words finally picking up a semblance of strength. “This may be a stupid question, but are you aware that your sister is currently a demon?”
Though it’s not clear what would have been more surprising of an answer, Tanjiro’s honest nod does seem to do plenty to throw you for a loop. A demon slayer traveling around with a demon at his side? The notion vexes you completely, even if the demon in question is a member of his familiy. Unless…
“Was she born a demon?”
Tanjiro and Nezuko both look at you, the former with a more defined look of confusion across his face.
“Born…?” he asks. “As in turned? Turned into a demon?”
“Ah,” you suddenly feel a bit silly and more than a little embarrassed as his confusion seems to be genuine. “I think I misunderstood a few things. I’ve got my answer in any case but, no, I did actually mean born as in physically birthed.”
While Nezuko loses interest in the conversation and begins to roam about the room, her brother slowly settles back onto his spot across from you — albeit shooting a glance to his young sister every once in a while which is admittedly endearing. The two of them seem barely old enough to be out on their own, and you’re not sure if the demon slayers even have a minimum age requirement to begin with as long as someone can hold a weapon and defend another.
“How could someone give birth to a demon?” Tanjiro finally asks. “I thought they were only created by… uh.” he pauses for a few moments, waiting as if to catch something in your eyes. Recognition perhaps? “…A man named Muzan Kibutsugi.”
He’s not bothering to conceal his befuddled expression as, behind his eyes, you can see the threads of thought and logic try desperately to put an answer together from the bits of information he already knows about demon-kind.
“Most are,” your words taste bittersweet on the tongue. “But not all of them. Some demons can create other demons if they’re strong enough.”
Tanjiro nods as the faces of both Lady Tamayo and Yushiro appear in his mind’s eye. Though she had been a demon created by Muzan, he recalled that Yushiro was created by her hand in the continuing search for a cure to turn someone human once more. It had been the only instance where he’d come across a demon not created by the demon king himself, but it’s a clear enough example that Tanjiro doesn’t need to stretch his mind very far to understand your words.
Seeing this recognition, your hand raises to gesture up towards your chest, fingertips barely skimming across the wash-worn fabric of your kimono.
“You asked before about some demons being ‘good’.”
Tanjiro nods. Even Nezuko has moved her attention towards you, though she stands solemnly in one of the darker corners of the room as her eyes glow like shimmering sakura blossoms.
Considering the nature of whom was sitting in front of you — the organization for which Tanjiro allied himself with — there was a part of you that wished to simply lie between your teeth and wait out the night until it would be socially acceptable to all but kick the young warrior out of your home. That part had good reasons to be cautious and fearful, but another part of you found something hopeful behind the young man’s eyes. You aren’t naïve enough to call it ‘trust’, but the emotion is certainly within the same pond.
“My father was a good man,” your hand lingers, stilled against your chest and all but faintly feeling the thrum of your own heartbeat. “An odd man, but a good one. Tended to the fields, took care of my mother when she fell ill, even managed to make friends with some folks of the local village. He respected everyone around him.”
Even as he remains politely silent, something starts to click in Tanjiro’s eyes, even before you finish the point of your words.
“…my father was also a demon created by Kibutsugi.”
Tanjiro blinks with wide surprise and shock stilling the words that otherwise press against the back of his lips. While there had been a growing hunch forming somewhere within his thoughts, he can’t help the suddenness of the question needed to confirm them when he finally can speak again.
“Does that mean that you are-”
“Half-demon, yes.”
"How does that even...happen...?"
You chuckle, "I'd imagine how most people go about having babies."
Tanjiro's cheeks turn a dark red, and he quickly drops that particular line of questions.
You try to offer the young man a comforting smile, but he continues to stare in a summation of awe and disbelief. He’d never even thought that a demon and human could have a child together. For the longest time since learning of their existence, Tanjiro simply thought that demons couldn’t have children at all — like an extension of the curse befallen upon them, leaving them wanting for human flesh and blood, feral and wild and-
It is then that Tanjiro’s thoughts click into place once more. No. He’s not without multiple examples to the contrary, strengthened each and every day by the knowledge that his own sister is of the same creation as many of the demons so easily vilified and hated. But, even then, it doesn’t change the fact that Nezuko is a rarity — her lack of bloodshed is, as far as he’d learned, a genuine oddity among other demons.
“… Have you killed anyone?” he finally asks. His eyes glance towards the floor, looking almost ashamed in having to speak the words.
You shake your head. The question is hardly a surprise — you actually would have been more caught off-guard if that hadn’t been the first thought on his mind. But oddly enough, the question is something of a comfort. It allows to you answer it honestly.
“I haven’t hurt or killed anyone before — since part of my blood itself is human, my diet is relatively lackluster.” with a sweep of your hand, you gesture out to the empty bowls in front of the two of you. “I can be out beneath the sun, but my skin is somewhat sensitive to it; just a short while in direct sunlight can leave me with a terrible burn.”
Tanjiro nods. He brings up a hand to his chin for a moment to ponder over the details and new information as what appears to be every thread of his thoughts devote to try and weave it all together with what he already knew. One detail into another, filling up the ever-growing sense of curiosity that he had for demons and those around them. If nothing else, it proved that there were still things that not even the Demon Slayer corps understood properly — or, if they did, they certainly didn’t admit to them. The Hashira’s response to Nezuko solidified that well enough.
After a few moments, Tanjiro’s attention flicks back up to your face.
“Your… mother was a demon slayer, right?”
You nod politely, though it doesn’t take more than a quick glance back up to the nichirin blade hanging above both of your heads on the wall behind you to be reminded of the fact.
Tanjiro’s gaze tilts ever so slightly with his head to one side. “How did your mother and father meet?”
You shrug. “I never learned much of the details, though I do know that he was at one time a demon she was sent out to kill.”
Tanjiro chuckles after a few moments.
“I think I can guess what came after that,” he says. “So was your father… around much after you were born?”
“Of course!” your expression all but beams at the gentle memories. “Just because he was a demon doesn’t mean by default he was a bad or neglectful father. Though I suppose he so often seemed sickly to others; not able to go outside during the day, having to hide himself when there was company… I admit there is a lot about my father I still don’t know.”
For but a flicker of a moment, you are absolutely certain that there is a sadness within Tanjiro’s eyes. A mutual bitterness, empathetic beyond words. But the look is gone ever so quick, so much that if your perception was but a moment slower it would have been missed entirely.
But what remains is yet a soft expression.
“Thank you,” he finally says. “I am trying to learn as much as I can about demons right now.”
“I assume as much, being a demon slayer.”
“No, no it’s-” the young man looks suddenly flushed. “I promise I’m-… I’m not going to tell anyone about you. I just, think that… there’s a lot that I don’t understand. But I would like to. You see, my sister and I-”
And so, Tanjiro tells you the story of how he and his sister began traveling together — the murder of his family, his sister being turned into a demon, his promise to himself and those he lost that he would try to right all of the wrongs that had been done to them. He explains how he joined the demon slayers, how he had met other demons who had been kind to him in much the same way that you had been. Though the names Tamayo and Yushiro held no recognition, they did bring a sense of warmth to your chest in the confirmation that being a demon didn’t truly mean one had to give up their sense of humanity and kindness.
One topic moved onto another as the night continued on and the rainstorms moved in. Through the soft pitter-patter of water against the roof, you did your best to answer as many of Tanjiro’s questions as you could despite the fact that your knowledge of Muzan went no farther than simply hearing it once or twice and having a basic understanding of his role in the origin of demons themselves. There is also something admittedly humorous in watching Tanjiro’s expression when your glamor falls just a little, revealing sharp claws at the tip of each finger and fangs barely hidden behind the press of your lips.
“Neither my father nor I had any semblance of combat ability, but they’re useful for hunting.” a moment passes. “Animals, I mean. Me and mother still had to eat something.”
Perhaps it’s the reminder of your mother, and her lack of presence in the house with you, that finally encourages the question forth, “How long have your parents been…?”
“Dead?” you don’t fear the sound of the word or the notion behind it. “It will be twenty years this coming spring.”
“Twenty years?” Tanjiro gawks. “H-how old are you then?”
“I was born in 1857, so…” you do the math in your head, giving Tanjiro several moments to try and come to terms with the fact that you barely look older than your mid twenties at most. “This year I will be fifty-five!”
Your bright, sharp grin is in hilarious contrast with the shock all but painted across the young man’s face. After giving him a breath to take in the information, you point out, “I am half-demon. Time doesn’t mean as much to my health as it does a normal demon.”
“I… see,” Tanjiro’s eyes return to normal, but there’s no hiding his lingering awe. “So will just a nichirin blade… kill you?”
You have to laugh at just how shy the question is for the severity of the words. “Trying to plan my demise already, demon slayer?”
Though Tanjiro immediately begins to shake his hand and try to babble out an apology and explanation alike, you aren’t cruel enough to let it linger for more than a moment before explaining, “A normal blade could behead me and I would die. I could drown in a lake or perish from a high enough fall. In all things but old age, I’m still very mortal, Tanjiro — for better or worse. I can’t speak for any other half-demon you may come across, but I know that much.”
A moment of silence passes between you. Tanjiro thankfully doesn’t ask about your parents or their passing. In fact, he seems rather satisfied by the amount of information he’s gotten already, so much that his mind constantly looks as if it’s rolling about within his skull, putting together a puzzle with far too many pieces missing for most people to even bother in the first place.
The rain continues to fall. It’s a gentle white noise, ceaseless, and punctured only by the dull rolling sounds of thunder as it moves across the edges of your perception. It doesn’t take long for you to realize the time either, knowing even without looking out the door or window that the moon is high into the night sky and that, furthermore, it was not hospitable of you to keep your guest from getting a good night’s rest.
“If you have no more questions, I think it would be a good idea to get some sleep.”
There were more questions — there is always more questions — but Tanjiro can’t ignore the fact that it’s late and, yes, he would need to be moving along to his next destination early in the morning. It doesn't’ take long to ready a place for him to sleep, and less so for Nezuko who seems content to simply be near her older brother. Though she doesn’t speak a single word to you, the look in her eyes seems soft and curious, perhaps even grateful.
It’s understandable why Tanjiro has such a moderate view of demons despite being among the Demon Slayer Corps himself.
