#the moon daggers can harm ghosts as well

[tales-of-the-ghost-zone]

Danny Phantom x Moon Knight

Been obsessed with the idea of the crossover between these two shows! Mostly because it’s Danny Phantom cannon that Tucker is the reincarnation of an Egyptian pharaoh!! And the crossover would come in with Tucker’s past life having being one of Khonshu’s previous avatars. Hell it could even be that Tucker was Konshu’s first ever avatar!

Like I’m just picturing a scene where the Moon Knight System and Khonshu meet team Phantom and Khonshu takes one look at Tucker and just has a stroke cause that is one of his previous avatars who died thousands of years ago wtf is he doing here alive and looking like a teenager. And if we’re going with the whole Danny is the king of the ghost zone via conquest, his next thought would be and why the hell is he hanging out with the king of the dead?!!!!

Meanwhile the whole of team Phantom can see Khonshu, Danny because he’s half ghost, Tucker because he’s a reincarnated pharaoh who was a previous avatar, Sam cause she was once given ghost like powers for a short time by Undergrowth and is now not fully human anymore, and Jazz because she’s lived in Amity Park exposed to ambient ectoplasm in the air for so long that she’s now liminal as hell!!!

Team Phantom is just staring up at this giant bird skull person in absolute confusion. And then Tucker just kind of squints at him for a moment and goes “hey I know you!” And the Moon Knight system is just standing there in the background confused as all hell, looking back and forth between this group of kids and Konshu.

[targaryenimagines]

Just Wait

Daenerys Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1,989

Summary:

Notes: I hope this is all right. 

Dialogue Prompt:  “Try and stay calm, okay? Help is coming.”

The wind was howling through the air. Snow whipping past your face and obscuring your view. All that you could see were the elegant spikes of Rhaegal’s neck. The pebbled scales being the only comfort to your numbing hands. You wince as the winds howls were intersected by the wails of the damned. Glowing blue eyes appearing before your eyes as you blinked. 

Glancing down, you could see nothing but the unending swirl of white in the pitch blackness. 

How many of your friends had already perished below you? 

How many would you never see again? 

How many would you never be able to properly bury?

The questions only cause the growing pit in your stomach to become that much larger. Your hands clench around Rhaegal’s spike. Trying your best to keep your breath steady as he took another sharp turn. Your body pressing against his neck in order to stay upright. Squinting doing little to alleviate the temporary blindness the action caused. 

Craning your neck, you look up in hopes that the moon would be able to guide you to where you needed to be. You were only met by even more suffocating darkness-- even the clouds having lost their glow. Curses fall from your lips as you angle Rhaegal down into another dive. Getting too close to the ground could prove to be fatal but you had no choice; images of Viserion’s lifeless body falling from the sky comes unbidden to your mind at the thought. Your heart breaking all over again as you remember his pain-filled cry. How Rhaegal had echoed it as you both tried to desperately save him. Your gentle boy being swallowed by ice and snow; only to be awakened by the very thing that had cursed him. 

You hadn’t seen Viserion yet but you had heard his roars. The once gentle and calming sound turned ragged. A mournful howl for everything that was lost and that had to continue to be. In the same manner, you hadn’t seen Drogon or Daenerys since the battle had begun. Both you and Rhaegal taking to the outside defenses to make sure there wouldn’t be any stragglers. Even now you couldn’t hear the sounds of Drogon’s mighty roars or the cries of battle. 

You and Rhaegal were completely alone. In the ghost filled sky that promised nothing but despair when it used to offer nothing but freedom. 

That is until a sharp cry from above you caused every hair on your body to stand on end. Your head snapping up towards the sound, even as you made Rhaegal dive to the side, and nothing could have prepared you for the sight of seeing Viserion. 

Nothing could have prepared you for the sight of seeing him so broken. His scales, once so vibrant, turned ashen and lifeless. 

His gentle face devoid of any emotion except for the mind-numbing coldness that seemed to be in constant supply in the North. 

Once golden eyes, that always reminded you of the sun, turned blue. Fire turning to ice. 

The only thing rivalling the horror you felt at seeing Viserion in such a state was seeing the thing that was riding him. The Night King’s cold eyes were watching your every movement as Rhaegal dipped lower and lower in the sky. Your attention diverted from his icy gaze towards Rhaegal as his wings narrowly escaped the tree tops. His body jolts as he tries to avoid the imminent collision. 

With your mouth pressed into a line, you force yourself to relax and remember everything you had learned over the years with Rhaegal. Every minute movement of his body and what that told you. Even if the Night King could control Viserion, he would never be able to fly like you could. You just had to get to Daenerys, to Drogon, and everything would be fine. 

Chancing one last glance towards him, you couldn’t help the sardonic smirk that pulled at your lips. “If you want me you’ll have to catch me you sick bastard.”

-----

In retrospect, taunting the Night King wasn’t the smartest plan. While you had the advantage of experience atop dragons. He held the advantage when it came being able to see where you were going. Which, in the grand scheme of things, was a very useful tool to have. 

As it wouldn’t be the first, or second, time you had almost slammed into something as you made your back towards Winterfell.

“How did we get so far out?” You hiss as you, yet again, dip Rhaegal into a dive to avoid Viserion’s talons. His disjointed shriek causes the hairs on the back of your neck to stand on end. You didn’t remember flying this far out from Winterfell but as each moment ticked by you could tell that you had somehow gotten turned around. We were only supposed to be a few minutes out at most. How did this happen?

Feeling the sudden breeze of air on your head, causes you to duck. Your head almost collided with Rhaegal’s neck as Viserion made another dive towards you. Feeling the slick feeling of liquid running down your neck, you raise your hand to the base of it. Letting loose a soft hiss as a sharp stab of pain is the response your body gives to the prodding. You know you didn’t have to look at your fingers to see that your glove was stained red. 

Catching sight of the beacon fires almost causes you to sob in relief. Your eyes welling up at the brilliant sight of light after spending so long in near darkness. The sounds of battle resounding out towards you like a choir. 

“Only a bit longer, Rhaegal,” you murmur against his neck. Feeling the way his breaths had gotten deeper. You don’t know how much longer he would be able to last if the pace continued like this. The constant bobbing and weaving through frozen air. Squeezing your eyes shut, you send a silent prayer to R’hllor to get you through this-- to get Rhaegal through this. “You’re doing so well. Just a bit longer and I promise you’ll be able to rest.”

Only a small snort was your response. The reaction caused a small smile to quirk your lips despite the situation you were in. His tenacious spirit hadn’t dimmed in the slightest even as his energy was so clearly waned. That’s my boy. 

Angling Rhaegal into a steep dive, you make your descent towards Winterfell. Your eyes desperately searching for Daenerys. Your breath catching when you finally caught sight of Drogon’s familiar form. His looming black shadow shifting over the battlefield as he and Daenerys dealt with the Wights. The Unsullied fight valiantly underneath their Khaleesi. You think you could even see Jorah shifting about with Jon Snow’s direwolf-- Ghost. 

Viserion’s sharp cry causes you to wince. Your head is already bowing as you twist Rhaegal into the opposite direction. Hoping that you would be able to be fast enough but you hadn’t reacted fast enough. Not as you felt Viserion slam into Rhaegal and press you down against his back. Your breath escaping you in a harsh exhale as Rhaegal tried desperately to free himself. His angry shrieks like daggers through your heart. 

Knowing that there was little else you could do; not when you and Rhaegal were so tired. You call for Daenerys-- hoping that your dragon would be able to get to you. Your eyes search for her violet as you begin your descent towards the snow covered ground. 

“Daenerys.”

------

“Daenerys.”

The sound of her name ripped through the air. Louder than any scream from the undead below her. Louder than any cry of the dying that would forever echo in her head. Louder than even Drogon was at his angriest. 

Her head snapping up in the direction the scream, no plea, had originated from. Her own beginning to form when she saw her mate and son in a spiral. She had known that Viserion was a slave of the Night King’s now but she had never truly prepared herself to see him. 

She had never thought it would be when he was clutching onto Rhaegal’s back. His talons like anchors against Rhaegal’s green hide. Rivulets of red already became obvious as her son struggled to break free. Struggled to protect his mother, his rider, from harm. She could even see your face from here. See the pain that was so clearly etched across your beautiful features. The blood that was becoming apparent through the stark white of your cloak. 

It was a sight that forced her into action. Nudging, Drogon in your direction as fast as he was able to go. Her heart hammering in her chest as Rhaegal let loose another cry of pain. As Viserion echoed it back with one of his own demented shrieks. Her two boys, that were closer than even she could comprehend, enemies because of the vileness that Westeros held. It brought tears to her eyes as Drogon finally got a hold of Viserion. His much larger form easily being able to overpower his brother. Claws ripping and tearing through brittle hide as he was tossed to the side. Little decorum being shown for what used to be his brother. 

Glancing down, Daenerys’s heart almost stops at the sight of Rhaegal’s still plummeting form. His wings weakly trying to keep him afloat but nothing would be able to stop his descent. She could see the wounds in his wings and the way his head was drooping which each second ticked by. Angling Drogon into a dive, Daenerys does everything she can to stop his descent. To stop him from hitting the ground but it was all in vain. 

Her widened gaze watching as Rhaegal was weakly able to run across the surface before crashing down completely. The form of his rider being thrown from his body into a heap on the icy landscape. 

Not thinking of much else, Daenerys jumps off of Drogon the moment his feet make contact with land. Her hand ran against Rhaegal’s neck in a quick search to make sure he was all right; relieved when she felt his heavy breathing through her glove. His steady warmth is still there despite everything.

With that task accomplished, she makes her way over towards the form of her mate. Her knees hitting the ground with preamble and she brought you into her arms. A worried gaze taking in every bruise and scrape that made up the expanse of your skin. Blood trickling down slowly from open wounds that didn’t look to be too deep. A relieved sob leaving her lips when she notices your breathing; while shallow it was something. 

Closing her eyes, Daenerys sends a silent thank you to whatever deity helped keep her mate and son safe. Her mouth pressing a soft kiss to your forehead as she pulled you tighter into her embrace. Very much aware of Drogon’s presence wrapping around her. His protective stance warmed her heart.  

“Try and stay calm, okay?” She murmurs softly to herself as she pulls you tighter against her. Wanting to keep you as warm as she possibly could. “Help is coming.”

Glancing up, Daenerys could no longer see the various shadows of war against the landscape. Her heart thudding against her chest at what that could mean. Though none of it mattered if it meant that she lost you. 

Looking down, she presses another small kiss to your forehead and smiles despite the tears in her eyes. “I love you. If you hold on a bit longer I promise I will never leave your side again.” She nuzzles into your neck; needing to be surrounded by your scent. “You’ll be stuck with me. Just wait for help to come.”

Unbeknownst to Daenerys the slightest of smiles curled your lips at her words. You could never imagine not waiting for your dragon. 

[a-edgar-allan-hoe]

The Last Chthonian

Bucky x Reader, Sam x Reader, Zemo x Reader

Part 16

A/N: Y’all chapter 16 IS HERE!!!!! Well this was a difficult chapter to write but it includes a fluffy ending! 🙂 I hope you lovelies enjoy it and feedback is greatly appreciated! And as always, have a beautiful day and let me know if you would like to be added to the tag list! ☺️ 💕💕💕💕

Summary: Imagine being Hekate, the Greek goddess of magic and witchcraft, the night and the moon, doorways and crossroads, creatures of the night, and ghosts and necromancy. You stumbled upon Earth many centuries ago and since then have resided on the foreign planet. During the recent years you created an alias for yourself to hide your true identity, and after the war against Thanos you chose to live out your days in the Scottish countryside, until a certain trio appear at your doorstep one day.

Warnings: language, mentions of past trauma and abuse, blood and gore, mentions of past torture, scars

There was still daylight outside when you had roused from your nap, the sunshine emerging through the gap in the tall closed curtains just enough to provide the living room with some light and warmth. Yet another nightmare terrorized your dreams in the few hours of your slumber, the very same one that haunted you the night before in regards to the scars on your back. Whenever will these night terrors cease to exist? Shall you ever hope to one day have the fortuity of being able to rest your head and not have to wake up in absolute terror and dread.

You laid there on the couch, hands resting on your stomach as you stared up at the coffered ceiling, your eyes tracing the grooves along the panels as you reflected on what had occurred not very long ago. Which reminded you, you would have to check on your wound soon, hoping that your Olympian genes had at least allowed it to heal. And while you were at it, you could really use a bath. Sam was disappointedly no longer nestled next to you, leaving you in an empty coldness even though a blanket had been thrown over your sleeping form. Thoughts of divulging the story behind your scars invaded your mind like a dark stormy cloud hovering above your head, ready to rain down with feelings of fear, guilt, and shame. Sam had warned you about the dangers of keeping yourself in a dark hole. How shutting yourself off from the rest of the world and leaving your mind to the negative thoughts that ate at you like a blood-sucking parasite would slowly devour every last ounce of you that made you alive. It was no different than jumping into piranha infested waters. You had to tell them the truth about you soon, even if it was piece by piece, like putting together a puzzle to reveal the whole picture. However, you felt a sense of foreboding deep within your spine upon when the time would come. Seeing the whole picture only meant seeing the real you. And you couldn’t help but feel they’d look at you with the utmost horror indescribable to mortals, like the monster you were. You couldn’t blame them if they never wished to see you again. You’d run from that part of you if you could.

You got up with a soft groan, your hair was disarray and your body was stiff and sore as you looked around the dim room to see Sam sat on a stool by the kitchen area staring down at his laptop, the light from the screen Illuminating the blank expression on his face that masked a layer of concern behind it. Sam’s heart was torn from the moment he laid his eyes on your back, he could still feel the way his heart skipped a beat when he caught sight of those jagged lines. The picture was imbedded in his mind like the first time you witness something upsetting. Sam could almost count the scars and map it out. This explained why you never wore a tank top and stuck with t-shirts. You had hid this from everyone since the beginning.

Bucky stood off to the other side of the room with his hands in his pockets. You noticed how his brows were knitted together, his eyes which were usually bright, now held a shadow over them as stared off into the distance. Little did you know, he hadn’t stopped thinking about you. The image still haunted his thoughts like a demonic spirit. Bucky had felt this malevolent and nefarious atmosphere surround him in that moment he first saw the slashes that lined your back, like a dense fog concealing something evil lurking behind the mist. In the days that he had known you, he believed you to be one of the most caring souls he had the luck of coming across in all his years, you reminded him of Steve in some ways. Who could have done this to you? Whatever did you do to deserve such cruelty?

“Y/n?” Bucky’s face lightened up as he walked over to you to see how you were holding up once he saw you sitting up on the couch. “How are you feeling?” He crouched down next to you, laying his hand on top of your bare foreman. He couldn’t stop thinking about how much pain you must have been in, to get shot and walk it off as if nothing had happened. He wished you had told him, instead of trying to hide it. It ended up doing you more harm than good.

“Better. Still a bit weak, but I think I’m gaining my strength back.” You smiled at him, squeezing his hand as you lost yourself in his eyes, blushing under his gaze from how close he was to you and to the way his hand was on the bare skin of your arm. They had been the first thing you noticed about him, those bright steel blue orbs contrasted against his dark lashes that seemed to pierce right through you like icy daggers. You found them to be striking, as if you were staring into the skies of an oncoming storm. However, that was until you saw the curl of his lips and the crinkles at the outer corners of his eyes, it was then his boyish smile that completely transcended his appearance. And when he smiled at you, you could never seem to pull yourself away. It was that same charming smile that captivated you since 1942.

“That’s good to hear.” Sam spoke up after hearing your answer, looking up at you with a warm smile. “I knew you’d pull through.”

“You have too much faith in me Sam.” You shook your head with a soft chuckle. Your ears perked up at the sound of the bathroom doors opening, and when you turned towards it, your eyes nearly widened at the sight before you. There in the vicinity of the entrance to the bathroom stood Zemo fresh out of the shower wearing a bathrobe, his bare chest visible from under the collar where a thin gold chain hung loosely around his neck. His skin glistened from the water droplets that still clung to him, like the dew that formed on blades of grass and the surrounding plant-life the morning after a cold and misty night. He carried with him a small towel, using it to dry his damp hair, the loose strands falling over the side of his face. Your breath was caught in your throat as you watched him go over to the kitchen area, leaving behind a trail of his cologne as he went. The scent was much sharper now from being just recently applied and caused the hairs on your arms to stand up, encompassing you in a haze of this medley of fragrances. Your nose vivified from your sense of smell that picked up on the hints of cedar, fig, grapefruit, orange, pepper, vetiver and ylang-ylang. He smelled incredible.

In this very moment, you were beyond thankful you were the only one with telepathic abilities, due to certain uninhibited images that played within the walls of your mind. Your eyes flickered down to the belt of the robe that was tied around his torso, your fingers itching to untie the one sole thing that with a single tug, would leave him for you to behold and admire. You turned your gaze to the floor, your face burning along with your thoughts that seemed to swallow you whole. By the gods and the pits of Tartarus, were you really lusting after that man? If you had went back in time and told yourself that you would one day be infatuated with and dare say even be consumed with desire for none other than Helmut Zemo himself, you would have stabbed yourself and thrown your body into Tartarus with your own two hands to prevent such a thing from happening. You needed a shower, a cold one at that.

“Well, I probably should have said this in the beginning.” Bucky cleared his throat as he had now sat next to you on the couch, you didn’t even notice his hand leave yours and you prayed he didn’t see the way you were drinking in Zemo. Fortune was in your favor, owing to the fact that Bucky had not noticed at all. “But the Wakandans are here. They want Zemo. Bought us some more time.”

You snapped your head towards Bucky upon hearing him say what you were ashamed to have felt a bit of dismay towards. You would be a fool to admit you didn’t see it coming. You had known the Wakandans were after him since the beginning, you said so yourself when you first saw him at your front door that day, hidden behind Bucky and Sam. Who would have known those words would eventually leave a bitter taste in your mouth.

“Were you followed?” Sam asked, his head shooting up from his phone after he heard what Bucky had announced.

“No.” Bucky shook his head.

“How can you be so sure?” Zemo questioned with a look of doubt.

“‘Cause I know when I’m being followed.”

“It was sweet of you to defend me at least.”

“Hey, you shut it.” Sam snapped at Zemo. “No one’s defending you. You killed Nagel.”

“Do we really have to litigate what may or may not have happened?” Zemo retaliated as he went behind the table, opening up the cupboards and peering at the items inside.

“There’s nothing to litigate. You straight shot the man.” Sam expressed as he followed Zemo with his head.

“Sam.” Bucky spoke up as he stared at an article on his phone, making you look at him in curiosity.

“What?”

“Karli bombed a GRC supply depot.”

Your brows furrowed when you heard what happened. What in the realms was this girl doing? Did she just cross the line?

“What? What’s the damage?” Sam looked stunned upon hearing the news.

“Eleven injured, three dead. They have a list of demands and are promising more attacks if those demands aren’t met.”

You sighed, shaking your head from what you heard. “This isn’t good.”

“She’s getting worse. I have the will to complete this mission. Do the two of you?” Zemo turned to the two of them.

“She’s just a kid.” Sam defended, none of this was sitting right with him.

“You’re seeing something in her that isn’t there.” Zemo tried to point out. “You’re clouded by it. She’s a supremacist. The very concept of a Super Soldier will always trouble people. It’s that warped aspiration that led to Nazis, to Ultron, to the Avengers.”

“You’re talking about our friends.” Sam glared.

“The Avengers, not the Nazis.” Bucky corrected Sam’s statement.

“So, Karli is radicalized, but there has to be a peaceful way to stop her.”

“The desire to become a superhuman cannot be separated from supremacist ideals. Anyone with that serum is inherently on that path. She will not stop. She will escalate until you kill her. Or she kills you.”

“Maybe you’re wrong, Zemo.” Bucky mentioned. “The serum never corrupted Steve.”

“Touché.” Zemo pointed with a cookie on his finger from the jar he pulled out. “But there has never been another Steve Rogers, has there?”

“Well, maybe we should give him to the Wakandans right now.” Bucky rolled his eyes.

“And you’ll give up your tour guide?” Zemo went back to open up another cupboard.

“Yes.”

“You guys.” You groaned, making them turn their attention on you as you leaned back into the couch, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I hope you know that arguing isn’t going to help the situation at all. I agree with Sam, we should try to convince her to see the wrong in her ways first, try to get her to back down. Hopefully she’ll change her mind. But......if she doesn’t........”

“No.” Sam shook his head. “You’re not going to stab her.”

“You didn’t let me finish.” You stuck your hand out. “I was going to say throw her ass in jail if she persists. She’s already killed three and injured seven.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“You’re acting like I’ve never signed peace treaties before Sam. My sister Athena and I used to be diplomats, ambassadors for our planet. Our father would send us off to other worlds to build alliances. Let me tell you from my personal experience from the people I have dealt with. Someone who is so dead set in their ways and begins to see themselves as a form of liberator or savior on the right path, you gotta do a hell lot of convincing to get them to see clearly.”

“Karli may be different.” Sam looked at you.

“Yes, she may or may not be. It’s a 50/50 chance. But when you live as long as me you start to see similarities, patterns. History tends to repeat itself.”

“So what do we do?” Sam crossed his arms over his chest.

“Well. We take this with a diplomatic approach. I think you should go talk to her. You’re good at that.”

Sam nodded his head at your words, his eyes deep in thought.

“If you guys will excuse me.” You stood up from the couch. “I’m going to go check on my wound and wash up.”

“There should be some spare towels and robes.” Zemo gestured towards the bathroom, to which you thanked him with a nod.

You closed the bathroom doors behind you, locking it with a click before removing your articles of clothing and the gauze that was wrapped around your midsection. The wound had already healed, leaving behind a raised scar in its place, another mark to add to your collection. You shivered against the chilly air of the bathroom, your toes curled against the tile floors that were cool to the touch as you rubbed your arms. You went over to turn on the shower, running your hand under the water to check on the temperature before stepping in, closing your eyes and letting out a sigh the moment the warm water touched your skin.

Memories of your planet occupied your mind, filling you with a sense of solace as you remembered the beautiful lush land and the magnificent creatures that roamed them, scattered with tall mountains and waterfalls, lakes and streams, and the exquisite flowers that smelled absolutely heavenly whenever you passed them. You missed the Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian architecture of the towering buildings and the tents that lined the local markets that you used to stroll through wearing a chiton and a pair of sandals, the markets always bustling with merchants, philosophers, painters, sculptors, and craftsmen of almost every kind. You missed the different smells of the food and spices that revitalized your senses and made your mouth water. And you missed the local hot springs, especially the secluded one you discovered on one of your walks. It was the perfect place for you to unwind, especially after a hard day of training where your muscles ached. The area was surrounded by plant life which offered you privacy, allowing you to immerse yourself in the waters in solitude and peace with a view that overlooked the ancient cities below you. When the sun went to rest over the horizon and the moon took command over the skies, the water itself became luminescent under the stars, as if someone had thrown handfuls of aquamarine jewels into it, which was stunning when complemented with the starry night sky. Gods, you missed your home, you missed the past. Apart from all those wonders that brightened up your eyes whenever you beheld them, you missed the familiar faces of the people you have come to know there. You missed the locals, and you missed your family. Your heart ached, it felt as if your soul was grappling with a pervasive emptiness that lurked in its dark and unexplored corners. An intense yearning overwhelmed you, a sentimental longing for the past and the things that were.

You sighed, shutting off the water and wiping away the tear that had managed to escape before stepping out of the shower, grabbing a towel to dry yourself off before slipping on a clean pair of clothes. Your hair was still damp as you wrapped a towel around it, opening the bathroom doors back up to see Bucky, Zemo, and Sam in a conversation.

“From my understanding, Donya is like a pillar of the community, right? So, when I was a kid, my TT passed away.” Sam elaborated.

You stopped, furrowing your brows at Sam, only managing to catch a snippet of the sentence. “Why are you talking about tits?”

“What?” Sam looked at you. “No not tits, my TT.”

“What about your tiddies?” You quirked.

“No my TT. TEE-TEE.”

“Your TT?” Bucky squinted at him.

“Yeah, my TT, yeah.” Sam rolled his eyes, annoyed that no one got what he was saying.

“Who is your TT?”

“Fine.” Sam sighed. “When I was a kid, my aunt passed away and the entire neighborhood got together for a ceremony. It was like a week long. Maybe they’re doing the same thing for Donya.”

“Sounds plausible.” You nodded, heading over to the kitchen to grab yourself a cold glass of water.

“Worth a shot.” Bucky noted.

“Your TT would be proud of you.” Zemo accentuated before tossing the three of you some candy. “Turkish delight. Irresistible.”

You caught the one Zemo tossed over to you, staring at the cubed piece of paper wrapped candy in your hands before looking up at Zemo with a raised brow. “Uh.....thanks.” You walked over to the couch where Bucky sat, sitting down next to him and popping the candy in your mouth after removing the wrapper.

“How’s the bullet wound?” Sam nodded towards you.

“It’s healed, thanks for asking.”

It was now or never.

