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littlebabyyd0ll · 7 months

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THE LION AND THE LAMB, PART ONE

Forced to leave your home land for the hand of the man your sister had previously been wed to, you find yourself travelling from heaven to hell. Fallen angels couldn’t really be beautiful, could they?

warnings: reader is barb’s sister, explicit themes of death, gothic genre, vampirism, arranged marriages. r’s father physically and mentally abuses her. slight NSWF themes within. you are responsible for your own media consumption.

kinktober day one my angels!!! enjoy!! 18+ only.

main masterlist ! series masterlist ! kinktober 2023

Unbound cobblestone lurches the carriage side to side once more, like an abandoned ship far out at sea, taken captive by the powerful hold of Poseidon. It wasn’t much long ago that you were sea sick from the choppy waves, accompanied by your father and his men on your travels from the bright light of your home, to the drizzling haze that was cast over the country of Hawkins. Oh, how it lived up to its reputation. Hawkins was a dark and dreary place, constantly overcast and damp with the rain that fell upon stone homes and muddied roads. The people of the country watched your bright golden carriage with an unsettling known certainty, a grimace which they all shared under the rule of their king. Draped in their dreary colours of grey and stained white, as though all colours were banned from the land. It haunts you, the undead look in their eyes as you clutch at the windowsill whilst rolling past.

These were to be your people, your devout servants of the kingdom.

No life shimmered in their eyes. No hands raised in warm welcomes and waves of the sight of their new queen-to-be. The people of Hawkins were used to this parade, used to the shining golden riches come from afar, accustomed with the cycle that would meet their new queen. For it happened on repeat, to every suitor that King Edward was engaged to marry. You knew, too. For it had been your sister, only months ago.

Forcing your eyes away from the rain sodden faces of the kingdom’s people, you turned back to the other lively body in the carriage. Your father, crown tall and proper upon his head, paid no attention to the villagers as you rolled on past. His sharp gaze was unwavering on the scroll in front of him, the one composed by the King of Hawkins himself. A proposal of marriage to the King, your father, for the hand of his second eldest child, the last daughter in the line of succession. You.

Of course, despite what happened with Barbara, your elder sister who was sent mere months ago to be wed to King Edmund, your father had been delighted by the offer, and had readied your things to leave within the hour. You had faced treacherous oceans and sinking roads to get here. All signs to turn back, to rid yourself of this fate, to run and never return. And, yet, here you sat, dress full and far too outlandish for the style of the people here. The sweetheart neckline of your glimmering, ballet-slipper pink dress seems foolish for the weather, as do the puffed sleeves that fall upon your shoulder. The corset is tight and restricting, but the ribbons that cinch the back of the gown are simply delightful and princesslike. You stand out like a sore thumb in a land like this.

Nerves prickle under your bare skin, and suddenly your tiara weighs heavy. You see the way that your father eyeballs the number of riches that King Edward has offered for your hand and have to force yourself not to sneer at the all too familiar look. The same look that he got when King Edward had written for Barbara’s hand. As your time as princess you have come to learn many things, but one in particular.

Men will do anything for power, glory and riches.

“Must you go through with it, father?” Your voice is softer than intended, has none of the strength and authority that your mother once had. You had hoped to plea with him, to present a case like the sinners in court, though you truly were an innocent in all of this.

There’s barely even a look of recognition as your father’s dull tone fills the emptiness of the rumbling carriage. “The relationship of two kingdoms is not something I am willing to endanger for your personal happiness, daughter. You will fulfil your duty as your mother did, as did your sister.”

“And look what happened to them both.” You interfere, small hands bunching at the tulle of your dress, one of the most expensive in your collection. Only the best to impress your husband-to-be. “They are dead, father. Cold as stone and buried six feet under. Are you not convinced that the same awaits me? Awaits any girl that is forced into the clutches of a powerful man?” There it is; the passion, the fire, the dare. It's the very thing that makes your father’s nostrils flare and has his hand swinging towards you. His jewelled, golden ring pierces the delicate skin upon your pigmented lips and has your face barrelling towards the small window.

Your surprised gasp is overthrown by his tone. “It is that very attitude that surely killed them both. You will do well to remember your place in this world. You are nothing but a pawn. You are a peace treaty between lands. If your blood is the one that is spilled, so be it. My sons are becoming great men, and they are to be my legacy.” He leans forward, glaring into your tear sodden eyes. He traces the stains that run down your cheeks, sadistic pride fills his bones. He is no more family to you than King Edward. You may share blood, but he is no father of yours. “Nobody will remember the losses of a few princesses. King Edward has ruled for a glorious lifetime. You are not his first wife, and you will surely not be his last.” The words sting at your heart, to know that he is willing to bury you under a gravestone for gold, for numbers on parchment. “That is your fate, daughter. Loathe it, spite it, I do not care. But you will obey it.”

Of course you would. That was your duty. But the truth bares no kindness, no comfort in the depths of its sadness. You force your gaze away, force yourself to stop the rapid rise and fall of your chest, and dab the wound upon your lip with the handkerchief halfheartedly thrown at your lap. Your glossy eyes watch as the bumpy hill rises, and the stone walls come into view. The castle is magnificent, tall spires piercing the swirling skies and mighty defences standing proud as protection, though no one has dared to invade Hawkins in almost two hundred years. The thought had your stomach churning. Gossip of King Edward told a thousand different stories, some say that he is hypnotically handsome. Some say that wives fall dead because they grow jealous of his untimely beauty, one that they could never parallel. Others say that they drop dead at the sight of him, for he is so old that they would rather die than bed him. No one could tell you the age of the king, even when you had offered a satchel of gold.

Once more, all good fates called out to you, begged at you not to exit the carriage and not to follow the path to the chain strung doors. And yet, a part of your soul yearned for the dark wood cast in iron. You ached to find out if the rumours were true, ached to be wed, ached to live as queen, as you had dreamed as a little girl. Subconsciously, as your father’s men knock repeatedly at the wood door, you raise your hand to the dried blood upon your lip, camouflaged with freshly applied rouge. In the depths of your heart, you hoped your fiancè to be a kind man, a man that did not strike, a man that gave you the best in life, a man that adored you. All you had was hope.

A great groan comes from the pushing of the heavy doors. King Edward’s men appear either side of the growing gap, heaving with all their might to open the doors. The inside is dark, much darker than the outside of the castle, only the flickering flames of tall candles are enough to lighten the walkway. The carriage is opened for you, yet you await your turn. Of course, your father barges past you and steps on the once pristine fabric of your dress. A muddied footprint stains it now, and reflects the notion that your father will always be one step higher, one step in front, and he can easily kick you back down again. With a shaky breath your hands raise up, adjust the tiara that sits heavy upon your head, and you force yourself to take the hand of the footman awaiting outside of the carriage.

Drizzling rain falls onto the sapphires of your crown, the very same shade as your father’s surcoat. He talks as though he is the most important man amongst them, his words directed to a very uninterested looking Viceroy. He’s tall, unusually tanned for the people of Hawkins and the constant coverage of clouds. He’s also rugged, knightly looking, with mid length hazel tassels of hair falling at the back of his neck. The King’s second in command bears scars upon his forehead and upon his cheek, and yet the most noticeable thing about him was how simply bored he looked to be listening to your father. And then, he catches sight of you.

Timid little you whose dress is stained at the bottom from the mud on the ground. Timid little you that looks up at the magnificent castle with saucers for eyes. Timid little you who bares her neck and chest, all dressed up to appease her future husband. Timid little you, who is absolutely perfect for his King.

“Princess.” The man calls, voice smooth as he side steps around your father, who does not seem best pleased to be interrupted. You, on the other hand, seem startled to even be addressed. You stand a little straighter, as though all the lady-like lessons that our maid had taught you growing up all came rushing back to the forefront of your mind at once. The Viceroy walks towards you with ease, his outfit a deep murky brown, adorned with the glimmering of shining golden buckles. They each hold the crest of King Edward’s court. He bends at the waist at the same time that you curtsy in greeting, bowing your head and begging that the tiara does not fall off. The chestnut haired man stands tall once more, one arm over his chest, the other proper behind his back. “My name is Steven, your majesty. Sir Steven, and I wish to make your stay here as pleasant as possible. It shall be my name you call if you ever face any difficulty. The king wishes you to have an exquisite time.”

Sir Steven’s smile is enough to have you enchanted. It distracts you from the meaning behind his words: stay, time. As though none of this is permanent. He smiles at the mere sight of you, pretty in pink and so juxtaposing from the environment around you. The only other signs of colour come from the members of your court, your father, your ladies stepping out from the carriage behind your own. So much alike many of the brides that have come before you. Steven outstretches a white gloved hand towards you, beckoning you to walk alongside him. As you walk, you cannot help your full of life eyes to cast one more glance down the slopes if the mountainous hill that the castle sits upon, and down onto the villages below. You almost feel that if you squint hard enough, you can see where life meets death at the horizon.

