wrinniewrites

[wrinniewrites]

Cruel Intentions | Manon Blackbeak

SUMMARY ↣ for as long as you have lived, danger has yet ceased its chase. so when manon blackbeak dares walk your lands with a tempting offer on her tongue, it is you who heeds all warnings to seek the old friend.

WARNINGS ↣ smut, blood, injury, threats, death— the usual fun stuff.

WORD COUNT ↣ 8.1k

PAIRINGS ↣ manon blackbeak x fem!reader

“Stay away from them.” Bronwen’s stern command startles your watchful gaze away from the thirteen iron-teeth witches who deign to walk your lands. Never had you seen anything quite so blessed by beauty.

A frown wrinkles your forehead. “Why?” You complain, ever the curious child. The answer is plain; they have hunted your kind for centuries. It does little to dampen your interest, however.

The older witch softens, ruffling your hair. “You know why,” the coven leader rolls her eyes, amused, but her shoulders remain tense. She does her best to conceal it, to protect you from its meaning. It is a pity you have never been a good listener.

“But—”

“Just trust me on this one, will you?” She urges, pleading you to concede. Despite the years spent in her company she has little faith you will obey, for your curiosity followed you long into adulthood.

Huffing, you swat her hand away. “Fine,” you grumble, willing yourself not to turn, she will catch the lie in your eyes should you face her.

Your words draw a pleasant smile to her features. “Good.” She hums, slinging an arm over your shoulder. And when you feel a gaze of burnt gold seer into your skin you swallow thickly, daring not to look.

Bronwen’s sharp gaze flickers to you knowingly. “Come along, little witch, we have much to do.”

You shadow your leader with an obedient nod, fighting the flare of your nostrils, which plead to drink in the intoxicating scent of the passing witch. Your throat constricts with effort, but the softest of inhales proves fatal.

Bronwen’s nails dig into your skin as you still; a warning. But it is too late, for you have forgotten your own name, the ground on which you stand. Your neck cranes reflexively, knees buckling with the force of which her stare strikes you.

The witch’s back straightens, alabaster skin gleaming in the sunlight. It feels as though you are being burned from inside out, it hurts as much as delights you. A chain of gold is clasped around your neck, drawing you closer and there is naught you can do to stop it.

A bruising grip on your arm is all that keeps you tethered, and the world comes rushing back. Recalling yourself, you stumble into Bronwen, allowing her to lead you away hastily.

But even she is not fast enough. For you wish to run, far from the witch who has seized command of your mind, body and soul, far as your feet will take you.

The sun has long since fallen beyond the horizon by the time you slip from your tent.

Hours pass before Bronwen is convinced you might cope alone. Whether she fears your own treacherous mind or the guests which wander this land, you do not know. Either way, she was a fool to leave you unattended.

Taking care to remain unnoticed in your ventures, your steps are silent on damp soil. It is why Adarlan’s King does not hear you follow, keeping well within the trees. Curiosity however, draws you dangerously close, barely concealed by shrub as you watch him draw odd shapes in his own blood. Still, you are too far to see, to understand.

One wrong step has a traitorous branch snapping beneath your careful foot.

The King twists, but does not see you.

Exhaling softly, you retreat to the forest. It happens faster than you can blink. Your back hits a cold body, a rough hand clamps over your mouth, another at your neck.

“What do you think you’re doing?” A voice drawls lowly, one that burns with familiarity, but not one you have yet heard. You struggle in the unyielding grip, but to no avail. Panicked shouts go muffled by a calloused palm.

“Ah, ah,” Manon tuts, “careful, darling.” Still, you writhe. She frees her iron nails, sharp points digging into your skin. A shiver crawls up your spine, her breath fanning your neck. ���Be a good little witch and I might just let you live.”

When you nod, frantic, the hand is released from your mouth. You wrench free, but not so much as a peep passes your lips when you turn to face her.

The witch hums in approval before her face hardens.

“Who sent you?” She demands.

Eyes wide, you shake your head in rapid dismissal.

Pathetic. She could smell the fear on you leagues away.

“No one—”

“Do not test my patience.”

She raises a perfectly sculpted brow, watching you glance over your shoulder fearfully. In search of help, or danger? Perhaps you heard something she could not. Impossible.

Either way, Dorian Havilliard is long gone, and no one will come to your aid.

She made certain of it.

Curiously however, when your gaze returns to her, concern is replaced by an unnerving calm. A taunting smile rests upon your pretty pink lips.

“Perhaps,” you begin, eyes glinting, “I came of my own volition.” There is no trace of a lie in your voice.

“Or maybe,” you continue, “I wished to have the King for myself.” You pause, watching her jaw clench with idle fascination.

“He is rather handsome, after all.” You feign a dreamy expression, twirling your hair around your forefinger. Alert as her hands curl into tight fists, you raise a brow. A snarl escapes her. She is jealous, you realise with a pleased grin. Of who, you do not yet know.

And when you dare to step closer, she does not stop you.

“Perhaps, it was not the King I wished to see at all.” When her brows pinch ever so slightly your smile widens.

“Maybe it was you I intended to catch alone.” You whisper, face to face with a witch who has hunted your kind for centuries. Yet you show no lack of courage. Your warm breath tangles with her own, and her eyes fixate on your lips, distracted.

You lean closer.

Manon stiffens.

“I suppose we might never know.”

Your shoulder brushes hers as you stroll past her, careless of the consequences. But the white haired witch is rooted in place. The scent of jasmine and honey lingers on her riding leathers, and she drinks it in hatefully. Manon is paralysed by want.

It is seconds, minutes, hours even, before she musters the strength to leave. And when she does, it is towards your tent.

Manon walks with a calm confidence as she weaves through the maze of tents, trailing your scent.

Despite her intentions for being amongst the Crochan’s, she does not care who she might anger with her next decision. She moves with mind so clouded by impulse she cares for little beyond carnal desire.

Though just as she ruffles the thick canvas, the smell of jasmine and honey fades. Not a soul inside.

Remembering herself, Manon blinks. Why had she followed you anyway? Decidedly, she turns in her heel, returning to her own tent unsatisfied.

Inside, she finds you waiting for her.

“What took you so long, Blackbeak?”

You lie atop her bed roll, stretched out, boots kicked to the side. A scoff passes her lips at the sight. Her desire turns to irritation, but she will not give you that satisfaction, for you have robbed her of her own.

“What do you want?” She asks boredly, reaching to unbuckle the layers of her riding leathers. Her mind is clear now, despite your intoxicating scent crowding the small space, clear as can be, at least.

It is too bad yours is anything but.

You watch, captivated, but unmoving. “It is you who scoured these lands in search of me.” You remind her, and Manon’s glare hardens when you grin. “I simply made the task easier.” You shrug, careless.

She will not kill you. Or so you believe.

The witch does not dignify you with an answer, nor does she oust you from her tent. Though you expect neither from her pride, nor lust.

“You did not answer my question.”

“What do I want?” You echo her words, an amused expression painting your features. “There are many things I want, things even you might not dare know, Blackbeak.”

And once again she is intrigued, but bristles at the way you speak; as though you hold all the cards. She will have none of it.

“Do not hold back on my account, darling.” She purrs, reaching for the last of her garments. Her lips quirk when pink dusts your cheeks.

“Go on then,” she urges, finally stripped, slinking down beside you. She requests a boldness you lost possession of the second she bore herself to you bare and willing.

“I wish to be entertained,” you manage to regain your footing. Her eyes follow each quirk of your lips greedily. It is thrilling, to have someone so prideful be the exact opposite. “Will you entertain me, Manon Blackbeak?”

“Not in the slightest,” the witch rasps, shameless as she drinks you in.

And you know for certain that she will.

There is no greater sound than the ones passing your lips with each caress of her fingers, Manon decides. There is no more pleasant a feeling than the smooth skin of your legs circling her hips, back arched so that your chest might meet her own. There is no taste finer than the sweetness which coats her lips and fingers.

You are a mess and she revels in it. Hair in knots, cheeks burning red and sweat glistening on your forehead. She is drunk. Intoxicated by jasmine and honey, the whines which part your pretty mouth. Hands soft as silk grasp at her hair, shoulders, back, crescent moons left in their wake.