“So uh......guys.” You cleared your throat, your nerves causing you torment like tiny little pinpricks over your skin. “About the uh............about the scars you saw on my back.”

“You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to.” Bucky spoke softly after noticing how your voice shook, your eyes were glued to your hands as you picked at the skin on your fingers and palms.

“No.” You shook your head. “I can’t keep this hidden forever.” You sighed, taking in a deep breath to prepare yourself as the men watched you, silent as the grave as they listened attentively to what you had to say. “Long ago, back in Olympus when I had just reached adulthood, I used to be a diplomat for my father, as you already know. Well, that wasn’t my only duty. I was also an assassin, his.........personal executioner. I would be sent on missions to other worlds to take out tyrants, oppressors, the absolute heinous of society. In the beginning, it was for the health of the innocent, to unshackle the chains of injustice and cruelty. But then one day, Zeus wanted me to assassinate a king who had done no harm towards his people. At first, I couldn’t understand his reasoning on having me complete this mission, until it all clicked. I started to see the truth behind Zeus’s aspirations, his....ulterior motive. I had been completely oblivious to his twisted ambition and lust for power. I had never been so vexed with anyone and myself. I felt ridden with guilt, telling myself I should have caught on to his true intentions far earlier. So I confronted him about it and laid down the sword he gave me, not wanting anything to do with it. I told him what he was doing was wrong, and that I did not want to be a part of his path to reign of terror. Zeus became furious and tried to accuse me of treason before locking me up in the dungeons. I had never seen him with that kind of rage before. I was terrified to see my father act that way and hadn’t slept a wink that night in the cell. The very next day was my public punishment, one that Hera herself picked out. So his guards dragged me out to the stands that afternoon, the place where they held public shaming and punishments.”

You stopped, gathering yourself as you wiped away at the tears that fell down your cheeks. You could feel Bucky reach his hand out towards you so you grabbed it in return, clutching it with dear life as if it was the only thing that reminded you that you were here, not back in that traumatic moment, but here on earth with 3 men that would do absolutely anything for your safety and happiness. You choked back a sob as you continued. “They tore open the back of my dress, leaving me bare from the waist up for all to see before tying my wrists to the wooden post. I had never felt so humiliated and frightened my entire life. And then they whipped me, over and over again to the point I could no longer stand, the only thing keeping me up was the rope. My dress became soaked with the blood from my wounds and so did the wooden floorboards beneath me. I eventually fell unconscious from the pain, it was too much for me to bear. I was left there for the remainder of the day, left as an example of what happens to those who betray Zeus. When my uncle Hades, Athena, Artemis and some of my other siblings heard what had happened, they rushed to my aid, enraged at what was done to me. Athena and Artemis took me in to their home and tried to tend to my wounds there, but they had already festered. I came to find out later that the rope they whipped me with was laced with a poison so that my wounds wouldn’t heal properly, so that they’d remain to be a constant reminder of my actions.”

The men were silent as you finished telling your story, their faces only fitting the description of horror as they tried to process the inhumanity that was inflicted on you by the very people you trusted. They couldn’t bring themselves to give you words of comfort. No amount of words and speeches could help you or undo what was done. The men’s hearts wrenched as they could almost share the pain you had felt. If your father wasn’t already dead, they would have killed the scumbag himself. Bucky had hugged you in that moment, letting you cry into his shoulder as Sam had come over to you as well, wrapping his arms around you as he hugged you from behind. You sat there engulfed between Sam and Bucky as you cried, your tears and your confession representing the weight that was now lifted off your shoulders. You no longer had to hide the scars, your story was told. Zemo still stood by the kitchen, his knuckles white from gripping the counter, his face turned in the opposite direction. One look at you would tear him apart, he would drop everything and rush over to you this instant to be able to hold you in his arms. He’d let you cry onto him forever if need be. You didn’t deserve that, you didn’t deserve any of it.

You went for a stroll that night after the sun had set. Bucky and Sam offered to accompany you due to the state you were in but you declined. You needed to be alone for a while. Retelling your story still rattled you as if you had relived that moment once more. You headed off to the nearest park, laying down on the grass as you stared up at the night sky. The cool wind brushed against your cheeks like an icy caress as you closed your eyes, the blades of grass tickling the sides of your face, losing yourself in your surroundings before the faint sound of footsteps against the soft grass interrupted you. You sat up, turning your head to see Zemo standing behind you.

“Zemo? What are you doing here?”

“Thought I might join you, if you’d allow me.”

“...............sure.” You watched him from the corner of your eye as he sat down beside you, wearing that fur collared coat of his. You pulled your knees up to your chest, clasping your hands together at the front before staring off into the distance.

Zemo’s eyes flickered over to your profile, studying your facial expressions and the hollowness that was held in your eyes. He still could not get your narrative out of his head, wincing at the image of the excruciating pain and anguish you must have felt at the time. He could not imagine what your back must of resembled in that moment. He wished he was there, so that he may have rescued you and went after those who ever dared to do you harm. “So, what brings you out here?”

“I wanted to see the stars. I heard there might be a meteor shower tonight.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Better, surprisingly. Still a bit unnerved, but I’m think I’m doing better.”

“I’m terribly sorry about what happened to you. It should never have occurred in the first place.”

“Don’t apologize, you had nothing to do with it.” You sighed, shivering as a strong breeze passed through you.

Zemo noticed your movement and turned in your direction. “Do you need my coat?”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be fine.”

You watched as Zemo slipped off his coat before leaning over to drape it around your shoulders. You averted your eyes from him and turned your head away from how close he was. You shivered once more, but this time from his warm breath that grazed across your cheek as he adjusted the fur collar so that it fit snug around your neck and head to provide you with as much comfort as he could. The way he handled you so tenderly made you blush, as if you were a delicate rose, a precious gem that if held incorrectly would be considered a crime, a disgrace to your existence. Then there it was again, that cologne of his that had you feeling a certain way. You could still smell it off him, and now that you wore his coat, the sharp citrusy and spicy scent completely engulfed you as if you had been transported back to the markets of the ancient empires. Zemo gazed down at you from where he was seated, you didn’t even have to look up at him to feel your face heat up, that’s how much of an effect he had over you. The way he looked at you made you feel vulnerable and small. You were the goddess of witchcraft, and yet, here you were, completely bewitched and transfixed by him as if he had cast an enchantment over you.

“Schatzi.” Zemo whispered as he gently laid a finger under your chin to bring your face to him.

You stared at him with wide eyes, hidden behind a veil of sorrow and regret along with your aching and yearning heart. The Wakandans would have him soon, then you might not ever have the chance of seeing him again. It was now or never. “Zemo I.......I want to apologize for that night. I’m sorry if I offended you. I didn’t-“

“Schatzi.” Zemo held your face with both of his surprisingly soft pampered hands as he caressed your cheek. “There’s no need to apologize. I would never wish for you to be uncomfortable.”

“Why? Why are you so kind towards me? Don’t you hate the avengers, people with unordinary abilities?” You questioned, desperately wanting to know why he treated you with respect, despite his moral compass in regards to super soldiers and such. You would’ve conjectured that you would be on his list of people to eliminate.

“Because.” Zemo stopped to push a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. “You have shown nothing but kindness to those around you and to my people. When I first saw you, you struck me as the silent and menacing one, you spoke very little and I thought you to be dangerous. But then I saw what you did after the attack from Ultron, how you stayed behind to help clean up what was left and find any remaining survivors. Your efforts towards my country will not be forgotten. You have a beautiful and caring soul y/n, one that shines brighter than any I’ve seen. After all that you’ve been through and all that you have done, you too deserve kindness in return.”

You smiled at his words, placing your hands on top of Zemo’s as he still cradled your face. You turned your head slightly to place a soft kiss to his wrist, eliciting a small gasp from his lips. The two of you had been touch deprived for so long, without a single soul to hold and kiss, that a small action such as this was enough to send you both over the edge. You gazed into his eyes once more as you placed your hand against the side of his neck, your eyes trailing down to his lips as you traced the smooth shaven skin of his jaw with your thumb. Zemo felt his heart stop in his chest from your gesture and the way you looked at him. You looked absolutely ethereal, wearing his coat and sitting in close proximity of him under the stars, the moonlight making you radiant in parallel to the the silver orb itself. Your heart palpitated in your chest, nearly breaking out of your rib cage and becoming the only thing you could hear as you finally mustered up the courage to do what you have longed to do.

Your eyes fluttered closed as you leaned in with your lips slightly parted as Zemo did the same, your noses grazing against each together like the fallen leaves caught in the winds of autumn as you rested your foreheads together. Your breathing quivered, your body trembling from the sudden forethought of what was to come as the two of you hovered not even a centimeter apart, your lips brushing against his as your faltering breaths fanned each other’s faces, both of you too tense to make the first move. Zemo pulled away unexpectedly, causing your heart to drop and leaving your face to the coldness of the night air, which made you knit your brows together. Zemo chuckled softly at the disheartened expression that marked your features before tilting his head towards you once again, his hands never leaving the sides of your face as he pressed a feathery kiss to your forehead and each of your closed eyelids, placing another to the rounds of your cheeks, and lastly the tip of your nose as if he was mapping out what he found beautiful about you, before pressing his lips to the area you most desired them to be.

You gasped at the touch, both of you equally startled from the intimate gesture and your bodies rigid before melting in the kiss you shared. The kiss was innocent and sweet, bringing about a warmth that flowed through your veins like the rays of the sun on a warm summer day. Your hands rested on his chest, feeling the beating of his heart beneath your palm through the fabric of his turtleneck. His lips were firm, yet soft and warm and the taste of expensive wine, cherry blossom tea, and Turkish delights still lingered on them. Zemo barely moved against the chaste kiss, luxuriating in the taste of your lips, the traces of coffee, caramel, dark chocolate, and pomegranates left him fully succumbed to your touch, not wanting to overstep your boundaries and allowing you to be the one to made the decision. The two of you remained motionless, frozen in time, resembling baroque marble statues sculpted by the hands of Gian Lorenzo Bernini. You compelled yourself to separate from his lips after what gave the impression of being an entirety of lifetimes, but, be that as it may, it had only been a matter of seconds. A soft smile formed on the curves of your lips as you gazed up at him with flushed cheeks, releasing the breath you had caged in this entire time before reconnecting your lips to his once more.

Your hands made their way up to wrap around the back of his neck, softly grazing the hairs on the back of his head while his slipped down to the curve of your back, pulling you gingerly to him as your chest was pressed flush against his. The smell of Zemo’s fresh citrusy cologne and your warmer, darker perfume reminiscent of castles, vampires and the Victorian era, merged together to create an aroma one would only describe as intoxicating. The kiss became more passionate, more ardent as you molded into each other like melted candle wax, as if you had been designed specially for each other as would a lock and key, it was absolutely breathtaking. You couldn’t resist the soft, sighing moan that escaped your lips from the feeling of serenity that washed over you, a sensation similar to that numbness that swept over your body right before you entered a deep state of sleep. The way your lips moved against one other and the way you held on to one another as if you’d wake up the moment you let go, wasn’t so much provoked by a desire for lust, but rather a cavernous desperation for the ability to feel, a craving for sentiment, to be able to find worth and significance buried in your souls within the walls of this hollow world. But more than any of these, this kiss was your way of professing the deep affection you held for each other, a testament to the sparking of the forging of your souls.

You broke the kiss after what felt like an eternity of euphoria, pressing your forehead against Zemo’s as you caressed the line of his jaw, a soft smile formed on your lips as your hearts now drummed in sync. You thought you could never feel such a thing again, that to be able to hold and kiss someone again would be impossible, you were incredibly wrong, and you had never been more happy about it. Zemo was left breathless, scrambling to put his mind together since he couldn’t process a single thought after what he experienced. Kissing you was unlike anything he had ever felt, he could only describe it as otherworldly, transcendent. How someone like you, a goddess, a princess, could ever manage to return his feelings, he would never know. But there was one thing Zemo was sure of, he could never grow tired of the moments spent with you. Truth be told, it only left him yearning for more. Zemo pressed a delicate kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment before pulling you down to the grass with him. You let out a quiet giggle from his actions, pulling Zemo’s coat closer to you and interlacing your fingers with his as you laid your head on his chest, your ear pressed up to where his heart was. Zemo’s arm was wrapped around you, his fingers brushing your back tenderly, feeling the ridges of your scars as he traced them with his fingers through the fabric of your sweater while you listened to the soothing rhythm of his heartbeat. The two of you stared up at the stars and constellations, watching how the night sky lit up with the meteoroids that entered the earth’s atmosphere, leaving behind trails of white and painting the skies in streaks of a celestial waterfall. You hadn’t spoken a word to each other yet, you didn’t need to. Being in each other’s presence was enough. Your gestures of affection that you had just shared with each other, already voiced whatever words you had been meaning to say.

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[axe-trio-commanders]

OC Interview: Zori Sunblade

Draw (or use an old drawing, don’t worry!) or take a screen of your character in an interview setting and make them answer the following questions!

INTRODUCTION

Can you introduce yourself?

"That, uh... depends- this isn’t going on public record, right? I mean- not immediately?” [redacted] “Okay, yeah, after my death is... well- no, maybe Seremnis’ death. Or whenever she wants- okay, give it to her after my death and she’ll- yeah. Okay.” Shuffling and creaking of leather. “Zori Sunblade, member of the Sun warband, magister of the priory, pact commander by title, uh... oh- leader of Dragon’s Watch. And uh. Charr. Ranger. Uhm... hi?”

What is your gender identity, orientation and relationship status?

“...Uh... I think...” mumbled “...burn me I hope I remember the meaning of these right, been a while-” regular voice “Uh- she/her... lady friends, so far, and- actually been married for a while.” [She shows of a ring around her left-hand ring finger. Its gem gives off a faint glow.] “Still sort-of figuring out what that means, but I think I’ve got most of it down.”

Where and when were you born?

"...I, uh... hm. Lend me some paper and quill?” [Paper and quill is lent.] “...So it’s... 34, and that was... 25, when I was...” [She nods and taps the pen affirmatively on the paper.] “1306 AE, at, uh... all I remember or have been told is growing up in a fahrar around Rin.”

What is your weapon of choice and fighting style?

“That depends. I can snipe pretty good with a longbow, but torch and axe are my go-to for close range... sometimes a dagger if I need to be a bit less conspicuous.”

Lastly, are you happy?

“...Well, that uh. That escalated quickly, huh?” laugh “Ah... sometimes. Sometimes... it’s- I guess I don’t clearly remember now if it’s harder than it used to be, but... I’m working on it.”

FAMILY AND FRIENDS

What’s your family like? What is your relationship with them?

“Dragon’s Watch is my family. As is my warband, Aurene... Canach’s in there somewhere, too. It’s... I dunno. Some of them... still look up to me, I guess, after everything- some of them know me to well, some of them... I don’t know. Warband’s... complicated, right now, and I’ll probably always worry about Aurene... the people that know the most want to help, I know they do, it’s just... it’s hard to believe things will get better sometimes.” laugh “Probably not the best thing to hear from the charr you’ve put in charge of saving Tyria for the past nine years, huh?”

Have you ever ran away from home?

“...I... I don’t know. Maybe that’s what I’m doing now- burn me, I... really don’t think I can go back to the legions now, regardless of if things are changing or not. Don’t really think there’s been another... place I’ve ever called home.”

Would you consider marriage or having children?

“I mean- kinda too late to have second thoughts on marriage, huh? Ah, not that I would. I don’t think I’d want to live without her at this point, being honest...” Tapping of claws “...Cubs, though... I don’t know. Not now, definitely. If I’m going to be taking care of cubs, It’s not going to be at a time where I can’t do it myself. Be there for them. Burn me, I’ve had far too many examples of what happens when you don’t.” Pause “...Have sometimes fantasized about a quiet house somewhere in the woods, though. Whenever the disaster’s over.”

Do you secretly hate one of your friends?

“...Why would you call them your friends if...? No, if that was even a question. I’ve made it very clear who I hate, and... burn me, I guess... yeah, the only one who isn’t dead is Phlunt. And... Bengar, probably. Not sure if he’s, uh. Stable, right now? Not- I mean I don’t go out and murder whoever annoys me, that’s not- it’s a short list. It’s a very short list. I’m not going to murder someone over, like... burnt toast or something. That sort of thing is reserved for endangering my family.”

Which friend knows everything about you?

“...I- mm... I... some of them know more than others. Definitely, people in my family know more than people outside of it- ...burn me, I... I think, alltogether, if everyone I knew pooled knowledge they’d have everything, but... not any one. It’s... it’s habit, I guess.”

ASKED BY FANS

“Please tell me you’ve filtered these beforehand.”

Are you literate? Have you been to school?

"Okay, good start, uh... I mean, I’ve been through the fahrar, obviously, and I’m also a priory magister- I learned a lot more about the... being literate there, but at this point in my life I’m writing-fluent in New Krytan, old charr pathfinding symbols, ancient orrian... in the process of learning a couple others, too. Can’t hurt.”

The eeriest prediction you made that later came true?

Snort “I’m not allowed to die. I mean- burn me, what else am I supposed to take away from the fact that I died- actually went-to-the-mists died, and got told by the messenger of a human god that I, of all people, could go back? Had to, in fact? ...Burn me, I should probably be happy about that, but. Implication’s aren’t great there.”

What is something you were embarrassingly late to realize?

“...That I’m... that there are people who’d miss me. Not- not miss the commander, but... I expected people would- mourn, write songs or whatever once I actually kicked the bucket, but it’s all a bit... hollow, when most of them don’t even know my name- and to some degree, that’s purposeful. They can- they can mourn the role I filled, the stuff I did, that’s fine, that’s not going to destroy them, not going to hurt for more than a... week, maybe. And everyone else- even the closest people- burn me I’m supposed to be dead. Not only was I, but there’s no- there’s no logical reason I’ve survived all this. Gods and Elder dragons have wanted me dead- entire factions, powerful people- I’m not allowed to die by- by fate, or whatever, but nothing else in Tyria wants me here, so I- you expect people to expect it, at least. To be prepared for it. I want them to be, for their own sake, but...” long sigh “...I... tried to get my warband to leave. Now that they knew... where I’ve been. What I’ve been doing, and... it really shouldn’t have been such a shock that they were worried about me. That... that they, and... everyone who knows how bad it’s gotten wants me to get... better. That I even have that option.”

Do you have mental health or physical issues?

quiet “...I don’t think any of us came out of this unscathed.”

What is your current main goal?

“...I think... I think I will just- just focus on getting better, now. I- burn me, it’s going to give me anxiety like nothing else to leave this to anyone, but I’ve- ...guess this is the first I’ll say it outside of closed circles, but I... I think I’m giving up the title of commander. I don’t think- that’s not going to mean I’m not around, I’m... probably not even leaving Dragon’s Watch, but... it’s time to hang the regalia up, at least. Leave the final say to someone else.” Laugh “Definitely not gonna miss the politics. May I never have to see Phlunt’s face again.”

CHOICES

Drink or food?

“...Oh, the hard questions are over now? Er- sort of? ...I mean, you need both to... live, so... Hm. I mean- I’ve had some really good food, Dragon’s Watch has one of the best chefs, but- if you’ve ever had an entire jug of water past the height of the moon, you know exactly my dilemma here.

Cats or dogs?

“This is what we call a ‘false dichotomy’. Both. Duh.”

Early bird or night owl?

“...I, uh. I’m not sure I’ve had a steady sleep schedule, for... five? Years? I guess if you do want to wake me up without either food or news of immediate disaster that needs fixing, I might consider physical harm, so... whichever one that is.”

Optimist or pessimist?

“That depends. On the subject of how good today’s food will be? Optimist. On Phlunt ever caring for anything other than his own pride and wellbeing? Pessimist.”

Sassy or sarcastic?

“...There’s a difference? Everyone I’ve met has both or neither.”

HAVE YOU EVER-

-been caught sneaking out?

“Nope. I was raised Ash, and I was good at it.”

-broke a bone?

“...I... I don’t think I have, actually. Probably got just about every other possible injury, but... not that yet.”

-received flowers?

“...I, uh. Eheh... The, uhm. The first time my, uh- now-wife sent me flowers, I... didn’t know what they were for? And sort of. Ate them.” pause “...They were... definitely not meant to be eaten. They were anonymous- she told me about it later- so I thought someone was trying to poison me until a close friend explained what getting flowers meant.” pause “...Burn me, I have no idea how long she was trying to flirt with me until I managed to catch on.”

-ghosted someone?

“...Have I mentioned the time I burned to death?”

-pretended to laugh at a joke you didn’t get?

“...Wait, that’s- that’s a thing? I could have been telling terrible, incomprehensible jokes this whole time and I have no way to even know?! I- ...no, I haven’t, I guess. I just sort of... sit there confused...”

“...That’s the last one? Really? Sort of an awkward way to end it. Well, uh... remember the release protocol we agreed upon. Whole buncha people are gonna be upset if you don’t- most of which know how to hide bodies. Not... not sure why I know so many of that type of people, to be honest with you.”

[sxvxrxssnape]

In The Midst of Tribulations

Snapetober 2020: Day 8, 9, 10 (Secret Injury, Grief, “You’re Bleeding” Being headmaster is such a lonely job and grieving hurts so much when you’re not allowed to do it. Implied/Referenced Self-Harm.

He doesn’t feel much of anything today.

He’s standing in his quarters, the door locked and warded thrice. There’s a man standing in front of him and his pallid face is staring back. This man is wearing black robes that reach the floor; dull gold thread runs along the hem and down the front of his outer robe, embroidering protective runes into the expensive fabric. He likes them and he wants to tell this man.  

He can’t.

His words feel caught in his throat and he finds he cannot speak. He stares down at his feet and sees the same trail of runes stitched onto his own robes. He blinks and looks up again.

The man is still staring. 

He lifts up his robes, just enough to reveal the hem of black trousers he cannot part with. The Dark Lord despises muggle clothing, so he chooses to wear robes long enough to cover his secret. He wonders what will happen if the Dark Lord finds out. He wonders if he even cares.

He likes trousers. 

They make him feel safe, secure in his existence. He likes the way they make him feel protected, covered, and hidden away from anyone he doesn’t wish to see him. His coat makes him feel the same. He doesn’t wish for anyone to see him.

He can’t allow anyone to see him. 

He drapes a summer cloak over his shoulders and pins it in place. He could go without, but he needs the weight of it around him, needs something to ground himself with. He casts a silencing charm on his robes and shoes and then a disillusionment spell on himself.

The man standing in front of him does the same. 

He blinks again and stares at the frame that wrapped around the dressing mirror. He wonders how long it had been there. He thinks of the other man, of his reflection, and wonders if there’s a universe where he exists without the deep lines of exhaustion carved into his face. If there’s a version of him that doesn’t look so hollow. 

He ventures out of his chambers and walks the corridors, silent and invisible. He feels like a ghost, has felt like one since he stood in the Astronomy Tower and cast that spell days ago. He’s desperate to be seen. He can’t be seen. 

The castle feels heavy and there is a sorrow that seeps into the very walls, as if the old stone were mourning just as deeply as everyone else. The lights seem dimmer and there is a haze that has settled over everything.

He wonders if it’s real.

Outside, the light is blinding and it feels wrong for the sky to be so blue. There isn’t a cloud in the sky and the sun is shining. It feels wrong. Doesn’t the world know there is nothing worthwhile left to soak up the warmth of the sun’s rays? Doesn’t the world understand evil will always prevail? Doesn’t the world care at all?

The haze is still there.

He allows his legs to carry him. He blinks and finds himself standing near the Black Lake. There is a white marble tomb where there used to be none, with a smattering of golden chairs before it. Most of the chairs are empty now. He sees Minerva speaking with some delegates from the Ministry, can hear more than see Hagrid’s crumpled form sobbing. He spies Pomona and Flitwick and Horace huddled near a tree, the glint of silver flask being passed between the three of them. Harry Potter is sitting alone, near the shore of the Black Lake and he’s staring emptily into space. 

He blinks and now he’s standing next to the boy. He doesn’t dare breathe, only watches him for a few moments. He wonders how keeping him in the dark, when he looks so shattered, will bring forth the defeat of the Dark Lord. He’s wearing the same face as the man in the mirror, but Potter has friends, has family, and Severus hopes that will be enough. 

He wonders how he himself will complete his end of the task. 

He blinks again and now he’s standing in front of the marble tomb. He puts his hands against the cold stone and stands there, until his hands and feet feel as numb as the rest of him. The blue sky has finally understood the nature of the day and has become dark. Stars twinkle and he thinks of sparkling eyes behind half moon spectacles. 

His arm burns. 

–

He doesn’t feel much of anything, anymore. 

He walks the corridors in stony silence, enters the Great Hall, and takes his place at the center of the head table. It still feels wrong, just as wrong as it had felt a week ago, as he lowers himself into the golden chair; wrong to sit in his place, wrong to face the fearful faces of the students, wrong to address them as Headmaster of this school. 

So he doesn’t.

He only taps his wand against his plate and watches solemnly as the five tables begin to fill with silver platters of food. The hum of conversation is soft, but a small part of him is relieved they even talk at all. 

That feeling is short-lived.

