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planetdream · 24 days

Text

PLUTO !

CHARACTERS ! vampire!lee minho, human!reader [ft. human!kim seungmin, servant!han jisung]

GENRE ! horror/thriller—vampire!au. “romance”. smut. minors dni.

SYNOPSIS ! when your fiancé, seungmin, fails to return home after notifying you of his departure from count minho's estate, you decide to search for answers yourself.

WORDS ! 12.2k more or less

THIS FIC CONTAINS ! writing inspired by the various varieties of dracula. horror [vampirism. gore—body horror: details of blood and bloodsucking. spiders. strange creatures. nightmares and overall very lucid dreams. allusions to character death.] hypnosis. hallucinations. manipulation and gaslighting. kidnapping? and references to religion [christianity/catholicism], prayers and comparisons to a Higher Power™. mentions of food. infidelity and smut [one wet dream. pussy eating—a lil bush appreciation. hair pulling. big dick minho. grinding. fingering. worship. term master used once. degradation—whore shaming. choking. nipple play/breast fondling. lots of spit. squirt n cum.]

💌 extremely self indulgent. all the thanks and love in the world to the homie, @cosmicbyeol for beta-ing for me n overall being an incredible help !!! 🥺 also, as always, accepting feedback and constructive criticism!!

The last three weeks have been weary, to say the least. You had been elated as your fiancé, Seungmin, was scheduled to arrive back in the city after a nearly two-month-long business trip. With the day of his return steadily approaching, you found yourself excitedly performing various small tasks in preparation for the moment you finally see him again. Then the big day arrives and Seungmin is nowhere to be found. No big deal; perhaps his arrival is a bit late, or he may need time to himself to unwind after long travels. If anything, he’ll show up at your door the next day with flowers and a gift, ready to tell you all about his journey and the people he’d made connections with.

Then the fourth day comes, and by that point, you’re knocking on his front door but to no answer. You stroll past his home on your evening walks and the lights aren’t on. You’ve revisited the post office, checked in with relatives; and still, nothing. Seungmin is seemingly lost to space and time. By the sixth day, you’ve written a letter to Count Minho, the friend and business partner that Seungmin had been staying with; explaining the situation and the fact that you’ll be visiting while in search of Seungmin.

Count Minho is a mystery to you. Seungmin never spoke with you about his relations with the Count, and you never pried into the specifics of his work business. From what you do know, Seungmin’s work involves him being in contact with several different people from real estate to archaeologists and historians, to priesthoods and other religious leaders. You simply assumed Count Minho had been one of the aforementioned, or possibly an artifact seller or buyer; as Seungmin is interested in the hobby himself, and has countless other buyers and sellers he knows. While the Count is a mystery, you feel that there is a possibility that he can lead you back into the arms of your lover.

After a few days of planning and packing, you finally decide to get started on your journey. By the Sunday of the third week, you’re lodging with some very nice people in the town nearest to Count Minho’s estate—which is only about a two-hour distance away—you choose to stay in the village to get the word out about Seungmin.

The townsfolk are a welcoming and lively bunch. You were fed, rested, and told stories of both local legends and the juiciest gossip around town. On the eve of your final night in town before you join the Count, you mentioned him, and the room fell silent. A feeling of unease weaved its way into the small kitchen you’d been standing in. The two women beside you failed to meet your gaze. You had already been told of the creatures said to be lurking through the forests between town and the area of the Count’s estate. A classic story of a wolfman who is out to kidnap unsuspecting young men and women; only brought up because of very recent alleged sightings.

A third woman finally spoke up. Urging you to forego your plan of visiting what she called such a vile and off-putting man. There’s a legend about the man who lives in the castle at the edge of the forest—whom you presume to be Count Minho—who comes into town during the night of the first full moon of the spring season, with the sole purpose of terrorizing people in their homes; feasting on their organs and drinking their blood. The last occurrence happened nine springs ago: a family of five, two completely drained of blood and tossed to the side, with another two torn piece-by-piece; left mixed in a pool of wasted blood. There had been one remaining survivor, eyes removed from their sockets, who only could say one thing: “He called himself God.”

Though the story terrified you—you refused to let that stop you. If Count Minho is some extraordinary beast, then let you be the one to stop him if it means you get to become one with Seungmin again.

Alas, the day to meet Count Minho has come, and the women you shared dinner with last night are appalled to hear that you were insistent on making your way to Count Minho’s estate. Knowing that they cannot stop you, they wish you luck and pray for you, gifting you a crucifix for safety on your journey.

By the time you approach Count Minho’s estate, it is about an hour after sundown. The sky begins to dim rapidly, as the former golden-pink hue of the sky begins to turn into a deep purple and later fading into black. The temperature drops by the hour but thankfully the winter season is coming to an end. The snow is already clearing up, and in a couple days it will have been long gone and forgotten for generous showers of rain.

Your arrival, predestined and arranged to be brought by carriage, led you here. And as you pull into the gates of the estate, an unsettling feeling hits you. Deep in the pit of your stomach as if something had crawled inside of you and is now scratching to be freed. Despite that, the feeling of discomfort quickly begins to wash over you, seemingly dispersing into fascination—like a group of butterflies or a bouquet of flowers flourished within your body and spirit. You feel a lot lighter, elevated as if a veil was pulled over you.

You can hardly see the castle in the darkness, but if you strain your eyes hard enough, you may be able to see the silhouette of the grand estate. Though that’s no use, the surrounding forest, and deep black sky work as a void, shielding away any ounce of natural light, encompassing the castle within its secrets. The moon, nearly full, and friendly to those who respect it, is useless as the structure of the castle casts away the inquisitive nature of the celestial body—nothing will be brought to light or justice tonight.

The carriage, drawn by three black horses, halts in front of the main entrance. Several long, white, cylinder candles light up the main door of the Count’s castle. The entrance is similar to that of a cathedral’s—two heavy-looking doors adorned with indescribable red patterns; swirling into shapes that seemingly recreate human-like faces. It’s vague. At a simple glance, the patterns reflected by the candlelight look like faces, but the longer you look at them you realize otherwise. The patterns seemingly have no rhyme or reason, endless red swirls that are simply just decorations.

Atop the door is a large arch, and in the dead center is a sculpture of a man—perhaps it’s of the Count. In the brief flicker of the flame, you can see the face of the sculpture. Its face is horrid, angry even; a permanent scowl displayed. But in that short second, you notice its eyes, big and red, fixated directly on you. There’s a chill that runs down your spine in that brief moment of eye contact. And while every nerve in your body warns you, there are matters that the Count needs to assist you with that are bigger than just a feeling.

In your deep thought, one of the doors opens with a loud screech, almost like the scream of someone. It garners a gasp from you, shaking you out of your head and back into reality. Before you know it, your feet are moving faster than your brain and you step out of the carriage. Collecting your bags and holding them tightly, thanking the coachman for bringing you safely. As you turn back to the door, it’s open wider than before, but still, the Count is nowhere in sight.

You walk closer, hand reaching up to touch the door and you enter, eyes unable to find a resting place. There are candles everywhere, several of them as if there are no electrical lights within the place, despite the huge chandelier hanging from above. The smell of the place does not come from the candles—it’s something else that draws you in, a familiar scent perhaps from your past, but you’re unable to put your finger on it. You step further into the home and when you do, the door behind you slams shut, making you jump and turn back.

The slam is followed by an unsettling silence, practically deafening. You call out.

“Hello?” You look around. Just ahead of you is a long hallway, lit up with candles. You’re not sure how long the hallway is, as at a certain point, the light from the flames is no longer visible, fading into a pitch-black blanket. The walls are decorated with cobwebs and a boring gold and red damask; the colors are fading, or at the very least very dusty and in need of upkeep. The floorboards are wooden and when you shift, they make an awful creaking noise. This castle has been around for a long time—centuries even, likely and believably kept within the Count’s family. Modernity has not caught up to it.

“Hello?” You begin again. “I’m Y/N. I wrote to you a few weeks ago as I had some inquiries for you about Seungmin.”

Your voice trails off. There’s a cloud of unease that reigns above you, and still, as you stand in the foyer of this already strange place, there’s a familiar warmth that surrounds you. When you breathe in, your chest expands, hair brushing against your neck as you sigh in both contentment and exhaustion.

“Good evening,” You heard his voice, but you hadn’t heard him come over. “I have been expecting you.”

You open your mouth to speak, but any aforethought words get caught in your throat at the sight of him. He’s gorgeous. Absolutely stunning. You catch his eyes immediately, locked into his stare, lost in the deep sands of his chocolate brown eyes. There’s a soft yet teasing nature behind them and it draws you in, latching onto you. He looks to be a lot younger than the age you heard him to be. His lips curve into a smile as he sticks his hand out for you to shake. Though, quite frankly, you’re not sure if you’re supposed to bow to him or not.

“Yes, um,” You shake his hand, giving a small, shy smile. You’re unable to take your eyes off of him.

“Come on. You must be cold and tired, let us go sit.” He speaks before you get the chance, letting you collect your thoughts. “Feel free to leave your things there. They will be collected.”

You nod, setting your belongings down and following Count Minho deeper into the castle. You’re unsure if it is because you’re a bit tired, or some very serious architectural error, but the interior of the castle is like a labyrinth of sorts. The Count opens a door you initially assumed to be a room—but instead turned into another hall of rooms. He turns left on his heels and into a side room, you follow along.

The room you enter is small but comfortable enough for three or four people to have their space. Ahead of you are big windows, covered with thick black curtains that scrape against the floor. To your right is a fireplace, a huge flame already burning and keeping the room nice and toasty. On the right are three large bookcases that reach the ceiling, the multicolored spines of the books add little pops of color. In front of you are two velvet chairs facing the fireplace, divided by a porcelain side table and atop of it are two books and a tea set.

The room is very neat overall. A couple of misplaced books here and there, sat on the floor. Otherwise, it’s eerily neat. As if the Count rarely uses the room but chronically dusts because everything is just for decoration. The Count takes a seat and as he beckons you over, eyes diverted from your face, as he pours you a cup of tea. You move hastily, sitting at the chair across from him.

“Hibiscus,” He says, a small smile on his face. “It also seems that I’m forgetting my manners. Those in the town call me the Count, however, you are welcome to call me Minho.”

“Thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule to meet with and host me,” You begin, ready to get to the point. The Count—Minho—nods. “As I mentioned in the letter sent, I’ve arrived here to look for my fiancé, Seungmin. I’ve only received letters from his arrival and departure, and not many in between those times; which is unlike him on his usual work trips. It’s been weeks now, three to be exact. And since you are a friend of his, I was hoping you knew of his whereabouts.”

“I fear I will be of little to no help to you, my dear.” His choice of words, while peculiar, are selected carefully. “Seungmin is a near and dear friend to my heart and I truly hope that he is safe, wherever he may be. The thing I can say is, he had been acting a bit—” He pauses, seemingly pondering on the right word to say before continuing. “A bit…abnormal.”

“He had been here at your home for nearly two months, what exactly do you mean by abnormal?” You inquire, pressing Minho to say more, not caring of how your tone might sound.

“He began to have these dreams, and some active hallucinations. Completely plagued by them. Night terrors, I’d say. He feared whatever he had seen, and while he initially confided in me about it, he soon concluded that I was untrustworthy. Somehow, Seungmin lost touch with reality.”

Plagued by nightmares is something that you take note of. A month into Seungmin’s stay at the Count’s castle, you began to have these vivid dreams. Some good, some horrendously terrifying and, well, a large percentage of particularly electrifying dreams. The most recent—waves crashing together on a violent stormy night on the sea. You’re aboard a ship, standing in the center of the forecastle, and all around you are piled up bodies; and there’s blood on your hands and arms, staining your skin. Blood soaking into the fabric of your clothing. It felt immensely real. You felt the unease of the rocking boat, you heard the crashing of the waves and the squawks of the birds circling overhead. Weirdest of all, you could smell the blood; almost craving it. The dream ends with the sounds of a heart beating and the rushing of blood flooding to your brain. And then there’s nothingness.

The Count takes a sip of his tea, and you choose to follow suit. Though, the tea is bitter, even with the added sugar, and not slightly tart as Hibiscus tends to be. Quite frankly, the taste is gross, but you drink out of respect. You do your best to keep a straight face at the taste, quickly setting down the cup. A small smile appears on Minho’s face, exhaling with a short laugh.

There’s a knock at the entrance of the door. In the frame of the door stands a slender figured man who seems to be a tad shorter than the Count. He’s rather cute with his medium length hair and round cheeks, though he wears a blank expression on his face. He turns to you, doing a brief bow and opening his mouth to speak.

Minho interjects first, walking towards the other man. “This is Han. Very simply, Mr. Han is my servant. Forgive me, Han here, was supposed to see to your arrival, but he had other obligations to take care of.”

The two look at each other, but only the Count smiles. Han keeps the same stoic facial expression, looking more exhausted than anything. The Count begins speaking once again. “Y/N, here, is the fiancé of Mr. Kim. You remember Mr. Kim, don’t you, Han? Y/N informs me that Mr. Kim didn’t arrive safely back home, now is that right?”

The Count looks to you, and you stand from your seat, nodding. “I’ve gotten a letter of his departure but he hasn’t been home yet,” You let out a deep sigh. “I just miss him so much. I hope that he’s safe wherever he is.”

The air in the room is thick with tension. For the three of you, this has to be an outstanding situation right? For you, as young as you are, to have the love of your life—the man you plan to marry and give yourself to—to go missing without much word. And for the Count, who has been a longtime friend of Seungmin, having to deal with the weight of potentially being the last one to see Seungmin.

“A friend of Count Minho is a friend of mine,” Jisung smiles. “I’ll do my best to help you find Mr. Kim.”

Han and the Count step off to the side to exchange words briefly. Han turns to leave and the Count turns back to you. “Hungry by chance?”

The dining room is rather spacious, and includes a fireplace, which seems to be a running theme within the Castle. The wooden floor panels are mostly covered by a large, deep red rug. Red is the main color of the decor of the room; the velvet dining chairs and all the flowers,—from the pansies to the roses—even the dinner plates; are red. Despite this, it’s clear that Count Minho has quite a bit of money to have afforded all of this: from paintings to small artifacts that decorate end tables and small statues of gargoyles. Perhaps he is indeed a collector of sorts.

Minho pulls out your chair, pushing it back in once you’re seated. He then takes his seat at the other end of the table. There’s a spread of food on the table and various bottles of wine, to which the Count motions for you to help yourself to. After making yourself a plate, you pour yourself a glass of wine—a red, twirling the liquid within the glass, foregoing the tradition of smelling the aroma and instead shooting it straight back. The wine is rather sweet and washes down smoothly; more like juice than a wine.

Count Minho watches you eat with inquisitive eyes, studying you. He drinks from his wine glass as he stares at you. “What exactly do you know about your fiancé’s career?”

You meet his gaze, eyes fixated on you with a squint; it all makes you a bit uncomfortable. It’s like Minho can read every bit of you with just a simple look.

“Not very much.” You admit.

“Oh?” The Count is especially interested now. “Had he told you anything about me then?”

“No. Only that you were a long-time friend.” You pour another glass of wine. “Although..”

You trail off, unsure of if you should mention the story you heard from the town. You look at the Count, and he raises an eyebrow to you.

“I had been staying in the town nearby for a few days before coming here. And well, I’m not too sure how to explain it. The only things I know of you come from word of mouth, and well, they aren’t very good.”

“Go On.”

You recite to him the story you had been told about the man in the castle who would come into the town and terrorize its citizens. At the end of the story, Minho erupts in laughter. He’s holding his stomach and chuckling, wiping faux tears from his eyes.

“Let us just say, I have more valuable things to do than whatever that is,” Minho rolls his eyes. “I only ask because you intrigue me. That, and I never thought of Seungmin as someone who would lie to their lover, really.”

The word lie is interesting. You’d always perceived Seungmin to be an honest man, really. The two of you forged your relationship on the basis of being fully honest with each other. You never thought you would ever come close to doubting Seungmin nor his truthfulness, his faithfulness even; but Count Minho’s tone of voice—the seriousness coating every bit of breath he takes—along with the fact that you don’t truly know of Seungmin’s work, has you second guessing yourself. Now it’s your turn to press him.

“Continue.”

“I’m saying, you don’t know what the man does for a living but you choose to throw away all inhibitions and potentially roll yourself into danger for a man you almost transparently know next to nothing about.” The Count pauses to sip more of his wine. “Seungmin was into things of the rather unusual variety, I’ll have you know. If you want, I can show you the things that he and I were discussing.”

You take Minho up on his offer, and he gives you a small smile in return.

“While I’d love to get to work on such matters tonight, I’m afraid I must go to sleep. I have some important matters to tend to in the morning. Shall I show you where you’ll be staying?”

—

You follow Minho, out of the dining room and down the endless hallway. The wallpaper is practically peeling, and the higher ceiling riddled with cobwebs notably hasn’t been cleaned up in quite a longtime. The obvious decades old paintings that were placed against the walls had been covered in dust and grime, dimming the vibrancy intended by their various artists. He then stops at a white door, turning the knob to open it. The room is dark and cavernous, but with the help of a lit candle sharing its warmth with the candles previously naked and cold, you see that it’s actually quite spacious and bright. White and light brown decor gives the room a light and more alive look in comparison to the thick dreariness of the parts of the castle you’ve seen so far. It’s almost like venturing into another world, or peeking back into an oddly shaped past.

