#this is no ember beneath the coals

[timelorddarthswagger]

These bad book adaptations have thrown me so far of my center. Uprooting the rage in me has been a year long process. I need to get back to reading. Far too long have feared a new foray into the literary world. I made small offering by way of new editions into ongoing series.

But even that was a preventative measure to avoid spoilers. The fear of reading something new. Immersing my self in that world as a form of detaching from reality to soothe my mind. Only to be thrust back into the chaos of a bad adaptation is crushing. I'd rather not read a book at all then to be disappointed with an inevitable adaptation. I'll avoid both. And we'll each be poorer for it.

One bad egg doesn't ruin it for the whole class. This is a mold that sits among the strawberries. I know how quickly it spreads.

[grugruel]

Big Iron

Pairings:

bounty hunter!Arthur Morgan x outlaw!f!reader

NSFW/MDNI

Masterlist

Summary: She's escaped a robbery, and bounty hunters have been sent out after her. They'd made no problem so far– that said, the notorious Arthur Morgan set upon her trail.

Word count: 5.7k

Warnings: Arthur Morgan, pinv sex, rough sex, soft sex ish, lap/bulge-riding, praise, petnames (girl, sweetheart, ma'am), creampie, overstimulation.

AN: 3rd person pov, trying it out. Not yet proofread!

A campfire blazed in the night, casting a warm glow over the small, temporary hideout.

Smoldering flakes of ash rose skyward in tired swirls, and the woman's face lit up, sizzling embers of spent coal entrancing her.

The fires of a bright building shouldered It's way into her mind, stealing precious space from all else.

Money was all she had needed. But the simple, well practiced heist escalated. Attempted arson had suddenly been added to her list of offences, robbery another one among them. Which she could admit to, and proudly so.

Trees around her rustled, and she leaned back against the rockwall. An overhanging cliff sheltering her.

Guard lowered, at last. She let herself slide down the wall until she felt the ground beneath her thighs. Then dove deeper into the memory.

But the fire. . . Now the fire was not her fault.

Not only was the law after her, but they'd also sent out money hungry bounty hunters aswell. She'd already tied two of them down yesterday, big brutish men they were. All muscle and no brains. Still, they proved to be quite the nuisance. But they wouldn't be a problem anymore unless they died of starvation, which would indeed be u fortunate.

She gritted her teeth at the memory, her eyes interanally. She doubted it, seeing as they were curently tied to the fence of the sheriff's office.

Which left only one real threat.

One man, one singular man; a notorious outlaw himself. He was the sheriff's most resent hire. Big, deadly, tall and muscled. From long days of hard work killing and robbing she imagined.

She'd actually seen him in person once, and she could admit, he looked dangerous, and devilishly handsome. The rumors had been right about that, she was only hoping that his volatile reputation along with the Van Der Lind gang's would turn out to be folly.

She shivered at the thought, shaking her to the very bones. If it were from the thought of him or the cool of the night, she did not know. She closed her arms around herself, stroking them for warmth as she pushed the unpleasant thoughts away, her gaze snapping to the treeline beyond.

Back to reality, and suddenly accutely aware of the black darkness that lingered between the thick stems beyond. Her vision was good, and she was quite hidden after all. No one would be sneaking up on her.

"Ma'am."

From the shadows, a man appeared at the edge of the campfires domain, vaguely illuminated by its warmth. Broad and tall in frame, the deep night clung to his back. His sudden prescence was the only evidence of his arrival, he'd made no sound nor been seen before he'd needed to be.

Her eyes snapped in his direction, widening with recognition, the eerie sense divulged itself to her body. Like poison, it spread quickly, crawling into every blood vessel and turning them ice-cold along its journey.

"Mister," she greeted, doing her damndest to stay calm.

His hat covered his eyes, but the smile he dealt was unmistakable. 'There's quite the bounty on you, girl.' The drawl of his accent sunk into her skin like the warmth of the fire.

"There's no doubtin' that," she nodded in admittal, slowly moving away from him, "Although im only worth half of it, I assure you."

She moved slowly, eyes meeting his as they poked out beneath his hat. He tilted his head to face hers, regarding her silently. Eyes flickering over her, the way her hair fell over her shoulders, and how her blouse revealed the hills of her chest. ". . . 'S that so?. . ." He took a step closer, the rope in his hands now excruciatingly evident to her.

She got to her feet in one swift motion, hesitantly gesturing for him to stay calm. "Mister, I'm not a murderer. The sheriff framed me." She took a few steps to the left, placing the fire between them.

The man chuckled. "I belive ya' ma'am." His hands pulled on the lasso, adjusting its length. Gripping it roughly from time to time, trigger fingers readying themselves for any sudden movement. "But the law can be a crooked thing sometimes." His eyes narrowed in on her, then shrugged nonchalantly. "But, a bounty 's still a bounty girl."

The birds sang above them, and the world blurred around her, her knees suddenly weak. Unfortunately for her, he would be there to catch her in a sense too literal for her liking.

"And I can say the same for myself ma'am, I'm a bad man. . ." His voice imposed, yet, the gravely tone vibrated perfectly well in her ears.

Gulping her nervousity, she assessed her options. . . And then ran.

Trees rushed past in peripheral whirls as she made her way along the cliff wall. Rope flexed behind her, threads wringing against eachother as it was swung and thrown with a woosh.

The air caressed her cheeks, pulling tears from her eyes and whistling in her ears. She gave it all she had, but it wasn't enough to stop the lasso from capturing her with deadly accuracy. It fell over her shoulders and tightened around her waist, pinning her arms to her sides.

The rope pulled taunt–and the world stopped moving for a short second, with a yank, her body whipped forward, and her feet was swept from under her–then, just as suddenly, it sped up again.

Like a tree cut down for its timber, she fell. The ground rushed up to greet her face as she stumbled to the ground with a hard thud. She panted, smelling the earth and feeling the wet grass tickle her face as she struggled against her entanglement; wriggling and thrashing like a stranded fish.

Well-used leather chaps groaned behind her as he stalked closer, winding the rope up with friction she was sure could start a fire, her stumache churned the thought.

The woman rolled onto her back to get a better layout of the situation–and there he stood. Just by her feet, he loomed over her. With his back to the fire, it cast a back-lit glow around him, framing the big man as he filled her sight. Fear and desire fought for the helm, conflicting her mind terribly.

He crouched down, bending over her as he circled the rope around her waist, foirtyfying her restraints and securing his valuable bounty tightly.

He grabbed the lasso and pulled her up diagonally. It pinched her midriff painfully and pulled her body flush against his, just so he could level her head with his. ". . . And I've done bad things," he whispered, lips brushing against her ear. A dull pulse appeared where there ought to be no pulse. She screwed her eyes shut, and lust for this man was the last thing she should be feeling. But oh. . . How his breath raised goosebumps and spread like a wildfire over her skin.

He straightened his legs and stood back, pulling her with him while keeping their bodies close together.

Her breath fanned over his lips as they stood a mere inch apart, one bound and the other free. A smirk made its way onto his lips, his hands sliding along the tied rope around her abdomen until they were at her waist. And in one strong motion–he threw her over his shoulder.

She yelped in surprise. "You brute!" Kicking wildy in hopes of getting free. But one of his arms circled around her legs and gripped the back of her thigh to keep them still, while he laid the other on the small of her back to stop her from falling. "You keep your hands to yourself Mister!" She shouted, struggling against his bullish strength.

"Yes, ma'am." He assured as he began walking, not paying her futile thrashing much mind. "That's not the kind of bad man I am."

She cleared her throat and huffed, expecting more of a reaction. She didn't quite know what to do in this situation, she hadn't planned this far ahead. She didn't think she'd ever be properly cought. "Well, good," she said curtly, calming herself.

Being a nuisance and making this whole situation worse would be a bad idea, and she hadn't made any progress thus far, seeing as his grip was solid steel. So she'd have to settle her mind with the feeling of his strong back beneath her instead. In fact, she was reveling in the feeling of his hand on her thigh.

He stomped out the campfire before moving to where he'd hidden his horse. "Sittin' or layin'?" He asked, being nice enough to hand her to option of sharing his saddle or to be stored over his horses ass.

She huffed, "what a gentleman. Take a guess Mister," she muttered.

He nodded, "Sittin' with me it is." His hands moved to her waist, and easily transfered her from his shoulder and onto the saddle. She scoffed for the sake of scoffing, eyes narrowing as she looked down on him, and if it had the power to, her look could certainly have killed him. "Quite presumtions of you."

With a low chuckle and a shake of his head, he gripped the saddle before climbing on. Placing his hands on either side of it, one hand on the pommel and the other on the cantel. Which just so happened to be between her thighs, and just behind her ass. Almost grazing her on both sides as he braced himself against the saddle, eyes meeting hers with a satisfied smirk, "Much more attitude from ya' girl and I'll have to take meassures."

Shock sprung itself on her, feeling dizzy all over again. The knuckle of his thumb was an inch away from brushing against her cunt. Her eyes widened at the fact, and the implications his words carried. Her loins burned, but she simply cleared her throat and neutralised her expression, "Id like to see you try." And faced away from him, turning her nose upward.

He climbed onto the horse, placing himself close intil her back and leaned over her shoulder. "I will if you'd let me, respectfully, ma'am," he whispered in her ear and then spurred his horse. Shivers shook her at that, her entire body vibrating with a dull sense of need.

They rode silently for a long while, and she wanted to sass him, she wanted it terribly. But was both afraid and hoping he'd take action, just as he'd stated.

The miles wound on, oh it felt never ending. Especially with the man behind her, rutting his hips against her with every step of the horse. He was a blessing against the cold, but pure torture as his heat soaked into all the wrong spots of her body.

Finally, it came time to rest. They'd ridden nonstop from the early morning of her capture to the next night. If that weren't enough, a heatwave had been raging for the entirety of the day as well, and the setting of the sun had barely made a difference.

He set her on the ground, binding her feet and hands before starting on the camp. Making quick work of the fire and tent as she sat down on a rock, silently watching the man work, and very much enjoying the show.

His skin was slick with sweat, much like herself. The cool light of the moon and the warmth of the fire made him glisten in every sense of the word, and oh, the way he toiled away.

He'd removed his vest and chaps as he got to work, respectively rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, which now stuck to his skin. A nuisance for him to be sure, but a dream for her, she could practically see the muscles of his chest rippling.

A drop of sweat trickled down her temple, tickling her skin and drawing focus away from the view. Her eyes widened as she realised how she stared at the stranger and shook her head, attempting to clear it.

Goodness, focus. She needed to hatch a plan.

Running would do her no good, he would be too fast. He wouldn't accept bribes either and was very hard to persuade. No attempts had been successful so far.

At that thought, unavoidably, abashedly her eyes snapped back to him as he pulled his shirt off and reached for a new one in his saddlebag. She clenched her jaw to keep it from falling, his strong chest was adorned by hair, trailing down his abdomen and disappearing under, the waist of his pants.

She swallowed. In that exact moment, she wanted nothing more than to see where that trail ended.

Her jaw began aching, she fought to tear her eyes away from him. Managing to direct her gaze to the ground instead, a d impatiently waited for him to put a fresh shirt on.

After a short while, she dared look up again. He'd pulled a log to opposite side of the fire and sat down, a cigarette had been placed between his lips, and was currently being inhaled with fervor. Tilting his head back, he released the cloud of smoke with a sigh.

Her eyes followed his movements intently, studying them as she hoped that perhaps he'd notice her and offer one–

"Want one, girl?" He nodded toward her, gesturing with the match box.

"I do, yes," she answered expectantly, holding her hands out for him to untie.

But to her surprise, he scoffed, then stod and walked around the fire. He crouched onto one knee in front of her, his arm bracing on top of the other. "You'll have to do better than that," he said.

He plucked the cigarette from his lips and offered it to her, holding it an inch from her mouth. She hesitated, observing him with disdain. "Go on," he nodded.

Reluctantly, she followed his orders, but met his eyes to make sure he knew how unhappy she was about it, and then leaned in.

Closing her lips around the cigarette, she could feel the dampness where his own lips had been moments before, and sucked the toxic smoke into her lungs, as if it were air.

She swore she saw something glint in his eyes, studying her pouting lips. And a plan struck her suddenly, but–

"Good girl," he hummed.

Again, shock gripped her. The praise rose right to her head, sending waves of heat cascading through her body. Then she coughed, the smoke settling wrong in her airways. She pulled back, letting him retrieve his cigarette while she worked to regain her composure. "You alright there, sweetheart?" He asked with a grin and patted her back before replacing the cig between his lips.

"Just fine, mister," she hissed, still reeling. "You got anything stronger? Whiskey, bourbon?"