That fact in itself is something of a comfort as much as it is a curiosity, one that lingers with you even when you see the young man off the next morning, so early that the sun has barely crested above the hills and mountains on the horizon.
And Tanjiro, as he leaves, finds himself renewed with energy and questions alike. Every time he thinks he has a strong grasp on the world around him, something new emerges that throws it further into perspective in an ever-growing map of knowledge. Though the edges continue to get blurrier, there’s something nice in familiarizing himself in it. To Tanjiro, it brings him further hope for the future of not only himself, but for the Demon Slayer Corps and the greater world around them.
Maybe, he hopes, he’ll run into you again one day.
And maybe then he’ll be able to introduce his sister to you as a human — or perhaps the world will have grown in such a way that, like the union of your parents and the makeup of your own blood, it won’t even matter in the first place.
Summary: In which the you, the Warrior of Light and a bard, compose Tomorrow and Tomorrow after the events of Shadowbringers. You're having a hard time finishing the piece, but an unexpected (but not unwelcome) visitor shows up and becomes and equally unexpected muse for your soul.
-
It’s a familiar sight, one that you keenly remember seeing since childhood. There is nothing particularly special about it in form nor function, but yet it is arguably the most beautiful sight that you can distantly recall seeing in quite a long time.
The sun, setting off in the distance, slowly falling to the western horizon far beyond the hills of Lakeland. You watch the scene in gentle awe, letting it wash over you in a sublime sort of wonder that is difficult to explain in words alone. There is truly nothing special about it in regards to how sunsets normally go, but you feel especially taken by the fading glow in the sky, shifting into the warm spectrum of red and orange that overtakes the entire sky.
Perhaps the sight is ever more wondrous because you know the pains it took to make it so. The pain, the effort, the sacrifices made just so you can gaze your eyes out over the fading light, content in the knowledge that the sky would soon embrace the world below with moon and starlight, the latter as numerous as the lives spent in trying to regain such a simple gift that forces had stolen away and threatened to swallow the world in misery and suffering.
Or perhaps still it's because you have learned to appreciate it. It hadn’t taken very long after your arrival upon the First for your body and mind to find such everlasting light stressful and anxious. When you would fall asleep and wake yet under the scorching, unnatural brightness of the sky above, such wonder befell upon you for what it must have been like for the multitudes of other people living in the First to endure it for over a century.
Regardless, you were not one to ignore such beauty even if you couldn’t understand the reason for it; such was the nature of many things in the world, and you often had too many other issues to spend your thoughts on than of the natural mysteries of nature itself. Perhaps one day you will be able to make right on your words with the Exarch, of taking a well-deserved rest when the world was not beneath the shadows of those who would do her harm, but that day was not on the horizon just yet.
Until then, the sunset was a fitting, beautiful substitute to fill the expanse of your wandering thoughts for the evening. As the sun fell into the gentle embrace of the earth beneath it, and the sky began to fade from a brilliant fire and into a subdued indigo, you found a place upon the window sill with instrument in-hand.
And, as darkness gradually filled the sky above your head, so too did inspiration come into your heart, and then words upon your lips.
-
“For whom weeps the storm
Her tears on our skin
The days of our years gone
Our souls soaked in sin
These memories ache with the weight of tomorrow.”
Haunting. Aching. The words fill the air of the Pendants halls like an invisible smoke, dancing alongside the occasional pluck or strum of an instrument that one couldn’t be bothered to identify.
It seeps into bones and hearts, carrying both hope and regret alike as it wavers from soft whisper into a powerful echo, until once more it grows soft upon a critical pair of lips, a tongue that tries to weave emotion into words.
“From those who've fallen to those who arise
A prayer to keep us ever by your side
An undying promise that we just might
Carry on
In a song.”
The moonlight falls into your open window as you feel the echoes of the words fade away into silence. Something about them feels right, but yet there still feels to be something missing from the piece, something you can’t quite capture yet even though you feel the muse of night itself an eternity above your eyes. Even as you stare out into the endless expanse of stars, nothing can quite make the connection with the burning fire in your chest.
Fingers absentmindedly strum over the lyre in your hands, finding pleasure in the soft noise of each individual string coming together in simple chords, and then once more into the soft melody you’d long-since devised for the song before the words had started weaving themselves into your dreams.
“ These memories ache with the weight of tomorrow… ” your lips mumble the whisper of a verse, just barely loud enough to hold a tune. Like many of the songs you’d composed in the time since you’d joined the Scions, since you’d become the Warrior of Light, it feels natural to craft songs from your efforts and sacrifices. Of experiences made. Of friends found and lost.
Though you had started the efforts as simply a way to soothe the ache of the world constantly weighing upon your shoulders, the music had quickly become a way to preserve everything that you continue to fight for.
For friends. For enemies. For battles fought and won, battles fought and lost . For every single day that you’d agonized over your worth in being the Warrior of Light--and soon the Warrior of Darkness--music was a way to keep it all immortalized in a way that would outlive you, and perhaps still even outlive your own legacy that would surely come to pass when people remembered your efforts and skill than you as a person.
Bittersweetness gripped your heart as you repeated a line, and then another, wanting for it all to come together. Waiting. Your fingers touch upon the strings, and your lungs fill with air, but there’s… nothing.
And that frustrates you more than anything else. Your mind can recall the names and faces of so many people, so many lives that had lived and died, and yet your heart can’t find the muse enough to offer them worthwhile words for their sacrifice towards the safety of their home.
“I didn’t take you for the singing sort.”
The voice sounds sharp, cutting through the thick tension of the moment between your mind and body, fingers and strings. Surprise enough, at least, that your head jerks around to find a second presence standing in the center of your room. A familiar presence, but a surprising one nonetheless.
“And I thought you promised to warn me before you made an abrupt entrance into my room.”
Ardbert offers but a half-cocked smile and a shrug of his shoulders, confident enough that your annoyance wouldn’t last very long in him.
And he would be correct.
“It’s hardly as if I can offer a knock,” he says, glancing once to the door behind him before approaching the window sill upon which you sat. “And you can’t blame a man for curiosity; I could nearly hear you from the front desk.”
Tension fades away from our lips as the shade moves to sit beside you, fortunate enough that he is able to actually sit upon the sill than fall through it like his body does most other objects.
“And what were you doing all the way down there?” the question is equal parts amused and curious. Fingers strum over the taut strings of the instrument in your hands, filling the air with a soft chorus of noise.
Ardbert offers another shrug, which you catch out the corner of your eyes.
“People-watching, mostly. Little else that you can do when your options to interact with the world are rather limited.”
Your lips part to say something, but the words are quickly stilled between them when you realize how miserable they would sound, a man so lonely that he could not speak or even touch another person but yourself. Even you can’t twist his perception of the world into something humorous, morbid or otherwise, so you shut the attempt down completely in favor of strumming the lyre once more in an experimental chord.
Ardbert hums, and it takes a moment for you to realize that he’s trying to mimic one of the notes in the chord. But when you turn your face to ask about it, the specter of a man has already beat you, peddled back to the topic you are about to leave behind as an unspoken pain.
“They’re happier, you know.”
You blink.
“What?”
“The people of the Crystarium.”
Ardbert lets out a long sigh, a chest full of air that he breathes out from between softly parted lips, eyes closed in the moment as he gathers up his thoughts and words alike. His shoulders brush lightly against yours as the two of you sit close, closer than what would have been appropriate. You feel like it’s on purpose, given that the man seems lacking in some of the outer layers of his armor, in just enough to call him as casually dressed as you are.
You don’t say anything about it. His presence is comforting.
“You should hear some of the things that they say about you. Rumors and hearsay is already turning into tales and bedtime stories, y’know.”
Ardbert leans against you. Knowing that there was no other person that he could share such connections with, a fair bit literally speaking, it means more than but a simple brush of shoulders and catch of glances.
And his words fill your heart with something warm and unexplainable. Like the very sunset your eyes had caught but a short time before, the emotion is sublime and without words to give it proper description. Put to the barest of forms, you feel happy. Happy in knowing your efforts have impact, a genuinely positive impact upon the world around you. Of knowing the sacrifices of the lives before you had meaning, that future generations would be able to appreciate the world without fear of sin-eaters and lighwardens alike.
Knowing that you had done good.
Whether he is aware of the effect of his words upon you, Ardbert eventually lets out a chuckle, kicking out his legs and leaning back to more properly appreciate the dark-enveloped sky above your heads.
“After seeing you take down all of the lightwardens, I’m surprised to know you’re so skilled in crafting a tune. Full of surprises are you, Warrior of Light?”
Another pluck of a string, another brush of shoulders, another warm twist around your heart.
The edges of your lips quirk up as one chord fades into another, and then another still.
“Do you think my extraneous skills silly, Ardbert?”
“Hardly,” he says quickly, gesturing with a hand of his sincerity in it. “I simply could never find the time or talent to do much with music myself. I tried a few times, but I found I was far more apt with the steel of an axe than the wood of a lyre.”
His hand settles back between the two of you, close enough that you yourself could reach down and cover it in one of your own. Somehow, you know that Ardbert is equally aware of this fact, and makes no effort to move it away.
Ardbert clears his throat after a moment, “But, going back to before.” He shifts a little, decidedly closer to you. “I did hear your singing, but I don’t believe I got to hear the end of the song.”
“That’s because it’s not complete yet.”
“Ah,” the man takes a beat, filtering the words before realization and hindsight seems to move through him. “Did I interrupt you? I can leave if you would like; there was a rather interesting debate going on in the Cabinet of Curiosity I was eavesdropping on if you’d rather for me to leave-”
“No!”
For once since you’d put your hands on the lyre at the set of the sun, one of your hands tears away from it’s familiar shape to instinctively reach out and grab the hand sitting between your bodies. Fingers lightly entwined, skin warm despite the layers of cloth and the incorporeal state of Ardbert’s form.
And he stops.
In fact, the whole world stops. It freezes in the moment, leaving you with your eyes looking towards his own, your expression equally surprised and vulnerable from an outburst that had spontaneously erupted from your lips before you could stop it.
But then the seconds start to tick by once more, and your heart beating in your chest, though perhaps a little faster than before.
