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hollandorks · 2 years

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shadows in the night

battinson!bruce wayne x f!reader

chapter seventeen

summary: more than a year after the events of middle of the night, y/n and Bruce are happily engaged and working to lower the amount of crime in Gotham. However, a new killer calling himself the Riddler has other plans for their happiness…set during the events of the movie, mostly canonical, some changes made to fit the story

a/n: I won’t lie, I really enjoy this chapter! I’m a bit nervous about it and agonized over it too, which is why it’s a day later than usual. I hope you enjoy it!

Series Masterlist

word count: 3194

It was time to catch an asshole in a mask. It was time to end this.

The Gotham streets were still slick with all the rain from the past week. Y/n slipped through the shadows easily, one eye on the crowds around the Iceberg Lounge–even more popular now that men patronizing it were being murdered, apparently–and one eye on the the darkness around her. She started across the street from the club, watching the entrance where Annika and the mayor had been photographed. Things had changed a bit since she had worked there, but the essence of the club was still the same.

The pictures had definitely come from the building right across the street.

She waited for a minute, watching as the door of the club opened and one of the bouncers stepped out, confused. She blinked and almost missed the shadow that darted inside behind him and shut the door in his face.

She hid a smile into one hand. Bruce.

After a moment of watching the bouncer banging on the door, y/n turned back to the task at hand.

She was suddenly completely aware of how out of her depth she was.

She wasn’t a detective like Gordon, or a genius like Bruce, so how could she expect to find the Riddler? How could she expect to figure out this puzzle piece? She wished she’d gone with Bruce inside the club. At the very least, she could fight. He’d made sure of that.

She took another deep breath and calmed her mind.

No. The Riddler was like her, except yeah, he was smarter.

But he’d been chewed up and spit out by the corruption in the city, just like she had.

That’s why he’d called her an inspiration, right? Even as her gut churned to think about it like that, she forced herself to dig deeper into the thought. She pulled up the memory every single cop and crime show and true crime documentary she’d ever seen and tried to draw on the knowledge to figure it the fuck out.

The Riddler was playing the long game. That much she was certain of.

He had planned and planned and planned before executing any part of it. The ciphers, the riddles, the staging of the bodies. The photographs being leaked. The cards. The bomb mailed to Wayne Manor.

All of it coming together like pieces on a chess board, because that’s how he saw it, wasn’t it? It was all one long game to take out the corruption in the city.

She stared up at the apartment building as mist drifted down from the thick clouds overhead.

He probably lived in one of the apartments. Or at least rented one to use for whatever his nefarious purposes were.

Alright, think, y/n told herself as she continued to study the building–part of her was hoping one of the windows would open and the Riddler would shout down at her, revealing his location.

How best to figure it out, then, if he wasn’t going to give himself away?

She headed for the fire escape and started climbing. She’d start at the top, see if the roof held any clues towards the Riddler’s whereabouts. He might have used the roof to take the photos. If that didn’t work, she’d make her way inside, maybe see if she could find someone awake at this late hour and ask if there were any weirdos with clear framed glasses living there or dropping by.

Legs burning as she climbed, y/n wondered exactly how Gordon and Bruce had the patience for this shit. She felt stupid thinking that she’d just ask around and see if she could find the Riddler. She berated herself as she neared the top of the fire escape. She really should have gone with Bruce. This was stupid. So he had taken the photos from across the street. So what? That didn’t mean he was still here. Did it? Did she really think she was going to get lucky and just stumble across his location, take him in, and that be that?

But what if she did?

She thought about her promise to Bruce to not do anything rash. To let him and Gordon know. The Riddler was dangerous, so she couldn’t go rushing in if she did somehow manage to find him. She had to be careful, because otherwise the outcome might be bad. She wasn’t holding her breath on actually finding anything useful, but at least she was chasing down the lead. Just in case.

When she reached the roof, flashes of blue and red illuminated the misty air around her.

No, around the club.

There were no sirens, no sounds, nothing, just the lights. Curious, she peered back down and saw tons of cops gathering around the club, every single one of them aiming at the front door. Based on the way the lights were bouncing around in the mist, they had the back entrance and alleyways covered, too.

Her stomach dropped. Gordon had gathered the troops, and Bruce was in there. She really, really hoped the cops down there weren’t trigger happy. Bruce was already on GCPD’s shit list for escaping from right under their noses on their own turf. Hopefully capturing Falcone and delivering him to Gordon would earn him some much needed brownie points. She took a breath and firmly told herself that Bruce’s suit was bulletproof, and Gordon had his back.

Y/n shook the thoughts off and focused on the task at hand. Because how nice and perfect would it be to deliver Falcone and the Riddler into GCPD’s waiting hands? How good would that make Gordon look? She smiled to herself as she nosed around the dirty roof, finding nothing but trash, cigarette butts, and an empty paint can that smelled suspiciously like urine.

Nothing. She wasn’t great at looking for clues like Bruce was, but even she could tell that the roof had nothing to offer. She blew out a breath, the sound almost too loud in the quiet night.

She pulled out the now-crumpled photos she’d taken from the desk and studied them. She held them up and peered over the edge of the roof, comparing them to what was before her. On the far side of the roof, she could barely see the front of the club. But closer to where she’d come up the fire escape, the angle was nearly perfect. It was just slightly too high. That, compared with the fact that there wasn’t much on the roof to begin with, made her think that the photos had been taken from somewhere inside the building, most likely the top floor.

On a whim, she tried the door that led inside the building, and had her first stroke of luck.

Unlocked.

She glanced up at a security camera above the door and really hoped she didn’t get arrested. The small, blinking red light told her that the camera actually worked and wasn’t just for show.

Wary, she quietly took the stairs down to the top floor of the building.

The hallway was dim and dingy, the doors of each apartment painted with chipping red paint. There was a window at the end of the hallway. She crept over to it and peered outside. With a tilt of her head, she was able to see the flashing lights and cops gathered below.

This was it.

The apartment to her left didn’t have a view of the club, but the one on the right would.

She fumbled for her phone and texted Bruce and Gordon both the apartment number. She needed to get out while she still could, let Gordon and his men surround the building and corner the Riddler. He was cunning, too cunning, and she didn’t want herself to be at the mercy of another bomb.

Y/n slowly started backing away.

The door swung open.

“Y/n,” the man said, his face utterly unremarkable. His face was round, his eyes wide behind familiar glasses, his hair a light brown. He looked almost boyish in the light. “What a surprise.” He didn’t seem surprised at all to see her.

Her heart stopped.

The security camera was probably his.

The man called the Riddler gave her a chilling smile. “Come in, I want to show you something. I won’t hurt you.” He stepped aside and held the door open for her.

Y/n couldn’t think beyond the panic that was thrumming through her. Should she run? Would he come after her? Shoot her? Blow her up? She had no way of knowing, and that was the worst part. He said he wouldn’t hurt her, but he’d already mailed a bomb to her home. He’d already had the DA crash a car into a memorial she was attending. He’d already threatened her fiance, outed her as a confidential informant to a lot of very powerful people, and was likely the reason the Gotham Project had burned down. He’d already hurt her.

“Come in,” the Riddler said again, more firmly this time, his chilling smile morphing into something threatening. She hated that he looked so normal but was still so frightening.

She stepped into his apartment, heart in her throat, palms sweating. Her taser was in her belt, her phone in her pocket, and her only backup was busy making the biggest arrest in Gotham history.

The apartment was a wreck.

That was the first thing she noticed.

For someone so organized in his murders and schemes, the Riddler’s apartment was…messy. Beyond messy. There was stuff everywhere, so much stuff her mind couldn’t make sense of it all. One of the walls was covered in newspapers and painted words, the biggest of which said LIES.

The door closed beyond her. The lock sliding into place was as loud as a gunshot.

“I didn’t expect to see you,” the Riddler said pleasantly, as if she’d merely stopped by for a chat and nothing else.

“I–” she started to say, but her throat was so tight with fear that no sound came out.

There were notebooks, shelves upon shelves of them, cages, parts of weapons, bomb schematics, so many things scattered over every surface that screamed serial killer that her fingers were going numb with fright.

He pushed past her, further into the dim and shadowy apartment like he was about to ask her how she liked her coffee.

“What do you want from me?” she finally managed to ask.

The Riddler didn’t turn around. He merely went towards an open window and a gun–a rifle–sitting on a tripod aimed at the streets below.

Her heart stuttered again. All those people, she thought in a blind panic, stumbling forward with one hand out. The Riddler either didn’t notice or didn’t care what she was doing.

“You’re like me,” he said quietly. “An orphan, chewed up by the city, drowning in its corruption…doing what has to be done to exorcize it. Like an infected wound.”

She wanted to throw up at his words, almost the exact same words she’d thought earlier before heading up to the building’s roof. She watched his back, one hand edging for her taser. If he started shooting all those cops, the patrons and employees of the club….He could kill a lot of them while they all stood in the street, waiting. What if Lena stepped outside at just the wrong moment? Or Gordon? Or Bruce?

“I didn’t expect you to find me here before it was all over,” the Riddler continued. “I should have known you would be more clever than I thought.” He seemed…delighted. “How did you find me?”

“The pictures,” she managed to choke out. “Of Annika and Mitchell. I compared the angle up on the roof. Got lucky I guess.”

“Hm. Yes. I’m surprised our bat friend didn’t figure it out. No wonder he likes working with you.” The Riddler looked over his shoulder at her, eyes almost twinkling in the low light.

“What are you planning?” she asked, because that’s what she was here for. Maybe, just maybe, if she distracted him long enough she could take him by surprise. Bruce or Gordon or both had to have gotten her text that she’d found him. One of them would come. They had to. She just had to keep the Riddler talking until then, and not let him take a shot.

“Oh, that’s not for you to know quite yet. Like I said–I wasn’t planning for you to be here, but that’s just as well. You’ll get a front row seat.”

“To what?” she asked, anger making her words sharp. She tried to smother her anger, her rage, her fear. If there was any truth to any of the crime shows she’d watched, she knew she needed to stay calm, to play along. That was the safest thing. And she’d promised Bruce she wouldn’t be rash. Just her luck–the one time she was trying not to rush headfirst into danger, it found her first.

“You’ll see,” he said. “Though I hear you did get a front row seat to my last target. I should have seen that coming.” A flash of something dark in his eyes when he looked at her. “A shame I didn’t succeed.”

It took her a second.

He was talking about Bruce.

He was sad he didn’t kill Bruce was that fucking bomb.

“You fucking bastard,” she snapped. “You try to kill the man I love, then act like you’re just having me over for fucking coffee or something? I’m glad you didn’t succeed! If I could, I’d blow a bomb up in your face, see how you like it!”

He was facing her fully now, though she could tell he was still paying attention at least slightly to what was going on down below in the street in front of the club. She was suddenly very, very aware that the rifle was the only weapon she could see. Especially since he kept one hand behind his back when he turned towards her. She had her hand on her taser, but it wouldn’t do much good against a gun. And wasn’t it a thing for killers like him to booby trap their own homes? The whole place was probably rigged to blow.

She swallowed thickly.

“It’s for your own good!” the Riddler snapped. Darkness and pure, fiery rage flickered in his eyes. “Bruce Wayne and his lying daddy are part of the problem! You of all people should see that!”

She’d pissed him off. The look in his eyes showed just how unhinged he was, even as the rage banked and died away. The almost blank look that overtook it was scarier than anything else had been so far.

“Bruce isn’t corrupt,” she said, voice soft. She held one hand out in a placating gesture. “He’s good. Do you think I’d be with him if he weren’t?”

The Riddler tilted his head to study her, the movement almost predatory. “But you didn’t know about his father, about Falcone, or any of that when you met him, did you?”

She bit her lip. “No,” she said honestly. “But Bruce would never hire someone to kill someone. Especially not for power.”

“Then why does he let the Renewal fund continue? Why does he leave Wayne Enterprises to run itself into the ground, connected to people like Carmine Falcone?” He seemed genuinely curious about her answer.

“I don’t know,” she said, again telling the truth. “But he helped with the Gotham Project. He–he supported me last year, when I–”

“When you almost died.” The Riddler hummed and turned to look outside briefly. She gripped the taser tighter, ready to strike, but he turned back around again before she could. “I will not miss a second time, y/n,” he finally said after a moment of thought.

He meant he would kill Bruce next time, given the chance.

“I’ll kill you before I let that happen,” she snarled, stepping closer.

The Riddler’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t back down. “Bruce Wayne and all he stands for is just as much a part of the sickness plaguing this city as anything else. Remember how I said it was like an infected wound? If you don’t get out all of the infection, it will fester and grow and take over again. Bruce Wayne may only be a small part of that infection, but it will grow and grow and grow if you do not treat it!”

He was nearly shouting by the time he finished speaking. Y/n flinched.

The anger was back, brighter and hotter than before. “Then why didn’t you kill those assholes who’re still in prison? Williams and his ilk? Huh? Why’d you leave me to do all the hard work last year while you cowered away here, watching, waiting for your time to shine? Is that it? You wanted me to get most of the ‘infection’ so you could look good finishing it off? So you could look clever?”

They were standing almost nose to nose now, her hand gripping the taser.

His eyes flashed behind his glasses. “No!” he cried, voice almost anguished. “You inspired me. I wasn’t cowering and waiting! I was making my plans! It was all leading to this!”

She scoffed and stepped back as the hand behind him moved. He was going to shoot her, she realized. He was going to kill her. Her chest squeezed tight with fear. Shit. She shouldn’t have made him mad. Shouldn’t have insulted him.

And then something worse occurred to her. It was all leading to this, he’d said.

Ice filled her veins as she realized this might be a plot against Bruce–against Batman. The rifle, the clues, the cards, all of it leading Batman towards this night, this place…

Towards the Riddler’s gun.

He wanted her to have a front row seat–

To Batman’s death.

“Put the gun away,” y/n said in a low voice. The Riddler flashed her a smile, all traces of his anguished cries gone in a flash. It was disconcerting, how quickly his emotions wavered back and forth from one moment to the next.

Please, she thought, getting ready to strike.

There was a commotion outside the window, a shout.

Unconcerned by her, the man calling himself the Riddler turned back to the window, adjusted the rifle, and took a shot all in the span of a few seconds. She lurched forward, expecting him to shoot again, but he merely picked up the rifle as if to put it away.

One shot. He’d only shot one person.

He stepped away right as she gasped out an anguished “No!” and darted to the window, the taser forgotten in her haste to make sure Bruce was alright.

Her eyes scanned frantically over the sea of cops and people spilling out of the club until she saw a dark shadow. A ripple of a cape. Pointed ears. He straightened from a crouch.

Bruce was fine.

Carmine Falcone was dead at his feet.

Y/n barely took a breath of relief before pain exploded in her head.

She thought she heard the words “For your own good,” before darkness overtook her and the world fell away.

Next Chapter

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#bruce wayne x reader #batman x reader #battinson x reader #the batman x reader #bruce wayne fic #batman fic #battinson fic #the batman fic #bruce wayne imagine #the batman imagine #battinson imagine #batman imagine #the batman #the batman 2022 #bruce wayne #battinson #robert pattinson #sitn #shadows in the night

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styrmwb · 11 months

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Favorite Final Fantasy Music (FFXI - Treasures of Aht Urhgan)

What do you do after you kill god? You go have an unrelated adventure! And then you get horribly abused by a terrible cat lady. (If Dawntrail really wants to be Aht Urhgan 2 they gotta have Naja in it) Anyways, this is the 3rd FFXI expansion! The whole thing takes place in a middle eastern type setting (or more like the fantastical arabian nights type) which I really liked cause I feel like you just don't see it often? At least in FF it isn't common at all. Also, unlike CoP, I think the soundtrack excels in both battle and world music, which I absolutely love.

5. Delve This is just one of those songs that is the epitome of the XI sound to me. The snare backing, the horns and strings, and also whatever instrument you'd like to call the main melody (it's like a weird wind horn or something but I like it). Not much else to say cause overall it's very similar to the base game Battle Theme but I like it for a lot of the same reasons.

4. Mercenaries' Delight Song That Plays As You Kill 1,000,000 Colibri. This is the other party group battle theme, but unlike Delve for dungeons, this is outdoors. I love the bass track sounding like a fun arcade-like hit, giving the song a unique sound with the rest of the instruments also being very classic XI. The flute trilling high at the top of the song is very addictive to listen to, and the fact that I'm not sick of it after several hours of grinding speaks volumes.

3. Rapid Onslaught -Assault- Speaking of addictive songs, this is absolutely one. I wish I was good at calling out what tempos are, cause I absolutely love this song's; it feels like constant triplets. The percussion and bass, as usual, is absolutely killer, then you throw in the main synth melody, and I could listen to this shit for hours. The piano in the middle is a beautiful little interlude, before going back into the synth again for a triumphant finale.

2. Bustle of the Capital Main city theme! I think a lot of the reason I love this song is because it reminds me of World of Warcraft, the drums being the same sound as the music in Zangarmarsh there. But this is perfect for where it takes place, sounding a lot different from the other city themes you've encountered so far, which makes sense! You're far away from all of them, engrossed in a different culture now. I love how on the second "loop" of the song it gets more upbeat, bringing in that bustle the title talks about, using more strange sounds for the melody that I can't quite describe cause I don't know words.

1. Eastward Bound... This is the song that plays when you're on the ship heading to Aht Urhgan. It sounds like... it sounds like you're riding an airplane. I get a picture in my mind of one of those really big fancy international planes with the 3 columns of seats and there's a tv for everyone and there's like two sets of stewards/stewardesses on each side, and then like the camera zooms out and shows the sky while the announcer for the commercial tells you to come fly with this specific brand of flight. Sorry, ramble, but hopefully you get what I'm saying??? Love the midi ass piano/guitar that starts the song, and the bwoo bwooooo sound used for the main instrument. This song ls literally perfect for international travel, which is what it's used for! So they killed it. Actually perfect sound, and I loved hearing this to start out the expansion.

Honorable mentions go to: Illusions in the Mist, Jeweled Boughs, Ululations from Beyond, and Run Chocobo Run!

#final fantasy #final fantasy xi #textpost #jared's final fantasy music opinions

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semper-legens · 2 years

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1. The Well of Ascension, by Brandon Sanderson

Owned: No, library Page count: 763 My summary: The Lord Ruler is dead. So is Kelsier. The city and the empire have fallen to Vin, a street urchin turned powerful Mistborn, and Elend Venture, idealist and son of a nobleman. But with three armies on their heels and the Lord Ruler’s secrets hanging over Vin, can they save the world from falling into turmoil before the mists rise once more? My rating: 5/5 My commentary:

I freaking love these books. Admittedly, I have read exactly two of them so far, but I am very much in love with them. They’re exactly what I’m looking for from a fantasy series - in a lot of ways, they remind me of Trudi Canavan’s Black Magician books, but with a larger scope and more focus on the political intrigue than the relationship drama, which is something that I very much appreciate in my fantasy fiction. On the whole, I am still very much enamoured with this series, and will not be able to cover even a third of my thoughts in this post because holy shit are these books long. But I shall do my best!

Vim is our main protagonist - the POV splits off into other people occasionally, but Vim is the central character, and her arc continues from the last book. One thing I really appreciate about Vim is her insecurity, and how she is very strong in some aspects while being incredibly vulnerable in others. She struggles hard with trust issues, never really having had someone she could trust until she met Kelsier - and even then, she wasn’t able to give him her all because of her damage. Which is as heartbreaking as it is increasingly a problem for poor Vim. Somewhat contrary to what I said before, relationship drama does present a large subplot in this book, but it’s more of a natural progression of Vim and Elend’s arcs as characters than the main focus of the plot. There is a love triangle, but it’s largely about Vim’s life being torn between her Mistborn side and her normal woman side rather than Which Hot And Sexy Boy She Wants, which is really what I’m looking for.

What of the other characters? Poor Elend is dealing with a lot, and learning how to become a better leader and a better king even after his crown is stripped from him. I like that he still sticks to his principles and refuses to be a dictator and allows his opponents to get a fair chance even when he knows that a firmer hand might just pull the city through the war, because he wants a fairer world so badly. I fucking love Sazed, his conflict between his mild-mannered personality and the widening horrors that he is encountering is really interesting. Breeze is cool and I love him and I just wish he was a little fruitier. I do not trust Marsh.

I really like how the war is presented here. From the get-go, we know that this is not a fight that our protagonists can win. They’re the weaker party at all times, their only real asset is Vim’s strengths as a Mistborn, and their only way to survive is to ally with one of the sides, which isn’t ideal because they are all assholes. They try and play one side off the other to possibly profit from the downfalls of the rest, but it doesn’t quite go to plan considering that Elend is not a particularly strong leader, and while he does improve it’s too little, too late. It’s a tragedy in slow motion, which is entirely my jam.

Next up, 1700s England, and a demonic puzzle for a strange man.

#The Well of Ascension #Brandon Sanderson #bookblr #book blogging #book blog #5

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mmriesoftvat · 8 months

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There is a box waiting for Lisa on her desk. Jean and Kaeya have been curious about it, but kept clear to allow the rightful recipient to do the honors and open it. The case is cold to the touch, charged with cryo to preserve the contents, but beautiful engraved on the surface with the name of a renown patisserie in the city.

Is it a gift from an admirer? The letter coming with the gift would hold the answer.

[Happy holidays, Lisa.

I wish you had told me about this Mondstadt tradition, so I could find out sooner. I only know bits and pieces about it, which is frustrating for someone who likes to do things right. I decided to play safe, and have chosen to commission an artisan from your city rather than a local in Sumeru. I didn't want your present to be damaged.

But to make it personal, the design of this dessert is of my own choosing. You probably remember well what a Sumeru Rose looks like, and will think the number of frosted sugar petals is inaccurate. That is not a mistake; I wanted to give you one for each year that I've missed.

Next time we meet, please tell me more about this festival. Until then, enjoy the end of this year, and look forward to an even brighter one.

The best wishes, from Cyno]

There is a strike across the name, followed by a few more words, in a completely different calligraphy. Less fluid and spontaneous than Cyno, the neat writing of a hand trying hard to be perfect, with a touch of messy that comes from rigidity. Not quite cursive.

[Your baby brother, Collei, and Tighnari.]

The individual names are differently signed. Maybe the letter was hijacked before being handed over to the mailman.

