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duskandstarlight · 4 years

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Embers & Light (Chapter 24)

Notes: Chapter 24 - can you guys believe it?! I have brought you a lot of angst in the last few chapters, but there is a lil fluffy moment in this chapter which I hope you enjoy. Plus protective Cassian (one of my personal favourites).

As ACOSF draws nearer, I wanted to ask you guys a question. I initially was hoping to finish this fic before it came out, but I just don't think it's going to happen. So if you would still read E&L after ACOSF comes out, could you let me know? It will help me to make a decision on whether I need to start wrapping this all up sharpish, or whether I can continue to move along at my current pace.

Enjoy :) And I hope you all are having a lovely festive period.

p.s I’ve been having issues with tagging blogs lately. Let me know if you get a notification?

Chapter 24 Nesta

Nesta was drowning.

Drowning in the dark; in the unfathomable cold that bit at her ankles and dragged her down by invisible, insistent hands and sharp, pointed claws. Down, down, down Nesta went, into the inky blackness that sung of ancient horror, fighting for a breath that she could not take.

Inside her head, Nesta was screaming; the sound an echo, as if she were detached from her body and she were listening to someone else. It was a scream of rage and unmeasurable pain as her body was torn apart and rearranged: her bones cracking and reforming into solid steel; her ears stretching into points; her limbs elongating. And with that fire a burning cold that was deeper than the gap between stars. Nesta screamed from the agony of it, but cold water rushed into her lungs and stifled the sound. Pain licked at her skin like the flames of a fire, until her blood was bubbling with rage and a thirst for revenge that ran so deep it became woven into the very fabric of who she was — of who she was being moulded into.

Nesta should have passed out from the pain but instead she fought to remain conscious; wholly awake and wholly a witness as she tore at the edges of the blasted Cauldron. The sides were made of nothing but canvas, Nesta’s nails ripping through it as the Cauldron bucked and shrieked, like an animal caught beneath her paw.

Bright light poured through the gaping holes, blinding her new born eyes that had not yet seen.

She felt the power of it, the piece she carved out for herself in fury and with revenge singing in her blood. She made it hers, let that power sink into her bones, her skin, as they snapped and cracked and reshaped themselves…

The Cauldron continued to thrash and struggle. The water took on a thicker quality like tar, but Nesta did not relent. She ravaged that power until it was a part of her; stolen and consumed. Impossible to take back.

And then Nesta was no longer drowning but falling.

The pocket of air hit her with such force that Nesta found herself with the irony that she could not breathe, even though it was what she needed more than anything in the world. But then her lungs were spluttering, her stomach lurching, and inky blackness — ancient death — was regurgitated onto crystalline rock. Nesta heaved until her stomach had no more and she was gasping for breath — cold, bracing fresh air that tasted like freedom — before she rolled onto her back, her hair plastered to her face.

She shivered from the cold and the unquenchable fury that would not see her yield.

Above her was midnight black, the stillness of what Nesta wanted to believe was sky but she knew was only an illusion. It brought her comfort even though she wanted to hate it; wanted to sob and scream until she was so exhausted that she couldn’t muster any more strength.

And she should have been terrified but she also felt deathly calm, even as a voice spoke out of the darkness. It was a voice that was ancient; old and superlunary with a strength that whispered of unimaginable power for better or worse. “I have been waiting for you, Nesta Archeron.”

Words like ice fire. Of steel and reserve. Of power beyond Nesta’s wildest reckoning.

It hurt to move but Nesta scrambled to her feet, slipping on loose rock and craggy stone. The sound that beat in her ears was an insistent, terrified rhythm, and it took Nesta a moment to piece together that it was her heart, throwing itself with a repetitive boom against strips of bone — a flimsy cage for something so fierce.

Whirling around, Nesta tried to source the voice but found only that endless stretch of deep velvet, and in the near distance, a towering shadow that rose up, up, up into the darkness until it blended into the canvas, like something disappearing into the clouds.

Nesta made herself take stock. Made herself stand still. To dampen the terror and focus on that spiky, deep-set anger that still consumed her. Her back stiffened, her chin rose, and when she spoke for the first time with her new lungs, Nesta did not let her voice shake.

She clenched her fists until her new nails bit into the meat of her palms. “Where am I?”

A sensual laugh as smooth as marble echoed around her — perfectly rendered. “Do you hear the wind? It moans your name, Nesta Archeron. Your twin can hear it. They’ve always been able to hear it. Your history written into the night sky where you only need join the dots. So easy to ignore until now.” A pause and Nesta felt that being move. Her head snapped around as the voice mused from behind her, “And your destiny: a sacrifice and a gift in the same moment.”

Nesta tightened her fists in an effort to ground herself and willed herself to lean back into that odd sense of being rather than the fear that was making her heart race. She felt her nails break through her skin with a pop. She scented blood; metallic and salt. She was so cold she wanted to shake until her teeth chattered, but Nesta would not show weakness. She would not break down.

So Nesta rose up tall and made her voice ice cold; strong rather than brittle. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Another long, sensual laugh. A caress akin to a brush stroking the softest of bristles over her skin. “No, you don’t,” the voice agreed. “Not yet. But you will.”

A moment in time stretched out, the pause pregnant and awesome. Then a soft light in the darkness above, growing in size: a fleck, a star, a luminescent ball of light…

“What do you want, Nesta Archeron?”

“I want revenge,” Nesta replied, her voice full of a sudden vigour as vengeance lashed out on a forked tongue.

Again, more soft laughter that licked over Nesta’s body in a shiver. “You have already got that, have you not? Do you not feel that deathly power in your veins? That hum of primitive power that you have stolen, that has been woven into who you now are.”

“I will end him. I will end everyone who has caused my sister harm.”

“Of that, I have no doubt. But what will that take from you?”

Hysterical laughter wanted to burst forth from Nesta’s lungs, as if she could only feel the sharpest of emotion and everything else were muted.

“Everything has already been taken from me,” Nesta spat, balling her hands into harder fists, her nails digging into her crescent shaped wounds.

Pain flared, fresh and sharp but Nesta paid it no heed. She was no stranger to pain and she would rally. Every. Damn. Time.

The light above Nesta continued to grow until it became distinct; a fiery palm emerging out of the dark. Nesta did not flinch. Did not scream or back away. Did not bow or yield or grovel. She only let pearlescent fingers close around Nesta’s own, the touch like a near-scalding bath that settled only when your blood thrummed beneath raw, pink skin.

“So much sacrifice,” the voice pondered, turning Nesta’s hand. Nesta’s fingers unfurled from her palm without her willing it, until her palm lay open, the half-crescent moons bloody tears in her otherwise new skin. “But what about a gift?” the voice asked. “A gift for the girl who lives with such anger and guilt. The girl who sees the world in all its terrible glory and feels too much. What do you say to that?”

“I only want revenge,” Nesta repeated, her mind assaulting her with images of Elain as she was pushed under the inky water, as she emerged drowning and wholly new — wrong.

No laughter this time. Only that hand rising, fingers coming together until they were pointed and pinching something out of the dark.

A pearl of pure light hovered millimetres from those shining fingers, as if it were attached by an invisible string. It sung with such radiant brilliance that Nesta wanted to look away: it was the pure, unfathomable brightness of a midnight star. A melody that sung of promise and hope.

“What is revenge worth if it does not emerge from the desire to protect?” the voice asked, letting go of that drop of light. It did not fall like water; it floated down slowly, until it nestled in the crook of Nesta’s palm like a pearl that shimmered as it caught the light.

Nesta remained deathly still, staring at the drop of possibility in her palm.

“Revenge is choice, Nesta Archeron. It can be a wish for death and pain or to protect and defend.”

“Both,” Nesta said fiercely. “It can be both.”

“Multi-faceted and complex, as all decisions are,” the voice agreed. “And there are so many strands in you, aren’t there? Already you have felt one of them, although I do not think you have truly placed the puzzle pieces together. But here is another choice; something to cherish and use wisely on those who are worthy. Everything is cyclical. Day and night, birth and death, love and sacrifice…”

The luminescent hand closed Nesta’s palm, but rather than the drop of light bring dampened by shadow, it sank into Nesta’s skin, until it too became a part of her.

“I don’t want a gift.”

But even as Nesta spoke she knew she did not truly mean it.

She also knew it was too late. She felt her blood spike and thrum as that light channeled into her, twining around that deathly power that she had already stolen and forced into her remaking.

A low hum vibrated the ground beneath Nesta’s feet. “Don’t want it or do not deserve it?”

And then Nesta was drowning again with such startling speed that she hadn’t the time to take a deep breath. Terror gripped her, and with it power sung in her blood, the sensation like boiling water, as if her very skin were bubbling with it even though that dark water bit with a cold akin to the fiercest frostbite.

As if fear had summoned it, silver fire began to glow at Nesta’s palms. Water rushed into Nesta’s lungs and with it, that power surged.

Up, up, up Nesta went, like an arrow unsheathed from a bow until the inky black was no longer concrete and colour swam on the surface.

Everything tilted as the Cauldron tipped, jerking the water and Nesta out onto the cold flagstones of reality.

Nesta took a desperate, ragged breath through the gag that was suddenly back around her mouth, and cast a look around the room: to Cassian who was sprawled unconscious on the ground, his arm outstretched and his wings in tatters; to Feyre who was kneeling in her own vomit tucked into Rhysand’s side...

And on her sister’s face, Nesta could see what she was: ravaging, deadly, awesome. A face and figure to stop males and females in their tracks. A face and figure that would make humans and fae alike think twice.

But that was nothing of the forged steel in Nesta’s bones, in her blood, as she scrabbled across the floor to Elain on her long, unnatural limbs and tore the gag from her mouth.

It was a steel that no-one could see but that they could all sense as Nesta locked eyes with the King of Hybern, that promise of death still swimming in those mercury eyes that moved.

She would have her revenge. Of that, she was sure.

***

Nesta gasped.

Her hands flailed, her body screamed with agony, her lungs were hoarse and raw, her abdomen set with a pain that went so deep she knew something was gravely wrong.

And through her veins… no whisper of her magic. Not a drop.

It was that which made her thrash, her lungs suddenly unable to breathe from the agony that wrangled through her body.

She heard her name. Again and again; the high-pitched desperation of a female. Feyre. But then something much lower. A caress. A rumble that quelled her fear and kicked the breath back into her with a force that had her gasping.

Nesta’s hand found a rough, calloused palm across the mattress. Fingers curled unbelievably gently around hers. She heard the rustle of wings. Smelt pine and musk and the bracing fresh air of the Illyrian skies.

“Nesta. You need to take your medicine. The morphine has worn off.”

Cassian.

Even with her eyes submerged in the dark, Nesta knew that Cassian had turned his head to murmur something in low tones to her sister — her senses heightened in the wake of the fear that was still bitter on her tongue.

Then light retreating footsteps. The click of a closed door. A large hand on her temple. A wet rag against her lips. Nesta opened her mouth despite the foul tasting tincture which burned her throat and flooded her tastebuds; swallowing it down, begging it to soothe over the pain which she could not describe for its wrongness, even though she had been told that she would heal.

Frawley had come to visit her the last time Nesta had resurfaced. Had explained why she was there and what had happened. That Nesta had the gift of healing. That she had over-healed Mas's traumatic injuries and moved on to older ones. That she had sacrificed her wellness for someone else’s. That she would have died had Cassian not got her to stop.

Another power Nesta needed to train. As if she didn’t have enough to wrangle under control.

Nesta did not remember much after dropping to her knees at the widows camp. She remembered the click of a lock inside of her; the way her power had flipped from silver to startling, brilliant white. That she had known what to do as she lifted her hands over Mas and started to use her magic for something wholly good.

“What did you feel for your power came to the surface?” Frawley had asked before she took leave.

Nesta had bitten back a whimper of agony as she shifted uncomfortably on the mattress. She had been swamped in heavy blankets and consumed in Cassian’s scent. His bed not hers. But the scent of him… it comforted her. She was too tired to rally against it. Had woken knowing that she was immeasurably safe even though memory tried to persuade her that she was not.

Eventually, when she realised that Frawley’s second eye had come to rest on her along with ice blue, Nesta had supplied, “I felt grief.”

“And what else?” Frawley had urged, her ice blue eye glowing with intensity.

Nesta had been too tired to answer. Her eyelids heavy from the sedative she had been given, despite the energising tea Frawley had administered to attempt to speed up the act of replenishing her magic. To fight the fatigue one felt when they had been drained of power.

And now she was waking again and Frawley was gone.

Braving the light, Nesta cracked open an eye. Her head throbbed, as if her brain were growing in her skull and it was pressing against bone.

Cassian was hovering over her, a crumpled frown twisting his brow as he dripped the medicine past her lips. He caught her eyes opening a fraction too late and she catalogued worry slide into relief before it was pushed back and a light was forced into those dark irises. When he smiled at her, it was too tight and anguished to ring true. She must have been in a bad way — very bad — for him to lose sight of his tendency to arrange his expression into that casual playfulness. For her sister to still be here, hovering by her bedside unsure how to act or how to behave. For her mate to be in the room next door, his star-blessed magic permeating Cassian’s bedroom even through stone and plaster and wood. She could even sense Azriel’s shadows moving like an agitated fog.

No Amren. No Mor.

Something to be thankful for.

“Mas?” she asked. Her throat was dry despite the tincture and the word came out scratchy and raw.

Cassian pressed a glass of water to her lips.

She drank.

“Mas has left to help relocate the widows and orphans,” Cassian told her. “I had her checked over by Madja and Frawley. She is perfectly fine. Roksana too,” he added when Nesta frowned. “Mas hasn’t flown yet,” he continued. “She wanted you to witness it.”

Something tightened around Nesta’s throat. It was not panic but… deep twisting affection for the housekeeper. It must be agony for Mas not to launch straight into the skies. Yet… Nesta was touched beyond imagining that she would wait for Nesta to witness something so precious. A moment in history that was not tainted in blood and death but joy.

Cassian had paused as if he were checking himself. He had moved away from her, to the dark dresser to the left of the bed. There was a clink of glass which Nesta supposed was him stoppering the medicine. “I know you do not like it here and I understand that. You were given no choice and Illyria is…” he trailed off, as if he were searching for the right word. “It’s brutal, in both harsh reality and its beauty. But the widows and orphans… they will not forget what you have done for them — how you fought for them. Mas has been shackled in so many ways throughout her life, but her wings… You have given her freedom, Nesta. She will never forget that ,and neither will those females who witnessed you healing her.”

When Cassian turned back to look at Nesta, his eyes were glowing with such intensity she did not know what to say. He seemed to understand that, breaking their gaze to stare out of the window.

It was snowing again. The scent of it was in the air and on Cassian’s clothes, from where Nesta imagined he’d been in the throng of it all, establishing order where there was chaos. She imagined that was why his family was here.

“Azriel has some information about the kerits,” Cassian said. He remained staring out of the window, his gaze fixed on the snow falling from the thin sheets of grey cloud strung in the sky. “About where we think they came from. We would like you to be a part of the discussion.” A pause. “If you would like to be, that is.”

Nesta held back a snort partly because she knew it would hurt too much. “I don’t think your High Lord wants me to be a part of any discussion.”

“Rhys specifically asked me to fetch you before we began,” Cassian replied, not flinching at her ice-sharp words. Nesta supposed he had become immune. “You are integral to the conversation.”

Noise caught in the back of Nesta’s throat. “I thought I was just a stain you all wished you could rid yourself of.”

No, not immune. Cassian flinched as if he had been burned, his wings spreading instinctively before he could catch them. He retracted them back in with a slow huff of anger. It was not a disparaging or exasperated sigh, more… defeated, as if it were a remark that brought him pain.

Still he did not turn to her. If anything, his focus became more intent on the scenery outside. At the bustle of Illyrians as they fought against the flurry of snow that promised to kiss everything white at the worst possible time.

Cassian’s jaw feathered. “If I remember correctly, it was always you trying to rid yourself of me.”

Nesta blinked at the coarse words that held no lightness, no mockery, no teasing. That were honest and unhappy. Twisted with a rejection which hit her to the bone.

You rejected me first, Nesta wanted to say, as she watched the taut muscles in Cassian’s back. They were vibrating with an energy that usually told Nesta that he needed to fight with his fists until his body was sated.

“We believe the attacks might be orchestrated,” Cassian continued. “Azriel went to scout the perimeter to see if there was any evidence. He has only just arrived back.” Finally, those amber eyes rested back on her. They were burning with a rage that had been purposefully dialled back, but Nesta knew how much Cassian cared about his people. “Will you come?” he asked.

Shock wound through Nesta at the confession. At the brutality of what Cassian was suggesting. Anger spiked through the exhaustion with such ferocity her magic should have been roaring, but it only remained quiet. Yet… a determination solidified in her mind. She did want to be a part of the conversation. Not just to be useful, but because Nesta cared about the widows and orphans. She longed to hold Roksana close and see Mas fly. To lay the dead to rest, to check in on the injured. To see if she could use her healing magic to mend their wounds. To show that she was not an observer but a fighter - a protector. That she would lay her life on the line to protect the females who had nothing and were helpless against every threat, just as she had once been.

She did not say all that. Instead, she just said, “Fine.”

A short nod as if Cassian understood. “We can do it in here or out there.” Cassian jerked his chin to the living room. “Frawley said you are not to move if it can be helped, but something tells me you’d sooner have died than be crowded on your sick bed.”

There. A small lace of lightness that had not been there before. Forced, maybe, but there all the same.

Nesta scowled. “You thought rightly.”

“It will hurt,” Cassian warned her. “For me to lift you.”

“Then do it gently.”

A soft snicker as he moved off the many, many blankets, and then strong, corded arms slid beneath her body.

Cassian’s voice was rough in her ear. “You’re the most stubborn female I’ve ever met.”

Gritting her teeth, Nesta tried to overcome the sharp, deep-set pain that made her want to cry out.

The way Cassian gathered her to him was pain-achingly careful but it was still too much, her wounds too fresh and Nesta gasped a high-pitched cry, digging her fingers so hard into his tunic that she knew they must have bitten into the skin of his shoulders. Cassian did not indicate that she had hurt him, he only cradled her closer to the hard planes of his body, his huge wing curving around her as if he could partition off the pain and keep her safe.

The glow of the membrane was not unlike that of rusty, glowing embers. Beautiful.

Cassian remained stock still, waiting for the pain to ebb and then, slowly, as if he were hesitant to do it, his forehead came to rest on the top of her head; a bowing gesture that was almost like a confession, folding her into a protective cocoon that smelt of pine resin and warmth.

If Nesta could move without crying out, she would have traced a finger down his wing, following the spider webs of his capillaries. She had never had the opportunity to study them this close up. They were as mesmerising as fire flames as they danced their way up into the sky; as captivating as woodsmoke as it were tossed about on a breeze.

“I thought you were going to die.”

Cassian’s voice was a low, deep rumble that she felt in the pit of her stomach. In her bones. In her heart.

“Not yet,” she replied drily, but the hoarse words were muffled by the embrace.

She knew what he was trying to say. Had felt it before. The way in which history had tied the two of them together. Had made them terrified not just of dying, but without the other. An immeasurable panic that clawed at her throat and tore at her lungs.

To end up on death’s door without her lying over him was unimaginable. They had vowed to go together and even now, when they were separate rather than entwined, she would still lay her body over his broken one and refuse to live.

“Don’t say that,” Cassian clipped, his voice suddenly sharp. Broken.

Even though it hurt to move, Nesta rolled her head to press against his chest, shifting his forehead so it was lower, his lips almost brushing her skin. Nesta could not bring it in herself to care. Cassian smelt just as his sheets had — pine, musk and untamed air. Comforting.

Hesitantly, as if she had surprised him, Cassian’s large hand came to cup her head.

For a moment, they stayed like that, until the burning question that had hung in the back of her mind became too much. “Why am I in your room?” she asked.

“I had to put Mas in your bed,” Cassian confessed. She felt him smile small against her — a promise of mischief. “It’s not the way I imagined I’d first have you beneath my sheets, but I guess I should just be thankful you’re alive.”

A quiet snarl from Nesta had Cassian lifting his head to laugh. The sound was a low rasp which did not hold its usual vigour.

He was still worried. She could feel it. The sensation was relentless as a crashing tide.

“Reign in your worry,” Nesta snapped weakly. “I can feel it and it’s making me nauseous.”

Another laugh, stronger this time, and then Cassian’s emotion vanished, as if it had been carried away on a sea-kissed breeze.

“I’m going to move now,” he informed her. “Best brace yourself for the pain, sweetheart.”

It was agony. The pain so awfully deep that Nesta could hardly breathe, even as Cassian moved as smoothly as possible. She wanted to cry out, to whimper, but she would not show weakness in front of her sister’s mate.

By the time she was settled on the couch, Nesta had broken that vow; distressed sounds escaping through gritted teeth as she panted desperately for breath. With a click of Rhys's fingers, the nest of blankets that Nesta had been swaddled in appeared on the couch, just in time for Cassian to lower her onto the cushions.

Nesta did not have it in herself to be angered that Rhys had helped.

At the sound of her sister's stifled shouts, Feyre rushed out of the kitchen. She was holding a steaming mug in her hands, which Cassian plucked from his High Lady and planted straight into Nesta’s palms.