“Manon—” You gasp in a whisper, breaths short, sharp and tangled with her own. A vulnerability shines in your eyes as you writhe beneath her, one she would lose herself were she not careful.

She dislikes the feeling it stirs within her chest.

Tears glitter the corners of your eyes, your warmth seizing her fingers. A featherlight touch skims her throat, tracing her jaw, and then finally reaching her red lips. The pad of your thumb swipes across them, and she is mesmerised.

She hates it and she cannot get enough.

Mirroring you, a clumsy hand which first presses to your throat before fingers find your own lips. Only you part them for her, sucking earnestly, sharp teeth prick her skin. Burnt gold eyes reflect a spike in euphoria as they gaze upon you —your eager mouth— begging to be claimed.

She does not kiss you— cannot kiss you.

Pleasure rolls through you in waves, the witch studying your twisted features with keen interest. She almost trembles from the sight alone, the way you give yourself to her entirely.

When you finally collapse beneath her, Manon is breathless as you.

The sun does not yet peer from the mountain peaks when Manon awakes to rustling. Jerking upright, burnt gold eyes find you slipping into your boots.

“You are leaving,” she observes, and with you your warmth will follow.

You face her with a smile, “and I will see you again tonight.” You wink. She does not protest, narrowing her eyes when you deign to turn your back on her once more.

Only for you to press closer to her, unexpectedly. “Lace me up?” There is a smugness in your voice as you gesture to the leather corset atop your linen tunic. Manon obliges you begrudgingly.

Better that than another stumble upon you half dressed.

“Does it amuse you?” She inquires, tugging firmly at the strings. You furrow your brows even though she cannot see your face, awaiting elaboration. The witch merely uses her strength to tighten the corset until it becomes difficult to syphon air to lung.

Craning your neck breathlessly, you are surprised to find her so close that her lips might brush upon your skin. “Does it amuse you,” she repeats, “to tangle with that of your enemies?”

“I thought you came to declare peace,” you quip, drawing away before she can ensnare you. “That makes us allies, does it not?” You rise on steady feet, sparing a glance over your shoulder.

“I have never known one so eager to make an alliance as you,” Manon’s eyes rake over your body, and you feel bare beneath her gaze. “I cannot complain,” she licks her lips, “your desperation certainly amuses me.”

The words sting.

It is her intention, and you know it, but they strike their target.

Your jaw tightens before you can force a faux smile onto your lips. “Yes,” you say, and she raises a brow. “It does entertain me to tangle with the likes of you,” you answer, venom on your tongue.

“So perhaps I shall choose another enemy to lie with tonight.” Manon barely bites back a possessive snarl, but you are already in the wind.

And once again she is left alone in the cold.

Talking to Glennis is easier than Manon dared expect. There is much she is both glad to know, but more she wishes to forget by the end of their conversation.

Her sister— she does not wish to dwell on mistakes of the past.

Manon is no stranger to stares of hatred, they have followed her all her life. But the ones of the Crochan’s, her people, carry a weight like no other. For the wrongs she has committed against them, for the favours she asks in return.

The blissful smell of jasmine and honey however, outweighs it all.

Her burnt gold eyes dart left, expecting. You appear not a moment later, and the air shifts. She realises it is not her traitorous mind, but the watchful stares of every Crochan which leaves the crowd tense.

You, unaware, or simply ignorant, meet her gaze, chin raised defiantly. The witch at your side, one of Manon’s own, stiffens.

“So perhaps I will choose another enemy to lie with tonight.”

Your words ring in her mind; not a threat, but a promise.

Manon is powerless to stop her iron nails from shooting out, digging painfully into her own palms. She rises stiffly, and Vesta, who’s shoulder brushes yours, drops her smirk.

Her steps are slow, dominating the silence.

All eyes are trained on her, save for yours, which blink prettily at the red haired witch, a playful grin donning your lips. Blue blood drips from her hands. She grits her teeth, vowing to make you regret it.

The witch manages another step before Bronwen intercepts her, blocking the path to you. So fixated by the anger dwelling within her, Manon does not hear the swarm of Crochan’s narrowing in on her. The witch pauses, assesingly.

This was an alliance she could not risk, she must remember.

But she cannot think.

Then Asterin is at her side, Dorian jumping in front of her. And when she can no longer see the enamoured look you give her fellow, Manon can finally breathe.

She does not apologise, only sauntering towards her tent with the eyes of every witch on her. Sparing a glance over her shoulder, she spots Bronwen with her hands upon your face and regrets turning.

Perhaps you need not search the beds of your enemies for a lover after all.

Sleep does not find Manon that night.

Dorian lies beside her, bare chest rising and falling softly in the darkness. She looks at him and feels nothing, for her mind lies on you. You with eyes so pretty she lost herself in them. You with a self assured smirk and lips she longed to taste. You with the scent of jasmine and honey, one she would drown in, were she able.

Manon grumbles, searching the king for an out, a way to free herself of you, but to no avail. With eyes closed, she sees only Vesta’s arm brushing yours, and ponders having the offending limb cut off. Too bad a witch was useless without her claws.

She turns away from the king restlessly, but is plagued by visions of yourself and Bronwen. Her jaw clenches as she tosses again, but then she thinks only of your lips. It is as though a chain of gold brands her mind, urging her to you.

But she refuses to seek you out.

She finds you in your tent mere minutes later, sitting alone, cradling a pendant in your hands. “What took you so long?” You ask, and Manon scowls. Your voice prickles her ears, so gentle it’s almost unpleasant. Almost.

“So you do not deign to lie with another?” Straight to the point.

“One enemy is enough for me.” You answer coyly.

There is something different about this, something unsettling about the feelings it invokes within her. Manon has had many, but this— you are different.

Her nostrils flare, and then her eyes narrow. “You smell of her.” Manon can hardly bear to think of it, let alone speak the name aloud.

“And you smell of him.” You retort bitterly, nose wrinkling.

Manon frowns. “He is nothing.”

“He is the King of Adarlan,” you correct.

But he is not you, she thinks. A look of surprise ripples on your face, as though you read the words on her tongue. Your knowing stare weighs heavy on the witch, she dislikes the understanding that shines in your eyes.

“You—”

“They are protective of you.” Manon interrupts. “More than most.” She dares not know of the words you may speak, for she fears she will drown in them. You will vanquish her walls and nothing will remain.

“They are overbearing,” you clarify, referring to your coven.

“It is different.” The witch asserts, “I have not seen anything like it.” The way they had each been so acutely aware of your presence, as though you were something to be put on a pedestal and kept hidden all at once.

You lie back on your bedroll as she settles at your side. “I did not take you for a talker,” Manon bristles at the comment. “But I suppose it’s only fair to explain the reason you were almost beheaded today.”

Burnt gold eyes meet yours, unimpressed. “I was hardly in any danger,” she grumbles, and you hold up a hand. The white-haired female glares at you, but you hold her stare, unflinching.

“Do you wish to hear the story, or not?” You ask, raising an expectant brow. Manon purses her lips, albeit begrudgingly. “It is a rather simple one, I’m afraid.”

“I was separated from my family young,” you say as if it is the simplest thing in the world. “There was a human girl,” you say. When Manon frowns, you spare her a knowing smile.

“She was rather pretty, enough to keep me enamoured for the better part of a week.” Manon growls; a warning. You roll your eyes, “when I returned, they were gone.” You complete, and the witch knows there is more to the story when you refuse to meet her gaze.

“And then Bronwen found you?”

“And then Bronwen found me.” You echo, nodding. “My family was without coven, I wandered the woods for weeks before that.”

“And Bronwen,” you roll onto your side, a lazy smile drawn across pink lips. “She was so very attentive,” there is a mischievous glint in your eyes. You feel iron nails where Manon’s hand comes to rest on your thigh, daring you to continue.

She is jealous. You hum, pleased.

Deft hands reach for Manon’s exposed alabaster skin, fingertips tracing scarred flesh. When you are close enough, the witch’s own fingers tug at your braid, playful, but firm.

You raise a brow, and her lips curl. “You still smell of Vesta. Of Bronwen. Of all of them.” Wordlessly, you straddle her hips, a strong grip already at your waist. You grin when her burnt gold eyes grow bright.

