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#eerie embroidery
stitchedshadows · 4 months
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Newest release at my small shop for different kind of cross stitch patterns. for more visit: https://stitchedshadows.etsy.com
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Mushroom
1.4k T/M (language/sexual themes) witches, spell ingredients, surprisingly didn't go the psychedelic route with this 🤣🍄
written for @fuctacles october prompt list: mushroom.
Eddie followed the path Dustin assured him would lead to where he needed to go. He was on a mission. Looking for something-
An ingredient.
A needed ingredient for a spell.
His magic had always been erratic so it was really a crapshoot at best if this would even work. The least he could do was gather the correct list of odds and ends he needed to cast it. He ventured further into the woods. Statuesque trees growing more dense with the sunlight obscured the deeper he got.
He wrapped his leather jacket tighter around himself. The autumnal chill caressing his cheeks and starting to freeze the tip of his nose as he kept his pace. Shadows cast around him from the wind rustling through the arms of branches overhead. It felt eerie.
The woods felt more alive.
He paused as he felt a fleeting kiss of magic over his skin, like a tender touch of ozone over his senses. He scanned his surroundings as they started to shimmer in his sight like a mirage.
He must be in the right place.
From one blink to the next a large jet black dog padded from a clearing. His head a massive block with tiny triangular ears his collar thick and dark green with yellow embroidery stood out starkly against his coat. He scented the air and approached Eddie in an otherworldly stride.
It looked the way Eddie imagined a hellhound would. Inky black shining fur like a black hole the way energy was drawn to it.
His mind unhelpfully supplied a litany of, holy shit.
He felt the intention of the magnificent beast, it too possessed magic. It seemed he had crossed a point in his journey where everything around him was infused with magic.
It circled him keeping a distance. Weighing something only the animal knew- imaginary scales tipping up and down taking stock over Eddie’s worth. Eddie stood stone still. His puffs of breath coming out visibly in the cool air.
He must of passed the inspection.
The beast nudged it’s head against Eddie’s hand and urged him forward. Tilted it’s head as if to say, follow me.
Eddie cleared his throat and looked around the clearing, he silently apologized to Wayne for his fucking questionable choices and followed the big black dog.
They approached a dark brown brick home with a chimney that provided even more character than the ivy crawling and climbing up one side of the dwelling. He looked to the dog, “I’m too old to be eaten by witches, aren’t I?” the tale of Hansel and Gretel flew to the forefront of his thoughts.
The dog must’ve understood it snorted out an exasperated sound.
Eddie followed it closer to the door as the eye catching animal seemed to disappear like smoke. He took his hands out of his coat pockets and rubbed them together, “Remember Dustin sent you here, he doesn’t want you killed. Besides you're not a kid nobody's eating you for your youth.” Eddie said to himself as he tentatively reached up to knock the carved brass door knocker.
He stood and waited.
The door creaked open and the dog appeared again, “To the depths of hell with you, huh?” Eddie said quietly as he made his way inside. The canine cocked it’s head seemingly finding Eddie amusing.
The tiles on the flooring a mismatch of ceramics that all somehow went together, “Hello?” He said voice coming out shakier than intended.
A man in soft brown corduroys and a black fitted tee shirt popped his perfectly coiffed haired head into view through a doorway, “I’m in the kitchen just finishing something up, come this way Eddie.”
Eddie flinched into action, “How’d you know-“
“Not foresight or magic, Dustin told me you’d be coming.” The man said cheerfully. His voice as pleasant as his features- square jawed and sparkling amber eyes.
“Your home is all very, uh, smoke and mirrors to get to.” Eddie stumbled the words out.
The man laughed, “Moreso for my parents to stay warded out, but Onyx here does that job pretty well.”
Eddie had been petting over the dog’s massive head with his palm, he looked down at Onyx, “Your familiar?” he had a dawning realization. He withdrew his hand, it was taboo to casually touch someone’s familiar.
The man nodded, “I’m Steve by the way, we’re always missing each other for Dustin’s events, he talks highly of you.”
It clicked into place, Dustin and the Party constantly talked about Steve. Their powerful hedgewitch friend. He had almost thought him made up for how admirably they regarded the other man, he said as much.
Eddie chuckled as the man looked at him, “I was beginning to think they made you up.”
“Me? I was thinking the same of you.” The last part he said much more quietly his back turned to Eddie as he stirred something in the dutch oven atop his stove, “No one ever said you were hot.”
Onyx barked playfully and nudged his head back into Eddie’s hand urging him for more attention, “Is it okay if I pet him?”
Steve eyed Eddie and Onyx, “Huh, he’s usually not one to initiate that…sure I, I don’t mind.” The odd witch seemed flustered as he turned quickly to once again tend to whatever he was working on.
Eddie felt himself blush under the implication, he crouched down to cover it up and came face to face with the large familiar. The animal buzzed with magic, Steve must be way more powerful than the average hedgewitch. It made Eddie’s jeans fit tighter with arousal. He ardently ignored it.
Eddie’s lineage of magic was more cosmic, astrologically driven with ceremonial spells through his mother’s bloodline- not something he practiced daily. Sure he set intentions and had his crystals and herbs like any practicing witch but his power seemed to be highlighted more when certain constellations were visible and with planetary alignments. Which is why he needed these mushrooms for tonight.
The harvest moon was going to be supercharged and full and Eddie needed every advantage on his side. He had to have the ingredients ground together by a specific selenite mortar and pestle- for clarity and consciousness. The mushrooms he needed were a hybrid kind of turkey tail grown in this forest and dried for spell usage they brought on health and longevity. Rosemary, sage, and mugwort were the final trio for protection.
They needed to be ground with clear intentions and exposed to the moon. The mixture had to bask in it’s light during the full moon’s closest position and then buried on the property of the person it was being used to protect. That person was Wayne, so it needed to work.
Wayne didn’t have any official magic in his family. Eddie’s dad had been kind of a con man and Wayne although often called lucky didn’t have powers. Eddie thought it was a load of bullshit with the kind of sight Wayne possessed- he could never prove it but he suspected a level of clairvoyance there far beyond coincidence.
Eddie let Onyx rub his face under Eddie’s chin like an overgrown cat. When he looked up Steve was glancing down at them fighting off a smile, “Dustin said you needed an ingredient for a spell?”
Eddie nodded, “The dried turkey tail mushrooms.”
“Oh, that’s a great initiator and with the moon tonight? It should enhance the spell nicely.” Steve said as he began rummaging through cabinets.
He turned back to Eddie with an enticing smile. He held a small glass jar with the ingredient tucked inside between his hands. Eddie slid his backpack off already with the rest of the needed parts to cast his spell tucked inside, “What can I offer in payment?” He asked.
Steve bounced on the balls of his feet as he mulled it over. His eyes darted to Onyx as the dog whined unhelpfully and circled Eddie. He could tell there was something important about the man all on his own. He didn't need the dog to spell it out for him.
“Stay?" He asked followed quickly with, "this evening, I’m making way too much soup for one, even for freezing. My property leads to the highest point in Hawkins. We could do your ritual there.” He offered.
Eddie looked down at his backpack still clutched in his hands and grinned, “Are you asking for my payment to be a date?”
Steve smirked back at him, “I guess I am, is that okay?”
“Yes.” Eddie barely whispered out. His body thrumming with excitement over the evening ahead, all because he had to acquire mushrooms. Maybe Wayne was magic? In a roundabout way it had brought him here.
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happyhauntt · 1 month
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forgiveness with teeth ➡ nikolai lantsov.
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series masterlist | writing masterlist | askbox
─── summary: nikolai lantsov is the most insufferable human being in ravka, and most unfortunately, anya is stuck with him.
─── pairing: nikolai lantsov & anya kamenev (original character.)
─── warnings: fluff, enemies, nikolai is a bit of an asshole but he's sixteen so it's allowed, threats of physical violence (but honestly he deserves it), swearing, krysa means 'rat'.
─── word count: 1.6k.
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     There's something about Nikolai Lantsov that makes her want to break things.
     Anya can’t quite put her finger on what, exactly, gives her the urge to shove a rifle up his ass. Whether it’s the precise curve of his spine when he leans, half-slouching against any wall he can find, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his uniform, or the pitch of his voice when he cheers after winning a card game — she can’t say. She can’t even begin to guess.
     It’s just Nikolai, and Anya swears that there has never been another person alive to tempt her fury like that boy does.
     She didn’t always feel this way. Anya knows him… Well, she knows him as well as any nobleman’s daughter knows a prince, really. As a child, she would spend at least half the year at court in Os Alta. She recalls running riot through the hallways as she chased the boys, desperate to participate in their swordplay games, desperate to prove herself as something more. She’d sneak out of embroidery lessons and hide in the library, listening to lectures on diplomacy.
     Nikolai was much the same, when they were small. A troublemaker at his very core. It was impossible to miss the way his eyes twinkled at the prospect of adventure, and once or twice, they'd snuck into the Little Palace to watch the Grisha train. The Heartrenders had noticed them, catching onto the sound of two unfamiliar heartbeats racing with adrenaline, but they'd found it more amusing than anything else.
      As Anya grew older, and spent less time at the Grand Palace due to her ill health as her mother sequestered her on the family estate, or so the rumours claimed, what little relationship she’d built with Nikolai had changed from unlikely allies in mischief to mere acquaintances. A dance shared at her birthday ball, pleasantries exchanged at the Winter Fête, and not much else.
     Anya didn’t mind it much. She’d never been a gregarious person, and often found the constant smiles and simpering associated with her rank to be tedious.
     It was a matter of great misfortune, then, when she was assigned to his regiment.
     Even future duchesses must serve their country, and when she enlisted at sixteen, Anya's parents sent her off to battle with a stern warning not to draw attention to herself, and a flurry of fretful forehead kisses. Her mother's eyes, glassy with unshed tears, haunt her nightmares even now.
     Hunched over her breakfast in the mess hall, she hears him before he sees him. That obnoxious laugh, a rumbling sound that manages to carry all the way across the room. She almost winces as it sweeps over her, a tumultuous wave of noise. She’d bet her father’s title that they can hear him all the way in Ketterdam. 
     An eerie hush settles over the mess hall as he enters, chattering away with Dominik. The rest of their regiment isn’t used to having royalty in their midst quite yet, and seeing the fresh-faced prince join the peasants for his meals hasn’t sunk in. Anya wishes it would. The sooner they realise he isn’t any better than them — and, in several instances, is actually worse — then the sooner her sanity will return.
     She hopes.
      It's not a single thing about Nikolai that makes her so frustrated in his presence. He'd been a mischievous child, but so had she, so Anya can hardly judge him for that. He's a good soldier, humble and respectful to his peers despite his royal status. She’ll begrudgingly concede that all of this is true.
     But by the Saints, it doesn’t change the fact that he is insufferable.
     She makes a conscious effort not to look at him. Instead, she glowers down at her plate as his voice grows louder and louder. By the time she senses him come to a stop at her table, her breakfast no longer resembles anything edible, and she doesn’t feel any better.
     A moment of silence passes, then another, and then —
     "You're a wretched swine, Lantsov."
     She looks up at him, finally. He’s leaning against the table, one hand resting on its sticky surface. The wicked grin that stretches over his face makes a strange fight-or-flight feeling rise in her gut. She wonders how he'd look with claw marks all over his face. "Good morning to you too, Lady Anya."
     "Krysa." She sneers at him. Any trace of ladylike etiquette vanished the moment he appeared in her line of sight. All her years of meticulous training, conditioning, all the lessons in politeness her governesses drilled into her simply evaporate.
     Anya is certain her mother would faint to see her behaving like this, and towards one of their great nation's princes? She'd never live it down.
     Fortunately, her mother isn't here.
     The noise in the mess hall picks up again now that Nikolai is here, growing to a dull background hum of mindless gossip. Soldiers fill up the open space, milling about as they gather their meagre breakfasts. Dominik sidles up alongside Nikolai carrying two trays of breakfast rations and sits down at Anya's table, offering the girl a polite smile. She grunts at him, grudgingly pushing the remains of her food around her plate with her fork.
     "What could I possibly have done to earn such ire, Nastya?"
     Nikolai's use of her nickname only causes her scowl to deepen. He hovers over her, too close for comfort, bright blue eyes two roguish diamonds glinting down at her.
     He’s teasing her. She knows that. She knows she shouldn’t rise to the bait, but his lip twists and her hands curl into fists before she can stop herself.
     "You know exactly what you did." She turns away, refuses to look at him. She won't give him the satisfaction. Dominik glances between them and, bless him, does his best not to laugh.
