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sirowsky-stories · 7 months

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The Old Prince

So, this is my entry for the Halloween themed Pedro Pascal Writing Challenge hosted by @pedrocontestsrus Thank you for organizing this! And if anyone else is interested in entering the competition, here's a link to the post with all the info.

I chose Prompt #2 Theme: A Dark and Stormy Night. However, I suck at short, so this is basically just a teaser which I'm gonna have to continue outside of the contest.

Rating: Mature 18+ONLY Warnings: Monster Oberyn Martell x Female Reader, Game of Thrones AU, obviously Halloween themed, reader cusses, reader is attacked and abducted. Also, this is my first time writing Oberyn. Word Count: 4041 Author's Masterlist

You run at full speed despite the darkness, ignoring the burning in your lungs and the furious pounding of your heart, even though you know that he’s already gone and that your running would only scare him off if he wasn’t. The woods have always scared you and even now, in your mid-thirties, you still panic when you’re alone among the creaking old trees, spider webs and nightly active animals, all of whom seem intent on eating you. At least, to your own imagination.

“Damned it, Casper…” you breathlessly curse the horse for leaving you, once you’ve been forced to a stop by the pain in your lungs.

He’s normally very brave but being in the woods in the middle of a building storm is apparently too much even for his stout heart. So, you’re left to walk the remaining four miles to your house, and not for the first time, you find yourself wondering why the hell you’d chosen to live all the way out here, surrounded by the very woods that have always been such a source of discomfort to you.

“Because that was all you could afford, dimwit,” you chastise yourself out loud.

The house you now live in had been put up for sale after the previous owner had been missing for a few years and was eventually declared dead, despite her body never being found. It’s small and old, but well maintained and very charming, so you’d been surprised to be the only one interested in it.

You’ve lived there for over six years now and while it’s a bit secluded and a little too far from town, you do love it. The hiking trails leading up to the seven hills that make up the east boundary of the region run right by your property, and in daylight, you love to ride or just wander up to the peaks and admire the view.

There are rarely any larger wildlife passing through so for the most part, it’s quite safe, so long as you remember to bring water and check for lose rocks on the steeper sections of the trails. But now, in the near pitch-black darkness of night, you can’t even recognize the trail you’re on. So, why are you even out here?

Well, that would be because you’d started out in daylight, as usual, but then gotten involved in a search for another missing person in the hills, which had left you out there until well after nightfall. You had of course expected Casper to bring you home safe and sound, like he usually does no matter what’s going on around him. But unfortunately, on this occasion, the horse had lost its footing and fallen to the ground.

He’d gotten up without trouble, but since you’d no longer been on his back at that point, he’d gotten spooked, probably by the reins getting caught in his legs or something, and had taken off. You hope that he gets home without hurting himself, but you’re also quite angry with him for not recognizing your voice and staying by your side instead of running off on his own.

But your thoughts are disrupted by a creaking sound coming from behind you, a sound definitely not created by a tree. You stop, feeling a cold shiver move slowly down your spine, and you know that you’re in danger. You have no idea exactly what is watching you right now, but you know that something is.

You hear that same sound again, mere moments after the first, and even as you instinctively set off running, too panicked to even know if you’re still on the trail, your mind tries to work out what the hell that sound is. The winds are picking up, building towards the forecasted storm that has all the kids in town excited because of how perfect it is for the Halloween celebration, but it’s making it so much harder for you to hear if something’s chasing you.

Unable to stop yourself, you throw a look over your right shoulder, and a strangled scream escapes you when you catch a glimpse of something impossibly large and strangely shiny, and then just teeth. You try to run faster but you can’t. The dark world around you is a blur as you wait for those teeth to sink into your flesh and torture you to death. It seems to take so long.

And then it happens. You’re snagged to a stop so quickly that it makes your legs lift off the ground as they’re kicked forwards by the momentum. Something has your shoulder between its jaws, but that’s as much as you’re aware of before the world fades away and nothing exists anymore.

-=¤=-

You wake up on a bed in a room with a strange ceiling and stone walls. You’re groggy and only half awake, so it takes you a moment to realize that there are paintings covering the ceiling, making the stones look kind of fluid. Beautiful images of stormy seas and a red sunset flow across the domed shape, bringing it to life in a way that stone shouldn’t be capable of.

Then you remember, and bring your left hand up to examine your right shoulder, half expecting it to just not be there. But it is, and it feels fine. You sit up, relieved but also confused that there’s no pain, and as your bare feet hit the cold floors, your eyes are drawn to the rest of the room. It’s round and there’s a window in every direction, revealing the daylight outside, but also every detail inside.

The bed is easily large enough for two people, and the sheets and blankets are the softest you’ve ever felt. There’s a loveseat underneath one of the windows, with plush pillows leaned against the armrests. In the middle of the room is a carpet which you can tell just by looking at it, likely costs more than your house. And the curtains, four matching pairs, all a deep red, somehow seem both heavy and feathery light.

There’s a door to your left, and it’s standing open, so at least you’re not a prisoner. But you don’t feel like one regardless. All of this is so strange, because you’re sure that something bit you, but you can’t find any wounds in your skin. There are holes in your shirt, though. And where’s your jacket? Why are you barefoot?

You head for the door and find a winding staircase leading down, so this is apparently a tower. At the foot of the stairs is a corridor and then more stairs, twirling the other way this time, so you keep heading down, passing closed doors and empty spaces until you reach a pair of large double doors that are left wide open.

There’s a fire crackling inside and your cold feet and bare arms have left you shivering, so you head inside, finding the biggest open fireplace you’ve ever seen, in the other end of the huge room. It must be a ballroom or excessively large dining room, but it’s completely empty, save for a padded short stool in front of the fire.

You sit and warm yourself, trying to think back, to remember any details that might help you understand what’s happened to you, but nothing comes to mind. And then a movement to your right startles you to your feet.

“My apologies, miss. I have a habit of moving quietly,” a dark and low voice says, and when you locate the man who that voice belongs to, you’re momentarily stunned into silence.

He’s tall and broad, but quite lean, with a perfectly chiseled jaw and a beard trimmed to accentuate that. He wears no jewelry, but his dark green coat has golden threads and small embroideries on the cuffs and along the collar. Shapes too small for you to make out at ten feet of distance, but which from afar remind you of snakes. Still, it’s his eyes that rob your brain of most its function.

So dark, but also incredibly expressive. He’s curious, intrigued, but wary. As though you might pose a threat to him somehow, which seems impossible to you.

“W-… Where are my shoes?” you manage to croak, still unable to break away from his eyes.

“I took your shoes and your jacket to encourage you not to run away once you awoke. I’m afraid I am going to need you to remain here for the time being,” the man explains, and suddenly your brain wakes up in full.

“So, I’m your captive, is that what you’re telling me?”

“Yes, and no. You are my captive, as much as I am yours.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I have no idea who you are,” you counter, getting angry because that’s all you can do to keep from panicking.

“My name is Oberyn, and this is my home. You’re welcome to explore as much as you like, but I would recommend staying away from the basement. Especially at night.”

“Why? Do you have more prisoners down there you don’t want me to set free?”

“Oh, there are cages down there, and many of them are occupied,” he says, while taking a few steps closer to you. “But I doubt that you would want to release any of the creatures that are locked inside.”

Creatures? What the hell does he mean by that? He’s only three feet away when he stops, just as the outside light catches his eyes at a different angle, and you can swear that you see something else within them. A bright golden shine seems to illuminate them from within for just a fraction of a second, as if reacting to the sun’s rays.

“The tower is yours. I will not venture there without your approval for the duration of your stay. But the rest of the castle is my domain, and you move through it at your own risk. Do you understand?” he asks, to which your anger flares.

“Understand? No… I really don’t. Who are you?! What is this place, where the hell am I?! There aren’t any castles anywhere near the seven hills! And what the hell was it that chased me last night, and why do I have bitemarks in my shirt but not on my skin? What the fuck is going on?!”

He lets you scream and rant without so much as a twitch bothering his mustache, and says nothing as you begin to pace in front of the fireplace, crossing your arms in silent defiance, but also an attempt to guard yourself against all this strangeness.

“You were bitten by a serpent,” he quietly says, just as you’re about to give up and leave the room.

“It was a lot bigger than any snake, and it had a lot more than two fangs,” you counter, all but spitting at him now, further angered by the notion that he might be trying to convince you that you imagined the whole thing.

“I didn’t say that it was a snake,” he replies, and you stop pacing.

“And what is a serpent if not a damned snake?” you challenge, but he seems unbothered.

“Is that all it can be? You must think broader than that, young one.”

His words make no sense to you. Serpent, snake, fucking danger noodle, it’s all the same. And “young one”? He’s at most five years older than you.

“Please, just tell me where we are?” you finally ask, deciding that there’s probably no point in trying to argue with this mystery man.

He looks at you for a good minute then, as if trying to decide if he should answer, and you notice that he doesn’t blink a lot, which is surprisingly unsettling.

“We are six hundred and nine miles from your home. Give or take a few dozen feet.”

That takes you a second to process.

“What!?” you almost scream, unable to take any more of this incomprehensible nonsense. “Do you honestly expect me to believe that you had a fucking helicopter hidden in the woods, or something?”

“Take a look outside the windows,” he calmly suggests. “I’m sure the snow on the ground will help you come to terms with the truth that you are no longer as far south as you think.”

Unwilling to take his word for it, you walk over to the nearest window, where the view makes your heart sink. Because he’s right. Not only are there several inches of snow covering everything in sight, but you also don’t recognize the landscape at all. And that’s when the realization of just how much trouble you’re in, finally dawns on you.

Turning away from the window, you now meet your captor’s eyes, for the first time with fear brimming within your own. Unable to stop yourself, you try to back away from him but there’s a wall in the way, so you start moving sideways instead, heading for the open double doors of the room. He doesn’t try to stop you, but just before you turn your back to him as you’re crossing the threshold, his expression turns incredibly sad.

You run through the halls, fully panicking now and having no idea where you’re even going. But then another set of large double doors are in front of you, so you grab the handle on one of them and pull it open. It’s the front entrance. You’re standing on the top ledge of another staircase, this one twisting off in both directions, leading down to a massive courtyard.

There’s a fountain in the shape of a rearing Pegasus in the middle, so big that the lilac shrubs which surrounds it barely even reach halfway up its hindlegs. And beyond that, is a giant garden of cherry trees and rhododendron hedges, in the middle of which, a wide driveway comes straight through, right up to the courtyard. A driveway that’s so long, you can’t even see the end of it, where it disappears into the surrounding woods.

You couldn’t run from here even with your shoes and jacket.

The freezing wind brushes over your exposed skin, making you shiver and wrap your arms around yourself while sorrow suddenly burns through you, bringing tears to your eyes. But then something soft and warm falls over your shoulders and you flinch, spinning on your heels and quickly backing away, further out onto the ledge to try and get away from him, which means stepping into the icy cold snow in just your skin.

“Please…” he says, and he sounds alluringly soft and inviting now, which only adds to your suspicions. “I have no intention of harming you.”

“Then how about you tell me what exactly your intention is?” you counter, barely able to keep your jaws from clattering with how badly you’ve started shaking.

