#she will raise your bones and adorn them with a flower crown

[eyesfullofsttars]

. ⊹✧༓ 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐑𝐮𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 ༓✧⊹ .

One of the myriad legends of betrayal among lovers, from childhood friendships to mortal enemies, still bound by a strange affection and an attraction whose nature only they comprehend...

Welcome to the Masterlist of this adventure, a tale of war and betrayal to be reclaimed through bloodshed! Amidst the fog lies the treachery of having been betrayed by the one woman who once understood you, her presence haunting even your dreams...

Warnings: This story will likely contain descriptions of violence (not overly graphic), nudity, obscene language, sin, guilt, an incessant ache in the chest from not being able to kiss the person you’ve most hurt, and the lingering sense that everything would be a thousand times easier if you were young again.

In ancient times, when kingdoms emerged amidst ancient forests and towering mountains, two women of contrasting origins and bold ambitions rose as rulers of neighboring lands, forging a perilous alliance fraught with the impossible-to-conceal forbidden love.

The realm of Loborth rose through the union of wolves, fierce guardians who aided in raising the orphaned queen. Its stone walls stood as unyielding shields against any intruder, and under the governor's command, Loborth's army marched with unwavering discipline. The kingdom's tranquility was forged in the fiery crucible of war, where every strategic decision bore heavily upon the vulnerable, paying the toll for the safety of its citadels.

In Vermont's lush, verdant hills, the kingdom thrived amid the whispers of ancient trees and the serene flow of rivers. Noble music echoed in natural harmony, and their ruler, a jealous protector of her lineage, found solace amidst birdsong and the sweet fragrance of flowers adorning the castle's battlements. Guided by principles of honor and loyalty to their queen, they lived in unity with the land that enveloped them. Every hamlet and farm bore witness to a community bound together under her leadership.

Yet, peace between these bordering realms shattered with the treachery of one of Loborth's wolves. Mercilessly, the Queen ended the life of Vermont's favored son out of spite, severing the peace alliance and sowing the seeds of enmity that would soon grow like the shadow of a storm. Thus began the primary dispute over the borderlands.

Since then, the neighboring nations regarded each other with suspicion and animosity. The coexistence that once flourished between their peoples was eclipsed by deceit, a specter that reaches into the very core of their rulers. This curse inexorably leads to the tragedy of scattered bodies, whose bones lie as mute witnesses beneath the foundations of their castles.

Abigail had always regarded these stories inscribed upon scrolls as mere legends, harbingers of the direst misfortunes. To her, the splendor of Loborth was not condemned by the prophecies of the past, much less by a betrayal motivated by love. Nevertheless, as she beheld her father's crown, stained with his own blood, she began to feel the weight of the history that enveloped her.

In the depths of her grief and rage, Abigail's heart contorted with a desire fueled by sorrow. Despite their former friendship, despite the love she had once nurtured...

"I want Eleanor Williams' head," Abigail declared through clenched teeth, her jaw tightening with ferocity.

𝟎𝟏: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝.

𝟎𝟐: 𝐄𝐲𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐄𝐲𝐞, 𝐀 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫.

𝟎𝟑: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐬 𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐭, 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐮𝐧𝐚𝐬 𝐒𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐖𝐚𝐫.

𝟎𝟒: 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐲 𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐈𝐭𝐬 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐩ness.

(comment or reblog to be on the taglist for this work!!!)

[wildchild23]

The Village of Shadows

& The Phoenix King

{Disclaimer: the Village of Shadows is owned by CapCom, not me. But I added some more (of my own) characters and changed the plot a little. Thank you & enjoy}

Long ago, a young girl went with her mother to pick berries for her father who was hard at work.

But the forest greeted them with a dark, cold silence, the bushes empty.

Yet, determined to find the berries, the rascal broke free from Mother’s grasp and vanished into the trees.

Mother’s worried cries faded fast as the girl ran on; over vine, and under branch and into the forest deep.

Feeling strange eyes upon her, the girl recalled Mother’s scary bedtime tales and her throat became bone dry.

Then the Bat Lord appeared! He greeted her warmly and bit his own wing.

“Come, child. Quench your thirst,” he said.

So she drank the thick, dark blood and smiled with joy.

Passing through a graveyard, menacing storm clouds loomed and the air turned bitingly cold.

The girl was shivering in her thin clothes.

Then a Dark Weaver appeared, and with a click of his fingers, crafted mist into a beautiful dress.

“Come, child, warm yourself,” he coaxed.

So she clothed herself and smiled with joy.

Across waters deep and ominous she went, hoping a boat she found would carry her home.

But hunger’s grip tightened and her heart grew heavy.

Then the Fish King appeared and offered one of his many fins.

“Come, child. Eat your fill.”

So the girl ate and smiled with joy once more.

Continuing on, she soon entered the forest’s dark heart.

Then an Iron Steed appeared, bearing a beautiful, golden gear.

The creature said nothing as the girl approached and snatched what she thought was another gift.

The horse grew angry and summoned the other monsters.

Terror filled the girl’s heart as a wild wind rose about the beasts.

Suddenly, a witch appeared – dark, yet regal.

“Gifts we gave, but more you took,” she snarled.

“So more, in turn, is due.” raising her hand.

The girl thought quickly before an enchantment could be done.

"But I too have gifts!" She cried.

So the monsters returned to the witch's side to see what the girl could offer.

Recalling Mother's lovely lullabies, the girl cleared her throat and began to sing for the Bat Lord.

The wind howled a breeze and the moon shone upon the forest floor.

Leaped from the shadows appeared the Dark Wolf wild and majestic.

He howled at the night sky, casting stars upon his thick dark fur.

The Bat Lord longed to see the night sky, for he only knew of shadows in the forest deep.

So the two disappeared into the night sky, paying the Bat Lord's due.

Upon the Dark Weaver's song, flowers sprung 'round his heel. Then a Nymph Maiden appeared dancing around him in a circle. 

Crafting a crown of many colourful flowers and giving it to Dark Weaver.

The Dark Weaver longed to have colors of life, for he only knew of the gloominess of his graveyard.

So he gave her his hand and lead them to his graveyard, paying the Dark Weaver's due.

As the girl continued, an enchanting voice sang alongside her luring in the Fish King.

Then the Siren Queen appeared singing her elegant song to entrance him with her heart.

The Fish King longed to have love, for he only knew of loneliness in his dark and ominous waters.

So the aquatic couple leaped into their underwater kingdom, paying the Fish King's due.

Then the girl's singing became a hum as she took the golden gear and split it in two.

Before the Iron Steed could protest, a Green Stag with many antlers approached the girl's side.

The girl gave the pieces to the Stag one upon its head while the other was adorned with emeralds.

"Share your pieces to me," said the Green Stag, "then I'll show you mine." returning the jeweled gear to its owner.

The Iron Steed longed to have friendship, for he only knew of the bitterness of his dark heart.

So the horse approached the girl thanking her for her gift, paying the Iron Steed's due.

The witch was furious with the girl that finished the deeds that others could not.

In a blink, the girl was trapped inside a mirror. 

Each monster watched helplessly their beloved counterparts vanished into ash.

Suddenly the Phoenix King arose - strong yet wise.

"Promises you made, but do not keep," the Phoenix bellowed, "Now your reign will be in ablaze."

In an instant, the witch and phoenix fought intensely.

With the help of the monsters her parents, though, had searched all day and, at last, arrived.

With rampant rage, Father and the monsters fought the Witch while Mother’s loving touch shattered the dark enchantment.

But the Witch was strong and the Phoenix King yelled, “Save your families and return when the flowers spring!”

So all bore their loved ones to safety as the forest was consumed.

Even now, the burnt forest is a grim reminder of the Phoenix King's sacrifice.

To this day, any child who stares too long into the charred wasteland will be haunted by nightmares of getting lost while picking berries but will hear whispers of the lullaby will pray for the hope of life's bounty will return.

[meadowmood]

Destiny of Damascus

This is the second short story upload I will be doing for all of the work I did for my senior show centering around my own stories and characters. If you would like to view the entire exhibition now, click this link! It includes a number of short stories, illustrations, and character bios for your viewing pleasure! 

Read the full story below the cut!

Briar clutched her limp sister’s body against her chest, her vision blurred, tears streaking down her face. She was relieved to hear Bracken’s heart as she held her tightly, the feeble beat the only sound she could hear in the deathly quiet throne room. The battle they had just endured had been so loud, a cacophony of love, survival and rage as they had blended forms and defended themselves from him, but now, only the weak beating of Bracken’s heart could be heard. A soft, echoing epilogue to an audience of one. It was a quiet melody, but Briar had never heard a more beautiful sound. She was alive. They were both still alive, despite everything. They were together, and they were alive...

Miles away, a ragged and bloodied silhouette staggered his way through the edges of the redwood forest. The figure leaned heavily on one of the trunks as he looked fearfully behind him, catching his breath only for a second as he pressed onward. The trees eventually thinned until he reached an open meadow, and for the first time in months, he saw the open sky. Damascus kneeled on the soft grass and looked upward, taking a deep breath as the soft light of dusk washed over him. He had escaped them. He had not been able to reach the end of the forest unscathed, and his body ached with cuts and bruises. But he had escaped. Escaped. The revelation that he was safe quickly turned from relief to blinding rage. It boiled from deep inside him, hot and searing within his bones. He had escaped, run out of the territory like a whipped dog with his tail between his legs. He bore his fangs to the open sky as he threw his head back and screamed, slamming his fists into the dirt and wincing as his wounds ached anew. He had lost everything. All that time wasted on courting and scheming only to be chased back to where he had started. It had all been for nothing. Damascus stared down at the pale dirt and soft grass. He had been here before, staring up at the massive redwood trunks lining the edge of the forest. Back at the beginning. He had peered into the trees, his ears pricked with excitement as he anticipated who he knew he would meet within. This territory belonged to two elusive spirits, twins, who reigned over this massive forest teeming with magical energy. Twin nature spirits were rare enough, but two sharing their magic and residing within the same territory was even rarer still. This meant there was twice as much power surging through the land, and whoever ruled the forest had control of it. He knew everything he deserved was hidden within those trees, and he was willing to do anything to get it. Damascus took his first steps into the forest, and the further he walked the denser the canopy became, enclosing upon the golden sky like a pair of talons. Soon the path he walked became dim and quiet, and he began to wonder if he could find his way back. He conjured a swirling ball of light in his hand, splashing light onto the dense thicket around him as he turned around slowly, trying to peer through the endless layers of trees. As the light danced across the surface of each trunk, he stopped when his light suddenly illuminated two pairs of eyes staring back at him. Two large deer stepped soundlessly into the sphere of light he had created. The first was slim and incredibly pale, almost shining in the glow of his magic. The second followed close behind, its fur long and a deep russet brown, the two huge black antlers it sported forming a dangerous crown above its head. Damascus froze, not daring to move. Were these the spirit’s familiars come to greet him? “I am looking for the spirits who reside in this territory” he addressed them coolly, hiding his fear. “Can you take me to them?” The creatures stared back at him blankly, showing little reaction. “I wish to speak with them. Do you understand me?” he demanded, raising his voice slightly. Finally, the larger brown deer stepped forward. It slowly walked closer until Damascus could for the first time see the beast at its full height, its antlers towering over him as its gaze met his. Damascus held his breath, and the deer curled back its lips to reveal a mouth full of pearly white fangs, glistening as the light hit them. Before Damascus could say anything, the deer spoke, its voice deep like the roots of a tree and soft like the moss that clung to it. “Run.” The deer lowered its antlers and tensed its muscles, ready to strike him down. His eyes widened, and before he had time to think his light was extinguished and he was dashing through the dense brambles of the forest, desperately searching for a path out of harm’s way.

The trees blurred around him, low hanging branches whipping at his face and brambles tugging on his legs as he ran. Flashes of the deer’s forms appeared all around him as they chased him through the trees, echoes of laughter taunting him from all around as he stumbled and floundered his way through the dense undergrowth. Dread washed over him as he realized that he couldn’t hear where they were, and in his panic he burst through a wall of brambles, the thorns tearing through his suit and his skin barely registering as he tumbled to the ground in a heap. Suddenly his eyes were filled with light, and to his surprise he had broken through the dense forest and entered an open clearing. He covered his face under the force of the bright light, his eyes adjusting as he lowered his arms and saw where he was. He had run straight into a huge circular room, its high ceiling only barely visible from the ground. Damascus slowly raised himself to his feet as he observed the room in awe, its walls a dense woven thicket of thorns, the floor beneath him soft warm soil, and the air around him glimmering with light streaming in from the canopy ceiling above him. The room teemed with life, small jewel-like beetles adorned the flowers they rested upon as hoards of butterflies obscured entire sections of the tree trunks in which they gathered. Small forest dwelling creatures scattered at his abrupt entrance, rabbits, songbirds, and squirrels all fleeing into the safety of the thicket from his presence. 

In the center of the room was by far the largest tree Damascus had ever seen, its magnificent girth appearing more like a castle spire than a tree. A spiral staircase wound up along the length of its trunk, its steps disappearing before Damascus could see its destination. At its base sat two thrones, composed of the tree's thick and twisted roots, sitting oddly still and empty compared to the rest of the room. As Damascus took in all that surrounded him he realized there was no clear exit, the hole he had entered through having disappeared. Panic filled him as he remembered he was still being pursued by the deer, and he looked around wildly for somewhere to run. Before he could move, the wall behind Damascus shifted, and the thorns parted on either side of him to reveal his tormentors. They came forward calmly, passing him with heads held high as they walked toward the thrones, and as they moved their forms shifted from beast to humanoid, possessing the faces of deer but the bodies of humans. They wore long silken dresses adorned with flowers that dragged along the ground behind them as they walked. The spirits approached the thrones and sat down, reclining in them comfortably before staring him down. The pale spirit spoke first, her voice quiet and stern. “My chosen name is Briar, and this is my other half, Bracken. We heard you wished to speak with us. You may do so now.” Damascus stared back at them in utter shock. Before him sat the powerful twin spirits he had longed to meet, who he had traveled days to find, and they had just chased him through their forest like a stupid foal into their inner sanctum. He remained silent, struggling to contain his immense feelings of humiliation and anger as they sat quietly in front of him. He couldn’t ruin his chance, not now. Not when he was so close. “Y-yes” he began, slowly regaining control over his words. “I was in the nearby town and heard of your beautiful forest, and I wanted to see it for myself.” He stood up straight, returning to his usual tall confident stance as he fixed his jacket and brushed his suit off. The twins looked him up and down, and this time Bracken spoke, resting her chin on the palm as she did so. “What a strange thing to say,” she said cheekily, a small echo of laughter in her tone. “Do you usually barge into someone’s home simply because you will think it would look pretty on the inside?” Damascus smiled and replied, “Sometimes, if I don’t think the residents will hunt me down and eat me.” Bracken giggled. “You’re funny for someone so stupid,” she laughed, and Damascus tried his best to hide his indignation at the comment, subtly gripping his claws to his side. ”Well, now that you’ve seen the forest,” she spread her arms wide as she stared him down, “What do you think of it?” Damascus knew he was walking a thin line, and chose his next words carefully. “It’s absolutely brilliant, everything I imagined and more,” he breathed, letting his genuine awe shine through. “Can I see more of it?” Briar curled her lips back in anger. “I think you have seen enough,” she sneered, her expression full of contempt as her fangs gleamed in the light. “You are a bold little fool to walk into our woods with so little respect, and now you ask to see more? You might as well be a rabbit crawling down a fox’s throat, excited to see what he may find in it’s stomach.” She paused and folded her claws in front of her, her face returning to a more thoughtful expression. “But I suppose you knew that when you came here, didn’t you?” He couldn’t hide the bristle at her words, and her smirk widened. “Tell me, little rabbit, what do you think is hidden in the belly of our woods that the fox’s teeth don’t scare you?” Damascus shuddered slightly, wishing he was dealing with Bracken’s playful banter instead of Briar’s scrutinizing stare. However, it seemed she was curious to hear his answer, sitting with her ears pricked in anticipation of his reasoning. Panic washed over him as he realized that his original lie wasn’t convincing them, his mind reeled searching for a better answer. “Fox got your tongue?” Briar asked, her expression unfaltering, and as Bracken giggled to herself, Damascus realized something. They were young. They had power and the advantage of the home court, but they were young, with all the naivety and arrogance that came with it. His original lie wouldn’t convince them, but a half truth might. “Power,” he answered, finally breaking the tense silence. “You are the most powerful spirits in this region. I want to learn from you, understand your magic, and know your ways so I may better myself.” Briar tilted her head, her expression shifting from distrust to interest. He had her attention. Careful to maintain his composure he continued on. “There are not many spirits in this world that have what you have, I want to influence the world and to do that you need power, teach me so I may become what I deserve to be.” He stopped, eagerly awaiting their response. The spirits looked at one another and then back at him, and for a moment, Damascus thought he had gotten through to them. His confidence faltered as they raised their hands simultaneously, and the moment they did so brambles sprung from the earth and tangled themselves around Damascus’s body. He gasped in terror as he fell to the ground, his vision becoming obscured by the thick layers of thorns intertwining around his face and body. Bracken stood up and walked over to him, crouching down just as the last few spots of light began to disappear. “You don’t toe the line between charm and foolishness as well as you think you do,” she whispered. “But just between you and I, come back soon and try to convince me again sometime, hm?” In his last moments of consciousness, Damascus felt the spark of an idea. A feeling that he would get everything he wanted before everything fell into blackness. Damascus woke with a gasp, lying on the ground outside of the forest, the brambles constricting him long gone. He sat up and stared into the trees, taking in all that had just happened to him, and he grinned wolfishly. He planned on returning very, very soon.

[jiejie-eonni-onee-sama]

I don’t want to wake up from you...

For the charming @fandoms-are-my-friends-1321​.

Hope you’ll like it!

TW: Mentions of blood, murder.

My best dreams and worst nightmares have the same people in them.

Philippos Syrigos

Every night, (Y/N)’s nights are plagued by nightmares. Always the same torture. She was surrounded by terrifying sights of corpses bathed in blood and human-like figures who wandered in the shadows, like predators who are waiting for their prey.

By listening to her husband Will Graham talking about his visions during his investigations, she believes that she is turning mad.

But she would never let Will being tormented by his demons. As he said, his empathetic abilities are more of a curse than a blessing. Indeed, he can enter into the twisted mind of the killer and unmask him. However, the price to pay is dreadful: his insomnia and his lack of social interactions are here to prove it.

Since they start to discuss it, she sees a slight improvement as Will begins to enjoy nights of better sleep. Even if it means that her nights would be forever terrifying, she accepts it, as long as it lets her beloved in peace. 

Of course, she often wakes with a start in the middle of the night and has difficulties coming back to sleep, but she wants to endure it for him.

But everything changes this night, and she does not see that coming. Before that, this day was pretty calm: she had a good time at her office with her colleagues, she was praised by her boss for her work, and she had a nice dinner with her husband. 

Nevertheless, when they went to sleep, the horror show began. 

Instead of being in her bedroom, she was in a horrific garden. The grass was crimson red, like blood, the flowers were dark as ebony, and the trees had disturbing shapes as if their branches had claws. Every step she takes, she heard the ground creaking as if she was walking on bones. 

Disgusted and scared by this scenery, (Y/N) moves forward while looking around her. Suddenly, she hears creepy voices that whispered:

"Where are you going like that, (Y/N)?"

"There is no way to escape, my dear..."

"Soon, you will be with us, (Y/N)"

"You can't forget us... And you won't!"

Suddenly, the branches turned into hands that try to grab her. Appalled, she managed to escape far from them while covering her ears, deafened by their pleas and screams.

She only stopped running when her legs gave up, and she nearly fell on her knees. 

Exhausted, she tried to catch her breath when another figure appeared in front of her and it was the most bloodcurdling sight she ever saw in her whole life.

The man-shaped creature stared down at her, its red eyes focused on the young woman. Its entire body was dark and firm as if it was made of wood. The antlers that adorned his head were large and crooked, like a demonic crown. 

Scared to death, (Y/N) recognized the monster who plagued Will's nights for a long time: "The Wendigo..."

Pleased to hear his name said by a shivering voice, the creature smiled, revealing sharp white teeth.

Totally paralyzed by fear, (Y/N) noticed that the monster held something in his large hand. Something familiar...

Will feels something hitting his back, and he wakes up. Turning around, he sees his wife, who tossed and turned in her sleep. The expression of pure terror on her face makes him worry, and he tries to wake her up.

"(Y/N), babe, wake up!"

Suddenly, she screams at the top of her lungs. A wail of pure terror and sadness that sends chills down his spine. What can make her yelling like that? And why does she calls out his name with such despair?

The young woman stared in horror as the Wendigo shows what he holds in his hand: a head. A human head. A severed human head. Will's severed head. Crying and yelling, she cannot believe what she just saw:

"NO, WILL! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"

The Wendigo was content with laughing while holding his prey's head as a trophy. (Y/N) cannot stop looking at the head of her significant other. She tried to reach him, but her whole body prevented her from doing so. 

Suddenly, she hears Will's voice telling her:

"(Y/N)! (Y/N)! Please, wake up! I'm here! WAKE UP!"

She gasps for air as she wakes up. 

Immediately, she feels the arms of her husband that surround her in a reassuring embrace.

"Hush, sweetheart, it's okay. You're safe, right now! Nothing can happen, I am here!"

(Y/N) realizes that she is in her bedroom, in her home, with Will holding her tight against him. Relieved, she lets out a sob before trying to calm herself.

"Oh my god, it seems so real!"

"That's what I saw."

He frowned.

"How long have you been haunted by nightmares?"

"I don't know, really. It seems like an eternity."

His eyes go wide open.

"This long? But why did not you tell me before? I can help you!"

"I know, but..."

"But?" he asked.

His wife sighed before explaining:

"When we met, you've been plagued by your nightmares for a long time, and I thought that if we talk about it, you will feel better. But I wasn't ready to live what you've been through. The only thing that keeps me from telling you is that you were in better shape now, so I have to endure it for your sake."

Will is flabbergasted: she endured all these sleepless nights just for him? To help him? God, he does not deserve to be her husband. With a slight smile, he cups her face between his hands.

"(Y/N), since the first day you accepted to be with me, my nights were less sinister. Every time something terrible happened in my dreams, I reach you and feel your skin to remind me that there is nothing to be afraid of, as long as I have you by my side."

He gently kissed her cheek.

"Don't make the same mistake as I did: if something bothers you, please, tell me. And I'll be here for you, like you’ve been here for me."

The young woman smiles, awed by the devotion of her beloved.

"Thank you, Will."

"Anything for you, my darling. Now, let's go back to sleep. Tomorrow, we'll see what to do."

They both lay down, hugging each other. Before she falls asleep, she mutters:

"I love you, Will."

"I love you too, (Y/N)."

And after that, the night went smooth, and (Y/N) finally enjoys a beautiful night because she knows that Will is always there to protect her.

Bonus scene:

While waiting for her turn, (Y/N) looks at the elegant waiting room. She wakes up from her daydream as the door opens and Doctor Hannibal Lecter makes his entrance.

"Good morning, (Y/N). I did not expect your visit."

"Good morning, Doctor Lecter."

"You're allowed to call me Hannibal. However, could you please explain me what's the purpose of your visit?"

"Well, I think you can help me... since I have the same problem as Will."

The psychiatrist raises an eyebrow.

"Oh, I am sorry about it. Will told me that you were trying to help him with his own nightmares. It looks like your kindness was not well-rewarded."

"Will suggests me to see you, as you are a great help for him."

"I am flattered."

He gestures her to enter.

"But please, come in. I have a lot of time, which would be very helpful in your case."

She steps into his office, and sits politely on the couch, while he sits on the armchair in front of her.

"Now, (Y/N), tell me about your nightmares..."

[prurientpuddlejumper]

A Deep and Rapid River, Ch. 7 [18+]

<- Chapter 6 | Chapter 8 ->

Summary: The horniest chapter yet. And the beginning of the end. 

Over the next few weeks, your arrangement works out smoothly—or it seems to, anyway. The creature remains hidden in the hayloft, undiscovered. As often as you are able, you are down in the barn with him, lying in his arms, sharing books and stories, or listening to the low, raspy panting of his breath in your ear and feeling the roughness of his hands on your bare skin. 

Sometimes you cry together, frustrated and isolated, wishing the world you lived in was kinder, gentler.

And sometimes you dare to ramble in the woods, breathing the spring air and the changing harmony of scents of each new crop of flowers brings, listening to bird songs, and trusting in the solitude of the forest to protect you from prying eyes.

Every day his wound heals a little more. The bone-shattering gun blast which would have taken a regular human months to recover from—if they recovered—improves at an astonishing rate. Each morning you open the barn door to discover more of your chores have already been done, the dark-haired creature grinning proudly at his work, until one day, he had finished everything. You try to convince him he doesn’t have to do all that work for you, but, rubbing his neck sheepishly, he explains that it’s not so much a favor as a way to get you to spend more time with him. 

You have to admit, it is much nicer this way. 

Some mornings, you lie with your head in his lap in a quiet meadow you discovered along a solitary bend in the river. You gaze lazily up at your protector, his eyes bright as he weaves together the delicate stems of flowers. You had shown him how to do that—at first his large hands and herculean strength made him clumsy, and you giggled in commiseration, but soon he was gliding through the task as if he were one with nature, while you still managed to snap the stems more often than not. So you lie back and watch him work, smiling as he adorns you with spring. A crown of daisies circles his black hair. 

How could anyone ever be afraid of such a gentle creature?

He still cries at every word of kindness you have for him. He still can't fathom how someone could show love toward an unlovable wretch—how you contradict his reality by telling him he is not unlovable at all, but loved. He still feels a sick squirming in his intestines at these incompatibilities of truth. Liar! Contemptible. Disgusting. Unworthy. LIES! his mind repeats at every compliment you bestow, but he swallows down the bile. Somehow, you find him pleasing, he reminds himself. He doesn’t flinch away as you touch his face, as you press mollifying kisses to his lips. He swore never to hurt you again, and he intends to keep his oath. 

With no more manual labor to toil through, you are free to proceed with your pet project, as promised: making your dear daemon look human enough to be accepted by polite society. 

Your theory is, the creature’s grim, unnatural complexion and titanic stature played only a small part in the terrified reception he received from everyone he had met (save you). His tattered, incomplete clothing, wild hair, and general state of dishevelment added to the bewilderment. People saw a crudely-dressed outsider emerging from the forest, of course they were afraid—they probably thought he was a cave troll! 

But if you could make him look cultured and dignified… 

After all, Lazarus Colloredo, whose half-formed brother protruded forth from his chest, exhibited himself at royal courts. It was common in any city to see humans with unusual physical characteristics begging on the streets, finding themselves unwanted in more sophisticated circles, but at least tolerated, and not feared or driven away. That would be enough.

People would tolerate your companion if they believed his condition were a natural one he was born with… if you could dress him to look like someone who had been born. 

This proves easier said than done. 

You find a few old clothes that fit him with a bit of tailoring, but you're not the best seamstress, so the finished result is only a small step above the rags he'd been wearing. And since you're not a cobbler, he still has no shoes. He looks disarrayed, and he needs to be perfect for this plan to have any chance of success.

Taming his wild mane is at least a pleasant task. After an initial battle with the worst of the tangles—filled with frustrated tugging and snagging of the brush, accompanied by his jolting and pitiful whimpering—you reach a comfortable, methodical pace. His whole body shivers as you run the brush through his hair, letting out soft noises of appreciation. The greatest impediment to progress is that he enjoys it too much. You’re no help, either. His noises encourage your hands to massage his scalp and purr words of praise to him, trying to draw more little breaths and groans from him. Soon he has flipped around and has you pinned under him, whispering sweet, sinful desires into your ear, grinding his tented pants against your thighs until you beg for him to take you right there. 

It takes a few tries, interrupted by his superhuman stamina and overly-human desire for touch, but soon his hair is smooth as black satin, and looks just like a courtly gentleman’s when pulled back. Though he doesn’t like it pulled back. It exposes too much of his face, which, he points out, still looks like a corpse’s, and no amount of grooming will disguise that. 

Reforming his appearance is not the only difficulty plaguing your idyllic life. 

   ***********************

Bess stops by the barn to see you one afternoon in late spring. With the creature’s reflexes nearly back at full strength, there is little risk of being caught—he hears her coming and disappears into the loft without a sound. 

“Come out to the dance tonight!” she implores. “It’ll be fun.”

“I don’t know…” You fidget with your fingernails, trying to think of a normal-sounding reason you can’t make it. 

“Pleeease? I haven’t seen you in ages! Now that you finally dumped the loser,” she adds with a mischievous wink, “I've got a friend I think might be perfect for you.”

Ah, so that’s what this is about. She usually doesn’t push so hard to get you to socialize when you’re not in the mood, more of a you-do-you attitude. But she’s playing matchmaker now. “Oh, no,” you laugh nervously. “I'm not getting back on that horse yet, it’s way too soon.”

“It’s been months. You’ve waited an appropriate amount of time,” she crosses her arms, tilting her head to the side. “Nobody will think you indecent for moving on too quickly, if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

Is it getting hot in this barn? You pull at your collar. It feels like it’s getting hot in this barn. “It’s not that. It’s just, that whole situation was a disaster; I don’t want to go through it again.” There. That technically was not a lie. You’re not lying to your best friend. 

“Come on, don't give up!” she slaps your shoulders encouragingly. “Love can strike when you least expect it!”

“Now that I agree with,” you meant to state without emotion, but you can’t curb the secret smile blooming across your cheeks.

