#living in a world where trees loom as a canopy overhead

[solar-sunnyside-up]

[junghelioseok]

covenant.

↳ your best friend’s engagement forces you to reevaluate your own feelings.

◇ hoseok x reader ◇ smut | angst | werewolf!au | f2l!au ◇ 16.4k [1/1]

⇢ arguably also an arranged marriage!au, ft. kinda sorta dumbasses to lovers? a very, very late bday fic for the most beautiful man in the universe and my favorite funky lil dancer. ♡

notes: i started this in my drafts well over three months ago and all it said was “this ain’t gonna be on time for hobi’s bday i can feel it” and damn if past!me wasn’t right on the money!!! this has undergone three edits, going from 14.6k to 16.4k somehow, and i am going to lose my whole damn mind if i don’t just post it so here it is! hope you enjoy!

warnings: dom!hobi, alpha!hobi, bit of dirty talk, oral (f receiving), some grinding against hobi’s thigh, knotting, hobi’s got a big dick idk, also he’s in heat!!! but things eventually get really soft bc i love him and am a Soft Bitch™ 🤷🏻‍♀️

It’s going to rain.

You can smell it in the air and feel the damp chill against your skin, permeating through every layer of your clothing. The surrounding forest and all its occupants seem to be collectively holding their breath, waiting for the first drops to come. Even your footsteps, soft as they are against the loamy earth, sound much too loud in the hush that’s fallen. Dark clouds gather overhead, looming like an omen, and you silently reach into your purse to check that the umbrella you’d stowed this morning is still there. Vaguely, you wonder if it’s big enough for two.

Around you, the trees slowly begin to dwindle, until there’s only open sky above your head and a wide grassy expanse beneath your feet. A certain heaviness lingers in the air here—a low thrum of energy, born from the ancient magic that sleeps in the gnarled roots of the tree that sits in the center of the clearing. You can feel it prickling along your skin, raising gooseflesh and igniting your veins, and the closer you get, the stronger the feeling becomes.

At the far end of the clearing, you spot a small crowd of people, all clad in black. Your best friend—and your entire reason for venturing out today—stands amongst them in a tailored suit, his black tie snug at his throat and laid atop a charcoal gray shirt. He’s chatting with his father and a few other family members, seemingly calm and collected, but you can tell from the sloppy knot of his tie and the way he fidgets with the hem of his jacket that he is anything but. After all your years of friendship, you can read Jung Hoseok like a book. His auburn hair is disheveled as if he’s been incessantly raking his fingers through it, and even at a distance, you can sense the turmoil in his aura, haloing him like the stormy clouds overhead.

Sensing your approach, Hoseok’s gaze flickers up to meet yours. He raises a hand in greeting and bids farewell to the people he’d been chatting with, picking his way over to you with a wan smile.

“Hey. You made it.”

“I wouldn’t miss this,” you reply, reaching out to take his hand. It’s warm and strong as always, but you don’t miss the slight tremor in his grip. “How are you holding up?”

He shrugs half-heartedly, a sigh escaping his lips and dissipating into mist in the wintry air. “As well as can be expected, I guess. It just… it all happened so fast.”

“I know,” you murmur, twining your fingers together in quiet reassurance. “I’m so sorry, Hobi.”

“Thanks.”

Slowly, his gaze flits to the center of the clearing where the ancient tree sits, traversing from the leafy canopy all the way down to where the gnarled roots disappear into the dirt. In its shadow sits a polished wooden casket, and you squeeze Hoseok’s hand gently as he walks closer, his eyes beginning to glisten.

“I still can’t believe he’s gone, you know,” he mumbles. “All these years of war, of negotiations and peace talks, finally seeing the Accords pass and the company flourish… and now he’s gone. Cancer. Just like that.”

His voice cracks on the last sentence, and you clasp his hand a little tighter. You know as well as he does that a healthy werewolf can live for well over a century, if not for the human genetics that remain susceptible to human weaknesses and disease. True immortality afflicts only the faeries and the vampires of your world—and even then, there are still ways that those folk can die.

“He lived a long life,” you say after a moment’s hesitation, grasping onto any semblance of comfort you can offer. Together, you and Hoseok come to a stop in the shadow of the tree, peering at the closed casket where his grandfather lays. “And it was a good, just life. Not all of us can say that.”

A lone, wet droplet falls onto the polished mahogany, and Hoseok hastily wipes his eyes, tilting his head skyward. “Not long enough,” he whispers. “He still had so much to do. I… I still have so much I wanted to do—to say. And now I’ll never be able to.”

You caress a thumb across his knuckles, the motion soft and tender. “I know. And I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do.”

Hoseok glances down at that, a glimmer of something manic and desperate swimming in his amber-flecked irises. “You could,” he says, grabbing both your hands and clutching them to his chest like a lifeline. “You could bring him back. You know how, don’t you?”

You shake your head sadly, hating the way his frown deepens as you free yourself from his grasp. “That’s forbidden magic, Hobi. That’s necromancy. You know I can’t do that.”

Hoseok’s entire body sags, his shoulders slumping as he lets out a heavy sigh. Instinctively, you step forward to wrap him in a hug, and he loops his arms around your waist automatically, pulling you flush against him. “I know,” he mumbles into your hair. Then he huffs out a dry chuckle, humorless and deprecating. “Fuck. I’m a mess, huh?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. Instead, you hold him a little tighter, rubbing his back soothingly in long, slow motions—the same way his mother used to do during bedtime. His heart thuds erratically in his chest, fast and frenzied like a caged bird, but lulls as you continue your ministrations, settling into an even rhythm once more.

“Thank you,” he murmurs after a few moments, his warm breath caressing your cheek. “For coming today. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“You can do anything, Hobi,” you reassure, running a thumb along the sharp line of his jaw when he raises his head to look at you. “With or without me. But… you’re welcome, all the same.”

Your presence at this funeral is unusual, and both you and Hoseok know it. Werewolf packs tend to keep their rites and ceremonies private, and the Gwangju pack is no different. Led by Hoseok’s father, and his late grandfather before him, the werewolves of the city have rapidly risen to prominence and power, aided in large part by the founding of JungTech. The company, started by Hoseok’s grandfather, began as a small operation in a battered old warehouse, but quickly grew to become one of Gwangju’s biggest corporations after the signing of the Accords twenty years ago. The peace treaty marked the start of a tenuous coexistence between humankind and Shadowfolk, and, together with your fellow witches—along with the werewolves, vampires, and the few fair folk who decided to leave their homes deep in the forests—you migrated into cities all over the country to forge new lives.

It’s proven easier for some. While the wolves of the city have found tolerance—acceptance, even—you have not fared quite as well. Humans, you have found, tend to fear the ancient magic that runs through your veins. Though nothing you’ve faced comes remotely close to what your ancestors faced in centuries past, you remain wary of those who take a little too much interest in your abilities.

You’re a bit paranoid, your familiar, Bast, has remarked on more than one occasion. But it’s justified, so I suppose it’s all right.

As if sensing that your thoughts have turned to him, Bast stirs in the back of your mind. You feel him yawn and stretch lazily before there’s a tug on the soles of your feet, as if the force of gravity has suddenly, inexplicably doubled. Then he’s materializing—morphing out of the spot where your shadow would be if the sun were shining, taking the form of an inky black cat with sharp, golden eyes. Hoseok perks up when Bast loops between his ankles, and immediately squats down to scratch behind his ears, a small smile settling across his face as a low, content purr rumbles up from beneath his fingertips. From elsewhere in the clearing, a single howl rises up into the air, forlorn and wavering.

It’s starting, Bast says in your head. At the same time, Hoseok straightens to his full height, fiddling with the hem of his black jacket and looking over at you tentatively.

“Sounds like they’re getting started,” he says.

You nod. “I should go.”

Hoseok opens his mouth as if to protest—as if to say no, stay—but you know better and cut him off with a single raised finger.

“I’ll go,” you murmur. “This is a private rite, and I don’t want to break centuries of tradition by overstaying my welcome. Go join your pack, Hobi.”

“Will I see you later?”

“Without a doubt.”

Your parting gesture is to reach out and grab his hand, tucking a little drawstring bag into his palm and closing his fingers over it. “Valerian root and chamomile,” you tell him gently, taking in his rumpled collar and the dark bags beneath his eyes. “Make some tea tonight. It’ll help.”

Hoseok swallows and nods, his features softening as he gazes down at his hand cupped in your smaller ones. He looks like he wants to say something, but another howl interrupts, disrupting whatever thoughts he may have had. Instead, he nods again, murmuring a soft goodbye before turning on his heel to join the rest of the pack gathering around the raised casket. You turn as well, leaving behind the ancient clearing with Bast trotting by your side.

Up above, the heavens finally open, drenching the dirt path beneath your feet with rain. And behind you, the single howl is joined by dozens more, echoing mournfully up into the weeping sky.

///

You’re in the middle of straightening out a display of dittany when the kettle begins to boil, emitting three short, shrill whistles accompanied by a long stream of whirling steam. When silence falls over the shop once more, you wander over to where the kettle sits—atop a small wooden end table next to an old wardrobe. It’s an old relic that’s been passed down through generations of witches in your family, wrought out of silvery metal and suspended in an iron frame above a single lit candle. The flame is glowing pink, flickering in a nonexistent gust of wind, and you smile. Quietly, you grab two teacups from a nearby shelf.

Not two seconds later, the door of the old wardrobe creaks open, revealing the familiar face of Kim Seokjin behind it. A fellow witch and a good friend of yours, Jin has made a name for himself as a baker, running a café in Seoul that offers all sorts of confections—both with magical properties and without. His hair is dyed a muted dusty rose—a stark contrast to the casual black hoodie and jeans he’s wearing—and you reach out to push a stray lock back from his forehead in lieu of a greeting.

“Your hair’s pink again,” you remark. “I like it.”

Jin grins, his plush lips pulling back to reveal perfect teeth. “Thanks.” Carefully, he steps out of the wardrobe and shuts the door behind him. A beat of silence passes, and you take the opportunity to select a canister of tea leaves. You don’t miss the flicker of solemnity that settles into Jin’s features, though, listening as he clears his throat before voicing the question that is undoubtedly the reason behind his unexpected visit.

“So. How’s Hoseok holding up?”

Jin has never been one to mince his words. You suppose you appreciate that about him.

Quietly, you lift the kettle out of its stand and beckon for him to join you at the little wooden table at the front of your shop. It’s tucked neatly into the nook carved out by one of the two bay windows on either side of the front door, flanked by two well-worn, mismatched chairs. Atop it sits a pile of books—everything from ancient remedies to common household spells.

One book in particular always sits open—a detailed list of all the herbs and plants you carry in your shop, along with the various concoctions you’ve created with them. Hellebore, the spine of the book reads, and it’s the same word that graces your storefront in flowing, golden text. An apothecary of sorts, you spend your days dealing out potions and remedies to those in need, both human and Shadowfolk. You do your best to help, for all the times modern medicine has come up short and left someone wanting.

“Honestly? I don’t think he’s been sleeping.” You set the teacups down onto the table and fill them both before handing one over to Jin. “I saw him this morning, at the funeral. He looked exhausted.”

Jin’s brows disappear behind his pink hair. “You went to the funeral?”

“I didn’t stay,” you clarify, taking a sip of your tea. “Just wanted to drop by, say hello, and pay my respects.”

“Werewolves are a private bunch,” Jin remarks. “I’m surprised.”

You shrug. “Hoseok wanted me to be there. So I went.”

“I see.” He doesn’t say anything further, and neither do you, lapsing instead into a comfortable silence that’s broken only by the occasional sip of tea and the clinking of china. Your gaze wanders, drifting over to the front door of your shop, painted a cheerful green and set with a flowery stained glass window that throws kaleidoscopic rainbows across the cream walls and dark wooden floor. Sunlight streams through the wide bay windows, illuminating the interior in warm, hazy gold. On the other side of the room, Bast is curled up, fast asleep on his favorite plush bench beside the glass door that leads to the greenhouse, perfectly haloed by the sun.

“Must be nice being able to fall asleep anywhere,” you mutter, almost to yourself.

Jin hears you anyway, a chuckle escaping his lips. “You sound jealous.”

“Maybe I am,” you reply, laughing with him. “Speaking of which, where’s Adam? Did he stay home?”

Jin nods, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the wardrobe. “Yeah, he’s keeping an eye on the café. Told me to say hi to you for him, though.”

You giggle at the thought of Jin’s familiar, a long-haired sheepdog with a stubborn streak the size of the Nile and blatant disdain for following orders—especially those that come from Jin himself. “Keeping watch, or trashing the place?” you tease.

“With my luck, probably both,” Jin admits with a sigh. “I should probably get back there soon. He ate all the egg tarts last time.”

“Bring him with you next time,” you advise. “Bast will keep him entertained.”

He grins. “I don’t doubt it.”

Finishing off the last of his tea, he stands up and taps the rim of his cup, murmuring a soft cleaning spell under his breath. You smile gratefully as he replaces it back onto the shelf with the others, and stand to walk him back over to the wardrobe. Opening up the creaky door, you watch him clamber inside, standing amongst the hanging coats and the single pair of shoes on the bottom shelf.

“See you later,” you murmur. “Give Adam my best.”

Jin nods. “See you.”

He shuts the door, and you watch the flame of the candle once again turn a soft, roseate pink. It flickers briefly, dancing in an invisible breeze, before reverting back to the color of regular fire, signaling Jin’s departure. Quietly, you clean your own teacup and return it to the shelf.

The remainder of the afternoon passes with few customers, so you opt to close down early and head to your apartment, located up a short flight of stairs on the second floor of the shop. You’re rifling through the refrigerator for dinner ingredients and humming softly under your breath when your phone suddenly rings, Hoseok’s name lighting up the screen in bright white text. “Hey, Hobi,” you say, swiping across the glass to answer. “What’s up?”

On the other end of the line, Hoseok exhales shakily. “Can you come over?”

You blink, glancing at the darkening sky outside. “Now?”

“Yeah. Fuck, sorry. I know it’s late, but I really… I really need to talk to someone. I—” His voice cracks, and your heart sinks. “I need you.”

“Say no more.” Straightening up, you shut the refrigerator door and tug off your apron. “I’ll be there in half an hour. Have you eaten yet?”

Hoseok sighs. “No.”

“I’ll bring takeout,” you decide, already glancing around for your purse. “See you soon, okay?”

Bidding him farewell, you don your coat and head out the door, locking up behind you. Hoseok lives downtown in a sleek, modern penthouse that’s normally a twenty-minute walk away from Hellebore, but after stopping by the restaurant on the corner for food, you opt to catch the bus instead. Fifteen minutes after you hang up the phone, you are rapping the bronze knocker on Hoseok’s front door, a paper bag and a bottle of wine in hand.

Almost instantly, the door is flung open. Hoseok stands in the threshold as if he’s been waiting there, his auburn hair wild and his eyes even wilder. His aura is turbulent, and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse. “Hey.”

“Hey.” You raise the bag. “I brought dinner.”

“You’re the best,” he sighs, stepping aside to let you in.

Hoseok’s apartment toes the line between modern and cozy in a way that only Hoseok’s apartment could—with lush green plants and plushy, earth-toned furniture to offset the cold impersonality of the floor-to-ceiling windows and the stainless steel kitchen. Flicking on the kitchen light, you set the food down on the granite countertop and grab two wine glasses out of the cabinet. Hoseok sidles over as you pour a generous helping into each glass, rifling through the silverware drawer for utensils.

“Smells good,” he murmurs, popping a box open. “I’m starving. Thanks for bringing dinner.”

You brush off his gratitude and hand him a glass, raising yours so you can clink it gently against his. Quietly, the two of you fall into a comfortable routine, with Hoseok grabbing the food and you grabbing the bottle of wine to bring into the living room. You help him clear off the coffee table and arrange the food, then settle onto the couch beside him, sipping your drink in silence and patiently waiting for him to gather his thoughts. Years of friendship have taught you that he’ll talk when he’s ready, and you’re content to wait as long as he needs.

Sighing, Hoseok tips the rest of his wine back into his mouth before setting the empty glass down with a soft plink. “So,” he begins, not quite looking you in the eye. “My dad and I had lunch today.”

You stay quiet, waiting for him to continue. He takes several more seconds to muster up the words, and when he finally finds them, they’re exhaled in a tumbling rush. “He told me that he’s pleased with how I’m running JungTech. It’s been over a year, and things are going well… so he wants to expedite my takeover of the pack. In two months, he wants me to take over as the alpha. And…” He swallows. “He wants me to settle down.”

Perturbed, you blink. “What?”

Hoseok finally looks at you, his expression frighteningly devoid of emotion. “He wants me to get married, {Name}.”

Comprehension doesn’t settle in right away. But when it does, your jaw drops to the floor, landing somewhere alongside the ornamental persian carpet and a stray sock that has no doubt jumped ship from Hoseok’s laundry.

“W-what?” you manage after a few long seconds of gaping at him. “Why? Why now? That’s so… that’s completely out of the blue.”

Hoseok shakes his head, a few shaggy strands of auburn hair falling across his forehead and into his eyes. “It’s not, actually. He’s been talking about it for a long time—trying to arrange something with one of the other pack families. It’s tradition, you know? Mating within the pack, keeping the bloodlines pure through marriage. The difference is that Pops always talked him out of it. Always said I was too young, that there was no rush, that I should wait for someone I love, my true mate...” He sighs, heavily. “But he’s gone now. And Dad’s decided that he’s done waiting.”

You shouldn’t ask. You shouldn’t, because you know it’ll hurt, but the question comes regardless—leaving your lips in a near whisper. “Who?”

Hoseok takes a deep breath, his shoulders slumping as he exhales. “Do you remember Im Nayeon?”

You do. You’ve known Nayeon almost as long as you’ve known Hoseok—the three of you having attended the same schools starting from elementary all the way up until Hoseok left to attend university in Seoul. Admittedly, you were never close—and if you were completely honest, you always found her to be a bit disingenuous for your tastes. Nevertheless, you often found yourself at the same events—parties and gatherings you attended at Hoseok’s request, and that she was privy to due to her family’s high-ranking status within the Gwangju pack.

“I remember,” you tell him, your bottom lip finding its way between your teeth. “Does… does she know yet? Have you met up with her?”

Hoseok nods. “She was there this morning, at the funeral. We talked a little bit and got coffee after, but… this is all happening so fast.” Slowly, he tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling, a sigh escaping his parted lips. “But there’s nothing I can do, right? It’s enough that Dad’s somehow talked Mom into the whole thing, but now he’s gotten the Council on board too. Did you know that Nayeon has an uncle on the Council? It’s insane, right?”

“Insane,” you agree in a whisper, doing your best to ignore the way your heart is splintering at the edges.

“You know, I always thought my Dad pressuring me was bad.” Hoseok buries his face in his hands, peering at you from between his splayed fingers when you hum in acknowledgment. “But this? The entire Council on my back? This is way worse.”

“I’m sorry.” You don’t know what else there is to say. Your ribcage feels like it’s been split open and filled with burning coals, weighing hot and heavy on your insides.

Hoseok has dated in the past, of course. You both have—chasing that elusive, fluttery feeling called love and never quite being able to catch it and hold on. Hoseok’s last relationship fizzled long before he graduated from university, having lasted only about six months. You distinctly remember meeting the girl during one of your frequent visits to Seoul, at a small party hosted by Hoseok and his friends. By your next visit, however, things had already ended. He never really told you why the breakup occurred either—only that the relationship never would have lasted in the long run.

Perhaps foolishly, you chose not to pry.

“Is there anything I can do?” you ask softly. Reaching out, you take ahold of his hand and tug it into your lap, threading your fingers into the gaps between his. The gesture is familiar and comforting, like cocoa in front of a lit fireplace, and you can’t even begin to fathom the idea of another person sitting here and holding his hand in your stead.

“Just talk to me,” Hoseok entreaties, squeezing your fingers. “Distract me. What’s going on with you?”

You hum, swallowing down the lump in your throat and letting your head fall onto his shoulder as you pick through the events of the past week for the most interesting tidbits. “Bast has been bringing me dead rats lately,” you finally say, nose scrunching at the memory. “You should see the size of them—they’re almost bigger than he is. And they smell like the sewers, because I’m ninety-nine percent sure that’s where he’s getting them from. It’s horrid.”

Hoseok huffs out a stilted laugh. “Sewer rats? Gross.”

“It’s not all bad, to be honest,” you tell him, nestling a little closer to the warmth of his body. Hoseok keeps his apartment chillier than you’re accustomed to, and you’re beyond grateful for the furnace-like heat he gives off naturally. “The bones are pretty useful. The tails too, provided you don’t tell people what they actually are.”

His laugh is much more genuine this time. “Tricky little minx,” he says, amusement lacing his tone. “I’ve always liked that about you.”

You ignore the uptick in your heart rate at his approval, grateful that he can’t see your face as a pulse of heat flushes your cheeks. Instead, you burrow into the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent. Hoseok smells like the forest—fresh and woodsy, with a slight floral undercurrent from his fabric softener. It smells like home, and you smile when his arm comes up to wrap around your shoulders.

“Jin came by today,” you murmur.

“Yeah?” The monosyllabic response rumbles through his chest.

“Yeah. He asked about you, too. You should probably text him later.”

Hoseok hums a confirmation, and, satisfied, you cuddle a little closer to him. You pull at the afghan he keeps laid over the back of the couch, laying it comfortably over your lap as he rests his head gently atop yours, his ear pressed to your crown. Your eyes fall shut as you listen to the rhythmic thud of his pulse—solid and steady, backed by the soft hum of the refrigerator and distant traffic on the street far below.

It’s comfortable, sitting with him like this. Comfortable, stroking his arm with your fingertips, in time with the drumbeat of his heart. Ever so gradually, Hoseok’s breathing evens out, and you briefly think that you could stay like this—encapsulated in this delicate, iridescent bubble of contentment—for the rest of your life.

You know the thing about bubbles, though? Bast remarks dryly in your head. They burst.

I know, you sigh.

I know.

///

There’s something soothing about taking inventory—something calming in the repetition of walking down the aisles of Hellebore and restocking the shelves one by one. You’d woken this morning to an apologetic Hoseok making pancakes in the kitchen, his residual heat and woodsy scent lingering on the blanket tucked around your body. After a harried breakfast and a promise to text you later, Hoseok rushed off to the office.

You, in turn, returned to your shop, where you grabbed every ounce of cleaning supplies you possess and scrubbed the place from top to bottom, foregoing all of your usual dishwashing charms and dust-clearing jinxes. The physical labor is a welcome distraction from the events and revelations of last night, and you’ve thrown yourself wholeheartedly into all the chores you need to complete.

“Almost out of rosehip oil,” you mutter, eyeing the half-empty vial and making a note to extract more from one of several plants in your greenhouse. “Low on valerian too, hmm…”

The bell over the front door jingles merrily, diverting your attention away from your task. “{Name}?” a voice calls softly. A moment later, a familiar head of coppery red hair pops around the edge of the shelves, choppy bangs framing a soft, warm face. “Hey, there you are. You busy?”

You shake your head and shut your inventory book, setting it down on the nearest shelf. “Not terribly, no. What brings you here today, Lisa?”

Lisa’s answering smile is sheepish. “Got something to return,” she says, holding up a little glass jar full of lavender colored pills that you immediately recognize. “I’m guessing you’ve already heard the news. Looks like I won’t be needing these anymore, right?”

Your laugh sounds brittle, even to your own ears. “Right. Yeah. Not anymore.”

For just over ten years, Lisa has been the wolf assigned to help Hoseok through his heat. Between his family’s status and his longtime designation as the next alpha of the Gwangju pack, it’s imperative for Hoseok to avoid anything that might be perceived as scandalous. Torrid sex stories splashed across tabloid covers is the last thing a man like Hoseok needs, and that’s where Lisa comes in. Once a year, for three days, she goes to him, and no one is none the wiser. Her job is one that calls for the utmost discretion, and as the daughter of a high-ranking Council official, no one understood that better than she did. You’d only found out because of your role as one of the few witches in the country who makes and stocks the proper contraceptives for such wolves—the dosage much stronger than the human equivalent.

And when Lisa had first approached you to purchase the pills, you’d dropped two jars and nearly set fire to a third. Your stomach had fallen to somewhere around your toes, right alongside the shattered glass and little lavender tablets.