     Anya wonders what the sentence would be for murdering a prince of Ravka. Execution, she imagines. But surely it wouldn’t be that severe, would it? He's a second son, spare to the throne, not overly important — and surely he gets on everyone else's nerves as much as he gets on hers.
     Perhaps she'll be made into a national hero for such a patriotic act.
     Even if she's executed, the short period of time between his death and hers will be blissful. And quiet. Right up until she joins him in hell (she knows damn well he's not getting into heaven, and after killing him, neither will she.)
     His chuckle rattles through her as he takes the seat beside Dominik. A girl can dream.
     "What did he do?" Dominik wonders, a curious twinkle in his eyes.
     Anya marks the prince with a stinging glare. "He fed my boots to a goat."
     "In my defence–" Nikolai chokes back a snort, spreading his hands wide. Dominik is quick to move a glass of water out of his reach, lest it be knocked over. "I thought they were my boots."
     Exasperation twists in Anya’s chest. "Why were you feeding your boots to a goat in the first place?"
     He shrugs, unconcerned. "I’d had a little too much kvas, and I thought he looked angry when I stumbled across him trying to make it back to the barracks. Distracting him felt like the best course of action. I didn't know they were your boots, Anya, truly. My sincerest apologies."
     Anya huffs, wriggling her toes inside the too-big pair of spare boots she'd been issued for the foreseeable future. She knows that she'll be feeling the pain of blisters in the coming days, and her frustration with him will only grow. How is it that their commanding officers find him so... charming?
     He has all the charisma of a puppy, all bright pretty eyes and boundless energy. It’s all simply adorable, and you find yourself falling in love — right up until the puppy shits on your pillow.
     But the puppy is sweet and sorry, and you find yourself forgiving any wrongdoings. No wonder they call him sobachka.
     Anya Kamenev never thought she’d want to kick a puppy until she met Nikolai Lantsov.
     “Apologies won’t bring my boots back,” she says, “and when we’ve marched five hundred miles through freezing rain and my blisters have blisters, I will sneak into your tent in the middle of the night, put a chicken in a pillowcase and beat you with it.”
     Nikolai pauses, fork full of food frozen midair. He blinks at her once, twice. “That’s… very descriptive. If I may ask, why the chicken? That seems unnecessarily cruel.”
     “Because a brick would land me in jail.” She rolls her eyes at him. “I never said it was a live chicken. I’ll find a dead one, or I’ll buy one from a butcher. I’m not insane, Lantsov.”
     He raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”
     “Do you really want to antagonise me right now?” She kicks him beneath the table, hard enough to bruise. Nikolai hisses between his teeth. His fork drops back onto his plate with a clatter as he reaches down to rub his shin. “I can reconsider the brick, if you’d prefer.”
     “I’d go with a dead fish, if I were you,” says Dominik, grinning around a mouthful of food. “He’ll have to burn his pyjamas to get the smell out.”
     Anya smirks, eyes darting between Dominik and the prince. Nikolai’s mouth is agape as he stares at his friend. “I’ll take it under advisement,” she says with a decisive nod.
     An incredulous laugh bubbles up from Nikolai’s throat. He gives Dominik a shove. “Traitor!”
     “What can I say?” Dominik grins. “I like her odds.”
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love-leah · 7 months
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part 2 of this little fantasy au. thank you so much to @prettydangrotten for giving me such encouraging comments about this and making it so much better! and thank you to everyone who sent me messages asking what happens next in this world, I wouldn't have written this without you 🥲🖤
Walking through the clearing toward George, Alex is heavy and stiff under his layers of clothes and cloaks and crests. 
Half the realm is here to watch, it feels like. Enough people to fill the clearing and bleed out into the treeline, but it's eerie quiet. Alex's pulse, and the light wind that brushes over his skin and rustles leaves, and nothing else. 
They start on opposite ends of the treeline, so far apart Alex might not recognize George except for the familiar grey wolf's fur draped over his shoulders, the long, tight line of his body.  
Pieces of him come into focus with each step: the silvery embroidery at his chest, his own house seal twined with Alex's. The loose spill of his hair, not how he normally wears it at formal things like this, but how it looks late at night leant over maps in his tent or walking through gardens; how Alex told him he liked it once, years ago, drunk and yearning. The tight clench of his jaw, the way it hollows out his cheeks. 
His big eyes, searching Alex's face, terrified like Alex has only seen them right before battle. 
Alex is–he is anxious, not suited for this, swamped with regret for saying yes. For thinking he could manage – any of it. The deep pit of everything he wants and the endless list of things he'll need to be and the starving, broken open way George looks at him. 
But of course he's not going to run, to refuse George's vows at the last minute, to turn his cheek when George leans in to kiss him. 
Here, in this moment at least, he won't hurt George. Here, George's ring cool on his finger and George’s land half frozen beneath his feet, Alex is what he's always been: George's best friend. 
He catches George's eyes when they're a few paces apart, makes a stupid face and rolls his eyes toward the gathered crowd, both of their outfits, the priest in his ridiculous robes. It’s the same way he always used to try to make George smile when they sat in on counsel meetings, George miserable and small looking next to his father, Alex bored out of his mind.
It works, just like it always used to: George's grimace shifts into a barely-hidden smile almost instantly, his eyes curving into soft quarter-moons.  
He smiles fully, real and warm and open, when they reach the altar, roughly carved into the massive stump of an ancient tree. This close, Alex can see the thick line of his eyelashes, the scattered hairs of his eyebrows, the two freckles on the side of his nose. He’d swiped his thumb over them once, during one of their late nights in George’s tent on what would become a battlefield, exhausted and terrified, feeling like he’d die if he didn’t reach out and touch George, feel the warm life of him under his fingerprint.  
He forces a smile back through the same sick, inadequate feeling that had crawled up his throat back then, made him yank his hand back. 
George nods to Alex, and then the priest, and they kneel. 
They repeat the vows they’re told, their breath bleeding together, foggy in the cold air between them. 
George's eyes are huge, his fingers sharp knuckled and rough when they reach out to twine with Alex's, their hands resting together on the altar like a sacrifice. Alex is sweating under his layers; at his palms. 
He makes himself speak steady and look at George all through it, and once it's over, lets himself think, My husband, once, quiet and deep under his ribs. 
-
Alex doesn't realize he's drunk until they stand up to leave the feast. He's been keeping his mouth full all night so he doesn't have to fumble for things to say to the lords who come up to give their well wishes, eating crusty bread and salty butter, course after course of meats and fruits. Drinking more wine than he has in years as George attentively fills his cup over and over, giving Alex small smiles before looking away and letting his face melt into something soft and sad. 
No one should be this miserable on their wedding day, Alex thinks over and over. Especially beautiful, kind, brave George, who anyone in the realm would be lucky to marry. 
The words almost slip out, and he makes himself bite his tongue, fills his mouth with more wine. 
George has his fake smile back on as he stands up, accepts one final toast from a drunk lord, and then offers Alex his hand and pulls him up. 
They walk out side by side, George's his hand firm and gentling on Alex's back through the sweltering layers of clothes he had draped on him before the wedding, like a stiff shirt and one of George’s furs could make him look like he belongs here.
Alex is unsteady, sweaty; embarrassing. He sways into George, feels George's body tense like a horse against him. 
As soon as they're walking down an empty stretch of hall, alone aside from a few guards who stare resolutely straight ahead, George loops his arm further around Alex's waist. His fingers circle Alex's wrist and pull his arm over George's shoulders, hooking them together, their ribs touching through the rough fabric of their shirts. 
"Albono," George says, and for a moment Alex can imagine they're sixteen again, sneaking out of the castle to drink at the bar in town, talking about going to the brothel but never actually doing it, stumbling back plastered together instead, laughing. 
But George's voice isn't fond like it always was back then. It's sad and restrained, hiding thoughts Alex can't figure out. 
"Sorry," Alex says, and George breathes in sharp beside him. 
"No need," he says, formal and stiff. "You know you don't have to–get drunk because–" he pauses, drags in a shaking breath. The toe of Alex's boot catches on an uneven stone in the floor, and he lurches tighter against George, has to put all his weight on him for a second to stay upright. 
George's free hand comes to his stomach, just for a second, his fingers spreading wide to steady Alex. Alex feels branded by it, stumbles again just from the way his stomach dips under George's huge, gentle touch. 
"I know we haven't talked about tonight," George says solemnly, once Alex has his feet back under him.
No one has brought up the consummation to Alex at all, but they must have with George. George must have been talking about how and where he'll fuck Alex for weeks in his counsel meetings, convincing them to let him break tradition, to not have to do the ceremony. If he hadn't, they would be in a veiled bed surrounded by old men right now, touching all over like this but skin to skin. 
Kissing, wet and filthy and open instead of the single chaste press of lips they'd had at the altar before George had pulled away. And then, maybe, George's mouth moving lower, wet and plush on Alex’s chest, his stomach. His hole, maybe. 
"Of course I don't expect you to–to. I know you don't." George swallows, loud enough Alex can hear it where his hot face has lolled in close to George’s throat. He's barely following what George is saying. He thinks about George's long fingers. Alex has never liked being the one to be fucked before, but obviously, George is king. And he's. There's nothing Alex wouldn't like with him, he suspects. "If we need to name a successor there's your brother, or. There are options."
"What?" Alex mumbles, only half paying attention to his own voice. They're at George's rooms, and George nods to the guards as they open the doors, hauls Alex into his chamber. 
This'll be all over the castle by tomorrow, Alex thinks. That George had to hold up his husband, sloppy drunk on the night of their wedding. That there was no public consummation, for reasons the whole realm will be gossiping about. 
Alex tries to be grateful. The idea of being touched and undressed–of touching and undressing George, kissing him, having every part of himself broken open against him–while old men watch through veils makes his stomach turn. But stumbling toward their huge, private bed, George's body gathering tension beside him, Alex–wishes.
That he were different. That he’d said yes the first time, when they were both young and naive and had never been to war, when all Alex was scared of was wearing the crown. That he hadn’t said yes at all, had pushed for Toto’s daughter, who would've loved talking to the endless line of lords who came up during the feast to give their congratulations, who wouldn't be here itching with wanting to say something cruel about the insincere way George talks to people just because smiling for so long made her feel out of her skin. Who would've made a good queen, for real.
The first time George had asked, his hand gripping Alex's while he pulled out a ring, Alex had just been through the worst year of his life, and then George had walked him through the gardens and sat him on a bench and said, I would ask–if you'd have me and Alex had thought thank gods.
That there was something just for him, and that something was George. His best friend, the brightest person he knew, so beautiful looking at him was overwhelming sometimes.
And then George had said, I think you'd be a wonderful king, and Alex had turned, and nearly thrown up into the bushes.
Now, crests pinned to both of their chests and vows between them, the door to George’s chambers shut heavy behind them, George nudges Alex down onto the bed and takes a step back, frowning down at him, his mouth tight like he feels sick, too.  
Alex searches for a joke, a way to make George laugh. 
"I wouldn’t ask that of you," George says, out of focus a meter away, the end of a sentence Alex missed the beginning of.  
Alex blinks, and blinks, and falls back on the bed, and then–he’s just like every story of a shitty husband on their wedding night, he thinks, trying to mumble apologies, his lips thick and clumsy, his whole body feeling drawn into sleep, into the plush mattress that smells of George. George says his name, sounding tortured, miserable, and Alex thinks, of course. It was never going to take long for him to fuck things up.
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pixelmensupremacy · 1 year
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you've brought me back into my leon phase and like omg I have a thing for characters that get protective of reader.
so imagine reader is in danger, and he has to save them but just reader came so close to dying he was just freaked out. and maybe that night he was so worried about them they end up having soft sex bc just he wants to be close to them :(( bc he just couldn't handle the fear of almost losing them and he needs reader to know how much he cares :((
A/N:Welcome back to the Leon phase, dear! It took me a while to get to your request for multiple reasons don't mean to complain but I had quiet a shitty weak and I'm not very pleased with how this turned out, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless! <3
Word count: 2.2k
WARNINGS: GN!reader, canon typical violence, angsty, smut, MDNI, unprotected sex, fingering, creampie, a bit of cock warming, fluffy
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“(Y/N)!” Leon shouted their name in utter horror as dozens of courtiers rushed into the maze of emerald bushes, covering the grounds of the gloomy castle garden. A puff of air escaped past their lips in the form of a tired sigh; scanning their surroundings they weren’t so astonished by the seemingly endless flow of cultists pooling out from every possible direction, forming a raven cloud that rapidly grew and moved at a fast pace.