“You don’t need to leave,” the whisper falls gently from your lips. “I… like it when you’re here.”
Ardbert watches you for a few moments, and wordlessly nods his head in silent understanding. He doesn’t pull his hand away from yours, and instead the touch lingers on until you find the strength to take in a deep breath and slowly pull your hand back to the shape of the instrument in your lap. Though you can almost feel the remnants of the last chord struck over the strings, the air feels so still and silent.
Empty. It seems to cry out for noise, for sound,
For music .
Though your eyes linger upon Ardbert’s face for a few moments longer, something begins to work through your fingertips. A feeling. A memory. It sinks deep into the fabric of your very being as your mind ponders harder on what it truly is that starts to curl around your inner self. Though it was a feeling that you’d experienced dozens, perhaps hundreds of times before, there is something so abrupt and new about it, about how it seems to swirl inside your heart and within the soft gaze of Ardbert’s eyes, that it takes you the span of several heartbeats to realize it.
A muse. An inspiration. A voice filled with words, the very words you’ve been searching for. Aching to be free, to be heard, experienced by all who would listen to them.
The missing piece to the song.
One note fades into a second, and then a third. Soon, the chords start to fill the air, abuzz with the familiar tune of the song you’d been crafting for weeks since the fall of the ascian who seemed both beginning and end of the tragedy fallen upon the First.
“Stand tall my friend
May all of the dark lost inside you find light again
In time tumbling turning we seek amends
Eternal winds to the land descend
Our journey will never end
From those who've fallen to those who arise
A prayer to keep us ever by your side
An undying promise that we just might
Carry on
In a song.”
There is no true way to describe the feeling which floods your soul, seeping into every crack and crevice of who you are. As if your being has been dunked in ice water, with only the shock as inspiration and the cold as meaning, leaving you shaking with the raw energy and beauty of the world humming around you.
You can recall, through song, the feeling of your struggles within the First. Of the pain, the sacrifice, the hope that filled every action and word, even when everything seemed daunting and endless. You remember every step taken, every face and name memorized, every single person and life that played a part into the very night sky you sit below.
More than just the warrior of light or darkness, you are a beacon, a keeper of experiences and stories--stories beyond your own. You have the weight of the world upon your shoulders, yes, but moreso than that the weight of the people who live upon it.
“Pray don't forget us
Your bygone kin
With one world's end
Does a new begin
And should our souls scatter
Unto the wind
Still we shall live on
Stand tall my friend
May all of the dark deep inside you find light again
This time tumbling turning we make amends
Eternal winds from the land ascend
Here to lift us
Then we won't end.”
By the time the last word has left your mouth and faded into the night air beyond your window, all has turned still and peaceful. You feel a sense of completion in it, the pieces finally fitting together as they had always meant to be. A lost puzzle finally come together, a mystery at last uncovered. The energy of the music buzzes yet at your fingertips, but even through your racing heart and blood pounding in your ears, you can hear and feel the appreciation from your window-side companion.
“Beautiful.”
It sends your soul abound to hear such a simple, single word. You’re not a stranger to the compliments of your musical talents, but it’s the first time in recollection that it has ever meant so much . To hear the word come from the very being who finally connected the dots and broken down the wall of artist’s block, to sow the last seeds of a song that would hopefully outlive yourself and inspire future generations to defend what they hold dear.
Your eyes blink for a time, before the world seems to come back into place. Until colors and shapes have meaning again, and you realize that you’d been crying. Tears obscure most of your vision, but it clears once you reach a hand up towards your face-
But it is Ardbert’s thumbs that brush them from your cheeks.
Warm. Gentle. Soothing.
The world clears at last, yet the tears continue to well and fall from your eyes like a gentle river of emotion you can’t control. It’s far from a shock to come out of a music-driven trance to find yourself in such a state, but it’s the rawest that you’ve ever felt in a long time. Not since Ishgard. Since the last time you’d lost someone so dear that it took months for you to find the inkling of a muse again, inspired only by the realization that you could keep him alive in the spirit of your music.
It’s a lot of emotions that run without restriction, though they are the very same emotions that gave birth to the haunting words that had fallen from your lips but moments prior.
Giving into the touch, you gently press your face into the specter’s physical touch, and reach a hand up to make sure that it doesn’t leave if he has a sudden flicker of insecurity or embarrassment in its intimacy.
Eventually, the man speaks.
“Thank you,” he murmurs. “For… letting me listen to that. To you.” His words are so soft, like the touch of his palms and fingers cupping either side of your face which anchor you to the earth in an ironic twist of reality, given that he himself was anchored to the very same world by you.
Words, at least the speaking sort, are still rather difficult to get ahold of. You simply nod in response, lips trembling into something of a smile. You don’t have even the time to try and force yourself to speak before you’re enveloped at last in the man’s arms, held tight against his body in a gesture of warmth and unlabeled intimacy that it acts much like a salve over the vulnerable ache of your raw psyche.
There is a time and a place to write the finished piece down upon paper.
But right now, with the night sky and glittering stars above your head, with the music of fallen friends and foes alike still shaking within your soul, you are content to remain safe and warm within the loving embrace of Ardbert’s arms.
Note: This is part of my Escape Strex AU, and this was also a commission for @matronofthevoid!
Summary: All seems normal in Night Vale, until a sudden sandstorm overtakes the town. While Cecil is out trying to get first-hand information and updates, Kevin is left to man the studio, reporting on all the mysterious portals popping up and so-called 'doubles' walking out of them.
But then he meets someone familiar--someone he had been told was dead:
You.
---
Lights twinkling above our high above our heads in the dark night sky. Are they stars, or are they government-funded observation planes making sure that you’ve not forgotten to brush your teeth that night?
Either way, please make sure you report to city hall tomorrow morning for reconditioning after hearing this,
Welcome to Night Vale.
[Intro Music Plays]
Good morning Night Vale, it’s Cecil! Or, well, it would be Cecil, if he wasn’t currently out of the studio, and it would be a good morning if we weren’t already under the terrible threat of a sandstorm coming in from the west.
If you can't already tell from the sound of my voice, it’s Kevin, your local radio co-host, bringing you all of the latest news and updates to this happy little town of ours.
...Oh, by the way, there’s a sandstorm coming in!
City Counsel has declared an emergency, in fact, so please make sure that all of you seek shelter from the wind and the sand--preferably somewhere with four walls and a roof. Though I know that some of you are very fond of your dugout holes, Night Vale, it simply won’t do to keep you safe!
I’ve been told that the sandstorm will be arriving on the edge of Night Vale in just a couple minutes! I would think that the City Counsel is apologetic about the short-notice warning, but I can’t dare assume anything from them--we all know what happened to the last person who assumed they wanted a medium fry from the local burger joint, after all--but never fear! Cecil himself is working diligently to get a quote, though I hope that he isn’t caught out in this storm as well.
More to report on the sandstorm whenever it gets here--I mean, we can’t rush nature, amiright?
Some wonderful news for all you sports fans out there: baseball season has finally arrived in Night Vale! This Saturday is the minor league opening game for the Night Vale Spider Wolves. They’ll be taking on bitter rivals, the Desert Bluffs Sunbeams.
I’m supposed to say that it will be an exciting, evenly-matched game, but we all know that our very own Spider Wolves won’t have any issues taking on the Sunbeams, especially after we broke the news of their funding getting cut last year.
But who cares? The Sunbeams are just not exciting , or, as Cecil likes to say in a not-as-kind way, ‘ terrible ’. But you didn’t hear that from me Night Vale, because I’m simply reporting on the facts!
And now for traffic.
It seems that the sandstorm has finally reached the highway, Night Vale, and it’s causing all sorts of issues for drivers on the roadway. I’m getting reports of wind speeds as high as--well, on the paper it says ‘unfathomable speeds unlike any ever recorded’ but I’m certain one of the meteorologists just assumed we couldn’t handle the raw numbers. Either way, travelers are advised to stay off the road and seek shelter wherever it can be found.
...There seems to be something far more troubling to the sandstorm, listeners. I am receiving this information right now from Intern Dana--she is handing me the folder, and I am opening it….reading the summary…..taking it all in and….oh, Dana? I believe you had a typo right there, yes, ‘lack of time or space’ should be ‘lack of time AND space’ considering the foreboding context clues by Lerry Leroy.
[Sounds of shuffling papers]
It would seem that portals are opening up across town, dear listeners. From out of these portals walks out people who seem like people we know, but are most assuredly not the people we know. They may look similar, but I am getting reports that these people, dare I say doubles , have brought multiple people to violence.
Please do not fight your double!
We can’t be sure what sorts of consequences there are for fighting--and possibly killing!--your double is, but I am certain it can be nothing good. After all, we remember what happened last month when time and existence came to a stop? Surely you remember that?
Let’s not repeat that unfortunate, uncountable number of repeated evenings, shall we Night Vale?
Now, onto financial news.
You are lost in a sea of sand. You look to the west and see the sun setting in the distance, it’s light slowly hiding behind the endless dunes. There is nowhere to go. Nobody else around you. You are lost.
You stare into the setting sun for what feels like hours, and soon it seems that the sun isn’t really setting at all--has it ever moved? Has anything ever truly moved? Have you moved? Are you moving right now?
Are you even breathing right now?
That has been financial news.
[More sounds of shuffling papers]
Listeners, that sandstorm is starting to get a little...frightening. I know that’s a strong word, like ‘government surveillance’ and ‘wheat’, but I simply cannot find any other word to properly describe what is going on just outside the radio station.
Across Night Vale, it seems dozens upon dozens of people--doubles--have made their way through those mysterious portals. Though some have done best to make peace with their doubles, others have either not heard or ignored my warning and have taken to battle with them.
Please, Night Vale, do not fight your doubles!
Cecil, our normal radio host, has just sent me a direct announcement from our own Mayor Pamela Winchell.
“Please return to your homes immediately!” Mayor Winchell said, her eyes as if wild with an emotion we can not truly comprehend. “I am declaring a state of emergency; if anyone is outside, return to your homes or else risk dematerialization, non-existence and some rather serious sand-burns.”
A second announcement, shortly after, says that she was lying and that “you shouldn’t listen to her. She’s not the real mayor! I am!”