Bess picks up on it instantly, her mahogany curls bouncing in shock. “DID YOU FIND SOMEONE?”

“W-what? Nooo!” you backpedal unconvincingly. 

“Who is it? Someone I know? Where did you meet them?!”

“Shhh,” you hiss, looking past her exuberant eyes over her shoulder to try and see if your parents had magically appeared in earshot, like a pair of demons summoned by the sound of secrets. “There's nobody, just... shhh!"

“So that’s how it is, huh?” she raises an eyebrow. “Well, you better not be getting into anything scandalous, young lady,” she warns, putting on her best impression of your mother, before breaking character with a grin and a laugh, bouncing on her toes. “Oh please just tell me it's good. It must be juicy if you won’t even tell me. An errant noble? A gypsy lover? A married man? A woman? A married woman? Tell me tell me tell me!”

Eventually she lets it rest, and agrees not to pry (or say anything). But your secret isn’t safe. 

“Come to the dance,” she pleads with you, back to the point of her visit. “People are starting to talk.” You’ve been acting stranger than usual. Keeping to yourself. Talking to yourself. 

So that was why she was so adamant about you going. The romantic interest wasn’t the reason, it was just the carrot. 

There are rumors that since your near-death experience, you’ve been haunted by something that followed you back from the other side. Your soul cursed by evil or some such nonsense. Ferdinand has been furious, and only making matters worse, adding fuel to the flames. Why else would someone of your station break things off with him? It could only be madness. 

“Of course all but the most gullible of us knew Ferdinand’s ravings were just jealousy, but… A few people are claiming they’ve seen the beast he described lurking after dark. I don’t know, maybe he’s putting them up to it...”  

A dagger of ice strikes you in the heart. They weren’t just rumors. The creature would wander at night—the only time it was safe for him to be out in the open. Or not so safe. You realize with a creeping dread down your spine that you have not been as clandestine as you thought.

You force yourself to laugh dismissively. “I’m sure if there was a monster, it would have found me and gobbled me up by now, don’t you think? So silly!” Ha ha ha. 

“You’re so rational! To be honest, I would be terrified just by the thought some creepy demon thing might be after me,” she shudders. “You have to explain to everyone else what you just told me. Make an appearance, show everyone you’re fine.” 

At length you relent, and go to the dance. 

Everyone stares. 

Nobody talks to you. 

Ferdinand is there, and you spend the night avoiding him. 

You miss the creature. 

You wish you hadn’t gone. 

  ***********************

 When you finally get to see him again after the disaster of a dance, sneaking down to the barn in the pitch-black of night, he’s currying down the mule by lamplight. A bright smile splits his face when he sees you come in—wide, and showing rows of white teeth, which, you wonder, might seem terrifying to someone who didn’t know him very well, combined with hollow cheeks, dark-ringed eyes, and sallow skin pulled taut over the bone.

To you, he looks like a field of sunflowers on a summer day.

The animals seem to agree with your assessment. Even the mule, who used to rear up and bray at the sheer size of him, seems to have finally been swayed by his courtly manners. Now it snorts its disappointment as he puts away the brush to greet you. The chickens come running up to him, clucking for extra corn meal, one landing and perching on his head in a flurry of feathers. Barn cats swirl at his feet, and the cows are already lining up patiently to be milked, appreciative of his efficient hands and all-hours schedule.

You remember when you first taught him to milk. Now he’s more at home here than you ever were. 

Unsettled by the rumors Bess had told you about, you pray nobody finds him. You pray that this can last. That he can stay here, smiling, until you’re ready to make his presence known to the town. 

You long for a day you wouldn’t have to hide—that you could live together like a regular couple. You wish the world could see him the way you do, that this fantasy could become something real. 

How could anyone ever be afraid of him?

    ***********************

He bolts into the barn, cloak whipping behind him, and skids to a halt over the hay-strewn floor, shutting the door quickly behind him. His wild eyes dart around the structure, adjusting to the dim light. When they focus on you, his body finally acknowledges it has found safety, and leans, trembling against the wooden walls for support. A frayed bouquet of wildflowers wilts in his left hand, stems destroyed in his crushing grip.

“Someone saw me.”

The pitchfork you were holding clatters to the floor.

“Who?! Where? When?? Are they coming? Are you alright? Did they hurt you?” You rush to his side, searching for fresh injuries, brain reeling with all the ways you were completely fucked.

It was broad daylight!

He hides his face behind a gangling hand, and tips his head down to get lost behind a forest of loose hair. “I… I do not know. A hunter?”

“What did they look like?” You reach up to grab his shoulders, trying to get him to look at you. His eyes are panicked and unfocused. You groan. “Not that it matters. Nobody in this town will understand. We have to control the circumstances carefully to introduce you without causing a panic. This is bad… If they followed you—”

“Fear in their eyes…” he murmurs, voice cracking. “Everyone who ever looks upon me has fear in their eyes.”

He’s still shaking, his face twisted up and on the verge of tears.

Oh. 

He’s falling apart and all you can say is “This is bad”? This is no time for you to start panicking, too. You take a deep breath, and put a steadying hand on his arm. “Hey, it’s going to be OK,” you force a smile. “There have been rumors about you since I fell in the river—lots of people claim they saw you—this doesn’t change anything. We’re OK.”

“So much fear. That look of terror… Is that how I am meant to be looked at?” he collapses to his knees, letting his nails scrape down the wall as he sinks, the forgotten flowers dropping in a heap by his side as tears begin freely flowing down his cheeks. “How could I forget I am nothing more than a blot upon the earth? A sight to be abhorred.”

You wish you could swallow him up in your arms—cradle him like he does you. You give it your best try, spreading your arms wide and draping your whole body like a second cloak over his enormous, curled form. He rocks, continuing to mutter that he is a wretched thing made to be hated, while you whisper and hum soothing noises, rubbing his back.

“Look at me…” you whisper over his shoulder, gently tipping his chin toward you. He obeys, eyes dull and glassy as they meet yours. You smile, trying to pour every bit of love you feel for him into it, so even from whatever dismal well his heart has sunk to the bottom of, it will radiate affection to him like the sun.

For an instant, his tears stop actively flowing as he observes you. “Except for you. The way you look at me is so different.”

“This is how you're meant to be looked at.”

He chokes and turns away, rubbing his eyes. You circle around to his front, and lean your forehead against his. He looks at you again, a little calmer now. The adoration in your eyes is almost too much for him to bear, but he tries to smile back. The attempt shatters your heart. 

“Oh, you kind, benevolent angel, blessing this foul villain with such a favorable gaze.”

“My wonderful, powerful protector,” you coo softly. You move to sit, and he instinctively makes room for you on his lap—muscle memory of the way you fit together—holding you comfortably in his strong arms. “So sweet and gentle.” Your voice dips flirtatiously, and you touch a hand to his cheek, serenely caressing his jawline.

“How can you look at me like that, in spite of all my flaws?”

The answer spills from your mouth with an infatuated grin before you have a chance to think. “You don’t have flaws. You’re perfect!”

He frowns.

The frown deepens until it nearly becomes a scowl, and he closes his narrowed eyes against the feeling threatening to boil out.

“Please stop that,” he removes your hand from his cheek. “Do not pretend I am not what I am. It is… mockery.”

Shit. You got carried away. Of course he would take that the wrong way. You had to be careful about paying compliments to his body, they hurt him. The cruelest words of insult wouldn’t sting half as much as calling him handsome. But you don’t want to apologize this time. After all, you meant it.

“My beloved,” you stroke his face with the hand he didn’t have restrained, determined to beat down his walls of insecurity with relentless affection. His neck and the tips of his ears redden with heat. “I—”

“Do not flatter me with sugared lies, and ignore the truth,” he interrupts, the tremor returned to his voice. “I know what I am. Being pitied is enough for a wretch like me; it is enough that you endure this unsightly visage without hating its owner. Do not pretend you cannot see me. It is worse to pretend.”

Your throat tightens, and a prickling of tears threatens your eyes, but you don’t cry. It’s heartbreaking that he still thinks of his body as something you have to endure. That you only put up with it, rather than adore it as you do. But he is stubborn in his hatred for his creator’s work. To explain your feelings to him, you will have to choose your words carefully.

“It’s not that I don’t see you, or your scars. I have eyes. I know most people are frightened by your appearance, and I know you’ve suffered horribly because of it. I should have realized you would think I was teasing you to say you’re perfect, but… I mean it.

“You are my heart’s gleam, my gentle dove. My beloved daemon. To me, you are the most wonderful being in all of creation. I am so happy to have met you, and to have had you in my life these past months. There is no one who lights up my heart as you do, none whose face it pleases me to see more. I am never more comfortable than when I’m in your arms, and I never feel so beautiful as when you look at me, nor so important as when you speak to me as if my thoughts matter. Your intelligent mind and poetic soul fill my days with wonder, and you make me feel accepted in a way I have never been before.”

You are stroking his face and the sides of his neck with both hands now, and he is melting into your touch, breaths drawing in slowly and puffing out in shaky bursts. You twirl a finger around a lock of dusky hair.

“I have never wanted you to be any different from the way you are. So I must conclude that the world’s measure of beauty is wrong—for you are perfect. Entirely, completely perfect.”

His head collapses into yours, leaning his forehead against you. He grips you tightly with both arms, squeezing you into his chest like he’s trying to absorb you. Warm, agitated breaths fan your face, and you feel his shoulders convulsing; you think he’s weeping, but then you realize it’s laughter.  

“I sound wonderful,” he says, a hint of pride licking the edges of his voice.

“You are.”

He kisses your neck, awing that you let him press his lips to you, then buries his face against your skin. “In books there is always passion, but... this is far greater than that. You are so patient with me. What did young Werther and Charlotte truly share? What did Juliet know of Romeo? Only the impulses of desire. You offer friendship, and I should like to spend my life repaying the kindness you have bestowed on me.” 

You hum with excitement. “Oh my daemon, my dove, my flitter-mouse,” endearments fall from your lips like apple blossom petals. Goaded by your words, he hefts you up with a now-familiar (yet still shocking) ease, an impish smile sparkling in his eyes as he bridal carries you across the room, ignoring the petulant clucking of chickens scattering from his path. 

“You are perfect,” he kisses your forehead. He sets you down on top of a storage chest, your back supported the wall. “And wonderful,” he kisses your nose. From your new perch, your hips are close to the height of his, and the outline of something growing at the front of his pants tells you exactly where his mind is heading. “And you are mine, yes?” He asks, voice heavy. Instead of kissing you again, he waits for you to close the distance.   

“Always,” you answer, stretching up to grasp his lower lip between your teeth, nibbling and running your tongue over it. He gasps at the novelty, and a surge of heat flares to life inside him. He moans as you tug his lip away from his teeth, and he chases your mouth down, a hand at the back of your head preventing your escape as he envelops you with a smothering kiss, his thick tongue demanding an invitation which you happily give, caressing your own tiny tongue on the probing muscle filling your entire mouth, wrapping your arms around his back as he consumes you. 

Finally he pulls back, a string of saliva still connecting you, a wolfish hunger in his eyes. “You’re mine, and I love you so much…” 

Love. 

You pant, hands curling through his hair. Had you said that before? Had he? Well, yes, you had used the word to describe your feelings, but never so directly. Never in a way that couldn’t have been intended as general, familial, platonic love. You never obfuscated your camaraderie and affection… but this felt different. Pointed. 

I love you so much.

You shiver with pleasure as his corpse lips trace your jaw and down your neck. He leaves a trail of tender kisses all the way down your arm, lingering to suck at the soft skin on the underside of your elbow. A sudden tightness builds in your core, accompanied by a sinful wetness that urges you to wrap your legs around his hips, hiking your skirt up above your knees, and pull him close. The pressure of his clothed cock—now fully erect—pressing into your inner thighs makes the urge worse. You shift to position the bulge against your aching clit, and rock your hips mindlessly seeking relief as his soft kisses up and down your neck and arms drive you into oblivion.

“I love you,” you murmur.

He stands straight, which makes you whine with disappointment as his warm lips leave your body, but he’s looking down at you with the softest eyes. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. “Those three words fill me with joy enough for a lifetime; and beyond even the veil of death, the happiness of that one utterance shall warm me for eternity. Say it again.”

“I love you.”

“Again.”

A tingle of goosebumps spread up your arm at his sudden demandingness—the way he leans over you, a hand against the wall, voice thick, and low. 

“I love you.” 

“Again,” he commands, leaning in close to your ear, voice barely a whisper. He nips the flesh of your earlobe and your back arches involuntarily. 

“I love you,” the words brush against his cheek. 

“Again,” he sighs, before his lips fall on yours, swallowing your reply. 

You had been in the middle of refreshing the straw bedding for the cows when he burst in, and there is still a nagging at the back of your mind of what if he was followed? But no angry mob has appeared at your doorstep yet, and everything else can wait its turn. This is definitely… the most important thing on your mind. 

It is a soft kiss, as his usually are—gentle and careful with one so much smaller than he is—but grows in intensity, his tongue parting your lips, running across your teeth and plundering your mouth as you moan and twitch your hips. All his insecurity disappears with the noises and writhing he can draw from you, how eager and helpless you are under his touch. Every fear eclipsed by his burning need to bury himself inside you, and hear you scream out for him as he satisfies himself. 

His large fingers unfasten the lacing of your bodice with the same practiced ease as weaving flower stems, pulling down your blouse as his hot, sloppy kisses move from your mouth, over your jaw, and down your neck—this time leaving red hickies in their wake. You feel the direction of his mouth toward your exposed chest, and whimper in anticipation of the warm slickness in just the right spot. He kneads the fat of your breasts in his palms, his sucking kisses down your collarbone growing ever more needy, filling the barn with wet smacking.

With an electric jolt, his tongue finally reaches the sensitive flesh of your nipple, and you feel a flood of warmth surging through your body, curling your toes, and settling in the base of your spine. Your fingers curl into his hair, against his scalp, pulling him against the hardening bud, his lips closing over it, tongue making languid circles that make your head loll back, and your hips buck up to grind against him—but only meet the air. To bend his towering body enough to reach your chest, he had to adjust his hips away from you, and without the pressure of his erection to grind against your cunt felt desperately empty, aching for contact. 

“Ah,” you gasp, grabbing his hand and placing it between your legs, under your skirt, “P-please!” 

His lips pull into a smile against your breast, exposing his tongue as it flicks across your nipple, now bright red and sopping wet. A large digit runs down the length of your slit. You gasp and jerk into it, but his hand is already gone. He rubs the moisture between his fingers. “Hmm, already so excited,” he taunts in a velvety voice, switching to your other breast, rolling the first between his thumb and fingers. 

When did he get so confident? He used to follow your lead, waiting on you to instruct him. He was still terrified of the world, but with you… 

“Tell me what you want me to do,” he purrs, sucking your nipple sharply to draw another gasp from your lips. 

In your private world, when things got like this… 

You let out a strangled whine, moving his hand back between your legs. He lets it rest there idly, ignoring your frustrated, pleading groans and clawing at his hand to do something. He pinches a nipple, delicately tugging at it, slowly drawing his tongue across the other. 

“Hmm? You must speak up. I want to hear your voice.”

...He could be such an arrogant little shit! It’s so hot. 

“F-fingers! Please!” 

“As you wish.”

With a possessive growl, his long finger plunges inside you, moving in and out, getting coated with your slippery wetness as he treats your breasts as his playthings. You can hear his breathing increase, too, each exhale a loud snarl. His hips begin jerking in time with the pulsing of his finger into you, feeling the twitch of your velvet walls squeezing him as he drives you toward your climax—he imagines it’s his cock inside you, and suddenly, this isn’t enough. 

“S-so good. You’re so good,” you whine, eyes closing as you lift your hips into his finger, deepening every thrust. The heat in your core is building, coiling, tightening… You stroke his hair, savoring the motion of his head and the wet sucking noises at your chest as he sends wave after wave of pleasure through you with his tongue. You run your hand over the striations of muscle in his shoulder, over his healed gunshot wound, the feel of his skin and the sound of his ragged breathing sending you over the edge—

His finger pulls out. His tongue moves away. 

The release so close on your horizon fizzles. 

“Wah!” Your eyes shoot open, complaints pursed on your lips. Then you see the hungry look in his eyes, and a shudder runs down your spine. Maybe he’ll fuck you right there. By the look of it, his erection is ready to rip through his pants.

“Patience,” he purrs, swallowing the tightness in his throat—the only sign of his slipping composure. 

He spreads open your legs, kneeling between them, strong hands on your thighs helping you balance on the edge of the crate. His chest rises and falls slowly as he inhales your scent. “S-stop it!” you blush, squirming but unable to budge from his firm grip. Why does he like to smell you so much? You close your eyes and look away from the lewd act. He’s really changed so much, no longer so eager to please you that he wouldn’t risk drawing things out, or embarrassing you. He trusts you, that you’re never going to push away from him in sudden disgust; he knows you enjoy every minute of his attention. 

He extends his long, thick tongue, and traces it along your thighs, teasing you with nips and kisses. Your body shudders at the welcome heat. He’s become an expert on your body, listening to your breathing and waiting for exactly the right moment to finally taste your dripping cunt. Your fingers clench in his hair, urging him on, but he takes his time with a long, measured, broad-tongued lap down your inner thigh, his eyes watching yours, studying your reaction and giving a self-satisfied smirk at your struggle to contain yourself. 

“Please… more.” 

Slowly, patiently, he finally dips his tongue into your quivering, saturated heat. He lets out a muffled moan into you, savoring you, hands clenching on your thighs as he revels in it. You can feel that tension start to coil again, but he’s still taking his time with such an indulgent, unhurried pace, you’ll never reach the orgasm you were denied.

Your fingers dig into the back of his head and your hips twist in his vice grip, helpless to create their own pace. “Faster.” You try to jerk your hips against his tongue again, to no avail. “You feel so good, my love,” you coo in a honeyed voice, hoping flattery will achieve results. “What must I do for you to let me come? I’ll do anything. Please—faster!” 

In a blur of motion, your legs are over his shoulders and he’s standing at full height, large hands holding up your hips to his mouth, your back resting on the box where your ass just was. It feels like the wind was knocked out of you—you can barely breathe as he points his tongue into a stiff rod and attacks your clit with incredible speed and vigor. You didn’t know tongues could move to fast! His mouth is working magic, and the angle he’s holding you at somehow makes it feel even better. Maybe it’s the blood rushing to your head, or the way you have to look up at him, holding you as you dangle helplessly at his mercy, but you can feel your climax returning in greater force. 

“I’m… going to finish already,” you writhe and moan, cheeks hot. 

He doesn’t stop this time. “Come in my mouth,” he instructs, licking and lapping you deeper, faster, his own moans of pleasure lost in yours, crying out louder, thighs clamping around his neck, pulling him in harder, deeper, until your muscles convulse and you bite your lip to silence your shaking scream. He thrusts his tongue deep inside you, feeling your walls twitch around him, tasting your hot release coat his tongue. 

“Fuck, you’re so good. So perfect,” you praise as you start to come down. 

He’s not through with you yet, however. Not by a long shot. 

He keeps writhing his tongue inside of your still-twitching heat, then brings his mouth back to your over-worked clit, ghosting his lips over it, flicking softly and quickly with the pointed end of his tongue. 

You cry out in surprise, an unpleasantly strong contraction ripping through your body in protest. “N-no!” you try to wriggle away, pushing your arms out against him, but from your upside-down suspended position, the only part of him you can reach is—your heart skips a beat as your hand grazes his throbbing steel shaft. A renewed surge of heat flushes between your legs, overwhelming the over-stimulation with pleasure. You swallow. 

“Do you want more?” he murmurs, drunk on you. You nod breathlessly. You need him to keep going. To put that in you. “Good.” 

You grope blindly for the inhumanly thick bugle in his pants, and lay your palm against it, feeling its incredible length. The heat it gives off is amazing. There is a sharp inhale, and a hiccup in the steady working of his tongue. Not so easy to stay cool, is it? You smile, finally turning the tables a little. You rub his clothed shaft until he makes muffled whines into your cunt, and his hips start rocking against your hand as you stroke him up and down. 

This is heaven. He could live between your thighs, drowning in the taste of you. He loves making you happy—seeing you shudder with pleasure from his touch—and the power he has over you in these moments makes an intoxicating combination. You belong to him. 

“Do I make you feel good?” he rasps. You stare back up at him—his tongue stopped. You pull at the back of his head with your legs, trying to get him to start again, to give you what your body desperately needs, but he only looks at you with heavy-lidded eyes and tips his head to the side. Fuck, he’s cute when he does that. 

“Y-yeah.”

Lick. 

Your hips buck into his mouth in appreciation, an electric pulse vibrating down your back. 

“Only I can make you feel this way?” 

Oh god, this is the game he’s playing? You’ll say anything to get him to keep going, but the only answer you can make right now is a pleading, affirmative whine and a nod. 

Lick. 

That was good enough. Your eyes squeeze shut. You were so close again! 

“Only me?”

“Please don’t stop!” 

Not good enough. “Say you’re mine,” he purrs, “That only I can make you feel this way.”

“Only you!” you cry, squeezing your thighs around him, trying to pull him back in, “I’m yours! Please!” 

He smiles, and gives you a delicate swirl of the tongue, tracing your clit, then plunges his tongue deep inside you, fucking you with the large muscle, pulsating and tasting you, filling your longing core up with its heat. Oh god, it wasn’t as big as his cock, but the way it could move inside you was so strange and delicious, and the wet, hungry noises his mouth made sent you over the edge a second time, your hands grasping for something to cling to—one clenching the edge of the crate, the other gripping the outline of his shaft. 

He slips his tongue out of you, dripping with a mingling of your juices and his saliva, and puts it back to work on your throbbing clit without pausing. In its place, he soaks two bony fingers in your empty core. The fingers are cooler and less slithery than his tongue, but make up for it with length and firmness, reaching deeper, and hitting nerves that his tongue missed. 

“R-right there!” you squeal, voice shaking as he finds your g-spot. He feels your muscles twitching and pulling beneath his hands. Sucking hard on your clit, he pumps his finger harder in and out of your drenched pussy, focusing on that sensitive spot that makes you cry out for him, until you come again, your walls clenching and unclenching around his hand.

You expect a break after that. Your body is exhausted and trembling, especially in this uncomfortable—if arousing—position. But, whether he’s working off his earlier panic, or he just has that much more stamina now that he’s healed, he doesn’t stop. Instead, he adds another finger, stretching you farther and making you moan with the feeling of fullness. You don’t bother to protest or try to wriggle away, only whimpering praises and encouragement, eager for more. He builds you up and sends you over the precipice again, and again, and again relentlessly until you can’t stand any more.

Only when you’re shaking and soaking, so dizzy with sensation you can no longer speak, does he release his iron-clad grip on your hips and lowers them back down to the top of the storage chest, sitting you up with your back resting on the wall. Breathing erratically, he presses a tender but sloppy kiss to your lips, the flavor of you on his tongue. 

“This is what… perfection tastes like,” he pants. 

Settling between your legs, he finally frees his unbearably hard erection from its prison, the unearthly member glistening with precum and throbbing with pent-up desire. 

The storage crate is tall enough that he barely needs to bend his knees to achieve the right height, and with little need for adjustment, he’s rubbing his giant cockhead along your entrance. It feels so good, but your tired muscles are too limp to buck your hips up to help push him in, so you merely bite your lower lip in anticipation of being filled with him. 

After being forced to wait for so long, his cock aches to bury itself up to the hilt in you with one thrust, but if he just pushed it in, he might split you in half. He is your gentle creature, needy as he may be, and he can wait just a little longer if it means not hurting you. He rubs his shaft along you, coating it in your slickness with his hand, making sure you’re ready to take him. He pushes the head inside. A gurgled moan escapes your lips at the satisfying pressure. He studies your face. 

“Do you want me?” His hands trace over the bone of your hips, kneading the fat of your thighs. You nod weakly, and he pushes in farther. He’s spreading you wide, filling you so magnificently. This is what you’ve been waiting for. Yet he still waits, pausing for your body to adjust to his size. “Are you all right?” 

You put your hand over his, marveling at how much bigger it is than yours, and squeeze. “I love you so much. Now fuck me.” 

He lets out a strangled whimper of affection at your declaration, and jerks his hips forward into your eager pussy. A cry of pleasure and brief pain tears from your throat. Those words were all the encouragement he needed to become ravenous, nipping at your neck, pinching until a trail of red bruises blooms over your skin. Suddenly, you’re in the air, still fully impaled on his prodigious length, and being slammed against the wall. He begins pounding into you hard and fast, hands squeezing your hips and shoulder, keeping you effortlessly off the ground, while your legs instinctively wrap themselves around his waist, holding on for dear life as he fucks you into the wall, the sloppy sounds of flesh striking flesh filling the serene bucolic air. 

You hold him close, running your hands up his back and around his ass, feeling the powerful jerking of his muscles beneath the skin as he thrusts into you. So big. Everything about him is oversize, his arms, his cock, all of the scars covering his body… the textured discoloration of his skin. He did look devilish—but he was so sweet, and kind, and so, so passionate for you, he was more like a prince. Or, at the very least, he was your devil. 

Even in his lust-fueled frenzy, he notices you noticing him. 

Your eyes are undisguisedly observing parts of him he would rather not think about, and suddenly he remembers what he looks like—self-awareness lost in the passion of the moment returning like a revelation. What you see whenever he mounts you is a monster… and you still let him. You still beg him to. You moan, and whimper, and plead for more of him, your body at his command.

His grunts grow louder and less controlled, and each thrust of his hips sends tremors through the entire barn, little trails of dust and hay falling from the rafters. 

“How does it feel to be fucked by a monster? To belong to me?” 

It feels warm. You can barely articulate an answer through the fog. It feels rough, hard, fast, tender, passionate… 

His breath hitches, a low rumble in his throat, and you realize you’ve been muttering out loud. 

“You’re so perfect. So big. You know exactly what I want,” you run your hands up the misshapen grooves of his chest, struggling to keep your voice smooth and seductive as he knocks the wind out of you with each thrust. Compliments can often backfire with the self-hating creature, but in moments like this, you can praise him like a puppy dog and it gets him more red-faced than… than the fact that you’re fucking!

“You feel so good inside me,” you keep singing praises as he pounds into you, his grip getting harder and harder until you’re sure you’ll be left with bruises. “You're so big, you're filling me up. Nobody can do the things you do to me.” 

Finally he buries his head in your neck and lets out a full-throated sob, as his hips meet yours in a powerful thrust, burying himself deeper inside you than you believed possible. You feel the warmth of his hot seed filling you, so much of it that it overflows out of you and drips down your ass.

He doesn’t move. He pants against your neck, practically growling, arms holding you in place possessively, pinning you to the wall. You’re not getting down just yet. He wants to savor his cock buried deep inside your warmth for a little longer. You sigh contentedly, closing your eyes and leaning your head against his sweat-dampened chest. 

Exhausted and sated, his senses begin to return. He stares at the huge mummy-like hands practically swallowing your small body, your skin so elastic, vibrant, and alive in contrast. Softly, he asks again, absent any passion-fueled bravado, “You love me?”

“I love you.”

“Foolish girl.”

“You love a foolish girl,” you tease, grinning. You grab both sides of his face, rubbing your nose against his. 

“I do.” 

You could get lost in the little world the two of you share.

Unfortunately you were so engrossed in your own little world that you didn't hear the hens clucking as they rushed to the edge of the fence, or the cows mooing a friendly greeting to a familiar face.

You didn't notice Bess standing in the doorway of the barn until she let out a blood-curdling scream.

[loveafterthefact]

Love After the Fact Chapter 68: Let’s Take a Walk

Lance and Keith spend a day together, enjoying Keith's birth quintant.

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Keith wakes up alone, which he doesn’t like because he’s been spoiled. Ears swiveling, he can hear Lance puttering about in the main room. Sighing, the Galra snuggles back into the blankets, not quite willing to surrender his current comfort.

A weight settles next to him. “Hey, beloved. Good morning.”

Keith’s eyes flutter back open, eyeing his spouse and the small pile in his lap. “Good morning. What’s all that?”

“Well, your mother told me that today is the quintant of your birth.”

“Oh. I kind of... forgot?”

“She said you might have. But rest assured, I will never forget. Get used to getting presents.”

“Are those the things you bought from Vrek and Ilun? Not much of a present if I know what it is.” It’s a tease, but judging by the quirk of a starlit eyebrow, it’s taken as a challenge.

“Oh, I think you’ll be delighted.” Smirking a little, Lance sits on the edge of the hanging bed, pushing it back and forth with his leg in a slow, swinging motion. “You are frustratingly indifferent to superficial things, so if you show interest in anything, I'm going to notice.”

Lance sets the pelts and the boxes in front of Keith, smiling. He runs a gentle hand through the young Galra’s hair. The Galra gazes up at his mate, endeared by his efforts. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. Now open your presents! I never get to give you presents!”

“I don’t know that you’ve ever tried to give me presents,” Keith murmurs, lifting the smaller box.

“Yes, because you never take an interest.”

“Not in anything you can get on Altea. It’s harder for me to get things from my own planet- Oh.” Keith’s eyes light up at the loose stones, amber, already polished. “Lance, these are beautiful.”

“I know you probably wanted finished pieces, but I figured we could give them to Vetroneius. Have them make something special for you. There’s plenty there.”

“You didn’t give the hunters enough for this while they were in town. How did you-” Keith’s amethyst eyes narrow, watching Lance squirm with guilt. “Did you trade all of your jewelry?”

“Everything I brought with me, except my belly button piece and my crown. But you’re right. You have so little from home, and I should have done something about that a long time ago.”