The halls of Munson Castle are dim and dark. The only sounds available in the dinginess are those of your ladies’ shoes upon the wooden floor behind you and the flickering of flames from the torches mounted to the walls. It seemed as though every magnificent window was guarded closed by large drapes of fabric curtains. No sunlight entered the halls, and the flames were just about strong enough to illuminate the paintings upon the walls. Great murals of battles from hundreds of years ago, some even considered myths, aligned the walls. Victors and losers alike, some of your ancestors were pictured in the paintings. Hundreds of years on, you wonder if your marriage to Edward would disappoint them, for he too was an ancestor of many people in the paintings. Thousands of years ago, your two kingdoms had been at war. No more, not with a marriage that came long ago, yet another wife that had died the night of their wedding.

The thought propels you into memories of Barbara. This place was going to be her home, her beginning, her kingdom to rule as queen. Your heart rate spikes at the thought of how she would react, to your stealing of her husband. Would she get angry? Would she warn you of what had happened to her? She may even haunt these halls, dead in her pristine white wedding dress. For the Kingdoms of the Old, this was an extremely uncommon practice that only King Edward insisted upon. Usually brides-to-be were coated head to toe in gold, silver, bright colours of riches enough to show off the status of the family. King Edward only ever dressed his brides in plain white dresses, the only sign of riches coming from the measly tiara he would have them wear. A flimsy, silver thing with absolutely no jewels whatsoever. At least, that's what the servant’s gossip had said. None of your family had attended Barbara’s wedding, far too at a loss with the death of your mother. Your father had shipped her away without as much as a goodbye. At the very least, you still had his presence. There was always something to be thankful for.

Your hand still laid delicately upon Sir Steven’s palm as he walked you through the halls.

“King Edward wishes to convey his deepest apologies for not being able to meet his bride-to-be, princess.” Spoke Steven, motioning for guards to open up another set of large and heavy doors. This one led directly into the throneroom, large enough to host magnificent balls and could just about fit the whole population of Hawkins inside. “You see, His Majesty deals with the court in the daytime, he spends his hours locked up inside of the Place of Arms. He holds his meetings there, you see, and that is your King’s only rule.” Steven suddenly drops your hand, his face deadly serious. You're sure that the expression on your face reflects the swirling inside of your stomach. “King Edward is a kind King and an even kinder husband. He only forbids you from ever entering the Place of Arms during the day.” Slowly, you nod in acceptance of Steven’s words, of your future husband’s wishes. Is that who he is to be? A man you never see in the day, a man who only ever wishes to bed you at night, who does not care for what you preoccupy your time with? “It is imperative that you understand, princess. There is no entrance to the Place of Arms. Never within daylight hours. What goes on behind those doors are for the King’s knowledge only.”

It’s nothing more than a whisper, your voice. A gentle, “I understand.” And a subservient bow of your head. Just as you had been taught, you are appeasing your husband before having even met him.

But it is this very moment that Steven takes notice of the state of your bottom lip. His voice gently beckons you upward, encouraging you to look him in the eyes. He does not meet yours, however, chocolate irises far too entranced at the dried blood. “How did this come to be?”

The gentleness surprises you, and in a fleeting heartbeat, a moment of misjudgement, your eyes betray you. They fly towards your father’s figure, watching as he scrutinises the two thrones upon the raised flooring of the great hall. Though they are far more magnificent than those of your home, the ones that your brothers will surely kill each other to sit upon, he stares at them as though they are nothing but a spec of dust, floating through the air.

Steven notices immediately. “I will have word sent to the King.”

“No.” You instantly reply, eyes growing wide at the brashness of your tone. You sputter, “Forgive me. I-I just mean that it is nothing worth consulting his majesty over.” Your eyes tell a thousand stories, rhymes and riddles of all the times you have had to cover up injuries before. “Please.”

“He will find out, princess. Either through me, or the gossip of the servants.” Steven is sincere in his words, only looking you in the eye. “Let me soften the blow. He won't be best pleased, your grace.”

Something aches within you. Had he taken a keen interest in Barbara like this? Does he pretend to care for all of his wives before they are cursed with untimely deaths? You wish not to know, face pale and hands shaking.

“Would you be kind enough to take my daughter to her quarters, Sir Simon? She ought to ready herself for the ball tonight.” Your father approaches with his loud voice and his even louder footsteps. You are quite sure that if it were practical enough, he would have shoes of gold. “A perfect bride takes hours to perfect her beauty for her husband.” slowly, he takes a stand of your hair and curls it around his finger. An act which would seem harmless for some, yet you know its true meaning; a warning. Do not disappoint him.

In your mind, the idea of your father’s obnoxiousness makes Steven more likely to tell the King that he had been the one to strike you. Perhaps that is what possesses you to speak so harshly. “His name is Sir Steven, father. You will do well to remember it.”

Regret will surely come soon enough. But for now, you allow Sir Steven to escort you out of the ballroom, and all the way to the east wing, to your new quarters.

Everything is ready for your arrival. The room is simply divine, despite its darkness. The sun is soon to set, so you believe. Everything is magnificent, the four poster bed, the mirror tall enough to be a giant, a great vanity and even soft, plush chairs for your relaxation. You gaze at it with fearsome admiration, a look that your ladies lining the walls have never seen before. Steven watches you with a growing sadness from the doorway. For you hold the same look in your eye that your sister had before you. And he knows that you too should await the same fate. But for now, he lets your girlhood run wild, and allows you to bask in all things prenuptial.

“I will be back to escort you to the ball, your majesty.” He turns to the girls that watch you adoringly. “Ladies, this could be the most important eve of her life.” He turns back to you with a smile. “Make her feel like the fairest of all.”

And he disappears, closing the door with an unknown swiftness. It takes a mere moment before the act of your ladies drops, and they too fawn over all that is around you. You each squeal and laugh, completely enamoured by the riches and the newness of it all. Ladies Nancy, Robin and Erica gush over the luck you are presented with, and they tell you that you are destined to be the one true love of King Edward, that this marriage will be different to all those before. They speak whilst undressing you and leading you through a little side door into a spacious room, one with a sparkling golden bathtub at its centre.

For the hours that follow, you are simply girls. The best of friends, readying one for a night of parties and celebration. New beginnings lay ahead of you, and yet they look at you the same way that they always have. With love, the same way that you used to look at Barbara. They tell you the quickly acquired gossip as they scrub underneath your nails and rake their fingers through your hair.

“The King’s maid said that he is of fine beauty.” Nancy giggles, lightly fingering at one of the crimson rose petals that float on the surface of the water. Her sapphire coloured sleeves are rolled up as she leans over the tub, head resting against her arm. “And he is most kind, treats his people with only the best.”

“Am I the only one who saw the villagers as we rode in?” You murmured, watching robin as she fiddled with your fingernails. “They seemed so… lifeless. They bore no excitement to have a new queen. Everything here, it’s so different.” The words fall slowly and riddled with anxiety, and your ladies share a knowing look. “I wonder if she felt the same, coming here. If she were as scared as I.”

“There can be no man worse to wed than your father, princess.” Erica speaks from behind you, gathering water to push away the soap in your hair. “The king, though his lovelife has been misfortunate, appears to be a good man. He has restored peace, it has been years since the last war broke out. The maids say that he is compelling.” You sigh quietly. “You cannot allow yourself to live in fear of what you do not know. The future is exciting. You ought to breathe, and forget about everything. Tonight, you are nought but a princess, a fiancé, about to meet her husband-to-be.” You can hear the way that she smiles through her words. “And we promise to make you look so saccharine that you take his breath away.”

They do. They always do. You almost can’t believe yourself as you look upon the mirror. The dress that had been brought up to your room was a deep blue, the blue of your court. Its neckline delved into your chest and dropped into ruffles of timeless lace that led straight to your waist, cinched by the strength of three girls and a corset. It fell all the way to your toes, where you had grown a few inches from the heeled shoes presented to you. As before, a mighty tiara sits pretty upon your hairline, glimmering in the candlelight. The ladies had pushed half of your hair up and styled the rest to cascade down your delicate shoulders. Nancy had insisted upon your collarbone being visible, insinuating that the show of skin would have your betrothed hardly able to control himself.

You weren't so sure that you liked the sound of that.

“He will not be able to breathe when he gazes upon you.” Robin gushes, lightly adjusting the pearl necklace upon your neck, right over your pulse point. “He will wish to move the engagement from a week long to no more than a day.”

You roll your eyes.

“It is true!” Nancy murmurs from behind you, her dainty hands laying delicate little forget-me-nots, the flower of your kingdom, into the flowing locks of your hair. Thank heavens that they had thought to preserve and bring the flowers, for the land of hawkins was half dead, You haven't seen much more than overgrown shrubbery on the way here. “We have truly outdone ourselves, though it helps to have such an exquisite canvas.”

“You ladies are really working hard to ensure I have you in my favour.” You laugh, adjusting the tiara in the mirror. Your ladies had also changed into their ball gowns, though nowhere near as regal and outlandish as your own. “Once I am wed I assure you that finding you the most perfect Lords will be at the top of my list of priorities.”

If I live past the wedding night, you think, but do not speak. There is no purpose in killing their uplifted spirits.