Lisa doesn't often get mail, and when she does, it's never anything quite as extravagent as this. She's sitting down to inspect everything, tracing her fingers gently over the cold case. It's intriguing, and her first thought is that Mika might've gotten a hold of it, or Kaeya might've done something to mess with her. Both thoughts are quickly brushed to the side, as Lisa can't see either of them being accidentally or purposely silly in this specific instance.

No, this has to come from someone else. Or some thing else, it feels like the case may be. She pulls her fingers away, brushing them against her lap in an attempt to warm them before reaching for the letter.

With a sigh, she leans back in her chair and holds the letter above her head, slouching down even further. As tired as she is right now, or as cold, she never would pass up the chance to enjoy a beautifully written letter from someone so dear to her.

As she reads, her eyes blur. Sitting up straight, Lisa reaches up to scratch at her face, trying to stave off the wave of sadness that's come over her. Bittersweet, more like, because hearing from Cyno anymore is such a rarity these days. They're both living very busy lives, though Cyno these days seems more busy than normal.

She misses him.

There's no point in trying to get a letter started right away. As she sets the letter down, her free hand is picking up the case and pulling it open. This time, Lisa is bracing herself against the cold by using a handkerchief to counter it. The dessert inside is beautifully designed, and she'd almost hate to mess it up.

Just like with the case, Lisa is tracing her fingers carefully over the dessert, admiring and appreciating how much effort must've gone into this, specifically for her. Cyno had always shown his care in the strangest of ways; maybe she never really appreciated it before now. Or never noticed.

Glancing back at the letter, her eyes mist once more when she realizes that Cyno isn't the only one who signed the letter. The fact that all three of them had come together to give her something special, and yet so simple, means more to Lisa than she could ever put into words.

She'll have to draft a letter later, as well as commission a dessert to send to Cyno in return. And maybe. Maybe. She'll send something special for Collei too.

#( ANSWERED. )#( SELF | LISA. )#( IC. )#roleplay abiogenesis2 #; cyno #this was so cute HELP

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rhokisb · 2 years

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The Kalm Before the Storm

Hey all, Orlogg again.

Thing's are really not good. Forgive my penmanship as I can't seem to stop shaking. As I write this, I'm covered in blood along with the rest of the team.

We got back to Kalm yesterday and went back to the mansion where we last saw Vestare, Dank, and Passmae. They were still there thankfully and...

I regret my anger getting the better of me. I could have behaved differently, and I might have to live with this for the rest of my life--however short it may be.

It's just when I saw Passmae, everything came back to me in a tide of red. The bullshit on the mountaintop. How selfish he's been. How I've been so kind to him, always carrying him and keeping him safe. How he's never done the same for me. I couldn't hold my rage back anymore.

Was it appropriate to misty step behind him, grapple him, then bind and gag him? Maybe not, but no one else in the party stopped me. We took him to another room and had an extended conversation with him about his actions and how they affected all of Weyard. How much we've had to sacrifice to correct his mistakes--it was easy enough with Dante's arm missing to exemplify that. How he almost killed all of us without a second thought for a selfish wish that had no hope of ever coming true.

It was an emotional talk, and there were a lot of moments where we all spoke the truth to one another. Passmae expressed how we never really told him about the danger the world is in (apparently, Cartiz coming down on a dragon and obliterating a whole town WASN'T ENOUGH, but fair fair fair). We told him that in all honesty: every tavern you play in is a room full of dead people if we don't succeed. In short, it was heavy.

After he finally admitted that he wished for a dragon, Armand assaulted him one last time before Dante cut him loose with a simple:

"You're gonna do whatever you're gonna fucking do."

Passmae left the mansion after that and I didn't see him for the rest of the day. To be honest, I didn't see anyone else for the rest of the day. I saw Armand leave without his armor, and I have a vague drunk memory of him coming back while I was drinking in the dining room. Vestare spent most of the day in her room, she's been done with all the fighting for a while. Dank tried to keep us all in good spirits but no one was vibing with the dancing lights this night. I don't know where Dante or Shenzu went either.

The last memory I have was tearing into a roasted chicken while the room was spinning and then the next thing I knew there was screaming outside of the mansion. I stumbled out into the courtyard and found all my friends there watching this mist come closer and closer to the city. When it arrived, it covered us all in red droplets--I licked it, definitely blood. That was when I saw Passmae standing in the middle of the town square below, looking up into the blood rain.

Now, he may have pissed me the fuck off, but I couldn't let the little guy be alone. I raced across the courtyard to grab him but before I got there a THING fell from the sky and exploded onto the ground below. Getting closer, Dank pointed out that there were pieces of torn blue leather in the center of the mess that might have been a person.

Immediately I felt a shiver up my spine before a bell began to toll and Catiz descended from the sky. Cartiz in the red robes. Cartiz, the one who stole our life from us. As he descended he spoke:

"Behold Kalm! Heroes have brought you here. Good intentions all. However, the machinations far beyond their kin move them ever forward. And now you will fear the dark, for the feast shall begin."

And as he finished, he reached into his robes and pulled out THE ORB (the orb he used to kill Savaras and steal our life). I tried to grab Passmae before he could see it, but I failed and I felt the little guy shiver as Cartiz stole life from the city of Kalm. He got more from me too, I could feel the ice of death crawling further up my spine. As I tried to shield Passmae from the orb, people all around us shriveled, turned to dust, and blew away.

Cartiz held the orb, and it shimmered with the life and souls of the departed. He turned to leave, his voice still booming across the town, and said:

"One final wish from Weyard, to awaken Azathoth."

And he left us standing there, like idiots, amidst the piles of dust that were once 2790 people as he headed to Mount Alif with his orb full of souls to use the last wish of this world to summon a god that will turn reality into oblivion.

This is our time to do or die I guess. I was really hoping we'd get a vacation before the world ends but I don't see that in our future.

We'll see what happens next. This may be my final entry. I don't think this journal will survive if we fail, but I'm going to leave it here in Kalm. If you're reading this, know that we tried and that we're sorry if you lost someone in Kalm. We're sorry you got stuck in the crossfire. No one deserves that.

Hold your family close and if you're still alive tomorrow, then we succeeded! If not...well, try not to worry about it I guess.

With the last hope in the box,

ORLOGG

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fortuositywritings · 3 years

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Part 1 Wanda x Reader

Summary: You bump into Wanda Maximoff at a grocery store. Wouldn’t be a problem if either of you were anyone else but you two were no ordinary people.

You would think having the ability to take anyone’s power would be awesome. It’s not.

With a simple touch, you could take any person with special abilities’ special powers from them. You figured this out in grade school when you high-fived one of your friends for the first time. Suddenly you could see through walls. That same year, you figured out they could take those powers back.

A few years later you found out they could only take those powers back if they wanted them. You tried giving someone their invisibility back but they would not have it. Now you are stuck with it. You are stuck with a few others too, like walking through walls and mimicking voices. Those you got from random strangers on the street.

Obviously, you tried to give them back. You wouldn’t take what isn’t yours, but it was an impossible task. Finding a stranger you bumped into in New York is kind of hard.

You’ve tried passing off powers to other people but it never worked. You could only return them to the person who gave them to you. To give them back, all you had to do was touch them again and they had to want the powers back. It was that simple.

So when you bump into Wanda Maximoff at the grocery store, things get a little complicated.

You’ve made a friend recently who turns out to be Sokovian. Seeing as his birthday is coming up, you thought it would be cool to cook him a traditional Sokovian meal. A few searches on Google and you print out a list of what you need.

You leave to the nearest store that would have all you need. You check off your list, heading toward the aisle of spices. You finally find the one the recipe calls for and lucky for you, it’s the last one. You reach for it but you feel someone else’s hand touching yours, reaching for the same thing.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says. You look at the woman who is standing really close to you for a stranger. She has intense green eyes, you notice. She pulls her hand away.

“It’s alright,” you say.

“Was that the last one?” she asks, awkwardly.

“It seems so,” you confirm. “But we can ask an employee if they have more somewhere?”

You flag down an employee two aisles down and ask. They shake their head and then tell you they won’t be getting more until next week. The woman with the green eyes sighs.

“We can split it,” you suggest. “I don’t need the whole thing. At least I don’t think so? I just need it to make a Sokovian dish that calls for it. I probably won’t be using it for anything else.”

“I don’t know. Sokovian food is delicious if I may say so. You’ll get a taste and might regret sharing this with a stranger,” she teases.

You smile and ask, “Oh, are you Sokovian?”

She nods and you add, “Well, then I insist on sharing it with you. Maybe you can actually give me a few tips on this recipe?”

“What are you making?” she asks you. You show her the recipe on your phone and she kindly shares some of her expertise which you’re grateful for. She follows you around the store making conversation as you grab the rest of what you need. Technically, you follow her around as she suggests you other stuff to add to the recipe.

You add a mini mason jar to your cart. You both head to pay and outside pour some of the spice into your mason jar and give her the rest of the bottle. You thank her for all the help and wish her a great day.

Wanda gets back to the tower in a positive mood. Everyone notices and asks her what happened. She replies that she just had a nice interaction with a stranger and it made her day.

Though her day was made, the rest of her week was hell. She doesn’t know what is wrong with her. Her powers have been failing her. She doesn’t understand. At first she thinks it’s just the more difficult things she can’t do but then she notices how no one’s thoughts appear in her head. It’s quiet. She only hears her own.

Something was definitely wrong.

You thought you were imagining things but after guessing what your friends’ were thinking for the umpteenth time, you knew you had taken someone else’s power.

You don’t think it’s too bad at first. Only your friends’ heavy thoughts made their way into your head. Unfortunately, some of those thoughts you can never unhear again.

The problem comes when you go to the library for the first time with this new power. The library is hell. It’s full of people who are just thinking loudly. See in public, there are people who are thinking loudly of course, but there are more people distracted and speaking without thinking, which you never thought you would be so grateful for.

You don’t last in the library for very long. So libraries are on your list of places to avoid. Soon, movie theaters are also on that list and then so are museums. Any place where people are meant to be quiet is where it’s loudest in your head.

You wish you knew who you touched to get these powers. You begin to think back at everyone the past few weeks that you might have had direct contact with. A hand you shook or an arm you bumped into. You’ve always been cautious about your surroundings so these things wouldn’t happen.

Everyone you greeted at your Sokovian friend’s party you’ve greeted before. No one was new there. The Sokovian at the store!

Damn it. You never got her name or anything. Maybe you’ll encounter her at the store again. The next few days, you spend hours at the same store. People begin to think you’re an employee and you almost feel like one, knowing exactly where everything is from spending so much time there.

You’ve even made plans with one employee to go hangout. But no green eyed Sokovian makes an appearance.

Three weeks you have this power when you find that not only can you read people’s thoughts, but you hold things without actually touching them. It happens when you drop something in the kitchen. You reach for it to catch it before it hits the floor but it’s nowhere near your grasp. However, it never hits the floor.

You then notice a red mist-like substance coming from your hands floating in the direction of the object. You see that it’s holding it up. After that, you start practicing with random things around your apartment. You begin with lighter things, thinking you would only be able to hold weight that you could in your actual arms, but it is not so.

You work your way up to lifting your car in the air and in that same moment you learn you could do multiple things like lifting your car and replacing the flat tire.

Two months with these abilities and you feel you start getting the hang of it. You still can’t go to the library. You’ve tried again but the voices are too loud. You still go to the store where you met the woman that unintentionally gifted you these powers to try and return them. She seemed like a decent person and you don’t know what she used these powers for. Maybe she needs them.

You still have yet to find her.

Wanda hasn’t been on a mission in three months. Instead, Bruce has been poking and prodding her with needles and running countless tests trying to figure out what happened with her powers. Three weeks ago she began to go to a therapist because Steve thought it might be a mental block of some sort that she had to work through.

Though therapy was doing wonders for her, they weren’t getting her anywhere near having her powers back. Bruce’s tests weren’t helpful either. She’s been stuck in the tower for three months and her days have never felt so repetitive until now- train, go to therapy, undergo tests. Rinse and repeat.

The media had begun to notice as well. She turns to another TV channel where the news anchor asks “Where is Wanda Maximoff?” as if she’s disappeared from the face of the earth. In a way she has.

Fortunately for her, you are watching that same channel. You are cooking dinner and have the television channel on for background noise. You hear them talking about the Avengers. They’ve never been of much interest to you, although they should be seeing as though you live in the same city and something is always going down here because of that reason.

“For those who have been living under a rock,” the new anchor starts, “Wanda Maximoff is one of the newer additions to the Avengers.”

“She’s the one with the red magic, isn’t she?” the co-anchor asks. That grabs your attention. You turn to look at the screen. “That’s right. She joined about a year ago after the fall of Sokovia.”

That had to be a coincidence, right?

“She hasn’t been reported to be on any missions the last three months,” the reporter continues. That definitely couldn’t be a coincidence, you think, counting back the time you’ve attained these powers.

“Here is a clip of Maximoff using her magic to save diplomats at the embassy five months ago when…” You don’t hear the rest as you watch the clip play.

It’s the green eyed Sokovian who helped you out at the market. Your suspicions about it being her who had these powers were correct. You just didn’t think you took powers from an Avenger. Someone who definitely needs these powers to do her job and save people like the clip shows. Shit.

You smell the food you’re cooking burning.

“Shit!”

Wanda pounds her hand on the mat. Sweat clings onto her shirt. She’s tired and out of breath.

“Again,” Nat commands. Wanda huffs and stands up, getting back into her fighting pose. She takes a swing that the Black Widow easily dodges. Not two moves later, she hits the mat again.

“Again,” Nat repeats.

“Natasha, give the kid a break,” Steve says, watching from the side.

“It’s okay,” Wanda assures him.

Natasha explains, “If therapy and tests aren’t working, maybe self defense will.”

Steve seems doubtful but allows it. They really need Wanda to work through whatever is blocking her from using her powers. He winces seeing Wanda hit the mat.

“Again.”

“I’ve told you for the millionth time. My name is Y/N L/N and I need to speak to Wanda Maximoff. Or any of the Avengers, really. Or even one of their assistants or something. It’s vital,” you try helplessly.

“Unless you have clearance, I can’t let you up,” the guy at the desk says to you for what feels like the hundredth time. You’ve been coming in the past few days trying to get someone to let you see Wanda.

“Look, it’s really important. Can’t you, like, give her a message or something?” You’re desperate at this point. He laughs.

“Ah, yes, let me just text her real quick. ‘hey Wanda. It’s that one guy you said hello to once downstairs. There’s some girl here that needs to talk to you’,” he acts out sarcastically, which you do not find amusing.

“Listen, buddy. If you do me this favor and get your boss or whoever can give me clearance to see her, I promise she’ll be so grateful for you helping me get to her that she’ll come and thank you herself,” you vow.

“I can’t help you, Miss. Now please go or I’ll have to call security,” he warns.

You rub your temple in frustration. “Fine. There’s no need for that...Michael,” you read his name. “I’m going.”

You turn around as if to head for the door but then do a 180 and sprint past a security guard who shouts at you to stop. You make your way for the elevators as the security guard runs after you. You press the button for the elevators but you notice they’re nowhere near the ground floor.

The security catches up to you and in panic, you push him away with Wanda’s powers. He goes sliding across the floor and you bolt for the stairs.

You don’t even know which floor you would find Wanda in but you assume it would be somewhere up top. You begin your ascend. You reach the fourth floor and realize you should start using the StairMaster at the gym. You hear multiple security guards quickly making their way to you. You panic and walk through the wall, not knowing what was on the other side.

You’re in some kind of engineering lab. You don’t think anyone saw you walk through the wall, so you try to act casual and stroll through the lab trying to find an exit. Then you hear someone call you. “Hey, you.”

You ignore them and act like you didn’t hear. They tell you to stop walking, loud enough that you can’t ignore it. You turn around to see a woman in a lab coat. She asks, “You’re not allowed on this floor. Who let you up here?”

“Oh, uh. Michael sent me,” you lie. “Sorry, I’m new. I must have gotten off on the wrong floor. Maybe you could help me find my way?”

“Where are you meant to be working?” she inquires and you’re stuck not knowing anything about the Stark Tower or Avengers Tower, whatever it’s called.

“The lab,” you say. Your vague answer obviously creates another question. “What lab?”

“They haven’t told me yet? I’m not actually working in the labs. I’m doing more secretarial duties, taking notes and scheduling stuff.”

“For whom?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at you. You can feel her catching onto you and it’s the only reason why you try this.

“For the big guy, obviously,” you say and then focus really hard trying to read her mind, hoping that a name will pop up in her head. Did Bruce get an assistant? You smile. “Bruce.”

“Well then you are way off. He’s usually working on the 87th floor,” she tells you.

“Well, thank god there’s an elevator,” you chuckle nervously, pointing behind you. “Well, I should get going before I’m any later. You turn around confidently but as you walk away she stops you once more. You think you got caught but she says, “Elevators are that way.”

She points to the opposite way you came from. You laugh to play off your mistake, “Duh. Sorry, the lab is so big. Thanks.”

You head the right way. You speed walk to the elevators and then jog when you hear a rougher voice telling you to stop. “She’s on the fourth floor.”

You assume they spoke into their walkie, and you know you don't have much time before they catch you. You think quickly. You can’t make your way to the elevator because then obviously they’ll just stop the elevators. You don’t want to walk through a wall; the dangers of that are extreme given this is Stark Tower. You could accidentally walk into an ongoing experiment.

You had to hide. And suddenly, you had the perfect plan.

The security guard runs to you. He thinks you’re running for the elevator but then you turn before you get there. He sees you dive behind some clunky machine, presumably to hide behind. You clearly never have won a game of hide and seek in your life, he thinks as he goes around the machine to catch you.

He’s left utterly confused when you aren’t there. The only trace of you are your clothes down to underwear on the floor. Four other guards make it to the floor. One asks him, “Where is she?”

He doesn’t know how to answer. “She was right here. Search the floor. She’s hiding and I think she’s naked.”

They disperse taking your clothes with them. You let out a breath of relief at not getting caught but then mentally curse that they took your clothes. You still haven’t learned how to make other things invisible yet. You never really used this power. Maybe you should start practicing.

You hustle your naked ass to the elevators, feeling incredibly exposed even though you know no one can actually see you. You press the elevator button and wait impatiently. It dings and opens.

“The elevators!” You hear one of the guards yell. Two run your way as you step into the car. You put all your energy into staying invisible. It would be really awkward if you were suddenly exposed. You hold your breath when one of them looks in the elevator. You keep yourself in the corner furthest away from them. In their eyes, there is no one in the elevator.

“She’s not here.” They leave and the doors close. You click the button for the 87th floor.

____________________________________________________

This will probably have 3 parts.

#wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you

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littlefreya · 4 years

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Prince Of Darkness

Summary: There'll be no escape tonight, the devil always gets what he desires.

Pairing: Devil!August Walker x Unnamed OFC (3rd person pov)

Word count: 6k

Warnings: 18+, DARK! NonCon, kidnapping, stalking, breeding, exhibitionism, loss of virginity, supernatural stuff, sex in a cathedral, mention of heaven and hell. Please proceed with caution.

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts it and claiming it as your own

A/N: I have put a lot of effort into this story, and I’m really anxious af. We all like to see August as a demon, but I decided to go all the way... And I’m nervous at your response and going to die after hitting submit. So bye.

Many thanks to the love of my life @agniavateira, for support, brainstorm and beta. And to @crimsonrae and @wondersofdreaming who held my hand.

Please give feedback and reblog if you enjoyed my work. 🖤

Title: Prince of Darkness

Blood painted the streets, courtesy of the blinding scarlet lights that danced upon gravel and tar before dwindling into darkness. The soft, beaming glow pulsed with the muffled beats of a monotonous song that played inside the luxurious nightclub. Like thundering war drums, it rumbled in the ears of the elegant man who stood along the shadows.

Leaning against the cement, he took a sip from a glass of spiced Bordeaux and brushed an index finger over his thick moustache to wipe away misguided droplets of wine.

‘How could anyone enjoy this abomination?’ He wondered with a guttural groan, never quite grasping this electronic noise thing; but then again August was older than this music, and his tastes far exceeded cheap and trivial antics. He was a man driven by the appetite for destruction and forbidden delights, and tonight, he was finally about to obtain both. After decades of anticipation, the succulent fruit was ready to be plucked.

Oh, what an intoxicating and delicious mist his unsuspecting beloved emanated, setting his heart aflame with her sheer ripeness.

‘It’s been so long, so painfully long.’

Time had lost its meaning as he waited, curving and swerving into a stream of an infinite river flowing with decay and death.

But as the old saying went: all haste comes from the devil.

So the man lingered against the wall, a sparkle enkindled and crackled in his eyes, morphing into black wells whilst the waves of her honey-liqueured ambrosia grew pungent, seeping through his airways and sinking in his throat. The corners of his mouth twitched slightly, revelling in the sound of harsh tapping heels that echoed louder with every step until she came summoned into the naked wilderness of the city street.

‘Beautiful and innocent as the garden of Eden. Of course, of course...’

The stranger scrutinised the young woman with another sip from his wine and a bite of great intrigue - but stoicism and silence, for now, were his most valuable allies.

Clad in a lithe black dress and a stylish leather jacket to keep herself warm from the chill autumn breeze, she fished for the mobile device in her purse while distress washed her wrinkling brow. Illuminated by the bright screen, her face sulked as for the seventh time in the last 30 minutes, her attempt to find an Uber bore no success whatsoever.

Was there something about tonight that all drivers were kept occupied, or had her luck simply run dry?

Showing her face to the moonlit sky, she sighed in great frustration. This must have been fate’s retribution to a mindless bad decision; she should have left with her friends, but staying alone to fruitlessly catch the eye of the uncaring bartender seemed more significant as the buzz of alcohol dimmed any ray of logic. Now deep into the night, walking home alone didn’t appear to be the most sympathetic solution, yet it occurred to her that there wasn’t much of choice.

“You seem distressed.”

Equal to a dark chant sputtering words of witchcraft, the low yet incredibly soft baritone of his voice slithered from the corner and crept down her spine with icy scales. A lurching hollow flared within her gut, her neck seized by the tight grip of a serpentine phantom.

His vibrato sounded like a voice that called her through a dream she never had before; despite the unsettling arctic spasm gyrating through her shaky limbs, it lured her to return a stare and meet the cryptic face behind the seducing chant.