“I could have done something about it, too.” Keith smiles. “But thank you. I wonder if Vetroneius could make me some clothes in indigo. It would look nice with these, and be more like what nobility wears here.”

“I think that sounds wonderful. You’re a Prince of Altea, but you’re also Galra, and we shouldn’t ignore that. We should celebrate it. Now.” Lance claps his hands together, sets them on the other box. “This is the special present. For your birth quintant, which you didn’t tell me about. Because you’re the worst. But you’re also mine, and I love you, so I hope you like it.”

Keith chuckles, always charmed by Lance’s cheerful sense of humor. He opens the box. It’s a gold hair comb, an elegant, arcing spray of gold leaves, flowers, and tendrils adorned with small pieces of amber. “Oh, Lance. This is for me?”

“Yes, of course. You asked for it, remember? Well not this specifically, but when Ilun showed it to me… I thought you’d like it. And I wanted you to have something nice from home.”

“It’s beautiful. Thank you.” Keith brushes a loose lock of hair over his shoulder, trying not to show how moved he is, even as his throat tightens a bit. “I don’t even know what to say.”

He’s never had something like this. Everything he was given after Shiro brought him into the city were necessities: clothes, tools, weapons, armor- all the things a Galra needs to live on Daibazaal. Everything Vetroneius and their team make for him always feel impersonal. But this comb… Lance chose this from among many items because he thought Keith would like it.

And he does. It’s gorgeous, it’s something from home, and Lance chose it for him.

“You really like it?” the Altean asks, licking his lips nervously.

Keith pulls him into an embrace, touched. “I love it. Thank you.”

“You are so welcome, beloved.” Lance squeezes him tight, but then draws away. Far too soon, which Lance picks up on. He settles in a bit more, letting Keith climb into his lap.

“You should get me presents from home more often,” Keith murmurs. “I’m going to have Thace send some more vakalt pelts if any come in with a party. For our kit,” he explains. “Vakalt pelts are so soft and hold warmth very well. And they’re oddly good at holding scents, so we can make them smell like us. It’ll make our kit feel safer when they’re first born, especially if you and I have to work separately.”

“Of course. We’ll have to figure out a way to send currency of some kind.”

“He’ll just get them for us, and we’ll owe him a favor or two. Reciprocity is what keeps our society moving. I’m sure you’re charmed by the rural atmosphere, but the truth is so many of our resources, including medicine, electric heat, comms devices, and stuff like that, are given to the military. We’re left with nothing more than what you’ve seen.”

“Your resources are spread quite thin, huh?”

“Not thin. Uneven. It frustrates Lotor to no end. He hasn’t mentioned it to you I don’t think, but his relationship with his father is strained because of it.” Keith rests his head on Lance’s shoulder, admiring his gifts, running the soft fur of the pelts beneath his fingers. Lance does the same, mimicking Keith’s motions, working his scent into the fur.

“Hm, a progressive young adult not getting along with their father? I never would have thought- Come here.”

The Altean wraps an arm around Keith’s still slender waist, kisses him soundly. Keith purrs, wraps his tail around Lance’s ankle as Lance licks into his mouth.

“Lance, we-” Keith lets Lance kiss past his words. “We have stuff to do.”

“We actually don't- Hm. I just have the most beautiful spouse ever, and I love him an awful lot. I just can’t help myself.” Lance’s blue and pink eyes look him up and down, Keith suddenly anxious beneath his gaze.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just- You’re different. I see it quite suddenly now.” Lance reaches up, brushes hair out of Keith’s eyes. “Taller, broader shoulders, like you said. Still quiet… But a more confident kind of quiet.”

“Do you like it?” Keith murmurs, pressing their brows together, letting his eyes flutter closed.

“You’re perfect. You’ve always been perfect. You'll always be perfect.” Lance brushes a thumb over Keith’s cheek. “Now come on. Get moving, before I keep you here all day.”

“I have concerns about your impulse control.”

“Oh, Ancients, me too. Go take your bath while I cook breakfast.” Lance kisses his cheek, flits outside.

Keith smiles, resting his head on his knees, tail thumping against the bed. He spies BleepBloop running after Lance, no doubt hoping for an offering. A buzzing sound fills Keith’s ears. His datapad. A glance reveals it’s his mother, probably calling to congratulate him on his birth quintant. Keith licks his lips, glances after Lance, declines the call. He doesn’t want to speak to his mother right now. The words he needs to say to her are ugly, and will be unpleasant for them both. Now isn’t the time.

“I want to go foraging,” Keith declares later, pushing away his bowl. “Will you come with me?”

“Of course!” Lance leaps up, heading outside to clean the bowls with sand the way Keith showed him last night. “Will you show me some things?”

“Sure. come on.”

Lance is not difficult to entertain. It’s one of the things Keith loves most about him. The Altean prince finds pleasure in the simplest things. Hence, they spend the morning wandering about the forest, Lance exploring, Keith enjoying being back on his home turf.

“What’s this?”

“A lichen.”

“What’s it do?”

“Grow?”

“Worst field trip ever, beloved.” Lance giggles, nose wrinkling with the playful quip.

“Uh… I used to put it around my garden to keep bugs away?”

“Amazing!” Lance squeals, gazing delighted at a clump of bright blue lichen clinging to a branch. Keith shakes his head, biting his lip against a smile of his own as he bends down to harvest some herbs from a log.

They spend most of the quintant in the forest. Keith shows him the trees and the shrubs, what plants he used to make medicine when he felt sick, or when his bones hurt, or when he was injured and got an infection. Keith shows Lance how to dig for yaro root at the lake's edge, and harvest nuts and fruits from the trees. He shows him how to find insects to roast on a fire, and how to eat them. He shows him how to make fire.

“I never expected to see my Altean mate sitting on the bare ground, eating a ten-legged terror.”

Lance rips off another crunchy leg, leaving only three attached to a lumpy bug body. “It tastes good. I’ve never eaten a bug before.”

“Tourist.” Keith munches on his own terrors. He’s trying to store up some extra nutrients before his season, in the hopes it might increase his chances of a successful pregnancy. He doesn’t trust his body in the slightest. It demands more than it should already.

“You okay?” Lance asks as they finish up, nibbling on the last of his fruit.

“I’m just thinking?”

“About?”

“Lots of things.” Keith glances up, watching BleepBloop leap through the trees. “My kittenhood.”

“Any good memories?”

“TreeTrunks teaching me how to hunt bugs. That was good.”

“TreeTrunks?”

“BleepBloop’s mom. She died when my dad did, but she helped raise me, in a weird way.” Keith slips his hand into Lance’s. “I learned to hear what she heard, see what she saw. Watching her, I learned what sounds to be afraid of and what sounds meant food. I owe my life to her.”

“Maybe BleepBloop can teach our kids some skills too, huh? We should bring them back here. You can teach them about where they come from.”

“Yeah. Yeah, we should. I think they'd love it out here.”

Later in the day, Keith takes Lance out of the forest, back onto the tundra. They make a campfire under the stars, cook fish and vegetables on sticks. As the typical cold of sunset begins to bite, Lance bundles up in their cloaks with BleepBloop in his lap, watching Keith kick dirt on the fire. Once Keith determines that he's not going to burn down the tundra, he snuggles into Lance's cloak bundle, purring softly. It seems Lance is never going to get over that; he loves hearing that sound, knowing it means Keith is happy.

They sit in the black night, and Keith turns his eyes to the sky.

“I was born on this quintant two centaphoebs ago. I would have remembered it now.”

“How?”

“Look up.”

Lance looks up, expecting to see stars, and instead seeing a huge expanse of pitch black blocking them out. “Mom says that on the day I was born, the moons were new at the same time. That only happens once every centaphoeb. Down here, planetside, quintants all tend to bleed together. Birth quintants tend to be forgotten. But once every cetaphoeb, I know exactly how old I am.”

Lance stares up at the vast blackness. It’s frightening, almost, gazing at nothing where there should be stars. He hadn’t noticed the increasing darkness. He’s spent most nights huddled in their bed, fighting off the biting cold of Daibazaani nights. "Ancients."

“It was scary… Last time it happened. I was all alone, and it was so dark. When the moons are both new, none of the lizards glow, and the gleam blossoms close, so there was literally no light. I couldn’t even see. My eyes are stronger now, because I’m older, but back then… It was like I was blind.”

“That must have been awful.” Lance finds Keith’s cold-bitten hand, squeezes it tight.

“Yeah. I was still really small. Way smaller than I am now, even. I was the perfect snack for a lot of forest predators. Gintars in particular were always coming around trying to sniff me out.”

“And what’s a gintar?”

“A gintar is an eight-legged serpent with weirdly soft, wrinkly skin. Like they should have hair, but don’t.”

“That sounds… so gross.”

“Creepy and gross. All the legs are like, just behind their weird triangle heads and then they’re just tail.”

“Nasty! Ew! Why does that exist?”

“I have no idea. I wish they didn’t.” Keith sighs, staring up at the distinct blackness that commemorates his birth. “Twenty decaphoebs. Two centaphoebs. I can’t believe it.”

“You’re so old,” Lance teases. “I’m married to an old man.”

“Shut up!” Keith jabs an elbow into his mate, laughing. “I’m not that much older!”

“About thirteen phoebs. So no, not that much older. Old enough for me to tease you.” Lance shivers. “It’s freezing out here.”

“Is that your way of saying you’re ready to go in?”

“Kind of? Yes. The sky is creepy. Awesome, but a little disturbing.”

“Agreed. You should make a light for us so we can get back,” Keith whispers, just a touch closer to Lance’s ear than necessary.

“O-Okay.” Lance makes a werelight in record time, a pale light in the black of the hovering abyss. The Altean beams, scales glowing in the dark, Keith’s amber-gleaming eyes shining back. “There you are.”

“Here we are,” Keith murmurs, smiling, tipping their foreheads together. “Thank you for today. It’s been… forever since my birth was celebrated. I’m glad I got to share it with you.”

“Me too, beloved.” Lance’s smile is one of the sweetest Keith’s ever beheld. The Altean lays a hand against his cheek, and Keith leans into it with a sigh, purring with affection.

Walking back, arms around each other, cloaks over their shoulders, the two laugh and carry on, tripping over each other’s feet before tumbling into bed. Lance makes a playful quip, kissing Keith’s cheek. Keith teases back. They laugh, fingers in hair, in fur, tracing over skin and scales. Lips on lips. For Keith, it’s the beginning of another decaphoeb. For them both, it’s the beginning of everything.

[ldyinblckmsk]

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki X F! Reader

Genre: Angst(?)

Words: 2k

----------------------------------------------

'I remember the very first time I laid my eyes on you. I knew at that moment we were going to be at each other's throats. And as expected, we did. And it will be the favorite day that I've always cherished even if that means leaving another gush on my cheeks.'

"Don't you fucking tell me to move aside, stupid extra." You were taken aback by his lashing, laughing cynically as you clench your jaw when he sent you flying The pain resonates at your rear and it was a perfect moment that you've had a not so-nice impression on your very first day at the hero course in UA.

"Fuckin' asshole!" You launched a clear hit on his face when he turn his back on you, completely lowering his guard down. If Aizawa didn't interjects, the two of you will end up in a bone crushing fight.

We've spent so much time together, with me being a leech to you half of the time, annoying the hell out of you, pestering you to have a bad day. My day will never be complete without you screaming my name just to insult me when you fell to one of my pranks again.

"Where's that fucking shitty woman?! Y/n! I swear I'm gonna rip your head off when I found you!" Your classmates' heads snapped towards your direction, silently questioning you what you did to the feral blond. You feign innocence, giggling at the curses he was enchanting while going down the stairs. Kirishima only shakes his head muttering how unmanly it is.

"Oh? That's if you can find me, gremlin!" You shout loudly enough before you hide yourself at Kiri's back, seeing him nearing you as you giggled like a child.

"Fuckin- I'm gonna fucking kill you for real! Don't you fucking hide behing shitty hair. I'm going to blast your stupid head off."

"I- uh...didn't do anything?"

Lo and behold, the masterpiece you've had drawn on Bakugou's face. Different colors of permanent markers were painted like a doodle. You heard them gasps, mumbling how the hell he can wipe that off. Tenya looked at you in disappointment and it's enough for you to realize that you've gone too far.

Sparks were flying from his hands as he activated his quirk, really serious about impaling you. You held your arms up, waving a your white handkerchief as you surrender, lips quivering to hold the soft laughs in your mouth.

"L-look, it's only fair! You burned my uniform. I'm only doing it for revenge."

"That's because you fucking threw a bottle of ketchup on my notes, you lil piece of shit!"

"I didn't threw it, it was an accident! I fucking dropped it 'kay? It was your fault for leaving your things in the kitchen." Truth be told, you accidentally dropped the bottle...but you may or may not used the paper to wipe it off the floor.

The day ended up with you locked up in his room while helping him clean up his face. It was the class president's idea to do it so which was supported by your homeroon teacher who happens to passed by the chaos. You were quite thankful for Iida since the two of you were slowly warming up, having a truce, and rarely on each other's throats.

That was when you became his bestfriend aside from the red haired boy.

It was fate that decided that things are better off this way. After all, it was supposed to be like this. It was already destined from the start and you hate the universe for that.

It's dreading. It's hurting you. The pain is too much to bear for your vulnerable state. But there's nothing you can do about it but to wish happiness upon others.

The sound of the rain hitting the roof of the evangelical architecture followed by the roaring of thunder harmonizes with the beats of melancholy drumming inside your heart.

Clutching tightly around the bouquet of hydrangea and irises with your trembling hands, you let out a heavy sigh as you wait for the instruction of the organizer. The smooth fabric clinging perfectly to your body with the flower crown nestled on top of your head almost makes you feel perfect and pretty.

The organ that's trapped in your rib cage hammering violently against your chest as it silently screams its agony—only you who can hear it. You shut your eyes tightly while you're barely containing the bottled up emotions. No, you aren't going to break down now. You shouldn't ruin it. If anyone is going to pay attention to you, they might think that you're going crazy with all the mumbling of convincing yourself to stay put.

You, then, watch the organizer standing by the huge, oak door that was adorned by the hints of purple and pink hues, nervously glancing inside while making sure that everything goes according to the plan. Of course, everything should be running smoothly for this very special day. She gotta witness the wedding of the famous pro-hero in Japan. Of course, she gotta do her job right for this intimate occasion.

As you saw her raising her hand— a signal that it was your turn to walk down the aisle, you swallowed the lump that was forming in your throat, preparing yourself not to crumble to pieces. The ache on the left side slowly spreading all throughout your body as they opened the door.

Harsh lighting coming from the huge chandeliers blinding your eyes when you stepped inside the sacred room. All eyes were dead set on you. Familiar ones met your gaze—friends, families, and some pro-heroes. The wedding was kept from the public, not wanting any unwanted attention from the media, so the invitation was limited to their close circle.

The tune of very familiar melody hits your ears, A Thousand Years is smoothly playing in the background, echoing across the walls of the church. The pitter-patter of the precipitation against the roof mixing in, the gods' way of sending their sympathy to your forlorn heart.

Different pairs of eyes lingering at your form while the anxiousness eating your insides making you wish that you'll melt into a puddle. You never really like the attention and with the tangled wires in your brain, one wrong move is all it takes for the welling up in your eyes to burst like a dam and that's the last thing you wanted to happen.

For a moment, you blamed yourself for the hasty decision you've made. You should just have stayed home or fly across the other side of the world when you received the invitation. You should have just have Mina relayed your best wish and not attend the event. You shouldn't have trusted yourself, believing at your foolishness that you'll make through it. You shouldn't have thought it lightly.

One step and it almost makes your knees buckles and swayed slightly. The five-inch heels that the pink girl insisted did a worse part. Who knew that walking through the aisle is the most difficult thing to do...especially when you're not the bride. You don't know what face you're making of. You just wish that the faux smile plastered on your face didn't make you look pathetic and broken.

Amidst the ocean of eyes, you're eyes found him like there was some kind of magnet in it drawing yours to his infinite pools of red. Just like back in your highschool days, it was always him. It never change.

There he was, standing near the altar, clad in a tailored suit that perfectly hugged his body with his unkempt blond locks and your favorite scowl that permanently painted on his face. His vermilion eyes locked with yours, sensing the softness in it that he only unravel to you which you've painfully mistaken of him sharing the same feeling with you.

'I was the one who witness your bare soul. I was there when you've had enough of the bullshits around you, comforting you when you let out your frustrations. I've witnessed how strong you've become and the weakness you're fighting back in order to chased your dreams. Pursuing your goal to be the greatest hero who'll surpass All Might.

I told that you are already the greatest hero for me which you only replied with a roll of your eyes and a smirk.'

You saw him shift his weight to the other foot, jaw clenching, and fists balling up on his sides—his actions that you were familiar with. He's nervous.

As much as you want to shout an encouragement and assure him that everything's going well, it seems that you're the one who needs it the most for you are so close to tearing up and bawl your eyes out. It's frustrating and painful and hopeless. It's torture. But as a dear friend you are, you winked at him, then you did the archer stance, arms raising steadily with the bouquet on your right hand, shooting him your famous invisible arrow. You heard your classmate's giggles as they witnessed again your legendary 'Love Arrow Attack'

You offered him your saccharine smile when you saw how he rolled his eyes at your quirkiness. With your little gesture, you know it's enough to calm down his nerves when you saw him easing his stance while the corners of his mouth tugging a bit upwards—the rare smile that didn't fail to make your heart leapt.

You know him too well. His body. His favorites. His moodiness. His scent. His body language. You know him so much that you can write an entire whole ass book dedicated for the pro-hero. You just knew him.

'You didn't know it but I fell in your trap. Hardly. Every scrunch of your eyebrow and clicking of your tongue were memorized by my brain. Every insulting nicknames that left past your lips where automatically translated into a sweet endearment. Those moments where you shouts my name, scolding me for my clumsiness, or those little skin contact we had. I still remember all of it. It's forever etched in my mind, imprinted those once in a lifetime memories.

You continued walking, finding your balance as you slowly dragging your feet towards his direction. You remember the organizer reminding you to walk slowly and enjoy the moment. You have the urge to slap her face and scream at her that there's nothing to enjoy about. That walking at an agonizingly slow strides towards the altar where he's standing inflicts a deep pain. That you feel any emotions but the positive ones while the reality struck you hard. It is their wedding. And you can't feel anything to enjoy it.

I was greedy, selfish. I wanted everything goes according to my plan. If I want something, I make sure that it always ended up in my palms. That's how full of selfish desires I have. But...you can't just really go against fate, right? Being with you taught me things about love. They say that when people's in love, all they wish is happiness for each other.

That's why I'm here. Seeing you happy is enough for me to back down.'

As your feet trampled the purple petals sprawling across the red carpet, fat tears slowly dripping to your cheeks. It's blurrinng your vision yet you still continue to close the gap between the two of you.

One.

Three.

Four steps, you're face to face. You hide your sobs with a chuckle as you wipe the tears that's straining your makeup.

"143 637!" You shouted but it only makes the blond wrinkled his forehead, clearly confused at your cryptic message. "What the fuck you tryna sayin'?"

You shakes your head, relief flooded your body. "Nah, just trying the sweepstakes. Easy money."

"Fuckin' sappy, shitty woman." He grumbles as you hugged him. So tight that you felt him tensed up.

One last hug.

"I-I was just so happy. Thought you'll die single." You stood beside him, facing the door that's slowly opening.

'I'll still support you. I'll always be here whenever you need me. I'll always love you even if we didn't end up together. Because I'll always be your bestfriend.'

"143 637, Katsu. I love you, always and forever." You mumbled under your breath.

•••

[venusxxlangdon]

Garden of Eden

summary: beware of your wishes when you wander in the Garden of Eden, especially if the Antichrist has the keys. 

pairing: outpost!Michael x fem!reader

words: 8.9k

warnings: smut, fingering, oral (female receiving), dirty talk, choking

To Katherine, Sofi, Sam & Caitlin

A big mansion loomed proudly behind the iron gates, flanked by the rows of green freshly-trimmed trees crowned in crimson blossom, swaying gently in the summer breeze. Ivy and fern grew through the crevice of the white marble of the walls that kept the secrets of the mysterious owner of the house. Michael Langdon was an exquisite neighbor, and if one dared to ask what he did for a living or who he was, nobody would be able to answer. Numerous rumors ghosted around his persona because Mr. Langdon himself was a very private man. He never honored any of the public events with his presence, for what he was deeply disliked by others. It was the paradox of life when one chose his own path, detached and aloof, and was strongly judged for it.

 “He thinks he is better than us,” an old lady with her wrinkled hands adorned with heavy rings and pearl bracelets thought to herself when she stopped by Michael’s house and complimented his wonderful garden. In fact, she did not really want to say it aloud because it would squeeze her into admitting that his tenure was superior to any other yard in the neighborhood. However, the beauty of Langdon’s garden was so conspicuous that it would make anybody confess their trepidation before it and fall victim to its unbelievable excellence. The sweet, almost sickly smell of roses cut through the soft scent of the July summer. Red, pink, and white buds scattered on the bushes and ignited them with burning flames of vivid colors. In the middle of it, there was a big marble fountain with sculptures of Aphrodite, Hera, Athena, and Artemis around it. They stood like guardians, keeping a watch over the crystal flows of water that sounded like a giggle of a young nymph in the peaceful silence. No wonder everybody wanted to get inside just to look at the worldly Garden of Eden.

“Mr. Langdon?” The woman called his name again after he did not respond to her question.

A tall, stately man was sitting on a patio with his legs crossed and a volume of Voltaire in his right hand. He was holding a glass filled with blood-red wine in his left hand; the heavy bands of his rings clicked against the fine glass every time he brought it to his lips to take a sip. He slowly took his gaze off the book and dragged it to the lady who suddenly felt like an annoying schoolgirl, hungry for his attention. She shivered uncomfortably when two topazes of his piercing blue eyes stared at her. It felt like he was looking right through her, paralyzing every muscle of her decrepit body. Michael slightly tilted his head to the side, letting the sunlight caress the smooth, silky locks of his licentious hair. He found it amusing that the old cranky twat, who had spent years ruining the life of her daughter in law (she found the young girl absolutely unworthy of her son’s attention) in the most revolting ways, even dared to speak to him.

“Well, thank you, Mrs. Shepherd,” the velvet baritone if his voice reverberated through her bones, “but it’s the roses you should address your compliments to. I don’t own their beauty.”

Despite the fact she had been working in public relations for thirty years, Mrs. Shepherd found herself at loss for words. Surprisingly she felt so small and vulnerable that her only desire was to leave. She nodded and opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it again, pressing her thin lips into a tight line. Trying to gather the remaining of her confidence, she adjusted the cuffs of her dinner jacket, as if it could help her stay grounded, and lifted her chin up a bit too high than it was necessary.

 “I am just wondering how you manage to keep your garden in such an impeccable state. Pardon my bluntness, Sir, but I have never seen you weed or water it.”

The corners of Michael’s lips twitched, and he put his book aside on a small table next to him, folding his hands neatly on his crossed thighs.

 “You are not the Lord to see everything, are you?” He smiled, showing her his perfect white teeth.

 “Excuse me?” She nervously started playing with a pearl necklace around her slender neck. It was very uncomfortable to talk to him like that when he was still sitting on a patio, and it seemed like he did not have any intentions of approaching her for a chat.

 Michael ran the tip of his tongue along his bottom lip; a faint smirk was ghosting across his lips as he kept wandering around Mrs. Shepherd’s hectic mind, looking through her entire biography, which he could read like a picture book. What a pathetic soul stood before him! He had no interest in her; what was alluring in the lost essence of her elderly being if she had not learned a thing in her life? Nothing. There was someone else who piqued his interest a long while ago. Ignoring the awaiting expression on Mrs. Shepherd’s face, he looked away at the neighboring house. When his eyes landed on a second-floor window, he saw a shadow that flashed behind the sheer curtains. Michael smirked.

 His rose was spying on him again.

 Your heart skipped a beat when you noticed that Mr. Langdon turned his head in the direction of your bedroom, and you hurried to fall to your knees and crawl under the windowsill, praying that he did not see you. With the trembling fingers, you reached for the jacquard drapes and pulled them, trying to cover up the transparent organza of your curtains. You had no idea why you were doing it again after you had promised yourself not to spy on your neighbor anymore. It was wrong and creepy, and you felt embarrassed and, what was more terrifying, aroused by it. You bit on your knuckles in an attempt to suppress a whimper that got you all aflutter.

What an idiot.

 You drew your knees against your chest and wrapped your arms around yourself securely, trying to calm down a swirling vortex of anxiety in your head. The effect that beautiful man had on you was indescribable: you felt strangely attracted and intimidated at the same time. The mysterious aura of Mr. Langdon kept you awake at night and made you sneak on your tiptoes to the window to look at the dim light in the window across the street every midnight. You wondered why he was always awake at such a late hour.

 Asking your parents about him was pointless because they truly had not been the biggest fans of Langdon, since you moved into a new house, and wanted you to stay away from him. When you asked your dad why, he shrugged and said “He’s no good” through his gritted teeth, but could a man of no good grow such beautiful flowers in his garden?

 Everybody seemed to either hate or love Michael Langdon, so the rumors about him were on the two opposite poles accordingly: either extremely notorious or suspiciously celestial. You tried to do your own research, but the only thing you managed to find out was the fact that his parents had abandoned him when he was a child, and it was his grandmother who had raised him. He was believed to have property somewhere in England, or Romania, which would be a strange choice in general.

 You wanted to talk to him, but for the past six months you had spent in the new neighborhood, you did not have the guts to say hi when he was out in the backyard. You found yourself blushing and embarrassed, unable to form such an easy question as “how are you doing, Mr. Langdon?”, so what sort of a small talk one could expect from you? He looked no older than thirty, yet he made an impression of someone experienced, tempting, and even sinister.

Biting your lower lip, you reminisced about his gorgeous chiseled face, framed with the soft blond curls that reached his shoulders. He was always dressed irreproachably perfect, with no wrinkles on his ironed shirt in sight. Instead of going out with your friends and doing whatever mirth your young soul desired, you often stayed home in your small bedroom to watch his silhouette behind the thick curtains. Around 8 pm he liked to go to his garden, and you could see his lips move as if he was talking to someone, but you did not see whom. Michael most certainly did not have a dog, or a cat, although some people rumored that there were snakes in his garden, but you never had a chance to witness them. He always moved graciously around his flowers, brushing his gnarled fingers against the petals, and you once caught yourself imagining what his touch would feel like. That was a point of no return when you realized that you were unconditionally fascinated by the insanely beautiful man across the street. You felt like a stalker but could not fight the desire to keep eyeing him.

 xxx

It was a regular lazy Sunday you decided to spend doing nothing in particular, especially due to the unbearable heat. Even the trees looked defeated: the leaves that should have been crispy and firm looked flaccid instead. Whenever you went outside, you felt like the sun was going to melt you as if you were nothing, but a cube of ice, so you hanged out in the kitchen with AC turned to the maximum, reading books and watching whatever there was on TV.

 “I swear Langdon does something to his roses,” your mom said, wiping the drops of sweat off her forehead. Your head flew up immediately at the sound of the familiar name. “His garden looks like an oasis in the desert.”

You looked through the window, where you could see the blooming roses, irises, and hydrangeas behind the gate. She was right; it looked wonderful indeed despite the temperature.

 “I’ve never seen him watering it,” you mom continued, not paying attention to an absent look on your face. You frowned when two white heaven-bound birds ricocheted as soon as they appeared in the radius of Langdon’s property. It seemed like there was an invisible shield around it. Surprised, you pulled the curtains aside to take a closer look. What the hell was that?

 “Maybe he does it at night? When it’s not so hot,” you said slowly, without taking your narrowed eyes off of the door of his house.

 By 9 pm the heat started to cool down, and you decided that the whole day at home was enough for you, and it would be nice to ride a bike before going to bed. Moreover, you needed an excuse to get closer to Mr. Langdon’s garden and do some investigation. You had no idea what exactly you were looking for and if there was something wrong with his mansion, but your mother’s comments and the two birds kept rewinding in your head, causing major anxiety.

 “I’ll be back soon!” you shouted from a garage, hoping that your dad could hear you through a loud tv noise.

 Riding a bike was one of the greatest pleasures of summer when even though you pedaled, the iron monster with a little wicker basket automatically took you down the street. The wind tangled its warm fingers in your hair and toyed with your white sundress with cherry print on the linen fabric. Your legs remained in motion, as your thoughts stayed in the moment, and you allowed them to get back to Michael.

If he were home, he would definitely notice you, and then what? You would have to explain your business and it would involve having an actual conversation with him.

You pressed the breaks, stopping the bike. Fuck. Just the thought of it made your palms sweaty. You looked across your shoulder, spotting the white walls of his mansion in the distance.

You did not know how much time you spent staying in the middle of an empty road, contemplating your plan, but eventually, it felt like your bike started living its own life, taking you back to Langdon’s property, and all you could do was to keep pedaling and trying to breathe steadily.

 His imposing figure was visible from the distance way before you approached him. He was standing with his hands behind his back, his long hair tied up in a low ponytail with the loose strands of it framing his defined face. You took a tight grip on the handlebar and slowed down the bike.

 “Good evening, Mr. Langdon,” you could not recognize your voice that sounded so high-pitched it made you scrunch up your nose in disgust. As your feet touched the ground, he looked up at you with a hazy smile across his full lips. He stepped forward, and your breath hitched at his appraising glance. Michael did not even try to hide the curiosity he was looking at your sundress with, examining your naked legs.