He nodded and pulled out an old bottle of bourbon from his bag, "Could you?" She held her hands out to him again.

He studied her, stroking his stubbled jaw in thought. "Got somethin' for me, then?"

Insinuations led her down a path of filthy thoughts, but she instead opted for a simple, "Please?" Instead, attempting it cheapishly.

His hands slipped down to his hip, pulling the knife from its hilt. "That's more like it," he mumbeled with his cigarette clad lips.

And cut the rope around her hands and feet, stopping at the rope around her waist and met her eyes. "Try anythin'. . ." He raised his eyebrows and lowered his voice to a mocking tone. ". . . Run, hurt me, trick me." His eyes narrowed, the corner of his lip tugging. "And there'll be a steep price to be paid."

Swallowing, she nodded enthusiastically, "I just wan't a sliver of freedom before im locked up, you could understand that."

He nodded. "S'pose so. . ." And began untying. "The difference is, girl–" The lasso loosened and slid down her sides. "–that I'd never get caught." He gathered it and pulled it over her body, his fingers accidentally brushing against her hips, the sides of her breasts.

Her breath hitched, and their eyes met. Her skin tingled desperately as fluttering wingbeats set off in her stumache. Such a small thing, building into such a big reaction.

He cleared his throat, handing her the bottle as he threw the rope into the fire and put the lasso bag in his saddlebag. Finally replacing himself on another log, not as far away from her this time. He leaned back against the tree behind it and spread his legs wide. His bulge was enough to make her salivate. "It's not easy, you know, for a woman like me, when there's men like you, Mr Morgan."

Arthur quriked an eyebrow in question. "You know me?"

"I know of you," she corrected, taking a big swig of the fluid, then handed it back to him for him to do the same.

He nodded silently, a sigh escaping under his breath. "All bad I hope." He took another swallow, not to bothered by her statement. Probably used to hearing it by now.

She shook her head, taking the bottle and another gulp. "Many of the ladies say you're handsome."

At this, he looked up at her, chuckling. "Well, I don't know 'bout that."

"It's true. . ." Antoher sip, followed by a hiccup. "They say you can be quite the gentleman too."

His eyes bore into hers, his tone serious but expression joking as he humored her. "Depends on the lady." He reached for the bottle, and she stood up to give it to him. Walking closer, she handed it over, fingers brushing against each other in the motion.

His eyes met hers, and she brushed her hand under his chin. "You know what else they say, Mr Morgan?"

"No . . . What do they say about me, sweetheart?" A smirk made its way onto his lips. The liquor seamingly starting to affect the pair of them.

"That you're good in bed. . ." he stepped between his thighs, her hand falling from his chin to his neck, scratching at the nape gently.

He hummed appreciatively, then took another sip of the bourbon and set the bottle aside. His hands reached for her, coming to a rest on either side of her thighs, pulling her closer to him, squeezing them at his pleasure. "They're only rumours girl." He tilted his head backward, resting it against the tree to get a better look at her, eyes fastening on her lips.

With her other hand, she hiked her skirt up, revealing her thighs as she stepped over his legs. One at a time, then slowly sank down on his lap, while his hands automatically slid to her hips.

She placed herself on top of his bulge. He grunted from the pressure. The pulse within her began strumming at her nerves, turning them jittery.

"See, I doubt that, Mr Morgan." She whispered. "Women do not lie to eachother of such things." His bulge beneath her grew harder, luring a hidden smile from her. It took strength to will it from her lips and only reach her eyes. "They say you're rough, or gentle. Dependin' on your mood." As she said that, she could've sworn she detected the faintest red creep up his cheeks. Arthur Morgan, blushing? Now, she couldnt help herself and the smile reached her lips.

The man cleared his throat, acting as if it had never happened. "That's told of me in everythin' I do." He smirked, the grip on her hips hardening, knuckles turning white.

"But you're always sweet 'n caring." She continued, her own words were building the lust within her, making the pulse ever stronger. It grew harder to focus. She needed to release some of the pressure building inside her. Evaluating the consequences, and deaming them minor in conparison to her needs, she rocked her hips downward–grinding into his bulge.

Simultaneously, she whimpered and he hissed. She leaned against him, her lips brushing against his ear as shenuzzled his cheek. "Apparently, It's also true what they say 'bout ridin' cowboys-"

"Girl," he interrupted with a chuckle. "Dont think I dont know what you're doin'. . ." He breathed. "Seducin' me." With the tight grip on her hips, he rocked her hips against him, the rough fabric of his pants grinding against her core.

With a gasp, one of her hands shot out to burry itself in his hair. She leaned into him, the other hand grabbing his shirt for support as she rested her head against his shoulder. He nuzzled his cheek against hers, returning the gesture and muttered. "You use your sweet talkin', then get me drunk 'n run off, that your plan?"

Her eyebrows furrowed, hips grinding down harder, her ruts becoming more frantic, needy. She screwed her eyes shut from the copious amounts of pleasure washing over her. All she could do to answer him was hum in admittal as she strained hard to focus.

He chuckled. "Easy girl. . ." His voice commanding, low and raspy as he slowed her hips, but keeps the pace hard. "Use your words." He ordered, loving the way she fell apart for him.

She nodded hastily, hoping it'd be enough satisfy his request. But he pinched her hip through the fabric of her skirt, and her eyebrows furrowed in pain. However, not having the energy to even make a sound. Her thoughts were a blur, she couldn't tell what to keep hidden anymore. "Yes– yes. . ." She moaned, the coil inside her tightening impossibly hard.

"Thought so," he breathed, the words curt on his tongue, but lust evident in his voice. Suddenly, his hands left her hips, snd one arm snaked around her waist, his hand placing itself at the small of her back to push her against him.

Then he stood, drawing a whine from her. She did not quite understand what was going on as the loss of movement gradually undid all the progress she'd made. "Mr Morgan?" She inquired, hesitantly wrapping her legs around his hips.

He walked them toward the tent. "Arthur," he corrected, carrying her with ease. Pushing the tent flap to the side, he kneeled, bending over her as he placed her on the ground.

"Arthur," she smiled, worry seeping out of her as she realised he was making them more comfortable.

His knees slid apart, hooking her legs upon them as they spread. Her hands shot up in response, grabbing onto the collar of his shirt to pull him closer, close enough for his lips to hover over hers. Their eyes met. "Please. . ." She whimpered, one hand sliding downward. ". . .Please." She said again, fingertips trailing down his abdomen, suddenly grabbing hold of his bulge with a firm hand, his member rock hard. "Outlaw or gentleman?" She asked, smiling a wicked smile.

A grutn escaped him while his lips brushed over hers. "Neither." And grabs her wrist, pulling her hand away from his crotch and catching the other in the same motion. His free hand reached over her head, and the hauntingly familiar groaning of strong rope sounded above her. She shook her head, "Arthur, please. . ." Panic moved into her voice, the repeated words carrying a completely different meaning this time.

He held both wrists with one hand and tied them together with the other, the rope stinging her skin. She cried out unhappily.

But he chuckled, in a matter of factly kind of way. Stroking the burn gently as ge corrected her, "Should've behaved." And when done, he sat back. Observing her as she laid tied up, legs spread in front of him, and circled around his hips. Much to his dismay, he wouldn't be enjoying the sight as much as he wanted to. "It's late."

"Arthur. . ." She pleads, attempting to appeal to him, one last time.

He turns his head just enough to see her in his peripheral. "Get some sleep. You got a long day ahead of you tomorrow." He flashed his eyebrows smugly. "Night, sweetheart." Then exited the tent without another word.

She huffed, unbelievable.

Sweetheart. . . But how could she be annoyed when he called her such a thing. She dreamed herself away, with imagines of a shirtless Arthur Morgan and the feeling of him inside her. But she'd not given up, make no mistake, he would fall asleep and she would leave. . .

The night carried on and the temperature finally began dropping, a shiver shook her pleasantly. It was a welcome change. Her body strained as she raised her neck to get a look of the outside. Through the flap she saw Arthur, sitting, snoring, hat covering his face as he leaned back against the tree he'd previously been sitting on.

Now, she needed to get rid of her restraints. Rolling over, she crawled toward the opening, her eyes never leaving Mr Morgans sheathed knife.

The fire had been reduced to embers at this point. Crackling and sizzling lowly as the cool moisture in the air riddled the grass with dewdrops, dampening her hands and skirt as she approached her goal. She sat on her knees, then moved to grab the knife carefully, gnelty sliding it out. The sound of it unlatching nearly had her yelp.

No movement in Arthur.

Shallow breaths, she exhales. Relief flooding through her begoee she began working the knife against her entangled wrists with her fingertips. Carefully regarding the vicious man for any signs of waking. But her thoughts slid, perhaps, if he caught her, he would be kind. Or would he be angry? She could truly not decide werther which reaction she'd most prefer–

The rope snapped, and exhilaration filled her. Gaze snapping between her free hands and the hunter, imagining her prospects. She stood quietly, holding her skirt tightly around her to keep the fabrics from rustling. Slowly, knife still in hand, she backed away. On careful tiptoed steps she faded into the night, the fire dwindling in the distance.

The darkness made it hard for her to see much of anything, at its height the tree-crowns silhouette were visible against the blue summer sky. Branches moved, leaves swished in the gentle wind. She grew paranoid, head snapping in every direction, reacting to every little noise around–

A branch broke behind her, she jumped, turning around so fast she almost ripped– a Buck. She froze, a god damned buck? She had expected it ro be Arthur, but she seemed to have ogtten the better of him. The animal looked at her, ears twitching as it chewed on grass– suddenly hopping away. She sighed and turned back.

Only to collide with something hard. Her thoughts raced, she knew, she knew. She looked up, eyes tracing along his body until they met his, half hidden under his hat. Reflexes prepared her to run, but before she had as much as taken a step back, a hand grabbed her wrist and yanked her back to him. Again, she thumped into his strong chest. Held against him with the familiar iron grip, she fought, as usual; but to no avail, as usual. He snaked an arm around her waist to hinder her from breaking free, yet she kicked and punched violently with her free limbs. But it made no dent in the man. He couldn't even spare her a reaction as he half carried, half dragged her back into the low light of the burnt out fire. He spun her around and pushed her up against the cliff wall, grabbing the wrist closest to him and pinning it above her head. 'I warned you, girl.' He snarled, the look in his eyes doing just as good a of job pinning her to the wall as his hands. He reaches for the second–

When something sharp digs into the soft flesh of his throat, he froze. His chest was the only thing moving between the two of them, heaving breaths of annoyance.

'Thrid times the charm.' She smirked.

He raised his eyebrows and chuckled, 'That so?' His voice mocking, and before she could comprehend what had happened, he'd captured both wrists with one hand and slammed them above her head and into the wall. And the knife had appeared in his free hand, she noticed this because it was now held against her own throat. 'Repeat that for me girl.'

Her lips struck a thin line as she attempted a neutral expression, although fuming on the inside. She shrugged her shoulders, 'No.' Was all she said, but stubborn in tone.

He nodded, looking her up and down, studying the buttons on her blouse. 'Ought to teach you a lesson sweetheart.'

She cleared her throat, deciding that to act nonchalant was her best option. 'Yeah? What ya' gunna do, huh? Ravage me?' She asked half joking, but still hoping there'd be some truth to it.

At this, the corner of his mouth turned up, a wicked grin developing on his lips. 'I just might.' He breathed, tracing the tip of the knife downward, along her collarbone and then along the front of her blouse, coming to a stop at the first button. She gulped, feeling the knife poke through the thin fabric against her chest, making goosebumps run amock in reaction and the pulse reheating in her core. He leaned forward, pushing his body against hers until there was no room left between them, his head hovering just above the crook of her neck. 'May I do with you as I please?'

This was it, the sweet balance between a hardened outlaw and a tender gentleman. 'Yes– yes, Arthur please.' Her voice near a cry, it took everything in her to control her tone–

Her blouse ripped, from top to bottom he cut it open, and she wasn't wearing a brasier. Her chest laid bare before him, and he groaned happily at the sight.

With her go-ahead he wasted no time, he let go of her hands and cut her skirt too. Cutting a slit as far as he reached with the knife then threw it to the side, and the tore the rest. She gasped, every nerve in her body on edge. In an instant, his lips were upon hers. Hungry, hungry lips devouvered her as hands roamed her body, groping and grabbing wherever they got purchase. Her own hands greedily searching for a steady hold in his hair, she grabbed a fistful and pulled gently. He moaned at the feeling, such a beautiful sound. His hands slid over her breasts, squeezing them, then pushed the remains of her blouse off of her shoulders.

Except for her undergarments, she stood completley exposed for him. She could practically feel him salivating when he cupped her clothed mound, and finding her clit with expertise and rub it through the fabric.