“Then I suppose you’ll have to fix that.”

"They do not take to me as you have? Why?"

"Why they do not? Or why I do?" You ghost your lips over her bare shoulder, a teasing smile pressed to her skin.

Manon remains silent.

Sighing, you retract, balancing yourself on both elbows. For a moment, you pause, considering. “You have killed their only hope.” Your words hold no malice, but she feels their weight no less.

“I did not know any better.” She admits; a poor excuse.

“I know that,” you speak softly. She dislikes the understanding that shines in your eyes, as though you see right through her. “But it is worse for them.”

Her forehead creases, a wordless question.

“Your kind has hunted ours for centuries” Your words only seem to confuse. “It is not so easy to forgive as you might think.”

“And yet you have.”

“It is not the same. I was not raised on their rules.”

The witch frowns.

“I am an outcast just as you.” You confess, and Manon finds herself at a loss. “They love me as their own, but it will always be different. We do not share the same mind.”

“And—” You stop, catching the words in your throat.

“And what?” She questions.

“And nothing.” You lower your gaze.

“What do you think then?”

“I think you will find what you seek.”

“But?”

“But it will come at a cost, just as everything does.”

“And what is your cost?”

“I paid for this family with the life of my own.”

For the first time in her life, Manon is speechless. She knew you had lied, but not the extent. You mistake her silence for scrutiny, pulling the blankets higher.

“They were killed?” She asks grimly.

Despite the time spent in your company, she knows nothing true of you beyond that which you chose to bear.

“By the iron-teeth witches.”

There is no room for sadness in your words, only acceptance. Manon does not understand how you have not yet held a blade to her throat for every night spent in the small tent.

She finds herself wanting to apologise, but does not.

“It is not your fault,” you speak knowingly, reflexively.

But maybe it is.

By the day’s end, Manon's body is near limp with exhaustion, yet she feels better for it. She is for once pleased the dead might rest, even when she cannot. It feels right.

The weight of the fallen still rests heavy on her shoulders however, and the impending war with allies she is yet to rally. Still, she finds herself seeking you, near collapse as she follows your scent to the woods of Eyllwe.

She finds you kneeling in the dewy grass, humming softly. Only when she grows closer she realises you are in fact singing, in a language so ancient she does not recognise it. Even the forest seems to crawl with life at the sound of your voice.

Manon observes you silently, gaze intent as she leans upon a tree. Wind carries the tune to her ears, and she knows you sing for the dead by the pain in your voice.

When the harmony lulls to a gentle end, there is a quiet so striking she dares not breathe until she can hardly bear it. You remain still for a long while, and just when she is about to leave you crane your neck to meet her curious stare.

The ghost of a smile tugs at your lips, and tears glisten in your eyes.

Manon is unmoving as you rise, ensnared by the rawness of your beauty.

When you reach her, you bring a flower with you. The stalk curls into your hand, and then she watches, compelled as it blooms, white petals illuminated by the dull glow of the moon.

Slowly, you raise it to her, and she allows you to tuck it behind her ear. Your fingertips follow, weaving into her hair, craving comfort. Only she cannot give it.

You lean forward, close enough that you might breathe the same air as her. Though where you find contentment, she is seized by a feeling that grips her chest so tightly she can hardly move.

“Why is it that you refuse to kiss me?” Your voice is low, soft, and she feels the warmth of your body so acutely it almost hurts.

And Manon does not know the answer, so all she can do is shake her head.

Your lips curve into an almost sad smile, and then you are leaning forward, pressing a tentative kiss to her cheek.

Only she wants nothing more than to claim your lips for her own.

Manon returns from the Ferian gap with little hope.

The Crochan do not yet trust her, and the legion of iron-teeth witches are much the same, perhaps worse. And now Dorian will leave her too.

She will fail. She has only the thirteen. Her thirteen and you.

Even you she does not truly have, will not let herself have. But still, she seeks you in the woods where Glennis tilts her head knowingly. She offers the crone a curt nod before slipping between the trees, unnoticed.

This time the witch finds you by the stream, hair damp and hanging loosely at your shoulders. “I suppose I missed quite the show,” Manon quips. Only you do not laugh, nor even turn your head.

The silence lingers between you, and for the first time in her life Manon wishes she were better with words. “Do you truly think they will join me?” The question leaves her with little thought, because if she cannot believe it perhaps you will.

When you turn your eyes rimmed red, she wonders if you still cry for those lost in Eyllwe. Oddly, Manon is not repulsed, but rather curious. Enough so that she might wish to reach for you, to hold you as she has not dared.

“I hope so,” you whisper, hollow stare returning to the flowing water. “For Aelin.”

The witch frowns, “you are familiar with Terrasen’s Queen?” She questions stiffly.

Your lips quirk, but no amusement lies in your features. Suddenly you shift, so that you might face her, the witch mirrors your actions. A vulnerability shines in your eyes, one that begs her to look at you, to look at you and truly see you. And so she does.

Manon is stunned by the force of which your stare strikes her. It reflects in her burnt gold irises, and her calloused hands which grip your waist to keep her afoot.

You smile now, widely, but it feels wrong. She is unused to the feeling it stirs in her chest. “Have you come to care for me, Manon Blackbeak?”

She cannot find the words which rest so readily at the tip of her tongue, and the witch feels you beginning to slip through her fingers. Her body acts before her mind can stop her.

When her lips crash against yours, everything else fades away.

Your mouth is soft as silk against her own, and she wonders what she has done to deserve something as precious as your lips. Her mind races when soft hands curl around her neck. Manon is breathless when you part, eyes closed as her nose brushes your own.

And then, she feels something cool press against her throat.

All at once the world crashes around her.

Her burnt gold eyes flare with anger, but she cannot move, for your blade pierces her skin, blood of blue pooling at its sharpened edge.

“Kneel.” You command, but the witch raises her head defiantly, dagger cutting deeper. “Kneel as you made my mother,” you repeat venomously.

“I—”

“Kneel.” You grit out, pressing harder. “Kneel, or I will make you.”

Manon shakes her head, in denial, or disbelief. “I did not know.” The witch gasps, but it falls on deaf ears.

“Do you not see them in my eyes?” You seeth, “do you not remember how they sounded— begging for their lives?!” For the first time in her life, Manon understands what it is to feel true fear. And it is not because she might die tonight.

The Wing Leader makes a clumsy pass at your wrist. Wild fury remains untamed, however, and the witch is seized by a blind panic.

“Do their screams not haunt you?” Your voice is raw, “because they do me.” She cannot bear the weight of your words. “All I see when I look at you is them— all that you have taken from me.”

“You will not kill me.” Manon’s claims, to convince you, or herself?

But then the weeds at her feet begin to curl around her boots, then her knees, and legs are swallowed whole. “Kneel.” You reign control of your temper, words cool as a sea breeze.

“You— You are part fae,” Manon breathes, roots tugging no matter how hard she resists.

Face a mask of stoicism and eyes depthless, you speak. “And you are dead.” It is a hatred so pure there is a strange beauty in it. Still, she finds herself slipping further under your spell.

And so Manon Blackbeak kneels. Not for fear, nor force, but for you. Because she deserves it, and because so do you. If you wish her dead, then so shall she be.

“Be done with it.” She commands.

Only your hand shakes, not with the might of your anger, but something far worse. At once the dagger slips from your grasp, the witch dares not move. “I will kill you, Manon Blackbeak, and I will make you suffer pain greater than you’ve ever known.” You whisper, throat constricting, “but not tonight.” Not a threat, but a promise.

Her anger flares. “Have you come to care for me, little witch?” Manon taunts, echoing your words.

You rise on steady feet, trembling hands tucked behind your back. “Make no mistake, Wing Leader,” the forest carries quiet words of ire to senseless ears, “the only reason you live to tell this tale is your worth.” She burns with rage as you look down upon her.

“You live for Aelin,” burnt gold irises dance with wrath, “that is all.” You complete coolly.

“You show me mercy!” The witch spits, still bound by earth. “Pathetic,” she sneers, but you do not turn, do not deign her with acknowledgement. A thorn, one of your own, pricks her calf and the witch has half a mind to laugh.