“Tonight is about you. Do not fret upon us.” Erica grins, shooing away Nancy and Robin, helping you down from the pedestal in front of the mirror in your larger-than-life room. Her hands are warm against your skin, despite the ever growing chill of the castle. You grip onto her for life, holding on to something so valuable, something of home. Erica turns you slightly, giving one last adjustment as Nancy and Robin both come to stand by her sides. They each hold a matching grin, watching you with a lifelong earnestness. “Our princess.”

“Your future Queen.” Comes another tone, much deeper than possible of the three girls that stood in the room with you. You each turn to the now somewhat familiar man, Sir Steven, as he lingers upon the doorway. He still bears the dull brown colour, though now his uniform is much more exquisite. His tunic is stark blue, matching the colours of your Kingdom. He also wears brown and red on his overcoats, the colours of his kingdom. It is a peaceful statement, the joining of two kingdoms.

You wonder if he wore that to Barbara’s engagement ball.

Steven looks at you with his big brown eyes, taking in the sight before him. Even you have to admit, you feel like a glowing star. “You look divine.” He murmurs, lifting his arm and outstretching it towards you. Your dainty hand falls into the crook of his elbow effortlessly. “The king shall admire your vision for years to come.”

And it suddenly hits you. Tonight is about you, this is all for you. You and your future husband, who you will meet in mere moments. He is mere rooms away as Steven escorts you towards the throne room, and you suddenly realise that these could be your last living moments. If the rumours about King Edward are true, this could truly be your last eve alive. You could fall dead at the very sight of him. Perhaps he is a terribly old man who wants nothing more than for you to bed him and give him heirs. A pretty plaything. A pawn to another man’s game.

You shudder a breath, one that has your chest pushing harshly into the unforgiving corset. There’s a burst of light in the depths of the dark hallways. It comes from the cracks in the ajar door of the trone room. There is a faint tune of music, great orchestral music alike. Your footsteps sound faintly as you grow closer, no match for the chatter and music and dancing. Steven can feel the sudden sharpness of your nails through his overcoat, and murmurs lowly. “Relax. You will be perfect.”

You wish you could.

But the nerves do not die as you stand with Steven in front of the great double doors. Your heart pounds wildly as the herald by the door announces your name in a great bellowing shout. You tense as the double doors begin to widen, and the light becomes ten times more eminent. Steven drops his arm, and your weak arm falls limp at your side. The dancing and chattering has stopped, and the music has become mellow, gentle to welcome you into the room of your new kingdom. The first thing you can see is the bright glowing lights, candles everywhere, and suddenly the room is anew. There is no darkness, no shadows creeping down your spine. The room is alive. As are the faces that stare back at you, so many Lords and Ladies, perhaps even royalty of different kingdoms. It is easy to spot who is of Hawkins, their red emblems pinned neatly to the breasts of both tunics and dresses. They part like waves of the sea, and the aura inside the room bides you in without thought. Some greater nature pulls you in, tugs you by force, and has your feet moving one step after the other into the middle of the room.

You stop in the middle of the ballroom, beneath a magnificent golden chandelier. The gold flickers and shimmers with the flames around it, like stars overhead. You hope that all good fates and gods are watching you now, and will bless your soul. For right now, you feel like a fox against a pack of archers. Every person in the room stares at you, at only you, and yet they do not whisper a word. You turn, spinning on the spot, trying to identify someone, anyone. To find some familiarity amongst strangers. It does not come, the sense of relief that you so desperately sought. Instead, as you stop turning, a group of people in front of you begin to move, parting once more from one another. And then, the music begins to pick up, something deep and meaningful, a tune of the kingdom. Your eyes do not part with the scene in front of you, and still no pair of eyes stray from your figure. Scared. Alone. Until you see.

Black polished shoes graze against the wooden floor. They dazzle in the light, leading to an obsidian pair of breeches, belt loops adorned with hanging golden chains. A flowing material flutters behind the figure lightly, connected to his shoulders, hung by a golden chain to his frilled tunic. The sleeves of his shirt are long, yet his arms are defined enough to be conveyed. The figure that your eyes rake up is tall, taller than any man you have ever known. Your heartbeat impossibly quickens as your eyes meet raven curls, twisting up towards the most handsome face you possibly had ever seen. Sharp jaw and cheeks, dark features enhanced by his pale skin. King Edward looks celestial in all of his grace. He stops a foot or two in front of you lightly trembling form, and he’s so tall. Not lanky, built enough to convey his strength and he fills out his clothes. But that is not what captures your attention most, no, your future husband’s eyes are something of a fairytale. He stares at you softly, despite the sharpness of his eyes. They're brown, yet so much deeper and darker than Sir Steven’s. You swear that something swirls within the depths of those irises, and you are sure not to be mistaken when there is a flicker of gold and blood red, at the closest points to his pupils.

The King is magnificent.

Suddenly you feel as though you might fall to the wife’s curse, for his looks and beauty are far too fine to be of this world.

He could be an angel, or he could be the devil. His motivations seem unclear, for if he were just marrying for the nations, he would never stare at you the way that he does in that moment. King Edward looks at you as though you are the rarest jewel in the land, something to be cherished for millenia to come. He looks at you how the most adoring, caring husband would to his dearly beloved wife. It burns your chest. What is all this for? Is he merely just a shining actor, ready to do what he will to get you into bed?

But the King does not speak, he only moves. His eyes remain the same as he slowly circles around you, soft, gentle, yet observant. He is vetting you, ensuring that you would be the perfect wife, the perfect woman. You can remember the way that the maids in the castle back home had gripped at your hips and told you how a king would adore them, what they could do, what they could create. They saw you as a baby making machine. It’s not the same now, for you can feel the icy cold tingle left in the wake of King Edward’s stare. He observes your hair, fingertips grazing the ends lightly before he plucks one of the clusters of forget-me-nots out, and pockets it next to his neck tie. Blood red and sapphire blue. His eyes continue around you and his hand falls back to your hair, slowly pushing it away from your shoulder and neck as he comes back towards your line of vision. He seems to take in the sight of your pearl necklace, and Nancy was right, for you swear that his eyes darken at the sight. You flush at the realisation; The King wants you. He finds you more than pleasing, and you seem to have passed his evaluations. Relief floods you – the poorly hidden cut upon your bottom lip had not deterred him.

You feel tiny under his gaze. You can barely breathe, and you feel as though your heart is trying to escape from your chest. It would be impossible to match him, to be acquainted with his wealth, his power. You would surely forever be known as the princess who did not deserve such a man.

And yet, King Edward falls down to one knee. He lowers himself, far lower than you. At first, you believe him to be bowing. But the reality is far different. The King produces a golden ring, a deep, dark ruby red jewel encrusted with a halo of darling diamonds. It sits proudly between his own ringed fingers, presented to you, and is probably worth more than anything you have ever owned. Across the room, you can practically hear your father encouraging you to take the ring, to take the King as your husband.

“Princess,” his voice is so unlike anything you have ever heard before. So rich and smooth, yet intoxicating and deep He speaks as a King, with power and authority. His voice can be heard over the orchestral music, he is so respected. So adored. “I present you with this ring as a symbol of our unity. Of two kingdoms. Take this ring, and I will give you anything you could ever ask for, anything your heart could ever desire. Swear yourself to me, as my wife, as my Queen, and you shall have eternal glory.”

You raise a trembling hand towards him. Words cannot convey the sudden compelling that you have, the need to take his hand, to fulfil what he has promised for you. You feel air-light as you speak almost breathlessly, “I swear myself to you, King Edward.”

The pressure of your corset seems to have faded. You can breathe freely as soon as the ring slips onto your finger. His hand is cold as he reaches for your finger, chilled as the winter’s snow. You jolt, though do your best to contain it as your skin makes contact with his own. You’ve surely never felt something so cold before, and yet never felt so warm. Heat and bliss dance around you as the ring slips over your knuckle, and falls perfectly into place against your skin.

You admire the jewel for a moment, take in the fact that it now resides there, upon your very own finger. You take in the fact that King Edward had not seen you and rejected you in a moment, instead fallen to his knee and presented you with a glistening ring. Your heart soars, and your eyes travel to meet his. Those around you have began to dance once more, shouting their cheers for their king. You are certain that you heard Robin’s squeal in there somewhere. He watches you intently, as though a creature so beautiful had never existed before. He seems mystified, perhaps even as much so as you are. The King looks at you as though there is a halo upon the crown of your head, and God had delivered you here on a silver platter himself.

Edward raises your entwined hands, presses his cool lips against your knuckles, and drags you further under his spell. You spin and spin, until you realise that it isn’t only in your head, and the two of you are dancing, hand in hand, his other at the curve of your waist. You can feel the way that his thumb glides over the fabric of your dress, the subtle admiring of such fine clothing. King Edward is a force that hits you like a storm.

