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acourtofthought · 11 months

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Have you noticed how much page time SJM dedicates to Helion in Silver Flames? Maybe he'll be getting a book but as it stands, she's never strongly hinted at him having one the way she has for other characters.

Yet SJM really hit the Rhys / Helion friendship hard in Nessian's book which is a bit strange since Rhys doesn't share a POV but through that friendship, we learn quite a bit about Helion and his powers.

I think SJM is using Helion as a way to relay information to us about Lucien.

Lucien is not really friends with the IC at this point. He occasionally works for them and his mate is living there but since he and Elain are at odds for the time being, he doesn't have many reasons to be on page in a Nessian book. But granting Helion page time means that everything we learn about him, can be passed on to the future of Lucien, being his son and Heir to Day.

Rhys is having Helion teach him about truly impenetrable shields / Feyre had muttered when Cassian asked about the ironclad defenses, so strong they even masked her scent. / “It’s all part of the same shield. Helion wasn’t joking about it being impenetrable.”

I wonder if Lucien could learn to use a shield for protection while facing off with an enemy or whether he could use one in a situation where he needs to remain hidden and would have to mask his scent.

But the male had one thousand libraries at his disposal, and had put them all to good use for the treaty.

Lucien will also have access to these libraries.

He’d wanted to enter the dark city in a golden chariot led by four snow-white horses with manes of golden fire,

What?! Tell me how there's not been fanart of Elucien on these horses! 😍

The winged horses were rare—so rare that it was said Helion’s seven breeding pairs of flying horses were the only ones left. Lore held that there had once been far more of them before recorded history, and that most had just vanished, as if they’d been devoured by the sky itself. Their population had dwindled further in the last thousand years, for reasons no one could explain. Helion’s most beloved pair—this black stallion, Meallan, and his mate—hadn’t produced offspring in three hundred years, and that last foal hadn’t made it out of weaning before he’d succumbed to an illness no healer could remedy. According to legend, the pegasuses had come from the island the Prison sat upon—had once fed in fair meadows that had long given way to moss and mist. Perhaps that was part of the decline: their homeland had vanished, and whatever had sustained them there was no longer.

Not only is Lucien going to have access to the Pegasus but the fact that they come from the land where the Prison is on provides a connection to this area for Elucien. I could also see Elain being the person to discover what brought about the decline of the food they fed on (which I'm thinking is some sort of plant) as well as helping to regrow it.

“She’s here?” Helion practically shimmered with golden light.

I can't wait for Lucien to glow from happiness! ☀️

Helion had spoken to and briefly touched the hands of the two Autumn Court soldiers chained in that room, kept alive and fed by Rhys’s magic. Helion’s face had tensed when he’d touched their hands—and he’d then murmured that he’d seen enough. I can feel spells—like threads. Ones that can enchant feel like bindings around an individual. I sensed none of that.”

Lucien should have this same ability, to simply touch the hands of someone and feel a spell. It's a total headcannon at this point but I wonder if he'll sense some sort of spell or something on Elain the first time they touch hands (oooh, this brings to mind the Pride & Prejudice scene where he touches her hand while helping her into the carriage and is affected by it). SJM had pinned an image of sleeping beauty before and in ACOWAR, Feyre tells us the gates to Elain's mind are "sleeping buds". Imagine if Lucien senses something that's been holding Elain back from "waking" and revealing her full potential, something involving her need for light (aka Spring or Day).

Nesta faced Helion again, taking in that spiked golden crown and the draped white robe

Lucien wearing this outfit is all my current fantasies.

“Doesn’t it rake its cold claws down your senses?” Helion asked. Helion shuddered, and Nesta threw the cloth over the Mask. As if the cloth somehow blinded it to their presence. “Perhaps an ancestor of mine once used it, and the warning of its cost is imprinted upon my blood.” Helion shook out a breath. “All right, not-Lady Nesta. Allow me to show you some warding tricks even clever Rhysand doesn’t know.”

It's possible that both Lucien and Elain now have a connection to the Mask (her because she's Made and him because of his relation to Helion). I had another post talking about the possibility of Lucien coming up with some sort of scheme that might at first look like he's gone rogue only to show off some Rhysand level clever plot, I wonder if it could involve the Mask. Also, the excerpt provides us with the knowledge that Lucien could too have the ability to ward things.

“I would like to remove myself from the Mask’s odious presence, and perhaps enjoy your palace, Rhysand. It’s been a long while since I was in a place of such quiet. If you’ll allow it, I’ll stay here for an hour or two.” “Something bothering you at home?” Rhys inquired, falling into step beside the High Lord.

This is interesting because it's setting up a future book for some Day Court drama which is a court Lucien will soon be part of.

I had Helion show me how to apply a shield like the one I had around Feyre to the Prison itself.” “You guessed this would happen?”. “Feyre and I were concerned that Beron would try to free the inmates to use in a conflict—just as we used the Bone Carver in the war. Give me tonight, and I’ll get the shield untangled and open for you tomorrow.” “It takes that long to undo a shield?” “It’s a combination of magic and spell work, so yes.

I think there's a few ideas floating around about Elain and the Prison considering three sisters / three mountains. What I've come up with is the possibility of Koschei's soul being hidden there so this could tell us need to know information on Elucien gaining access into it.

“No, it’s a Symphonia, a rare device from Helion’s court. It can trap music within itself, and play it back for you. It was originally invented to help compose music, but it never caught on, for some reason.”

I'm not sure this really gives us much in terms of future plot but it tells us that Day Court has cool stuff 😂

Perhaps Amren was working on some way to undo the bargain—if anyone could think of a way, it would be her. Or Helion, he supposed.

To me, this could suggest one of a few things. Cassian mentions the following in regards to bargains:

And if the bargain was broken … the magic could exact terrible vengeance.

We know Briallyn had made a bargain with Koschei however she is no longer a threat but there has been concerns over Beron working with Koschei:

do not believe your High Lord would wish me to go to other territories and ask them to help with Briallyn and Koschei. To help them remember that all it might take to secure Briallyn’s alliance would be to hand over a certain Archeron sister. Don’t be stupid enough to believe my father hasn’t thought of that, too.”

“Then you would certainly have a war on your hands. My father would go straight to Briallyn—and Koschei, I suppose—and then go to the other discontent territories, and you would be wiped off the proverbial map. Perhaps literally, since the Night Court would be divvied up between the other territories if Rhysand and Feyre die without an heir.”

“So they are trying to find this Dread Trove in order to track down the Cauldron for Briallyn, and likely free Koschei in the process. And launch a war, with Beron as her ally, that would grant them whatever territories they wish. Or give some to Koschei, depending on what bargain he strikes with Briallyn—probably one to his advantage.”

So there could be a chance that Beron makes a bargain with Koschei, maybe even one involving delivering Elain to him (his "sons" mate") who has ties to the Night Court. Having her = leverage over the NC who is aware of where the Cauldron is and Lucien would try to find a way to undo that bargain.

It could also be something that involves the bargain Elain's father made:

He should have asked someone before coming here how much time remained before Vassa would be forced to return to the continent—to the sorcerer-lord at a remote lake who held her leash, and had allowed her to leave only temporarily, as part of a bargain Feyre’s father had struck.

I don't think Lucien can free Vassa from her actual curse because we're told it doesn't seem to be a spell but there's a chance he could extend the time of Vassa's temporary freedom by breaking the bargain Papa Archeron made.

“I told you: their castle is too heavily warded, and full of magical traps that would trip up even Helion. (👀 tell me this isn't hinting at Lucien ending up sneaking in to the Queens castle on the continent in an Elucien book?)

If SJM used Helion as a tool to deliver information to us about Lucien, it's a pretty clever way of doing so. Looking back over everything has made me even more excited for what we might see in his story!

#lucien vanserra supremacy #pro lucien vanserra #lucien vanserra #lucien spell cleaver #helion spell cleaver #helion acotar #elucien #pro elucien #elain archeron #elain x lucien #lucien and elain #elain and lucien #pro elain archeron #acotar theory

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alightinthelantern · 8 months

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book reviews: People of the Book (Geraldine Brooks)

BOOK BLURB: From the Pulitzer Prize-winning author of March comes an intricate, ambitious novel of richly imagined history and intimate emotional intensity. People of the Book sweeps its readers on an intellectual adventure, from convivencia Spain to the ruins of Sarajevo, from the Silver Age of Venice to the sunburned rock faces of northern Australia.

In 1996, a rare book expert [Hanna Heath] is offered the job of a lifetime: analysis and conservation of a mysterious, beautifully illuminated Hebrew manuscript [the Sarajevo Haggadah] created in fifteenth-century Spain and recently saved from destruction during the shelling of Sarajevo's libraries. When Hanna Heath, a caustic Aussie loner with a passion for her work, discovers a series of tiny artifacts in the book's ancient binding—an insect-wing fragment, wine stains, salt crystals, a white hair—she begins to unlock the mysteries of the book's eventful past and to uncover the dramatic stories of those who created it and those who risked everything to protect it.

In Bosnia during World War II, a Muslim risks his life to protect it from the Nazis. In the hedonistic salons of fin de siècle Vienna, the book becomes a pawn in the struggle against the city's rising anti-Semitism. In Venice in 1609, a Catholic priest saves the book from the Inquisition's fires. In Tarragona in 1492, the scribe who wrote the text sees his family destroyed by the agonies of forced exile. And in Seville in 1480, the reason for the manuscript's extraordinary illuminations is finally disclosed. Hanna's investigations unexpectedly plunge her into the intrigues of fine art forgers and ultranationalist fanatics. her experiences will test her belief in herself and in the man she has come to love.

REVIEW: As a fictionalized history for a real-life book, the Sarajevo Haggadah, I was expecting a very dry, academic piece of fiction when I began reading this novel, but it turned out to be a very dramatic, colorful book, and I don't mean that in a good way. When a wine stain on the book's pages is analyzed it turns out to have a little blood mixed in with it, and the analyzer immediately starts imagining dramatic explanations for it. Protagonist Hanna quotes the famous medical adage "When one hears hoofbeats, look for horses, not zebras", saying there's probably a very humdrum reason the blood was mixed in. The novel however is full of zebras, providing an explanation for the blood that's exceedingly dramatic, wherein one of the chief priests of the Inquisition in Venice is secretly a Jew snatched from his parents as a child and adopted into a Catholic monastery. As memories from his early childhood assault him after viewing the Haggadah, he writes in the book the words to save the book from burning and his name as a way to enforce his Catholic identity against his mental anguish. The glass cup he's holding shatters in his grip and pricks his thumb, which bleeds onto the same page some Kosher wine was spilled onto minutes earlier, not during a Seder feast as is most likely and realistic, but as the local Rabbi of Venice was plying the priest with wine in an effort to bribe him into saving the Haggadah, as the priest is a sot.

The novel is filled with colorful characters and extraordinary happenings, including a young, respected Viennese museum staff member who dresses like a punk at work, and a 17th-century rabbi addicted to gambling—even the protagonist is the daughter of a world-famous neurosurgeon, with whom she has a fraught relationship—and exceedingly few ordinary people or ordinary explanations for any of the fictional clues found in the Haggadah by book conservator Hanna. The novel also ends with the real Haggadah being swapped with a perfect copy, and the forgery is put on display for six years in Sarajevo due to the machinations of two characters, who fear for the real Haggadah's safety. Only Hanna sees the fake for what it is, and she leaves her profession humiliated and full of self-doubt. Eventually the true Haggadah is put back in its rightful place with a bit of spy-work and a helpful ally.

The book is exceedingly dramatic to the point of being unrealistic, and not intellectual or intricate in the least, and the ending is terribly cliché. The book was a major disappointment. I don't recommend reading it.

#People of the Book #Geraldine Brooks #book reviews #books #reviews #personal

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xansmenagerie · 2 years

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Perceptions

The wicked witch always has a hooked nose and a black cat and cackles to herself, and eats children who stray from the path. Beautiful princesses can always overcome any obstacle by being beautiful and delicate and patient - and good, although the implication is that this is often part of beauty. There is always a handsome prince on a white horse waiting in the wings, although there may be a curse to overcome by being beautiful and delicate and patient at them.

Don't stray from the path. Don't raise your voice. Don't be disobedient, or the dragon will eat you.

These are the stories - the lies - that many people tell. Stories to make children pliant and docile, and grow them into pliant and docile adults.

Needless to say, given the sword in my hand and the unconscious prince at my feet, these are not the stories my father told me. Don't get me wrong - I like ruffles and lace in the right situation, and I have no issues with knowing how to address a viscount and how to dance a gavotte - but when push comes to shove, I much prefer to get on and do things instead of swooning and carrying on.

My aunt was responsible for bringing up my siblings on my mother's behalf ; two very proper princes, and two very pliant princesses. My father, on the other hand, was responsible for bringing up me...and you can tell that he's not from around here. He's from one of those countries that isn't really a country, up in the frozen and rocky Northlands, where they have less in the way of princes and more in the way of Heroes, mighty of thew and sadly a little small of brain. Not my father, though; for every Hero there has to be a Boon Companion, and he served that office extremely well up until the point that my uncle lost an argument with a Frost Giant. Luckily for my father, there happened to be a prince on a quest - my mother's brother - in roughly the same vicinity, who was also in need of a Boon Companion. That quest went rather better than the one with the Frost Giant, and so my father travelled south with the prince; as marrying off one's sisters as questing prizes is considered both normal and reasonable around here, one thing lead to another, and my parents married.

So, where my siblings were brought up on fairy tales, and sanitised ones at that, I was brought up on sagas.

Sagas can't be sanitised. They are remarkably resistant to it.

And they contain more warrior maidens than you could waggle a zweihander at.

My father was also responsible for teaching me how to fight, much for that reason; in the time between learning Courtly Graces, I was learning how to break out of a choke hold - and put someone twice my size in one. Where my sisters ride delicate palfreys called Starshine and Silver, I have a charger called Alan who's as good a fighter as I am.

This was a fine life...up until the point that one of my brothers, off on a quest, found a Boon Companion - that's the young man on the floor, before you ask. You can probably guess what happened next...as my sisters are already betrothed (to a neighbour's son and a knight of the realm respectively), I suddenly found myself in the possession of an unexpected suitor. And, unfortunately, one brought up on proper stories, with proper ideas of what a princess should be like. I was willing to give him a chance, until he tried to get rid of Alan.

Naturally, I did the only sensible thing I could do in the circumstances. I challenged him to a fight for the sake of Alan's honour.

The problem with terribly proper princes is that they hear 'fight' and think 'duel'; it took enough effort to convince him that I was serious and not intending to use a male champion in my place that I failed to enlighten him on that front. He was startled enough when I brought my zweihander, but I think the choke hold was more of a shock. Well, briefly.

Still, at least it looks like this story will have a happy ending, after all. You see, while the young man on the floor is a proper prince brought up in the local style...his brother, who came along as his second, was brought up by their mother. A woman who, by all accounts, is less than proper; who in her youth was the high priestess of a cobra-headed god, and as such also tells some very interesting stories.

Hi-jo-ho-to, indeed.

#fairy tale #short fic #first person #standalone #writeblr #writblr

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taaroko · 3 years

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@youwouldneverbreakthechain Thank you so much for the winged horse drawing for the new chapter!

#winged horse #thor #if I could start again #fanfiction #I see no reason for the winged horses to only come in silver-white #my friend agreed

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alrightberries · 3 years

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our sorry little hearts

❈ pairing: levi ackerman x fem!reader

❈ genre: angst. ❈ word count: 1.6k

❈ summary: Levi hasn’t seen your traitorous Eldian face in years.

❈ trigger warnings: profanity. war. mentions of blood, death, and violence.

a/n: you’ve heard of enemies to lovers, now get ready for... lovers to enemies. this takes place during the liberio invasion aka S4 E6. based on a love like war by all time low.

(also don’t tell anyone but this is me lowkey warming up after not writing for so long)

There’s something oddly nostalgic about seeing you again on the battlefield.

Levi recognizes your usual battle stance; feet a shoulder’s width apart and hands tightly clutching the handles of your sheathed blades. You’re wearing the scouting regiment’s outdated white uniform, green cape hiding the leather straps your missing brown jacket usually would. He’s not surprised you’re not wearing your wings of freedom jacket, though; he was, after all, the one who sliced it in half during your escape with Zeke on the Cart Titan’s back. He hasn’t seen it, but he’s positive that a long scar runs down the length of your spine.

“Levi,” he hears you murmur, and he pretends that his heart doesn’t ache after hearing his name slip from your lips for the first time in four years. “I—... Levi,”

He feels his chest tighten. You still look as beautiful as he remembers you to be, and the fact that you still take his breath away is something he hates. It’s been a long while since he last stood on a battlefield with you. Only this time, there were no trees to swing from or titans to kill; no reassuring squeezes on the shoulder or cheeky kisses when no one was looking; no small smiles or stolen glances across the field as your horses galloped through Titan Country. No— this time, you wore different colors and fought on opposing sides.

“Levi, talk to me,” your tone is airy, said in what seemed to be a mixture of built up anticipation and disbelief. But there was something in your voice— something he couldn’t quite place. Was it relief? Longing, perhaps? Maybe even regret. But Levi pushes those thoughts aside in favor of gritting his teeth and giving his traitorous wife a stone cold stare. “Levi, talk to me, please.”

He refuses to reply. His hands are shaking from how hard he was gripping the handles of his blades, and he swears his heart was going to burst out of his untrimmed chest from how loudly it beat at his ribcage. There are about a million and one emotions swirling around his head— betrayal. anger. sadness. melancholy.

And he doesn’t know which one takes over him when he charges at you full speed.

There’s a grunt followed by the sound of metal clashing against metal, and Levi’s not surprised to see that your reflexes are still as sharp as they were before. His own cape whips in the wind when he turns to land another strike. But then he hears sound of your hooks digging into bricks, and he’s quick to take your little fight to the air in pursuit of you.

He knows he has to be at the plaza to save Eren’s ass but he also knows that he had at least seven minutes before he had to go. He’ll make this quick.

“Levi,” he hears you call out. You’ve led him further away from the plaza— maybe intentionally or unintentionally, he doesn’t know— and he’s only now realizing that you both stood on the side of a building, the hooks on your gears the only thing keeping you up. “My love—-”

“—don’t call me that,” his heart twitches and he sneers. It’s the first thing he’s said to you in years and god did you miss his voice, miss him in general. “Don’t you fucking dare call me that,”

“Levi,” you breathe, but the deep growl that escapes his lips is enough for your words to die in your throat.

“Stop,” he says. “You’ve lost the right to speak my name; you’ve lost the right to wear that cape,” his eyes land on the silver chain you wore around your neck, a gold ring hanging in the middle. It matched the one he had back home, the one he secretly held at night and kissed sorrowfully when he felt like breaking down. His voice is quieter, almost pained as he speaks, “you’ve lost the right to wear that ring. You’ve lost the right to even look me in the eye after what you’ve done.”

His words sting and your throat tightens when you once again remember the look of pure and utter betrayal in his eyes when you confessed you were a spy on behalf of the Marleyan government. The way he froze, hoping you were lying; yet the tears running down your cheeks and the apologies that slipped from your lips as you got down on your knees and begged him for forgiveness left no room for contest.

“Levi, we don’t have to fight, please just hear me out. I’m still the wife you loved—-“

“No,” he cuts you off. “My wife is gone. She died in the battle for Shiganshina.” your lip quivers, and he continues to speak. “You? You’re an enemy. You’re as good as dead to me.”

Your words once again die on your tongue when he charges at you, and you just barely manage to leap away. The edge of his blade scrapes against your thigh, and blood paints your trousers red when your feet land on the cobblestone streets.

Every attempt you make after, any attempts at conversation is silenced with a swift swing of Levi’s blades, almost as if he were seeking catharsis through violence.

You grit your teeth. “You’re never going to listen to me, are you?”

His silence and steely glare is all the answer you need, and you sigh. Your stance shifts, and the grip on your blades changes; you were finally taking an offensive stance, Levi notices. Blocking his blows wouldn’t be enough— you couldn’t reason with him no matter how hard you tried, and you couldn’t win with just defense. You had to outsmart him; you had to win. You had to.

“I’m sorry, levi, but losing isn’t an option for me. Not this time,” you murmur.

You didn’t want to fight him, he could see it in your eyes. But you were fighting for something, for someone more important than him. Your eyes— the first things he fell in love with, the ones that were usually fiery and full of life— are soulless, almost solemn when he sees you run at him full speed, and Levi pushes down the hurt he felt at the thought of you loving another as he charges at you too.

A tear silently falls down your cheek. You loved levi, but you loved him more. You were fighting for him, and he was waiting for you back at home.

There’s a grey little building in the Liberio Intermittent Zone, somewhere between the gates and the plaza. The gunshots and explosions just barely reach the drab building, and the smoke rising into the air is the only thing visible to the naked eye of the chaos unfolding at the plaza.

A Marleyan soldier, donned in white and war medals, stands in front of an open window. She’s got binoculars in her hands, and she peeks through the eye piece to watch as two figures fight. Their capes create shadows of black where they flutter, and their silver blades gleam in the moonlight.

She smirks. Your negotiation failed, just like she said it would, and now you had no choice but to fight to the death.

Good, she thinks, that Eldian scum’s doing her end of the bargain.

She leans back and a satisfied hum leaves her lips. She turns to look at the little boy, no more than four years old, sat on the bed. The red Eldian arm band clasped around his arm brings a grimace to the soldier’s face. She can’t believe she got stuck with babysitting some lowlife scum.

“Is mommy doing well?” he asks timidly. He doesn’t even know that you were out there about to murder a man, but the kid was smart; he at least knew your job carried a heavy weight.

“For now,” she replies. The boy’s jet black hair bounces slightly as he nods, and his slanted eyes are downcast, staring at the floor. His silvery grey orbs dare not make contact with hers.

The boy looked almost nothing like you— if anything, she was sure he looked to be the spitting image of his unknown father. Strong genes, the father must’ve had.

She finds amusement in how tense the boy was around her; at least his whore of a mother had the decency to teach the kid his place in the world. He was worse than an Eldian, the lowest of the low— he was half Paradis demon. He should’ve never been born. They should’ve beaten you to death along with your unborn child like she’d suggested when you came back from Paradis knocked up.

“You can kill me, but spare my baby, please.” she remembers you begging. “I didn’t even know i was pregnant. Not even the father knows.”

Still, maybe it was a good choice to keep both you and the demon child alive. As much as she hated to admit it, you were a skilled soldier— one of the best they’ve ever had. Threatening your life meant nothing to you, but threatening your child’s? All they had to do was suggest it, and you’d follow their commands like an obedient dog chasing after a dangling treat.

“When’s mommy going to come home?” the boy suddenly asks.

“Soon,” she replies, eyes once again gazing through her binoculars. “If your mother does her job well, she’ll be back soon.” There’s a telephone beside the soldier, ready to make the call should you ever stop fighting. A sniper awaits her signal.

“If she doesn’t... well,” she laughs. The door to the small room you called home is locked, and the loaded gun hidden in the soldier’s pocket is a weight she’s familiar with. “Do you believe in god?”

“No,” the boy shakes his head. “Who’s that?”

“Tell you what, kid. if your mother fucks this up, i’ll personally see to it that you meet him soon enough.”

If you want to be added to the tag list, click this link!