“You will regret this!” Manon yells after you, but the winds which rule the woods ensure she is unheard.

You are at Bronwen's side when cries of warning fill the camp.

The coven leader starles to her feet, gaze drawn to the sky, where three ominous shadows swoop from the clouds. “Stay put.” She orders, charging into the clearing.

You do the exact opposite, weaving through the forming crowd until there lies only one body between you and the iron-teeth matrons.

Apart from the rest stands Manon, and you bite down the surge of panic gripping your chest. You tell yourself it is because if she dies here it will not be at your hands. It was Bronwen who told you that of who killed your parents, a confession she kept secret with intentions to protect.

Only she was too late, for the gods had cursed you to lie with your adversary, and perhaps more than that.

Now your foe stands alone, engaged in a dance of gibes with those who raised her to be a ruthless killer. You swallow your anger, at Manon, at her grand-mother, at the gods. Still, someone must claim fault.

But as you look upon the matron, a cruel understanding, pity even, dawns on you, for the same witch who slaughtered your family.

As though you speak the words into existence, black eyes flecked with gold narrow on you, and then dark lips quirk. “I know you,” the Black Matron’s features flicker with interest, Manon bristles.

“You have your father’s eyes,” your fists curl in anger, leaves rustling in the trees overhead. “It is a pity we had to kill him for creating you,” the Matron’s eyes are alight with amusement. “A filthy half-breed,” she sneers, nose wrinkling at you.

The ground hums with life beneath your feet, lips parting to speak, only Manon beats you to it.

“I shall have your tongue for that,” she hisses, brandishing Wind Cleaver as she charges at the Matrons.

The fight commences in an imperceptible blur, and Manon is quick on her feet, but not quick enough to avoid the claws of the Yellowlegs Matron. Your heart stutters, feeling the pain as if it were your own.

Not a soul moves, no one daring to help her, the roots at your feet curl in protest.

In a swift blow, the head of the Matron rolls, a Crown of Stars loosed from her brow. There is strange beauty in every lethal blow the white haired witch delivers, and soon the battle is at its end.

A hush falls over the crowd as Manon lifts the Crown of Stars, glittering to life in her hand. Murmurs arise when she offers it to Glennis with a curt nod. In turn, the old witch takes the crown, only to place it upon the witch’s head with an approving smile.

One by one, Ironteeth and Crochans alike drop to their knees, but eyes of gold follow only you. Kneeling with a bent head and a bitter frown, you do not meet her gaze, for conflict reflects in the eyes gifted to you by your father.

Dorian, who stands tall, proud, smiles broadly. It does naught to soothe the hollowness swelling within her, threatening to draw her into an ocean of darkness.

She is Manon Blackbeak, Queen of Witches, and you are her price.

Stars glitter in the sky above, but they hold no candle to the crown upon her brow.

A blazing fire crackles in the centre of camp, and she thinks of the hearth, of every endless responsibility which now burdens her. Heavy is the head that wears the crown. They were words you once spoke to her in the dead of night.

Powerless to stop it, her own mind betrays her. She thinks of you, of your soft lips, ones she might never gain the pleasure of touching again. Her thoughts turn then to whispered words shared on windless nights, of how she felt the absence of your warmth greater than anything.

Summoned by longing, the scent of jasmine and honey floods her nostrils, the witch wistful as she drinks it in. A distant rustling breaks her from memories which will soon be forgotten.

She rises, forehead wrinkling when Dorian slips from his tent and you follow, hand at his arm.

“You are leaving.” The witch observes, not once having seen you speak to the king. And yet you are willing to follow him to Morath; the one place she cannot protect you.

Stilling, you turn, donning a pendant, one she now recognises as your mother’s. A bitter pang thrums in her chest, the mother she had taken from you. One she had relished hunting, for the obscurity of the relationship between Fae and Crochan and the creature created by way of love.

Dorian squeezes your hand before slipping from your grasp and disappearing into the cover of night. A heavy silence lingers, and Manon takes a wary step toward you. “Stay.” The words are soft on her tongue, pleading.

“I cannot.” Your voice lacks the spite she expects— deserves.

“And if you are to die?” Manon asks, risking another step.

“If the gods will it,” you look to the stars intently. “Then die I must.”

A wild panic seizes her heart, one so violent she almost collapses at the force of which it grips her.

Another unsteady step. “You vowed to kill me.” The witch reminds, she would spin a thousand tales so that she might convince you to stay, to remain at her side.

A look of amusement passes your features.

“You would break that promise so easily?” She feels as though the chain of gold which tethers her to you begins to crack when she reaches you at last. The shackles you surrendered your freedom for no longer bind you, only she is still in chains.

Calloused fingertips brush silken skin, and burnt gold eyes flicker to yours. As if to say, one last time. It is all too soon when you draw back, features tainted with regret.

“I must do this for my family.” A cryptic smile tugs at your lips, ones she might never see again. “Goodbye, Manon.” You whisper, hand darting to your pendant as you turn, willing her not to see the tears which burn your eyes. In a flash you are gone, a wise eyed raven replacing you.

Dorian leaves, and you with him. And so too, goes her heart.

The days pass in a blur, and Dorian’s success with Maeve can hardly be attributed to you, but he is thankful no less. There is an odd comfort that blooms in sharing near death experiences.

And now, at last, you might finally return to your rightful place, should the heir to Terrasen’s crown wish it.

You are perched atop Dorian’s shoulder in animal form from the moment he shifts, wary as you behold the glory of your Queen, who gallops for the clearing.

“Where’s Manon?” Aelin questions, the sound of the witch’s name alone is enough to send you spiraling.

“Terrasen,” Dorian pants, “with the Crochans.” The Queen parts her lips in surprise, but then another rider charges into the clearing. Finally, her gaze flickers to you, head tilting in recognition.

In a flash you stand at the king’s side, head bowed as you sink to your knees. “My Queen,” you breathe.

“Rise,” Aelin commands, eyeing you appraisingly. “I thought you were dead,” her brows furrow.

“And I you.” You respond, tears of joy shining in your irises.

The Queen observes you intently. “It is truly you, then?”

“Yes,” you nod quickly, “my father was—”

“My uncle.” Aelin finishes, and then a frown wrinkles her forehead. “I would have searched, had I known—”

“I know,” you smile, “but I have found you at last. The rest matters little.”

Her arms are around you not a moment later, holding you tight for fear you might disappear. “It is good to have you back,” she murmurs, feeling you shake in her grasp, tears wetting her shoulders.

And then, as she draws back, you feel it. A pain greater than you have ever known thrums to life in your chest and you gasp, dropping to hands and knees.

“Cousin?” She calls, alarm in her voice.

Something is wrong, something is terribly wrong.

A muffled cry is all that leaves you, and at once Dorian is on the damp soil with you, hand at your back, rubbing soothing circles. “What is it?” He inquires softly, magic humming at his fingertips.

Wheezing, you claw at your chest, only one word on your lips.

“Manon.”

The witch kneels in the bloody battlefield, flowers surround her. She feels nothing and everything all at once. Sees only their faces, the light which they had radiated as they left this world.

For her. They had done it for her.

She does not know what to do, with that thought, with herself, with their memory. She will never see them again. Her thirteen. Gone forever.

Manon remains there so long there is no one left when she comes to. It is only her, her and her sisters. Then she smells it. Jasmine and honey.

She whirls, and there you stand. A sob wracks her body but no tears follow.

Your steps are careful, and she does not turn you away as you sink to your knees. Instead, you both look to the plain, your presence alone brings her a comfort she cannot put into words.

“I do not know what to do.” The confession is broken on her lips.

Silently, you reach for her hand, bringing it to your lap, where your thumb draws senseless patterns on her palm. And for a fleeting moment, she is able to forget every pain which plagues her.

She watches as twelve flowers of equal beauty and sorrow blossom from the battlefield, and at last, the tears come.

You are helpful as you are able amidst the battle, but the chaos quickly sweeps over the scene when Aelin, Erawan and Maeve arrive.

Useless in battle, you keep watch in animal form, doing best as you can to distract the remaining wyverns which have chosen to fight on the wrong side of this war. Still, you wish to do more, but the fear which shines in Manon’s eyes whenever you mention as much is enough to deter you.