The Carrows are sitting to his right, whispering between themselves as they discuss the plans for the night’s detentions. He can trust them with his Slytherins, as much as his heart protests against the very thought. He cannot allow himself to doubt that, cannot allow himself to chip away at his defenses. He is the only one who stands between them all and the Dark Lord and he cannot do that if he is breaking down. 

So he feels nothing as he reminds himself  that despite his protectiveness over his snakes, they can handle themselves. They’re smart, they know not to push. He reminds himself the Carrows would do little to harm them and then thinks about how to keep the other houses safe. 

He hears mention of Hannah Abbott’s name. She’s a quiet girl, a Hufflepuff who would always forget to bring a hair tie with her during potions. Her notes were full of little drawings of plants in the margins. She liked to draw pretty borders on the labels of her phials. She had been pulled out of school last year, when news of her mother’s death broke. 

Corban Yaxley had been responsible for that.

“Throw Abbott into the Forbidden Forest,” he interrupts with a bored voice. He doesn’t turn to look at them.

Amycus sits up with a start. “Oh, I didn’t even consider the forest.” he muses excitedly. “Might as well send the lot of them. There’s six, might be fun to see if any survive the night.”

“One can only hope they don’t.” Severus shrugs and directs his wand to pour a glass of wine. He doesn’t drink out of it, only studies the ruby plum of the Malbec as it swirls around the glass. He can feel Minerva glaring daggers at him from his left. 

He ignores her, and the space she has chosen to put between them with an empty chair feels bigger now. 

He glances further down the table and makes the briefest of eye contact with the groundskeeper. Hagrid is staring back at him, his brows furrowed in anger and his mouth set with determination. Clearly, he had been listening. Good. 

He returns his attention to the wine. None of the other staff members are speaking; to him, to each other, at all. He doesn’t mind the silence. Sure, a distant part of him hates it, hates how everything has become so convoluted and messy and broken, but he can handle the silence. He can handle their anger too. 

He blinks and dinner is over.

He stands up and looks over the students once more. “Curfew begins in twenty minutes.” he announces, his voice carrying in the echoes of the suddenly silent room. “Do not miss it.” He walks away, shoulders tense.

There is a weight perched on top of him and it is only growing heavier. He enters the circular room of the headmaster’s office, his office now, and looks around. Suddenly, he feels very off-center. Everything is the same here.

Yet, everything is so different. 

He takes a deep breath and refuses, absolutely refuses to look at the portrait. He can feel eyes staring at him and it makes his skin crawl. He sits down at the desk, deliberately keeps his back to the portrait, and stares at his hands. They’re trembling. 

He forces them to still and strengthens the walls of Occlumency he keeps ever present in his mind. It is an exhausting feat, to constantly be on guard, to constantly hold up a mental block against his emotions, his thoughts, his conscience - but really, the exhaustion is a gift in of itself; a blessing to always be far too tired to dream. 

He blinks and now there is knocking at the door.

He finally risks a glance behind him and is relieved to see Albus Dumbledore has made his leave. He casts a glamour over the ornate frame, turns the empty space into a painting of the stars, and then allows the door to open. 

Alecto enters the room, tells him the students are gathering around Dumbledore’s tomb. He nods and follows behind her, and the corridors and castle walls seem to blur, seem to melt into grey matter. There is a roaring sound in his ears. 

The sky is painted in a brilliant orange, with streaks of purple and pink as the sun begins to set. Once again, it feels wrong. The sky is too bright, too colorful a canvas to be set behind the white marble of Albus’ final resting spot. Or perhaps it’s just right. 

There is a group of students huddled together and watching their approach with apprehensive eyes. Minerva McGonagall stands in front of them and stares defiantly. There are flowers decorating the tomb. He wonders what the reason may be; today isn’t anything important.

He realizes then he doesn’t quite know what day it is. 

He also realizes he doesn’t care.

He stares at the flowers and feels a spark of anger. Has he not already done enough to prove himself loyal to the Dark Lord? Has he not done enough to paint himself as the villain in this story? Must he keep digging this - for lack of better word - grave, in the eyes of someone he once considered his friend. 

“I see your new job has given you the luxury of affording new clothes.” Minerva speaks up first, eyeing his robes up and down. They’re the same ones he had worn to the funeral months ago that no one knew he had attended. 

Severus remains silent. 

“No longer willing to dirty yourself with anything as demeaning as muggle clothing?” she presses on, her voice harsh with implications. “A proper wizard now.”

He thinks of the trousers hidden underneath and says nothing, merely raises an apathetic eyebrow. He pulls out his wand and twirls it absentmindedly, staring at the flowers. He refuses to look at Minerva’s face.

“You wouldn’t dare.” she whispers.

He waves his wand and casts a silent spell, watching alongside everyone else as tendrils of fire snake their way towards the tomb and incinerate every last petal. When nothing but ash remains, he contemplates a cleaning spell, but decides that could translate to taking care of the marble, so he lets it remain. Someone else will take care of it.

It isn’t his place anyway.

He holds onto his wand and wonders how to address the crowd. He wishes he knew why they were gathered here, what day it could be and decides it ultimately doesn’t matter when Minerva pulls out her own wand.

“How dare you!” she yells and he feels the sudden slashing of pain on his arm. A modified cutting hex, no doubt, and a silent one at that. He’s mildly impressed, if not mostly annoyed at the rip on the sleeve of his robe. It’s warded to protect him against curses, but Minerva already knew that, could tell from the second she studied the runes embroidered on the fabric. He wonders what harmless spell she just altered to circumvent the warding. 

Neither Alecto nor the students have noticed, so he keeps silent. His robes are black after all, and are hiding any blood he feels seeping into the fabric. Minerva only stares at him, waiting. He finally faces her and the roaring in his ears gets louder. 

He doesn’t think it’s possible to hate anyone more than she does him.

He tries to speak, but his voice sounds light-years away. It doesn’t sound like him and he doesn’t quite know what he’s just said. All he knows is the contempt, the betrayal, the utter hatred that burns in Minerva’s eyes.

He turns to leave.

“After everything he ever did for you!” Minerva cries out and Severus suddenly feels as if he’s been dunked underwater. “This is how you choose to repay him! He saw you as a son, you know. He gave you a place in the world where you had none and instead you turned around and became the monster he tried to save you from. He should have just let you burn.” 

His face remains blank as he asks, “Are you done?” and then he makes his leave. He blinks and he’s back in the headmaster’s office. The door is already warded, but he casts two more. The rushing in his ears is louder than ever.

He feels his arm burn and for a second he fears he is being summoned, until he realizes it isn’t the Mark that’s burning. He removes his outer robe, thinking about how he’ll need to owl it to Lucius to have it mended; he doesn’t know enough about runes to fix it himself without mucking up the warding. He pulls up the sleeves of his inner robe and stares dully at the expanse of skin. One arm is tainted with the deep red of the skull and snake, the other with a four inch-long laceration; both are littered with tiny scars and burns from years of potion-making.

He can feel his defenses crumbling.

He has to get a grip, has to force that numbness to return and stay, He isn’t allowed to feel pain over this, isn’t allowed to break down. His chest aches, his throat, Merlin his throat feels like something sharp is raking its way down and ravaging him from the inside out. He grips the edge of the desk, tries to take in a deep breath, and instead lets out a ragged sob. He blinks and now there are scratches on his arms, thin and long and criss-crossing over his skin. Some are bleeding, droplets of crimson escaping from the tears he made on his skin and intermingling with what still dripped from the hex Minerva sent his way.

He takes another deep breath and tries to steady himself. He stares at the marks on his skin and scowls at the mess he was making. 

“Severus, my boy.” the portrait dares to speak up and he freezes.

Merlin, his chest hurts. 

“What do you want.” he scowls, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“You’re bleeding.” Albus states simply, staring down at his arms with a forlorn expression. “That one there isn’t self-inflicted.”

“No.” Severus answers, and his voice is hollow. 

The pain he had been so desperate to hold off is escaping him in waves now. He can not breathe through it any longer, can not force it behind a wall of Occlumency. He can not bear the look on Minerva’s face, can not bear the self-hatred he can feel pooling inside of him as he thinks of the flowers he had burned, can not bear the weight of what is expected of him.

“I’m so sorry.”

“It must be done.” 

He only wishes it didn’t have to be done alone. 

He killed Albus Dumbledore, that much he can accept. Perhaps he can even convince himself that it was done out of mercy. He had spared an innocent child and helped a suffering old man rest. But Merlin, it fucking hurt to be the one to do it, to be the villain, to lose not only his mentor, but also Minerva, to have to do this all alone.

He has no one left. 

No one but a sentient portrait that serves as a forceful reminder of how wrong everything has gone in the last few months. He feels as if a small part of him died that night, and now that little piece was slowly killing the rest of him too.

He casts a silencing charm on the door. 

–

He feels too much today.

He walks the corridors in stony silence, enters the Great Hall, and takes his place at the center of the head table. Bandages soaked in Essence of Dittany are wrapped around his arms, the sleeves of his robes pulled down to his knuckles. 

He pours himself a cup of coffee and stares at the ripples the pitch black brew makes in his trembling hands. He considers adding milk, but when he takes a sip, he tastes nothing, so he figures it isn’t worth the effort. 

There is an empty chair between him and Minerva again; once again the gap feels miles wide. He chances a glance in her direction and is met with cold eyes and a chilling blankness. She is looking through him, has no anger left to spare for him. He’s lost her. 

His chest threatens to ache and he feels himself unraveling, but he swallows it down with another sip of coffee. No one is allowed to know how much it all hurts, so he keeps his own face stoic and stares ahead. He thinks about how the portrait of Phineas Black came back with an update on Potter’s plans this morning; he has work to do soon. His throat hurts with the effort of keeping it together and he fears this will be the end of things. He’s lost too much to ruin everything over simple emotions. He focuses on Occluding and lets himself become empty. He blinks and breakfast is over, the Great Hall emptying as students leave for class.

The other staff members get up as well and walk away. No one looks in his direction, no one speaks a word. The dirty dishes start to disappear as the house elves summon them back to the kitchens. 

There is a buzzing in his ears again.

————-

a/n: flower destruction scene was inspired by a throwaway line in full stop by acedie on ao3

please, please let me know how this was! im so hesitant about posting this one.

[epiphany-of-a-madwoman]

The Last Dragon | Witcher & Game of Thrones

Chapter 6 | Silver Towers Turned to Dust

Summary: Visenya Targaryen is the eldest and only surviving child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell. When Robert Baratheon’s rebellion was won, instead of being slaughtered by the Mountain like her mother and siblings, she was saved by Ned Stark and taken as his ward. Years later, after she’s killed at the Red Wedding, she wakes up outside Blaviken. Now she finds her destiny intertwined with the White Wolf on her quest to go back home.

Word Count: 7,465

Note: Click here to read the previous chapters ♡

The road winds and turns ahead of Visenya, like a labyrinth that never ends. The sun bathes everything beneath it in a soft glow warm, the miles upon miles of farm fields surrounding the road basking in its radiance. Fields of overgrown grass tinged gold by the sun act as the walls around the dirt road, swaying lazily in the breeze. Yet the sun is deceiving, a chill hangs in the air, causing any travelers Visenya passes to bundle themselves further into their cloak. However, Visenya finds herself no longer affected by the cold. The fire that laid dormant just under Visenya’s skin since waking up in Blaviken furiously fighting the cold in the wind. It bubbled just under the surface, enough for her to sense it but calm enough to not cause any harm.

She’s been walking for days, mindlessly following the road, allowing the winds to guide her to her next destination. Six days. It’s been six days since the catastrophe that is Blaviken happened. And despite her best efforts, Visenya can’t seem to forget about it, no matter how hard she tries, it lingers in the back of her mind. 

Every night when she lays down to go to sleep, kept company by only the stars and the trees around her, Visenya can hear the screams of the people burning alive. They echo in her mind, coming together in a sick melody, the tones grating and harsh. When she closes her eyes, even for a brief second, she can see them, their images clear enough that she could taste the fear in the air. She’d watch them burn, performing a dance of fire and blood, the personification of what House Targaryen stands for. 

But the worst part isn’t the memories following her, haunting her like ghosts. It isn’t the regret and pain she feels whenever she remembers the terrible faint she bestowed upon them. No, the worst part is she didn’t care. Even on the hardest days, when she was too stuck in her melancholy she didn’t care. Their faces were fleeting, their lives unimportant, and their potential non-existent to Visenya. 

She knows she committed mass murder in same way her grandfather did and she feels nothing. Nothing but a dark obsession with the fire she created. 

So she runs. She locks away Blaviken in the same spot the Starks, her mother and siblings, and her own life reside. 

To the left the grass rustles, breaking Visenya from her thoughts. Turning her head, she sees nothing but tall golden grass lazily swaying in the breeze; no animal or bandit preparing to ambush a lone traveller. Her eyes narrow, surveying the area one last time. A pit rests in her stomach as anxiety creeps into her mind. And as her hackles raise, so does the fire inside of her, ready to incinerate any potential attacker. But there wasn’t anything there. She rotates her body, looking in all directions hoping to spot whatever was the cause of her sudden dread. Subconsciously, her hand rests atop the pommel of her blade, readying herself to unsheathe it in a moment's notice. 

But even as her keen eyes focus on the surrounding area, taking in every minor detail, she sees nothing out of the ordinary. 

A second passes and she's about to turn around and continue towards the nearby inn.

Crunch. 

She turns to her right, ready to unleash hellish fury on the cloaked figure standing before her. She raises her blade and brings it down towards them. The figure manages to nimbly dodge out of the way. In another fluid, motion Visenya strikes, however the blow never manages to make impact, as a blunt object makes contact with the back of her head. And as her body falls to the ground, another figure approaches. Black blotches dot her vision as the figure pulls down their hood, revealing wheat gold hair, sun kissed skin with freckles dotting their cheeks, and pointed ears. 

The person, man or woman, she can’t tell - speaks to another person. The language is light and musical and completely foreign to Visenya. Her ashen brows furrow and she tries to speak, but the words get caught in her throat. So she tries again, this time managing a pitiful whine that sounds more like a dying animal than a person. 

The figure's attention darts back to Visenya, an alarmed expression painted on his face. He says something else to the other person and then turns back to Visenya.

“Get some rest why don’t you,” A moment later, Visenya watches as the pommel of a dagger cracks on the top of her head, rendering her unconscious. 

                                                    o0o0o0o

It’s cold, that much is obvious, so obvious Visenya - who never gets cold anymore - notices it. Not the type of cold Winterfell bestowed upon its inhabitants, pelting them in its relentless bitter chill and glistening snow that would freeze a man to death without hesitation. No, it’s a different type of cold, the one that can only come from pain and suffering that’s so strong it bleeds into the air and syphons any joy until all that’s left is frigid air that’s still like a statue. 

She doesn’t hear anything, not even the distant sounds of footsteps or voices that slowly trickle into the room. It’s completely silent. The walls in the room are made of stone, with tiny rays of light pouring through the small windows. The ground beneath her is cold and wet, either stone or dirt - she isn’t sure. 

And for a moment Visenya thinks she could be dead, that her attacker put more force into their strike than originally realized, but dead people wouldn’t be tied up. Her hands clench, feeling the rough rope that binds her wrists, it’s frayed and old, but tied tight. 

She turns her head slightly to the right, seeing a head full of bright white hair and a wolf pendant hanging from his neck.

“Geralt.” Her voice sounds like it hadn’t been used in days, which is possible. Who knows how much time has passed.

She feels a surge of anger rushing through her, images of Renfri’s dead body lying on the ground, blood pouring from the fatal wound on her neck. And for a second she contemplates screaming and yelling at Geralt, scorning him for what he’s done. But as soon as it appears, the feeling fades, ice cold water pouring over the fire in her veins.  

“Jane.” Geralt replies, turning his head so he’s looking at her. His amber eyes stare at Visenya, brows furrowed. “What are you doing here?” 

And just like that the spell was over. Like water breaking through a dam, ambient noise streams into the room, filling Visenya’s ears with distant shouts and feet pounding. And the air… the air feels less dead.

“I don’t know, I was traveling to a nearby inn when I was ambushed. Same as you it would seem.” She turns to her left to try and get a look at their third companion who’s knocked out cold. His skin is pale like ice, but not as luminous or enrapturing, floppy brown hair that looks well washed and conditioned obscures his face. Bright blues and reds color his clothes that are ostentatious and impractical for travel, with sleeves that are slightly puffed at the shoulders. 

Definitely not a warrior. 

Geralt starts jerking to the left and right, attempting to free his arms from the bindings locking them in place. Combined with the sudden movement and grunts of frustration he’s letting out, the man wakes up. His lolling head shoots up, his eyes fantcally surveying the room. They land on Visenya for a moment, his eyes the same shade of blue as his shirt, before they flit to the corner of his vision. He lets out a small sigh of relief, his tense posture physically deflating as he leans against Geralt’s back. 

“This is the part where we escape.” he says. Any panic or fear that he initially showed upon waking up is gone, replaced with a sense of ease and confidence. But not in his abilities, no, he seems positive Geralt will get them out of this mess. 

Visenya can’t help the snort that leaves her mouth. 

“This is the part where they kill us!” Geralt exclaims, not amused by the man behind him. 

“Who’s they?” Visenya asks, hoping one of them could catch her up. Nobody gets the chance to reply however. A woman clothed in poorly made garments and long brown hair burst into the room.

Like a wild boar charging towards its target, she moves to the man behind Geralt, lifting her leg in a smooth motion and driving it into the man's chest. A cry of pain escapes his mouth as the wind is knocked out of him. In a language foreign to Visenya, with similar intonation to the one she heard before being knocked out, the woman says something in a scathing tone. She says the phrase at him like a cobra spitting venom. 

Like the wind, the woman then moves to Geralt greeting him in the same manner, before finally moving to stand before Visenya. Her features are pointed and regal looking with delicately pointed ears. Her eyes are the same shade as the forest during the darkest night, a mix of emerald and black with a hint of silver streaming in from the moon. She would be ethereal, in a goddess of war kind of way, if not for the heavy bags under her eyes, in shades of blue and black or the sunken appearance of her face-- a sign of under-eating. But she’s proud and angry-- like a roaring lion as it shows its teeth. 

Visenya golden eyes narrowed into slits, challenging the foreign woman to treat her as she did Geralt and the other man. And she did not disappoint.

Despite looking as if she could deteriorate any second now, she kicks Visenya with the force of a fabled giant, rendering Visenya breathless. For a brief moment, everything goes black as small dots cover her vision. But she doesn’t move back into the bodies behind her, or let out a grunt of pain. Her pride is too strong to show weakness, even when she’s at an obvious disadvantage. 

Warm liquid begins to pool in her mouth and without hesitation, Visenya spits it out. The crimson liquid sprays in the air, the woman narrowly managing to avoid being hit.

“Elves!” Geralt exclaims. Another man in similar garb to the woman comes into the room with an ornate lute in hand. He begins buckling at the strings, breaking them as he goes. The sound is painful, similar to the noise of silverware scraping against a plate, but worse. It lingers in her head, only to return enfold when the man breaks another string. 

“Oi that’s my lute. Give that back!” the man exclaims, more concerned about his lute than their safety it would seem. 

“Maybe focus on staying alive.” Visenya mutters, wiggling to try and loosen the knot around her wrist. 

“Quick Geralt do your- your- witchering thing!” the man finishes, unperturbed by Visenya’s comment. 

“Shut up!” Geralt yells, before being kicked by the woman again, a crack resonating in the room. Visenya’s face scrunches up in a wince, the sound worse than the pain probably is.  

Like a predator circling its prey, the woman makes her way back to Visenya. She leans down until the two are eye to eye, and doesn't hesitate to slap Visenya across the face, the force causing her head to swing to the left. Before she has a chance to recuperate from the blow, the woman punches the other side of Visenya’s face. Her hands slid down, finding purchase on her cloak. 

The cloak Sansa made for her. One of the only things she has left of the Starks. A reminder of a time when things were simpler and she still had a home.

“No please don’t--!” Visenya desperately pleads, but it’s too late. The woman tears the fabric of the cloak. The side that had the dire wolf embroidery completely torn off. She tosses the piece behind her, bringing another hand towards Visenya’s face. The smack resounds in Visenya’s mind, her inner dragon roaring at the offense. Her skin heats up as her emotions grow unstable. 

The smell of rope being singed fills the air, the binds holding Visenya loosening, however the rope is too thick to immediately burn off. When the woman’s hand makes contact with Visenya, she screams in pain and immediately recoils, tenderly touching her burned hand. The injury doesn’t stop her though. Instead she moved onto Geralt, yelling something in her foreign tongue. 

“My eldar speech is rough, I only got part of that.” the man sarcastically quips. The woman dances around Visenya, refusing to even look at her. 

“Humans, shut up!” she spits, glaring at the man. He then replies to her in the same language, using that same sarcastic tone. 

“Do you wanna die right now?” she says, her tone more hostile than before. By this point she’d moved so she was directly across from the man in blue.

“As opposed to later?” Geralt venomously yells, once against trying to loosen the restraints. While partially singed, the rope is incredibly durable. 

She swiftly kicks the mystery man in the gut, simultaneously the man with the lute breaks another string. She then moves around to Geralt

“Leave off!” Geralt yells at the woman. “He’s just a bard.” he finishes. She responds with a punch to Geralt’s face, a third string breaking.

“You don’t deserve the air you breathe.” she says, fourth string

“Everything you touch, you destroy.” another punch to the face, and the final string is broken. The man with the lute then proceeds to break the instrument over his knee as the woman finishes Geralt off with one more blow to the face. 

“You hide in your golden palace. You beat a bound man, too scared to even look him in the eye!” 

“Do you like my palace? Hmm?” she replies, maneuvering back to Geralt. She lowers herself to his level, grasping his chin in her hands. “Does it live up to the tales you humans tell?” she asks. Geralt responds with a head butt. The force knocks the woman to the ground and she begins coughing profusely, unable to stand up.

“Haha! Take that pointy!” the man yells. “W-wait what’s wrong with her?” the man worriedly asks once the coughing and wheezing doesn’t cease.

“She’s sick.” someone replies, two more figures entering the room. A man with blonde hair and a… goat standing upright.

“I’ve seen it all.” Visenya mutters to herself, ashen brows raised towards her hairline. Her mouth is turned downwards, watching the...creature enter the room. 

“Oh and who’s this?” the man asks. The blonde figure moves to the woman profusely coughing on the ground. 

“He’s Filavandrel, King of the Elves.” the goat-man replies, rushing to the other side of the woman. Visenya snorts to herself.

“One hell of a kingdom, even better subjects too.” Visenya mutters under her breath. Filavandrel responds with a piercing glare towards Visenya, but she simply snarls at him, baring her teeth at him like an animal. The blood she spit from her mouth earlier stains her mouth deep red, making her look more like a wild animal rather than human. 

“Not a king. Not by choice.” he says, taking the pack the goat-man gave to him. He turns his attention to the woman and gently picks up her arms. Her hands are bright red, small blisters forming where Visenya had burned her.

“How did you get burned?” the man asks, his voice so quiet Visenya had to strain herself to hear, despite their close proximity.  

“The girl burnt my hand when I touched her.” she replies, looking past him to scowl at Visenya. Geralt looks at her briefly, his brows furrowed and eyes squinted. His gaze soon switches back to their captors.

“You mean you can do that?” the man to her left exclaims, wiggling around in his spot. Visenya pointedly ignores the man.

“You were stealing for them.” Geralt says. The goat whipped his head around towards Geralt. 

“I felt for them. They were forced out of Dol Blathanna.” he says. 

“Forced out? No they chose --” the man begins, sounding as confused as Visenya felt, although for different reasons probably. She has no idea what an elf is, and even less what this goat creature could be identified as.

“Do you know anyone who would willingly leave their home? To starve? To have a Sylvan steal for them?” Filavandrel interrupts, he then turns his attention back to the elven woman. “Touruviel, no one was supposed to get hurt.” he scolds her. 

“What’s three humans in the ground when countless elves have died.” she responds, her voice lacking the fire it held previously. 

“Two humans.” Geralt rebuttals. “And you can let them go.” 

“Then Posada will learn that we’ve been stealing.” Filavandrel replies, standing from his position, moving towards them. “The humans will attack. Many will die… on both sides.” he spits, moving to stand in front of Geralt. 

“The lesser evil.” Geralt gripes, obviously unamused by the current events. “No matter what you choose you’ll come out bloody and hating yourself. Trust me. “ Geralt says, conviction behind every word. 

Visenya continues to stare straight ahead, not looking at anything in particular. Flashes of Blaviken enter her mind, but she forcibly pushes them away. 

Filavandrel simply shakes his head, he kneels before Geralt. “I can’t. And this is necessary.” he replies, leaning over to unsheathe a dagger. 

“I understand.” Geralt says. “As long as you understand it won’t be long before you join me.”

“Yes, because they pushed us from viable soil.” Filavandrel says. “Even chaos is polluted. Synthetically enhanced so humans can make magic.”

“Chaos is the same it’s always been, the humans just adapted better.”

“You say adapt, and I say destroy.”