#levi ackerman x reader #levi x reader #shingeki no kyojin x reader #snk x reader #attack on titan x reader #aot x reader #levi imagine #levi ackerman imagine #shingeki no kyojin imagine #snk imagine #attack on titan imagine #aot imagine #writing

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mardereads19 · 3 years

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Elriel Month 🌸🦇

Day 3:

Azriel followed the carriage silently, winnowing from tree to tree, his shadows informing him Elain was in position and ready. He didn’t feel comfortable in letting her do this, but he also trusted her to do her part well. She was more than capable, more than prepared. He had trained her, after all.

Well, he hadn’t been the only one. Elain had revealed to him that she had been training in secret for a while with Nuala and Cerridwen. They’d done a good job. He made a mental note to give them a bonus come Calanmai.

Also to reprimand them for keeping secrets while being his spies.

The sun had already set and there was no moon tonight, giving Azriel the perfect cover from the males Elain had to distract and dupe into giving away what they knew.

“If these males are being controlled by Koschei, will it even make sense to kidnap them?” Feyre had asked on their meeting in Rhys’s study this afternoon. Azriel had been quietly observing and listening to the plans his High Lord had been piecing together. “At least, when Briallyn had control over Eris’s males—”

“And me,” Cassian had supplied from where he stood next to his mate, his arms crossed over his chest and face contemplative. Az had noted the way Nesta’s jaw clenched and her eyes shined silver for a second. The need to kill. The drive to eradicate the threat against her mate. Az had looked away.

Feyre had nodded. She’d looked tired, an expression that’d been mirrored in Rhys. The baby kept us awake all night. He wouldn’t stop crying, Rhys had told him earlier, but there had been light in his eyes, a quiet happiness even as he’d yawned.

Az had not seen his brother yawn in a while.

“And Cassian,” Feyre had added, a spark of anger in her eyes, “they would not talk.”

Az had agreed, “When we brought them to the Hewn City, they hadn’t given anything away.”

There’d been a silence for a moment. They had all, save for Nesta, witnessed Azriel’s administrations to the males of Autumn. No torture had gotten them to open their mouths, to reveal who had sent them after the mask. Feyre had pointed out how wrong it was to do that to them when they were not themselves.

Nesta had sat up straighter in her chair in the study before saying, “But what if they are being partially controlled?”

Rhys had raised his eyebrows.

Nesta had stood, Cassian reaching for her hand. Nesta let their fingers intertwine. It had brought a small pang of envy into Az’s heart. He’d pushed it away. “Bellius,” she said with disgust, “that male from the Blood Rite. He constantly mocked us, tried to rile us up. Sometimes I wonder if he gave too much away.”

Rhys had frowned. “Perhaps he wasn’t being controlled. He was only in on the plan.”

“He was being controlled,” Nesta insisted. Her gaze had been unfocused, as if lost in the memories. Cassian’s wings shifted. “He had that glassy look in his eyes that were on the Autumn Court males. I noticed it from the first time I met him. I thought he had been drunk at first.” She had blinked and, as if remembering where she was, had turned to Cass. He had pulled her closer to him, his eyes reassuring her.

Amren’s lips had twisted upwards in what might have been a smile before she turned to Rhys. “So there is a possibility that Koschei only partially controls these Fae, especially if they are far away from where he is located now. His grasp on them through his power may be less strong, perhaps allowing them the freedom to speak, like that male from the Blood Rite. What would you plan now?”

“I’m still not sure about this,” Feyre had contributed. “The Crown may not work the same way Koschei’s powers could. He could still have full influence over them.”

“Koschei is a death god,” Rhys had said, “I don’t think his power excels in controlling others more than it does in killing them. The crown’s whole purpose is to control living beings and, if it has that limit, then I’m willing to bet Koschei does, too.”

“I wouldn’t place a bet on a thought, Rhys.” It had been clear Feyre was worried. Her fingers had kept tapping on the table. Az wondered if it came as a result of being a mother, that worrying. That caring for the well-being of others. “If we brought them here, could you guarantee they’ll break?”

“I don’t think Azriel could get them to sing for us.” Rhys inhaled. His eyes roamed the map of the continent, focusing on the coast of the human territory. “If Bellius spoke to rile Nesta and her friends up, then only their own arrogant boasting will get them to talk. They have to feel like they are giving the information out of their own free will. That they’d be gaining something by it, even if it’s admiration or applause.”

Azriel had tilted his head, analyzing what Rhys was implying. “There is no one in this room that can convince those men to speak.” Feyre and Rhys were recognizable to all the Fae. Cassian and Az were Illyrian, which would raise suspicions. There was no reason for an Illyrian be on the mortal lands of the continent. And Amren and Nesta had as much chance of charming those Fae as Bryaxis had of calming people.

Mor would have been their best choice, but she was on the Fae side of the continent, too far away to reach in time for tonight.

Rhys had met Az’s gaze. There was a shine on them that often told Azriel that Rhys had an idea. Something in his gut had told him he wouldn’t like it. “No. No one in this room can do it. But I know who.”

“Stop your games and just spill it, boy. I don’t have time for this.” Amren had said, narrowing her eyes at Rhys.

Cassian had rolled his eyes, “What could possibly be more vital than this right now?”

“I have a date with Varian to taste different types of meat and I’m starving. If I stay here any longer, I might eat yours.”

Cassian had barked a laugh. “I wanna see you try, tiny ancient one.”

Azriel had kept his focus on Rhys. Waiting. Fear making his heart beat faster. He knew what was coming.

Finally, Rhys had asked, “How has Elain’s training gone?”

And now, Azriel was following the carriage to where she would be waiting for the Fae. Where she would pretend to be a victim of a robbery. A female riding a wagon on her own in the lonely road when a thief took advantage of the solitude to steal the resources she was on her way to sell in the market and make a coin. Az was to stay in the shadows. He was only allowed to be here in the case the Fae males wanted to take another type of advantage out of her.

Azriel fisted his hands. He had half a mind to destroy the males now and claim a freak accident had killed them rather than find out what they’d intend with her.

He stopped a second, telling his breathing to calm, waiting for his rage to subside. He couldn’t make decisions when his mind was violent, he needed a clear head.

He kept moving only because the carriage did, but he still wanted to spill blood.

A noise caught his attention. There, just beyond the curve of the road, was Elain kneeling on the floor crying as she held a few pieces of the wagon’s wood. Azriel fought the impulse to winnow to her, to console her, to hold her. Tell her everything was alright. That he was with her and no one would hurt her.

She’s pretending. Her cries aren’t real. She knows I’m here.

But it was difficult. His wings twitched, his shadows scattered towards her, but still hid from view. They were ready to strike at his command. Anyone who got near her.

Stand down, he said to them.

The carriage had gotten close enough to to see Elain on the road, see the mess of the wagon, and notice the horse that led it missing.

“Ho!” The rider called to his own horses while pulling on the reins. They stopped next to the wagon’s destruction. Pieces of wood lay around it and Elain. Rhys had taken care of that.

“Cover your face,” he had told Elain before sending a wave of his power to the empty wagon. Elain had covered her face, but noticed it hadn’t been necessary. Azriel had secured a dome of his own power around her. Wood struck a blue wall and jumped off harmlessly. Rhys had narrowed his eyes at him, “Disperse the wood, Azriel. Otherwise it will be weird indeed that the wood landed all around except for that clear demarcation of a dome.”

Azriel looked down. Right, there was a clear difference between where his power had encircled Elain and where it hadn’t.

She had sucked on her lower lip to hide her smile. Azriel felt hot in the face, but he didn’t care that he had made a foolish mistake to protect her. She met his gaze and he saw a promise there that he tucked away before his scent gave away the direction his mind had gone off to.

Elain turned to Rhys, her pale pink dress looking white in the dusk light. Rhys had estimated the Fae would take this road and would be here in half an hour. It was an isolated enough road, one Fae loved to use to stay hidden inside the mortal lands. It was surrounded by forest on both sides, the smell of pine was strong here, but it was a scent Azriel liked. The wagon was brought here by both males in their winnowing.

“Was it really necessary to destroy the wagon like that? Wouldn’t it have sufficed to simply break a wheel?” Elain had asked, crossing her arms over her chest. Rhys studied the mess in the road, his brow furrowed in thought. “A thief would have no need to go to all that trouble.”

“Perhaps not,” he had answered throwing her a wink, “but it just contributes to your woeful story. Make sure to cry extra loud.”

Elain had shaken with laughter and Azriel had taken a step closer to her impulsively. He wanted to lay a hand on her waist, to feel her laugh reverberate through him.

Now, he watched her shake in sobs instead. One of the males from inside the carriage stepped down and walked closer to her. He was dressed in cheap armor, dirty from use, and his brown hair was tied at his nape. The male surveyed the wagon, the destruction and lack of a horse, and finally glanced at Elain. His eyes roamed her body, but Azriel couldn’t tell if the glassy look in his eyes were from the control the male was under or for a different drive.

Azriel felt that hunger for violence stir inside him and fought with everything he could to keep still.

Stand down, Azriel repeated to the shadows when he noticed how they were risking exposure by getting closer to Elain. Hesitantly, they skittered back into the dark.

“What happened here, dear?” The male asked, though his voice didn’t drip kindness.

Elain put on a good show, sobbing and wiping her eyes with the sleeves of her simple dress. She had to look the part of a Fae in hiding, so the dress was akin to the human clothes this area donned, her hair was arranged over her ears, and the glow of her High Fae beauty had been glamoured to an acceptable degree.

“Good, Sir.” She stood and curtsied. “I was riding on the way to the market—” a sob “—when a thief came by.” Tears flowed down Elain’s cheeks so effortlessly Azriel wondered if she was hurt. Did she twist her ankle again while he was away? Perhaps with one of the wood planks he himself had dispersed.

Not real tears, one of his shadows assured him.

He didn’t relax.

“When were you attacked?”

“This afternoon.” She sniffed. “I’ve been here hours, seeing as how hidden this road is. I have no way of getting home.” Elain covered her face in her hands. “I live too far away, and I have an injury in my right leg that makes walking for long periods unbearable.” She wiped away her tears. “I stayed here hoping someone might come around and help me get to a place where I could sleep the night and hopefully rent a horse during the week.”

“Did the thief not take your coin?” The male sounded skeptical.

She nodded, “They did, of course, but I could work for a few days and make the money. I just need a ride.” Elain fidgeted with her dress, successfully looking devastated and scared.

The male gazed back at the carriage and the others, considering his options. Azriel held his breath as the male regarded Elain once more. His face revealed he felt superior, a male who knew he had control of the situation. Exactly what they needed him to think. He also looked like he wanted to impress this lovely female he happened to rescue.

He inclined his head to the side, a smile spreading over his face. “Alright, sweet face. We can take you.”

After a few teary grateful expressions from Elain, the male opened the door of the carriage for her with all the satisfaction of a savior. She climbed the first step, pretending a limp, and as she did so, she glanced over her shoulder.

To the male, she was looking back to the destroyed wagon and up to the trees in sadness. But her gaze met Azriel’s. She had know exactly where he was. He hoped she could read in his eyes what he wanted to tell her.

You’re not alone. I’m right behind you. You’re doing great, lovely fawn. You’re doing great.

Her head dipped in the smallest of nods and then she was inside and the male was closing the door behind him.

Azriel clenched his jaw.

Now the real work begun.

#elrielmonth #elrielmonth21 #elriel #elain #azriel #spy elain #spy elriel #elain archeron #elriel endgame #elriel oneshot #elriel fanfic #elriel fic #my writing

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voidwerks · 3 years

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Legiones Astartes: Rome 30,0000 - Electric Boogaloo - Part 1

It’s been several years since I did my informational posts on warp travel and threats to humanity in the 40k universe, and I was feeling particularly motivated so here’s a quick, dirty guide to where it all started. The bois that everyone in 40k loves (or loves to hate), the Astartes!

In the far off future of the 31st millennium, humanity has just recovered from nearly beating itself into extinction yet again, and the after effects of space elves blowing a permanent hole in reality after the biggest party the galaxy has ever seen. After thousands of years of plotting and planning, the Emperor of Mankind decided the time was right, sorted everyone’s shit out on Earth, and set out to make the galaxy a safer place for humanity. Whether anyone wanted it or not. To do this, he mustered tens of thousands of super soldiers, lead by men who were basically demi-gods, and sent them forth across the stars in what was known as the Great Crusade. This is the story of the sons of the sons, the Primarchs can have their own post another day.

Numero Uno, the the First Legion, the Dark Angels. Clad in black and silver armor, the Dark Angels were the first marines to be created. Between that and their assistance with retaking the Earth prior to the Great Crusade, they were allowed special permissions later Legions did not have. In particular, they had access to some of the oldest, strangest, and sometimes horrifying bits of technology that the Emperor had stashed away for a rainy day. Even 10k years later in 40k, the Angels still uphold that privilege, and if things ever get completely and truly fucked, they’ve got a few aces up their sleeves just in case. Owing to the culture of their adoptive homeworld, Caliban, the Dark Angels have a strong knightly aesthetic, as well as plenty of ranks, titles, and associated iconography so everyone can know what kind of badass you are.

Second ISN’T the Second Legion. Something bad happened to them and no one is allowed to talk about it. It’s actually the THIRD LEGION, the Emperor’s Children! Among the Legions, the Emperor’s Children had the unique distinction of being allowed to wear his personal emblem on their armor and carry his name. This was the Emperor’s gift to them after a company of them serving as honor guards during a victory parade, where they protected the Emperor from an assassination attempt involving a black hole bomb. The Emperor’s Children were perfectionists: anything that can be done can be done better, and they could get a bit salty when their brother Legions out-did them. Beyond that, they were renowned for their artistic skills, as well as their interpersonal skills with ‘mortal’ humans. While many marines either didn’t care for regular humans, or straight up disliked them, the Third Legion got along quite well with people, to the point they were often sent as diplomats to introduce long-lost planets of humans into the Imperium peacefully.

The Fourth Legion, completely unrelated to Marvel, were the Iron Warriors. To the Fourth Legion, war is entirely a matter of numbers. While other Legions fight with spirit, ferocity, nobility, the Iron Warriors fight with a machine-like efficiency and calculated planning. Rivals of the Seventh Legion, the Iron Warriors were particularly fond of siege-tactics. They’d bombard their foes with massed artillery, push in with columns of tanks, and hit critical points with forces of marines, changing tactics along the way as the variables shifted. While they took pride in their accomplishments, cold personalities and a ruthless fighting style didn’t make them many friends. Combined with feeling like they didn’t get much recognition for their efforts, often being stuck with some of the worst fights, the Iron Warriors tended to resent most of the other Legions. But no matter how tough, no matter how ugly, they would not bend, for the Iron Warriors always completed a task given to them.

Next in line, we have the Fifth Legion, the White Scars. Possessed of free spirits and a healthy dose of superstition, the White Scars preferred style of combat was: as quickly as physically possible. Whenever possible, they would ride to battle on anti-grav jet-bikes or speeders. Lacking that, on traditional motor bikes. Reminiscent of Mongolian horse riders, the White Scars fought from their mounts as often as they could, enjoying every moment of it, even if death might come at them at a few hundred miles per hour. Considered odd by most of their brother Legions, the Scars’ aloof personalities and plans divined by seers often saw them tearing about the galaxy in smaller warbands. Never staying in one place for long, they roamed wherever the winds of fate would take them.

Continuing on, the moment you’ve all been waiting for: SKYRIM STILL EXISTS. But really, the Sixth Legion, the Space Wolves. It doesn’t take much to explain these boys, the Space Wolves were vikings in space. They could be a bit dense, were prone to showing off, loved getting into fights, and even invented a kind of alcohol that could get marines drunk. In peace, they could be a bit rough around the edges but were jovial types. Beyond that however, the Wolves had a much more notorious side. While their brothers would mock them at times for being a bit ‘simple’, they were also feared as the Emperor’s hounds. If someone fucked up somewhere in the galaxy, the Wolves were the sent to deal the punishment. Typically, this involved plenty of axes and other people’s heads. While unconfirmed even 10k years later, it is rumored that the Space Wolves were responsible for reaving both the Second and Eleventh Legions at the Emperor’s command. Whatever they did must have been horrible, for it resulted in the culling of tens of thousands of marines and two demi-god primarchs. So remember kids, tug on the wolf’s tail at your own peril.

Eternal rivals to the Fourth Legion, here comes the Seventh Legion, the Imperial Fists. While not as bitter as their brothers in the Fourth, the Fists shared a lot of similarities with them. Blunt, no-nonsense, analytical, monumentally stubborn, fond of hitting their foes as hard as possible, on the surface the two seemed quite alike. But while the Iron Warriors were frequently unconcerned with what happened after their battles, grinding entire cities into dust, the Imperial Fists would always build and fortify. Wherever they passed, they would leave their mark in the form of walls, repaired cities, and forts to ensure their hold. This earned them the distinction of being recalled late in the Crusade to oversee the fortification of the entire Solar System. The reclamation of the galaxy was nearly complete, and it was their task to ensure that Terra would be able to withstand anything the universe could throw at it from that point forward. At least, that was the idea...

What stalks the night, strikes fear into the hearts of the unjust, and has bat wings? Move over Bruce Wayne, it’s the Eighth Legion, the Night Lords. Among the Legions, the Night Lords were unique in the fact that they did not operate like a traditional army. Unlike other Legions, the Night Lords’ favorite method of fighting was to strike fear and terror into their enemies. Considered brutal and sadistic even in the early days, the Night Lords would ‘pacify’ star systems by cutting off supply lines, destroying infrastructure, terrorizing civilians, and savagely breaking their enemy’s will before finishing the job. Known for taking bone trophies, using blood as paint, painting their armor with skulls, and even fashioning people’s faces into tea cozies, there were very few in the Imperium that genuinely liked the Night Lords. In fact, late into the Crusade they were even risking censure or a visit from the Space Wolves. But as they maintained from their inception: they were a necessary evil. Not everyone in the galaxy was reasonable. Some didn’t even respect the immense might of the Astartes. There were some that would only listen to fear. And the poor buggers that wouldn’t even listen to that? They would be made into examples, slowly, painfully, and without any remorse.

A breath of fresh air from the Night Lords, the Ninth Legion, the Blood Angels. Where the Night Lords were immensely cruel, showcasing some of the worst humanity had to offer, the Blood Angels showed some of the best. Kindness, nobility, flowing golden locks of hair with slight curls, using their strength to protect the weak, seeing the goodness in others, the Blood Angels were quite human for heavily augmented super-soldiers. Well, they did have one teensy little problem. Just a bit of casual bloodlust that could leave them going into a frenzy now and then (sometimes even drinking blood) if they didn’t keep their tempers in check. However, largely due to their own self-discipline they were able to keep this fact a secret for the most part.

Last (for now, don’t want this to be the next Color of the Sky post), but definitely not the least, the Tenth Legion, the Iron Hands. While the Iron Warriors have a very mechanical way of thinking, and a strong affinity for tech, the Iron Hands take this to a completely new level. To them, anything could be improved by mechanizing it, up to and frequently including themselves. The Hands were notorious for heavily modifying themselves, and had more tanks than any other Legion, tied only with the Iron Warriors. Ironically for a Legion obsessed with machinery, the Iron Hands are also possessed of a volatility only shared by their brothers in the Sixth and the Twelfth Legions. In contrast to the cool, collected rationality of machines, Astartes of the Iron Hands were notoriously hot-headed and liable to making rash decisions if they lost their tempers. This alternating clash frequently manifested as contempt for their own ‘weakness’, but also as contempt for others, resulting in the Iron Hands keeping very few friends, even amongst themselves.

#warhammer 40k #warhammer 40000 #games workshop #forge world #dark angels #blood angels #iron warriors #emperor's children #night lords #space wolves #white scars #imperial fists #iron hands

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loadingrat · 3 years

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⿻ 𝐬𝐰𝐚𝐧 𝐥𝐚𝐤𝐞 → 𝐤. 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐣𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠

🏻 ⃟⿻ 𝐠 𝐞 𝐧 𝐫 𝐞 → angst; retelling; fantasy

🏼 ⃟⿻ 𝐬 𝐮 𝐦 𝐦 𝐚 𝐫 𝐲 → with the burden of a crown on his head, Hongjoong finds himself forced to get a bride before he turns twenty two, yet he finds himself struck by love with a cursed young woman named Odette, who's body turns to swan at dawn. it all should be as simple as snapping your fingers to break the curse, when all it takes is three little words, yet, when spoken wrongly, they may do more harm then good.

🏽 ⃟⿻ 𝐰 𝐚 𝐫 𝐧 𝐢 𝐧 𝐠 𝐬 → this awfully written i apologise; based off the ballet, so suicide; dark magic; violence; mention of a curse; the usual swearing; hunting; instant love; drowning; overprotective parents and another shitty ass parent if you ask me; forced marriage; the reader is referred to as "Odette"

🏾 ⃟⿻ 𝐰 𝐨 𝐫 𝐝 𝐬 → + 5.5k

🏿 ⃟⿻ 𝐦 𝐚 𝐬 𝐭 𝐞 𝐫 𝐥 𝐢 𝐬 𝐭 𝐬 → main masterlist ⦚ retellings

Hongjoong always enjoyed watching as the wind bent under the will of his arrows, obeying them and letting the weapons find their way right in the middle of the red target. It brought pride in his chest, and helped him feel more like a boy stuck with a crown on his head than a prince stuck with the future of a kingdom on his back. He loved to see how flour would purr out of the sacks full of the snow like powder that stood in the royal yard, and so did his friends, as they always cheered him on, despite getting their expensive clothes all dirtied up.

Saying that Kim Hongjoong's life was anything but exiting would've been the understandment of the year, that only if the words wouldn't have reached his mother's ears. However the queen was always aware of anything and everything going on in her kingdom, as if the old woman with her hair like silver had eyes in every corner of the territory. The prince always disliked that in her as he himself was never allowed to even leave the palace without one of his parents following. Of course, he was grateful that the queen and the king were the most understanding royalties he's ever met, and he got to speak to a lot on a daily, however, when it came to actually understanding him, sadly they were left lacking. The prince hated the way he pictured himself in this situation, but he couldn't do much and just accept that he was like a swan trapped in a dove's cage, and it made him feel completely hopeless.

"You'll try getting out this evening, won't you?" The words slipped prince Wooyoung's lips as if he asked the same thing over and over. The smile on his lips had always faded during previous days, as the answer would've been a sad shake of the head, but the said day it only bloomed as Hongjoong turned his head around, looking at his bow as if it was the most interesting thing he's seen in his lifetime. "Holy shit, he didn't deny it!" Wooyoung spoke, a loud sound like a hyena's laughter ringing from his lungs as he repeatedly slapped his best friend's back. The other prince tried moving away, his abused body protesting with each hit Wooyoung delivered, but deciding that he'd fail anyways, Yeosang resorted to catching the younger's hand and delivering a harsh hit back. "But he did not agree to it either."

It took only two more hours for the man to find himself sitting at a lavish dinner table, all kind of foods placed before them, yet the anxiety growing inside his heart made it easy for his appetite to stray away. "Hongjoong?" His father's voice was harsh as he demanded the prince to give him his attention. His mother's words followed right after, tone dripping with honey and Hongjoong knew something was in her mind. "The date for your birthday ball is approaching." She stated, and the man couldn't help but try to anticipate what she would've said next. "And we thought that it would be a rather perfect time for you to find a bride."

