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larptrash · 2 years

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To Burn A Witch

Chapter 1 Part 1

The earth was sour and wretched where we stood and the scent pooled in the back of my throat, weighing on my tongue challenging both my resolve and my gag reflex, just as nauseating and unpleasant as the reason behind tonight's gathering.

The air chilled, the mood grave, for tonight we did not gather to dance or rejoice, there was no ceremony to be had beneath the shadow of the vacant moon tonight nor any night that would follow soon thereafter. Instead, we met in darkness with only the weak dwindling flame of our hearth to guide us as we broke our bread, no better than hardtack, just as dry and unyielding as the wine we drank, passing the bottle from hand to hand with hardly a pause all need for cup or decorum abandoned in our desolate melancholy. It may as well have been ash on our tongues, as it weighed on our stomachs only adding to the unpleasantness of it all. Our souls and spirits weighed as heavily as our feet, now bogged and caked with sodden clay. We were far from the circle of our usual gathering on this night, the usually strong and hearty trees now replaced by ancient and cobbled oaks that shifted and twisted under their own weight like ancient gnarled gods of long-forgotten souls and practice.

What had started as a tense desire for subtlety had quickly turned into a desperate need for secrecy as the recent, but all too familiar, hysteria began once again forcing us deeper into the thicket of trees and forest where the leaves rotted upon a bed of mud unaccustomed to the passage and travelings of human feet. Where even the moss of the trees shrank and grew stunted with their desperation for light.

Our forest sanctuary had become a mourning shroud, a hollowed prison guarding us against prying eyes and funeral pyres. We knew to meet so soon amongst the rise of hysteria was a dangerous risk but in our hearts, we knew it was unavoidable something had to be done. For too long we had allowed these atrocities to pass before us as slight upon slight was piled like the corpses of the damned at our feet till it towered far above the moon itself, we could be idle no more. Our path of cowardice and sense of self-preservation had been too deeply tainted with the blood of the innocent for centuries and we would abide it no longer.

I looked about me taking in the silhouettes that formed the members of our brood, many finding respites on fallen logs and jagged rocks their backs hunched with the weight of judgment that rested on our shoulder, their frames trembling with a dangerous mixture of anger, fear, and the chill of the damp night air. How many times had I seen this before in my years now? How many times had we fled into the arms of hope only to watch fear and suspicion follow and settle in the hearts of mortal men and women? With age, my vision grew clearer as I became less enamored with the world around me and more accustomed to the horrors of the world. It seemed as if with every passing year our hours of relief had grown shorter and shorter until it inevitably became more of a desperate gasp of salvation in a world where we were being left to drown in a vast ocean of ignorance and hatred.

Normally, as was the way of our mothers, our kind would hide and remain quiet until the opportunity to flee once more would arise. We, however, were not our mothers and we were tired of running leaving the corpses of innocents in our wake, allowing the church to hunt and kill those it perceived as witches as it wished in the pursuit of ridding the world of Satan and his worshippers. No, we were not our mothers and this time we would stake our claim from the shadows no longer content to cower and flee in the wake of their holy wrath.

The threat, though a bloodthirsty and volatile thing, was simple and one we had faced many times before, as all of our kind must, the hunt for witches was afoot once more for the hysteria never truly fled the mind of the holy it merely lulled as the fear and panic slumbered, satisfied with its pound of flesh and river of blood, until the time came for it to rear its head once more in a never-ending attempt to devour us. When hard winters set in, when crops withered, and sickness spread from house to house it was far easier to blame and burn a supposed witch than it was to look in at themselves for the cause. But mortals have always been frantic and panicky things prone to mob mentality and unbridled brutality, and due to this fatal flaw they harbored we were doomed to suffer, forced to flee from one crusade to the next. With every home came new threats and unspoken terrors that echoed heavily in the passage of time. Our world of secrets, a never-ending masquerade performed on a stage of eggshells and whispers with only the faintest of candlelight to guide us less the light turned their eyes to our subtle secrets and set the shepherds upon us.

The new world in all its wonder had been our newest hope of salvation with promises of untamed forests and plains that stretched like oceans of grass and flowers where pious hands had yet to tarnish them with righteous fury and blood. Led to believe there we would find the promise of religious freedom, of hope that we would never need to fear a pyre or noose again, we had gathered ourselves ready to embark filled with the hope and folly of a young brood too green to the world. We boarded the ship, our hearts and minds turned towards the promise of life without fear of persecution, a world our kind had never dared to even dream of, so too did the devout and unyielding puritans that had long since plagued us so.

Our vessels of freedom in the span of a single night had been transformed into a prison vessel destined for a life where I feared we would be doomed to perform upon eggshells forever. Once or twice in my weaker moments where I lied upon my cot near delusional with grief and sick with fear had the idea of conversion crossed my mind as we sailed across the rough and tortuous sea, but the thoughts were banished as quickly as they came for to do so would have been an insult not only to all those who had come before me but to all who had yet to be born from our brood.

So in accordance with the ways of our mothers' we kept to our candlelight and our world of whispers playing the part of the pilgrimage, our eyes never leaving the horizon of hope.

Hope, however, was something we would not grasp long as scant a single winter in our settlement had come to pass before the beast raised its head once more, somehow more ravenous than before in this land that had never before tasted the blood of inquisition. When the crops began to wither and the children of the town began to fall ill we knew it would not be long before the cry of “Witch!” would echo through the town, and echo it did. From every doorway and bedside came the scream of “Witch!'' As women and men alike, many of whom were guilty of no crime other than that of being less than neighborly, were dragged from their homes to the pyres and gallows, sometimes within the same day when a trial was deemed unnecessary and forgotten in the wake of their hysteria.

Far too often we would watch from the crowd silent and horrified as they were burned before us and surely as the sunset the shock and horror of their brutality began to dull under the weight of fear for our kin and kind. So it went day in and day out from accusation to trial to death that we lowered our head in acceptance of what we believed to be part of the natural order of man. it was however upon the accusation and execution of a child, no older than eight, that the fire within us raged at the realization that not only had things gone much too far but that we had allowed it without opposition to persist.

It was then that we came to gather, deep in the forest, safe from the prying eyes of the pious where it was decided that to burn a witch was indeed a crime but to murder an innocent, a child, was a sin that could no longer go unpunished.

For far too long they had been allowed to run rampant at the bidding of their mortal idols and we would suffer it in silence not a moment more. We came to gather around the fire drawing close to one another, the dwindling fire casting ghastly shadows upon grim faces making them all the more desolate and haunting. In that moment a blade was presented from beneath my cloak, mishapened and discolored with age and use.. We took it in turns passing the ancient metal from palm to palm parting the flesh of our hands without hesitation or remorse. Together we presented our palms above the flames, the blood dripping freely over the glowing embers and ash causing it to brighten and flicker with the life of the silent vow now struck. These so-called pious Christians would soon learn the price of blood and body and the lesson would come by our hands. Their god may forgive them but we would not.

Molly Bell was a small but odd child with her ringed auburn hair and eyes the color of honey in the sunlight that seemed far too small and pinched much too near her nose for such a wide face. She was, at best, an unconventional looking child that no one would ever describe as lovely or fair with her homely squared jaw, too sharp at either side of the chin for a child, and a single drooping eye that rested behind a lazy but prominent brow. The child had, since the moment of her birth, been a source of scorn to both her father and those of the town. her mother, who had never been a well-received woman in any home due to her bluntness and crass disposition as well as being a once shunned catholic in her own time, had come to pass away in the process of child birthing and giving life to her daughter. Thus leaving her alone with a father who had despised his wife and the waif of a child she had dared to produce. Over the years I had watched as those within the town laid their cold gaze and rough hands upon her and yet still she endured with a strength far beyond her meager years and fragile stature. I pitied her, the whole brood did in earnes for what crimes could I child commit to earn such disdain? No crime than that of a mere existence, a crime we had been persecuted for all too often. Our pitying, however, had always been tempered with hesitation, it was not wise to operate against the puritan's expectations so openly less one find themselves to be an adjoining target. We spoke kindly to her when we could and gave her the bits and pieces we could afford to cast off when the opportunity permitted but we did not defend the child publicly or place ourselves between her quarrels. yet even with these meager and few acts we were considered of the few to ever show kindness to the down and trodden child so bitter and cold at such a young age.

While the adults seemed to scorn her it was the other children, who abhorred her to no ends, that tortured and tormented her relentlessly. They would seek her out almost religiously, often taunting her in the streets and tossing rocks at her in the field without fear of reprimand. Some would hiss cruel words to her and each other often claiming that she was a monster, some vile creature not fit to live or deserving of humanity. Children, in my mind, have always been capable of being such cruel creatures even in the best of cases but never before had i seen them to be so cruel as they were in the early morning where they hunted and stalked the desolate child as poor Molly made her way from church to the trader’s post, basket in hand.

They descended upon the child like a plague, many far older than she, backing her into the corner of the old widow Harriet's yard with their cruel jeers, armed with stones and sticks of all sizes and shapes to punish and threaten the poor girl.

“Look at you. As ugly as the devil.” an older girl had sneered bearing down on the young child who stood with shoulders rigid as a rod despite the rough and rickety fence post at her back.

“Is that what you are?” she asked venomously her teeth near snapping “a devil?”

She drew closer then, a wide stick gripped firmly in her hand as her empty one found itself fisted into Molly's bonnet wrenching the child back to her just as Molly had turned to flee. Her motions were vicious as she wrenched the bonnet taking the fabric and several loose locks of hair, causing Molly to scream out in pain, with it before tossing the bonnet into the dirt and crushing it underfoot. Her muddy shoe grinding into the starch white fabric and tainting it with her vile cruelty.

I had turned then having seen enough to know that no good could come from leaving them to continue, now intent on making my way to them and putting an end to the exchange but the strong grip of a man's hand on my arm as his fingers curled about me stilled my progression and succeeded in keeping me firmly in place. as I looked on I felt my chest fill with fear for the poor child but still too timid in my disposition, a coward even in the moment of the utmost cruelty being performed before me a cruelty I had watched again and again in silent fear that it would one day be me in such a place. I did not dare defy the hand that kept me in stillness.

It was not within the customs of the town folk to intervene on behalf of the innocent Molly and the owner of the offensive hand seemed to believe that I should be no exception to such behavior no matter how cruel it may be.

“I bet you are,” the older girl accused her tone sneering as poor Molly whimpered and struggled in the older one's hold, her desperation growing along with the pit in my stomach. I watched Molly struggle in her hold her small fists gripping the hand of the much larger girl in a desperate attempt to free herself, but Molly was a slight child worn and weary and was no match for her attacker's clawing grip.

“I bet your mother was one of the devil’s whores and that’s why she died.”

The pit in my stomach gave way to a gaping caver as I drew in a gasping breath. It was at that comment that Molly had gone as still as death, her eyes slowly and with too much focus trailing up to meet the older girl’s disdainful gaze. an odd tremble began to spread through her lithe form and a new sense of horror bloomed in my chest at what I knew was to come.

No one accustomed to violence would have ever been able to mistake the violent glint of rage that came to life in the child's eyes, a dangerous spark growing into a well fed flame. Desperate now to intervene I tugged at my captors hold but the grip remained firm intent upon keeping me from the fray as my panic grew.

To my knowledge, a great many horrid things had been said to Molly in her young life and a great many more she would willingly suffer in silence but it was clear and known to all that an insult to her late mother was not one of them. Thinking back to the incident I could admit, in all honesty, that at that moment it would not have been hard to believe that Molly was indeed a child of the devil if not the devil himself in human form as she turned upon the other girl, her fingers curling around her wrist with an eerily steady calm, her nails sinking into her skin to leave dark crescent marks in the pale tender flesh.

Whether in shock or pain the older girl cried out releasing her hold on both Molly and the beating stick. While I would never condone the violence the girl had intended I will admit, dropping her makeshift weapon was, second to cornering Molly, the most foolish thing she could do. At least had she kept it in hand she could have defended herself from what was to come.

The older girl quickly gave way to panic and it was with her cries that all the pent-up fury within the desolate child came unleashed as Molly let loose a frightening and almost animalistic yell. With their leader reduced to a sniveling mess of fear, the confidence of the miniture mob had shattered sending the other children into a panic and they wasted no time in abandoning their leader scattering across the yard, scrambling and screaming in terror, away from the feral child as she pounced upon her prey. In a flurry of hands and nails, Molly forced the girl into the dirt, heaving her smaller form above the older child to trap her there. Despite the older girl’s size, she was no match for the smaller molly as she tried desperately to shield her face from the smacks and clawing of Molly's hands, the smaller screeching violently in her rage and the older crying in a terror.

Now that Molly was no longer the victim it did not take long for a parent to intervene, the adults drawing closer in a flurry to reclaim their children as a large brunt of a man came forward attempting to wrench the unyielding Molly from the girl. Molly ignored or perhaps in the throes of her rage simply did not notice the hands that gripped her sides pulling her violently back from the girl her hands still fisted so tightly in the fabric of her dress that it tore and came away with her. The older girl was left a mess of tattered and torn garments, her face bruised and bloody from the beating as she curled into herself sobbing fitfully. Molly continued to kick and thrash, howling like a child possessed over the sobbing girl. The man held molly by her sides away from his body as the child kicked and snarled clawing at his hands to be released and though it must have been painful he did not loosen his hold but instead gripped tighter his face a mask of shock and horror unsure of what to do with the violent creature now solely in his possession.

“Damn you!” Molly cried, her hands reaching out to attack the girl once more, not yet satisfied in her rage “Damn you and your house.”

The crowd around her went silent as mothers pulled their children closer to their breasts. The man holding her quickly released her at the sound of her curse, dropping the child unceremoniously to the dirt in shock and fear as if she were a poisonous plant he now regretted touching. All stood stock and silent drawing back as they continued watching Molly as she pushed herself up till she knelt in the dirt, her hair wild and chest heaving, bloodily fingers and bruised knuckles fisting the earth beneath her.

“Damn you to hell.” she gasped through labored breaths.

The grip upon my arm was released then and I spared not a second more in hesitation and I quickly found myself forcing my way past the crowd shoving mothers and children from my path in my haste to place myself between the two girls, lest Molly attack again. Molly tensed at the sight of me drawing back slightly in confusion. I had been kind to her and yet here I was failing to defend her against the cruelty of the villagers.

I knelt, shedding my shawl and wrapping it about the bloodied girl and her tattered dress to preserve her modesty, though in my heart I held only disdain for the vile thing who had only gotten what she rightfully deserved. I wrapped her tightly, pulling her to stand before passing her and all her woeful blubbering into the wrinkled hands of an older woman to tend to before turning to my true object of concern. All others about us were too taken aback to touch the now only near-hysterical molly who remained all teeth and claws in the dirt. In a moment of desperation I removed my cloak, approaching her like some wild and wounded animal and tossing it around her, capturing her in the fabric so she could no longer snap and claw at those around her. I wrapped my arms around her, gripping her tightly in an attempt to stop her thrashing and hopefully offer some comfort in her moment of misery.

Even in the best of times, Molly's words would have been a danger to her. For to curse another l, even in passing, was a serious matter. Should anything befall those who you had voiced your disdain towards, the simple and truthfully powerless curse you uttered would mark you as the cause and thus a witch. Those who stood around us made no movement other than to shield their children from the wild girl who had now become a filthy mess of unbridled tears and sobs flushed a near unholy shade of red in her fury and sorrow being held in my arms as I struggled to contain her. I felt for the child but alas she would not calm, only serving to make the situation all the more dire under the watchful gaze of those in attendance as I persisted in holding her.

Finally, in desperation and a shameful loss of patience, my voice raised above her howling.

"Be still with ye!" I commanded her forcefully knowing that if she continued on this way there would be no salvation for either of us. Still she did not yield, pulling and fighting against the fabric for release.

I squeezed her tighter in my embrace desperate by every measure to quell her, to bring calm, to salvage the moment and hopefully bring salvation to both of us.

"You have done enough!". The sound of my hand striking her cheek brought an immediate feeling of guilt upon me but if a single strike was the cost of our salvation then a strike it would be, she had to stop.

The child stilled finally at my command, her eyes wide and blood shot as she stared at me, her cheek blossoming red wheerI had slapped her before going limp in my arms as her sensibilities returned her anger and sorrow now spent sobbing quietly against my chest.

A sigh escaped my lips as I finally dared to loosen my hold on her, my heart aching for her sorrow but my sensibilities far more concerned with salvaging the dangerous position she was now in and I by extension for inserting myself before the public's gaze.

She curled into herself, my cloak still bound tightly as I watched her with a cautious eye, less she started up again. I remained there with her curled into my lap as I stroked her hair gently working my fingers through her messed as tangled locks smoothing them flat once more in an act of remorseful tenderness. I remained even as the other parents ushered their children away in an attempt to return to their lives. The girl could not be left alone and it seemed those who had witnessed the incident saw fit to leave me still and silent to watch over her as if I could somehow resolve the matter for them.

I did not wait long for Molly was collected shortly after by both her father and the preacher who did not speak to me but only lingered to gaze oddly at me before returning my cloak after untangling the now distant eyed girl from it.

I could see the questioning of his gaze and the concern creasing his brow as he examined me in all my false timidness. I thanked him, drawing it close to me unconcerned about the blood and dirt that tarnished it which only deepened the crease of concern, and watched as she was taken away roughly in uncaring arms and my heart ached for her.

It was obvious in the days after when she was once again seen about the town that Molly had been thrashed and beaten quite severely for her transgressions. She was hesitant and meek, uttering hardly a word when I beckoned her into my home trying in my best attempt to sooth her pain and lessen the marks as the days passed and in time her bruises began to fade and life settled once more.

#fantasy #magic #character #writing #writers on tumblr #female writers #witch #witchcraft #witch character #witch content #fiction #story #dark #witch hunt #witch trials

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charnelhouse · 3 years

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are…. are we going to get michael myers content…. i am shaking and crying and throwing up pls,,,, i will sell u my soul.

A/N: Michael Myers x F!Reader. This is dark. Probably dub-con/non con. stockholm syndrome. violence. torture. rough sex.

It starts like this -

In the doom and gloom of her latest Halloween, she watches shadows burst open across Haddonfield and its kitschy streets and square-box houses. Sirens squeal flame-hot through the air. There’s a far away scream. The ripple of agony and grief sweeping through the rotting pumpkins and trimmed hedges.

She walks over clutters of leaves, listening to them crunch like shards of bone beneath her heels. She already knows what’s waiting for her at the end of this. She knows that he’s fulfilled his blood-lust and now has his other desires. His other needs.

She gingerly climbs the stairs to her house. Her new purchase. Her mistake as most neighbors would call it.

Why on earth would you buy that one?

Are you crazy?

Do you know? Don’t you understand what kind of house that is?

She does know. She knows all of it. Its gory history. The lore trapped in the floorboards. She strolls through the front door - tossing her keys into a bowl. They jingle in the dead-silence of the entryway. She moves to the kitchen. The house smells like sharp paint and turpentine and -

“Michael,” she murmurs so quietly that it’d be near-impossible to catch. A slip of wind - a velvet exhale from her parted mouth. But he hears it. He always hears her. He always knows exactly where she is and what she's doing. He looms in the shadows - the Shape - in his white mask and dark coveralls that are sticky with god knows what.

This is his house just as she is simply his. A possession. A piece. His victim if she were to ever dig deep enough to give herself that title

She recalls the very night that he finally broke her. She understands - vaguely - that this is Stockholm Syndrome and that this is wrong and terrible and her life is over in all the ways it had once mattered. But that particular night sits inside her ribs - swells with memory and a strange longing. He had come to her a year previous with the sky blooming violet and milky. The crisp wind and gnarled trees and how she had thought she had spotted him so many times in the distance.

It had been a cold autumn.

She had felt him pricking at the nape of her neck. She had heard him.

Waiting. Watching.

A week before Halloween, he had appeared - a ghost - unfolding like a specter in her bedroom doorway. That blank face and giant frame and she had thought - he's too big to be so quiet before realizing who he was -

But he hadn’t wanted to kill her - at least not immediately. He had just wanted her to believe it. He had chained her up for days, looming over her with his height devouring the wan light from her mirror. He had dragged the edge of a kitchen knife across her chest and pressed the flat of it over her heart. He had stared at her as she sobbed and pleaded frantically for her life. The black holes of his mask gave nothing away. Just endless and sightless and barren.

He would leave and then return. Shocking her. Scaring her. His boots caked in mud and what had suspiciously looked like flesh and grey brain matter.

This was the endless cycle of it. Again and again.

And then one night he had lifted his mask to reveal his naked face. She’d been stunned.

Beautiful. Marble. Chiseled. His one bad eye was pale as a fish-belly, but the good one was fog-grey blue. It had reminded her of the brunt of a storm. Her gaze traveled to the fruit-pink lips and then to his furrowed brow and the faint blush burning across his cheekbones. He crouched - his stare pinning her in place - nailing her to the wall. He touched her and she jerked.

He continued.

He traced her jaw with his fingers and then he dug his thumb into her lower lip and he leaned forward inch by inch - a predator stalking toward its prey despite the fact that her vision was clear and she saw what was coming.

He kissed her - insistent and blunt and more like a crash of mouths and teeth. It was wet and hot and clumsy. It blinded her.

She didn’t know what he wanted. She didn’t know what to do, but respond in kind. It had been weeks and she wondered if this was a life raft.

She kissed him back and just as her tongue met his, he stilled. Something deep and ugly rumbled from his chest before she felt pain sear across her belly. She dropped her chin to see a stain darkening the thin fabric of her tank top. He’d cut her. Not too badly, but it ached. Tears sprang to her eyes as she pressed her hand to her stomach. He left her like that. Bleeding and alone on freezing bathroom tile.

It took her several more mind games to realize that everything was always on Michael’s terms. He kept her tied up - only allowing her to use the phone in order to not raise alarm. He fed her and frightened her and occasionally brought her dead things like he was her enormous cat.

Slowly - deliberately - he won.

***

His hands are on her - the smell of him like iron and sweat. He smears red across her forearms before he tugs her hard against his chest. Michael is made up of flat planes and curves - the ripple of muscles and broad shoulders. He is perfect physically aside from the blinded eye. Part of her believes that even that imperfection gives him something - a mistake that seems almost correct to his makeup.

“Michael,” she says again as he rubs against her - the hefty bulge of his cock pushing into her ass. He’s breathing hard, the pattern of it muffled behind the mask.

She doesn’t want the mask tonight - she wants him. But that’s not her decision to make.

He shoves her toward the kitchen - his hand firm at her back before he’s forcing her down over the table. He reaches around her hips to cup her pussy - thumb slipping through her cotton-covered folds. She’s soaked. She’s been wet since she heard the sirens - felt it in the air - heard the panic from the neighbors.

Go home. The streets aren’t safe.

Someone’s been killed. Strung up. Blood everywhere.

There must be a copycat. There must be someone else because Michael is dead.

Michael is dead. Myers is dead. I know. I know. I saw it myself.

But Michael is hot and sweaty against her - his heart thrumming with his adrenaline in the quiet stillness of the room. It’s such a strange scene. The expensive plates and delicate teacups. The floral-printed hand towels. The bowl of fruit that goes flying when she accidentally knocks it away. The pristine beauty of this kitchen that she has worked so hard to maintain is marred by the smear of the Shape. He stands in layers of dirt and grime as he restrains her against the table. She is unsettled by the fact that she wants it - she is desperate for it. She craves him like nothing else. Her body sings for him.

Michael’s hold is unrestrained - brutal, really. His gore-damp fingers all over her - painting her - clutching her pussy possessively because it’s his. Her skin and mind and guts - everything circulating inside her is Michael’s.

She doubts he cares for her. She certainly doubts that he loves her. He’s incapable. But - still - she can pretend. When had broken her so completely the year before - when he’d ruined her - scrambled her head - it was her own tongue crying out: i love you michael i love you i love you please don’t leave don’t leave me here -

He’d pulled her into his arms and let her rest her cheek against his chest. He’d stroked her waist - the hot bare skin coated in him. He’d massaged the marks he’d left by his fingerprints and the chafing of the rope. He’d made soothing, mouth sounds and she’d sunk into him - gone soft and pliant and easy as she breathed his name with wild reverence -

He’d been kind. He’d been gentle. He had seemed like he had cared. She clung to that.

He flips her skirt up as he pins her to the table. The edge is cutting into her thighs and she’s being nearly lifted off her feet. She hears him unzip himself - open up those coveralls that are coated in a thin film of whatever he’d done today. There is the blunt snag of his cock at her entrance. He rips her panties to the side - the brief sting of them digging into her flesh until they give way. Michael cock catches on the rim of her hole before he rears back and then slams forward, sheathing himself to the hilt. She’s feverish and sopping. She’s ready for him, but it still feels as if he’s splitting her in half. Michael is huge. He is and the stretch is something that continues to shock her. She feels as if every rut of his dick will hit the back of her throat - will stab into her heart and she’ll die from Michael fucking her so roughly. He grunts as he draws his hips before sliding in again - boring down upon her with his calloused, blood-slick fingers gripping her hips.

She clings to the surface - nails scraping across the wood. Each thrust jars her upward - forces a whimper out of her mouth. The table creaks and bends. She’s not entirely sure if she can scream - if Michael would allow it since the neighbors could hear. There are cops and ambulances only blocks away. She’s overwhelmed - trying frantically to accept all of him - take all of him. He’s fucking her apart and she bites her tongue to swallow the noise that steadily builds in her throat.

No one can know. No one can suspect who she keeps in this house.

It’s a copycat. It has to be.

It can’t possibly be him. He’s dead.

Michael’s cock continues to spear molten through her - pushing up against her core - her cervix. There’s the echoing squelch of her pussy swallowing him. The rough fabric of his pants grazing her bare skin.

She feels his fingers slide through her folds - caressing the place where he is connected to her. He will tease and probe until she begs him and she knows that he will only make her cum for the benefit of himself - to feel her walls clench and grip him so deliciously tight. His breathing is labored now. His pace grows sloppy.

Her knees are weak and it’s only Michael who is holding her up. If he stepped away, she'd collapse to the floor. His sharp hips barrel into her thighs as he screws her into the unforgiving kitchen table. He continues to trace the seam of her sex - he nudges his thumb over her clit, making her gasp. His other hand palms her ass cheek before digging into the flesh hard enough to bruise.

“Please, Michael,” she pants. “Please. Please. I-I need to - want to -”

He flicks her clit harshly and then slaps it. It does the job. She shrieks - her lower muscles spasming and her cunt fluttering around Michael’s punishing length. He’s quick to follow - a rasping grunt shudders from his hulking frame. There’s the warm bloom inside her that begins to drip as he slips from her raw pussy.

She hears the mask drop to the floor and she knows it’s not over. This is just the beginning. He’s sated that initial hunger - the one that always burns fast and harsh through him after a kill. He’s exhausted himself to a point, but it won’t last long. His hands are on her - his thick forearms banding around her waist as he lifts her against his muscular chest. She peers up at him and loses her breath. His caramel hair, damp with sweat, curls boyishly around his temples. His blue eye scans her face lazily - soft from the haze of post-orgasm. Her lips quirk and she decides to take a chance. She reaches for the knife-sharp line of his jaw, hoping that he will accept her touch.

Sometimes he does. Sometimes he doesn’t.

She knows she’s made a mistake almost immediately. His brow creases and he snatches her hand. He holds it tight enough that it hurts - jostles her bones. It’s a threat. He can snap her wrist and fingers if he wanted. He could crush her head like a melon.

“Don’t,” he warns as he releases her. His voice is low and raspy with disuse. It is always a shock to hear him. A drop of water in this devastating desert of a house.

She longs for him to speak again.

The wind howls outside - knocks against the shutters - scrapes the paint and the screen door. The high-pitched flicker of a wind chime. The sirens are still wailing far away.

He carries her upstairs.

#michael myers x reader #michael myers x female reader #michael myers x you #halloween 1978 #halloween fanfiction #halloween fanfic #michael myers imagine #michael myers #slasher #michael myers x y/n #slasher x reader

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whaleofatjme1920 · 3 years

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Feeling Warmth Through Doused Fires (Masky X F!Reader)

Feeling Warmth Through Doused Fires

[Masky/Tim Wright X F!Reader]

[Warnings: murder, language, angst, mentions of death and actual death. Mostly the angst.]

[AN: Another brilliant request from Eris! This was also a Ko-Fi commission! ALSO ALSO this thing is 13K words! This is my longest fic yet! buckle in.]

When are there not stars in your eyes? It’s hard to dim them even when the sun comes up, which is such an odd thing to even admit due to the mud life has made you trudge through.

You are the product of a proxy father and a human mother. To be the Slender Man’s child is your birthright, and so far, you’ve been living up to that birthright with flying colors. As a young one, she had woven you stories of the culture and society your father was a part of and everything he had been up to.

Visions of murder, deals gone sour, and morally grey acts have been threaded into your soul. You grew up thinking that was normal, and by twelve, you had knowledge on things that no child should have ever opened their ears to.

“And then what happened?” You ask your mother, urging her to continue the story.

She giggles like a butterfly ready to take flight and holds your tiny six year old body closer to her. She smells of honey and vanilla. “That group had messed with the wrong people,” she continues, her voice falling deceptively low. “The tall man in the woods-”

“You mean the faerie?” You ask as your eyes sparkle. “The Slender Man?”

Your mother nods, her index finger reaching up to tap your nose. “Yes, exactly that,” she hums. “He sent another group of proxies to handle the mess.”

“Ooooooo they’re in troubleeeeee,” you giggle, still hooked around your mother.

She laughs. “He initiated what is called a ‘proxy hunt’. It’s something only the bad proxies are subject to,” she explains. “It’s important you don’t make mistakes like that, Reader. Do you understand?” She questions with a warm hum as she secures you in her arms, bringing your tired form to your bedroom.

“Got it,” you say in the most serious tone a six year old can muster. “No making the faerie mad.”

“That’s my girl.” Her lips pull up in a grin that rivals the Cheshire cat.

Your father is a proxy. He is tall, unstable, but loves you like the moon loves the tide and the sun loves the earth. To be a proxy is to be closed off and untouchable, but the sound of you running to greet him on the blue moon he visits you and your mother has always been enough to humanize him, if even for a moment. He loves you, his special little girl, with all the grains of sand there are on the earth.

He comes around sparsely, and as you grow older, rarely. It’s not that he doesn’t love you, it’s just that he’s busy and the Slender Man enjoys making his favorites suffer. Every time he sees you, he remarks how much bigger you’ve gotten. He’s more than upset that he can’t be there to watch you grow into a fine young lady.

“You’re late,” you say, eyes narrowed as you look up at the tall, bulky man who stands before you. You take your hand off the doorknob and stand tall as you cross your arms.

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” the man apologizes, crouching down to your eye level. “I brought you a present.”