“You are a rarity.” He murmurs to you, eyes flickering golden. His lips entrance you as they move, something so compelling yet familiar to you. Did those lips ever meet Barbara’s? How many of his past wives has he held this way, presented such fine jewellery to? King Edward has ruled for a glorious lifetime. You are not his first wife, and you will surely not be his last. It is as though he can detect a disturbance within your aura, the King moves to pull you closer. Your breath hitches as you feel the solid wall of his chest, the brushing of his thigh against your dress. “A fine jewel, something men like I could only ever dream of.” The forget-me-not in his necktie sways with the movement of his dancing. His voice lulls you, but his hands have you more alive than ever before. “The stars are shining down upon me tonight. Being King has brought me many fortunes, but you, my heart, are the most supreme of them all.”

You can almost hear your maids back home, telling you what to say, how to bat your eyes, how to smile. Yet it almost comes on unconsciously as you speak to your newly betrothed. “I wish nothing more than to prove myself to you, my King. I will serve you well as your Queen. Forever, I am indebted to you.”

There is an incessant presence between the two of you, something that shifts in the air and pushes the blood through your veins. Though you have never felt it before in your life, you know what it is – arousal. Something you only learned of after one of Barbara’s ladies was caught in the stable with a young knight, and Robin spent the eve explaining the ways that people come together to procreate. You wonder how soon after the marriage King Edward will want to consummate. It is a clear thought in his own mind, for he looks at you as though you are the most divine meal, served on a silver platter.

“I am the luckiest man in the whole kingdom.” He murmurs, eyes flickering from your neck to your eyes. “Sir Steven often overexaggerates, but he did not lie when it comes to your gentle beauty and charm. You are the finest bride-to-be.”

And, suddenly, something stirs within you. His words push you head first out of the trance he had gently swayed you into, and now you remember the absurdity of it all. The fact that Barbara was here, in your place, and now dead. The burn of arousal turns to a burn of fire, churning deep within you. You blaze.

“Finer than my own sister?” You do not allow yourself to physically sneer, not in front of all these people, but your tone is enough for the King. He watches as you lean yourself away from him. “Or even the wife before? Will you say the same to one of my nieces, when they turn of age?”

But Edward does not falter. He does not grow angry, he does not shout, he does not strike. His eyes remain that same calm and cool. Golden, brown. His gentleness is suffocating. “I understand how–”

“The girl forgets herself.” A drunken tone interrupts. One you are all too familiar with, one that you avoid with great caution. Your dance with King Edward falls apart as you both turn to the stumbling figure of your father, who just happened to be passing as you spoke out of tone. A goblet is gripped tightly between his fingers. He drinks enough for half of the ballroom. Your father sneers openly at you, raising the goblet. “Nothing a simple drubbing won’t fix. She will take it, your highness, she will grow to understand her place.” Your father grumbles, swigging his mead. “Just as her mother did.”

The king straightens beside you.

You can feel his energy change at the mention of harming you, the idea that he should be the one to set you right with a physical hand. The King towers over both you and your father, and in the short time that you have known him, you are determined in your knowledge that he has far more power and authority than your father.

“I hope you make jest,” the raven haired man speaks your father’s name lowly. Said man lowers his chalice, waveringly glancing between you and Edward. “The princess knows her place…” King Edward steps forwards, his dominance unmistakeable. Your father gulps. “She is the future Queen of the most powerful kingdom in this corner of the globe. She is my bride-to-be. I had hoped that my loyal servants had lied about the cut upon her saccharine lips. Perhaps, you forgot your own place? I would loathe to have to prosecute you ‘pon means to harm the future Queen.”

Your heart soars. Your lip stings dully. Your eyes are glassy and the shape of hearts, because nobody has ever, ever stood up for you like that. It is clear to you now - Edward is a fierce lover, and a loyal man. He works to protect you, protect his kingdom. You ache for the harsh words that you had previously spoken, how you had intended to harm his feelings. Here he is, protecting you from the torture of your own flesh and blood. Forget the rumours, the curses. In front of you is a human man protecting his newfound love. Perhaps you are different to all of his past queens, for you are sure that he cannot fall this quickly each time, cannot care so.

Your heart begins to beat for the King of Hawkins.

Your father breaks the stare between them first. He is no match for the pale, tall and built figure in front of him. Not to mention the sword-clad guards lined up against each wall of the ballroom. Sir Steven has drawn closer at the scene, his fingers grazing the metal of the hilt of his sword. His eyes are dangerous and dark, watching intently as your father begins to stumble backwards, his aged brows pulled together.

Edward watches him go with a blank stare, yet still so intimidating. Most of the crowd around you are still dancing their hearts out, feet uncontrollably moving. As though they are destined to never stop, not unless their King tells them to. Perhaps it is not you that is a pawn, but them.

A cold, gentle hand falls at your elbow, gripping lightly. Your eyes reach those of King Edward’s, but they are suddenly unfamiliar. There is no gold, no hint of red. They are almost obsidian black, the same tone as his curly hair. You can feel the invisible string pulling your brows together as you take in the sight, dainty hand moving up towards his face. The warmth of your skin caresses his cheek, thumb ghosting across the skin under his eye.

“Your eyes…” you murmur, wracking your brain for a logical answer. “They have changed.”

“They have not been the same since I set my sights on you, princess.” The King’s free hand meets yours, sandwiching you between his cool skin. “They will never be the same again.”

You believe him wholeheartedly. You can see the meaning of his words within his eyes, and your heart bleeds for him. In fact, you are sure that you have already passed over your heart to him, pushed your hand inside your chest and dug around until you reached the beating organ, your vessel of life, and handed it over to him.

The feeling lingers, once more underneath the spell of King Edward, throughout the eve. You are enamoured by him as he walks you through the throne room, introducing you to the strange people of Hawkins. Some of them look at you as though you are a piece of meat, and you are sure that you can feel the King’s grip on your waist tighten. They all seem to have a similar aura about them, like they share a hidden secret. They stare intensely, but you assume it is because you are an outsider. Still, King Edward puts you at ease. He speaks so freely, so smoothly. He shows you your future throne, shows you the deep, red ruby set at the crescent of the golden chair. It matches your ring entirely, and the King does not comment when you speak on their likeness. What else could you expect? It is the colour of his court, after all. You are still enamoured when he sneaks you away from the courtroom, when he steals you from the knowing stares of your ladies, who happily let him take you away. They steal your chalice of wine and usher you with shooing hands, winking wildly.

You grin like a child, unable to contain your excitement, in a way that you haven’t in so many years. Not since the last festival of light, back in your home kingdom, with your mother, when she had sang to you, span you in dance, braided your hair. You had not known a giddiness quite like this in such a long lifetime. You cannot help the way that you giggle as you run hand in hand through the flame lit halls. Your hair sways behind you, flowers surely falling from their neat positions. The clipping sound of your heels fills the hall, and King Edward’s somehow fall silently. You suppose in hindsight that it is due to his meticulous battle training, his tactics.

The King takes you out to a courtyard, one that is filled with some of the first signs of life that you have seen since arriving in Hawkins. Flowers bloom in the midnight moon, something exotic and unseen of your land. Some are bright red, others variants of orange and yellow. They hold so much life, so natural and yet completely supernatural at the same time. He speaks their names slowly, guiding you through them with a gentle hand against your spine. You have never heard of the plants before, never been so in awe of the world’s beauty.

King Edward watches you. His eyes take in the way that you kneel to be closer to the horticulture, the gentleness of your fingers as you test the leaves. He grows to quickly adore the soft nature of your voice, the inquiries of your genuine questions. He answers them with the same love in his eyes that you hold in yours, and suddenly you feel as though you could be his wife blind. Help him rule his kingdom without as such as a hiccup.

“You will make the most beautiful Queen.” He speaks to you towards the end of the night, when the two of you have tucked yourselves away in a corner of the ballroom that Sir Steven made you return to. King Edward looks down at you as he speaks, large hands holding a chalice which he tips towards your lips. Obediently you open your mouth to him, the red wine burning upon your tongue as it slips past your healing lips. “So adoring, so fine. I wish for my people to serve you as they do me. I will arrange for you to visit the townsfolk with Sir Steven tomorrow, to see how they live.” You try not to think of their solemn faces, the death in their eyes. “You will grow to love them as your own, Princess.”

“Anything you wish, My King.” The words come after a swallow of the alcohol, the King’s eyes following a falling drop of crimson as it cascades down your chin. His eyes flicker once more, a new sort of hunger hidden behind them. “Will you do me the pleasure of accompanying myself and Sir Steven?”

His gaze shifts again, and something swirls in his chest — you can almost see it happening.

“My duties lay elsewhere in the daytime, Princess. I did ask Steven to assure you of this,”

“He did.” You’re quick to interject. “It was merely wishful thinking, my King. I apologise.”

“You never have to be sorry.” He murmurs, dark eyes injecting a cooling sensation into your very veins. King Edward has put a spell on you, a spell that would surely soon have him chasing after you.

A spell that will have you running from the daylight.

#<3 eddie munson #eddie munson! abby’s version #abby’s kinktober !#dark! :0 #multiple characters #vampire #vampire!eddie #stranger things fanfic #stranger things au #knight!steve #eddie #eddie munson smut #princess!reader #Eddie Munson au #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader fluff #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x reader

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yuri-is-online · 21 days

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hi, i'm not the same anon but i would like to hear more about the fyuuture kid au 👉👈 especially about riddle!!

hello new friend, you picked someone who is having a real bad time in this au (ﾟωﾟ；)

I am going to give some general information about Yutu and then move on to some Riddle specific stuff.

notes: they/them used for Yuu, general au explanation can be found here, and the posts can be found on my masterlist under the series section.

