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kim-monsterlings · 3 years

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Edel - M Nokken x F Human (Reader) // NSFW

The pictures do not belong to me. I only created the mood board, with a thank you to @handy-dandy-monster-candy for helping edit the photos! Do not repost my work anywhere.

Content: NSFW/Lemon; mentions of moving home, selkie friend, light flirting, gifted flowers, bakery treats, slight angst, flirting with fae, kissing, receiving oral, penetrative sex (+ mention of protection), with a fluffy ending

Wordcount: 4302

Faebruary Summary: of your new neighbour and struggling to befriend him

Masterlist // Faebruary Masterlist

No more than twice before moving in had you met your soon-to-be neighbour. On both occasions – the first a tour of the cosy, ground floor apartment, and the second on the day of finalising the lease - he greeted you with the gentlest of handshakes, warmed by a tenderness born of restrained strength. He owned the building and lived in the flat across from yours, apparently for years now.

“Call me Edel. It’s my pleasure,” he’d said the first morning, with a tilted smile and a soft, almost musical accent. His voice distracted you the entirety of the tour so much so that the flat itself barely made an impression. Instead, you remembered Edel and the soft waves of long, dark hair, how the sunlight caught his cheekbones when passing large, bay windows. “You’ll love it here. I promise.”

Had you moved in for the neighbour with a crooked smile and his unimposing nature, a month from dragging indoors the last of your belongings, you would have been sorely disappointed. Even your first meeting left you wanting more; whether that came in a passing smile when crossing in the hall or more, you weren’t yet sure. With less than a couple of feet from his home to yours, you still couldn’t find it in you to initiate that new relationship, and now it felt like you had waited too long.

You didn’t need to wait any longer.

Moving entwined with an independence you had lacked. Now closer to work, closer to friends and with enough distance from home you really felt free, settling into a new routine preoccupied you for a month. That, and decorating with warmer shades of paint and softer cushions, so that now, curled beneath small window lights, you saw him.

The farthest end of your shared garden faded into outgrown woods, sheltering a lake so far only seen in the advertised photos of the property. Not a cloud marred the pale light cast over Edel’s bare back, shadowed by the hair loose against his shoulder blades. He left the back entrance of the building barefoot, never looking from the tree line before fading into it.

He hadn’t returned when you retreated to bed, no matter how slow you walked, peeking back and hoping for another glimpse. With a fresh coffee in hand the next morning, a blur drifted by, the slender form of your neighbour emerging from the woods. In this light, warmer and clearer for your prying, a slight sheen glistened over his bare body, curls where his hair before rested straighter. Steam no longer rose from your mug when you finally looked away, but it was harder to force Edel from your mind.

Retaining the picture of the slight hue beneath falling water led you into your favourite bakery hours later. Favourite not only because your best friend owned it, but now for its proximity to your home, too. This infatuation thrived in the space of a month alone, then being for the soft touch of his palm to yours a, his quiet laugh at your persistent questioning the flat before he answered each with enduring patience. It was more than that, now, and when your close friend found you in her doorway, the dappled pelt draped around her shoulders reconciled with your neighbour’s night passed in a lake, and his melodic way of speaking.

Isla’s loose braids of pepper hair rested along her coat, flyaway strands wisping around her dimpled cheeks when she grinned. Since your moving, where before you would only see one another on occasion, you would pass with a wave, either beckoned by her or entering with some time for catching up, just to make up for the distance no longer between you.

Though, not today, and without a word of pleasantry you said, “I think my neighbour is fae.”

“You mean Edel?” With Isla so close and her recommendation an incentive to renting the flat, her knowledge of the area was invaluable, even in muffling a laugh behind a cough. Her lips still curled when she continued, “he’s a nokken. Didn’t you know?”

She asked like your drawn eyebrows and frown hadn’t been answer enough. “Like fae? Water fae?”

“Distantly fae.” As Isla reached for your favourite treats, the light caught her pelt. “You seem to attract us.”

Her teasing warmed through you as she handed you the warmed bag. She refused payment, though didn’t turn you from the tip jar on the promise of seeing her tomorrow.

This hadn’t changed anything. You loved your home and living with a nokken hadn’t – wouldn’t, change that.

Knowing what he was, tonight you crept nearer the windows at the faint creaking of doors opening in the hall. The same silhouette left and without the marring confusion or worry for him leaving so late, you tiptoed closer. On a darker night, the moonlight illuminated his muscles tensing with each step further from where a human would choose to rest.

Halfway gone, he faltered, a misstep bringing pale light to cast from his chest to his low hips. Hair darker than the shadows clinging to him tangled about his slender frame when his head tilted. With the slight wind fluttering his hair, it would frame his sharp features beautifully tied back, but then his eyes reflecting white light pinned you. Only then had you the sense to duck.

That shame clung to you long after retreating from your lounge. Maybe he hadn’t seen you, rather only the curtain swaying as you fled, but he had sensed you all the same, turned right to where the the netting tucked back for you to follow him down to the trees. If not for the signed lease, the mortification nearly had you packing your things.

Even as temptation tickled you with a shadow passing your window, you smothered it. Where you curled into the counter, kettle boiling, was far from view had he ever been able to see into your home; he couldn't through net curtains, but reminding yourself came with the sting of shame from last night.

Hiding from him worked until gentle raps came at your door. If he had come now to question your staring, to challenge your urge to watch him walk deeper like he belonged in the night, no defence would rise to your lips.

Edel braced himself on your doorframe. He'd just returned from the lake: hair curling now, the loose trousers cloying to his thighs. That little defence you had ready - an apology, really, drowned beneath the breath fleeing you at his fingers brushing your cheek.

“Come with me."

What little knowledge of fae you now cherished alarmed you, but not so much you didn't move from him. "To the water?"

"Wouldn't you like to?" Lake water followed the muscle of his chest, ending at the darker hairs of his abdomen. Edel's smile burned when you found him looking down to you. "Is that not why you watch me?"

"Call it curiosity," you said, though your breath trembled. He had seen you.

His warm hand fell from your cheek. "Tomorrow, then?"

With a noncommittal, "maybe," and a shared smile, Edel left you to collapse back against your closed door.

No invitation called you to the lake, but a water lily laid outside your door reminded you of the nokken across the hall. The cheaper rent - now, you knew, from fear of living with a creature like him, one related to fae - blessed you not only with a blossoming friendship, but fresh flowers brightening your home with his returns.

Each night on his path to the woods, Edel would pause. Sometimes that was all, just a second's hesitation, but other nights, he would turn and find you half-hidden. Those nights you treasured for the slight tipping of his head to the trees in an extended invite.

You never accepted, and he never stopped offering.

It wasn't so much the fear of entering unfamiliar waters with a nokken hindering you but that you would embarrass yourself. The bright lilies started your day warm, and to follow him would cross a line you weren't ready for; but one you so badly wanted to cross.

The soon familiar routine and its floral scent hadn’t seemed anything more than pleasantries, until a night you replaced the water for the flowers after waving Edel down the garden. Out of love for Isla when she waived a cost, you returned a tip, but you hadn’t offered anything for the flowers nor the smiles from your neighbour. Your friend would never claim a debt against you and while, you doubted Edel would, hoped he wouldn’t, the accumulation following weeks living on his property could amount to any kind of debt, if he chose to claim it.

What better way to appease fae, than with gifts in return?

"Fae like sweet things," Isla told you that afternoon. Sugar coated her fingertips from a long day, a slight dusting along her coat tucked at the back counter, never far from her. She gestured back to the shelves of recipes lining the old bakery.

That wasn’t all that you wanted, though. Isla waited while you fidgeted, seeking the right words. Of course fae liked sweet things, but you wanted Edel to like them, too. Not solely for their purpose in repaying a debt but for who gifted them.

“Like?”

"Bake him something sweet and the effort is gift enough. Try this."

Your friend scowled at the note tucked into her tip jar on handing over a recipe, but waved you out with a smile. The honey-sweetened scent lingered in your home with the flowers after meticulous effort, wafting with you into the hall.

Edel’s breath formed your name, your bodies brushing from his step taken out of his door. On time, too, and the flowery perfume rose from him, stronger and somehow sweeter. His gentle hands rose to your arms, thumbs rubbing slow circles. He was all that stopped you from trembling.

Through a warm accent, he asked, "have you come to join me?"

"Another night, maybe."

"Maybe," he echoed. His eyes fell to where you lifted a warm box. "Those smell lovely."

"They're for you. For the flowers."

"For the flowers," he whispered. The gentle embrace broke like he planned to accept your gift, but instead he brought a foot of distance between you. "You do not owe me anything. If the flowers created such an impression, I am sorry."

The forced tilt to his lips came and went before you could explain, and you stood in the hall long after the backdoor swung open and shut again.

He hadn't returned the next morning. No flower graced your doorstep but when you were just stepping indoors from work, the blur passed your window earlier than each night before, and your stomach dropped.

The tentative friendship fractured further come morning, at a time your absence was known. No flowers came when you left, but the backdoor closed as you turned down the hall. Your distraction allowed him time to leave without your seeing.

So when you finished a painfully long week of waiting and hoping to cross paths, you waited some more. You would go to the water as he had always hoped but going at a time when he was there hadn't been harder. He went to avoid you and by chance after waking late in the night unsettled, finding a glimmer of moonlight disturbed by your neighbour fading banished all remnants of sleep.

In all your nights of peeking through curtains, Edel had never shivered. It was cold. It was windy and dark and you had never been so far down the garden, spurred into the trees by the persisting ache in your chest. It eased when you neared the lake, but replaced with dread as you knelt on a small, wooden platform jutting over the bank.

The water was unforgivingly dark. An unholy screech tore from you when something skimmed your hand hovering against the surface. Edel rose faster from the water to steady you than you could comprehend, cold hands gripping you by your ribs before you toppled forward.

His thumbs stroked in slow circles as you forced yourself to calm down. "You deserved that."

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your heart a weight in your throat. "I miss the flowers."

"Oh?" His head tilted, bringing long hair to cling to his chest in slight waves. "The flowers and their debt?"

Each word hit like a crack to your ribs. "I'm sorry."

When his hold left, it felt like more of a rejection than his avoidance, until he sighed. "It's late."

"It wasn't just repayment. It was a gift, too." He hadn't looked up again. "I promise I've not be waiting, either."

Edel breathed a laugh. "How did you know to come now?"

"I saw you leaving."

His lips rose as you seemed to lie, but before you could remedy it, his palms flattened to the deck. He rose on the strength of his arms alone until water lapped at his hips. It was when he continued to lift himself that the absence of any clothing had you staggering back.

Old wood groaned beneath you but it was quieter than when you said, "I can walk back alone."

At first unsure, his fingertips brushed yours. You hadn't looked back - he was standing, dripping, bare, but curled your hand with his until you muffled your surprise at the touch of webbed skin, as timid a touch as his following whisper.

"You don't have to."

The walk would have been silent, had you not asked to suppress the rising fluttering in your chest, "why aren’t you cold?"

"Are you cold?"

"Freezing."

Edel squeezed his hand to yours. "Then dress warmer tomorrow. Goodnight."

Tomorrow came so soon, with a soft tap to your door all it took before you were smiling up to find him leaning close. No lily, but he reached out to take your hand again.

"Before we go," he murmured, and you rested against the closed door, angled back below him. "Do you know how long this apartment was left empty? Before you?"

His face fell when you shook your head. "I knew it was empty for some time, but…"

"Two years. Over twenty-six months." His touch softened when he released your hand, revealing the thin webbing tickling you. Edel's lips twitched when you traced along it with your fingertip. "Do you know why?"

You hadn't the heart to say it, only nodding.

"Those lilies were gifts," he began and stared at your hands sliding together. "I may be folk, but I have no malicious intent in luring you to the lake. I only ever sing in the shower or beneath the water. If I ever-"

"Never," you said. Irrespective of whatever threat he thought of he posed, you didn't care.

"I'd love your company."

When you tugged on his hand, he fell in step. "I'd love yours, too."

Late in the evening, Edel would meet you in the hall. Until you shivered or tired, you would spend the time on the deck while he floated in the water. The lilies returned after he ventured back to the lake, but without fail, he walked you back the short way to your door. His touch would pull on your hand until falling with a smile always soft on parting.

What little progress made found its way back to Isla when she urged you in, with instructions to offer him the same treats he before refused; not as a gift like they had been, but something you wanted to give him. You promised to meet him later, after you had warmed the honeyed puddings, even holding your ground when his frown tugged at your heart before leaving. Carrying them down to him was worth it, if only for the rising nerves in your chest - the good kind.

The scent teased him from the water. Edel extended a hand to draw you closer before his bright eyes widened. "Not in trade?"

"Not in trade,” you nodded. “I promise."

"While I do believe you," he murmured, and your throat tightened as he lifted himself to your height. "If this is not in trade, give me something more."

His breath fluttered against your face. Your fingers curled against the edge of the platform. "Like?"

"One kiss." Edel's hand stroked from your crossed leg up, rising to your waist. "If you would like to. As a gift."

The wood might have splintered beneath your hands when you lifted your chin. Water dripped from his hair, cold to your face but the heat of him, his hand tight against your hip, lit a fire in your stomach.

It lasted no more than a passing second before water rose back to his chest. Edel grinned from the lake, his lips fleeting against your knuckles still locked tight to hold yourself from following him in.

He no longer left bare down to the garden since your accompanying him, though the night you first saw him, he hadn’t been either. Whether he dressed anticipating your stare choked you, but freed you to turn once to your door. Edel stilled at the kiss his cheek and you were inside before he could fully utter your name aloud.

His cheek tasted of the sugar form your honey treats.

Another week, you would have celebrated the weekend, but nothing helped pass the time until it was late enough his door opened. Edel hadn't closed it again before you were there, breaths fast and smiling up.

"I'm coming."

"Good," he breathed, before lowering himself to steal a light kiss. His hand tugged on yours. "Now?"

Though this had been why you were restless all day, having him soften, both hands rising to your cheeks to lift you closer, nearly made you faint. He whispered your name and kissed you so gently, you tiptoed and sought him again.

This time, he lingered. With your foreheads together, he ran his hands along your arms. "I've never kissed someone into stupor before."

"Don't tease," you gasped. He was still sweet on your lips and he carried that same floral scent you loved, clouding your thoughts.

"Was I not clear?" He kissed you again but lifted himself so you could see the warmth to his pale cheeks. "It's you I want, not just company."

"Me?"

"You."

"You want me?" Edel hummed, his touch tracing up your arms again. "Prove it."

He gasped and as he stared after you, inching backwards over the threshold, it felt like too much of an overstep. Then it passed and he followed you, the door closed and locked behind him.

His lips rose crooked. "Go on, then."

The apartment mirrored yours in layout and later, by his side, you would marvel at the softer hues in his decorating, more greens and greys, but you were running beyond the lounge, past large windows to an open bedroom door.

His arms came around you and aided in slipping free your clothes, until his bare chest warmed your back. "I'm to prove I want you, yes?" The heat of his palm stroked down your stomach. "Is that right?"

"Yes," you gasped, trembling already at his hand slipping lower.

"Kneel on the bed for me," he whispered to your throat and you were helpless, only hesitating at the end. Edel circled the bed and when he turned, your stomach fluttered at him tying his long hair up. His chin tipped in an unmistakable invitation. "Come here, beautiful."

His hands on your thighs lifted you closer when you gasped, astride his chest and swallowing hard. He kissed your inner thigh, undeterred by your small whine.

"Wouldn't this be better if I laid down?"

His tongue ran over his lips. "Please."

"If you need to stop," you whispered, though the strain of withholding yourself from bringing his flushed lips to where you ached most nearly overcame you. “Edel?”

"If I need air, I will tap your thigh. I won't, though," he teased, and guided you to kneel around his head, so grateful his hair had already been knotted back. "Come here…"

You lowered yourself evidently not fast enough, as Edel let free a groan and drew in a slow breath. The headboard trembled with your clutching it tight, knuckles aching like last night on the lake's platform.

One, slight touch of his hot tongue to your slit had you gasping, forgoing any inhibitions and rolling down against him. Edel made as many sounds of contentment and circled his thumbs into your thighs, parting your folds for him to lift his face higher.

"Do you… do you need me to-"

"Closer."

Edel's groan came when his lips softened against your clit, gentle at first before he focused there, mindful of how you clenched and what made you whine, then what made you gasp. The flattening of his down dragged, coaxing your cries louder. He drew on the coil burning in your navel with each stroke of his hot tongue, down until he curled it against your aching centre and tasted you around him.

One hand fell low, tugging at his hair to keep him close. Every flick of the muscle prolonged the tingling running down your spine, down to your toes curled on the sheets.

Soft palms gripped your thighs in aiding you back once your moans eased to harsher breaths. Edel settled you over his lap, but your body already so sensitive against him made you tingle again. He faced you with a glistening smile, one tended to by his tongue before you chased after his moan.

"Is that proof enough?"

Your forehead rested to his, breathing deep. "Proof?"

"Proof of how much I want you." He laid kisses along your throat and when you thumbed the waist of his trousers, his eyelids fell low with a hummed moan. "Say no."

"No."

His cheeks were flushed, hair curling at his temples from your body around him, so unlike the weight to his dark stare. "I'd like to prove my want with you sitting like this-" he rolled his hips up against you, and both of you shared a moan. "Is that what you'd like?"

Edel relinquished himself to you. Only in trousers, you caught yourself moaning just from reaching to stroke his length. He stretched from the bed for protection as you inched closer again. The tint of blue to his body tempted you closer, wanting nothing more than to already have him.

Edel kissed the heat falling from your cheeks down to your throat as you undressed him. The tint to his body captivated you, down to the blue hue to his dark head. He stretched back from the bed for protection, though trembled with the pad of your thumb tracing up the veins running along his length.

That shared thought brought his hands to your hips, your body lifting above him. His cock pressed to you, slick and aching, and you clenched around him when taking him deep. That sensitivity hadn't faded and dizzied you, adjusting still when he kissed you.

"I was right. My pleasure," he said, before his body moved against you, his cock dragging along your fluttering walls.

My pleasure, he'd greeted you on your first meeting, but you disagreed. Every arch of his body brought him deeper, and every kiss enticed another whimper until you were trembling so soon around him again.

"So beautiful," he whispered. His hand cradled your face, thumb running along your parted lips as he peppered touches along the column of your throat. "Everything I've ever wished for."

"Edel-"

He gasped with you as you tightened your legs around his hips, clinging to him at the returning pressure in your abdomen. The lake could wait. You wanted to spend forever in his arms, letting your head fall back so his tongue could trace down to your collarbones.

Edel grunted from your hand unravelling his hair, only to draw his lips to yours as his thumb graced your flushed clit. One firm stroke and you cried loud, your rhythm faltering as your orgasm overcame you. He continued to rub your nerves, an arm banded tight around you until he moaned your name and stiffened.

Until your breaths eased, you clutched each other close. The gentleness in his care as you rested by his side was no different than any other time, tucking an arm beneath your crown as you lazed in his hold.

You woke alone.

The bedsheets were cold, tousled and bathed in the same moonlight he had left you for. No light came from his lounge as you left in his trousers and your shirt.

The night wasn't so cold, but quiet. Each step nearing the lake matched your racing heart, and it rose to a crescendo finding him waiting in the water, reaching out to hold you when you undressed. Even if the night hadn't been cold, the water was, so you curled tighter to his chest.

"You left."

He waded deeper, kissing your temple. "I'd have been by your side before you truly woke."

"I'm awake now."

Edel breathed quietly against your hair. "I wanted you to feel free to go."

"Is that what you want?" If not for the water strengthening his embrace, you would have turned away. "For me to leave?"

His lips curled down, though he looked beyond you. "I'd rather now than later."

"Was I not clear?" Edel's shoulders softened from beneath his jaw. "It's you I want, until you want me gone."

Where his lips had been hours before, he kissed your throat, soft against your flitting pulse. It was promise enough as he cradled you to him, holding you all the way back to his bed, and neither of you planned on leaving soon.

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darkacademicfrom2021 · 3 years

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The Dark Team (part 12)

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(Taglist: @lucywrites02, @louieboo87, @the-departed-potato, @jesuswasnotawhiteman, @idontknow296, @beksib, @spythoschei, @geekwritersworld, @whatafuckingdumbass, @mysticunicorn7 @shadowolf993 @toe-vind-ek-jou @joscelyn02, @t00-pi, @irwxnhugsx)

Warnings: alcohol.

Disclaimer: pic not mine.

After the sun came completely down and the night bathed the city, making the flashing lights of the buildings and cars look like the sky had spat all of its stars, you gathered all your work and called it a day. Thor, Steve and Bucky were able to go through everything you told them to, and everything was in control. You had managed to solve a chaotic situation from the distance, and the pleasant feeling of doing things right gave you the last push to close your laptop and join Peter and Loki.

Opening one of the windows, you let the fresh wind hit your face and unfurrow your brows, releasing all the tensions you had been accumulating all week long. Peter sneaked up from outside the building and hung upside down from the frame. You gasped, forgetting for a brief moment he was sticky and not completely out of his mind.

“Are you joining us, older?”.

“Yes, little. I’m going”, you laughed at the comeback of the nicknames. Standing for older sibling and little sibling Tony had baptized you with, years ago. Loki chuckled.

“You two are the epitome of adorability, sometimes”.

“Oh, we can get worse”, you laughed.

You had ordered some food in, without wanting to ever touch the mess of that kitchen again, and a bottle of wine. Nobody was there, else than you three; might as well have fun. As you waited for dinner to arrive, you decided on a slide presentation night. You gave each other no more than twenty minutes to arrange it all, so the chaos would be absolute and uncontrollable.

Peter presented first, with a long powerpoint ranking things the Avengers did in “vine-vibes” ascending order. You two tried (and failed miserably) to explain to Loki what a vine was and why something would have its vibes without being actually a video.

Loki’s presentation was titled “Seven hundred reasons why you shouldn’t worship the God of Sparkly hands”. There were actually only six reasons; two of them were about mass murders he was about to commit, and most of them talked about annoying things he did as a child. There was an extra one where it was just a white background and tiny letters in the middle saying “he dyes his hair blonde, he’s actually a redhead”.

Your presentation was titled “Seven hundred and one reasons why you should worship me instead”. No need to elaborate. They all differed except for Friday; she clapped with her electronic hands.

Two board games and some chess later, the food had already arrived. Peter was famished and ate more than you could’ve imagined a boy was capable of. He got so full, so quickly, that he instantly got sleepy. Loki could not bite his tongue and had to say “just like a baby”. It did not help that you snorted, and Peter shot his webs at you two; Loki avoided them and you couldn’t, so you ended up stuck to the roof. Peter started to walk to his room, leaving you up there.

“Hey, hey! Don’t leave, I’m still here!”, you called him. But he was gone. What an avenger. Loki chuckled, and raised his hand to free you with magic, and you instantly realized you were six meters away from the floor. “Wait! I’ll fall!!”.

He didn’t stop, and dissolved the net with a simple spell. As you fell down, you closed your eyes and tried to cover your head, knowing you’d have at least a broken bone. Peter has done this before, you knew there was no way to actually leave unharmed. Loki’s arms tightened around your body, avoiding you to fall flat against the floor.

As you looked up, you met his face, closer than ever. Closer than it ever has been. Your heart skipped a beat, and you knew you had to think about something else than the feeling of his chest against yours, his hands in your back, how he was holding you so gently, how he was looking at you so dearly. You knew you had to think about something else; for he could be reading your mind. He surely was. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t stop focusing on his peach lips and how soft his cheeks looked from up close. You couldn’t see anything else than the movement of his Adam’s apple when he swallowed hard, and how his hand trembled a little in your back.

He let you down slowly, still holding eye contact, still with his arms around you. Not the threatening gaze he would hold against everyone else on the compound. Not the lustful gaze he would sometimes draw while stealing some glances at you changing on your suit (he thought you didn’t notice, you certainly did). Not the concentrated gaze he would hold still on his face while reading one of those books he always carried around.

It wasn’t any of those. You had studied them thoroughly, meticulously, every inch of his facial expressions, every inch of his being while he wasn’t aware of your eyes on him. God, how you hated to look at him this way, but how much you couldn’t avoid it. Your brain knew you shouldn’t get attached. You had no chance at all to be with him; he was a God, a criminal, and he’d go back to Asgard. And, foremost, he didn’t feel the same. He had a lover, and his mind was still there, stuck in that person, undeletable.

And, as much as you could have read him like a children’s book the entirety of the past week, right now, you had no clue what those green eyes on you meant. You had no idea why the blush on his cheeks was in there, and why he let out a tiny (the tiniest, ever so subtle) gasp. Parted lips that shone, looked so…

You shook your head, closing your eyes. He didn’t let go of his grip around you, but your feet were already on the floor. You could’ve walked away if you wanted to. And you wanted to, you definitely did not want to stay there, and sink your nose in his neck. You certainly did not want to play with his hair while staring at those pair of emeralds he couldn’t keep away from you. You couldn’t read him. He looked at you in a way you’ve never seen him before. Yet it felt so… right.

