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boxofbonesfic · 3 months

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Title: Tonality [5]

Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader

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Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, Genre Typical Violence, Mild Descriptions of Violence, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!

A/N: OMG I’M SO SORRY. this chapter was so hard to write and it kept getting away from me, because i really wanted to pivot hard into some of the main plot points. i really hope you enjoy it, please drop me a comment and let me know even if you didn’t.

“Come.” Your mother’s voice is firm. Her mourning veil just barely outlines the shape of her face, as her lips move beneath the fabric. It billows behind her as she walks down the darkened line of empty pews toward the front of the little chapel, a flickering candle held steady in her gloved hand.

Your father is to be buried tomorrow.

You know his grave is already dug—a fresh square cut out of the dark earth next to his father’s. The thought of him alone in the dirt is enough to make your throat tighten, though no tears come. You have cried them all already; a veritable ocean. Even so, your dry eyes ache for lack of them.

“W-wait, mother, I—” You do not want to see it, the vacant thing your father’s soul has left behind. At the end, you could barely recognize him in the fragile body decaying in his sick bed. You catch at her sleeve with numb fingers, lowering your head in shame. “I do not want to see—” Her icy fingers wrap around yours, long and thin, her jagged nails digging into your skin.

“We must each place a stitch upon the shroud.” You wince as she presses the long needle into your stiff hands. “It is our duty.” Only when you accept it does she release you, and for a moment, you see her lips quirk cruelly beneath the veil. You tremble as your mother steps aside, your breath catching as you see the shape of the body on the altar.

Just behind her is your father, his shroud dotted with the shapes of dead flowers and bare trees. It does little to quell the horror you feel to behold him, though, his thin outline visible through the shroud, limbs folded and delicate like a baby bird. You remember what he looked like two nights prior, his rheumy eyes dull and deep set into his skull, skin thin and sallow. He looks small now, too, beneath his shroud, and you find it hard to believe this withered corpse had once been a great mountain of a man. A good man, a strong man, now reduced to the barest scraps of skin and bone.

“Stitch.” Her command fills every inch of space, in the chapel and in your head. And though you want nothing more than to close your eyes and be gone from this place, your body will not obey. You raise the needle.

“Please, mother—”

“Stitch.” Her voice is like iron nails in your skull. Blood drips from your nose, and you taste the warm copper of it on your lips. You pinch a corner of thin fabric between your fingers, and push in the needle, pulling it through until the knot at the end of the thread catches. You lower your hand to the shroud as you sew another stitch, and as you do so, your fingers brush your father’s sunken cheek, and you retch.

You cannot stop—

She will not let you.

You look down at your father’s body with tears in your wide eyes, and as you do, a scream builds in your throat. You pinch his lips together between your forefinger and thumb. Delicately; like you would the hem of your gown for a curtsey— and sew another stitch through the meat of them. He is beginning to rot, now, you can smell it over the cloying scent of incense.

“Mother stop!” Your scream is swallowed by the heavy darkness of the empty chapel. Your mother sighs, her breath curling against your ear.

“How else can we make sure the dead don’t speak?” She threads her fingers through yours as she pulls your hand toward his sunken eyelids. You pinch the stiff flesh between your fingers, holding it taut for the needle.

“Now close his eyes.”

You wake with a start, sitting up in bed as you cover your mouth with one hand, fingers searching for the thick black funeral thread—but of course, you find none. The dream clings to the edges of your vision like spider silk, the taste of decaying things still heavy on the panicked air you draw in. A ra sob wrenches its way out of your throat as you press the heels of your palms against your closed eyes.

Perhaps I am mad, after all.

Ain’t supposed t’see the dead ones. Maybe Madge’s old superstitions had borne fruit in your own mind. You recall the symbol she made with one hand, finger on thumb, finger on thumb, before spitting down into the dirt as you left your father’s burial. She’d shaken her head then, some the silver-gray locs piled on top of her head coming loose. Ain’t supposed t’see them. They stay when you see, them, Lady.

They stay.

“No!” You throw the blankets off of yourself, lurching out of bed and stumbling towards the wash-bowl on the dresser. The thought of that day fills you with the same cold dread you have come to know too well. You’ve little choice in your dreams; the specter of his burial hanging over you like overripe fruit. But here, in waking, in the chill autumn daylight, you have the power to turn your thoughts to other things.

At least, you try to.

The water is shockingly cold, but you are grateful for it, staring down into the porcelain bowl. A knock at the door startles you, and you jump.

“W-who is it?”

“Kassandra, Majesty. Might I come in?”

“Yes,” you sigh. “You may.” You pat worriedly at your swollen eyelids, and you frown at your reflection as the door swings open. Your mother has an effortless sort of beauty, one that needs neither rouge nor powders to enhance—a trait you certainly do not share. Your disturbing, sleepless night is written plainly on your face.

Kassandra sets the tray down in the sitting area, before turning to you with a worried expression.

“Her Majesty hopes you are well,” she says, nervously tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear with dainty fingers. “As you were not at break-fast this morning.”

“I was… I did not sleep well.” You shake your head. “I trust my mother made her displeasure quite clear.” She stifles a laugh. “She’s good at that.”

“She did.” Kassandra gestures to the tray, porridge and an assortment continental fruit cut into bite size pieces. “You should eat, Lady. While it’s hot.” You pick uninterestedly at the porridge until it is mostly gone, along with the tart green grapes and sweet winter melon. At the very least you do feel better for it, or at least, more present—more grounded in this world, not the dream one.

You clear up the remains of your breakfast, piling the dishes neatly back onto the tray. In the armoire, you note that more Rivian style gowns have been hung, your light Redanian dresses folded neatly and shunted off to the shelves on the side. Your mother’s thin excuse makes you wrinkle your nose in distaste as you finger one of the heavy sleeves. “Much too light for these Rivian winters, Dear,” she’d said, patting the neatly folded dresses.

“You won’t need them.”

The truth remains unspoken, but you know it still—she does not want you to need them. You pull a heavy crimson dress from its place and begin to undo the lacing. Kassandra clucks her tongue at you.

“Highness, please. Allow me at least one task.” You roll your eyes in response.

“I believe you are capable of more than dressing me—and that I am more than capable of dressing myself,” you reply. You change into a fresh shift before shrugging into the dress. You twist around to reach for the lacings, but Kassandra shoos your hands away to do them herself.

“You’re doing them wrong.” She chides you gently. “Up for lift, down for compression, my Lady.” Kassandra nods at you in the mirror and then positions your body so that if you crane your neck just a little, you can see her hands as she easily threads the thick ribbon through the eyelets. “Opposing sides. Like this.”

You purse your lips. “We don’t wear these dreadful things in Redania,” you mutter, your breath hitching as the corset tightens. She laughs before stepping away, brushing loose lint from the folds of the heavy fabric.

“Even so, our fashion does suit you.” You can tell she wants to say something else, the way her mouth opens and then closes, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“You’ve another correction?” You ask, gesturing at yourself with a chuckle, but she shakes her head. She glances at the door, as though reassuring herself that it was still shut.

“No, no, I—I do not mean to be insolent, Highness,” Kassandra begins, “but I do not think I have ever heard you say you have rested well within these walls.” Your smile turns brittle and tired.

“No. I have not. And your concern is not insolence. I am grateful for it.”

“Healer Janna—her draughts have not availed you?” You hesitate, wondering if you should describe the shape of your demon, give it form and substance outside of your mind. You shake your head, steepling your fingers together to stop them from trembling.

“It seems the dreams that plague me require more than nightroot and dried frogspawn to satisfy them.” I see my father. I see him dead a thousand ways.

“Healer Janna’s draughts for sleep and pain are as close to magic as they’ll allow in the White Keep, you know that.” Bastard’s magic. You do. You think of Father Rame’s disgusted expression. He does not seem the type to suffer a witch to live. “But I have… there is another. A woman—they call her The Dock Hag.” Her voice is a low whisper, as if she fears the good Father ears will ring with her heresy, even here.

“And she can… she can rid me of these dreams?” The prospect is a tantalizing one. “You know her? You have visited this woman?”

“I—yes. I met her. Once.” Her smile is sad. “When I was small, and the older Ladies had need of her.” Kassandra’s words are aged, heavy with the weight of years that both do and do not belong to her in equal measure. “And then again, for the memories.”

“She…” You cannot bring yourself to say it. Kassandra nods, the smile going brittle and crumbling from her face.

“Not many Lords will claim their bastards, Highness, if you will forgive my candor.”

In your mind’s eye you see a small Kassandra, attending her own mother, most likely, or perhaps even an older sister or cousin who… had need of this woman. The witch who had taken their babies—

And then burnt their dreams out.

“What did it cost?”

“Nothing special. Gold.” You let out a relieved sigh at her words. That, at least, is an easy enough problem to solve. Kassandra cuts her eyes at you. “Are you going to go? To see her?”

Perhaps Madge was a superstitious old northern goat—But maybe she was right too: the living are not meant to mingle with the dead. Perhaps it is some guilt that drives your father’s image to the forefront of your mind, some secret thing that the specter of his death clings to—you cannot know.

But the witch might.

—

The east stair is narrow, cut roughly out of the stone as if it were an afterthought. The iron railing is pitted and mottled from the salt in the air, and it rattles dangerously as you grip it. The stairs themselves are uneven, still slick from the inconsistent rain that had stopped only hours before. Every step feels as though you are lurching forward, being pulled down the long winding stair to the paving below.

There are more ways to enter and exit this keep than the main gate, Majesty.

The east stair wound around the back of the White Keep like a snake, the steps hidden in the stone like a secret. As you take another cautious step down, your foot slips and you gasp, the railing shaking as you cling to it. You steady yourself, locking your trembling knees tightly as you recite Kassandra’s instructions.

You will take the east stair down from the parapets over the chapel. Through the gap in the wall is the city. Go straight to the docks, ask for the Hag.” She had not wanted to stay behind, though you had convinced her with a stern look and an order to send away any who came knocking at your door till you returned. You would need her to provide a believable excuse in the event that anyone came looking—and an empty room would be cause for alarm, especially with you… “ill.”

Below you, the city glitters with light even as the dark begins to deepen. Beyond it, the sun sinks into the sea, lingering on the horizon before disappearing completely. Like Kassandra had said, near the foot of the stairs—twenty feet back, and behind a column, but near enough—is the gap in the wall. It is overgrown thick with dying ivy, the orange leaves already turning spotty brown at the edges.

Crushed leaves litter the hood and shoulders of your cloak as you start to squeeze inside, the stone catching at your clothes. You push your way through the narrow passage, panic coiling in your gut at the feel of the unyielding pressure at your chest and back. Your fingers meet open air at the next push, and you practically drag yourself out into the streetlight, fingers digging into the stone.

The misty street that greets you is practically empty, and what few people there are do not seem to have noticed that you have joined them from nowhere on the wet cobbled street. Hurriedly, you brush dirt and discarded leaves from your cloak before you adjust your hood, angling it down over your eyes. You keep your head down, your hands clenched into trembling, nervous fists. Every heavy step you take away from the keep sets the warning bells in your skull to ringing, as gooseflesh rises on your arms.

It isn’t too late to go back. It isn’t. Not too late to turn around, slip back between the ivy covered crack in the east wall and seek your mother’s counsel once more—and go to sleep, knowing that you will see beyond the veil again.

The thought spurs you onward.

The streets are even more unfamiliar in the growing dark, and as you watch the lanterns flare to life to chase it away, you swallow nervously. There is so much to see, here—too much. As you approach the city centre the market is still bustling with activity, the shops open and windows bright.

You spare yourself a few moments to watch the people. A woman buys bread, her son playing in her skirts, a man pulls shut the door of the tavern across the way, a blacksmith’s hammer falls rhythmically like a drum, the chapel’s bell rings for evening prayer—there is so much here, the sheer amount of everything almost dizzies you. A woman bumps your shoulder as she passes by, and it stirs you out of your reverie. By the time she turns to apologize, you are already gone, hurrying off through the square.

The air turns salt with brine the closer you get, and you lick your dry lips, tasting it. The night had been thick with sounds in the city center, but the further you travel from it, the more quiet the streets become. It is eerie, the stark difference between these silent, empty streets and the lively square only moments ago.

The last time you had been to the docks was when you’d stepped off of the ship, in the scant few days before your mother’s wedding. Now, the narrow streets look different, unrecognizable from the snatches you remember through the carriage windows. You look in one direction, and then another, frowning.

“You’re lost, Sweet.” There is no question in the old woman’s voice. You see her then, standing beneath the street lantern in a pool of pale light.

“I—I am looking for—”

“Me, Sweet. You’re looking for me.” The shadows fall away from her face without her moving, like the light has only just decided to accept her. The Witch’s white hair is wild about her face. And her face… she is a severe beauty, like wind whipped ocean waves. The years define her jaw, sloping in gentle strokes down around her eyes, and her ears slope upward into gentle points. She is older than your mother, though you know this not by sight but because you simply… know it. An uncanny feeling that has grown in the back of your mind that she is like you, but… un-like you, too.

She is an elf.

It is not just the ears, but the air about her, an ethereal quality that surrounds her as thickly as the shawl about her shoulders. It is in the delicate set of her jaw, perhaps, or the distinct lack of canine teeth in her amused grin. You take a halting step forward, and then stop, wary.

“You are the W—you can help me?” The Witch wraps her shawl tighter about her shoulders, and fixes you with a hawkish look.

“Don’t know that yet.” She purses her lips. “Shall we do this in the street? Or will you oblige me my own roof?” You nod hurriedly, and follow her as she turns quickly on her heel down the street. You are close enough to the docks to hear the water as she approaches a small house, pushing open the door. You follow her inside, halting briefly at the doorway. There is dried heather inside, hanging in a braided bushel on the arch. She watches you step inside, her dark eyes narrowed.

“Shut the door behind you,” she snaps, flicking the edge of her shawl over her shoulder. “Never met a Princess raised in a bloody barn.” You brush aside the bushels of dried herbs hanging from the low ceiling as you make your way inside.

The Witch rounds the other side of the table, where you see the evidence of her unfinished work. A grindstone, laying on its side, with half-ground herbs lying in the bowl.

“How did you know?” You ask as she picks it back up, the sound of stone on stone filling the room as she resumes. “That I was looking… for you.”

“I always know,” she replies, somewhat exasperated. “Like a rabbit knows a fox.” Her sharp eyes find yours once more. “What ails you, sweet Princess?” There is mockery in her tone, though you dare not take umbrage at its presence. “A suitor you wish to beguile? A fair maiden you wish to remove from his eye?” Her gaze drops down, and then darts back up again.

“Or perhaps an unseen consequence?”

Your throat tightens.

“No, I—my dreams.” You say. “I dream the most terrible things, and I—I want you to take them away.”

The stone stops.

“Come here, child. Into the light.” The Witch holds out her hand, beckoning you forward. “And take down that stupid hood, you’re not hiding from anyone here.” She clucks her tongue at you as you approach, fingering the edge of your hood reluctantly. She already knows who you are—though you are not quite sure how she knows. With one hand, she reaches for your face. You do not flinch away from her—you do not fear her, though perhaps if you were smarter, you suppose you would. Her touch is gentle as she tilts your chin up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

The fire crackles in the hearth, louder for the silence.

“And what do you dream?”

“I see…” You swallow. “I see dead things.” She peers into your eyes, her pupils wide. “I see my father.” You tremble as she steps away, your mouth suddenly dry. “These dreams, these-these nightmares, you can stop them, can you not? You can—”

“I’ll not hear more about what I can and cannot do from the maid in the high castle,” she snaps. “And they are not dreams, though you walk through them in yours.” With her other hand, she reaches beneath her collar, producing a thin leather cord. There are all manner of things tied to it—feathers, beads, and small, clean animal skills that shine dimly in the firelight. There is a long black needle there, too, hanging by its’ eye.

“There is a spirit tethered to you.” She turns your hand over, stroking her fingers over the lines in your palm. She snaps her fingers, motioning for you to give her your other hand. “By great sorrow—” The Witch squints, bringing your hands closer to her face. “Or rage.” She drops your left hand, holding onto your right. “I can no more remove it than I could your shadow.”

“Tethered?” You repeat. “These are—they are dreams, they are not real—” You sputter in protest, but the Witch merely looks at you, orange firelight dancing in her dark eyes.

“If they are only dreams, why do you fear them so?” You cannot answer. “They are messages. You should be grateful for them, there are few feats quite as great as bridging the divide between us and those who have gone before, Little Queen. Your father cannot watch over you forever.”

“I am a Princess.” The Witch smiles.

“Is that right?” She grasps your hand, gripping your index finger hard and watching as the tip reddens. You flinch as she pinches the needle between two thin fingers. “Come now, Sweet. Mustn’t be afeared of a little pain.” She jabs it into the meat of your finger, and you yelp, tugging uselessly at your hand, but her grip is iron.

“Ouch!” With a twist of her hand she swipes the fat drop of blood from your fingertip and flicks it into the fireplace. It does not fizzle out, but instead lands on the topmost log, bubbling until it turns black. It smells like ozone—not copper. You do not know why, but you tremble a the sight of it. You have come here to have something taken away, but as you watch your blood crack and burn, you feel as if perhaps something is being given instead.

“What does this mean?” You turn to her. The Witch rubs your blood between her fingers, sniffing the residue for a moment before wiping them clean on a rag. She does not answer you right away, staring thoughtfully at the thin line of black smoke curling from the fireplace.

“Please, I—”

“It means, Princess, that we are kin, you and I.” She tilts your chin back as you stare at her, wide eyed. She runs the tips of her fingers over the narrow curve of your left ear—not pointed, not like hers, but… You push her away before you can stop yourself, clutching at your chest with your other hand as if to calm your racing heart.

“This cannot be true, it—it cannot!”

“Less than half,” she continues as if your sputtered refusal had never been spoken at all. “Less elf blood in you than I could hold in my hand, but aye, kin we are, still.” The Witch looks you up and down, and this time, there is pity in her gaze. “I cannot take your dreams.” Cold spreads through your trembling limbs. “You must release them yourself.”

“Release them? How?” She cups your face, and the movement of her thumb over the swell of your cheek is almost affectionate, though the words she speaks next send a cold chill down your spine.

“No fear, Little Princess. No fear.” For a moment, you swear her eyes go gold, and Geralt’s voice echoes again in the space between you. Before the Witch can say more, you quickly dig the gold out of your pocket, tossing the coins down onto the table as you flee. You do not register her cries to stop, to wait as you barrel through the door, throwing it shut behind you.

It is raining again, hard sheets of cold water pouring down from the dark, angry sky. You can hear the sea raging against the docks, water crashing in thunderous waves up against the harbor’s weathered stone. Your head is spinning, full to bursting. You are elf-kin—perhaps? Maybe?

Your mother had never seen fit to mention that minor detail—and for that matter, neither had your father. You tug your hood up roughly over your head and turn your face down, away from the cold rain pelting against your skin. Had he even known?

Would he have even wanted to?

Perhaps I can just ask him myself.

The thought makes you shiver, wrapping your cloak tighter around your shoulders. I can no more remove it than I could your shadow. You do not know which is worse—having left your father behind alone in the dirt, or the restless specter of him living in your dreams. Your finger aches from the point of the dock witch’s iron needle, and you clutch your hand to your chest as you make your way back towards the White Keep. Above you, a white hot arc of lightning splits the sky, throwing up stark shadows against the row of dark houses.

It is by that grace alone that you see the man.

You stop short, your heart leaping into your throat. He stands in the shadows beneath the sagging eaves, his stony face surprised as your eyes meet. He steps forward with a heavy sigh, a gloved hand resting on the hilt of the sword at his hip.

“Highness.” Your throat tightens, and you take a cautious step back as he comes into the meagre light offered by the street lantern above you. “Please don’t make this difficult.” His cloak is drawn over his chest, but you can see the shape of the armor underneath, jet black.

Nilfgaardian.

You turn—and run straight into a hard, armored chest.

“Good evening, Your Highness.” Duke Emhyr’s long fingers dig hard into your shoulders, hard enough to bruise. His black hair is slick with rain. He was waiting here… waiting for me. “I shall have to inform Lady Kassandra of your whereabouts,” he sneers. “She seems to think you are asleep in your bed.” You lift your heel and grind it hard into the top of his foot, and the Duke curses, his grip loosening. You pull away, but he manages to catch the edge of your cloak, pulling hard until you fall backwards.

The impact knocks the wind out of you, leaving you gasping and dizzy, staring up at the dark sky.

“We did not get to finish our little chat, in the garden.” He says, squatting down over you as you struggle up to your knees on the wet street. “I think we should do that now, Princess.”

Your heart pounds heavily against your ribcage as you stagger to your feet.

“No.”

“It is not a request.” He motions to the guard behind you, and he grabs you as you struggle, wrenching your arms behind you.

“Filthy witch,” he hisses, and you flinch. “You and your whore mother.”

“Gavin, your manners.” He tuts mockingly. “I would be honored, Majesty, if you would accompany me for tea.” You stare at him in silence, the rain soaking through your cloak. “If you would, Ser Gavin.” He forces you forward, and you stumble.

“It is late for tea, Lord Emhyr,” you snap, dragging your feet against the paving stones. “Perhaps a discussion with Her Majesty herself—” Ser Gavin grunts with irritation at your resistance and shoves you, hard. You stumble as the Duke makes an angry noise deep in his throat.

“I’ve little stomach for lies.”

A cold shiver winds its way up your back. You hear the threat though the words remain unspoken. The streets are deserted, and you cannot tell if it is the weather or the hour. Behind you, clears his throat.

“Here, my Lord.”

The faded, splintering sign hanging above the door reads Madam’s Tea House, though by the riotous noise coming from inside, you suspect they serve a few things little stronger than tea. Ser Gavin places a rough hand on the back of your head, forcing it down as he steers you through the doorway. Your stomach drops as your eyes adjust to the dim lighting.

The air stinks of ale, sweaty skin and something more pungent and sour that you cannot identify. There are people everywhere, draped across tables, lounging on pillows and pinned against walls in various states of undress. Your throat goes dry, at the sight of the bare-breasted women sprawled over the tables, their dresses rucked up around their waists. A woman with white painted cheeks and cherry red lips steps quickly out of the way as you are shuffled through, her eyes lowered and lips pressed into a thin line. You understand their choice of venue now—

No one will even remember you were here— and no one will remember when you are not.

As if sensing your rising panic, Ser Gavin’s hand tightens on the scruff of your neck, and with the other hand, he grasps your shoulder. On the raised dais in the center of the dim room, a woman twists lithely, scarves gripped in each of her dainty hands. Gold rings dangle from her bared nipples, matching the one in her nose. Your eyes meet and for a single moment, for a single step, she falters.

The crowd at her feet turns on her in an instant, jeering and spitting. The same men who had watched her dance with silent awe now mock her openly, insults dripping from their lips along with stray drops of ale.

“Let’s get a new girl up here. One who can remember her bloody steps!” There is no end to the praises of men when one is perfect—nor an end to their venom when you are not. The truth of it is as plain as the room Duke Emhyr and Ser Gavin force you into. There is a bed with a bare, stained mattress upon its dilapidated frame, and a wooden chair stands between it and the weak fire in the hearth.

“Sit.” Emhyr instructs you with a bored gesture, and when you do not comply, Ser Gavin squeezes your shoulder hard until you gasp from the pain of it. You lower yourself reluctantly to the chair as the Duke watches, and you get the feeling that he enjoys it, watching you be forced to heel. If not my mother, then me. Through the silence, you can hear the muted noise of the brothel outside. As uncomfortable as it is for you, you hope it is doubly so for them.

The Duke stares at you, his eyes narrowed.

“You wouldn’t see it, not at first,” he says. The disgust drips from every syllable, like he is speaking of something unsavory. “The way you favor them.”

Your heart pounds even as you feign ignorance, schooling your features into shocked offense at his words. He cannot know that this is the second time you have heard them this evening, that you are already itching to get to a mirror to confirm these revelations for yourself, because you do not even know if they are true. The memory of black blood curdling in the hearth is enough to set the uncertainty in your lead filled stomach rolling.

“I know not of what you speak, my Lord.” The words feel fragile, like they are made of glass. “There—there is still time to let this be nothing but an unpleasant misunderstanding—”

The duke stands in front of the hearth, his hand resting on the mantle. The curve of his back speaks to his weariness, and you wonder if he has been looking for you all night.

“You and your whore mother have upset the order of things quite a bit, here. Whatever other things you may be, you are not unintelligent enough not to have seen so.” He turns, the fire reddening his cheeks and setting the whit es of his beady eyes ablaze. “Two seasons of talk and courtships undone in a month—and for a woman who is too old to bear a new heir.”

“His Majesty has an heir,” you remind him. “Or have you forgotten? If you disagree with your king’s decision, you are more than welcome to challenge it before the court a second time, though Their Majesties might not be so prone to leniency given the circumstance.” His jaw tics at the reminder of his position—and yours—but the sly upturn at the corners of his mouth do not disappear.

“So the Witch does inspire loyalty in you.” He squats in front of you. “Do you know what we do to witches, in the North?” He asks, fingering the dagger at his belt. “Father Wolf is the devourer of all things. Even savages.”

“Ever since I stepped from boat to shore I have heard that word, and I cannot help but wonder,” the words pour through the gaps in your gritted teeth, and you hope he chokes on the broken glass of them—“if you have ever uttered them looking in a mirror.”

He raises his hand, as if to backhand you across your face, and you duck down hunching your shoulders to prepare for the blow. It does not land, however, and when you look cautiously up at the duke, he is staring behind you, locked above your head. There is a fourth presence in the room now, one you feel pricking at the back of your neck.