Feyre allowed him to do it without a word of protest, anxiously wringing her hands as she studied what Nesta imagined to be her too pale face, the sweat that had broken out on her forehead…

They had not spoken properly since the attack, but Feyre had been there, hovering on the periphery; anxious and sick with worry that she did not know assaulted Nesta until she too became nauseous with it. Nesta’s icy guard had been down since she had dropped to her knees beside Mas, and she hadn’t the power to stack it back up. Not when she was as exhausted as she was, her power utterly diminished and her body focussing on healing.

Finally casting a glance around the room, Nesta saw that the flames in the log burner were raging mute. She wondered who had magicked them to become silent. She hoped it was Frawley rather than Rhysand.

Rhys was positioned to the right of the fireplace, and when Nesta’s gaze purposefully passed over him as if he were little more than part of the furniture, she felt his violet eyes flick to her, his expression no doubt hard and unyielding. But Nesta was too tired to battle today.

Cassian was watching her too, glaring with such intensity at her hands that Nesta was surprised they hadn’t moved involuntarily to raise the mug to her lips. Wanting him to stop, Nesta took a slow sip of tea even though it hurt to swallow. It didn’t work; those hazel eyes remaining unwaveringly fixated. He was standing right by her head, scrutinising everything she did, his wings spread as if he were contemplating launching into flight.

Nesta wanted to hiss at him, but then Feyre sat close beside her, and that made her want to hiss more.

At his place to the left of the hearth, Azriel’s lips twitched. He had been standing as still as a statue, like marble carved out of the finest stone, his shadows stolid, but now he shifted to face her.

Nesta guessed the shadowsinger could sense her emotions with her guard down completely.

She supposed there had to be a first.

When Nesta took the last sip of her drink, Cassian’s hands were immediately there, taking it from her, his siphons winking in the firelight. Nesta barely noticed. She only felt an overwhelming sense of relief at the first whisper of silver and brilliant white that twisted through her veins like two coiled serpents; intertwined yet separate.

Easing backwards with the intention of settling into the cushions, Nesta tried to ignore the pain that suddenly stabbed through her as her stomach muscles tensed. A sharp gasp escaped her, her breath knocked out of her lungs, but then cool, shadowed hands gripped Nesta’s shoulders. They took the weight off of her abdomen, slowly lowering her backwards until she was resting comfortably.

Behind her, Nesta heard Cassian’s wings snap in and out, clearly agitated at her pain.

When Nesta turned her head to Azriel, he dipped his head to her in acknowledgement. Black tendrils of shadow whispered back to him, curling around his arms and face, waiting patiently to be bent again to their master's will.

Then the shadowsinger turned to Rhys, as if seeking the order to begin.

“Thank you for joining us, Nesta,” Rhys said tightly. “Especially given the circumstances.”

Nesta did not reply, could not find it in herself to do it, but she finally stared at their High Lord with unflinching determination.

As always, Rhys was irritatingly immaculate, leaning against the hearth as if he owned it. Already Nesta felt like he was tainting her space — her sanctuary — and although she wanted to spit at him to leave and not come back, she only gave a stiff nod.

It would appear both of them were going to be forced today. Circumstances that were greater than their feud were at work, and neither of them was going to be petty enough to undermine that.

“Feyre allowed me to view her memory of the kerits attack,” Rhys said. “Three males flew over the mountain minutes before it happened. They can’t have been a part of the usual patrol as they weren’t doing the scheduled circuit. Instead, they flew straight over the mountain pass. Do you remember that?”

Nesta frowned, reaching back into the far depths of her memory… The three dots that coursed across the sky, the winking flash of silver from steel.

Sharply, Nesta craned her head to look at Cassian, not thinking of her injuries. She gasped. The movement had twisted her abdomen in a way she was not ready for.

Cassian’s large hands fell briefly to her shoulders before he moved to perch on the left of the U-shaped couch, close to the corner where he had lain her down.

“Ragar—” she started.

But Cassian only shook his head, leaning forward so his elbows were resting on his broad thighs. His wings were held in high and tight to his spine. “Accounted for,” he told her. “And his friends. They were in the sparring rings with Devlon and countless other witnesses.”

His smile was grim. “It’s one of the first thing I checked,” he confessed. “But it made us start to wonder if perhaps the attacks have been orchestrated. One attack can be passed off as a freak accident, but three attacks across three different camps is suspicious, especially given that kerits do not venture into populated areas.”

Nesta’s expression sharpened. “You think somebody purposefully led those beasts to the widows camp?”

Rhys’s nodded. “We think it’s a possibility.” He pinned his brother with those violet eyes. “What did you find scouring the perimeter, Az?”

The shadowsinger’s expression did not physically change, but Nesta felt his shadows chill. “Carrion,” he said coldly. “A trail of it leading to the mountain pass. Morsels of it. Not enough to feed a starving pack, but deliberate enough to tempt them out of the depths of the mountains.”

“This winter has been especially punishing,” Cassian interjected. “I bet food supply has been scarce. They struggle to survive as it is. The sounds they made as they hunted probably alerted other packs who joined the hunt.”

Feyre sat forward so she was hovering on the edge of the couch. “That would be why they were so vicious. They knew they were competing with other packs for food.”

Nesta’s stomach turned as she thought of how the widows and orphans had been seen as as a meal. How they had huddled to the Eastern point of the camp with nowhere to go and no means of defending themselves.

“The carrion was well hidden,” Azriel continued with a nod, his voice as smooth as cold marble. “Frawley examined the remains. They weren’t killed with siphon magic and there were no visible wounds to the bodies. We also found boot prints in the mud; different prints ranging in size in two separate locations within a miles range of the camp. They were fresh.”

Everyone’s expression tightened.

Nesta didn’t ask if the carrion was human or animal. She didn’t want to know.

“Frawley has taken samples to analyse them,” Azriel added. “She said she will show her sisters, as well. To see if they can sense an insignia.”

“So that means the attack was orchestrated,” Feyre said. “Someone deliberately led those beasts to the camp?”

Rhys nodded. “The attack was certainly pre-meditated,” he replied, pinning Cassian with a look. “The real question is who would arrange an attack on three separate camps.”

Cassian snorted. “You know what the lords are going to say. What all of the Illyrian’s at Windhaven are going to say.”

“That it’s an attack from another war camp,” Azriel supplied, his voice chilled midnight.

“War lords usually have no issue in taking responsibility if they played a part in an attack,” Rhys countered.

“I know that,” Cassian interjected, impatience lining his voice. “So will the lords when they stop to see sense, but the moment we tell them that we suspect wrong doing, all hell will break loose. We can’t afford to lose any more lives to petty feuds. We’re still reeling from the loss of males since the war and the Rite is already looming over the camp.”

Rhys nodded to show he had heard. Nesta wondered if he mourned the loss of lives like Cassian did. The High Lord looked tired, as if he had been torn away from his mate for too long. Yet nobody looked as ravaged as Cassian did. Nesta did not know if his brothers knew of his recurring nightmares, but she hoped they learnt of them. Sometimes Cassian looked so exhausted that Nesta vibrated with a concern she could not shake. In the past, she had bitten her lip one too many times to prevent herself from ordering him to go to bed.

Nesta knew how awful it was to force someone to do something they desperately wanted but were too fearful to surrender themselves to.

“We will manage the lords,” Rhys assured Cassian. “We can decide how we are going to play that consul, but for now, we need to get to the bottom of how the kerits managed to get past Windhaven’s patrols. You and I both know how meticulous Devlon is when it comes to security around the camp. Those males shouldn't have been able to pass over the camp without being stopped by the warriors on patrol.”

“Whoever they were, they must have known that Cassian wasn't going to be in the camp today,” Azriel offered, the spymaster in him coming to the forefront. “The only good news is that they clearly had no idea that both Feyre and Nesta would be at the top of the mountain and able to fight. And," he added after a beat of consideration, "they certainly underestimated Nesta’s ability to slay the pack if she had been alone today.”

If Nesta hadn’t been white from pain, she would have had to freeze the blush that dared to grace her cheeks at the shadowsinger’s compliment.

An abrupt snort came from Cassian. When he spoke, his voice was brimming with anger, “Of course they underestimated Nesta. Even though they have witnessed her fire daily and sensed the enormity of her magic, they still can't fathom that a female could be more powerful than them. It has to be Illyrian’s at the root of it. Only they would be chauvinistic enough to fail to see what is right in front of them.”

“Which,” Rhys interjected, “has worked unwittingly in our favour. Rather than fuel hatred towards the Night Court and cement the growing opinion that we do not protect the Illyrian community, we had two High Fae slaughtering the pack well before any warriors arrived on the scene. And then Nesta brought Masak back to life — someone who the Illyrian males in this camp do not see as worthy to live amongst them.”

Through the exhaustion, anger heated Nesta’s blood. She felt her magic whisper. If Nesta looked inward, she could see the two strands. Could now sense the promise of healing magic in her veins amongst her silver fire. As if she had been granted the key in the face of Mas’s death and she had turned it over in the lock, setting that power free.

Yet, even as Nesta grazed that healing power, it was her silver fire that promised to roar.

“I didn’t do it to stop a Civil War. I did it to protect the females who cannot protect themselves,” Nesta snapped weakly. She was too tired to muster enough vigour into her words, but she was annoyed at the false implication behind her actions. That she had not done it out of love for the housekeeper, but because of politics.

“That may be,” Rhys said, his voice forcibly light, “and what you did was honourable, but we cannot ignore how the Illyrian’s might interpret the action.”

“What Rhys is trying to say,” Azriel interjected smoothly as Nesta’s nostrils flared, “is that the females already respect you. The way you defended them today will not strengthen the dissent, only highlight that there are fae outside of the Illyrian communities who have their best interests at heart. You, for example.”

“You know they like you,” Cassian said quietly. He did not look at Nesta. Instead, he remained fixated at the hands that were clasped tightly in front of him, his elbows resting on his broad knees. “You know they have accepted you since you defended them against the males.”

“I protect them because nobody else seems to bother,” Nesta said coldly. “How many innocent females died because of the cruel intentions of males today? How many were injured?”

“Thirteen dead, thirty plus injured,” Cassian told Nesta quietly. “It would have been many more if you and Feyre not been there. You moved so quickly you managed to slay the majority of the packs before they reached the females.”

Nesta’s expression hardened as she thought of the trailing guts that had glistened in the grey light of day; the way Roksana’s hands had slipped in Mas’s wet, sticky blood, and how she had croaked for help. Her first word aloud since Nesta had met her.

“That is still too many,” Nesta insisted, her voice betraying her — shaking with the anger and horror of it all. “Why would they target the widows first? Why not lead the kerits down the other side of the mountain pass where they would could reach the main camp and weaken Windhaven’s forces?”

“Perhaps the kerits were never intended to weaken Windhaven’s ranks at all,” Rhys mused. “Perhaps they were intended to prove a point.”

A shocked, prolonged pause.

“Are you saying,” Nesta said, her voice shaking, “that you think the rebellion could have orchestrated the attacks. That they might have specifically targeted the defenceless females because widows are seen as disposable, but their deaths would be enough to fuel dissent amongst the camps?”

Rhys stared at Nesta for a moment. His head tilted slightly to the side, in the same way that Cassian’s did when he was trying to puzzle her out. But Nesta barely saw it. All she saw was the twisted body of the kind cook who had fed Nesta every morning… Of lovely Durkhanai, with her beautiful curly hair and bright green eyes. A female who had been dealt the harshest of fates. She had not deserved her end. None of the females had.

Feyre’s hand crept over the blankets to Nesta’s. Her sister’s slim fingers wrapped around her own. “Surely they wouldn’t kill their own race?” Feyre said, her voice shaking. Nesta wondered if she, too, was thinking of the discarded limbs and pools of blood. “There were children in that camp. The females didn’t even have weapons…”

But her sister did not understand just how harsh the camps were. Unlike Nesta, Feyre had not lived amongst the widows for months. She did not know just how willing the Illyrian’s might be to offer the widows camp as a sacrifice for the sake of politics.

“I would not put it past Illyrian’s to see widows as a necessary sacrifice,” Rhys admitted eventually after a long, pregnant pause. His violet eyes had softened with grief. “If this is orchestrated by the rebellion, I suspect that by targeting the widows camps Kallon was hoping to fuel the anger amongst the Illyrian’s that they are not protected. That the Night Court does not care for Illyrian’s and offers them no protection. The widows would have been seen as a necessary sacrifice. They are outcasts in Illyrian society with no families to mourn their deaths.”

A ringing sounded in Nesta’s ears. The noise tuned out the room around her. It took her a while to realise that it was fury. It burned. It was not hot, but cold - enough to give her frostbite - as if her magic was not replenished enough to fly but was trying its best to rally itself. Inside of her chest, something cracked. It sounded like bone. With it, came creeping fingers of light, reaching towards her...

With all her strength, Nesta clamped down... until shadows ate away the approaching light and the room righted itself.

When she came to, Cassian was growling low in warning, his wings stretching as far as they could without hitting her square in the face. At who, Nesta did not know. Did not care for his territorial display when there were bigger matters to discuss.

“And why isn’t there protection?” she asked.

Nesta’s words were as cold as the chill in her veins. Rhys stilled, and with it, his magic trembled. The growl was still rumbling from low in Cassian’s chest — deeper even — and he sat forward, bracing his weight onto his thighs as if he were getting ready to launch himself at… someone. Nesta wasn’t sure who.

Feyre was still gripping Nesta’s hand tight, her grip firm enough to hurt. If Nesta had cast a look to her sister’s face, she would have seen that tell-tale glaze over Feyre’s eyes. It was the kind of far off look which told Nesta that her sister was speaking to her mate mind-to-mind. Or trying to, at least.

“Why was there no protection around each of the Illyrian camps given that there had already been two kerit attacks?” Nesta continued, ignoring the rumbling sound that had her heart wanting to beat that little bit faster. “I have seen the protective shields the fae used in war — around your City of Starlight. Why is that courtesy not extended to the Illyrian communities?”

A long, drawn out silence of star-kissed eternal and a whisper of ancient silver.

“I have offered protection numerous times to each of the war lords,” Rhys replied eventually, his voice too measured to be casual. “Each of them have turned it down. They see it as a criticism on their duty as warriors to protect and defend.”

Nesta’s snort was harsh but the hard quality to her eyes did not change. “They are stubborn Illyrian bats. Get them to change their minds. Or are you not their High Lord?”

A flicker of amusement passed across Azriel’s face, his shadows lightening the sharp, beautiful angles of his face. “Nesta is right,” he said, causing everyone to turn. “The war lords don’t have the luxury of turning down our help when it looks as if there will be more kerit attacks. There shouldn’t have been a gap in today’s patrol. Windhaven has always prided itself on its security — all the camps do. Have we found the soldiers who should have been patrolling the perimeter? I think it wise to consider that they may have been compromised by whoever tempted the kerits to the camps. Recruited, even. They could well be the males that flew over the mountain pass.”

“Nobody can find them,” Cassian growled. “We have males out looking for them as we speak. As soon as they are found we will interrogate them.”

“Cassian and I will interrogate,” Rhys told Azriel as a rare flicker of surprise fell across the shadowsinger's expression. “I need you to visit your most trusted contacts in the camps and tell them that we believe the attacks might not be random. We need all eyes and ears to the ground to find out as much as we can, not least to anticipate where the next attack might be.”

A tense nod, but Azriel folded into shadow and disappeared.

Cassian’s fists curled into fists on the tops of his thighs. “We need evidence. We cannot assume this is the rebellion without it.”

“Of course not,” Rhys admitted smoothly. “Which is why we need you to try and snuff out as much information as you can when you and Nesta go to the Solstice luncheon next week. Accept the offer to stay overnight.”

Nesta hadn’t thought Cassian’s expression could turn any stonier, but it did. “No.”

“The more time you spend at Ironcrest, the longer Nesta has to pick up any untoward emotion, especially surrounding conversation about the camps. It gives Frawley time to look and identify the origin of the sword, and it gives you and Lorrian time to pry out any information. Insist on you and Lorrian overseeing the aerial and ground units that next morning, it will ease away any suspicion. A trip there is long overdue but it is time to act on this rather than gathering information, which we have been doing up until now.”

Cassian blew out a long, steadying breath. Then he conceded, “With the Rite meeting been moved forward to that afternoon, it shouldn’t be hard to extend our stay."

Rhys nodded. “Good.” Then his violet eyes rested on Nesta. “You are willing to go with Cassian?”

A raised chin. Defiant. Strong. Despite the pain and exhaustion that wanted to pull her down, down, down. “Yes.”

“Then we have a plan,” Rhys said with another nod. “Azriel will continue to train you. If he is not available, I will travel to the camps and train you myself .”

At the edge of her periphery, Nesta saw Feyre’s eyes widen. In her stomach, Nesta felt Cassian’s surprise, a sensation which grew as Rhys said, “Welcome to the Court of Dreams, Nesta Archeron.”

***

By the time the meeting was over, Nesta was drained; her eyelids unbelievably heavy, her limbs aching. She desperately wanted to sleep, so she took the tincture Feyre brought her without comment and didn’t protest when Cassian carried her back to his bed rather than hers; agony fogged the rational part of her brain.

She was practically asleep as Cassian lay her onto his mattress. She felt his fingers coax hers away from where they were clutching his leathers. Blankets were pulled over her, the weight a comfort. A sedative was dripped into her mouth.

And then she slipped under.

When Nesta next woke, the taste was still bitter in her mouth but the room was dark; the light having receded even from the gap between the curtains.

In the armchair beside her bed was Feyre, her feet curled up beneath her and her freckled nose buried in Love in Velaris. A bobbing faelight hung overhead, willed by her sister’s magic. It illuminated the pages.

From the dent Feyre had made in the book, Nesta guessed she had been asleep for hours. Beyond the room, the bungalow sat still — the way it did when Cassian was not home — as if it too were sleeping, waiting for its owner to come back and breathe life into the rooms with his presence.

A few seconds passed until Feyre noticed that Nesta was awake. It gave Nesta enough time to catalogue the concern etched on her sister’s pale face; the tight expression which made Feyre’s sharp cheekbones even more prominent.

Nesta did not usually see the similarities between them, but now, as Feyre’s serious steel-blue eyes snapped up at the rustle of blankets, Nesta knew why others had said they looked alike.

“You’re awake.” Feyre spoke slowly — unsure — as she unfurled her long, lithe legs. When Nesta winced as she tried to get into a more comfortable position, Feyre jumped up and moved to the dresser. “Here,” she said, pouring some tincture onto a silver spoon.

Nesta hated the way she needed assistance to lift her head, but she allowed Feyre to do it in a rush of pear and lilac. Nesta was not proud enough to deny that she needed the tincture to smooth away the pain. And whilst the pain wasn’t as agonising as hours prior, it was deep-set enough for Nesta to consider whether she could persuade Feyre to allow her to swallow down the whole damn bottle.

After some water to chase down the foul taste, Feyre stepped back. “How are you feeling? Frawley seemed to think she could speed up the healing Madja did, but you were so sick…” Her sister trailed off, setting back to examine Nesta’s face. “You look a little less pale...”

“I’m fine,” Nesta said hoarsely.

Feyre opened her mouth and then closed it again, as if she were contemplating what best to say. The action annoyed Nesta. She wanted to be alone and quiet. To fall back asleep and wake when the pain was gone and she no longer felt helpless.

“Don’t you have duties to attend to?” Nesta asked tiredly, turning her face to bury it into one of the pillows. It was a few seconds reprieve to calm the irritation that had started to hum through her.

Slowly, Nesta breathed in the scent of pine, musk and air that was so fierce Nesta felt as if she were almost a part of it. She had no doubt this was the pillow Cassian rested his head on. The scent soothed her, smoothing over that spiky, dangerous anger of hers to leave bone-lead weariness in its place.

“I wanted to be here,” Feyre told her. There was a subtle stubborn lift to her chin that Nesta knew Feyre had copied from her at a young age so many times that it had now become a part of who she was. “I wanted to look after you. To make sure that you were healing.”

“Well, I don’t need you to take care of me. You heard it yourself, I should be out of bed tomorrow. I just need to sleep.”

Nesta had intended to say it icily, but she was not well enough to muster the strength.

Feyre’s expression tightened, and for a moment, Nesta thought she might snap. But then she just straightened with determination; her tall, lean body rising to a height that called for attention. “Then let me say what I want to say and I will leave you alone.”

A long, stony silence and a blank, impenetrable mask that Nesta hoped with desperation conveyed the message she wanted to snap: Go away.

Instead, Feyre seated herself on the armchair and reached for Nesta’s ice-cold hand. “Nesta,” she started, the word practically a plea. “I know you and I - I know that our relationship has always been rocky. And you are right, there are many things that I hadn’t considered, not least when I sent you here. But… you almost died today and it’s made me realise what is important: I love you. I don’t think I’ve told you that before, but I always have. Even when we were younger and we were both so angry and bitter at our lot in life and we spent our days fighting. And I know you love me, too. Hiring someone to take you to the wall to find me told me that…”

Feyre let out a long, shaky breath and when she next spoke, her voice turned softer, dropping into a confession, “I forgave you and Elain a long time ago for when we were starving, Nesta. I want you to know that. I don’t — we were children. It was father that failed us, not you. I never saw it as your job to care for me and… I’m sorry that you were there when mother asked me to take care of you…. That must have been a horrible thing to overhear and… well, I would have felt resentment towards me, too, if I were you.”

