#the mist is the only thing that turns red- if the night sky turned red then it'd be too similar to the skies during big run!

[loafbud]

A quick icon art of my new salmonid boss!! during their night wave/known occurrence (which is only a lowtide event), there's red mist that ghosts above the water they arise from

[carolmunson]

spin doctor | e.m. x reader

mini ficlet, eddie munson works at a record store. he’s a little snobby. sort of shy!reader if you squint? it’s the very late 90s.

tw: 18+ references to smut/virginity, all around meet-cute-ish.

The rain slaps off the top of your coffee cup and into your eyes while you take a sip, woefully regretting not bringing an umbrella because the weather man said it was only misting. This isn't mist, this is just under a downpour, the hood of your dad's old canvas jacket doing little to protect you from the rain while it darkens with each drop the green fabric absorbs. You stop at the corner, protecting yourself from the weather under the awning of a laundromat. Squinting up towards the overcast gray sky, you double check the cross streets, two more blocks and you'll make it there. There being the record store that you found in the yellow pages after you inherited your parent's record player in their latest attic clean out. Your dad was smart though, sold all of the records that were in mint condition to collecters -- which left you recordless and sort of at a loss of where to start now that they were only sold at specialty stores.

You hurry your way down the next two blocks, finally seeing the sign for VI Chord Records lit up across the street in buzzing red neon. You wait to cross, seeing the reflection of the light in the wet asphalt while the sky starts to darken. Winter easing in slow these days while the nights start to come quicker than expected.

The door jingles when you open it, two guys at the check out counter looking up breifly and then back to their conversation; the other patrons don't even look. You take a breath, happy that at least no one is paying attention. You've never been to a record store before -- bought music, sure; CDs and cassettes but never vinyl -- that was like an old people thing. But your dad couldn't stop going on and on about how music just sounds better when you listen to it like that; and to be fair a lot of your favorites from the 60s and 70s sounded flat on your Walkman. You were on the hunt for the authentic experience now, the real deal.

You start at the 'New Arrivals' bin, pulling down your hood and taking off your headphones to put in your nylon back pack while you search. You sip your coffee while your fingers flick, flick, flick through the sleeves, crunching on and over the plastic protective covering of each record. You don’t know who most of the artists are, names hidden in intricate artwork or vulgar close ups of tits and crotch. You laugh at a few under your breath.

You continue your search, going over to the K section to see if you can find Carole King’s Tapestry, only to be inundated with Kiss record after Kiss record. Kix, Krokus, Kick Axe — King nowhere in the bunch. You let out a soft sigh, eyes scanning the back wall over the guys heads at the check out counter. Guitars hang on the velvet wall paper, gleaming with a fresh sign with scribbles of signatures on them. You land over by the S section, fingers flick flick flicking again to run into Slayer, T’s taken over by Twisted Sister. You don’t even realize how much time has gone by until you take a sip of coffee and nothing is left.

“Can I help you find something?”

You jump, not expecting to head a disembodied voice by the back of your neck, “Huh?”

“You just seem like you’re not finding what you’re looking for, can I help?”

You turn while he asks, one of the guys from the counter who looks like he’s stuck somewhere in the 80s and his grunge phase. His hair is to his shoulders, wavy and cut into a shag that put your moms 70s hair do to shame. The slight stubble on his chin and cheeks stretches with his smile — customer service perfection, but only for pretty things like you.

His crosses his arms over his army green tee, matching your coat that’s nearly dry now. His tattooed arms bulge slightly in the stance, straining against the small sleeves. Your eyes focus on the guitar pick dangling in the center of his chest; suddenly embarrassed by the attention.

“Um,” you start, eyes flicking up to meet his brown ones — soft and eager, like he’s excited to talk to you. Your eyes scan down to the black and gray flannel tied around his narrow waist, falling limply over his dark wash worn jeans into combat boots.

“Uh,” you stutter for a second, trying to not to get caught up in this handsome stranger, “I’m sorta new to records. My dad just gave me his but he sold all his good stuff so um — starting from zero I guess.”

“Ooh, nice,” he grins, “So a virgin, huh?”

You sputter, “Well um — no but —”

“Vinyl virgin, sweetheart,” he winks, “Don’t worry. I don’t need to know the horny details.”

“So what were you trying to find today?” he asks, leaning against the stacked milk crates full to the brim at the center of the room, “We actually just got some solid rares in if you’re trying to start a good collection.”

“I just wanna listen to oldies,” you laugh.

He laughs too, it’s smoky and cool, “Nah, nah, I hear you. What kinda oldies like — early Black Sabbath or…?”

You bite your lower lip, “I was more thinking like um, Motown? The Temptations? Maybe some James Taylor. I was mostly trying to find The Flamingos single for —”

He laughs while you continue on but then realizes you aren’t joking, head coming back to center, “Oh you’re, you’re serious?”

You feel heat lick at your cheeks and chest, sweat slickly creeping on the top of your back, “Yeah I thought…it’s a record store so—”

“Not that kind, princess,” he shrugs, hands dropping to lean against the crates behind him, “We only sell hard rock and metal here for the most part. You could check the dollar bins for drop offs, we don’t really sort those.”

“Oh,” you nod, averting his gaze while you see the big bin in the corner labeled ‘Dollar Donations’.

“Yeah maybe you’ll find your doo-wop stuff in there or something,” his voice has a hint of teasing to it that makes your teeth grit.

“Are you like, shitting on me?” you ask shakily, kind of surprised this is actually happening to you. That this guys is legitimately being a jerk over wanting music that maybe he’s not into.

“No, no, no,” he urges, “No. I’m sorry, seriously. It’s just that we don’t really get people who come in here not looking for what we sell. We’re kinda well known for being a vintage metal store.”

“Yeah well, I didn’t know that so,” you shrug, defeated weighing down your shoulders.

“It’s okay,” he assures, sweet smile tugging his lips up to reveal deep dimples, “You’re a vinyl virgin, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember,” you roll your eyes, making your way to the bin while he follows behind you.

“Maybe if you tell me what kind of music you like now I can find a good one for you,” he offers, hand resting on his chest that’s covered in silver rings and chipped nail polish, “I’ve been told I make great recommendations.”

“I’ve been liking Blink-182 lately. Backstreet Boys on the other side of the coin,” you shrug, “And um, one of my friends has been trying to get me into Nine In Nails.”

“Now we’re talking,” he smiles, “There we go. Anything else? What’s the other older stuff you like?”

“Uh, um,” you shrug again, “Elton John? Eric Clapton?”

He nods again, “Okay, some of this stuff I can work with. What about uh, hmm, Fleetwood Mac? Sort of your vibe?”

You smile at him without meaning to, making him nearly stutter at the site, “Yeah, that’s sort of my vibe.”

“Alright,” he nods while he racks his brain for the perfect album to pick for you, “I think I got an idea of what to pull for you.”

“Okay,” you cross your arms with a smirk, “Fine. I hope it’s impressive.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he grins cockily, “Never had anyone complain about me popping their cherry.”

“At least take a girl for a drink first,” you joke back, “I don’t even know your name.”

“I’m Eddie,” his hand extends out and you take it, his skin warm and slightly clammy at his never ending bumbling when talking to girls like you, “Happy to be taking your vinyl virginity today.”

You laugh, squeezing his hand slightly when you introduce yourself before letting go, “Be gentle, please. I’m new to this.”

“C’mon,” he cocks his head to the opposite wall by the ‘F’ section, “I got a lot to show you. We’ll go slow.”

He winks again; making you swallow hard. It might not have been where you meant go today, but it might have been exactly where you were meant to be.

[lipglossanon]

♔ 𝔉𝔦𝔳𝔢 ♔

• A Dozen Roses • Fairy Tale AU •

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, dead dove, incest, father/daughter incest, possessiveness, kissing, groping, thigh riding

Dawn does not break. A summer storm overtakes the early morning sky and overshadows the sun with pounding rain that comes down in sheets as lightning forks in the distance. Your chamber maids dress you warmly for even inside a chill is persisting along the stone corridors. 

Your father is nowhere to be found. Off with his fellow knights on a hunt, waylaid by the weather. That’s what the stable hand tells you as he points out the empty stall where your father’s steed usually rests. You frown out across the wide terrace as the maids usher you back inside. 

The day passes slowly, your ladies trying to distract you with music and sewing. One even whispers to you about the most recent gossip floating amongst the gentry. That your father has already chosen you a suitor— someone he was to announce after his hunt. 

“Is this so?” You murmur quietly, eyes seeking the window and yet only seeing the storm. 

She nods, threading her needle, “Yes, Princess. But tis only a rumor, just another tale to spread for those with too little responsibility.”

You smile at her, “I suppose that’s true enough.”

The talk turns to other things, letting you fall back into your thoughts. The book containing your mother’s story lies tucked against your side. Your grand plan of speaking to the King this morn dissipates like mist in the light. The day drags along and after supper, you visit her portrait hoping to glean more insight into this ghost. 

Refreshing her wilted lilies, as you have countless times before, makes your heart race with longing. Magic is all well and good but it seems to only have a place for you in the shadows of your heritage. Gifting her a single red rose, you place the thorny stem in the middle of the lilies and take your leave. Your ladies-in-waiting walk with you back to your chambers, bowing and bidding you a goodnight as you part from them at the door.

Once you’re completely alone, you light a candle and read over the words and secrets left behind in the diary until they swim across the page. You hear loud movement coming from beyond the door, leading you to creep across the cold floor to press an ear to the wood. The deep voice of your father can be heard but you are unable to parse what is being spoken. 

When you’re sure the hall is empty once more, you climb back into bed, hand reaching for the book you set aside. Eyes gaze unseeing upon the leather cover. The King has known everything all of this time and yet kept his distance. It hurts you. Makes you seek him out now regardless of the late hour, book in hand as you enter his rooms uninvited. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He’s seated in front of the fire, dressed down for the night in a simple tunic and breeches. His hair and clothing are soaked from the storm still raging outside. You suddenly realize you’re in your nightgown and how improper it was to walk through the castle in such undress as well as to be standing in the King’s antechamber. 

“Tell you what?” He tilts his head, eyes dark and heavy as they drag down your immodest shift—fists clenching where they lay against his thigh, “tell my precious little princess she holds magic in her blood?”

“Yes,” your voice turns pleading, “why hide from me what is my right?”

He shakes his head, “Twould do no good,” standing, he walks over to you, water dripping from his hair to the straight line of his nose, “would you have had me toss you off to that forest witch to be raised?”

Chills race down your back as he brushes stray hairs away from your face, “You are my daughter, my property... my responsibility.”

“You never cared before,” words burst from your lips like overripe fruit. “You paid me no mind until this summer, Father.”

“Because you look like her,” he growls, eyes flashing in the low light, “you could be her.”

He grasps your upper arm and walks you over in front of the looking glass; his free hand reaches up to cup your chin roughly, forcing you to gaze at the mirror image. You clench your eyes shut and he chuckles, a low mean sound, against your back. 

“Look, my naive daughter,” his calloused hands pinch into the skin of your jaw and you meet his eyes in the reflection, “you have given me a most precious gift— a second chance with my dear beloved.”

A gasp spills from your lips as the King lets go of your arm to cup your mound through your thin nightgown. 

“Have you been good while I’ve been away, Princess?” He murmurs against your ear, fingers rubbing slowly against the heat gathering at the apex of your thighs. 

“Yes, Father,” your brows pinch together, body leaning into his touch. 

“Good girl,” his thumb rubs across your bottom lip. 

That hot shivery feeling you sometimes get overtakes you, eyes darting to the King’s mouth. A yearning cavern opens in your chest, a hollow echo of loneliness making your lips part. It’s the same feeling that you had when he took it upon himself to confirm your purity, his mouth hot and wet upon your cunt. 

“You should check, Father,” the damning words whispered as if that would soften the indecent request. 

He presses his thumb past your lips, pushing against your tongue as you suckle the digit. 

“I should,” he rumbles, gaze hot on your mouth as he turns your head to the side, “just to be sure your chastity is in place.”

A chaste kiss is dropped to your mouth, fleeting like the brush of a butterfly's wings. Whining, you tilt your head further, bodily asking for more. He presses another kiss against your lips, so different from Lord Winters. Your father claims your mouth for his own. He makes you sigh and gasp against his lips as he tastes you deeply, tongue stroking alongside your own. 

Your legs nearly give out and he wraps his broad arms around you, holding you to his firm chest as he kisses you heatedly. Head fuzzy, you sink against him, letting the King kiss you senseless. Pulling away, he shushes your whining before tugging you to the armchair in front of the fireplace. 

Once he is seated, he pulls you into his lap, indecently straddling one of his legs as your gown shifts leaving your bare cunt to rest on his trouser clad thigh. He pets your sides, a strange little smile hovering over his lips.  

“I never thought I would have this again,” he murmurs, “come, kiss me again, my sweet daughter.”

You’re much too eager and uncouth, but he takes it in stride; slowing you down, guiding your lips and tongue until you’re moving in sync with him. It’s addicting, like eating sun warm strawberries from the garden. Forbidden but so so sweet. The juice sticky and syrup thick, filling your mouth with decadence. 

His sword calloused hands grip your hips, guiding you into a rocking motion that makes you bleat and moan against his lips. A rare warm chuckle from him makes your mind buzz. You follow his motions until he’s able to squeeze and pet your hips as you rock against his thigh. The sharp bolts of pleasure make you leak until his trousers are soaked, sticking to the soft lips of your cunt. 

“Want me to teach you?” He whispers hotly in your ear, “teach you all the ways to feel good, my precious princess.”

“Please, Father,” you mewl quietly, kissing him needily.  

“I’ll show you,” he promises, voice dark as his eyes, hands grasping your gown to delve underneath, fingers skimming across your bare hips, “teach you like I did her—such gorgeous witches I’ve owned.”

Thoughts too hazy to pay attention, you sigh and gasp when his hands drift under your nightgown to grasp your breasts, squeezing the soft fat with a groan. The King’s mouth drifts along your neck, lips soft as he kisses the sensitive skin. Chills race down your body, your mind a haze of wanton need. He kisses your breasts through the nightgown as he pinches your nipples. 

Whimpering at him, you tangle your fingers in his still damp hair. Your body is hurtling to that peak that whites out your thoughts, pleasure curling up like a sated cat in your stomach. The rough fabric of his trousers rub against your soft, wet heat as you rut back and forth on his thigh, making you moan softly. 

“My sweet witch,” he pulls away to gaze up at you in satisfaction, “my beloved made whole again.”