At least this way you are never far from the witch.

This, alongside running endless messages between battalions leaves cracks for exhaustion to fill. And soon you can only find strength to glide through the skies, wings beating against the wind only when you must.

It happens all too soon.

A shriek from Abraxos has you dipping between clouds, soaring towards your— Manon. You are just within reach when you see it, an archer who’s arrow points to you. She draws the bowstring back and lets it whistle through the air.

It will hit you, you are certain, and the iron tipped shot will be fatal. With no time to change your path of flight, you shift instead, just as the arrow sinks into your stomach, one which would have pierced the heart of your animal form.

Manon’s head jerks at your cry, watching in horror as you tumble through the skies. Abraxos roars as she digs her knees into his side, urging him towards you, willing him to fly faster than ever before.

But it is not fast enough, for you kiss the ground just a hair’s breadth from his talons, and she is already jumping from his back, Wind Cleaver slashing brutally through anyone who dares walk her path, Abarxos at her back.

The blood which splatters her face is no match for the crimson dripping from your skin. Eyes of burnt gold glow with rage, and if it weren’t for you the archer would already be dead. You are still, deathly still when she reaches you, and sickly pale.

The witch falls to her knees, Wind Cleaver clattering to the ground as her hands frantic at your shoulders, shaking you with a desperation otherwise unknown to her. “Please,” she begs, for what must be the first time in all of her immortal life.

You do not move.

Manon plants her fingers beneath your head, cradling it softly as she brings her face to yours. She listens for a breath, feeling the faintest brush of air against her skin. “Must I lose you too? Have the gods not taken enough?” She questions the skies, agony in her words.

“Do not leave me alone in this world, little witch.” Manon pleads, thumbs caressing your cheeks. “I am lost without you.”

The rest of the world falls away when a meek cough passes your lips, a sob of relief wracking her body. “Please live, you must live.” She pushes the tousled hair from your face, the tightness in her chest easing when a faint smile is revealed. When you speak, words strained on your tongue, she almost cries with joy.

“I was not to live forever, Manon.” You remind weakly.

The witch looks upon you as though you have struck her. Your eyes are barely open, fatigue weighing down upon your eyelids with the force of a thousand bricks. Still, you persist, if not to look at her one last time.

“But I still had time,” her voice is soft as a whisper. Pain, raw and unyielding, reflects in eyes of burnt gold.

“Manon—” Blood bubbles from your lips with her name.

“Do not speak.” She commands, “do not waste your breath on me.”

You shake your head, “I must—” your breaths grow shorter with every word “I must tell you something yet.”

Your fingers twitch at your sides, and she releases one hand from where it cups your jaw so that she might hold it once more. “I—” Face contorting as you heave a cough, Manon winces.

“I forgive you.” You whisper, squeezing her hand with what little strength you possess. “I forgive you,” you repeat again when she jerks her head in denial.

“I do not deserve it.”

You look upon her with eyes glazed by sadness, and she cannot bear it. “It was never your fault.” The whisper is lost on her ears, anger now, infecting her mind.

Your eyes begin to droop. “I do not blame you, Manon Blackbeak.” Soon they will close forever. “In fact, I—”

“Why won’t they take me?” She shouts now, at you, at the skies above, at the gods who doom her. “Let them take me instead.” The witch grips you tightly, as if she means to tether you to this world through strength alone.

“You are a Queen now, your people need you.”

“But I need you!”

A smile remains on your lips even when your eyes flutter shut, one so infuriating she wishes to curse you. But the words which roll from your tongue draw her world to a schreeching halt.

“I love you.”

And then you slip through her fingers and into the arms of death.

Abraxos unleashes a cry so great it echoes throughout the battlefield and leagues beyond. But Manon is still, so still the beast nudges her when a flare of light flares from afar.

She does not move, for if she does she will lose this moment. If she moves it will be real and you will be gone.

It is the sound of footsteps that draws from a time where you were once with her. Still, she does not move. Perhaps they will take her too, then she might be with you again. With her thirteen.

Only the gentle footfall stops, and finally she turns. It is a healer who stands before her. A healer who was a minute too late.

“Please, help her. Do something. Anything.” She does not care for the weakness it shows, but only for you, who lies cold in her arms.

The healer looks solemn, but obeys.

Gone. You will be gone. Forever. And she never got to tell you— It did not matter now. Would never matter.

She loved you, but it did not matter.

Tumbling through darkness, memories of old and new draw you in all directions. But it is only a voice, rough and broken which keeps you tethered to this world.

“Do not go, I am finished with you yet.”

You are falling, but a chain of gold holds you steadfast, and at the other end awaits your love. Still, you cannot reach her, for the distance between life and death is too great.

“Please, little witch.”

But if you cannot find her in this life, you will in the next.

“Come back to me.”

You feel her still, hands on your own, lips at your crown, but the touch prickles your skin. As though you are drowning in a vast sea and only the ghost of her keeps you afloat. Even so, the feeling grows faint, and then disappears entirely, along with it goes your hope.

She has given up.

Your fingers twitch with a flicker of life, and the calloused palm is returned once more. If you cannot reach her, she will reach you.

“Manon,” her name breaks free from your lips.

Eyes heavy with death, you force them open so that you might look upon her face, if not one last time. Burnt gold irises are the first thing you see, a faint shine reflecting in them.

“I am not dead,” you smile, lips dry, and cracked with thirst. The witch shakes her head softly, fighting a frown. She cannot seem to find the words on her tongue, so instead she tightens her grip on your hand, to which you offer a weak squeeze in return.

“I will live?” You ask plainly, and Manon nods, swallowing thickly. Iron nails weave into your hair, and the witch takes a moment to drink you in. Her shoulders sag, riding leathers torn, and moonlight hair a mess. Still, she finds it in her to smile.

“Come with me,” Manon’s fingers curl around your own, “to the Wastes.”

A weak grin quirks your lips, “one condition.”

The witch narrows her eyes, and you raise a brow, daring her to deny you.

“Anything.” She finally breathes, and it is worth it for the grin you grant her.

“You must kiss me.”

“That is all?”

“It is everything I desire and more.”

And so Manon does.

i'm just gonna leave this here 🤭

[wrinniewrites]

A Fool's Gambit | Manon Blackbeak

SUMMARY ↣ in a world with little hope, you find solace in the gold, dead eyes of manon blackbeak.

WARNINGS ↣ smut, blood, injury, mentions of pregnancy, miscarriage, suicidal ideation, allusions to sa, death, and worst of all—hope.

WORD COUNT ↣ 5.6k

PAIRINGS ↣ manon blackbeak x fem!reader

“My uncle will be displeased with me should he learn it is I who takes up all of your precious time.” Elide Lochan murmurs from where she sweeps the already spotless floor beside you, a task unfit for a lady of her status. 

“Then I shall have to unleash the wrath of Adarlan upon him,” you quip, watching her intently. “Besides, who else might I conspire with.” The black haired beauty manages a faint smile at that.

“What is it that you plan this time, Princess?” The Lady of Perranth inquires, trying, and failing, to conceal her growing interest.

“Nothing grand,” you beam, eyes darting to the horde of wyverns that enter the aerie one after the other. However, your attention is fixed upon the white haired female standing amongst them, stance alone commanding respect.

Elide pales, glancing between you and the host of witches. “Please tell me this scheme of yours has nothing to do with the iron-teeth witches I fear may kill us for looking at them wrong?” She all but begs, face scrunched up, already knowing the answer upon catching your mischievous grin.

“I make no promises, Lady Lochan.”

And before she can blink, you are already sauntering toward the thirteen. She reaches for your arm in warning, but you simply brush her off. To her absolute horror, you stroll past each and every witch, paying no heed to their stares.

Instead, stopping right before the Blackbeak Elide did not dare even look at.

“What.” The white haired witch barks out, and the Lady of Perranth flinches at the sound from across the room. You, however, remain steadfast. Your friend feels her chest tighten as yet another witch appears, this one with golden hair, staring appraisingly.

Uncaring of the burnt gold eyes burning into your soul, you only tilt your head curiously, smiling a pretty smile.

“This one might be mad,” you hear one of her thirteen mutter, a grin in her voice.

