#he’s having yard time from the containment chamber

[frnkiebby]

our little sewer rat~🎃

[bucknastysbabe]

IGHT THIS IS GONNA BE FOR YOUR BINGO POST !! 🩷🩷and you can throw this in the garbage is it ain't to your standards 🤪 but I'm thinking: Aegon ii x Bethroned! Reader-- LITTLE AGNST , FLUFF, SMUT (maybe if you want to) (Arranged Marriage) where Alicent has gotten extremely tired of options with what she can do to keep Aegon in line from committing more atrocious acts that she and Otto decided it was best to not only have a noble that is the complete opposite of him --keep him in line but to also form relations with against the blacks since (readers family) contains good army and weaponry.

Aegon is not fond of this marriage but changes his mind when he sees (reader) for the first time.

YENI YENI BO BENI!!!! I loved this w my whole heart and had tons of fun, so refreshing! We got a little angst, plenty of fluff, and some devious smut😏 I’m so glad you sent the ask, enjoy mwah mwah mwah!!!!

AU Bingo - Arranged Marriage - Aegon II

Rating: Mature, explicit at the end.

Tags: Arranged marriage, douche Aegon falls in LOVE, Redwyne!reader, Cringefail baby Aeg and his shifty family dynamics, TW: verbal abuse, Aegon’s derogatory thinking, non-descript throwing up, fluffity fluff fluff, big tiddy Arbor gf, soft kissing, a little groping, cumming in pants, clitoral orgasm, crying erotically, oh it’s happily ever after tonite, Aemond and Criston stay being done w Aegon

In the dimly lit council chamber, Lord Hand Otto Hightower and Queen Alicent pondered over a map of Westeros. A bottle of wine was split between the pair, something to dull the utter stress that was marrying their eldest. He had already refused Helaena and succeeded by torturing enough bugs. Or that the heir walled himself up in a whorehouse surrounded by gold cloaks until Ser Criston announced that Prince Aemond would wed the princess.

Outside the whorehouse.

Aegon’s antics had worsened as he grew older with no ‘ball and chain’, so to speak. Otto sighed, “I fear we have no more choices left,” his long fingers curled tighter around the golden cup, “Not a house with enough power, that isn’t already pledged to Rhaenyra.

Alicent wanted to scream. She grabbed the bottle of wine and went to pour. Then stopped suddenly, brown eyes searching up at her father. The queen asked, “Say, what about the Redwynes? They have money, daughters, and that precious fleet. 200 warships.”

Otto’s once dull eyes gleamed and he smiled pleasantly. He hummed, “Smart, smart girl. Marten has two beautiful maidens from what I’ve heard. The Arbor is always loyal to Oldtown.”

“I’ll send a raven immediately.”

Aegon had begged the maidservant to pull his cock until she had ran off crying. He shrugged and grabbed the bottle of wine, slugging it with no care in the world. Until it was ripped from his greedy lips. The blonde sputtered and water splashed as he met his mother’s disappointed eyes. No surprise there.

Alicent spat, “Do you ever spend your time doing something productive? Aemond’s been in the yard for hours.”

“Aemond’s a stiff cunt.”

Aegon frowned when a hand crossed his cheek. His mother hissed, “You will not speak of your brother like that! Pay attention, there’s news regarding your bachelorhood.” Aegon rolled his eyes and sat up, staring silently, sullen. He knew this was to come but dreaded it every night.

The queen opened a scroll and read off, “I, Lord Marten Redwyne of the Arbor— approve of the betrothal between my eldest and Prince Aegon. Good tidings and we hope to arrive with some ships within a fortnight.”

Aegon giggled, “You’re marrying me to the wine house’s daughter? How fitting.”

Another crack on the cheek. Aegon shut up, tears now stinging his violet eyes. His mother hissed, “She’s from a very powerful, devout, and noble family. That fleet will keep your head on your shoulders when Rhaenyra comes to lop it off. Clean yourself up!”

As she exited the room with a dissatisfied scoff, Aegon felt more tears well up. He suddenly felt very alone and frightened. Gods forbid she can’t stand the sight of him like any other nobility. He wept softly, shaking fingers clinging to his bottle. Funny enough, it was Arbor Red. His favorite.

Aegon busied himself drowning in whores and spirits the weeks, then days, leading up to his betrothed’s arrival. So much so that he hadn’t left the Street of Silk since the announcement. They hadn’t sent Criston out either. He desperately hoped they would magically forget about him here.

The whore sucking his cock hummed softly, Aegon arching a bit into her mouth. He wondered what the girl would look like. Not that it mattered. He closed his eyes and slid a ringed finger into her hair, fucking the whores throat with a soft moan.

As soon as he came, the door flung open. Aegon jerked away from the light pouring in, hissing and cursing the fiend who so dared to interrupt his climax.

Long fingers grabbed his arm and jerked the blonde off the bed into a mess of limbs onto the floor. A familiar voice uttered, “Pathetic.” Oh joyous day, it was Aemond, his knight in shining armor. Aegon whined in annoyance, “You didn’t have to manhandle me like some Yunkish brute!” The younger prince crossed his arms, face impassive.

“You fucking reek. Get your clothes on, it’s time to meet your betrothed.”

Aegon pressed a forefinger and thumb into his pounding eyes, mumbling, “Fine, give me a second.” Aemond hummed in distaste, shifting on his feet. The whore scurried out, the clink of coin hitting her hands from the younger. He shuffled blearily over to where his clothes were last, putting them on haphazardly.

Aegon realized his breeches were on backwards but really couldn’t give a bigger fuck. He needed a drink for this hangover. Aemond barked from behind, “Let’s go! You’re so slow brother.” Aegon cursed him again and followed behind, shuffling. Fear and bile were beginning to rise in his throat.

The ensuing ride on horseback with a lecture from Cole had Aegon throwing up on some poor peasant’s blanket covered in wares. More coin had to be given out from Aemond for that. The heir felt absolutely horrid by the time they had reached the Red Keep.

He remained silent through his mother’s verbal torture, the scrub down and dressing, then left alone in his chambers. Aegon’s headache had died down a bit but he was shaky. He idly got up and stared into the mirror. A haggard, dull eyed face met his own. Aegon thumbed at the red rims and dark bags under his eyes, frowning.

He skimmed a hand down his midsection, growing further despondent at the residual puffiness from overindulging at meals and the drink. Maybe she would see something in him. Probably not, the rumor mill was rampant around Westeros. Aegon was aware there wasn’t much to him but an inherited title, a name, and a dragon.

Ser Criston peeped in the door, brown eyes squinting. He asked, “Are you ready my prince? You look…groomed.” Aegon sighed and followed along the white knight, tremors threatening to overtake his frame. They walked and walked to the throne room, his decrepit father having managed to make it onto the Iron Throne. Some smaller lord was petitioning him and Otto.

Aegon searched the crowds of people, looking for something. He didn’t even know what their coat of arms looked like. Probably burgundy. Wine. He wanted wine so bad. Otto cleared his throat as soon as Aegon joined the retainer of the Targaryens.

The Hand dismissed the lord and peered at Viserys for approval. The king nodded and rasped, “Lords and ladies, we have a grand announcement.” A gasp erupted across the crowd, Aegon curled into himself. Otto boomed, “House Redwyne please come forward!”

The nobility peered at the group of burgundy and blue clad group coming up towards the throne. There were two girls clad in the rich red, one distinctly more gorgeous than the other. She had thick hair elegantly done, soft glowing skin, and pretty eyes. Aegon prayed over and over that she would be the one.

He was so struck with desire all thoughts and whims had flown out the doors. The young woman’s body was shapely— heavy tits pushed up by the dress. Fuck, Aegon might be in love. If that existed. Aemond had pushed him forward, the elder prince realizing they had called his name.

Aegon cleared his throat and walked towards his father and Otto’s intense gaze, eyes glued to the beauty. She was singled out now, family having stayed behind. The lady smiled gently at him, demure and gentle. Aegon held a hand out and took her hand, kissing the soft skin as his grandfather announced the betrothal to the excitement of the people.

Then she was whisked away, Aegon almost crying from the suddenness. Alicent had him back on the sides now, whispering, “You did good son. Don’t ruin her like you do everything else please.”

Aegon swallowed heavily. He didn’t want that either.

They sat together again at dinner. Aegon tried to suppress his urge to gorge and suck down anything alcoholic. She nervously peeked at him, smiling still. He finally leaned closer to the beauty and hummed, “You are the most gorgeous maiden I have laid eyes on. If you ever need anything, please let me know. The Red Keep will swallow anything whole.”

Her eyes widened a bit, pretty hand dropping her fork. The Redwyne girl blushed and demurred, “I’m honored you think so my prince, all I ask of you is to accompany me to the sept and mayhaps around the Keep. Just so I do not get swallowed whole.”

Aegon wanted to screech at the idea of sitting in the cold, domineering sept. But he found himself agreeing enthusiastically, “Yes, yes my dear lady, I’d only be doing my duty to keep my lovely betrothed safe.” Watching her grin and stifle a giggle made the prince’s nausea at being a lovesick buffoon die down.

He walked her to her quarters after the meal, disposing of the delightful vixen at the door with a courtly kiss of the cheek. Too bad the dog Cole was watching with dark eyes behind them. Looming like an angry ghost.

Once back in his own rooms, Aegon sipped on his wine, grinning like the fool. She was perfect. Maybe a bit stuffy and devout, but a ray of goodness in his debauchery laden life. Miserable life. The sweet thing didn’t even coyly bring up his past, like most of the ladies who wanted into the blonde’s bed. He found himself waiting for the morn, eager to walk with her to the Sept.

The family was rightfully surprised at their wily heir becoming the picture of courtly love. Attentive, sober, and kind as he tended to the new additions simple and kind requests. They attended the sept every day, had luncheons in the Godswood, even made it to court for petitions.

Alicent and Otto even visited Aegon to praise him for his good behavior. Which the blonde scoffed and hissed, “It’s not me, it’s the girl. Glad I needed an attachment to garner approval.” Which did not end well but Aegon needn’t care, he had his Redwyne waiting on him afterward.

He wanted the maiden so very bad. But he wasn’t going to ruin the wait. Something about tearing her open with his cock for the first time had Aegon stripping himself raw every night, gasping her name and staining his belly white. Mayhaps he could play with her a bit, but he’d be the good prince for once and keep his manhood tucked away, almost regretfully.

She had tested him a bit as of late. Curling into his frame under the heart tree, holding hands that somehow ended in her lap. Shared sweet little kisses that turned breathless, the lady’s heavy bosom heaving from excitement. She wanted him too, the heady haze in her eyes if they were too close for too long.

Like now for instance. They had supped in the Godswood yet again. After a long and arduous conversation about Aegon’s past. The sweet thing thumbed away his tears and murmured, “I do not judge you, seeking company in a loveless place. We all can be slaves to our vices. I only hope that I may fill that hole in your heart, dearest betrothed.”

Aegon tried not to weep, sniffling a bit. He smiled, lips puffy from biting them, and kissed her ever so gently against the lips. He sighed, “Is it so bad that you may be the best thing that has happened in my dim life?” She stroked his soft curls and simpered, “No, my dear prince, you’ve brightened my days since I’ve come. I was so scared you’d find me unbecoming.”

“Never,” Aegon promised with intense pecks, “Never, I have been struck since I first saw you.” She cried his name softly, throwing silk covered arms around his neck, pressing her soft body to his own. This was the closest they had been, the maiden practically in his lap. Aegon reached a hand around to her lower back for stabilization, the other coming to her cheek to tilt for better access.

She was less experienced as he predicted, but that made the possessive streak in his heart grow tenfold. He would show her, show the sweet nymph the pleasures of touch. All his.

They lapped into each other’s mouth in slow movements, Aegon leading the way. She was tentative and slow, gasping when he suckled softly on her tongue. The adorable thing pressed closer, whining softly as Aegon dominated the kiss.

She hiccuped, “Oh, my prince, ah, we mustn’t.”

Aegon smiled as she drew closer, curling lithe fingers into his chopped locks. He murmured, “I will save your precious maidenhead for our wedding day, as befits the pact.” Pausing for a effect with a sharp nip to her plump lower lip, earning a yelp, Aegon continued, “I can show you other ways to achieve pleasure, if you’d like.”

She warbled needily, “Please Aegon, oh, but we cannot be seen!”

“Come on then my lady,” Aegon offered as he scrambled up, holding a hand out.

They giggled nervously as Aegon pulled them into a sculpted Alcove, hidden by shrubbery and a statue of a snarling dragon. He laid his cloak down and gestured for her to sit between his thighs. Her cheeks darkened as she whimpered, “I- I’ve never.”

Aegon cooed, “Our little secret, my sweet girl.”

She climbed down and rested flush against Aegon’s front, breathing sped up again. He nuzzled and pressed featherlight kisses to her neck, humming, “Do you trust me my lady?” The girl whined, “Yes, yes, you’ve given me no reason not to.”

“Good.”

Now he nosed up to the sensitive skin under her jaw, lapping and suckling soft enough to leave no marks, but she whimpered and shivered like it was heaven. One of her dainty hands clutched at his thigh like a lifeline. Aegon reached a ringed hand around to massage her heavy breast, earning the most wanton moan.

She squeaked in shock, covering her mouth, cheeks aflame. Aegon huffed a laugh, “Poor sweetling, I bet they’re so sensitive, gorgeous tits like yours aching to be touched.”

“More, yes Aegon, please!”

So he groped and got his fill, eventually easing down her top to expose busty chest. Aegon plucked and thumbed her plush buds, growing harder and harder at her little whimpers and bitten-off squeals. Gods, she was divine,

“Sweetness, sweetness,” Aegon hummed.

Teary eyes and swollen lips slowly turned to look at him, face wrought with ecstasy. He rambled, “I will not go near your maidenhead, but let me help you, is your sweet cunny aching?”

She whined, eyes shut tight, “Ohhh- yes it hurts!”

His violet eyes shifted to see where her plush thighs were rubbing together with need. He grinned and held back his snicker, “I’ll make you feel better my sweet. Poor, poor nymph. I’ve got you.” She turned and buried her head half into his shoulder, whimpering and shaking.

Aegon kissed the crown of her head, snaking a hand to get under her long velvety dress. His eyes rolled at the feeling of her engorged and slick cunt, throbbing with blood. Poor thing really was riled up, squealing when he slid his pointer and index across the collected slick.

The prince instantly swirled around her plump button, watching her arch and spread those shapely thighs. Those teats of hers bounced as she heaved and whined. Aegon rubbed her in tight little circles, knowing she’d be a proper mess. So he went back to tweaking a nipple, cooing when his perfect betrothed’s eyes rolled back in her head.

Drool slipped down her full lips at the onslaught of pleasure, Aegon praising and promising filthy sweetness in her ear. The nymph began to twitch and tremble all over, whimpers turning into huffy little sobs. She hiccuped, “A-ah, Aegon! I-I-I oh!” He grinned as she seized tight as a bow and gushed slick, thrashing when she reached the precipice.

The heir worked her through the intense feeling until she pushed his hand away, yanking up her top. Aegon pet her sweaty hair, suddenly aware that he too, had spent all in his breeches like a green boy. He’d laugh, but focused on coddling and holding his pretty girl until she had calmed.

She finally turned to him with wide eyes, questioning so achingly small, “This wasn’t bad right? We will not be cursed no? I- It felt so good my love.”

Aegon cooed yet again, violet eyes soft, body feeling like a puddle of mush. He shook his head, promising, “We keep your precious maidenhead intact, then this is nothing but a little play. A forecast of what’s to come when we’re truly one.”

She nodded slowly, reaching out to straighten his frizzy locks. The lady of the Arbor puckered her lips, reaching up for Aegon. He chastely kissed her— humming in full content.

“Oh the gods have blessed me, yes they have,” he almost weeped.

[bloodstained-porcelain-doll]

The Kneeling Queen, ch 1 - Aemond Targaryen x OC

Read on AO3

Summary: Aemond Targaryen and Maelessa Velaryon were childhood lovers. They were each other's only comfort in a world full of darkness. When they grew up, their love blossomed until they were the only thing the other cared about. Their lives get increasingly complicated due to the fact that they're supposed to be on opposite sides of the war. Will their love survive or will it burn to ash as the war ensues? Warnings: None for this chapter, but this fic will contain violence, rough and dirty sex, Dom Aemond, mutilation, degradation, war, canonical and non canonical character deaths, non canonical dragons, mentions of rape... it gets dark at times.

Chapter 1 - Childhood Lovers

Maelessa Velaryon ran to him inside the dragonpit, after the boy she cared about most.

”Aemond, don’t go with them!” she cried, knowing full well that Aegon and the other children had hid a pig inside the tunnel, that they were going to pull a mean prank on Aemond. Just because he didn’t have a dragon. “Aemond! Let’s go see the other dragons instead,” she urged. Aemond didn’t listen, instead he followed his brother. Aegon shot a glare back at Maelessa who stared daggers into him.

When they revealed the pig, the Pink Dread, they called it, Aemond didn’t say a word. He was stoic, his face didn’t betray his hurt. But Maelessa knew him better than all the other children, she felt his pain and knew how bad it broke his heart to be toyed with like this.

“You’re all mean!” she screamed at the other kids, her voice echoing through the pit. “Come on, Aemond, let’s go,” she urged, reaching for his hand. This time he followed her, taking her hand and following her out. Only when they were far enough away from everyone else did he let his tears show. Maelessa would never make fun of him, she sat with him on the cliff until his tears dried, holding his hand.

The next day she cursed her brothers. Jace and Luke were idiots, she screamed, they were nothing but mean bullies and Aemond didn’t deserve to be treated that way. 

“He calls us bastards!” Her older brother defended himself.

“We are bastards, Jace, look at us! Telling the truth isn’t a crime,” she insisted, shoving him in the chest before running off again. Her mother, who had just given birth to her third son, her fourth child, didn’t like how much time Maelessa spent running around the castle with Aemond. She much preferred when Maelessa spent time with her own siblings, studying Valyrian and history. 

Maelessa liked it best when Aemond taught her Valyrian though, his accent was beautiful and he was a good teacher. He also taught her how to fight in secret, the two of them slipping away to the garden to practise sword fighting. She would often sneak into his chamber at night and they would practise Valyrian together and braid each other’s hair. Aemond would tell her fantastical stories and she often fell asleep on the foot end of his bed listening to his calming voice, then the guards found them together in the mornings. He was her favourite person in the world, and when they weren’t together, he was often all she could think about.

***

When Ser Harwin had died, Maelessa ran away in the middle of the night. Her mother sent guards to look for her, and dragons were sent out to help the search. Her mother flew on Syrax and Jace on Vermax, looking for her everywhere, and the guards roamed through the forests. Yet it was Aemond who found her. He pulled down the hood of his cloak and leaned against the wall of the dog training yard in Cobbler’s square.

“Thought I’d find you here, Maelītsos,” he said quietly.

”There’s nowhere I can hide from you,” she mumbled, burying her head in Rocco’s fur. Rocco was a large brown dog that she had helped train since he was six weeks old.

“No. It’s foolish of you to come here. Though I suppose you blend in rather well,” he japed. She sniffled and sobbed.

“Someone murdered him, Aemond. Spontaneous fire in Harrenhal? Not likely.”

“You shouldn’t mourn in public for a man your mother claims to have no relation to. Time to go home,” he said and kicked himself off the wall, extending his hand. She wanted to stay here and sulk, cry until she couldn’t feel sadness anymore, seeking comfort in her four legged friends’ soft fur. But she took Aemond’s hand and followed him without protest back to the castle. She kept her head down so that people wouldn’t see her tears.

Aemond sat them down on a bench in the courtyard and wiped her tears. In his arms, the sadness felt less constricting, her chest felt lighter and more free. She inhaled the scent of him, calming her body even more. He always smelled good, her prince. 

“It’s alright to be sad. Your tears are safe with me, Mae. But be smart. It was foolish of you to leave the Red Keep in your situation.”

“You’re right, I know,” she said and wiped her tears.

With a scream, Syrax crashed down in the courtyard and Rhaenyra came running towards them.

“Where have you been!?” she shouted. Maelessa didn’t answer. “Aemond, where was she?”

“Does it matter? I brought her back.”

“How did you find her?”

“There’s nowhere she can hide from me.” Aemond was proud of his statement, but Rhaenyra looked unimpressed. 

“Thank you. You may leave.” But Aemond didn’t leave. He remained calm as ever, sitting quietly by Maelessa’s side. “That means leave, Aemond!” Rhaenyra clarified as if he was an imbecile. He smiled menacingly.

“I think you’ll find even less luck in speaking with Maelītsos if you force me away from her,” he mocked, purposefully using the pet name that Rhaneyra hated. Little Mae. Maelessa however loved every single pet name Aemond made up for her. The more names he gave her, the more singled out and cherished she felt by him. 

Maelessa’s family were now moving to Dragonstone. She wasn’t quite sure why, if it had to do with the death of Harwin or if it was something else. She knew rumours circled the keep, rumours harmful to her family, but her mother didn’t reveal much to her children, saying they were too young to understand. Maelessa didn’t want to leave, though. She fought her mother tooth and nail, screaming that she refused to go. To her surprise, Alicent was very hospitable, telling Rhaenyra and Laenor that she was welcome to stay here with them. After much fighting, Maelessa’s parents had finally agreed to let her stay. After all, her grandsire king Viserys was here, and he still ruled, so what harm could come to her?

***

After her aunt Laena Velaryon passed, a funeral had been held on Driftmark. Maelessa had arrived with Aemond and his family, and her own family had come as well. Tears had been shed, but she felt she couldn’t quite grieve for someone she barely knew. In the night, when Rhaenyra sent her children to bed, Aemond had stopped the girl from going to her chamber and instead brought her outside, telling her to follow him on an adventure.

Maelessa watched in awe as Aemond climbed atop the green giant beast of a dragon. Vhagar had threatened to rain fire on him but he had stood his ground, and the dragon had rewarded him for it. She ran backwards as the dragon lunged, sand whirring into her eyes as the dragon stomped off the ground and took flight. She listened to Aemonds screams as Vhagar took off with him. For a moment it seemed he would fall off, but he had managed to steady himself, climbing back into the saddle. 