Bringing your face closer, he kisses you far sweeter than before. This surprising show of tender affection brings you to your climax. Your voice stutters out, a broken cry lost in his wet kisses. The fire in the hearth roars to life like dragon’s breath as glasses on the mantle shatter only to land as glittering diamonds on the floor. 

Your father chuckles warmly and it sends a frisson of heat pulsing at the apex of your thighs. 

“Such a gift, my precious princess,” he brushes his thumb across your swollen bottom lip.  

The expulsion of magic makes you tired. The King keeps you on his thigh, the rough material of his breeches bringing you to climax again and again as he kisses the moans from your mouth. Never pushing it further, he makes a promise to show you everything with each time you clench on nothing and cum on his lap. 

It’s cock crow when you finally pull away from your father’s embrace. Lips and cunt swollen from his rough touch and yet your body and heart ache for more. 

“I shall escort you to your room,” he helps you stand on trembling legs, wrapping one of his heavy riding cloaks around your body—his smoky scent surrounding you. “I’ll make sure you have the morning to yourself for resting.”

You hum, exhausted in more ways than one, and easily follow the King back to your room. As he tucks you into bed, you pout and grasp his shirt, seeking another kiss before you fall into slumber. 

“Sleep well, beloved,” he murmurs, kissing your temple before pulling away. 

Although you wouldn’t realize until too late, it’s the end of your old life. 

[everythingelseisextra]

Treasure The Memory

Part One: Everything Is Fine

Part Two: Commit To The Bit

Part Four: Petty Criminal

Description: A couple days after the hose incident, you find yourself feeling empty, and set off to find Thomas and apologize. Warnings: Language, alcohol Word Count: 2292 Tag List: @theshelbyslimited @globetrotter28 @babayaga67 @shelbydelrey Please let me know if you'd like to be added to the tag list!

Twelve horses. From six in the morning to six at night, you work without stopping. It’s your purpose, your drive, the only reason you have for getting up in the morning. The only reason you eat or drink. There’s an aching kind of emptiness that begins after the car drives away, that makes the time go by slowly while you work through the horses. Heaviness that pushes your muscles to work harder than usual, an odd sense of carrying something. But, still, you put your head down. You have work to do. You don’t have time to fantasize a life beyond what you trudge through. You don’t have time to imagine things had gone differently. 

You don’t.

But on the second day after, the weight is the same. You wake before sunrise and find yourself expecting to see him watching you ride in silence again, observing. You fill buckets and clean stalls and turn out and all the while, the back of your mind stumbles off somewhere, looking for the dawn to break like it did two days ago, like some groundhog day. You were given a splash of color in the long span of gray, and now you can’t forget what it was like. Now you can’t stop yearning for the boldness, the attention. 

That night, you lay in the twin bed shoved into the corner of a tiny room, and you stare at the night sky through the cracked window. Cool air caresses your face, and you sit up to look out. You see only the shadows of the barn and the void of the countryside, all-consuming darkness. Here, you think, is where everyone else’s ghosts come to haunt. Here is where the forgotten come to waste the rest of their lives. Here is where I will live, and here is where I will die. 

No. 

You stand up and walk the two steps to your wardrobe, pulling your clothes out and scrambling to put them on. Whatever you plan, whatever strange scheme, will present itself to you as you move. You can’t be like this forever. You can’t keep being fine, fine, fine, until you’re ready to go and all you can look back on is mediocrity. You can’t keep going out and waiting for someone to ask you who you are, what you’re about, whether you’re okay. 

You need to be the one to ask. 

You rush out to the barn. This late at night, no cabs will come to you, not when you’re so far out. Wired, almost manic with desperation, you halter your quickest horse, a mare named Secret, and forgo the saddle to ride bareback. The night is still young, and if you get there soon enough, get there fast enough, then maybe, maybe you’ll find him. Gripping your mare with your thighs, you cluck and urge her forward, loosening your reins and pushing your calves into her sides. She shoots off, and suddenly, you’re coursing through the night, the wind whipping your hair, the sound of hooves pounding the only thing you can hear. 

The first few minutes, exhilaration runs through you, and you breathe in the wild rush of the darkness. Then you feel the cold, and the dryness waters your eyes, and your skin grows red and chapped from the constant battering of the wind. And still, Secret gallops, and you cling to her back and duck your head and clutch her mane in your shaking hands. 

City lights blink softly at you through the mist of early night. You sit back and talk quietly to the mare, bringing her from a gallop to a canter, then to a trot, then, finally, to a heaving, breathless walk. Her sweat seeps into your pants, her fur covers the inside of your thighs, and your own sweat drips down your forehead. Still, you walk on, her hooves clattering on the stone streets. Eyes glint at you from alleyways. The city murmurs its quiet song. And, you, an interloper walking boldly into an unknown territory, hoping. 

You remind yourself: hope is a thing with teeth. 

The Garrison stands solemn in the darkness. The lights inside silhouette figures moving, dancing, banging their hands on tables and chairs. Tonight is Saturday night. Closing your eyes, you steady your breathing. Cold penetrates your bones and you find yourself trembling, coming and going in waves. You run your fingers through your hair, like it could be tamed, and slowly slip off the horse. You find an old hitching rail a few blocks away and tie her, offering her a bucket of water. You leave her there, in the dark side of the alleyway. You won’t be long. 

When you open the double doors to the Garrison, you’re flooded with golden light and feral singing and warmth. You still tremble, but less so. The chills are chased away by the faultless sense of revelry in the air. You push through the crowded sitting area as though fighting your way down an overgrown path. Limbs swing into your way, people stamp their feet, and a rousing chorus starts up. 

You stumble through to the bar and lean on it, facing towards the seating area. Men on tables, men dancing, men drunk and throwing up in buckets. Men howling like wolves, men grabbing their women, men cheering each other on. No sign of the man you came here looking for. Your heart sinks. 

The barmaid laughs from behind the bar while she walks towards you. She leans over, smiling faintly. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m—” Your voice doesn’t carry; she leans closer to listen. “I’m looking for Thomas Shelby.”

She points immediately to a slim door, closed, but that opens into a small, octagonal room. “I wouldn’t interrupt.” 

You hesitate. “Who’s he with?”

“His brothers.”

“Thank you.” You nod to her, then push through the drunken party to stand in front of the door. You breathe in whiskey and cigarette smoke and body odor, and breathe out. Then, cautiously, you knock. 

If there’s a response, you don’t hear it. Throwing caution to the wind, you place your hand on the handle, take another breath, and push it open. 

Three pairs of eyes stick to you; two angry, one surprised. You step inside and close the door behind you. Silence, so thick it seems to buzz with the energy of their gazes. From their seats behind the table, they look you up and down, and you’re suddenly in a spotlight, caught in the blindness. No one speaks. 

The man on Thomas’ left breaks it. “Who the fuck are you?”

Your eyes drop and you mouth the words; no one.

“I said,” The man stands awkwardly, scooting out from behind their table and approaching you. He’s considerably taller than you, leaning down to loom over, speaking far too close to your face. You catch the smell of whiskey and beer on his breath, and your eyes lock onto bits of food stuck in his mustache. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Enough, Arthur.” Thomas leans back in his seat, arms loosely crossed, a cigarette in one hand. 

“I thought you hadn’t taken a woman since—”

“I haven’t.”

“Is this the one that sprayed you with the hose?” The man on his right grins at you. “My kind of girl.”

“Wouldn’t let someone spray me with a hose.” Arthur steps back, though you keep yourself shrunken away, a little too overwhelmed by what you’ve stepped into to unravel yet. “I’d knock ‘em out and spray ‘em meself.” 

“That’s enough.” Thomas stands and walks out from behind the table, brushing past you to open the doors. The riotous sound of the bar fills the small space again, and you step away from the door, trying to get away from it. “John, Arthur, go join them.” 

“No, I want to hear what hose-girl has to say.” The man still sitting, presumably John, stays sitting, eyes going straight to Thomas’. “I’m staying.”

“John.” Thomas’ head tilts slightly, his eyes flicking to you, then back. “Get out.”

John looks at him a moment longer, smile fading, then shrugs, stands, and walks out. Arthur follows. Thomas closes the door after them, and you close your eyes, relieved by the quiet. 

“Sit down,” Thomas says. You hear his footsteps move past you, then the sound of him sitting back down. After a moment, he adds; “Please.”

You open your eyes. His hands lay on the table in front of him, his cigarette between his ring and pinkie finger. His dark hair sits as though he styled it, and you become suddenly aware of your appearance, the wildness of your hair, the goose pimples still on your skin, the slight shiver of your body, the sweat dried on your temple. His eyes are on you, expectant, and so you nod and sit on the other side of the table as he asks. Your gaze remains downcast.

In silence, he pours you a small glass from the bottle of amber whiskey, and you take it, slowly sipping the smooth liquid. Once you place it back down, and settle into your seat, he speaks. 

“If you came to ask for forgiveness, it’s already given.” His voice rolls off his tongue, a plodding sort of sentence that you can’t help but get wrapped into. “Past in the past. We can go our separate ways.”

You look up at him, head still tilted down, and you toy with the rim of the glass, running your fingers along it. Your voice is quiet, not quite even enough. “Who are you?”

“You know who I am.” 

“No. When you said I didn’t know who you were, what did you mean?” You look back down, unable to hold your gaze steady with his for long. 

He rolls his shoulders and sits back, hands still laid across the table. “I’m the lead of the Peaky Blinders.”

“The razor blades.”

“Aye.” He inclines his head to you.

“And you guys do… what?”

“What needs to be done.” 

“That’s very vague.”

“We’re a group of well-intended people who do very bad things to achieve our goals.”

You smile faintly. “I’m supposed to be scared of you.”

“Most people are.” His eyes search your face. “You’re not.”

You shrug. “Truth is, I’m scared of everyone. I’m so used to it that it doesn’t make you special.”

He brings his cigarette to his lips, takes a slow drag, and exhales a plume of smoke. “So you are scared of me.”

You take another sip of the whiskey, hoping to avoid answering. Your body shivers, despite the warmth of the drink inside of you, burning as it goes down. 

“Smart thing to do now is go home, feed those horses of yours, and forget you pointed that bloody hose at me.” He sits up, leaning towards you. The space between you shrinks with the intensity of his gaze, and you sit back, meeting his eyes. “No need to get mixed up in the shit I live with.”

“I don’t want to forget it.” Something about him sparks some bravery in you, helps your voice come smoothly, helps your mind connect with your body. Or maybe that’s the whiskey. “It might’ve been… unfortunate, but it was the most fun I’ve had in— well, in years.”

“Treasure the memory, and get out while you can.” 

You look down. This conversation is not going the way you’d hoped. You play the last cards you have. “I won’t sell you Draco, but I’ll let you ride him.”

Silence. Your gaze shifts upwards. One of his eyebrows is slightly raised, his cigarette paused halfway to his lips. 

“What do you want?” He gestures at you, still holding the cigarette. “Why do you want this so badly?”

“I don’t know. I guess I want something different. I don’t want… to die in a house I feel trapped in. I don’t want to—”

“I’m not here to play games.” He stands, starts for the door. He stops, looks over his shoulder at you. “I’m not here to listen to girls who don’t know what they want.”

He opens the door and begins out. Sound rushes in, a deluge that almost catches you off guard and drowns you. Instead, you stand and project your voice. “Thomas.”

He pauses, looks back at you, slowly closes the door. His eyes are cold, calculating, a glint in them that tells you he’s teetering on a line between anger and amusement.

“I want freedom,” you say, finding some strength to your voice. “I want to feel like I’m more than my past, and more than the money I have. I want to have people care about me. I want to not be alone anymore.”

I want you.

“And,” you let out a short breath. “I want a do-over. I want you to come ride with me. Without spraying you with a hose.”

“A do-over,” he repeats, one hand still on the doorknob. 

“Yes.”

He considers you, blue eyes sharp, but not as cold as before. “Tomorrow morning, then.”

“Okay.”

His gaze falls to the door beside him, and, almost imperceptibly, he takes a breath. “You ready?”

You nod and walk forward, moving towards the door. 

“Wait.” He steps in front of you, blocking your way. You stop short, a foot away, and your eyes trail over him, marking his positioning, ready to dart away if needed. 

He takes off his coat jacket and holds it out to you. “Wear it on your way back. Don’t need you getting sick.” 

You take it, and offer him a small smile. “Not so scary.”

“Don’t decide yet.” He opens the door and the world floods back to you. As you walk out, you hear him say, “Goodbye, No One.”

[temis-de-leon]

Peaceful waters

Characters: Levi x gn!MC

Masterlist

CW: implied depression, emotional numbness, MC's not having the best of times, another minuscule nod at Lesson 16 because I'd never be able to forget about it

He may be ooc, but i couldn't stop thinking about this

.

There was something about the color blue. Something so strong it made you want to cry. 

It could be the clear skies of spring, warm breeze carrying the smell of flowers; or maybe the blueberry sour candy that stained your tongue. It also reminded you of that stray cat that followed you around, purring against your leg even when you didn't have any treats, cyan eyes staring at you with unconditional love. 

It could be the water and the sound of waves reaching the sand, or maybe the early hours of the morning, moon and sun coexisting in the sky, mist in the horizon and dirt moist with dew.

When was the last time you woke up before dawn? High school, perhaps? Or one of those nights where the tears were heavier than your eyelids? Staring at the window and the people living around you with a headache so brutal it took away your vision.

But did you have enough reasons to cry? You weren't okay, but you were neither sad nor angry; it could be worse. 

Poor MC with the empty hole in their chest, no emotions to fill it with, unable to enjoy the flowers that grew inside the crevices of the pavement, the dog sunbathing in the balcony or the desire paths inches away from the manmade sidewalk.

Poor MC, no sense of direction, too detached from their own life to reject their murderer’s friendship, to listen to their survival instincts and turn around when it was due.

So lost in their lack of feelings that the only thing they could confine in was the color blue.

Blue, like the wings of a butterfly.

Like Levi's aquarium.

Like laying in the midst of his pillows, his blankets and his clothes, the familiarity of his scent surrounding you when everything became too much.

Levi, who didn't need to ask why whenever you showed up at his door with cloudy vision. The one who respectfully turned up the volume of his headphones so you could cry in peace, uncomfortable upon your sadness, but understanding.

Whatever you would give him without any reason to do so, he would give you. His presence, his silence, his words… A lending ear, a forced joke to ease the room, a tutorial for a game you've already played millions of times.

Levi, who treated you like his lover, his idol and, above all, his bestfriend.

When he'd look at you, your wet cheeks and your red nose, half of your face buried in the nest you'd made in his bathtub, he'd realize.