You’d chalked the accident up to surprise. Hoseok hadn’t mentioned anything to you, after all, and you’d known very little about the intricacies of werewolf heats back then, having just opened your shop at age eighteen. But surprise doesn’t explain the snaking jealousy that bubbles up in your tummy every time Lisa comes in to restock her supply of pills, nor does it explain the overwhelming sense of relief you feel now as she presses the unopened jar into your hands.

“I still can’t believe he’s going to be the most powerful man in Gwangju soon.” Lisa steps back, tucking her hair behind her ear and letting out a soft sigh. “And now he’s engaged, too. It’s pretty crazy, huh?”

“Crazy,” you agree tonelessly, turning to replace the jar onto the appropriate shelf.

Lisa, however, is nothing if not perceptive. A gentle hand lands on your shoulder, stopping you in your tracks. “Hey,” she begins, soft and slow. “You know you can talk to me, right? Are you—?”

But the sound of the bell drowns out the rest of her question, metallic and bright in the quiet of your shop. “Hello? Anyone home?” a cheery voice asks.

“Be right there,” you say immediately, shrugging off Lisa’s hand and stepping out from amongst the shelves. There’s a young woman standing at the checkout counter, rifling through the collection of seeds on display, and you cringe as she replaces a few packets in the wrong spots. “How can I help you?”

At the sound of your voice, the woman turns gracefully on her heel, her expression a perfectly crafted amalgamation of surprise and delight. “{Name}!” she exclaims, stepping forward with an outstretched arm. “Long time no see!”

“N-Nayeon,” you stammer, the shock of seeing her face freezing you in place. “What… what brings you here?”

The dark-haired woman steps forward to pull you into a hug, enveloping you in her fruity perfume. “Would you believe me if I said I wanted to catch up with an old friend?” she asks playfully.

We were never friends, you want to say. In your head, Bast lets out a derisive snort of agreement. Lisa, you notice, has conveniently melted away somewhere amidst the organized chaos of your shop, disappearing into the myriad shelves and knickknacks.

“Plus, I really wanted to look at some flowers,” Nayeon continues, betraying her true purpose at last. “You’ve heard, haven’t you? About my engagement? I’m sure Hoseok—I mean, my fiancé—has mentioned it to you, of all people. You are his best friend, after all.”

The inside of the shop is beginning to feel stifling. Perspiration trickles down your neck and you tug at your collar, loosening the material from where it’s plastered against your skin. “Sure,” you manage, once you feel like you can breathe again. “Right. Sure. The flowers are right this way, if you want to follow me.”

I’d forgotten how much I don’t like her, your familiar remarks dryly in your head.

Shut up, Bast.

Mercifully, he does. There’s a tug on your feet, and you glance down just in time to see him morph out of the shadow you cast against the sun-drenched floor. Ghostly and amorphous at first, he quickly solidifies into the feline figure you’ve grown accustomed to, and slinks protectively around your ankles before darting off to perch in the cushioned bay window seat.

Conveniently, that’s also where the flower display is. Colorful blooms and trailing leaves adorn the wooden shelves and tables in this particular corner of the shop, and you force yourself to shift back into professional mode as you come to a stop in front of an assortment of honeysuckle. “So, what kind of flowers are you looking for?” you ask, brushing your fingers along the pale yellow petals.

Nayeon hums thoughtfully and picks up a potted rosebush, examining it from all angles. “Roses, maybe. Are roses too clichéd now?” She brings the crimson buds closer and inhales, eyes fluttering shut. “No matter. I’ve always liked them.”

“They’re beautiful,” you agree, turning your attention to the selection of roses lining the topmost shelf. “Do you have a color preferen—?”

“Or maybe these would be better,” Nayeon interrupts, plucking up a pale pink calla lily from the bouquet you keep in a table display. “Or that one—what is it?”

You follow the trajectory of her gaze to a bunch of little white flowers with golden centers, stark against the dark dirt and surrounding green foliage. “That would be bloodroot,” you answer. “One of my personal favorites—it’s both ornamental and medicinal. It would look lovely in a bouquet.”

Nayeon pulls a face and shakes her head. “No, no—I don’t want anything with such a horrible name. What about these?” she asks, reaching up to take a closer look at a larger bloom. “Peonies, right?”

By the time Nayeon makes it back to the checkout counter with a few sample rose cuttings in hand, you’re fairly certain that several eternities have passed. “Is there anything else you need?” you ask as you ring her up and wrap the flowers neatly in paper.

“A discount for an old friend?” she queries, shooting you a playful wink. When you don’t answer right away, she giggles. “I’m kidding! Obviously, I’ll pay. It’s not like I’m pressed for money—I mean, you’ve seen who my fiancé is, right? Now gosh, where did I put my wallet?”

Your cheeks are beginning to feel far too hot. Nayeon is still rummaging in her purse, and you quickly duck beneath the counter under the pretense of looking for some ribbon to tie off the bouquet. Fanning your face, you take a few deep breaths, listening as she continues chattering away.

“We’re having dinner tonight, actually, Hoseok and I. It’ll be our second real date, and… wait!” She gasps, and you peer up just in time to see her slap a hand over her perfectly lacquered mouth. “You should come! Bring someone, if you can—it’ll be like a double date!”

If you can? Bast snipes. Curse her.

You sigh inwardly and straighten back up, ribbon in hand. Shut up, Bast.

If you won’t, I will.

You’ll do no such thing.

Mustering up your best, most earnest smile, you hand over the wrapped flowers along with her change. “That sounds like fun,” you tell her, ignoring the way your insides lurch at the lie. “When and where?”

Nayeon beams and rattles off the address of an unfamiliar restaurant. “Don’t be late!” she calls as she heads for the door. The bell jangles cheerily as she departs, and as soon as the door shuts behind her, Lisa pokes her head around a nearby bookshelf.

“Finally,” she sighs, walking over to join you. “I thought she’d never leave.”

Ordinarily, you wouldn’t dare speak ill of a customer, but you’re willing to make an exception today. “You and me both,” you reply, watching as Bast slinks over like a shadow and hops onto the counter beside you. He nuzzles his face into the crook of your elbow in silent solidarity, and you mindlessly begin scratching behind his ears as Lisa speaks again.

“Are you really going to go to that dinner tonight?”

You meet her gaze, shrugging. “I already said I would. Do I really have a choice?”

There isn’t much else to say, and both you and she know it. Pushing off from where she’s leaning against the countertop, Lisa flips her coppery hair over her shoulder and shoots you a look, brown eyes full of sympathy. “Good luck,” she says sincerely. You get the feeling that she wants to say something else, but decides against it at the last minute. Instead, she bids you goodbye and walks out with a wave and another chime of the bell. Silence settles over the shop once more, and you allow yourself a few moments to breathe—slow and deep, in and out—before picking up your phone and opening up the most recent text messages. It doesn’t take long to find the name you’re looking for, but you still pause, thumbs hovering over the keyboard, before you begin to type.

[4:21pm] You: how would you like to join me for a very awkward dinner date?

[4:21pm] Jin: consider me intrigued.

///

You and Jin arrive at the restaurant first. It’s an ornate, palatial place with tuxedoed waitstaff and a coat room, and despite giving the name ‘Jung’ at the door, you’re certain that Hoseok played no part in the venue selection. The host ushers you to a booth tucked in the back, the cushioned seats a velvety burgundy and a chandelier glittering overhead, throwing refracted, iridescent light across the veined marble table. All of a sudden, the simple black dress you’re wearing feels painfully inadequate. Glancing down at your feet, you wonder if you should have worn heels instead.

Beside you, Jin cuts a striking figure in a creamy silk shirt with ribbons that tie into a bow at his throat, the material loose and flowy up until where it tucks into fitted black slacks. His pink hair complements the elegant outfit perfectly, parted and swept off his forehead to reveal his dark brows.

As if reading your mind, he lays a gentle hand on your shoulder. “You look beautiful,” he says, before gesturing at the booth. “Now, do you want the inside or outside? Think you’ll need to make a quick getaway at some point?”

“Probably,” you sigh. Jin nods and sits down first, and you watch him slide across the seat cushion before settling in beside him. “I still can’t believe you volunteered to be here,” you murmur, plucking up one of the folded cloth napkins and fiddling with the crisp white edges. “You’re a saint, I swear.”

Jin chuckles and plucks the napkin from your clasped hands, laying it across your lap instead. “Not a saint,” he says, matching your soft tone. “Just someone who cares about you.”

Your cheeks warm at his sudden proximity. “Thank you,” you tell him, for what must be the umpteenth time. “I can’t even imagine what I’d do without you.”

“Good thing you don’t have to, then,” he replies with a grin. “Now, chin up. They just walked in.”

You can’t help the groan that escapes you. “Is it too late to run?”

“Afraid so,” he answers honestly.

And then Nayeon is slipping into the cushioned seat opposite you, syrupy smile in place on her berry lacquered lips. “Hi!” she chirps, laying a hand on Hoseok’s arm as he sits down beside her. “Sorry we’re late. We, um…” She pauses and shoots Hoseok a conspiratorial look, giggling. “... lost track of the time.”

Your magic flares, hot and bright in your veins, and you know Jin feels it too when he lays a cautionary hand on your knee beneath the table. “We weren’t waiting long,” he says, offering the two a genial smile. He’s perfectly polite as he and Nayeon exchange quick introductions, and gestures toward the assortment of menus on the table as soon as everyone has settled down. “Why don’t we order some wine to start?”

“Oh, that’s a splendid idea! Isn’t that a splendid idea, Hoseok?” Nayeon turns to the auburn-haired man beside her, and you do the same, gaze landing on Hoseok for the first time tonight. He’s in an all black ensemble, sharp jacket layered over a silky black shirt, the top buttons loosened to bare a tantalizing sliver of golden skin. His auburn hair is parted, a stray lock falling across his forehead, and you shiver when you realize he’s staring right back at you with dark, unreadable eyes.

At the sound of Nayeon’s voice, Hoseok seems to snap out of his trance, his expression smoothing out as he plasters on a smile. “Take a look at the menu,” he says, picking up the leather-bound book and offering it to her. “Dinner’s on me.”

You blink. “We can’t let you do that, Hobi.”

“Let me pick up at least part of the tab,” Jin adds, already reaching for his wallet. “I’m no corporate bigshot, but I do well enough for myself.”

“No need to be modest,” you chime in, nudging him playfully. “Weren’t you just telling me about your new restaurant opening on the way over? Next week, right?”

Jin’s ears redden as all the attention is turned onto him. “Next week, yeah.”

“That’s amazing!” Nayeon chirps, pressing closer to Hoseok. “We’ll have to check it out sometime. Maybe a date night, right, darling?”

Hoseok busies himself with rearranging his cutlery, swapping the knife and fork around. “Right—sure. If we ever make it up to Seoul, we’ll, uh… we’ll definitely stop by. Congratulations, man.”

The conversation continues. A server stops by to take your wine order, and Jin decides on a moderately priced bottle of cabernet sauvignon. Glasses are brought over, and wine is poured. Hoseok finishes his quickly and pours himself another, and though his wolf metabolism prevents him from getting drunk off of regular wine, you know that he’s a bit of a lightweight and tends to avoid drinking heavily no matter what the beverage. He’s drinking with a purpose tonight, and you’re beyond grateful when Jin pipes up with yet another story when the conversation lulls.

“And then I found out that the oven was on the whole time! Adam would probably let the entire apartment go up in flames just to spite me—I should watch my back.”

“Or, you know, just watch the oven more closely,” you tease. “I’ve seen your place, Jin—it’s a complete fire hazard. It’s a wonder it hasn’t burned to the ground already.”

Jin sniffs. “You’re exaggerating. Stop making me look bad.”

“You make yourself look bad,” you retort, laughing when his lower lip juts out into a pout.

Across the table, Hoseok clears his throat. “Speaking of fire hazards—did I ever tell you about the time {Name} set me on fire?”

“I did no such thing!” you protest, reaching over to slap his arm. “I mean, okay, maybe a little bit, but that was one time! And you were barely singed!”

Hoseok snorts out a laugh. “Barely singed? I couldn’t sit properly for a week.”

“Oh please, that’s a lie and you know it!”

Nayeon interrupts your conversation with a loud huff, setting her wineglass down with enough force to thud against the veined marble tabletop. “Do one of you maybe want to fill us in on the joke here?”

Abashed, you glance back at Hoseok, watching as his smile slowly fades back into the careful, neutral expression he’s worn all evening. “Sorry,” you murmur. “It’s an old story from when we were kids—when we first met, actually. We were seven years old, and it was the second day of school. I didn’t have a very good handle on my magic yet, and accidentally set Hoseok’s tail on fire during recess.”

“I preferred to run around in my wolf form back then,” Hoseok further elaborates. “There was a big field out behind the school—remember that, {Name}?”

You nod. “Of course. It went right up to the very edge of the woods. And if you kept going and went far enough, you reached the old wooden bridge.”

Hoseok is smiling again, soft and fond. “That thing was a death trap.”

“But the teachers could never keep us away,” you say, grinning at him.

“All right,” Nayeon interrupts again, sniffing disdainfully. “Enough about the old days—I think it’s time to talk about the present. And more importantly, the future.” She sighs happily and props her chin up in her palm, ensuring that the delicate golden band on her ring finger is on full display, the metal glimmering in the warm light. “You’re both invited to the wedding, of course. And I never did properly thank you for the flowers today, {Name}!”

Her words seem to come as a surprise to Hoseok, who straightens up in his seat. “Flowers? You visited Hellebore today?”

“Of course I did!” Nayeon hides a giggle behind a manicured hand. “I wouldn’t even think of trusting anyone else with my bouquet.”

Hoseok’s gaze skitters over to you, awash with concern and tinged with apology, but you ignore him in favor of forcing your expression into something that’s meant to be a smile. Yet no matter how much you strain your cheeks and stretch your lips, it feels—and looks, you’re sure—far more like a grimace.

“I’m happy to do it,” you lie, your teeth gritted and tight. “I don’t mind it one bit.”

///

“So. That was just as awkward as promised.”

You and Jin are walking back to Hellebore, leaving behind the bustling downtown area for the darker, quieter streets of your neighborhood. Your companion’s hair is tinged orange in the glow from the streetlamps, and you can only chuckle humorlessly when he turns to you and raises his eyebrows.

“Can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I was duly warned,” Jin agrees.

A car drives by, the headlights throwing Jin’s profile into stark relief. His expression is solemn but he doesn’t say anything else and neither do you. The remainder of the walk passes in silence, broken only by the occasional strain of conversation from passersby and the low drone of late night traffic. You reach Hellebore with no incidents, and you muffle a yawn as Jin steps into the wardrobe to go back to Seoul.

Just before he shuts the door behind him, he shoots you a meaningful glance over his shoulder. “You should tell him how you feel, you know. He deserves to know. And you… you deserve to be happy.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and you don’t need him to. Long after he’s gone, his remark echoes in your head, and no matter what, you simply cannot seem to shake it.

///

It’s been years since you’ve last gone to the old bridge, but after last night’s conversation you find yourself pulled back, lured by the promise of memories of a kinder time. The forest beyond the field hasn’t changed much since your school days, and neither, you realize, has the bridge itself. It still stands tall, proudly spanning the steep ravine that your teachers warned you about, the rickety wood splitting apart at the seams and overgrown with lichen and climbing ivy. Far below, the white-capped river rushes by on its long, turbulent journey to the sea.

Carefully, you step onto the bridge—first one foot, then the other. The energy in the air shifts as soon as your feet leave the loamy earth, finding traction instead on hewn wood, and you sigh as your fingertips brush against the railing. The magic here is an old magic—different from the ancient magic that dwells in places like the werewolves’ clearing and the realms of the fae. The low thrum of it fills the air and seeps into your veins, quickening your pulse and prickling your skin.

“I thought you might be here.” The voice comes from your left, barely audible over the rush of the river.

“You thought right,” you reply, stepping forward until you’re toeing the railing and leaning over to stare down into the swirling, eddying waters below.

Hoseok joins you at the edge. His profile is stark against the leafy green backdrop, and for a few moments, all is still. Then: “I’m really sorry about last night.”

The apology hangs in the silence for a few moments before fading into the sound of churning water and wind whistling through the trees. You suck in a deep breath, oxygen swelling your lungs until you can hold it in no longer, before letting it escape in a resigned sigh.

“You don’t have to apologize to me, Hoseok.”

“Maybe not. But I want to.” He shoots you a sidelong glance. “Will you let me make it up to you?”

You raise a brow. “Make it up to me? And how exactly do you plan on doing that?”

“Anything you want.” Hoseok smiles crookedly, but you can’t quell the tumult brewing in your belly.

“What do you want, Hobi?”

His smile fades. “I—” He stops and shakes his head, auburn hair flying. “It doesn’t matter what I want. This is about you.”

You gaze up at him, taking in the sharp cut of his jawline and the straight angle of his nose. Your eyes trail along the smooth slope of his rounded cheeks and the soft curve of his mouth, lingering on the little mole atop his upper lip.

And then you reach out and take his hand, savoring the way his fingers immediately, comfortably settle into the spaces between your own. “Why don’t we head down to the river?” you ask. “It’s been a long time since we’ve been, and I’ve missed it.”

Hoseok’s expression softens, a glimmer of something bright shining in his amber-flecked irises. Gently, he tugs on your hand, taking the lead as you leave the bridge behind and head north in search of the sloping path that will take you down and into the ravine that houses the riverbed. You chance a few glances over the treacherous edge, watching the water froth and tumble over the rocks.

“You know, this seems a lot more dangerous now than it did back then,” you muse. “I see why our teachers were always trying to keep us away.”

“We were kids back then,” Hoseok says, grinning. “We thought we were invincible. Nothing could touch us.”

“Simpler times,” you agree with a laugh. “I set your tail on fire, you cried—”

“—and then we became lifelong friends,” Hoseok finishes, joining in your mirth. “Easy-peasy.”

Together, you locate the path down to the ravine. The descent is easier than it was back then, your longer limbs extending your reach, but you’re grateful for Hoseok’s steadying hand all the same. He carefully guides you around the biggest rocks and tree roots, pulling you closer when you lose your footing near the bottom. His fingers remain twined with yours even after you’ve safely arrived at the riverbed, stepping across stones that have been worn smooth and warmed by the sun. You slip off your shoes, letting them dangle from your free hand, and Hoseok does the same.

Sunlight glitters off the water, throwing a thousand refractive diamonds across the surface, but when you dip your toes in you find that it’s cold as a mountain spring in autumn. That doesn’t stop Hoseok from bending down to splash you though, and you shriek in surprise before retaliating with a silent spell that sends icy water splattering across the faded denim of his jeans.

“That’s not fair!” he protests. “You can’t use magic!”

“I’m just using every resource available to me,” you reply with a sly grin, sending a swelling wave of water toward him with a lazy twist of your hand.

From beneath his drenched hair, Hoseok raises a challenging brow in your direction. “Oh yeah?”

Before you can even blink, he’s shrugging off his jacket and pulling his shirt over his head, baring a taut, honeyed abdomen and toned arms. Tossing the discarded clothes onto the bank, he unfastens his belt and lets that drop as well, fixing you with a crooked little smirk all the while. The muscles in his torso ripple.

And then he’s shifting—limbs elongating and reddish-brown fur sprouting from his skin. His remaining clothing rips under the strain of the transformation, floating downstream in tattered shreds, but you don’t pay them any mind. No matter how many times you’ve watched Hoseok shift, you’ll never quite get used to it. He hunches over, more beast than man at this point, his chest rumbling. And before you know it—before you can even pinpoint exactly when the transformation is complete—he’s standing before you as a massive russet wolf, baring ferociously sharp teeth that you know could easily tear a man limb from limb.

His eyes, however, remain the same—warm, molten brown flecked with amber and gold, a devilish twinkle lurking in their depths. You cock your head to the side in a silent challenge, and swear that the wolf in front of you grins before pouncing forward, landing in the river with an enormous splash that leaves you thoroughly drenched.

“Now we’re both soaked!” you cry in between giggles, watching as Hoseok emerges from the water, his fur dampened black and dripping. “How is this a win for you?”

Hoseok rears back and lets loose a triumphant howl, shaking himself out and further drenching you with the spray of water from his coat. You squeal and back up several steps, batting him away, but Hoseok just presses closer and nuzzles his wet face into the crook of your neck. His body heaves with every breath, flaring hot against your skin, and for a few long moments, you simply stand there, your arms coming up to wrap around his neck as icy water rushes past your ankles.

After what feels like an eternity, you step back, releasing Hoseok and staring up into his face. Even in his wolf form, he towers over you, and you reach up to stroke his muzzle tenderly before bopping him on the nose. “Come on,” you murmur. “Let’s dry off.”

Hoseok lets out a low rumble of agreement, and together, you make your way back to shore. You fold up his discarded clothing while he trots off to locate his shredded jeans, quickly finding them caught between some rocks and carrying the denim tatters back over to you in his teeth. Shaking your head, you add it to the growing pile and lay a hand atop it. Heat concentrates in your fingertips, mingling with the magic running through your veins. Stitch by stitch, his jeans repair themselves, drying in the process. Hoseok bumps your cheek with his nose in gratitude and darts off to change, and you dry your own clothes while you wait.

When Hoseok returns, he’s reverted to his human form, fully dressed and raking a hand through his damp hair. “Thanks for drying these off,” he says, flashing you a sheepish grin. “And for fixing my pants. Again.”

“Mending charms are easy,” you reply, and it’s the truth. Over the many years you’ve known Hoseok, you’ve mended his clothing countless times—from the accidental transformations in his early years, before he could control it, to the calculated ones as he got older. Hoseok doesn’t shift terribly often nowadays, but on occasion he still goes out to stretch his muscles and hunt with his pack. His grandfather, in particular, always made the time to take him hunting at least once a month. You wonder if he’s gone since he passed, but decide not to ask.

“Should we go see the Towers?” you ask instead.

“Lead the way,” he agrees, falling into step beside you as you head downstream. The ravine walls are higher here, decorated with gnarled roots and rocky outcrops that obscure the periwinkle sky and cast long shadows across the ground. Cairns begin to crop up on both sides of the river—each tower of stones carefully and deliberately stacked. They’re small and scattered at first, but gradually become taller and more frequent until you’re nearly surrounded by a forest of stone. The air grows noticeably heavier—the magic more potent. It almost feels as if electricity is dancing across your skin, the sparks sinking into your pores and melding with your soul.

Hoseok feels it too, if the look of awe in his eyes is any indication. “I can’t believe I’d nearly forgotten about this place,” he marvels, running a finger across one of the stacked stones. “Do you feel that? The magic?” Then he chuckles. “Wait, of course you do. What am I talking about?”

You smile softly, tracing the path his fingertips leave behind. “Yeah, Hobi. I feel it.”

The topmost stones are almost out of your reach now. Reaching into your pocket, you pull out a gray pebble about the size of your palm—a near perfect disc veined with white. Gently, you place it atop the cairn closest to you, watching it glint in the sunlight for a moment before turning to your companion.

“Well?”

Ancient legend dictates that as long as an offering is left, one may take a stone from the Towers. You and Hoseok have each acquired a rather sizable collection during your childhood years, lured by the promise that the stones will bring about good fortune and happiness.

“I forgot to bring something,” Hoseok admits, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. “But I can pick one out for you. Hang on…” He hums thoughtfully as he scans the towering pillars, tapping his chin until he alights on one in particular, plucking up a stone that’s been worn smooth, burnished orange and marbled with ivory and copper. “What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful,” you reply, admiring the way the marbled surface glitters in the sun.

Hoseok takes your hand and places the stone gently in your palm. “It’s yours.”

Then he’s off—stepping over a fallen log to admire another tower, brushing a curious finger across a moss-covered rock before glancing over his shoulder at you. “Coming?”

You nod, tucking his gift away safely in your pocket. Together, you carve out a path amongst the towering cairns, clambering over river rocks and brushing aside the dense undergrowth. The path opens up again gradually, revealing the burbling water to your left and the steep ravine wall to your right. The river is calmer here—clear enough to see all the way to the bottom where shimmering, silvery fish dart about. A low, flat rock juts out into the water a short ways away, and Hoseok strides over to plop atop it, gesturing for you to join him.

“This is nice,” he sighs once you’ve made yourself comfortable by his side. “The fresh air is doing me a world of good. I’ve been cooped up at the office for so long, I swear I almost forgot what trees smell like.”

“You’re more than welcome to sniff around the shop if you ever need a reminder,” you tell him, nudging his shoulder playfully. “Better yet, I’ll bring you a plant for your office. Spruce up the place a little bit.”

“That sounds great, actually,” he admits with a chuckle. “I don’t have your green thumb, though. I’ll probably end up accidentally killing it.”