“No, no, continue.” The drawl that fills the empty room is both shocking and achingly familiar. “I would see the treason with my own eyes.” Geralt stands in the doorway, filling it to the brim with the width of his shoulders. Water drips from his sodden silver hair, though he makes no move to push it back from his face. His hand rests openly upon the sword hanging at his hip.

“That way it passes fewer lips on its way to the king.”

Duke Emhyr’s eyes go wide, and then angry.

“I protect the crown, and you call it treason,” slowly,—almost regretfully —the duke lowers his hand. “Can you not see? Can you not see how they twist—” Geralt turns his gaze to you, and somehow his golden eyes seem darker. Harder.

He came for me.

Ser Gavin fingers the pommel of his sword nervously, playing at the thought of unsheathing it, but too craven to commit. Still, he stands between you and the prince, and does not move. The duke’s rambling of treason and bewitchery continues behind you, rising to a fever pitch as you approach the door. Briefly as you turn, you see him, his face red and lips flecked with frothy spittle as he flings a long, accusing finger towards you.

“They will poison this empire, it’s people! You cannot allow them to sit the throne, it is treason to do it knowingly, you must act!” The fire burns bright in his wide eyes, and you see reflected in them the same vicious zealotry that burned in Father Rame’s. “That which is rooted in rotten soil cannot grow! I will not stand idle while we are destroyed from within.”

In the spaces between his words you can see the calculation. He’s chosen death, you realize. You taste it in the air before he speaks, the power of his decision already shaping the world around it, like chaos—but not the kind they shunned. It tastes like the air inside the chapel; the still, thick air, perfumed so that the smell of his body would not leak further than a few feet beyond his corpse.

“You know the truth of what I speak, Majesty, you must see that His Highness is not himself! He pants after the elf-bitch, like a man possessed! It is unnatural, you must—you must see it!”

Geralt’s mouth creases with anger. “I see your distrust in your King has bred treasonous discontent. I see your desire to rise above your station would have you slavering after my father’s throne like the dog you are.” He steps into the room then, and you watch as the Duke’s hand closes about the grip of the dagger strapped to his waist. “Your dedication to this fiction will cost you.”

You had not been able to see Geralt’s other hand, positioned behind him, his arm taut as though he were dragging something heavy. He steps aside, and your heart leaps into your throat as you see why—

A dead Nilfgaardian soldier lies behind him, dark liquid pooling thickly underneath his armor. The duke sees it too, his body tensing.

“If you will not serve your people, if your father will not protect them, what choice have you left me?” The duke murmurs, the words underscored by the quiet ring of steel as he unsheathes his blade. You jump up, knocking the chair over in your haste to get away from him. You trip over your skirts, stumbling forward as Ser Gavin grabs for you, his hand knotting in your cloak.

“You will let her go.” Geralt delivers the instructions as truth—no ultimatums.

“Oh, aye,” Emhyr, nods, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. “On that we agree.” You expect him to lunge for the prince, to hear the sharp clash of steel on steel, but you do not. Instead, his face fills your vision. “You may go wherever you wish, now, Lady.”

You taste death on his words and in the air, and when he steps away, his hands are empty. There is a strange coldness in your belly, and slowly, your hand drifts up to investigate. The leather grip of the dagger is warm, but the steel is cold, so cold you can feel it all the way inside. It’s strange, the way it doesn’t hurt, the way the blood does not feel hot on your trembling hands but cold—

The death Emhyr had chosen was neither his own, nor Geralt’s—but yours.

Dimly, you are aware of Geralt, of your body tucked tightly against his, the sound of steel on steel, the feel of cold rain on your face. Weakly, you lift a hand to your belly, your fingers slipping on the handle. Geralts hand closes over yours.

“You must leave it, Doe, you must. I know it hurts.” It doesn’t. You want to tell him, but you cannot find the will to move your lips. You feel your grip slacken on his cloak, your fingers releasing themselves without your permission as your vision tunnels. Geralt tells you not to close your eyes, and the words echo far off in the encroaching dark.

I have to, you think that perhaps the words escape your slack lips in a low mumble, but you cannot be sure.

Just for a little while.

to be continued…

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stararch4ngelqueen · 8 months

Text

Like a Horror Movie

A minor Zombie Ghost drabble to christen this account 💀🧟‍♂️✨

Heavily based off that one quote I saw where someone said Zombie Ghost broke his own jaw so he wouldn’t hurt you. 🙃

—

Is that…?

Your own thoughts grew nearly impossible to register over the chaotic rumbling of helicopter blades nearly half a mile away waiting for you.

“Keep running!” You heard a man’s shouting far ahead of you, or behind you, his accent grown heavier from such amplified, horrified distress in a race against time to outrun the dead.

Where it would take you, you didn’t know, but above ground was safer than the badlands below your aching feet.

The cold rain didn’t help, you weren’t sure why. It mingled with the sweat on your skin, tasting like cloyed gasoline on your tongue as it drooped along your lips. You didn’t want to run, but you had to. Evac had been waiting for you, in a helicopter at the end of the field.

Darkness invaded the night, the moon herself shielding her own eyes with dense, tearful clouds, diluting spilled blood and gasoline down along the earth.

You heard the shouting amidst all the gunfire. The gangrenous stench permeating the darkened fields, the flattened weeds under your boots from endless running.

You didn’t want to run anymore, the distress of your windpipes burning with each breath of air. All the bullets you wasted on reckless gunfire towards the mindless corpses that chased after you like relentless athletes had long since vanished.

You couldn’t stop, you knew that. One goal was on your mind as you continued along, pushing your limits to fight, to survive.

You could only imagine a haven on the other side of this, waiting for you with open, protective arms, promising a safe life that consisted of late mornings waking up to tired, dreary multicolored eyes, as the life you once had burned bright behind you.

You could’ve sworn you had an extra magazine on yourself, a strange attempt to grasp hold of it left you gasping and turning around, instantly failing your mission once you saw a tall, hulking beast coming to an abrupt halt at least eight feet away.

Is that him…? You recognized that uniform, sleeves torn from pitiful attempts to block the bloodied, infected flanges that scratched against his skin before sinking their teeth in.

But, the mask.

It had to be him, the meat on his body still clung to his bones, the decaying process too early still to peel the skin off his face.

“Lass! The fuck are you doing?! Hurry!!” Your partner called to you, the only other survivor from your once strong bodied team.

It was him. There was no one else you knew that was like him.

But, why was he here?? He was supposed to have secured this evac sight. He was supposed to be waiting for you, with a rifle in hand and an outstretched palm, lifting you up onto the platform towards that shimmering haven you desired.

The picturesque of such a high hoped eternity vanished like the snuff of a candle light within a canopy.

The watercolor that made up his eyes had long since washed off its leather canvas, replaced by two pearls without their iridescent sheen, measly shielded by dark, heavy lids.

Oh, Simon.

The way he stared you down wasn’t like that of an undead beast, like in the movies. He didn’t groan, or growl or grunt. As in life, his syllables were silenced by choice, giving him an etch of humanity based off your memory of his personality.

Did you fight? Of course you did. You’d never go down that easily.

But you knew better than to believe he was still alive. Like a stalking beast preparing to pounce, a killer always waits, preparing to pounce at just the right chance.

You weren’t unsuspecting, but waiting. Your heart ringing in your ears, your tears indistinguishable from this odd, putrid acid rain.

You were waiting, because you couldn’t go on. Not like this. You couldn’t see yourself rushing towards that helicopter, towards a dark, dreary existence, towards a life that meant living in dreadful solitude.

Did you scream out? What did you yell? Where did they bite you first?

You simply dropped your pistol, your rifle hanging carelessly by your side. An open target with blinking red lights and white flags, one that even the undead variant of the man you loved wasn’t stupid enough to resist.

Did it hurt? What did you think last? I’m sorry, I wasn’t there to protect you, or stopped you. Stopped you from reaching this point.

But, where did he come from? Why did he chase you all the way here? Or was he waiting for you? Could he tell, or was did this disease render him absolutely starved?

You didn’t need to scream it, you just needed to stand and wait, unable to fight the flinch of his body bursting from his spot, thick mud sloshing under his boots as he ran towards his prize.

When his unlatched, severed jaw failed to make its mark, it didn’t matter. This undead version of the soldier you loved wasn’t the man you knew, yet his ever strong determination remained.

You would’ve closed your eyes, should’ve even, but you couldn’t. Despite your hard flinch, you refused to let your last memory be of darkness as hot, heavy top teeth attempted to sever the sinews of your neck. Humid, heavy fermented breath and blood dampened the fabric fabric protecting your clavicle once his head drops lower, the straps of your helmet proving too pitiful to protect you much longer.

Even in death, he would find a way to kill you. He could break open your rib cage to feast at your quick beating heart inside, and you’d let him, dying while knowing he held onto your heart one last time.

His hands grasped hold of your shoulders, his heavy, dead weight forcing you off your feet in seconds, your tense body preparing to meet the cold, muddy ground.

The world went quiet, the screaming of your teammate ceased, your eyes merely catching a glimpse of the stars peeking through the crying heavens as your lover prepares to eat you whole.

The warmth of cotton sheets remained ever so soothing against the skin along your bare back, a hint of detergent making a pitiful note in the layer of expensive cologne.

An expensive brand you had bought him for his birthday.

Your eyes opened to promptly gaze into the darkness of the night, greeted with muffled breeze beating along your bedroom windows.

“Simon—?” Your croaked, emotional tone rasped out into the warm, stuffy ambiance, your aware self processing the emotions your dream state simply refused.

Warm arms reinforced their hold along your waist underneath cashmere blankets, tattooed skin nestled snug against your back. Usually, you’d hear his patterned breathing as during rare chances you had woken up while he slept, but this time, he merely waited.

Maybe you mumbled words in your sleep, or swatted your hand along his side, something to have roused him from his slumber.

Click. The warmth of a bedside lamplight vanished the darkness blanketing the room, the solidarity of each of your senses pointing out where you were.

Simple, minimalist decorated walls. A rich, dark red throw blanket you recalled wrapping yourself in while on the couch during movie night now sprawled over the corner of your bed.

The very same blanket Simon wrapped you in before carrying you off to sleep, temporarily embracing you in an exotic cocoon as your mind processed which dream you were to have.

“I’m here, love,” his voice rasps against your neck, the bridge of his nose brushing against your lower left clavicle.

Your head turned just enough to meet his gaze as his rose, greeted with the warmth of his tired, half asleep face, his hair slightly rustled after a minor process of anxious, short sleep.

The lamp ignited the warmth in his ever so exhausted eyes. Tiger’s eyes hues submerged in the deep blue waters of Alaska, heavy lids shadowed over with visible concern for your cold sweat riddled distress.

Warm blood pulsing through his heart, urging his cells to maintain the tone of his skin, the hint of pink in his cheeks, the hues of fool’s gold that made up the palate of his irises reflecting off the warm light.

His eyes flicker along the details of your face, as if instantly suspecting something. His hand makes a gentle effort to cup along the outskirt of your bare thigh, his heavy palm settling around your waist.

“Don’t tell me you had a damn nightmare already,” he mutters against your hair, practically able to hear the hitch in your breath after such an unsettling silence.

“Let me guess. The Walking Dead?”

“Nuh uh.” You mumble, silently thankful for the sound of his beating heart close to your ear, a smile tickling your face. “Shaun of the Dead.”

“Christ’s sake,” he grunts out, adjusting the position of his head, settling his cheek along your skull. The upside over movie streaming, he can tell if you’re lying about it in the morning on your watch history.

He didn’t ask what you dreamt of, not yet at least. He didn’t want to know, not unless you offered, or he was cruel enough to pry. For now, Simon wondered what that dream would’ve meant, if it contained the undead.

He thought for a while, wondering if you found yourself dreaming you were bit by a zombie. What an impossible image for him to come by.

Your hair smelled of honey and oat, your skin kissed with warm sugar from your lotion, and a faint butteriness from your homemade dark chocolate drizzled popcorn you made for horror movie night.

No, you were too sweet to be considered sickly deceased in such a crude manner. Him, however?

No, no he began to suspect, but those were thoughts he refused to ponder.

“Only one week in, an’ you’ve lost it. Don’t plan to watch anything with zombies for next weekend.”

“What about… Friday the 13th?”

“Pick something else in the morning, go back to sleep princess.”

Y’know how you’re trying to sleep and you wake up after feeling like falling? Imagine that. That’s what happened.

Idk how to write zombies, so this is all I got 🧍🏽‍♀️📱

#simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #cod #cod modern warfare ii #cod zombies #call of duty x reader #ghost x reader #ghost cod #simon Riley zombie #ghost zombie #zombie ghost #his jaw wiggles #until his jaw falls off #until it’s jaw dropping to the floor #until it pops back on like a Lego piece #until it falls into the river in Lego City

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clockwayswrites · 1 year

Text

Hollowing Bones Prequel Bit

Aka: Danny is not a necromancer, he swears.

The small skull clattered as it tumbled across the scattering of stone. The toe of his boot must have caught it as he walked through the secluded jungle. The rest of the skeleton, long decayed of any flesh, half peaked out of mud.

Danny crouched, cradling the skull in his hand. It was so small in the curl his palm, nestled there as it stared up at him with hollow eyes.

It watched him.

Danny scoffed, closing his fingers over the skull. ‘Necromancer’ they called him, spat at him. Usually the word came with color additions and none of them favorable. Sometimes, sometimes, it was Psychopomp or Speaker instead. But if he pissed other occult people off (which, to be fair, he did a lot), it was ‘evil necromancer’. It made Danny want to crush the tiny skull cradled in his hand.

He wouldn’t, of course he wouldn’t. It was this little one’s fault. He twisted towards the rest of the skeleton, brushing away the leaves and muck. It was a lizard of some sort— gecko maybe? It was hardly longer than his hand, tail and all.

Gently, Danny placed the skull back down in it’s resting place.

He couldn’t actually be a necromancer, could he? Sure, death magic sung at his fingertips He could feel it even now, humming under the skin and scars and tattoos of his left hand. His fingers twitched and green shimmered between the digits like a hand held aurora.

He could try.

He’d know if he tried. He’d know what he really was now.

(How much of a monster he’d become.)

Danny tilted his head, listening for any sounds of people around. Not that there would be. Danny came here specifically to get away from people. He may have not had Constantine’s talent with portals, but with enough time to set up, he could go anywhere in the world. (Just not back to where he really wanted to be.)

Bird songs and wind rustled leaves were all that answered him.

The tiny skull stared up at him from the rich brown earth.

It was easy to imagine the life the little lizard must have had, here in the jungle that was teaming with life. He could picture the lizard— gecko. Bright green like the others Danny had spotted on his walk. He could picture it scurrying up the side of trees and hiding under leaves. They would have stalk bugs and beetles slowly and carefully with their tiny blue feet. They would have drank from water pooled in a leaf as the world around them was dripped in rain. They would have feasted on fallen, fermented fruit on the forest floor.

They would have lived.

A gasp— soft, fragile, full of life— spilled from Danny’s lips as a sensation ripped down his arm. He doubled over at it, bending just enough that his fingers and the auroras that clung to the tips brushed over the tiny skull.

Danny came too staring up at a forest canopy lit golden with sunset. Everything hurt. Pinpricks of pain shot down his arm, along his Lichtenberg scars. Something was crawling on his left hand.

Slowly, hesitantly, Danny raised his arm.

Laying over it was the gecko skeleton.

The little skull tilted— looked at him with eyes that weren’t there.

The skull was moving all on it’s own.

Danny giggled, a small, hysterics tinged laugh.

Guess they were right.

He was a necromancer.

Well, fuck.

____

AN: Since you all had such a positive reaction to the post about Squiggles, meet the (re)birth of the little dear!

Danny is having a real time of it.

This is a bit of a prequel for Hollowing Bones (snippet 1 and snippet 2), so part of the Salt in the Bones AU that @mokulule and I are doing together. Or the "Danny is totally not a necromancer, back off Constantine" AU. (Endgame dead on main.) This was supposed to be part of a fic about Danny's tattoos, but Squiggles might get their own little fic at this rate to explain where they came from!

Tag list ye be warned, this is one I'll be sharing bits of entirely out of order as I'm just working on it around other stuff. LBFD and Shadow of a Bat are still priority. And Specter of Starlight will prob come before this series too- at least befor the Big Part. If that might bother you/you want to read it in order and want off the list or on the tag list when it goes love in ao3, just let me know!

#dp x dc #danny fenton #salt in the bones #squiggles the undead gecko #little living bones

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ask-lawrenceoleander · 2 months

Text

WARNING

18+, Necrophilia, Dead Body, NSFW, Non Con.

PLEASE take these warnings seriously. Im not putting them here for no reason.

This took so long to write :'3

//A few nights had passed after Lawrence's last little 'incident'. His hand was still fucked up but at least it was healing. He was able to actually use it now and move his fingers slightly. Right now he was out. He was able to slip out quietly and not be seen by anyone as he made his way towards the forest near the small city he lived in. A small black backpack rested on his shoulders, whatever inside making small clinking noises each time he walked going into the forest. It was quiet. Only the faint sound of leaves crunching and small animal noises could be heard. Lawrence didnt even seem to be worried about any wildlife that may be watching him. As he traversed through the forest he finally made his way to a clearing. Tall grass filled the small open area. Fireflies flew around, making small hums as they passed by Lawrence's ear. It was peaceful. The moonlight lit the area as it seemed to be the only thing Lawrenced used for light. He looked around for a moment before pulling the packpack off his shoulders and letting it fall to the ground. A small zip could be heard as Lawrence opens the bag, grabbing what looked like pieces of a tactical shovel and pulling it out. He pulled out each piece before screwing them in one by one to form a full sized shovel. The head was a bit small but it would do. He stands, glancing around once more before looking down into the tall grass. It went up to his knees. He walked forward a bit, almost like he was searching for something. It wasnt until he found a small patch of grass shorter then the rest he stopped. Lawrence stepped on the ground slightly. It was softer then the rest. Then with a swift motion, he raises his shovel and slams it down into the ground. The sound of popping from the grass roots could be heard as lawrence began digging up the small area. The ground beneath him seemed very...loose. Almost like this wasnt the first time it was dug up. He slams the shovel down over and over, making the small hole bigger and bigger. It wasnt until a loud crunching sound could be heard he stopped. He looked down, lifting the shovel up slowly and painting slightly. The shovel falls to the ground making a small tink. Lawrence grabs his shirt and wipes his face before kneeling down at the hole and using his hands to seemingly dig up the rest. Dirt covered his bandaged knuckles and dug under his nails. After a bit he stopped and looked down..staring at the prize that awaited him underneath the earth. Displayed infront of him was what looked like a dead body. It wasnt even recognizable. The flesh decaying around the bone and skin eaten by bugs. The smell of rot was potent. Lawrence didnt seem to mind though. Instantly he reached his hand down, continuing to pant from his work as he caressed the rotten face infront of him// "d-did you miss me?..." //he says. Was he...talking to it? He continues// "i know its been awhile..i thought i saw someone watching me last time so i had to wait a bit.." //a small smile seemed to form on his tired looking face// "it looks like you changed a little...but your still beatiful dont worry." //he says, continuing to caress the rot and bone infront of him before pulling his hand lower to the chest of the body. Ripped cloths lucky covered it. He looked away, almost blushing as he continued to smile// "i-i thought maybe..we could hang out a little yknow...get..to know each other better..." //he was talking to this thing like it was a living..breathing person...

Lawrence went quiet for a moment before biting his lip and looking back down at the rotted body. He pulled his hand away, glancing around himself once more before looking back. He leaned down slowly, his breath fogging slightly from the cold air around him. He held himself up on the edges of the hole before leaning down towards the rotted skull. He stopped just infront of the face. Or what was left of it. Lawrence eyed it a little before mumbling// "your so beatiful..." //he says as he leans down a little further and closes his eyes before planting a small kiss on the teeth of the skull. His lips dirtied slightly from the unclean teeth. He stops for a moment only to lean forward once again and planting one more kiss on the rotted teeth before leaning up. He began breathing heavily. Lawrence pulled his arm up and used the end of his sleeve to wipe his dirty lips. He couldn't help himself. It was so tempting..

As he stared down at the body infront of him he could help but feel..turned on. He pulled his hand down to his sweatpants, gently palming himself infront of the body as he whispers// "i-i hope you d-dont mind..." //he says, rubbing himself to the display infront of him. It was horrible. It was disgusting. But he continued. He was hard in seconds, a blush covering his face and heat filling his body. He bit his lip slightly and made soft sounds from rubbing himself. He was..really getting off to this. Lawrence tilted his head to the side slightly before stopping his soft motions over his clothed cock.// f-fuck.. //He mumbles. Slowly he pulled his hand up a little more, his fingertips just barely going under his waistband before going further down.

Snap.

Lawrences head jerks to the side as his eyes widen. His hand was pulled out of his pants as he looks directly in the direction of the twig snap and stares into it for a few moments. He stayed to long. Quickly Lawrence gets to his feet and grabs the shovel from before. He begins reburying the body without a second thought. His heart was racing. Every so often he would glance back at the direction of the twig snap in fear of something being there. He takes no time covering the body once again. He stomps the rest of the dirt into the ground a bit before throwing some of the taller grass onto it. He practically ran back towards his bag, dismantling the shovel in the process before grabbing the bag and throwing the dirty metal pieces into it. Lawrence glanced back at the direction of the snap before throwing the bag over his shoulders and beginning to run out of the forest. His heart felt like it was pounding out his chest. Hopefully whatever made that sound was just an animal..//

#lawrence oleander #btd #boyfriend to death #btd 2 #btd lawrence #boyfriend to death 2 #btd roleplay

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guacamoleroll · 10 months

Text

𝖘𝖈𝖆𝖗𝖘 𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖌𝖔𝖑𝖉𝖊𝖓 𝖌𝖑𝖔𝖜 「𝔣𝔶𝔬𝔡𝔬𝔯 𝔡𝔬𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔢𝔳𝔰𝔨𝔶」 ༉‧₊˚

this is a sequel! read the first part here.

content. f!reader. anxiety, child abuse, childhood trauma, grief/mourning, grounding techniques, implied/referenced sexual assault (not to the reader), loss of parent(s), misogyny, panic attacks, protective fyodor, unhealthy coping mechanisms, implied/referenced vomiting. not proofread. 10k+ words.

author's note. this will likely be posted around episode six's release (praying for my meursault frames, please bones). this will also be my last post before i move to college! i won't be posting for at least a week, unless i make some queued content. so see you guys soon, and enjoy this sequel (and wish me luck)!

would you like to see more? join the taglist or comment under this post!

𝖌𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖋 /ˈgrēf / ━━━ the anguish experienced after significant loss, usually the death of a beloved person (American Psychological Association).

synopsis. for many, grief can last a lifetime. (name) has been in a fluctuating state of mourning for her entire life, lamenting the loss of a life that she never was able to cherish. and after years of suppressing emotions and turmoil, it's time to finally face it head-on.

Headquarters was buried deep underground, a system of stone and concrete halls crisscrossed and hid the mysteries behind the organization far under the Earth’s surface—so far down that most of the lackeys never scaled the entire base. They traversed the corridors, fulfilling their duties with a sense of unease, aware that a single misstep could end with them becoming one of those hidden secrets. A particular few, considered the strongest and smartest of the Rats, were huddled together for a meeting in a small room to discuss their next mission. And at the head of the table was not the overlooming presence of their leader, Fyodor Dostoevsky, but of his right-hand, (Name) Yeliseyeva.

This wasn’t a common set-up for their meetings, which was made more evident by the chair that stood empty at (Name)’s side. She fiddled with the cracking leather of Fyodor’s swivel chair, humming as she tuned out her subordinates. Fyodor had placed her in charge of his usual tasks while he was away with a mission regarding the Decay of Angels, and as such, she led their meetings in his sted. It wasn’t a difficult task—there was much harder work she had to complete that didn’t require her taking on that leadership role—and she rather enjoyed the tempered atmosphere. Fyodor’s intimidating presence often left the others mute and shaken, so it was a pleasant change to hear some of them laughing amongst themselves, even if she wasn’t particularly close to any of them.

Some of them had moved on from discussing the laborious tasks they were assigned, instead focusing on optimal strategies for their next mission—so she decided to tune back in. While she was well aware that Fyodor would have the final say on these decisions, she knew it also didn’t hurt to listen to their suggestions in case someone struck gold.

“Oh, please. You wouldn’t be able to pull that one off without me. I should be the person leading that mission,” an abrasive voice bellowed from the opposite end of the table, cutting straight through another conversation. “Wouldn’t you agree, (Name)?”

“God damn it,” she thought, internally groaning.

This delightful character was a man only known to others as Solovev, and he had to be one of her least favorite subordinates. While she had a plethora of ones she disliked, he hit the top of her list—and the sole reason he was included in the meeting was because of his ability, which increased his strength tenfold. Otherwise, with an insultingly low intelligence like his, he wouldn’t even be involved with the organization.

(Name) was aware that Fyodor often hired cruel and selfish people to become subordinates—they were the most gullible people in their joint opinion and also the ones that truly deserved to be manipulated—but that didn’t mean she enjoyed the process of interacting with them. And it didn’t help that this man, unlike most subordinates, was very vocal about his disdain for her position—though he kept those thoughts to himself whenever Fyodor was here. However, when he wasn’t, Solovev made it his personal mission to one-up her with every chance he had. His insults and snide remarks had never worked, regardless, because, in his pride, his goal to annoy her became obvious.

“Hey, Kuznetsov!” he called across the table, trying to grab the attention of a subordinate who only huffed at him in response. There was a dark gleam in his eyes, which put every nerve of (Name)’s body on edge. “You remember that last lady we dealt with on that mission to the outskirts of Suribachi City, right? Remember what I did to her? What a beauty!”