You eye your father carefully, arms relaxing for a moment before noticing the wrapped gift in his hands. “Is…”

“It’s something you’ll like,” he answers, holding the gift out to you. “I promise.”

You narrow your eyes again but take the wrapped present from his hands, shaking it slightly. You hear something rattling around. “Can I open it?” You ask as you attempt to hide your smile.

Your father chuckles. “I don’t think your mother would appreciate it, but yes. Go ahead, open it.”

You relent in the angry front and plop down on the floor, opening the present without any grace as a ‘proper lady’ as your mother would put it. You peel back the brightly colored wrapping paper and then tear into the box. “Oh my gods,” you whisper to yourself in surprise as the stars once again light up in your eyes. It’s an entire art set of fine materials. “Where did you get these?”

Your father shrugs. “That’s for me to know and you to never find out,” he says in a teasing tone.

You push at him before placing the box of expensive art supplies to the side. You can’t help but lunge into your father’s waiting arms.

“I heard you were getting seriously into art from your mother. Doing art for friends? I’m so proud of you!” He laughs and hugs you, his lips pressing to the crown of your head. “Happy twelvth, sweetheart,” he mumbles into your hair. “I love you so, so much.”

You can’t help but cry and hug your father tighter.

For a person who was supposed to be brutal, uncaring, uncouth and simply inhuman, your father had the whole dad thing down when he was around. He never raised his voice to you, was kind and thoughtful in his responses, and you adored how he treated your mother with nothing but love and understanding.

You know that if he wasn’t shackled to a life he had no choice of entering, he would have been one hell of a father.

Your mother, a mentally fragile woman who loves a damn near unattainable man, brings you the news one overcast morning. Her eyes are red and puffy and it looks like she hasn’t been able to stop crying for hours. Her posture is broken but her heart even more so. It’s probably irreparable.

You were sitting at your desk, doing your homework. Tomorrow was Monday, starting the final week of school. It was one of the final essays before you were out for summer break, and then you’d be gearing up for your first year of high school once autumn came.

Earbuds in, you didn’t even hear your mother slink into the doorway of your room. When you finally get the inkling that someone is watching you, you take out one of your earbuds and turn your head. “Mom?” You sound genuinely confused, especially after seeing her rough appearance. “What’s wrong?” You slowly push back in your chair, ready to stand and meet her in the doorway.

“Your-your,” her breath hitches as she leans helplessly in the doorway. “It’s your father,” she manages to rasp out as she begins to slink downwards, her knees buckling.

Your eyes go wide, tears welling in them and blurring your vision as you jump out of your seat and collapse on the floor with your mother. You wrap your arms around her, burying your face into her shoulder as she cradles you in her arms.

“I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so, so sorry,” she wails like a mantra, clutching onto you like she’s afraid to lose you too.

You don’t know how to feel in that direct moment. You loved your father, more a shadow than a real man, but his loss cuts deep and hard. He wanted to show you things “when you’re older” and tell you of the world you were born in. You wanted so badly to learn it all by his hand and his knowledge.

When your mother has finally come to a grounding point where she is no longer choking over her words, she leads you to her bedroom. She moves slowly, as if she’s trying not to remember anything about the man she loved and lost. Her steps are quiet, almost like she’s floating.

You follow her just as quietly. It’s as if you don’t want to disturb the silence that has settled over the two of you. It’s heavy and suffocating, but it’s a blanket shielding you from the reality that someone is gone and never coming back.

Your mother opens her bedroom door and shifts around in her drawers.

Unsure of where you should be and if you’re allowed into the sanctuary that is her room and her space, you wait in the doorway, much like she did when she brought you the bad news. You’re still wiping away tears with the bottoms of your hands and by extension, rubbing your skin raw. Your vision is still bleary, but when your mother finally resurfaces, you don’t even need to be told what it is she’s holding.

In her hands is a mask. It’s dark brown and has a simple face almost reminiscent of a dragon. It’s simple, but elegant. It’s simple, but horrifying. You feel drawn to it.

Your mother weakly smiles and sits down on her bed, patting the open spot for you to sit down.

You do so without question and take your spot next to her, almost on instinct leaning yourself onto her side. You smile softly as she wraps her arm around you, pulling you close.

“It was your father’s,” she says quietly, fingertips gently tracing the mask's face. She then gingerly shifts it onto your lap. “Now it is yours.”

You feel more tears cascade from your eyes as you gaze longingly down at the mask on your lap. “Are you sure?” You shakily question, wondering why she’d want to pass such a beautiful memento down to you so soon.

“It’s your birthright,” she replies, her lips pressing to the side of your head that gives you a love only a devoted mother could.

You didn’t understand what she meant at that moment.

You never saw your first year of high school.

When the summer came, you had bounced back like any child could. Children are plastic. They can bounce back from almost anything, just give them enough time, space, and care. You were no exception.

In truth, after losing your father, you hadn’t found any desire to go to college. Your heart was telling you that a life that was so cookie cutter and parallel to everyone else’s was never in the cards for you. Your blood sung for something different.

Proxies always return to him.

Your mother knew it too. She saw it in your longing gaze as she drove the two of you back home from grocery runs, how your eyes would follow the breeze in the backyard to the woods, how your hands naturally found their way to knives, and how your thoughts transcended what should be humanly possible.

But you’re not human. You never have been. Never will be.

Your mother knew that best. It was only natural that she found contact with the tall man of the woods halfway through the summer of losing your father.

“She’s different, my little girl,” she explained as she gazed up at the imposing, almost immaculate figure. “I don’t think I could ever give her what is expected or needed.” She hates to admit that she’s not good enough for you, but that is the curse of being a born, not turned proxy. Proxies always return to their master, regardless of age, creed, or background.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘What would you have me do?’ He’s only asking as a formality. He knows that you belong to him. Your father had been attempting to gear you up to join. The Slender Man is only finishing what one of his most beloved proxies started.

Your mother shifts uncomfortably, crossing her arms over her chest as a defensive maneuver. She absentmindedly tucks some strands of her hair behind her ear. “I think she needs to be with you,” she mumbles, still not wanting to admit she’s not good enough because she’s human. “I think she needs to be fully immersed in… Whatever it is my husband says you do.”

The Slender Man chuckles deeply. He knows your mother knows what his beloved proxy does, but he lets her feign her ignorance. ‘That’s rich coming from a woman who loves her child more than the land loves the sea,’ he taunts coldly. In truth, it is nothing against her as an individual, but it is everything against her as a human being.

Your mother scoffs and holds her ground. “Will you take her in or not?”

He raises his hand to convey a truce. ‘My apologies.’ He doesn’t mean it. ‘I will. She is my child, afterall-’

“She is NOT your child,” your mother snarls, fully aware she is in the presence of a very temperamental being who could smite her just for thinking wrong.

The Slender Man, in all his mercy, once again holds his hand up as a sign of truce. ‘I understand the loss is still heavy on your heart,’ he begins, voice heavy and almost exhausted to be dealing with human emotional flare ups. ‘I will take her as soon as you are ready to let her go.’

Your mother’s shoulders drop slightly as she comes to the realization that yes, that was a decision she was making. She feels tears well in her eyes, but refuses to blink them away. “Thank you.” She nods to the tall man, then turns on her heels and heads back home, where you lay asleep waiting for her.

The Slender Man watches her leave with curiosity in his gaze. He already knows where he’s going to be placing you. You are not the youngest to fall under his influence, but you are the first in a while. He tends to pluck young adults, not children. And if he did choose children, consider it target practice.

Nothing more.

When your mother tells you that you are leaving her side, you are once again thrown into a plethora of emotions, a maelstrom .A part of you can’t believe she’d just willingly give up on you like that, but another says this is the direction you’re meant to go.

“This isn’t a decision I make lightly, Reader!” She exclaims in budding frustration, her fingers raking through her hair like a tick. “Really, I have no say in the matter!”

“Yes you do!” You cry back. “You’re my mother! How could you just abandon me?” You fight back. You ball your hands in fists. You’re not backing down from her.

Your mother sighs deeply and shakes her head. “I am not prepared for this,” she mumbles. “I do not have the right knowledge to allow you to grow into the person you could be,” she finishes, plopping back onto the wall in the kitchen. She’s exhausted on every facet. Her heart hurts with just how much she loves you.

“What could you not be prepared for?” You seethe. “What on this hunk of rock are you not prepared for?”

Your mother honestly doesn’t know how to answer that. Your father had always been oddly tight lipped about certain aspects of the proxy lifestyle, perhaps out of safety reasons for the two of you. She doesn’t know what you’re going to be thrown into. “I know that it’s rough-”

“Just like that?” You retort, a fire in your eyes that reminds her much too much of her departed husband. “You don’t want me? Is that it?” You finally relent, a crack interrupting your once strong tone.

Your mother falters and comes to your side, holding you in her arms once more. “Of course not,” she murmurs. “Of course not.”

“Then why?” You prod softly with a small sting.

“You are a proxy by blood, that’s all,” she offers as advice, swaying you.

You feel your heart begin to slow from its racing pace. You don’t want to accept that as an answer, but you do just to bring her peace.

You leave your mother’s side near the end of July. Just twelve years old and on the precipice of something no ordinary human could ever even begin to understand.

Your final dinner with her was uncomfortable, but bittersweet at the same time. You and your mother had shared stories, laughs, tears, everything and anything. You know that after this, you probably won’t ever be able to see her again.

Your mother brings you to the woods herself. She holds your hand, a knot in her stomach over seeing you holding your father’s mask followed by a backpack strapped to your still small body as you are about to venture into the unknown. She never thought she’d be losing you so soon.

The Slender Man is never tardy. He pops into your view once you are a safe distance into the forest with splendor - it’s probably to impress you to some degree. He really hasn’t worked with a child in a very long time.

You feel your head go dizzy with static. Your breath hitches and your heart stops. It’s almost intoxicating that you are in the presence of the man who will now have control of your entire life. You look up at him and the stars return to your eyes. Still, as a child-like crutch, you grip onto your mother’s side and hide yourself with her form, terrified of the imposing man that stands tall in front of you.

“It’s okay,” your mother says softly, gently urging you to the man you will now consider your god. “He’s here to help you.”

The Slender Man hums deeply. His voice invades your head like a virus, infecting every thought and feeling until it overtakes you and makes itself home. Curiously, he bends down. He is lit up by the light of the full moon.

You peek out from your mother’s form and gradually find the stones to leave her side - still hesitantly. You take in a deep breath, reminding yourself to be brave, and approach the now bent down figure who sits at eye-level with you. “It’s… It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir,” you say quietly, a childlike innocence making the Slender Man mentally smile. You look at him with fear and curiosity in your eyes.

He chuckles deeply - the sound sends chills down your spine - before holding out a flower to you. It’s small, much like you, and pretty. The petals are free of any damage the bugs might have caused, and the color is absolutely spellbinding. It’s your father’s favorite color, red, though it’s not a rose. ‘For you, my dear.’

You allow a sheepish smile to spread onto your lips before you take the flower from his waiting hand, and sniff it. It’s so sweet and familiar. You recognize the scent as something your father carried on his person. The thought makes you tear up.

His large, clawed hand comes up to your face before his thumb gently wipes the tears away. ‘It’s time to go. Say goodbye, dear.’ He nods for you to bid a farewell to your mother, who is trying her hardest to not break in front of you.

You don’t hesitate in turning around and running into her open arms, face crashing into her chest as you take in her familiar scent for a final time.

“I love you,” she whispers, peppering your face and crown with kisses. “Never ever forget that.” She holds you tighter, and you hold back just as tight.

When it’s time to go, you leave her warmth to a cold that burns bright.

It wraps around your hand, and takes you to a diner.

“Where are we?” You ask as you take a gander at your surroundings. You see that you’re still largely obscured in darkness, but the artificial lights of a lit up IHOP grant you that soft, almost annoying light that disturbs the night.

He lets go of your hand. ‘Head inside and you will meet your group.’

You look up at the Slender Man curiosity. “My group?” You quizzically ask, still looking up at the tall man.

He nods and then puts his hand on your back, gently nudging you to cross the parking lot, almost as if he’s nonverbally telling you that they are waiting for you. “Like a family. A new family.”

You feel a little nervous, but nod your head and decide to be strong - or whatever you think your father might have done in a similar situation. “Thank you for your time,” you say, remembering your mother and father both stressing how important it was to show reverence to those in higher positions than you.

The Slender Man’s wolfish smile floods your mind’s eye, gently, and warmly before he nods once more for you to go. Like a proud father, he watches you take tentative first steps into an entirely new future. Only when you open the doors of the establishment does he mentally tell his proxies that wait inside of the newest member’s arrival, and then zip out of existence as you know it.

Tim waits at the diner with a small frown on his face. He’s not entirely pleased with the news his boss has given him and it shows. He's drinking far too often from his coffee cup for his group’s liking.

“Ease up,” Brian huffs as he pushes Tim’s coffee cup back to the table and away from his lips. “You’re gonna be bouncing off the walls.”

Tim rolls his eyes and picks up his coffee cup much to his right hand’s chagrin. “I’m handling it how I want to,” he mumbles into the lip of the coffee cup.

“Come on, it’s not the end of the world-”

“It’s a child,” Tim cuts him off. “The youngest person we had prior to us was Toby, and he’s-”

“I’m w-what?” Toby hums as he comes back to the table, sliding comfortably back into his seat.

“He’s bitching about the kid we’re getting,” Brian answers as he absentmindedly stirs his drink with his straw.

“Is he n-now?” Toby chuckles. “I’m s-surprised you’re n-not more w-w-w-worried, to b-be completely h-h-honest,” he breathes out in a teasing tone, lightly elbowing Brian who smiles for a moment in response.

“I fought my demons on this issue and won,” Brian smirks. “Masky here clearly hasn’t.”

Tim rolls his chocolate colored eyes once more and leans back into his seat, looking at the fourth and empty chair that will eventually be filled by you. “I honestly don’t think you two are worried enough,” he grumbles under his breath before he crosses his arms over his chest.

Snickers ring out from his two companions. Clearly, they find amusement in his worry. Tim almost hates to admit how worried he is.

You’re not just a runt, you’re a child. A literal child. Something about having you in this life feels morally and ethically wrong, and he knows that. A part of him is scared you’ll just… Fold.

Brian has had his reservations about the situation, but overall, he has made peace with it - for now. He’s not too thrilled over the Slender Man putting a child in his group, but at the same time, he’s nowhere near as frazzled as Tim is.

Toby finds the entire situation amusing. He was the youngest of the group. In some ways, Toby has never quite grown up. That’s not a bad thing though, it just means it’s easier for him to relate to you. And honestly, you aren’t his entire responsibility, so he’s able to be the fun guardian.

That’s what the Slender Man called the three of them, your actual guardians. No questions asked, you were now theirs as much as you are his.

You push through the doors and look around the IHOP, looking for anyone who might have any inkling of what you should be doing. Your eyes dart around and the palace is relatively empty. There’s a few groups interspersed and lost in their own worlds, and you have no idea which one you should be heading towards.

Your thoughts are answered when you hear steps approaching followed by the heavy smell of cigarettes that hang in the air thickly. You look up to see a man in a black t-shirt, with dark and tired eyes. He gives you a faint smile as you look up at him.

“Are you hungry?” He asks suddenly, almost throwing you entirely off guard.

You blink a few times. “Uh, I wouldn’t mind anything else,” you answer a tad awkwardly. You don’t why, but you get the overwhelming feeling to not disrespect him. It’s almost stronger than the feeling to respect your mother and father.

“Come with me then,” he says.

You watch as he begins to walk towards a table and squeak in response before picking up the pace and following him.

Tim weaves you through the sea of tables and sets your sights on a table that has two men sitting across from each other, talking. You look at the two with slight curiosity before the man leading you puts his hands on the back of a brown haired boy’s chair.

There’s a minute pause between the two before the boy silently gets up and joins the blond haired man’s side.

You take a seat next to the man who led you in, a little quiet due to being shy and in the presence of imposing figures (though nowhere near as imposing as the Slender Man) and focus on the table. Remembering to be polite, you keep your eyes trained on the table and open your mouth to greet them. “Hello.”

The blond haired man’s lips curl upwards into a smile. “So she does speak,” he says more as a joke to the other two men rather than directly to you.

The man who led you in kicks his right hand’s shin under the table. “Be nice,” he hisses quietly. “Sorry,” he apologizes, eyes darting to look at you. “Why don’t we uh, go around the table and say our name and a fun thing about ourselves?” He suggests tiredly.

“What are we, five?” The blond haired man chuckles. He winces when Tim kicks his shin again. “Alright, fine,” he mutters under his breath before finally turning to you. “Hi, my name is Hoodie. I really like photography,” he states, an amused twinkle coming to his hazel eyes.

You perk up slightly.

“M-Me next?” Toby asks before deciding to go up himself. “Hi, I-I’m Toby. I c-can’t feel pain.”

You raise your eyebrows and look over at the pale, vaguely grey skinned boy. “You can’t feel pain?” You inquire, voice raising slightly to convey your budding curiosity.

“Mhm,” he hums, a smile slowly coming onto his lips. “You c-c-can slap m-me, I won’t f-f-feel it.”

You glance at the other two men who both nod out of unison, sly grins curling the corners of their mouth upwards. Almost shyly, you lean over the table and open your hand. You look at Toby for confirmation and close your eyes, hitting him across the face as hard as a twelve year old can muster. When you open your eyes after your hand made impact, you see that he’s unmoved.

There’s nothing in Toby’s eyes that tells you he’s masking the pain either. He’s genuinely unbothered. “S-See what I m-mean, Princess?” He chuckles as you sit back in your seat, dumbfounded.

“Yeah, yeah, Toby is special,” the man who brought you in chuckles tiredly before waving Toby off. “Anyways, my name is Masky and I’m your group leader,” he tells you in passing.

Brian rolls his eyes and lightly kicks Tim’s shin from under the table. “That’s not a fun fact.”

“D-Ditto,” Toby agrees as he crosses his arms over his chest. “T-Tell her a r-r-real fun fact.”

Tim pauses for a moment before he finally sees the stars in your eyes. He finds it hard to not indulge you. “Hoodie and I used to go to the same college together,” he finally states, earning an approving smile from both Brian and Toby.

You want to press the topic when the waitress finally makes her grand appearance.

“Hi, hon! Apologies for not getting here any sooner. Did you want something?” She asks with a warm smile on her dark lips. “I can get you some juice to start off with if you don’t know what you’d like yet?” She continues in a semi-speculative tone.

You think it over for a second before looking up at her. “I would like some apple juice and a small thing of chocolate chip pancakes if that’s okay with you?” You’re both asking her and the men at your table.

“Sure thing,” she hums. “Anything for you boys?”

“We’re fine, just stuff for the little lady,” Tim replies. “Though uh, I would like another pot of coffee,” he trails off.

The waitress takes the empty pot of coffee and then walks back to the kitchen to get what you asked for.

“Alright, what about you?” Brian asks as he rests his elbows on the table, hands under his chin as he turns his attention back to you. “Name and fun fact.”

“I’m Reader,” you begin, not noticing how their expressions shift slightly. “And a fun fact about me?” You take a moment to consider what you’re going to tell them before divulging into one of your hobbies, drawing. You mention the alcohol markers your father gave to you on your last birthday, your twelvth.

The three men listen to you attentively all the while holding a conversation in their heads.

‘Holy shit, you never mentioned that this was the Wraith’s kid-’ Toby’s voice hurriedly exclaims through the mental connection he shares with his teammates.

‘She can’t be right,’ Brian tacks on. ‘This can’t be his kid, the man didn’t have any kids,’ Brian jumbles out. On the inside, he is screaming, but outwardly, he shows he’s happy to be listening to you.

Tim mentally scoffs. ‘Now you know why I’m so horrified,’ he grumbles in a very lightly annoyed tone. He knew the Wraith, your father. He was a good man by proxy standards, and flawed by human ones.

When Tim first received the news from the Slender Man that he was taking in the Wraith’s child, he almost passed out. The responsibility of taking care of not only a child, but a legend’s child? He saw the light and it was NOT as beautiful as people make it out to be. You are his responsibility first and foremost, whether he wants this or not. He watches you with furrowed brows, only to find that during the

The night begins to dwindle on, and it’s clear that you’re getting sleepier. Besides, the table knows that you’ve probably never stayed up until midnight and it’s nearing that odd hour. The IHOP is almost completely empty, but every now and then stragglers come in to have a cup of coffee and hashbrowns. It’s a slow night.

“You’re looking tired,” Brian says softly as he watches your eyes lid.

You fling them open and shake your head. “I’m not tired at all,” you pout. You cross your arms over your chest, but the position proves to be too comfortable and you’re already nodding off again.

“Yeah, we’re calling it a night,” Tim says as he begins to get out of his seat. “Hood, cover the money. I’ll bring her to the car. Toby’s driving.”

“May the gods have mercy on our souls,” Brian wheezes under his breath as he reaches into his pocket to find his wallet and pay.

Toby lightly slaps his teammate’s shoulder before pushing in his seat and stretching slightly.

You watch with weary, tired eyes and slowly begin to drift off in your seat, barely even noticing how Tim carefully scoops you into his arms.

He’s able to pick you up like you weigh nothing, and really, you don’t. At least, not to him. He holds you as gently as he can and begins moving to exit the IHOP as softly as possible, not wanting to wake you. He doesn’t doubt that you’ve had a rough time leading up to this paired with the fact your father is dead too.

Toby opens the IHOP’s door for Tim who is still carrying you and then clicks open the car as well. “W-Why don’t you h-hang out with h-her in the backseat? We h-have quite the d-d-drive until we make it t-t-to Alabama,” he suggests as he opens the back doors of the car behind the driver’s side. He then moves to allow Tim to do his work before slipping into the driver’s seat.

Tim hums thoughtfully before nodding. He gingerly sits you into the car before carefully prying your backpack off before dropping it softly to the floor of the car. After that, he puts your seatbelt on and closes the door gently, once again, to not startle you awake.

He then walks around the back of the car and gets into the passenger side’s back seat and puts his own seatbelt on, exhausted and wanting to take a nap himself. He absentmindedly watches the doors of the IHOP to see Brian waving good night to the staff in the building before he heads over to the car where Toby brings it to life.

“She asleep?” Brian asks as he takes his spot in the passenger seat.

“Yeah,” Tim replies quietly. “Quiet from here on out and head talk,” he finishes just as softly before Toby begins to drive out of the parking lot.

You stir a bit as the car moves, mostly staying in a sitting up position until Toby finally enters the expressway heading down south to the temp house that the Slender Man wishes for them to essentially ‘raise’ you in. Your body falls as he turns onto the long stretch off road and you remain sleeping, head now resting on Tim’s lap.

Instead of moving you, he chuckles quietly to himself and then reaches in the back, groping around for his jacket until he finally finds it. Once in his hand, he drapes it over your small form. He watches you for a moment or more before relaxing back in the seat himself, quietly succumbing to sleep alongside you.

Toby and Brian watch him from the rear view mirror, ghosts of smiles on their faces.

You wake up late the next day. A groggy glance at the car’s clock shows that it’s almost past 2 in the afternoon. Goodness, you’ve never really slept in like that before! You shoot up, clearly startled.

“Nice to see you’re up,” Tim says in a slightly teasing tone as he stops gazing from out the window. “Really tired, huh?”

You nod slightly and allow your body the time to wake up. “I guess so?” You reply in a slightly embarrassed tone, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “Where are we going?”

“Alabama,” Brian answers as he glances at you from the rearview mirror. “Gonna be living there for a little while.”

“Why’s that?”

“The Operator wants us to be closer to him while you grow,” Tim says before he turns his attention back out the window.

When you give him a confused look, Tim relents, drops his shoulders and takes in a deep breath. “Alright, listen up, this is gonna be a lot.”

You look at him with stars in your eyes.

Tim begins to weave to you a story of the culture and society you are now expected to integrate into. He tells you of the Slender Man, or as you are now expected to call him the Operator's origins. He tells you of a similar being named Zalgo, and it is with him that the Operator tirelessly fights against. It’s an eternal battle that he, and everyone else in the car, doubts will be won or lost in your lifetime.

Tim tells you of proxies, those who serve directly under the Operator and what their purpose is. They are the ones who are held dearest and nearest to his heart and have the privilege of being on the top in this society. Proxies are cold, calculated, and tend to not have free will because they are so blinded by the Operator’s light. Still, there are some instances in which proxies retain their humanity - and that is what makes them simultaneously and strongest and weakest lengths in the hierarchy.

Then there’s the independents. Those that are, as the name implies, independent. While they can come and go as they please, but are still considered the Operator’s children because of how often they work with him. They also benefit from the Operator’s presence and protection, so they too are part of the hierarchy, they have not devoted themselves entirely to him and are considered lesser than proxies. In the Operator’s vision, they are more expendable than his direct children, but more than outliers.

Outliers are the beings that have little to no business with the Operator and do not directly benefit from his influence and protection. They are the blacksheep and scapegoats of the culture you are just learning to swim in. A good chunk of outliers are removed from the society all together on account of them not having exact higher thought, feelings and mentality. They are monsters, cryptids, the things who cause harm but do not think. There are some outliers that are exceptions to the common stereotype of what an outlier is, but they retain that status due to being stripped of an independent title. They aren’t even allowed most times in proxy spaces, but independents tend to welcome them with open arms.

Afterall, both independents and outliers know what it is like to be on the losing side of a classist divide.

Tim also tells you what he knew about your father. Known as the Wraith, he moved like a ghost and struck fear in his victims to the point of spellbinding paranoia that could land them under hospitalization. He made them lose their minds, slowly, painfully, until they were but a shell of what they used to be - a mockery of whatever came before. Your father was a damn good proxy, revered and respected. To hear of his loss was mourned across all three classes, as he was surprisingly fair and just in his treatment of those of lower social standing than him, even going so far as to attempt friendlier outlier contact between the other two, more cognitive groups.

Time and time again on the trip to Alabama, you are reminded that your father was a good man by proxy standards, and flawed in the eyes of humans.

And you can’t help but agree even though what you’ve seen from your father thus far has been minimal at most. You love him in the way any child would love their shadow.

“I only ever really saw him for special occasions,” you begin to explain, eyes focused on the passing trees, hand out the window as you guide it like an airplane as Tim drives the car. They’ve been shifting drivers every other hour now. “He was so kind and warm,” you continue, voice soft and fragile, fluttering like a butterfly’s wings. “I wish I could have known more of him.”

You get the sense that your teammates agree.

“Y’know,” Tim begins. “He would be pleased to see you’re taking up this mantle of his.” He throws you a supportive glance from the rearview mirror. “I remember him being worried he’d thrown you into a life where you’d come out the other end hating him. But, from what I’ve heard, you accepted your blood with relative grace.”

You feel a heat rise to your face as you focus on how the air glides over your hand, lifting it like a bird. “Yeah…” You trail off with a semi-awkward chuckle.

Tim throws you a knowing glance, smiling softly before turning back to the road.

You arrive in Alabama sometime during the night. The car, which was being driven by Toby once again, pulls into a house somewhere off the beaten path and mumbles about the foliage before he turns on his brights. The place looks relatively spooky, but in a very picturesque way. He continues driving on the uneven terrain before finally reaching the front porch of the house.

There, two men are sitting and talking. The one in the white hoodie looks up from his conversation with the blue masked man and waves, stepping down the first two steps to meet your group halfway.

Toby breathes out with a chuckle and turns the car off. “W-Were you g-guys waiting here a-all day for u-us?” He asks as he exits the car, twirling the car keys in his fingers before tossing them over to Tim, who catches them like second nature.

“Anything to see our favorite cannibal and hurricane of a being,” Brian lightly ribs, making the man in the white hoodie grin and the blue masked man chuckle.

Quietly, you get out the car and round it so you’re near Tim, mostly eyeing the two men with adrenaline coursing in your veins. The appearance of the man who is paler than the moon frightens you just a bit.

“Who’s this little sunflower?” He asks as he turns his attention from almost play fighting with Brian and Toby to waltz over to you. He’s just as imposing as everyone else and leans down slightly to match eye level with you.

“She’s W-Wraith’s k-kid,” Toby hums as he crosses his arms over his chest, head turned slightly to gauge how you’re feeling.

You look up at the clad in white man and attempt to smile. “Hi, I’m Reader, who are you?” You ask softly, still not entirely comfortable in his presence.

A grin begins to light up on his face. “Jeff. Jeff the Killer.” He crouches down and holds out his hand to you.

You grip onto Tim’s forearm, hiding behind him like you did with your mother when he nods that it’s okay for you to say hello.

“He won’t bite, not while I’m here,” he says in a reassuring tone. “You can say hi,” he gently encourages.

You shyly hold your hand out to the man you now know as Jeff and shake it, amazed that he feels like a still smouldering fire. “Killer?”

Jeff suppresses a giggle and nods. “That’s right. Your father was a good one too,” he compliments before letting your hand go. He then turns his head over his shoulder. “EJ, stop being a wet blanket and come say hello to the sunflower.”

The man on the porch scoffs before slowly getting up from the stairs. He stretches slightly as he walks over. His mask startles you as he comes up to you. He does not crouch down to meet you like Jeff did. “I’m EJ.” There’s no warmth in his tone, but he holds his hand out regardless.

Jeff rolls his blue eyes and elbows Eyeless Jack’s ribs. “It’s a kid you dickhead, not a patient,” he hisses before elbowing him again. “Try that again.”

Your group laughs slightly in response, but Eyeless Jack obliges his friend.

“Hi, I’m EJ.”

“What does that stand for?” You ask as you take his hand into yours, shaking it. Your other hand remains firmly planted to Tim’s forearm. He’s just really comforting for you in such an uneasy situation.

You notice Eyeless Jack give Tim a slight look, almost asking if he could do so before getting a very reluctant nod.

“Eyeless Jack.”

“You have all the grace of a drunken sloth” Tim sighs.

“What? You said I could be real.”

“No lead up? You just?”

“Masky, you know I respect you more than most proxies, but you’re literally going to train her for this stuff. There’s no use in beating around the bush. Look,” the grey skinned man pauses for a moment and begins to slip his mask off.

You watch in deep curiosity as you look upwards, wondering what he looks like. When you get your answer, your curiosity grows. Though, it shows up as a shocked fear despite that not being what you feel.

“You okay, Reader?” Tim asks softly as he looks down at you.

“You b-b-broke the kid,” Toby says with an eyebrow raised, leaning in the doorway of the temp house before Brian shakes his head with a stupid grin, heading into the house to set things up and properly accommodate everyone’s move in.

“Yeah, because he’s so ugly-”Jeff is barely able to say before you cut him off.

“You are so cool!” You suddenly exclaim, small hands reaching upwards to Eyeless Jack’s face and to signal him to come down so you can see him better.

Eyeless Jack’s stoic face blooms into a smile as he crouches down almost instantly, a heat rising to his cheeks over the compliment.