 “Ah, what a great surprise,” he said in a singsong tone and outstretched his hand. You nervously gave him your palm, and he took it with just the tips of his fingers. He gently turned your hand downwards and bent at the waist until his lips were inches above your skin. He never touched it with his lips, just let his breath ghost over your hand before letting go of it. You could feel the heat spreading across your cheeks, painting them in scarlet hues. “Good evening, Ms. Y/L/N.”

 You smiled, trying not to stare at the man before you. It was the first time you saw him so close, and his vibe was overwhelming. You could feel the power radiating from him in hot waves that had nothing to do with the summer heat. He towered over you despite the distance and the bike between you two. He was handsome from the depth of his cobalt blue eyes to the gentle expression of his smooth voice. You could swear he was inhumanly beautiful. Mr. Langdon was probably used to the sudden pauses in people’s natural reactions when they fell silent and just admired him.

“I’m sorry, I just...,” you stuttered, nervously tugging a piece of hair behind your ear. “I just wanted to look at the roses.”

 You nodded in the direction of the beautiful flowers flowing and swaying around the men. He chuckled softly, unable to take his eyes off of your blush that accompanied your words.

 “Your garden is so beautiful,” it felt like you could not stop bubbling, “even in this horrible heat. It seems like you really love it, Mr. Langdon,” you mattered. The delicate, blooming petals stood out in the grass, bathing in the radiant sunlight; the air was perfumed with the exuding scent of the flowers.

 “I surely do, my dear,” Michael said, his voice low and honey-like, encapsulating your entire being. His long, aristocratic fingers brushed against the tight buds, where inside the layers of green, there were colors that, eventually, would ignite the new roses into the vibrancy of life. He slowly dragged his fingertips down a stem and picked one.

 “My garden keeps a lot of secrets,” he looked at you through his heavy lids and extended his hand to give you the flower. “You know, all our desires that we wish we could hide in the darkest corners of our souls.”

A faint smirk across his full lips made your stomach flip as your mind rushed to the memories of you watching him through the window of your small bedroom. You hesitantly took the flower from his hand, and when your fingers accidentally touched his, your body jolted as if lighting pierced through you. Michael pretended that he did not notice it, gazing at you hazily with an unbothered look on his face. The only thing that could indicate his interest was the waves of a deep aquamarine polling in his eyes. Each hue seemed brighter in the reflection of the sunlight.

 “Thank you,” you whispered under your breath and put the rose in the basket. You did not know what to add, especially after his remark. Was it a hint that he knew what were you doing? You put your right feet on a pedal as if you were about to leave.

 “I hope you’ll have a good night, Mr. Langdon.”

Michael shook his head and made his way to the antique gate, holding a key you had not noticed in his hands before. He opened it with one swift motion of his wrist and leaned against the ornate door.

 “What about the garden? I thought you would like to see it.”

 You looked at him with wide eyes.

 “Oh, are you sure, Sir?” You asked hesitantly, “I don’t want to be a bother, plus it’s getting late, you probably have other plans...”

 “It would be my pleasure to show you around,” his velvet voice cut you off in the middle of the sentence, and you froze, enchanted by his eyes that were looking right through you.

 You hopped off your bicycle and leaned the handlebar against the gate.

 “That’s really nice of you, Mr. Langdon,” you smiled, stepping closer. You thought he would move, so you could follow him inside, but he waited until you were inches away, almost pressed against his chest in the small space of the doorframe.  

 “Please, call me Michael,” for a second it seemed like the world froze around you. As if someone in charge of winding the Great clock of time pressed the button, and everything stopped moving. All you could feel was the scent of Michael’s cologne. It was surreal. You parted your lips to say something, but his eyes got you hypnotized; you realized that you were holding your breath all that time.

 Langdon was the first one to break eye contact.

xxx

Walking in Michael’s garden was one of the greatest pleasures you had ever experienced in your life. It seemed like the farther you went, the more beautiful it became. Numerous flowerbeds painted the lawns in vivid shades of watercolor. The miniature shrubs were trimmed neatly, and everything one could desire was to run among them, breathing in the exquisite sent of flowers.

 He was watching you amusingly: how you bent over to brush your fingertips against the delicate petals and smell the roses, the way your cheeks turned crimson every time you caught him staring at you.

 Michael could not help himself and let his magic wander around you, making its way into your radiant ephemeral mind. From the corner of his eye, he noticed his snakes crawling under the marble bench and flicked his wrist, ordering them to stay in place.

 “So red and white roses are your favorite?” You asked curiously, spinning around to face him, and he hurried to fold his hands behind his back as if nothing had just happened. His eyes traveled down your body, catching the sight of your skirt flowing in the wind.

 “The red rose whispers of passion,” he answered, stepping closer to you, “and the white rose breathes of love.* Yes, there are,” he took a pause, thinking if God had decided to mock him by sending an actual angel. An angel with devilish desires. “But I also have a penchant for lilies,” Michael nodded at the flowerbed next to you.

 “You sound like a poet, Michael,” you said, still a bit embarrassed to call him by his name. Langdon, on the contrary, shivered every time it rolled off your tongue. His mind painted pictures of the situations where he could make you repeat his name like a mantra.

 “Well, thank you, but I will have to disappoint you,” his lips curled into a fake pout, “the author of these beautiful lines is an old chap O’Reilly, not me.”

 The yellow ball of the setting sun merged with the sky, changing it to the hues of orange, and then almost red. Summer sunsets, a prelude to a warm night, were well-known for being beautiful. The sun cast its golden rays down upon Michael’s blond ponytail, illuminating it like a halo. It cascaded onto the trees and his house like the glory of paradise.

 “You definitely used them for the right occasion,” you chucked, “oh my God,” you sighed in pure delight, “how amazing it must be to own such a beautiful garden and wander around it every day. I think I would get lost in it!”

 “Not all those who wander are lost, darling.**”

 For the reasons unknown to you, your mind went back to your fantasies about Michael. You considered yourself lost in them, but what if you just wandered?

xxx

Time dissolved into itself in a blink of an eye. You did not notice how one topic of conversion flowed into another, and you most certainly missed the moment when Michael invited you into his house. Even though you understood that it was not right to abuse his hospitality, you could not say “no” to his invitation.

“Would you like some wine?” he asked you, as you walked around the dining room, observing the luxurious interior. From your location, you could also see the fireplace in the living room, the family crest adorned with the ruby red needlework hanging on the wall, the antique furniture that cost more than your college tuition. Michael was standing by the cabinet, considering his wine choice for the night.

 “Yes, please,” you nodded, brushing your knuckles against the gliding surface of the oak table. On top of it, there were exquisite sets of the finest silverware. “But I’ll have to rely on your taste because I’m no expert when it comes to wine.”

 Michael took a bottle out and opened it. A gold-colored Moselle was poured in two crystal glasses.

 “A well-chosen wine, my dear,” you still could not understand if he really meant that nickname, or if it was his regular way to address everyone he knew. You looked away, hoping that he would not notice your wide grin. “Either sets a great mood or ruins the impression,” he took the glass and made his way to you. “Forever.”

You nodded, wrapping your fingers around the stem and bringing it to your lips to take the first sip. Michael watched you attentively, waiting for your reaction. The liquid tasted beautiful and rich, coating your taste buds like acerbic honey.

 “That’s a really great wine, Michael,” you said, feeling the warmth spreading through every cell of your body. He smirked, and you found yourself staring at the wine drop on his bottom lip.

His lips, plump and pink, looked million times more beautiful than any rose in his garden. You bit the inside of your cheek, hoping that the pain would help you to remain sane, but the longer you looked at him, the cloudier your mind got. It was impossible to say what exactly made your head dizzy: the scent of the fine wine or Mr. Langdon who looked like the Eighth Wonder. The thoughts you had been trying to suppress all the time, were suddenly unleashed like demons and flooded your subconsciousness with the vivid images. Your breath hitched, and you had to take another sip of wine, pretending that you were enjoying the taste when instead you used it as an excuse to look away.

 “I knew you would enjoy it.”

 Your mind tried to come up with any topic that could cut through the electric tension between you two, but all you could think was him. Him. Him. Kissing you, savoring every inch of your exposed skin — it was an all-consuming obsession. You cleared your throat, suddenly feeling extremely hot as if the temperature increased by several degrees.

“I have noticed your family crest over there,” you nodded at the living room, “does your family have a long history?”

 Michael tapped his fingers against the glass and put it aside on the dining table.

 “Not really,” he scoffed, and you wondered if the topic about his family was not his favorite, “my grandmother was so obsessed with the idea of being one of the nobility that she made it come true,” he glanced over the enormous dining room.

 “Your mansion is beautiful,” you said honestly, looking up at him, “so is your garden, and...oh my God, there is a snake!” You cried out at the sight of a green snake that was slowly making its way to Michael along the perfectly polished floor. The intruder was so unexpected that you knocked his glass off the table, and it shattered into pieces with a loud noise. You gasped and immediately fell to your knees to collect the remains of the wineglass in your palms. Embarrassment washed over in tides, and you felt tears welling up in your eyes, ready to spill out from the humiliation you had put yourself through. Everything felt wrong.

 “I’m so sorry,” you whined in a broken voice, “Michael, I did not mean to...oh God, I am so sorry... I will pay for the glass, I promise...I just...”

 “Y/N,” he interrupted you softly, but stern. Still being on your knees, you left your gaze up at him to meet the icy fire of his eyes. “Stand up.”

You gulped heavily, but obeyed, slowly standing up on your wobbly feet. He carefully took the pieces of the broken glass from your hands, making sure not to leave any cuts on your tender skin. Michael put them aside on a thick cotton napkin and grabbed a clean one to wipe off the wine off your palms.

 “It’s okay,” he said, examining your skin carefully in case there were micro cuts he did not notice, “no big deal.”

 The feather-light touch of his fingers was soothing. You looked across Michael’s shoulder, trying to spot the reptile, but did not see any.

 “I saw a snake,” you whispered, “over there.”

 He put the napkin aside but did not let go of your hands.

 “I believe I have not introduced you to my pets,” the plural form made you look around as if right after his words numerous snakes would crawl out of nowhere.

 “So it’s true,” the rumors sprang on your mind, and you squeezed his fingers instinctively, not actually realizing what you were doing, “you do have snakes.”

 Michael’s lips curled in a smile.

“Three of them,” he took a step closer, the crystal beads of glass crunched under his shoes, but he did not seem to care. “Don’t worry, there are not poisonous,” he answered your silent question. “However, they always come where there is fear.”

 You frowned. His fingers snaked up your palm to wrap around your slender wrists. You looked at him in confusion. What if other rumors were true? The snake you had just seen looked way too terrifying to be harmless, and fear creeping up on the back of your neck indicated that the worry was not pointless.

 “Michael, I don’t think I understand what you mean,” you started slowly, trying to break free from the steel grip of his fingers, “It’s getting really late, I better go...”

 You fell silent when the fingers of his left hand ghosted over the contour of your face, but never touching it. He hummed approvingly when you stopped talking and just stared at him in fluttering admiration.

 “You talk too much, my dear,” he said, finally honoring you with his touch, dragging his fingertips along your cheekbones and a sharp line of your jaw, “but you don’t say what you really think,” his eyes twinkled in the dim light of the room.

You took a step back, but the corner of the table prevented you from moving farther. You were trapped. Michael was so close; it felt intoxicating. You looked down at the skirt of your sundress, which unfortunately got stained with wine as well.

 “What do your fear, Y/N?” he caressed your cheek, the cool metal of his rings left burning kisses on your skin. They bloomed like revolutionary fire, destroying the remains of your self-control.

 You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch. The question was confusing, and Michael did not seem to care to elaborate. Human beings were cowardly by their nature, so it was impossible to understand what exactly he meant when he had asked you that. Did he want to know about your phobias or the insecurities? Or the dirty little secret of yours that you hid from him?

 “Yes, that one,” your eyes fluttered open when Michael called you out on your thoughts. Again.

 “I don’t know what you are talking about,” you said without looking at him. Your heart was drumming so fast, you could feel the blood pumping in your temples. Michael reached for your wineglass.

 “You know, darling,” he cooed, dipping his fingers into the burgundy liquid and bringing them to your lips. His every movement was dripping with mannerism and erotica. “I don’t tolerate lies,” he whispered, his breath scorching your face, as he smeared the wine across your lower lip, firmly pressing on it for you to open your mouth. You parted your lips and he slid his thumb right into the awaiting warmth, smiling devilishly when your eager tongue wrapped around his digits. The acid taste of wine burned on the tip of your tongue.

He tugged a loose strand of your hair behind your ear and leaned forward to whisper:

 “Tell me, kitty, what are you scared of right now? Why are trembling, huh?” his body was pressed so close to yours you could feel the decor of his jacket living ornamental imprints on the bare skin of your arms. You were shaking with anticipation for the beautiful man before you. Dazed, you felt his lips brushing softly against your ear and sliding to the sensitive spot behind it. Your breath hitched when he left a soft kiss, and your knees buckled. If you had not clung to the lapels of his jacket, you would have probably slid down and melted into a puddle before Michael.

 “I’m scared of myself,” you whispered, tilting your head to the side and letting Langdon’s lips travel to the sinew on your neck. His right hand slid up your leg, folding your dress around your waist. His palm rested on a soft flesh of your thighs.

 “Why?”

 His fingers wandered over the outer part of your thigh and then maneuvered between your legs to pet the inner part of it. Instinctively you tried to close your legs that Michael had possessively spread a second before to cover up the embarrassing wetness of your panties, but his firm grip prevented you from doing so. You looked up at him pleadingly.

 “This is all wrong,” you could hardly form the sentences when the gorgeous men started bending over to continue kissing your neck and moving down to your cleavage, “I should not be so attracted to you, we have just met...I don’t even know you.”

Michael seemed to ignore your protests. Your body language and thoughts were telling him completely opposite things, and he drank off the euphoria that was clouding your mind. He wrapped his right arm around your waist and the next moment you were placed atop of the table with him between your legs.

 “I think you know me better than anybody else,” he smirked, playing with the straps of your dress. His fingertips ran along the cotton fabric of them, making your skin crawl. “You’ve been spying on me a lot lately, haven’t you, Y/N?”

 He thought it was impossible for you to blush even more, but you proved otherwise. You bowed your head low, biting the insides of your cheeks in embarrassment. There was no point in denying the truth.

 “I swear I’m not a stalker,” you whimpered, shifting on the table uncomfortably. Michael carefully placed his fingers, /those goddamn fingers you wished could work you open/, under your chin forcing you to look up at him.

 “I could care less about that,” he said, circling your mouth with his thumb, “it’s what you do afterward has piqued my interest.” His eyes were getting darker with every word that rolled off his tongue; the black abyss was savoring the ocean blue hues of his iris. He took your hand in his and dragged it to your core, under the folded skirt of your dress. “I want you to tell me who you think of when you touch yourself late at night.”

Your eyes widened at the vulgar words; the stern tone of his voice made you speechless. All you could do was to watch him take your hand and guide it to your core. Your knuckles brushed against the damp fabric right in the center of your panties and you knew that Michael felt the wetness too.

 “Who are you?” you asked, your mouth fell open when he messaged your clit through the thin cotton.

 “A man of sin, a liar and deceiver whose natural abilities Satan enhances by supernatural power in order to confuse people in the end time***.” Michael confessed.

 It all felt unreal, you were falling down the rabbit hole with no chances for salvation. The trap sprang shut — you were caught between opposing needs. Your common sense was knocking on the remains of your subconsciousness in a pathetic attempt to reason you, but your soul, a detached essence of your true being, was longing for Michael. No way was he lying: every weird thing about him made sense, forming a complete picture in your head like a puzzle. There you were, locked in fear and reverence, servility and obsequiousness. His words rocked your mind, leaving you unaccustomed to a mix of emotions swirling in your head.

 What if he was a maniac? A psycho?

 You put your hands on his chest, trying to push him away, but none of his muscles moved.

 “Haven’t you always considered yourself special?” He spoke in an alluring tone, and his words pinned you to the table. You raised your eyebrows at him, and Michael scoffed. “You have always longed for something exclusive, a big mystery that would open only for you, an immortal being,” he cupped your face in his hands, looking you in the eye, “You thought your loneliness was an omen, that something greater was coming...”

 “Stop,” You pleaded, shutting your eyes.

“Look at me,” Langdon demanded, taking a fistful of your hair and slightly tugging it strong enough to get your attention, yet gentle not to hurt you. “When I’m offering you what you have wanted, you reject it. Why? Unleash the desire, darling.”

 He was everywhere: his hands roaming around your body, lifting your dress higher, his lips covering yours in a passionate kiss, the scent of his cologne around you ghosted like a silvery mist. His lips were like silk, kissing you softly, but with so much confidence and determination that you were taken aback. You did not have time to comprehend what was happening. He was heaven and hell at the same time, drawing you deeper in the pond of lust and desire. You moaned into his mouth when his tongue entwined with yours, fighting for dominance and immediately winning. You were putty in the skillful hands of Michael Langdon. Surrendering to him felt wrong, especially if he was an actual Antichrist, but at that moment you were a helpless puppet in his hands.

 “Michael,” you moaned, wrapping your arms around his neck. He grinned into the kiss when you admitted your defeat and presented yourself to him. Sliding the straps of your dress off your shoulders, he stroked your soft skin, making his way to your breasts and squeezing them firmly.

 “Shhh, keep still, pretty girl,” you shivered when he tucked your bra along with your dress down to your waist and covered your nipples with his palms. You were like a low-voltage coil, receptive of his touch. It was impossible to find out if he used his powers on you to help you relax in his arms when you suddenly felt brave enough to run your fingers through his soft locks and guide his head down to your breasts, hungry for the sensation of his wicked tongue. A velvet ribbon that was holding his hair in a ponytail helplessly fell on the floor beneath his feet.

Apparently, Michael was extremely good at multitasking. As he savored the pink buds of your nipples, he placed one of his hands between your thighs, pulled the panties aside and ran the tips of his index and middle fingers up and down your wet folds. You whimpered, clawing on his shoulders. He was still dressed in his perfect dinner jacket and a dress shirt as if it had not been incredibly hot all day, while you were sitting in front of him half-naked. You were practically shaking when he easily inserted the index finger inside of you, working you open for him.

 “You look for this special something in everyone you meet,” he whispered in your skin and bent his finger, rubbing the knuckle against the spongy spot inside you. You gasped, your body jolted from a sudden impulse. “What is it that you need? Divine connection?” He added the second finger, stretching your tight walls out. You hissed at the unpleasant feeling that was quickly flooded with pleasure. It had been a while since you let a man touch you.

 “You,” you breathed out, throwing your head back and leaning into his touch. Your hips were sliding against the polished surface of the table, meeting Michael’s fingers.

 “Hm?” he arched his eyebrow and grabbed you by your chin with his free hand, brutally forcing you to stay in your place. “What was that?”

 “I might have been waiting for you...oh my God,” you arched your back, bucking your hips up, letting his fingers pierce through you. Hard. Simultaneously, he pressed his thumb to your swollen clit and started massaging it in a circular motion, drawing another moan from your chest. He kept teasing the sensitive bud by rubbing, stroking, pressing on it until you turned into a soft, pliant mess beneath him.

“She might have been waiting,” he smirked. “Darling, I’ll make sure to fuck the doubt out of you,” he caught your earlobe between his teeth and playfully bit on it. He ran the tip of his nose against your scarlet cheek, and you almost lost your mind from how intimate it felt. The tight knot in the pit of your stomach swelled in anticipation.

 To your disappointment, his fingers left your warm core with an obscene “pop.” Michael’s large hands hooked the crumpled fabric of your dress and pulled it down your legs, tossing it aside and leaving in you in nothing but your bra tugged under your breasts, and a pair of panties. You blushed, bowing your head low and letting your hair fall onto your chest to cover the hardening nipples. He undid the clasp, and the bra followed the destiny of your dress. Agonizingly slow, he kneeled before you and placed his palms on your kneecaps, spreading your legs. Instinctively, you shifted closer to the edge, giving him a full display of your wet undergarment and a glistening pussy pocking through it.

 “I have not dined yet. What a lucky coincidence, isn’t it?”

 As he spoke, his fingers drew loose patterns on the bare skin your legs. He stroked the undersides of your knees and went up to your awaiting thighs. Your heartbeat raced at the view of such a gorgeous man standing before you on his knees, yet still managing to hold great power over you. He leaned forward and trapped the hem of your panties between his teeth, slowly dragging them down your legs, his eyes never leaving yours. Michael wrapped his fingers around your ankles and helped you bend your legs, placing your feet on the table, so your pussy was on a full display for him. His face was so close to your throbbing center, you could feel his hot breath ghosting over it.

“Ah, Michael,” your head lolled back when he stroked your folds, slightly parting them with his fingers.

 “The most beautiful rose I have ever seen,” he whispered mostly to himself. The second his tongue licked a wide stripe from your entrance to your clit, you were a goner, knocking the expensive silverware off the table in an attempt to get ahold of his hair. Langdon hummed in satisfaction, clearly giving zero fucks about the mess you were making. He began lazily encircling your clit, closing his plush lips around the sensitive bud and lightly sucking on it. You reeled forward, moaning plangently and spreading your legs wider.

 “Better than any wine,” he noted, licking the beads of your arousal off your puffy folds. He placed his right hand on your stomach, stroking your lower abdomen and brought the fingers of his left hand back into your aching core. He was impossibly good at locating the most sensitive spots within you. You choked on air and your own saliva when he brushed against your g-spot, making you cry out his name. Waves of pleasure rippled through your body, becoming more and more intense with every swirl of Michael’s tongue and a push of his fingers. You started grinding against his mouth, whimpering like a bitch beneath him; you could already feel the release building up inside you.

 “You feel so good,” you moaned brokenly, tugging on his hair. The feeling of euphoria was engrossing, impossible to resist. You were so touch-starved that it seemed like the tiny bit of attention to your private parts was enough to send you over the edge.

 Michael pulled away, hungrily licking your juices off his lips. You moaned at the sight of him: to witness such a beautiful man giving you head was definitely worth dying for. If he ordered you to take a bullet, you would gladly do it on that very table, which was your personal deathbed. He leaned forward to kiss you and let you taste your own sweetness. While he was kissing you, Michael slid the jacket off his shoulders and started unbuttoning his shirt. You sighed heavily, pressing your forehead against his and helping him get rid of the unnecessary clothes.

“What an eager girl I’ve got here,” he teased and left a quick kiss on your lips. “Gotta be patient, kitty.”

 You let your hands wander over his naked torso that looked like as if it was carved by angels and gods out of the finest marble. Michael was watching you amusingly, excited for what you could do next.

 “How long has it been since you let a man touch you?”

 “A while”

 Michael quickly undid his belt, quickly discarding his black slacks. You ran your fingers along the prominent outline of his cock through his boxers and looked up at him as if you were seeking his permission. He nodded and you snaked your hand inside his boxer briefs, wrapping your fingers around his erect shaft.

 Michael inhaled through his nose and closed his eyes, concentrating on the ethereal feeling of your soft palm around him. A deep sigh escaped your mouth when you saw him in full glory, hot and heavy with a glistening tip and beads of precum covering his glans. Your pussy quivered when you imagined how good it would make you feel, and you stroke a prominent blue vein on the underside of his shaft. Michael growled at the filthy thoughts in your head.

 “Alright, sweetheart,” he impatiently slapped your hand away from his cock and spit on his palm, “as much as I would like to let you play a bit longer, I need to fill you up right fucking now,” as he spoke, Michael started smearing his saliva along the length. He could not wait to bury his cock inside you.

Langdon took ahold of your hips and pulled you a bit closer, positioning himself right between your legs. The head of his dick was pressed against your clenching entrance. He leaned forward, slowly pushing it inside and never forgetting to shower your neck and bare shoulders with kisses. You moaned at the burning stretch and clanged to Michael’s biceps, leaving crescent marks on his sweaty skin.

 “You are so big,” you sobbed, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. He pressed a soft kiss to your temple.

 “It’s okay,” he cooed stroking your cheek, “you are taking me so well, baby. Such a good girl for me.”

 He froze when the last inch of his cock was savored by your pussy, giving you time to adjust. You had never felt so fucking full before. Looking down at where he and you were connected, you thought that Michael might have actually split you in two. He picked up the pace, drawing himself in and out of your pussy, leaving just the tip of his cock, and then filling you up to the hilt again. Your soft whimpers were making his head spin, and soon enough, when you fully adjusted to his length, he started slamming into you at animalistic speed.

 “Michael!” You cried out and bit his shoulder to suppress your scream, even though it was too late and it escaped your throat, echoing through the dining room. He could not help himself. He needed you right there on that table. Hard and fast.

“I bet you could not reach your sweet spots with your fingers when you were playing with that pretty pussy of yours,” he growled in your ear. His voice and the wet sound of his balls slapping against your ass were the only things you could hear. Michael lifted your hips a little, forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist.

 The new angle allowed him to penetrate you deeper. You watched him going harder, fucking the living force out of you. You ran your fingers across his jaw, outlined the shape of his nose, adoring the perfectly sculpted features. He was so inhumanly beautiful. When he leaned forward to kiss you, his long blond hair brushed against your breasts, and you pulled him by the roots against your flushed chest, wishing to melt into him.

 “Michael, please...” your plea contained everything you would never admit even to yourself. Michael, please, be my lover. Michael, please, do not stop. Michael, please, hold me in your arms forever.

 “You are mine,” he rumbled, wrapping his hand around your throat and applying just enough pressure to make your toes curl and your eyes roll into your head. “Do you understand it? Mine.”

 He whispered the last words into your open mouth and tightened the grip on your throat. You were so pliant and vulnerable, he felt like he could break you in any moment. Your pussy throbbed at his possessiveness, clenching around his cock and driving him crazy.

“Yours,” you gasped, arching your back. Skin on skin. Your bodies were moving in sync. The heavy air in the room smelled like sex and Michael’s cologne. With every sway of his hips and every thrust that aimed right at the sweet spot inside you, you were getting closer to your release, and he felt it too.

 “I can feel you clenching around me,” he brought his palm to your clit and started circling it ruthlessly. “Are you close?”

 He looked you in the eye, and you nodded, surrendering to the overwhelming sensation that was piercing through you. Michael was merciless, fucking you so hard that at one particularly deep thrust the table beneath you shifted.

 “Y-yes, Sir.”

 You felt his dick started pulsing deep inside you, and the thought that you were not using any protection crossed your mind for the first time. You looked up at him, and before you could even note it, Michael hushed you:

 “Don’t worry about that,” he flicked your clit between his thumb and middle finger, “Just come for me, kitty.”

 He did not have to repeat twice. Your arousal licked by the swell of pleasure finally unrevealed, crushing everything in its wake. Every cell of your body was engulfed in the burning heat of pure lust and desire for Michael who was protectively holding you in his arms. When the fireworks before your eyes started to fade away, you brought your focus back at him. He pulled out, and you whined at the empty feeling inside you. Michael pumped his cock a few times, concentrating the pressure around the bright pink head, and with a low groan came all over your stomach. His beautiful face was countered in pleasure: brows frowned, and lips slightly parted. To some extent, you even felt unworthy of watching him fall apart like that before you.

For a while, the sound of your rapid, shallow breathing was the only thing interrupting the silence between you two. With a deep sigh, Michael pulled you closer, resting your head against his chest. You still clanged to him with a death grip, afraid to burst the comfortable bubble enveloping you like a shield. Suddenly you felt so tired as if silvery fatigue was poured into your veins. Michael’s radiant warmth and the overall state of being completely fucked out made your head heavy, and you closed your eyes tiredly, nuzzling into his chest.

 Michael absentmindedly ran his fingers through your hair, inhaling the scent of it. Never had he felt so calm and content. He pressed his lips to the top of your head and closed his eyes, enjoying the light touches of your fingers dancing on his bare arms. At that moment nothing mattered, his ruthless demonic nature was in peace.

 “I think I should go home,” you whispered. As much as you hated yourself for ruining the mood, you remembered that your parents had been waiting for you, and to make them worry was the last thing on your list. You looked up at Michael, who brushed his knuckles against your cheek, thinking how wonderfully innocence and depravity entwined within you.

 “You can spend the night with me.”

 He reached for the napkin to wipe off the white stripes of cum painted on your stomach. You closed your legs wincing at the throbbing sensation in your pussy; it felt like Michael was still inside you.

 “My parents will be worried,” you were genuinely sorry, and he could read it in your thoughts.

 Michael took his jacket and wrapped it around your shoulders. You blushed, but tugged it tighter, nodding at him in a sign of gratitude. Your skin instantly absorbed his warmth.

 “Please, come visit me tomorrow,” he pleaded. If it had not been for the sincere look in his eyes you would have never believed that a man such as himself wanted to see you again. You looked at him in awe, and it all seemed like a dream to you. Just the day before he was your neighbor you had been spying on for months. You needed time to think everything over and talk to him without lust clouding your vision about what he had told you moments before.

 “A man of sin, a liar,” his words echoed in your head.

Michael could sense your doubt.

 “Y/N,” he sighed, bringing your hand to his lips and kissing every knuckle. “Sleep it all away tonight, okay? And tomorrow I’ll tell you everything, just come to me.” His voice flowed out like a fragrance released in rain.

 Of course, you would come to Michael. All he ever needed was to call for you, and you would be there, ready to present yourself with your whole being to him. You would run into his arms like a river that flowed inside the ruins of your chest; the ruins Michael left with his presence. He shattered your inner world into pieces but gave you the hope of building a new one.