General Yutu Facts

"Yutu" is supposed to be a fake name fyuuture kid is using to help hide his identity, but I am open to suggestions on that. Originally he didn't remember his name and Crowley picked it out for him, but I like the idea of "Yuu two" being a nickname he had in both your world and Twisted Wonderland and picked as his alias to honor his parent. Yutu really admires Yuu, he has nothing but empathy for your situation and respect for your strength, and while he certainly fought with you from time to time (some Yutus more than others) he wants to be like you.

That desire was very much cemented when he heard about how you won against the overblot phantoms. Yutu's unique magic changes depending on who his dad is, but all Yutus have extensive experience in combat magic and have fought a lot of monsters. Including overblot phantoms, same as you. His fights didn't go as well though... he's extremely afraid of the Great Seven's phantoms and has regular nightmares about them.

Back to the names... I didn't have names picked out for every version of Yutu, but Riddle does happen to have been one of them. His real name was supposed to be March, yes like the march hare but if I'm honest I was more thinking about the saying "in like a lion out a lamb" because I thought that described Riddle's temper pretty well.

The other ones I picked out I still like are Merrin (I swear I found it on a list of mountain themed names??? But it means sea born or pearl of the sea), Laurie (yes like little women, his unique magic was supposed to something to do with painting), and Roland (I have an unironic love for French peerage ok please do not judge me).

Some of the Yutus were meant to have older siblings who stayed behind in Twisted Wonderland (Riddle! Yutu wasn't one of them), but that was very much an idea I didn't develop extensively since it was more left over from Fire Emblem Awakening. I wanted there to be a Lucina type older sibling character who was very protective of Yutu and wanting a future where he gets to stay in Twisted Wonderland and they get to be a happy family. But again I didn't cook this idea extensively so idk how to feel about keeping it as a part of the ayuu.

Anyway on to the Riddle specific stuff ¬‿¬

So that bit about Yutu's real name coming from a description from Riddle's temper: I like to leave what Yutu looks like up to the reader, but Riddle! Yutu if nothing else took two things from his father, his (lack of) height and his temper. His facial expressions when pouting and angry are eerily similar, and they both have a strong affinity for fire. Riddle! Yutu is a lot like Riddle Tsum now that I think about it? Very high energy and likes to jump around all over the place, but determined to be at least somewhat dignified.

Since traveling back in time Yutu has been "studying" with Grim to try and get his flames hot enough to burn blue to flex on his dad and to bond with the monster. He usually just ends up watching him though, the mental image he had of Grim vs what the little guy is actually like is really wild.

Back to the temper, unlike Riddle Yutu wasn't home schooled so he got into a lot of trouble for losing it on other students. He had a chip on his shoulder about not having a dad, having a parent with amnesia, and especially about being short oh god he is so spiteful about that. He got sent to detention a lot, and shamefully it made him fight with Yuu a lot too. Not that he hates Yuu, he was just very emotional and not always the easiest to deal with. His last few interactions with Yuu before they died were very strained, and he is filled with remorse for a bunch of stupid things he said.

When he gets to the point where he has to admit to Yuu who he is there is going to be a lot of crying and begging for forgiveness. He was a stupid, angry kid who just wanted to know who he was and didn't feel like he belonged lashing out at the one person who he knew wanting nothing but the best for him. He doesn't really feel the need to ask for forgiveness from his dad (yet)... by the time Yutu was isekaid into Twisted Wonderland Riddle had been corrupted by his overblot phantom and was wrecking the Queendom of Roses so he never really met the real Riddle until he traveled back in time.

He also got compared to Riddle a lot, Yutu isn't stupid by any means but because of all that time spent in detention he is a bit behind on the fundamentals. Not to mention all Riddle has done up to this point is practice magic and Yutu only just found out it was real so of course there was going to be a skill gap! But still, he's Riddle's son and Riddle was a very memorable student for Crewel, so Yutu was guaranteed to hear some comparisons. It didn't help the daddy issues though...

Speaking of Yutu's time at NRC, he did get placed into Heartslabyul by the Dark Mirror and he does know all 810 rules of the Queen's rules. He's not as obsessed with them as Riddle is but he still knows what he's supposed to do and tries to be on his best behavior. He was not interested in being dorm leader and wanted to instead focus on the things Yuu always encouraged him to do, like controlling his temper and getting good grades.

I sort of like the idea of his unique magic being the ability to grow/shrink because in the book Rule 42 of the Queen of Hearts says “All persons more than a mile high to leave the court" and I like the idea of him trying to use his spell to get out of arguments with his dad.

Riddle has no idea that Yutu hates him... at first. This is partially because Yutu is usually very polite to him and partially because he is utterly unaware of how much people are afraid of him in general, but he starts to pick up on it when he tries to interact with Yuu. He wants to have a private tea party with just Yuu? Well Yutu immediately starts acting like this is somehow scandalous and calls him out on his feelings in front of the prefect and he wants to lose it so badly- Yuu agrees anyway and Riddle immediately gets unreasonably smug while Yutu pouts. Take that sucker! He's going to study with the prefect all alone and since it's Riddle you know you really are just going to study.

I don't think Riddle really considers Yutu a rival for Yuu's romantic attention, partially because he isn't fully aware of what it is he feels for Yuu, but even if he was. Riddle knows that Yuu sees Yutu as someone under their care similar to Grim, they actually talk to him about it quite a bit and he has no issue with that. He is actually sort of grateful for Yutu's existence since it has given him an excuse to talk to Yuu more and let them know how he respects them.

Yutu's academic struggles are something that actually bring him closer to Riddle ironically enough. Riddle has created study guides for Yuu and Grim before, he has no problem doing that for Yutu and inviting himself over to give instructions.

"Did you not get a lot of help from your parents?" Riddle sounds nervous, and he should it's an invasive question to ask. Yutu wants to be angry, but when he looks at Riddle, he just feels sad. "Not that it is any of my business really but well. I just noticed you never really talk about them, even to Yuu."

"My dad wasn't really around." He forces himself to look at Riddle when he says it, but it doesn't make him feel any better. If anything it makes Yutu feel worse, he knows about as much about Riddle as Riddle knows about him now that he's forced to look at him. "And my other parent... they tried really hard. But I wasn't always willing to accept it."

"I can't say I understand what that would be like." Riddle looks like he is trying to and that should be what he wants, right? "My mother home schooled me so it's hard for me to understand that someone's parents wouldn't be a constant figure in their schooling."

"You were home schooled?"

Yutu didn't know anything about his grandmother, it didn't even really occur to him that he had one and once he learns about her... well it certainly makes things make a lot more sense. He doesn't want to meet her, but he is curious about what she thought about his parent. What would she think about him? Does he even want to know?

My last concrete thought is that Yutu doesn't really get the whole horse girl thing. He is sort of afraid of horses actually, but I can see him maybe wanting to ride with Riddle once their relationship gets a bit better just to do something with him.

I like the idea of Riddle! Yutu being very into baseball for some reason and there's no way he's going to convince his dad to do that with him ha. Well not in this timeline anyway, I can see good timeline Riddle doing a bunch of research on baseball so he can talk to his kid about it. And showing up to all his matches to scream in support of his kid instead of at the coaches. He is breaking the cycle we love to see it.

#<3 asks #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #future kid au #riddle rosehearts x yuu #riddle rosehearts x reader

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artiststarme · 11 months

Text

Another Bad Day

Based on a prompt given by @mysticcrownshipper. I'm sorry it took so long but I hope you like it! Please leave your thoughts in the comments!

~*~*~*~

Steve was content. He didn’t want to jinx himself but he was pretty happy. He had his friends, he was dating Eddie, and his brother was back in his life with his super cool boyfriend too. What wasn’t he to like about that?

It was just another evening at the Harrington house and he was relaxing on one end of the couch while Phil and Dio were at the other end. They were cuddling and playing footsie together like Steve would've been with Eddie had he invited him over. But subjecting Eddie to the mustachioed protectiveness of his older brother sounded less like a relaxing movie night and more like inviting a lamb into a lion’s den. Guaranteed homicide.

He didn’t know how Dio convinced him and Phil to watch Halloween again but they were both terrified at the events happening on-screen, jumping at every scary moment. Steve was not a fan of scary movies, especially having lived through a horror series himself. As such, he was gripping a pillow tight and squeezing his eyes shut through every jumpscare. No way was he getting another heart attack, no thank you.

At a particularly scary scene that he could sense even with his eyes squeezed tight, Steve jumped and let out a scream of shock. To his further surprise and horror, he heard a gasp come from the hallway behind him. This only prompted him to scream more and plunge his head underneath his blanket as if that would protect him from whatever dangerous home invader was creeping behind him.

“Son of a biscuit,” he heard Phil curse as he stumbled to turn on the lights. With a few more grunts and bumps, the lights flickered on and Steve slowly poked his head out of the safety of the blanket.