But sometimes, there were moments when he successfully got under her skin.

With a barrage of lewd hand gestures, he explained in grotesque detail how he made the last moments of this woman’s life both miserable and humiliating. Each description made (Name) nauseous, simultaneously empathetic, and disgusted by the graphic nature of the encounter. Opposing organizations of the Rats often declared that they didn’t have morals, but she knew that wasn’t true—it was disgusting pigs like Solovev that were the real monsters. Neither she nor Fyodor liked the suffering of others unless they deserved it, only finding ironic enjoyment in the pain, but people like Solovev just enjoyed taking advantage of the weak. They revel in power, driven by lust and greed, as they take whatever they want.

But (Name) and Fyodor knew what it was like to suffer. To be taken advantage of.

Bang!

She froze as a fist slammed against the table, shaking the contents on top of it and startling everyone else. It began to splinter, and the subordinates scrambled to clean the messes of coffee and crumbled papers, but (Name) could only stare at Solovev’s hand.

"Ты маленькая сучка! Ты должен был сгореть вместе с ней!"

Her hands trembled as she hunched over in her seat, shielding her grim expression as she attempted to shuffle through her thoughts and memories rationally. She closed her eyes, breathing slowly as she fought back the instinctual tears that begged to surface. And with a vengeance, she shot a glare at Solovev, who sat self-satisfied in his chair. “This meeting is adjourned. You have your assignments for the next mission, and there will be no alterations. If you are caught doing anything less or more than you are supposed to, you will be dealt with. Understand?”

Solovev only gave her a mocking smirk. “Ah, sorry, (Name). I do tend to get a bit carried away with the details. I’ll make sure to keep those stories from reaching your delicate ears.”

She practically rattled in her chair, striking him with a look that could kill. Without thinking, she stormed over to his seat, grabbing the now-startled man by the collar. “The next time you open your mouth to speak to me that way, I’ll castrate you and shove your dilapidated cock down your throat! It shouldn’t be hard for you to swallow. Now out.”

He snarled with rage at the insult, especially since it came from a woman, but he somehow managed to maintain his temper as he took a cursory glance around at his co-workers. The misogynistic prick may not have been intimidated by her, but he knew with the tension in the room, it would be better to swallow his pride—because none of them were stupid enough to forget one thing. Most of the subordinates were not loyal to Fyodor in the slightest—other than brainwashed ones like Goncharov—but none of them would stand by if someone, even one of their own, tried to hurt (Name). The last thing any of them wanted was to piss off their boss by being bystanders in an assault, regardless of (Name)’s capability to defend herself. Solovev eyeballed the others as they ascended from their seats, each examining his next moves.

The chauvinist huffed, slamming his chair into the table before stomping out the door. The other subordinates soon followed suit, though some glanced back apprehensively at their superior. And then she was left entirely alone. She thought that the tension in her body would leave after Solovev was gone, that the room would stop spinning and she would stop sweating so much, but—

“Вам повезло видеть солнце каждое утро!”

She couldn’t help the way her body lurched, running into the adjacent bathroom to pour her guts out. Each limb shook beneath her, throaty sobs escaping her throat between heaves as her mind continued to spiral. Everything was too hot, but her skin was cool to the touch. She was dizzy, and her head hurt, and she was sweaty, and—someone lifted her hair from her face.

Shit.

There was almost no one that she wanted to see in that state, neither Fyodor nor one of her subordinates. However, the hands that caressed her back, so comfortable with touching her, alluded that it definitely was not a member of the Rats. For a moment, she wished she could think clearly again, but a cheerful voice broke through her haze of self-pity.

“My, my!” Nikolai exclaimed. If she wasn’t preoccupied, she would’ve found more humor in his enthusiasm. She had indeed gotten lucky—the jester was strangely the best person she could’ve asked for. “Seems I’ve arrived just in time.”

She leaned back against the bathroom wall, panting as she looked at Nikolai through tear-stained lashes. “Hey, Коля. Sorry for my current appearance.”

“No problem at all, dear!” He smiled brightly, squatting down on his knees to face her eye-to-eye. “Your beloved Nikolai is here to rescue you from your bout of tummy troubles.”

She smiled at the scatterbrained musings of the jester, watching him rant and rave over a variety of barely related topics before he zeroed back in on her.

“Hmm, did you have something bad for lunch? Something icky? Or maybe…” he trailed off, eyeing her with an owlish expression as he leaned in very close to her stomach. She bent her neck awkwardly to look at him with a raised brow, watching him analyze her abdomen before his grin widened. “…perhaps you’re carrying an adoring little addition to this world. Dostoy would be so pleased!”

It took her a beat to realize what he was implying, eyes bugging out as she quickly retorted to him with a shout. “I-I’m not pregnant!”

“Awwww, that’s so sad,” Nikolai pouted. “And here I was, excited to be an uncle.”

He giggled, covering his winding smirk with a gloved hand. “I can already just imagine Dostoy as a father.”

(Name) paused, stilling her racing thoughts as she rushed to erase the hundreds of images from her mind. Nikolai chortled at her rapidly shifting irises but spared her the embarrassment of commenting on her obviousness. She groaned, sullen, as she massaged the bridge of her nose.

“What are you doing here, anyway?”

He halted, the gears in his mind turning, before shuffling through his overcoat, cheering with an aha as he found the object he was searching for. He flicked his wrist, and a small knife settled in his gloved hand, which was decorated with puffy stickers and colorful doodles. “I wanted to drop off a little present.

He tossed it into her hand. “I know you ‘lost’ your last one.”

"Thanks, Коля." The stickers forged a pattern of grooves that made it easier to hold onto, and she couldn't help the puff of laughter that slipped between her lips at the bizarre phrases written across doodles. She could even spot badly drawn versions of herself in there, along with Fyodor, Sigma, and the white-haired jester himself. It rolled around through her fingers, rocking in a repetitive motion that soothed her mind into a fog, resurfacing those same thoughts from before—

"Look what I can do!" Nikolai had snatched the knife out of her hands, launching it bottom-side up into the air before fanning out his overcoat to swallow it during descent. (Name) tilted her head, searching the room to find where it would reappear.

You could never know with Nikolai.

“Fucking hell!” a familiar, muffled voice screamed from down the hall. “There’s a knife in my ass!”

She gaped in disbelief, then practically threw herself onto the floor in hysterics. Tears rushed down her cheeks as she hollered, savoring the distraction from her disturbing reminiscence as she relished in the chorus of yells and guffaws echoing from outside the bathroom. Nikolai analyzed her with a slight frown; his face contorted in contemplation.

"Do I need to tell Dostoy to give you some time off?" he pouted, his bottom lip quivering in a dramatic, sorrowful facade. "Perhaps we could go diving off the Tojinbo Cliffs—or even better! Free falling!"

"I'll be fine." She quickly brushed him off, and for just a moment—and a moment was all he needed—he saw a shift in her face, a dread that hadn't been there before. "I must have some kind of stomach bug."

A trace of desperation appeared in the creases of her face. "Could you not tell Fyodor about this? I don't want him to be concerned with anything while he's on a mission."

"Sure! Pinky promise." He lifted her up by the arm, lips curling into a soft smile as he wrapped his finger around hers with a tap, holding it tight for a second. And then it was back to his usual antics, starting a discussion about his latest adventures as he escorted her out the door—his fingers crossed behind his back.

(Name) was ensconced in her office chair, thrumming her fingers against the desk's surface as she stared at the clock. In truth, she could've done anything else with her time. She had already wrapped up her weekly responsibilities, having completed them with proficiency due to their repetitive nature; however, it seemed that the lag of the week had taken a toll on her cheerless mind.

“Никогда не повышай на меня тон!”

She would do anything to distance herself from the persistent flood of memories that threatened to break down the mental dam she spent years constructing—even her paperwork. And a familiar date on the calendar loomed ahead, gawking at her with an irritating tenacity. She could never find the strength to celebrate it, despite her wishes to do so, only acknowledging it with brief, melancholic glimpses into the past.

So instead, she preoccupied herself with sorting through every nook and cranny of her office—not a corner went untouched. The room was usually what she had lovingly referred to as an "organized mess," where everything was cluttered but had a place in her mind. But her nerves forced her to be on her feet, shuffling around as she planned where to move this-and-that. She mostly found herself organizing her bookshelves over and over and over again—by book color, book height, author's last name, author's first name, book title, etc. It was during the sixth instant of taking the books off that she started to realize she was going mad, but there was nothing she could do, so she continued with her arrangements.

And she just knew that her appearance looked as awful as her mind, hair jostled like a bird's nest, and deep bags formed underneath her eyes. She hadn't slept more than three hours in the past week, her brain haunted by memories every evening. Each time she shut her eyes, even for a momentary reprieve, she found herself shrunken in a familiar study, the stench of cigars burning her nostrils.

She shivered, ceaselessly sorting through the books for the seventh time, her eyes unable to leave the cover of a familiar poetry anthology—her mother's. It was likely something her mother was gifted before she had started to work at the Yeliseyev manor. Most of the staff she was raised around had only one prized possession to their person—mostly clothing or photographs, but her mother had been an outlier with her book. An “outlier” was the term that was always associated with her mother, and it seemed with her absence, she had passed the title onto (Name). She often wondered if they were truly alike—many maids and servants told her so. But she knew that she would never truly know. The dead cannot speak.

But instead of skimming the book, her expression alight at the enchantment of a romanticized world, she found herself unable to bear the sight of it any longer. It had become too much of a reminder, outlining the canyon that loss had created in her heart—but perhaps it was not her loss to grieve. Her mother had to have had a family, at least at some point. Family was a concept that (Name) had never understood, and she believed she never would. She only had a few infantile glances at the kindhearted young woman. God, she was so young—(Name) knew she had to be older than her now. The gentle thrum of her voice still remained like ringing bells in the forefront of her mind, making her eyes water with each sweet syllable.

Knock. Knock.

The door to her office, which had rusted with time and moisture, creaked open. (Name) wiped her eyes, continuing to arrange the book in her arms as she didn't bother to turn around. It was probably one of her subordinates wanting her opinion or interference in a situation, so they could wait.

"I'll be one moment," she called with a dismissive hand, waving the person away. Their expression cocked in mirth, the patter of boot-clad footsteps and the swish of a thick coat accompanying their path as they slinked in behind her.

“Мышь.”

She stopped, her body unable to move or comprehend the word—more specifically, the speaker. It couldn't be him. He never gave her incorrect dates. His mission was supposed to last for another two days. She turned, not able to hide her surprise. “Федечка…”

Fyodor was already able to detect several abnormalities the moment he passed the door's threshold, alarms pealing inside his head as he took an inquisitory scan of the room. First, (Name) wasn't playing music—she hated the silence and constantly had something on in the background; said it helped her concentrate. Second, she didn't look happy to see him, which didn't help appease his unease. Her tone wasn't mad or irritated in the slightest, but he could see how lethargic her body had become since he last saw her. She was always elated whenever he returned, and this was the only time he had ever returned early. It made him wonder if she had hid this appearance from him every time he left.

However, the most conspicuous distinction that had set him on edge was, ironically, her organizing. He understood, better than anyone, that she hardly ever organized—he had even suggested it on numerous occasions, but he wasn't too bothered as long as her mess didn't spread to his space—let alone sort through everything within a seven-foot radius. It truly miffed him; he never thought that he would be befuddled by a collection of color-coordinated paperwork and alphabetically assorted books, but here he stood. And it had only cemented the corners Nikolai had surreptitiously brought up in their earlier conversation.

He had been in the midst of perusing through an agglomeration of reports from missions that pertained to a certain agency in the DOA's meeting room, which was established inside the Sky Casino. It had made it easier to communicate with each other while simultaneously allowing the members to keep an eye on the ever-so-antsy Sigma.

"Hey, Dostoy!" a shrill voice yelled from behind the door, practically busting it down with an impressive strike of the foot. It wobbled wearily, indented from the jester's previous assaults. He started on a tangent, ranging from his breakfast to the strange looks he had received from strangers on the street. Fyodor entertained him for a moment but knew that he needed to finish these reports if he didn't want their plans to be postponed, so he partially blocked the jester out.

He only tuned back in when his ears picked up one line about a particular person. "…and I was wondering if I could take (Name) out on a spa day."

Fyodor glanced up from his screen for a moment, raising a brow. "A spa day?" Then he huffed. "She wouldn't like that. Take her on a picnic instead."

He returned his eyes to the unremarkable words on his screen, accustomed to Nikolai's random suggestions. The jester seemed to enjoy spending time with his vice commander whenever he became disinterested in him or Sigma, and while he preferred that Nikolai occupied himself and stop distracting (Name) from her tasks, he wasn't especially bothered by their friendship. He had picked up on one oddity in Nikolai's behavior, though—he never asked Fyodor for permission to take (Name) places.

"I thought a spa day would be nice," Nikolai pouted, though he soon grinned at the morsel of fondness laced in Fyodor's silvery tone, concurrently realizing that he had grabbed his attention through his unusual suggestion. "You know, since she has become so busy with work."

The echoes of typing ceased.

"Yeliseyeva is competent. There is no reason for her to be overwhelmed," Fyodor declared with a thin layer of conviction, but he could easily see that this conversation had turned into a game — tug-of-war with bits of information, and he was on the losing side. It had become obvious that Nikolai had a camouflaged motive behind his implications, but he didn't know what. And he didn’t like it.

Nikolai sighed. "How else would you explain her frazzled appearance?" Fyodor had entirely halted his attention to his work, his thumb finding a place worn between his teeth as he found himself grasping for the answer. He hadn't assigned her much clerical paperwork, intentionally unburdening her obligations in preparation for her temporary leadership role at the base of operations. And it was not as if he hadn't left her in charge before; however, if a situation arose while he was absent, and she refrained from reporting it because of her distaste of internal turmoil, then he knew that he would have to be the one to step in.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers before he slammed the computer shut. Nikolai nodded at him as Fyodor strode towards the door, a calculated expression on the white-haired man's face.

"I will take care of it." And the door flung shut behind him. Nikolai slumped back in his chair, limp as a noodle as a self-congratulatory smirk unfurled on his lips, staring into the clouds that drifted into the floating building. "To be two birds in love, hmmm."

Fyodor was thankful that he had departed from the casino early — he feared that if he had remained away on that mission for much longer, he would've found nothing of her former self left. Throughout the years, he had seen small sprouts of this behavior on occasion. Mannerisms rooted in a past he didn't dare to explore, unease leading to over-correcting and excessive diligence — but it had never been so bad. Anxiety radiated off her tense body in waves.

The illogical, irrational side of him—one that he had long boxed away like a memoir of the past—pushed him to question her directly, to find the source of her pain as fast as possible, but his mind won over his heart. He knew that interrogating her would only drive her away, so he settled with following the conversation like normal.

He smiled tenderly. "It seems that I've returned early."

Her stupefied expression vanished, replaced with shaken lips as she attempted to hide the results of her breakdown with nimble fingers tapping against the books. "It seems that you have. How was the mission?"

"It went perfectly," he proclaimed, tone filled with humility despite the way he held his head high. Her eyes creased, ever-so enthralled in his antics—he could be so childish whenever it was just the two of them. "Everything is prepared for the next phase of the plan."

He smirked, slipping off his ushanka and setting it on a hook near the door. "However, that next step will not happen for another week." Her eyes sparkled at the underlying message, knowing breaks for either of them were both scarce and fleeting. "If you would allow it, I'd like to take a read of your collection. I've skimmed mine cover to cover multiple times, and I know you have excellent taste."

She stood to the side, allowing him to view her half-organized shelf while her hands caressed the spines with care. "Feel free." A puff of laughter escaped her lips, and she turned on her heels with a playful glint in her eyes. "Perhaps I'll borrow some of yours, too—if you'll allow it."

He chuckled, a shiver trailing her spine at his low tone. “Of course, любимая.”

His hand hovered over hers—

“Ты дышишь только потому, что я позволяю тебе это делать!”

She pulled in a tense breath, a horrid shudder making her hands tremble as she recoiled. His cool fingers contrasted with singed skin, the unexpected intensity sending her stomach into a tizzy. Fyodor removed his hand; his brows knitted as he allowed her a moment to collect herself.

"Is everything okay, любимая?"

She nodded her head, frozen in a perplexed scramble of thoughts, before she whipped back around to the shelf. He didn't need to know the reason she had become so frightened—his hand had come so close to it, too close. It burned, etched into her skin, and throbbed whenever she thought about it too much. She couldn't let anything, anyone touch it—she pulled at her sleeves.

"No, no. It's nothing."

Her eyes scrutinized the shelf, grabbing a couple of the books. "Take these." She shoved them into his arms but trembled once her fingers made contact with his skin. "I'll come find you after I place these other ones back."

He peered between her and the books that had been thrust into his arms, an atypical dumbstruck expression on his face before he snapped out of his stupor. "Have you received that vinyl yet?"

She halted, having already started to reorganize the books for the eighth time, and stared at him. It took her a moment to even process his question, scanning the room as she jumbled to remember what exactly he was referring to.

"The one you ordered from Italy?" he pressed, tone strained.

A vague memory came to mind. "Oh." She had received it a couple of days before but had lacked any motivation to listen to it. It had bugged her a lot since she had been awaiting its arrival for months—but she knew there would be plenty of time to play it later. The vinyl had remained in its sleeve, collecting dust as it leaned haphazardly against her bedstand. "That one. Yes, I have."

He shook his head, a crinkle in his eyes as he placed the books back down on her desk. "I'm assuming from your expression you haven't listened to it, no?"

"No, I haven't."

"Well, then." He strode toward the door, pushing it open as he turned his head to make eye contact with her. "Let's go."

She cocked her head, pursing her lips. "Go where?"

He raised a brow, a strange level of impatient desperation in his tone. "To listen to it, dear."

She stood still before rapidly gesturing to the cluttered shelves. "But my books—!"

"Will be there when we return," he interrupted, silencing her poor excuses with a lift of his hand. With a turn on his heel, he sauntered down the hall like a soldier on a mission. "Come along."

"Wait! Федя, I—damn it!" she grumbled, rushing after him.

Her bedroom had been located in a farther corner of the organization's base, both close enough to the center to keep her in the loop but far enough away to settle herself from the rest of the subordinates. And she loved her room—it was spacious and decorated to the brim with memorabilia and knick-knacks. However, she found herself flustered the moment Fyodor opened the door. It was a mess—her covers were unmade, her clothes were scattered across furniture and piled high in drawers, and her books were either knocked over or stacked tall on the floor. She quickly kicked a stray bra underneath her bed when he wasn't looking.

Fyodor made his way to the record player, a smirk on his lips, and he pretended not to watch her frantically trying to hide her clutter—that was the (Name) he was familiar with. His hand scraped across the player's plastic top, a fond glint in his eye. He had given it to her as a present when they left Moscow, wrapped in the finest bow he could afford at the time. Her eyes had shone with delight, and she had kept it in mint condition ever since. He lifted the top up; brow furrowed into a frown as he blew away the dust that had collected inside.

He scoured the shelves, only to find that each item was more unused and dirty than its predecessor. It was only as he took a step forward, wanting to have a closer look, that his boot thumped against a thin cardboard box, which fell to the floor with a thunk. He slipped it out of the package, relieved to see the vinyl wasn't scratched, before settling it on the platter and angling the tonearm.

(Name) had sat on her bed, eyeing him as she attempted to settle and breathe. It was only when the record started to play that she felt her body subconsciously relax beneath her, lying down on the bed. Fyodor remained on the floor next to her feet; his head leaned back as he let the mellow hum of strings and decadent swallows of brass lull him into a state of ease. And it was as if they had traveled to Moscow one more time; the snow settled between their fingers as the sun kissed their skin. It was just the two of them, as it should be. And then the fourth track crackled to life.

She was in Moscow again, but he wasn't with her. But she wasn't afraid, not here. The melody played through the form of a delicate hum, bright and cheerful the warblers that sat on the sill of her window, and her blurred vision watched as her reflection—no, her mother—swayed around the room. And those eyes, oh, she would never forget them for as long as she lived. Those eyes that glimmered in the dying light with such tenderness and love as the sun settled on the pair. But those eyes could burn, they could fear and cower, they could—

"Do you ever regret being born?"

The tranquility that had enraptured them, comforting and bittersweet, stilled. Each note of the record crescendoed and accelerated, crackling in the air with electrifying chords. She could feel it, barely, as tears burned her eyes, falling down her cheeks like a silent procession.

“Любимая…” He had crept onto the bed the moment she opened her mouth, scrutinizing her with calculated consideration. Her eyes were far, far away—each element of her sleeplessness adding to a sensation of antiquity. It was like she had been dehumanized, her soul leaking out with her tears as she was replaced with a porcelain doll—lifeless and unmoving. He hesitated—he hated that she made him do that—before setting his hand next to hers. “Why would you ask such a question?”

The question broke her out of her stupor, panic instantly registering as she realized the words that had tumbled out of her mouth. She knocked him out of the way, turning off the record. “I-I need to finish organizing." She ran to the door, covering a hoarse cough as she wiped her tears. "Those books—I need to organize—"

“(Name).”

He blocked her path, snatching her wrist—pain. Fuck, the flash of heat returned with a vengeance, searing her skin. She jolted at his touch, smacking the back of her head against the door. A groan fled from her lips, knees shaking before she dropped to the ground. Hard. Her head throbbed, unsteadily held in her hands as her limbs rattled. It hurt. The room spun. Where was she? Her wrists thumped with pain that synchronized with her pulse—make the pain stop.

Please.

An estate stood on the edge of Moscow, like a guardian to the glorious city. Centuries-old bricks of decadent limestone stacked on top of each other to create its looming silhouette, and a garden caught its shadow. She often found herself meandering its pathways, staring in awe at the gargoyles and grotesques that were engraved at the edges of dormers. Chatter would be heard from the entry of the estate, clusters of women bruiting about the latest affair or calumny. She’d find her ears burning if she remained in the ire of them for too long, their voices slipping into hushed whispers as they gawked at her with abhorrence. Her hands would drift across marble banisters, lifting the sticky remnants of polish between her fingers. Velvet carpets deafened her footsteps and aided her incumbent silence as she traversed the halls. The stench of smoke burned her nostrils, candles lit in their sconces—her father preferred to use arduous methods of lighting to maintain tradition. That word was muttered by the man so often she wondered if he had ever known a different one.

Her room had been situated on the eastern side of the manor down a narrow hall that was never used, with the intention to place her away from guests and servants. To many, the isolation would have been tormentous, but to her, the stillness nurtured security from the newsmongers of daylight. It was a refurbished laundry room, though refurbished would be an embellishment. The defunct tile floor remained with rust in its crevices, and the dampened walls developed mold from the humid air, but she preferred it that way. No longer would she need to concern herself with ears hearkening her every breath. In this room alone, she was allowed to exist as everything she was and forget about everything she wasn’t.

Brrrrring…

An ancient call bell had been fasted above the door to her room, vibrating with sound from the tug of a string located in a far-away study. Her father’s study. She prayed that it would one day crack, and she could remain in her silence once more, but the stubborn thing rang on. Her hands clammed with sweat at the sound, wide eyes ogling the golden glow bouncing from its metallic surface. She would have frozen in her place if it wasn’t for her innate survival instincts. It was imperative that she followed its corresponding command—come see me.

Her fist wrapped against the door to the study, three knocks on the polished upper panel. And then she waited, the atmosphere thick with the scent of fermented tobacco and cheap perfume. She hated the way it clung to her clothes.

“Войдите,” a low voice called from the other side of the doors.

She pried them open, wincing at the boisterous groan that reverberated into the hall, indicating her presence to the members of staff who looked on, weary. An opulent chandelier was the first thing to catch her eyes, the collection of Swarovski crystals scattering light across bookshelves piled with old documents and philosophical texts. And there stood him—her father, Ivan Pavlovich Yeliseyev. His shape changed depending on the memory. Sometimes he was drawn with softened strokes and bright silky fabrics; in others, he was illustrated with sharpened features and deep winter colors.

She curtseyed, keeping her head low. "Good evening, отец."

"(Name)." She took his pause as a sign, raising her head to watch his back. He was silent, adjusting his cufflinks as he gazed at the garden below the gargantuan bay window.

"I heard you were talking to our gardener. Mr. Volkov?" he inquired, a lilt in his tone that showed he knew far more than he revealed.

"Yes, sir."

He clicked his teeth. "About what?"

Her mind raced to remember the conversation she had with the older gentleman hours before, knowing each second her father did not receive an answer would only make him more agitated. "I asked him about the flowers they're growing this season."

"Did you only ask him about flowers, dear?" he queried, raising a brow as he finally turned to lock eyes with his daughter, eyeing her appearance by scanning her up and down.

She bowed her head. "No, sir."

"Oh, at least you're honest." He let out a huff of smoke, stamping out a cigar onto the carpet. "And for your honesty, I'll let you choose."

He didn’t need to show her what she was choosing; she already knew—because there was something amongst the overflowing bookshelves that felt out of place to those who entered the room. An enormous wardrobe settled between two shelves, its lacquered exterior contrasting with the worn wood surrounding it. She didn’t hesitate to open its door. She couldn’t hesitate. Her arm outstretched, still too short to reach without a struggle, and she pulled out a wide-leather belt with her trembling fingers. And her father finally moved from his spot, taking the belt from her open hand and gesturing towards his desk.

She knew what to do.

Look ahead. Always look ahead unless ordered otherwise. Never disobey a direct order. Count each breath. Do not stutter. Do not whimper. He will start over. Think ahead. Do not daydream. He will start over. Wrists are placed firmly against the edge of the desk. Never move them. He will start over. Sleeves are rolled up. Do not roll them down. He will start over.