No, it wasn’t right. God, what were you thinking?

He pulled away, and the cold breeze from the window surrounded your body. You didn’t realize how much body heat he was warming you with until he left. Or maybe it was your own. Your face was still burning. You visibly cringed at your reaction, and could not play it cool at all. He chuckled, again, and walked to the kitchen.

You didn’t say anything. Your face still burned, and your chest was tight. You haven’t felt like this in a long time, why now? Why in the middle of an important mission? Why just now, that he specifically told you he would not stay, and that once he left he would not come back? Why now, that he was opening a bottle of wine in the kitchen, and pouring it in two glasses?

Opening the balcony’s doors, there were two metal chairs (those with delicate designs, that would usually belong to a grandma’s garden) and a round and tiny glass table, just waiting for you two to sit there. You needed fresh air, so you did, sinking in all the city, the active flashlights of the cars, the minute people running around, or walking.

Two glasses of wine clicked against the glass table, and Loki sat in front of you with his eyes fixed on the city, too. You observed him from the corner of your eye, and he did the same. A subtle smile drew across his tightened lips.

After a glass of wine, a refill and about an hour of small talk, he uncrossed his legs and stretched his arms and back with a yawn. The blush still remained intact on his cheeks, and it couldn’t be because of the wine. If you weren’t drunk, much less him. He looked back at you, and chuckled uncomfortably.

“What?”, he asked.

“What what?”.

“You’re staring”.

“Oh, sorry”.

“No, it’s fine”, he said, and you furrowed your brows. He specified, “I don’t mind. I wonder what you’re thinking while you stare, nothing more”.

“So you’re not reading my mind?”.

“No. You said you didn’t like that”.

“Ah”, you gave your glass of wine one last sip and emptied it. It was such a simple gesture, yet you didn’t expect him to actually have listened. Of course he would, he wasn’t actually as bad as he was portrayed by Stark, or so you have seen so far of him. “I just… I wonder about you”.

“About what?”.

“You’re difficult to read. My job here is mainly knowing how to read people”, you explained, and he nodded. “It’s almost like you’re purposely hiding. Like you’re shifting your microexpressions into whatever they are now, so nobody can see what you actually think or feel”. He let out a short chest laugh. Probably sarcastic, but how would you know.

“Who would actually want to know what goes through my mind?”.

“I do, just told you”.

He looked down and played with the empty glass in between his fingers. It looked small in comparison.

“You don’t want to, believe me”.

“Are you afraid of letting people in?”.

“No, it’s not that”, he said, trying to let you know he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. You ignored it and opened your mouth, but the words died in your tongue as he added, “please, don’t”.

“I wish I knew you better”, you said after a few more minutes of silence. You swore you heard a creaking foot on the stairs, peeping in the conversation. You ignored it; if Loki was to talk to you, he would also say it in front of Peter. Not like you had some sort of special bond, or even friendship. You kind of wished for it, though.

“Why?”. His knitted eyebrows showed how actually curious he was about that. He believed you. He was certain you were telling the truth, but he simply couldn’t put his head around it. Why would anyone want to know me better? What is it about me that you care? And you wished to know the reason, too. If you knew why you were so drawn to him, maybe you could’ve stopped yourself.

“I feel like I’m missing out on something”.

“Something like what?”.

“Something great”.

“There is no greatness in me, it’s all an act”.

“I know it’s all an act”, you said, referring to his whole I’m a God and you’ll kneel before me and I’m superior. “I don't mean that kind of greatness. You’re hiding the wrong things”.

“You’re not missing out on anything”, he insisted, and not for humility, but because he wanted to brush you off. Keep you away from him.

“Don’t you think we could ever get along? Friends, even?”, you pressured. You knew you shouldn’t have, but Loki didn’t take it badly. Instead, he finally looked at you, drawing a sad smile.

“I’m going back to Asgard after the mission. I don’t intend to make new friends”, he said, but a softness in his voice hinted he wasn’t being mean; simply stating the facts. Exactly as it should be.

“Why did you come only for this mission?”, you asked. You actually wanted to ask do you even have friends back there?, but you knew better.

“I owe Stark. I messed up and wanted to fix at least something with him. He’s not taking it too kindly, but I think he understands the intentions”, he explained, sitting back up on his chair and getting his eyes back on the city.

“A peace offering?”.

“More like an apology. Redemption, even”.

“Redemption? Do you see yourself as a villain to him?”.

He didn’t answer right away. Took his time to find the words.

“I wronged. I did things I shouldn’t have”, and then you realized, he wasn’t apologizing for the New York incident. It was personal. You even wondered, maybe… was he…? Was Tony actually the...? No, imposible. “I know helping out on a mission won’t cut it, but if I can at least be a little bit of help to his planet…”.

“May I ask what did you wrong him in?”.

“I tried to take over Midgard once”, he said, and you didn’t believe him.

“If you ask me, it’s not Stark’s place to accept that apology. He doesn’t own the planet, even though he thinks that”.

“Does he?”.

“He acts like such, at least. He has a big ego, but also a big heart. He’s the closest thing I have to a father”.

“I know”, and you weren’t sure what he had said I know to.

The night was kept awake with more small talk you wouldn’t remember the next day. You saw the sun rising from behind the buildings in silence, with a bad aftertaste of wine, takeout food and unspoken words that would stay just like that.

#loki #loki laufeyson #loki odinson #loki x reader #loki x gender neutral reader #loki x you #loki of asgard #tom hiddleston #marvel #loki mcu #mcu loki #loki x y/n #loki fanfic #loki headcanon #loki fic #loki fluff #loki angst #thomas sharpe

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slasherkisss · 3 years

Photo

CABIN FEVER - JASON VOORHEES X READER [CHAPTER 8]

Summary In an effort to remove yourself from your previous life in the big city, you move to Crystal Lake. The cabin you had inherited from your father makes the perfect place for a fresh start, however, there is a secret in these woods (and within yourself) that you must come to accept…and to love.

A/N I finally managed to get some muse for this again! I have an idea of where I’m going to go with it and I can’t wait to actually finish this project, I’m gonna do it if it kills me. Here’s the next chapter at least...a year later lol

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Months passed between the day of slaughter, and something inside of you felt heavy even after the deed had been said and done.

True to his word, Jason had taken care of everything. You had woken up the day after the Incident to clean sheets and the disappearance of both blood and body in your mind. It was as though the back of your head was trying desperately to push the thoughts of slaughter from you. To lock it away inside of your subconscious in a way that you would never be able to reach it again. It was something you didn’t need to remember, your brain insisted with desperation lacing the tone it usually took when it spoke to you, and you should simply accept that it would never be like that again.

The nightmares did not let you forget, though.

Each night seemed plagued with them, some more grueling than the other. More desperate in its plaintiveness each time you thought through the story that played within it. Your body in each dream pushed itself through dark, craggy forests and against the bare ground of soil. Roots curled with hunger at your legs as you chased your victim, breath heaving and weapon tight in your fist as you caught up to the terrified little thing. Your weapon always seemed to change in the time of your rest. Sometimes it was the trowel, pointed at its tip and built only for tilling the earth, and other times it was a machete with a glimmering blade and reflective steel like teeth bared for murder.

Sometimes, you were the one running from yourself. Your own form silhouetted in the darkness as you chased down who you knew you had to kill. Sometimes you tripped on the edges of roots so thick they might as well have been hands, and looked up into your own wild gaze. Your own form as you shakily held up the trowel against your fingertips. Sometimes it was you who screamed into the darkness as the weapon fell down into your skull and - oh - you could feel the pain in your body as the pressure drowned you in rivulets of dark red against soil.

You woke up more often than not during the night now, the nightmares ripping through your body in the form of a loud, shaky scream that would fill the forest late into the evening. You found yourself more than once awoken by Jason. His hands would cling to your sides and be pressing you firmly into the bed, keeping your arms away from yourself as what cuts you had given your skin due to your ragged nails blossomed over you. It was as though you were trying to write a message into your own body. If you squinted close enough, the lines you had scribbled with your keratin on the soft flesh or your inner arm were almost readable in their entirety.

Your fault. You did this. She’s dead. It was you! Always you.

As you pondered the threats of the voice inside of your head, staring idly at the slowly healing scars that littered your body now, you were pulled away by a knock at the door. It was a pounding and forceful thing that sent your already sensitive head reeling into a momentary headache. You could feel the pain behind your teeth and you could already tell it would slowly become a migraine after a few more hours of leaving it be. You were sure you had some pain killers somewhere left in your bathroom’s medicine cabinet. If not, you mused, you had willow bark and some rosemary out in your steadily growing garden. You could always whip up a remedy for it using those.

The second solid knock on the door made you more weary as you approached it, however. It was not how Jason knocked. He did so gently, afraid of breaking your doorframe if he slammed on it too hard. He never wanted to startle you with his force and, besides, as of late you’ve been allowing him to simply walk into your home without knocking. It was his home now as much as yours and the thought permeated your weariness to offer a fleeting touch of euphoria.

The third knock was accompanied by a voice.

“Hello? Is anyone home?”

You tensed, palms suddenly sweaty as you stared at the doorknob. You felt your stomach lurch in terror as you chewed on the inside of your cheek, biting down hard enough to feel the skin give into a bruising press of your molars. Jason was not due back from his daily patrol of the lake for an hour still. Likewise, he did not speak. He did not have a voice like that. Rough. Open. Unknown.

With a deep, long inhale you gripped the doorknob and slowly opened it up, the old wood creaking with every turn. You made a mental note to oil its hinges when you could.

The man standing in front of you was middle aged, the graying of the hairs littered in his beard giving it away that he was pushing closer to his 50s at the earliest. The thin lines of his wispy hair were hidden behind a dark brown Stetson rimmed with a small tassel of gold and a badge that indicated his status as a police officer from the local town station. Your mind could not read the words decorated on his tanned uniform. They floated against his skin like ancient hieroglyphs as you gripped the doorknob of your home tighter. Your knuckles turned white behind the frame.

You felt a cold rush of air hit your body and you stiffened, brows furrowing as you tried to act surprised and not as terrified as you felt beneath your skin.

“Afternoon, Ma’am,” The officer tilted his hat respectfully at you, “Sorry to bother you in… Your home. I just had a couple of questions for you regarding a few missing folks if that’s alright.”

You did not miss the pause in his tone as he looked around the forest, clearly uncomfortable in the vast outdoor space. You almost wanted to snort. Wasn’t it his job to patrol the woods? To keep hooligans and stupid hunters out of here in the first place? No, he wasn’t even doing that. Instead it was Jason who protected this forest. Who kept everything within it safe, far better than this fool who stood before you could ever do. You shifted on your feet, ignoring the damp spot of sweat growing on the back of your neck.

“Y-Yes that’s quite alright,” You managed out in a surprisingly even tone, your stutter passing as surprise for seeing an officer so suddenly, “It’s horrible to hear some people are missing, especially this time of year.”

“I know,” He sounded almost genuine in his remorse, “That’s why we’re asking around in case anyone’s seen them. Last I heard from another source, they were up camping out in the forest area around here. I figured since you lived up here, you’d be able to tell me if you’ve seen anything of ‘em around or close to your property? Have you ever walked around the forest and caught sight of some folks? Or seen any campsites set up close by, maybe?”

Your mind flashed to the images of the bodies dead on the forest floor, their red blood soaking into the mossy ground. Dead eyes stared forward at you in your mind, glossy with haze and their faces contorted into fear as their brains decorated the edges of tree trunks around you. You remembered the woman, your spade lowered into her skull and her blood warm on your hands as you watched her still pulsating organs devour themselves in an ouroboros of sin.

“Ma’am?”

You looked up with surprise, snapping yourself out of your momentary disassociation. You swallowed and sighed.

“Sorry, I was thinking if I’d seen anyone,” You were surprised how easily the lie left your lips as you shook your head, “Unfortunately, I haven’t seen anything but the deer lately. As far as I know, no one’s been around here.”

There was a momentary pause in the conversation. A quiet lapse as the officer gazed forward at you, a furrow to his brow marking his concern. Your heart pounded hard in your chest, moving its way up to your throat. He knew, you thought with terror rising in your veins, he knew that you were lying. That you had done it. He saw through your lies and into your soul. Into your sins and-

“Alright,” He nodded, “Thanks for your input. Now you don’t hesitate to call the station if you see any suspicious activity in this place, alright? It’s dangerous living alone in this forest, but rest assured we’ll keep it under control.”

“It’s been pleasant so far,” You find yourself speaking out softly, almost with a smile, “But I… appreciate the security, Officer…”

“Hughes. Darcy Hughes,” He introduced himself, his smile lines emphasizing his age as he gave you a brisk nod, “Take care of yourself and don’t get into any trouble, then.”

“I’ll certainly do my best.”

With another tilt of his hat and a hum to his lips, he turned away from you to file back into his police car that he had brought out, the top of it already slightly covered by fallen pine needles and leaves. He brushed them off gently before getting back in, offering one last wave to you through his windshield. You waved back, a smile plastered on your face as you watched him start up his vehicle, back out of the dirt driveway, and turn down the barely wide enough path to the town once more.

You didn’t stop waving until you were sure his car was out of sight. Slowly you turned back into your home, closing the door behind you, where you stood for a long, quiet moment.

Your legs shook the next second, trembling so hard that they gave out from underneath you. You collapsed to the floor, gasping for a breath you didn't realize you had been holding this whole time. You coughed, wincing at the pain of splinters gathering in your kneecaps, and you threw your hands out to catch yourself as you heaved. For a moment you felt like you were going to vomit onto the floor in front of you, but your throat was so dry with exhaustion that nothing dared to come up and ruin its scratchy heat.

You did it. You had made it out of that situation. Yet the weight on your shoulder burned like a brand, searing an invisible mark into your flesh as you cried out in pain, arching your back as if to escape the sensation.

Liar, your mind laughed at you, what a liar, lair, lair-

A new knock on the door startled you from your writhing episode on your floor. Your face paled in terror. Was the officer back? Maybe you could ignore his knocking. Maybe you could pretend to be in the back of your house and ignore the sound that scratched on your eardrums like a funeral march. Perhaps it was Jason? Returning early from his patrol and sensing your distress behind the door of your home? Your heart momentarily sparked with hope as you stood up on your feet again, feeling light headed as you turned and reached out, wincing at the feeling of the knob beneath your hand once again.

When you pulled it open this time, it was neither Hughes nor Jason. But someone new.

He was an older man, older than Officer Hughes certainly, with barely any hair on his wrinkled, liver-spotted forehead. The way his lip shriveled around his mouth indicated his lack of teeth, his sagging cheeks only serving to make the glare of dark brown eyes he trailed on you all the more intimidating. He stepped forward, invading your space the moment you opened the door. The scent of alcohol was radiating off of him, making you want to gag and cover your mouth as you took one step back into your home, swallowing hard.

“C...Can I help you?”

“Saw you talkin with Officer Friendly there,” He growled out with a raise of his eyebrow, “Told him you didn’t see nothin, didn’t ya?”

“Well, yes I-”

“Been a while since you been in town too, huh?”

Your eyes widened in surprise. It was true, you rarely visited the small town just outside of Crystal Lake. Since your self sustaining farm had taken off, you really only visited for canned goods to stock up on during the winter, or to sell some of your fresh produce to the local grocery store for a little extra money in your pocket here and there. When you did visit, you rarely talked to any of the locals that did not demand your immediate business. You exhaled, your fingertips drumming on the wood of your door.

“I haven’t had a need to.”

The man smiled, confirming your hypothesis on his missing teeth.

“Ya may have fooled the police, girl, but oh I know. I know just what you are, you know. Ain’t gonna pull the wool over ol’ Eddie’s eyes, oh no siree.”

He - Eddie you guessed - got closer to you, his eyes narrowing in a squint as you set your jaw in worry.

“Yer a witch, ain’t ya.” The way he said it didn’t mean it was a question, “Livin out here with yer potions and yer nature. I bet ya killed those folks, too! But oh, it don’t matter. You got em fooled, don't you?”

He was advancing more now, dangerous in his posture towards you as you swallowed hard. You stepped back into your home, moving your grip on the door to quickly shut it, but his boot clad foot blocked the entrance so it didn’t shut all the way. You gasped as he crawled through the gap, a spider with crazed eyes and gnashing jaws as he reached out for you with a glare.

“I knew you’d be trouble since ya came! Changing our town’s ways an communin out here with them spirits. Y’ain’t gonna fool me, not me! You’ll get turned right in and they’ll see ya for what ya are, ya witch! Ya daughter of Satan! Ya-”

He suddenly wasn’t there anymore. With a surprised yelp his entire form was peeled away from your door. You held your breath in surprise, your heart beating loud in your ears as you waited for another sign that he would come in. That he would break the door down and rip apart your form in search of his evidence. In search of anything to call you a witch once more. You looked at your hearth of bones and dried plants, setting your jaw as you understood the accusations, but did not want to hear them.

Instead all you heard outside was another strangled gasp of surprise. A solid snap of something fragile. A thud of body to wood.

You waited a few more seconds before gripping the frame in trembling hands, slowly peeling the door open to reveal what had happened just feet from you in your home.

Eddie’s head was bent to face his back, his eyes wide and dead in shock as his jaw hung limply, broken and bruising the tender skin of his old face. Only a small amount of blood dribbled from the dislocation of his jaw and neck, the tendons bursting against the bruising skin. His fingers curled in on themselves like a dead spider would curl its legs on itself. You stared, blank and unsure for the longest of moments as your heartbeat slowed in your chest. As you licked your suddenly too chapped lips in an effort to hold back your growing smile.

You failed, exhaling as the edges of your mouth upturned into something of a wide, relieved looking grin. You looked upwards from the crumpled body before you, a blush heating your cheeks as you admired the man standing in front of it, his breath coming in ragged gasps against his chest as he followed your gaze.

Jason reached out to you, ignoring the body on your porch. His fingertips roamed the vast expanse of your skin, feeling for any wounds or any indication that you had been hurt before he could reach out to protect you. When you gave a swift sign of ‘I’m fine’ his shoulders sagged in relief. His gaze returned momentarily to the body at his side. One hand reached up to his form, the awkwardness of signing with just a single one making it hard to read but understandable nonetheless. He refused to let go of you for even a moment.

‘What happened?’

‘Police came. Townsfolk are getting suspicious.’

The hand on your shoulder tensed, the pressure in creasing for only a moment.

‘Then I’ll kill them.’

‘No! You can’t get all of them.’

‘I want you to be safe.’

‘I’m safe with you. Always with you.’

Jason paused then, his hand finally freeing your arm as he looked away. He gazed down at the body in front of him, its tangled limbs and broken spine an homage to just what he would do for you. As if aiding in his thoughts, the wind blew gently through the trees. Fallen leaves swirled upwards in a momentary tornado. In the background, your chickens clucked in their coops and the soil housing both your plants and the dead bodies gathered for fertilizer filled Jason with a suddenly intense sort of want. He looked back at you. Through his mask you could see conviction. Surprised at the look, you tilted your head at him, brows furrowed in confusion. You reached your hand out to touch his face, rubbing along the rough edges of his hockey mask in a gentle gesture, one he leaned into as your touch grounded him.

“What’s wrong?” You spoke this time, your tone a weak whisper as you searched his gaze, “What are you thinking about?”

How he knew the next sign was beyond you, yet he moved his fingertips with such conviction that you could not help the heart stopping gasp that welled inside of you when he managed it:

‘Marry me.’

#jason voorhees x reader #jason voorhees imagine #jason voorhees #friday the 13th #friday the thirteenth #cabin fever #cabin fever series #slasher x reader #slasher imagine

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clevercxs · 3 years

Text

Believer - Sigefrid Thurgilson [Ch 4]

[MASTERLIST]

Pairing: Sigefrid Thurgilson x female oc

Warning: nsfw ;)

Word Count: 8.8k

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Midday rode in on its valorous steed, ridding Beamfleot of the prior night’s grim misfortunes and the fading afterglow of suffrage.

The sun’s rays, in their curious nature, seemed to peek through the fort’s highest window in an attempt to wake the Saxon princess, who snored away in a blissful, much needed slumber.

Unbeknownst to the sleeping beauty upstairs, tensions had risen amongst the Danes still hungover from the last night’s revelations, who were greeted with a rude awakening upon finding an empty cage in the centre of the hall. Their coveted princess had been intentionally freed and was virtually nowhere to be seen; she was not there, on display, for them to childishly taunt and harass.

Beneath messied curls of raven locks that had fallen over her pale face during the night, the princess’s eyes fluttered open, ever so slowly, and began to take in her new and unfamiliar surroundings. With a wide, breathy yawn that seemed to tug at the corners of her chapped lips, Blædswith carefully propped herself up on two feeble elbows that wobbled beneath her weight. Upon doing so she could feel the entirety of her shoulder ache, and broken ribs shift like creaky floorboards giving way.

Peering down, Blædswith was taken aback to see herself fully clothed in a woolen, sleeved nightgown that seemed to reach just above her ankles.

Her memory was a clouded haze, seeing as she couldn’t remember how she ended up where she had awoken; somewhere strange yet all familiar.

The room was dark and unnerving, though oddly enough felt cozy and inviting to the woman it confined. The walls were of beautifully aged stones, each one telling a story of famous Lords and Ladies past; of victorious songs chanted and arduous battles won. To the left of the king sized bed where she found herself, loomed a stone fireplace stretching towards a high ceiling of beams, encompassing a small kindling fire just large enough to warm the room without roasting the Saxon alive.

She could hear embers and small logs crackling, bringing a subtle grin to her lips out of its comforting familiarity. Plush fur rugs lined the wooden floor, forming a convenient trail towards the bedroom door carved in unfamiliar runes and other intriguing symbols.

Overwhelmed by the sudden change of scenery, Blædswith found herself curling into a ball beneath layers of thick fur pelts that had been draped over her sleeping form. Clutching a hand-sewn pillow tightly to her chest, she rolled over to dodge the blinding rays of light illuminating the cavernous room. Glancing up from where she lay still, she noticed the beautifully carved designs in the bed’s wooden frame, and the wrought iron candelabra hanging overhead by a single chain.

It was rather strange to finally be alone, where no prying eyes could violate her every move. For a brief moment, she almost allowed herself a feeling of freedom and joy, only to realize that the room had become her new cage. The only window was barred by thick wooden posts while the door, undoubtedly, was locked and heavily guarded on the outside.

Sigefrid wasn’t a complete fool to leave his most prized possession unattended and unprotected. Surely, he had learned his lesson, therefore no man was to be entrusted with her safety other than himself, the remaining few he trusted, or perhaps his merciful brother, Erik, whom the princess had already grown fond of.

Anxious, she began running her fingers through the pelt’s thickness, painstakingly trying to recall what happened last night…

While Sigefrid’s hand guided the princess away from the shore by the small of her back, she couldn’t help but stare at the carnage left behind in his wake. It looked as if his traitorous men had been slain by an entire army; dozens of arrows pierced their armored chest plates and their throats had been slashed by, undoubtedly, the blade upon Sigefrid's hand out of pure fury and rage. The limp body of the slave girl whom Blædswith befriended was carried off into the night, and to be forgotten, as if she had never been there.

As Sigefrid and Blædswith trudged uphill towards the fortress, she could feel him pulling her away from where a defeated Hæsten knelt in the dirt - mangled and disfigured beyond recognition. It seemed as if Sigefrid tried to avert the princess’s gaze from such a horrific and gruesome sight - one he was responsible for.

Blædswith could feel her frightened heart pounding within her chest like a battle drum, somehow in perfect unison with her heavy footfalls.

Though in brief passing, Blædswith witnessed for the first time the extent of Sigefrid’s vengeful brutality - or rather, the aftermath. It was as if Hæsten’s face had been trampled, repeatedly, by the metal-clad hooves of Sigefrid’s black steed. Hæsten’s dark, bloodshot eyes were swollen almost completely shut. His beard, once a curly nest of honey blonde, had been stained a crimson red from thick, oozing streams trailing from his broken nose. Beneath the skin of his swollen cheeks were distinct purple bruises outlining four knuckle prints. Surely, they were left over from Sigefrid ruthlessly pummeling the side of his face, where each blow became more excruciating than the last. Hæsten’s ankles and wrists were bound in coils of coarse rope not unlike a slave fresh off the merchant's ship after a long, godless voyage.

Blædswith peered down at Sigefrid’s hand that had slithered around her lower back, now resting upon her waist just below her tender ribs. To her dismay, his knuckles were split wide open and stained with another man’s blood. As their pace quickened the further they got from the shore, Blædswith couldn’t help but fear for what she had gotten herself into after seeing what Sigefrid was fully capable of.