“Something low maintenance, then,” you promise. “A succulent, maybe. When should I bring it by?”

Hoseok’s expression sombers. “You can always stop by tomorrow after the hearing.”

Your heart plummets into your stomach. The Ministry—the overarching government body that dictates all Shadowfolk affairs—summons every pack alpha for a confirmation hearing when they first come into power. “They’re holding the hearing? Already?”

He nods. “The Ministry’s summoned me for tomorrow morning. First item on their schedule, I’m pretty sure.” A resigned sigh escapes his lips, dissipating into mist on the air. “And there’s a party at JungTech HQ afterward. You know. So my dad can officially hand the reins over.”

“The most powerful man in Gwangju,” you murmur, thinking back to Lisa’s words.

Hoseok lets out a derisive snort. “Yeah, right. The most powerful man, beholden to his dad, the Council, and the entire fucking Ministry. It doesn’t matter what I want to do. Never has.”

It’s the second time he’s dismissed his feelings, and as much as you want to ask what it is he truly wants, you find that the words are stuck in your throat, your mouth suddenly as dry as the desert on a cloudless day. Instead, you lay a silent hand over his, feeling his warmth seep up into your palm.

“Hey.” Hoseok doesn’t tear his gaze away from the sky, watching a flock of birds fly overhead. “Yesterday, when Nayeon said she’d stopped by… did she say anything to you?”

The sound of her name leaving his lips leaves a sour taste on your tongue, but you swallow it down. “Not really,” you tell him. “She looked at some flowers and invited me to dinner. Simple as that.”

Hoseok nods slowly, lips pursed. “Was Jin already there when she came?”

You blink. “Jin? Oh, no—no, he wasn’t. I texted him after Nayeon left.”

“Ah.”

“I’m glad he was free, though.” You stare down into the water, where a curious fish swims in and out of the shadow you cast. “I’m honestly not sure who I could’ve invited if he hadn’t been available. Plus, it’s been ages since I’ve had dinner with him, and it’s been a few months since you’ve seen him too, right? I’m really happy it worked out.” You’re rambling now, but you can’t stop yourself. Hoseok has become eerily still, lost in introspection, and you feel obligated to fill the silence.

“You two make sense, you know.” Hoseok’s voice comes suddenly. “As a couple. Both witches—it makes a lot of sense.”

You peer over at him, eyes widening at his assumption. “We—we’re not actually together, Jin and I. We’re just friends.”

Hoseok straightens at that, his gaze flitting down to meet yours. “Really?”

“Really.”

A beat of silence. Hoseok looks like he wants to say something else, but a quiet buzz from his pocket stops him in his tracks. His mouth clamps shut as he checks his phone, teeth clicking together, and you can tell from the sudden tension in his jaw that it isn’t good news.

“Do you have to head back?”

He nods stiffly, silent apology written all over his face. “Work calls.”

You offer him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about me. Go on. I’ll see you tomorrow after your hearing.”

He nods again and turns to leave. Before he can take too many steps, though, you call him back, reaching into your pocket to pull out the stone he’d gifted you earlier.

“Take this,” you murmur, pressing it into his hands. “I’m pretty sure you need it more than I do right now.”

Hoseok’s fingers curl protectively around the stone, holding on like it’s his only remaining lifeline. “Thanks.”

///

Downtown Gwangju is a monochrome forest of towering glass and steel, clamorous and unchecked by nature, proudly defiant in the face of the earth mother herself. The sidewalks are awash with people rushing back from their lunch break, forcing you to dodge around several businessmen too absorbed in their phones. Just as you are finding your footing again, a hapless intern carrying a tray of coffee cups rushes past, nearly crashing into you.

“Oh, shi—sorry! Sorry, oh, jeez. Are you okay?”

You wave off his apology with a smile, taking in the ill fit of his suit and the messy knot of his tie. “Don’t worry about it,” you tell him, reaching out to help him steady the tray in his hands. A stabilizing spell—silently cast, the magic pulsing through your fingertips—should be enough to get him back to his office with no additional mishaps. You wonder if he’ll notice that his tray is suddenly more well-balanced, or that his hands have steadied.

But then again, you suppose it doesn’t really matter whether he does or not.

Somehow, someway, you make it to JungTech without running into anyone else. The receptionist recognizes you immediately and points you toward the elevator with a smile, and you thank her as you press the up button. It doesn’t take long to arrive, and you take a deep breath as you step inside, staring at your reflection in the mirrored walls.

All right? Bast queries, stirring awake in your mind.

You release the breath that you’d been holding in a long whoosh. Yeah. I’m all right.

The doors open on the top floor, and straight away, you are assailed by a cacophony of sounds. Scattered conversations and laughter intermingle with the clinking of champagne flutes. There are at least fifty people scattered around the open space that lies between the elevator and the glass-fronted CEO’s office at the very back—the office that bears Hoseok’s name on the door. There’s no sign of the man himself, but you have no doubt that he’s nearby. This entire party is a celebration for him, after all.

The elevator doors begin to close, and you quickly reach out to stop them, stepping out before it can protest at your dawdling. A young man in a pristine white shirt materializes on your right with a tray full of champagne flutes, and you pluck one off with a murmur of thanks. Sipping slowly, you wander around the perimeters of the party, listening to the lively chatter. Across the room, you spot Lisa, returning her friendly wave with one of your own.

“Hello, {Name}.”

The deep, familiar voice has you whirling around in an instant, head bowing in automatic deference. “Mr. Jung,” you murmur, not quite daring to look him in the eye. “It’s been a while.”

Hoseok’s father inclines his head in acknowledgment, salt-and-pepper hair gleaming beneath the fluorescent lights. No doubt he was a handsome man in his younger days, but the salt in his hair has steadily overtaken the pepper in the last few years, the stern lines around his mouth deepening.

“I didn’t know you would be joining us today,” he says cordially. “But then again, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised after all these years. Have you been here long?”

“Not long. Five minutes, maybe.” Beneath his piercing gaze, you feel like a small child again. Quickly, you scramble for something else to say, gesturing around the sleek glass interior of the office. “This is a lovely party. You must be so proud.”

Another nod. “I wasn’t sure that Hoseok was going to step up,” he admits. “I had my reservations about whether or not he would accept his duties as a Jung, but he has, and I’m pleased that he did. It’s no easy feat, running this company and leading the city’s pack. But I’ve served my time, just as my father did before me.” His gaze flits down to meet yours suddenly, and you find that you can’t read the emotion swimming in them. “I believe I spotted you at his funeral the other day, did I not?”

You nod, resisting the urge to take a sip from your nearly empty champagne glass as your cheeks warm under the scrutiny. “I was, yes. I’m very grateful to have had the opportunity to pay my respects. He was a great man.”

“That, he was,” Mr. Jung agrees. “Hoseok takes after him in many ways. My father—as great as he was—always had a soft spot for the boy. Coddled him a bit too much.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Jung, I think that’s a grandfather’s job,” you reply with a smile.

That earns you a smile in return, the lines around his mouth easing. After exchanging a few more pleasantries, Hoseok’s father excuses himself to talk to the other guests, and you set off in search of Hoseok himself. You can feel his aura somewhere nearby, strong and steady, but the room is large enough that you cannot pinpoint his exact location. Not for the first time, you curse the fact that you don’t have a werewolf’s sharp sense of smell. No doubt it could easily be as cumbersome as it is helpful, but it would certainly help you right now.

Turning a corner, you are about to continue lamenting your average olfactory system when you suddenly catch a glimpse of familiar auburn hair, afloat in a sea of black suits. Dodging around a sharply dressed businesswoman and ducking beneath a waiter’s serving tray clears your path to Hoseok, and you’re milliseconds away from stepping forward to greet him when you feel it.

There’s an energy emanating from Hoseok, the likes of which you’ve never felt from him before. It’s heavy and commanding and so potent that the air is laden with it, and a cursory glance at the people surrounding him reveals that they feel it too—their gazes lowered, voices hushed and respectful. In his fitted black suit and emerald green shirt, he looks every bit the alpha he is, and you are quickly realizing that you’re not immune to the power radiating off of him. The Hoseok standing before you isn’t the same Hoseok whose tail you set on fire all those years ago. Far from it. The revelation is somehow simultaneously terrifying and thrilling, and your heart leaps into your throat when you notice that he’s waving you over.

As if compelled, you comply, striding forward until you’re standing before him. “Hi,” your murmur, suddenly feeling shy.

Hoseok’s face splits into a smile. “Hi yourself,” he says, and you would have laughed if your insides didn’t feel like they were about to burst.

“I, um. I brought you your succulent,” you tell him, reaching into your bag. There’s a tiny potted jade plant inside, packaged neatly into a box that you open up and present to him. “It’s jade. Easy to keep alive, and easy to propagate too, if you’re inclined.”

Hoseok accepts your gift, his smile growing as he admires the plump green leaves. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

You shrug and wave off his gratitude, fiddling to clasp your bag shut. “So,” you start, glancing around and gnawing on your bottom lip, completely missing the way Hoseok’s eyes darken as he follows the movement. “It looks like everything went well at the Ministry. Your dad is pleased.”

Hoseok hums, low in his throat. “You talked to him?”

“Yeah, just now.”

“I see.”

He looks like he wants to say something more, but he’s interrupted by a blur of motion and a shrill cry of his name. A moment later, Nayeon is at his side, latching onto his arm and batting her lashes, adorned in a form-fitting red dress and golden jewelry.

“Hoseok! There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you!” Then her gaze alights on you, eyes going wide as if she’s only just noticed your presence. “{Name}, oh my goodness. I almost didn’t see you there, hi!”

“Hello, Nayeon,” you grit out, unable to hide your scowl. You wonder if she spotted it before you hid it behind a large sip of champagne.

Luckily, she doesn’t seem to notice. Her attention refocuses onto a spot behind you, and you watch as her expression lights up, delight etching across her features. “Mr. Jung!” she exclaims. “There’s my favorite future father-in-law. Come and join us—it’s not a party without you.”

Hoseok’s father chuckles lightly, coming forward to stand beside you. “Long time no see,” he jokes, nodding in your direction. “And Nayeon—hello. How are you enjoying the party?”

“Oh, I’m having the loveliest time,” she chirps, simpering up at Hoseok. “How could I not be, when my fiancé is here with me?” Then she smiles—her lips painted the same shade of red as her dress. “But I’m sure I’m nowhere near as happy as you are. You must be beyond excited to spend some quality time with your wife after being busy for so long.”

“I am,” Mr. Jung admits. The severity in his features softens as he seeks out his wife, standing across the room surrounded by friends and extended family. “I’m a very lucky man to have a woman like her.”

Nayeon giggles. “And I’m a lucky woman to have a man like your son. Isn’t that right, darling?”

She tilts her head to look up at Hoseok, who blinks twice in rapid succession, his throat bobbing. “Right,” he says, his voice raspy. “The luckiest.”

And as you turn to engage Mr. Jung in conversation once more, you miss the way his gaze lingers on you.

///

Tuesdays at Hellebore are for brewing. You save bottling for Thursdays—giving your potions and other concoctions ample time to simmer and set—but today, you are hunched over the stove with all four burners turned to different temperature settings, watching over your pots so that they don’t boil over.

A cursory glance out the window tells you that it’s well into the afternoon, the pastel blue sky littered with trailing clouds lit hazy and golden in the sun. You’ve been in the kitchen since early morning, and, desperate for a breath of fresh air, you crack the window open and inhale deeply. Then you turn back to the stove, giving one pot a stir and adding a pinch of burdock root to another.

Wandering downstairs, you head to the greenhouse. The sunlight is brighter here, the air more humid. Inhaling deeply, you breathe in the scent of the hundreds of plants growing inside, before heading for the laburnum tree in the far corner. Carefully, you brush aside the cascading golden flowers, about to gather the dried ones that have fallen to the dirt when there’s a knock on the front door.

“I’m sorry, we’re close—” you say, stopping when you recognize the head of coppery red hair in the window. “Lisa?” Confused, you open the door and let her inside. “What brings you here today?”

“You need to go to Hoseok, now,” she says, foregoing any preambles. “He’s… well, you’ll see. Nayeon’s there right now, but she’s not helping the situation, and...” She sighs. “I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who can help him now.”

All at once, your stomach drops to your toes. “What’s wrong with Hoseok?” you demand. “Is he hurt?”

Lisa shakes her head, red hair flying. “No, he’s fine. I don’t know how much longer that’ll last, though.”

The cryptic response sends your heart into overdrive, pounding against your ribcage like a doomsday drum. Striding over to the bay window, you wake Bast from his nap in a slanted ray of sunlight, scratching behind his black ears and watching as his golden eyes flicker open, pupils going wide when he senses your turmoil.

What is it?

Hoseok, you reply shortly. Beneath your touch, Bast’s ears perk up.

What do you need?

You swallow, hard, and suck in a deep breath. I’m going to open a portal.

It’s a dangerous feat, and both you and Bast know it. Opening a portal requires an immense amount of energy, and maintaining one long enough to travel through is a risk to even the most experienced witches. You’ve heard horror stories of spliced limbs and paralysis, and in some cases, even death.

But for Hoseok, you’re willing to risk it all.

“Lisa,” you say, grabbing your purse and striding back to the front door of the shop. “Can you lock up once I’m gone?”

She nods nervously. “Of course.”

You incline your head in silent thanks. At your feet, Bast is slinking continuous figure-eights around your ankles, betraying his worry at the task ahead. Your own heart feels ready to spring out from your ribcage and onto the sun-drenched floor, but you swallow down your nerves and look down at your familiar once more. Ready? you ask.

Ready, Bast confirms. Be careful.

I will.

Closing your eyes, you begin to visualize Hoseok’s front door, focusing on every little detail you can remember. There’s the scuff in the black paint from when he first moved in and accidentally scraped a table leg against it. There’s the bronze knocker that always hangs slightly askew. The image builds slowly in your mind, coming together like the broken pieces of a puzzle.

The air around you is suddenly much warmer than before, an invisible force sapping away at your strength and weakening your legs. Bast’s energy melds with yours, but it’s barely enough to keep you on your feet. Exhaustion seeps into your bones and steals the oxygen from your lungs. You gasp, chest heaving.

I don’t think it’s going to work. Bast’s voice is a faint whisper in the back of your mind.

It will, you hiss. It has to.

The front door of your shop is beginning to glow white, becoming hazy and amorphous as the edges begin to blur. You spot a splash of black paint coming through the fog, followed by a bronze knocker. A matching handle appears a moment later, growing out of tendrils of mist and solidifying before your eyes.

Sucking in a deep breath, you reach forward to grab it. Slowly, you turn until you can turn no longer.

And then you step through.

The first thing you hear is a low, cavernous rumble—deep enough that you feel it reverberating through your very bones. Then your surroundings begin to come into focus. You’re in Hoseok’s entryway, all your limbs thankfully intact. The relief you feel at your success is quickly eclipsed by worry though, when you see Hoseok himself on the far side of the living room. The look in his brown eyes is nothing short of wild, his white shirt unbuttoned to nearly his navel and his auburn hair sweaty and disheveled.

“H-Hobi?” Your voice is no more than a breath, dissipating in the open air.

“Hoseok.” The new voice has you whirling. Nayeon is pressed against the wall opposite him, her expression harried. “Hoseok, please—“

“Get out,” Hoseok growls, his voice dangerously low. He’s bristling with the same energy as before, the same energy you felt back at JungTech—but this time it’s enough to fill the room and spill out the opened door and into the hallway. You can feel it pulsing against your skin, hot and electric, and know that Nayeon is even more affected from the way her shoulders slouch, her eyes dropping to the floor when he snarls. “Get out, now.”

She does. Nayeon turns on her heel and dashes out, slamming the door behind her and leaving you alone with Hoseok. His eyes are alight with something more wolf than man, his chest heaving with uneven breaths, and it’s all you can do not to shrink back when he turns his full attention onto you. Even from across the room, you can smell the liquor spilled across the coffee table in a dark ooze of fluid, cloying and bitter.

“What are you doing here?” Hoseok asks, his voice cracking on the last syllable. “You shouldn’t be here right now, {Name}.”

“Lisa told me to come,” you whisper. “You’ve been pushing yourself too much, Hoseok.”

Hoseok shakes his head and rakes a frazzled hand through his hair. “You need to leave,” he grunts. Shakily, he reaches out to right the overturned liquor bottle, the pad of his thumb skimming across the shattered edge.

“Let me do that,” you tell him, making to step forward, but Hoseok stops you with a raised hand and a low growl that stops you in your tracks.

“Don’t,” he hisses. “Don’t you dare come any closer to me.”

You shake your head. “Hobi, it’s obvious you’ve been drinking. Let me help you.”

“No!” he snarls, flinching back when you take a step forward. “You need to leave. It’s… it’s dangerous for you here.”

“Dangerous?” Your voice is reduced to a whisper at the severity of his reaction, the energy in the air intensifying until it’s almost unbearable. “Why?”

“Because I’m in heat!” Hoseok spits. He sucks in a deep breath, the air whistling between his teeth, before he lets out an agonized moan and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m in heat,” he repeats, reticence dripping from every syllable. “I can’t even fucking think straight, and I’m afraid I’m going to hurt you if you stay. So please, {Name}. Please go.”

“But Nayeon…” you begin, wavering when his eyes flash darkly at the mention of her name. “Or Lisa… I can call her, maybe—”

“No!”

You jump, startled at the volume of his shout.

“No,” Hoseok repeats, softer this time. “Don’t. I don’t want them. I’m—I’m fine.”

The sticky humidity and the pulsating energy flowing through the room tell you otherwise. “You’re clearly not,” you tell him gently, taking another step toward him. “Let me call Lisa. Or maybe one of the other girls in the pack, I’m sure someone can help y—”

“I don’t want Lisa.” Defeat suffuses his tone, his eyes fluttering shut. “I don’t want any of them. I want—fuck.” Hoseok groans and lets his head fall back against the wall, the dull thunk echoing in the stillness. “It doesn’t fucking matter what I want. You need to leave, {Name}. You’re only going to be in danger if you stay.”

For the second time that afternoon, only one word springs to mind. “Why?”

Hoseok groans again. “Because I’m weak,” he mutters hoarsely. “Because I’m weak, and I’m not thinking straight, and if you come any closer to me, I won’t be able to stop myself from pinning you against that wall right there and having my way with you.”

Your breath hitches in your throat. The rippling energy in the air is almost oppressive in its strength, and only grows when Hoseok’s gaze finally lands on you, his pupils blown out and blacker than the night.

“Go,” he entreaties, dragging a frazzled hand through his hair. “Please, {Name}.”

You suck in a deep breath, your lungs swelling and expanding with the newfound oxygen. Then, ever so slowly, you let your gaze flicker up to meet his. “What if I don’t want to?”

Hoseok freezes. Time comes to a standstill, and even the overwhelming energy emanating from him seems to falter. The room is near silent, broken only by your companion’s ragged breathing, his chest heaving beneath the thin white fabric of his shirt. Even from across the room, you can see the sheen of sweat coating his honeyed skin, shining in the light of the setting sun.

“You don’t mean that,” he says at last. “You can’t mean that.”

“I can,” you whisper. “And I do.”

For three agonizingly long seconds, Hoseok remains rooted firmly in place, his throat bobbing harshly. Then, before you can even blink, he’s striding forward—a blur of motion almost too quick for your eyes to follow. He comes to a stop a hair’s breadth from you, one hand reaching up to cup your face delicately, as if you’re made of glass.

“You,” he rasps, “have no idea what you’ve just done.” His thumb traces the swell of your cheek just below your eye, the motion surprisingly tender. Your heart stutters in your chest.

And then he leans down and crushes his mouth to yours.

The rest of the world falls away, dissolving into nothing. Your eyes flutter shut as Hoseok’s hands slide down your sides to curl around your hips, your body melting against his taut frame. He is all you can feel and all you can taste, and you keen helplessly when he grinds against you, his cock hot and hard against your stomach.

The sound seems to awaken something in Hoseok, a cavernous groan erupting from his throat. Pulling away from your mouth, he descends upon the delicate skin of your neck, teeth and tongue blossoming bruises in their wake. Shaky hands find the collar of your shirt, questioning eyes seeking out yours for permission that you happily give. He tugs the garment off almost delicately, his ravenous gaze roving across each bit of newly revealed flesh, and once it’s freed from your head he tosses it aside and sets about doing the same to the rest of your clothing.

Maybe it should feel odd, watching through lidded eyes as Hoseok drops to his knees to pull your jeans down and off your ankles. Maybe you should feel embarrassed, seeing your best friend bury his nose between your legs, delirious bliss etching across his features as he inhales, his strong fingers curling around your thighs to spread you wider. But instead, it feels completely and utterly natural—as if this was always meant to be.

“You smell divine,” Hoseok breathes, slotting himself between your spread thighs and running a fingertip along your lace-covered slit, collecting the considerable slick there and bringing it to his nose. “Fuck, {Name}. Just one whiff, and I can tell that you’re primed and ready for me.”

“Take me, then,” you breathe back shakily, rolling your hips when he slips past the lacy barrier of your panties to find your clit, circling around the sensitive nub until you’re gasping his name.

Hoseok’s gaze darkens to obsidian, his pupils swallowing up the amber-flecked brown of his irises. In one smooth motion, he’s on his feet again, straightening up to his full height as his hands find purchase on your hips. He twirls you around until you’re facing the wall, your palms pressed flat against the woven tapestry hanging there.

“Gorgeous.” A single word, laced with unmistakable awe. Then he’s fumbling with his belt buckle, the metallic clink and tug of a zipper reaching your ears, before he presses against you, clothed chest molding against your bare back. Even through the thin layer of fabric, you can feel the sweltering heat emanating from him, his sweat soaking through the cotton and sticking to your skin. His mouth finds its way to the junction of your neck and shoulder again—teasing at the flesh until you’re quivering—before he begins laying a trail of hot kisses down your spine.

“Wanna fuck you,” Hoseok rasps, tearing your panties away once his lips reach the waistband, the flimsy lace ripped to shreds in his desperate grip. “Want you on your front, want you on your back, want you on my tongue—” His voice drops, rumbling through his chest and sending shivers through your entire body. “Want you. Wanted you for so long.”

And as if to reinforce his words, the velvety head of his cock nestles against the cleft of your backside, hot and slick.

Wordlessly, you arch your back, presenting him with the tempting swell of your rear. A glance over your shoulder reveals the strained clench of his jaw and the bob of his throat, his biceps tensed and his gaze unwavering. His control is undoubtedly dangling by a single thread at this point—a delicate, gossamer thread that’s on the verge of snapping. The delirium of his heat is overtaking his senses, his grip tightening on your hips, and ever so slowly, he begins to press forward until the tip of his thick cock is just beginning to part your walls. Already, the fit borders on excruciating, and your body tenses at the intrusion, stretched to the limit around his thick girth.

Hoseok exhales shakily, his primal instincts warring with his desire to ensure your comfort. Soft lips drop kiss after kiss onto your bare shoulders, your back, your neck—wherever he can reach as he whispers tender praises into your skin. “Breathe, princess,” he encourages lowly. “You can take it—I know you can. You were made for me.”

Obediently, you inhale, focusing on the way your lungs expand and contract as you draw air into them. The pain ebbs away with each breath you take, until all that is left is a low throb of pleasure. Your hips rock back against him, and Hoseok takes it as a sign to push forward once more, parting your walls until he’s fully seated inside you, your body stretched to the limit as you mold around him.

There’s no pain now—only an aching desire for more, more, more. He’s deep enough to reach parts of you that you’ve never been able to explore before—either alone or with other partners—and you moan brokenly when he rolls his hips experimentally. “More, Hoseok,” you whimper. “Please.”

He obliges. One thrust leads into another, the punishing pace he sets fueled by his heady desperation for relief. The full, heavy weight of his cock dragging along your walls ignites every nerve ending in your body, sizzling electricity blazing through your veins. It’s all you can do to plant your palms flat against the tapestried wall, fingers twitching at the woven fabric as Hoseok grabs your hips with enough force to bruise and pulls you back against him in time with his thrusts.

“Look at you,” he says hoarsely. “Love the way you feel, clenching around me like that. My perfect, pretty girl, taking my cock so well. I always knew you were made for me.” He grunts, forehead falling against your back, damp hair matting against your skin as he continues rutting against you. “Always—fuck—knew you were my mate.”