She tore herself free from his kisses, she had to breathe. A deep gasp brought oxygen to ger lungs once again, allowing her to whimperand moan in equal measure as he worked her clit. The pressure made her knees week, she wriggled, attempting to rut against his hand. But she was too unsteady to make progress. Noticing her difficulties, his other hand slid behind her back and held her steady. Allowing her to chase her pleasure. And left with no lips to kiss, he latched onto her neck instead, to suck at her sweet spot.

She hummed appreciatively, unable to keep a big smile from her lips as pulses of pleasure washed through her. She slid her hands from his hair and unbuttoned his shirt, running her fingers along his strong chest and abdomen, gingerly feeling all of him as her hands worked themselves lower. Finally unbuttoning his pants. She did no longer have to wonder were his happy trail dissapeared too, she bit her lip. He was huge. She stuck her hand into his pants and stroked him eagerly. 'Need ya' Arthur, please.' She panted.

He let out a strained grunt against her shoulder, and his hand left her clit. She whined, but didn't have to stay displeased for long.

Both his hands slid down her sides, and she tried to breathe steadily, but it proved hard. The feeling of his calloused hands on her skin was too heavenly. Suddenly, he lifted her. Pinning her against the cliff wall with his arms and the weight of his body, allowing her to wrap her arms and legs around him. She hadn't known, but he had wordlessly obided her request. He pulled her garments to the side, and line himself up with her entrance. 'Sure about this?' He asked, a final reassurance.

'Yes.' She purred, no hesitation in her answer.

And so he pushed inside her, the sheer size of him was making her want to scream–

'Good girl.' He moaned, and directed his eyes to hers. She repressed a moan, biting her lip hard to hinder it as heat flashed through her. It was two words, yet she could've come undone from them alone, when said by him alone.

He gazed upon her softly, one of his hands left her thigh to gently stroke a strand of hair from her face. She smiled, and so did he. He was just giving her time to adjust, but her heart soared at the simple gesture.

God how could she feel so strongly for a stranger?

Her hands retangled in his hair as Arthur slid out of her, she furrowed her brows– but in a rough, quick thrust. He shoved himself back inside of her, filling her to the brim. He set a cruelly pleasurable, unrelenting pace. Any trace of gentleness gone.

She felt the pressure tightening within her, building snd building until she was on the verge of coming once again. Her hands sunk to his back, clawing and scratching because she did not know what else to do, he was too much, too good, too big. He overstimulated her with his mere prescence. And he knew when her walls tightened around him, adding extra pressure onto his already throbbing member. 'You close girl?' He grunted, his gruff voice breathed against her ear and his hand squeezing her thigh roughly beneath her. God it was sublime.

'Mhm. . . So- close.' She murmurs, her words coming out jagged as her body rocks with Arthurs thrusts. Pushed closer to her release with each thrust, once again, she shut her eyes and spots speckled her eyelids. Breathing turns frantic, she could no longer tell who was who as they mixed, moans and curses spilling from them both.

With a flash of pleasure, searing hot it soured through her, making her whimper uncontrollably. His thrusts slow, holding her securely, caressing her face and kissing her lips as she rides out her high. 'You're alright girl.' He breathes reassuringly, 'Well done Sweetheart.'

Overstimulated tears roll from her eyes, 'Oh Arthur, you sweet, sweet man.' She sighs happily, and he comes a mere second later. His seed filling her and oozing out.

They'd clean themselves tomorrow, since tiredness plagued them currently. He backed away from the wall and she clung to him, desperatley not wanting to part with him.

He carried her back to the tent, this time not bothering to tie her up as they laid down facing eachother. Arthur, grabbed her chin between his index and forefinger. Studying her thuroughly before they finally succumbed to sleep. She could escape if she wanted to, he wouldn't stop her this time. Her plan had worked, they both knew it. But they felt something else too, and they both knew it.

Hooded eyes blinked, blushing at Arthurs intent eyes and searching gaze. Her eyelids weighed down by exhaustion, It'd been a long few days, and before she knew it–

The light dawns, rays of dusty sunlight shone through the flap of their tent as the morning wakes. Bringing warmer tempratures and calm birdsong.

He opens his eyes, and immediately meet hers. She'd just been admiring him. 'Surprised?' She asked, biting her lip and stopping herself from reaching out to touch him.

He smiles, 'Naw, I was hopin' I'd wake up to you girl.'

[starry-bi-sky]

Unpleasant Revelations - DPxDC Ficlet Idea for the Stillborn Au

"Have you met my youngest, Damian, Mr. Masters?"

Its only from twenty years of long, hard experience and practice that Vlad doesn't increase the room temperature from 'borderline uncomfortably cool' to 'unbearably hot' the moment Bruce Wayne pulls his youngest and "only" biological son out in front of him.

He puts only in quotations because twelve year old Damian Wayne looks scarily, uncannily like one Daniel Brown. Jack and Maddie's foster son, second victim of their foolishness, and only other halfa in existence. Second only to him.

It's nauseating how similar they look. From the scowl and terrible glare on the young boy's face, to his brown skin -- which was only a few shades lighter than Daniel's, the shape of his nose, and even the strange winged edge of his eyebrow. Something that Vlad has long since come to find endearing on the child he considered a son of his own. The only difference was that Damian had dark, sharp green eyes.

Daniel's eyes were blue. The same glacier shade as his father's, who stood behind Damian with a proud, oafish smile on his visage.

It was infuriating how similar they look. Vlad might not have rapidly swung the room temperature from one extreme to the other, but he can't stop himself from letting the fury burning within his core from slipping out and raising the temperature up a few degrees.

Because it really only meant one thing.

Damian Wayne and Daniel Brown were related.

Damian Wayne and Daniel Brown were brothers.

Standing in front of him, it was clear as day. He can already picture a phantom image of Daniel standing beside Damian, the same scowl written on his face, the same glare carved into his eyes. The only difference being the dark, exhausted circles beneath them that seemed to be permanently painted onto his skin. The only thing missing being the permanent loneliness and vigilance permeating his being like a scar.

This, if revealed, would be enough to ruin Bruce Wayne's reputation. Or, at the very least, darken it quite a bit. The great philanthropist Bruce Wayne with another secret blood child? One related to his youngest? One that had been put into foster care? Seemingly thrown away?

It would be a firestorm.

One that Vlad is not keen on starting.

It would ruin Bruce Wayne's reputation, yes. But it would hurt Daniel in the process -- the harassment he would face alone might just be enough to break that fragile child completely. That was just not something he could allow. Or, even worse, bring him into his biological father's care and custody -- something Vlad was even less willing to allow.

It's not out of kindness to Wayne that Vlad will keep mum about this.

His grip on his champagne flute tightens, just a bit. He's still aware enough of the world around him to not let it shatter in his hands. His plastered, pleasant smile tightens around the corners, and he forces his focus to slide from Damian to Wayne.

"The resemblance is uncanny, Mister Wayne." He says, slanting his smile to the side slyly. Although he's not talking about the resemblance between Wayne and his son. Rage simmers beneath his skin, burning coal and embers in the core of his chest, nestled between his lungs, as he meets the man's eyes.

Wayne swaggles his head proudly, his ditzy smile widening as he squeezes his son's shoulder affectionately. Bastard, Vlad wants to spit.

He breathes in through his nose, and exhales out through his mouth. The champagne in his hand cools, and stops its unusual bubbling.

The Damian boy scoffs under his breath, his mouth still coiled upward into a scowl. With the revelation of his blood relation to Daniel evident, Vlad's not sure if he should find it endearing or not.

He is not Daniel, so he decides that it's just simply irritating. He decides to ignore it.

"And you said he was your only biological son?" He asks, voice lilting and head tilting. He knows its a suspicious question at worst, insulting at best. But considering Wayne's past proclivities, he can hardly call it an unexpected question.

Damian puffs in great offense, face twisting angrily. It reminds him of Daniel when Vlad insisted that he was wrong about something or other, and for a moment his heart swells, fond.

But this is not his child, and so the feeling quickly crashes and burns, simmering back into rage. This was not Daniel -- this was his replacement. A replacement that Wayne was free to keep.

Wayne chuckles, idiotically, as if he'd said some funny joke. Vlad's other hand, the one gripping his cane -- something he's required ever since he was dispatched from the hospital all those lonely years ago -- tightens instead. He grinds his teeth -- him and Jack Fenton would get along like a house on fire, he hates it.

"I can understand why you'd ask that, Mister Masters," Wayne says, squeezing Damian's shoulder again, "but yes, Damian is my only biological son. Although that doesn't mean I don't love my other children any less."

Bastard.

For all his posturing and flouncing about caring for his city and his children, Vlad never would have thought the Prince of Gotham capable of abandoning one of them.

But, well.

They all have their dark secrets.

And what one man throws away, another man picks up. If Bruce Wayne didn't want the treasure child that was Daniel Brown, then Vlad Masters was more than happy to take him instead.

"I see."

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

You looked up at the distinct sound of gravel crunching beneath boots to see Daryl coming toward you. He looked a little unsettled. His hands were fidgeting.

"Hey," he drawled, stopping beside your fire ring.

"Hey," you replied softly, avoiding his gaze and instead poking your stick more forcefully into the coals, sending up a rising plume of sparks and embers.

Daryl chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. "Look, 'bout earlier today—"

You sighed and interrupted him. "Daryl, you don't—you don't need to try to make me feel better about fucking up."

There was a tense silence. "Are ya gonna let me talk?" he drawled, his tone patient.

You looked up in surprise. You'd been expecting to get scolded at.

"I was tryin' to say... I know ya've got this need to—to prove yerself or whatever... But ya dun have to. Yer... family. Ya dun need to prove yerself anymore than ya already have. In fact, I'd rather ya didn't try. Yer gonna give me a damn heart attack runnin' into shit like that..." he trailed off.

You were staring up at him, your expression slightly unreadable.

He cleared his throat, wringing his hands nervously again. "Anyway... s'all I came to say so..."

He turned to leave but you finally found your voice. "Daryl—why don't you sit down and stay a bit? If you want to..."

He gulped and then nodded eagerly, taking a seat beside you on another round of wood.

Prompt: "I know you've got this need to prove yourself. But you don't have to. You're family. You don't have to prove yourself anymore than you already have."

[thegnomelord]

PLEASEEEEE UR IDEA WITH MAGE M!READER AND MONSTER!COD MEN I'D LOVE THAT SO FICKING MUCH AND YES I AGREE THERE IS A LACK OF ALL THE VIOLENCE

Pov of how the world sees the reader Vs how TF141 reader :D. I'm in the middle of writing the first chapter of a fic with this idea, but guess who contracted TB like some coal miner 😞, me! So here's a sneak peak for the sort of vibe I'm going for while I'm trying to recover:

P.S: Ya'll are free to suggest/requests with this idea cause!

P.S.S: Check out bluegiragi who came up with this AU and give her some love!

Mages and Monsters

Mages are strange creatures.

In a world so full of monstrous hybrids and mythical creatures, mages sit on the proverbial line separating man from monster, stuck in both worlds without any hope of fitting in either one.

Because outwardly, they're average. No different from the billions of other humans. They're not born with the marks of monsterdom; they don't possess horns or leathery scales to shrug off small caliber bullets like dragons do, nor the claws and bone crushing jaws of werewolves, not feathered wings and razor sharp talons of harpies, nor the wraiths ghostly ability to become immaterial.

Outwardly, they're average. Ordinary. Mundane. Human...

Almost.

Because Price and Ghost are experienced enough to see the thing laying beneath the paper thin veneer of normality, are seasoned enough to quickly notice the one thing that puts an 'in' before a mage's 'human' description — Magic. Not the smoke and mirror kind magicians or charlatans use to swindle tourists out of money, but real magic.

The ancient kind, the capricious kind, slumbering like a beast inside the hollowed out cavern of a heart until it awakens with a terrible bloodlust. Each of them can attest to this; Price sports gnarled patched of scar tissue on the scaleless parts of his arm from ice burns, his draconic breath having saved him from frostbite that had devoured more than a few good men. Though Ghost doesn't show much skin, one can sometimes catch sight of branching fern patterns on his neck where lightning magic had shot through him. Gaz's back is peppered with hundreds of little cuts where a glass mage's summoned elegant ornaments had shattered into millions of shards, aiming to take out his wings.

And now Soap sports a mark of his own, his side tender red and blistered with a second degree burn. It could have been much worse, your flames were hot enough to melt steel, the only thing having kept him from an early cremation being the two solid concrete walls your magic had had to travel through to hit him and the enhanced regeneration of his thick hide.