“Watch my back, would you?” (Y/N)’s fiery gaze met his fearful one for a split second. They held their gun in the air and headed for the snowy, marble stairs, distancing themselves from the wave of hostiles. Cold sweat broke out on his skin, causing shivers to run down his spine caused by the fearsome scene, unfolding right before his eyes; yet he didn’t allow himself to fall a victim to the fear, nestling deeply within his heart, but rather he took it upon himself to do everything in his power to prevent his fears into becoming a sorrowful reality. The leather of his fingerless gloves tightened as he took a hold of the stingray, a spark was set ablaze in the icy blue of his one open eye, watching through the scope of the rifle, whilst his index finger was patiently resting on the trigger, awaiting the prefect moment to pull.
Bangs echoed across the space, bouncing off the walls and disappearing into the thick vegetation; a thud resonated near them, blood splattered on their cheek. For a split moment, they glanced at the direction the abrupt sound cane from, noting the lifeless body of an enemy they hadn’t noticed; a knowing smile curled the corners of their lips, before they went on with firing at the incoming courtiers. Crimson creek flowed down the bright white marble along with numerous raven hills of dead bodies; eerie silence fell upon the darkened garden as the life it had inhabited was now gone except for the two agents, who finally reunited.
“I thought I was gonna lose you there for a second.” Leon spoke in all seriousness, whilst he pushed at the tall mahogany doors, a piercing creak resonated across the space.
“Like hell I would. You wouldn’t make it even a day without me.” (Y/N) returned playfully, in attempt to reassure him and mostly themselves. Warm light hit their faces as they were met with the sight of a spacious, luxurious room; the two looked around the space for any traces of their subject- baby eagle- but to no avail. An exceptionally comfy looking couch fell in their field of vision, tempting them to check if it truly was as comfortable as it looked. Throwing themselves atop the furniture, they bounced a little; the cushions dipped underneath their weight, hugging their tired form in a warming embrace. They trailed their fingertips along the golden embroidery of the couch, admiring the contrast between the shiny threat and the deep color beneath. Having inspected the perimeter of the fancy room, Leon sat on the armrest and glanced down at his partner. His icy blues lingered on their resting form, cherishing their presence beside him as the recent events resurfaced in his mind, reminding him just how precious every moment with them truly was. His heart clenched just at thought of them gone. (Y/N) noticed the thoughtful look on his face that deepened the forming creases on his forehead.
“What’s bothering that pretty head of yours?” They rose their eyebrow at him; their palms rested underneath their head as they closely watched him in anticipation. Leon only let out a sigh; his mouth fell open, yet the words dried in his throat as if there was lump that obstructed his speech. His glassy eyes fell somewhere in the distance, purposefully avoiding their curious gaze.
“A lot of things.” His voice was low, quiet, hesitant, barely above a whisper; he lowered his head, causing the golden strings of hair to fall in his face akin to a shiny curtain that hid the distress weaving in his features.
“What things?” They sat up and their palm rested atop of his, their gentle touch anchored him to the present moment, away from the darkest corners of his anxious mind. Reluctantly, he met their gaze; a tear ran down his cheek, leaving behind a trail that glistened under the warm candle light.
“Oh, Leon.” They cupped his face, the pad of their thumb brushed away the creeks of crystal-clear tears, streaming down his face; their heart ached at the sight of him so deeply distressed. Pulling away, they patted the space beside them and gave him a gentle smile. Without a second thought, he obliged and sat next to them with his arms tightly wrapping around their waist and his head resting on their chest; (Y/N)’s fingers weaved in his blond locks, gently massaging and scratching his scalp, whilst their other hand kneaded the muscle of his toned, yet tense shoulders. The melody of their heartbeat putted him at ease and the warmth of their hug aided in the softening of his stiffened body- he felt at peace.
“I-“ His speech was interrupted by a hiccup as another wave of sorrowful, hot tears formed in the corners of his eyes. “I can’t lose you.” He pulled away slightly, so he was facing them.
“You can’t get rid of me that easy.” They forced a smile to comply with the silly joke that most likely did just as poorly to assure him as it did to them, yet he smiled back with tears still running down his face. Reassuringly, they kissed his cheek then his lips, the salty taste spread on their taste buds; he kissed them back in a needy manner as if they would disappear into thin air if he didn’t cling to them. Slowly, his hands slid down from their waist to their hips, where his fingers dug into the soft flesh. (Y/N)’s hands held his head, keeping him in place as they pulled away to catch their breath; their hazy eyes glanced at his darkened, lustful ones, the soft blue of his that they so much adored was barely visible as his pupils were blown wide, a spark was set ablaze in the raven pits of his intense gaze. Subconsciously, they darted their tongue across their parted lips; that single motion of theirs provoked a need within Leon, one that was the only cure to the chaos in his head, and the only person able to cure him was (Y/N).
Greedily, his soft lips latched onto theirs, silencing the yelp caused by the sudden force of his arms that brought them atop of him. Immediately, their hands rested on his toned chest, sensing his erratic heartbeat just by placing their palm flat on his pec; their noses brushed against one another as their gazes were locked together, their hot breaths collided and crashed in each other’s faces. A gasp escaped past (Y/N)’s hips as Leon rutted his hips against theirs; their head fell back as they rolled against the growing bulge, forming in his pants. With the help of his strong grip on them, they set a steady pace that was equally pleasurable for the both of them. The sweet friction tingled their senses, setting the fire of desire ablaze within their core; underneath them, Leon had calmed down, the streams of tears had dried and instead on their place was a pinkish hue that tinted his sides, his soft lips were parted, allowing for the air to easily flow in his lungs as his chest rose and fell with each deep breath. Heat set their pelvis on fire that slowly burned them from the inside out; they whined at sensation of Leon’s hardened cock rubbing against them, yet that was no way near enough for them, nor for him.
Gently, he laid them on the cushions and hovered above them; he took off his shirt, then he unbuckled his belt, allowing for his trousers to pool around his knees, whilst his boxers were still on. (Y/N)’s clothes followed the fate of his shirt- disregarded on the cold floor, where they would sit forgotten for the time being of the short-lived moment of pleasure the two of them would share. Leon’s eyes were focused on theirs, noting every tiny change on their face as his hand slithered down to their crotch; their eyes rolled to the back of their head as his fingers caressed their needy hole. A string of saliva fell down his plump lips and down to their entrance, where his finger pads generously coated their hole with the warm liquid; the calloused skin of his fingers rubbed against the delicate skin of their hole. Gradually, he applied pressure, slowly inserting his digit into them, whilst his gaze closely watched their expressions. A groan ripped past their lips at the burning sensation of his finger thrusting into their folds; with each motion of his hand, the uncomfortable sensation faded as a pleasurable sensation took its place. A gasp drowned in their throat once he added another finger in, spreading them out in preparation. Delight tingled their senses as his fingers hit their sweet spot that had them seeing stars, yet that pleasure was short-lived for Leon pulled away, depriving them of that sweet sensation that had them on cloud nine.
“Leon, please..” They whined desperately as the abrupt emptiness left them on the edge; a smug grin curled the corners of his lips at the sight of them flustered and needy for his touch- it had his heart melting.
“I’m gonna make you feel good, baby. Imma show you how much I appreciate you.” A heartfelt expression was written on his face, indicating the genuineness of his words and (Y/N) didn’t doubt any of the words he said.
“It’s gonna hurt a little.” He whispered in their ear as he lined up with their lubricated entrance; (Y/N) nodded eagerly, anticipating the sensation they sought after. Planting delicate kisses on their face, he gently pushed in just the tip; they groaned, their nails dug into his fair skin as a piercing, burning sensation intensified in their pelvis. Abruptly, he stopped and glanced in their direction, his wary gaze searched theirs; silently, they nodded, urging him to keep going- and so he did. Carefully, his hips rolled against theirs, fully pushing into them up to the hilt; their eyes sealed shut, tears formed in the corners of their eyes at the intense sensation of his cock slowly spreading them out. He backed out in a wary manner all the while he searched their face for any signs of discomfort; he leaned in their ear and planted a kiss on their earlobe.
“Are you good?” His voice rumbled in their ear, sending chills down their spine; they nodded and whispered pleading words in his ear. He chuckled and obliged, pushing back into them; gradually, he picked his pace, thrusting into them at a steady rhythm. (Y/N)’s moans grew louder and more consistent the closer they got to their peak; their body had melted, their muscles were softened at the pleasant sensation tingling their entire body. Leon couldn’t help but moan too as their folds hugged him so deliciously and each of their sweet sound rang in his ears akin to a rhythmic melody unlike any other, prettier and merrier than any other song he has ever heard. Their legs wrapped around his waist, bringing him deeper within them, their arms were latched onto his shoulders; their bodies were pressed against one another almost merging into one. Their skins glistened under the light as sweat coated their bare bodies; Leon’s bangs stuck to his forehead, beads of sweat rolled down his arms, his muscles tensed.
Their moans frequented, his name rolled down their lips repeatedly along with unintelligible words that were muffled by the sounds of skin slapping skin as well as the quiet creaks of the couch beneath them, echoing across the room; grunts ripped past his lips as the pleasure was gradually building up within him. Haze took over the two of them as the strong sensations had their minds blank as all and any types of thoughts were far from them, for the only though occurring was the one of how good the other made them feel.
“Leon, I’m close.” They screamed out as the knot that had formed in their belly was on the brim of unraveling; Leon kept thrusting into them as his arms wrapped around their body, bringing their hips flush against his hips and their chest close to his, where their racing hearts were only separated by their skins.
“I know, baby, I know. I’m close too.” His voice was shaky and breathy; their body jolted, their back arched as electric shockwaves tingled their entire form, a loud scream ripped through their throat. Their folds twitched, unintentionally clenching around his sensitive dick; the sensation was all that he needed to let loose and cum in them, coating them with his hot load though he kept thrusting as he rode out their highs. A mixture of tears and sweat covered (Y/N)’s flustered face, their half-lidded eyes lovingly gazed at Leon, who crashed above them with his head buried in the crook of their neck and with his dick still deep within them. They wrapped their arms around him, their plump lips pressed against the crown of his head.
“I love you.” They spoke, their voice hoarse, yet gentle; his baby blue eyes glanced at them, coming in contact with their (E/C) ones.
“I love you more.” They cracked a smile, which in return caused him to chuckle.
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thecursedprince · 9 months
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Haunted Mansion "Bride" Limited Edition Doll 🪓
Edition Size: 6,000
Our to-die-for collectible captures Constance Hatchway's immortal beauty in exquisite detail. Available July 10, 8AM PT.
Constance Hatchaway, better known as The Black Widow Bride, is one of the most infamous residents of Disney's Haunted Mansion. This limited-edition Bride doll captures the immortal beauty in exquisite detail, from her ghostly features to the sparkling jewels she wears and the skulls embroidered on her shimmering veil. Legend has it that Constance outlived five husbands and walks the mansion's dark halls, with a candle in one hand and a hatchet in the other, looking (hunting?) for number six. Truth is she'll live on as a v-eerie special part of your collection.
Magic in the details
Limited Edition of 6,000*
Certificate of Authenticity
Beautifully sculpted and highly detailed
Vintage-inspired blue-tinted hair style and make-up
Translucent hands
Finely detailed white satin wedding gown with blue mesh fishtail hem
Silver and blue brocade detail
Blue satin collar, cuffs and waistband
Colorful gem accents
Lace copped jacket with skull details
Mesh veil with skull embroidery
Simulated pearl necklace
Simulated ruby mirror brooch
Includes candle, hatchet, headband with veil, necklace, brooch and boots
Doll stand
Fully poseable
Inspired by Disney's Haunted Mansion (2023)
*Please note: Not a toy. Intended for adult collectors.
The bare necessities
Ages 6+
PVC / POM / ABS / PP
40.6cm H
Imported
Item No. 416147287073
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roselyn-writing · 3 months
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When a rose turns black Chapter 18.
A/N: Gif isn’t mine. I found it in pinterest. Also, mentions of blood, So reader discretion is advised.
“Heart of Darkness.”
A large Obsidian Castle was in the heart of Tle’ktiva. An abandoned land of Virginia. Its people abandoned due to the harsh conditions, and the shortage of water and food. Thus, They better abandon it for a better place to live.
The Obsidian castle didn’t lose its charm and beauty. Even though, It had been centuries since it had been built. It’s still the same as the people who had abandoned it. Unaffected by time or erosion.