The color of his pact was orange, but he was an aquatic demon. Wouldn't it make more sense if he wore the color of his own element? 

But then again, you were the color blue: the depths of the ocean, the lights of his room, Henry's tank. Laying together and staring at the ceiling while talking about the last game he'd purchased, hugging him when he became to embarrassed to do anything else and kissing him when he believed he didn't deserve it. 

You were to him what he hoped he'd someday be to you.

Blue.

Just like water.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Hello, there ♡ I saw your requests are back open and I was wondering if I could request some more Thranduil smut where the reader (female human) has a nightmare or is just deeply upset over something (whichever you prefer) and he comforts her, but then it slowly turns into a slow burn fuck sesh 🔥🔥 thank you so much. I hope you are having a good week.

Well hello there! I had a great week, I hope it was the same for you! Now, onto your request.

"Light after darkness"

✨Pairing: Thranduil x Fem. Reader (Human / Second person POV)

✨Themes: Some angst | Smut | Soft 

✨Warnings: Insecurity (Reader) | Mentions of imprisonment/torture | PTSD | Kissing | Fingering (Fem. receiving)| Body worship | Nicknames | Explicit language | Mild dirty talk | Penetrative sex | Cream pie 

✨ Word count: 3k words

✨Rating: 🔥🔥 | Minors DNI | 18+

Summary: A bad nightmare and waking up in the dark ends up with something much lighter and sweeter.

✨ Author's notes: "Girdle of Varda" is a band of countles stars similar to the Milky Way. 

Want to be tagged? Want to know the rules? Read all here.

The vision returned, darker and more sinister this time.

It started as an inky black mist rolling in, and the world went dark. Lightning struck like a lance, its flash splitting the sky, but little could be seen, save for shadows in the gloom. Ugly things, ones only found in the darkest pits, slithered about, muttering in a tongue that was foul and torturous to listen to. There were flashes of terror and suffering, and there was laughter, coldness, and cruelty. There was the glint of steel, of eyes glinting like red, hot coals. And the pain, sharp and intense, returned, with memories of a dark time flooding in like waves crashing over jagged rocks. 

And that flood only grew, with those waves rising higher and higher. Your heart lurched at the next flash of lightning, at the glint of a sword, at the sound of a beast pounding over muddy earth. You caught the subtle sheen of armour, the agonizing sounds of frantic screams. Red eyes flashed in the darkness again, hot and angry this time, rushing towards you, and then —

"Starlight?" a comforting voice called out from the darkness, pulling you out of the dream and slowly into waking. "Starlight, are you all right?"

You jerked awake, a silent scream trapped in your throat. The utter clarity and terror of that nightmare left you shaken and cold, and you trembled, your eyes barely making out the outlines of a large room. "It's dark," you said in a panic, your chest heaving heavily. "Why is it dark?"

You heard nothing, save for the muffled sound of feet over thick carpets. A candle was lit, its soft, golden light dispelling some of the gloom. Someone walked over to the large, arched windows, opening them to a wide expanse of the night sky. Sheer drapes fluttered in the cool breeze. And how beautiful the sky was! Countless stars glittered against an endless field of inky black, with the Girdle of Varda and a pale full moon standing out against them all. How comforting it was to see that sky after weeks of darkness, the light of that candle, but most important of all, the face of the ellon who made his way back to your side.

"Are you well, starlight?" He studied you, his eyes filled with growing worry. "You were struggling in your sleep."

"Bad dreams again," you tried to take a deep, steadying breath to try and compose yourself. "From before and..." You began to weep then, shedding sad, bitter tears, as the memory of your capture kept flooding back. Thranduil felt helpless, unable to defend you from an enemy he could not fight or even see. It made him angry—so very angry, that he couldn't shield you from the horrors that plagued you some nights. In the end, he settled on the one thing he could do. He joined you in bed, gathering you in his arms and holding you while you wept.

Tears fell, hard and relentless, and you clung to Thranduil's robes, your chest heaving painfully against his. And Thranduil refused to let go, holding you silently without complaint. His presence was a great comfort, and his touch was soothing. You lost track of time, so lost were you in your grief. And it slowly passed, with your tears easing and your sobs quieting. The pain you felt ebbed, and yet you felt empty instead of light. 

"Do you wish to talk about it, starlight?" Thranduil's voice was warm and deep as it cut through the haze. 

"Tis the same as before," you choked, nestling into him. "A foul mist and lightning. Daggers and those ugly red eyes. Then a sword flashed in the darkness. Your elk pawing at the earth. Screams." Your eyes drifted down, to your exposed left arm. "The pain."

Thranduil ran a careful finger over the scars on your forearm, a gift from your orc captors. "Does it still hurt?"

You shook your head. "Not anymore. But I can still feel the blade. And I hate it. I hate how it looks. How it makes me look." You sniffled again when you went over those scars, all words, all in the black tongue of Mordor. No amount of healing could make them go away, and you were bound to carry them for the rest of your days. "I feel ugly."

How Thranduil hated it, hearing you talk like that. He couldn't bear to hear you talk of yourself that way. "You are beautiful starlight, and it pains me to hear you talk of yourself that way." 

"But look at these!" You cried and stuck out your arm, so he could see. "They will never go away, so how can you say that I am?"

Thranduil took your hand into his and lifted it to his lips. "I am not blind to them, starlight. I say you are beautiful because you are. Remember your first night after waking up?" His pulse scrambled with each little kiss when his lips pressed against your skin, at the scent that filled his lungs—the sweet scent of you. "When you were strong enough to dine with the rest of us?"

Your cheeks warmed; how could you forget? Thranduil was the first to rise when you walked in, his eyes fixed on you and no other. He had insisted you sit next to him, and he spent almost the entire night talking and dancing with you. "I thought you had never seen a mortal before me," you managed a weak smile.

"Hah!" Thranduil guffawed, his lips skimming over your fingers. "Mortals, I deal with plenty. You on the other hand? I have never seen anyone like you, and I could not keep my eyes off you. You were a vision that night... You are a vision, starlight. I wish we had met under happier circumstances, but I am glad we did. I would not change the past several moons for anything."

You barely remembered the first few days of your rescue. All you did have were hazy memories of that battle, of opening your eyes and seeing Thranduil for the first time, the fall of his silver-blonde hair, the steel of his armor, the cloak that kept you warm on the ride back to his halls. Still, those first memories of him, blurred as they were, were so precious to you. "I would not change one thing either, save for maybe this."

Thranduil's lips left your fingers and trailed down your arm, barely skimming over the scars. "You are beautiful, starlight," he breathed softly. "Will you let me show you just how beautiful you are?"

You hummed sweetly, all too aware of the heavy thud of your own heart. And to have him take his time to make you feel good? Well, you were not going to say no to that. "Yes," you said, your breath hitching when his eyes darkened.

Thranduil took his time, slowly unburdening you of your robes and unburdening himself of his. He started by touching you first, letting his hands glide all over your body, slowly and gently, like he was touching you for the first time. And he trembled, his breath soft and tremulous, his hands shaking as they continued with their gentle exploration. "Just feeling your naked skin against mine is enough to make me weak," he murmured, delighting in the little gasp he heard. "So soft, and I cannot get enough of it."

His touch slowly grew insistent, and his light brushes grew a little rougher, a little greedier. His hands were everywhere, over your thighs, your belly, the soft swell of your breasts, deft fingers kneading at your flesh. You shivered, your body slowly easing over soft, silk sheets, your fingers digging into the fabric. Thranduil saw this and groaned under his breath. He had only just begun.

He moved over you, his thighs pushing yours apart. Propping himself on one elbow, Thranduil continued with his exploration, his soft, luscious lips just hovering over yours. His free hand kept gliding over your belly, over trembling muscles, and his eyes locked on you. And those eyes of his, burning bright even in the light of that single candle, the blue of them as vibrant as a clear morning sky. That was the only first clear memory you had of him after your rescue: opening your eyes and finding him looking down at you on the ride back. A gasp then ripped through you when his hand came back to your breasts, stroking the soft skin, his fingers drawing little circles, then pinching lightly at first, then growing rougher, until it felt like your entire body was aching. Flushed and breathless, you moved a hand over his, trying to guide him. 

"No," Thranduil gently ordered, his lips brushing over yours. "Not tonight."

You swallowed and moved your hands over your head, your body pulsing as he continued, brushing his fingers over your throat, your lips, and your eyelids. 

You were everything he wanted, needed, even. And he didn't stop. Not with his hand, not with his lips. Thranduil kept brushing his lips over yours, savouring the sweetness of your mouth and he felt it—the slow pin-pricks of desire smolder and grow stronger, degree by slow degree. Hunger threatened to overcome him, but he forced himself to hold back just a little longer. He wanted to taste more of you first. 

Your back arched against him, and you sighed helplessly when he dipped his head, his lips and his tongue leaving a damp trail in their wake. "I cannot get over how sweet you taste," he mumbled against your throat, his teeth nipping at your skin. "Just thinking about my lips against your skin is enough to make me hard."

You pulled away and looked at him through heavy-lidded eyes, searching for any sign of a lie or a tease. There was nothing but love and dark hunger burning in them.

"D-do you m-mean it?" you still asked, as doubt slowly sunk its claws into you. Thranduil was the Elvenking, an ellon who could have had anyone he wanted, and yet he chose you, a mere mortal with a scarred arm. His choice shocked many, and you were constantly worried despite his promise of devotion.

His eyes grew serious as his hand went lower, to the apex of your thighs. "I mean it, starlight, every word of it," his voice was thick and hoarse, a groan escaping his lips when you arched your back again, your mouth parting in a soft moan as his fingers rubbed up against your heat.

There was no talking now, just feeling. Thranduil watched, his blood heating at the sight of you writhing beneath him. He wanted to see, truly see, what pleasure was like on you, and he was not disappointed. Intoxicating, was what it was, and he took his time, drinking in the myriad of expressions that washed over your countenance—the looks of shock, desire, and pure ecstasy. Thranduil enjoyed it all, committing everything to memory. 

"No starlight," he denied you when you tried to move your hand over his once more. "Not tonight. Let me take care of you."

Oh, how he took care of you, running the pads of his fingers over the warmth of your slit, your little pearl. And how it thrilled you—how it sent jolt after jolt of intense pleasure washing all over your body. Having to keep your hands to yourself and letting him take control—it all felt so wonderful and so very erotic. And then he slid a finger in, gently curling it around your pulsing walls, pulling shameless moan after shameless moan out of you.

"You are made for me," Thranduil's breath had grown ragged, his eyes feasting on the sight of you moving frantically, how you bucked against his hand. And how his heart pounded against his chest as you continued to writhe beneath him, your walls clenching around his finger. "Just me. And look at how glorious you are right now, starlight. Look at how your body responds... I could spend all day in our chambers like this, just watching you."

"Th-thranduil," you whimpered weakly, your body slowly unraveling beneath him. You were unsure what heated you more, his words or his touch. "D-dont stop. P-please."

The king growled in approval, his own body aflame. "That first night with us," he crooned huskily, his lips skimming over the shell of your ear. "When you came to eat with us, and I saw you, I thought I had strayed into a dream. I could not keep my eyes off of you, starlight."

"M-more," you pleaded, your body tingling at his words, your muscles tightening more and more with each passing second. "P-please my k-king."

Thranduil was almost undone by that alone. And he felt it—your thighs shaking, your walls slowly tightening. He withdrew his finger and positioned himself, his lips just a hair's breadth over yours. "Your body is intoxicating," he breathed, trembling when the tip of his cock rubbed against your slick. "Fuck," he mumbled, his very breath shuddering. Thranduil swallowed and forced himself to focus. He was not going to move along blindly. He wanted you to feel as much pleasure as he did. 

And you could no longer bear not touching him. You could no longer bear this waiting. You reached over, twining your arms around his broad shoulders and tracing lines between his shoulder blades. "I'm ready," you whispered. "Please, my king. I need to feel you inside of me again."

Thranduil's gaze cut to yours. There was nothing but lust shining in his eyes and it thrilled you to have him look at you like that. 

"Please," you pleaded once more. "I need you inside me."

Thranduil hesitated briefly. Just briefly. He looked at you, eyes filled with reverence, his free hand brushing over your hair. You looked up at him, the two of you staring at each other in wonder. There was a pause. The very air seemed to still. And then, his mouth captured yours in a kiss. His kiss seared, his mouth hot and hungry as his lips plundered yours. Your heart fluttered when he pressed himself against you and his tongue licked past your parted lips to dip into the warmth of your mouth. A noise rose at the back of your throat, a soft, needy moan, something dark and sinful, enticing him to kiss you even more. Your arms tightened over his shoulders, and your legs scrambled for purchase against his hips. You felt it—him piercing your core, his cock sinking inch by slow inch, pushing you deeper into the bed. And oh, how good it felt to have him inside you, filling you to the hilt. Belonging to him, just him. Oh, how you loved that, knowing you were his. And then he moved. His first thrust ripped a gasp out of you; the second, a dreamy sigh.

Thranduil was slow and deliberate. His thrusts were gentle and steady, as if he didn't want to shock you, or cause you pain. All you could do was cling to him, your body tightening again with each passing moment. It was always like this, always so good, and only he could make you feel like this, take you higher and higher, to places you have never been before.

Thranduil's breath quickened and grew ragged. He grunted when your hands moved up and buried themselves in his thickhair. Those grunts grew deep and gutteral and turned to moans every time you tugged, every time you pulled him closer to you. Feeling your naked skin against his hammered at his restraint, and he slowly picked up the pace, going harder and faster, his hips slamming against the inside of your thighs. His moans matched yours, his free hand kept gripping at your hip, so he could go deeper. And how he loved it, how you held him, how your body responded to him.

"You are perfect starlight," he rasped, rough and deliberate, when your hands moved back down to his shoulders and your nails dug into his skin. Thranduil didn't mind it one bit, for it meant you found pleasure in what he was doing. "You are perfect even with your scars, and I would not change a single thing about you."

You would have replied, but your answer was muffled by his kiss. It didn't matter. Hearing that he fully accepted you, scars and all, was enough. Seeing and hearing how strong his desire was for you was enough. You cleaved to him, your legs clinging desperately against his hips as he took you closer and closer to the edge. It was there, in the trembling of your thighs and in the quickening of your breath. Thranduil felt it—the coiling of muscles in his belly, the frantic pace of his breathing. "Together then?"

You looked up at him and nodded. 