"What is rule number one?" he began, striking the belt down against her wrist. She resisted the urge to flinch, focusing on the question. He always asked the same series of questions, and she could always provide the same answers to satisfy him. That routine almost became comforting, a predictability that was her one solace whenever she entered this room.

"Don't talk to staff unnecessarily."

"Number two?" He struck her wrist again. It sparked with pain.

"Don’t ask questions that shouldn’t be asked."

"Number three?" Another strike. Her arms began to throb.

"Do everything to protect the honor of this family."

"Good," he nodded to himself before striking the belt down on her wrists one last time. "And number four?"

"Don’t think you’re more than you are."

"And what are you?" He didn't explicitly say it, but to him, this was the most important question of all. He always leaned into her face as she gave her answer, eyes daring her to declare anything different. But, like always, the answer remained the same.

"I am nothing."

"Good, good. Very good, dear," he smiled, his threatening expression softening as he cupped her cheek with calloused hands. She wished that he wouldn't do this, wouldn't pretend to care. That he would stop playing games with her heart—because she knew that he was a liar, but she leaned into his hand anyway, desperate for touch.

"If only you would listen more," he sighed, and she almost chased his hand as he moved it away from her face. He circled the study for a moment, taking in the unchanging sight of his books and knickknacks before his pacing stilled, an idea sparking. He looked back at her, lips curled as he vainly tried to cover his insidious thoughts. "You will not leave this estate for a month."

She gasped, and her mouth moved before she could think. "What! No!"

His eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

She shrunk back as he rushed towards him. "I-I'm sorry!-"

"You disrespectful brat!" He slapped her, striking her with enough force to make her crash to the floor—hard. With his standing position, he ground his boot into her leg, watching her choke on her words. "Don’t ever raise your voice at me!"

She shrieked as he pulled her by the ends of her hair, forcing her to meet eye-to-eye with him. "You are just some whore’s daughter! You are the dirt underneath my feet, and you will do as I say!"

"I’m sorry! Please, I’m sorry!" she cried.

"Silence!"

“No, no. П-Пожа́луйста, бо́г, нет,” she whimpered, curling into herself with each kick. The torment was relentless, sparks of pain traveling up her spine as she reached defeatedly for anything to stop it. Her fingertips began to turn frigid, shaking. At first, she thought the blood circulation in her hands had been cut off, but the sensation in her fingers wasn’t numbing. It was cold.

It was an object, a smooth object that cooled her singed skin, droplets leaking through the fabric of her sleeves and relieving her wounds. She grabbed it with a firmer hand, and it took a moment for her to recognize it. It was a water bottle—her water bottle. She had one that she placed on the bedside table of her room, a room that didn’t smell of mold and isolation. This room had been covered in bargain-bin books and cheap photographs, but they were far more valuable than some old records or decaying statues. And that was because she loved them. That man didn’t love anything. And she was no longer his to torment.

“Я здесь, моя милая. Я здесь с тобой.”

She huffed wetly, overwhelming relief filling her chest at the sound of Fyodor’s silvery voice—the same voice that had become her salvation as they survived side-by-side in Moscow, shivering together from their matching wounds.

He didn't understand—a rare and unwelcome experience for him, especially when it came to her. They had known each other for so many years, with so many memories shared between them. But despite their long companionship, they had yet to discuss those deep personal questions that most asked. It had become a silent understanding—the past was too painful to talk about, and it didn't matter to them anyhow.

But the past resurfaces to those who run from it with a vengeance.

He knew, despite some initial dread, that her panic had nothing to do with his ability. Fear of his touch was normal for others, but she had always been a dauntless one. She would place her life in his hands without a second thought, faithful he would care for it without any true reassurance—she just believed in him.

"Свои рождение было благословением, моя дорогая," he spoke, voice low as he searched her eyes, reading her features to find the slightest hint towards the source of her torment. "Сожалеть о своем рождении означало бы бросить вызов Его воле."

His sincerity only made her shiver, wiping the tears from her eyes. "But it can’t be. Not when it cost another life in return…"

"…life?" he pressed, his eyes narrowing as he inched closer.

She froze. It would be strange for anyone to admit such a deep and long-hidden secret, let alone for either of them to acknowledge that there was one between them. They had tacked the lives they had lived before their fateful encounter as inconsequential, even if it spoke volumes through their habits and customs. He ignored that she carefully eyed her surroundings before speaking to anyone, and she ignored that he spread his meals until he couldn't afford to. Those things didn't matter—the mutual silence had been enough.

But it could no longer remain that way.

She thumbed with his fingers, her voice hoarse. "…my mother…"

“Yes…” his eyes became distant, memories resurfacing. “I remember her.”

Because of his status, he didn't have many encounters with the Yeliseyev family, though the few glimpses he did have stood out. His prominent memory of (Name)'s mother was her shoulders—as strange as that sounded. They were always swathed with decadent jewels, and on the off-chance they weren't, they were covered in luxurious furs. The woman seemed to have disembarked from a démodé soirée clad in gowns that had gone out of fashion centuries ago. He remembered the sound of her shrill voice, declaring that she was a direct descendant of the House of Württemberg—most alleged she was a distant cousin at best. In honesty, he believed she was terribly gaudy, flaunting wealth that held no everlasting value.

This was in extreme contrast to her was her own daughter, (Name), who wore simple a-line dresses with plain laced boots. No one would’ve been able to tell she was an aristocrat if not for the delicate laces her clothes were made of. It was like they purposefully dressed her to blend in with the shadows, which harmonized with her timid mannerisms when they were children. He used to hear the whispers of the congregation and clergy, babbling about the young girl and her unorthodox decorum—and for months, he didn’t know who they were referring to.

However, the moment she crawled onto his window dormer, he knew it had to be her—but she was nothing like the rumors said. They had made her out to be an imp, a mischievous child who only brought despair to those who surrounded her. But those people were fools. When they first met, she looked upon him with world-weary eyes, ones that gazed at him without contempt but with awe.

“Pretty,” she had mumbled.

He had never been caught so off-guard by a single word before, and his initial impulse to ask her to leave vanished. Instead, he asked her to join him in his sanctuary and, in doing so, found the one person who would ever understand him.

“…that woman was not my real mother,” she snarled, shattering his reminiscence as she squeezed his hands. Her stepmother had been such a thoughtless woman, solely focused on preening herself in every reflective surface or scolding (Name) whenever she eyed her for an extended period of time. But her gritted teeth loosened, making way for a melancholic smile that held a lifetime of sorrow. “My real mother was a simple maid, a young one that my father had his eyes on.”

He stilled at her words, immediately picking up on her insinuation, but a question remained in his eyes. “...милая, where is your mother?”

“As I grew older, business partners began to question my legitimacy. Rumors constantly circulated about which housemaid I looked most like.” She swallowed harshly, looking away. “And one day, my father—no. That monster had heard enough. He became dead-set on extinguishing those rumors.”

“And so he did…” she trailed off, the next words remaining on the tip of her tongue as her jaw weighed down like it was imbued with lead. That sensation of pressure on her chest returned, heart hammering in her ribcage, but he held her hands tight. She was in Japan with Fyodor and not in Russia with her father. And looking into those eyes, which were filled with so much concern, she knew she had to tell him. “Along with my mother. He rid the world of those rumors and of her—permanently.”

For years, (Name) was told that outwardly expressing her grief would make it dissipate, that her tears would run dry, and she would be left content and full. But that wasn’t reality. A couple of harsh, grounding words from her lips wouldn’t make decades of heartache wash away but instead made it feel all too real. She knew that she was always, and would always be connected to her birth mother—that before Fyodor, her mother was the only person to love her so selflessly. And for the crime of nurturing a child with unconditional devotion, no matter their status, she was snuffed out as the cigar sparks under the sole of that monster’s boot. Nothing but a memory.

Fyodor had remained silent, contemplative as he traced the creases of her hands. He wasn’t shocked by this tale of cruelty; he had become quite familiar with the scandals of aristocratic families from the rumors that were circled by servants in the slums. What he was truly bewildered by was the fact that he had never looked into (Name)’s family in the first place. It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about it; he had wanted to investigate many times. But a rare feeling for him, guilt, stopped him. If it were anyone else, he would’ve prodded through their history without a second thought—but not her. Because he just knew, he knew that the moment he found out, it would instill in him feelings that he was too afraid to address. He wasn’t supposed to be attached to anyone, but she always broke through his walls.

He clasped her fingers with his own, his thumb kneading circles around her knuckles and drifting to rest along her wrist, causing her breath to hitch. Her eyes darted, and he surveyed each action of her face as she slowly looked down at the cuffs of her sleeves. Her lips pursed before she let out a tense sigh.

“He hated when I asked about her.” He glanced between her face and hands, his eyes asking for permission as he hooked his fingers on the edges of her sleeves. With no resistance to his advancements, he folded the fabric upward, revealing what she was staring at with such contempt.

And he was grateful she was too focused to look at him—that she wasn't able to see the way his jaw clenched and the way his eyes narrowed at the sight. He had seen these scars many times before, but hearing the story around them made the impressions on her skin feel so much deeper. Neither of them had revealed the secrets behind their matching markings—not because they were fearful of judgment from the other, but because they understood the necessity of leaving some things unspoken. Despite that, he couldn’t help how his muscles stiffened, fingers trailing the clusters of raised skin with such care.

The steps to his mission weren't important to him, not at this moment. He knew that, instead, he would prep his subordinates to visit a much cooler climate for their next operation—and he would only need a week to fulfill his goal. That the Yeliseyev family would be fortunate if ashes were left of them or that old estate. But those plans could wait.

“Those poems that you loved so much,” he muttered, raising her quivering hand to his lips, trailing kisses from her palm to her wrist as he held her tight. There was no need for her to explain any further. She was filled with a profound sorrow, one that he understood in such a personal and heartfelt manner. “Those were from your mother, were they not?”

Fyodor peered into her eyes, finding tear-filled ones gaping back at him. (Name) was only able to nod her head, biting at her bottom lip in order to restrain the waterworks. His expression softened, glancing at the familiar poem book that was perched on her nightstand.

“She had lovely taste. And if she was anything like you…” he raised his hand, hovering near her cheek to make sure she was comfortable. She leaned into his touch, letting out a sigh as she cupped his hand with her own. “Then I am certain she was lovely, too.”

And as the pain came crashing down with a vengeance, those tears were finally released. Her body was wracked with sobs, pressing wet kisses into his palm in the middle of shaking breaths. While it was true that words alone would never be able to sate her grief, the all-consuming understanding between the two orphans did wonders to relieve her suffering.

“Tell me, Федечка.” Her smile was small but genuine. “How did I ever become so lucky?”

He leaned in, resting his forehead against hers. “No, солнышко. I'm the lucky one."

She sniffled, closing her eyes as she could feel her heartbeat in synchrony with his. He kissed her forehead, and she melted in the way his hands—comforting and gentle, caressed her face, mapping every freckle and scar to memory.

For the remainder of the week, (Name) was placed on a mandatory, badly needed break from her standard duties. Most of it had been spent bundled up in her room, re-reading her mother's prized poetry book for the thousandth time. Her fingers skimmed the pages with practiced ease, brushing against every indent and crinkle—it was almost like her mother was with her, that recognizable sweet tune of hers narrating the lines. And when she wasn't alone, she was cozied up in Fyodor's private study, a cup of tea hoisted in one hand as she read the stanzas aloud. The light thrum of her record player accompanied her voice, emphasizing each word with expressions and gestures. It caused his normal, stoic expression to melt, and he settled back in his own chair as he relished in the entertainment.

But tonight, she dashed towards his study, book in hand. Subordinates stumbled and stared as she barreled down a few, shaking their heads and deciding not to openly question their superior's giddy behavior—that had become a standard rule at this point. She dug in her heels, almost smacking straight into the wall before she fell against it, out of breath as her limp hand knocked on the door.

"Come in," Fyodor's voice called, an unusual lilt in his tone that was barely muffled through the wall.

BANG!

The door slammed against the wall, books shuddering on their shelves as an echo reverberated against the walls. She hissed through her teeth, sliding into the room before closing the door with a small click. It was obvious that she had gotten a bit too excited, but she couldn't help it! Fyodor had such a mischievous lilt in his tone when he had called her today, and that could only mean that he had interesting news.

The aforementioned man chuckled from behind his desk. “Good evening, милая.”

"Evening—" she panted, leaning onto her knees as the adrenaline wore off. "Evening, Федя."

His lips curled into a smirk, folding his hands. “It seems you’ve enjoyed this little break.”

"Yeah, it's been great," she sighed, not bothering to conceal the popping of her stiffened joints and muscles from her hours hidden in her blankets, settling into her designated swivel chair before wheeling it over to his side of the desk. A steaming cup of tea sat still at her side, slipping down her throat with the perfect blend of bitter and sweet. She leaned back into her seat. “Mmm, delicious as always.”

Thump.

She glanced to the side while she took another sip, watching as he placed a box from beneath his desk into his lap, fingers thrumming the lid—he only did that when he was roused by a discovery. Her brow quirked, setting her cup down.

“I actually called you here for another purpose besides poetry.”

"I’m listening," she said, eyes darting to the box every so often. He lifted the lid, not allowing her to see the contents inside, before placing two books of varying size and composition on the desk near her. "I have a small gift for you."

"Books?" She stared at them, examining the torn covers that had been shredded by years of use. Most of the novels that she had received from him had been entirely new and typically in mint condition, so it was strange to be given something so worn—not that she minded; a good book is a good book. Neither of these books had titles, or rather, they did, but they had been heavily smudged to the point of being unrecognizable.

"Hmmm, something of that sort," he mused, pushing them closer to her with his fingers. She stared at the cover of the large book, the pages underneath it bulking with plastic sleeves that threatened to slip off from the sides—a photo album. Her eyes struck him suspiciously, but he only flicked at cover with his hand, an expression she could only pin as self-satisfied on his face. Grime lathered the plastic, and the photos inside were unrecognizable from the fingerprint smudges and dirt. With an impatient groan, she yanked one of the photographs out, examining it with narrowed eyes.

But her hands quaked.

Those familiar eyes stared back at her, distant. The eyes that she could never forget. She would've mistaken the person in the photograph for herself if not for the foreign background and people. It was her mother, smiling towards the camera as she clung to someone's arm. Without a second thought, (Name) began to take out more photos, creating a timeline of her mother's life through each one. Her hand brushed against some bulking ink on the back of one, turning it—Иоланта (7-years-old). Her mother's name. She had never realized it, but she didn't even know her mother's own name. She ignored the tears that splattered against the protective plastic, setting the book to the side as her hands curled under the smaller, accompanying book that had been waiting patiently for her eyes.

The pages were worn, edges shriveled by water damage, and borders pasted with decorative newspaper—the handwriting may not have been familiar to her, but the stories that coated the pages on the inside were. Not a space had been left unfilled, beautiful cursive building elaborate plots that jumped between action to romance. Each was a somewhat more mature version of childhood tales that had been whispered into her ear during the dead of night, passed between one mind to another. Her mother had been the one to open her to a world beyond reality, existing in thought and illustrated on paper. And then she remembered one line from her mother's stories—the dead may not be able to speak in their silent slumber, but they could be immortalized by the hearts that they touched and the minds that they changed. She had become so much like her mother in spite of the separate life she had led, if only because of the kindness and compassion her mother had demonstrated that stood the test of worn-down memory. In those letters, a connection was found—her heart was not filled, but she felt comfort in the space, knowing the longing was only bittersweet.

And finally, she looked up at Fyodor between her wet lashes, only to find him beholding her with such fondness, such adoration. The smallest outline of wrinkles marred the pale skin around his eyes, the corners of his lips upturned without a hint of malice or venom. In her peace, he had found his own—and maybe one day, she could talk with him about his own mother, his parents. She could be the one to care for him, to hold him tight. To remind him that she would be his sanctuary for as long as he was hers.

"I was able to locate a distant aunt of yours. She wanted you to have these." He settled the box onto the desk with a thunk, lifting the lid to show an abundance of additional albums and journals nestled between wrapping, even a few pieces of cloth peaking out from the bottom.

"You'll have a lot to go through, so—" He stilled, his heart pumping as a wail broke his train of speech, (Name) frantically rubbing her eyes as her chest began to heave in between sobs. His face tightened, abandoning the box to settle a hand on her back. “Любимая—”

The first sense he could register was smell, the scent of flowers enveloping his body, recognizing a familiar body wash. The next sense was sight, a bundle of hair blocking his vision as he thought he had momentarily suffocated. And the last was touch, a nose nuzzling in his neck, tight arms wrapping around him as if he would disappear at any minute.

“Cпасибо тебе, спасибо тебе, спасибо тебе,” she whispered weakly, practically in his lap.

His hands floated around her waist before he sighed, pulling her into his arms as he settled her fully on his lap. A finger traced her hairline, followed by scattered, drawn-out kisses that marked a path from the center of her forehead to her temple.

"There is no need to thank me, любимая моя. I am only giving you the truth you deserve."

He traced circles into her waist, embracing the feeling of her so close to him, skin-to-skin, as they held on tight. The rest of the evening was spent whispering between the flips of pages by candlelight, (Name)'s hushed voice narrating tales from her youth while Fyodor watched in amusement—perfect reflections of the people they had once been and outlines for the people they would become.

ты маленькая сучка! ты должен был сгореть вместе с ней! = you little bitch! you should have burned with her! вам повезло видеть солнце каждое утро! = you are lucky to see the sun every morning! коля = kolya никогда не повышай на меня тон! = never raise your voice at me! мышь = mouse федечка = fedechka любимая (моя) = my darling ты дышишь только потому, что я позволяю тебе это делать! = you only breathe because i allow you to! федя = fedya отец = father п-пожа́луйста, бо́г, нет = p-please, god, no. я здесь, моя милая. я здесь с тобой = i'm here with you, my dear. i'm here with you. свои рождение было благословением, моя дорогая = your birth was a blessing, my dear. сожалеть о своем рождении означало бы бросить вызов eго воле = to regret your birth would be to defy his will. милая = dear солнышко = sunshine иоланта = Iolanta спасибо тебе, спасибо тебе, спасибо тебе = thank you, thank you, thank you.

ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ: @imhandicapableofmath @seisitive @solandiss @ruru-kiss @kotysluny

#muse's anthology ‧₊˚ ⋅#f!reader #꒰ა ⎼ [fyodor]#₊˚ ★꒰ the sun and the stars #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #bsd #bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #fyodor bsd #fyodor dostoevsky #fyodor x reader #fyodor dostoevsky x reader

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she-posts-nerdy-stuff · 5 months

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Did someone say Kanej coded songs by indie artists who deserve more attention? Probably not but I’m gonna give you some anyway

I’m going to limit myself to putting one or two lyrics with each song but just know that I’m picking and choosing from loads of good options they aren’t the only lyrics that work 😁

Pray by The Amazing Devil - “God made all man in his image but honey I’m no man I’m what’s left when children go to war” “Why womanhood is more than crying I’m stronger now than you have ever known, the cracks you made I’ll fill with mortar a broken pot can still hold water”

Metaphor by The Crane Wives - “I’ve gotten good at leaning on metaphors, I’ve gotten good at living on someone else’s page, I cut my teeth on second hand sentiments, you can’t trust a single thing I say” “I keep my closet free of skeletons, ‘cause I’m much better at digging graves, but I always dig up bones in your sympathy, I can’t trust a single thing you say” (I actually have an edit to this that I haven’t posted yet so I guess let me know if anyone wants to see that)

Three Spectres by J Maya this song is the reason I started making edits - “I wonder how people can talk about the past and go to bed, the space around me feels with spectres of what I should have said. The past is a presence, the future is pretend, and the present is a pastor trying to make it all make sense. Will I ever leave this place? This world that I am trying to break? The mind is such a funny space, with these spectres centre stage”

Falling by Florence + the Machine I guess this is kinda borderline indie but I’m counting it and this is an underrated song - “I’ve fallen from favour and I’ve fallen from grace, fallen out of trees and I’ve fallen on my face, fallen out taxis, out of windows too, fell in your opinion when I fell in love with you” “sometimes I wish for falling, wish for the release, wish for falling through the air to give me some relief because falling’s not the problem when I’m falling I’m at peace, it’s only when I hit the ground it causes all the grief” the edits could’ve gone wild for this one if we had the tightrope scenes with Amita/Inej I’m so heartbroken

We Have It All by Pim Stones I have an edit to this one posted if anyone wants to see it - “the print was so small I didn’t understand, he cut out thumbs and placed a feather in our hands, told us we would see all our dreams and plans unfold” “all my life I’ve been heading for hell but never had I thought I’d drag you down as well, I just couldn’t resist what he was trying to sell” “our hearts we have sold for diamonds and gold but hey baby take a look, we have it all, and haven’t you heard? Hearts turn to dirt, along with the rest of your body it’s all claimed by the earth. It will fade and it will wither, but gold it will never, and hey baby, don’t you know? Diamonds are forever”

Run by Daughter - “if I try to get close, he’s already gone, don’t know where he’s going don’t know where he’s been but he is restless at night ‘cause he has horrible dreams” “and I won’t tell my mother, it’s better she don’t know, and he won’t tell his folks ‘cause they’re already ghosts. And we’ll just keep each other, as safe as we can, until we reach the border, until we make our plan to run” “Will you stay with me my love, for another day? ‘Cause I don’t want to be alone when I’m on this state. Will you stay with me my love, til we’re old and grey? ‘Cause I don’t want to be alone when these bones decay”

I might add more as they occur to me but I think this is the list for now, feel free to suggest more!!! ❤️

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necroromantics · 8 months

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👻 — Eyeless Jack // Alone

oct 5th writing prompt

- the summer had passed by jack like a bullet train. warm sun sitting patiently on the blue skies. it seemed to him that in one blink, it was gone.

- now the skies have greyed, days have shortened. the mighty oak trees once a vibrant hue of green now painted a burnt pallet of reds and oranges.

- the approaching dark season could be smelt in the open, cooling air. leaves wilting and making their dance to the earth, creating piles around the forest grounds.

- tonight was halloween. the holidays were an especially difficult time for the beast. it was only a painful reminder of what he once was, and all the rights of life he had lost.

- it was lonely. god, the creature was so alone. and sitting in his decaying cabin, away from the world, he laid himself back onto the tar-stained mattress and tried not to think of the hunger that scraped and clawed inside of him.

- he had heard past of some other creeps plans to go out into the nearby town to wreak havoc. for killers and criminals, they all seemed so desperate to cling on to the humanity of holidays.

- the celebration, gathering. the connection between people. the worst of the worst would band together for one night to embrace their humanity and just have fun.

- but jack wasnt human. he wasnt that lucky.

- so nights like these, when it’s nothing but a beckoning reminder. it made him feel uneasy. it made him hungry.

- his bottom lip trembled for a moment as his breathing began to shallow and lower. it was if his body was rejecting something. alone in his small, broken down cabin, he fought with himself.

- it was if his desire for what once was, was being torn to shreds within him.

- a small knock at the front door intruded his own little world for a moment as his body shot up and his ears perked, listening for any dangers.

- for just a moment there was silence, before another small knock persevered.

- cautiously, the large demon made his way to the door and peered outside.

- “trick or treat!”

- a little girl with long, thick brown hair and a 1970s pink nightgown smiled excitedly up at jack, holding out a plastic pumpkin bucket. he quickly identified her as sally williams, a child spirit who often wanders around the woods. the creature had formed something of a caretaker bond with the spirit over time.

- looking at the innocent, and determined, smile beaming from the giddy child, he nearly forgot about the tragedy etched into his bones.

- “i dont have any candy for you, sally. i didn’t expect anybody to stop by tonight.”

- the delighted grin on the little girls face softened, and furrowed into a pout.

- “oh but jack, give me something wont you? everyone has left to town, and i cant follow! youre all i have left.”

- for a moment, a sinking feeling overtook him, a close relative to the strength of guilt. he sighed in surrender and turned to scavenge for something in his kitchen to give sally for halloween. surely he must have something. he couldn’t live with himself if he disappointed her, when all she was doing was for one night, trying to reclaim her humanity.

- after a minute of going through his nearly empty cupboards, he found a can of chocolate pudding hiding away in the dark of a creaky old pantry. this’ll have to do, he thought to himself.

- jack returned to the swaying spirit, who was eagerly awaiting his return with her treat. gently placing the pudding into her bucket with his beastly claws, he smiled a toothy grin at the girl.

- sally smiled back and twirled around, her gown and hair flowing with her movement. giggling to herself, she thanked jack and made her way back into the depths of the forest.

- as he watched the ghostly girl rush away so excitedly to find her next victim of halloween tradition, the man toyed with a rather risky idea.

- maybe he wasn’t as alone as he thought he was.

#tombtober #creepypasta #creepypasta fandom #creepypasta headcanon #eyeless jack #ej #creepypasta ej #creepypasta eyeless jack #sally williams #eyeless jack headcanon

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 10 months

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The Bargain (ao3)

People whisper about the god that lives in the forest, that grants wishes to the desolate and the desperate, but when Nesta Archeron takes it upon herself to enter the forest and ask the god to save her family, she gets much more than she bargained for. (For @cassianappreciationweek day 4)

In the darkness, something cracked.

Something snapped beneath her feet, and in the thin shafts of moonlight that broke through the stretching, reaching branches of the trees overhead, she caught sight of the forest floor, littered with sticks and stones— with things that glowed white, luminescent in the dark. Things that might have been teeth, might have been bones.