You immediately leave Tim’s side to look over the grey skinned man’s face, fingers gently brushing over his cheeks. “What is this?” You ask excitedly, clearly referring to the inky black tears that waterfall from his eyes.

“Some goop that comes from my eyes when my body decides I need to eat the food most of you don’t,” he explains, holding back his amused laughter at how gently you touch him with all the wonder a child can. Normally, Eyeless Jack would not let anyone touch him, nor would he let a stranger get remotely this close to him, but he’s admittedly charmed with you.

“Jeeze, Masky, you never told us Wraith’s kid wasn’t a psychopath,” Jeff teases slightly as he rests his forearm on Tim’s shoulder.

“To be fair, I didn’t know either - we really haven’t spent too much time with her,” he chuckles warmly as he watches you brush your fingers through Jack’s hair, amazed that the texture is so soft despite it looking scratchy and a little dry. “Okay, Reader, that’s enough petting EJ,” Tim says as he rests his hand on your shoulder. “I think our uh, meat eating friend needs to get some food in his stomach judging by how many tears he’s producing right now.”

“Do I have to?” You ask as you step back from Eyeless Jack, allowing the tall man to stand up and recompose himself.

“Yup,” Tim replies, popping the ‘p’. “Besides, it’s late and I’m not messing your sleep schedule up anymore,” he finishes as he nods for you to head into the house.

“Will we see these two again?”

“Of course you will,” Tim says as he begins leading you into the house, waving goodbye to the two men who are about to head out into the woods. “You have all the time in the world,” he hums, pleased you made a good impression on some of his society's most prominent figures at the moment.

You turn over briefly and smile widely. “Bye! I hope to see you soon!” You bid before finally being ushered into the house by Tim.

Both Eyeless Jack and Jeff wave back, smiles on their faces.

“See you soon, sunflower,” Jeff murmurs to himself.

A pregnant pause comes between the two best friends.

“You see what she’s doing to him?” Jeff absentmindedly chuckles as he and Eyeless Jack begin to travel into the darkness of the woods.

“What a softie,” Eyeless Jack agrees.

“Takes one to know one,” Jeff retorts.

The two laugh.

Tim spends most of his time teaching you and that’s only because the Operator keeps sending out his teammates over him. It’s probably just how the tall man wanted it. You soak up information like a sponge. Everyone can see it.

He teaches you everything he can. For instance, the proxy hierarchical role is strict and considered one of the most respected of rules. Group leaders are leaders because the Operator says they are, but it can also be taken by force. That normally doesn’t happen though. Group leaders hold the responsibility of ensuring their proxies are taken care of, and if they are new, properly integrated into the society. That’s what he’s currently doing with you.

Next up comes the right hand. Not every group has a right hand because some group leaders are paranoid or jerks and cannot learn to trust, but it is highly recommended group leaders have a right hand. This group’s right hand is Brian, or as you know him, Hoodie. Right hands provide guidance when group leaders are conflicted, and can step in on behalf of their leader depending on the situation. They are to be just as respected and revered and can be the stand in should a group leader be missing. This role is not given, it is asked.

Then come what Tim lovingly refers to as ‘the middle children’. Those are the proxies that aren’t group leaders, right hands, or runts. They are the ones who just exist as part of the group unit. They have no significant power but are allowed to participate in the hazing process. ‘Middle children’ tend to pop up when runts outgrow their runt status or a new runt takes their place. It is possible to have multiple ‘middle children’.

Runts are the lowest in the unit. They are the newest in their group, but not always the newest or least inexperienced. If you are traded amongst groups, you become a runt, but in such cases as this, the hazing process is nowhere near as brutal as it would be for those who are inexperienced and coming into the proxy life for the first time. Because runts are usually in an initiatory stage and still learning, they must be bent and broken until the group leader says there is no further need. Runts are often the lapdogs of the group and tend to do everything the rest of the group does not want to do. They are considered the most expendable.

The hazing process is something that you are exempt from. Tim told you it was because you are a child, and he is not a child abuser. Still, after learning of the hazing process, you admit that you feel sick to your stomach. The hazing process is brutal in every sense and can sap the life out of the proxies it affects. Everything goes when a runt is in the process, from mental, emotional and physical torture. Depending on the group leader, the process will last anywhere from a few weeks, months, to even years.

You are thankful you are exempt.

Tim teaches you more and more as the months go on, and still, with stars in your eyes, you soak up information like a sponge. Technique is something he’s always testing on you, and it plays like a fun game.

“I’m going to wait upstairs and read,” he says one morning. “Maybe get some other work done. Wait down here for however long you need, and tap my shoulder without me hearing you. Stay silent as possible. If I hear you, you lose.” He then gets up from the kitchen table and heads upstairs, coffee cup in hand before he heads into the study.

You watch Tim leave and furrow your brows, your heart racing. So far, he’s drilled stamina into you, basic self defense, and other things young proxies might need but this is the task that makes your heart palpitate. You hear him open the study door and half way close it before he settles in and begins reading.

You don’t want to rush into this. So, you take your time, just silently moving from the kitchen to the bottom of the stairs, that task in itself taking until the afternoon. You don’t want to mess this up.

You hold your breath as you make it to the bottom of the stairs. Even though it’s carpeted, you don't want any part of you betraying your stealth. You wait at the bottom of the stairs, inching up step by step until you finally reach the top.

The sun has set by the time you wait outside the wall in front of the study door.

You hold your breath as you quietly step into the doorway - and you see it - Tim has flinched. Hopped up on adrenaline, you take your time and slink your way behind him before finally tapping him on the shoulder.

He doesn’t jolt, but he turns around and smiles widely. “Good job!” He compliments, standing up and stretching his limbs. He’s been sitting an entire day, after all. “I’m really proud of you.” He pats the top of your head and you see it in his eyes- he’s actually super proud of you.

But he flinched when you waited in the doorway.

He knew.

Still, you accept this victory with grace, wondering what else he might teach you.

Tim teaches you so much as you grow older under his care. Though one of the most monumental lessons was after you took a life for the first time at fourteen. He had wanted to wait until you were sixteen, but the Operator demanded it.

You’ve learned so much knife skills from him, weaponry in general, but nothing he could have taught you would have prepared you for what it means to take a life.

The two of you had just gotten through interrogating a man who really did not deserve to live. He had been blubbering for the past few hours, and Tim was exhausted from trying to weasel information out from him.

“Ghost,” he addresses, his masked face looking at you with budding amusement. “Finish this for me.”

“What?” You say. You know what he means, you just don’t want to actually admit it.

“Finish him for me,” he shrugs. “It’s about time.”

“I don’t know how?”

“Sure you do,” he hums. “You have your knife and I know your skills are more than good,” he says as he rests his hand on his hips. “You could also shoot him. We’re in an area where no one would even care about a gun going off. Or, you could brutalize him,” he trails off as he lists off the ways you could end a life like items on a grocery list. “I don’t know if you have enough power for actually brutalizing him though,” he jokes slightly, lightly slapping the man’s face to keep him up. “Y’hear that, bud? You got lucky. If it were up to me, I’d break off your limbs one by one and tear open your chest letting you see your beating heart.”

The man’s eyes go wide as he squirms helplessly.

He’s not getting out of this one alive.

You awkwardly look at Tim. “What… What do you suggest?” You ask quietly.

Tim’s eyes dart to your gun. “For your first time? Clean and fast.”

Obliging your group leader’s words, you take out your gun and flick off safety. The hardest part is looking them in the eye. You raise it and point it at the man’s forehead, eyes narrowed from behind your mask.

The man is pleading with you, tears streaming down his face.

“Always pull the trigger..?” You begin, attempting to buy some time.

“On empty lungs,” Tim finishes.

You pull.

It’s almost a little sinful to admit how easy murder has become after that moment. For the next two years, you and your group began going out on more missions as a unit. Your power had grown immensely, and the Operator’s point was beginning to show through.

The younger the proxy, the more efficient they become as they grow. He knows children are plastic, and you are his living proof that success must start young. Still, he watches you grow carefully, and Tim keeps his boss in the loop with every little milestone you hit.

First it was ten confirmed kills, then twenty five, and before you knew it, fifty. Fifty confirmed kills before you were sixteen.

Tim himself has grown rather fond of you in ways that no one else has - though, you are easy to get along with. Besides your group regularly spending time with you and falling deeper and deeper in love with you as their little one, Tim has become what you always envisioned the shadow of your father to be.

He’s the first to greet you in the morning and the last to wish you good night. He spends most of his waking hours with you, and it’s a good memory every single time. He trusts you immensely, and in turn, you trust him. Admittedly, he’s always had a soft spot for you and that much is apparent and always has been.

Tim has always been there for you when it all feels like too much.

“It’s nothing,” you mumble as you curl deeper onto your bed, sheets over your head.

“What happened?” He asks in a serious tone, clearly not wanting to play games.

“I said that I’m fine-”

“Bullshit,” he says as he marches into your room, ready to tear off your blankets. He knows teenagers are prone to giving the adults in their life hell, but you’ve never done this until, well, now.

You’re clawing to keep your blankets on but your strength pales in comparison to Tim’s. You screech as he finally tears the blankets from you, expecting full anger but instead, a look of horror.

“What the-what happened to you?” He asks in shock as he looks at the large red claw marks on your midsection and legs. It looks like you fought off a bear. “How long have you been like this- this is dangerous, you could get infected!” His tone is only loud because he’s scared. He wastes no time in scooping you up into his arms and rushing to the bathroom to tend to your injuries.

You hiss in pain but keep your lips tight, not wanting to admit what happened.

You let Tim work on you and disinfect your wounds as his emotions finally come down to a normal place. You realize it’s because he cares about you, but you’re still worried that he’s going to flare up again.

“Are you ever going to tell me what caused this? Or am I to believe some poltergeist waltzed in here and cut you up?”

You avert your gaze from the only solid father figure you’ve ever had. “I… I snuck out late at night and got attacked by the notdeer,” you mumble.

“What?” He sounds genuinely confused, as if he didn’t hear you correctly.

“I snuck out late at night and got attacked by the notdeer,” you speed out again, face burning with embarrassment.

You see a plethora of emotions pass over Tim’s face as he applies another bandaid to one of the more minor cuts on your leg before he settles on relief. “Holy shit,” he breathes out as he drops the products he had been working with. “I’m so glad you’re safe,” he breathes out as he takes you into his arms, squeezing you as tight as he can without causing any pain to your body that is still healing.

You feel tears well in your eyes as you hug him back.

Your skill grows so immensely, that your group and the Operator trust you with going on one of the most high stakes missions he’s ever sent modern proxies on. He hasn’t sent you a group on something like this since… Goodness, the 1700s? It’s been a while.

The Operator asked you to hunt down Zalgo’s favored son and kill him. It sounds easy in words, but in practice, near impossible.

“He’s sending us on a death match,” mumbles Brian. “I-What do you guys think? Are we ready?”

You and the other two shrug, not knowing what to say. You just know that you will be following Tim’s lead, as he is your group leader and the man who matters most in your life.

“I’m a-a-apprehensive,” Toby hums. “But, I t-t-think with our collective t-talents, we m-might have a shot.”

Tim looks at you, wanting to know your input when you hesitantly nod. “Guess we’re going.”

Finding Zalgo’s son was easy, but pinning him down was anything but. Everything had gone so smoothly up until it was time to face off with him, the man of the hour.

Toby and Brian were preoccupied with fending off Zalgo’s proxies who were placed in the house to keep his favored, most beloved son safe, and you and Tim had managed to slip in.

It was just the two of you with Zalgo’s son, and he was beating the two of you close to death.

“I’ll ask again,” his smooth, velvety voice growled. “Who do you consider the most expendable in your group?”

When neither you nor Tim answer, the child of Zalgo screams in frustration and rage before barrelling towards you, grabbing your weakened body and throwing you into the large stained glass windows.

Due to the sheer force of how hard he had thrown you, you tumbled out onto the grassy lawn, air stolen from your lungs. You laid on the ground gasping like a fish out of water before slowly attempting to crawl back in and help Tim.

Your fingers hoisted you up through the broken windows, allowing you to see what was going on inside. And it horrified you.

Zalgo’s son was holding Tim up by his neck, choking the life out of him.

“Who is the most expendable?” He demands again.

“I’m… not..!”

“TELL ME-”

“Fuck you-” he barely manages to wheeze out.

You’re panicking, wondering what you can do to help him when the son leans in exceptionally close.

“Say it.” He tosses Tim’s body to the ground, watching as he weakly attempts to get back up.

“R...Reader,” he admits. “She’s the most… She’s the most expendable,” he coughs out, blood and other things being released from his damaged system. “You already threw her out-”

“So you wouldn’t mind if I ended her now?” The son taunts, eyes shifting to the stained glass windows where he hurled you out.

Tim shakes his head. “That’s not what I’m saying-” he cuts himself off by coughing more. “I’m just saying she’s not prepared, she’s still weak-”

You feel your heart stop. You listen into his thoughts, he’s emotionally vulnerable, and see that he’s telling the truth. There isn’t any second thought that’s telling you he’s fibbing to buy time.

“You don’t trust her?” He inquires, bending low, ready to choke the life out of Tim again.

“I don’t,” he weakly says. “In fact, she’s due to be transferred from us soon-” he’s cut off by the son laughing and lifting him up again by his throat.

The son looks over his shoulder to see tears streaming down your cheeks. “And you call me a monster,” he cruelly laughs.

It’s cut short by Toby and Brian breaking down the door, shooting the son with his father’s favorite gun.

Tim is once again dropped to the floor, and Brian rushes to help him.

Toby leaves their side and sprints to the window to help you. He sees you're crying. “W-What’s wrong? W-Where does it h-h-hurt?” He asks, worry lacing his expression as he helps you back over.

You shake your head and refuse to say anything.

The car ride back to your temp house is awkward at best and downright uncomfortable at worst. You are sitting in the passenger seat because you refuse to sit next to Tim who had admitted something you weren’t really supposed to find out.

And the other two men, both Toby and Brian know it too.

‘Is it true?’ You ask the right hand, looking emptily out the window. The lights that pass overhead are counted as mental busy work.

‘Reader,’ Brian’s voice sighs. ‘I… I’m really sorry,’ he says. ‘I fought him on this, but… But being a proxy isn’t easy-’

‘So you’re abandoning me?’ You ask, tears threatening to fall from your eyes again. ‘You’re gonna leave me in the hands of some strangers because I’m not good enough?’

Brian sighs deeply and glances at you briefly as he continues to drive. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I don’t accept it.’ You shift in your seat and curl up, not wanting to even look at your group. They’ve basically broken your trust, but hearing it from Tim? The man you viewed as most important in your life? The man would talk to you over cups of coffee on the rooftop before the sun came up? The same man who had once said you were the child he was never allowed to have?

He called you weak. Expendable. He has said you are not worthy of his trust.

The first time your anger boiled over was a few days after downing Zalgo’s son. It was just the two of you in the living room, your other two teammates out on other errands. Every day felt like a ticking time bomb of when you will be released to another group.

“We need to talk,” Tim says.

“About?”

“What… What I said back then.” He still has marks on his neck from the son attempting to choke him to death.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

He sighs deeply. You have every right to be mad at him. “It’s not that simple,” he starts. “I never meant for it to come out like that,” he says with a frown, eyes not entirely meeting you. He attempts to explain further, but you don’t want to hear it.

You get up, waving him off. “Shut up.”

“Reader-”

“Shut. Up.” You storm upstairs.

The fights do not get any lighter. They say time heals all wounds, but in your case, it exacerbates them. It becomes a nearly every day affair now.

Words are shot like bullets into the house that used to be built by the loving relationship you had with Tim. But, ever since he uttered those words and dug his heels in deeper over the fact you were actively challenging him, you drifted further and further from him.

Toby and Brian try to stay out of those conversations. They both care about you, but at the same time, they understand that being a proxy really isn’t easy. You get jumbled around, shaken up, and sometimes, traded. While no one is replacing you, the fact Tim agreed to let you go was what hurt the most.

According to Toby, he never even fought for you.

You leave them at the same diner you met them at. Sixteen years old and ready to be in the hands of another group. You sit in the passenger seat of the car, eyes empty, and heart torn.

“Do you want us to come in with you?” Brian asks with a small smile.

You shake your head. “No.”

He sighs and drops his shoulders. “I…” He pauses, and when words fail him, he leans over in the driver’s seat and wraps his arms around you. You hug back, realizing your beef isn’t with the right hand and allow tears to well in your eyes. He presses a kiss to the side of your head. “It’s going to be quiet without you,” he mumbles. He looks at you with all the adoration an older sibling might as he lets you go.

Toby, has gotten out of the car at this point and walked around the front, opens your door and leans down.

“No, let me,” you say softly as you unbuckle, grabbing your backpack and whatever else you may need before stepping out. Once you’re standing, you find yourself tangled in Toby’s arms.

“I h-hate goodbyes,” he admits as he sways the two of you.

You hug him back and smile softly. “I’ll be seeing you, yeah?” You mumble as he squeezes you tighter.

He nods. “Y-You better!” He laughs, not allowing his thinly veiled choked up tears to enter his voice as he lets you go. Toby checks you over once more, nothing but love in his eyes as he reluctantly takes your place in the passenger seat. You can tell he’s bitter over finally having it back.

Tim is in the back seat, passenger side. He looks at you through the window of the car, eyes red and puffy. He wants to say so much to you and nothing at all.

You share in the sentiment, nod slightly and fight cursing him out again, then head into the same place you met them in. Ready to be a part of a new group. One that hopefully, will not doubt your abilities as a growing proxy.

When you head in and walk out of their lives, Tim’s mask falls, and tears begin to roll down his cheeks. He feels like he can’t breathe, like he’s suffocating and can’t even think clearly.

“Fucking drive,” he coldly hisses as he takes in deep, labored breaths.

Brian, not wanting to fight his leader and understanding the man hasn’t been this emotionally broken since Jay’s death, obliges him.

Tim watches you greet your new team, and his heart breaks all over again.

You’re now twenty years old. My how the time flies. You are more than an established proxy now, and your new group treats you as such.

There’s four of them, your new family.

A group leader named Wallace, who is fair but kind. A right hand named Theo, who is a nightmare in proxy form. A ‘middle child’ named Ruth, who vaguely reminds you of your mother. And finally, an independent by the name of Nyein.

They’ve been good to you over the years you’ve known them, and you can tell they genuinely love you in their own way. You feel like you can tell them almost anything and everything, but everyone has skeletons in their closet and you are no exception.

It’s Wallace’s job as your group leader to understand his proxies and be able to understand them at all costs. He doesn’t mean to pry while it’s still fresh.

“So, how are you doing this fine evening?” The deep voiced proxy asks as he joins you on the balcony of the hotel the five of you are currently staying in.

“I could always be better,” you answer. When you sigh, he gives a knowing hum. “What?” He shrugs. “Pardon my reach,” he begins. “But, Timothy…”

“Too early,” you cut him off.

“Right, my bad,” he apologizes. “We can always come back to this later.”

You huff.

Ruth inquires about it next. She’s gentle in her approach, and you almost spill it all to her, but the pain of what happened ices you back over.

“I understand that you and your previous group went up against Zalgo’s son?”

“Yeah.”

She gently moves some of your hair behind your ear. “How did that go?” She sees your expression fall, and she frowns. “So that’s what happened,” she hums, not even needing you to say what happened directly. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you say. “Not like you contributed,” you mumble. “He didn’t want me.”

Her hand rests on your back, silently telling you that you can always find comfort in her.

Theo asks in the most brash manner he can. He doesn’t really care about feelings or making people uncomfortable, but he does respect you.

“So, Masky traded you like pokemon cards huh?”

You throw a decidedly hard punch at him.

“Take that as a yes.”

“Are you fucking with me?” You groan in an exasperated tone.

“If it fires you up so your punches stop feeling like taps, sure,” he grins. “Come on, let it out. What did that bastard do to you?”

You answer him with harder punches.

Theo doesn’t respect Tim, but it’s not like he ever respected him to begin with.

Nyein honesty doesn’t ask. They don’t want to make you uncomfortable and they refuse to push your boundaries. They know something hurtful happened, and they understand that pain is carefully guarded for a reason. The only time they ask anything in regards to what hurt you from before was when you were preparing to meet up with your old group for what was ‘lovingly’ dubbed a collaboration.

‘You’re sure you’re okay?’ They ask, cocking their head to the side.

“I’ll be fine-”

‘I know you’re lying,’ they sign with a frown. ‘I can smell that on you, y’know?’

You chuckle and push lightly at them. “If anything isn’t to my liking, you can always eat Masky.”

Their face lights up.

The news that you and your previous team were going to be working together was hell on the ears. In fact, you heard it, and found yourself panicking over the fact you might need to see Tim again. According to Wallace, yes. Tim was still alive and well.

“He looks older though and more depressing,” the blond haired man chuckled. “Fuckin’ hate Timothy.”

Theo rolls his eyes but turns to you anyway. “He’s right on the old and depressing thing.”

You take that thought in and sigh.

Time to face him again.

You and your group decide to meet Tim’s on the edge of the town you all will be invading. Something about mass recruitment and taking out multiple targets. You all know it’s busy work and the Slender Man likes to make you suffer, but it gives you some time to talk until the sun sets.

Ruth and Nyein immediately overtake some time waiting by swarming around Toby and sharing giggles. Wallace and Theo (who may or may not have been talking to Tim prior to this) have run off with Brian to also just talk.

They’re not always at each other’s throats.

That leaves you with Tim.

You’re currently sitting in a grassy field, plucking flowers from the earth and taking in the sweet scent as the sun slowly makes its way to bed. You’ve spent a good portion of time alone, and when Tim finally makes his appearance, you do not stir. You do not acknowledge him.

It’s uncomfortably silent when he takes a seat near you, but not close to you.

“How have you been?” He asks quietly, almost as if he’s scared you’ll take flight again.

It’s been four years, you can reply without anger overtaking your system.

“Decent, like any proxy,” you answer, eyes still honed in on the flowers and how the remaining golden shafts of light filter through the leaves and change the color to something delicate and pure. “And you?” You’re just asking as a formality, not because you actually care.

“The same as you, I suppose,” he answers back, his voice still soft.

Another silence passes until you finally get the urge to look over at the man you once viewed as a parental figure.

Your eyes almost water when seeing him. He’s older now, much older. Still has that kind of youth that comes with being the Operator’s play thing, but he’s sad. His eyes are dark, devoid of light, and soft as if he’s barely holding it together. He still smells like cigarettes.

Tim is the first to speak, a sorrowful smile on his face as he takes in a deep breath and looks at you with an adoration that never truly left. “You look older,” he notes, taking note of how you grew into your looks. You don’t look like that scrawny little preteen anymore. He knows that you’re a young lady now, and he only wishes he was there to see it. “I like it.”

You bristle on instinct. “I don’t need your approval-”

“I know,” he sighs as he turns his gaze up to the clouds that pass overhead. The skies are the faintest of pink and purple. He thinks it’s pretty.

“You look… Older too,” you finally say, feeling awkward and at home all at once.

Tim chuckles quietly under his breath. “Yeah,” he hums. “I’m in my thirties.”

For some reason, it makes you giggle.

He lights up at the sound of your laugh.

When it dies down, the two of you remain in silence, just letting the world pass by as the sun sinks lower and lower. It’s peaceful, nowhere near as hostile as you were originally expecting it to be, and you find that you enjoy the overall experience.

Still, there is a nagging thought in the back of your head. One that reminds you of everything that has happened, and it still stings. It is the wound that will never heal.

As if he was reading your thoughts, Tim breathes out again and continues looking up at the slowly darkening sky. “I really am sorry for what happened,” he apologizes once more. “I was sorry back then, and I’m still sorry now.”

You frown and knit your brows together in confusion. “You… You just let me go, like I didn’t matter.”

“I know.”

“Tim-”

“I can’t undo that,” he says. “But… But I can try that now-”

“Please no-”

“I have better credit in the Operator’s eyes, maybe we could-”

“No-”

“I could ask for you back-”

“That’s enough.”

Your eyes are dark and you can feel something unpleasant bubbling in your chest and throat. When you had first been placed in Wallace’s group, some part of you had some naive childish dream that Tim would come back, take you in his arms and prove that he wanted you and was truly the right sort of man to have as a role model in your life. That dream never came true, so you stopped having it. You let it die and get returned to the earth. You let it drift away.

But at the same time, you wonder what would be different now - if you could even accept being taken back into his group. Would that even be healthy? It took Wallace and the others months just to get you to stop waking up in tears, nearly on the verge of losing your guts through your mouth and to stop you from panicking when one of them said they had to go out. It took them months to get you to even remotely let down your guard on your abandonment issues.

They’d been so patient with you. They watched you grow.

But here was Tim. Sitting next to you in the world’s most beautiful flower field extending an olive branch, wondering if he could ever atone for his sins by asking for you back and making you a part of his group again.

And that makes you wonder, is he doing this because he misses you, or because he feels bad?

The sun sinks below the horizon, and the moon begins to rise in the sky.

An uncomfortable silence falls between the two of you.

You have a job to do, and some things?

Well, they’re better left unsaid.

#masky x reader #masky #marble hornets #tim wright #mh #creepypasta #creepypasta masky #angst #eyeless jack #jeff the killer #hoodie #brian thomas #slender man #the operator #creepypasta x reader #marble hornets x reader

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years

Text

Nauthiz

Warnings: noncon sex; hand job; oral; intercourse.

This is dark!viking!Thor and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Raiders arrive and chaos ensues.

Note: I think Viking Thor might be the greatest Thor I’ve ever written and I must share him with all of you.

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

Nauthiz - desire

Sæta = sweetie, cutie.

🌧️🌧️🌧️

The cold rain whipped across your face and your skirts flapped in the wind. It hadn’t stopped storming since they’d come. Since the raiders’ horn had wailed and signaled the imminent destruction.

The downpour washed away the blood of those strewn around you. Your grandfather was among them. He’d spent his life for yours, or tried to. You’d begged him to stand down. To toss aside the rusty old sword he prized from his days following the former lord in the campaign to the Promised Land. He had died at home by the hands of another type of savage. A true savage.

You shivered and took Winifred’s hand as she sobbed. The men had been herded into several houses along the eastern row. Some were wounded, others dying. The invaders had been much rougher with them, though many of the women who stood with you wore torn bodices and bloodied skirts. The children were with the few elders in Alfie Halfers’s barn. Your sister and brother were there, with crooked old Mary Greene.

The men in their mail and armor stood all around with spears, axes, and blades. Winifred cried louder, along with several others. Like you, they’d lost family that day. Like you, they had no idea what was to happen to them. Like you, they were aggrieved, angry, and alone.

You couldn’t cry. You tried. You wanted to. Your grandfather’s blood was on your cuffs still, you could smell it. His voice was still in your head. ‘Run, my sweet child, run.’ You had run once he’d fallen but not fast enough. You hadn’t wanted to leave him yet he’d met the same fate you feared if you had. And you’d met that he’d died to prevent.

You were angry at these beastly men. Angry at fate, angry at yourself.

Lightning flashed in the sky and screams rose in fright. The approach of heavy boots squelching in the mud preceded the broad, fearsome shadow of a man. He emerged into the moonlight, filtered through the blowing rains.

His golden hair poked out from beneath a fur cap and a thick beard hung from his jaw. The other men stood rigid as he approached. He spoke to them in another language. Then he turned and looked down the line of trembling women; some just girls. He smiled and his voice boomed again. This time, in your own tongue, lilted with a keen accent.

“We are not here to harm you. We only defended ourselves against your violent kin when they drew steel” He began. “Do not linger on the bloodshed, but consider our mercy. That you still stand here, that many still breathe, offered shelter still from this ragged storm.”

He preened at his own declaration. His English was fine for his kind. Many of the raiders knew only grunts and gibberish.

“And that we would prize you with our favour. Men of pure blood. Men descended from the gods.” He boomed and thunder echoed his tone. “Bow to us and we will be benevolent. Refuse and we will teach you to bend.”

Winifred nearly pulled you down with her as she crumpled into a heap. She wailed and murmured madly as the rain battered down on her. You tried to lift her to her feet but she wouldn’t budge. A man approached and forced her up, dragging her away as several other snuffed their sobs at the scene.

“What will they do to her?” One asked in a hoarse whisper and was shushed by others.

“We will not have you fine women out in the rain all night. You would grow ill, so let us proceed,” The blond man continued.

He neared the far end of the line. Many craned to watch him as he began the long walk along the distraught women. You kept your head straight and blinked through the rain. Let him pass you by and leave you to languish with the rest.

He got closer and closer. You could hear his boots and the little comments he made and the laughter of his men in response. The toe of his hide boot appeared at the edge of your vision and without thinking, with all your spite, you spat at his feet. You looked up as he flinched and turned to face you. You stared into his eyes and curled your lip.

“Murderer,” You snarled. “Beast.”

He tilted his head and looked back and forth along the line. Then he glanced behind him at his men. He laughed. Loudly. All others were silent as he raised his head and backed away from you. He raised his hand and his chuckles died. He gestured to you with two fingers and a man approached to wrench you forward. You stumbled as you were thrust towards the large blonde man.

“Fiery woman,” He sneered. “I do admire your will.” He smirked. “So I will reward you.” He grabbed your chin as he stepped closer. “Behold, a mighty king does claim you. I, Thor, Son of Odin. First of his name.”

You bared your teeth and your nostrils flared. He pushed you away before you could spit again and you choked on your saliva.

“You might gird yourself,” He warned as he signaled to the man to grab you once more. “Within reason. I do like a taste of fire.”

The man, a king by his word, Thor, turned away. You were urged after him by the man at your shoulder as the other gave an order in his own tongue. You tried to drag your feet, tried to fight, but your soles slipped in the mud. You grunted as you were nearly jerked off your feet by your escort as he muttered some unknown curse in your direction.

The sky flashed and the thunder was followed by the frantic voices of women and the guttural tones of the armored men. You peeked over your shoulder and blanched at the sight of the raiders closing in on the women as they huddled together in a fearful herd. They hauled them away from each other as you were ushered away. You were better off than no other. You would be better off among the bodies on the ground.

“Woman,” Thor called as he slowed to walk beside you and took your arm. The other man released you but tarried behind. “What do I call you?”

You pursed your lips and kept your eyes ahead, blinking away the droplets as they caught in your lashes.

“I will not keep from forcing it from you, so tell me.” He warned.

You sniffed and tried to tear your arm away. He didn’t falter as he kept on. You swallowed and answered him. He nodded.

“And which of these is yours?” He looked around at the varying houses; some little more than huts, other shared houses with sheds and troughs around the side. You were quiet again and he stopped to turn you to him. “I rarely repeat a threat twice before following through on it.”

You looked down at his hand and back to him. “Up that hill,” You peered over at the incline just a row away. “At the very top. The miller’s house.”

He patted your head with his large hand and angled you around the corner. He hurried you along as you struggled to keep up with his long strides. Your legs burned as you trekked through the mud up the hill.