More silence. Nesta would not allow herself to speak for the barbed words she knew would spill forth. About her sister’s mate and how whilst Nesta had tried to make amends, Rhysand’s obvious dislike of her had not disappeared with Feyre’s supposed forgiveness.

“I also want you to know that what you did in the war — you saved hundreds of lives. I know you witnessed unimaginable death and horror, but fae and humans are walking on Prythian because you struck down the male that promised to wreak havoc on our world. You did all of that and I never thought to thank you. And then I was so swept away by my duties as High Lady and recovering from Rhys’s near death that I did not give you the time I should have-”

Such careful tiptoeing around their father’s death. How Nesta had watched the life bleed out of his eyes, until they were nothing but glassy and wholly unconscious.

It was that which made Nesta cut her sister off. Even now, she had no desire to discuss his death. “I am not a burden you need to add to your list of priorities. I didn’t want your help. I explicitly told you to go away and instead you continued to force me to socialise when all I wanted was to be alone.”

Feyre let go of Nesta’s hand. Something akin to loss flashed through Nesta, piercing through the exhaustion and the pain in her abdomen.

“I think communication has always been an issue for us,” Feyre admitted, not backing down from the conversation. “I have spent time thinking over what you have said and you are right, I have not truly listened to you. But I was so scared for your safety I adopted drastic measures—”

“It is not your place to decide what is best for me,” Nesta said coldly. “I am not yours to command. And,” she continued with as much iciness as she could muster, “I do not think that an Illyrian camp is a place of safety.”

A deliberate pause to highlight how she were in bed suffering from major injuries.

“I thought if you were with Cassian that you would be protected,” Feyre said, her expression anguished. “I thought if anyone were to hold their own in an Illyrian camp it would be you. You are so strong, Nesta—”

“You thought a fae male could protect me when the protection I was promised by males has failed over and over again?” Nesta countered. “He is not even here all of the time. Sometimes he is away for days on end and I am left alone. You banished me to this awful place in front of an audience with no care for my feelings.”

But as Nesta spoke, something scrabbled in the back of her mind. Because it wasn’t fair to criticise Cassian for both leaving her and crowding her. Because Cassian had given her space and yet he had also been there, on the periphery if not right in front of her. Taunting her and encouraging her, but with so much space to grow. He had not made her train with him, dragging her spitting and screaming into the sparring ring. He had not thrown her out into the camp each morning and forced her to work or make friends. He had given her choices that she had more often than not denied over and over. And when she had done that, he had bought her more books or figured out the foods she liked to make the days a little less boring.

Cassian had not just protected her but allowed her to grow stronger. Had given her the space to decide for once in her life what she wanted to do and what she wanted to be. True, she might have been stuck in Windhaven, but she had never felt truly trapped. The skies made her feel unencumbered. The mud beneath her feet rendered her a part of nature rather than apart from it. The craggy mountains were a physical depiction of how Nesta was starting to see herself; sharp and angry but resilient and strong.

Outside the bungalow, Nesta heard the unmistakable crunch of boots in the snow. The low murmur of male voices floated through the bedroom window, which had been cracked open to circulate the stale air.

Feyre’s face crumpled in sudden irritation, and Nesta guessed that her mate had tried to speak mind-to-mind with her mid-conversation. From the way Feyre’s expression quickly cleared, Nesta got the impression she had banished Rhys completely or told him to go away.

The click of the magical lock from the front door rang through the bungalow, but Feyre’s attention was only on her. “Adjusting to the role of High Lady has been… a struggle,” her sister admitted. “Cassian, Rhys, Amren and Mor are my friends as well as my trusted advisors. But you are right, I spoke to you as a High Lady not as a sister when I told you to come here. I thought that using my new status would make you listen because my role as a sister had failed. It was a last resort and I knew… I knew that Cassian would look after you.”

Feyre stared up at the ceiling, as if the memory caused her pain. “As soon as you left I knew the way I had summoned you was wrong.” Feyre looked back to Nesta and sincerity swam in her eyes. “I did not consider that I had imprisoned you. I was selfishly only thinking of forcing you to be well.”

More silence.

Feyre got to her feet, her expression pained.

She waved a hand to the window, gesturing to the scenery outside. To the craggy mountains that stretched for miles and the sea beyond it. To the world that existed beyond Illyria. Beyond Prythian. “When you are healed, if you wish to leave Illyria you can. I don’t want you to feel imprisoned any longer.”

There was a finality to the words that rang true. Her sister meant them, even if it was obvious they caused her pain. Yet… Nesta did not want to leave. Not now, not when she had promised to attend the Solstice luncheon to see what they could discover about the sword and the kerit attacks. Not when the females here were so vulnerable. Now when they needed help rebuilding their community — to mourn for the losses that Nesta had vowed would not go unnoticed.

“I said I’d help, didn’t I?”

Feyre halted at the door.

“And your help is invaluable,” Feyre said slowly, “but you are not obligated to do it. So if you wish to leave, you can. Just… please tell someone before you do and let us know where you are going.”

Feyre looked weary and Nesta wondered if she had even bathed since everything that had happened. Her body was clean like Nesta’s… but her leathers were crumpled and her hair dishevelled. Nesta’s own body felt like it was covered in a film of oil and invisible dirt. Her skin itched at the thought and she longed for a bath, even though she knew she would not be able to manage it without more rest.

When Nesta closed her eyes, Feyre’s blood-streaked face swam into view. She remembered how Feyre had gripped her hand in the midst of battle and told Nesta to lead the way to the Eastern side of the camp, even though they were in the thick of danger. Her sister had not hesitated or balked. She had only been fierce and unwaveringly brave, ready to put her life on the line for those who needed protection.

For all of their problems, when the two of them had been fighting side by side, it was the first time that Nesta felt as if she truly belonged with her sister. For a brief moment in time, their issues and past mistakes had bled away, as if they were inconsequential.

“I’d love for us to start afresh,” Feyre continued quietly from her place at the door. “We have both made errors, but I do not care about yours. I hope that with time you might be able to forgive me, and if you do, I’d like to start over, you and I, with a blank slate.”

Tags:

@arin1030 @superspiritfestival @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @mylittlebigplanet @biggestwingspan-az @bellsqueen @ekaterinakostrova @bookstantrash @prophecyerised @rainbowcheetah512 @awesomelena555 @wannawriteyouabook @iammissstark @hatemecozuaintme @lovelynesta @melphss @nestalytical @nestable @darkshadowqueensrule @laylaameer01 @a-trifling-matter @grouchycritic7794 @thalia-2-rose @champanheandluxxury @swankii-art-teacher @princessconsuela02 @lavendergoomsltd @little-diyosa @princessofmerchants-reads @sjm-things

#nessian #nessian angst #nessianfic #nesta x cassian #nesta archeron #nestafic #cassianfic #cassian #acosf #acofas #acowar #acomaf #acotar #embersandlightfic

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mylittlemystery · 4 years

Text

Morning’s Afterglow

Summary: Kazuichi really was too mischievous for his own good, especially when it was this early in the day…

A/N: just some shameless SouDam fluff.

A ray of sunlight was creeping in through the crack in the curtains, sprawling itself atop Kazuichi’s uneven hair. The mechanic let out a gentle groan, stretching his arms above his head until his knuckles brushed against the bed frame, smacking his lips together as he blinked the residual grogginess away. He rolled onto his left side, causing the mattress to breathe out a soft creak, and an uncharacteristically adoring smile crossed his face.

Gundham was laying flat on his back, chest rising and falling with each even breath, an expression of tranquility adorning him. He was typically an early riser, awaking well before the crack of dawn, so it was definitely a rare treat for the other to witness him like this. His bangs were messily skewed in front of his eyes, having not yet had the chance to style them properly, and his neck seemed almost uncomfortably bare without the presence of his deep purple scarf (he had insisted on sheltering the Devas somewhere else during the night for fear of crushing them during his slumber).

That previously innocent look now morphed into a more fitting smirk as the familiar dazzle of mischief twinkled in Kazuichi’s eyes. He stretched his hand out towards his partner, taking care not to cause any major disturbance that might foil his fun, and ran an index fingernail across the normally secluded pale skin.

Gundham’s eyelids twitched ever so slightly, his nose scrunching up like that of a wild rabbit’s, and the faintest whisper of a smile graced itself along his lips.

Kazuichi allowed himself a low huff of amusement at the anticipated reaction. “God, you’re cute,” he murmured to nobody in particular as he added a second finger to the mix, tracing lazy patterns into the other’s goosebump riddled flesh. “Coochie coo…”

A sleepy titter of a giggle slipped its way from Gundham’s lungs, his cheeks starting to flare up with a tinge of rosy hued humility. “Stahp,” he mumbled in his half asleep trance. “Naht there…”

Figuring he had delivered a sufficient appetizer, as he was beginning to get quite ansty with boredom at these tiny responses, Kazuichi decided that it was time to move onto the main course. Throwing caution to the wind, he threw his arms around his boyfriend in a tight bear hug and began delicately nibbling on the nape of that neck.

It was this that finally woke Gundham up completely. His eyes snapped open like a shutter, barely having time to gather his wits before he found himself roaring with hysterical laughter. “K-kahaHAHAAzuuuiiichihiHIHI?!” he barked incredulously.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Kazuichi greeted in a pause from his attack, as though what he was doing was no more unusual than changing one’s clothes at the start of a new day. “Looks like ya slept in, huh? Man, I’m starving!” With that tease having been said, he resumed his playful chewing on the other’s sensitive skin.

“GEHEHEHET AHAHAFF!” Gundham cackled as he thrashed in the mechanic’s grip, legs kicking to and fro frantically (which, unfortunately for him, only resulted in them getting tangled among the sheets). Those pointed teeth were a downright diabolical weapon, one that made him hunch his shoulders as he desperately clawed at the other’s hands with what little strength he had remaining.

Kazuichi couldn’t stop himself from smiling against the breeder’s body as he drank up these atypical reactions with pleasure. It was a goddamn treat to see the normally stoic man in this sort of state: absolutely overcome with mirth, wearing a grin so wide that it looked almost unsettling, and entirely unable to maintain that usual aura of power. Sadly enough, it was this immersion in affection that left him vulnerable towards retaliation, and he had been flipped onto his back with his neck dangling overside the bed before he knew it. “W-wait, Guhuuuuuundaaaaam!” He hardly had the time to address his growing fear before the feeling of ten digits digging into his abdomen sent him into unwilling hysteria.

“That’s right, mortal! Writhe at the hands of this Ruler of Darkness!” Gundham sneered as he enacted some well deserved revenge against his lover. “Beg for my mercy, and perhaps I’ll have pity on you!”

Writhe Kazuichi certainly did, his upper body struggling to right itself under the other’s body weight. “Oh my GAHD! GUNDHAM! Ihi’m gohohonna dihihihihiiiee!” he wailed most dramatically as the tips of his brightly colored hair grazed the hardwood floor. He could already feel the blood beginning to rush to his head…

“Well then, it looks like you’ll die laughing!” Gundham observed rather coldly, his fingers not stalling in their vivacity for even a moment. “Consider this a merciful outcome from the Supreme Overlord of Ice!”

“S-seheheriously! I’m gohonnaha puuhuuhuuhuuke!”

“Hah! Such empty threats have no impact on me!”

“Ohohohokahahahay! OHOKAY! Stahahahahaap, pleeeheeheeheeEEASE!” Kazuichi shrieked at an embarrassingly high pitched tone for a guy when he felt one of those fingers dip into his navel, nearly collapsing with relief when those horrendous sensations finally grinded to a halt. He spent some time greedily gulping down lungfuls of air, his diaphragm burning from the extended usage in such an odd position, and he slowly managed to pull himself all the way back onto the bed after about a minute of this. “Y-you’re so mean,” he grumbled as he glowered at the other man with all the intimidation of a petulant toddler.

“Hmph,” Gundham huffed as he crossed his arms, the remnants of a smirk still visible on his face. “Atrocious is more fitting. Besides, one shouldn’t dish out what they can’t take.”

Kazuichi rolled his eyes as he snuggled against his pillow once more, rendered unusually exhausted after that little mishap. “I guess that’s fair…” He could feel his eyelids beginning to grow heavy, and he allowed himself to succumb to sleep yet again.

Gundham, on the other hand, figured it was well past the time to start the day. He made to start with his routine procedures, but not before he took the opportunity to place a tender kiss on the other’s still damp forehead.

#writing #fanfiction #danganronpa #gundham tanaka #kazuichi soda #soudam #tickling #tickles #tickle #ticklish #tickled #my stuff #i love them so much

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earliebirb · 4 years

Note

Hello. So about the "send me a pairing and a number and i'll write you a drabble"... These are all perfect and I kinda want to ask for every single one for stony but I don't want to be that greedy XD How about 32 - “I think I’m in love with you and I’m terrified.”. It seems perfect for Steve and Tony. Love you!

Hello! Thank you for the prompt. Sorry for the long wait, I hope you like it!

weather the storm

steve/tony, hurt/comfort, getting together, 1839 words

(32 from this list)

Everything hurts. Breathing hurts.

“I really thought we could make it, you know. We had a decent chance of making it out—”

They are stuck under the remains of a collapsed apartment building. Fortunately, the wreckage seems to provide a small cocoon for them to sit in without being crushed, with a small amount of sunlight finding its way through the cracks between the debris and into the small space they are trapped in. Not so fortunately, JARVIS’ calculation has told him that the suit has taken a considerable amount of damage and that even if it had been running optimally, there would still be no way for them to blast their way out of there without risking certain death.

“Stop talking,” Steve grunts, but how can Tony stop talking when Steve’s face has lost its natural complexion and instead has taken on a deathly pallor that makes it look like he is the one that has a piece of rebar running through his abdomen instead of Tony?

Oh, that’s right. There is another unfortunate aspect to their situation: the fact that some time during the destruction of the building, Tony has somehow managed to get himself impaled on one of the steel bars underlying the building’s structure.

“I’m fine, Steve. It’s all going to be okay,” Tony says, every word an exertion. His wound smarts with every breath.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” Steve spits out angrily, his voice cracking on the last syllable as he presses his forehead to Tony’s temple, cradling the heavy weight of Tony’s suit-clad body in his arms.

Tony smiles weakly up at him as black spots appear in his vision. Just before he asked Steve to help him remove his helmet, the HUD of the suit had notified him of the fact that his vitals were failing and that without serious medical attention within two hours, he might not make it. That was maybe around half an hour ago, but he doesn’t know anymore; it’s getting harder and harder to focus on anything but the torturous pain his body is in.

He raises one of his hands, offering it up to Steve. The simple movement jostles the rebar in him and he grits his teeth at a wave of pain so intense he is on the verge of blacking out.

“Hold… my hand?” Tony asks and Steve complies readily, holding Tony’s gauntleted hand in his.

“Hey, Steve.”

Steve stays silent but Tony feels his gloved fingers tighten around his gauntlet. He lets the silence stretch out between the two of them for a few moments, listening to the sound of their harsh breathing. Absentmindedly, he admires the way the dust motes rising from the debris seem to dance under the rays of sunlight.

“You want to know a secret?”

Steve speaks his words against Tony’s hair. “I want you to stop talking.”

“I think… I’m in love with you and I’m terrified.”

Steve stills against him, muscles locking up with tension. Tony feels drops of something warm land on his face even as Steve continues to say nothing. Steve is crying.

Tony tells Steve that he loves him and Steve’s response is to start crying. Of course, because he is Tony Stark, he manages to find a way to hurt other people even in his dying hours. Tony wasn’t going to ever let Steve know about how he felt about him but life is a funny thing full of surprises. With the prospects of him making it out of this disaster alive becoming increasingly unlikely by the second, he has found a surge of courage he doesn’t think he would have found otherwise.

“I’m sorry. For this. For everything,” Tony says breathlessly. He continues to speak even as the act of doing so renders the already exhausting task of breathing that much harder. “I know that you probably don’t want to hear this—”

“Shut up!” Steve roars, his voice hoarse. He rests his chin atop Tony’s head, just above Tony’s hairline. “If you say another word,” Steve chokes out, “I’m going to kill you myself.”

Tony falls silent at that, closing his eyes. He has told Steve the one thing he needed to tell him and now that the job is done, he feels very tired, like his bones are turning into liquid. He feels himself sink deeper into Steve’s arms and he thinks he hears the sound of Steve whispering what might be a litany of pleas into the skin of his temple.

As he lies in the arms of the man he loves, the last thing Tony thinks of before his senses are engulfed in darkness is that there are worse ways to die.

***

Tony wakes up alone in a hospital room to the sound of the steady beeping of machines.

At least, he thinks he is alone, until a voice speaks up:

“You can’t do that again.”

He startles and looks around the room before finding Steve, seated in a chair situated in the darkest corner of the room, arms crossed and eyes looking right at him.

“Steve,” Tony tries to say, but his dry throat morphs the word into a series of coughs.

Steve stands up from the chair and walks to his side, handing him a glass of water and holding the straw up to his mouth. Tony takes a few sips gratefully, letting the liquid soothe his throat.

“Thanks.” Tony sighs, leaning back against his pillow. Steve sets the glass down on the bedside table and proceeds to stare down at Tony with unblinking eyes.

“How long was I out?”

Steve continues to gaze at him wordlessly, expression unreadable.

“Steve—”

“I wasn’t going to forgive you.”

Tony blinks. “What?”

“I wasn’t going to ever forgive you if you had—” Steve breaks off abruptly. He doesn’t finish his sentence. All the while, he is still staring down at Tony with steely blue eyes. The non-expression on Steve’s face and the way he holds himself makes Tony think of a rubber band that has been stretched taut, liable to break any second.

Hearing a creak, Tony turns his head to see that Steve is gripping the metal handle bar of the hospital bed’s headboard and that the metal is giving way under the strength of his hand.

“Steve, you need to let up—”

“You can’t say you love me and then leave me alone,” Steve says. It’s like he is not hearing whatever is coming out of Tony’s mouth, like they are having two entirely separate conversations. The way Tony is still unable to discern an ounce of emotion in his voice or on his face would scare him if he didn’t have an inkling as to what kind of emotion is simmering behind Steve’s apparent stolid indifference.

It’s fear, he guesses. Cold, all-encompassing fear that numbs you to your bones. Tony remembers feeling something similar one December night twenty-something years ago, remembers hearing the words “car accident” and then nothing else. He remembers feeling nothing. No anger, no sadness, just… nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Tony says. He doesn’t say what for because there are too many things he is apologizing for. Sorry for not being better at calculating the odds. Sorry for being a constant burden for the team. Sorry for springing an unwanted love confession on Steve when he least needed or expected it. Just an endless string of apologies.

“You should be,” Steve says, still in that unsettling monotone that is so uncharacteristic of him.

“Just forget what I said.” Tony stares down at the white rumpled sheets of the hospital bed. “And… I promise to recalibrate the suit so I can perform better on the field. I’ll try my best to make sure that this kind of miscalculation won’t happen again.”

Tony nods decisively to himself before holding out a hand to Steve with his best attempt at a smile. “Now, are we good?”

Steve just stares down at Tony’s hand impassively for a few moments before looking up at Tony.

He proceeds to ignore Tony’s hand entirely, leaning down and—

Steve is kissing him.

Steve is kissing Tony, one of his hands gently cradling Tony’s cheek. His lips caress Tony’s softly, and then eagerly with increased frenzy, like he is kissing Tony with the intent to bruise his lips.

Then Tony tastes salt. At the same time, he realizes that Steve’s breath is stuttering against his lips. “I can’t— You can’t— Damn you—” Steve whispers brokenly into his mouth and that makes Tony pull back in alarm, gently pushing Steve back with a hand on his chest.

He gets the briefest look of Steve’s face—his red eyes brimming with tears, lips quivering and teeth gritted like someone withstanding torture—before the dam breaks and he watches as Steve buries his face in Tony’s chest, sobbing loudly into it like someone letting out years worth of bottled up agony. Steve’s throat sounds raw and his tears seep into the fabric of Tony’s hospital gown. Both of his hands are trembling as they clutch Tony’s arms for dear life, nails digging into Tony’s skin.

Tony feels his own eyes sting with tears, his vision blurring, because Steve sounds like he is falling apart because of Tony.

In the end, it takes quite some time for either of them to calm down. Tony and Steve end up lying together on the small bed, having carefully arranged themselves in a position that allows them to look at each other. Tony stares softly at Steve who in return is gazing intently at him, eyes still wet and face red from crying. Tony’s hand is cupping Steve’s cheek.

Steve absolutely refuses to let go of his other hand, fingers intertwined with his. He still looks upset. He also looks incredibly exhausted.

“Go to sleep,” Tony whispers, thumb methodically tracing one-way strokes across Steve’s cheekbone.

“I’m scared,” Steve rasps. His eyes remain trained on Tony, the intensity of their gaze unchanging.

“I’ll be right here when you wake up,” Tony promises.

Steve blinks languidly. Once. Twice.

“Can you say it again?”

“Say what?”

“Say you love me again.”

“I love you.”

“Again.”

“I love you.”

“...Again.”