Two sharp glaciers glimmered at her as the stranger sauntered into the penumbra, momentarily lit by another flash of neon red that broke onto his face and highlighted his ethereal features. Her lips drew open, her nipples hardening against the fabric of her dress as a shiver ran through her. To say that the stranger was handsome would be an understatement, as it almost seemed as if he was ‘designed’ by a sculptor - carved cheeks led a path to slightly pouted lips, and a stark, dimpled chin was shadowed by dark stubble. His chocolate-brown hair was elegantly combed to the side, with a couple of large lustrous locks gently nestling over his brow.

Though it wasn’t his good looks that left her riddled with prickly goosebumps, but the unprecedented magnetic haul that made her feel as if she was physically drawn toward this mysterious man.

Frightened by the unbidden reaction of her own body, she quickly retreated to gawk at the phone and provided no answer to his inquiry. A strange yearning to submit grew between her clenching thighs, a primal response to his striking looks and charms.

But she killed the seed before it set roots in her flesh.

‘They said Ted Bundy was charming as well…’ she mused. Frivolous as she wanted to be, getting murdered was undoubtedly not among her plans tonight.

Revelling in her silent reply with an arched brow, he tilted his head when a blinding flicker abruptly caught his keen eye. Kissed by the pale moonlight’s beam, a small silver cross rested upon her collarbone. His sharp fangs begged to peek with sardonic amusement, but he kept his lips clamped, not wishing to scare her too soon.

There was to be plenty of that later...

“May I offer you my help, sweetling?”

Threading his long fingers between the smooth stem and clasping them around the bowl, he lowered the glass to the side of his hip, dragging the girl’s unwilling eye to the healthy bulge in his groin.

Her lips drew open as a surge of staggering heat flushed at her apex.

It seemed enormous...

“Name’s August, like the emperor, but you can call me whatever your heart desires...”

Embers burnt at her cheeks; in her belly, the odd mystical calling continued weaving at her core in an urge to accept whatever it was he had to offer. Her eyes warred to tear her gaze away from his nether region as her lashes fluttered to meet the abysmal glance that bestowed both frost and fire through her tendons.

There was something archaically familiar about this man as if she knew him before the days had names. Yet she swore, it was the first time she ever saw his striking face.

“I can take you wherever you need to go.”

Breath laced with wine titillated her nostrils as the words spilt from his lips, whilst another crimson ray broke upon the marble of his face. Never had he urged, but instead suggested with a tongue soaked with honey. Still, a blazing aura of danger encircled him. And even though the very natural fear of walking home alone grappled her, it still seemed like a much better plan than entrusting her life to a stranger who was twice her size.

Deciding to keep her tongue knotted, she turned and began striding away. ‘Best not to engage him,’ she thought, but once she moved past his bulky figure, her heart suddenly picked up its pace and her legs refused to function as if they no longer belonged to her.

Seconds stretched into eternity. The thought that this civilised savage will assail her and drag her into the night scratched at the back of her head. But the worst of it was the simmering throb. Unforgiving, like gathering storm clouds, it thundered the closer she walked by him and then gradually died out as she finally managed to move away and free herself from this invisible bond.

Savouring the final drop of wine, August watched amused as the frightened little lamb quickly oscillated on her feet, scampering into the horrors offered by the dark. It was funny how fear made animals act so heedlessly and rush straight into the burning heart of peril.

A toothy grin peaked his chiselled cheeks. Always the gentleman, he shifted from the concrete, discarding the glass carelessly to shatter on the sidewalk. His sinew stretched in a relaxed ripple of an apex predator before he straightened both vest and jacket and stroked his thick moustache.

Though her heavenly fragrance still soaked the air, the girl was already gone from normal eyesight. It was a pity to see her leave, yet there was no need for him to rush.

There was never really a choice for her.

Strangely, the night kept growing unnaturally darker. A great ocean of blackness and crystalised stars spread from above, casting looming shadows across the tall buildings that resembled a maw filled with rotten teeth. The tepid wind that blew between the vast concrete monoliths was nothing but the breath of a mythical beast intoning her name through the shadows.

Clawing at her forearms, she meandered through the inert street with a wary eye. Desolate neon signs flickered hauntingly, bequeathing a vibrant beacon of dread over the shimmering, onyx road. Not a living soul was in sight as if the world descended into stillness, dominated by an eerie, dead silence save for the harsh echo of her hasty heels. And yet, the long path felt anything but lifeless. With every step landed on the ground, she could sense the movement beneath the surface: swarming vile things, slippery and scaled. Unseen by the human eye, they hissed dirty little secrets and slithered with sinister hunger, drizzling down their fangs.

‘You can already feel me inside you, can’t you sweetling…’ Remaining hidden, he had to admit that watching the little lamb leap shivering into the slaughter has been somewhat of foreplay.

A veil of fumes emitted from her parted lips. The air became colder, summoning a terrifying truth that made her lungs clench around the black void that abruptly filled them with the notion that maybe... maybe… that chill, liquid-like thing that threatened to touch her ankle wasn’t just in her crazy imagination.

There was something out there, something undeniably familiar. This unusual gust of wind brushing at her nape has accompanied her since she could remember herself, an unsettling breeze bidding that evil lurked between the creases, holding its sinewy fingers clasped together while waiting for her to answer his hushed calling.

‘And once you finally answer, there is no turning back…’

Fear gnawed its frosty fangs at her bones, puncturing tiny painful cavities that were needles in her flesh. Tonight, of all nights, the same hazy feeling became stronger than ever before. Deep inside, she knew she would meet her end. Pressing the oily pads of her fingers at the sharp corners of her pendant, she inhaled and chanted a prayer, refusing to succumb to the noxious malice when a frozen pin pierced her heart.

Like the lark calling on the dawn, an unbidden chant carried her name.

Drenched with frigid sweat, she exhumed a shuddering breath, praying to God that it was only her imagination playing tricks on her ears.

‘The greatest trick he ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist.’

Indeed in the darkness, leered the beast. All teeth and malicious glee, August moved from one shadow to another, feasting on the aphrodisiac that was the mixture of her harrowing terror and unveiled desire. If only she knew the trail her scent left for him to follow - he could smell her from miles away.

The little flower between her legs began blooming the moment their entities finally encountered one another, and it was his ancient name her dew had dripped for.

‘My sweet little thing, tonight I will finally grant you a purpose...’

Like a hound awakened from a deep slumber, he flexed his bulging muscles and tailed her in utter silence. The same spell that burnt in her core seethed the blood gathering in his ardent loins. Since the dawn of humankind, he had more women than any other man on this earth, yet none has evoked such hunger in him.

He would have eaten her alive and torn her to shreds if only he didn't have bigger plans for her.

Still hidden by the unnatural night, August stalked from behind, the blaze of his enkindling burn licking her path as he crept further to ensnare his prey. He wished she could see herself through his own flaring glance, how beautiful she was with tears of despair rolling down the tender slope of her cheeks.

His beloved girl; his, by ancient law. Spirited as a rageful tempest, she insisted on escaping her prophesied fate. Muscles and bones strove against the panic that turned her boiling blood frigid. But no power, physical nor divine could revoke this otherworldly attraction that bound her to him. His bidding could never be undone and as much as his blood relished from the thrill of the chase, it was time to put an end to this dance and seal their union.

Appearing from a stygian haze of a spectral nightmare, the beast drew his claw to grasp the fleeting girl’s shoulder.

The world froze along with the scream that died in her throat. Cold, slippery wet, the phantom serpents slinked around her ankles and held on to the ground as the thing behind her bit his nails into her collarbone. His touch was no ghost, but as real as the quiet moon that voyeured her fate from above and did nothing. A wretched gasp of anguish shuddered through her airways as his fingers stalked forth to cinch at her neck.

His grip was tighter than the icy finger of death, yet its caress was the sensual lick of a gossamer tongue.

It was almost as if he worshipped her.

Shadows befell her as the assailant leaned close, wafting a mist of intoxicating fumes scented of poisonous elixirs and an ancient forest that laid deep between the veils of the underworld, hiding forbidden mysteries that none dared speak of. Seeping through her orifices, it stung her eyes and raked remorseful tears.

“Please…” she broke into sobs, shaking her head at the dawning of her fate.

The man inhaled deeply. Though she could not see him, the joyful malice that danced on his pleased breath roared in her ears.

“Do not fear me.” The sonorous rumble caressing her ear was hardly a surprise in its familiarity. It was him, the handsome bewhiskered gentleman from earlier. But of course, it was always him: the whisper in the dark, the slithering things moving beneath the tepid ground, and the smell of burning pyres.

But who the hell was he?!

As if he read her mind, his hand twisted around her nape and with a careful sway, turned her to face him. The voice inside her head warned her over and over again not to look at him; yet the temptation was too great, peeling her eyes open to stare at the thing that made her heart drop to her gut.

Vast, raven wings spread from each side of an Adonis figure, their intimidating length denying her widened eyes to look at anything but the dark god that soared tall in front her. No, not a god, a devil. A pair of small golden horns peeked from the mane of long curls, and the heavenly icy gaze she remembered from earlier had melted into an abysmal lake of fire.

He was beautiful.

He was monstrous.

And just like that, she descended from the earth, swept into a thick swamp of darkness that swallowed her whole. Never letting so much as her feet kiss the ground, August scooped her into his strong arms. Peering down upon her, he broke into a delightful grin, already enamoured with his delicate new bride. The pang of lust tingled in his groin, though despite the raging need to claim her now, it was her screams he desired more than all as he would consummate their eternal marriage.

Wicked tongues of fire licked up the shallow air, casting a faint amber glow into the abominable sombre of a vanishing nightmare. Shy as feral nymphs, the bursting sparks ascended melancholily, whispering tales of perishing days that fell to harmony with a strange mumbling chant. Still locked in a void of unconsciousness, the fallen girl shifted with disquiet, her hands restlessly clutching at a virginal silk gown that covered her body.

Vaguely remembering a horrifying dream of a demonic entity, she woke with a sudden electric jitter. A peal of breathless pants pushed through her heaving chest before she slumped into the intense relief one experiences from a brush with either death or a ghastly fantasy.

“Thank God…” she whispered with a fist pressed to her breast.

Yet, something was amiss. The low vocal melody continued despite her state of clarity, tangled with the eerie presence of a hundred cutting glares that stabbed her crawling spine. Slowly and carefully, she lifted her head and scanned her surroundings.

The blood drained from her face.

Swaying like shadowy wraiths stood men cloaked in black velvet hoods. Tears of milky boiling wax trickled from the candles held by their stringy fingers, yet they didn’t seem to flinch as the burning rivulets seared their flesh. Their hollow eyes were fixated upon her while words of a dark sacrament sputtered from their lips and reverberated through the endless archways and ribbed vaults that towered above them.

Her trembling muscles were briskly stifled under the unsettling realisation of her whereabouts - a cathedral, a thousand years old if not more. Burning torches lit crumbling pillars and statues of monstrous winged creatures that encircled them from every niche, their malicious shadows dancing upon dusty obsidian bricks. Unglazed windows were barred by black iron, the beautiful floral shapes preventing any means of escape.

Only the fractured ceiling held a cheap shred of hope, as a vast rupture of broken stone exposed her to the scarred carmine wolf-moon.

If only she had wings…

Bones rattling beneath her crawling flesh, she sat upon the hard surface with wells of despair. Her hands clutched around the edge of the bed, only to be kissed by the sharp corners that pierced the delicate flesh. Hissing with pain, she lifted her arms and stared below at what appeared to be a midnight-black marble creased with golden veins and saplings-like patterns.

It was beautiful, just like the creamy gown that covered her body.

“Do you like it, bride?”

Rising from the crowd like a flame among charred coals, appeared her handsome abductor. Suitable to a true evil prince, a long red cloak enrobed his broad, sturdy form, the velvet hem trailing behind him like a thick river of blood while he marched forward with no haste in his dauntless mien. Human once again, August offered the most endearing grin; two profound dimples embellished his scruffy cheeks, and his eyes shone brighter than a frozen sea.

Yet in her sullen gaze, he was nothing but a monster.

Abruptly enraged and driven by pure instinct, she jumped off the marble and paced backwards. Tears of anger and fright rimmed her swollen lids and her bare feet nearly collided as she shook her head at August who was neither impressed nor concerned by this foolish protest.

“You stay the fuck away from me!!!” She warned with a scream and hastily turned away.

Lost in some trance, the praying mob never stirred, granting the girl a fair chance to escape the bewhiskered man who was still several strides away. Her feeble legs made three to four steps when her muscles swiftly turned to stone, and her stomach lurched.

‘No! It couldn’t be! How?!’

Curls shining like precious coils of onyx, August emerged in front of her, continuing his relaxed gait as if this was a natural occurrence. His bright icicles melted into malicious dark pools of twisted desire, and his tongue briefly laved his plump lips at the sight of pure disbelief that cascaded over her face. He could feel right under her skin, hear the thrumming heart that both chilled and fumed for him. Further beyond her thoughts, his betrothed yearned to be defiled and torn open by him.

It was her destiny, whether she liked it or not.

Still she fought, so ferocious and defiant, flinching away from his attempts to seize her. It was almost comical to watch her deny him, knowing that her fate would be no different; she will spread her legs and submit to his conquest. And yet, her battle was immensely appealing; what better bride to the dark lord than a woman who breathed fire.

“Who are you?!” She cried, her trembling voice rising with panic and her cheeks soaking with tears, “What do you want from me?!”

August's face was devoid of mercy, her whimpering hisses did nothing to deter him and only further increased the appetite of the deprived wolf that circled in his gut. With a wring of his wrist, his fingers snapped at her elbow, hauling her against his rock-hard chest with such might her heels hovered above the ground.

Writhing in his grip she flung her hands at his face, clawing streams of crimson to trickle down his cheeks. The notion of hurting this vicious man brought somewhat of a sick joy; but her onslaught died at once, and her mouth fell agape as his skin healed with not even a trace of injury.

“Oh God, what are you?!” She shuddered.

Still holding her elbow hostage, his free hand travelled to the hem of the white gown, the long, perverted fingers twisting around the fabric before yanking it off at once. A resounding rip echoed through the tall arches, causing the chanting choir to halt their susurrations at once.

All eyes were afloat as the cold air kissed her skin. In vain, she attempted to cover herself only to be felled by the restraints of August’s grasp.

“God?...” The man finally spoke, his melodic voice ending with a sonorous hum that sprouted through her arteries like a deadly toxin. Not less poisonous, his gaze trailed down her form, worshipping the very sights of his delightful prize.

“Not God, but once I was an angel,” he suggested and leaned down to inhale her skin with a gratified growl before he flicked his wide tongue at her chest.

A groan of approval emitted from his lips, the sheer coat of sweat that layered her bosom was soaked of freshly brewed fear, his most favourite savour. His wet, velvety snake swept the sweet-briny wetness and licked further down her breasts, twirling around the erect nipple.

Unintended, she moaned. A river of delights rushed between her grinding thighs.

“No!”

Wrongful, unwanted bliss awoke in her. She felt desecrated and allured at once. Her fickle body deceived, mistaking this vile conquest as consensual. And the more August took, the more she desired; her dutiful womb demanded to consummate this bond, almost as if the beast had bewitched her a long while ago, embedding his essence in the marrow of her bones.

August grinned against her skin, the scent of her arousal fresh in his nose while his lips travelled to kiss down her sternum and the slope of her torso. His thick whiskers left a trail of fluttering butterflies.

“Have sympathy, my love. I had built my own realm and waited in the forlorn abyss. Empires fell and worlds disintegrated into ashes while I waited for thou,” he explained and clutched the cheek of her behind in his claw, squeezing it possessively. “I have longed for your touch since the day your ancestor promised you to me, little lamb. A hundred years’ worth of waiting for the bargain to reach its end, and for you to finally be ripe.”

The beast pressed one last languid kiss below her navel, a guttural hum exuded in between his lips, huffing hot against her belly. Slowly he rose to his full height, towering above his helpless victim who hugged her arms to cover her naked body and watched her nightmare unfold once more. Cold wind chilled her damp cheeks as August flung the blood-red cloak and exposed his naked figure before her.

He was massive, a masculine build fit for a warrior angel, covered with thick bulging muscles and dark hair. Lips parted, she forgot herself, gawking in awe and allowing her gaze to trail down to his unapologetically monstrous cock. Firm and throbbing, it dripped with hunger, urging to find release inside her clenching cavern.

She didn’t even know a man could be this vast, but alas, he was no man at all.

It was at that moment when blackest wings spread before her that realisation finally struck through like a blunt hammer to the back of her head. Covering her mouth she cowered away, her exposed back hitting the raised altar behind her.

August was no man nor god, but Lucifer himself.

Seeing the hope die in her eyes, the devil sneered.

“No, no, no! This can’t be real! This isn’t real!!!” She yelled, pathetic little hiccups sputtering from her lips.

August tilted his head, giving a scornful pout and scoffed with amusement. “Am I not?” He asked as he lifted an arm to flick his fingers, summoning two of the hooded servants to approach the dais. Their eyes were soulless gems embedded to a grey face that was cracked like a broken eggshell.

“I am real, beloved, as real as the child you will conceive me tonight.”

Shrills of terror flew through the great hole in the ceiling. Kicking and screaming, she fought as the men seized her arms and dragged her to the altar, forcing her flat down and holding her arms to prevent her from escaping. They never blinked at the ferocious war she waged against them, though an impish smile slowly possessed their faces as their master strode forward.

“Sweet little lamb,” August chanted, enamoured with his fiery bride while he sauntered by the edge of the altar. His Adonis body golden in the candlelight, his fingers squeezed and pumped the ravenous demon that hung heavy between his legs. The twinge in her womb rose in response, a low roar thrumming as it yearned to succumb to its unbridled purpose. Sheen, the arousal trickled between her kicking legs and onto the smooth stone, making her cheek flame.

Much to August’s pleasure.

“Our son will burn this world to cinders,” he promised and snaked his fingers at her ankles. Calmly deflecting her attempts to kick against him, he dragged her toward him until her knees folded over the edge and spread between his thighs. The platform was in the perfect height, positioning her delicious Eden at the height of his blessed demon.

“You will make an excellent mother.”

Her entire body shook, her cunt clenching along her sobs in both defence and beguiling need as August leaned in and grazed the silky pink crown between her wet petals. She begged he wouldn’t be able to invade her, but her prayers fell to deaf ears.

“Please don’t do this to me! I will do anything… please!” She wailed a bargain, still trying to escape the servants’ grip and looking at him pleadingly, “I… I...haven’t been with a man!”

“Oh I know…” August beamed and stroked himself back and forth between her engorged lips. Vamping flames tingled at her flesh, her core foolishly squeezing around nothing in demand for this wretched monster to defile her.

“You’ve kept yourself for me, didn't you? I have waited for you too, for centuries even, but now our waiting has ended, and I can finally love you.”

With one brutal thrust, he breached through the gates of her sacred haven, corrupting her purity and ripping her open with the elegance of a savage.

Exasperated bats fluttered their wings over the red moon at the sound of her pained howl. Eyes flared to the bleak sky above; the girl watched them in a daze, disbelieving the blazing demon that scorched her from inside as he nestled himself between her resisting gates with no intention to cease.

In his villainy, August pushed further. Stunned thunders of ecstasy erupted from his lips, all to humiliate her along with the dark minions who circled the altar to pervertedly witness this sacrilegious ritual in which their master ravaged the unwilling maiden. Ignoring her body’s vehement protest, he forced himself unfathomably deep, only stopping until the head of his cock kissed the gateway of her cervix.

Crystalised tears rolled down her temples and stained the cold marble beneath her body. Slit impossibly sore, she twitched and sobbed at the overwhelming feeling of being invaded by another entity. Her once protected realm was now under the domain of a ruthless prince, and he took no prisoners and granted no mercy nor care at her vain endeavours to push him out.

He would never stop. He would have her again and again until her sacred little womb would be plentiful with his seed.

“Tight,” he blurted out in a blissful huff and reached his talons to bite into her quaking thighs. Spreading her wider, he hooked his hands below her knees, moulding her into a vessel to be fulfilled. Arctic orbs glazed down her naked figure, his plump lips cooing at her aching whimpers. The taut and hairy muscles of his gut flexed as he carefully withdrew his vicious cock, coated in the crimson sorrow of her maidenhood.

Hollow pain throbbed in her empty cunt as he suddenly abandoned her. Distressed and overwhelmed, she hoped he would stay out, yet her traitorous body coveted his return in a false faith that it would ease the fervid twinge that soared to her belly and even burnt in her breasts.

It was far from true.

No less vigorous than before, August plunged back inside her, stretching her again, shaping her as his own as she yipped and struggled to escape. His head threw back with a roar of divine pleasure, feasting at the thrill of her dauntless veils wrapping around him like a succulent flower. For a moment there, he wondered who preyed on who. Her concupiscent little cove sucked him so wantonly it threatened to swallow his raging cock.

‘But of course, every virgin is destined to become my whore.’

Hot and heavy, his shaft seized the void that had always been inside her, their heaving organs collided in euphoric bliss like two broken shards that were lost for decades and finally pieced back together. And even though she seared with every jerk or shift he made, the impassioned flames licked at the seams of her twitching cunt in waves of ache and foreign desperation.

“No…” she whispered, shame singeing her throat as the little pesky sparks enkindled where the devil had violated her. Vision blurry, she gazed at him utterly mystified. Part of her warred to stoke the fire that screamed heresy, while the other begged to yield to her demise.

As August pulled away again and thrust harder, a breathless moan tore from her lips.

A cutting grin radiated onto his face. “It feels so good inside you,” he sang and slid one hand to stroke all the way down from her sweat-ridden thighs to her belly, feeling the movement of his cock with every push and shove.

He was taunting her, yet she couldn’t care less. Over the cinders of pain and virtue, a garden began to bloom. With every abysmal stroke of his swelling shaft, she could feel green saplings and coy vines growing within her uterus—soft, beautiful tendrils stalked through her arteries, sprouted through her cove, and engulfed his swelling demon as well.

She was no longer burning but becoming alive. Pained cries suddenly evolved into asphyxiation of bliss. Beyond her realisation, she undulated her hips in the desire to endure each of his wet claiming thrusts. Her spine coiled against the surface, further allowing him easier passage to nourish the wilderness that continued spreading through her blood.