The particularly harsh thrust that follows his raspy declaration sends all coherent thought flying out of your head, taking your surprise along with it. All you can manage is a shuddery whine that vaguely resembles his name, the sound intermingling with the obscene smack of flesh against flesh and the continuous stream of praises Hoseok whispers into your skin.

There’s something building inside you—a dull, throbbing pressure at the point where your body joins with his. He’s still rolling up into you, but each subsequent thrust grows more and more shallow. The realization dawns on your dazed mind all at once, as you feel the growing swell at the base of his cock. Hoseok is rendered near immobile as he finally reaches his high, the entirety of his length sheathed firmly inside your pussy as he spills ropes of white against your fluttering walls. The swelling continues, filling you until you feel fit to burst.

“H-Hoseok,” you gasp. “I can’t. I can’t—you’re going to rip me in half.”

Soothing hands smooth along your sides, warm lips littering kisses onto your bare shoulders. “You can,” he murmurs tenderly. “You were made for me, and I for you. You can take it, princess. I know you can.”

The gentle repetition of his fingertips trailing nonsensical patterns into your skin eases your labored panting somewhat. Beneath his touch, you slowly relax, the pressure in your abdomen abating as his knot begins to subside.

“You did so well.” His voice is no more than a mumble, almost lost in the sweat and slick coating your skin.

You sag against the wall, taking a few moments to catch your breath before slowly easing off of him, the sudden loss leaving your core empty and aching. Gingerly, you turn around to face him, acutely aware of the way your combined juices immediately begin dribbling down your thighs.

“You said I was your mate,” you whisper, almost afraid that the sentiment will disappear if voiced aloud. “Did… did you mean that?”

“Every word,” Hoseok replies, equally soft. “Is that okay?”

A smile blooms across your face. Rising up to your tiptoes, you kiss him again—a soft, reassuring peck that he immediately leans into, seeking out your touch like a flower in the sun. “More than okay,” you breathe, feeling the way his lips stretch upward against yours. “I’m glad, Hobi.”

Hoseok sighs into your mouth, a slow smile settling across his features. “Now it’s your turn,” he says, and in an instant, he’s swept you off your feet, one arm beneath your bent knees and the other around your back. “And I’m planning to take my time with you, princess. You’re not leaving here until I say so.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, crossing your hands at his nape. “Fine by me,” you tell him, earning yourself a wide grin. His lips seek out yours again as he carries you down the darkened hallway and into the shadowy depths of his bedroom, pausing only to nudge the lightswitch on with his elbow. Golden light suffuses the room as he steps forward to lay you on his bed, your back sinking into the plush mattress and dipping further when he joins you. He hovers over you with an arm on either side of your head, and you reach up to trace the vein that lines his biceps with a gentle fingertip, giggling when he gives your bottom lip a punishing nip.

The kiss deepens from there. Hoseok parts your lips and seeks out your tongue with his own, subduing it into compliance. By the time you pull apart, all the oxygen has left your lungs, leaving you flushed and gasping. Hoseok chortles breathlessly and trails down to press a kiss to your navel, before traveling downward until he’s reached your clit. Gently, he wraps his lips around the sensitive nub, rumbling with laughter when you buck against him.

“So needy,” he murmurs. To your displeasure, he straightens back up to kneel between your spread thighs, but your complaint quickly dissolves into thin air when he edges forward until his knee is pressed against your aching clit. Desperate for more friction, you grind against him, your wetness soaking through his jeans in a matter of seconds.

It doesn’t take long for pressure to build up in your belly again, winding tight as a coiled spring. Hoseok is staring down at you, transfixed, and his undivided attention only serves to bring you closer to the edge, teetering on the very brink.

“Look at you.” His voice could almost be described as a purr, if he weren’t so utterly canine in mannerisms and appearance. “Such a greedy little thing, all desperate to get off. You’re making a mess of my new jeans, princess.”

You’re too far gone to care about the teasing lilt that colors his tone. The edge is rapidly approaching, and one last roll of your hips is enough to send you over, your walls convulsing around nothing as you ride out your high.

Hoseok doesn’t wait. In an instant, he’s back between your legs, having moved so quickly you didn’t even see when he’d started or stopped. His tongue darts out to lave at your folds, a growl rumbling through his chest when your hips jump on instinct. Immediately, he tightens his grip, strong arms winding around your thighs and anchoring at your waist to render you helpless in his grasp, only able to take what he sees fit to give.

“How is it that you taste even better than you smell?” Hoseok muses as he leans down to suck your clit into his mouth, lips curling up into a pleased smirk when you gasp out his name. “Cute,” he says, releasing the nub in favor of descending to your drenched entrance instead, flicking his tongue shallowly inside before withdrawing with a chuckle.

“Hoseok—” you begin, only to dissolve into a moan when he sheaths two fingers inside you without any warning, curling them up and in until you’re shaking in his grasp.

“Come for me,” he commands softly. “Go on, let me hear you.”

And you do, chanting his name like a mantra as a wave of pleasure overtakes you. Hoseok’s thumb circles your clit in just the right way to prolong your orgasm, and it isn’t until you’re cringing from overstimulation that he finally relents, descending down to mold his mouth to yours in a searing kiss. His lips part yours, tongue dipping out to explore as he sheds his shirt and shucks off his ruined jeans. His skin, when he presses against you, burns hot as a furnace wherever it touches. Against your stomach, his cock stirs back to life.

He’s gentler this time. Every movement is slow and deliberate and tender as he breaches you, murmuring your name reverentially as he fills you again. Your body bows to his willingly, stretching to accommodate him, and the spike of pleasure that lances through you when he bottoms out is almost enough to send your oversensitive body over the edge again, your walls fluttering around him.

There’s an unmistakable shift in the air when Hoseok starts up a slow rhythm, leaning down to kiss you again. His lips move against yours, soft and tender, before moving past your jugular and down to the crook of your neck, elongated canines scraping against the delicate skin in a silent question. You wind your arms around his neck and nod, giving him his answer. There’s no need for words.

And then his teeth are sinking into the spot he’s so lovingly scoped out, breaking the skin. Your body collapses into a searing orgasm, and the pleasure intermingles with the pain of the bite until you are delirious, rendered boneless in his grasp. Hoseok’s hips stutter, his pace growing erratic as he soothes the wound over with his tongue.

You’re prepared for the swelling this time, but the fullness still manages to knock all the air out of your lungs, bordering on painful as his knot grows. Hoseok quells your whimpers with tender kisses, the instinct to comfort his mate paramount even as he paints your walls with ropes of creamy white. He traces a path from your lips down to where he’s marked and claimed you as his, imbuing your skin with a litany of praises that warm you from the inside out.

“My mate,” he murmurs, reverent. “Finally.”

You lean into his touch with a tired smile. “Finally? How long have you wanted this?”

His lips curl into a smile against your clavicle. “Ages. If I’m honest, I think I fell in love with you the day you set my tail on fire when we were kids. It’s always been you, {Name}. Only you.”

You can’t help it—you need to hear it from his mouth again. “You love me?”

Hoseok chuckles. “Of course I do. My tricky little minx—my perfect, pretty mate. I love you more than anything.” One hand reaches up to caress your cheek, running along the tender skin beneath your eye before cupping the back of your head so he can mold his mouth to yours. “Love you more than I can even explain,” he breathes, punctuating each word with a kiss. His hands blaze trails down the slopes of your body until he finally anchors below the crook of your legs. “So why don’t you let me show you instead?”

And he does. Over and over that night, and in the two days of his heat that follow, he shows you exactly how he feels. Propriety is forgotten, left by the wayside with his scorned fiancé and marriage. He is yours, and you are his.

Consequences be damned.

⇢ aftermath.

also set in this universe:

[myg]

[jarienn972]

La Sirena - Chapter Two

Captain Swan Supernatural Summer 2020

Chapter Two of my @cssns​ is now here!  I used Chapter One to set up each character’s POV of how they were brought together so this chapter will officially focus on their actual introduction as shipwreck survivor Lt. Killian Jones regains consciousness, discovering that he’s traded imprisonment on a pirate ship for a deserted paradise with a beautiful woman as his sole companion.

I have to thank all of the admins and creators of this fun event that allows all of us to stretch our creativity and I especially want to extend thanks for @kmomof4​ for her wonderful beta and cheerleading assistance and to @courtorderedcake​ for the incredible artwork she created for this story!

This story can also be found on ff.net and AO3. Tumblr Chapter One 

Chapter Two - Encountering an Angel

Killian woke with a jolt, body arching upright until his throbbing head protested. He sucked in a deep breath as he settled back to the ground, clutching at the sharp pains crisscrossing his rib cage. He felt as though he'd breathed in pure fire. Had he passed through purgatory straight to the flame and brimstone of hell?

No, no - he wasn't dead. Was he?

Bits and pieces of memory flashed within his mind. A map… That cursed island… Pirates… Escaping an abandoned, sinking ship… Clinging desperately to a makeshift raft of wooden planks until he'd slipped off into the depths. And then a cascade of pure gold beckoning him to paradise… or something like that.

But would the hereafter be this painful?

Pull yourself together, Jones. Use your wits.

He was still near the sea. The gentle lapping of waves against the shore and the squawk of seagulls sounded nearby. A wafting of crisp, salty air filled his nostrils as did the earthy scents of sand and rock. There was a solid surface beneath him. He'd made his way to land somehow, but where?

But when he dared open his eyes, even the diffused sunlight filtering through the canopy of palm fronds swaying overhead assaulted his vision. Squinting and shading his gaze with his outstretched hand, he allowed his pupils a few moments to adjust before rolling himself onto his right side and propping on an elbow to survey his surroundings. He spied the shoreline from where he lay yet he was a fair distance from the water's edge, sheltered amongst a grove of date palms, cycads and a few gnarled low trees that had branches laden with what appeared to be olives. A craggy outcrop of rocks was a short distance away and the stone barrier seemed to extend all the way out towards the sea.

He couldn't remember stumbling or even crawling this far from the shore. He barely recalled reaching the beach. He'd been so weak that he couldn't possibly have made it this far without assistance… All of his senses instantly went on full alert as he realized he must not be alone on this idyllic looking isle. Someone else was here but were they friend or foe? What a ridiculous question, Jones… Why spare your life if they intended to harm you?

His memory brought back hazy images of a woman's soft face framed by a halo of pale blonde hair just as his eyes drew skyward to gaze upon that same angelic visage looming above. Clad in a full length, flowing gown that was only a few shades paler than her porcelain skin, she had arrived as stealthily as a ghost. She eyed him quizzically, as though she were as surprised to see him alert as he was startled by her arrival.

He initially recoiled, not from fear, but rather from her abrupt appearance. Now that he was able to see her features clearly, he was transfixed by her ethereal beauty. Only a being sent from the heavens could ever be so lovely. Why this angel would ever want to aid such a broken man as him was beyond his comprehension.

Awake since dawn, she'd left the human's side for only a short while to catch some breakfast and to collect sweet water from the cavern spring. The man would likely be parched when he awakened but unlike her, he couldn't survive by drinking from the saline seas.

After he'd collapsed on the beach yesterday beside her tentacled form, she'd immediately transformed back to her humanoid self to drag his unconscious body away from the shore before the tide set in. He was heavier on land than he'd been in the water but she managed to pull him beneath the safety of the trees. She'd done her best to clean his wounds while he slept but with little knowledge of human physiology, she wasn't sure what else she could do.

She had remained close to him throughout the night, continuing to tend to his injuries as needed and to provide needed warmth. Never in her long life had she been in such intimate proximity to a human but every ounce of her being was insisting that this was where she was meant to be. Despite her species having been bred to lure humans to their demise, here she was seeking to save one of them.

The debris that she'd found him amongst was proof that he'd survived a shipwreck but she wasn't quite sure how. In the treacherous waters that surrounded these islands, no ship that sailed too close to the siren's cove could resist their call. For him to have been found alive, floating into her placid bay, he must have some special power. No man was immune to the siren song, yet here he was.

His sleep had been restless, which she had anticipated and attributed to his injury. The jagged laceration at his temple appeared to be the most serious but she assumed he could have wounds not visible on the surface. She was also concerned about the amount of seawater he may have swallowed. He'd spewed a fair portion when she'd rescued him but more could be lingering within his lungs as he was without the benefit of transformative gills. It would certainly bear watching once he awakened.

As she returned to the sheltered thicket carrying a ceramic jar of potable water, she was surprised to find him alert and staring directly at her face. In deference to her understanding of human modesty, she'd donned a simple, breezy, off-white linen column gown. It was horribly itchy but she feared overt nudity might offend her companion so she'd suffer for his sake.

She dipped her free hand into the water jug and withdrew an ancient, hammered copper cup that she extended towards him. "Drink," she instructed, firmly, yet politely, but the command wasn't spoken in English.

He quirked an eyebrow suspiciously until he could see that the cup contained water. He then softened his features and accepted the offering, gulping the contents a little too quickly in an attempt to quench his thirst. It was the first he'd ingested in at least a day and he was ever so thankful that it didn't smell or taste as though it had been drawn from the bilge tanks. But there was something strange to her statement - he'd understood her although his weary mind couldn't fathom why.

"Who are you?" she queried in that same familiar, yet foreign tongue.

His military training kicked in as he stammered out his rank and full, legal name. "Lieutenant… Lieutenant Killian Charles Arthur Jones…" He paused for a breath before adding the rest of his title. "Of His Majesty's Royal Navy. At your service, m'lady."

"Ah, English," the woman replied with a giggle as she switched to his language. "You didn't appear to be Greek."

"Greek?" he repeated, brow furrowed in confusion. "Was that what you just spoke?"

"It was, and I am surprised that you seemed to understand."

"I learned Ancient Greek in the Naval Academy, just not the conversational form. You speak both Ancient Greek and the King's English?"

"I speak many tongues, but Greek is native to me."

"So, is that where I've landed?"

"No, not exactly," she responded cryptically. "These isles owe their heritage to Greece, but they've no allegiance to that land any longer."

"What do you call this land then?" he pressed, trying to gather more information as to how far off-course his imprisonment by the pirates had taken him.

"No name you would recognize from any map or chart. Officially, these islands exist only within the world of myth and legend."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," he sighed, rubbing his aching head as he shifted his position onto his back. "How did I get here? Have I crossed over into the ever after with you as the angel welcoming me?"

"No, you are still amongst the living, Lieutenant Killian Charles Arthur Jones. You are still very weak from nearly drowning out there in the bay so you should rest to regain your strength."

"Aye…," he replied without argument. "But first, Killian will suffice. I've no need for formalities. It's just habit…" He broke off his sentence there, squeezing his eyes closed as he thought of the question he absolutely needed to ask but feared the answer. "Did anyone else reach these shores?"

"No, only yourself."

"Oh," was his dejected response as he turned his head away from her gaze. Neither dared elaborate as unspoken words weighed heavy but after a few moments of tense silence, he at last spoke up. "In my malaise, it would seem I've forgotten to ask for your name, lass."

The question elicited an odd response from her. She remained quiet far longer than he expected, as though she had to think about her reply. "No one has asked me that question in a very long time… My given name was Erimetha, but for simplicity's sake, you are welcome to call me Emma."

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Emma," he said with a weak, pained smile crossing his lips.

"You should get more rest," she insisted. "I can see the exhaustion in your eyes but I promise, I will be here when you wake."

"You'll have no protest from me," he answered sluggishly as he allowed sleep to claim him once again.

**********

A few more hours of deep slumber had been much needed, allowing Killian's battered body and troubled mind to relax and try to heal. As he began to stir, the crackle of flames perked his ears right before he noted the acrid scent of wood smoke mixing with the marine air. His eyes looked skyward where beyond the canopy of palm fronds and olive branches, the heavens were awash with pastel tones while the twilight sun began its descent below the horizon.

Another day passed.

More than a week now passed since he'd debarked his ship for that ill-fated expedition.

More than a week passed since he'd last seen his brother.

Was Liam even searching for him? Did he believe his younger brother had perished? Did he know he'd been captured?

He didn't even have the slightest idea where he was so how could he expect Liam to locate him?

His audible, defeated sigh drew Emma's attention from the fire she was stoking.

"You seem quite distressed," she noted, to his chagrin.

"Yes, I suppose you could say that," he replied with clear irritation in his tone. "The events that have transpired over the course of this week have been rather overwhelming." He ignored the swell of nausea and the constant drumming within his skull to force himself into an upright, seated position. Muscles that hadn't been used since his escape from the pirate ship screamed in protest but he continued to push through all of the discomfort to look his alluring companion in the eye while she lowered herself to her knees.

She didn't wait for him to elaborate on whatever he'd endured, instead placing a woven reed basket onto the sand between them. "I thought you might be hungry," she said with an unassuming smile as she gave the basket a gentle push closer to him so he'd be able to inspect the contents. A quick glance downward revealed a bunch of bluish purple grapes, a few figs and a scattering of ripe green olives. "I have some freshly caught fish as well…"

"This is fine," he replied in a softened, more appreciative voice. "Best to take it easy so I don't lose my constitution, but thank you."

"I do believe you lost most of that constitution yesterday, but I absolutely understand," she chuckled, causing his cheeks to redden.

"Sorry about that… I really don't remember much after getting knocked off the ship's deck into the deep." He lowered his head with embarrassment. Vomiting in front of a beautiful woman was not generally the best first impression. He shyly reached for a handful of grapes, keeping his eyes averted as he popped one into his mouth, hopeful that the fruit would appease his growling stomach without further incident.

"My apologies. I didn't mean to further upset you," she replied as she slid further away from him. "It's been so long that I've clearly forgotten how to have a proper conversation…"

"You've no need to apologize," he retorted, extending his hand to grasp hers, staring into the melancholy of her emerald irises. "I am thankful for all you've done for this hapless sailor but is there no one else on this isle?"

"Not this far south. I chose this isolated isthmus long ago to escape others like me. It has been many years since I've had another creature to talk to who can actually talk back."

"You chose this isolation?" he repeated, incredulously.

"It was far preferable to what was expected of me…"

"Was it your family?" he pressed. "Were you unable to live up to what they required of you?" His curiosity was increasing with each inquiry, wondering if he might have more in common with this intriguing young woman. "Did you fall short of their expectations?"

"Not exactly," was her initial response, but she was caught unprepared by the introspective nature of his questioning. This human was proving he could be a kindred spirit in many ways but she wasn't ready to share. "Suffice it to say that I grew tired of their ideology and separated myself from their ways. It was best for all at the time."

He sensed there was so much more that she was holding back. His barrage of questions had opened a still-smarting wound and it was abundantly obvious that she wasn't ready to confide in him. Of course, if she had been alone on this shore for many years as she'd stated, it might be equally as long before he found rescue so there would be plenty of time to break down those walls. She'd saved his life. The least he could do in return was to help ease her troubles.

"You know, I'm a man who's spent a lifetime living in my brother's shadow, so if anyone understands what it is like to try to be something you're not, it would be me. Liam was always bigger, stronger, smarter… Graduated top of his class at the Naval Academy. Youngest ever Captain in His Majesty's Royal Navy. The bar was set pretty high and I was pushed to be just like him. I've never been good enough. I've worked hard to get where I am, but I'm not sure it's where I wanted to be… I took that stupid expedition into uncharted waters to prove that I was a leader and what happens? Pirates overtook us and most of my crew was slaughtered. The rest, myself included, were taken captive to be tortured and some were probably executed. Some leader I proved to be… I wish I'd never agreed to follow that cursed map!" He hung his head in shame, realizing that he shouldn't have unloaded so much baggage onto her. He didn't want her pity. "You must think I sound like a blabbering fool…"

"You sound like a man who's been trying to please his family rather than himself," she mused. "Perhaps fate brought you here to discover who you are?"

"You think this is the gods testing me?" he scoffed.

"If that is what you choose to believe."

"And you - were the gods testing you as well? Is that what caused our paths to cross here?"

"Perhaps more than you know," she replied cryptically as she pushed herself back up, brushing grains of loose sand from her gown as she stood. "It will be dark soon, but you will again be safe here for the evening. I shall leave the fruits here and you'll find the carafe of water there amongst the brush. Rest well, Killian."

"You as well, Emma."

He stared blankly at her departing silhouette as she strolled towards the flickering fire, the backlight of the flame giving her form an ethereal aura. Damn this woman! He might blame it on his concussion later but although he'd been coherent only a few scant hours, he was already entirely bewitched. He winced as his hand unconsciously rubbed the bruised and still raw skin adjacent to the gash at his forehead, momentarily speculating if this all might be some vivid hallucination or lucid dream.

Dream or not, he'd never experienced such a soulful connection with any person, yet alone any woman and it only solidified his desire to uncover her secrets. He'd gladly spend a lifetime trying.

[thecat-inthehat]

19. Where the Heart is

This isn’t related to my girls at all, or any of their stories. This is for the Twinsouled AU that @barbariccia​ and I made, with Pandora being the 1.0 WoL. 

---

It was hard to tell where the looming moon stood overhead, the sky being blotted out under the canopy of the trees. The reddish light filtered through the leaves, giving the impression that an early autumn had come, bathing the whole under canopy in an unearthly hue. The elementals were agitated, vanishing people and creatures as they saw fit, or causing Greenwrath to pop up and overtake various encampments. The coeurlclaws had already lost several of their hunting parties, and yet more camps had been overrun, with sisters being dragged into the underbrush by an angry forest. It was only getting worse and worse as Dalamud loomed overhead, becoming an everpresent fixture in the sky… 

Pandora hefted their axe as they looked up at the sky, tail flicking in agitation as they decided on their course of action. Their sisters were planning on moving the encampment to a less volatile area, to try and stave off the worst of the Greenwrath that might come their way. The stores were low, and hunting was a priority, but Yuhna and her party had yet to return, even a week overdue. Apu and the other leaders had made the difficult decision to move, regardless of Yuhna’s return, and it left a sour taste in Pandora’s mouth. 

They knew why, really, they understood that the entire world was on the brink of upheaval, and that the clan must take into account the lives of everyone over a hunting party. But it rankled to know that their sisters would remain forever-missing, even as the Moon loomed closer and closer. 

They hooked their axe onto their back, and checked the rest of their gear, and their chocobo kweh’d softly at them. He took the packs with grace, and merely turned to nibble at their hair, preening them gently before the two set out. With any luck, they could meet up with Archon Louisoix before the confrontation at Carteneau… 

“M-mom!” A tiny voice called, and the sound of scrambling came from behind them. Another tiny voice called the same thing, slightly higher pitched, and the sound of two pairs of tiny feet came from the underbrush. 

Pandora didn’t turn around just yet, closing their eyes and trying not to let tears spring forth. They had said their goodbyes before they had put the twins to bed, had tucked them in, and told their sisters to look after their children. How could they leave, knowing their children begged them to stay… 

Small hands grabbed at their tail, and another pair clutched at their tunic, tugging on it insistently. Twelve, this was too hard. 

“Mom, don’t go--” Cassan said, his voice hiccuping softly. 

Pandora turned gently, taking Aulun’s hands out of their tail, and crouched down so they were able to look their children in the eye. Twin faces peered back at them, with bright golden eyes glimmering with unshed tears. Pandora reached up to cup both their faces, rubbing their thumb over the small scrape under Aulun’s eye. Cassan’s hair was getting long, covering Pandora’s knuckles and his eyes. At twelve summers now, they were fairly tall, both of them towering over Pandora as they crouched down. Aulun was an ilm or so taller than Cassan, but they suspected Cassan would have a growth spurt soon, and end up taller than his sister. 

If only they would see it. 

“Don’t go, please,” Aulun said, echoing her brother’s words. She grasped onto Pandora’s hand tightly, her chubby cheeks puffed up as she tried to hold back tears, and her ears were tilted back so far that they almost disappeared behind her head. It was cute, but also heartbreaking. Pandora didn’t want their last sight of their children to be them in tears. 

“I’m sorry, darlings, I have to,” they said softly, looking between the two of them. “A friend of mine needs my help, and I want to try and make sure things don’t get worse.” 

Cassan sniffled, trying hard not to cry, but the tears came dribbling down his cheeks anyways, cutting tracks over his seeker marks. He wiped at his eyes, then his nose, trying to swallow so he could speak properly. 

“A-are we ever going to see you again?” He asked, barely holding back a quiver in his voice. 

Pandora didn’t answer immediately, because they didn’t know. Maybe Louisoix would be able to do it, and Dalamud wouldn’t fall. Maybe they’d walk home from Carteneau flats with their head held high. But something told them they wouldn’t. 

“What do your hearts tell you?” Pandora asked instead, pulling up a small smile for them. 