The Castle is decorated with Obsidian from top to bottom. Silver accents on the windows and doors, giving it a touch of dark royalty. Its towering spires, adorned with intricate designs, pierce the heavens as if reaching out to the celestial objects. The castle’s stone walls are imbued with Andesine gems. Which gave a glowing effect from a distance - Making it look as if it was kissed by the eerie glow of red lights that dance like ethereal spirits.
The winds of the north howled and whispered. As if it were singing of pain and melancholy. The sands that covered the place are dark and unforgivable as if were kissed by the Virginian sun, Much for Mariuz’s taste and style.
In the Obsidian Castle, Mariuz sat on his throne. The throne room is similar to the Castle’s outer design. The walls are covered with various of red-blood gems and paintings of Mariuz. The floor is covered with red as if were a sea of blood, And the dais on Mariuz’s throne room, Is decorated with black gems and small blood-red spirals, giving it a dark royalty vibes to match the Castle’s dark aesthetic.
Maruiz was still sitting on his throne like a King. He was looking at the paintings of him. He was bored and unhappy.
Then she came, A beautiful, tall woman with long glossy black hair decorated with the finest gold hair accessories – A face that makes the hardest of men falter easily, A curvy figure makes the mouth water, She wears a dress of old Kuwaiti fashion trimmed with gold sequins in a line from top to bottom. The golden embroidery on her bodice resembled thousands of dancing fireflies. Long, graceful sleeves, Edged with frothy golden lace, Flowed like waves lapping at the shore. The neckline of her dress, just like the dress of a temptress, was adorned with the finest of gold jewellery. And finally, Paisley shawls patterns on both sides of her red dress – Just like a gracious tapestry woven with golden strings, That was made with love and passion. That dress — It exquisitely fit her smokey brown eyes. She was desire-given form.
She trekked confidently to Maruiz as she smiled widely at him. Her lips – As red as blood. The clacking of her red heels – A sensual song to the ears.
She stopped in front of him. “You called for me? Sir.” She asked seductively.
“Are you done with your ‘playing time’?” He pointed and asked. His tone is unamused.
“Yes, My lord,” She smiled innocently at him.
She blinked, For a second, She saw beautiful red houses nestled in a small village and their vibrant warm hue shimmered in the sunlight. In a place far away somewhere. For a second, she thought she recognised it – just like somewhere far in the deep recreational of her mind. She blinked once again. Then it was all gone, Just like a mirage. She is adamantly sure, She saw this place somewhere. Somehow.
Her mind is an empty canvas. Despite, The glimpses she couldn’t get the whole picture.
Maruiz's loud and piercing voice cut her unending stream of thoughts. She looked at him and smiled once again.
“I see.” He finally replied as he surveyed her to every single detail. “You are free to go,”
She grinned. Showing her pearly white teeth. “Thank you, My lord,”
And with that, She walked away, her heels clacking, their sounds fading into the distance.
Mariuz, His gaze was on the direction that she she departed from. Much to his dismay, She started to have glimpses of her past — her memories refused to fade, As her old, real self.
Maruiz cursed loudly. He didn’t care if he was heard. His plan is starting to crumble — His world is crumbling, Sooner or later, She will remember who she was. And — She will comes for blood.
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The early morning sun quickly climbed in the sky. Its warm orange-yellow ray bathed the sky in golden radiance. The orange glow of the vibrant sun spread throughout the sky, quickly filling the sky and warming the early morning air.
Aliyaa groggily woke from some noises nearby. She was disoriented due to her just waking up minutes prior. She stifled a yawn, extreme grogginess and fatigue were weighing her down. She suppressed the urge to go back to sleep because she didn’t want to hear these annoying sounds again.
In the distance, An animal, perhaps a goat, bleating hauntingly, It reminded her of the horrible story she heard from her uncle a day prior. It was about a goat that had eaten its owner. Aliyaa’s body shook, Her skin crawled and she is uncomfortable. Her body trembled with fear.
She forcibly closed her eyes. Her mind, Instantly brought an image of a scary goat – blood dripped from its teeth – Its white fur drenched in blood too. Its face was an image of horror, black beady eyes devoid of emotion – razor-sharp horns ready to pierce her and kill her.
The sound of the goat's hooves hitting the ground echoed through the air, growing louder and louder with each passing moment. As Aliyaa heard it approach, her heart began to beat faster and faster, almost threatening to burst out of her chest. Her breathing quickened, coming in short gasps as she struggled to keep her composure. Despite her efforts, she felt herself becoming frozen as if she were a block of ice.
she saw the silhouette of a goat, its eyes glowing with an eerie light. Trembling with fear, she could hear its hooves scraping against the ground, creating an ominous rhythm. She quickly buried herself inside her blanket. She couldn’t bear to look at that goat – Just like it was possessed by an evil spirit. As she lay frozen in terror, the goat's haunting bleats echoed through the place, sending chills down her spine. Aliyaa couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched by something malevolent, something far more sinister than any ordinary goat. She recited every prayer she remembered. She hoped beyond hope that the goat leave her alone.
Sheer curiosity took the better of her. She peeked her head outside of the blanket. She saw a white goat. It stood 20 feet away from here. It seems young and lively, Its white fur glimmering in the early-morning sun. It has slender and delicate legs that it seemed the slightest breeze could send it flying away – small and short horns that undoubtedly would not be sharp enough to pierce through something, perhaps, Like a skin, Its eyes are a pool of glowing topaz.
Unexpectedly, Aliyaa laughed out loud. Her laughter was due to her realization that her fear of a harmless and cute animal like a goat was unnecessary and stupid. She had panicked for no reason, her fear and panic were irrational.
She took some leftovers of rice and bread. She offered it to the goat. The goat happily ate the food offered by the nice human in front of her.
She was looking at the goat while it was eating. She was smiling and happy. Admiring the cute animal while it is eating. Her attention was focused on the goat until she heard the voice of a man.
A man in his late 40s came. He has light brown eyes. A Khaki skin tone as the sand of a Virginian desert, He has a comforting feeling to him. He is handsome - A bit taller than an average male Virginian - He is standing 6 and a half feet tall. Making his height almost 190cm. He wore traditional shepherd attire. Simple brown robe and white pants.
He smiled at her. “My name is Samer and I apologise for the inconvenience.” He said sincerely. “My goat always roams away from the herd.”
Aliyaa smiled back at him. There was no harm done, The goat was peaceful and harmless, It made Aliyaa happy; having it around her. She was familiar with goats and sheeps. She always helps her father in herding them. So, she isn’t new to this whole herding thing.
“My name is Aliyaa, nice to meet you Samer and don’t worry.” She replied. Her tone is calm and soft. “There’s nothing to apologise for,”
Aliyaa’s father: Hadi Aepel, He came with his brother Massoud, In tow. They looked at the man and his goat. They didn’t look they just woke up from sleeping.
Hadi surveyed the scene in front of him with his eyes. “What’s going on here?” Hadi asked.
“Sir, I just came to return the goat.” The man answered. His tone is genuine and sincere.
Hadi nodded, His brother Massoud didn’t say anything. He just looked back and forth between his brother and the man in front of them.
The man bid them farewell and left them. His goat trotted behind him. The trio smiled as they looked at Samer and his friendly goat.
The trio, blissfully unaware that they were being watched by a dark entity — Two hands holding an onyx crystal ball, His cold, unforgiving slate-eyes gluded on it, Anzir, grinned cruelly as he saw the scene in front of his very eyes.
“Truly, Ignorance is a bliss,” He muttered to himself, Then he burst out laughing. His laughter resonated around the place. It was so loud as if it was shaking the place with its intensity.
Anzir, The current aspect of Darkness, decided spy on the trio for a little longer. He rarely shows interest in people. But unfortunately for the trio, They piqued his interest; and his attention isn’t something that one should attract. When they do, It is about to get devastating.
May the Remained-One helps whoever Anzir set his gaze on. For, No one can help them and save them for his darkness.
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randomabiling · 5 months
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NaNoWriMo Entry #1
Bewitch
October 31, 1890
Though the rooms and halls of Duneagle were as familiar to him as Downton, on this night the shadows unbalanced his senses, and he felt less certain of his footing. Lit only by the tumultuous fires in hearths and the candlesticks flickering in a hundred jack-o-lanterns scattered about in the rooms, the walls seemed to dance, alive with each turn of air. With a glass of punch cooling his hand, Robert entered the drawing room. He squinted into the hazy darkness, the guests near the fireplace illuminated and orange hued, while those in the farther corners were faceless silhouettes, only a glinting of jewels or the outline of satin truly visible. Sighing, he stepped further in, to where a group of bachelors were pairing apples, looking into mirrors to see the ghostly forms of their future wives appear. Robert shook his head, and passed through the press of people, costumed and draped in elaborate pantomime, living out their fantastical interpretations of Susan’s theme. 
The ruffle of his own sleeve, authentic and smart looking hours before as it flounced from the edge of his cuff, was stained with punch and wilting at his wrist. The brocade jacket, with its golden embroidery and many buttons had grown heavy and wearisome as the night wore on. Robert had consumed enough punch to be tired, and his desire to find Cora compounded his growing irritation. He’d always disliked a masquerade, wondering why people couldn’t just be themselves. But Cora had been so excited at the invitation, looking forward to her first British Halloween. 
He’d been unable to say no. 
In the library, Shrimpie was holding the attention of a large group, telling some ghoulish story that seemed to rely heavily on Bronte���s penned musings. If the listeners suspected the hero bore an eerie resemblance to Rochester, they hadn’t let on. Robert inspected each person’s face, their form, their costume, but none were Cora. It unsettled him that it took him a moment to pass from one party goer to another. It seemed he should know instinctually whether he was looking at his wife or not, even through the veil of darkness blanketing the entire castle.
Robert passed from the library into the music room, a lone pianist playing a doleful tune on the instrument. There were several card tables set up, with a crowd of five or six at each. Instead of playing canasta or spades, however, each table held a woman in robes inspecting an elaborate deck of cards. It took only a moment of scrutiny for Robert to see it was a tarot deck and he frowned. Were people really so silly?
As soon as the thought entered his head, he saw her at the far table. If he had been able to think clearer, he would have been pleased with himself, noticing he had known her instinctually as soon as his eyes took her in their vision. He was too taken by her presence to think such thoughts. She looked as fresh as when he’d gone to her bedroom door hours ago, ready to accompany her downstairs for the festivities. Robert stood and stared at her for a few minutes, waiting, and then finally her gaze darted up and around the room, stopping when her eyes met his. Even far away he could see the crinkle of her skin around her mouth and the uplifting of her lips. She spoke lowly to the others at the table before standing. 
The long blue cape that she wore swirled behind her, the fluidity of the velvet like a living thing. And the sight of her again in her dress, the way the white lace of her bodice quivered as she moved, the angles of her delicate curves, made him choke against the restraint of the jabot around his neck. Sometimes when he saw her, he was again taken aback by her beauty, as though seeing it for the first time. 
Cora’s smile widened as she came closer to him, and she stopped only when their noses were close enough to touch. Robert was mesmerized by the glint in her blue eyes, the shine that rivaled the diamond stars on her tiara. Between them, her hand grazed his chest before it settled back against the bone of her corset, covering the shelter of their secret. When he found his voice, it was high and unnatural.
“What were you doing over there?”
Cora’s eyebrows rose, a playful smirk making her features even more lovely. “Listening to my fortune.”
“Oh?” Robert took hold of her gloved hand and led her to the doorway. “Good I hope?”
“Hmm,” Cora’s throat vibrated with the sound. “I don’t believe in that stuff anyway, it’s just for fun.”
It was Robert’s turn to chuckle. “Is the American more sensible than the British when it comes to the supernatural?”
Cora stopped and Robert turned to her. She lifted herself up on her toes, her mouth just below his ear. “I make my own fortune. Shall I show you?”
Robert bit his lip hard. He squeezed her hand harder. “I think it most imperative that you do.”
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pedro pascal needs to be in a period piece stat. like he’s the husband with a dark secret he’s the eccentric rich bachelor who lives in a grand estate all alone he’s the gruff father that loves his wild daughter despite all the time she skips her embroidery lessons he’s the secret lover he’s the one who finds his partner’s lover he’s the soldier returning home with far-off eyes he’s the man who holds your hand as you step out of the carriage he’s the man who walks into a grand eerie mansion to escape the storm he’s the man who descends from the shadows as if he was born in it i need to bite something now 
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mimilind · 5 months
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Stranger of the Falls - Part 1
Pairing: Boromir x Reader
Rating: T
Chapter Word Count: 2400
Parts: [ Next Part > ] [ Masterlist ]
Full story: [ AO3 ]
※※※
1. The Stranger
The Eastemnet was unnaturally empty and it felt eerie to drive along the narrow road, the reins in one hand and a long dagger in the other. The shepherdesses had seen a band of orcs in the vale that night. You knew those monsters were afraid of daylight but had brought the weapon just in case; better safe than sorry.