Maelessa clapped her hands and cheered, then the pair disappeared from her sight, beyond the clouds. She watched and waited for a long time before they returned, this time the scream from Aemond wasn’t one of fear, but of triumph. They landed next to her and Aemond climbed off, running to pick Maelessa off the ground and spin her around in the air in cheer joy. He finally had a dragon, and not just any dragon. The biggest one known to them, and the fiercest war dragon. The two children laughed as they walked hand in hand into the cave. 

Rhaena and Baela were in there with Jace and Luke, having been woken up from the noises of Aemond claiming Vhagar. Maelessa felt a little bad, because she knew Rhaena had wanted to claim Vhagar since she was her late mother’s dragon. But dragons chose their riders, they couldn’t be stolen. If Vhagar didn’t want Aemond to claim her, he would be dead. Which is why it angered her so when her cousins accused him of stealing Vhagar. 

Her cousins lunged first, attacking Aemond. She yelled at them to stop, even running forward to hit them back, but Aemond had no issue battling off the two angry girls. When her brothers Jace and Luke joined in though, the fight became unfair. Aemond was strong and already a skilled fighter for his young age, but four against two were bad odds. Maelessa fought her own siblings in Aemond defence, trying to hold them back. Baela and Rhaena retreated, watching as the fight grew meaner and harder. Aemond once again taunted the boys for being bastards, and Luke was the only one who didn’t know that he was right. One of them threw sand in Aemond’s face, causing him to stumble. Then Luke grabbed the knife and lunged. 

Before Maelessa could scream at him to stop, he had slashed the knife across Aemond’s face and he fell to his knees screaming in agonising pain. Maelessa ran to him, hunching over him to comfort him, shocked at the blood running through his fingers. A knight came running, way too late to break up the fight. She refused to let go of Aemond’s arm as they were all led back into the castle. She watched with tears running down her cheeks as a Maester stitched him up, sewing over his eye. 

He looked terrifying, red bloody stitches going from his cheek to his forehead. The room filled up with knights and family members, the king, the queen and her protectors, Lord Corlys and princess Rhaenys, as well as Maelessa’s own mother and Daemon. Panic spread through the room as the adults tried to make sense of the situation, figure out what had happened. The children all screamed over each other trying to tell their stories. Rhaenyra fussed over hew bleeding sons and the unharmed Maelessa backed away from them. Alicent was furious over the loss of her son’s eye, while Rhaenyra was furious over the insults thrown at her children.

“Maelessa, come here,” she beckoned, reaching for her daughter, who backed off, placing herself next to Aemond and grabbing his arm, scowling at her mother. The king, instead of siding with his son who just lost an eye, sided with the grandson who had taken the eye, questioning Aemond about the insults instead of Luke about the attack. He warned them all that the in fighting just cease, but Alicent was not satisfied, trying to convince the king to take one of Luke’s eyes as justice. Maelessa squeezed Aemond’s arm in fear, and even he seemed to think his mother was out of her bounds for the suggestion. Rhaenyra tried to beckon Maelessa over again, to come stand with her siblings, but she refused to let go of Aemond’s arm. 

“Ser Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon,” the queen demanded. Luke cried for their mother in fear, Maelessa’s eyes widened and fighting broke out among the adults again. The king refused to let Ser Criston carry out the order, putting his wife back in place. As the king turned to leave, deeming this trial as over, Alicent leapt forward, reaching for his dagger. 

Aemond stood, wrapping his arms around Maelessa and taking her behind him protectively. Luke screamed and Rhaenyra put herself in front of him, facing off against Alicent. Maelessa was scared, scared that Alicent may hurt her mother, but Aemond held her in his arms and she clung to him fiercely, finding security in his embrace. She didn’t quite understand what Alicent and Rhaenyra said to each other as one held a knife to each other, but then the blade slashed against skin and her mother was bleeding from her arm. Maelessa gasped and dropped her hand down to grasp Aemond’s tightly. 

“Shhh, it’s okay,” he whispered in her ear. When the two women backed off from each other, Aemond and Rhaenyra looked at each other. Rhaenyra’s eyes snapped down to the clutched hands of him and her daughter, but she said nothing. Aemond then turned to his mother. “Do not mourn me, mother, it was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon.”

Her stoic prince.

Tagging @sadgirlxangel and @ner-dee due to previously shown interest, let me know if you wish to remain tagged or not :)

[skythighs]

Calista's Dream: Blood on my Tongue

I am just pushing this story out like it's nothing. That's the power of Feyd Rautha Harkonnen because I've literally never posted any of my writing until this. I'm so inspired ✨️ I hope you all are enjoying the story progress once again future chapters will contain sexual content so 18+ please.

Warnings:blood consumption

Word count:2.8k

Chapter 2

The next morning was slow. It was customary to sleep in after a welcoming feast given the guests usually over indulged in much wine. I was just thankful for a brief reprieve before our official courting began. My hand was wrapped neatly by Dr. Yueh last night. It stung whenever I tried to flex my hand slightly. I’m still not sure what compelled me to slice my palm just because he requested it. At the moment it seemed like the right thing to do but upon further reflection, I think it was a mistake. I only showed him that if he insisted I would bend to his will, because that is exactly what I did. I gave him what he asked for. I gave him my blood and he loved it. I can still recall the look in his predatory eyes when he saw my bright red blood coat the dagger. For a moment I thought he might lick it clean but thankfully he did not.

“My lady, it’s time for your promenade with the Na Baron.”

I wash my face at my vanity trying to mentally prepare for the day ahead. 

“He also requested a tour of the training yard. He needs to train daily, Lady Calista.”

“Of course thank you for informing me.”

With that she readied me for the mid day meal.

Yet again in the great hall Feyd Rautha and my father are seated identically to last night. They rise to greet me, but this time Feyd pulls out my chair without interruption from my father. I kiss my father on his cheek the same way I have every morning since I was a girl and he strokes my hair affectionately. Once I take my seat I greet The Na Baron with a simple 

“Good Morning.”

 My mother looks on with a sincere smile nodding her head in greeting. Her love had always been more reserved, more private than my fathers affections, but I knew she would do anything for me just as he would. 

Na Baron Harkonnen seems taken aback by the display of affection between father and daughter and thus does not relay a ‘Good morning’ in return. The food is quickly delivered and everyone begins eating without another word spoken. In order to break the ice Cali faces Feyd.

“I was informed you wanted to see the training yard. One of the maids mentioned training daily back on Giedi Prime. Is that true?”

He cuts his eyes to her youthful face and damp hair.

“Yes, it’s true. Why do you ask?”

“I also train daily. Perhaps we could-”

“-Cali, no I don’t think that's a good idea.” Said Leto.

“I would be honored, my lady.” said Feyd.

Jessica and Leto looked apprehensive. 

“Father? Is it alright?”

He nodded his approval, reluctant to offend the Na Baron.

An hour later I was dressed in my training garb which consisted of tight yet stretchy britches and a white peasant top tucked in neatly to the britches. I knocked on Feyd Rautha’s chamber in three sharp raps. He opened the door only a crack before seeing me and widening the gap.

“Are you ready Na Baron?”

He nodded once stepping out of the room and closing the door behind him. They walked silently together with him just a few short paces behind her, out of her peripheral vision. 

“Our training yard has an awning so even when it rains we can enjoy the fresh air. The indoor area can get stuffy at times.” I was actually looking forward to sparring with him. I was eager to see if the rumors and gossip about him being a brutal animal were true. I felt a thrill deep down at the thought of it; seeing him for the beast he was rumored to be. 

“Here we are.” I pushed open the large double doors where some of the men were training under Duncans supervision. He nodded to me acknowledging mine and Na Baron Harkonnen's presence, but he did not approach. 

“Where would you like to start? Hand to hand perhaps?”

I offered hoping he would agree.

“Are you sure you’re capable?” He gestures to my wrapped hand that I had somehow forgotten about.

“It’ll be fine. It’s just sparring right?”

“Right.” 

We make our way to an available mat standing on opposite sides of the circle. His eyes are watching me more closely than usual which seems impossible. He gestures for me to make the first move. So I approach him slowly and deliberately. I strike out at his neck before he swiftly dodges the blow countering with a blow of his own which lands on my left side. I expected him to be a bit slower given his stature, but I was wrong. Noted.

 We trade blows back and forth, none landing. I was small and quick but he was using his size against me. He tried cornering me so I couldn't retreat before he grabbed hold of me. At the last second he was able to grab me and bring my back to his front. He wrapped his arms around my middle. For a moment we just breathe a bit worn out from the previous events. We had gone on for nearly ten minutes just grappling no one landing a single blow since his very first attack.

“You're fast my lady. I almost couldn’t catch you... almost.” He whispered right in my ear.

“You’re surprisingly fast for someone of your size, Na Baron. I’ll admit I was expecting slow but powerful blows.” I try to face him but his grip doesn’t allow for it.

“You adapted quickly. I was only able to land the first blow, I’m impressed, but you’re holding back.”

I try to turn to face him but he refuses to let me out of his grip.

“We’re just sparring are we not? Do you want me to unleash my full capabilities?” 

“I will if you will.” He whispers yet again in my ear.

With that I fling my head back catching him while he leaned into my ear to speak. The blow is enough for him to momentarily lose his grip and I use it to my advantage striking him in his gut with my elbow and moving out of his reach.

He smiles a black toothed smile at me, and I feel pride briefly before he charges at me full force and before I can even think he slams me on the foam mat knocking the breath from my body. Now at the advantage he straddles me at my waist totally trapping my legs. I try to use the menuvors Gurney taught me to use against bigger opponents but he pins my hands flush against the mat earning the attention of Duncan and the other soldiers present. 

I buck my hips trying with all my might to knock him off kilter, but it’s all for nothing. He’s too big, even with my years of training my strength will never be a true match to his. His eyes are even brighter than last night as I fight with everything inside of me to free myself. I manage to slip my bandaged hand out of his grasp from the sheer amount of sweat that has gathered there, and I slap him across the face with my full power. He grips my injured hand again this time squeezing it, pulling a whimper from me. I feel my cut reopen and he seems to notice this as well because he hasn’t looked away from my hand yet. I stop fighting and watch him intently as he removes the bandage exposing a small trickle of blood pooling on my palm. 

Hunger. That’s what I see in his eyes right now and it frightens me to my core. I heard tales from Gurney that some Harkonnen partake in cannibalism, but I never thought my betrothed would be one. Slowly and with all the fluidity of a snake he leans down and licks the pool of blood into his onyx mouth. His tongue startlingly pink compared to his black teeth makes me gasp. I freeze in fear and watch him while still pinned down beneath him as he licks my hand free of any blood that has gathered. Once he finishes his task he slowly rises off of me. I continue to lie on the floor shocked until Duncan Idaho kneels beside me.

“Cali, are you hurt?” He asked as he looked me over, but I couldn't pull my eyes away from Feyd Rautha.

“I’m fine Duncan, we were just sparring.” 

Who am I trying to convince? Every man here just saw him toss me around like a rag doll and lick my blood clean from my palm and now he’s staring at me like he wanted to come back over here and devour me bones and all. Duncan pulls me up to my feet, hands on my shoulders as he waits for me to shake off whatever spell I was under.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He persists.

I finally break my trance and look away from Feyd Rautha. I nod my head looking up at Duncan. He was like an older brother to me, somehow older but less mature. But here and now there was no playfulness in his eyes, only deep deep concern for me.

“I’m fine, don’t worry about it. I’m gonna go get this taken care of.”

I gesture to my throbbing hand. Duncan nods at me and releases me from his grasp.I find myself looking at Feyd again, but now he only has eyes for Duncan.

“You will take her place, Atreides' pet.” He spits at Idaho.

That was the last thing I heard as I left the training room face red from all the pitying looks from the men there. He made a fool of me in front of them all. This is what my father was worried about I suppose. I just proved to everyone I’m nothing but a weak little girl.

I sit totally tuning out Dr. Yueh as he asks me about my wound. I couldn’t focus on a word he said. I felt so exhausted and weak physically. My father wanted me to be able to hold my own when this day came, but Feyd proved I was nothing compared to him. How would I survive this? What will my father say?

Later in the day I was soaking in a warm bath spiraling down a rabbit hole of self deprecating thoughts. I was nothing compared to him. If I hadn't been born so small. If I hadn't been born a girl. My back was stiff from the force of being slammed. I realize now, no one had ever handled me so roughly. No one had ever used their full strength on me before. Not Gurney, not Duncan, no one. The thought alone makes tears pool in my eyes. My own perfect little world has been shattered by the truth. I’m not the future Duke. I’m the future Duchess. The very taste is bitter on my tongue.

“I can feel your bad mood from the chamber door.”

I gasp, clutching my heart.

“Mother, you scared me half to death. When did you get here?”

My mothers emerald orbs stare deep into my chestnut ones.

“Speak plainly Calista, your father has already been informed of what transpired today in the training yard.”

I cringe to myself, holding my eyes closed to stop the tears from falling. My mother hated when I cried. I hear her move about the bathing room grabbing something before I feel her gently brush my hair.

“Talk to me, my girl.”

“He bested me. We agreed to stop holding back and he beat me so quickly- I- I can’t face him again.”

“Ah, your pride is wounded. So much of your father is in you my darling.”

“It’s not just pride, mother. I was- I was afraid of him.”

The silence is loud. 

“You were afraid? Why?”

“He overpowered me so quickly, but I fought hard, so hard, and still he would not be moved by me.”

“You’re hiding something. I feel it.”

“He tasted my blood. He looked like a man starving, and I felt such an unfamiliar fear reach my heart.”

Jessica remains silent and just listens as she diligently brushes. 

“He wanted to devour me.”

“Shhh. Don’t cry. I think perhaps what he exhibited was sexual attraction for you.”

“No Gurney told me about cannibalism amongst House Harkonnen. What sort of normal person licks another human being's blood.”

“Calista, blood can be...erotic to some. I highly doubt Feyd Rautha is a cannibal. I think he desires you and you brought that forth while sparring today.”

I open my eyes considering her words.

“I didn’t think of that.”

“You are innocent, I wouldn’t expect such a thing to cross your mind. You can use that desire to your advantage, Cali.”

“Yes, I suppose I can.”

There's an awkward silence before lady Jessica speaks up.

“Why didn’t you use the voice?” There was a tension in her shoulders.

“Because fear is the mind killer. I couldn’t even think.” She admits in shame.

“Do not be ashamed. Let this be a lesson to you Calista, for if you are ever in harm's way your greatest enemy is yourself.”

“I understand.”

“Get out of the tub. It’s time to entertain your betrothed, he still expects a promenade before the evening meal.”

With that she pulls out her dress of choice while leaving Cali to finish her bath in peace.

There was a brief break in the rain clouds so I decided  to take Feyd Rautha to the gardens before we went to the evening meal together. Beyond the garden was the rocky seashore and Feyd seemed transfixed on the water that lay beyond that.

“Let's take a closer look.”

I boldly grab his hand tugging him along near the ragged rocks edge. There was a rocky beach about five feet below.

“What is Giedi Prime like? What can I expect?”

“Nothing like this. In fact it’s the opposite of this. No lush grass or tall standing trees, and certainly no body of water as enchanting as this.”

He sounds harsh in his delivery, but it doesn’t deter me.

“What of your family? Are they looking forward to our union?”

“They are.”

He doesn’t elaborate or even look my way. He simply stares out as the waves crash below us on the rocky shore. The mist from the seaspray damps my hair and I decide we should leave so we aren't soaked through while we eat.

Tonight's meal passed by without much incident unlike last nights and I’m thankful the day is over when I climb into my bed. Physically and mentally exhausted from the last two days.

That night my dreams were plagued by sand dunes, and the sound of a baby crying with all their strength. As I walked along the sand dune I found myself heavily with child and the crying was coming from within me, only I could hear my son cry out. Feyd appeared suddenly in my dream and my son's cries stopped abruptly as he kneeled before me speaking calmly to my large midsection. He even stroked me lovingly there on his knees. A kick from within my womb drags me out of my sleep and I shoot up out of my bed. It felt so strong. So real. This was no dream, this was a vision. The very first one since my childhood. A son? Why was this so familiar to me and yet so foreign. How did I know the life inside of me was male? I don't know how I know, but he was soothed by Feyd Rautha’s presence. The child in my womb recognized his fathers voice even now when he hasn’t yet been conceived.

In the weeks that followed Feyd Rautha pulled away from me. He would not engage in idle chit chat no matter how hard I tried to interact with him. His eyes were dead again even when looking at me, and some part of me didn’t like that. He was clearly just going through the motions of courting because it was requested but some part of me wanted us to know one another. Ever since the vision when I saw another side of him, I've longed to see more. He was tender in my vision, stroking my heavily pregnant womb gently and with great care. I wanted to see that side of him again, but who knew how long that would take. However, I resigned myself to the fact that I would indeed be marrying a stranger despite my best attempts. He had even gone so far as to avoid me during training. Only arriving while I still slept peacefully and leaving as soon as I appeared. 

Taglist: @mamawiggers1980

[hayleythecannibal]

Twisted Minds: Chapter Twelve Releves

TW: Crime scenes, Gore, Crying, Death, Malpractice, Lying, Gruesome Death, Realization.

Warning this is Fem!reader. You can also find this on Wattpad and A03 under the name @HayleyMarieOfficial. Comment if you want to be added to the taglist.

Taglist: @punkin-time @miaowkitty @gabriella-aesthetic @urlocalfanficwriter

Twisted Minds Masterlist

HOSPITAL - WILL GRAHAM'S ROOM - NIGHT-

Will opens his eyes, stirring as an aroma hits him. He sits up in bed as Hannibal pops the lid on a second Tupperware container allowing the steam to escape a rich amber broth. “Smells delicious.” Will says. “Silkie chicken in a broth. A black boned bird prized in China for its medicinal value since the 7th century. With wolfberries, ginseng, ginger, red dates and star anise.” Hannibal says as he places the bowl of soup on the tray.

“You made me chicken soup.” Hannibal offers a supportive smile. Of course he did. They sit silhouetted by the window, reminiscent of the first meal they shared together in the beginnings of their relationship. “The nurses tell me you've been wandering, Will.” Hannibal says. “I was awake. And wandering with purpose and good intentions.”

“Visiting that unfortunate young woman suffering from delusions?” Hannibal asks as he screws the lid of his thermos back onto the said thermos. “She's my support group.” Will says as he takes a spoonful of soup. “And I hope you're her's. Nothing more isolating than mental illness.”

“I know Dr. Sutcliffe was a friend.”

“She didn't murder Dr. Sutcliffe. Her disease did. I can't blame her for his death any more than you can be blamed for shooting Abel Gideon.”

“The hallucinations, the loss of time, sleepwalking. Could that have all just been the fever?”

Hannibal considers saying what Will wants to hear or what he wants Will to hear, then simply replies: “It's possible.” Not confident enough of an answer for Will. “Fevers can be symptoms of dementia. Dementia can be a symptom of many things happening in your body or mind that can no longer be ignored.” Hannibal says but once again, Hannibal knows whats wrong with Will and it is most certainly not Dementia. “Does Jack know?”

“That this could be more than a fever? No. I haven't told him.”

“Shouldn't you?”

“Not until we know for certain. What we must do now is continue to support and monitor your recovery. The young woman you were visiting. How is her recovery?”

“I don't think she wants to recover. Afraid to remember what she did.”

“Can't say I blame her.”

HOSPITAL - GEORGIA MADCHEN'S ROOM - DAY -

Smoke stains the walls and the high tech HYPERBARIC CHAMBER. BRIAN ZELLER studies the charred remains of Georgia Madchen as JIMMY PRICE studies the charred remains of the chamber. JACK CRAWFORD, Y/N L/N and Will Graham stand nearby. Will is still wearing his hospital robe, holding his rolling IV stand. “Hospital speculates a short circuit could have ignited the fire.” Jack says as he turns to Will and I.

“Unit looks well maintained. No exposed wiring.”

“Don't know if she suffocated or burned to death. We'll look for soot in the lining of her airways.”

Will fights the overwhelming sadness of Georgia's life.

“Horrible way to die.” I say softly. “A kid in Italy was in one of these things. A spark of static electricity from his pajamas set it off. Two cubic yards of oxygen became two cubic yards of fire.” Jimmy says, which makes me feel sadder. “Could she have started the fire?” Will is disturbed by that thought. A thought Zeller finds evidence to support. He pulls a blackened anti-static wrist strap out of the Oxygen Chamber. “She wasn't wearing her grounding bracelet. Prevents build up of static electricity. Took it off.” Zeller says as he looks up at us from the bracelet.

“Suicide? By immolation.” Will says confused, why would anyone want to go out that way? “She was facing two murder charges.” Jack says with a tone that makes me a little angry. “She wasn't suicidal, Jack. She was sick. I was here. I spoke to her.” Will says which causes me and Jack to look at him. “Why did you speak to her?” Jack says in an almost scolding tone.

“Because I know what she felt like.”

“She tried to kill you. She's a murder suspect. Being her friend impacts the case against her.”

“The case against her doesn't really matter anymore, does it?” And with that, Will EXITS. OFF Jack watching him go...

F.B.I. ACADEMY - JACK CRAWFORD'S OFFICE - DAY -

Will Graham approaches Jack at his desk. “Checked myself out of the hospital.”

“Check yourself back in.” Jack says as he turns away from Will. “Fever broke.” Will says as he enters farther into Jack’s office. “I don't care.” Jack says as he Turns back around with a scolding look on his face. “Georgia Madchen didn't commit suicide. And whatever happened to her wasn't an accident.” Will says as he approaches Jack’s desk. “I'm going to have Z come down here and put a thermometer in you and if I see a temperature above 99…” Jack scolds.

“She was murdered, Jack.” Will says with a tilt of his head. “By who?”

“By whoever killed Dr. Sutcliffe.” Will says, and Jack just looks at Will like he just lost his damn mind. “His blood was all over Georgia Madchen. Her DNA was all over him.” Jack says Bewildered that Will thought she wasn't his killer given all of the evidence. “She knew what she was capable of. She told me there was someone else there. She couldn't see his face.”

“There was someone else there. Sutcliffe. And she couldn't see his face because she cut it in half. I know you're looking for an explanation to make this all right.” Jack says as his voice raises slightly. “There isn't one. There was something wrong with her. We'll never know what that is. Just that she was wrong. However many doctors she saw, however much help she got, she was fighting that wrong alone.”

“You can't do anything about that.”