Initially, she found herself drawn to the danger and mystery behind Sigefrid’s piercing eyes; seduced by his undeniable courage, god-like strength, and power over those inferior to him, the Lord of Chaos. But after that night, who was to say that he wouldn’t treat her this cruelly if she were to cross him? The fearsome Dane whose armor she clung to for dear life was a damning beast of a man capable of unimaginable acts… that much was clear.

There remained a glimmer of hope within the princess that she would be the exception; the one thing he could never allow himself to do any harm to. She believed him capable of being good, towards her, and hoped it would remain true of him in the end - when it really mattered. Blædswith marveled at the thought of being with a man such as Sigefrid, intimidating and ambitious, yet capable of being gentle towards his one beloved - her.

With the mead hall approaching in the near distance, Blædswith suddenly felt lightheaded, disoriented with fatigue and fear-fuelled adrenaline. The last thing she recalled hearing was the sound of Sigefrid’s voice calling out her name as her knees buckled beneath her and the night faded to pitch blackness with the collapse of her body...

Startled out of her thoughts by an indecipherable uproar of men arguing somewhere in the near distance, Blædswith found herself sitting upright once more, defensively on high alert, after hearing wooden tables and broken chairs being upturned and thrown rather aggressively across the mead hall, below.

What is going on? Is Beamfleot under attack?

With a stiff groan, she climbed out of bed and shuffled towards the bedroom door, pressing an ear against the carved wood. The princess audibly gasped when she identified Sigefrid’s voice amongst all others, bursting at the seams and fuming like a maddened, rabid dog off its leash.

“Dear God.” Blædswith gulped as Sigefrid’s tone seemed to grow louder by the minute while Erik struggled to calm him down. It sounded as if a hundred Danes were shouting in a jumbled unison, leaving Blædswith only able to comprehend mere bits and pieces of what was said.

In a panic, the princess frantically searched through every table and desk drawer, tearing the room apart in search for any weapons or weapon-like objects to defend herself with in case Sigefrid were to come for her next. This time, it appeared, Erik hadn’t left anything behind for her. Distracted by the commotion downstairs, Blædswith did not hear the light feet approaching her room, and hadn’t the slightest clue that someone was headed her way until the bedroom door quickly unlocked and swung open. Out from behind the door entered a quaint slave girl trembling in her work shoes, balancing a tray of food in one hand with an assortment of combs and brushes shoved down in her pockets.

“L-Lady.” She greeted timidly, “I-I am sorry to disturb you. Lord Sigefrid sent me-” The young girl nudged the door closed with the pad of her foot, cautiously walking through the room to place the food down on the nearest bedside table.

Startled, Blædswith practically jumped out of her nightgown at the sudden intrusion, withholding crude language after she realized how nervous the poor girl already was - out of fear. Her complexion was as pale as a ghost as a result of what was occurring downstairs, and likely whatever Sigefrid had threatened her with.

“What is Sigefrid doing? Downstairs?” Blædswith questioned, crossing her arms over her chest and taking a seat at the foot end of the bed. “Of course, I... have my suspicions.” Her words faded into silence after noticing a rather sharp steak knife conveniently placed beside her meal.

“L-Lord Sigefrid is…” The slave gulped dryly and began fidgeting with the bristles of a large brush in her pocket, “he is asserting himself, a-after what happened last night. To you. He is upset… he feels he can no longer trust anyone, n-nor protect you.”

Blædswith exhaled sharply, cocking her head to the side ever so slightly. Worried by Sigefrid’s sense of doubt, she questioned, “But he trusts you, does he not? After all, you are here. If you intended to kill me you might actually have a chance.” She motioned down to her shoulder before stiffly rotating it in circular motion.

“H-he does, yes, lady.” She nodded solemnly. “I have no intention to harm you. I have been nothing but loyal to Lord Sigefrid-”

Blædswith, immediately, picked up the steak knife from the tray, reached across her bed, and tucked it beneath her pillow. “I need you to be loyal - to me. You will not tell Sigefrid, nor Erik, that I have a knife. Hæsten still wishes me dead, and this is the only way of protecting myself. Do you understand?” Blædswith leaned in, closing the distance between their faces, thus causing the young slave girl to tremble in fear. She then added, darkly, “If you tell anyone, I shall kill you with it.”

Frantically nodding, on the brink of tears, the slave whimpered,

“Y-yes, lady. I-I understand.”

After Blædswith had been well fed and groomed, the young girl was dismissed so the princess could be left alone to her growing sense of paranoia. Before the slave could reach the door, apprehensive to step foot outside, Blædswith couldn’t help but feel guilty for the way she treated her. “Girl.” She began, causing the young slave to stop dead in her tracks, gratefully. “What is your name?”

Slowly turning to face the princess, she replied shamefully, “I-I have no name, lady.”

Blædswith slowly rose from the bed, strolling towards the beautiful, brunette haired girl cowering before her. “I shall call you Moira. How does that sound?” Blædswith reached forward, tucking hair behind the young girl's ear as she once had, to the first slave she’d met. “It is a beautiful name, for a beautiful girl. Do you not agree?”

Moira nodded humbly, caught off guard by the princess’s sudden interest in her. “I-I agree, yes. Thank you.” Moira then proceeded towards the door, sheepishly asking, “What shall I call you, lady?”

“Blædswith. You may consider me a friend... if you do as told.” The Saxon grinned, now propping herself up on pillows and carefully pulling the fur pelt over her chest. “I can offer you far more than the Thurgilson brothers for your loyalty.”

Moira’s eyes seemed to sparkle with a sense of hope. “I-I shall see you again soon, Blædswith, when I return to tidy Sigefrid’s chambers.” With a courteous bow, she slipped out of the room and back into the realm of chaos instilled by Sigefrid Thurgilson, leaving Blædswith’s head suddenly spinning.

It all made sense, now, why she had slept in a room so breathtaking; so fitting for a princess, even.

Lady Blædswith of Wessex had spent the night in Sigefrid Thurgilson’s private chambers,

and she doubted it would be the last time.

____________________ ➴ ____________________

With the descendence of evening fall came a sense of tranquility over the land. In recent hours past, the clan’s discord had simmered down as the Danes dispersed, returning Beamfleot to its once habitual state of being.

Blædswith, after restlessly tossing and turning, found herself buried beneath a mountain of fur pelts and pillows as if she were a child hiding from her parents. The princess stirred uneasily, wondering what would happen to her come dusk. She wondered why Sigefrid had not visited her, though it was likely for the best if he was still tense from earlier. However short-tempered Sigefrid was, Blædswith believed his company was better than none. A sense of loneliness and abandonment had overcome her vulnerable mind after spending an entire day imprisoned by herself.

When Blædswith finally began to drift off to sleep, she could hear the bedroom door knob fumbling as someone struggled to unlock it from the outside. With a loud creak, an unwelcome figure crept into the room and locked the door behind them.

Blædswith could feel her dry throat clench, and stomach coil into a tight, fearful knot. She listened as their footsteps drew near to the bed. Not a word was spoken in greeting, as if they intended to surprise the bed’s sleeping inhabitant. Ever so slowly, Blædswith’s fingers inched beneath her pillow and towards her knife. Her trembling body was otherwise still; frozen, even, as a paralyzing fear surged through her veins like a potent venom.

She could hear a pair of shoes being unlaced, and sloppily tossed against the nearest wall with seemingly little care of waking her. Something heavy yet soft fell to the floor, such as a fur pelt, before they began high-stepping out of something.

Somebody was taking their clothes off.

Tightly gripping onto the handle of her knife, Blædswith threw back her blankets and sprung to her knees, holding her knife outwards towards the foot end of the bed where her intruder stood completely naked from head to toe.

Having expected it to be Hæsten, or perhaps even Sigefrid, the frightened princess was flabbergasted and utterly appalled to see a bare-chested woman standing before her whose surprised look mirrored her own.

The two, in unison, gasped like fish out of water.

“Gahhh! What are you doing?!” Blædswith shrieked, turning away from the woman who showed no sense of urgency to cover herself. “W-who are you?!”

“I am Sigefrid’s mistress.” The dark haired woman sneered rather sharply, as if insulted that Blædswith hadn’t heard of her.

“Bloody Hell.” Blædswith groaned, chest rising and falling quickly with each rapid breath she drew, “Well, I am not Sigefrid! Y-you may…” She nodded with utmost caution, seeing as the woman was easily twice her size. “...you may put your clothes on and leave. Now.”

“Oh?” The large woman chuckled lowly with the shake of her head. “You do not get to bark orders. You are that damned Saxon princess Sigefrid won’t shut up about.” She quirked an eyebrow down at the princess as her lips formed a devilish grin. “But... he will have nothing to talk about if you are gone.”

“Gone?” Blædswith croaked. “I-I do not wish to leave-”

“You will leave, here, when I send you to meet your false God.” The woman snarled, suddenly lunging at Blædswith like a wild cat springing towards its prey, pinning her elbows to the bed causing the knife, her main source of defense, to fall to the floor.

“Shit!” Blædswith gasped, as she began awkwardly wriggling beneath the maddened woman, trying her best to divert her gaze from the Dane’s exposed breasts. Blædswith began kneeing her repeatedly in the gut, crying out in pain while doing so as pain scorched through her own torso. “Get off of me!” Blædswith whimpered, able to free an arm from the Dane’s clammy grasp to strike a fist at the side of her face.

The bear-like woman seemed virtually unphased.

“I do not want to kill you!” Blædswith leaned forward, head butting the brawny Dane though seeming to do more damage to herself than her attacker. Blædswith attempted to intertwine their legs together, only to have her shins kicked at until bruises began to form.

“Is that all you have got, princess? You could not kill me if you tried.” Sigefrid’s mistress chuckled menacingly, suddenly taking a firm hold of Blædswith’s throat with both hands in an attempt to choke and suffocate her. With the larger woman’s full body weight atop of her small frame, Blædswith was physically unable to push her off, nor pry her claws from her throat.

“I thought you wanted to be a Dane?” The mistress goaded, watching the color drain from the princess’s cheeks as she writhed and gasped for air. Scorching tears burning trails down her cheeks as she choked on her own sobs. “You are a sorry excuse for a Saxon. For a Christian.” She then dug her fingertips into Blædswith’s freshly cauterized shoulder, causing the princess to whimper and cry out like a dog that had been run over by a cart.

With a low growl, Blædswith managed,

“I am not a Christian.”

With her remaining strength, Blædswith wrapped an arm and leg over the nude woman’s back and jerked them both off the bed and onto the floor, causing the Dane to momentarily let go of her throat. Diving away from the bed, gasping, the princess began painfully crawling on her elbows and knees towards the knife, shouting and kicking out behind her like a wild horse after feeling a calloused hand grasp to either of her ankles.

With a loud cry, and all that she had left within her, Blædswith took hold of the knife once more after continuously crawling forward and being dragged back. Just as the Dane lowered herself towards the princess, hoping to pin her again, Blædswith flipped onto her back and slashed the throat of her assailant with a loud grunt, causing the woman to clutch her gaping wound with both hands as thick streams of red seeped between her fingers. Sigefrid’s mistress fell onto her side, gurgling profusely, as she began to accept her fate dealt by the hand of a Saxon princess.

Blædswith, now hovering above the dying woman, took it upon herself to jab the knife beneath her ribs, driving it up towards the Dane’s gaping throat as if she were skinning a deer, or even performing a reverse blood eagle.

“We could have lived together... peacefully.” Blædswith grunted, forcing the knife deeper into the woman’s core. “You did this, not me! I never would have wished you any harm!” The princess began twisting the knife as the Dane let out a final gasp. “You killed yourself. Tell that to your gods.”

The light in the Dane’s eyes began to fade, though she quietly managed through airy pants, “I… knew I was… done for when... he… he called out your name…” Her head rolled lazily around her shoulders, allowing her to look the princess in the eyes and whisper, “Blædswith.”

The Dane fell limp as a dark pool of blood engulfed her massive form. It looked as if she had been mangled and sacrificed to the Pagan gods above. Blædswith opened the mistresses’ large hand, and placed the handle of the knife within her palm before closing her fingers into a tight fist. With a sigh, she whispered, “Valhalla calls you. I will not deny you your gods… even if you did try to kill me. Perhaps, in another life, we shall meet again.”

Crawling away from the fresh corpse, Blædswith found herself crumpled and hunched over against the other side of the bed facing the door. She looked down at her sticky, bloodied hands resting palm up on her lap as a rogue tear caressed the side of her cheek. Her nightgown had been stained with hand prints and smears of red, and the skin of her neck felt raw to the touch as if she had been gripped by the devil himself.

Sobbing, she feared she would never truly be safe, and never be accepted by the Danes no matter what she does. She worried she would always be a target - always the enemy - even if she has denounced her Christian God. Until she has regained her strength, she will never be able to fully defend herself in Sigefrid’s recurring absence. Angrily, she questioned whether or not he had intentionally, repeatedly, neglected her.

Was Sigefrid testing her? Proving that what he said about her was true?

Not a single guard rushed to her aid. Not even Sigefrid, nor Erik. Blædswith understood they were busy, therefore could not be her caretakers. Most of the Danes she knew weren’t nurturing by nature… however, she had expected the Thurgilson brothers to better protect such a valuable asset - especially if Sigefrid expected her to stay.

There was something different in the air; something off. There wasn’t a single doubt in Blædswith’s mind that Hæsten was behind the attack. It was likely he dismissed Sigefrid’s guards as he did by the lake, and encouraged Sigefrid’s woman to visit his chambers knowing full well the princess would be there, instead.

Was Hæsten planning, in secret, to overthrow his lords? Or was he simply trying to get revenge on the Saxon princess anyway that he could? Perhaps his plan was to kill two birds with one stone… and that Sigefrid’s hostile mistress was just the first of many to come...

____________________ ➴ ____________________

Shadows filled Sigefrid’s chambers as twilight descended upon the fort. It felt as though the gods above had readied themselves for a blissful night’s slumber after a long day of watching over Midgard and its Danes.

On the hard wooden floor she remained, even all these hours later. Her hands were stiff with dried blood; her mind, body, and soul numb to the feeling as she stared off into the distance through heavy lids, anticipating someone unpleasant to burst through the door at any moment. She feared she wouldn’t have the strength to resist their advances in her current state of lethargy.

Every so often she swore to have seen Moira, or perhaps the spirit of, the first slave girl she met, lying atop the bed with her fragile hands folded over her chest. Guilt feasted on her insides like hungry Danes supping at the Great Hall. When Moira was no longer there, behind Blædswith’s head, she would see the face of Sigefrid’s mistress. Her ghost seemed to lurk in the shadows of the room’s darkest corners, haunting Blædswith even in death.

Blædswith ran the backs of her shaky hands over her drowsy eyes. In the end, her own mind; her own guilt and grievances had truly gotten the best of her.

A gentle knock on the door, followed by the friendly voice of Moira II, seemed to be enough to lift the princess’s spirits as she entered the room with a fresh outfit draped over her forearm. Upon noticing the princess bloodied and on the floor, Moira gasped and immediately dropped the clothes before running to her aid. Once knelt before the Saxon, she began looking her over to see if she had been mortally wounded.

“Blædswith!? Are you alright?” She panicked, placing a small, child-like hand to the princess’s cheek. Moira sighed in relief, feeling a heavy weight lifted off her shoulders as Blædswith nodded ever so feebly. “W-what happened? Who did this to you?”

Raising a shaky arm out to her side like an injured raven preparing for flight, Blædswith pointed a single finger towards the other side of the bed.

She didn’t utter a single word, for she couldn’t find the right thing to say.

On her hands and knees like a hound, the slave crawled around the foot end of the bed, now following a smeared trail of blood until she found the body of Sigefrid’s old woman - one she knew far too well.

“Christ almighty.” She shrieked and motioned her hand in the shape of a cross over her chest. That caught Blædswith by surprise - how anyone, let alone a slave - could possibly preserve their faith in God whilst living in Daneland.

“Sigefrid’s mistress intended to… seduce him. She found me instead.” Blædswith croaked dryly with a faint grin, now pressing a hand to her ribs. “She tried to kill me.”

“There were no guards outside your door, Blædswith.” Moira cried, hurrying back to the princess’s side with a look of worry and concern engraved on her face. “Sigefrid ordered them to stay, I-I heard him. I fear they... took orders from someone else-”

Blædswith nodded her head and interjected, “Hæsten is behind this, he must be. He will not stop until I am dead, and rotting at the bottom of the sea. There are many who follow him… I fear he is planning a coup against the brothers, but they are blind to it...” The princess huffed and firmly pursed her dried lips together. “The men Sigefrid trusts are disloyal. I have seen it many times in my short while. I must help him see what he can’t. For if I do not… we may all be killed.”

Moira rose to her feet and approached the pile of clothing on the floor, scooped it all up in her arms and displayed the garments on the bed as nicely as she could. “Perhaps you can tell Sigefrid tonight. Well, after I-I get you cleaned up. Y-you look as if you slaughtered a pig.” She grinned and kindly helped Blædswith to her feet.

“What do you mean, tonight? W-what is tonight?” Startled and confused, Blædswith’s thick brows furrowed together, though she found herself staring in awe at the beautiful Danish garb laid before her.

What is all this for?

“Sigefrid has requested your presence, tonight, for dinner in the mead hall.” With a quick nod, Moira escorted Blædswith to the nearest armchair where she was to wait patiently for her return with a rag and bucket of water - not unlike she had done the night prior, where she waded in the frigid lake water.

“Then I must go.” Blædswith inhaled sharply, glancing towards the door as if expecting another intrusion. “This may be my last chance to warn him before it is too late.”

Before leaving, Moira retrieved a small, sharpened axe from beneath her shawl that she had looted from one of the brothers.

“Sigefrid could kill you for this.” Blædswith warned though graciously took the axe from the noble slave girl.

Moira, within feet of the door, nodded solemnly over her shoulder with a kind smile and soothed, “I know.”

____________________ ➴ ____________________

“I do not wish to be humiliated tonight.” Blædswith pouted, running her hands down the front of the apron dress Sigefrid chose for her to wear. She muttered beneath her breath, “I have been tormented enough.”

As a base layer, Blædswith wore a white, long sleeved smock that brushed against her ankles. On top was a shorter, red apron fastened by a string of beads across her chest strewn between a large, silver brooch on either strap - both beautifully engraved in Danish runes. Her feet had slipped into a pair of lace up shoes made of soft, pliable leather. Blædswith’s elongated fingers and narrow wrists were embellished in the finest silver jewelry in the land.

Atop of the princess’s head were three intricate braids running from her hairline to the back of her skull where they were joined by a thin band of leather. While her loose hair cascaded down her shoulders, on either side of her neck hung a single braid that lay against her free flowing locks.

“The brothers will protect you. Y-you have little to worry about.” Moira soothed, approaching the princess from behind to drape a small, light-brown pelt over her shoulders. “You look beautiful.” Moira complimented in awe as she pulled the length of Blædswith’s dark mane out from beneath the fur.

Stepping in front of the princess in place of a mirror, Moira clasped her hands together against her chest and studied Blædswith from head to toe to ensure she looked as Sigefrid wanted. “You look every bit a Dane, and a-a lovely one at that.” Moira began fiddling with the fur pelt draped over Blædswith’s shoulders, adjusting the brooches upon her chest, and flattening out any creases in her skirt.

Astounded, Moira chirped, “T-the gods truly favor Lord Sigefrid.”

“How can you tell?”

“Well…” Moira grinned from ear to ear, cocking her head to the side, “Why else would they have brought him you?” With that, the unlikely pair interlocked arms and headed towards the door, only for Blædswith to halt in her tracks.

“What about her?” Blædswith motioned towards the Danish woman she had slain. “We can not just leave her.” She began to panic as the potential consequences for her actions flooded through her mind. Moira quickly shook her head and guided Blædswith to face her, rather than the lifeless body of her assailant.

“I will take care of Yrsa.” Moira spat the woman’s name bitterly with a hateful snarl. “I never liked her. S-she will be cut up, and served to Sigefrid’s hound for dinner. You have my word.” Moira placed a firm hand to Blædswith’s shoulder as the two exchanged comforting glances.

“You are mad.” The princess teased with a quiet chuckle. “Thank you.” She couldn’t help but crack a smile as she noted, “He likes his meat well done, by the way.”

Stepping out into the noisy hallway, arm in arm, they strolled towards the staircase. Blædswith could hear the merry laughter, chanting, and singing of jovial Danes downing horns of ale by the minute. To her discomfort she felt their arms suddenly unravel, realizing just how tightly she had been holding on to her escort. “You are not coming with me?” Blædswith frowned. “Why?”

Moira shook her head, and took a courteous step back towards Sigefrid’s chambers. “Y-you must do this alone. I will dispose of Yrsa’s body.”

“I can not-”

“Do you have the axe?” Moira pressed firmly.

Blædswith nodded in defeat, patting the right pocket of her apron. “I do.”

“Then go.” Moira hummed with a shooing motion. “Sigefrid Thurgilson awaits you.”

Like a moth drawn to candle light Blædswith’s feet carried her to the top of the stairs where she found herself clutching tightly to the support rail, looking down at the night’s festivities that beckoned her.

Her beating heart drowned out the sounds of Danes laughing and chatting amongst themselves. Those up and about, dancing around like children of the night seemed to move in slow motion. Everyone around her had come to a halt, paralyzed in time as the world simply stopped.

All because she saw him - though he had already been looking up at her.

Once engrossed in hearty laughter and storytelling by a large bonfire, Sigefrid’s attention suddenly fell elsewhere, towards the divine woman overlooking the mead hall in all her glory. It took him a moment to realize who had captivated his being; the entirety of his lonesome heart with her ethereal beauty. To no surprise, it was none other than his beloved princess, Blædswith.

Sigefrid’s slowly lowered a cup of ale from his parting lips. His eyes, crinkling in the corners, dazzled with such fondness and desire for the woman he admired so dearly. His bearded lips curled into a wide, toothy smile as he tossed the cup aside and excitedly jumped to his feet. His hand quickly readjusted his armored chest plate prior to greeting the lady of the hour, the eldest daughter of King Alfred.

As she descended down the stairs, fingertips running along the railing, she bashfully looked away from Sigefrid who was smiling like a fool upon her arrival. Blædswith could feel a warm heat beneath her cheeks as virtually everyone in the hall stopped what they were doing to stare in awe. There were mixed feelings - some were relieved to see the princess healthy and alive, while others regretted not killing her, or worse, when they had the chance.

“Lady Blædswith.” Sigefrid greeted ever so charmingly and strolled closer. “What a lovely surprise.” Upon doing so, he noticed the redness of her neck and frowned, exhaling sharply through his teeth at the mere thought of someone laying a hand on what was rightfully his. His brows suddenly furrowed as he took hold of her forearm and pulled her closer. “Who did this?” Sigefrid snarled as those spectating returned to their prior festivities. Frantically scanning her face for answers, he grew impatient when Blædswith remained silent.

Troubled, Sigefrid rattled her arm and sternly repeated, “Who?”

With the shake of her head, the princess caressed the side of his face and closed the gap between their bodies. “Now is not the time.” She glanced over each shoulder. “Rest assured, they are no longer a threat.” Pushing off of her toes, she rested a hand against his chest and pressed a gentle, comforting kiss to his lips.

Sigefrid did not fathom how ravenous he had been until he tasted, once more, the sweetest gift from the gods. Pulling her lower body against his, Sigefrid hungrily devoured her lips, fighting the urge to abandon the grand feast he had planned so he could ravish her within the privacy of his chambers. His calloused hand rested at the base of her skull, sending chills down her body as he intertwined strands of her hair between his fingers. Blædswith pulled him impossibly closer by his armor and deepend the kiss, taking his bottom lip between her teeth as a low growl rumbled in his chest.

Sigefrid chuckled to himself with a wide, boyish smirk, as Blædswith began placing a trail of kisses down the length of his neck, stopping just above his collarbone. A stifled moan escaped through his lips after realizing he’d been holding his breath. His eyes fluttered shut, and his tongue dragged over his lips to savor the taste of hers, all while marveling at his wildest fantasies coming true.

“I missed you.” Blædswith cooed in his ear before pressing her greedy lips onto his once more, no longer resisting the urges within that she had fought long and hard to suppress. When they parted for air, they found themselves gently nudging one another with their noses - smiling like dumb, lovestruck teenagers.

“Oh,” He chuckled amusingly, “how I have missed you.” He could feel his lower half stiffen uncomfortably in her presence as his heart beat inhumanly fast against his armor. Biting the tip of his tongue with an irresistibly flirty smile, he motioned for Blædswith to walk alongside him towards a long, wooden table seated with Danes challenging each other to eating contests and arm wrestling matches. “Come.” He reached back, taking her hand in his. “I need to wash away the taste of betrayal.” As Blædswith followed closely behind, cheeks flushed and core left aching after the heated moment they had just shared. She felt as if she were floating on cloud-nine, bit buzzed from the feeling of euphoria he instilled within her.