As one, the twins brought a hand to their heart, the motion eerily synchronized. They blinked at Pandora in time, their golden gazes heavy on their mother’s heart. 

“Maybe,” Aulun said,

“I hope so,” Cassan said, 

“Yes,” they answered together. 

“Then we will see each other again,” Pandora smiled, and pulled them both close to hug them tight. They didn’t let go immediately, and neither did the twins, all of them trying their hardest to cling to the fantasy that this wasn’t it. That this wasn’t over. 

Pandora pulled back after a moment, looking them both in the eye in turn. “Hold out your hands, I’m going to give you something.” 

Aulun was first, her hand coming up without question, and Cassan followed her. Pandora took their hands and clasped them together, holding them between their own hands gently. They gave them a little squeeze, and then reached into their pouch, pulling out a roughly hewn heliodor gemstone and dropping it between their clasped hands. Pandora had meant to visit a gemcutter in Ul’dah and get it polished before giving it to the twins, but … There was no time. 

Pandora brought a fingertip to their clasped hands, reaching for the stone with a touch of aether, and it shined between the twins’ fingers, glowing brightly and becoming warm. The twins stared down at the stone in their entwined hands with identical faces of shock, feeling the warmth twine around them like a gentle summer breeze. 

“This is Helios,” they said softly, clasping their hands together around the gemstone. “They’ll protect you, when you need it most. Keep it with you, always, and it will light your path. When all this is over, the arcanist guild in Limsa Lominsa can teach you how to call them forth.” 

“But--” Aulun said, only to be stopped by Pandora’s finger over her lips. 

“Keep it with you, okay? For me?” They asked, giving a small smile. “Now you two need to go back home, and find aunt Apa, and do what she says.” 

Cassan sniffled again, and he tugged his sister with him to hug Pandora one last time, their entwined hands coming to rest on the breastplate over Pandora’s heart. Both the twins hid their faces in Pandora’s neck, and their shoulders shook. Pandora bit their lip to keep from crying as well, and wrapped their arms around their children tightly, shutting their eyes and letting themselves pretend for just one more moment. They cradled the twins close, just like they did when they were little, and let the steady thud of their heartbeat drown out anything else. Helios flickered in the twins’ hand, pulsing in time to Pandora’s heart. 

For a moment, Pandora let themselves believe that they’d come back and see their children again. 

Pandora’s chocobo kweh’d again, and the spell was broken, Helios’ glow flickering and fading. Pandora pulled back, and stood up, setting their hands on the twins’ shoulders. They looked up at her with a sort of grim finality, and they were old enough to understand. They knew what this meant. 

“I love you,” Pandora said, and their voice cracked slightly. “Know that I love you, and that I will always be with you. Just as sure as your heart goes with you, I will too.” 

They stepped back, their feet crunching in the underbrush as the winds picked up around them. From their pack they grabbed their coeurlclaw mask, placing it over their face, and pulled the cloak around their shoulders, drawing up the hood over their head. They had a long journey ahead of them, they knew. 

With one final glance at the twins, Pandora left for Carteneau, a mere three days before Dalamud fell. 

[synechd0che]

Aim Your Arrow at the Sky (I’m so Tired Now)

For the 2019 Tolkien Secret Santa Exchange run by @officialtolkiensecretsanta

Recipient: @stand-up-and-fight-daleks

World: Silmarillion (First Age Middle Earth)

Rating: Teen and Up

Pairings: none (general audiences)

Characters: Celegorm, Oromë, Curufin

Summary: 

The bees in the west field hum as Nerdanel works, star-wife, clay-shaper, the bright babe of scarlet mother hears the wind-whisper of little things.

Author’s note:

Title from Florence and the Machine’s “Sky Full of Song.”

I didn't tag this as Graphic Violence because it's not super detailed, but there is a passage towards the end that has some gore.  If you want a synopsis of the passage so that you can skip reading it, please message me and I'm happy to do so.

I will post this on AO3 very very soon, at which point I will attach a link on this post.  Otherwise, I’m Barefoot_Dancer on AO3 and the pseud I use for Tolkien related works is Lorinand_Lost.

Aim Your Arrow at the Sky (I’m so Tired Now):

The little one is in the vegetable garden, cloth-swaddled, brilliant-haired. He inches beneath the fruit vines, out under the humid canopy of gourd leaves. A mole he catches; it wiggles the moist star on its nose, sable fur dappled in tree-light. Dirt-digger, brother-mine.

And the little one whispers, root-feeder, brother-mine, and he turns him loose to burrow.

The leaves part and his mother’s face appears. As mothers do, she wipes berry juice from his cheeks, gives a scolding for his clever escape. Back into her shawl he is wrapped.

The bees in the west field hum as Nerdanel works, star-wife, clay-shaper, the bright babe of scarlet mother hears the wind-whisper of little things.

...

The old forest is ancient-dark, loam-rich, and the air is full of the creakings of the mossy, the time-bent. The little one is now a childling, taller than the sword ferns and shorter than the elderberry.

Little-water-swimmer, the brook gurgles. The childling drinks, and the water is clear and sweet.

With a leap he's an arrow, a ray of light, and he's reached the lowest branch of the spruce. A third of the way up, he finds a nest, four pale blue eggs, and the disgruntled parents, fretful and feathered.

Egg-eater, whistle the wood thrush in their woven home, Bird-catcher.

He climbs to where the branches are whip-willow thin and the sun lances through the needles, to where the wind whispers.

…

Deep in the wood, there is shadow, under beech and oak of interminable age. Everywhere is covered in their leaves, and everywhere not covered by leaves, in a deep moss. The childling is now a youth, tall and lean, his gold hair braided back. He carries his spear, ash-haft, heart-finder. The youth kneels, feeling the moss. The hare has come this way, light-footed, liquid-eyed.

And there it is in the underbrush, and there the youth lunges in pursuit. Then everything blurs in a dizzying, frenetic sprint, and he is a boy, and he is the hare, and then he has it by it's haunches. It goes still, looking at him with one golden eye, sides heaving. Fleet-foot, danger-tooth, and as a plea, brother-mine. The youth feels another set of eyes on him, and looks up slowly.

In the clearing, in the heart of the forest, there is a stag standing in a shaft of light. There is ivy in his antlers, and then he is a man. In a breath, the shade of a deer, gleaming bone and wet sinew. And then a man again, with the stag's head. He moves between these aspects as he says in a voice as old as time, boy-prince, swift-runner, come you now a-hunting?

The youth lowers his spear. Forest-lord, monsters-bane, Oromë.