Noticing the change in her, approving groans rumbled in his throat; his little bride was growing tighter around his demon, her quivering lips and fluttering lashes the image of true Elysium. It was not long before he would plant his seed in her fertile lush. Her cunt milked and suckled around him, demanding to be bred by the devil.

“Yes, my love! Give in to me! Give in to your primal sin!” August urged, enhancing the rhythm until he was thrusting into her like a battering ram, the sinful elixir of their union smearing on his groin and dripping down her rump. “Descend with me!”

In her delirium she witnessed magical nightshades and sinewy stalks growing amidst the gritty bricks, encompassing the ominous cathedral with bright colours.

It was paradise on earth, given to her by the unearthly rapturous joy of having this demon violate her, slamming harder with growing frustration until his thick girth ripped through the last threads of her self-preservation and that which she tried so hard to deny erupted through her clenching core.

Euphoria.

For a lingering moment, she had wings of her own, pale as precious pearls and lustrous stars. Tingling waves of ethereal white heat burst at her seams, purifying her as she flew above the cathedral, and watched their ungodly union from above. But her wings suddenly caught aflame and before she knew it, she crashed onto the earth with a secondary, more violent climax.

The beast’s roars erupted into a brutal thunder, causing the sturdy pillars of the cathedral to quake and crack like thin glass. With all his might, he clutched her thighs and hauled her against him, slamming his swollen cock deep into her belly and releasing his smouldering, milky essence until it seeped from her sleek. August’s wings flew open as he found his own rapture, blazes following through and consuming the ancient hall.

This was no longer a hallucination.

This was Inferno.

Still radiating with orgasmic glow, she screamed horrified as everything around them vehemently burnt to coals. Even the soulless servants crumbled into dust, accepting their fate without so much of a yip. The fire raged and died within seconds, leaving nothing but broken pillars and ashen smoke.

Shortly, the tepid air of night caressed her naked skin as they remained alone in the ruins of what was once an ominous cathedral. Still buried in her viscera, August broke into a low, stretching groan of relief which made her immediately return her eyes to him. Shame rose bitter in her throat and new fresh rivulets trickled on her cheeks.

After all that he had done to her, she could see nothing in him but a beautiful monster.

“My beloved queen,” August keened to comfort her and moved his hand to tenderly stroke her lower belly.

A toothy smile broke upon his face, his eyes gleaming with surprise as he felt the life that had already begun growing in her angelic fortress. A son, strong and glorious as his father. For the first time in his long existence, the devil was truly elated and he vowed in that moment that he would give her much, and much more. But first, she needed to be cared for.

Her assaulted hole convulsed with pain as he pulled himself out, leaving a trail of creamy fluids to dribble at his departure. Sniffling and shaking, she watched him bemused, as he climbed onto the altar and moved to lie beside her. Though she no longer flinched as he touched her, what was the point of it anyway? He had already destroyed her and stolen her innocent soul.

“You make me so happy, my beloved queen,” August had murmured as he gripped her jaw and pressed his lips to hers. His kiss claimed her breath, pillaging whatever left of her chastity and wit until she absentmindedly kissed back, forgetting herself as his tongue bested her will.

When he broke away, the taste of spiced ruby wine and blood lingered in her mouth.

“An eternity awaits us,” the devil explained as he pecked her nose and her forehead lovingly, to which she shivered - out of fright or out of want, she couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

“You had made me the happiest, now give me the chance to grant the same favour, ask for anything you want in the world and it shall be yours,” he begged and wrapped her in the shelter of his strong arms to lie down with him on the smooth stone surface.

Absentmindedly, she welcomed the protection offered from his embrace and stared silently as flakes of cement broke from the remnants of the wall floated in the air around her before she opened her mouth.

“I wish for…”

Her whisper faded into the dark.

*Disclaimer: I do not own Mission Impossible or August Walker

Beautiful dividers by @firefly-graphics

#henry cavill #august walker #henry cavill fanfiction #august walker x ofc

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overthinkinglotr · 3 years

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What you said in the tags about being indifferent to the Silmarillion hit home with me. It took me literally years to manage to finish it. I felt I had to, eventually, so I kept trying. Starting, giving up, restarting, giving up again and trying to pick up where I left off, and so on. I haven't picked it up since, even though I've read The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings trilogy many, many times each.

Ahh yeah as someone who read the Silmarillion a while back and never got really invested in it, I feel that too. <3 Every time I think of the Silmarillion, I think of what Tolkien himself said about it:

I am doubtful myself about (the Silmarillion.) Part of the attraction of the L.R. is, I think, due to the glimpses of a large history in the background: an attraction like that of viewing far off an unvisited island, or seeing the towers of a distant city gleaming in a sunlit mist. To go there is to destroy the magic, unless new unattainable vistas are again revealed.

I wish I could be as excited about the Silmarillion as so many other fans I see online are, because I love how much they love it, I love the art they make, and I love how interesting they make the characters seem! But I think that quote from Tolkien is exactly why the Silmarillion falls flat for me-- Lord of the Rings does a beautiful job of Implying the history of this epic fantasy world through fragments of stories that the characters only half-remember; through subtle details, or through things like a character’s traditions or names. Reading the books feels like playing an ARG where you’re piecing together the world’s history alongside the characters. So something gets lost when the history/mythology is flatly over-explained like a textbook. XD .(That’s just how I feel though haha.)

And I could go on a bunch of different tangents but I also just personally don’t like a lot of Tolkien’s explanations? It’s sorta like “wow,,,,,..... I liked this better when you Didn’t explain it and just dropped a couple ambiguous hints and let me reconstruct it myself” skdjfsdkfsf. Lord of the Rings makes you ask so many questions about the history of Middle Earth, but I personally found a lot of the Silmarillion’s answers to those questions underwhelming, occasionally even in ways I thought weakened the story of Lotr.

I also feel like it’s important that the Silmarillion is an unfinished collection of stories Tolkien was never completely happy with and that often wildly contradict each other, not the Definitive Lore Bible Textbook(tm) people often insist it is. I don’t like to play the game of “Tolkien’s intent is the only thing that matters,” but if people want to play that game I feel confident that there are reasons Tolkien thought the Silmarillion/Unfinished Tales/etc/etc weren’t ready to be published? Which is is why I kinda think it's weird that everyone talks about them like they represent his Real Definitive Final Intent.

The biggest reason the Silmarillion never grabbed me, though, was probably just the absence of hobbits XD. Ok I’m joking but I’m not. I think the central appeal of Lord of the Rings/the Hobbit for me, personally, is the contrast between a sweeping post-apocalyptic fantasy epic and a group of simple ordinary little best friends. Without the hobbits, there’s nothing to contrast all the Swords and Sorcery, nothing to anchor the world to something warm and intimate and human.

But again, I do see why people like it-- for a lot of people, the Silmarillion Does have that “archaeology/ARG” type feel. For a lot of people, the Silmarillion doesn’t flatten Middle Earth, it just opens up new areas for them to explore. For a lot of people, the unfinished and fragmented nature of the Silmarillion gives them that feeling of “distant towers gleaming in a sunlit mist” and makes them excited to expand on the story even more on their own and to find the humanity in the historical-epic-fantasy-characters. Not for me tho XD. But yeah I'm reassured to hear I'm not alone in....Not Caring about the Silmarillion asdkdf.

#overthinkinglotr #but yeah!#i have mixed feelings on it #I could go on a million tangents #despite the fact that again #i do not have any personal investment in the silmarillion one way or the other really XD #I've drawn a bunch of the characters as cats!#and again I think a lot of the fanart is fun #it reminds me a bit of the hobbit film trilogy fandom #only in that like........#i think the fandom stuff is more interesting than the thing itself #haha

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hongism · 4 years

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mists of celeste ➻ twenty-one

➻ pairing: ??? x fem reader ➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst, smut ➻ word count: 7.2k ➻ rating: M ➻ warnings: language, fighting, smut ➻ summary: Sneaking aboard the ship of a renowned space pirate may not have been the best idea, but you’ll have to make do with what fate has handed to you

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act three ➻ part three

“I said keep your leg straight!”

“It is straight,” you counter, huffing through your teeth as Yunho smacks the underside of your calf yet again. It’s probably the fourth time he’s done so in the past twenty minutes, and he tells you to straighten your leg each time even though it’s already perfectly straight.

“You need to get your eyes checked, because that is most definitely not straight.” Yunho pulls away from the bed you’re lying back on, and you let your leg fall back to the mattress so you can sit up and glare at the back of his head.

“You’re the doctor here, so why don’t you check them if you think there’s an issue?”

“Your attitude is the issue here.”

“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be nice to me? Is that any way to talk to your patient?”

“If you did your exercises properly, maybe I would be nicer!” Yunho chastises, coming back to the edge of the bed with arms crossed over his chest. You resist the urge to roll your eyes but fall back to the mattress anyway and start doing the exercises again.

“I am doing them properly,” you grumble. Seonghwa laughs from off to the side. He leans up against the wall, arms crossed like Yunho’s, and in all honesty, you had forgotten that he was standing there all this time. You don’t quite understand why he’s on the ship today; the only thing you were told is that it was per Hongjoong’s request. The captain took Yeosang with him to the city instead of Seonghwa, and San went along again as well. Based on Seonghwa and Yunho’s exchanged whispers that ceased when you came into the medbay, it has something to do with you. You want to ask about it, but Yunho interrupts your train of thought by speaking again.

“I wish Hongjoong would let me off the damn ship for one day. Just one.” He glances over at Seonghwa and plops down on his rolling stool that he’s left near your bed. “I haven’t been back here in years.”

“Can I stop yet?” You interject, a slight whine to your words. Yunho pays you no mind though, so you just continue to do the exercises while he speaks to Seonghwa.

“It’s wintertime on Kebos, which means winter festivals! And snow! When do we ever get to see snow?” Yunho slaps his palms against the bed. You jolt a little, whipping your chin to look at him. “Do you remember me telling you about it, Y/N?”

“W-What?”

“The winter festivals on Kebos?”

“I – no, I don’t remember us ever having that conversation.”

Yunho sighs and sits up straight again. He leans forward to tap your knee. For a moment, you think he’s going to tell you to do the exercises properly again, so you prepare to smack him, but he doesn’t.

“That’s enough for today. I can’t wear you out too much before you go spar.”

“Thank goodness,” you mutter, falling back to the mattress with a deep heave.

“Okay, but back to the festival thing – we’re near the capital Reinig. Literally at the town right outside Reinig. I could take a day trip to the city to see the festival! But no, no, no. Not allowed. The healer has to stay on the ship even when there’s no one to heal!” Yunho waves his hand through the air before bringing it to his pale locks. Seonghwa offers a smile that’s filled with fondness. His arms fall away from his chest, and he blinks over at you for a few seconds then turns back to Yunho.

“Maybe Hongjoong can slow down for a day,” Seonghwa suggests. “Let everyone have some time for themselves to do… anything they want to do. That way you could go to the festival. Maybe you could bring Wooyoung along? You’d have to take Yeosang as well, but that might not be so bad.”

“Hm, that would be nice.” Yunho hums and thumbs over his chin as he considers Seonghwa’s offer. “Wooyoung doesn’t get to see many nice or relaxing things, so the festival might be a good opportunity for him to take a step back. Yeosang is just – well, he’s Yeosang. He hates everything.”

Seonghwa releases a loud snort. “You’ve never been more accurate.”

“If we did that, I would want to bring you along, Y/N.” You snap your chin back towards Yunho, eyes narrowing in a second. You don’t want to shoot the idea down, but Yunho is well aware of your desire to stay on the ship where it is safe and sound. Away from the military and the idea of being in such a dangerous sector of the universe. Out the corner of your eye, you spot Seonghwa opening his mouth as well, and he seems ready to refuse the suggestion for you. Yunho lifts a hand to stop him before he can talk. “Listen to what I have to say as the healer of this crew. One way to confront emotional and mental trauma is through trauma-focused cognitive-behavioral therapy. You know what that is?”

You blink away from Yunho, lips parted and expression contorted in a confused manner. Seonghwa is in a similar predicament, and when you lock gazes, he shrugs a little.

“Yeah, of course, we don’t, Yunho. You’re the doctor here.”

“It’s like talking to two brick walls, I swear.”

“Are we at least good-looking brick walls?” You tease with a cheeky grin.

“No comment, you little shit.” Yunho jabs his index finger at your face, so you take that answer as a ‘yes’ and pull yourself into a sitting position with a more pleased smile now. “Anyway, the process involves gradually exposing yourself to feelings and situations that remind you of a trauma and replacing distorted and irrational thoughts about the experience with a more balanced picture. So the idea is to expose you to a place that brings you discomfort and is tied to bad memories. Once exposed, we would try to replace those emotions with good ones and reshape your perception of the place, while breaking down some of the trauma you’ve faced. Overcome trauma, alleviate some of your pain and distress, and have a good time. Make sense now?”

“Aye, aye, Captain.” Seonghwa nods, eyes trailing over your form.

“Okay, so now you see why I want you to come with. As much as I want you to come with though, I want you to make the final decision. If Hongjoong allows it, that is.” Yunho’s gaze returns to Seonghwa, and he looks up at the lieutenant with a hopeful gleam in his dark eyes. Seonghwa shakes his head ever so slightly, but his smile persists even as he pushes away from the wall and walks closer to where Yunho is sitting. He punches the healer’s arm, swing light, and Yunho laughs in response.

“It’s up to Hongjoong and Y/N then.”

“Perfect!” Yunho grins. It quickly dissolves as he begins to make shooing motions towards Seonghwa. “Go wait in the hall for a few minutes now. I gotta ask some private doctor questions that you don’t need to be around for.”

Seonghwa rolls his eyes but steps closer to the door. He stops to look back at you, a slight smile playing at his lips. “Yell if he starts acting weird.”

“Oh, quit it! Get out before I smack you.” Seonghwa has to dodge Yunho’s weakly swung arm, but he doesn’t get away completely unscathed as he runs into the doorframe on his way out, and you have to stifle your laughter along with Yunho until he’s completely gone. “Okay, okay,” Yunho exhales through a chuckle. “Now that we have some privacy let’s talk about how you’ve been mentally and emotionally. How are you sleeping? Flashbacks, nightmares, anything like that?”

“No,” you utter without thinking twice, and Yunho blinks back in surprise. You hesitate before correcting yourself. He’s told you already that you don’t need to be embarrassed about things not working or going well, that it’s part of the process, and there will be slip-ups along the way, but it still feels like you’ve failed in some way. Your old squad from the military – predominantly Jisung – has been haunting your dreams and intruding on your thoughts without rest. Even Yunho’s medications do nothing to cease their presence. Yet whenever one comes along, you can’t push it out or ignore it, which is probably what you should be doing. You just let yourself slip into the memories and be consumed by them. The only relief you get is when you talk to someone because that provides an ample amount of distraction for a while.

“Y/N?” Yunho snaps his fingers in front of your face. You shake your head a little and look him in the eye. “You spaced out on me. All good?”

“Y-Yeah, um, the medications aren’t working,” you admit. Yunho’s lips press into a delicate frown, but he doesn’t seem surprised at all by the information. “I haven’t been sleeping well, and it’s hard to get rest when I do sleep. I just… constantly have nightmares of my time in the military. Some flashbacks during the day as well.” Yunho nods at your words, then he hums to himself for a moment.

“Is that the only thing you’ve been struggling with?” He asks next.

“I mean, talking to San helped clear the air a lot about t-that whole issue. Not completely. Something still feels off and wrong, but thinking about it doesn’t make me as afraid as it used to.”

“That’s really good, Y/N. Even small steps are progress. I’m glad to hear it. As for sleeping issues, I can adjust your dosage and have the new medicine ready by tonight. We can test it out and see how well it works. Not a permanent solution, but something for now.”

“Okay, yeah, we can do that.”

“Now concerning your memories of the military… where do you think that’s coming from? Has it started since we entered Aurum, or is it something else? Is Kebos a source of trauma for you as well?” Yunho has that all too familiar tablet in his hands, and you resist the urge to clam up and panic at the thought of him having all your weaknesses written down in it.

“Um, no, Kebos isn’t.”

“I want to move back to Kebos once I retire from the military.”

You can’t keep the memory from slipping through. Your jaw stutters as you try to recover from the sudden lapse in speech, and if Yunho notices, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he settles for patiently waiting for you to continue your thought.

“It’s j-just Aurum. Uh, sorry, it’s Eros. The idea of being near Eros stresses me out. Makes me remember my time in the military and the things I experienced while there.” You look up to the ceiling as to avoid Yunho’s piercing gaze. The heat of his stare lingers on you. Silence envelops the air between you for what feels like hours. Then, Yunho pipes up again with another question.

“What is your earliest memory, Y/N?”

“My – my what?” You stammer. The question is random, the last thing you were expecting for him to ask, but Yunho just repeats himself without seeing the oddness of his inquiry.

“Your earliest memory. As far as you can remember.”

“I, um, I don’t really know,” you trail off, shaking your head a bit as you speak. It’s all honesty on your part for once, because you truly don’t recall much about your childhood or life before the military. Everything is hazy as though there is a film over your vision up until the moment you joined the military. “I remember… voices and, uh, people telling me things while growing up, but I can’t picture it or see it in my mind. I don’t know who the people talking are, I just hear their voices. Occasionally I think I remember an old man from my childhood, but he seems to be more of an extension of my dreams. I only see him there but have no memories of him. The earliest thing I remember is joining the military.”

Yunho’s hand hesitates over the tablet. “How old were you when you joined?”

“Around fourteen.”

“Ah…” Yunho’s voice dies almost immediately, expression crumbling a little. “Fourteen.” You don’t want to look at him, but you can hear what sounds like pity in his voice. “Do you remember anything at all about the first fourteen years of your life?”

“I have vague recollections of water. Flowing water and crashing waves and foggy skies. But I really can’t remember more than that,” you say after a slight pause.

“That’s strange,” Yunho mutters back. “No recollection of the first fourteen years of your life. How old are you again?”

“U-Uh, twenty-one.”

“So, two-thirds of your life are empty memories.”

“I’ve never really thought too much about it. Figured that what I went through in the military was enough to block it out.”

“Hm, I suppose that’s a possibility. Do you any happy or – or fond memories? A person or a place that brings you joy?”

Bright eyes and a round smile come to mind in an instant. It isn’t just Jisung this time though; everyone in your unit makes an appearance at the forefront of your mind. The oldest of your group, Hyunwoo, with his broad shoulders and towering persona that always felt so intimidating despite how harmless he was with you all. Jisung’s closest friend, Juyeon, with his dark blue hair and clear laugh that was always resounding through every room he stepped through. Soojin, the only other girl on the squad, as deadly as she was charming and beautiful. And Ash, barely older than you – maybe only a few weeks older at best – who always looked up to Jisung like he held the universe in his hands. If the universe was your ragtag group of neglected recruits, then perhaps Jisung did hold it in his hands. At one time, each and every single one of them brought you joy and happiness. Made you feel warm, comforted, and wanted.

How did it all end so badly?

You can only feel cold and desolate as you think about them now. Guilt eats away at your gut, and you frantically try to push the memories aside before it consumes you and sends you into a frenzy.

“N-No,” you rush to answer Yunho’s initial question. “No, none at all.”

A frown paints his lips, one that is painful to look at, so again, you avoid his face in favor of looking at the ceiling.

“Well, I want to try to make some happy memories for you then. And maybe show you that you have people here now who can bring you joy and comfort. Hopefully, Hongjoong will let us go down to Reinig for a day in the very least.” A sigh passes through Yunho’s lips, then the sound of him tapping away at his tablet resounds shortly after. “You’re free to go spar with Seonghwa now.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed and getting to your feet. Yunho stops you before you move for the door though. He latches a hand around your wrist and blinks up at you all of a sudden.

“You’re doing well with the physical therapy, Y/N. Staying on top of it and putting in effort. I can tell you’re taking it seriously this time, and I’m proud of you for that. Not just as your doctor, but as a friend too. You’re doing well.”

The words shouldn’t hit you as hard as they do. You manage a weak nod and shaky smile, then step around Yunho’s chair to step through the door. His words linger like a bad taste on your tongue. You can’t tell whether they make you feel good or not; there was almost an ulterior meaning to what he said that causes your gut to twist and coil. Pushing out of the medbay, you heave a deep sigh and find Seonghwa standing just outside the door. He’s leaned up against the wall, arms back over his chest, and the second he sees you, he pushes himself into an upright position.

“Are you still up for some sparring?”

“Yeah, let’s do it,” you mutter. Falling into step beside him, you press your hands against your sides, nails digging into your palms. Thinking about the squad was a bad idea, because now you can’t get them out of your mind. Jisung alone was bad enough, but you know where this train of thought is headed, and it’s going to take you straight to those tall brick walls and public execution again. The broad shoulders of the man under a black hood with chains around his wrists.

“You’re getting closer with Jongho and Wooyoung,” Seonghwa cuts through your impeding thoughts with his clear tone, almost sensing your sudden distress and pushing it to the side like it’s nothing. “I’m glad to see it.”

“If this is an attempt at small talk, you’re awful at it,” you tease. Seonghwa huffs a laugh through his nose and shakes his head, but he obviously isn’t too bothered by your comment. “But yes, I am. They don’t ask questions incessantly like some people do.”

“Is that a dig at me?” Seonghwa scoffs, clutching his chest as though offended.

“That’s for you to figure out, pretty boy.”

“It’s also nice to see that you haven’t forgotten your little nickname for me, princess.” Seonghwa rolls his eyes a little, punching at the keypad outside the training room. You smile in response. The memories of Jisung and your old squad are slowly fading away and leaving you with a new sense of peace, at least for the time being. “Do you need to warm up?”

“I’ll just do some stretches,” you answer, moving for the mat while Seonghwa heads for the cabinets to retrieve the tape as he always does. You plop down on the mat, a small oof leaving you. “By the way, how did things go yesterday?”

Seonghwa glances back at you, rifling through the cabinet, and he doesn’t answer right away. You keep your eyes on him while you stretch. His movements are languid even as he wraps the tape around his wrists and hands.