He takes a deep breath and then slowly releases it, somehow looking sadder and more tired with each milliliter of air that escapes him.

“I just… I’m sorry. Please, come back inside before you get frostbite on your feet.”

“That’s n-not an answer,” you challenge, already trembling all over now.

“I know, this is why I’m sorry, but how is hurting yourself going to help the situation?” he wonders, and you have to concede that it doesn’t.

You huff once in defiance, and then step forward, allowing him to wrap the blanket around you. But you hadn’t expected him to sweep you up into his arms and carry you inside.

“Hey, I c-can still walk, p-put me down!”

“The floors are cold here. I will put you down once you’re in a room with a rug.”

“Or you c-could just give me b-back my shoes,” you gripe, and he hums in what sounds like a thoughtful manner to you, as if he’s conceding that maybe he was wrong to take them from you.

But he says nothing more, and as he carries you through the empty hallways, none of which look familiar to you because this place is apparently a damned maze, you steal a few closer glances at him. His skin is in better condition than yours ever has been, to the point where even his stubble looks soft. And his hair looks flawless. Not one strand of the curls on his head seems damaged or less bouncy than the rest. And the same goes for his beard and mustache.

His clothes are perfectly tailored, and they look new, but they don’t smell like it. Instead, the only smell you detect seems to be his, and it’s not at all unpleasant. Contrarily, the longer you smell him, the more inviting the scent becomes. You’re somewhat embarrassed to realize that you’ve stopped shivering with the warmth that spreads through you from within, just from that delicious scent.

The room that he finally turns into is small and smells of paper, reminiscent of the old bookstore in the city back home, run by a sweetheart of an old lady who also happens to be the grandmother of the missing woman who’s house you live in. She was the only one who’d come by with a housewarming gift after you’d moved in. That’s how sparsely populated your social circle is.

It looks to be an office, of sorts. There’s a fireplace here too, already lit and crackling warmly in the far corner of the room. To the left is a desk filled with scrolls of paper and what looks like old maps of countries you don’t recognize, and to the right are shelves filled with more scrolls, books and scraps of paper. There’s an armchair and a small sofa in front of the fire, and he sets you down on the sofa before kneeling in front of you to inspect your wet and freezing feet.

You’re about to argue that you’re perfectly capable of tending to your own extremities, but something about his touch stops you. His fingers seem warmer than they should be, almost feverishly so, but more than that, his skin feels like it’s giving off tiny electric impulses where it meets yours. And the feeling is highly intoxicating.

He quickly examines your feet and then sits back and looks up at you again, where a curious expression flashes across his features as he notices that you’re suddenly a bit out of it. He seems concerned at first, and then… is he blushing?

“If I get you your socks and your boots, will you promise me that you will not go running into the woods and getting yourself lost?” he asks, sternly holding your gaze while he looks for any traces of deception in your answer.

Except you don’t give any. Because you can’t make that promise. Not when you still don’t know why he’s brought you here or why he intends to keep you here.

“I don’t suppose it would make much difference if I told you that we are much too far away from any other people for you to make it there alive in winter?” he sighs, and he does seem genuinely worried that you won’t believe him.

“Actually, I do believe you on that part. I just also believe that dying while running for your freedom might be better than living in captivity,” you explain, and once again, something terribly sad comes over him.

“I really wish you could trust that I don’t intend to harm you, young one.”

“Why do you call me that? I can’t be that much younger than you.”

He chuckles drily at that, but it’s a sound of hopelessness rather than bemusement.

“If only that were true…” he says quietly, turning his gaze to the floor for a moment before he rises and leaves the room.

When he returns, only a few seconds later, he’s carrying your shoes and wool socks, both of which he appears to have cleaned, hands them to you and then steps back while you put them on. For a moment, you contemplate more questions, but the more you think about the strangeness of this whole situation, the more you just want to pretend that it’s a dream and that you’re gonna wake up and laugh at yourself any second now.

“The tower’s mine?” you find yourself asking, instead of any real questions.

“That whole wing is yours for as long as you’re here,” he nods.

“And how long might that be?”

“For now, I can’t say with any certainty, but hopefully no more than a few days.”

He does look genuinely apologetic as he says that, but you’re relieved to hear it. Somehow, you’d envisioned being a captive for years, locked away in that tower. But there’s something innately honest about this guy. You have no reason to trust anything he says, and yet you do.

“And what determines how long my stay ends up being?” you wonder, while rising from the sofa and daring yourself to take one step towards him.

He doesn’t react in any visible way to your truly minimal challenge, but you wonder if perhaps he likes that you don’t just accept your circumstances when they don’t feel right to you. There’s a little glimmer in his eyes that might just be a hint of awe.

“How long it takes me to figure out how you’re still alive,” he quietly answers, bringing you back to the severity of the moment.

Turning away from you, he reaches for an old-fashioned candlestick holder, lights the candle and then hands it to you.

“Living light reveals the path to the tower,” he says, as if that isn’t the most useless piece of information you’ve ever gotten, and then gestures to the open door.

Utterly confused, you step out into the dusky hallway, half expecting the wooden door to slam shut behind you, but it doesn’t. When you turn back to ask him which direction to turn, you find him right behind you, already showing you to the right with a gentlemanly open hand aiming that way. You nod your thanks and begin walking, still without a clue as to what the candle is meant to show you. Until it does.

Once the dancing light hits a certain wall, a faint glow appears in a thin line running along the wall, around waist-height. You follow it, seeing it fade away as soon as the flame isn’t directly in front of it, and before you know it, you’re back at those winding stairs. Walking back into the chamber at the top, you find that nothing’s moved since you left.

You walk around the room, examining everything more closely, finding two large and fully stocked bookcases hidden behind drapes on either side of the fireplace. There’s also a closet built into the wall next to the bed, and there are very old dresses hanging in there, covered with dust, making you wonder who the girl might’ve been that those clothes had originally belonged to.

Realizing that you haven’t asked your captor how to get food or how he intends to figure out how you’ve miraculously healed, you spend a few minutes pondering on whether you’ve got the energy to make the long walk back down to look for a kitchen and ask if you’re expected to come down from your tower at any specific times. But ultimately, you decide to leave it for now, picking out a book instead. You’re too stressed still to be able to eat anything anyway.

The book keeps you occupied for the entire afternoon, and it isn’t until it grows dark that you eventually close it and get up, intending to go looking for that kitchen. You’d left the candle holder in the window that faces the front of the castle, although you can’t see the courtyard from behind the main structure, but as you go to pick it up, a movement outside catches your eye.

Peering down towards the ground, you see a door swing open, and then something runs across the section of the yard that you can see. It’s so fast that you can’t be sure, but it looks like it could be what attacked you last night. And it looks like… a dragon. A dragon that just ran out of the same castle where you’re trapped.

Part 2

Thank you for reading! I had so much fun with this and I'm nowhere near done with it. Huge Thanks to @joelswritingmistress for inspiring me to take on Oberyn, I didn't think I ever would.

If anyone wishes to be notified when this story is updated, follow @sirowsky-stories and turn on notifications, or just ask nicely, and I'll tag you.

#PedroHalloween2023 #pedro pascal character fanfiction #oberyn martell fanfiction #oberyn martell x female reader #oberyn x reader #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones au #modern!au #halloween writing #sirowsky stories

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sirowsky · 7 months

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The Old Prince - Masterlist

Welcome to the Dragon realm, where Oberyn Martell reigns supreme!

Summary: 6000+ year old Prince Oberyn of Ancient Egypt almost kills and eats you, but something unexpected happens instead, and before long, your quiet and unassuming life has become something entirely different. This is a slow-burn romance that features both angst and sugary sweet fluff, all in a package wrapped in horror and fantasy. Unwrap and enjoy!

Notes: This story is now complete but I always welcome requests for one shots if anyone wants to know more about these two. I love to hear from you in general, so if this story speaks to you, don't hesitate to let me know, in words, gifs or just likes, and feel free to jump into my DM's or my ask box!

FYI: I never write using the y/n format. This is my first time writing Oberyn and I haven't seen season 4 of Game of Thrones since it first aired, so I'm far from an expert on him. Also, reader undergoes physical transformations in this story, so she will not be featureless.

Part 1 - The Bite Part 2 - Fear Part 3 - Home Part 4 - The Spirit Part 5 - Nightfall Part 6 - Belonging Part 7 - Uncertainty Part 8 - The Light Part 9 - Tyrannus Part 10 - Power Part 11 - The Darkness Part 12 - Collapse Part 13 - Time Part 14 - Sacrifice

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#oberyn martell fanfiction #oberyn martell x reader #oberyn x reader #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones au #au fic #modern au #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #halloween writing #spooky season #sirowsky stories

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villainsandheroes · 6 months

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Trick or Treat!

Villain opened the door as yet another trick or treaters came to their door. Smiling while looking at the small blonde girl in pigtails.

“Trick or treat!” She squealed happily.

He laughed before grabbing a large cauldron he had been using all night for candy. “And what are you dressed up as.”

“A fairy with flower powers.”

“Ah. I should have guessed. Take what you like.” He held out the bowl full of giant sized candy bars. She oohed before shuffling through the candies and he looked up at her parent. Staring squarely at Hero.

Hero had recognized him the moment he saw him. And his knuckles were white as he squeezed his hand in a fist. Watching them evenly.

“Oh. Mr. Konrad.” Villain felt an inward glee at knowing his name and seeing how Hero’s face tightened. “I had no clue you had a little girl.”

She giggled. “My daddy didn’t wanna dress up.” She pouted.

“Oh well he does it often enough for work I’m sure.”

She titled her head confused but Hero scooped her up quickly. “Thank you for the candy.” He tried to turn but Villain snuck out behind him and in front.

“What’s your name Sweetheart?”

“Lilac.” She smiled proudly and he relished in the pure agony on the Hero’s face. “Wanna come in to see my party Lilac? I have lots of fun people there.”

“Can we daddy?!”

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea-“ his voice didn’t shake, but Villain still smirked.

“Oh come on it will be fun.” He took his arm and pulled him back to the house.

#halloween #happy halloween #whump community #whumpblr #whump #hero #villain #heroes and villains #hero and villain #halloween themed #Halloween writing

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amandacanwrite · 6 months

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Little Witch ☽ The Hallowed Wilds ☾ Chapter One

POV ;; Aurelia ☽ 10 y.o.

Summary ;; Aurelia enjoys the typical day of a young witch protected by the Hallowed Wilds, drawn to the border of the forest where she meets an unexpected friend.

Warnings ;; mention of moths, other insects.

Author Note ;; Hello there! This is the first chapter of my original story called The Hallowed Wilds. It's a star-crossed romance infused with southern gothic horror elements. I'll be posting one chapter per week going forward. I already have 27 chapters written, and I'm hoping by the time I'm running out of chapters I'll be back to writing it again and nearly finished drafting it in totality. If you're interested in joining the taglist for this story, you can find the link for the sign up all the way at the bottom of the post. Last thing: I am someone who doesn't get triggered by much, but it's very important to me that anyone who reads my work doesn't become inadvertently triggered because of my writing. While these early chapters are quite light, this story does get dark at times. If you ever notice something I should have issued a content or trigger warning for, please reach out to me so that I can properly apologize to you and add the warning to the list. That all said, let's hop in!!