“You are choosing to starve. You’re cutting off your own ear to spite your face.”

“Do you think this is about pride?” Anger simmers under the surface of his words, the rage barely kept in check. “My elders worked with humans and got robbed of everything they had. And when they fought back, they were slaughtered. “The Great Cleansing,” humans call it. I call it digging a mass grave for everyone I loved. And now the humans proudly watch these very fields grow… our babies fertilizer for their grain. I don’t want to bury anyone else.” He pauses, his voice turning more somber.

Like tiny flares, memories flash into Visenya’s mind: Running around The Red Keep when she was a child; tightly holding onto the skirt of her mother’s dress; reading her any book she could find after she gave birth to Aegon and was bedridden for nearly a year. She can almost smell The Red Keep, a cacophony of floral from the gardens, incense trickling through the windows, and the musk from ancient books. 

“I was once Filavandrel of the Silver Towers, now I’m Filavandrel of the edge of the world.”

There’s a pause, everything in the room growing still. Visenya moves her gaze to her left, looking towards Filavandrel who is still sitting in front of Geralt.

 His face can only be described as defeated. His silvery blue eyes are dull and dead, a stark difference to the glittering brightness they probably used to burn with. They look more like a foggy sky, the crystalline blue sky muddled by dirt and pollution. His lips are pulled into a thin line, lines embedded in his forehead and around his mouth. His cheeks are sunken in as well, dirt spotting his sun kissed skin. 

“I understand.” Her voice is raw, why is it so raw? “When I was five, my family was killed in a rebellion. My mother and siblings were murdered, and my father fell in battle. The savage who killed my mother was pardoned and the killer of my father became king. Neither suffered any consequences. In fact, the bodies of my brother and sister were wrapped in cloaks in the color of their killer to be presented to the new king as a token of loyalty,” 

It’s strange, speaking about past events outloud and remembering each detail so vividly. She’s always known their fate, the sound of her mother’s screams keeping her up in the middle of the night, the sound of her skull being crushed haunting even the sweetest dreams. 

“I was raised in a foreign country by a family not my own. But I adapted.” 

Filavandrel moves from his spot in front of Geralt to instead kneel before Visenya. She manages to wiggle her hands from the partly burnt rope, grasping Filavandrel’s hand in her own. He recoils in shock but doesn’t pull away, his eyes locked on Visenya.

“I never forgot my dead and neither should you.” she continues in a much softer tone than before. “But I adapted,” Visenya says, looking Filavandrel directly in the eye. “And you can too.” 

He simply continues to stare at her, his eyes boring deep inside her own. An air of hopelessness and sorrow surrounds him, his light blue eyes are more ancient than his youthful face should allow. And he’s beautiful, despite how malnourished and dirty he is, dressed in rags that are ill fitting on his scrawny form. She can see past all of that and visualize the former glory he used to possess before everything came crashing down. 

“I can’t.” he says. “If my people come down from these mountains, that would mean bowing to human sovereignty. They’ll make slaves of us. Pariah’s from half-blood children.” he fiercely exclaims. 

“Then go somewhere else.” Geralt interrupts. “Rebuild. Get strong again. Show the humans that you are more than what they fear you to be.” he finishes. Filavandrel releases himself from Visenya’s grasp, moving back to Geralt.

“Like you, Witcher?” 

“I have learned to live with them. So that I may live” Geralt simply replies. The woman stands from her sitting position, moving over to them.

“Please my king. There are others. A new generation. Evellian who wish to fight!” the woman nearly shouts, burning passion lacing each word. “Let us take back what’s ours. Starting now” she finishes. Filavandrel leans over, grasping the hilt of his dagger once more. 

“Wait!” the Sylvan exclaims, grabbing onto Filavandrel’s shoulder.

“Torque, stand aside.” Filavandrel exclaims, jerking his shoulder out of the Sylvan's grasp.

“The Witcher could’ve killed me. But he didn’t. He’s different, like us.” the Sylvan finishes. Filavandrel simply shoves Torque away with his shoulder, staring intently at Geralt, his eyes occasionally flickering back to Visenya.  

“If you must kill me… I am ready. But the Sylvan’s right.” Geralt intervenes. “Don’t call me human.” he holds his head up to expose his neck to the elves. Filavandrel moves to the other side, directly across from Visenya, holding up the dagger high in the air. Visenya’s eyes squeeze shut, not wanting to watch Geralt and their third companion be butchered. Like lightning, the dagger flies through the air and a sharp crack rings in the air. The ropes binding their arms loosens and falls to the ground. Visenya cracks one eye, then slowly the next. 

“Oh good, we're not dead. Love it when I do that.” 

                                                       o0o0o0o

“That was a nice touch, the whole ‘I know how you feel’ thing.” The man mutters to Visenya, a lopsided grin resting on his face. His floppy brown hair is disheveled, pieces of it sticking to his forehead due to sweat. Some blood spills from the corner of his mouth, where the elven woman hit him - multiple times. His bright eyes look at Visenya like a puppy would look at a child, wide-eyed and full of wonder. “Really sets a vulnerable tone.” he finishes, strumming the new lute Filavandrel had gifted him to replace his now broken one. 

Geralt is a few steps away from them, gathering his weapons and other items the elves took when they captured him. Despite not looking at them and giving no indication he’s listening, Visenya knows he is. His attention seems too intently focused on the pack in his hands. 

Visenya simply rolls her eyes at the man, moving across the room to retrieve her possessions. As she passes him, Geralt nods his head in acknowledgment but says nothing. His eyes are scrutinizing her face like she’s a locked box that he’s attempting to unravel. Not that Visenya can condemn him for his curiosity, only moments ago she revealed a piece of her life in Westeros. However, Geralt was merciful enough to not vocalize his inquiries and for that, she is grateful. 

“I do believe this belongs to you.” Filavandrel stands behind her, a familiar longsword in his hands, offering her the blade. Visenya grasps it, the cool metal of the hilt a stark contrast to her warm skin. The silver dragon design coils around the hilt, the gleaming red gemstones set in the design imitating two draconic eyes peering into Visenya’s soul. The blade makes a soft shing as it’s slowly unsheathed. The smooth metal glistens in the light as the soft sunbeams reflect off it. She takes her time intently inspecting the blade, memorizing each slight imperfection from the extensive battles it’s seen. 

“A dragon on the hilt, an interesting touch,” he notes, watching Visenya tracing the details of the blade with her eyes. Filavandrel notes the reverence in her eyes, often not seen in an untrained soldier with a sword. 

“A gift from a friend,�� Visenya answers his unasked question, eyes moving to meet his. His gaze is as intense as it was before, however, the delicate smile resting on his face eases any discomfort. His eyes move to Visenya’s cloak, torn from where Touruviel had ripped it when Visenya was bound. Her hand follows his eyes, feeling the ribbon of the cloak with the embroidered wolf. It limply dangles from her shoulder area, the damage far beyond anything Visenya’s skill could fix, at least to make it appear as it was before. 

“I am sorry about your cloak.” he apologizes, guilt flooding his facial expressions. Visenya simply shakes her head, hand dropping back to her side. 

“It’s fine, could've been worse.” Visenya shrugs her shoulders, not sure what else to say. 

“Yes, but that doesn’t change the fact that, while the weather is comfortable during the day, the nights are cold - too cold to go without proper supplies.” he rebuttals. His concern for her comfort moderately amuses Visenya. Her lips faintly turn upwards, not a full smile, but enough to show her gratitude towards Filavandrel. 

“I don’t find myself getting cold these days,” Visenya answers, her voice softer than the hints of sunlight flooding the room. A stark contrast to the severe tone she’d used moments ago towards Touruviel. 

An amused expression snakes itself onto Filavandrel’s face, his soft blue eyes alight with humor and an upward curve of his lips. “Even so, I feel I should still apologize on Touruviel’s behalf. She can be overly zealous concerning her convictions.” Filavandrel replies, his tone apologetic. Before he can continue with needless apologies, Visenya reaches her hand out to grasp his own, cutting him off. 

“You don’t need to apologize. Your people have seen the worst humanity has to offer.” Visenya remarks eyes quickly darting to Touruviel who’s been watching Visenya intently, hands ghosting on her dagger as Visenya makes physical contact with Filavandrel. Her gaze moves back to him as she removes her hand from his. “She holds an explosive passion for her people, perhaps you could learn a thing or two from her.” Visenya teases, her words lacking any bite to them. A hearty chuckle leaves Filavandrel’s mouth, the humor returning to his eyes.

By this point Geralt and his companion have walked through the doorway to leave, Geralt awkwardly hanging by the exit watching Visenya, not attempting to be subtle. In his hands, he holds a pack that distinctly resembles hers. 

“Perhaps so.” he muses after his laughter silences. Noticing where her gaze is, Filavandrel turns towards the exit, holding his arm out to Visenya, offering himself as an escort. She delicately weaves her arm around his elbow, a nonverbal cue for them to move forward. 

“If I thought I could, I’d point you in the direction of my aunt, Daenerys. From the information I’ve been given, the people have taken to calling her the Breaker of Chains. Her army and three dragons would make for a worthy ally to your cause and a fearsome enemy to your oppressors.” Visenya absentmindedly says as they get closer to the exit. Upon closing the distance between them, Geralt tosses Visenya’s pack towards her, which her free hand catches with ease.

“Queen Calanthe would be cowering in her palace.” Filavandrel muses in a light-hearted tone. “However from your phrasing and previous information, I gather this aunt is somewhere my people can’t reach,” he adds, taking note of her slightly crestfallen tone. 

“Your assumption is correct.” Visenya plainly replies, staring straight ahead. Her thoughts once again wander home. The desire she’d felt to sail east had burned like ice in her veins upon hearing about the return of dragons due to Daenerys. The only thing keeping her was the loyalty she’d felt to Ned Stark and by extension - Robb and the northerners. A small part of her wonders how different things would’ve been if she had left, sailed to Slaver's Bay and never looked back, joining her Aunt in war as opposed to the North. Would she still become food to the crows, or be covered in glittering jewels worthy of a dragon princess. Would she don glorious plate armor, the design similar to her own father’s? These distant thoughts matter little, Visenya made a conscious choice to stay, and in turn die, in Westeros.

While Visenya was too busy lost in her own mind, Filavandrel had guided her out of the building the elves made their sanctuary, far away from bigoted humans. The natural crevices in the walls act as windows, allowing for natural sunlight to stream into the hall. The sun is in the beginning stages of setting, creating a warm glow, making the beings in the vicinity appear ethereal and surreal. Visenya’s eyes trace the faint halo above Geralt’s head, the sun reflecting off his white hair beautifully. 

Beautiful; not a word Visenya would think to use to describe Geralt, but it fits.

Geralt and his companion wander ahead of them, the Witcher never more than three steps from her. It warmed Visenya’s heart, that despite hardly knowing her, he felt the need to protect her - something Visenya doesn’t doubt he’d be easily capable of. Despite the elves vastly outnumbering them, they were starving and Geralt is highly trained and they were starving.

 The elves they pass watch them warily, most wearing vicious sneers on their faces, keeping a scrutinizing eye on the humans. A few of the elves reach to grasp their weapons, preparing themselves for a fight. The floppy-haired man carefully watches his surroundings, his expression giving away his nerves as he worries his bottom lip. Geralt seems completely calm - if he is aware of their hostility, he remains unbothered. But if Blaviken was any indication of his treatment, hostility is something he’s very familiar with. 

The closer they get to the exit, the brighter the sunlight grows, the elves becoming more frequent until eventually, they reach what seems to be the main entrance. Filavandrel pulls his arm away from Visenya’s and moves towards the front of the group. He opens the door, motioning for Geralt to move through. He mutters lowly to Geralt, the witcher replying with a simple grunt. Next through is the floppy-haired man, nodding in acknowledgment at Filavandrel. Visenya’s gaze locks onto Touruviel, who’d been stalking behind them, her razor-sharp gaze locked on Visenya, who offers the woman a small smile, attempting to diffuse the elf’s rage. Touruviel responds with a sneer, clutching her injured hand that had been wrapped in bandages. She spits something at Visenya in her native tongue, lacing the words with venom, but makes no hostile movements. 

“Perhaps the finest thing to come from this is making your acquaintance.” Filavandrel’s words pull Visenya’s attention back to him. He’s still standing by the door, arms outstretched towards her. A beaming smile rests on his face, his eyes no longer weighed down by the responsibilities that were thrusted upon him - at least for the moment, making his timeless face appear more youthful. It’s so infectious Visenya can’t help but return it. She moves towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder as she passes. 

“I’m flattered, your grace.” Visenya quips, light joking lacing the formality. He raises his eyebrows at her joke but does nothing else. She moves past the door with a hand still on Filavandrel, feeling the fresh air hitting her face. She turns to face him, his body moving like a magnet to match her. “About what Touruviel said earlier about a new generation wanting to fight back,” she remarks, Filavandrel opens his mouth to interrupt, but Visenya pushes on before he can. “You can count me in. It would be an honor to fight alongside your people.” she finishes. The light expression on his face instantly shifts into disbelief, his eyes, however, look at her with an admiration that wasn’t present before.

“You shall be the first ally I call upon,” he claims, managing to regain his composure. Visenya responds with a beaming smile. Her golden eyes - beaming with delight - could rival the sun on the hottest summer day. She leans forward, placing a delicate kiss on his cheek. 

“I promise you, my life is eternally richer by meeting you,” she tells him, and she means it. “Until we meet again Filavandrel,” she adds, before releasing her grip and moving towards Geralt and his companion. Geralt is watching with a neutral expression and his arms crossed over his chest. His companion’s composure is the exact opposite, watching with wide eyes, trying to take in every detail of the scene before them. Unknowingly to Visenya, he is planning his next ballad, based on what unfolded before him. She moves towards them, not stopping once she reaches them but just continues forward. Geralt and his companion follow suit, however, the man rushes forward until he’s keeping pace with Visenya. 

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure to formally meet my lady,” he comments, dashing to stand in front of Visenya. She pauses her movement as the man kneels before her, grasping her hand in his own. “Julian Alfred Pankratz, but you may call me Jaskier,” he says as he attempts to pull her hand towards his lips but Visenya jerks away before he can. 

“Jane.” she plainly replies, hoping to not encourage the man further. Either he doesn’t get the hint, or he decides to disregard it.

“I am but a humble bard blinded by the beauty of the woman before me…” he begins but is interrupted by Geralt, who is a few steps behind Visenya.

“Leave her, Jaskier,” he demands. His eyes are locked on the man in question, his ashen brows furrowed and lips pulled in a tight line. 

“Perhaps the lady would like to hear a ballad, each line inspired by her beautiful golden eyes.” Jaskier continues, completely ignoring Geralt. Visenya sighs in annoyance, staring straight ahead. She side-eye's Jaskier, sending a chilly glare his way before continuing to move, albeit at a faster pace than before hoping to get ahead of the persistent bard. Similar to when Geralt demanded Jaskier to leave her alone, he chooses to ignore Visenya’s cold reception of him. The soft sounds of a lute begin to resound in the area when Jaskier starts singing a soft ballad, the song lyrics thinly veiled references about Visenya. 

Geralt moves up until he’s walking beside Visenya, leaving the bard in the back. His lips still pulled into a tight line, eyes narrowing in concentration as he stares ahead. There is a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, that grows more apparent the louder Jaskier’s singing becomes. His jaw is clenched so tightly, Visenya could swear a few of his veins have popped. A slight smirk tugs itself onto Visenya's face as she continues to watch his irritation grow. Out of the corner of his eyes, Geralt notices Visenya’s amusement. 

“Something funny?” he questions, his deep voice closely resembling a growl. Visenya’s gaze moves from Geralt’s face to the rolling fields ahead of them. The soft crunch of the grass beneath her feet is a stark contrast to Jaskier’s incessant singing. A soft giggle bubbles from her mouth, her hand immediately coming up to her lips to stifle the sound. But the damage has been done. Instead of looking at her out of the corner of his eyes, he turns to face her head-on. She shakes her head, unable to silence her laughter. All the while, Geralt continues to stare at her. The only sign of his amusement is the slight twitch in his furrowed brows. 

“It’s nothing. I just forgot how vexed you always seem to be.” Visenya muses, after managing to silence her laughter. His face relaxes as her words sink in, a single brow rising in questioning. 

“This is the second time we’ve encountered each other.” he points out, a teasing undertone hidden in his gruff voice. 

“Then it would seem you’ve made an impression, Geralt of Rivia,” Visenya claims, not missing a beat. She turns her head to meet his gaze for a split second, a teasing grin resting on her lips, amber eyes alight with mischief. A simple grunt is all Visenya gets in response to her banter.

A moment of silence passes between the two of them. By this point, Jaskier’s singing has ceased and instead, he opted to idly strum his new lute, silent for the first time since Visenya met him. The sky is a beautiful blend of vivid oranges and reds. Fluffy white clouds conceal the majority of the sun, causing the rays that peek through the clouds to appear more concentrated. Visenya can’t help but stare, her face alight with childlike wonder at the sky being so beguiling and surreal, looking akin to a painting rather than a natural cause. Geralt sneaks a glance at Visenya out of the corner of his eye. 

“So my fair friends! Where to now?” Jaskier exclaims, rushing to stand in between Geralt and Visenya - his brief silence over. His lute is slung over his shoulder, his face stuck in a puppy dog state. He throws his arms over their shoulders, however, Geralt swiftly shoves Jaskier off of him, continuing forward at a more rapid pace than before. 

“That depends, where are you planning to head off to.” Visenya inquires, side-eyeing Jaskier once again. A beaming smile breaks out on his lips, his baby blue eyes nearly as beaming as the brightest star. 

“Well my lady, I will need to head back to the inn in Posada to gather my things, then perhaps I was thinking about going to Venngerburg. Who knows what the capital could offer a bard like me!” Jaskier exclaims, removing his arm from her shoulder, opting to instead practically dance around her, twirling in front of Visenya, finishing his movements by smoothly kneeling to the ground and brandishing a single flower. It’s a delicate wildflower, it’s petals a vivid red that blends with the sunset above it. Appearing as if the same artist that painted the sky dotted the field with flowers.

“Perhaps the lady would care to join me?” he asks, offering the flower to her. Visenya’s eyes flicker to Geralt momentarily before moving back to Jaskier. His eyes are hopeful as they dart across her features, attempting to discern her reaction. After a moment of contemplation, she grabs the flower from his outstretched hand.

“Perhaps the lady would like to make sure she is on the other side of the continent,” Visenya replies, mimicking Jaskier’s tone. She glides past him, placing the flower behind her ear. Jaskier stays frozen in his position, his brain not fully registering the turn of events. 

She briskly moves towards Geralt to match his pace once again. The only acknowledgment he shows her is a quick glance at her before returning his attention forward. After a few moments, Jaskier manages to gather his bearings and moves to walk behind the duo. The three of them continue in silence. With no conversation acting as a distraction, Visenya finds her thoughts wandering. The elves had struck a nerve in her, their tragic fall from grace too similar to Visenya’s own house's demise. Injustice appeared to run rampant in this world - similar to Westeros. Despite being reborn with fire magic, Visenya still finds herself helpless to do anything to stop it. It was almost better when she couldn’t do anything at all.  

o0o

Eventually, they reach the main road - a brown mare that Visenya recognizes from Blaviken as Geralt’s - is patiently waiting on the side of the road. It snorts and shakes its head as Geralt approaches. He places his hand on its head, gently petting the horse as he softly speaks to it. It’s quite possibly the most tender Visenya has ever seen Geralt act. The sweet smile that had crept onto her face immediately disappears as she notices Jaskier approaching her. Before he has a chance to begin talking, Visenya throws a glare his way. 

“Don’t,” she says before moving towards Geralt. By this point, Geralt is guiding the mare towards the road. Once again, she takes her place beside him. The sound of a lute smacking against a surface alerts Visenya that Jaskier is following. 

“So what now?” Visenya asks Geralt as they wander aimlessly down the road. 

“Leaving.” Geralt mutters.

“Off to bigger and better adventures?” Visenya teases, nudging Geralt with her shoulder, a sly smirk on her face. He snorts in reply, unmoved by Visenya’s attempt to lightly push him. 

“Something like that,” he replies, a hint of a smile on his grim face. “And you?” he asks, his gaze meeting her own. Visenya sighs, not having a clue what her next course of action should be. 

“Well, my cloak is ruined so I’ll need to get it fixed. Which means I’ll need coin, which also means I need to get a job. Maybe the inn has an idiot that needs their gold relieved from their pouch.” she wistfully replies.

“I do!” Jaskier exclaims from the back. Geralt and Visenya stop and turn to look at Jaskier. His arm is raised in the air, a giddy expression lighting up his face. He swiftly lowers his hand upon gaining their attention. He stands up straighter, attempting to smooth out his clothes. “I mean - I might possibly have a job for you my lady Jane,” he adds, trying to keep his voice level and tone nonchalant. 

“Really?” Visenya asks, an amused look on her face as she raises a single eyebrow, watching the man expectantly. 

“Truly,” Jaskier replies, running to close the distance between them. “I find myself in need of a bodyguard of sorts if you will. A bard of notoriety such as myself will need the highest security gold can buy.” he finishes, running his hands through his already messy hair. Geralt snorts, nudging his horse to continue moving forward, leaving Visenya and Jaskier. Visenya momentarily glances at Geralt’s retreating figure before returning her attention to Jaskier. 

“I’ve never heard of you before,” she notes, scrutinizing Jaskier’s face, trying to see if his offer had any double meanings. 

“I assure you, my lady, I’m up and coming. Before you know it, kings and queens everywhere will be begging for me to perform at their parties!” Jaskier exclaims, wrapping his arm around Visenya’s shoulder as he leads her down the road - the same direction Geralt went. “Which means - should I acquire any rivals or perhaps trouble during my travels - I will need someone with a very large sword at my back.” he continues. Visenya once again snorts, watching Jaskier from the corner of her eyes. 

“Fine.” she relents. His eyes widen in surprise momentarily at her agreeance to his offer. “But there’s going to be some rules.” she sternly finishes, narrowing her eyes at him to get her point across. 

“Anything.” he quickly exclaims, with a large smile on his face. With the fluidity of a practiced warrior, Visenya shoves her elbow into Jaskier’s side. The bard crumbles to the ground, moaning in pain as he holds onto his right side, attempting to ease the pain.

“Don’t touch me,” she says, continuing down the road.

                                                      o0o0o0o

Tags: If you’re name is crossed out, it means Tumblr wouldn’t let me tag you.

 @ayamenimthiriel​ | @1967-chevy-impala-called-roscoe​ | @sunlithours

[noodlecupcakeswritings]

Healing (LokixOC Smut Oneshot)

Loki wants to help Raven (OC) overcome her past demons. Somehow I turned knife play super fluffy. Enjoy the fluffiest smut I've probably ever written

Warnings: Smut, Sex, Fluff, Fluffy smut, Knife play, Knife kink, Self harm scars, Scars, Romance, Loki is too sweet. 

Raven’s P.O.V

Loki, Thor, Sif and the warriors three had been gone for over a month, Vanaheimr had been under attack and asked for aid. I’d wanted to go too, it’s not like I couldn’t defend myself. I could be of some use, even if it was comforting frightened children. I hated being stuck here alone. Frigga had kept me company when she could, which I appreciated but I longed for the company of my husband. We’d never been apart this long. Odin had mentioned that things were going well, and they would all be due back any day now, but those days were taking forever to pass.

Finally after waiting another long week they returned safely. Loki entered our room, smiling at me. I ran at him, throwing myself into his arms. He held me close, his fingers in my hair. He pulled me in for a passionate kiss, only that made me melt on the spot. Our foreheads pressed together for a tender moment. I felt content again. “I promise to never be away that long again. I wouldn’t have been able to bear another day without you,” Loki spoke. “I was thinking the exact same thing.” He smiled and kissed me again. I knew he probably wanted a bath and some clean robes before anything else. Some time to relax before anything else, which was perfectly reasonable. I led him to the bathroom and began to run him a bath. “I do hope you plan on joining me, my love,” Loki suggested. “Of course.”

After a very long bath, Loki was going over the interesting events of his time away. I listened intently, loving the way he told stories. Loki produced two matching daggers from his discarded robes, showing them to me. The craftsmanship was incredible, but something like this would have taken months, perhaps even a year to perfect. “Consider them the spoils of war. The man I took them from had no further use of them,” he answered as if reading my mind. “It would have been a shame to leave them behind when such work has gone into them.” I did my best to seem enthusiastic, I didn’t share the same interest in weaponry. Not only that I was normally rather hesitant around blades for personal reasons. I swallowed hard and passed them back to him, trying to remain neutral.