However, that feeling quickly faded as she cowered away from the looks of hatred and pure disgust she received. Blædswith could hear whispers of her name throughout the hall from those wondering what Sigefrid’s intentions were with the king’s daughter.

“Why is she not in her cage?”

“What in Odin’s name is Lord Sigefrid doing with our princess?”

As they neared the table Blædswith searched for an empty seat, preferably one close to the dark haired Thurgilson brother. Apprehensive, the princess distanced herself whilst Sigefrid continued ahead of her. Noticing her absence by his side, he turned on his heels and frowned. “Is something wrong?”

The princess shrugged sheepishly. “I-I do not see a place for me to sit.”

“You will sit… with me.” Sigefrid squeezed her hand reassuringly and led her to the short end of the table where two carved, wooden thrones awaited them. Erik, she noticed, was comfortably seated in a third throne at the other end of the table.

“I hope... it is to your liking.”

“I-I do not know what to say.” Blædswith smiled as he helped her to her seat before making himself comfortable in his rightful place beside her. Before he could notice, she plucked the axe from her pocket and dropped it behind the throne.

She felt safe enough in Sigefrid’s presence, that surely, it would not be of use to her.

The Danish lord couldn’t help but stare, seeing how tall and powerful she sat where his brother had. Once broken and defeated, she held her head high and overlooked those who despise, yet envy her all the same. With a freshly brewed horn of ale now in hand, Sigefrid’s eyes fell to her exposed chest concealing her lonely heart that yearned for him; for their souls to collide as their warm breaths intertwine beneath Odin’s watchful eye.

Peering across the table, Blædswith fortuitously caught Erik’s attention. The two exchanged gentle smiles as Erik nodded, assuring her that she was safe, and in good hands with his brother. She mouthed a quiet “thank you”, not only for allowing her to sit upon his throne, but for every kind gesture he’s done since they met.

“Two days ago…” Blædswith spoke down at herself, “it was as if I were a caged animal. Scared… afraid. Now I feel like a queen.” The corners of her lips squirmed as she fought to conceal an overwhelming feeling of joy, and finally, of freedom. “Why?” She looked up at Sigefrid with glossy eyes, and a faint half-smile. “We used to hate each other. W-what are we doing?”

Sigefrid leaned towards her, resting an elbow upon the armrest of his throne. He exhaled sharply, “While I have not been kind to you, Lady… I never hated you.” He spoke grimly, lowering his serious gaze that seemed to sparkle beneath the overhead candelabra. “I have learned from my mistakes; my failures as Lord of Beamfleot… and as a man.” Sigefrid reached forward and poured her a cup of ale, offering it to the princess in which she graciously took and drank from.

Clearing his throat, he leaned in even closer. “I will make things… better… between us. I presume my chambers were to your liking, were they not?”

“Your chambers were lovely… though a bit lonely.” Blædswith grinned faintly, feeling herself give in to the burning subject on her mind. “Sigefrid… I would not advise you to sleep there furthermore.” The Saxon whispered discreetly in between sips of ale. “It is not safe.”

“What do you mean?” Sigefrid suddenly shot upright, throwing a half empty horn of ale over his shoulder, nearly hitting a slave girl passing by with a tray of food.

With a heavy sigh, Blædswith chugged the rest of her cup and tossed it aside, too. Carefully choosing her words, she mumbled nonchalantly, “Your mistress did not take too kindly to another woman in her bed.” She could feel the skin on the back of her neck burning as if inches away from a blacksmith’s forge. “She entered your chambers, and upon recognizing me, she... tried to kill me.” Blædswith gently rubbed her throat, grimly recalling when she had been strangled.

“And… what did you do?” Sigefrid, practically perched on the armrest like a bird, held onto her every word as if it were to be her last. A mixed array of emotions overcame him, from nauseating worry and dread to fear of the worst. His mind couldn’t fathom how his mistress slipped past his guards, so he felt embarrassed and burdened with guilt that Blædswith found out about Yrsa that way, or at all. While he knew his mistress to be short tempered as he is, he never would have imagined her to attack King Alfred’s daughter out of pure jealousy.

“I slit her throat and gutted her like a deer.” Blædswith deadpanned before an unfamiliar slave girl offered her a second cup of ale, in which she quickly drank from and muttered a quiet “Sköl” as she turned to face the hall.

“Sköl.”

“I am sorry about Yrsa. I tried to reason with her. She would not listen.”

“She was a mad woman.” Sigefrid shook his head shamefully and downed more of his ale. “There were times... I feared this would happen. Not to you, but… to someone.” After a big gulp of ale, he wiped his beard with the back of his arm and shamefully sunk back into his throne, closing his eyes and cursing himself to the gods for neglecting their gift to him.

“Your guards were dismissed from their duties. When your slave came to get me, they had been long gone.” Blædswith stirred uneasily, distracting herself by glancing around the hall. “That is how Yrsa got in.”

“Those men will be dealt with. I can assure you that.” Sigefrid growled darkly through gritted teeth, his knuckles turning white from gripping tightly onto his horn of ale. “They will be slaughtered, like that whore of a woman, Yrsa.”

“You speak of your mistress as if you do not care. Surely you must?”

“Yrsa... was a good hump. She passed the time. Unlike her, it is not your ass I want. It is yourself.” Sigefrid turned towards the Saxon, sitting as his equal, beside him. “If you will have me.”

Blædswith gasped quietly beneath her breath. “If I didn't know better, I would have thought you wanted me to stay.” Teasingly, she quirked an eyebrow as if she couldn’t tell how he felt by the way he held her close - when they exchanged such a moment of tenderness; of love, even.

“Well, do you?” The Dane teased, excitedly toying with his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Do I what?” Blædswith hummed with a faux, innocent pout.

“Know better?”

Blædswith smiled down at her folded hands resting upon her lap, closing her eyes as a bright smile overcame her lips. “Even despite those who wish me dead or to be sold back to Wessex?” Blædswith then peeled the fur pelt from her shoulders, pooling it behind her.

“Even so.” Sigefrid nodded with a wink. His lips slowly parted in awe as he watched Blædswith rise from her throne, now standing before his knees. She began bunching the skirt of her dress at her hips, stepping over his large boots to place herself deep within his lap; his hands immediately shot to her lower waist, pressing her hips firmly against the front of his bulging pants with a breathy groan.

Numerous Danes whistled and hollered at Blædswith’s sudden gesture.

“I am giving up everything for you. My family, my kingdom. My crown.” Blædswith pinned his wrists to the throne’s armrests, causing Sigefrid to throw his head back against his seat. She could see him gulp drly; the muscular veins of his neck protruding as he fought every primal urge within him to tear her dress to shreds. “I have conditions.”

“Name them.” Sigefrid groaned as Blædswith began to slowly grind her hips against the mighty Thor’s hammer beneath her. She could feel the muscles of his arms flinching beneath her grasp, knowing full well he was stronger than her and could pry her hands off at any moment. His chest rose and fell beneath his armor as he shifted frustratedly in his throne.

“I want to be your equal.” She purred in his ear. “I will not be treated like a common whore, or slave. You will not have any mistresses, for I will kill them all. I am all you need.” Blædswith whispered dangerously close to his lips as her knees tightened around his hips. “I am your gift from the gods…”

Sigefrid nodded, panting, “I agree to your terms,” before learning forward for a kiss, only to be stopped by Blædswith leaning back, and ceasing all movement of her body.

“Oh, I am not finished.” She taunted rather seductively, maintaining a few inches between their faces. “I no longer wish to be called lady or princess. I am Blædswith.” She paused, biting her bottom lip to suppress an unexpected whimper after feeling him move against her. “I want to learn your ways; t-to train and fight alongside you, as a shieldmaiden. That has always been a dream of mine. I-I am a Dane at heart.”

“That is… quite the ask.” Sigefrid groaned beneath the warmth of her shifting weight. “It would be an honor to fight; to drink, and lie, beside you. I have wanted this - you - ever since we met.” Sigefrid, no longer able to resist her, freed his arms from her grasp with a loud grunt. She could feel his hand wandering down her lower back, undoing the tie of her apron. “I need you to be mine. No other man can have you.”

“Then take me,” Blædswith pleaded, her tender lips mere inches from his. She cupped the sides of his prickly face with her soft hands and whimpered softly, “Take me as yours.” With a quick, affirming nod, Sigefrid crashed his lips onto hers, tangling his hand in her youthful, free flowing locks. Tilting her head to the side, he began sucking and nipping at the skin of her neck, leaving a warm trail of bruises down to her collarbone to establish his claim over her. Pushing the sleeve of her apron dress down, he sloppily kissed around her cauterized shoulder, wanting her to realize that it wasn’t appalling enough to drive him away. He wanted her to feel beautiful; wanted and desired despite her wound.

Blædswith took his hand in hers, placing atop her breast for him to knead through her dress. If it weren’t for the room full of Danes surrounding them, perhaps her dress would have been discarded ages ago. “You are not,” she gasped quietly in his ear, “disgusted by my shoulder?”

Flicking a thumb over her swollen lip, he growled, “No.” Sigefrid’s eyes were dark; completely dilated as if he were a predator consuming its prey. He looked up at her as if she were his entire world, his beginning and his end.

How strange, he thought, that in so little time Blædswith, a Saxon princess, could mean so much to him… and she may and never know it. “You could never disgust me.” Sigefrid slid his hand around her arse, giving it a firm squeeze as he made his way to her undergarments, pulling and tugging on the fabric until it tore at the seams.

He could feel the warmth radiating from between her legs as his fingers neared, only for Blædswith to shake her head and whimper, “No, we can’t.”

“You do not want to?” A confused Sigefrid panted quietly, almost offended that she had denied him entrance to her most sacred body. “I do not understand-”

“Of course I want to.” She smiled with an airy chuckle. “When I give myself to you,” she gently caressed the side of his face as his arms rested around her waist, “I want it to only be us, and the gods, in the room. I do not wish to be in pain, either.” She motioned down to her ribs, which had ached the entire time. “Besides, if we start now, I-I won’t be able to stop in time for the main feast.” She teased lightly, causing Sigefrid’s chest to rumble with laughter.

“I am not hungry.” Sigefrid chuckled with a sly grin, flicking his tongue over his lips.

“Of course not.” Pressing her forehead against his, she couldn’t help but smile from ear to ear. “Well, I am starving. After tonight I am not going anywhere. I promise.” Blædswith soothed, tracing her fingers down the length of his arm, until she reached his hand. Taking it in her own, she raised his knuckles to her lips and gently kissed each one. “I have denounced the Christian God. My engagement is invalid…” Blædswith courteously pushed herself off of him, adjusting her straps of her apron and pulling down her skirt to avoid flashing the entire hall. “I am a free woman.”

“Not anymore.” Sigefrid smirked with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Before Blædswith could ask what trouble he was up to, Sigefrid blew through a large horn, immediately gaining the hall’s attention. Blædswith was left standing upon wobbly legs, flustered and breathless. Her entire body was flushed pink, nearly matching the color of her apron. Even a half-conscious drunk could look at her tangled hair and know what she and Lord Sigefrid had been up to - there was no keeping it a secret.

The entire mead hall fell silent, except for a quiet hum of music in the near distance.

Wrapping an arm around her waist, Sigefrid began, “I have something to say, to each of you.” A low murmur rose out of suspicion. “You will now be disappointed to know, that Lady Blædswith of Wessex, here, is now mine.” He couldn’t help himself but to chuckle haughtily. “No man is to touch her. Not with his hands, and not with his tiny cock… unless he wishes to lose it.” As he raised his hand-blade to the crowd, he couldn’t help but smile down at the beautiful woman whose warm hand rested upon his chest - a feeling he would truly never grow tired of.

From across the hall, the sight of his brother gazing down upon the woman he admired warmed Erik’s heart, seeing as Sigefrid’s gentler side rarely saw the light of day.

“What about our wealth? Our promised glory?” An older, toothless Dane called out, followed by an uproar of support from those standing around him.

“Blædswith is a great warrior, whom I have grown fond of.” Sigefrid argued with a scowl, glaring down at his followers. “She is far more valuable, than any silver.”

Blædswith let go of Sigefrid’s armor, and stepped forward to address the room. “I hope it brings you peace, knowing that I am no longer a Christian. I am not your enemy, but King Alfred’s. It would bring me no greater joy than to raid Wessex and pillage my father’s wealth. If you will accept me, as a Dane, I shall reward you greatly.” Blædswith could feel Sigefrid’s chest press against her back as he protectively stood by her side.

After a few moments of silence, cheering and applause rang throughout the entire hall. Upon Sigefrid’s request, a slave girl brought them each a third cup of ale, in which Blædswith raised into the air and shouted, “Sköl!”

Immediately following, Sigefrid, Erik, and those in support sang in unison, “Sköl!” and the night’s festivities continued on. Once finished with their ale, the unlikely Saxon-Dane duo found themselves laughing, singing, and dancing to the upbeat rhythm that was sure to play into the early hours of the morning. Sigefrid found himself upon his throne once more, arms wrapped around Blædswith’s waist who sat across his lap. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, playfully nipping and planting kissed along the marks he’d already left. The two swayed back and forth to the music, engrossing themselves in the stories being told at the table before them.

“Sigefrid?” The beautiful woman sitting upon his thighs whispered, running her fingertips over the length of his beard. Sigefrid hummed in response, brushing fallen strands of hair from her ethereal complexion. “I have… something else to ask you...” Interrupting her train of thought, and out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of strikingly familiar face slithering through the clusters of Danes until they reached the table where Lord Sigefrid and his new woman sat enthralled with one another.

“Why is he here?” She groaned against Sigefrid’s neck, only for the eldest lord of Beamfleot to shake his head with a sigh in defeat.

With a large cup of ale in hand, a disfigured Hæsten took one last gulp and let the cup fall from his fingertips, now rolling under the table. Before Blædswith, or even Sigefrid could properly react, he looked between them and slurred, “Sigefrid. Blædswith? What did I miss?”

_______________________________________________

A/N: Well Hæsten, it’s safe to say you missed a lot - lol. Sorry for the long wait for this chapter, but I hope it was worth it!

I’m contemplating whether or not to add real smut to the story... 👀

🏷 Tags: (hope I didn’t miss anyone!)

@inforapound @cheapcakeripper @wildwren @metall-and-dust @eclipsedbymyheart @henrycavill19 @aesirharvorsson @finantheagile @onesaltyhunter @wessexcrown @destinysall @lauwrite1225 @lumxnously @chlomidgard @dagonet-ironside @marv-llous @littlebirdgot @curlyrat @beesbrains @godricsvalley @alina-exe @lazypeachsoul

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nouvelis · 2 years

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it almost feels like he has it all. after leaving the company, he’s got the full creative freedom to make the songs he wants and his solos are well-praised by critics and fans. compared with the days he relied on others, he’s much surer of himself and his place in the world. his small, yet close-knit family is back in its entirety when his brother finally made his return ( he always knew he would. never once doubted it. never dared to ). even his love life, something near non-existent before, is beginning to look like something. something worth looking forward to, something worth holding out hope for.

but life is never perfect

— it shatters, just when you start to let your guard down.

her mother was in the car with the chauffeur when they’re making their way home after one of her best friend’s new year party. an ill-timed collision with an inebriated driver put them both in the hospital. a place that he’s always hated. he hates its bright, warmth-less light, hates the memories it brings. in the earlier years of his childhood, he spent days looking out from the same window, a crayon held by a frail hand, wondering when he could go home. in his teens, he was here as he watched his best friend drown in his hopeless tears, his broken dreams — fractured beyond what’s bone-deep.

and the worst part? no one is here. his best friends have enough troubles on their hands, he’s decided. he’d rather not interrupt and ruin their needed getaway from all that noise. his boyfriend is busy with overseas schedules with the band. even mrs. kim is on her new year’s break — as she deserves. it’s not until the fourth night, after the doctor insisted that her vital signs are really fine, that he came home for some sleep. or at least attempts to. what can he do? she’s the only blood-family he has. the only one who’s loved him for as long as he’s been here. the one he doesn’t call enough, the one he bickers too much with, the one who’s always burdened by worries over the nights he pulls at the studio —

aroused by the sound of the bell, he rises to get the door, still cladded in his silky pyjamas. “ah, i thought you’re the food delivery guy — ” he couldn’t finish his sentence before kai wraps both arms around his willowy frame. come here. i’m taking care of you tonight. and you’re gonna let me. “you don’t have to take care of me.” i’m fine. i’m fine. his reassurance falls on dead ears, as kai only tightens his hold around him. his whole body grows limp, eyes turn red in an instant. if he stays like this any longer, he might collapse and crush them both. his voice trembles but maybe that’s okay. he can cry, every once in a while. “i’m just glad you’re here.”

“come here. i’m taking care of you tonight. and you’re gonna let me.” from here, accepting / @protcsts

#( this brand of junso... the considerate side of him when he always looks like the ultimate brat on the surface 🥺 )#junso — threads.#junso ft. akara.#answered — memes.#protcsts #tw car accident #tw hospital

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timebird84 · 3 years

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🎄 PotO Advent Calendar 2020 🎄

By @flora-gray

The Gift Exchange

(Rated T)

Erik was wrong.

It was a rare occurrence, in Christine’s experience, but even geniuses don’t know everything about everything, and he certainly didn’t seem to know much about anything when it came to love.

He had insisted that the distraction of a suitor would interfere with her studies — it had not. She hadn’t missed a single one of their covert lessons, but had continued to put in the endless hours of practice he demanded, with irreproachable focus and without complaint.

He had been adamant that a man of nobility could not be trusted to do right by her, yet here they were, six months on, an engagement ring on Christine’s finger and a gift in Raoul’s hands, carefully wrapped in bright red paper trimmed in gold.

After all those summers at the seaside, this was their first Christmas together, the first of what Raoul promised would be a lifetime of many. Christine chewed at her thumbnail — a nasty habit, Erik would say whenever he caught her — as her fiancé ripped open the paper, a smile twitching on her lips.

“Oh, Christine!” Raoul exclaimed as he pulled a little ribbon-wrapped bundle from the box. The spicy-clean scent of peppermint filled the air. “Polkagris? Wherever did you find this?” He pulled a candy stick from the bundle, the glossy swirls of red and white glistening in the dressing room’s soft lamplight. “I haven’t had polkagris since we were children! I can’t believe you remembered how much I used to love them.” A smile beaming on his face, he tucked the candy back into the box and pulled her into an embrace. “Christine, you truly are the most thoughtful person I’ve ever known.”

“It’s just a little thing,” she replied, her cheeks glowing a warm rosy pink. “I remembered how you used to beg Papa for them, and I happened upon a candy shop run by a Swedish family.”

“Well, I’m afraid mine will seem rather uninspired compared to yours,” Raoul said, speaking up over the sound of rustling paper as he dug into the bag next to him, “but I do hope you’ll like it anyway. I’ve hardly been able to stand having to wait all week — I had to hide it away in a closet so I wouldn’t be tempted to give it to you early!” He placed a box on her lap and rubbed his hands together, nearly bouncing in his seat.

The package was large and flat and covered in thick, heavy paper printed all over with shining silver arabesques, topped with an elaborately tied white satin bow. “It’s so beautifully wrapped, I almost don’t want to open it,” Christine said, trailing her fingers over the soft, shimmery ribbon before tugging it loose. Gingerly, she slid a nail around the edge to loosen the paper.

“You needn’t be so careful with it, I have plenty more of the stuff back at home. It’s all yours, if you like it so much,” Raoul laughed, his eyes lit up with anticipation.

“Good,” she smiled teasingly back at him. “Then I’ll expect you to wrap up everything you ever give me just like this from now on.” The paper fell away and she lifted the lid.

Layers of impossibly thin tissue paper covered the contents, and she peeled them back, one by one.

On top was a fine linen handkerchief trimmed in lace, embellished with intricate embroidery. “It’s lovely Raoul!” Christine breathed, lifting it from the package and letting her fingers glide along the underside of the smooth fabric, all the while wondering vaguely if she’d ever stop feeling uncomfortable with such fine things.

Raoul’s casual displays of wealth, though never snobbish, were evidence of the privilege he’d been raised with, so different from her early life of scraping by, of simple meals of bread and cheese and rough muslin against her skin. And even now, she was acutely aware of the gulf that lay between them. It was impossible not to, when she was occasionally mistaken for a shop girl while they strolled Le Bon Marché together, an experience he found much more amusing than she did. Even once they married and she went from Christine Daaé to Vicomtess de Chagny, she doubted she’d ever truly fit in amongst the fine ladies who’d been raised with finishing school and balls, who sat and enjoyed operas from velvet-lined boxes rather than performed them, sweating under the hot lights for a modest salary. And though Raoul was insistent that he loved her just as she was, that certainly didn’t seem to stop him from trying to outfit her like somebody else.

Unfolding the handkerchief which likely cost more than her entire dress, Christine spread it open to admire its details. “I’ve never seen such gorgeous lace!” she gushed. “And are these our—”

“Yes, our initials!” Raoul finished triumphantly.

Christine’s brow furrowed. “Actually…” She brought the handkerchief up to her eyes and squinted at the letters. Her heartbeat began to quicken. “It says R, and...” She blinked, but the letter stubbornly stayed the same. “And...V.”

“What? Let me see!” Raoul’s hand shot out and yanked the handkerchief from her slack fingers. Turning it over and over, he examined every inch of it, shaking his head. “There must have been some mistake! Perhaps the girl at the shop heard me wrong — I suppose the letters do sound the same.” He looked up at her, eyes anxious and searching. “I’m so sorry, my love, I can’t believe I didn’t notice! I can have it remade right away.”

“Oh no, it’s fine,” she said, her lips forming the words automatically. A formless sense of unease was slithering its way into the back of her mind, but, with a firm shove, she pushed the feeling away; there was no reason to let a simple mistake ruin their first Christmas. “Really,” she insisted, arranging her lips into a smile that was only a little forced.

Beneath the next layer of paper, enclosed in its own small, shallow box, was a pile of silk, white as snow and with that same incomparable look, as though it were delicate enough to melt under her fingertips. This new luxury unfurled as she raised it up between them, the folds falling, forming the shape of...a pair of ladies’ drawers?

The breath escaped from her lungs in a sharp gasp. Heat flamed at the edge of her ears as she dragged her eyes up to where her fiancé sat, stock still.

A red flush was creeping up from under his collar.

His voice wavered. “That— that’s not a shawl?”

“No, Raoul,” she replied evenly, despite the queasy fluttering in her stomach. “It is not.”

“Are those…?” He dropped his gaze to the floor.

“Yes, they are.”

“I—” Raoul squirmed in his seat. The flush was working its way up his neck, spreading across his face, leaving beads of sweat in its wake. “It was meant to be a shawl. I would have never—” His words fell away and he looked up at her with pleading eyes.

“I know you wouldn’t have,” said Christine quickly. She jammed the drawers back into their box and shoved it all to the side, eager to leave the subject behind.

And it was true, she could not think of a less likely thing for him to give her. Their relationship had been quite chaste, almost to the point of frustration, with nothing more than sweet, sinless kisses, always broken off far too soon. He’d never given any indication that he so much as even thought about what lay under her skirts, let alone considered the subject enough to buy her such intimate garments. The mistake would almost be funny in its outlandishness, if it weren’t so mortifying — and such an unpleasant reminder of her most secret insecurity: the fear that though he undoubtedly seemed to love her, perhaps he did not desire her. That perhaps he held her up against those lovely ladies of high society he’d been pushed for years to accept, with their bosoms spilling from their silk dresses and their ample hips swaying beneath their skirts, and found nothing inspiring about her waiflike frame.

But no, he was just being a gentleman, wasn’t he? He wasn’t like the other men of the aristocracy, who took mistresses and visited brothels — no, no, he would never. Raoul, that sweet, brave boy from the salt-kissed seaside was now a respectful and honorable man, and he loved her for herself, not her body. There was nothing wrong with that.

But of course this was the last thing she wanted to be thinking about right now; Christine shook her head to fling away the thought and refocused the entirety of her attention back on the box in her lap.

“Oh, look! There’s still something left,” she said, infusing her tone with much more enthusiasm than she felt, and she lifted a red velvet pouch from where it lay, heavy, at the bottom of the box.

Raoul sprang forward. “Actually, why don’t you just give that back to me,” he said, his voice tight and trembling, reaching to take it from her hands. “This has turned out horribly so far, and I—”

“Darling, please.” Christine pulled the object out of his reach. “Certainly one of the three will be as you intended. Your luck can’t be that bad,” she laughed, though in the pit of her stomach sat a sour, sick feeling.