When the lights came on however, he saw something much more frightening than any home invader or murderer. Instead, he saw their parents. Martha Harrington was literally clutching her pearls as she stood glaring at them all in distaste and Richard Harrington was fuming behind her where he held their luggage. Poor Dio paused the movie and stood in the center of the living room looking the most out of place as he’d ever been.

“Steven, I see you continue to disappoint us. Not only are you lounging around like a child but you’re also keeping distasteful company.” Martha scowled at him with her eyes narrowed in disgust.

He shrunk at her words and looked away. His parents always knew how to bring him down and ruin his night. It was disappointing but oddly comforting in its continuity.

“See your guests out and make sure they don’t come back. You’re enough of a disappointment as it is, we don’t need them further tarnishing your reputation. And ours,” His dad sneered at him.

“You fucking dick! You don’t get to talk to him like that. You and mom haven’t been home in ten goddamn months and you think you have the right to tell Steve who he can and can’t hang out with? Fuck you.” Phil hissed at them both, his face red with fury and his mustache twitching with barely contained rage.

Richard’s face reddened to match and he shoved an accusing finger right in Phil’s face. “You shouldn’t even be here! We washed our hands of you years ago and yet you still come around to harass us. How pathetic are you?”

Phil flinched back but quickly regained his composure. “Oh, you think I’m pathetic? You’re the one that kicked me out for ‘being a bad influence on Steve’ when I joined the police force. Now you’re screwing your secretary and dragging mom all around the country for supposed business trips. Who’s really the pathetic one, Dick?”

Richard raised his hand to swing at Phil but his wrist was grabbed by a silently fuming Dio. “Don’t touch him or I will sever every one of your fingers and feed them to you. Back away.”

“Who the hell even are you? What are you doing in my house?” Steve’s dad turned his anger to Dio instead but he was only met with an unimpressed look in response.

“Trying to watch a fucking movie, Dick.”

Steve’s mom spoke up then and moved a hand to Richard’s shoulder to hold him back. “Phil, you are no longer my son or a part of this family. That means that you can’t come into our house and you can’t associate with Steven.”

“Fuck you, Martha! You want to accuse us of being disappointments and bad sons and whatever the fuck else you say but it’s really you two that are the disappointments. You’re bad fucking parents and I hope you rot in hell.” With that, Phil grabs his jacket and storms outside. It’s all too reminiscent of the first time he left, years prior, when it was followed by a loatheful silence between the brothers. It left Steve feeling unmoored, frazzled in a way he couldn’t remember ever feeling.

There’s silence in the living room for a moment where his parents, Dio, and Steve stand around looking at each other before Richard sighs and glares at him.

“Look what you’ve done, Steven. Your mother and I are exhausted after our trip and we had to come home to this ludicracy. Ridiculous.”

“Yeah alright. Steve, come with me. You can stay with us for a while instead of staying here with these assholes. Go pack a bag and we’ll get going,” Dio told him, softly pushing at his shoulder.

“Excuse me-” His mother tried to protest.

“You’re excused. Go ahead, Steve.”

~*~*~*~

Steve spends the night at Phil’s and Dio’s, sleeping in the guest room and ignoring the woeful glances Phil sent to him. He had no interest in rehashing anything with his brother and a strong urge to ignore everything that had happened in order to move on.

When an acceptable hour in the morning came, Steve got himself dressed and left the house. He was off of work that day but his plans of sleeping in were thwarted. He couldn’t believe that his parents had come home after so long without any notice or that they’d obliterated Phil right in front of him again like the first time hadn’t been enough. Most of all though, he was surprised that Phil and Dio had stuck up for him. No one had ever defended him from his parents before and Steve really didn’t know how to handle that.

He continued about his day as if his parents’ return hadn’t shaken him to his core. He returned a few tapes to Family Video, hit the grocery store to pick up some snacks, and went to Melvald’s to get his migraine prescription. Steve ignored how every loud noise made him flinch and how every person in his peripheral vision appeared to be his dad seeking him out for revenge.

Eventually, he decided to stop pretending to be a functioning member of society and to seek out the comfort of his friends instead. He went from the Melvald’s parking lot directly to the Wheeler’s basement where nearly everyone was already congregated.

“Oh-ho-ho Steve, nice of you to join us. We’ve been calling your house all day, dude. Where have you been?” Eddie asked him haughtily as soon as he came in.

“I was running some errands. Here’s some snacks for you guys,” Steve said, dumping all of the chips and candy out on the coffee table. He plopped himself to the floor at the foot of one of the arm chairs and watched his friends attack the offerings like a kettle of vultures.

“Thank god you’re rich, Steve. We were starving,” Lucas told him and patted his knee.

“You mean thank god for his rich parents. They probably gave him an allowance and he wasted it on food. Loser move, Steve,” Mike sneered at him.

"Hey, Steve isn't a loser! He just doesn't apply himself," Dustin weakly defended.

Steve just looked at them all as they laughed at him trying to do a nice thing. Nothing he ever did was enough for anyone. He would always be a disappointment to his parents, a burden for his brother, and a loser to the group of friends that meant everything to him. What was the point in even trying anymore?

He didn’t realize it but sometime during his thought process, his breaths had become labored. His chest was tight and his face was turning red from lack of air.

“Steve? Steve, are you having a panic attack? Everything is okay, you just have to breathe,” Eddie spoke to him gently before turning to the kids. “Look what you guys did! You should know not to talk about his parents, dipshits! Call Officer Callahan or Hopper, shit, call Robin. Just do something other than gawking at him!”

Steve couldn’t breathe. The panic was clawing at his throat and it felt like he was back in the lake being dragged into Hell by the demon tentacles. Then not only was he obsessing over his parents in town and what the Party thought of him but he was also agonizing over the phantom pain in his sides and the suffocating pain around his neck.

“Steve, stop clawing at your neck, that’ll make it worse. Calm down, wherever your mind went, you’re not there. You’re with me, Eddie, in the Wheeler’s basement. Don’t you smell the stank of dirty socks and Mike? Come back to me.”

“That’s uncalled for-”

“Wheeler, shut the hell up before I make you. Stevie, you’re okay.”

Steve doesn’t know how long he was in his state of panic stuck in his head but he started coming out of it when he heard his brother’s frazzled voice.

“Steve?! Steve, where are you? Where is he, where’s my brother?” He could literally hear the emotions in his voice and picked his head up a little bit to look for him.

“Steve! Hey, it-it’s Phil. I don’t know why you’re panicking but if any of these bitchasses did anything, I will arrest them and give them a juvenile record. Just say the word, little bro. You’re okay,” he comforted in the only way he knew how (threatening children).

With enough of his… unconventional words of comfort, Steve was able to pull himself from the throes of panic and slump ungracefully into his arms. Everyone present fell back on their haunches and let out a sigh of relief. Eddie pulled one of Steve’s hands onto his own lap whether to offer his own comfort or be comforted from the no-doubt horrific sight of Steve choking on air.

They’d have to talk about what triggered him to have a panic attack eventually, probably after Phil lectured them and Robin got off of work to rip them a new one once she heard what happened. But they would discuss it and how ungrateful the kids had been to have snacks delivered at their feet precisely when they wanted them. But for now, Steve would hold hands with Eddie and lay his head against his brother’s chest in the longest, yet least awkward, hug they’d ever had.

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#Dio hears about this later and glares at the kids for weeks #He and Phil conspire with El for her to use her powers for pranks against the kids #Robin does in fact scream at them and kidnaps Steve for a sleepover to recover #stranger things #steddie #fanfic #steve harrington #eddie munson #lucas sinclair #mike wheeler #Dio is Phil's boyfriend based on Pedro Pascal as Dio (brought to you by mysticcrownshipper)#Phil and Steve have bi brother solidarity (because of pyrohonk)

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tired-biscuit · 1 year

Note

general!kiba opens up to you and you do the same and suddenly you’re both clingy and needy

18+ / fem!reader, royalty AU

series masterlist

imagine you suggest taking a bath together in attempt of growing closer, and he's just so awkward and clumsy when it comes to showing actual tenderness that it's almost absurd.

and he not only acts awkward, but looks like it, too. stuffed inside the wooden tub that's just been filled with hot water, he's almost too big to fit properly into the damn thing; even less when you're in there with him as well. the water splashes over the brim whenever he moves, so he's stuck there with your back resting against his chest, one arm draped over the edge of the tub, the other finding home on your stomach.

the room is illuminated by the soft glow of candles you've personally lit each and every one of before inviting him in. sitting in the tub and thinking about it now, it had been a pretty mundane task; one that had certainly taken you a long while to accomplish, considering that you previously had no desire to play with fire.

but you got there eventually. you've made the room nice and cozy - warm. the stone isn't cold, steam lazily spirals from the surface of the water and up towards the ceiling. the scent of lavender lingers in the air, creating a heavier atmosphere which he, you guess, probably doesn't even care about enough to notice in the first place.