Soon a familiar rumbling sound began, steadily growing louder, until you rounded a corner and saw the mighty waterfall ahead. You would never get tired of the sight. A fine mist lay perpetually in the air and when you got closer a vibrant rainbow formed across it.
But you had no time to stop and admire the beauty of the Rauros Falls; just below them was your favorite bog moss patch and after the long winter you thoroughly needed to restock your supply of the absorbent material.
You had nearly filled your cart when a movement from above drew your eyes. Realizing what it was, you sharply drew in your breath. A boat? What idiot was riding a boat down that sheer drop?
That was all you had time to think before the boat crashed down, throwing the man it carried into the shallow part of the river while the rest of the vessel continued unperturbed.
You darted forward, catching him before the water sucked him down, and with all your strength you managed to haul him ashore. 
Frowning in concentration you swiftly examined the man. At first you thought he was dead, but then your experienced fingers found a pulse; weak, barely perceptible, but there. He must be within an inch of his life. His face was pallid and he had a long, ragged gash over his forehead where he had hit the rocks of the river bed, and from his chest and stomach several cruel, black arrows protruded, one of them broken. 
“Orcs,” you hissed between your teeth, nervously glancing around you, but thankfully the plains were empty. He must have been assaulted somewhere above the Falls.
You were grateful there was no safe way down the sheer cliff on this side of the river.
You returned your attention to the stranger. His wounds smelled oddly chemical. Some sort of poison you surmised, something that had petrified him, for as far as you could tell the arrows hadn’t pierced any vital organs. That meant he might live if you could get them out fast enough.
Knowing it would be a close call, you still never hesitated. You were a healer, and a patient was a patient, even if it was a stupid stranger who had tried to ride a boat through a swarm of orcs and down the world’s tallest waterfall. 
The man was big; tall and broad shouldered, and there was no way you could lift him into the cart by yourself, but with the help of the horse you finally managed to pull him on top of the soft, damp pile of moss. You wiped the sweat off your forehead and hurriedly drove home.
Back in the village, the palisade guards helped you lift the man into your house and put him down on your combined kitchen- and examination table. 
“Must be a rich fellow,” said Torsten. “Look at that golden belt and the embroidery on his tunic sleeves!”
“If you heal him, he gets to pay the belt,” Vidar decided, ogling it greedily. “And if he dies we get it anyway, obviously. For trying.” 
“Leave,” you ordered. You needed peace and quiet around you.
As soon as the door closed behind them you began working. You slid off the man’s long surcote and cut apart the tunic and shirt he wore underneath, wincing as you ruined the beautiful garments but there was nothing for it. Perhaps they could be mended later.
Then you started with the arrows, pulling them out one by one, thankful he was unconscious and unable to feel the pain. The broken one was a bit trickier to extract and you hoped you got all the splinters out.
You cleaned the nasty injuries with strong mead, adding a thick paste of honey, yarrow and other herbs to stop the bleeding and prevent infection. You covered them with wads of dried bog moss, the last of your old supply, and finished by wrapping his torso with snug linen bandages.
After working with such concentration you almost felt lightheaded when you paused to catch your breath, but there was no time to rest. You still had a lot to do if the stranger would survive. 
You took a quick detour to the kitchen, downed a cup of mead and put a slice of hard bread in your mouth. Then you continued, chewing on the dry food as you started on his head. 
A huge bump had formed and the entire area was red and swollen. You could not do much more than smear yarrow paste on it, hoping he hadn’t hurt his brain in the fall.
You checked his vitals again. By now, a little color had returned to the man’s face and the pulse was stronger. Whatever poison that had been on the arrow heads must have stopped affecting him as you got them out. 
His erratic breathing indicated he was on the verge of waking up. 
You returned to the kitchen, preparing a potion of poppy seed tincture, and willow bark for the pain, and mixed it with a nourishing broth. The man had lost a lot of blood; he needed his strength back. You also brought more mead.
Back at the table, the man’s left eyelash fluttered and opened. Immediately his whole side began to tremble as he struggled to move, and he slurred in an unknown language with his mouth twisted in a crooked grimace.
You knew from the frantic pulse on his neck that he was panicking, and no wonder. First nearly killed by orcs, then sent down the Falls, now unable to move. 
You tried to calm him, patting his quivering hand while mumbling in a soothing voice until he became still. Then you coaxed a spoonful of potion into his mouth; with luck, it would put him to sleep. 
But he had a hard time swallowing it.
That was not a good sign. You recalled old Ulf who used to be the village blacksmith; he had become crippled for life from a horse hoof in his face while shoeing it. Afterwards he was only able to move half of his face and body, and struggled to speak and swallow, and though he got slightly better with time he never fully recovered.  
If this stranger survived, it was possible he would end up the same way. 
You slipped more potion down his throat and followed it up with mead. He had stilled somewhat and his only open eye was beginning to roll back into his head. Then he went limp as the effect of the herbs and alcohol kicked in, and fell asleep.
The worst was over; now all you could do was wait and see. If the wounds did not fester he might make it.
You stretched your aching limbs. You could use some rest too, but duty called. 
Vidar was still lingering outside. “Did he die?” He sounded imprudently hopeful.
“Not yet. Get Torsten; we need to move him to the bed.”
The guards helped you carry the man to the only bed in the room, which happened to be yours. Normally patients would be brought to their own home after being treated, but this one obviously had nowhere else to go. You did not mind; you had a comfortable chair by the fireplace where you often slept.
The stranger stirred in his sleep and his left eye twitched. Again he mumbled something incomprehensible through his lopsided mouth.
“Is he a foreigner?” asked Vidar.
“Of course he is, you fool,” Torsten retorted. “Who in this land has dark hair like that?”
You regarded the man. It was true, he did not look Rohirrim. Was he from the north? You were not good at geography and did not know much about what kingdoms there were up there. He had costly clothes and his high boots, which you had removed to make him more comfortable, were of excellent quality. Though his palms were calloused, those marks must come from weapon use rather than labor, and his strong build was an indication as well; his wide shoulders and bulging arm muscles could have had ‘swordsman’ written on them. Was he a prince perhaps, or a high lord? 
But there was no time to idly wonder about the stranger’s origin, you still had a wagonload of bog moss that needed to be taken care of. “No rest for the wicked,” you told Vidar. “Will you help me unload my moss?”
When you were finally done it had grown late. Your stomach was growling but you were too tired to prepare a meal, instead you slumped into the chair and immediately fell asleep.
You woke early as was your habit and turned your head to look at the patient. Had he survived the night?
He had. Both his eyes were open now, albeit the right one just barely. He was moving the fingers of his left hand with an air of concentration, as if to test his limits. Despite his efforts he only managed a tiny wiggle and his features grew increasingly frustrated and desperate.
You felt sorry for him and what he must go through; it must be extra hard for a warrior to become paralyzed.
Your stomach growled and the sound drew his attention. You were surprised by the intensity in that one-eyed gaze. Yesterday he had been in shock, and later drugged, but he was perfectly clear headed and aware now.
His eye had an unusual gray color, in stark contrast with his dark brown hair and beard. The same color as the Falls where you found him.
He moved the good half of his mouth to speak. You still could not make out any words, but his voice was pleasant, deep and mellow. 
Upon hearing himself a faint blush crept up his cheeks and he immediately silenced. 
You went over to the bed, checking his forehead for a fever and whether his bandages needed changing. They did; dull red spots were blooming on the linen both on his head and chest.
“You were gravely hurt, my lord.” You told him where you found him, what injuries he had and how you’d treated them. If a patient knew what had happened to them, that could often ease their stress. This man had been near death. Coming to terms with such a thing wasn’t easy. 
The man did not reply and shifted his gaze away from you. 
“Do you understand?” you asked. You were using the common language but perhaps he did not speak it. Or maybe he just did not want to slur again and embarrass himself. 
You continued speaking, whether he understood or not. It was a bit like soothing a wounded animal; they did not know the words but the tone calmed them. “I am going to change your bandages now.” You did so, explaining everything you did, and apologizing for the pain. 
He uttered not so much as a grunt when you changed the bloodied bog moss and rebandaged his arrow wounds. Did he not feel it, or was he just stoic? If the former, that was worrisome; loss of sensation often meant the paralysis would last.
Then you saw a growing damp patch on his pants. 
He had noticed it too and blushed furiously, an expression of deep mortification passing over his features. He squeezed both eyes shut and turned his face to the wall.
You took it as a good sign. He obviously could not control his bladder yet, but since he knew what had happened he must feel it, and that gave you hope he would regain more mobility in time. 
You pulled the blanket higher, and under its cover you peeled off his soiled garments and cleaned him. While working, you told him what you had been thinking, partly to take his mind off the uncomfortable situation. “You see, my lord, someone who hurts their head and cannot feel a thing afterwards, they will often not get better. But I believe your senses are intact which means you are not so ill-fated. Even if you will never be completely healed, you might very well be able to learn to walk again – perhaps with a cane.” You put a bedpan strategically between his legs. “There, all done. Worry not about this, my lord; I have been a healer nearly all my life and there is not much I have not seen.”
Your stomach reminded you that you still hadn’t had breakfast. “Time to prepare something to eat.” You made gruel for both of you, but topped off your patient’s share with more poppy tincture and willow bark. As you brought it back you explained its contents and the calming, painkilling effect. 
“Swallow this,” you bid, holding a spoon to his lips.
He closed them into a thin line.
“Come on,” you goaded. “It tastes a little bitter but you can wash it down with mead.”
He did not obey. Instead he looked at you. Both his eyes were open now, but only the left one fully. 
His gaze was the most dejected you had ever seen. Filled with bottomless darkness and despair, as if everything, absolutely everything, was lost to him. He had given up. 
You read death in his eyes.
It frightened you a little. What had happened to this man to make him abandon all hope? Well, apart from nearly getting killed, obviously.
His hopelessness filled you with sympathy, and somehow he must have sensed that for his forehead suddenly creased and he turned away again. He did not want your pity, that much was clear.
With a sigh you left him alone. With time his hunger and thirst would make him weak and his pain become unbearable. Then he would hopefully accept the relief you offered.
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A/N:
This fic is dedicated to Scyllas_Revenge who made me realize what an interesting character Boromir is. But I also wrote it for me. :) I have a thing for hurt, silent, stoic warriors…
Feedback is much appreciated!
※※※
Parts: [ Next Part > ] [ Masterlist ]
Full story: [ AO3 ]
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honestlyboringperson · 9 months
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Name: Caitlyn Rosenberg
Age: 16
Wish: “Let me continue making my ideal please.”
Magic: Regeneration
Weapon: Chainsaw
Likes: Embroidery, Cats
Dislikes: Imperfection
Element: Light
Magia: Let’s Play Forever and Ever!
Teammates: None
Skill Level: Intermediate
Witch/Doppel: Stacy
A girl with a twisted mind. She desires an ideal life, and does so in a grotesque fashion, usually murder. She is known as the “Dollhouse Killer” due to how she arranges her victim’s bodies by sewing them into human dolls. She adores cute things, although they are more at risk of becoming a doll.
WARNING: THIS STORY INCLUDES MENTIONS OF MURDER AND ANIMAL DEATH. PLEASE READ WITH CAUTION.
BACKSTORY
A girl who comes from a broken family. She was an unwanted pregnancy and was called by her parents as their biggest regret. She was mentally and physically abused until she was at a breaking point. Her parents fought often, usually resulting in them fighting each other until they bled.
She adored cartoons as they portrayed a perfect life she desired. Loving parents and a stainless world. One day she met a small cat. She adored it and wanted to keep it but knew her parents would never allow it. Then it scratched her. She got a twisted idea inspired from the cartoons she loved.
She killed the creature and turned it into a doll.
Her parents continued to hurt her until she decided to turn them into her ideal parents, like her beloved cat. She murdered them and turned their bodies into dolls, sewing their mouths into a smile, tying ribbons on the bodies, and replacing their eyes with buttons. She was caught was about to be detained, so she wished to continue turning everything into her ideal.
She was released with no consequences and she continued to make her “ideal”. She was eeriely cheerful everywhere she went and if their was someone or something she wanted, she would kill them and turn them into one of her dolls. Her house was overflowing with the corpses of her victims.