The prince sucked in a hard breath, not trusting his voice to speak up his mind as it could've cracked, and he was not a teenager anymore, so he feared the way it could've made him look weak in front of the King. Hongjoong had met many princesses, duchesses, nobilities of all kinds, even country girls with exceptional talents, but none ever intrigued him and he surely wasn't going to choose a bride just yet. Hongjoong liked to believe he was too you for marriage, but his two friends always nagged that if he'll dare pass twenty five by himself, no princess will ever marry him for his heart, but for his crown instead, to which Hongjoong only scoffed as he dispatched another set of arrows. "I don't think anyone's marrying me for my heart now either."

"So what do you say?" He felt as if his words were stuck in his throat and he was unable to get then out, but even if he would've answered as he truly believed, he knew his pleadings would've fallen on deaf ears. Hongjoong knew this day was going to come sooner or earlier, he just didn't expect it quite yet. "I agree, mother," the prince didn't know what gave him the courage to stretch his words, or to arch his eyebrows upwards, or smile like he did, all the while still looking in his plate. "However i also have a proposal.."

Truly, Hongjoong doesn't know what came over him that evening, yet it was because of his boldness that he found himself mounting one of the finest mares in the stables. The prince had taken care of the horse since it was barely standing, he himself being only a child, enchanted by the pure white little fur on it. He's called her Zoya, a fitting name for a mount like herself, and despite leaving the palace only a couple of times, alongside of his father or mother, he considered the creature loyal enough to not abandon him when he'll most need her.

With his bow resting in at his hip, the prince started following a rather small river, which eventually brought him in town and down the valley the palace rested on. Hongjoong wearily adventured himself in the wide forest that spread before him, the darkness of it making him shiver slightly as his mind finally wrapped around all the danger that could've hid around. Wolves, bears, mountain lions, all kind of creatures lurked in the forest, however the silver haired prince advanced nonetheless, clutching his bow tighter as if it could've made him feel secure once more.

Just as he was about to urge his horse to start running, the sound of rapid wings flapping in the air made his skin crowl and his head shoot back, his eyes snapping rapidly on a flock of birds. Their fathers were as white as you could've imagined and as pure as it could've gotten, their bodies long, majestic and elegant, and Hongjoong couldn't help but let his mouth hang open as he stared at the beautiful swans that took over the sky. Within seconds, the brave prince clutched his bow and aimed skillfully, ready to let his arrow pierce through what he nominated as the prettiest swan, but Hongjoong wasn't as hard hearted as his father believed him to be, his eyes saddening and his chest burning as he asked himself how could he kill such a beautiful creature.

The prince sighed deeply, putting his bow back and giving the horse a gentle nudge as a sign to follow the flock and Zoya took off obediently, rushing Hongjoong through the woods. He enjoyed the way wind blew through his silver locks, caressing his cheeks harshly and he love the adrenaline that came with riding this fast and thinking about how free one could be, thinking about what he's missed his whole life. Hongjoong knew that where there was a smaller river, there had to be a wider water source near by, and the swans that seemed to start heading down only gave him more reasons to believe he was right. The only problem was that he was not expecting the woods to end so quickly, his horse coming to an abrupt halt as it hooves planted in the mud as harsh as it could.

He jumped eagerly from his horse and there, right before him and barely at two steps away from where his horse stopped, a grand body of water spread itself so widely that the other side of the lake was barley visible through the thin mist. The water sparkled in the shy sunlight of the evening, the sound of a small cascade barely audible in the back and the prince felt his jaw drop slightly one more time. If his mother would've been with him, she wouldn't even look at the beauty in front of her, but would scold him about how unmannered he looked and how that wasn't suitable for princes like him, not even in a million years, but as he spotted the swans floating happily around, everything about manners felt long forgotten.

The boy in him had the urgent need to sit down in the slightly damp yet soft grass, eyes wide on the beautiful birds before him, yet the mature side in him wanted to mount back on his horse and move forward. There was so much more to explore and so little time, his mind wrapping around the fact that his father had gave him one single day to ride around the kingdom, with the condition that he'd return the evening before the horologe rang three in the morning. Therefore, the prince clutched on the horse's reins ready to mount, sparing one last glance at the lake, who's water started reflecting the rosy color of the sky.

Hongjoong sucked in his breath, feeling how air left his lungs as he swore he started imagining things. His head whipped back, the forest remaining the only sight for a while, and he took his time thinking about what came into his sight seconds ago. Not long after, he turned around and came to the horrifying conclusion that he was indeed watching as the small bodies of the swans, that now rested calmly on the shore, morphed and twisted, becoming mere humans. Their build was more than just elegant, bodies long and delicate, nothing short of pure beauty. Each wore long gowns, as white and pure as their dazzling wings were, little silver necklaces with one sapphire gem decorating their necks, yet he quickly took notice of the one swan that stood in the middle of them all, sitted on the old trunk of a tree, her eyes glimming with happiness while a silver tiara rested on the top of her head.

The prince watched them with amazement, as if they had put him under a thick spell like sirens would do to the poor sailors adventuring in the deep waters. Yet the more he watched, the more he couldn't help but feel like an intruder. The women danced and laughed when younger swans tried to impress them, then ran quickly to hide under an older swan's wing. The innocence of the moment was making his own heart fill with happiness, lips curling upwards gently and eyes turning in crescents as a squeaky giggle rolled off his throat.

The moment all the laughter stopped and a cutting silence settled in, the prince knew he had done something wrong. He felt the warmth that had built in his chest being stripped away from him, eyes growing wide and startled, just as the swans had became. It didn't take long for Hongjoong to see how every pair of eyes rested on him, making him feel anxious. Should he leave? Or was he supposed to stay now? Either way, the answer would've been to not panic, which he's failed the moment one of the youngest of the creatures approached him, yelling loudly the name of who he supposed was the swan with the tiara.

"Odette! Odette!" The small girl yelled happily, grabbing the prince's hand and jumping up and down while giggling. "It's prince charming! He's come to save us!" At her words, Hongjoong's cheeks started flaring pink, his heart beating faster as each pair of eyes rested on him, and he completely forgot about his tight grip on the bow in his other hand. The mare let out a loud cry, startled by the poor girl before slamming it's hooves harshly in the ground multiple times. In alert, Hongjoong let go of his bow, grabbing the girl's body in his arms and hurrying further away from the horse, who angrily took off back towards the town.

"Yuna, dear!" The swan quickly run to the prince, her hands coming to grip Hongjoong's arms, which were still holding tightly onto her. "Are you alright?" His voice sounded unsure as he let the woman gently take her in her own hold, hand placing the younger's head again her chest. When a little laughter came from Yuna's lips, everyone sighed in relief, smiles painted on the swans' lips when the smaller swan jumped back on the grass and began twirling around the royalty as she giggled loudly. "Yuna, where are your manners?" Another swan called out, her lips pulled in a thin line and her eyebrows furrowed, and she most definetly was the oldest of the group, her aura holding a maturity that amazed Hongjoong, despite her youthful features.

"Don't tense yourself, Yongsun." The youngest girl however rolled her eyes at the authority in Yongsun's voice, her own lips pulled in a pout as she bowed slightly in front of the silver haired man. He gave her a polite smile before bowing right back, sending the women in awe. "Come sit with us." The girl next to him offered, and he couldn't help but let his eyes wander over her striking features. She was an unique type of beauty, something he's never seen in anyone before, not even in all the princesses that's come to court him. He loved her voice as well, her tone being like honey to his ears and he couldn't even bring himself to care about the sudden drop of formalities when his orbs found hers.

"I would hate to make such beautiful ladies uncomfortable with my presence." He acknowledged humbly, felling a shy smile tug at his lips while hearing how the woman, who he assumed was named Odette, let out a wholehearted laugh, her eyes turning to crescents as one of her hands came to hide her mouth. "Bother us? It would be a crime to not enjoy your presence." She assured, nodding her head towards him like encouraging him to take a step forward, and so he did. One step at a time before he found himself sitting in the grass besides a couple of children, who playfully pulled at his clothes and wowed at the fine material.

"What's your name, son?" The oldest inquired, making Hongjoong's cheeks become pinker again, however this time, his eyes fell on the ground, where his ring decorated fingers gently pulled at the damb grass. "Kim Hongjoong." He spoke softly, not expecting any grand reactions form the group, who only nodded their heads in adoration. "We'll would you look at that, it really is prince charming." Another swan laughed, making Hongjoong himself let out a shy giggle, his eyes involuntary traveling to the swan with a tiara. It felt like hours that he stood there and just watched her, her skin bathing in the golden light of the sunset, and her eyes glimmering with love as she looked at each swan, before her eyes settled on him as well.

"Do you like to dance?" One of the younger swans looked at him curiously, her small hand coming to grasp at Hongjoong's with excitement as she awaited a reply, and when the prince nodded his head in agreemen, he girl softly tugged him after her, bringing him to his feet. Together, they marveled at the way the forest started lighting up as soon as the sun went under, mushrooms and strange plants glowing in the dark, along with the moss on the trees, it was absolutely beautiful. However Hongjoong didn't have long to observe the landscape, his attention being brought back to the small girl that began dancing with him as the others started singing along, and it didn't take a while for the swans to join in as well, a chorus of laughter spreading trough the rather dormant forest as they all had their fun.

Yongsun smiled happily as she took Odette's's hand, bringing her closer to the silver haired prince, who bowed deeply and offered his hand, an invitation, the girl concluded as she accepted happily. Perhaps only for tonight, she could forget about her curse, see herself as an actual princess and lose herself in the idea that Hongjoong would be the one to break the curse. However nothing like that happened as they began dancing, a tough wind starting to pull at their bodies, darkness spreading like a plague. The youngest girls found coverage behind the elders, while Hongjoong placed his arms around Odette and brought her closer to his chest, protecting the swan from whatever danger eas awaiting them.

"Well well.." the sharp voice of a girl that came with the calmness of the weather startled the prince, who felt reluctant to let go of the swan in his arms, yet still let go of her and watched as disgust painted over Odette's features and anger over the others. Just on the shore stood another woman, her gown way shorter and messier as well as dotted with darker shades of black. Her features were just as graceful and as striking as the others, her own features making her look like a devine, but something about her tone made the prince feel sure that she wasn't just as beautiful on the inside.

"The swan princess found herself a rescuer." She taunted while getting closer, her thumb and pointer wrapping around Odette's chin and bringing her closer. The princess, as the stranger called her, let out a scoff before pulling away, making the black swan laugh as if she was in hysterics. "Hoping you'll turn human again, little one?" She fumed, letting her eyes fall on Hongjoong, who stood stiff and angered, eyes on her like, if he had his arrows, he wouldn't have hesitated to let one of them pierce her heart.

"It'll never happen, we'll make sure of that, little Odette." The stranger cocked one of her eyebrows while shaking her head and her fingers glazed over the necklace she was proudly wearing. With a last laugh, the black swan took a couple of steps back before her body quickly morphed in the one of a swan, yet her feathers looked disturbed and unhealthy, her body, small, too weak for a creature that was supposed to look as beautiful as a swan.

"Who was that?" Hongjoong found himself asking, his own eyebrows arched upwards in confusion. His hand found Odette's and gripped it lightly a reassuring smile tugging at the girl's lips as she found comfort in the prince, who was still a stranger. "Odile.. Her father tried casting a curse on the town, however it did not go as planned and it ended up backfiring." She began explaining, choosing carefully her words as she took a glance at his chocolate warm eyes. The prince himself let his gaze meet hers, observant eyes curiously investigating her for a while before he spoke out loud. "Then why are you trapped as swans as well?" Silence washed over the group, the tension growing so thick that Hongjoong could've cut it with a knife. "I didn't say that it didn't work."

Not much passed before Hongjoong excused himself, getting up and fetching his bow that stood patiently in the grass. He's dropped it earlier when Zoya took off and completely forgot about it, however, in his favor, his loyal mare had found her way back to the lake, thirst driving it back the way it's come. After the prince found himself back on his mount, thanking all of his lucky stars for bringing it back to him, he finally let his eyes fall on the woman with a little crown on her head. He swore he felt his heart beating faster than ever, swirling with the desire to take her with him and keep her to himself, to make her his, and at that moment he knew that there was no one that could ever become his queen, except her.

"I must head out, however my family is hosting a ball tomorrow, at dusk, in order to find me a bride. It would be a honor to have you as a guest." He spoke softly, taking in the surprise on Odette's face, who only nodded before waving elegantly. With a polite nod from himself, the prince saw himself off as Zoya started galloping as fast as she could towards the palace.

"You must go." a cold and harsh voice spoke, making the girl's shoulders fall, she put so much hope that perhaps this time, she'll be able to find love by herself, and hearing her father speak like that made her whole world shatter. With a long sigh, the girl turned her head around, in order to hide her glassy eyes, telling herself that it all starts being unfair the moment even her father had turned against her. "I shall not, father." Was all Odile said before she lifted her chin high, eyes becoming sharp as she told herself that it was time to pull free from his strings, yet she had a feeling that it will not be as easy as denying his orders.

Rothbart, the black swan's father, smiled triumphally, as if the crown had already been placed on his head. He let himself turn around and face his only daughter and with a hushed voiced he whispered. "You'll go.. oh you'll go." Odile wanted to protest, to yell and say something, but the second her father touched her necklace, the poor girl knew it was too late. It took her a quick moment of thinking, preparing herself for what she might see, before she finally turned to the mirror that stood patiently on a wall. It was then that complete sorrow engulfed her heart, failing to find her own reflection. Instead, a familiar face started back at her, Odette's features looking so beautiful and so graceful, yet so ugly to Odile, as she was left to deal with her pain before she could've stopped it. "You do not have a choice."

"But what should i wear?" Odette sighed, bringing her hands in her lap as she eyed nervously the ground. Her crown was resting on her head, sapphires sparkling in the gentle moonlight. "I cannot show up to a royal ball in this gown.." as much as she loved her dress, it's material softer than silk and whiter than the pearls found in the ocean's depths, she feared it was nothing short of what noblewomen wore to sleep. The more she thought about it, the more Odette found herself trapped between her own thoughts. What if her hair was was not as elegant as the other princesses', what if her little white slippers were to dirty up the expensive carpets around the castle. Worse, despite knowing how to dance, Odette had little knowledge of etiquette, as she's grown up as a simple village girl. She was going to make a fool out of herself and the prince for inviting her.

"Worry not, Odette." A soft voice came from behind her, but before she's gotten the chance to turn around, a pair of cold hands rested on her bare shoulders, making her gasp at the sudden feeling of chilliness. Shivers traveled up and down on her back, eyes becoming wide in surprise as the speed she turned her head around could've given her a whiplash. Yongsun giggled softly, amused by the fact that she actually spooked the younger swan. "You look beautiful, and your gown is magnificent. Made with soft material like your wings, pulled together by a thread of magic. My dear, you look breathtaking."

Odette stood a second just looking at her friend, a long sigh leaving her mouth when she understood that Yongsun was right. All she had to do was to have fun, she'd be dancing and talking to people, nothing she hasn't done before, so why was she worrying now? "You should leave, it's getting late." Was all the older woman said as she bent down to kiss the top of her head like a mother would before sending off her child off. A couple of younger swans insisted of going with her, clinging on her gown and her hands before she agreed in defeat. A chorus of laughter and giggles following her the deeper she walked into the forest and the closer she's gotten to the palace.

Hongjoong stood sitting on the throne, a crown on his head while his parents stood at both of his sides. His rather small body seemed to shrink more and more with every second and with each nod he gave to the young women that would come to bow before him. They were all wearing beautiful gowns, feminine features painted by a thin layer of makeup, jewelries decorating their necks, ears and hair, he had to admit that they were all beautiful, but none of them where Odette. His Odette. He waited patiently for her to make her appearance, eyes running back to the spiral staircase in hopes that he'd spot her, and his observant mother did not take long to notice. "You're waiting for someone." She announced, a hand resting on her son's shoulder in a way of assuring him that it will all be fine.

Hongjoong nodded, his lips parting slightly as he pondered on his thoughts, however, before he's even gotten thr chance to speak, a familiar face made his heart beat like it never has, and his breath got stuck in his throat. A wave of heat crossed his cheeks, feeling as a strong blush took over his face. From one of the corners of the grand ballroom, he noticed Yeosang smirking his way, Wooyoung whispering something to him before they both snickered.

"Your highness.." when she arrived in front of him, Hongjoong quickly has gotten up on his feet, refusing to let her bow before him. One of his hands gently taking one of her own as the other traveled to her side in order to bring her body closer to his own with a shy embrace. At the action, a couple of gasps could be heard throughout the room, everyone surprised at the prince's action, yet he did not care, and it could've been the reason why he completely looked past the vile smile that played on the girl's lips. "Odette.. will you dance with me?"

"We've arrived too late!" One of the little swans warned as she peeked trough the closest window, huffing in defeat at the sight. Odette waisted no time in following her closely, face crumbling in defeat as he watched how her dear Hongjoong waltzed around the room with no one else but Odile. His eyes were so fixed on her that it seemed like she was his whole world, hands gripping her close like she'd parish if he let go, and everyone around them saw it. How in love he was, how much care he put in every step they made together, and that made Odette's stomach churn in pain. Her eyes began watering, heart screaming at her to do something yet her body remained frozen in place.

"Odette..?" The little girl asked, her tone wobbling as her own eyes began to water as she watched the princess of the swans. The young woman's skin began morphing, little fluff and white feathers growing from her arms and shoulders at a slow peace, like she was to turn in swan once more. With each second she spent looking at her beloved dance with another woman, looking so smitten by her, the little sapphires on the crown she wore began to crack more and more, and panic took over the three children when their own necklaces followed closely and as Hongjoong's voice rang trough their ears.

"So, Your Highness, would you say that you love me?" Odile questioned as she made eye contact with the prince, who giggled shyly before sighing deeply. He felt caught red-handed and all he could do now was nod his head slightly before speaking softly. "I love you." Yet something didn't feel right, deead filling his heart as he said his words, like a kid that's done something wrong and waited anxiously for his parents to scold him. It was then that he began to fall out of the spell he had been put under, noticing how the woman in front of him did not wear a crown yet a necklace, amber decorating the gem that rested patiently on her neck. The white gown that the swan once wore was not completed jet black, eyes harsh as a voice so cutting he began feeling dizzy.

"You're not Odette." He stated, stopping from dancing and taking a couple of harsh steps back. The prince's hand flew to his sword, threatening to take it out and use it, yet Odile's smile never faltered. "Even if you harmed me, my mission here had ended." She explained, giggling once more before turning herself in the same swan she morphed in when they first met and before anyone could do anything, she flew past him, soaring trough the open window where four little figures stood at.

"Odette..?" He asked, feeling his hear break as he noticed how heartbroken she looked, how her skin began turning in feathers and how tears cascaded over her cheeks like they couldn't be stopped. "Odette!" He yelled louder, rushing to jump over the window, yet failing to do so in time before the woman began running back towards the forest. "Hongjoong!" His father warned, yet the prince was far gone, already chasing after the swan with unshed tears blurring his own vision.

It didn't take long for the two to reach the lake, scratches from little branches decorating their skin as neither had been careful while running, yet that did not matter to them, the heartache burning every bit of ration they had. "I did not know, Odette!" He tried explaining himself, taking a step forward towards the woman, who only took one back, her feet so close to the shore that it made Hongjoong's heart freeze in place. "I thought it was you.."

Yet what was done was done and both of them knew it, the sapphires finally shuttering as Odette took her crown off, breaking it in two. Without even thinking about the outcome, the swan threw it into the lake, a muffled sob leaving her mouth as she herself took a step closer to the edge. "No! Odette please! I love you!" He shouted, yet it was all in vain as he knew that the curse will get to her before his words will.

The second he noticed what she intended, the prince rushed to her side, gripping her waist tightly and pressing a soft kiss to her lips, eyes deeply staring in her own like their hearts spoke to each other, and it all felt more than ethereal as both of their bodies hit the water, sinking slowly as they held each other like not even death could do them apart.

And perhaps it couldn't, as the second the sun began rising, the women that stood next to the lake and mourned the passing of their princess did not turn back to swans, and their gowns turned back to the clothes they once wore when they were running errands around the village. On the other side of the forest, Rothbart felt his powers leave him, a sudden weakness taking over his body as it slowly began turning to ashes. "No!" He yelled like a mantra, yet it was all in vain as ths moment the shy sunlight peeked trough his window, all that remained of him was an amber ring and his daughter, who only stared at the cracked mirror on the wall, ashamed of herself and mad at the world like never before.

And even years after, deep down, on the bottom of the lake, the two lovers stood embraced, untouched by the time, as if they were simply sleeping. So perhaps, the curse that once plagued the young women became a blessing, as not only has she found peace, but love as well.

#ateez #ateez imagine #ateez imagines #kpop #ateez fluff #ateez scenarios #ateez oneshots #kpop imagine #ateez hongjoong #ateez reaction #ateez retelling #ateez reactions #ateez smut

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sadoeuphemist · 3 years

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Stories I thought about writing, but didn’t:

my voice is poisonous, a gift from a strange god my parents once befriended. I’m careful not to speak, but I know they’re afraid.

A poison-voiced girl is born to deaf parents, but falls in love with a hearing boy. Their courtship is marked on her end by a thrilling restraint, biting her lip, knowing she could kill him with an indiscretion; he, on the other hand, longs to see her act without inhibition. He manages to make her laugh, sigh, gasp out in wonder - each time he falls ill from the poison of her voice, but is undeterred even in his convalescence, returning renewed in his goal to tease another sound out of her.

Her parents tell her to break it off; she’ll kill him. She reluctantly agrees. He refuses, pleads with her, grasps her hands so she can’t sign. In anguish she cries out his name — but lo! he does not sicken, does not die. It turns out his repeated exposures to her voice have mithridatized him against it. She can speak around him freely! They both agree that this development has taken a lot of the excitement out of the relationship, but it has been replaced with a greater casualness and intimacy that balances it out.

I can see the angels in their true form, a thousand splendid eyes and all. They think it’s funny, and have taken to hanging around my apartment

The angels start making excuses to keep showing up at my apartment, in the manner of the annunciation, but for increasingly trivial reasons. They come bearing tidings about how I should definitely get the turkey wrap for lunch, which brand of fabric softener I should buy, how that quarter I’ll find on the sidewalk is a sign that I am favored by God. They come bearing bad tidings too: The Lord has heard of all the evil in your printer, and has sent us here to jam it. Their presence becomes completely overbearing, but they are insistent. There’s a reason you see us in our true forms, they say, all their splendid eyes shining. Is it so hard to believe that the God that formed every atom of you in the womb should watch over you always, that every mundane moment of your existence in this world is shot through with the divine?

There was a body in the river, ice cold and snow white. Sometimes it was all the way dead. Sometimes it sat up and talked to me.

A king has declared that whoever can complete the following tasks shall marry his daughter: 1) to recover a lost treasure stolen from his family hundreds of years ago; 2) to name the start of the pact between men and horses; and 3) to find a cure to the plague ravaging the land.