“All her adult life this woman was misunderstood. What I can do is make sure her death isn't misunderstood. She didn't kill herself. This wasn't an accident.” OFF Jack considering Will's convictions...

B.A.U. - MORGUE - DAY -

Brian Zeller, Jimmy Price, Jack Crawford and Will Graham stand over the CHARRED REMAINS of Georgia Madchen. “Dismantled the oxygen chamber to see if we could find evidence of someone tampering with the wiring or a short circuit. Nothing.” Zeller says as he looks from his report. “Then what sparked the fire?” Jack asks, confused.

“Inconclusive.”

“Not conclusively inconclusive.” He turns their attention to a SMALL BAND OF MELTED PLASTIC. “Found this. Thought it might have been part of the bed or monitoring equipment, but mass spectrometer said it was celluloid plastic. They don't use plastic in these things.” Jimmy explains to everyone.

“It generates static electricity.” Jack takes the band of plastic, studying it. “It was by her head. Her hair was melted into it. Preserved almost like it was in amber.” As Will takes in the sad dead girl...“Could it have been a plastic comb?”

“Static charge from a plastic comb in a highly oxygenated environment would have a powerful accelerant.” Jimmy supports the theory. “Everything combustible in there would combust.” Will looks at the melted plastic in Jack's hand. “You're holding the murder weapon.”

“Or what she used to kill herself.” A MORGUE DRAWER It OPENS REVEALING the body of Dr. Sutcliffe on a separate drawer than Georgia Madchen's CHARRED REMAINS. Jack, Will, Zeller and Price are gathered around the slack-jawed dead. “Whoever killed Sutcliffe wanted to kill him how Georgia Madchen killed her victim. But not exactly how.” Will says as he points to the nearly decapitated corpse.

“Georgia Madchen carved up her victim's face. Sutcliffe was nearly decapitated at the jaw.” Zeller says as he points to the bodies. “She went further the second time. Serial killers often do.” Jack says but Will's mind whirls around the details and facts, then: “She was copied. Like whoever killed Marissa Schuur and Cassie Boyle wanted to copy how Garret Jacob Hobbs killed his victims.”

“But not exactly how.” Will responds with a look, “Wait, wait. Hold on. Now you're telling me Dr. Sutcliffe was killed by Garret Jacob Hobbs' Copy Cat?”

“And so was Georgia Madchen. Because he thinks she saw his face.” Will says putting pieces together.

“You said Nicholas Boyle was the Copy Cat. His blood was on one of the victims. Nicholas Boyle's dead.” Jack says looking at Will concerned.

“Then he wasn't the copy cat.” OFF Jack Crawford studying Will...

HANNIBAL’S OFFICE - DAY -

Jack faces Hannibal, who sits behind his desk. “Will's connecting murders that previously had no connection.” Jack says concernedly. “Beyond his involvement in the investigations.” Hannibal questions with a very slight head tilt. “That's right.”

“You're wondering if the lines are blurring or if he's onto something.” Hannibal asks but what he’s thinking is if Will is putting it together, What does Y/N Know. Y/N has always known more than she lets on. But what exactly does she know? “I'm wondering about all sorts of things.” Jack says as he takes a sip of his drink.

“May I ask, do you believe Georgia Madchen was murdered?” Hannibal asks Jack with no emotion in his tone. “There's evidence to suggest her death was intentional but it could have easily been by her own hand.” Jack says but even he is questioning himself.

“This woman was bested by madness. Perhaps what Will can't accept is that she took her own life so she wouldn't kill again.” Hannibal suggests, on the outside he is put together and elegant, non-breakable. But on the inside he is slowly going mad, but we all know that he won't get caught until he lets himself get caught.

“Why is that so hard to accept?” Jack asks Hannibal as he is scared for a person he sees as a friend. “If she could survive her delusions, then maybe he could survive his. He was hallucinating when he shot Abel Gideon. In his mind, he was killing Garret Jacob Hobbs. Again.” Hannibal explains.

“What's Will's relationship with Abigail Hobbs these days?”

“You think Will's protecting her.”

“Has been since he killed her father. Just don't know from what.” Jack says as he runs his hands over his face. “I can't imagine he would hide anything criminal from you. I've only ever known Will Graham as a man striving to be his best self.” Hannibal says with a small smile.

“You haven't known him very long. But we both know him well enough to know he hasn't been himself.”

“Will needs our support, whether or not mental illness is involved.”

“Is it mental illness or does his mind just work so differently we don't know what else to call it?” Jack asks and stands, letting the question float in the air. “There are days when even Will doesn't understand his thinking.” Jack Crawford studies Hannibal. There is something the psychiatrist is hiding. He can sense it.

HANNIBAL LECTER'S OFFICE - DAY

Hannibal and Will, mid-session. “I'm much better now. I feel clearer. It had to be the fever.” Will says as he looks at Hannibal with a tilted head. “You checked yourself out of the hospital against the recommendation of your attending physician.” Hannibal says as he observes Will, in every aspect of the masterpiece he is.

“He gave me antibiotics.” Will says observing Hannibal just as much as Hannibal is observing him. “This is not the behavior of someone who is thinking clearly.” Hannibal inquires warialy.

“I'm finally thinking clearly about the Copy Cat.” Will says as he finally brings his eyes to Hannibal’s, their eyes danced around each other but finally meeting each other in the flames of the fire.

“The murders you're attributing to the Copy Cat have suspects, whose DNA was found on the victims.” says Hannibal as he breaks the intense and strenuous eye contact. “So what?” Hannibal stares, then proceeds calmly: “You're choosing to ignore that?

“Both of those suspects are dead. I'm choosing to factor that into my psychological profile of a killer. Georgia Madchen followed me to Sutcliffe's office. She witnessed his murder, she saw the CopyCat.” Will says as he stands up and starts to pace. “Why not kill her then and there?” Asks Hannibal as he leans forward.

“He must not have had time. She was an unreliable witness. And that bought him the time.” Will says as he looks out the window with his back to Hannibal. “So he framed her for the murder?” Hannibal asks and Will looks at him from over his shoulder. “He wasn't planning on framing her. He was planning on framing me.” Will says with a Realizing tone “You believe this is personal.”

“If it wasn't before, it is now. It could be someone at the Bureau, someone in the police force, someone who knows the crimes, and has access to the investigations.”

“Someone like you. Or Y/N?” Will considers that briefly, then dismisses the notion. “Y/N would never- No one is touching Y/N. There will be evidence. I found a pattern. And now I'm going to reconstruct his thinking.” Will says in an almost chaotic and rash tone. Starting to lose it once Y/N was menti

oned. Last time he saw her was this morning when he left her in bed for work. “How do you intend to do that?” Hannibal asks with furrowed brows.

“Take Abigail back to Minnesota. Start where the Copy Cat started. With Garret Jacob Hobbs.” Will says confidently, “Will, this is venturing into the paranoid. I can't allow you to pull Abigail into your delusion.”

“This isn't a delusion. I'm not hallucinating. I haven't lost time. I am awake and this is real.” Hannibal eyes Will's determination with curious concern.

HANNIBAL LECTER'S OFFICE - NIGHT

Jack Crawford confronts Hannibal Lecter. “What the hell is going on between Will Graham and Abigail Hobbs?” Jack demands. “Will has been victim to many unusual and irrational thoughts.” Hannibal says calmly. “Has he acted on those thoughts?” Jack asks in a demanding manner he is angry. “Not that I'm aware of or he's aware of, for that matter. But he has experienced periods of lost time.”

“I've seen him confused at crime scenes. He was disoriented.” Jack says in an angry knowing tone. “He may've been confused because he was waking up. Might not have known where he was or how he got there.” Hannibal Explains gently and calmly, and his eyes subtly go to his scalpel just in case. “Waking up?”

“From a dissociated personality state. He would appear perfectly normal and not remember a thing. But a fractured part of him would.” Hannibal explains as he quickly stands up defensively, he towers over jack which balances out the power dynamic and position. Giving Hannibal the Right amount of Intimidation that he desired “You knew about this.” Jack accuses. “He's only recently started to discuss these episodes.” Hannibal admits. “Unless recently was right before I walked into this room, you failed to mention any of this to me.”

“Because I was trying to determine if it was trauma and stress from the work he does for you... or mental illness. Thought it wise to be sure before making any kind of claim about Will Graham's sanity.” Hannibal growls back though really all he wanted to do was see what would happen if Will Graham fell off the edge. Would Y/N follow suit? “He took Abigail Hobbs. Any idea where they could be going?” “No.”

“We have evidence she was involved in her father's crimes. We just don't know how involved.” Hannibal appears appropriately gobsmacked by this revelation. “Could Will know what she did? Is that why he's been protecting her?” Hannibal looks like a man who wants to have a heart-to-heart. “There's something you should hear.” ON A RECORDING DEVICE

Hannibal presses play and watches Jack Crawford listen.

“How did you feel seeing Marissa Schuur impaled in the antler room?”

“Guilty.”

“Because you couldn't save her?”

“Because I felt like I killed her.”

Hannibal presses stop, studying Jack's reaction. “Where was Will the night Marissa Schuur was murdered?” Jack asks slowly, not wanting to believe his realization. “He was supposed to be in his hotel room. I knocked on his door. He didn't answer. He told Dr. Y/N L/N he decided to go to bed early.” Hannibal says softly. “We know Will was in Sutcliffe's office when he was killed. And Will was the last person to visit Georgia Madchen before she died.”

“Is Will Graham a suspect?” Hannibal Asked concerned for Will. “This dissociated personality state you say he goes into... whose personality is it?” Jack asks “Will said he got so close to Garret Jacob Hobbs and what he had done, he felt like he was becoming him.”

“Now Will has Hobbs' daughter.”

“Who Hobbs was intending to kill.” OFF that revelation...

HOBBS HOUSE - KITCHEN -

Abigail walks in and STARTLES to FIND HANNIBAL LECTER standing against the counter. Waiting for her. She immediately runs into his arms for a huge hug. “What are you doing here? Is Y/N here too?” Abigail asks hopeful, she had found a new maternal figure in Y/N.

“I was worried about you. No Y/N did not come, Just Me. Will told me he was taking you to Minnesota. I strongly advised against it.” He gently releases the hug, looking Abigail in the eyes: “Where is Will, Abigail?” Hannibal asks gently. “I left him at the cabin. I didn't feel safe with him. So I left him. He knows everything.” Abigail says Frightened. “So does Jack Crawford.” Abigail's mind spins, her options narrowing. “If I run, they'll catch me, won't they. You and Y/N can't protect me anymore.”

“They'll arrest you when they find you. They'll arrest Will, too.” Hannibal says with slight remorse, something he doesn't feel often if at all. “Did he kill Marissa?”

“They will believe he did. They will believe he killed others, too.” Abigail stares at Hannibal, awareness dawning. “Will always said whoever called the house that morning was the serial killer. Why did you really call?” Abigail asks softly as she gently steps back. “I wanted to warn your father that Will Graham and Y/N were coming for him.”

“Why?”

“I was curious what would happen. I was curious what would happen when I killed Marissa. I was curious what you would do.” Hannibal admits this time though a smile shows through. A wave of near-nausea washes over her, she pushes it down. “You wanted me to kill Nick Boyle.”

“I was hoping. I wanted to see how much like your father you were.” Hannibal says with a cocked eyebrow. “Ohmygod.” Abigail exclaims softly as she takes herself out of his hold. “Nicholas Boyle is more important for you gutting him. He changed you. That's more important than the life he clamored after.” Hannibal explains.

“How many people have you killed?” Abigail asks frightened for her life, and rightfully so. “Many more than your father.” Quiet tears stream as she realizes what she only dare ask:“Are you going to kill me?”

He gently strokes her cheek, then: “I'm so sorry, Abigail. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you in this life.”

[loftylockjaw]

TIMING: Current LOCATION: The woods PARTIES: Wyatt (@loftylockjaw) & Mateo (@fearhims3lf) SUMMARY: Just some dudes bonding over explosions. CONTENT WARNINGS: Gun use

—

BANG!

The can used as a makeshift target several yards away flung with the force of a bullet. It was the farthest distance Mateo had been able to accurately shoot with his pistol. He closed one eye and inhaled, shooting three more times as he exhaled. Two out of the three cans flew away, and he sucked his teeth with disappointment. If he couldn’t hit still targets, how’d he expect to hit ones that were moving? Rolling his eyes at himself, Mateo mentally reassured himself that he was fine. 

There were several dozen pieces of metal on the ground proving that a few missed shots were inevitable. He held onto that, removing the clip from the gun and checking the chamber to ensure no bullet was left inside. When Mateo was satisfied with his gun cleanup, he picked up his pack and began his march to pick up his trash. An asshole he may be, but he did not litter. He wouldn’t be part of that particular problem, and just as he was halfway through with the errand, there was the telltale sound of footsteps nearby. Only, they weren’t just footsteps. Each thump crunched several branches at once, as if the size of its foot was an indication of the source being a creature rather than a person. 

“Come on.” Mateo groaned, irritated at himself for thinking that any day in that stupid town could be normal. With a huff, he reclipped his gun and pulled the chamber back, readying himself to shoot, but when he finally saw what was coming, he shrank with widened eyes.

“I’m gonna need bigger bullets.”

—

Most people heard gunshots in the woods and made sure to stay well away, especially if they didn’t happen to be in the midst of a hunting reserve. Despite this, Wyatt strode boldly forward, thinking about a meal rather than the stupidity of this particular decision. The sound was distant for now, and before it became a danger to his comparatively fragile human body, the lamia stripped out of his clothes and left them hanging over the branches of a nearby tree—it was a spot he often chose if he didn’t happen to have his modified backpack with him. The shift was swift and relatively painless, unlike that of lesser shifters, his crocodilian body bursting forth from the smaller human one that contained it with decades of practiced ease. The massive lamia rocked forward onto all fours and began his lumbering march through the trees, closer and closer to the sound. It stopped eventually, but he’d already locked on to his target. Golden eyes watched for a moment from the trees before he moved to meet the person in the small clearing, long alligator jaws parting in what you could call a toothy grin. 

“Or maybe just save me trouble and don’t waste them on me at all?” he suggested languidly, rising up onto his hind feet. It was only then, once he was done talking and moving about that he noticed that the thump of his footsteps hadn’t stopped… even though he had? What the—

Another creature, one he thought for a moment might be another fucking lamia, came bursting out of the underbrush. “Whoa, hey! I got dibs here, pal!” Wyatt snarled, reeling back and out of the way of the other reptilian beast as it charged at them. Upon closer inspection, he was pretty sure it wasn’t a lamia, but he didn’t know what the fuck it was either. “Okay, new plan—shoot that guy.” It was turning on them again, beady gaze dancing between the stranger and Wyatt, sizing them up. 

—

A voice called out to him, unfamiliar yet demanding. As if the stranger had known Mateo far longer than a brief moment in passing, a flash that could hardly be registered as any real greeting. Especially when a reptilian creature was telling him to shoot another reptilian creature. The other one was just a hell of a lot bigger, and charging way too fast for Mateo to get a proper shot on it. 

“Fuck!” A large tail rammed into the mare, sending him careening away from the rest of his bullets. He maintained a firm grip all the way until his body  stopped rolling at the treeline. Mateo groaned, barely managing to push himself out of the way when the beast tried to crash into him again. It broke several branches and left jagged trails from its claws in the earth. Mateo knew he’d be a goner if any of its grubby talons latched onto him, so he aimed and pulled the trigger four times in quick succession. Each landed, but the caliber was nowhere near big enough to cause actual damage. 

Of fucking course!

Mateo rushed to his feet and booked it toward the talking alligator thing. He figured that his chances with that thing were better than with the nonverbal asshole struggling to find his way out of the shrub. It helped a lot that the reptile dude was much closer to Mateo’s size. The caliber he had in his gun would definitely do a bigger number on it. “Okay,” He skidded to a halt just a few feet away from the creature. Distance was his best friend at that point. “I shot the thing, and it did nothing. What the fuck do I do now? You should probably, I don’t know, go flirt with it or something.” Mateo shrugged, “You two seem to have a lot in common.”

—

Wyatt narrowed his yellow eyes at the man, taking offense at the comment. Unless that thing was a lamia, it's be a hard fucking pass. “Ain't in the habit of boinking the wildlife, mon frère,” he hissed. He was annoyed that his hunt had been interrupted, that what was supposed to be his dinner was now something he was going to be inadvertently protecting because he had to fight off this damn… whatever it was. 

Still, maybe it was a lamia, and just had yet to play its hand. Wyatt had done the same, after all, especially in the pursuit of food. Hoping that this was the case and that they could at least agree to split the presumed human in half, Wyatt rounded on the creature and charged at it. It mirrored his attack, leaping forward, mouth splayed open in one hell of a weird display. Wyatt tucked his maw down against his chest and headbutted the creature full-bore, knocking it to the ground and allowing him the opportunity to pin it there, using his weight to hold it in place. 

“Hey! Hey, look at me when I'm fuckin’ talkin’ to you, godzilla!” He was struggling to meet the creature's gaze, but when their eyes finally locked, he saw no reflection of higher thought. Just hunger. Ugh. 

His next bite was too slow, and the scaled creature threw Wyatt off of it, sending him skidding through the underbrush in much the same way that the human had. “Okay, now it's personal,” he grumbled as he picked himself up out of the dirt, rolling a shoulder that had clipped a tree trunk as he was thrown. His gaze flicked to the other target of this thing’s ire, teeth bared in a grimace. “Don't suppose you got any tricks up those sleeves of yours?” It wasn't fair that he always had to do all the work.

—

As much as Mateo enjoyed the Godzilla movies and all the creature features where gigantic monsters fought each other, it was a completely different scenario in person. Not to mention, whoever the reptile dude was, he was certainly a lot smaller than the thing he was attempting to fight. He was practically thrown away, like he was just some rag doll with no real weight or threat. The urge to disappear was high. 

Mateo grumbled, looking up at the sun and wishing it were the moon instead. At least that way he could go home for a much bigger gun. Maybe get that bazooka he’s been wanting to use. Or maybe just disappear outright and leave whatever the man was to deal with what wanted to eat him. For all he knew, toothy and toothier both wanted to chomp on him. With a groan, he rubbed at his face, discontent with the problem in front of him and he ran over to take aim. Taking the thing’s sight might give them an edge, right? That was Mateo’s hope. 

BANG!

A shot rang out, and a roar followed soon after while blood coated over the thing’s eye. He shot once more, missing the other eye complete due to the monster’s thrashing and crying. Mateo sucked his teeth, holstering his gun and patting his pockets for something special. Finding it, he smiled. No, he grinned, whistling to get the friendlier creature’s attention. 

“Hey, how do you feel about explosions?”

—

Wyatt was content to watch for a moment as the stranger took aim again and shot the fucking beast right in its stupid fucking eye, letting out an approving hiss and standing a bit straighter, with renewed confidence. 

Explosions? “Uh, I feel fuckin’ great about explosions, mon frère. Why, you got some dynamite on that skinny ass of yours?” He sounded excited, even as the creature charged at him again. The creature, not knowing where the pain in its head had come from but hearing the alligator making a loud racket, was decidedly less excited by this news, but also probably didn’t understand what was being said. 

This time, Wyatt was ready. This time he didn’t have to worry about sparing a fellow lamia an embarrassing defeat, and so did not hold back. All the fights he’d been in, all sixteen years of battle after battle after battle, earning himself one more day of life on this good, green earth, gave him plenty of edge over whatever this monster was. If he could not beat it by size alone (which was shocking, honestly: Wyatt was used to being the biggest bitch in the ring), then the rest of his skills would have to do. He leaped up into the air as it came for him, coming back down atop its back and crunching those powerful jaws down around its neck. He bit as hard as he could, wrenching from side to side, trying to crack a vertebrae or two. For a moment, his gaze met that of the (presumed) human. Throw it, he encouraged with a pointed stare, confident in his ability to get away before whatever it was blasted them both to kingdom come.

—

Man, if it wouldn’t expose a bigger can of worms, Mateo would’ve recorded the amazing fight. How often did people get to see that kind of action, real and up close? It would kill on YouTube, go viral even. TikTok would have a fucking field day with the airtime the smaller reptile had, and people would die from the beautiful crunching asmr. Ugh. Having witnessed the whole thing himself would have to do instead, but first Mateo had a bone to pick. 

“My ass ain’t skinny. It’s proportionate and round.” He huffed, mostly humorously. Time was of the essence, but having been an asshole his entire life, it was easy for Mateo to prolong his duty a little longer. If not for the sake of getting an unnecessary compliment out of the reptilian jowls sinking into dollar store Godzilla. Mateo didn’t even care if he understood what the dude’s stare meant. He went ahead and pulled out two grenades from his vest pocket, but did nothing more than hold them in the air teasingly.

“Say my ass is round, and then I’ll throw them.” He clicked his tongue. “And make sure his mouth is open for at least one of ‘em.”

—

Rolling his yellow eyes, Wyatt bit down harder on the beast’s neck, feeling a satisfying crack beneath his teeth. It wasn’t enough on its own, of course—might not have even been a break. Maybe he was just giving this fuckin’ thing its first chiropractic adjustment. 

“Kinna go’ aye ‘outh hull!” he shouted back, around the mouthful of… whatever this was. But the request tickled Wyatt’s peculiar sense of humor. Fishing for compliments during a dangerous situation? It’s something he would do, too. So he’d play along. His clawed back feet hooked into the creature on either side of its neck, near the underside where the tissue was softer, and clawed hands reached forward for its head. He had to let go with his own jaws to reach, grabbing at the thing’s snout and pulling back as hard as he could. It reared onto its hind legs, mouth agape, hissing and spitting and trying to shake the shifter off of its back. 

“Your ass is great!” Wyatt bellowed with a laugh. “Perfect and perky! Now throw the fuckin’ grenade!” He waited until he saw it soaring through the air at them, and praying that this man had good aim, watched it disappear behind the monster’s head as he held its mouth open. Hoping that it’d swallowed it but knowing he was too short on time to check, Wyatt released his grip and scrambled to the ground, bounding away from the thing as it took a brief moment to recover from whatever the hell had just happened to it. 