Moans spilled free and filled the room, drowning the sound of skin slapping against skin.Thranduil didn't let you go, not when your orgasm ripped through you and you cried for him, his name repeatedly rolling past your lips. Oh, how that shattered him—his name on your tongue, your walls clenching around his cock. Thranduil took you over the edge and fell with you, his moans peppering the air when those coiled muscles snapped, making him lose himself in you. You barely heard it, so caught up were you in your blissed-out state. You barely heard it, the satisfying grunt, the gruff, throaty moan. You felt his body trembling violently over yours before he spilled his seed inside you. One last thrust, one final moan, and he let go, propping himself on his hands to stop himself from collapsing over you.

You hear nothing, save for the sound of your choppy breathing and his. Only that and a sweet smelling wind that blew in through the windows. You opened your eyes to that glorious sky, those glittering stars, and the soft light of the moon. You hungered for such sights, to see light after being kept in the darkness for so long, and Thranduil made it possible again, in more ways than one.

"My king," you breathed when Thranduil moved to his side, taking you with him. The strength of his arms and the gentleness of his touch were nearly enough to make you forget. Nearly. The memories will always remain, but you knew you would be safe in his arms and that nothing could get to you now.

"My queen," Thranduil brushed his nose against your hair. He then started to hum an elven lullaby, his soft, soothing voice lulling you into a deep and peaceful sleep. 

Tags: @shrasdust | @asianbutnotjapanese | @nupppuff | @ryantryan6969 | @viivi

[ilynpilled]

Bran

He was clinging to a tower miles high, and his fingers were slipping, nails scrabbling at the stone, his legs dragging him down, stupid useless dead legs. "Help me!" he cried. A golden man appeared in the sky above him and pulled him up. "The things I do for love," he murmured softly as he tossed him out kicking into empty air.

He thought of the golden man and the three-eyed crow, remembered the crunch of bones between his jaws and the coppery taste of blood. "I don't have dreams. Maester Luwin gives me sleeping draughts."

"Is that what scares you, the falling?" The falling, Bran thought, and the golden man, the queen's brother, he scares me too, but mostly the falling. He did not say it, though. How could he? He had not been able to tell Ser Rodrik or Maester Luwin, and he could not tell the Reeds either. If he didn't talk about it, maybe he would forget. He had never wanted to remember. It might not even be a true remembering. "Do you fall every night, Bran?"

Jaime

Jaime curled up beneath his cloak, hoping to dream of Cersei. But when he closed his eyes, it was Aerys Targaryen he saw, pacing alone in his throne room, picking at his scabbed and bleeding hands. The fool was always cutting himself on the blades and barbs of the Iron Throne.

In his dreams the dead came burning, gowned in swirling green flames. Jaime danced around them with a golden sword, but for every one he struck down two more arose to take his place.

Jaime saw green flames reaching up into the sky higher than the tallest towers, as burning men screamed in the streets. I have dreamed this dream before. It was almost funny, but there was no one to share the joke.

Bran

He was so skinny, just skin stretched taut over bones. Had he always been so thin? He tried to remember. A face swam up at him out of the grey mist, shining with light, golden. "The things I do for love, " it said. Bran screamed. The crow took to the air, cawing. Not that, it shrieked at him. Forget that, you do not need it now, put it aside, put it away. It landed on Bran's shoulder, and pecked at him, and the shining golden face was gone.

Jaime

"You don't feel your wounds then, or the ache in your back from the weight of the armor, or the sweat running down into your eyes. You stop feeling, you stop thinking, you stop being you,"

"the steel of his breastplate turned cherry-red before the end, and his gold melted off his spurs and dripped down into the fire. I stood at the foot of the Iron Throne in my white armor and white cloak, filling my head with thoughts of Cersei"

"let them have the meat, and you go far away."

Yet he heard himself whisper, "Let them do it, and go away inside."

"The world is full of horrors, Tommen. You can fight them, or laugh at them, or look without seeing... go away inside."

Jaime lost himself in her flesh. […] The pale marble was smeared with blood. Jaime wiped it clean with his sleeve, then bent to pick up the candles he had knocked over. Fortunately they had all gone out when they fell. If the sept had caught fire I might never have noticed.

Bran

Bran was going to be a knight himself someday, one of the Kingsguard. Old Nan said they were the finest swords in all the realm. There were only seven of them, and they wore white armor and had no wives or children, but lived only to serve the king. Bran knew all the stories. Their names were like music to him.

Bran nodded, trying not to let his fear show. He had not been outside Winterfell since his fall, but he was determined to ride out as proud as any knight.

Broken, Bran thought bitterly as he clutched his knife. Is that what he was now? Bran the Broken? "I don't want to be broken," he whispered fiercely to Maester Luwin, who'd been seated to his right. "I want to be a knight."

And he would never walk, nor fly, nor be a knight.

Jaime

And me, that boy I was...when did he die, I wonder? When I donned the white cloak? When I opened Aerys's throat? That boy had wanted to be Ser Arthur Dayne, but someplace along the way he had become the Smiling Knight instead.

[xbunnybunz]

The Devil, He, and I [Alastor X Reader 1+2/9]

Summary: In a cabin by the woods, you make a deal with a demon that may cost you your humanity.

Genres: Romance, Angst, Horror, Psychological Horror

TWs: Past SA

"Nothing burns like the cold."

-George R.R. Martin

There is a vanishing point in all your memories.

Like a ripple in a pond, there is always an undeniable wave of motion, but never a distinguishable end. One event colliding into another, miraging into a hazy recollection of things bleeding into, and out of each other.

And in the middle, an ineffable and obtrusive center. This is how your past tapers out, ink fading into a hazy artificial distance you can put your finger on yet never quite make out, even if you squint, lean closer, try to wipe the fog away with your sleeve.

Stare harder. Harder. Find that if you try to follow the lines of your past, it’ll only ever puzzle you back out to the present, find that anyone who tries too hard to make sense of the unchangeable becomes the snake that eats its own tail.

Always, remembering has been autocannibalism.

You watch your small, familiar yet harrowing world sink into a vanishing point in the rearview mirror, then watch that world fade with the snow. This too, you will remember. Despite, despite, despite.

When you arrive outside the cabin, the pines bow in a distant wind as if greeting a long-lost friend. You cast your sight downward to avert their thousand pin-eyed gazes. 

White on the ground and foggy skies consume your vision as far as you can see, broken only by the towering grey-green treeline, haunting even from a distance.

The wind hisses harshly. The chill pushes at your back and whips against the exposed skin of your face, swaying the treetops. From here, the howling sounds almost like a scream. 

You look towards the pines.

A dense forest of shrubbery and deep evergreens peer back, brush interlocking and forming a monotonous wall that brushed the underbelly of the now-reddening sky. 

Something eats at your mind, a voice of fear gnawing away at your consciousness. 

Alone in the treacherously calm wood in the winter, in this quiet, something is wrong.

Look again towards the trees. It was peaceful there, this far away. The creeping shadows cast on the snow looked almost otherworldly.

But there is nothing wrong, is there? You know that your mind has long forgotten when and how to detect danger. You inhale. Exhale. Watch the plumes of mist collect and dissipate. 

You’re not in danger. 

Not anymore. 

Grab your bags from the trunk. 

Decide you will stay.

Soon, night falls upon your small wooden cabin. In the light of the warm, flickering fireplace, you work on unpacking your items and making this into your temporary home. 

But you still flinch when the wind knocks against the windows. It sounds almost human with just enough frequency to keep you wary and wondering.

It’ll be good for you, you think to yourself, recalling a haunting blend of voices, family, friends, doctors. Away from people, just give it a try. Another harsh gust batters the windowpane in its frame. You throw a blanket over it. Leave your bags half unpacked. 

Curl up in the bed, hugging your knees to your chest.

It’ll be good for you. 

You stay like this for a long, long time.

-

“I don’t want to…”

A hand on the outside of your thigh. You reach to push it away.

“It won’t be bad.”

The touch persists, a soft skimming on your skin. It won’t be bad. This can’t be bad. Something this gentle can’t be bad, right?

“But…” The words get stuck in your throat, warp, swell and fester. But? But? But?

“I won’t hurt you.”

A hand on the inside of your thigh, cold and clammy with sweat.

Aren’t they already, though? 

You open your mouth to speak again, raise your hand to push away, but you just can’t get them off of you. So you turn your head to the side, let it drop, convince yourself. Try to convince yourself.

But this time, something is different.

Red, just beyond the window. What is that?

You swallow thickly, feel teeth skimming your throat, the wetness making you wince. 

You pull away and they pull you back. You feel illness creeping up your spine, and just then you spot a pair of red eyes watching from a far distance, narrowed, a wide yellow-toothed smile stretched abnormally tight across a darkened face.

Can you help me, you think. Can you help me?

It tilts its head at you. Stretches out a red-clawed hand. 

Dazed, you try to reach for it. Miss. And of course you do.

It stays static, smile etched eternally onto a greying plane of a face, taunting, nearly.

You reach again.

Help me, help me, help me.

Reach further, further, and suddenly your fingers skim something. It is impossible, but you feel it, a claw encased in velvetine fabric.

It is inhuman. But what can be scarier than man, when hungry for flesh? Its grin deepens, eyes crackling with a fire that promises inferno upon all who touch it. A sacrifice for your wish, it says. I’ve warned you.

Okay. You think. Anything. Anything.

Anything?

Anything.

Suddenly it is before you, smile split so far you can see it’s rotting gums, radio-dial eyes, spinning frantically, round and round and round.

Your hand, still extended, grasps onto another, and it wraps around you cold and wiry albeit gentle around your smaller one. 

All is fire.

-

You wake up with a gasp, feel the cold sweat against your temples. You wipe at it hastily and clutch the covers under you with whitening knuckles.

Being here was supposed to help. It was supposed to help.

You bury your head into your hands and take a few shaky breaths, steadying your heart once again, then collapse your body into itself, making yourself as small as you could possibly be.

There was no use being frustrated. 

Look down at your hand. You could still feel the claws on your skin.

Mmmm, mmmm…

There’s a low moaning coming from the window.

Blink, hard. Rub your eyes, wake up. Wake up. 

But you are awake. And the noise comes again.

It didn’t sound human, nor did it sound like any animal you’ve ever heard before. 

You lie down and shut your eyes tight, so tight that you see colors swirling behind your eyelids. Yank the covers over your head and try to fall asleep, focus on the crackling of the fireplace, anything but that miserable groaning that is getting closer, louder, more agonized by the minute.

But you cannot sleep. She sounds like she is crying for help.

And soon, you are trembling, nearing the window, you hear the noise again muddled by the wind, a groaning type of bleating scream, low and ragged. You pull back the curtain just enough to look outside and see it, a doe stumbling blindly in the darkness of the night, spinning in circles and tripping over her hooves.

She throws her head back and belts another horrid cry, tossing herself, squirming, against the snowy floor. You can only see glimpses of the doe from the light coming from the crackling fireplace behind you, but you can still see the uncanny milky-whites of her eyes– something that you’ve only seen on dead animals.

You’ve heard of this disease before, it spread through blood in tick bites, but how did any ticks survive in this kind of weather? It just wasn’t possible.

Reach into your bag and pull out a small gun, one that you had packed to defend yourself.

The air is cold and the wind blows dauntingly, chilling you to the bone in your oversized shirt and shorts. It is even colder yet with the snow melting around your fuzzy slippers, the once-frozen ice water seeping slowly into your shoes and finding refuge against your warm skin.

“There, there, I’m here to help…”

The doe tosses and cries out blindly before you, much larger and stumbling much more violently than you had anticipated. You take a few steps back, eyes wide, teeth chattering, hands shaking.

The patterning on it is beautiful. 

You lower the gun, fuck, why you? Why did you care?

You tense as the doe crashes onto the hard, icy ground again, unable to find stability on the snowy terrain. Her pale amber fur is stretched taught over her starved body, ribs jutting out painfully against the skin. You catch flecks of white fur in the light as it seizes on the floor, bleating, biting her tongue and spilling a red-black ooze from her mouth.

Fuck, you think, fuck, fuck, fuck.

It looks at you with her unseeing eyes, begging for something, begging to be put out of her misery. She cries out again, gurgling on the blood pooling from her tongue, choking, eyes rolling.

You raise the gun again, ignore how you tremble.

The doe screams and kicks her legs into nothing, running from an unseen, imagined predator in her sleepless nightmares.

Put your finger on the trigger.

Tears press against your eyes.

And fire.

[allykatsart]

It's other anon and yes yes yes, please more about Peccantum and his life! I know authors often don't think their OCs are interesting for audience, but I'm pretty sure there's plenty of people here, who'd like to know more abt him;

Also I'm bad at coming with specific questions, since I'm interested in literally any info lol, may be more about his day-to-day life in the Hotel, if that's not too broad? Like, what he does while working, like, his duties etc, do he sometimes leave Hotel to go to the city for smth, where he spends most of his free time when alone (except for working on paranoid theories abt Alastor) and when with others (except science fun with Pentious), how his room looks, may be what group activities (like those trust exercises was in ep 3) likes/dislikes? (i think this is already too much lol, srry in advance, ofc any amount of ifo would be cool ^^" )

(also, want to add that I really like his design - he's cute, but also obviously a serious and kinda tragic character even if only judge by appearance)

Who is Peccantum?

💜❤️❤️💜❤️❤️❤️💜❤️💜❤️❤️❤️ thank youuuuuuuuu!!!!! I love my boi dearly and I'm happy to answer questions about him!

Tbh I am a little hesitant to post stuff on him. It feels incredibly self indulgent and I always worry I'll not be respectful to the canon characters. I've been really surprised at the reaction to him though! Usually you only get like 10 likes max when posting OC stuff. Thanks for all the love tho! 💜

There's a lot here so I'ma take it point by point below!

Peccantum's Duties

Peccantum is the bellhop, but it's more of a title than anything. Mostly he helps out with whatever is asked of him. He helps out Nifty with cleaning when she can't reach spots. He makes sure Fat Nuggets gets fed when Angel is in the studio for hours on end. He cleans up the bar for Husk when the former overlord is uh.... Not functioning and unable to.

Peccantum has also taken it upon himself to do most of the grocery shopping. The hotel crew takes turns cooking, but Peccantum really enjoys when it is his turn. Cooking is one of the few skills outside of magic that he's proud of!

Other than that, he's basically another set of hands to help wherever needed!

Peccantum's Room

For his hard work, and because his shitty, piss stained apartment is on the other side of the Pentagram, Peccantum has a room in the hotel! Technically this makes him a guest, but he always claims that he just works for Alastor, and Alastor wants him on call.