Grasping the pouch in one hand, she reached in with the other and slowly began to pull out a thick pillar of ivory, sculpted and polished, heavy as a candlestick — but not shaped like any candlestick she’d ever seen. It was too irregularly formed, the contours somehow too carnal, and her cheeks were already inexplicably burning before she’d even finished withdrawing it from its velvet enclosure.

It couldn’t be…

She’d heard that such things existed, but she never—

Too late she realized she should stop — not that she was sure she could have — but her hand kept moving, pulling the thing free from its covering to stand tall and proud in her clenched fist, absurdly large and luridly detailed — each vein, each curve of ivory flesh on display as she held it high, an obscene trophy.

Not a sound could be heard in the room. Not even a breath — not from her, and not from Raoul, who was looking at her, slack-jawed, with complete and utter horror written in every line of his face.

A minute passed, and then time unfroze.

Gasping as though she’d surfaced from deep underwater, Christine’s fingers flew open, loosing their grip on the vile thing; it hit the carpet with a muffled thud. Then she was on her feet, groping blindly for her cloak and gloves.

Raoul didn’t move from his seat; pale and trembling, he sat staring at the now empty gift box. “I don’t understand...”

Christine rounded on him, hot tears pricking at her eyes. “You don’t understand?” That formless unease had now taken a sinister, serpentine form, snaking itself around her heart, which spasmed within its crushing coils. “What was all that, Raoul?”

“I don’t know! It doesn’t make any sense. I wrapped it myself — that wasn’t in there!”

He stumbled to his feet, reaching for her hands; she pulled them away, pressing her clenched fists against her turning stomach. “What’s the explanation, then? Are you implying that the contents of the box were just magically replaced without you knowing?”

“No of course not! I mean, I don’t think so…”

One desperate, near-hysterical sob wrenched itself from Christine’s throat, and she fell silent. The painful throbbing of her heart had ceased. That place within her chest was cooling, hardening until it was as cool and hard as the piece of ivory which lay on the carpet, that disgusting thing which forced her to admit the truth to herself, a truth she’d been trying to deny since the moment she saw those embroidered initials.

How could she have been so stupid? This never could have worked out. He was highborn, she was practically a peasant. Perhaps he did love her, but likely it was a love born of nostalgia and pity, the love of a brother for his sister — and even if he had been willing to marry her, that kind of love isn’t the only kind men need. And perhaps...perhaps he really wasn’t different from other men, after all.

Christine gathered her cloak and gloves into a bundle and shoved it under her arm. “Goodbye, Raoul,” she said with finality, and steeling herself, she turned her back on the man she thought she loved.

“Christine!” Raoul gripped her arm in a wide-eyed panic. “You can’t believe that I would ever give you such a thing!”

Shaking off his hand, she held her head high. “No, Raoul, I don’t believe you would.” She could not look at him, not if she wanted to hold onto the last scraps of her tattered pride. “Do you know what I believe?” Despite her best efforts, tears were beginning to leak from her eyes, making the words thick and strained. “I believe that gift was intended for another woman.”

“What?” he cried, nearly choking on the word. “No!”

“The wrong initials,” she sobbed, no longer able to hold back the tide; bitter tears flowed freely down her cheeks. “I may be naive, but I’m not stupid, Raoul! Who is she? How long has this been going on?” Christine tugged the gold and diamond band off her finger. “Is she wearing one of these, too?” she demanded, brandishing the ring in his face.

“Christine…” Tears welled in Raoul’s beautiful blue eyes, but she would not be swayed by the obvious ploy meant to prey on her sympathy.

She flung the little piece of gold at him, and it bounced off his chest and fell to the floor with a pathetic clink.

“I should have listened to Erik!” she cried, and slammed the door behind her.

*****

Erik was right.

But then again, he usually was.

It was never going to work out between Christine and the boy; affairs between the nobility and the bourgeois rarely do, she had to know that. Really, it would be a mercy for it to end sooner rather than later. It was inevitable. And hadn’t he tried to warn her?

Still, he pretended surprise when she showed up at his door, red-eyed and sniffling, her ring finger blessedly bare.

Wordlessly, he brought her inside, wrapped her in a blanket and sat her down by the fire, brought her hot tea and let her pour out her heart — along with a steady stream of tears. Eventually, she slept, and Erik carried her to her room, tucking her into the bed he’d readied for her. He brushed the curls away from her face, now so hot and raw from crying, but no less beautiful.

He hated to see her in such pain, but someday she would understand, and she would have to agree that it was for the best. Erik always knew what was best for her.

Just like he knew that idiot boy would never notice a few feet of missing wrapping paper.

#PotO Advent Calendar #PotO #Phantom of the Opera #Door 22

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crystalrose555 · 3 years

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Don’t make me slap you pt. 5

Reblog if you want more!!!

Mochi released a drawn out yawn as her eyes fluttered open. She rolled off her back only to discover that she was floating in a body of water. With a splash, she was upright in a decent sized inflatable pool in a bedroom with leafy vines and foliage spread throughout. She snorted as she looked around, looking for any potential danger before she pulled herself out of the makeshift pool and onto the surprisingly plush floor. Turned out she landed on a thick beach towel that lined the pool’s border.

Mochi shook her head in disbelief as she focused on the room and looked for a way out. Unfortunately, she didn’t see any windows except for the skylight above her that reflected a night sky, thus leaving her the door frame that was lined with cutesy thick curtains. If she had eyebrows, one of them would be raised out of reaction to the questionable design choices but she shook that from her mind as she bounced her way out of the room. She had to find a window, she had to figure out where in the world she was since she failed to take in her surroundings due to her sudden kidnapping and forceful relocation by the mysterious men.

Mochi grumbled to herself, thinking about how she should have taken at least one of them out to better her chances but as she bounced down the hallway, it began to sink in how that wouldn’t have turned out well. However, she still toyed with the idea that if she could have taken out the big guy in the red coat, she would be the one in charge. She snickered in her mind as she quietly made her way to the stairs. Her heart sank inside her chest as she noticed how steep the staircase was. She knew if she iced the entirety of the stairs to slide down it would take a lot out of her and she would overheat but she was definitely not a fan of the second option. Her third choice crawled into her head but she knew that she had to keep that one hidden no matter the cost, at least until the odds were in her favor. So she went with option two.

She scrunched her head and neck into her body and condensed herself into a ball, tucking her flippers in and lining her side with the edge of the stairs. Then taking a deep breath to inflate her blubbery body rounder, she closed her eyes and rocked herself to tumble down the stairs. With each step, her pudgy body bounced harder and faster. She held her breath and prayed for the stairs to end. However, she didn’t account for the amount of momentum she built as she reached the landing and crashed into the waiting wall.

The hanging portraits and paintings rattled and shook from the force as Mochi tried to get her head to stop swirling. Once she shook off her dizziness, a large painting slipped from its spot on the wall and bounced off her plentiful blubber, leaving it leaning against the wall over her body. Mochi released an audible sigh as she developed a minor headache, wishing she had something to relieve it.

“What the hell was that?”

Mochi tensed immediately as she pulled herself together and balled up behind the sizable painting. The sound of footsteps grew closer as Mochi remained as still as she could, cursing herself for attracting unwanted attention.

“Looks like a painting fell from the wall.”

“Well that would explain the thump but what about the squeaking noises?”

“Guys, I just checked Mochi’s room and she’s missing.” Asmo pointed out.

“The beast is loose!?”

Mochi rolled her eyes as Satan sighed.

“Mammon, you really need to calm down.”

“Oi, you calm down when she tries to bite you.”

“Whatever, let's just split up and find her.”

“Why should we? The blubber bucket is Levi’s responsibility, I say we don’t do jack.”

“Scummy as usual, besides if she gets eaten by Beelzebub then we all get in trouble.”

Mammon grumbled as the sound of footsteps echoed away. Mochi remained still and refused to move, she felt as if she wasn’t alone. Mammon, on the other hand, refused to move the landing.

“Why do I have to find the stupid seal? Besides, how far can something that fat go? It’s probably stuck somewhere.” He commented as he checked his phone.

Mochi wanted to hold in her growl but pieces leaked out the corner of her mouth. Cold escaped her body from her current aggression of being insulted.

“Huh?”

Mammon turned his attention back to the painting which seemed to be icing over to the point of being a solid rectangle of ice. Mammon backed away with his eyes wide and his cheeks puffed from a stifled laugh.

“No fucking way she can be that fucking dumb?” Mammon snorted out.

That was it, Mochi had enough of his mouth. With all the power she could muster, she bounced out of the corner of the landing and launched herself down the stairs on top of the frozen painting, riding it to the bottom but not before running Mammon over with her icy chariot. The further she went, the more joyous she felt. While keeping her balance, she raised herself up enough to clap and laugh at Mammon’s dumbfounded misfortune. By the time she reached a lower floor, her joy exploded at the thought of breaking out. However, it was short lived as her momentum dragged to a crawl. She lost her smooth patch of ice from knocking it against the stairs but she was on her way out and that’s what counted.

Mochi bounced down the hall softly, making sure she remained in the corner out of sight. She finally got a glimpse of the outside through a window but all she saw was night time and an eerie looking tree with a number of dark birds flying around. She trembled at the thought of being outside. However, that no longer mattered upon hearing the growing swears of a recovered Mammon. She bounced faster, looking for a room to dip into to avoid him.

“Mochi, where are you~”

She froze, realizing that someone was close by and actively looking for her. Quickly she hid behind one of the hallway decorations and peaked to see a puzzled Asmodeus looking around.

“Hmm, where did she go?” He questioned out loud.

Mochi gave a small snort, figuring Asmodeus was no better than Mammon since he also wanted to make a coat out of her. She, however, remained silent as she looked around for a new hiding place.

“Oh, I know, I’ll get Beel to sniff her out!” He excitedly claimed as he began to text his brother.

Her fur suddenly stood on end as the name of Beelzebub rang in her brain. For her, his eyes and hunger reminded her of sharks and leopard seals whom she could take on in the water anyday. However, she was out of her element and she needed to get to it. She waited till Asmodeus walked past her and down the hall before she bolted towards an open area. Confused by her name being called throughout the house, she picked a random hallway that wasn’t calling her. She could feel fatigue picking at her since she used a good amount of her energy on the stairs and Mammon but her hope was rearing its head as she heard water.

Hoping it was outside, she went faster only to end up in a dead end. The room was lined with windows with a fountain in the center. She sighed in disappointed relief, at the very least she found water to refresh herself. While approaching the fountain, she took in the planets and stars on the ceiling. It would be nice if she wasn’t running for her life. However, her hope was short-lived as she felt her back flippers being pulled by a pissed off Leviathan.

“I am not missing the Ruri-chan semi-seasonal virtual VIF conference! So get back in your room, you stupid seal!”

His serpent tail, glowing orange eyes and his pointed coral like horns would strike fear in any mortal but Mochi was no mere mortal as her own anger had reached its peak. Like a rubberband pulled past its breaking point, the room was filled with a sharp slap noise. Levi stared in astonishment, not only was he slapped in his face but it wasn’t by a flipper. There in front of him was a young ample woman with fierce purple eyes and frown on her face. Pearls seemed to drip from her fluffy black aquamarine hair as she covered her naked front with what looked like Mochi's fur. However, before his brain could process, he found himself being pulled down to the level of his short attacker.

“Haven’t anyone ever told you not to pull a lady by her flippers, ‘cause it fucking hurts!” She hissed.

"W-Wa-"

"And the next one of you to call me stupid is going to get their brain rattled! You got that, Geek Boy!?"

"Wa-Waaaaaaah!?"

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phoenixkadeu · 3 years

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fire and water.

the flowing waves of water, blue, and the burning flames of fire, red.

The rain had been pouring down non-stop for the last few days, thick coats made out of the best furs had been dug out from the closets and were now being worn outside on the streets, all kinds of people had their red noses tucked into the confines of their collars, hands deep in their pockets as their moving bodies struggled to keep in their natural warmth.

Asra was one lucky soul. He arrived at the club territory on top of his horse - the one that had been a generous gift from the infamous ace of hearts - a creature that was as strong as it was beautiful, a true companion. Which is why Asra did not mind paying a shiny coin to keep her safe in one of the stables, safe from the cruel elements until he was able to come back.

Heavy leather boots carried him all the way to his parents’ home, through narrow streets and under the watchful eye of neighbours behind the closed blinds of their own homes. It was odd, the whole atmosphere, it seemed like everyone preferred to be inside of their own homes away from the unforgiven the weather and as far away from the war was brewing, ignoring all the promises for a better future under the hand of some other that deemed himself more competent than the present ace of clubs.

None of that bothered him, at least not yet. A wave of calm and comfort filled him once he opened the front door, taking out his boots and setting them to the side, there were several coats hanging down on the rack, a pile of blankets on top of the couch and the young elementalist smiled to himself knowing that his parents were taking care of themselves.

Out of habit, he went to stand in front of the fireplace before crouching down, adorned fingers conjured a set of flames that soon lit up the entirety of the room, warmth slowly spreading around the house and just as he was opening his mouth to shout out the familiar question of “is anybody home?”, the front door opened again, a man walked in, drenched from head to toe and Asra wondered when it had started to rain.

“Hi, buddy,” his father greeted him in a familiar manner, his eyes wrinkling slightly alongside his smile as he shredded all the wet layers from his body, before finally making his way to his son, one calloused hand patted down Asra’s blond hair and making the young man looked up. “are you staying for dinner?” a small nod was enough to make his dad’s face light up. even more, the sentiment clear on his face as he moved to sit beside Asra in front of the fireplace, droplets dripping down from his hair but the old man seemed satisfied just to be with his son in front of a warm fire.

“You should go take a shower or you’ll get sick” the usual roughness that Asra was so known for was nowhere to be seen, only a subtle frown decorated his face, a small display of emotion. This was no simple visit, both men knew that, Asra was worried about his parents and had come all the way just to check on them, which was why it was so hard to get out in the open the next set of words.

The older man opened his eyes, knees worn out from years of work cracked audibly as he stood up, mature hands brushed his pants as he made his way to the open kitchen, just to start opening a series of cabinets and drawers, a horrible habit that often set Asra on edge.

“Somethings wrong” it wasn’t a question, Asra simply knew just by looking at his father’s behavior. The sigh that came out of his fathers mouth was hidden behind the sound of heavy rain hitting the windows and the soft crackling of the fire.

“Your mother has not been feeling well lately” he started, looked at Asra just to try and see his reaction before continuing “She did not want you to know so don’t be mad at her, alright? She is one of the few water elementalist around here and she just couldn’t turn her back on the people that needed her” he explained and Asra could feel the anger spreading across his body.

“The people can’t pay which means that no elementalist is willing to come here just for the sake of helping those in need, you know how it works, son. Your mother always liked to help, she can’t watch anyone suffer and most of our neighbours are still alive only because of her”

Asra stood up abruptly, the words said by his father preceded a bad and expected reaction. He made his way past the open kitchen in order to reach the corridor behind it, but his father pulled him back by the collar of his shirt before he could take another step, made him stumble a bit before he fully stopped on his tracks and prior to any complaints that could be voiced against that action coming from Asra, his father anticipated all of that, his usual soft tone was a bit more demanding now “you’re not going to see her with that look on your face, no need to upset her even more, Asra”

He looked at his father, mouth agape, if it was anyone else he would have told them to just fuck off, but this was one of the people who had raised him and unfortunately, one of the people who were always right about everything. So, Asra suppressed his feelings and kept his mouth shut and finally after the longest seconds of Asra’s life, his father released him, clapped him on his shoulder and spoke up again “that’s better, go on now, I’ll prepare some tea for her”

He opened the door to his parents’ bedroom quietly, carefully, even perhaps a little bit afraid of waking up his sleeping mother and as if on cue, the woman laying down on the bed, underneath heavy blankets looked up at him, tiredness evident on her gracious features which was not considered pitifully just because of the smile that was painted on her lips. “I could tell you were home, it feels warmer” one hand peaked out from underneath the blankets and he almost ran just to take it, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

Her eyes closed again and Asra hated it, allowed his face to succumb to the emotion that his father had just warned him about. It did not matter, his mother could not see him with her eyes closed, but unfortunately Asra had his open and even with his damaged right eye he could see her very clearly. His energetic and kind mother was weakened, had been pushed to solve problems that were far from her responsibility, had suffered just to give out temporary solutions, had rejected her own health just to give others a few more days.

It was selfless and stupid.

“Mumsy” he whispered, fingers caressing shapes into the back of her cold hand, gently coaxing her into opening her eyes. Similar blue eyes stared into the one’s of her son, the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes reminded her of past times, when small hands would cling to her legs, trembling lips recounting childish situations as a small Asra tried to defend himself from something he had done.

He had the same expression on his face. No matter how much time passed, she knew her son was still the same, tears for him were always a result of the anger he felt, rarely ever a product of sadness as it was to most, it should have worried her, but it never did, for her he still was -

“My sweet boy” her hand left his to caress the side of his face, thin fingers tracing his tender scars “my beautiful boy” gently and with purpose the palm of her hand found a place above Asra’s chest “I’m sure you can find it in your heart to forgive me”

And Asra did. He forgave her right there, even felt a little bit ashamed for what he was feeling, because in reality he had always been selfish, could not handle the thought of his own mother giving herself to a lost cause. Even if he could not understand it, he could forgive her, if not out of the love he felt for her at least because he knew she had always forgave him for the things he had done, even if he had never admitted to committing them.

They never talked about it, but he knew that his parents were aware of his dangerous lifestyle. Still, they trusted him, never held him back from doing what he wanted and needed to do and now for the first time he was understanding what it was like to suffer for others, to have to trust them blindly, let them do their own stuff and just hope that things would turn out alright.

“You should rest, I’m gonna spend the night here” he kissed the top of his mother’s head, pulled away just to watch her smile and before he noticed it, his father was already inside of the room, carrying a cup of tea. Sat just where Asra had been previously, cold kissed lips puckered and blew strings of air towards the cup in order to cool the tea inside of it, before passing it to his wife, hand reaching out to caress her hair as she drank it.

It was a soft image, a love that Asra had grown accustomed to seeing, one that he had one day hoped to have. Unfortunately, he felt like he was no longer destined for it, not worthy enough, but now standing with one shoulder against the door frame as he watched the silent interaction between his parents he promised that even if he had failed to protect his love, he would not fail to protect theirs.

Corruption be damned, this was all he had left.

#fire and water #drabble #self-para #ok so this is basically how the corruption of water the cold and the deal with HIM in the clubs is affecting Asra #or at least just a start of it #and also another glimpse into the family dynamics #they are very sweet #really how can asra be their son? I laugh a lot #I wanted to put a read more on this but I don't want grey and yan shouting afterwards

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epiphany-of-a-madwoman · 4 years

Text

The Last Dragon | The Witcher & Game of Thrones

Chapter 9 | Toss a Coin to Your Witcher

Summary: Visenya Targaryen is the eldest and only surviving child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell. When Robert Baratheon’s rebellion was won, instead of being slaughtered by the Mountain like her mother and siblings, she was saved by Ned Stark and taken as his ward. Years later, after she’s killed at the Red Wedding, she wakes up outside Blaviken. Now she finds her destiny intertwined with the White Wolf on her quest to go back home.

Word Count: 4,339

Note: Click here to read the previous chapters ♡

💕 Shout out to my Beta: @thisbreakableheaven , I always say it, but I’m going to say it again, thanks for listening to all my plot rambling as I try and piece together all my strange plot / chapter ideas! 💕

Visenya’s eyes shoot open. Her breathing is heavy and erratic with her heart beating rapidly against her chest. A cool sweat coats her forehead and brows with a slight tremble in her body, like a leaf shaking in the wind. Amber eyes dart from left to right, attempting to take in her surroundings. Everything is hazy and out of focus, like a thick fog hangs in the room, translucent enough to not be immediately noticeable, but still there. She’s in a bed, larger than the small lumpy ones in the inns she and Jaskier inhabit and certainly plusher than the hard floor she swears she fell asleep on last night.

Heavy furs cover her body, keeping out any potential chill, the hairs on her body stand up straight due to the cold air. Directly across from her is a small table pushed up against the wall with a small mirror resting on top of it. The window to her right is shut firmly, and adorned with loosely hanging curtains made from a thick navy blue fabric. On the left side of the room, a long wardrobe crafted from dark wood, and beside it a dresser crafted from similar materials. Visenya pushes the heavy furs and sits up. Her back pops at the movement, her neck and shoulders stiff from a restless sleep. In the back of her mind something feels off, but for the life of her, Visenya can’t put her finger on it. A part of her that’s buried deep in her hazy thoughts is screaming at the top of its lungs, but she doesn’t know why.

Winterfell, she’s in Winterfell. But she's always been here, so why does it seem so wrong?

She slips out of the bed, her left and then right foot touching the cold floor, it’s dark stone color matching with the rest of the room's decor. The cold air bites at her bare legs, the light nightgown doing nothing against the cold. Only silence fills the room, not even the sound of her feet lightly tapping against the stone floor is heard. For some reason, this unnerves Visenya, but once again she doesn’t know why. She approaches the vanity table, sitting in a wooden chair in front of it. the legs of the chair scrape against the ground, the sound echoing in Visenya’s mind. It’s the first noise she’s heard since she awoke. She sits in the chair, the wooden backing not soothing the stiffness she feels.

Looking into the small mirror, she stares at her reflection. Tangled silver hair delicately frames her pale skin that nearly glows in the dark room. Purple eyes glimmer in the reflection, staring at Visenya with a hint of mirth she’s familiar with but also seems almost like a distant dream. For some reason it seems wrong, the reflection staring back at her, but Visenya can’t place why. Targaryens are known to have silver hair and purple eyes, so why do her own features feel foreign? Another shiver overcomes her body, the sensation mildly confusing. She outstretches a hand towards the mirror --.

Knock. Knock.

The sound echoes around the room. Visenya turns her gaze to the heavy wooden door and her arm retracts. She stares at the source of the booming noise, not sure how to react. A moment passes and another knock, this time with a voice attached.

“My lady, I’m here to make sure you’re awake,” a voice calls out, the soft voice barely registering in Visenya’s mind. She blankly stares at the door, before remembering how to speak.

“Come in,” she replies, attempting to project her voice. A moment passes before it opens and a woman hardly younger than Visenya enters the room. Her hair is mousy brown, pulled into a tight bun without a strand out of place, a plain dress that’s as dark and dreary as the room limply hangs from her small body, the fabric drowning her. She nervously bows in Visenya’s direction before scurrying to the wardrobe. She flings open the doors and begins rifling through the dresses hanging inside. Visenya watches the woman, not sure what to make of the scene. She’s seen her before, that much she is sure of, so why doesn’t she know her name?

She pulls out a pale blue, with delicate embroidery near the bottom, a garment much more intricate than the one she is wearing herself, and yet she turns to Visenya with a satisfied expression on her otherwise somber face. The woman turns to Visenya, a satisfied expression on her otherwise somber face. The dress is familiar and evokes an emotional response, her eyes dampening, a sharp pain in her heart. And she’s confused, more so than before.

“This dress Lady Sansa made for you will look lovely.” the woman remarks. She begins rifling through the drawers, pulling out various pieces of fabric. Visenya turns her gaze back to her mirror, staring at her reflection with a blank expression.

Flashes of Visenya in that dress, hair braided back as she stands in line with Theon and Jon, uncomfortably waiting for the King and Queen, along with their company to arrive. But that can’t be right, Robert Baratheon hasn’t been to Winterfell since she was eight years old.

The woman begins humming a soft tune under her breath. The sound amplifies in Visenya’s mind until the melody is all she can hear and it clouds her thoughts and further muffles the distant screaming in her head. It intoxicates her like a strong northern ale, pulling her further and further away from sober thoughts and into a dream-like state. Soon the humming turns into outright singing, the hauntingly sweet words dancing around Visenya’s mind and while the woman’s voice is lovely and soft, something about it’s grating, like scraping a knife against a plate.

Visenya continues to stare at her reflection, her expression unchanging and eyes unmoving as they stare into the mirror. All the while, the woman continues singing the eerily beautiful song while rifling through the drawers filled with clothes. Everything is unchanging in the room, feeling as though time itself is still until Visenya notices a few slight changes. The metal framing around the mirror begins to rust, the once bright metal turning dark. The mirror portion starts to discolor and is blotched with dark spots and the entirety of the mirror covered in a hazy fog, obscuring Visenya from her own reflection. The vanity table shows signs of aging as well, no longing feeling as sturdy as it was a moment ago with random parts of it looking rotted. But the most obvious change is the air. The crisp morning air that’s normal in the North turns stale, the cold in the air burning deep in Visenya’s bones rather than leaving her skin cold. But the woman continues singing, weaving her hands through Visenya hair like it’s threads of silver, either not noticing the sudden change or unbothered by it.