—

Mateo grinned, satisfaction dripping from his laughter as he released the safety and the clip on one of the grenades. He chucked it as hard as he could, excited at how agape the monster’s mouth was. It was wide enough to accept another treat, so without another moment of hesitation, Mateo chucked the other one with a cheery sound of exertion. The explosives landed in the creature’s mouth, one after the other, and guessing how big the chunks might be once they detonated, the mare quickly took a few steps back. 

“Get the hell outta there!” He cupped his hands around his mouth, “You got like five seconds!” Which actually wasn’t a lot of time. Forget what people said about time slowing down when shit got real. Five seconds were just a tiny instant that could make or break any time-constrained task. More than once, Mateo had witnessed timing go wrong. Luckily for both of them though, everything went according to plan. 

BOOM! And then another BOOM! shortly after. All that was left was a carcass with a blown off head. Well, among other things. 

Flesh and blood tore through the air, and Mateo couldn’t help falling over in a heap of laughter. Not even the ringing filling his ears couldn’t ruin the fun he was having. No matter how irritating it was. “You know,” He arched a brow, propping himself up on the ground by his elbows, “Wasn’t expecting to dp a beasty today, but that’s probably the most metal thing I’ll do for a while.”

—

Wyatt gave a great whoop! as the creature exploded, sending its bits flying all around the little clearing in the woods. For a moment, he forgot how tired he was, how despondent and helpless he felt in the face of the shit he’d done wrong and fucked up and the possibility that none of this was real. 

If this was a dream, at least it was a fuckin’ sick one. 

“I ain’t never blown somethin’ up before!” he hollered with a laugh. “Usually more about rippin’ it to shreds with my teeth! That was awesome.” He gave the stranger another look, deciding that he didn’t need to eat this one after all. The blown up fucker would do just fine. “And lookie there! You cut up n’ seared my dinner for me. Mighty kind.” Standing to his full height, he stomped over to the man, holding out a massive, clawed hand that would take two of the stranger’s to grip. “Lockjaw," he offered with a chuff, "if you ever find yourself at the Pit and want a good show.” In spite of everything, he still loved what he did, still craved the thrill of the fight. “I was gonna eat you, but don’t see much point in it now.” It wasn’t a threat so much as a poorly thought out statement of fact. The lamia was very good at putting his own foot in his mouth. 

—

Holy shit. 

At Wyatt’s height, it took nearly bending backwards to keep eye contact with the guy. Mateo couldn’t help but scoff with disbelief, and it quickly rolled into laughter. “Well, I don’t think I would’ve tasted very good.” He took the giant’s scaley hand and curled his fingers into a fist, holding on for just an extra moment. “I’m what you call…undead. The ‘made out of nightmares’ kind.” With some focus, Mateo urged sleep to weigh on Wyatt, but he quickly retracted his hands before he could make the poor guy pass out on the ground. 

“But hey,” Reaching into the breast pocket of his vest, Mateo produced one more grenade. “As a thank you for not eating me, and because you popped your explosion cherry,” He opened Wyatt’s giant hand and placed the grenade in it, “Here’s something to remember me by.”

—

Made out of nightmares? What did that mean? He thought, of course, of his own issues with sleep, how plagued his dreams were by terrifying things that had no right terrorizing him the way they did… but maybe it was just an expression. Figure of speech. Undead could be scary, he guessed. Caleb certainly wasn’t, but Caleb probably wasn’t your average zombie… and who knew how many other kinds of undead people there were? He only knew about zombies and vampires, and was slow to assume that that was the whole of it. He was learning, impossible as that might sound, to never presume he had the whole picture in front of him. 

So yeah. Probably a figure of speech. Except he was suddenly feeling tired, very tired, and his eyes closed for the briefest of moments. Desperate as his body was for rest, he actually did nod off, just for a second, but it was long enough to send a spectral crow screeching right toward him. The beast gave a start, snapping awake again and shaking his head, trying to brush it off as he refocused himself on Mateo. Something was being pressed into his hand—another grenade. Despite the way his heart raced, the gator managed a thick laugh. “Most excellent,” he chuckled. “I’ll be sure to let you know what I use it for!”

[therisingkings]

The Jealousy of a King

Check it out on Ao3

TW: The following contains mature content (sex and bondage) that may be triggering to some viewers. Read at your own risk. *****

Laurent swallowed hard as he looked out over the training field, the only reaction he allowed his body to express.

The Akielons trained below, shouting and clasping each other. Training naked, Laurent had recently learned, was a common practice in Akielos. They sometimes wore clothes in the winter, Damen had reassured him.

Laurent’s eyes caught and held on his husband. As much as he tried to tell Damen that being naked out in public was unkingly, the man never listened to him. His brown skin was glistening with oil underneath the high summer sun, the scars on his back nothing more than blurred lines from this distance. Damen was currently smiling at Nikandros as they put their arms across each other’s shoulders, a gesture Laurent recognized as the beginning of a wrestling match. 

Nikandros said something that made Damen laugh, and then they heaved. Nikandros managed to bring Damen to the ground, which was a feat in and of itself. 

Laurent was moving before he could stop himself. He rounded a pillar, descending the marble steps. By the time he made it to ground level, they were in the midst of the round.

Damen flipped them over, slamming Nikandros into the ground. Nikandros was quick to turn, not letting himself get pinned. There was a moment of struggle where Damen tried to get a better grip, while Nik tried to throw him off. It pushed their sweat-dampened bodies together, and even if neither of them were aroused, Laurent was suddenly hot, even in his chiton.

“Stop,” he ordered, louder than he intended because the whole training yard seemed to pause.

Nikandros looked up so fast, he bumped Damen’s head with his own.

Damen groaned and let him go. He looked up at Laurent, rubbing his head. “What is it?”

Laurent didn’t have an excuse. He said, “I require your opinion.”

“On what?”

“It’s important. We must talk privately.”

Damen’s brows knitted together, but he stood, accepting a towel to wipe the sweat from his brow.

“Get dressed,” Laurent added in a slightly strangled voice as he turned away.

Damen found him a couple minutes later in their private chambers. He entered quietly, allowing the door to click shut behind him. 

Laurent was sitting on their bed, eyes on Damen’s sandals. “I am ashamed.”

“Of?”

“I let my jealousy get the best of me.”

“Sweetheart, you know that there is a very strict difference between sports and sex here. That was just wrestling.” Damen bent to unlace his sandals.

Laurent glared at the ground. “I know,” he hissed.

“So then you understand that that kind of behavior is unacceptable.” 

Crossing his arms over his chest, Laurent turned his head away like a petulant child. “You had him naked beneath you. Your cock was—”

“That’s enough.” Damen crossed the room to grip Laurent’s face, forcing him to look at him. “You will be punished for your actions today.”

Laurent recoiled. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You stopped my training session and you got jealous. I’ll do you a favor and let you pick your punishment. Do you—”

Laurent smacked his hand away, shoving to his feet. “You would have reacted the same way if I wrestled Nikandros like that.”

“You’d never be able to get Nik under you,” Damen said, which wasn’t helpful.

“Really? Let’s see if he’d like to bend over for both Kings.” With that, Laurent went to the door, fully prepared to call Nikandros to their bedroom.

Damen beat him to it. He slammed the door shut when Laurent only managed to open it a hair and caged Laurent against it with his arms. “You’re acting like a brat.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Heat bloomed across Laurent’s back as Damen leaned closer, his breath fanning over Laurent’s ear. “Maybe I will. Would you get jealous of my hand too, sweetheart?”

Growling, Laurent whirled, which only gave Damen the opportunity to throw him over a shoulder. He thrashed in his husband’s grip, which only earned him a harsh slap on the ass. The world tilted and then he was on his back on the bed. Damen shoved his hands through the cuffs attached to the bed frame before he backed off.

Laurent snarled at him, pushing himself up to a seated position— as far as the restraints would allow. 

Damen stood at the edge of the bed, an easy grin on his lips. He unclasped his chiton, letting it pool at his bare feet. His cock jutted out, half hard already. “Jealousy is an ugly look, sweetheart.”

“Fuck you. You get angry every time one of your soldiers looks at my legs for too long.”

“That’s because they’re thinking about flipping up your skirt. Nikandros and I have no interest like that in each other.” He bent to look Laurent in the eye. “You’re feelings are misplaced, understand?”

Laurent considered telling him off again, but figured that wouldn’t make the situation any better. 

Damen straightened and gripped his cock at the base, sliding his hand down the length of it. He hardened almost instantly, making Laurent’s mouth water. Damen worked himself in practiced tugs, his heavy lidded eyes fixed on Laurent. 

Heat pooled in Laurent’s belly, tenting the front of his chiton. He tried to ignore it, choosing to look out the window instead.

“No,” Damen ordered. “Look at me.”

Laurent’s eyes snapped back to him. 

Damen let out a groan from the back of his throat, tipping his chin up.

Laurent wanted to kiss that exposed throat, replace Damen’s hand with his mouth. He was hot with need, straining against his restraints.

Damen’s gaze was dark as his teeth sunk into his plush bottom lip. “Those cuffs aren’t coming off until I hear an apology.”

Laurent gritted his teeth.

Damen circled his thumb around the head, the same way he did to Laurent. 

Laurent’s gaze dropped to his powerful thighs, each wider than both of Laurent’s. The muscle was built from years of wrestling and riding. Laurent trailed higher. Damen’s cock was surrounded in dark curls that he kept neatly trimmed. They were gleaming with oil from the wrestling match.

Laurent’s throat was dry. He licked his lips. “Maybe we can—”

“Apologize.” Damen sucked in a sharp breath. “I’m getting close.”

“You can’t come from just that,” Laurent blurted. “It’s not—it’s not—”

Damen laughed. “You really think I don’t jerk off when you’re not around? You being here is just an added bonus.”

Laurent grunted, pulling hard on the cuffs. “No. I want to do it. Damen.”

Damen grinned. “You poor pampered princeling. Just part those pretty lips and apologize and you can have all the cock you want.”

A frustrated scream built in Laurent’s throat. “Fine. I’m sorry.” 

Damen chuckled darkly, but let go of himself. He slowly crawled across the bed to hover over Laurent. “That didn’t sound very sincere.”

“That’s the best you’re going to get,” Laurent snarled.

Damen wrapped a hand around his throat and the other beneath his jaw, forcing him to open his mouth. Damen licked into it, hot and possessive, not allowing Laurent an inch that he himself did not dictate. 

Laurent moaned, arching into him. He wrapped his thighs around Damen’s waist, urging him closer. “Please,” he said once Damen released his mouth. 

“Shh.” Damen sat back and two fingers replaced his tongue. His other hand went to the pin of Laurent’s chiton, tossing it aside. 

Laurent sucked on his fingers as Damen groped at his chest. He wanted to ask, to beg Damen to fuck him, but his mouth was preoccupied. 

Damen smiled, as if he knew this. He flattened his fingers against Laurent’s tongue, prying open his mouth. “I ought to fuck you here. Will your other hole get jealous too?”

Laurent whined as best he could. 

Damen tutted. “No. That would be too cruel. Wouldn’t it, sweetheart?”

Laurent lifted his hips against Damen’s, letting him feel his arousal. 

“Perhaps I could call Nikandros in here, have him bend over the bed. You know, he’d do anything for his king.”

At that, Laurent thrashed, tearing his head from Damen’s grip. “Don’t you dare, you—”

“Barbarian?” Damen’s smile melted into a smirk, dripping with wickedness. He pulled Laurent’s chiton the rest of the way off, tossing the garment aside. “I thought you’d have more insults by now.”

“Giant animal,” Laurent snarled as Damen pushed his thighs up and apart. 

“Is that the best you’ve got?” Damen lowered his face so his breath rushed across the head of Laurent’s cock. His eyes were dark as they flicked up to Laurent. “You can do better than that.”

It was getting hard to focus. Laurent let out a slow breath, trying to piece his scattered thoughts together. 

Damen didn’t wait for his next insult. He gave no warning before he licked Laurent’s entrance, much the way he’d licked his mouth. 

Laurent jumped, clenching on instinct. 

Damen chuckled against him, teasing at his rim. “I thought you wanted my attention here.” He licked him in a broad stripe, making Laurent short circuit. His tongue was hot as it laved attention to Laurent’s entrance. He prodded inside, thrusting his tongue as deep as it would go.

Laurent turned his face into the pillow, his legs curling around Damen’s shoulders. He canted his hips towards Damen’s face, letting out a moan. His toes curled, hands gripping the small chains linked to his cuffs. 

“I bet you could come just from this.” Damen gripped one of Laurent’s ass cheeks so he could spread him apart. He gave him another dirty lick, tongue dipping inside before he pulled away. “But I don’t think that’s fair either.”

Laurent was breathing hard as he rose. He wanted to say something clever, but was caught tongue tied by the sight of his husband—all golden glory, framed by the milky paleness of Laurent’s thighs.

Damen grasped his own cock again, not to stroke himself, but to press the blunt head to Laurent’s entrance. He eased slowly inside.

So slowly, in fact, that Laurent hooked his legs around Damen’s waist, trying to urge him deeper, faster.

Damen clicked his tongue, only half seated. “Ask nicely.”

“Fuck me.” Laurent swallowed when Damen didn’t move. He sighed. “Please?”

“Good boy.” Damen sank in to the hilt, using the extra inches to grab the oil from the nightstand.

Laurent hissed at him when he pulled out. “Hurry up, you bastard.”

“See that one’s not even true,” Damen said conversationally as he applied the oil. “It loses its bite when you say it all breathless like that too.”

“Damen.”

Damen gave in. He fucked into Laurent, slow and hard and just the way Laurent liked it. Laurent keened beneath him, gripping his bindings hard. He was dizzy with the feel of it—being so full he swore he could burst right open at the seams. 

Damen kissed him without breaking his rhythm, all tongue and teeth. Laurent kissed back with equal fervor, desperately wishing he could run his hands through Damen’s hair, over his shoulders, dig his nails into the muscle.

Damen’s hand found its way between them, stroking his cock in time with his thrusts. The pressure at Laurent’s spine built as he panted against Damen’s mouth. He couldn’t breath, couldn’t think beyond the feeling of Damen inside of him, touching parts of him that had been touched by no other. 

Damen said something in Akielon too rough for Laurent to translate in his current state, but it was the timber of his voice that sent him over the edge. Laurent’s orgasm barreled into him like a tidal wave, a noise of pure pleasure releasing from deep within his throat.

“Yes,” Damen said, “yes.” And then he was fucking Laurent harder, driving him into the mattress, not allowing him a moment to recover as he shook between spurts. 

Laurent became nothing beyond sensation: the sheets beneath him soaked in sweat, Damen’s brow pressed against his own, the slap of skin on skin as Damen chased his own release. Distantly, he was aware of his thighs parting further, his ankles locking together just above the swell of Damen’s ass. His lips parted, saying, “Please, please, come in me. I want—I need—”

Damen groaned, slamming into the hilt as he filled Laurent. He trembled, eyes squeezed shut while Laurent’s were wide. 

They breathed each other’s air. Inhale. Smile. Exhale. Laurent returned to his body slowly, allowing his legs to release Damen.

Damen nuzzled his nose, kissed him, then rose, leaving Laurent alone on the bed for only a moment. He returned with a warm rag, ignoring Laurent’s sound of displeasure as he wiped him down. 

Laurent squirmed as he tossed the rag aside. “Damen.”

“Hmm?” Damen was pouring water into a glass. The clank of the shackles drew his attention and he smiled. “Oh. Forgive me.”

Once released of his bonds, Laurent sat up, taking the water. He sipped it delicately, leaning on Damen’s muscled shoulder.

Damen touched the wrist of his free hand. “Have you learned your lesson?”

Laurent thought about it for a moment, then offered Damen a secret, conniving smile that never left the bedroom. “Oh, absolutely not.”

[sunlightandsuffering]

💡💡💡

Knight!Mikasa is from the purged/fallen house of Ackerman. The Ackerman house is a family of strong knights, members have been trained since they can walk. They lived in isolation (basically some shit went down). The royal family at that time treated it as an event... the huntings... They (Every noble house like Yeagers, Arlerts, Kirstein, Braus, Braun, Leonhart, Hoover, etc) were all invited.

(9 or 12 years old?)Eren explored the forest and when he first saw Mikasa, he instantly knew she was an Ackerman... No hesitation on his part when he hid her in his carriage's luggage compartment. Eren whined and pretended to be sick so he'll be sent home with Mikasa.

He hid her in his personal chambers for a long time. They don't talk about what happened to her family during the day but at night as she silently cries because of her nightmares, he holds her tight. They hold each other. At night, they whisper about their pains and dreams.

When Eren became a prince because of some twist of fate... He didn't know how his father did it... things got harder. They can no longer sneak around the kitchen for some sweets and spar together at the training yard... Until one day, an opportunity presents itself to solve their growing problem.

"...what's this tourney for?"

"To choose your personal knight, my prince."

They argued about it but Mikasa was determined to be finally let out of his room and earn her right to exist... "You exist... I see you..." Eren said sadly but knew she was right.

His friends looked at Eren strangely as he cheers hard for a random knight who doesn't even have a family emblem, a commoner with no backing. Eren didn't care, he watched with equal admiration and elation as "Ser Mik" defeats everyone with ease.

(He'll definitely tease her about this later) He giggled when she awkwardly presented a rose crown to a random lady. Lady Louise blushed and accepted the red roses, officially crowning her as the tourney's queen of love and beauty.

Royal advisor, Erwin Smith looked at the parchment containing the mute mysterious knight's conditions strangely. Trying to compute what's happening.

Stay at royal highness Eren Yeager's side until the end of my time.

"How insolent for such a lowly blood!" Eren ignored the nobles' outrage and asked Ser Miks to kneel to have her officially knighted.

"This wouldn't be so bad." he thought to himself. She can never remove the helmet, no one can know who she is even her true gender needs to be hidden... but at least they can openly be together now.

OMG Y'ALL IS THIS NOW PRINCE EREN AND KNIGHT KASA'S BACK STORY??!?!? someone was kind enough to write it out, but yes 11/10 she's from the great Ackerman clan and he's like UR MINE NOW, UR GONNA BE MY PERSONAL KNIGHT! And homegirl is hidden, the fairest maiden of them all actually Eren's personal knight.

[thatscarletflycatcher]

Lois the Witch (1859) by Elizabeth Gaskell, chapter 1

In the year 1691, Lois Barclay stood on a little wooden pier, steadying herself on the stable land, in much the same manner as, eight or nine weeks ago, she had tried to steady herself on the deck of the rocking ship which had carried her across from Old to New England.  It seemed as strange now to be on solid earth as it had been, not long ago, to be rocked by the sea both by day and by night; and the aspect of the land was equally strange.  The forests which showed in the distance all around, and which, in truth, were not very far from the wooden houses forming the town of Boston, were of different shades of green, and different, too, in shape of outline to those which Lois Barclay knew well in her old home in Warwickshire.  Her heart sank a little as she stood alone, waiting for the captain of the good ship Redemption, the kind, rough old sailor, who was her only known friend in this unknown continent.  Captain Holdernesse was busy, however, as she saw, and it would probably be some time before he would be ready to attend to her; so Lois sat down on one of the casks that lay about, and wrapped her grey duffle cloak tight around her, and sheltered herself under her hood, as well as might be, from the piercing wind, which seemed to follow those whom it had tyrannised over at sea with a dogged wish of still tormenting them on land.  Very patiently did Lois sit there, although she was weary, and shivering with cold; for the day was severe for May, and the Redemption, with store of necessaries and comforts for the Puritan colonists of New England, was the earliest ship that had ventured across the seas.

 How could Lois help thinking of the past, and speculating on the future, as she sat on Boston pier, at this breathing-time of her life?  In the dim sea mist which she gazed upon with aching eyes (filled, against her will, with tears, from time to time), there rose, the little village church of Barford (not three miles from Warwick - you may see it yet), where her father had preached ever since 1661, long before she was born.  He and her mother both lay dead in Barford churchyard; and the old low grey church could hardly come before her vision without her seeing the old parsonage too, the cottage covered with Austrian roses and yellow jessamine, where she had been born, sole child of parents already long past the prime of youth.  She saw the path not a hundred yards long, from the parsonage to the vestry door: that path which her father trod daily; for the vestry was his study, and the sanctum where he pored over the ponderous tomes of the Fathers, and compared their precepts with those of the authorities of the Anglican Church of that day - the day of the later Stuarts; for Barford Parsonage, at that time, scarcely exceeded in size and dignity the cottages by which it was surrounded: it only contained three rooms on a floor, and was but two storeys high.  On the first or ground floor, were the parlour, kitchen, and back or working kitchen; upstairs, Mr and Mrs Barclay's room, that belonging to Lois, and the maid servant's room.  If a guest came, Lois left her own chamber, and shared old Clemence's bed.  But those days were over.  Never more should Lois see father or mother on earth; they slept, calm and still, in Barford churchyard, careless of what became of their orphan child, as far as earthly manifestations of care or love went.  And Clemence lay there too, bound down in her grassy bed by withes of the briar-rose, which Lois had trained over those three precious graves before leaving England for ever.

 There were some who would fain have kept her there; one who swore in his heart a great oath unto the Lord that he would seek her, sooner or later, if she was still upon the earth.  But he was the rich heir and only son of the Miller Lucy, whose mill stood by the Avon side in the grassy Barford meadows; and his father looked higher for him than the penniless daughter of Parson Barclay (so low were clergymen esteemed in those days!); and the very suspicion of Hugh Lucy's attachment to Lois Barclay made his parents think it more prudent not to offer the orphan a home, although none other of the parishioners had the means, even if they had the will, to do so.

 So Lois swallowed her tears down till the time came for crying, and acted upon her mother's words

 'Lois, thy father is dead of this terrible fever, and I am dying.  Nay, it is so; though I am easier from pain for these few hours, the Lord be praised!  The cruel men of the Commonwealth have left thee very friendless.  Thy father's only brother was shot down at Edgehill.  I, too, have a brother, though thou hast never heard me speak of him, for he was a schismatic; and thy father and me had words, and he left for that new country beyond the seas, without ever saying farewell to us.  But Ralph was a kind lad until he took up these newfangled notions; and for the old days sake he will take thee in, and love thee as a child, and place thee among his children.  Blood is thicker than water.  Write to him as soon as I am gone - for, Lois, I am going, and I bless the Lord that has letten me join my husband again so soon.' Such was the selfishness of conjugal love; she thought little of Lois's desolation in comparison with her rejoicing over her speedy reunion with her dead husband!  'Write to thine uncle, Ralph Hickson, Salem, New England (put it down, child, on thy tablets), and say that I, Henrietta Barclay, charge him, for the sake of all he holds dear in heaven or on earth - for his salvation's sake, as well as for the sake of the old home at Lester Bridge - for the sake of the father and mother that gave us birth, as well as for the sake of the six little children who lie dead between him and me - that he take thee into his home as if thou wert his own flesh and blood, as indeed thou art.  He has a wife and children of his own, and no one need fear having thee, my Lois, my darling, my baby, among his household. O Lois, would that thou wert dying with me!  The thought of thee makes death sore!' Lois comforted her mother more than herself, poor child, by promises to obey her dying wishes to the letter, and by expressing hopes she dared not feel of her uncle's kindness.  