“I love you.”

Steve closes his eyes. “One more time?”

Tony smiles, closing the small distance between them to capture Steve’s lips in a tender kiss. He lingers there for a while, making it last, making sure Steve knows just how much Tony loves him.

“I love you, Steve Rogers.”

Over the next few minutes, he watches Steve drift off slowly, the fight going out of him like Tony’s admission is all the permission he needs to fall asleep. When his breathing evens out, his grip on Tony’s hand goes lax. Tony doesn’t let go.

Tony is scared, but Steve is, too.

Maybe it’s okay.

Maybe they can be terrified together.

He lies there in the quiet, listening to Steve breathe for a long, long time because he can, because he survived, and because somehow—by some stroke of miracle—Steve is in love with him, too.

#stevetony #stevetony fic #stony #stony fic #superhusbands #steve/tony #steve x tony #mine #earl wrote something #earl answers #user: m-e-i-c-h-a-n

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quirky-hero-imagines · 4 years

Text

Dirty

Pairings: Chisaki Kai “Overhaul”/ F!reader Genre: Smut/lemon, tiny bit of angst? Warnings: Sexual content (including rough sex and degradation), unhealthy relationship, Overhaul being a dick, cursing

Working with Kai had given you purpose.

Being born quirkless you felt like the odds had been stacked against you since the beginning. In grade and middle school you were teased daily about it, which escalated in high school to bullying.

The hate for, in your eyes, privileged peers grew and grew. You worked hard to get the best grades, to proof your worth with your smarts, but even then you were beaten. Classmates with quirks that advanced their studies and memory outshined you without breaking a sweat.

When you started your job as data analyst this remained the same. One of your coworkers could process data like a computer, how could you ever work against that?

Then you met him.

On your way home a man had stopped you, his quirk able to form his hands into iron hammers. You didn’t even attempt to struggle as he threatened you with one hammer hand for your purse. You handed your purse over, your hands feeling ice cold, your face blank as you were once again reminded how powerless you are in this world.

Chisaki Kai showed up seemingly out of nowhere, the man being rendered to gore on your clothing within seconds. Your eyes widened as you stared at the man with the plague doctor mask, your arm still stretched forward, holding your purse. The man rambled and quickly tried to wipe himself clean, but none of it was registering to you.

Kai turned to face you, his hand stop inches from your face, fingertips reaching out. You flinched and ducked away, trying to cover yourself. As your arms covered your face your body started shaking as sobs came out involuntarily. You couldn’t believe your life was going to end like this, having achieved nothing.

“You are quirkless.” You heared Kai say. You slowly uncovered yourself and looked up at him, feeling confused as to why you were still alive. “There is nothing to cleanse.” He continued before starting to walk away.

Your body moved without thinking and you grabbed onto his arm. “Cleanse?”

Now here you are in your office underneath the Yakuza base, processing the research data for your boss Overhaul.

You hear the door opening, but don’t turn around as you want to finish the sentence that you are typing.

“Are you done yet?” Kai’s voice sounds raspy next to you, drawing your eyes away from your screen. Kai is standing next to your desk, looking anxious and irritated. You know that things haven’t been moving as fast as he would like, so you don’t need to guess what has gotten him into this mood.

You smile at him nervously. “Not exactly... You have done a lot of research lately, which is great! But I’ll need some time to work through it.” You tap the pile of files on your desk to accentuate your statement. Kai’s eyes narrow but he hums in agreement.

Kai reaches his hand out towards you, taking a lock of your hair into his gloved hand. “Come with me...” He tells you after staring for a bit. He walks out without waiting for an answer, making you quickly get up to keep up with him.

You feel your heart pound in your chest as you follow Kai through the maze of corridors. There have been times, seemingly out of nowhere, when he had taken you somewhere before to fuck you silly. If anybody asked you you wouldn’t be able to explain how it happened. The only thing you knew is that your body was extremely attracted to this controlling man.

As the two of you reach Kai’s quarters your assumption is already pretty much answered, and you can’t help but almost jump in excitement. Before you can open your mouth to say anything of the situation Kai pulls you into the bathroom.

“Strip.” He orders you. A blush spreads over your cheeks as you quickly get rid of your clothing. You know that there is no use in doing it slowly or teasingly with him. The cold air hits your naked form, making your nipples stiffen as Kai looks you over. He’s not looking at your body for his pleasure, he’s judging it. “Get in the shower.” He tells you as he starts getting rid of his clothing. You oblige and watch him neatly fold everything before putting it on a shelve from the shower.

You tear your eyes away from Kai and turn on the water, the hot water feeling comforting against your skin. Kai steps into the shower as well and you turn slightly to admire his form. Seeing his face without mask feels like a sin, and you can see he’s not comfortable from the twitching of his ungloved hands.

He quickly grabs the shampoo, squirting a generous amount on his hands before starting to harshly scrub his body all over. You grab some as well and try to mimic his amount and motions, knowing that he won’t be satisfied otherwise. You scrub until some parts of your skin are pinkish from irritation, looking at Kai for approval as he stops after some time as well.

Kai’s hands slowly reach out to stroke your skin. His fingertips graze your skin softly as he testingly slides them from your chin, over your neck, down to your breasts. He gropes at your chest before rolling your nipples between his fingers. A tiny moan escapes you and his eyes snap from your chest up to your face, giving you a warning look. You try your best to keep your composure as he harshly plays with your nipples before moving on.

His fingers continue, moving over your waist, then abdomen before finally landing on your pussy. A chill runs over your body as his fingers slide from your mount down to your plump lips. Kai’s fingers slide between them, parting them and allowing your wetness to get out. You whine as he almost instantly slams you against one of the damp walls with one hand.

Kai’s eyes seem like they are on fire as he stares into yours. One of his hands is on your throat as the other gathers the wetness between your folds. “What is this?” He snarls at you, showing you two of his fingers covered in your slick. “D-dirty.” You croak out, more heat rising to your cheeks. His fingers roughly press past your lips into your mouth and you don’t waste time sucking and licking them clean. He stares at you as his anger mixes with lust, his inner conflict showing in his eyes.

After Kai is satisfied he pulls his fingers from your mouth with a pop, his grip on your throat falling as he gets distracted by your form. Your eyes can’t help but dart down, noticing the prominent erection between his legs. You feel your pussy squeezing at nothing as the sight of his hard dick turns you on even more.

Kai notices where you are looking, the corners of his mouth curling up a bit in a smug smirk. He closes the distance between the two of you, his body pressing up against yours, making you whine out as his dick pushes up against your stomach. “Filth is what you are, even without a quirk. Do you feel how you corrupt me?” He says, his face so close to yours that you can feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek. “I feel it sir.” You tell him, one of your hands slowly moving to stroke his cock.

A groan escapes him as you wrap your hand around his thick length, working the shaft slowly. Kai enjoys himself, watching your face closely to see your lewd expressions while thrusting into your hand.

It doesn’t last long though. Soon he forcibly turns you around, making you brace yourself against the wall as he pulls your ass towards him. “Take responsibility.” He grids out between closed teeth, pushing his dick between your thighs. He drags it through your wetness before pushing into you with one hard thrust.

A sound between a moan and a whine comes out of you as his hard dick stretches you out without any preparation. You bite your lip, your pussy trying its best to adjust as Kai immediately sets a harsh pace.

Kai’s breath comes out in labored pants as he fucks you hard from behind, his hands grabbing your hips tightly, fingernails digging into the soft flesh. The hot water continues washes over the two of you, only enhancing the squelching noises his assault on your pussy is causing. You moan out loudly and press your forehead against the tiles of the wall, your jaw falling slack with pleasure.

You can feel Kai’s dick press deeply inside you and you arch your back as he hits a particularly good spot. “Dirty whore.” He chokes out behind you, but his dick twitches inside you at the erotic display in front of him.

Kai’s pace doesn’t falter as he brings one hand up to your throat, starting to choke you slightly. You gasp out as your pussy clenches around him, the pressure on your neck enhancing your pleasure. Kai curses out and squeezes harder, earning another flutter of your walls.

You scream out his name as the tension in your lower body starts building rapidly before violently exploding, causing you to almost see white as you cum around his dick. Feeling this makes Kai almost foollow suit as well. Realizing he won’t last long anymore he moves his hand back from your throat to your hip, now grabbing them hard with both hands again.

Kai’s hips snaps forward in a brutal pace, the noises of skin slapping against skin sounding loudly throughout the bathroom. He leans forward to rest his forehead against your back as he fucks you roughly, pulling your hips to meet his thrusts.

He lets out a loud groan before abruptly stilling. You can feel his hot cum shooting into you as he’s pressed deeply inside your pussy, staying there until all his release has filled you up.

Kai pants loudly, lifting his head up and pulling out of you, quickly stepping back as his cum drips out of you. You turn yourself around and rest your back against the wall, head feeling woozy as you watch Kai rushing to scrub himself clean.

You try to gather yourself as he doesn’t speak a word and then gets out of the shower. He quickly dries himself off before picking up his clothing and mask. “Shower off and leave. Have your report done tomorrow.” Kai tells you, his back turned to you as he excits the bathroom. You let out a sigh as the door slams shuts behind him, your legs still shaking and cum dripping down your thighs. What the hell just happened?

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ichor-and-symbiosis · 5 years

Text

kurogiri drabble; sfw

Kurogiri regards you with an inscrutible expression. You could never quite tell what he was thinking, and right now feels no different than all the other moments of holding your breath and hoping he would indulge you in your silly requests. He merely nods, and yet it sets your nerves ablaze with excitement.

You shift on the bed to fold your legs beneath you in anticipation, smoothing down the fabric of your clothing across your knees to keep yourself busy while Kurogiri removes the metal brace around his neck. It startles you, and you cannot keep the look of awe from your face as your eyes rove over the parts of him you have never seen before. The black mist spreads outward without the directional guidance of the brace and follows its destined path upward. You can hardly see anything through the dense miasma. A part of you wonders if you will touch anything at all. Maybe your hand will simply travel through empty space and reappear in another place.

He could take me anywhere right now. I could go anywhere, far away from here -

You dig your nails into your thigh so firmly that you can feel the pain through your clothing. Focus on the present instead of daydreaming. Focus on catching a glimpse of his throat.

Kurogiri's eyes narrow at your open display of curiosity. Not in ire - the corners of his eyes are too soft, you think. Perhaps in humor. He silently removes his tie and undoes the buttons of his vest. Your hands curl into fists atop your thighs as you blush, heart pounding at what is undoubtedly an intimate moment between you.

He smoothly slides the vest off - your heart skips a beat at the refined roll of his shoulders - folds the clothing and places it near the tie, and his hands return to the collar of his shirt before he pauses.

Hesitation is rare for him. Your breath hitches, as it always does when he deliberates, and when he begins to pop open the topmost buttons of his white shirt, you nearly forget to breathe entirely.

He stops at the fourth button and patiently waits for your next move, folding his hands on his thighs in a mirrored gesture.

Kurogiri always carries himself with such inhuman grace. Every movement is calculated and performed with efficiency, followed by a period of such statuesque stillness that you wonder if he remains alive while idle.

The robotic nature of his actions contrasts sharply with his casual appearance. It is odd to see him in such an undone state, one leg curled on the bed to keep him facing you while the other steadies him at the edge. That sliver of exposed darkness at his chest draws your attention. You wonder if you might find a heartbeat there.

You reach across the liminal space between you and slowly bring your fingers to the black mist. It dances and weaves around your fingertips like a candle flame disturbed by movement. The barest hint of coldness clings to your skin, as though you had touched dewy blades of grass on a crisp morning. But when you roll the pads of your thumb and forefinger against each other, you do not feel wetness.

Emboldened by first contact, you return to the mist and watch your hand disappear through the void. Your mind's eye pictures the endless expanse of a black hole. The thought quickly dissipates when your fingertips lightly come into contact with an obstruction.

No. Not an obstruction.

His chest.

You release a quiet gasp and immediately feel ridiculous. It was perfectly reasonable for this man to have a physical form. Startling to know he had always been as alive as any other human being, but not so far out of the realm of possibility to begin with. You just never knew what to make of him. At first, he had been too distant to feel like a real person. Then, once the barrier of standoffishness had been breached, you still could not perceive him properly.

Not like now, with your hand pressed flat against his chest as his steady pulse greets you.

You travel over the dips of his collarbones and curl your fingers around a thick neck. You cannot see it properly through the mist, but you can feel the telltale bump of an Adam's apple, and you run your thumb over it before you bring your other hand to his neck and move upward to follow the curve of his jawline.

It is at this moment that you decide to close your eyes and focus. You see nothing but darkness like this, and somehow, it helps orient your senses. He is everywhere and nowhere.

Kurogiri is as still as a statue while you touch him, and nearly as cold as one. You know he is staring at you, perhaps even doing some analyzing of his own now that you are so close to him. You wonder what he thinks of you. What he thinks of your warm hands tracing the sharp line of his jaw and cupping his cheeks.

Who knew a man like this could have such full cheeks? It brings a little smile to your face, and a curious expression to his, although you cannot see it.

One of your thumbs reaches the corner of his mouth. Do you dare?

Of course you do.

You rest your thumb on the outer edge for a moment, right where the groove begins, just to prepare him for your daring move. Kurogiri offers no resistance, and so you begin a slow and gentle swipe along the plumpness of his bottom lip. There are no scars, no abrasions, no sharp teeth or strange sensations, just a perfectly normal mouth that tempts you so fiercely that you have to move away lest he feel the trembling.

Your journey continues past the arch of his cupid's bow and glides over the slope of a graceful pointed nose. Smooth skin suddenly gives way to something that feels oddly different, and you tilt your head curiously to the side as you move two fingers over whatever that was, taking note of how it extends over the sides of his nose, a long yet narrow ... thing. It reminds you of a band-aid.

You detour to the underside of his eyes and make your intent known. Something feathery tickles your fingertips. An experimental move upward reveals that Kurogiri had indeed closed his eyes. You lightly trace the ends of his long eyelashes and over his eyelids, mystified by the movement of his eyes behind them. It startles you to realize he might have irises instead of the uniform yellow you always knew. What color could they really be?

His eyes taper off upward at the outer corners. You follow their path and avoid the tempting sensation of hair touching the back of your fingers. You are saving the best for last. Instead, you trace over thin eyebrows and come across a strange sensation above his right brow.

It is a vertically bisecting ridge. Or rather, several of them, aligned side by side. Scars, perhaps? You furrow your brows and ignore the ache in your arms from holding them up for so long, intent on solving this mystery. Upon further exploration, you believe they might be stitches. You do not know what to think about this revelation. Only to briefly worry over whether your careless touches hurt him somehow. You gently place the palm of your hand over the stitched expanse of his forehead, frowning at this gruesome discovery. Your fingertips delve into the softest hair you had ever touched in your life, teasing you, beguiling you to continue despite your hesitation.

You open your eyes. Kurogiri stares down at you, as though he had never stopped doing so and did not intend to stop now. Your eyes are wide and questioning; his are drooping and tranquil.

"Am I hurting you?" you ask, praying that the breach in silence does not ruin the mood.

" ... " He moves imperceptibly, the slightest downturn of his head. Your fingers are guided deeper through the thick hair. "No." Your other hand cups the side of his face, and you feel mesmerized, transfixed by his strange stupor, ignited by his large hands coming to rest boldly on your hips. "Keep going," he murmurs, practically slurs out the words.

Your heart beats wildly in your chest as you card your fingers through his hair. It really is impossibly soft and full, like petting a samoyed. The thought brings a little smile to your face, and you do not look away from his intense stare.

"You are very handsome," you conclude, stroking his bang away with the back of your hand as you smooth your hands downward until they come to rest over his clavicles.

Kurogiri digs his fingers into your sides. "Is that so?" he rumbles, and you follow the slight pull he has on you, follow his guidance right into his lap without a second thought as he wraps an arm around your waist.

"It is so - " Your breath hitches as his fingertips touch your cheek. "You - um - " Thoughts evaporate like mist in your head. You keep thinking about those soft lips. "How did you get those stitches on your head?"

"I don't know." You furrow your brows, and he smooths his thumb over your cheekbone. "There are many things ... I do not know." He speaks with disregard, as though he chewed over these words for ages and thought nothing of them anymore. His eyes search your face. "You appear to have something else on your mind."

"I do, but I shouldn't say it."

He cups your cheek properly this time, and your eyes flutter for a moment as you are pulled into the magnetizing gravity of his hand, nuzzling him like some desperate pet.

"I am supposed to be the mysterious one," he said, and before you could reply, before your smile finishes forming, he renders you immobile when his thumb presses to your bottom lip. "I understand, though. Right now isn't about words, is it?" You blink up at him, the very picture of naive innocence. So trusting and single-minded. Kurogiri lightly tilts your head up, forefinger and thumb guiding your chin. "Only touch can tell a story - " He leans down, until his breath tickles your lips, until you can feel the need to fall into him. " - or reveal the truth."

Somehow, you come together. Somehow his lips brush against yours and you lose the ability to breathe.

They really are so soft, a little cold against your heated skin, yet smooth and firm and pressed far too lightly to your lips. You are too nervous to move, afraid he might pull away if you meet his slow, tantalizing caresses with a firmer kiss. But when he pauses, and the fear of stopping causes you to surge forward and lock your lips together, you realize that this is what he wanted all along. He wanted to give you the option.

And here you are, sighing against his mouth as he holds you close and kisses you sweetly. How could a man so dangerous treat you so delicately? It borders on preposterous, but you would think about that later. Right now, you only want to focus on his firm, solid hold on you, the way he obediently opens his mouth for you when you swipe your tongue over his bottom lip, and you certainly want to focus on his wet lips locked with yours as you tease him with kitten licks.

Slowly, carefully, you are guided onto your back. Kurogiri ends the kiss far too suddenly, leaves you reeling for more as he kisses down the column of your neck.

"Is it my turn to explore you?" he murmurs against your skin.

Your fingers dig into that impossibly thick mane of hair, and you beckon him to continue, ready to let him discover the story etched into your skin.

#kurogiri #kurogiri x reader #kurogiri/reader #bnha #mha #idk yall it's just warm-up #im really really out of it with writing these days #it's nothing fancy but i just wanted to get it over with #this is from the afo wife falling for kurogiri au thingie #im just not being obvious about it #but it's in my head

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littleredwritinghoodxx · 4 years

Text

#thirsty-and-in-denial-Zelda

Thank you @intangiblyyourswrites for the writing challenge.

Prompt:

The real reason Zelda initially shows such a abhorrence to Link is because she’s secretly heads-over-heels for him and refuses to show it. Her pride is on the line, after all.

Rules:

Must be set in the BotW timeline

When it’s set is up to you (e.g. Pre-Calamity or post, pre-Blades of the Yiga or post)

No chronology enforced, but I’m interested to see if we can get a somewhat coherent story out of this!

You may do however many posts/drabbles you’d like

Tag #thirsty-and-in-denial-Zelda so we can find your story!

This is set up pre Zelda’s Resentment, and lemme tell you, she is quite resentful.

Also... this is the most sinful thing I have ever written. Like, ye have been warned. This is rated M shit. And by shit, I mean smut. It’s low key smut.

Thank you @bhujerbanwrites for looking this over for me!

I’ve never written smut before.

Dear lord, please be merciful on me.

Alas: I’m not even sorry.

Please enjoy... The Tip of his Sword

There are rumors floating about the castle: rumors that Princess Zelda is head-over-heels for her appointed knight.

But of course she isn’t. She is the Crown Princess of Hyrule. It would be unseemly for her to think about her knight attendant in that way.

Indeed, it would be uncouth for her to think about the way his hands rest upon her hips, large and rough and hot, adjusting her stance during archery practice. It would be improper for her to think about his sharp gaze, those blue irises piercing straight through her, turning her legs to jelly and rendering her utterly useless.

It would be inappropriate for her to think about him pushing her roughly against her desk in her tower, knocking over all of her books and tomes on the Ancient Sheikah – priceless first editions, how dare he – as his hands grasp her hips, her thighs, her breasts. Absolutely unbecoming for her to imagine him trailing hot kisses from the curve of her jaw, all the way down, down, down the column of her neck, as his fingers trail across her skin like a serpent, sliding closer and closer –

Nope. She most certainly is not head-over-heels for Link.

Erhm… her appointed knight.

She turns over in bed and screams into her pillow, the sound muffled as she tries to clear her mind of him. He is always there, the insufferable thing. How dare he. She has much more important things to focus on, like unlocking her Sacred Powers – which, mind you, she is doing her very best at, thank you very much – or discovering more secrets that the Ancient Sheikah left behind in the wake of the prophecy.

She doesn’t have the time to be thinking about her knight stripping her down to her socks, pinning her to the wall – with his one hand tangled in her hair, the other touching her there, smirking against her ear as he whispers uncouth things to her, pushing into her from behind –

Nope. Definitely not head-over-heels for her knight.

She clearly isn’t going to get any sleep that night, and so she whips the covers off of her and swings her legs over the side of her bed, wincing as her warm feet hit cold, unforgiving stone. She fetches her robe from the bedpost, tying the thin, silk tie at the front and steps barefoot across her room.