 The next morning when you woke up there was a white rose on your nightstand with a small card attached to it.

 “Tonight at 8 pm. I will be waiting for you, my rose,” said intricate handwriting, and you smiled, pressing the piece of paper to your chest.

A single flower he sent me, since we met.

All tenderly his messenger he chose;

Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet—

One perfect rose.

 Dorothy Parker

*The White Rose by John Boyle O’Reilly

** Tolkien

*** Second Epistle to the Thessalonians

Taglist: @langdons-rep @babypinkstyles94 @sammythankyou @kaigitana @ms-mead @sebastianshoe @langdonsdemon @iloveziggystardust @chaoticevillangdon @sojournmichael @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @theghostoflangdon @divinelangdon @americanhorrorstudies @avesatanormalpeoplescareme @bbyduncan @ticklish-leafy-plant @1-800-bitchcraft @wroteclassicaly @starwlkers @ccodyfern @nightsblackroses @langdvnshepherd @ccodyferns @ritualmichael @isoldedax @coloursunlimited @micheallangdons @omgsuperstarg

[themorningtide]

author’s note: final part to the short story I started in october. don’t judge me, it’s been a weird few months.

Part 1

Part 2

xxxXXXxxx

Arthur would like to believe Morgan remembers them. She does not, not exactly. She would not act so if she did; staring at each sibling in turn, searching for something familiar and the King feels her despair in the nails digging blood into his wrist. Whatever spell is woven upon her is a tapestry, covering all the thousand little moments they shared so many years before.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the half-Fae finally whispers (his cheek cradled in her fine hand, her remaining testing one of Morgause’s light curls). He cannot read her – not anymore – but he’d wager her mind is running through thoughts, one after the other, thinking seven moves ahead of him like she always had. He had had only had one until then.  Find her. Now, he drowns in her presence and knows little else. “You do not belong,” her eyes narrow; she feels more real, more grounded, more her and human. “The world outside runs faster.”

“Much much faster.”

They are not alone. They are not safe.

Arthur steps back from his sisters only to finally realize that the remaining Fae have encircled the plateau with their bodies. Some have sat, some still speak with their companions, but their eyes never stray far. They are the bars of a cell which slowly tighten, and he feels like his connection to Camelot deems with every second.

In the middle, the throne still stands with its royal cargo.

The Queen’s smile is a knife against his spine.

“Do you know how long my cousin has dwelled between these trees, boy?” The crowned being looks so very amused and the shape she wears wavers underneath her distraction. Fingers sharp and thin like tree branches rest upon the arms of her chair and her hair is a thousand little serpents sliding through the cold air. “How long since I’ve taken her away from that prison you’ve all thrown her into? Two, three, ten years outside and here, here we dance for millennia, my people!”

The enclosing circle of beings cheer, swallowing his understanding with its clamor. Morgan is old, he realizes. Older than the boughs above their heads, than them, than their mother and father and Kingdom.

“Old enough to not answer to you,” the Fae completes, her voice meshing with his thoughts in an unwanted symphony.

They have abandoned her to ages without count. Alone.

His heart breaks all over again and Arthur, King, Knight, Brother, feels like crying like the children they had been.

“Tell me, my cousin. What say you?” Like a tree falling onto the ground, the Queen stands from her throne. Her arms, extended towards Morgan, are whitened branches, are brittle bone, are soft grey skin. And with her, the words resound like a shackle. My cousin. Mine. My own. Morgan is an adornment to this woman, he realizes; she is the light above them, the floor beneath their feet and so is every single one of those beings around them is, leashed together and to their ruler in this parody of a feast. A never-ending feast where happiness is a mask. “What do you say to this man?”

Morgan stares at her Queen, toneless eyes slowly gaining a blue edge. She steps forward, in front of them, tall like a reed and her shadow is a cloak upon their backs keeping them from all evil. If she shakes, Arthur cannot discern it (even if she did, they trained it out of her; no emotion beyond the mask, only revelry without end and fake laughter as song and dance).

“I remember the walls,” she whispers. Low and soft, it echoes through the suddenly frozen audience. “I remember screaming against them and no one came. Except you. You were in a mirror. You told me I would be free.”

It sounds as an accusation.

“And you have been,” the queen confirms with a simile of a kind smile. “Years and years, dancing underneath the stars.”

“But to which tune?” The woman counters, gaining steel in her tone, earning it with every step forward. “It felt my own. It felt to the stars. To the moon and the trees. And all I wished were for no walls. It felt right.” Many nod as she speak, swaying softly in the breeze like branches of the trees above them. “But then, why did I leave? I remember leaving. I remember searching. Why did I search? Do you know?”

Morgan turns her back to the Queen and walks. Walks past them, walks forward, arms raised as if searching for something invisible. She walks and walks, steps further and a little more and keeps walking against something. Some mist, perhaps? Whatever it is, it keeps her walking in the same place, beneath the boughs of the tress and in the Queen’s sight.

“Tell me!” She screams, white hair in the wind (little black strands whispering in) “Tell me I haven’t lost something I can’t get back! Why do I feel like this, like I am back between walls? What is this? Why have you come, come now, come here? Why have I stopped leaving? Why!”

She is lost, lost and his throat is a vice knot made of steel.

“I want to walk away.”

The light of the stars above them no longer feels joyous.

Elaine, little Elaine, slips past him and Morgause. She spares no attention for the Queen’s gaze, doesn’t bother to check for weapons (perhaps because she trusts him to), only cares for the lady who she lost so long before.

“You see,” she declares to their lost sibling and only to her, as if nothing else stands between them. “Morgause and Arthur have both feet there. Outside. They had to or we would have faded long ago into what they wanted us to be.” Elaine’s fingers are soft and gentle on their skin but when they tug, oh, it is with the strength of the wind. “But you and I can tiptoe back and forth. All we need is iron.”

The world around them flinches. A weapon is better when no one is aware of it.

“And not all iron needs to be real,” the princess’s voice sings gently at their ears. “Be it inside, in your mind, in your veins. Be strong, be real, be conscious. Look around, look up.” They do, audience, brother, sisters and only the Queen does not, her lovely smile caught in a snarl. “It is a forest, is it not? Not a cathedral. Not a Palace. Just the trees and the boughs. I can hear the leaves and there is no song which is more beautiful. Look, Morgan. There is the sky.”

Morgan’s head tilts up, her eyes (blue blue blue) searching through the darkness for the starlight.

“Look down, sister. We are here.”

And she does. At Elaine’s expression, mischievous as she always was (before; when a child; when with her). And.

The lights go out.

The forest sounds drive through, they silence the music and the crowd.

They stand in an empty clearing, all filled with the creatures whose magic swim in his sisters’ veins but the magic has run out. Has died like a blade has been driven into another’s skin. The Queen is still the Queen, still otherworldly and frightening but there is no light upon her skin, no amusement in her gaze. No. He would dare to think her angry as she stares upon the small group. Like a child throwing a tantrum when a favored toy is taken away.

“Morgan. You know what you are returning to.”

The half does not spare her a glance. Her gaze is upon her wrist, upon a hand that reaches into the air to grasp something invisible hanging between her and the queen. It cuts her skin. Blood drips. Slowly. Sluggishly.

There is a dent on her wrist. Tight like a vice.

“You knew I had never come to stay,” Morgan whispers slowly, every word dragged out of with tooth and nail. “There’s a part of me that does not belong here. It is why you weaved this, wasn’t it?” The blood dips onto the ground and each drop sounds like a bell. An harp string plucked by a talented musician.

Anger colors the Queen’s features. Sharp teeth slip past her façade and drag across a bloodied lip.

“I know your name, Morgan.”

“I know yours.” The crowd whispers, oh, oh, that is a true threat. Does she really know it? When has she learned? Will she share? Arthur moves to the side, a tall column of iron and man covering her back from any attack that is to come. If Morgan notices, she makes no mention of it. Her smile finally appears, and it is familiar as the air they breathe – Morgause’s at her sharpest. “You should be happy I am leaving, your Majesty,” the half continues. “Why, one might once see me crowned in flowers and oak.”

Her hand pushes at the invisible thread. Strongly, ripping apart a bandage that is no longer needed.

Snap.

The crash of broken glass in an empty room, it crashes through the air and brings the world to its heel. And the next thing Arthur knows, they alone stand in an empty clearing. The trees whisper above their heads, there is a little moonlight flitting through the leaves and branches.

In front of him is Morgan. Black haired, the woman stands straight, more solid, with traces of a healthy tan on smooth skin and tall and thin like a reed. Her clothes are old, made for someone much smaller and barely covering her form. Her eyes – blue, blue, blue as a still lake, blue as the night sky, blue as his – waver nervously for the very first time as they rest on the small group of siblings.

“Thank you for coming for me,” she whispers. The child that had been abandoned so long before. “Even if I don’t remember.”

Arthur knows exactly what to say.

“Thank you for believing we would.”

Morgan smiles. It is not wide. It is small and fearful and pure.

When they hug, all four, all together, the world is remade anew.  

[moonstarpower-makeup]

THE BRIDE.

“Chains do not hold a marriage together. It is threads, hundreds of tiny threads, which sew people together through the years.”

– Simone Signeret

Maureen stood motionless as the other women dutifully fussed about her in dizzying circles. Hands were fixing a wreath of flowers to her hair, pinning back pinches of white dress fabric to perfectly fit the shape of her waist, adorning her with roughed crystals to be hung from her neck and a gauzy veil draped over her head,  all at once. Decorating a vessel, is what they were doing. An empty vessel because that is what she may have well been with her eyes had already gone far away into a void that tried to see what her future would be like as the wife of Abel. Their voices all sang like the clashing of an abhorrent choir. Each a shattered piece of glass playing to its own tune but they were all singing the same song.

How lucky she was to be the first to catch Able’s eye. An honor to be the first wife and to their spiritual  leader’s brother, of all people. That they were so jealous of how she would be the one to receive Abel’s attention and be one of the faces of their community and beliefs. That she would be exposed most to their guidance and transcend to a freer mind.

How lucky she was to be under Abel’s forever watchful eyes. An honor to be his property, his guaranteed punching bag behind closed doors. Jealous that they would never be the sacrifice to keep the older brother passive while his younger, more charming brother pulled in the women and hoarded them mind, body, and soul. Abel wanted someone clean. Someone untouched. And while Maureen was not wholly innocent, she’d yet to know the complete fullness of a man. Mostly because of the Devil himself. Since the fateful night that she had been pummeled to the floor, for a consequence she could not even remember anymore, Maureen found herself shying away from the touch of men. It baffled her, but her body’s memory was still in tact and told her to be wary of drawing another man’s gaze.

Oddly enough, the same night of her injury, a commune boy had also gone missing. Some blamed him for hurting Maureen and fleeing. Abel was praised for finding her then lurked in her background ever since. The dots were there but she could never find how they connected.

One of the older women, wearing a crown of long, grey curls, stepped directly into Maureen’s dazed out stare and brought the youth blinking back to her reality. Looking worriedly into her tanned face and steely eyes, she cast a silent plea to the elder, Don’t make me do this. Who paused and looked deeply into her with a calm that went beyond understanding; a knowing of what exactly their delicate Maureen was to be given away to. Her knobby, root like hand was softer than it appeared when it gently cupped the side of her face. Temporarily soothing. As soon as the brunette leaned into the thin flesh of her palm, she withdrew and poured an oil onto her finger tips. Proceeding to rub the hand pressed vanilla into her skin, anointing her neck and chest where her heart throbbed the loudest then pulling the veil over her face.

It was time.

In many ways, it was the same as the weddings in modern society. She’s given a bouquet of flowers made of those who grown natively around their commune. She’s lead to the start of an aisle made of their community lined barefooted on either side; females wearing variant white gowns and floral crowns, males in loose tops over white trousers. All smiling and in awe of the bride. At the end of the aisle stood her husband-to-be.

Tall. Powerful. Menacing.

He slowly turned to face her from the long stretch of grass that she was to walk down. Faces look on endearingly at her frozen in place. His gaze holds the weight of a sledge hammer, driving a sharp spike into Maureen’s heart when she hesitates to move. Wringing the raw stems between her hands until they stained green and embedded stingingly into her palms. Breath shallowly huffing in and out from parted tiers as her veins boiled. Fear seeping from her opening pores in an icy sweat. Drums rolled and bells chimed, rattling her to her bones.

He vacantly stares her down. Raising the fine hairs on her arms and nape, daring her to defy him a second longer. Her first step is more of a dragging limb. Her legs trembled as she began to fall into a slow pace. Each footfall like she were trying to walk across a trail of broken glass without lacerating the soles of her feet. Predatory eyes tracked the doe as she came cautiously closer to the jaws ready to clamp around her neck.

Beneath the veil her wretched expression was hidden. The closer she closes the distance, the thicker the air felt in her lungs. Suffocating her so strictly with the perfume of the vanilla oil choking her.. Pooling into her chest and making her feel so sick Maureen could’ve fainted but she didn’t dare step a toe out of her designated line. Never under Abel’s gaze. A couple steps. That’s all she had to do to make it at the end of the aisle.

One. Abel towered above her, scruffing her by the hair and cranking his fist back before driving it forward. Vision exploding in white with a shrill scream.

Two. He slowly leaned down as she gargled in the blood gushing from her serrated lip. Pleading for him to stop and feebly raising her hands to keep him at bay. Fingers snatched her by the throat and she can hear the expulsion of his breath in his exertion as he lifted and slammed her into the floor. Over and over until there was no feeling and she stared blankly in shock at the ceiling.The sickening, final splat of her skull planting into the floor and the blood spread like a halo.

Abel lifted the veil to reveal his timid bride caught in the reel of tiny flashbacks, the only thing she could recall from that day. His hooded eyes dropping below her face and lingering where her chest dramatically rose and fell before lifting back to her eyes. He barely has an iris, dark bottomless pits swallow her whole. She rusts into place as the ceremony began and old woman spoke but Maureen can barely pay attention to what she was saying until there is suddenly silence. Abel expels a demanding energy as every muscle of his body tenses and his hands ball into fists. Expecting her to speak.

“I-I do..” She hears herself saying in a detached voice. “Abel, do you take Maureen as your wife, to help guide her and merge your soul to one?”

“Yes.” His voice cuts in quickly.

“Then you may-”

His fingers suddenly snap around her bottom jaw, and it’s impossible for her not to recoil and try to pull back. His clamp squeezes down, applying a tremendous amount of pressure as he yanked her forward and leaned down at the same time. She shuts her eyes, flinching indefinitely. Hard lips crash into hers and she whimpered because it hurt, feeling him shudder as if she had just made the most beautiful sound. It is possessive, the near bruising force he uses to drive it home point blank. A happy jubilation surrounds and imprisons her. She would never be free of him.

[mesillusionssousecstasy]

Analyse of Daenerys’ chapter in “A Clash of Kings”

P. 388: “The Dothraki sacked cities and plundered kingdoms, they did not rule them. Dany had no wish to reduce King’s Landing to a blackened ruin full of unquiet ghoss. She had supped enough on tears. I want to make my kingdom beautiful, to fill it with fat men and pretty maids and laughing children. I want my people to smile when they see me ride by, the way Viserys said they smiled for my father. But before she could do that she must conquer. → Forshadowing. (So take that Dumb & Dumber)

P. 527: “To go north (Jon?), you must journey south (dragonstone?). To reach the west (Westeros?), you must go east (Essos?). To go forward you must go back, and to touch the light you must pass beneath the shadow (Asshai?=truth).” → ?

P. 529: “Sellswords have their uses,” Ser Jorah admitted, “but you will not win your father’s throne with sweepings from the Free Cities. Nothing knits a broken realm together so quick as an invading army on its soil.” (…) “You are a stranger who means to land on their shores with an army of outlanders who cannot even speak the Common Tongue. The lords of Westeros do no know you, and have every reason to fear and mistrust you. You must win them over before you sail. A few at least. → Foreshadowing?

The house of the Undying: P. 630: “By no means,” Pyat Pree said. “Leaving and coming, it is the same. Always up. Always the door to your right. Other doors may open to you. Within, you will see many things that disturb you. Visions of loveliness and visions of horror, wonders and terrors. Sights and sounds of days gone by and days to come and days that never were. Dwellers and servitors may speak to you as you go. Answer or ignore them as you choose, but enter no room until you reach the audience chamber.” (…) Shade of the evening, the wine of warlocks. “Take and drink,” urged Pyat Pree. “One draught will serve only to unstop your ears and dissolve the caul from off your eyes, so that you may hear and see the truths that will be laid before you.”

P. 631: “Not all the doors were closed. I will not look, Dany told herself, but the temptation was too strong. 1) In one room, a beautiful woman sprawled naked on the floor while four little men crawled over her. They had rattish pointed faces and tiny pink hands, like the servitor who had brought her the glass of shade. One was pumping between her thighs. Another savaged her breasts, worrying at the nipple with his wet red mouth, tearing and chewing. → Westeros against four kings (Balon Greyjoy, Robb Stark, Joffrey and Stannis Baratheon. =Present ⇒ P. 798, fulfilment of the prophecy: “The Seven Kingdoms have need of you. Robert the Usurper is dead, and the realm bleeds. When we set sail from Pentos there were four kings in the land, and no justice to be had.”

2) Further on she came upon a feast of corpses. Savagely slaughtered, the feasters lay strewn across overturned chairs and hacked trestle tables, asprawl in pools of congealing blood. Some had lost limbs, even heads. Severed hands clutched bloody cups, wooden spoons, roast fowl, heels of bread. In a throne above them sat a dead man with the head of a wolf. He wore an iron crown and held a leg of lamb in one hand as a king might hold a sceptre, and his eyes followed Dany with mute appeal. → The red wedding = Future 3) She fled from him, but only as far as the next open door. I know this room, she thought. She remembered those great wooden beams and the carved animal faces that adorned them. And there outside the window, a lemon tree! The sight of it made her heart ache with longing. It is the house with the red door, the house in Braavos. No sooner had she thought it than old Ser Willem came into the room, leaning heavily on his stick. “Little princess, there you are,” he said in his gruff kind voice. “Come,” he said, “come to me, my lady, you’re home now, you’re safe now.” His big wrinkled hand reached for her, soft as old leather and Dany wanted to take it and hold it and kiss it, she wanted that as much as she had ever wanted everything. Her foot edged forward, and then she thoughts. He’s dead, he’s dead, the sweet old bear, he died a long time ago. She backed away and ran. → Visions of loveliness or Days that never were ?? 4) Finally, a great pair of bronze doors appeared to her left, grander than the rest. They swung open as she neared, and she had to stop and look. Beyond loomed a cavernous stone hall, the largest she had ever seen. The skulls of dead dragons looked down from its walls. Upon a towering barbed throne sat an old man in rich robes, an old man with dark eyes and long silver-grey hair. “Let him be king over charred bones and cooked meat,” he said to a man below him. “Let him be the kings of ashes.” Drogon shrieked, his claws digging through silk and skin, but the king on his throne never heard, and Dany moved on. → The red keep – the throne room with Aerys speaking of Rhaegar to Varys. = Past 5) Viserys, was her first thought the next time she paused, but a second glance told her otherwise. The man had her brother’s hair, but he was taller, and his eyes were a dark indigo rather than lilac. “Aegon,” he said to a woman nursing a newborn babe in a great wooden bed. “What better name for a king?” “Will you make a song for him?” the woman asked. “He has a song,” the man replied. “He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire.” He looked up when he said it and his eyes met Dany’s, and it seemed as if he saw her standing there beyond the door. “There must be one more,” he said, though whether he was speaking to her or the woman in the bed she could not say. “The dragon has three heads.” He went to the window seat, picked up a harp, and ran his fingers lightly over its silvery strings. Sweet sadness filled the room as man and wife and babe faded like the morning mist, only the music lingering behind to speed her on her way. → Rhaegar and Elia Martell, or is it a foreshadowing of the Jon’s birth? And the foreshadowing of there relationship. Past and future?

P. 634: “Our little lives are no more than a flicker of a moth’s wing to them (the Undying Ones),” Dany said, remembering. → Can be applied to god.

P. 635: “…. Mother of dragons… came a voice, part whisper and part moan. … dragons… dragons… dragons… other voices echoed in the gloom. Some were male and some female. One spoke with the timber of a child. The floating heart pulsed from dimness to darkness. It was hard to summon the will to speak, to recall the words she had practiced so assiduously. “I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.” Do they hear me? Why don’t they move? She sat, folding her hands in her lap. “Grant me your counsel, and speak to me with the wisdom of those who have conquered death.” (…) P. 636: “I have come for the gift of truth,” Dany said. “In the long hall, the things I saw… were they true visions, or lies? Past things, or things to come? What did they mean?” … the shape of shadows…morrows not yet made… drink from the cup of ice…drink from the cup of fire… (Jon?) …mother of dragons…child of three… (Rhaegar, Viserys, Daenerys?) “Three?” She did not understand. …three heads has the dragon… (Daenerys, Jon and ?) the ghost chorus yammered inside her skull with never a lip moving, never a breath stirring the still blue air… mother of dragons… child of storm… (Daenerys?) The whispers became a swirling song… three fires must you light… one for life and one for death and one to love… (for her dragons, the slavers? And Jon?) Her own heart was beating in unison to the one that floated before her, blue and corrupt… three mounts must you ride… one to bed and one to dread and one to love…  (Khal Drogo, Drogon and Jon) The voices were growing louder, she realized, and it seemed her heart was slowing, and even her breath…three treasons will you know… once for blood and once for gold and once for love… (Viserys when he sell her, gold do we know yet? Jon for love?) (…) P. 637: “… help her… the whispers mocked… show her… Then phantoms shivered through the murk, images in indigo. - Viserys screamed as the molten gold ran down his cheeks and filled his mouth. = Past. - A tall lord with copper skin and silver-gold hair stood beneath the banner of a fiery stallion, a burning city behind him. = Day that never was → about her son Rhaego. - Rubies flew like drops of blood from the chest of a dying prince, and he sank to his knees in the water and with his last breath murmured a woman’s name. = Past → Rhaegar murmured Lyanna’s name. … mother of dragons, daughter of death… (Daenerys will brink chaos?) - Glowing like sunset, red sword was raised in the hand of a blue-eyed king who cast no shadow. = Present → Stannis - A cloth dragon swayed on poles amidst a cheering shadow fire. = Future → The fake Aegon? - From a smoking tower, a great stone beast took wing, breathing shadow fire = Past → on Dragonstone with Melisandre? … mother of dragons, slayer of lies… (about Aegon and Stannis/Melisandre?) - Her silver was trotting through the grass, to a darkling stream beneath a sea of stars. = Future → Westeros nights, near the Trident? - A corpse stood at the prow of a ship, eyes bright in his dead face, grey lips smiling sadly. = Future → Greyjoy? - A blue flower grew from a chink in a wall of ice, and filled the air with sweetness. = Future → Lyanna regarding Jon? ...mother of dragons, bride of fire…. (her wedding with Jon)

Faster and faster the visions came, one after the other, until it seemed as if the very air had come alive. - Shadows whirled and danced inside a tent, boneless and terrible. = Past → The dark magic of Mirri Maz Duur? - A little girl ran barefoot toward a big house with a red door. = Past → Daenerys? - Mirri Maz Duur shrieked in the flames, a dragon bursting from her brow. = Past → The birth of the dragons. - Behind a silver horse the bloody corpse of a naked man bounced and dragged. = Past → the wine seller. - A white lion ran through grass taller than a man. = Past → The lion which was killed by Khal Drogo and offer to Dany. (or Jaime?) - Beneath the Mother of Mountains, a line of naked crones crept from a great lake and knelt shivering before her, their grey heads bowed. = Future → Daenerys faith of conquest. - Ten thousand slaves lifted bloodstained hands as she raced by on her silver, riding like the wind. “Mother!” they cried, “mother, mother!” They were reaching for her, touching her, tugging at her cloak, the hem of her skirt, her foot, her leg, her breast. They wanted her, needed her, the fire, the life and Dany gasped and opened her arms to give herself to them. = Future → The liberation of slavers.

What do you think?

[axel-writes]

The old Gods are dead, chapter one - mobile users

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I noticed I’ve never made a post for this chapter for those who are mainly using the app ^^” So here you go :)

The Mardale forest was a vast, misty and ancient forest. Its canopy was dominated by birches, sycamores, and hawthorn trees, and abundant dancing lights would bounce through their crowns for colourful shrubs to grow in the boulder covered grounds below. A variety of beastly sounds, most of which were fleeing animals, echoed in the air, and formed a chaotic orchestra with the croaks of frogs in the nearby ponds. Silent climbing plants waved from every tree, and a hodgepodge of flowers, which clung to any space they could find, added more life in the otherwise amber forest grounds.

Raven hated the Mardale forest. Through his eyes of an eight years old child, they were walking through a dark and eerie forest in the early morning of that day. The trees were too tall making him dizzy each time he was trying to see their crown and their branches were looking more like arms reaching for his throat than branches. He wanted to go home, far away from here and go back in his bed where he knew he was safe but telling that to his mother now would only upset her more than she already was.

He looked up to his mother. Silver short hair like his covered a bony face with narrow green eyes that were focused on the path before them, determined, her hand tightly closed on his, almost crushing his bones. Freckles were spread across her tawny face and neck, freckles he remembered spending time counting them one after one before going to bed. Her chapped lips once pink, smooth and always smiling were now shut in a tight line, moving and forming words he wasn't paying attention to every now and then. She looked upset with her furrowed brows, he could feel it in the way she was walking faster, and faster, turning left and right walking even further from the path Raven knew they had to keep on following. Her mother and father were always reminding him to never leave the path, why doing it today?

"Mama? Where are we going?"

"Picking blackberries, remember?" She said without looking at him, her voice showing no emotion. "We must pick enough to sell them on the market and buy food. Hurry now, we're soon there."

They had thought that living near the royal capital, Vaneria, would make their life better, they had thought they would find a way out of poverty. But none of what they had wished for happened. His father was always out during the day and would only come back late in the nigh with only bad news and a gloomy face. His mother even had had to cut her beautiful long hair and sell them for a good price as silver was a rare shade of hair in the whole country. But it hadn't been enough. And then came a day Raven had learned to hate, a day something awoke in him. Something terrifying.

It had happened overnight, without warning, without giving them time to adjust to the situation.

Like every other day, Raven had been helping his mother with chores around the house, helping her fetch clear water from their well. He had then dragged the bucket with his tiny hands back to their house while being careful to not drop water on the ground. Water was scarce in some areas of Obreau, especially in Kilead, their hometown and they had been lucky enough to have a well. It was their little treasure. Raven had put the bucket on the small table just beside the fireplace, his hands flat on each side of it, his hazel eyes focused on the tiny waves.

He had felt something warm flow through his veins and tickle his fingertips as he was watching the water dance. The sounds around him were distant, he could barely hear the birds singing outside, or even the crackling fire. He was focused on the water inside the bucket which was now whirling slowly, then even more quickly when it started to boil.

"Raven?" His mother called him while getting down the ladder leading to his room, a broom in hand. "What are you doing, sweetheart?" He didn't answer. She walked to him, then placed a hand on his shoulder, before caressing the back of his neck. She frowned when Raven didn't move, nor laugh. He was ticklish there, he should have reacted.

She turned him around and couldn't help a scream to cross her lips. His eyes were rolling into the back of his head and tiny black dots looking like constellations were on his shoulders. When she was a little girl, she had heard many stories about people like that. They could use abilities they would call 'magic', some could control the elements, other could wiped away a thought by a single touch on someone's forehead, other could manifest their powers as blue flames or sparks at their fingertips. Those stories her mother and father would tell her had always scared her. How could the gods allow beings like them to live in Obreau? Were they their punishment? Did Obrean people anger the gods? And why was it happening to her son? Raven was her only child, she had loved him like every mother should, was raising him as well as she could despite their poverty. What could she have done wrong so that the gods would hate her that much and give her a monster for son?

When Raven had finally come back to his senses, he didn't understand why his mother was crying, huddled up on herself, screaming at him to stay away from her. He couldn't understand why the bucket was now empty.

Later that day, he heard them talk about him while he was supposed to be sleeping. He heard them call him 'monster', he heard them say they would have to find a solution, heard them say they couldn't live like that with fear gnawing them from the inside. It could happen again, he could do something worse, hurt them. They didn't talk to him for days and only watched his every movement in case one of his 'absence' would happen again. They didn't talk to him until that morning when they told him a walk through the forest to go pick some fruits would be a good start for the day.

"How lucky we are," she said without even looking at him. "They're full. Stay here, I forgot to bring a bucket. Don't move from here, your father will come soon. Don't move, you hear me?"

"Mama, you're scaring me," Small tears were running on his cheeks as she turned her back on him, walking further from him.

'Don't move!' was the only thing he heard from her before he couldn't see her shape anymore.

Raven started to pick some blackberries, putting them in his shirt and his pockets knowing they would be mad if he'd done nothing while they were gone. He didn’t know how long they would take to come back and hoped with all his heart that he wouldn’t have to stay alone here for a long time. Hearing the wind through the leaves was scary, seeing the bushes move from the corner of his eyes was terrifying. Anything could come out of there and jump on him. Maybe it only was a rabbit, or maybe it was a wolf patiently waiting for the right moment. Waiting for the right moment to jump on him and bite his throat. No one would be there to help him. He would die alone in a forest he hated.