A shiver crawled down her spine, a cold touch that was light and terrible and enough to make her shudder. There was another crack, another splinter in the silence, and somehow the forest seemed to grow denser, the woods pressing in on all sides. The darkness was a shroud, thick and cloying and almost impenetrable, and yet still Nesta walked— one determined foot in front of another. The branches caught on her cloak as she went, like aged and crooked fingers— snatching, grasping, hungry.

Still— she walked, her stomach aching with hunger and her bones aching with cold. In her hand she clutched her mother’s iron pendant so hard it left marks in the soft skin of her palm, its bite a reminder, a warning. She hoped it would protect her— hoped it would save her. As she took each misbegotten step, inching her way deeper and deeper into the dark swell of trees where only the truly desperate dared venture, she recited her mother’s old warnings, too.

Always wear iron, Mama had said when Nesta was young. Hang rowan by the door. Never enter into a bargain with a stranger, and remember— the fae can’t lie.

Nesta had them memorised, clung to them as animal eyes glinted at her through the trees.

She shuddered. Monsters lurked in these woods— everyone knew that.

But the baker’s boy had told her of an altar hidden deep within, where the lost go to pray. The blacksmith’s wife had been so desperate for a babe, the boy had said, that she’d made the trip in the dark, when the moon was full. She’d found the altar and laid out an offering, begged on her knees for the gods to answer her prayers. Two months later, she knew she was with child. The baker’s boy had whispered it as Nesta had pleaded with him for his last loaf of bread, bartered for it with the last coin they had. The gods live there, he’d said, handing over a small, half-burnt loaf. They take pity on those who dare to find their alter— on the cold and the desperate and the hungry.

Nesta was all of those things.

And so she walked— through a blackness so thick she stumbled over tree roots breaking through the earth, through the branches that scraped her skin and the nettles that clawed her ankles as if in warning, bitter warning— an omen, not to take another step. Through the old graveyard, past the ivy devouring old tombstones; names and dates worn to dust. Vines snagged underfoot and yet still she walked, unable to face one more sunrise in the crumbling cottage she called home— unable to sit around an empty table with her sisters and their father, with empty plates and an empty hearth. It was dangerous, to go alone into a darkened forest filled with monsters, but dangerous too, to sit at home and starve. Maybe the gods would take pity on her. Maybe they’d listen to her.

After what felt like hours of walking, finally the forest thinned.

She emerged into a clearing bathed in the white light of the moon, and in the centre stood the ruins of a temple. Cold grey stone shone almost luminous beneath the starlight, and broken arches and vaulted ceilings spoke to a lost grandeur, a beauty in decay. Still it towered above her, walls stretching skywards even as they crumbled, and as Nesta stepped over the fallen stones that littered the clearing, she found the three steps that led to the remains of a door— beneath a sweeping, curved archway that might once have been grand.

And inside…

There was an altar.

In that, at least, the stories had been true,

A great slab of whitened stone, worn smooth with age, sat in the middle of the ruin, open to the air. The roof had collapsed, leaving the temple exposed to the elements, and a fine layer of moss coated the debris that lay abandoned, almost forgotten. Only almost— because Nesta spied the offerings left, clustered at the base of that alter. Pomegranates and flower petals were left scattered, coins and jewellery and all the tokens left behind by the desolate. Nesta felt unconsciously for the bag hung over her shoulder, carrying her own meagre offerings. She’d brought some wildflowers that Elain had grown, along with one of their father’s little wooden carvings. He couldn’t make any money with his work, but perhaps the little carved bat might be enough to earn the mercy of whatever deity lived inside these woods— called this deserted temple home.

A soft breeze ran through the ruins as Nesta kneeled by that altar, and a chill ran through her as she delved into her bag and pulled out the flowers, carefully wrapped in a length of cotton she’d cut off the bottom of an old dress. The scent was sweet, and even though the stems were a little crumpled, the petals were intact, all muted pinks and purples in the low light. She breathed it in, almost saccharine in the darkness of the temple, and willed herself to think of sunlight and bright places as she pulled out the tiny wooden bat next, setting it down on the white stone of the altar steps. It was stark against it, and as another - colder, much more ominous - breeze brushed the back of her neck, Nesta swallowed. Her every nerve screeched to a half as ice clustered along her spine, freezing the air in her lungs. The silence in temple shifted, making her hair stand on end, and that breeze didn’t feel pleasant, didn’t feel natural. Still, she forced her hands to steady as she set about arranging the flowers on the altar, surrounding the little wooden bat. She kept her eyes down, but she knew, somehow, that she wasn’t alone— that someone, or something, was watching her from the shadows.

Tentatively, Nesta looked up.

Her fingers stilled over the petals, her hand trembling. Behind the altar, close to the ruined temple walls, there was a shadow. A large shadow, lurking in the dark corners the moonlight couldn’t reach— the corners the light seemed to shy away from. She heard the whisper of a breath, saw a glint of silver, and as Nesta’s heart began to race hard in her chest, the last of Elain’s flowers dropped from her fingers, lying in the dust as the shadow moved.

It was nothing but a shifting of the darkness, a movement so smooth it was imperceptible, but as Nesta fixed her eyes on that dark, dark corner…

Footsteps sounded against the stone, slow and steady and purposeful, and she caught the scent of cinnamon and leather and something… other, carried to her on that strange breeze. It was something like petrichor, like the earth after a heavy rain— something ancient, something dark, that made her think of tales and myths and legends, something that made her every hair stand on end.

Was this the deity rumoured to live in these woods?

Was he here to bless her— to grant her wish?

The shape in the darkness emerged slowly from the shadows, becoming more discernible, and still Nesta kneeled. She looked up, tried to see the god’s face, but the darkness still masked it so completely that all she could see was a broad outline. It was vaguely human— she could see two arms, two legs, but nothing else. A dark hum echoed on the stone, deep and low and entirely male, and it had something inside her coiling tight, a shiver running through her as the sound skittered across her skin. It was smooth and dark and weighted somehow, decadent, and it had her looking up, searching in vain for his face, desperate to find his eyes… but he was still cloaked by the dark, and as that hum died away, an echo fading into nothing, something stirred inside her. Some ancient instinct began to awaken, some primal sense that something was… wrong here.

He took another step, a single move that resounded on the stone.

The silence was suffocating, pressing, and still the god hid his face, lingering in the shadows until Nesta was convinced he was borne of them, at one with the dark. She couldn’t speak, the words trapped in her throat, and as her heart pounded in her chest, unease sluicing through her, the god took another deliberate step forwards, purposefully slow and almost mockingly meandering, as if he had all the time in the world.

Nesta knew then that he was toying with her— playing with her, with the fear that hammered through her veins. She thought she heard a low chuckle, but it was stolen by the wind, and as a shaft of moonlight at last touched the edges of that shadow…

A talon glinted in the silver light, right above his shoulders.

Brutally sharp, it shone like an onyx and Nesta knew, suddenly, that this wasn’t a deity at all.

He took another step forward, and Nesta could suddenly make out wings spreading behind his shoulders, as black as the night itself. The great membranous things stretched out, and the scream got caught in her throat as she blinked, her heart thundering and her breath falling short. She couldn’t move, couldn’t look away, and oh, his face. Her mouth turned dry as she watched the moonlight filter across sharp cheekbones, glinting in eyes that gleamed with menace. She took in the swell of his mouth, generous lips parting as he gave her a wicked smirk, and her skin erupted in gooseflesh, something inside her seeming to shrink, to shirk, as she felt his presence swallowing the space between them, devouring it. The air began to thrum, and Nesta’s pulse raced as warning bells begun to ring and ring and ring out in her head, clamouring and clanging through her as every single sense she had begged her to run.

“You’re not a god,” she whispered.

Her voice was a whisper in the darkness, soft on old stone. The creature took another step forward, all predatory grace and terrifying, rugged beauty, and suddenly he was close enough to reach out and touch the flowers she’d left scattered across the altar.

“No, sweetheart,” he said, in a voice so delectably smooth that Nesta could almost feel it melting into her skin. He ran one long fingertip across Elain’s petals before lifting his head. His lips curved into a menacing smirk, making her shiver as he tilted his head and added, slowly, “I’m better.”

His lips split, revealing rows of white teeth— elongated canines, so sharp they could sink through skin as easily as a hot knife through butter. He was grinning now, in a way that threatened to devour her, and though fear ran rampant through Nesta’s chest, she found herself frozen on the steps of his altar, unable to run, unable to look away.

He was beautiful.

Monstrously, terrifyingly beautiful.

“Pretty,” he murmured, dragging his thumb across the petals she’d left— but his eyes weren’t on the flowers. They were on her, on her face. His gaze dropped to her lips, hungry as that smirk continued to curve a mouth crafted of pure sin, and Nesta felt her heart kick an unsteady beat as she studied him.

Dark eyes looked back at her, reflecting the silver light of the moon. Equally dark hair hung in waves to his shoulders, framing a face so ruggedly handsome Nesta almost thought it was a pity that he lived in the woods. A scar cut through his eyebrow, but his bronze skin was otherwise smooth. She swallowed again, taking in the bulk of him, the languid spread of muscle that corded his arms, his chest. He was wearing a simple black tunic but it clung to his chest, leaving little to the imagination. He tilted his head, almost cat-like, and as his hair fell forwards, Nesta caught sight of his ears. They rose to a sharp point, small tufts of fur crowning the tips. Silver glinted there, a chain earring crossing that pointed tip, shining almost sinister in the dark. He was the most brutal and beautiful thing she’d ever seen, and as his broad hands stroked the petals of Elain’s flowers, she knew that he could break her neck in a heartbeat if he wanted.

Fae, she thought, suddenly cold all over. He’s fae.

“Tell me, love,” he purred. “What brings someone like you out into the deep, dark wood on a night like this?”

Nesta swallowed. “Isn’t this your shrine?” she asked, looking at the offerings left. The creature snorted and rounded the alter, suddenly close enough to brush her skin with one of those large hands, those fingers that might have been claws.

“No,” he answered. “But perhaps it could be.” He hummed again, low and dangerous, the sound seeming louder than it should, echoing on the expanse of empty, desecrated stone. “Perhaps it should be.”

“Why are you here then?” Nesta asked sharply, and distantly she realised it was probably incredibly stupid to be rude to a creature that could kill her with no effort at all but— she had walked for so long in the hopes that she would find a god to answer her prayers, and all she’d found was an empty sanctuary and a creature that looked like he might devour her.

The smile he gave her was cruel and cunning, chilling her blood even as his beauty threatened to steal her breath. Those wickedly sharp teeth bit down into his bottom lip as he dragged his gaze over her, assessing. His wings flared, sharp talons winking in the moonlight, and when he blinked, it was with all the practiced study of a predator sizing up its prey. She was nothing but a rabbit to this creature— a doe that had wandered too far into the dark parts of the forest.

He didn’t answer her question.

Instead, the creature plucked up the little wooden bat, stroking one long finger over its wings.

“You need something,” he observed. “Perhaps I can give it to you.”

Nesta hesitated.

It was a moment of reckless stupidity, a moment that could cost her her life— you didn’t make a deal with the fae, everybody knew that. But she was desperate, and well…

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

In the silence, she could hear the wind drifting through the ruins of the temple, whistling through crumbling arches. Her heart stuttered. She had come in the hopes of finding somebody to answer her prayers, and though this creature wasn’t at all what she’d been looking for… perhaps he would do for now.

Slowly, she asked, “what would you want in exchange?”

He dropped the bat back onto the altar, against the bed of flower petals. He waved a hand.

“Oh, nothing you won’t want to give.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” Nesta said curtly, and he laughed— so loudly the sound bounced on the cracked and broken stone.

“Well, aren’t you a fiery little thing.” He laughed again, and in a blink he had moved closer, so close that he was right beside her now, towering above where she remained on her knees. She hadn’t even seen him move, but he was there nonetheless, almost pressed against her, and before she could move away, he dropped into a crouch beside her.

“I like it,” he added in a low murmur.

Nesta felt her blood rise to her cheeks, her breathing become laboured. She should be running, should be screaming, and yet… she didn’t have it in her to rise to her feet, to draw away from the creature with the wings and sharp teeth and piercing eyes.

“I’ll give you whatever you want, princess,” he continued. “All I want from you is one word in return.”

“…A word?”

He hummed again, rising to his feet in one smooth, lethal movement. He extended a hand to bring her up too, an assortment of rings glinting on his fingers. She wondered if they had been offerings once, too. If he had plucked them from the altar as easily as he now looked to pluck her, his fingers stretching towards hers in a silent offer that Nesta knew she shouldn’t take.

She hesitated.

He grinned, teeth gleaming sharp and wicked, his hand lingering in the space between them for a moment more before—

Nesta took it.

His fingers curled around hers, her hand so small within his own. It dwarfed her, made her feel as though her life were the most fragile thing in the world, the most tremulous and brittle piece of glass. She forced herself to remain calm, steady, and his dark eyes glimmered. With mischief or something darker, she wasn’t sure.

“Just one little word,” he promised smoothly, squeezing her fingers within his palm— like he owned her already, had laid claim to a piece of her soul.

Nesta frowned. “Any word?”

He shook his head, dark hair falling over his forehead as he did. The talons at his back winked, and when he tilted his head to the side, he looked more like an animal than anything even remotely human. Like a cat, his eyes glinted in the darkness, green and gold when the moonlight touched them.

“No, sweetheart. A word of my choosing.”

“What could you possibly want with that?”

He grinned again, a smile that said he would ruin her. Trepidation crawled through her, her blood turning sluggish in her veins, and he didn’t answer her question.

Never enter into a bargain with a stranger.

Her mother’s warning rang through her, a warning bell, but Nesta shook her head and chased it away. Mama was gone— dead, long ago. Papa might as well be gone too, with all the effort he made to keep them alive, and with Feyre out hunting in the forest for their meals, there was nothing Nesta could do to make sure they didn’t have to spend one more night in that cottage. If a bargain with this creature would save them— she’d pay the price, whatever it was.

Still, she hesitated.

“You can’t lie,” she said carefully, remembering her mother’s warnings. “So tell me— is this a trick?”

The creature only smiled in the darkness, that generous mouth parting in a slash of white, wicked teeth. The fae can’t lie— she’d had it drilled into her since before she could walk. The fae can’t lie. She held onto it now, clutched it like it might keep her safe as the creature before her, this false god, looked at her with eyes that suddenly seemed… hungry.

“Can’t I?” he purred, his voice a low rumble through the night. He tilted his head, cat-eyes sparking like embers. “Tell me, sweetheart. Who’s been filling that pretty little head with such tales?”

He laughed then, and ice bloomed in her chest, spreading until every inch of her was cold. His eyes dragged over her, and she felt every place his attention lingered. Over her neck, her collarbone, down her arms until he reached her waist. Something thawed— something heated, the ice within her turning warm and curling deep in her stomach as those predatory eyes lingered, snagged at her hips.

“So you can lie?” she asked, her voice hard even as she began to feel a little breathless. He grinned again.

“Now that would be telling, wouldn’t it?”

Silence followed, where he looked at her with that predatory gaze. Nesta had always been stubborn, always been able to hold her own with her sharp tongue and sharper nature, but now she felt like little more than a mouse writhing beneath the claws of a wolf. He grinned still, revealing the teeth all too equipped to tear her apart.

But as she turned her face away, her eyes alighted on Elain’s flower petals.

“What word?” she asked.

The creature tsked, dragging a thumb across his lips as his eyes turned molten in the darkness. “Ah, ah.” He shook his head. “Not before you agree.”

“So I’m supposed to go into this blind?” Nesta asked flatly, and though wariness still cloaked her like a second skin, the fear was beginning to subside, beginning to be replaced by… something else. His teeth shone white through the black, sharp and menacing and oh, so delectably dangerous.

“Not blind,” he said with a shrug. The movement shifted the wings behind him, catching in the moonlight and reflecting silver on those sharp, sharp talons. “You know exactly what I want from you. A word.”

“But not what word.”

The beast shrugged again. “Life is full of surprises sweetheart. You can’t ever know everything. That would leave no place for…” He grinned, his eyes sparking as he looked at her like he was about to eat her alive. She felt his attention, his gaze like a physical touch he dragged languid over every single inch of her. “…Fun.”

Silence followed— one where the world seemed entirely too quiet, not even the trees rustling in the breeze, like nature itself was holding its breath, waiting to see which way she would fall. The creature in the darkness was so close— he was all she could see, all she could hear, all she could breathe, and he was like the most potent kind of poison, the most delicious. She was losing her mind, slowly falling into madness, but he smiled at her, and Nesta felt something inside her shiver, but not at all from fear this time.

“Tell me princess,” he murmured. “Are you going to take my offer, or are you going to break my heart and turn me down?”

His smile was menacing, feral. Nesta scowled.

“Do you even have a heart?”

He tipped his head forward, lips brushing her ear. “Why don’t you come closer and find out?”

Her heart stuttered, and she drew back an inch. It was impossible to come closer— he was so close to her already, she could feel his heat. But she couldn’t go back to that cottage— she couldn’t go back and watch her sister starve. She could embrace death here, in his arms, feeling its bite as he sank his claws into her skin, or she could meet her end in that cottage, slow and drawn out and aching as starvation took them all. Either way, Nesta figured, she would end up damned— so she swallowed, steeled herself, and found her resolve.

“Alright,” she said at last. “Alright.”

Cat-eyes glinted through the dark, a low hum reverberating through his chest and echoing in Nesta’s very bones as he dipped his head, the tip of his nose brushing her jaw. There was a scrape of teeth, a hand winding possessively around her waist as he stepped behind her.

“What is it that you want from me then, princess?” he asked, his mouth at her throat. “What have you come to take?”

“I don’t want my family to starve,” she began slowly, ignoring the hand that splayed over her stomach, drifting towards her hips. Beneath his teeth, her pulse fluttered. “I want my father’s lost ships to be found, with all his treasure and gold intact. I want us to be able to leave that cottage in the woods and live the way we did before, with no need to worry about where our next meal will be coming from. I want…” She paused, swallowed. “I don’t ever want to go back to that cottage again.”

She looked up over her shoulder and saw the creature grin, an almost feral look in his eyes. A hollow feeling spread in her chest, and briefly Nesta wondered if she ought to have been more careful with her wording— if she not had just unwittingly signed away her soul. She watched his wings spread behind him, so large she feared he was going to enclose her in them and suffocate her, but after a moment he closed them again, tucking them back against his spine, and when he looked at her Nesta forgot that she was supposed to be afraid.

“Done,” he purred.

Nesta blinked— as if it were that simple, all of their troubles erased, just like that. She let out a breath of relief, feeling it wash over her as she turned to face him, studying the lines of him that melted into the darkness. In her hand, she still held her mother’s pendant, the one she’d been clutching tight ever since she’d left the cottage.

“And now for my half of the bargain,” he whispered, and his voice set her on edge, made her hair stand on end. Using one broad hand, he dragged his touch across her neck, over her collarbone, claws at her neck edging pain with the most beautiful kind of pleasure. Shivers erupted in his wake as he brushed her hair back over her shoulder, baring more of her skin, and Nesta felt herself grow dizzy. She should run— should have been running ever since he’d opened his mouth and spoken, but she couldn’t move.

Didn’t want to move.

Something about him was alluring, drawing her to him, and she didn’t know if it was some spell he’d worked on her or whether it was just something about him that spoke to her— the way he looked at her like he appreciated her sharp tongue and stubborn nature.

“Just one word,” he said, his voice deep and low and seductive.

“What word?” she asked once more, tipping her head back as his thumb skated up from her collarbone and rested beneath her jaw. He smirked again, dipping his head to whisper against her skin. With warm lips he pressed a kiss to her jaw, dragging his mouth up to her ear. She shivered, and one large hand came to rest at her waist, a firm presence that held her in place. Almost unconsciously she leaned into it, her chest brushing his as he let out a low rumble of approval, of appreciation.

“Tell me your name, princess.”

“That’s what you want from me?” she asked, breathless as his hand began to skate over her hips. With those lethally sharp teeth, he nipped lightly at her ear. She let out a small whimper, but as a warmth ignited deep within, she couldn’t say for certain that it was a sound of pain rather than pleasure.

“No, that’s not the word I want,” he said idly, almost lazily, as his tongue danced across her neck. “But I’d like to have it all the same.”

And Nesta knew she should have lied, should have given him a false name, but she found herself opening her mouth as his hand went to the small of her back, pulling her more fully against him as she breathed,

“Nesta.”

“Nesta,” he repeated, his thumb rubbing circles along her spine. His other hand was still at her hip, but he grew daring, drifting lower with a touch so maddening Nesta understood, now, why there were so many warnings of the fair folk. He was going to be the death of her, and when he slowly bit down once more on the skin beneath her ear, Nesta fought back a moan, and the hand that she’d had clenched ever since she arrived suddenly slackened. The iron pendant she’d held onto like a lifeline tumbled to the ground, and against her skin she felt him smirk.

“You won’t be needing that,” he whispered.

Once more, a bolt of caution ran through her. He was fae, a monster lurking in the woods, but still Nesta didn’t leave, and as he kissed his way down her neck, his hands bunched in the fabric of her dress, she found she really didn’t want to run, as stupid and as reckless as it was. She wanted to let him carry on kissing her, wanted to find herself drunk on the pleasure he could give her, and as she tilted her head back even further, he hummed again.

“Good girl,” he said as she melted into him, the angle of her neck giving him better access as his teeth scraped across the skin at her throat.

A breathless, disbelieving laugh left her as she looked up at the sky littered with stars. Her hands came to rest on his wide chest, hard and firm beneath her fingers.

“What word?” she asked again.

He nipped at her skin once more, his hands finding the hem of her skirt and dipping beneath, fingertips ghosting over the bare skin of her legs, her thighs. She gasped.

“Yes.”

Nesta blinked, swallowed. Some of the elation, the ecstasy, dimmed as she shook her head.

“I don’t understand,” she managed, but her breathing was more laboured than ever, because she was pressed so fully against him that he engulfed her, and his hands were at her thighs, his teeth at her neck, and his wings had spread above them, blocking out the sky above.

“I’m going to ask you a question,” he said lowly, his voice almost sultry. “And you will say yes. That’s the bargain.”

Nesta blinked again, but something other than horror ran through her— in the places where fear should be, in the gaps between terror, there was something else, something distinctly different, something thrilling. Even though her stomach twisted and her heartbeat tripped, she looked up into those luminous eyes, caught sight of the talons and the wings and the lightly-furred ears, and found herself nodding.

“You said you don’t ever want to go back to that cottage. I have made it so.” He pulled back just enough so that she could see his face in the moonlight, his devastating smirk. “I will take you away from here and make you mine. Neither you nor your family will want for anything again if I take you here and now, if I claim you as mine. All you have to do is fulfil your half— let that one word fall from those pretty little lips.”

“Why?” Nesta breathed.

“Because,” he said simply. “I want to keep you.” His head dipped to her neck again, teeth grazing across her skin. “Let me have you.”

And Nesta thought of the cottage waiting for her— and the life waiting for her when the cottage was gone. She thought of the dreary life set out, winding before her, the one her mother had wanted— balls and society gatherings and polite conversation that would kill her soul long before death stopped her heart. And then she turned her attention to the monster in the dark, the stretching wings and sharp talons and pointed ears with soft patches of fur. She looked at his big hands and long fingers, almost like claws, and all of it belonging to a creature with a face so beautiful it made her heart ache.

“Let me have you,” he repeated, bringing his mouth lower.

Nesta couldn’t catch her breath, but she let herself lean more fully into his arms, letting him take her weight entirely. He hummed, satisfied, and the sound of it rumbled through her. His hands wandered, finding their way back to her hips, down— dipping once more beneath her skirts. Her skin suddenly felt tight, too hot, and when those damned claws dragged over sensitive flesh, her breathing stopped, her mind emptied. His hands rose higher, her back arched, and at her neck his breath danced, his lips pressing against the curve where her neck met her shoulder.

“Let me have you,” he said once more. “Let me keep you.”

His fingers skirted the very centre of her, right where she was suddenly aching, burning. He hummed against her once more, a sound of approval as she pressed against his chest, and oh gods— he was overpowering, overwhelming, and her entire world had shrunk, encompassed within the space between his wings. She could practically taste him on the wind, and as his hands grew more daring, roaming across the bare skin beneath her dress and sliding up her stomach, she felt herself falling, felt herself losing whatever grip it was that bound her to reality.

“Nesta,” the beast chided, nipping at her ear. “Answer me.”

And this time, Nesta gasped and breathed at last, a desperate, aching,

“Yes.”

#cassianweek2023 #nessian #monster fae!Cassian is here at last!

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everyones-fangirl · 10 days

Text

Delectable Little Pet

Warnings: 18+ This will be about after ascension Astarion so expect some extreme dark romance and future triggers. Male Masturbation. Stalking.

Word Count: 4,182

Chapter 3

Astarion

The streets were slick with fresh rain, and mud filled the spaces between the rundown cobblestones. I couldn't help the disgusted scowl that took over my face as I stepped over an especially large and foul-smelling puddle. The air was heavy with the mingled scents of wet earth and decay. Another night, another hunt for my captor, Cazador. What once might have felt like a hunt now felt like an unending chore. The challenge had long since faded, replaced by a monotonous routine. The most difficult part of my task was finding a fresh place my fellow brothers and sisters hadn't already prowled.

Tonight, I found myself wandering into an area I hadn't hunted in for a while. The unfamiliarity brought a faint spark of interest as I shrugged my shoulders and approached a tavern. Its windows glowed warmly, casting light onto the wet street like a beacon. From several paces away, I could already hear the lively sounds of conversation and music. Over the years, I had mastered the art of remaining unseen until I chose otherwise. This night was no different. I slipped through the door and made my way to a vacant table, which was rarer to find than I had expected. The warmth inside was a stark contrast to the cold dampness outside, but it did little to ease the chill in my bones.