The rain pelted down heavier than before and you stopped dead as you came up to your grandfather’s fence. His body was still there. Just inside the gate. Thor nearly took you off your feet but paused too as he noticed the corpse. He let go of you and bent. He bowed his head and said some words to the mud.

You backed away and he stood quickly to grab you again. He shook his head and pulled you through the gate.

“He died with a blade in his hands.” He said. “Brave.”

“Unlike you.” You hissed.

He chuckled and continued along the muddied patch to the front door. He shoved you ahead of him.

“I expect a warm welcome.” He taunted. “In.”

You pushed through the door and he was close behind. Your grandfather’s house was small; a single room. A fireplace against the back wall, a counter built of wood along the other, a table, several barren chairs. Your hay mattress rested in the corner and his own was placed at the foot. The door slammed and another roll of thunder sounded.

Thor let you go.

“A light.” He commanded.

You went to the table and blindly felt around for the candle there. You lit it with the flint that sat on its tray and you backed away. The small glow cast shadows across the space. The king removed his hat and wrung it out before tossing it beside the clay basin on the counter. He unclasped his cloak and slung it over a chair.

He unbuttoned his lined jacket and looked at you. Your eyes went to the door.

“How far do you think you would get?” He asked pointedly. “My man is at the door and others will patrol the streets.”

You lowered your chin and turned away from him.

“You stay in that dress, you will be sick.” He said. “I will start the fire. You will undress.”

You spun back to him and crossed your arms. You were cold and resisted a shiver.You went to the chest and placed your hands on the strap. He followed and planted his muddied boot on the lid.

“What are you doing? I said undress.” He snarled.

“I will need a clean dress.”

“No.” He said. “Undress.”

You glared at him. He didn’t back down. He kept his foot on the chest and his hands gripped his hips as he stared you down. You reached to the laces along the front of your bodice and untied the top gruffly. You didn’t look away as you loosened them and pulled your collar open. He smirked and retreated.

He took the flint and knelt at the fireplace. You wriggled out of your dress and threw it across the chest. Your shift was just as wet and nearly transparent. You pulled it over your head and tossed it atop your dress. You ripped off your shoes and rolled down your damp stockings. Naked, you turned away, trying to hide behind air.

“Let me see you,” He said.

You peeked over your shoulder and turned slowly. He neared as you faced him and he stopped before you. His fingertips tickled your cheek as his eyes ventured further down. You couldn’t resist the shiver that rose along your back.

“Lay down.” He said. “Get under the covers. Get warm.”

You bit down and crept onto the mattress against the wall. He dragged your grandfather’s to rest beside yours and stood. You slid under the blanket as he tugged removed his mail then tugged his tunic over his head. He draped it across the back of the chair closest to the fire and bent to push his boots off.

He placed belt and the large hammer he wielded against the wall. His socks were stretched over the seat of the chair and he unlaced his pants deliberately. He threw those over his tunic and bent to free himself of his undershorts. He dropped those with his socks and you closed your eyes as he came around the table.

Your heart raced as you heard him near. He gave a low laugh as he approached and the floor creaked. You could sense him looming before you.

“Open your eyes.” He demanded. “Look at me.”

You covered your face and he laughed louder.

“You never seen a man before?” He asked.

“I have.” You uttered. “I don’t want to see you.”

“Afraid?” You felt the other mattress shift against yours as he got down on it. “I don’t blame you. You won’t be able to resist once you see me.”

You grimaced and kept your eyes shut.

“This is the last I’ll repeat my words.” He said. “Open your eyes, girl.”

Your eyes snapped open at his tone. He was on his knees before you. You stared at his face. He grinned.

“Look at all of me.” He hummed.

You gulped and inhaled. You drew the blanket snugger to your shoulders and your eyes fell almost without thinking. His chest stood broadly above his tightly muscled stomach and his arms were as thick as the rest of him. Unlike any man you’d seen before, often as they bathed, his member was large and upright before him. It bobbed against his stomach and he reached to cup stroke it.

“You ever seen a man like me?” He teased.

You turned onto your back and stared at the ceiling. “I told you. I’ve seen men before.”

“But not like me,” He said as he lowered himself across the mattress. “Girl,” He tugged on your blanket and spread it over him. “Come close. It will help you get warm.”

“I will stay.” You insisted.

He growled and shoved his arm under you. He rolled you against him and settled you under the blanket with him. He brought your head up on his shoulder and you could smell the rain in his hair and dried sweat on his flesh.

“I tire of your whims, girl.” He turned you until your breasts were pressed to him and his other hand groped your ass. “I am helping you. You were in the rain too long. You must warm yourself.”

You were silent, tense against him. You’d never been like this with a man. And he was right, you’d never seen a man like him. His fingers crawled over your skin.

“You have good hips.” He said. “But you have no children. That old man could not have been your husband.”

“My grandfather,” You said. “And no, I have no children.”

“You say you’ve seen men,” He caressed your arm. “Have you touched one?”

You said nothing. You couldn’t.

“No.” He answered for you. “Well, I can say I’ve touched a woman. I’ve made women scream.” He inhaled your scent as he clung. “I will do things to you you will never forget.”

You folded your arms against your chest as he rubbed your back lightly.

“Not tonight.” He purred. “Tonight, I will show you how to touch a man.”

He retracted his hand and grabbed yours. You resisted but only until he twisted your arm. He led your hand to his member and pressed your palm to the firm flesh. He bent your fingers around him and his thick veins bulged in your grip. He shuddered.

“Tightly,” He bid. “Move up.” He slid your hand to the tip. “Down.” He pushed it to his base. “And again.” He repeated the motion. “Don’t stop.”

He rescinded his hand and you kept on as he’d shown you. You listened to the crackle of the fire and his thick breaths as you numbly stroked him. He began to groan as his hand slapped against the mattress.

“Faster,” He begged. “Faster, girl.”

You obeyed. You didn’t ask why, you didn’t hesitate. Whatever was happening, you wanted to be over. He pushed his head back as he jutted his chest up and the blanket slowly slipped further and further down his torso. He grunted and flicked it away from him so it hung from your shoulder.

“Watch.” He rasped. “See what you can do to me.”

He lifted his head and looked down at your hand as it glided up and down his member. He bared his teeth as his blue eyes dilated in the dim light. His thighs tensed as your eyes stuck to the scene and his voice got louder. The arm beneath you curled and he pulled you closer. You could hear his heart as your head was pushed further onto his chest.

He exclaimed and his hips jerked. A warmth suddenly spilled down your hand and spread beneath your palm. The white liquid spurted up and coated your fingers as your lips parted. His hand stopped yours as he sputtered.

“Enough, enough,” He growled. “You know what that is, girl?” You blinked. “That’s my seed. If you are good, I will honour you with it.” He slowly released your hand. “You might be fortunate enough to carry a king’s child.”

Your hand slipped down and you wiped away his seed on the blanket. You quivered as the balmy smell of his sweat and arousal enshrined you. He drew away from you, carefully, and rose. He went to the table and snuffed out the candle. He returned to you through the flickering shadows of the fire and pulled you close once more.

“Where is that voice, girl?” He slung your leg over his. “I will help you find it again. Never fear.”

🌧️

You were wakeful, restless. The large behind you snored with his arm firmly around you as the storm raged without. When last it quelled and the steady beating stopped, you wriggled free of his grasp. You shivered as you turned your back to him and dozed for an hour before the sun in grey wisps through the cracks of the shuttered windows.

You woke as a warmth pressed to your back and Thor pressed his nose to the back of your head. He pushed himself against you. He was hard again. He rocked against you as he growled low in your ear. He drew away abruptly and sniffed. He sat up and the blanket fell from your shoulders and you shivered in the morning chill.

“Girl.” He said as he rose with a groan. “What will we break our fast with?”

You held the blanket to you as you crawled across the mattress and you went to the chest. You reached for your dress and he tilted his head in warning. He wagged his finger.

“Did I say you could do that?” He asked.

You dropped your hand as he neared and tugged the blanket away. He tossed it back on the mattresses and backed away.

“I said you would cook my meal.” He turned and went to the fire, barely more than ashes. He added the splintered wood from the woven basket and stirred it until it sparked. “So, be quick.”

You rounded the other side of the table as he sat and you took the heavy iron pot from the counter. You added oats from the bag and emptied the last of the ewer into it. You added nutmeg and cinnamon bought from the merchants in the next town and hung it from the hook over the rising fire.

You avoided looking at him as he watched you. He scoffed as he picked at the wood of the table.

“You want to say what makes you frown.” He said.

You looked up and he smiled. You averted your gaze and folded your hands. You would never used to being so bare. You raised your chin and swallowed.

“How do you know this language?” You asked.

He snickered and tapped his fingers on the table. He ran his hand over his beard and you made yourself look him in the eye.

“I’ve been to many villages like this. Those men I did not kill, I took as slaves. At least a dozen or so. The women… I never took many of them. They are not so strong for the field and their use is… fleeting. But those men I took, I spoke to them as I could.” He leaned back and dropped his hand to his lap. “I learned to tell men how I would kill them before I did.” He lifted a brow. “That fear before I bring my hammer down… that is… it is that destiny the gods made for me.”

You crinkled your nose without thinking and your blood turned cold. He spoke of killing as if he were shearing a sheep or sowing a field. He was amused and you wiped the disgust from your face. You turned and took a wooden spoon and crossed to the fire to stir the oats.

“No…” He began. “I never did take a woman. I feared they wouldn’t make the journey after… after they had bowed to me.”

You withdrew the spoon and returned to the counter with it. You set it down and peeked over at him.

“The ego is the male sin,” You said. “Tolerance is a woman’s penance.”

He inhaled and rumbled softly. “Our gods do not speak of sins. How grim. They speak of glory. To take and not beg from some spiteful wraith.”

You pushed your head back and said nothing. He kept his eyes on you. His gaze made you uneasy but if you let him see, it would only be another victory to proclaim.

“Oh, how glorious,” You took the wooden spoon and went to the pot again. “To take oats from an old man’s hearth.”

🌧️

Thor left you after he ate. His man remained outside the door, the occasional clink of his mail assuring you of his presence. You pulled on a dress unwrinkled by the rain and sat by the fire. The sky outside was grey and the sun refused to show. You spent your hours mending a collection of holey stockings and your grandfather’s old cloak. It was likely pointless work but it kept you from thinking.

You chewed on stale bread as the day wore on. Then you sat at the table in silence. The winds persisted but the rain did not return. You couldn’t hear the usual livestock grazing along the neighbour’s yard or the voices of children as they ran along the dusty paths. The was only the eerie dearth of life all around.

The door clattered and you sat up as you looked over your shoulder. Thor wore his cap and long fur-trimmed cloak. He came up beside you and his hand settled along the back of your neck.

“You’re dressed,” He remarked. “You think when I am gone, I am no longer king?”

“You’re not my king, here or there,” You said. “This is not your land.”

“It’s not?” He taunted. “This is a dead man’s house. I can only claim it as my own.” He ran his thumb along the bottom of your skull. “You will be allowed a shift at supper.”

You stood and shook his hand away. You went to the counter and bent to the basket of potatoes beneath. He snorted and followed you. He poked your head.

“We are not eating whatever gruel you can cook up,” He said. “My men are having a feast. In celebration of a fruitful journey.”

You stood and sidestepped him. You crossed the room and turned back to him.

“It is cold out. You expect to wear only a shift?”

“You shall have my cloak while we walk,” He unclasped the cloak. “My jacket is more than warm enough.”

You sighed and pulled the cowled neck of your dress over your head. You swept it away and threw it onto the floor. You stood in your shift, it fell just past your calves and left you frigid. You grabbed your shoes and pulled them on over your stockings. Thor neared and held out his cloak.

“Bear fur.” He said as you turned and let him place it over your shoulders. “Fell it by my own hand.”

When his large hands had secured the cape, you stepped away from him. It was oversize for you. You held onto the sides to keep it from dragging.

“We hunt for food, not sport.” You said.

“As do we. And there is much more to do with a bear than just eat.” He passed you and opened the door. “My people do not waste. We use every bit… until there is nothing left to be had.”

He let you out first. The man who stood guard at the door watched you pass as his king followed you. You descended the hill quietly and he guided you along as a din of voices rose from the church along Cutter’s Road. The priest had been housed with the elderly. He was the only ordained cleric in the village as the inhabitant paid their tithes in the upkeep of the chapel.

Inside, the pews were pushed against the walls and men sat in clusters all around steaming spits of roasted lamb, pig, and goat. The livelihoods of several families filled the stomachs of these killers. Thor led you to the front of the chapel and sat amid a group of a dozen men. They greeted him with deference and doffed their cups. Lee, the baker, also brewed his own ale, and it was quickly being drained from his hidden vats.

The king removed the cloak from your shoulders and spread it on the floor. He sat and drew you down beside him. The men around you leered openly as you sat on your knees and Thor withdrew a knife from his pelt to carve off a thick hunk of sheep meat. He offered you a piece and you accepted it wordlessly. You’d nibble so that you wouldn’t have to eat more.

As you stared at the floor, aware of the whispers spoken in another tongue but no doubt about you from around the circle. Thor humoured some, returned a bawdy joke, and ran a knuckle along your arm.

You stiffened as another hand rested on your knee. You sneered down at the hairy paw as it crawled up your thigh, the fabric of your shift threatened to rise. You dropped your handful of meat and slapped the man who dared to accost you. He swore as he drew away and you struck out at him, your palm met his cheek loudly.

He grunted and raised his own hand. It was stopped by another as Thor leaned over and pushed until the man rescinded. The king growled a warning and repeated it to the entire group. He sat back and played with the top of your shift.

“Girl. You are brave but stupid.” He tugged at your sleeve and his hand fell to rub his thigh, his thick legs crossed before him. “Sit with me.”

He pulled on your arm until you moved. You were clueless until he grabbed your hips and led you over into his lap. He took another bite of sheep and offered you a bite. You shook your head and he finished the slab on his own. He wiped his hands on a rag drawn from his pocket then wrapped his arms around you.

“Let me tell you something, girl.” He began as his hand spread over your stomach, his other pinched the fabric of your shift along your thigh. “I do not talk so much to the women of this land. I would have my way and be done. They are too meek.”

You shifted and he groaned, his fingers pressed against your middle. You felt his bulge against you.

“I bid you wear your shift for my own ease.” You glanced around, those men around you and others through the hall watched you. “Often, after such a feast, I would bend my prize over and the men would be unable to look away. When I finished, they would take their own pleasure.”

He took a deep breath and chuckled.

“I will disappoint them tonight. While I long to pull up your skirt and bury my fingers inside you, I have decided it would be wrong to share you with these men.” He purred and gripped your hips, pushing you down so you felt his arousal more plainly. “A woman has never riled me as much as you, sæta.”

You stiffened against him and grabbed his wrists. You felt as if you would melt beneath the heat of a hundred eyes.

“Not here, sæta,” He repeated the name. “I will have you and only me. I will taste you first.” He squeezed your hips. “And then claim you entirely.” He tickled your sides.. “And if I am satisfied, you might see my land and warm my bed there.”

🌧️

The men around you grew to a bawdy drunken racket. Words you couldn’t understand shouted to the response of laughter or plain threats. Their king did not discourage them as he only splendoured in the rowdy rapport. He paused only as you began to fidget impatiently. You were irritated by these raiders and you felt as if you were the crux of their amusement.

Thor pushed you up and you stood. A few men quieted by the din remained. The king lifted the cloak and wrapped it around you as he had before. He announced his departure as he bent to take his stein and rain the last of the fragrant ale. He let the cup fall back to the floor and led you to the church doors. Heads turned and grumbled laments bristled in your direction. The king had chosen not to share his spoils.

In the night air, the king clung to your arm through the thick cape. He traipsed along as he looked up at the moon. You wanted to run. To slip from his grasp and flee into the forest. You stumbled and he jerked you forward.

“That would be a fun game, sæta.” He lilted. “I am fast. Are you?”

You lowered your eyes and took a deep breath. You said nothing as he ushered you along.

“My people have a similar repast. A festival in honour of the gods. A hunt.” He explained. “Our maiden set off into the trees and we wait a while before we give chase. The last of the women to be found is our festival queen. She is adorned with furs and gems and she is the next to be wed.”

“We do not partake in those unholy rituals.” You assured him.

“No, you take your crosses to listen to an old man ramble in a forgotten tongue.” He said. “This night, I will show you how your people live grey lives. The gods did not put us here to mourn our own being.”

“We live on our own toil, not by taking others’,” You muttered.

“You live by that quick mouth,” He hissed. “You do amuse me, sæta, but you tempt me to anger as well.”

“Would you bend to any who invaded your home and killed your people?” You countered as you set up the hill.

He was quiet as you approached the gate and he let you through. The man remained by the door in his armor and greeted his king with a dip of his head.

“Though you do not admit, we are more alike than you believe.” He opened the door and pressed his hand to the small of your back as he led you within. “You are right; I would not bend.”

The door closed behind him. He swept the cloak from your shoulders and hung it as he had before from the chair. He pushed the candle towards you and turned to the fireplace. You lit the wick and he stirred the embers to spark the log he placed over them. He stood and removed his fur cap. His golden braids shone in the lowlight and the silver beads at their ends added to the glimmer.

He removed his jacket next, then his mail, and his sword belt which held a large hammer rather than a long blade. He set it down and straightened to look at you. He bent his leg and tore off his boot, and then the other. His eyes stuck to you as thoughts curved his lips.

“Undress and I will bend to you, sæta,” He said. “And you will feel the glory of my gods.”

You stared at him. You bent to slip out of your shoes. You stood but could not bring yourself to lift your shift. Even though the night before had bared all that you could hide from him, you couldn’t. You pressed your palms to the linen over your thighs and he neared.

He bunched the fabric along your hips and slowly raised it. He pulled up until you were forced to lift your arms and he drew the shift over your head. He let it fall behind you. His hands framed your face then slipped down to your neck. He turned them flat to your chest and dragged them down to cup your breasts.

His hands continued their descent and he carefully got to his knees before you. His arms snaked around you he kneaded your ass before tickling along the back of your thighs. He shifted closer and pulled one of your legs up. You grabbed onto his shoulder with a gasp as you nearly toppled.

He bent your leg over his shoulder as his hand ran up past the top of your stocking to your hip. Your foot arched until you were on tiptoes and he bent closer until his hot breath tickled the hair along your vee. You shivered and wobbled as you tried to pull away.

He held you close and nuzzled you. You squeezed his shoulder as he hummed and his lips brushed your cunt.

“What--” You choked on your voice as his tongue poked between your folds.

You’d never felt that before. Never felt such a cool heat. Never felt that tingle that started along your tailbone and rolled through you. Never felt the weight settle inside you as his tongue pressed to your bud and flicked back and forth. Your other hand went to his golden locks and you clung to him as your leg quivered beneath you, the other hooked snug around his shoulder.

He purred and it sent a delightful ripple through you. He lapped more eagerly and you turned your face up to the ceiling, your eyes rolling back. There was that voice inside telling you it was wrong; for this man to do what he was doing to you, to feel this way, to be unable to think of anything but the pulsing of your core.

Was that you? Were those your moans? You quaked as your body acted on its own. As you sank into the sheer joy of that moment. You bared your teeth as you reached the peak and plummeted over. You cried out and latched onto Thor as you tilted your hips into him. He stopped only as you quieted, breathless and barely standing.

He drew away and you felt an empty chill. You looked down at him, your vision a haze, and he tickled your thigh before slowly slipping it from his shoulder. You wavered as you held onto him to keep your balance.

He rose as he took your hands from him. His lips glistened as he gazed down at you hungrily.

“Look at you, sæta,” He smirked. “Aching for more already.” You pulled away from him and elicited a chuckle. “Do not be ashamed. Your god holds no power over me or mine.”

He backed away and pulled his tunic off in a single swipe. He tossed it away and it slid over the chair on the other side of the table. He undid his breeches, sighing as he opened the front and rolled them down his thick legs. He stepped out of them, along with his wool socks. He did not wear his undershorts. He was erect; proud as he stood naked before you.

He turned and pulled a chair close. He sat, his hands on his muscled thighs.

“Here, sæta,” He beckoned you close with two fingers. “You have my patience… for now.”

You blinked and staggered forward. He caught your hand and drew you close. His other hand slapped his thigh.

“Up,” He commanded.

He tugged more adamantly and grasped your hips as he urged you into his lap, your legs folded over his thighs. You held yourself over his length as his chest puffed out and he sighed. His eyes held yours as he felt beneath you and led his tip along your folds. He pushed on your hip.

You resisted as his head pressed to your entrance. He pinched you and growled. You grabbed his shoulders and tried to keep yourself from slipping. His jaw squared and his other hand gripped your waist. He forced you down and you exclaimed. There was a pain so deep it felt close to pleasure.

He pushed deeper and you slapped him. His flinched slightly and grabbed your hand. He took your other and guided both behind your back. His fingers wrapped around your wrists as he kept them there. His other hand went to your thigh and he began to rock beneath you. Each tilt of his hips had him impaling you deeper than the last. Your walls ached around him.

He leaned forward and nibbled at your breast. You couldn’t help the whine which escaped you. His mouth toyed with your nipple before taking the other. He snarled against your flesh as his grip tightened on your wrists and he guided your hips and the chair groaned.

He grunted and pushed his head back. He watched you hungrily as you gulped at air. The same pressure began to mount as he moved you faster and faster. His hand slipped back and stretched across your rear. He took a breath and stood with little effort as he kept you moving against him. You moaned as thrust into you from below, bouncing your body as if you were nothing.

You wrapped your legs around him as he released your wrists. You hugged him to you as you writhed in desperation. You needed more. It didn’t matter what he’d done or who he was. You needed it. You needed that peculiar release which made you feel both empty and entirely full.

You buried your face in his neck as you came. Your body quaked as he didn’t let up. The noise of flesh slapping filled the space and the flicker of firelight had your vision cloudy.

He began to walk, his steps uneven and clumsy. You clung to him tighter as he slowed you just slightly. He dropped to his knees on the straw mattress and it caused him to sink into you completely. You mewled and he reached to your arms. He untangled them as he bent over you and laid you on your back.

He sat up slowly. He kept your pelvis up against his, your weight upon your shoulders as he held you at an angle. He rutted into you harder. You whimpered and he did it again. Even rougher. He paused between each thrust, admiring your senseless cries. It wasn’t long before your eyelids met and you were once more squirming in bliss.

He grunted loudly with each jerk of his hips. His pace was steady and deliberate until he could control himself no more. Until he was crashing into you so rapidly you thought you would shatter into pieces. He snarled and let out a thunderous roar. The heat within you bloomed as his pelvis spasmed and stuttered to a shaky halt.

He let out a thick breath and fell forward over you. The smell of his sweat filled your nostrils and your eyes fluttered open. He stared down at you, his face flushed as he brushed his nose against yours.

“Sæta,” He rasped as his fingers tickled your cheek.

“What does that mean?” You uttered, trapped beneath him.

“It means you are sweet,” He said. “It means I will keep you.”

#thor #dark thor #dark!thor #viking!thor #thor x reader #dark thor x reader #dark!thor x reader #fic #one shot #viking au #au #dark fic #dark!fic #mcu #marvel #nauthiz

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another-fantasy-world · 4 years

Text

Strings Pt. 2

Pairing: Rosalie Hale x Fem!OC

Summary: in which the true queen of vampires found love when she least expected.

Warnings: ...Light Angst? Slowburn and mentions of death,trauma and depression

Timeline: Breaking Dawn - Post-Twilight

Word count: 4, 200 words

!Extra long chapter!

GIF isn’t mine

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The witch couple somehow got Rosalie to agree to their terms, much to her distaste. She still doesn’t know what it is that irks her about the couple, she does not trust them, at all but, she trusts Carlisle. Plus, right now, they have more important matters to attend to.

Various thoughts run through Rosalie’s head, as she stands in the vast snow covered field. She may not show it, but she worries for her adoptive sister as Alice strides through the field handing Aro her hand for him to go through her thoughts and visions.

“Now you know. That’s your future, unless you decide on another course.” Alice states when Aro dropped her hand in shock

Rosalie stands rigid, observing silently as she glares and snarls at their “Royalty”, eyes pitch black. She knows in herself that she would do everything for her family, even if it costs her, her life. She stands there, watching as another hybrid walks into the field, she watches as they question him, She watches as Bella sags slightly in relief knowing that Renesmee is immortal and finally, she smiles knowing that they’ve won as the red-coated vampires blurs into the distance.

Joyous screams of victory rips through the air as she joins her family as they rejoice, happy that they did not have to fight the Volturi today. Together, they walk back to their house where their witnesses say their farewells and leaving.

“We won!” Maggie squeals are she rushed into Rosalie’s arms with Emmett trailing behind her

“Yeah, Yeah. Now I have to suffer an immortal life with the smell of wet dog wafting through the air.” Rosalie smirks

“Hey! I heard that!” Jacob complains

“Tsk. You were supposed to.” She retorts as she walks to Carlisle who was holding Esme in his arms.

But as she was walking, she was suddenly thrown into a void, cold, dark, and starry? She was confused as she looks around, panicking when she couldn’t move.

“What the fuck is going on?!” She tries to move her body but she couldn't, she then feels her body get thrown around like a rag doll.

“This is worse than being forced to ride that death machine. What was is called? Rollie? Roller coaster?” She grumbles in her head as she wills herself to not puke. She didn't even think vampires could still be nauseous.

That went on for what seemed to be hours before she was finally dropped into the ground. Opening her golden eyes, her orbs seemed to hyper focus on the gigantic trees and the creatures that live in it. Her ears then pick up the sound of groaning, turning her head, she sees the rest of her family sprawled all over the forest floor.

“Oh my God! Amore! You didn't have to paralyze them that hard!” Veronica thumps Amore in the head.

“I sincerely apologize for what she has done. We needed to take you far away from Forks, The Volturi Coven changed their minds and decided to ambush you and your witnesses. Fear not, your witnesses have been teleported to their homes safe and sound.” Veronica explains while still glaring at the pouting Amore.

“What was that anyways?” Edward groans as he sits up'

“Teleportation. I needed to paralyze you, that lowers the chance of you losing a limb.” Amore explains while Veronica cast a cloud of blue upon them, seemingly healing their “injuries”

“Cooooool. Can we do it again?” Emmett brightens like a child getting a puppy for the first time.

“No.” They all deadpanned at him making Veronica and Amore chuckle.

“Well, I suggest we get going now, even with our speed, it's still a long way to run.” Veronica dusts herself off as she and Amore help the family up and the still dazed shifters.

“Long way to run where?” Jacob asks, utterly confused.

“To the palace of course.” Veronica smiles

“It's high time you guys meet the Queen.” Amore smirks and winks as she speeds off, followed by Veronica then the Cullens and then the Black Pack.

Anastasia pinched her temples in pure stress, the Cullens were coming to visit and everything was in utter chaos. Mud was smeared all over the walls, broken dishes and glass cluttered the floor as little children run past her, screaming her ears off.

“Lance, darling. Clean this up before I rip someone's head off. Make sure this place is spotless before the guests arrive. Get the pups back to their mothers, the children back to the village and contact Maxine, there's a few shifters accompanying the Cullens. I'll be in my lab.” She orders her personal butler who scrambles around trying to get people to help him.

Anastasia ventures down, down until she reaches her own personal laboratory where she herself develops her own type of blood. She's repulsed by the thought of drinking from a clueless human no matter how annoying they are and disgusted at the thought of killing an innocent animal just so she could satiate her desire of drinking blood. And because of this artificial blood, her eyes slowly turn into the rich dark violet that it is now.

As she works, combining different substances and powders that vary colors, her mind drifts to a certain blonde girl. Anastasia for the life of her, cannot even think of what she would do where she faces the blonde beauty, not when her heart if filled with guilt.

1932 Rochester, New York

Anastasia roamed the streets as she keeps her eyes trained on the single glowing golden string attached to her, amongst the other colors. She was born this way, even when she was just a little human, she could always see strings. Of course her feeble mind at that time didn't understand what it was, but now she could. As a vampire, she practiced and willed her strings to be more color coded, since the mere chaos of tangled strings give her a headache. The strings connected each creature in this world, once you make an acquaintance, a blue string connects the two of you and that soon escalates into different colors, However, one color lets her see soulmates, and that's green, which is why she's now following this glowing gold string to wherever it may go. She was tempted to just yank the string as hard as she could and let the creature on the other side find her but somehow, something was holding her back.

As she walked the streets of New York, head held high, she also ignored the stares that she got while walking. She knew why of course, her Italian clothing much different from the posh American clothing everyone around her has, not to mention she was wearing clothes meant for “men” but she never was the one to abide to gender constructs. She also couldn't, for the life of her, think about what she would do when she meets the creature on the other end of the string. Should she kill it? Should she keep it? Should she protect it? Should she-

Her thoughts were then interrupted when her eyes suddenly tunnel visioned. There 'it' was, the 'creature' on the other end of her string, 'it' was actually a woman. An insanely attractive human, being fawned over by boys as she walks by and she was smiling at the small group girls crowding her. Anastasia could suddenly feel the emotions of the said woman: Happiness, Pride, and a little twinge of loneliness and sadness. Anastasia's heart (despite being half-dead) tightened in her chest, she wanted to do everything and anything to make the woman happy. She didn't even care that she just saw her mere minutes ago, she wanted her and only her. And that's when she realized, this woman, no, this angel was meant to be hers. But then again, Anastasia knew that the woman was too good for her, she doesn't deserve this life of pain and eternal suffering, seeing the people you once loved grow old and eventually die, yet she also knew that she cannot live without her, so she settled with being her protector.

“Mr. Lombardi? Did I pronounce that right?” Mr. Hale questioned her, she had managed to manipulate her looks to make her look like a man.

“Yes sir.” Anastasia answered, she named herself Gioele for the sake of her facade.

“And why should I let you protect my daughter?” Mr. Hale raised his eyebrows, staring at the 'guy' infront of him.

“With The Great Depression still happening, I believe your daughter might be in danger. You and your success may make you a target for those who are below you, poor unfortunate...” She trailed off, her moral compass preventing her from saying derogatory words but she knew she had to play by his personality and rules

“We do not talk about them.” Mr. Hale deadpanned

“Yes sir.” 'Gioele' agreed, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

“Very well then. You have piqued my interest. One wrong move and you'll find yourself hanging on a rope by your neck.” He threatened just as someone entered.

“Father? Mother requested your presence.” Anastasia's eyes widen when she hears the soft, melodic voice right behind her.

“Rosalie! Perfect timing. This is Gioele Lombardi, he will be protecting you from those awful lowlifes scattered around the streets.” Mr. Hale introduces Anastasia to Rosalie who in turn looked at her.

“Rosalie. Rosalie Hale.” She introduces her self while Anastasia promply goes down on one knee and kisses her hand.