A warm breeze drifts in from her open windows. Summer is in full swing, and it is no secret that it is one of Zelda’s favorite seasons. The warmer months mean freedom: it means adventures into the wild to study the fauna, expeditions with Purah and Robbie to some Ancient Sheikah excavation. Her father doesn’t approve, but he knows that mother would have said yes, and thus he doesn’t protest.

Guards patrol the courtyard beneath her balcony and bridge to her tower. Rather than being seen and causing even more rumors to float about the castle, Zelda sticks to the shadows. Summers spent with the Sheikah do wonders for her now, as she disappears in plain sight. Perhaps that had been a mistake for her father to send her away in the years following her mother’s death. Impa had been reluctant to guide her in the ways of the Sheikah, but where Impa was hesitant, Purah was awfully enthusiastic.

She makes it across the bridge, with the door to her study shutting with an inaudible click. Here, she lights a candle, her study awash with the flickering flame licking shadows up and down her body. She sits down in her worn out chair, her fingers trailing her notes from where she last left off.

Ah, yes. Academics. This was the one thing that her appointed knight absolutely could not touch – oh, how she desperately aches for his touch. She and Purah had last been studying the ancient shrines off in the Tabantha region. From their most recent research, they concluded that the shrines were meant to be accessed by the Sword’s chosen one.

And the Sword… had chosen him.

Not to be dramatic, but what in Nayru’s name was the Goddess Hylia thinking in choosing him? Everything came so naturally to him: his ability with the sword, his speed and strength, his stunning good looks… He hardly has to work for his success, and yet Zelda is stuck trying day in and day out to unlock a sacred power that she is starting to believe she didn’t inherit.

She sighs, tilting her head back on her chair. Ever since her father had appointed him as her knight, she hardly ever got a moment to herself. These days, field expeditions with the Sheikah included her, Purah, Robbie… and Link.

He really couldn’t take a hint, it seemed. Try as she might to make him feel unwelcome, there he was, always three steps behind her or standing just beyond their excavation, the tip of his sword digging into the ground as he looked coolly beyond.

Indeed, she has some better uses for the tip of his sword.

She sighs, her eyes drifting closed as her legs part just enough. She can think of some ways he might better utilize it. He might lift her so her ass is on her desk, her legs parted as he steps forward. Her legs would wrap around his hips as he presses his lips to hers, kissing her filthily, all tongue and teeth. He would slowly push into her, hissing into her shoulder while she suppresses her moan. They can’t have the castle hear them, now can they? Her pride is on the line, after all.

She might shove him down onto her bed – a place she’s told no place but her husband should lie – and straddle his hips, grinding hers in perfect, languid circles before finally – slowly – sinking down onto him, biting her lip as she watches his usually stoic facade crumble.

He might adjust the rotations of the Royal Guard – he is the Captain, after all – so that her bridge and the courtyard below are deserted in some part of the night. Then, with not a soul in sight, he would brace her against the railing of the bridge, fucking her senseless as she muffles her moans, his fingers digging crescent shape marks into her hips where only she would see –

She comes quickly – fingers moving desperately within her and practiced against her clit. She tilts back in her chair slightly, riding out the orgasm as a small moan escapes from her lips.

She tilts back in her chair too far.

She comes down from her orgasm as she comes down with a crash, a loud yelp escaping her lips as she rolls to soften the fall. She lays there, underwear tangled around her ankles as she breathes heavily, the sweet cerulean of the moon reflected on her stone bridge being replaced with the soft flicker of the candlelight.

Then: commotion.

“Princess?”

The voice is closer than she would have liked, and even more horrifying: it’s his. She stumbles to her feet, her eyes wild as she yanks her underwear up wobbling legs. Hastily, she wipes her fingers along the side of her nightgown, before running them through her hair, trying to make herself not look so… so…

Disheveled.

She hears footsteps on the bridge – running, she can tell. She hasn’t responded, and she knows that he has assumed the worst. Princesses only don’t respond when they’ve been captured or otherwise compromised.

Because apparently, just trying to work through her own frustration with her disgustingly perfect knight isn’t a good enough reason.

She is frantically replacing her chair on its legs and smoothing out her nightgown when –

The door to her study is whipped open. He stands there, his eyes dangerous and his sword unsheathed – stop thinking about his unsheathed sword. She stands there, trying and failing to control her panting, wide-eyed and guilty as fuck – don’t think about that, you terrible, foolish girl.

It’s him, because of course it’s him, it’s always him. He now looks relieved to see her – she’s safe, there’s no threat – but then those eyes squint in suspicion. She had yelled out but she was safe. So then, why?

Then, his nose crinkles.

And Zelda wants to drown herself in the castle moat.

Zelda speaks first and it’s more of a babble, “What in Hylia’s name are you doing here? I can’t get some late night studying in without being barged in by my knight? I’m not a child.”

“I heard you yell out and then a crash. I only came to make sure you were alright,” his voice is calm and leveled and she has to fight against her instinct to get lost in it.

“I toppled out of my chair while looking over the ancient Sheikah shrines in the Tabantha region,” She does not need to explain herself and yet here she is, chattering away at something his peanut sized brain couldn’t hope to comprehend, “As you can see, I am perfectly fine.”

He seems distracted, now that there’s no immediate threat. It’s odd, considering he is never distracted. His eyes dart around the small study, looking everywhere and anywhere except at her. Slowly, he sheaths his sword, and the moment stretches out, the only sound between them the grind of his sword against his scabbard.

She tries not to think about that too hard.

“I can see that.”

Oh?

“Then why are you still here?”

That reaction was uncalled for and she knows it, but she’s strung up and panicking and sweet Nayru just take her soul now.

Link blinks and he takes a step back. She can hear the gears shifting in his head. She hates how methodical he is, hates how thoughtful and polite he is.

She wants to make it perfectly clear that she cannot stand her gorgeous appointed knight.

“I apologize, Princess,” he murmurs, his eyes finally reaching hers. His sharp, blue eyes still her and she thinks that she can scarcely breathe. How dare he, “Do you require any further assistance?”

She would be lying if she said she doesn’t.

Instead, she draws upon her wrath, “I beg your pardon?”

“I can call on your maids to draw up a bath,” Link says, quickly, and though it’s dark, she swears she can see a distinct flush upon his cheeks, “Or call upon the kitchens to send something up to help you sleep.”

Sleep. Goddesses know she is the furthest thing away from sleep.

“That won’t be necessary,” she whispers, hoping that the venom on her tongue will hold his tongue. Oh – the things that man could do with his tongue.

Hylia preserve her.

“You’re dismissed, Sir Link,” she manages to say.

She walks past him, back across the bridge, specifically averting her gaze from the railing of the bridge, facing a perfectly full moon.

“As you command, my Princess,” he whispers, and she wants to scream.

She hates him so very much.

#thirsty-and-in-denial-Zelda #zelink #gonna go wash away my sins now #happy to contribute

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elsanna-shenanigans · 4 years

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February Contest Submission #6: A Museum Date with You

words: ca. 3300 setting: mAU lemon: no cw: none

“Psst, Anna. Wake up, my dear sister.”

Anna grunts when she’s been woken up by Elsa. “Elsa, it’s Sunday and the sun hasn’t risen yet,” she grumbled at her sister.

“It’s also Valentine’s Day and you remembered what we’re planning to do today?”

“A date?” she answers sheepishly.

Anna receives a smooch from Elsa which makes her mouth twitch upward. Her drowsiness withers away as it is replaced by love and adoration with her sister. She sits up and stretches her up high until her back pops.

“Okay, I’m awake,” she says while her eyes are still half-lidded.

“Good girl,” Elsa stands beside the bed. “I’ll prepare breakfast and bring it here. Hope you’re ready once I’m back.”

Anna nod vigorously in agreement. Elsa just shakes her head at Anna’s response. Elsa saunters her way out from their bedroom with a wide sway of her hips. Anna’s half-lidded eyes are instantaneously fully open with some drool at her mouth.

Today is going to be a great day.

—

Valentine’s Day has arrived and so does their date to the museum. Elsa drives them there since it’s thirty minutes away from their home. It’s been a while since they went out because they have been busy for the last few months. Glad Elsa used this opportunity to go out. If not, they spend time at home and frack all day.

The idea came when they were having a lovely evening snuggling. Elsa told her sister that she wanted to have a museum date for Valentine’s Day, which rendered Anna speechless. Judging Anna’s reaction, Elsa turned her back and curled into a ball with a mock sobbed. Anna rolled her eyes at her sister. She comforted her big sister with soothing words. Oh, and also consoled her with some massages.

While Elsa’s driving, Anna notices something peculiar. She smiles all this time, which is fine, but a trip to a museum? What’s so exciting at the museum? As far as she knows, a museum is a place where dead people and animals are showcased to the public. Okay, that’s too dark for what’s supposed to be a happy day. Then again, the origin of Valentine’s Day wasn’t happy, either. Anna shakes the thought away. What matters now is Elsa has something to show her, judging by her mood, and she can’t wait to see it.

Still, Anna can’t help but wonder what could it be. Could it be that a new exhibition opened that she isn’t aware of? Perhaps. Or a famous portrait arrived and opened for display. She isn’t a fan of portraits of someone she doesn’t know. Wouldn’t be cool if it’s a portrait of Elsa, because she’s pretty and she definitely will buy a portrait of her sister?

While she’s in her reverie, she doesn’t realize the car has stopped. It’s only after her sister pats her shoulder that she jumps out of her seat. Elsa chuckles at her reaction, “We’re here.”

Anna looks at the front window. The museum is packed with people. They’re lucky today that Elsa was able to find a parking spot right in front of the entrance despite the crowds. The parking lot is already half-full, even though they’d arrived so early today. Elsa and Anna walk to the entrance while holding each other’s hands, swinging their clasped hands back and forth. She likes to hold Elsa’s hand because of the chilling sensation when their skin touches. She feels safe to have Elsa holding her.

They swiftly enter the museum because Elsa had already purchased the tickets beforehand. Now, she’s scanning their tickets at the turnstiles to enter. After the check-in, they walk along the hall and it has an amazing light show. There’s one light circling the wall among the crowd and it’s seeking Anna’s attention. As she gets closer and almost touches the light, the light moves aside. Anna tries to follow the light, but it’s slowly increasing its speed. Without knowing it, she’s running to follow the light. She pulls her sister along for the chase, racing down the halls after the light.

They dive into the light and it blinds them momentarily as the hall is darker than the outside. As Anna’s eyes adjust to the brightness, she sees a skeleton-like creature in front of her. She struggles to remember what the creature is; it seems so familiar to her… When she recovers, her jaw drops at what she recognizes.

A… A… T-Rex!

The skeleton stands tall in the middle of the museum. Floodlights from an alcove above the skeleton shine down on it, creating a shadow that makes the creature feel more intimidating. She turns towards her sister, who’s smiling softly at her.

“Surprise!” Elsa smiles brightly, “Remember the story you told me about how much you love dinosaurs and would love to see them? Well, this is the closest thing we can ever get.”

“Oh, thank you so much. This is the best date ever!” Anna exclaims.

“You’re welcome. Now, care to tell me more about the creature that we’re looking at?” Elsa asks curiously.

“Glad you asked,” Anna says with a grin, “This is Tyrannosaurus-rex. T-rex for short. It was the largest predator in North America. The most striking feature of Tyrannosaurus is its giant skull,” she raises her hand to the air, “It’s colossal. Tyrannosaurs were built for hunting prey. Their body structure helps them chase their prey down and their huge teeth are their main weapon.” Suddenly, an idea comes to Anna’s mind with a grin. “And their favorite point of attack is the prey’s neck. Like this” She dashes towards Elsa and bites her neck, teeth digging into the soft flesh.

“ANNA!” she screams.

Anna retracts from her bite and licks her lips. She grins when she sees how beet-red Elsa is, then realizes there were people around them, giving odd looks to the sisters.

Shoot. Sisters don’t give love bites. Then again, if she says we’re lovers, it would also cause a scandal. She glances at Elsa and she is still embarrassed. She won’t help her at the moment. Guess it’s up to her now to ease the odd looks of the people around here. Here goes nothing.

“Sorry, everyone! Just wanted to show my friend how the T-Rex attacks their prey.” she smiles sheepishly.

The crowds resume their visit. She sighs in relief as her excuse works.

“Good call, Anna.”

“Thanks. Our usual excuse didn’t seem to fit at that moment. I had come up with something else.” She looks at her sister pensively, “I hope you don’t mind when I call you my friend.”

“Anna,” she put her hand on her shoulder, “I am your friend, girlfriend, best friend, lover, and sister. Of course, I don’t mind.”

“Oh, what if I call you my ex-,”

Elsa places a finger across her sister’s lips. “Let’s not go there. If not, the Ice Queen shall return and we both don’t want that, do we?”

Anna shakes her head vigorously. Elsa lets go of her lips and carefully inspects the mark on her neck with her fingers, “As much as I love when you’re marking me, at least find a room before committing such a scandalous act.”

Anna bites her lips. She adores that Elsa loves her perverted acts. It makes her feel hot inside.

“Hehe, sorry. I saw the opportunity and just couldn’t help it.”

“It’s okay,” she smooches Anna, “I forgive you.” She then whispers, “But do remember when we’re back home.”

Urgh. Elsa. Don’t turn me on right now!

“So, the dinosaurs?” Elsa tries to avert the conversation.

“Oh yeah. Even though it’s a formidable predator, some dinosaurs can force them to back off.”

“Oh? Which dinosaurs can pose a threat to the mighty T-Rex?”

“Here, let me show you.” She drags Elsa to the next exhibition. “This is the Triceratops. The reason why it is called that is that it has two long horns with a short, stout nose that acts as a third horn. It also has a shield-like bone crest which prevents T-Rex from biting them at the neck.” She coughs at the remark, stifling a giggle. Elsa just rolls her eyes.

“As you can see, this dinosaur can do offensive moves with its horns, just like any animal with the same feature. They will point their horns towards the enemy like this.” Anna puts her fingers on her scalp, mimicking a horn. “And they charge!” She intends to poke her arm but Elsa turns at the last second and she ends up squishing her nose onto her sister’s breast. It’s soft as silk and she doesn’t feel any lines underneath it. Oh my…

“Let me guess, they’ll charge at the enemy’s breast,” she says, smirking.

Anna chuckles, “Well, sort of. The softer the spot, the easier to pierce through.”

“Interesting.”

They stand there for a while, Anna’s face still buried on the chest.

“Umm, Anna. Do you mind?”

“Whoops, sorry,” Anna says in a very un-sorry way. She rubs the wrinkled spot on Elsa’s shirt. “Don’t want to leave it untidy.” She caresses the area until it’s smooth as butter.

Elsa shakes her head. “You can stop now.”

“Yeah, maybe I should.” She lifts her hand from Elsa’s breast. Her ministrations have caused a protrusion underneath the shirt and it’s a sight to behold.

“Are there any other dinosaurs that can rival T-Rex’s supremacy?” Elsa returns to the conversation.

“There are. C’mon, follow me.” She drags her sister to the next exhibition.

“This is Ankylosaurs. This thing is built like a tank. It has armor all over its body. Imagine a tortoise, but with spikes all over the body. Not only that, the tail can be used as an offensive weapon, like a mace. The hard shell at the end of the tail can be whipped at the enemy,” she once again smirks, “Like this…” she swings her hips into Elsa’s, causing her to lose her balance.

“Yes, I can feel that,” Elsa mutters as she regains her balance, “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” she asks curiously.

Oh, she knows very well what Elsa’s talking about, but Anna just ignores it, “Of course. I love to show my love of dinosaurs with you,” she smiles innocently.

Elsa embraces her little sister, “Of course you are.”

“Mommy, mommy. Those girls are cute together,” says a child in the distance.

They freeze at the moment self-consciously.

“Yes, dear. People will act cutely when they love each other,” mutters the mother.

“Big sis and I love each other. Can we act like that?” the child asks innocently.

The mother proceeds to lecture the child about the difference between romantic and familial love. Meanwhile, the queer sisters listen to the whole conversation, quietly chuckling to each other.

“Poor mother. Little did she know, we love each other in both ways.”

“Agreed. Let’s not forget, not everyone will experience the love that we share.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m lucky to have fallen in love with you.”

Elsa rests her forehead on her sister’s and looks at her in adoration, “I’m also lucky to have fallen in love with you.”

Anna’s eyes turn misty to hear those lovely words from her sister, “Thank you. It means a lot coming for you.”

“You are welcome. C’mon. We have a lot of places to visit.”

It’s Elsa’s turn to drag her sister along, which Anna happily follows.

—

They continue their exploration in the museum, walking through section after section until they arrive in the 19th-century era. It is full of portraits of past monarchies. The hall has many rooms filled with portraits of monarchs from different kingdoms. As they stand before the Norwegian monarchy room, Elsa stops in front of the closed doors, turning to Anna.

“There’s something I want to show you. I want you to look at it and tell what you see.”

Anna is weirded out by the serious tone of her sister. “Elsa, what’s the matter? Why so serious?”

She let out a sigh “I’m sorry. This portrait has been bothering me for quite a while now and I want to show you.”

“It’s okay,” Anna says as she holds her sister’s hand on the door handle, “I’m here for you. We can do this together,” she assures Elsa.

“Together.” She turns the latch of the mahogany door and they walk in to see a portrait of a royal family.

Anna tilts her head a bit. The portrait looks familiar. Anna walks closer to it. It has an illustration of what she assumes are two queens as well as a prince and princess. The two queens look like them and she reads the description. Wait, it can’t be.

She turns around to face her sister, “Elsa? Is that… us?”

“No, Anna. That’s not us. Although the resemblance is eerily familiar,”

“But who are they?”

“They are the rulers of the kingdom of Arendelle. Queen Elsa of Arendelle and the queen’s wife, Queen Anna of Arendelle.”

Anna’s eyes widen when she hears the names. “Wait, the queens had the same and also were lesbians?”

“The first in their kingdom. Not only that, but they were also sisters.”

Anna’s goosebumps rose from the revelation. She gulps, “So, not only they have the same names as we do, but they are sisters and married too? Just like us?”

“Yes, it is. Scary, huh?”

Anna subconsciously hugs her sister’s arm. “What does this mean, Elsa? Are we some kind of reincarnation of them?”

“I can’t say for sure, but one thing that can comfort you is that no matter what time or era, we still are together.”

“That’s good to hear,” Anna exhales slowly. She looks again at the portrait. “It looks like they have children. How is that possible if they are both women?”

“Those are Princess Elsi and Prince Annar. Get this, Queen Anna was given birth to them! Thanks to Queen Elsa.”

Anna gives her a puzzled look. “What? How?”

“There were rumors that Queen Elsa had a magical power to bring life into this world. She was able to bring a snowman to life along with snow monsters and snowgies, little tiny snowmen. They said she used the same power with her wife which led to the birth of two offspring.”

“Really? Can it be true?”

“I can’t tell for sure. However, if we look at their children, they both bear a striking resemblance to their parents. Nothing more, nothing less. It’s hard to refute the rumor when the result is so obvious.”

Anna is shaken by the explanation. “Is this why you wanted to bring me to the museum? To show me there’s someone who was pretty much like us?”

“My plan was more about the dinosaurs, but since we’re here, I wanted to show you this.”

Anna hugs her sister, “Thanks for showing me this. I feel reassured that someone has done it before - had a family despite being two women - and I think it’s possible to follow in their footsteps.”

“You’re welcome, Anna.”

They hug for a while until Anna speaks, “Say. Do you think we could have a baby too?” she asks wistfully.

“Finish your studies first, then we can talk about having a baby,” Elsa chuckles when her sister grumbles while crossing her arms, “Aww, don’t be mad.” Elsa tries to coax her, “You do know your studies are really important, right?”

Anna sighs, “Yeah, yeah. I know. It’s just so boring and I’m too lazy to do all the assignments.”

“Believe me. Those will be a thing of the past once you finish your degree.”

“Do you think they sell a copy of the portrait? I want to buy a portrait of my sister,” she gives Elsa a huge grin.

Elsa rolls her eyes at her sister’s remarks. “I’m sure they do have them in the souvenirs shop.”

—

After the museum trip, the sisters enjoyed a romantic dinner at their favorite pizza shop. They dined while enjoying the golden hour, the sun low on the horizon. They sat side by side, embracing each other while enjoying the view and the ambiance of the restaurant; singing along to soft musical chimes playing one of their favorite songs in the background.

They ordered their favorite, pineapple pizza (because that’s the best kind of pizza there is) and fed each other alternating bites, giggling the entire time. At one point, Anna ‘accidentally’ smeared some tomato sauce on Elsa’s cheek and proceeded to lick it off her, much to her sister’s chagrin. Anna struggled to rein in her laughter and kept licking Elsa long after the sauce was gone, claiming she couldn’t tell the difference between the sauce and Elsa’s blush.

After dinner, they head home, eager to enjoy the rest of the evening together. Elsa can barely contain her eagerness, smiling, constantly staring at Anna on the drive home while still keeping the car on the road. Anna couldn’t help but grin alongside her big sister. Seeing her happy like this is a sight to behold.

Once they are home, Elsa and Annas go straight to the bedroom to snuggle. The museum date was exhausting after walking all day. But all in all, it was a fun day.

Anna rests her ear on Elsa’s chest. The quiet evening helps her to listen to her sister’s beating heart. She tries to count the beats but every time she does that she loses into the rhythm. It’s mesmerizing. The only song she ever needs.