Our plucky folk hero helps an old lady who sits by the river; she tells him of the snow white body within, who has sat up and spoken to her at odd times throughout her life. It is the spirit of the glacier: the glacier melts, and forms the river; layer by layer the past frozen in it is uncovered, parts of it living and parts of it dead. Our hero builds many bonfires and melts the glacier faster; the body lives and dies and lives many times over and tells him the three answers. 1) The thief fell into a crevasse and was frozen over; the ice is melted now, and the treasure can be recovered. 2) Iron horseshoes frozen in the glacier reveal the pact is many thousands of years old. 3) The plague is an old one, frozen and released anew with the glacier’s melting; it is carried in the livestock, and they must be slaughtered.

The hero solves the king’s tasks and marries his daughter. Presumably the new king is then faced with the challenge of the rising sea levels; no idea how that plays out.

“We’re all nice to each other here,” they told us, “we’ve got angels in the hills. They like it when we’re nice. And they see everything.”

This one’s tough to summarize adequately. Two men are going door to door, seemingly taking a survey of the religious beliefs in a small town. They finish, sit together in their car. People have been very cooperative. One of the men remarks that the local religious beliefs are disappointingly unremarkable: yes, they believe in angels watching from the hills, but most people believe in an omniscient God watching over them, and whether it is God or his intercessors, does it make a significant difference?

They sit in the car. Perhaps they smoke in the lazy sunlight. They have finished their survey ahead of time. One of them proposes: Suppose we have a picnic lunch up in the hills?

They park at the base of the hill and walk up. Lovely day. They spread out a blanket from the car, stretch their legs out on the grass, take off their coats, loosen their ties. They’ve brought their packed lunch, sandwiches, a thermos of lemonade. They talk about how pleasant all the people were. Their kind of religion seems so ... brittle, one of the men remarks. If I thought there was someone waiting to punish me the moment I stepped out of line, I’d want to do something horrible just to get it over with.

You think so? says his partner. I think just the opposite. The grand problem with religion is that there aren’t enough consequences for wickedness. I know if I saw the wicked being smote down on a regular basis, I would very satisfied in my religion indeed.

Well, of course you would; you’re a sadist.

Me? A sadist? Hardly.

You’re a sadist, his partner says teasingly. A sadist and brute.

They smile at each other. Idle conversation. There is a suggestion that they have visited many such towns and cities, asking the same question, but have yet to receive a satisfactory answer. At one point one of them notes that there’s something in the trees, but this remark is ignored and nothing is ever made of it. The conversation turns back to whether the angels in the hills are real or not. The ‘sadist’ stands up, declares his intent to do something wicked to test them. He marches around, swinging his arms, then looks around at the trees and puts his hands on his hips and laughs.

You know, up here away from society, he declares, I can’t think of a single wicked thing to do!

(Maybe a conversation here about how he could tear branches from trees, despoil the scenery, find an animal to kill; but then again animals in nature strip bark from trees, kill each other bloodily all the time, tear each other to bits, so how wicked could that be, really?)

He looks down at his partner still lying back on the blanket. Unless, of course, I were to do something wicked to you.

Whatever happens next, it is very leisurely. The scene is easy, very relaxed. Lovely day. Calm. Bright blue sky. Clouds float across it, white like feathered wings, and then pass, leaving not a trace behind.

None of us can imagine what life was like before the Clocks came, before clockwork cities, and all their technology. They rebuilt our crumbling society, in perfect, mechanical order.

Brief musings on a hypothetical pre-Clock society. A society built around the sun, all buildings roofless, everyone’s necks craned upward. Cities built running north to south so as not to block anyone’s view of the rise and set. A society built around hourglasses, everyone judging the passage of time by the sand puddling around their feet, knees, waists, clambering up onto growing dunes, waiting for the flip, for the sand to slowly drain away and the furnishings of their homes to be uncovered. Perhaps this was our unimaginable life before the Clocks came: sands stretching far away and bare, the hypothetical counterpart bulb of an hourglass reflected invisible above us, empty and vast with unrealized possibility, waiting to be reset.

When I was very young, I met a bear at the edge of the woods. Before I could play dead, it bowed to me.

Jokey little fic where a child is instructed on the etiquette of bears: when to bow, when to curtsy, when to raise your hands and make yourself as large as possible, when to climb a tree, when to play dead. (Note that grizzlies are territorial, so if they attack you and play dead they’ll leave you alone because the threat is neutralized; whereas black bears are not territorial, so playing dead will do no good because a black bear will only attack if it deliberately wants to fuck you up.)

I was given very specific instructions. Go to the rosebush on a clear night. As the moonlight turns the roses silver, feed them three drops of blood.

After years of trying for a child, a couple turns to an old witch to help. The woman is instructed to eat a rose from a magical rosebush. If she first pricks her finger and stains the rose red with her blood, then she will have a son, ruddy and robust and bold in battle; if she visits the bush on a clear night and eats a rose painted silver by moonlight, then she will have a daughter, as pale and graceful and elegant as the moon.

The woman is uneasy with the implications of this binary, and says so. The witch smiles and gives her a new set of instructions. So she pricks her finger at night, her blood painted black by the moonlight, and nine months later gives birth to a child as black as a rose, who is neither boy nor girl.

Never manged to come up with a plot for this one. The kid grows up to have a career fulfilling all those “Neither man nor woman” prophecies? Eh. Kinda corny. There’s something about gender roles in fairy tales here, but I couldn’t put it together.

Not for the first time, the company time loop drill had gone very, very wrong.

I did actually write a response for this one, but it got too long and I gave up on it. Summary of the rest of the idea I had:

Time resets. Nagle confirms that it is both an actual time loop and a drill; the company is doing a controlled time loop to prepare them for the real thing. People complain. What’s the point of a drill when an actual time loop would let you keep doing things over and over until you get it right? Nagle points out that could take years, subjectively, and that this is a controlled experience where he has a code to abort the exercise if anything seriously goes wrong. He insists they try to make it work.

They go through a bunch of loops. Don’t succeed. It’s highly technical stuff that none of them are trained for. Morale drops. People start complaining, they’ve spent hours at this, they should be off duty by now. Nagle points out there’s a ruling, established with VR training, that companies don’t need to pay their employees according to their subjective experience of time, and officially they’ve only spent 34 minutes at this.

More loops. Morale drops further. People start demanding Nagle use the abort code, threatening to quit. Nagle points out that while they’re in this time loop, their actions are consequence-free, but once he ends the loop they’ll have to live with their decisions for the rest of their lives. Are they sure they really want to quit?

At that point someone loses it and kills Nagle. Shock. Panic. Some satisfaction. He’s reborn the next loop, starts screaming about it - someone kills him again. Complete social breakdown. Eventually some people decide, fuck it, let’s just live in this loop forever. Killing Nagle becomes a standard thing they do at the start of every loop, so that he can’t input the abort code. They go through various reconfigurations of their social group - orgies, riots, open paranoia where everyone colonizes a different part of the building, regressing to primitivism, open warfare between various sects, rebuilding of society along different axes of thought. Everyone starts thinking of themselves as immortal, they start calling themselves things like ‘Chronobog of the Infinite Plane of Despair’ or whatever; the narration gets increasingly surreal.

After god knows how many cycles of this, everyone finally achieves an equilibrium of perfect enlightenment. They know what must be done. They leave Nagle alive, he watches as they move in perfect unison to unlock the server room and overcome all the obstacles and repair the tachyon servers, loop is finally terminated, normal flow of time resumes.

Nagle stands up, gives a speech, starts congratulating them on completing the drill. As he talks, everyone can feel the rapport they’ve built start to slip away - they no longer understand each other perfectly outside of the context of those 34 minutes. Time is moving forward again, and with it introducing unfamiliarity, uncertainty, an impossible onslaught of variables that they cannot predict or prepare for, and they are all moving inescapably further from each other even as they glance around and try to catch each other’s eyes and keep holding on to that feeling of perfect unity - but it’s too late now, they are strangers behind familiar faces, all of them heading in their own directions, going to be returning to their own separate lives; that moment of solidarity they had is past.

And then Nagle claps his hands at them and says, “OK, drill’s over, everyone back to work!”

#fiction #dumping grounds

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rouiyan · 3 years

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𝘖𝘍 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘏𝘌𝘈𝘙𝘛 [ 𝘭.𝘫𝘯 ]

⧏ the first volume of rouiyan’s debut series, till death do us part ⧐

synopsis: prince jeno is willing to trade his heart and soul for the throne. but lee jeno is also willing to trade his heart and soul for you.

✧ prince!lee jeno x crown princess!reader ✧ royalty au

✧ genres : fluff, angst ✧ word count : 7.0k ✧ disclaimers : brief descriptions of nudity (nothing sexual), allusions to sex (nothing explicit), malintent

✧ author’s note — i have a bad case of 'lee jeno will forever sit atop my bias list, unmoved,' but i guess this is just my way of coping. happy reading, loves.

back to series masterpost: till death do us part.

prince jeno will never be king. he will never sit atop the throne and his plates will always be silver, not gold. he shall be addressed with 'prince' prior to his name, always and perpetually, and until he's wrinkly, gray and even through the eons after he passes, he will only ever be 'prince jeno.' and this is only because of his stoic-faced brother, crown prince doyoung, who is always a step out of reach. born a little more studious, a little more driven, a little more empathetic, and born a little earlier. jeno knows this, his parents know this, even the kingdom is fully aware, that jeno is an example of what a future king should look like, but also that doyoung is the epitome.

but if there's one thing that jeno excels at, in greater lengths than his brother, it'd be his sense of independence. at the ripe age of one, jeno was already on his own two feet, quick and adept. at three, he could eat solid foods and put on his clothes without aid. at six, he'd gone out of his parent's willingness to learn professional swordsmanship. and at ten, he'd sworn, one sudden night in a fit of angry tears, that he would never marry. he was ten, just touching on double digits, yet he'd never felt such fervent ardor for any one thing. lee jeno was convinced, by none but himself, that he was better off alone, in marriage, in friendships, in brotherhood, in family. he needn't no one but himself for he knew more than anyone, his own capabilities. but he also knew that no matter how ardent he was in his endeavors, he would never be king, at least, not of the southern kingdom.

as he draws himself straight, emerging from the black marbled carriage drawn by horses of black mane, he sets his sights on the scene that unfolds before him. the northern castle is fortified in pristine white; white footbridges, posterns, battlements, towers and pinnacles, and all that meets the eye upon first glance. in the moment, the sunlight is cascading down between passing clouds, reflecting across the rounds of the turrets like thick coils of luminescence. the castle itself, though, serves as a halo of radiance that rests above a breathing orchard which is then, set behind a pathed meadow of gently mowed lawns. there's a noticeable wind that courses through the splaying fields, gurgling the water of the moat he'd just passed and ruffling the wildflowers. jeno's spirits lift as clusters of petals lift from their stems, undulating with the chorus of the wind and wafting a delicate scent.

the prince is accompanied, on either side, by his guards dressed in black and gold accents, he himself, wearing an ensemble of a similar but more explored palette. he's guided by a man of the recipient kingdom, dressed contrastingly in white, that strides a few paces ahead of the arriving group through the orchard of dew-laden trees, their boughs offering bundles of green apples low enough to be grasped by the hand.

it's easy for jeno to momentarily forget the reason he is here in the first place.

he stands, that night, under a flurry of blinding crystal chandeliers and in line with others, kindred to his age and stature, first as a guest and foremost as a suitor. a man enters from the archway on the left, stout but tall in posture, and he announces, "arrival of crown princess y/n of the northern kingdom, followed by the king and the queen of the northern kingdom."

jeno fails to notice how his own breath hitches, but notices the man next to him stir at the sight of you. for good reason, he thinks. your dress is nothing short of seraphic, a layered piece of cream silk upon silk, built up into a fitted bodice and sweetheart neckline. a pearled bodkin swirls back the upper half of your hair, allowing the supple skin of your face to spangle in the light. it's from this he understands that the rumors of your beauty are not half moonshine. he disregards the soft features of your face and focuses on the way you curtsy, gentle but profound, for each member of the line, a bow sent in return for each adjacent man. jeno is careful in his observations but he cannot seem to find a fault in your movements, each tailored to the exact second. your eyes, your attention, your pleasant countenance, spends no more time on himself than the others. this is one of the two things he notes during the feast, the second being your father, the king, taking a blatant liking to whom he knows to be the crown prince of the western kingdom, na jaemin.

an alliance as solid as marriage between the western and northern kingdoms would perhaps be the turnover of the century, a threat to be reckoned with. the aqueducts of the western kingdom, the pure water it provides for the region and its people, paired with the flourishing arts and wealthy merchants of the northern kingdom would yield tremendous power over the agriculture of the eastern and the coal mines of the southern. jeno is sharp in calculations, his resolve shifting and with this, the arranged trip becomes a lot clearer in purpose. he stares ahead, knowing that he has little charm to offer to the miss, but imagining himself on the throne of the northern kingdom for a change. albeit, next to you, but he'll find it in him to deal with that in the long run and for the time being, divert his attention to the young highness.

dinner clears out and the party moves into the nearest drawing room in the west wing of the palace. the princess and her parents are escorted earliest and jeno utilizes the opportunity to make his objective clear with whom he sees as his primary source of competition, the prince of the western kingdom. prince jaemin has a smile gracing his face at all times, a habit that jeno has come to despise the more time he spends looking at. "how do you fair with the princess' impression, mind i ask?" jeno is taken off guard when the boy speaks first, now standing beside him, both gazes held up front instead of at each other. he rights his expression before replying curtly, "a sight to behold, no doubt, but i find her to provide amusing company withal."

"and is that all you see her for? an eyeful and merriment?" jaemin's tone gives way to how he's condescendingly sneering at the prince, in distaste by means of long forgotten familiarity.

jeno doesn't bother to answer for it is now within his knowledge, and the other's, that his intentions are unearthed. jaemin continues, his voice light but carrying heavy weight, "i'd hope that she chooses wisely. the princess deserves her throne."

they are ushered from the vicinities of the dining parlor into the drawing room. the space is lit with candles that glint and flit across the pale green plaster, lined with golden leaf molding and wainscotting. the walls encasing the room are at least a bountiful twenty feet high, the echoes of thirty or so people colliding off the ceilings and upon the polished floor. nothing remarkable can be said besides the fact that the churnings in the pits jeno's stomach become painfully acute with each step you take towards him, and that he, in turn, can't help but take further steps back.

jeno returns to his assigned quarters without a word spoken to or from you. he does not feel belittled by the others, in fact, he knows his royal blood gives him a hefty advantage over the sons of advisors, distant cousins, older merchants, and others of far off importance. he retires into the crisp white sheets after he blows out the already billowing candle by the bedside. prince jeno only dreams of the throne, the only visions he has ever come to see behind the veil of his eyelids, but it's tonight that he's met with you. smile wide in response to something he's said, an act of jest maybe. he smiles along and towel dries your hair lovingly, brushes through it with tender fingers, lays you upon the bed in fluid motions. it's the morning after that he wakes up with no recollection.

the following day is open to any and every pastime the palace has to offer, the only program being the ball in the evening, a gathering of formal introductions by footwork and intense stares. jeno doubts the princess will have enough stamina to follow through with thirty or so consecutive dances, each with different men, but he's adamant to be one of the few. he's ambling directionless in the castle, unaware of which halls leads to what and in the forefront of his mind, he's looking for you, as he is sure many others are as well. he stumbles upon a dusty balcony, evidently unused, by the landing of the fourth level that opens up to an expanse of flowers, rows and rows of varying genera, each blooming in full vigor. it's here that he finds you, frolicking among the reposeful blossoms, mirrors of your countenance that rise to your waist. from what he can see, you're walking alongside the small dirt paths with a brown haired boy of sun kissed skin. hand in hand you walk, and he can almost see the pleasant smile the boy adorns and the vibrancy you radiate.

jeno learns from a maid with a adoring smile, that the boy is prince donghyuck of the eastern kingdom, the youngest son of four and therefore the most unfit match for a crown princess, a spiteful thought that jeno can't help but think. he also learns that he is the one boy, the one person, you've been the closest with since birth and that, out of anger and disapproval, your mother had invited the suitors for the purpose of serving you a more worthy husband and future king. the maid now sports a frightful expression, knowing that she had crossed her bounds by oversharing. jeno is glad though, and reassures her that the secret is safe with him.

he dresses accordingly for the ball, and while many of the fellow suitors donned garments of white to match your family's signature, jeno cannot find a single piece of his that holds the same hue. the color black oozes from the lapels of his pressed suit jacket, from the tie and shirt underneath. the color is second nature to him, one of his own family, and he gives it no thought.

perhaps it's the color, though, that catches your eye that night because you prance over to him not a half hour after the ball commences. kind eyes that feel so welcome on his skin, and though the churns and froths have resurfaced in his gut, he offers his hand in the first and last dance of the night. you say yes to both but the last is when he starts to chip off the guise of royalty to reveal the ramblings of a young girl.

"i'm not in love with him, most certainly not, but i feel strongly that if i were ever granted a say in marriage, it would not be of anyone in this room, no, i would marry my dearest companion." jeno fails to admit that the smooth vibrations of your voice are enough to set fire to his resolve, the purpose behind your hand on his shoulder and his around your waist.

he draws you in, "and why not marry for love?" though he's sure he doesn't mean to.

"and why not should my love for a close confidante count? is it not love all the same?" you pull from him and jeno follows in step of the music to twirl you back into his embrace, just the way a prince should.

"i believe the love you speak is of the head," jeno counters. the ball is in his court, but he pays it no attention, sincere in obtaining an answer, "i am asking why you should not marry for love of the heart?"

"of the heart," you repeat to yourself, an utterance that jeno finds so endearing but cannot bring himself to immerse in. "i've yet to encounter such an emotion. may i ask, has the prince himself ever held such affection towards another?"

he chuckles, "i only know of once where another held my gaze captive. i know little of her, yet i can speak quite arduously on her behalf."

"what a sight she must be," you muse, partially uninterested now that your partner has declared the purpose of his attendance entirely political by speaking of his one true love whilst in your presence.

prince jeno stops, the hand of his on your back slots for more support and he lowers your figure down by the waist, hie eyes never leaving yours and your noses touch, "yes, you are quite the sight."

prince jeno's passed the golfing greens, the rose gardens, the hiking trails, and the fencing grounds, but he has yet to find something that catches his eye, something he has never seen. as a southern kingdom native and royal, the northern kingdom is easily foreign territory. the air is clear here, there's no soot to brush off when you head inside, and a step outside the walls of the palace, he knows he'll find artisan markets that run for miles instead of coal sites. the artisan markets, he thinks, is where he wants to go.

he's just tipping into the edge of the thick forest that lines the southeastern bounds of the estate when his ears pick up on the babble of a creek. jeno's quick to brush through the creepers and ramblers until the trees give into an expanse of open air. the creek he'd thought he heard is in actuality a wide bathing pool, the water a clear green. he spots a level bronzed rock on which you lay, bare-skinned, the direct sunlight engulfing your figure in glorification. quickly, he diverts his eyes and clears his throat to announce his presence. you're also quick to your feet at the sound, scrambling to grasp at your robes strewn about.

to your surprise, the man, whom you've now identified as the second prince of the coal mines, has not left and is simply standing still, his back turned to you. it's now you that clears your throat and he understands well enough by turning back around to face a clothed you, the flames of his cheeks withstanding.

"it's quite alright, you know, nothing to be embarrassed about." he hums in response and you proceed with your thoughts, "but i'd like to affirm it was by chance, was it not?"

jeno clasps his hands behind his back, willing his eyes to yours, "surely by chance, i would no- never- not dare, such intentions are not-" he's cut off by your chuckles, light and airy, like bouts melancholy chords to his ears. the prince, a boy who had been schooled by only the finest etiquette scholars of the region, finds himself blundering for words. jeno is undeniably embarrassed by now, but his eyes soften as you take steps towards him, fingers fumbling to tie your robes shut.

the heat in his cheeks is still very noticeable but his shortness of breath is not. the prince even goes so far as to close the distance between the two of you himself, hands coming to your aid in lacing the strands of ribboned satin together, gently tugging it into a looped butterfly. you think his favored form of communication is the clearing of his throat for he does it once again, "will you allow me hold account for my mishaps?"

"you hardly did much wrong, your highness." his nose scrunches at the formality.

"then may i repay you for your forgiveness?"

your expression isn't shy to conceal your incredulity at his persistence, "my, now i cannot help but be a tad bit intrigued. what can you offer than i cannot already find on my own land?"

"allow me," he pauses, a smile forming before he can even let you in on his gracious idea, "to give you a tour of the artisan marts, what do you suppose?" the smile is contagious, infectious even, spreading onto your face as well, "a mineral boy to guide me through fine arts? i think i ought to say yes."

your peals of laughter are imminent in the air of sundown. he thinks the painted coasters are plates, he sees the tapestries as scarves, the delicate ribbons as horse whips. but when the two of you come across an array of jeweled accessories, he has the gall to sneak a sapphired hair pin from the display and slot it between your locks, the hood shielding your identity from passerbyers falling back. you're eyes are blown wide at this but jeno simply smiles, fingers coursing through two entangled tresses, courtesy of the abrasion on the rough commoner's fabric.

"a pretty face like yours should never have to hide," he chides. jeno's eyes form soft crescents and he's subtle when he takes your hand in his, "wouldn't want to lose you, princess." you see him slip a gold coin for the dear madam selling the goods before he's off, jogging lightly and pulling you close to his back. the destination is unknown to you but the man seems to lead with an air of awareness. he slows a few blocks down, allowing you to catch your breath as you note that his hood has also been brushed back. returning the favor, you go on your toes to ruffle the strands into place, not missing the surprised flinch his composure gives way to. people left and right are starting to notice, it just so happens that the two of you are stood right in the middle of all the commotion that comes with the afternoon wave of customers. "over here."

jeno's hand is in yours again and you wonder if it's the cause of the heavy hammering in your heart. you wonder, because though it is certainly not an unwelcome feeling, you doubt you've ever felt it beat so hard. his hand gives your own a squeeze and it's as if your heartstrings have been strummed like a guitar, his ragged breaths music to your ears, a remedy for your aches. the narrow alleyway he's entered hosts a light at the end and it opens up into a view of the town, the terracotta-tiled roofings, bronzed candle streetlamps, public works funded by your mother, and all the townspeople going about their days, now in miniscule movements. the sun is just about setting but from the looks of it, it might as well be seen as rising. afterall, who is to say that only sunrises bring new days? new times, new beginnings, new understandings, new loves are all brought about just as much from sunsets as sunrises. and if there's one thing to prove that, it's the way jeno's hand never leaves yours, not for the rest of the night.

"and they'd asked if i should want to extend the stay for anyone."

prince jeno crosses his room and leans upon the footboard of his bed. a week certainly isn't enough to develop a bond of marriage but he is glad to acknowledge that it doesn't get any better than this. "and did you?" he knows where you're going with this, you know that he knows, the whole palace knows that you know that he knows. why else would crown princess y/n head down to the guest quarters, to ask for the room number of a specific boy, if not to tell said boy, whom she had spent almost every second of the week with, that she would like it if he stayed?