“Breakfast will be served early in the morning. Sleep well.” And with a smile, Minho exits, closing the door behind him.

In the silence, thoughts begin to fester, nipping away at your well-being. You’ve gotten next to nothing so far from this meeting with the Count, but tomorrow is a new day and you hope he can give you insight into this world of Seungmin that seems to be unraveling. It’s confusing—for a brief moment you find yourself questioning your decisions. Have all of your life choices led you to this exact moment? The Count is vague in his ways of doing things—it’s like he’s not even trying to hide the potential of his true nature. He appears like any other person, but there’s something more to him than what meets the eye. You’ve been caught in a web of mystery, slowly sinking deeper and deeper.

You find that your bags are sitting next to the bed and you reach in to find your night clothes. Once you lift your shirt over your head, you cannot help but feel like eyes are watching you. Covering yourself, you scan the room in an attempt to soothe your psyche, and as expected, you remain completely alone. Shaking the feeling, chalking it up to being nervous about being in yet another new place, you continue to change your clothing. Sitting at the edge of the bed, you reach into your bag to pull out a letter you received from Seungmin.

“My dearest heart,

There is not a moment that goes by where I am not thinking of you. On my lonely and rather daunting work evenings, I look to the sky and am reminded that we share the same view together. You are the one thing keeping me balanced and sane. I know that you are waiting for me to return, and I want nothing more than to return to the safety of your warmth. Until then, look to the sky and be reminded of me.

K.S”

Once finished reading, you press the letter against your chest. The second to last letter you received. Initially, it was rather hard to sleep at night after you received it. You had longed for your lover—missed his existence to no end, and you still do. There is nothing in the world that you would rather have than the gift of your lover returning to safety. You long for Seungmin, aching for the chance to finally touch him again. To hug, to kiss, to feel every inch of him once again. Today marks the third week since you had last heard from Seungmin, and from tonight onward, you demand to get the answers you deserve.

You gently place the letter onto the nightstand. You kneel onto the floor, elbows pressed against the bed with your hands together in prayer. You had never been religious, nor, in a situation in which you felt you needed to pray before—but it has become a habit of the last few weeks. Closing your eyes, you inhale deeply.

“Dear God,” You begin. “Please align me with my lover. Please return him to me safely.”

Pulling back the covers, you snuggle into the bed, drifting off into an idyllic night's sleep.

You’re stuck. Seemingly, your body is paralyzed; hands resting at your sides, legs pressed together. You try to move, starting with a pinky and then your foot, but the longer time goes on, the more your ability to move lessens. Unable to even move your head left or right. You’re completely stuck. Not to mention, stuck in some complete void of a room, unable to see anything.

There’s a vibration around you. It’s a subtle vibration, though you can feel your body swaying back and forth as if suspended in the air somehow. Just then, there’s a spotlight. It shines in your face before spirling in circles, lighting up various parts of the area you are in; but still, there’s nothing but darkness, even in the brightness of the light. Just until you view a quick flash of something briefly catching the light. The light runs from the figure before spinning back to shine itself on the mystery.

Despite its distance away, you can see the thickness of the short hairs that decorate the body of the arachnid. The many eyes of the spider sparkle in the light, its eight moving legs speeding their way over to you. You watch as it clicks its mouth, salivating as it makes its way to its fresh catch.

Here you are: a mere fly in the realm of the spider.

At a blink of an eye, the spider is circling you, inching closer and closer until you can no longer see it from your horizontal position. Suddenly! It lurches, jumping atop of you. The spider sinks its fangs into you, piercing your skin harshly, burning. The attack against your skin causes blood to splash everywhere, spraying onto your face and body. You shriek in horror—attempting to send signals for your body to wake up from its terror. Your entire body burns; throat dry and brittle from yelling so much. The area around where the spider’s fangs are latched inside of you, both itches and stings. Feels like you’re getting pumped for your blood yet also injected with its venom.

If possible, your body gets stiffer. Cold. Vision fading.. And fading until there’s nothingness. All you can feel is the body of the eight-legged creature draped over you; taking and taking freely.

Despite the nightmare, you feel rather refreshed waking up. A minimal amount of light shines through the curtains. Stepping out of bed to the faint smell of food, you yawn and stretch briefly before heading to the closed door. Stepping into the hall from the confines of the room you spent the night in, you take a few steps across the hall to look out into the window. It looks bright and comfortable outside, a stark difference between the drab, dreariness of the castle’s interior.

When you arrive at the dining room, there’s a full spread of food. Toast, tea, and a plethora of fruits and berries. In the daylight, the interior of the dining room looks a lot dustier, as if it's barely used. And to be fair, it seems as though only the Count and his dedicated servant occupy the estate. Which you wonder about—does Count Minho have no family? And what about Mr. Han? Any lovers? Who exactly is the Count and what was Seungmin’s business with him?

“Will Count Minho be eating with us?” You ask as you take a seat.

“Sir is taking care of some business this morning. This breakfast is all yours.”

“You won’t be eating?”

“Ah,” Jisung sighs with a smile. “I had a big breakfast earlier.”

With that, Jisung lets you begin eating. He simply just stands there, and while his eyes aren't on you, you can feel him observing your presence, similar to Minho.

“So, Mr. Han,” Playing with your food as you speak. “How long have you worked for Count Minho?”

“Only a few years. Feels like a lifetime, though,” He turns to you, a small smile on his face.

“Are you also a friend of Seungmin?”

“I’d only spoken to Mr. Kim a few times before his most recent visit. I typically stay out of all of Count Minho’s business affairs. I prefer to deal with the home side of things,” Jisung nods. “Speaking of, you’re free to explore the castle if you’d like. The Count won’t return until later.”

“Really? Are you sure he’ll be okay with it?” The opportunity to explore this grand castle piques your interest. You raise your eyebrow towards Han and he nods in response.

“It’s no problem, really. To warn you, some rooms aren’t used as much anymore so they might be a bit untidy. Almost time for some spring cleaning.” Han gives you a short, dorky laugh. He’s adorable, if that’s the word. He seems to be on the more timid side, probably doesn’t speak to many people other than Count Minho on any given day. “Jisung, by the way, you can call me that.”

“It’s nice to officially meet you.” You smile. “Can I ask you one more thing?”

Jisung nods.

“What room did Seungmin stay in?”

“The room that you are staying in.”

The castle looks rather different during the daylight. The hallways feel hollow, completely blank despite the moderate amount of clutter in the form of various books and paintings littering the sidelines. While the idea of a large estate is stunning, it is clearly a bit too much for only the Count and Mr. Han. You wonder if Count Minho has been previously married—or even married at all; to be fair he looks a little young, but it’s possible he’s had a lover in the past. Perhaps that’s why he’s so understanding of your pursuit to find Seungmin.

You return to your room. Beginning at the bedside table, you tour around the room, looking for clues that might help you. Searching the dressers in the room, you make your way over towards the small desk in the far corner. Opening the drawers of the desk, there remains nothing but untouched letter paper. Scanning the area for any unchecked marks, your eyes fall towards the bed. Dropping to your knees, you crawl the short distance to the edge of the bed. Pulling the bed skirt up in anticipation only to be left with nothing but dust bunnies. This initial search leaves you empty handed but you go off to make your way through the rest of the Castle.

The castle is indeed like a labyrinth. Some doors open to an empty, decrepit room of various doors. Admittedly, you’re a bit too afraid to open one of the random doors. You’re not familiar with the layout of the estate, and you refuse to get too deep into this trap of a home. One door opens to a windowless room, and the singular wooden chair in the middle causes you to back out of said room slowly.

Continuing on your pursuit through the endless halls of Count Minho’s estate, you approach a doorless room. Without needing to walk in, you can tell by the bookcases that it’s a library of sorts. Making your way through the entryway of the library, you find that the temperature of the room is noticeably colder than the hall. The library has dark wooden shelves filled with books from the ceiling to the floor, and you know that if Seungmin was here, he’d be able to tell when and where the shelves were constructed. He would always pick up little pieces of knowledge like that—claiming that he didn’t know why yet, but knowing such would help further him in life; and importantly, in his studies.

You run your fingers over the spines of the books as you stroll your ways through the library. There are books spanning across language and subject—the majority of it, completely unidentifiable to you.

You come across a leather-bound book displayed on one of the bookshelves, cover forward. It’s dark, dusty, and might even be a little dirty. The cover of the book itself is twisted, the skin of the book twists and dives into different layers, somehow folding the cover of the book inside of itself. It’s complex and strange, unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. Just to hold it, the weight of the book is heavy, somehow warming up in temperature. To feel the book, to hold it in your hands, it intrigues you just as much as it disgusts you.

The language of text presented on the pages is unknown to you. The drawings that accompany the writings, however, are disturbing. Dark and detailed illustrations of creatures that you would never have thought of. Upon the first page is a visualization of a winged creature with the distant silhouette of a man. Only there’s a huge eye where the head would be, and its legs are tangled and twisted together. Turning a page, you’re presented with another drawing. An illustration in charcoal of a dark figure. The drawing looks as though it’s been drawn in haste; a rushed, frantic effort. Alongside is another illustration of a mouth—though without ink, the artist did their best to emphasize the splotches of blood that stain the mouth. What stands out the most are the set of razor sharp canines that protrude from the teeth—two sets, specifically. Beholds, the only romanization on the page: Vampyre.

A chill runs down your spine, but you’re unable to remove yourself from the grasp that the book has. Turning page after page, overstimulating yourself with various images of creatures that are likely to lurk in the shadows. The longer you examine, the more your head pounds. Nausea interrupting all plans you may have had. Head spinning and spinning, visions bending and thrawn within itself. Figments of the images you’ve viewed imprinting themselves on your vision in dark splotches like a memory. The new and the strange tangling itself within your memories, hiding within them for safe keeping.

“Y/N?” There’s a light voice that breaks you out of your spell.

When you come to, Count Minho is standing over you, his cold hand pressed against your forehead. You look around the room, sitting in an opposite corner of the library than you originally remembered.

“Are you alright?” He asks.

“I’m not too sure,” You sit up straight in your seat. You look towards the open window and the sky outside is completely dark. Somehow, it appears that hours have passed. What a freaky and strange thing.

When you look up at Minho from your position on the chair, you’re immediately pulled into the pools of his eyes, locked in. “You must be hungry, yeah? It’s dinner time.”

Just like last night, Minho leads you to the dining room. Just like last night, he slides your chair out and pushes it in for you. The spread of food tonight is different from last night, and you notice that some of the decor around the room looks different as well. Your vision hasn’t quite recovered from its hectically blurred state, and in your moment of disillusion, none of this interests you.

“Is there something wrong?” Minho asks as he sits. What isn’t wrong? You feel a rather painful shift in your own mood.

“I think I might be a bit tired.” You exhale. Despite aching for the continuous pursuit of knowledge, sickness continues to trail behind you. Uncertainty creeping its way up to the forefront of your thoughts. You’re unable to escape the feeling that there might be something seriously wrong. Anxiety rests in the pit of your stomach, slowly eating away at you. Refusing to look at Minho, you pick at the food on your plate. Honestly, you feel rather sick. Your vision, while still painfully blurry, continues to spin ever so slightly. Placing your hand flat against your forehead to find that you’re burning up on flu type levels. You look across the table toward Minho and your vision doubles, triples, then suddenly you're seeing eight versions of him.

It’s a bit of a hassle to move the heaviness of your hand, fingers slowly creeping up to grasp onto the wine glass. You close your eyes to soothe your vision, taking the glass into your hand fully.

Minho coos. “I was really looking forward to dinner with you; but if you’re tired we can postpone our conversation.”

Taking a sip and allowing it to savor on your tongue. The slight, unsuspecting note of pomegranate makes you smile—something comforting in the mixture of mess you’re currently feeling.

Grace be to God. When you open your eyes, your vision returns to normal. It’s something of a miracle.

“No. It’s fine. That strange book in the library,” You look at Minho and struggle to find the words. All that remains in your head is visuals of every creature you saw depictions of.

“What book?” He doesn’t follow.

“It has drawings of these strange creatures in it. Some kind of horror book, I think it made me a bit sick.”

“I’ll tell Han to search for it so that I can have a look,”

Dinner continues with only a few moments of silence. The topics range from a variety—the original focus of conversation on Seungmin before venturing off elsewhere. Count Minho gives you insight on what he does; referring to himself as someone who studies human nature, communication and our state of existence. He loves the study of humans and thus dedicates his life to it, choosing to be of help in any way he could be. Of which, is how he met Seungmin, and from there, they became partners due to their similar interests. Somewhere, is a layer of information that Count Minho refuses to give up so soon.

“May I walk you to your room?” Minho asks, rather politely, but your room is not too far from your current position. Still, you say yes to him.

Unlike dinner, the very short walk is in total silence, but Minho’s presence is comforting. You reach the door to your room in no time and Minho steps in front of you before you can say anything. The silence continues as Minho and you stare at each other. Though, the silence turns to static when Minho leans in to kiss you. His lips on yours and you don’t even bother to pull away. Instead, you kiss back, allowing him to deepen the kiss. He pulls away in haste, muttering a goodbye before walking off into the darkness of the hall.

You step into your room and therefore, instantly step into a pool of guilt and confusion. Seungmin is so far from the forefront of your mind—for you to indulge in a kiss with another man and to not think once about your lover. What kind of monster have you become?

Once changed into your night clothes, you peel under the covers and you pray. You don’t feel like yourself, and the feeling creeped upon you. The thoughts in your brain are mixed together, both elaborate and unintelligible, a mixture of things you know and things you never knew. Images of those same creatures stain the darkness when you close your eyes, peeling back layers of the person you once knew to be you. Before sleep finally engulfs you, you pray for the guidance of whoever is listening.

Minho guides you towards the bed. Red and black satin sheets fitted across the bed and the pillows. Minho pushes you against the bed and huffs out a short laugh, smirking at you. You bite your lip out of nervousness, peering up at him.

“You’re so beautiful, my rose.” Minho’s hand is soft against the skin of your knee. Lightly, he drags his nails against your thigh, inching closer and closer to the material of your nightgown.

Before he does anything, he leans down to kiss you; eyes closing as your lips work in sync, souls melting together. The kiss deepens for just a moment until Minho pulls back, brown eyes staring into your own. He plants one more quick kiss against your lips before his hands begin working beneath your gown. He slides your dress up to your waist, admiring the softness of your belly and the smoothness of your skin. One kiss above your navel and another kiss below, is all he lets himself have before he gets too deep into it.

You make it easy for him, foregoing underwear to allow your lover easy access. Minho can only scoff, but he shuts himself up with another kiss to your mound. “Just for me, my dear?”

“Only you, love.” You smile at him, motioning for him to come closer. Minho, of course, follows suit. He would give you a billion and one kisses if he could.

When the kiss breaks, Minho drags you towards the edge of the bed. Spreading your legs apart, he drops to his knees beginning his worship of your cunt. Tongue flailing out, slurping up every drop of your wetness, soft lips drenched in your flavor—and there’s no other way Minho would rather have you than at his complete surrender. His hands grip your ass, trying to push you into his face. Lips covered in slick and spit, puckering around your clit, sucking it in; Minho’s head bobbing up and down slightly, moaning into your cunt.

“So fucking delicious,” Minho mumbles, continuing with his feast. Your hands fly to his hair, pulling with every lick and suck he gives you. Moaning freely, not caring if the entire world can hear you. In fact, maybe the entire world should hear you.

Minho eats you sloppily, savoring not only your taste, but the feeling of your cunt against his skin. The feeling of the softness of your pubic hair against his skin is like heaven to him. Sometimes, he’ll spend time rubbing this face against the hair before he dives into your cunt. Not to mention the feeling of your juices soaking into his skin, which he’d use as a natural moisturizer if he could. Minho’s obsessed with every inch of you; from your cunt to your skin, to the very blood that courses through your veins.

His fingers push into you as his tongue swirls against your cunt. His lips suck your clit into his mouth, tongue lightly beating against the tip of the bud. Minho pushes his saliva to the front of his mouth, soaking your clit in a mixture of his spit and your juices.

Your fingers pull against Minho’s hair, tugging harshly against his scalp but he wouldn’t have it any other way. He might even ask you to pull harder. You push Minho against your cunt, slowly grinding your hips against his face. Moans bouncing off the walls as you drip onto Minho’s tongue. Minho takes this opportunity to suck on your clit just a tad harder, triggering your pending orgasm. Eyes rolling to the back of your head allowing you to see colors as warmth rocks through your body. Limbs daring to curl together, Minho doesn’t allow you to move from the hold of his hands nor the warmth of his mouth.

Minho slowly kisses up your body. You can feel the remnants of his kisses even after he’s long gone from a spot because of the wetness on his lips. He kisses at your neck, then your cheek, and finally your lips. Deepening the kiss as he taps his cock against your cunt, you invite him in.

Three long orgasms later, you and Minho are snuggled in bed, snoring softly beside each other. Suddenly, you’re woken up by a loud bang. Looking to your side, you find Minho unbothered, still asleep, chest rising gently with each breath. There’s another bang, louder and possibly closer than last. You slide out of bed, looking back at Minho’s sleeping figure before making your way towards the door, hand reaching for the glass door knob.

There’s another loud crash as you twist the handle of the door. You step into the hall of darkness, wooden floor cold against the bottom of your feet. Closing the door behind you, you venture out into the darkness. The halls of the castle are quiet, unmoving; day in and day out they remain the same, even in the dead of night. It’s rather sorrowsome, actually. So full, yet so empty—the castle feels like it's dying.