“Everything went well,” he says at last, coming to join you on the mat. He lingers at the edge and tosses the tape onto your lap before starting to stretch a bit himself. “Not much progress yet, but Hongjoong thinks it will take upwards of a week to take care of everything. He has to meet with several other captains of pirate crews while here – discuss business over the inventory in the cargo hold as well as figure out positions of military ships and units, those sorts of things. I’ll be joining him again tomorrow as we have some treaties to negotiate with a couple of crews concerning free travel. It isn’t free to fly around after all. We need to restock some basic necessities too. Food, drink, medical supplies, clothes. Hongjoong will be looking into bringing on some new crew members as well. And of course – Siren hunting.”

You exhale a huff. “He’s a busy man. I’m surprised. I figured he just didn’t give a flying fuck about anything other than Sirens.” Grabbing the tape from your lap, you pull yourself into a sitting position then start to wrap the material around your hands like Seonghwa did. He smiles at your words.

“Hongjoong takes care of many things and manages a lot as the captain. It may not seem like it at times because of his focus on Sirens, but he’s not a captain for nothing.”

You pull yourself up to your feet once you finish wrapping your wrists, not bothering to respond to Seonghwa’s comment, and kick your shoes off the side of the mat.

“Let’s go, pretty boy,” you tease, falling into an offensive stance. Seonghwa’s lips quirk further up as he mimics your position, his own shoes thrown off to the side as well.

“Someone is more confident than usual.”

You answer with a swift kick swung into Seonghwa’s side, and he’s caught off-guard by your haste and power. He rolls out of the way before you can hit him, a quiet laugh leaving his lips as he dodges you. Your moves are more confident and powerful, but only because of Yunho’s incessant urgings that you do your physical therapy and exercises so often. You haven’t sparred with Seonghwa in around a week; Jongho has been taking his place in recent days. Seonghwa would kill you if you said it out loud, but Jongho is a much harder opponent.

“You’re getting your strength back, I see.” Seonghwa catches your next swing, twisting you around, and you have to hook a foot around his ankle to maintain your balance. “Give it a few weeks and you’ll be better than ever.”

“You haven’t seen the half of it yet,” you laugh as you pull your arm out of his tightening grip. You slide back across the mat to put some more distance between the two of you, gaging his movements carefully.

“Oh, then I’d love to see the full thing.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, pretty boy.” He steps left, more weight on his left foot than his right. “You’ll lose your footing if you do.” You lunge forward and throw your right foot into his. The impact, along with his unbalanced weight, causes him to stumble backward. He nearly tumbles to the ground but catches himself at the last second.

“How about we make it a competition then?” He asks through a clear laugh. “Two of three falls. Five seconds down, just like we did during our first spar.”

You stand up straight and tap at your chin. “There’s no incentive for me to win.”

“Maybe I’ll let you pin me down if you win. Last time you tried it was cute.”

You roll your eyes at his cheeky comment. If it’s an effort to get you riled up and agree to the challenge, then it works quite well because now you really want to plant his ass on the mat and win. Thus, you drop your hands to your hips and tilt your head at the man across from you.

“Okay, if I win then… you get to clean up dinner dishes all by yourself. I normally do it with either Jongho or Wooyoung, and we get no help from anyone else. So, you deserve to do it alone for once. For fairness. You should know what it feels like. And it would be awfully amusing to see the Lieutenant of Death doing dishes.”

Seonghwa clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth in response to your terms. “It’s a good thing that I am going to win then.”

“What do you want if you win?” He doesn’t answer right away; instead, he tilts his head from side to side a few times before letting his sharp gaze settle back on you.

“You’ll find out when I win.”

“You’re too cocky.”

Seonghwa takes the aggressive stance you had before, and he barely lets you finish speaking before he’s crossing the mat. You swing your arms up to block the oncoming attack. Despite the intensity in his moves, they are still quite simple and easy to read. You slip out of his way time and time again, but in your haste, you neglect to watch his feet. Seonghwa slides a foot between yours right as he swings a jab at your hip. You try to sidestep to avoid the attack, and your foot catches on his. The impact sends you to the ground, Seonghwa goes down with you, and a second later, you find yourself pinned to the mat. Seonghwa leans over you, a cocky smirk painting his lips. You struggle against his grip, but he’s too strong for you to escape in this awkward position.

“Five seconds. One for me. Zero for you.”

Seonghwa rolls off of you and gets to his feet. You stay down, however, pushing yourself up onto your elbows, and glare up at him. He extends a hand towards you, which you nearly take, but at the last second, you get an idea and shift your weight on the mat. Taking his hand, you wait for him to shift all his weight into his forward leg then yank hard. He stumbles and almost lands on top of you. You duck out of the way just before he hits you. Your grip on his hand persists, and you twist his arm behind his back and swing a leg over his back. Without the use of both arms, you have Seonghwa successfully pinned to the mat, your weight keeping him down with ease. Seonghwa manages to huff out a laugh as you bend at the waist to taunt him.

“That’s five seconds,” you whisper close to the shell of his ear. Releasing his wrists, you sit back and climb off Seonghwa’s body to let him get up properly. Before you have the chance to get to your feet, a sudden force hits you square in the chest, and you fall back to the mat. “Fuck.” Seonghwa’s weight is back on you a moment later. His knees press against your hips so hard that you can’t even try to wiggle out of the hold, and he keeps your wrists planted firmly on the mat.

“You were saying?”

“That’s a cheap trick, Park Seonghwa.”

“You played that card first, princess.”

“I’m at a disadvantage.”

“How so? Because you’re a girl? Weaker than me? No. You aren’t at a disadvantage because we’re equals in the ring and outside the ring. It’s only fair that I treat you as my equal no matter what.”

Your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath. Seonghwa knocked most of the air out of your lungs when he sent you down to the mat again, but you’re also a bit worked up from the exercise. Seonghwa is in a similar predicament; sweat drips down the side of his face, a few stray drops hitting the mat near your head. Your body reacts before your mind does, but you blame the close proximity and intimate fighting for how you’re feeling.

“But anyway… I won, princess.”

“What do you want then?” Seonghwa dips his chin to his chest, a small laugh reverberating before he looks back into your eyes.

“I want no one else to be on the ship right now because I would love to fuck you into the mat.” You choke on your saliva, teeth clattering as you snap your lips together. The boldness of his words is shocking enough, but what he actually said has you getting flustered within a second. “But, I suppose I can settle for a kiss instead.”

“Y-You – you can’t just… say stuff like that,” you stammer, blinking away from his face. His gaze persists though, and even out the corner of your eye, you can see the way his stare lingers on your lips.

“Can I kiss you, Y/N?” The question is whispered, but it sounds so loud in your ears. You bring your chin forward again and look Seonghwa in the eye. He doesn’t move, watching and waiting for a sign of approval or denial from you.

“Please,” you whisper back. Seonghwa closes the already minimal distance between your lips. They’re just as soft as you remember them to be, but there’s a bit more hunger when he kisses you this time. He doesn’t let the touch stay sweet and innocent for long, tongue swiping over your bottom lip. A small whine slips through as you part your lips for him, and his tongue meets yours in a sudden clash for dominance. He hums against you, the grip on your wrists tightening ever so slightly, and you lean into his touch without second thought. His lips leave yours too soon for your liking. “W-We – we shouldn’t do th-this here.”

Seonghwa’s eyes drag over your face as he nods. “My room is closer than yours.” Again he hesitates, waiting for you to give some sort of response, and he alleviates the pressure on your wrists to sit back on his heels.

“Hurry up and take me there then before we get caught.” That’s all the permission Seonghwa needs. His hands dart down to your thighs, pulling them around his waist, and you let him hoist you up. He’s stronger than he looks, you have to give him that because the lithe form and lean muscles do not look like he should be able to lift you and stand up with the added weight with such ease. He manages to do it without batting an eye. “What if someone is in the corridor?” You ask under your breath, bringing a finger up to trace over his rosy lips.

“Do you want me to put you down already?”

“Not really but – but you probably should just to be safe.” Seonghwa’s lips twitch into a smile, and he helps you untangle from around his waist.

“Lead the way then, princess.” His smile is teasing as you turn towards the door. Then, the flat of his hand comes down on your ass, and you gasp, whipping your head back towards him. “You don’t know where my room is though, so I’ll take the lead.”

“I hate you,” you grumble, cheeks burning with embarrassment as he steps past you and leads the way out of the training room.

“Say that after I fuck you into the mattress.” The comment has you choking on your spit again, and you nearly trip over the threshold of the door. The walk to his room is both brief and awkward. He walks a little ways in front of you, and even though you’re trying to avoid looking suspicious, you think that your motives are quite obvious. Especially as you reach his room and he taps at the keypad to open the door. You follow his steps as closely as you can without stepping on his heels. Once you’re both in his room, the air of awkwardness is dispelled. His hand finds the back of your neck, the other traveling to your hip, and he pushes you back against the cool metal door. You meet him halfway, lips crashing together in a mess of skin and teeth.

He kisses you with a bruising force, hands slipping away to press against the door instead. You hum against him and loop your own hands around his back to pull him flush against your body. Both of your movements are frantic and rushed, a stark difference compared to last time’s slow ministrations. You fumble for the hem of his shirt, trying and failing to grab at it. Seonghwa pulls back from your lips and gasps for air. He simultaneously yanks his shirt up and off his body. The only noise you can make in response is a startled moan, then his hands return to your body, grabbing the hem of your shirt. Your hands move by instinct to cover his and stop him from pulling it off of you.

“We can stop if you want,” Seonghwa whispers. His forehead falls against yours, and you could cry at the gentleness of his tone and actions. Instead, you shake your head slowly.

“N-No, I don’t want to stop. I… I want you,” you reply, voice equally as quiet. You know you should talk this through with him first, especially after the first time you had sex, but you’ve already made up your mind about this. Something about Seonghwa makes you trust him, and his visual and sexual appeal is very tangible. Still, you aren’t much of the type to go for one-night stands or quick fucks. With Seonghwa, it feels different from a one night stand, as though there is some sort of connection between the two of you that spurs you to do this. His lips brush against yours as his hands find yours. Your fingers intertwine, the kiss growing deeper and deeper by the second.

Seonghwa doesn’t say anything else; he stumbles back to pull you towards the bed. He falls to the mattress when his knees hit the edge. You bring your legs up to the bed, straddling his lap without breaking the soft kiss. You pull your hands away from his to grab at the edge of your shirt, and Seonghwa sits back to look at you fondly as you peel the material off your sweat-slick skin. There is a sudden shyness to your movements, and Seonghwa picks up on it in an instant. He brings his hands to your bare sides, tracing small circles against the skin as a form of encouragement. You swallow around nothing and reach around your back to peel the band around your chest off as well.

Seonghwa’s gaze never wavers, eyes peering so intently into yours that your breath hitches a little. It’s only when you drop the band to the floor that he moves, and his lips find yours in an instant. The pads of his fingers trail goosebumps along your skin as he drags them upwards. You gasp into his mouth when his thumbs ghost over your perked nipples, and he pinches them lightly. He pinches them again with a bit more force, causing you to throw your head back and release a throaty moan that’s far too loud. Seonghwa takes it as an opportunity to let his lips trail down to your neck. He sucks softly at the skin, and you know that he’s leaving marks as he goes lower and lower, but you can’t find it in you to care.

The bulge in his pants is pressing hard against the inside of his thigh, straining painfully against the fabric around it, and you stretch a hesitant hand down to palm him through his pants. Seonghwa moans around your nipple, lips parting around the skin. The noise spurs you on, and you hasten your movements to press hard against his concealed member. It’s enough to cause Seonghwa to shift, and he suddenly gets to his feet with you still wrapped around him. He twists in and instant and places you flat on your back against the bed as gently as he can.

When he stands up straight, you whine at the loss of contact and warmth, but you understand why a moment later because he fiddles with the button of his pants. You mimic his movements and tug at your own pants. Seonghwa grabs your ankles before you can fully get them off though. His pants are gone and forgotten on the floor, and he focuses all his attention on you, slowly pulling the material off to completely expose you to him. He moves to kneel on the bed, but you extend a hand and press it against his hip, a sudden boldness to your actions.

“C-Can I… can I suck you off?” You ask, tone so quiet you can barely hear yourself over the sound of your racing heart. Seonghwa’s jaw stutters a little, but he nods nonetheless and lets you guide him back into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. He groans as you slip off the mattress and between his legs. One hand trails over your forehead and brushes a few loose strands of hair out of the way. Now that you’re face to face with his member, you’re doubting yourself. You don’t do this often for obvious reasons; in fact, you think this might be only the second or third time to do this. Seonghwa keeps brushing over your skin with such gentle and soft touches that it pushes the insecurities to the side for the time being. You reach up to grip his member at the base then lean in to lick a long stripe up his cock.

A hiss leaves Seonghwa at the contact, and you repeat the motion once more before hesitating over his tip. You quickly blink up at him with fluttering lashes. His cheeks are already flushed, and sweat glistens on his skin. Still, his gaze is gentle on you, and you maintain that sweet eye contact as you begin to take his cock into your mouth. Seonghwa breaks the eye contact as your wet heat sinks down further. He throws his head back with a shaky groan, hand falling away from your head to grip the edge of the mattress tight. You hasten your bobs along his cock. His reaction spurs you along, the pretty string of moans escaping him like music to your ears. His hips twitch and jerk, but you can tell he’s holding back and trying to keep from fucking up into your mouth.

“H-Hold on, hold on, princess,” he stammers out, one hand returning to brush through your hair. You pull off him with a lewd pop and curious eyes. “I don’t wanna cum yet.”

“Oh,” you exhale and let your hand fall away from his hard cock. Seonghwa brings his fingers to your chin. You lean into the soft touch and bring yourself up again, Seonghwa’s hands guiding you to straddle his lap once more. Your lips brush over his, hot breath fanning your face as he exhales.

“Do you need me to prep you?” He whispers.

“I j-just want you to fuck me, please,” you plead and drape your arms over the man’s shoulders. He nods against you then reaches a hand down between your hips. You instinctively tighten your grip on him as he guides his cock to your entrance. Your gut coils a little when he pushes against you, but you do your best to relax your muscles to make it easier for the both of you.

“Relax, princess,” Seonghwa murmurs. His lips ghost over the shell of your ear before traveling lower to nip at the sensitive spot on your neck. He sinks further into you when your body relaxes around him. He bottoms out a moment later, and a breathy whine leaves you. “I’ve got you, princess. You’re okay.”

There’s so much warmth in his tone, the fire of his presence consuming you, and you shift your hips to bring him deeper in you.

“Fuck me, please.”

Seonghwa attaches his lips to your neck again, hands guiding your hips up and down along his cock. You try to help him a bit by bouncing a little on him, but the sensation of him being so deep in you is enough to have you slumping against his body like jelly after a minute. He doesn’t seem to mind one bit though; he just continues to nip and kiss your neck. Every once and a while, he’ll whisper soft praises against your skin. Each word sends shivers down your spine, and you clench around him at the sound of the praise.

You know you won’t last long like this, but Seonghwa doesn’t seem to be in a better predicament as he was already close before fucking you. You reach around the back of his head to tug at his hair. He pulls off your neck at the touch and looks you in the eye, brows furrowed in concentration as he continues to thrust into you. Your words die in your throat when you meet his gaze. Instead of speaking, you just lean in and press your lips to his. The gentle touch and soft prodding of his tongue against yours sends an orgasm crashing over you. You whine into his mouth, and Seonghwa just eats the sound up, thrusting into you only two more times before he cums as well. Your muscles fail you in that moment, but you cling to Seonghwa like he’s the only thing you have and ride out your orgasm with him. His lips are on your ear again, whispering and muttering sweet praises, but you can’t hear them through your pleasure.

You don’t know how long the two of you remain like that, clinging to each other and sucking in deep breaths of air with foreheads pressed together. The haze finally passes though, and you can hear his words clearly again.

“Do you want a shower?” Seonghwa asks, chest heaving from the exertion. You’re too fucked out to think straight, let alone speak, so you can only manage a few nods. “Am I going to need to carry you over there too?”

His teasing remark gives you just enough energy to slap his bicep. He tightens his arms around you and lifts you with ease though, and you settle into his touch as he carries you to the bathroom. You have to reassure him multiple times that’s you’ll be fine showering on your own, but he eventually lets you be and shuts the door to the bathroom to give you a bit of privacy. You don’t take too much time showering, only enough to get the rest of his cum out of you and wash the sweat off your body. Seonghwa left an impressive trail of marks from your collarbone down to your right hip. They vary in shade and color, but are quite visible nonetheless. A slight laugh escapes you as you trail a finger over them, then you shut the water off and step out to grab a towel from the rack. Only once you’ve fully dried off do you realize that he brought in a shirt and pants for you. They’re far too big for you, but it’ll do for the time being or at least until you get back to your own room later.

That might be much later than you anticipated, however, because when you step back into Seonghwa’s bedroom, you’re greeted by a sight that has you so stunned that you choke on air. The man – the supposed Elitist at that – has his back to you, and he’s pulling a shirt over his head when you step out. It gives you just enough time to trail your eyes over his bare back and spot a column of black tattoos lining his spine. Directly between his shoulder blades resides an insignia of flames. Aside from that, each and every tattoo is identical to the ones that decorate your own back.

“Holy fuck, no way–” Your voice fails you at the last second, but it’s loud enough for Seonghwa to hear you. He whips around, tugging the shirt all the way down as he looks back at you with wide eyes. “Y-You’re – you – holy shit, y-you’re–”

Seonghwa cuts you off, which is probably a good thing because you can’t come up with a coherent thought anyway.

“A Siren. Just like you.”

✧✧✧ a/n: okay okay OKAY i did it im 5 minutes late but i DID it jfc i didn’t expect it to be so long ;-; but in any case i hope you guys enjoy let me know what you think of this chapter it isn’t my best work but aslkdfjlkdsjf i tried and it’s crucial to the story ;-; so yeehaw woo i would love to hear your thoughts on this one!

if you would like to, you can take the survey here! you can take it at any point or again if you wanna or you’ve changed your mind, it’s up to you really laskdfjlkdf

taglist: @faeriewoobin @sugarrimajins @atinyinwonderland @2504-life @lil7bluedragon @sparklychangbin @jeong-uwu @jeonartemis @anothershorthuman @xxbluestrifexx @yayhei @haotheheckk @noonawriter @lostscenarios @nlost21 @mirror-juliet @okokokok123-45 @purple-aeon

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

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adamwatchesmovies · 2 years

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Dracula (1931)

Every time I see Dracula, I find something new about it to like. Yes, certain aspects of the film are dated. That’s inevitable in a film from the 1930’s. Despite its age, this picture has a certain something-something that could never be duplicated and that makes it great.

Based on the 1924 stage play adaptation by Hamilton Deana and John L. Balderson, itself based on the novel by Bram Stoker, the titular Count Dracula (played by the immortal Bela Lugosi) is -unknown to the solicitor who visits his derelict Transylvanian castle - a vampire. Aided by the ensorcelled Renfield (Dwight Frye), Dracula travels to London, where he sets his eyes on Mina Seward (Helen Chandler). With the help of Professor Van Helsing (Edward Van Sloan), Mina's fiancé John Harker and father (Herbert Bunston) prepare to battle the creature of the night.

Laugh if you must at the rubber bats. It’s the best they could do at the time (but they do look a little silly). Whether you watch the original version or the one with Philip Glass’ excellent 1998 score (my preferred version), Dracula will grab you soon enough. The whole thing feels like a strange dream of mist and otherworldly horrors. It's all because of Bela Lugosi’s performance. The way he moves, the way he looks at his future victims, his speech pattern, all make him oddly charismatic but undoubtedly dangerous. Without saying anything, you believe him to be hundreds of years old, lost in this new city, and elated to see so many unsuspecting victims. After all, who would believe that a vampire is prowling the streets of a modern city like London? As soon as you see Lugosi, you’re hooked. His performance is unforgettable. It’s like he’s using his supernatural abilities on you.

Some of the filming conventions of the time make Dracula an odd watch. The pacing is slow, except when it moves very quickly. Bizarrely, I think it helps sell the crazy premise to an audience that might otherwise look at it with a raised eyebrow. There’s no comic relief to downplay the supernatural aspect or horror. It just "is"; a film like no other. And yet, its influence is undeniable. When you hear the word "vampire", you think of this Count Dracula. There would be no horror film genre without this film, which makes the fact that it was considered a gamble at the time doubly strange.

I do wish that some of the sub-plots (such as the fate of Mina’s friend Lucy, played by Frances Dade) were explored further and the ending was less abrupt. It’s forgivable, particularly when you consider the film's other strengths: a memorable (and delightfully loony) performance by Dwight Frye, grand sets that perfectly capture the feel of Stoker’s novel, and some stylish bits of direction. The first scenes in Dracula’s castle are so good they're worth the price of admission alone. Plus, at a brisk 75 minutes, it's oh so watchable.

As a picture stuck between the silent era and the Universal Monster film craze, Dracula is an oddity, a creature that doesn’t really belong, that almost feels like it’s intruding on our world… sort of like the Count himself. For the iconic performances and the historic value, it’s a must-see. Maybe you'll need to watch it more than once to call it a favorite, but you won't hesitate to put in the work for that to happen. (1998 Philip Glass Score version on Blu-ray, May 26, 2017)

#Dracula #movies #films #movie Reviews #Film Reviews #Horror Movies #Horror Films #Tod Browning #Karl Freund #Garrett Fort #Bram Stoker #Bela Lugosi #David Manners #Helen Chandler #Dwight Frye #Edward Van Sloan #1931 movies #1931 films #Universal Monsters

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starlightsearches · 4 years

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Fences - Modern AU Neighbor! Hux

@aramanna asked: Neighbor!Hux fanfic? Your dog wanders into his yard and you start talking after clearing up the mishap?

Hey friend, thanks for the request! This is kind of a modern version of a post TROS Hux, where he’s a little healthier, I think. The reader is a teacher because I’m a self-indulgent bitch 🥰 Also, I’ve never seen Peter Rabbit, but reading this again I feel like this might just be Thomas McGregor. Let me know if I’m right, I guess 😂😂😂

Warnings: discussion of a family member passing away, mentions of hospice care, maybe language?