I let my eyes rake through the bar crowd, my disgusted expression never faltering. The patrons were a motley assortment—merchants, laborers, and travelers—all oblivious to the predator in their midst. Failure was not an option. I had honed my skills to perfection, using words and charm to lure my prey. Over time, I had learned to read people, to understand their desires and weaknesses. I hadn't been refused, not once. As my gaze scanned the room, I calculated my approach. The more attractive Cazador deemed my victims, the more he rewarded me, which often meant a slightly less repugnant meal—a fatter rat instead of the usual scraps. The prospect of that meager reward drove me forward, a grim determination settling over me.

I noted a group of young women near the hearth, their laughter rising above the din. One in particular caught my eye—a redhead with a playful smile and an easy grace. She would do nicely. But as I observed her, another figure drew my attention. Sitting a bit apart, a wood elf with an air of quiet melancholy. She was stunning in a raw, unpolished way, her beauty striking and otherworldly. Cassara, as I would soon learn her name, possessed an ethereal quality that set her apart from the tavern’s usual patrons. Her skin was pale, with an almost translucent shimmer that took on a subtle green hue under the flickering lantern light. It was as if she carried a piece of the forest with her, a living connection to the natural magic of her heritage. Her figure was a delicate balance of strength and grace, curvy yet slender, moving with the effortless elegance of her kind.

Her hair, a deep, rich brown, fell in thick waves down her back, catching the light and hinting at the wild, untamed nature of her spirit. It framed a face that was both delicate and striking—high cheekbones, a slender nose, and full lips that seemed perpetually tinged with a hint of sadness. But it was her eyes that captivated me the most. Light green and luminous, they held a depth of emotion and a potent magical energy that seemed to pulse around her, adding to her enigmatic allure. Yet they also seemed to be haunted by shadows that mirrored my own. She wore a simple dress, the fabric torn and worn from travel, yet it did little to diminish her beauty. The dress clung to her in places, hinting at the curves beneath, while the rips and tears suggested a recent struggle, adding a layer of vulnerability to her appearance. Despite her disheveled state, there was an undeniable aura of power about her, a latent energy that seemed ready to burst forth at any moment.

My lips curled into a predatory smile. The redhead would be an easy mark, but Cassara—there was something about her, something intriguing. The challenge she presented reignited a spark of interest within me. I stood, smoothing my cloak, and moved towards her table, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. As I approached, the sounds of the tavern seemed to fade, the world narrowing to the space between us. Cassara looked up, her eyes meeting mine with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. I sat down across from her without invitation, my movements fluid and deliberate.

"Good evening," I said, my voice a smooth, honeyed tone that had lured many before her. "You look like someone with a story to tell. May I join you?"

She hesitated, her eyes flickering with uncertainty. I leaned in slightly, maintaining eye contact, letting the allure of my presence work its magic. Her light green eyes, though wary, held an undeniable curiosity. After a moment that felt like an eternity, she nodded slowly, and I settled into the seat across from her, a sense of satisfaction curling in my chest. The hunt had begun, and I was ready to play my part. At this angle, I could see the light dusting of freckles that powdered her nose and cheeks, a delicate constellation that added to her ethereal beauty. Her glare toward me only deepened as I stared, her eyes narrowing slightly, but there was an innocence in the way she held herself that stirred something dark within me. It made me want to hide her away, to keep her purity and fire all to myself. The fire that lit up those beautiful green eyes burned bright, and I could already tell she would be a feisty one. The thought of breaking her, of watching her come completely undone, sent a thrill through me. How I wondered how her beautiful lips would look trembling? How long would she pretend to fight me off? The anticipation was intoxicating.

“Don’t mind my friend; she has trust issues. I’m Caty, and this is Cassara.” The redhead smiled at me, leaning in with a familiarity that was almost charming. “Did you come to see us perform?”

Her voice broke the spell, and I shifted my gaze to Caty, acknowledging her with a polite nod. “Indeed,” I lied smoothly. “Your music drew me in from the street. You both have quite the talent.”

Caty beamed at the compliment, her eyes sparkling with delight. “Thank you! It’s always nice to have appreciative listeners.” She glanced at Cassara, who remained guarded, her posture stiff and unyielding.

I turned my attention back to Cassara, my gaze softening as I tried to draw her out. “You have a remarkable presence on stage,” I said, my voice low and sincere. “It’s clear you put your heart into your music.”

She blinked, surprise flickering across her features before she masked it with a cool indifference. “Thank you,” she replied, her tone clipped. “But I’ve learned not to trust flattery.”

Her response only intrigued me further. “A wise approach,” I conceded, leaning back in my chair. “But I assure you, my interest is genuine. I’ve traveled far and seen many performers, but few have captivated me as you did tonight.”

Cassara’s eyes softened slightly at my words, but the wariness remained. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. I would bide my time, coaxing her trust out bit by bit, until she was completely ensnared. As Caty and I continued to chat, I kept stealing glances at Cassara, noting every detail. Despite my presence, she couldn't help but giggle at her friend's jokes. Each laugh was a musical sound, and every time she did so, her nose would scrunch up while her eyes closed and her head tilted back, revealing a small dimple on her right cheek if you looked closely enough. Her laughter was infectious, and it lit up the room around her. She was warm. She was light. She was everything I missed being. It enraged me. Her vitality was a glaring reminder of my own lost humanity. I felt a surge of anger, a deep-seated bitterness that twisted in my gut. I wanted to be the reason that light faded, to see her vibrant spirit dim under my influence.

As we continued our conversation, I maintained my outward composure, masking my darker thoughts behind a charming facade. Caty was a delightfully easy distraction, her enthusiasm and friendliness a perfect cover for my true intentions. But my focus never wavered from Cassara. I observed her closely, noting how her eyes sparkled with unguarded joy whenever she laughed, the way she absentmindedly twirled a lock of her thick, dark brown hair around her finger, the subtle shift in her posture when she relaxed in her friend's company. Each of these details added to my growing obsession. Her innocence and warmth were like a beacon, drawing me in despite the darkness within me. The more I watched her, the more I wanted to possess her, to extinguish that light and replace it with something darker, something that reflected the void within me.

Caty’s laughter and chatter filled the space between us, a constant stream of words and stories. I played my part well, nodding and smiling in all the right places, but my mind was focused on the task at hand. Cassara remained guarded, her responses to me polite but distant. It only fueled my determination. As the night wore on, I could see Cassara beginning to relax, her initial wariness giving way to a tentative curiosity. She listened intently to Caty and occasionally glanced my way, her light green eyes filled with questions she wasn't yet ready to ask. It was a delicate dance, this slow erosion of her defenses, and I savored every moment of it. Underneath my composed exterior, the rage simmered. Her very existence was an affront to my own, a stark reminder of what I had lost. The desire to break her, to see her crumble under the weight of my influence, was a dark, insidious force that drove me forward. I would be patient. I would be methodical. And when the time was right, I would strike. Until then, I would savor the hunt, the slow unraveling of her trust, the gradual dimming of her light.

Unable to resist, I leaned forward, my voice dropping to a smooth, seductive tone. “You have a beautiful laugh, Cassara. It’s like music in itself.”

Cassara’s eyes flicked to mine, the wariness returning full force. “Thank you,” she replied stiffly, her smile fading as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She clearly wasn’t charmed by my forwardness, but that only made the game more intriguing.

Caty, oblivious to the tension, beamed at my compliment. “Isn’t she wonderful? Cassara has had that effect on people since I met her.”

“I can see why,” I said, my gaze lingering on Cassara. “A woman as captivating as you must have many admirers.”

Cassara’s eyes narrowed slightly, her discomfort palpable. “I’m not interested in admirers,” she said coolly, her tone leaving no room for misinterpretation.

Undeterred, I flashed her a charming smile. “Perhaps you just haven’t met the right one yet.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she looked away, focusing her attention back on Caty. “I think we were talking about the performance,” she said pointedly, trying to steer the conversation back to safer territory.

Caty, ever the peacemaker, laughed lightly. “Yes, of course. Astarion, were you really drawn in by our music? It’s always nice to hear that we’re making an impact.”

I nodded, though my eyes remained on Cassara. “Absolutely. It was mesmerizing. Like I said I’ve traveled far and wide, and rarely have I heard such talent.” Cassara’s shoulders tensed at my persistent gaze, her discomfort growing more evident. It was clear she wasn’t going to be easily won over, and that only fueled my desire to break through her defenses.

“Your voice, Cassara,” I continued, ignoring her clear attempts to disengage. “It has a haunting quality, like the whispers of the forest at dusk. Have you been singing long?”

She met my eyes with a steely resolve. “Since I was a child for spells and lullabies is all,” she answered curtly. “But I don’t think that’s any of your concern.”

Her bluntness was refreshing, a stark contrast to the usual simpering responses I received. It made the hunt all the more thrilling. “I beg to differ,” I replied smoothly. “A talent like yours is worth knowing more about. There’s a depth to you that’s intriguing.”

Cassara’s expression hardened, and she looked at Caty, silently pleading for help. “Caty, perhaps we should call it a night,” she suggested, her voice tight. “It’s been a long day, and I’m sure we’ll have more opportunities to talk.”

“Leaving so soon?” The voice that rushed from my panicked lips was hardly recognizable as my own. I audibly cleared my throat before composing myself and leaning in toward the two girls. I gave them my best smolder, deploying my charm that had never failed me. “There’s actually a party in the mansion by the central wall. There will be a lot of musicians there,” I lied through my smiling teeth. The effect I was aiming for was immediately visible in Caty’s glazed-over eyes.

Her hand went right to my forearm, and she giggled. “You mean we could get more jobs?” Her face lit up as she looked at Cassara with excitement. “We could be famous!”

I smiled, nodding my head. “Exactly, and you two will by far be the best ones there.” A part of me almost didn’t want to hand Cassara over to Cazador. I longed to break her myself, to watch her spirit crumble under my touch, but that was impossible while I remained under Cazador’s thrall.

Cassara took Caty’s hand from my arm, and I looked at her in confusion. Her eyes were completely clear, my charm failing to sway her. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Caty.” She pulled gently at her friend’s arm to draw her attention away from me. Shock turned to anger swiftly, and my fists clenched as I struggled to regain my composure. No one had ever told me no before. Cassara’s defiance intrigued and enraged me in equal measure. Her strength only made my desire to break her more intense. She was a puzzle I was determined to solve, a challenge unlike any I had faced.

Caty pouted, looking between Cassara and me. “But Cassara, it’s a chance we might not get again. Think about the exposure, the opportunities!”

Cassara’s grip on Caty’s hand tightened. “We don’t even know this man, Caty. We’ve been through enough to know better than to trust a stranger’s word. Let’s not rush into something we might regret.”

I could feel my temper rising, but I forced a smile, masking my frustration. “I understand your hesitation,” I said smoothly. “Perhaps another time, then. I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Caty’s shoulders slumped, disappointment evident on her face. “I guess you’re right, Cassara. We should be careful.” She glanced back at me, offering a half-hearted smile. “Maybe next time.”

I nodded, standing up from the table. “Of course. I’ll be around if you change your mind.” I held Cassara’s gaze for a moment longer, silently promising that this wasn’t over. Her resistance only made the hunt more thrilling.

As I turned to leave, I could feel her eyes on me, a mixture of wariness and curiosity. She had won this round, but I had time. I would find another way to get close to her, to break through her defenses. She wouldn’t be able to resist forever. Walking out into the slick, rain-soaked streets, I vowed to myself that I would see Cassara again. Her spirit was too bright, too pure, to be left untouched. I would be the one to dim that light, to make her mine. For now, I would retreat, plan my next move, and wait for the perfect moment to strike. Cassara had no idea what was coming, but she would learn soon enough. No one defied me and got away with it.

Cassara’s defiance would be her undoing, and I couldn’t wait to see the moment her resolve crumbled under the weight of my relentless pursuit. The whole interaction left my heart racing with excitement; it had been so long—too long. The thrill of the hunt, the intoxicating mix of defiance and innocence in Cassara’s eyes, stirred something primal within me. I could feel my cock twitch in my trousers, and a low, frustrated groan escaped my lips. The desire to grip myself in my hand and pump to the thought of her was overwhelming, but I had work to do. Cazador still needed me to bring him someone to eat.

Biting down my desire, I pushed through the dark streets, my senses heightened. The rain-soaked cobblestones glistened under the dim streetlights, the scent of wet earth mingling with the distant sounds of the city nightlife. The glow from the tavern faded behind me, replaced by the shadows of alleyways and the soft murmurs of the few remaining night dwellers. Every step felt like a chore now, the thrill of the chase for my master’s victims dulled in comparison to the fire that Cassara had ignited in me. Yet, I knew failure was not an option. Cazador’s wrath was a fate far worse than the endless hunger that gnawed at my insides.

I slipped into the shadows, my presence unnoticed by the few passersby. My eyes scanned the streets for an easy target, someone who wouldn’t be missed. A lone figure stumbled out of a nearby tavern, reeking of alcohol and desperation. Perfect.

Silently, I moved closer, my steps soundless on the slick pavement. The man was barely aware of his surroundings, making him an easy mark. As I approached, my fangs ached in anticipation, the hunger clawing at my insides demanding satisfaction. But I resisted the urge to drink, knowing my master’s needs came first. In one swift motion, I had him pinned against the wall, his startled gasp cut short as I gripped his neck. The man struggled weakly, his eyes wide with terror. “Please…” he whimpered, but I paid him no mind. He was nothing more than a tool to appease Cazador. Using a bit of rope I kept hidden in my cloak, I bound his hands behind his back and hoisted him over my shoulder. The weight was negligible; I had carried heavier burdens before. Making my way through the winding streets, the rain began to fall again in a soft, persistent drizzle. It was a fitting backdrop for the dark deeds I was about to commit.

Cazador's castle loomed over the darkened landscape like a sinister sentinel, its imposing structure a testament to both ancient craftsmanship and malevolent intent. The edifice, built from blackened stone that seemed to absorb the very light around it, rose high into the sky, its towers piercing the heavens like jagged teeth. As one approached, the atmosphere grew thick with an unnatural chill, the air tinged with the faint scent of decay and despair. The castle's exterior was adorned with grotesque gargoyles and intricate carvings depicting scenes of torment and suffering, their twisted forms casting eerie shadows in the moonlight. The main entrance was a massive set of double doors, forged from dark iron and reinforced with thick wooden beams. Intricate, arcane runes were etched into the metal, glowing faintly with a malevolent light, a warning to any who dared to cross the threshold uninvited. As the doors creaked open, they revealed a grand hall, the walls lined with ancient tapestries and flickering torches that cast long, dancing shadows across the cold, stone floor.

Inside, the castle was a labyrinth of corridors and chambers, each more foreboding than the last. The air was thick with the scent of dust and old blood, a grim reminder of the countless lives that had been claimed within these walls. The main hall, with its high, vaulted ceiling and grand chandelier made from the bones of long-dead creatures, was the heart of the castle. Here, Cazador held court, his dark throne perched atop a dais, draped in luxurious, blood-red velvet. The throne room itself was an opulent display of Cazador's power and cruelty. The walls were lined with portraits of himself, their eyes seemingly following anyone who dared to enter. A large, ornate fireplace dominated one side of the room, its flames casting a hellish glow that danced across the polished marble floor. The flickering light illuminated Cazador's throne, a twisted masterpiece of dark artistry, adorned with the skulls of those who had defied him. Beyond the throne room lay the castle's dungeons, a warren of damp, dark cells where the unfortunate souls captured by Cazador's thralls awaited their grim fate. The air here was suffused with the stench of fear and decay, the walls slick with moisture and stained with the blood of countless victims. The distant sounds of tortured screams and the clanking of chains echoed through the corridors, a chilling symphony of suffering that never ceased.

Above the dungeons, the castle's towers reached high into the sky, their narrow windows offering glimpses of the landscape below. These towers housed Cazador's personal chambers and his extensive library, filled with tomes of forbidden knowledge and arcane secrets. The library was a place of eerie silence, the only sound the rustle of ancient pages and the occasional drip of water from the leaky ceiling. Cazador's castle was more than just a fortress; it was a living entity, imbued with the malevolent essence of its master. Every stone, every shadow seemed to whisper of the darkness that resided within, a constant reminder of the evil that lurked behind its walls. For those unfortunate enough to be drawn into its depths, escape was a distant dream, overshadowed by the all-consuming presence of Cazador and the horrors he wrought.

The corridors were dimly lit, the air thick with the oppressive presence of Cazador. I made my way to the lower chambers, where my master awaited his next meal. Cazador’s eyes gleamed with anticipation as I entered the room, the man still draped over my shoulder. “Another one for you, master,” I said, my voice steady despite the turmoil within.

Cazador inspected the man, a cruel smile spreading across his face. “Well done, Astarion,” he said, his voice a silken purr. “You continue to serve me well.”

I nodded, the praise feeling hollow. My thoughts were still consumed by Cassara, by the plans I would lay to ensnare her. Tonight was just the beginning. As Cazador began his feast, I slipped away, retreating to my quarters. The rain continued to patter against the windows, a soothing rhythm that belied the darkness of my thoughts. Cassara had become an obsession, a target I was determined to break.

No one defied me and got away with it.

Lying down on the bed, the mattress yielding just enough to cradle my weary body, I let my thoughts drift back to her. Cassara's defiance, her beauty, the way she had resisted my charm—it all fueled my desire. Her light green eyes, shimmering with potent magical energy, and the way her dark brown hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall of silk, were imprinted in my mind. Every detail of her lithe, curvy form ignited a fire within me, a primal hunger I could not satiate. The thoughts once more had my cock growing in my pants to the point of a pain I couldn’t ignore. I loosened the pants swiftly and took my painful erection in my fist. A strangled groan left my lips as I began stroking myself to the thought of her. What else did those freckles pepper? The thought of tracing them with my tongue, mapping each tiny mark on her pale, shimmering skin, drove me wild. I imagined her beneath me, her long, thick hair spread out on the pillow, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and reluctant desire. The thought of her finally succumbing to my touch, her resistance melting away, was intoxicating. How would her soft, full lips feel against mine? Would they tremble as she tried to hold back her moans, only to finally give in and cry out my name?

My strokes quickened as I pictured her delicate hands reaching out, hesitant at first, then gripping me with surprising strength. I could almost hear her breath hitching, the sweet sound of her surrender. I wanted to see those light green eyes darken with lust, her body arching towards me, silently begging for more. The thought of breaking her, of being the one to shatter her innocence and bring forth the depths of her hidden desires, sent waves of pleasure coursing through me. I imagined her soft gasps and whimpers, the way her body would writhe under my touch, and it pushed me closer to the edge. With a final, powerful stroke, I reached my climax, a guttural moan escaping my lips. My body tensed, then relaxed, a sense of satisfaction mingling with the lingering frustration of unfulfilled longing. I lay there for a moment, my breath coming in ragged gasps, the vision of Cassara still vivid in my mind.

As I cleaned myself and adjusted my clothing, a dark smile played on my lips. This was just the beginning. I would find a way to get close to her, to break through her defenses, and make her mine. The hunt was far from over, and the thrill of the chase was only just beginning. With that thought, I finally allowed myself to drift into a restless sleep, the night's events replaying in my mind, the promise of future conquests keeping my dreams alight with anticipation.

#bg3 astarion #astarion x female oc #astarion x female tav #astarion x tav #astarion smut #baulders gate astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x oc #astarion #bg3 tav #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 #Astarian evil #dark fanfiction #dark romance

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aelinschild · 3 months

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Paradigm; side by side

˙✧˖ March 5th: Surprise

Main Masterlist | Paradigm; side by side Masterlist |

SYNOPSIS: But shame appeared like a monster at his feet; he did not stop at noticing. WORDCOUNT: 742 WARNINGS: Cursing, horny Rowan again (This is a reoccurring theme)

Huge thank you to @throneofglassmicrofics for organizing! Make sure to check out other works over on their account!

He was sick.

It dripped from the cracked open well of his mind. This carnal infatuation. Two fucking days at sea only chafed his hands further. Drove him to the brink of insanity with nothing but luminosity in its reach. Futile, his attempt.

A near decade of solitude had changed him. Or maybe it was the woman across the hall.

Somehow his humanity had been stripped from being, flayed off bone like parchment. More animal than man, abruptly changing his being in the presence of another. Huffing, he drove the shovel into sun-warmed earth again. Splitting callouses on the wooden handle and welcoming the burn of slivers. It was a welcomed reprieve – the physical pain – to the dwelling in between cerebral tissues.

In the swirl of his coffee, the drip of shaving cream as it swirled down the drain, even the goddamn seafoam teased him. Staring into them, eyes tracing over the natural patterns, before shifting and curling. Volume and peaks. He would catch a line – trace it as it flowed, morphed, connecting at an apex, rising into a cinch. He saw her everywhere.

A part of him knew this compulsion was natural. That isolation crafts a certain brand of savagery. Hardly any shame in noticing.

But shame appeared like a monster at his feet; he did not stop at noticing.

Thud, thud, thud.

It had been like holding a blessing, warming him through all atrophy. Skin, bloody and bruised, had all but screamed at him to touch. Bandage, or press into. Delicately trace serrated hide, peel back coverings. He still felt her weight in his hands. Hadn't fallen asleep until the weight of quilted blankets held a candle to her.

Dirt fell from the edges of the hole, tumbling back in. Progress slipping away. Less so than if he had chosen to dig through sand. Its richness packed it together, congealing the salt water with decay as it sopped through the distance. He would need to dig deeper for any progress to be made today.

It was an escape, an out. This craft he had taken up for the day. I need to build… head heavy and tongue laden. She had only nodded, eyes skirting his own, before tucking back into the sunroom. The gossamer skirt flowed along the worn floorboards. He hoped it would catch, shred the entire thing from her body. He would not be at fault for the natural world's intentions. But he felt sick for wanting them.

He was wearing the shirt today.

But it had been removed not too long ago, tossed into tall grass and nestled into Gaia’s clutches. The weight of it along sun-warmed flesh had been oppressive. Settling on him like tar, sticky and irremovable. It hadn't mattered anyway.

The night had been so quiet. He had woken up thrice; checked her room once to make sure she hadn't run off in the night. The feeling had wormed around his mind, you scared her. Brutish and nasty in all lonesome glory when he towered over her. Pulse racing with fear, expelled into a rage. But she had been there. Nestled between blankets he had chosen. Cooled from windows cast open that he had built. Sheltered in the small canopy bed – a family heirloom. There was a strange sense of pride when he truly took in the sight of it all.

That, and some darker yearning for permanence.

Lingering on the thoughts would have led nowhere good, and so Rowan has risen before the sun to set off on foot towards the forest nearby. Acres of land penned in eternal ink in his mind's eye had led him to the collection of deadfall. Most rotted with sickness meant that the early cerebration had stalled in its rampage. A beast calmed, eye shutting with content and thumping back to its cavern.

Eventually, enough solid elm was collected, and the walk back to Aelin- the house, was in part.

To this moment, torrid heat lashing down on him as he stood unmovable. A sculpted portrayal of the lover scorned. Waiting for the moment when disdain, apathy, fuck, even curiosity morphed into something more. Until then, he would burn. Sun rays or gold-lined irises. It made no difference.

Rowan watched Aelin rouse from bed, his spot in the tall grass a mighty vantage point to the moment between vulnerability and its nemesis. Like a predator stalking his prey, he did not move until she disappeared from sight.

Taglist: @mariaofdoranelle , @leiawritesstories , @renxzs

#throne of glass microfics #rowaelin #throne of glass #rowan whitethorn #rowaelin fanfiction #aelin x rowan #aelin galythinius #rowan x aelin #rowaelin au #throne of glass au #throne of glass fanfic #throne of glass fanart #sarah j maas #sjmaas #sjm #sjm books #aelinschild

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zzoomacroom · 4 months

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Last Line Challenge

Rules: in a new post, show the last line you wrote (or drew) and tag as many people as there are words (or however many as you like).

Thank you for the tag, @kydrogendragon! 💗💗💗

Today I've been working on outlining the Retired!Dream mpreg fic (sequel to "The Seeds Are Bursting, The Springs Are Seeping"), which is turning out to be a lot longer and more involved than I originally planned. I'm researching and learning a lot about goddesses of fertility/pregnancy/childbirth! Yes, this is a very cracky fic, but I'm having fun with it. 😅

The last thing I actually wrote is from "Nothing But Flowers," which is my 2089 fic where Hob is the last person on Earth. This scene is a flashback that takes place right after the beach dream from Sunday Mourning, although I fiddled around with the timeline for plot reasons so that he talks to Death after that dream instead of before (there's an in-universe explanation for that later in the story, but I might cut that out if it gets too convoluted).