But such power demands a cost — one paid in blood. For magic is as fickle and capricious as a rabid dog, just as eager to lunge for your throat as it will at the enemies, leaving lasting wounds for all to see; rough and calloused palms, skin blackened from blazing heat and freezing cold or marked with fern patterns of electricity, fingers stiff and marred with cuts from thorns and crystals and rock and glass, bone deep cuts where the liquid mana had burst out from the skin, leaving faintly glowing scars that never heal right.

All mages are born with this grievous gift, though one never knows whether it will present itself with a pitiful flicker of embers in a man's dying breath, or with a maelstrom of an infant's first hiccup. That's why most mages are sealed, by choice or force, a process which puts chains on the magic, making it and the mage docile.

But you are unsealed. And you flaunt that fact readily by melting the tail of their APC helicopter with one spell, not even waiting for them to crash before flooding the terrain with suffocating ash, the lenses of their gas masks already fogging up from the heat as they get out of the cloud of heavy sediment before it bursts to flames.

Sometimes the magic becomes unsatisfied with the weakness of the body, demanding more than just its pound of flesh and molding the body like clay to better suit it— Mage Marks, they're called — the subtle glow of magic in your eyes, the mana visibly pulsing inside your chest, the skin of your arms slipping away like wet paper before growing anew, this time mimicking the surface of magma, or the rocky barnacle encrusted reef, the gnarled bark of a tree, the crystalline inside of a geode, the ice spiked ground of tundra, or any other form that suits the magic in your veins.

The process is excruciating, the mana burrowing and gnawing on every nerve like a parasite that replaces what it eats with itself. But to you, that's an acceptable loss, because marked mages far surpass their unmarked fellows, your magic stronger and wilder, feral and viscous like the primordial force of nature.

So it becomes concerning when you're laying on the floor, captured, battered and bruised and calm.

Ghost had been waterboarding you for a while now, your body tied to a chair that had been tipped back so you were parallel with the ground. With water pooling around your head, your top half would have been soaked to the bone had your magic not been simmering in your veins, the magic suppression momentarily reducing the raging inferno in your chest to a meager flicker of flames.

They can't kill you, but limiting your magic for even a second is death in and of itself.

Your breathing is harsh as Ghost pulls away the cloth over your mouth, asking you a question as steam rises from your skin. Most would give in long before this point, but you just grin, eyes glowing with a burning glow, and make a comment about how good his arse looks from your viewpoint.

You manage only one small note of laughter, pitiful embers sparking at the corners of your lip, before Ghost drops the rag back over your face and begins anew.

Price watches all of this, sharp draconic eyes noting how the mana glows in your chest, pulsing like a second heart (assuming you had one to begin with), noticing how the water turns to steam a little faster when it splashes over your skin.

And Price knows.

You... You are going to be trouble.

[achromant]

AND HERE WE ARE! My project for the gw2 'zine!

Featuring Baruhn, reflecting on his life so far, the challenges, the small sparks of joy, the horrors, loss and gain.

For clarification's sake; I did in fact plan to depict every stage of Baruhn's life, but uuh. File was already too big.

Might do a series of short comics (graphic novels?) though, because i fking love storytelling.

Let's look at my idiotic level of detail a bit, eh?

[Long Text Ahead]

Baruhn's story begins in the Plains of Ashford. An unsuccessful attempt to stem the tide of Ascalonian Ghosts leads to the demise of many year-long allies. Dozens of brave soldiers gave their life for a mere week of peace until the ghosts reformed. They always do. Soldiers don't.

Shaken in his faith in the Legions, the first seeds of doubt arise.

Until finally he found someone to trust with his pain. In a tavern at the edge of the Black Citadel, he gets to know this odd fellow, who is continuosly follow by the faint smell of sulfur. Although Baruhn knew where that path led, the warmth radiating from the old veteran in front of him was not only a physical, but an emotional one.

With the Three Legions busy with their internal quarrels, fighting over an empty promise, Baruhn took the first steps down a previously thought to be dark path.

Surprisingly, die Flame Legion was welcoming, their fires offered light and guidance, the embers igniting the skies like stars. Surely this was better than the cold metal over the Black Citadel.

Baruhn took to learning first, handling the small flames with ease after years of throwing fireballs at ghostly shapes. Then, he figured out how to teach, and that is where the real magic comes from. Nurturing a flame, protecting it from harsh winds, adding a bit of kindling and coal here and there. He even taught the more elusive ways of magic that wield smoke and ash.

Baruhn knew about the war, the countless lifes lost on the other side of the fence. But those were humans, and here he was among family.

That is, until he met Molly.

After a small recon mission that was assured not to be much of a hurdle, Baruhn found himself alone in a forest. The small fires he conjured for light and warmth only drew in the nearby villagers. Those with pitchforks and torches, with crude swords and a thirst for blood. He couldn't really bring himself to hate them, this was war after all. But at what cost are these battles to be won?

Trying to escape the villagers was a futile attempt. He sank to the ground, his own hot blood dousing the little flames beneath his weary head.

For some reason - maybe hope, maybe resignation - he forced open his heavy eyes, only to discover his wounds cleaned and bandaged with fragile white cloth. A small human girl, of all things in this damned forest, tried to help. Even in his weakened state, even with just one hand, Baruhn could have easily grabbed her and cracked her skull. But the only thing he did was listen. He listened to the ramblings of the small human, going on and on about faries made of leaves and gnomes of stone. She called him "bear".

When the villagers came, they saw the girl at his side. That was all it took for them to turn on her. She was to be executed like that beast that now slowly stepped in front of her. For the first time, Baruhn spoke to the girl. "close your eyes."

Fire roared, not red, not orange. not a warm, welcoming fire. Not one that belongs in a hearth, that thrives in the arms of a family. This was so much worse. This was years of inner conflict, of doubt, of closing his eyes on the other side of the fence. For the first time in his life, this was the only thing that he wanted to do, protect the little insignificant human behind him. Fire roared, and it burned wood and it burned flesh.

Baruhn picked up the little girl, she held tight to his horns, nestled in his mane. He ran for hours, years of military training finally useful. The little girl, Molly, lost her mother years ago. She burned in the fires of a war she tried to escape. "And your father? What about your family?", he asked between deep breaths. Molly was quiet for a while, then whispered, her voice barely audible, "My father burned today."

They stayed together, for quite a while. He protected her, and she, with her head full of stories, and a book full of dreams, protected him.

Things came, things went. Baruhn rejoined the High Legions, acting as a spy for Ash, keeping an eye on Iron and Blood.

Baruhn ultimately took on his role as Novice, then Archivist, then Commander. He helped during the struggles against Scarlet. A small flame here and there, some shrouding smoke, a well timed lightning strike. It was other people that finally defeated Scarlet, but he was always in the background, with all the small things at just the right time.

Mordremoth came, but with him new allies.

It was but a small tangent in the grand scheme of things. Watching the fragile sapling while waging war on the jungle itself.

Their relation was something more than friendship, something else than love. They were there for each other when they needed to be. Be it only to keep a flame burning or to banish the voices to the back of the head again, they walked the same path for a long time.

Tarir, the Egg. Aurene. A new flame entrusted to him, his to nurture, his to raise. A gamble, again. What if that little flame would some day devour the world? But Baruhn did, what he could do best. Teach.

Darker times came. Caudecus and the White Mantle. The raid on the Mursaat's prison. Then facing the last Mursaat himself.

Balthazar came, and in his wake a new kind of fire. A war, similar to the ones Baruhn had seen before, but still different. A war without a cause, war for war's sake. War against nature, against the world, like a child lashing out when there were none to help them up. Maybe Balthazar's flames were not too different from his.

After the festering swamp that Joko was, came the mountain, Kralkatorrik. Death was not a hindrance anymore, not for the Commander and his dragon. The story went as the story goes.

When it came to face the frost, the whispers, Jormag. Everything fell apart. Jormag pried into the deepest, darkest corners of Baruhn's life, dragged every doubt, small as it may have been, into the light. In the ice, every truth was warped, encased in whispers, in lies. It suffocated any hope and planted even darker seeds than anyone thought possible.

It was the spirit of the Raven that aided Baruhn. Even the black feathers of its wings were shimmering like rainbows in the moonlight.

A small piece stayed with him, just a fragment. Nevermore.

After that, the stars themselves. Astralaria.

So many stories that make a life, so many pieces. Every encounter, every step along the way is another fragment of the whole. People are made of other people, that is what it means to be alive.

[rosedere]

Flames of deception

(Rollo Flamme x Fem! Reader)

CW: implied noncon, implied stalking, Drugging, writer did not play Glomas-

-

“You aren't at all who you say you are (Name)”

 Facing the antique fireplace, you didn't turn around towards him, merely focusing on the embers shooting to life in the fireplace, illuminating the dark winter sky outside.

“What if I wasn't anyway?” You simply slipped out, rolling your eyes.

"Are you going to tell my parents or what?”

Rollo only watched you, his eyes illuminated by the fiery embers of the coals.

His eyes were on you like a target meets an arrow.

Rollo stayed looking at you with silent judgment. Good, you hated being bossed around by him anyway, only being chosen to be apart of the student council because of your unique lack of ties to twisted wonderland. It seemed they had to pick you for being so unique, as the council put it.

At least you could go back to being invisible.

 “I find it most entertaining,” he chuckled, still sitting firmly in his armchair before him in the cavernous room.

“You (name) the unmagical prefect with a secret,” he grabbed his colored handkerchief promptly moving it in front of his mouth.

“I never kept anything a secret anyway,” 

“You just never asked,” you shrugged, keeping your hands clasped in front of your uniform.

The silence befell the room once more.

 ”Why so much anger (name)”

He leaned in, seeming like he was going to get up from his seat.

But instead of hearing his feet firmly stand up on the ancient mahogany wood beneath him, you felt his hands reach your hips.

stiffening, you only turned to the side to then feel the bottom of your robe lift up abruptly.

”Just as I thought,” he began to tsk; You only tried to pick up your now exposed underwear, only for Rollo to swat your hands away.

”You fucking pervert; get your hands off of me,” you yelled.

You were about to slap his wrist when you felt the smoldering heat radiating from his hands.

Pulling back with haste, your hand closest to the hand using fire magic was convulsing, trying to fan the now-burn blossoming on your tender skin.

Rollo only smiled up towards you, his expression contorting into a sunken darkness.

”So, on top of using foul language, the intel I’ve received might also be true about you,” he shook his head back and forth with a nasty glare of judgment.

”Unless, when I take your very feminine-looking underwear off, I see you told me the truth, then I will only reduce your punishment for doubting you.” His fingers began to curl under the waistband of your underwear.

You mentally cursed yourself for not wearing your boxers today; every damn day you wore those things, but you woke up later than usual.

“Well? Not even trying to fight the allegations before you.”

 He gripped the top of your underwear.

”Maybe you secretly get a thrill thinking about me looking at your bare fruit.”

He only snickered as the blush grew on your face as you tried, in vain, to pull your robe over your thighs.

 ”hoping someone comes in to see you so exposed; the magic-less prefect of Nobel College.”

 "S-stop,” you finally snapped; you didn't care who he was anymore.

You kicked behind you blindly, aiming for his seated knee, causing a blowback between the two of you. 

 Eyes stunned, he looked up at you, but you didn't stay long enough for him to say anything, bolting past him into the hallways, covering yourself once more.

Coming to the barren hallway with the antique decor and brown wooden walls, you finally caught your breath.

He wouldn't be crazy enough to follow you, possibly…

Looking around, you didn't see any student council members in the area at all. You pondered to yourself, assuming he had probably sent them away for the evening since it was the winter break anyway.

Only you and him remained strangely enough.

Shaking your head, you went down the isolated staircase you’d taken many times. The polished wooden steps leading down to a secluded courtyard at the bottom were your destination.

or what should have been where you ended up.

You didn't miss your step; you felt your foot land on the third step to the landing in the chambered staircase.

But the next minute, you felt someone grab you from your side.

It was supposed to be impossible. There was a wall there.

but unbeknownst to you in your time at Nobel Bell College The school council president had extensive knowledge of all the corridors and passageways that had been in the school before Fluer City was founded.

Fighting in desperation, you were no match for the person in the wall as you felt your mouth become covered with a handkerchief. You tried to claw into the thick material draped around his forearm to let go, but this only led to a fiercer fight as he pressed the handkerchief into your face. 

The smell coming off of it was putrid as you tried your best to resist inhaling and taking shallow breaths, but unfortunately you succumbed to the smell.

You just felt a horrible wave of drowsiness overcome your eyes.

Your limbs went weak, and your tongue was numb within your mouth, unable to protest anymore. You only felt yourself being carried back up the horrid stairs you had just come down from below.