Anna remembers back what she sees at the museum. Yes, the dinosaur is amazing. How sweet Elsa is to remember her favorite species. But the portrait is what’s stuck in her. She still couldn’t believe there’s someone before them who’s identical to them. The only difference is they don’t have a child yet. Elsa has said they will talk about this once she finishes her study but having a little chat won’t hurt, right?

“Hey, Elsa?”

“Hmm?” she hums.

“Do you think we could name our future child Elsi or Annar?”

Elsa looks at her sister, “Looks like someone eager to have a child.”

“Noo,” Elsa raises her eyebrow, “Maybe. Look, I just want to have a little convo, alright?”

“Sure, Anna,” she smirks. Anna proceeds to slap her breast out of spite.

“So, about the child?”

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking by now. Having a child. Our child. Would it be crazy?”

“Anna, our marriage is already crazy. Everything after this would be even crazier.”

“Hehe, I’m glad.”

“Why do you want to name our future child that?”

“Well, other than following the people who had done it before. I think that names are so cute. It’s like Elsa replacing the ‘A’ with an ‘I’ and Anna with additional ‘R’.”

She smiles, “We could also relate with our late parents. The ‘I’ in Iduna and the ‘R’ in Agnarr.”

Anna claps her hand, “Oh my gosh, what a coincidence. They both resemble our names and our parents’ ones. I’m pretty sure that was their intention.”

“Agree.”

“Do you think our future baby will be a pure-blood one?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you remember the rumor the queen used her magical power to her sister to give birth. I wonder if we could…” Anna’s been interrupted by a kiss.

Elsa places her hand on her cheek after they kiss, “We’ll find a way,” she says assuredly.

“Okay,” she hugs her sister, “Thank you for considering.”

“You’re welcome. Anything for my sister,” she yawns. “Good night, Anna.”

“Good night kiss?”

She smiles and kisses her sister good night. “I love you, Anna.”

“I love you too, Elsa.”

#elsanna #submission #february 2021 contest #prompt: ancient worlds

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smol-and-trashy · 4 years

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DimiClaude Vore (FE3H) 1/2

A/N: I’m cutting this fic into 2 parts because my motivation is waning and it’s turning out longer than I originally thought. This part is literally all description and Dimi being like “im inside a thing, but what is it? hmmmmm-ing intensifies.” and I’m deceased. Warning for unaware vore (but that’s on the tin), OOC-ness, and mentions of digestion. Enjoy :)

____________________

The incessant pounding of a nearby heartbeat stirs Dimitri out of his slumber. He groggily rises, his first thought drawing from the heartbeat, thinking that he perhaps fell asleep on somebody after growing weary from a recent battle. His face flushes—it would explain the volume and closeness; however, as his eyes flutter open, he immediately notices that this is not the case.

He’s inside a cavern of sort, he had to be, what else would explain the liquid dripping from the ceiling and the ever present puddles of water?

Dimitri curiously takes a step forward, but finds his boot sink into the fleshy ground. Flesh? How could this be? His pulse picks up, nothing about this cave made any sense, the whooshing from above, the constant wetness, and what kind of caves had pliable floors?

He wishes for a lantern to illuminate his surroundings, perhaps then, he could see what kind of cave confined him. Dimitri inhales slowly and while ignoring the surreal sensation of the odd flooring molding around his feet, he walks forward, trying to gather clues of where he could possibly be. As the blond trudges blindly, he notices a slight dip which makes him lose balance and lands him face-first to a squishy wall.

Dimitri’s eyes widen, caves shouldn’t have soft walls, they should be hard and rocky. None of this made any sense.

His heart is thrumming like a hummingbird beneath his ribcage, almost painfully fast. The notion that he may not even be in a cave at all is becoming more fitting.

Dimitri reaches for his lance but finds his sides bare. Not only was he trapped in this… area, but he had no weapon of protection. He clenches his jaw as sparks of rage, and pure frustration begins to nip from under his skin; however, he squashes those feelings down, choosing to focus on a way out over letting his temper get the best of him. If he entered this pit somehow, there had to be an exit.

No, before on deciding on an exit strategy, figuring out where exactly he was would be more efficient, and then he could use that to escape. He paws around his surroundings, trying to check off what qualified as a possibility of where he was. Cave? Does not explain the plush walls. Kidnapped in a sack? Does not explain the wetness… Or…It could be raining outside, and the water was leaking considerably inside the sack. Dimitri’s face lit up before turning grim, figuring out that he may have been kidnapped was not much of a consolidation prize.

Dimitri’s face darkens as straightens his back and calls out,

“Release me!” it was a poor attempt to gain his captor’s attention, he’d admit, but unarmed and having few advantages on his side, he decided to speak to his kidnapper before doing anything rash or could possibly be turned against him.

There’s no initial response, but the thumping from above quickens while the sack gurgles and convulses? Dimitri freezes, feeling rooted despite the shifting of his surroundings. The idea that he could be inside a creature never came into fruition until now, but it all clicked. The whooshing noise was the beast’s powerful lungs, the heavy, constant thumping was a heart, and the odd chamber that seemed to never stop moving…. a stomach. He thinks to himself, the sheer thought of being inside an organic prison, filled to the brim with lethal acids, sends shivers down his spine. He would be digested alive and not have a clue of the beast he was inside of. Dimitri’s eyes narrow, going by the size of the organ and how he so easily able to fit, the only fathomable guess would be a Crest Monster; but, forgetting the memory of getting close enough to the beast to be eaten? Was he rendered rendered unconscious? Perhaps he had passed out in battle, and someone had taken his unconscious body as feed to the beasts. Still, that rationale didn’t add up. He had always been careful, always precise, so being betrayed, and fed to a Crest Monster could not have been true. Yet, his surroundings tell a different story.

The overwhelming heat, the puddles of liquid increasing, and stale air, all point to being inside a living creature.

A warm molasses envelopes him as he can hear the rush of the lungs get louder, and the gurgles intensify; everything is too loud, too crushing. Dimitri’s teeth clench as white-hot anger bleeds through his body. He surges forward to the nearest wall and digs his nails into the ridged walls, ignoring the giant heartbeat pick up frantically, he tears into the walls, scratching and grasping until they bled: this monster will spit him out, or he’ll tear his way out.

His fit didn’t last long as the chamber lurches, earning a gasp from his captor; a loud groan shakes his surroundings, and Dimitri finally stops. His body is tense, animalistic, and he’s breathing heavily. If Felix were to see him now, he knew exactly what he would say, imagining the clear disdain written in those amber eyes.

“You’re nothing but a bloodthirsty boar.”

Dimitri shakily exhales, trying to compose himself, yet he can’t. If he just lets himself get digested by this monster, everything he fought for would be for naught. His brows knit together, focusing on the inky darkness before him and as he’s about to throw an exhaustion fueled punch to the walls, he hears a very familiar voice surround him.

“Nah, it’s nothing. I’ve survived off feeling way worse.” the slightly strained voice of Claude echoes, he’s clearly feeling more pain than he’s letting on, but for now, that’s not the point—

He’s inside Claude?

#fire emblem vore #fe3h vore #fe vore #vore writer #soft vore #safe vore #unwilling pred #unwilling prey #fandom vore #nonfatal vore #unaware vore

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intricate-oeuvre · 5 years

Text

On how to be deadly || Geralt of Rivia || part VII

Word count: 3.5k+ a thiccc one

Summary: Axelia is Witcher experiment herself and has gone through same harsh Trials as Geralt, but she wasn’t so lucky with the outcome. Her vision didn’t become better. Therefore, she was rendered blind in the end. And because of that, she solely uses her Witcher senses to make her ways. Only potions can give her false sense of sight for limited time.Somewhere along the way she meets the Rivian. Who’s interested to know how she’s been killing monsters and hasn’t been killed herself yet.

Warnings: heavy angst, fighting.

A/N: I HAVE HEARD YOUR VOICE, DEAR READERS, SO THE JASKIER ANGST CAN START IN NEXT CHAPTER!!!

part I || part II || part III || part IV || part V || part VI || part VII || part VIII || part IX || part X || part XI || part XII || part XIII | Epilogue

A wolf is a wolf. Even in a cage. Even dressed in silk.

Both of them still were on the ground, fighting each other, when Axelia had landed a gut wrenching kick right between Geralt’s legs. Thus, sending him down on one knee.

“Oh, sweet Lord!” Jaskier winced at that, his own hands flying to cover himself.

“Should I help him?” Ciri asked as she did too wince at the unfair kick from Axelia.

“Who is she, Jaskier?” Yennefer asked before the bard could answer the first question. Yen’s eyes glued to girl’s precise movements.

“I…um… I have sworn to keep my mouth shut.” He glanced at the sorceress. Yennefer didn’t question anything else, for now, and just continued to watch.

That kick at Geralt had given Axelia window of time to recollect herself. Staying few steps in front of him, she leaned down and rested her hands on her knees. She felt angry, adrenaline pumping through her veins. She was angry at everything, more so at the witcher in front of her. She was angry at whole fucking Continent. She was done fighting with grace, ready to get hands on dirty.

“You want to go again?!” she screamed at him, flailing her hands at her sides up.

“What are you trying to prove?” Geralt grunted as he spat out some blood to his side. With a slight wince he stood up, smearing the blood off of his lips onto the back of his hand.

“That I don’t need you!” Axelia continued to scream, as she started to round him helical. The sweat that had gathered on the back of her neck, made her feel cold every time when gust of wind caught on her skin.

“Yet, here you are.” Geralt stated as he regained his fighting stance and started the rounding too.

How could he say such things? Did he not know that she couldn’t do anything about it? That whatever she chose to do, she’ll always end up wherever he is? Has he forgotten that they are soulmates? Had all these years with Yennefer, really made him forget about such things?

Axelia’s eyes turned feral and with animalistic snarl she charged at him once again. This time he had expected her action. They had trained together, after all. With step to the side in very last second, Geralt got out of her way, making her miss him entirely. But with instantaneous turn Geralt reached for her high ponytail that seemed half messy now. And with a yank back and irritated scream that was almost on boarder of painful, she was wrenched back. Her body completely thrown out of balance as her head was yanked too far back, making her land on her back on the ground with a heavy thud. Jolting all breath out of her lungs. More tears gathering in her eyes. She was sure Geralt could break her, and he will if she won’t ask him to stop. He walked closer to her, leaning over.

“Are you done?” He spat with tilt of his head, same irritation on his face as on hers. Axelia bared her bloody teeth at his upside-down form.

“Why did you follow me?!” she seethed, her nails digging in the dirt besides her.

“It works both ways, you know.” Geralt said, resting his elbow on his knee, thus leaning closer down at her. He was breathing heavily while Axelia was still trying to regain her breath which had been knocked out of her just seconds ago.

“That is: why you were drawn here is the explanation why I followed you.” He said, as his eyes glanced at his own hand that Axelia had sunk her teeth into. With painful gulp she continued staring daggers at him. Which reminded her of the knife she kept in her right boots. Planting both of her feet on the ground and bending her legs at knees she seemed done with the fight.

“I assumed that you-” Geralt caught movement with corner of his eyes. Axelia’s hand was slowly creeping along the dirt towards her boot. Geralt moved swiftly and with a stomp, firmly planted his foot on her wrist. The sudden application of force and pressure making her hand crack. Axelia hissed at him, not sure if he had broken her wrist or not.

Geralt sent her a glare and then reached for her boot to pull out the dagger hiding in there. With that ‘are you for real’ look he raised eyebrow at her.

“What? You always told to have some contingency plan.” She rolled her eyes at him. Throwing the dagger to the side, he continued on whatever he wanted to tell her before:

“As I said, before you interrupted me so vulgarly,” he applied a little bit more pressure on her wrist, making his point clear: “I believed that you knew how that soulmate banter went.” He sighed.

“I don’t know two shits about soulmates!” Axelia spat, blood flying out of her mouth as she raised head higher. Geralt narrowed his eyes at her and stepped off of her hand. With huff she cradled her hand to her chest and sat up. Her face smeared with dirt and blood, only two lines seemed clear on her face- where the tears had streamed down her cheeks from frustration. Her hair in similar state with dirt and grass in her white strands. Geralt looked matching, his hair messy with dirt and stems of grass. His face sporting similar look with all the dirt and his bloody nose.

“You’re like a savage beast.” Geralt grunted out as he looked at his bitten hand again, turning it one way and then another.

“Yeah, and you almost broke my wrist.” She grumbled and moved her hand.

“Hm.” Geralt hummed gravely.

“You’re always running. Why?” witcher asked her after brief moment of silence.

“We have spectators.” Axelia said, turning to look over her shoulder, and letting out a small hiss of pain. Her ribs most likely were bruised. For a second Geralt turned to look on their audience, but didn’t heed any more attention than that.

“Axelia.” Geralt stated her name, still waiting for her answer.

“What? What do you want me to say? Why wouldn’t I run from something that I can’t really have? From something that could have been mine, but now it isn’t? The… The… All this, whatever.” She said looking at her dirty hands.

“It’s easier to run away from you, than to be reminded of all the what ifs.” She sighed looking up at him.

“I really am a failed experiment.” She groaned laying back on the ground and staring in the grey clouds, still holding her wrist to her chest.

“Stop that.” Geralt advised. Her eyes briefly flickered to him, questioning burning in her eyes.

“You’re doubting yourself again, stop that.” Geralt explained to her. She just let out half-amused chuckled at that, seeing no true humour in it. Truth be told, Geralt was and still is the only one who ever believed in her, in all the things she did, all the things she pursued. Maybe the only thing he didn’t believe, was her pursuit in soulmates.

“Aren’t you in the position to talk.” Axelia started cynically. “You have love of your life, and she has you… Odd triangle, if you ask me.” She rolled her eyes and finally pulled herself up.

“I must leave, Geralt.” She said turning to him, her eyes momentarily jumping behind him, where one in the distance could see those three on-watchers.

“That’s her. With the dark hair, isn’t it?” she asked, slightly distracted.

“Yes.”

“And that’s… law of surprise child, Ciri…” she trailed off in her observations.

“Yes, and the third is the bard.” Geralt said with slight annoyance in his voice. Axelia’s eyes flickered back to Geralt’s face, her eyebrows furrowing. Without any other words, she turned and started to walk away. Feeling that she should finally give up on her love life. Even if it meant to lie to her own heart every time, she’ll ever stumble upon the witcher. It’s taking toll on her, nor her body, nor her mind and nor her heart could take any more damage.

“To whom are you trying to prove that?” Geralt asked in reminiscence on previous talk, when he didn’t find anything else to say to her to stop her from leaving. Axelia stopped and turned around to look at him.

“Myself.” She said determined about her answer, but it soon that feling disappeared: “I thought that I will prove it today. But then you decided to follow me. And ruin my self-restrain.”

“You have no idea how hard it is to stay away from you, whenever I learn that you are near. It’s like you have this magnetic pull that I can’t resist. My body is ready to go through such dreadful lengths just to bask in your presence. Does that make me clingy or weak? It does, but in that moment, I do not give a single flying fuck. Because that’s how soulmates work, Geralt. You asked me if I know. And I do. I have visited too many mages and sorcerers, just to get rid of all these connections and feelings. Even tried to find a fucking djinn, can you believe?” Axelia started her monologue. Back in Kaer Morhen she always was the one who felt most emotions.

“I want to start o'er so much.” She said quietly to herself, tears of desperation gathering in her eyes. Looking up at the sky, she tried to will them away.

“See? You always have my emotions fucked up.” She smiled at him through tears in her eyes. She was so deep in woods of emotions, and right now, all she wanted was to get into the clear and get rid of everything.

Geralt stood up straighter, about to take a step closer to her. But at the moment she seemed like scared animal, and with shake of her head, she took a step back. Geralt hated to see her cry. She was such of strong woman, such a fierce warrior that could be broken and beaten to the pulp, but she still would stand up and fight, and when she was crying, it meant that she was truly and utterly broken. Not only physically but also mentally.

“Axelia.” Geralt said quietly, cautiously stretching one hand in front of him, showing that he didn’t mean harm.

“Geralt.” Axelia chocked out in same manner. How did she turn from blood spitting fighter into this soft, trembling creature, was beyond Geralt’s apprehension? Did all these years, so far and yet so close to each other, left her in this state of half breaking? This reminded him when they both went through Trials of Dreams where they were going through mutations to improve their vision. He remembered all the screams, grunts and moans of pain as mutations took effect. And when the pain had ended came the clairvoyance. This epiphany type of feeling when one could see in the clearest way, catching every single dust particle in air. He had smelled that velvet rose and sandalwood in the air, signifying that he was still alive. But the utmost silence coming from besides him, where on the other table was supposedly Axelia, made dread settle deep in his gut

“Axelia?” he had questioned her silence as his eyes fell upon her face, the first thing he had the chance to see when he reopened his eyes after all that agonizing pain. And her face had looked like it did now. Full with cruel hurt, tears streaming down her face, as her mouth was half-open in silent scream.

“Geralt?” she had asked, voice trembling, her whole being shaking. The first thing he saw with his new eyes that he had gained through pain, was even more pain. On the face of a girl that was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen; on a person he loves and cares for.

“Geralt? Is everything alright?” Both of them could hear Yennefer’s voice closer. Geralt looked over his shoulder and Axelia looked past him, both of them noticing that all three of them had advanced closer. Yennefer and Ciri quite bravely walking closer, while Jaskier walked behind them – latter knowing better than to interfere.

“I’m dying a little every time I see you with her.” Axelia dried her nose in her sleeve as her eyes turned back to him. But she couldn’t stop them from flicking back to Yennefer and Ciri who still came closer, wanting to know what was going on.

“Hey, is everything alright?” Ciri looked from Geralt to the girl that was in front of them- crying, trembling and holding her injured wrist in her hand close to her heart.

Axelia’s eyes were skipping from one person to another. Too many eyes looking at her, while she was crying and being weak. She was witcher, Geralt never was like that. Her eyes stopped at the sword and dagger that were now in Ciri’s hands. Fuck that, she’ll live without that silver sword for some time. It was very expensive, but she’ll manage. Then her eyes flickered to Yennefer, who was looking at her with confusion. Then to Geralt who’s expression she couldn’t read. Back to Ciri who looked upon the crying girl with sympathy and concern. And in the end her eyes caught on her cloak that Jaskier was holding and her blindfold that was wrapped around his other arm in nonchalant way. It was such contrast, the black fabric with his dark blueish outfit. Axelia’s teary eyes flashed up to meet his. Only apologetic look gracing his features. She-witcher felt so bad and useless at the moment. She awkwardly looked down at the ground and with sob looked up. At no one in particular, somewhere above everybody’s heads. With her tongue running along the front of her teeth, Axelia turned around and went into the forest. Her only escape.

And she run.

And run. The only thing that she knew how to do.

No one followed her, but their eyes collectively turned to Geralt, who was still staring at the forest trees.

“Really, Geralt?” Jaskier questioned, his brows furrowing.

“What did you do?” Ciri asked, her eyes flickering to the woods for a second until returning to Geralt.

“Which time is it? The fourth or something, that you just let her leave like that?” Jaskier continued.

Witcher didn’t answer. And Yennefer didn’t seem happy either.

“I do hope someone will explain all of this.” She said tad annoyed. With slight anger bubbling in her eyes she looked at Jaskier then at Ciri and finally at Geralt. With a grunt witcher turned around and went back to the city, Yennefer hot on his heels and not shutting up about this whole ordeal.

“Dandelion, are you coming?” Ciri asked as she was already walking towards the forest. Jaskier looked at the cloak and tulle fabric in his hands and then looked up at Ciri.

“Are you sure, you can find her?” Jaskier furrowed his brows while catching up with Ciri.

“Geralt thought me, of course I can.” Ciri rolled her eyes playfully and walked along the road that led into the forest.

They had been walking for some time.

“So, who is she?” Ciri asked.

“To me or to Geralt?” Jaskier asked, rearranging his grip on the dark cloak.

“Oh, so she is something to you too?!” Ciri stopped for a second. Geralt once or twice had mentioned something about soulmates and the fact the he had one too. And Ciri today had made a bet with herself that the girl from earlier must have some connections to Geralt, mostly likely this all soulmates thing.

“She is his soulmate, right?” Ciri guessed, glancing down at the sword in her hands.

“Yep.” Jaskier popped the p. Then he explained everything that Geralt had let him know about Axelia, but keeping the details that she herself had told him, to himself.

Meanwhile Axelia was running on the road, hair already fallen out of that messed up ponytail. Her ears catching the sound of stream somewhere on her right. Deep in the woods, off the road. Everything was closing in and she needed to escape. Taking a sharp turn, she dodged into the woods, not following road anymore. She was running, trees scratching her face, her feet stumbling on the fallen tree branches. Her lungs were burning, and her hands started to claw at her corset. With scream of anger she pulled open the string that laced it together at the front. With half-revealed hiss, she threw corset away, her hands latching onto her forearm braces and ridding herself from them too. Unbuttoning first four buttons from the top of her shirt, she leaned against nearby tree. Tears choking her and not letting her take a deep breath of air. She sunk to the ground. Letting out a silent scream as her hands clawed at ground, her nails digging through dead leaves and dirt. She was drowning in her own tears. Breathes just coming out in broken sobs as she tried to pull in new air with choked wheezes. Everything hurt so much, that she couldn’t even stand up anymore. Her mind was worsening her, playing sweet and cherished memories before her blind eyes. She didn’t want to remember anything! She just wanted to be swallowed up by the sound of the stream that was couple feet in front of her.