'Promise me' - the dying woman's breath came harder and harder - 'that thou wilt go at once.  The money our goods will bring - thy letter thy father wrote to Captain Holdernesse, his old schoolfellow - thou knowest all I would say - my Lois, God bless thee!'  

Solemnly did Lois promise; strictly she kept her word.  It was all the more easy, for Hugh Lucy met her, and told her, in one great burst of love, of his passionate attachment, his   vehement struggles with his father, his impotence at present,   his hopes and resolves for the future.  And, intermingled with   all this, came such outrageous threats and expressions of   uncontrolled vehemence, that Lois felt that in Barford she   must not linger to be a cause of desperate quarrel between   father and son, while her absence might soften down matters,   so that either the rich old miller might relent, or - and her   heart ached to think of the other possibility - Hugh's love   might cool, and the dear playfellow of her childhood learn to   forget.  If not - if Hugh were to be trusted in one tithe of what   he said - God might permit him to fulfil his resolve of coming   to seek her out, before many years were over.  It was all in   God's hands; and that was best, thought Lois Barclay.

   She was aroused out of her trance of recollections by   Captain Holdernesse, who, having done all that was necessary   in the way of orders and directions to his mate, now came up   to her, and, praising her for her quiet patience, told her that he   would now take her to the Widow Smith's, a decent kind of   house, where he and many other sailors of the better order   were in the habit of lodging during their stay on the New   England shores.  Widow Smith, he said, had a parlour for   herself and her daughters, in which Lois might sit, while he   went about the business that, as he had told her, would detain   him in Boston for a day or two, before he could accompany   her to her uncle's at Salem.  All this had been to a certain   degree arranged on ship-board; but Captain Holdernesse, for   want of anything else that he could think of to talk about,   recapitulated it, as he and Lois walked along.  It was his way of   showing sympathy with the emotion that made her grey eyes   full of tears, as she started up from the pier at the sound of his   voice.  In his heart he said, 'Poor wench! poor wench! it's a   strange land to her, and they are all strange folks, and, I   reckon, she will be feeling desolate.  I'll try and cheer her up.'   So he talked on about hard facts, connected with the life that   lay before her, until they reached Widow Smith's; and perhaps   Lois was more brightened by this style of conversation, and   the new ideas it presented to her, than she would have been by   the tenderest woman's sympathy.    

'They are a queer set, these New Englanders,' said Captain   Holdernesse.  'They are rare chaps for praying; down on their knees at every turn of their life.  Folk are none so busy in a new country, else they would have to pray like me, with a "Yo-hoy!" on each side of my prayer, and a rope cutting like fire through my hand.  Yon pilot was for calling us all to thanksgiving for a good voyage, and lucky escape from the pirates; but I said I always put up my thanks on dry land, after I had got my ship into harbour.  The French colonists, too, are vowing vengeance for the expedition against Canada, and the people here are raging like heathens - at least, as like as godly folk can be - for the loss of their charter.  All that is the news the pilot told me; for, for all he wanted us to be thanksgiving instead of casting the lead, he was as down in the mouth as could be about the state of the country.  But here we are at Widow Smith's!  Now, cheer up, and show the godly a pretty smiling Warwickshire lass!'

 Anybody would have smiled at Widow Smith's greeting. She was a comely, motherly woman, dressed in the primmest fashion in vogue twenty years before in England, among the class to which she belonged.  But, somehow, her pleasant face gave the lie to her dress; were it as brown and sober-coloured as could be, folk remembered it bright and cheerful, because it was a part of Widow Smith herself.

 She kissed Lois on both cheeks, before she rightly understood who the stranger maiden was, only because she was a stranger and looked sad and forlorn; and then she kissed her again, because Captain Holdernesse commanded her to the widow's good offices.  And so she led Lois by the hand into her rough, substantial log-house, over the door of which hung a great bough of a tree, by way of sign of entertainment for man and horse.  Yet not all men were received by Widow Smith.  To some she could be as cold and reserved as need be, deaf to all inquiries save one - where else they could find accommodation?  To this question she would give a ready answer, and speed the unwelcome guest on his way.  Widow Smith was guided in these matters by instinct: one glance at a man's face told her whether or not she chose to have him as an inmate of the same house as her daughters; and her promptness of decision in these matters gave her manner a kind of authority which no one liked to disobey, especially as she had stalwart neighbours within call to back her, if her assumed deafness in the first instance, and her voice and gesture in the second, were not enough to give the would-be guest his dismissal.  Widow Smith chose her customers merely by their physical aspect; not one whit with regard to their apparent worldly circumstances.  Those who had been staying at her house once always came again; for she had the knack of making every one beneath her roof comfortable and at his ease.  Her daughters, Prudence and Hester, had somewhat of their mother's gifts, but not in such perfection.  They reasoned a little upon a stranger's appearance, instead of knowing at the first moment whether they liked him or no; they noticed the indications of his clothes, the quality and cut thereof, as telling somewhat of his station in society; they were more reserved; they hesitated more than their mother; they had not her prompt authority, her happy power.  Their bread was not so light; their cream went sometimes to sleep, when it should have been turning into butter; their hams were not always 'just like the hams of the old country'; as their mother's were invariably pronounced to be - yet they were good, orderly, kindly girls, and rose and greeted Lois with a friendly shake of the hand, as their mother, with her arm round the stranger's waist, led her into the private room which she called her parlour.  The aspect of this room was strange in the English girl's eyes.  The logs of which the house was built showed here and there through the mud-plaster, although before both plaster and logs were hung the skins of many curious animals - skins presented to the widow by many a trader of her acquaintance, just as her sailor-guests brought her another description of gifts - shells, strings of wampum-beads, sea-birds' eggs, and presents from the old country.  The room was more like a small museum of natural history of these days than a parlour; and it had a strange, peculiar, but not unpleasant smell about it, neutralised in some degree by the smoke from the enormous trunk of pinewood which smouldered in the hearth.  

The instant their mother told them that Captain Holdernesse was in the outer room, the girls began putting away their spinning-wheel and knitting needles, and preparing for a meal of some kind; what meal, Lois, sitting there and unconsciously watching, could hardly tell.  First, dough was set to rise for cakes; then came out of a corner-cupboard - a present from England - an enormous square bottle of a cordial called Gold-Wasser; next, a mill for grinding chocolate - a rare, unusual treat anywhere at that time; then a great Cheshire cheese.  Three venison-steaks were cut ready for broiling, fat cold pork sliced up and treacle poured over it; a great pie, something like a mince-pie, but which the daughters spoke of with honour as the 'punken-pie,' fresh and salt-fish brandered, oysters cooked in various ways.  Lois wondered where would be the end of the provisions for hospitably receiving the strangers from the old country.  At length everything was placed on the table, the hot food smoking; but all was cool, not to say cold, before Elder Hawkins (an old neighbour of much repute and standing, who had been invited in by Widow Smith to hear the news) had finished his grace, into which was embodied thanksgiving for the past, and prayers for the future, lives of every individual present, adapted to their several cases, as far as the elder could guess at them from appearances.  This grace might not have ended so soon as it did, had it not been for the somewhat impatient drumming of his knife-handle on the table, with which Captain Holdernesse accompanied the latter half of the elder's words.

 When they first sat down to their meal, all were too hungry for much talking; but, as their appetites diminished, their curiosity increased, and there was much to be told and heard on both sides.  With all the English intelligence Lois was, of course, well acquainted; but she listened with natural attention to all that was said about the new country, and the new people among whom she had come to live.  Her father had been a Jacobite, as the adherents of the Stuarts were beginning at this time to be called.  His father, again, had been a follower of Archbishop Laud; so Lois had hitherto heard little of the conversation, and seen little of the ways of the Puritans.  Elder Hawkins was one of the strictest of the strict, and evidently his presence kept the two daughters of the house considerably in awe.  But the widow herself was a privileged person; her known goodness of heart (the effects of which had been experienced by many) gave her the liberty of speech which was tacitly denied to many, under penalty of being esteemed ungodly, if they infringed certain conventional limits.  And Captain Holdernesse and his mate spoke out their minds, let  who would be present.  So that, on this first landing in New  England, Lois was, as it were, gently let down into the midst  of the Puritan peculiarities; and yet they were sufficient to  make her feel very lonely and strange.

 The first subject of conversation was the present state of the  colony - Lois soon found out that, although at the beginning  she was not a little perplexed by the frequent reference to  names of places which she naturally associated with the old  country.  Widow Smith was speaking: 'In county of Essex the  folk are ordered to keep four scouts, or companies of minutemen; six persons in each company; to be on the look-out for  the wild Indians, who are for ever stirring about in the woods,  stealthy brutes as they are!  I am sure, I got such a fright the  first harvest-time after I came over to New England, I go on  dreaming, now near twenty years after Lothrop's business, of  painted Indians, with their shaven scalps and their war-streaks, lurking behind the trees, and coming nearer and  nearer with their noiseless steps.'

 'Yes,' broke in one of her daughters; 'and, mother, don't  you remember how Hannah Benson told us how her husband  had cut down every tree near his house at Deerbrook, in order  that no one might come near him, under cover; and how one  evening she was a-sitting in the twilight, when all her family  were gone to bed, and her husband gone off to Plymouth on  business, and she saw a log of wood, just like a trunk of a  felled tree, lying in the shadow, and thought nothing of it, till,  on looking again a while after, she fancied it was come a bit  nearer to the house; and how her heart turned sick with fright;  and how she dared not stir at first, but shut her eyes while she  counted a hundred, and looked again, and the shadow was  deeper, but she could see that the log was nearer; so she ran in  and bolted the door, and went up to where her eldest lad lay.  It  was Elijah, and he was but sixteen then; but he rose up at his  mother's words, and took his father's long duck-gun down;  and he tried the loading, and spoke for the first time to put up  a prayer that God would give his aim good guidance, and  went to a window that gave a view upon the side where the  log lay, and fired; and no one dared to look what came of it;  but all the household read the Scriptures, and prayed the whole night long; till morning came and showed a long stream of blood lying on the grass close by the log - which the full sunlight showed to be no log at all, but just a Red Indian covered with bark, and painted most skilfully, with his war-knife by his side.'  

 All were breathless with listening; though to most the story, or others like it, were familiar.  Then another took up the tale of horror: -

  'And the pirates have been down at Marblehead, since you were here, Captain Holdernesse.  'Twas only the last winter they landed - French Papist pirates; and the people kept close within their houses, for they knew not what would come of it; and they dragged folk ashore.  There was one woman among those folk - prisoners from some vessel, doubtless - and the pirates took them by force to the inland marsh; and the Marblehead folk kept still and quiet, every gun loaded, and every ear on the watch, for who knew but what the wild sea-robbers might take a turn on land next; and, in the dead of the night, they heard a woman's loud and pitiful outcry from the marsh, "Lord Jesu! have mercy on me!  Save me from the power of man, O Lord Jesu!" And the blood of all who heard the cry ran cold with terror; till old Nance Hickson, who had been stone-deaf and bed-ridden for years, stood up in the midst of the folk all gathered together in her grandson's house, and said, that, as they, the dwellers in Marblehead, had not had brave hearts or faith enough to go and succour the helpless, that cry of a dying woman should be in their ears, and in their children's cars, till the end of the world. And Nance dropped down dead as soon as she had made an end of speaking, and the pirates set sail from Marblehead at morning dawn; but the folk there hear the cry still, shrill and pitiful, from the waste marshes, "Lord Jesu! have mercy on me!  Save me from the power of man, O Lord Jesu!"'

 'And, by token,' said Elder Hawkins's deep bass voice, speaking with the strong nasal twang of the Puritans (who, says Butler,

'Blasphemed custard through the nose')

'godly Mr Noyes ordained a fast at Marblehead, and preached a soul-stirring discourse on the words, "Inasmuch as ye did it not unto one of the least of these, my brethren, ye did it not unto  me." But it has been borne in upon me at times, whether the  whole vision of the pirates and the cry of the woman was not a  device of Satan's to sift the Marblehead folk, and see what fruit  their doctrine bore, and so to condemn them in the sight of the  Lord.  If it were so, the enemy had a great triumph; for  assuredly it was no part of Christian men to leave a helpless  woman unaided in her sore distress.'  

 'But, Elder,' said Widow Smith, 'it was no vision; they  were real living men who went ashore, men who broke down  branches and left their footmarks on the ground.'    

'As for that matter, Satan hath many powers, and, if it be  the day when he is permitted to go about like a roaring lion, he  will not stick at trifles, but make his work complete.  I tell you,  many men are spiritual enemies in visible forms, permitted to  roam about the waste places of the earth.  I myself believe that  these Red Indians are indeed the evil creatures of whom we  read in Holy Scripture; and there is no doubt that they are in  league with those abominable Papists, the French people in  Canada.  I have heard tell, that the French pay the Indians so  much gold for every dozen scalps of Englishmen's heads.'  

 'Pretty cheerful talk this!' said Captain Holdernesse to Lois,  perceiving her blanched cheek and terror-stricken mien.  'Thou art thinking that thou hadst better have stayed at  Barford, I'll answer for it, wench.  But the devil is not so black  as he is painted.'  

'Ho! there again!' said Elder Hawkins.  'The devil is painted,  it hath been said so from old times; and are not these Indians  painted, even like unto their father?'  

'But is it all true?' asked Lois, aside, of Captain Holdernesse,  letting the Elder hold forth unheeded by her, though listened  to with the utmost reverence by the two daughters of the  house.  

 'My wench,' said the old sailor, 'thou hast come to a  country where there are many perils, both from land and from  sea.  The Indians hate the white men.  Whether other white  men - (meaning the French away to the north - 'have bounded on the savages, or whether the English have taken their lands  and hunting-grounds without due recompense, and so raised  the cruel vengeance of the wild creatures - who knows?  But it is true that it is not safe to go far into the woods, for fear of the lurking painted savages; nor has it been safe to build a dwelling far from a settlement; and it takes a brave heart to make a journey from one town to another; and folk do say the Indian creatures rise up out of the very ground to waylay the English! and then others affirm they are all in league with Satan to affright the Christians out of the heathen country, over which he has reigned so long.  Then, again, the sea-shore is infested by pirates, the scum of all nations: they land, and plunder, and ravage, and burn, and destroy.  Folk get affrighted of the real dangers, and in their fright imagine, perchance, dangers that are not.  But who knows?  Holy Scripture speaks of witches and wizards, and of the power of the Evil One in desert places; and, even in the old country, we have heard tell of those who have sold their souls for ever for the little power they get for a few years on earth.'

  By this time the whole table was silent, listening to the captain; it was just one of those chance silences that sometimes occur, without any apparent reason, and often without any apparent consequence.  But all present had reason, before many months had passed over, to remember the words which Lois spoke in answer, although her voice was low, and she only thought, in the interest of the moment, of being heard by her old friend the captain.

  'They are fearful creatures, the witches! and yet I am sorry for the poor old women, whilst I dread them.  We had one in Barford, when I was a little child.  No one knew whence she came, but she settled herself down in a mud-hut by the common-side; and there she lived, she and her cat.' (At the mention of the cat, Elder Hawkins shook his head long and gloomily.) 'No one knew how she lived, if it were not on nettles and scraps of oatmeal and such-like food, given her more for fear than for pity.  She went double, and always talking and muttering to herself.  Folk said she snared birds and rabbits in the thicket that came down to her hovel.  How it came to pass I cannot say, but many a one fell sick in the village, and much cattle died one spring, when I was near four years old.  I never heard much about it, for my father said it was ill talking about such things; I only know I got a sick fright one afternoon, when the maid had gone out for milk and had taken me with her, and we were passing a meadow where the Avon, circling, makes a deep round pool, and there was a crowd of folk, all still - and a still, breathless crowd makes the heart beat worse than a shouting, noisy one.  They were all gazing towards the water, and the maid held me up in her arms, to see the sight above the shoulders of the people; and I saw old Hannah in the water, her grey hair all streaming down her shoulders, and her face bloody and black with the stones and mud they had been throwing at her, and her cat tied round her neck.  I hid my face, I know, as soon as I saw the fearsome sight, for her eyes met mine as they were glaring with fury - poor, helpless, baited creature! - and she caught the sight of me, and cried out, "Parson's wench, parson's wench, yonder, in thy nurse's arms, thy dad hath never tried for to save me; and none shall save thee, when thou art brought up for a witch." Oh! the words rang in my ears, when I was dropping asleep, for years after.  I used to dream that I was in that pond; that all men hated me with their eyes because I was a witch: and, at times, her black cat used to seem living again, and say over those dreadful words.'  

Lois stopped: the two daughters looked at her excitement with a kind of shrinking surprise, for the tears were in her eyes.  Elder Hawkins shook his head, and muttered texts from Scripture; but cheerful Widow Smith, not liking the gloomy run of the conversation, tried to give it a lighter cast by saying, 'And I don't doubt but what the parson's bonny lass has bewitched many a one since, with her dimples and her pleasant ways - eh, Captain Holdernesse?  It's you must tell us tales of the young lass's doings in England.'

  'Ay, ay,' said the captain; 'there's one under her charms in Warwickshire who will never get the better of it, I'm thinking.'

  Elder Hawkins rose to speak; he stood leaning on his hands, which were placed on the table: 'Brethren,' said he, 'I must upbraid you if ye speak lightly; charms and witchcraft are evil things; I trust this maiden hath had nothing to do with them, even in thought.  But my mind misgives me at her story.  The hellish witch might have power from Satan to infect her mind, she being yet a child, with the deadly sin.  Instead of vain talking, I call upon you all to join with me in prayer for this stranger in our land, that her heart may be purged from all iniquity.  Let us pray.'

 'Come, there's no harm in that,' said the captain; 'but, Elder Hawkins, when you are at work, just pray for us all; for I am afeard there be some of us need purging from iniquity a good deal more than Lois Barclay, and a prayer for a man never does mischief '

 Captain Holdernesse had business in Boston which detained him there for a couple of days; and during that time Lois remained with the Widow Smith, seeing what was to be seen of the new land that contained her future home.  The letter of her dying mother was sent off to Salem, meanwhile, by a lad going thither, in order to prepare her Uncle Ralph Hickson for his niece's coming, as soon as Captain Holdernesse could find leisure to take her; for he considered her given into his own personal charge, until he could consign her to her uncle's care. When the time came for going to Salem, Lois felt very sad at leaving the kindly woman under whose roof she had been staying, and looked back as long as she could see anything of Widow Smith's dwelling.  She was packed into a rough kind of country-cart, which just held her and Captain Holdernesse, beside the driver.  There was a basket of provisions under their feet, and behind them hung a bag of provender for the horse; for it was a good day's journey to Salem, and the road was reputed so dangerous that it was ill tarrying a minute longer than necessary for refreshment.  English roads were bad enough at that period, and for long after; but in America the way was simply the cleared ground of the forest - the stumps of the felled trees still remaining in the direct line, forming obstacles which it required the most careful driving to avoid; and in the hollows, where the ground was swampy, the pulpy nature of it was obviated by logs of wood laid across the boggy part.  The deep green forest, tangled into heavy darkness even thus early in the year, came within a few yards of the road all the way, though efforts were regularly made by the inhabitants of the neighbouring settlements to keep a certain space clear on each side, for fear of the lurking Indians, who might otherwise come upon them unawares.  The cries of strange birds, the unwonted colour of some of them, all suggested to the imaginative or unaccustomed traveller the idea of war-whoops and painted deadly enemies.  But at last they drew near to Salem, which rivalled Boston in size in those days, and boasted the names of one or two streets, although to an English eye they looked rather more like irregularly built houses, clustered round the meeting-house, or rather one of the meeting-houses, for a second was in process of building.  The whole place was surrounded with two circles of stockades; between the two were the gardens and grazing-ground for those who dreaded their cattle straying into the woods, and the consequent danger of reclaiming them.

  The lad who drove them flogged his spent horse into a trot, as they went through Salem to Ralph Hickson's house.  It was evening, the leisure-time for the inhabitants, and their children were at play before the houses.  Lois was struck by the beauty of one wee, toddling child, and turned to look after it; it caught its little foot in a stump of wood, and fell with a cry that brought the mother out in affright.  As she ran out, her eye caught Lois' anxious gaze, although the noise of the heavy wheels drowned the sound of her words of inquiry as to the nature of the hurt the child had received.  Nor had Lois time to think long upon the matter; for, the instant after, the horse was pulled up at the door of a good, square, substantial wooden house, plastered over into a creamy white, perhaps as handsome a house as any in Salem; and there she was told by the driver that her uncle, Ralph Hickson, lived.  In the flurry of the moment she did not notice, but Captain Holdernesse did, that no one came out at the unwonted sound of wheels, to receive and welcome her.  She was lifted down by the old sailor, and led into a large room, almost like the hall of some English manor-house as to size.  A tall, gaunt young man of three or four-and-twenty sat on a bench by one of the windows, reading a great folio by the fading light of day.  He did not rise when they came in, but looked at them with surprise, no gleam of intelligence coming into his stem, dark face.  There was no woman in the house-place.  Captain Holdernesse paused a moment, and then said -

  'Is this house Ralph Hickson's?'

  'It is,' said the young man, in a slow, deep voice.  But he added no word further.

'This is his niece, Lois Barclay,' said the captain, taking the girl's arm, and pushing her forwards.  The young man looked at her steadily and gravely for a minute; then rose, and carefully marking the page in the folio, which hitherto had laid open upon his knee, said, still in the same heavy, indifferent manner, 'I will call my mother; she will know.'  