Loki studied me for a few moments as if trying to read me. I forced a smile, wanting to avoid an awkward conversation. “Do you trust me, my love?” He asked. “You know I do” “Then trust me with this in order to trust yourself.” I frowned, clearly confused by his words. I needed more to go on than that. Loki took one of the daggers, his movements slow and hesitant. The tip of the blade touched my skin and I flinched backwards. Panic filled me and Loki could see I was about to have a panic attack. He dropped the blade and took my hands in his.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn't have pushed you. I just wanted to make you into the fearless queen I know you can be,” Loki explained. “By cutting me?” “No. No, I would never harm you. I would never want to hurt you in any way. I just wanted to try something new, something to help you.” “You could have asked.” “Yes, I should have. I won’t make that mistake again. Please forgive me.” I was hesitant to forgive him. He really should have consulted me first instead of assuming I'd be okay with it. Loki cupped my cheek, getting me too look at him. “I truly am sorry, and I'll do anything to make it up to you,” Loki tried again. I nestled into his touch with a soft nod. I believed him. I placed my hand over his before softly kissing his palm. The worry left his eyes a little. “I understand your reasoning…somewhat. Perhaps this could be something we do later, when I’m ready,” I explained. “Of course. Whenever you’re ready.”

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

A few months had gone by and Loki had done all he could to make it up to me like he’d said. And I’d done plenty of thinking about trying knife play. There would be no harm in trying it. I trusted Loki to not hurt me. All he’d do is cut my clothes and ghost the blade over my skin. I think I could handle that. I continued to mentally prepare myself as I prepared our bedroom. I lit candles for a sexier atmosphere as well as used incense, Loki liked mint scents best. I changed into a black silk nightgown that had lace detailing across the hem and the straps were flimsy. They would be easy to cut through. I glanced at the blade I’d left on the bed. It was one of his favourites. The hilt was made from gold and had a snake carved into the fine metal, the blade was sharp to the touch and never lost its shine. I could appreciate the craftsmanship.

I anxiously waited for Loki to retire for the evening, his father had kept him and Thor busy today. I was unable to keep still, pacing and adjusting candles. Finally the door opened revealing my husband. He took in the scene before him and smiled. “What a perfect end to a bothersome day. You really are perfect,” he spoke, kissing me softly. I returned the kiss and handed him the dagger. Loki was definitely surprised by this. “Your sure?” He asked. I nodded with a soft smile. “I’ll go slow. If at any point you need me to stop then I will,” he continued. Loki kissed me again, wrapping his hand around the back of my neck. I practically melted into the kiss, feeling any worries I had fade away. He continued to kiss me until I was breathless, my cheeks flushed.

Loki hooked the dagger beneath one strap of my nightgown, hardly having to use any effort to get it to slice apart. I did my best not to flinch at the cold metal against my skin. Loki kissed over the area the blade had touched before repeating his actions with the other strap. The material pooled around my feet, leaving me in lacy black panties. Loki then began to trace over my body with the blade, his lips following every trail to soothe any discomfort I might feel. The kisses helped me relax again. Loki avoided my arms knowing they would be a sensitive area, which could push me too far. Instead he held my limb by the wrist and turned it, so the inner part was accessible. He didn’t dare run the blade across my scars, but kissed over every single one, taking his time to worship me with his lips. “Your strength and beauty continues to astound me,” he spoke.

I avoided his gaze, looking down at my feet. I never did well with compliments. Loki used the tip of the blade to tilt my chin so I would meet his gaze. I bit my lip, shivering at the action. “I’ll make you believe my words, even if it takes all night, my love,” Loki said. I could feel myself blushing at his words. Loki turned me towards our mirror, one arm wrapped around my waist. “No goddess compares to you. You are as bright as the sun and as ethereal as the moon,” he continued. Loki kissed across my shoulders before the hand around my waist slipped beneath the lace of my panties. He started rubbing my clit, making me moan softly. “You are something to be worshiped, spoilt and loved in every way possible,” Loki persisted. The tip of the blade ran over my collar bones, my skin turning to gooseflesh at the feeling. The blade continued lower, the flat of the metal running over my nipples making them even harder.

I felt the tip of the blade run softly down my side. I shuddered, arching into Loki’s touch. The blade slipped beneath the waistband of my panties, slicing the material easily. Loki pulled the ruined panties from my body before using his magic to undress himself. He put the dagger down on the bedside table before leading me to bed. I lay down, pulling him down with me. He took my hand in his and pressed it to his chest, over his rapid heartbeat. As if he wanted me to feel his love. “Nobody in all the nine realms is as lucky as me. I am yours for all eternity.” Loki stated. “And I am yours.” He leaned down, kissing me hard. I kissed him back with the same passion, running my fingers through his hair. Loki spread my legs, wrapping them around his waist before slowly pushing into me. We both moaned at the contact, clinging to each other. Loki started a gentle pace, lacing his fingers with mine. I squeezed his hand, leaning up to kiss him again.

His lips moved down to my neck, peppering more kisses across the sensitive flesh. His pace began to speed up as he gripped my hips. I gazed up at my lover, still in awe that someone like him had picked someone like me. I didn’t know what I had done to deserve his sweet words or his love, but I would relish in it. It was all so overwhelming, I think I would have cried a little if it didn’t risk ruining the mood. I moaned his name, my nails digging into his shoulders. Loki reached between us and found my clit, earning louder moans from me. “Cum for me, I want to see you come apart,” he purred. The pleasure continued to build quickly until finally it crested. I cried out his name, my back arching as Loki worked me through my orgasm. Loki reached his moments later, burying his face in my neck as he groaned my name.

We held each other close as we came down from our highs before eventually untangling ourselves from one other. Loki cupped my cheek, looking at me lovingly. I felt myself blushing again. I’d never get used to that look. He climbed back on top of me, kissing me once more. I suppose he did say it would take all night if it had too.

[packsbeforesnacks]

A Life Still Permanent || Solo

[Part One | Part Two | Side B]

TIMING: Saturday, February 8th, 2020, Dawn LOCATION: The Outskirts SUMMARY: You can’t keep a good wolf down. WARNINGS: References to suicide and attempt, suicidal ideation, unhealthy coping mechanisms, and potentially self-harm.

Winn felt like death.

There were certain benefits to being a werewolf. Increased strength, stamina and, hell, Winn’s alcohol tolerance had improved—though some might attribute that primarily to his frat boy tendencies rather than his monthly furry problem. But he was only (mostly, kinda) human, and his body could only take so much before it decided to give up.

A quick review of Winn’s week would reveal the following events: (1) the Kansas City fuckin’ Chiefs had won the Super Bowl, (2) he’d been forced to come clean to a maybe-baby-wolf about his being a werewolf (and made an ass of himself in the process), (3) Ricky hadn’t yet confirmed he’d be willing to make Winn more barbecue, (4) Blanche was being weird, (5) he’d helped a drunk lady home (great, one good thing), (6) he’d fought a Zamboni—oh, yeah, and ghosts existed (???), and (7) so did bone-sucking literal monsters (?????), (8) multiple people in his newfound life knew about all of this and were seemingly totally chill with it, and (9) this all happened over the course of a full moon week. Because of course it fucking did. Because (10): Winn’s life was a cosmic joke.

He’d scrawled out so many angry, sad, and/or confused letters to his packmates today, enough to put a small paper mill in business. Why had they left this (huge) detail out? Was it a big secret from even him? Was he not enough of a member of the pack to know. Had everything with them been a big joke? Or, worse: Did they also not know that vampires—and, really, how fucking Twilight of the universe—existed? That people could do literal magic. How could they not know—their families had been around since forever.

And, to Winn’s absolute credit, he had been extremely down with werewolves being a thing! His best friends were werewolves! They wanted him to become a werewolf too! This was all great! Oh, there were werewolf Hunters? Wild! But it was fine! He had friends, he had a pack, he could make it through. And then, ‘course, he had to go and kill one. A Hunter, dead in a pool of blood, blood that covered Winn and César, soaked into the wood of the fraternity house, staining it. Staining them, forever. Winn didn’t regret it—how could he, César was alive, the pack was alive. But he couldn’t forgive himself either—something had changed between all of them that day, they’d all grown up in ways that maybe they wouldn’t have had to if Winn could have just kept his dick in his fucking pants for one goddamn minute.

But here he was, middle of the woods, buck-ass naked, twenty-four cans of cheap beer, a tightly packed bowl, and a half empty bottle of Maker’s Mark in his system, waiting for the full moon to come out. Waiting for the only inevitable thing in this shitcan of a week. Maybe he’d die tonight. Wouldn’t that just be a perfect end to his week? But no. He couldn’t die here, not like this, not crossfaded and self-destructive. Right? They’d never forgive him. No, he’d let the wolf out, let the wolf run free as it could be, and then Winn could think about what the fuck this all meant in the morning. Could hunt down someone—Miles, maybe?—who could actually explain this shit to him. Winn could listen. Winn would listen. It would be fine. It had to be fine.

When the moon reared its beautiful, terrible head, Winn knew something was wrong. His transformation didn’t hurt so much as it felt unbearably numb, the usual stretch and snap of his bones replaced with a dim awareness of the pit in his heart, stronger than any physical pain. He needed to let the wolf fully take control, God. He didn’t want to be in the driver’s seat tonight, thanks. But the wolf… well, it didn’t seem too comfortable about the circumstances either, if Winn was bein’ honest. It growler a little lower, ran a little slower. But still, it ran. Padding through creeks, dancing in the moonlight, reveling in the small apocalypse that Winn had been through. The wolf didn’t care about fae, or witches, or vampires, or ghosts. (And, fuck, the wolf probably knew. Asshole.) It could just be, out here in the middle of nowhere—or at least, nowhere when anyone could see him, deep in the woods on the outskirts of White Crest. Only weighed down by Winn’s cares in the nominal sense, free to push them to the back of its mind, where Winn sat, chained to his own memories.

He didn’t pay any real attention to the world around him until he could sense dawn approaching, once again. It, too, was inevitable. But this time, unlike the previous month, there was no Miles to find him, to make him feel less alone. No new wolves had come upon him either, had fought and bit and rolled with him. Winn has alone and the wolf howled, desperate for his pack. Winn stopped in a small clearing, panting heavily. Wait. Where was he? He could smell his path from the place where he’d left his jeans, but he couldn’t smell any of the characteristics of his own patch of the forest. But still, it felt… familiar. He inhaled deeply, and smelled… people? Fuck, no. No, no, no. He couldn’t have gotten this close to the town. He twisted on the spot, head cocking left and right, trying to look for a landmark, for anything that would tell him how close he was to White Crest proper, how close he was to fucking up everything. Again. Always again, back to this, back to him. Him fucking up. (Could wolves have panic attacks? Was he having a panic attack?)

Winn didn’t see the bolt coming, not until it buried itself in his front-left shoulder, immediately painful, immediately burning him with its force, with its tip. The wolf—he—screamed. It was a Hunter, come to collect Winn’s debt. A debt he deserved to pay with his life. No. No. It was a Hunter. And Winn was the prey. He had to think like himself—like the wolf knew how to. Or else, he was dead. He was so, so dead. The bolt had been shot from above, based on the way it had lodged itself into Winn, that angle… from somewhere in the trees in this clearing. Pretty high, he hoped. And there was hope. The wolf would fight and bleed until its last, so Winn turned, fully at one with himself, and leapt back down the path towards his home, towards his tree, towards anything that would get him away. He thought—maybe—he had just enough time. He could get back to his jeans, find a spot to hide, escape certain death.

But every smack of his paws against the earth, every push downward into the dirt, was another surge of lightning and fire in his shoulder. Winn knew silver. Knew how it from that time, all those years ago, when a silver dagger had buried itself in his back, how the burn peeled away at your innards, rotting you from the inside. Knew it from the time he’d held that same dagger in his hand. Winn knew that, if left untreated, he wouldn’t live long enough to find out who the fuck had shot him. To eliminate the threat. Getting away wasn’t just a decision for his survival, it was now a race against the clock. Winn had to get to the tree, get his jeans, run back towards the hospital, against the dawn, all while trying not to let the Hunter find his path once he finally lost him.

He heard running water, and bolted towards it. He knew these woods, now, knew that there were old, waterlogged trees that wanted to fall, and die, that were trying to make way for new forest. He shoved himself against any tree that looked suspect, his nose telling him that the Hunter was still close on his tail. Another bolt zinged past Winn as he zig-zagged through the forest, and lodged itself in one such tree with a deadly thunk. Fuck. Fuck. The creek—please, fucking please be a wide section—was close now, the rush of water music to his ears. Was he going to get lucky this morning? If he lost the Hunter at the river, he could circle wide and get to his jeans, spiral back and out the hospital. He just needed one good distraction for the crazy person with the crossbow.

It appeared before him like a vision, like a hallucination brought on by the pain from the silver, but Winn knew that it wasn’t, knew that this was the tree that he needed to shove, to crack, to let fall in the Hunter’s path. And damn him, but Winn didn’t want to hit the bastard, just get in his way. The tree was big, a mess of tangled branches at the top and leaves still clinging on, but Winn could be bigger. He circled around the tree, precious seconds ticking by, and rammed his good shoulder into it. Crack. C’mon, c’mon. An arrow thunked into the tree. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Another slam, another shove, and the tree went tumbling down. Not directly, not straight into the Hunter’s face, but firm enough, deep enough, that it would cut him off. Winn hoped. Winn prayed. He didn’t want to die.

He bounded into the river, icy water soothing his spirit a little, even as he reminded himself that he had to keep going, and going, and that he couldn’t stop. Winn ran fast, only using his nose to gauge if the Hunter had been lost, but not slowing down for a second even when Winn confirmed, shit, thank fuck, he’d managed to lose the Hunter in his tree tricks. The last of the moon’s light was fading as the sun breached the sky, but Winn knew that he wouldn’t change back this time, not unless he was safe, not unless he wanted to. He came upon his hollowed tree, yanked his pants away from where he’d hung them and clenched them between his teeth as gently as he could manage. Hospital. Hospital, now.

A voice echoed in Winn’s ears: What’re you going to live for?

He didn’t know yet, but… he wanted to live. And so he ran.

[knightbleed]

TURNING AND FEEDING FOR THE FIRST TIME.

He is alone, scared, but he knows he has no home to go back to. It laid in ash, smoke, and ruin and the torturous cries of the tormented spirits still haunt his memory. They cry out to him but what can he do? They’re ghosts and Gods know that the living cannot aid the dead. However, he soon will join the ranks of something in between. Something neither living nor dead, something rather undead.

Every night he feels an ache twisting in his stomach, along with nightmares of the woman who ruined it all. She was long dead, no longer able to harm him or anyone else, he knew that, yet her cruel laughter still rang in his ears as if she was right beside him. Every night the nightmares started to cross into reality, for he started seeing her too. She’s not real yet he feels the need to scream, scream at the top of his lungs until his voice grows hoarse.

The final night he understands finally what’s happened to him, he had been infected, and now he was turning. He was too late to stop it, no blessing or potion could help him now. As the sun sets, the elf falls off his chair, doubling over as he clutches his chest, letting out a pained groan. He knows it’s time, he’s going to die and come back as the very thing that slaughtered his family. He slumps over, letting out one last breath as a mortal.

His body lets out a gasp as the moons rise in the sky. A breath of new, corrupted immortality, as well as a strange but strong hunger that stirs within him. He knows what this is, a blood lust that he needs to fulfill. 

Fulfillment comes in the form of a trio of merchants that wandered too far from civilization, and right into the fledgling’s path. He was vicious, for all he could smell and see was red. Once his hunger was sedated he finally regained his senses, and his vision clears to reveal a horrifying scene. 

Body parts had been tossed around the stony path, fresh blood stained the snow, and he finds to his horror he’s holding one of their heads, he had torn all of them apart like some wild beast. The elf screams and throws the dismembered head onto the ground before looking at his blood-stained hands. How could he have done this? How could he of been so brutal? So monstrous? He falls to his knees, clutching himself to keep himself steady.

A few nights later, he finds himself getting hungry again, but after his first feeding there’s hesitance to go in search of a meal, but then he hears a cry for help not too far from him. He investigates, finding the source to be a human woman being dragged away by two people dressed in black robes. The scent of death wafts off them as they pass, necromancers. He has to do something, for Gods know what malice they had planned for her.

He ambushes them, freeing the woman of their grasp before crimson eyes turn towards her, ❝  Run. ❞  is all he says to her, and she listens, fleeing off into the night. They unsheathe their daggers but the vampire uses his newfound speed to grab the closest one to him and bite down into their throat, sending the warm lifeblood into his mouth. He feels the life leave his victim and enter him, and when the tap runs out he drops them on the ground, turning his attention towards the other necromancer.

Their death was not as quick, The blood-stained warrior broke their limbs, and their spirit, making sure the last thing they knew was fear before they died. He bites into their throat, greedily drinking the crimson that flowed out like nectar.  

That night he realizes, if conscious enough, he can feed on people like those necromancers, those who seek to harm the innocent. So, if he must become a monster, let him feed on other monsters.

[blankdblank]

To Fight For Pt 4

Pt 1 - Pt 2 - Pt 3 - 

Requested by @deepestfirefun

All – @himoverflowers, @theincaprincess, @aspiringtranslator, @sweeticedtea, @ggbbhehe4455, @thegreyberet, @patanghill17, @jesgisborne, @curvestrology, @alishlieb, @jogregor, @armitageadoration, @fizzyxcustard, @here2have-fun, @lilith15000, @marvels-ghost, @catthefearless, @imjusthereforthereads, @c-s-stars 

  x Thorin – @evyiione, @deepestfirefun, @queenoferebor

…

A smirk eased onto your face at the first taste of food and he couldn’t help but grin at your teasing comment on it having a smoky taste. Food was the main topic with stories of cooking and what sort of dishes would be in the coronation. Not an overly personal topic but one that could help to level some sort of common ground between you, all the while the King’s mind raced in his struggle to decipher the mystery behind you and your hidden motives and agendas possibly to be uncovered in your own gains for this union. The gentle light of fireflies above through desert lit up the ceiling stirring a grin onto your face mirroring the King’s, who was still staring directly at you since the moon rose and cast you in its gentle glow through the uncovered glass doors of the balcony.

Wetting his lips Thorin scooted closer to the end of his seat locking his eyes on yours again at the lowering of your fork to your empty plate, “I was hoping,” he cleared his throat at your shift in your seat to face him fully, “I was hoping that I might have the right to offer you my bead of courtship to mark our union properly for all to see.”

Steadily he set a small box on the table and your hand reached back to undo the ribbon you had used to tie the upper half of your hair out of your face for the meal you lowered to your lap to tie around your wrist. “If you need me to shift some of my other braids for proper placement let me know.”

On his feet he wet his lips and inhaled shakily reaching out for the hair around your face. Tenderly his fingers split a portion off from the rest weaving an intricate braid mingling three strips of braids with jeweled beads placed all through the long strand. A dip of his hand into his pocket brought out a second box he offered to you, “I have handled the first few weeks of our acquaintance poorly. By now I should have secured several dinners and meetings with your kin and you, both under their watch and alone. Since then you have seen me offer insult to several Elf Lords, pass on their hospitable offers of shelter and food. Then I declared war, one which you,” he sighed and sat down on his chair he tugged closer to yours, “I have no clue what you have said to calm them.”

You shook your head, “I have not said a thing to calm them.” His brow inched up, “From your side of the fence I can imagine your surprise, though, in their lifetimes a great number of Dwarves have insulted them and done far worse than you have dealt out.”

The box you accepted from him was eased open and you eyed the hair comb with a string of fireflies formed of mithril and bright yellow diamonds and then Thorin as he said, “Living here, under Thror, there are many faults for this kingdom and, unfortunately for me as well.” He wet his lips furrowing his brows as he began to lose focus on his topic, “However, even in the darkest points even if all they are is fireflies there is light here. I hope you might grow to like it here.”

“Thank you.” Your eyes sank to it again and he shifted closer.

“You do not like it?”

You looked at him again shaking your head and his lips parted at the tears in your eyes, “Sorry, we, um, yellow diamonds are rare, or were, in our first home. My Adad used to have these,” you wet your lips motioning with your hands, “These long pins for my Gran’s hair he said I could wear when I was old enough. They matched the ring I was supposed to inherit with a tiara, for my wedding.”

At the tear streaking down your cheek his hand settled around your waist and he asked, “They were lost, when you fled?”

You shook your head, “No. We have them. I just, him showing them to me are one of the few memories I have with him.” Drawing in a breath you locked your eyes on his, “He would approve. And it is lovely, thank you.”

He smirked drawing back his hand to reach into his pocket, “Good, because I have another gift.”

You giggled softly, “Of course you do.”

Rumbling back lowly he replied, “I do owe you a great deal.”

Wiping your cheek you smirked, “This better be good then.”

Making him chuckle then pass you the leather pouch you eased open then giggled seeing the raven etched mithril dagger set stirring a chuckle from him, “A bit traditional. Though should you prefer an axe,”

You shook your head, “I do not need another ax. I have fifty, much to my Ada’s horror. Typical birthday gift.”

A knock sounded on the door and he sighed leaning back to see Balin entering to say, “We, um, have a situation-,”

Thorin glanced at you and you grinned standing up, “I should head back. Let you handle this while I show off your gifts.” He chuckled and bowed his head to you in your turn to the door where Balin bowed his head to you as well opening the door for you.

Thorin, “What is the situation?”

Balin sighed, “Dain came to the forges, wanted to see you.”

“How is that a situation?”

Balin, “Word arrived, King Dunne is arriving in two days among the reinforcements from the Southern kingdoms. I believe we might want to share the decision as soon as possible.”

Thorin nodded and let out a sigh, “Alright, let’s go handle this now.” Following Balin to Dain’s apartment.

..

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Thorin let out a deep breath saying, “I heard King Dunne is arriving in two days.”

Dain nodded, “Yes.” His eyes scanned over Thorin curiously. “What of it?”

“What has he told you of the Blacklocks?”

Dain exhaled in a deep growling breath in his drop to settle back into his armchair signaling Thorin to claim his, “Well, according to him King Buarndur swore his lands over to him before Azanulbizar and when they went to claim them the Blaklocks attacked them and burned down those lands and most of the Ironfist’s.”

Thorin’s brows furrowed in confusion, “He has six sons. Why would he swear away their homelands and inheritance?”

Dain shrugged and tilted his head, “I don’t have the foggiest idea. However, I have never put a pound of grain to his words before, thought it mostly boasting at first, and at the time there were supposedly no Blacklocks left, and now there’s thousands-.”

Thorin nodded, “About that. I had a word with Jaqi earlier, in support of her clan and family I am enforcing my stance in that if any Ironfists threaten or dare to harm her or any of her kin they will be punished, and if King Dunne tries anything or so much as insults her I will expel him from my council.”

Dain let out a breath, “Thorin-,”

Thorin leaned in, “I know you are in an odd spot, so am I, I am not asking you to pick sides now, I am saying however, should something occur I need to know if you support me in this.” Dain wet his lips with a timid glance over his face, “My Queen does not feel safe in inviting her younger siblings and mother into my lands.” Dain’s lips parted, “You’ve seen her tattoos, every one of them is from Ironfist clans. Her own men don’t feel comfortable taking shelter in my halls with them arriving. If I do not take her side I am saying she can never see her siblings or mother unless she travels to Elven lands. I have to protect my Queen.”

Dain nodded, “Should a threat occur, you have my support. I would like to hear the full tale from her however. Word enough is no weight to uproot an entire clan. But they do fill a great portion of our lands. It will be a tough stance, but no matter the cost we will defend the Queen and her men.”

…

Daily you would hold your tasks and Thorin would do all he could to get the returning Dwarves settled into jobs and homes reclaiming what had been lost by them and their kin while hearing news of the impending arrival of Kings for the coronation Dis and Diaa were in the throws of planning for the busy King. More and more distractions kept coming up taking your intended from your side to handle the random tasks but two days out as expected you, on the right of Maglor and Maedhros you stood beside Thorin, who made certain to remain close to you. Silently securing your bond was well noticed by the returning Kings traveling with the Ironfists. Eyes fixed firmly on you and your kin through the welcoming greetings until Thorin led the Kings and Lords through the mountain as you turned to join Maglor and your uncle off to Dale again to get as many days work in as you could before the snow.

The new Kings only worsened Thorin’s distraction and at the glares coming from the Ironfist clans you knew it was only a matter of time before it all blew up in front of all the Dwarves. Increasingly the newest beads in your hair seemed to stir up irritations and as publicly as possible Dams were brought in from more ‘respectable’ clans more deserving of Thorin’s attentions than you. Each day the faults of your kin brought up yet without public insult, so far, and each night packed with separate dinners with you alone with the Elves as the Durins got drug into dinner after dinner to mingle with the new Dwarf Lords all far from eager to get to know you in favor of King Dunne.

In his increasing irritation a sneaking set of ease slipped into his day at your confirmed bouts of breaking into the King’s apartment. Small trinkets here and there, snacks and small notes making puns out of the comments and rumors you had heard freeing a chuckle from the sullen Dwarf with a great deal of stress easing his way into a calming few hours with his harp. Softly at first playing the classics but always ending with your shared heartsong, unnoticed until a late pass by chance halting you in place to press your ear against the door hearing his baritone voice singing the Khuzdul verses to the song leaving the Kurdu verses to echo in your head as you turned to your apartment.