Another loud bang. Followed by another and another. One after the other, four beats apart. The knocking appears to get louder with each step you take towards the staircase. You raise your foot to take that first step, there’s another bang once you firmly plant your foot against the stair. Quickly but carefully, you make your way up the staircase. In the near distance, towards the end of the hall presents a glimpse of golden light.

Letting your legs guide you, you make way towards the door at the end of the hall, almost floating. The knocking doesn’t stop, getting louder and louder the closer you get to the door; but when you try to halt, you’re guided to your destination by a sudden force; body stiffening, neck making a sharp turn as you peek into the room. The crackling warmth and light emitted from the fireplace sets a gorgeous, homey scene.

“Help.. Me..”

Your eyes shoot towards the ground until you find the fingertips of a man laying in a puddle of blood. But before your brain can process who the person is, you’re snatched away. Falling fast into a pit of darkness.

You awake in the dead of the night to a knocking at your door. It’s soft and subtle, but has been consistent enough to pull you from your sleep. One knock after the other, four beats between each knock.

Tossing the covers away, you step out of bed. Muscles tough and sore, there’s an unease as you rub the sleep from your eye, feeling as though you’re encumbered in your own head. You take another heavy step, the knocking still not ceasing. One step after another until you reach the handle of the door, and only then does the knocking stop, floorboards creaking as the sound of footsteps shuffles away.

A minute goes by until you decide to open the door. The hallway is dark, the only light is coming from the window across the hall. You look towards the moon—there she is, full in all of her glory, bringing the spring equinox along with her. You walk towards the window, looking down towards the ground and noting that the snow has completely melted. There’s a dark, shadowy figure in your peripheral that breaks your appreciation for nature. Turning in the direction, there’s nothing in the distance. You follow, passing by the kitchen and making your way to the stairs. The shadow dissolves into the darkness at the top of the stairs, beckoning you to chase after it.

Once you reach the top of the stairs, there’s a sliver of light peering from the far end of the hallway. The trek over isn’t that long, and once you’re within a few feet you slowly approach the door, tiptoeing your way over. Creeping up to the doorframe, you hold your breath as you peek into the crack of the room. There’s not much to see, just a steady fire and its continuous cracking. Until you hear a moan and your eyes dart to the location of the sound.

There, you spot Jisung sprawled out on the chaise, half of his limbs hanging off as Minho straddles over him. Attached to his neck, Minho wastes most of his meal, letting blood slip from his mouth and drip down Jisung’s neck. You gasp, fully taken aback by the action you are witnessing. The townspeople were right to warn you—the Count is a monster. Or maybe something worse.

After the accidental announcement of your arrival, Jisung locks eyes with you. Your gaze, however, is stolen by Minho once he turns around, peering up from his feeding position. He’s wide-eyed with blackness covering the entirety of his eyes, lips and chin stained red with blood. Once Minho realizes it’s you who interrupted his feed, he gives you a wide, bloody smile—showing off the two sets of fangs at the top row of his teeth, the outer fangs just slightly bigger than the inner fangs. For a moment, time seems to slow down; you watch as a small droplet of blood drips from one of Minho’s fangs, and before it fully releases, Minho swipes it with his tongue, licking over his fangs for extra blood.

Before you can turn back and run, Minho is already behind you in the blink of an eye.

“Unfortunately, my dear, running is useless,” The Count grabs you by the collar of your pajamas and forcefully drags you into the room. You fight him off but your hits do nothing to him. Letting go of you, Minho pushes you onto the ground. “Stay.”

Jisung stands up from his position laying across the chaise, dipping a rag into a bowl of water sitting on the side table. You watch Jisung with inquisitive eyes as he wrings out the rag, carefully cleaning up the marks and the blood stained to his neck. Minho, meanwhile, is facing the fireplace with his arms crossed and one finger pressed to his lips. Jisung finishes cleaning himself up, and begins moving around to avoid eye contact with you. In horror, you watch as Jisung takes a tarantula out of its cage and places it into his mouth, chewing as he turns to walk out of the room—leaving you alone and helpless in the clutches of Count Minho.

Minho tsks once, then once more. A hand on his hip as he shakes his head. He extends his arm, quickly swiping away all of the candles and books the rest atop the fireplace as a loud, angry cry escapes from his chest.

“I thought that maybe,” Minho begins. “Just maybe. I’d have an extra night or two before having to do this to you. You’re a curious one, aren’t you?”

Minho turns to you. An insincere smile on his face, fangs hidden away but some of Jisung’s blood still covers his face. You spring to your feet, not wanting to stay on the ground when it’s clear that Minho has the advantage. Backing away from him slowly, eyes searching for anything to use as a weapon, though Minho can tell your every move.

“Did you..did you do that to Seungmin?” You’re near tears. They don’t fall, only brimming along your tear ducts.

Minho’s jaw clenches at the mention of Seungmin. “You really do care about him, huh? Seungmin this and Seungmin that. I fear your admiration for your lover has made you blind. You have played right into the palm of my hand, little lamb.”

“You want to know where Seungmin is? He’s dead.” Minho laughs. A deep belly laugh. “Though, it wasn’t me who did it.”

“Years ago, I showed Sir Kim something that I thought he could handle, only to find out otherwise. I promised him knowledge, the freedom to view the extensive, valuable, book collection within my library, at any time he chooses; and most importantly, the opportunity to discover something otherworldly—new to him, although very old to me. Something that could provide him everything he’s ever wanted. At least, that’s what this power did for me. Seungmin wanted to become a new man, and I was the only one who could offer that opportunity.”

“Then, two months ago, Seungmin showed up at the door. Exclaiming that while he wasn’t ready in the past, this time he’s ready to surrender his soul. Turns out, it was a ploy to kill me. I should’ve known better, truthfully. Seungmin is smart, almost as cunning as I, and well, he very nearly gave me a run for my money. But let’s just say, how should I put this, I have someone who is willing to do anything I say. Including kill.”

You shake your head in disgust, backing up from Minho; but he pursues.“What are you?”

“I once referred to myself as a God. However, over the years, I realized that I am God. I have seen men with beast-like abilities and looks, men with the ability to rise from the dead, but the simple power of those imbeciles doesn’t even come close to mine. It’s something entirely different.”

“I mean, you read that book didn’t you? A dull-looking half-dead creature with fangs? You’re quite different from Seungmin, but you’re still special. You might not have understood the text, but perhaps, you used context clues?” Minho continues, “You might not have known it, but your fiancé was a part of a very dark world, angel. You see, he was actually the one that wrote the book. And he left you blind to it all, not knowing of his inevitable future. And now, yours.”

Minho winks and moves closer to you with each word, though you take steps back, not wanting to be too close to him. Eventually your back hits the wall and Minho almost pressed against you. His sharp nails come up to your neck, tracing over until he finds exactly what he was looking for, inhaling deeply.

“Are you going to kill me, too?”

“There,” He taps the tip of his finger against your neck, just above your collarbone. The sharpness of the nail presses into your skin, breaking the initial layer, not deep enough to cause bleeding. “If I put my mouth right here, I could drain all of you in less than six seconds. Kill you? Heavens no, I actually believe that you’re pretty valuable to me.”

Minho looks into your eyes, passing along discomfort in the form of a stare. Then he pouts at you, mockingly.

“No need to be scared. I mean, it’s not like you can ever leave me, at this point, so it’s best you put your fear aside.” Minho smirks once more. “From the night you’ve arrived, you’ve been drinking my blood. I’m already inside of you. I know every little thought in that pretty little mind of yours, I’m in all of your dreams. And guess what? You will never, ever be able to get rid of me.”

“Now tell me, has Seungmin ever touched you like this?” Minho asks, the tips of his fingers tracing against your neck, palm cupping around your throat, he stands firm behind you. There’s dense heat against Minho’s fingertips and a slight burning sensation from the sharpness of his nails; it’s such an intense feeling, unlike any you’ve experienced before. As electrifying as the feeling of his touch is, it’s also revolting, horrendous. There was a spark whenever Seungmin touched you, but Minho’s touch is different; it burns in all of the right ways.

“I could give you things Seungmin would have never even dreamt about,” Minho’s voice is soft, silky. The heat of his breath against your skin tickles, but ignites a particular burning of desire. Minho is something similar to the devil and still, despite it all, there’s a familiar heat that creeps up within you. “I could open doors for you that were previously closed. Anything you want, could be yours. All you have to do is accept all of me.”

The hand that had previously been resting against the softness of your belly, is held out for you to accept. You stare down at his hand, biting your lip at the temptation. Minho plants his lips against your neck to give you one small kiss after another.

For the sake of Seungmin, you want to turn away. If this had been just a few days ago, you would have likely fought in honor of Seungmin. The entire reason you’re even here, in the Count’s castle, is because of Seungmin. And still, in spite of all of that, as much as it makes you feel physically ill, stomach turning at the thought, every single fiber of your being craves Minho. You can feel the heat of your bodies meshed together every time you imagine what it’s like to have him between your legs. When he looks into your eyes, it’s familiar—like home.

Every alarm is firing off and still, you put your hand in Minho’s—accepting his offer. Minho’s hand interlocks with yours, and you can feel him smile in between his tiny butterfly kisses. His hand holds yours tightly, as if he doesn’t want to let you go. Plump lips dragging against your skin, until he stops momentarily—taking a deep breath. Minho lets out a sharp, rich groan; knees throbbing as he bucks into you. And it’s at that moment you can feel Minho’s cock pressed heavily against your ass. Minho holds you against him, hips moving against your ass slightly, as he breathes in your scent.

The moment is broken once you feel four razor sharp punctures in your neck. Minho’s low, guttural moans vibrate against your skin as his teeth penetrate layers of skin. The feeling is strange—it stings and burns, but also has a light cooling sensation.

With the more blood Minho takes, the more his eyes fade into black until the whites are no longer exposed. Minho is absolutely captivated by the taste of your blood. It’s absolutely bewitching. He can taste every memory, every inch of trauma and pain, all of your love and most importantly, Minho can taste a bit of your soul—completely unguarded and vulnerable; ready for him to take and do as he pleases with.

Minho continues draining you of your blood. It’s around this time that your vision becomes blurry, the room grows disorienting, tipping from side to side with each blink. You’re clutching Minho’s hand as tight as you possibly can be, jaw slacking and freely giving away soft moans. Even though he’s drinking from you, Minho never stops the movement of his hips. Hand clutching your own, pressing your arm against your stomach firmly. His other hand is tight on your hip, holding you in place. Somehow, your body feels both light and heavy, like you’re nailed to your spot but also elevated, floating in space. Your eyelids are getting heavier, a milky white film covering your eyes as Minho continues to take and take from you.

By the time you feel like your legs are going to give out, Minho gives up on drinking from you. “I can’t believe you’ve been hidden from me all this time, my little lamb.”

Minho whispers into your ear, voice equal parts soft and sweet. The way he can easily slip between calm and composed and dominant and overbearing is scary.

“Let’s make this official, what do you say, love?” It’s less of a statement and more of a demand. Minho bites into his wrist, pushing it towards your mouth. But you refuse, attempting to turn away, though Minho does not allow it. Forcing your mouth open with his other hand, fingers dipping into your mouth, watching with a smirk on his face as droplets of his blood drip into your mouth one by one.

There’s not really any significant taste to Minho’s blood. Indeed, his blood is thicker than water—but also very smooth going down. Minho spins you around, lips fast against yours. This kiss is full of iron and spit, completely messy, tongues fighting against each other. You, surprisingly to Minho, are the one who deepens the kiss further, pressing your body against his. Hands running all over his body, tugging against his clothes.

You can feel yourself changing rapidly. Inside of you is a particular burning passion that you haven’t felt in years. It’s amplified when Minho’s fingers trickle up and down your sides. When the kiss parts, you and Minho lock eyes. Your chest rises, breathing in deeply because the room has gotten a hell of a lot hotter—or is the oxygen leaving your lungs?

Minho takes the lead this time, pushing you atop of the sofa. He stands over you almost menacingly, clouds of lust like darkness clouding his eyes. He takes the chest of his shirt and tears it in half with two hands, as easily as it takes one to blink. He lets the shirt fall from his body, pulling his arms from the sleeves. Unbuttoning his pants just slightly before he kneels on the couch beside you. His lips on yours once again, though briefly. Minho takes the fabric of your clothing and tears it in two, just as he did his own shirt. You’re completely exposed to him, completely naked beneath his stare. You put your arms up to shield your indecency, but Minho doesn’t allow it. Taking your wrists in his hands and pinning you to the comfort of the sofa.

Holding your wrists with one hand, Minho holds your jaw in his other hand. “Wish you could see how heavenly you look right now.”

At this moment, Minho decides that you’re the closest he’ll ever get to heaven. So does he worship this embodiment of a higher place? Or does he further defile it? Should he ravish you? Perhaps he should take his claim over a body and soul that is now his forever. The worship may come a little later. He looks down at you, a frenzied little fledgling overtaken by uncontainable lust. A near mirroring reflection of sin itself. You pupils are completely blown and the whites of your eyes grow into a red color. He stands tall above you, like a God. Eyes of lust looking back at you, so deeply into the crevices of what’s left in your soul.

You claw up at Minho, wanting to feel him. Wanting to be comforted by the glory that is Minho. The Ultimate Being—your master.

“Imagine if Seungmin were to see you like this, intoxicated with such lust—and none of it towards him,” Minho kissed over the spot where he bit you, planting more kisses against your neck. “Would he be pathetic? A coward who cums in his pants at the sight of another man touching you?”

Minho’s lips move from your collarbone to your chest, displaying a range of kisses against your skin. “Or would he demean you for disgracing him in such a way? Would he call you a whore at the sight of you, turning his face in disgust?”

Minho continues talking in between kisses against your skin. Lips kissing down the valley of your breast as his left hand creeps up to fondle your left breast. You moan at his touch, the coolness of his skin against the heat of yours. Minho looks up at you. “My precious little lamb isn’t a whore, are you?”

You shake your head vigorously at Minho’s statement. He can only laugh at you. He doesn’t believe it and deep inside, you don’t believe yourself either.

“Your whole purpose of being here was to find your fiancé, and instead, you’re beneath me and dripping onto the chaise. That doesn’t sound like something someone who’s not a whore would do, does it, little lamb?”

You shake your head in denial. Reaching up to him, dragging the tips of your fingers down his chest. With each exhale, with each minute that goes by, it becomes harder and harder to fight your cravings. Thrusting your hips up, gyrating in the air, trying to entice Minho into touching you. Unable to sort the words in your head to form a coherent sentence.

“But you’re fine with being a whore aren’t you?” Minho nods, pouting just slightly. When you’re not nodding along with him, he grabs you by your hair, forcing you to nod along with him. “What a good little lamb. From here on out, you’ll only be a whore for me, ok?”

Minho releases your hair from his clutches. Licking his palm, he drags it down from your navel to your cunt, pausing a moment to bury his fingers within the hair on your mound, slightly tugging at it. He teases you for the moment; fingertips feathering lighting against the skin of your inner thighs. He brings his fingers back to your cunt, dragging down your slit, teasing into your wetness. Minho circles over your clit with two fingers, watching your face as you bite your lip. Two of his fingers slowly slip inside of you soon after, thick, already knuckle deep inside of you.

Minho’s free hand finds a new position, tightening around your neck. The roughness of his hands is missed when he slides his hand down your chest, cupping your breast. He leans down, sucking your nipple into his mouth, coating it with saliva, teeth slightly grazing against it. He continues scissoring his fingers into you, thumb pressing down flat against your clit. Minho moves his thumb in tender circles, still applying pressure. Swollen lips leave a mess of spit on your breast, dripping onto his hand.

He lifts his head from his original position, eyes covering every inch of you. Once his eyes land on your cunt, Minho kneels—a quick kiss planted at your clit before he attaches his mouth to it, sucking you in. Warm, wet mouth slurping and licking, voice vibrating against your cunt. You moan into your hand, but Minho snatches it away; a quick, stern look up at you. The more he hears your moans, the sluttier and messier that Minho gets; moving away slightly to spit against your cunt, watching as it drips down to his fingers. All before he’s back at it, slurping and moaning against your cunt.

“Fucking cum,” Minho talks into your cunt. He speaks his demand into you. The climax hits you hard, cum spraying all over Minho’s face, even drenching a bit of his hair. It takes Minho and yourself by surprise, and you’re almost ready to cover your face in your hands, but Minho flashes the most gorgeous smile to you. Face soaked, licking his lips to taste more of you.

If he wasn’t firm about his desire to devour and conquer you, he was now. Minho fully undresses himself, cock hard and heavy, leaking and aching to be buried inside of you. It’s like your minds come together. Just with a touch you know the things that Minho wants to do to you. Your desires are equal and because of it, you’re a step ahead of him. Your eyes land on him, completely sucking into the visual of his cock. Large but not too veiny, a shade or two darker than the rest of his skin and it’s absolutely glorious. He’s thick, the tip of his cock heavy and shining with precum. It’s hard to keep your appetite for lust contained, and for a moment, you wonder why you’re even holding back—you’ve seen just a glimpse of freedom, is it too much to indulge and savor the taste of what you’re becoming?