Content warnings: heavy angst, Hob being really mean and unfair to Death (don't worry, it all gets resolved and everyone lives happily ever after...eventually):

He remembers being happy when he awoke. He was still crying, and exhausted, and more than a little drunk, but happy. Morpheus had said he loved him. He’d said he’d come back. But Death said otherwise. It had taken him a moment to place her, but he recognized her when he awoke. He had flashes of memory—meeting her on the battlefield, on frozen winter streets, at the bottom of a lake. He told her about the dream he’d had. He thought she’d be happy that he was alive after all. But when he told her he had faith that he would be back, that he’d promised he would wait, she had simply given him a sad smile. “That was just a dream, Hob,” she says gently, like she’s talking to a bloody child. “He’s gone. He took my hand and I brought him to the Sunless Lands.” “I don’t believe you,” he says flatly. “It’s never just a dream. You should know that, you’re his sister.” “I’m sorry, Hob,” is all she says in reply. Her kind, dark eyes brim with tears, and for a moment she looks just like him, even though they look about as different as two siblings possibly can. “No. That’s a load of bollocks,” he declares. How can she be so infuriatingly calm about this? How can that be all she has to say? “And if you are right, you ought to be ashamed of yourself for taking him. Sorry excuse for a sister, you are.” That was over the line. He knows it the moment the words are out of his mouth. But he continues to stare her down defiantly. Her smile only falters for a second, and in that second he sees her as she truly is. He sees the rot and decay, the pointless waste of billions of lives, the darkness at the end of it all. He sees a wolf doggedly pursuing its prey through the bleak winter night, tearing into tender flesh, spilling blood on the snow, leaving the bones for the vultures. He sees the inevitable end of all things, all creatures, even himself. His breath hitches, but he does not look away. “You only see half of the truth, Hob. He made his choice, as you made yours.” Her eyes are still warm, but her voice has turned icy. “Which reminds me: do you still wish to live?” “You...how dare you? No, really, how fucking dare you?” he snaps. “You don’t get to ask me that. And at a time like this...yes, I bloody well still want to live. And no, I’ll never want to stop living. Not if it means you will be the one waiting for me at the end. Leave me the fuck alone, and don’t bother asking again.” He knows he’s being unfair. Childish. Cruel. He doesn’t care. “Even if you’re right—and I don’t believe you are, not for a second—but if you’re right, if it’s true I’ll never see him again, I’m still never going to die. I promise you that.” She waits impassively while he finishes his tirade. She smiles again, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes this time. “Very well. You’ve made your choice, although you may come to regret it one day. But if that’s what you wish, then I won’t speak to you again unless you call for me. Goodbye, Hob.” He doesn’t answer. And then she’s walking away, leaving him slumped over his beer (or had he been sitting under a tree? Had she even been there at all?). He buries his face in his hands and weeps silently. He really hadn’t believed her, at first. But now...now he thinks she must have been telling the truth, much as he hates to admit it. It’s been sixty years and not a single word. True, he’s gone more than double that without seeing him, but...it’s different now. He dreams about him sometimes, of course, but it’s not him. He knows the difference. Besides, it’s not like dreams mean anything anymore, not without him to govern them. It’s just his desperate, pathetic mind reminding him of what he’s lost. She must have been right. She would know better than anyone, after all. He’d just been too stupid and too stubborn to accept it. He’s gone, and Hob is all alone, and that’s that.

No pressure tags: @tryan-a-bex @tj-dragonblade @fleabagoftheendless @signiorbenedickofpadua @delta-pavonis @mallory-x and anyone else who wants to join in! (If anyone I tagged has already been tagged, feel free to link your post in the comments if you want! I'm always curious about what my mutuals are working on!)

#last line challenge #last line tag game #tag games #dreamling fic #that was a lot longer than one line. whoops.#zoom says stuff #zoom writes

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tc-doherty · 6 months

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Book One | Chapter One

Index | Next Chapter

Tag List: @bloodlessheirbyjacques @magefaery @did-i-do-this-write @marrowwife @rainbow-snow-writes @muddshadow @outpost51 @full-on-sam @bluberimufim @unclear-contributions @talesfromtheunknowable @guessillcallitart @flowerprose

(Ask to be added or removed)

Knights all looked the same.

It had been years beyond counting since the last knight had dared Dragon's Keep, but from her place in the castle's tallest remaining tower she could tell that this one was no different from the others who had tried and failed over the years.

Her eyesight was better than a human's. Even from this height she could see that the steel armor encasing his arms and legs, well shined by some probably overworked squire, was scratched and dented. His surcoat was plain, with no heraldry in sight. The sword at his hip was gaudy, but the hilt was only gold leaf and glass gems, the latter cracked and the former beginning to flake. His destrier was red roan under its bulky iron barding, rather than the preferred white or black of older days.

He was a knight, but not a wealthy one. That was certainly why he was here.

Scattered bits of gold and silver lay around her feet. The hoard itself was behind her, the coins and gems, jewelry and weapons, crowns and idols and assorted other treasures that her mother had collected formed an untidy pile against the far wall. Coins clinked and chimed under her feet as she moved closer to the window. Slender brown fingers curled around the edge of the granite windowsill as she leaned forward and peered down at the knight below.

He had come to a stop. The horse shuddered and stamped one large hoof onto the dirt. The knight patted it idly on the neck to quiet it and lifted his visor – just enough to show pale skin, blue eyes, and a shock of golden hair.

From his point of view, the place must look abandoned. He had already passed the outer wall with its ivy-covered stones and the broken wrought iron gate hanging at an angle from busted hinges. The scene inside the walls was not any more welcoming.

She could picture what he was seeing, having played on these grounds her whole life. No carts had been by in so long that it took a dragon's eye to see the rutted dirt roads under encroaching grass and wildflowers. The bushes here and there stood large and untrimmed. Huge weathered chunks of stone lay scattered around the base of the tower where bits of wall had crumbled and gone unrepaired. The rest of the castle beyond the tower was in worse shape still. Most of the walls had toppled centuries ago and only the foundations remained.

All that only accounted for natural decay. There were also unmistakable signs of dragons. The air smelled slightly of smoke, copper, and the dry, cool scent of scales. Claw marks as deep as a man's hand adorned the trees and remaining walls. The ground at the tower's base was scorched black and had been artistically decorated with the bones of other foolish knights.

She smiled. That had been her touch, and she had sent many knights running with those bones alone.

Her work did not go unnoticed. The destrier saw the bones, smelled the air, and fidgeted. The knight, intentionally or otherwise, ignored the signs. He urged his mount forward. The horse moved with visible reluctance. It shook its head, nostrils flaring, ears flicking back and forth at the smallest noise. She couldn't see its eyes, but she knew they would be ringed with white. Its hooves pawed at the blackened ground.

Her mother descended right on time.

The dragon plummeted towards the earth with a roar that shook the tower and caused even more items to slide off the hoard and roll around the room. The girl in the tower ignored this interruption, keen as ever to watch her mother fight.

Her mother's obsidian scales glinted in a riot of ghostly colors as she fell through the sunlight. It might look careless, but her dive was as carefully controlled as any falcon's. Just as it seemed she would surely crash into the ground and save the knight the trouble of fighting her, black wings opened with a snap and she landed lightly on all fours. The girl thought, not for the first time, that dragons truly were the most graceful of creatures.

The warhorse screamed and reared but did not run. The dragon was three times its size, but it bellowed its defiance and stood firm. Perhaps it was not such a cheap horse as she had assumed, it had clearly had some actual training. But she knew it would make no difference in the end. She had seen this exact farce a hundred times.

The black dragon reared too, swinging back like a snake about to bite – except she produced fire rather than venom.

With a tug at the reins and a tap of his heels, the knight directed his horse aside just in time to avoid the jet of golden flame. He was not so lucky with the whiplike tail that followed after. It slammed into the horse's armor-covered side with a noise like a bell ringing. The force of the blow toppled the horse and sent it and its rider down in a tangled heap of armor and thrashing legs.

Before he had even regained his feet, the knight managed to unhook a painted steel shield from his saddle just in time to block her mother's second burst of fire. The horse screamed as sparks made contact, but the shield held back most of the flames and both were able to stand to challenge her mother once again.

High above the fight, she frowned. In the past her mother had been able to melt through shields in an instant. In the past, the knight would never have been able to stand again. But dragon's fire cooled over the years until it flickered out altogether, and her mother was no longer young. But age did not affect her cunning, nor her will to fight.

The dragon reared again. This time rather than fire she lashed out with her front feet. One foot hit the knight and sent him flying into a cluster of bushes. The other smacked down on the destrier's rump. Her claws slipped off the polished iron barding.

The horse's ears were flat back and his limbs trembled with fear but he did as he had been trained. He kicked out with both strong back legs and was rewarded by the sharp sound of bones cracking.

The girl frowned again. That was foolish. Like any other flying creature, dragons' bones were hollow, and broke easily. In the past her mother would have been fast enough to avoid that, but here too her age was showing.

Down below her mother hissed in pain and pulled back her injured foot. She directed a short spurt of fire at the offending horse, who still refused to bolt. It turned and cantered over to where the knight was chopping his way out of the bush into which he had fallen.

The dragon followed, ready to continue.

She reared up again as she neared the bush, certainly preparing for the final blow.

The knight stood up in a shower of cut branches, tossed aside his shield, and lunged.

The black dragon screamed, a cross between the call of a hunting hawk and a wolf's howl.

She wrenched herself free from the knight and his blade, which had already begun to melt. The dragon sprang for the sky. Her tail caught the knight across the chest and knocked him back into the smoldering remains of the foliage.

The effort of flying only widened the ugly gash in her belly. No longer predator, but wounded prey, she half crawled and half flew up the side of the tower. She let herself fall through a dragon sized hole in the roof and collapsed in a heap at her daughter's feet.

"Mother!" The girl cried. In the language of dragons, even that distressed cry was full of fang and fire. She waded through the trickles of blood and melting gold to put her hands against the gash and try to push the sundered flesh together again.

The dragon shuddered, and with a peculiar shrugging motion, began to shrink.

"Mother, you can't shapeshift right now!" said the girl. "You'll heal faster in your true form."

Even in this condition, her mother managed to laugh. She stopped transforming and pressed her snout to her daughter's forehead, speaking with gentle practicality. "It's time for my fire to go out, dear one. And truly, I could not wish for a better exit. Would you have me stay here and perish of boredom and old age?"

"Mother!"

"All things change around us, that is the knowledge of dragons as you are well aware. But I would gift you my cloak of scales so that it might protect you, even though I no longer can."

When the dragon began transforming again, the girl did not try to stop her, even as the shifting skin and muscle ripped the gash wider and spilled her mother's lifeblood onto the stone floor. Tears rolled down her face, far hotter than any dragon's blood or breath could be. She wished they were hot enough to burn her, so that she would not have to leave. All things might change, but that did not mean that she wanted them to. Unfortunately dragons were never harmed by fire, least of all their own.

She held onto her mother's body, so much smaller and sadder than she remembered. The brown skin was wrinkled, the once brilliant amber eyes no longer sparkled, the hair that had once fallen like a spill of shining night was matted with blood and sweat. Only a small smile which consistently hovered around her mother's lips was the same. She wrapped her mother’s scaled cloak around her own shoulders, wept over the frail, lifeless body, and waited for the knight to arrive.

He strutted into the room proud and shining, like he thought of himself as a ray of sun touching a land long shrouded by clouds. His step faltered slightly as he took in the incongruities of the scene. Despite what the stories said, this was no lady's chamber, and she was no delicate, doe-eyed princess in need of rescuing. She clung to her mother's body like a lifeline, wearing nothing but dragon's blood and a cloak of shimmering black scales. It was a testament to his personality that these facts did not stop him for long. He spoke, and she understood his strange, soft words, for all dragons have the gift of tongues.

"You're safe now, my lady," he told her as he picked his way around the worst of the still hot pools of blood and melted gold. "I've come to take you to court where you belong." He grabbed her wrist and tried to pull her to her feet.

Anger replaced grief in her heart, turning her blood to fire. She screamed at him, no word in any language, just a cry of frustration and loss and rage. She thrashed in his grip and pried at the steel gauntlets, trying to get free. Where skin touched armor the metal bubbled and melted. The knight winced as drops of hot steel began to burn their way through his gambeson into vulnerable flesh, but he held on.

She hissed and spat at him, and cursed him in the language of dragons, and wished it could be smoke and fire pouring from her lips instead of words.

The heat was enough to melt his armor, but not enough to shake his heart, for he was a knight, as foolhardy as he was brave. The strength he had gained through training well matched the strength she had been born with, and he held on.

He picked her up and held her until her fire fizzled out under the weight of grief and she collapsed into a dead weight, cool to the touch again. Only then did he set her gently on the ground.

She did not move.

She sat mute as he retrieved the saddlebags he had dropped outside the door and began filling them with treasure – the gold and gems that had not been damaged in her mother's death. He was robbing the dead, robbing her, and she couldn't make herself care. He spoke more words in his strange, soft tongue, and she refused to hear them.

Her mother, constant, proud, undefeatable; was dead. That was all that mattered. As for her future, she could not guess. She knew much of knights but little of human customs. She had never wanted to know. She didn't want to know now. So she sat and tried not to think, tried not to feel, as her life fell apart around her.

The knight took no notice. He filled his bags with stolen goods, and slipped the sword of another, less lucky, knight into the empty scabbard at his left hip. He slung the saddlebags over one shoulder, picked her up as if she weighed nothing at all, and left the tower.

For three weeks she did not eat, drink, or speak.

Except on her mother's back, she had never been far from the estate of Dragon's Keep. She had never traveled at length through the wild, creature infested lands outside, nor had she ever seen the dilapidated wall that separated their land from the lands of humans.

She did not see it now.

She noticed nothing of the journey back to the court this knight called home. She slept often, and tried to dream even while awake. To the knight she was a statue, neither resisting him nor responding to him.

She did not fight him when he dressed her in...well, some sort of human fashion, she assumed.

She closed her ears to the words he spoke, first bragging, then angry, then pleading, until he ceased to speak to her altogether and the rest of their journey passed in silence.

But there was no ignoring the court, not really. It was loud, full of people who talked about anything and everything. They talked about her too, making plans for her life without even asking her – not that she cared what they thought, not that she had any intention of responding.

She had never had any interest in humans, and she still didn't.

That did not stop them from being interested in her.

If she had listened to those conversations, she might have understood their actions. But she did not want to listen and she did not want to understand.

For reasons which made sense to them, they gave her back the gold and silver the knight had stolen. They called her lady, and gave her a room in the palace, a trunk full of donated clothing, and sent along three young women who flocked around her, twittering ceaselessly like little birds. Their presence irritated her as they pulled her this way and that way, trying to dress her up like one of them. They succeeded in removing the clothing the knight had given her and replacing it with a single garment before she ran them off with claw and fang and cast the rest of the clothing aside.

She slammed the door behind them.

She just wanted to be left alone, but here she was never alone. The sturdy stone walls pressed in on her, nothing like the decrepit castle she was used to. The sounds of wind, birdsong, and animal life had been replaced with a seemingly never-ending wave of sounds. She drowned in them, the talk and laughter, the thud of boots and the soft switch of fabric as humans moved, the rustle of brooms against rough stone, all of them. She had never been in a place so loud. She had never been exposed to her gift of tongues, which told her the basic meaning of everything said, whether or not she wanted to know.

A particularly abrasive laugh – the laugh of that knight – grated on her ears. During the journey back to court he had been subdued, but here, surrounded by people, he had regained his courage. He was coming to see her, she was certain of it, coming to see what his princess looked like now that she was civilized. But she didn't want to see him. Not him, not the young women, not any of the people here. With a cry like that of a wounded animal she pushed herself out of her seated position, grabbed her mother's cloak, fled through the nearest door, and found herself outside.

She stood for a moment, surprised. The noise of a door opening brought her back to herself. She gathered her wits and ran.

It was not wilderness, this place she found herself in, but it was not stone walls either. She followed stone paths laid neatly on the ground, the clothing she had been pushed into tangling around her legs. There was nowhere to stop, nothing but stone paths and stone fountains with the occasional bush or row of flowers. Even here there were people, people who scattered out of her way and stared after her as she passed. She paid them scant attention.

Dragons were predators by nature, and she had never wondered what a deer might feel while being pursued by her mother. Now though, she did not have to wonder. She thought she had a pretty good idea.

In some ways this fake wilderness was even worse than being inside.

She ran and ran and did not stop until she felt grass under her feet and then she stopped all at once, collapsing onto the ground in a heap. She fought back the sobs that wanted to come out although a few tears escaped to scorch the ground beneath her. She didn't want to be here, but she wasn't about to let these humans see her grieve.

She knew that her mother would not be pleased with this. Dragons were not so emotional. The world changed around them and they adapted to it. They were calm and practical, rational. She never had been good at that. Still, she tried.

Only when she got herself back under control did she look around to see where she had landed.

It was a small grove surrounded by cypress trees. From here, the castle was not even visible. Nor were any people. She breathed, letting the familiar openness chase out the lingering claustrophobia of too much stone and too much metal and too much noise. The muttered conversation from the grounds behind her faded, masked by the sound of branches moving in the wind. Eventually, a few of the braver birds even began to chirp and the area around her sprang to life again, her wild interruption forgotten.

It could almost be one of the courtyards she was used to, save for the fact that someone clearly maintained the area. The grass was too short, too free of wildflowers and fallen branches and leaves. The trees too were too neat. It was still better than where she had been.

She curled in on herself, and began to dream.

She did not return to the room which had been forced upon her. The cypress grove, quiet and solemn, became her retreat. She did not leave it for several days, except to hide deeper in the fake woods when others came looking for her.

The rest of the time she dreamed of the past. Any moment, she thought, her mother could fly overhead – strong as ever, with her black scales glittering like gems in the sun. She would dance in the sky as she always had done. She would shower her beloved daughter with gold she had stolen, scoop her up to go flying, or drop a kill at her feet for them to share.

Nothing would've changed, they would still be together as they should be. Her mother would never have left her on her own to travel to someplace she could not follow. She would, as she had always done, tell her daughter wildly exaggerated stories of the hunt while they ate.

These visions were so strong to her that she did not realize at first that the smell of blood was real. She came back to herself with a start.

A platter of freshly killed venison hovered half a foot from her face. She frowned.

Dragons did not have much of a sense of smell, but the smell of blood was sharp and distinctive. She should have noticed it, or the sound of someone approaching. She would have, if she had not been so determined not to.

Because the meat, naturally, had not made its way there on its own. It was held lightly in the hands of a woman who held herself with the confidence of a knight. Until that moment, she had not known that women could be knights. It certainly had seemed from her mother’s stories that humans were only divided into knights and ladies. But she had seen enough knights in her life to recognize one, even without the armor and sword.

"Don't turn away," the knight said before she even had a chance to do so. "Even dragons have a need to eat eventually." She set the ceramic platter down on the grass and backed off a few paces before dropping into an easy sit.

Three weeks was a long time, even for a dragon. With the smell of fresh meat in front of her, she could no longer pretend not to be hungry. She grabbed a piece from the top and ripped into it, heedless of the mess she caused.

The knight continued to talk, undeterred. "Here I am, on a short visit to my family, and I miss it all," she said. "The whole court is abuzz about Leroy and his Lady Dragon. Tell me, why not just transform and fly away?"

The knight gave her ample time to respond, which she did not do.

"Nothing, hm?" The knight shrugged. "Well, you are a dragon. You of all people ought to know that mourning has to end eventually. I'm surprised you were distraught enough to let it go on this long."

She paused again, and still received no response. "Such a show can only mean you are named after an emotion. Which one is it?"

The bit of meat she was holding slipped her numb fingers to the grass below.

"How-" the dragon hardly even realized she had spoken until after the word was out. This human language was unfamiliar in her mouth and she snapped her fangs shut around the rest of the sentence. It did not matter. One word was enough.

The knight smiled. "Dragons are not unfamiliar to my home country. It pays to know about them. So, your name?"

"It does not translate easily," the dragon said, and felt anger at herself for giving in. She had not wanted to speak to these humans at all, and had even entertained the thought of living in silence until her own flame ran out. But the will to live and thrive runs as strongly in dragons as in humans, and she could no more keep herself from speaking than from eating the meal in front of her.

"I don't mind."

For the first time, the dragon heard the flavor of foreign speech in the words the knight spoke, and recognized them as being different from the things she had half heard over the last few days. This knight, then, was a stranger here too. Still the dragon hesitated, groping for words in a language she understood but had not yet spoken.

"It is the sense of belonging between two or more people who consider themselves family," she finally said, hating how she stumbled over the words. Dragon names came in two flavors: concepts or feelings. Concept names were strong and feeling names were graceful. In the language of dragons her name was beautiful. As sharp as new grown scales and as delicate as a butterfly's wings. In this human language it was long and clumsy, without sense or rhyme.

The knight nodded. "It is a bit long. A sense of belonging between people, hm? In my language we call this 'patrisjie'. As a name here, it would probably be Patrice. And in my home, we would call you Patya."

The dragon growled. "I do not want these human words or this human name," she said.

The knight nodded again. Her hair, brilliant red and cut to be even with her jaw, bobbed in time with the motion. "Soon they will become tired of calling you 'dragon girl' and someone is going to name you. Better it be something close to what you’re used to."

“And it is so easy to lose your true name!" The dragon said. She heard the snap of fangs and crackle of flame in her words, but the knight did not lose her relaxed posture as a wiser person would have done. Then again, that seemed to be the way with knights. She merely plucked a violet out of the grass and turned the flower round and round in her fingers.

"You aren't alone. My name is Felisjyta, but no one here can say it. They just all call me Felicity."

"And why should I care what they call you?" asked the dragon. Suddenly the rest of her meal was no longer appealing. She pushed the tray away, across the grass. "I do not want that name either. I am no friend to knights." She stood and began to walk away.

The knight made no move to follow her, but did speak again. "You know, Felisjyta is just like a dragon name. You would probably say 'the happiness of someone who has experienced recent good fortune'."

It was a very dragon like name, and she knew exactly how they would say such a thing. In the language of dragons, that name was warm and comforting, like curling up next to her mother on a chilly evening. It didn't suit her current mood at all. She shook her head. "Why should I need this feeling of yours? I have not experienced good fortune in a long time."

She left the garden and the meddling knight behind.

Index | Next Chapter

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alovesongtheywrote · 1 year

Text

I'll Ruin You | Eddie Munson x Reader

♥ Summary: Vecna has been put down, at least for now, but the cost was a little too much for Eddie to take. Then, in the middle of the night, he sees you again- or at the very least, he sees something that has your face. [Eddie Munson x Gender Neutral!Reader]

♥ Warnings: EVEN HARDER LEFT INTO HORROR HOLY SHIT, torture, broken bones, blood, hallucinations, BODY HORROR

♥ Word count: 3,164

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4,

♥♥♥

You died. It wasn’t fun.

It was horrendous, painful and bloody. You could feel your life ending- your blood draining away as every single one of your nerves caught fire. You could feel the teeth and claws of a thousand vicious creatures, all of them dead set on tearing you apart. You could taste blood in your mouth, the salt of your tears, and the sweet liquor of death. You died. It sucked. But it did save Eddie’s life. You took a hundred thousand bat bites meant for him, and in your opinion, it was a sacrifice worth making.

You just didn’t know about the pain it caused your loved ones.

You didn’t hear the agonized way Dustin screamed. You didn’t hear the desperation in Eddie’s voice as he begged you to come back to him. You didn’t wake up when they tried to save you. Despite their greatest efforts, despite their repeated attempts, despite the fact that they tried and tried until the ground beneath them shook in warning, nothing happened. Nothing changed. Your eyes were open and unseeing. Your skin was cold to the touch. They had to leave. You were dead. There was no other choice.

Time dripped by slowly, staining your body with blood and dust. The earth shook and cracked beneath you. You remained still, unaware of the minutes ticking by.

Your body was broken. Your heart lay as still as stone in your chest. You were nothing more than a simple corpse- a part of the grimy Upside Down scenery. You were a husk. Empty. Gone. To anyone else taking in the sights of the nightmarish dimension, you wouldn’t have been worth mentioning.

Vecna, however, was not just anyone. When he looked at you, he didn’t see a soulless body- he saw an opportunity. So, before rot and decay could claim you, the demon reached through your chest, restarted your heart, and forced you to breathe.

Suddenly, you were alive. Uncomfortably and painfully alive. The world was uncomfortably bright. Your mouth was dry. Every movement was accompanied by an unbearable ache that chased your limbs like a child chasing an animal. Fear and confusion ran through your veins as you rose to see the vast, hellish wasteland around you. Panic gripped your chest like a fist. For a moment, you couldn’t breathe.

Then you realized that you weren’t alone.

Something was standing behind you. Something that took deep laboured breaths. Something that sent a chill down your spine. You turned to look. You couldn’t hold back your scream.

Your friends had never been kind when describing Vecna, but even their best attempts could not do the horrific thing before you justice. His face was a nightmarish amalgamation of burnt features. His deep-set pale eyes saw through you. You felt your heart fall through you as you realized that the thing that had been trying to kill Max was standing behind you, and he had a claw outstretched for you to take. You didn’t fucking move.

“Don’t be afraid,” he spoke, his voice a chilling, gravely echo, “It’s time-”

“F-For what? For my suffering to end!?” your voice shook as you cut him off. You were afraid, terrified, but any sense of reasonable, rational fear was choked by a simmering rage.

“No… no,” you cringed as Vecna moved towards you and brought his mangled claw to your face, “It’s time for you to join me. Please understand, we can help each other.”

You tried to speak, to ridicule him, but something stopped you- an invisible hand around your throat. In your silence, he continued.

“As I am now, I am… weak. Ineffectual. But with your assistance? We can fix what’s been done. Let me use your strength- your physical form. Help me change this world. Help me end it, and start it anew, properly, and I promise you will be rewarded.”

You pushed away from Vecna, pulling yourself to your knees, “Rewarded, huh? You have nothing to offer me. Get fucked.”

A horrible gurgling sound came from the monster’s chest. You were pretty sure that was his laugh, “I am offering you your life. You will be allowed to live in a new world. A better one. You will be prey kept safe by an ultimate predator. All I ask is that you help me.”

“My life? My life? Fuck off. I’ve already died once because of you, and I’m not afraid to do it again. Kill me if you want, but you won’t use me to destroy my home, and you won’t use me to hurt my friends.”

Vecna was silent for a moment. It would have been easy to mistake his sudden quiet for shock, but something was wrong. There was no surprise in the way he looked at you. There was no disappointment, no anger. There was just a malicious sense of joy in the small smile that crossed his face.