Raven couldn’t tell how many minutes, hours, went by before the thought of his parents never coming back crossed his mind. He should have known it, their behaviour towards him should have warned him. Since that incident with the bucket, his mother had stopped telling him bedtime stories, she had stopped taking him to the market with her. She had stopped telling him how much she loved her little boy, had stopped hugging him. It wasn’t different with his father. Each time he was in the same room as his father, each time he was meeting his eyes, Raven could see them glisten with sadness, disgust, fear. The words he was saying to him when he would finally talk to his son weren’t ones a father should say.

The more days had passed by, the more he had started to believe their words. Raven was a monster. Raven was dangerous.

It had happened one day again when he was alone at home. They had been spending a day or two in Vaneria, just the two of them because “mama and papa need some time alone”, as they’d told him. The rain had been falling heavily for hours leaking through the roof, and Raven hadn't known what to do more than putting buckets and pans underneath each hole. The atmosphere inside the house was damp, their linen soaked. He hoped the rain would stop soon and that everything would dry before they'd come back. His parents had never been violent, but now that their behaviour had changed, Raven could never be too careful. One of the holes in the roof had drawn his attention because of its strange, but funny shape. It looked like a star.

Raven had stretched his hands to the roof without realizing it, and let the rain fall on him. It was then that he'd felt the same sensation flow through his veins and tickle his fingertips, something calling for him in the depths of his soul. His eyes had rolled into the back of his head once again, the black dots adorning his shoulders came back as he was focused on the rain, focused on the black clouds slowly disappearing to give way to the sun and a beautiful blue sky before falling to the ground, exhausted and terrified. He couldn't control it, whatever it was, and he feared something would happen again when his parents would be back home.

He jumped when he heard a branch snap, then another, and another. He didn't want to think what kind of animal was coming for him, or maybe it was the trees coming closer. They would wrap their branches and roots around his body, trapping him in a tight embrace until his bones would break, one by one. They would then free him and let him die in the Mardale forest, moss would grow on his body as the years would go by. No one would miss him, no one would remember him, no one would notice his parents had abandoned him here out of fear.

A scream crossed his lips when he felt something brush his ankles, and he started to run dropping the fruits on the ground. He ran as fast as he could without knowing where he was going, without paying attention to his surroundings, but most of all without looking behind him. He didn't want that thing to catch him and eat him. Raven hated that forest and he was sure there was more than cute little animals like foxes or squirrels. He remembered some of his mother's stories and that made a shiver run down his spine.

One in particular that had given him nightmares was about a forest paved with emeralds and diamonds. The trunk of the trees was made of black onyx striped in white, their leaves were made of rubies for some, sapphires for other, and their fruits - not bigger than a pearl - were the most delicious thing on Earth and one single of them could sustain a grown-up man for the whole day. But most people would only pick them to make them into necklaces and other pieces of jewellery. Men and animals living in the forest were living in harmony. There was no hunt, nor poaching, and war between men didn't exist. Until one day when a beast-like creature thirsty for wealth invaded the villages around the forest. It wrought bloody havoc on the villages, killed many of its villagers and had destroyed every path leading to the forest, digging deep trenches all around it with its blue breath so no one could reach it. Many had tried to kill the beast, peasants, knights, warlocks, but all had failed. The only trace of their attempts were ashes and charred bones.

He didn't want to die in the same way as the characters of his mother's stories, didn't want to die alone in that forest. But he was a monster, maybe this was his only option.

Raven didn't want to die.

He stumbled over a root and fell on the ground head first, the soil staining his tears-streaked cheeks. Raven screamed. Raven hit the ground until the side of his hands were bleeding, until he was too tired to even feel the rain falling on him and hear the thunder rumbling in the distance.

What were they doing now? Were they having dinner, happy without him? Did they say to their few neighbours the real reason why he wasn't with them, or were they lying to them? Were they thinking about him? Were they happy now that the monster wasn't living in their home anymore? Was a part of his mother regretting their decision? Was his father telling her they had made the right choice? Raven didn’t know if he wanted the answers to all of these questions. He surely wouldn’t like them.

Lying on his side, Raven shed countless tears as the rain was now pouring down on his shivering body, turning dry soil into mud. What was he supposed to do now? He was lost, the forest was too vast, and he should have paid attention to the road they had taken earlier. He wanted to go home so badly, go home to them, to his mother’s arms who would hug him close to her heart, and hear them tell him it only was a joke. A really bad joke. They would laugh, and he would cry telling them they were mean, and he had been so scared. But nothing like that would happen. They left him in that forest, alone and scared.

A part of him thought it could have been worse. They could have sold him to a merchant, or worse to some mercenaries, and who knows what they could have done to him. Raven had witnessed a scene like that a few months ago. He had been surprised by screams coming from the streets and running to the window out of curiosity, he had seen a little boy not much older than him being dragged away from his crying mother, his father’s hand closed on his arm. The boy was crying, screaming, begging his mother to not let him do that, that he didn’t want to go with them, but his mother had only turned her head from the scene and had shed more tears. A beautiful woman dressed in clothes embroidered with gold had then wrapped her arms around the little boy, whispering into his ear things Raven couldn’t hear as the man beside her – her husband perhaps – put a heavy purse in the father’s hand. They had left after that and the same night, Raven fell asleep with the boy’s screams echoing in his mind.

His parents had barely answered his questions when he’d asked them why they did that. They only told him that sometimes, people had to do things they didn’t like or never thought of in order to survive, even if that would mean they would suffer. Raven never saw the little boy again.

His feet were hurting him, but he had to keep on walking. His throat was dry, his face damp with tears and drops of rain, he was hungry too, but he couldn’t stop, didn’t want to. He had to leave that forest and go back home, but the more he was trying, the more he knew he was putting more distance between him and them.

Raven wiped his face with the back of his hand smearing more mud on his cheeks, when he came across a clearing. A few ruins were scattered around a small river, ruins of an ancient temple whose only remaining were the arch and the statue of the protective divinity of the forest. Raven didn't care about the temple, didn't care about the statue covered in moss and vines as he ran to the river and fell on his knees. He gulped large mouthfuls of clear water, coughing when it went down the wrong way, before he removed his torn shoes and let his feet dangle in the water. With a hand he took out from his pocket the few fruits he still had, undamaged after his fall, and ate them. He was sure he would find another bush on his way, he just needed to keep his eyes open. His back met the wet grass and he couldn't help himself but shed more tears once more when he looked into the eyes of the statue above him.

Nei, that was the name of the divinity. They were a kind and caring deity thanks to whom the forest was always green, even in winter. They were taking care of each tree, each plant and flower making sure none were hurt or sick, making sure no one was harming the forest and its inhabitant. According to what the priest had taught him back in Kilead, Nei wasn't living with the other deities in Niovie - a series of large islands floating above the clouds inhabited by the divinities - but instead had decided to stay with humans and help them in any way they could without ever revealing who they truly were. Nei wasn't the only divinity living in Obreau, they were a few dozen across the country hiding their true identity and using their powers to help those in need.

"You are supposed to help those who are lost in your forest," Raven said to the statue with a hoarse voice, a lump in his throat. "Where are you? I want to go home."

He reached a hand to the statue hoping it would take it, hoping someone would come for him and stood up quickly when he heard a noise behind him coming closer. His eyes roved the clearing searching for the origin of that noise, a growling noise that raised his hair on the back of his head and pricked his fingertips. The sky above him was changing, becoming darker and darker, lightning streaking the sky as Raven's fear was seizing his body. He didn't dare to move, didn't dare to breathe as long as he wouldn't see what was coming for him. He tried to stay calm, tried to not panic and run as fast as he could. It was only when he felt the statue against his back that he saw them.

Four black wolves with golden eyes were staring at him, ears sticking straight up on their head, teeth bared, and growling. Raven knew that if he moved one single finger, they'd come for his throat and he'd become their next meal. Had they been following him since long? How was it that he hadn't heard them? The rain had eased off, he should have heard them. Or was it maybe Nei that was sending them to get rid of him? Would a deity be that cruel and kill a child? He didn't remember Nei being an aggressive deity, they were quite the opposite in his memories.

Their sibling though was one of the most vindictive deity from Niovie. Were the wolves under their command? Why would they be after him? Nei's sibling was the protective divinity of the seas and Kilead was too far away from the seaside, Raven didn't know how he could have angered them.

His teeth were rattling, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as he was calling for his mother. Raven was still hoping it was just a horrible nightmare, that these wolves weren't going to eat him, that his blood won't soil the statue. Who knows what could happen to him in the afterlife if he'd profane with his blood the statue of a deity? He had heard so many stories from the priest about men and women being tortured for days before they had the right to a new life, a new chance, and now he didn't know anymore if those stories were real of if the priest had only been telling them to scare them. Why would the gods want him dead? Because strange things were happening to him? Because he was a monster?

The wolves were circling him, growling louder, coming closer. Thunder was rumbling above them once more and Raven felt his fingers burn with each rumble. Then, out of the corner of his eyes, he saw one of the wolves jump, aiming for his small body. Raven acted by reflex. He raised his hands in front of his face, eyes closed, waiting to feel the wolf fall on him and crush his body, waiting to feel its teeth sink in his throat. But he felt nothing apart from the burning sensation in his fingers growing more and more until he heard it, a cracking sound followed by a stench and burning smell.

Raven opened his eyes, surprised he wasn’t dead yet, surprised he could feel the warmth of the sunlight caressing his cheeks when there were only dark clouds a few seconds earlier and noticed four black and smoking spots surrounding him. He walked closer to one of them, a hand on his mouth and nose, closer enough to notice it wasn’t just burnt grass, but charred bones and flesh. Raven fell on his knees and puked from the shock and the smell, his hands closed in fists on the still green grass. He didn’t know how but he knew it was him. The lightning had burnt them all before they could have reached him. He had killed them.

He cried while crawling on the grass dragging himself away from the sight until he could feel the roughness of the statue against his back once again. He screamed until his throat was hurting him, his face raised to the sky asking Them ‘why’. He wasn’t waiting for an answer, he knew They wouldn’t give him one. They never did, not when he’d been crying in his bed late into the night the first time they called him monster, nor when he had wished for Them to make his parents love him again, and Raven thought that maybe right now They were laughing at him, up there on their island. They wouldn’t help him. He was all alone.

Raven walked for hours. Hours during which the pain in his heart hadn’t eased off. Hours during which he could feel how hostile the forest had become towards him, playing tricks on him. He couldn’t remember how many times he had stumbled on roots and fell, thus hurting his knees more than they already were. He couldn’t remember how many times he had felt a presence behind him carving holes on his back, couldn’t remember how many times he thought to have seen someone from the corner of his eyes and followed the shape, getting lost in the darkest parts of the forest, only to realise it weren’t his parents nor Nei.

When the sun started to set and fall below the horizon, Raven found a shelter in the crook of an old trunk. Curled up on himself, knees against his chest, he pressed his forehead against the wood thankful the dead tree wasn’t trying to kill him. He reached for his pants and pulled out from the pockets a few berries he had picked on a bush not far away from here. Raven put one in his mouth, but immediately spat it. What if they were poisonous? If the trees hadn’t managed to kill him, maybe the forest was taking advantages of his hunger and had turned every fruit into poison? Raven couldn’t take the risk. He wanted to die of old age, in his bed surrounded by his children and grandchildren. Not in a scary forest, hiding in a trunk, with gods not listening to his prayers.

A stupid thought crossed his mind. What if Nei wasn’t in the forest but rather visiting their sibling in the North? Maybe that was why they weren’t here helping him find the way out, maybe the forest wasn’t trying to kill him for whatever reason, but instead his frightened self had been imagining all of these things? The roots, the shapes, the voices, the poisoned berries.

His gaze lost in the distance, he didn’t notice a white point the same size as a wool ball moving between the trees, beckoning him to follow its silvery trail. It took him a while to notice it was a luminous orb, something he had never seen before, and just looking at it move back and forth, hiding behind a tree before he could see it again, made his lips stretch in a big smile. Looking at this light was filling him with warmth and hope he thought he had lost for good.

Raven left the safety of the trunk and walked to the light, cautious. Despite the happy feelings this ball of light had scattered in him, Raven couldn't help himself thinking it could be a trap. Something could be waiting for him wherever it would lead him, something Raven didn't want to meet; an evil spirit maybe, or another monster just like him, someone scarier, someone who wouldn't hesitate nor regret killing a child. A part of him trusted that ball, so he kept following its path being careful where he was putting his feet, asking it to slow down when he could barely see it in front of him and at certain times, Raven could bet he had heard it laugh.

He had the feeling he was following it for hours, avoiding many branches that could have scratched his face, stepping over more roots and crossing over small streams. He had no idea where it was leading him, but he hoped they would get there soon. Raven was starting to feel dizzy and weak, and his blurred vision was making it more difficult to follow the light.

The ball bounced in front of him and Raven took it as a 'we're almost there!' as it sped up, forcing him to run after it as he didn't want to lose its track, not after spending so long walking behind its trail. They ran past many trees and other bushes before Raven couldn't see any vegetation around him, but instead he saw a crossroad. One sign was leading to his hometown where no one wanted him back, where only hate and deception was waiting for him, while another was leading to a still opened gate. A road sign on which he read the name of the next city.

Vaneria.

Raven gritted his teeth to restrain a scream of joy and anger. He had been so close to that city, and yet so far. How many hours had he spent in that forest before that light took pity on him and helped him find his way out? Would he have spent the night in the trunk, cold and hungry if he hadn't followed it? Would he have stayed there and died with his last thoughts being for his parents? Raven didn't want to think about it, he was finally out and away from all the fears it had made him feel.

Raven followed the light to the gate, one foot after the other, his hazel eyes fixed on the sky every now and then where many stars were shining and was surprised the guards didn't stopped him when they crossed the drawbridge and entered the city, surprised they didn't even pay attention to him and the ball of light. He fell on the stone floor when they passed the tavern full of patrons and music, his legs no longer able to support him. The last thing he saw before he fainted were the flickering orange lights he could see through the windows of the tavern, and the ball of light above him disappearing.

[birbwrites]

Title: Broken Memories Pairing: Newt x Female!Reader Words: 4,272 Rating: T

On the day she died, tears were cried. The sky wept for the first time and the sun no longer shined. Mornings were no longer full of light and joy. And because she loved mornings, he now hated them. His dreams died with her, and the only thing left was despair. The sole thing he ever saw when he closed his eyes and fell into slumber was her.

“Newt?” A soft voice rang through his ears as he shifted for a moment. “Newt.” It said again, this time in a sing songy voice. As Newt drifted into consciousness, he chuckled in that deep laughter laced with grogginess she absolutely loved hearing. His eyes were still closed but he could see her figure move behind his eyelids, maneuvering her position to block the rays of the sun from blinding him. “Morning luv,” Newt said, opening his eyes slightly, her hazy figure coming into focus after a moment. “Good morning Newt.” She greeted back, leaning down to give him a sweet kiss. He cupped one side of her face as he lifted off the pillow and deepened the kiss. She laughed lightly against his lips, returning the kiss with the same amount of enthusiasm. Once they separated he laid back on the pillow, gazing at the gorgeous girl in front of him as she stared lovingly back at him. A sweet smile graced her lovely features and her bed head hair fell onto her face like a silk curtain. Newt raised a hand and brushed away her (H/C) locks with the tips of his fingers, leaving feathered touches. She squirmed slightly at the ticklish feeling and smiled wider. “It’s time to get up, Newt.”

Her voice faded away like an echo, waking up Newt with a start. He sat up right in the makeshift bed he once shared with her. Newt brought his hands to his lap and stared at them as they slightly shook. He couldn’t help but glance over at the spot where you would usually sit and sighed heavily. Once more he woke up alone, with a dull ache in his chest.

Today was like any other day, the sun was dim and the clouds were slightly shaded gray. He hadn’t seen the sun properly shine with its former glory in a long while. Not since her death.

Newt torturously got up and dressed down to start his tedious day. Once he was fully clothed, he walked out from his hut and headed towards the Kitchen. It was very early and the only people who were up were the Runners which gave Newt some peace to eat in silence. He stalked up to Frypan and settled in front of his wooden counter.

“Newt? Aren’t you up bright and early.” Frypan chuckled and fixed him up a quick sandwich, just as he had done for the Runners. Newt just gave a tight lipped smiled and nodded towards Frypan, collecting his sandwich, along with a jug of water, and made his way towards her favorite tree. He sat in silence, slowly eating his breakfast. She always loved sitting under this tree because as the sun came up, it shined just the right way and illuminated the Glade in a heavenly glow.

He may have hated the mornings, but sitting here, it was like she was right there with him. And this tree was the only thing that gave him the sense that she was still there. Newt stayed under the tall tree until it was time to head to the Garden. He got up with a grunt and limped his way to the one place in the Glade where she loved the most.

Once he was at the Garden, Newt unsheathed his machete and started hacking at a nearby stump.

After a while, Newt started noticing people filter all around the Glade. He sighed briefly and went back to work.

By the time he had finished removing the rather large stump, it was noon and time for his break. Newt straightened his back and leaned against the shovel in his hands, putting most of his weight on his healthy leg.

He stared out into the open field, squinting slightly to avoid the bleak rays of the sun. Then he saw her clear as day, spinning around in a circle, laughing wildly as those silly flowers crowns she liked to make adorned her head.

A rustle of grass caught Newt’s attention as he stopped working for a minute and turned his gaze towards the noise. “Ahah, I’m finished!” A feminine voice called out. He chuckled at her silly antics continued his work. “Shouldn’t you be working instead of making those flower crowns, luv?” Came out Netw’s slightly strangled accented chide. “No, because it’s our break and you’d know that if you weren’t so focused on working yourself down to the bone.” She said, placing the flower crown on his head as he rose from his position on the ground. Newt simply took her hand in his dirtied and calloused one, and kissed it gently, giving her his infamous half smile. “Thanks for the crown, I’m sure it’s wonderful.” She chuckled lightly and shook her head. “It is, I made it just for you and even used your favorite assortment of colors to decorate it.” Newt pulled the hand that was still in his, and moved her closer to him. He wrapped his arms around her as she put her hands on his shoulders and kissed her. When he pulled back Newt gazed into her (E/C) and watched as they shined with love and adoration. “I really do appreciate the flower crown you’ve made for me.” She hummed and escaped his grasp, picking up a second flower crown that laid in the grass next to them, and situated it onto her head. She then ran out into the open field and spun a circle with arms wide open, all the while laughing her heart out. Newt just stood in his place and watched her, a big smile gracing his handsome features.

A ghost of a smile could be seen on Newt’s face as he shook his head, his dirty blonde locks bouncing along with the movement. He abandoned the shovel in his hands and made his way towards Frypan’s Kitchen for his lunch. The line there was surprisingly short as he took his place behind one of the many boys in this cursed placed.

Once he grabbed his meal, Newt trudged back to the tree where he had his breakfast. It was somewhat peaceful, minus the sounds of chattering, until a shrill ring echoed through the air. Just as he was finishing his last bite, the alarms to the Box rung out.

A new boy.

Newt sighed and got up, dusting his hands briefly before making his way to the other boys whom were beginning to surround the box. “Move aside.” He commanded in a stern voice as the cluster of boys moved away like he was Moses parting the Red Sea. Newt situated himself at the very front beside Gally, just as the first layer of metal doors opened. When those were clear, the boys that surrounded the Box opened the second metal gates and held them up as Gally stepped forward and jumped down to greet the newest arrival of their community.

“Day one Greenie. Rise and shine.” Gally said to the poor soul that got stuck in this hell as he hoisted him up and out of the Box. Newt stared down at the newbie as he flailed around on the ground. All the Gladers surrounding him started talking at once and scared him even more. The boy quickly scrambled onto his feet and pushed through the crowd, running away from the group as fast as he could.

“We’ve got a Runner.” Yelled some kid, as the rest exclaimed along with him. Newt stood back, a little bit surprise at how fast he could run. That is until he toppled over. Newt laughed along the rest of them, however his laugh was a bit humorless. It was obvious that he wanted to get away, whether it be from the group of boys or the Glade, but Newt knew better. No one could leave this god forsaken place.

The Gladers whistled and hollered after the newbie, probably congratulating him in their own way for getting as far as he did. All of the Gladers dispersed going back to what they were supposed to do as a few went after the newbie, later throwing him in the Slammer to insure he wouldn’t try to run again.

Newt turned towards the Box and started helping sort out the supplies for this month. After everything was settled he went to look for Alby. When he did find him, he was with the newbie. “Hey, you alright Alby?” Newt called as he approached the two boys. Alby turned his head towards Newt and chuckled before turning his gaze back to the newbie. “Green bean, meet Newt,”

“Hi.” Newt greeted the brown haired boy, shaking his hand. “When I’m not around he’s in charge.”

“Well it’s a good thing that you’re always around then.” Joked Newt as he faced Alby for a second and then back to the boy. “That was some dash you made earlier. For a second, I thought you had the chops to be a Runner… till you face-planted. That was great.” Alby and Newt chuckled. The newbie’s face scrunched up in confusion. “Wait… Runner?”

Alby avoided his question and leaned forward towards Newt. “Newt, do me a favor.” He paused. “Go find Chuck.” Newt looked at the newbie for a moment with uncertainty. “Alright.” He moved past Ably and the brown haired boy and headed towards Frypan’s Kitchen. He stopped halfway and looked around the Glade hoping to find Chuck. The sight of dark curly hair caught his attention as he walked after Chuck who was shuffling towards the Animal Pens. “Hey Chuck!”

The chubby boy halted in his tracks and turned around to face Newt who was jogging up to him. “What’s up Newt?”

“Alby needs ya to help the Newbie.” He stopped in front of Chuck, staring down at him with his hands resting on his hips. “Okay. Do you know where they are?”

“Last I saw, they were headed towards the tower.”

“Good that.” With that, Chuck nodded and went to meet up with Alby and the newbie. Newt watched Chuck’s retreating figure for a moment before making his way back to the Garden. He spent the rest of the day gardening and watering, with a few minor altercations amidst the newbie, until night came when the Gladers hosted a big bonfire for the newcomer.

Newt despised, no, loathed these celebrations. She loved them so much because it was the one night that everyone go to let go of their burdens and just enjoyed the moment. And because she loved them, he grew to hate them, every single thing about them reminded him of her.

He neared the bonfire, stopping a few times to mingle with a few Gladers and so on and so forth. At one point, Newt had enough and just went to a corner of the area where the bonfire was being held, and stared into the distance.

He sipped Gally’s special drink and closed his eyes, leaning his head back a little. The image of you was seared into his mind.

Another new arrival had just come and after a long day's work, Newt was ready to just relax and enjoy the bonfire. He sat on a log and drank Gally’s drink scrunching his face a bit at the awful taste but took another swig nonetheless. In the not so large distance, he could see her, the adorable flower crown that adorned her head, her snow white dress flowing everywhere as she danced around the fire, and that gorgeous, laughing face illuminated beautifully by the golden flames. He couldn’t help but smile goofily as he watched her sway left and right. She caught his gaze and smiled widely, as she quickly stopped what she was doing and ran to him. Grabbing his large, slender hands in her significantly smaller ones, she pulled him up with some difficulty. “Come on Newt! Dance with me!” She laughed melodically. He chuckled along with her and let her drag him to where she had previously danced. Once they were situated, Newt placed his left hand on her hip and captured her hand in his free one as she settled her available hand on his shoulder. The Gladers whooped and whistled, but the two lovers paid no mind. Suddenly, an enchanting melody floated through his ears. The one thing that she could remember aside from her name and other basic things, was what she presumed to be her favorite song. Somehow she remember the lyrics of the song but not the name of it. However that didn’t bother her much. As they slow danced she sung to him, all the while smiling as her eyes shined with so much life. So many emotions were held behind her hypnotizing orbs. And they were all for Newt. No doubt, he held the same look in his chocolaty hues. That night, they danced all their stress and worries away, not a care in the world. 

A voice broke through Newt’s thoughts as his gaze snapped towards the sound. “Newt?”

It was Alby.

He placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and gripped it tightly. “I know you miss her mate. We all do.” A light scoff escaped his lips as he drank the last of his drink. Newt shook his head and thanked Alby for his concern. Alby knew not to push Newt and understood his pain. With a slight nod he walked away.

Newt stood there for a few more minutes before he noticed the newbie all alone. He limped in his direction grabbing two full jugs of Gally’s drink and a shish kebob. “Hell of a first day Greenie. Here.” Newt handed the newbie the jar with Gally’s drink and plopped down next to him, leaning against the log. “Put some hair on your chest.” He took the drink from his hand and drank some, spitting it out immediately.

He coughed twice and managed to wheeze out a question. “Oh god, what is that?” Newt chuckled and took back the drink. He looked at it before shaking his head. “I don’t even know. It’s Gally’s recipe. It’s a trade secret.” After answering, he looked back at the ‘Fight Circle’ where Gally was roughhousing with other Gladers. “Yea, well he’s still an asshole.” The brown haired boy beside him said. Newt turned back and stared at him.

“He saved your life today. Trust me, the maze is a dangerous place.” He gulped down the drink and sighed slightly. “We’re trapped here, aren’t we?”

“For the moment. But... you see those guys? There, by the fire?” Newt asked as they both turned around to look at the group of Runners. “Those are the Runners. That guy in the middle there, that's Minho. He's the Keeper of the Runners. Every morning, when those doors open, they run the maze... mapping it, memorizing it, trying to find a way out.” He concluded his mini lesson, turning back.

“How long have they been looking?” The newbie questioned once more. “Three years.” Newt answered.

“And they haven’t found anything?”

“It's a lot easier said than done. Listen,” Newt raised a finger up at the sky to metaphorically point at the sound. “Hear that? It's the maze, changing. It changes every night.”

“How is that even possible?”

“You can ask the people who put us in here, if you ever meet the bastards. Listen, the truth is... the Runners are the only ones who really know what's out there. They are the strongest and the fastest of us all. And it's a good thing, too... because if they don't make it back before those doors close... then they are stuck out there for the night. And no one has ever survived a night in the maze.”

“What happens to them?” The boy asked again, full of questions desired to be answered. “Well, we call them Grievers. Of course, no one's ever seen one and lived to tell about it. But they're out there.” He paused.

“Right, that's enough questions for one night. Come on. You're supposed to be the guest of honor.”

“Oh, no.” The newbie shook his head slightly as Newt got up with a little bit of a struggle and pulled the him up with himself. “How about one last question?”

“Alright, last question, but that’s it!” Newt said sternly, giving in. “Are there any girls here? It seems like it’s only guys.” At the end of that question Newt’s face had dropped and his eyes were cast on the ground with a far away look.

“There was once. She was the only girl to ever be sent up here.” He answered, his tone emotionless and void. “What happened to her?” The boy pushed on.

“She died.”

A look of horror flashed on the newbie’s face as he started stuttering out an apology. “No! No, come on. Let me show you around. Come on.” Newt led the boy through the bonfire area pointing out all the people he should probably get to know, his mood switching back to normal automatically. “And there we got the Builders. They're very good with their hands... but not a lot going on upstairs. And then we got Winston... he's the Keeper of the Slicers. And we got two Med-jacks, Clint and Jeff. They spend most of their time bandaging up the slicers.”

“What if I want to be a Runner?” The newbie asked, stopping all of a sudden and defiantly looking at Newt. “Have you listened to a word I've just said? No one wants to be a Runner. And, besides, you gotta get chosen.” Newt scoffed at his ridiculous question.

“Chosen by who?” Before Newt could answer, the boy was pushed by one of the Gladers stumbling into him.

Gally challenged him to a fight, to which Newt witnessed, and one which he lost but regained the memory of his name.

Thomas.

After the fight, Newt chose to retire to his hut. Having had enough of the party.

Once we was in his cozy room, into his pj’s, and comfortably settled onto the makeshift bed, Newt just stared at the ceiling his right arm resting against his forehead, whereas his left was on his abdomen.

“I wish you were here, luv.” He whispered into the empty air before closing his eyes and falling into slumber.