His room in the hotel is nice. Better than the crap studio apartment that he was barely able to afford. Yes, there's bugs, but after a few months Peccantum has his room looking nice. He even starts collecting bits of furniture that others have discarded, and personalizes it with enchantments. Slowly, the space starts to feel like it's 'his'.

The ceiling looks like outer space, a foggy mist of an incantation dotted with white stars and galaxies. Constalations shift and weave themselves in and out of existence. Golden suns burn bright until they turn red and swallow planets whole. When he has trouble sleeping, Peccantum will spend hours getting lost in that night sky...

One wall is covered in a red, plush curtain. Specifically, it's his 'Stalker wall' and Peccantum tries to hide it, just in case a certain Radio Demon comes into his room. When he's very stressed, Peccantum will fling the curtains wide open and start obsessively reorganizing his 'evidence'.

The City

Peccantum goes to the city for three things. To get groceries, to run an errand, or go visit his old neighborhood. Not any old friends, the closest thing he had to a friend was the cafe owner he stole a recipe from, but the area does remind him of when he first allowed himself to be free. It's where he had the first taste of independence. It's nice to revisit when things are getting a bit too much.

Grocery shopping is always an interesting experience. Sure, on a month to month basis, Peccantum can be sure to go to the market at least once, but Alastor will sneak some uh... Suggestions onto the list that Peccantum has to go out of his way for. There have definitely been a visit or two to Rosie's to pick up an order for the Radio Demon.

The Activities

Peccantum doesn't like to participate in the hotel's trust exercises. He's technically only working there for Alastor, so there's no need for him to participate, right? Not wanting to hurt Charlie's feelings, he ducks out before they begin most of the time. (If Charlie catches him and asks him to stay, though, he has no choice in the matter. Polite requests from her are a weakness of his.)

That's not to say he doesn't bond with the other residents though, he just does it in his own way. With Pentious he's quick to befriend with curiosity and genuine interest. With Husk, he slowly forms a co-worker type of relationship. Angel gets a bit more suspicion, but after episode 4 Peccantum would be willing to be a bit more open with the spider. Nifty gets herself into a lot of trouble, and Peccantum and the others keep having to get her out of it.

It's slow going, but the hotel crew slowly learns to trust Peccantum.

Free Time

Peccantum really isn't used to having free time. He worked his ass off to survive for those seven years, doing what he had to do. But now that his safety is secure and he's got time on his hands... He's kind of lost. Alastor hasn't told him what to do in that time so... He's unsure.

Peccantum finds things though. He practices magic, he makes things with Pentious, he reads. After a month or two, he ends up taking an interest in an old radio he finds, and listens to the Radio Demon's broadcasts. For evidence, of course! (Partially because he actually enjoys the music lol)

And sometimes... He uses that free time to further his own goals.

[alicedehorner]

☆Chapter 1: The Crystal Sphere ☆

[4 Last]

"Mr. Horner, do you want us to follow you on foot through the forest?" ―asked one of the subordinate bakers with weapons in his hands.

―It's not worth it― he responded, raising his hand as a sign to stop his men. ―We retreat, a crystal sphere is not worth my time― and so, he and his others few bakers boarded the vehicle to drive to Lil' Jack's Horner Pie Co.

I walked to a safe area in the forest, removing my hood to be more alert and sitting on a rock, taking the crystal sphere out of my bag; It was huge, bigger than my head to see it and make sure it was in good condition. "How does this thing work?" I asked, turning it around without seeing anything in particular, I put it back in my bag to walk again, while I did so I saw the landscape, it was a forest of reddish colors and where I could hear many birds, after a while I stopped when I heard a river, walking near the shore I found a perfect place to create a quick camp and look for some food, I saw one big enough among the trees, walking backwards while I saw it and running in its direction while gaining momentum to climb, once at the top I realized that it was just as I imagined, its thick branches and grandeur were perfect to create a small bed and place my bag, once installed I took out the glass sphere again to see it.

"Maybe I should just say what I'm looking for," I said to myself. "Crystal sphere, show me Jack Horner," and when I asked, the sphere through a dense purple mist showed him to me, his face serious as he looked out a window. , was in his carriage, surely heading to his factory again. A faint smile left my face, the dial was working. "I must look for something to eat before it gets dark," I said, coming down from the tree and leaving my bag on top, carrying with me only my bow and some arrows, looking at the sky, it was getting dark. He turned in his seat from one side to the other, tired of being inside the carriage for so long, it was almost there judging by the structures outside, the same ones in the town around his factory, the gray and red environment that he remembered and what seemed like storm clouds in the sky. "So much time on this damned trip for nothing," he said with crooked eyes, speaking to himself. "All because of that silly girl," he said, remembering his meeting with me. "Mr. Horner, we have arrived," one of the bakers announced through He opened the door to go downstairs without saying anything, blurring the first drops of rain and with a noticeably annoyed expression he walked in silence to his office, also known as his trophy room.

"I don't want anyone to bother me," he warned an employee before entering, slamming both doors. Once alone, he walked with both hands on his back, watching the rain fall through his stained glass window. He was upset, almost furious. Normally he didn't get involved. In the search for magical objects, it was easier to pay a bounty hunter and have the object practically at home, rarely did he go into the odyssey of searching for it personally unless it was really important or valuable, and the crystal sphere was. For him, an object capable of displaying everything you want would undoubtedly be a valuable acquisition; I would be. "Damn stupid girl," she shouted, hitting the desk to sit in her chair, the night was falling and the work day was ending. "Mr. Jack Horner, can I come in?" "I look back at the door, remembering how I passed by to talk about something, in those days I looked different, my hair was a little longer, brown and I wore glasses, dressed in the company uniform as always." Sorry to interrupt, I was coming. to let you know that the first batch of the day is ready―

He stood around the desk, and walking to the entrance, about to open the doors. “I know what time my company's first batch is,” he blurted out, annoyed without seeing me. A few knocks brought him out of his memories. "Mr. Horner, all the employees have left and I was coming to deliver my report for the day," said the head baker, leaving a sheet of paper on the desk. "You can withdraw," he sent it off without much importance to hear the door close again, looking at the desk he took the sheet in his hands to read it, the number of lots, sales of the day and one or another unimportant record, he left the hopefully again, seeing his objects slowly, shelf by shelf until he reached an empty place, where a base for the sphere lay, he stopped to take the base and throw it with force, leaving it buried in a wooden part of the wall.

I watched the fire calmly, leaning on a large stone hugging my cloak. It wasn't very cold, but the atmosphere was definitely cool. How my life had definitely changed in such a short time, wandering aimlessly through many places, without tempting any like mine, not since that time. I felt a tightness in my chest, memories coming and going day after day, of things that no one remembered but me. I got up to put out the bonfire and make sure there was nothing left to cause a fire, I climbed the tree again and lay down, taking out the glass sphere again. "Show me Jack Horner" and doing the same as the previous time, the image of the violet-haired man appeared in front of me, sitting at his desk while writing something, he looked tired, upset, and fed up. I saw the scene in the darkness of the night with my face illuminated only by the light of the sphere. “Jack,” I whispered, imagining being there with him, in that same office again.

“We'll see you soon, Mr. Horner,” I whispered before falling into a deep sleep.

[red-dead-do-over246]

Hi!! I love your writing and i was wondering if I can request a one bed trope with micah? Tysm!! <3

Sure thing! Thank you!!!😁💖

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

Will One Bed Be Enough?

You and Micah stay in a homestead that only has one bed. You don't understand why he seems so uncomfortable.

"This is why I hate nature." Micah mumbled as you guys quickly brought your horses into this abandoned barn next to a rotted down homestead.

Rain was pouring down in buckets from the sky, making all the roads muddy soup. It was so rainy that it brought mist up from the forest, making it very hard to see things right in front of you. It was cold and miserable, and not the ideal weather to be out riding in.

So, the heist Dutch wanted you and Micah to go on will have to wait. Now you guys get to take shelter in some rundown shack as night set in and the weather relaxes.

"I can see it." You said with a slight laugh as the horses shook themselves to get the water off. Micah swore as the dirty droplets got all over him.

"Let's get inside." You said, peeking outside the barn doors to see the thundering rain falling harshly from the sky.

"And hope the roof doesn't cave in." Micah agreed and you rolled your eyes. After a slight pep talk, you guys ran for the homestead. It was abandoned, and Micah was right. The roof was nearly collapsed, however, it was sheltered enough that you guys could spend the night.

"At least there's no wind and...not a lot of water dripping in." You said in relief, the occasional dripping of rain echoing through the old home once in a while. But other than that, everything seemed fairly intact. As Micah mumbled here and there, you moved to check out the other rooms.

"Looks nice enough to spend the night." You commented as you glanced in the bedroom. Boots sounded behind you and you could sense that Micah was peering over your shoulder and into the room.

It was small with room for only one bed and a closet.

"This isn't gonna work." Micah said suddenly, disappearing from your side in a manner of seconds. His boots quickened towards the door, and it took you a moment, but you were quick to follow.

"What do you mean?" You asked him, confused by his behavior.

"I'll sleep in the barn." He said as he adjusted his jacket by the front door. You were appalled by his sudden behavior, and crossed your arms over your chest.

"You would rather sleep in a cold, wet, and dirty barn then spend a night of comfort in a bed? That doesn't sound like Micah Bell at all." You accused him and he scoffed a little, not in the mood for this.

"You know I don't sleep much, so why waste the space?" He said, back to you.

"But it's not that, is it?" You asked him and he stayed silent. As you pondered over the reason, there was only one logical conclusion that came to mind.

"Is it me?"

He was silent at that question, pausing at his actions, hand on the door handle. You realized that you caught him red handed. He didn't want to share a bed with you. You thought that he would jump on that opportunity because he could boast about it later, but no. Micah would rather stay in a barn full of horses then in a bed with you.

"Damn it..." He muttered, releasing the door handle and turning to face you while rubbing at his face. He didn't miss the look of slight hurt on your face.

"It's not that I don't want to share the space...It's that I'm not used to doing that without...some activity..." He said, emphasizing the last part enough to make you flustered.

"I know you would kick me in the crotch or spit on me or somethin', so let's save us both the discomfort and have me go somewhere else...you deserve the bed at the very least." He mumbled that last part as he finally opened the door. However, before Micah could just leave, you were quick to shake off the image he put in your head to say something to him, your heart working faster than your brain.

"If you change your mind, you can come back in! I trust you!" You had to shout as he shut the door as you were talking. And just like that, you were alone, and not believing what you just said.

You swallowed down the flustered feelings you still held from the earlier conversation as you made your way towards the tiny bedroom, which now felt smaller than ever. As you flopped onto the bed, the sound of rain still pouring down onto that fragile little house, you never thought you would've wanted the presence of a man like Micah Bell so badly.

Sleep didn't come easy to you that night.

But when you woke the next morning, sunlight and songbirds greeting you, you noticed that the bed felt a bit smaller.

The sound of soft breathing and another leg touching yours caused you to shift slightly. You didn't know when, and you didn't know what caused him to change his mind, but Micah had ended up in the bed with you, no strings attached.

It made you smile to yourself because it proved two things. One being that he can sleep when he seems comfortable enough to do so.

And that he can be a good man when the opportunity arises. Perhaps this changes everything from now on.

But you'll only know when he wakes up.

[karizard-ao3]

Drabble 1- Eremika dancing in Marley

I'm mining my social media followers for drabble prompts today (9/26/3) because my kid is sick and I'm home with him and I think it would be fun to write some short things that I can actually finish to counteract the long slog of chipping away at my current two wips. Here's the first one! (Also Drabble 2 is ready and can be found here)

Prompt: Drunk Marley Eremika where Eren summons the courage to extend his hand for her to take it and dance with him and the ensuing conversation

Eren licks his lips and looks into his cup. The alcohol was harsh with a licorice bite. Each burning sip spread through him, warming him from the inside out and softening his brain into a slurry. It feels good not to think, he reflects as he tilts the cup into his mouth and takes another draft. Drunkenness is a welcome respite from his constant ruminations on the horrors he is going to visit upon the world.

He looks around at his friends, all here inside this tent at the refugee camp, and he can’t help but smile at this unintended and impromptu celebration. They don’t know it’s his going away party. From tomorrow onward, they will all be walking a different path. 

Sadness slices through his drunken haze like torchlight through fog and he chases it away with another sip, his head nodding along to the warbling twang of instruments he does not recognize. Not far away, he catches sight of Mikasa sitting on a pillow with her eyes closed, drink in hand, swaying back and forth in time with the music. The tiniest smile curls at the corners of her mouth. His heart aches as he studies her. How can he leave her behind yet again? But, how else could he possibly keep her hands clean of the atrocities he has yet to commit? 

He sighs, watching her with glassy eyes, too drunk to notice or care if anyone sees him staring. This is going to be the last chance he has to really look at her.

The musicians finish their song and, after a brief, murmured conversation, they strike up another. This time the notes are soft and slow and yearning. Mikasa opens her eyes, a wistful expression settling over her face like the spring mist that lingered above the meadow near their old home in Shiganshina in the mornings when the night sky began to lighten into day.

Eren stands up and crosses to her, looking down at her as she lifts her face and smiles at him. He smiles back and extends his hand. “Dance with me,” he says.

She takes his cup and sets it down with hers beside the cushion, then he helps her to her feet, lacing their fingers together and resting his other hand on her waist. She lays her remaining hand on his shoulder. “Just like when we were kids,” she says as he begins to lead, turning them in lazy circles, navigating around the other partiers gathered in clusters around the tent floor, drinking and laughing. They are the only ones who are dancing and she is right. It’s just like when they were kids, when his parents would return them home from the festival nights early, before the revelers started turning rowdy, but the music still played out on the square, drifting through the open windows on the warm summer breeze. Eren’s father would sweep Eren’s mother into his arms and waltz with her around the kitchen and Eren and Mikasa would mimic them, orbiting around them like dual moons before everyone switched partners and the dance continued. Eren and Mikasa are grown up now and his parents are gone. It is just the two of them, bumping into the pillows on the floor and giggling, red-faced from the alcohol or maybe because Eren is holding Mikasa so close, his hand creeping from her waist to her lower back, drawing her in so that there is no more distance between them.

“I wish we could go back to those days,” says Eren. Everything had been so simple back then. Back then, it had been enough to be her family. Back then, he had believed he could be at her side forever.

Mikasa rests her cheek on his shoulder, nodding her agreement. He cranes his head to look at her and she tilts her chin so that their eyes catch. “I would relive any day I spent with you,” she says.