The wilds spoke to those that could hear it. Those whose ears were kissed by mother Eterna before their bodies took shape in the womb. She didn’t kiss just any soul, though. No, there was a payment to be exchanged and worth to be proven.

The Priestess had taught this to me since I could remember. This is how my coven lived. We served Mother Eterna, and in exchange, The Hallowed Wilds protected us.

Every day for the ten years I’d lived, I woke up, thanked Eterna for another day and set to work. The work was unique each day because The Priestess encouraged us all to listen to where The Wilds told us to go, for The Wilds had a will of its own and a plan for us.

On this day, The Wilds coaxed me to the River of Rye that separated our home from the village where the Deafened lived. I had no inkling what I would do when I got there, but I was certain that my task would become clear once I arrived, or maybe even somewhere along the way. That’s how it always worked. It was just my job to be quiet and listen for a whisper or wait for a gentle tug.

I dressed for the day in linen as white as starlight, and brushed through my hair with a comb carved from a deer’s antler, given freely by the stag for our needs, as all things were for us in the forest. I slipped on a light cloak made of moth’s silk and made my way out into the day.

“Aurelia, merry meet,” one of my sisters said to me.

I smiled as I passed her, turning to walk backwards so that I could see her as I made my way into the forests. The earth tingled against the soles of my bare feet, bringing with it a feeling of familiar comfort.

“Good morning, Cressida,” I said.

She was preparing more moth cocoons for spinning, it seemed. I wondered if her fingers tingled when she woke this morning, the way mine once had when I learned I was unsuited for the delicate work. “I’m excited to see what you do with the new silk sister.”

“And I’m eager to hear stories of your adventures when you return today,” she called back as disappeared into the trees, leaving the clearing and the rest of the coven behind.

I couldn’t see the River of Rye from where I stood, but I felt a golden thread tug me ever toward it. That thread reeled me in from the center of my chest. It wasn’t far from the clearing—maybe two or three miles—I could run the entire way if I wanted to.

I decided I did want to, in fact.

Somehow, the air in our ever-unchanging forest was different today. It sparkled and fizzled in an unfamiliar way. The sun shone through the boughs of the trees and cast new colors on the ground; rose and orange where there were typically shades of yellow and green. I set into a sprint, my hair flying behind me like the mane of a spirited mare.

Those new colors streaked together as I ran, turning into smears and smudges that hinted at shapes. It reminded me of Ophelia painting our huts with her beautiful, messy fingers—how the pigments came together to form images of flowers and the moon and the night sky.

This was my home, and I loved it as much as it loved me. I cradled it in my heart, as it had always cradled me. It was an even, happy exchange of energy between us—always given freely. Always.

My feet were wet and dirty when I finally made it to the River of Rye. Squirrels and bugs dances around my ankles, having joined me on my journey somewhere along the way. I stopped just at the opening into the wide-open space of that golden river and looked out at the village where The Deafened lived.

Winter had covered their roofs in thick blankets of snow. The world was so quiet with it — the sheets of ice absorbing most sounds that came from the village.

After a lifetime of spring, I wondered what the winter felt like. The Priestess said it was bitterly cold and brought death on its breath that choked the life out of the earth, but as I stared across the expanse of golden swaying rye, I wondered if there was more to it than that.

Surely a season that looked so beautiful and serene couldn’t be so awful. And with the winter brought times of generosity, even in The Wilds. We gave gifts at solstice and spread blessings even to the Deafened in exchange for the strange tools they would leave at the edge of the forest for us.

I wanted to touch that ice that fell in flurries from the sky, leave my hand print in it, and watch as more flurries filled in that imprint. The way snow erased any evidence that someone had passed through was fascinating to me. Tracks could be left in the mud of the forests—sometimes they would be there so long they would be preserved in stone. Snow was different—ever changing, ever making something new.

I thought perhaps that was my task today—experiencing the snow. But I didn’t feel the tug of that thread through the center of my heart as I stood there thinking about snow. No, it seemed I had made it to my destination for the day.

There was a strange cleaving—I couldn’t decide if I heard it or if I felt it. But with that cleaving came a powerful gust of wind that swirled my hair and bit at my nose and cheeks like needles. I’d never felt cold like that before. It stung and I could feel blood riding to my face to compensate for it.

I winced and backed away from the tree line, gently warming my face with my hands. That golden thread pulled me again, this time to the west.

I walked for a time, following the flow of the golden river, stepping over stones and twigs. My feet were silent as sleep as I walked. The Wilds told me to sneak—told me to hide. I wondered what manner of beast or creature I would encounter. I wondered what I would need to do. Wondered if I’d need to help them.

And then he was there, just beyond the massive trunk of an old oak tree.

I hid behind that tree as he spun slowly in place, staring up at the tree canopies that cast the ground in dappled light.

I had never seen a boy before.

I knew I should run away and tell The Priestess. She always told us that the Deafened were dangerous, especially the boys. But…

But he looked so enamored with The Wilds.

It filled me with a strange vicarious happiness to see him take in the forest—see the entrance to what I called my home. An unbidden smile curved my lips as he heaved an awed breath.

With his back to me, he took off his heavy coat with all those tedious buttons, and then took off his scarf. The Wilds were in a perpetual state of spring thanks to Mother Eterna, whose fertility never ebbed. The boy dressed for his village’s winter and must have gotten warm in the vernal heat of the forest.

He wore a billed cap on his head and hair the color of damp tree bark poked out at interesting angles. Flipping at the bill, dusting his nape and his ears. It looked so soft—like a rabbit’s fur or a squirrel’s tail. I wanted to touch it.

That desire drew me out of my hiding place, that golden thread tugging me closer, reeling me in and in and in. I could almost see it glittering in that small distance between us. I took a step toward him, then another, reaching out for him.

And then he turned and saw me.

We froze at the same time.

We were silent for a long time while our eyes devoured unfamiliar sights on each other. I traced constellations in the smattering of freckles on his tanned nose. His blue eyes flicked to my white hair, to my eyes and then to my linen dress. He flushed scarlet and looked pointedly away, seemingly put off or embarrassed by something.

When he broke his gaze he also broke the spell holding me there. After feeling frozen, I remembered who I was and what I was doing.

I turned and ran.

☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾

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sp00kworm · 6 months

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#halloween 2023 #halloween writing #october writing challenge #original writing #original works #poll

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silver-ink-iron-words · 2 years

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Day 18 - Forest

From this prompt list by @watercolorfreckles

----

“Okay kid, Rule One. Be careful what you say here. The forest can hear you.”

The protagonist followed the stranger closely along the thin snaking trail. They normally would have suspected paranoia, or delusions. But having spent most of the day lost in these woods, they weren’t so sure anymore.

It was something in the way the underbrush looked different if you glanced back. The way the paths seemed to always pull towards the center. The fact that, if the protagonist stopped and truly listened, they’d almost swear they could hear breathing.

“What am I supposed to not say?”

The stranger – Tam, he’d called himself – broke through a thicket with a small knife. “Just don’t talk about personal things. Vulnerabilities, your loved ones, stuff like that. The forest will try to use that information to cut a deal.” He looked back at the protagonist. “That’s Rule Two, by the way. Don’t make any deals.”

The protagonist went cold. “Why would I do something like that?”

Tam shrugged, moving forward again. “Good harvests, magic cures, a terrible fate for your enemies. People have found plenty of reasons, over the years.”

“You know someone, don’t you?” The protagonist dropped down from a log. “Someone who made a deal.”

Tam didn’t meet the protagonist’s eyes, but he nodded.

“What does the forest ask for in return?”

“Oh lots of things. Sometimes it just needs a bit of your blood, or a couple years off your life.” He grinned when the protagonist paled. “Usually, though, it’ll ask you to stay.”

“What, like, forever?”

“In theory.”

The protagonist cast a wary gaze at the branches overhead. “What does it even get out of something like that?”

“Who knows? Maybe it’s lonely.”

The protagonist ducked around a split trunk. “No offense to your friend, but it seems like a pretty stupid deal to make.”

Tam was silent for a beat. “I can’t say I disagree.”

The path started to incline upwards, as they reached the base of a hill.

“Are there any other rules?”

“Just one.” Tam held out his hand to help the protagonist up a steep rock. “Don’t leave my line of sight.”

----

They continued on like that, well into the evening. The forest was so much larger than the protagonist had ever imagined, and their anxiety rose as the shadows stretched.

Tam was friendly enough, and he answered all the protagonist’s questions. But he also kept his eyes on the trees, as though he expected something to pounce. The protagonist decided eventually that it was best not to distract him.

When they reached the edge of the woods, it took the protagonist a few seconds to believe their eyes.

“Oh my god.” They stared at the field ahead of them, at the little hints of rooftops in the distance. “Oh my god, that’s my town!”

Tam smiled. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

With a nod, the protagonist ran. Footsteps light, breath bubbling, they burst past the treeline. The cool air filled their lungs, the berry-red sunset blinded their eyes. They laughed. They hadn’t died in the forest. They and Tam were going to be –

Where was Tam?

The protagonist spun around, peered back into the brush. “Tam?”

There was no answer.

“Tam?!”

There was only the graveyard silence of the trees.

----

Tam watched, as the kid called again and again. He could see it on their face, when they thought about going back in to search.

He watched as, wide-eyed and near tears, they made the only reasonable decision available – to leave him behind.

“You need to stop doing this,” the forest said.

It didn’t have a voice, exactly. Its words came via the tapping of branches, the wind rustling through leaves. Yet, Tam could understand it perfectly.

“The kid posed an interesting question,” he said, rubbing his chin. “Why do you want us to stay so badly?”

He watched the kid’s silhouette disappear over the horizon. Towards the town, which seemed to grow a little bigger every year.

He wondered, sometimes, if his family still lived there.

“Why, it’s because I love you.” Ivy peeled off the trees, and reached to caress him. “But don’t worry. No matter how many I collect, you will always be my favorite.”

“Oh believe me,” he said, as the twigs and leaves twined around him. “I know.”

#fantasy writing #dark forest #whumpblr #hero x villain #whump drabble #captivity #fantasy #villain x hero #creative writing #writing snippet #snippet #halloween #halloween writing #whump #dark fairytale #not a prompt

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talesofthedm · 6 months

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Bite Night

I wrote the bite night scene for Halloween and then didn't finish it for 2 days.

Is it horror? Not sure. Is it smut? Not really but it's also real border line.

Synopsis: Astarion reveals he's a vampire and also accidentally tries to rip out Freya's throat.

Word count: 3k

CW: Borderline dubcon (vampire), biting (vampire), blood (vampire), Astarion (vampire), Cazador references (vampire), vampire (vampire)

Excerpt:

But then her mind muddled. She understood heat of the fire, the colors of the sky, but it all seemed to blur into one giant blob of sensation. It was so hard to think, every emotion spilling over and cascading through her at once. If every muscle hadn't froze she would be screaming, dancing, trembling, kissing, laughing, clawing, sobbing. Enough to leave her empty, an exhausted husk dying on the ground.