Cecil wrote that, at such point, he was joined by a second Mayor Winchell, who quickly became violent with the first.
A third announcement followed between Mayor Pamela Winchell and the other Mayor Pamela Winchell, requesting that we “give me the microphone and get away from the podium! This is my announcement, you replicant clown!”
Unfortunately, our radio host could not provide much more information, as he was dragged into the fight between the two Mayor Winchells. It is good to know at least that he is safe--I hope that all of you are safe right now, Night Vale, I--
…
[Extended silence]
…
Listeners?
…
I...I see a portal. Night Vale, I see a portal right now, here in this very studio. It is...small, or at least smaller than what I expected it to be--but it is exactly like you expected to be. It’s...swirling, ominously across the room, on the wall opposite of where I am set up so that you all can hear my voice.
It’s...just there. I am not sure if I should be afraid or not, but...for some reason the portal feels...calming?
It’s just sitting there, listeners. Should I approach it? I mean, as any good journalist of Night Vale, being prepared for the unknown is a skill we all learn early in our lives--though the fear of the unknown often quickly comes after that when we all reach the age of seven so I suppose it doesn’t matter in the end.
I am...watching it shimmer. The portal is growing, taking up the entirety of the wall just across from me. I can make out the faintest image within the portal, listeners, and…
…
…
...It looks like...Night Vale? No, no it doesn’t, it looks….It looks nothing like Night Vale. There is a town through the portal, and it looks bright--so bright. Too bright .
Oh.
Oh.
I-
…
[Small sounds of shuffling]
It looks like ...like…
Like Desert Bluffs.
I cannot begin to fathom this, Night Vale, but the portals we are seeing--the people coming through them, the ones we believe are our doubles…
Are they all from Desert Bluffs?
You may all know my…. history with that town, my...change of loyalty, to this wondrous little hamlet of ours. If there is anyone here who can identify Desert Bluffs, it would surely be me--and what I see right now, through the portal, is more assuredly that very town.
That town .
I dare to think that perhaps these people coming through the portals, the ones we assume are our doubles, I think instead they might be-
[Near-silent gasp of breath]
...My...my mate…?
Listeners, I apologize for being so confusing. You must understand that these portals--these... things are causing not just your normal tears into time and space--we deal with those every second Wednesday of the month, after all. What I mean is, I…
I’m looking right at the person I had long thought, until this very moment, was dead.
But...you aren’t dead, are you?
I’m talking to my mate of course, listeners--you see, when I escap-... left Desert Bluffs, I had been...waiting for someone. Someone very important to me. For those of you who know who and what I am, you will surely understand the magnitude of the situation I was faced with.
For people like me and Cecil, finding our mate is...the most important thing in our world. Cecil found Carlos and I...I had waited for many years. Many, many years indeed.
[Shuffling noises, the sound of a chair being pushed back]
And...here you are?
How...is that even possible? I thought you were dead--you...you were dead! I was told so. I was…told I’d never see you, never find you...you weren’t…
...Oh?
...Oh.
I see.
You were...waiting for me. In Desert Bluffs. But where? Where were you?
Hiding? No?
Hidden?
Hidden away? But why would you try to hide yourself from m-
Oh.
[Extended silence]
...I see now.
They were hiding you from me.
How long have you been there, at Desert Bluffs?
[Muffled sound of an answer]
I...I can’t imagine waiting that long, except that I can, I have also waited so long--too long--and now you’re...you're right here!
You’re here!
You are standing here in front of me--my mate, listeners--and you are...absolutely beautiful.
No, no it’s alright, don’t mind the scars, love, I have them too--we both have them. Don’t be ashamed--you’re beautiful in all the ways you are right now. I am just...overwhelmed. I was told that I would never meet you, that you were…
[Sound from the radio shorts out, then turns to white noise for several seconds]
...
[Extended silence]
...
[Sound of the microphone being picked up]
...
Listeners? Are you still there? Night Vale?
If you are still there, this is Cecil, your regular radio host--I’ve returned from my journey to get the front-line news of the sandstorm, since our Intern Dana has been quite busy trying to keep our social media updated with all the relevant outages and traffic warnings. How long has the radio been silent?
Where is...Kevin?
Where is anyone, in fact?
I am standing here in the middle of the recording room, but across from me is a portal and a-
Oh. Hello there! I am sorry, I didn’t see you--uh, I don’t think I recognize you at all. Do I uh, know you?
What?
...Listeners, the person standing in the room with me says that they are…
...Kevin’s mate?
Well, that’s not something I expected to hear. I mean, there’s a lot of things I never expect to hear--none of us are. The news of a baby, the death of a loved one, the securing of a new job, the need to move to a new state….
I mean, we really--Oh!
Listeners, I’m seeing someone coming through the portal now--I can make out the vague shape of their body...they’re stepping closer, the dark silhouette shimmering against what I can only assume is the surface of the portal itself…
Kevin? What in the world are you doing going through the portal? Where...were you? I said in my press report that it wasn’t a smart idea to-
…
...why...are you...covered in blood?
[Sound of a muffled answer]
Ah. I uh, suppose that explains the lovely person standing over here, does it? From Desert Bluffs? I suppose that you...ah, well, I’ll spare our listeners on the silly little details of your encounter-er-visit over there, I’m sure they don’t want to hear all of that anyway.
In fact, I think they would rather hear the update that the sandstorm is finally passing! That’s right Night Vale, we have survived yet another horrific, unfathomable beast of nature, and have come out 100% alright--well, minus the millions of dollars worth in property damage, including several fields worth of corn grown by John Peters, you know, the farmer?
Despite the major damages though, there seem to be no deaths and not a single accountable injury--not even any dematerialization either! I am proud to say that Night Vale, we again have kept ourselves safe from harm and have weathered through yet another disaster--and I hope, nay, I pray that you had considered carefully my words of warning.
I hope you did not hurt or kill your double.
But other than that, it seems that we have reached the end of our segment, so I will turn it back to Kevin to-
Oh?
What’s that?
...Well, what wonderful news, Night Vale! It would seem that we not only didn’t lose a single person to the sandstorm, but in fact gained a new member of our little town! Let me be the first to say how happy I am for you, Kevin, what luck you have to finally meet your beloved mate--you can take them back to the apartment to get them settled, if you like.
We’ll get them taken care of just like we did for you.
[Muffled sounds of conversation, as if a hand is over the microphone]
So uh, that is the end of this segment, Night Vale! Tune in next for the sound of deep contemplation, and the bittersweet love of two people who had long thought they would never meet, but are finally able to be with one another.
Summary: You saved Aaravos and Runaan both from their respective imprisonments without even knowing how you could do such a thing. You're the castle-keeper of Katolis, not a mage and certainly nobody powerful--and yet you free them both, leading to Runaan taking you and Aaravos to his village in Xadia to try and patch together some semblance of a normal life.
This is just one glance into your lives together.
It’s been a year.
Twelve months, fifty-two weeks or even three hundred and sixty-five days, depending on the way you choose to divide up the time. It’s darted through your perception as quickly as a frightened doe, but it has also limped by as slowly as it takes for the new moon to rise full.
Despite all of that time spent in practice and observation, you still don’t know how to sharpen a blade quite as good as even one of the village’s youngest initiates.
It’s not as if you don’t understand the concept or technique, as you’ve seen the knights caring for their weapons as far back as when you were castle-keeper of Katolis, but there’s simply something in the execution that always leaves you stumped.
So here you are, sitting on the steps outside the humble cottage you’ve called home in the last year, willing for even a single god above to let you do this right.
You feel your brows furrow as you stare down at the small dagger in your hand, a whetstone in the other. You’ve been trying to sharpen the damn thing for almost an hour, but all you’ve seem to manage is just to put unseemly scratches against the edge you really hope can be buffed out.
It’s aggravating enough that you don’t realize there’s someone in front of you until their shadow falls over your hands. You’re about to look up just as a hand reaches forward and grabs the wrist of the hand holding the whetstone.
“You need to remember to keep the angle smaller.”
The grip is as gentle as the words, voice familiar enough that you simply turn back to the job literally at hand and allow the help from the man, Runaan, as he takes a seat beside you.
“I don’t know how you’re able to do this so quickly,” you sigh. “I seem to damage blades more than sharpen them, no matter how many times I’m shown.”
You hear the elven man let out a short, disbelieving huff.
“And have you asked for any help?” It’s hard not to hear a thread of tension, the same tone of voice he’ll sometimes get when speaking to the young initiates he’s training. “I recall Merith and Rydell having offered.”
You don’t answer him right away. The man’s hands carefully put yours into a new position, both of his hands over yours, delicately angling the stone against the blade in a position you assume is the correct one–he is right, you were holding the blade at a vastly larger angle.
“I…” the words feel like stones in your throat, as heavy and rough as the one against your palm. “…I don’t want them to think of me as useless at everything I do around here.”
Sharpening blades. Organizing books. Hunting game. They aren’t exactly skills you learned in your upbringing as a castle-keeper.
You let Runaan tug your hand–and thus the whetstone–carefully across the blade in a smooth, slow motion. He does it a second time and then a third, finally letting you try to do it yourself.
By the sound of the hum that leaves him or the fact that his hands remain on yours, you must not have the motion mirrored quite well just yet.
But at least he doesn’t berate your fear.
The moonshadow elves are not as hostile towards you as they once were, when you were new in their village and stood precariously on the border of ‘hostage’ or ‘guest’–perhaps you had been both at the same time, until ultimately they decided to see you as the one exception to an unspoken, yet powerful Xadian rule.
Maybe it had something to do with you freeing Runaan from imprisonment. Maybe it’s because you were accompanied by a powerful startouch elf mage, someone who you also freed in the same night as Runaan though similar means of magic or power that you still don’t understand yourself.
Maybe a lot of things.
…It’s a long story.
“You won’t learn how to do this right until you ask for help,” Runaan says, dragging you out of your thoughts. “It takes years for a moonshadow elf to learn these things–you’ve only been here for one.”
“But I’m a human.”
Runaan is quiet for a few moments, giving away a lot more than words ever can.
“You still have hands,” he argues, grip getting a little tighter around your wrists. “And that extra finger has to be good for something.”