“My Pleasure.” She smiled, seeing the faint blush on Rosalie's cheeks.

Anastasia stood up, offering her arm to Rosalie who accepted and they both followed Mr. Hale outside, Anastasia holding up an umbrella to shield Rosalie and herself from the sun. She didn't sparkle as much as other vampires do but it would have been really suspicious when people see her faint sparkle as her marble like skin hits the rays of the sun.

And in that afternoon alone, Rosalie Hale became more popular, people talked about the attractive guard and of course Rosalie's beauty. Anastasia was annoyed at how people spoke about her and her mate, while they were walking around the city. Rosalie noticed and distracted her by asking her questions and answering questions directed to her as well.

Anastasia just felt herself fall even more as days pass by, She would sit by Rosalie's side while she reads her books, She would accompany her on walks and would help her pick flowers as well. She knew all about Rosalie but Rosalie only knew things Anastasia want her to, that doesn't include the fact that she's a woman and not a man and also the fact that she's an actual vampire. And that proved to be in her disadvantage later on.

A year pass by quickly with Anastasia enjoying every single second she spends with her soulmate, she could feel Rosalie radiating happiness whenever she's around, but of course, Rosalie was getting suspicious as well. It may be because of that one time where they were caught in the rain and their umbrella was much too small for 2 persons so Anastasia insist on Rosalie using it, leaving her wet, making her clothes stick to her body, and even under the dim light, Rosalie could make out a feminine body, toned but still feminine and that left her thinking if she truly knew her guard as well as she thought she did.

One day, Rosalie was sent on an errand to deliver her father's 'forgotten' lunch, and Anastasia knew it was a bunch of shit. She heard the couple discussing their plans to hopefully attract the attention of Royce King II and they succeeded, she had to watch as Rosalie and Royce flirt with each other, with her silently seething, forgotten. She had to hide her growls and snarls whenever flowers would be delivered at the Hale Household, but she couldn't do anything, Rosalie deserved someone who could grow old with her, and not a half-ling abomination like her. So she accepted the fate she wished upon herself and made the hardest decision of her life.

The day Rosalie was engaged, she packed her bags and set to leave but unfortunately, Rosalie caught her. And what she did that day, she still regrets up until now.

“Gioele? You are leaving.” Rosalie states, stunned.

“Don't. Don't stop me Ms. Hale. Or should I say Mrs. King?” Anastasia spat out, and she internally flinched when she saw the pain in Rosalie's eyes.

“Where did this come from Gio?” Gio, Rosalie's nickname for her alter ego. She couldn't handle it anymore and looked around before gently dragging Rosalie into an empty room in their house.

“Look, my name's not Gioele.” Anastasia removes the glamour she placed on herself and watched as Rosalie stare at her in shock.

“It's Anastasia. And yes. I am leaving. You are to be married to Royce King II and I cannot get in between that.” She stares at Rosalie's eyes, hoping to relay her feelings, but Rosalie was still much too hurt from her best friend lying to her.

“You lied. You broke two of your promises Lombardi. Is that even your real surname? It is not, is it? God. Why must I be so stupid! Go! Leave! Find some other woman to lie to!” Rosalie walks away from her

“Rosalie! Wait!” She tried to chase after her but Rosalie just turned around and slapped her, she was shocked, not only because the love of her life slapped her, it's also because Rosalie managed to crack the base of her neck. She lifted her hand to cover the cracks that were covering the base of her marble like neck.

“Rose...” She stared at Rosalie.

“Leave.” Rosalie glared, and Anastasia knew that this was her chance... to let go of her soulmate... in the most painful way possible.

“Fine...” She growled out “...I never liked you anyways, You self-centered, smug woman who only lives to please her father and the people around you. I hope you and your cold heart enjoy your loveless marriage!” She grabs her bags and walks away, not bothering to turn back, knowing that if she sees Rosalie's face and the raw emotions in her eyes, she'll just turn back and beg for forgiveness.

But of course, she couldn't stay away, no matter how hard she tried, she just can't so she lingered, hiding herself in the shadows, watching as Rosalie walked the paths they used to walk on, with Royce accompanying her, his arm hooked on hers as they chatted happily. It took everything in Anastasia to not rip off Royce's head whenever she knew he was making Rosalie uncomfortable and It took everything in her to not steal Rosalie away from him.

She was lingering around Vera's house, Rosalie was in there, cradling the baby boy in her arms as she cooed at him. Anastasia smiled as she saw her mate being all cute, she longed to have that with her, but alas she couldn't.

She was just enjoying herself when suddenly a body slammed into her, they fought for the upper hand as they kept tumbling around. Anastasia would straddle the man and he would flip her as well, she knew he was a vampire and didn't bother to pull her punches, cracking his marble like skin while he, in turn would also punch her face. The only difference they had was, Anastasia is actually bleeding. After what went on like hours, something snapped, Anastasia knew something was wrong with her mate so her eyes glowed a bright red, she threw the man off her and tied him with her strings. She growled at him before speeding off, following the slowly fading golden string. She ran as fast as she could, but she was too late.

“Rose?” she stared in horror as the body of her beloved, sprawled on the sidewalk, bleeding out.

“Stasia?” She turned her head and saw Carlisle standing behind her.

“Carlisle! I beg of you, Please save her. Turn her Carlisle please!” Anastasia begged Carlisle

“What happened? I smelt the blood.” Carlisle knelt beside the barely alive Rosalie.

“Turn her first then I'll explain.” Anastasia choked out as she closed her eyes just in time for Carlisle's teeth sinking into Rosalie's skin

She shook with anger and decided that she'll chase after whoever did this to her, her ears hyper focused, trying to find whoever did it. And that's when she heard it: Royce King II.

“I need to find a new fiancee now.” He laughed as his friends expressed their joy in letting them-

Anastasia let out a loud guttural growl as she prepared to speed away but Carlisle held her back.

“Don't. She needs you first.” Carlisle motioned to Rosalie who's writhing in pain. She immediately scooped her mate into her arms and followed Carlisle's mate string, which led her to a two floor house, she barged in with Carlisle hot on her heels.

“Lay her here.” He instructed the distressed Queen.

“Will she be okay Carlisle?” She asked the doctor as he kissed his mate in her forehead.

“Yes. Give it a couple of days, Your Highness.” Carlisle reassured her as she swallowed back her sobs.

“Very well. Uh. My apologies, I barged in without your permission. My name is Anastasia. You must be Carlisle's lover?” She offered her hand to the older woman who in turn just gave her a hug.

“It's fine. Really. You are welcome here. Carlisle told me all about you.” Esme smiled and Anastasia just smirked at Carlisle.

“Still thinking about me Cullen?” Anastasia teased, taking Rosalie's hand into hers and gripping it, calming her nerves.

“He talks about you everyday.” Esme smiled at her.

Anastasia was about to reply when the doors opened and in came...

“You.” Anastasia growled and lunged at the man. He dodged but she caught his arm and used her momentum to flip him over, throwing him through the wall and into the backyard, making him land flat on his back. The man coughed as Anastasia straddled him, planting her foot to the ground, her strings glowing a bright red as they wrap around him as she slowly ripped his head off.

“Anastasia! He's my son!” Carlisle cried out as Anastasia snapped at him, eyes widening in surprise.

“He's yours?” Anastasia's eyes glowed a bright red and Carlisle felt his entire body shiver.

“Y-Yes.” Carlisle stuttered, the murderous aura surrounding Anastasia triggering his fight or flight.

“He is the reason why I didn't get to my mate fast enough. He lunged at me for no reason, leaving my mate in a vulnerable position AND LOOK WHERE SHE IS RIGHT NOW! SHE'S FIGHTING FOR HER LIFE CARLISLE!” Anastasia's body shook in anger

Carlisle could see the cracks growing on Edward's skin, and he slowly approached the furious queen. He managed to calm Anastasia down by sending calming waves into his strings, decades of working alongside the queen was proven to be useful in this moment. The ropes that were once wrapped around Edward slowly loosened until they retreated back into her body.

Edward wheezed as he moved away from her while Anastasia composed herself.

“Teach your son better manner s, Carlisle or the next time we meet, you'll see his decapitated head decorating the Volturi Walls.” Anastasia threatened as she walks calmly back into the house through the wall that she made and sat beside her unconscious mate. She noticed the golden string slowly go back to it's natural glow, which made her sigh in relief.

A couple of hours pass by and Anastasia was feeling hungry, she asked for Carlisle's help in looking for food in the forest and he told her where the majority of the animals lived and she set off. While she was hunting, she couldn't help but feel like she failed Rosalie. She let her become something that she protected her from. A Vampire.

Once she had her fill, she slowly walked back to where Carlisle lives, delaying her arrival as much as possible, dreading the fact that she knew Rosalie was awake. She could feel it. She took a deep breath and opened the door, making everyone's head snap towards her. Her eyes caught Rosalie's and instantly, they connected, more so than before, which means that Anastasia feels what Rosalie feels 100 times more than before. Pain, Sadness, Longing and Hatred. And that's when she knew, she knew that Rosalie hated her. Her soulmate hated her. The thought weighed on top of her, slowly crushing her heart, she physically gasped for breath as she could feel Rosalie's anger increased tenfold.

“Rose. Let me-”

“Don't Anastasia. Do what you do best, leave.” Rosalie answered her, putting emphasis on her real name. She tried to move closer but Rosalie only moved and sped out of the house, with Carlisle trailing after the newborn.

She was about to follow as well when Edward stopped her.

“I apologize for my actions earlier, I truly believed that you were preying on them, that's why I attacked you, but you should really trust me when I say that you shouldn't follow her. She's angry.” Edward quickly explained

“And how do you know that?” She asked.

“I can read minds.” Edward simply states, nodding at her.

Anastasia nodded, defeated and sat on a chair with Esme right beside her.

“Give her some time.” Esme advises, rubbing the girl's back.

She gritted her teeth when she felt Rosalie's pain. Not physical, emotional. And she has the power to take it away. But with a great price. A price she was willing to take.

When the Cullen family was complete, with Rosalie, Anastasia quickly worked her gift. Wrapping her strings around them and re-writing their memories, without her in it. Except for Carlisle's, she left some memories of him working alongside her while in the Volturi. Once she finished, she quickly speeds away and forces herself to leave the memories and pain she just took into the back of her mind as she wiped her bleeding nose, her body collapsing under a big tree due to the exhaustion.

She was pulled back into reality when the beaker she was holding in her hand exploded, drenching her in artificial blood. She gritted her teeth, there were two things that could've happened. One, she mixed the wrong chemicals while day dreaming or two, Amore decided to switch the labels again.

She checked everything, and then found out the second one was the truth, she stormed out of her lab, blood dripping from every inch of her body. Her annoyance clouded her brain, forgetting that she sent Amore to pick up the Cullens and if she was here, then so were The Cullens.

She spotted Amore from afar and sped towards her, slamming her against the brick walls of her “castle” . She hated that term.

“What did I tell you about switching my labels Lewis?! Look at me! Blood is in every crevice in my body! There's blood in parts that I didn't even knew were exposed!” She growled out

“Well, to be f-fair, You aren't wearing your usual lab attire so that's partially your fault.” Amore choked out. Anastasia just growls in response.

“Stasia, calm yourself. First impressions are important.” Veronica waves her hand and Anastasia's clothes were back to normal, dry and there was no trace of blood anywhere.

First Impressions? Anastasia then mentally facepalmed herself. She had forgotten the Cullen Family. She releases Amore, then turned to the family, recalling her speech, she started to talk.

“Hello. Sorry you had to see that, but you should really get used to it. My name is Anastasia...” She drifted off as her violet orbs met golden ones. In her brief moment of surprise, she unknowingly let down her guard, causing her previously cast spell break. She knew that her mate would be there and she mentally prepared herself but turns out, she wasn’t prepared at all. When she recovered from her shock, she could feel that her spell had been broken. The entire coven looked at her with various emotions: Happiness, Confusion, Longing and Familiarity. She may or may not have met all the members before and also wiped their memories.

“Gio...” Rosalie whispered.

“Shit...” Anastasia cursed, she somehow knew this would happen, just not this soon.

“Rose...” She stared at her mate for what seemed like years before Rosalie glared at her with so much anger she didn't know it was possible, and stormed off. Again.

'She always does that.' Anastasia sighs.

“Well, that secret's out. I'll escort you to you ro-”

“We'll do it. Chase after her.” Veronica pats her back before escorting the Family to their respective chambers, but Carlisle stayed behind.

“That... was messed up Anastasiarine.” Carlisle expressed his disappointment before pulling the girl in a brief hug.

“I missed you too Cullen.” She whispered before letting go to chase after her mate.

“I'm sorry. Please forgive me.” She sent that thought to the Cullen Family, including Rosalie and went back to what she did 75 years ago.

She was once again, chasing the glowing gold string.

#rosalie hale #rosalie hale x oc #jasper hale x alice cullen #edward cullen x bella swan #carlisle x esme #olympic coven #cullen clan #the cullens #cullen family #the volturi #rosalie cullen #rosalie hale x fem oc #platonic carlisle x oc #The Cullens x OC #The Volturi x OC #rosalie twilight #rosalie #rosalie hale x reader #rosalie lillian hale

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onecanonlife · 3 years

Text

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 7,998

Chapter Warnings: swearing, blood, violence, injury, threatened death, sui.cidal ideation, mind control, manipulation, victim blaming

Chapter Summary: In which Wilbur makes a desperate choice.

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Twenty: dark into the heat

No. No, no, no, he needs to ignore it. He knows better than to listen, knows better than—

He can feel it. He can feel it poking around in his mind. He can feel it again. And it knows he can feel it. It knows, and it’s smug about it. It’s smug because it knows he hates the sensation, feels violated by it, and it likes that, likes the power it has over him. His stomach lurches, and he staggers. Purpled watches him, advancing slowly.

But no. No, he can’t give in, can’t let it distract him. He can’t.

“What’s it offering you?” he gasps out. He tries to stand straighter, but the world around him wavers and ripples, and not just in the heat. He can feel it, feel it still, though it has not yet spoken again. It is going to. It is going to, going to speak to him with honeyed words and dripping promises, going to coax and persuade and worm its way inside, and knowing that it’s coming doesn’t make it any easier to bear.

Only time will tell whether it makes it easier to resist.

Purpled shrugs, still approaching. Once he attacks again, he’s done for. He can’t fight off Purpled on a good day, much less now.

“Money,” Purpled says. “I mean, what else? It’s a job.”

And the way he says it is as if—

“It’s not controlling you,” he says, and wonders how he didn’t realize it before. Purpled looks completely unchanged. No part of him has faded to white or deepened to red, and his voice holds none of the fanatic edge that the Egg’s followers possess. “It’s just paying you.”

“I don’t like the thought of being mind controlled,” Purpled agrees. “But I do like being paid. So, like I said, sorry. But I’ve taken the job.”

“I’ll double whatever they’re paying you to switch sides,” he says. “Or not even switch sides, if you don’t want. Just stay out of it. Don’t attack me and mine. Leave.”

Purpled tilts his head. He’s listening. Good. His grip on his sword does not relax, but he pauses in his approach.

“How do I know you’re good for it?” he asks.

“I’m good for it because my brother is Technoblade,” he says. “You know, the Blood God? Nigh on impossible to defeat in combat, one of the richest people on the server? He honors the agreements he makes, and I, as his brother, can make one for him. You’ll get your money.”

“So the money’s not even yours,” Purpled says. “But—Technoblade, you say? And you just want me to stay out of it?” He pauses. “Triple it and you’ve got a deal.”

“Done.”

And just like that, Purpled nods. There may be some measure of relief in his face; Wilbur isn’t sure. But perhaps Purpled was never all that comfortable taking orders from the thing, money or no. But Purpled nods, and Purpled moves toward the exit, and Jack, at least, notices, and shouts, “Traitor!” Some of the vines spring to life, attempting to stop him from leaving. But Purpled slices through them easily enough, with a practiced and steady hand, and then he’s vanishing up the corridor.

He didn’t expect it to be that easy.

(but at the end of the day, mercenary or not, isn’t Purpled still a child, too? a teenager caught up in forces beyond his control, just trying to make it through to another day? perhaps he was looking for an out all along, and if that is the case, he is more than happy to give him one, and not just for his own sake)

You have always been clever, the Egg says, always been quick with your words and quick to spin a deal in your favor, quick to have them all dancing to your tune, so very quick to use whatever power you have, so very quick, but you know better than to thank yourself for it, know better than to believe that it lends you superiority, and you know better than to believe that this is a victory at all, know better than to believe you have accomplished anything. What is your plan, Wilbur Soot? What blow do you seek to strike against me?

He shakes his head. It’s digging deeper, like a swarm of stinging hornets crawling in his skull. He takes a few clumsy steps forward, begging his blurry vision to resolve. It doesn’t, not quite, but he can see well enough to know what’s happening, to see that Jack and Niki are concentrated on their attack, that Tubbo is vicious in his counters and Tommy is halfhearted, and Fundy—where is Fundy—?

There, a few feet away, crouched on the ground, hands on his ears. The whites of his eyes are visible, and he rocks back and forth slightly. “Shut up,” he says, barely audible, “shut up, no, no, I’m not listening to you, leave me alone—”

He sees red for a different reason.

“Stop it,” he rasps. “Stop it. Leave him be, leave them all be.”

They are with me because I give them everything they want, everything they dream, and if your little wonder, your little champion joins my ranks then it is because you have failed him, because you cannot give him the love he deserves, and that is no one’s fault but yours, ash child, the Egg says, and he nearly doubles over with the force of it, with the truth of it.

(no, no, not truth, not truth, because here before you is a true monster the true villain the true enemy and it lies and manipulates as part of its nature and you can feel its claws in you and you should not think that just because it agrees with your own warped perception of yourself that it is right because you are just beginning to learn that perhaps you are not right yourself not right about yourself and remember what Phil told you, about healing and deserving)

But then, the Egg keeps on, isn’t that better to think about, isn’t that nicer than to imagine his blood spilling across my roots, for I am hungry and I will be fed, and if not with your boy’s blood then with that of someone else but is it not better to imagine him becoming one with me and mine, for is it not better to offer him up to me than to lose him?

(no)

“I’d lose him either way,” he says. “Don’t fuck with me, I’d lose—I’d be losing him just as surely.”

And perhaps he’s already lost him. Perhaps his son no longer wants a father at all. But even if that is the case, he will be damned before he allows the Egg to take him. So he lurches forward again. Draws his bow from his inventory. Fires off a shot. He’s not even thinking about it, really, but he fires off a shot, and he aims it for Jack Manifold

(and he can’t remember the last time he saw Jack Manifold, but he vaguely thinks that he may have taken one of his lives as well, maybe, in the heat and the rush of things, and he can’t remember whether it was a mistake or on purpose but neither matters right now)

and it flies wide. He doesn’t see where it lands. He nocks another arrow to the string. His hands shake. Niki drives Tubbo back with a ferocious flurry of attacks, and Jack is on Tommy, and if he doesn’t do something about this, there will be blood spilled here. Blood watering the roots.

You know you could stop this, the Egg says, you know that it is within your power, for I have offered you everything, everything you desire, and I shall give you fire and I shall give you rest and I shall give you your brother’s safety assured and he will not be harmed by me and mine and we shall look after him, for now and for always, he shall be mine as all creatures must be or perish but he shall be safe, and you can rest knowing you have done everything and have everything you want in the end, and it can all be yours and you know this.

“Shut up,” he says. “Shut up.” Just a few more steps. Why does he feel so far from them when he’s only a few steps away? Just a few more steps and he can join the battle, can drive them back and away from those he’s sworn to protect,

(but these were his countrymen and he swore to protect them too and now look at them all children in a war that spiraled out of their control and never ended the soldiers never coming home because there was no home to return to and so the soldiers keep on marching on and they cannot learn to put their weapons down because there is no place to let them rest and no assurance of safety and the war continues whether seen or unseen and the soldiers keep on marching on)

and he can draw his sword even though his swordplay has never been his strongest suit.

Except, no, he needs to use the sword for something else, needs to—the Egg has to be the priority, because if he destroys the Egg, then this will all come to a close, and—

Then you have a choice to make, child of flames and of destruction, the Egg says, and it sounds terribly, horribly amused, and he can’t help but clutch the side of his head as it seems to laugh at him, awful and grating, like his skull has fractured and the shards are being driven into his brain. You have a choice to make, and shall you try to save the ones you hold dear and shall your efforts be fruitless, or shall you raise your hand against me, shall you defy that which you know you seek, that which you know you love, shall you raise a hand against me and fail again, shall you call yourself child of failure and lay your impotency bare.

And then, the Egg stops.

I see, it says. You have a sword.

He inhales sharply.

(it’s in your head and it knows it knows it knows your mind is its for the taking and now it knows)

Niki draws back from Tubbo, face twisting. Tubbo comes to stand beside Tommy again, protectiveness screaming in every line of his stance. Even Jack pauses, and Fundy looks up at him, tears in his eyes, shoulders shaking.

Tommy is staring at him, on his face a dawning dismay.

A sword blessed by the universe and granted by the shell of what was once a god, the Egg says, and suddenly, Wilbur can feel—something else. Something through the Egg, something else looking at him, aware of him. Something that feels like the Egg, but isn’t quite, and he thinks—it’s Dream. Dream is watching, though Dream is blocks away, fighting a battle of his own. A sword meant to destroy the void stuff, the darkness, the corruption, a sword you believe will avail you.

It speaks, and the whole room can hear it. Its voice reverberates in more minds than just his.

You are a thing of dust and ash and soot, and the name you chose for yourself was a prophesy, the Egg says, and you may pretend to have the strength to raise your steel high and drive it against me, you may pretend, but I know you better than you know yourself and I know that even if you had the strength, you would fail, because you have a choice to make and there is only one correct path, only one way out for you, only one way, and you will see it, and you will take it, and what use will your sword be, then?

“You talk a big game for something that the universe itself has sided against,” he says, rather proud of himself for stringing such a coherent sentence together, even while he desperately searches for what the Egg means, what it’s talking about. Because this is a trap, he knows. Likely intended for him. But what the Egg means by a choice, he has no clue, unless it means the choice it’s been trying to get him to make all along, but—

And then, as one, Niki and Jack move. Jack dives for Tubbo, catching him off guard, and there is a terrible snap as Tubbo hits the ground, and Tubbo screams. Tommy shouts, and Wilbur curses, trying to aim for Jack, but there’s too much movement, too much that could go wrong if he misses, because Jack has got Tubbo pinned down, still screaming, each scream interspersed with curses, and Jack doesn’t look like his weight could possible keep Tubbo there, but somehow, all his struggles accomplish nothing. And even as he and Tommy both move forward to help, and even as Fundy seems to be shaking himself out of his stupor, Niki launches herself forward and puts her blade to Tommy’s throat.

And everything goes still.

A choice, the Egg repeats. And Wilbur understands.

“I want to kill him now,” Niki says, her eyes locked on the Egg. And then she scowls, whatever the Egg tells her not for the ears of anyone else, but while she presses the blade further against Tommy’s bare throat, drawing a thin line of blood, she does not cut down. “A choice, then,” she repeats, shifting her gaze to him, and her expression is something like anger and something like defeat. “I wonder if you even know how to make the right one.”

“Let me go,” Tubbo is saying, between sobs. Something is surely broken, but Wilbur can’t get a good enough look to see what. And moving closer may very well spell Tommy’s demise. “Fuck you, let me go, let him go.”

“Just, fuck, just settle down, would you?” Jack demands. “This’ll all be over soon.”

Niki is still watching him.

You have no control here, no power, and here is the choice.

“Wilbur,” Tommy says. His voice trembles. He swallows, and the action pushes his skin just slightly closer to the blade’s edge. More blood trickles down. “Wilbur, you—what is it asking you?”

But he says it like someone who already knows.

(and his brother has a sword to his throat and still seems more concerned for him than for himself and it breaks his heart just as it always does again and again and again)

You may strike your blow, you may take your shot, and no one here will impede your path, and if that is your choice then so be it, the Egg says, but know that should that be, your brother will fall and his blood will sustain me, and behind you his life will fade away even as you toss him aside to strike at me, but it does not have to be this way, void seeker. It does not have to be this way, and you can make the right choice, and the peace you want will be yours, and your brother will live.

He draws in a breath. The beginnings of a plan hatch in his mind. Desperate, crazy—but then, what up to this point hasn’t been? He’s out of options, has let himself be outplayed, and he can’t even let himself think about this too hard, or else it will pluck the idea straight from his mind and it will all be for naught. But he has to try.

There really is only one choice to make.

Tommy’s expression changes.

“No,” he says, “no, no, no, whatever you’re thinking, don’t you fucking do it, don’t you—it’ll be alright, it’ll be alright, I swear, just kill the thing, just kill it, don’t, don’t worry about me, don’t” —He takes in a shuddering, gasping breath, and when he continues, he’s no longer talking to Wilbur— “don’t hurt them, please, you can have me, you can, but don’t hurt them, you can’t, and, and Tubbo, Tubbo, it’s gonna be okay, ‘cause, ‘cause you’re still yourself without me too, and it’s gonna be, it’s gonna be, just, please, Wil, please don’t—”

“Tommy,” he says, and Tommy falls silent. Tubbo does too. They’re all looking at him, and he can’t look at any of their faces for too long, Tubbo’s scrunched up in pain and anger and Fundy’s open wide, almost childlike in his—disbelief, perhaps. He can’t look at their faces, because that makes it hurt worse.

The Egg doesn’t say anything. Nothing he can hear, at least. But it’s waiting. And it feels victorious.

“Tommy,” he says again, “Tubbo. Fundy.”

He breathes in. And out.

“Sometimes things are never meant to be,” he says, and he doesn’t know where the words are coming from, but he lets them flow. “Sometimes things are destined to end even from the very beginning.”

“Wilbur, please—”

“But not this. Not us.” He pauses. “Do you trust me?”

Tommy’s face crumples. He doesn’t respond. Fundy takes in a long, shaky breath, and for a moment, that’s all he can hear. No one really answers him, and he supposes that in the end, that’s an answer in and of itself.

But that’s alright.

He turns to the Egg.

“Our deal,” he says. “The one you offered me. I want it extended. I want everyone in this room alive and safe.”

Everyone in this room. That includes Niki. That includes Jack. Because they were his countrymen, and he owes them this much. Owes them his best effort, even when his best effort once meant their destruction.

(because they were once his countrymen and they were once his friends, and what a picture they make now, and what a picture they made then, back in the summer heat with the walls high and proud around them, as they messed with a camera in their military uniforms, smiling and laughing and free, and it is easy for him to forget that L’Manberg was something beautiful once but it was, it was, it was, and they were beautiful too, and the world was laid at their feet, and they took that photo and he wonders where all the copies went, whether any still exist or whether they all went up in flames, and they were six then and they are six now, the same six, and how bitter and twisted they have all become, how far from that hazy memory of peace they all are)

(and how fitting, perhaps, that it should be the six of them here and only these six, here where it all will come to a close one way or the other, ending just as it began on that sunny summer’s day)

“Wilbur, stop—”

It is nothing to me, the Egg says, and he can feel it, still, can feel it pressing in around him, ready to swamp him, ready to pull him under, and he can hear the whispers, too, just the same as they have always been, whispering fire, whispering death, and he can feel himself begin to lean into them already, can feel himself tempted, can feel his own longing.

And he can still feel, beyond the Egg, Dream watching. Waiting. Considering.

“Fine, then,” he says, and traps his last apology under his tongue. “A deal.”

And he lets the static claim him.

It rushes in around him, and the red dives in eagerly, filling out all the corners of his mind, all the spaces and all the cracks, and he remembers this, remembers this sensation from before, remembers how the Egg coaxed him, persistent and careful, and this is not quite like that, because then, it was like a siren singing a victim to a willing drowning, and now, it as if the entire ocean has opened over his head, a red sea.

There you are, and it is a homecoming, isn’t it, the Egg croons, and his breath stutters in his chest, and I know what you want, I know you long for the fire’s murmurs and the explosion that you once caused and the end of your symphony, forever unfinished, and you were wrested back to this world so cruelly and without your permission, and you do not want to be here, you long for the darkness and the rest of the void, you wish for it with every fiber of your being and you only need listen to me and you can have it.

Yes. He’s having a hard time remembering why he spent so much effort on resisting. Why he resisted the drumbeats that now ring out in his head, a rhythm of war, of blood and of fire, a rhythm that will send him to sleep, if he lets it, and he wants to let it, because the Egg says it is so, and he has let it in, has let it take him over, and the Egg is right. The Egg is right.

(the Egg says it is so, and the Egg must be right, feels right, right like nothing he has ever felt before, but so then why does he)

Come forward, then, and let me grant to you what is yours, the Egg commands, and his feet step forward, once, twice, three times, taking him closer. Behind him, someone is sobbing.

“Wil,” someone whispers, and it sounds like his son. He doesn’t turn around.

Your mind is laid bare to me, and all that you are is mine, the Egg says. I can read your plan, and you thought you could fool me, could take yourself close with none the wiser and break free of my guidance, break free of me and strike before harm could befall your brother, but you cannot be free, because you do not want to be free, because I am giving you everything you want. Did you think you could do as you did before and claw yourself away from me using thoughts of your brother? There is nothing there to use, for I have assured his safety, and you know that.

He does know that. He’s pretty sure that was indeed his plan,

(was it?)

but why shouldn’t the Egg know it now? The Egg is going to give him everything, is going to give him what he could have had before if he was not taken from the room as he was, and now that he is with it again, beating in his mind, a consistent pounding pulse, he feels that jubilation fill him, a hot, heady joy, settling sickly sweet in his gut.

This is right. This is how it was always going to happen. This was meant to be. And the Egg is right; it will be a homecoming, in more ways than one. The void awaits him, and with the Egg curling around him, almost smothering him, he remembers how badly he wants to answer the void’s call, how badly he wants to be dead again, because he made himself an ending and never asked for the story to restart, and it’s unfair that more has been demanded of him.

You played your part, and they were fools to think that you could ever be anything better than what you were, the Egg whispers. You have not changed from the bitter thing you became, and they could not have expected more from you, should not have thought that this would end in any other way, because the void hums like a siren and you want to go, and I will take you there, and you will bleed out before me and feel peace at last and nothing more will be wanted of you. Drop your totem.

Ah, yes, his totem. The one that Techno gave him. He summons it from his inventory, feels its weight against his palm, cold and solid. Its emerald eyes gleam up at him. And then, he goes to drop it, as the Egg says. Somehow, he ends up tossing it over his shoulder instead, rather hard. He’s not sure where it lands. He doesn’t look.

Dream watches. Dream feels—smug. He ignores him. The Egg is what matters.

People are still talking to him. Crying, maybe, but it’s all fallen away, become white noise. There is him, and the Egg, and what the Egg will give him, as long as he does exactly as it commands him. It is as a god, and he is as its vassal, and that is what he’s always striven for.