There was something to be said about that place between sleep and wake, when your mind was too preoccupied with thoughts and worries to truly rest yet your eyes close and you wake to have suddenly found hours passed.

That's where Freya was now, a flitting kind of rest that wasn't quite sleep and wasn't quite trance.

She had to be insane--going insane. He walked in the sun. He waded through rivers. She watched him eat alongside all of them at morning and dusk.

But he also had red eyes and flinched at the oddest things. He came to a halt at the first river crossing, dancing around surfaced rocks as if it might burn. He took wide births around Lae'zel when she held her silvered blade. He turned and walked back into the forest the moment he saw Shadowheart praying.

And those scars? The need for constant bloodshed and manipulation?

Then again, it could all be easily explained away. It wasn't unheard of for elves to have strange eyes, nor a nobleman who hardly left the city not wanting his boots wet. A Gith with a giant sword was a normal concern. Perhaps he wanted to give Shadowheart privacy, or disliked Sharrans, or maybe just had a complicated relationships with gods. That last one was reasonable; her father’s relationship with gods could only be described as complicated.

And he was a magistrate--assuming he told the truth. A politician who probably hadn't seen squalor in his life, let alone experienced it. And she had scars all over her body, why would he be any different?

She answered her own question: he was a nobleman.

A nobleman with red eyes who refused to bathe after days, even if it was in a river....

Freya opened her eyes to find the stars twinkling back at her. Little pinpricks of light she only ever really saw in the parks but never had the time to study. She rolled over, face to the fire. The warmth prickled her skin uncomfortably, the scar across her face suddenly feeling taught. She closed her eyes again, fighting for a sleep that wouldn't come.

And then there were the comments. Those little quips to himself when no one was around to hear. The little sounds of releasing a held breath, almost in relief. The looks of confusion, almost as if expecting pain but receiving none. He laughed after taking the full force of Kahga's moonbeam, almost out of relief....

The light of the fire flickered through her eyelids. A soft, warm glow that consumed her vision and painted her memories in similar tones. Not rose colored, but something that made the hair on the back of her neck standup and had her palms sweating.

And the Gur. Astarion turned his nose at the stench even more violently than she had. He had talked about a history, and she understood that, too, but she knew that stance. The predatory look and a hand itching to pull a weapon. The tunnel vision that drove her to inflict nothing but pain and death and make sure they never made a sound again....

Whispering how he could just walk into people's homes now....

Her companions shifted around her as she did. Perhaps going to the bathroom, perhaps to fetch a waterskin, perhaps just to stretch their legs.

How long had she been fighting sleep? One hour? Four? Ten? It was still dark, the moon still high and the stars still as clear as a fresh dream. The Grove provided protection enough, especially with Kahga gone, so there was no point beyond paranoia to do shifts. Still, Freya felt like she was being watched. Hunted, in a way.

Her hand inched under her pillow.

It was an action that looked no different to Astarion as finding the relief of the cooler side. She was asleep, curled up on her side like a babe protecting themselves from a nightmare. Her breathing steady and even while her hands fidgeted in that way they always did.

Elves were dangerous to approach, he knew. Not that he had experience-- but he understood trance. The awareness of his surroundings, though muffled as if he was wearing ear plugs and blindfolded. If she was half as observant in trance as she was waking, she'd have heard the soft crunch of gravel and dry grass underfoot.

But this one? Strange elf. She slept, not tranced. First to bed, last to rise. Always snippy if woken too soon. It didn't matter why; it just made her as easy prey as any of his other companions in the moment.

Freya was acutely aware of the soft footsteps behind her. Leather boots, soft and muted from careful placement but made deafening from the stillness of the night. They were close, only a few feet from her turned back. Her hand curled around the hilt of a paring knife she had swiped away from Gale's prep space at dinner.

She squeezed her eyes shut, focusing as hard as she could on the shift of the air, how the crackling noise of the fire bounced around her. How tall was the person approaching? What stance did they take? Could she tell if they had a weapon--did their stance even require a weapon to be lethal?

And every time an image floated in on a thread of concentration, it was the same, pale face. Still, she held still. Not out of fear, but curiosity. She had to be wrong--right--something. A million reasons for the elf to be stalking towards her.

Murder, for one.

Freya turned herself over just in time to see Astarion bent over her, a mixture of fear, apprehension, and excitement across his face. More important, his mouth was open, fangs bared.

"Shit," he whispered. The vampire backpedaled, yet didn't run.

"I fucking knew--"

He raised his hands in defense, eyes locking on the tiny blade in Freya's hands. "It's not what it looks like!" He was in damage control now.

Her eyes flicked to the fangs peeking out. They glinted a dull yellow in the light of the fire, like crystalized honey.

"Okay, it's kind of what it looks like... But I wasn't going to hurt you!"

"Says the blood suc--!"

Astarion jumped forward, pressing both his hands over her mouth. "Shh! Please...." His eyes darted around the camp, lingering on Wyll and Lae'zel in particular. "Please. I'm not some monster. I've never killed anyone!"

Liar, she thought. Freya debated how bad it would be if she bit one of his fingers off.

Perhaps she had thought too loudly and it echoed across that tiny thread of a connection between the companions. "Well, by feeding... I feed on animals. Deer, kobalds--"

Boar. Gods, she really was stupid, wasn't she? Or perhaps denial was a more apt term. After all, mindflayers and goblin scourges and violent cults were a lot to handle on their own.

He continued. "Pigeons, occasionally a cat." He counted the options off, tapping a finger against her cheek to keep track. "One time a poison dart frog. That one was dumb, do not recommend. Woke up a few days later in some random town in the bathroom of a tavern with some slovenly barkeep. Bad wine, decent mead-- but that's beside the point.

"I'm too slow, right now. Too weak..." His voice cracked just the slightest bit, leaving Freya to wonder if she had imagined it. She had expected a cornered animal, one that would pounce the moment she made a wrong move. Yet, she just found a scared child.... "I can hunt and I can fight, but I cannot keep up. Not now. Not like this... If I just had a little blood--"

Just like that, the pity she held evaporated and she suddenly realized he was probably all too aware of the knife pressing against his ribcage. Freya pried him off. "How long since you fed, huh? Days? Hours? I should have known when you were so interested in that hunter. I should have stabbed you when I saw the damn reflection!" She seethed, voice low.

Astarion was acutely aware of the small life pressed between his fourth and fifth ribs. “And then we would all be dead!” He bit back. “How many tubs do you think those redcaps could have filled with Karlach alone? Do you think Ethel would have turned Gale’s bones into bread, or a nice, comfy chair? And the blights and Kagha. Do you seriously not realize how badly you pushed everyone today?!”

He stopped, closed his eyes, and simply breathed. “If I just had a taste—just a taste—I could keep up. Move faster, fight better. Please.”

If Freya had been thinking loudly before, Astarion was screaming from the rooftops. A single thread, frayed and delicate yet just strong enough to inch across and sneak her way in and see everything he had been hiding. That is, if she had bothered to sneak her way in.

Thudding. Beating. Deafening noise that consumed his thoughts and seized his body. It took all Astarion could not to keel over. The shard of ice stabbed its way into his mind, sending his tadpole screeching out. Terror, true terror as the little stowaway pumped itself—and him—full of adrenaline and tore at his brain while his psyche caved. His heart hadn’t beat normally in two hundred years, and now it was all he could hear and all he could feel. Even free of Cazador, he wasn’t in control of his own body.

Freya felt herself in a body that was both familiar yet not. Pristine skin, perfectly smooth and almost glowing in the contrast of the night’s shadows. Nails she meticulously cleaned, buffed, and polished every night. Hair that she learned from trial and error how to blindly style and wash. Small things, vain rituals that became more important to them than prayer and allies and people because they could control it—so long as they were good. Pretty men, handsome women, everything in between and beyond that caught the attention of their master. He just had to be good. Then the tiny rituals wouldn’t be stripped away along with the rest of him. He just had to crawl on hands and knees to the feet of his master and thank him for the meal he so graciously granted—

Freya ripped her mind away just as violently. Her jaw was sore from the memory of fighting the desperately twisting form of a rat. It wasn’t even fat or in any way healthy. It tasted of bile, twisted her insides into knots and left them convulsing. But the hunger—the blinding hunger that tore its way through him and swallowed her whole until they were nothing but a desperate slave groveling at the feet of a master….

She lost something in that. A shard of humanity, a piece of a soul, hope for the world—something.

“You only ate animals because you were forced to. Not because you wanted to….”

“I— yes. Yes. I ate whatever disgusting vermin my master picked.” Astarion looked to the blade in her hand. “So, you can see why I’ve been slow to trust you.”

“And how do I trust you won’t kill me?”

Because I haven’t yet, he thought to himself. Though that didn’t particularly matter in the moment. If it did, she wouldn’t be holding the knife like a deadly promise. It didn’t matter the honeyed words and delicate gestures; she wouldn’t believe a word he said.

Astarion gripped that wrist and held it a bit closer. Blood dribbled out and down his chest in a fine line, almost black in the firelight. Like an impossibly colored trail of ink—and the consistency of it, too. “I only need a taste. I swear. Can you trust me just a little further?”

Gods, she must be as insane or stupid as he believed her to be. It wasn’t pity she felt, she would never pity what he was. He also had to be thinking that she was stupid or insane or desperate because she thought she was stupid or insane or desperate.

She actually cared…. About combat, of course. Nothing else. Nothing that would be considered compassion.

Astarion watched in rapt silence as the woman in front of him debated. Her lip twitched, preparing to upturn into a snarl that promised violence and death. He couldn’t even blame it on a failed plan. There were no honeyed words or practiced touches. He didn’t trail his hand along the curve of her shoulder or send shivers down her spine in a way that clouded her judgement. He didn’t leave feathered kisses along her jaw and throat that wrapped her in bliss while he pressed a knee beneath her thighs.

No, he was an insolent child who ran from nightmares thinking it was possible. Now he was going to die… he didn’t want to die. Not again. Not forever.

Freya pulled out of his grip and pointed the tip of the knife to his chin. “Not one drop more.”

He— What?

“Of course,” his mouth moved without permission. “Not one drop more.” He took a step closer to her. Fire to her back, starving vampire to her front. Freya suddenly felt very small in the moment. Half a head shorter meant she was at a disadvantage already, and she wasn’t particularly strong to begin with. And she doubted headbutting him would work a second time…

Astarion trailed a single finger across her exposed collar, the well-manicured nail scratching lightly. “Let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?” He pressed an open palm to her shoulder, pushing her down onto her knees. Another wanton slut willing to degrade themselves for a good cock a chiseled chest—it made him sick. But his master did this, intermingled blood and sex and power.

He pushed her onto his back with his knee before taking his place above her. One knee at either side of her hips, so devilishly close to resting atop her. She swallowed the lump in her throat as the vampire leaned over her. One hand on either side of her head his lips—and teeth—a hair’s breadth from hers. He was gentle in his motions, but Freya suddenly felt like the dead pigeons she’d kick into the gutters.