"yes, i did, i requested your stay. late yesterday, in fact, but i didn't have it in me to inform you until now." you're blushing and he's thrust into the awareness that the feelings you subject him to aren't customary. "will you be staying?" his eyes are unwavering on yours as if to tell you exactly what he means to say before he eventually does, "it'd be my pleasure."

a knock on the door breaks the moment, but jeno is quick to call the maid in. a letter is tucked between her fingers and upon delivery, the prince recognizes his name printed in the neat scrawl of his mother. an absentminded, "thanks" is followed up by the zealous unsheathing of the letter, a ill-minded idea of the content already forming in the forefront of his mind.

our dearest jeno,

it has come to our attention that you plan on extending your stay until a month's time. officials of the northern kingdom are already working in conjunction with our advisors to plan a date. of most excitement did it certainly incite within your family. had i known you'd be married off to a lass of such prestigious blood, i would have sent you much earlier. your father would love to hear of your methods of courting, perhaps your brother could do well with it no doubt. i've no time to spare, the schematics of your succession are coming fast in the drawing room. expect no less than the best and send my warmest regards to the young highness.

all the best, your dearest mother.

"she'd like to welcome you to the family, that's what's said." jeno's thankful that you decided to teeter over to him now, after he finished skimming through the damned article. he has time to fold it closed before you're by his side, fingers reaching for his. he's rubbing smooth lines into the ridges of your palms. "i suppose they are all thinking the same thing, marriage."

you speak, "do you suggest that it's wrong of them?" but jeno wishes you'd get to the point so he can tell you just what he means.

"not wrong, but natural. if i was my father i doubt i'd think any different."

"then, if not your father, how would you think?"

"i think," he's drawn to the way your teeth bite down on your lips. "i think i'd like it." his thoughts block out everything except the image of your lips and he ponders following through with the ideas plaguing his mind. jeno goes in when you draw back, turning to hide your flushed state. you're retreating even further now, taking an exit all together but not before clearing the air. "breakfast tomorrow at seven, east wing. ask a maid if you are unsure."

next time, he thinks.

breakfast is silent sans the clattering of cutlery on plates but jeno finds baseline joy in the shy glances that you sneak at him across the table. he does not, however, particularly like the prolonged stares your father blatantly spends on him. jeno thinks he's about to look away, for the sixth time at that, when the elder decides upon the moment to speak, "a striking young man, i'll let that. y/n, dear, pray tell me your decision was not built on his good looks." your father is rather speaking to you.

your face burns up in tinged mortification, "father, that is hardly an appropriate question to bring up over the course of a family meal-"

much to your chagrin, the king pays no heed to your interjections and resumes, "preposterous as it may seem, i would despise if our ranks were to be infiltrated by those of the miner's kingdom. our liberal arts are not so often mixed with a line of lowly traitors, an observation may i add-"

"father! oh, how lowly it is of you to be restricting a kind young sir of royal blood to the bounds of his heritage!" your mother has halted in her tracks, setting a golden spoon aside and retreating her hands to her lap.

"must you forget that the blood in him courses silver not gold?" your father's voice never raises, never lowers. you fail at maintaining the same composure, distress budding between outbursts.

"color does not render the propriety of one for better or worse. i believe that was what you'd taught me to rule by but for laughs or for naught, a king you so-call yourself!"

breakfast is silent once again, but this time, not even the aid of cutlery against plates is around to sheath the tension in the air. jeno's enlightened to learn of this side of you. your eyes are hardened, your jaw left slightly unhinged, and deep breaths are taken to retain any sort of semblance. he sees determination in your eyes, lined with a raw and unearthed air of conviction, and there's no other way to describe the look on your face except to say that you are solely driven by a vehement passion for righteousness. but drawing back from the you who has captivated him, he's left with the realization that he hasn't given a second thought to his original resolve since setting foot in the palace. and while the four of you sit in silence, glares and glowers being thrown about, prince jeno is daunted by the fact that more than ever, he feels the fervent ardor that in order to be a king, deserving of accolade and reverence, he needs you by his side to be his queen.

"what my father thinks is beyond me, really. i'd only hope what he said doesn't deter you all that much." you pop a cherry into your mouth, fingers clasping the stem and tugging it off with a pop. jeno looks down at you in adoration, the events of this morning a figment of the past. "not much at all for me, if it doesn't bother you." the soft smile that fills his countenance is given as if to say, 'as you wish, my love.'

you sit up abruptly, the thin cotton cloth scrunching under your thighs. the grass is still dewy from the morning showers but you slip off your sandals in favor of the bare grit of soil beneath your feet. the sun is beginning to stutter from its position overhead but not so fast, you think, the day has just begun. with one last look spared for the bewildered boy, you mouth a 'catch me if you can,' before bundling up the folds of your linen dress into your hands and taking off into the open fields. native flowers of poppies and calendula, orange and white, are trampled in your wake but you don't mind because prince jeno is hot on your heels. he is hot on your heels with a grin of mirth gracing his expression and strides that are long and fast. so fast that you are caught within a matter of seconds, encased in his arms before you even know it, feet lifting off the ground and squeals of protest in response. the adrenaline in your system is slow to subside as you land on your feet once again, eyes lit up like a child's in front of santa claus. the verdant grass looks a murky brown behind your rose-tinted glasses but prince jeno continues to look ethereal. grasping his dark locks in a fistful, you tug him down so that your lips meet and in no time, his lips are working fast against your own. the sensations are nothing short of paradisiacal, as opposite ends of the planet meet, the sun and the moon, the sky and the earth, summer and winter, water and fire, and silver and gold.

wet and slippery, you laugh at the strand of saliva that spreads thinner as you part from his lips. jeno repositions so that you are situated on his back and he allows you to catch your breath before strolling aimlessly across the grounds, as if what happened seconds beforehand didn't just mark the beginning of time. he takes you back inside once the sun has set and your eyelids are half closed. he waits outside in your chamber as you bathe and he stands behind you as your sit in front of your vanity, hair dripping wet and a towel in hand. jeno is gathering your hair in his hands, smoothing over your wet locks with the cloth when he remembers. he remembers the dream he had just over a fortnight ago. the one where he stood in this exact spot. he remembers it just as he sees you give a small chortle in the reflection of the mirror in response to him playfully pulling your hair a little too hard, an act of jest. the trickling feeling of déjà vu hits him so terribly hard but he can only live out the dream in real time, his fingers gently raking your now dried hair. he spins you in his seat and decides that whatever vision he was granted hadn't been revealed to him until now for the very reason being that he simply wasn't ready. the jeno of two weeks ago wasn't ready to love another, to accept another, to cherish another as he does now. now, for you.

prince jeno's eyes are glazed over in awe and revelation as he feels the way your hands draw him closer to you by his waist, entwining your bodies. he's overcome with the need to be the one to make you feel the same way you do unto him. gingerly he lifts you from your spot, hands hooking under the crevice beneath your knees with your arms riding up to his shoulders while effectively removing his shirt in one fluid motion. he's glad that you share the same idea.

that night is the first of many where he shows you the sheer magnitude of which he loves you. he lives for the look of your star-studded eyes, rolling back into your head and the way your toes curl as you call out his name and his name only. he breathes for the way your fingers are in a world of their own as they scour every inch of his hair, pushing and pulling the same way the moon teases its waters. his mere existence is reliant on the shine of his arousal on the bare skin of your stomach. with each time, jeno is reborn.

it's the crack of dawn when he hears your voice, barely scathing the absolute threshold, "i am still very much awake."

"as am i," jeno lifts his head to look across the room, past the dirtied sheets, the swathes of clothes on the ground, to the doors of the balcony that are swung wide open. the sky is of a distilled blue, not yet bright, but still illuminated by the crown of the sun.

"would it be deemed a waste to simply lay here for the duration of the night?" you question, but move to sit up in decisiveness. jeno answers offhandedly once again, even now revelling in the feeling of your skin on his, "i would feel so, yes."

"shall we take a trip to the study? i recall you mentioning a desire to visit." the prince smiles at this. curt again, "if you'd like."

"yes, a warm cup of tea and agreeable literature is an ancient remedy for sleeplessness. my, morning it is already. i don't suppose a morning nap has ever been heard of, though i'd think i'd like just that at this moment." you mumble out the last half, partially rambling to yourself.

"light a candle, my dear, my eyes aren't half as sharp in the dim light." you chuckle at that and reach for the brass pricket set on your bedside table. upon lighting it, you are met with the boy's face irradiated in such a way that accentuates everything from his sharp jawline to the apples of his cheeks. he smiles as takes the instrument from you to allow you to don some clothes. the same is done for him and the two of you make quick time in rushing across the stale floors of the palace to the opposite wing.

the main library, situated on the third floor but occupying large parts of both the third and fourth, is certainly the pride and treasure of the palace, the crown jewel of the northern kingdom even. the separate floors are each sixteen feet in height, filled wall-to-wall with encased book upon book. the collection dates back to the romans and as far forward as your most recent journal entry. jeno pads upon the floors that boast a parqueted mahogany, the same that runs along the integrated shelving and the carvings that crown the skylight above. the windows are made of giant panels of stained glass, mosaics that depict the landscapes just beyond, and as a result, the little light the sun has to offer is cast in shades of blue, green, and red. an assemblage of the masterpieces of ettore forti, genuine, he suspects, are hung in individual alcoves and molded with golden embellishments. jeno thinks the northern kingdom simply cannot have anything better to offer than this. except for you, he thinks.

a maid delivers your tea promptly, a gentle brew of loose leaf herbs, ginger and rooibos by the taste of it and you settle into the plush velvet of the segmented lounge. the work you're reading aloud is enough to keep you awake for the better half of an hour before you begin dozing off. your soft and even breaths are enough for jeno to be shaken from his attention on a few select poems, and he's careful when he moves to replace the leather-bound diary in your hands, with a hand of his own. jeno uses his other hand to cradle the side of your face, as any besotted boy would do, caressing by the means of docile strokes. he feels a mellow calm when you're persistent by his side, even in your sleep. tucking a strand of hair behind your ears, he's leaning in for a quick kiss to the temple when the door of the study is propped ajar, a boy of briefer height emerging from the unlit halls.

jeno recognizes the boy almost instantly, the image of you walking hand in hand with him still as unrelenting in his mind as it was on day one. lee donghyuck, of similar surname but a long-diverging lineage, the fourth prince of the eastern kingdom of agriculture. jeno isn't hit with jealousy, per se, but rather annoyance.

donghyuck's steps halt the moment he sees the still figure on the juniper-stained chaise. his brows draw in suspicion but he's prudent of the expression he lets on. a dialogue of whispers ensues.

"prince jeno, is it?" donghyuck's face darkens when the other nods. "ah, i've heard of the tidings, may i pass on sincere felicitations to you and your betrothed."

"much obliged, prince donghyuck, i presume." obverse, the aforementioned boy nods.

despite all his efforts, donghyuck can't help but let loose a sliver of his composure, "i have little credit i can give to your word, but i'd like to hear what you have to say in regards to the arrangement."

prince jeno is ticked off now, to say the least, he hides his vexation by keeping his reply as formally insincere as he can muster, "elated, the arrangement could not have been better dealt with."

"and you are a man that deals in the prospects of union?" donghyuck does not mean to nitpick but there's no way around it when the prince in front of him is so obviously indignated by his presence. you could say that he's been provoked.

voice held level, jeno proceeds, "i am a man of virtue and i come in good faith, i assure you."

"i must inquire, a man of virtue and good faith? i'd like to know of you and your families' conspiracies, falsities, machinations." a snide and low-shot remark, no doubt, but it riles up the taller of the two fair enough.

jeno sussurates, raspy voice and all, "and who are you, brave enough to speak in such a fashion to a second prince."

"gold by marriage is synonymous to silver by birth. why count the numbers when we are one and the same?" donghyuck's voice is still a bare undertone, but harsh and course in resonance.

"a pity you weren't raised to tell the difference." neither of the princes bother to conceal their malignity for the other. if you were awake, neither would know, too caught up in the heat of their frustration.

donghyuck is fed up with years of spite and built-up distaste. in between all the blundering he has found a point, a target to aim for. he may not see jeno as a harm to you but he knows there's an unspoken wedge that revolves around his family. donghyuck glows in his opportune moment, then he strikes, "and you were raised upon your father's supremacy. do tell, do you believe your father to be an honest man?"

he is met with jeno's silence, compliance, submission.

the leisure sport of swordsmanship is what prince jeno sets out for first thing after ensuring you had woken and eaten something fulfilling. he is in the need to exert his energy on something, or someone, that isn't an acquaintance of yours, for fear that he has done more damage than good by manifesting himself as an enemy in the eyes of your closest companion. he requests your court's highest ranking knight and is surprised and slightly jarred that the man before him is of a smaller stature, a few inches shorter with narrow shoulders and lean muscles. renjun is the name he goes by and he dominates without the need of force. jeno tells the boy to display his best effort, that a scuff here and there is fine, but he severely misconstrues his opponent's abilities.

renjun, as it turns out, finds amusement in jeno's stances, flaws evident in ways that only he can see. undermining the prince's pride is what he aims for and he does exactly that, successful with three strokes, two that flit like sparks in the air and the last that scathes the skin of the prince's left wrist. it's small in area and deep in puncture, the raw film underneath unfurling within itself, but it's enough for him to call the session off. jeno's hand withdraws from the new wound and he's met with the sight of red.

the prince is drawn, in many ways more than one, to the red as it seeps between the clasp of his fingers. as it begins its descent towards the fast-approaching floor, the floor of white limestone. he's drawn by the depth he sees within the color, the solidarity he feels towards the hue. in the silver ichor that pools by his feet, he's drawn to his blood red reflection.

jeno finds you retired in your room that night, in exhaustion of formal meetings and other circumstances that required a princess' supervision. despite this, your visage still lights with joy upon seeing the prince. "would you prefer if i let you rest?"

"depends, what will you propose if i refuse?" the lilt to your voice has him almost coddling, his thumbs running circles on the skin behind your ears down to your neck to release the tensions. "i'd propose a midnight adventure, stargazing maybe."

you give a modest snigger, "a bit of a romanticist, aren't you?"

"only for you i must admit." his tone is humorless. "are you up for it, dear?"

your face returns taut, "yes, needless to say, only for you."

prince jeno takes you by the hand, he leads and you follow. he makes rounds about the same halls, you think he's unsure of where he is heading, but he comes to a stop at the precipice of the fourth landing. the balcony that leans off to the side is one that you have never stood atop of before though you're unsure why. the outlook it bestows upon you is breathtaking, even in the dead of night. just barely are the outlines of the flowers oscillating in the drafts shown, even fainter are the hills that overlap in the distance, but oh-so-clear is the moon.

it's quartered today, the slope of the curve is round and prominent. all of a sudden, jeno is quoting ray bradbury, a classic text he knows you'll know a little too much about. "and if you look," he nods to the sky, "there's a man in the moon." as he conjectured, you're quick to catch on the act before the moment dissipates, "he hadn't looked for a long time."

"do you believe in the man in the moon?"

"i believe in the man and the moon, but the man in the moon is very much apparent as well." your eyes are set in the stars. "he is astray and far from the ground, from earth. he does not seek what we all should seek, but rather he dives headfirst into the superficial."

"and what is it that we all should seek?"

"the one thing in the world that carries any significance at all: happiness."

it is now that prince jeno sees himself as the man in the moon, chasing after mirages of aspirations when in truth, he does not find solace in power, he does not revel in the destruction of others, he does not take lightly when the lonely are forsaken and he shall never partake in the atrocities his father subjects him to. but the man in the moon is a conscious past of his, a living memory of growth, for jeno finds happiness in you; you who grounds him to the earth.

lee jeno thinks the world of you and, as the greatest russian poet ever wrote, "she is a beauty. yes, a marble nymph; angelic eyes, unearthly lips…" (Alexander Pushkin, The Collected Works; "A Suite of Lighted Rooms")

read volume two here: overcast skies and those who die.

#nct ff #nct fics #nct scenarios #nct jeno #jeno x reader #jeno x you #jeno angst #jeno fluff #jeno ff #jeno fanfic #rouiyan fics #rouiyan writes

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elliemarchetti · 3 years

Text

If Need Be

At this point I don't know if it makes sense to anticipate everything with a brief description of the plot, but for all the possible new readers who will run into this chapter and for some strange reason haven’t seen the previous ones, this is the story of Elva, a half-elf of Mirkwood, leaving with the Fellowship in place of Legolas. The actual tale begins shortly after Gandalf's death, and it all centers around how Elva's presence impacts not only on the mission but on Haldir's life.

In this part, the Fellowship finally leaves Caras Galadhon to resume their Quest.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Words: 2448

In the morning, as they were beginning to pack their slender goods, some Elves went to Haldir’s talan to bring many gifts of food, mostly in the form of very thin cakes, made of a meal that was baked a light brown on the outside and inside was the colour of cream, and a hooded cloak.

"For someone who spends most of his time at the border, you are very popular," Elva commented, after thanking yet another visitor.

"They fear I may not come back, and they tell me that my brothers will be helped in every possible way,” the marchwarden explained. “These are lembas, or waybread, more strengthening than any food made by Men and more pleasant than the cram made in Dale. It must be eaten little at a time, for these things are given to serve when all else fails and will keep sweet for many days, if they’re unbroken and left in their leaf-wrappings.”

“Those are fair garments, though,” Aragorn commented, stroking the light but warm silken fabric, the same the Galadhrim and the court wove. It was hard to say of what colour they were, as they seemed to be grey with the hue of twilight under the trees and yet, if they were moved or set in another light, they were green as shadowed leaves or brown as fallow fields by night; in the dusk, they looked like water under the stars, and even the brooch that fastened them, a green leaf, was veined with silver.

“They must be from the Lady,” guessed their host. “Yet, as you said, they are garments, not armours, and they won’t turn shaft or blade, only serve us well in staying out of the Enemy’s sight.”

"They seem to have done their work so far," Elva said, trying to cheer up the room and hinting that after all his wanderings he was still alive.

"Sure, and a considerable number of blades to the throat were also needed," he replied, after which silence fell, and was maintained as they walked through Caras Galadhon’s empty green streets. In the trees above them, many voices were murmuring and singing, and flashed of barely comprehensible words followed them to the lawn where the other members of the Fellowship waited and down the southward slopes of the hill, to the great gate hung with lamps until the white bridge, after which they took a path that went off into a deep thicket of mallorn trees and passed on, winding through rolling woodlands of silver shadow, leading them ever down, southwards and eastwards, to the shores of the River, laid in a shining lawn of grass studded with golden elanor that glinted in the sun. On the right and west the Silverlode flowed glittering and on the left and east the Great River rolled its broad waters, deep and dark, with woodlands still marching as far as eyes could see on the southwards shores, bleak and bare, as no mallorn lifted its gold-hung boughs beyond the Land of Lorien. On the bank of the Silverlode, at some distance up from the meeting of the streams, there were moored many boats and barges, some brightly painted, shining with silver, gold and green tones, and some either white or grey, like the three that had been prepared for the travellers. Haldir threw some coils of slender but strong rope in each, and Sam went to inspect the workmanship, similar to that of the cloaks they wore.

“They are made of hithlain,” their guide explained, anticipating his question. “Had I known this craft delighted you, I could’ve taught you much, but at the moment I think you’ll have to settle for a theoretical explanation during breaks.”

Sam seemed satisfied by the pact, and went to take his place with Frodo on the boat captained by Aragorn; Boromir thus settled for Merry and Pippin, and Haldir for Elva and Gimli, with whom he had most bonded during their stay in Lothlorien. The boats were moved and steered with short-handled paddles that had broad leaf-shaped blades. When all was ready, their guide led them on a trial up the Silverlode, where the current was swift and they went forward slowly. Sam sat in the bows, clutching the sides, and looking back wistfully to the shore, the sunlight glittering on the water dazzling his eyes. As they passed beyond the green field of the Tongue, the trees drew down to the river’s brink: here and there golden leaves tossed and floated on the rippling stream and the air was very bright and still, bringing only silence except for the high distant song of larks. They turned a sharp bend in the river, and there, sailing proudly down the stream towards them, they saw a swan of great size. The water rippled on either side of the white breast beneath its curving neck and its beak shone like burnished gold, while its eyes glinted like jet set in yellow stones; its huge white wings were half lifted, and suddenly they perceived that it was a ship, wrought and carved with elven-skill in the likeness of a bird. Two elves clad in white steered it with black paddles and in the midst of the vessel sat Celeborn, with his wife behind him, tall and white, a crown of golden flowers in her hair and a harp in her hands. Sand and sweet was the sound of her voice in the cool clear air as she told the story of gold leave shook by the wind. As if the first vision of the Mirror had awakened in Elva an ancient memory that didn’t belonged to her, she too sang of Lorien’s first winter with bare and leafless trees, but she didn’t have the heart to finish, because it spoke of the departure beyond the Sea, of that journey that tasted like defeat and she could never face, even if she wanted to. Haldir stayed his boat as the Swan-ship drew alongside, so the Lady could tell them she had come to bid their last farewell and to speed their boats with blessings from her land. The half-elf wasn’t quite sure their intentions were that noble, but she said nothing, and ate lunch with the royals on the grass, as Celeborn suggested, speaking again of their journey.

“As you go down the water,” said the Lord, “you’ll find that the trees will fail, and you’ll come to a barren country. There the River flows in stony vales amid high moors, until at last after many leagues come the sheep shores of the tall island of Tindrock, that we call Tol Brandir. With great noise and smoke, the waters fall over the cataracts of Rauros down into the Nindalf, the Wetwang, as it’s called in your tongue.; that is a wide region of sluggish fen, where the stream becomes tortuous and much divided and the Entwash flows in by many mouths from the Forest of Fangorn in the west. About that stream, on this side of the Great River, lies Rohan, while on the further side are the bleak hills of the Emyn Muil. The wind blows from the East there, for they look out over the Dead Marshes and the Noman-lands to Cirith Gorgor and the black gates of Mordor. Boromir, and any that go with him seeking Minas Tirith, will do well to leave the Great River above Rauros and cross the Entwash before it finds the marshes. Yet they shouldn’t go too far up that stream, nor risk becoming entangled in the Forest of Fangorn, a strange, little known land, but doubtless, you don’t need this warning.”

“Indeed we have heard of Fangorn in Minas Tirith,” replied the person most concerned. “But what I’ve heard seems to me for the most part old wives’ tales, such as we tell to our children. All that lies north to Rohan is now to us so far away that fancy can wander freely there, but it’s now many lives of men since any of us visited it to prove or disprove the legends that have come down from distant years. Anyway, I have myself been at whiles in Rohan, but I’ve never crossed it northwards, although, when I was sent out as a messenger, I passed through the Gap by the skirts of the White Mountains, and crossed the Isen and the Greyflood into Northerland. A long and wearisome journey it was, four hundred leagues I reckoned it, and it took me many months, for I lost my horse at Tharbad, at the fording of the Greyflood. After that and the road I have trodden with this Company, I don’t much doubt I shall find a way through Rohan, and Fangorn too, if need be.”

“Then I need say no more!” exclaimed Celeborn. “But don’t despise the lore that has come down from distant years, for oft it may chance that old wives keep in memory word of things that once were needful for the wise to know.”

At those advice, Galadriel rose from the grass and taking a cup from one of her maidens she filled it with white mead and gave it to her husband.

“Now it’s time to drink for our farewell,” she said, and when they had all done as she commanded, chairs were set for her and Celeborn. For a while she looked upon her guests, but at last, she called each in turn, offering them gifts, starting from Aragorn, whom she addressed as the leader of the Fellowship, giving him a great stone clear green in colour, set in a silver brooch that was wrought in the likeness of an eagle with outspread wings.