"smells nice in here."

mildly surprised, you turn to look at him over your shoulder. it's as if he's read your mind. "really?"

one of his brows quirks at the odd question you offer as a reply. it's the left one; the one that's been split because of the godawful scar that runs along the left side of his face and which you still have to keep reminding yourself to stop gawking at. you've never asked him how he got it. you don't really plan on asking anytime soon.

"sorry, i-" you mumble, shaking your head in attempt of getting rid of the sudden timidness that washes over you under his domineering stare. "i didn't word that quite right; i just didn't think that you'd... notice."

"i've got a good nose, y'know," he explains as an answer. a second passes before he adds, "works better than most."

you've since learned that a rather large portion of his personality consists of bragging and speaking highly of himself even when there's really no need for it. and that's fine to some degree, but this statement feels different. he says it like it's a fact, unlike the usual boast.

"is that so?" you ask with just the slightest hint of playfulness. even you are surprised that you've allowed yourself the pleasure of a merry little lilt to accommodate your voice.

"yes," he says simply, reclining further against the tub. you try to ignore the way his sigh sends a shiver tumbling down your spine when it brushes over your naked skin. especially when he reaches out to trace and smooth down the goosebumps that have now formed on your stomach; just underneath the fat of your breast.

"mm," turning your head away from him, you mumble a meek, "prove it, then."

that makes him smile, but you can't see it. one corner of his mouth kicks up as he says, "the oil you rub into your skin every morning before you start your day smells like roses. i usually catch it right-" his voice drops a tone lower as his wet fingertips rise to press against your pulse point, "here."

you feel like a lamb caught in the hands of a lion whenever his touch lands anywhere on your body. it makes warmth bubble inside your belly, making you feel like you've just finished eating a rather large bowl of piping hot stew. and sure, you've experienced this exact same sensation from your own hand once or twice before being wed, but lately it's been showing up far more often. especially when he's around.

you're not entirely sure if it's the heat or the realization that makes your words come off wobbly as you mumble, "lucky guess."

and mother above, he laughs at how you behave, now. laughs! quiet and deep, the rumbling in his chest sounds like phantom thunder. "i didn't guess."

"of course you didn't." your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you look around the room. "what about that bar of soap over there? what does it smell like?"

"sage."

he's right, you've picked that exact one. "and the herbs i'm using to scent the room?"

"lavender."

"wow." water splashes, threatening to spill over the edge of the tub again as he readjusts into a more comfortable position. "your answers sound so suspiciously certain that some could call you a fraud or even a liar perhaps instead of a general."

"i can't afford to be uncertain," he says after a moment of brief silence. you can feel him grow stiff behind you whilst his fingers idly stroke the curve of your hip. "it could get me killed."

that makes you turn again. makes you look at him properly this time around.

his eyes are brown. pretty, yes, but plain. however, they are also so dark that they reflect the orange glow of the candles you've spent an eternity lighting earlier. the little flames dance whenever the melting wax disturbs them, and it's like his very irises are set ablaze each time.

surprisingly, his gaze kindles something within you, too.

"try not to die anytime soon, will you...?" eye contact doesn't seem to bother him, because he's persistent at holding it even as you add, "our union isn't even a fortnight old yet, and i've only just taken some form of liking towards you... it'd be a shame if it all went to waste."

he grins at your tease - short and quick - because it means you're finally growing comfortable in his intimidating presence, but doesn't say anything as you pick up the bar of soap and begin to rub the sage-scented suds into his tan skin. just watches.

pleasant silence settles between you as you wash him. it's intimate and sweet, not necessarily romantic but definitely an improvement when compared to your wedding night. you run your hands along the stiff cords in his neck, the broad arch of his shoulders, the rippling muscle on his arms, the chest that protects a wild-beating heart, as well as every scar in-between that serves as a reminder of his bravery and bloodshed.

the water is already half-cold by the time you release the bar and he breaks the quiet to ask, "can i tell you something?"

you're practically clinging onto him on instinct, facing him, while your hands are pressed against his chest and leeching off his body heat. the way his blood runs hot no matter the season will surely prove satisfactory by the time first snow falls and your new home gets unbearably cold. "of course."

"well, how should i put it... the truth is that i-... mm." he swallows, and you fail to hide your fascination whilst watching the way his adam's apple turns prominent and bobs inside his throat. it's amazing how different he is from you. you could study him for ages.

long seconds pass as he struggles to find the right words and you force yourself to pay attention.

"what is it that you want to say?"

he's quiet, brow still furrowed. and then: "...i'm not that keen on roses to be honest."

you blink, slowly. is he really trying to say what you think he is? "pardon?"

"i said i'm not that keen on roses... i- uh, i know you use oil instead of perfume, but... fuck," he mumbles, shaking his head. "m'sorry."

your heart flutters at the crude apology. there are butterflies in your belly. "what on earth are you sorry for?"

"i understand that you're fond of them," he starts warily, "and believe me when i say i don't want to take away even more things that you're fond of, but the scent... it really makes my head hurt."

you stare at him, wide eyed and surprised. you know that he could just take away the bottle and prohibit you from using it again, and perhaps that is what he would have done before you had managed to crawl underneath his skin with your doe eyes, never-ending kindness and graceful mannerism, but something about him asking silently; giving you a choice to do something about it instead of picking it for you, makes your heart begin to beat faster and faster. all until your pulse is practically rattling behind your teeth.

he's actually willing to give you a chance.

"then i won't use the oil anymore," you say after another breath of silence. your voice is definite; like that of a proper ruler instead of a war general's wife. because the decision is yours. only yours.

he nods, his shoulders sagging as if in relief before he wraps his arms around your smaller frame and pulls you closer. both of your bodies are slippery because of the soap, and he doesn't miss the way it makes your skin glisten, the way it makes your tits look absolutely divine even as they press against his chest.

he doesn't say thank you, but he doesn't need to. instead, his voice is a mere murmur against your ear as he cups your cheek with one callused hand and whispers, "i wish to bed you now."

you look up, heat crawling up your neck as fast as ever at the lewd request that he leaves hanging in the small space of air that is between you. but what really makes you burn, what makes your insides clench and your toes curl right there in the water, is when he adds,

"would that be all right?"

constent.

#i'm so 🥺 over this #like this is literally my face #just 🥺#ughhhhhh utterly obsessed with this version of him fr #biscuit drabbles #kiba x reader #naruto smut #kiba smut #biscuit's royalty au

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spacecowboyhotch · 2 years

Text

The Lion (and the Lamb)

gif credits @designforliving

summary: he’ll do right by you, on his own terms, no matter what.

pairing: fem!reader x santi ‘pope’ garcia

contents: illusions to sex but no smut, alcohol mention, kissing, sickness & flu symptoms, medication & food mention, some tears, nonsexual nudity, all in all tooth-rotting fluff, santi being a major simp

AN: just something sweet until my series for him is done!

word count: 1.6k

oscar characters masterlist | requests are closed until nov. 1st

Santi never allowed himself to love as openly and deeply before he met you.

He claims it’s because it wasn’t supposed to happen until you, that no one he’s ever met is like you. Before this, he never felt safe enough, loved enough, or strong enough to be so unapologetic about his feelings. No matter how many missions went successfully, how many takedowns or hit targets, nothing’s made him feel as secure as the love for him that glitters in your eyes. You render all of his training useless— the sight of you makes his knees go weak and his heart flutter like a lovesick teenager.

You turn Santi to mush from the moment he sees you. All that logic goes out the window when Will and Benny introduce you to him. He’s used to thinking with his dick and his brain respectively, never his heart. When he meets a woman he turns the charm up to the nth degree, flashes that perfect smile of his while he trails his eyes over every curve of her body.

But when your hand slips into his, soft and warm, your smile brighter than the sun, he can hardly think. You murmur your name to him gently, and give his hand a firm shake. Will and Benny introduce him as Pope, along with another friend named Frankie.

His heart beats fast in his chest, his mouth cottony as he forms his reply, “Santiago. Or Santi.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Santiago,” Your mouth caresses his name in a way that makes his hands tremble, and do you notice. You make a note to yourself to always call him that.

That night you make him dance. Not his usual completely uninvested sidestep, the known ritual before he takes a woman home to the real show. He’s wrapped around your finger, literally and figuratively, his body tight and hot against yours on the crowded dance floor. You’ve got your hands fisted in his greying curls, his hips follow yours, mirroring your every move. When you look up at him his eyes are glazed over, completely absorbed in you. He would lay the world at your feet right now, and plans on doing so for as long as you’ll let him.

The moment you lean in and kiss him he’s woefully unprepared, frozen into place as you patiently coax his mouth open. He feels like a fucking idiot— you’re kissing him and he’s just standing here, his eyes wide like a deer in headlights as you open him up. Then you slip your tongue into his mouth and switch flips in his brain. He’s kissing you back, messy and wet, his hands finding your hip and the nape of your neck to pull you closer.

Benny, Will, and Frankie stand on the sidelines, all too entertained with the sight of Pope like this to look for dance partners of their own. Nursing beers and talking crap, taking in every detail so they know every little way to give Santi shit at a later date. And while they all know they’ll joke around, there’s an unspoken feeling that spreads around the table— it’s good to see him like this. Carefree, relaxed, not haunted by all the shit they’ve seen and done. Momentarily free of the guilt and grief. But they focus on the lighter things, a crowded bar isn’t the place to begin unpacking their baggage.