She pressed the blade into his throat, reminding him that she would keep that promise better than he had that first moment they met. Any further and it would be pressed between both of them, the slightest movement drawing his blood but not hers. “This is rather uncomfortable, darling. Could you at least move it to someplace less… obstructive?” Freya stared him down, challenging the request before succeeding. She pulled away, allowing him free access.

He hovered above her, careful not to get too close, to keep that half-inch distance between their bodies like a protective barrier. She wrapped her arms around his neck and he froze. It was too close, too intimate. Her arms ran across his shoulders before resting along the column of his spine and the soft of his shoulder. As if she expected lips and not teeth….

And then the tip of the blade pressed just above where he knew his dead heart was. “Insurance,” she persisted.

There was no regaining control, but he would be damned if he lost it. Astarion shifted a knee between her legs, spreading them just a but further and placing her in an all more compromising position.

Freya was suddenly very aware of the knee just below her core. It wasn’t pleasant, but also not uncomfortable. Besides, she preferred him like this. Above her, legs spread himself. He would degrade himself just as much in the action as her tolerating it.

Her hair was already parted as it always was, baring the sprawling tattoo across her neck. Her right, his left. She could hide the scars there, among the flowers and leaves and pretend they were always there. Nothing but a few stray strands of hair and the thinnest layer of skin separating him from the pulse of her heart.

He tore into her throat with an open-mouthed kiss. A lover’s bite turned painful. Her veins turned to ice as her blood carried the venom directly to her heart.

Freya grit her teeth against the sensation. Her heart seized, as if it could retch and not spread it further across her body. It was as if it was becoming wrapped in frost. The tips of her fingers and toes were the first to go numb, that fuzzy sensation of it falling asleep. Next were her arms, her legs. It crawled along her skin like a cold snap, leaving her scared and shivering.

The vampire pressed into her, grip tightening, and lost himself in the sweetness and ecstasy of her blood. She was only vaguely aware of the growing pressure atop her as the vampire broke that invisible barrier between them, pressing his body to hers. As if he could consume her entirely.

What was she so scared over? The sky was beautiful, filled with little twinkling fairies dancing around the dark. She was warm, a heavy blanket draped shielding her from the night air. The tension in her body released with a soft sigh.

Her arm dropped, one hanging across his shoulders while the other collided with the ground. The knife fell, tumbling to the ashy edge of the fire.

"'starion," she slurred. "Stop. Please...."

He didn't listen. Or didn't care. The vampire pressed deeper into her, reveling in the feeling her muscles constricting and fighting his very presence. She squirmed so wonderfully under him, the skin under his hands flushing into hypnotic shade of purple and blue. He pressed his knee to her core in an effort to get closer, to feel more. Her body was so warm. His mind raced with every sensation and emotion she was capable of. A blinding, white bliss as his own heart spiked and hers dropped. He was warm and safe and loved and alive.

And then she suddenly felt warm. Unbearably hot, like she was back in the Hells and swimming within the Styx itself. She needed to strip down, to get cold. To feel that driving, numbing pain once more.

It was wrong. It was all wrong and so so dangerous with the position she was in, mentally and physically. He only bit down harder, the panic and pain finally breaking through the haze of her mind. She beat a limp arm against his back, weakly tore at his shirt with blunted nails. He might as well have been made of stone. Even if she had the strength to make a noise, plead with whatever was left of him, or call to Wyll or Lae’zel or Karlach, but there was no guarantee any of them would listen. She felt him shift above her again, his knee pressing harder into her core, and a strangely distant memory floated in on a piece of dandelion fluff.

Freya went limp, her vision darkening at the edges as she focused the last of her strength. She bent her leg as suddenly as she could—which, admittedly, was rather clumsy and slow—and kicked upwards.

Astarion tore himself away as if she had bit him. The pain shot along his entire body more acutely than his newly beating heart and it was a miracle that he hadn’t torn the flesh from her throat in the process.

Freya wasn’t even aware that she was bleeding out onto the sleeping mat. “To ‘uch….”

Shit, he thought. “Yes—yes, of course.” He pressed a hand to the side of her neck in an effort to staunch the bleeding. With the other he began to root through her nearby pack, loaded down with herbs and balms and oils and potions.

Except none of it was organized. Filled with empty vials, useless plants he didn’t know the names or meanings of—

If she died from him it would make his fate all the worse. There were too many monster hunters around for Astarion to believe otherwise.

“’lsam…” she pleaded, some part of her understanding his plight. “Front….”

Front pocket.

But when he reached in all he found were little vials of ash, labels scratched into the glass surfaces as legibly as a stroke victim with a dagger could manage. “Pack… pack th—wound…” she directed before he could even ask. Her head lolled to the side, undoing what little staunching he had done.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #balders gate 3 #astarion #bg3 spoilers #astarion x tav #baldurs gate three fanfic #astarion fanfic #halloween writing #my writing #fanfic #vampire

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imdoingsortagay · 1 year

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Costume shopping

Summary: you got costume shopping with the king of New Asgard, even if you have to drag her out of the office yourself

word count: 1k words

a/n: my king

“ Did you really have to drag me out of the office just to have me come with you to the costume shop?” she asks you as the both of you are walking to one of the town's new costume shops. She had the lovely habit of staying in the office til she was the last person there and you needed her with you to choose what costumes you’d do together for Thor's annual Halloween party. She had promised you about 2 weeks ago that she’d go with you and it was one week out til his party, yet Val was in the office working on some events happening in December.

“ One week out til his party babe and I need both of us to be on the same page,” you tell her grabbing her hand and dragging her through the busy crowd. Many of the citizens in the town waved to both of you and paid no attention to the speed you're taking your girlfriend to the costume shop. She was used to this type of stuff from you.

“ What’s with the pace y/n? You know that jack’s store is gonna be there,” and she gets no answer from you until she sees the line forming out of the store.

“ Oh,” is all that comes out of the king’s mouth.

It’s a line that goes out of the store, this is going to be fun.

“ Yes his store will always be here but he’s the only shop in the area that sells them and I don’t know if you’d be up for traveling out of the town for some costumes,” you say as the both of you walk to the line. This was luckily not too long compared to when you came earlier in the morning with Jane as she needed to find a costume for thor and her to match. After 10 minutes of waiting, both of you make it inside the store but at least it gives both of you time to look around to see what costumes you and your girlfriend would want to do.

“ Why is there a line anyways for his business?” she asks looking around the selection. He had been talking with her weeks ago about getting costumes and materials for whoever needed them and she didn’t think there would be a lot of people who’d want to get costumes.

“ Many of these people don’t want to travel out of the town for costume honey, which I understand, and from what he’s told me it’s bringing him more work for the future with even making dresses/items for other events,” you explain to her, keeping your eyes on a custom Ghostbuster and ghost costume. What she doesn’t know is that you had asked jack to make two custom costumes for the party and you thanked him gratefully even if he had other important things to do. One of them is inspired by a phantom and the opera while the other costume is inspired by the ghostbusters.

It was a surprise for you as Jack said he could easily get measurements from both of you as long as you sent them in on time. Your girlfriend did not question you after a long day at the office when you measured her and just assumed it was one of the many projects you were doing. All you hope was that this line would go faster so that the tailor could show you the costumes and you could give Val a really fun surprise for this Halloween.

“ Well King of Asgard and the future queen, welcome to the shop where we made pre-made costumes , I also do make a custom one if my selection does not fit what you’re looking for,” Jack says with a smile on his face and you wonder how many times he’s repeated that over the days since the shop’s been opened.

“ What costumes do you have today for us? Valkyrie asks the owner and he motions for you both to follow him to the back of his shop, where he has his custom stuff. The brunette was confused because she thought you’d just choose from what he had in the front. Though that all changes when she is in the back room and sees what has to be one of the coolest costumes ever.

“ wait is that a phantom of the opera costume for both of us?” she asks you while jack leaves the room to give you time to check it out. You knew how much she loved that musical and you thought this would be a nice and cute thing to do with her as her job is very stressful. She’s over the moon about this and brings you in for a big hug and she can’t wait for the party. Her hugs were always the best thing ever and you cling to her body like a koala, eliciting the cutest giggle from her.

“ Are we gonna wear this to Thor’s party babe? And for Halloween when we give out candy” she asks while looking over the costume again, checking over the detail.

“ if you want but I also asked him to make us another set, if you want to see it?” you tell her.

“ what” and you point to the cute matching ghostbusters on the other side of the room. Ghostbusters was one of your favorite movies ever and so it makes sense you would want to do this with her.

“ Are we doing both babe?” she asks you and you give her puppy dog eyes, because there was no way that she’ll be telling you no. She signs in defeat but your cuteness is something that she loves about you. Both of you leave the shop after trying everything on and attempting to pay for the hard work that Jack had done for the costumes but he was happy to do it for free since the business was booming.

The Halloween party at Thor’s place ended up being a hit as you and Valkyrie walked in like she owned the place, and so many laughs from Jane as she didn’t expect the king to even come. Between the couples costume with Thor’s and you and Val’s , they end up winning but that did not matter as long as you were here with Valkyrie having a fun time, it was fine with you.

Because being with Valkyrie, being happy with her is what matters.

#lizs writing #liz celebrates #valkyrie x reader #Valkyrie imagine #valkyrie fluff #Halloween writing #marvel imagine

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junosartsthetic · 2 years

Text

His Sweetheart

Warnings: kidnapping, yandere themes, emotional distress, stockholm syndrome-ish, pet names, stalking, abusive relationship, violence, yelling, escaping imprisonment, mentions of murder, threats of violence, just general horror/thriller content, reader is implied to be female, spoilers in tags, vague antagonist

The orange desert sand, still scorching from the setting sun, singed your delicate bare feet as you hurried through the desolate Egyptian town. Nobody was here. Not a soul breathed as you scrambled desperately to seek shelter from his grasp. You knew they were all gone—murdered in a fit of jealous rage. No prying eyes should look upon your visage. You weren’t for them. They needed to be disposed of. For your sake.

The bulky metal collar hanging around your neck jingled with every grueling stride, the cord of silver chains just barely dragging behind you, rattling loudly against your dirty sundress. Every gulp of arid air burned your throat, but you pushed onwards, panting with the effort it took to keep moving forward. You couldn’t stop. No. You wouldn’t stop. You could stop. Give up and slouch against a wall. Wait for him to find you and scoop you into his arms. Bring you back to his home. But you would rather burn up in the desert heat than submit to his wishes. Stopping meant giving him the satisfaction of your broken will. And that was something you refused to do.

You sped down an alleyway, a hand reaching out to scratch against the stone as you braced yourself, wobbling but unwilling to collapse just yet. You knew he couldn’t be far behind. Every whistle of wind made your hairs stand on end, eyes darting around for his looming figure.

You dragged yourself out of the small corridor and turned a corner, your entire body shaking as you reached out to grab a wooden beam. The shaky structure held up a small market stall. You clambered into the stand, squeezing yourself underneath the counter as you held back a sob. It took all you had not to give up and scream. Maybe you should. Maybe you should just get it over with and signal your location. It was useless. All this running. Your escape wasn’t going to last long. You were in no state to do anything, much less outwit your captor. You might as well beg for mercy and hope he’ll take you back in. The only reason you weren’t still chained in the bedroom was a well-timed pull to the chain links securing you to the wall. It was a miracle he wasn’t home when you snuck out. But you knew it was only a matter of time before he discovered your absence. And when he did. . . you knew if he caught you you’d never get the chance to escape again. He wouldn’t make the same mistake. He was too smart for that. He’d never risk losing you twice.