Your gifts didn’t go unnoticed and a few stolen chances were taken to head to the forges. The first time you among a trio of your kin were there working at your own stations ignoring the sneers of the others to finish your own tasks between stolen glances at Thorin in his entering the forges. For all his stubbornness and years over you on top of his assumed failure and loss of trust he hoped that even against his unflattering appearance for even the Dams being forced to win him out of his courtship with you that he could impress you with his forging skills. Conveniently choosing a station in full view of yours where, like the other men his shirts were removed and set aside fully exposing all earned markers for their clans and ranks with battle scars abound.

Sight of you seemed to be no less distracting with all the sweaty hairy men pounding hammers into melted iron on their anvils, your hair pulled up in a high bun and vest covering your ribs with loose shirt under it swaying around your toned rippling frame locking many in place more than once between your own stolen chances to watch your future husband in his prior trade. Like yours his hair was pulled up and his steady breaths and motions flexing and relaxing each of his muscles in his solid torso and arms with his intense bright eyes focused on his task all but lulling you into an enchanted trance.

No matter how stubborn or foolish he had been it did nothing to stop the wildfire that trip to the forges sparked for you. Under those moody, biased and ignorant layers of his tough first impressions to get through those bright hopeful eyes between bouts of furious glares and intense stares on top of a pair of arms now haunting your dreams begging to be draped around you with a chest meant for draping yourself across to sleep to the heartbeat of the man promised as yours there was hope deep in your heart you could find happiness with him. After the settling was over and between his busy moments he seemed genuine in his claim to honor your betrothal and protect you, moments growing more random as he began to notice how even with the rumors you were still turning heads and wished to keep you assured his attentions were yours entirely.

.

A rough set of storms were set to roll in and in your focus on your repair job to the main palace in the inner circle became more important to get finished leaving you all but entirely moved in there sharing a cot with your Ada who led the Elves in nightly shifts to keep the repairs going while you and your workers slept. The absence did not go unnoticed by the Durins, all of whom spent a portion of their days to go and drop in to see you hoping you weren’t being chased off. With Bilbo spearheading the cause to have your Maiar and rams to be moved inside Erebor to the farming peaks attached to Dale as the orchards had been successfully starting to bloom under the protective crystal dome.

.

“How dare that clan just assume they can lay claim over Dale!”

A narrowed gaze from Thorin fired from the doorway across the council room in the latest try at planning the seating for the coronation with each of them refusing to sit near the Elves or the Ironfists near your kin. Quietly he listened in to the slew of insults to you especially and your father you were bet to have taken after, the longer he listened the angrier he grew. Finally shouting out, “My Queen can lay claim to any of my lands and you would do best not to insult her!”

All heads turned and King Dunne stood with a laugh, “Oh now Thorin, we all know you are merely following that betrothal out of pity for some old agreement your grandfather made. Why not choose someone more worthy of the title?”

Thorin moved farther into the room to his chair with a pointed glare, “Coming from the Dwarf insisting a King would deprive his six sons from their inheritance by swearing their homeland away on the eve of battle.” His growling tone earning a darkened stare from Dunne, “For any of you wondering on my stance for your imagined claim to the Blacklock rights and lands I am in support of my Queen and her kin,” sharp inhales came from the Ironfists’ whose beards bristled in their rising fury as he continued, “And any issuing threats or injury to any Blacklock will face the consequences for doing so. Any unwilling to follow that is welcome to leave their place on my council.”

Silence filled the hall as Dain smirked stirring up matching reactions from the other clans around the scowling King Dunne who forced a grin then replied, “Now now, we would never issue unjust threats to the young lass.” The spark in his gaze marking his lie unsettling Thorin even more as he mentally planned out his next stolen time with you. He had done all he could to clear his night for another dinner with you to present you with another marker after finding the silver raven figurine you had left in his rooms along with his own agreement to move the creature and you back inside Erebor to be nearer to him.

.

Dis in a deep blue gown strolled through the streets of Dale trading pleased grins to each of the burly men you oversaw bowing their heads respectfully, as they had to all the other Dams, including those forced to fluff themselves up in front of Thorin. Some of the largest Dwarves to be found with none fiercer in defending the safety and respect of the women they encountered. All more than ready to face off with the Ironfists but holding back at your lingering order to not give them any cause to start anything allowing them to make the first move always. Atop your ladder you eyed her entering after finishing hammering in the nails securing the thick wooden frame where the doors your uncle had helped finished carving the night prior would be secured in place.

Steadily you climbed down keeping hold of your box of nails and the hammer you set aside at the base of the ladder. Turning around you locked eyes with the stunning Dam taking in your dust and dirt coated layers as you bowed your head, “Princess Dis.”

A soft sigh left her as she exposed the basket she was holding to say, “Dis, we are going to be sisters you know.”

You chuckled weakly and nodded your head, “Well then dear sister, you should get the tour.”

She chuckled eyeing the front hall you were working in, “It is quite an improvement so far.”

You grinned wider at her gasp at the stunning change from the dusty in progress hall to the empty yet immaculate nest hall leading to a series of refurbished rooms she peered into until you made it to the outer dining hall with open doors leading into a garden still being marked out by the few day shift Elves for the planting in early spring once winter had passed. “Well we have been trying to get it lined up before winter hits fully.”

In awe as she emptied the basket she replied at your washing your hands in the attached bath, “I can see that.”

Out again to claim your chair beside hers you added, “Plus we’ve got most of the inner ring habitable for my men and working our way outwards. A few more serious jobs will have to wait till spring but not many. How is Erebor?”

She grinned easing the juice she poured from a bottle for you in a glass she set out, “It is mostly intact, surprisingly enough, mainly scrubbing except for the farming peaks.”

You nodded lowering your glass from your sip, feeling her eyes taking in your flawless etiquette despite being filthy from working all morning, “Yes, Bilbo suggested we help with that.”

Her grin spread to her eyes that lit up after her own glass was lowered in an attempt for a sip of her own, “Your thoughts?”

“We don’t mind helping. Though breaking the earth-,”

Dis shook her head, “Of course, we would be extending the invitation for your Maiar as well.” Your brow inched up and she chuckled, “We are certain yes. He seems to be quite docile under your care.”

You chuckled, “Docile is one way of putting it.” Looking over the meal she set out you raised your fork she had pulled from the basket, “I suppose he’s no more unruly than most Dwarves, though a lot larger, and he spits fire.”

“I am certain our kin won’t mind once they see how quickly the land flourishes.”

You nodded, “Or we will see how quickly Dunne tries to attack him.”

Dis wet her lips and asked, “What happened between your clans?”

“Two days after learning my Adad fell among nearly all of our warriors they marched on our borders.” Her mouth fell open, “There was no promise, merely Dunne’s greed in crossing our borders for centuries since taking the throne. Some personal slight against my grandfather passed down through our line. We were defenseless, had Maglor not warned us-,”

“You fled? And they burned down your homes in anger?”

You shook your head, “No, we lit those flames. They wanted it, we released its ashes for the taking. Had they not encroached on our borders for so long their lands would have been safe from the flames.”

Her eyes dropped to the lowest portion of your tattoo exposed by your rolled up sleeve wet with sweat, “Forgive me, but, why were you chosen to defend your kin? The only one available when the insults were issued? I understand you have four elder brothers.”

You exhaled and wet your lips and she eyed your sunken gaze at your drink, “I lost my Adad and all four brothers in Azanulbizar.” Parting her lips in a stunned gasp, “I am the eldest of my line. My mother, she is no warrior, my younger brothers were infants when we fled and still too young to defend our line yet. If I turned down the duels the accusers could claim what they wanted whenever they wanted it. No matter the cost to me they will not take anything else from my kin. We will drag them into the flames with us if we have to before they beat us.”

Reaching out her hand folded over yours, “I, have no words. That is awful, such a weight to carry alone.”

“We all have weight to carry.” A smirk eased onto your face, “I see you have a stone’s worth yourself.”

Deepening her grin as her hand smoothed over her belly, “Few months yet. It has been a long four years. The signs show a girl.” She squeaked out and you giggled softly.

Smirking as you raised your fork and said, “Try two.” Her brow inched up, “Hobbits can tell.” Widening her grin, “I suppose some tweaking shall have to be done to the nursery.”

She nodded and you both finished the meal she brought as a breeze filled the room carrying the scent of rain with it, “What is it?”

Your eyes locked and you answered, “You may want to hurry back, smells like rain.”

.

Under the sheets of rain you were safe in the palace again in the music room though this time adjusting the neck of a violin you had found tucked away in a partially crushed case you had been lulling back to perfection. Silently Thorin passed through the doorway leaving his wet cloak on the chair he passed by lost in your enchanting humming of your heart song stirring a grin onto his face at the ease it spread through him. A heavier step than intended ended your song and brought your eyes up to Thorin, who smirked at you and purred, “My apologies.”

Shaking your head you set the violin and the tools aside asking, “Long day or did you just feel like escaping?”

He chuckled nearing you, “Both, and more.”

“Ooh, do tell.”

Grinning wider he replied, “Another long day of arguments over seating arrangements and traded goods and a far from subtle comment on my first choice as King.”

“I take it they still are wary of our union.”

“King Dunne commented that all clans be present at each meeting.”

You giggled, “That can be arranged. Ada is concerned I am not sleeping enough.” Dimming Thorin’s grin, “I am. Just not twelve hours a day.”

“As long as you are sleeping and eating enough. Which brings me here.”

“Dragging me off to bed?”

After a nip at his lip he rumbled back, “I am here to offer you dinner.”

You grinned at him, giggling out, “And just what makes you assume wooing me with woes of the council would achieve for that plan of yours?”

He chuckled and playfully asked, “And how would you have me ask?”

You sighed with your lips pursed in thought for a moment, then replied, “In a foolish way.”

His brow inched up, “Excuse me?”

Standing up you smirked at him, “You heard me. No doubt you have heard it all. ‘Ulterior motive, out for your gold, your lands, your crown’.” His brow inched up at your step closer to him and tap on his chest, “’Sent to seduce you and take all you could ever acquire’.” He chuckled at your next tap on his chest, “Well, they’re half right anyways.”

His brow inched up, purring, “Oh really?”

“I am meant to be a Queen, my entire task is to seduce you, in every way possible, your trust, your patience, to lure your every secret out to be the one you bare yourself to fully. And of course physically, after all, what good is a Queen if she cannot convince her King to bed her in hopes of a son.”

He exhaled and wet his lips at your backwards steps, “Makes sense.”

“And just how am I doing so far?” He chuckled and bit his lip glancing away from you as you giggled at his blush, “Or should I ask what you’re willing to do to earn dinner with me.” A stunned chuckle left him at your teasing smirk when his eyes met yours again seeing the playful glimmer in them, “It has been two weeks nearly since we last ate alone.”

Walking after you he rumbled back, “And just what would this price of yours be?”

“Well, you asked for my place on your arm, and I doubt you have had much practice, so, one dance.”

He chuckled again, “A dance? This is your foolish price?”

His eyes darted up at the rain growing harder you kept stepping backwards towards, “It would have to be in the rain of course.”

“And why is that?”

“Because only fools dance in the rain.” Your head tilted to the side as you passed through the wall of water into the growing shower, “Be foolish with me.” His brow inched up as he stood on the other side of the water, “You were so willing to face a dragon, what is a little rain?” You giggled again then started to hum in the first steps of the dance tilting your head back with eyes closed leaving Thorin eyeing you as he nipped at his lip before he stepped out into the rain.

Surely through a deep inhale he stepped closer to you easing a finger with yours to spin you before forming an arch with your joined fingers in a turn followed by another turn under the arm the other way. Dropping that hold his hands lowered to your hips lifting you effortlessly in another turn, grinning at your giggle; leading into a joint set of steps in your backwards pace on your toes with one of his hands on your back with one of yours extended and the other around the side of his neck for the start of a turn. His free hand would find yours raising it for another arch for your spin before he would lift you again with a chuckle of his own when you were set down and arched back with arms extended on one foot as he turned you through his circle. Again you would straighten to lock hands in another wave of interweaving turns and arm locks between lifts.

Your humming was joined by his between chuckles and giggles as the rain seemed to grow heavier through the flashes of lightning splitting through the sky between earth shaking bouts of thunder stirring chuckles from your father and uncle not far off watching from a covered arch in a tower above you. Both sketching stolen moments along with a few random Elves taking the occasion as inspiration for a personal gift for their Princess. Heavier your clothes grew at the weight of the water and yet your steps didn’t wane, lost in the intimate moment until the hold on his neck shifted into his hair and he dipped just a few inches at your toe top stance to hold your foreheads together in the shared soft gasping turn with lips barely a breath away. No kiss was able to be stolen in your joint refusal to stop the dance, yet another two turns and a lift later and your feet halted at the massive white light causing them to blink upwards and chuckle at the sheet of rain growing harder.

Firmly his palm landed on your back turning you to head back inside where he asked, “Does this mean I have earned supper?”

In a smirk you replied, “I believe I could call it in your favor.”

Making him chuckle and nip at his lip looking you over, “Thank you for granting me such a courtesy.” Making you giggle following him to his cloak and then onto the walk to Erebor.

Pt 5

[prince-snatcher]

The Man in the Moon

A quick fic about how Hat Kid met Prince Moonjumper. Forgotten Prince AU.

Something was up. Something that wasn’t normal, even for Subcon forest.

Hat Kid likes spending her free time in the dark prince’s forest, not only was it cool, but she got to hang around Snatcher and his minions, who had really warmed up to her. The Prince himself used to insist she was only a nuisance and begged her to leave him alone. However, over time he stopped pretending so hard to dislike her.

Subcon was normally full of weird things, like ghosts, eyes looking at you from the darkness, and just supernatural occurrences that Hat Kid chalked up to be more than normal. Lately however, it seems that the brighter the moon shines over Subcon, even stranger things start to happen.

Hat Kid noticed one day as she was walking through the forest, that a few of Snatcher’s minions were stalking her from afar. While this is isn’t anything unusual, something felt off. It was almost like the girl could feel eyes burning through her, an ominous unusual red glow appearing from the darkest parts of the forest. Becoming unsettled to say the least, Hat Kid attempted to talk to a few of the friendlier minions in order to try to decipher what was going on. She walked up to one standing inside Subcon Village.

“Has anything strange been going on around here? I mean… stranger than usual?” She asked, trying not to sound nervous.

“What do you mean, kid? Is the boss messing with you or something?” The minion responded, seeming unphased.

“Ah, no I mean it’s not him. I can tell. It’s almost like there’s something else there.” She tried to explain.

The minion paused for a moment, “Well, a few of the others say they don’t remember where they’ve been for chunks of time around the full moon. But I just tell them it’s a side effect of being reanimated from the dead!”

Hat Kid raised a brow, “Right. Uh, thanks!” She smiled awkwardly before teetering off. Not remembering where they’ve been? I mean he could be right and she was just being paranoid. The planet she now inhabited has always been strange, since the moment she got here. Why wouldn’t there be some weird things going on, especially in Subcon? She thought about asking Prince Snatcher, but shook away the thought, convincing herself that he would just make fun of her for being scared.

While lost in thought, Hat Kid almost didn’t notice the Dweller off in the distance wriggling and squirming out of control. The small alien blinked and squinted her eyes to see better in the dark, walking closer slowly. There’s no reason a Dweller should be so upset, there was nothing around it…

She shuffled around the trees to the clearing where the Dweller was struggling. The masked spirit was bathed in moonlight, and the kid noticed light glimmering off thin crimson strings tethering the Dweller to the sky. Hat Kid furrowed her brow and pulled out her umbrella in a defensive stance, slowly maneuvering around the struggling spirit. She tried to look up and see the source of the strings, but she saw nothing. When she looked back down, the spirit had stopped moving, it’s head dropped down. Suddenly, the strings jerked, and the Dweller looked straight at Hat Kid. The face had been replaced with a single red eye, glowing and glitching out on the face of the mask. The girl gulped and stared back, clutching her umbrella tightly in her hands. Whatever is on the other end of those strings is what’s been causing everything weird to happen, she had to find out what it was. Out of nowhere, soft laughter echoed from every direction around her, and she turned around rapidly to try to find the source. When she turned back around to face the Dweller again, it had disappeared. A shadow danced across the moonlit clearing briefly, and the girl looked up.

Upon the face of the full moon, a figure appeared that almost looked familiar. It was a humanoid ghost creature with blue skin and a mask, dark spikey hair coming from behind the mask. It wore bright red royal garments, shackles bound to it’s wrists. Hat Kid looked on in fear and curiosity as the figure descended from the face of the moon into the clearing before her. A long torn up cape and chains rattled in the wind as it came down, red eyes like daggers as it came closer. Bits and pieces of its body seemed to fade in and out of sight, like it was “glitched out”.

“Hello, little one~” It spoke, a voice ethereal yet charming, “I’ve been watching you for some time now, it’s nice to finally meet you.” It bowed politely and smiled. “You can call me Prince Moonjumper, my dear~” Hat Kid was frozen still, one hand still holding onto her umbrella tightly, her eyes widened as she tried to make sense of what was happening. Prince? Wasn’t Snatcher the prince of Subcon? According to the storybook, he had been killed by Vanessa and turned into the ghost of The Prince… so who is…

“My my, young one, you seem confused~!” Prince Moonjumper interrupted her thoughts, floating ominously in the moonlight, “Ah yes, you see, I believe you have been lied to dear. You are thinking about Snatcher yes? Well, that fraud is nothing but a vengeful spirit who has stolen my title and rightful place as ruler of Subcon,” Moonjumper placed a clawed hand on his chest, gesturing to himself. “I am the real Prince, cursed to be a prisoner of the moon after I was killed by my one true love…” Prince Moonjumper gestured to the moon, looking somber and dramatic. Hat Kid raised a brow. This guy sure was dramatic. Maybe a little off his rocker too.

He stopped, and looked back at the young girl, who had still said nothing, “Do not be afraid dear, I’m sure you’re unsettled by all this, but do not worry,” The ghost slowly started to circle around Hat Kid, “...I promise I mean you no harm,” he cooed in a charming tone. “You see, I’m just a lonely old spirit looking for a friend. Would you like to be my friend, my dear?” Moonjumper smiled, his face close to Hat Kid, showing his sharp fangs. She opened her mouth to say something, but he put a clawed finger up against her lips, “Shhh, young one, you needn't say anything. I’m sure we will become wonderful friends! My time is short, I can only manifest here in this plane during the full moon, any other time I am trapped in The Horizon. Come back and see me when the moon is full, okay? I’ll miss you my dear~” He pulled away and laughed softly, backing into the shape of the moon. The spirit disappeared as dark clouds covered the moon and blocked the light. 

Hat Kid blinked and touched her face. What was that? Was he telling the truth? Had Snatcher been lying to her all along…?

[dontcallmejules]

Made this a while ago and never posted it... Meet Zui.

What is their full name?

Zui. That's it.

In detail describe how they look

5'11, slender, slight athletic build yet considered on the waifish side. Dusky, smooth complexion with gray tones.  Erratic, un-combable, silver-white hair that stands out in a crowd, hence the hood.

How old are they?

Mid to late twenties? Age unknown.

What clothes do they like to wear?

Black/gray/purple muted tones. Suede. Things that hide in a crowd and make no sound.

Any piercings? 

A lot.

Do they have any other jewelry they wear?

Necklace coils in pure silver. A favorite stolen item from foreign royalty visiting Vesuvia.

Any tattoos? No

What do they smell like?

Clove, ash, and vanilla.

What are their four trinkets? Questionably stained dagger. Half empty whiskey bottle. Wanted poster that looks nothing like her. A pouch full of stolen trinkets.

GOVERNMENT MANDATED FERSONA No.

What kind of magic are they good at? Illusion/invisibility. Control of localized wind bursts and whirlwinds. Some healing magic comes in handy.

What kind of magic are they bad at? Love and happiness spells, earth magic, accurate tarot readings.

Of the four, six or seven magical elements which are the most connected to? Four: fire, air water earth. six: fire, air, water, wood, earth, metal. Seven: fire, air, water, wood, earth, metal, aither. Air

What does their gateway look like prior to their memory loss?  What does it look like afterward? A dark, lonely, narrow collection of alleys in an unnamed city.  Calm with a light drizzle of rain.  Zui hasn't seen it since after the memory loss so she wouldn't know what it looks like post-memory loss.

Do they have a familiar? If they do. What type of animal is it? What is it’s name? Is it still around after they lost their memory? A minuscule, snow gray rat named Rat. He's still around after the memory loss although she doesn't know he's her familiar. Zui goes days without seeing Rat. When he's around he likes to stick close by and prefers naps in the base of her hood. He's much older than a rat should be and, although she's seen him injured or possibly killed numerous times, Rat always returns unscathed.  

Have they ever cursed someone? Cursed their names, yes. Physically harmed them, yes. However, cursed magic has consequences not worth dealing with.

How do they handle those headaches/migraines? Drinking. Sex. More drinking.

What tarot card do they connect the most with? The Moon, Upright: unconscious, illusions, intuition.

Where were they born? She doesn't know. Assumes somewhere in the slums of Vesuvia.

What is their favorite color? Plum purple.

What is their least favorite color? Orange. Yellow. Anything bright and offensively cheerful.

What were they like as a child? Quiet, fast, smart. She learned how to pickpocket to survive.

What were their parents like? Parents?

Do they have any siblings? If the answer is yes how many? Probably, who knows.

Do they have any other relatives they are close with? Doesn't know any relatives and really isn't close to anyone anyway.

What are they afraid of? Showing weakness. Growing attached to another person. The majority of her own emotions.

What do they identify as? She/Her

Do they have any allergies? Nothing so far... except stupidity.

Do they have any other medical problems? Headaches, insomnia, night terrors, sleepwalking, and memory loss, obviously.

What about mental health issues? Distrust of anyone. Promiscuous. Alcoholic.

What’s their personal hygiene regimen like? Near religious. Prefers to bathe in streams with scented soaps and herbs she carries on her person at all times unless there's a high-quality spa available... then she's all over that.

Favorite rock or gemstone? Amethyst, granite, the crooked cobblestones of Vesuvia.

Favorite tree? The weeping willows that line streams outside of Vesuvia with their wispy, ground-sweeping branches and long, slender leaves. Great for afternoon naps.

Favorite type of weather? Overcast and either cool, damp, or both.

Least favorite type of weather? Dry summer heat.

What is their favorite season? (remember winter is summer and spring is fall) Whenever the weather is mild and the sun not beating down.

How many languages could they speak before the memory loss? How many do they currently speak? Understands one yet can't speak it. Speaks some important phrases of another. Speaks fluent Vesuvian.

Do they sing or play any instruments? She sings quietly to herself. What do they tend to joke about? Dark sense of humor. Or sarcasm. Both. After a stressful day, how do they relax? A drink, someone attractive to sleep with, a long, quiet bath. Guilty pleasures? Everything. Idiosyncrasies? Will silently appear next to you. Whether by magic or practiced stalking of the city streets. One minute she's absent, the next, looming over you.  Her height and slightly disconcerting presence make this alarming to some. How do they act when they first meet someone new? Hesitant, guarded, quiet besides bad jokes. How quickly do they warm up to them? Slowly. Very slowly. Unless they click, then too fast. In what order would they prioritize Love, fame, money, power, and knowledge? Knowledge, money, power, love, fame. List four or more things they love to do Drink, get a full night's rest, wander through Vesuvia's bustling markets, fuck. List four or more things they hate to do Pay any form of a bill. Attend parties. Small talk. Kiss ass. List five or more things they have said that sum up who they are "Ah, I see... you're an idiot." "I would love it if you bought me a drink." "How do I know I can trust you?" "You certainly take yourself very seriously..." "Go away." How do they react to (both verbal and physical) conflict? Verbal: Stern, silent. Off-putting smile.  A very sharp tongue and no qualms. Physical: Fast, sleek, uses magic to avoid injuries let alone contact at all. Terrible to fight as you can never get a shot in. Disarms first then threatens until the offender gives up.  If her adversary doesn't give up, they get hurt.  If the injury is serious, they get fed to the palace eels.