He opened a door which looked into a warm bright kitchen, ruddy with the light of the fire, over which three women were apparently engaged in cooking something, while a fourth, an old Indian woman, of a greenish-brown colour, shrivelled-up and bent with apparent age, moved backwards and forwards, evidently fetching the others the articles they required.

  'Mother!' said the young man; and, having arrested her attention, he pointed over his shoulder to the newly-arrived strangers and returned to the study of his book, from time to time, however, furtively examining Lois from beneath his dark shaggy eyebrows.

  A tall, largely-made woman, past middle life, came in from the kitchen, and stood reconnoitring the strangers.

  Captain Holdernesse spoke -

  'This is Lois Barclay, master Ralph Hickson's niece.'

  'I know nothing of her,' said the mistress of the house in a deep voice, almost as masculine as her son's.

  'Master Hickson received his sister's letter, did he not?  I sent it off myself by a lad named Elias Wellcome, who left Boston for this place yester morning.'

  'Ralph Hickson has received no such letter.  He lies bed-ridden in the chamber beyond.  Any letters for him must come through my hands; wherefore I can affirm with certainty that no such letter has been delivered here.  His sister Barclay, she that was Henrietta Hickson, and whose husband took the oaths to Charles Stuart, and stuck by his living when all godly men left theirs' -

  Lois, who had thought her heart was dead and cold, a minute before, at the ungracious reception she had met with, felt words come up into her mouth at the implied insult to her father, and spoke out, to her own and the captain's astonishment -

  'They might be godly men who left their churches on that day of which you speak, madam; but they alone were not the godly men, and no one has a right to limit true godliness for mere opinion's sake.'  

 'Well said, lass,' spoke out the captain, looking round upon her with a kind of admiring wonder, and patting her on the back.

  Lois and her aunt gazed into each other's eyes unflinchingly, for a minute or two of silence; but the girl felt her colour coming and going, while the elder woman's never varied; and the eyes of the young maiden were filling fast with tears, while those of Grace Hickson kept on their stare, dry and unwavering.

  'Mother,' said the young man, rising up with a quicker motion than any one had yet used in this house, 'it is ill speaking of such matters when my cousin comes first among us. The Lord may give her grace hereafter; but she has travelled from Boston city today, and she and this seafaring man must need rest and food.'

  He did not attend to see the effect of his words, but sat down again, and seemed to be absorbed in his book in an instant.  Perhaps he knew that his word was law with his grim mother; for he had hardly ceased speaking before she had pointed to a wooden settle; and, smoothing the lines on her countenance, she said - 'What Manasseh says is true.  Sit down here, while I bid Faith and Nattee get food ready; and meanwhile I will go tell my husband that one who calls herself his sister's child is come over to pay him a visit.'

  She went to the door leading into the kitchen, and gave some directions to the elder girl, whom Lois now knew to be the daughter of the house.  Faith stood impassive, while her mother spoke, scarcely caring to look at the newly-arrived strangers.  She was like her brother Manasseh in complexion, but had handsomer features, and large, mysterious-looking eyes, as Lois saw, when once she lifted them up, and took in, as it were, the aspect of the sea-captain and her cousin with one swift, searching look.  About the stiff, tall, angular mother, and the scarce less pliant figure of the daughter, a girl of twelve years old, or thereabouts, played all manner of impish antics, unheeded by them, as if it were her accustomed habit to peep about, now under their arms, now at this side, now at that, making grimaces all the while at Lois and Captain Holdernesse, who sat facing the door, weary, and somewhat disheartened by their reception.  The captain pulled out tobacco, and began to chew it by way of consolation; but in a moment or two his usual elasticity of spirit came to his rescue, and he said in a low voice to Lois -

 'That scoundrel Elias, I will give it him!  If the letter had but been delivered, thou wouldst have had a different kind of welcome; but, as soon as I have had some victuals, I will go out and find the lad, and bring back the letter, and that will make all right, my wench.  Nay, don't be down-hearted, for I cannot stand women's tears.  Thou'rt just worn out with the shaking and the want of food.'

 Lois brushed away her tears, and, looking round to try and divert her thoughts by fixing them on present objects, she caught her cousin Manasseh's deep-set eyes furtively watching her.  It was with no unfriendly gaze; yet it made Lois uncomfortable, particularly as he did not withdraw his looks, after he must have seen that she observed him.  She was glad when her aunt called her into an inner room to see her uncle, and she escaped from the steady observance of her gloomy, silent cousin.

 Ralph Hickson was much older than his wife, and his illness made him look older still.  He had never had the force of character that Grace, his spouse, possessed; and age and sickness had now rendered him almost childish at times.  But his nature was affectionate; and, stretching out his trembling arms from whence he lay bedridden, he gave Lois an unhesitating welcome, never waiting for the confirmation of the missing letter before he acknowledged her to be his niece.

 'Oh!  'tis kind in thee to come all across the sea to make acquaintance with thine uncle; kind in sister Barclay to spare thee!'

 Lois had to tell him, there was no one living to miss her at home in England; that, in fact, she had no home in England, no father nor mother left upon earth; and that she had been bidden by her mother's last words to seek him out and ask him for a home.  Her words came up, half choked from a heavy heart, and his dulled wits could not take in their meaning without several repetitions; and then he cried like a child, rather at his own loss of a sister whom he had not seen for more than twenty years, than at that of the orphan's, standing before him, trying hard not to cry, but to start bravely in this new strange home.  What most of all helped Lois in her self-restraint was her aunt's unsympathetic look.  Born and bred in New England, Grace Hickson had a kind of jealous dislike to her husband's English relations, which had increased since of late years his weakened mind yearned after them; and he forgot the good reason he had had for his self-exile, and moaned over the decision which had led to it as the great mistake of his life.  'Come,' said she; 'it strikes me that, in all this sorrow for the loss of one who died full of years, ye are forgetting in Whose hands life and death are!'

  True words, but ill-spoken at that time.  Lois looked up at her with a scarcely disguised indignation; which increased as she heard the contemptuous tone in which her aunt went on talking to Ralph Hickson, even while she was arranging his bed with a regard to his greater comfort.

  'One would think thou wert a godless man, by the moan thou art always making over spilt milk; and truth is, thou art but childish in thine old age.  When we were wed, thou left all things to the Lord; I would never have married thee else.  Nay, lass,' said she, catching the expression on Lois's face, 'thou art never going to browbeat me with thine angry looks.  I do my duty as I read it, and there is never a man in Salem that dare speak a word to Grace Hickson about either her works or her faith.  Godly Mr Cotton Mather hath said, that even he might learn of me; and I would advise thee rather to humble thyself, and see if the Lord may not convert thee from thy ways, since He has sent thee to dwell, as it were, in Zion, where the precious dew fails daily on Aaron's beard.'

  Lois felt ashamed and sorry to find that her aunt had so truly interpreted the momentary expression of her features; she blamed herself a little for the feeling that had caused that expression, trying to think how much her aunt might have been troubled with something, before the unexpected irruption of the strangers, and again hoping that the remembrance of this misunderstanding would soon pass away.  So she endeavoured to reassure herself, and not to give way to her uncle's tender trembling pressure of her hand, as, at her aunt's bidding, she wished him 'goodnight', and returned into the outer, or 'keeping' -room, where all the family were now assembled, ready for the meal of flourcakes and venison steaks which Nattee, the Indian servant, was bringing in from the kitchen.  No one seemed to have been speaking to Captain Holdernesse, while Lois had been away.  Manasseh sat quiet and silent where he did, with the book open upon his knee; his eyes thoughtfully fixed on vacancy, as if he saw a vision, or dreamed dreams.  Faith stood by the table, lazily directing Nattee in her preparations; and Prudence lofted against the door-frame, between kitchen and keeping-room, playing tricks on the old Indian woman, as she passed backwards and forwards, till Nattee appeared to be in a state of strong irritation, which she tried in vain to suppress; as, whenever she showed any sign of it, Prudence only seemed excited to greater mischief.  When all was ready, Manasseh lifted his right hand and 'asked a blessing,' as it was termed; but the grace became a long prayer for abstract spiritual blessings, for strength to combat Satan, and to quench his fiery darts, and at length assumed - so Lois thought - a purely personal character, as if the young man had forgotten the occasion, and even the people present, but was searching into the nature of the diseases that beset his own sick soul, and spreading them out before the Lord.  He was brought back by a pluck at the coat from Prudence; he opened his shut eyes, cast an angry glance at the child, who made a face at him for sole reply, and then he sat down, and they all fell to.  Grace Hickson would have thought her hospitality sadly at fault, if she had allowed Captain Holdernesse to go out in search of a bed.  Skins were spread for him on the floor of the keeping-room; a Bible and a square bottle of spirits were placed on the table to supply his wants during the night; and, in spite of all the cares and troubles, temptations, or sins of the members of that household, they were all asleep before the town clock struck ten.  

In the morning, the captain's first care was to go out in search of the boy Elias and the missing letter.  He met him bringing it with an easy conscience, for, thought Elias, a few hours sooner or later will make no difference; tonight or the morrow morning will be all the same.  But he was startled into a sense of wrong-doing, by a sound box on the ear from the very man who had charged him to deliver it speedily, and whom he believed to be at that very moment in Boston city.

 The letter delivered, all possible proof being given that Lois had a right to claim a home from her nearest relations, Captain Holdernesse thought it best to take leave.  

 'Thou'lt take to them, lass, maybe, when there is no one here to make thee think on the old country.  Nay, nay! parting is hard work at all times, and best get hard work done out of hand!  Keep up thine heart, my wench, and I'll come back and see thee next spring, if we are all spared till then; and who knows what fine young miller mayn't come with me?  Don't go and get wed to a praying Puritan, meanwhile!  There, there; I'm off.  God bless thee!'  

 And Lois was left alone in New England.

[kcwagenseller]

A Domestic War

I was stationed in Naval Station Norfolk working as a Deck Seaman after losing my Intelligence job due to being arrested my senior year for possession of alcohol as a minor. I decided I wanted to be a Gunner's Mate, so instead of sending me "cranking" which was working in the kitchen, they sent me to an anti-terrorism unit, where I received anti-terrorism training — focusing on de-escalation protocols, hand-to-hand combat, general security training, and the appropriate time to use lethal force. After the short course, I joined the security force on base, standing watch with an M-16 or an M-9, checking IDs at the ECP (gate) or standing on the ship and watching the ship channel.

One day, I notice a sleeker looking boat, moving fast and sporadically around the channel about 100 yards from the USS Eisenhower, my ship. It looked strange as it whipped donuts and ran quick laps back and forth as military vessels and container ships went by. I radioed it in, "I have a fast moving craft about 100 yards out, driving sporadically. It just seems out of place."

"Keep an eye on it." My boss tells me. I take note of it, but it dawns on me that it could be a distraction, so I diligently scan the horizon, while keeping one eye on the craft.

Suddenly, the boat points it nose straight at me at hit the throttle wide open. I radio, "Now it's hit the throttle headed right for the ship."

"If it crosses the kill barrier you are cleared to fire." I hear. I raise my rifle, and about that time the guy on the dock comes out of his shack, slams his M-16 butt first onto the ground in a fancy maneuver to rack a round in the chamber, so I rack a round in mine.

Here we are, two sailors, pointing the most deadly assault weapons of modern time at this craft at it closes at lightening speed. At 50 yards out, I flip the safety to single shot. At 30 yards out, I realize I need to flip to full-auto. 15 yards out — I take a deep breath and place my finger on the trigger, looking down the sites with eyes that were ready and a heart that was calm.

About 5 yards short of the barrier, the boat rapidly turned and abruptly stopped. I kept my rifle pointed at the boat, waiting. I wasn't sure for what, but I was ready for anything.

At that time, a coast guard cutter threw on it's lights and sirens and had a gentleman on a 50-cal and a VBSS (Visit Board Search and Seizure) team. They boarded the vessel and arrested the persons on board it was at this time I hear someone come up behind me. "Wagen. It's ok. You can put your weapon down now. They got them." I sighed a breath of relief. I pulled the magazine out of my weapon, cycled the bolt, emptying the round out of the chamber, and put it back in the magazine…securing the magazine back to the weapon.

"I've been sent up here to relieve you from watch. FC1 wants to talk to you." He says, calmly "Thanks. Good luck." I reply, and head down to the office.

When I get to the office, one person claps and FC1 shakes her head and he stops. I still remember his name, but I don't think it appropriate to share it. She looks at me, concerned, almost like how a family member would and asks, "Do you understand what just happened out there?' "I think so." I respond, almost stoically. She pauses for a moment and says, "Well you did a good job. It's Wednesday. Don't report back until Saturday. That's when you start your night rotation. Be sure to have some fun." "Thank you." I said.

I stood for a moment. It was so weird to be relieved from watch and let go from work. The first never happened and the second rarely happened. I remember hearing "Best of You" by the Foo Fighters on the radio. I still listen to that song sometimes when I want to remember…to go back to that day….knowing that if that boat hadn't turned when it did that I would have gone full auto on the engine block and then sprayed the bottom third of the magazine into the pilot house. And had it done what it came to do, I and many other people wouldn't be here today.

[jk-keno]

(Adhinu 23SJCCC002)

SLEEPING BEAUTY

(ALTERNATE NAME: SLEEPING EVIL)

A long time ago there were a King and Queen who said every day, "Ah, if only we had a child!" but they never had one. But it happened that once when the Queen was bathing, a frog crept out of the water on to the land, and said to her, "Your wish shall be fulfilled; before a year has gone by, you shall have a daughter." What the frog had said came true, and the Queen had a little girl who was so pretty that the King could not contain himself for joy, and ordered a great feast. He invited not only his kindred, friends and acquaintance, but also the Wise Women, in order that they might be kind and well-disposed towards the child. There were thirteen of them in his kingdom, but, as he had only twelve golden plates for them to eat out of, one of them had to be left at home. The feast was held with all manner of splendour and when it came to an end the Wise Women bestowed their magic gifts upon the baby: one gave virtue, another beauty, a third riches, and so on with everything in the world that one can wish for. When eleven of them had made their promises, suddenly the thirteenth came in. She wished to avenge herself for not having been invited, and without greeting, or even looking at any one, she cried with a loud voice, "The King's daughter shall in her fifteenth year prick herself with a spindle, and fall down dead." And, without saying a word more, she turned round and left the room. They were all shocked; but the twelfth, whose good wish still remained unspoken, came forward, and as she could not undo the evil sentence, but only soften it, she said, "It shall not be death, but a deep sleep of a hundred years, into which the princess shall fall." The King, who would fain keep his dear child from the misfortune, gave orders that every spindle in the whole kingdom should be burnt. Meanwhile the gifts of the Wise Women were plenteously fulfilled on the young girl, for she was so beautiful, modest, good-natured, and wise, that everyone who saw her was bound to love her.

It happened that on the very day when she was fifteen years old, the King and Queen were not at home, and the maiden was left in the palace quite alone. So she went round into all sorts of places, looked into rooms and bed-chambers just as she liked, and at last came to an old tower. She climbed up the narrow winding-staircase, and reached a little door. A rusty key was in the lock, and when she turned it the door sprang open, and there in a little room sat an old woman with a spindle, busily spinning her flax.

"Good day, old dame," said the King's daughter; "what are you doing there?" "I am spinning," said the old woman, and nodded her head. "What sort of thing is that, that rattles round so merrily?" said the girl, and she took the spindle and wanted to spin too. But scarcely had she touched the spindle when the magic decree was fulfilled, and she pricked her finger with it. And, in the very moment when she felt the prick, she fell down upon the bed that stood there, and lay in a deep sleep. And this sleep extended over the whole palace; the King and Queen who had just come home, and had entered the great hall, began to go to sleep, and the whole of the court with them. The horses, too, went to sleep in the stable, the dogs in the yard, the pigeons upon the roof, the flies on the wall; even the fire that was flaming on the hearth became quiet and slept, the roast meat left off frizzling, and the cook, who was just going to pull the hair of the scullery boy, because he had forgotten something, let him go, and went to sleep. And the wind fell, and on the trees before the castle not a leaf moved again.

But round about the castle there began to grow a hedge of thorns, which every year became higher, and at last grew close up round the castle and all over it, so that there was nothing of it to be seen, not even the flag upon the roof. But the story of the beautiful sleeping "Briar-rose," for so the princess was named, went about the country, so that from time-to-time kings' sons came and tried to get through the thorny hedge into the castle.

But they found it impossible, for the thorns held fast together, as if they had hands, and the youths were caught in them, could not get loose again, and died a miserable death.

After long, long years a King's son came again to that country, and heard an old man talking about the thorn-hedge, and that a castle was said to stand behind it in which a wonderfully beautiful princess, named Briar-rose, had been asleep for a hundred years; and that the King and Queen and the whole court were asleep likewise. He had heard, too, from his grandfather, that many kings' sons had already come, and had tried to get through the thorny hedge, but they had remained sticking fast in it, and had died a pitiful death. Then the youth said, "I am not afraid, I will go and see the beautiful Briar-rose." The good old man might dissuade him as he would, he did not listen to his words. But by this time the hundred years had just passed, and the day had come when Briar-rose was to awake again. When the King's son came near to the thorn-hedge, it was nothing but large and beautiful flowers, which parted from each other of their own accord, and let him pass unhurt, then they closed again behind him like a hedge. In the castle-yard he saw the horses and the spotted hounds lying asleep; on the roof sat the pigeons with their heads under their wings. And when he entered the house, the flies were asleep upon the wall, the cook in the kitchen was still holding out his hand to seize the boy, and the maid was sitting by the black hen which she was going to pluck.

He went on farther, and in the great hall he saw the whole of the court lying asleep, and up by the throne lay the King and Queen.

Alternate ending:

Then he went on still farther, and all was so quiet that a breath could be heard, and at last he came to the tower, and opened the door into the little room where Briar-rose was sleeping. There she lay, so beautiful that he could not turn his eyes away; and he stooped down and gave her a kiss. But as soon as he kissed her, Briar-rose opened her eyes and awoke, and looked at him quite sweetly. The prince felt that something was off but he couldn’t point out what was wrong. As he was lost in this thought, he saw a red haze sweeping over Briar’s eyes. It was not magical like he expected it to be, it was pure evil. He took a step back and started making his way towards the court. He got out to see the thorn hedge back. He climbed aboard his horse and left. On the return journey to his kingdom, he felt uneasy. While passing through the eerily quiet forest he felt like something was following him. Being the courageous person he is, he halted his journey, deboarded his horse and drew his sword, ready to fight anything that comes his way. To his surprise he couldn’t find anything. He climbed up his horse to resume the journey. The horse refused to move to his command. He tried kicking the horse which proved to be a mistake. It threw the prince on the ground and fled. The prince lost his temper and the fear which was well hidden behind his war trained eyes came out in the form of tiny sobs. Suddenly he spotted a woman right in front of him, he looked at its face, he was hit by fear and surprise. It resembled the face of princess Briar but bloodless, lifeless with an evil smile and a red haze. The prince felt an intense pain and there he lay on the ground lifeless. The prince’s father (King) found his body outside Briar’s palace lifeless. Alas, the kingdom lost a brave prince and the mystery of Briar remained unsolved.

Reason:

My favourite genre when it comes to book has always been murder mysteries. When I was given an opportunity to rewrite an alternate conclusion, I knew it had to end in a mystery.

[countenanceblog]

Chapter 33

Chapter 33

David Griffith led Jack, Karen and Rufus through a tunnel accessed through a basement in the factory. He was of average height, and had a mop of red hair on his head. His jawline was steely. He had a fifty-caliber toad on his hip. Dressed in an all-red suit, he had already charmed the trio. As they walked through the dimly lit tunnel, Jack couldn't help but feel a sense of awe as he looked at David Griffith. He had heard stories about this veteran rebel, a true leader who had fought for the Resistance for years.

"So, David," Jack began, trying to strike up a conversation, "how did you get involved in all of this? The Resistance, I mean."

David glanced at Jack, sizing him up for a moment before answering. "It's a long story, but let's just say I finally reached a high enough level within the government, that I could see clearly how it operated."

Jack nodded, eager to hear more. "And what about Karen? She's, well, unique."

David smiled, glancing at Karen, who was trailing a few steps behind, her eyes darting around as if inspecting the walls of the tunnel. "Karen is special, that's for sure. That's not all she is, though. We believe she is the goddess Nyx. You see, according to ancient prophecies, the gods are due to return any day now. And finally they have."

Karen beamed at the mention of her assumed deity status, causing Rufus to roll his eyes playfully. "Yeah, she's a real goddess, alright," Rufus quipped sarcastically.

Ignoring his comment, Karen turned back to David. "You know, David, I had a vision last night. I saw an underground chamber, just like this one."

"What happened there?," asked David.

"I don't remember," answered Karen.

As they continued walking, Rufus spoke up, his tone light-hearted. "So, what's the plan once we find whatever it is we're looking for? What is it that you guys do about the government, anyway?" Griffith shrugged.

He paused for a moment before replying, "We gather as much evidence as we can about their corruption and their involvement in shady dealings. We expose them to the public and rally more people to our cause. Or at least, that's the idea. Mostly I just kill a lot of people."

Jack's eyes gleamed with determination. "I'm ready to do whatever it takes, David. I want to make a difference, just like you. I've always wanted to see The Monolith in ruins, ever since I was little. I could feel its corruption."

David nodded approvingly. "Damn," he said plainly. "That's the spirit, kid. With your skills and passion, you're going to be a valuable asset to the Resistance." The trio arrived at a massive interlocking metal door. "This is our stop," said Griffith. "Welcome to The Dome."

He entered a combination on a keypad. The interlocking door groaned and clacked open slowly. Behind it was revealed a domed room, perhaps thirty yards across. To the trio's surprise, there were dozens of people inside. And they were . . . partying. Loud electronic music thumped from inside The Dome.

"Who's playing?," Rufus asked David.

Griffith beamed. "Killing Cadence! I bet you heard he was dead, right? Not true. He faked it." Rufus looked positively delighted. Jack and Karen smiled too.

"Killing Cadence is here?! He's my favorite music act of all time!," said Rufus. "Will you introduce me?"

"Sure thing, kid," said David Griffith.

Rufus couldn't believe his luck. He eagerly followed David Griffith, Jack, and Karen into The Dome, where the electronic beats pulsed through the air, and colorful lights danced around the room.