You were his perfect little sweetheart. His cactus flower in the desert heat. You were his everything. And he would do anything to keep you wrapped up in his arms forever.

And not too long ago, you would’ve loved nothing more than to curl up on his chest and remain there. But now. . .

You couldn’t bear to touch him. Hear him. See him. His very presence made your stomach churn. You now saw him for the evil creature he was under his cowboy facade. A jealous, cruel, and love-crazed man with an unstoppable willpower. Nothing you said or did hurt him. Even fazed him. In his heart, he believed you’d return to the loving partner you once were. He just needed to. . . keep you close until you realized there was nowhere else you belonged but by his side.

None of his past lovers mattered. They didn’t hold a candle to your beauty. Your passion. Your loving embrace at the end of each day as you kissed each other to sleep. He wanted you. More than anything past, present, or future.

You bit your lip to hold back a cry. Your hands trembled as you clutched your head. Tears pooled in your eyes, slowly falling down your dry cheeks as you leaned against the wooden stall. Your body shook. You couldn’t stay here and break down. You needed to move. You needed to run. Hide. Find food, water, and shelter. You refused to return to him. And you refused to die alone. You were stronger than people realized. At least, that’s what you told yourself as you crawled out from under the counter.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself as you peaked out. Your eyes scanned the landscape. Nothing.

Swallowing back your fear, you stood, the sound of your chains echoing through the sunset village. Long shadows stretched from every structure, creating spots so dark you couldn’t tell what lurked within them.

You shooed that thought from your mind, hands gripping the chains to quiet them as you walked through the empty town square. Your feet sunk into the sand, granules digging into your skin as you crept forward. Inch by inch, you walked, eyes whipping around like a scared animal.

The wind nipped at your exposed figure, the temperature quickly falling as the sun faded behind the horizon. Soon it would be dark.

You picked up the pace, scurrying to find a place to sleep for the night. At every door, you paused, but the fear gnawing at your insides told you to keep moving. He’d find you there. That’s too obvious. Too exposed. Not far enough. Go. Go. Go. Move. Keep walking. Get out of this town. Get out of this desert. Don’t stop until you collapse. Too far isn’t far enough. It would never be far enough. He’ll find you. He’ll find you. He’ll find you.

You stopped.

The steady crunch of boots on sand had your heart frozen inside your chest. Was it your imagination? Had you finally lost it? Gone crazy after only a few hours?

No. That sound was real. And it was getting closer.

Despite your instincts biting at your brain, screaming to run, you remained in place. If you moved, so would the chain links hanging limply from your neck. You couldn’t move. But you couldn’t stay out in the open.

He’d find you.

You gripped the chains, taking one step forward. Clink.

Another.

Clink.

The footsteps stopped.

You froze.

The wind gently caressed your cheek.

Clink.

No.

The wind was rattling the chains.

The footsteps began again.

You fought back a gasp.

Teeth piercing your lip, you began to walk again. There was a door just ahead. If you could only get inside, you might be okay. Safe for just a little longer.

Clink.

The footsteps picked up the pace. They were running now, gaining ever closer.

Tears streamed down your face.

Letting out a strained and muted cry, you darted forward, racing wildly to reach the wooden door.

You made it, and grasped onto the handle, pulling it.

It didn’t budge.

You pushed it.

It remained still.

No.

No. No. No.

Please, God, no.

You jiggled the knob, arms straining as you pushed and pulled as hard as you could.

“Please,” you whimpered. “Please, no. Don’t let it end like this. God, no. Not here. Not now.”

With one last burst of strength, you pressed your entire body against the door. It opened with a creek, sending you flying forward. You crashed onto the floor, nose pulsing with pain.

You scrambled up, throwing the door shut behind you.

Spotting another room, you ran into it, diving into a wardrobe and pulling the door shut. You sank down, butt digging into the hardwood. You leaned into the rough fabrics hanging inside, panting.

You could only hope you were fast enough to evade his sharp senses.

No footsteps reached your ears.

You let out a breath, all the energy leaving your body as you slumped inside the small dark space. You nestled against the back of the wardrobe, curling up.

“I’m okay,” you whispered, closing your eyes. “I’m safe here.”

A familiar drawling voice shattered your serenity.

“I know you’re in here, sweetheart,” cooed a deep and raspy voice. Shoes clicked against the floor. “Why don’t ya come out, hmm? This is no place for a lady. ‘specially not my lady.”

You sobbed silently, hands covering your mouth to mute your choking breaths.

“Baby, you know I love ya. Why’d ya run away? I’ve been so worried about ya, darlin’.”

He strode ever closer to your hiding spot.

“There’s all kinds’a dangers out here. I hope you didn’t hurt yourself, you poor little thing. Lemme see ya. I’ll kiss ya better. Promise, sweetheart.”

He stopped right outside the wardrobe. Fingers tapped against the door. “Where could my troublesome little cowgirl be hidin’? I think I got an idea.”

He knocked. “Open up, baby.”

You shook your head, your entire body quivering. You clutched your face, burying your head against your knees.

“Sweetheart. C’mon. Don’t make me open this myself. You won’t like what’s comin’ next.”

You ignored his passive threat, frozen in place.

He knocked again. Harder this time.

“Open the door, baby.”

Silence.

He slammed his fist against the door, splintering the wood almost all the way through.

“Open. The. Goddamn. Door.”

You couldn’t hold back your wailing, now whimpering incoherently as you braced yourself against the wall. You had a choice to make.

There were only two options in this situation.

And you were afraid that one of them meant not leaving this house alive.

Despite every fiber of your being begging you to stop, you reached out your hand, pressing it against the door. Ever-so-slightly, you pushed it. It creaked open.

Your eyes locked with those of your own personal hell.

He held out a large calloused hand. “C’mon. Let’s go home, sweetheart.”

Your eyes glossed over. You grasped his hand, silent as he lifted you to your feet.

“I won’t letcha out of my sight ever again. You’ll be safe-and-sound with me. Now and always.”

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sirowsky-stories · 7 months

Text

The Old Prince

Part 4

Author's Note: Hello, again! I still can't get this story out of my head. I'm introducing a new element to it in this chapter, which we'll all get more acquainted with in the next one, but I'm adding an image at the end of this one, to give you all an idea of what it'll look like.

Description: After realizing that Oberyn hasn't been honest with you, life back home has becomes anxious, filled with questions that you fear may never be answered. But you still have to try and find some normality, and this year's Thanksgiving Ball seems like a good place to start.

Rating: Mature 18+ONLY Warnings: Monster Oberyn Martell x Female Reader, AU fic, eventual romance, obviously Halloween themed, reader cusses, lots of angst in this one, overprotective coworker, slightly jealous Oberyn. Word Count: 6030 Author's Masterlist

You’re back at work already the next day. Halloween has come and gone, which means it’s time to prepare for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and since you’re one of only four employees at the local holiday specials store, you’re sorely needed. September through December are the busiest months for this type of store, so every day you’re not all working is a minor disaster. But if you’re honest, it isn’t your loyalty to the job that’s responsible for your quick return or the extra hours you’re putting in.

It’s simply because the job is the only thing that takes your mind off him.

When you’re home, he’s all you can think about. You hear his voice as clearly as if he’s standing in the room with you, asking questions about your life and then letting you prattle on for hours. Something you had attributed to his kind nature and polite manners. Now though, it seems more like he was trying to learn as much about you as he could, for reasons you don’t dare to even imagine.

He’d asked you about trivial things, like what book you’d last read or if you prefer to stack your firewood bark side up or down, which you still can’t see the harm in having told him. But he’d also asked you about your work, your people, your interests and how you spend your days, the answers to which must’ve allowed someone of his age and accumulated knowledge of people, to fully grasp your personality and character.

So, why is that making you have a mild panic attack every time you think about it? Because you have no idea what he might do with that knowledge. Maybe he was just curious. Maybe it makes no difference at all what you’ve told him. It is possible that he really was just happy for the company. It’s the “what if” that plagues you.

Because if he does decide to use his knowledge against you, the odds will be entirely in his favor, since you know nothing about him in comparison. You want to believe that you wouldn’t have fallen for him (and you did fall for him) if he is indeed the monster that tried to kill you. But in truth, there’s no way that you could know that with any certainty. Just like there’s nothing you can do to protect yourself from him, either way.

-=<>=-=<>=-=<>=-

The hours are endless and deafeningly silent in the days after your departure. He has never been one to wander, to have that restless tremor within, pulling one to their feet and refusing to let them remain still. But he does now. The stone will quickly turn polished with all his wandering, should the feeling not subside soon enough, which it gives no indication that it will.

So, he wanders. Through each of the nine wings and up into each of the nine towers, yours being the tallest, and the only one he lingers in. The only place that now offers him peacefulness. He is aware that he still calls it yours, even though your stay was brief, and you will never again reside there. But it holds so much of your scent still.

He sits there for hours sometimes, forgetting time all together as he drinks in your skin, hair, the faint lavender scent of your own sheets which you brought with you to this bed. He wonders how long it will take before he will no longer recall the softness of your lips. He thinks of them often, in the hopes that the memory might remain fresh to his senses for a little longer.

But after only one week, his resolve is already faltering. He dreams of you. Wakes up screaming and drenched in sweat at the memory of his teeth embedded in your soft and tender flesh. And other times, when the dream has been wonderful… he wakes up erect, longing so desperately for the mere touch of your skin against his own, that he cannot refrain from pleasuring himself to the very thought.

This does not shame him, though. He is much too old to concern himself with the public perception of what is considered right or wrong among the many varieties of carnal pleasures. The modern world would likely frown at his history of dalliances, as he has always been a man of omnivorous taste. He has never coveted children, but gender has never been an obstacle to pleasure, in his eyes.

He has found that women offer a comfort and an emotional closeness that the males with which he has explored enjoyment in the past, have not given as freely. But this was long ago. The world has changed much since then, and gender appears to have become less rigid of late, which Oberyn finds most agreeable. Still, it’s in a woman’s embrace he has most often felt at home and wanted, beyond that of the carnal.

And then there is you. His Valya, though his only by name, not commitment. The first person ever to command such control over his mind and senses. He feels almost enslaved by your very being, as though your mere existence demands his servitude. And surprisingly, he has no objections to this.

A terrible fatigue and weariness with the centuries upon centuries of managing himself, always fearful that a moment’s loss of control will result in carnage, has taken root within his being, and will not be untethered. It festers there, making him increasingly agitated, whilst also draining him of all desire and every grain of levity that he had once possessed.

But in your company, all this turns pale, irrelevant and silenced. You have freed his heart and brought light back to his soul, and now that he has felt it once more, he cannot stand the loss. The slow, but still so noticeable, reversion to that caged and lonesome man who spends every waking moment fearing the dragon more than any man who might encounter him.