The wing-leader shoots Vesta a warning glare, not bothering to glance your way, only breezing by you boredly.

It is your voice that halts her step.

“I wish to ride,” you announce, not looking back as the white haired witch turns to face you once more.

Elide almost passes out from where she stands.

Manon’s eyes narrow, following your gaze to Abraxos. She smells not an ounce of fear on you, remaining unsure whether you refer to witch or wyvern.

When you meet her gaze over your shoulder, the glint in your eyes makes her wonder if the answer might be both. The witch barely allows a smirk to grace her lips as you hold her stare before spinning on her heel without another word.

Elide dares not breathe until you are safely back at her side. Your lips bearing a wide grin as you approach

“Perhaps one day, I too shall fly.”

If Manon is surprised to find you seated at Duke Perrington’s side during her private audience, she does not show it.

It is only after his speech is at its end does he notice her gaze flicker to you.

“I suppose I should introduce you,” the man grumbles in his seat.

“Wing-leader, this is the Princess of Adarlan.” His words are dull as he offers a lazy gesture in your direction. “You may do with her as you please during your stay, so long as she remains in one piece.”

Manon notes the way your jaw tightens at his statement. So you were an unwilling guest, she deduces.

The witch does not deign him with a response, nor make the mistake glance your way again. She simply continues pressing him about the Wastes; her home. Even when she feels your curious gaze on her, she does not turn.

It will be days before the wing-leader even sees you again. But the hollow eyes of Adarlan’s Princess do not cease to haunt her.

It is late when Elide stumbles upon you in one of Morath's corridors, almost crashing into you with the force of her fear, shoulders shaky and eyes watering.

Your strong grasp holds her by the arms, keeping her steady as soft inquiries fall past your lips. Hushed whispers float through the stone castle as she speaks of her interaction with the white haired witch, your gaze hardening as she continues.

You are grateful she is too caught up in her own fear to see the tear in your dress, the bruises lining your forearms. Just as you are thankful for the distraction she provides.

With a snap of your fingers, your cousin is at your side. Ordered to guard and contain you by Duke Perrington. Though you suppose he is no longer Roland Havilliard. He does not speak as you command him to escort Elide to her rooms, and you do not watch as he mindlessly obeys.

You ignore the visions of depthless black eyes and dark collars that rise to your mind. Instead, finding yourself making the reluctant journey up the tower’s steps, muscles aching with each movement.

The wing-leader appears before you as you reach the top, likely having scented you. She does not speak as you welcome yourself into her quarters, watching you with caution.

“Do not trouble Elide with your ventures,” you begin, features impassive to your thoughts. “She is innocent in this war.” Are the only words you speak in explanation, and the witch raises an unimpressed brow.

“And you are not?” Is all she asks.

“Few are.” You answer vaguely.

Her burnt gold eyes travel your body from head to toe assessment, and you resist the urge to cross your arms over your chest.

“You know, most would not dare to speak to me as you do.” She takes a threatening step forward, eyes glinting when you do not back away.

“I am not most,” you answer grimly. Curiously, none of the excitement —hope— she found the day you gazed upon her wyvern lingered.

“No,” she agrees. “But I suspect that means you taste far better,” her iron nails shoot out. Perhaps that might get a reaction out of you. And how she did love playing with her food.

“Kill me if you wish,” your tone remains flat as she stalks toward you, “it would be a mercy.”

Manon smirks at that. “I do not wish to kill you,” her tongue darts out to swipe across her iron teeth. “Not yet, at least.” 

Your brows furrow, but you do not balk as her nails dig into your chin, tilting your head so that you may forcibly meet her gaze.

“What do you say, Princess? Do you still wish to ride?” She rasps, her lips a breath from yours.

You still for a moment, shoulders tense. “If I say yes,” you pause thoughtfully, “will you do me a favour?” Your eyes drift to her lips, and Manon knows she has you, but she still bites.

“And what might that entail?” 

“Freedom,” you speak softly, and her grip tightens.

She raises her thumb to brush over your bottom lip, “we’ll see.”

“And if I say no?” You dare to ask, leaning into her touch all the while. It had been so long since you’d found any semblance of pleasure in this cruel life.

The witch grins. “You won’t,” and in a flash her lips are pressed to yours in a bruising kiss. The hand at your jaw travelling to your neck, eliciting a gasp that parts your lips for her tongue.

She walks you backwards until your back is pressed to the cool stone wall, pinned by her hips. A whine escapes you when Manon squeezes her hand around your throat, nails digging in hard enough to draw blood. It is only then that she pulls back, burnt gold eyes hooded as she tugs your bottom lip between her teeth playfully. 

You barely have a chance to catch your breath before her mouth is at your neck, tongue swiping over the blood that trickles from where her iron nails punctured your skin. She hums, pleased when you tilt your head back and a moan parts your lips.

“You do taste nice, Princess ,” Manon murmurs as her teeth scrape your neck. Hands roam your body freely, her knee parts your legs with ease, settling between them. You reach blindly for her riding leathers for support, heat pooling between your legs.

She grins at the way your eyes widen when she uses her iron claws to tear a line right down the centre of your dress. You shiver when an icy breeze caresses your bare breasts, nipples hardening. Manon makes quick work of bringing her lips to them, sucking and biting, you arch into her touch.

“You’re dripping,” she purrs, removing her fingers from your core in spite of your complaints. Instead, you watch, enamoured, as she brings them to her own lips, tongue darting out to suck them clean. Moaning at the taste, she crashes her lips into yours a second time, forcing you to taste yourself on her tongue.

She allows clumsy hands to strip her of her own leathers, finding enjoyment in watching you attempt to focus as she rakes her nails over your thighs and stomach teasingly. You are reduced to pathetic whimpers when her fingers slide between your legs and you clench around nothing.

Her eager mouth swallows your sounds greedily as her fingers return, slipping between your legs once more. Finding your bundle of nerves with ease, she circles vigorously. You are embarrassed to admit you almost came from that alone.

“Manon,” you plead when she slows her pace tantalisingly. “Please,” you beg, bucking your hips to seek friction. The witch only raises an unimpressed brow.

“Please, what?” She demands.

“Please,” you say again, hands reaching desperately for her, pulling her closer. “Please fuck me.” She smirks, and for a moment you think she’ll abandon you entirely for daring to touch her, leaving you high and dry.

Instead, a moan loud enough to echo through Morath is ripped from your lips as two fingers plunge into you. All while her thumb continues to rub at your clit. At first, her strokes are slow, gentle even, agonisingly so. But when your own nails dig into her skin with need, she thrusts into you knuckles deep, hard enough to have you falling over the edge pitifully fast.

Only she does not pull away then for she is finished with you yet. Her pace turns tortuous. And in just a few short touches you are reaching your high again, begging her to stop. And when she does not, tears glitter in your eyes. Then, and only then does the witch show mercy.

Your ears are ringing by the time she has had her way with you, chest rising and falling with each laboured breath you take. As you blink away the blurriness, you realise she is the only reason you remain on two feet, for your body is limp in her arms.

Once you are recovered enough to stand on your own, two rough hands grip your shoulders, forcing you to your knees hard enough to leave a dull ache; a reminder. Her slim fingers weave through your hair before tightening, urging you forward in a wordless command. 

“Your friend plots her escape,” Manon’s voice is tainted by exhaustion as she lays on her back, staring up at the ceiling. Immediately you know she refers to Elide.

You turn to face her from where you lie, bare skin covered only by a thin sheet. It is the second week you have spent in her bed. For you found yourself returning to her chambers the very day after the first, and the next, and the next.

The witch greets you with a smug smirk every time.

She does not ask after the strange bruises that litter your skin, and for that you are thankful. Though she will come to regret it one day.

“Good.” You say in response to her statement, and the witch’s brows pinch in confusion. “It means she still has hope,” you answer her wordless question.

“And you do not?” She asks, already knowing the answer.

“I am beyond hoping,” you whisper sombrely before forcing a smile to your lips. “But fun is not entirely lost on me,” you lift your hand to her skin, mindlessly trailing a line on her collarbone with the tip of your finger.