It should have been another normal day, but something about it felt wrong. A gnawing feeling at the bottom of his stomach warned Newt of upcoming danger. And boy would he be in for an unpleasant surprise. The morning started like every morning, with a sweet kiss, a few extra minutes of cuddling, then rolling out of bed to head for breakfast, and after that heading towards the Garden. However, come noon, that unsettling feeling started increasing ten times fold. The two of you had been working until now and had decided to stop and take your lunch break. Just as you were about to settle down under your favorite tree and eat peacefully, Minho ran up to the pair yelling for them. Alby wasn’t trailing far behind. “Minho, Alby, what’s the meaning of this?” Newt asked confused as what they would need from the former Runner and a gardener. “We need (Y/N) to go with Minho into the maze.” Their eyes widened and Newt’s jaw dropped. “What?! Absolutely not! It’s too bloody dangerous for her!” He practically screeched out, gaining the attention of some Gladers who were around them. She took his hand in hers and soothed him, stroking it with her thumb. “I’m sorry Newt, but we need (Y/N). The last time sector 4 was open there was a section that was too small for me to fit through, if you remember the discussion from our meeting.” Minho reasoned. Newt squeezed her hand, glaring at his two friends. “That’s where I come in. You need me to go into the space and since I’m the smallest here, I could move through easily.” She catched on to what he was saying. Alby had stayed quiet and observed the scene unraveling before him. “I’ll do it.” She nodded towards Minho and Alby. “Are you shucking crazy? No, I won’t allow it.” Newt yelled panic written across his face. “Newt,” She started, looking at him with a saddened expression. “This section could be our way out of the Maze. Imagine, we could finally leave! But if I don’t go in there and see it then we’ll be stuck.” Newt pondered her reasoning. It took a while before he responded. “Alright. But Minho, if she get’s hurt in any way, so help me.” He warned, his tone deadly serious. Minho nodded hastily. “We leave in 20 minutes get dressed.” With that the two boys left. Newt stared deeply into (Y/N)’s eyes pulling her close to him. He hugged her like his life depended on it and she snuggled into his chest. “I can’t lose you.” He whispered his voice cracking. It broke her heart to hear him like that. “And you won’t. I’ll always be with you in here.” She pecked his chest, right where his heart should be, signifying that she’d always be in his heart. They spent the next 10 minutes eating and the rest preparing for the run. Once she was dressed in proper running clothes, the two of them made their way to the North door, hand in hand, where Minho was waiting. Before they completed their trek to the Maze, Newt stopped a small distance away from Minho to talk with (Y/N) privately. “Come back to me. Good that?” He asked, eyes watering a bit. “Good that.” She replied with a sad smile. They kissed deeply like it was the last time they’d ever get to do so, and for all they knew, it was. Once they separated she caught his hand and gave it a squeeze before jogging to Minho. Newt waved the both of them off as they disappeared through the maze. He stood there for a good 30 minutes, staring at the looming gap before Alby had to shoo him off to the Garden. The feeling of dread that was settled at the bottom of Newt's stomach only kept increasing as the day progressed. Fortunately for him the day had passed by quickly and his work was done. Unfortunately for him, the doors would be closing soon and that awful feeling ate him alive. People had started to gather around the doors to see if the two made it back. And that's when they started closing. Newt’s heart dropped and shattered. He was about to run into the Maze himself if it wasn’t for Alby and Gally, whom were restraining Newt back. He screamed, yelled, and even pleaded to be let go. He desperately thrashed in their grasp, only calming down when he saw the familiar blue of Minho’s shirt. There was slight hope when the duo emerged from around the corner. They were running as fast as they could, but everyone soon realized that neither of them would make it. Minho was sprinting, (Y/N)’s hand in his, clutched in a death grip. But he knew, they were too far. Newt screamed her name over and over again, unable to do anything but watch. Their eyes held grim acceptance. “NO!” He shouted, his throat raw from yelling so much, but it didn’t compare to the pain he felt as he watched his beloved get trapped in a Maze he told her not to go into. Then there was a glint in (Y/N)’s eyes, and it was something that Newt had never witnessed before. He was afraid of what she would do. She caught Newt’s eyes. He stared deeply into her (E/C) hues. He never knew how she trapped the beauty of the universe in those two small orbs. All of a sudden he realized what the look in her eyes was. Determination. The doors were seconds away from closing… Five… Four… Three… That’s when (Y/N) did something that none of the Gladers expected her to do. She let go of Minho’s hand all the while her eyes were still glued to Newt’s as she pushed Minho through the closing gates. He stumbled in, and she stopped. Alby, Gally and some others immediately grabbed Minho and pulled him into the safety of the Glade… Two… And then Newt saw her smile in that beautiful, sad way, her sweet voice shouting out a last “I love you!” a split second before the doors finally shut… One. The gap was no more. The impossible stone walls separated Newt from the love of his life. For a split second, everything was quiet and the world stopped moving. She was dead, gone. He would never see her again. They had promised to each other that they would stay together, no matter what. Now that promise was broken, shattered, blown into the Maze like it was nothing. Then the fact that (Y/N), his lovely, lovely (Y/N) was dead, sank in.

On the day she died, tears were cried. The sky wept for the first time and the sun no longer shined. The world was no longer full of light and joy. His dreams died with her, and the only thing left was despair and broken memories.

Omg, this is the longest thing I have ever written! Over +4,000 words. Damn. Anyway this was inspired by something that I watched. It was angsty so naturally I had to make this angsty too. I have put this under Keep reading because it waaay to long XD. Reblogs and likes are appreciated, thanks for reading! Sorry if you find any typos!

[bifacialler]

jesus Ler posted a fic-something somebody call the police

So it’s been 9 months - I looked it up, that’s how long it has been - when @jupiter235 left me a prompt that was... “royal/peasant AU”, I think? 

And so I immediately had this idea, which was that stupid cliche fantasy stuff we all love to hate and hate to love, and also in some smaller part of my brain I remember some fine humorous Russian fantasy I grew up with. 

Then, I listened to some good old Russian fold rock - followed by the ethnic explosion in my brain, and the concept of THIS was born.

And so “The Forge-Sister and the Silver Heart” was born, which sturdily became technically less about Bog and Marianne Mar’yanna, and more about... women? Mothers, daughters, lovers. Witches, born and becoming. Fate, calling, and destiny. Love, in variations. I’m personally a big fan of Plum in this, like she is half of the reason this piece is becoming what it is. 

Be warned: this is a) like a prologue since Bog is not even a part of the story (yet, depends, I kinda want to see how this launches off), and b) it’s different from my usual writing style? Like I’m using actual badly formed sentences, and like descriptions, to set the mood and stuff, and not suffering a sever case of post-poetic verbal constipation. You should be all proud of my attempts. I’m growing as a writer.

Please let me know what you think (I’m not posting it on AO3 just yet, let’s see how it goes).

The First Song: On rising winds

The fire kindled quietly in the small iron stove. The dancing orange glow behind the ornate iron grate send long and dusky shadows to run over the walls, painted with colourful pictures of exotic birds, the carved filigree of the windowsill in flowers and vines, bouquets of dried herbs adorning the curved ceiling in lavish garlands, and the Gypsy, a shawl of green and blue, tall hair in hues and curls, tied with a glimmering scarf, her skirt swapping the floor. She stepped as if in a dance, cast bracelets ringing when she wrapped herself tighter, a glance of mock fury thrown over her shoulder, and the children, brown bear fur coats up to the red frosty buttons of their noses, dropped snow in melting blobs on the clean wooden floor before the closed door and shuffled on their feet.

 They were not scared - fine, maybe a bit - and she was not angry. See, it was a game, the one they played quite often. The gypsy would turn, in a dewdrop patter of coins on her clothes, and pull her painted bright lips into a thin line, hands hard and demanding on her hips, everything about her a-clatter.

 «What do you want?» she would ask, their barbaric language becoming poetry in her mouth, knowing full well the answer, and the children would mutter between themselves, until the smallest, with red knitted fur-trimmed gloves and golden messy curls falling over her face, would step forward, flap eyelashes over her huge green eyes and a smile with a single missing front tooth.

 «A stowy, Pl’uma!»

 And the others would nod and call in agreement. «Yes, Pl’uma, tell us a story!»

 «Fine!» Pluma the Gypsy would smirk at a way their tongues struggled with her foreign name, raising a finger to her lips, and tapping pensively. «But what do you have for me in return?»

 This part changed: sometimes there were coins, small coppers found or received for sweets, or honeyed nuts, or, sometimes, a doll, dry straw and colourful yarn and shiny black button eyes, and in autumn, there were apples, red like a maiden’s blush and sweet like her kisses. New songs, fresh gossip, little secrets from these little people. They brought her flower crowns in spring, and handfuls of berries in summer, but as time would have it, the cold swept the land, smell of winter cutting sharply into lungs with a gust of frost through the mountain pass and the price had to be payed, because nothing was free. They should have known, they should have started to learn, even at their age, that nothing was free.

 Her hand stretched forward expectantly.

 «Well, off with it.»

 The small girl looked back, her friends nudging forward, and signed in an unabridged dismay, tugging on her coat, under the thick scarf with dripping tassels, and pulling out a small ball of white fur and life that crooned softly, disturbed from his sleep.

 «We found it in a bawn,» she said and passed it, a tiny creature with wide scared dark eyes, to be placed onto a surface of flat open palms with long dark painted claw-nails. «Mama is not letting me keep it.»

 A small nose sniffed, a wet mitten swiped over puffed cheeks. Other petted between a pair of perky white ears. The girl’s sigh was nothing but wistful.  

 Pluma pondered, while the cat-creature’s pink nose poked against her thumb and a scrawny head, barely a few weeks old, the last batch of autumn, perhaps, looked around with curiosity, inherent to his kind. It would not have survived a winter, not alone, but there were things that had to be said. The beast opened its maw and let out a loud hungry call.

 Pluma nodded. «I accept this trade. A cat will do this house good.»

 She glanced around her wagon, before going to the cupboard above the stove. Cat placed on her shoulder, she retrieved a wooden bowl and filled it with thick white liquid. «But this is a serious gift, children.» Her look was pointed and sharp, even as she set her new pet on the floor together with the bowl, softly touching its short ruffled fur. «A gift of life is not the one to be given lightly.»

 The children, all five of them, all different ages and faces and families, the baker twins, the innkeeper’s son, and, of course, the Elderman’s youngest, huddled like sparrows at her door in a mess of grey and brown and wool. Just children.

 The kitten drank loudly, in large hungry gulps. «I think I have a story I can tell you,» Pluma stood up and motioned towards the bench before the stove, before busying herself with the pot starting to boil over. They didn’t wait - coats pulled off and tossed on the floor, legs untangled from heavy boots, they rushed to the seat, climbing on with their feet, few leaning on the table.

 «Is it about a pwince?» The young one hopped excitedly, and Nad’ya, the farmer’s girl, large and soft-spoken, tried to make her sit still, like a frustrated mother, redoing her messy braids. «I want one with a pwince in it.»

 «Oh, it has a prince alright,» the gypsy hummed, pulling out sugared dry-breads and jug of freshly brewed herbal tea. «But more importantly, this is a story about giving a life.» Nails scratched against wood. “And taking one.”

 The cat, satiated, warm and more comfortable, parted from his food, rubbing itself against her boot.

 The fire crinkled, shooting sparks, and the wind started to howl outside, slowly rising. Tea steaming from crude clay mugs - sage and thyme and just a bit of fire root against the colds of coming days - she settled on the stool, lighting the stick of essence behind her back, filling the room with memories of faraway lands she remembered as if she had been there the day before.

 «Once upon a time, away from the borders of our Svetovir, beyond the sea in a Kingdom of Storms lived a King and a Queen. The King was tall and proud,” she sat up, chin raised high, her voice dropping, and the children sniggered. “With a strong jaw and wide shoulders, and the eyes of brightest sky-blue. He ruled his land from the Eye of Storms, a tall tower-like fortress on the edge of the ever-tempest seas, and his rule was harsh yet just, and he was equally feared and respected. The King loved his people, but even more than that, the King-” and she paused, picking up the cat and setting it on her lap. “The King loved his Queen.”

 “Was she pretty?” That was Elza, the less bearable one of the ginger duplets, face in a polka dot pattern of freckles that danced cheekily whenever she grinned and she grinned a lot. “The Queen usually is pretty. Or kind. Except in our country.”

 The gypsy’s fluttering hands stopped.

 “Well, someone has been listening to conversations that there were not old enough for,” the girl bowed her head, freckled face going aflame, but Pluma just smiled. “Don’t know if she was pretty, and I can’t quite call her kind. But they said that the Queen was like the thunderstorm itself, her hair glowing like a fire catching a branch after a lightning had struck it, and in her was the warmth of a fireplace and a joy of battle. She was the home where the King was the country. And most importantly, the Queen loved her King.”

 She took a sip, and listened to the wind. It hummed in low baritone, gently starting to rock her humble abode, much alike last year, and the year before that, but this time, there was something in its song, a worried note that she couldn’t quite put a finger on. If Pluma could tell any better, it sounded slightly… distressed, if a wind could.

 “They lived in peace and harmony, as much of harmony and peace the people of the Storm could have, for their nation is one of vigor and glory, joyous bubbling chaos and united community, but the years went on, and sadness creeped into the tall walls of the Storm’s capital. For as much as the King and the Queen loved each other, they couldn’t have a child.”

 “They should have buried a coin,” Kaleb grunted, and the rest picked up approvingly.

 The cup made it halfway to the gypsy’s lips before going back down. “Excuse me?”

 “Everyone knows that if you want a child, you have to bury a coin in the cabbage patch. In return you get a baby,” Nad’ya, tying a bow in wavy blond curls, examining it, undid it into two dangling ribbons, her thick fingers dancing with easy practiced grace.

 “Aren’t you well educated, children,” snigger stuffed into her cup. “Your parents told you that?”

 “Our parents buried two,” Elza nudged her brother with her elbow, with an evil kind of smirk only children were capable of. “His was rusted.” Pyotr, bird-boned, white-skinned, rubbed his arm with a frown.

 “This is fascinating, but on to the story.” Back straight, cat purring on her lap as it pawed the string of beads, Pluma turned her head so that her profile would glow in the light of the stove and throw a shadow on the wall above them. “The King and the Queen prayed for a child, to their God and ones beyond, but no one answered. They called to all the healers and whisperers, but none could give them a solution. And then, one day, a ship arrived in the capital’s harbor, carrying traders and their goods, just like it does in our land, except that on that ship arrived an old man with skin as dark as coal, his hair gray like ash. He came to the King and said:

 “I know of your troubles and I give you solution. Take a ship and go south-west, straight to the edge of the earth. There you will find a land unlike yours, verdant and full of life, yet hot like the sun itself. Walk it like a common man would, till you sweat nine sweats and wear off nine pairs of boots, and then you will find the one, who sings the birdsongs and wears the feathers, who can brew love into a potion, who knows the secrets of life and can cheat death itself-”

 Mouth agape, crumbs sticking to her face and in her golden hair, Sophia gasped. “A biwd-witch!” The others hushed at her like she just cursed.

 “Father said there are no such things as bird-witches,” sitting straight and proper, Nad’ya curled her hands around the cup. “They are made to scare children into doing their chores.” She rolled her eyes at such ‘childish’ idea. “Do your housework or the bird-witch will come at night and steal you away.”

 Little rose lips plumped, the smallest girl huffed. “Na-ah! Bwother said he saw a biwd-witch once. She was an old hag with a cwooked nose and wotten teeth and-”

 Elbow perched on her crossed knees, Pluma rubbed her temples with a cringe. “Yes, whatever would we do without Rolànd and his sure mastery of all things. Now, do you want to listen to the story or not?”

 A choir of little voices rose in agreement. Still flustered, yet appeased by another sugared bread, the girl tugged down her skirt - and not just a skirt, but a little masterpiece with red flowers in red wool blooming along the dirty rim, surrounded by green leaves and even a few colored glass beads, not unheard off in Prval, but not common either - something a few would actually wear in their day to day life. Like the Elderman’s favorite little girl, for example. Or Pluma herself.

 “But you were right. The old man talked about a bird-witch from a far away land, and the very next day the King kissed his Lady Queen goodbye and set away to find her, with a fleet of his finest ships, their bellies full of greatest treasures. He travelled for months and month, through storms that sunk ships and still waters that drove men mad. And only when he barely had any hope left, the land appeared before him, with tall sand walls of cities, temple pyramid roofs rising over them, and further, where dry earth turned into a deep forest, above which mountains tore the sky with their white fang-peaks...”

 The wagon filled with eerie silence, interrupted with quiet munching, crackling fire and the old boards of the wagon creaking. The cat purred, gnawing her fingers, and further into the depth of her home, colorful curtains fell over her pillow-covered bed in a feeble attempt at seaming comfort. They sat, unmoving, mystified, with that glimmer in their eyes that one day may have grown into something that would have set them on a road away from this town on a road through a mountain pass. There are men and women who did this every year, young people who thought that there was more to life than stories Pluma told them. Oh, the parents should have run her off from this spot years ago -

 - and she would have left, but all the places started to be the same a long time ago, they were the same and not home, they were the same and different, not where she wanted to be, not where she belonged.

 Pluma swallowed as her mouth ran dry.

 “It was glorious, children. Blindingly bright, loud with music and voices, it was a land of scholars and tradesmen, of rulers and reverent beggars. But all of that didn’t matter to the King. He searched the land - dressed in black and leather, as it was the custom of his people, sweating the nine sweats and wearing off nine pairs of fine high boots - up the mountains and down the valleys, along rivers and in the deepest of forests. Slowly, his people left him, taken by disease and vices, and all his treasures disappeared, exchanged for goods and favours, but he found her. A handful of men by his side, he found her���”

 Trembling feet tucked under the stool, she breathed, and fingers flying to her aching chest.

 “The air was hot and arid, in spice and cinder, oils, cedar and saffron seed, and the sun was a fiery lover, filling the wings with shine as they flirted with the winds. Her clothes were silks, and trinkets were gold, her winds, long and colorful, handing down back, and hundreds of flowers adorned her home as she herself was adorned, loved and cherished. The daughters of the richest men came to her doorstep and asked for beauty and love, for health and long life, and paid with jewels and cloth and exotic foods. He too came to her, tall and proud and hopeful, and asked her to make a life where there was none. He told her of a love and of a country and of a family, and she listened. And when he was done, she said that he was asking for something that she was not able to give.

 ‘How?’ said the King, his proud wide shoulders falling. ‘I travelled across the seas and sweated nine sweats and wore off nine pairs of boots but you turn me away?!’

 The bird-witch in blues and emeralds and sparkling pinks just shook her head. ‘If you asked for health, I would have given you elixirs. If you asked for strength, my answer would have been a brew. But you ask for a new life to be created, and for a life to be given one has to be taken. This is not the magic of my kind.’

 “But I was told!.. shouted the King stomping his foot,” - Pluma’s fist hit the table and the cups clattered. “I was promised!”

 “Well, not by me! The bird-witch was having none of it. So fool on you!”

 “So the old man lied to him?” Pyotr’s delicate hands drummed on the shawl covering the table. “But shouldn’t the King have figured it out? You said he was smart.”

 “My dear child,” Pluma’s tone, turning soft with a kindness that came from pain too personal for them to understand. “The King was smart. He was wiser than most, and kinder than some, and he was righteous in his own right. But this world is made of powers beyond us, powers we can’t control. And to some those powers do good, and to other they do bad.” She glided her hands over the cloth, straightening an invisible wrinkle. “Do you know, children, what is the greatest power of them all? I already gave you the-”

 “It’s love, isn’t it?” Nadya’s stern gaze was directed to the window, but she clearly addressed herself towards the gypsy. “It’s always love in these sort of stories. Love conquers all.”

 Nadya’s, the farmer’s daugher from the home unfull, always had plump red cheeks and a stern voice, too… tired for her age. “It doesn’t, though. Right?”

 “Love conquers some. And some,” Pluma bowed her head, and the smell of sandalwood filled her nostril. “Some, it ruins.”

 “And what ruined the King is that he loved so very deeply. So what he did next, he did out of a great fear, that his heart and the heart of his Queen would never be complete. And so he left, in the day, but came back in the night, with the ropes and the gags, and he bound her all up, and he gazed upon the bird-witch and said: You are lying to me. You can bottle love and you can return youth, you can give strength to the feeble and make any girl more beautiful than the next. You say a life should be given for a life to be made? Well, how about I give you yours.”

 The wagon rocked with a sudden strong gust of the wind. The wooden walls, curving in an arch above her head creaked, and the children squeezed from the sudden movement, mimicked by something awaked under another shawl in the back of the wagon. A couple of confused little tweets - and it went silent again.

 The gypsy stood up to check upon it, and then returned, patting the walls on her way. “Don’t worry, this old thing can stand through a dozen more winters harsher than this.”

 “Pl’uma, what did the King do?”

 Heart heavy, she sighed. “The King stole her away. He stole her away, her feathers ripped off her back so she won’t escape, using her own belongings to pay his way. He traveled with her back to the sea, and whenever he went the birds stopped singing and the flowers dropped their bloom. He bought himself a ship with the jewels the Sultans of White Mountains once threw at her feet for a single smile. And with a sail raised, the King set himself back to the high cliffs of his home.”

 “Sail ripped and tattered, and the King himself battered, he returned home, where storms themselves turned against him. He kneeled before his Queen, and weeped. Bird-witch locked away in chains down below, he weeped: I have failed you, my love. She will not give us what we seek-”

 “Maybe he should not have taken her away from her home, if he wanted for her be nice.” Piotr noted, carefully examining the bottom of his mug.

 “Oh, this is where it gets interesting, children. For while the Queen brought the King to her heart, drowning his sorrow, the bird-witch, a child of skies and magic, heart-sister, who could make women beautiful and men young, who sang heart-songs of that made love bloom, scrathed her claws against the walls of her prison, and tugged the remaining feathers off her back-”

 - in her mouth they went, feather and nail and bone, and blood and pain, and the foreign skies frowned and weeped at her song, and ripped at themselves in thunder and lightning as she ripped at her bare skin -

 “- and cursed him, the King, and all his kin, and sang the rights that were not hers to sing but she sang them anyway, that deep went her hate and fury, such foreign feelings for someone once bathed only in adoration.

 “A life for a life, she wailed, a Princeling for a King. For where one life will begin the other will end. For every strenght - a weakness, for every truth - a lie. And love itself - just loss. Loss and heartache.”

 Sophia meeped, tucking herself under Nad’ya arm. “Bird-witches are scawy.”

 “Oh, child. Bird-witches are daughters of Earth and Sky, their craft as old as the time itself. But they are also, most importantly, women. And there is nothing more dangerous as a woman scorned.”

 “So like our mom,” Elza chewed, and swallowed, whipping her mouth with the back of her hand. “She has this look when Papa comes from the market a bit… you know…” She leaned forward, as if sharing a secret. “Drunk.”

 “So she did give them a child, just as the King wanted? And he let her go?”

 “She did, telling him just that, and well, the King, regretful, brought her back her feathers, but she didn’t leave. The bird-witch stayed right there, in her dungeon, waiting: through summer winds that carried the scent of wild-flowers, and their brothers, the autumn ones, cold and fresh, to the very snow of winter, in the midst of which, in the darkest of night, rose a Great Wind, the likes of which was never seen even in the Kingdom of Storms. It rolled clouds into cyclones, roared with thunder, and flashed with lightning, and in the witching hour, just before the walls of the castle erupted with the voice of a new heir, one of the tongues struck the Grand Tower, setting it on fire. It burned so bright, it turned the sky aflame. That very fire took the life of the proud King of Storms. And left the Queen with a child, that turned quieter by the minute. Because if the King’s heart was his strongest, for the Princeling’s small heart was his weakest.”

 “So the Queen, proud as she was, fire-hair falling down her back, went to the witch, and begged her-”

   Blood down her gown, sweat still to her brow, babe to her chest - ‘A life for a life, and this one’s life is not yours to take.’

 ‘This life was not yours to have from the start, Storm-sister. This is not our fate. ’

 ‘A life for a life and my child has done nothing to you! But you took from me, so give back. Know your prices, Heart-sister.’

   “-and the Bird-witch gave up. Of her neck, she took a small silver bell, that ran like dewdrops falling on the edge of a sword, like tears on the strings of a lute, a gift from the lover long gone, and pulled it over the Princes’ head. And just as she did, ringing it, the child started to cry, and the small hairs of raven wing on his head turned stark silvery white.

 ‘From now on, this is your son’s heart,’ said the Bird-witch to the Queen. ‘And as long as he lives, it must be with him. Keep a good eye on him. For if he loses it, there would be nothing you could do.’

 “And then the Bird-witch, her curse fulfilled, wrapped herself into her wings, turned into the Great bird of Heaven, and flew out of the window. The Queen never saw her again.”

 Stretching her back, the Gypsy, let out a moan. “And that’s the end of the story, children, and about what one asks for, and the prices one must pay.”

 They stared.

 “But the Pwince, what about the Pwince?!”

 “Well, I have a few ideas, but they are for some other time, and some other story-”

  Something slammed against the door, followed by a row of hard knocks.

 “Pl’uma! Open up!” The voice belonged to a woman, and ran as loud as the wind, or maybe even louder, a hammer of a hand unstoppable in its insistent knocking. “I really hope all those kids you have there are in one piece and preferably not in a cooked state!”

 Their distress forgotten, the mentioned children giggled as Pluma turned their way with a mock gasp. “Oh no, children, the evil blacksmith has come to take you away! Run, children, quickly, before she gets you and makes you work at her forge! Run!”

 Rolling out to the door, cat petted on the way out, they dressed, quickly and messily, Elza waving her hands around like ‘the Bird-Witch’, and Sophia tugged on Pluma’s colorful skirt.

 “Can I come and play with the kitty tomowow?” she asked, scarf askew, her coat closed on all the wrong buttons, which they immediately rectified together.

 “Yes, of course, dear, if the weather’s good.” The gypsy tapped the button of her nose, and the child laughed. “Now quickly, get dressed, your momma will be worried if you don’t get home before the storm hits.”

 The door opened and they poured out, loud and fast, and a person calling them pushed herself flush against the side of the gypsy’s home.

 “Come on, quickly,” a woman, short and sturdy - no, a girl, her age betrayed by the still soft oval of her face, yet already touched by the prices one must pay - clapped her hands, as the children hurried scurried pass her - except for the Soph, of course, who stopped by her side and did a little curtsy.

 “Thank you, Tet’a Maw’yanna.” She paused, her lips pursed, and then smacked her own forehead. “Daddy weally likes the swowd you made him.”

 “Well, I hope he does. He paid good money for it.” The blacksmith raised her hand out of the large gorge of a pocket, huge in comparison to her narrow and long palm and fingers, in stars of red and white burn scars, and slowly, with hesitation, descended it upon the child’s head, patting it, first uncertainly, but then with almost wistful warmth as golden curls tangled under her touch. “Run along to your mother, little bird.”

 The girl started after her friends south, where the outskirt road pulled into the main one, better, and a small hike to the gates of the Prval - the Golden tooth of the Svetovir mountain range, the one and only way to the North Kingdoms for miles to go, and it could have been a major trade hub. Could have, if not for the Storm.

 The wind played with the stray hairs, sticking out of the blacksmith’s messy obruch - not a young girl’s hairstyle, even by a long shot, but at least she did that. At least she didn’t cut her hair at all.

 Head still turned in the children’s wake, the craftswoman hummed.  “She will grow up… so pretty.”

 “Ain’t everyone in that family just that?”

 “Pluma, don’t.”

 “I heard the strangest thing, Mar’yanna.”

 “Don’t,” the blacksmith snapped her head and cringed with a heavy stare. Six years, and it only got better - her winded lip twisting with a sharp angle exposing gritted teeth, and the smash of raw emotion cutting through her yellow eyes that still made the gypsy catch her breath. What gifts this girl had, some gave up everything for less. If only that what was given was taken - then even Pluma herself would have thought twice to poke at her. But the blacksmith was as stubborn as she was talented, and the gypsy, well, she had a habit of been bored a lot.

 “Apparently children think they were found in the cabbage, Mar’yanna. Did your father find you in the cabbage as well?”

 “No, I was found amidst horseradish - what do you think?”

 “That would explain your bitter attitude, dear.” Lock of hair tucked under her gold-thread headscarf, Pluma wrapped herself tighter into her shawl against the crashing wind that shook her home. “Do you think this is the one?”

 The girl shrugged, the mass of bear fur rising and falling, eyes trailed towards the far-off edge of the sky, where clouds gathered into a large wall of grey. Her thin lips pursed in disapproval. “Looks like it. It’s late this year, though.”

 The Gypsy stepped down the small wooden stairs, boots immediately sinking into the snow, skirts billowing by her feet. She stood still, breathing, icy air filling her lungs, and listened to the voice of the skies, its concerned song, as if it was a song for her, yet so foreign that she couldn’t quite get the words.

 It sounded like a warning.

 “Maybe it was waiting for someone?”

 Mar’yanna groaned. “Well, I don’t know about someone, but it was probably waiting for your koftan to be done?”

 Weather forgotten, Gypsy almost jumped in excitement.

 “She finished it? Show me, show me!”

 Burlap sack almost ripped out of worm hands, she dug in, pulling out a thick heavy coat, tailored, with dark fur trim, and a wide embroidered pattern all the way around the edges, and blooming flowers on silky material. Pressing her face into a large fur collar, Pluma smelled lavender and sage, the tale of mountains and forests, so common to this particular place. All things considered, Prval had its charms.

 “Your father should count himself a lucky man, having daughters like you two.” Shawl shrugged off right there on the snow, she pulled the coat on, and gave a sigh of relief from the immediate prickling of hard fur through all the layers of her clothes, and the steadily growing inkling of warmth. Latches closed with deft fingers, hands patted down the narrow fitted waist, and Pluma the Gypsy nodded, turning back and forth. “By the sky, he’d better.”

 Mar’yanna leaned against the painted wood, her thumbs hooked over the rope of her belt.

 “You should worry less about my father, and more about how you will pay. This is a lot of a material, expensive material, those clips alone took me time-”

 One half-turn, collar raised, and Pluma poised at her with something of a long forgotten wicked charm. “I know my prices, dear. When did Pluma ever do you wrong?”

 The blacksmith just rolled her eyes.

 “Just what did you promise my sister?”

 With a wink and a wave of a hand, Pluma disappeared into her wagon, shuffling through her cupboards, pulling out bottles and jars of colorful glass, tugging a few bands of herbs off the ceiling, and a final step, opening a large trunk, which served as one of the benches, and taking out a small pouch of dark velvet.

 The craftswoman stepped in, knocking snow off her boots. “If you really think that a few salves would be enough-”

 “For your hands,” the gypsy moved one of the jars her way, and smirked at how the girl’s lips curled. “Bothering you again, I see.”

 “What else?”

 Another bottle. “For your sister’s sunlight of hair. The braid is turning heads already but-”

 “Oh, please don’t.” Landing herself on the bench, the girl turned the bottle in her hands. “If I hear another wailing off-tune love song under my window, I’m going to start pouring molten iron over them. And that would be a waste of damn good iron.” The bottom of the bottle placed back on the shawl. “Maybe you can give her something that will stop her from falling for every boy she meets.”