Your movements are faster than what the logical part of your brain can comprehend. One moment you’re spread open and the next, you’re straddling Minho, hand caressing his face. Minho looks at you with such an insatiable gaze. He hadn’t read it in the cards that you could possibly take control of the situation, and it enthralls him—what a wonder you are. You grind against his cock, sliding your slick cunt across his shaft. Pressing your hands to his chest for balance, adjusting the speed of your grinding until you’ve finally found the spot that sets off the fireworks within your brain. Unfortunately, it’s not enough for Minho, grabbing your hips and pressing you onto his cock, controlling your movements. Other than the added pressure, Minho guides your hips just a tad bit faster.

Sliding up, you reach behind to hold Minho’s cock into your hand. It has a bit of weight to it and is slick with your juices. You tap the head of his cock against your cunt a time or two, then slowly sink down, engulfing him into your cunt. The thickness of his cock gives you a fervent sensation, cunt fluttering to take more of him, inch by inch.

You throw your head back as you continue riding Minho. There's a brief, but slight sting of pain when you open your mouth to moan. When you look towards Minho, mouth agape, he looks back at you with such adoration and awe—the first time you felt his genuineness for something other than rage. Minho helps you continue to ride him, his hands on your hips to guide you up and down his cock. You bring your tongue up to lick your lips when you finally notice the feeling of the fangs protruding from your gums.

The feeling of exhilaration encompasses your whole being. You can’t help but let out a laugh at the current situation. You feel elated. You feel powerful. Pure and utter bliss slowly peeking out beneath the many layers of lust.

“Bite me, my dear, go ahead.” Minho reassures you, a hand soothingly rubbing against your thigh.

You indulge in the opportunity. Sinking completely down on Minho’s cock, crying out at the sensation of being filled by him. You press your nose against his neck, breathing in Minho’s scent before you sink your fangs into his skin. You can feel the shift in your eyes when you drink from him. His blood tastes immaculate like this. What divine nectar he carries within. It’s insanely sweet—not exactly in a tart or sugary way; he tastes similar to fresh fruit.

You continue to drink from him, tongue licking haphazardly, unwilling to let any of Minho’s blood go to waste.

From his blood to his cock, Minho is all around you. You feel so full of him, and you are in every sense of the word. His arms wrap around you, caging you in as you take your time feeding from him. He moves a hand between the two of your bodies, thumb pressed against your clit to rub in circles. You gentle rock against him, slowly increasing the speed of your hips once you realize you’re fairly latched onto him. Unwilling to free him from your hold, you would die like this if needed.

Your climax hits you and transforms you into such a state of pure ecstasy. Every nerve in your body is electrified, and the blood of Minho amplifies that. Minho has you under a spell: blood coursing through your veins, cock pinned deep, spilling his cum inside of you. He’s so cold to touch, but you’re both on fire. It’s way too much yet you’re still captivated by him. Sent into overdrive, your body gets heavier—it's hard to control and you continue to take and take from Minho. It’s no problem to him, though; hand on your back to soothe as your body becomes stiff atop of him.

You awake in Minho’s arms, not completely sure of where you exactly are. The second you open your eyes, you’re not nearly ready for how extraordinarily bright the lights in the room are. You groan in response, but Minho is alert to soothe you.

“Be still, my little flower.” Minho is whispering, purposefully; he knows first-hand how troubling it can be to be reawakened like this. But still, his voice rings around your head.

How strange. You can hear every little sound a lot clearer, a lot louder. The initially faint crackling of the fireplace now louder than before despite the distance. The heat of the fire reaches you as well, blazing, although it does not stick. The ticking of the clock is a doomful reminder of the passage of time. Then you look at Minho, and you can hear how hollow he is. There’s an absence within him, a huge, dark, cavernous hole. He is nothing more than a host for whatever this disease is that he has given you. A man without a soul.

And still. He holds the entire world in his hands.

“There’s so much I have to teach you,” Minho expresses this with great excitement. He presses a chalice of blood to your lips and just a whiff of the smell puts you in a daze; salivating and feigning to taste. “Now here, drink up.”

#🌑 — vivid dreams #🌑 — vividdream.skz #lee minho x reader #lee minho smut #minho smut #stray kids smut #lee know smut #skz smut

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smolvenger · 18 days

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First Lady (President Loki x fem! Reader blurb)

Summary: It's not easy being in the spotlight as First Lady of the Nation. But your President's Husband knows what to do when your online critics take it too far.

Or "Who did this to you?" with President Loki.

Word Count: 1318 (blurb time)

Warnings: SMUT! 18 + (wall diddling, whee), online bullying and harassment (inspired from my own personal experience, whee) mention of sex. Angst and then fluff and hurt/comfort. I steal ideas from Ana Huang and Sadie Kincaid. Bad grammar. I had writer's block with this one and was stuck so not as revised and polished as I could be bc I just wanted this done, I'm not Shakespeare or Donna Tartt okay? If I miss a warning, please inform me at once. Don't victim blame those affected, Report it! If you see something disturbing or triggering that isn't tagged that I missed, then that is on me to take accountability for it and it is your responsibility to report it!

A03//My Ko-Fi//My Etsy Shop//Masterlist//Wattpad

Taglist: @asgards-princess-of-mischief @jennyggggrrr @five-miles-over @fictive-sl0th @ladycamillewrites @villainousshakespeare @holdmytesseract @eleniblue @twhxhck @lokisgoodgirl @lovelysizzlingbluebird @raqnarokr @holymultiplefandomsbatman @michelleleewise @wolfsmom1 @cheekyscamp @mochie85 @fandxmslxt69 @skittslackoffilter @mischief2sarawr

Dick-Tionary: The exact, more explicit smut begins at “Open wide, my dear.” and ends at "He gently let you down."

Something about the internet gave people anonymity and with that came power. They could say and do what they wanted…even the vilest things.

Comment after comment. Ding after ding on your phone. There were posts about how you were wrong. Irresponsible because they didn’t like your cause of supporting raising minimum wages. Even under posts where you were talking about the importance of your cause, so many people went “Well, to be fair-”

You couldn’t help but look at more about you.

Stupid.

Ugly.

A pig.

And those were the tamer ones.

The constant bullying and demands from these people. You thought you were qualified for this. That you knew your way around tenfold. Dolled up in your nice dress and makeup…and here you were, crying. Wanting to throw a fit. Wanting to scream and call them vile, horrible things. T sob until you couldn’t breathe and crash down, heels, pearls, lipstick and all. No better than a little girl playing dress up. Not an adult who handled everything with strength and grace. Not a First Lady of an entire country.

You should be strong. Thick-skinned. “Don’t take it personally” was the advice everyone gave you. Every single time. Without fail. But at this point, it just numbed in your head. What did that even mean? It meant nothing. Like “thoughts and prayers” maybe at once it could help, and has helped but now…it was just a phrase people threw out that fixed nothing. And how could you not take a comment beneath your post telling you to not take it personally?

You found yourself stumbling onto the Oval Office adn there he was- your husband in folden horns. A crowd of suited men around him.

He noticed your state. You had no time to compose yourself. But he raised a hand and their chatting voices silenced.

“Everyone! Leave- now!” he ordered, snapping his fingers.

They ducked and left. A few careful eyes at your frazzled, pensive state.

He went over and looked at you. Then he put one hand and put it under your cheek so you faced him. His voice was soft, yet subtly angry not at you, but at your tormenters.

“My darling…who did this to you?”

You sniffed. Then you answered him.

“All of the comments…online…I know I have to. It’s part of the platform. A First Lady has to have social media…but…but…”

He wiped a tear. Then you leaned onto him. His cold buttons grazed your cheek and he let you cling to him. Let yourself break down.

“What am I even doing? Why should I say or do anything online? They just want to tear you apart and spit you out! And they just want a lady who looks pretty and does or says nothing. Even when I wear anything, they tell me I look like cat vomit. I can’t win whatever I do, Loki. And the split second I try to do anything, say anything they…they..”

“Give me your phone,” he said.

You handed it to him. From his pocket, he took out a chip and attached it to yours.

“Firstly, I’m taking this away from you for now. You will get a new one for communication. I will not have my wife and First Lady miserable.”

He set the chip in.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping track of them. We’re going to track them down. They’re going to regret every word of it…here…”

He sat down on the chair in the center and tapped his lap.

“Sit.”

How could you resist?

He set you on his lap. He pulled out his personal phone and immediately was making calls. You leaned into him, snuggling him close.

“Yes, Grant, I want you to hire a Social Media manager for the First Lady. Have the comments filtered and in need of approval before posted. Also, look for security. There are several people we must hunt down. They have threatened the security of the first lady. The tracker is on her phone, we’ll analyze the data on the comments and find each and every one of them- they cannot go on without consequence, don’t you think? Freedom of Speech is overrated anyway…hurry along, do it now- no- Grant, I don’t care if you’re about to get a blowjob from the Black Widow this second, I want you to do it!”

He ended the call.

He held you. And then kissed you. You leaned in more. How handsome he looked- his suit fixed up. His smirk was confident, rakish. You found you were straddling him, his hands on your hips. As you kissed again, he pushed his tongue inside.

“Oh…Loki…”

He raised your skirt some, to feel your bare leg.

“I feel if I make you cum, that would make you feel better…wouldn’t it?”

He slid a hand and saw you weren’t wearing underwear at your hip bone.

He tilted his head, his voice even quieter.

“And you followed my one little rule, too. Good girl.”

He held up the phone one last time, pressing a call.

“Barton, cancel my meeting for this hour. Reschedule it. Emergency, shall we say.”

Before the man on the other end could ask why he hung it up.

He smiled at you.

“Open wide, my dear.”

Keeping your legs open, he adjusted them to wrap around him. He backed you up to part of the wall. Not caring about the curtains of the window. Not caring about the security cameras.

In fact, let them watch if they want.

He kissed you intensely, his tongue inside and out. Tasting you. He lifted your skirt to your hips, backing you up. You hung onto him, shaking with wet, desperate need as he undid the zipper of his trousers.

“I’m going to fuck you. Fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk and live the next week curled up in the lap of luxury, how does that sound?” he asked, his voice husky.

“Please- fuck me, Loki-”

“I’m the President-” he corrected.

“Fuck me, Mr. President-” you quietly begged.

He entered briskly. You let out a loud gasp. But you were already so soaked from him, it was clear. He kissed you again. One hand going to move one of your legs to hook around his waist.

He only slowed down so he could speak, his eyes intense.

“Yes, moan louder. I want them all to hear- I don’t care who hears- or sees. I want them-to- to know you’re mine- My little doll. My little toy. My First Lady- my wife-”

Your breasts bounced lewdly as he picked up speed, thrusting in and out of you. He pounded you so much, the portraits shook. You held onto his shoulders, and then his horns on his head. He was grunting like a madman.

He fucked hard, his hand digging.

“I want you to cry out, say what I am as you cum. I am Loki, I am your president, I rule you- say it- say it, fuck, I’m cumming-I’m going to-say it.”

You cried his title, your throat scratchy. Pleasure breaking on you, as well as on him.

He gently let you down. You adjusted his dark curls. He smoothed your dress, though your legs wobbled. The bliss of ecstasy makes you forget what even happened just an hour ago.

“Now…how do you feel now?” he asked.

You took in a deep breath, the blood still rushing and the world spinning.

“Better…” you replied.

He wrapped an arm around your waist. But he traced a finger down your spine, into your skirt.

“Good. Because I’m going to order some…gifts for you tonight. For you to wear beneath these dresses and skirts and blouses. And I want us to have dinner- just us. And when I rip off your clothes, that lace will be on you. Because, my dear, once this next meeting is done…we are far from over with this.”

#president loki #president loki smut #president loki x reader #president loki x y/n #president loki x fem! reader #president loki x fem! y/n #loki series #smut #loki my beloved #carrie writes #angst with a happy ending #fanfiction #loki #president loki imagine #loki fic #loki blurb #loki fanfiction #carrie's birthday blurbs

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ch6douin · 7 months

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> Dᴇᴠᴏᴛɪᴏɴ. — IDV! SELF AWARE AU (5)

THIS IS PART FIVE OF MY IDV!SELF AWARE AU! I love this au but i cannot bring myself to do anything other than brainrot every single day. i would love to hear brainrots, feedbacks or anything related to this au in my askbox, so feel free to mark your presence there.

cw: obsessive behavior; mentions of feeling/being watched; romantic someway; religious behavior; idk what else

Fiona loved the mystic. That's something not so surprising as she was given the title of a Priestess. She swore upon the Lakeside Village to adore the one and only Yog Sothoth, to be worthy of his blessings.

But she's incapable of escaping from this manor and honoring his name properly, incapable of escaping from you.

She knows you, to a certain extent because of the gossip and whispers around the survivors but you know her all too well, every single flaw and trait. Her devotion to Yog Sothoth didn't budge at that time, since at the end of the day, Fiona did not acknowledge you.

Skepticism could be her middle name, scripted to be deep into her heart, protecting it from any dangers. But you sneaked in, clueless of your effect on her. And so suddenly, her offerings to Yog Sothoth lacked sincerity.

She doesn't want to...be like this, be indecisive, she always criticized one for such weakness. But every time she thinks about choosing between you and the eldritch god, she is sent into a spiral of sentiments and beliefs, and anxiety settles deep within her bones. You're taking up too much space inside her, and she can't do anything besides hope that you give her enough room for breathing.

Yog Sothoth's presence is cold as ice and almost frightening, it is something Fiona thought that she was used to it. But she got way too comfortable with the feeling of your unique presence, safe as the embrace of a lover. It makes her dizzy, her heart is filled with tenderness but her brain tugs on it like a warning. Sometimes, it makes her sick in the stomach to sense that she failed to do something simple as to follow one god.

Little by little, her makeshift shrine with tons of trinkets for the ancient god is emptied. The overwhelming amount of items almost spilling out from the shrine are nowhere to be seen. Her loud murmurs from her requests to "Hastur" that every survivor could hear when passing by her door (which for a curious motive, is filled with thick locks and chains) are nothing now but a faint whisper of your name, so silent and soothing as if she is afraid to startle you or make you annoyed by her wishes. But did you hear her prayers? You must have, she likes to believe you do. That's the only explanation for her wardrobe full of luxurious clothes and accessories, silky materials that she would never even dream about touching.

She dreams of you, every night. It must be because she thinks about you almost all the time, but she fools herself into thinking it's you infesting her dreams despite the mindset being incredibly irrational. And every time you appear, her brain creates an individual that could only be described as breathtaking, because any idea that Fiona had about your appearance however you looked like was nothing short of ethereal, divine. She would kneel and worship you regardless of people's opinions.

The others be damned. They never gave her such a strong feeling.

And may you also give her enough patience to not wrap her fingers around that Mercenary's throat—when he stands with a look of nonchalance and crossed arms as if he didn't fuck up everything. She couldn't care less about the hint of regret in his sharp eyes, and she started blinking fast as if to dissipate the sudden urge to pounce on him. But you wouldn't want that, would you? After all, you graced him with your presence more times than one could count with their hands, even if his mouth was always kept shut, she knows because there was nothing that could justify his fidgety behavior when the subject was you.

"Any explanations for your foul behavior, Mr.Subedar?" Just like him, her arms are folded tightly on her chest as she spits out her words, cutting through the palpable tension in the room. And by the way he looks at her through the corner of his eye, she really has the impression of not even deserving his attention.

"It's simple, I don't trust them." Indeed, a simple and short answer followed by his thick accent doesn't satisfy Fiona that much. But that's just Naib Subedar, the mercenary is always stubborn and will feed you nothing but crumbles of information until you go crazy for good.

"Oh for god's sake. You don't trust anyone, Subedar." She sighs heavily, rubbing her forehead in annoyance. "The day you do, pigs might fly!" The woman walks around the dimly lit room with impatience, and he remains still as a statue. Aside from a twitch of his brows and a brief glare, there is no reaction to her words.

"Who I trust or not is none of your business, Gilman. Just like you being an obsessive freak with this person, if we can even call them that, has nothing to do with me." He is good at pretending to not be fazed as if he didn't experience goosebumps all over his body five minutes ago when he could finally hear your voice clearer than ever. And when the thought of how you looked from the other side of the screen went through his head for a fleeting second, he swears his heart rate did not increase. Why do you have this effect on him? On everyone? You were able to swoon the hearts of even the most reserved men and women in this manor, you even made him feel somehow special initially.

Emma plants flowers that you might like, Frederick and Antonio create tunes and songs inspired by you, Demi has confessed her admiration for you countless times in her drunken state—Hell, Naib is sure that he had a glimpse of Edgar Valden himself stressing over a painting and mumbling how he 'just had to see you in person, his lost muse'.

His thoughts are interrupted by a loud groan. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that for the sake of our partnership." He had hit a nerve, didn't he? It's written all across her face, eyebrows furrowed, lips in a firm line, eyelids twitching...It almost brings a smile to his lips how worked up she got. His eyes trail down to her hands for no particular reason, they are gripping her robe tightly in between her fingers.

"Whatever makes you sleep at night.." His mouth has a small pout of indifference as he shrugs, heavy boots accompany him when he walks away to finally leave and have some rest. There is nothing that he wants more than to forget about all of this for at least a few hours, that is if he doesn't end up having you appear in his dreams and waking up with wide eyes filled with evident embarrassment. Maybe he wasn't so different from the other survivors and hunters...