When Armitage Hux isn't working, eating, or sleeping, he is in his garden. Which, for him at least, was a lot like work. Even so, he found that it relaxes him; there was something about being outside in the evening light—watering his flowers, picking stray weeds—that made everything clearer. He never had space like this when he lived in the city, but now that he’s away from it all, taking care of this space; it’s made him a better lawyer. Whenever he’s stuck on a case, feeling like he's exhausted every possibility, a few moments with his hands in the soft soil helped him unearth the perfect solution to his problems.

And sometimes you were there, in your own backyard, of course. He wouldn't watch you—that would be wrong—but he couldn't help but notice you through the little gaps in the chain-link fence. Sometimes he found you in your hammock stretched between two trees at the back of your house, your legs the only part of you visible as you swayed in the breeze. Or occasionally you’d spread out a blanket on warm summer days, soaking in the sun as you read.

Every so often he'd get the wild idea that he might say something to you, before changing his mind, or losing his nerve. He hadn’t said more than a handful of words to you since you moved in next door a few months ago—only visiting your doorstep on the rare occasion that your mail was delivered to the wrong house, or he wanted to borrow a cup of flour, or he needed some milk. Lately he’s played with the idea of approaching you about replacing the fence that runs between your houses—a terribly ugly chain link fixture—but he’s been putting that conversation off for some time now, waiting for the right moment.

Today could be the day, though. It’s a quiet Saturday, the last rays of sunlight stretching over the thick green grass, the air alive with the smell of earth as the water trickles from his hose over his many flowers, the sound only interrupted by the occasional passing car.

Hux listens more closely when a new sound is added—the slam of your back door, and then a series of gleeful yips, but he doesn’t let himself turn around just yet, choosing instead to feign indifference for a few more moments. This is the real reason he’s been putting off the conversation about the fence. Your incredibly enthusiastic new puppy has given him twice the opportunity to spend time with you. If you could call it that.

He turns now, after what he thinks is an appropriate waiting period, and you catch his eye, offering him a slight wave, which he returns—with the hand not holding the hose, this time. You’re attention pulled away from him for a moment as you watch the little corgi zip around your small yard, but Hux keeps his eyes on you, appreciating the way you light up with laughter at the dog’s antics.

He could talk to you right now, if he wanted. Could strike up a conversation about something inane, like the weather, invite you over for a drink, or maybe dinner sometime. He doesn’t think you’re seeing anyone, after all—hasn’t noticed any overnight guests, hasn’t seen you picked up for any dates. But maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

Your door slams again, pulling him out of his fantasy world, and he turns back to see your yard left empty. Another missed opportunity. Hux doesn’t let himself feel too low about it; there’s always tomorrow.

He wakes early on Sunday morning—always awake before the sun rises—and that suits him just fine, padding through his empty house to the kitchen. Grey light streams in through the windows as the quiet morning sounds fill Hux’s ears: water boiling on the stove, the quiet rustle of cat food as he scoops some more into Millie’s bowl.

Where is Millicent? he wonders to himself—she normally sprints into the room at the first sign of her morning meal, but now he sees no sign of her. Hux wanders into the living room, eyes scanning the floor before he finds her by the sliding-glass door at the back of the house, her eyes watchful, tail swishing back and forth.

“What are you doing, Millie?” he asks, and she turns to look at him with her wide, intelligent eyes, offering him a soft meow in response. He really has to stop doing that, talking to his cat. It’s just another testament to the adverse side-effects of living alone. Millicent stays by the door, turning her eyes back to the glass, and eventually Hux caves, walking to the window, hoping to see something more interesting than a stray bird or squirrel.

Hux gasps as soon as he sees it, yanking open the sliding glass, not bothering to find shoes before he steps out onto the cool, wet grass—still damp from the early morning mist. A soft cry falls from his parted lips while he takes in the damage. His garden, it’s ruined.

He picks his way through the clods of dirt that litter the grass, trying to get a better look. There’s not a flower that’s been left undisturbed, every single one of them ripped from the dirt, mangled, crushed. Totally unsalvageable.

The headache that blossoms behind his eyes is all too familiar as it rears its ugly head. He thought he had left it behind with the Order—the unpleasant reminder that there’s so little he has control over, that something always goes wrong. Now it’s back with a vengeance.

Hux hears the little yip from the far side of the yard and turns to look, hoping to catch the culprit that had destroyed all his hard work. He sees the bushy little tail, wiggling as the intruder paws through the soft, brown earth, and he recognizes it immediately. His suspicions are confirmed when he turns the other way, notices the gap created at the bottom of the fence that separates your property from his.

The dog yelps when Hux grabs him and immediately begins to squirm, trying to get free, but Hux holds on tight, stomping back through the grass all the way to your front door, breathing hard. He knocks three times in loud, rapid succession, and he only has to wait for a moment before it opens.

As soon as Hux sees you, his anger vanishes, and a cacophony of other emotions takes its place. Embarrassment is first—you’re standing there in your pajamas, squinting into the first rays of sunlight peeking up over the houses across the street as you rub some leftover sleep from your eyes, and Hux just now realizes that he is also still in his sleepwear: an old t-shirt and some boxers, a ratty, blue robe thrown over his shoulders.

“Hello, Armitage,” you greet him with a smile, the sound of his name on your lips bringing a blush to his cheeks. You’ve always called him Armitage, ever since one of his stray bills had found its way into your mailbox, and he’s never had the courage to let you know nobody calls him by his first name. “Did you need someth-”

You gasp before you can finish, finally noticing the writhing little dog in his hands, and you reach for it immediately, pulling it in close to your chest. “Noodle!” Hux tries to process the exclamation before he realizes you’re still talking to the corgi—that must be his name. You turn your attention back to Hux and he pulls his robe closed over his pajamas, wrapping his arms over his chest. He needs to tell you about the fence, his garden. He can’t let himself get distracted.

You’re talking again before he gets the chance to formulate a sentence, holding the little dog against your hip like a baby, where he rests without wiggling, occasionally licking at your bare arm, looking up at you with his soft puppy eyes. “Thank you for bringing him back, I didn’t even realize he had gotten out of the yard,” you say, “I didn’t leave the gate open, did I?” Hux pauses, wondering how he should break the news to you. You still haven’t noticed the dirt covering the little demon’s paws, and you look at him with such innocence that for a moment, he thinks he should just leave and take care of the mess himself.

His silence says enough, your face falling when you first realize what it could mean. You look to the dog’s paws, then see the mud caking his fluffy little legs. “Oh no, he didn’t . . . “

“You should see for yourself.”

Hux watches as you take in the wreckage that was once his garden. You don’t say anything for a few minutes, just standing, staring. He had been so angry when he had first seen the carnage, but looking at it for a second time, he can’t find any of the leftover rage anywhere inside of him, especially not now, as he’s seeing it through your eyes. You look like you’re about to cry.

“I’ll pay for a new fence,” you say, turning to look at him with such urgent sadness, “and I’ll buy you new flowers. I’ll plant them all myself.”

“That’s- that’s not necessary,” Hux stutters out a response, looking away from you, back to the destroyed flower patch. He can’t stand to see you like this, so torn up over a silly garden, and with every passing moment he grows more and more sure that you’ll never want to speak to him again after this, if he doesn’t make things right. “It wasn’t your fault.”

You reach out to him, your grip firm where it rests on his arm. “Please,” you say, and you’re not just asking, you’re begging, “please, let me help. I can fix this.”

Hux looks down to the place where your hand rests against the arm of his robe, watches the way your fingers flex against him, and his heart softens, lifting his eyes to meet yours again. He gives you the smallest nod, watching as your face lights up with joy, relief, and for a moment, he finds himself feeling incredibly grateful for your silly, little dog.

___________________________________________

Hux looks back, as he wanders through the aisles of his favorite greenhouse, checking, once again, to make sure that you’re still following him before placing a few marigolds in the cart with a small cough. You had admitted pretty early on in your negotiations that you didn’t know much about gardening, but you had still insisted on helping, and Hux just couldn’t say no.

You’re easy to be around, he finds quickly, despite his nerves. He had been afraid that the rest of his day would be filled with awkward silences and stilted conversation, but words flow like water between you. You had spent the drive here telling him stories about your students, about what life was like before you moved, about the family and friends you left behind, and how much you missed them.

“Why’d you leave?” he asks absentmindedly, searching through the pansies for the healthiest of the bunch, his eyes searching for you again when you don’t immediately respond.

“My grandmother,” you begin, suddenly melancholy again, “I used to live with her every summer here. She left her house to me when she passed. I don’t know if you remember her.”

Hux thought back, easily conjuring the image of his old neighbor in his mind. She was a sweet lady who dropped off cookies to his porch when he first arrived at his new home, or occasionally asked him for help hanging a painting, carrying in her groceries. She had been the one who had found Millicent, when she was still a stray. He still remembers how sheepish she had looked, asking if he would take care of the little kitten while she found it a new home. I’d look after her myself, she had said, standing on his doorstep with the little orange bundle in her arms, but I’m not as young as I used to be.

“I remember her,” he says, and you smile again, “ but I didn’t know her that well.”

“She liked you-” you push the cart forward a little, nudging him with your shoulder as you pass, and the contact leaves him struggling for air, “I called her a lot, when she first started to get sick. She always talked about your flowers,” your voice grows thick, and you clear your throat, “she insisted that they put her hospice bed by the big window in the kitchen, so she could still see them whenever she wanted.”

You keep walking, steps a little more hurried now, maybe so he won’t see you tear up. Hux follows closely behind, still trying to process everything he had just learned. He could make sense of your reaction to the flowerbed fiasco now, why you had looked so distraught.

“She mentioned you,” Hux says, walking quickly to catch up with you, “now that I think about it. She’d tell me I’d have to stay for dinner some night, so I could meet her favorite grandchild.”

You laugh, your eyes lighting up in a way that makes his heart drop to his stomach. “That sounds like her; she was always quite the matchmaker,” you respond, before your eyes grow wide with embarrassment, and you realize what you’ve just said. Hux can feel his cheeks grow warm as well, and neither of you breathe, staring at each other in the middle of the aisle. He can scarcely let himself believe it, but it’s impossible to deny, the way you glance down at his lips, your own parting in response. Hux leans in, just slightly, just enough to feel the heat of your skin. He’s not sure if it’s your perfume or the air of the greenhouse, but everything smells like flowers, and desire, a heady scent that goes straight to his head as he watches you close the gap between his face and yours, your eyes still focused on his mouth, your breathing hard.

There’s a slight cough, and then a giggle, and you both turn at the same time, looking to the end of the aisle. Hux can feel his blush grow deeper when he sees the intruders, a group of girls—high school age, he thinks—watching you with wide eyes and mischievous grins.

“Sorry,” one of them says, and the other two break into fits of laughter again, “we were just trying to get through.” You move the cart out of the way good-naturedly as they move past, barely able to contain their laughter as they glide by.

You look at Hux again, but the moment is lost, to his dismay. You clear your throat, looking back at him with your bottom lip caught between your teeth. “Is there anything else that we need?” you ask, and he scans the cart in front of you, absolutely overflowing with flowers.

“I think that’s it,” he says, turning back to you. “Let’s go.”

___________________________________________

Golden rays of sunlight pour in through every window in Hux’s kitchen, the warmth of the day just beginning to fade into a quiet, twilight-kissed evening. You’re resting against his kitchen counter, eyes wandering around the space, but Hux keeps his eyes on you as he pours some water into a glass. You’re glowing, he thinks, and it’s not just the sunset. Your eyes are brighter, skin glistening with sweat before you swipe the back of your arm over your forehead to collect the stray perspiration. A soft breeze blows in through the open windows, a breeze that smells like freshly-planted flowers and the first inklings of nightfall.

Hux hands you the glass, and you take it with a smile, drinking deeply. You had both worked through the heat of the day, side by side, planting and watering and cleaning, everything about it natural, easy. He had shown you how to remove the plants from their temporary pots, brush the soil from their roots—watched as you created small indentations in the new dirt, the gentle work of your hands, and he thought back to the greenhouse, and the smell of flowers and your skin.

You finish draining the glass, wiping away a stray droplet of water that travels down your neck before you catch it with your fingers. He moves in closer. He doesn’t want to lose this moment.

There’s a stray smudge of dirt on your cheek, and he brushes it away with the pad of his thumb, pulling his attention to you.

“Thank you, for this,” you whisper, and you smile at his confusion, “for letting me help. I would have felt really guilty if you had to do that all alone.”

“Don’t mention it,” Hux is thrumming, his heart a live-wire. Just being this close to you has filled him with fire—twin sunsets, one inside his chest and the other flooding through the windows.

“I’ll get the fence repaired, as well,” you set your glass down on the counter behind you before lifting yourself onto its surface, sitting with your legs dangling, leaning forward so you can look him directly in the eyes. “Or we can get it replaced, if you’d rather-”

It’s more than he can bear, this small talk, more than he can take to be so close to you and be forced to think of you being so far away, to have you anywhere but with him, in his kitchen, his garden, his bedroom. He kisses you before you can finish your thought, before he can think about being alone again while you’re on the other side of the fence—a whole life-time away.

“I don’t want to talk about fences anymore,” he mumbles against your lips, barely able to hear himself over the sound of your breathing, intoxicated by the feel of you. You pull him closer, wrapping your arms more tightly around his shoulders, and suddenly, fences are the furthest thing from his mind.

#armitage hux x reader #armitage hux x you #general hux x reader #general hux x you #general hux au #armitage hux au #modern au #general hux fanfic #armitage hux fanfiction #general hux/reader #general hux/you #my writing #requests #aramanna

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plush-rabbit · 4 years

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Don’t Move

Warnings: NSFW, Oral Sex, Dub-Con, Double Penetration, Humiliation, Anal, Possessiveness

Word Count: 6.3K

A/N: Ignore the mistakes lmao! Enjoy! NSFW starts shortly after the cut:)

You've been gone for a while. Your daily messages have dwindled down, you hardly call, you've refused to video chat the past couple of months and to top it all, you seem rather bored to be sitting down with them.

Your food has been picked at, your fork twirling in your hand, scratching at the porcelain bowl as you listen to Kai ramble about who knows what.

"You seem bored." Hari's hand touches your wrist, his fingers clasp around your wrist, stopping your movements. His hand is cold to the touch, sending a sudder down your spine.

You remember a time where you used to clasp his hand in yours, telling him with a cheeky smile that he was always so cold, so perfect for hot weather. It's a fleeting memory that you're unsure of why it even popped up.

Next to you Kai clears his throat and dabs at his mouth with a wine colored napkin. "If we're boring you, then you're free to leave." His eyes bore into yours and you feel exposed.

You shake your head. "No, no. It's-It's not that." You sit up straighter and the fork clinks against the bowl. "I just-" You try to find the words but fail to come up with anything. You reach a hand to grab at your wine glass, fingers grazing the stem of the glass before you're pulled away.

"You seem to have something on your mind." A gloved hand turns your face. "Talk to us. We used to be so close. What happened?" Kai's voice is sickly sweet. A pit begins to grow in your stomach, a deep, dark void that is telling you to run and to never stop.

You open and close your mouth. A flash of pink swipes across your lips and you turn your head to look at your glass, your face is held again by Kai's hand, while a gloved finger dances around the rim of your glass.

"I just-" You spare another look at the glass before you're forced to look at Kai.

A body presses against your back, hands coming to place themselves at your sides.

You help at the sudden contact and all at once, the restaurant dings and clinks with dropped silverware. Your body burns with shame and embarrassment. You remove your cardigan and clutch it in your lap.

"It's- I'm having relationship problems is all." You fail to notice a set of eyes widen and another golden pair narrow with lips curled in disgust behind a black mask. "Well it’s not really a problem but more like an issue. I met this guy and he's really great," you whisper the last word, "but our anniversary is next week and," you twirl a loose string of fabric and wrap it around your finger, "I don't know what to get him." Your bottom lip comes to a pout. "I'm sorry I seem so disinterested but I really like him and I-"

"Anniversary?" Kai's voice cuts you off. "I didn't know you were seeing someone." He watches your glass, blinking lazily at it and sighs.

"I've been so busy with school-"

"But not busy enough considering you're fucking some pig on the side." You can hear the disgust in his voice. He’s looking down on you like you’re some common trash. You’re revolting him.

“No, he’s not,” you say but there’s not much conviction in your voice. You’re too scared to stand up to him. It suddenly dawned on you who you’re having dinner with. “He’s really great.” The knife in his hands catches in the light. It winks at you and you have to look away before you’re blinded. The pasta on your plate has gone cold and no longer looks appetizing. “He-He doesn’t have a quirk. I thought you’d like him,” you whisper out, your head down. The string hanging off the cardigan snaps off.

“Oh. You thought I’d like him?” His voice is high, frillish. It’s a mockery of your own voice and it leaves a sour taste on your tongue. The pit in your stomach is a storm now.

“I-I-” You don’t even know what to say. You wish you hadn’t said anything. You wished you looked more interested in whatever Kai was rattling on about. You wish you weren't here.

“Overhaul, you’re scaring her.” Nails are digging into your shoulders. “Can’t you see, the poor thing is shaking.” You pinch your legs together. “I’m sure they aren’t even that serious.” Two pairs of hungry eyes are on you. “How long have you two been dating?”

Through the fabric of your top, his hands turn into claws. You know that angry, red lines are etched on your skin when you take too long to answer. “Ha-Half a year.” You croak. “Little bit before I went to school.” You look up at stormy gray eyes. “I want a drink.”

His hands leave your shoulders and you reach for the wine, hands shaky, the drink rattles around, sloshing and threatening to spill. You gulp it down and your throat hurts.

The table has grown silent. You’re holding the glass in your hands too scared to disrupt the silence with your nervousness.

“I’m leaving.” Chisaki throws the napkin on the plate and walks away. You stare at his retreating form. The weight on your chest eases a bit until you hear Kurono speak.

“Tsk. You made the boss mad.”

“I didn’t-” Your voice is frantic and tears well up in the corners of your eyes.

“I know. You were just being,” he hesitates to find the correct words, “reckless.” He pulls out a card and ushers the waiter over. “You should go apologize. You know how he can get when he’s angry.”

You nod, your lips pulled into a tight frown. You get up and pause halfway. “Wait, the check.”

“I have it covered.” He replies cooly, not sparing you a glance. “Now go.

You make haste to catch up to sigh, smiling and waving a hand as the host as they tell you to enjoy your night.

The humid air contrasts the cold air that hugs your body. You look around the parking lot, eyes landing to a dark figure making its way to a black car.

You speed walk over, your hands forming into fists, your nails dig into your palms, little red crescent shaped marks appear instantly. “Chi-Kai! Wait!” You call out, forcing your hands to open up. “Kai, please!” He stops against the passenger side door. His back is facing you.

You stand behind him, breathing heavily. “Kai. I’m sorry.” You don’t even know why you’re sorry. “I didn’t mean to make you upset. I thought-” Don’t place any blame on him, you know how this works out. It’s worked like this ever since you’ve met him. He’s the perfect one. You’re the one that always has to apologize because you’re so incompetent. A flash of lightning sears across the sky. It’s followed by a clap of thunder. “I shouldn’t have said anything Kai. I’m sorry.”

His golden eyes pierce through the darkness. You remember learning in class that the brighter the object, the deadlier it is. “You’re sorry?” He asks, raising a thin brow.

“Extremely sorry,” you agree.

“So you’ll break up with him?” His voice is slow, eyes never leaving yours.

“I-I can’t. Kai, please. I really like him.” You want to cry.

He takes a step towards you. His arm is outstretched. A gloved hand cups your cheek, the thumb brushing along your lips. A loud smack sounds across the parking lot. You whimper and hold your face where a bright red has marked you.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He can do so much worse to you. Oh god, why did you open your mouth. “Tell me,” he plays with a strand of your hair. “Has he touched you already?” Your face is hidden behind your hands.

You beg him to stop. Tears slip down your face and you’re flushed with embarrassment. You shake your head when he starts to speak, hands covering your ears while you shut your eyes, not wanting to hear him.

“Please Kai.” You repeat like a mantra while shaking your head. It’s starting to mist.

The parking lot is empty, save for a figure walking towards you.

This figure’s eyes narrowed and underneath the raised hood, hair begins to elongate, stretching out towards you.

“Kai,” you look at him through tears, “Kai I want to-” You fall forward crying out and bracing yourself for impact on the concrete but you find yourself being held by strong arms. You can feel warmth trail down your leg. You try to raise your arms to pull yourself away from Chisaki but find yourself unable to. You’re unable to move, feeling as though your bones have turned into rocks, weighing you down and rendering you useless.

“She’ll be out for an hour.” Kurono’s voice is clear and holds no emotion. “Should be long enough.” Something soft is wrapped around your leg. It fits snug around you and the blood that was leaking out of you is wiped away. The stench of alcohol makes its way to your nose and you close your eyes.

“Let’s go.” Kai commands, handing you off to Kurono.

The fabric across your eyes is soft, it’s pressed firmly against you, allowing no light to pass through. You are utterly blind.

You've forgotten who you were with. You could only remember them when they were younger. When they weren't so dangerous. When all that they talked about was ambitions and dreams, ifs and hypotheticals- not reality. You forgot that college was a way for you to escape, a way to finally experience life. All you remembered were their kind smiles, their hands holding onto yours when you got lost, them protecting you from bad people- people that they deemed bad. But that wasn't reality. The reality was their cold smiles as they examined you, their hands holding tightly onto yours to prevent you from wandering off, people pleading for mercy, that they hadn't meant to touch you, they just weren't looking. You weren't looking. You were turning a blind eye, looking away and telling yourself that those people deserved it, that they were bad. And now, when you can truly see who they are, you're still blind.

You know where you are. You know how to get back to the city and cry until a hero comes to your rescue. There isn't anything holding you down. You could run, make a break for it.

You move a leg, hoping, wishing against all odds that maybe Kurono had taken pity on you and you could move now, but when your hand moves as if it were held together with molasses, your eyes water and tears catch on your eyelashes. You should have known he would make sure to get you.

"Don't move," Kurono says, his hands dragging down from your skirt, the fabric soft against him, and then his fingertips freeze against your skin. "I mean, it's not like you can anyways." He chuckles when your leg twitches. "Sorry."