As they approached the stage, Rufus saw the enigmatic musician setting up his equipment. Killing Cadence was known for his mysterious persona, always wearing a mask and keeping his identity a secret. His music resonated with Rufus on a deep level.

David Griffith waved at Killing Cadence, who acknowledged the rebel leader with a nod. The trio joined them near the stage, and Rufus couldn't contain his excitement.

"Hey, Cadence, this is Rufus. He's a huge fan," David said, introducing Rufus to the musician.

Killing Cadence turned to Rufus, his voice distorted by the mask he wore. "Nice to meet you, Rufus," he said, offering a gloved hand for Rufus to shake.

Rufus shook his hand enthusiastically, trying to contain his star-struck nerves. " Your music has gotten me through some tough times, man. I can't believe you're here."

Killing Cadence smiled beneath his lion mask, and although his face was hidden, Rufus could feel the warmth of the musician's presence. "That's what it's all about, my friend. Music has the power to heal and unite people, especially in these troubling times. Plus, rebel groupies really put out. I'm gonna have grandkids here any minute."

As the conversation continued, Rufus found himself surprisingly at ease with the masked musician. They talked about music, life, and the state of the world. Killing Cadence seemed genuinely interested in Rufus' perspective, which both flattered and surprised him.

Meanwhile, Jack and Karen watched the interaction with amusement. Karen had been dancing to the music, her telekinetic abilities causing the glowing lights to swirl around her. She looked ethereal, like a true goddess of the party, especially in the black light. People came up to her and shook her hand, curtsied, bowed, even got on their knees and thanked her for coming. Curly-haired Corey, tall Lazarus and quiet Jonah all appeared to greet Karen and Jack while Rufus was busy talking to Cadence.

"Did they treat you guys alright?," Jack asked Corey.

Corey nodded happily. "More than alright, all they told us was that we aren't allowed to leave. They got us drunk, man. I think I got a girlfriend, she's right there." He pointed to a tall woman with a short crop of brown hair. She was dressed in palazzo pants. "Name's Emma Akin."

"That's awesome, man," Jack replied, genuinely happy for Corey. "I'm glad you're settling in well."

Lazarus, who always had a way with words, chimed in with a dark grin. "Yeah, and I gotta say, this party's lit! The Dome knows how to throw down. I haven't seen this many people enjoying themselves outside of Spain City."

Jonah nodded in agreement, his quiet demeanor not hindering his ability to appreciate the lively atmosphere. He gestured towards Karen, who was still dancing and interacting with the partygoers. "She's really shining out there. It's like she was born for this."

As the group continued to enjoy the festivities, Rufus and Killing Cadence were engrossed in their conversation. The musician's mask may have concealed his expression, but his body language revealed genuine interest in what Rufus had to say.

"I gotta say, Cadence, your music speaks to me on a whole different level," Rufus confessed. "Your lyrics, the melodies, they just resonate with my soul. It's like you understand the struggles we're facing, and your music gives me hope that we can overcome them."

Killing Cadence nodded thoughtfully, a sense of camaraderie evident in his gestures. "That's exactly why I do what I do. Music has the power to connect people, to help them find strength in unity. And I believe that we can change the world through the power of self-expression."

Rufus smiled. He had admired Killing Cadence for so long, and now, meeting him in person, he realized that they shared a common passion for making a difference.

As the night wore on, the party in The Dome continued to thrive, the music and celebration spreading an air of unity and hope among the Resistance members. Emma and Corey joined the group, laughing and sharing stories of their newfound experiences within the Resistance.

Karen, still radiant and surrounded by admirers, eventually made her way back to the group, her smile infectious. "You all look like you're having a good time," she said to Jack, her eyes twinkling with joy.

"We are," Jack replied, glancing at his friends. "This is what the Resistance is all about, coming together and finding strength in each other. And thanks to you, Karen, we've found something even more magical."

Karen blushed at the compliment, her humility shining through. "It's not just me. We're all in this together. And with Killing Cadence here, it feels like anything could happen. Maybe something good will happen, after all."

"Mind if I interrupt?," David asked Karen. He collected the other Resistance members from the dance floor, guiding them to a large room illuminated by dim overhead lights. The room was lined with metal bunk beds, each neatly made with military precision. Emma's sweet and kind nature shone through as she greeted each person she passed, offering warm smiles and making everyone feel welcome. Lazarus, with his slang-filled language and carefree attitude, sauntered along, seemingly unfazed by the seriousness of the situation. He exchanged friendly nods and casual greetings with the others.

As the group settled into the room, David introduced them to the two new faces. "Everyone, this is Ariadne Jackson," he said, gesturing to the young black woman. "She's one of our best strategists and a fierce fighter. You're going to love having her around."

Ariadne's charisma was undeniable. She was dressed in a motorcyclist's leathers. With her confident demeanor and a flash of a mischievous grin, she greeted the others with enthusiasm. "Hey, beautiful people! I can already tell we're going to be the dream team."

"And this is Nook," David continued, motioning towards the young woman with curly black hair and blue eyes, dressed in an old-fashioned black dress. "She's quiet but incredibly . . . useful. You'll be amazed by her skills and talents. Especially you, Karen." Clearwater tilted her head, sending her long red hair tumbling.

Nook appeared introverted at first, her gaze downcast as she met the eyes of the other Resistance members. Yet, when her eyes met Lazarus's, a hint of fascination and curiosity sparkled within them.

Lazarus, ever the observant and perceptive one, noticed the interaction and flashed a warm smile at Nook, which she returned shyly. "How are you chilling, sweetheart?"

Nook giggled at him. David piped up. "Nook here is like you, Karen. Except she has a different set of powers. Until you came along, Karen, we thought she was the only one. And then, I'm sure by now we've all heard what happened with Dubey. He is Helion, and this," he said, gesturing towards Nook, "Is Materiya."

Jack gasped. "The earth goddess?"

"Yes," said Nook quietly. "I can control animals, and see anywhere at any time." Rufus scratched his head.

"Like the villain on the show? Medium & Miasma?"

David made a grim expression. "It seems like I have some bad news for you, Rufus. You're a fan of the show?" Rufus nodded. "It seems that the writers were working to create some sort of predictive programming," began Griffith. Karen and Jack were absorbed in his monologue. "Either to cause people to disbelieve in the reality of the prophecies, and associate them with fiction, or to cause them to view the various characters as morally dubious. Perhaps, their intention is to accomplish both things." Rufus' head hung heavy and low.

Ariadne, ever the vivacious spirit, couldn't let the heavy atmosphere linger for too long. She clapped her hands and grinned at Rufus. "Hey now, don't let that get you down! Reality is what we make it, and I can assure you, the truth is stranger than fiction. We're living proof of that!"

Her words seemed to inject a bit of optimism back into the room. Lazarus, leaning against a bunk bed with his arms folded, said, "Yeah, man, we got some strange powers and abilities going on up in this bitch, that's what makes us the Resistance, right? We're the ones who can stand up to whatever the government throws our way."

Nook, who had been mostly quiet until now, nodded in agreement, her blue eyes shining with newfound determination. "Exactly. We're stronger together, and we have a purpose now. I've spent so much time feeling like an outcast, but here, with all of you, I feel like I belong."

Emma stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on Nook's shoulder. "You do belong, Nook. We all do. This is our family now, and we'll protect each other."

Karen added, "And don't forget, we have the power to change things for the better. We can make a difference, not just for ourselves, but for everyone."

David looked at the group with pride in his eyes. "That's the spirit. You're all here for a reason, and together, we're going to take down The Monolith and make this world a better place. Now there's just one other thing that we actually really need to talk about."

Jack perked up. "What is it, boss?"

"Vampires," said Griffith. "The government is secretly controlled by a tiny cabal of vampires called the Unseelie Court." Everyone blinked at each other for the most part.

"It's true," said Emma. "They're the ones we're really at war with, and they aren't human beings at all. According to my research," she went on as Karen grew enamored with her instantly, "excuse me. Let me preface this by saying that my father was a surgeon as well as a natural remedies doctor towards the end of his life. The vampires we're dealing with are actually parasitic organisms that attach themselves to the base of the neck. They alter the DNA of the host, giving them powers such as rapid cellular regeneration. STEM cells, basically."

Rufus licked his lips. "So you have to cut their heads off? That's how you kill the parasite?" David smiled.

"Exactly."

Corey, who had been listening intently, chimed in. "So, we're going up against literal vampires now? That's a whole different level of crazy. But if that's what it takes to bring down The Monolith, then fuck it. We aren't gonna let them kill us over Karen, are we? I'm in it for Karen."

Lazarus nodded in agreement, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Yeah, man, we'll cut those suckers down to size! Ain't no vampire gonna mess with us!"

Ariadne laughed, her enthusiasm infectious. "I like your style, Lazarus. And don't forget, we have Nook here, the Materiya. I bet those vampires won't know what hit them when she unleashes her animal powers on em'."

Nook blushed at the attention but smiled appreciatively. "I'll do my best to help. It's good to know I'm not alone."

Emma nodded, her expression determined. "You're not alone, Nook. We're a team, and we're going to support each other every step of the way."

David Griffith stepped forward, taking charge once more. "Alright, everyone, we've got a lot of work ahead of us. Killing Cadence's performance tonight was just the beginning. Tomorrow, we'll start training."

Jack clenched his fists, his resolve firm. "I'm ready, David. Let's do this."

Corey, with his calm demeanor, offered words of encouragement to his newfound comrades. "We might be facing literal vampires, but remember, we have each other. We're stronger than anything they can throw at us. David, what else can you tell us about the vampires? Are they public figures, or what? Can they walk around in the sun?"

"Yes," Rufus cut in. "Maggie saw one at the university. Zane. They turned him." Corey's boyish face screwed up.

"I liked Zane. He wasn't bad at football."

"Too bad he's a fucking vampire now," said Lazarus. His dark eyes bulged. "I can't believe it. Vampires? That ain't right." David nodded encouragingly at the group.

"They're not public figures, Rufus, they're even smarter than that. Their total population is maybe around ten thousand. They can live forever, they don't need new recruits. No, they occupy only the most critical positions in government, media and business. They're the ones who turned the world godless. They did it all in hopes that they could overcome the prophecies." Karen nodded.

"Where are they based, primarily?"

Nook's small voice squeaked. "Air Town."

[buckmepapi]

looking into your family’s heritage sounds like an incredible adventure! I hope you’ll give us small updates anything you’d like to share, bc that sounds really cool

There’s a few things I could share, but the most prominent one is my ancestor Lance Corporal Charles George Blease. He was my great grandfathers nephew, making me and Charles 1st cousins twice removed.

I actually started off a long time ago doing research on him first, then from there I ended up doing my family tree because I wanted to see where all ancestors came from and what they did and where they went etc.

The only information I had on Charles at the time was a from my great aunt who referred to him as “George”, a picture of him in his WWII uniform, and a story about him being in a motorcycle accident and dying young. It took me a long time but I managed to locate and decipher a lot of his information through cross referencing dates, places, service records and other sources against each other to depict an accurate timeline.

I can’t show or tell you everything because I am still writing this massive excessively detailed story with cited sources etc and also there’s simply too much to fit into one post as I have hundreds of documents and photos —- plus I’m also really stressed and super tired and in tons of pain right now so my brain can’t brain properly.

This is a very long post and I doubt most of you care to even read this bc you only give a shit when I post fics,

————

Charles George Blease born 28th November 1917 in Salford, Manchester, England to parents Charles George Blease and Sarah Elizabeth Prestwich.

Service number: 3528232

Rank: Lance Corporal

1st Battalion Manchester Regiment

He Enlisted with the British Army on the 21st October 1935. He was underage at the time (only 17) so he lied on his papers and stated he was born 1916, making him 18 years old on the paperwork. — I now have his original military paperwork, his regiment pass, his medals and his letters.

He was posted to Singapore in 1938, he was in the Battle for Singapore, and then much later survived what is known as The Fall Of Singapore in 1942. It was such a monumental failure, that chubby-racist-gross-bastard Winston Churchill once referred to it as the “worst disaster in British military history”.

I cba right now to write the history out fully but all you need to know next is they were all captured by the Japanese forces and sent to Changi Prison, which itself was designed to hold only 800 prisoners max but was overrun at 3500.

Here is Charles’ actual POW card:

(The numbers crossed out in the top right corner are all his different POW numbers from the different camps he was sent to over the nearly 4 year period he was there. )

After nearly a year. he went to Nong Pladuk camp along the Burma Railway.

The promises of “Rest Camps” up north, persuaded many of the POW´s to volunteer to get away from Changi, which is exactly what Charles did.

Horrible overcrowded diseases ridden chambers called cattle trucks carried them to Singapore Railway Station, where they were put 31 people to a container. The trucks were used for the transport of cattle and were made of steel. During the day these trucks were very hot and acted as a horrible slow cooker, and at night very cold leading many men to freeze. Most of the prisoners suffered from dysentery and the trucks had only one bucket per truck. Dysentery can cause a trip to the toilet about fifty times in a day, so the open door of the carriage had to be used to relieve themselves. This happened while the train was at full speed, hanging from the door backwards and the rest of the passengers hoping the wind was in the right direction. The Japanese did stop the train on occasions and the men had to throw away their modesty and squat by the line. Eventually they stopped at their destination 6 days later and carried their kit out of the trucks into the station yard, no transport awaited them so they had to walk to their first camp through the Ban Pong streets. There were no actual Rest Camps, the prisoners were tricked and never to find them, instead they were the workforce for building a notorious railway for the Japanese where the death toll was to be, for every three prisoners, only one survived.

-

He was also at the following camps but I have not finished my write up of them (even though the above is unfinished too bc there’s hardly much detail lol)

Arrow Hill (aka arrhill or AruKiru or arrhiru) camp

Tha Khanun camp

Back to Nong Pladuk camp again

And when the railway was finished in early 1945 he was not freed, he was forced further east in Thailand to the Ubon Airfield camp where he and others were forced to build an airstrip for the Japanese forces.

Eventually he would be liberated from Ubon after 6 months of working on the airfield in August/September 1945.

—

Charles contracted Malaria a total of 7 times, alongside one case of Carbuncles during his time as a p.o.w.

Charles died less than a year later on the 8th May 1946 after being hit and crushed by a train alongside the train tracks directly next to his house.

Okay I’m done now.

[penaltybox14]

Adam-12 Ficlet

Switching fandom gears, a post-ep for “The Search”.

...

Jim's never liked it, the fussing, the rule-bending, the folks who cover their tab at a restaurant or suggesting he could slip the line at the DMV or the bank, just because he's a police officer.  It makes him flush and mumble, that it's his job, it's only his job, he doesn't want special treatment, he just wants to do his job.  Pete doesn't like it either, but he's smoother in his refusals, he lets them down gently, he smiles, he winks and tips the waitress extra.  Jim wants to be like that, sometime, he hopes he will be, but Pete shakes his head like he knows, Jim is always going to be a soft-hearted boy with a high-school sweetheart and suburban dreams.

But he's working second-shift, the PM watch, and falling right smack dab in the middle are the hospital visiting hours and the nurses, thank goodness for the nurses, they give him a knowing look and they let him in, when the ward is still, when all the bustle is contained, and he can sit and bite his lip and tell Pete about his days, about being partnered with Wells, which drives him batty, about old Verna Monroe yelling at John Turner about her garden-gnomes and how she swears he keeps setting them further and further into her yard and he says she's never respected the property line, but they're not really angry, not really. 

A girl named Betty from Ohio turned up at the station, a runaway, said her momma told her she couldn't stay, she was too pretty and too hungry to stay, so here she went, out to California.  Betty had dishpan hands, the cuticles cracked, and she had an old army medic bag for a purse and blue jeans that had flowers embroidered on them.  Blushed when she said she'd done them herself.  She'd won ribbons at the county fair, in her age group, back home.  In Ohio. 

A boy not yet tall enough for his sneakers to touch the ground sitting on a park bench had shot a bird with his father's gun, in anger and in woe, and cried, great whooping sobs with his hands fisted in his hair.  A boy who didn't know how to ask for help, who didn't want to go home anymore. 

Six teenagers crammed in an green rambler coupe took a turn too hard and too sharp at three in the morning, and two of them never left the roadside.

Jimmy asks about uncle Pete.

"I don't know what to tell him," Jim says, at the bedside where Pete, at last, breathes on his own, his shoulders no longer dewed every hour with the sweat of the sick, his face less pale, less drawn, his eyes now and again open.  The droplets in the little chamber from the intravenous bag are perfect and regular, like the tears on some miraculous statue in a grotto somewhere far away and holy.  They had to tie his arm down, where the line was, and then his other arm.  "I told him you were hurt, and he looked at me - " Jimmy has his mother's eyes, round and piercing, " - and said your mommy should put the iodine on it and give it a kiss."  And Jimmy had gone back to playing with his cars, with the unsettling seriousness of a small child at a small child's work. 

Pete, downy-eyed with the drugs, smiles.  His voice is still rough, thin, breaks and grows tired.  He's stopped spitting clots of scabby blood and snot, but he swallows often, as if his body remembers the tube, and watches sentry on the door for the doctors to come back with it.  The nurses assured him, of course, that Pete knew nothing in his morphine sleep, while they patchworked his damaged insides back together, the way you might build a coffer to fix a dam, breaking it up to let the life and the blood flow back in.  Takes time, for the life to come in, for the sediment and silt to settle back.  The doctors seemed to have given him enough penicillin to cure the French Foreign Legion of VD.  He might live forever. 

He might live.  He would live.  Jim knew that, didn't he?  All night long, he drove, he bucked Mac's orders and Mac, on the whole of it, couldn't put the weight of anger behind his authority, because Pete might live, would live, was alive, down there beyond the curve of the road, on the cold grown, where a little longer and the night might've gobbled him up.  Mac had given him a look and said: you weren't supposed to go back down there.  Jim had looked down at the corridor tiles, brown and brown, the seams more uneven than he had ever noticed before.  And Mac had said, you know, since the wars, these surgeons, they're top flight.  They've got this down.  A little fender bender, that's nothing, to these guys who've seen combat. 

Yes, sir. 

In the movies, the good guys wake up in their beds to a crowd of yearning voices, arms, and happy tears.  They sit up and they grin and they shuck off their sickness no matter how long, and you see them with a little hobble, a little crutch.  Everybody's happy.  Everybody's going to be okay. 

Jim had not known that a man so still could look so much at war.  Every night like a refugee Pete comes closer to the world.  Every night Jim comes and sits and tells him about his days.  Pete opens his eyes.  He talks.  Like a sunflower-eyed runaway, clutching a suitcase, his sentences fragment in wonderment at the movement of his tongue and he rests again, lidded and half-still.

Jim stops.  Thinking Pete is asleep again. 

"Partner?"

"Hm?"

"Why'd you stop talking?"

"Thought you were asleep.  Sorry."

"Don' be sorry.  Keep talking.  Ok?"

Like the single lamp in the nurses' station, soft, in need of a new bulb, there is a vulnerability in Pete's voice that catches him in some deep place that doctors don't have a word for yet. 

"Okay," Jim says.  And tells him.  About his long days.  

[jaskiersvalley]

I loved your fic about witchers being afraid of moths so much. I suffer mottophobia as well and the thought that witchers feel the same is nice. So thank you!!!

Nonnie, I'm so pleased you liked that story! Phobias of any kind can be so stressful, I hope moths don't bother you all that often. While I don't have another phobia story for you, I have something a little different that I hope you enjoy.

CW: Panic attacks

It had taken Aiden several years before he broached the idea of wintering together. He knew Lambert went to Kaer Morhen each season and didn't want to be rude by inviting himself to the Wolves' den. But he also didn't want to make Lambert have to choose between seeing his family for the season and accompanying Aiden to the Caravan. Really, he need not have feared because as soon as he brought up the topic of winter, Lambert was jumping at the chance.

"Want to go to the Caravan?"

Just like that, they spent three years wintering with Cats. Lambert fit right in, helping with life on the road without a hitch, messing around, teaching tricks and learning new ones in equal measure. He cooked, did repairs and was as accepted into the Caravan as a stranger could be. It made Aiden wonder whether he missed the pack feel of his own family of Wolves.

"This year-" he said with some hesitance late one summer, "-why don't we go north? Kaer Morhen has probably missed its youngest Wolf."

If Lambert's expression was anything to go by, he didn't agree. "Does the Caravan not want me this year?"

"What?" Aiden scoffed at the notion. "No! I thought you knew they all dote on you. I just thought you might want to spend a season with your family. You met mine..." Not that he'd ever say it out loud but Aiden wanted to meet Lambert's family too, he didn't want to be a shameful secret.

The terse "fine" sounded anything but fine. However, Lambert refused to discuss it any further and, come winter, he led them north. By the time they got to the bottom of the mountain Lambert was tense, quiet and anything he said was cutting. It wasn't the Lambert Aiden knew at all. But he reasoned that maybe Lambert was nervous about bringing a Cat home. The higher up they got, the faster Lambert's heart beat. Perhaps it was the excitement of coming home after so long, at least that was what Aiden told himself. He figured once they were done with the dangerous path up to Kaer Morhen then Lambert would relax. He was wrong.

They made it into the warmth of the halls and what followed was the most uncomfortable introduction Aiden had ever endured. Lambert stopped, arms crossed over his chest as he regarded the other three.

"This is Aiden. You break him, I break your necks." With that, Lambert stomped out, bristling and grumbling under his breath. Hastily, Aiden followed after a quick wave that the three Witchers looking suitably non-plussed by it all.

What was strange was that Lambert didn't settle. He was a fountain of bitter remarks, sarcastic quips and brash aggression. Aiden couldn't make heads or tails of it. The others didn't react, didn't seem like they even wanted to try and calm the situation. In the end Aiden couldn't stand by anymore and cornered Eskel, demanding answers.

"What do you mean?" The thing was, Eskel genuinely seemed confused. "That's just Lambert for you. You've known him for years now, surely you're used to it."

But Aiden wasn't. He hadn't seen Lambert like that before, so on edge. "No," he replied in the end. "This isn't how I know him. His heart rate's high, he's callous, spikey, lashing out. That's not the Lambert I know."

The look Eskel gave him was one of strange reproach. "The mutagens didn't fully take with him, his heart's always been faster than a normal Witcher's. As for the rest, I don't know what swamp water you drink to block it out but that's Lambert in a nutshell."