Unknowingly to her, she had a witness to her murdering someone and sewing their body into a doll. When she came home, she was devastated, not because she was caught because due to her wish, the police don’t suspect her, but because they were taking her dolls away and she begged them not to.
Seeing her ideal life fall apart, she became a witch.
WITCH DESCRIPTION
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STACY
The cat witch. Her nature is insincerity. This witch harbours two sides; the innocent cat and the aggressive and dangerous beast. She initially acts as the cat, harmlessly following around her victims in her barrier, but when they get close enough, she kills them brutally. She then turns them into a doll for her collection. She does this in order to play a pretend house with them. Anyone who disturbs her dolls, she won’t bother with getting you for her collection and instead turn you to mush and have her familiars sew your remains under the patchwork ground. Those who experienced intense pain and grief in their life can easily defeat her.
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ANNABELLE
Minions of the cat witch. Their duty is to maintain the barrier. These little sprite like familiars run around the barrier sewing up new flowers and trees to maintain the feeling of peace and tranquility. They assist the witch in disposing those who disturbed her dolls by sewing their remains beneath the floor. They can sew the witch back together, so taking them out first is essential.
DOPPEL DESCRIPTION
“Oh! My friend is here!”
The doppel of insincerity. It takes the form of a cat. The master of this emotion harbours two distinct sides; cheerful and loving but also merciless and dangerous. This doppel reflects that duality by being reversible into two forms, that being an adorable kitten and a grotesque monster. It aids it’s master’s goal by not only helping her kill her victims but also quickly sewing them into a doll for their collection, and as such the master adores her doppel. It can use it’s needle like appendages to both sew their target down and quickly kill them, but due to the cloth like body of the doppel, it tears easily making it vulnerable to sharp weapons.
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yourlocalrodent · 2 years
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Hello I was wondering if you would write something (fluff or smut) about reader and Gareth going through a haunted house together?
yep I can do that!
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you walked out of thr house to Gareth’s car “ are you ready?” He asked “ no I walked out of my house completely unorganised and messy” you gave him a unimpressed look “ oh you sarcastic bitch” he seemed amused by your attitude.
You looked up at him “ bubs?” Gareth doesn’t take his eyes off the road “ yes sugar?” He asks “ how far is this place anyway” he thinks for a moment “ about 9 kilometres/6 miles away, why?” He furrows his brows like he always does. You look back up at the road “ I’m preparing myself idiot” Gareth thought that was just fucking hilarious because he starts laughing.
“ what’s so funny!” You yell “ nothing nothing it’s just, you seem scared” he says in between laughing “ I’ll fucking make you scared In a minute! It’s a fucking haunted house!” Little did you know this lil guy is far more scared then you are. Gareth could and would wet his pants. You soon turned up towards the house, not many people were there this year “ hey we can park!” Gareth cheered trying to cover his nervousness. You raised on eyebrow, he keeps tapping his hand on the wheel.
“ gare? Are you okay?” You ask “ yep! Perfectly fine!” He grins “god why did I choose this place to go for a date” he asks himself in his head. You two get out the car and he waddles over to you, grabbing your hand. It was a tight grip, he somewhat hid it as a form of comfort to you and not comfort to him. You two had walked towards the entrance of the door, Talking to the man at the front for a minute before he let you two in.
(I’m gonna make this one big fat paragraph, fatter then William aftons dumpy and yes that’s a blueycapsules reference)
The start was eerie but wasn’t too scary, But when you came to the dining room that’s when it got straight up scary. You heard a creak coming from the hall “ what was that” Gareth shot his head over “ are you scared love?” You teased “ w-what? No!” He tried but failed, you grabbed him a gave him a hug “ your gonna be fine buddy I promise” the comfort felt much better to him. You two walked into the hall to see what the creaking was when you heard footsteps and a few seconds later a plate, no not A plate multiple plate smash onto the ground. You spun around and Gareth clung onto you “ who in the fuuhh” you questioned yourself because there was not a bit of porcelain in sight not a single piece “ what’s going on? *name*? Is it scary?” Gareth tapped your shoulder “ it’s weird is what it is” you turned back around to face him “ hello?” A little girls voice called out “ fuck this!” Gareth literally grabbed your waist pulling you towards him, he’s shaking like a leaf in the wind. Soon you started to creep down the rest of the hall to the stairs, light foot steps came up behind you two and when you looked back a little girl was staring at you. She was as pale as paper, with bright red hair and soulless eyes. She wore a cream dress that’s covered in frills and embroidery, it’s covered in blood however and on the centre of her abdominal area was a giant Gouge, you could see her insides via the hole and a few of her organs where spilling out“ yeah Uhm this is a little too real…” Gareth whispers to you “ yeah just a smidge” you backed up the stairs pulling Gareth with you but when you did she stepped fowards “ don’t leave yet mother…”She said in a soft voice “yeah nah I didn’t give birth to you-” you explained, pulling Gareth up the stairs but again with each wary step she stepped towards you “ back off kid” gareth told her off “ but why” she asked “ BECAUSE YOUR FUCKING SCARY!” He yelled gripping onto your arm. when you made the last step and stood on the second floor, the girl stood on the last step when all of a sudden the stairs collapsed and she fell into a hole ( the actor fell onto a mattress so she’s not hurt) Gareth’s chest raised up and down in fear as he breathed heavily” can we leave?” He looked at you in fear “ sure baby” you smiled
after you leave and you head home back to your place
“ hey kids how was your date” your father/mother called out (depends on who you live with or who’s around) “ it was cool mum!” You inform her “ It terrified me mrs/mr *last name*” Gareth mumbled. Your parent ushered you two back to your room, you sat down on your bed and opened you arms for him. Gareth sat down into your lap and nuzzled into you “ this feels much better then what ever the fuck I was thinking, why did I choose a haunted house?” He asked “ who knows” you chuckled, lying down into the bed. Gareth managed to get comfortable on you, his head was right under your jaw and left ear and shoulder, his body is under the blankets while he’s drawing little shapes on you with his fingers. Your arms where around his waist comforting him. He lifted his head a little bit to place 3 kisses on your neck “ I’m tired I’m gonna go to bed” he whispered “ I’ll turn off the light then” and you reached your hand over to the lamp, switching it off. Soon soft snores could be heard from the both of you.
oof this is so cute my heart
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dranna · 7 days
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contents: description of body horror(?) how you call it, description of mutated creature (aka Voldemort), Writing exercise: Voldemort
a/n: I haven’t read all the books and I’m not planning to do so. I got through till order of the phoenix and it was already a battle on my side. I hate the books and Harry’s character, I’m sorry. So if there is something not making sense canon vise here or any of my future writings, that’s why.
One of the things that always strikes me as odd, that Voldy isn’t that scary(?) or gruesome as the main villain of the story. Based on the things we learn about him, we never see much of his actions. I think his character would’ve been more interesting if we see more horror fuel stuff from him … or just him to do anything .I also imagine him looking more reptile like and terrifying.
English is still not my first language
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drawing is by me :D
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An eerie feeling froze the blood in the participants' veins, as they heard the sound of naked feet tapping on the dark, marble floors. The patting was mixed with the sound of skales flowing on the shiny surface, omitting a low hissing ring.
The Malfoy manor was silent, even more so than usual. An unnatural stillness covered the building from top to bottom. It felt like the house was sick to its bone, trying to sweat its uninvited guests out.
This stillness was thick like fog, and was silently screaming into their ears.
The halls were dark, only illuminated by flowing candles, which lended the naked legged creature an even more haunted look. It was a stretch to call that being a man, because he wasn’t. Not anymore. He tossed away his humanity long ago, when the first part of his soul got torn out from his chest and shoved into an object.
Killing, consuming, ruling.
More power, more fear in hearts, more torment in minds.
The Dark Lord was walking slowly towards his ‘throne’ at the end of the long, gloomy table.
His cold figure casted a long shadow on the dark void of the floor, making it look even more ghostly.
He appeared as a mutated skeleton in the huge chair, swallowed by the fabric of his long, inky cape. His spider-leg-fingers lacked any meat or muscle, there was only paper thin stretched skin on the bones. As their gaze anxiously traveled up on skinny arms and on clothing, they saw a wretched neck first, not leaving anything to imagination. Every artery was bulging out, mercilessly working to keep the creature amongst the living, fueled by dark magic. The veins created an uneven surface of his porcelain skin, sticking out then diving back into bones.
When their eyes got used to the view of their horrific embroidery, they met with The Eyes. They sat deep in the dark holes of the reptile skull. They were glowing with a reddish light and burning with an icy flame. They lacked any kind of warmth that illuminated the orbs of men, they rather hid well contained violence and the enjoyment of other’s pain. His pupils were two lines as if a snake, cutting the red irises in half. Their look was hard and cruel, expanding in a cat-like manner when seeing something innocent breaking.
The shape of his skull tossed away the resemblance of a human’s, it borrowed the build of a reptile. If possible, the skin became even whiter and thinner than on the hands, in some places forming skale like growth around the eyes and mouth. The flesh of his nose has rotted away, leaving two empty holes in its place. The jaw extended, became longer and wider, bearing many shark-like teeth, with 4 huge fangs. The tongue became long and V shaped, having the ability to smell for prey.
There he sat at the long table, Nagini twirling around his neck and hissing something into his elf-like ears, smiling spine chillingly at his audience.
“Malfoy, why don’t you introduce me to your son?”
The voice that broke the silence was low, almost a whisper, but ran through the hall clearly. It was a strict sound, not tolerating anything but full obey of its orders.
The scarlet irises turned towards a young man, with shiny blond hair, pale face and big, gray eyes. He was wearing nothing but black which made his nervous paleness sickly.
“Perfect” - hissed the Lord while rotted away lips twitched into a terrifying smile, showing his huge sharp teeth.
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Tagging: @giosnape
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phoebeamorryce · 5 months
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Slings and Arrows, Part Three
Part One | Part Two | Part Four | Part Five
Tia was doing her best to sit still, like she was giving one of her brilliant presentations. She had rested her arms on the table; as she spoke, she fiddled with the crisp cuffs of her jumpsuit, picking at the embroidered number stitched into the white fabric.
Already her voice sounded thinner. She kept pausing to swallow, to catch her breath. But she didn’t stop.
“Jerusha asked me once why I picked such funny names for her and the other children. I didn’t really have a good answer. It just made sense at the time. And really, it was Cielo’s idea. God knows I wasn’t the one scouring the Bible for names.” Tia smiled softly. “She insisted I get a funny name too. We spent a long time over it.”
Ethan sat back and draped one arm over the back of his chair. He folded his hands and studied the woman across from him.
She hadn’t looked at him once, in all the time they’d spoken. There had been a time when they’d been content to get lost in each other’s eyes. The silence had been bearable, comfortable, back then. They’d understood each other.
They’d fallen a long way since then.
“What name did you pick?” Ethan finally asked.
To his surprise, Tia did look at him then. And oh, she looked tired. Worn thin, all of her strength and energy drained away. He wondered if it was a result of all of that time spent on a planet she was ill-suited to. Her term of service shouldn’t have been half as long as it was.
The only thing that hadn’t changed was her eyes. Life still sparked in them.
She didn’t answer his question. She straightened in her chair and kept picking at the mark on her sleeve.
“Our eventual aim was to create a self-sustaining population,” she explained, “tailored to its unique environment. Such a thing had barely been conceived of before then; no one was counting the Passerine project.”
“No one kept the subjects of Project Passerine a state secret,” Ethan drily retorted.
“Well, they tried.” Tia glanced at him again and he was almost positive she was laughing at him.
Ethan smiled back. His heart did something stupid, and for a second he was twenty-something again, catching her eye across a crowded room.
“My past experience helped to qualify me,” Tia continued, “but it was growing up in such close proximity to my mother’s work that earned me the research board’s trust. Authorizing my security clearance was almost perfunctory.”
Tia’s gaze had gone inward again. Ethan wondered what she was remembering. She had set foot on—lived on—a planet the general population assumed was still under active terraformation. No one had realized it would never be habitable for…. He searched for the term he’d read. “Type-A Human.” What an eerie way to classify the human race.
“How many of you were there?” he asked, trying to keep her focused. Trying to steer her toward the question he wanted to ask. Trying not to get distracted himself. Remember what she’s done. You aren’t kids anymore.