“You seem warm, My Lady. Shall I get a maester to check on your health?” the woman says, pausing her singing.

“N-no I’m fine, just a bad dream is all,” Visenya says, staring at her reflection in the old mirror.

“Did you dream of fire and dragons?” she asks. Visenya’s heart stops as all the thoughts in her mind cease. She whips around to face the woman, the hair she previously held pulling Visenya’s scalp.

“Wha - what did you just say?” Visenya asks, her eyes piercing into the woman. She doesn’t look startled by Visenya’s sudden change in mood, in fact, her face is completely emotionless. Rather than a real, breathing, living person, she looks like a life-sized doll, eyes dull and dead, with nothing behind them.

“There’s no need to be afraid, my lady. The Lord of Light smiles down upon his chosen champions. From fire and ash you were reborn, to bring a world thrust into darkness into the light.” she says, speaking as if she were a dead person brought to life - monotone with no inflection - weaving her hands into the locks of Visenya hair, meticulously braiding each strand.

“What are you talking about? I demand you tell me.” Visenya says, her voice getting louder with each word spoken as her temper begins to flare. She stands from the chair, pushing the woman’s hands away from her face.

“Remember the words, remember what was said. With Fire and Blood.” the woman speaks, this time her tone has a sense of urgency in it, but for the life of her, Visenya can’t think why. But before she can question her further, the ground beneath Visenya is ripped away, and she feels herself free-falling in darkness, unable to make heads or tails of her surroundings. All she knows is it’s cold and dark. She tries to scream but nothing comes out, leaving her mouth open with silent screams. Her hair whips around her face and she watches the silver locks darkening until the shining silver is a dull brown.

Then she hits the ground. It’s sudden, unexpected, and very painful. But feeling solid ground around her is somewhat comforting.

And when her eyes flutter open, apprehensive and scared of what she might see, she breathes out a sigh of relief. Tall trees, emerald leaves, a fire that’s been smothered, and a sleeping figure. She’s in the camp again, if she ever even left. She places a hand over her chest as she sits up, the other one reaching to wipe away the dampness on her face. Birds softly chirp high on the branches, singing in tune with the gentle breeze that rustles the forest. The sun is rising, the faint rays of morning light hitting the trees, the leaves fanning the light out below them, and with a final heavy breath, Visenya pushes her body up to stand.

Stumbling through the small camp, past the sleeping bard, she breaks into the thick of the forest. Her hand rests on one of her silver daggers, eyes keenly looking around the thick greenery for any movement. She crouches low to the ground in an attempt to obscure herself from future prey and stalks forward. To her left, she notices the tall grass shifting, and with the grace of a cat pouncing onto its prey, she pulls out her dagger and flings it. The dagger flies through the air but instead of striking her target, it embeds itself into the tree nearby. A moment later, a fat rabbit with beady black eyes rushes out of the grass and disappears into the forest. A frustrated groan leaves Visenya’s mouth and she trudges towards her dagger and pulls it out of the wood with just enough force.

Absentmindedly wandering through the forest, her thoughts return to the dream. It’s odd, she’s had dreams before but never so...life like. She’d felt every emotion, smell every scent, and feel every surface as she would’ve in reality. The phantom feeling of ash clinging to her skin is still there and she catches herself shaking her head, attempting to get the ash out before remembering it’s not actually there. Perhaps it’s merely her mind playing games, a trick the mind was playing on itself to coax out her best-kept and well hidden fears, even the ones that had been buried so deep that she'd forgotten about them. However, the chill in her body as she remembers the madness buried in the eyes of her reflection makes it difficult to convince herself.

And that second...dream, if it was even that. The woman’s words echo in her head, on repeat over and over, growing louder each time she hears them again.

Fire and Blood.

She knows the words well, the words of House Targaryen. The only comfort she had during her darkest nights. An assurance that even if she was physically by herself, isolated from her only chance of ever knowing her family, she was never truly alone. And some nights she’d even convince herself Queen Visenya I was with her, watching over her, guiding her every step of the way. That she was there, when Visenya first started training to fight, guiding her swings with the wooden sword, coaxing her into a proper battle stance. And even though they were foolish tales and fantasies dreamed up by a small child too sad for her age, they were comforting as she maneuvered through this new strange world.

With a huff, she sinks down to the ground, leaning her back against the tree. A hysterical laugh escapes her mouth, the sound dancing away in the mellow breeze rushing through the forest.

“I’m going insane,” she mutters to herself, and she rests her forehead against the palms of her hands. Her thoughts wander as she absentmindedly scapes her hairline with the tips of her fingers. Her nails are unkempt and longer than preferred, strands of hair getting stuck in the corners of her nails.

“There you are!” Jaskier’s voice breaks Visenya from her thoughts. Her head snaps up in his direction, watching as his form swiftly approaches her spot. He’s wearing the same ensemble from the night before and his floppy brown hair is as well managed as it can be on the road. Her face twists into a look of confusion, her eyes following his nonchalant movements. However, Jaskier doesn’t acknowledge her and instead opts to sit on her left, only part of his body resting against the tree.

“Now I was going to leave you to do your…well whatever it is you were doing,” Jaskier continues waving his hand vaguely in Visenya direction. “But, then it sounded like you were having a real crisis. So I thought to myself ‘Oh better make sure she’s okay.’ You are my source of protection after all.” Jaskier muses, a lopsided grin resting on his face. The teasing tone in his voice is a stark contrast to the worry swirling in his eyes. A small grin creeps its way up onto Visenya's mouth, a warm feeling filling her chest. The harsh lines that were forming on her forehead immediately softened, the anxiety and hint of fear barely hidden behind her eyes swiftly disappearing.

“I’m fine,” she replies. Jaskier raises his eyebrows at her response, clearly not buying the lie. “Well, I’m not fine, but I will be,” she corrects herself before Jaskier has a chance to verbalize his doubts. Seemingly satisfied, he nods once at her words but makes no move to stand. Instead, he wiggles towards Visenya until their legs are touching and leans his head closer towards hers so it’s resting against the tree. Always one for personal space, Visenya normally would’ve either physically or verbally lashed at him - demanding the bard keep his distance. However, the scathing remarks never come. Instead, Visenya moves over slightly to allow Jaskier more room, watching the leaves delicately blow in the wind, the faint sound of birds singing echoing in the distance.

“If you ever need to talk to someone...” Jaskier’s voice interrupts the quiet atmosphere surrounding them. Visenya turns to face him, raising a single brow with her lips tilted upwards.

“You’ll be the first person who knows. Considering you’re the only person I talk to.” Visenya replies. At her reply the serious expression that Jaskier wore immediately dissipated. His eyes sparkling with mischief and his lips were pulling into an amused smirk.

“And what about our mighty Witcher! How would our dastardly hero feel about not being included in this list?” Jaskier exclaims, dramatically emphasizes his words. Visenya simply rolls her eyes at him.

Everything with him always comes back to Geralt.

Jaskier then leans forward, eyebrows raised so high they nearly touch his hairline. When he quickly moistens his lips with his tongue, Jaskier more closely resembles a cat that got into the canary rather than a man.

“Could it possibly be because you and Geralt don’t do much…” his eyes flit to the left and right before landing on Visenya again. “Talking?” he asks. Visenya brings a hand up and smacks Jaskier on his left shoulder. He immediately moves away from her, rubbing the spot she’d struck. “That’s not very nice!” he exclaims, moving until there is sufficient space in between them.

“Play stupid games, win stupid prizes,” Visenya replies. She stands from her sitting position and holds a hand out for Jaskier to take. Always one for theatrics, Jaskier moves backward and throws one of his hands across his forehead. He leans his head back and closes his eyes, an exaggerated gasp escaping his mouth.

“Time and time again, my fair maiden has abused and used me. When will this insanity end, giving me sweet release from her beguiling aura? I pray to the gods every night that it will change” Jaskier exclaims. After he finishes his words, he waits a moment and then opens one of his eyes only to quickly close it and sigh again, louder than the first time and far more dramatic.

“Ha ha ha, very funny. Now let's go before the sun is gone, we’ve got places to go.” Visenya says, her expression hiding any amusement she got from his antics. A defeated sigh leaves Jaskier's mouth, and a moment later he places his hand in Visenya’s as she pulls his body from the ground.

“As my lady commands,” he says. And with a single bump against his shoulder from Visenya, the two of them begin walking back to camp.

o0o0o0o0o

“When are you going to finally admit that you enjoy those novels more than you let on?” Jaskier asks, pulling out one of his quills, scratching it against a piece of parchment. Two tankards full of ale rest in front of them, neither of them drunk from. The ale here is watery and weak, yet still managing to taste worse than rotting fungus.

Flick, the thin parchment page of the book nearly rips from how quickly it’s flipped. Visenya glances at him out of the corner of her eyes, raising a single brow at him before returning her gaze to the trashy romance novel. It’s sickeningly sweet, the dialogue almost as unrealistic as the premise of the book itself, but it’s something to read when she needs to stave off boredom.

“Do you want me to hit you? Because I will hit you.”

Flick, another page. The heroine of the story finally meets up with the main love interest, practically throwing herself into his arms, that the author took time to describe every detail of. Visenya's face crunches up into a grimace, quickly turning the page.

“I’d rather you didn’t, if you don’t mind. I think I’m still bruised from where you hit me when we first met.” He runs his hand over the spot on his abdomen she elbowed him all those months ago, after the whole situation with elves resolved itself. And she can’t help the small self satisfied smirk that slowly creeps onto her face.

Flick.

The soft sun rays of dawn creep through the windows, the thick layer of dirt and grime that covers them dispersing the light. The rays shoot through the tavern, randomly choosing the next victim to blind with their radiance. The room is loud with town folk who gather around the old creaky tables, with drinks in hand, muttering quietly amongst themselves. Tension is thick in the air, everyone seemingly on edge, and it has nothing to do with the newcomers. This tension is different, almost like the whole village is slowly sinking into their fears with only the tops of their heads above the water.

“Why can’t you be nice to me, Jane? I really thought after our conversation around the fire three nights ago we were growing closer?” Jaskier asks, feigning offense in his tone, placing his hand over his heart with eyes wide and innocent looking.

Visenya snorts.

“Maybe you should try--”

The front door swings open, silencing any noise in the room. A figure rushes through them, it’s an older man, chubbier than most with a short beard and balding hair. His clothes are nicer than most other people in the room, besides the putrid smelling goo that clings to it, seemingly a mixture of blood and black ooze. His whole body is trembling like a leaf in a storm, clutching a fabric hat in his hands as he rushes towards the center of the tavern.

“Eustace, what is this?” the barkeep calls out, scrunching his nose as he passes.

“I-I saw it!” he exclaims as he drops his hat on a table, the room gasping at his proclamation. Visenya glances at him for a second before looking back to her book, scanning the words with mild interest. It seems the author is still going on and on about the hero’s rippling muscles.

Like a swarm of rats skittering towards their next meal, the entirety of the room gravitates towards him and by association, Visenya and Jaskier, since he stands closest to their table. Jaskier flips his journal to a blank page, eagerly waiting for his next grand tale.

“I tell you no lie, it swallowed the whole village it did. Not a bone to be found,” he starts, making sure his uneven and shaky voice carries throughout the entire room.

“Oh don’t give me that look, shitling. That’s why we had to call him…” he pauses, allowing the words to ring in the air before continuing, “The White Wolf.” Everyone around them dramatically gasps, completely enraptured by the story. Visenya eyes flick up from the book in her hand, leveling a hard stare at Jaskier, her gaze enough to turn him into stone if he dares to look in her direction. Noticeably, he does everything to not look at her.

The White Wolf, of course Geralt is here. No wonder Jaskier was so eager to settle in this tavern for the day.

“And he stood in the middle of that frozen lake like he knew it was coming for him. The ice cracked open and a selkimore shot out! Oh you’ve never seen one, but it’d take down a ship with its cavernous mouth full of devil's teeth!” the man exclaims, waving his arms around like a mad man. “And it… swallowed… that Witcher...whole!” he finishes.

Visenya’s head shoots up like a bolt of lightning, narrowing her eyes at the man.

‘No, there’s no way Geralt’s dead, he wouldn’t just...let himself get eaten like that.’

The words do little to comfort the small bit of anxiety inside her. Witchers hunt monsters and monsters are deadly, tearing apart people and destroying their homes as easily as Visenya breathes air. But Geralt isn’t normal, this is what he’s trained to do. She dares to glance at Jaskier out of the corner of her eyes, seeing him nonchalantly scribbling away and that does more to quell her worries than any half assed words she could concoct.

“Oh, this is brilliant!” Jaskier says, quickly diffusing the tight and tense atmosphere that surrounds the inn. In perfect synch, the patrons snap their attention towards Jaskier, staring at him in disbelief, as an amused smirk plays on Visenya’s face. Feeling a million glares piercing his skin like knives, Jaskier looks up from his writings, eyes wide and his mouth open. “Oh sorry. It’s just Geralt is usually so stingy with the details.”

“For good reason,” Visenya mutters under her breath.

Flick. Now the hero is dueling his rival so he can marry the heroine.

“Uh- and then what happened?” Jaskier asks.

“He died.”

“Eh...he’s fine.” Jaskier replies, his voice nonchalant and relaxed.

“Look, I was there. I know what I saw with my own--” heat builds in his voice, face as red as a ripe tomato, aggressively shoving a pudgy finger towards Jaskier. Visenya slowly rises from the chair, hand ghosting over the pommel of the dagger strapped to her leg, eyes in slits as they level a glare on the man.

Before he gets the chance to escalate the situation and force Visenya to end it entirely, the door slams open, metal handle clashing against the wooden walls.

In walks a hulking figure that is drenched head to toe in the same grotesque smelling foreign goo the pudgy man is coated in. Everyone’s attention turns towards the door, frantically covering their noses as the stench is stronger and fouler than what the rounder man emanates. With his sword in hand, Geralt walks towards Jaskier and Visenya, eyes set on the man before them and the people part, granting him a wide berth.

“See,” Jaskier says, nonchalantly writing in his book.

“What’s that stench?” the man asks Geralt as he approaches the table.

“Selkimore guts. Had to get it from the inside. I’ll take what I’m owed.” Geralt says, his voice rougher than it usually is. Jaskier immediately jumps up, quill still in hand and begins singing that gods awful song.

“Toss a coin to your Witcher oh valley of plenty oh oh oh.” The man tosses a coin pouch as the entire tavern begins singing along, hesitantly at first, but as the song continues, people grow more enthusiastic. Geralt side steps the crowd and moves straight for the bar, bag of gold in hand. Jaskier rushes after him, rambling on about one thing or another. A sigh of exasperation and mild relief leaves Visenya's mouth as she thumbs through the book again, despite having completely lost interest in it by this point.

‘It keeps my muse fresh and exciting!’ Jaskier always says about his large collection of frilly books, but to Visenya they’re just dead weight only useful to pass the time. But it doesn’t even do that.

“Food, woman, and wine, Geralt!” Visenya hears Jaskier exclaim. She looks up to find Geralt a few steps away from their table, still covered in guts with no drink in hand.

Wordlessly, Visenya grabs her waterskin that’s filled with Cintran ale and tosses it to Geralt. She then returns her attention back to the romance novel.

“The drinks here are shit,” she said.

o0o0o0o0o

Tags: If your name is crossed out, it means I wasn’t able to tag you. Also I’m not 100% sure if most of y’all still want to be tagged, since it’s been so long since I posted a new chapter, so feel free to message me if you no longer want to be!

#geralt x reader #the witcher fanfiction #geralt imagine #geralt one shot #geralt fanfic #geralt of rivia #Geralt #the witcher imagine #the witcher #the last dragon #the witcher one shot #game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones imagine #house targaryen #targaryen!reader #targaryen!oc #CrossOver

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neon-vials · 3 years

Text

Out Of Time

Relationships: Bucky Barnes x Peggy Carter

Summary: AU where Bucky goes back in time instead of Steve

Word Count: 1.5k

Rating: General

Warnings: Fluff, angst, brief mentions of death

A gift for @buckybarnesxpeggycarter

It had been exactly two years since Bucky left her; since he lost his grip and plummeted to his death from the train.

Not a day went by that Peggy didn’t think of him, whether it be a flash of a goofy childish smirk in a crowd or the blue eyes of her coworker or every godforsaken time someone would call her “Ma’am."

Peggy hadn't danced once since. She couldn’t bear to do it when she still held the guilt of rejecting Bucky's very last offer of a dance. She had originally done it in an attempt to uphold the sercrecy of their relationship, but in hindsight it ended up doing more harm than good. People said she needed to get her head out of the past, but the past is where he was, so Peggy thought she'd stay a little longer.

The voice of her assistant rung out, drawing her attention from the files she was mindlessly scanning to his exasperated frame.

“Agent Carter?”

Shaking her head to clear it, Peggy forced a half-smile on her lips as she replied, “Yes, Charles?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but there’s a man here that is incredibly adamant about seeing you. I told him that he needs to schedule an appointment but he refuses to leave. Should I call security or-?”

"No, no, it’s fine. I’m not very busy at the moment so you can just send him in,” Charles was half-way out the door as she called, “Feel free to take a break, afterwards! You’ve been working especially hard lately; you deserve it!"

Peggy heard a retreating, “Thank you!” from Charles just before the door closed, and Peggy closed the folder on her desk before putting her head in her hands, in an attempt to prepare herself for the likely pugnacious client that was seconds away from walking in.

The distinct sound of the door opening and closing reached her ears and Peggy slapped on her best smile before she lifted her head.

The eyes tend to play tricks on the heartbroken, but Peggy was sure that what she was seeing before her was real.

In an instant, Peggy was on her feet. The chair she was sitting on was launched backwards, slamming it into the wall, and her hand ripped the pistol from its place taped under her desk. Peggy pointed the barrel between the eyes of the man, of the person that looked frighteningly similiar to the love of her life, the man who disappeared into a ravine;

Bucky.

His hands slowly rose over his head, one gloved and one not, standing in surrender as his fingers trembled and his eyes welled with tears.

Her heart ached to touch him but her mind knew better, so she stood with a desk and a gun filling the space between the two of them, suspicion and distrust in Peggy's eyes as she stared him down.

“What and who are you? Who sent you? What are you doing here?” she fired off in rapid succession. Peggy's emotions swirled further and further into chaos the longer she looked at him, drinking in his features that look nearly the same as they did before he left on the ill-fated mission, albeit a little more hardened from the weight of a life that Peggy had no knowledge of that rested on his shoulders.

He stepped closer to her, his voice like wavering satin as he spoke, “Peg. It’s me. It’s Bucky.”

“Prove it.”

His gloved hand lowered toward his pocket and Peggy tightened at his movements, her eyes reproachful as her finger jumped to the trigger.

He froze, holding her gaze as he murmured softly, “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise. I'm not going to hurt anyone ever again.”

Something in Peggy cracked at his words, at the tone in his voice that was full of so much tender love and longing. She lowered the gun while her head was screaming no but her heart refused to listen; she couldn’t help but trust him.

The tension in his shoulders relaxed and he continued to reach down, fishing a small object out of his pocket before slowly advancing forward, placing it on her desk, and backing away.

Peggy sucked in a deep breath to keep the tears at bay but she failed miserably. She didn’t need to open it to know what it was. Her fingers were trembling as they close around the beaten compass, and the tears fell heavy and unrelenting as she seen the old picture of her nestled within.

With weak knees, Peggy walked towards Bucky, letting her eyes devour him in his entirety as she fell into his arms. The familiar scent washed over her and his touch felt like home and it was all too much. She noticed that his left arm felt off, metalic even, like it was a prostethic of some kind, and she realised his hair was a good bit longer, and he had a beard, but she was too overwhelmed to even bother questioning. She was sure he'd eventually give her an explanation to everything.

The soon room filled with her sobs and she eventually managed to muster a simple, “How?”

His head buried into the crook of her neck and Peggy could feel his own tears trickling down her skin, pooling in the dips of her collarbones. His hands found the small of her waist and the nape of her neck. It took him a moment to gather himself, his lips brushed against her skin as he started to pull away, choking out, “You might want to sit down to hear it.”

“Not a chance,” Peggy asserted, gripping his collar with both hands before pulling him towards her, crashing her lips to his in a passionate kiss. His lips were full and so was her heart as the kiss stretched on for a few seconds more before Peggy pulled away, a soft smile on her face as she observed the red lipstick that decorated his lips.

With a gentle touch, she ghosted her fingertips over his mouth. His hot shuddering breath fanned over the back of her hand, causing a shiver to run down her spine. The feeling was both familiar and foreign as she had not felt it for so long. Bucky placed his hand over hers and held it, pressing her fingertips to his lips.

“I've missed you.”

His eyes flashed at her words, holding so much pain and sadness and love as he murmured, “I missed you, too, Peg.”

*Seven years later*

“Can I have a bite?” Bucky asked with his best puppy dog eyes, looking down at the cookie-holding little girl that sat innocently on his lap.

She shook her head, “No!” before taking another bite. Bucky’s mouth dropped open in shock and Peggy couldn’t help but laugh as he feigned hurt, holding his hand over his chest, “Do you not love me anymore, Ivy?”

Ivy furrowed her brows at Bucky, “I love you, Daddy. But I also love cookie.”

Bucky let out a laugh before stood in one swift motion, wrapping a strong arm around his daughter to carry her at his side like a football. A high-pitched squeal escaped her as he charged toward Peggy, she only had enough time to stand before his arm was around her waist and he was carrying her on his other side.

Peggy and Ivy yelped and laughed along with Grant who was sitting on the ground watching as Bucky spun around, yelling like a mad man while he ran throughout the living room, hopping over the coffee tables and vaulting over the couch and practically bouncing off the walls.

“Jamie! Put us down!” Peggy yelled between laughs and he was quick to oblige, pulling the both of them tight to his chest before falling back on the couch beside their son in a heap of limbs and hair and cookie crumbs.

“No, again!” Ivy squealed from her spot mushed between her and brother and father’s embrace.

Peggy couldn’t help but grin wide as she gaze at her daughter's excited form. Her eyes sparkled, holding the same innocent, wonder-filled look in them that Bucky did when she first met him at a boot camp all those years ago. Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, Peggy leaned forward to press her lips against Ivy's forehead before prying herself from Bucky's metal grip, “You heard the girl, take her for another whirl,” he was halfway through lunging for her when she held a hand up, a single brow cocked, “without Mom this time.”

Bucky rolled his eyes at her sass before shooting her a wink and stealing a quick kiss, earning a “Yuck,” from both Grant and Ivy . He was quick on his feet as he held Ivy in his arms, twirling around the living room floor with her giggling and shrieking in delight.

Crossing her arms over her chest, Peggy settled into the couch, watching the scene play out before her. A content sigh escaped her lips and a warmth spread from her heart as she wrapped an arm around Grant's shoulders and pressed a kiss to the top of his messy dark mop as he cuddled into her side.

They finally got their happy ending.

#carterbarnes #wintercarter #beggy #bucky x peggy #bucky barnes #peggy carter #sebastian stan #hayley atwell #marvel fluff #marvel #bucky barnes angst #angst #drabble #endgame au #anti endgame

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artificialqueens · 3 years

Text

Galactica, Chapter 41 (Group Fic) - TheDane/Veronica

A/N: Click here if you’re looking for previous chapters (or here if you’d rather read on AO3). 💫

Last Chapter: Halloween

This Chapter: Things look up for Violet but turn iffy for Adore.

***

Pearl swayed a little in her heels as Adore’s lips trailed down her neck. They were half-dressed at this point, making their way to Adore’s bedroom. Adore’s jacket and shirt had been discarded, leaving her in just a thin undershirt, suspenders dangling around her waist. Pearl’s skirt was around her ankles, sweater somewhere on the floor.

She stepped out of the skirt, a sharp inhale leaving her as Adore shoved her roughly up against a wall. Her hands threaded into Adore’s hair, which was up in a tight bun, and immediately began pulling it apart. She loved the whole butch look that Adore was rocking tonight, but she loved it even more when she got to unravel it. Pearl’s hand traveled along the wall, reaching for the door handle, finally pushing it open and pulling Adore into the bedroom.

“God, you’re so fucking hot,” Adore breathed, pushing Pearl onto the bed.

Pearl smirked, enjoying the desperate edge in her voice as her hands groped for her bra clasp, the unrefined way she clawed at her panties to yank them down. She spread her thighs, head falling backward, hand tangled into Adore’s hair to guide her along.

“I love your pussy,” Adore continued, lapping her up vigorously, fingers digging into her thighs. “You’re perfect, so perfect…”

Adore kept lavishing praise on her, and Pearl could feel her muscles tense. She tried to squeeze her eyes shut, to close it out and focus on the way her body was responding, but it quickly became impossible. She took a deep breath and rolled Adore over onto her back, thighs straddling her face.