“No! Stop!” she screamed at herself, her dirty nails now digging in her long hair, and pulling at the tress with such force that her face was pulled up in even more agony. Her thoughts were running circles with unwanted memories. At times, at such quantity that she was ready to run in a tree head first, and just bash her head against it until she won’t feel a thing anymore. She broke, bruised and completely alone.

***

“Why aren’t we staying on the road?” Jaskier asked, as he and Ciri were now in middle of woods and not on a trusty path anymore.

“Because she went this way.” Ciri noted as she looked at all the freshly broken branches and footprints left from Axelia’s stumbles.

“Is this hers?” Ciri asked picking up Axelia’s corset.

“And those are her vambraces...?” Jaskier nodded towards the dark forearm braces that were thrown on the ground further ahead. One further than the other. Beckoning towards Axelia’s whereabouts.

“She mostly likely is at the river.” Ciri concluded.

“Let’s hope she’s not trying to drown herself.” Jaskier mumbled walking onward.

Axelia heard them before anything else. Silent whispers flowing in the wind. And part of her told her to get up and run. But all she could manage to do was sit up against the big tree.

“Oh, please, no…” She mumbled as her tears now were silent. Occasional sob escaping her. She clumped her mouth shut, to shut herself up. Her legs were drawn to her torso, and her chin tilted down towards her chest. With fear she was waiting for the scent to finally reach her. And when she felt it, more panic settled in. At first, she felt rich fragrance, something akin to wild berries, very refined. But her panic subsided a little, when a familiar scent hit her senses. Her head immediately snapped up, her eyes welling up even more. It was familiar, but not familiar in a way that could make her run away again. It was scent that reminded her of the times when she needed someone to resort in, someone she could rely on and talk freely to. Not hiding her emotions, not keeping up the perfect witcher image. She had needed trusty ears, who would listen and not judge her. Someone who could give her false shelter from outside world and her own emotions. Even if it was for a little moment.

Then she heard the sound of two pairs of feet stepping through the dry leaves. The sound of crunching making her feel like scared animal, who is waiting for the predator to finally strike. The gentle breeze of wind, made the two scents more prominent. The second scent making her risk all of it and glance around the big tree trunk. She carefully putted her hand on the ground and with one eye she peered behind the tree. Her eyes scanned over the trees, firstly catching on the white-haired girl, that was saying something, her eyes glued on the ground in front of her feet. Then her eyes zeroed onto the second person.

Jaskier was the first of two who noticed Axelia hiding behind a tree. With small gasp he slowed his steps. Trying to show to the hurt girl, that he meant no harm. At that Ciri noticed her too, and stopped all together, not wanting to make the girl feel threatened.

“Axelia?” Jaskier questioned her, still slowly approaching her. Axelia’s eyes locked with his at the call of her name.

“Jaskier…” Axelia choked as she quickly pushed herself up. Pushing off of a tree she run to him, crushing in his chest as tears stared falling down her cheeks again, staining his shirt. Praying that she could just wish all this away.