Twisting the doorknob and looking up through his eyelashes, much to his dismay, a person that he knows all too well stands proud. With his black and white clothes, it's Luca Balsa in the flesh. Even with the shaky postman wiping away his tear-smudged cheeks behind the prisoner's back like a shadow, his toothy grin never faltered. He must be sure of himself if he still remains unperturbed by the problems ahead. Naib steps away to give them enough space to enter the room and then vanishes without a word, not before noticing how the postman's irises followed him till he was no longer within eye's reach. If Naib was able to gain the hate of someone so calm, he indeed might be a jerk.

It doesn't take long for Luca to speak up. "Long short story, an unexpected error happened, and now no one knows how to turn it on without my help?" He's casual with it, maybe overconfident in his abilities as an inventor but some optimism was very much needed right now. After all, he should not disappoint in their pursuit to contact you!

There's a short silence, followed by the loud crack of his knuckles as he takes a long stride towards the machine. "Alright, this might take some time. I recommend for you two to take a break and have a little debate with the others in the main hall. Everyone is starving for good news."

OBS: When Fiona mentions "luxury clothes" she's referring to the A/S tier costumes from the game.

naib wants u so bad bro 🤨 a lot of characters may appear next chapter but of course half of it may be a little more luca centered, and maybe if i make it long enough we will come back to reader's pov😆

#identity v x reader #idv x reader #self aware au #idvselfaware #idv mercenary #idv priestess #idv postman #idv prisoner #identity v naib #victor grantz x reader #luca balsa

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eternadreeblissa · 9 months

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Ok but the potential for Silent Prince Link. In that roleswap or so AU in BOTW

Listen, imagine him, the descendant of Hylia, trying to achieve his sealing powers but his prayers keep falling on deaf ears. The suffering he has to endure with a strict parent who doesnt give him much freedom, failing expectations so exceptionally well he beats himself up silently and secretly resents Hylia. We all know that but imagine inserting darling for a sec: he meets this person, who's been nothing but kind to him. They don't berate him or scold him, they don't expect much from him and wants nothing more but for him to be happy and given relief from his duties. His heart has never been touched and caressed so gently like soul, so he just, follows darling around, maybe roping them in strolls somewhere outside the kingdom. He takes every excuse to spend time with you, including skipping his training, or, maybe he has you with him instead of Zelda guarding him.

Now, his relationship with Zelda, isn't the greatest. One of the people who speaks their minds aloud to him (AKA near outright berating). I imagine this Zelda thinks he has it easy, or that maybe he's so privileged that he can do whatever he wants. Whatever it is she just got the wrong idea abt him. She doesn't like the fact she has to babysit him or smth guarding him; the guy avoids her like a plague anyway! (Asides from escorting him to the shrines and all. But on Link's side, he just didn't want to handle Zelda's criticism on him on top of his own parent's disappointment) she was living her best life being herself bonding with her mom, but she had to be taken away bcs she had the whole knight lineage thing under her name.

Anyway meeting darling was a breath of fresh air to him. I imagine he thinks of them as an escape: similar to how people escape reality. He spends nearly every waking moment with them, or at least as much as time and duties can allow. He never met someone who saw him for himself: as Link. Not the prince, not the descendant of Hylia. Just... Link. And she loved and cared for him like a real person.

Zelda, didn't exactly like this. Mostly bcs asides from already getting in trouble for not having Link in her vision as part of her job, if she lets you go on you might as well steal the prince away from Hyrule the more he skips duties and she might even be replaced. And while that would be awesome she'll be in even more trouble with the king or queen, AKA: Link's parent. She couldnt go back to the life she once had, not when it was taken from her and robbed of her childhood and all...

Yes, you and Link have to avoid Zelda a lot. He's actually pretty good at hiding. While he gets heavily lectured by his own personal guard its all worth it spending time with you.

But then... Hylia happened.

Why now, of all times, did his powers awaken and why of all people, did it have to be you? You were the real light of his life, in a world of darkness and oppression. The only one who gave him hope and more to live for than just his duties. Why now, when he was about to confess and run away with you, and he had you in his arms, did suddenly his own voice betray him? He wasn't himself— no, it wasn't him speaking AT ALL. THIS IS A DIFFERENT PERSON TALKING THROUGH HIM PLEASE STOP.

But he was helpless, helpless as his words were twisted to hurt you: no you weren't useless to him, you weren't in the way! You were everything he needed in life— no you were his life! He needed you! He truly loved you please! But your tears fell from his eyes, and just as he thought it was over, his hands glowed gold, he panicked, not understanding what's going on, but his hands were raised towards you, and his voice chanted; and in a bright flash, you were gone.

No. No... NO!

He fell to the ground. His life just came crashing down. Any light and joy and hope, all the good things he had in life, were taken with you as you were sealed— no, vanquished by his own hands. (he couldn't bear the thought he truly did seal you away from Hyrule forever)

It... It wasn't him. No it wasn't...

That light. That golden light. The one that his hands were forcibly used against you. There's only one person who he knows could do that to you: Hylia.

If he only disliked Hylia for putting him all through this not answering his call before, then he certainly hates her with every fibre of his being for making him lose you.

(Under the cut if yall are interested in how my OC Ava handles this! And it has some more details on how things happened—)

When she met silent prince link, he was out hiding from Zelda again and escaping from his well, life, while Ava stumbled into his world separated from the chain.

I imagine, she started off being all nice and everything to him. While Link is confused cuz this gal thinks he's the hero? Anyway, they started off a bit smooth at least and this first meeting alone had him enjoy her company, and wishes to see her more.

So they meet up more and more. Link clarified he wasn't the hero, or heroine in this matter, but didn't reveal he was the prince either. All he said to her was that, he was just Link, a nobody. And he wants to know more about her. Ava respected that, and they talked and all, but at some point Zelda found out abt her and shooed her off. (Link has never disliked Zelda more than he has now, astonishing really, currently nearly up with his resentment for Hylia)

Thank goodness he found her in some of the usual spots she visited. It was a good thing she told him about it too (if she hadn't he'd scour the entirety of Hyrule just to find her—) he tells her not to be discouraged to continue meeting up with him. He truly did enjoy his time together with her, and he doesnt like Zelda or pretty much all of Hyrule kingdom in general, sometimes including his own parent, and especially Hylia. He then spills his past to her, leaving his whole heart bare to her being.

Ava, in processing this, is then a little conflicted: His story is just like Wild's except... he's in flora's position? Wherever she is, she's somewhere very, very far. History can't be turned upside its head and forget everything and have... This. But how did it happen? Asides her thoughts, Ava understood, and would be more than happy to be there for him. Link couldn't be any more happier.

...There's just one problem: Hylia. She isn't sure how... They could continue on for long. She tells his she wants to stay a bit and help him out but, Hylia, as far as shes known that goddess, meddled a lot with her life. Often using Zelda to seal her away every time (sometimes she beats the Zeldas to it, by going back home on her own. Either the Zeldas sealed her away willingly, or forcibly, as there are some who didn't actually mean to do anything. Regardless, she was often in all sorts of troubles of messes because of her. All of this lore bit abt her can be explained for another day jsufbfhhb). She tells him Hylia doesn't like her, and if he's a descendant as he actually says he is, then she might.. use him against her.

Hearing all this, Link was furious. His resentment for that white goddess just increased a ton. He told her he won't let it happen. No matter what. He promises. Ava could only hope that promise can still hold true even with Hylia looming...

So they spent more time together, and they bonded a lot. But the King/Queen heard Link hasn't been doing his duty, (as if he hasn't already been slacking off in their eyes) so Ava didn't see Link for a few days and worried about him. The next time Ava saw a glimpse of him, he was out with Zelda, who seemed more of a hawk than she was before, heading out for training and everything.

It was quite horrid for Link :'(( so when he got back to her, he was latching onto her like a koala, wanting her attention on him and only him. If anyone tried to take her eyes away from him he glares and it's the most chilliest thing anyone has ever seen, nor did they even know Link was capable with that kind of expression! (Considering his lack thereof, in the public eye). Ava had to distract him and tell him to stop or at least, lessen that just a bit, as she takes him away somewhere more isolated where nobody will, hopefully get hurt. (He looks like he's just one breath away from hurling a book at someone's face—)

Anyway, Link wanted to catch back on lost time spent being away from her. And they did that! But again... Hylia happened.

After coming back to train once again or so, Link felt different. A bad different. He feels like he wanted to wash himself off from this feeling all over his body. He probs bathed like 3 times but, it didn't get rid of it. Probably bcs he despises Hylia a lot now and being around her mere statues or stuff just sickens him. He hopes all of that will be forgotten or washed away around Ava's presence but haha it couldn't be any more worse :'))) just like time and time again, Hylia used Link, awakening his powers and sealed her away.

...In the end, she didn't learn her lesson did she? Try as she might, leaving before she was sealed off from any of Hylia's vessels but, here she is. She stayed too long. She got attached again. She got both of them attached again and now, they're both going to be hurt, wounded from this. It's her fault she let this happen. She could only hug him in tears, trying to be there for him and comfort even though he spoke piercing words and trying to get her off from him. But deep down, this wasn't him. It was Hylia. Link always told her he loved her company and wanted nothing more but for her to stay. But just like before, with every link she met, no matter what she gets separated every. Single. Time.

So before she completely vanishes into the light and she burns in pain from its power, she could only tell Link, through her tears, she'll come back again. Just like before, as well. Because even though despite the fact she will always end up leaving or not staying for as long as she wanted, even though both her world and his wanted them apart, they'll just meet each other, again and again. In another time, or a different era, maybe a whole other world even. It cannot be helped, they were both connected. Maybe in his case, the hero's spirit didnt call her like it did with the others, simply because he doesn't have it, being Hylia's descendant. But somehow, even without it, she was here, met Link again, and similar scenarios were played. It's almost like... They truly were soulmates weren't they?

Because of that, she assures him: she'll come back, as a goddess. She'll train more, work harder, learn, just so she can stand against the selfish divine who kept meddling with their lives. She'll be there for him, and he won't have to suffer for so long in silence, but for now... It's farewell, until they meet again.

It was the one hope Link clung onto for dear life, as everything else in his world faded from mind.

#haha I went overboard under the cut whoopsie-doodles #I hope yall enjoy tho its very fun to ramble all my thoughts on this #no I do not have a name for this link im sorry 😭 at least officially. the only thing I can think of is Silent 🧍🏻‍♀️#yes you can do whatever u want w this idea #hence the open ended idea or prompt #altho if u wanna know more about Ava #feel free to ask me!#itll finally get the ball rolling for me to explain and I love anyone who wishes to know abt my darling baby #yandere linked universe #dreerambles #ava rosamaryllis #yandere linked universe x reader #yandere linked universe x oc #yan! LU x Reader #yan! LU x OC

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unpublishedwriter · 1 year

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If we make it through December

Fandom: The Last Of Us

Characters: Joel Miller, Ellie Williams, Gn reader insert

Warnings: This is NOT a ship fic. Father/Daughter relationship, Father/Child relationship, mentions of abuse, mentions of blood, not very graphic description of injuries, hurt/comfort, found family, usage of they/them pronounce for reader.

Summery: After escaping David and his people Joel, Ellie and y/n make their escape through the forest. Once they find a place to stop for the night the three must come to terms with what they've been through and what they've become.

A/N: So this is my first time posting a fic online (wattpad who? sorry don't know what ur talking ab I definitely didn't have a wattpad when i was 11) so like bare with me please haha. Any and all constructive criticism is welcome:) Y/n and Ellie aren't actually related (unless u want them to be ofc) but they see each other as siblings. Reader is older then Ellie but still a teen (in my mind they are 17 but u can choose whatever age u want). Can be read as both game tlou fic and show tlou fic cuz I love both and didn't put any specific descriptions for Joel or Ellie. Also English isn't my first language, I triple checked the spelling but if you find any mistakes then sorry! This fic is dedicated to everyone that looked at Joel Miller and said "damn, i wish he was my dad"

They didn’t know how long they’ve been running for. Joel kept a firm grip on both kids, completely ignoring the ache from his right side where his wound was stitched up.

The pain didn’t matter. What mattered were the two kids he kept an iron grip on. The two kids that had been taking care of him, two kids who had to fight to survive while he was unconscious. Two kids that had to kill while he was in that basement. Two kids that he failed.

His kids.

He couldn’t think about that now, couldn’t let himself drown in guilt.

No, he had to keep pushing forward, he had to put as much distance between them and that awful village.

He had to get his kids to safety.

Then he’s going to check if–

No, he’s going to check where and how they’ve been hurt, because as much as he wished for it, there was no way they got out of this without any injuries.

He had already noticed the blood running from Ellie's nose and the giant bruise on y/n’s cheek.

The two teens were covered in blood, head to toe, and Joel prayed that most of that blood wasn’t their own.

Time didn’t feel real as they kept pushing forward, going wherever their eyes could see. The kids held on tightly to Joel, almost as if to make sure that he wouldn’t disappear, to make sure he was really there.

The wind started picking up and it looked like a snow storm was coming.

While the storm would cover up their tracks, Joel’s stomach sank as he looked around and saw nothing but trees. Joel didn’t know what to do, he only knew that they wouldn’t survive outside.

He kept walking forward, against the wind, as the two kids gripped him harder, practically wrapping him into their arms from both sides.

They were all exhausted, on the verge of collapsing, and the wind was getting stronger.

It can’t end like this. He can’t fail them again. He can’t lose them. Not again.

Maybe luck was finally on their side, or maybe the god that Joel had long since stopped believing in had heard his prayers, but as they walked out of the woods Joel saw the outskirts of a small town.

The ice cold wind was blasting in their faces, but they were together and they were almost there. They’ll be ok. They’ll have to be.

The closest building to them was some sort of store, probably a drug store by the looks of how small it was. It's doors and windows were intact so it was their best option at that moment.

The three made their way in and reluctantly pulled apart to check if there were any infected, or people. They were relieved to find out that the place was empty.

Joel pulled one of the shelves to the door, barricading it. The windows were sealed and boarded up so no one could see inside but some light still filtered through the cracks. The light was grey and cold, the outside now completely overtaken by the snow storm.

No one’s gonna find us here.

Joel walked away from the window and turned around to look at the two teens. Ellie and y/n were once again checking every corner of the store, making sure there was nothing bad in there with them.

“Hey” Joel spoke softly and both teens stopped what they were doing. They looked at him, their eyes still frantic. “We’re ok here, we’re safe.” Joel assured them but it didn’t seem to ease them. They were shaken, bloodied and bruised and it was all his fault.

No, there’s no time for that now. They need me.

Joel walked over to the side of the store that seemed to be the most clean of any rubble, then he put down his backpack and his gun. He looked back at the two kids who were still standing in the same places, staring at him. He nodded his head to the side, calling them over. Y/n closed the door to the storage room as Ellie walked over and put down her bag.

She didn’t remember when she got it back, nor when she had put it on. It didn’t matter much. Even if she’d lost it, it wouldn’t have mattered.

Y/n also walked over putting down their own bag, then their gun and their bat. But as they looked at the bat, or rather the half dried blood on it, they decided to put it a little further away from them.

They didn’t want to look at it, didn’t want the reminder of the things they’ve been through, the things they’ve done. They knew that they did what had to be done, had to protect themselves and their sister, but their stomach still turned as they remembered the screams of those man.

They quickly forced themselves out of it. This isn’t the time for it. They needed to make sure that the others were ok, they can deal with it later.

“How’s your wound?” They asked nodding towards Joel. Y/n looked at his shirt, noting that there was no blood on the side of his injury, which probably meant that his stitches were still intact.

“It’s alright, I’m alright.” He reassured them. They nodded softly and before he could ask them whatever it is he wanted to ask them, they had turned to Ellie, looking her up and down, holding her upper arms gently.

“What about you? Did they get you anywhere? How’s your nose?” They looked at Ellie’s face, searching it for an answer but Ellie just looked back at them blankly before shaking her head and looking down.

Y/n wasn’t sure they believed her, but they didn’t want to push. They didn’t find any wounds on her so they decided that the best first thing to do was to get Ellie cleaned up.

Joel rolled out his sleeping bag on the floor next to a wall so y/n gently sat Ellie down on it before walking over to their pack. They pulled out an old shirt and without thinking about it ripped off a big chunk. Then they took out their water bottle and poured some of the water on the cloth, ignoring how the water made the open gashes under their, now soaked, bandages burn.

Ellie was sitting there, completely zoned out and Joel was trying to figure out how to warm this place up. Even though they were inside, the walls and the floors were made of concrete, and the heating wasn’t working for obvious reasons. It was cold but he couldn’t start a fire since the windows were sealed shut.

Y/n gently tilted Ellie’s head towards them, only holding her by the chin. Ellie was still spaced out, shaking both from the cold and the stress still running through her body. Y/n knew what she was thinking about, trying to process the horrors of the past few days.

She must’ve been so scared, alone in that horrible cage. Y/n didn’t know exactly what happened to Ellie, they were stuck in a different room in their own cage, but through their own experience they knew that this is something Ellie will be haunted by for a very long time.

Y/n gently started wiping away the blood on Ellie’s face. Her nose stopped bleeding a while ago, which y/n took as good news.

Joel, seeing how much Ellie was shaking and not knowing what else to do, took Ellie’s sleeping bag from her backpack and unzipped it all the way. He walked over to where y/n was now carefully wiping the blood from Ellie’s hands, and wrapped the sleeping bag around Ellie hoping that it would warm her up. Then he walked over to where y/n had left the other part of their, now ripped, shirt and picked it up.