Still, you are not as a drug to him. He does not crave you the way a drinker craves the bottle, enslaved by the need to consume, dull, and forget. Instead, he feels only brightened, strengthened and awakened by you. In your presence, Oberyn comes alive, for the first time in ages feeling stronger than the beast, and therefor less controlled by it.

Every waking moment, his mind looks for ways to relate to you. Everything he sees, smells, touches, it all somehow becomes about you, because that is how dearly he misses you. And it’s getting worse. Each day, he battles with himself over whether he has just cause to seek you out once again, and every day, pushing the victory to your favor becomes that much harder.

He knows that he will eventually fail, because even if he flew to the other side of the world, there would be nothing to stop him from returning. Your house, work and people are known to him, so the day that he eventually fails to convince himself that you are always safer away from him, he will have no trouble finding you.

It was you that kissed him. He did not ask you to. And that is the carrot which forever dangles before his lips, sweetening his thoughts with the notion that you might do so again, if given a chance.

-=<>=-=<>=-=<>=-

It takes three weeks before you begin to be able to walk around outside your own house after dark, without fighting panic at the sight of every deep dark shadow, expecting to see golden eyes glowing as they stalk you. The fear is still there, but with every day that passes without any sighting of the serpent, you’re starting to become less controlled by it.

You tell yourself that he wouldn’t have let you go just to come after you again, that would’ve been pointless. But you also wonder if the woman who’d owned this house before you, and who’d vanished without a trace one day over eight years ago, had really wandered off and gotten lost like people think, or if she too could’ve encountered your captor.

All in all, over the past fifty years, the Seven Hills have claimed nearly thirty lives, half of which have been accidents when people have underestimated the danger of some of the trails, falling to their deaths over cliff-edges, or simply getting lost. But the other half are unaccounted for. People who just vanished out there. Assumed to have fallen into crevasses or perhaps been buried under mudslides. Natural events.

If Oberyn hadn’t brought you back, you would’ve become part of that statistic. Which is a frightening thought. It’s all frightening. Just the reality that dragons aren’t a myth is enough to make you shiver in your bed when you’re trying to sleep, which you haven’t been able to do much of recently. Fortunately, the holidays are tightly packed at this time of year, so you have no problems staying busy.

The city council made a brilliant move around a decade ago, with the decision to create a separate account for all profits earned by tourism. The Seven Hills isn’t a city which depends financially on tourism, so it didn’t affect the overall economy. And the brilliance of this move, lay in what that money has since been earmarked for. Which is celebrations.

Holidays, anniversaries, and other significant events are all celebrated with parades, formal balls or just big parties, all at the expense of that one account. The idea had come from a police officer, who had been concerned about a steady incline of violent crimes, and her hope had been that people who have fun together might be less likely to harm one another. Which had happily turned out to be correct.

So, when you wake up on Thanksgiving morning, having managed to scrape together a handful hours of decent sleep, it isn’t a family dinner you’re planning on going to. Not that you have any family to celebrate with, even if you’d wanted to. You were an angel baby, left at the front steps of the local church when you were just days old. The woman who’d ended up raising you had been lovely, and your relationship with her had been good, right up until she’d died shortly after you’d turned sixteen.

After that, the city had become your family, albeit a distant one. You like your coworkers and you do hang out with them outside of work now and then, but you’re not close. You don’t talk to them about personal stuff. Perhaps because you’d started your life being abandoned, that’s what you’ve come to expect from everyone, so you shield yourself from caring too much. From letting people in.

Which is why Oberyn’s betrayal hit you so hard. Because you did let him in. Against the wisdom of all your experience and even the fact that you had literally no reason at all to trust him, you’d told him everything that you never tell anyone. In just a few days, he’d somehow managed to make you feel safer with him than with any other person you’ve ever met, and he’d done that despite knowing that he was the one who’d almost killed you.

“Stop it…” you tell yourself, closing your eyes for a moment over your morning tea, because you’d promised yourself that you’re not gonna let him ruin this day.

Not Thanksgiving. Not the one day of the year specifically dedicated to remembering and celebrating the positives. This year, the city’s celebration is gonna be a ball at the old courthouse. It’s the fanciest building in town, made of stone and actually resembling a castle more than anything you’d normally associate with legal matters.

It was commissioned in the late 1800’s by a wealthy lord who wanted criminals to know just how far removed from greatness they were, so he had every piece of metal within the courthouse coated with gold and silver, and every chair was made for comfort and splendor. Except the one offered to the accused, which was just the simplest and cheapest wooden chair that could be made.

Because of the small fortune of precious metals, the house was prone to burglary and vandalism, so over time, its splendor lessened and by the time they stopped using it, some fifty years later, it was far from the opulence of its original state. But around thirty years ago, the city decided that since it’s a historic building, it should be preserved, and spent two years and a lot of money on restoring it. And while the metals are fake these days, it still looks every bit as pretentious as it was always meant to. It’s a perfect venue for any kind of party, though. And especially a ball.

You’ve had a dress picked out and ready since before Halloween, but because you’re also part of the crew for this event, you won’t be putting it on until you’re already there. It’s packed and ready, along with some makeup and hair styling stuff, all of which you’ll need to remember to bring so that you can get changed once your work is done. All the staff from the shop try to help out for these kinds of events because you’re the town’s experts on decorations, and you all enjoy getting to apply your skills on a bigger scale now and then.

The party starts at 4 pm, with the mayor of the city giving his annual thankfulness speech, which is never as dull as it sounds, because the mayor is a former standup comedian, of all things. And although he’s pushing seventy now, he still knows how to work a crowd and get a good mood going. After that, the dance begins. It’s a blend of classics like foxtrot and waltz, as well as line dance and even hip-hop, but the first one is always a traditional square dance.

Everyone who lives here knows that one, because if you chose not to participate in the first dance, hardly anyone will talk to you for the rest of the evening because they’ll assume that you’re a person who just hates fun. You know that because you made that mistake as a teenager. After the dance, when everyone’s gotten their appetite going, the Thanksgiving dinner is served, and then the program ends and people can just hang around or go home.

You arrive at the courthouse shortly before 9 am, after tending to Casper and triple checking that you remembered everything, finding two of your colleagues already there.

“Hey, Boo,” Simon calls to you as you walk in with your bags.

It’s a nickname you’ve earned over time, by managing to individually scare every one of your coworkers into falling to the floor, just by saying “boo”.

“Hey, Si. How are we doing?” you answer, dropping your stuff in a corner and then looking over the boxes of decorations.

“We brought all the labelled boxes, and Kelli remembered the glitter cannons.”

“What about the balloons?”

“Oh, yeah, Micah’s already working on those,” he says, and gestures casually towards an unspecified area of the building.

“Great, then I’ll get started on the leaves and garlands. Unless you want help with the tables?” you ask, looking out over the large open space that had once been the waiting hall and grand foyer.

It had been made to look like something out of the roman empire, with giant marble pillars recessed into the walls, serving no purpose other than to add to the grandeur of the room. The hall cuts through the entire length of the building, perhaps a hundred yards long, and easily thirty yards wide, with a curved ceiling around fifteen feet off the floor at the center, and five big crystal chandeliers dangling from up there.

It’s full of tables today, but the size of the room makes them look like something from a dollhouse. In contrast, the empty courtroom which will serve as the dancehall, looks smaller than it is.

“Nah, I’m good. You get going on that, I’ll let you know if I need your help,” Simon replies, so you smile and nod, before grabbing a box and setting off to the right where the big double doors to the courtroom stand open.

It’s fun work, getting to decorate a place like this, and while all four of you initially work separately, soon enough, you’re all helping Simon in the foyer, because the tables always take longest and requires the most precision.

“You know, you really didn’t need to bring your makeup, Boo,” Kelli says when you’re working side by side on the finishing touches of the table decorations.

“What do you mean?” you ask her, but you have an idea of where she’s going with this.

“Look, I don’t know where you went, but if it’s true that you were just lost in the woods, then you must’ve found the fountain of youth or something.”

She doesn’t sound envious or even annoyed, just disappointed, and you want to retort so badly. To rebel against the notion that you’ve lied about getting lost in the woods just to cover up a trip to some fucking beauty clinic, or whatever. But you can’t, because you can’t explain the change in your appearance.

“Oh, I found something…” you say between tight jaws, unable to hold back your frustration at the mere thought of the slithering serpent.

She can tell from your tone that asking any further questions isn’t gonna end well, so she changes the topic, instead getting back to the evening and how excited she is. But when the time comes for the four of you to get ready, you find yourself standing there in your dress, staring in the mirror at the face that isn’t yours, and yet, is somehow also the perfect you.

Not perfectly symmetrical or flawless in that kinda way, but just… perfect in a sense of natural beauty, perhaps. Kelli’s right, putting makeup on is basically redundant, since there’s nothing really to improve. And if you’d had a choice in the matter, it might not have felt so artificial. But it does. It feels anything but natural.

“Not today,” you remind yourself, meeting your own eyes in the reflection. “You can wallow as much as you want tomorrow, but today, you’re thankful to be alive and to have all the comforts you need. And for Casper, your white knight. Even though he ran away.”

When you walk back out into the grand hall, you’re met by the sight of people pouring in through the massive, double oak doors, in a slow and happily chatting procession. They’re allowed to sit at the tables if they want to, even though dinner isn’t for several hours yet, since there are only a few stone benches available throughout the building for anyone needing to rest their legs.

Everyone knows who you are, so as you make your way through the crowd, you’re met with greetings and polite nods, but also a lot of slightly stunned and gaping faces as they look you over. You try to ignore it and just focus on finding your colleagues, but soon enough, you’re hearing people whispering about you as you pass them. And suddenly you’re regretting picking such a glamorous dress.

It’s golden in color, which you’d picked because of how perfectly it compliments your skin tone, but which now makes it feel flamboyant and excessive. But it’s also the simplicity of it that drew you to it. There aren’t any garnishes, it’s just a softly flowing fabric that hugs your form in a very gentle and comfortable way. Not too tight anywhere, not restricting your movements at all, since the skirt is designed to make it look like liquid gold in motion.

By the time you reach Simon, standing at the door to welcome people, you’re regretting having come here at all today.

“Hey… are you alright?” he asks when he sees you, and while you notice that he too roams over your form with wide eyes, unlike everyone else, he doesn’t comment on it, and his gaze returns to your face with a concerned wrinkle between his brows.

“Everyone looks at me like I’m a freak,” you whisper, dropping your head forwards to not have to see anyone’s scrutiny anymore.

Ordinarily, you wouldn’t be particularly concerned about people’s opinion of you, and again, if this change had been your choice, you could’ve held your head high and ignored them. But since it wasn’t, you’re left feeling unfairly judged, and knowing that you’re also incapable of defending yourself on this matter just makes it that much worse.

Instead of trying to comfort you by telling you that there’s nothing wrong with you, Simon turns away from the crowd and gives you a long and firm hug. Because that’s the kind of person he is. He suffers from terrible anxiety himself, something he’s learned to live with and knows how to manage for himself, but which also makes him really good at understanding that words can be powerless against feelings sometimes.