What kind of bad habits do they have? All of them. Just list the seven deadly sins, well, besides gluttony.  Never quite got the hang of that one. What kind of character faults do they have? All of them, or at least she feels she does. Swears, does not fit into social standards, steals to survive, uses sex as a tool and a weapon, vain, prideful. What’s their best trait in their opinion? Stubborn and strong-willed. Entirely resilient in all situations.  Fearless. What do they think of their appearance? Vanity is a large part of her life. She uses looks to her advantage in all situations. How do they interact with people in a position of authority? Is mindful of authority to the point they'd rather not get killed for pissing off the wrong courtesan. Otherwise completely ignores authority and social statuses to a fault. Who did they look up to as a kid? The older, more skilled child thieves on the streets. She also saw their flaws and learned from their mistakes. How do they interact with kids? She doesn't. Do they want kids of their own someday? She doesn't. Are they religious? If so what god/goddess or gods/goddesses do they worship? She is still waiting to see a sign of actual "higher" life. What do they think the meaning of life is? There is none. What would they want their last words to be? Hopefully nothing foolish. What do they want to do before they die? Live a full life. What/how do they want to be remembered for after they die? She doesn't expect to. How do they express affection? Protective to a fault. If it's romantic affection she can be fairly obsessive and will tail them around the city to learn their routine. Super attentive and great gift giver. However, she gets bored easily and may ghost at the drop of a hat. What do they normally eat for breakfast? Whatever is fresh on the market to snatch that day. Unless in a mood, then liquor. Do they like spicy food? If it's free. Favorite fruit and or vegetable? The ones that "roll off" the cart and accidentally make their way into her bag. Do they like sweets? Easy to pocket, so of course. Do they drink alcohol? Do fish swim? If they do, what do they act like when they are drunk? Tipsy: calm, relaxed. Drunk: flirtatious and more aggressive. Dead drunk: fights whoever is near or just naps it off. How do they take their tea/coffee? Spiked. What food would they refuse to eat? Anything rotten or dirty. Brings back too many memories of childhood. Is there anything they eat that most people would find unappealing? Eel, snake, anything charred to a crisp and served on a stick is fair game. When going on the road what food could they not live without? Bread and dried meat travel well. What meal gives them a sense of nostalgia? Fresh berries, a favorite as a kid and easy to pluck off the bushes outside the city. What do they do when no one’s around? Wander aimlessly, enjoying the silence. Check her bags to see what loot has been recently acquired. How would they react if a prized possession got stolen? Vengeful. She would retrieve the item at all costs and take as much of the thieves possessions as possible for their foolish actions. Depending on the item, she may take more than just their belongings. What’s the first thing they would buy if they won the lottery? Liquor. A new, more inconspicuous bag or two. A few nights in one of Vesuvia's luxury spas... or luxury brothel. What would their favorite modern invention be? Air conditioning and running water. In a new unfamiliar place, what do they do? Properly assess the situation. Learn the layout of her surroundings and the patterns of the residents. Proceed with caution. Someone just threatened them what do they do? Depends on the person, the threat, and the situation. Usually, just smile. A rather well rich looking woman just dropped her purse and didn’t notice. What do they do? Enjoy the free dinner, expensive liquor, and additional purchases made with whatever gold and jewelry are in the bag. Plant the empty, stolen bag on an enemy. Watch what happens next while eating free snacks. What’s the worst thing someone has said to them? "I know you actually care." What is the strangest thing they’ve ever come across? She once stumbling upon Count Lucio in one of Vesuvia's worse-off brothels enjoying a harem of filthy whores representing all shapes, sizes, sexes, and creeds... all wearing only goat masks and braying like barnyard animals.  The Count invited Zui to join. She did not. Luckily this memory is currently lost. Let's hope it stays that way. Someone just stole food from them what do they do? Retrieve the food. If the thief ate it, still retrieve the food out of principal and dispose of the critically wounded offender with the palace's handy, dandy eels. They meet a man at a crossroads. The man says they can have everything they’ve ever wanted. What happens next? Seduce the man. Take everything he has. Leave him drunk and pantsless in a field nearby. As a child what would they say they wanted to be as an adult?  ie. When I grow up I’m going to be _______ Never filthy and shoeless again. What’s their D&D alignment? Chaotic Neutral. What is the stupidest thing they’ve ever done? Fell in love. Made friends. Things that can get you in trouble. Have they ever got in trouble with the law or been arrested? Illusion magic comes in handy... so no, not yet. Do they know how to win a fight? Always. Are they good at hand to hand combat? Quick and skilled at disarming/subduing foes. Have they ever stolen something? Is this a joke question? Have they ever killed someone? No, but those eels certainly have. What/who do they find disgusting? Brown-nosers. Family life. Status. Body odor. What upsets them the most? Being exposed as having human feelings. Body odor. What anime character would they be? What is Anime? What Disney character would they be? What is Disney? What monster would they be? Humans are monsters enough. What mythological figure would they be? The invisible kind. List three songs that you associate with them. "World in My Eyes" Depeche Mode / "Rid Of Me" PJ Harvey / "IOU" Wolfsheim The more adult round What kind of gift would they be the happiest about receiving from a lover? The lover naked, possibly holding a fresh bottle of bourbon. Are they an easy lay? Nothing is ever easy with them. If it appears easy, she's probably stolen all your items and left before you could blink. Major turn-ons. Sarcasm, a sharp wit, intelligence, clean and well-manicured individuals who smell amazing. Major turn offs Crude comments, arrogance, bad hygiene, vile body odors. Erogenous zones? Wouldn't you like to know? Who are they romantically interested in? This Julian fellow who seems to be conveniently wherever she is. The Countess also comes to mind.  Plus there's this woodsman type although she’s currently forgotten his name. How do they interact with someone they're romantically interested in? Sly jokes, inappropriate comments at appropriate times, a lot of bodily contact. Where do they like to be kissed? Everywhere and anywhere. Do they like cuddling? She likes touching in general so- Big spoon or little spoon? Big spoon. What traits do they look for in a lover? Fast whit, sharp tongue, does not restrict her, reliable, generous. How many past relationships have they had? If one-night-stands count, too many. If they don't, not enough. How many people have they had sex with? Enough to know what she likes and really, really doesn't. Giving or receiving? Yes, please. Top, bottom or verse? Top, usually. Sub dom or switch? Never a sub.

[i-will-physically-fight-you]

18 for the fantasy writing prompts? :D

Prompt: “This dagger right here? Yeah? You see this? You see this right here?Guess what? I murdered your family with it.”

Summary: Virgil is a Guardian--those chosen by the Traveler to protect the remaining strands of humanity from the Darkness. Or rather, the numerous alien races running around hellbent on destroying what's left of Earth. Together with Remy--he runs recon missions for the Vanguard, the governing body of the Guardians.

His latest mission goes smoothly until a swarm of Vex shows up. So many blinking red lights headed straight towards him. Somehow, they know. The Vex know a lot of things. They were a ruthless hive mind with the access of time manipulation the likes of which the galaxy has never seen.

It isn’t too far-fetched to assume they know where he is based on the thousand other timelines they’ve already experienced. A thousand other timelines where they’ve already analyzed his fighting style and know what to expect. He is screwed.

Characters: Virgil Sanders, Patton Sanders, Remy Sanders

Word Count: 4481

Triggers: Non-graphic violence, vague descriptions of robot genocide, mentions of death

Apologies for the late prompt fill! I had to modify the prompt a bit for it to work, but trust me it’s in there!

 This is set in my Destiny AU, where you can find more details here. It’s essentially based off Destiny, the game created by Bungie but trust me you don’t need any prior knowledge to the game coming into this–I promise!

“C’mon, c’mon, pick up,” A man hisses.

 He’s alone in hisapartment, as the streets below swarmed with chaos. Even in such a civilizedage, humans are easily reduced to savage beasts. There is not a shred ofkindness to be found as humans fight tooth and nail to escape the coffin thatearth will become.

Oh, Earth is still humming with life. But there is a shadowovercoming her—and it is certain to bring an everlasting darkness with it.Death, to put it more bluntly. There’s nothing anyone can do about it—not eventhat damn alien sphere that brought in the Golden Age. Already this Darknesshas taken over the colonies on Mars.

The man is not on the streets. He knows it’s pointless totry and fight for a place on a spaceship. He’s accepted death. He just can’taccept death without knowing the fate of his baby brother. Eighteen years oldand halfway across the country at an university. He curses himself for allowinghim to move so far away. The thought of his brother being swept up with in themass panic terrifies him.

Finally, the phone stops ringing and he’s expecting to getthe voicemail for the hundredth time, when his brother yells out his name. Healmost weeps out of joy.

“Patton, are you okay? Oh my god, please tell me you’reokay.” The words spit out of his mouth immediately.

“Yes, I—I’m alright,” There’s a crack in theeighteen-year-old’s voice and the man inwardly curses because dammit legaladult or not he’s still just a kid. He shouldn’t have to be dealing with thisalone. The man should be there with him. He promised he’d keep Patton safe allthose years ago, and today he’s finally broken that promise.

“That’s good,” The man laughs in relief, slumping againsthis bed frame, “I am so glad to hear that.”

“What about you, are you safe?”

The man takes a sweep over the contents of his messyapartment. Safe is a relative term. He is safe from the chaos of the streets—heis not safe from the impending world doom.

“I’m okay now that I know you’re okay.” He instead tells hisbrother.

“I’m—I’m scared,” His brother finally admits, “It’s awfulwhat’s happening, and I just feel so guilty getting on a ship because there’sso many others who won’t—”

“You’re on a spaceship?” The man asks, incredulously.

“Yeah, aren’t you on a ship too?”

The man leans his head back, reeling from the information.His baby brother’s on a ship. His baby brother is safe. His baby brother’sgoing to live.

“il—you said you were okay—you got on a ship, right? Pleasetell me you got on a ship!” His brother’s voice takes on a hysterical pitch.

“Patton,” He says, asthe clouds outside grow dark, as his apartment shakes, “I love you.”

His brother’s pleas are the last thing he hears before hisworld is swept up by darkness.

-

He awakes, immediately shielding his eyes from thebrightness of his surroundings. He groans, stretching. He had that dream again.It is the only dream he ever has—and just like all the other times, his memoryof the dream is muddled.

He shakes his head as he rose to his feet.

“Rem, how are we doing?” He whispers.

His ghost materializes in front of him. Well, not an actualghost ghost. He’s not certain why they’re called that. Perhaps it had somethingto do with them being the last remnants of the Traveler’s entity. A big whiteglobe that had been the cause of Earth’s Golden Age.

Or maybe it had to do with the fact that they were eachtasked to literally raise dead people as a last resort to protect humanity.

Now, normally dead people weren’t notorious for beingdeadly. Sure, there are zombies in horror fiction—but zombies are only reallythreatening in large packs. But apparently, the Traveler thought it’d be agreat idea to infuse dead people with Light and make them nearly immortalwarriors. Guardians.

Personally, he didn’t understand why it was usually only deadpeople who became guardians. It made more sense to give that power to those whowere already living. Not to a being that has been dead for nearly severalcenturies. He’d been quite comfortable sleeping in his grave, thank you verymuch.

He didn’t remember being dead, of course. But he also didn’treally remember anything before being resurrected. Being dead for around twohundred years really messed with one’s memory.

“Atrocious. Can you believe that there isn’t a coffee shopfor miles around here?” The ghost whirrs. He’s unsure how to describe it’s appearance,except that it’s white and has a bunch of triangular sides. It floats at hiseye-level, barely the size of his palm.

He rolls his eyes at the ghost’s complaint, “You can’t evendrink coffee.”

“Physically? No. But I can live vicariously through you.”

Which he meant in a literal sense. Ghosts didn’t pick a deadperson willy-nilly and then moved on with their day. Ghosts spend literaldecades upon decades to searching for the right soul to become their guardian.Once they chose, ghost and guardian remained bonded for life. As such, theghost was pervious to all of his senses through their bond. Something the ghosttook full advantage of, constantly pestering him to venture into The City andvisit the coffee shops.

Although, personally, he thought it was a ploy by the ghostfor him to go out and socialize more. Something that he isn’t fond of doing. He’sa hunter—he doesn’t trust easily.

Hunters are about as feral as the wild lands they roam. Theyare always vigilant and suspicious of others’ motives. They prefer the companyof the wilds compared to the company of others. To be in the company of ahunter is a honor—for it is a sign of how much the hunter places their trust inyou.

It is better for him to be alone than to be withcomrades-in-arms. He doesn’t want another Moon Mission on his hands.

He rolled his eyes, picking up his knife to twirl around inhis fingers. Having something to keep his fingers occupied kept his nervesdown.

“Well, considering the Vex are sentient murderbots, I doubtthey have much need for coffee shops, so I’m afraid that’s off the agenda fortoday,” He says.

The ghost hums indignantly, about to reply, when it freezessuddenly. Immediately he grabs the Ghost and clutches it close to his chest toprotect it.

“What is it?” He whispers, his eyes scanning theirsurroundings. They are in the heart of Vex territory—Venus. He is on a scoutingmission to scope out the recent Vex activity on this particular sector ofVenus. He’s been at this for days, and still he hasn’t figured out why such alarge contingent of Vex split off from their stronghold at the Citadel.

Remy blinks out of existence, returning to the void orwherever they went when they aren’t in the physical plane. He breathes a silentbreath. Good. Nothing can harm the Ghost when it’s in the void.

All enemies of the Light know that to kill a guardian, onemust kill its’ ghost. Without Remy, he’d become mortal and lose his connectionto the Light. But it’s more than that—Remy is his friend, his confident. Thebond between ghost and guardian are so intertwined that to lose a ghost, islike losing a part of himself.

“Don’t freak out toomuch, but you might wanna take a look at your radar.” Its voice echoes inhis head.

As soon as the ghost utters that, the edges of his radarimmediately lit up like a Christmas tree. So many blinking red lights headedstraight towards him. Somehow, they know. The Vex know a lot of things. Theywere a ruthless hive mind with the access of time manipulation the likes ofwhich the galaxy has never seen.

It isn’t too farfetched to assume they know where he isbased on the thousand other timelines they’ve already experienced. A thousandother timelines where they’ve already analyzed his fighting style and know whatto expect. He is screwed.

“Oh my god, oh my god—”

“Hey, what did I sayabout freaking about?” Remy chastises, “Eyesup, guardian. We’ll get out of this—we always do.”

“R-right,” He swallows. He puts his knife away, pulling outthe scout rifle on his back, “Okay—can you beam us up, scotty?”

He doesn’t know why he says that. The phrase comes out ofhis mouth before he comprehends. It feels like a reference to something—perhapshis past self knew the origins of it.

“On it.” The ghostreplies, “Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh, what’s uh-oh?” He asks, scaling up a building togain a better vantage point. A storm forms about hundred feet away from him,fake and artificial. As energy arcs from its’ smoky haze, metallic figuresmaterialize in front of his eyes. The Vex.

“The Vex arescrambling signals—I can’t connect with the ship or your sparrow.”

“Fuck.” He mutters, heart pounding, “I guess we’re doing this the hard way then.”

He is going to die. He doesn’t even need the ghost’s inputto realize that—but Remy gives it to him regardless.

“Just so you know, ifyou die—I’m not sure if I can resurrect you here—the darkness is suffocating,”Remy shudders.

He peers over the ledge and sees the horde ofenemies—there’s Vex of every kind. Goblins, Hob-goblins, Harpies andMinotaurs—all here with the intent to kill him. Whether by the sniper fire of ahob-goblin or by the pounding of minotaur. It doesn’t matter—either way he’sgoing to die.

He had a few options. One, he could attempt fleeing. Withouthis sparrow—a speedy hoverbike that covers land distance at immensespeeds—that’d be difficult. Two, he could just stay up on this building andwait until they located him. Or three, he could fight.

He chose the third option.

The hunter summons his rocket-launcher and looks at thecluster of the Vex through its’ scope. He literally has one shot at this. Therocket-launcher will take too long for him to load it again and by that point,he’d lose his element of surprise.

“Here goes nothing,” He mutters to himself, his fingercurling around the trigger.

The rocket flies out with an alarming rate. The Vex catchsight of it and start to scatter from the blast zone. Unfortunately for them,it was a tracker rocket and it locked onto their location. Machine parts flyeverywhere—and the Vex that are hit are either dead or close to it.

Instantly, the Vex starts shooting over at the ledge wherethe Hunter had been standing. But he isn’t there anymore. As soon as he shotthe rocket, he starts his descent down the building away from the Vex.

His boots hit the ground, and he crouches—his blades inhand.

“C’mon, c’mon—” He whispers to himself, as he triesconcentrating.

There are three forms that Light manifests as; solar, voidand arc. It takes an extremely disciplined guardian to be a master of allthree. His specialty lies in the void—they call hunters like him Nightstalkers.

However, he can still pull from the other two forms, andthat’s what he intends on doing. At last, the arc energy ripples over him—cloakinghim from the visible world.

“What are you planningon doing?” Remy asks.

“Something either incredibly stupid or incredibly smart,” Heresponds.

With that, he rushes towards the Vex—his doom. He waitsuntil he’s in the middle of the Vex before he channels all the arc energy intohis blades, revealing his presence to the Vex. He immediately plunges a bladeinto of that a goblin—the foot soldiers of the Vex. As he pulls it out, he swervesaround its’ dying body and moves onto the other.

He is not a Titan. He doesn’t plow through his enemies withbrute force. Hunters are clever and crafty. They’re light on their toes andstrike when least expected. There is a reason why Hunters with an affinity forarc are referred by others as Blade-dancers.

His movements are fluid and graceful—the dance of death is somethinghe knows too well. He makes quick work of the goblins and harpies. The latterof which fly about and attempt lasering him. It’s the Minotaurs and Hobgoblinshe needs to fear most.

He hears the shot of Hobgoblin’s sniper knife a second toolate. The blast hits him point plank in the chest—causing his already weakenedshields to flicker.

“Gurl, get out ofthere!”  Remy screams inside hishead.

The hunter grits his teeth, allowing the arc energy to fadefrom his body and pulls from the Void. A ball of void energy starts to appearin his right palm. The second he feels it forming, he throws it onto theground. A grey smoky mist swarms the area blanketing the Vex in a momentarystate of confusion. The Hunter takes advantage of this, running as far as hislegs could carry him.

He ducks inside a building and breathes. He needs only a fewminutes for his shields to return back to full-strength. A few minutes seemsshort, until you’re thrown into a life-or-death scenario where every secondcounts.

Remy materializes in front of him. The Ghost scanned him afew times, fussing over the dents in his armor and the damage to his cloak.

“Good news, you managed to kill around thirty of them. Badnews, there’s still a like  two hundred of them out there.”

The Hunter cusses.

“Remy, please tell me you’ve figured out how they’redisrupting the signals.” He says, desperately. If they can restore the signalsto their ship—they can make it.

“I think I’ve identified the source of the disruption butuh,” The Ghost hesitates, “you’re not gonna like it.”

“What is it?”

“They got a Hydra with them.”

He cusses for the second time within five minutes.

Hydras are big bulky super-computers of death equipped withan impenetrable shield. The latter of which rotates around it, but there isonly a five second window for him to get a few shots in. Add the fact thatthere is about several hundred other Vex intent on killing him and he isdoomed.

Once his shields fully recover, he slips out of thebuilding. He can hear clanking nearby—indicating that they broke free ofconfusion and now they are heading straight towards him.

“What’s the plan?”Remy asks, resuming their role as the Hunter’s Jiminy Cricket.

“Don’t get killed.” The Hunter mutters.

“A solid plan!”Remy enthusiastically agrees, although the Hunter can pick out the nervousundertones in its’ voice.

He calls upon the arc energy once more—letting form a cloakof invisibility once more. He’ll be hidden from their radars, but he can’t domuch but sneak about in this state. The instant he starts shooting, he’ll loseconcentration.

Not to mention keeping it up for long periods of time isincredibly taxing on his Light reserves. It’s a good thing the Hunter specializedin speed, in both his training and armor enhancements. However, the invisibilitydoesn’t cloak his noise. He’ll have to be careful or the Vex will pick up onhis footfalls.

“I programmed thelocation of the Hydra in your radar—just follow the arrow and you’ll find it.”Remy informs him.

“Okay.” He mutters underneath his breath, glancing down atthe arrow that points northwest. They are in the ruins of what once had been acolony. During the Golden Age, colonies were planted all over the Moon, Venusand Mars. But they all fell, just like Earth, during the Collapse when theDarkness struck.

The colony is small, meaning the Hydra is only fifty metersaway from his present location. It just so happens that there are dozens of Vexstanding between it and him.

“Gee, wouldn’t it begreat to be on a fireteam just right about now?” A snarky voice taunts himfrom the back of his head.

He growls, and thankfully Remy keeps silent. The Ghost likelyheard the negative thought, but he knows better than to discuss it with theHunter. Especially not in the middle of a situation like this.

To be perfectly honest, he doesn’t have a clue of what to doonce he reaches the Hydra’s location. The concentration of Vex is probably thehighest around the Hydra. Meaning he would be walking right into the thick ofthings. Great.

When he catches sight of it, he almost drops hisinvisibility. The Hydra is much bigger than the other Hydras he’s encounteredpreviously. Just as he predicted, there is a ton of Vex guarding the Hydra. Hestands there, thinking for a long moment

“Not to sound like a Titan, but I have a strong urge topunch it to death.” He finally mutters, earning a chuckle from Remy.

“You need to have more confidence in yourself, I think yourfirst plan is flawless!”

“Really?” He asks.

“Hun, do I ever lie to you?”

“No,” The Hunter says without a beat of hesitation, “I just—I’llprobably die if this doesn’t work. But then again, I’m dead either way, aren’tI?”

He shakes his head, before focusing on reforming the arcenergy into something new entirely. As the energy reshapes to his will, his invisibilitydrops. He only has a few seconds until the Vex picks him up on their radar forthis to work.

Something tangible appears in his hands. A grenade made ofarc energy. He raises his arm and tosses it as far as he could away from hisdirection. The resulting sound of the nearby blast catches the Vex’s attention.A large portion breaks off to investigate—larger than he had anticipated.

With the Vex distracted, he pulls out his knives—prepared todo a repeat performance as a blade-dancer. He’s finding hard to get a firm graspon the power, as it flickers in and out like a dying lightbulb. He has reliedtoo much on his light already—it isn’t wise to use so much Light in such ashort amount of time. Especially in a dark zone like this.

He is close to burning through his reserves, and the only wayto restore them is to rest or take the lives of enemies. Neither of which areoptions he has. His body could burn up into pure light if he pushes too hard.In a safer place, his ghost could simply revive him. But he doesn’t have thatluxury here.

He continues to call out at the Light until the arc energy pulsesthrough his vein. In that moment, he is ethereal—he is a being of pure light. Witha simple flick of his knives, the arc ripples over him—rendering him invisibleonce more.

He dashes towards his target, sidestepping goblins and harpieson the way. They can sense him run past—but the time they start shooting, theyonly hit empty air. At last, he reaches the Hydra, hovering in ignorance.  He slips through the discrepancy in the shieldand jabs his knives into its’ interface. It lets out a pixelated scream. Ittries shooting him down, but its’ weapons are not made for short-distance combat.The other Vex attempt coming to its’ aid, but their blasts bounce off the Hydra’sshield.

He continues stabbing the arc infused blades into the Hydra,frantically. The Hydra drops its’ shield, but it’s already too late. The Hunterhits something vital and the giant machine starts to brightly as its’ systems overheat—

“Guardian get out of there!” The Ghost screeches.

He jumps off of the Hydra, but he only gets two feet awaybefore the Hydra explodes—knocking him off his feet. His ears are ringing, andhis vision is blurry, and he feels a lot less tangible than he should. Now thatthe Hydra is gone, he hears the whispers of the Light clearly. The Light is alwaysspeaking—not in words, no. But in feelings and images. It is usually a distant humin the back of his head. But now—now it is a roar.

The Light is calling at him, demanding he rise up and getrid of the Vex scouring the area.

The Hunter attempts to ignore it—all he wants at this pointis to lay down and accept his fate which is death. But a calling from the Lightisn’t easily ignored as an alarm clock that was shut off rather than put onsnooze. He does not own his soul—the moment he was resurrected it belonged tothe Light. He is a servant of the Light and he must stay bound to its wishes.

(There are guardians who denounce the offerings of theLight. There are guardians who say that the Light can’t be trusted as much asthe Darkness. There are guardians whose light are tainted by the Darkness, bothwillingly and unwillingly. But he is not any of those guardians in that moment)

Finally, at last he gives in, letting the Light consume him—andhe rises to his feet not out of his own vocation. Remy is saying something, butthe words are unintelligible to his ears. The arc energy crackles around himonly this time he is practically a storm system of his own. The abundance inlight heals his wounds and restores his stamina.

It is dangerous to channel this much Light—he can feel himselfon the edge of slipping away. But the Light has made it clear—he willannihilate all remnants of the Vex or face death.

So, he descends on the Vex, a maelstrom of doom anddestruction. It is the stuff of legends—unparalleled to all except the mightyIron Lords of old. He slashes and cuts and stabs, leaving nothing alive in hiswake. He continues to fight and fight until there only a single solitary dot onhis radar.

It is a goblin lying on the ground—its’ mechanical limbstwitching as it clings onto life. The secret about the Vex is that they’re notpurely robotic—they are a meld of mechanical and organic. It is likely thatalthough its’ circuits have shut down, the organic part is still living and breathinginside its’ husk.

It is hard to say how the goblin reacts to the Hunter’s presence.Its’ robotic face is incapable of expression and it does not speak the Guardian’slanguage though it can understand it.

The Hunter bends down and waves a knife tauntingly in frontof its’ head.

“Thisdagger right here? Yeah? You see this? You see this right here? Guess what? Imurdered the others of your kind with it.”

Withoutwaiting for a response, he plunges the knife into its’ stomach and the red dotdisappears from his radar. He is alone again in the abandoned colony. He attemptsstanding up, his strength has left him.  Thenat last the guardian’s world is swept up by darkness.

-

“andso, I failed because I couldn’t find the cause of their activity at Aenea.” TheHunter reports, avoiding eye contact with his superior, the Hunter Vanguard.