You love to be useful, the Egg agrees, will abase yourself to anyone to earn your worthiness to live.

(Phil’s voice, steady, sure, and loved: you don’t need to do anything to be worthy of love, you don’t need to do anything to deserve to take care of yourself)

And I know you, the Egg continues, better than you have known yourself. You wanted the fire, wanted to see it all burn around you, and the glee that filled you when you pressed that button was like none you had ever felt.

(no, that’s wrong)

And that same glee again, when you had your father run your sword through your chest, and how eager you were to die, and how eager you are now, how eager, how eager, and you are the same creature you were then, at your core.

(wrong, something about what it’s saying is wrong because these are thoughts he’s had himself so very often but)

A few steps more, and he’s standing next to the Egg. Close enough to touch it. He almost wants to, but doesn’t, something holding him back.

His head pounds. Throbs. Each breath comes as a struggle, though why he’s trying so hard, he doesn’t know.

And you are mine, the Egg croons, my creature now, and I can do with you as I will, but I will give you what you seek so desperately, can you feel it?

He can. He can feel it, the red, soothing as it always has been, and every inch of him cries out for it, cries out for what he

(but does he?)

wants.

And you shall have it, the Egg says. You shall have it.

They’re all calling to him. All of them, but Tommy most of all, calling his name, begging him to stop. He doesn’t turn, even now. Part of him wants to, but when he thinks about it, the Egg pulses in his mind, burning him, expressing displeasure, and he won’t go against what the Egg wants, not when it is about to gift him everything, not when it understands him so well. So he does not turn, and—distantly, he thinks that this was the idea. To use Tommy to pull himself out again, just as he did before. But it won’t work this time, because Tommy is going to be safe. The Egg has sworn that he will be unharmed.

You never had a hope of resisting me, the Egg says, as I know you as no one else does, and I know what you want, and you shall have it now.

Vines creep around his ankles, slide around his legs, his arms. And one rests around his neck, lightly, but he can feel the thorns. They’re a caress, an embrace,

(but you know what an embrace is like and this is not that you know that this is not that because en embrace is Phil’s wings or Tommy’s face in your shoulder or Techno gripping your shoulders and pulling you in and you know better you know better)

a promise.

(but something isn’t right and your mind stirs and there is disquiet hesitation that even the red cannot drown out)

You wanted fire and to let it all burn down around you, and you wanted it all to end, and if you cannot have the fire again, your fire you so love, if you cannot dance victorious on the wreckage then you will have the dark.

The vines tighten. And through the red, Wilbur realizes what’s wrong.

(because here is a secret you keep locked away: you love the fire not for what it is, but for what it granted you, for the ending so desired, but the fear has never left you, the fear instilled in your veins the first time your country went up in a blaze and your people fell around you and it was no game, and here is the second secret: you fear the fire, and at the last, you decided you deserved to die afraid)

(it all comes down to deserving)

It’s difficult to think. Difficult to wade through the red haze, but this—this is important, because the Egg is going—is going to give him what he wants, so why does it—it’s supposed to understand him, so why—

(it all comes down to deserving, and what he thinks he deserves, and the Egg is in his head, and what is the Egg drawing from if not his own thoughts, but the thing about his thoughts is that they might be)

“That’s not what I wanted,” he whispers. “It’s not what I want.”

The Egg presses in further, and he can feel it in his head, pulling at his thoughts, at his emotions, telling him that he is wrong, that this is what he wants, but he stands his ground, because—his head’s a mess, but he—he doesn’t—

(Phil’s voice again, careful and sad and gentle and kind, because for all his father’s faults he has never doubted that he loves him, and Phil’s voice says, remember that you do deserve better things, and there’s an implication in there that Phil thinks that what he believes he deserves is wrong, and he hasn’t really had time to think that over, but)

The vine tightens around his throat. The thorns dig into his skin. Not breaking it, not yet.

“You’re offering me what I think I deserve,” he says, and it’s like coming up for air, if only for a moment, and finding that the sky is still blue. For a second, he exists outside of himself, outside of the hooks the Egg has dug into him, and he can experience its presence for the horror that it is. And then the red takes him again, and he’s drowning, suffocating, his lungs full of syrup, and the Egg is unhappy, and part of him wants to grovel and apologize and do anything to be sure that he receives his due, and the Egg speaks again and rakes its voice across his body, and he shudders violently.

Then what is it that you think you want? it asks, and it is angry and it is patronizing, and it is pushing up against him, twisting him, forcing him to agree with it, to believe its words, and half of him does and the other half comes up for air again, bobbing in the open ocean, sharks circling, and that gives him just enough room to consider the question, to truly consider it.

What does he want?

(freedom, once, freedom and choice and a place to call his, a place where he and his loved ones would be safe, and he built the walls as both practicality and symbol, and he wanted to protect, wanted to lead, wanted a land that was good and a land that was free)

If he could have anything, anything at all, what would he—

You want rest, the Egg hisses, and you know it, know that you are the villain and you deserve death, and you want rest and you want peace, to be released from this world that is cruel and corrupt and full of darkness, to be released from your responsibilities, you want rest and I will give it to you—

Yes, perhaps, but

(Tommy smiles at him with sunlight in his hair and in his eyes and Tubbo grins sharp and sure and Fundy is with him and no longer regards him with hatred and Techno has a book in his hand and his voices are quiet and Phil stares on and his posture is straight and not bent with guilt and with pain)

(and he is with them, and he has so far to go, but he is happy)

(and if he puts all of himself aside, puts aside his self-loathing and his fears, puts aside all the harm he knows he has done and all of the punishment he knows he still deserves, then that is what he’s always wanted, isn’t it? his family with him, the days stretching on, and here is a realization, breaking like the dawn itself: he hasn’t ever thought that he deserves to be happy, but he wants it, he wants it, he wants it, just as he wants to be a better man, he wants to be happy again, he wants, even if he doesn’t deserve he wants)

he has always wanted rest. Since coming back, he has wanted rest. But he is still here.

He decided to be better, and perhaps he’s not doing a very good job of it in any sense of the word, but he decided, and he’s sticking to it, and that is what he wants. More than death, he wants another chance.

He wants to stay. Not only for other people, but for himself, too. He wants to stay, and he wants to stay more than he wants to die.

Admitting as much lifts a weight from his chest, one that he hadn’t known was there at all.

Then I shall give you that, as well, the Egg says, and for the first time, he hears it: desperation. Slowly, surely, the red begins to clear, leaving him with shaking limbs and a headache that makes it difficult to focus, but the Egg’s voice is no longer so welcoming, the red no longer so appealing, and he hurts, and he hears Tommy’s broken protests, Tubbo’s sobs, Fundy’s whimpering, he can hear them, and they tug at his heartstrings where only a moment before, he ignored them, so sure of his course as he was, so sure of his course as it made him.

He’s pulled himself out. He pulled himself out, and he did it himself, with shaking, bloody fingers, and he hasn’t climbed back over the top of the cliff yet, but he’s hanging on. He’s hanging on. He’s stopped his fall.

(and he doesn’t know what healing is doesn’t know what it is to be better but perhaps here, now, he can admit to himself that being better includes being better to himself, too, and he has never allowed himself to think as much before but perhaps it is truth, and perhaps he can let himself hope, and what a time it is to finally come to this conclusion but something of truth rings in it and he knows that this is right)

They will be happy, the Egg says, and they will be alive, and I will keep them safe, and you will be happy as well, and you will have what you desire.

The words are like hands, pulling on him. But he can recognize as much. Recognize the sensation, slimy and insidious, of something else trying to change his thoughts, trying to reach in and change him. The ground beneath his feet feels more stable now, his footing found at last. He almost let himself slip. Almost, but he’s found footholds, handholds, and he did it himself, and that feels important.

“You and Dream are the same,” he murmurs, and he can feel it paying attention, feel it wanting to know what he’s about to say. And beyond it, somewhere further away, he thinks he can still sense Dream looking, too, Dream watching him, listening to them. “You’re always so eager to talk. So certain that you’re right. But you’re too prideful, and that’s the end of you.” He summons his best glare. Plants his feet. Playing his hand like this is not wise, but somehow, he knows that the Egg will let him finish, will let him get to the end of his speech before trying anything. It wants to know. Even now, it is prideful, sure it can contain him, that he will not be able to harm it. “Even knowing what my plan was, you let me get close. You assumed you could overwhelm me. You thought I’d be yours. And for a minute, you did. I was. But do you want to know what your biggest mistake was?”

The vine around his neck tightens.

“Even when you knew you were losing me, you still let me talk,” he finishes, and in one movement, drops the sword into his hand

(and he can hear the universe again, can hear it humming, vibrating against his skin, and he burns with it)

and slices through the vine before it can strangle him. In the next second, he drives it forward, putting all his weight behind it, and shoves it into the Egg.

It slides in like a knife through butter, and several things happen at once.

Behind him: chaos. Chaos that he can only hear and not see, but several people shout, and then Jack Manifold cries out, and there is another clash of metal, and then Tommy shouts, not in pain but rather a loud, wordless denial, and there is a great cracking sound, like the air tearing itself apart, and the golden flash reflects off even the Egg’s surface, and the room crackles like ozone, like a bend in reality, and it is the activation of a totem, and he can only hope that it will be enough.

And the Egg screams.

It is like a thousand voices crying out in a thousand discordant notes, like several hundred orchestras all out of tune in different ways, like a shriek of violins and a moan of tubas and the drums stutter and falter and tap out infinitely different rhythms until it’s all a clanging, howling mess of static and white noise and still, something screaming, something old and powerful and terrible in its death throes.

He screams too, he thinks. He can’t hear himself anymore. Can barely feel himself, though he tries to tighten his fingers on the hilt of the sword.

At the edge of his perception, the universe encroaches. Humming, humming, and for a second, they harmonize with him, and in that second, the universe says,

(you did well, and now look, look upon your adversary and know what they are, know the darkness and the corruption and the rot and the sickness)

And he does look, and he sees

(the Egg indeed is not an Egg and for this second, for this one moment in time and out of time, he sees it for what it is, something incomprehensible, something existing against all the laws of the world, all things natural, a blight, a bug, a twist in the code that makes up all things, a virus, and even despite that, it was not done growing, not done gathering strength, and one more sacrifice would have done it, glutted as it was on Dream’s shared power and the blood of the Blood God, one more meal would have done it, and he was close to being that meal, inches away from dying and giving it what it needed to hatch, and perhaps it would have kept its promise, perhaps it would have allowed his loved ones to live, but it would have been no life, no life at all, under the control of a thing that at its core sought to devour worlds)

But the universe says,

(but it is well, it is well, for your strength was enough and you are stronger than you know, and you are worthy and you have come to the beginnings of understanding, and you realize now that you are deserving of the world, that you deserve to live, and you want to live and to make yourself better, and you are deserving of time, and we are with you, and you are not alone, and you have freedom now to make it all right)

A million stars twinkle in his vision, and then, he comes back to himself. There is no more screaming. No more whispering. His head is quiet.

He still holds the sword. But the Egg itself is shriveling, blackening, twisting, collapsing in on itself, and as he watches, it and all its vines become husks, dark and small. He draws the sword out, and the area around it crumbles to dust.

It seems so small. So small, so impotent. But it is a corpse now, he supposes, so that is only right. Relief floods him.

It’s over. At last, it is over. The Egg is gone.

The sword no longer shimmers, no longer shines. The runes are only shapes, now, not glowing, not humming. It has served its purpose; it’s just a sword, now, like any other sword, and he’s tired of holding swords. He never was much good with them anyway. So he puts it back in his inventory, and turns

(and as he does, he catches a glimpse of something in the husk, in the shriveled shell, something impossibly blue, but that can wait)

around, and in that motion, his heart stops beating.

Only for a moment before it starts up again, but its rhythm is stuttering, weak, too quick and too slow by turns. He wonders if that’s something he should be concerned about. He feels no pain, though his body seems rather numb, now that he’s thinking about it. What’s important now, though, is the scene in front of him, because they’re all alive. All of them, alive. Tommy is hugging Tubbo, tightly, like he thinks he’ll disappear, and Tubbo himself glitters with gold, shimmering all around him. He had to use the totem, then.

He tries not to think about what would have happened if he hadn’t thrown it behind him. He’s pretty sure that he was trying to give them a failsafe, even under the Egg’s thrall as he was, but he can’t be sure. Can’t trust his memories of only a few minutes ago, probably.

Niki and Jack are both on the ground, surrounded with dust from the crumbling vines. Their eyes are closed, but their chests rise and fall. They’ll be fine, then, and relief mixes with sorrow; they’re not under the Egg’s control any longer, but he knows better than to think that means all is fixed. Fundy has staggered to his feet, is hovering by Tommy and Tubbo, face still tear-stained.

But he’s fine. He’s okay. They’re all okay.

He lets out a breath, and takes a step forward. It’s more difficult than it should be. Pain flares in his—flares everywhere, actually, his abdomen and chest and limbs, and his head is still killing him, though that much, at least, doesn’t surprise him. But then, it dies down, replaced by the numbness again.

Tommy pulls back from Tubbo. “You ever do something like that again, I’m killing you myself, Tubbo, fuck,” he says, and Tubbo laughs, a little tearfully. And then, Tommy rounds on him. “And you, what the fuck did you think you were doing? How stupid are you?”

“A bit stupid,” he agrees. The words come out slurred. He frowns, and so does Tommy. Or at least, he thinks that he frowns. He can’t feel his face. Tommy is definitely frowning, though, and then Tommy is walking toward him, or stumbling, more like, and then all three of them are.

“Are you good?” Tommy asks. “You’re making weird faces.”

“That was a good throw, with the totem,” Tubbo says, almost at the same time. Where Tommy stands right in front of him, Tubbo goes around to stand at his side, looking him up and down with narrowed eyes, narrowed eyes that flicker with golden light. He’ll crash once the magic burns itself out, though it shouldn’t be nearly as bad as what Techno went through. He keeps rolling his shoulder, flexing his arm, as if shaking out a wound that is no longer there. “Saved my skin, there. But man, that was a risky play.”

“I can’t believe it worked,” Fundy says quietly. “I thought the Egg could read thoughts. I mean, I felt it in my head, man. It was awful. But how come it didn’t know you were pretending?”

“Pretty sure he wasn’t pretending,” Tommy says, and—he wishes he didn’t say that, because now still doesn’t feel like the time to talk to Fundy about any of this, even though he probably should, at one point, because if he’s going to be a better father, he ought to start by telling him things that he wants to know, despite the part of him that still screams to shelter him, screams that he’s not ready to learn about such terrible things, but—he’s grown. Fundy is grown. He needs to work on keeping that in mind.

“I just can’t believe it’s over,” Tommy continues. “Just like that? After the days we’ve had? Feels anti-climatic—”

“Anti-climactic,” Tubbo supplies.

“Oh, piss off. Anti-whatever, it feels all sudden, doesn’t it? Though I suppose there’s still Dream.” Tommy’s face darkens. “Guess we need to go see about everyone else.”

“Uh, Wilbur?” Fundy breaks in, hesitant, but not angry. Not too upset. Perhaps concerned? Is Fundy concerned for him? “Your, um, your nose is bleeding.”

Tommy and Tubbo go silent, and he blinks. Is it? He can’t feel it, can’t feel any blood dripping down, but he can’t seem to move his arm to check. He can’t seem to move anything, actually, and when he opens his mouth, intending to say something—though what, he has no idea—he finds his airway obstructed by something. He coughs, and their faces all go very alarmed.

“Oh, shit, he’s bleeding from his mouth,” Tubbo says, and at the same time, Tommy steps in closer, right up against him, and grabs his shoulders, peering into his face.

“Wil?” he says, and Wilbur would try to respond, he really would, but Tommy’s touch has chased away the numbness, starting at the points of contact and radiating outward and in its wake is—is too much, too much to think about, too much to describe, too much to handle, and he’s been stabbed and he’s been shot and none of that felt anything like this, because this feels like lava’s been poured down his throat and he’s burning alive from this inside out, and his lungs are having severe difficulty inhaling, and his chest is tight and he can’t feel his heartbeat so he thinks that maybe—

“Get him on the ground, get him down, get him down, oh, fuck—”

The world tips, and he’s lying down. The ceiling above is red, and dust drifts into his eyes. Dust from the vine husks, breaking apart as he watches them, crumbling into nothingness. It’s like watching ash fall. Like watching soot fall.

His chest constricts further, and he gasps for air. Air that doesn’t come. Air that doesn’t come, because, because—

They’re all talking over each other. He can barely follow the conversation. Dimly, he realizes that he’s quite panicked, though that fact itself has taken a backseat to the fact that he can’t breathe properly. Can’t breathe properly, because—

He thinks he might be dying, actually. He’d forgotten, how the Egg strikes back at those who strike it. He’d forgotten. He wonders if the universe did, too.

The vines aren’t burning, so there’s no ash falling. Not really. But there would be a twisted kind of poetry in it if they were, if it was flakes of soot tumbling down. Soot falling.

Soot falling.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #dsmp fic #wilbur soot #tommyinnit #tubbo #fundy #purpled #nihachu #jack manifold #/rp #cat writes fic #long post #*jazz hands*

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okruchlodu · 1 year

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Two weeks since their reunion had passed, and she found herself embodying the impatience that she felt in something of an insatiable itch; a feral, wild animal caged somewhere deep inside of her, scratching to get out. All seemed to be well - for now; Ciri was safe and unhurt, away from every thing that meant her harm; Geralt was here, with them, and the likelihood that she could steal the witcher away for this, if only for a short time, appeared doable. She shelved what guilt she felt if only for Ciri's sake. Too soon, one might have said was it for her to set out on this adventure, and yet the enchantress would not take any chances— not if it meant doing everything within her power to keep her daughter of Chaos safe and alive. She preferred to harness what power she could, now, before what most she feared once more came calling for them… And even though she deigned neither think nor speak of it —she was not foolish enough to truly allow herself believe the peace would last; there was just too many enemies hot on their trail; half of the Continent had been hunting them down for such long a time now, Yennefer felt as though they had not stopped running for years, now; there was still too much at stake, too many battles to be fought, obstacles to overcome. And even though, here, sheltered away on the edge of the world where naught but wolves & witchers dwelt, felt safe, Yennefer would not risk it.

Last night, the sorceress, after demanding the Witcher meet her here come the morn, proclaiming him the very best of trackers and herself in dire need of his skills, had then went on to pack a basket full of elixirs and potions ( meant to aid the Witcher track the creature she was after ) for their travels. The place of power she wanted to take Geralt was a few miles east, so they would be traveling on horseback; she was still recovering from the floods of dimeritium Vilgefortz had flown into her bloodstream and the atrocious abuses inflicted upon her, and the fact this Witcher of hers absolutely detested portals had not somehow escaped her memory.

Standing in the stable area, now, swathed in a sable black cloak and with her violet eyes blazing like a river of purple mist in the sunlight, Yennefer pressed her palm to a restless mare’s flank, soothing her, ❝ a' caelme tedd…❞ she whispered the incarnation in Elder, tiny flickers of magic spilling from her fingertips in wisps of lilac light as she soothed the animal; she moved next to Geralt's horse, readying it, too, for their travels. ❝ easy, Roach… He won’t be too long now…❞ she uses her magic to conjure up a treat for the mount, delicately offering it up as she awaits his arrival, ❝ if he values certain parts of his body, that is… and what shall we name this one, hm? ❞ she indicates the mare she intends to ride herself, gloved hand still caressing Roach's mane. GODS, was she now, too, talking to horses? Perhaps surviving capture by Vilgefortz had left her short of a marble, after all!

@taleswritten

#ok so I thought maybe this could be set right after Geralt rescued her and Ciri from Stygga Castle? & we can take it from there and see how #our* story unfolds.#& geralt — my god is all mud / blood / desire & vision #& Geralt — taleswritten.#also.... i have a surprise in u bc i already know something about this lil trip of theirs that u dont xoxo #bear with me as i remake all my icons from scratch... ugh.

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offwilds · 1 year

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@ofgradobor ASKED FOR: 32. — Underneath

Her hands and eyes had been busy, fingers intertwined with the roots of a rather rare plant. She had been struggling to make a clean break and acquisition of it when she heard the descent of something (—no, someone) down the incline she sat near. It startled her, causing Nereinne to clutch briefly at her chest, mouth agape as she swiftly turned full around, ruining what was left of the plant she had been trying to harvest.

Cursing through her teeth, she exhaled sharply, her eyes rounding with shock and ire at the sight of a lone figure of a man, leaping forward through the trees, running away from…someone? Or, something. Pushing herself to her feet, she made to step toward the man, meaning to call out to him when an ear piercing shriek halted her step, cutting her off. The earth shook: a deep vibration both of them felt from the soles of their feet to the crowns of their heads. Birds and other such wild life squealed and squawked and plunged out of the way of whatever monstrous being was stamping down the hill — and the sorceress — amidst the brush and trees, she laid in wait—breathing stilled to near motionlessness until she caught sight of the creature which she swiftly recognized as a kikimora rampaging down the summit of the hill toward them, smashing down every thing in its path. Swallowing sharply, she raised her hand to bring forth and gather her magics, and she would have send forth a bolt of fire to smite the creature, when the stranger leaped forward with his great sword, cutting its legs in half; it shrieked, wild with fury, and she heard him gasp, felt a stream of hot, dark blood splash over her face, and she violently stumbled backward, her magic fizzling as something soon slammed into her, causing her to fall backwards onto the cold, damp ground- and soon, he was toppling over her too, his sword lodged into the creature writhing at their side.

She winced, gasped a breathless little “fuck…" feeling a cascade of blood trickle off his brow and onto her chin, making her sigh in shock and push at his chest to get him off her as their gazes met amid the chaos, the creature at their side screeching and howling in agony. “get off me!” she commanded in a breathless, cold voice, and gasped again as he rolled off her, grunting in pain.

She swiftly pulled herself up, her hands thrumming with magic, wisps of pale blue light spilling off her fingertips as she summoned forth her power, watching as the creature and the man both grunted in pain.

A hint of chill in the air, a crackle of ancient, dark spells summoned forth and the beast howled in pain. Blue and green lights streaked to the creature, prying its life away with tendrils of magic. The kikimore took a faltering breath, attempting to shake the spells. It took another, and then tottered over, crashing completely like a felled tree. The man on the ground watched through the dark-blue threads of fire and lightning seething from the mage's hands, smiling grimly, a sour expression darkening his gold gaze.

“fuck.” he spat, stumbling to his feet; a wolf denied his prey, ravenous with strange hungers. “the beast was mine, witch.” he growled, his voice a wolf's howl, dark, cold venom.

“Just so.” she tossed back tartly, her dark, violet eyes full of amusement and contempt. She wiped his blood off her cheek, drawing herself up into a simulacrum of her usual haughty self. Stood before him, she radiated an air of aloof intrigue and scorn. She had huge violet eyes and exceptionally fair skin. Her raven black hair was a mass of curls, held in place by a silver circlet around her brow. She took a step closer, cast a scathing look upon him, and said “and I am a sorceress. Not a hag, you dithering imbecile.” just as she tossed the strip of black silk wrapped about her waist to keep her skirts in place, so that he might wipe the blood off his brow with it.

And Aldric of Gradobor laughed.

#tales from the wilds.#a whisper from times past ;#& aldric #My God is all mud / blood / desire and vision.

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imaginemirage · 3 years

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"My God is all mud, blood, desire and vision. He is not pure, not spotless, not just, not omnipotent, omnibenevolent. He is not light. Struggling and toiling, he transubstantiates the night in his heart of hearts and turns it into light."

Nikos Kazantzakis

#nikos kazantzakis #poem #quote #poetry #poet #quotes #god #religion #light #dark #belief #vision #toil

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michaelbogild · 3 years

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Quotes by Arthur Rimbaud

A mysterious anthem falls from the golden stars.

A poet makes himself a visionary through a long, boundless, and systematized disorganization of all the senses. All forms of love, of suffering, of madness; he searches himself, he exhausts within himself all poisons, and preserves their quintessences. Unspeakable torment, where he will need the greatest faith, a superhuman strength, where he becomes all men the great invalid, the great criminal, the great accursed--and the Supreme Scientist! For he attains the unknown! Because he has cultivated his soul, already rich, more than anyone! He attains the unknown, and if, demented, he finally loses the understanding of his visions, he will at least have seen them! So what if he is destroyed in his ecstatic flight through things unheard of, unnamable: other horrible workers will come; they will begin at the horizons where the first one has fallen!

A thousand Dreams within me softly burn: From time to time my heart is like some oak Whose blood runs golden where a branch is torn

Against snow, a tall Beautiful Being. Whistlings of death and circles of muffled music make this adored body rise, swell and tremble like a ghost; scarlet and black wounds open in the magnificent flesh.

Along the open road on winter nights, homeless, cold, and hungry, one voice gripped my frozen heart: 'Weakness or strength: you exist, that is strength. You don't know where you are going or why you are going, go in everywhere, answer everyone. No one will kill you, any more than if you were a corpse.' In the morning my eyes were so vacant and my face so dead, that the people I met may not even have seen me.

And from that time on I bathed in the Poem Of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk, Devouring the green azures; where, entranced in pallid flotsam, A dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down

And the horizon runs away from an eternal flight

Aphrodite’s thirst was never quenched; it was cruel and dreamy. It was certainly the most splendid kind of thirst.

As of today, I rebel against death! Work seems frivolous; I'm a proud man, and a lifetime's work would be too brief an agony for me. At the last moment, I'd attack...to the right...to the left...And then—oh!—sweet old soul of mine, eternity would not have been wasted on us!

Blood was flowing – in Bluebeard’s house, in the abattoirs, in the circuses where God had set his seal to whiten the windows. Blood and Milk flowed together.

But, true, I’ve wept too much! Dawns break hearts.

But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.

By being too sensitive I have wasted my life.

Come from forever, and you will go everywhere.

Doubt, a dreary bird, strikes us with its wing

Every moon is brutal, every sun bitter.

From castles of bone unknown music comes

Genius is the recovery of childhood at will.

how full of flowers the world was that summer! Tunes and forms fading... ––A choir, to calm down impotence and absence! A choir of glass pieces, of nocturnal melodies... Soon, indeed, the nerves will slip their moorings.

I alone have the key to this wild parade.

I am hidden and I am not.

I believe I am in Hell, therefore I am

I could never throw Love out of the window.

I found I could extinguish all human hope from my soul.

I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; Garlands from window to window; Golden chains from star to star ... And I dance.

I have withered within me all human hope. With every silent leap of a sullen beast, I have downed and strangled every joy. I have called for executioners; I want to perish chewing on their gun butts. I have called for plagues, to suffocate in sand and blood. Unhappiness has been my god. I have lain down in the mud, and dried myself off in the crime-infested air. I have played the fool to the point of madness

I is another.

I ought to have a special hell for my anger, a hell for my pride, – and a hell for sex; a whole symphony of hells!

I saw myself before an infuriated mob, facing the firing squad, weeping out of pity for the evil they could not understand, and forgiving!

I shall ask forgiveness for having fed on lies.

I shed more tears than God could ever have required.

I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.

I understand, and not knowing how to express myself without pagan words, I’d rather remain silent

I will tear the veils from every mystery: mysteries of religion or of nature, death, birth, the future, the past, cosmogony, and nothingness. I am a master of phantasmagoria.

I've researched the magic shapes of the happiness no one escapes.

I've seen archipelagos of stars; islands whose feverish skies are spread above the traveller - are these the boundless nights in which you sleep?

In the dawn, armed with a burning patience, we shall enter the splendid Cities

In the great glasshouses streaming with condensation, the children in mourning-dress beheld marvels.

Is it in these bottomless nights that you sleep in exile?

It began as research. I wrote of silences, of nights, I scribbled the indescribable. I tied down the vertigo.

It has been found again. What? – Eternity. It is the sea mingled with the sun

It was the voice of mad seas, roaring immense

Let us desire The nothing of night

Life is the farce we are all forced to endure.

Monkeys of men fallen from the vulva of mothers

my heart, my heart betrayed me!

My wisdom is as spurned as chaos. What is my nothingness, compared to the amazement that awaits you?

O seasons, O castles, What soul is without flaws? All its lore is known to me, Felicity, it enchants us all

Once, if my memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where every heart revealed itself, where every wine flowed.

One evening I sat Beauty on my knees – And I found her bitter – And I reviled her.

Our pale reason hides the infinite!

Pagan blood returns!

Satan, you clown, you want to dissolve me with your charms. Well, I want it. I want it! Stab me with a pitchfork, sprinkle me with fire!

Self interest exists, attachment based on personal gain exists, complacency exists. But not love. Love has to be reinvented, that’s certain.

Stronger than alcohol, vaster than poetry, Ferment the freckled red bitterness of love!

ternity is the sun mixed with the sea

That shattered your infant breast, too soft, too human.

The first study for the man who wants to be a poet is knowledge of himself, complete: he searches for his soul, he inspects it, he puts it to the test, he learns it. As soon as he has learned it, he must cultivate it! I say that one must be a seer, make oneself a seer. The poet becomes a seer through a long, immense, and reasoned derangement of all the senses. All shapes of love suffering, madness. He searches himself, he exhausts all poisons in himself, to keep only the quintessences. Ineffable torture where he needs all his faith, all his superhuman strength, where he becomes among all men the great patient, the great criminal, the great accursed one--and the supreme Scholar! For he reaches the unknown! ....So the poet is actually a thief of Fire!

The flowering sweetness of the stars

The northern lights rise like a kiss to the sea

The poet makes himself a voyant through a long, immense reasoned deranging of all his senses. All the forms of love, of suffering, of madness; he tries to find himself, he exhausts in himself all the poisons, to keep only their quintessences.

The poet, therefore, is truly the thief of fire. He is responsible for humanity, for animals even; he will have to make sure his visions can be smelled, fondled, listened to; if what he brings back from beyond has form, he gives it form; if it has none, he gives it none. A language must be found…of the soul, for the soul and will include everything: perfumes, sounds colors, thought grappling with thought

The storm made bliss of my sea-borne awakenings.

The world progresses! Why shouldn’t it turn as well?

The World will vibrate like an immense lyre In the trembling of an infinite kiss!

These verses believe; they love; they hope; that is all.

They find me odd, and whisper behind hands... And my brutal desires sink hooks into their lips...

They seem to have fallen asleep in some rose-coloured paradise…

This lofty thought proves I dreamt it!

To whom shall I hire myself out? What beast should I adore? What holy image is attacked? What hearts shall I break? What lies shall I uphold? In what blood tread?

True alchemy lies in this formula: ‘Your memory and your senses are but the nourishment of your creative impulse’.

True life is elsewhere. We are not in the world.

turn your face towards the lances of rain, the soul towards ancient wisdom

We are overwhelmed with a cloak of ignorance and narrow chimeras

What an old maid I'm getting to be. lacking the courage to be in love with death!