You thank him before he lets you go, because he’s already made you feel better, and he just smiles in return before getting back to work. You stay there next to him, letting his calm and positive energy infect you while you try to avoid looking at any one person for too long as you help him welcome them to the celebration. The mayor is the only one who stops to shake your hands and thank you for your work, before he steps inside and prepares to deliver his speech.

As always, he executes it with practiced ease and has the crowd in tears of laughter before the end, even though he’s managed to fit in serious things like being thankful for the continued decline in crime rates, or how well the city has recovered after a local factory had burned down six months ago. He finishes by encouraging everyone to step over to the courtroom for the dance, and everyone does.

The wonderful thing about dancing is that no one cares all that much what anyone else is wearing or how they look, as they move across the floor together. It’s just about having fun and letting the rhythm take you. Still, once the square dance is done, Simon kindly comes to your rescue when no one on the floor offers to pair up with you for the next dance, which is a foxtrot.

He’s not the best dancer in the room, but again, none of that matters as the point is to let go of expectations and enjoy yourselves free of judgement. He doesn’t step away when the song ends and you’ve taken your bows, preparing to lead you on for the next one as well, but just as you take your positions, there’s a voice to your right.

“May I cut in?”

You stop breathing at the mere sound of it. The voice that’s haunted your thoughts and dreams for weeks now, the voice that heats your blood and sends shivers along your skin.

“Uh… sure,” you hear Simon hesitantly agree, since you’re not objecting, and then step away.

Still not breathing, you look up as the much taller Oberyn takes his place, confidently taking your waist and then your hand, sending sparks through you with his mere touch. He looks exactly the same, donning his customary green coat and black trousers, as suitable at a black-tie event as they’d seemed in the dark and mysterious castle.

The coat is one of those stand-up collar ones, with around fifteen silk buttons leading from his Adam’s apple down to his waist, where the weight of the fabric holds the two sides close together down to just below his knees. And the sleeves stop over the base of his hands, not at the wrist, so whatever he might be wearing underneath, no one can see it.

The only other time you’ve been this close to him (aside from the kiss) was when he’d carried you inside that first day, and you hadn’t been paying this close attention to him then. But you are now. Because you wholeheartedly suspect him of being a monster underneath those clothes. Still, not one bone in your body is telling you to run.

“Breathe, Kaivalya,” he whispers close to your ear, and your body responds as if it had been a command, desperately filling your lungs until you start to feel dizzy.

“You… you shouldn’t be here,” you whisper back, just as the dance begins and he starts to waltz you around the room as elegantly as if he’d been a professional dancer.

“No, I really shouldn’t,” he agrees, and then pauses before adding: “But I can’t stop thinking about you.”

The air flowing over his skin as he moves sends his natural fragrance straight into your nostrils, and it makes your knees weaken, stoking the heat that already simmers somewhere in your gut, clouding your thoughts with desire. But it’s that feeling that gives you the strength to push away from him. It scares you. The hypnotic way that you react to him. And that fear is enough to give you back your senses.

You step back, almost colliding with another dancing pair, and when he lets go of you, you turn and start to make your way to the exit. The air suddenly feels thick and hard to inhale, strangling you as you try to free yourself of the crowd, the music, and the strange sensation of your brain being caged by your own senses.

Reaching the brisk winter air outside of the main entrance, you stop, holding on to a lamppost at the top of the stairs not to fall over with how dizzy you feel. A hand comes to rest on your shoulder, but it isn’t Oberyn’s. Simon has noticed what’s happened and followed you outside. He’s a good guy, and you can imagine how that scene in there must’ve looked to him. But you would’ve preferred it if he’d left you alone this time.

“Who is that guy, Boo? You want me to get rid of him?” he asks, but before you can answer, you feel him twitch and pull away from you.

“You could not remove me however hard you tried, boy,” Oberyn says, and you can hear a dark tinge to his voice now.

But it’s not arrogance. It sounds more like… jealousy.

“That’s not up to me. If my friend doesn’t want you here, then you’re not staying, and I’ve got plenty of people here that’ll back me up if I ask them,” Si persists, entirely undeterred by the other man’s superiority.

There’s a slightly possessive edge to the way he says “my friend” which would ordinarily have made you feel appreciative of his protectiveness, because you’re not actually that close. But today, it makes you feel like a toy being fought over, and you don’t like it. You straighten up, having finally gotten yourself under control, just in time to see the serpent step closer to your colleague.

“That’s enough, both of you!” you call out to get their attention. “Simon, go back inside.”

“Boo-…” he begins to protest, but you cut him off.

“I just needed some air, I’m fine. Please, just go so that we can talk.”

He hesitates, throwing a suspicious glance at the other man, but then does what you’ve asked. Because in the end, he knows that you’d never agree to be alone with someone that you fear might hurt you. But the things is, you do fear that Oberyn might hurt you. You just also need answers, badly enough that you’re prepared to demand them now that he’s here and can answer you.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you either,” you admit once the two of you are alone. “But I’m pretty sure that we have very different reasons why.”

He remains at a respectful distance now that you’re not dancing, and you notice that the heat from before is starting to fade, leaving you exposed to the winter chill. You cross your arms over your waist to keep them warm. There are no sleeves on your dress, so the slight breeze is already threatening to make you shiver. Why is it that whenever you’re around this man, you’re either too hot or too damned cold?

“What are your reasons, my lady?” he asks, and his voice is soft now.

Not inviting or seductively soft, but more like it’s been subdued by worry and trepidation.

“I need to know… what you are,” you say quietly, watching his face without blinking for fear that you might miss some revealing detail.

But his features remain unchanged, and no answer seems to come to his lips, so you step closer while trying to fortify yourself against something, but you’re not even sure what.

“Are you the one that bit me?” you ask, damned near choking on the last two words, but still, he remains statuesque before you, driving your fear into frustration. “Damned it, you owe me answers, Oberyn! Tell me the truth…… Are you the serpent?”

For what seems like one endless moment, he merely stares back at you. But then, ever so slowly, a terrible sadness begins to flood his eyes. He bows his head and closes them, perhaps trying to stop the feeling, but it just spreads. Spilling into his brows and forehead, and then down to his cheeks and mouth. It’s subtle, and yet so distinct. So unmistakably sorrowful, as if drawn from the sky and the deepest recesses of the earth, filling every cell of his being with a pain unlike anything you’ve ever seen.

“I will not ask your forgiveness… I could never earn such a thing,” he says, speaking so quietly now that you have to step even closer just to hear him. “I ask only that you believe me when I say that I never wanted to hurt you.”

He opens his eyes again, and when he finds you standing closer, he backs away and shifts his hands behind his back, as if trying to keep them from reaching for you.

“I saw you running, and I tried to distract myself by going after Casper, but it was too late. I had already caught your scent,” he explains, and you’re mildly impressed that he isn’t making excuses or trying to convince you that he’s worthy of redemption.

“And if I were to run away now?” you wonder, trying to understand how the man and the beast are connected.

“I would let you,” he replies quickly, clearly eager to make you feel as safe as you can around him. “In my human form, my human instincts are in control. You are never in danger from… me.”

“But if you were to become that thing right now…?” you press on, still far from convinced of your own safety.

He thinks on that for a moment, and there seems to be something uncertain to his conclusion.

“The real reason why I sedated you for the journey home, was because I needed to fly you back,” he begins, and you can’t stop the sharp gasp and the two steps that you stumble backwards, away from him, as you hear that. “But even the beast is enchanted with you now, Valya. I want only to protect you, no matter what form I might take,” he finishes, unable to keep himself from coming closer and extending a hand to you.

“No, you stay away from me,” you warn, stepping back further.

He stops cold, and the sorrow in his eyes transforms into something you can only describe as the purest pain imaginable. It cuts and tears at your heart, because even though he did hurt and lie to you, he doesn’t deserve to suffer this severely for it. But however much you might want to ease his pain, you don’t know how, because you can’t reconcile with what he’s done to you.

“As you wish, my lady,” he says, and his voice breaks at each word.

He straightens himself, and then bows fully, dropping his entire torso halfway forwards in a perfect display of submission. And when he rises again, tears have filled his eyes to the brim.

“Always…” he adds in a barely audible whisper, and then he turns and starts to walk down the front steps of the courthouse.

The air cools significantly as he departs, and you wonder if that’s just your senses tricking you, or if he really does warm his surroundings by his presence alone. Then, just as he reaches the ground, a faint glow appears in the sky, maybe a hundred feet to his left, and seems to swoop down over him. He sees it, and stops walking to follow its journey with his gaze, as it makes an elegant turn which changes its direction towards you.

And when it does, you can see that it’s an owl. But not like any you’ve ever seen before. It’s almost transparent, and when it flaps its wings, they seem to leave entire galaxies of stars behind them, fading as quickly as they appear. It flies straight at you, landing on top of the half-pillar that makes up the corner of the stone railing to the staircase, where it folds its wings back and just stares at you.

Mesmerized by its large blue eyes, you stare back, feeling as though an infinite mass of knowledge lies within this creature, and that it uses this knowledge to judge you. It’s about the size of the golden eagle named Marahute in that Disney movie with the mouse rescuers, but the fact that you can almost see through it makes it slightly less imposing.

If it is judging you in some way, it can’t be too damning a conclusion because you feel no discomfort from the being. In fact, for the entire time it stares at you, you feel nothing at all. Then suddenly, it opens its wings and takes off with one large leap, fading into nothingness within just one little second.

“Wow…” you breathe, having completely forgotten your worries for a moment.

“You saw it?” Oberyn asks from his spot on the ground at the bottom of the stairs.

“Yeah, it was amazing. What is it?” you wonder, taking your eyes from the sky and back to him, finding him looking extremely puzzled.

“She is the Sky-spirit: Caelum. But…… humans cannot see her.”

You stare into his eyes while his words reach you, and the implication behind them slowly sinks in. The temporary reprieve of your emotional turmoil is wrung from you with ruthless force, and this time, it’s your eyes that are suddenly brimming with tears, your frame that’s brutally tortured by the inescapable truth.

“What did you do to me…?” you accuse, glaring at him now because all you have left to turn to is anger. “What am I? What did you turn me into?”

But as horrible as you feel, as much as these thoughts are plaguing you, your feelings still somehow pale compared to the enormity of his. The knowledge that he’s robbed you of your own reality, seemingly without him even knowing how or understanding why, is mercilessly demolishing him from the inside.

“I don’t know…” he confesses. “I am so deeply sorry, my dear… I have no answers.”

Your tears fall as the cold finally creeps into your blood and makes you shiver. Hugging yourself, trying to come to terms with the thought that you don’t know who you are anymore, you feel so lost. But then the air around you is warmed up once again, and you look up to find Oberyn before you. He takes you in his arms and hugs you close, flooding your body with that same heat as before, even now when you’re in too much distress to feel anything good.

“But I will not stop until I have found them,” he promises, then he kisses your temple, pulls away, and with a gust of wind, he’s suddenly just gone.

Part 5

The Ten Spirits of the World Air - Forest - Water - Stone - Night - Autumn - Winter - Spring - Summer. (No, I didn't miss one. You'll see.)

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