Manon stiffens at your touch. You cannot help but wonder if in time she may soften. The idea is quickly lost on you, moving to retract. Only she catches your wrist in a painfully tight grip. You grimace but do not make any move to pull away. Instead you raise your brows in silent questioning when her burnt gold eyes deign to meet your own. You frown when her nostrils flare.

“You are with child,” she murmurs, surprise clear in her voice despite her face remaining stoic. “How long have you known?” She watches the way your frown deepens, biting the inside of your cheek. “You did not know,” she answers herself.

She does not ask of the who, and you almost wish she would. But deep down, you both know her mind already holds the answer.

Not another word passes your lips that night.

Pulling back the sheets grimly, you feel bile rise to your throat as you spare a glance at your stomach. You know the witch watches you keenly, but cannot bring yourself to care as tears threaten to spill from your eyes.

Instead, you opt to turn for the open window, feeling only the icy breeze and burnt gold orbs on your back as you will yourself to sleep. 

Just as the darkness threatens to consume you whole, the faintest skim of fingertips along your stomach keeps you on the cusp of sleep. The covers are then pulled up to your neck, and you allow yourself to find peace in the dreamworld.

You do not remember it the next morning.

Elide finds you in the aerie the very next day, watching the wyverns intently.

“What troubles you today, Princess?” She asks, noting your features tainted by exhaustion. But when you turn to face her she does not find the grave look she expects.

“I have been sitting here for more hours than I can count, Elide, and what I have discovered is most fascinating.” Your eyes glimmer with each word, though the smile you wear does not quite reach your eyes.

“And what is it that you have discerned?” 

“They are much like us, you know.” You report grimly. “Tortured, but hopeful creatures,” you say, carefully observing Abraxos and Narene, Asterin’s wyvern. Elide does not fully understand your statement until she follows your wavering gaze to the white haired witch at her gentle beast’s side.

“Hope is not lost on you yet, Princess?” She asks, recalling how adamant you had been in your argument only a month prior. ‘It is a doomed world we live in, and one would be a fool to even consider the prospect of change.’ You had once said.

“I fear I no longer possess the answer to that particular question.” Your brows furrow in thought, hands twirling the flower you cradle in your hands. 

“Do you think people can change, Lady Lochan?” 

The question confuses her. She first thinks of her Uncle Vernon, and finds herself frowning doubtfully. But then she tunes her mind to you, of how you had unknowingly given her a hope that had been all but lost for the last ten years.

“I would like to believe so,” is all she can offer. You nod once, twice, before rising to your feet. She does not stop you as you make your way to the witch and her wyvern.

Manon’s attention is drawn to you the second you so much as glance in her direction. No one can say whether you came to the aerie that day for her, or she for you. But the fact remains that every living being within the space could feel the tension lingering between you.

She raises her perfectly sculpted brow as you approach, eyeing the flower you hold with caution. The witch is surprised when you stroll right by her, though she does not show it.

Instead, you stop directly before her wyvern, flower outstretched in your hand. A rare laugh escapes your lips when he nudges your hand softly, sniffing. Abraxos then lets out what you can only assume is a sound of delight, nuzzling into your palm.

“I think he rather likes me,” you glance back at Manon with a grin, and she frowns in return. She does not enjoy the feeling it stirs in her chest; it is one of discomfort. 

Her gentle beast huffs at her expression, almost knowingly, and the witch rolls her eyes. “He recognises your scent,” Manon explains, not bothering to gesture to herself. And you almost allow yourself to smile at the idea of her smelling of you.

“When we first met, I asked you for a ride.” You say, running your hands over Abraxos’ scales, who hums in content. “Will you really make me ask a second time?”

“And here I thought you were talking about me.”

Your eyes brighten at her words, but then she finds her gaze drifting to your stomach and you frown. “Perhaps another day,” she excuses stiffly, and you nod solemnly.

“Perhaps another day,” you repeat.

The sun has long since fallen beyond the horizon by the time you finally hear the footsteps that belong only to Manon Blackbeak. 

You sit curled beneath the window, neck craned so that you might look upon the stars. When her pace quickens in the stairwell, a rare flicker of fear passes over you. You know then that she has figured it out.

You know not of where she was, nor how long it has been since she left, only that she was gone. 

The moment she passes the threshold her eyes dart to yours, burnt gold irises swirling with fury. Manon is at your side before you can blink, but your vision has already begun to blur. She is too late.

“What have you done?” Manon demands, iron nails digging into your arms. 

“For once, I have done as I wish.” A simple smile adorns your lips

Something brews in her burnt gold eyes as they dip to your stomach, the red staining it, something you almost mistake for worry. But you are not so foolish as to believe your own delusions.

“You are a fool,” the witch sneers.

A careless laugh bubbles from your throat. “A fool I may be, but a free one at that.”

She scowls, “not if I have anything to say about it,” hauling your limp body into her arms.

It is only then your eyes widen in a blind panic. 

“No.” you whisper, and blood spills from your lips. “No.” You say again, using the last of your strength to trash in her arms. “No, please no.” A feeble attempt to free yourself.

“You are mine,” Manon grunts as she tightens her grip. “Mine to have. Mine to dictate. And I say you will not die today, Princess, so die you shall not.”

“Please,” you beg, voice taut. 

Her gaze steels. “You are mine.” She repeats, and you feel tears pool in your eyes. A soft shake of your head in disbelief follows, freedom so close, yet so far. Perhaps if you could— you blindly reach for the gaping wound in your stomach.

“Stop.” Manon orders, reaching to grasp your wrist. Her iron claws do not dig into your skin as you expect. There is a strain in her voice, and when you look up, her eyes are filled by a wild panic. Your wrist slackens.

“Good.” Is the last word you hear before your vision fades and the world goes black.

When you wake you are in Manon’s chambers, you recognise the room even with your eyes closed.

“And so she lives,” someone speaks, but the voice is muffled, distant. It is a great effort to peel your eyes open, throat dry as you attempt to speak. A flash of flaming red hair and a cup of water is pressed to your lips.

“Thank you,” you rasp, and the witch grins in acknowledgement. Only for her back to stiffen as she shifts away from you, eyes darting for the door. A moment later, Manon steps past the threshold, Asterin hot on her tail.

Burnt gold eyes immediately dart to you, alert. “You’re awake.” Manon swallows. 

When you refuse to meet her gaze, her jaw tightens. “Out.” She orders, and with a wave of her hand Vesta is gone. Only three of you remain now.

“The babe?” You question, voice hollow as you finally raise your head. When Asterin gazes at you with sympathy you know it is done. You wish she wouldn’t, but you manage an appreciative glance no less.

It was better this way.

Your gaze then flickers to Manon, who stands tense by her second. Asterin does not need to be told to leave, offering a curt nod as she goes.

The silence only stretches between you two so long before you can no longer bear it. “Why?” You ask, doing everything in your power to keep your voice from cracking. She could ask you the same, but does not.

“Because I can,” her answer is simple; cold. 

You hang your head lowly in a cruel mix of disappointment and acceptance. But then her voice comes again, “because you asked for a favour,” she says, your brows furrowing. “And I intend to fulfil it.”

Your head shoots up, face contorted by a thousand questions resting at the tip of your tongue. “I answered your question, now you answer mine.” Just as you part your lips to speak, she raises her hand, commanding silence. “Who did this to you?” 

“I—”

“Do not lie to me.”

Pausing, you eye her pensively. “He did not exactly introduce himself,” you retort.

“He was here for me?” She questions, and you stare at her a moment, assessingly, before nodding. Her back straightens, and you can almost feel how hard she resists the iron claws threatening to shoot free.

“So why,” she breathes, “did I find you in my chambers with a blade in your stomach?”

You fight the urge to grimace. “I suppose he thought if he could not take you, taking your bed warmer might cause you harm enough to satisfy his handler.” You offer a faux smile. “He was a fool to believe so.”

She is silent, deathly so. When the words come, you do not expect them.

“I will kill him.”

“You have a visitor,” Manon announces, albeit begrudgingly. And you immediately try to rise from the thick covers, pausing when iron claws shoot out in warning. She only stands once you raise your hands in surrender, laying back with a roll of your eyes. 