Gather for me the waltalís nectar from their cliff-face hives, and you may join my wild-hunt.

~~~

Around in a circle are the other Huntsmen. They bear torches, stamp to the beat of a hide drum, sing in a tongue that sounds like the running hare, the charging boar, a diving hawk. Oromë stands at their head, motionless; he has taken the form of a man, dark skinned, braids capped with bone beads.

There is a wind in the cliffs, and the old harvesting ropes groan. Overhead, the bees whir and circle lazily. In one hand, the youth holds the harvesting basket, in the other, a long wood shaft tipped with a blade. He seeks purchase on the ropes with his knees, his bare feet, toes white-knuckled to the jute. He begins to climb.

Inching his way to the top is slow, and grueling. The youth is cold from the sweat-damp tunic that clings to his chest, and the ground is dizzying down below. The bees grow louder. Flightless-brother, knife-bearer. They spiral down from their nests, humming around him, alighting on his clothing and on his bare skin. The youth can feel their little feet as they bump their way over his breast bone and into his tunic, their gossamer wings across the eyelids that he screws closed.

When he can hear the hive above him, he raises the long blade to cut. The bee-music swells. elixir-thief. And they bite him, quick flashes of pain that bloom and burn. They bite at his exposed feet, the youth cries out, tethering himself into the ropes tighter. Now they crawl across his lips, and he locks them shut; they carry with them their sticky and bewildering nectar, made from the cliff flowers that give visions and heat and euphoria.

But they do not stop biting him, and in anguish he cries Shining-wings, sister-mine, Queen, I beseech thee! The nectar is in his mouth now, and there is a fire behind his eyelids and in the sky as the sun sets. It is bitter, it is sweet, and he burns. And the queen says, Take with care and temperance our madding-sweet, thee who speaks with little things. The biting ceases, and the youth fills his basket. Thanks-be, golden-daughter.

With his descent can hear a wild music, and the air moves in strange forms with languid intent. Below, he can see Oromë, and his head seems to shift between aspects - deer, decay, man - antlers grasping at the sky and weaving like vines.

When his feet hit the ground, the youth crumples. Oromë looms over him, washed in torchlight. Turkafinwë you are, father-named for strength and pride.

…

It is dark here, except for the fires burning on the northern horizon. The youth is of majority now, forest-hardened, valinor-soft. Below him in the valley, the goblin army, tortured-legion, unfortunate-brother. Under him shifts his horse, a dappled grey mare. She snorts, unsettled by the smell on the wind, puissance and suffering. Gentle-girl, Turkafinwë murmurs, Peace-be, safe I keep you. She nickers, settling.

When the ground-crawlers and night-wrigglers bring word that the orcs are in the Vale, Turkafinwë lights his torch. In a wave behind him, his men light theirs. There is the rolling sound of ringing steel being drawn, and then it is a hot-rush mad-scramble down the hillside. There is a shout in the air, and a wave of lights charge down into the orcs, who are night-blind with the sudden fire.

Down past Eithel Sirion and into the Fens they are driven, hunted and harried by Turkafinwë and his men, splashing and stumbling into the salty water, muddied and bloodied by the horses' hooves.

Their screaming sounds elvish. And their blood looks elvish as it streaks his blade and soaks into his hair. Some cry for mercy, some cry curses, some fall silently and their bodies relax into a peace cheated from them in life. Turkafinwë surges forward; for mercy, for vengeance, none will be spared here.

Silence falls, except for the groans of the wounded. Overhead, the carrion birds wheel. Brother-hunter, fearsome-fighter, blood-glutted you are, and now we fall to feast. The spirit of Alqualondë is in the air, or maybe it is just the sea air. In the water, elvish hair and orcish hair appear identical.

Tyelkormo he is by mothers-wisdom, the hasty-riser, hot-blooded.

…

Snake's-brother, Orodreth names him, lie-smith, brutish-betrayer. Turned out from Nargothrond in the dead of night. He mourns Huan, and his brother mourns his son; both are living dead, and neither will see their loved one again on this side of the sea. They are shades in the forest. They hide in the day, and travel at night as traitors under a sliver of moon. They seek their brothers' company.

The birds gossip about him, the beasts ignore him. He hunts for food, and his prey fall with baleful glares and die inelegantly, and he can hear them cursing him.

He is not Turkafinwë, he is not Tyelkormo, he is Celegorm in this new language that he speaks poorly and of which understands little, and silence is now his friend.

…

In that blood-haze, in those dark caves lit with glittering lamps, he can feel that familiar oath-madness creeping at the tips of his bones.

Behind him, there is a cry, and he turns to see Caranthir with an arrow sprouting from his jugular. On the causeway above him is Nimloth holding a great yew bow. Celegorm screams like it's his throat in which the arrow is buried, like a panicked horse, like a she-wolf protecting her pups. From his belt, he frees his last dagger. Willing it to fly like a bird, that Oromë and his teachings haven't quite abandoned him, he looses it. His aim is true, and the Queen of Doriath falls.

A scream rings in answer to Celegorm, ripping from the throat of Nimloth's human husband. King Dior charges him, broadsword raised. When their swords meet, all else falls away. Celegorm is dimly aware of the tears on Dior's cheeks, and that he is crying as well. He thinks he can kill this man, who is only human, but when Caranthir, falls with a groan, Celegorm's world freezes. He is too late to block Dior's blade, which slides through his breast plate like cold fire. He coughs blood, grabbing onto Dior's pauldrons to support himself. But in Dior's hasty fury, Celegorm's sword has also found its mark. The light leaves the man's eyes, and he and Celegorm fall as one.

The cold seems to spread from the wound, racing across his body and relieving Celegorm of oath-madness. He cannot push the blade free, but he does have the strength to pull Caranthir toward him, to roll Curufin into his lap. Celegorm listens as their breathing slows, as they go limp in his arms. Now, with bloody faces and sightless eyes, they look younger than they have since departing Valinor.

At last, he too can rest. Cold darkness comes to claim him, rolling over him like a wave.

…

When Celegorm awakes, there is fog, and out of the fog come gleaming eyes. A pack of wolves ring him, and they speak with Namo's voice. Welcome-be, kinslayer, oath-keeper.

Well-met, doomsman, spirit-master, Celegorm whispers.

The wolves close in on him, and he draws in on himself. When they savage his body, he thrashes out, and then realizes that the wounds close almost instantly. This must be his punishment, he realizes: eternal torment, unbroken by death or the oblivion of the void to which he had promised his soul, but from which he had apparently been saved to experience this fresh hell.

The wolves speak with Namo's voice, naming him Prideful-child, headstrong-hunter and they tear at his arms.

The wolves speak with his little brothers' voices, naming him Failed-caretaker, and in his father's, oath-breaker, and they rip at his legs.

The wolves speak with the young voices of Elured and Elurin, naming him Butcher-brethren, child-murderer, and they rend at the soft meat of his belly.

The wolves speak with Finrod's voice, melodious and terrible, naming him Cousin-killer, home-defiler, and their teeth sink home in his throat.

One wolf nuzzles close to his throat, and says Hound’s-friend, brother-mine, and Celegorm begins to cry because that is Huan’s voice inside that wolf.

And then the wolves speak in a new voice, and they name him: Hunter who is now prey, Turkafinwë; wrathful Tyelkormo; wretched Celegorm.

And Celegorm gasps, This is my voice, Namo, you torture me with my own voice.

And they say, his blood dripping from their teeth, Of course we do, for we are you. So tell us, how do you name yourself?

As Celegorm struggles between the heaving bodies and snapping jaws, he cries I am a kinslayer and an oathmaker, I am a monster and a butcher! His head disappears beneath the sea of fur. But I am also a third-brother and my people's defender, friend to little things and silent-hunter! He surges upward, grasping the largest wolf around the neck. Above all else, I am tired, and heart-sick, and I desire only restful darkness.

The wolf laughs. You will have no rest, not here, not until the remaking of the world. And everything goes dark.

...

When Turkafinwë awakes, for the second time since his death and after an interminable age, there is sunlight.

Turkafinwë sits up with a start. "I must be dreaming!" He shouts horsely, "You mock me, Mandos!"

"Can't stand the idea that you're one of the last of us to be released?" Curufin rises lazily from his seat under a tree.

"Brother?" And then quietly, “how long have I been gone?”

"Mother says it's been about four thousand years."

“You said one of the last…” Celegorm says slowly. “Who else is left?”

“Maedhros, for starters,” says Curufin. “If I know our oldest brother at all, it’s more due to his prodigious capacity for self-recrimination and less to Mandos’ judiciary streak.”

“And father?” Celegorm asks, pretty sure he already knows the answer.

“Well, look at it this way. When I was in the halls, I only ever saw visions of Celebrimor’s torment; how do you think it feels to have failed not one but seven sons?”

Celegorm sighs. “What are we doing here, brother? Surely the council would rather condemn our souls to the void.”

Curufin laughs. “I think Manwe is something of an optimist. And I do remember one last thing from the halls - the shade of my son that I had conjured as my punishment told me before I was released that I would have no rest until the world is remade.”

Celegorm starts.

“We May have forgiven ourselves in the halls,” continues Curufin, “but out here, we must fight for the forgiveness of others. One individual seems like he wishes to be first in line.”

The bushes behind him rustle, and out steps Huan. Turkafinwë, brother-mine And he knocks headlong into Celegorm, who falls flat with a laughing face full of dog fur.

There are bees - which he can hear, but cannot see, because he is on his back looking up at the bluest sky imaginable. And the bees say Welcome-be to land-everlasting, son of Fëanor, he who hears the wind-whisper of little things.

Author’s Note:

Waltalís - derived from walta (excite, rouse, wild) and lís (honey) in quenya.

Inspired by something I read once about traditional honey gatherers who climb up the side of a cliff to collect the honey made from a particular psychedelic flower.

Concerning the battle at the fens of serech,I headcanon that since the orcs began as elves that Sauron tortured and experimented upon, the first few generations are startlingly elf-like in appearance.

I like the idea of Mandos being the rehab of Valinor. They both serve time as penitence and learn to forgive themselves.  So Namo’s brilliant idea is to have people overcome their self-hatred by handling their own punishment.  Celegorm feels guilt over Finrod and his younger brothers, so he punishes himself with wolves until he’s all worn out and willing to forgive himself.

[desperationandgin]

Strawberry Wine Part 1, Prologue + Chapter 1.

Rating: General Audiences

A/N: In honor of World Outlander Day, I wanted to surprise everyone with the prologue and complete first chapter of my next fic, Strawberry Wine! The fic will not begin posting until Tuesday, July 16th, but you all deserve a lil’ somethin’-somethin’! The lovely mood board was made by my awesome wife, @filledwithlight, so thank you, love!! Also, a massive thanks to @smashing-teacups, @lcbeauchampoftarth and @suzannevvale for reading last night and guiding me along! Without further delay, please enjoy!

Prologue

As I looked up at the well-worn path, I remembered back to that summer between the life I led, care-free but studious, and the one I had now. My care-free days were far behind me, left in the ashes of the War. But for one perfect, restless summer, I’d found a blissful escape on the banks of a river, in the arms of a farmer’s son. Our love had grown wild around us, so quickly, I thought, it was as if the universe, upon seeing us together decided ‘Yes. These two are a pair.’

My legs carried me across overgrown fields, years since they’d seen a plow. All around me, with every structure I saw, there was nothing time hadn’t touched. My fingers moved to my lips as I closed my eyes, desperate to remember a kiss that happened so long ago. Had I known it would likely be the last one, I’d have never let him go.

Chapter One

When I was a young girl, my parents, on their way home from the theater, had died in an accident. I think I was too little to understand what that meant; I knew they weren’t coming back, but I didn’t understand the why of it. They were simply gone, and I was soon on my way to live the life of an intrepid traveler. I’d thought of them at first, but being only five years of age at the time, I couldn’t remember much. I missed the way I used to curl in my father’s lap, laying with my head tucked into his shoulder while he smoked his pipe and listened to classical music on the radio. I missed the way my mother would brush out my hair, unruly even then, and style it into a slightly frizzy braid.

As I’d grown up and begun to find interest in the old things my new guardian hunted for, the memories of my parents slipped further away. Life with Uncle Lamb was exciting and different every day. My ninth birthday had been spent in Egypt, digging in hot sand when not kissing local boys. I’d loved that life, enjoyed the various tutors I had in the places we stayed. In France, I’d studied until I was fluent in French; and in Rome, I’d curiously poked at learning a bit of Latin and became good at reading it. By the time I turned twenty, the only continent I hadn’t been to was Antartica, but I’d seen enough that I knew what I wanted to do first before anything: attend nursing school. Then, I envisioned having enough knowledge to help local villagers in the places where my uncle and I traveled. This was to be my last summer of travel before classes began. I’d be class of ‘42, but it sounded so far away, off in a different decade.

For now, we were on our way to Scotland so that Lamb could visit with an old friend. Before I ever entered the picture, my uncle had worked closely with a man named Brian Fraser, as artifacts of Culloden Moor were unearthed for the first time in centuries. Lamb and his team had done the digging, Mr. Fraser provided the delicate work of cleaning and restoration. An avid Scottish history enthusiast, it seemed he and my uncle had become very fast friends over dates and historical tidbits. Now we were going to his home, to stay for the summer as guests. As Lamb drove us up the path, I peered out of the window and at the canopy of tree limbs overhead. It was beautiful, the way sunlight filtered through the leaves, and I imagined what it must have been like to ride a horse under such a natural tunnel.

Once the home itself came into view, my mouth fell open upon seeing it. I’d been told it was old, but this was an actual artifact of time, exquisitely kept in prime condition, lived-in and still full of happiness. Standing on the front porch after ringing the bell, my fingers ran over the plaque that announced this as Lallybroch; est. 1702. I gaped at it after doing the math. Two-hundred and thirty-six years old, and still completely beautiful. I could even see a mill turning, off in the distance, and at once felt as though I’d fallen through time. When the door opened, an elderly woman answered, ushering us inside and hugging my uncle. I smiled in introduction, and then Mrs. Crook led us to a large and open room, filled with more books than I’d ever seen in a private home. As soon as we stepped in, a man I assumed to be Brian Fraser leapt up from behind his desk, shouting in greeting before hugging my uncle. I stood to the side, hands behind my back, and tried to remember the last time I saw Lamb greet anyone that way. I was pulled out of my thoughts once the attention was on me.

“My niece, Claire Beauchamp.”

I smiled and was struck by the warmth and kindness in Mr. Fraser’s eyes. His handshake was gentle, and he guided me to sit as he drew us further into the room. Tea was poured for all, and I was happy to sink into the warmth of it, listening to two old friends trade stories back and forth. After a while I excused myself, asking for the washroom and meandering my way there. The architecture of the home was gorgeous, the wood detailing impeccable. Already I’d been told this home had been built as a freehold belonging to Mr. Fraser’s family generations back. After a brief visual tour on my way to and from the washroom, I re-entered the library but walked around the shelves, looking at books. Some of them seemed well-worn, old and possibly brittle. Dragging my finger along spines, I glanced at various titles. The Wonderful World of Oz was shelved right next to The Count of Monte Cristo, and next to it, Dracula. The wild variety just in that small sampling made me smile to myself.

Walking by a window, I paused as something the color of fire caught my attention. Parting the curtain a bit more, I glanced outside and realized what it was: the most brilliant shock of red, curly hair I’d ever seen. Widening my gaze, I realized it adorned the head of a shirtless man who carried a bale of hay over his shoulder. He was sweating, beads of it dripping from a curl near his temple and down his chest.

I’m not sure I ever consciously realized swoon was a word before that moment, but I learned it right then.

I was staring and told myself to stop risking his looking up and realizing. Apparently, I was in no mood to listen to my own advice. Instead of finding trousers as my gaze wandered lower, I realized he was wearing a bloody kilt, and one of my hands covered my mouth on instinct. Glancing over at my host, I realized he was wearing a kilt as well, and looked back out the window. By the time I was done admiring the calves from under said kilt, I realized the legs hadn’t moved at all, as if frozen. Snapping my eyes up, they met his, blue as a bright day and shining with amusement. I could feel my cheeks begin to flush, and then he smiled and I ducked my head. I couldn’t believe he’d caught me, embarrassed as I looked up again to sheepishly smile in return. We held each other’s gaze for a few moments before I let the curtain fall and walked back to my seat. In a lull of conversation, I spoke up.

“I saw a young man outside, red, curly hair?” Shirtless and muscled and beautiful?

“Oh, aye,” Brian responded. “That would be my son, Jamie.”

Jamie.

As I sat once more, I found there was no focusing on the conversation around me. I wondered what solid muscle felt like, and then wondered if Lamb and Mr. Fraser could tell I was blushing. I found myself unable to help it as my thoughts swung from the mild to downright torrid. I was caught up in thinking about what I might say to apologize for staring when footfalls caught my attention. Turning my gaze, I watched as he appeared again (wearing a plain white shirt now, much to my disappointment), somehow bigger than I thought at first, looming in the doorway. He seemed to be a giant of a man, but with the same gentleness to his eyes that his father’s held. Standing, I felt my heart skip a half beat, wiping my hands on my trousers.

Mr. Fraser made the appropriate introductions and I extended my hand out. “Claire Beauchamp. I apologize for--well. Earlier, at the window.”

His smile immediately put me at ease as he shook his head, holding my hand as his thumb grazed the underside of my wrist. “Dinna fash, lass. I thought nothing of it.”

The ruddiness of his cheeks was a bit of a giveaway that he was lying, but I didn’t mind it. How could I, when my own thoughts had veered directly to the wildly inappropriate?

“I hate to leave our conversation so short, Ms. Beauchamp, but if I’m to be at all presentable for supper, I should go wash up now,” he apologized.

“Claire. And don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll find plenty to talk about later,” I offered with a hopeful smile. After he excused himself, I let my gaze linger after him, finding myself eager for supper, where I would finally have the chance to learn more about Jamie Fraser.

Next Chapter

[tyrannoninja]

The Demon Beneath the Dome

A woman climbed onto the bough of a kapok tree, which twisted up from the treetop canopy. Her lissome umber-brown figure, clad with a barkcloth skirt and halter-top, sparkled with droplets of perspiration beneath the hot glow of the sun piercing through the overcast sky. She raised her hand over her eyes, surveying the green ocean of jungle as it rolled in choppy waves all around her high vantage.

To the east rose a jagged range of overgrown crags, which ran in a ring like a caldera. Covering the basin within was a vast, terraced dome glimmering of corroded gold, with a circular hole in its summit. Under the shadow cast by the crater walls, the green-stained spires and roofs of ruined masonry poked through the jungle, but there appeared no evidence of a living settlement in the proximity of these ruins.

The woman shuddered slightly as she tightened her grip on her perch. She had heard the legends, but never considered them anything more than village storytellers’ way of frightening children into good behavior. Neither had she imagined that she would ever venture within sight of a place like they had described.

Dinanga, huntress of the village of Mungu, had spent the better half of the past moon-cycle searching for her younger sister Kazadi. The memory of the girl’s abduction, with men in blood-red loincloths lunging out of the undergrowth to seize and drag her away, had haunted Dinanga’s every dream with a vivid clarity that never faded. She would have taken those men for common marauders had she not tracked them all the way to such mysterious ruins. If the old myths had spoken the truth all that time, an even more terrible fate would await Kazadi.

Within the jungle to the southwest, someone screamed.

It was not the shrieking cry of a woman, but the deeper holler of a man. Dinanga did not know whether she should investigate. If she did, it might take time away from her sister. Whatever lay in store for Kazadi, she did not want it to happen over the course of a distraction.

Again, the cry of terror burst through the leafy canopy.

Dinanga dove back into the tangled depths of the forest understory, leaping between the branches and lianas with flashing swiftness and agility. She landed on a bough overhanging a narrow game trail through the undergrowth, a cluster of foliage beside it shaking with movement.

A slim male figure tripped over a tree’s buttress root with a hoarse yelp as he emerged. Stomping behind him on muscular hind legs was a tyrannosaur. As the man struggled to get up, the reptilian brute parted its salivating, spike-fanged jaws over his back.

Dinanga took her hunting bow from her python-skin sash and sent an arrow into the tyrannosaur’s scaly green neck.

The beast’s roar and host gust of breath blew her off the branch. Rolling over the soft earth upon landing, she hopped to the man and pulled him away from the snapping jaws by the wrist. His eyes widened with shock as he shrank from her.

Dinanga shouted over the tyrannosaur’s growling. “Don’t worry, I’m here to save you!”

The world above her turned dark. The monster’s black open gullet, dripping scalding drool, filled her field of sight while the rancid stink of its breath flooded her nostrils. Sheer terror petrified every muscle within Dinanga’s cowering body.

Yet, the bone-crunching bite did not come. The tyrannosaur threw its head up with another roar, even more shrill, a bloody streak running across the side of its lower jaw. The strange man taunted it with foreign curses while brandishing a bloody-edged horn dagger.

Yanking him away from the predator’s next attack, Dinanga led him running to a tree coiled with the woody vines of a strangler fig. They climbed halfway up its height before the tyrannosaur rammed its snout into the trunk. The man slipped off and plummeted towards the beast’s gaping mouth. Dinanga seized his forearm, wrenched him up from the beast’s jaws, and tossed him onto one of the overhead branches. She jumped onto this same branch and clung to it with a tight embrace as the tree shook from the weight of the tyrannosaur smacking against it. Neither she nor the man fell off again. With a resigned snort, the dinosaur gave them one last glance with its fiery yellow eyes before lumbering off.

Dinanga, panting with exhaustion, muttered a prayer that it would find worthier prey elsewhere. The man that huddled next to her brushed leaves off his short, braided hair. Though his skin was the same brown shade as Dinanga’s, his tall, elongated stature and narrower facial features attested to an origin on the dry, open savannas that stretched beyond these jungles. The tattered loincloth wrapped around his narrow hips was cut from pebbled reptilian leather instead of the forest-dwellers’ barkcloth.

“Who are you?” she asked. “You don’t look like you’re from here.”

The man shook his head. “Call me Heri, of the clan of Deshen out on the savanna. I was barely of age when our enemies, the clan of Mendi, carried me off in a raid. I’ve been traded and dragged far across the land ever since.”

He pointed to the crisscrossing mess of welts that marred his back like a hideous, dark reddish-purple tumor. A foul taste swelled into Dinanga’s mouth. She had heard of people being captured and forced to work for others in some of the larger chiefdoms, but never had she considered the brutality forced upon many of them.

“By the spirits, you’ve been through so much,” she said. “Tell me you don’t have someone hunting you down!”

“I ran away from them many moons ago. In truth, I don’t even know where I am in this land. All I know is that I’m nowhere near my people. They must have forgotten me by now.”Heri wiped off the moisture that had welled up in his eyes.

Dinanga hugged him and smiled. “If only I knew how to bring you back to them. I have family of my own missing. Half a moon ago, a group of men in red carried my sister off. I’ve been hunting them down ever since.”

“Have you caught up with them yet?”

“Almost. My tracking has led me to this strange place with old buildings and a big dome of gold inside a crater. You heard of such a place?”

“No, but I think I know what those men want of your sister. Beg the spirits that they haven’t done it already.”

“Then I must go. You want to come along? I would like someone to fight beside me if they can.”

With a nod, Heri slipped his dagger out of its sheath and ran his finger along its bloodied edge. “You saved me from that monster. I owe you my life for it.”

##

A colossus of black stone leaned over a path of mossy flagstone as it loomed up through the mist and undergrowth. Though eroded by generations of rainfall and cloaked with overgrowth, Dinanga could make out the contour of a hunched, squatting creature with wings akin to those of a bat or pterosaur folded behind its corpulent gorilla-armed body. Six gemstones glinted as orange as fire within its long flat head, its wrinkled trunk-like snout curled between giant spider-like fangs.

It took a single glance at this megalithic monstrosity for Dinanga to step back, a cold shiver overtaking her body. The old stories had become even truer before she set foot within the ancient village this sculpture guarded.

Heri clenched harder on his dagger’s hilt. “What, by all the spirits, would that be?”

“Whatever it is, it isn’t of this earth,” Dinanga said.

They did not dare look back at the horrible statue as they tiptoed down the broad flagstone trail. On both sides of the avenue lay the crumbled, foliage-bedecked walls of stone huts amid piles of rubble, toppled columns, and potsherds. Interspersed between the buildings stood the pedestaled statues of men, women, and assorted creatures of the jungle—with none of these idols rivaling that of the alien giant in height or girth.

Every time her eyes met their unblinking gaze, Dinanga’s heartbeat paused. She murmured a prayer to her distant ancestors that they forgive her for trespassing through their former home.

As the road sloped up closer to the crater’s outer cliffs, the structures beside it reared higher than in the districts before, the columns inscribed with the faces of people and beasts supporting their upper stories. Mazes of cracked steps and raised pathways connected these former palaces and manors to one another like bridges, and to the main thoroughfare.

“Who built all this?” Heri asked. “It’s not like anything I’ve ever seen before.”

Dinanga nodded. “They say that, many generations in the past, all the villages in the jungle answered to chieftains who lived here. That monster we saw back there was their god, a spirit they respected more than any other. Nobody knows for sure what happened to the people who lived here…or that ‘spirit’ of theirs.”

The avenue ended before a towering portal hewn into the rock of the crater’s side. Chiseled into both jambs along its entryway were reliefs that each depicted a sitting creature with six orange orbs for eyes, the same species as the colossus before. The perspiration on Dinanga’s brow turned cold. Her heart pulsed in a panicked frenzy.

Drums thumped from somewhere within. The ritual was already underway! Dinanga unslung her bow and ran through the portal, with Heri close behind.

It was not pitch dark inside the passageway, like she had expected. Rather, dim green light filled the passageway from the painted grooves of reliefs on the corridor walls, as did an unpleasant whiff of urine. The first of these images on both sides portrayed a storm of flaming balls showering down from the starry heavens upon the primordial earth. The next showed human figures prostrating before these spheres, in which were rendered some of the most frightful creatures Dinanga had ever seen represented in art of any form. Some beings had dozens or even hundreds of eyes, limbs, or maws lined with fangs or tentacles; others were pocked with warts, thorns, or bone-shaped protuberances. Among them was the same six-eyed, winged entity she and Heri had seen before.

Some of the later reliefs even showed people throwing young men and women to the horrors to be devoured like poultry. Were the beasts so terrible that they intimidated early humankind into placating their carnivorous appetites? Or did these otherworldly deities offer something in return for the sacrifices? If so, what on earth would it have been?

The echoing beat of the drums escalated, joined by a droning chant. Dinanga could not waste any more time gawking at the pictures on the walls. She and Heri had to get to her sister before the girl suffered the same fate as the victims of those ancient rites.

The passage did not run straight, but twisted in zigzags that sloped up and down through the rock. Only the faint green glow of the painted reliefs, and the increasing volume of the reverberant music, guided Dinanga and Heri through the subterranean labyrinth. Once brighter daylight beamed from the hallway’s end, they slowed their running down to a skulk and crouched behind the jambs on opposite sides of the exit.

A flat, narrow promontory of rock projected from the opening, fifty feet from the crater’s inner floor. From the central hole in the vaulted ceiling of gold, a shaft of sunlight ran straight down to a broader, circular space at the walkway’s end. Ringed by megalithic pillars at its edges, this balcony supported a disk-faced platform in its center, around which men and women in red-dyed clothing chanted in an unintelligible language while clapping and beating wooden drums. Behind the altar stood a woman mantled in a more brilliant shade of red than the rest, scarlet macaw feathers woven into her dreadlocks and blood-red paint zigzagging down her face and limbs. She beat the stone of the promontory with her crooked priestess’s staff, human skulls jangling from the top of it.

On the altar lay a motionless Kazadi.

The drums and chanting built into a frenetic storm of noise that resonated to a deafening extreme underneath the crater’s domed covering. Rising alongside was a putrid odor emanating from far below the promontory. The voices of the female worshipers heightened to yipping screeches while those of their male counterparts lowered into guttural croaking.

With one final, cracking bang of the drums, the music stopped. The priestess waved her staff of skulls and shouted coarse, unfamiliar words to the ceiling.

A vast, odoriferous mess of slimy dark gray mud, strewn with bones and streaks of luminous green fluid, churned and bubbled at the bottom of the crater basin. With a flatulent gurgle, the muck rose in a mound and cracked open to reveal six orange-red eyes on a flattened black head. Behind it emerged and unfolded a pair of leathery, yellow-veined wings tipped with claws like a bat’s. Droning like an overgrown mosquito underlain with a rumbling growl, the thing flapped itself out of the slime to the promontory’s terminus.

Dinanga wrapped her trembling arms tight around her bow. She could not deny the old stories any longer. The star-demons of yore were real.

The cultists in red retreated and knelt in unison as the hulking creature landed between the megaliths on four columnar limbs that glistened with wet black bristles. Advancing on its knuckles in an apelike manner to the altar, it unfurled a wrinkled proboscis between its mandibles and extended it to Kazadi. Tentacles at its end rubbed wet trails of saliva over her skin. The girl’s arms twitched, her eyes opened wide, and she screamed.

Dinanga shot an arrow at the star-demon, piercing the wing’s thick skin. The creature’s eyes blazed brighter than embers as an echoing metallic shriek escaped its trunk. The people in red turned to face Dinanga, their teeth bared in anger.

The priestess thrust the tip of her staff in the huntress’s direction. “How dare you attack our god!”

Dinanga drew another arrow, now pointed toward the priestess. “I’ve come for my sister, witch!”

“Then get her at your risk!”

Dinanga released the arrow. The priestess dodged it with a sidestep, then vaulted over her followers in a single jump and swung her staff at the huntress. The bundle of skulls slapped Dinanga aside, throwing her to the edge of the promontory. She grabbed the lip of the walkway before she could slip off, her feet dangling in the muggy air of the basin.

Her fingernails scratched over the stony surface. The priestess stood above her with a cruel smirk as she raised her staff again.

An arm shot out from behind the priestess and wrung her away by the neck. It was Heri. Shoving the red-mantled woman to the side, he snatched Dinanga’s wrist and pulled her back onto the promontory.

One of the male worshipers punched him on the cheek and off his footing. Dinanga whacked the assailant’s brow with her bow, grabbed him by the throat, and pushed him into a group of his allies. With slashing swipes of her bow and sweeps of her legs, she fended off the remaining cultists’ attacks.

The priestess grappled her from behind and slammed her onto the rock. One kick rolled Dinanga back to the edge.

Over the clamor of the fight, Kazadi screamed again from the clutches of the star-demon’s talons. Its tentacled trunk engulfed her head, muffling her voice.

Stabbing the rock with the tip of her bow to still herself, Dinanga sprang to her feet and unleashed an arrow into one of the star-demon’s eyes. It spat Kazadi out with a screeching wail and staggered onto one of the megaliths at the terminus edge, toppling it over with a crash of its wings. The rock of the promontory quaked under the being’s confused stomping until it stumbled off the promontory and fell.

Dinanga started to run towards her sister, but the priestess leaped into her way with another swing of her staff. The huntress parried it with her bow, but the blow splintered her weapon apart.