Whose hearts must I break? What lies must I maintain? - Through whose blood am I to wade ?

Your strawberry-raspberry taste, your flowery flesh

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harringtonheartache · 5 years

Text

Daybreak | Part Eight

Part Nine

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Lab Escapee! Reader?

Summary: Part eight of this fic. Let the search commence.

Word Count: 2,400 +

Warning(s): Mild cussing, mentions of blood

A/N: Heyo! I’m really excited to be posting again (-: I hope everyone enjoys, and thank you so much for your kind words! 💕

Three pairs of footsteps followed one another, imprinted in the dirt made soft by rainwater. The smallest pair fell back a ways, and the two in the front held the eye of the following child. He was not going to get lost. The sky was empty. There were no stars out, and the moon seemed to reside somewhere out of view, lingering behind clouds, otherwise completely gone from the atmosphere. Since the sky was no aid in providing light, two flashlights casted beams across the trees.

The third hung lazily at Steve’s side, its light dragging across the ground without intent.

He spoke with his unoccupied hand gesturing to his chest. “I mean, I can’t believe how hard of a fall he took,” Steve laughed, going on about some miscellaneous story he had recalled to occupy the time.

“Hey, this isn’t a date, okay? Can you pay attention, Steve? I don’t exactly know what I am supposed to be looking for,” Dustin interrupted with no problem doing so.

“I-” Steve started his defense statement. He peaked backwards at the follower. “None of us know exactly what we’re looking for, Dustin.”

The child’s sneakers now dragged heavy streaks in the dirt.

Steve, perhaps realizing that his tone was a bit more harsh than he had intended, stopped in his tracks. Dustin kept walking a few strides before realizing, landing at Steve’s side. The flashlight that had dangled by Steve’s pant leg was swung upward by it’s string and landed steadily in his hand. He casted the light upward, illuminating the underside of his face. “C’mon we’re looking for clues. Pick up the pace, you’re the team leader anyway. ” he said, bringing his left hand to the brim of Dustin’s hat and flicking it.

Dustin’s voice came out incredulous. “I am not the team-”

“Yes you are, man! You are the one who brought us three together, and this whole plan was constructed at your house. Team leader.” Steve was insistent, even if just to mend the sourness between the two that derived from Dustin feeling left out. The yellow light was redirected, now pointing at Dustin’s face, a little higher than it had been on Steve’s. “Ow, I can’t see. Stop that-” he squirmed in the light, squinting in an attempt to salvage his vision. He started batting at Steve’s hand. “You’re going to blind me, cut that out!”

The light was drawn back to Steve’s face, and Dustin blinked rapidly to restore his sight. “Team. Leader.” the illuminated face spoke strongly.

Unsure if he should blame his lack of proper eyesight or not, Dustin looked around almost frantically. The third member of their team did not stop alongside them.

“Calm down, man. You’re fine-” Steve started, oblivious.

“Nine, Steve. Where is Nine?!”

Registering the alert, Steve pulled a puzzled expression and looked around as Dustin had done. “Shit,” he muttered. To the kid, yes, but mostly to himself. He finally uses his flashlight for it’s intended purpose as he flashes it across the trees. “Nine?” He does a 360, checking to see if she had circled around them.

“Shit,” he spoke again, almost quiet but not trying hard enough to be. “Nine!” He started in the direction they had intended to walk together, the tips of his shoes sinking into the soft mud on his takeoff. “Shit, wait for me!” Dustin, slow to react, followed behind, just as he had been doing before.

Nine’s name continued bouncing off the trees, two voices shouting it out into the void. It sounded similar to how Will’s name had a few days earlier. Steve’s panic grew with every call, the severity of his own voice’s volume adding to the chaos of shuffling feet. The flashlight in his hand had never been gripped tighter, and he almost wanted to blame the tool for being of no aid. She seemed to have vanished out of thin air, like the moon also appeared to have done this evening. Dustin, close behind and panting, jogged to meet Steve. His hand smacked lightly against the taller boy’s jacket sleeve. “Hey, dude.” He redirected Steve’s attention to the ground, his flashlight reflecting gently off of the wet surface of the bloodied dirt. A few footprint-sized puddles of blood, dark and rich in red color.

A feeling in the back of Steve’s throat, a dry spot that forewarned tears. He swallowed to make it go away, but the action failed him. He shouted her name again, as it was the only thought left in his head. It left his mouth strained, cracking as it reached its peak amplification. He looked around in the dark, begging his eyes to make out a human figure in the distance. Somewhere his voice perhaps couldn’t reach. Dustin only watched, unsure of himself and deeply regretful of his new title of “team leader”. Steve kept checking over the treeline, refusing the idea of looking back down at the blood. A second call of her name, just as strained as the first, but perhaps hinted with more pleading. This time they were met with a response.

“Guys!”

Almost choking on the word he had not even said himself, Steve turned in the direction of the third voice. He took off, once again leaving Dustin to scramble to his own run. “Over here!” Nine spoke again, and by the time she had finished the two had almost reached her. Steve threw aside a tree branch with his hands, almost crashing into it face first. He stumbled through some foliage, colliding himself with Nine who stood in front of it. She staggered backwards and he grabbed onto her arm for stability. He did not let go once he found his footing, though, and instead gripped it with more intention.

“Holy shit, Nine. Oh my god,” he breathed heavily. Her eyes beamed across his face, easily picking up on his distress despite her personal confusion. Steve’s free arm drifted from his side to hang in the air, but he didn’t let it go any further. Yearning but not quite brave enough. Startled from his violent entry and rapid breath, Nine was breathing sharply now too. She took notice of his open stance, realizing how he had frozen himself to stop from acting on his desire. She moved slowly, lifting her arms to position them under Steve’s, reaching towards his waist with hesitance. Invitation received, he acted with quickness, enveloping her in a strong hug and exhaling with his entire chest.

His head was bent down, resting on her shoulder and almost causing his words to be swallowed completely by the fabric of her borrowed jacket. “Please don’t wander off like that, you scared me”.

Nine nodded, and he could feel the movement against his own head. “I’m sorry,” she said faintly. It was an unfamiliar sensation to her. She understood the feeling of importance, but not like this. At the lab she was important, but it came through greed and malice. Ill intent swallowed up that significance, and she was unable to feel the love that was supposed to come along with mattering to another person. Right now, squeezed tightly between Steve’s chest and arms in a place of warmth, she understood what it felt like when that burning necessity derived from pure affection.

“Oh thank fuck,” Dustin finally arrived to the scene. Too relieved to even crack a joke about the two bundled up together in front of him, he put his hands to his knees and let himself breathe. Steve subsequently let go of Nine’s body and stepped back slightly to put both hands on either side of her arms. He leaned down a little to get a better look at her. “Are you okay? Like, completely?” She nodded again, and this time he could see her do so. “Yeah, I’m okay,” she nearly whispered, adding a light smile.

She turned her head to the right, pointing with her flashlight at the reason she had called them over from so far. Dustin groaned at the sight, and Steve made a face of displeasure. The corpse of a deer laid mutilated, blood leaking from its body onto the ground below at its final resting place. “That’s where the blood came from,” Steve said lowly, and Dustin turned away from the scene altogether.

“Why are we looking at a dead deer?” he spoke up louder than Steve, unwilling to face the situation behind him. “It was attacked,” Nine said, “but I don’t think by an animal”. Claw marks decorated it’s body, the work of something non-human for sure. “What do you mean?” Dustin asked. He turned back to face them but avoided looking to the deer still lit up by the flashlight.

“A creature, from the upside down. I think it escaped the lab the same night I did.”

“Wait, how do we know this wasn’t just, like, a bear or something?” Dustin still lead the conversation, holding onto a desire for normality to take back over their night.

The light casted across the deer’s corpse flickered, and the two at the boys’ sides did the same. Nine’s heart rate sped up without warning, and the two who accompanied her stood confused yet unaware. “We- we have to go,” she choked timidly.

“Wha-” Steve started his question, but an animalistic shriek cut him off. Now all three’s hearts matched one another’s quickened paces, and Steve and Nine held each other's panicked stares. His feet instinctively turned to run, but Nine, frozen like Steve had been earlier, did not move. He grabbed onto her arm again, this time tugging her forwards. “Come on,” he said emphatically, still holding her eye.

The three took off in the direction they could most accurately assume that they came from. In a turn of events, Dustin now lead the way. Steve kept a steady grip on Nine’s arm with his left hand, and batted away branches and leaves with his right. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” their leader screeched, throwing himself under low-hanging foliage but refusing to slow his pace. It wasn’t hard to sense the movement behind them, screaming just how close the monster followed behind. How far they had ventured off into the forest was becoming foggy, and Steve was unsure just where his car was parked outside of the treeline.

Feet now splashed in the dampened mud puddles. The darkness was no aid in determining just what was ahead, and had it been daylight, maybe Steve would have seen the large log a few strides in front of him. His shin slammed into the wood, and he fell forwards over the fallen, rotting tree. Nine had made it a foot or two past him before she was yanked backwards by his hand that was still wrapped around her wrist. He let go immediately upon her fall, and used his freed hands to push himself upward. He had not even brought himself to stand fully before he was pulled backward just as she had been, only the hold was on his ankle. The figure preventing him from continuing on with his run was tall, most likely hitting nine feet had they stopped to measure. It had Steve’s foot in its clasp, and dragged him backwards on his front side. Nine had landed backwards, and turned herself around with her palms quickly to take in what was happening so rapidly.

Without thought, she raised her muddied hands with vigor. She sat up on her knees now, sinking into the wet ground as she did so with force. Another scream found the air, and it didn’t belong to the creature this time. She cried out, maybe louder than it had, and within seconds Steve was dropped to the grass. The beast plummeted backwards, not coming to a stop until it hit a tall tree with a thud. Nine’s hands didn’t leave the air for another moment or two, but when they did, they met the ground as she leaned forwards to steady her lungs.

Steve had turned himself over by now, and back-peddled (with one foot) from the monster to land himself next to Nine. Both of the two were breathing too quickly to speak. Sitting up a bit, she wiped the stubborn mud from her palms on her already dirtied pant leg. Her hands then found Steve’s shoulders as she twisted to face him. A tear tracked its way through the dirt on her cheek, and she couldn’t help the ones that followed. She was still silent though, her brisk breath still taking up any room left for words.

“I-” Steve started to talk, but stuttered over his words when she let go of his shoulders and pulled him in close for their second hug. She let out a deep breath, a cold shutter he felt on his neck. He hugged her back firmly, gripping onto the fabric of her clothing and letting himself have the moment. Swallowing to clear his throat as best as he could, he tried whispering this time, just to her. “I’m okay, I promise”.

She pulled away from him, still teary-eyed and worried for his condition. Her eyes traveled down to his leg, and she shuffled forwards to get a better look at it. He wore an anklet of blood, puncture wounds evident through the holes in his jeans. Dustin, who had stopped upon hearing the shouts from behind him, advanced towards the two still on the ground. “Holy shit! Steve are you okay? What just happened?”

“We have to go.” Nine said, voice strained and still taking in the state of Steve’s wound. “Help me get him up,” she turned to Dustin, and he scrambled to Steve’s unoccupied side.

“I- I’m good I can stand up,” he said, but gave in fully to the help he was offered.

The three staggered back to the car, and Dustin - finding the keys in Steve’s jacket pocket - tossed them to Nine once they had laid the wounded in the back seat to stretch his leg in the larger space. He sat up promptly, both hands on either shoulder of the front seats. “Woah, woah, woah, no. She can’t drive? What are you doing?” he asked Dustin who had settled in shotgun. “Well neither can I and neither can you, so out of all of us, I vote her most qualified right now.” Nine opened the door of the driver’s side and sat down for the first time in front of the wheel. She turned around to face Steve and join the conversation. “I…” she held the car key forward shyly. “How does this work?”.

---

Tag List: @ggclarissa @hyp-oh-critical @orchideax @we-are-band-sexuals @cpt-lamby @l0ve-0f-my-life @girlyisthatweirdkid @easyvtohat @ireallylikerugby @used-avocado @kwyloz

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington imagine #stranger things #steve harrington fluff #steve x reader #dustin henderson #stranger things fic #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fic #ST fic #dustin

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thepiningpoet · 4 years

Text

The Tempest

The ridiculous idea of cities having been compromised, lost and won, a thousand ships launched, brotherhood and sisterhood forsook, kin abandoned for the sake of it...I could never comprehend the idea. Until now. Now since having heard your voice and the kind words they carry with such eloquence, having been ensnared too many times in the cool of those sea-green pools that serve you as eyes and fathomed what rush the brush of your skin must stir...I'm beginning to understand why men have dueled and spilled blood for such feelings your eyes kindle in me, how sisters have fought for letters that have harbored words reminiscent to what you have shared with me and those same letters smelling of your cologne, carrying a mystic interwoven in the parchment somewhere.

I wrote you once, indicating what I thought of you. "Ethereal," I said. You embody all that masculinity should represent for me: confidence void of boastfulness. Confident enough to never feel your sexuality has been breached upon regardless of what emotions or clothing you wear. Confident enough to view women as equals. And yet too, there is a subtle delicateness about you, but only in the way a dream which is too wonderful is delicate...because one doesn't wish to wake and those sweet visions be lost forever. Delicate only in the way one is heedful not to touch a masterpiece in fear the paint will chip or the marble will crack. But deeper still, when I said "ethereal" I meant in all entirety "otherwordly". Such beauty is not of earth, not of soil and mud and stones. Not of humans, in our filth, simplicity and ignorance. I handle you with thin white gloves as restorers do the Mona Lisa. You never responded to that message, which said nothing yet everything without you knowing fully. And yet you pondered what it might mean. You must've. For since then, I've seen you pass by my door every other day. On occasion, you'll leave a flower by the door as if to state you haven't forgotten. Frequently now you'll pretend to pick up a pen you've dropped and your eyes will spare the quickest of glances through my keyhole or you'll check for light under my door. What is it you're looking for? What is it you seek? Have I felt feelings so strong for you that they've penetrated the universe and changed the atmosphere in which you breathe? What possesses you in the strangest of hours to always pass by my door but never through the threshold? And yet why should I wonder that you haven't? Even Death has not been so bold as it knows I would not leave peacefully.

I know the click of your shoes, sir, God, the smell of the leather of your bags, the little sounds of the jewel movements of your watch, the silence that follows when you enter a room is like the type of quietness when one sits at the pier just before a storm. You leave the same unsettled feelings in people, a tempest of sorts, stirring these waves of emotions that cannot be tamed. Jesus quelled raging seas they say, yet no prayers seem to calm this potent desire in me. And I've made my mind up for some reason or another, that only you can bend these seas in me to tranquility. So take my hand in yours, just this once, and silence the mist that hisses with such bitterness that I'll never be loved as truthfully and passionately as I have loved. Put to rest the currents that whirl with thoughts of inferiority within my mind, just as your attentions have done before. Hush my breakers and billows and ripples, bind the swells in me with the embrace of your lips and let this restless spirit in me find peace, the kind of peace I have just when I'm in your company and talking with you for hours. Give me peace by being the piece I've been looking for for so long.

-K.A.H.

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zmediaoutlet · 4 years

Text

whatever we were before

finally posting my masquerade fill! The anon asked for a Dragon Age/SPN crossover, in which Dean is Hawke. I screeched lightly under my breath when I saw it, and delivered. (I hope!)

title: whatever we were before pairing: Sam/Dean rating: E

summary: After the expedition into the Deep Roads, Dean's a rich man. He bought back the ancestral family manor, and he's safe. He's not okay, though, because for all they gained on the expedition--he lost so much more.

(read on AO3)

Kirkwall’s never quiet at night. Dean’s gotten used to it, although it’s a far cry from the farm back home in Ferelden. There, the most he was likely to hear at night was a fox trying to get into the chickens, or Dad coming home soused from the inn, sleeping in the mudroom because he couldn’t work out the lock Dean had built to keep the Templars out. Here, surrounded by people, it feels—he used to think it was crowded, but now it just feels like life, being lived. People always working, the city humming along with each part always moving. He still remembers lying awake at his uncle’s house in Lowtown, that horrible week after they’d first arrived, staring at the ceiling in the narrow room and unable to shut it out—the city, a throbbing entity. He’s glad he can sleep, now. Makes things easier to bear.

His legs have stopped aching, too, after this many months walking up and down the Great Stairs. Isabela says they’ve done great work for his physique; Dean’s just glad his arse and thighs will agree to support him after the long climb from the docks to Hightown. This morning Aveline had guilted him into doing an errand for her, something the city guard should’ve taken care of, but really it didn’t take that much guilting—she and he both knew that he’d be able to do it faster, better, and cleaner, and anyway it was good to get out, into the fresh air. He's moneyed now, and maybe a lordling of a sort, if the Free Marches would only admit that their merchant-princes were no different from the nobility of the south, but still. He’d grown up using his muscles and his mind, and it felt right to be out on the cliffs, salt-spray in his face and his armor settled comfortably on his shoulders, his sword ready at his hip. So. They’d gone out, and he’d—killed. Quite a few. Slavers, they were, and he didn’t feel bad about killing them but the battle had been messy, and he’d had to wash the blood off in the sea, the salt gritting into the crevices of his mail and stiffening the leather. He’s glad he didn’t bring Fenris; there would’ve been so much more blood.

His legs don’t ache, but it feels like every other part does, when he gets to the top of the stairs. The guards at Hightown’s gates nod to him, deferent like they weren’t three years ago, and he doesn’t respond. Pricks, the lot of them, granting respect only for fine clothes and finer real estate. He wishes he’d gotten back hours ago, when he might've blended in to the general throng, but he’s made it a habit to walk his friends home, to make sure they're safe. He saw Merrill back to her little house, and Isabela and Varric back to their inn, and stayed there for a pint or two, celebrating a successful job.

A job—ha. Still how he thinks of it, after all that time of scrambling in Lowtown, trying to put food on the family’s table. He walks the now-familiar streets, slate stones laid down on the neat boulevards the merchants control, and he misses—sort of—yes, he misses the rolled-cobbles and grit of the old neighborhoods, and the wild-grown weeds among the stones by the Hanged Man. Used to the city, but missing the city. He can hear a sarcastic voice in his ear, saying, Dean, that doesn't make any sense, but he ignores it. He’s tired. No energy for misery, not now.

Winchester Manor still has lamps lit in the entry when he comes to the square. Despite everything, his shoulders relax a little, seeing it. He unlocks the door and it’s warm inside, smells of bread baking, and in the time it takes for him to set his sword and shield on their rack in the armory off the entry, Bodahn appears, and pops his head around the corner to say, "Ah, Master Winchester. Good hunting, I trust?"

Dean smiles, and it’s only partly an effort. "Good enough, Bodahn. Send a runner to the palace, to let Aveline know I’ll see her tomorrow afternoon, all right?"

"Very good, sir," Bodahn says, agreeable as always, but then looks at him critically. "I’ll have dinner sent up to your chambers, yes? Sandal will have gotten a bath ready."

Even after years, he’s still not used to servants, but— "Yes," he says, and the relief that washes through him is probably ridiculous, but. "Yes, thank you."

The parlor’s warm enough, but dark, the only light coming from the banked fire. Other than Bodahn and Sandal, the house is always empty. He stands and looks at the great tapestry, the family crest tracing the family down to their father’s name. The embroidery stops there. He licks his lips, looking at the faded silk, and turns away, and trudges up the broad stairs, aware that his boots are tracking the dust and dirt of the lower city on the thick carpets. Sandal will clean it up.

The master room is so big. Bigger than his uncle’s whole house, he thinks. He’s paced it; he’s pretty sure. The fire in here is roaring, and the lamps are lit by the bedside and on the desk, and his armor stand is waiting for him to strip, piece by piece. The chest plate, and the pauldrons, and his gauntlets, and the mail, and the boots, and the leather weskit, and when he’s left in his shirt he shivers, all over, though the room’s more than warm enough. In the corner, by the pushed-aside screen, the bath sits steaming by some magic Sandal’s very proud of and that Dean doesn’t at all understand, but he’s grateful when he sinks down into it. It’s big enough that he can fit his shoulders against one edge and keep his feet below the water on the other, a luxury he’d never imagined as a child and which, still, by every measure, is the greatest advantage of his life as he lives it now. Some kind of fragrant oil scenting the steam—elfroot maybe, or the arbor blessing Bodahn was bragging about acquiring a few weeks ago. Makes the water slip like silk against his skin while the soothing heat works its way past muscle to the bone. Makes it easy not to think, to relax. Finally.

"You look so spoiled," he hears, and he surges up—because—

"Sam," he breathes. He's so sure he’s dreaming, that a desire demon has worked its way into his mind and is showing him some helplessly sought-after vision, that he digs his nails deep enough into his own thigh that he’ll bruise—but Sam’s still standing there, in the doorway. Sam.

"It’s me," Sam says, and—yes. Of course it is. Sam, with dirt on his cheek, and a healed-over scrape under that, and his hair grown long and falling into his eyes. Sam, wearing the uniform of the Wardens just like the last time Dean saw him, studded leather over his chest and the blue-and-white tabard still belted around his narrow waist. Sam, leaning his staff into the corner—a new one, blackened oak and a stone Dean doesn’t recognize—and Sam, walking across the room with his boots thudding into the carpet—and Sam, crouching by the bath, and touching Dean’s cheek, and Dean surging halfway out of the bath and sloshing water everywhere and kissing him, kissing him, because—Sam, here. Here, when Dean had thought—

"It’s me," Sam says again, "Dean, I’m here," and Dean says, "I can see you’re fuckin’ here, Sammy, I—Sam—" and Sam laughs and says, "I know, sorry, I—" and kisses him again, hand cupping the back of Dean's skull and Dean’s hands tight in Sam’s hair and hurting his nails against the leather of Sam’s brigandine because—three years, it’s been three goddamn years and no letters, no word, and Dean hadn’t known—hadn’t had anything beyond hope—that Sam was alive and well at the fortress at Weisshaupt and that he hadn’t met his end by the claws of some darkspawn or a warg or—by all gods, by all faith, Sam.

It’s a while—Dean on his knees in the bath, and Sam kneeling in the puddle he’d made, and their hands locked into each other, and Dean breathing Sam and his smell of the road and rancid sweat and campfires and old blood, and Sam’s forehead against Dean’s and his hair tickling, and the taste of his mouth—his mouth—it’s a while, before Dean’s brain unfogs enough to realize that he’s just holding Sam, and they’re only breathing with their mouths barely touching, and Sam’s stomach is growling. Loud, in fact, and Sam’s nose wrinkles. "Sorry," he says, and Dean says, "You idiot," soft as soft, and struggles up to standing with the water streaming down from his body, and Sam looks up at him for a moment with his eyes dark and almost unfamiliar.

Dean hesitates, water up to his calves, naked. Aware of new scars, ones Sam hasn’t seen—his body, not the one Sam left. Sam stands, then, and Dean blinks. "You’re tall," he says, stupid-sounding even to his own ears, and Sam smiles at him all smug. He was tall already, at twenty—not at all fair, not at all, that he’s gained even more inches, and Dean steps out of the bath and shoves at Sam’s broad chest and fetches his dressing gown off the screen where Sandal always leaves it and tries to muster some kind of dignity as he wraps it around himself.

His dinner’s waiting on the sideboard outside his room, as always—Bodahn overly respectful of his privacy, as always—but it’s good, now, not to have to see anyone else, not to have another person interrupt. He turns with the tray and Sam’s unfastening his brigandine, slinging it untidily on the ground and wrestling his tabard over his chest so he’s left in his weskit and linen shirt and trousers, his boots still carrying gods know how many miles of mud, and he sniffs and says, "Is that stew?" all hopeful, and oh, oh, it’s Dean’s little brother, home.

He still eats like a teenager. Dean pours wine for both of them, watches Sam tear into the bread and meat like he’s starving. "Don’t they feed you at Weisshaupt?" Dean says, rhetorical, and Sam rolls his eyes and takes his goblet and gulps the wine down, gasping. "Oh, that’s—fantastic," he says, and takes a slower draught, eyes closed, and Dean watches him with his heart surging so high he’s surprised Sam can’t see the throb of it, in his throat and wrists and gut. Sam’s got days of not shaving thickening his stubble almost to a beard, and he tucks his hair behind his ears but it keeps falling forward, unruly. Without the Warden uniform he’s big, broad. Muscles thick in his shoulders, his arms, like they weren’t when he was a boy and he’d complain about having to help Dean on the farm, about training with a short sword, whining that he had magic and I’ll just throw a fireball at the darkspawn, Dean, and back then Dean could still cuff him over the head and drag him into Dean’s armpit and say yeah, but I’m in charge, and you're not allowed to throw a fireball at me, so—

Feels like a lifetime ago. Sam scrapes the last piece of bread around his bowl, sopping up the rich gravy, and then slumps back in his chair, sighing. "Long time since I’ve had food like this," he says, and Dean wants to ask—has so many questions. When was it, he wants to know, and where have you been, and are you okay—are you okay, the only question that matters, and he can’t face asking it right now with Sam sated and warm and here, here, and Sam’s eyes slit open and he looks at Dean, then, steady.

"What," Dean says, when it’s been too long without talking.

Sam smiles, brief. "What," he echoes, and seems right then—older than Dean, decades older—but he just leans forward and hooks his hand into the hollow of Dean’s bare knee, squeezes. Dean’s skin shivers in shock, all over, and Sam smiles deeper then, dimples carving into his cheeks. "I want—" Sam says, and shakes his head, and laughs under his breath. "Too much."

Dean takes a deep breath. "You reek," he says, and Sam huffs and looks down, as though Dean were saying it like a complaint.

"Yeah," Sam says, and pushes back from the table and strips bare. Bare, right there, in their ancestral home, until he stands naked with his feet on the carpet, linens and leathers piled stinking next to him, and he raises his eyebrows at Dean like a challenge and then walks back across to the bath and steps in, sinks down. Still hot, through that enchantment, and Dean watches dry-mouthed as the steam rises, as Sam slips his hands along his skin. He has scars, too. He’d never had much interest in healing magic. Welted-white lines on his arms, and an ugly twisting thing on his chest. The bite-mark, from the darkspawn, which sent him to the Wardens in the first place.

He rinses off the scented soap, splashes his face with the fragrant water, scrubs his scalp. The hair on his chest and in his armpits and at his groin has blackened with wet, and he runs a hand over his head, pushing the wet hair back from his face and looking at Dean while he does it, and Dean says, finally, "Sammy, you’re killing me," in a voice he doesn’t recognize. Sam smiles at him and gets up out of the bath in a surge of dripping water and meets Dean in the middle of the room and kisses him again, leaning down this time with his hands cupped around Dean’s ears, all the long wet of him soaking into Dean’s dressing gown but it’s—it’s okay, it’s better than okay.

The bed’s so big. So much bigger than any they ever had, when they were kids. Sam leans over him still dripping, his hair hanging down around Dean’s face and his shoulders blocking out the firelight. He pushes a hand into Dean’s gown, pets down his chest—his stomach—and Dean doesn’t know why it’s a shock when Sam grabs up his dick but it is, it is, and Dean grips Sam’s shoulders and shudders, bites his lip. "Yeah," Sam says, soft, sweet like he used to be, sometimes. When they were kids in the wheat fields, and hiding in the summer from chores Dean should’ve been making them do, and Sam asked soft for a kiss and Dean didn’t, couldn’t, say no. Sam noses against his cheek, smelling like herbs, and he says, "I missed you," gripping Dean hard and knowing. Different, to how it was, and in the grip Dean feels whoever Sam’s been with in the time between, and shoves his hips up, groaning. Sam kisses below his ear and says, "Dean, I—missed you, so much," and Dean makes a strangled noise he’ll be embarrassed by later and pushes Sam over, because new height and muscle or not, Dean’s the big brother here, and he ends up with Sam under him, tanned and young and beautiful, and staring at him like—like Dean doesn’t know, but he leans down and kisses him because he has to, he has to, because if he doesn’t he’ll say crazy things, things he doesn’t know if he’s ready to hear, much less for Sam to hear—

Sam groans, grips at his arms, pushes his hips up. Oh—oh, Sammy’s dick, and that hasn’t changed, big and urgent and pressing against Dean’s thigh. Sam unties his dressing gown, somewhere in the shadows between them, and grips at Dean’s ass, tugging him in tight. Ah—and that, that is like being a teenager again, Sam grasping and desperate. He pushes his dick against Sam’s tight belly, makes a noise. "Sam," he says, stupid, and Sam grips his hips and tilts and his dick slides up between the cheeks of Dean’s ass, solid, bulling.

"Oh," Sam breathes, against his mouth, and drops his head back to the pillow, wet hair spread out around his face. He blinks at Dean, while he pumps his hips—sawing back and forth, damp and threatening, while Dean breathes open-mouthed and stares down at him. His dick throbs, trapped against Sam’s belly. "Have you—" Sam says, and bites his lower lip, and shakes his head. "How long? Can we—"

How long. Dean remembers that morning in exact, perfect detail. Varric had said to meet in the square at noon and so that left hours, hours, and he’d woken at dawn and washed himself, red-faced and hoping his uncle would have the usual hangover that kept him abed well past the two o’clock hour. Then he’d come to Sam in the tiny mud-spattered room they shared and woken him with a finger to his lips and they’d—all morning, while the city churned just outside the thin walls, and the appointed hour crawled closer. He’d fucked Sam, and Sam hadn’t come and had pushed him over onto his belly after he was done and fucked him right back, just as Dean had known he would, and he’d kissed all over Dean’s shoulders and covered his back and said, take me, and Dean had known Sam meant into the Deep Roads, and Dean had said no, Sammy, shaking, wanting—it’s too dangerous, come on, and Sam had pushed into him and trapped Dean’s wrists against the blanket covering their awful straw-tick pallet and said against his ear, I’m coming, like it was already decided, and Dean had shuddered and come again, and he’d shown up at the square with Anders at his left shoulder and Sam at his right, smug, and Varric had shrugged and said, don’t slow us down, short stuff, to Sam, and the night before Sam got bitten by a darkspawn Sam had looked at him from his bedroll inches away in the camp and smiled, happy—unaccountably happy, like Sam almost never was.

Sam swallows, in the face of Dean’s silence. "Really," he says, but not like he’s asking. He grips at Dean’s ass, pulling the cheeks apart, dragging him in so his dick smears wet all over Sam’s stomach, and then lifts up on one elbow and kisses Dean—soft, soft, lips pulling slow and easy, like a winter morning with only snow outside and no responsibility to anyone but this.