Elide comes bursting into the room the second the witch opens the door, stumbling over her feet to reach you. Her eyes shine when she makes it to your side, and you lift your hand to her cheek absently, faintly aware of Manon’s lingering presence,

“You are well?” You ask, and the Lady of Perranth gapes.

The witch leaves the room with a glance over her shoulder, surprised to find your gaze on her. She does not understand the look you give her, for it is one of mixed emotions. As though you thank her for going, but plead for her to stay all the same. Manon leaves before she can think further on it.

“You are faced with death, but still ask after me?” Elide shakes her in exasperation. Suddenly overcome, she reaches for your hands. “I do not know what I would do without you, Princess.”

“You would be just fine,” you assure, but the ravenette frowns in disagreement, glancing behind her.

“I am surprised they even allowed me to see you.” When your brows furrow, she continues in a hushed whisper. “The wing-leader has been on edge ever since—” she gestures to you. “Even Perrington grows displeased with her refusal to let a soul near you.” 

“Then I suppose you, my friend, are one lucky lady,” you quip, but your mind stirs with thoughts you never allowed yourself to have in the past. Ones of hope. 

A groan passes your lips when you shift, roused from sleep by the pain it causes your stitches. When your eyes flutter open, you find burnt gold ones already on you.

“Manon?” You rasp, yawning sleepily. The witch blinks from where she lies on her side, a silent acknowledgement. You mindlessly shuffle closer, seeking warmth. Too tired to wonder why she does not turn away, you draw near enough to hear her short, sharp breaths.

“I shall take you to the skies on Abraxos,” the witch is hesitant as she lays a hand upon your hip, careful not to hurt you. “So that you may know true freedom.” Her body freezes when you press your face to her neck, hot air spilling from your lips, sending a chill down her stiff spine.

“This is enough for me,” you murmur. 

It is all so different from anything she knows. From the touch she has given you to elicit pleasure. From the same favours you have returned to her, only gentler. No, this is like nothing she has ever known.

She does not know what to make of it. Her desire for it.

And when you wake the next morning, Manon is gone. 

It is days before she returns to you, and you are finally able to move freely after the incident. “Princess?” A voice draws you from sleep, and you find the witch sitting at your side, peering down at you.

“You’re back,” you whisper into the darkness.

The Blackbeak heir hums softly, her touch oddly gentle as she reaches for your neck. You do not flinch, not when her hands only seek to caress the smooth skin thoughtfully. Instead, you wait for the words to find her.

“You do not bear the same collar they have used on your brother,” she frowns, staring at you as though you are a puzzle she cannot solve. “Why?”

You jerk upright. “Dorian wears a collar?” 

“You did not know.” Manon observes, feeling foolish for asking. Though you show no anger towards her. Saying nothing, your gaze finds the open window. It does little to hide the tears in your eyes, the moon’s dull glow illuminating your fragile features.

The witch feels an uncomfortable urge to reach out to you. But, “I asked you a question,” is all she can think to say.

When you turn back to her, your face is hardened, an unnerving calm seeping into your bones. “They enjoy it,” you mutter spitefully. “Breaking me to their will, knowing they do not need a collar to have their way with me.”

Something inside the witch hardens at that.

You seem to read the words on the tip of her tongue, the anger —the possession— burning deep within her. “I am just your bed warmer.” You remind her, remind yourself. Despite the fact she has not touched you in days, but refuses to leave your side nonetheless. 

“Do not trouble yourself with my mess.”

You rise from the sheets with a gasp, mind haunted by the depthless black eyes of your cousin, Roland. The ones that now rob the vibrant life from your own brother. Manon’s iron nails shoot out, as if sensing your distress, but she does not wake.

Quiet as the night, you slip from the bed, tip-toeing your way across the cool floors. You welcome the chill creeping up your spine, better than the eternal numbness. Finding your place by the large window, you peer out into the starry sky. You only wish it would swallow you whole, rip you from this nightmare.

A groan from the witch jerks your head to the side. Her eyes remain shut, but you know you have woken the beast. For her arm now lays outstretched; an offering, a command.

You wordlessly return to her bed; the only place you feel safe, it is a cage all the same.

When Manon tugs you into her side, so that your head may rest upon her chest, you are too tired to care of what it may mean. It is the kind of exhaustion that might creep within the cracks in your broken soul. And you no longer had the strength to fight it.

You wish to feel all and nothing at once. 

To forget the never ending storm wreaking havoc on your mind. So you absently hook your leg over the witch, moving to straddle her. Strong hands easily find your hips, burnt gold eyes flashing open.

She does not complain when your lips meet hers in a heated kiss, fingers trailing up your stomach and along your thighs. There is a hunger in her gaze when you pull away, but she remains hesitant, reluctant even. 

Impatiently, you fumble for her wrist, drawing it between your legs. Manon groans at the slick she finds, how easily riled up you are. But when she does not move, you begin to plead. “Touch me,” you urge, lips travelling from jaw to neck. The hand on your thigh squeezes in warning.

“Please,” you breathe, desperate, and the damn breaks.

Fingers weave into your locks, tugging, and then her lips are on yours again. You roll your hips, a moan ripping from your throat at the sensation. Manon bears a pleased grin when you continue to fuck yourself on her fingers.

But she cannot shake the feeling that something is amiss.

Even with your skin pressed to hers, lips locked, she has the overwhelming feeling that she has lost you entirely. 

True to her word, Manon takes you to the aerie a whole two weeks after she promised. And this time, you do not protest.

She watches for every twitch of your lips, seeming pleased with herself when you bear a grin that does not leave you from the moment you take to the skies above. When Abraxos roars, a laugh bubbles from your lips, and you cannot help but wonder if he does it for your amusement.

When you reach the clouds you know she is right. There is no truer freedom than the heavens above. “Thank you,” you murmur, unsure whether she hears. If she does, the witch does not respond, though you feel the tension in her shoulders ease.

Suddenly, Abraxos dips, and you're soaring between the clouds. A low chuckle escapes the witch when you yelp, tightening your arms around her waist. “Not so fearless after all, Princess,” she quips, voice carrying over the wind.

Rolling your eyes, you dare to pinch her side. The witch repays you with a threatening glare over her shoulder, iron teeth bared, but harmless. Your heart drops to your stomach when the wyvern lands on a mountain peak at her command, teeth snapping on impact.

She slides from his back with practiced ease, and you are almost surprised she offers a hand to aid you. A rare, true smile tugs at your lips. And Manon is confused to find it extends not only to the skies, but her as well.

However, once your feet hit the ground it is wiped from your features. As if the very step brings you back to a life never ceasing to haunt you, caging you. Her hand lingers on your own, for what purpose, she does not know, only that it feels right.

Her back straightens when it is you who slips your hand from her grasp.

A vulnerability shines in her burnt gold eyes, no longer dulled by years of familial oppression. Were you not so caught up in the winds of your past you may have noticed. Instead your back is to her, eyes clouded as you stare into the abyss below. 

“I was not always this way, you know.” The soft confession is so quiet only the breeze carries it to Manon.

When you continue, she listens. As you go on about the whims of your childhood, the fun, the hope, the love. And while she knows she is different, never has it struck her quite so hard as the words rolling from your tongue. 

“I was made to be this way, Manon.” 

There is meaning in your statement, the witch knows this much, but she is not sure she wishes to face it.

“But anything can be unmade, undone.” You say, and she refuses to acknowledge what that may mean for her. She is yet not ready.

She is even less prepared when you turn to face her once more. Tears line your cheeks, but a smile adorns your precious lips. She has never known a prettier sight.

“Thank you,” you smile. For everything.

The witch frowns. “You already said that.”

“Then I’m sorry,” you voice quietly.

“Sorry?” She takes a step forward. You take one back.

You smile wider, “that I will not be there—”

Her frown deepens, eyes flickering behind your.

“—to see you undo this cruel world.” You raise your arms, peace and longing drawn onto your delicate features. And then you lean back, giving yourself to the wind.

She is too slow. 

The last thing you see is the skies.

She does not reach you.

Abraxos roars.

She does not hear it. 

Your words echo in her mind.

“People change, Manon.” 

Your voice already fades.

“For better, or for worse.”

You wished for better.

So a better world she would give you.

Even if it was too late.

i am so sorry ya'll :(((