Eren blinks back the sudden sting of tears and smiles at her, dipping her low— her favorite of Grisha’s dance moves when they were children. Just like back then, her eyes explode in firework sparkles and she laughs, clinging to Eren so he doesn’t drop her. She is breathless when he rights her, gripping his suit jacket and beaming. He begins to twirl her around the floor again. 

“Do you remember when we had the picnic?” he asks. “When we stopped by the canal because I wanted to catch a fish to eat with it? But I fell in?”

Her fond sigh steams the air between them. “And then the neighborhood dogs ate all the sandwiches I had so carefully packed while I was getting you out.”

“And so we just went home. You were so disappointed. Would you relive that day?” Eren says, steering her around one of their passed out hosts. 

“I would,” says Mikasa with a soft smile.

“Do you remember the time we baked a cake with salt instead of sugar?” He wants to revisit each moment of their lives, to do it all over again one more time before he leaves her to go where angels cannot tread. 

“We ruined your mother’s birthday,” says Mikasa. “Her last one.”

They share a sad, nostalgic smile. 

“But…” says Mikasa. “Oh, how she laughed.”

From the corner of the tent, the song comes to an end and starts back up again, the musicians exchanging knowing grins as, unaware of the extra time they have been given, Eren and Mikasa hold each other and dance.

[searchingforserendipity25]

Daeron/Maglor "...because the world is ending"? 😚

Hi @polutrope <3 This one one has been living in my docs as Daemags date night (the night to end all nights) for a month. Here it is at last!

The Night to End All Nights

Daeron had been deep into the roadless deserts, when Arien fell - her last blazing sunset had lit the dunes with dreadful beauty, rose sand purples and a red redder than red.

Then, the quiet. Handfuls of stars, snuffed out one after another.

He made his way onwards. Once, the land had not been desert; once, there had been paths of cobblestones paved with sound craft, and there had been chariots, carriages, riders and companies making their ways from glorious cities whose names were lost in the dust, removed from the world entirely, if not for Daeron's memory.

Daeron lived much in memory, now. There the dry well, there the empty streets of the empty city. Here, a deep-rooted peach tree had grown, where only a gray husk remained - he had gathered wild fruits from its generous boughs, shared them with an old enemy in the shelter of its shade, licked the juices from his fingertips and wrist and mouth until he shook as finely as the green leaves in the summer breeze.

Wherever he passed the land groaned with its own undoing.

Beleriand had been thus ruined, in its moribund years; but this was a ravaging wasting sickness, not a wound upon Arda to be solved with the amputation of one continent or another. Above and around and in all places a hundred, a thousand birds flew madly, till they dropped exhausted upon the last grass of the last spring.

The matter of the sky splintered and rained down great boulders of iron that shook and shattered the earth, smoldering with a fell fire, all the hard stone of the mountain ranges shaking and shaking like a single fevered body, bound up in strange resonances of power. One fell near enough to him that the raised dust clung to his lungs and fouled his throat for a time: and then Daeron grew afraid, for a time, shaken from the clear, beautiful rage against Morgoth into fright.

The cough passed, slowly.

The very air grew colder, made cruel without the sun. The waters grew wilder, without the moon; and all creatures grew despairing and violent, in the absence of starlight.

Still: Daeron went onwards. There was a great epilogue to judge - he was not a light-hearted critic, but he did intend to be there at the end, and at the start as well.

And he had an appointment to keep. They had agreed on this, a long time ago, and Daeron for his part was determined to cross crevasses as needed not to be the faithless one.

He had not thought Maglor would fail to be there. Not truly, in any case - not this time.

The land leaned towards the gaping of the world, its old longing for water calling out so starkly it was almost a song. This place had been full of life, once: a lake with many small islands, many new-made voices raised in song rippling the waters.

All the little water that remained reflected only darkness above, darkness around. Not enough remained of the waters of Cuiviénen to be drunk. Daeron’s torch lit it like the flare of a false moon, fading as passed it by.

It was quite beautiful, in its way. All things were unraveling to Song at last: the last fields of grass clinging to the cliff-side called out a rustling wind-song even as they turned to ash, glorious a rush of Music with the memory of the seed’s patience in winter and the growing rush of spring turning to the conflagration of summer.

Daeron closed his eyes. Did he weep, at the beauty of it? He could not sing. It was not time, yet; his voice curled thick and urgent in his aching throat, waiting.

They met at the very edge of the shoreline, where the whitewater rush of the shattered Encircling Sea broke into the gaping maw of the Void. The fall was very steep, the precipice very high, taller than any tower ever wrought. The sound of the water was an unnerving, slithering quiet, for it fell through fogs and mists; and the fall had no end.

A single raised light flickered, there where crumbling stone and air met, but the burned hand that held it up did not flinch from the licking slants of wind-swept fire.

“You are late,” Maglor said, chin raised. His voice, too, was less splendid than it might have been. Certainly less proud. Daeron’s heart turned in his chest, treacherously fond. “And I see you have not even brought any wine, either.”

“It was your turn to bring the wine,” Daeron pointed out. His words rasped in his throat a little, at the start. “I brought it last time."

"Forgive me! If it is any consolation," Maglor said. "I crossed the lands where the marketplace where those sweet bean pastries you loved once stood. Alas! Nought but ruins remain. There, here, everywhere! I had half a mind to start without you."

"That is well enough," Daeron said. He felt a little drunk already, dizzy with terror and Maglor's proximity.

His face caught the torch light, his eyes very bright. Maglor smiled at him. It was an effort - he could see the ancient grief moving in his face, a depth like the strata of the earth being pressed away to make room for it.

They had met on appointed dates two dozen times altogether. By the white piers of Belfalas or the moors of Arnor, sharing the same flask under the vibrant stars of Rhûn’s fields. Brushing knuckles; pressing their mouth’s where a touch had been, in the indulgent absurdity of second-hand lovemaking between two ancient creatures.

They had met. Not many times, but often enough; and always at the parting, regardless of how sweet or how bitter it might be, there was the renewed promise. We shall meet at the end! Even when it had been said in contempt and fury, and the end of the world not long enough to suit the day’s rage.

It passed, the anger. When one lived as long as they did, it grew very difficult to cleave to anything for very long. Grief was a habit, and singing duty and care and craft; all the rest passed and thinned as mist in the sun. Until they met again - until they met each other, and all colours grew bright, the winds colder, the summers gentler.

Daeron waved it away, lightly, light-hearted. O, he felt mad, trapped against the great maw of the black night - but a strange thing very like a laugh trembled on his throat.

"I know I shall! That is not my concern. I knew you would not start without me,” Daeron said. "I could not doubt it. And yet I am glad that I was late; I could not know how much of gladness remained, before I saw your light in the dark, waiting."

“Then I am glad," Maglor said, and the salt that clung to his hair prickled Daeron's nose when he neared. "Though it was a cold wait, and the journey colder still. You give me too much credit. For once! But I could not tarry. There was nowhere else to walk to, nor any other place I could wish to be."

“It is quite beautiful,” Daeron said, looking upon the cliffside. His eyes strained to see the scant starlight reflecting on the distant spray, silvering the night for brief instants. “In its way.”

“The sea was more beautiful,” Maglor said. "Its white sands and silver pebbles gleaming, and the black basalt sand of the Western islands. Gone, all gone! Now we are islanders only, the Encircling Sea the only sea; and its waters fall beyond reaching. I miss the sea-that-was, though it never did thank me for my company."

The mountains were gone. The fallow fields, and the valleys with their crumbling walls left abandoned in long lost days - the great cities of Men, one empire after another devoured by a greater and most ancient greed.

They had seen many kingdoms rise and fall together, over time; but there had been a constancy in that, not this absence of voices and wills, this death-bound silence.

It had not been often that they had wandered together for long. That was a thing neither of them could withstand easily - not they, minstrels to the dead, whose last elegiac duties were not suited to company. Their paths diverged, coming apart to come together again, and there had been joy too with every bitter parting. But they had agreed on this, under the light of the stars, Ages ago. Cuiviénen, at the end of all things - this much, at least, when the time came, at the end.

Daeron laid a hand on his cheek, and felt the warmth of it with a dizzying desire. So it would be this, then, he thought. The last touch; the last kiss, soft as a balm, a vertiginous fall into an embrace from a height no lesser than the sundered face of the breaking world. Daeron held him close with fierce hands, chased the stains of bitter soot on Maglor’s heeks with his mouth, tangled his fingers in braidless curls as dark as the night.

The last, the last! His eyes stung. Daeron was greedy, at the last, covetous with love as had ever been his vice, slow to relinquish. Love renewed all things, even grief; though the grief of Arda's fall had seeped into him into a killing drought, and no more tears remained in him to be shed.

The Music murmured its own last notes, a soundless song of mingled joy and despair.

More despair, at the end, and Daeron had feared, feared, feared it tremendous, more than the Starkinder's defeat or the death of all fruiting trees. Wandering alone in the lightless dark, voice failing and nothing listening, he had thought on the Theme and feared there would not be enough of joy, in the end - had judged his purpose beyond himself, all of Melian's careful and wise tutelage wasted and worn through.

So it had been, in solitude.

"Sweet Daeron. Forgive me,” Maglor said once more, sighing against his neck. His solid warmth was no greater than the flame's, wavering much as Daeron wavered on his feet. "I bring no gifts, and my might is diminished. The melody is yours, if you like. It is not wine, but it might suit your tastes as well, or better."

"It shall be," Daeron said. He knew it as he spoke, and almost laughed for how clear it was to him; he gripped Maglor's hand tightly. "But not mine alone, I judge; for are we not both singers of laments? One last paeon, then: and let not all things that were good and great and terrible fall unremembered, while there is breath with which to sing them."

Above them and around them the last stars went pale, and weary, and dead. The two torches flared, faded, lost the last of their fire.

Then, the quiet. Daeron stepped back. Raised a hand, to mark the time.

It was very easy, after all, to sing together at the end of all things: easy as summer, even in the dark.

[daes0]

Rafayel invites you to see the sunrise and you don't remember ever seeing it before with him.

Pairing: {Rafayel x Reader}

Rating: {Teen & Up}

Word Count: {3.1k words}

"What?"

no more summer

You wake up to your phone vibrating on your nightstand. Annoyed at being woken up, you pick it up and answer without looking at the caller ID.

"Aww, did I wake you up?" Rafayel asks in a soft voice.

Rafayel tries to hold in a laugh but fails. "I haven't slept yet actually."

Your original annoyance melts away, but quickly comes back when you check the time. "It's 5am, why are you awake?"

You groan. Typical Raf.

"Can you come over, Miss Bodyguard?" he asks, the nickname seeming mischievous.

You groan louder. "You're a terrible employer, asking me to work so early."

"You wouldn't leave me all alone and defenseless, would you?"

"Fine." You huff, knowing that he's quite capable and is only saying this as an act. "This day is already starting off badly."

"Hmm, I'll make it up to you," Rafayel says, and you can hear his smile through the phone. He lowers his voice, "I'll make it a nice day for you."

Your heart skips a beat. "I'll be there in 15."

"See you then!" he exclaims before ending the call.

The summer mist clings to your clothes as you walk, but thankfully you're close to Rafayel's place. You didn't see the need of using your motorcycle when you're a ten minute walk away, but the unfortunate part of that is that you're lost in your thoughts as you're coming up.

Rafayel and you have been slowly getting closer for a few months now, but there's a sort of distance between you two that you're unable to traverse. Every step closer, every inch you take, Rafayel always matches your energy but stops just short of closure.

At first you had enjoyed the push-and-pull, the chase for a relationship, but now you longed for more. Perhaps it's time to take what you want.

"You look like you're thinking about something difficult," Rafayel says, opening the door before you realize you're in front of it.

You jump back, caught completely off-guard. "Rafayel!"

"Here you go," he says while handing you a red popsicle. "I wanted one so you're having one too."

You stare at it in confusion. "It's 5 in the morning."

"It's 5 in the morning during summer," he corrects. "And I…" he sings, "I can't eat two, you know."

Your gaze hardens as you continue to stare at him, hoping you can scare him into submission.

Unfortunately for you, Rafayel's much too aware of the empty threat of your glare. "And I haven't slept yet, remember? It doesn't feel too early to me."

He starts walking down the steps towards the beach before you can respond. You purse your lips. In the back of your mind, you remember that he did the same thing the first time you two met.

Your appetite doesn't really crave a popsicle, but better to eat it than to let it melt, so you give it a cursory lick. It's a pleasant cherry flavor that's much too sweet for the morning, but you eat it anyway as you follow after Rafayel.

You two walk in a comfortable silence. You stare at the back of Rafayel's head, the gentle waves of his purple hair ruffled by the wind. Your heart aches, and you can't stop yourself from asking, "Why did you call me?"

He turns his head slightly towards you and slows down his pace. "I didn't want to be alone," he answers with an unreadable expression, before taking a small bite off his popsicle.

You two arrive at an empty beach. The night sky is still dark, peppered with stars that reflect off the ocean's waves. So far away from the light of the city, only the moon lights your way.

Rafayel holds the popsicle in his mouth as he pulls his shirt off, not at all shy about his body. He places it on the sand and starts towards the sea, but quickly realizes that you stopped following.

"You're not coming with me?" He mumbles, the popsicle still in his mouth muffling his words.

You try hard to keep your eyes on his own. "I didn't bring a change of clothes."

He stretches his hand out to you, taking the popsicle out of his mouth with the other. "Come with me anyway."

A second passes, and then you're taking his hand.

Rafayel guides you into the water. You walk, the waves rippling pass your ankles, pass your knees, up your legs, until you're submerged up to your waist.

You lift your gaze up and are immediately struck by the utter universe reflected across the surface of the water. You look up and find it looking back at you, the stars twinkling in gentle patterns. Their gaze, a soft glow that doesn't quite reach you, lights the space around the golden moon.

"The night is so beautiful," you can't help but say.

Rafayel is quiet next to you, so you lift your gaze up. He stares into the sea, a clear sadness running through him.

"Raf?" you repeat, squeezing his hand.

"Hmm?"

"What's on your mind?" You rub circles on the back of his hand with your thumb.

Rafayel takes a small bite of his popsicle, finishing it. "Do you think love exists?"

Your thumb stops moving. "What do you mean?"

"Do you think people belong together? That forming a partnership for the rest of your life is possible?"

"I think people just need to keep making each other happy. That's what I count as love, romantic or not."

"What if they don't make you happy?" Rafayel asks, peering into your eyes. "What if you only feel happy for a moment, but you're destined to hurt that person?"

You think about it for a moment. "Then it's not love, just a relationship."