No one could ever be what Sam was, to Dean. He’s screwed around with Isabela, a few times, deep in their cups at the Hanged Man and nothing waiting for either of them, but it meant nothing—she slapped his ass when he was done and said well done, soldier, and he laughed, and left her there and didn’t think about it outside of that room. Once, with Fenris, when they were so piss-drunk on wine he didn’t even remember what had happened, other than an impression of lyrium-brightness, and a mouth on his throat. Not something they’ve spoken of since. He doesn’t know what Sam’s done, at Weisshaupt or on the roads between here and there, and he doesn’t care because what matters is that Sam’s in his bed. Whether Sam will be here in the morning, whether he’s deserted or if there’s some other quest waiting, some new hardship that’ll sweep them both away—he can't think about that, right now. Not when he has this in front of him.

"Do it," he mumbles, his mouth pressed against Sam’s shoulder, and feels Sam shudder, all against him. He wants it—wants the hurt, like that first time when Sam was sixteen and they’d hidden in the woods behind the Chantry, fumbling—he’s a warrior, he knows from pain, and having Sam is the kind that’s worth it.

Sam shakes his head, though—shakes his head, and smears his mouth against Dean’s throat, lips dragging, says—"I want—" and flips them, surge of muscle, and descends to get his lips on Dean’s dick, going down so fast that he chokes, and Dean’s legs seize and draw up but Sam’s shoulders are wide enough to keep them apart and he’s left arching, shocked, body seizing. Oh—this, this—nights in their room at home, learning each other while Dad was gone, Sam daring to make spark-lights above their heads, the magic just enough to see the way Sam’s cheekbone stood out above the hollowed dark of his cheek—and now, the firelight setting Sam’s hair to auburn where it’s half-dried and standing out messy around his head, and the steady practiced working of his tongue, and the gliding silk of his cheek when he lets Dean’s cockhead push against it. Dean’s balls clutch up, too fast. Sam knows, somehow—pulls back, gasping, spit connecting him to Dean’s dick in a sloppy string that he licks up only after a second hanging there—and he looks at Dean up the stretch of his torso, pink burnt into his cheeks and patchy on his chest, want in his eyes. Want, and nothing else, and Dean thumbs over the wet dark of his lips and holds his jaw, and Sam leans in still watching him and suckles at the head, sparky jolting pressure crushing up in Dean’s gut and balls and in his fingertips, his toes curling, and Sam closes his eyes and goes down, his hand on Dean’s stomach like a ton weight, his hair brushing Dean’s belly, his mouth warm, and Dean—

It’s only after, that Dean works up the courage. When Sam’s spilled over his stomach and Dean’s cleaned them both up, haphazard, with the skirt of his dressing gown. With wine still in the bottle, while they pass it back and forth between them, and the fire gilding amber light over Sam’s shoulders. He meets Dean’s eyes and they both laugh, for what reason Dean doesn’t know but it feels good, right. Sam’s mouth is curled still at the corners, and Dean rolls close and drags his thumb along Sam’s ribs, where they used to stand out against the hungry pit of his belly, and says, before he can chicken out, "Gonna stay, Sammy?"

He doesn’t know if he’s ready to hear the answer, but he needs to hear it. Sooner, rather than later, so he’ll know if he can rest now, or if he needs to plan for a sleepless night of taking in every single ounce of Sam that he can—every story, every kiss. Every ounce of blood it’ll take to last more years, without him. If he even can.

Sam sighs, and settles his hand on Dean’s hip. "I ran," he says, very quietly. Dean looks at him and Sam’s watching his face. "We went on patrol, into the Anderfels, and I slipped my commander and stole a horse and rode. East, as far as I could go before the horse went lame, and then I kept going." Sam shrugs, with one shoulder. "There’s a lot of east, between the Anderfels and the Free Marches. But I didn’t stop."

Dean breathes, shaky, imagining. The world opening up, when it's been so long of his compacted, empty nothing. Okay. Hiding Sam from the Wardens—and his neighbors—and what they’ll do. How they'll live—will they have to run? He doesn't know, and realizes after so long of grinding to get to this place, he doesn't care. The house doesn't matter, the city doesn't matter. Nothing has mattered, without Sam.

Sam’s still watching him, eyes dark, and Dean reaches out and tucks his hair back from his forehead, pushing it behind his ear. "You’ll have to tell me about Orlais sometime," he says, and Sam smiles at him.

"Bunch of cheese-eaters," he says, leaning in close like it’s a secret, and Dean laughs, soft and tired and feeling, for the first time in three years, like he’s whole.

#wincest #dragon age #my writing #it turns out i'm extremely soft for hawke!dean #now i just want to write about the adventures of him and warden mage!sam #hecc

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shepherd-of-the-stars · 4 years

Text

Quest of a Prince Ch. 2

Updating a fic after 2 years? More likely than you think. Also the first chapter has finally been edited and I am embarrassed to say that I made like 20 spelling mistakes. Oops.

Also I forgot to explain in the first chapter but Volkhvy (singular, volkhv) are pagan priests, the spiritual leaders of the Slavic people.

Word count: 5,815

Summary: Before an heir can take the throne, a quest is bestowed on them from the Goddess of Fate. If they complete it, they will be considered blessed by the gods and rule gloriously. Prince Ivan's quest is to journey into the Frozen Sea to the Forest of Ice. There, he will find a beautiful creature that lives in the deep that will give him a treasure greater than gold. Kingdom AU. Merman!Alfred and Prince!Ivan

Chapter summary: The creature they seek is found. But can he give them what they need?

Warnings: None

Rating: T

Also avaliable on ao3 and FFnet

Chapter 2: Beauty

The first thing Ivan felt was heat. It wasn’t warmth like basking in the sun, but heat like a dragon had breathed its fire into his body and scorched him from the inside. His body lurched as he vomited and coughed out the water from his lungs, staining the crystal clear water right below his face.

His vision was blurry, and his memory just as much. The thoughts in his head flowed like thick mud, but slowly, pieces of his memory returned. He could feel the hardness of wood under his hands and the gentle rocking of his rowboat. Or perhaps that was just his head swaying from dizziness. He remembered the water. He remembered drowning. But something had saved him when he had already accepted his fate.

Something glinted in the candlelight beside him making him turn his head, but his entire body froze when he locked eyes with the creature staring right back. Those same blue eyes that he saw before he had been dragged into the deep waters were locked on his. He didn’t dare blink, fearing that if he did, his dream would end and the creature would vanish into thin air.

Without the veil of water altering his view of the creature, Ivan found that it was not as beautiful as he once thought. Its eyes were a dull blue, hair the color of sand, and a face that placed him at an age perhaps a year below Ivan. It seemed to be male and was decorated with jewels in a fashion that, to Ivan, looked like a child who had ransacked their mother’s entire collection and thrown it on themselves. There was no order, no coordination, just accessories worn on his body for no other reason than to just have them on.

“Beautiful” was the word he had used just moments before to describe this creature, but now, after seeing him in the dim light, the new word that came to his mind was “ordinary.” The only thing beautiful about him was his tail. From the waist down, he had the tail of a fish with scales the color of his eyes lined with gold on the rounded edges. Was this really the creature he was looking for? The Goddess had described them as a creature more beautiful than he could imagine, but as he was looking at the face of the creature in front of him, Ivan felt like this wasn’t the creature he was seeking.

Regardless of what he thought, this creature was still one of myth. “Merfolk,” they were called. They were shy and fast with the only recorded encounters being sightings of them basking on rocks, or the echoes of their voices traveling across the open ocean. Their voices hold magic and they’re rumored to be so beautiful that just one sighting will poison a human’s mind and lead them to a watery death. Perhaps Ivan was just not one to appreciate beauty. Or maybe he was just too tired to see it.

“My thanks to you for saving me,” he finally spoke, his voice raspy. The creature responded with a nod so small that Ivan wondered if he had imagined it. Did this creature even understand him? “Are you the creature of the deep?” he asked, praying that the creature had the gift of tongues. Most mythical creatures did. Or at least, they’re said to. Ivan’s never encountered one before.

He made a face that Ivan recognized as confusion, and in those few seconds, Ivan was left to wonder if that confusion stemmed from not knowing what was said, or from not knowing how to answer. The creature began looking around as if trying to see if Ivan’s question had been directed at someone else. But when he saw no one, he returned his gaze to Ivan and wrinkled his nose in thought.

“I am a creature… and I live in the deep…” He spoke the words slowly as if he was unsure of himself. His voice was soft and sounded so human-like that if Ivan closed his eyes, he would not have been able to tell the difference between a man and this mythical being. Ivan’s doubt continued to grow, but this was the only intelligent creature, besides his crew, that he had encountered in almost two months, so he had to try.

He straightened himself and smoothed out his soaked clothes until he was, at least, moderately presentable. “I am Ivan Braginsky, Crown Prince of the Kingdom of Rusnia,” he spoke in a proud voice, only a slight tremor from the cold, “I am on a quest to retrieve the greatest treasure of the Frozen Sea, hidden in the Forest of Ice. I am to bring this treasure back to the Goddess, and only then will I be deemed worthy to rule.” When he finished, he stared back at the creature’s face of stone.

“Why should I give it to you?”

The answer made Ivan choke. How could this creature be so blunt? Did he not for a second consider it? “Well- Because I am the future king!”

“In a land I don’t live in.” The creature scuffed and crossed his arms. “I have a king, too. I obey him, not you.”

Oh the arrogance! It made Ivan want to strangle him. His patience had already been drawn thin from endless days of searching, and now this creature wanted to be difficult and bratty? “Seeing that this sea is part of my kingdom, I demand that-” He stopped short when the creature grabbed on to the edge of the boat and leaned forward as if preparing to leap. On his face was an expression of disapproval, a face that said “if I don’t like your words, I don’t have to tolerate them. I’ll just go and you can do nothing to stop me.”

So with a deep breath, Ivan swallowed down his words and smiled with gritted teeth. He took a moment to recollect himself and, hopefully, restart their conversation. This quest was not meant to be easy. It was a test of his being, and it seemed that right now, it was his patience that was being tested.

“What is your name?” he finally asked. “I have given you mine. It would only be fair for you to give me yours, yes?”

There was a long moment of silence as Ivan waited for the creature’s answer. He seemed to be thinking about what Ivan had said while also considering the fact that just moments ago, Ivan demanded that he give up the sea’s greatest treasure. His bottom lip jutted out in thought in a way that Ivan thought was childish. Then at last, he gave an answer.

“Alfred,” he said, his grip on the edge of the boat relaxing just the slightest. “You may call me Alfred.” With how long he had taken to answer, Ivan questioned if the name he was given was his real name, or if he had chosen one that was human enough for Ivan to pronounce.

“Alfred,” Ivan repeated. “Well, Alfred. As the Prince of Rusnia, I humbly request that you offer me your greatest treasure. In return, I give you my word that I will grant you anything you-”

“I want to be the king of your kingdom,” he interrupted with a smirk.

“Anything,” Ivan continued, “within reason.”

“I believe my request is very reasonable.”

Ivan watched as Alfred leaned on the other side of the boat as if he were lounging on pillows in bed. Surely this couldn’t be the creature the Goddess spoke of? How could a figure of such importance be so... haughty?

“My kingdom is very wealthy,” he went on, trying to go back to what he had been saying before Alfred had cut in, “if it is a chest full of jewelry or gold you desire, I will be able to provide.”

“I don’t need them.” Taking his eyes off Ivan, he gestured to the jewels decorating his slender body. “I collect these from the vessels that die here. I have plenty. They mean nothing to me. Just trinkets for my entertainment.”

“Then why did you take my rings and my crown?”

“I took your rings because I was bored and there’s nothing to entertain me ‘cept the fishes.” He propped his head under his hand and looked at Ivan with a bored expression. “As for your crown, I didn’t take it. It simply fell off when you were in the water.” Reaching behind himself, he grabbed the silver circlet and inspected it in his clawed nails.

“Here.” He tossed it to Ivan so carelessly that the prince almost dropped it back into the water trying to catch it. “Have it back. It’s not pretty enough so I don’t want it.”

“It is not meant to be pretty,” he said with a huff as he placed the crown back onto his head with numb fingers, “This crown is to signify my status as the Crown Prince.”

“So you’re telling me that if I were to wear it, I would become the crown prince?” The glint in his eyes made Ivan put his hands on top of his head to keep Alfred from possibly snatching his crown.

“No! That is not how it works. There is a ceremony, there are vows and speeches, and you need to be born of royal blood for any of that to happen.”

The last part had made Alfred snicker as he covered his mouth with his webbed hands. “Royal blood. Royal blood does not exist! Unless the blood you bleed is made of liquid gold, or can heal the sick with it, your blood is the same as any other human’s blood. In the end, you all meet the same mortal fate. Saying you have royal blood is just to make you feel better about yourself and put yourself above others. ‘Royal blood’ is just a title for those who end up on top. And when you lose that title, you’re nothing but a commoner. Do not talk to me about royal blood. You are not my king.”

The mood had shifted. Alfred’s eyes glared down at the waters and his prideful voice lowered almost to a whisper as he neared the end of his speech. Something flashed in his eyes that looked almost like pain, but it had come and gone so quickly, Ivan thought he had been fooled by the flickering candlelight.

The prince knew Alfred was right in everything he said. Ivan had done nothing to deserve his title as prince, and if he were given the choice to give it up, he would take it. But the truth of the matter was that he would never be given that choice. It was his fate to be king, and by the Gods he was going to use his title right.

He waited until he was sure Alfred was done before he continued to speak, this time lowering his voice to be level with him. The prince spoke to him, not as a royal, but as a human. “I know I am not your king, but this quest means everything to me. If you would allow it, I would like to request an audience with your king since you will not reason with me.”

Alfred finally turned his head away from the water and looked Ivan up and down with disdain. “That won’t happen. He is busy.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know!” He had cut Ivan off before he had the chance to finish his question and returned his gaze to the waters.

Ivan remained calm the entire time. He recalled his teachings, telling him that ruling using emotion is no way to rule. Emotions cloud judgement. Good judgement can only be made when the heart is calm and the mind is clear.

“Alfred, you are my only hope.” Ivan held his hands out to Alfred, palms facing the ceiling of the cave in a gesture of respect. “If I do not complete this quest, I cannot rightfully become king. I need to become king to fix my father’s mistakes. He was a terrible and unjust king and I hope to repair the damage he has done. But it is not something I can do without your aid.

“Please,” his hands still trembled from the cold. If he did not return to his ship and change out of his wet clothes soon, this conversation with Alfred would be his last. “As prince and future king, I am begging you.”

For the first time since their conversation had begun, Alfred looked at Ivan with a face that wasn’t scornful or taunting. He looked at Ivan as if he had finally registered the importance of Ivan’s quest, and perhaps considered giving him what he needed to complete it. But that look only lasted a few moments. Once Alfred’s eyes landed on Ivan’s shaking hands, his face turned to one of concern.

“I believe there are more important things for you to worry about right now.” And before Ivan could stop him, Alfred gave himself a push and slipped back into the dark water. Gone.

It was like his entire world had crashed down, crushing him under the weight. Without his hope, he felt like he had been struck with a battle ram and thrust back into cruel reality. Alfred had denied him, and there was nothing that he could do.

He tried and failed to close his hands into fists, joints aching from the bitter cold, so he slowly pulled them under his cloak in an attempt to return their functionality. His whole body shook as it tried to provide the heat he needed to survive, and with his hands so stiff they couldn’t close, he had no hope of grabbing on to the oars.

“My Goddess,” he closed his eyes, “if you are merciful, I pray that you will allow me to pass this trial.” His voice was barely above a whisper, the heat of his breath making clouds slip from his lips.

Then, as if his prayers were answered, his boat lurched backwards, moving towards the way he came. Words of gratitude were sent up to the heavens, but the soft sound of splashing interrupted his peace.

Leaning his body to the side, he looked to the bow of the boat and realized that his vessel was not being moved by Her will. It was being pushed by something of this world. A head of yellow popped out of the water and smiled at him as Ivan stared in confusion.

“Alfred? But… why?”

Alfred rolled his eyes with a snort. “A dead king can’t rule a kingdom. I’m going to return to your ship so you don’t die. It would also give me time to think about my wish.”

“So you will consider my offer?”

“How about you worry over yourself first, Prince Ivan? Now sit still.”

Warmth and hope blossomed in Ivan’s chest, sending a chill through his body strong enough to make him jolt. But for Alfred, and for his kingdom, he did as the merman instructed. He sat still and allowed Alfred to push him all the way back to the ship, weaving through the caverns like he knew every path better than he knew his own name.

Then it hit him: Alfred knew all along. He wasn’t sure for how long, but Alfred knew that Ivan and his crew were here and had only now decided to show his face. How long had he been watching them? If Ivan had never fallen into the water, would he have stayed hidden forever? Ivan had opened his mouth to confront him about it, but when he saw the determined look on Alfred’s face, he pressed his lips together and held his words inside.

Alfred revealing himself to Ivan was something he saw as a blessing. Alfred saving him when he could have let him drown was another. Alfred spoke his language, was considering his request, and was helping Ivan back to his ship when his hands couldn’t move. Those too were seen as blessings. For a brief moment, Ivan wondered that with so many blessings, when would his luck eventually run out?

But he shook his head softly to dismiss the thought. All of it was fate. Every step had already been planned out and all he had to do was move forward. Or in this case, he had to move backwards. With his back turned towards their path, it was up to Alfred to bring them back to the ship. He trusted Alfred not to push him into a cave with no exits, or over the side of a waterfall. He trusted him enough to let his eyes slip close, the quiet splash of the water against his boat sounding like a lullaby to his freezing mind.

"Hey!" Giving a firm shove, Alfred made the boat lurch with such force that Ivan had almost fallen over face first. "Don't sleep." With a hard glare, he pushed the rowboat a little faster. Worry wrinkled his brow and his haste to get back to the ship made him bump and scrape against the cavern walls. Ivan had found it to be somewhat endearing. It almost seemed like Alfred cared about his wellbeing. But Ivan reasoned with himself that the merman was only keeping him alive to be able to fulfil his wish.

Soon enough, the sounds of chatting and clanging metal reached their ears. The stone walls around them grew taller until light from the sun burst through. Disregarding his aching, burning muscles, Ivan forced his body to sit up straight and proud with only the slightest look of pain and fatigue gracing his face. One by one, his crew turned to them, but only when they saw the creature pushing the boat did they come running forward to the edge of the water.

"Your Highness, is that the creature?"

"Did you find it, Your Highness?"

"Where is the treasure?"

The ones who had rushed forward ignored Ivan to be the first to lay their eyes on the creature that had eluded them for almost two months. But a few of the humans pushed the others out of the way to get to the prince. "Your Highness, you're drenched! What happened? You're turning blue! Will you move?" The second question was directed at the men who cared more about Alfred than they cared about their prince. With them crowding around him, they couldn't help him back to the ship.

Their disregard for Ivan's safety had angered Alfred so much that he slipped back under the water and lifted the rowboat right out of it, holding it above his head. Ivan gasped and held on to the sides for dear life as he watched his crew jump back several feet from the water's edge. But instead of tossing him like everyone had expected, Alfred had set the boat down gently on the ledge, pushing it towards the ones who wanted to help.

"He fell into the water. It was an accident," Alfred lied. The crew fell silent hearing him speak and no one dared to even move. "What are you all? Stone? Your prince is dying and you lot just stand around and gawk!" His fist slammed down on the rock, forming small cracks and making the crew leap back another step.

Two men, who looked lankier and less brutish than the others, glanced at one another before rushing forward to grab their prince. They looked at Alfred with a hint of fear in their eyes, so Alfred moved further into the water to show that he wouldn't attack. Alfred watched with worry as they helped Ivan out of the boat. Ivan’s legs almost gave out under him when he stepped off, but the servants served as his crutches.

Alfred's eyes followed them, stalked them, watched as they helped Ivan up the ramp onto the ship. Even when they had gone inside Ivan's cabin, Alfred circled around the hull of the ship to see if there was a way he could see inside. He was like a fly outside a glass window, fingers touching the hard wood of the ship as if the hull would magically open up and let him in. But it never did, leaving Alfred to swim around and around, his head occasionally poking above the water to see what was going on.

He was well aware the crew was watching him, but he didn’t seem to care. All he cared about was Ivan’s safety. It’s been ages since he had spoken to anyone, and Ivan was just too much fun to lose.

It felt like hours had passed since Ivan was ushered inside, but had only been mere minutes. Then at last, one of the servants who had helped Ivan onto the ship came down the ramp and locked eyes with Alfred. The merman swam closer to hear the news, his arms resting on the rocky ledge. He waited as the fidgety servant took steps forward and back, clearly still scared of Alfred. Even when he stepped forward, he was still tugging on his short, blond hair.

“Are you,” the servant paused to clear his throat, “are you the one called Alfred? I-I mean, ha, you are the only Merfolk here. Who else would be called Alfred. Prince Ivan had-”

“How is he?”

The servant squeaked and began fiddling with his clothes like he had done with his hair. “Um. Prince Ivan is well. All thanks to you. He has changed into warmer clothes and is regaining the heat in his body. He told me to come out and give you his thanks.”

“And to make sure I haven’t left?”

“I-...” He glanced over at the ship as if asking Ivan for the answer. “Y-... yes…”

“Assure him that I will not leave just yet. I believe I have figured out what it is I want, so he won’t be getting rid of me that easily.” With a smirk, Alfred lifted himself up and sat down on the ledge with his tail partially in the water. “But do tell him to hurry. I am impatient.”

The look Alfred gave the servant made him nod vigorously before sprinting back to the ship so quickly he had almost tripped over his own shoes. Alfred laughed under his breath at the clumsiness. It had been so long since he had company and he had forgotten how fun it was to mess with people. Speaking of, it seemed the rest of the crew had built up the courage to come a little closer. Alfred watched them as the eight men whispered between themselves, then one man gave a huff and pushed them aside.

From the way he looked, Alfred assumed this man was a class above the others. His blond hair was neater, his clothes were not torn, and his chest puffed like a walrus as he came forward to Alfred. Not that any of those things held his attention for long. His eyes would not stop staring at the man’s eyebrows. They were well kept, but they were so thick and dark that Alfred had trouble looking away.

“Oi. You can understand us, right?” he asked as he squatted down an arm’s length away from Alfred.

The merman didn’t respond immediately. His gaze moved from the man in front of him to the ones crowded around in the back, then back to the man with the odd eyebrows.

“No,” he lied, then looked away from him, “I don’t have a clue what you’re saying.” He had to keep himself from smiling as he swayed his tail left and right, making small ripples in the water.

At his answer, the man chuckled and shook his head in an unbelieving way. “Creature’s got humor, lads!” he called back to his crew, “Raivis had called you ‘Alfred,’ right? Is that your name?”

“Perhaps it is, and perhaps it isn't.” He flicked his tail with a bored look on his face, the motion making the sunlight glint against his shimmering scales and the jewelry decorating it. From the side of his eye, he saw the man waddle closer before sitting next to Alfred with his legs folded.

“Charming. I like that. Name’s Arthur, but the others call me Captain.” He held out his hand for Alfred to shake, but when Alfred had only given the hand a glance, he retracted it and put it back on his lap. “So, Alfred, how have you come to acquire those? If my eyes don't fool me, I can confidently say that the chaplet you wear on your head is the one named Tears of Fire which belonged to Lord Adrian’s daughter. Do you know what happened to her?”

Alfred didn’t like the look on his face. It made him feel like he was walking into a trap. “Why should I know your human friends?” Reaching up, he took the piece off his head and admired it for just a second. It was beautiful, but simple, and just like its name, the tear-shaped rubies that hung down from the main loop made it look like he was crying fiery tears.

“She was lost at sea,” Arthur told him, “Lady Hanna was an offering to our previous king from a land across the waters. She was meant to be his concubine, but she never made it to our kingdom. That chaplet was given to her as a wedding gift.”

Arthur had barely finished his story when Alfred had tossed the piece at him. “Seems like she would rather die than be under him.” Arthur’s expression when Alfred said that proved Ivan’s words from before to be true. Even without saying a word, Alfred could tell that Arthur had thought the same. The previous king truly was a horrible man.

“You’re lucky none of us were loyal to that cockstain, otherwise, magical being or not, you would have been beheaded.”

“Shame to the old king,” one of the men in the back muttered, then spit on the ground. A few men followed behind him, all muttering various insults and laughing as they grew more and more vulgar. But Alfred didn’t laugh, he looked disappointed.

“I didn’t know humans were so disrespectful towards their king, dead or alive.”

“Not all our kings, lad. Just this one. The whole kingdom is lucky he was a deadbeat father. ‘Cause of that, our prince is nothing like ‘im.” He bowed his head to the ship making Alfred wonder if Ivan had come out. But when he looked and saw no one, he turned back to Arthur. “Wouldn’t be here risking his life if he was. The lad has so much to prove, not just to the people, but to himself, most of all.”

Everyone was silent after that: some out of respect, some out of pity, and some who weren’t brave enough to say what they thought in their heart.

(-w-)

As the sun fell, the men began to return to the ship to resume their duties. But for hours, they had crowded around Alfred and flooded his ears with tales, some true and some legend. They let him experience a land he could never reach and opened his eyes to their world. Some tales had made him bend over in laughter, and some made him clutch his heart in admiration.

They were a good group of men, he realized. Even though they were boorish and coarse, they were friendly and offered good company. But now, Alfred sat alone with his back against a boulder while the men were inside the ship having supper. Ivan’s servant, Raivis, had told them that Ivan was well and resting, so Alfred had no reason to hope that he would come out to speak to him any time soon.

He had almost dozed off as he basked in the warmth of the bonfire beside him when the sound of footsteps brought him out of his sleepy state. To his surprise, Ivan and three of his servants were making their way down the ramp towards him. One was helping Ivan walk with a basket on her arm, and the other two each carried a crate.

Now that he wasn’t drenched in icy water, he looked neater than what Alfred had observed before. His heavy, fur cloak kept most of his outfit hidden, but when Ivan moved his arms, it gave Alfred a glimpse of the plain but finely crafted clothes he wore underneath. While his crown and his clothes made him look royal, to Alfred, he just didn’t seem like a prince. He seemed like a normal person.

“You are still here,” Ivan stated when he was close enough for Alfred to hear.

Alfred’s face broke into a smile as he stretched lazily and groaned. “As if I’d dare leave, Your Highness. What have you got there?”

“Our dinner.”

Alfred’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Our dinner?”

Ivan nodded and sat down next to Alfred as the crates were opened up and food was set out. Alfred had expected it to be served only to the two of them, but enough plates were set out for five. Once the crates were emptied, they were flipped over and used as makeshift tables.

“Shouldn't a prince like you be eating alone in his warm, comfortable cabin?” Alfred said it in a tone that was almost like he was mocking him. But Ivan didn’t take offense, he simply chuckled and shook his head.

“I prefer not to eat alone. Without company, the food turns bitter.” Ivan’s smile was soft and genuine, making warmth grow in Alfred’s chest.

More and more, Ivan’s image as a prince began to fade, but Alfred couldn't bring himself to say that it was a bad thing. Ivan wasn’t the type of prince to put himself above the others. Even now, he sat on the cold ground with Alfred and the servants as if they were the same class. He shared his food with them, laughed at their stories, and told some of his own.

Some time later, more of his crew came and crowded around them. All were eager to hear how Ivan had found Alfred, waiting for a glorious tale. But Ivan didn’t change the story; he told the entire truth. He told them how he was a fool thinking he could catch Alfred with his bare hands, and how Alfred had toyed with him like he was an idiot. Never in his life did Alfred expect a prince to label himself as a fool or an idiot, and here Ivan was labeling himself as both.

Ivan had turned to Alfred and told him, “I was fortunate that he decided to save me. If not, then…” His eyes seemed lost in thought, but his stiff smile stayed on his face.

To break the silence, the crew offered words of gratitude to Alfred for saving their prince. Some had pat him on the shoulder, and some bowed to him in a show of respect. To Alfred, it was just bizarre. He had once thought that Ivan wasn’t ready to be king because he wasn’t authoritative enough. But now, he saw that even though Ivan didn’t seem to hold the usual qualities of a strong king, he had a crew that respected him because of his actions, not his status.

Over the days, he spent almost every second of his time with Ivan and his people. He learned many of their names, tried all their food, and heard so many of their stories. Alfred didn’t want the days to end. After so many years alone in the dark caves, he wanted them to stay forever and keep him company. But it was a dream he would eventually need to wake from.

“Damned creature,” he heard one night after everyone had retired. The voice had come from up on the deck where he couldn’t see. Alfred didn’t recognize the gruff, male voice so it must have been one of the men that stayed away from Alfred and busied themselves with chores. “Who the hell does he think he is?”

“He’s just a freak,” came another hushed voice, “His father must have bedded a fish when all women rejected him.” The two men snickered then one of them shushed the other.

“Quiet, or the prince will hear us.”

“Damn him too. He’s found the bloody creature and still won’t take the godforsaken treasure from his hands so we can leave this frozen hell and go back home!”

The words had hurt, but those men were right. Alfred was selfish for keeping them here, and even though they seemed happy to keep him company, he was keeping them from returning home to their families and their lives.

Morning came and Ivan came to visit him as the sun rose, just as he had every morning since Alfred was found. He brought breakfast with him to share together, but today he was alone.

“Good morning, Alfred,” he greeted, his voice soft as it always was, “Did you rest well?”

Alfred only grunted in response, his head resting on his arms as his body from the chest down was still in the water. Thoughts raced around his head as he watched Ivan set out the food. It was dried meat, roasted fish, and sliced cheese. The same meal everyday.

“You heard it as well, then?”

Alfred’s eyes flickered up to Ivan. “Heard what?”

“What they said last night on the deck.” Ivan’s voice sounded tired, but a smile still graced his face as he looked out at the sea.

“Am I that easy to read?”

Like Alfred had done before, Ivan gave him a grunt in response. “They were rude, but their words hold truth. Our supplies are dwindling. If we ration what we have, perhaps we can stay for two more weeks. After that, we have no choice but to return home.” Those words brought sorrow to his face.

From his expression, Alfred knew what Ivan had meant to say.

I have to go home without the treasure. I failed the quest.

“You know, Ivan,” he paused, waiting until the prince turned to look at him, “you’ve already granted my wish.”

“I have?” A flash of hope crossed his eyes, then the realization that he had forgotten to ask what it was in the first place. “What was your wish?”

Alfred unbuckled a belt from his hip, something he’s never worn until today. On the belt was a sword, the sheath black as night and decorated with gold designs. He held the sheath of the sword tightly in his hands and looked down at it until the memories pained him so much that he had to look away.

“This sword belonged to my father, King of Svetloyar.” He watched as Ivan’s eyes grew wide.

“You’re a prince?”

#rusame #rusame fanfiction #hws america #hws russia #quest of a prince #hws rusame #i know the crew did a 180 with their treatment of ivan #but in their defense if my sister came half dead with a dragon carrying her i would pet the dragon first you kno #you can drink respect my prince juice everyday but how many times in your life do you get to see a mythical being???#i would have hopped my ass into the boat to get a closer look #also i posted this a while ago on ao3 and ffnet but ive been too lazy to upload it here because of formatting stuff

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