 

-

 

Rollo knew from the start you were a female.

The hesitancy to strip for gym class in front of the others because you were “too embarrassed” by a scar you had on your chest.

The few times he did see you wear your robes tighter, he could see the volumptious form your hips had as you swayed, going back and forth  carrying on with duties in the council room.

He was already quite fond of you, already seemingly docile like he was, keeping to yourself in the side courtyard beyond the statue of the righteous judge.

 And, of course, having no filthy magic in your blood.

It was just a bonus when he found out you were female.

He only knew since he waited patiently behind a statue in the walls of the dressing room for athletics.

He heard you walk in his breath, baited in anticipation, as he saw you look around to be sure no one was around.

After a couple of seconds, you carefully took your hair down from under your hat, followed by unbuttoning and shifting your robes.

The finale, he thought.

He hoped his observations were right; to be wedded to a magicless being would be his dream come true.

Submissive and ready to start a family with him to begin his purification.

his eyes lingering on your chest as you finally reached the last layer of your uniform.

And, of course, a plain binder and laced corset were what he was greeted with.

 Your chest carefully wrapped underneath it, saddened that there wasn't more underneath. He got his wish when he saw you strip your lower robes.

You wore laced underwear, which is only seen in the most famous boutiques in the city.

It seemed you wanted to look cute sometimes, he thought to himself with a smile.

In that moment, he had decided to betray his values.

Why tell everyone the magicless prefect was a girl? They would all salivate over you, and he’d never have a chance to be with the one he knew was the key to purifying the magic from twisted wonderland.

He knew he had until winter break to convince you to be his.

but it was clear you weren't interested in any of that. Yet.

”I'm sorry it had to be this way (Name)”

Rollo stood over your unconscious self as you lay against a wooden pillar in the beloved clock tower.

bounded in scarlet ropes against the worn pillar, he began to undress you as he had when you were in that room all those months ago.

Carefully peeling your numerous layers on top of your torso, finally reaching your tender, exposed chest, he undid your binder and corset.

Your plumb breast being exposed to him; it was unbelievable, he was able to see your symbol of being a woman.

He told himself it wasn't weird to stare, as you would be his bride soon.

but he had to feel you.

He reached for your slowly rising chest as he felt your squishy mound underneath his palm.

It was heaven.

 Too heavenly.

A touch became a squeeze, a squeeze turned into a kiss, and eventually you were completely naked as Rollo began to let his hands wander.

After an hour of coitus together, he realized what he had done.

 laid underneath a blanket he had brought, still bare and unconscious.

He only laid beside you in the cold tower, heaving from the energy it took him.

But it was okay, he told himself he knew you wanted this.

You were just as lonely as him in this world. No one understood you as much as Rollo flamme did.

Suddenly, he heard you mumble.

 It seems someone was awake.

 -

Note: btw I wasnt lying literally only know Rollo is based off my favorite disney movie 😭

Btw Requested by: Sallade on AO3 <3

[danibee33]

The Queen’s Guard

*COD medieval au - Simon Riley x reader

cw: arranged marriage, dark themes, attempted sa & non-graphic sa but pls *read at your own discretion*, gore/violence, sexual themes, etc.

word count: 1.1k

“Again.”

You can’t help but to flinch at the sound of swords being drawn; it rings in your ears, echos in the recesses of your brain. The piercing, metallic clangs resound throughout the room-

How long had you been here, anyway? Judging from the sunlight that peers through the high transom windows, its golden rays giving the great hall an ethereal sort of glow, it must be nearing time for dinner-

“I’ve seen enough, thank you.”

With a dismissive wave, you rise from the bronze throne and turn on your heel, eyes focused straight ahead, fixated on the intricate carvings in the doors, your escape just within reach-

“Your Grace..”

General Leon’s voice is laced with exasperation and warning, and your long history with him is the only reason you halt, your handmaid nearly bumping into you as you turn again- the young woman struggling to rearrange the ridiculous train on your gown as the man speaks,

“You cannot continue on without a Queen’s Guard- His Grace demands the position be filled.”

Oh, of course. How thoughtful of your kind husband. The husband who only sees you when the physicians deem you fertile enough to produce an heir. The husband who you’re not even sure could pick your face in a crowd because he only ever fucks you from behind, your face pushed down into the animal furs beneath you.

The husband who killed your last guard, gods rest his soul.

Yes, I’m sure he’s very concerned for my safety..

You give a heavy sigh, fighting the urge to roll your eyes as you feel the placating smile tug at your lips; the one you’re so, so good at. The practiced smile that puts everyone in the room at ease, the one you’ve perfected in your relatively short existence of being groomed for this very life.

The life everyone dreams of, a life of royalty, of the highest privilege and power- how little they truly know.

“Of course, please, let us meet the next one then.”

Taking your place upon the throne once again, you sit properly, prim and demure, just like you were taught. The very picture of perfection in your emerald colored silks, not a single hair out of place-

Yet, inside, you were wasting away, your thoughts boiling and raging, your anger smoldering just under the surface, like a vein of coal in the earth that’s been lit aflame- the embers never dying, but never able to turn into the inferno they so wishe to be.

You don’t bother to spare your gaze when the doors open with a low groan, the quiet footfalls that enter the space only really given away by the shifting of chainmail and armor.

They’re confident strides, you notice- long and steady, and without even seeing him yet, you can feel the energy shift around you, his presence seeming to fill every available void,

“Ser Simon Riley, Your Grace.”

With one look, you’re utterly struck by the imposing man walking towards you- shoulders and hips swaying with each deliberate step, left hand resting lazily on the hilt of his long-sword.

His armor plates are dark, obsidian in hue, so different from the usual flashy silver you see everywhere you look. He is a looming shadow in front of you, somehow as wide as he is tall, if that were possible- and his eyes. The skin around them have been smudged with kohl, making the mottled amber of his irises look preternatural, his unmoving gaze entirely focused on you, even when he bows,

“Your Majesty.”

Your mind screams danger, much like it would if a fully grown wolf had just sauntered through the doors, looking for its next meal- and yet, for as much fear as he inspires, there’s something that draws you in- like a siren singing to sailors lost at sea.

Returning his gesture, you gently nod, holding his eyes until the General calls him back to assume a fighting stance; and even then, you swear you see his head tilt just so, just enough to flash you an arrogant look as the guard takes his place across from him. Ser Simon must easily stand a head and a half taller than the other man, you think, his figure even more impressive than it was before.

The men exchange nods before drawing swords, their dance beginning the same as all the others, assessing and calculating each other until the guard makes the first move-

The heavy whoosh of his blade is dodged with little effort, the giant wraith of a man moving far faster than any of you expected. He gracefully ducks under the other’s still outstretched arm, placing himself in the perfect position to swing his own sword towards his opponent's exposed neck- a maneuver surely meant to behead if this were anything other than a mock duel.

“Reset-”

“No.” You stand abruptly, stepping down from the throne much to your own surprise, “Ser Simon, what experience do you have as a Royal Guard?”

“Your Grace, this is-”

With a raised hand, you quiet the General, watching the mysterious knight sheath his sword once more, bowing again as he faces you,

“None, Your Majesty.”

Well, at least he’s honest.

“What experience do you have then?”

His head tilts to the side, and you watch the other guards tense when he takes a single step closer, those damned eyes gleaming down at you with a hunger you’ve never quite seen before,

“Battle, Your Grace. I’ve seen far more than most.”

This time, it’s you moving towards him, and when you step closer, the Kingsguard follows suit, though it seems nothing goes unnoticed by the towering specter.

“Well, Ser, I do not go into battle.. You might be better suited for my husband’s army, no?”

You watch the very corners of his eyes crinkle slightly, his gaze narrowing in amusement, and you’re positive you would see a devilish smile on his lips if he removed the helmet,

“I might.” He says flippantly, broad shoulders shrugging as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, “But, I came here to serve you, My Queen.”

A deep and burning chill blooms in your core at his words and the resolute way he says them; it lights every nerve on fire, every cell and molecule, every atom in your being vibrating at a frequency you’ve never felt as the title rolls off his gilded tongue.

No, you’ve never met a man quite like this, and part of you questions if he truly is just a man at all- because no man has ever felt like this, no man has ever been able to pick you apart so quickly, make you feel bare with just his gaze alone.

He terrifies you as much as he excites you, and oh, how you’ve longed to feel something other than loathing, and boredom.

There is nothing practiced or placating about the smirk on your lips now as you nod toward your General, your handmaid once again adjusting the cumbersome fabric of your gown as you move forward-

“Well, you’ve gotten your wish, Ser Simon.” You coo as you breeze past him without a parting glance, “General Leon, make sure my guard is taken to his new quarters, will you?”

They fall into a sweeping bow as you exit, a quiet acknowledgement being the last thing you hear before the deep pulsing of your own heartbeat fills your ears.

What in the seven hells have I done..

[chapter 2 >>>]

[pavus]

copper and flame —

ship : ketheric x lithana. rating : explicit. words : 4005.

In the dark, she became a cluster of embers. 

She became still-glowing coal nestled within the shadow of a banked fire, with a tangle of orange hair bound loosely at the nape of her neck and the steady throb of her holy symbol’s light nestled against the relief of her collarbone. Color bled from all else once the sun hid behind the skirts of the horizon, but somehow, she retained a bit of pigment – in her hair, in her cheeks, in her lips. When all else became shallow and tinted in hazy blues, she glowed .

Her trance stole her away for mere moments when compared to a full night’s rest, but during those precious few breaths of sleep, Ketheric watched her, drenched in an almost scholarly contemplation.

Leaning heavily upon his bent elbow, his bloodied eyes trailed over her from one end to another, traveling the length of her body both ways time and again. Outside of their shared, ramshackle quarters – a tent of threadbare fabric in a shade of pale, worn red, emblazoned with a careful sunburst and fringed with disorganized bundles of thread that had once been tassels – silence crossed the camp like a being all its own. It was a familiar sort of quiet, like warm fingertips against a partially open mouth.

Lithana shifted, exhaling almost fitfully. Her arm slid across her stomach to press instead between their bodies, her long-fingered hand tucking between their thighs. 

Before he could stop himself, Ketheric’s fingertips – not warm, barely familiar – brushed beneath the woman’s full bottom lip. She did not stir at the sudden pressure. She did not stir at all once she settled once more, her body brought close enough to his for him to feel the steady rise and fall of breath in her chest.

READ MORE ON AO3.

[ask-thedawnseekers]

A bit of Solana x Vulkan

Warnings: Straight Jorkin it and the sex

Vulkan set his hammer aside, the heat of the blade on his anvil was no longer sufficient to continue pounding it into shape.

He brushed away the sweat gathering on his brow as he set the blade back into the furnace to heat.

He stood watching it as his mind began to wander without him realizing.

The image of warm soft skin under his rough calloused fingers flickered in his mind like embers dancing up from the flames of his forge. The creamy softness that he longed to bury himself in haunted his dreams and flooded over into his waking mind, making it very hard to work.

'Vulkan~' The soft cries of his lover under him as he took her on the very anvil he now forged his newest creation on.

A bead of sweat rolled down his temple and he hastily wiped it away as he turned his attention back to the blade. Did the metal always take this long to heat?

Vulkan looked to the door of his forge, his sons, adorned in the dark green of Salamander scales, stood vigilant and reay should he give them any order. Swallowing the lump in his throat he cleared it and his sons perked up.

"My sons. I wish to continue forging on my own for the time being. You are free to go."

They looked as if they wished to protest, Their dark faces and coal burning eyes looking just a touch sad but they obeyed nonetheless.

The door closed with the heavy sound of stone and he turned back to the anvil. His hands began a desperate scrabble for the ties holding his pants up and he freed his cock. It was nearly at full mast and he grasped it with force, as if it was the wretched neck of some dark eldar. "Throne." He wheezed as he slumped against the anvil and his hearts pounded as Vulkan began to work his shaft.

"Solana~" he breathed as his eyes closed and he let the memories flow.

Her back had been laid over the anvil as her legs wrapped around his waist, her eyes, greener than anything on his world, except perhaps for the giant fire tongued salamanders, shone up at him.

"You almost look nervous." the Dawn Seeker teased and he chuckled. "I only fear you may not be able to control your voice and our children will hear that we decided to forgo that lesson on forging I promised."

She laughed, it was a merry sound, sweet and cool as spring rain.

Her hands sought his shoulders and she pulled him down for a kiss. His lips melded with hers so easily and his hands held her hips. The broad tips of his fingers sank into the plush abundance there and he groaned. She was so very soft. It belied a true powerful muscular form beneath, giving her her signature motherly form. Vulkan didn't care. He loved all the layers of her body.