“This was left in my care to be given to you, should you pass through this land; I gave it to my daughter Celebrian and she gave it to hers, and now it comes to you as a token of hope. In this hour take the name that was foretold for you, Elessar, the Elfstone of the House of Elendil!”

Aragorn took the stone and pinned the brooch upon his breast, and those who saw him wondered how they hadn’t noticed before how tall and kingly he stood: “For the gift that you have given me I thank you, Lady of Lorien of whom were sprung Celebrian and Arwen Evenstar. What praise could I say more?”

The Lady bowed her head, and she turned to Boromir, giving him a belt of gold, similar to the silver ones Merry and Pippin received; to Elva, she gave a bow such as the Galadhrim used, longer and stouter than the bows of Mirkwood, and strung with a string of elf-hair. With it went a quiver of arrows, while Sam received no weapons or wealth, but only a little box of plain grey wood, unadorned save for a single silver rune upon the lid, filled with earth from Galadriel’s orchard: “It won’t defend you against any peril, but if you keep it and see your home again at last, then perhaps it may reward you. Though you should find all barren and laid waste, there will be few gardens in Middle-earth that will bloom like yours, then you may remember Galadriel, and catch a glimpse far off of Lorien, that you have seen only in our Winter, for our Spring and our Summer are gone by, and they will never be seen on earth again save in memory.”

Sam went red to the ears and muttered something inaudible, as he clutched the box and bowed as well as he could.

“And what gift would a Dwarf ask of the Elves? ” said Galadriel, turning to Gimli.

“It’s enough for me to have seen the Lady of the Galadhrim, and to have heard her gentle words,” he replied, courteous.

“Hear all ye Elves!” she cried to those around her. “Let none say again that Dwarves are grasping and ungracious! Yet surely you desire something that I could give? Name it, I bid you! You shall not be the only guest without a gift.”

“There’s nothing, Lady Galadriel,” said Gimli, bowing low and stammering. “Nothing, unless it might be permitted to name a single strand of your hair, which surpasses the gold of the earth as the stars surpass the gems of the mine. I don’t ask for such a gift, but you commanded me to name my desire.”

The Elves stirred and murmured with astonishment, and Celeborn gazed at the Dwarf in wonder, but the Lady smiled. “It’s said that the skill of the Dwarves is in their hands rather than in their tongues, yet that is untrue of Gimli,” she said. “And how shall I refuse, since I commanded you to speak? But tell me, what would you do with such a gift?”

“Treasure it, Lady” he answered, “in memory of your words to me at our first meeting. And if ever I return to the smithies of my home, it shall be set in imperishable crystal to be an heirloom of my house, and a pledge of good will between the Mountain and the Wood until the end of days.”

So the Lady unbraided one of her long tresses, cut off three golden hairs and laid them in Gimli’s hand: “These words shall go with the gift: I don’t foretell, for all foretelling is now vain with darkness lying on one hand and only hope in the other, but if hope shouldn’t fail, then I say to you that you hands shall flow with gold, and yet over you gold shall have no dominion.”

Then she addressed Frodo, and gave him a small crystal phial, glittering with rays of white light from the Earendil’s star as she moved it: “May it guide you in dark places, when all other lights go out.”

Lastly, she looked at Haldir, giving him a sheath made to fit his sword, overlaid with a tracery of flowers and leaves wrought of silver and gold: “The blade drawn from this sheath shall not be stained or broken even in defeat,” she said, leading Elva to question again what their guide might’ve seen in the Mirror. Were those words a hidden condemnation? She couldn’t know, and after the gift that had been given to her, she couldn’t ask too. Haldir bowed, but found no words to say, so the Lady arose, and the yellow noon laid on the green land of the Tongue accompanied their last farewell, for so it seemed to them that Lorien was slipping backward, like a bright ship with enchanted trees, sailing on to forgotten shores, while they sat helpless upon the margin of the grey and leafless world.

#haldir of lothlorien #haldir x fem oc #aragorn #arwen #aragorn x arwen #sam gamgee #boromir #frodo baggins #merry brandybuck #pippin took #gimli son of gloin #galadriel #celeborn #galadriel x celeborn #lotr #the fellowship of the ring

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lokiodinsonofasgard000 · 3 years

Text

Witcher Reader x Loki

“Alfather… more of our men have died in attempts of containing the creature” an injured guard general “Did you get any more information regarding why this creature may be?” the Alfather asked staring down the general “It is nothing like that of this world...it feels that of such chaos. It’s unworldly we have lost many warriors-... more and more innocent people are being massacred, they grow restless and fearful-” “That is enough. Make your way to the healing wing and any other injured guards.” With a nod, the general limped out holding his side out of the throne room. The room fell silent as the door closed shut; Queen Frigga looked to her husband with a grim look. The old king was in deep thought, their sons gave a look to one another in slight worry unsure as to what would happen; it was the youngest son who spoke up “Father, surely there is something we could do? Perhaps sending in our mages could help with healing and defending our guards in containing this creature?” “Loki” his mother spoke with sternness to it “Mother brother is right” spoke the older brother “Thor, my sons… this is out of our hands, if this is of another world our magic will have no effect on it. How it got here is unbeknownst to us and Heimdall’s eyes, how and why this creature has come through a mystery. However, there is one person that may be of assistance to us” the Alfather spoke “Odin no! We can not. The mere ceremony and preparation of such a conjuring will have draining effects on you and your health” Frigga exclaimed “I can conjure it. Tell me what I have to do and I shall-” “I forbid it!” Frigga said sternly making her youngest son flinch slightly “Mother, Loki is one of our strongest mages; he is young I doubt he will be drained too quickly” Thor the eldest spoke with some reasoning “Enough. What I can do is conjure an opening between our worlds…” the Alfather spoke but pause in thought before explaining; “My sons...I ask of you this for the first and last time, I wish for you to go to a world known as the Conjunction of Spheres, in this world you will be placed in a world known as the continent it is similar to Midgard-” “Father please be more specific. Midgard has over the centuries, changed vastly since the last time you set foot there. Are we talking modern 21st century Midgard or medievaleque” Loki the youngest sighed “Don’t test my patients, boy? Now as I was saying, I wish for you to seek a witcher; Her name is (Name) but best known as her title of the White wolf of Rivia; she is an emotionless, ruthless, monster killer. I would hope you retrieve the witcher as soon as possible, and be wary your magic will not be as strong over there so be wise with whom you speak with and Thor make sure Loki doesn't get his silver tongue cut off.” The Alfather finished “One question, father. With all due respect, how can you be so sure this creature was of the continent of the conjunction of spheres? How do we know it is not of another unworldly place? Not only that, how can we be sure that this White wolf will comply with our request?” Loki questioned. Thor watched Loki, he agreed on why; how could their father be so sure of this creature's origins if he himself is unsure of what this creature may be “The power of chaos is what generates the magic in that world...the stronger the chaos the more power the creature or individual has. I trust that you Loki will be able to control yourself in that world, and if not I know Thor will be able to bring you back…” “Odin this is madness!” Frigga yelled with tears in her eyes “You are sending them to their graves!” “You think I do not know the consequences! It is either I conjure the Witcher to us and die from the process, or Have Loki do so and take my place and die...is that what you would rather? We are sending them both to that world and have Heimdall bring them back via Bifrost and that is final” Odin spoke sternly to his queen who gave him a hurt glare. The Queen stood from her seat and teleported away. Both Thor and Loki called out for their mother but she ignored her sons to have time to calm down and let her emotions unclouded her judgment. The King dismissed his sons as he started his preparations to have his sons travel to another dimension and world.

Loki and Thor Asgardian armor and some belongings and weapons in order to help them on their travels of the new world they were being set to, to retrieve (Name) the White Wolf of Riva.

Frigga looked at her sons with a sad look as Odin began to recite an old spell foreign to all. Loki held a calm exterior much like his older brother Thor who stood by his side, for once Loki was glad that he wouldn’t be alone and that he was fortunate enough to have Thor with him; the two as they got older would have more arguments and as of recent years Loki had resentment for him for he would have the throne while Loki would have nothing, part of him believed he was to retrieve the witcher back to Asgard then there was a possibility he could convince his father for letting him take the throne instead of Thor- “My sons...Take care, may we meet soon” he spoke as his sons began to disappear. Frigga left the throne room and vowed to never speak to anyone including Odin until her sons are returned home safely.

Loki fell through some dead trees and on to the ground. He groaned out as he slowly got on his knees and elbows, that was until Thor landed on top of him. The younger brother yelled for his brother to get off him, shoving him off with the little magic he could conjure up for the meantime.

A young woman sat in the shadows of the forest polishing her silver sword, Without a mind in the world as she relished in the nature of the night around her. (Name),The witcher, the White wolf of Rivia that she was, emotionless and ruthless as some may depict her but she was kind, and only did her best to distance herself from humans as some go to the extent of trying to kill her. She stared at her reflection in the lake next to her as she polished her sword; white hair and pale skin; her eyes flashed a black and back to their unusual gold. She let a click of her tongue as she put away her sword; she laid her head against a tree as she closed her eyes in hopes of luxurious sleep. In the distance, she could hear the trotting of hooves from a mile away. Getting on her feet made sure to hide from the approaching humans. “Can’t we just stop for the night, Brother” spoke a blonde male with a gruff baritone “No” grumbled the man with darker hair spoke more eloquently. “What about the horse! It needs the rest too Loki” exclaimed the blonde “...the next town isn’t far, we mustn’t waste time. We must reach the next town to find this witch” the one with dark hair, Loki spoke out with annoyance. “Brother listen to me. We need to rest, if not we will exhaust ourselves; if we rest we will be revived and ready to deal with anything in our way” the other said firmly stopping his horse

As the two ‘travelers’ came closer their bickering hurt her ears; a light growl in her throat as she moved around to have a better look. Once seeing them in the moonlit night, she saw a young male with black above the shoulder hair slicked back. He was undoubtedly attractive however, something was off about him. The blond was well built and had a somewhat royal aura around him but a good one, not like the corrupted kings she knew of, and yet he was as well there was something very wrong with the two.

The young woman sneaked up a tree to be off the ground and to hopefully cause less attention to herself. She perched on a high branch as she watched the strangers from below. A smirk came on her face as she put her hands together slightly, close to her mouth, she made a howl. Grabbing the attention of the younger dark-haired male

“Thor, do you think it wise we take rest, here in the woods. I mean that howl sounded awfully close and we are in no shape in defending ourselves in our current situation” the younger male said addressing the blond male “Brother Loki, please I'm sure a measly wolf is no match for me and Mjölnir,” the blond male, Thor, said, holding up a hammer with foreign symbols. (Name) saw the game glisten with what seemed to spark almost like lightning in the sky. She glared as she could not recognize the symbols and runes scribes into the hammer the blond male, Thor held in his hand.

“Something is here, that's for sure,” Loki informed the older brother.

The young woman was a little impressed by the younger male. He could sense that she was around; however, could not distinct if she was human or other. She felt herself smile slightly knowing she was going to have some fun with the two

------

I’ll leave it here for now. Part of me wants to see how it goes and if there is a demand for a part two or to make a story about this Witcher X Loki crossover. I hope you enjoyed this one so far part two will be coming soon

Pt.2

#loki x reader #loki odinson #Loki Laufeyson #loki of asgard #x reader #witcher reader #fandom crossover #marvel x witcher

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alanshee-keeper-of-realms · 3 years

Text

The Emperor of Ice Chpt 1(Sneak peak)

Summary:

A Historical Rewrite of Season 11,

What do you do when the love of your eternal life becomes just as ruthless and stringent as his Element.... when you don't even recongize him? Empress Pixal must hold on to the hope their friends will rescue them bring her Zane back, while being married to a man who is no longer the one she knew.

Rating Mature

Heavy language polygamist marriage system this is based off the Harems of The Imperial Courts of China

Reblogs are highly appreciated! Hope you guys like it!

Eunuchs ran everywhere as she sat in the courtyard reading, she did not question why they seemed to be in such a tizzy, the woman with snow white skin and markings had no ties to them.

Pixal sighed looking up studying them as they scurried past. The Advisor's wife as she was known to them. A pretty little ornament on Advisor Zanes arm,

How the equality had fallen ever since they had tumbled from the portal of Banishment, Zane had turned into someone she did not even recognize. However could not allow from her sights,

She could recall the hard thud as Zanes head connected with rock instead of the soft snow hers had mercifully connected with, knocked unconscious the other android had drug her at the time boyfriend to the safety of a cave full of crystals.

Zane had awoken and to her horror had questioned her on her identity. She had only told him her name, that they were soulmates, hardly separated. Then miners had discovered them, they were arrested swiftly with charges of Trespassing

Lost in thought, recalling being held until Grimfax came, perhaps with the whispers on the nonhuman people he had grown curious. That curiosity was perhaps the saving grace, however she more believed he wished to show the both of them off like pets,

When she had tried speaking up about where they had come from, Pixal knew immediately this man and her would not get along. She had been hit told she was to be seen not speak on such matters, she couldn't do more when he instead questioned Zane

Only when Zane could not give him the answers did he look to her with permission to speak

She had told him what he wished, in a whirlwind Zane was yanked from her, taken under the wing of the old bigamist Emperor.

Eventually he was labeled Advisor to the Emperor, everyone came to look for the Mechanical man's wisdom.

At least peace ruled the Kingdom of Never and the many tribes. She remembered working as a Keeper of Knowledge…. glorified title for a Librarian.

Then the bugging about marriage began, women throwing themselves at Zane, the Emperor encouraging him to pick one as his Main Wife,

She smiled clutching the book, feeling fortunate enough even with memory loss he never forgot their love.

He did not pick any who threw themselves; he had announced that he had already been courting the Keeper and wished to make her his official wife.

Aristocratic women were jealous, however she was lucky a few genuinely had sought her out to help her go from such a role to a proper main wife.

Something she did not enjoy...but she had no other options, for when she had spoken out to Zane about these housewife duties he had spoken harshly how that was her role as his future main wife.

Sit still look pretty and complete her role, she thought it a fluke perhaps a bad day? It was not.

The next time she brought it up he had threatened to end the engagement and toss her out. Find a wife who did not complain on her duties as a woman.

From then on contrary to her normal self she kept quiet on it, he seemed very pleased with the change.

She smiled remembering the wedding, she wished her baba could've seen it, but understandable reasons he didn't. When she had held the knot wearing the traditional white and silver robes and the veil upon her head covering it completely she had felt the happiest as Zane looked at her with such love.

"Miss Pixal?" A voice interrupted her daydreaming, optics training on her servant sighing she motioned for her to say what she needed to,"Emperor Grimfax, he has passed."

Her eyes widened in shock, perhaps now they would be free. This could be her chance to plan to get them back.

"I see…. when will the new Emperor be announced not to sound rude to the Old Emperor but the country needs a Leader."

The servant curtsied,

"I believe the seal soon shall be broken to reveal Old Emperors words and choice,"

A Eunuch his robes of red a horse hair whip in his hands cap a white to signify mourning Pixal swallowed as he came to stand in front of the two

"Royal decree from the Old Emperor!"

Pixal set her book down, moving to kneel. Her heart sinking to her stomach everything rode the decree, the Eunuch opening the booklet.

"As I only had Daughters, Zane Julian Wielder of the Forbidden Staff from the Realm of Ninjago, Advisor to myself Emperor Grimfax of the Clan of Never shall be successor. Advisor Zane has shown virtue, loyalty and unwavering faith in serving me and the people. May the Harem understand they have Ended this Dynasty may another Strong one be reborn under Zanes guidance. End Decree!"

Pixal swallowed the lump in her throat as she bowed

"The Wife of Emperor Zane understands."

She was helped up and handed the booklet, it felt so heavy. Of course it did; he just had handed her the chains which would hold her down in this gilded cage. Clipped her wings.

(Drawing of Empress Pixal )

#ninjago #ninjago pixal #pixal borg #lego ninjago #ninjago zane #ninjago season 11 #imperial china #Empress Pixal

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thewidowsghost · 3 years

Text

The Unknown Muggleborn - Chapter 5

3rd Person POV

Harry would have never believed that he would hate anyone more than Dudley, but that was before he had met Draco Malfoy. Still, Gryffindors only had Potions with the Slytherins, so they didn't have to put up with Malfoy much. Or at least, they didn't until they spot a notice pinned up in the Gryffindor common room that makes them all groan. Flying lessons would be starting Thursday – and Gryffindor and Slytherin would be learn together.

"Typical," says Harry darkly. "Just what I always wanted, to make a fool of myself on a broomstick in front of Malfoy."

Harry and (Y/N) had been looking forward to learning to fly more than anything else.

"You don't know that you'll make a fool of yourself," says Ron reasonably. "Anyway, I know Malfoy's always going on about how good he is at Quidditch, but I bet that's all talk."

Malfoy certainly did talk about flying a lot. He complained loudly about first years never getting on the House Quidditch teams and told long, boastful stories that always seemed to end up with him narrowly escaping Muggles in helicopters. He wasn't the only one, though: the way Seamus Finnigan told it, he'd spent most of his childhood zooming around the countryside on his broomstick. Even Ron would tell anyone who'd listen about the time he'd almost hit Charlie's old broom. Everyone from wizarding families talked about Quidditch constantly. Ron had already had a big argument with Dean Thomas, who shared their dormitory, about soccer. Ron couldn't see what was exciting about a game with only one ball where no one was allowed to fly. (Y/N), who was tired of listening to the two argue, walks over and calms both Ron and Dean down, though when she turned away, Ron shot a glare at her that Hermione catches and glares straight back.

Neville had never been on a broomstick in his life, because his grandmother had never let him near one. Privately, (Y/N) though, she'd had good reason, because Neville had an awful lot of accidents, even with both feet on the ground.

Hermione was almost as nervous about flying as Neville was.

"Hermione, dear, this isn't something you can learn in a book," (Y/N) tells her nervous bushy, brown-headed sister. Though, it's not like she won't try, (Y/N) thinks. And she isn't wrong. At breakfast on Thursday, she bores them all stupid with flying tips she'd read out of a library book called, Quidditch Through the Ages. Neville is hanging onto every word, desperate for anything that might help him hang on to his broomstick later, but everyone else is pleased when Hermione's lecture is interrupted by the arrival of the mail.

A barn owl lands in front of (Y/n) and sticks it's leg out to her and (Y/n) unties the letter from the owl's leg.

(Y/n) opens the letter, reading:

Hey, (Y/N),

Good luck with flying lessons today. I hope you have an amazing time. One of my most favorite things about Hogwarts is Quidditch. See you,

F.W.

(Y/N) looks up again and nods to Fred, who had been watching her read the letter.

Another barn owl brings Neville a small package from his grandmother. (Y/N), startled by the large owl landing just in front of her, Neville was sitting beside her, drops the letter, and Hermione picks it up, handing it back to her green eyed sister.

"Thanks," (Y/N) says, smiling at Hermione before turning her attention back to Neville, who was opening his package. He pulls out a glass ball the size of a large marble, which seems to he full of white smoke.

"It's a Remembrall!" he explains. "Gran knows I forget things – this tells you if there's something you've forgotten to do." Look, you hold it tight like this and if it turns red – oh..." His face falls, because the Remembrall had suddenly glowed scarlet. "... you've forgotten something..."

Neville was trying to remember what he'd forgotten when Draco Malfoy, who was passing the Gryffindor table, snatches the Remembrall out of his hand. Harry and Ron, who were sitting beside Iliana, jump to their feet. They were half hoping for a reason to fight Malfoy, but Professor McGonagall, who could spot trouble quicker than any teacher in the school, was there in a flash.

"What's going on?" Professor McGonagall asks sternly.

"Malfoy's got my Remembrall, Professor," Neville says quickly.

Scowling, Malfoy quickly drops the Remembrall back onto the table. "Just looking," he says, and slops away with Crabbe and Goyle behind him.

"Neville, you've forgotten your robes," (Y/N) says, and Neville's eyes widen.

"I should have noticed that," Neville says, jumping to his feet. "Thanks, (Y/N)," he calls over his shoulder, heading to the Gryffindor dormitories, (Y/N) guesses.

At three-thirty that afternoon, (Y/N), Hermione, Harry, Ron and the other Gryffindors hurry down to the front stops onto the ground for their first flying lesson. It's a clear, breezy day, and the grass ripples under their feet as they march down to the sloping lawns toward a smooth, flat lawn on the opposite side of the grounds to the forbidden forest, who's trees were swaying darkly in the distance.

The Slytherins were already there, and so were twenty broomsticks lying in neat lines on the ground. (Y/N) had heard Fred and George complain about the school brooms, saying that some of them started to vibrate if you flew too high, or always flew slightly to the left.

Their teacher, madam Hooch, arrives. She has short, gray hair, and yellow eyes like a hawk.

"Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barks. "Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up!"

(Y/N) glances down at her broom, it was old and some of the twigs were sticking down at odd angles.

"Stick out your right hand over your broom," calls Madam Hooch at the front, "and say 'Up!'"

"UP!" everyone shouts.

(Y/N) and Harry's brooms jump into their hands at once, but they were some of the only ones that did. Hermione's broom had simply rolled over on the ground, and Neville's hadn't moved at all. Perhaps brooms, like horses, could tell when you were afraid, thinks Harry; there was a quaver in Neville's voice that said only to clearly that he wanted to keep his feet on the ground.

Madam Hooch then shows the first-years how to mount their brooms without sliding off the end, and walks up and down the rows correcting their grips. Harry, Ron, and (Y/N) are delighted when she tells Malfoy that he'd been doing it wrong for years.

"Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard," says Madam Hooch. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle – three – two –"

Neville, nervous and jumpy and frightened of being left on the ground, pushes off hard before the whistle had even touched Madam Hooch's lips.

"Come back, boy!" she shouts, but Neville is rising straight up like a cork being shot out of a bottle – twelve feet – twenty feet. (Y/N) could see his scared white face look down and his broom carries him over near the wall, Neville gasps, and slips sideways off the broom, his newly found robes catching on a metal rod, before tearing and –

WHAM – a thud and a nasty crack and Neville is lying face down on the grass in a heap. His broomstick still rising higher and higher, and starting to drift lazily towards the Forbidden Forest and out of sight.

Madam Hooch was bending over Neville, her face as white as his.

"Broken wrist," Harry and (Y/N) hear her mutter, and the two first-year's gazes meet, both sets of green eyes wide. "Come on, boy – it's alright, up you get." She turns to the rest of the class. "None of you move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch.' Come on, dear."

Neville, his face tear-streaked, clutching his wrist, hobbles off with Madam Hooch, who had her arm around him.

No sooner were they out of earshot than Malfoy bursts into laughter. "Did you see his face, the great lump?"

The other Slytherins join in.

"Shut up, Malfoy," snap Parvati Patil.

"Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?" says Pansy Parkinson, a hard-faced Slytherin girl. "Never thought you'd like fat little crybabies, Parvati."

"Look!" says Malfoy, darting forwards and snatching something out of the grass. "It's that stupid thing Longbottom's gran sent him."

The Remembrall glittered in the sun as he held it up.

"Give that here, Malfoy," said (Y/N) quietly. Everyone stopped talking to watch. (Y/N)'s usually green eyes flash silver, and Malfoy looks nervous for a second before he smiles nastily.