Rafayel hesitates. He looks at you like you've broken his heart, like you've stabbed his chest and all he can feel at your betrayal is an utter sadness. His voice is shaky when he asks, "What if you've fought for the relationship for so long that… that it feels like a waste if you don't follow through?"

You let go of his hand. The movement means nothing to you, but everything to Rafayel. "Then maybe it's not worth it."

A silent tear streams down Rafayel's face. He brushes it back with the back of his hand.

You hesitate, your voice small, "If you don't mind me asking, who are you talking about?"

Rafayel stares at the sea surrounding him, too in his own thoughts to answer.

"Raf?"

"Sorry, just thinking," he says with a shake of his head. "I'm talking about… about the ocean."

You're a bit surprised by this. You expected him to say it was someone else. "You love the ocean, don't you? It's your muse. Are you thinking about changing your muse?"

"The ocean was my first love." He smiles for you. "It's been there longer than humans have existed. But it's changed, morphed into a new shape, a new being. I love the ocean, but sometimes I wonder, is what I love still there? Despite all the changes, all the years, is she still the same?"

Maybe it's because he speaks so earnestly, but your feelings on the matter change. If it's the ocean and not a person, then you believe it's okay to love, or to change and to no longer love. It's a relationship that continues, rather than having a set time to end. The ocean is eternal within a person's life, afterall.

You take a small lick of your popsicle. "I don't know, but I think that maybe it's okay if the ocean's changed. That's what makes it special"

"I feel like I can never revisit her. The ocean, I mean."

You notice then, with an ice cold grip on your heart, that he's stopped talking about the sea. "Maybe that's okay, the ocean will still be there for you later. You can change your mind, or you can stay the same, it'll be there for you anyway."

"Maybe. But I feel so alone," Rafayel says as he lowers himself into the water. "I thought of the ocean as my home. I thought that, no matter where I am, so long as I can see her then everything will be okay. But it doesn't feel right anymore. She's not the same, and it's wrong of me to wish she was."

You wonder quietly to yourself if he's talking about an ex-lover. "What does the ocean mean to you?"

"Love," Rafayel answers. His eyes begin to tear up again, but you don't see it in the darkness. "Passion. Hope. All the pretty words. How can I live without her?"

"What do you mean?"

"I'm tired, _____," he admits in such a quiet voice that you almost miss it. "So fucking tired."

"Let me help you," you say easily, more easier than it should be. You give your heart willingly, only because it's Rafayel. "Let me be there for you."

"What do you mean?" Rafayel counters, standing back up.

"I mean… let me be your ocean."

Rafayel gazes at you, a sense of wonder in his eyes. He looks at you like you hold the world, like you're the reason everything exists. He looks at you with devotion in his heart, and you want more than anything for him to confirm it with words.

Then he lowers his face slowly, until he's right in front of your popsicle. He takes a small bite out of it, the red dripping down the side of his lips. Steals a bit of your sweetness.

"Hey!" you yell out, swinging the popsicle back so he can't take any more.

Rafayel laughs, "It was dripping!" he explains.

You turn around, upset, and are suddenly faced with the starting sun over the ocean's horizon. During your conversation, the sky had turned from its original darkness to purple overtones with specks of red. You watch in amazement as the sun rises, until eventually you have to look away from its piercing gaze.

"Did I fulfill my promise?" Rafayel asks besides you.

You give him a quizzical look.

"To make it a nice day for you," he explains. "I lifted up the sun for you."

You can't help it. You laugh, a full-hearted laugh, almost dropping the remaining piece of your popsicle in the moment.

And then it starts to rain.

It surprises both of you, with the starting sun shining in striking colors across the skies, reflected across the barrier of the sea. But the sea breaks, pricked by the morning's tears, ripples across its surface.

Maybe you should be annoyed at the interruption, but for now you smile.

Rafayel, the specks of rain sliding across his collarbone and chest, smiles back at you. "Let's head home."

Rafayel is busying himself preparing a warm bath for you. Meanwhile, you can't help but look at him, your eyes tracing over his strong muscles and build.

"You're staring quite hard, _____," he smiles up at you.

You can't help the blush spreading on your face. "It's your fault for forgetting to grab your shirt. Littering is a crime, you know."

He shakes his head. "I'll grab it in the morning. It'll be fiiine."

You chuckle at his obvious mistake.

"Anyway! Your bath is ready." He makes towards the door. "I'll go after you."

"Hmm, but the water will be cold by the time it's your turn," you tell him.

"Are you asking me to stay?" Rafayel chuckles softly, but leaves anyway before you can say anything.

You stare at the closed door, letting go of a breath. Whether he's doing it on purpose or not, it seems that even when you're together he's still avoiding you.

Since the first time you stayed with Rafayel, you had learned that neither of you are willing to take the couch. Rafayel, too proud to give the bed up, and you, too annoyed to relent. So you shouldn't have been so surprised when you two ended up sleeping on the same bed yet again.

"Why don't you have more blankets?" you sulk.

"Oh no…" Rafayel fake cries. "We'll have to cuddle for warmth! What a terrible circumstance, if only I had thought to buy another blanket the last three times you stayed over…"

You lightly push against his shoulder. "Don't be mean," you say with a smile.

"You know, there's another way to warm each other up," Rafayels says, a hint of mischief in his eyes.

You tilt your head. You know he has something planned, but you can't help but play along with him. "How?"

"You need to activate your senses," Rafayel says, his voice a seductive whisper.

"Your senses…" you mumble. "Like this?"

You bring your finger up to Rafayel's lips, rubbing his bottom lip with your thumb. You feel a sense of electricity run through you.

He sucks in a breath. "You're only touching the surface."

You move your hand down, lightly tracing his skin. You feel the curve of his neck, the edges of his collarbone, the softness of his skin.

Rafayel huffs, looking away. You're not sure if it's in annoyance or excitement. "...you have to do more than that." he says under his breath.

Your hand wanders down to his chest. You feel his heart beat against your skin as you grasp his heart.

Then he's grabbing your hand and putting it on the side of your head against the bed. He pins you, his breath heavy against you.

"Your intentions are as clear as day," he whispers under his breath, a light blush on his face.

"Do you not like it?" you tease.

"If I said I didn't, would you stop?" he counters.

"I would," you answer easily. "I still would."

He stares at you, then falls on top of you with a huff. "I don't understand you."

"Funny, I don't understand you either." You hug him against you. "But I want to. I want to know you."

"But I can't tell you everything," he mumbles against your ear. "I can't help but be afraid of you knowing me. Knowing who I am."

"I want nothing more than to ease your mind."

His heart beats against yours and he lifts himself up gently. He's looking at you, all of you, when he says. "Would you still like me no matter who I was? Who I am, who I become?"

"I would love the person I know," you say, your breath tickling his lips. "I just need to know you."

Then you're kissing him, your lips gliding over his, parting and giving access, and he takes. You press yourself against him and yearn for love.

Rafayel is the first to break away. He lays back down and brings a hand to his lips. "You stole a kiss."

You turn to your side and you chase after him. "I want you."

"What if you can't have me?" Rafayel says in a low voice.

"You're speaking in riddles again," you say while sitting up, moving over Rafayel.

"Why do you chase after me?" he asks, staring up at you like you hold the stars in the sky.

You hover over him, your face so close to his. "Because I want to."

"Do you think it's destiny?"

"Maybe. Is that what's stopping you? Whether or not we're destined to be together?" you ask, and what you mean is whether or not you're a good match, but that is not what Rafayel understands from your words.

"It is," he admits. "But I know we're soulmates."

You smile. "Then don't let it stop you."

"What if… What if we're destined to end? What if we're soulmates but our souls are meant to hurt if we're together?"

"You can't decide that," you counter.

"I can't," his voice trembles, "But I know how it ends."

Your brow furrows, both annoyed and confused. "How would you know that?"

"I just do."

You roll off him and lay next to him. "You're allowed to push me away, quit whatever it is we have going on, say you hate me or whatever. But don't do it because of how it might end. Do it because you don't want me."

Rafayel is quiet for a moment. "I do want you." His voice shakes.

"Then why do you hesitate?"

Rafayel puts his hands on his face, frustrated at himself. "You already have my heart. Must I give you more?"

You groan. "We're getting nowhere."

Rafayel chuckles softly. Tears paint his face, but you don't see them in the dark. "Give me time. That's all I need."

"I'll wait," you admit before turning around, ready to sleep off the stress from this conversation. "But if you make me wait too long, you'll lose me."

I'm hoping so, Rafayel thinks quietly to himself. I hope you never have to experience the love that I have to give.

You wake up a few hours later. You sit up and stretch, making no attempts to hide the fact that you're awake, but Rafayel is too tired to notice.

He sleeps quietly, a sheet thrown haphazardly over him. And you hope against hope that he'll give in to you, that he'll stop hesitating, that he'll kiss you one day like he wants you and not like he's afraid.

You kiss his cheek, but he doesn't stir. So you leave.

Rafayel wakes up. For a moment, he's a god, then a rogue, then a painter. His lived experiences twitch and convulse before forming into a blade of time, sharpened to an edge until it's a memory. He awakes to an empty bed, and he wonders which part of the story he's in. How close to the end of summer he is.

He says your name to the void surrounding him.

"Why? Why must I fall in love with her? Just for it to end in tragedy?"

The concept of destiny cannot help but laugh. Like a child on a playground having fun with its favorite friend.

"Let me go," Rafayel pleads. "Just this once, let me go. Let me choose."

The laughs echo around him, mocking.

Rafayel stares down at his hands. "Why must I love her?"

The concept of destiny does not respond.

Rafayel feels tears form in his eyes. His heart is desperate for you, yearning for your touch, and he knows he will succumb to it. That wretched happiness, poison to his brain, a parasite that controls his every move. He's damned to be in love, and he's damned to know how this summer will end.

A part of him begs, then, for no more summer.

END

[thorns-and-rosewings]

Now here we have Part 5 of the Reaper King AU💀 a bit of an explanation of KC's powers... Before we get to the obvious shenanigans of the last chapter. 😈

TW: By now you can gather we touch on some darker topics in this.

Part 5

-Killcode DOES have magic. He became aware of his 'passive' abilities. Such as the mutations that occurred to his children and to the area they live but he deduced that there were other abilities, more offensive ones, he could utilize and he quickly learned how to use them...

-His powers are all entangled with darkness and shadows. Which he can use to extend the reach of his scythes, if not completely generate weapons from the darkness outright.

-He also can create massive spikes of shadows from the ground to come up and impale victims en masse.

-Killcode can drain the warmth out of an area, making a forest trail in the middle of a summer day as cold as a moonless winter night. Something he does to test the reactions of his target, maybe even work to unsettle them... Which works to make a more interesting hunt.

-He can become 'As a shadow' and disappear into the ground and move through terrain with frightening ease, even emerging from literally nowhere to strike down targets.

-His most devastating power is 'Shinigami' which is where he completely mutates... He becomes a Bio-Mechanical creature that looks more like it's namesake. He possess wings, sharper claws, and a tail. Not only does this form amplify his strength, but it also heavily affects the area around him in almost a Silent Hill manner. He can devastate everything in his path in this form... However he can overexert himself and need to rest in a nearly catatonic state from anywhere from several hours to several days afterwards.

-Also he has the ability to generate mist.

-Although he has these additional abilities he very rarely ever uses them. As he believes it gives him an unfair advantage... Granted he does enjoy creating mists or draining away the heat as this makes hunts more entertaining.

-Oddly enough his FAVORITE power is the most passive of all.

-Every now and again KC and his family will climb up to the top of the mountain to a small little plateau up there. Where they can overlook the entire forest and the small towns scattered around... A red light will bloom from the core in Killcodes chest and tendrils of this light will rise up into the sky and spread out...

-Creating a breathtaking blood red Aurora.

-While frightening to behold for the locals and has become known as a bad omen, the sight is beautiful and calming to the monster family.

...Anyways...

Now back to the Tinder debacle...

-Obviously this goes without saying but the building of a Tinder Profile for KC goes off the rails. Between the debates of what to put on the profile vs too much information...

-Bloodmoon is trying to tailor the profile to match the profile of the Park Ranger... Which isn't too hard, as it turns out they actually have some things in common... But this is hindered a little by his siblings input, although they eventually cobble together a decent profile and uploaded it to Tinder.

-They got a lot of matches...

-Oh LORD there were so many matches...

-Within minutes of posting this profile he had at least a hundred matches and DMs were at least double that...

Banshee: Um... Bloody is this supposed to happen?

Bloodmoon: I don't think so. This is so weird... How hor- (Looks at Wisp who's standing next to him, let alone Vamp and Lycan who are watching the increasing list of matches on the profile.) Erm... How lonely are these people?!

Banshee: ...good save...

Wendigo: (Snorts) Congratulations guys, you just made dad Tinders most desirable bachelor.

Bloodmoon: NEVER say that sentence again...

Wendigo: (Snickers)

Vamp: ...Question...

Lycan: How can the ranger accept dad's profile if we still have their phone?

Wisp: (Holds up phone)

Bloodmoon: 😱

-Sooo, the next part of the plan was to return the phone to the Ranger... So Bloody went back to the ranger outpost. Where the ranger was outside, looking around the ground for where exactly they could have dropped their phone.

-Bloodmoon wound up and threw the phone... Only he ended up smacking the ranger upside the head with it... Knocking them out cold with it.

Bloody: ...eh I am sure they are fine...

-He leaves them unconscious on the ground outside of the Ranger station with the door to the aforementioned station wide open... And... It was promptly invaded by a horde of super intelligent racoons.

-Bloodmoon returns home only to find that KC has returned back as well... And he is initially not to happy about the Tinder Profile...

-Probably because at this point he's gotten even more matches... And the DMs... Well... He can't let the younger kids read those.

-BUT...

-It would appear that the Forest Ranger in question has also said hello... And they are able to start a conversation!

-A small victory...

-However... KC makes a point that nobody is EVER going to do this ever again.

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

Wildflower

Previous chapter / Next chapter

a/n I go from not posting to posting every day. I know this might ruffle some feathers but join the party anyways. I really hope y'all will enjoy this one. End is near fam. ✨🤍💫🌟✨🤍

Warning: tiny bit of sexual interactions mentioned and tears.

************************************************

You stood there, not sure of what to say or do. This was him admitting that he had played a part in this. Not just leaving you to swirl through assumptions. Rhys was admitting that it was him. Even if you knew it, it still left you surprised. You had settled on the fact that you weren't going to see the day that he was going to own up to it, but here you were.

"And that's all? That's all you're going to say?", for a reason, Rhys said. He probably had plenty of time in his five hundred years of living to come up with many reasons that would suit him, "When you break through the curse and get memories back, I feel it." Letting out an under-breath chuckle, you murmured, "I hope it hurts like hell."