His cock twitched as a bead of precum oozed forth and dripped onto her skin. "I love you Solana."

Her eyes glittered as she smiled up at him. "I love you too, Vulkan."

Her mouth locked with his gain as she raised her hips, inviting him into her warmth.

He took the invitation with near improper haste.

It was soft, yet tight, the perfect fit and he moaned sweet words of praise in his native, nocturne.

Solana squeaked in delight as he pushed in as deep as he could. The tip of his cock kissing her cervix. "Fuck me thats good." She slurred as her head fell back to rest on the metal of the anvil.

Vulkan chuckled and leaned down to kiss her neck. Smiling against her skin as her legs locked around his waist. "Careful." He warned voice low and husky. "I might get ideas if you hold me like that."

He'd be a liar if he hadn't thought about putting a child in her every time they met. But the warning Malcador had imparted with him kept him from doing so.

"I wouldn't mind having your children." Solana purred and the hold Vulkan had on her hips tightened.

"I would like that too."

He admitted as he pulled out and thrust back in, his voice pouring out sounds of satisfaction to meet her own.

They spent a sweet eternity in that moment, wrapped up in one another.

Vulkan wanted his own sons and daughters so badly. Children that not only made from his gene seed. Not that he did not love his astartes. But he had not been the one to hold them, to care for them, to change them and feed them. He had not raised them.

He wanted that. And he knew that Solana could provide that deeply desired reality.

His hips worked hard and fast and he pressed her into the anvil, shaping his desires as he shaped a blade. He would create life with her. He was so certain of it.

Consequences be damned, he needed this. And he needed her. His father could not keep her from him if he got her knocked up. He would have to sanction their union then.

He growled, pulling her hips down to meet each thrust, Solana's voice raised as he ground against that sweet spot inside her and his mouth covered hers. Swallowing her sweet sounds with his lips.

His mind was set, and he would not change it.

He felt his edge coming fast and he felt her walls tighten around him as he fucked her into sweet oblivion.

He followed soon after, pouring his molten seed into the deepest part of her.

Each thick rope poured into her eager body.

They stayed together like that for a long minute, just breathing and holding each other. Hands caressing and lips pressing to impart as much love as they could.

Vulkan's mind snapped back to the current as he spilled his load onto the steel of his anvil. THe spot where she should have been and he snarled. She will be back soon. He was sure of it, this campaign could not keep them apart forever.

He went about cleaning up his spilled cum and went to retrieve his blade. The end drooped and he huffed out a laugh.

Oh well. He'd just have to start over he supposed. As he quenched it he continued to think about Solana and set the blade aside. He went to the scrap bin of precious metals and picked out a piece of Platinum, it was good he thought, and plucked up a box of precious stones there were so many to choose from.

This would do, he smiled. Sitting at his work bench he daydreamed about the woman he loved as he crafted the band that he hoped would cement their futures together.

[leenukeath]

Childhood treasure

It was such a little thing. A bunch of old fabrics sewn together and barely holding with singed threads, yet something in it made the still young Bounty Hunter kneel down and pick it up.

A burned house, a grisly sight that dated a few days ago, the embers had turned to coals and the ashes had already been scattered by the winds. Many footsteps in the burnt floorboards, people had been there after the act.

The old rabbit plush had been spared ironically by ending up in an old pot over the chimney, singed but still salvageable. The question now was if its owner was still around to lay claim to it. Tardif sighed, there was little chance a child could survive a house burning, and even if they had escaped these woods were too dangerous for anyone without strong survival instincts and knowledge, whoever this toy belonged to, they were probably gone by now.

He should have thrown the thing away and gone back on his way but something stilled his hand, instead coaxing him to shove the sad burnt thing in his knapsack and take it with him. He figured maybe he would find a child who would want it later. A few days later when resting at an inn, he pulled it out again, examining the burn spots and pulling out his sewing kit. One of his old shirts that was too ragged to be used was cleanly cut to patch up the various holes making it look somewhat less miserable. A thorough wash in the bassin with some soap rinced away the soot and dark patches, leaving a somewhat less grimy looking but still lovingly used bunny. He hated to admit it but he was starting to get attached to it.

~

It never left his knapsack, Tardif would never be able to live with the shame of being caught with a plush toy in his possession but the rabbit in his bag had become a somewhat soothing presence in his life, a thing to hold and let witness his less dignified moments of weakness. For a lone fighter like him, the presence was welcome, even if it was only with eyes of threads.

~

It was in that damned estate that he thought he was finally going to break. His will thrown against the walls of horrors they were constantly being submitted to alongside the threat of death made the facade of strength harder to keep up with each day. His secret possession in his bag beneath his bunk felt more and more important to anchor himself to this reality.

Then one day Missandei mentionned the forest she used to live in, and the fire. When asked about it, she spoke about how she had to run away when she was barely eight, holding her father's crossbow that she had had to trade for her dear rabbit… He knew he had found her, that he should give her what was rightfully hers back, but it tore his heart as well. His precious companion taken away from him, who would he allow to see his tears now?

Yet the thought of a child forced to grow into a killer much too fast, faster than even he had to made him reconsider. And the next day he brought her a box containing their little treasure of fabric and stuffing. "You made her a little outfit?!" exclaimed Missandei when she picked it up, examining the cautiously sewn together pullover on the plush rabbit. Tardif nervously rubbed the back of his neck: "Well it was such a sad thing when I found it… figured I'd make it less miserable."

Missandei happily took her rabbit back, to Tardif's slight chagrin, but her genuine happiness in the following days was a slight ray of light in the darkness of this world. She made sure to spend as much time as she could with the usually reserved Bounty Hunter, to his reluctant appreciation, and sometimes came back to him asking for help with repairs and weapon maintenance. Tardif may have lost a dear trinket, but had gained a friend, the rarest reward he had ever been blessed with.

[warriors-wyrms-writing]

hi everyone! I wrote a story based on @deepwaterwritingprompts and it would mean a lot to me if you could look at it :) A small fire glowed in the distance like a jar of fireflies, sparks flying out in all directions as a pair of shadowy hands warmed over the flames. The traveler limped towards it with cloak pulled close, longing for the idea of a warm place to sleep. As they drew nearer the dark figure became more distinct, with golden skin that gleamed faintly in the firelight and dark hair spilling out from beneath a hood that dropped low over their face. The traveler approached cautiously, hands out to the side in a universal gesture of peace. “Might I partake in your warmth for a night?”

The shrouded head turned towards them, and the voice that emerged from somewhere within the shadows was deep and gravelly. “Sit, then. But I have no food to share.” The traveler sank gratefully onto the hard ground, feeling the warmth of the flames sink into their bones. They unslung their pack and pulled out a smaller cloth bag, withdrawing a slightly bruised apple. The stranger next to them held their own provisions, a small heel of hard bread that they gnawed at, mouth hidden somewhere beneath their hood. It seemed to have black specks embedded within, but the traveler was sure it was merely a trick of the light; for who would willing eat a diseased loaf? The pair ate in silence for a time, until the stranger tucked half their bread back into a small satchel and sat with their head on their hands, staring into the heart of the fire. The traveler noticed for the first time that they sat on some sort of weathered stone, edges run smooth. 

“Why have you come here?”

The traveler shifted. “Just passing through. You?”

“Oh, I live here. Always have.” The way their raspy voice caught in the words hinted at something deeper. 

“Does… does anyone else still live here?”

The stranger leaned forward. “No, they don’t.” Firelight flashed off bared teeth in a grin, feral as it can only be in the night. “You wanna know why?” The traveler flushed and wrapped their cloak tighter as they began.

“A long, long time ago, this was a village. A village of farms… a village with a mill. And every year…”

Every year, the miller would take one grain, a single misshapen grain, from the piles sent by all the farms to be ground, and bury it in a pit of smoldering coals. The villagers thought him crazy, until one year, the stand of a more prosperous farm at the market was manned by a younger child, with skin a light gold, hair the dusky shade of wheat sheaves, and eyes of deep rich amber. The farmers said that she had appeared the same day as their flour, a week after they’d sent it to the miller. She didn’t talk much, but when she did it was soft and breathy, the rustling of wind through grain. A year later, another child showed himself from a neighboring farm, with such similar features that the villagers grew suspicious. And then other farms brought forth their children, all near enough to be twins, and all appeared when they seemed to be around five; and all nearly exactly a year apart.

The children helped on the farms, and it was soon noticed that their mere presence led to a more bountiful harvest. But even these blessed children with their amber eyes could do little to nothing against disease. The grains were swollen and black, and though they tried there was little that could be saved. So the farms picked out the best kernels they could find and sent them to the miller as usual. But some of these were still discolored, and it was one of these that was laid in the bed of embers. And a week later, a child showed up on the steps of a farmhouse.

But they didn’t look like the others who had come to the farm.

This child’s eyes were coal black, with sclera tinted a faint sickly yellow, and gold skin mottled with patches of scaly darkness. Whispers abounded, claiming the child was a curse, a punishment from the heavens, but the farm at which they had arrived was run by a woman who was kindly yet stern and would tolerate none of these rumors around the child she called hers, the child she named Keres. Even if the comb passed easily and swiftly through their sibling’s soft downy hair while theirs grew patchy and was liable to fall out at the slightest tug, they grew up surrounded by a warm and loving environment. Until they were old enough to help with the fields. It was nothing dramatic, but the plots Keres tended produced less than any others, and the grass near their favorite bench outside the mill was perpetually prickly and brown. And yet no disease as bad had struck the fields in the seven years since, and one new sibling had come to their farm. And no one loved Thalia like Keres did. They were rarely seen apart, for even while Keres did their chores, you could see their sister’s bright eyes following every movement. And then one day, she got sick. None of the wheat children had ever been ill before, but Thalia was weak and pale, with dark bruises down her arms. Keres never strayed from their sister’s room. Not for months as she battled the sickness that gave rise to tremors within her. And it was Keres who held her in their arms as her chest fell for a final time.

Thalia’s headstone was carved from wood, lacquered to a rich honey color that matched her eyes, and it sat by the river. It was the first ever carved for a golden child, elaborate and beautiful. Keres stopped working, choosing instead to sit by the mill, to sit by their dead sister. And meanwhile their farm grew prosperous. And the other children of the wheat, the ones who would visit Thalia in her silent entombment and lay wreaths over her grave, began to weaken. They too grew pale and cold, and one by one they succumbed to the sickness, in a row of graves that stretched down the river.

The cloaked stranger paused, and seemed to draw further into themself. The traveler, lulled by the warmth of the fire and the cadence of their voice, lay down on the hard dirt. After all, the night was so cold…

“So many graves. And yet the river flowed…”

With the golden children sick and dying, the town began to suffer. Weevils chewed their way through the barley. Mold grew in the foundations of the houses. And Keres sat alone by their little sister’s tomb. Soon the other people of the town grew ill, and the fields ran wild with no one to tend them. Keres did their best to help, but what can one cursed child do? And Keres was sure now that they were cursed, that this was their fault. Haggard and weakened, the remaining villagers decided to take their sick and leave, find somewhere else. Among these was the woman whom Keres called their mother. And yet the child would not go, blaming themself for all that was going wrong. They had lived in the village for ten years.

And so Keres wandered the village, doing their best to keep it standing. And yet everything around them seemed to decay, and even the moss would grow diseased and fall to dust. The mill had long since fallen down, but Keres haunted it like a dark wraith among the wreckage of the rotten wood. The only thing that grew was mold, the tendrils creeping across the damp and rotting wood. The sun still rose and set like it always had, but Keres no longer went outside to marvel at the colors. They stayed inside, perched on the millstone, sleeping in uneasy fits and starts. And every day they would press their face to a gap in the wood and stare out at the row of bodies buried along the riverbank. My fault, they would think. All my fault. 

They lost track of the days, the months, the years, like a half-dead ghost floating across the ground with no sense of the time that passed, until the first traveler arrived. He had been just passing through, off on some quest or another, and sought shelter in the rundown buildings. Keres didn’t know it, but they hadn’t seen a human being in more than three years.

They tried to help the traveler, gave to him from the tiny stores of food and led him to the most intact buildings. He stayed there for but a night, but they awoke to find him coated in sweat and staring wide-eyed around him, screaming with horror about whatever imaginary terrors tormented him. His seizures ceased quickly, but they were the last movements he made before all his muscles went slack and fell into rigor mortis.

Keres dug his grave with their bare hands, black dirt accumulating beneath their ever-growing nails and knuckles covered in blood. He barely fit, and they planted a sapling over the body. They did the same for the next traveler, and the next, an orderly line of oak across the river from the tombs of the grain children. Their hands grew more callused than they ever had been on the farm, and their tattered clothes, already loose fitting, began to slip off their shoulders. 