“I don’t know. I…I can’t remember. Risa and Cielo and I were the project leads. Risa had her research assistants, Cielo had her lab rats, I had my nurses. That’s one part the news reports, even the court documents, didn’t mention: it was all women. It was a second experiment on top of the first. There were only two men on the board, even; the rest were women. I don’t know what we were trying to prove. It didn’t really make a difference, in the grand scheme of things. Well, it did. That many women, all stuck on a planet and you can’t go outside without a suit. The children…. It was probably four years at least before they outnumbered us. The ones who survived.”
Tia’s nails had worked loose a black embroidery thread. She tugged on it in silence. 
Across the room, the door hissed open and a woman in slacks and a blazer clacked her way into the room. She’d come in on the same shuttle as Ethan. She scanned the tables and, not seeing whatever she was looking for, wandered to one side to examine a potted shrub.
There were guards, tucked away like statues into the dim corners of the room. Only two or three other tables were currently occupied. Those other conversations reached them through the muffling shields as warped hisses, like static. Beyond the room, the station echoed and hummed, never sleeping, never still.
“You were right, you know,” Tia whispered.
Ethan dragged his gaze back to her. She rushed on breathlessly, the words spilling out.
“You’d always said we would take it too far. ‘That would never happen, we know better, we’ve become better than that’ but you didn’t listen to me. And you—” Her breath caught, almost a hiccup, and she licked her lips. “And you were right. No matter what we did, we always knew it would be a miracle if one hundred percent of the fetuses made it to the forty-week mark. There were always new things to test, to aim for, to refine.”
Tia left off unraveling the stitching on her cuff and moved to massaging the back of her neck instead. She turned her face toward the window. Ethan made himself focus on his notepad instead of staring at her.
“Salome—she was a little over, well, by project reckoning she would have been more than eight years old, but seven by normal standards—she asked me one time if she and the older kids were…. I can’t remember how she worded it. Guinea pigs, you know? Not perfected yet. Cast-offs, I suppose. Most of the children weren’t too interested in the finer points of the project. The pod room terrified a lot of them. Most of them didn’t put all of the pieces together enough to understand that we were chasing a more perfect model with every cohort.
“Sometimes we seemed to work backwards. The members of Number Four were shorter on average than the others, even than Jerusha. Eleazar always hated that. He—”
Tia stopped short. She took a sharp breath and rushed on along a different track. “We told ourselves we were taking every measure to minimize waste. Before I got there, Risa had worked out the ideal number of embryos per cohort, and those were all we started with, unless something unusual happened. I think that only happened…once or twice? While I was there.”
“How many?” Ethan asked, his own voice hoarse. He cleared his throat. “How many per…cohort?”
“Twelve.” She pulled her cuff over her fist and rubbed at her nose with it. “Twelve for the first five groups. With Number Five we only lost one, somewhere around Week Forty-Three? Cielo was convinced they had narrowed down their parameters. After that it was only six per group. And two of those had a perfect success rate. Well, there was a scare with Keziah, but in the end….”
Tia sighed. “But all the same, it wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t good. We could justify ourselves all day long but we all knew the truth. We were the ‘what if?’. We were everything you had warned about. Yes, we had our regulations, our precise methods, but in the end we were still playing with lives for the sake of research. And we knew from the start what these lives were meant for. No one was supposed to ever find out about Project Flint. The planet was supposed to be declared a total loss, presumably abandoned. Maybe in a hundred, two hundred years it would all come to light, but….”
The door hissed again. A guard walked through with a prisoner, a man with a neatly-trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. The woman who had entered earlier moved to greet them. The guard left, and the woman and the prisoner picked out a table.
Ethan half-expected a waitress to wander up any minute and offer him some coffee.
He wondered how well Tia was eating. He had no doubt that the choice of a good meal was always available here, but she was one of those people who forgot to eat. Forgot to sleep. Who got so absorbed in the hows and whys that they didn’t know how to stop, even when they knew they’d gone too far.
“We were designing prisoners,” Tia continued, her voice barely audible. “Tailoring them to their environment, but at the same time condemning them to it. And even if it succeeded, no one was ever supposed to know.”
“What happened?” Ethan asked. He let her decide what he meant.
Tia shrugged one shoulder. “There was a threshold for acceptable losses. We all knew that. Yes, we did our best to minimize those losses, but a certain amount was always just…part of the plan. Beyond that, we were to consider the project a failure, the sort that couldn’t be fixed with a few more trials, a few more test groups.
“Only we thought those losses would come early on in development. Things had been going so well for so long that we were optimistic. But…. You’ve probably read the report—whatever parts weren’t redacted.” 
She was starting to speak more quickly again, her voice rising a little as she did. “Long and short, the children got sick. Risa and her team, even Cielo and her girls, were always uncovering new information about the planet. They were always finding new things to factor into the trial groups. No one could have predicted in the preliminary stages how the children’s adapted bodies would interact with their environment. Project Passerine had worked at it from the other direction: they built the environment they wanted after they’d played potter with their subjects.”
Ethan glanced up in time to see Tia watching him through the window’s reflection. He looked away before she did.
“It was over six months between us sending that report and the board sending their reply. A lot happens in six months, project like that. Group Ten was almost a year along. We were finding ways to manage, but Cielo had made some predictions and the worst of them were coming true.”
Ethan’s throat was dry. He hadn’t written anything in a while. He’d just stared at the list he’d started, somewhere on the sixth page: Jerusha, Michal, Salome, Eleazar, Keziah.
“That wasn’t the only problem, either. There was something else we were trying to figure out: why more girls survived than boys. Not by a lot, but enough. Jerusha was our first, and she was still, in a lot of ways, our best. None of the boys came close to her. Cielo could explain it better….”
She shook her head.
“Believe me, I’d love to find Dr. Flores and ask her myself,” Ethan said. It should have been Dr. Flores in this prison instead of Tia. Or maybe in addition to Tia. They’d all contributed to “the project”. But Cielo Flores had been responsible for the genetic tinkering that had guided the project to its eventual conclusion.
And now she was in the wind. And he was here with Tia, the woman who had taken the fall for an entire group’s sins.
Ethan swallowed before he asked, for a second time, “What happened?”
Tia didn’t answer for several minutes. Her voice when she did gather herself to answer was stronger, clearer, than Ethan had expected.
“We received our orders: liquidation.”
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illumins · 3 months
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𝕯𝖎𝖛𝖎𝖓𝖊 𝕻𝖆𝖈𝖙·.༄࿔ 𝐤. 𝐭𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠
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༺✺༻
✦𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: low fantasy, short, fanfic.
✦𝐩𝐨𝐯: omniscient | third pov
✦𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: dead bodies, description of corpse.
𔘓⁩ ᵗⁱᵖʲᵃʳ
༺✺༻
Taehyung leaned back against the plush velvet of the vintage train's seat, the warm rumble of the engine beneath him creating a soothing rhythm. The carriage was a masterpiece of Victorian opulence, a haven of polished mahogany, intricately patterned carpets, and crystal chandeliers that bathed the space in a soft, golden glow. The walls were adorned with oil paintings depicting scenes of arcane lore and historic battles between mages and humans, a constant reminder of the delicate balance that governed their world.
Seated across from Taehyung was Professor Atticus Fair, a distinguished figure whose salt-and-pepper beard framed a face lined with wisdom and experience. Atticus, a renowned scholar of magical history and ethics, had long been an advocate for the integration of dark mages into society. His attire mirrored the grandeur of the train carriage, wearing a tailored charcoal suit adorned with subtle silver embroidery that hinted at ancient symbols of arcane power. His vest was adorned with a pocket watch that gleamed in the ambient light, a relic of a time when punctuality was paramount. 
As for Taehyung, he was attired in a suit of deep indigo, the fabric expertly cut to accentuate his lean frame. His attire held a touch of modernity, the lines of the suit reflecting a fusion of traditional tailoring and the more experimental designs favored by the younger generation. A silver chain peeked from his pocket, securing a small vial filled with shimmering iridescent powder—a potent substance used in certain advanced spells.
His sharp, distinguished features were accentuated by the flickering light of the lamp above, casting deep shadows that danced across the lines etched into his face. As the train hurtled through the landscape, Taehyung and Professor Atticus delved into the topic at hand. The professor's gravelly voice carried the weight of experience, each word a carefully chosen brick in the construction of their discourse.
“The politics of our world are built upon a precarious balance, Taehyung,” the Professor mused, his fingers steepled in front of him. "The dark mages, with their formidable powers, walk a fine line between obedience and rebellion. It is the duty of the ruling class to maintain that equilibrium.”
Taehyung nodded, his gaze fixed on the passing landscape outside the window—a panorama of sprawling cities with towering spires and billowing chimneys. The Professor continued, his eyes momentarily fixated on the city lights. 
“The Council of Arcane Affairs, established by the Accord of the Elders, holds the reins of power. Dark mages are permitted to exist only under their watchful gaze. But tell me, Taehyung, what happens when those in power begin to waver, when the delicate balance tips?”
Taehyung's gaze flickered with a subtle intensity, the play of shadows on his chiseled features giving him an air of mystery. “Chaos ensues, Professor. It's a delicate dance, and one misstep could plunge us all into the abyss.”
As Taehyung opened his mouth to voice his query, a sudden, eerie shift descended upon the train. Shadows lengthened, swallowing the warm glow of the gas lamps and shrouding the carriage in an oppressive darkness. The clatter of the wheels against the tracks grew muffled, drowned out by the collective intake of breath and the rustling of fabric as passengers shifted uneasily in their seats.
The once lively hum of conversation fell into a hushed silence, broken only by anxious whispers that rippled through the air like a nervous breeze. Some passengers gasped, others whimpered, and a few, gripped by fear, erupted into panicked exclamations, demanding to know what was happening.
Taehyung felt a surge of urgency, his muscles tensing in readiness to rise and investigate, but the firm grip of Professor Atticus's hand on his wrist arrested his movement. He glanced at the professor, whose steady gaze implored him to remain still, a silent command underscored by the subtle tilt of his head.
Reluctantly, Taehyung sank back into his seat, his expression shifting from curiosity to a strict mask of alertness. His throat tightened, a reflexive gulp betraying the tension that coiled within him. His eyes, usually warm and expressive, now scanned the dimly lit carriage for any sign of danger, his senses heightened as he tried to discern the source of the encroaching darkness.
“Sit tight,” the Professor murmured, his voice low but resolute. “Let's observe first, understand the nature of this disturbance.”
Around them, the fear of the unknown simmered, morphing into various reactions. Some passengers became more agitated, their voices rising in a crescendo of questions and demands for answers. Others clutched at talismans and charms, seeking solace in superstition. Shadows danced on the walls, twisting and contorting in eerie shapes that seemed almost sentient in their movement.
The sudden yell pierced through the tension like a lightning bolt, distorting into a guttural growl that reverberated within the carriage, followed by a heavy thud that jolted everyone into a frenzy of panicked screams. Taehyung shot a glance at Professor Atticus, an irritated yet alarmed look flashing in his eyes. Without waiting for permission, he rose from his seat, determination etched on his features as he maneuvered through the chaos toward the source of the commotion.
Navigating through the dimly lit carriage, Taehyung's senses were on high alert. People scrambled, their cries intertwining with the unsettling darkness that engulfed the space. Finally reaching the front-middle section, he found a cluster of terrified passengers, their voices rising in a cacophony of fear.
“She's dead!” someone screamed, their voice laced with horror. The passengers erupted into a frenzy, their voices a discordant chorus of terror. Taehyung pushed through the crowd, his gaze narrowing as he caught sight of the lifeless figure sprawled on the floor.
In the dim light, Taehyung discerned a streak of embers below the lifeless eyes, a haunting glow that sent shivers down his spine. Without hesitation, he reached for a lantern on one of the nearby tables, fingers deftly tracing an incantation along its rim. The spell was swift, a whisper of magic conjuring a flickering flame atop the candle within the lantern, illuminating the grim scene with an ethereal glow.
With the lantern illuminating the scene, the grisly truth came into focus. The victim lay motionless, eyes now hollow, black ashen sockets that seemed to absorb the feeble light around them. The mouth, once wide and agape in terror, now held a silent scream frozen in the pallor of death.
The streaks of ember and fading fire beneath the eyes painted a sinister tableau. Taehyung's breath caught in his throat as he surveyed the eerie remnants of magic that clung to the lifeless form. The air crackled with an unknown energy, and the acrid scent of burnt remnants lingered, as if the very essence of the victim had been consumed by an insatiable flame.