 Pluma just laughed, setting herbs on the table. “Impossible. That girl’s heart is a spring song, and we need a bit of spring, now that the storm is here.”

 Mar’yanna rubbed the crease of her forehead. “It gets worse every year.”

 “Or: you can get married, so she could have her turn. The older sister, then the younger, as it is a custom.”

 If looks could create flame, Pluma’s house would have been on fire already.

 “No.”

 “Just a suggestion, sister.” Older fingers caressed the webbing of burns on the younger ones. “Don’t worry, price will be paid. The crows will have his lying tongue in due time.”

 Hand pulled away, the girl bared her teeth. “Can we wrap this up? The storm is coming. I have to get the house ready.”

 Yet, still, her eyes blinked once too often. Poor child.

 “Here,” the gypsy placed the pouch last. “I think you’ll find this more than enough.”

 The girl tugged the binding with suspicion, one, another, and pushed the finger inside, sharp eyes looking down the length of delicate pointy nose - and then clavicles sharpened surprise, lashes flying.

 “Is this-?”

 “Yes,” Pluma nodded, setting herself on the edge of the table.

 The pouch opened even wider, and the girl hooked her finger, raising her arm, and a thread of beads, round and even, every single one - a perfect star ripped from the sky. They gleamed in her hands, and something so innocently joyous flashed over the girl’s face, before being replaced with indignation.

 “Pluma, this is a fortune!”

 “So is that coat.”

 “This is an arm-length of pearl, Pluma! We can’t take this, it’s worth five of my swords!”

 “Or one really good one if you put your mind to it. Or a wedding dress of Prval lace, which would take your sister three months to make? As I said, your father was blessed with trully gifted daughters.” She looked down one of the mugs left on the floor. “But those will be  worthless in comparison if you ever decide to wear what you keep hidden even from your sister-”

 The table erupted, mugs turning. The blacksmith rose, and it was as if the lighted of stove fire itself dimmed before her.

 “SHUT YOUR MOUTH.”

 “You are burying you gifts, featherling.”

 “Shut. Your. Mouth.” She leaned forward, and shadows ran over her face, where eyes burned with molten gold. “If you speak of this to anyone, I will cut your tongue out with your own herb knife.”

 Oh, what does she know. What does she know, bird unhatched. Angry little thing.

 “Don’t threaten me, sister.” Pluma curled. Her claws, barely growing, pulled back. “Yours is not the only secret I keep. And that knife actually needs a sharpening.”

 The Blacksmith breathed, letting out discontented huffs, then, finally groaning, she picked up her sack, starting to toss her payment into it. “Fine. Bring it when the winds let down.”

 “Or you could come by again. I do enjoy our talks.”

 “Unlike you, some of us have work, a lot of work to do.”

 “So do I! You think those salves make themselves? Honestly, by now they pretty much do, but even I am not that good.”

 “Pride is a sin, Pl’uma.”

 “Now, don’t go offending me with just one, dear. I’m sure I can find myself a couple more. Lust, for example.”

 Mar’yanna chuckled. “Oh yes, Tan’ya still tells everyone about that miracle cure you gave her husband for his… problem.”

 “Problem? Please. Having five daughters - now that’s a problem.” The wind wailed with new force, and the wagon shook again. Pluma raised her head to the ceiling and the swinging herbs. “I hate to throw you out, but it is high time for you to go. Can’t risk this town losing its one good shear sharpener.”

 The blacksmith nodded, stomping to the door, and the gypsy followed. The outside greeted them with thick chunks of snow falling, slamming against the patched ground, and clamping in piles.

 “Looks like you were right,” Mar’yanna jumped to the ground and tucked herself tighter. Her face barely rose from the thickness of her coat’s collar, but it still frowned up in concern. “You’ll be fine, right?”

 “It’s just a storm, little bird,” Pluma caught a piece of falling snow on the palm of her ringed hand, and squeezed it tight, melting water between her fingers. “I’ve lived through worse.”

 Non-believer, the girl eyed the melting water dripping. “Take care then.”

 She set off down the trail, away from the cliff the gypsy chose at her home, slowing down for one last mirthful goodbye thrown over her shoulder. “I’d hate to lose one good herb-gatherer this town has.”

 Pluma the Gypsy watched her as she disappeared behind the turn, a mass of dirty brown fur with a sack over her shoulder, and sighed to herself and the sky.

 “You are late,” she said, reproachingly.

 The wind howled in response and threw snow in her face.

 “Oh, cut it.” She turned to hide in her home. With her last step, Pluma turned, shaking her finger at the heavy dark cloud. “And don’t you dare blow me off this mountain.”

 The sky didn’t reply, but she still would swear its color grew softer.

  And then, just as she was about to close the door behind her back, the wind suddenly stilled, and all grew silent, so that the air itself froze around her. The fire stopped crackling, and the branches seized their urgent waving, and in that silence, like an arrow shot, like a fall of melting drops in the birth of spring on the clear steal of a sword -

   - ran a bell.

   And Pluma, for the first time in years, froze, breathing shakily, her unbearably wide painted eyes pulled towards the white curtain of the horizon.

   Oh, she spoke in a tongue that was only hers in this land of mountains and snow, her jaw clenching, claws stabbing hard into the wood of her doorframe. Really?

   The wind, the snow, the rustling forest and the panicked creaking of her home came back, yet she stood, trying it hear it again.

  It didn’t return. It didn’t have to.

  Feathers at the back of her neck bristling, Pluma pulled herself into the darkness of her home. When the only thing left was the shining bright of her eyes, the door of the wagon slammed shut.

 Come then, the feather-thief’s son. I’m waiting.

[wristic]

Given Time

Pairing: The Hound X Lannister Reader

Word Count: 1700

Warnings: None, just some good wholesome pain

-Part 1- -Part 2-

While Sansa may have passed up The Hounds offer, drunk as you were that night, you asked to be taken away. Away from your bitter sister Cersei and psychotic King nephew Joffrey. You didn’t realize the kind of repercussions that decision would lead to.

It felt like a lifetime ago you drank and drank yourself thoughtless for the Battle Of Blackwater. A lifetime ago you had run away with the Hound where even Sansa wouldn’t. It was only months but Gods was it a lifetime ago. It was a stupid impulse, and the places it took you were terrifying and cold.

Highwaymen and soldiers alike commented on your beauty, then groped for it with dirty and mean hands. But the Hound was there, he was always by your side to personally kill every single one of them. At first you didn’t think you could possibly be more afraid of him, but watching The Hound gut and behead and beat men into brainmash gave you more nightmares than your nephew Joffrey ever did.

There were little moments that gave you pause. Pulling a clean handkerchief from a fresh kill and handing it to you for the splattered blood on your face. The way he jokingly called you Lioness when you tried to hide your trembling from him. The lasting looks he gave you when he thought you weren't paying attention, looks that made you wonder if he’d always given them and you just never noticed before this mismatched journey together.

And then you found Arya. Vengeful, angry, small Arya. No matter how much you tried to defend yourself, how much you agreed with the girl and wanted to help her, Arya despised you as much as she despised the Hound. After a long struggle to try and make things right on your families behalf, you did as the Hound did. Let the girl be angry. In the end you three settled on a content tolerance that almost felt like friendship.

You enjoyed your little mismatch of a new family. In ways you didn’t want it to ever end. Maybe a house would be nice, a small house with a dog and you’d clean their clothes and cook them dinner. A little house where The Hound, Sandor, would chop wood in the back and go hunting and bring back a load of venison and pelts to sell. A little house near a village and Arya could make new friends and grow to become its champion and teach other little girls how to fight. A small house. Where the politics of the world didn’t reach it. Where the walls were never painted with the blood and screams of a thousand children. Where you could forget there was ever a house named Lannister.

But of course that dream had to crumble, why wouldn’t it. The Hound and Brienne of Tarth charged into each other for a battle so equally match, for the first time your faith in his skill wavered. And then he lost, fallen from the stony cliff.

You screamed, charging down the cliffs trail, leaving Arya behind. When you reached the bottom tears painted your cheeks and you trembled. He was bloodied, broken, gasping for breath.

“W-what do I do!? Oh Gods have mercy! Sandor what do you need me to do!?” you wanted to fling yourself on him, hold him in hopes it could ease the pain somehow but knew it would do the opposite.

“Go.” he waved. “Just go. I’m sure that, behemoth of a woman could take care of you. Take Arya, just go.”

Arya’s unsettled voice came up behind you. “I’m not going with that woman.”

“Arya! Oh thank goodness! Please we have to move him-”

“He’s right. You should go with Brienne.”

You gaped. “Have you both gone mad! I’m not leaving him here! I’m not leaving you here, you wouldn’t leave me, I-I’m not going to-” you words dwindled into heavy sobs and hiccuping, your head bowing into his chest as you desperately clung to his vest.

The Hound hesitantly lifted a hand, warm and large enough to cradle your head like a crown. He turned to Arya. “Go ahead girl. Make it quick...for her sake.”

You snapped up begging them both, “No! This is nothing, we’ll fix this! W-we’ll fix it and-and just, we’ll stop this wandering around and find somewhere away from all this, it’ll be fine, everything will be fine!” you broke down again, whimpering and mumbling to yourself. “Please, I’m so tired of death.”

Sandors other hand came up and he lifted your weary head, wiping the tears from your soaked face with his thumbs. He whispered your name, “Go with Brienne. Go back to Casterly Rock and block out the world if you don’t want anymore death. You should never of left with me in the first place.”

You stubbornly shook your head getting a tired smile out of him. “Then I suppose Arya will have to make that choice for you.”

You both looked to her. She gauged you and him thoughtfully. Back and forth while the wheels turned. You reached out to her. “Please, please Arya, help me. We can get away from all this, I know we can.”

But with hollow eyes, she turned around.

“Arya? Arya where are you going!?” Sandor laughed cruelly despite your desperate reaching. “Arya!” you nearly jumped up but as your hand lifted from the heat of Sandor, like a rope you were pulled back down.

“Don’t.” Sandor chided.

“But where is she going!? She can’t just go!”

“Go with her.” you still refused. “She’s a child. Are you really going to just let her go off in the world on her own?”

“I can’t protect her, I can’t even protect myself! I need you Sandor! Please you can’t die! I can’t just leave you here!”

“Stupid girl!” He growled, shoving you harshly away from him. You didn’t lash out at him or even look shocked, you were far too consumed with panic and grief. “You stay with me and you’ll die! Is that what you want! Leave while you still have the chance!” you shook your head. “What does my life matter to you anyway!”

“You’re my friend.” you sobbed.

Sandor rolled his eyes. “For fucks sake...well offer your friend some mercy and kill me then.”

You both knew it was a moot request, but he couldn’t seem to convince you to leave either. After catching your breath and Arya was just a swaying dot in the distance, you were finally able to think. Think of the maps your boring Uncle Kevin had you memorize.

You jumped up, a new vigor in your bones. “I’ll come back for you I swear! Just live a little while longer!” You started charging down the hill, across the great planes, ignoring Sandor’s confused calls.

It was nighttime when you reached the closest village, breathless and glistening from sweat and tears, begging them to help you. They eagerly did, riding on horses while you lead them to the Hound, sleeping but still alive. Sandor only sighed when he saw what you’d done, the men behind watching as you fretfully reassured Sandor, this half burnt bloodied beast of a man, everything was going to be okay now.

The weeks went by, you both forced to stay while Sandors bones healed. The villagers found you two a great curiosity. They kept asking, were you his daughter, his sister, his ward? Neither of you cared, you busy being so attentive to him he had a hard time not swatting you away. You stayed after all, daughter of the great and cruel Tywin Lannister, a namesake worth all the gold in the world, and you stayed with the monster that terrified you as a child, The Hound.

“Are you watching me again?”

Sandor took back, feeling a heat lick under his skin for being caught. “No. Of course not.”

You only hummed, but he couldn’t help notice the bashfulness when you turned with a small tray of medical tools. “So you watch me? Just not this time.”

“Cheeky.” He scoffed, looking away.

With a chuckle you fell to your knees before him, grabbing the scissors and started cutting the cloth and rope around his leg. It had snapped completely in the fall, and you made it your job to mend every wound he got from the fight. When the leg was bare it smelled like rot, but you didn’t care, taking a wet cloth and wiping it down. You went standard procedure, ending with new bandages and planks snug against his shin.

He examined the leg. “You’re getting good at this. Maybe you could make a profession of it.” Surprisingly you didn’t lift or answer. You rested your arms on his good knee, smiling up at him like he was some sort of white knight adorned in flowers and sunlight. It was a look no girl had ever given him before, a look he never imagined possible for a girl to wear while looking at him. Sandor couldn’t respond, his mouth dry while he tried to comprehend what game you were playing at.

You hand, dainty and so elegant, slowly raised, a few fingers gently pushing aside his stringy hair. Before he could ask what you were doing, you lifted from your knees, your lips connecting with his. The act happened both slow and fast, taking the breath right out of him like some siren dragging him down a dream of water. An absolutely beautiful creature gracing him with the sweetness of her lips, as soft as a roses petals and as warm as the morning sun. Just like he always imagined.

You broke the kiss only to reconnect it, a smile on your lips while you teased him with small eager and wet pecks, each just as loving as the last. Your hands roamed from cupping his face to the other reaches of his body. Your affection was young and willful like you were. When his shirt slipped off and you kissed him onto his back, crawling on top of him, Sandor wanted to ask you why. He wanted to ask why a million times because no answer could possibly explain your actions right now. But when your dress lifted and he was at the mercy of your unblemished soft skin glowing in the firelight, all his words fell silent. He wasn’t a fool, he wasn’t going to risk stopping you with words.

[theimaginesyouneveraskedfor]

Breathless

“Ugh,” You grunted as you scowled in the mirror, adjusting the rigid corset tied around your middle, “I don’t know if this is right.”

“Huh?” Dis turned to you, her dark hair shone with a sprinkle of grey but still lush as it hung down in perfect braids across her back, “Oh, Y/N, I told you, it’s supposed to look like that…though it could be a bit tighter.”

“Tighter?” You whined and set your hands on your already constricted waist, “I don’t—Oh!”

Before you could notice, the Dowager Princess had moved swiftly and come up behind you to yank on the laces of your corset. She knotted the ends firmly with a smile in the mirror and you withheld and agonized scowl.  You regretted letting her talk you into this and wished you had opted for your usual trousers and tunic ensemble. You knew that it would have been impossible though as Dis had insisted her brother’s coronation called for grandeur, even if it did bring you pain.

Even so, you had little desire to pull on the dress she had chosen for you or to attend the ridiculous banquet to follow. You were as happy as any that Thorin was to be crowned at last as King of the Mountain but you were not so sure it was worth such discomfort. You would have rather sent him your congratulations by messenger than to show yourself in a gown. Already, you could only imagine the japes which the sight would arouse in the princes.

You were so distracted by your worries that you barely spotted the blur of Dis in the mirror as she rushed into the next room. Fighting against the pressure in your rib cage, you tried futilely to stand naturally in the boned contraption. You would have to beg her too loosen it or you would never make it through the night. As it was, you could barely breathe simply standing still.

With a sigh that made you light-headed, you turned stiffly and lumbered into the bedroom. You were stopped short as Thorin stood by the door, his eyes finding you before you could retreat. He was dressed in all but his regalia which he would be adorned with at the ceremony. His black hair shone in the lamp light and his midnight blue overcoat enhanced his natural colouring. He looked every bit the king and you felt every bit the fool.

You blushed, resisting the urge to look down at your thin shift and taut corset. You crossed your arms to shield your chest, which was pushed up much more than was proper by the binding. Squirming under his gaze, you mustered your strength.

“Um, where’s Dis?” You asked in a thin voice, “I, uh…need to ask her something.”

“She’s gone to fetch me a pin,” He looked towards the bath chamber opposite the boudoir you had emerged from but his eyes were all too quickly back on you, “I see she has dragged you into her tedious preparations.”

“Um, yes,” You choked out and teetered on your toes nervously, “I’ll just go wait for her…in there,” You pointed over your shoulder, smiling awkwardly at the king before turning in a stunted manner.

“I’ll see you at the banquet,” He called to you as you scrambled for the door, “With bells on, I would expect.”

“Hmmp,” You grumbled and closed the door behind you, looking at your reflection. You were mortified as you took in your appearance, your figure contorted by the boning of the corset and your chest nearly overflowing from the top, the white skirt lacking decent opacity. Cringing, you swallowed your shame and huffed, waiting for Dis to return so that you could scold her for manipulating you into this whole affair.

Dis had forced you into a satin gown the colour of fragrant wisteria and had woven your braids into a chignon behind your head. It was a far cry from your usual attire and you felt like an entirely different person. The only compromise you had wrangled out of the stubborn Dowager was a pair of flat slippers over the heeled monstrosities she had first offered. Even so, you felt ludicrous as you followed the king’s sister through the corridors.

What was worse were the two Durin princes who walked behind you, twittering and giggling about your get-up. They had made a remark about you being a “dainty flower” and “blossomed lady” upon their first sight of you but a jab to the ribs had quieted them to a hush. The squabble had drawn their mother’s disapproving eye and she had chosen to admonish you over her crude sons.

For some unknown reason, she was expecting much of you on a night meant for her brother. You had assumed you would have been able to disappear into the crowd of dwarves, in your own clothing, and be left to a pint of dwarvish ale in peace. You would offer your blessings to the newly-crowned king and your night would be over. No dresses, no ridiculous preening, and surely no dancing. But, as it was, Dis seemed to have her own machinations for you.

“Ugh,” You tripped over the hem of your skirts as you neared the double doors of the great hall, Fili catching you before you could stumble further, “Oh. Thank you,” You straightened up and dusted off your bodice with your hands, trying to find a modicum of dignity, “I think forgoing the heeled slippers was a wise decision.”

“Oh, hush, Y/N,” Dis waved away your comment, “You wouldn’t have such difficulty if you would have worn the slippers beforehand as I had advised.”

“Give me my boots any day,” You grumbled and shot a sneer towards her giggling sons, “And these two! Are they going to be following me around like shadows all night?”

“They have their place,” She turned to them with hands on hips, “Go find Balin. The ceremony should begin soon.”

“Yes, mother,” The Durins grumbled in demure obedience and turned away, a troublesome gleam still in their eyes despite their mother’s severity. “Now, Y/N,” She looked back to you with the same piercing eyes, “You and I must do the same.”

You merely nodded as you saw her patience waning under the stress of the coronation. She had done much of the preparations for the affair and she never expected anything less than perfection. With a brusque wave, she ushered you forward into the swathes of chattering dwarrows and dwarrowdams, weaving decisively between bodies.

At the front of the throng, Dis pulled you to the left side just before the raised dais and looked you over as if appraising your value. You had seen a similar expression in her brother many times and it seemed the bloodline bred such imperious eyes. You shook your head at her with confusion and she merely smiled and tucked a strand of loose hair back behind your ear before adjusting her own braids.

The sound of a horn blasted across the forum, Gloin lowering the hollowed bone from his lips as all began to quiet and arranged themselves around the aisle cordoned off by velvet banners tied to silver poles. You stood at the front of the crowd with Dis, her place of honour as sister to the king, and you wondered why she had insisted at bringing you along with her. You would have rather been with Bofur and his brothers as they lounged near the back.

You were distracted as another horn sounded, along with several others, and the tune signaled the arrival of the king. Thorin stepped out with shoulders squared and head held high at the other end of the hall. You craned your neck with others to watch him progress down the centre aisle and the dwarves stood in rare reverence as the heir made the walk to reclaim the Mountain once and for all.

As Thorin neared the front, Dis took your hand and squeezed it gently. You looked to her warm smile but there was more to it than merely regalement. The same cryptic flicker which had lit her face for the last day remained and you could not guess at its reason. You could only return her smile and turn back to watch the king pass by. As he did, his blue eyes glanced over at you and his lips twitched in recognition, a twinkle of surprise before he refocused on his purpose.

You were embarrassed as you recalled your appearance and frowned, resisting the urge to grumble at Dis for her coercion. The king had never looked at you so peculiarly when you were in your tunic. Then, he had looked upon you as a warrior, as a capable ally in his quest to retake Erebor. Why must his sister ruin all that you had earned in sweat and blood all for some paltry celebration?

Withholding your discontent, you regained your joyous façade, though you were as proud as any to see the king crowned. You watched as Balin began his recitations in khuzdul and felt an airiness in your chest, your mission at last complete as Thorin was crowned King Under the Mountain. All the pain had been worth it, even that of the boned corset as it crushed your ribs.

You sat, stabbing your fork violently against the silver plate, moping as the princes sat on either side of you. It was just like Dis to seat you between the two most troublesome guests. She had claimed it to be due to your ability to keep them in line though you had never proven yourself capable of that. They had continually commented upon your ‘unusual’ appearance and you had responded with sharp elbows and restrained growls. You doubt you looked any part the lady with such a dark expression.

Dis kept sending you glances from down the table where she sat beside the new king, his other side flanked by Balin and his brother who looked just as miserable as you. With each curious peek, you sunk lower into your chair and tried not to snap at the twittering princes. Taking your goblet and gulping back the thick ale, you were nearly startled as the band took up a chirpy tune and bodies began to flood the floor for the first dance of the night. Resigned to hide in your chair, you emptied your cup and slammed it back on the table.

Fili and Kili looked to you in surprise as they stood, eager to be out on the floor before your wrath turned once more to them. You sensed movement further down the table as the brothers hurried away and Dis sent you a reproachful look before turning back to speak to Thorin. Lowering your brow with a sigh, you traced the embossed pattern along the side of the silver goblet. Time could not move fast enough.

With every second, you felt the corset growing tighter and your skirts heavier. Ale would aid in the passing of minutes but you knew should imbibe too excessively, you would get more than a look from Dis. The first song ended and you fidgeted in your seat, trying to get comfortable though you knew it to be an insurmountable task. You glanced over to see if Dis was watching but you found her seat empty and you noticed that you and Dwalin were the only two guests still seated.

Your realization was interrupted as you felt a tap on your shoulder from your other side and looked up to find Thorin staring down at you. He wore the same bemused expression as he had walking down the aisle and his eyes roved your figure with unveiled delight. You shook your head and pushed out your chair, rising to meet his challenging gaze.

“Please, Thorin, I’ve heard it all from your nephews,” You scolded, “So just get it over with. Have your laugh and leave me to my misery.”

“Laugh?” He wondered slyly, “Oh, nothing of the sort. I was actually going to espouse on how lovely you look tonight.”

“Don’t,” You warned with a sharp point, “You’re not much subtler than the rest of your kin. I know I look like a painted fool.”

“Not at all,” There was sincerity beneath his mirth, “Truly, I did wonder earlier how you would pull it all together,” He alluded to your previous encounter and you coloured at the recollection of your lack of clothing, “All this time, I’d never considered what lay beneath all that wool.”

“Enough,” You cleared your throat awkwardly, “That’s not very…proper.”

“Dis can dress you up any way she likes but don’t try to act like you’ve ever been proper,” He teased and his light-hearted manner bewildered you, “She has however made the same effort at my expense. This whole night she has spent lecturing me on my kingly duties.”

“You would think the crown better left to her,” You japed and looked out among the crowds to search for the Dowager but could not find her.

“Exactly my thoughts,” He grumbled and his voice hollowed slightly, “And she, uh, made one suggestion in particular.”

“Oh, which is? What more do you need but that crown?” You gestured to the circlet upon his brow.

“Well, I…” He hooked his thumbs under the silver wrought belt around his waist, “Uh, well,” He was suddenly stuttering as his eyes moved evasively, “She said I should join the festivities…and dance.”

“Dance?” You squinted at him suspiciously, “Well, I’m sure you could find a partner easy enough.”

“Do you really think I would suffer without you?” He countered, regaining his former boldness, “You’re the only partner I think worthy enough to share in such delights.”

“Oh, Mahal,” You pouted and looked around once more, finding Dis at last as she watched from the other side of the hall, “Well, I think if I refuse she may just come over and make me dance with her.”

“That is by far the greatest ‘yes’ I’ve ever gotten,” He taunted dryly, “If you would?”

Thorin offered his hand and you took it slowly, letting him guide you from behind the long table and to the dance floor. Those twirling and stepping around you lent little excitement to the prospect and the king turned back to you, awkwardly guiding your arms into position. Stiffly, you followed his lead as he began to move in time with the music and you realized he was a much more gifted dancer than yourself. Not that you were much of one at all.

“I forgot how good you are at this,” You cursed him, “And how terrible I am.”

“You’re not so bad,” He mused and grinned down at you, “You just need to relax…though I think the corset doesn’t allow for much of that.”

“Ugh, don’t I know it,” You wriggled awkwardly in another effort to loosen the boning, “I hate this thing.”

“I don’t much mind it,” He remarked, “Though,” He leaned in and lowered his voice to a whisper, “I preferred it without the dress.”

“Thorin,” You slapped his shoulder with your palm, “What has gotten into you?”

“I just…I’ve never seen you like this,” He smirked as he spoke and his cheeks turned rosy as he straightened up, “I mean…I always knew you were a dwarrowdam but…”

You were sure he was teasing you, that he was making a joke his nephews would chortle grandly at. You pulled away from him and scoffed, stomping your foot, though the slipper made the angry gesture comical. “Very funny,” You huffed and turned on your heel, storming away from the king as you shoved through the bodies around you.

Before you could reach the doors, a hand caught your arm and you were forced back around to face Thorin, all humour washed away from his features. His blue eyes looked down at you intently and his usual austerity had returned. He cleared his throat and glanced around at the crowds which filled the room, the other guests remaining oblivious to your tantrum.

“Y/N,” He released your arm as if remembering himself, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it as a joke…” He looked to his toes and then back at you, “Can we talk…somewhere else?”

“Why?” You sulked as you stepped back, “So you don’t have to worry about having an audience?”

“Truly, Y/N, I’m serious, I wasn’t making fun of you,” His lips slanted and his shoulders slumped slightly, “Please?”

“Fine,” You accepted skeptically, “You have five minutes.”

Thorin nodded and gestured for you to turn around as he led you through a side door along the back of the hall. Winding through corridors silently, you could feel the tension of his anxiety building and he finally led you through a single stone door which you easily recognized. He ushered you in with few words and closed the door of his solar gently. Lighting a single lantern among the dark, he turned back to you and swallowed nervously as he measured his next words.

“Y/N,” His voice quavered and you suddenly realized you had let your pride corrupt his meaning, “I’m sorry.” He reached up and removed the bejeweled crown from his dark hair, tossing it onto his ebony desk carelessly, “I wasn’t trying to embarrass you.”

“Thorin, I--” You inhaled and chewed your lip before continuing, “It’s fine, I was being stupid. I let my temper get the best of me. I appreciate you dancing with me and all that but…” You gestured to your attire, “This isn’t me.”

“I know it isn’t,” He stepped closer, “But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t suit you,” His lips twitched, “Which is what I was trying to say. Among other things.”

“Other things?” You inquired with a raised brow.

“Well, yes, I mean, it shouldn’t have taken a corset and your bosom, ahem…” He caught himself and chuckled, “My apologies, but it’s a bit difficult not to notice. They are quite ample.”

“Three minutes, Thorin,” You warned, wishing you could pull the dress up over your cleavage.

“Sorry, sorry, my mind does wander,” He wiped the grin from his face, “What I was saying is it shouldn’t have taken all of Dis’ ridiculous efforts to make me admit how I feel…about you.”

“About me?” You echoed and tilted your head inquisitively.

“We’ve known each other a long time, we’ve fought together, traveled together,” He shrugged and exhaled tensely, “Well, I guess it was only inevitable that it happened.”

“You know I am terrible at riddles, Thorin,” You groused, “Please, just get to it.”

“Mahal, Y/N,” He exclaimed suddenly, “I’m trying to tell you that I love you! And that you look incredible in that stupid dress, even if you hate it.”

“What?” You uttered in shock, giggling despite yourself, “You what?”

Your giggles turned to guffaws and you clutched your corseted middle, unable to bend against the boning. The confession was somehow absurd even though it made your chest swell and your cheeks burns. You could not help but laugh and you looked up to find the king staring at you startled and speechless.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Thorin,” You wheezed and calmed your laughter, “I am…I just…I never thought--” You hiccoughed again but caught yourself from further chuckles, “I’m swear I’m not laughing at you, it’s just…I--” You breathed out and righted yourself, “Sorry, I’m surprised, is all.”

“Surprised?” His features were lined with worry, “Y/N?”

“In a good way,” You assured, “But, truly, Thorin? Do you really think I was prepared to hear that? That you love me?”

“Well, I do,” He grumbled darkly, “You don’t have to feel the same--”

“Thorin, Thorin, please,” You set your hands on his chest calmingly, “I didn’t mean it like that.” You looked into his eyes, running your palms up the brocade of his overcoat to his shoulders, “I love you, too.”

“You…do?” He asked as if he was certain you were joking.

“Of course, I do,” You touched his cheek softly, “How could I not? You’re the only person who could put up with my horrid dancing.”

At last he smiled, his face brightening with relief before he laughed himself. His hands came up to rest upon your waist and he leaned in slowly. You tilted your head back and waited for him to kiss you, but he paused just before your lips, “Do you know how to get this thing off?” He asked with a smirk, alluding to the boning beneath his fingers.

“We can figure it out,” You lilted as you traced the line of his beard with your fingers, “I’m sure Dis wouldn’t mind a few broken laces.”

With that, you pressed your lips to his and he kissed you deeply as your breath caught against the constraint of the corset and the weight of Thorin’s embrace. As you melted against the warmth of his body, you swore that you would never again wear a dress, even if you had to fight Dis off with a stick.