"I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find – how about – up a tree?" Malfoy says.

"Give it here!" Harry yells, stepping up to stand beside (Y/N), but Malfoy leaps onto his broomstick, and takes off. Malfoy hadn't been lying, he could fly, and well. Hovering level with the topmost branches of an oak he calls, "Come and get it Potter, Mudblood!"

At Malfoy's final word, all the Gryffindors gasp, and even some of the Slytherins share wide eyed looks. (Y/N) snaps, she grabs her broom, Harry grabbing his.

"No!" shouts Hermione, "Madam Hooch told us no to move – you'll get us all into trouble." (Y/N) silver eyes pass over her.

Harry ignores Hermione, blood pounding in his and (Y/N)'s ears. The two first-years mount their brooms, and in unison, kick hard against the ground and up, up, up they soar; air rushing though their hair, and robes whipping behind them. Harry – in a rush of fierce joy, realizes they he'd found something he could do without being taught – this was easy, this was wonderful. (Y/N) and Harry pull their broomsticks up a little to take them higher, and they hear screams and gasps from the students back on the ground and an admiring whoop from Ron.

The two turn their broomsticks sharply to face Malfoy in midair, and Malfoy looks stunned.

"Give it here," Harry calls, "or I'll knock you off that broom!"

"Oh, yeah?" says Malfoy, trying to sneer, but looking worried. Harry knew, somehow, what to do. He leaned forward and grasped the broom tightly in both hands, and it shot toward Malfoy like a javelin. Malfoy only just got out of the way in time; Harry made a sharp about-face and held the broom steady, his green eyes meeting silver just over Malfoy's shoulder. A few people below were clapping.

"No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck, Malfoy," (Y/N) calls coldly.

The same thought seems to have struck Malfoy.

"Catch it if you can, then!" he shouts, and he throws the glass ball high into the air and streaks back towards the ground.

(Y/N) sees, as if in slow motion, the ball rise up in the air then start to fall. She whips around, leaning forwards, her broom handle down – next second, she was gathering speed in a very steep dive, racing the ball – wind whistling in her ears mingled with the screams of the people watching – she stretches out her hand – six inches from the ground she catches it, throwing the ball back to Harry who was diving down just above her. Harry catches the ball, and topples gently onto the grass with the Remembrall clutched safely in his fist, though (Y/N) didn't have such a gentle landing. Going to pull her broom up, the handle, understandably six inches from the ground, catches on a patch of grass, and the (H/C) haired girl tumbled off her broom, rolling a couple of feet, before stopping, and jumping to her feet. Combing her hair out of her face, (Y/N) eyes, returning back green, sees all the people looking at her in shock.

"HARRY POTTER! (Y/N) (L/N)!"

Harry's heart sinks faster than (Y/N) had just dived. Professor McGonagall was running towards them. (Y/N) walks over to Harry, and pulls him to his feet, and the (H/C) hair girl looks at her teacher, her eyes returning to a soft silver.

"Never – in all my time at Hogwarts –" Professor McGonagall was almost speechless with shock and her glasses flash furiously, " - how dare you – might have broken your necks–"

"Actually, Professor, that would have been me," (Y/N) couldn't help but saying, before slapping her hand over her own mouth. Hermione gasps in shock at her sister's comment and Professor McGonagall looks down at (Y/n), her eyes wide.

"It wasn't their fault, Professor –"

"Be quiet, Miss Patil –" Professor McGonagall snaps at Parvati.

"But Malfoy –" Ron tries to say.

"That's enough, Mr. Weasley. Potter, (L/N), follow me, now." McGonagall snaps.

Harry catches sight of Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle's triumphant faces as the three leave, and (Y/N) catches the eyes of her three best friends' gazes, all three terrified. Harry and (Y/N) walk numbly in Professor McGonagall's wake as she strides towards the castle. They were going to be expelled, Harry and (Y/N) knew it. Harry wants to say something to defend himself, but there seemed to be something wrong with his voice. Professor McGonagall is sweeping along without even looking at them, (Y/N) and Harry's gazes meet for a moment, and they walk up the marble staircase inside, and Professor McGonagall still hasn't said a word to them. She wrenches open doors and marches along corridors with Harry and (Y/N) trotting miserably behind her. Maybe she was taking them to Dumbledore. Harry thinks of Hagrid, expelled but still allowed to stay on as gamekeeper. Perhaps Harry could be Hagrid's assistant, his stomach twists as he imagines it, watching Ron and the other becoming wizards while he stumps around the grounds carrying Hagrid's bag.

(Y/n) thinks of Hermione, Mr. and Mrs. Granger, her family, the three who had taken her in . . . What would they think of her now?

Finally, Professor McGonagall stops outside a classroom. She opens the door, and pokes her head inside. "Excuse me, Professor Flitwick, could I borrow Wood for a moment?"

Wood? thinks Harry, bewildered; was Wood a can she was going to use on them?

But Wood turns out to be a person, a burly fifth-year boy who comes out of Flitwick's class, looking confused.

"Follow me, you three," says Professor McGonagall, and they march down the corridor, Wood looking curiously at Harry and (Y/N).

"In here," McGonagall says, and the three students walk into the classroom.

"Peeves, can you leave?" (Y/N) asks, and the poltergeist look at her, before quietly leaving the room. She turns around, "What?" she asks, as the other three were looking at her strangely.

"Anyway, Potter, (L/N), this is Oliver Wood. Wood – I've found you a Seeker and a Chaser."

Wood's expression changes from puzzlement to delight.

"Are you serious, Professor?" Wood exclaims.

"Absolutely," says Professor McGonagall crisply. "They're both naturals, I've never seen anything like it. Was that your first time on a broomstick?"

The two nod silently, Harry didn't have a clue what was going on, but they didn't seem to be getting expelled, and some of the feeling had started coming back to his legs.

"She caught that thing in her hand after a fifty-foot dive," Professor McGonagall tells Wood. "Charlie Weasley couldn't have done it. And Potter here caught that thing from a 45 foot throw."

Wood was now looking as all his dreams had come true at once.

"Ever seen a game of Quidditch, Potter? (L/N)?" he asks excitedly.

"Wood's the captain of the Gryffindor team." Professor McGonagall explains.

"She's just the build for a Seeker, too," says Wood, now walking around (Y/N) and staring at her. "Light – speedy – we'll have to get them decent brooms, Professor – Nimbus Two Thousands or Cleansweep Sevens, I'd say."

"I shall speak to Professor Dumbledore and see if we can't bend the first-year rule. Heaven knows, we need a better team than last year. Flattened in that last match by Slytherin, I couldn't look Severus Snape in the face for weeks..."

Professor McGonagall peers sternly over her glasses at Harry and (Y/N), "I want to hear you're training hard, Potter, (L/N), or I may change my mind about punishing you two." The she smiles, turning to Harry saying, "You're father would have been proud, Potter," she says, "He was an excellent Quidditch player himself."

"You're joking!"

It was now dinner time, Harry is telling Ron what happened when he and (Y/n) had left the grounds with Professor McGonagall. Ron had a piece of kidney pie halfway to his mouth, but he'd forgotten all about it.

"Chaser?" he says. "But first years never – you must be the youngest house play in about –"

"- a century," says Harry, shoveling pie into his mouth. He was feeling particularly hungry after the excitement of the afternoon. "Wood told me."

Ron was so amazed, so impressed, he just sits and gapes at Harry.

"We start training next week," says Harry. "Only, don't tell anyone, Wood wants to keep it a secret."

Fred and George Weasley come into the hall, spot Harry, and hurry over.

"Well done," says George in a low voice. "Wood just told us. We're on the team too – Beaters."

"I tell you, we're going to win that Quidditch Cup for sure this year," says Fred. "We haven't won since Charlie left, but this year's team is going to be brilliant. You and (Y/N) must be good, Harry, Wood was almost skipping when he told us."

"Anyway we've got to go, Lee Jordan reckons he's found a new secret passageway out of the school," George says.

"Bet it's that one behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy that we found in our first week, see you," Fred says, and they walk away.

Fred and George had hardly disappeared when someone far less welcome turns up: Malfoy, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle.

"Having a last mean, Potter? When are you getting on the train back to the Muggles? I haven't seen Mudblood (L/N), so I assume she's already back home?"

"You're a lot braver not that you're back on the ground and you've got your little friends with you," says Harry coolly. There was of course nothing at all little about Crabbe and Goyle, but as the High Table was full of teachers, neither of them could do more than crack their knuckles and scowl.

"I'd take you on anytime on my own," says Malfoy. "Tonight, if you want. Wizard's duel. Wands only – no contact. What's the matter? Never heard of a wizard's duel before, I suppose?"

"Of course he has," says Ron, wheeling around. "I'm his second, who's yours?"

Malfoy looks at Crabbe and Goyle, sizing them up.

"Crabbe," he says. "Midnight all right? We'll meet you in the trophy room; that's always unlocked."

When Malfoy leaves, Ron and Harry look at each other.

"What is a wizard's duel?" says Harry. "And what do you mean, you're my second?"

Well, a second's there to take over if you die," says Ron casually, starting at last on his cold pie. Catching the look on Harry's face, he adds quickly, "But people only die in proper duels, you know, with real wizards. The most you and Malfoy'll be able to do is send sparks at each other. Neither of you knows enough magic to do any real damage. I bet he expected you to refuse, anyway."

"And what if I wave my wand and nothing happens?" Harry asks.

"Throw it away and punch him on the nose," Ron suggests.

"Excuse me." Harry and Ron look up to see Hermione, with Thora and Iliana at her shoulder.

"Can't a person eat in peace in this place?" says Ron.

Hermione ignores him and speaks to Harry. "I couldn't help overhearing what you and Malfoy were saying –"

"Bet you could," Ron mutters.

" – and you mustn't go wandering around the school at night, think of the point you'll lose Gryffindor if you're caught, and you're bound to be. It's really very selfish of you."

"And it's really none of your business," says Harry.

"Have you seen (Y/N)?" Hermione asks, her voice suddenly sounding worried. "I haven't seen her since she went off with you and Professor McGonagall," she says.

"Nope, good-bye," Ron says, then walk away.

(Y/N)'s POV – While others are at dinner

After Professor McGonagall dismissed us after talking with Wood, I return to the Gryffindor Common Room. I run up to my dormitory, and grab my copy of, Hogwarts, a History, sitting down on my bed; I flip to the chapter about Muggleborns. As I read, I start feeling really sad. "Muggleborns," I read, "are also called Mudbloods by Purebloods. The term, Mudblood refers to a witch or wizard with non-magical parents, Muggleborns, that have 'filthy blood' or Mudblood."

I stare down at the page for a moment, before shutting the book, and throwing it back in my trunk.

I run my hand through my messy hair and then make my way downstairs, a different book on alchemy I had picked up in the library the day before.

3rd Person POV

Hermione wanders up to the Common Room to find (Y/n) sitting in a sofa by the fireplace.

"Where'd you run off to?" Hermione asks, sitting down beside her sister.

"I was reading," (Y/n) says simply, avoiding Hermione's brown eyes.

"What's wrong?" Hermione says.

"I feel like you'd be mad at me for joining the Quidditch team," (Y/n) confesses softly.

"Of course I'm not mad at you," Hermione says, and (Y/n) looks up and into the brunette's eyes.

"You don't like people breaking the rules though," (Y/n) argues, her voice soft.

"Yeah well, that prat needed to be put in his place," Hermione says and a smile spreads across (Y/n)'s face. "And anyway, I couldn't be mad at you if I tried."

"Aww, I love you too, 'Mione," (Y/n) says, wrapping her sister in a tight hug.

Hermione pokes her sister's back. "(Y/n). Need. Breathe."

(Y/n) quickly lets go, her smile turning slightly sheepish, "Ha, sorry. I'm glad you're not mad though. I can't wait for training to start," (Y/n) says excitedly, grabbing Quidditch Through the Ages from in front of her, and flipping to the chapter on Seekers.

"You always get excited when you start a new sport," Hermione teases, smiling happily at her sister's excitement.

"Did you know Harry and Ron are meet up with Malfoy at midnight," Hermione says and (Y/n) looks up from her book.

"Sounds like an adventure," (Y/n) her green eyes sparkling with excitement.

"We should try to stop them," Hermione says.

"I guess you're right," (Y/n) agrees. "It's 9:00 now, Hermione, wake me up at 11:00. I'm exhausted," (Y/n) stifles a yawn.

Hermione smiles, "Sure thing."

(Y/n) gathers up all her books and jogs up the stairs to her dormitory. She sets them on her nightstand, jumps into bed - Marvel jumping up after - and pulls the covers over herself and her cat.

Two hours later, Hermione comes and wakes (Y/n) up. (Y/n) pulls on a pair of jeans, a (F/c) colored shirt, and a pair of black and white Converses.

Before hurrying downstairs with Hermione, (Y/n) grabs her Alder wand and walks downstairs.

Meanwhile . . .

"Half-past eleven," Ron whispers to Harry up in the boy's dormitory, "we'd better go."

The two boys pull on their bathrobes, pick up their wands, and creep across their dormitory, down the spiral staircase, and into the common room. A few embers were still glowing in the fireplace, turning all the armchairs into hunched black shadows. The boys had almost reached the Portrait Hole when a voice speaks from the chair nearest them, "I can't believe you're going to do this, Harry."

The two boys turn around to see a figure - Hermione - wearing a pink bathrobe, and a frown.

"You!" shoots Ron furiously. "Go back to bed!"

"She's right you know," comes a quiet voice. With a flick of her wand, the tip alights. The tall, lean figure stands up and the boys see (Y/n).

"Ugh," Ron complains and one of (Y/n)'s (H/c) eyebrows raises. "There's two of them."

"I almost told your brother," Hermione snaps, the boys' attention turning back to her. "Percy - he's a prefect, he'd put a stop to this."

Harry couldn't believe that any two people could be so interfering.

"Come on," Harry tells Ron. He pushes open the portrait of the Fat Lady, and climbs through the hole.

Hermione and (Y/n) weren't going to get up that easily though. The two sisters follow Ron through the Portrait Hole, Hermione hissing like an angry goose.

"Don't you care about Gryffindor? Do you only care about yourselves? I don't want Slytherin to win the House Cup! You'll loose all the points (Y/n) and I got for learning about switching spells," Hermione hisses.

"Nox," (Y/n) murmurs, her wand tip distinguishing.

"Go away," Harry snaps.

"All right, but we warned you, you just remember what I said when you're on the train home tomorrow, you're so –" Hermione is cut off.

But what Harry and Ron were, they didn't find out. Hermione had turned to the portrait of the Fat Lady to get back inside and found herself facing an empty painting. The Fat Lady had gone on a nighttime visit and Hermione and (Y/n) were locked out of Gryffindor Tower.

"Now what are we going to do?" Hermione asks shrilly.

"That's your problem," snaps Ron. "We've got to go. We're going to be late."

Harry and Ron hadn't even reached the end of the hall when Hermione and (Y/n) catch up with them.

"We're coming with you," (Y/n) says, her wand still out.

"You are not," Ron snaps.

"If you're dueling someone, don't you think you'd like someone who knows defensive magic?" (Y/n) asks.

"And d'you think we're going to stand out here and wait for Filch to catch us? If he finds all four of us, I'll tell him the truth, that we were trying to stop you, and you can back us up," Hermione adds.

"You two've got some nerve -" says Ron loudly.

"Shut up, both of you!" (Y/n) says sharply. "I heard something," she says, hearing a sort of snuffling.

"Mrs. Norris?" breathes Ron, squinting through the dark.

"Lumos," (Y/N) whispers, her wand tip alighting for the second time that night.

It wasn't Mrs. Norris.

It was Neville, curled up on the floor, fast asleep, but jerks awake as they creep closer.

"Thank goodness you've found me! I've been out here for hours, I couldn't remember the password to get into bed," Neville says as (Y/n) helps Neville to his feet.

"Keep your voice down, Neville. The password's 'Pig snout' but it won't help you now, the Fat Lady's gone off somewhere." Ron whispers.

"How's your arm?" asks Harry.

"Fine," answers Neville, showing them. "Madam Pomfrey mended it in about a minute."

"Good — well, look, Neville, we've got to be somewhere, we'll see you later —" Harry says.

"Don't leave me!" says Neville, "I don't want to stay here alone, the Bloody Baron's been past twice already."

Ron looked at his watch and then glared furiously at Hermione, Neville, and (Y/n). "If any of you get us caught, I'll never rest until I've learned that Curse of the Bogies Quirrell told us about, and used it on you."

(Y/n) levels her wand in warning, and Hermione opens her mouth - probably about to tell Ron exactly how to use the Curse of the Bogies, but Harry hisses at her to be quiet and beckons them all forward, and (Y/n) distinguishes her wand light again.

They flit along corridors striped with bars of moonlight from the high windows. At every turn Harry expects to run into Filch or Mrs. Norris, but they were lucky. They speed up a staircase to the third floor and tiptoe towards the trophy room.

Malfoy and Crabbe weren't there yet. The crystal trophy cases glimmer where the moonlight catches them. Cups, shields, plates, and statues wink silver and gold in the darkness. They edge along the walls, keeping their eyes on the doors at either end of the room. Harry takes out his wand in case Malfoy leaps in and starts at once, the minutes crept by.

"He's late, maybe he's chickened out," Ron whispers.

Then a noise in the next room makes them jump. Harry had only just raised his wand when they heard someone speak — and it wasn't Malfoy.

"Sniff around, my sweet, they might be lurking in a corner." It was Filch speaking to Mrs. Norris.

Horror-struck, Harry waves madly at the other four to follow him as quickly as possible; they scurry silently towards the door, away from Filch's voice. Neville's robes had barley whipped around the corner when they hear Filch enter the trophy room.

"They're in here somewhere," they hear him mutter, "probably hiding."

"This way!" (Y/N) mouths to the others, and petrified, they begin to creep down a long gallery full of suites of armor, and they could hear Filch getting nearer. Neville suddenly lets out a frightened squeak and breaks into a run – he trips, grabs Ron around the waist, and the pair of them topples right into a suit of armor.

The clanging and crashing were enough to wake the whole castle.

"RUN!" Harry yells, and the five of them sprint down the gallery, not looking back to see whether Filch was following – they swing around the doorpost and gallop down one corridor then another, (Y/N) in the lead, without any idea where they were or where they were going – they rip through a tapestry and find themselves in a hidden passageway, hurtle along it and come out near their Charms classroom, which they knew was miles from the trophy room.

"I think we've lost him," Harry pants, leaning against the cold wall and wiping his forehead. Neville was bent double, wheezing and spluttering.

"We – told – you," Hermione gasps, clutching at the stitch in her chest, "we – told – you."

"We've got to get back to Gryffindor Tower," pants Ron, "quickly as possible."

"Malfoy tricked you," (Y/N) says, not out of breath at all from being on a cross-country team the past summer. "You realize that don't you? He was never going to meet you – Filch knew someone was going to be in the trophy room, Malfoy must have tipped him off."

Harry thinks she was probably right, but he wasn't going to tell her that.

"Let's go."

It wasn't going to be that simple. They hadn't gone more than a dozen paces when a doorknob rattles and something comes shooting out of a classroom in front of them.

It was Peeves. He catches sight of them and gives a squeal of delight.

"Shut up, Peeves — please — you'll get us thrown out."

Peeves cackles. "Wandering around at midnight, Ickle Firsties? Tut, tut, tut. Naughty, naughty, you'll get caughty."

"Not if you don't give us away, Peeves, please."

"Should tell Filch, I should," says Peeves in a sanity voice, but his eyes glitter wickedly. "It's for your own good, you know."

"Get out of the way," snaps Ron, taking a swipe at Peeves —this was a big mistake.

"STUDENTS OUT OF BED!" Peeves bellows, "STUDENTS OUT OF BED DOWN THE CHARMS CORRIDOR!"

Ducking under Peeves, they run for their lives, right to the end of the corridor where they slam into a door — and it's locked.

"This is it!" Ron moans, as they push helplessly at the door, "We're done for! This is the end!"

They could hear footsteps, Filch running as fast as he could towards Peeves's shouts.

"Oh, move over," (Y/N) snarls, her eyes a bright silver. Tapping the lock with her wand, she whispers, "Alohomora!"

The lock clicks and the door swings over – they pile through it, shut it quickly, and press their ears against it, listening.

"Which way did they go, Peeves?" Filch says. "Quick, tell me."

"Say 'please.' "

"Don't mess with me, Peeves, now where did they go?"

"Shan't say nothing if you don't say please," says Peeves in his annoying singsong voice.

"All right — please."

"NOTHING! Ha haaa! Told you I wouldn't say nothing if you didn't say please! Ha ha! Haaaaaa!" And they hear the sound of Peeves whooshing away and Filch cursing in rage.

"He thinks this door is locked," whispers Harry. "I think we'll be okay – get off, Neville!" For Neville had been tugging the sleeve of Harry's bathrobe for the last minute. "What?"

Harry turns around – and sees, quite clearly, what. For a moment, he was sure they'd walked into a nightmare – this was too much, on top of everything that had happened so far. They weren't in a room, as he had supposed. They were in a corridor. The forbidden corridor on the third floor. And now they knew why it was forbidden.

They were looking into the eyes of a monstrous dog, a dog that fills the whole space between ceiling and floor, a dog with three heads. Three pairs of rolling, mad eyes; three noses, twitching and quivering in their direction; three drooling mouths, saliva hanging in slippery ropes from yellowish fangs.

It's standing still, all six eyes staring at them, and Harry knows that the only reason that they weren't already dead was that their sudden appearance had taken it by surprise, but it was quickly getting over that, there was no mistaking what those thunderous growls mean.

Harry gropes for the doorknob – between Filch and death, he'd take Filch.

They fall backward – (Y/N) slamming the door shut, and they run, almost fly, back down the corridor. Filch must have already hurried off to look for them somewhere else, because they didn't see him anywhere, but they hardly cared – all they wanted to do is put as much space between them and that monster. They didn't stop running until they reached the Fat Lady's portrait on the seventh floor.

"Where on earth have you all been?" she asks, looking at their bathrobes handing off their shoulders and their flushed, sweaty faces.

"Never mind that – pig snout, pig snout," pants Harry and the portrait swings forward. They scramble into the common room and collapse, trembling, into armchairs.

It was a while before any of them say anything, Neville, looking as though he'd never speak again.

"What do they think they're doing, keeping a thing like that locked up in a school?" asks Ron finally. "If any dog need exercise, that one does."

Hermione and (Y/N) had gotten their breaths back, and Hermione's bad temper was back again.

"You don't use your eyes, any of you, do you?" (Y/N) snaps. "Didn't you see what it was standing on?"

"The floor?" Harry suggests. "I wasn't looking at its feet, I was too busy with its heads."

"No, not the floor," Hermione says, looking exasperated. "It was standing on a trapdoor. It's obviously guarding something." The two girls stand up, glaring at them.

"I hope you're pleased with yourselves. We could have all been killed – or worse, expelled. Now, if you don't mind, we're going to bed."

Ron stares after them, his mouth open. "No, we don't mind," he says. "You'd think we dragged them along, wouldn't you?"