Heshould not be alive—he should have died out there. It is only by the will of theLight that he is still alive. Remy bumps into his chest, it’s silent way ofreassuring him. He clasps his hand around the Ghost, gently cradling them—his wayof acknowledging them.

Heis relieved that his actions hadn’t resulted in his death. Though it is rarefor guardians to die before their ghosts—there have been a few recorded cases.When it happens, the ghost’s grief is inconsolable.

“Failed?Guardian, you killed several hundred Vex—including a Hydra! That’s the oppositeof failure!”  The Hunter Vanguard exclaims,raising his arms to the side widely, “Dead Vex is always better than no dead Vexin my book.”

TheHunter Vanguard, Cayde-6, is one of the friendlier Hunters around. He is charismaticand witty, which plays well into deceiving others of his hidden depth and intellect.He is an Exo—a creation of the Golden Age. Exos are different than Frames—theyare androids who can think and feel and dream just as any human or awoken. Thus,the Light also recognizes them as also being eligible candidates to its’blessings.

“So,you think this mission was a success?” The Hunter eventually asks, his eyebrowsfurrowing.

“Ifyou asked either Ikora or Zavala, they’d say it wasn’t, buuut!” He puts up afinger, “I’m the Hunter Vanguard, not them. It sounds to me like you might’vewiped their operations entirely—or at least disrupted their plans. And whateverit was—we can know for sure it wasn’t good!”

“See,I told you.” Remy says, flying out of the Hunter’s loose grasp, “now we can wego to a coffee shop?”

TheHunter looks expectantly at Cayde-6, who laughs as he waves a hand.

“Goon, you deserve it! Personally, I’d go out for Ramen, but you do you!”

Henods his thanks and turns to leave when the Exo calls out,

“What’syour name by the way, Guardian?”

TheHunter freezes, the question triggering something from the recesses of hismind.

“Virgil! Pick me up, pick me up!”A child demands, making grabby hands.

“Now, what’s the magic word?” TheHunter’s own voice responds teasingly. It sounds so foreign and distant to himnow—as if it belongs to a different person entirely.

“Pleeeease on a cherry on topwill you pick me up?” The child asks.

“Okay, Pat.” He says, picking upthe child and securing him in his arms, “can you see better now?”

“Yup!” The child chirps, wrappinghis arms around the man’s neck, “You’re the best brother ever, Virgil!”

He doesn’tknow why he remembers that out of everything from his past life. But he doesknow he had a little brother once, and his brother called him Virgil. It is theonly thing he has left that is his and his alone, and he’s not going to give upit up frivolously.

“Idon’t have a name.” He tells the hunter vanguard, “You can call me whatever youlike.”

Withthat, he strolls out of the dimly lit meeting room of the vanguard and into theshining light of the outside world.

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[tinywriter2018]

I Want to Know

Daenerys arrives in Winterfell and is curious about the Stark Siblings, her curiosity particular on the Lady of Winterfell. (Tiny Hint of Jonsa) 

Word Count: 1794

Note: I started writing this a long time ago, a couple of months after the last season and way before the teaser trailer of Daenerys arriving in Winterfell, so it’s kind of different.  Playing off the idea of Daenerys being curious of who is dealing with.    

Daenerys rode in just behind Jon through the gates of Winterfell, her eyes first catching the glimpse of the red hair against the white and grey.  The little woman next to her with her hand on her dagger, her eyes glaring at her.  If looks could kill, the northerns eyes were one of the deadliest.  She watched as Jon quickly dismounted before the shortest girl ran up to him wrapping him in a hug.  This must be his sister Arya, the one who he thought was dead.  The silent words spoken between the two were heard loud and clear.  They missed each other dearly.  

“Do you still have needle?”  She heard Jon ask.    

“Lost her a couple of times but she always came back to me.”  Ayra smiled at her brother, walking with him over to the red haired woman.  Daenerys watched as Jon pulled her into an embrace, his soft kiss on her forehead also spoke volumes to her.  It seemed like he was saying, he was home.  

“Sansa’s mad.”  

“Shut up Arya.”  She whispered to her sister.

“She thought you weren’t coming back.”  He smiled at the elder of his two sisters.  

“I made a promise didn’t I?”  She gave a small smile to those words, before her eyes flickered to the guests, her smile quickly dropping.  The woman almost looked ashamed be caught in that moment.  Jon turned to look back her, while she dismounted.  She walked over, stopping in front of them.  

“Your grace, these are my sisters.  Arya Stark and Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell.”

“Your Grace.”  Sansa bowed first.  Arya made a mock bow, before standing up right.  “Winterfell is yours your grace. We are still rebuilding after the fires and the battle, so please forgive us for the humble corridors we can provide.”  Sansa spoke.  Lady indeed Daenerys thought.  

“I’ve been in worse conditions before.”  Sansa waved at the stable boys, who quickly ran to fetch the horses.  

“Bran?”  

“He’s in the Godswoods, I can take you there.”  Arya wrapped a hand around Jon’s arm.  Jon looked at Sansa who nodded before he turned to leave.  Sansa turned back to Daenerys before motioning for them to follow.  Daenerys looked towards Missandei, who she nodded.  

“Winterfell has belonged to the Starks for many generations.”  Daenerys spoke up.  She wanted to see the girls reaction.  Sansa gave a sad smile.  

“My father used to say, there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”  Her eyes flickered up the walls, before she proceeded to move closer.  Daenerys could feel warmth coming from the stones.  “We have enough food and provisions to feed your army for the time being, but unfortunately we won’t have enough to feed them for very long, without starving our own people.”  

“I brought my own.”  Daenerys resuarrued her.  

“Forgive the northern lords they left before you arrived in order to gather enough troops for the upcoming battle.  I will send Ravens out first thing to announce your arrival.  They should be here by a moon's turn.”  

“Will we have enough time for that?”  Daenerys could see Sansa was reluctant to give out even this little bit of information.

“The ones who will come before the battle will.”  

“They won’t all come?”  Sansa stopped in front of a door.  Sansa turned to Daenerys before opening the door.

“The North remembers your Grace.  The north is also stubborn and prideful, but knows when to come when called.  These are your rooms.  These are some of the warmest rooms we have.  Winter is here so we have more furs if you need them.  Excuse me, I have other matters to attend to before dinner.”  Sansa quickly bowed her head before walking off.  She eyed the unsullied that had followed Daenerys before quickly leaving.  Daenerys turned towards Missandei her eyes still on the retreating figure.  

“Find out what you can about the Lady of Winterfell.”

“Do you think she is a danger your grace?”

“Find out about all the Stark children.”   

“Yes Your Grace.”  

Daenerys looked out at the training yard from her window.  Even with the warmest room and all the furs she could handle, she was still having a hard time with the cold.  

“Fire doesn’t burn me but the cold still chills me.”  She looked over at the top of the hill to see her Dragons lying down on the snow.  The both of them, curled together, peacefully sleeping for once.  

“Your grace, I have some news.”  Daenerys eyes looked down at the training yard.  Men were running around, as the red hair graced her view once more.  

“Jon never told me anything about her, nor his family, aside from them being alive.”  

“Brandon Stark claims he is something called the Three Eyed Raven.”  Daenerys looked towards the boy in the chair.  He was sitting patiently, while his sister spoke with a large blonde woman in the yard.  

“What does that mean?”

“He has...visions.”  Daenerys looked towards Missandei.  

“Visions, what do you mean?”

“He claims to see the past, the present, and the future, though people speak of the future being one thing.  The White Walkers.”  Daenerys looked down back at the two.  The Lady of Winterfell was wheeling her brother out of the yard towards the godwoods.  Some place she has seen he preferred to be.  

“The youngest sister was heard to be in Braavos until recently.  No one knows much about her, other than out of all the Stark Children she is supposedly the deadliest.”

“What could she have been doing in Braavos.”  Daenerys mumbled under her breath.  “What about the Stark Child.”  

“Lord Tyrion knows more about her than we thought.”  

“My hand?”

“They were wedded when she was a child.  Forced by his family.  Before that she was betrothed to Joffrey Baratheon.  Though his lordship says that she was used more or so as a plaything to target and taunt, which started with the death of her lord father.  He apparently stripped her in front of the court during the War of the Five Kings.”  

“Well, it sure sounds like we are glad to be rid of him.”

“She went missing after his death, until she was wedded to the bastard son of Ramsay Bolton.  Who was to believed worse than Joffrey.  She escaped with the help of Theon Greyjoy, until she finally found her half brother Jon Snow in castle black.”  

“From what I’ve seen she has run this fortress very well.  She has supplies ready for us, as well as a place to keep my Dragons safe.”        

“She was my sister’s pet project when the girl was in King's Landing.” Tyrion Lannister said from the doorway.  Daenerys turned her eyes to her advisor.

“Eavesdropping?”

“I am apart of your counsel, heard that some of your people were digging into the Stark children’s pasts.”  

“Get to know my enemies and my allies.”  

“Sometimes they are one in the same.”  Tyrion walked over to his queen, her eyes once again over the horizon.  “Sansa Stark was taught the game by both my sister and Littlefinger.”

“The Littlefinger they executed before we arrived?”

“If they did that, they had good reason.  She had good reason.  I don’t doubt that for a second.  Littlefinger wasn’t a friend you necessary wanted, but was one you needed at times.”

“What is it about this girl that everyone seems to like?  She was raised by our enemies yet everyone seems to trust her.  Follow her even.”  Tyrion smiled, pouring himself some wine that his queen didn’t care too much for.

“She reminds me of you in that.”  Daenerys looked towards her hand, not even trying to hide her confusion.

“In what way?”

“Both of you were used by people ever since you were a little girls.  She was betrothed to my Nephew without even her consent, though the young girl at the time didn’t seem to mind.  You were betrothed to Khal Drogo without your consent.  The only difference was she was placed in the arms of monster.  Both of you were used by people who lied to you, thrown into circumstances you couldn’t control, yet both of you came out of it the stronger.  All the torment you both faced was due to one single fact.  Your names.  You are the Last Targaryen left on Westeros.  She may not be the last Stark, but she is the Eldest Daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, the one of the most honorable men ever known in Westeros.  Despite what you may think, that was who Lord Stark was.  Her name holds the north together.  Sansa Stark is the Key to the North, Viserys saw it, the Tyrells saw it, Littlefinger saw it, and my sister saw it.  You harm her, you harm the north.”

“I don’t want to harm her.” Daenerys defend herself.  

“To her, everyone wants to kill her family, because that is what she has been taught.”

“Sansa Stark is nothing to me.”

“That may be true to you now, but she’s everything to the North.  The northern’s have this saying. ‘The North Remembers’.  They remember the Starks, they remember the power that name brings. If Rumors are true in these castle walls, she the reason Winterfell is under the Starks and not the Boltons.”

“They want to know about us.”  Bran said beside the tree.  He had already seen the exchange they had in the Queen’s room.  

“Of course they do.  They don’t trust us.”  Sansa spoke from beside him.  She was sitting with ghost, at the base of the Gods tree, with Jon leaning against the trunk, behind her.  

“She’s curious.  A little too much for her own good, but we need her.”  Arya appeared, her dagger at her side.  

“Did you give them the information.”  Sansa asked.  She didn’t want to know when Arya used the faces, but she couldn’t ignore the useful tool it had become to them.  

“They have the dirt they need.  The rumors are all she will hear.”  

“She doesn’t trust you.”  Bran spoke, looking at Sansa.  “You confuse her, the northerns devotion to you that is the root of her confusion.”  

“It’s because I’m a Stark.  The north respects the Starks.”  Sansa tilted her head back to lock eyes eyes with her cousin.  “We are all Starks, no matter what anyone wants to think.  The North remembers us, and will fight with us. They tried to kill us but they couldn’t.”  Jon leaned down, petting Ghost, the red eyes looking up at his master.    

“Leave one wolf alive, and the sheep are never safe.”  Arya spoke, looking at the Wolf, than at her family.  

“The lone wolf dies.”  Sansa eyed her sister.  

“But the pack survives.”  Jon finished, smiling at his true Family, his hand resting on Sansa’s shoulder.        

Masterlist 

[killthebxy-archive]

META TO ME ABOUT JON AND YGRITTE AND THAT LAST MOMENT THEY SAW EACH OTHER BEFORE SOMEONE DIED. FULL COURSE. CHILD, JON ACCEPTING FATE, BROKEN TRUST, THE WHOLE SHEBANG

// @notlikegcds

          this is a cruel thing to do, Melody. but in this house we’re not cowards and we die like wolves, so let me grab my ASOIAF books and get started. and get started by mentioning a fact that should be obvious, and yet the fandom sometimes ignores it far too easily: Ygritte is an essential pillar in Jon Snow’s character development. she’s the one who makes him start challenging and questioning his beliefs about the free folk but also about the world in general, and her points of view have such impact that, in almost every chapter after her death (and especially after he’s elected as lord commander, aka when he starts making decisions), Jon reminisces about her and wonders what she would have thought of what he’s doing. he clearly values her opinions and perspectives, even when he does not agree with them.

          which, granted, is obnoxiously downplayed in the show, where Ygritte is little more than the crazy ex trope. yes, even in the books their relationship had a shaky start and the lines of consent were blurred on occasion — Jon literally had to start sleeping with Ghost to prevent her from sneaking under his furs overnight. the way i personally see it, however, i don’t believe this was because he did not want her or did not feel attracted to her — on the contrary, because he was well aware of his potential reactions and, at that point, he was still determined to live through Mance’s camp without breaking a single vow; hence, wanting to keep her as far away as possible, as to not be tempted. all this to say that book!Ygritte is SO much more than just Jon’s love interest. she’s clever, she’s courageous, she’s honorable in the free folk way, she’s strong, she’s willful, she’s funny, she’s spirited, she’s bold. but she is also sweet and nurturing and caring, and let’s not forget that, when eagle!Orell knocked Jon down his garron, Ygritte immediately stepped in and stood in front of him to protect him from further harm. yes, she’s no damsel in distress and she’s not a proper lady AND she doesn’t need to be.

          but all of this was a little introduction for context, also because everyone knows at this point i ramble a lot i my metas. their last moments were done slightly differently in show and books, and this is one of those times i don’t really have a favorite between the two versions — the show had Jon watching it live for shock value, as usual, but i don’t think it ruined it in the slightest, this time. i only lament they had to resort to Olly, once more, as sacrificial lamb and plot device, but i won’t digress. one thing is common to both versions, and it is the fact Jon felt terrible with himself for what he had to do. which, again, is also why he tried so hard not to get involved with Ygritte, because he knew there would be no future for them; he knew that, no matter how much he loved her (and, boy, if he did — Jon is canonically described by Sam by not smiling again after Ygritte’s death), he would always end up picking his duty over her — over his own happiness and self-interest. which is why i believe, in the show version, he was 100% ready to die during this moment, and would actually welcome it for thinking Ygritte had the right to take his life, after his betrayal. and props to Kit, because he’s an amazing actor and D&D rarely give him chance to prove this, because have you seen the little smile he pulls? do you see how bittersweet it is, how relieved in a way? how this smile basically tells her: go ahead and do it, it’s meant to be.

          in the books, on the other hand, Jon doesn’t watch it happen, but the guilt component is the same — it’s actually a lot more explicit because, obviously, books allow for much more introspection. 

the arrow was black, Jon saw, but it was fletched with white duck feathers. not mine, he told himself, not one of mine. but he felt as it were.

what does this tell us? that, as soon as he found Ygritte after Styr’s attack on Castle Black, the immediate thing he did was to check the arrow in her chest, to see if it was his — to see if he’d killed her himself. and, even when he rationally realized it couldn’t have been him, that does nothing to change the guilt. because, if it wasn’t for him, if he’d not met her and grown close to her and fallen in love with her, she might not have to die; she might never have climbed the Wall, she might never have fallen in battle. wrong to love her, wrong to leave her. he did what he did for the sake of his duty, for the sake of his black brothers (the same brothers who rewarded him with at least four daggers in the dark but, again, i digress), and still he can’t help but feel guilty for the death of the woman he loved.

          what do we see during those last moments, then? a whole big lot of ambivalence, a whole big lot of anguish and despair. he knows he had no choice, he knows he did his duty, he knows she’s technically an enemy, he knows that dying in battle is a suitable death for a spearwife — but he’s just a human being, and he breaks and shatters all the same. he desperately does not want Ygritte to die, he’s willing to go and beg maester Aemon to heal a wildling back to health, and even the vows and honor be damned for a moment — because he tells her they’ll go back to that cave, and with this he means that none of what they lived together was a mistake and none of it was a lie, despite his own lying. he did love her, he did want to be with her, but alas this isn’t always enough and much less in Westeros. and she dies in his arms, and returns in his dreams a couple times in future chapters, where it is always him killing her. because that’s what it felt like. because, in the end, he still knows nothing.

          ps — just a final little remark about how i believe Ygritte was pregnant when she died. first, because it is canon, in the books, that they had sex at least half a hundred times before even the iconic cave scene — and, unless Jon was extremely skilled at pulling out, this is more than enough chances to conceive a baby. yes, Ygritte could have easily gotten moon tea to drink if she wanted — however, we have zero information about this as far as i am aware, thus it’s a 50-50 chance whether she did it or not. and, of course, there’s Jon’s dream soon after returning to Castle Black, about himself and Ygritte making love in the pools of warm water (ideal metaphor for a womb imo) by the weirwood in Winterfell, and how she eventually dissolved into a pool of blood — which, if we consider GRRM’s love for prophecies and foreshadowing, can plausibly be taken as symbolism for the loss of a baby, in the case through the mother’s own death.

ft. @arcusignis

[itshigh-boop]

(( This is for the kind anon who bought me a Ko-Fi - they requested I write something based on my Bandit King McCree and noblewoman Sombra AU - I hope this is okay, anon - thank you for the support! ))

She feels a stare but remains unalarmed. This is not the the frightening, cold, hard-pressed stare of her uncle, scrutinizing her in her ‘sleep’, attempting to find betrayal where there is none. The gentle breeze drifting in through the thin curtains around her bed let her know that this is a friend. Perhaps she should be alarmed - after all, her windows had been securely closed, courtesy of her uncle’s wishes. But the scent of leather, earth, and oil relax any trepeditions she may have had, her traitorous heart beating a second faster in realization. Her senses flood her as a leather clad hand gently but firmly presses over her mouth, silencing any potential screams of alarm.

Slowly, she opens her eyes, sight adjusting to the darkness. Her King looks a sight - his broad frame illuminated by the glow of moonlight coming in through her windows. When she catches sight of dark brown eyes, her hands finally move over his, gently patting the back of it as he removes it from her mouth.

“My apologies for disturbing your rest, m’lady.”

Despite the beating in her chest, she frowns, moving to sit up, not bothering to cover herself in the process. There are so many things she could ask - she should ask, but all that comes out is, “I thought I told you not to call me that.”

He grins. “Even ruffians need to show proper manners, yes?”

Sombra shakes her head. “McCree, what are you doing here?” Their whispers are like a ghost but carry the weight of urgency. “I told you- I thought we agreed that this was for the best.”

McCree scoffs. “Best for whom? The tyrant?” There’s a flicker of anger that passes over his features and Sombra knows that this is purely his position as a bandit leader speaking. “The old man suddenly decides he cares enough about you to warrant a mark-wide search party?”

Resting a hand at his knee, she feels him flinch. “It is a matter of pride, McCree. You know he despises you. My willingly joining you is a mark of shame and as good as a strip of title from the King.”

“So my men and I get the blame-”

“-and his own behind is saved from complete embarrassment.” Sombra frowns, fingers grasping his knee slightly. “Truthfully, I did not think this through when I decided to go with you.” Warmth creeps up her neck floods her cheeks at her train of thought, stopping herself before confessing more than needed. Her hand begins to slip from his person until she feels his own grip hers. She looks up and finds him staring. His pointed gaze spurs her into speaking, despite her heart and brain not having the words ready.

“I...isn’t it silly?” She smiles nervously, eyes cast downward. “No one should want to be taken by a stranger - a renowned bandit at that.” She feels compelled to continue - it feels safe to do so. The bed shifts and McCree moves closer, remaining quiet as she speaks. “But when you said you were keeping me...it was the first time I ever-- I wanted to go with you. And I was glad at the thought of never returning home.” By the end of her rambling, her face is hidden in her free hand. “And since I’ve come back, I’ve been...fantasizing. I imagine that I’m not the Marquess’s niece...I’m a thief - just like you. I have no status, no rank, no education...but I’m still worth a spot in your rank.” Her shoulders shake with a quiet laugh - amused with her audacity. “Is that not ludicrous?”

“Aye.” His gentle confirmation stings. She feels ridiculous, hot shame for her girlish fantasies and foolish sentiments burns her ears. Cool, leather-clad fingers softly pull at her wrist, pushing her arm down and she turns to face him. “It’s about as outlandish as me imagining not being a thief, for the first time in my life. In your absence, I’ve imagined I’m not the most wanted man in the country.” A small grin crooks the corner of McCree’s lips. “I’m not creative enough to imagine myself as a noble...but I work for the tyrant, in his guard. I imagine being glad that I’m able to see you every day and hoping that someday, I’ll catch your eye.”

If she felt ridiculous before, then she feels a strange sense of relief now. She smiles. “Well, aren’t we a star crossed pair?”

“Sombra.” Her chosen name on his lips gains her attention once again. “Has the Marquess not committed a crime?”

She blinks, unsure of how to respond. Crime is not the proper word but he has not been merciful either. When she does not answer, he continues. “Has the Marquess not stolen something from the Bandit King?”

Ah. “Yes. He has.” Her eyes close but it’s not enough to block the memory of the awful news of two of McCree’s men facing the wrath of her uncle’s lethal pride. “But I can’t leave, McCree.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t leave. Not if it means people will get hurt.”

“You mean even more people than he hurts already?”

She hears the exasperated intonation in his question and she wants to cry in frustration, let loose the building emotions she’s experienced and has had to hide since she returned to her uncle. “Don’t, McCree. Don’t ask me to put others at risk.” She holds herself, trying to stop the trembling. “I still see them in my dreams; Jacob and Henry...if I had known earlier that my uncle was looking for me - if I could prevent them being captured and-”

“Shh, it’s alright. I’m sorry, I’m being unreasonable.”

Sombra allows him to move her closer to his frame, feeling safe, once again, in his arms. She’s tempted to fall asleep in his hold, unable to truly rest while she remains with her uncle, afraid of waking to find him standing over her with a dagger held above his head, ready to strike. She lets his heart beat soothe her buzzing nerves until she finds her voice again.

“I want to leave, McCree...but until I can guarantee no one else will face that sort of punishment...I can’t. I’ve watched as my uncle’s done so many awful things to innocent people...if I must be uncomfortable for a bit longer in retribution, than so be it.” She sighs. “I may not have been with you for long...but I care about the others and don’t wish harm to any of them.”

McCree says nothing until there’s a quiet rumble in his chest. She looks up, expecting his self-assured grin, only to find a smile. “Well, you’re wrong about one thing in that fantasy of yours.” Shaking his head, his smile widens at her confused expression. “You most definitely are worth that spot among my ranks.” He gently pokes her nose. “Spoken like a leader.”

Between talk of the deceased and indirect confirmations of sentiments, she's glad he's being merciful and changing the tone. Sombra finds herself grinning. “Enough of a leader to replace you?”

“I usually wouldn’t even entertain the idea of giving away my crown to anyone,” McCree hums quietly. “Though I suppose I wouldn’t mind sharing in this case.”

“Why don’t we have a vote once we get back? I’m sure there are some who would appreciate a feminine touch…”

“Oh, in more ways than one.”

His answer earns him a shove and she sees his attempt to hold in his laughter in his shut eyes, trembling shoulders, and teeth sinking into his bottom lip. When he sits back up, she offers him her hand. He takes it, large fingers esconscing hers as his lips hover over the air above the back of her hand, just as she taught him.

“Sombra,” he begins, looking up at her. “When the time comes...I will come to steal you back. I promise.”

“No.” She shakes her head, smiling as he regards her in question. “You’ll come to take me home, McCree.”

She’s unsure when he’d moved closer but she doesn’t stop him - she doesn’t want him stop. His large frame pressed against hers is welcome - the heat that radiates from him seeps into her body, warming her in an otherwise frigid bedchamber. Sombra follows his weight, letting him rest on top of her as his lips find hers. One hand interlaces with hers as the other threads through her hair, moving to cup her face, the gentle press of their lips melting into liplock, attempting to convey as much passion, anger, and distraught into one silent moment.

Everything about this overwhelms her: his scent, his warmth, his touch. She wishes McCree can do what he desires and take her away this very night. But the truth of the matter is what causes their kiss to be so thorough and real. Until suddenly she’s too loud, voice pushed from her throat in a muffled cry. It’s enough to end it and she reaches out as he pulls away. All she sees is his silhouette from behind gossamer curtains and in the blink of an eye, he’s gone.

Despite the frenzied steps of her uncle storming toward her room, throwing her door open and demanding to know what those noises were about, she stares toward the window and at the moon, imagining the day McCree will take her home.