Snow had flown in when they got inside and was now sitting in a pile next to the entrance. Joel wrapped as much snow as he could into the cloth and walked back over to y/n who was still trying to get blood off of Ellie. He gently took the wet cloth from y/n’s hands to which they protested and tried to get the cloth back but he stopped them. “It’s ok, I got her.” He spoke softly. “Here, put this on your cheek.” He held out the improvised cold pack to them.

Y/n looked between the pack and Joel, who nodded softly for them to take it. So they did, and then put it on their cheek. They didn’t notice how badly it was hurting until now. “Thanks.” They said to Joel who just nodded and turned back to Ellie, wiping the remaining blood off of her.

Y/n sat there for a second, not really sure of what to do.

These past few weeks as Joel was recovering y/n was constantly busy. They were the one to check on his wound, they were the one going out to hunt and look through the empty houses for anything of use, they were the one to take the watch at night so that Ellie could sleep.

Y/n needed something to do, something to distract them from all these thoughts and feelings in them. They walked over to where their backpack was and sat down next to it. With their free hand they ruffled through their belongings until they found their first aid kit. It was mostly empty now, after all the time of tending to Joel’s wound, but it still had a roll of gauze. They put down their ‘cold pack’ and started to undo the bandages that were currently on their hands.

They were soaked in blood, both their own and the blood of the hunters. Their hands had chapped from the cold, so much so that gashes split open in their skin, causing their hands to bleed. They didn’t have anything to treat their hands with so their best option was to wrap them up, at least to prevent infection.

Taking the gauze off proved itself to be an issue. Their hands were shaking more than usually and it was very painful to peel the gauze from the skin. They struggled a lot but finally freed their left hand.

Wrapping the hand, as it turns out, was going to be even more of a challenge. Last time they did it their hands were not in that bad of a condition. But after all that time in the cold and all the fighting they found their hands in terrible shape. They had to handle it. They had to.

They had to fix their hands, and go back to taking care of the little family they now had. They needed to protect them no matter the cost. They weren’t going to let their hands stop them from doing so.

They had to keep them safe, they had to- “Let me see that.” Y/n looked up to see Joel now kneeling down in front of them. They looked behind him to see Ellie who was now clean of blood, except for her clothes but it was still an improvement, wrapped in the sleeping bag and looking through the crack in the bordered up window.

They then looked back at Joel whose hand was reaching for their now bandage-less hand. Not touching them, just giving them the option.

They held out their left arm which Joel gently took, avoiding all the open wounds. He looked it over, then reached over to the now almost melted ‘cold pack’ next to y/n, got the remaining snow out of it, and gently started to wipe away the blood on their hand. Then he took the new gauze and started wrapping it around y/n’s fingers, asking them if it was too tight or if it hurt every once in a while.

Once he was done with that hand, he repeated the process on their right hand, just as gently and carefully. Once he was done, Joel helped y/n put everything back into their pack and then helped them get up. “We’ll find you something to help with that later, ok?”

Y/n nodded and picked up their own sleeping bag and walked over to where Ellie was starting to drift off. Joel sat down next to Ellie after pulling out the gun out of his holster. He stayed close to her but gave her space. Ellie however moved closer to him, leaning on his side for warmth and comfort. Y/n mirrored her, they sat down on the opposite side of Joel, unwrapped and fully unzipped their sleeping bag, and then carefully placed it on top of their and Joel’s legs.

Finally, a heavy silence took over them. None of them could talk, all three were lost in their own thoughts, trying to process all that had just occurred.

As it got darker outside, Ellie lied down on the ground, putting her head on Joel's thigh. She looked like a child. Of course Ellie was only 14 and still was a kid but right there and then she looked even younger, curled up at Joel’s side, sleep finally taking over her. Joel put his hand on her arm.

“You should get some sleep.” Y/n whispered to him. “I can take first watch.”

“No it’s alright, you should sleep tonight.” He said in a lowered voice as to not wake Ellie.

He saw that y/n was about to disagree but he shook his head. “I’ve slept enough already, and knowing you, you probably got no sleep at all.” Y/n got quiet and turned their head to look forward instead of at him.

They looked exhausted, their skin was sickly pale and the bags under their eyes were almost as dark as that horrible bruise on their cheek. They were a stark contrast to the bright and funny teenager he got to know these past four months. The teenager that always had a look of wonder on their face, finding beauty even in the broken world around them.

Sometimes when something reminded them of their past they’d get lost in thought, their eyes only focusing on the ground under them, but they’d always comeback to reality quickly, if not for themselves then surely for Ellie who’d talk her heart out until y/n said something back.

The same Ellie at his side that hasn’t said a word in hours. It was uncomfortable to not hear Ellie's voice for so long. No questions, no puns, no sarcastic comments.

And while now Ellie was asleep, Joel knew that she wouldn’t be back to her normal self tomorrow.

His heart clenched as he realized that there’s a possibility she’d never go back to her normal self. Neither of them might. What if his two children will never be the same again? No more stupid jokes, no more silly arguments, no more talks about the stars, no more questions about the past and the future, no more wonder.

No more Ellie and y/n.

How could he have let this happen? Doubt and guilt started clawing at his mind again. His weaknesses led to this. Because of him these two wonderful kids have been stripped of their identities. It was all his fault.

He failed again and again and aga-

His thoughts stopped in their tracks as he felt y/n lean their head on his shoulder. Y/n wanted to stay up, they wanted to protect the two people they loved the most, but their body was betraying them.

After weeks of barely any sleep, after all the fighting and running, they were shutting down.

They needed to let go, they needed to sleep for at least a little bit, but they were so afraid that while they slept something terrible would happen and they’d wake up all alone, without a trace of either Joel or Ellie.

Their eyes were drooping as they fought to stay awake. They tilted their head a bit upwards as they whispered

“Joel?”

He hummed, letting them know that they had his full attention.

“I’m so tired.” They whispered.

It was a confession. It was more than just about their body. They were tired on so many levels.

They were tired of being an adult when they should have been a kid, they were tired of being scared, they were tired of being unloved.

They confessed that to him, quietly, not expecting him to understand it on any other level other than that of a physical tiredness.

But Joel understood. Of course he did. They were his child.

And it didn’t matter that he didn’t see them grow up, it didn’t matter that he wasn’t there when they spoke their first words or took their first steps.

It didn’t matter that they weren’t tied by blood.

All that mattered was that they were there by his side, and he was going to take care of them.

He was going to take care of both of them, both Ellie and y/n, because now he had two children.

It didn’t matter that he failed, it didn’t matter that he wasn’t as strong as he thought he had to be to protect them. They were his kids and there was nothing he could do about that now.

All his doubt and all his guilt was nothing compared to how much he cared about the two kids that were now clinging to him.

He let go of the gun he was holding, leaving it in his lap, then he wrapped his now free hand around y/n’s shoulder, and y/n hid their face in his neck as they felt tears welling in their eyes.

“It’s ok, you’re ok now. I’m here, you can sleep. You don’t have to worry anymore. I’m right here. I’ll take care of you, I promise.” He reassured them quietly.

That was all it took for y/n to start sobbing. He held them tightly as they let it all out.

Joel had only seen them cry two times.

First time after Henry and Sam, when they held on tightly to a shaking Ellie, covering up the young girls eyes when Henry pointed the gun at himself.

The second time was back in Jackson, in that little room on the second floor.

He regretted what he said, he regretted how he made those kids feel.

Quiet tears slipped down both of their faces when he told them that they were not his children and he was not their dad. He was lying to them as much as he was lying to himself.

But the way they were crying right now… he’d never seen them cry like this.

They were trying to be as silent as possible, both for his and Ellie’s sake. Their body shook as they took in rigid breaths.

Joel felt their tears on his neck, and it broke his heart.

That was the moment that he vowed to himself that he would do everything in his power to make sure that neither of his kids had anything more to cry about like that.

He knew that they’ve been through a lot. He knew that the two charming kids that had not only broken down his walls, but also crawled into his very heart and made themselves at home there, had lived through things that no human, let alone a child, should ever live though.

He knew that they’ve lost people, he knew that they’ve been neglected and abused, left to fend for themselves for years.

And as sad as it made him he knew that there was nothing he could do to change that.

But as y/n finally fell asleep, their tears still wet on their cheeks and on his neck, and as he held the two sleeping kids in his arms he once again made a vow to himself.

A vow to give these kids a childhood, a family, a home.

He knew that they still had a long road ahead of them, their journey wasn’t done yet.

But they’ll get through it.

They’ll finish this whole vaccine business and go back to Tommy's. He’ll teach them everything he knows, he’ll take care of them.

They showed him that, what he thought had died all those 20 years ago with Sarah, was still there within him. So he’ll do the same for them, he’ll show them that they can still be kids.

He’ll show them what it’s like to have a family and he’ll watch them grow up.

Yes, the road ahead was long and hard, and he knew that this wasn’t their last challenge.

But it didn’t matter because they were all together.

They had each other and if that wasn’t worth fighting for then he didn’t know what was.

#tlou #the last of us #joel miller #joel tlou #ellie williams #ellie tlou #fanfic #fanfiction #tlou fic #tlou fanfiction #joel and ellie #joel and reader #found family #hurt/comfort #tlou spoilers #ellie and reader #reader insert #gn reader #gender neutral reader

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semper-legens · 1 month

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36. Redeemed, by PC and Kristin Cast

Owned: No, library Page count: 310 My summary: It's the final showdown. Zoey is sitting in a lockup, accused of murder. Neferet is on the loose, ready to complete her ascension to godhood. The forces of Light and Darkness hang in the balance. But can Zoey and her friends stop Neferet's plans? Or is this the end of the House of Night? My rating: 1/5 My commentary:

It's over! It's done! The evil is defeated! The House of Night has not broken me, and I return the conquering hero! Okay, okay, there are other House of Night books, but they're novellas and a spinoff series, so for my purposes they don't count. Because if I had to read any more of this, I think I would actually go insane. Anyway, it's over, and surprise surprise, I have proved my initial thesis by discovering that they were, in fact, just as bad as I remembered them, if not worse. I'm glad to be putting this series behind me, and I'm especially glad to not have to order these books through work and probably be judged by my coworkers for my choices. So. Finale. Let's do this.

Zoey, as our protagonist, should come first. The last book left us on a cliffhanger where she was being arrested for lashing out with her Seer Stone and killing two men. She's horrified by that - and I thought it was trite and came outta nowhere. The other thing, however, is that it was so obviously going to be overturned. The Old Magic was using Zoey, the Seer Stone did it and not her, and the two guys were creeps anyway. Well, I wasn't wrong, but it was even worse than that! Neferet actually killed them, and confesses as such readily to the police. Zoey doesn't need to be racked with guilt, and the whole thing blows over in a handful of chapters. It's laughable how quickly this gets brushed under the rug. The character arc is meant to be that Zoey grows up into a true High Priestess - that she chooses Light, learns compassion, and ultimately becomes a fair and true leader. The problem, as ever with this series, is twofold. The first is that nothing Zoey ever does has been wrong. Like in this instance; her actually killing those men unjustifiably (or semi-justifiably) would have shown an actual character flaw, but she's exonerated in seconds. If anything, it's used as proof that she's too critical of herself, too good. Her instincts are always right, and she never fails to make the right decision when she listens to them. There's no tension, no growth.

But second is the fact that she doesn't do anything! Most of the ways things are resolved in these books are to do some vague magic, listen to a prophecy, or channel Nyx. This one's in the former category, Zoey needs to cast her circle and channel magic and cast spells (why the fuck are these books not about witches!) in order to save the day, but magic's never been something she's had to work at. It's always come easy to her. All she needs to do is follow her instincts, and she can do magic that other characters will exclaim has never been done before by a fledgeling. She doesn't struggle, she doesn't have to work at anything, she doesn't gain skills. She just stands there and says some prayer rhymes and then the problem is solved. There's no tension, because there's no work being put in. Zoey can just do everything she needs to as soon as she realises that she needs to do it. Oh, and she fully goes through the Change at the end. Which is functionally meaningless, because she already had way fancier tattoos than any adult vampire. It's basically an afterthought.

And then there's the Cherokee thing. Zoey has Cherokee descent, and it's revealed that that's why she was chosen and gifted in the manner that she was. She needs an ancient connection to the land alongside being one of Nyx's chosen vampires in order to channel old magic and become a powerful priestess. Except…the setting of this book is Oklahoma, a place the Cherokee didn't live until they were forcibly evicted from their home in Georgia in the 1830s. Hardly an ancient connection to the land. And furthermore, this is the only way in which Zoey's Cherokee lineage affects her character. What's her opinion on Cherokee customs and legends? We don't know, because the only context in which she will discuss them is her grandmother - it's less respect for a culture and way of life and more love for a single person. The only things Zoey does that reflect her heritage is occasionally smudging as part of her magic practice. She is described the same as the white characters. It feels less an integrated part of her background as a character and more just some 'exotic' flavour that Cast put in to make Zoey more special. And, of course, there's a lot to unpack in the automatic assumption that having Native blook inherently makes one more connected to the land in a magical sense while being largely divorced from any actual Cherokee beliefs and practice, and in fact only bringing up Zoey's Cherokee heritage when she can use it to solve a problem. I may not know much about Cherokee practice, but I'm willing to bet that Cast didn't either.

Also, there's weird worldbuilding stuff going on here. First, linked to the above point, is Zoey the only person with Native heritage to ever be Marked? It's not mentioned that there are any other Native vampires - we see a few black people who are vampires, but no other Native people. How is this possible, demographically? The vampire population is said to be quite small, but it's incredibly vague as to what that means. Secondarily, the humans are weirdly accepting of the fact that magic is real, the vampire goddess is real, and beings like Rephaim and Kalona exist. Sure, they do live in a world where vampires are an accepted part of life, but at the same time the average human is consistently depicted as being largely ignorant of anything to do with vampire culture and history. Many are seen as being dismissive to vampire powers. But here, they're just like 'yep that sounds correct don't let me stop you', and it's jarring.

And there's an overwhelming flavour of copaganda to some of it. After being released, Zoey and co work closely with the police, who are presented as being reasonable and helpful - their leader, Marx, even having the same gut-instinct sixth sense that the main characters share. Zoey's little prison stay is largely forgotten except as a quirky side-note. That, plus the fact that Damien's new reporter boyfriend is from Fox, leads me to strongly suspect some conservative leanings on the part of the Casts. Let's be real, a real-life police department would be literally useless in this situation - and yet, their presence on Zoey's side seems to be legitimising her goodness, as though having the police behind you automatically means you're right. Ugh.

Okay, time to talk Neferet. Or rather, Lynette. See, most of Neferet's part of the story is taken up by her new minion Lynette, an events organiser who pledges herself to Neferet out of self-preservation after Neferet starts possessing and/or murdering people. She has never shown up before, and in a series with this many characters, it's kind of egregious how much time is spent with her rather than literally anyone else. What happened to Neferet's connection with the red fledgelings, where did that go? Anyway, Neferet continues to be femme-fatale evil in a way that is wholly uninteresting. She's flirtatious and sexual, she murders people all the time for no real good reason, and her plans are shaky at best. How exactly she thinks that anything she's doing will make her a goddess is a little weak. And she's one-note the whole way through. Flirty villain, control freak, murder murder murder…her takedown is less satisfying than inevitable, and thoroughly uninteresting at that.

As I've alluded to before, the fact that there were so many plot threads and so many characters established in the earlier books leads to a situation where nothing but the main plot is resolved effectively. Shaylin and Nicole are dating in the background, pointlessly. Aphrodite remembers she has issues from her upbringing for one chapter, wherein those issues are resolved seamlessly. Minor characters like Lenobia are just sort of there. Ex-boyfriend and sidelined character Erik gets like two chapters where he's said to be less of a douche and gets pair-the-spares'd with Shaunee, with uncomfortable remarks made about how she's a black girl dating a white guy. Prophet/poet Kremisha shows up for essentially a cameo. Nobody seems to remember all their dead friends - given how short a timescale this is, they surely deserve more than a token mention? Kalona gets to die heroically and pointlessly. Rephaim…still turns into a bird sometimes. Some of the threads, like the evil red fledgelings or the conflict with humans and specifically the church, are dropped outright. It really feels like Cast didn't have a plan going into this and was just making things up as she went, which doesn't lead to a satisfying narrative overall.

So, that was House of Night. It was bad! It was beyond bad! How this shit ever got published is honestly beyond me. But it's done, it's conquered, and I am never looking back. So long, terrible vampire books. You are exorcised from my life now.

Next, something mercifully different. Villains!

#Redeemed #PC Cast #Kristin Cast #bookblr #book blog #1

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bloodredx · 8 months

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Day 8: Savior

Beeping from the heart monitor was an incessant and unnecessary distraction. The patient’s heartbeat was clear as day, even without the visual and auditory aid, though the Lady knew well it wasn’t for her. Though it didn’t make it any less obnoxious. Her hands fiddled with the IV bag, adjusting the flow of medication as her mind focused on the hard part: what to say. Certainly she could give a detailed explanation of all the critical organ failures the young man’s body was going through, that the very essence of life was leeching out of him with each breath haggardly drawn, each flex of a muscle, each and every throb of the heart that echoed out in both his chest and the monitor.

“I take it from your expression, prognosis isn’t good?” words broken and distantly soft left his lips suddenly, resetting her thoughts entirely.

Rolling her shoulders back, Lady Serena sat gently on a stool next to the bed, folding her hands perfectly in her lap. She ran out of time, and words must come. “I won’t lie to you.”