The bottom of the fabric dampens with your tears. You must look pathetic to them. You know no amounts of pleading will save you from their wrath. Your chest shudders as you breathe. You want to curl up in a ball and wish that you were home, pinch yourself that you were in the arms of your partner. But you don't even have the luxury of wiping away your tears.

"You always were so pretty." Kurono's fingers are tracing against your skin. They swipe down from your thigh, circle your knee, and flick at your ankle.

"Please Kai, please Hari," you whine, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"Why?" Kurono's fingers glide across your skin. "What are you sorry for?" They dance underneath your skirt.

You want to squirm underneath his touch. You want to do anything you can to push him away. He's so cold.

"I'm-" You let out a sob when his fingers trace your panty line.

"An empty apology, hm? I wonder do you give your partner empty apologies as well? Empty promises?" He swipes at your clothes slit, pressing down and humming when your body responds to his touch. "Tell me, have you promised him anything special?"

You hold your breath as he pushes your panties to the side, the cold air of the room meeting your heat makes you whimper.

"Move aside Hari," Kai's voice cuts through the air. "I'm not in the mood to have seconds." With a wave of his wand, Hari moves aside and sits next to you, grabbing your hand and begins to play with your fingers. His touch is ice cold, you can feel your heat being sapped out. Your fingers scream and ache for warmth, for movement, anything to feel heat once again.

Kai lifts your legs and places them on his shoulders, your skirt barely covers your core. The only thing in between him and you is a thin layer of clothing.

"Have you fucked him?" Chisaki asks.

You stay silent.

A bare hand lays flat against your thigh and it takes everything in you to not scream.

"I asked you a question." He rises from where he laid. Your legs fall against the mattress with a thump and suddenly you can see.

The bright fluorescent lights blind you and you squeeze your eyes shut. Your heavy breathing fills the room. Little whines and sniffles accompany the noise.

A hand is wrapped around your throat and it pulls you back to reality. You snap your eyes open when he begins to speak. "Have you fucked him?"

"No," you whisper, your voice wavering. "No, I havent fucked him Kai. I promise."

"Why?"

You feel sick. "I wanted it to be special," you say dumbly. Your ears burn with shame and you can't make eye contact.

"Were you going to fuck him on your anniversary?" The grip around your throat tightens.

"Yes. If-If he wanted to." You beg for this to end, but it falls on deaf ears.

"Has he touched you before? Have you touched him?" He raises a thin brow, golden eyes looking over at you.

"Kai please-" your skirt is gone, it flashes away and strands are left coating your legs. "I'm sorry!"

"What's the answer?"

"We-We only did hand stuff." It sounds so pathetic when said out loud- so juvenile. "Nothing else, Kai, I swear!"

Chisaki regards you heavily. The pressure around your neck is heavy, your face is growing red and the need for air growing until you're seeing black spots dot your vision.

Suddenly you have air back and you're coughing and choking on your spit. You're begging for forgiveness. Telling him, telling them both, that you won't do it again, that it was a moment of weakness. Your hair is toyed with, and a streak of gray teases your vision. You snap your mouth shut.

You focus on the ceiling, the lights blind you and hurt your head. You've known them for long enough that there's never any empty threats, that the only reason you've survived this long with them is because you're obedient. You're a pet to them- something that they could mold into what they want you to be. But you've spread your wings too far, chirped too loudly and now your wings must be clipped.

Hands run down your body. Manicured nails grip the edge of your thin sweater, bunching it in their hands and smoothing it out with a pat on your stomach. A thoughtful hum fills your ears, gentle touches on your stomach, fi gets freezing when they touch the little bow on your bra. You dont usher a word, scared that if they remember you're still alive, one of them will end you.

It's quick. You hardly even realize that your clothes are gone until the ripped fabric rests on you and slides down your skin. All that's left now are your heels and panties.

You meet his golden eyes. They're unblinking as they examine you. Eyes flicker over your skin, analyzing and trying to figure out if you’re telling the truth.

"You know I hate messes." It holds no malice, no undertones of threat- just a simple reminder of who he is.

You nod to the best of your ability. "I know Kai." You give him a grin that struggles to fully form.

All eyes are on him as he pulls his mask off. You would always make a deal when he would take it off, you always saw it that he truly did care for you, that his removal of a mask was an approval of you. But now when his lips are pressed against your unmoving ones, you desperately wish for the mask.

You pucker against him. Your eyes are closed and you pretend you're with your partner. There's nipping at your bottom lip, teeth clashing against each other awkwardly, hands roaming down your sides and touching your breasts.

You breathe his name out, it rises and cracks in the middle and your leg kicks out, brushing against his calf. You promise him to be good, that you'll break it off with your partner, that you won't ever bring this up again.

He grabs you by the face and forces you to look at him. If looks could kill, you'd be dead a hundred times over.

You focused your gaze on the lights, and squeezed Kurono's hand tight. You whimper when his mouth drags down your breast, your nipple erecting at the stimulation.

Mouth covers your breast, harsh kisses pressed against your skin, your chest littered with love bites. A hand brushes against your heat and a moan tears through you.

"Already so wet," Kai muses, playing with your clit through the fabric.

Without fully understanding what's about to happen, choosing to ignore the sensations coursing through your body, your delicates are tossed over to Kurono who places your hand above his crotch. You scrunch your face in disgust when his cock twitches underneath you.

"You've already gotten me so hard by just being toyed with." You peer over to Kurono whose face is buried in your panties. "You smell absolutely divine might I add."

"You'll get your turn Chrono." Chisaki's voice cuts in. "Let me have my fill."

A high pitched whine erupts from your throat when a finger is experimentally pressed inside of you. The finger moves inside of you, circling around and pressing into every squishy part, petting every surface with gentleness and curiosity. Another finger presses inside of you, working its way around, feeling every groove, every way that your cunt pours out its arousal, every way your cunt tightens and begs for more. You writhe as he works his way, your face burned red and fighting back moans to no avail.

Chisaki’s voice cuts through your moans, speaking above you, “You know the reason why we’re doing this-” He pauses to let you moan out, your hand clamping over your mouth, “-is to show you how real men treat their women. With the way you're leaking, I bet he’s never made you feel this way. You’re squeezin so tight around my fingers that it makes me sure that this is the first time you’ve ever been finger fucked so good.” Your moans are a sufficient answer for him.

Metal clinks together, the sound is lost with the wet, squishy noises coming out of you. Chisaki’s fingers massaging the inside of your walls, pressing down and rubbing, urging more juices out of you.

“Ah-ah, Chisaki,” you croak out, sucking in your lower lip.. You snap your mouth shut, and tense. Your walls tighten around his fingers, soaking him further.

“You really love being fingered, don’t you?” His lips pressed against your cunt send vibrations and tingle your clit. “You know why I’m doing this, right?”

“Yes, I do.” Your back arches and in the corner of your eye you see Kurono jerking himself off, his cock fisted in his hands.

You scream out, your hands clutch your chest, and you twitch when Chisaki works his tongue in you. Your hand is pulled away from your chest. You let out a gasp when your hand wraps around something hard.

You crane your neck over and see your hand is covered by Kurono’s. He’s pleasuring himself with your hand. When you attempt to pull away, he tightens his hold on you, freezing you in place when he begins to use your hand.

Slowly, he releases his hold on you, letting your own hand work by itself. “Why are we doing this?” Kurono asks, petting your hair.

“Be-Because I need to know how real men treat their women.” You’re lightly jerking off Kurono, your hand is limp around him, only your forefinger and thumb circling around him while the rest barely graze his cock.

“Come now, surely you didn't pleasure him like this?” Kurono’s voice is teasing, something that you’ve only heard a handful of times.

Your grip tightens around him and with a jerky motion, you pull against his skin, hiccuping when and shutting your eyes when he tells you what a good girl you are. He pets your hair as he compliments you, telling you words of praise muddled in with moans.

“How much did you love them?” Chisaki asks, his breath hot against you.

The question catches you off guard. “What?”

“How much did you love them? I mean you must have right? To touch their cock with your bare hand? To let them touch and play with your cunt?” He slaps your cunt. “Did you love them?”

“Kai-”

“Don’t tell me you just opened your legs for anyone. If you were going to let him defile you, then why didn't you ask us? We love you.” He kisses your clit. “And you love us.”

You stay silent, your grip tightens around Kurono and he’s edging closer to you.

Chisaki bites your inner thigh. You yelp and squeeze too tight. Your cheek is white for a moment before a red handprint takes form and spreads across your face. You let go immediately, and your eyes burn with hot tears.

“I’m sorry Hari!” You apologize immediately, hands grasping in the air, searching for him.

“You love us don’t you?” Hari raises a thick brow, his hair inches closer to you.

“Of course I do!” You did love them. “I love the both of you!” You swallow the lump in your throat. “I’m sorry for hurting you Hari. Let me- let me make you feel better.” You smile at him.

“Overhaul,” Kurono looks over to Chisaki who is too busy examining your lower lips. His finger stops its tracing and he only glances up at Kurono. “I think she should kiss my cock.”

Chisaki’s eyes widen. His eyes glance between you and Kurono before settling back to you weeping slit. “Don’t make a mess.” He tentatively licks your clit. “She’s always had a gag reflex.”

“Kurono please-” You stop and stare at him, your nose is pinched between his fingers.

“You’re going to make me feel good right? Because you love us?” He stares at your mouth with hungry eyes, his member leaking precum and dripping down your cheek.

“Let me make you feel good.” Your voice is nasally. “Because I love you.” You're able to breathe regularly again.

Another harsh slap to your clit. “I love you too Kai. I love you so much.” Another slap. “Please Kai, make me feel good.” Kisses are pressed up and down your slit, the crown of black hair bobbing up and down as his tongue works you.

Kurono’s length is inside of you. Your tongue swirls around it and a hand jerks off what you cannot fit. He shudders above you and holds your head, moving at a slow pace, his shaft hitting deeper and deeper with each thrust. His balls hit your chin and he holds you there, spit dribbles down and coats you both. He thrusts against your, his package hitting your chin with a wet slap. Your eyes sting and throat burns with the warning of bile. You tap against his thigh and plead with your eyes to stop. Your words bleed together but the word “mess” is still able to be made. He scoffs and slows his pace, inching his cock out of you.

Chisaki works your slit quizzically. His tongue swipes over, moving your pearl around and sucking it into his mouth.

"Ah! Kai!" His name is muffled and Kurono groans at the vibrations. Your pinch yours together and jerk your hips upwards.

Your clit is nursed on, his tongue flicking around it while in his mouth all while you writhe and moan underneath him. Two fingers are pumping in and out your slit, wet sounds reaching your ears.

You bob your head around his cock, a rocking motion where you meet his cock and your cunt escapes the ravenous mouth of Chisaki, only for it to be assaulted again when he holds your hips down.

Your arousal drips down his mouth and he's feasting on you like a hungry man, his tongue and fingers never leaving you. His face is buried in your cunt, and god, you want to fight against the waves of pleasure, hide that this feels good but you can feel yourself soak him.

You moan against Kurono's shaft, hand pumping harder and cheeks hollowed- desperate for him to cum so you'd only have to worry about Chisaki.

Your legs clasps together when Chisaki’s mouth finally leaves your aching clit. You shudder and want to hump the air. Your stomach is pained with the lack of release you haven’t allowed. You remember how angry Chisaki has gotten in the past when someone disobeyed him, you’ve seen what he does, and you don’t want to meet that fate.

Kurono removes himself from you, spit dribbles and splats on your chin. Your tongue wipes your lips and you stare at him through half lidded eyes.

Your legs are kneed apart, your cunt fully exposed and shivering with want. A hard member presses against the inner of your thigh and with slow, teasing movement, inserts itself inside of you, your pussy welcoming and squelching around him.

Chisaki lays above you, his eyes staring into yours, as he fucks you, his cock pressing and hitting all the correct spots and you’re seeing stars. Your body betrays your mind, and begins to fuck him back, your pussy wrapping around him. He groans and bends his head down, hot air moistening your shoulder.

Kurono groans as he watches Chisaki fucks you raw. His hand working faster and rubbing down his package, pre-cum oozes out and stains the floor.

“You can have her after I’m down Chrono. Fuck,” Chisaki breathes out, his cock slamming into you.

"No Overhaul. You can have her cunt. I, however, would like the other."

Your eyes widen. You begin to shake your head when you hear a wet, squirting sound fill the room.

"No! No please Hari. Hari, take my cunt! Please Hari!" You sob and plead with him. "Hari, it'll hurt!"

"It won't hurt." A loving hand caresses your cheek. "I could never hurt you."

Chisaki holds you tight in his arms and flips over. Your hair falls to your face and Chisaki continues to pump into you, groaning and toying with your breasts. He kicks your legs open with his, placing them above, effectively trapping you.

Cold, silky like lube coats your puckered. You sob and plead with Chisaki.

"Be careful with her." Chisaki warns, shushing you when you begin to cry. He combs your hair and coos into your muttering words of assurance.

"I will." Kurono probs a thin finger against your hole and you tense. He assures you everything is going to be alright, that he'll take good care of you. It swirls around you, and with a few more minutes of gentle massaging and the pleasure of Chisaki's cock, you begin to open up. A deep moan escapes from your throat and you wiggle above Chisaki.

"Another one, okay?" Another finger is added. They scissor against each other, massaging the soft walls. A hand runs your clit when you moan out, circling and providing a distraction from what's happening. "You're doing so well." Three fingers are inside. The thumb runs around and cool air is breathed onto you. The silky liquid covers you again. Clicking noises are filling the room and with a hiss, you let out a cry that soon turns to a moan.

There's an added pressure behind you and Kurono's lips are pressed against the back of your head.

"You did so well. You took all of me with such ease." He shudders and you feel his cock twitch in you. "You're so tight. You have this vice grip on my cock." Your tears of shame and humiliation and have turned to those of pleasure.

Your body has finally convinced your mind to enjoy this. Your hump against them both, wet, clicking sounds are echoing in the room, your moans over taking them.

It's getting harder to breathe, the cocks inside of you are driving you insane, the pleasure makes you see stars and the knot in your stomach is coiling tighter. You can feel their cocks hit deep inside of you.

"Oh god, oh fuck!" You moan. Your mouth is open wide in an unheated moan and saliva dribbles out of your mouth.

Their cocks fit inside of you perfectly as if your body was just made for them. Your body shivers with the wave of your orgasm on the edge.

“We love you,” Kurono kisses your back, “You know that right? You know that we’re doing this because we love you.” He bites your neck, his tongue swiping at the area when you flinch. “You feel so good. You’re so tight around my cock. Milking it for everything it’s got. You fucking slut.” He spits the words out at you, pressing feverish kisses down from your neck.

“You know, I might actually believe you when you said you hadn’t fucked him. You’re as tight as a virgin.” Chisaki’s cock works in and out of you, holding you tight against him as waves of pleasure courses through you.

“I wasn’t lying to you Kai.” With shaky hands you cup his face, your thumbs running across his cheek bones. “I’d never lie to you or Hari. Oh god,” you moan out, the coil in your stomach tightening. “I love you two so much. So much, I promise,” you begin to cry. “I love you, I love you,” you repeat like a prayer, digging your nails into Kai’s biceps.

"Tell us how it feels," Hari grunts. His mouth is pressed next to your ear. "Tell us how it feels, and we'll tell you." His nails are digging into your skin.

"It-" a moan interrupts you and you press your forehead against Kai's chest. You're breathing has turned ragged and it's all too much. "I feel so full. It's like I'm stuffed." Your mouth is watering. You press your lips against Kai's mouth and moan into him, hoping that the desperation will show. "I have two cocks in me all at once- I-I've never felt like this before." Words are spilling out of your mouth without much thought. "Please, go faster, please, Kai, please Hari. Fill me up." You tongue lolls out of your mouth. “It feels so good!”

“Your cunt is all swollen.” Kai’s voice is cold and laced with lust. “We’ve been working you too hard. I’m surprised you haven’t cummed yet.”

"You haven't told me to. I didn't want to disobey.” A choked out sob erupts from you when Hari’s fingers rub at your puffy clit, pinching it between his fingers and tugging on it. “Hari please, I’m already so sensitive, please Hari,” you beg, “please not too rough. Ah-ah, Hari, my clit,” you cry out. Tears slip down your cheeks and you’re already so close, the pressure building up inside of you is getting painful.

“You poor thing,” a hand smooths out your hair, “you must be in so much pain right now, hm?” A sharp smack fills the room. “You must really want my cum to fill up your tight little ass. Don’t worry, you’ll cum soon enough.” Hari shoves his fingers into your mouth and buries his cock in you deeper as you suck on his fingers as if it were lifeline.

The feeling of them both being inside of you is getting too much for you to handle. What once was a sharp pain that made you want to kick and scream, is now making your eyes roll to the back of your head with a desperate want of their cum inside of you. The tightness in your stomach is pulling you apart and aching to be released, it hurts so bad, it’s literally pulling you apart and you desperately want to cream over their cocks, you want to fucked until your limp and oozing cum out of your cunt.

“Please let me cum, ah, I’ll be so good, I promise, just let me cum please,” you’re sobbing against Kai’s chest, it seems as if that’s all you’ve been doing the past hour, “let me cum, please, oh fuck!”

A small nip at your collarbone is all the permission that you need. As if you were once again you were once struck by Hari, your limbs fall and you still and for a brief second, your mouth is wide open with a pained gasp stuck in your throat, before your back arched and your legs are shaking, toes curled and hands dragging against the linens, nails clawing into them and bunching underneath your palms. Tears have blurred your vision and a mix of Hari and Kai’s name is jumbled between the mess that you are. Your waves of orgasm rushes throughout your body, creaming over Kai’s cock. You’re clenching around them both tightly as they continue to pump into you. Your body is exhausted, you’re fully spent and with your cunt still spasming and constricting around the men, they search for their own high, fucking deep int you you, their cocks in sync, little pinches to your clit when you lay flat and huff against Kai’s chest. You no longer plead for them to stop or to continue, all you can truly do right now is wait as they reach their own high, with hands touching every surface that they can, hands gripping at your breasts, tugging on your nipples, toying with your clit and hooking your mouth until your drooling. Kai’s nails dig into you and in the farthest depths of your mind you feel the blood that springs out, blending in with your bitten, bruised skin.

They cry out your name at once, slew of curses leaving one mouth and grunts leaving the other. Their thrusts don’t lose speed or strength as they release into you, parallel kisses and bites are spread from your collar bones and your shoulder blades. You feel Hari’s cum first, how it fills you and the warmth of it soothes the aches and pains that reside in you. It seeps out and makes loud squelching noises when he continues to ride his high. His thrusts slow to a stop and he buries his cock in you, hips pressing harsh against your rear, cum spurting out and staying in place.

Kai’s cum, comes out all at once, thin strands that paint your gooey walls, covering every surface and filing you right. He keeps his cock buried inside of you, gyrating his hips to feel you squeeze him. He breathes harshly against your skin. His eyes are clouded and gazing at the ceiling, a dark blush sweeps across his face and his nails are still digging in your skin, holding you tight and ignoring the beads of scarlet that has begun to drip.

You cry out when Hari pulls out, and with a humiliating mewl, you hide your face when the cum spurts out, dripping down to your aching cunt.

With a growl, Kai pulls his cock out of you, your pussy follows suit, spewing out the cum in slow streams. You try to cup it with your hand, pushing the cum back inside, clamping your fingers together when it parts through the gaps, staining the bed.

The men stand above you, their cocks drained of all cum. Kai regards you with disgust when he stares at the mess but with the way his cock begins to harden seeing the cum slip between his fingers, you guess that he isn’t all that pressed. Hari looks to be a bit smug and promptly dresses himself.

You stare up at them and for what must be the hundredth time in the past hour, you cry. Harsh sobs wrack through your body, you curl in on yourself and hug yourself, the cum stains your arms as you cry and feel your face flush with shame. You’re cold and you just want to go home.

“Shut up.” You don’t even know who said it but you know better to disobey.

You bite the inside of your cheeks and taste copper.

“Remember that this is how real men treat you. How they make you feel.” You nod, waiting for them to continue. “I don’t ever want to hear about you’re fucking filth on the side.”

You nod numbly and wince when a thin sheet covers your body. There’s talk about getting you a spare change of clothes, about keeping a closer eye, about anything and through closed eyes, you feel lips press against your temple, little words of approval and praise sludge together and you mutter an “I love you,” and with a click of a switch, the room is enveloped in darkness and you fall into a deep slumber.

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kettlequills · 3 years

Text

C3: a wife to remember

god i love this fic so much. a03

A hag had many resources at her disposal, not at the least, her fellow sisters of feather, and Moira had a problem. She did not know the Dragonborn, and Moira did not much like not knowing things, especially when it pertained to the fruits of her bargains. The Dragonborn had not seemed adverse to Moira on the basis of being a hag alone, but accepting talons and feathers was quite different from permitting her to actively work her magics. There was too much that Moira did not know.

Moira planned to speak to someone who did.

Moira hauled her smoking cauldron into the garden patch, hissing at the weight and thinking longingly of the corded muscle that had braided the Dragonborn’s tanned brown arms, how easy it would be for them to move a cauldron almost as large as Moira was. She idly plucked a few of her own feathers and added them to the steaming brew until the liquid was thick and purple.

Her arms screamed when she took up the stirrer and laboriously fought it through the viscous liquid. Prickles of sweat broke out on her brow, and she leant her full bird-boned weight into the motion, adding an extra push with feather-fluttering hops. This cursed potion would save her days of pointless travel, but it exacted its price here, she thought irritably. Still, Moira had made it enough times before, if not for many years, that it did not take longer than a few hours before she was dipping salvaged bottles with peeling wine-labels into the mixture.

The bottles appeared largely spontaneously, washing up in the banks of the river not far from Moira’s house from Blood-Made-Pleasure’s daedric revels upstream, within the soft fold of Oblivion. Moira hunted along the banks come the morning for mortals, hollow-souled and blown from the Myriad Realms like scrunched daisies, and the trash from endless parties – human viscera, empty wine-bottles that stung the nose with haunting fragrant scents, fake cocks of shattered glass, snapped dremora horns. Sometimes, the blood-sports of the Prince of Plots bleeding over from the nexus of their shrine not far from the snow-city of Nord kings made their way to Moira’s stream, too. The river ran red for days to her mage-eye, and Moira would be weeding femurs and teeth out of her garden patch for even longer. But since Moira’s pact with Sanguine, his realm was closer, and Moira had more empty bottles than she could ever use.