He’s learning to grow past his colored stereotypes for humans as much as the rest of his village, but at least he’s honest–there’s an effort, much in the same way that you continue to learn about them.
You don’t have the chance to say something witty in return before both you and Runaan are interrupted by a new voice booming across the air, familiar and strong and pulling both of your attentions away from the lost cause of a dagger.
“I thought that I would find both of you together.”
It’s not hard to guess who it is–the voice alone is as unique as the rest of Aaravos, a startouch elf settled in a vastly moonshadow village. There’s no hiding the difference of his eyes, his horns or the starlike sparkle of both his form and clothes.
There’s a smile on his lips as he approaches the two of you.
“What mischief have you gotten to now?” Runaan asks, not a single beat of silence missed from the moment his eyes lay on the other elf.
Aaravos’ expression drops into a pout, lips pursed and brows tilted, but it’s not that hard to see that it’s simply a playful, but fake expression.
“Mischief?” he asks, raising a hand to his chest as if wounded. “Runaan, you think so little of me. I have many years of experience and knowledge to my life, the ability to weave the power of the stars to my desire and you accuse me of but childish pranks?”
He steps closer to the two of you and sits down on your opposite side, the three of you taking up all of the space on one of the steps leading up to the house you and Aaravos have called home since arriving at the moonshadow village.
Runaan merely stares at the other elf, eyes narrowed in caution.
“Did you set something on fire?”
Aaravos merely laughs, making you look at him with all of the same caution, but a plethora more of curiosity, if only from the glimmer of playfulness in his eyes as he smiles even wider.
“No,” the older elf says softly, his eyes glancing off to the side. “But I did teach some of the children how to glamor rocks as poisonous insects.”
As if on queue, both you and Runaan turn to look where Aaravos’ eyes are, only to see a small group of children run past screaming in delight and every single one of them with stones clutched in their hands.
“Aaravos,” Runaan sounds exasperated already. “You can’t just do that, it will mess up their training and cause a mess that-”
You drop the blade and whetstone so you can reach a now-free hand to grab his, stopping the words of argument before they can begin.
“It’s not going to hurt anyone.”
You feel a smile on your lips and watch as Runaan looks at you, takes in your words, but looks back to Aaravos with caution still nipping at his thoughts.
Somewhere in the exchange, Aaravos takes your other hand in his, leaving the three of you in a silence that takes a long time to break. It would be hard to describe your relationship to the two elves to anyone–it’s hard enough to label it yourself. You’d freed Aaravos from his prison and saved Runaan from death, leaving both of the elves with a sense of debt to you.
Debt that became companionship.
A year is a long time, after all, and it can change a lot of things. Perceptions, understanding, relationships. It can break connections and forge trust in the same blow and, honestly, it’s left the three of you unsure where you stand in life–it feels almost as if each of you had somehow escaped death itself and were trying to find yourselves in a world that had been prepared to go on without you.
Maybe love is a good word to describe it. Forged in debt and cemented by time, made strong only by shared little moments, comfort and companionship. It might be the right word, but it’s not one you’re ready to use just yet, and it feels like Runaan and Aaravos feel much the same.
You feel both of their grips on your hand tighten, just a little bit.
“I doubt they’ll even be able to do the spell properly,” you say gently, glancing from one man to the other.
“Don’t underestimate them,” Aaravos muses softly, the words spoken with almost a vague sense of pride. “For being so young they are exceptionally talented; you shouldn’t be so hard on them, Runaan.”
You watch as Aaravos’ smile curls into something wicked, on the teasing side of mocking, as if the two of them have had a similar conversation in the past that you’ve not been privy to.
Runaan merely makes a noise of exasperation, seeing his defeat in the conversation.
“Fine,” he mumbles, eventually pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can tell when I’m outnumbered. At least promise me you won’t teach them how to light something aflame.”
There’s a tone in his voice, as if it’s something spoken with previous experience.
Aaravos takes in a breath and slowly leans his body against your shoulder; he is warm and gentle in both voice and movement. Runaan eventually does the same, squishing you gently between the two elves as they lean against you, your hands held in a gesture not one of you will label.
“Oh, I don’t need to teach them a spell for that,” there’s a cryptic, toying note in Aaravos’ words. “A piece of flint and steel is less troublesome.”
Before Runaan can respond, there’s a familiar commotion coming from down the path. Screams and shouts fill the air before you catch the sight of a group of children–the same as before–come barreling down they way. Ranging from small child to young teen they run, almost clamoring over one another, all holding fistfuls of candy in their hands.
They’re chased by a man, who stops to catch his breath in front of you, Runaan and Aaravos. He pants and leans forward, hands on his knees and face quickly looking up to all three of you.
“Runaan, I have no idea how it happened,” he starts, rubbing a hand over his face. “There is a nest of scorpions in my shop.”
All three of you are silent for a few seconds, but you can feel two very powerful emotions flowing from either side of you: one is annoyance, but the other is immense, smug-colored pride
“Very talented children indeed,” is all Aaravos cares to say, expression mischievous as ever.
Summary: In which the reader, a Raen Au Ra healer, realizes they are the beloved Nhaama of Magnai Oronir.
-
“Are you my Nhaama?”
The question catches you off-guard. It yanks you from your thoughts so suddenly that you scarcely have enough time to turn your eyes to the source.
So focused had you been on tending to a young Oronir warrior, the approach of another is the last thing on your mind--the footsteps all but numbed from your perception when compared to ensuring the gash on the young boy’s arm is sufficiently bandaged.
Though you have been a guest of the Oronir for but a week, you've already learned to deal with the prodding attention of its older warriors. Those who assume they know more than you, some still who see your work as useless--and some, though very few, who see your light-colored scales and say nothing at all, gazes hard and suspicion clear.
It's a healer’s job to heal. To care for people who need help. Though you may have not seen yourself traveling upon the Azim Steppe but few months before, you have long-since accepted to go where fate guides you.
So of course, in the presence of such a large Xaela tribe, you had expected the presence of others to interrupt your hands as they bandage wounds, your thoughts as you channel careful aether into ill bodies.
However, the sight of Magnai himself, leader to the Oronir, falls far beyond such feeble assumption. It's rare to see him, rarer still to see him outside of the throne room, for you have only seen him but twice before.
Once to allow you upon the Dawn Throne, and once to offer you extended blessings for your work upon the tribe. The latter of which was three days ago, when you realized how deep injuries from the previous battle had run across the tribe's members.
But neither time did you feel nearly as afraid as you do now at his approach, his strides long and hurried, reaching you in but a breath of time from the moment your eyes finally lay upon his grand form.
Worry creeps up into your words as you speak despite the desperate efforts to keep the tone even.
“W-what....did you say, r-radiant brother M-Magnai?
Surprise fills your veins and keeps you frozen in place, eyes wide as the moon as the man approaches you. A look of fire burns in his gaze as he stops at last, but a stride or two in front of you, keeping a distance though he looks like a predator readied to pounce.
“My Nhaama,” the leader repeats, tone firm and as unyielding as the rest of his being.
The word is more familiar in mind than upon your tongue, for it is a Xaela word for a Au Ra belief.
You blink, trying to let the thoughts catch up to you, recalling the significance of what the Xaela call the Dusk Mother--Nhaama--and how it ties so intricately with the Oronir tribe.
How Magnai, believing himself to be the mortal-born Dawn Father, known as Azim to the Xaela, searches endlessly for his lover--his equal and destined Nhaama.
To hear him accuse, no, to question if you are such a one as that...
You know not what to say. But the silence at least is not long-lasting, for the leader of the Oronir is quick to speak.
“For years have I wondered if my Nhaama would be born outside of the Steppe, less so outside of the Xaela--but after many sunfalls of thought, such sense does it make at last!”
Magnai’s words are filled with such warmth and energy, an excitement that mirrored that of a child--you can't help but feel a heat across your cheeks as you listen and look upon the man, rising slowly to your feet to but come barely to his chest.
“Just as Azim took on the form of the Xaela, so too might the sun’s own fated one be of the Raen--a union of Dusk and Dawn, of Sun and Moon. An ethereal maiden of healing as if blessed by the Dusk Mother herself--I have seen how your gentle touch has already healed the brave warriors who follow the Sun.”
The words, spoken with such flourish and care, leave you without a single sound in your throat. All you can do is stare at the man, still frozen, still silent, taking in all he has to say.
“You have found your way home at last, into the warm embrace of the Sun’s court, for the Oronir--for the heavenly Sun himself--have been waiting for you. My sweet, beloved Nhaama.”
From around the Dawn Throne’s land, people approach. Young and old step into the open area, if only to explore the commotion of noise of their leader’s booming voice, for Magnai did naught to keep his confident declarations of love quiet.
You can see them all as they grow nearer, some trying to hide their curiosity behind the edges of nearby tents, and others yet who cared if they were seen watching with crossed arms and quirked brows. Buduga and Oronir warriors alike, all watching in a slowly-gathering crowd, gazes fixed upon the grand Xaela warrior at its center, and the small Raen healer who he stood in front of in but a grand display, arms outstretched and tail lashing behind him in that same child-like excitement.
The beat of your heart is rapid. It hammers hard in your chest, making your blood rush and your head feel dizzy. Thoughts come too rapidly for you to catch. Like sand through loosely-bound fingers, they slip through. All you can do is stand and behold Magnai in all of his show, his burning attention upon you and you alone.
Despite it all, your eyes remain locked with his. You heard his words, yes, but they scarcely pierce through your swirling emotions. For as many experiences you’ve held close to your chest, for as many near-deaths, fears, hopes and dreams that you’ve clutched in the years since birth, never once did you feel an emotion quite like the one filling your chest now.
It feels warm. It feels radiant. It feels comforting and familiar.
Like a switch, a button, something flipped inside of your heart. A revelation crashed through your mind like an ocean of water, threatening to swallow you whole, to drown you in its never-ending pressure. One of your hands reached up to your own chest, fingertips digging into the cloth that lay over your heart as if you had to keep it from jumping out.
And still you met Magnai’s gaze.
Without meaning to, you take a step forward.
You take another, and then a third.
Magnai is still as you approach him, closing the last few strides of a gap between your forms, until he is close enough to reach out and touch. He makes no move nor shift. Though he could all but reach out and grab you the man keeps himself still, as if but the slightest motion may scare you away.