The strained laughs faded quickly, a shine of something unsaid lingering in his steel grey eyes. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

With the ice of restraint now broken, Dr. Rosalune’s words came fluidly, trying to place a gentleness that was wholly outside the reach of her personality. “I’m doing nothing but delaying the pain. At this point, things have deteriorated to the point where barring transplants, there isn’t much I can do for you. And even then, your fragility might not allow you to handle surgery.” She felt the tip of her toe tapping softly on the floor. “I’m sorry. You have a very short time remaining.”

He tilted his head away from her, eyes tracing the spaces mortar held between the stones of the wall, and finally landing on the single painting in the room. A bouquet of flowers, sitting still on a table with a thick, impasto style. Petals drifting off and flaking away from the group. His next breath was audible and he closed his eyes for it, perhaps to hide the pain. “You have nothing to apologize for, doctor. We both knew going in here I wasn’t looking for a miracle. Every other hospital in Glacidea turned me away.” A bitter smile drifted onto his face for a moment. “It’s the will of the gods, I was to die eventually. At least now I know it will be a comfortable one.”

A shaky hand reached at, and for a moment, Serena hesitated in taking it. But she did, feeling the warmth of his failing body against the iciness of her skin. Holding there a moment, she internalized her own prayer, and stood slowly as she gave it a squeeze. “Shall I bring in your family? Can I make any arrangements for you?”

“You can actually.” His voice turning serious a moment.

“Oh?” His hand clung tightly to hers, refusing to let go until his words were spoken.

“Make me a promise. Do better on the next one like me. I know you can’t save everyone; that is the curse of life. But you made this so easy for me. Do even more next time. In that way, I am saved.”

Of all the things to ask. She mused internally, but not letting a single change reflect across her face. I gave you everything available to me and yet it was not enough. Yet… Dr. Rosalune bowed her head slightly as she spoke, belying a tenderness that was uniquely hers, yet entirely foreign. “You have my word.”

Only then did he let go, eyes closing as he sank further into his pillow. “Thank you. Goddess preserve you.” She nodded once, and stepped slowly out of the room. He wasn’t the first patient she had lost, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last one. The gods had their demand for life, the First One and the Silent One had ensured that. But her mind chewed at the details of his case, wondering what exactly she had missed. No matter what, she would find it, and it would be used on the next patient that shared the condition. However, it pained her that with all her speed and experience, that she couldn’t grasp the wisp of smoke that was called life in time for him. But then again, lifeless as she was, she wouldn’t truly know what to look for either. Her fingers drummed against her leg as she walked back to her office, trying to put the pieces together.

(OC-tober prompts by @oc-tober2023 can be found here.)

#lady serena #vampire #hospital #end of life #savior #saviour #oc tober #oc-tober #oc-tober 2023 #prompt #doctor #bloodredx writes #writers on tumblr

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8-bitpixelheart · 2 years

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Image ID below the cut! The Luck Domain allows you to bless your allies with good luck and good times!

The Luck Domain

Life has no set rules. There's nothing carved in stone that determines your life. You eitherr get lucky, or you don't. Anything you do in life is for your own satisfaction, and the consequences of your actions are just rolls of the dice. So let the good times roll.

At 1st level you gain: Lucky Token, Coin Flip, Domain Spells At 2nd level you gain: Channel Divinity: Wheel of Fortune At 6th level you gain: Dandelions At 8th level you gain: Potent Spellcasting At 17th level you gain: Shooting Star

Lucky Token

You can spend an hour of prayer and concentration to create a lucky token. This token contains divine luck, and can be used by any creature, granting them a +1 bonus to saving throws and skill checks. It lasts for 24 hours, and you can only have one lucky token at a time.

Coin Flip

When a creature within 60ft of you is making an attack roll, ability check, or saving throw, you can use your reaction to force them to roll 1d2. On a 1, they get a natural 1. On a 2, they get a critical 20. You must use this ability before they roll. You can use this reaction a number of times equal to your proficiency bonus.

Domain Spells

You gain domain spells at the cleric levels listed in the Domain Spells table. See the Divine Domain class feature for how domain spells work.

At 1st level you learn: Gift of Alacrity, Guiding bolt At 3rd level you learn: Augury, Fortune's Favor At 5th level you learn: Blink, Haste At 7th level you learn: Confusion, Death Ward At 9th level you learn: Mislead, Reincarnate

Channel Divinity: Wheel of Fortune

Starting at 2nd level, you can summon a whirlwind of good and bad fortune. Select a number of creatures up to your wisdom modifier and designate whether they get good luck, advantage on their next roll, or bad luck, disadvantage on their next roll. Creatures chosen may make a wisdom save against your spell save dc to avoid being affected.

Dandelions

Starting at 6th level, you can manifest the good luck of a classic dandelion. When you see a creature fail a saving throw, you can use your reaction to make their fail a success. You can use this ability once per short rest.

Potent Spellcasting

Starting at 8th level, you add your Wisdom modifier to the damage you deal with any cleric cantrip.

Shooting Star

At 17th level as an action, you can roll 1d2. On a 1, your enemies are forced to make constitution saves against your spell save dc or take 10d6 necrotic damage. On a 2, your allies heal 10d6 and are cleansed of any negative effects. You can use the shooting star once per day.

#dnd #homebrew #dungeons and dragons #dnd 5e #ttrpgs #subclass #cleric subclass #cleric domain #cleric

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officialyourdailyinspiration · 1 year

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Learning Through Lesson Practice

by Aiden Wilson Tozer

Moses summoned all Israel and said: Hear, O Israel, the decrees and laws I declare in your hearing today. Learn them and be sure to follow them. — Deuteronomy 5:1

The school into which we Christians are introduced furnishes many lessons, all taught by the wisest of all teachers; but everything depends upon how we respond to them. Unfortunately many of us learn little and soon forget what little we may have learned. We can hear great preaching, as Demas heard Paul, without profit; we can meet saintly Christians without becoming stimulated to seek to live holier lives; we can see miraculous answers to prayer and be none the better for it. The providential circumstances set up the lessons; the Teacher is wise and patient; only the disciple fails to profit. A child who through negligence learns nothing in school is guilty of practicing serious waste. He is wasting the money furnished by his parents or the taxpayers, and the gifts and energies of everyone associated with the effort to teach him are wasted as well. And much the same thing may be said of the dullard Christian. He is wasting the painstaking efforts of every pastor or teacher who tries to help him. There have been a few noble souls who have managed to break through into a place of great spiritual power and purity with scarcely anyone to help them and with but the scantiest educational equipment to assist them in their search for God and holy things. Ought we not to be ashamed who are surrounded with such a wealth of aids and still learn so little? And how much suffering is wasted on us. Chastisement is a stern teacher, but there are great riches to be gained in her school. It is critically important that we enter that school with humble hearts and open minds. Yes, it is possible to go through school without learning anything. For all of us the final bell will ring soon. We had better do some hard studying before that time comes.

#Aiden Wilson Tozer #Learning Through Lesson Practice #devotional #March 15 #Tozer in the Evening #2023

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piglet26 · 2 years

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Thor L&T Rant- Against the negative reviewers

One, I loved the movie because it was just a fun and heartfelt movie. However, I've got some things I need to get off my chest and it's against the negative Youtubers and Critics.

Some YTers who pride themselves on being critics (who are just normal people watching a movie and then making their opinions known) had a hard time with this movie but for obvious, annoying, petty and some valid reasons. What are those reasons? Well.....

The fixation of Ragnarök. The movie happened and it's over move on. This is one of the more annoying reasons. Watching at least 10 YT reviewers say the same damn things like "do I like it better than Ragnarök?" "Is it as good as Ragnarök?" "As someone who loved Ragnarök" "You know I loved Ragnarök" Then go watch Ragnarök. The people who can't let Ragnarök be it's own thing are struggling with false expectations moving forward. That's a you problem and the current film is not to blame for that. I could say this about the GOTG as well.

YTers hating on Marvel Phase 4 in general. This is somewhat valid because phase 4 has been a mess. MoM ummmm I didn't know I had to do homework before a film. Neither did a lot of people. If you hadn't watched WandaVision then the first half of the movie doesn't make sense. Love and Thunder at least did a recap at the beginning of the movie in a fun, comedic way; MoM did not and suffered as a consequence because the audience was lost. Movies and shows blending together without any clearly way of understanding why or how.... maybe not the best idea. However, it's not valid because why are you trying to connect this movie to 5 other movies at the same time?! Why? Just watch the damn movie as a standalone and in the avenger's movie (Hint: because those are the films that usually tie everything together) I'm sure things will make sense.

Oh yeah YTers and critics taking themselves way too seriously. The Critical Drinker right..... the guy has some valid points but I listen to him knowing that his whole thing is to be a obnoxious fake drunk while hating on things in a slurred Scottish accent. Love and Thunder unashamedly has fun and wants you to have fun so lighten up. This is a film that doesn't take itself too seriously, yes, sometimes to it's own detriment. Guess what?! Ragnarök was very much the same kind of movie.

People trying to be smart and failing. If you are gonna "analyze" a film come correct. Several YTers are being educated in the comment section because they missed a lot of things the first time watching the film. For example, several critics and YTers don't understand why the Gods didn't intervene when Thanos wanted to obliterate half the universe. Umm hello! THAT'S THE POINT OF THE WHOLE MOVIE! Scene after scene regarding people who prayers/problems are not being answered by the Gods and they don't understand why. We met those Gods doing nothing but discussing orgies and BS. It's what motivates Gorr into wanting to kill them all because they are useless. It's in the trailer, it's in the movie so how did you miss that?!

They missed it, because they were too busy thinking the movie was dur dur dumb, the Gods cannot control death. The second half of the movie (part of the Disney+ shows) is about setting up that there is entities above "the Gods" like the original celestials who held the infinity stones. Like lady death, eternity, the watcher ect. ect. If the Gods could stop death then someone like Gorr the God butcher wouldn't scare them nor be able to kill them.

Lastly, and this is fair people were genuinely concerned this film would be woke. People are really wearing thin with the gender bending, race swapping, SHEro while being underdeveloped and poorly written, alphabet group pandering, agenda pushing and I understand because I am too. Those movies are failing BTW look at Lightyear. I'm talking about poorly executed films but it's diverse so we can't complain about it. Valkyrie and Mighty Thor are well written and developed while not minimizing or sidelining Thor. Valkyrie isn't making speeches about being oppressed (how could she?! she's king!) and Jane is strong woman without needing to tell everyone she's a strong woman. I loved Jane actually because you saw her selfless love for Thor. She faced her mortality with courage. She supported another female and didn't feel the need to compete with her. She didn't try to replace or be randomly better than him. Ultimately she died for him. Jane is a great female character.

One more thing. Yes, the film was hurting from it's cut down run time. The film needed to be longer. Another 20 minutes to see Gorr butcher a God, develop Valkyrie more, really sit with Thor and Jane and her mortality+ what that means for him going forward. Let the film breathe a little more would have only strengthened the film. Hopefully there is an extended cut.

Welp if you made it to the end congratulations and let me know what you think.

#love and thunder #the mighty thor #mighty thor #jane foster #thor 4 #lady thor #lady sif #loki #mcu fandom #mcuedit #marvel #mcu phase 4 #thor spoilers #heimdall #thor #valkyrie #brunnhilde

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books-of-the-great-leviathan · 2 years

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Chapter 22- Ziva

***

Not for hundreds of years, since before the Sundered Empire, had the title of Witchhunter been literal. Not until now, at night's edge, upon this storm-lashed crag of the world. But these were the days of legends, and monsters returning. Where there were monsters, there would always be those who came to hunt them.

Ziva's body burned with furious energy as she shouted orders. The crew hauled the chest of nets up the mountainside, their prisoner leashed between them by his chains, his bare blue feet slipping on the rain-soaked steps. The steps continued past the cave, up the summit of the highest peak and to this place, open to the wind and the storm, no higher point but the sky.

Lightning cracked, a scar of blue-white across the clouds.

The steps ended at a flat expanse of rock, far end falling in a sheer cliff. Nothing was there to stop a fall, nothing but mist and empty air all the way down, hundreds of feet to crashing waves. Standing stones towered, three of them arranged in a triangle some twenty yards across. The stones were monolithic, sentinels facing the storm, their surfaces cracked and smoothed by millennia of driving rain.

"This the place, sir?" she asked Azare. He nodded, wordless, his eyes set on the gathering clouds overhead.

The crew prepared, anchoring chains around the bases of the standing stones. From these were coiled cables, long hooked javelins spliced onto their ends and loaded into waiting ballistae. Not the king's spellfire javelins, but these were deadly enough. Ziva tested their points, their heft. She examined the chains link by link. The stones were ancient, roots wound deep into the mountain beneath. They'd been here for countless centuries, and would weather the storms of countless more. Ziva cast them a critical look, hoping they'd hold past tonight.

"Think they'll work, Lieutenant?" a Witchhunter asked her.

"I don't know. But they're the best we have." She gave the chain a last tug. It would be enough. It would have to be.

She would not fail tonight.

In the center point between the standing stones, a shallow bowl was formed in the ground, a basin collecting rainwater. A ritual place. It was here the prisoner was pushed. His eyes were closed tight, his head lowered. His shoulders shook inside his prison uniform. Ziva heard his muttered prayers. Little good they'd do him now.

"Put him on his knees," Ziva ordered. Azare stood at the cliff's edge, staring out across the sky. Ziva glanced at him, then turned back to the prisoner. "Now."

With a kick the prisoner went down, palms slapping the wet rock. Chains rattled as a gust of wind rushed past, stronger than before, blasting Ziva's hair from her face. This storm, it was a monster, a living force. Ziva saw the full brunt of it coming, its hanging curtains of rain, and felt a throb of dread in her heart. The forces at work here were far greater than any she'd seen before, older and stronger than her, older and stronger even than Estara.

For an instant she wavered- tiny things, all of them, standing on a knuckle of rock on the surface of the world's skin, and beneath them the great and unsounded-

She steeled herself, straightened her spine. The resolve rushed back in. This was no place to lose her nerve. All the same her fingertips tapped at her knife hilt, its worn bone pommel dimpled with decades of her fear. A knife's like a will, her father had whispered, his voice nearly eaten by the disease, the whites of his eyes turned black and wet. Even the smallest one's enough to dig with, enough to hunt with, enough to kill with, if that's what you really need it to do.

How strengthless his hands had been as he'd pressed the knife into her grip. It was that will he'd spoken of, and in no small part the plain knife, that had brought Ziva here, to world and belief's edge.

Could be my grave, pa. Just as you got yours.

"They're coming," Azare said.

He turned, facing her. Lightning struck again, and in its flood of brilliance Ziva saw his face, his narrowed eyes, the hard mask of resolve he wore whenever he fought. His hair was bright as blood, the only color in all the world. The bone knife he'd brought from the cave was in his hand, a long pale shard, rainwater trickling from its tip.

"Nets?" he called. "Artillery?"

Another Witchhunter answered. "Ready, sir!"

"Then we begin." He paced toward the prisoner. A third lightning strike split the sky, and thunder purled, shaking the stone under Ziva's feet. Her heartbeat was in her mouth. Her hands ached to be filled with blades.

Azare wound his hand deep in the prisoner's hair and yanked his head back, exposing his throat to the storm. The prisoner still prayed. Ziva saw his lips flutter.

"Brace yourselves!" Azare cried, and slashed the knife across the man's throat.

Red spurted, brilliant and arterial, spattering the stones. Azare let the prisoner go, and he slumped forward into the basin of rainwater. Coils of blood unspooled into the water, dyeing the basin a deep red. Ziva smelled the pall of blood hanging amidst the stones.

Pulse.

Ziva stiffened. The others must have felt it, too: a ripple through the island like a skipped heartbeat, a single hard throb in the pit of her guts.

Gazes shifted toward the sky, away from the dead man and the stones and toward the storm. A keen echoed over the wind, an eerie cry like some great hawk's. Ziva's hands flexed. Her heart raced, her eyes wide, not wanting to look away, searching the skies for the first sign of movement.

Shadow rippled:

Something massive, mere meters overhead.

Another cry. Not a hawk's; this belonged to something bigger, much bigger. Another pulse came, a spike of pressure in Ziva's ears. She winced at the pain. Not magic, not this time.

Wingbeats.

Shadow rippled again, wheeling round. Ziva caught a glimpse of pinion feathers, spread wings. It was riding the storm. Impossible- those winds would rip an ordinary bird apart.

This is no ordinary bird, she thought.

It angled its wings, its shadow made diffuse by churning clouds. Impossible, impossible- the word echoed through Ziva like a prayer, but it couldn't cancel out what she was seeing. It was a bird, a vast black raptor shape, circling them. Flickers of lightning trailed from its wings. She had never seen anything so huge take to the air, never before. Those wings would drown the Mistfox in shadow.

The monster circled them again, whipping the clouds into a funnel, and that time Ziva caught a glimpse of its flexed talons, each one hooked like a scimitar.

"It's close, sir," she called out, whirling once more toward the standing stones, toward Azare, bloody knife still in hand.

"Ready the javelins!" he cried. "On my signal!"

Another shriek echoed down, and the wind responded, a blast to sweep them from the mountain and send them spinning to the waves.

Azare's command cut through the storm.

"Fire!"

A volley of sharp, metallic twangs sounded; javelins shot toward the core of the dark mass as it circled, vanishing into the clouds. Cables unspooled from their tails, fast as whiplash. For a moment of dread Ziva thought they'd missed, and then she heard the scream. No longer eerie, no longer weaving through the storm like some weird music, but a howling shriek of pain.