“I’m here.” He mumbled in her hair, his eyes briefly flicking to Ciri, who only held all the sympathy for the girl in Jaskier’s arms.

~~~~

part I || part II || part III || part IV || part V || part VI || part VII || part VIII || part IX || part X || part XI || part XII || part XIII | Epilogue

tags:

@boiled-onionrings @fandomwithnolifesblog @901seconds @kingniazx @shesakillerkween @your-dreams-are-strong @stitchattacks @ayamenimthiriel @stormfire6 @mr-illegal-king @stretchkingblog97 @mikariell95 @geralt-of-motherfucking-rivia @martian-m @republicansithlord @notso-fetch @lizliz3107 @godlydolans @arsaky-lou @eternallyvenus @le-reina-asesina @alwayshave-faith @writingmi @staringmoony @kenai731 @holychic @dramaticturnaway @ihopeyousteponarosepetal @seouldesire @runs-with-sciss0rs @yes-captainstark @fandomhell97 @newtdisneywho

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amethystpath-writes · 4 years

Text

A Gentle Blade Part 5

Part 4 here

First, I want to say thank you to all of my new followers (and the pre-existing ones ofc!!) I can't wait to share more with everyone! Enjoy! *kiss*

@badthingshappenbingo

Prompt: Bound and Gagged

Fandom: Original Work

TWs: Captivity, mentions of torture, mentions of needles (nonsurgical). If I ever miss any, let me know and I can always add them! XX

**********

The man was perhaps only a few years older than Leera. His build was thin and lean, his height towering the assassin's. Even if Leera was at full strength, she wasn't sure she could fend him off. Sir Robson trained her to be stealthy. That wasn't so easy when the man constantly had an eye on her, even had her leashed.

The leather on Leera's neck was uncomfortable, even more so when there was a metal ring attached to the back of it where a chain was attached, linking her to the man walking her.

So many times the assassin felt vicious words about to spew out of her, but in all honesty, it was better than the treatment she received from Queen Rennera. Leera was afraid that if she complained to her captor then he might make things worse, and she was in no condition to fight him. The assassin's strength was in her legs. If she could knock the man down, she might be able to wrap the chain attached to her ankles around the man's neck. The problem was that her legs wore sore, exhausted. And anyway, there was no way to knock him down.

Leera was forced to walk in front of the man, who she wished desperately to know the name of, forced to stay ahead so she was unable to try a thing. Even if she were close enough to knock him down, perhaps by tripping him, he would be up too quickly for her to be able to lower herself to the ground without hurting herself. Her hands being tied behind her back with thick rope meant she wouldn't be able to maintain balance, especially since she would already be using her legs. Attacking wasn't an option.

"You're aware who you're doing this for, yeah?" the assassin called over her shoulder. She didn't turn her eyes away from the path for fear she might trip over a tree root or slip in a puddle of mud.

The chain created a wave from the man's hand to Leera's neck before yanking tightly back. She jolted and staggered before continuing their walk. "I'm very aware, scum." The word scum sounded odd coming from his lips, like he was unsure of even using it.

"Then tell me who." Another wave and tug. This wave was larger, causing the assassin to duck her head forward to avoid another shock. When the man was done nonverbally berating her for speaking, she spoke again. If she couldn't fight him to get away, maybe she could convince him to release her. "Tell me how generous you think she is, how much she truly cares for the people of her kingdom, how much she delights when her pets lick at her feet. The queen doesn't care about you, nor anyone."

The man gave a dry laugh. Leera felt a pull at the back of her neck, a small one, just barely noticeable, but then there was another pull. She stopped walking, turned her head back. Her eyes latched to the man's hands. He was coiling the chain around his neck coming closer and closer, step by step, circle of chain by circle of chain. The assassin felt a pit in her stomach. Maybe talking was worse than trying to fight. At least she had some kind of chance if she knocked the man down. Insulting the man's beliefs about his queen...what was she thinking?

With a hand hovering at the back of Leera's head, the man smiled down at her. The other hand wrapped behind her as well and he gathered the assassin's raven hair in one hand before pulling it in front of her left shoulder. Leera swallowed as the man coiled the chain in his hand one last time, resting his fingers and the metal against the skin of her neck. "Look at me," he told her. Her eyes had been darting between his eyes, passed his shoulders, and to the fabric on his chest. It was in tatters, the shirt, she realized.

"Look at me," he repeated, his fingers digging ever so slightly into her skin. Leera grimaced, but looked into his eyes finally, not glancing away again. He brought the hand that moved her hair to her cheek, placed his fingers beneath her ear, thumb across her cheek bone. It was difficult not to look away. "I know the queen doesn't give a damn. She's calloused-" Like you, Leera thought. "-and only cares about shoving your pretty face in a pail of sewing needles." The assassin's eyes darted again.

A pail of sewing needles? Was that better or worse than a night in the king's coffin? Of course it's better, morally. But gods, that pain... Leera could see herself in that moment, in the dark dungeons, moist walls and floor, cold and deserted. She could picture herself on her bruised knees, arms tied back, a guard pushing her head down into a shining metal bucket, her skin being poked and scraped, torn apart as badly, but more consistently, as when the queen dragged a nail down her face. The assassin even heard her own pleas, then felt the needles poking her tongue, scratching her teeth as she begged. The man's thumb stroked her cheek; Leera peered into his eyes again.

"I never knew the queen. I don't think anyone ever did until you killed the king. Praise you for it," he said and Leera's eyes widened. "He was terrible; we all knew it, all experienced it in one way or another." The man's thumb stopped stroking Leera's cheek. "Didn't get better when the queen took the throne. If anything it got worse. She doesn't care, I know, but she's wealthy and she wants you. I'd like to live-" So would I. "-and if the only way to do that is to turn you in- well then- I have to do it." His hand fell from the assassin's face. The chain grew heavier to Leera as he uncoiled the metal from his hand, letting it droop. "Turn," he demanded.

"You can't take me back to her," Leera said. "Please. Please." Her voice was soft, scared.

"Turn." The man's voice went cold, distant, uncaring, opposite of what it had been just moments before.

With one tear following another, the assassin swiveled slowly on a heel, her back now facing her captor. For a minute, her heart leapt, not out of fear, but of joy. He was undoing the rope at her wrists. He was releasing her! But then she heard the shrill sound of a dagger being pulled from its sheathe, followed by the sound of rope being cut. The rope never fully left her wrists; he only unbound it partially before cutting a piece off, and before re-tightening the rope still bounding her.

His hands were in front of her eyes in the next moment, along with a string of rope. "Open, he said.

"What?"

"Your mouth," he specified. "Open it."

"No. No, please don't. It'll be all I have left. Please." He couldn't take her voice on top of everything else. "I won't speak the rest of the trip. I won't," she insisted. Still, the rope hovered in front of her eyes. Leera shook her head and stepped away, her back meeting the man's chest. His heart was beating quickly against her body. He didn't want to do this as much as she didn't want him to.

The rope was nearing her mouth, cutting the air as it came closer, with more speed, more determination. As it approached, just inches away, Leera sucked in her lips. The rope pressed firmly against them. "If you don't open your mouth," the man warned, "I will make you swallow a piece before I tie it around your head." For extra measure, he released the rope with one hand and brought it to the assassin's chin, squeezing tightly at her jaw until she gave, opening her mouth as widely as she could if only to stop the pain he was causing. He slid the rope between her teeth, pulling it back and commanding her to shut her jaw. Then he tied it tightly enough that the corners of Leera's mouth were pulled back as well. There was hardly any room to move her tongue. She was- literally- rendered speechless.

This was how the trip remained. Leera was bound at the wrist, chained at the ankle, and leashed at the neck. Her tongue was pushed back, unable to move. The assassin could only groan and mumble- not hum, as her lips couldn't touch. The man only ever said one more thing, just as they made it to the front doors of Queen Rennera's palace. "Be sure to scream on your own," he told the assassin, "Or else I'll have to make you scream for a reason."

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

Part 6 here

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mnemememory · 5 years

Text

sweet little lamb

(part 1)

beauty in the beast au; where jester is a teapot, caleb is a candelabra, and yasha is an evil demon (except she's really not)

Beau exists in a perpetual state of making bad decisions.

At least, according to her mother. Beau’s gotten good at tuning out the rants about coming home late, coming home drunk, coming home with hickeys on her neck or not bothering to even come home at all. Beau spends most of her nights crashing on couches with people she hadn’t known before that evening. The village of Kamordah is small, but the city located just an hour out certainly isn’t. Every time Beau leaves behind the stink of a thousand people, she feels a little less herself.

Still. She hadn’t actually expected them to kick her out.

“Hey,” she yells, banging on the door. The locked door. They even moved the spare key out from under the doormat. “I’m back! Let me in!”

Nothing.

Beau scowls and kicks at the doorframe one more time, before turning and stuffing her hands into her pockets. She looks around at the street. Thankfully, it’s still early enough that no one was out and about to witness her inglorious disownment. Apparent disownment. If they want to get rid of Beau, they’re going to have to look her in the eyes and say it. If anything, she wants to be able to punch someone before the village police are called.

The neighbourhood is already fairly used to bursts of random shouting coming from wherever Beau turns out to be, so no one rushes out to demand Why are you awake at this ungodly hour of the morning? The answer is, obviously, Beau is drunk off her ass and wanted a nice place to sleep tonight. It is her birthday, after all.

Well. It had been her birthday, right up until midnight last night. She is officially eighteen years and one day old. Hurray.

Beau can just imagine what her mother would say now: “I can’t believe you’ve managed to survive this long.” Even in Beau’s imagination, she’s dressed immaculately, holding tight to her little brother’s hand. “Given how often you’ve tried to drink yourself – and us – into an early grave.”

Beau doesn’t drink that much. Her mother tends to overexaggerate for comedic effect, especially when the neighbours were involved. Beau can’t count how many times she’s hidden at the top of the staircase as her mother entertained guests, listening to the horrible things they said about each other. Your daughter certainly is a handful, was often the topic of conversation. I heard she –

It was different, every time, but the tone never changed. Beau always thought it funny how different they sounded when they thought no one was listening.

“I can’t believe this,” she says, kicking at the sidewalk and stubbing her toe. She spits out a few curses that her mother would have killed her for had she uttered them around her baby brother, and then collapses onto the hard ground. She spreads her limbs out like a starfish. Beau is just intoxicated enough to know that this is a bad idea but not particularly care. If someone runs me over with a cart, she thinks, then at least my death will be as messy and inconvenient as possible.

She wonders what her parents would tell her little brother. Maybe he’d wake up early, like he always seemed to do. Maybe they wouldn’t catch him fast enough to stop him from looking at her mangled corpse. People died all the time in villages like hers, where hygiene came in the form of bi-weekly bathes and soap strong enough to give sensitive skin chemical burns, but her little brother hadn’t really been in the forefront of all that.

Beau stares up at the stars. She counts the specks of light until she loses track, until the sunlight starts to bleach the sky pale. It’s cloudless and beautiful. The weather is perfect. Of course it is.

(It had been raining yesterday. Beau can already feel the water pooling in-between the cobblestone cracks, soaking into her jacket and chilling her to the bone.

Of course the weather was perfect for her little brother’s birthday, but not for hers. Of course).

“You’re looking rather down, young lady,” someone says.

Beau opens her eyes. There is a man standing above her, silhouetted by the rising sun. He’s a drow, his long tattered black cloak pulled loosely around a set of grey leather armour. There’s a blue cloth wrapped around the lower half of his face, obscuring everything but his eyes. Yellow eyes.

Very slowly, Beau sits up. There’s still no one around, which is odd but not unusual. It’s the day after a festival, after all. People were probably still nursing off their hangovers in the comfortable cool darkness of their own homes.

“What do you want?” she says, reaching up to press a hand to her forehead. Gah. That was such a bad idea. Now the world is spinning. As much fun as it would be to get robbed just outside her parents house, she doesn’t exactly feel like mugging some poor random to get back whatever shreds of her dignity remained.

The man seems to smile down at her. It’s a little hard to tell, with the only reference she has being the slight upward curve of his glowing eyes. “I was just passing through,” he says. “Thought you might be in a bit of trouble.”

Urgh. “No,” Beau says, bracing herself. She jumps to her feet without too much wooziness, which she’s going to count as a win. “Everything’s fine. Nothing to see here.”

“Is that so,” the man says.

“I haven’t seen you around before,” Beau says, flexing her fingers. She bends down again to grab her staff. “You here for the festival?”

“You could say that,” the man says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Beau says. “I don’t speak bullshit.”

“On the contrary, I expect that’s the only language you do speak.”

Beau lunges forward. “Excuse –”

He’s gone.

Beau whirls around at the sound of mocking laughter. The drow is standing behind her, eyes in half-moons, arms crossed. He’s leaning casually against the pole of a streetlamp.

Twirling her staff, Beau rushes him. She lands a blow with a sickening crack, following up with her fists –

Only to hit the pole. Beau’s knuckles bounce off the metal, numb.

“I’m here to collect a debt,” the man says. He’s still behind her. How did he manage to get behind her again?

“I don’t owe you shit,” Beau says. “I don’t even know who you are.”

The man tuts. “I think you owe quite a few people you don’t know quite a few things,” he says. “That speakeasy you opened up in the city certainly hasn’t been making bank on generous donations from wealthy benefactors, after all.”

“You’re here about the Mighty Nein?” Beau says, clenching her teeth. “What are you, a tax collector?”

“Well, you certainly don’t pay for all that alcohol,” he says. “But no. In this, you’re not incorrect. You don’t know who I am. But I certainly know who you are, Miss Lionett.”

Beau briefly closes her eyes. She shifts around her grip on her staff. “Is this something Dad owes you?”

The man lifts up his hand, like he’s ringing an imaginary bell. “Ding! And your father insisted on you being slow. No, I think you’re just the intelligence level I need for this.”

“For what?” Beau says, and then snaps into a flurry of blows. He’s gone before she can even land a glancing hit, which is nothing if not a blow to her pride.

“Just a little job I need done,” he says. Beau doesn’t turn around this time. She looks from side to side, mind frantically working out some new strategy. There’s still no one outside, despite the sun being well above the buildings by now. Festival or no festival, the harvest must be tended. Beau’s father would skin anyone who thought about skipping a day of work because of too much late-night partying. Beau would know. She’s borne the brunt of one-too-many early-morning shouting matches over that exact situation.

“I don’t work for assholes,” Beau says.

“And yet you work for your father,” he says.

Beau grins into the distance, sharp as a knife. “I wouldn’t say I work for him exactly.”

The man snaps his fingers. “Of course! What I meant was ‘embezzle’! But that’s not important right now, Miss Lionett. I’m here because I was promised something very valuable in return for services rendered, say – hmm. Eighteen years ago?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Beau says.

“Why doesn’t it surprise me that Thoreau Lionett never mentioned how he came into his wealth?”

Beau stops short. “You can’t be.”

“Oh, he did mention me. How delightful.”

Beau spins on her heel to stare at him. “You were the one who told him to come here. To start making wine.”

“And oh, how he has prospered,” he says, holding out his arms wide to encompass the buildings behind him. “And all I asked in return was a promise for help. Eighteen years later, and here I am, seeking to have that promise fulfilled.”

“I didn’t promise you shit,” Beau says.

“But your father did, when I talked to him last night,” the man says. “He suggested that you might be more than capable of killing the beast that hunts in the dark forest. You are decent with that weapon of yours, am I correct? Decent enough to kill a monster?”

Beau narrows her eyes.

“You want me to kill something,” she says. “That’s your repayment. Eighteen years ago, you looked at my Dad – who is pathetic when it comes to weapons – and thought, gee, this guy looks like just the man for the job.”

“I didn’t know I wanted this beast killed eighteen years ago,” the man says. “Now I do.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to believe me,” the man says. He snaps his fingers. His eyes flare an intense gold, and for a split-second Beau can almost see the misshapen shadows of wings burned into the wall behind him. Then the wall is gone, the ground is gone, everything is gone. Beau unbalances and falls down onto her knees, staff automatically digging into – into something to stabilise herself. She blinks heavily and looks around.

They are no longer in the village. Beau cautiously gets to her feet, head still pounding, and looks around at the dense forest that stretches out as far as she can see – which isn’t very far. The trees are packed so closely together that it’s impossible to make out anything from more than three feet away. She takes a step forward and gets her foot tangled up in a web of tree-roots that are just sort of chilling on top of the dirt.

“Find the monster and kill it,” the man says. Beau looks up. He’s sitting in the branches of a tree, lounging casually. “All your father’s debts will be repaid, and I will never trouble your doorstep again.”

“I didn’t agree to this,” Beau howls, stumbling over to kick viciously at the tree trunk. She peels off some sodden, moss-covered bark, but the rest of it is healthy. Mostly she just gets wet for the effort.

“Who knows,” the man says. He sounds almost amused, the jerk. “Maybe it will kill you first. That would certainly be entertaining, if inconvenient.”

“Take – me – back!”

The man snaps his fingers, and he’s gone.

Beau would like to say that she handles the situation with maturity and poise.

What she does is yell out every swear-word known to man (and a few only known to halflings) and kick at things until her ankles are swollen and her knees are bloody and damp. It takes her a good ten minutes to calm down. By then, she’s already figured out that she’s probably scared off all the small game in the area and attracted this “monster” for an easy feast.

“What a dick,” she says, trudging in – a direction. A random direction. There are no signs of anything monstrous anywhere, Beau is literally faking this whole thing until she can make it. “What was Dad thinking, listening to someone who won’t even show his face – it’s shady, that’s what it is, and I know Dad isn’t as stupid as he pretends to be –”

Beau keeps walking. And walking. And walking.

There’s some part of her that thinks that maybe she should just – stop? For a little while? Take a break, try to get some bearing on her surroundings. Climb a tree, yeah, that’d be a good idea. Beau is too irritated to be thinking logically, though. Maybe in half an hour. Maybe in an hour.

(It takes two hours and twenty minutes).

“Okay,” Beau says to herself when she’s finally calmed down from her impromptu temper tantrum. She limbers up and looks around for the nearest sturdy-looking tree, which is all of them. There are so many trees here. Beau is starting to feel claustrophobic just thinking about it. “Here I go –”

And then she’s shooting towards the sky.

There’s nothing quite so freeing as parkouring up a tree. Beau can’t quite stop herself from laughing as she twists mid-air, catching onto a low-hanging branch and propelling herself up. She’s at the top almost too soon, but she hasn’t even broken the canopy, so she just jumps onto the closest trunk and keeps going.

It takes a while to find somewhere she can get a decent view from. She clings to the bendy part of the top of the tree and sways with the wind. The sun is already settled comfortably into the centre of the sky, heat tickling the back of Beau’s neck. The view is incredible.

And also – unfortunately – familiar.

“Oh fuck,” Beau says, staring in dismay at the castle which emerges out of the canopy in the distance. It looms, dark even in the sunlight. “That’s what he meant by monster.”

Once upon a time…

(“Why do you always start your stories like that, grandpa? Can’t you just tell me when it happened?”

“I don’t always know that. And shh, stop interrupting you impertinent girl. It’ll be worth your while.”)

…there was a girl.

These things always seem to start with a girl. She was beautiful, because all good heroines must be beautiful, and brave, because they must always be brave too. And she fell in love, as beautiful brave girls do, and everything was right in the world.

Only, she fell in love with the wrong person.

Destiny is a funny thing, little girl. She fell in love with teeth and claws and bloodstained blades. There was a Creature stalking in the night, and the girl went outside and made it her friend.

(“That’s stupid. Who would fall in love with something like that?”

“Hush, it’s only a story.”)

And when the time came for the girl to be married to the man chosen for her, she repudiated him and instead ran to the comfort of her Creature. Her family, fearing the worst, hurried after her, and –

(“And? And what? You can’t end things like that!”

“It’s getting late, Beau. I’ll finish this story tomorrow night.”

“Please? Please? Tomorrow is so far away, grandpa.”

“What do you want me to say? The girl dies and the Creature forever haunts the forest. The end.”

“That’s a horrible end.”

“That’s the one I was told, and the one I’m telling you.”

“Make up a better ending, then.”

“Go to sleep, Beau.”)

There are stories about the castle.

Of course there are stories about the castle. Kamordah is a small village. There are stories about the well being haunted. There are stories about how Miss-So-And-So definitely killed Mister-So-And-So at that crossroads over there, and if you look on the night of a full moon, you can still see the bloodstains. There are stories about the castle.

Kamordah is surrounded by a forest, as all good villages are want to do. Beau has to trudge through an endless expanse of greenery to get to the city, and has to trudge right back through to return. As with any forest that encompasses more than sixty square feet of shrubbery, people get lost.

It happens. The village has learned to accept that sometimes, people walk too far into the trees and don’t come back for a good few days. Maybe even weeks, depending on how stupid they are. They come back wild-eyed and so scared.

(some of them stay scared for the rest of their lives).

“There’s – there’s something in there,” people say, shaking. Always shaking. “A beast – a monster – I was walking for hours – days – lifetimes – and then there it was. A castle, right out of a fairy tale. Tall enough to touch the sky. Spiked to stab the sun. And there was nothing else, no other way out. I turned around and walked away and it was still there in front of me. And eventually I had to go to the gate.”

Beau used to hide on the side of the staircase, half-hidden by wine barrels and the railing. Her father was the unofficial-official leader of the village, and the police always brought crazy people to his house when they reappeared.

Her father had never seemed surprised at any of the insane ramblings. Beau would peek out between the slats and stare at him, and the policeman, and whatever person for that month was hunched over in a chair.

“Wings,” they would say. “Bat wings – skeletal wings – eyes right out of the fires of hell. A bloodless face.”

“And what happened to you when you went inside?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Beau heard a thousand times. “No matter how far I ran, the castle would always be waiting for me. I opened the gate and that – that thing was there, and it spoke to me, but I can’t remember what it said. It was too horrifying. I passed out.”

(Or, sometimes, if they were more foolish than fearful, it was:

“I opened the gate and it was there, the creature. It spoke, but I don’t remember what it said. Then it led me into the castle. I don’t remember what happened after that, only that it was – it was horrifying beyond words. Please. Please. Don’t make me think about it anymore.”)

They would all walk free the next day, unrestricted by wounds, barely a half-hours straight walk from the village. And they could not stop shaking.

Here’s what everyone knows:

There’s a monster in the castle.

It’ll get you if you wander too far.

“Looks like I’m caught,” Beau says to herself, leaning back against the tree and closing her eyes.

That was something everyone had agreed on. Once you saw the castle, there was no escape.

She slides down the trunk and lands on the ground with her knees bent. She doesn’t immediately straighten up, just looks down at the ground with pursed lips and balances her elbows against her knees. She has to think this through.

On one hand – the monster has never really killed anyone. Traumatised, yes. Ruined lives, absolutely. But not necessarily killed.

There’s something she’s missing here. Something that man doesn’t want her to know.

On the other hand…maybe this would do it. Maybe this would be the thing that stopped her father from looking through her. Maybe he would finally see that he fucking owed her for throwing her under the cart like this. Maybe –

Beau leans back and collapses into a cross-legged position, laughing.

“Sure,” she says, grinning up into the green-dappled light of the canopy. “Yeah, that’s gonna do it. Let’s wash the slate clean.” She rolls her eyes.

Beau gets up and brushes herself off. She’s spent the last few years bouncing off from person to person, learning what she could and stealing what she couldn’t. She’s gotten good at reading people, is what she’s saying. And that man had wanted nothing good from her, or from her family. In the loosest sense of the word, of course.

She starts walking forward. It doesn’t matter if she’s walking towards the castle, or away from it. According to the stories, it’ll find her eventually.

And it does.

Beau isn’t surprised when she looks up and sees the castle. Still, it’s a little jarring – she’s been periodically checking the horizon, trying to catch a glimpse of anything off in the distance. There aren’t too many clear spaces between the branches, so she’s working with a very limited amount of vision. She’s careful, and methodical, and it still manages to catch her off guard.

The castle is large. It imposes itself between the spaces of the forest, dark and ominous despite the light. The bricks are old obsidian, chiselled smooth and worn rough. The walls are crumbling in on themselves, the edges uneven and covered in thick layers of ivy. At the front there is a gatehouse, tall and spiked, framed by the two separate towers built into the far edges.

Beau breaks free of the forest and into the clearing, stopping at the edge of the still lake that surrounds the building. Around the sides, the trees are reflected almost perfectly against the dark waters. The only entrance to the castle is the long, thinly arched walkway leading to the front gate.

She wets her lips and unslings her staff from across her back. Okay. Okay. The castle has stepped out of her dreams and made itself stone, surreal and beautiful and imposing.

Beau walks forward.

Beau doesn’t remember walking across the moat.

It’s like she’s in a dream, already being pulled too many ways. She’s following flawed logic. The closer she gets, the more muddled her thoughts become, until she’s a hazy mess of thoughts and images. She leans forward, and back, forward, and back, and keeps moving. The Creature who greets her is tall and solidly built, with sad eyes hiding beneath a white mask.

“Beauregard,” it says. “You’ve returned.”

Beau blinks a few times, but nothing comes into focus. She tries to say something, but the words don’t want to come out. All of a sudden, she’s drowning. Her lungs strain under the thick weight of the air.

What’s happening to me? she thinks.

The Creature steps forward as soon as Beau’s feet hit the end of the moat, lifting Beau like she weighs nothing (which is certainly not true, it’s all muscle) and carrying her back towards the Castle.

“It will wear off in a few hours,” it says.

Beau makes a noise in the back of her throat. Mostly she’s trying not to vomit.

“I’ll leave you with Jester until then.”

Which means nothing to Beau. She grabs onto the Creature’s fur coat with all the strength in her inexplicably weakened body. Leaning up into the Creature’s ear, she hisses: “What the hell is going on?”

The Creature stares down at her through the expressionless mask. There are no wings. There is no fire, or blood, or ice. Beau is almost let down by the lack of melodrama – or she would be, if her head would stop spinning.

“You’re here to kill me, aren’t you?” the Creature says. “You’ll want to sleep off the nausea before you do that. I’ve heard it’s rather unpleasant.”

Beau punches the Creature. Tries to.

Embarrassingly enough, she faints.

#critical role #critical role campaign 2 #beauyasha #part 1 #beauty and the beast au #beau #yasha #fanfic #critical role fanfiction #my writing #4k

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lotornomiko · 4 years

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The Ones Left Behind Chapter Six (Work safe I think...)

Catra POV

Earlier chapters here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/3952798/chapters/8862691

There’s a ghost in my head, a wonderful yet wicked presence that has me tearing at my own hair, my claws scraping at scalp in an effort to dig her out. I might and have in the past, bled for the effort, Adora this thing that only sinks a deeper hold inside of me, settling in somewhere past the black void of my heart, laughing and smiling, and driving me mad. I’m beyond crazed with the need for her, for the life that we had once had, a happiness that hadn’t all been about sexual pleasure.

Thoughts of her flit through my mind at a rapid pace, no one memory lingering long enough for me to fully grasp hold of. A dozen kind of smiles flash in my mind, the cruel expression of a Force Captain at her worst, and the loving warmth that had once been reserved for my eyes alone. We had been lovers and soldiers at war, allies united not just against the horde’s MANY enemies, but against our own comrades too. Together, Adora and I had had each other back, our friendship the only one thing we could truly believe in and trust. Standing together against all who would have seen us fall, the two of us had been made stronger as a result, and without her, I am left hurting, a weak, hollow caricature of who I had once been.

I am dying Adora, and it’s a painful, slow death, the wounds you have left me with bleeding out onto everything. And where ever that crimson tide touches, failure sprouts up in its wake. I am tainted, Adora, rendered an ineffectual joke amid the other Force Captains. Without you to strengthen me, I can’t build up the protection that I need. I am left floundering about, missing the half that had completed me, the only bright light in an otherwise bleak and bereft world.

I’ve no one to count on, and nothing tangible to seize hold. I’m falling, plummeting down into a spiraling darkness without end, and you don’t even care. It hurts, the dream of you becoming my nightmare, torturing me with all I have lost, all that you have taken from me. Tears actually prick at the corner of my vision, the room seems hazy and blurred. I’m seeing things, hearing things, your voice this mocking echo of a past that is taunting me. Those late nights shared, the secrets expressed, the hopes we had known would never come true, I had TRUSTED you. Adora, you had been the one thing, the one person in all of existence that I never would have thought would betray me so.

But you DID.

My lips curl with that snarl, an inhuman sound escaping me, and my sharp nails are doing damage. No longer to myself, but to the room, feathers exploding, fabric ripping, I am tearing the place apart. Anything not bolted down is thrown, tables upended, and fragile things smashed. I worked my rage to exhaustion, and still it’s not enough, it will never be enough. I scream again, and slam a fist into the wall, hearing the metal groan as it caves in slightly. It brings with it a jarring pain, my hand not broken, but the knuckles will be bruised.

“Why?” I whisper it out loud, in a broken tone of voice. “Why Adora, why?”

The answers don’t come, they never do, Adora a mystery whose motivation for the actions she’s taken, that continue to elude me. She’s never once offered me an explanation, or made an excuse, never once even talked to me, since leaving the Horde, to begin her life anew. She’s completely cut me off, abandoned, maybe even entirely forgotten, did nothing that had existed between us truly even matter to her!? Had it all been one sided, had I been nothing more than some diversion, something to pass the time with, until something better had come along!? Was I just a joke to her, as pathetic a wretch as I appeared to the rest of the Horde? I’m nothing without you, Adora. I know that now, and that sick part of me wishes this was all just a test, a lesson to be learned, a reminder that I had been in need of, as if you will come traipsing back, satisfied by that display of power you have over me.

“Come back. All will be forgiven, if you would JUST come back to me.”

It disgust me, how pathetic I truly am. It’s no wonder she’s left, Adora finding a bigger and brighter opportunity that has had no room for my brand of miserable. I push away from the wall, and swear I hear her laughter one last time, the ghost of her looming just out the corner of my eye. I can almost hear what she would say now, the gentle tone chiding me for the damage that I’ve done. The Adora that I remember would have teased me, but also helped me set the room back to some semblance of normal. Now there is no one, and I don’t even have the energy to try on my own. I walk over to the destroyed bed, and collapse on its tattered mattress. Adora still lingers just out of sight, and I throw an arm up across my eyes, as thought to block out her and the light that seems to shine behind her.

I don’t know how I even sleep, but somehow it all goes dark. For how long, or how short, that I cannot say, but suddenly the door to my cabin has opened, the hated sight of the scientific genius that is my nemesis, Entrapta, standing across from me.

“Well...” She says it an ever so exasperated a tone, hands on hips, as the door slides shut behind her. “Someone’s going a little stir crazy.”

“Who can blame me.” I say, making no real effort to sit up. “After being held prisoner on this ship for nearly a week’s time…?”

“Cute.” She snapped. “Prisoners don’t get a luxury cabin all to themselves. You should consider yourself lucky, Catra. Lucky considering all your many failures should have you rotting in a Horde dungeon, instead of sending you off in style for what will probably be your LAST mission.”

“Don’t forget...” My tone is mocking, the jade of my eyes piercing her with an unpleasant truth. “If I go down, YOU go down too.” I smirk then. “Or have you forgotten, Hordak wants you to ensure that this mission AND I do not fail.”

“Oh, I haven’t forgotten.” She hisses. “Don’t think I do not have a plan for how to get off the hook you’ll find yourself on!” Her long hair twitches, and fiddles about with her surroundings, that tic a betrayal of just how nervous she truly is. Entrapta then smoothed gloves hands down the front of her outfit, before walking past me and the bed, to go dig around in the cabin’s closet.

“Expecting the mission to fail, is as good as WANTING it to.”

“It might almost be worth it, if it meant I wouldn’t have to watch your pathetic sniveling self mooning around the Fright Zone.” She’s adding to the mess on the floor, throwing clothing over her shoulder, until she finds what she is looking for. “Put it on.”

A long, form fitting red dress hits me square in the chest. “Oh, not this again...”

“You wearing this, is an integral part of the plan.” She fixes me with a patronizing look. “You KNOW that. If we’re going to get Adora back…..though damned if I can understand why Hordak would even want to bother...with her, or with you...Not when he has someone capable like ME.”

“If you were really all that capable on your own, you’d have come up with a plan not even She-ra could stop.” I point out, still making no move to put on the dark red garment.

“Fortunately, I have it on good authority, that She-ra will NOT be one of the rebel leaders meeting with the queen.”

“So there’s really no room for error.” I enjoy watching Entrapta grit her teeth at that. “If we fail...”

“If You fail!”

“IF WE fail, there really will be no excuse...” I should be shaking with that realization, life as I have known it coming ever closer to ending. Somehow instead, I am just numb, as though accepting that death would be a mercy compared to what would actually happen to me instead.

In a voice beyond exasperated, with her hair moving wildly about in agitation, Entrapta stares down past her nose at me. “I’m in charge of this mission, as well as your keeper. We are not going to fail, and you are going to put that on, even if I have to strip you myself.”

“I hate this material.” I throw it away from me. “It’s hot and scratchy, and leaves no room for maneuvering.”

“It’s the only way you’re going to be allowed out of this cabin.” The clothing caught up by Entrapta’s hair, those tendrils then shove it back before me. “Put it on…..the sooner you do, the sooner the opportunity to get close to Adora will present itself.”

“Somehow, disguising myself as Shadow Weaver, doesn’t lend belief in the idea of Adora letting me OR her get close.” I slapped at an impudent and thick tendril of Entrapta’s hair, still refusing to put the outfit on.

“She wouldn’t trust you OR Shadow Weaver, yes.” Came the agreement. “But the sight of Catra suddenly there, when she did not expect her? That would surprise her.”

“I don’t see why. She hasn’t given a second thought to me or any of the Horde since leaving.”

“Don’t be too sure about that!” Entrapta’s hair caught around my wrist, another strand hooking a curved tip into the front of the bodice of my uniform. I hissed and snarled, letting my nails lengthen to claws that try to tear apart that offending and unnatural appendage of hers. I’m so busy fighting with her hair, I’m not paying enough attention to the words, to the point the scientist has to scream them out at me.

“You’re not the only one to have noticed!” She shouts.

“Notice what!?”

“How Adora has gone out of her way to avoid you!”

I spit out a defensive word. “So!?”

“Doesn’t that strike you as odd!?” I’m sure she’d be rolling her eyes at me, but I am too busy fighting with the hair that attempts to split my top straight down the middle. “Close as you two were…?”

“Not close enough for it to mean anything.” My chin lifts stubbornly, and for one second I meet her exasperated gaze. “Or are you forgetting I am just trash that Adora tossed aside?”

“Oh come on, Catra! Stop with the pity party, and open your eyes!” Entrapta’s the one snarling now, and the hair wrapped around my wrist, tightens to the point of painful. “I may not understand it, or her, but for some God awful reason, Adora tolerated you. Out of all the horde, all the opportunities before her, Hordak’s golden child CHOSE you. A nothing with no real value to offer. Ask yourself why!?”

“Because she was bored!?”

“ERG!” It was a loud and abrasive sound, the annoyed expression escaping her as thought Entrapta couldn’t help herself. “It had to be LIKE, for her to put up with a no brain having idiot like yourself for as long as she did.”

“Like? She didn’t like me...she LEFT me.”

“But not before rocking your world a thousand times if not more.” She looked disgusted, as though Entrapta couldn’t believe what she was having to say, to do. “Adora may be many things, but a good actress is not one of them. There’s no way she would have had you in her bed for as much as it had happened, if she hadn’t had feelings for you, real ones. Sure, she might have done it once on a whim, but to keep coming back to you, standing with you united against the other Force Captains? She ENCOURAGED you for Gods sake!” Her arm flailed with that exclamation. “The Horde doesn’t do encouragement, it does INCENTIVE.”

By this point, I had stopped fighting with her hair, to stare in slack jawed shock at the Force Captain. There was the sound of clothing ripping violently, and I felt my breasts spill out of my now torn top.

“Go on, I’m listening….”

“We may never know WHY Adora turned her back on Hordak, and all she had ever known. Frankly, I don’t even care to know her reasons. I’m sure they are as stupid and vapid as YOU.” I couldn’t even truly bristle at the insult, to be busy waiting with held breath for the glimmer of hope the scientist was giving to either bloom brighter, or snuff out completely.

“But, out of ALL the Horde, every last force captain, she has faced, NONE of them has she gone to such lengths to avoid. It’s you, and only you, Catra, and I don’t know if it’s fear or just weakness at play, but Adora knows she is vulnerable to you.”

I didn’t think it possible for my mouth to fall open any further, and as unresisting as I now was, Entrapta’s hair had no problem getting the rest of my clothing off. All that was left to me was my boots, and my crimson colored gauntlets and headdress, but I hardly cared about my naked state of dress. I was too busy staring at Entrapta, letting the beat of my excited heart fill my ears.

“Vulnerable...”

“She’s never once shown hesitation in hurting her former allies, in even killing them.” Entrapta continued. “Adora has gone out of her way to prove herself to the Rebellion, to make a name for herself, and yet, put YOU on the playing field, and she suddenly disappears? Why?”

“Because she is afraid….” I whisper it in awe. “Because she is weak to me...to what we once shared...”

“She’s tempted. By it, and by you.” Entrapta then let out such a deep sounding sigh. “Personally, if it was ME? If I had been so stupid as to leave the Horde? I’d kill off every last remnant of the thing or person who might be able to sway me back.”

“She wouldn’t.” My lips curl with that knowledge, a giddy joy going off in my heart. “She CAN’T.” I almost erupt into sweet, sweet laughter, a kind of gratitude on the tip of my tongue, for the hope that Entrapta has given me. It made a twisted kind of sense, what had once nearly destroyed me, empowering me instead, remembering every mission, every battle, and how quickly Adora had turned tail and RUN at the mere sight of me from a distance.

I still don’t know her reason for leaving the Horde. I don’t even CARE about that now, too wrapped up in the euphoria that came with knowing I was the one thing that could act as a catalyst for bringing her back. I thought myself weak to her, but I had been wrong. It’s the other way around, the desperate reborn as the determined. I am the hunter now, and Adora? She is my PREY.

To Be Continued…

This is the point I start fretting big time, cause I feel like the characters just derailed me some from my plans. I’m glaring at Catra and Entrapta now, while scrambling to get things back on track some. Mainly it started to go off the rails, during Entrapta’s “pep” talk to Catra...but I like what I ended up with for the most part.

Also feeling frustrated, cause I didn’t get to include some details here. Hope to get them in a future chapter. But basically, the way I imagined it, is Catra wasn’t allowed out if she wasn’t wearing her Shadow Weaver disguise, cause they wanted no one to know Catra was part of this mission. They didn’t want to risk Adora finding out before it’s too late. The other detail I had imagined for this chapter, was Entrapta giving Catra a “gift” from Weaver. Basically one of the very potent drugs she used to use on Adora, to keep her drugged up and brainwashed. Hoping to work in these details beyond my babbling author’s note..

---Michelle

#she-ra #fanfic #fanfiction #the ones left behind #catra #adora #catra x adora

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