The warmth in your chest only grows as you get close to him, getting hotter until it’s a burning radiance of emotion you can but barely describe, of which the Oronir leader is the undeniable source.
Careful. Cautious. Unsure.
You reach a hand up, fingertips shyly brushing across the side of the man’s face. Though you struggle for a few moments to reach him comfortably upon the tips of your toes, Magnai wordlessly leans down enough that you can lay your palm flat over the curve of his cheek, fingertips against the texture of his obsidian scales as black as night.
And then, you feel compelled to speak. A deep instinct bubbles within your chest. It is primal, the feeling, and one you cannot stop.
“You are my Sun.”
It feels as natural as breathing.
"My...Azim."
If not for how you looked so closely upon Magnai’s face, you might have missed the way his eyes widen, glimmering golden in the light of the sun above. You might miss how his lips tremble or his body shakes. The man’s brows knit tight above his eyes in a range of emotions untrained or simply unprepared, the words a key to an ocean of raw feelings he too was not ready to feel.
And all the while, to the outside world, the two of you stand in silence.
Magnai finally reaches a hand up to your face. His fingertips lightly stroke across one of your horns, as if committing the shape and texture already to his memory.
“You are the most beautiful thing ever to grace the vision of the Sun.”
His words are a whisper, spoken soft and intimate for only the two of you to hear. After a moment longer you feel the man’s hand shift, cupping one side of your face against his palm; the touch is warm, fingertips calloused from years of training and battle.
Your heart sings for the simple gesture.
“I...” you start, heartbeat beginning to race again as you take in the moment. “I don’t understand what’s going on....why I feel this way...”
“Worry not, my Nhaama, you will learn the details of your journey to me in time.” Magnai reaches his other hand out to cup your face completely, thumbs gently rubbing over the curve of your cheekbone, as if tracing the lines of your scales. “Know only that you will be loved and cared for in all of your years under the embrace of the Sun. I have found you at last.”
At last his hands move, arms reaching around your body to tug you against him--you offer no rejection, just a soft noise of surprise as you feel your form press flush to his. Your face instinctively nuzzles against where it reaches of the man’s chest before your eyes peer up to meet Magnai’s own once more.
In but one breathless moment he pulls you up and into his arms, lifting you off your feet enough so that neither he nor you have to strain to reach eachother’s lips.
There is no hesitation in how your mouths meet, and neither is there issue with the shape of your horns and his. It is truly an exhilarating thought, a revaluation, your bodies and faces and lips meeting as if you were truly crafted to be with one another.
Though you feel a gentle pressure of his horns sliding against your own, there is nothing to stop him from claiming your lips with tongue and teeth, from growling into the kiss in a manner that only vaguely reminds that you have an audience of Oronir and Buduga still watching the union before their very eyes.
Before you could think to pull away, Magnai has long-since felt the subtle change in the pressure of your lips. His face pulls back just enough, though your foreheads still touch, breaths mingling delicately across one another’s skin.
“I have found you at last,” the man murmurs lowly, making no effort to release you or allowing you out of his arms. “And now that I have you, my beautiful Nhaama, I will never let you go.”
Summary: Haurchefant is almost sure that you feel the same for him as he does for you, but he's not certain. To check some suspicions, he looks into the fact that, whenever you smile at him, he notices that your tail seems to fluff up--do you do this when you talk to others?
He has to find out, if only to know that his feelings are mutual.
When Haurchefant first has suspicions about the truest feelings that you hold for him, they’re nothing more than that: simple suspicions.
He had no clear nor tangible reason to think the relationship as anything more than cordial allies. Despite this very respectable thought process, the Elezen also had quite the extravagant imagination and, honestly, he could never find himself at odds with the idea of you being ever so fond of him–Haurchefant in fact welcomed the idea with open arms and a less-than-appropriate mind that wandered quite often while going through paperwork, if he’s being quite honest.
Regardless, he had a suspicion that the feelings may very well be mirrored, if not entirely mutual. He knew almost for a fact that behind those beautiful eyes and that smile which graced each and every stoic nod of assurance you gave him, there was but a smoldering desire which could very well rival Haurchefant’s very own.
His reason for thinking so?
Your tail.
Well, pray tell not the fact that you have a tail, since that would be absurd. It’s what you do with your tail when you look at him, smile that glorious grin upon Haurchefant like but a beam of warm sunshine briefly offering Camp Dragonhead a mercy from the oh-so-common cold, cloudy days.
It puffs up. Specifically speaking, it puffs up when you speak to him, often in the same breath as when you flick your eyes to the ground and smile that very smile you do so often without realization in his presence. It appears so soft to the touch on any normal day, but in those brief moments it looks but as soft as silk and as fluffy as a newborn karakul that it almost pains Haurchefant that he cannot simply reach out and stroke down the length of such a wondrous part of you.
Though the man didn’t completely understand the physiology of the Miqo’te tails, he certainly knew enough about people in general context to understand when something questionable is afoot–and he knew that there was something behind that little tell of yours.
As a man of observation, Haurchefant began to take note of things whenever you spared a moment to visit Camp Dragonhead. He paid close mind to when you interacted with others, if only to see if such a difference came to perception or if it was all but a silly man’s affections run amok in his own mind.
Though he certainly did well not to outright follow you from one conversation to another, Haurchefant did find it easy to excuse himself about the camp as was needed, especially since his close alliance with you was no secret–the two of you had helped one another plenty in the past, after all. A run-in here, a convenient meeting there, it didn’t take much for the Elezen to pull the strings how he needed to get but a cursory glance at your interactions with others.
You smiled often and spoke with liveliness to all who cared to listen to you, though that in itself was obvious to anyone who but heard rumor about you as a person let alone esteemed warrior of light. Haurchefant was not interested in such things when he knew they were not the evidence he sought near-desperately.
There were moments where your tail twitched or ears flicked, though what few times he noticed was largely when he had reason to believe you were getting agitated–he didn’t let those moments linger for very long of course. Let it always be known that Haurchefant would not tolerate any sort of discrimination to anyone who placed foot within Camp Dragonhead, be they Elezen, Miqo’te or otherwise; he made quick work of what few young and very ignorant initiates decided to test the tolerance held in Haurchefant’s warm heart.
For many times he watched you as you visited, sometimes with business in the snowy lands and other times to visit him personally (of which Haurchefant was always lost in his head like a lovesick schoolboy). Despite all the time he had to figure things out, he just couldn’t quite note a moment that your tail did quite the same thing as he was curious about–not a single time did it puff or fluff up in quite the same way, though there were a multitude of other things it did in otherwise staunch conversation.
In fact, Haurchefant came to realize there was a lot of meaning in but the simple movements of a tail or the softest flick of the ears when it came to the Miqo’te. So much did he realize was lost to him when talking to you, so many queues and nonverbal messages he had missed without realizing it.
The way you flick your tail when you’re shy, the way you pull back your ears when your nervous. Did you ever realize that, when you’re trying to answer a particularly hard conundrum, you wrap your tail around your own leg?
Haurchefant found it endearing. Just one more thing to add to the ever-growing list, something he could speak about until his very breath ran cold and his mind had long since moved on into senility.
But no matter the breadth of knowledge and appreciation gained, the several days of observation offered little insight towards answering the very question which begun the man’s internal questing. With several visits and seemingly no closer to the end, it became clear that the only way the Camp Dragonhead lord may gain such a perilous answer would be to do what he considered as last resort:
He could ask you directly.
It would be a risky choice, as Haurchefant didn’t want his personal quest to be revealed, lest he lose all the carefully collected data–as well as put himself in a horrible state of embarrassment should he be wrong in his assumption.
The very last thing he wanted was to tarnish the friendship he had forged with you.
He waited an extra couple days, allowed himself to build up a convincing reason to ask such an odd question if only so your suspicion wouldn’t be aroused. Though Haurchefant considered himself somewhat capable of smoothing over a lie, he doubted his ability to convince you that he had a distant Miqo’te relative, whether by blood or adoption. He had scarce contacts in the Black Shroud or La Noscea, but he could pull upon some familiar names tied to Ul’dah if explanation was needed…
Too complicated.
When the day finally came for him to ask, he didn’t honestly have much of a plan in motion. It certainly didn’t help that your next visit after his decision came quicker than he thought, leaving Haurchefant to scurry for words and actions mere moments before they happened in much akin to the same lovesick schoolboy he often considered himself to be around you.
He was lucky there was naught amiss, leaving you able to spend time with him privately and talking of simple things over a drink together.
“I hope you don’t find it a bother,” Haurchefant tried to keep his words casual, swirling the dark liquid in his glass. “But I had a question for you I’ve been hoping to ask. It deals with matters you may be best suited to answer, dealing with something of a Miqo’te habit I’m unlearned about.”
You blink, curiosity filling your gaze and smile as it pulls at the corners of your lips.
“I’m of the understanding that Miqo’te are rare in these parts; far too cold to be comfortable and far too cloudy for worship of any sort.”
“Oh no,” the man said, the lie already starting to drip gently from his lips. “It’s not for my personal interest.”
“Oh?”
“You see I have a dear friend of mine who has become quite taken with someone-”
You feel one of your brows perk.
“-a Miqo’te. The details are certainly of no import in the matter, but he has found himself besieged with a question he cannot answer. Though I’ve implored him to but ask himself, he seems resigned to never know the answer.”
Haurchefant grew confident with every word, feeling the story twist together in a neat little plait in which couldn’t be easily unraveled. Certainly he would be able to ask the question without worry of suspicion, especially since you seemed so politely quiet in wait for it yourself.
“You see, he’s noticed that whenever they’re together, his love’s tail seems to-” Haurchefant feigns in the search for the right word, hoping the lapse of memory would only give credence to the story. “Ah, what did he say? Oh! Puff, that’s right–he says his love’s tail puffs right up, like a blowfish of somesort if only such a creature was covered in fur instead of spines.”
He mulls over the words for a few moments extra before letting his eyes fall to you, watching your expression with care as he takes a sip from the glass in his hand.
It doesn’t fall from pensive thought, though he does take a prideful note of how your ears twitch, flicking as if like a bird’s wings aiding it to take flight, though for you it is simply to launch yourself into a series of thoughts.