As the lantern's glow flickered over the lifeless figure, Taehyung sensed Professor Atticus's presence behind him. He turned slightly, catching the glint in the older man's eyes as he murmured, “Angels…” The word hung in the air like a cryptic melody, and Taehyung's curiosity flared. It was a peculiar response, one that hinted at a knowledge deeper than the surface of the magical realm.
Before Taehyung could press for an explanation, a renewed cry echoed through the carriage, mirroring the previous disturbance. The urgency in the voices was unmistakable, and the professor's gaze shifted from Taehyung to the source of the commotion. Another unsettling growl resonated, low and menacing, as if some malevolent force lurked in the shadows.
The cries of terror multiplied, echoing through the compartments like a ghastly symphony of fear. Bodies fell, accompanied by the sounds of panicked voices and desperate pleas. Taehyung's eyes widened in alarm as he witnessed the swift descent into pandemonium.
The once tranquil luxury of the vintage train had transformed into a theater of horror. People writhed in agony, falling to the ground as if pulled by unseen malevolent hands. Fear painted stark portraits on their faces, their voices carrying a chilling urgency that mingled with the train's relentless rhythm.
Taehyung's eyes darted rapidly from one corner to the other, his senses attuned to the unfolding drama. Bodies fell, and the air crackled with the frenzied energy of the unknown. His hand tightened around the lantern, the warm glow casting dancing shadows on the carved walls of the carriage.
Professor Atticus's expression remained inscrutable, his gaze unwavering, and Taehyung felt a ripple of uncertainty. In the dim light, the professor's lips parted, as if about to share some profound revelation. Yet, the chaos intensified, drowning out any possibility of dialogue.
Amidst the tumult, Taehyung decided to act. His instincts propelled him forward, navigating through the panicked passengers toward the epicenter of the disturbance. The train seemed to hurtle faster, its wheels a relentless percussion beneath the cacophony of screams.
As Taehyung reached the next carriage, the scene mirrored the horror he had left behind. People stumbled and fell, their faces etched with terror. The air buzzed with the same malevolent energy, and Taehyung's eyes widened as he discerned the telltale signs of dark magic at play.
A chorus of panicked voices echoed through the steel corridors, each scream intertwining with the next. Taehyung's mind raced, the urgency of the situation demanding his full attention.
Taehyung moved through the carriages, his mind racing as he recited the fundamental rules of magic under his breath. “The first rule: what is taken can be returned in equal measure…” Each rule echoed in his thoughts as he delved deeper into the labyrinth of compartments. "The second rule: Energy can't be created or destroyed…" His steps quickened, urgency driving him forward. "The third rule: Magic obeys balance…" He scanned the faces of passengers, seeking any signs of a mage in distress.
“Fourth rule: Whatever is done to one will be mirrored on its user…” This particular tenet echoed in his mind, the implication clear. Whoever was casting such powerful magic would suffer its repercussions.
Yet, despite his urgent search, Taehyung couldn't pinpoint the source. His eyes scanned every corner of the carriages, seeking any sign of a mage suffering the repercussions of their own magic. Frustration gnawed at him as the chaos continued unabated, the elusive caster of the spell remaining elusive.
As he entered another carriage, the professor's voice cut through the chaos. “Taehyung!” The older man weaved through the terrified passengers, his hand reaching out to grab Taehyung's shoulder. Startled, Taehyung turned, his eyes ablaze with determination.
“What?” Taehyung snapped, his voice edged with urgency. “We need to find them, or more will die!”
The professor's hands tightened on Taehyung's shoulders, a touch filled with a desperate plea. “Listen to me, Taehyung,” he implored, his voice strained. “You won't find them because it's not a dark caster. It's an Angel.”
Taehyung's brows furrowed in confusion. “An Angel? What do you mean?”
“Yes, an Angel. They don't follow the rules of magic as we know them. It's not a dark mage casting these spells. You won't find them through the echoes of pain. They're beyond that, working on a different plane. We need to rethink our approach.”
As the chaos surged around them, Taehyung made a conscious effort to steady his breath. “What can we do, then?” he asked the professor, his voice tinged with a sense of urgency.
Professor Atticus's brows furrowed in deep contemplation. “We have to attune our frequencies to sense Angels. It's akin to when mages attune their frequency to communicate with the dead. We need to shift our perception, align our senses to a different realm.”
Taehyung absorbed the professor's words, the notion of attuning frequencies beyond the scope of conventional magic both intriguing and daunting. Atticus wasted no time in explaining the process, guiding Taehyung through a series of mental exercises meant to adjust his perception.
“Focus on your senses, Taehyung," Atticus instructed. "It's not about seeing or hearing. It's about feeling, reaching out with your awareness. Concentrate on the shift in energies around you.”
He guided Taehyung through the process, a method that required a delicate manipulation of one's magical senses. “Focus,” the professor urged. “In the threads of life and magic, you'll notice a thin thread, almost imperceptible at first, with an unfamiliar glow. Once you learn to spot it, it becomes easier to distinguish amidst the larger threads.”
Taehyung closed his eyes, focusing on the fabric of existence around him. At first, it was a struggle, the sea of threads blurring together. But slowly, a glimmer caught his attention—a faint, almost ethereal thread with an otherworldly hue.
His eyes snapped open, widening in realization. “It's here,” he murmured, whipping around to search the carriage. The professor's voice cut through the urgency, his tone heavy with the weight of their predicament.
“The High Council and I haven't found a way to stop them,” Atticus explained, frustration tinged with resignation. “How do you stop something that isn't bound by law?”
Taehyung's mind raced, thoughts colliding as he pondered the professor's words. An idea sparked within him, a dangerous notion that took root as Atticus spoke. But he held his plan close, veiling it in the secrecy of his thoughts.
Without a word, Taehyung walked away from the professor, following the faintly glowing thread. It led him to the far left corner of the carriage, where he found a young woman in a black dress. Her long wavy locks lay calmly as she rested her hands on her legs, an image of serene composure. Oddly, a white cloth was wrapped around her eyes, shrouding them in mystery.
Taehyung hesitated, his senses alert. The glow from the thread seemed to emanate from her, and as he observed her serene countenance, a chilling realization settled in—he had found the Angel.
With a hesitancy that clashed against his urgency, Taehyung extended his hand toward the young woman in the black dress, his fingers trembling slightly before finally clasping hers. A chill swept through him as their skin connected, a sensation akin to icy needles pricking his flesh. The touch was unsettlingly cold, sending a shiver down his spine, but he tightened his grip, steeling himself against the discomfort.
Focusing his will, Taehyung began the incantation in a low, steady voice, his words resonating within the confines of the carriage. The air hummed with the potency of magic as he sought to bind himself to the Angel. Latin words spilled from his lips, each syllable charged with intention and purpose.
“Anima mea coniunge te tibi,” he uttered, the words echoing against the chaos surrounding them. His eyes bore into the cloth-covered gaze of the Angel as he continued the spell, a swirling maelstrom of ancient language and raw power.
As the spell unfurled, weaving tendrils of binding magic between them, the Angel's calm facade fractured. With swift, ethereal grace, she rose from her seat, her hand snaking around Taehyung's throat, cold and unforgiving. He felt the vice-like grip constricting his airway, the sensation of her touch seeping into his very essence.
But Taehyung remained resolute, his voice unwavering as he continued the incantation. Pain, both visceral and transcendent, surged through him as their souls began to merge. It was a tumultuous union, a clash of opposing forces seeking to entwine in a forbidden dance.
The merging of their essences was a cacophony of sensations—pain searing through his veins, an electrifying thrill coursing down his spine. It was as if his very being was on the precipice of transformation. The world around him dimmed, his focus solely on the binding spell and the merging of their souls.
Amidst the chaos, Taehyung heard whispers—a symphony of voices that weren't his own, fragments of ancient tongues and celestial murmurs. It was a chorus of existence, a collision of two disparate entities tethering themselves to each other in a realm beyond comprehension.
The agony intensified, a crescendo of pain and exhilaration that threatened to overwhelm him. Yet, amidst the chaos of their merging souls, a strange harmony emerged—a strange understanding, an unspoken connection between two beings on opposite ends of existence.
The culmination of the binding spell was a tumultuous whirlwind of sensations. As Taehyung uttered the final words, “Libera me,” the air crackled with residual energy, and a profound stillness settled over the carriage. He knew, in that moment, that the binding had been successful.
With a sense of finality, Taehyung released the Angel's hand, only to find her grip around his throat relenting. Desperation etched across his features, he gasped for breath, his hand reaching to rub the soreness that lingered in the wake of the ethereal struggle.
“Stop,” he croaked, the word barely audible as he struggled to regain control of his body. His vocal cords protested, a harsh rasp escaping his lips. Undeterred, he shifted to mental communication, focusing his thoughts on the Angel. ‘Let go.’
A hesitation lingered in the ephemeral connection they now shared, and slowly, the Angel loosened her grip. Taehyung felt the constriction around his throat ease, the pressure relenting as if a vice slowly releasing its hold. He gulped for air, the pain subsiding as he focused on restoring his own breath.
As the echoes of their struggle faded, Taehyung became aware of the continued chaos surrounding him—the screams, the cries, the remnants of fear that clung to the air. He turned to see Professor Atticus staring at him in horror, the older man's eyes wide with disbelief at the uncharted path Taehyung had ventured upon.
Taehyung met the professor's gaze, his expression a mix of exhaustion and determination. “Stop,” he commanded the Angel once more, this time with an air of authority. The chaos seemed to heed his words, the screams tapering off into an eerie silence.
The aftermath of the magical turmoil was palpable. Passengers, frozen in various states of panic, stared wide-eyed at the scene that unfolded before them. The Angel, now released from her ethereal assault, sat calmly in her seat, the white cloth still concealing her eyes. Taehyung's eyes flickered between the Professor and the Angel, uncertainty lingering in the air.
With a steadying breath, Taehyung addressed the professor, “We need to understand her motives, Professor. There must be a reason for these disturbances.”
The professor approached them, his gaze shifting between Taehyung and the Angel. His eyes, once filled with shock, now harbored a mixture of concern and reproach. Taehyung met his mentor's gaze, the weight of their unspoken conversation lingering in the air.
“What have you done?” Professor Atticus asked, his voice a measured blend of disappointment and caution.
“I did what was necessary,” Taehyung retorted, his tone firm.
“Taehyung,” the professor began, his voice measured but tinged with a grave tone, “you've broken one of the fundamental rules set by the Elders.”
Taehyung sighed, closing his eyes. “The binding spell—”
“Yes,” the professor interjected, “the rule explicitly states that the binding spell cannot be cast. Not under any circumstance.”
Taehyung's gaze flickered between the professor and the veiled Angel, a surge of frustration and determination building within him. “But this was different, Professor. You saw what happened. The threat she posed—”
“The Elders won't see it that way,” Atticus interrupted, his tone unwavering. “There are protocols, Taehyung. Lines we cannot cross, even in the face of danger.”
“But I acted to protect,” Taehyung protested, his voice tinged with urgency. “Surely they'll understand the circumstances.”
The professor's expression remained somber. “You'll have to defend your actions, Taehyung. Explain why you breached the rules they've set. It's a line that's been crossed, regardless of the intent.”
A sense of dismay settled over Taehyung, the weight of the situation pressing down upon him. He had acted on instinct, driven by the urgency of the moment, and yet now faced the consequences of his impulsive decision. The tension in the carriage hung thick, an unspoken rift between the laws of magic and the instinct for survival.
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phantomgrimalkin · 4 months
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The floo flared to life, green flames casting the room in their eerie glow, and a figure stepped through them. The strange wizard reminded Remus very much of Sirius, albeit quite a bit older. Streaks of silver in the black hair that was tied securely behind his neck. He had the quintessential grey eyes that nearly all Blacks seemed to, pale skin, strong cheekbones, wearing plum colored robes with elaborate embroidery and inlaid with gemstones.
Remus was on his feet, wand discreetly tucked in his palm behind his back, face a calm mask as he internally cursed this family for being so goddamned inbred. It could have been any of them - Orion, Alphard, whoever the hell the witches' father was. Only one of those possibilities guaranteed his safety. He didn't like those odds.
He had already felt incredibly out of place, and didn't own any clothes that would let him feel at all like an equal to the high bred man staring him down. Still, he would have appreciated something a little more distinguished than care worn flannel pajama pants and a Bowie t shirt.
"Hello, sir, I can fetch Regulus for you," he said after the pause stretched on long enough that he felt the need to break it. He cursed himself as soon as he did, trying not to let it show on his face.
The man chuckled and held a hand out, "I'm Alphard."
"Oh thank god," he breathed.
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