“Stop talking.”

Adore panted up at her, surprise all over her face as her eyes went dark. “Are you gonna punish me?”

The way she just immediately folded, immediately ceded all power to Pearl, was even more intoxicating than if she’d been submissive all along.

“I should,” Pearl said hoarsely. She ran a finger along Adore’s bottom lip. “I should show you who’s boss.”

“Do it.” Adore trembled beneath her, gripping her thighs for dear life.

Pearl took hold of the headboard and lowered herself until her pussy was pressed up against Adore’s face, riding her slowly, dictating the pressure and pace, all the while watching the blissed-out expression in Adore’s eyes. By the time Pearl came with a satisfied groan, Adore’s panties, her usual boy-cut cotton briefs, were soaked through.

It was hard not to laugh. This was the same girl who, just hours earlier, had been manhandling her on the dance floor as if she were the king of the world. And now, all it took was a few swipes of Pearl’s thumb to reduce her to a whimpering, shaking mess.

“You like that?”

“B-baby, please,” Adore begged, pupils fully dilated, hands clutching at Pearl’s hair and shoulders. “I need to come, I need-”

“Shh, shhhh…” Pearl silenced her with a kiss, finally plunging her fingers inside to give her what she so desperately wanted, stroking her g-spot until she cried out, then continuing to play with her until she was wrung out, too weak to even lift her head.

Afterwards, Pearl sucked her fingers into her mouth with a satisfied grin, letting Adore curl against her as usual, wrapping her warm body into a sweaty embrace.

***

Sutan woke to the ever familiar scent of lavender, and the sensation of Violet’s hair up his nose.

He huffed, moving his face away, only to smile when Violet groaned, her hand coming up to grab his arm and pull him back down, forcing him to mold himself back against her back, the bed creaking underneath them.

Last night, they hadn’t returned to Sutan’s place as he had originally expected, instead, they had ended up in Violet’s apartment because Violet had insisted that she would die if she didn’t get pizza from a specific pizzeria near her building, and who was Sutan to argue with that?

“Morning gorgeous.” Sutan smiled, pressing a kiss against Violet’s shoulder, but the action only earned him another deep groan, Violet for once very clearly hungover. “Where is your bed frame?”

“Only rich people have bed frames.”

“Sure.” Sutan snorted, burrowing his face in Violet’s hair, pulling her against him.

It was strange to be in Violet’s bedroom, Sutan realizing last night with a flash of embarrassment that this was the first time he had been inside Violet’s apartment. He had picked her up from her building countless times, but they had always stayed at his, Sutan not even entertaining the idea that he should come up.

“Is there any leftover pizza?” Violet looked over her shoulder, a little bit of the mascara she hadn’t managed to get off smudged under her eye.

“You only had two slices.” Sutan had bought a pepperoni pizza for himself, Violet for some godforsaken reason going straight for pineapple and only pineapple. “I put it in your fridge.”

Sutan had never expected Violet to be someone who enjoyed cooking, but he had been shocked when he had opened her refrigerator last night, a bottle of carrot juice, a carton of almond milk and a half eaten takeaway salad all he had spotted in there.

“I’ll go get it.” Violet slipped out of bed, and Sutan couldn’t help but smile as she was wearing the tiniest pair of panties, her Hepburn jewels still around her neck since Sutan hadn’t been able to figure out the lock with a drunk and sleepy Violet in his arms.

Sutan sat up, running his hand through his hair as he looked around the bedroom, a tower of brown moving boxes in the corner. Violet’s clothes were all put away, two clothing racks holding dresses Sutan immediately recognized, but beyond the wardrobe, the room was strangely bare and devoid of personal touches.

“Huh.” Sutan bit his lip, getting out of bed. He grabbed his undershirt from the floor, cursing to himself when he realized that he didn’t have his reading glasses, using his phone without them a surefire way to feel like shit after a night out.

“Do you want coffee?” Sutan turned his head to see Violet standing in the door, now wrapped in a robe, a plate and a slice of pizza with missing bites in her hand. “I’m afraid I only have instant.”

“Instant is fine.” It wasn’t really, not when he was used to his top of the line espresso machine, but he wasn’t going to create a fuss. “Do you have anything that isn’t pineapple pizza?”

“I can make oatmeal?” Violet smiled, and he guessed that somewhat explained the strange lack of food in her fridge.

“How about I take us out for breakfast?”

***

“Raaaaaaaj,” Raven whispered, her lips right next to her fiancée's ear. “Wake up.”

They had come home from the party last night, Raja helping her out of her costume, the two of them falling into bed, drunk sex always a fucking treat, the feeling of Raja’s fake mustache against her inner thighs so strange they had both been hiccuping from laughter.

“Mmmh?”

“I’m hungry.” Raven smirked as she felt Raja’s hand travel up her back, the other woman finally awake.

“Make breakfast then.”

“I wanna go out.” Raven nuzzled her nose against Raja’s neck.

“You can starve for all that I care.”

Raven laughed. Grumpy Raja was one of her favorites, the whine in her voice one that never came out anywhere else, being allowed to see her like this, a treasure Raven guarded with her life.

“Please-” Raven nuzzled her face even closer against Raja’s neck, pressing kisses to the warm skin. “I want buttered croissants.”

“Mmh-” Raja hummed, her fingers finding the ends of her hair. Raven knew she wasn’t actually tempted by the promise of bread, Raja beyond annoying with how easy it was for her to not give in to culinary temptations.

“If you put some pants on, I can call for a car-”

“No can do buttercup.” Raja started petting her hair. “The moment I leave this bed, I have to work.”

“Seriously?” Raven sat up on her elbows, Raja actually opening her eyes now, a bit of glue still on her top lip. “Don’t look at my tits.”

“Sorry,” Raja smirked, her eyes still focused on Raven’s chest.

“You have to work? Again?” Raven wanted to throw a fit. It wasn’t a new thing that Raja worked on the weekends, it wasn't a new thing that she was constantly fighting for her attention, but this, this was a new low, both of them naked and hung over. “It’s Sunday?”

“The preparations for the Spring collection are right around the corner. You know people depend on me and Fame has unfortunately handed me a mug.”

Raven huffed, throwing herself back down on the bed, turning her back to Raja as she pulled the duvet under her chin.

“Princess-” Raven felt Raja curl around her back. “Don’t be upset.”

“And what about me? I depend on you too,” Raven grumbled, the words caught by the duvet, but Raja somehow still heard them.

“I know.” Raja peeled the duvet down, pressing a kiss against Raven’s shoulder blade. “How about we order in, eat in bed-”

“Hm?” Raven turned her head.

“And when I’m done with my very important job,” Raja smiled, her hand sneaking under the covers and settling on Raven’s hip. “I spend the very important money I make on buying very important things for our trip to Aspen?”

“Mmh,” Raven chewed her lip to keep the smile off of her face. “I guess that’s acceptable.”

***

“Ah, that hits the spot.”

Violet smiled to herself as she watched Sutan take the first sip of the double espresso he had ordered. They were sitting at a small cafe, Sutan actually cleaning up surprisingly nicely for the fact that he had only had his costume from last night at her place.

“Glad to see your craving could be satisfied.”

“Oh?” Sutan grinned, tapping his foot against hers underneath the table. “Do you really think you have room to be snarky, Miss Pineapple?”

Violet bit her lip, her cheeks heating up. She couldn’t exactly remember the entirety of last night after bumping into Courtney, Raven talking her into yet another round of shots, but she did remember Sutan’s hand on her back, did remember unlocking her door and whining when she couldn’t get her necklace off.

“Concentrate on your breakfast.”

Sutan laughed, trapping her foot between his own before he dug into his cinnamon French toast. Violet herself had opted for a sunnyside egg and a smoothie, the pizza slice she had devoured before Sutan was ready to leave sitting heavy in her stomach.

Sutan was chatting about last night, telling her a story about Detox, the two men surprisingly close for how different they were. Violet wasn’t truly listening, but it didn’t seem to matter, Sutan more than happy to just up the space.

“Lovely eyes-” Violet was pulled out of her thoughts, the man watching her with his brown eyes. “You’re tapping along with the music.”

Sutan was pointing with his fork, and Violet looked down at her fingers, her almond-shaped nails tapping on table.

“Huh…” Violet hadn’t even noticed, hadn’t even listened to the music, but now that she was aware, she could hear the notes of Waltz of the Flowers, the cafe for some reason playing Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker. The music was such an ingrained part of who she was, the ballet one she had danced every December since she was 6 years old. “I’m sorry.”

“Bringing back memories?” Sutan smirked, a kind look in his eyes, but Violet felt her entire body run cold.

“Yes.” It did bring back memories, the sensation of leg warmers and sitting on hard dance floors, of chewy protein bars and being soaked in sweat, of the unbelievable satisfaction when a move was finally executed just right and she could collapse in exhaustion. “But how-”

“Did I know?” Sutan put his fork down, clearly beyond pleased with himself.

“Yes.”

Violet hadn’t told anyone in her new life that her first career had been as a dancer at the New York City Ballet, that she had been a soloist on the track for principal before her life had changed forever at 17.

“I’m a modeling agent, lovely eyes.” Sutan took his coffee cup. “I can spot a dancer from a mile away, and everything about your posture tells me that you have done ballet at some point.”

“Ah.” Violet nodded, a rush of relief coursing through her. Sutan didn’t know, hadn’t truly guessed who she used to be. “You got me.”

“What can I say,” Sutan grinned, putting his cup to his lips. “I’m the best.”

She’d tell him one day, tell him her entire story, but that day wasn’t going to be today.

***

When Violet had first started in design, she had wondered why they had several couches scattered around the room. It had started to make sense as she had seen just how social her new coworkers were, the furniture often taken up by people talking, working or even napping.

Violet had never used the couches before today, her desk and her desk chair all she needed, but while Trixie was upstairs for the department head meeting discussing the Spring line, she had figured that it was time to test out if Trixie was actually serious about wanting them to relax.

Which was why she was on the couch, attempting to pass the time while she waited anxiously for Trixie to return.

It felt incredibly weird not to be in the boardroom, to not be standing against the wall taking notes as Fame and Raja presented the new concepts for the collections, Violet’s spine itching with annoyance over the fact that she wasn’t there.

She had considered texting Courtney, but she wasn’t sure Courtney could actually tell her anything interesting, the blonde incredibly talented at hearing but not listening, so instead, Violet had brought her backlog of magazines with her to work.

Violet had started collecting fashion magazines at 17. At first, she had only read American Vogue, but as she had started to get more and more into fashion, her monthly collection had started to grow.

Now, she bought American Vogue, British Vogue, French Vogue, Italian Vogue, Marie Claire, Harper's Bazaar and French and American Elle, her preferred newsstand knowing her by sight.

Violet knew that she could look online for fashion inspiration, knew that it was what everyone around her did, but she had always preferred either print or watching the real people of New York walk by.

Violet wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but as she flipped through the pages, she knew she’d find it sooner or later, at least one of the spots in the Spring collection belonging to her, even if she had to fight for it. Violet almost rolled her eyes as she revealed yet another page of british street style, the fabrics and cuts absolutely horrendous.

Every time the door opened, she would sit up straighter, thinking it was Trixie back with news. After 3 or 4 excruciating false alarms, he finally returned, smiling at the designers, knowing they were all on pins and needles at this point.

“Attention Team! This is not a drill!” Trixie joked. “Everyone meet me in the conference room in 5 minutes for an update on the Spring collection!”

Violet stood up immediately, hurrying directly to the conference room with her notebook, excited to hear the news. Trixie was busy sticking a handful of reference photos onto the whiteboard: A ceramic cup, an egret, a skyline of what looked to be a coastal village somewhere in Turkey, a wheat field at sunrise, a collection of fabric samples stapled together into little booklets the designers could take with them to their desks.

Apparently, this year, Fame wanted a light and breezy Spring collection. Functional and elegant with a touch of whimsy. The color palette was true Galactica: dove grey, cream, straw, ivory flecked with gold, very sparing accents of delicate pink and dusty lilac.

Violet’s mind raced with ideas of ways to manipulate silk so that it rustled and and fluttered beautifully on the runway. Of clean, beautiful lines: crisp linens and soft, feathery edges. Her fingers itched with excitement to get started as she carefully wrote down their deadlines: Thursday to turn in sketches for the in-store prêt-à-porter collection, and the following Thursday for the opening and closing runway pieces.

She knew, of course, that Alexis, Jovan, Gia, April and Maxwell had guaranteed spots in the collection, that group of designers the defining factors in the current Galactica style. She was also well aware that as a new designer, she would be doing foundation pieces.

She would be expected to pay her dues and make sure her collection pieces supported whatever final direction the senior staff chose, but Violet had never been a settler, and she was going to give being in the collection her best shot.

***

Adore sighed happily, swaying to the pounding bass of the house music, surrounded by a sea of sweaty club goers. She and her band had just played an electrifying late-night gig and she was still high on the adrenaline.

She loved being out, loved showing people why her and her band were the next big thing, but the best part of the night was that Pearl was there, had been right there in the front of the crowd cheering her on.

“Hey…” Aja came up to her, a look of concern creasing their brow, Aja’s outfit for the night a light blue latex number.

“What’s up, baby?” Adore asked, pressing a kiss to Aja’s cheek, wrapping her arms around their waist. They’d known each other since Adore first moved to New York to live with Bianca, almost 10 years ago, had been classmates at the performing arts high school along with the rest of her bandmates.

“Uh, it’s just… Dahlia is being a bit of a thot and Pearl looks… Into it…” Aja bit their lip.

Adore turned to look where Aja was gesturing, saw her friend and bass player sitting perched on a stool, back arched, plaid shirt almost entirely unbuttoned and slipping off one shoulder. Pearl stood close to her… Maybe a little closer than needed, a beer in her hand as she chatted her up. There was a bored, almost challenging look on Dahlia’s face as Pearl spoke, and the whole thing set Adore’s teeth on edge.

“Well…” Adore swallowed, fighting her impulse to march over and pull them apart, fixing a nonchalant expression on her face as she turned back to Aja, “They’re both big flirts. So what?”

“So, I don’t know if I’d be cool with it. I’m shocked you are.”

“There’s no reason for me to be a jealous bitch. I knew that Pearl was like that when we got together, so how could expect her to change? And anyway, she’s coming home with me, not Dahlia,” Adore said.

“You sure about that?” Aja asked.

Adore’s eyes narrowed, shooting a nasty look at her long-time friend, who laughed.

“Alright, alright. I didn’t realize that you were so chill.”

“I’m the chillest,” Adore said, taking a sip of her cocktail. But whether she was trying to convince herself or Aja, she wasn’t totally sure.

“So can I buy you a drink?”

“You can fuck off,” came the sneering reply.

“Oof,” Pearl smiled, resting her head on her hand, her elbow placed on the bar. “Kitty got claws. What got you in such a mood?”

“The company.”

There was something strangely familiar about Dahlia, but Pearl was 99% sure she hadn’t had sex with her before. She’d given up trying to place her, instead just enjoying her ice queen vibe. “I don’t think you mind my company all.”

“Don’t I?” Dahlia raised an eyebrow, her plump lips pursed, her beautiful face the picture of disinterest, but Pearl had caught her eyes flickering to her arm, had seen her notice exactly how strong Pearl was in the places where it was needed.

“I know women.”

Dahlia was hot as sin, everything about her soft and delicate, her dark hair styled in careful silky curls, the freckles on her shoulder the most delicious tease, the garterbelt that poked out from under her denim shorts promising Pearl that she’d find mouth-watering lingerie underneath Dahlia’s clothes if she ever got that far.

“I’m sure you do.”

“I could show you?”

“No.”

Pearl had to bite her lip to swallow a moan. There was something about her hyper femininity, something about how she was just a little bit mean, Dahlia radiating a promise of pink pillows, cherry chapstick and fruit scented shampoo that Pearl hadn’t even realized she was missing so fiercely it made her nipples tighten.

“Also,” Dahlia looked over her shoulder. “Your girlfriend is right over there.”

Shit.

***

Violet walked out of the elevator, a cup of steaming hot coffee and a banana in her hand. It was a little after 8--security had finally realized that her company card opened every door and locked her out, but she could still make her way to the design floor without a hitch.

Violet had come directly from the gym, her hair in a ponytail and still damp from her shower, the shoes on her feet running shoes instead of the heels she normally wore. She’d had this routine for awhile now--getting to the office early to do her makeup and hair in the big, clean Galactica bathrooms where, unlike the gym, she didn’t have to fight for mirror space, smile at strangers, or pretend to be interested in small talk. She’d have time to finish her routine and settle in to work just as the other designers began trickling in.

Today though, as she opened the big double doors to the design department, she was surprised at the sight that met her. It wasn’t one lone designer who’d arrived earlier than normal, or two people finishing a project, but rather, at least five of her colleagues sitting at their desks, busily working away already.

Violet had no idea why they were there, seeing so many of her coworkers this early honestly shocking. Thankfully, it didn’t seem like they had noticed her, so she made a beeline for the bathroom, vowing to herself that she’d get fully ready before coming into the office from now on, the risk of her coworkers seeing her as anything less than perfectly put together not one she was willing to take yet.

***

Maxwell stood by the printer, waiting for the sketches he had done on his iPad to come out. For years now, he’d been almost solely responsible for all of the business separates in the Galactica line, and it suited him just fine.

Over the years, he’d perfected the kind of crisply tailored and yet graceful and feminine lines that Miss Fame preferred, which had earned him her favor again and again and again.

When he’d seen the inspiration for the Spring collection, he was immediately flooded with ideas, and after almost 2 days of working, he was quite pleased with the sheer volume and range of choices he was going to present at the meeting, already imagining the pleased nod he’d get from the head of the company.

Violet appeared in the little printing alcove, doing a jump of surprise when she saw someone else in there. “Max, hi-”

“Sorry to scare you,” Maxwell smiled. “My job’s almost done,”

“Thanks,” Violet said, taking a step in, their elbow almost bumping against each other as she snug a peak at the printer. “Wow,” Violet turned her head, looking at Maxwell. “Are these your sketches? There’s so many already.”

“Well, you know Fame and Raja. They like to have options. ” Maxwell grinned, knowing that if anyone did know, it’d be Violet. “My technique with prêt-à-porter is to give them as many choices as possible, with lots of variation. Kind of ‘throw all the spaghetti at the wall and see what sticks’ approach, you know?”

Violet nodded, a very serious expression on her face as she listened.

“I started with a bunch of different suit options, and then I’ll use these to whip up all the other coordinating separates.”

“I just can’t believe that you’ve done so many in only 2 days,” Violet said, looking quite uncertain.

“You’re pretty fast yourself, so I wouldn’t worry.” Maxwell picked his sketches up. “Are you working on any for this week, or straight for the couture spots?”

“Yes.” Violet moved up, pressing on the printer to make it spit out her own sketches before she apparently realized that just yes wasn’t actually an answer to his question. “Prêt-à-porter isn’t my strength-“ Violet bit her lip, “But I’m not a one trick pony, and I want to play ball.”

“My advice? Be ambitious. This isn’t the time to hold back,” Maxwell said, smiling kindly. In spite of his initial reservations, he’d found himself quite charmed by the newest designer. And if he could help her get a leg up, he definitely wanted to do that, adding, “Let me know if you want me to review anything before Thursday!”

“Thanks,” Violet smiled. “I appreciate that.”

***

Courtney rushed down the street in the chilly air, in a desperate hurry to get to Broadway Dance Center in time for her class to start.

She hadn’t really given her personal dreams much thought since beginning at Galactica. But recently, when Adore was telling her all about a series of gig she’d gotten--ones Courtney couldn’t attend because they were all super late at night, mid-week, and all the way in Brooklyn--a rush of envy over Adore’s ability to focus on her music completely had overtaken her, immediately followed by guilt over such an ugly emotion.

Just because Adore had someone supporting her didn’t give Courtney any excuse to be jealous of her friend’s good fortune. Maybe things would be harder for her--that didn’t mean that she shouldn’t try. Instead of worrying about what she didn’t have, she decided to instead look to Adore’s achievements as inspiration.

She’d found an 8 pm class, figuring that it was late enough not to interfere with her work responsibilities. After all, taking an hour for herself one evening a week seemed like the kind of thing she should be able to do without a problem, right?

However, today had been even crazier than usual, with the holiday collection now being finalized, the Spring collection underway, and Fame working on a deal to expand Galactica’s flagship stores in Europe. Fame herself hadn’t even left until just before 7.

Courtney had finally managed to get away, currently sprinting the 15 blocks to BDC--she’d even had the foresight to bring sneakers. If she was fast enough, there was a chance she’d make it in time for her class.

With less than 2 blocks to go, Courtney realized that her work phone was buzzing in her hand. She paused at the corner, trying to manifest some positive energy before she answered. This will be something small. Something I already took care of. This call will end with Miss Fame pleased and happy...

“Hello?”

“Why are the Berlin contracts not in my bag?” Fame demanded.

“You...wanted to take those home?” Courtney asked, though she already knew the answer. Why would Fame be calling her otherwise? She cringed at her own carelessness, stupidly assuming that she’d review them the next day at her meeting with Patrick.

Fame seemed to be just as annoyed with Courtney as she was with herself, sighing and saying, “Deliver them now. This stress is not good for my skin,” and then hanging up even before Courtney’s “Yes, Miss.”

Courtney stood on the corner for a few moments, catching her breath, before turning around and trudging back towards the Galactica offices, shoulders slumped in defeat.

So much for dance class.

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falling-feuilles · 3 years

Text

Chapter 7

CW/TW: General Grief

The drawing room was quiet, far too quiet to be celebrating the birth of a child.

Little Nikolay slept, swaddled in his blanket. Marya and Bourienne fussed quietly over him, remarking over his tiny hands, his little nose; anything and everything they could.

"Il est tres précieux! He will grow into a 'andsome young man, I am sure of it."

While the two of them chattered on, Andrei and Y/N were much less involved.

Andrei, while clearly enamored with his son, loved him in a more silent, personal way. He was never one to flaunt his affections. Whether that was due to his father, or simply his own nature, one couldn't be sure. But do not think that he resented his son. If anything, Lise had created such a sense in Andrei that he resolved to devote himself to raising his son, rather than giving his life as cannon fodder for some foolish war.

Andrei moved forward to take the child; his child, holding the small babe gently in his arms.

Y/N, on the other hand, could barely look at the child. She hadn't held him, in fact, she'd refused when asked.

She knew it wasn't his fault; he was a child, these things happened, Lise had already been at risk and she'd known exactly what it was she had been risking.

He looked so much like her. Too much for Y/N to bear. The curve of his petite nose, the cleft of his tiny chin, even his eyes. She had seen them open for a mere moment, it couldn't have been longer than a second, and yet, she couldn't bear it. The same soft, silky blue as his mother. As Andrei quietly soothed the now fussy child, Y/N's mind began to drift back to the week prior...

The very world seemed to mourn with the small procession; rain fell in torrents, turning the once-brittle earth into a thick, miserable muck. Armed with umbrellas, the attendees surrounded the twin caskets. The priest began to speak, prattling on about the tragedy that had befallen the family. First Lise in childbirth, then her father upon hearing the news. His heart finally gave out. This left Princess Y/N Zhudova as the sole heir to a considerable fortune.

Y/N stood nearest the caskets, arm hooked into Andrei's. Despite the Priest's speech, people continued to talk, muttering to each other. Y/N heard it all.

These things happen... poor thing was too young... it's a shame... I can't believe he left everything to his bastard...

With those words, the funeral, instead of honoring the dead, became about her. She was inheriting the entirety of the Zhudov estate. After observing the expected mourning period, she would have find a husband of similar, if not higher, rank.

Already, she heard fathers and mothers telling their sons of the prospects such an influential woman would give them. All this power, this influence, were her's to wield. And wield them she would.

Y/N had left as soon as she could, desperate to get away from that tainted place. After saying her goodbyes, making them as brief as she possibly could, she'd all but fled the Bolkonsky Estate.

With the funeral and Nikolay's baptism out of the way, Y/N returned to the Zhudov household, not as a daughter, but as a matriarch.

Upon arriving to the house, she was greeted by the housekeeper, a woman she'd known her entire life.

"Madame, welcome back."

"Thank you Yelena, I hope you've assembled the staff inside?" Y/N pulled her gloves off, adjusting her inky black traveling coat. Yelena nodded, thin lips pressed into a sad smile.

"Yes, Madame, they're in the foyer."

"Perfect, thank you." “Before you go inside, I have some concerns.”

“Oh?” Y/N stopped, allowing Yelena to lead her away from the driver. Her tight, lined face screwed up in an expression of concern and paranoia.