Was that weird? Perhaps that one was a bit weird, even for him.
“Well, there could be a lot of reasons, but is there any specific time that it happens besides being together?”
“Well, he says it’s usually when he catches a smile or a giggle from his partner.”
You pondered on it for a few moments, tapping a finger lightly at your chin.
“Sounds like a tell to me,” you laughed after a moment, shrugging your shoulders casually. “Nothing beguiling about that, no more than you are Haurchefant, perchance did you know that you tend to bite at your lower lip when your nervous?”
The man blinked, suddenly realizing that he indeed had some of his lower lip between his teeth. He swiftly shifted his weight in the chair and tried to make the act look aloof, just making himself more comfortable in the moment is all.
“D-do go on, dear friend. I hope that whatever may be unsaid between he and his love, my friend has nothing to worry for?”
“Of course not!”
The exclamation was made with no shortage of amusement. You couldn’t hold in the laugh for more than a moment before your hands fly up to your lips and hide what little dignity you can from escaping in the resulting uproarious noise of humor.
Haurchefant merely looked at you, looking something between worried and confused.
“Some Miqo’te do that when they’re happy,” you finally relent, wanting not to torture the poor man. “Your friend has absolutely nothing to worry about, though I’d insist he’d as his partner himself for their specific thoughts on the matter. Likely it’s just how his partner tells him that they love him dearly.”
Haurchefant all but feels his heart stop in the moment, mind trying desperately to put the words together in the way his mind needs, answer yet before him to the question he so very much wanted to solve. He doesn’t have much of a chance to continue the conversation however as you suddenly feel a ring in your ear–your linkpearl, alerting you of a recall back to the Waking Sands for something that seems at least mildly urgent.
You relay this information quickly enough to the Elezen and begin to make your leave, thanking him generously for his time and drink.
“It is I who should be thanking you,” Haurchefant says, gesturing towards you with a mild flourish, as if but words alone can’t accurately describe the meaning. “There are few who would come to these cold, deary mountains to visit even a close friend; your company is always welcomed here with a warm fire and attentive company.”
His words make you smile, a familiar send-off that you’ve grown so accustomed to that it almost feels like leaving Camp Dragon head is akin to leaving home. You begin to make your leave from the room but stop just a few steps short of the door, turning your head around to catch Haurchefant’s gaze with your own.
“Oh, one more thing,” you say, smile tugging at your lips and an unmistakable fluff to your tail. “You could have simply asked me outright about my little tell. I am very much fond of you in kind, dearest Haurchefant, and I’d love to know you more.”
And only then do you leave the room post-haste, catching one last sight of the man with a shock to his wide eyes, a flush upon his cheeks and his lower lip between his teeth in sudden realization that his ruse had been known from the very beginning.
Summary: It’s been many months since you found the mirror and learn its secrets, learned about the imprisoned elf who calls himself Aaravos. In those months you’ve befriended him, grown close to him in ways you can’t much label, and now you awake on the other side of the mirror through magic you can’t understand–and Aaravos craves your touch.
For someone so attuned to magic, Aaravos is surprisingly strong. Well, surprisingly against anyone who is able to pluck you off your feet without so much as a noise of struggle, which are few in number and fewer still like him. He carries you with all the careless ease as a parent carries a child, or perhaps more accurately as one might carry a pet–with one arm beneath your shoulder blades and the other behind your knees. He holds you against his chest, grip firm and unwavering as he carries you over to the small bed from where you originally awoke from.
“Forgive any lack of decoration or flourish,” Aaravos says in honey-sweet apology, though it comes more from obligation than any sense of shame. “This room was not designed to entertain more than one specific guest.”
You don’t need to push for clarification, so instead you merely let him move you, lay you down over the plush mattress and press his hands over your body in one fluid motion as he stands back up to his full height. He starts to undress without pause, and such a simple motion as him shedding his cloak looks graceful and measured.
“If you’ve only been here for…however long it’s been,” you try to sound casual, sitting up so you can watch as he slowly, carefully gathers his cloak in his arms and lays it over the headboard. “Then how long has it been since you last…..”
There is absolutely no way to make that sound casual.
Still, you try your best not to avert your eyes when they meet Aaravos’ own, his expression unreadable before he quickly turns away from you, shedding his vest. The air in the room shifts, but you don’t have the time nor the emotional prowess to read it accurately. For a moment you feel fear that you’ve crossed a line, a boundary of personal discomfort, so you hurriedly drop your gaze and look down instead to your own still-clothed body.
Ah, you’d been staring at him with such focus that you’ve forgotten to get yourself undressed.
It seems a good way to shift your attention without feeling awkward (though you manage to feel that way regardless); your fingers find the buttons of your simple shirt, undoing one after another with a nervous little shake to each little movement.
You’ve not even touched the third button before a pair of hands suddenly grab your wrists and stop them, leaving you staring dumbly as star-speckled fingers keep your hands still from your rush to undress.
“No,” comes the simple, yet powerful word. “That’s for me to do.”
Aaravos doesn’t give you room nor time to reply any particular way as his body suddenly moves over you. Clad in but loose pants, he straddles your hips and pins you down, surprising you enough in the moment that you’re lost for words until his mouth is at your throat.
All you can go is gasp out in short bursts of air, half-words that don’t have any meaning than for their sound alone from your quivering lips. Sharp teeth and careful lips press to your skin in half-hearted bites that only remind you how hard he could mark you with but a fancy or strike of want, all of which he’s already admitted to having.
He’s deft with his fingers, undoing all the buttons of your top in barely a few seconds before gently urging your arms up so he can tug it free from your upper body. Despite all the squirming, you can’t register a moment that you don’t feel his lips on your throat, seeking out the most sensitive spots and toying the tip of his tongue against them. The same tongue and teeth and lips that can form such beautiful words seem to have much the same talent in pleasure, your body blooming with heat for anything he so much as cared to do with you.
“Aaravos,” you moan, his name broken and weak on your lips. “Please.”
It’s a simple word, but it feels as heavy as iron over the two of you, weighed down with want and need for so much more than just his mouth on your neck–though it’s proven to be a talent in itself for how worked up it’s already made you.
“So impatient,” the man murmurs, voice rumbling softly against your throat. “And here I worried for a moment that I was moving too quickly in my own feverish desire.”
The amusement fills his words softly, and his chuckle sounds even sweeter. It’s only then that you remember yourself and his situation, the irony coming down on you so hard that your face blooms with raging heat.
“I didn’t mean-”
“I’m not angry,” Aaravos cuts off your apology as he lifts his face from your throat. His hair falls from where it had been temporarily pulled behind his ears, falling around your face like a curtain of silvery silk. “You have not endured the same as I have, to be so distant from another person. To long for so much as a person’s voice or their simple company.”
Golden eyes shut slowly with a sigh, a gathering of thoughts physically showcased only by the soft glimmer of the marks scattered across the elf’s cheeks. For whatever it’s supposed to represent on him, you can’t ignore that to you, it looks akin to a blush.
You reach your hands up without thinking and hold Aaravos’ face between them, so your thumbs can trace over those glittering marks on his skin. For some reason you expect them to feel different on his skin, but there’s no texture or difference in anything–they are simply part of his flesh, yet somehow alive and glittering like the stars of the midnight sky.
The man’s eyes shoot open the moment your touch is upon him, wide and surprised in so much more than in the simple fact that you’re touching him.
No, it’s so much more than that.
They blink, those soulful eyes, and stare at you for what feels like forever.
Aaravos feels so warm as he lays over you, still straddling your hips and half-dressed, hair still a curtain around your face so that all your eyes can see is his expression; it’s soft and curious and awed in so many layers beyond what you can hope to read, emotions running deeper than you’ve ever seen in another person.
“I have not felt the touch of another person for so long,” he says at last, a whisper so soft and deep that you’d not hear it if you were any farther from him. “The warmth of skin against my own, the feeling of arms and hands and fingertips-”
Carefully, Aaravos brings one hand between you. He pulls one of your wrists from his face, but only so that he can press a kiss to your palm, and then to each of your fingertips.
“-I’ve craved the company of someone through sleepless nights and dreary days, someone I could touch and embrace in my arms if only once.”
His kisses grow gentler as he pulls your hand to his lips, to press one more on your inner-wrist. It’s as if he’s trying to worship the smallest detail, to commit it to memory through kisses alone.
All you can do is watch, bittersweetness tugging at your thoughts and mind–you can’t begin to understand what it feels like to be isolated like him, to be locked away without anything of the world beyond this room and it’s loneliness. To want just the company of another person, just the notion that they exist–it’s…horrible.
You take in a breath and feel steeled to the blossoming lust and compassion in your chest for the man above you, the man of midnight skies and starlit skin and silver-silk hair.
“I’m here now,” you say, hands reaching up and holding Aaravos’ face once more, cradling it with a love you’d almost feel ashamed for if the moment wasn’t already so saturated with emotion. “Touch me. Have me. Make me yours, Aaravos.”
The man watches you for a moment, expression unreadable again though only for a few breaths of time.
And then it shifts into a look of hunger.
“You’ve sealed away your fate,” he growls, voice going deep as the currents of a wondrous but powerful ocean. “You’ll have no hope to rid yourself of me now, silly human, when you’ve promised yourself to me like this.”
There had been a level of care in how Aaravos’ helped you remove your shirt, but there was no such gentleness for the rest of your clothes. He tears at what remains on your body, his hands making quick work while his mouth once more finds his mark of a passionate kiss.
It doesn’t take long before you’re stripped bare beneath him, mind swirling and thick with want.
“For someone who hasn’t been with another,” the words fall from your lips almost breathlessly. “-you seem plenty familiar with this sort of thing.”
You catch Aaravos’ wicked grin as he shifts his body to strip the last piece of clothing from himself, making sure the motion is slow and deliberate.
“I only said it has been long since I’ve had companionship; I never once said that I’m unfamiliar with the activity one has upon a bed.” A shift of his eyes, mischievous and sly. “Or the wall. Or the floor. Only the uncreative limit themselves to the passions that lovers can enjoy together.”
You’re not quite sure what to focus on in the moment.