The priestess cackled. “You’re outmatched. How will you save your sister now?”

“With my help,” Heri said.

He slashed his dagger across the priestess’s breast. She dropped her staff of skulls, which Dinanga seized and used to bat the woman off the promontory. The screams of the leader of the worshipers trailed away as she fell, finally ending with her faint splash into the muck below.

Dinanga hurried to Kazadi and embraced her. “Are you all right?”

Kazadi groaned and blinked as she wrung fetid drool out of her braids. “Where are we?”

“Wherever it is, we’re getting out as soon as we can.”

The star-demon’s surviving worshipers yelled a vengeful war cry and charged in a wall down the promontory’s remaining length. Dinanga, Kazadi, and Heri hopped onto the altar and launched themselves over the raging army. With a flurry of kicks, punches, and the slashing of Heri’s dagger, they sent the remainder of the cultists hurtling off to join their deity and priestess in the mud at the bottom of the crater.

##

Dinanga inhaled deeply and sighed with relief after they had run out of the portal on the outer side. Even the musty scent of the wild jungle was a relaxing fragrance compared to the infernal stench that had swamped the crater under the dome.

Kazadi blinked with a shake of her head. “How long has it been?”

“Why, it’s been over half a moon, sister,” Dinanga said. “Remember those old tales about the demons from beyond the stars? Those men and women in red meant to sacrifice you to one of them, like our ancient ancestors did.”

“By the spirits, you mean those stories were true all along? I can’t believe it. But at least that creature has plenty of dead to gorge upon now—if it even survived its fall.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Heri said. “Its landing would have been soft down there, and who knows how hungry those things get?”

“Even so, it’s trapped under that big dome behind us,” Dinanga said. “Let it feast and then starve to death.”

A banging, crumbling crash followed, as blocks of weathered gold flew off the summit of the dome. Up soared the star-demon with a terrible droning screech, dripping wet with the dark slime of its lair. Its five good eyes scintillated with fury as it swooped down.

The three raced down the avenue through the ruins. The creature accelerated its pursuit until it emerged in front of them. As it veered to face its prey, its beating wings stirred up a gust of wind that knocked down a chunk of stone overpass to block their way. It then grabbed Kazadi with a clawed hand and raised her towards its proboscis.

Dinanga chucked one of her last arrows like a javelin into its crotch. The star-demon did not even flinch. Heri flung his dagger at it, but the star-demon evaded it with a flap that lifted it overhead. It plucked him off the ground with its other hand while half-swallowing Kazadi.

Dinanga ran to one of the piles of rubble, hauled up a hunk of masonry, and hurtled it into the star-demon’s thigh. Fluttering in the air with anguished squeals, it released Heri and reflexively vomited out Kazadi. Dinanga caught her sister in her arms and fled from underneath the reeling monster, along with Heri. They reached the colossus at the ruins’ edge, but again, the star-demon caught up with them. It landed atop its own stone likeness and jumped onto the road before them. The earth under their feet shook them onto the flagstones under the otherworldly horror’s shadow.

A deep, explosive roar resounded. It was not the star-demon. The rage in the thing’s eyes dimmed as its bristles suddenly stood on end. Breaking out from the jungle and storming towards it was the tyrannosaur.

The two beasts faced each other with an exchange of threatening roars and screeches, the tyrannosaur thrashing its head about and snapping the air while the star-demon waved its arms with wings outspread.

“We should leave now,” Heri whispered from the corner of his mouth.

Dinanga shook her head. “We can’t let the star-demon win. It must die once and for all. No one should worship it anymore.”

The tyrannosaur chomped onto the star-demon’s arm with a crunch of chitinous skin beneath the bristles. The six-eyed monster freed itself by punching its attacker in the jaws, then hooked its other arm around the tyrannosaur’s neck while clawing at it with the first. It swatted its wings in a struggling effort to lift itself off the ground with the dinosaur in its hold. The tyrannosaur, slashing across its alien adversary’s breast with a short two-clawed arm, wriggled itself loose and beat the star-demon aside with its snout. The being from beyond the heavens collided into its own statue, turning it over and smashing it to pieces with a terrific tremor.

The tyrannosaur pressed a foot onto the fallen star-demon’s belly, cracking the skin underneath and spurting out viscous yellow-green blood. The demon slapped it away with flailing forelimbs. With a push and a sweep of its wings, the wounded being pounced onto the reptilian brute and shoved it into an obelisk on the other side of the old road. The star-demon then turned its attention to the three humans, the glow of its eyes flashing with a laughing growl as it captured Dinanga in its grip.

Kazadi pried out one of the orange gemstones from the statue’s fallen face and threw it onto the creature’s hand. The gem’s sharp edge buried itself into the monster’s knuckle, enabling Dinanga to slip down from its loosened grip. The demon withdrew its other forelimb for another slashing swipe until the tyrannosaur bit onto its biceps from behind. Between those saurian jaws and teeth, the demon’s upper arm crumpled into a pulp of alien blood and bristled chitin. A final wrenching motion of the dinosaur’s head ripped the star-demon’s arm out of its socket, then the tyrannosaur delivered a crushing bite to its extraterrestrial enemy’s throat. The star-demon’s high-pitched whine broke up into a buzzing rattle as it fell onto the shattered remains of its own idol.

The tyrannosaur threw its head upward, with droplets of yellowish blood cascading from its mouth. It let out its loudest roar of triumph to the heavens.

Dinanga, Kazadi, and Heri rushed into the jungle, out of the predator’s sight. Between the buttress roots of a kapok tree, they stopped to catch their breath, all racked with strain and sweating in rivulets.

Dinanga hugged her sister with all the exhausted strength she could muster. “Thank our ancestors that I found you before it was too late.”

“Thank you both for coming to my rescue,” Kazadi said. “Who may this strange man be, may I ask?”

“Call me Heri, of the clan of Deshen over on the open plains,” he said. “I’ll tell you all about my life over the night. All I can say now is that I’m happy that’s all over with. And I get to have two pretty young women walking by my side.”

Kazadi giggled while Dinanga groaned. “You men are all the same,” Dinanga said.

Heri winked at her. “And you women are not? Maybe you’ll change your mind after a few days.”

“If that’s what you want, maybe you could start changing my mind by fetching me some wood, flint, and twine. I need a new bow and more arrows.”

Together they laughed as they walked toward the distant village of Mungu, their backs turned to the great ruined village and the domed den of its slain god.

You can read this and several more short stories in my collection Beasts & Beauties, available for purchase on Amazon.com!

[satyrykal]

Departure Chapter 2 - Back from Hiatus!

Title: Departure

Author: Satyrykal

Pairing: Natsu x Lucy

Genre: Romance/Fantasy

Rating: M

Spoiler Warning: Not in the canon-verse, but pays homage to ideas in the Alvarez arc.

Summary: Natsu has been by her side for years - her faithful guard and the man she was never supposed to fall in love with. Lucy is bound by duty and custom, promised to another - yearning for freedom outside the confines of her grandfather’s court. So when the drums of war throw the kingdom into disarray, they make their move – consequences be damned.

Read the story here, or preview the excerpt below!

Running Chapter Timeline:

1 - 2nd July, X494: Lucy 23, Natsu 25

2 - 2nd July, X484: Lucy 13, Natsu 15

CHAPTER 2 Excerpt – The Beginning

"Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering." – Nicole Krauss, 2005

2nd July, X484

Once upon a time – not yours or mine – lived a girl spun from stars and sunshine.

This is her story.

The sun beat down from overhead as she raced across the field, wind pulling her hair free from its braid in strands of gold. Meadows of summer daisies and lupines passed by, shaded by the thick canopy above as the King's Wood gave way the high grass of the garden green. Her hands were tight and sweaty against the reins as she leaned forward, fingers digging into the fine leather as she urged the gray spotted mare onward.

"Come on Nikora, it's you and me now. Till the end." She whispered, her thighs straddling the horse, savoring the familiar burn in her quads as they galloped faster. She was answered by a thunder of hoofbeats as clots of dirt flew behind them as they tore through the tree line.

Lucy gave a whoop of laughter and charged past the crop of ancient oaks that hid the castle from view. Her eyes flashed amber as she took in the grand turrets, the palace's marbled façade imposing as it loomed ahead.

The gates grew closer as she sped through its arch, giggling at the calls of the sentries that greeted her as her pace slowed to a canter – still fast enough that some raised their voices in warning. Still, it wasn't until the stables were in sight that she reared the mare.

"Slow girl, gentle." She coaxed, lightening her hold until Nikora had geared to a trot, a gentle double beat as she wove her way past the other evening riders.

Smiling softly at the passersby, Lucy kissed her horse's mane – brushing the coarse white strands through her gloved fingers. She breathed deeply, taking in the earthen scent of grain feed and wood before wrinkling her nose at hint of manure that hit her last.

As they came up the walkway, a handler met her to lead her to the mount's stall.

"I've got it Igneel, I can get her ready and comb her down on my own." She told the older man, trying and failing to keep the reins away from him when he reached them.

Igneel cut a tall figure, with broad shoulders that stretched the leather of his jerkin. His hair was pulled sharply back, cascading down his back like liquid wildfire. Lucy had always thought the older man was handsome, though the long scar through his right eye and cheek below it gave him a menacing aura. It had taken some time for her to warm up to the former warrior.

She'd met him shortly after he'd taken over as the royal beastmaster half a decade ago, gaining his attention when the young royal continuously snuck out to the stables when she should have been minding her lessons. However, instead of returning her to her governess as was expected, he'd simply boom with laughter – allowing her to bob between the various stalls as she played hide-and-seek with some poor, harried palace guard on her protection detail.

He'd always had a soft spot for the princess, indulging her love for riding and the measure of freedom it afforded her.

When she continued to whine and fight his grip on the horse's lead, he just grinned shaking his head at her, a piece of hay anchored between his teeth.

"Off you go then Princess, not worth my time to convince you otherwise." He chuckled, patting her leg as he went back to his tack, wiping dirty hands on his stained smock. It wasn't his job to act as a common stable hand, but he'd always doted on the girl.

She beamed at his idle dismissal; teeth white and lips pulled wide as she dismounted – directing her horse back to the corner stall. Grabbing a bucket, she placed it by Nikora who dipped her muzzle into the water immediately, long tongue slurping as she drank greedily.

A few minutes later, Lucy heard a rattle on the path outside as another couple of mounts came into view.

In front was a young girl of about thirteen with a head of smooth blue locks, tied back neatly though a few wisps brushed her pale cheeks. Her legs were looped through the horn of her side saddle, covered by the folds of her sapphire skirts. The newcomer frowned, scanning the space until her gaze landed on a pair of guilty brown eyes peeking out above the corner booth.

"Lucy you promised you would stay with us this time!" The blunette called out, glaring at her friend.

The blonde smiled sheepishly when she was caught, gesturing to her mare.

"I meant to, but Nikora wanted to go faster, and I couldn't tell her no. She's wind-blown." Lucy answered, placing a sugar cube under the horse's mouth. The mare licked it up unhurriedly, tickling the girl's palm.

"Don't yell Juvia, we're already here." The third rider scolded as she too, came to a stop – expression exasperated.

The girls blushed slightly at reproach in the older woman's voice, her own aqua locks held back by a laurel braid that started at her temples, nostrils flared slightly as she peered down at her errant charges.

"Sorry Aquarius, I will keep that in mind." Juvia apologized bobbing her chin down once in respect before dismounting with a nearby page's help. Unlike her friend, she followed decorum as befit her station. She thanked the boy absently, not noticing his stuttered reply as she walked over to the young royal, lifting her skirts up so they did not drag across the mud.

"We saw you riding astride, you know your father would be upset if he found out." Juvia told the princess quietly when she reached her, resting her chin on the wooden divider of the stall as she watched her. Lucy shrugged, still brushing her horse down in broad strokes.

She found the action calming, loving the warmth radiating under her palms.

"Then don't tell him. Beside, I only ever do it on castle grounds – never when it really counts. I just love being able to fly over the hills. The whole world just blurs into colours." She breathed softly, dreamily. She fumbled with her gloves monetarily before yanking them off so she could feel Nikora's coat beneath her fingers.

Juvia nodded once, shoulders slumping.

She had expected as much. Like Igneel, she knew little changed the blonde's mind when it was set.

"You know I never do. I'm going to go back to my rooms to clean up. The representatives of the Mermaid Heel Corps will be arriving by supper. The king says we're to join them at the table." The blunette trailed off, hoping to entice the other girl to come with her.

Her words had the intended effect.

Lucy's ears perked up; her dark irises bright in the light streaming in through the rafters.

The Corps were warrior priestesses of the faith. They had guarded the Temple of Nirvana – deep within the Woodsea – for millennia. Though women were scarcely allowed to join in battle ranks within the borders of her own nation, sacred rights kept them outside the scope of the king's jurisdiction.

"I'll finish up quickly too then." Lucy promised, her cedar eyes shining as her hands indeed flew through Nikora's fur with renewed vigor.

Growing up, she adored hearing about the holy maidens – their exploits transcending fact to legend. They were named for the Nirvana of the Sea who had sent her daughters above on land, changeling sprites who created the first temple order.

Lady Aquarius, her governess, had grown up north of the great Eastern Forest in a township marking where the Clover River spilled into the ocean. When her village had been slaughtered in a raid, the priestesses had taken the older woman in until reinforcements arrived from the capital.

A childhood friend of the late duchess, the stoic blunette had shifted to the palace a decade prior, quickly settling into the role of guardian for the motherless princess. Sometimes when her charge begged, she would display some of the fighting forms she had learned whilst living in the Grand Temple for the little girl.

Lucy was torn from her musings when Juvia waved a manicured hand in front of her face, catching her attention. Eyes crinkling in laughter, the blunette twiddled her fingers in farewell before turning, petticoats still lifted carefully to keep them from the dirt. She sped up the hill to the main castle, Aquarius following at a more sedate pace.

Across the stable, some groomsmen were feeding their horses and putting away the ladies' gear – they movements practiced. Lucy preferred to do it herself, she liked the smell of the hay and the shine of her mare's coat when she was properly brushed down. She liked how this corner of the palace ground made it seem as if she were beyond its towering walls.

As she finished, she wiped her hands on a washcloth a squire had offered her, smoothing flyaways on her head the best she could – her appearance bedraggled. Still, she wasn't too worried, knowing she would be required to change her clothing once she returned to her chambers prior to dinner.

She was latching the mare's gate when she heard neighing coming from a stall near the exit.

Until recently it had been empty.

Curious, she patted Nikora's velvet nose before making her way to the noise. Inside was a tall, beautiful creature with a rick black hide, a single white stripe dabbed its nose and pooled at its feet. Sensing her, the stallion snorted jerking its muzzle in a circle.

Lucy paced back. She pressed her lips together, rocking on the soles of her boots before shifting closer step by step.

"What a gorgeous fellow you are." She breathed, stretching out her palm so he could sniff her. He whinnied loudly in response, as if unsure whether to trust the stranger in front of him. When he didn't bite however, the girl tried to reach further, stepping up on an old crate in order to lean over the railing.

His reaction was immediate.

The stallion reared its head and pawed the ground at her approach, gnashing its teeth. Startled, she lost her footing slightly, catching her riding gear on the lumber and throwing her balance. She grabbed for the side wall, only to miss, her palms grazing the splintering wood in vain.

For a moment, it was as if time stopped.

End of Excerpt

Read the rest at Fanfiction.net!

Chapter 1, 2

[solivar]

Exalted XIII Part VII

Saix and Luxord

In the forests of the East, there lies a place where only the brave or the foolhardy or the desperate dare to venture. No axe has ever touched its trees. No hunter’s pack has ever dared give chase to the beasts that dwell beneath its canopy. No forester has harvested its bounty or scavenged the fallen milk-white stones that lie among the roots. No one who lives near its border is so foolish. Those souls know to leave offerings instead, blood and meat, worked silver and carved wood, salt and bone and unwanted children. The memory of the peoples of the East is long and they tell tales that other nations have forgotten. They remember that, when the Unconquered Sun first rose in glory over their edge of Creation, the first shadow thus cast was born divine and walks the world still. They remember, also, Luna’s first rising, and how hir blade-sharp silver crescent pierced the darkness, poured across the virgin night like a knowing caress, the exquisite beauty of their union waxing and, in its time, waning. And when the primordial darkness drew its veil across Luna’s face for the first, something was indeed born of that union. Some who live in the shadow of his home believe him a god. Some believe him a monster or a demon or a man, mad or otherwise. They are all correct, for his being encompasses many natures, each in its own time, each for its own purpose. He long ago made peace with his own ever-shifting Essence, and if that peace is a lonely and self-contained one, it is at least his own. Some whisper that he is a sorcerer, or the witch-priest of a profane cult, and those whispers are almost correct, for he has been all three from time to time. (He is not so divine that he has no need of sustenance beyond the prayers of his father’s faithful children. The food his nervous neighbors leave for him is put to humble enough uses.) More than anything else, he is an oracle, at one time known to each corner of Creation as the living voice of his father, a fact sadly lost on all but a few in these fallen days. (The desperate come to him seeking answers, seeking direction, seeking aid, and those who seek at his door find what they are searching for. But the price for truth is sometimes cruelly high.) From time to time, he is kept company by his brother-in-spirit, the divine shadow of the Unconquered Sun, whose wisdom and bitter loneliness are much like his own. (He gives most of the children abandoned on his doorstep to Five Days Darkness, for the shadow of Sol Invictus knows well how to care for the destinies of unwanted and forgotten things. Some of them, though, he keeps for himself, for he sees in them fates too terrible for an innocent soul to endure. He hangs their bone-flutes from the trees of the inner sanctuary and offers prayers for their rebirth in gentler times.) Occasionally, his visitors are the Beloved Chosen of his father, and they bring him news from outside his sanctuary that has troubled him greatly in passing years. The warrior-chieftain Sleeves of War sits at his fire and tells him of the Realm and its travails. His fosterling and sometime protégé Ayja Silverclaws whispers the schemes of Deathlords in his ears. The Wyld-touched king of the quick and clever mouse-folk sought his counsel and went away, satisfied with what he learned, armed and armored in hard-won knowledge. The highest-ranking of the Silver Pact disdain him as half of one thing and not enough of the other, but the contempt is mutual, for they have forgotten what they once were and wallow in the pleasures of their degradation. He remembers other and better ways, and teaches them to those who would learn. Only a few have so chosen, but they have learned their lessons well, and so he holds some hope. He also holds some fear, for he is an oracle in truth, and he has seen dark tidings written in the face of his father, in the turning of the leaves, in the currents of the wind, in the dance of the stars on the water. A season ago, he ventured into the Great Observatory of Rathess and came away with a handful of new scars and knowledge that shook him to the core. Now he waits to see which of the portents he divined come to pass and which will fade into might-have-been. Only one thing he knows for certain: against the will of the Loom itself, the Keys of Destiny have been reborn, and the schemes of those who would possess them are already in motion. And whether this will save or doom Creation, he cannot yet say. (Saix, called Dancer of the Moon, god-blooded son of Luna and…something else. Oracle and high priest of his father.)

He was born in the sea-cradled West, in the city of Onyx, capital of the nation of Skullstone where the dead rule the living, to a petit-noble family one rung higher on the social ladder than the mindless undead creatures that unloaded the ships they owned. Skullstone is not a place for the living who actually enjoy being alive, who aren’t living for the day of their ritual suicide, when they join the true nobility of the nation. Even as a child, he wasn’t one of those people and he knew it. He didn’t know how, but he knew it in his bones and his blood and with every breath he took, that living in service to the desire for death is not living at all. In the benighted kingdom of the Silver Prince, merely thinking such things made him, at best, a rebel. Speaking of them to others could be politely called treason. Acting on them would be a fate worse than death, if he were ever caught. But, even as a young man, fortune smiled on him more kindly than that and he was not without his own wit and resourcefulness. (It did seem odd to him, in retrospect, how close he could come to the edge – the edge of capture, the edge of exposure, the edge of perpetual disgrace and a messy public execution and an eternity of horrors beyond the death of his flesh – without falling off. Much closer than many others who felt as he did, and whose flayed skins and wailing mutilated souls adorned the palace of the Bodhisattva Anointed In Dark Water.) The ignoble living of Skullstone’s upper classes might desire nothing more than the chance to swallow poison and join the counsels of the corrupt and grasping “nobility,” but the rest of the nation, the less privileged, had humbler goals. An hour of laughter untainted by horror or fear. A night of pleasure not stolen from beneath disapproving, dead eyes. Something to eat that hadn’t ever been part of a giant spider, or flavored with someone’s discarded funeral offerings. He, and a handful of others, provided those things, simple though they were. Music and laughter. Fleeting moments of joy and comfort. The pleasures of life truly lived in the face of death’s eternally grinding maw. None of them got rich from it but, then, material wealth wasn’t really the point of the endeavor. Or, at least that wasn’t really the point for him. (His family had wealth enough of its own, and he had his portion of it, and he did what he could to salve his conscience for accepting it. He learned early on the inherent possibilities of their shipping interests and creative accounting was the least of his many talents.) Profit, however, was a much more significant motive for others in their loose little fellowship of rebels and malcontents, treason having a fairly high overhead when it came right down to it. He was betrayed, of course. His unerringly good fortune couldn’t help him with that. Betrayed and arrested and his betrayer handsomely rewarded, he was very sure, as he was hauled off to the bowels of the palace to await a nasty death and an even more unpleasant afterlife. He wasn’t the only one so incarcerated, because the list of people that the Silver Prince desired dead or suffering interminably while waiting to die was never particularly short. And, once again, fortune cast her dice for him. One of his fellow prisoners was a man who had, perhaps unwisely, turned down the Silver Prince’s offer of employment and, in return, had received the opportunity to reconsider that decision from a somewhat different vantage point. He didn’t seem overly concerned by his predicament, a fact that the young man, who was extremely concerned about his, found somewhat baffling. When asked about his obvious serenity in the face of nearly certain doom, he merely smiled a sharp, tight-lipped smile and murmured, “My life is but a chip in the pile, my friend. Would you care to make a bet?” Two days later, his companions arrived just off the coast of Onyx in their heavily modified First Age dreadnaught and promptly liberated him from his captivity. (Setzer won the bet.) They accomplished this feat through the agency of massive Essence-canon bombardment, reckless courage, and more than the average amount of cleverness on the part of the Falcon’s resident master of arms. (The young man went with them, as that was the forfeit demanded, which was a turn of fortune he didn’t really mind at all.) Their escape from the Deathlord’s fleet was an epic adventure in and of itself; they remain the most wanted criminals in the history of Skullstone, charged with everything from high treason to piracy and a few things that were made up and added to the law books especially for them. The young man has stayed with them, because now he has a home that suits him, the heavily armed and armored First Age warship that doubles as a floating pleasure-palace, a haven for the too lucky for the their own good, the cast-off survivors of a hundred broken kingdoms, the lost wanting to be found, the people who want to live their lives as they choose, freely and without fear. He has, without any surprise, found that he’s one of them. (Luxord, resident games-master of the Falcon, a floating pleasure-palace that frequents Creation’s many fine ports of call that aren’t located anywhere near the Skullstone Archipelago. Or, for that matter, Bluehaven. And occasionally Lookshy. Ronin Sidereal, Chosen of Serenity.)

[nelsontolandx]

The Story of Ken Gorilla in the Rue Jungle 

By Nels Jenstad  nelsonjenstad@gmail.com

As told by  Djen Gorilla also known as “Djengo”, who now lives in New Jersey.

Introduction: 

This is the story of “Kengo” Ken Gorilla.  He was a gorilla that had an extraordinary ability to change things. However, he only changed the things he saw fit. I suppose he could’ve changed the whole world if he wanted to, but he just changed the things he found that really needed changing. 

My name is Djen Gorilla, or “Djengo” for short. These days, I live in the Bronx Zoo. I think the humans have some other name for me, but I like the place. They give me thick green forest and lots of good food. They saved me from the poachers back home in Africa. So, here’s the story my Uncle Hairy once told me about my Grand Daddy, “Kengo” Ken Gorilla;

1. Where Did You Go?

Kengo, or Ken Gorilla, grew up in the mountains on the rim of the Rue Jungle. He had a big family of brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and all his relatives, a colony of gorillas. They played on the hillsides, and foraged for goodies to eat. The big gorillas would take naps on the sunny hillside while the young gorilla “sprouts” played  games, laughing and rolling around in the tall grass. Time passed and Kengo had become the biggest gorilla in the bunch.

High over the Rue Jungle the strange birds flew. Airplanes. Humans would call them bi-planes or tri-planes. Gorilla hunters liked these small planes to land easily in hard-to-reach places like the Rue Jungle. 

Kengo remembered the first time he noticed the hum of an airplane engine high up in the sky.  He ran along the mountain ridge. He tried to follow them. He wondered “Who are the creatures who would come hunting for my family?” Just then, the man creatures spotted him. They circled the airplane around to chase this “big gorilla” down. Kengo realized he was the one being chased now. He ran for it. Down the mountain. The underbrush slapped and whipped at him. His heart pounded as the buzzing, grinding noise of the airplane engine loomed closer. Kengo knew he better find some thick jungle so he could hide. They could see him below, dashing down the mountain side. Tat! Tat! Tat! They took shots at him from their airplane as they passed by overhead. They missed, but not by much. Their loud shots ripped through leaves and tore at the trees.

Kengo turned and avoided the steep harrowing cliffs near the waterfall. He scrambled down where the large trees formed a dense canopy over head. The sound of the man creatures flying bird-machine was fading away. They would be back. They would be back soon.

This was not something Kengo dreamed of when he was younger. Oh, I should explain about gorilla dreams. When a gorilla dreams, it’s not exactly like the way human beings dream. Gorillas dream of a world of all kinds of  sweet fruit, interesting jungle places, and of course, their ancestors and family. But they also dream the secret dreams that only gorillas know.

Kengo loved his family very much. To a gorilla, all gorillas are “family”. 

While human beings get all mixed up over language and words, gorilla-beings understand each other very clearly with their eyes and actions. 

Of course gorillas have a very difficult time understanding humans. And it’s no wonder gorillas basically don’t like humans in general.  It’s true that there have been some rare human beings who have become friends with the gorilla beings, but among most gorillas, “humans” are just the stuff of old legends and tales. 

Y’know, for almost all gorillas, the “human stories” are ones that turn out bad in the gorilla’s world. “Man Creatures” are something the gorillas typically do not discuss. Humans, have doubts that other animals can actually “talk” with each other. The truth is, however, most animals, and especially gorillas, are excellent communicators and are far smarter than humans give them credit for. When humans assume that gorilla sounds, grunts, groans, hollers and screeches, are just thoughtless “animal” noises, well, we couldn’t be more wrong.

So, what’s been happening to these gorillas lately, is that the greedy poachers will just come and kidnap a gorilla. The gorilla’s family will never see or hear from their loved-one again. No gorilla Mom or Dad, sister, brother, or close gorilla friend will get the slightest chance to hug them or say good-bye, or have any idea at all of what happened. The stress upon family members is beyond measure, and of course the hardship on the kidnapped gorilla is beyond words.

A heartbroken gorilla is one of the saddest things in the whole world. It is always difficult when a loved one must join the ancestors in the deep blue beyond. Whether attacked by a predator like a lion or leopard, or just passes-away because of old age or sickness. True, that’s very sad as well. But, when a loved one goes missing, no good-byes, just – gone – and no one knows why or where, now that’s something no gorilla, or any other creature for that matter, can bare.

[galimatios]

Recollections

When he wakes up, the first thing he notices is that he's crying. An android wakes up in a forest alone with damaged memories. Short oneshot. 9S-centric. Post ending C, major spoilers. References "The Memory Cage" side story provided in the Japanese guidebook. Read on A03  //   Recommended listening: Blissful Death

When he wakes up, the first thing he notices is that he's crying.

Mechanical limbs hoist his body forward. He notices belatedly that they're his own. He sits up, touches his face with a glove-covered hand. He can't feel the moisture there on his cheek, but it shines like oil on his fingers.

The sound of running water hits him first. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light around him. Sunlight pours in through the gaps in the canopy above. On the rocks beside him, a small prism of silver lay broken. Some kind of support device, he thinks. Further off, he sees the remains of machines, bullet holes marring their metal carcasses. The spears they held now rest on the ground beside their owners. Beside him, a blindfold lays unnoticed.

He can't remember anything.

Only one thought permeates through his mind. It's like the echo of a distant melody, something distorted and hazy that he can't quite fully grasp. It's the voice of a girl whose name he can't remember. Little bits and pieces of her lay scattered about his memory terminals, stray fragments of information no longer whole enough to piece together.

Still, he collects these, guiding himself along file paths. The ruins of data structures loom in the distance.

He approaches an object glowing in the emptiness of the terminal.

— Fragment x 1 Obtained —

My name is ▓▓. I'm here to provide support. His memory. He recognizes his own voice, even despite the corruption. He no longer remembers the context of his own words, lost along with the minutiae of his existence. What remains are vague, fleeting moments. Emotion he was never supposed to feel. The girl standing there below him as he manned some flight unit. Her emotionless face. In the midst of it all, he recalls something funny, something strange; it wasn't the first time they met. Some things were buried so deep even a full wipe of his drives couldn't delete them.

Iteration after iteration after iteration. Repeating the motions, the words, the feelings that carved their way into his physicality. Again and again. He no longer remembers the past, but he remembers something else.

I was so happy to be with someone.

He picks up another fragment. It glitches momentarily as he touches it, images flashing in the light. He sees a large complex, glass windows overhead. The roots of trees curving through the cement. A broken pipe pours water into the floor below. Rays of sun illuminate grass underfoot.

If you want to call me ▓▓▓▓▓, it's totally okay.

The words take him back to a place he vaguely remembers, walking along side someone whose voice was quiet but ever constant. She refuses him, of course. He can't remember why this makes him smile so.  He liked teasing her, didn't he? Between his remarks and her dismissal were the remnants of another life they must have once shared. The moments she let her guard down. Her quiet compliments. The way she guided him, a silent protector despite her true function. Orders were orders, she said once. He was ordered, too, to do something. There was something he had to protect. What was it?