Of rage.

The cables snapped taut. The clouds thrashed, wingbeats arrhythmic as the witch struggled to stay aloft.

"Bring it in." Azare's voice was raw, burning. He strode forward, standing over the prisoner's corpse, the lines of his body tense as the javelin cables. Waiting. Waiting. Ziva's heart blazed; it hurt to look at him, it hurt because he was so beautiful, and so far away, and maybe there was no reaching him, not in this world, not in any.

Cables strained, metallic crackles echoing through the ritual ground. The dark shape circled, and Ziva heard the wingbeats stutter, falter, stop.

She backed away.

"Captain," she warned. The mass hurtled closer, huge as a falling moon. Black liquid spattered Ziva's face from above, hot against her numb skin. The monster's blood. It was wounded. More than wounded, it was plummeting from the damned sky.

"Azare!"

He stood in its path, head still tilted back, his hair plastered to his skull. Witchhunters shouted warnings to Ziva, to get back, to get out of the way, but she ignored them. She sprang forward. Rain raked at her face like grasping fingers. Lightning crackled: she glimpsed outspread wings, heard the monster's scream like blades driven through her head.

She lunged for Azare. All her weight was in it, and she took him down, hard. They crashed to the ground, tangled limbs and hammering hearts, an instant before the witch hit the mountain.

It slid past them, close enough to brush Ziva's cheek with one outstretched wing, to suck her hair and release it in the backdraft of its wake. Impact jarred Ziva to the teeth, a boom like the reverberation of cannon fire. Wings thrashed, flinging arcs of lightning and rainwater. Ziva heard stone crack, one of the standing stones uprooted, listing to the side with the grind of rock against rock. Her mouth tasted of metal. She'd bitten her tongue.

"Nets!" she screamed- "Nets! Now!" -and was rewarded with the sound of cables slicing through the wind. Nets blossomed, spinning toward the vast bird like the mantle of some strange deep-sea squid. Weights whirred and clattered, fringing the edges of the nets. As the witch reared its head the nets engulfed it, weights driving the monster down to the wet stone.

Azare stared up at Ziva, and she met his eyes, white-ringed and so dark she could not differentiate iris from pupil.

"Sir-" she gasped.

He pushed her off. "Up, Lapin. This is no place to fall."

She scrambled to her feet as Azare stood and strode toward the downed monster, his sodden mantle flaring behind him. The witch hunched, weighted down and entrapped by the web of cables. Even in such a state it was magnificent. Ripples of lightning coursed across its feathers. The ritual ground echoed with the blade snick of its great curved beak as it snapped and twisted at its bindings. Its wings were still half-furled, enormous black sails against the sky. The wind fluted past them, lifting them, as if its command over the storm might prove enough to break it free.

It was not so like an eagle, Ziva saw that now; those wings swept backward in points, its neck an elegant s-curve, its head long and narrow. Its jaws were lined with double-rows of jagged black teeth, visible each time it snapped at the cables. Keens shuddered from its throat, its golden eyes lucent, pupils shrunk to pinpricks. Blood matted the feathers behind one wing-joint, where the last few feet of the javelin jutted from the witch's side.

She approached, a pace behind Azare, her hand on her sword hilt. If the monster made a move for him she'd put her blade through one great golden eye.

The witch twisted as Azare drew near, neck arching. A crest fanned out behind its head. Cable scraped cable; wind howled, enough for the monster to catch underwing and rear back with a shriek. Pressure flexed. Talons flashed. Ziva's scream was lodged in her throat, horror pulsing behind her eyes, but Azare had not stopped, not even as his own blood spattered the stone at his feet. His blade was out in a hish of steel. Ripples of blue, reflections of the witch's lightning, fanned down its length as he pressed its point to the monster's keelbone. One forward thrust and he'd have its heart.

Ziva's hands trembled. Too close. Inches closer to his neck and Azare would be the one bleeding out on the ritual ground.

"Enough," Azare snarled. The wound bled freely, a gash across his chest and left shoulder, parting the fabric of his uniform. He twisted the swordpoint deeper. "I bind you in blood and in iron. I caught you, fair and true, and now you are mine."

Nictitating membranes flickered across the witch's eyes. Its body shuddered, feathers shivering; it pulled in on itself, folding, compacting; down drifted in the wind, fine and black as ash. The monster bird was gone. In its place knelt a boy. The javelin was still buried in his side, just under one arm. Black blood trickled down his skin. His hair was dark as the feathers of his bird form and falling in tangles to his shoulders. He was all ribs and sharp elbows, his nails stained black like he'd dipped his fingertips in shadow.

He lifted his head. His features were narrow, pointed, his tilted eyes vivid gold. A dart of cold passed through Ziva's heart.

"What..." the witch panted. "What do you...want?"

"You," Azare said.

He flicked the sword point under the witch-boy's chin, forcing his head up. "I am Captain Severin Azare, Royal Witchhunter of Estara. You know my kind as well as I know yours."

"Witchhunter." The witch shuddered again, hands curling into claws on the stone. "Curse you, curse your blade and your traps-"

"No curses, witch, and no games, either. I come on a king's word. I seek the Great Leviathan. And you can lead me to it."

The witch's eyes widened. "You heard it, too."

"Heard what?"

"So long I rode the winds, so long I waited far beyond safe waters." A pained smile drifted over the witch's face. "But I heard its heartbeat, and knew it wouldn't leave forever. And then it sang, and it was like a call heard through sea and star and sky. A call must be answered."

"I heard nothing but my king's command," Azare said.

The witch straightened with pained effort. Blood welled from his wound in heartbeat pulses. Ziva didn't know how he was still alive, much less conscious. This was old power, god-power. Whale-magic, like the turn of the stars, the rise and fall of the sea.

"No one's apart from the Leviathan," the witch said. "No one. Not even you."

Ziva drew her gun and pressed its muzzle to the back of the witch's head. She cocked it: a clean, sharp snap.

"Mind your manners," she said. "You're in Estaran company now."

His eyes flicked to her, gold bright as coins, as if lit from within. "You hear it too. All of you. No matter how you might deny it. All life flowed from its blood. Your sort is no different."

"And nor is yours," Azare said.

He lowered his sword from the witch's throat. Ziva looked at him, alarmed, but he didn't turn his gaze from the boy.

"Find us the Leviathan," Azare said, "lead us to it, and I'll give you your freedom again."

The witch bared his teeth in a dry grin. "You, who stole it?"

Azare stared for a heartbeat, then straightened and sheathed his sword.

"Sir," Ziva said, but Azare didn't indicate he'd heard her. He unfastened his fur mantle and held it out to the witch. The witch's eyes flicked to it, then to Azare's face, black brows drawn together.

"To sow death and give life in turn," Azare said. "Isn't that the way of the Leviathan? It can be my way, too. If you help us. If you bring us to it. If we win what we left Estara for."

Slowly, the witch reached out. He tugged the mantle from Azare's grip and slung it around his own shoulders, then stood. The net cables dragged and screeched at the ground, a tapestry of tangled, glinting steel. Bloody water streamed down the witch, pooling at his feet. The wind keened, then died, storm lifting as quickly as it had come.

"Promise me," the witch said. He really was no more than a boy, much the age Ziva had been the first time she'd tasted another's blood on her lips. The dust, the stinging sand. The way the sun had struck her knife, red as Estara's flag. A child, some might have said, who deserved a child's mercy. It was folly. No one was too young to die. "Promise me, Captain Azare."

"I promise," Azare said, lowering his head, and Ziva wondered how many times he'd promised impossible things, and how much of himself he'd lost to keep those promises.

"Then it's done," the witch said. His eyes pressed shut, face braced for pain. He wound his black-stained fingers around the javelin shaft and wrenched it out. His breathing became ragged, but he stayed upright, tossing the javelin away. It clattered across the stone. "Done, and done, and done."

Not yet, witch, Ziva thought.

Far away, thunder rolled, echoing across the sea.

***

Wounds always looked worse in lanternlight. Night had come, the clouds clearing from a northern sky the deep blue-black of tomb enamel and scattered with stars. No glorious Estaran firmament, this, with constellations so vivid Ziva felt their light trickling over her like honey. These stars were cold and distant. Under them, Azare's blood looked black. It had crusted down his chest and dried on Ziva's hands, coating them to the wrists like gloves.

"Far too close, sir," she murmured. Shouts and orders echoed from the surf as the skiff pushed off, half their men and the chests of nets and javelins loaded onboard. Running lights threw chips of gold across the waves. They were taking two trips, back and forth: equipment first, then a second for Ziva and Azare, and for the witch. The prisoner's body was absent. His corpse been burned where it fell, a bonfire lit atop the ritual ground, in the shadow of the fallen sentinel stone. A molten orange glow still smoldered atop the highest peak. "If its talon had gone any deeper-"

"I know, Lapin." Azare's voice was rough, his head bowed. He sat on a rock at the tidemark, one of many small boulders tossed to the base of the cliffs. Beach grass rustled in the breeze, the same dark gray as the stones.

Ziva knelt alongside him in the pool of lanternlight, cleaning his wound with quick, deft movements. Azare's skin was cold, but he gave little indication of feeling it, just faint shudders under Ziva's fingertips each time she touched him. It was hardly the first time he'd tasted pain. His body was all lean muscle and scar, slashes latticing his back and his sides, one pectoral nearly obliterated by what looked like a decades-old burn. Ziva had not been present for that one, but the rest she could name like old friends. This one, training, that one a duke's would-be assassin, a trio of bullet divots from the Three-Day War- all were familiar to her, as familiar as Azare's eyes or the sound of his voice. This new scar would fit right in.

Brushing her bloody fingers over the cleaned wound, Ziva let out her breath. "You should be more careful."

"All went according to plan."

"According to plan," Ziva scoffed.

"We captured the witch-"

"I saw you, sir," Ziva said. "After the cave. In the stone circle. You would have let yourself be crushed if I hadn't got better ideas."

His knuckles blanched. He still held the bone ritual knife, a trace of blood rusted on its edge. The surf whispered across the beach, withdrawing, leaving the sand a glistening ribbon of black. Ziva watched the skiff buoyed into the shallows, running lights giving it form as it glided away. The witch was silent in his cage, a small curled shape bound in yards of chains, such that would sink him to the seabed if he chanced to fall overboard. He had not spoken again. He crouched, dressed in too-big shirt and trousers, a barefoot urchin boy if not for those ghostlight eyes.

"My father would have had all kinds of stories about a night like this," Ziva said, after a long pause. She reached in the box of medical supplies for a phial of disinfectant spirit, a fresh needle, and a spool of sapsilk thread. "He said his gran would tell him things around the fire. About the world we live in just being a narrow strip of air to breathe, and there's another kind of sea up in the heavens, too, and we're looking up at it. The stars are fishes, far, far away. And the moons are the eyes of some vast monster, looking down at us hungry, waiting for the day the sky falls into the sea and it can open its maw to swallow us whole."

"And your father believed that?"

"Oh, he lit candles for Bellana, like we all do. The mine overseers wouldn't tolerate much pagan whispering. But he believed. In star-fishes, and orkwives, and the Deepmother, and the drowned cities. And that the Leviathan would come to deliver us from disease, and hunger, and nights of shivering in the dark."

Her voice grew soft. She sounded like she used to, a girl with blisters on her hands and unending aches who'd nevertheless sat with her father and sisters, her little brother balanced between her knees, to stare at the stars and listen to stories. She'd believed them too, each one. A naive child, stars in her eyes, dust in the lines of her hands.

She smiled tightly. "Him and his peasant superstitions."

"Sounds like your father was a poet."

Ziva yanked the thread through the needle's eye. The needle was curved like the witch's talon that had nearly ended Azare's life. "Nothing but poetry spouting from his lips, up until he died spouting fountains of black blood instead."

Azare didn't flinch as she began to stitch his wound. He stared out across the water, toward the breakers thundering against cliffs offshore.

"He sounds like a good man, too," he said.

Ziva snorted. "He spent all our money on drink, and gambled away the rest. Nearly drove my mother mad. Maybe it did, in the end. She was the first to die. Her, and then all the rest of us, night by night until there was nothing alive but me."

She lowered her head, concentrating on her stitches, on Azare's split flesh, anywhere but the haunted look in his eyes. He'd had that look ever since he'd stumbled from the cave, like he'd walked some faraway place Ziva wished she could follow. She hated it, hated his silence, hated how it all seemed like a punishment: not upon her, but upon himself, the kind of penitence she knew only a man as honorable as him could inflict.

"But yes," she continued, after a moment, her voice quiet. "In his way, he was kind."

"My father was many things, but kind was never one of them. My mother died giving birth to me, so I had to make up for all the sons I'd deprived him of. I was ever his soldier, his scholar, the vehicle of his vengeance. I think he hated Lapide even more than you do, Lapin."

She heard the hint of a smile in his voice. Somehow that unsettled her more than this unexpected candor, like in wounding him the witch had nicked some artery of memories, spilling them now onto the black sand. She knew of his father, General Jasque Azare, and of his legendary campaigns in the name of the old Belmont king, and of his legendary cruelty, too. She knew of his mother's early death, and had overheard plenty of rumors about its precise circumstances, but had never learned specifics.

Nothing that hinted of anguish, of a child forced to grow up too early. A life devoted to Estara, because what else was there but to fall, to lie down and die like the rest.

Stars and stories, fishes and dead fathers. A hallway, a laugh, murmured words whispered two decades past, and at once her silence was a dangerous thing. It all made a mad tangle from which there was little chance of escape.

Ziva had nearly reached the end of her stitching. She finished and cut her thread. Her stitches were regular, as always, but she still found herself feeling a prickle of dissatisfaction.

"When you left the cave," she said as she bandaged his chest and shoulder, "I saw your face."

She lifted her eyes and met his. Mirror black, like some bird's. She caught the faint reflected glimmer of starlight in them.

"What happened to you?" Ziva pressed. "What did you see?"

"Nothing that needs concern you-"

"I am your lieutenant," Ziva said. "Damn you, Azare, I am your friend, if you have such a thing in your miserable life."

She caught him, her palm cupping his face, fingertips pressed to the ridge of his cheekbone. She felt him stiffen, heard the faint catch of his breath. She was sure he felt through her hand the quickening of her heartbeat, but she was past caring. Let him feel. Let him know. "I can't serve you if you keep so many secrets from me."

"Serve me. Like a trained fox? Like a butler bringing me tea?" His tone was bitter, his voice a tired rasp. She looked at him, all of him, his untidy hair, the dark circles under his eyes growing darker day by day, his signs of aging- lines forming where there had not been lines before, a new sharpness of jaw, a new gauntness. How sleek and fine she'd thought he'd looked the first time she saw him, how beautiful and deadly, like some new-forged blade hot from the fire. The Royal Witchhunter of Estara. She'd thought he was a god. Now he was just a man, and a weary one at that. "You deserve more. You deserve-"

"-Evasions? Lies?"

"I would never lie to you."

"But you would keep secrets from me," Ziva said. "You would sooner die, crushed under a monster, than trust me with those secrets. Tell me how that's different than lying to me."

His eyes slid shut.

"If you knew me," he said, "if you knew all of me, these years we've served together would no longer matter. All we've done in the past, all we'll do in the coming days, will mean...dust. Worlds away from what we set out to uphold. Like your star sea."

"I want to be the judge of that."

"We all want, Lapin," Azare said, and that coldness was back, the mask returning. "There's a reason we don't always get what we want."

He pulled away. Ziva's hand slipped from his face, leaving smears of blood on his skin. His blood, his wound, the ache in Ziva's heart, like she was bleeding from the inside- it was all too much. Azare stood from the rock and shrugged on his shirt again, shaking the sand from his uniform and slinging it round his shoulders. Within seconds he'd gone from a weary, wounded man to the Royal Witchhunter again. Like he'd said: he stood worlds away, like the sea of stars, across an abyss. Never to be reached, not until the death of all things, not until the end of the world.

"Sir," Ziva said, her voice low, but he strode away with a snap of his cloak, headed for the surf. Ziva clenched her teeth and let out her breath, then gathered her medical supplies, stacking them in their case. Her eyes were dry, but her throat was tight. She wanted to punch something, maybe Azare, break his damn face open. He could hit her back, so she'd have something righteous to be angry about.

She heard the rustle of the witch in his cage. She cast a sharp look in his direction. How much had the monster heard? Everything, she had little doubt. Damn him. Damn Azare. And damn her, too, the way she let Azare slip his blade into her heart.

"There's a ghost riding on his back, you know."

The voice was little more than a whisper and the hiss of chain on chain. The witch's, though now it only sounded like a boy's. Please, whispered the dying boy in Ziva's memory, sunstruck blades and blood on the sand. No mercy for that one, either.

"What in all hells does that mean?" she said. "What ghost?"

"A terrible thing," the witch whispered. "Struggling to breathe. Its claws are so deep in his heart."

Ziva looked away. I know, she thought.

"Lapin."

She looked up. Azare stood some yards off. His expression was taut, inscrutable.

"We don't always get what we want," he said again, haltingly. "No matter how much we might want it."

He turned and walked away. Ziva watched him go, then let out her breath, tipped back her head, and stared up.

Maybe she'd been wrong. The stars did have a special kind of look to them tonight.

#togl #tales of the great leviathan #fantasy fiction #original fiction #serial novel #serialfiction #chapter 22

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