It wasn't. Aiden knew Lambert, spent years listening to his steady heartbeat, relishing when they fell in sync most nights. He'd seen the kindness and patience Lambert had out on the Path and at the Caravan. There was no mocking for getting footwork wrong, no calling the other person an idiot with a scoff. Nor had Aiden ever seen Lambert pace before, a restless tracing of a path between window and door of the bedroom. The growled "don't touch me" sounded full of threat, so much like a dog trying to prove he could really hurt an opponent in an effort to stave off an actual fight. Seeing Lambert like that hurt and Aiden didn't know what had provoked the change.

Things got worse when they were making repairs to Kaer Morhen, trying to undo all the damage the sacking had done. With the parts they inhabited secure and warm, Vesemir directed their work to the dungeons, salvaging what they could. Smoke stained books and scrolls along with bottles that contained the dregs of potions were pulled from partially collapsed rooms. Lambert was exceptionally acerbic, sniping at everyone including Aiden. It was all ignored until he snapped at Vesemir, "so what's the plan here, old man? Going to open up the torture chambers again to get your rocks off?"

"Another word from you and you'll be running the Killer twice before each meal," Vesemir growled, grabbing another thick book covered in ash and rock debris.

Throwing his hands up, Lambert stormed off, muttering about how he'd rather run the Killer night and day than suffer this idiocy. Nobody seemed to care that his breath had hitched and heartrate was rocketing higher. Well, Aiden cared. Seeing as none of the others looked interested in following Lambert, he took it upon himself.

"Best to leave him," Eskel called after him. "He'll probably destroy a few training dummies in a fit of rage and then calm. Ignoring him leads to the fewest injuries for all."

Not that Aiden cared. He followed the sour scent that Lambert had been coated in all winter, maybe even before that. True to Eskel's prediction, he was in the training yard but he wasn't decimating dummies. Instead, Lambert was staring blankly off into the distance, muscles locked into a tense hunch.

"Lamb?"

His name seemed to jerk Lambert out of whatever thoughts he'd gotten lost in. Whirling, he rounded on Aiden with a snarl. Not rising to it, Aiden held a arm open and stepped closer, inviting Lambert into a cuddle. His heart broke a little when Lambert reared away, spitting with rage. "Don't touch me!"

Truthfully, Aiden didn't have to, he could see the solid lines of muscles, coiled tight. Everything about Lambert screamed to be left alone but he couldn't, not when there was something so underlyingly wrong. If Aiden didn't know any better, he'd have said that anyone else behaving like Lambert was having a silent panic attack. Maybe Aiden didn't know any better. He'd rarely heard Lambert speak of Kaer Morhen or the others, and when it did it wasn't with fondness. Around them was destruction, every stone imbued with memories of a hard life. Aiden knew that the instructors were harsh, often punishing Lambert with a cane or deprivation as he grew up. Vesemir had been one of those men and Lambert had to face his tormentor on a daily basis. They'd been digging up the dungeon where the trials had been administered, pulling what they could on how to recreate the them. Each crumbling wall was another layer of memories of the sacking, of a life Lambert hated but had no idea how to leave behind. When the misery was the only thing he knew, the only steady thing in his life, it was easier to cling to it rather than embrace the terror of the unknow.

Keeping his distance, Aiden nodded. "It's okay." It wasn't but he had no idea what else to say. They were going to have to get through winter, it was too late to head down the mountain. But as soon as it was safe, Aiden was whisking Lambert away from it. He wasn't letting him face the traumas of his past again and again. It wasn't healthy to rip open those wounds, to come face to face with living memories each time he saw Vesemir and Kaer Morhen.

When Aiden stepped in again, Lambert didn't scuttle away. Instead, he was stiff as a board in Aiden's arms, quivering with pent up emotions. Slowly, Aiden rubbed his back, tried to urge him to relax into his hold. Ever so gradually Lambert did, letting Aiden take a fair chunk of his weight as the shaking got more pronounced. Without a word, Aiden held him, gave him the quiet and the space to finally fall apart. It made him wonder whether, in years gone by, Lambert would allow himself to break apart each night in the privacy of his room. Now, with Aiden there, had he been trying to hold it all together, no space safe enough to let his emotions out? Shuddering at the thought, Aiden held Lambert tighter. Come next year, they were going to spend winter with the Caravan again. Never again was Lambert going to have to face the haunting wraiths of his past. Not if Aiden could help it.

[solinarimoon]

Fields of Wildflowers chapter 9

Fields of Wildflowers

Chapter 9

A Sihtric x OC story

AN: This is my first attempt at writing smut!  Please let me know how you like it! If you want to read the previous chapters for this story, you can find them here. Or you can read my other works here.

Warnings: This chapter contains sexual content and is not for individuals under 18 years old.

Word Count: 3895ish

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“May I join you, Finan?”

Cwen paused to see the Irishman's reaction.  He sat, elbows on knees and face in hands along a bench outside the new Queen of Mercia’s chambers.  

Startled at her words, he sat up abruptly.

“Cwen, of course.” 

Seeing who it was interrupting his thoughts, Finan resumed his slumped and dejected posture.

Cwen’s feet made soft echoes as she padded across the floor to take a seat next to him.

The hallway was thick with heat from the summer air.  Dust moats swirled in the sun’s rays that filtered in from the adjacent window.

Cwen leaned back against the wall and took in the sight of her companion.

“Something weighs on your mind?”

Finan ran his hands over his face and sat up to match Cwen’s posture.

“Other than the current illegal occupation of the city by a jilted rival king?”

“Yes, other than that.”

“Well, you might say something weighs on my mind, yes.”

Taking a breath and staring down at his hands, Finan spun one of his rings. Cwen waited several minutes for him to continue.

“I thought this would be a chance for Uhtred to find another path.  Another destiny for him to fall behind,” Finan leaned forward once more to rest his elbows on his knees.

“When we failed to win Bebbanburg, when we lost Beocca, it broke him. And we lost everything.  Starting over here, in Mercia would have been a fresh beginning for him. For all of us. A place to finally find some peace.”

“Are you so sure that is out of reach now?”  Cwen had not had time to process the turn of events with Uhtred abdicating the throne to Aethelflaed.  Not as Finan had it would seem.  What would this mean for any future with Sihtric.

To have only begun to explore the depths of their feelings then possibly have that torn away from her had not crossed Cwen’s mind until that instant. Suddenly, she felt as if a snake had coiled itself inside her ribs, slowly constricting her heart. 

“Are you thinking about Sihtric now?”

“Yes.” 

Finan did not pry her to speak further of her relationship with his brother in arms. Instead he returned his attention to twisting his rings and ruminating on his own concerns. 

Cwen’s mind raced as she thought about losing Sihtric and the comfort and companionship she had found in him.  Without ever even realizing it, she had begun to place him into her future.  Seeing herself years down the road, it was Sihtric she saw at her side.  But now those images seemed hazy.  As if they had lost their focus with this new information.  If Sihtric were to leave Mercia with Uhtred, where would that leave room for her in his life.

Finan shifted his posture on the bench. It brought Cwen out of her own thoughts to glance at her friend.  Cwen pushed the distressing images to the back of her mind and focused her attention on Finan.  The man looked miserable.

“Have you talked with her?”

Finan’s hand stilled but his eyes remained downcast. 

“To Eadith?” She pushed. 

Cwen watched as Finan raised his head to gaze out the window and take a breath. It was small but his head gently swept from side to side. 

“I know that there is so much yet for Sihtric and myself to understand and discuss with one another. But I can say for my part, I do not regret allowing him to know my heart. We have not discussed it but I plan to now.  Knowing that our futures are uncertain I must speak with him.  But I am sure he does know I care for him.”

“You both would need to be blind to not see it.”

“Well I could say the same to you and Eadith both.”

Finan turned his head to meet Cwen’s face still remaining hunched over upon himself. 

“There is mutual affection between you both. And I do not know her plans for the future but I do feel you should speak with her. But who am I to give you advice?” Cwen finished crossing her arms over herself and turning her eyes to meet the window once more. 

“I would say you are a friend, Cwen. And one who we have all come to value a great deal.”

Cwen shot her eyes towards the Irishman and quirked a skeptical smile. 

“Do you not believe me?” Finan said with a light chuckle. 

“No, I do. It is just hard to accept when I have guarded myself for so long. Even before Eardwulf, I did not easily allow people into my life. Ever since losing my mother as a young girl. Even with Aethelflaed, I’ve kept her at an arm's distance you could say.  She is a few years older than I am and I love and respect her. And I have no doubt she cares about my friendship as well. But I could never bring myself to confide in her about Eardwulf. About what he would do to me. I told Sihtric I did not want to speak it aloud and make it true. But I also did not want to allow myself to let someone else in so close. It may sound strange,”

“It does not sound strange to me. We all deal with our grief and our turmoil differently. I doubt I would ever have formed such a bond with Uhtred or the others if Uhtred had not endured slavery alongside me. So I understand guarding yourself.”

The pair sat in companionable silence for several moments more. The sound of rustling coming from the door to Aethelflaed’s room caused Finan to stand. When the door did not open, he sat back down and leaned against the wall with his legs outstretched. 

“In case you’re afraid of speaking about your feelings with Sihtric, can I offer some advice since you’ve given me yours?”

“Even though it was unasked for?” Cwen replied with a wry smile. 

“Aye, even though it was.”

“Please continue, Finan?”

Cwen met Finan’s eyes as he turned to face her. 

“Trust him, Cwen.  He will not hurt you.  I have never, in all my years knowing the man, never seen him as I see him with you.”

Pausing to process Finan’s words, Cwen spoke softly, “what do you mean Finan?”

“I mean the man can not keep his eyes from you. It started at Saltwic. At least that’s when I noticed it. But he could not help himself for staring at you. I don’t think you noticed,”

“I did,” Cwen replied meekly. 

“Well whatever is between the two of ya, he is fiercely devoted to you and your protection. He is a loyal man and a strong warrior.  But I suspect you could bring him to his knees if you wanted to.  He isn’t a man of many words like myself.”

“Oh, you cheeky Irishman,” Cwen interrupted while lightly smacking his arm. 

Chucking, Finan continued, “But I know him well. And I know he would do anything to protect you, lady. To keep ya happy. To see you are never hurt again.”

“I trust him, Finan. Like I have never trusted anyone before. And we’ve barely even spoken of our feelings with one another. I want to say that this is just silly girlish fancy. To think so much of a thing without time spent exploring it more. But time has not allowed us that luxury. And even without that luxury, I know it in my heart. I can trust Sihtric to be gentle with my love.”

“Your love, Cwen? Is it love for you both then?”

“I have not spoken the words. But in my heart I know, for myself it is.”

“Aye. I have seen love before. So I can say by comparison, it is love.”

“Thank you, Finan. I did not come here to speak of these things but I am happy we have.”

“Me too.”

After a moment's pause, Cwen chuckled. 

“I expect you to let me know once you’ve spoken with Eadith.”

“Och, you won’t let this go will you?”

At that moment, Stiorra rounded the corner and stopped to stare at them. 

“What is it?”

“Get the Lady Aethelflaed. You all must see what is happening.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cwen stood atop the ramparts next to Aethelflaed and Finan.

Uhtred and Osferth were approaching the gates from the main road followed closely by Sihtric bringing up the rear on a secondary path.  They all had scores of men following in their midst.  

They had raised the Mercian fyrd to bring support to the new Queen of Mercia.

“Lady Aethelflaed, your fyrd is here to support you,” called Uhtred.

While the lady spoke to her countrymen, Cwen’s eyes found Sihtric’s.

Her lips parted into a bright smile which Sihtric returned.

Leaning in to whisper in her ear, Finan said, “I told you I saw it.  And you’ve proved me right.”

Cwen gave no response.  She was too preoccupied watching Sihtric as he and the others made their way back inside the burg’s walls.  Aethelflaed had been able to appeal to King Edward’s rational mind and prove they could and should be allies once more.

Quickly, Cwen made her way down the stairs and across the yard to the stables.

After her words with Finan, Cwen knew she must make time to speak with Sihtric alone.  There was so much to discuss and so much that should not be left unsaid.

As she rounded the corner, her breath caught in her throat as her eyes found him.

He had not dismounted his horse, but instead appeared to be coaxing the grey mare and running his hand down her neck. He had not noticed Cwen’s presence yet.  She took a moment to just watch him.  The line of his jaw and the strength of his arms.  His strong gentle hands stroked the animal, speaking quiet words to still it’s hoofs.  Cwen imagined those hands on her own body, stroking, caressing.

The heat in her body ignited once more. She felt a swelling between her thighs and a pull low in her core.

Sihtric brought his eyes up from his horse and found hers.  Slowly, he brought the animal to her side and his eyes bore down on her.  Neither of them were smiling now.  Their faces both instead betrayed a deeper desire. Sihtric licked his lips which caused Cwen’s own to part as she released a sigh.

“Come with me,” Sihtric commanded as he guided the horse over to a hay bale.

Cwen stepped onto the bale and immediately felt his strong arm wrap around her waist to bring her onto his saddle.  

She rode in front of him, feeling the strength of his grip as he kept his hand securely on her waist.  Her waist twisted to place her back against him with both legs still placed to one side.  She could feel the heat from his breath on her neck and it sent rivers of pleasure down her spine.

Struggling to find her voice, Cwen managed to ask, “Where are we going?”

“Away from the world for a while.”

Cwen brought her finger to interlace with those gripping her hip.  Slowly, as they rode through the gates and past the camps set up outside the walls, Cwen moved his hand to settle on her torso. She felt his fingers grip and squeeze her and she desperately wanted to shift his hand lower on her body.  To feel his touch caressing her sex.  

Instead she arched her back against him and felt his lips ghost along the curve of her neck.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They did not make it far.  Distantly, Cwen could still hear the sounds from the camp.  But they were far enough to evade prying eyes.

Sihtric brought his horse into a copse of trees.  The ground was softly covered with moss and a warm breeze drifted through the branches.

As smooth as a cat, Sihtric dismounted from the horse, somehow never breaking his hold on her.

When he moved to ease Cwen from the saddle, he kept his body close.  Cwen slid along him as he controlled her down off the mare.

Keeping his arms wrapped around her, Sihtric slowly lowered her until her lips met his as he guided her down until her feet met solid ground.

Cwen’s hands gripped his shoulders tight and she fisted her fingers into his shirt.

She felt his hands hungrily move to wrap her waist and take grip of her neck.

Their mouths opened, tongues daring to explore.  

Cwen could feel Sihtric’s excitement against her stomach. Thinking of his arousal brought forth even more desire in Cwen and she released a mewling sigh against his lips.

Hearing her sound, Sihtric released her mouth and brought his lips to nip and suck along her collarbone causing Cwen to release even more quavering breaths of pleasure.

“Sihtric,” she breathed, speaking his name like a prayer.  The swelling between her legs was leaving her throbbing.  She felt her body writhing under his touch and was shocked to know how much she wanted more of him.

“Sihtric, please.”

Sihtric moved to pull back, “I am  sorry Cwen. I know I told you I would move slowly,” but Cwen cut him off by capturing his lips once more with hers. 

This time it was slow. Full of meaning. 

When she broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against hers. 

“I know what I said. But I also know things have changed.  Before it seemed we would have time and now,” Cwen paused, bringing her hands to rest behind his neck.  “Will Uhtred stay here now?  Will you stay, Sihtric?” 

Sihtric brought his head back to better meet Cwen’s eyes.

“I can not say, Cwen.  But as much as it pains me, it is likely we will leave and return to Coccham or venture somewhere else.”

Cwen broke his stare to rest her head against his chest.  Her hands moved to grip his waist and pull him close.

“I will return to you whenever I am able. We don’t know what our future will be but I know I want you in it.  However I can have you, Cwen.  If you will wait for me.”

Sihtric’s hands drew long slow lines along her spine.

Cwen took a moment to breathe in his scent and calm her beating heart.  He smelled of open fields and horses and damp woods.  Natural and soothing. Steeling herself, she tilted her head back to stare up at him.

“I do not want to wait to be with you, Sihtric. I want you for my future as well,” her eyes shone as she saw the desire mirrored in his face.

“But take me now, Sihtric.  Here and now while I know you are mine.”

She barely had time to finish her words before she felt the heat of his lips crash into hers once more. His body flush against hers and their hands grasped at one another as if scared they would disappear. With chests heaving, Cwen broke apart and turned her back to him.

Sihtric’s hands never left her body and his lips left bruising marks running along her neck.

Slowly, Cwen stepped away from him and brought her hands up to undo the laces of her dress.

She felt him reach out to help her lift it over her head leaving her clad only in her thin, cream colored shift.  Cwen’s breath stuttered as she slowly lowered the sleeves from her shoulders, feeling gooseflesh appear on her skin despite the steamy summer night air.  The sun had almost completely set, leaving gentle streaks filtering in through the trees.

Free from her arms, she allowed the shift to slide down her hips to pool at her feet.

She heard Sihtric take a sharp inhale of breath then felt as his feet moved towards her and his hands grasped onto her bare hips.  Slowly, Cwen turned her body to meet him.

His eyes hungrily took in her nakedness and Cwen watched as he licked his lips.

Cwen shivered as his hands left her to remove his jerkin and leather.  Once unencumbered, he wrapped her in his arms once more and took her mouth with his.  

Cwen had never been naked in front of a man before and found the thrill of it and of Sihtric’s hands on her bare flesh made her nipples harden and her core become slick with desire.

“Touch me, Sihtric,” she whispered against his lips.

Sihtric took his mouth from her and locked his eyes on to her own.

Cwen left out a small gasp of pleasure as she felt his rough fingers slowly slip between her folds and find the wetness of her desire.

At feeling her excitement, Sihtric could not contain the hungry growl that escaped his lips and he felt his member twitch.

Slowly he began to work his fingers across her, massaging and exploring.  

When he finally slipped a finger inside of her, Cwen’s legs quivered and she felt herself lean into his hand so he could more fully cup her sex.

Another moan of pleasure escaped her lips as he entered a second finger and rocked his hand back and forth across her bundle.

“Lie down, Cwen.” Sihtric spoke low and commanding.

Gently, Cwen lowered herself to the ground while SIhtric's fingers continued their exploration, half holding her from falling and half teasing her with pleasure.  His free hand supported her lower back.

Once she lay beneath him, breathing husky and low, he removed himself and stood.

Cwen’s eyes watched him as he lifted his own shirt over his head, tossing it to lay with her own forgotten garments.

Next, he undid the laces of his breaches and slid them off himself, releasing his erection.

He stood, his nakedness matching hers and stared down at her.

Cwen swallowed the saliva poling in her throat as she took in the sight of him.  Lean muscles from years of training and fighting, littered with scars from battles and survival.  She watched as he stroked himself before kneeling down to settle between her legs.  He leaned his hard body to support himself on his elbows above her, meeting her eye.

“You must tell me, Cwen.  I would do nothing that you feel unready for.”

Cwen could feel her body begging to feel him, begging for release. Her next words shocked her, having never wanted or spoken of something so lurid.

“Take me Sihtric. I want you inside of me.�� Teach me what being with a man is supposed to be like.”

Sihtric brought one hand up to stroke her face and she leaned into his touch.  His member was hot and swollen against her thigh.

“You will never need to know that pain again, lady.”

And he kissed her.  He kissed her with a tenderness and an honesty that brought tears welling into Cwen’s eyes.

She felt him reach down to guide himself to her entrance and he met her eyes questioning once more. In answer, Cwen raised her hips to meet him and he pushed himself between her lips and into her core.  

Cwen’s back arched and Sihtric watched her body react to him as he brought himself fully inside her.  Slowly, he began a rhythm of thrusts, shallow at first, allowing her body to adjust to him, then deeper and deeper.

Cwen felt her walls quaking as he stretched her.  As she allowed herself to relax and enjoy the fullness of him, she brought her knees up to wrap around the tight muscles of his ass.

Feeling her move in time with him, Sihtric gripped her hip, leveraging more pressure on her bundle of nerves between them.

Cwen felt his lips along her neck once more and the sensation was nearly enough to push her over the edge.

Sensing her nearing her release, Sihtric pulled his chest up so he could watch the stunning woman beneath him.

“Look at me,” Sihtric commanded, gentle but firm.

She met his eyes, their bodys still pulsating together to an ancient, primal rhythm.  Her mouth was agape, cheeks flushed, and hair sticking to her forehead from a fine sheen of sweat.

“Come for me, Cwen.”

And she did.  Her release rippled through her as Sihtric continued to hold her gaze.  His thrusts meeting her body and sending waves of ecstasy to every fiber of her being.  Cwen gripped onto the sculpted sinnews of his lower back as she arched and pulled him even deeper inside of her.

Watching her come undone beneath him was the single most eroitc and beautiful thing Sihtric had ever seen.

When he could tell she had reached the end of her high, he slipped his arm beneath her and shifted his knees to bring her up and on top of his lap. 

Sitting face to face, she kissed him deep and slow.  Regaining her senses, she began riding him, feeling his own climax building as he watched her.

He brought his hand up to stroke her chest as she arched her neck back to allow him full access.

Cwen continued to ride his length, his thrusts to meet her becoming more frantic and frenzied.

When he reached his peak, Sihtric wrapped his strong arms around her waist and held onto her as her fingers pulled at his hair bringing his mouth to meet hers.

When he was finished he fell back onto the mossy earth, bringing Cwen with him to lay nestled underneath the crook of his arm. Both of them breathing heavily and chests heaving.

“You are the most breathtaking creature I’ve ever seen, lady.”

Cwen raised her eyes to meet his gaze.

“I want you to know I did not plan to bring you out here with this in mind.  I only wanted time alone spent with you, but when I saw the look on your face in the stables,”  he paused to tilt her chin up so he could capture her mouth once more.  Murmuring against it he continued, “I could not help myself. I am drawn to you like a moth is to a flame.”

“I know what you mean, Sihtric.  And you do not need to explain yourself.  I wanted this and you did everything to make sure I was alright with it.  No one has ever looked at me, made me feel the way I do when I am with you.  I have never let a man know me so intimately.  And I am glad to share that with you.”

“You are my future, Cwen.  No matter where I travel, my road will lead me to you.  I can not lose you now.”

“You have me, Sihtric.  All of me now and all of my future,” she mused while cupping his cheek and placing a gentle kiss along his mouth.

They lay entwined together until the sun had set and the wind began to blow cooler through the branches. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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