The sound of birds brings him back to base reality. He stands up, watching them fly off into the distance. As he watches, something catches the corner of his eye. A white blade, resting in a sheath of stone. A satchel of sorts hangs from it. He approaches them both, putting the satchel over his shoulder automatically, as if it was meant to be there somehow.

The sword slides out of its rock. He holds it up to the light, running a finger along the flat side of its blade. Something comes back to him. Muscle memory activates. Another fragment obtained. This time, he remembers the feeling of sand in his shoes. Somehow, he isn't sure if this is truly his memory as the images play in his mind. He watches his own body writhe underneath himself, eyes blinded red with a virus. His hands aren't his own. They're slender, feminine, and they're shaking as he holds a different blade above his counterpart's neck. Then, the sword comes down. All struggle ceases. Black box signal confirmed lost. In the silence of the temple, he hears his own voice.

Goodbye,  ▓▓ .

Ah. So these were her memories. The memories of someone far too kind for the task she'd been given. A weight upon shoulders that never wanted to carry it. It all hits him at once, a dizzying flurry of voices, both his and hers melding together into one. He hears the sound of laughter. The promises they made. The way she would smile at him. Bits and pieces of past selves he never knew. Yet, it's not enough to put together. Incomplete retrieval. Paths with dead ends where data modules used to stand.

He still can't remember her name.

Goodbye,  ▓▓ .

Again, his voice echoes.

He realizes he's been standing there, gripping her sword. He faces the sun pouring from the canopy above. He's crying again, but he doesn't quite know why anymore. The tears fall from his chin without a sound, without a reason he can discern from the mess of fragments jumbled together in his mind. The recollections of something so precious, lost but not forgotten. He wonders if the persistence of memory is enough proof for a soul. Enough to escape from this lifeless hull of metal he inhabits. This question of all things seems to linger when all else is fractured beyond repair.

He reaches out into the light above him. It's warm, he thinks. He closes his eyes. He can't remember the last time the sun felt so lovely. In the absence of purpose, of identity, he can feel something push him forward despite everything. It's not programming this time. It's nothing like the protocols once written into his consciousness.

It's something else entirely. A gentle voice inside him, urging him to do one thing:

Live.

Live, for you deserve to be loved by this world. He stands there, in the silence, for a long time.  

[pengiesama]

If you're still taking fic requests... SorMik in any Disney AU? Idk I'm a sucker for Disney AUs ^^;

THIS GOT FUCKING LONG I’M SORRY

--

As was custom when talk of marriage came up, Mikleo set offfrom the palace and into the forest. As prince, he was aware that it was hisfate to be married off to secure a trading alliance or some such banality – he wasunder no such illusions that he had the option to pursue some sort of courtlyromance, but the idea that he was expected to be eager, or even excited, whenthe topic came up? That was theridiculous part, far more ridiculous than the concept of him plucking at a luteunderneath some garden window.

He would cooperate – no more and no less – and would takeevery opportunity to abscond from overhearing the constant gossip of the noblesand staff about his upcoming match. And so, he was here, settling himself intoa forest clearing with his notebooks and sketch paper. He might as well getsome work done on his book and not waste an afternoon.

It was then that a breeze picked up, sweeping up his notesand carrying them away into the trees. Mikleo despaired, but leapt to his feetto doggedly chase down months of work. It took him the better part of an hourto track down the scattered pages, and was still missing the better half of hissketches. He expected to find them muddied in a soggy ditch, or torn to shredsby an enterprising partridge for its nest.

He did not expect to find them being admired by a youngpeasant boy.

The boy seemed to finally take notice of Mikleo’s staring,and looked up, blinking, from the pages; with eyes green as the canopy above.

“Are these Elysialarks?” the boy asked, pointing to theavian sketches. “They’re great, but the pinion feathers are just slightly offin shape, and the notes on nesting patterns…”

--

They had talked in the forest for hours, and Sorey could notbe more in love.

He wandered back home as if in a dream, clenching andunclenching his hand – he could almost still feel Mikleo’s hand in his, but hewouldn’t have to wait long, no, he’d promised to come for him tomorrow eve, forSorey’s birthday, to compare more notes on flora and fauna and talk about histravels. Mikleo was a scholar and an artist, and Sorey had never met someone sogentlemanly…well, he’d never met another human period, really, but Sorey wasquite certain that Mikleo was the picture of a storybook prince. He might notknow the tailfeathers of an Elysialark from the butt of a sparrow, but his eyessparkled with intelligence, and his laugh was like music, and the sheer warmthof his presence sparked within Sorey an easy familiarity. Surely it was justMikleo’s charm – Sorey was sure he’d never forget meeting someone like himbefore.

Sorey sighed happily as he swung open the door, eyes dartingaround eagerly for his grandfather.

“Gramps! I met someone in the forest, he’ll be here for mybirthday dinner tomorrow night; we were talking about his book, he writes books, and even draws for them,and he wants to travel all over the world to write and draw and I--”

“—will be leaving tonight for the palace,” Gramps said,firmly. He rose from his armchair. Sorey’s face went blank at the sight of thewings on his back. “Sorey. I’m so sorry, but we have much to discuss about yourupcoming birthday.”

--

Sorey had begged, and pleaded, and even had the wild thoughtthat he might be able to run, run away after where Mikleo had rode back home onhis white horse. Gramps simply stood there, his mouth drawn into a thin, firmline.

He had been confined to this tiny forest grove his wholelife. When he tried to sneak outside the limits of where Gramps allowed him togo, he always found himself turned around, disoriented, and mysteriously on thepath back home. Sorey had always chalked it up to a bad sense of direction, andthe confirmation of fairy magic turning him roundabout was cold comfort.

He’d been a prisoner, lied to his whole life. And now, whenhe had just seen a light from the outside world, when he’d just found someonehe couldn’t bear never to see again…he was being ripped away, spirited offagain, being sent off to marry a stranger because of some agreement his parentshe never knew came to. He’d happily live his whole life in his forest birdcageif it meant he could see Mikleo again.

Sorey laid his head on the ornate desk in the palace room,his eyes staring at nothing. His favorite feather hair tie had been cast awayby the royal dressers, and his long hair had been yanked into an ornate twistof braids, pinned and secured to the crown atop his head. Gramps had left himto his own devices after failing to convince Sorey of the necessity of thiseighteen-year-long charade, and the stone room felt cold and empty despite itsrich furnishings.

He thought of Mikleo knocking on the door to an emptycottage, and squeezed his eyes shut.

It’s simply unfair.

The voice murmured in Sorey’s ear, though the room was empty.

Treating you as just apawn in this political power play. Not caring about their charge’s happinessone whit.

An eerie purple mist began to gather in the room’s center,and Sorey slowly drew himself up to look at it, as if in a trance.

The mist became corporeal in the form of a spinning wheel. Araven with glinting purple feathers perched upon the wooden wheel, and spreadits wings, cawing sharply at the point of the spindle.

Why not throw a wrenchin their plans? Sleep, young prince, sleep until this whole wretched kingdom isdust.

--

Mikleo had been there, at that christening. He had been soyoung, and could recall little but a few flashes of memory. The tiny foreign princein his cradle, giggling and reaching for Mikleo as he peered over the sidesuspiciously. His mother’s voice in his ear, teasing him about sneaking a peekat his future fiancé. Then the horrible stench of darkness, the terrifiedshouts of the nobles, and the impossibly tall figure looming over the prince’scradle; tainting the gifts of the fairies with his awful curse. The lightning strikesstreaking through the air, chasing the terrible creature from the hall, but toolate, too late, too late.

When he was older, he learned more of the events of thatnight by eavesdropping on his uncle’s meetings with his advisors. A death curseon a baby, all because of a jilted party invitation. Mikleo had known fairieswere petty, but as far as he was concerned, this was a new low.

He’d known that his infant fiancé had been taken into hiding.He could surmise that the ones harboring him would have to be powerful –powerful indeed to keep the dark fairy lord at bay. Mikleo considered himself afairly intelligent lad, and well able to keep up with shrewd politicalmovements, whether they were inter-human or inter-fairy. He was perfectlycapable of putting two and two together regarding the mysterious boy in thewoods, with the same sparkling eyes that had gazed at him from that cradle.

So why he hadn’t anticipated being ambushed by the darkforces on his way back to Sorey’s cottage…well, he could only blame himself.

It was a mystery why the dark forces hadn’t killed him onthe spot, but the morals of the fairies were beyond human comprehension – as ifMikleo cared to understand at this point, chained as he was to a wall in somedark dungeon. Perhaps they were keeping him as a plaything, content to sit backand watch him stew and quiver in impotent rage, anxiety, and despair.

What had they done to Sorey and his grandfather? The cottagewas empty when Mikleo came by; empty save for a squad of cackling littlegoblins that leapt upon him before he could reach for his knife or bow. IfMikleo could just loosen his chains, he would turn his miserable wreck of acastle upside-down looking for him, if he could just—

“Sup.”

Mikleo looked up, startled. The door to his cell opened, anda young-looking fairy girl strolled in, twirling her umbrella idly. She lookedMikleo up and down, and raised an unimpressed-looking eyebrow.

“A scrawny little nerd chained to a wall. This is where wehave pinned our hopes.”

Mikleo was too baffled to respond. An older-looking fairywoman tapped in behind her. Her red dress stood out starkly against the darkdungeon walls, and the jingle-jangle of the keyring she dangled in front of herface was a beautiful sound indeed. She smiled warmly.

“We’ve come to rescue you!” she trilled. “Come now, you’vegot a prince to save.”

The young fairy girl wandered out the door as the womanunchained him. “Mind the goblin corpses on your way out.”

--

Mikleo staggered up the stairs, taking step after painfulstep. The dark fairy lord made a fiercesome opponent indeed, even without thewhole dragon business at the end. But an enchanted arrow to the heart had finallyspelled his undoing, allowing Mikleo to make his way through the forest ofthorns that surrounded the once-lively palace. All its people slept like thedead, dreaming where they stood, frozen in time.

He had made his way through the streets, slow under theweight of his wounds and exhaustion. He made his way into the palace proper, tothe stairs leading to the highest tower. And here he stood, at the door leadingto the room where the fairies had laid the sleeping body of the prince.

Mikleo pressed his forehead to the door, and took a momentto catch his breath. He couldn’t imagine how Sorey was feeling right now -- hewondered, was he dreaming of his forest cottage, dreaming of a time beforeMikleo stumbled into his life? Mikleo couldn’t help but feel as though he wasthe walking catalyst for something Sorey would never want…shackled into amarriage he never chose for himself, chained to serve a kingdom he never knew.

Perhaps it would be kinder to let him dream a better life.

Mikleo opened the door, and limped into the tiny tower room.Sorey lay on a plush bed; the stained glass window overhead casting colors ontohis sleeping face. Wrapped in velvet robes and sporting a crown of braids andgold, he looked the picture of royalty – so different from the sunshine-facedforest boy that Mikleo had spent an unforgettable afternoon with.

They had talked of so many things. Mikleo told him about histravels to the oceans, and the mountains – of great canyons carved out overthousands of years by a single river’s flow. He told him of great cities withmassive libraries, of ancient temples and ruins, all but lost to man- andfairy-kind. Sorey drank in every word – it seemed like his heart was filled tobursting with the very thought of such amazing things out there in the world.Things that Sorey could never see, locked into an endless dreaming sleep.

A kiss would break the sleeping spell, the fairies hadexplained to him. It was all Sorey’s adoptive grandfather, a venerable elder ofthe fairies, could do to soften the deadly curse the dark fairy had placed uponhim. Just a simple kiss. Then, he’d explain everything to Sorey. Apologize fornot immediately voicing his suspicions on Sorey’s lineage when they met,acknowledge that Sorey might never forgive him. Promise him that he wouldrefuse this whole ridiculous marriage foisted on them by their parents andallow Sorey to be free to explore the world, with or without him.

Just a simple kiss. Mikleo knelt by Sorey’s bedside, andleaned in to gently press his lips to Sorey’s.

After a long moment, he felt Sorey sigh in contentmentagainst his mouth. Mikleo drew back just enough to see Sorey’s eyes flutteropen.

Sorey’s lips curved into a smile.

“Good morning, my prince.”

[coreymichaelsmithson]

Rainbows Fore and Aft

After a short but restorative stop in Kansas City, Pamela and I hit the open road again, taking one of our favorite highways through Kansas and into Oklahoma. It felt great to move freely on the blacktop, and to be on a familiar road. If you want the perfect mental picture of Pamela and I driving together across America, imagine us wheeling big cheerful curves under the clouds, my head bobbing from side to side and both of my elbows held high, while wire fences rise and fall with the terrain and Charles Trenet sings "Boum!" on the stereo.

After a few hours of blue skies, we started encountering some storms, which had exploded on the radar like kernels of popcorn. They weren't anything too severe or dramatic, damn it, but the cloudscapes were cool to look at. Besides, I needed some practice maneuvering in blinding downpours. I experienced a little hydroplaning while driving through the worst of the rain, and it was a wee bit terrifying to feel my vehicle slide laterally across the lanes … but Pamela came through with flying colors, being the awesome soccer-mom minivan she is, and we both felt a renewed sense of confidence after having stayed on the road. Driving is rad.

My favorite kind of natural light happens with approaching storms, especially when the sun is at my back and a thundercloud is darkening the skies ahead. There's a weird psychological effect of seeing sunniness and gloom in such close proximity, and I love watching those hard-to-place colors appear between faraway trees: gunmetal greys, murky lagoon blues, bruising greens. I get such an intense thrill from heading towards a storm … watching its tower loom higher and higher overhead, seeing the anvil spread out above me like a high and vast canopy, its complex and bubbling underside warning of coming dangers, its distant precipitation like smudges of graphite.

After we had "punched the core" (to borrow the sexy parlance of chasers), and had broken through to the other side of the storm, I decided to stop driving and give all my tensed joints a break. I found myself in the small town of Iola, Kansas, which claims to have "The Nation's Largest Town Square". This may be up for debate, as it seemed like a perfectly average-sized town square … but the town was pretty and lively, with a few ornate old façades standing proudly along the main drag, and a boisterous festival filling the public green.

I popped into a county historical museum, chock full of great photos, and peered into the lives of Allen County over the decades. Iola was a place built by natural gas, which was once plentiful in these parts. Many neighboring villages started out just as strong, ballooning with the hope and promise of the mines, but their brief optimistic booms came to a crash when the reserves tapped out. So the surrounding region is full of ghost towns, forlorn factories, forgotten dreams. Iola, fortunately, kept chugging along, and it diversified itself enough to survive droughts, fires, two World Wars, the Great Depression, and a devastating locust plague.

When I stepped out of the museum, I could see another storm approaching, and this one looked far more intimidating. Its dark complicated chimney dwarfed the town's grain elevator, and I could see bands of rotation corkscrewing along its sides, and I got that oogy tingly feeling in my "special area". All the citizens celebrating in Iola's town square didn't seem fazed by the dark skies; apparently, they've seen worse.

Pamela and I managed to get through the second storm, which was far denser and meaner than the first, and we were treated afterwards to a stunning late afternoon sky, with some sun pinking up the tops of the retreating thunderheads. Best of all, as the road bent us this way and that, I saw a few occasional rainbows in my rearview mirror.

Refreshed by the glory, relieved by the sunset, we sailed triumphantly into Tulsa, where we would be staying with some close friends. Within hours of my arrival, my chums and I found ourselves in the heart of downtown, surrounded by even more rainbows … hundreds of them. We had, quite unintentionally, showed up just in time for Tulsa's LGBTQ Pride festival.

The parade itself had already dissipated, but an enormous rally was still taking place, clogging up the streets of downtown with a brightly painted and happy crowd. The "East Village" neighborhood (pffth, nice try, Tulsa) was awash in glitter, flags, and lesbian mullets. It was so encouraging to see a large crowd of humans congregating peacefully, a diverse group coming together without any fussing or fighting … people of all shapes, sizes, colors, and hairstyles just hanging out together and dancing awkwardly to Donna Summer covers. It was a fleeting vision of freedom, a temporary utopia … but it was an immensely gratifying sight, and it gave me a necessary injection of cheer. There were lots of folks distributing "FREE HUGS", and I made sure to collect a few, because I love embracing strangers. Besides, it's important to show a little love to your fellow human being these days. We're living in an era of deep fearfulness, of astonishingly rabid bigotry, and I sense that things are going to get far uglier in the coming years.

Tulsa is no stranger to storms. It went through a devastating race riot in 1921, when the town's affluent black business district (all thirty-five blocks of it) was burned to the ground after a black shoeshiner was accused of molesting a white elevator attendant. Airplanes dropped incendiary bombs on buildings, burning homes and offices alike. White citizens looted black stores. Black businessmen were decapitated in the streets, or dragged in nooses behind cars. 10,000 black Tulsans were made homeless overnight, 800 were injured, and 300 lost their lives.

Now, seeing all these Tulsans come together in harmony, getting both their Pride and rainbow-swirled snowcones on, it seems like we've made at least a little progress towards becoming a culture of acceptance. If Tulsa can celebrate this kind of diversity, with gym bunnies in Speedos and moustached dykes sharing the street with sassy boa-waving black queens, perhaps there is some hope for America after all.

The most moving sight, though, was seeing all the flamboyant queer youth … unashamed, unburdened, holding hands and hugging in the middle of Middle America. I was so happy for these kids, and yet so worried for them. I wanted to grab every single baby lesbian by the ears and plant big smacking kisses on her forehead and wish her every possible happiness in the future. I wanted to gather up those prancing pennant-waving faggots in my arms (which would become impossibly huge and encompassing to surround them all) and warn these kids about the storms that are coming, and reassure them that they can (and will) make it through, because they are strong and capable, each of them, and to promise that the sun will indeed be shining on the other side of those thunderheads … and remind them to turn around occasionally, to look back upon the darkness they had just passed through, and to search the falling rain for rainbows.

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[doycetopia]

Ravenloft Ironsworn, part 8, The Fortune Teller

The left fork of the road slants upward slightly, heading up into the mountains – it this road up which most of the spirits continue to travel.

The right fork slants slightly downward, toward what looks like the base of the mountains, rather than their peaks.

At the fork, I see Liqa, standing next Reinhardt. They are both staring silently down the righthand, downward traveling path, away from the route the other spirits have taken.

Reinhardt regards the smaller path solemnly, then turns to me. As I approach, the two spirits stare meaningfully at us, but say nothing. They look back at the smaller path, then turn – seeming exhausted – and trudge up the larger road the rest of the spirits have already taken, leaving me at the crossroads, with a decision to make.

I’m heading right. It seems like there are clues to be found there.

Okay.

The canopy of mist and branches overhead suddenly gives way to a clearing, near a wide spot in the river. Dry grass rustles in the wind. Colorful wagons are parked along the banks of a pool. The strains of an accordion mix and a somewhat desultory fiddle mix with the the wind in the trees. Several – perhaps as many as 10 – brightly clad figures surround a large, roaring fire. The seldom used road passes close by this camp.

As I approach, several voices call out “Hale from the fire, join our singing and break bread with us” – a traditional greeting among the mysterious travelers known as the Vistani.

I’m a little surprised to realize they know I’m here, as I’m still far from their firelight, but they seem friendly enough.

As we approach, they wave us in toward the fire and offer bread and a skin of wine. Ismark and Ireena accept both graciously – Ireena in particular seems comfortable with the fireside etiquette – no, that’s not fair – both of them are, but it’s more surprising that Ireena can tip the wineskin and get a perfect stream into her mouth. Ismark seems more the type, I suppose.

I accept both bread and wine, taking what hospitality requires, and ask the vistani why they make camp so close to the castle in the mountains. (The pool next to their camp lies near a waterfall that tumbles from the heights above, and Ireena glances at it often.)

They shrug it off a bit. “we know how to stay safe from night creatures,” they say, but at the same time none of them look up at the high cliffs where the castle looms far overhead.

“Also,” one adds, poking the fire and not looking at us directly, “Madam Eva told us we might have visitors tonight… If you are willing, she wanted to speak with you.”

They nod in the direction of one of the wagons. Not the largest, but the most brightly painted.

We spend a few more minutes with the Vistani, so as not to seem rude, then I use the lateness of the hour as an excuse to visit this Madam Eva quickly.

[Spooky fortune teller! Check off another Bingo box for creepy fantasy story]

Madame Eva doesn’t even look up when I enter the shrouded door of her wagon. She is shuffling and dealing an oversized deck of cards onto the small table in front of her.

[Gather Information – a strong hit, which I’m going to let ride throughout this scene, since it’s potentially chock-a-block with information both explicit and vagued-up.] “They said, at the fire, you wanted to talk with us,” I say.

“They lied to you, at the fire.” She glances up and catches my expression. “Oh, not about that, I did want to talk to you – all of you.” She shakes her head. “But the reason we don’t have to worry about von Zarovich is because some of our people do his bidding and have insured – they believe – the Family’s safety from his other minions.���

She makes a show of miming spitting to the side in disgust.

“Do they really believe he will leave your Family alone?” I ask, trying to seem unperturbed at being surrounded by enemies.

Eva shrugs. “He has, for several Generations. We are… useful… to him.” Again she looks disgusted.

Her eyes flicker up to us again, then the cards. “But I can see you will attempt to bring the monster down, and I would offer you what guidance I can,” she says, gesturing to the cards spread in front of her, and the stools on your side of the table.

“You view the future?” I ask, easing onto the leftmost stool. “I’m assuming in vague bits and pieces that we’ll understand only too late.”

She shrugs again, unoffended, while Ismark and Ireena join me. “The images I see are often incomplete, but combined with wisdom and insight and…” she smirks “a little bit of luck, they can help you.”

I tilt my head toward her. “Well, I appreciate any help I can get.”

“Excellent.”

She gathers up the cards, shuffles them, and has me cut the deck before she begins to deal out an array. She lays five cards out, face down, then slowly turns each over and studies each one before speaking.

“These may tell you more of the things you seek, and whisper what the monster’s ultimate goal might be…”

[And thus a new Oracle enters the game – the famous/infamous fortune telling straight from Ravenloft – I6. Sorting this draw out took QUITE a while.]

She indicates the first card… “This card represents an object of great power – a powerful force for good and protection against the forces of darkness. It is in a place of tranquility, a harbor for the mighty and powerful; a place of wisdom, warmth, and despair. Great secrets are there.”

Ireena whispers “fathers holy symbol that was stolen.”

I nod. “That’s what I was thinking”

Madam Eva taps the next card.

“This card is good for you. It is a card of power and strength; the victor’s card. it tells of a weapon of light – a weapon with a vengeance. You may find this amid the ruins of a place of supplication and prayer.” Istvarr: “Well… that sounds… Promising.” he winks.

I rock my head left to right. “I’m not getting my hopes up.”

Madam Eva taps the next card.

“This card speaks of history. Knowledge of the ancient may help you understand your foe.” “This knowledge lies in the Monster’s mother’s place.”

Istvarr makes a face. “Probably that book the priest was yammering about.”

I nod. “Maybe.”

“I don’t fancy digging around his mother’s four-hundred year old unmentionables looking for it.”

Ireena rolls her eyes.

Next…

“This is the object of your search – the monster! Ah! I see darkness and evil behind this card! A powerful man whose enemy is light, and whose powers are beyond mortality.” She closes her eyes, concentrating. “A king’s throne is the place to find him.”

“Subtle,” Ismark says.

“The cup indicates there is a very good influence there. If you are there, the powers of good will aid you.”

It does not surprise me to hear count Strahd would surround himself in the symbols of royalty. It does surprise me to hear some hint that he may be at a disadvantage in that place. [Making a note in case we face off in some kind of throne room.]

And finally….

Eva’s eyes are still closed when she reaches out and touches this card. “And here is the root. The reason and foundation for darkness and chaos. This card shows the purpose of all things. It is the key to life and death and beyond.” Her eyes open, wide. “The darkness loves a light and desires it.” She looks at Ireena, who pales. “Great plans are in motion about you; plans that the dead may find warmth from the living.”

“Like hell,” I mutter. I study the cards for a minute, then stand. “Thank you for sharing your wisdom with us, but if you don’t mind, we’ll be on our way.”

“My people do not all feel as I do about the monster in that castle” Madam Eva says, as I step toward the door of wagon. She is not nearly as old as I’d first assumed. “Many simply ignore him. Some serve him. You may encounter them when you reach the castle, or even before; I cannot say.” Her jaw clenches, her dark eyes bright. “But know that some that oppose him, and I am one of them, and I hope this helps you as much as it can. You and your friends,” she says, looking mostly at Ireena.

The ghosts are gone well ahead by the time we return to the main road.

[And with that, I’m marking off milestones for a couple different vows related to Strahd. Lots of information – here’s hoping we recognize it when it’s useful.]

One of the things I find really cool about how Ironsworn is interacting with Ravenloft is the list of ‘stuff’ that this card reading lays out for me. In the original module (and in World of Dungeons), these are your basic magic weapons or holy symbols with bonuses to specific foes or turning undead or whatever. That’s fine. In Ironsworn, on the other hand, this event basically lays out a road map for acquiring stuff that will make beating Strahd achievable. I mean, I’ve set him and the related quest up as Epic, and without boring everyone I’ll say that a 1v1 versus an Epic foe is pretty much a self-inflicted death sentence.

However, it’s very straightforward in Ironsworn to say “this thing lowers the threat level of [particular thing or category of thing]”, so if you get [magic weapon] and [holy symbol] and [fight the guy in this one blessed location], you can, through significant prep work (all of which conveniently advances the quest itself), get the Big Boss Showdown to something manageable, which in every version of the game (DnD, WoD, Ironsworn, whatever) is the point of the stuff in the first place.

It’s just really… neat.

original post

[rasekstories]

Lord of Graves

The bay at Nazmir's crown was crowded, not with ships or sails, but with sand bars that stretched long across the water. A thick grove of trees grew from the bay itself; their roots holding trunks above the waves like spider legs. Thick, stubborn grass grew throughout, and in between the brush were flocks of sea birds, their mouths filled with seaweed and the muscles that clung to it. The place stank of salt and decay.

Redfield's Watch had been erected rather recently, along the edge of the mouth of the Shattered River. It was, all things considered, a pathetic camp. The barest skeleton of a contingent had been sent there, presumably to monitor activity beyond reasonable safety, and the loss of that safety meant they seldom saw visitors, or supplies, or relief. It was also where the shadows had been stationed.

Raethian was knee deep in the river. It was no deeper than that the length across, she thought, but the bottom was entirely silt and made for a slower trip. The bugs that nipped at her exposed ears and cheeks only made the pace more frustrating.

The temple that lay at the other side was a ruin of what it once was; squat and sprawling with crumbling towers, and the stonework of the black road half swallowed by the swamp. It pulsated with energy she wasn’t familiar with. Cold, quiet. A warning to those who crept too close. This place wasn’t meant for the living.

She could see the river of souls pass over the walls of the necropolis, some more defined than others. Some were sad, some were not. Some were angry, some were at peace. All knew exactly where they were going. Little ghosts that drifted like fireflies above the grass and stone; winking in and out like stars in the clear night sky.

Fingertips on the stone, wet with dew. She hoisted herself up over the wall where it was low; worn away with time and lack of care, and landed beside a stone basin filled with soot and sand. Her instinct was to stay low, scout the area in case she was seen, but there was no need: The temple was as still and dead as the trolls that rested beneath it.

The cries of squabbling birds had melted away into a stifling silence. Even the sun seemed lost behind a canopy of trees that loomed and bent overhead, reaching out to temple’s main rise with fingers dripping in hanging moss. As far as she could tell, she was the only soul alive within the walls.

A crackle from her communicator broke the eerie silence and she quickly reached to turn it off. The chances of it being for her were low, and even if it was, someone from the watch would come and find her here. It wasn’t far, even if the air and the light and the feeling in her chest made it seem like a different world.

Raethian stood at the lip of a ruined stair, hands on her hips, looking over the temple square. An identical set of stairs lie maybe one hundred meters in front of her on the other side, with two larger, longer ones coming from the main road. The door to the temple’s main chamber yawned beneath a decorative skull, flanked on either side by constructs that weren’t, or didn’t seem to be, active at all.

She’d seen the skull peppered across the swamp, in ruins and in camps, sunk into the swamp and standing proudly before altars freshly used. The Loa of Death resided deep in the ground here, and this, she had to assume, was where the dead came when it was time to wander home.

A stream of them like mist floated by her, whispering nothings to one another that made her ears twitch and her skin tingle. It reminded her of something she heard long ago, about the knights squirreled away in Acherus. But this seemed peaceful, accepting. Comfortable. She wondered if all spirits were like this when they died.

“Rae?”

She spun around, planting one foot behind her, hands out front in the familiar crane stance. She knew that voice like the back of her hand, though she hadn’t heard him approach. And when she turned to look, only the wall greeted her.

“Raethian!”

She turned again, to the temple’s open mouth. The burning eyes above the door seemed brighter; the sky darker. They seemed to watch her. A cold fear trickled down her chest and into her gut. There was no one there. Not even spirits.

“Mal?” She called out into the swamp, her voice small and wavering. No answer. Not even an echo. Only the eyes of the Loa of Death, high above her, boring holes into her heart. Brilliant and blinding, purple and white. She shielded her eyes and felt the weight of them only grow stronger.

The voice called to her again, laced with urgency. It was further still, and even as she stepped forward she felt a tug at her legs, at her chest, at her soul. Come closer, it beckoned, into the temple. Come find me. Come see what I have for you.

Raethian stopped short of the step. The voice pleaded with her, deep within the yawning mouth beneath the skull. Her ears twitched. She dug her fingers into the palms of her hands, nails leaving crescents in the skin.

“It’s not real.” She said. It sounded like him. It needed her, very badly, to go into the temple and find him, but it wasn’t him.

She turned away through sheer force, pulling her scarf up around her ears. The voice that called out to her again was hungry, demanding. A wolf chasing down a deer. She hopped the crumbling wall and slid down the bank to the Shattered River, wading back across the silt to the eastern bank, to the watch, where she hoped someone was waiting for her.

The river of souls continued behind her; a silverly ribbon against an inky sky. Its hushed whispers filled the temple court like the hum of insects, the prayers and curses of the departed, spiraling towards an open mouth and the burning eyes of the Loa of Death.