But Hermione and (Y/n) had given Harry something else to think about as he climbs back into bed. The dog was guarding something... What had Hagrid said? Gringotts was the safest place to world for something you wanted to hide – except perhaps, Hogwarts.

It looked as though Harry had found out where the grubby little package from vault seven hundred and thirteen was being kept.

Malfoy couldn't believe his eyes when he sees Harry and Ron still at Hogwarts the next day, looking tired but perfectly cheerful. Indeed, by the next morning Harry and Ron thought that meeting the three-headed dog had been an excellent adventure, and they were quite keen to have another one. In the meantime, Harry fills Ron in about the package that seemed to have been moved from Gringotts to Hogwarts, and they spend a lot of time wondering what could possibly need such heavy protection.

"It's either really valuable or really dangerous," says Ron.

"Or both," says Harry

But as all they knew for sure about the mysterious object was that it was about two inches long, they didn't have much chance of guessing what it was without further clues.

Neither Neville, (Y/n), nor Hermione show the slightest interest in finding out what the dog was guarding, or what lay underneath the trapdoor. All Neville cares about is never going near the dog again.

Hermione was now refusing to speak to Harry and Ron, but she was such bossy know-it-all that they see this as an added bonus. All thy really want now is a way to get back at Malfoy, and to their great delight, just such a thing arrives in the mail about a week later.

As the owls flood into the Great Hall as usual, everyone's attention is caught at once by two long, thing packages carried by six large screech owls each. Harry is just as interested as everyone else to see what is in this large parcel, and is amazed when the owls soar down, dropping one of the parcels in front of him, and the other in front of (Y/N). They had hardly fluttered out of the way when another owl drops a letter on top each of the parcels.

(Y/n) and Hermione exchange looks and (Y/n) rips open the letter.

It reads:

DO NOT OPEN THE PARCEL AT THE TABLE.

It contains your new Nimbus Two Thousand, but I don't want everybody knowing you've got a broomstick or they'll all want one. Oliver Wood will meet you and Potter tonight on the Quidditch field at seven o'clock for your first training session.

Professor M. McGonagall

Stunned, (Y/n) hands the letter to her sister, who then jumps up from the table, knocking her bacon to the floor.

"Let's go open it," Hermione says, pulling (Y/n) excitedly to her feet.

"Jeez 'Mione, I'm supposed to be the excited one," (Y/n) says with a laugh.

The two head out of the hall.

"Well, it's true," the two hear Harry chortle as they reach the top of the marble staircase. "If he hadn't stolen Neville's Remembrall, I wouldn't be on the team..."

"So I suppose you think that's a reward for breaking rules?" the two boys turn to see the two walking up the stairs, (Y/n) standing sheepishly behind Hermione, clutching her wrapped broomstick.

"I thought you weren't speaking to us?" asks Harry.

"Yes, don't stop now," says Ron, and (Y/n)'s eyes flash silver. "It's doing us so much good."

Hermione marches away, her nose in the air, and (Y/n) follows.

(Y/n) has a hard time keeping her mind on her lessons that day. It keeps wandering up to the dormitory where her new broomstick is, lying on top of her trunk at the foot of her bed, or straying toe the Quidditch fields where she'd be learning to play that night. She bolts down her dinner that evening, and rushes upstairs to unwrap her broomstick with Hermione.

"Wow!" (Y/n) breathes as the broomstick rolls onto her bed.

The Nimbus Two Thousand is sleek and shiny, with a mahogany handle, a long tail of neat, straight twigs, and Nimbus Two Thousand written in gold near the top.

As seven o'clock draws nearer, Harry and (Y/n) leave the castle together, crossing the grounds. The two had never been in the stadium before. Hundred of seats raised around the field so that the spectators were high enough to see what was going on. At either end of the field were three golden poles with hoops on the end. They kind of remind (Y/n) of the little plastic sticks she blew bubbles through with Hermione when they were younger.

"Race me?" (Y/n) asks Harry, eager to fly again. Also eager, Harry nods and the two mount their brooms, kicking off from the ground.

Lying flat on her broomstick, the pulls a couple of feet ahead of Harry. The Nimbus Two Thousands turned wherever they wanted at their lightest touches.

"Hey, Potter, (L/n), come down!" Oliver Wood had arrived, and he's carrying a large wooden crate under his arm. Harry and (Y/n) land beside him.

People at Hogwarts seemed to disregard (Y/n)'s hyphenated last name, and (Y/n) had gotten tired of correcting everyone multiple times everyday.

"Very nice," says Wood, his eyes glinting. "I see what McGonagall meant... you two really are naturals. I'm just going to teach you the rules this evening, then you'll be joining team practice three times a week."

He opens the crate, and inside are four different-sized balls.

"Right," says Wood. "Now, Quidditch is easy enough to understand, even if it's not too easy to play. There are seven players on each side. Three of them are called Chasers, Harry, you're one."

"Three Chasers," Harry and (Y/N) say in unison as Wood takes out a bright red ball about the size of a soccer ball.

"This ball's called the Quaffle," continues Wood. "The Chasers throw the Quaffle to each other and try to get it through one of the hoops to score a goal. Ten points ever time the Quaffle goes through one of the hoops. Follow me?"

"Me and the other chasers throw the Quaffle and put it through the hoops to score," Harry recites.

"Hmm, remind me of basketball," (Y/N) says, and Oliver looks curiously at her.

"What's basketball?" asks Wood curiously.

"Never mind," (Y/N) says quickly.

"Now, there's another player on each side who's called the Keeper – I'm Keeper for Gryffindor. I have to fly around our hoops and stop the other team from scoring."

"Three Chasers, one Keeper," says (Y/N), determined to remember everything. "And they play with the Quaffle."

"What are they for?" Harry asks, pointing at the three balls still left inside the box.

"I'll show you now," answers Wood. "Take this," he continues, handing (Y/N) a small club, a bit like a short baseball bat.

"I'm going to show you two what the Bludgers do," Wood says. "These two are the Bludgers."

He shows the two first-years two identical balls, jet black and slightly smaller then the red Quaffle. (Y/N) notices that they seem to be straining to escape the straps holding them inside the box.

"Stand back," Oliver warns Harry and (Y/N). He bends down and frees one of the Bludgers.

At once, the black ball rises high in the air and them pelts straight at (Y/N)'s face. (Y/N) swings at it with the bat to stop it from breaking her nose, there is a slight crack as the Bludger spirals away from her, zigzagging away into the air – zooming around their heads and then shoots at Wood, who dives on top of it and manages to pin it to the ground.

"See?" Wood pants, forcing the struggling Bludger back into the crate and strapping it down safely. "The Bludgers rocket around, trying to knock players off their brooms. That's why we have two Beaters on each team – the Weasley twins are ours – it's their job to protect their side from the Bludgers and try to knock them towards the other team. So – think you've got all that?"

"Three Chasers try to score with the Quaffle," Harry begins.

"The Keeper guards the goal posts, and the Beaters keep the Bludgers away from their team," (Y/N) finishes.

"Very good," Oliver says, smiling.

"Er – have the Bludgers ever killed anyone?" Harry asks, hoping he sounds offhand.

"Never at Hogwarts. Though we've had a couple of broken jaws but nothing worse than that. Now, the last member of the team is the Seeker – that's (Y/N) – and you don't have to worry about the Quaffle or the Bludgers – "

"- unless they crack my head open," (Y/N) mutters.

"Don't worry, the Weasleys are more than a match for the Bludgers - I mean, they're like a pair of human Bludgers themselves."

Wood reaches into the crate and takes out the fourth and last ball. Comparing it to the Quaffle and the Bludgers, it was tiny, about the size of a golf ball. It's bright gold and has tiny fluttering silver wings.

"This," says Wood, "is the Golden Snitch, and it's the most important ball of the lot. It's the Seeker's job to catch it. You've got to weave in and out of the Chasers, Beaters, Bludgers, and Quaffle to get it before the other team's Seeker, because whichever Seeker catches the Snitch wins their team an extra hundred and fifty points, so they nearly always win. That's why Seekers get fouled so much. A game isn't over until the Seeker catches the Snitch, so it can go on for ages – I think the record is three months, they had to keep bringing on substitutes so the players could get some sleep."

"Well, that's it – any questions?" Wood asks, and the two first-years shake their heads no. They understand what they had to do, it was just doing it was going to be the problem.

"We won't practice with the Snitch yet," says Wood, carefully shutting it back inside the crate, "it's too dark, we might lose it. Let's try you two out with a couple of these.

He pulls out a bag of golf balls out of his pocket and a few minutes, he, (Y/N), and Harry are up in the air, Wood throwing the golf balls as hard as he can in every direction for the two to catch.

They didn't miss a single one, and Wood is delighted. After half an hour, night had fallen and they couldn't carry on.

"That Quidditch Cup'll have our name on it this year," says Wood happily as they trudge back up to the castle. "I wouldn't be surprised if you turn out better the Charlie Weasley, (Y/n), and he could have played for England if he hadn't gone off chasing dragons."

Word Count: 7632 words

So yeah, here's Chapter 5 . . .

Chapter 6 should be out soon

See y'all!

Love,

Kaitlynn ❤️😍

#hermione granger #hermione granger x sister reader #harry potter various x reader #harry potter #ron weasley #fred weasley #george weasley

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tiaragqueen · 4 years

Text

Alien

✂ Pairing: Yandere! Prince! Rengoku Kyōjurō x Reader

✂ Word Count: 2,8k+

✂ Trigger Warnings: Possessiveness, implied abuse

[Edited]

***

I've seen a lot of people wrote Cinderella au, so I want to try my hands on it.

If you like my writing, please support me on ko-fi!

“I've never had clouds follow me each day. Years of sun that never went away. I lie here awake but I'm not one to pray. Everything's changed and now I'm not okay.” - Bring Me Home [G Flip]

Compared to some people down the streets, your living situation was much better than they could ever wish for. You still had a roof over your head, clothes – regardless of how dirty and rugged they were – to cover your body, food to sate your hunger, and a room to sleep in. You knew that, and that’s why you endeavored to seek a silver lining in your life. Anything to give you hope that miracles did exist, and everything you’d done all this time wasn’t meaningless.

But there were some days where gratitude was hard to practice, and you felt as if the agony you experienced would never end. You wanted to give up, and at the same time, you couldn’t afford to allow pessimism to dominate your life. Today was one of those days, unfortunately, where your stepmother seemed to act crueler and more sadistic than you could handle. Perhaps it was the stress of picking the right dresses for her daughters or the excitement at the prospect of the prince noticing them and the luxury they’d get to experience in the palace.

Nevertheless, your ‘family’ was overjoyed with the invitation despite the – honestly unnecessary – agitation they displayed over the preparation.

“Ma, it’s too tight!”

“Hush, now.” Your stepmother scowled as she proceeded to tighten the corset on Junko's back. “A sacrifice has to be made if you want to attract the prince.”

The younger sister whined again, while the older one, Ryōka, admired her polished appearance in the mirror.

“My, I certainly look ravishing tonight.” she puffed, caressing her sides sensually. “I’m sure I’ll be the one the prince chooses later. I mean, who doesn’t want this kind of body?”

“No! It’ll be me, instead!” Junko interjected vehemently, clenching her fists.

“Be quiet, both of you!” Your stepmother growled as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “If I see any of you causing a ruckus at the party, I swear I’ll spank you.” The sisters fell quiet from the threat, but the older woman ignored their blanched faces and snapped her head towards you. “[Name], don’t just stand there like an idiot. Make yourself useful and clean this mess!”

You hurriedly nodded and scampered to grab the broom. As disheartening as it was to watch them fussing with themselves and chatting excitedly about the party, you still had work to attend to. Work that never ceased and always piled up on an invisible desk. On one hand, you were happy with their departure. You finally had some time left for yourself at home!

On the other hand, however, you wanted to join them, too. You wanted to see the palace from up close. You wanted to see what the prince and his family looked like. You wanted to wear a gorgeous dress and meet new people.

You wanted to… you wanted to be free, for once.

“What’s wrong, dear? You look disgruntled.” A playful voice asked. Looking up, your eyes widened when they landed on a beautiful yet tiny woman with wings fluttering on her back. Black locks that faded to purple flowed behind her, tied into some kind of a unique style. Large, pupil-less eyes that reminded you of an insect's stared down at you patiently. Occasionally, long eyelashes would caress her pale features when she blinked. Despite her overall cute looks, you sensed mischief in her aura. “Hello!”

You blinked in surprise, and hesitantly returned her hearty greeting. “H-hello…” you murmured and glanced around as if hoping someone would explain to you who the heck this woman was and how did she get here without your knowledge. Maybe she managed to slip inside when your stepmother opened the door earlier? But, shouldn’t any of your sisters notice her? It wasn’t every day you got to witness a fairy in person, after all. “Um, who are you? And how did you come here? All the windows are locked, you know?”

The diminutive woman clasped a hand over her rosy lips and chortled. “Worry not, sweetheart, I’m not here to hurt you.” she chirped, effortlessly dodging the questions. You weren’t sure if you wanted to know her answers, either. Her presence was already hard to swallow, anyway. “Believe it or not, I’m here to help you!”

You frowned in bewilderment. “Help me?”

She nodded merrily, beaming. “Yes, I’m here to help you go to the palace and get the prince!”

You sputtered and frantically flailed your hands as though it could change her opinion. “N-no, you got it all wrong! I’m not–” Your cheeks heated up when she leaned forward and hummed in mock questioning, urging you to continue with your nonsensical rambling. “I-I don’t like him that way, alright? I don’t… I don’t even know what he looks like.”

“And that’s why I’m here to realize your dream.” She finally glided back once she had enough teasing you with her knowing stare. “To start it all, you need a beautiful attire to complement your features and body!”

She waved her wand, and immediately, sparkles surrounded your body and changed the rags into the prettiest gown you’d ever seen. The straps hung loosely on your arms, while the bodice hugged your body perfectly and revealed the right amount of cleavage. A silver necklace dangled on your neck, glittering in the dim moonlight that passed through the windows. The color of the dress darkened from bright yellow to fiery orange, whereas your gloves were pearly white. The fairy merely smiled at the confused glance you shot her. It wasn’t as if you disliked the color, but you suspected a hidden motive somewhere.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she inquired, hands clasped behind her.

You opened your mouth to question her singular choice before sighing. “Yes, it is. Thank you very much… fairy.”

Her amiable smile widened as her eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re welcome~!”

The next few minutes, she completed your looks with a pair of glass shoes and transformed a mere pumpkin into a magnificent carriage. She explained to you that the magic would disappear once the clock struck twelve, and you needed to leave before the predetermined time. Despite the crushing realization that your ‘freedom’ was only temporary, you still heeded her warnings nonetheless. There was no reason for you to disregard the consequences just because she’d helped you. At least, you could try to appreciate her assistance, even if it came out of thin air. And because a simple thank you just wasn’t enough to describe your gratitude.

“Bye, [Name]! I hope you have a delightful night!”

You chose to bite your tongue from asking about how did she know your name when you didn’t remember giving her and waved instead. Slowly, her figure grew smaller and smaller with each distance the carriage took until she was merely a sparkle among the fireflies. You smiled sadly as you rested against the plush couch, musing about how lucky you were to meet such a kind woman. Maybe God finally took pity on you for once? Whatever it was, you thanked her from the bottom of your heart and hoped you could talk to her again.

Hopefully, as a friend.

Unfortunately, your little praying session was cut short when the horse suddenly stopped in front of a humongous building. The coach opened the door to your left and extended a hand. You tentatively accepted his help, unaccustomed with the gentlemanly gesture, and climbed out of the carriage. You gawked at the extravagance, the guards that stationed in every door, and the elegant guests. Gripping the skirt of your dress, you wondered if it wasn’t too late for you to return to your home. You felt so out of place, like an alien. What if someone noticed your ineptitude and kicked you out?

But going home meant wasting the fairy’s hard work, and although you doubted the probability of your second meeting, you refused to disappoint her.

Swallowing the ball of nerves that clogged your throat, you steeled yourself and shakily entered the palace. You thought you caught a couple of guards sending suspicious glances in your direction, but you quickly shook your head to dispel the image. Don’t think about unpleasant things, and you should be fine.

At least, that was what you hoped until someone approached you.

“Hello, hello!” Your heart nearly leaped out of its cage when a trenchant voice boomed. Was it just your suspicion or were you being jumpier and more airheaded today? A tall man with yellow hair and red streaks stood in front of you, smiling widely. “You have a unique dress there, Miss. I like it! It reminds me of my hair color.”

His hair…

Did that meant this person was–?

“T-thank you...!” Almost instinctively, you bowed to hide your flaming cheeks. That cheeky fairy…! She should’ve told you earlier! How would you suppose to act now?! “I’m… I’m glad you like it, Your Highness.”

Oh, great. Now you acted as if you were trying to grab his attention. At this rate, you wouldn’t be much different than your sisters.

The princess laughed exuberantly, but you detected no mockery of your apparent nervousness. Only genuine amusement and… interest? You shook your head and clenched the dress. He must be interested due to your striking garment, not because of who you were. The thought both dismayed and relieved you.

“You’re quite an entertaining one, Miss.” Extending a hand, he beamed. “May I have this dance?”

Dance?! Oh, no. How could you forget about this important detail? Don’t accept, don’t accept, don’t accept –

“… S-sure.”

Darn it. Now you were going to embarrass yourself in front of him, you just knew it. How could you expect an ordinary girl, whose job was housekeeping, to suddenly be able to dance flawlessly?

But it wasn’t too late. You just… you just needed to follow his lead. You were going to make a lot of mistakes, but as long as you appeared to focus on his movements, he’d surely overlook your clumsiness. Hopefully.

The prince ushered you to the center of the ballroom, and only now did you realize that the guests had long stopped doing their activities and were staring at you. The sheer intensity, ranging from envy to curiosity, encumbered you. However, he squeezed your hand gently as a sign of reassurance and smiled cordially.

“Just focus on me,” he whispered as he wrapped an arm around your waist and brought you close to him. You knew it was part of the dance, and yet, you couldn’t help the way your heart thundered at the seemingly intimate gesture. “and you’ll soon forget them.”

You weren’t sure if it was that easy to disregard the plethora of guests standing on the sidelines – you weren’t him who was used to the attention – but you nodded anyway. The fact that the prince of Rengoku had gone out of his way to invite you to dance was flattering enough, so you just had to humor him in return.

“May I know the name of my partner?” he inquired after a short period of adjustment. He chuckled when you accidentally stepped on his foot and dismissed your flustered apologies.

“[N-Name], Your Highness.” you murmured bashfully, the minor flaw mortified you beyond belief.

“Now, now, no need to be so formal. Just call me Kyōjurō.”

You stared into his dilated eyes, mentally inquiring the reason behind the abrupt informality. Wouldn’t it be rude of you to call a prince by his first name? But he didn’t seem to mind, so that should be fine… right?

“Ah, alright… Kyōjurō.”

His already wide smile expanded as he squeezed your hand, satisfied with your immediate albeit reluctant compliance. Kyōjurō knew, the moment he laid his eyes on your skittish figure – so foreign yet precious – you were quite the meek one. The way you constantly looked around, alert at the slightest hint of disturbance, suggested that this was the first time you attended a party. And, probably, his home itself.

Kyōjurō wasn’t a fool. He’d studied too many books about body language to know that you didn’t belong here, that you acted far too nervous for the typical noble. You were probably a peasant that somehow got invited, and regretted coming once you saw the environment.

Though, it didn’t mean that you couldn’t familiarize yourself. Given enough time, he was certain that you’d be accustomed to the royal life and its benefits.

The rest of the night was spent with an impromptu dance lesson, laughter, and small talks. Due to his easy nature, you almost forgot that he was still a prince underneath; someone that you wouldn’t have the courage to talk to otherwise. And, for a moment, you were led to believe that he was some kind of a long-lost friend. The kind of friend that you always wished to have.

Until the clock struck, shattering your fairy tale that he silently weaved with his persona.

“I-I’m sorry, Kyōjurō, but I need to go.” You tried to release your hand from his grasp, but shockingly, he refused to budge. “Kyōjurō, my mother is waiting for me at home.”

No, she didn’t. But a tiny voice told you that something was wrong with him, and of course, your stepmother would definitely blow a fuse once she learned about your disappearance.

“I can send a guard to relay her a message that her daughter has been chosen as my future wife.”

You faltered, and Kyōjurō took this as an opportunity to pull you towards him and hug you as tightly as he could.

“W-what are you talking about, Your Highness?” Perturbed, you’d unknowingly reverted to the formal title, much to his displeasure. “I don’t… I don’t understand! What do you mean by ‘chosen’? I’m not… I’m not going to marry you, am I? That’s just impossible.”

“[Name],” For the first time in his life, Kyōjurō faked a smile. Not that you’d be able to differentiate it from his usual demeanor, though. “don’t you know what the purpose of this party is?” When you shook your head, he grinned knowingly. Every guest knew, except you. And that just proved his theory right. “It’s to find a perfect candidate for my future spouse. And I’ve picked you, among these women.”

You balked at him and attempted to claw his hand had he didn’t catch your wrist.

“No, I refuse! You can’t just… decide something without my permission!” Despite your ardent rejection, your voice wavered as desperate tears gathered in the corner of your eyes. You wondered why nobody rescued you from him, or if his status intimidated them too much. “Your Highness, please…! Let me go. I want to go home, please! Just search someone else instead, please!”

“So you could return to your ordinary life?”

You gaped at him, and you both watched as the dress that flattered your body reverted to its normal rugs. Somewhere in the outside, you could hear the guards shouting about ‘a carriage that turned into a pumpkin’ and ‘a rat’. The events that occurred were too much for you to bear, and for the first time in your life, you broke down publicly.

In the balcony of Rengoku palace, you collapsed right before his eyes and bawled. Your hair was a mess, bruises discolored your body, and your eyes were bloodshot, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t bring yourself to care about anything anymore. Why should you, when you’d revealed to him that you were merely an imposter? An alien that could never fit in this stately environment. A peasant whose skills were only housekeeping and surviving.

No, you sobbed. You really didn’t fit anywhere, did you? Not even your closest family, who instantly rejected you once your father died. Why did he have to die? Why did your parents have to leave you alone at their vicious hands? This was unfair. You wanted to go with them, too.

“Sssh… it’s okay, it’s okay.” Kyōjurō crouched beside you and patted your back as though it’d magically fix everything that ruined you. “Everything’s going to be alright, now.” No, it didn’t, but you couldn’t utter that. The tears had yet to run out, after all. “I’ll ensure that you live comfortably with me.”

You didn’t respond, but the fact that you no longer opposed him and accepted his affection was enough for him. Caging you in his tender embrace, Kyōjurō closed his eyes and relished the proximity.

Searching the culprit to your abuse should be the first step to establish your new life, but he could do that later. For now, he needed to bring you to your shared room so you could have a proper rest. He knew just how exhausting crying could be to your body, and he didn’t want you to fall asleep during your ‘heart-to-heart’ conversation later.

Junko: 順子

Ryōka: 良華

#yandere scenario #yandere imagine #yandere anime #anime yandere #yandere anime au #anime yandere au #yandere oneshot #Yandere kyojuro #Yandere kyojuro x reader #Yandere kyojuro rengoku #Yandere kyojuro rengoku x reader #Yandere rengoku kyojuro x reader #yandere kimetsu no yaiba #yandere kny #yandere demon slayer

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