There’s his words, of course, steeped in something strong and carnal–you can’t begin to filter through all of the context clues to what sorts of things a man like Aaravos has done before (the sorts of activities he’s familiar with), but you’re also quite distracted by the sight of his naked form as he straddles your hips once again, pants tossed and forgotten quickly enough in some vague direction from the bed.
He truly looks like a piece of the midnight sky. From his hands, feet and face, there’s a shift of color to his skin from light to dark, reminding you faintly of the color that lingers on the horizon in the short hours after the sun finally sets.
He’s covered in freckles of glittering stars–they shimmer as if alive, as if actual stars without any shift of light or movement of Aaravos’ body. Your eyes take in all of him at once but nothing at the same time–it’s overwhelming, honestly, because he’s kneeling over you, tall and proud and–
Oh.
Aroused. Also very aroused.
It’s amazing that there’s any shame left to fill your cheeks with heat by this point, but you otherwise can’t pull your gaze away from the stiff organ between his legs colored similarly to the rest of his body (which is to say there’s a white, starry speckling across its length). The shape is plenty familiar in that it’s obvious it’s a cock despite the difference in species, but it’s also much different than what you’re used to.
It’s tapered, for one, though long and thick enough to make your belly flip in shameless need for it inside you. How would such a shape even feel? Would it open you up easier, slide inside you without a need for careful preparation? The possibilities were enough to make your thoughts spin, body shifting beneath the man in unsettled heat.
“Are you intrigued by something?”
The familiar, mischievous voice from above yanks your eyes away, towards his face and confronting the realization that you’d been staring quite dumbfoundedly at his dick for at least a solid five seconds, if not longer.
All you can do is scrabble for words, though there’s no explanation that can hope to save you from the embarrassment.
Perhaps it’s better just to not try to excuse yourself or your arousal, your growing want for the man to be between your legs and make you cry out his name over and over again in unbridled lust.
He laughs–the sound is heavenly to your ears–and he finally leans down over you again, one hand anchoring his weight beside your head as the fingers of the other hold your chin so that you have to look at him.
“There’s no shame in being curious,” he all but purrs, lips pulled into a smirk. “There’s as much to learn about my body as I’m eager to learn about yours, but for now let’s focus on you.”
You try to shake your head.
“But you deserve to-”
“No,” Aaravos says, stilling your words with the weight of his command, even as it’s nearly whispered. “Your time is limited. I have seen you countless times through the mirror, I have watched you work and move, heard you laugh and sing even, yes, even when before you realized I could see and hear you.”
The meaning in his words sends a soft, but wondrous shiver down your spine. The two of you had been talking for several months, though you’d been almost enraptured with the mirror for many weeks before you ever learned that it was more than a well-crafted showpiece.
Aaravos has more to say, it’s obvious in the air and you feel as if breathless in waiting for him to continue. The man moves himself gently, but deliberately between your legs. You wrap them almost instinctively around his waist, ankles locked behind the small of his back.
He feels warm against your skin as his hand moves from your chin, skimming fingertips down the front of your body and tracing shapes against your skin.
“I’ve yearned to touch you from the moment you first spoke to me.”
The words are so honest, they feel as though plucked straight from the elf’s heart like stars from the night sky. His fingers continue to trace careless shapes against your skin until it reaches your hip where he grabs you and pulls you closer, your hips pressing harder to his in a moment of naked intimacy and heat.
“I’ve yearned to feel you just like this, to know what you sound like when my lips are on your skin and my tongue tracing your pulse.”
His words sound delicate and soothing despite the fire they light in the pit of your stomach or the ache between your legs. You can’t hope to hide the arousal over your face–so you simply don’t. Your brows knit together and your hands reach up once more to Aaravos’ face so you can get his attention, even though you can’t find the words to plead for what you want–even though the very thing of your desire is pressing against you, hot and hard and throbbing in equal need.
“Oh,” he murmurs, as if captured by your eyes as they meet his. “So many things I want to do to you, my little human. For what time you have left with me for now, all I want is to feel you come completely undone around me.”
It takes a moment for your brain to filter his words, but by then you can feel that his hand has skimmed down farther between your bodies, dipping between your legs and pressing against your entrance. They’re cold and slick with something you don’t recall being on them but a moment before as he touched and caressed your skin.
“Don’t fear,” Aaravos coos before you even have the chance to feel worried. “It will help you relax.”
Whatever the substance is, you’re sure it’s magical in origin, slicking up your inner walls as one, then two digits carefully press inside you. Arousal and need come together in their own aggravation because you only want more, more of him inside you, opening you up and bringing you closer to climax.
“Aaravos,” is all you can plead out, hoping that your tone is enough to encourage him.
“Impatient,” is all the elf tuts, amusement in his tone once more. “It’s as if you’ve been wanting my touch for as long as I’ve wanted to touch you.”
You don’t correct him, and that only seems to make his resolve stronger, his fingers press deeper within you. Aaravos is not a man unfamiliar with the details of sex or pleasure, as he’s able to bring you close enough to the edge with his hand alone that you’re panting his name in broken gasps.
Your body feels as if on fire by this point, be it from his voice, his fingers, the aching press of his cock or some combination of it all–you need him now or else you’ll fall apart.
So you plead and beg and moan for him, the last threads of shame fallen from thought and care and replaced solely with the aching, gnawing desire to have his cock inside of you.
“Aaravos,” you beg, hips shifting, trying desperately to find more. “Have me.”
You don’t get an answer, or at least not a verbal one from your lover. You’re almost worried that he isn’t listening to you at this point, letting your words fly useless into the air when all you crave is his intimate attention–
When that’s exactly what you get. Thick fingers slide out of you moments before you feel sturdy hands press over your hips and pull them up and closer against his body. You can feel the aching heat of his cock against you, grinding and rubbing for only a few moments as Aaravos adjusts himself and then, with a single, powerful but earth-shattering motion, he thrusts inside of you.
There’s too much to process all at once.
Pleasure and satisfaction and heat and girth spreading your body open–there’s just so much that you can’t hope to do more than gasp and arch your back into the myriad of sensations.
“Oh,” you hear your lover growl. “Oh how sweet you feel around me, how wondrous and pure.”
There’s a filth to the words that spill from Aaravos’ mouth, a certain carnal filter that seems emphasized by his smooth tone and poetic vocabulary. He doesn’t hide his thoughts or pleasure from you as he starts a quick and ruthless pace.
Kisses and nips and everything in between find their place along your throat, jaw and lips, your name weaved between each and every one in what almost sounds like a deep, gravely prayer; the sound of it alone is able to bring you closer to the edge, like honey and adoration from a man who craves your attention and touch in ways you’ll never quite understand.
You want to enjoy the intimacy for as long as possible, to put the feeling of his arms around you and lips nipping at your jaw somewhere deep in your mind so that you’ll never forget. Oh, you want this moment to last for eternity, but there’s no such thing when climax comes far too swift, a heat building low in your stomach that becomes far too much to ignore.
“I want-” you say, trying desperately to communication a million words in one breath. “Aara-v-vos I’m–I’m getting close.”
You expect certain things from a lover when you’re in their arms, writhing in need beneath their form. You expect certain words and whispers, promises and languid motions of needy bodies seeking the apex of pleasure–but you don’t expect what Aaravos does at all.
One of his hands seek out yours, gripping tight into the thin sheets of the bed. You feel him press his palm to yours and thread your fingers together as best as one can in the heat of the moment. You feel his lips on the underside of your jaw and his hips rocking feverishly against yours, making the bed bump and squeak with a filthy rhythm into the otherwise empty room.
“Sing for me,” the man finally says, a needy whisper that seems to break through his composed, deep voice. “Sing your pleasure for me, let yourself go so I may hear every beautiful syllable.”
You can’t even think of disobeying such a loving command. Pleasure comes in thick, hot waves over your form, leaving you to writhe as if your body barely knows what to do with it. Legs tighten around Aaravos’ waist as your body clenches around him, milking his cock and spurring him into orgasm with a kiss-muffled moan of his mouth to your throat for a mark you’ll certainly tend to tomorrow.
Every moment, stretched and gooey and warm, is filled with your voice. With his soft demand echoing around your mind, it’s all you can do in simple obedience but to moan, to let out all the noises that come to your lips with the pleasure of his touch and love and everything.
His name makes up most of it.
Aaravos, oh Aaravos, you don’t have quite the lilt to your words or tone, the honey-sweet depth, but you hope it sounds as pretty and lovely to him.
Somewhere in it all, in the heat and pleasure and rawness of climax, everything goes white around you.
...
And then, suddenly, you’re awake.
Not in Aaravos’ arms or even in his bed–not even in the room behind the mirror–you instead wake to find yourself in your own quarters. The walls are familiar, the floor is familiar, your very bed is familiar.
With a blink, the realization fades into your thoughts that you’re back home, in your own world and bedroom and–
No.
You stumble out of bed with a gasp, a rushed energy to your limbs. No, oh no it can’t have been a dream, please don’t let it all have been nothing but a feverish dream-
It doesn’t take long to hurry down the hall and to the study, to the mirror that sits so innocently by itself in the corner of the room. Without hesitation you pull the cover from over the piece, hoping almost desperately to see a familiar face behind the glass, maybe even teasing you for being so cute or pretty or some other lovely compliment that he’d surely say of you in the heat of sex.
But you don’t see anything. The mirror acts in the moment as simply a mirror, no haughty elf standing on the other side of any magical portal and no indication that what you’d waken from was nothing more than a dream of one castle-keeper’s silly crush on something–someone–that can’t be understood.
It’s not uncommon that you don’t see Aaravos in the mirror, it’s not completely his lack of appearance that leaves you momentarily disheartened, but the nagging worry that it was nothing more than a midnight fantasy that felt a bit too real.
You’ll have to ask him about it in the morning, if the day is cloudy and the metaphorical stars align just right. Though waiting will only leave you filled with more worry, it’s the only option you have.
But.
Wait.
You look at the mirror once more, focusing on your reflection in the surface. More specifically you look at your neck, catching a spot of color on your skin. It piques your curiosity enough that you tilt your head to the side, angling yourself so that you can get a clear look at it.
A bruise.
You feel heat in your cheeks at the recognition that the color on your throat, one that is high enough that you’ll have to figure out how to cover up–