Eventually, Keres stopped caring, and that was when the grain came. It grew everywhere but the old farms and the graves, flecked with black and knee-high at first, then up to their waist, until one day it towered over their head. They pulled out the last patchy strands of their hair, and it regrew in a soft black fuzz like the fur of a peach. They took to wearing a hood pulled low to keep their scalp warm. More travelers passed through, and Keres would share the warmth from the fires they built atop the old millstone, but would never give them the bread they made from the flour of the diseased wheat and the acorns of the corpse-trees. Eventually, they began telling their story. After all, they were all dead by morning.

The stranger looked upon the traveler and sighed, pulling down their hood and revealing jutting cheekbones that the firelight cast strange shadows on, giving them a blotchy appearance. The traveler laughed, faint and tired, from where they lay on the hard ground before closing their eyes. “Good story, kid.”

[guess-my-next-obsession]

Starlight — Prologue

pairing: fae!ezra x princess!oc (Marigold)

rating: M (first person POV, split second mention of death, strained paternal relationship, arranged marriage, fantasy elements, i literally created a world and lore for this so if none of it makes any sense that is why, this chapter is just meant to build the world—we meet Ezra in the next chapter)

wc: 1.2k

a/n: hi everybody!! i’m well aware this book will not be one of my more popular series, but i really just wanted to write something fantastical, and even if i’m the only soul who reads this, it’s fine! we love a bit of self indulgence every now and again! anyways, hope you guys like this little prologue. i’m hoping to have the next chapter out within the week 🤍

series masterlist

All I’ve ever known is summer.

In my world, Etos, there are five kingdoms: Heims, Oceanus, Florere, Ember, Nox, and Solis. Anywhere else is far too dangerous for a mortal to step foot into, even if they could manage crossing the sea that separates us from the Fae lands and beyond.

The furthest land from my own is Heims, a frosty wonderland full of people hardened by the perpetually cold weather. Most of our coal comes directly from Heims, as well as my father’s toughest soldiers. My eldest sister, Wilhelmina, or Mina, as far as our family is concerned, married the charming Prince of Heims, Kristofer, and currently resides in the castle made of crystal so clear it almost looked like ice, setting the standard for the rest of my sisters.

Oceanus, too, was an important ally to have—their land producing the entirety of our fish as well as guarding the coast from those who seek to take back Etos. My father knew this well, and soon arranged for my second eldest sister, Peregrine, or Peri, to be married off to the King’s highest ranking emissary, Lord Titus, assuring the alliance between our lands. Luckily for soft-natured Peri, Titus seemed to be a gentleman and truly in love with my sister. I would have never allowed my father to marry her off if he wasn’t. Her gentle and kind spirit was far too precious to me to allow some man to ruin it.

Ember, a land of constant autumn, was where the academics went to study the arts and the sciences. My sister, Wilhelmina, was the actually the very first woman to be admitted into the university. I always admired her tenacity in the face of adversity, but even in my admiration, I feared her intellect and drive, just as my father must have after breaking down and allowing her to leave Solis.

The softer lands—at least in the minds of the northerners—were Florere, a land of eternal spring, and Solis, my land, the eternal summer. Octavia, the sister closest in age to me and by far the only one I couldn’t bring myself to enjoy due to her mean-nature and competitiveness, had recently left Solis to be with her betrothed, the Prince of Florere, Ignacio. I didn’t bother to vet her partner, but from what I could see by his solid gold carriage and fine regalia, he seemed to be just as pretentious as she was. A perfect match as far as I was concerned.

Even in all the beauty of Etos, all the varying climates and scenes, I never wanted to live anywhere else but my home. Solis.

Here there was no reason to be cruel and cold. Here, we appreciated the arts, and believed that leisure itself was an artform. We worshipped the sun, we worshipped our gardens, and when it came to love, we worshipped one another.

My father, his mother, and her father before her all wore the golden crown of Solis. Warmth and sunlight was woven into my bones, tanned my skin, softened my heart. My mother once told me, long before she passed, that my sisters and I were all born beneath a blazing sun at her request. I suppose she believed a warm birth meant we’d all live warm lives and die warm deaths.

As I wandered through the garden contemplating my newly revealed fate, I couldn’t help but wonder if her efforts were in vain.

My father, a once-loving, soft man I cherished more than the sun itself, had changed since my mother’s shocking and violent death after she was mauled by an injured wolf while attempting to remove an arrow from its side in the very forest I now padded my feet into. He grew cruel and hateful towards me, his youngest of five girls. I suppose I understand why, if I truly think about it.

Unlike my four older sisters, I took after my mother so much that even I found myself shocked at the resemblance. And even if I didn’t have her shimmering, gold eyes, or her caramel-brown head of long curls, or the same dimple in my left cheek, I had her heart. Soft, curious, and empathetic. Everything my father once loved about my mother, he now hated about me.

Of course he found it hard to look at me, to talk to me. I was his grief personified.

But even in all his iciness and hatred, I never expected that he’d sign my life away to the coldest, darkest realm in the world. To Nox. To marry the infamously insufferable King Kaius and become the future queen of the starland.

Whether I wanted to or not.

It felt personal, his choice in my betrothed. A daughter of the sun being forced to never see it again. It almost felt like another death to endure. Everything I have ever known and loved gone overnight.

As I found my place underneath my favorite elm tree, the one me and my mother used to sneak off to with our stolen bundle of sweets from the kitchen, I couldn’t bring myself to loathe him the way I wanted to.

Perhaps the distance would chill the warmth I still held in my heart for him.

Perhaps then, I could hate him the way he deserves.

My sister, Cosabella—the most cautious and maternal out of the five of us, happily married to the head of our father’s King’s Guard—and my father stood in front of our palace, its white marble and green grass beckoning me to stay. To fight for my right to live here in the sun, just as my mother had. But one look at my father’s cold and emotionless face and I knew there was no point.

This was how he wanted it.

“Take care of yourself,” Cosabella warned, slipping me a golden dagger. “Do not trust anyone. Write when you can. I will see you…” She trailed off, but I knew why. She didn’t know when we’d see each other next, if at all. “Just…be careful. Remember that just because the sun is gone, does not mean mother isn’t right there with you. She lives in you, Mari—“

“Enough,” my father shouted, gesturing behind me at the carriage waiting with two footmen and two Kingsguards. “Off you go.”

“Yes, father,” I replied, my voice as small as a child as I gave Cosabella one final hug, memorizing the citrus of her perfume.

“Go on, now,” she smiled as she pulled away, wiping the tear from my cheek. “Go introduce Solis to Nox. Bring them a little light.”

“I love you,” I managed, nodding my head at her command. “I will see you.”

“I love you too.”

I knew she wouldn’t promise me anything she couldn’t assure, but it didn’t help my cracking heart as I climbed into the carriage, leaving everything I’d ever known behind.

I placed my hand upon the glass window and watched as she lifted her own, waving at me before resting it over her equally breaking heart.

“Make yourself comfortable, Princess,” the footman that I’d known since I was a child called back into the carriage. “It’s a long ride to Nox.”

To the eternal darkness.

I wasn’t sure how they managed any of it. How cold they must be, not only their bodies but their hearts and minds. I couldn’t imagine any beauty in a black sky.

I’d heard about stars in my astronomy courses, learned that the sun itself was a star, but it never seemed to make any sense to me to spend time contemplating a billion little specks of light when I could lay beneath the biggest. A light bright enough to shine over the entirety of the world—except for Nox.

My father had said it was cursed by the fae Kings and Queens who once ruled over these lands, a punishment for the mortal revolution. And based on the description he gave of his own visits, I was inclined to believe him then. But now…

Curse or no curse, this was my fate. I could either accept the cards dealt to me and make something of them, or I could fold.

My mother taught me to never fold.

[caycanteven]

@mothiepixie drug me right into another one and I fuckin' love pirates man...and I didn't even fight it lmfao. Enjoy this fun drabble I wrote up~ Fair warning, I just wrote this for fun; no idea how accurate appearances or any of the like are and I came up with "The Black Fiend" myself cause ships have cool names teehee.

The storm raged outside, but among the drunkard squabble and unrelenting retelling of stories on the seven seas, it was a hushed whisper.

This tavern wasn’t a first for her, but it was definitely one she came to seldom enough. Company wasn’t something she avoided like the plague, but she preferred to be alone when she drank her spirits. Cheers to the tavern mates who were Three Sheets to the Wind, but she wasn’t them.

She learned the hard way what it meant to take her eyes off her surroundings and get too comfortable.

She paid the price.

A minor price, but a price, one that wasn’t paid in silver.

She lifted her tankard to her lips, downing a swig of the rum within. With a lazy brush of her arm, she wiped her mouth of leftover sprits and breathed deep. It burned, but it felt so good. It always felt good.

Out of the corner of her left eye and beneath her hat, she noticed a body place themselves on the stool beside her. She grunted under her breath. Out of all the places in this damn tavern, they chose there to place their ass?

She stilled a moment before drinking once more from her tankard, her brow raised with sudden curiosity and surprise.

A lass? It was unlikely, but who would wear such robes like that around if they weren’t…though even she knew better than to judge first sight. After all, she hid well beneath her own rags just to make’er livin’ on the sea under the interpretation she was male.

Or used to.

She set her tankard down slowly in order not to draw attention to herself. She eyed the company sitting on her left thoroughly. They hadn’t requested anything, though perhaps they were already drunk. She could make out a tuff of orange below their own hat, hair no less. A rather beautiful color, like the embers on hot coals. So perhaps they too, understood the importance of hiding their appearance?

It was all too…odd. She snorted and she returned her attention to her drink. She didn’t need to bother her still sober thoughts with that of a random—

“Ye come ‘round here plenty?”

She stopped twirling her tankard, her lips just barely touching the lip of the cup. She hadn’t expected the body to speak. Why would they? She squinted her eye and she slowly put down her tankard with a heavy thud. She leaned against the counter, elbows pressed against cracked wood.

“Aye,” she muttered and she kept her eyes forward.

“Got a name?”

She glanced over, finally seeing the face of the company beside her. Feminine features, as expected, though their face was peppered in freckles and markings; their eyes were as crystal blue as the sea itself. She had to admit, they were a beauty.

“Aye.”

They seemed to be patiently waiting for more, but when she didn’t reply, they pressed further. “Gonna share it?”

“Lass, don’ ye think that’s a bit far for someone ye neva met?” She tilted her head as she turned to acknowledge them, brow raised in question.

“Isn’t that how you greet someone properly?”

Something about them was different from those she met before, behest unwillingly. Their dialect, their posture and their words…

“Ye ain’t from ‘round here, are ya lass?” She spoke with a chuckle laced in her words. They seemed naive, ignorant—perhaps she could indulge in their conversation.

The blue-eyed beauty huffed and looked away for a moment. “Ye can say that.”

She hummed softly with consideration, before taking a quick swig then placing her tankard back down again, half empty. “Ye trade me yer name, I trade he mine, is that fair lass?”

She watched them process her bargain before nodding once.

“Aye. Motti.”

Motti? Interesting, she thought as she looked this Motti up and down. Holstered to their front was a flintlock no doubt, but it was in poor shape. It made her skin crawl but she resisted the temptation to question its condition. The rest of Motti physically looked healthy, disregarding the cuts and bruises healing on her rather gentle skin.

She snorted softly before turning her body more so to face them, smiling ever so slightly, the corners of her lips curled in a smirk.

“Lexico, pleasure to make ye acquaintance. Ye call me Lex, fer short,” she hummed with a nod. Lex watched the expression on Motti’s face brighten with surprise. So she had not anticipated Lex being a woman perhaps?

“I wasn’t sure—“

“Ye’d find another like ye? Aye, don’ really. Not like how yer doin’…” Lex grunted as she swirled her tankard. She chuckled at the bewildered look on her companion’s face. She chuckled and she shook her head. “Ye don’t worry your pretty head ‘bout it. Yer still standin’, so ye good enough to believe yer well off.”

“I suppose yer right,” Motti nodded and turned to face the bar’s surface. “So Lex,” she continued after a moment, “ye happen to know anything about a captain of a ship…named Nightmare by any—“

It had happened far too quickly; a glint of metal in the tavern light, and before a Motti could register, a blade was held at a threatening point.

“Lass, ye be sure to swallow yer words,” Lex warned lowly, but there was tension in her voice. “Ye don’t speak so easily of the Black Fiend ‘round this port.”

Mottie swallowed, though gently placed the tip of her finger against the blade and pushed it away.

Lex narrowed her gaze, then slowly put her knife in her belt. “Ye brave, I’ll say that.”

“Please, Lex…” Motti pleaded quietly, moving closer to speak under breath. “I need to find him.*

Lex hissed softly as she hid her disapproval behind her drink.