“You may not fear death, little one… but do you fear pain?”

Your eyes widened just as the bones in your arm began to snap. You screamed, crying out like a wounded animal as cartilage and marrow split within you. You fell onto your back. The world went white. Warm salty tears traced lines through the grime on your face. The metallic tang of blood filled your mouth.

The sound of your pounding heartbeat filled your ears, and the sound of it was so loud that you almost didn’t hear Vecna when he continued his monologue, “And if you don’t fear pain or death, then do you fear for the lives of your friends?”

Your vision began to blur. The blue-grey hellscape of the Upside Down began to fade. In its place, you could see the faces of your loved ones- you could see Eddie. Screams filled the air. In flashes of blood red and white, the people you cared most about were torn to bits. In seconds, you were standing alone, surrounded by bodies.

Eddie’s corpse was the closest to you. His Hellfire shirt was torn to pieces and stained with red. His soft skin had been ripped apart. His honey-coloured eyes stared up at you, empty and cold. You whispered his name. Of course, there was no response.

A sound tore itself from your throat. It wasn’t quite a scream or a cry, it was more than that. It was simply the sound of your soul breaking into smaller and smaller pieces. Biting down on a sob, you fell. Your knees hit the ground hard enough to make you flinch. Upon impact, the illusion began to dissolve.

Even after the world had returned to its hellish Upside Down state, you remained on your knees. You covered your face with your good hand, wiping away tears of pain and heartbreak as fast as you could.

“Help me,” that damn voice came again, “Help me, and I’ll spare you an unending agony. Help me, and I might let your friends live. Give them a chance. Give yourself a chance- or don’t. Let them die. Suffer endlessly. The choice is yours.”

The world went quiet. Thunder boomed, echoing across the war-red sky. If not for Vecna’s laboured breathing, you would’ve thought that he had left you. You inhaled, though the action was shaky. Tears dripped down your face. You ignored them. Pulling your broken arm closer towards you, you stood. Even though your eyes were damp, nothing could hide the rage within them.

“No.”

“No?”

“No. No. No matter what I do, you’re going to try to hurt them. No matter what I do, I lose.”

Vecna didn’t respond. He just tilted his head and broke your other arm. Another scream pulled itself from your throat.

“God, why-!?” you choked, “Why are you doing this? Why not just kill me goddamnit?”

“I told you. I need your help.”

“Yeah, you might need me, but aren’t you all-powerful, or something? Didn’t you take over Billy’s mind? Aren’t you-” you paused for a second as a realization dripped over you, “You aren’t strong enough to possess me without my consent.”

He growled, and you cried out as the fingers on your left hand began to crack. You took a moment to recover, gasping for air for a few moments before you returned your gaze to Vecna’s mangled face. You laughed.

“Shit, you really do need my help.”

Again, Vecna said nothing. Dread pooled in your stomach as he raised his hand. In a heartbeat, you were facing an entirely different direction. Invisible hands jerked your head to the side. your skull was consumed by violent throbbing pain. Your body went numb. You couldn’t feel your limbs. You couldn’t move. Everything went black.

Vecna didn’t let you die for long. He let the pain and fear last for a few moments, but he was quick to fix your broken neck and drag you back to the world of the living.

You gasped as you came back. Cold air filled your lungs, burning them from the inside out. You coughed and sputtered as you tried to sit up. You were, without a doubt, not adjusting well to being brought back to life.

“What- what did you do to me?!”

Vecna didn’t answer your question. He didn’t need to. He smiled at the fear in your eyes, and said again, “Help me. Free yourself. Save your friends. Or die, over and over again like the parasite you are. The choice is yours.”

Droplets of blood spilled from your lips as you made a quiet sound of disbelief.

“But know this. You are living on borrowed time. Once my strength returns, once your will breaks, I will have my revenge.”

Months passed.

Not that it mattered to you. Between the physical and mental torture, you just lost track of time. You just knew that Vecna hadn’t lied about everything- your suffering was, in fact, endless.

Each moment brought with it a new nightmare. A projection of fear or memory, a broken bone, an illusion of false hope- it was always something different.

The projections and illusions left you a complete wreck. You would wake from them, disoriented and afraid, heart pounding and bile in your throat. Sometimes, you watched Eddie die in your place. Other times, you would hear the screams of your loved ones. Their faces haunted you, following you into the space behind your eyes.

Sometimes, Vecna made you think that you were home. He would make you think you were safe- that you had been long since rescued from his grasp, and now, you could continue on with your life. Then you would wake up. You would breathe in the putrid air of the Upside Down, and you would instantly know where you were. Then your bones would begin to snap.

Your fingers would crack and bend. Your jaw was snapped in a thousand different places. Your ribs were pulled open like the doors of a china cabinet, revealing the contents of your chest before they were slammed shut again. You could hear the sound of it in your head. Even on the rare occasion when you were alone, even when Vecna wasn’t in your head, you could still hear the grating cracking sound of bones snapping inside your skull. You could still hear your flesh tearing long after you’d been left to bleed out. Sometimes, he would make himself look like Eddie while he tortured you. Somehow, that wasn’t even the worst of it.

There was no mercy. Not for you. Not from Vecna.

Your party had hurt him and put a stop to his plans. He wanted to hurt them back, to destroy them- but you were all he had. You were left alone to face the rage of a very powerful, and very sadistic demi-god- and he hurt you in every way he could.

Despite his anger, Vecna never stopped asking you to join him. He never stopped pestering you or threatening your loved ones- and you never gave in. His demands became a familiar sound, another instrument to the song of screams and ruin that plagued you. Even then, despite the pain and torment, you saw through his empty threats. The only person he could hurt was you, and you were fine with that.

He was less fine with that. One day, he snapped.

Your body was discarded on the vine-covered floor of the Upside Down. Your left leg was bent entirely the wrong way, and the rest of your skin was marred with cuts and bruises, covered in your still-cooling blood. You were tired- so, so tired, and you could barely feel the breaks in your anatomy. Your eyes fluttered. The world around you faded to a grey blur. You were so close to a peaceful sleep- and then, he whispered your name.

You kept your eyes shut. He said your name again.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t want to respond. This time, when he said your name, he spoke it with a growl. He grabbed your chin in a clawed hand and pulled you up to face him. You opened your eyes.

“Listen now, and listen well. I won’t say this again. You are only here because I’m allowing it. With a single thought, I could end your meaningless, pathetic life.”

You looked up to the gray sky, waiting for the monologue to be over- waiting for another terrible fate to meet you. The world flashed red. Vecna’s grip on your jaw tightened. He wanted you to look at him. You did.

“But you do have your… uses. So, I’m offering you the chance to live. Serve me, and let me spare you. You could have a new purpose in a better, stronger world. Accept this.”

You drew a short breath. The cold air of the Upside Down burned through your lungs. Honestly? It didn’t hurt that much anymore. Nothing hurt much anymore. In a way, you were already dead. What worse fate could you meet?

You spat in Vecna’s face.

A resounding growl echoed in your ears as you were thrown to the ground. You didn’t even make a sound when your collarbone met the dirt beneath you with a foreboding crack. You just sighed, waiting for another wall of pain to hit you. It never came. You looked up. Vecna was just standing there, staring at you.

Panic filled your veins when he smirked.

With a nonchalant wave of his hand, a thousand squirming pulsing vines swarmed towards you. You didn’t have a chance. Your broken bones and torn skin kept you still as the tendrils twisted around you. A small cry escaped you as your arms were pulled behind your back. You could feel the slick coils wrapping around your waist. Your legs were bound together. You choked slightly as yet another tendril slipped around your neck and under your chin, forcing you to look at your assailant.

Neither one of you spoke. The squelching sound of the tentacles filled your ears, melding together with the echo of your racing pulse. You struggled. The bruises and open wounds on your body screamed in response.

With a sickening look of satisfaction on his face, Vecna raised a claw and brought it to rest against your sternum. You could feel the knife-like tip of his finger pressed against your skin, ice cold and begging to spill your blood.

“Foolish child. Your senses have failed you,” his voice was soft- far too soft- a warning of what was to come, “My strength has returned.”

His claw pierced your skin.

“And your will is broken.”

A wince crossed your face as you felt him move deeper, towards your ribs. The taste of iron filled your mouth. Blood poured from your chest in droplets- small and shiny like expensive rubies.

A broken sound came from somewhere deep inside you as he curled the claw buried deep in your chest. He pulled back with a sudden movement. Each and every one of your senses drowned in a sea of white-hot pain. You couldn’t see. The world was silent. You could feel yourself trying to move. Your body tried desperately to escape the pain, moving on instinct alone. The weak thrashing of your limbs against the vines only made it worse.

When your senses returned to you, your throat was torn from screaming. The taste of iron still lingered in your mouth. Your vision was blurred, but you could still see Vecna, standing above you, holding a piece of your flesh in his hand.

He dropped it to the ground. A wet squelch followed. Blood spattered across the grey of the Upside Down, sewing seeds of red wherever it landed. You watched in horror as the little ruby droplets came together, back to their source.

And then, inside the fallen piece of flesh, something began to move.

It looked almost like the skin was bubbling, melting away under an intense heat. Slowly, the movement grew. The tissue expanded. The smell of burning flesh filled the air. A hand reached out from the bloody thing that used to be a part of you.

Its skin matched yours exactly.

You could feel your heart begin to race. Your hands felt numb. Every part of you felt numb. You were helpless to do anything but lie still and watch as something that looked far too much like you crawled from a pool of your discarded flesh and blood.

It looked at you. It had your eyes. It smiled.

You didn’t know what to do. A strange shock overtook your body, leaving you with nothing but an unsettling sense of calm. The numbness remained as you watched Vecna step over to the new version of you.

He took its jaw in his hands- his touch far kinder than it had ever been with you. With caution, he turned its head from side to side. The false you leaned into his touch, obeying his silent commands.

“Well, then,” Vecna’s voice took on a pleased tone, “Show me what you’re made of.”

You couldn’t close your eyes. You just watched as the Not-you made their approach. The world went dark as they ripped you to shreds.

In the weeks that followed, you figured out Vecna’s plan. He was going to send the false you back to Hawkins, and using your face, it would bait your friends into opening a gate- a proper gate. One that Vecna could get through.

You couldn’t let that happen.

In those weeks, as you watched ashes fall through the blood-red sky, flickering in the air like tiny fires, a plan came to you. Just before the false you left, you asked them to get you a cigarette. They didn’t come back. A carton of cigarettes did.

It landed in front of you- a wet smack on a patch of vine-covered concrete. You grabbed the little box, ignoring the vicious ache of your broken hand, and you smiled for the first time in a long, long time.

♥ A/N: sorry this took 12 years, my bad. also, i enjoy the fact that this is the fourth chapter since in some languages (chinese, japanese, and i think korean,) the word for four sounds like the word for death, so it's seen as unlucky. i think it fits, lol

♥ Tags: @eddie-swhore @bratckerman @1paire2vans @dang-shawty-okay @munson-enthusiast @taintedcigs @sadbitchfangirl @lokis-imaginary-wife

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x gn!reader #eddie munson fic #eddie munson angst #x reader #eddie munson imagine

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imhereformysciencefriends · 7 months

Text

@mcyt-yuri-week Day 3: Hurt/comfort!!!!

One of my fave prompts. Read on AO3 here

”What better warrior to keep the beasts at bay than one who is a beast herself?”

Rotting teeth sunk into a chunk of already-rotting flesh, fingernails protruding from green skin pulsing with bloat scraped along her forearm. She ignored it, as she always ignored it. They couldn’t zombify a zombie, so she was fine. She dropped her axe into the already-spilling-brains of one and slit her sword across the throat of another. Shields weren’t necessary. She was already a zombie, so she was fine. She was a perfect warrior to keep back the hoards. So she was fine. Dual wielding was pretty sick, anyway.

She was tired.

She knocked another zombie off her and drove her sword through its heart.

She wasn’t supposed to be able to feel tired. The part of her brain that should’ve been in charge of that was supposed to be rotted through.

She was tired.

She brought her axe down again, driving it through rotting flesh and bone and into the soft earth beneath.

She was the champion. The Warrior. The savior of them all. She wasn’t supposed to be able to feel tired. Her axe shouldn’t feel this heavy. Why was she struggling to dislodge it from the earth? She was better than that.

She was tired.

Hands, decaying, bloated or rotting or withered or more bone than flesh, grasped at her ankles, her shins, her knees, her thighs, her hips.

Moans filled her ears, higher and higher, closer and closer. Her clothing was tugged downwards, as the zombies at her waist climbed upwards.

Her sword dropped from her hand, pulled by some unseen force swallowed in the mass of flesh and stench and bodies.

The Warrior was tired.

At some point, her knees gave out.

The familiar sound of metal cutting through rotten flesh was the first sensation she regained. The much less familiar sound of rotting hands banging against a wooden shield followed. The Warrior forced her eyes open, groaning much akin to the rotting bodies around her.

Well.

They were less around her now. She ached like a bitch, but aside from her strewn weapons and the trampled grass, she was surrounded by empty air. Her aggressors had either wandered off, or…

Were all distracted by the shiny new human with pristine skin. A human in a red riding cloak stood, just a ways off, with bright red eyes and an almost-manic grin, pale brown hair swaying with her movements, blocking and swinging at the zombies that shambled towards her. At her hip, a wolfdog growled and lunged, the two making for an efficient team. The zombies fell to her weapon much like they had once fallen to the Warrior’s, before she’d grown the ability to fatigue.

She was still fatigued, all told. And every inch of her ached from bites and scabs and bruises the shambling mass had left on her. She tried to get up, and found even just getting herself halfway to sitting was an agonizing labor.

“Oh, one more over there,” mentioned the perky, bloodstained woman, and the Warrior moaned.

“No…” she called, exhausted and pained. She shuffled slightly away on her elbows, but was in too much pain to really get far. “Don’t worry about me! I’m fine where I am, you stay over there!”

“Oh!” The stomp stomp stomp of good, sensible boots and the pitter patter of wolfpaws. “You can talk!”

“Sure can.”

“You’re a person!”

Well, that was debatable.

The woman sat on her haunches in front of the Warrior, and she stared up at her with an unamused look. Hm. Women weren’t generally supposed to look that blurry.

“I thought you were dead, mate!”

“Well, technically,” the Warrior started, but then got hit with a bad spell of vertigo and had to lay down again.

“Easy there.” The woman’s wolfdog gave the Warrior a sniff, growled cautiously, like she wasn’t quite sure if she should be growling or not, and then ceased when the woman ruffled her fur. “Easy Tilly. She’s not gonna hurt us.”

Strong arms slid beneath her and hefted her up over the woman’s shoulder. For an ordinary human, she was probably of average size, but the Warrior was massive, thick and heavy and taller than most humans save the rare Ender-hybrid. Little miss cheerful was dwarfed by the massive, bleeding, rotting soldier slung over her back, but didn’t seem to pay that any mind.

“Oof! Let’s get you home. You look like you’ve seen way better days.”

Couldn’t say that was a lie.

“My name’s Pearl! And this is Tilly.”

Tilly gave a cheerful yip at her name, and the Warrior tried not to lose her nonexistent lunch over the woman’s shoulder. All that’d come up would be stomach bile and potentially rot. She wasn’t sure if her own zombification had permeated that far into her internal organs or not. Uninterested in finding out, really.

“What’s your name?”

She didn’t have one. She was the Warrior. She didn’t need to be anything else.

But they were far, far, far from the lands and the peoples that had crafted her. Moving away from that direction. And she was… she was so tired…

“...Cleo.” She’d always liked that name. It seemed more suited to bright eyed girls in ruffled dresses tugging at their mother’s skirts in pursuit of sweets, than a towering warrior with rot all up and down her, but she liked the name and she wanted it and she wanted—

Well. Her wants didn’t matter. It was silly for her to have given herself a name. She should correct it. Before Pearl thought she was a person; or, well, before she thought that anymore than she already did. But Cleo was tired, she was so tired, and everything hurt, and someone else had taken care of the zombies for her.

Oh.

Pearl had killed all the zombies. Pearl and Tilly. They were all gone, still in the quiet earth and laid finally to rest.

Cleo had no further purpose to fulfill, out here.

She should go back to the people who created her. Let them know of her report. Acquire her next mission.

Her heavy eyelids prevented the need for decision making.

The sensation of waking up in a bed was something wholly unfamiliar to her. She didn’t need sleep, and phantoms were easy enough to down with a crossbow, once you got used to them.

Cleo stretched her limbs out cautiously. Already, she was in far less pain than she’d fallen asleep with, the bruises faded and yellowed and the cuts all scabbed over and—

Clean. Like, really clean. The rot had been washed out of her rotting bits. The muck had been swabbed from her scabs. She was in her underclothes, which were still slightly damp but gave her a full view of all the many pieces of her body that had been tended to while she was out.

There was a fire crackling merrily away not far from the bed. Her clothes, looking dryer than she did, were hung next to it. Tilly snored softly on a plush rug on the floor, her hindleg twitching as though giving chase in her dreams. Around her were a whole litter of puppies, their pink bellies rounded into little spheres with overeating, their triangular ears flip flopping this way and that.

Cleo, lacking anything better to do, got up and put her clothes on. They were decadently warm from hanging near the fire. Dry and soft. There was a pot of soup on the stove.

Suddenly, overwhelmingly ravenous, Cleo started eating directly from the pot, the wooden stirring spoon instead used to ladle food into her mouth. She ate like a wild animal, like the crazed beasts she was tasked with slaying, kneeling over the scalding metal with little care for the heat, barely pausing for breath and even then, only when she had to. She hardly even tasted the potatoes, the carrots, the rabbit and the creamy base. All that mattered was getting food inside her body as quickly as possible.

She gasped for breath, wooden spoon clattering to the empty bottom when she was done. She swung its stand further from the fire, not wanting to risk singeing the instrument, but also not knowing where else to put it. How long had it been since her last meal? She couldn’t starve, so really, she only ate when it was needed to keep her speed up.

She honestly didn’t need to have eaten the whole pot. What was she, an actual animal? How embarrassing.

“Ohhi~” Pearl greeted, the words all smooshed together and sounding friendly and upbeat. Instantly, Cleo’s cheeks heated. Not only had she eaten the whole thing, by herself, in one sitting, kneeling on the floor, ravenous as a dog, but now she had to let Pearl—the one who had cooked it—know.

“Erm, hello,” she tried, smile feeling fake on her face even to her. “Uh, sorry about your stew. I might have eaten it all.” She chuckled nervously, eyes darting back and forth between the damning pot and her…host?

“Oh!” Pearl darted forward, firewood under one arm and a bag of something or other slung over her other shoulder. She bent at the waist to peer around Cleo, glancing at the empty bottom of the pot. “Well that’s alright! You were pretty banged up when I got you home, your body probably needs it.”

Pearl dumped the firewood near the fireplace and set her bag on the small and rather cluttered table. “I’ll just make more, it’s no biggie. How’re you feeling?”

Better than she had ever felt in her life.

“Alright. Sorry again. I, don’t mean to impose.” Cleo had no frame of reference for how this was supposed to work. Being in someone else’s house. Conversing. Most of what was expected from her was a report and clarifying questions if she had any about orders. Pearl was… not… She wasn’t…

“It’s fine! I don’t get a lot of visitors this far out. It can get pretty lonely: that’s why I have my Tilly!”

At her name, the dog’s leg kicked, but she did not rouse.

“O–oh..? That must be nice.”

“It is! And it’s nice to have you too, so don’t worry about imposing.”

See, Pearl could say that, but Cleo knew just enough about people to know that that was absolutely, 100% not actually true. Cleo was massive, intimidating, not to mention rotting all over. At best the people around her tolerated her, because of what she did, because of what she could do. At worst—

“Even so, I’ll just, I’ll just leave. Sorry again, I really didn’t mean to—”

But as she stood, the world tilted all funny and her left leg gave out.

“Woah there!” Pearl yelped, rushing forward and catching Cleo. Her face burned, mortification as hot as fire (and a strange, fluttering, something else at being held and caught by Pearl, something Cleo couldn’t quite name), but attempting to straighten herself and get off only resulted in her stumbling again.

“Easy, easy, hey! Here, let’s get you back to bed.”

One massive, rotting (but no longer smelly or rot-stained) arm hooked around Pearl’s shoulders, Cleo had to allow herself to be helped back to the bed. She collapsed onto it, looking nowhere but the wool, face undoubtedly red and only made more obvious by the pallor of her skin. She could feel her shoulders hiked up to her ears, and knew what a pathetic sight she must make.

Her, the Warrior, feeble as a lamb and flushed with shame. But Pearl was merciful, or just so cheerfully off her rocker she didn’t realize, and didn’t mention it.

“Stay there and rest up. I’ll make more soup! Soup soup soup.”

“I don’t mean to monopolize your bed,” Cleo mumbled, trying. Trying so hard. She always tried so hard.

“Oh, that’s not my bed! That’s just the bed I use whenever I need to sleep on the ground floor. Tilly can’t climb the tower with me, and sometimes I don’t feel like going all the way up there,” Pearl said, pulling ingredients out of her bag. “That’s actually where I just was! I keep my supplies up there, but I wasn’t about to try and carry you all of the way up!”

“You… live in a tower?” Cleo prompted, desperately clinging to what she hoped was a relatively normal conversation.

“Yup! Stone tower, only one ladder down and up. Super easy to defend; not a lot of zombies have the dexterity to climb that high and even if they do I can just shoot ‘em off.” She poured water into the pot and Cleo felt a fresh wave of guilt. She probably should’ve at least tried to clean it before Pearl started cooking in it again.

“Sorry to drag you down here.” To make her do all that, to force her to fetch her supplies. Really, Cleo was such a waste, what was she even doing here, she needed to go back and report—

“If you apologize to me again I’m gonna throw a spoon at your face,” Pearl said, her cavalier cheer not faltering even slightly.

“You—what?” Cleo blinked at the disparity between her words and her tone.

Pearl giggled, casting a glance over her shoulder. With the hood of her riding cloak down, her brown hair spilled attractively over her shoulder, and her red eyes seemed much more homey and autumnal in the cabin’s firelight than they had on the battlefield.

“I said you’re not bothering me, so you’re not bothering me! If you keep apologizing for nothing, I’m gonna whack ya!”

“I—well I am sorry!” Cleo said, face furrowed in worry and confusion. “Ow!”

“That’s what you get! I warned you!” Pearl half-shouted as she crossed the little living space to scoop the spoon up off the floor. Tilly, finally awoken, cocked her wolfish head at Pearl. “Tilly, I warned her. I told her to her face if she apologized again I’d whack her. Nobody ever listens to me Tilly, I tell you.”

“Maybe they don’t listen because you’re ridiculous,” Cleo groused, but her pride was more wounded than her nose.

Pearl just laughed.

Cleo’s strength returned in the coming days, piece by piece. She’d been more injured than she’d originally assumed, and the chunks of muscle the zombies had torn out of her took their sweet ass time regrowing. In that time, the rot along the seams of her resurfaced, too, but Pearl patiently helped Cleo bathe it out of them, the cracks in her skin kept clean and dry and warm.

It was… rather awkward, bathing with another person. But Pearl had the body-shame of a naked animal, no more or less content fully clothed than she was fully nude, and Cleo couldn’t reach all her rotting bits by herself, so Pearl helped her. There was… something else, weird, at being naked around Pearl and seeing Pearl naked, but Cleo didn’t dare try to put a word to it. She wasn’t brave enough for that.

Slowly, she worked her way up to helping Pearl with chores, first sedentary tasks, then helping her haul firewood or stone or tilling dirt out in the garden. Tilly and her pups were now fully accustomed to Cleo’s presence, and darted about her heels happily. She helped play with and groom them, too.

She also worked on regaining her strength, training with her sword and axe. Despite the fact that her muscle was all new and tender-fresh, she felt better than she ever had. Stronger, steadier, more certain on her heavy feet. Was it the food? The gentle way Pearl daubed the rot out of her seams? The sleep? Cleo had never needed such things, but maybe… maybe it was alright for her to want them.

She certainly didn’t miss the phantoms.

The two were out in Pearl’s fields one afternoon, sun high and cheerful in the sky, when Cleo lost herself in thought, staring in the direction she’d come from. She needed to go back. She needed to make her report. She needed to take her next mission. She’d been here, wasting time, long enough.

“Cleo?” Pearl asked, approaching closer and leaning on her hoe. Uncharacteristically quiet, for Pearl. Uncharacteristically knowing. “...You have somewhere you need to go, huh?”

She said it like she was already resigned to the answer. Like Cleo had already broken her heart.

Cleo tore her eyes from the horizon and laid them squarely on the brave and crazed and beautiful woman next to her. She did, was the problem. She needed to go. She needed to forfeit the silly name she’d picked out for herself and resume her purpose. But she wanted—

She wanted…

She smiled, and it didn’t feel so forced. “No, Pearl. I was just, just thinking, you know? What if I stayed?”

Pearl blinked, red eyes wide and shocked. Cleo’s smile deepened.

“What if I stayed here,” she asked, reaching out her large hand to cover Pearl’s much smaller one, to thread their fingers timidly together, “with you?”

What if she stayed. What if she didn’t go back. What if the only time she ever walked in that direction was when she staggered backwards, feet barely catching herself from falling, as Pearl launched herself into her arms, knocking their heads together as she kissed her.

#pearlcleo #pearleo #double life smp #mcytyuriweek2023 #pearlescentmoon #zombiecleo #mcyt #mcyt yuri week #I REMEMBERED THE CHARACTER AND SHIP TAGS THIS TIME!!!!#my writing #haro writes #zombie apocalypse #bathing #hurt/comfort #we looooove that good good h/c babyyyy #dehumanization

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