Greatest power wrapped around your finger, for a single night of revelry.

She uncorked one such with her teeth and swigged from the potion as she labelled the others in spidery daedric letters that would make little sense to one foreign to haglore. When her gums began to prickle with chill, Moira kicked over her cauldron and let the dregs of the potion water her deathbell flowers. She left it there, staring hollowly out at the damp trees, and went to her roost. The potion took hold of the daedra inside her heart and dragged, and Moira’s spirit pierced the skin of Oblivion and rose on flapping raven-wings.

Witchmist Grove shimmered with ghostlike mists when she flew above it, the magic of Oblivion searing the trees tall and gloomy with the prescient tendrils of Moira’s magic soaked into the ground. The roost of a hag, visible as a thorny spot nestled like a canker around the soil. The dragon-cairn over the ridge glowed dully with trapped soul energy.

Not for the first time, Moira overflew her home and cawed at her cleverness. The necromantic energy of the dragon’s old servants and its own aedric glow nearly eclipsed Witchmist Grove, and the lines of power that hazed the ground was broken into the rippling hot pools, confusing the scrying-eye. Her own wards against magical predation still held strong, but she had been wise enough to choose a good spot to make it harder. The Grove would shelter its witch well while her mind attended to her business.

It was the work of a moment to envisage the heart of the plainsland, and a second later Moira was soaring through the cloudless blue skies of Whiterun – crisscrossed though they were by the fading trail of a dragon. Still, that was not too unusual in this season of change, and Moira made for the human city where the answers to her questions resided. It pulsed whitely in her mage-eye, the vast wings of the Skyforge spread over the city like a gargoyle. The eagle shrieked as Moira swept lower, and for a moment, its beady eye fixed on her. Her wings faltered in surprise. After a second that felt like an eternity, the eagle tucked its head back against its chest, satisfied, it seemed, that she posed little threat.

Moira’s talons clenched uneasily. The Skyforge was impersonal as the wind. Last time she had come here in this way, its wings had barely twitched when she’d landed on its head. That it was so riled up did not bode well.

Her disquiet mounted as she flew lower to the city – or what was left of it. Radiating outwards from the pulverised remains of the gates was a blast radius of crumbled stone that had reduced the surrounding timber houses to splinters. A wooden palisade had been erected, manned by guards whose spirits flickered dimly with fear to Moira’s mage-sight. Grief hung over Whiterun like a pall, and, pressing against the wall that separated Oblivion from the living, ghosts wandered dully through the streets, torn too abruptly from their living bodies to look for the way to Aetherius just yet. The living tree within the heart of the city was bowed double under the strength of their sorrow, its roots choked by a strange power crawling down from the heart of the prison of dragons. Familiar, daedric darkness, soft as poetry and suggestive as a whisper. The Webspinner, moving openly to claim the city, and, from the look of it, mostly unopposed. Even Hircine’s Underforge was muted. Well, good for the Webspinner. Moira had never liked Whiterun much.

Still, Moira noticed with some relief the burning-bright soul of the one Whiterun resident that she had come to see. Olava the Feeble was waiting for her, playing cards with a small child that shivered at Moira’s approach.

“Go along now,” Olava told the child, who wriggled in her chair. She had untidy brown hair and looked thin, but there were fresh crumbs on her ragged dress, and smears of jam on an empty plate on Olava’s table.

“But we weren’t done playing,” said the girl, and Olava smiled mysteriously.

“Yes, we were,” she said, and tapped the table between them. Moira saw the magic inside Olava flare, and the child gaped down at the cards in her hands. There was dirt caked under her nails.

“How did you do that?” she gasped. Moira sensed a curious flicker in the girl’s own fledgling spirit, as if she was trying to see as a witch did.

Food for a starving waif, and a light-show of no substance? A more obvious hook had never been planted. Moira cared not for Olava’s interest in a ragged child, but surely it would be easier to simply tell the girl whatever it was Olava wanted from her, and claim she was mad or dispose of her if she broke Olava’s cover?

“Charlatanry,” Moira commented dryly, amused at Olava’s transparent recruitment effort, “You didn’t need to touch the table at all for such a simple trick.”

“An old woman never shares all her secrets,” Olava said to them both, and then shooed the girl off. Once she had gone, perhaps a little faster than she would have if it had not been for the invisible presence of a hagraven glaring at the back of her neck, Moira fluttered down to perch on the back of the chair she had vacated. Her talons gripped the wood, but left no mark on it. She was not, after all, truly there.

“Sister,” said Olava plainly, “What can an old woman do for you?”

“Do you not need to maintain your quaint cover?” Moira asked, electing to preen herself. She tugged an errant feather back into alignment while Olava chuckled.

“Not at all.” Olava’s eyes were crinkled up at the edges and her smile was kindly, as if she really were simply nothing more than an old grandmother. Convincing, were it not for the aura of twisted power that radiated her from her like a dark sun and the way that her eyes were holes to the Void in her skull. “My neighbours think nothing of an old woman talking to herself.”

“As you wish.” Moira spread her wings and eyed them critically, as if it were more important than the task that had brought her here. “I propose a bargain of knowledge. I need to learn hand language.”

What better way to learn the ways of her new … spouse… than to prise them from the Dragonborn herself?

Olava hummed, pleased. “You have come to the right place, then. Which sign language is it you need to know?”

Moira ruffled her feathers. “How should I know?”

“Ai,” sighed Olava, “There is more than one. It would help if I knew who you need it to speak with.”

Flaring her wings, Moira shrieked her harsh raven’s cry. It echoed jealously, ear-splittingly loud. Under the eclipsing shadow of her wings, her true shape flickered and burned like coals. She would not share this knowledge. The Dragonborn was vulnerable, for now, ripe for the uncovering, and Moira would permit no other witch’s claws to steal in on her prize. Bad enough that she shared with Sanguine’s hook, that her own hold was as tenuous as the Dragonborn’s word.

Olava leant back in her seat to watch and rose a thin white eyebrow. Her face, for all it was wrought and wrecked by the passage of time, hid a mind no less canny.

“I can get you the knowledge of all major forms of hand-sign from here to Black Marsh, but it’ll cost you,” Olava relented. “I’ll have to call in a few favours.”

Moira accepted this irritably, and Olava eyed her, as if curious to see how far she would take this whim.

“I want you to … deliver something, for me.”

“Knowledge for knowledge is traditional,” Moira cawed, “I’m not your errand girl.”

“No,” said Olava, calmly, but Moira could see the tension wound in the leylines of her magic, her future-seeing eyes that glowed with the deepness of the Void, “But good luck finding another sister to help you. Did you say it was urgent?”

She hadn’t, but Moira was not patient, and Olava knew it. Besides, Olava’s demeanour was – reluctantly – intriguing. A witch’s errand was no small thing, particularly if she wanted a hag’s help to achieve it.

“Not that urgent,” Moira snapped regardless, because she did not want Olava to think that she did not see what she was doing by pricking Moira’s curiosity. “Out with it, then.”

“I need you to take an item to a particular person,” Olava said, “and ensure that it does not… leave her possession.”

Moira cawed a laugh. “A curse object, sister? Why, I’d almost do it for free. But why not see to it yourself?”

Olava’s hands smoothed deliberately over the table. She began to gather the cards and answered Moira’s question to their dog-eared and scribbled faces. “It cannot be me directly. The target knows me too well, and the spell must work.”

Moira paused. Olava’s carefully level voice roused her suspicion, and as she watched Olava stack the cards and slide them precisely into a bag woven of river-reeds, she grasped that Olava was not dissembling. She was worried. Moira did not lack confidence in her magical strength, but nor was she a fool. She had no desire to get mixed up in something that was going to require too much of her time.

“You have seen something that you hope to avoid,” Moira prompted.

“Yes,” Olava admitted, freely. “Nothing that concerns you, sister. A few fraying strings will soon be cut, and I have a … vested interest.”

Moira stared hard at Olava, who returned her gaze steadily. She was being sincere, Moira could tell that immediately from the glow and pulse of her magicka, and even more, Olava was letting her see without a single attempt to hide herself from Moira’s mage-sight. Whatever it was, it was important to her, perhaps important enough to ask a hag to do a courier’s job, if only to be sure it was done.

“Where is this target?”

“Falkreath,” said Olava and Moira squawked indignantly.

“It is far from my roost,” she complained, but Olava only shrugged.

“You’re the one who asked for something,” she said, and Moira conceded with a whistling hiss through her beak.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll see your token delivered.”

“Thank you,” said Olava. She smiled, a genuine one, smaller and slyer than her elderly façade. “I will send you a … friend, on the night of the new moon. He will have what you need.”

Three days. Moira shifted her claws on the chair, then took off without ceremony. She beat her wings quickly to rise over Whiterun, and took the precaution to soar some ways away from the wandering eyes of the powers that wrestled beneath the city. It was only once Moira wheeled freely over the stripped bones of a dead dragon, soul-claimed, that she tucked her wings and followed the thread tethering her to her body, and home.

---

Of course, it was not three days. It was two, and Olava’s friend came yowling with his ear in the firm grip of the Dragonborn.

“You’re early,” Moira said sourly, and the Dragonborn’s mouth tensed.

They wore no helmet today, and their greying brown hair had been roughly knotted at the nape of their neck. It was greasy, already damp from the moist air of the Grove. The rude knot exposed the gruesome fullness of their facial scarring, which twisted as they scowled at the terrified Khajiit whose tunic they held. Still broad, still strong, but there was a bandage wrapped around their bicep, several days old if Moira was any judge, and somewhat dirty and stained. The Khajiit in their grasp was a young ginger tom, his yellow eyes slitted with fear.

“Let him go,” Moira chided the Dragonborn, “Have you no manners?”

Moira did not recognise the boy, but she guessed that he had been sent when he offered her with trembling paws a bag marked with the crest of the Nords of Whiterun, a curling ram’s head.

“For you,” the Khajiit whispered. The Dragonborn’s lips thinned unsubtly, and they stalked off to lean against a tree, their back to the Khajiit but their head cocked, as if they were listening.

The boy’s tail lashed. “This one was not trying to sneak, he swears! He was told to bring a message, to the old woman in the grove by the dragon burial, that is all!”

“I am old, and within the grove,” Moira said, flatly, annoyed that she had not seen him coming, and had time to muster her illusions of being a harmless – if unnerving – old woman who lived alone. She had not sensed the Khajiit at all around the brilliance of the Dragonborn’s signature when they entered Witchmist Grove. “Give it to me.”

The Khajiit hesitated, but when Moira flashed her claws he tripped over himself in his rush to thrust the sack at her. It fell at her feet with a muted rattle. The Khajiit withered under Moira’s poisonous glare.

“Well?” she demanded, and the poor boy’s ears twitched. He bolted, and Moira rolled her eyes. “Let him go,” she told the Dragonborn, whose hunter’s eyes had tracked his flight, “and come in.”

But Moira did not move from her position on the top step as the Dragonborn pushed off the tree and approached her with slow, steady steps, their armour – wrapped for silence, again, in the shredded remains of what appeared to be Nordic burial shrouds – reflecting back the whiteness of the magelight Moira had tethered in the mouths of her staked goat heads. They removed their gauntlet carefully, and, without breaking eye contact, they stooped to pick up the sack and hand it to her.

Feeling as if she were moving thrice as slowly as normal, Moira took it, and her feathers fluttered involuntarily when their fingertips – rough and callused, but hot as fire – brushed her skin. Before the Dragonborn could pull away Moira tightened her grip until the tips of her sharp claws pressed into the back of the Dragonborn’s hand. Scarred, even here, with the nicks and cuts of a lifelong soldier.

The Dragonborn watched her. Those dark dragon eyes were steady as granite, and when Moira stared into them she had the odd sense of falling inwards. It was as if she peered into the implacable gaze of a creature so impossibly huge and dense that it warped the world towards it, as inexorable as a bird struck from the sky must meet the stony ground. She wondered how the Dragonborn would look beneath her potion-enhanced mage sight. She wondered how the Dragonborn saw her.

Moira had the height advantage on them from the top step, but the weight of their gaze was so immense that she felt small, like a darting bird before the maw of a dragon. She remembered challenging the Dragonborn to consummate their engagement the second time they had come to Witchmist Grove. Almost involuntarily, she pictured being pinned beneath that suffocating presence, those dark eyes, that searing heat – the enormity of them like a serpent big enough to touch nose to tail around the entirety of Tamriel coiling itself into one short human body that had to tilt their head up to look Moira in the eyes.

Moira was a hagraven, no fragile thing, her body knitted with ancient magics and raven-feathers, and she had birthed horrors on her altar for little reason other than curiosity. But she was also a bird-hearted once-woman, and the strange, arrhythmic pounding in her chest that could not decide what it felt at the warmth of the Dragonborn’s skin on hers disconcerted her.

With an impatient snort, Moira released the Dragonborn, but not before one last, pointed flex of her claws. The Dragonborn did not flinch at the tiny teardrops of blood that welled up from the scratches, just as they had not reacted to the poison tea, and when Moira turned and stormed into her house, she felt the shaking of the steps as the Dragonborn followed her.

As before, Moira filled the kettle and set it to boil, after checking the sack and tucking it away for later in a cabinet. She was curious to see if the Dragonborn would make the same mistake twice. They did not choose to sit down this time, but leant uncertainly against the wall, arms folded uncomfortably across their chest. Moira was expecting the airlessness of the shack this time and took a moment over the smoke of the fire to soothe herself.

A clinking distracted her, and she whipped her head around in time to catch the Dragonborn leaning back like a child caught going for the cookie jar, hand froze in the act of placing something shiny on the table.

“What’s that?” Moira demanded, and the Dragonborn’s grim mouth moved oddly, as if they were trying to smile.

They gestured sweepingly at Moira, and Moira eyed them suspiciously as she seized this latest offering. It was a bottle, a large one, filled to the brim with glittering dust that shifted and shimmered when she tipped it to and fro, like it was trying to escape the directness of her gaze. The aura that seeped off it reeked of death even with the cap sealed with what looked like leather and home-made twine.

“Blood-drinker dust,” Moira identified. Useful in potions, very useful. Her claws clacked when she tapped the bottle, not wanting to admit that she had nearly run out of her own supply. And she had never had so much as this. It was a handsome gift, and practical, as well. A hag had little use for frippery, after all, even if the Dragonborn’s last gift was currently hidden safely under Moira’s bed and warded with her strongest spells. “You hunted all of these yourself?”

The Dragonborn’s scarred face split, and all of their teeth gleamed. They nodded.

“Is that how you hurt your arm?” Moira asked before she registered what she was going to say, and hissed at herself.

It did not help that the Dragonborn seemed equally surprised at her question, and by the way their eyes flickered to the wound on their arm and back, she imagined they were wondering why she was bothered – or perhaps, had forgotten the wound was there at all. After a brief hesitation, the Dragonborn shook their head.

Moira cursed herself to the Void and back. “How then?” she snapped, aware of the brittle anger in her voice. She wanted to know now. Her curiosity had been piqued, and more than that, there was a strange, restless annoyance Moira ascribed to a healer’s knowledge, impatient with the mysterious wound under its dirty bandage.

The Dragonborn’s shoulders rounded, and their movements as they fumbled for their journal seemed if anything oddly shy. They scribbled for a moment, and then avoided her eye when they presented the page.

“Wolf pack surprised me,” they had written.

“You slay dragons, and hunt vampires, but not wolves,” Moira said. “Did you at least clean it?”

The Dragonborn nodded, and then cleared their throat. They were still looking away, and after a moment, Moira recognised that the fire’s warmth on their cheek was not solely responsible for the redness that had bloomed there.

“Well,” Moira heard herself say irascibly, “Wash your bandages, then.”

Scrubbing the back of their neck with their hand, the Dragonborn nodded. The motion reminded her of their skin touching hers, and Moira busied herself with the kettle, indiscreetly bolstering the fire with magic. The heat enveloped the hut, steaming away the perpetual dampness, and Moira heard the Dragonborn sigh with pleasure behind her. It was nearly noiseless, but not quite, and Moira was hard-pressed to tell whether the shiver that went through her was from some miniature earthquake or the base of her spine, which had elected to, for some reason only daedra knew, play host to half a dozen guttering candles.

“So,” Moira said eventually, “What do they call you?”

Silence, not the scratch of charcoal, and Moira glanced over her shoulder to see the Dragonborn’s confused expression.

“Your name?”

With a metallic creak, the Dragonborn’s arms around their chest tightened, and a muscle in their cheek jumped. They shrugged flatly, and then with a weariness that Moira could almost sense bent their head to write.

“I don’t know the name I was born with,” they showed her, “The dragons call me – “

More of the claw-mark letters of the dragon language, and Moira pursed her lips.

“You know I can’t read this,” she said. The Dragonborn’s mouth crooked helplessly, but Moira’s eye was drawn to the smudges of charcoal on their fingers, exposed, because they hadn’t put their gauntlet back on.

“It comes from inside,” they scribbled, and then illustratively clasped their bare hand over their breastplate. A smear of charcoal darkened the fraying edge of one of the ripped up shrouds.

They shifted, and the shadow of their warhammer blotted the firelight over the page. Moira’s claws flexed, and she wondered, briefly, precisely when the fool bird in her brain had forgotten to watch the Dragonborn’s weapon hovering ominously over their shoulder.

“I could tell you my name, but you’ll have to come outside to hear it,” they wrote. Wariness in them then, and wasn’t that an interesting response to their own offer.

Moira weighed her options. Outside would give the Dragonborn more room to swing, but it also gave Moira better manoeuvrability to escape. It was a gamble, but Moira knew herself. She was a fast shifter, and a faster flier.

“Fine,” she said, and the Dragonborn jerked their chin and led the way outside.

They were not content with Moira’s garden, but crunched their way up the garden path and out the gate without a backwards glance. Their stride was aggressive and quick, a beat short of a march, and Moira got three steps after them on her talons and then gave up and took to her wings instead. The Dragonborn glanced up and with narrowed eyes searched among the flapping cloud of black-winged birds that rose like a fanfare at their intrusion into their domain. Moira circled above them, making no move to announce herself, and with an uneasy twitch the Dragonborn continued.

They had a hunter’s instinct, and as they walked a strange, circuitous route out of Witchmist Grove, Moira realised that they were following and walking on top of the Khajiit’s tracks. She wondered at it as she swept along overhead, doubling back every so often to flit down among the trees and feel the heavy leaves weep their burden of rain onto her glossy feathers.

Did the Dragonborn hope to find the boy, or simply to obliterate his tracks with their heavy boots? To stop Moira from following him, or to ensure he did manage to find his way out of the labyrinthine corridors of twining pine and hanging ivy, the nightshade groves and lurking brambles? The enchanted mist worked well to entrap and ensnare visitors, bringing them to the heart of the Grove into Moira’s clutches. Most had some trouble finding their way out without her blessing. Perhaps the Dragonborn had an abundance of caution, to walk only where it was demonstrably safe to step, in a hag’s home.

Moira appreciated it. Some of the moss she cultivated was rather difficult to grow, and she kept it away from the illusory paths for a reason.

The Dragonborn stopped only when they had reached the boundary of Witchmist Grove, where the copse of trees broke into the steaming hot-pools. The sandy-seared ground rose in jagged humps towards Bonestrewn Crest, where the sleeping dragonbones waited like a scar on the horizon. Squat rocks clumped around the meandering dirt path, and heat shimmered lazily, like Sanguine’s ruby red eye. Tensely, they waited for Moira.

Her damp feathers billowed steam in cross-currents and curls as she backwinged towards the ground, already changing. The Dragonborn did not look away, but Moira saw them blink rapidly as the illusions fell away and it seemed as if there had never been a bird there at all, only a hag, feathered and clawed, perched atop a rock that still, technically, was within the boundary of her grove.

The Dragonborn inclined their head, then purposefully, they planted their feet and turned their back on her. Facing out over the steamy barrenness of Eastmarch, their fist clenched nervously, as if they were second-guessing their decision.

Before Moira could demand an explanation, or taunt them to fulfilling their offer, the Dragonborn spoke.

At first, it was noise. Just noise, like the sound of lightning so deep it rumbled in the bones. A flash of awareness like seeing that stark-white fork in the black sky, and then understanding that what she was experiencing was noise, horribly loud noise, like every drum in the world beating at once, every rock falling, every heart stopping. And then it was power – power like every spell in the world backfiring at once immense and throbbing, power like Moira’s first flight, like the buffeting of the wind under her feathers.

In the ringing aftermath, Moira opened stinging eyes – when had she closed them? – and took in a world unutterably changed. She thought that the Grove had reacted to her presence by thickening the mist, and realised with a strange feeling like falling into the Dragonborn’s eyes that no, the grey smoke in the air was neither smoke nor mist, but dust. Dust, all that was left of all the rocks in the Dragonborn’s path, the furrowed brow of the hill that led up to Bonestrewn Crest. Instead, there was a perfectly carved bowl, wide and smooth as any stone-carved arena. It was perfectly done, steady as if the Dragonborn had simply scooped a section of the world away with a giant spoon. Except for the claw-like, shimmering markings that were chiselled in the wall, markings that matched the Dragonborn’s name in their journal.

It was only then that Moira’s ears made sense of the sounds, and the Dragonborn’s name clicked into her mind like a fact she had always known, but had not realised she had forgotten.

“Laataazin,” Moira gasped, and the Dragonborn – Laataazin – nodded slowly.

Greatest power wrapped around your finger. Oh. Oh. Oh. And to think – all this time, Moira had been angry for his trickery, when this was the prize!

Moira’s feathers quivered, then her shoulders, and then all at once she was laughing. It was a rusty, inelegant sound, more raven-shriek than human, and when the Dragonborn heard it they startled. After a moment, as Moira continued to laugh at the immensity of the gift that Sanguine had given her, slowly, tentatively, Laataazin started to smile back.

It was small, and sweet, and looked like they were unused to it as it was to their face. But it brightened their eyes and took years from their face, and Moira recognised for the first time the winsome, laughing-loud but shy creature that had come calling to her gate in a night of revelry, and offered a ring paid in blood for a hagraven’s hand in marriage.

#moira #laataazin #inkwrites #my fic a wife to remember #tes #skyrim #elder scrolls

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