“Yes Madame… I fear that some of the staff may have complaints about you being the head of the household now. I’ve heard talk that some—I don’t know who—” she interjected before Y/N could ask, “Are being paid by young gentlemen’s families who wish for you to marry their sons. To my understanding, they each intend to ruin your reputation as a means to force you into a marriage with their sons to secure your fortune.”

“I see…” Y/N was silent for a minute; one could almost hear the gears in her head, turning as seamlessly as the gears of her father’s precious pocket watch.

“... Madame, what-?”

“Yelena,” she turned back towards the matronly woman, eyes sharpened like the edge of an officer’s saber.

“Y-yes Madame?”

“I have a plan, but I will need your help in carrying it out, can I trust you?” Yelena, caught off guard, nodded vigorously. Y/N had known her since she was a little girl, ever since she’d moved to live with her father. “Good.”

Y/N strode inside, scanning the small crowd of household staff, made up of about twenty individuals, each waiting.

"Good day, everyone. As I'm sure you're aware, I will be taking over for my father in heading the affairs of the household. As you know, there is a lot of work to be done. However," Y/N continued, "As unorthodox as it may be, I would like you all to take the rest of the week off. You'll return on Monday. If you have any questions, feel free to give them to Yelena, who can inform me if she sees fit."

There was silence for a few moments, then quiet whispers between the staff. Then, they began to disperse, talking amongst themselves. As they left, a few sent strange, questioning looks towards the new matriarch.

Y/N beckoned Yelena to follow her, leading her into her father's... her study. Y/N shut and locked the door behind her.

"I'm going to ask you to do one small thing for me."

"Yes, Madame, anything you need." Y/N paused for a second, before continuing.

"When the staff inevitably ask you why I've done this, I want you to give each of them a different reason. I need to see who is loyal to our household; to me. I don't care what it is as long as it can be easily disproved; give me a list of names with the lies so I can keep track. In a week's time, we shall know who I can trust. Once you've given them each their stories, you are free to go as well."

"I... yes, ma- I mean, yes Lady Y/N... I will do as you say."

Yelena left, muttering under her breath. Once the door shut behind the retreating woman, Y/N sank in her chair, shaking violently. The tears began to prick at her eyes, exacerbated by the sharp, unrelenting pounding of her head.

How am I to do this? My god, I’ve barely taken the mantle and already people conspire against me…

She had hardly allowed herself the time to mourn at the Bolkonsky estate. With everyone bustling around, there hadn’t been the time for it. Not just Lise, but father as well. Her only remaining family had been destroyed in a matter of days. She still had the child, of course. Lise’s child. Her nephew; the one she could hardly bear to look at. Y/N nearly broke down there and then, but she managed to contain herself. Just until they leave, you can make it til then became her mantra, whispered ever increasingly under her breath. Before she knew it, the long case clock struck twelve, shocking her out of her obsessive reverie.

Looking up, she noticed a small piece of parchment, lined with Yelena's meticulous script. She must've placed it there while Y/N was less than mentally present.

Skimming through the list, she noted a few familiar names; Alexandra, the young girl whose mother had been suffering from consumption. She was lucky enough to survive, but the disease had ravaged her body beyond repair. Anna, the maid whose sister had been ill and on her last weeks of her life, had passed some months prior while Y/N had been away. She recognized most of the names, able to link them with faces she'd seen around the house.

Standing from her chair, she walked out into the hallway, moving to her room. It was only when she felt warm rivulets of water travel down her neck did she become aware of the tears streaming down her face. Wiping them from her face, trying desperately to regain her vision, Y/N entered her room, all but ripping the heavy dress and stays from her skin. Now, dressed in just her chemise and stockings, her knees gave out. She fell. Hard. Knees smacking against the wooden floor. She was certain she'd bruised them, but she didn't care.

A wretched, choked scream escaped her lips, releasing all the grief she'd hidden for the past week. By the time she'd ran out of breath, her vision was spotty, her throat raw and painfully, desperately dry. It was on her fifth attempt to stand that she finally made it back on her feet, leaning heavily against the back of a nearby chair. Her breath came in great, gasping heaves, but she couldn't get enough. It was becoming harder and harder to see, her eyes wouldn't stay open.

She heard rapid footsteps, but she was sure all the staff had left. They were getting louder, more frantic with each second. Soon after, she heard her name. The door burst open, revealing the familiar figure of a young man, panting with exertion. Y/N, doubled over and leaning on the chair, couldn't make out his face.

"Y/N? Y/N, what-" he rushed forward, catching her before she could fold to the floor again. "Are you hurt?"

No response.

"N/N please..." Finally, she looked up.

"P... Pierre..."

"Yes, that's good..." Pierre looked around; what should he do? She was clearly distressed and, at the rate she was breathing, she'd pass out, "Listen, N/N, please, you have to breathe, please..."

Her hand wound into the fabric of his coat, fingers trembling violently. "I.. I-I can't, I can't-" she gulped, gasping for breath.

"Alright, that's alright, you just need to try, please just-" Y/N's knees buckled again, slumping her against Pierre's chest.

He lowered her to the ground, leaning her back against the edge of the bed-frame. He placed his hands on her face, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"N/N breathe, you're alright, everything is going to be fine..."

Pierre wrapped his arms around her, feeling her hands grasp tightly at his back. Violent, heaving sobs shook her entire body.

Neither of them were sure how long they'd sat there, wrapped in each other's arms, but, when they finally parted, it felt far too short. Y/N's face was splotched with red, tear-stained; she looked exhausted. Judging by the dark circles beneath her eyes, she hadn't slept in days.

"I... thank you, Pierre..."

"Y-yes, of course. I... I'm so sorry, N/N, about Lise, about your father... I'm so, so sorry..."

She smiled softly, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"As am I..."

#pierre #pierre bezukhov #BBC War and Peace #war and peace 2016 #war and peace #xreader

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halcionskies · 3 years

Text

midnight solace [nsfw]

She wasn't sure why she was nervous. Maybe it was the way he had emerged from the shadows of her bed room; quiet and still like the night. Something prickled at the base of her neck which alerted her that someone was encroaching within her personal space and she sat upright with a shocked audible gasp. Her blue eyes scanned the deafening darkness until she barely perceived the slightest movement, there, in the shadows. Her black hair pooled around her shoulders and cascaded down her back and chest, a single hand coming up to swipe her bangs from her cerulean eyes. What was he doing? She immediately recognize him once she laid eyes on him; the man whom stirred her heart and made her stomach twist into knots of anxiety and giddy excitement. She was suddenly self-conscious; it was the middle of the night and she was clad in nothing but a white night gown that clung to her voluptuous form like a soft hug. It accentuated the curve of her breasts, a chill reverberating down her spine as her nipples inadvertantly perked up to press through the flimsy fabric. The way he looked at her like that; deep, smoldering eyes with a slight hint of..vulnerability? What was wrong...

He took a few tentative, unsure steps into the room and into the soft glow of the moon filtering in through the window shade next to her bed. He wasn't sure why he was here; he felt compelled to be here, with her. He was drawn to her, like a moth to flame. She was kind, generous, and sweet - everything he wasn't. He'd never known anyone like her and he might have acted as if he could care less about her in public; showcasing a bravado of false flippancy, but in reality he cared. He cared what she did, where she went, who she was with. He let the hand holding Rhaast fall to his side as he set the blade against the ground only to lean the handle against the wall. He wasn't going to need him, not tonight. No matter how angrily the darkin protested at his inner musings; he didn't care anymore. He was human and he had an urge and he needed to see it through.

She pursed her lips watching him, unsure of what he was doing. It was like he was settling in. But for what? Her hands slid down to the comforter that covered her lower half, throwing it to the side as she slid out of bed. Her bare feet touched the floor and she turned on her bed side lamp, casting a soft yellow glow in the immediate area. She blinked the sleep away from her eyes a few times and looked at him. He looked so...determined? Vulnerable? Something was going on inside of him and she wasn't sure what it was. "Shieda...what....are you doing?" She all but whispered as her eyes met his. He only permitted her to call him by first name when they were alone; something that he was adament about.

He closed the distance between them and was all but on her in the time it took her to gasp. His large yet rough hands cradled her skull as he looks down at her, that lone red eye glinting in the darkness and light. He'd managed to reign Rhaast in, the claw that once had been there now replaced by his own hand. He'd rather go to the abyss than risk hurting her, and even though it was hard, he controlled the influence Rhaast had over him. He'd rather touch her with his own two hands than have the darkin touch any part of her. He presses his forehead to hers, his hair tickling her cheeks as he looks down at her through half-lidded eyes, "I...need you, Minami..." Was all he said, as if admitting the single most vulnerable aspect about himself. He shouldn't need her and he couldn't fathom why he did, but he did.

Her fingers lazily traced down his forearms and around his elbows until they found purchase against his chiseled abdomen, grasping at him, "I'm right here...I haven't gone anywhere." She smiles up at him, her lips curling into a sweet smile as she nuzzles her nose against his. They'd had their fair share of cute moments, and it was very endearing that he came all the way to her like this. She just wanted to hold him and reassure him.

He traced her face with his one hand, curling his fingers around her shoulder as he caressed down her side. She was so innocent, so pure; and he wanted nothing but to be with her in the worst kind of way. He clenched his fingers against her hip, scrunching the fabric at her side as he pulled her closer against him as he tilted her head back with his other hand, looking down into her eyes. His eyes were clouded with some darker intention and he looked at her with an almost pained expression. "I don't think you understand, Minami. I need you..." He said once more, but the way his velvety voice said it laced with dark promises and desperate need spoke the rest of the intent for him.

Her eyes open wide with realization, her lips slightly parted as she leans into his ministrations as he pulls her. The way she was against him and the radiating heat he exuded coupled with that god forsaken sexy voice of his; it did things to her. It made her insides squirm and her heart race, skipping a mile a minute as she watched him, never once looking away. Did he mean...? Oh...the way her hips connected with his. He wasn't..he wasn't wearing all of his normal attire. All he had on were his pants and shoes, how did she miss that? His skin was so hot to the touch and she could feel the heat searing her cheeks. He wanted...to take her to...bed. She was by no means naive, but she'd never been in a situation like this before either. She suddenly felt unsteady on her legs, swaying closer to him and subsequently being held tighter, the hand that was assaulting her hip wrapped around her waist to support her, nearly fully as she curled her fingers against his upper chest. She felt so small and fragile there in his arms; inexperienced and afraid yet excited and some part of her wanted this. She managed to choke out her response that was nothing more than a mewl, overcome with emotions, "I'm...here..."

He held her tighter, supporting her smaller frame against his as he brushed his lips against hers lightly, "You're afraid...I can feel and sense it..." He tilted her head back so he could see her face fully in the light, letting her dark hair sway behind her. He let a devilish grin grace his lips as he gently repositioned himself against her, letting her feel the entirety of his body.

Her lips quivered as she almost clawed at him, leaning over his arm as her face recoiled from the brightness of the light. Of course he could read her body and her emotions better than the average person. He was an assassin after all. She inwardly chided herself; of course this man knew what he did to her..that smug grin..but it was so attractive. "I..I've never..." She admitted, reluctantly, her big blue eyes staring up at him with longing.

He pulls her back up, a soft and low chuckle rumbling from his chest as he slides her against him. His lips descend on hers and his nose nudges her head to be cradled in his other hand. He coaxed her softly into the kiss, never rushing her; he wanted her to say yes, to acquiesce. Her lips were soft and warm and he took the time to memorize their feel as his tongue slid against her lower lip, nudging her with his nose as his fingers worked against the back of her neck, kneading her and coaxing her into him and she finally gave in and opened her mouth to him. It was like unlocking some secret box with a treasure inside and he hummed in approval as he deepend the kiss, curling his tongue against hers and dominating her. He pulled back to look down at her, watching the way her chest heaved and her eyes stared at him. She was dazed and for some reason he enjoyed that look on her face. "Let me..." He didn't finish his sentence, it seemed bold and presumptuous to proposition her..he shouldn't.

She felt like she had the air sucker punched out of her. The way he kissed her was scandalous and yet it felt nice. She'd day dreamed these silly kinds of things, but never once did she think he'd be here in her bedroom...wanting her. She didn't want him to stop; not now. Not after he got her into a feeling like this. She didn't know what she wanted but she didn't want him to leave. She slides her one hand up his chest and cups her fingers around his neck, pulling him closer. She didn't know how to verbalize anything. "Don't go." She stammered out, her fingers trembling against his neck. Her cheeks were so red and her entire body was slow burning and her insides were fluttering. Every time he touched her, it caused these intense feelings. "Y-yes." She searched his eyes and finished his previous thought with the answer he was wanting. She wanted him to continue. She was afraid...but she didn't think he'd hurt her.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, letting his chest rise with a deep breath as he opened his eyes slowly. He rotated her head in his hand as his lips gently kissed across her cheek and down her jaw, his nose delving into the crook of her neck. His lips dragged against her skin with the faintest hint of bared teeth, his tongue lapping against the soft skin of her neck. She squirmed against him, rubbing against him without the faintest clue as to what her movements were doing. He opened his mouth against her skin and gently nipped down on her, suckling at her skin in a possessive way as he held her against him. Her hand hand was digging crescents into the nape of his neck but he didn't care, he kept going. His hand let go of her head, his fingers tracing the contour of her neck as he drug the rough pads of his fingers down against her night gown, inching it over the swell of her shoulder only to slip further down as his fingers feathered across her collar bone and down to cup her newly exposed breast. He smirked against her skin, kissing below her ear as he grasped her breast in his hand, his index finger and thumb pinching the nipple between rough pads. She was so sensitive, everything he did she reacted to; she truly was untouched. He was the first man to touch her and some part of that greatly excited him.

Oh spirits, what was he doing to her? A choked moan escaped from between her lips as he nipped and suckled at her neck; the action of him suckling caused a pooling of heat in her nether regions; something that often happened when she day dreamed about anything akin to this in regards to him. She squirmed against him, rubbing against him; why did something so benign as what he was doing feel so sinful? The way she moved against him felt even better, like minutely staving off some deeper desire momentarily. She gasped audibly when he dropped the one side of her night gown down, revealing her partially only to whine in protest as he groped her chest. His hands were big, warm, and rough and she gritted her teeth as he toyed with her nipple between his fingers. It hurt but it twinged deep inside and was quelled by way she squirmed against him. His breathing was even, but she could feel the excitement as his chest rose and fell against her one hand.

He caressed down her chest, his fingers kneading against her breast and down her stomach until he palmed her hip, his fingers sliding down the short distance to grapple with the hem of her night gown. He found his purchase and slid his hand up her hip until his fingers brushed her core through her panties. He could feel what he was doing to her; the way she moved against him and the sounds she made. He was barely doing anything to her and she was so wanting and receptive. He had to do right by her and take this slow; he couldn't just lay her out and get on with it. He rubbed her through the thin fabric, his thumb hooking under the hood to massage her clit as he pulled back to gently kiss her, the hum of approval he elicited low and sultry.

She couldn't help but to moan the moment he touched her down there. The sound was swallowed by his mouth as she pressed against him, her body on fire and squirming against his ministrations. Oh gods...this felt better than the times she's touched herself. The object of her affection and desire was touching her...so intimately. She was so electrically charged that she didn't realize her other hand grabbed the bicep of his arm stroking her so gently, all bug tugging on his arm and his neck. Oh she wanted more, what more, she didn't know. Something. Something was missing and it felt empty.

He broke the kiss to lean back, watching her struggle against him. She was trying to pull him closer though he stood fast like a rock against her. He grinned as he worked his thumb against her, his breath quick and steady; he was master of keeping himself calm in situations, but this...this excited him. She's pervaded his thoughts in the early morning hours; and he'd be lying if he hadn't thought of her beneath him more than once. He gripped her waist with the arm that support her and he slowly walked her backwards, all but holding her against him as his hand withdrew from her. His fingers hooked the fabric of her night gown and bunched it up, dragging it up her body and over her head, tossing it aside as he pulled her up against him to let her bare chest press against his. He held her reverently against him as he kicked off his shoes, to stand barefoot with her beside her bed. He loved the way her cheeks were dusted red and the way her chest heaved and fell; the way her eyes stared at him with desire. "Minami...are you sure...?" He said, giving her a chance to say no before things got too hot and heavy. He couldn't live with himself if he hurt her; he wouldn't force her into anything she didn't want to do.

She attempted to cover herself and failed futiley as he held her fast against him, her arms having nowhere to go but around his neck as she looked at him. Her legs were shaky and she struggled to stand, her toes barely supporting her as she gave in to him and pressed herself against him. She shyly tipped her face upwards towards him, her nose brushing his chin, her voice was just as shy sounding and quivered as she spoke, "Shieda...I'm sure...please.." She was so sweet sounding as she pleaded with him. He did funny things to her insides and when he touched her like that..it..it stroked a fire deep insider her.

He picked her up with a sweeping motion and edged his knee onto her bed, placing her in the middle of her bed, forcing himself to settle between her legs as he looks down on her. She seemed frightened the way she looked at him, but he nudged her backwards with his lips, kissing her as he eased her backwards into the softness of her bed. He'd never hurt her; he'd rather hurt himself than hurt her. He splays one hand beside her head as he kisses her, tilting his head to deepen the kiss as his other hand travels up the expanse of her long leg, finger tips dancing around her smooth skin. She was so soft and smooth; he'd slept with his fair share of women, but there was something about her that was just calling him. Perhaps it was her demeanor and her overall softness. His hands stroked the soft fabric of her panties and he teased her; fingers dancing across her core and hips, painfully slowly, to the point she whimpered against his lips, her hands reaching and grabbing at his arms. She was so shy yet she was wanting; it was as if she couldn't express what she wanted because she'd never experienced it before and he smirked against her lips. He loved that he'd be the man to help her figure it out. He pulled back to sit on his haunches between her legs, looking down at her with dark, lust filled eyes; he was exacting a sort of patience with her that he normally didn't exhibit with most women. Minami meant something to him, and even though he wanted nothing more than to take her right here and now, he couldn't do that to her. Not after he confirmed she'd never slept with anyone before; he had to be gentle. His hands grasped her hips and made quick work of her panties, edging them off of her and tossed them aside, delving back down towards her. He settled on his stomach between her legs, propping himself up on one elbow as his other hand traced her lower lips, nipping at her thigh.

She made a sound of disbelief, watching him with wide eyes, attempting to protest against him. He gave her a look that quelled her protests and she watched him with fascination before she moaned; his hand, those fingers, again...they were doing things to her. She felt herself clench down there as his fingers parted her folds and she could feel the wetness seep out onto his fingers as she watched him do this to her. He was looking right at her and her cheeks brightened a darker shade of red at the thought of him touching her like this and knowing how wet she was. His eyes were smoldering and that smirk on his face; oh gods that smirk. The air was so sexually charged between them right now and she was breathing heavy and she attempted to close her legs but he refused to let them close, his fingers slowly stroking her up and down, parting her lips and allowing the liquid to leak onto her and his fingers. Before she realized it she cried out, her hands pressing against the bed as she arched her back, her head tilting downwards only to see his head between her legs. His mouth was on her core, his tongue swirling around that hardened bud as his index finger forced its way inside of her. Oh gods, yes! No...oh no YES. This felt amazing and she felt so guilty for liking it, but oh gods did she like it. She trembled as her toes curled against the sheets, her hands grasping his head as her fingers tangled in his hair; she was panting and her chest was heaving with effort yet she'd done nothing. "Shieda...haa.." The way she said his name was like sin itself.

He kept going, curling his finger inside of her as his mouth suckled at her clit; she was writhing beneath him and those moans were like music to his ears. She was so tight, clamping around his finger and he coaxed another finger inside of her; he pumping his fingers in tandem with the rotation of his tongue, working her deeper with every twist of his wirst. He could feel her trying to push his fingers out but he doubled his efforts, twisting and turning his fingers as he slips a third digit inside, lapping at her clit. He could feel her bearing down and the way she fluttered against his fingers, he knew he had to stop. He withdrew his fingers from her and raked his tongue from her entrance all the way up to her clit, leaning back as he slides his fingers inside of his mouth only to suck her juices from his fingers in a blatant display of obvious like. He watched her laying there, out of breath with quivering legs and his hands reached for his pants, fingers undoing the restraints that kept them up. He slowly peeled his pants open, revealing more and more skin each time, as if he were playing it up for her. The way his musculature led her eyes downwards as he slid his pants down his hips to let his member spring forth to reveal exactly how aroused he was, one hand grasping it firmly within his grasp as it pulsed. He slid his hand up and down that thick, long shaft with a moan as he tilted his head back watching her watch him pleasure himself; her eyes were wide and that fear crept back onto her countenance at the sheer size of himself and he clenched his muscles, flexing.

She made a sensual sound of approval, her legs squeezing shut as she rubbed her thighs together. Watching him touch himself was so intimate and sexual in a way she'd never thought she'd be with someone, yet here she was, lusting after a man she most likely shouldn't be with. She was so wet and seeing his member...it was like she longed for it to fill the void within her. Was this what she was missing, what the empty feeling was? Her inner walls fluttered as she watched his hand slide up and down his shaft, suckling her lower lip in anticipation.

He let his pants fall further down his thighs before he let go with a reluctant groan, taking her knees in both hands as he forced her legs apart, towering over her. She was ready and he was more than ready. He settled between her thighs, lowering himself over her as he pressed her further into the bed, settling onto an elbow by her head as he used his free hand to slide his member up and down her wet folds, his breath quickening as he guides the tip to her entrance, pressing in ever so gently. He knew this was going to hurt for the briefest of moments for her, but he'd make it up to her after the pain ebbed away. He brought his hand up and caressed it over her cheek, his lips descending on hers, distracting her as he forced himself inside of her with a swift thrust of his hips, sheathing himself to the hilt with a cry from her that he swallowed. His lips moved to the corners of her eyes, kissing away the tears in an apology for the pain before he rubbed his thumb over her lips before kissing her again.

There was no denying that it hurt; that it was an intrusion of another sort that she'd never experienced. He was big and pulsing inside of her and she felt every inch of him, her walls vice gripping him as she kissed him, her hands cupping his face as she slid her thighs against his hips. She was so full, even through the pain it felt strangely good. She'd fantasized about this a time or two, embarassingly enough; reality was way better. It took a few moments, but she realized he was experienced and that he was waiting for her to be comfortable. He was quiet and patient and she knew he was being gentle for her sake. He at least thought enough of her to do that much.

He started to move once he felt her relax, her hands creeping over his shoulders as he set a slow yet even pace, pulling out of her to the tip only to crash back into her. He buried his head in her neck, his breath finally breaking it's even rhythym with a groan. He thrust into her, over and over, his lips sliding over the previously given love bite, the hand holding her face sliding down to wrap around her back as he held her. She wasn't the type of woman he intended to ever throw away, he just couldn't see himself loving her and leaving her, ever. She arched against him and he rolled his hips into hers, drawing out a moan from her as he breathed heavily into her neck. She was so tight, so wet; he bottomed out inside of her with a deep thrust and he ground his hips against hers causing her to grip him tighter. He hissed with a gutteral moan, pulling her body flush with his as he supported himself on the one cradling her back, his newly freed hand snaking between them to stroke her clit gently with the pad of his thumb. She was so tight that he felt himself edging closer and he wasn't about to finish before her. He slid in and out, grinding as he bottomed out inside of her swirling his thumb against her clit in perfect rhythym with his thrusts. He could feel her building up, the way she gasped and moaned, the relentless clenching of her around him. He had to hold on just a little longer...

He picked up the pace, thrusting more insistently into her, rolling his hips with each motion which only elicited every resounding sexy noise from the woman beneath him. There. He felt it, the wave of orgasm peaking as she shuddered beneath him, arching against him as she clawed his back. Her nails dug into him and she pulled him, rolling her hips against him and writhing against him, crying out his name loudly. Oh gods, he never thought he'd hear a woman say his name like that ever, but here she was, yelling it into the night as she came for him. He thrust into her faster, his thumb drawing out her orgasm as he moaned loudly into her ear, his member stiffening and releasing his seed inside of her as he stilled against her, his mucles flexing into those fingers of hers, rippling against her nails. He pushed himself up, as if he was about to push himself up, watching the dazed expression on her face, his lips parted as he panted, "Fuck...Minami..." He said breathlessly.

He rolled off of her with a groan, dislodging himself from within her as he landed on his back beside her, curling his arm as he brought her to his side. His bangs splayed out on either side of his face and he looked down at her. He didn't even bother to pull his pants up, not that they were down that far either way, but he did pull the cover up with his other hand to give her decency. His chest heaved and he just watched her, wondering if she was okay.

She curled up against his side, nestled against his side, her eyes watching him as she offers him a small smile. She pulled the blanket up, greatful for the modesty he was offering her. She just lay there looking at him like he looked at her. She wasn't sure where this left them, but...it couldn't be such a bad spot, right?

#league of legends #kayn #shieda kayn #ocs

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