Rhys never answered to that, and the words that left his mouth next almost made you want to lean onto something, "You never loved me." He phrased it as if he was so utterly hurt by that. "No, you lost it, Rhys", you couldn't believe your ears. Surely, he wasn't serious. He was just messing with your head like he always did, "But you didn't," he insisted.

"Was that why you took away my memories with Cass? You were jealous?", anger and frustration filled his eyes. "He was always by your side. Always. And you looked at him as if he was...", it was true you loved Cass a lot. He was your brother, and yes, you were close, but that only happened because Rhys had become cold toward you. As if one day he had woken up and decided that you were the problem. He no longer greeted you, he rarely answered you. It was him and Azriel. Even Cassian rarely did things with them. The dynamic was so strange, yet no one knew the reason why. 

"So, you made it your lifelong mission to take away all the things that made me happy then?", you asked as you stepped closer to him. This twisted madness was starting to drive you insane. Every loose thread you would find would lead you nowhere, and then you would dig up only more new nonsense that made no logical sense.

You took a moment to look at Rhys. Where was the boy that your mother raised? She kept that kind heart of his hidden from your father; it was always there when you were together. Where did it go?

"What have I done, Rhys? What did I do to make you do all of this?", you knew that being desperate was a weakness. Your gentle eyes searched for a flicker of softness in him, but you were met with a cold wall instead.

"You were perfect," he spat, "Star brought. A gift that no one had seen before. But you were too good, too naïve", "That's not a good enough reason to start all of this", your voice picked up once again. You were seen as an object your whole life. They all drank from you as if you were a never-ending energy source. But did they ever ask if you wanted all of this? If you wanted the power, that still felt foreign to you.

"I did this for you.", those words sparked a flicker of darkness inside you. Lies, lies, lies, there's no love there, it sang. Your fingers curled into fists as you tried to push away the need to blow up this whole place. You are okay, you told yourself; put them to sleep just like Eris told you to. "You did this for yourself, Rhys", you said, shaking your head. Droplets of that same red mist started to tap against the floor.

"He will turn you into a monster. Look at yourself now", your breathing picked up as control started to slip away from you. Your body seemed to scream at you, "Eris has done nothing but love me, and you know that too." Your hands started to turn black again. The night sky darkness crawled up to your forearms as you gazed at your brother, who stood only a couple of steps away from you.

"There was a time when I was ready to die for you, Rhys. Now I look at you, and I see a stranger." The arrogance that stayed on his face made you want to claw at him. Rhys closed his eyes for a minute, letting out a deep sigh, "You know what I regret?", you couldn't help but try to swallow the lump that started to form in the back of your throat. Waiting for his words to either bring you back for another life or fully shatter you to pieces. "I regret not putting you in a trance and getting you off my hands just like Helion suggested," your bottom lip quivered, but you quickly bit into it.

"You fucking dick, I'm going to rip you to pieces," you slammed into him, sending his body straight through the big glass window of the second-floor library room. Your fingers clenched his black silk shirt, as you two fell, pieces of glass surrounding you. A part of you told you that you should care that you were freefalling, but the rage that awoke inside you whipped out all the rational thinking. Rhys' breath was taken away by the impact of the solid ground, which sent you head first into the hard surface.

You picked yourself up quickly. Leaping at him once more as your left fist came into contact with his face. You were screaming. You only realized that now. Rhys took a hold of your wrist the second time you tried to hit him, twisting it harshly as he pulled you against himself. His arm came across your neck as he put you in a chokehold. You dug your nails into his skin. He pressed harder, cutting off the airflow as you struggled against his grip. Considering your height difficulty, your feet were dangling in the air, and your body weight pulled you down, only increasing the struggle to breathe.

Then you reached behind yourself. Instead of scratching his arms, your nails made contact with his face. Clawing at whatever you could get your hands on. You must have hit his eyes, because almost in an instant, his arms around you loosened as he backed away, covering the side of his face. You slouched to the ground, coughing harshly as your lungs drank all the oxygen they could get. At this moment, you were glad that your mother was dead. That she couldn't see her two children like this. You knew that her biggest dream was for you two to be each other's helpline.

"Things can crumble in life, but one thing that will never change is your love for one another. Cherish it," she would say. And she couldn't have been further away from the truth. If one thing changed, it was the love that bound you two as siblings.

"I did it all for you," you were crawling to brace yourself to stand up as Rhys approached, lifting you by the jaw. "I built you a happy life, but you just had to dig deep, didn't you?". You wondered if he was going to kill you. If he had been so fed up that now was his breaking moment. Your hands held onto him. Your shadows seemed to have sunk into his skin, with a flick of your mind twisting his body from within as you pulled him away from you. You could feel the darkness running through his veins. One thought, and you could eat him up from the inside.

"You put me into a fairytale that fitted your plans", even with you pinning him away from you he forcefully lifted one of his hands, "You want to see what I took don't you", those words were a well-calculated shot, that gave him enough of a distinction to reach for you again. "So let me show you, and I can promise that it'll hurt," he said. You didn't have a chance to say anything. You felt him ripping your mental shields open as he entered your mind.

You all sat around the dining room table. It felt strange because you were never allowed to eat with them. Your father always said that seeing you ruined his appetite. But you were there. Your father looked almost happy as he nursed the glass of wine.

"We finally settled on a deal with Beron today. You are to marry his oldest son, Y/N", your mother brought you closer to her chest; she smiled at you. Marry? Oldest son... You were supposed to marry Eris?

"You'll finally be useful to the family," your father slurred. You were a deal. Like a little present to gain your father's alliance. You looked at your happy face as your mother hugged you once again and asked, "Are you okay with that, dear?" Rhys was almost boiling as he gripped his own glass, but your face was radiant as you nodded your head.

You felt Rhys pressing harder onto your mind. You weren't sure if he was showing this to you through himself or if he was ripping curses from your memory in your own head.

"I've never seen an apple tree," you said as you sat in a field filled with said trees. Eris by your side. The apple trees. Eris. Eris had asked you about apple picking the first time you saw him. "Are you joking?", you rolled your eyes at the Autumn male, "You know I've been locked for years, right?" The red, glistening fruit caught your attention. Sure, there were plenty of apples at the bottom to choose from, but that one, even though it was near the top, seemed to be the most delicious. "Don't even think about it. It's too high," Eris warned you, but the smirk on your face only grew bigger.

"I have wings, remember?", "You can't fly in Autumn," yet the challenge seemed way too tempting as you quickly stood up. "Watch me," you muttered, but before you could flap your wings, Eris's arms were wrapped around you. "Y/N, it's too dangerous; Beron would lose his..." It was the first time he had touched you. And from the way that his words died down, you knew that he felt it too. It felt like a rush of electricity flowing through your body. Millimeters away, you could sense Eris's warm breath on your skin. And then you felt it. A tug. A golden thread that suddenly came to life right before your eyes. Mates, it sang to you—it's your mate. Your equal. Your other half. I’m yours. I’m yours. I’m yours.

Your heartbeat picked up. Mates. You tried to loosen Rhys' grip on you, but he pressed harder. If he was gaining strength, you were losing it, and the difference in power were evident.

"Don't cover up," Eris murmured into your ear as his fingers ran all over your body. Reaching for your hand that had moved to hide your exposed breast that he himself had freed from the fabric of your dress. Drunk on the feeling. You were drunk on the feeling of him. "I just...", you managed to say before his tongue wrapped around your tender nipple. Sucking on it gently before he bites down, causing you to let out a moan.

"We can stop if you want", "No", you protest instantly. Maybe even too quickly, and you find yourself blushing at how desperately bad you wanted him, "I just don't know how to.. I've never", you feel your brain glitch as two similar memories that were supposed to host the same experience overlap. So, everything with Az, "Filthy for someone who's never done this before", his words rang in your head. It's because you've done this before. Probably many times before.

Your body shook like all those times before. You manage to pull yourself out for a sliver of a second. The light blue sky filled your vision. A breeze of wind touched your skin. You could feel your body shaking. That same feeling of warm liquid running down your nose. But the minute of rest didn't last long, as you felt yourself being dragged under again.

"We'll find a way out," you don't even know where you were. Your mind was unable to pick up on the location. It seemed like a corner street that was pretty securely hidden from the main roads.

"You don't understand. Rhys hasn't been himself", it was you and Eris, both covered by the big hoods of the capes you two wore. His arms were wrapped around you tightly, "Look at me", his fingers found your cheek in the dark, even now you could see his flame-like eyes glistening, "I'll be fine, and by tomorrow we both will be out of here". Rhys had caused a scene that made Beron angry after you were betrothed to Eris. The friction between your families increased, and even your willing agreement to marry each other wasn't enough to calm them down. "I just have a bad feeling, Eris. I think something really bad is going to happen."

Eris lifted your chin up. You could feel his heart beating fast as well. "I fell for you the moment I saw you. I had a feeling that there was a piece of me in you. I was yours from the first look you gave me", "Eris", you muttered your eyes filled up with tears, "No matter what happens, we'll find our way back to each other". 

The rush of images flowed without control, and your fingers covered your ears as the noises picked up. "Stop," you bagged. You felt your body give out. It was too much. Too many things at one time. You weren't able to process them. You were on the ground, breathing heavily. No matter what part of yourself you touched, everything was covered in blood. Your eyes, ears, mouth, fingers. Rhys was frying your brain as if it was nothing. You wanted to fight back, but what was the purpose?

"Now you want to stop? No, we're going to keep looking, and I'm going to show you just what I did that night," but you shook your head. You couldn't. You had no energy in you. Silently begging Rhys to have mercy on you for this once.

The place looked filthy. At best, some sketchy old warehouses. Cobwebs were everywhere, and the only light was brought by the torches that blazed. Eris was hugged up, with chains cuffing both his arms and legs. You felt a wave of nausea flow over you at the sight of him. His face was swollen and bruised. Rhys and Azriel had a good go at him. Yet even in this state, he looked unbreakable. Was this the place they took him? Was this where Cassian didn't want you to go?

"You won't get to lay a finger on her," Rhys roared as he stepped closer to Eris again, "She's my mate," Eris said calmly before spitting the blood out of his mouth.

"Scrap that out of your mind, Eris; she will never be yours." Rhys dragged a blade over his chest, but he only bit his lip. Not a sound left his mouth. "I'll get you front row seat at how happy she'll be with Azriel once all of this is over", Eris only laughed, pulling at the uncomfortable chains that bound him, "She's already mine. She's mine in all ways possible", you watch your brother punch the man you love like he was a madman. Azriel stood to the side, just watching the scene unfold.

"You're going to forget about her and move on." Eris was breathing heavily now; oh, how you wish you could have done something. You would have given everything to save him from this. "You can beat me all you want; you can threaten me. I rather die than lose her", "What a shame because you will lose her. I will make her forget you  and have you watch it happen".

With the last bit of your power, you pushed your brother out of your mind. "Had enough already, darling?", he found this amusing, "So, you're a matchmaker as well?", you spat through gritted teeth.

"The males in that court are animals. Did you want a future like that? To be an object", "Says an Illyrian." You stood up carefully, your legs shaking. You couldn't believe that it was your brother. No...

"Why can't I feel the bond?", "I hid it from you, but you keep reaching for it," your body jerked again, nearly knocking you to the ground.

"Give it back," you murmured. Rhys just gazed at you with his cold eyes. "I said give it back," and as the shout erupted, it painted the ground around you with frosted specs. As if winter had come to night a couple of months earlier. Reaching out with your hand, you once again surrounded Rhys in your shadows. Ripping through his skin, you made him bow right before you. Your breath was labored. Why was he so stubborn? Why was he making everything so complicated?

From the corner of your eyes, you saw Feyre standing right at the entrance. She was shivering. You couldn't help but wonder how much of this she saw. However, your body acted before your mind could comprehend. You reached for her as well. Dragging her closer to you as she screamed out in fear. That's when Rhys perked up. For the first time, it looked like there was a heart beating behind his cold armor.

"She's pretty, isn't she?", you purred next to her face as your shadows swirled around her. "Two can play this game, Rhys", "Let her go; she has nothing to do with this." Wiping the blood from your lips, you looked at her.

"We're going to play a game, Feyre", "Please, I know nothing", you couldn't help but smile, "It's okay, you won't have to do anything", pushing some of her hair behind her ear you smiled at her softly, "Only die". 

Rhys roared at your words, pulling and pushing against your shadows as you reached for Feyre, your hand rested on her chest as you poured your darkness into her. Rhys gripped his chest as the pain tore through him. He yelled for the one he loved the most. Gradually feeling her heartbeat die down, and the warm mating bond faded away. After denial and fear came frantic panic as the void inside him kept getting bigger. Empty and cold.

"Bring her back. I can't breathe; bring her back," he pleaded as you let go of them both. Allowing him to embrace her limp body.

"Give back my bond, Rhys", "Y/N...", he wailed, fingers brushing over Feyre's skin that had started to feel clammy and cold. 

"Do you feel it, Rhys? That's how it feels to lose someone you love. To lose your mate. You still can justify your actions now?", he shook his head like a lost kid. A kid who not only got caught stealing cookies but also lying about not doing so.

You felt Rhys enter your mind once again. You felt him tugging at parts of your memory. Your being. Your legs gave out as your body fought through yet another wave of lost memories. Your senses were filled with images, and then you felt it. As if someone had finally let the string that tied you and Eris free. The warmth filled your body just as Rhys pulled away. His cries filled the empty field. You saw Cassian sprinting towards you just as you pulled all of your darkness back into yourself. Feyre took a sharp breath as her eyes snapped open.

Cassian wrapped an arm around you. You were so grateful that you finally had someone to lean on. You watched as Rhys cried, hugging Feyre closer to himself. Muttering words you couldn't make out. Then your eyes met his.

"I want you to know something", you swallowed hard as you braced yourself against Cassian, "Once this is over, and our deal to save Autumn is carried out. I never want to see you again. And if you'll ever try anything again, I will kill you", you turned from him without a second thought. Not feeling strong enough to look into his pleading eyes.

Cassian steadied your step, but you were instantly washed with that sickly feeling. As if something bad had happened. Your eyes met Cassian's and you knew that something wasn't right. "Cass...", you could tell that he was hesitant. You were weak, and after that scrap with Rhys, this was not something you needed to deal with. His hands grip your forearms as if he was preparing to catch you in case you fall, "Beron carried out another attack", you nodded your head but you could feel that that was not it, "Eris got caught up in it".

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