She had almost finished it off before she returned a cold but curios gaze to Motti. Her eyes looked the lass over with scrutiny, but eventually relaxed slightly. “Why are ye doin’ that, lass,” Lex muttered and gave her a softer look. “The Black Fiend doesn’t sit still long enough to bring attention ‘bout. The captain more so,” she muttered, but hesitated when there was evident disappointment in her company’s face. “Royal fleet’s been chasin’ him for a long time.”

“Ye wouldn’t understand,” Motti huffed and grumbled curses under her breath, eliciting a chuckle from beside her. “I need to find him. He…”

Lex watched as the blue-eyed lass—no doubt a young pirate herself—beamed at the mention of the captain of a The Black Fiend. Lex knew that look, the glittering behind the eyes.

Lex nearly spit out her rum.

“Ye can’t be serious.”

Motti looked up quickly, the feather of her hat dancing and bobbing. She nodded once, yet hesitantly. “Yes. He’s a lost lover, to say less,” Motti huffed. “I’ve been searching for so long, but only now have I got something to run on.”

Lex nodded slowly, resisting the urge to question how that—the two of them—happened. Once Motti finished their quiet exchange, Lex sighed and pushed her empty tankard away.

“I need a crew for my ship.”

“So ye chose a tavern full of drunkards to look?”

Motti shrugged. “Easier to get them to say yes.”

Lex couldn’t stop herself from actually laughing the more she listened. “Aye, ye keep that tid bit about The Black Fiend to yerself and ye might have it in yer favor.” She sighed, though seeing as Motti was frowning and her eyes were focused on the bar top, Lex couldn’t help feel for her.

She knew what it was like to lose a lover.

She sighed, knowing she’d regret this if this didn’t go to plan. Though, it had been forever since she had a crew to call her own, a ship…a chance to sail those waters again. “Ye chose the right person to ask first,” Lex grunted and she tossed a couple shillings on the bar.

Motti beamed again in surprise and hope. “Ye considerin?”

“Aye. Ye need someone who can handle weaponry,” Lex nodded and gave Motti a smug grin. “I got all ye need to know about it. Not to mention, I got a good shot.”

Motti seemed to be in disbelief. Lex witnessed her eye move slightly to her right, obviously staring at an injury long scarred. “Ye sure?”

Lex chuckled. “Aye…” she smiled and she held out her hand.

“Don’t need two eyes to shoot a man dead. Now how bout ye let me take a look at that ol’ flintlock?”

[softagenda]

birds of a feather (ais)

ais x reader(f)

baking au / short fic

series: birds of a feather ; aperitif

originally posted on ao3

masterlist

Preview

“Barkeep said you’d be back here,” Ais’s voice echoes through the empty kitchen, sounding bemused. “Gotta admit this wasn’t what I expected.”

You glance over your shoulder, snort, and continue to knead the large, lumpy mass of dough on the counter. “Thought I’d be butchering the cow for them?”

“Cleaning the bones for a necklace, bottling marrow for potions,” he adds, his footsteps drawing closer until he appears at the edge of her counter. “Scrying prey with skin or eyeballs. The usual.” He leans over and braces his elbows on the stone, chin notched in his palm.

“Ha ha.”

“Just thought you’d be doing something a little more badass.”

The dough softens and pulls beneath your hands, wisps of flour puffing into the air with each roll. For a long time, you’d been afraid to touch not just anyone but any thing . When you were young, your teacher had eventually convinced you to work on more crafts and skills, to grow more comfortable with your bare hands - and despite all they’d put you through, those memories still held bittersweet solace even now. “There’s still time to add more ingredients. A cup of chopped, eldritch sea demon should add some spice.”

“I was just about to ask if that was a meat cleaver in your pocket, or if you’re just happy to see me.”

You roll your eyes and pause to spread the dough between your fingers, before balling it up and dropping it in a pot to mature in the shade for a while. “Guess Leander’s getting most of my loaf tonight. I know he’ll appreciate it.”

The corner of his mouth quirks. “Most? Who else?”

“Vere will probably sneer, express his utmost disdain for such peasant fair, and then eat a fourth of it. He’s a slut for a honey glaze.” You sidle closer and prop your hip on the edge, looking him over. It’s a little unusual to see him out and about during the day. His hair windswept, the folds of his kimono draping around his belt and down his left arm, Ais looks as though he just rolled out of bed.

“Mhin seems like they’d have a sweet tooth too. Kuras… hmm.” You shrug and flick the tail of your hair over your shoulder. “Hard to know what the good doctor likes. Have you ever seen him eat?”

“No, despite Leander’s best attempts.” Red eyes trail lazily over the quiet kitchen: stacks of copper pots, a shelf full of knives and spokes, the massive iron cauldron warming in the hearth, before stopping on you. “He likes you, though.”

“Think he’d break bread with me?” You ask with a laugh in your voice. 

Ais only hums, but the faint smile evolves into something with a little more teeth. 

“It’s a shame my bread’s not badass enough for the Seaspring’s master,” you muse, biting on your tongue to keep from grinning. “Guess I’ll go and have a cry about it.”

“Always wanted to make you cry, sparrow,” he says, rising from his slouch and stepping toward you. His broad shoulders cage you up against the counter, his body looming over you. He’s not hot like most men and monsters - Ais seemed to exude the same chill that drifted in mists from the Seaspring, smelling of brine and brimstone. “Didn’t think I’d manage it like this.”

You look up at him from beneath your lashes, hooking your finger into the lip of the leather belt. You’re exceptionally careful of what you touch and where, without your bandages to shield him. “How did you imagine it?”

Ais leans into your space, his heavy-lidded gaze settling on your mouth with smoldering heat, like embers roasting on a bed of coals. His finger drew a line across the counter before lifting, a peak of flour sitting there like a snow cap. “No clothes. Less flour.” He blows it off, smirking as the cloud drifts into your face. 

“The counter’s unexpected, but… not bad.” He wraps his knuckles against the top. “It’ll probably hold up.” 

Heat curls within you. “ Probably .”

Ais shrugs. “Probably.”

You take a long, steady breath, feeling your stomach brush against him. “Better chances than that pier, I suppose.”

Something swam through his red eyes, the glow brightening for a heartbeat. “Now that’s a thought, sparrow.”

“You haven’t had it before? I’m offended.”

“Figured you’d want a bed, at least.”

“I’m not picky.” 

Ais chuckles, the sound so low and pleased that it hooks into you with electric warmth. He leans his body forward until his weight presses against you, pins you to the cold stone at your back, and cranes his neck. He presses a grinning mouth against yours. 

“Birds of a feather, sparrow.”

_____________________

a/n: thank you for reading!

[somethingclevermahogony]

Writing Share Tag and Last Line(s) Tag

Thank you for the tags @paeliae-occasionally (x2) and @the-golden-comet! That's three so the first two will be random chapter from the old manuscript and the third will be the latest line I've written from the rewrite.

Excerpt 1: Chapter 40

Context: Grown-Up Ninma and Old Dati chat while Narul sleeps.

Narul’s snores soon joined the chorus of birds flitting around the treetops, Dati and Ninma struck up a fire and sat on either side, watching the moths flock to its flickering light. “I know you don't want to hear this from me. But it could be much worse.” Dati sighed. “What do you mean?” “Narul. I know how you feel, trust me we all see how skittish he is. He can be an ass, but he is an ass who everyone can see cares very deeply for you.” Ninma looked into the coals and frowned. “ I know he does but sometimes I feel like it's just too much. It's as if he thinks I’m an idiot, or made of glass.” Dati snorted. “That’s because you used to be a little idiot.” Ninma frowned. “Hey! I was not.” “Oh yes you were, and its a very recent change. Stowing away on the ship, running around like a wild animal in a demon’s lair, not to mention how many broken toes and fingers from falling out of trees have we had to deal with? Hold up fingers, I want to see if they’re crooked.” Ninma rolled her eyes. “Oh please, those were all when I was a kid.” “Sneaking off in the middle of the night to see some pretty lights with your boyfriend while everyone else was drunk? All while you were the most wanted person in Kishetal? I can’t think of anything more idiotic than that.” Ninma laughed and watched an ember float off into the twilight sky. “Maybe you’re right. But I’m not that way anymore.” “I am.” Dati grunted, “Right, that is.” The old sailor had become gruffer and more irritable in his old age, his shoulders hunched, his body stiff, including his tail which no longer swished and flicked with its former fluidity. Ninma thought about Narul, Jani, and the future. “Why did you never have children, Dati? With Sihunu or someone?” Dati raised an eyebrow, taken aback by the sudden change in conversation. "I did. Lat may have come from Istek’s nethers but he was a son to both of us. Sihunu did most of the raising of course, us being at sea and all, but when we were on land we both cared for him. Istek and I share everything, a ship, a wife, and a bed, why not a son too?"

Excerpt 2: Chapter 13

Context: Narul and Ninma meet a strange spirit.

As they entered the clearing the two spirit children melted into the moss and vanished. As Narul crouched to inspect the patch of green into which they had disappeared, Ninma carefully climbed off of his back. The moss was soft and springy beneath her feet. Under the soft surface, she could feel roots and stone, and other things swallowed by the forest. “Where are we?” She said as she stumbled towards the magnificent tree.  “I don’t know, Ninma. Don’t wander off.” Narul muttered. He pulled a small sheet of metal from the moss, a plaque of some sort, cracked and rusted. The same mysterious language which graced the pillars was engraved there on the pitted surface. Narul thought of stories, of ancient kings and heroes, and of an age of metal and glass. “Welcome, it has been many years since I was blessed with a visitor.” Narul jumped and clenched his fist, crumbling the metal plaque into a ball of rusted scrap. Ninma ran back to him and clutched his leg, her eyes darted around the clearing. “Do not be afraid. I mean you no harm.”  The soft melodic voice seemed to emanate from the tree itself. As they turned to it, the knotted trunk undulated and quaked, and thus split open to reveal a hollow. Ninma watched as a column of golden pollen and leaves vaguely swirling in the form of a person, stepped from the tree. Narul could only stare at that strange being which emerged. They were tall and thin, with skin like the bark of the oak from which they had emerged. Its head was perfectly round, with no indication of a chin, nose, or brow. Their lipless mouth was flush with their wooden skin. Where one would expect to find hair, instead sprung long branch-like protuberances which twitched and curled, seemingly of their own accord. And the eyes. Seven of them arranged like a crown around the being’s head, each a different shade, they blinked and swiveled, Narul could hear them, like rolling marbles. “Please sit. I mean you no harm.” The being said softly, as it itself sat, long spindly legs crossed. “What are you?” Ninma said, her voice little more than a squeak. “I am a spirit, I have been called one of the Jalbaba, the great spirits. If you ask for my name, that which I was first given, I cannot remember it. But there are those who have known me as the One Who Watches or simply the Watcher. I was young when men and his kin rose from the common animals and the cycle of mortal souls began, and I was already ancient when the gods laid waste to the impious and made the world as it is. Who are you?” Ninma looked at Narul and then back at the spirit. She took a deep breath and puffed out her chest, and tried to rekindle that royal bravado. “ I am Ba Ninma Asherdul Ninjali, daughter of King Hutbari of Labisa” Ninma rarely gave her full noble name, it wasn’t of much use in non-noble circles. But she was hoping to impress the spirit with her royal pedigree. It meant Princess Ninma of the line of Asher, third of that name of the Eldest line.

Last Line

The princess slipped between the trunks of the olive trees of with the silence and grace of a cat. On bare feet she leapt over the wicker baskets and padded over the pit laden ground. Silvery leaves festooned her bushy hair and dirt blackened her fingers and toes, and yet her crimson tunic and mantle remained miraculously spotless. The slaves, busy at their task of harvesting, paid the young girl no mind, save to clear her way. Her eldest brother was deep in conversation with the Apunian stranger, or perhaps conversation was not the correct term. For while Bazus spoke enthusiastically, his hands a blur with wild gesticulations, the Apunian said nothing, merely nodding his head. Then his eyes met hers. Ninma froze, she was meant to be with her tutor, learning about some useless old king or poet. If she had to hear about Tudilya this or Hiru that again she was going to eat her wax writing board. The stranger had no reason to report her tardiness to either her brother or her father, but then again you could never quite tell with adults. Akarat’s brow raised over so slightly, but he did not question her following them, nor did he point out her presence to her elder brother. He turned his attention back to Bazus and the rapidly approaching gates. Taking his indifference as permission, Ninma followed as they passed beneath the stony gaze of the gate guardians.

Tagging @aalinaaaaaa, @illarian-rambling, @sabewebb, @winterandwords, @noveldivergence