Frankie leans in closer to Benny and Will, shouting over the bass music that thrums through the foundation of the bar, “Where the hell did you meet her?”

“Family friend!” Will calls back, though his eyes don’t leave the two of you on the dance floor.

“She’s got him in a puddle,” Frankie nudges Benny with his shoulder, grinning when he sees that the man is pouting. “And neither of you tried?”

“I did,” Benny replies begrudgingly, “but apparently I’m not enough to handle.”

Frankie and Will try to hold in their laughs, the first man masking his with a cough. Benny throws him a glare, pushing him on the chest.

“You’re plenty to handle in your own way, Benny,” Will assured him.

“She tamed the lion,” Frankie’s in awe of you, his eyes drifting back to where you and Santi are glued together.

You lean to get close enough to whisper in his ear, “Do you…wanna come back to my place?”

A chill runs through him at the unspoken promise your question holds. He shifts, and gets his lips close enough to whisper back not wanting to burst your bubble, “Is that what you want?”

“Mhmm.”

“Whatever you want is what I want,” He murmurs softly, a hint of wonder in his voice.

That’s how the beginning of your relationship unfolds— how Santi ends up being needed in a way he’s never been before. And even though he has no experience in being the perfect partner, in being a partner at all, he’s nothing if not competent, striving to be everything you could need and more. Disappointing you isn’t an option. Being the second best at loving you isn’t an option. He’ll do right by you, on his own terms, at any cost. Even his love for you has a code of ethics he’s created.

It’s that principle that lands you in his lap months later when you’re stuck in bed with the flu.

“You’re going to get sick, Santiago,” You try to lean away when he dips his head for a kiss, but he gets his hand around the base of your throat, and holds you firm while he licks into your mouth. If you weren’t sick this would be ending a hell of a lot differently.

He pulls away, giving you his usual smirk, “I have the immune system of a thousand men. I’m only worried about you.”

“I’m already sick, there’s nothing you can do.”

He looks a little offended by your words, and while you know he hates being told he can’t do things you didn’t know it would apply to this, “There’s plenty I can do, starting with warming you up, you’re fucking freezing cariño.” His arms tighten around you, pulling you flush to his chest.

It’s days of that, bundling up together because your skin is cold as ice, just to wake up hours later hot as a furnace. Santi doesn’t complain once, just unwraps the both of you, and puts an ice pack on your forehead to cool you down. He creates a regime for you, and no matter how tired you are or how much you want to sleep he makes you stick to it. He’s gone over the labels on all the medication, knows which ones you can mix and which ones you have to take in the morning or at night. He plies you with various types of tea, some for congestion, some for aches and pains, others just because he’ll know you’ll like the taste and you need to stay hydrated. His fingers burn as he grips the bowl he feeds you soup from.

While he’s optimistic, your symptoms start to weigh on your mental state, and when he comes back with your tea and soup one afternoon he finds you curled up in bed, a crying heap. He sets the tray he’s carrying down on your dresser before crossing the room and getting in bed with you. He gets his hands on either side of your head and starts kissing away the tears that are streaming down your face. It's unbearable, seeing you like this.

“Hush, baby, it's okay. You’re okay. Hey, you’re my strong girl right?”

You sniffle, wiping your nose haphazardly with a nod, “Yes, but I’m tired, Santiago.”

He rests his forehead against yours, “I know, baby, but you should take a turn for the better in a few days. I called the doctor and she said you're almost there.”

“I want to be there now,” You almost whine, and he nods against you, gives you another encouraging kiss.

“Soon, cariño, I promise. Are you hungry?” You shake your head. He tries again, “Thirsty?”

Another negative.

“How about a bath, does that sound nice?”

“That sounds amazing,” You flash him a smile he hasn’t seen in days.

He pulls away and looks into your eyes, gauging if it’s alright to leave you alone. And though your face is tear stained, your eyes look lighter and softer than they did when he’d returned to you. You bump your nose against his, murmuring that you’re fine and it’s okay. It takes him no time to get the bath full of piping hot water, just how the two of you prefer. The water’s soaping and fragrant, the perfect mix of lavender and vanilla.

When he comes back to get you, he’s just in his boxers. You try to protest when he goes to scoop you up, knowing that this isn’t good for his knees or his back, but he shushes you, and carries you to the bath with what seems like little effort. Clothing is on the floor in just seconds, and you aren’t sure how, but he lowers you both into the bath no problem, not even a splash or wave in the water.

The warmth of the water soothes your sore muscles immediately, and you even get hints of the aromatic oil through your congested sinuses. A relieved sign stirs in your chest, you feel the best you have in days, though the sickness is still definitely with you.

“Comfortable?” He asks softly, his hands kneading the flesh of your neck.

“Yeah, nice and warm,” You hum in response, sinking further into the water as your eyes flutter shut.

“I love you baby, get some rest.”

“I love you, Santiago,” You murmur sleepily, leaning your head back against his chest.

There’s nothing like the sound of his name in your mouth, it’s a comfort he’ll always covet. As he holds you close he sinks into the unfamiliar feeling of being home, one he only gets with you.

if you’d like to be on my santi taglist let me know!

santi taglist: @hotchaways, @honeybrowne, @jitterbugs927, @theconsultingdoctor10, @awesomemikaus, @tanzthompson, @siezethenights, @clairevoyanceee, @moonmalice, @tiffanypooh, @dearvirtualdiary, @marc-spectorr, @xbellaxcarolinax, @toracainz, @roseqzpd, @rosecentaur1916, @mccn-bcys, @hotchs-bitch

#santi garcia x fem!reader #santiago garcia x fem!reader #santi garcia x reader #santiago pope garcia x reader #santiago garcia x reader #santi garcia x you #santiago garcia #santiago garcia fic #santiago garcia fanfiction #triple frontier x reader #triple frontier fanfiction #arson writes randos

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littlezarp · 1 year

Text

Recommendations

Call of duty, MW2

@gh0st5bby4life fics are *chef's kiss*

Jitters : 141 x OC (Jitters is a PMC brought onto the support 141 operations, much to the distaste of the 141 group of PMC's)

@halcyone-of-the-sea's every work

Ghost :

Can't trust me ?

@uselsshuman 's Masterlist

he tells me to shut up, i got this

The choices we make

Angsty shit with Simon

The truth is out

Living with ghosts

Sugar Daddy

@nsharks 's one shots + Bleeding blue series

I'm with you

Keep you close

Butterfly effects

Wolf and the lamb - (Lion and the Lamb prequel)

One night stand leads to pregnancy

@charnelhouse's Ghost Masterlist

He knows

Mistaken friendship

No more

Protector

Mausoleum

All Alone

The things I never said

Dad!Simon by @lundenloves

Paperwork

Between dreams and sugar

Alpha!Ghost x reader

Protected

The witch and witch hunter

Mary on a cross

Werewolf!Simon x reader

I can't marry you

Menage

Sassy series

Situationship with firefighter!ghost

The little things

The roommate series

Cowards always run

Open his eyes

Accidentally hurting you

Others

One, two, three - Ghost x reader x soap

It's time to have fun - Ghost x reader x soap

Don't touch my boys - Ghost x reader x soap

Afterburn - 141 x F!reader

That sex pollen fic - everyone x reader

Dead Disco - Ghost x Soap x F!reader

COD monster men

The Pack

Poly relationship with Simon and Johnny

Safeword with the cod boys

Knights in shining tactical gear - Ghost x reader x soap

John Price :

All I need

Deep Breaths

Four

Lion and the Lamb

Viper and the Lamb

Argument and makeup

The Killing Moon

Professor Price

Rest

Bad dreams

Trust me

Apollo, do you copy

Imagine

What's so great about war ?

Songs that sound like sea foam - Fisherman!John Price x Mermaid!reader

Not in your life

Guilt

Bloodstained honesty

John Price x F!OC Tank

Salt and pepper

The Last of Us

@guess-my-next-obsession's Joel Masterlist

@charnelhouse's Joel Masterlist

Confused Warmth

You came back for me

Reject me, I get it

Who are you if not alone

Cold as ice (part 2 : Cold as ice II)

Savior complex

Too late

Summer Lovin

Say it with your hands

Hot single dilfs in your area want to chat!

You're losing me

Chasing

The Hayloft

Still here

The whole @pedgeitopascals Joel Miller masterlist

Call my name

Love in the middle of a firefight

Lucky for me, I run on spite and sweet revenge

Once again in your arms

Angst with Joel Miller

Narcos

Boss - Javier Pena x DEA!OC

The Rookie

The dangers of misunderstanding

To sell your love for peace

Just dumb enough to try

@absurdthirst's Javier Pena Masterlist

Are you staying ?

Just Friends

The last goodbye

Love me not

Haikyuu

All I wanna do is save you - Dilf!Matsukawa x College F!Reader

#simon riley x reader #joel miller x reader #captain price x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #141 x reader #cod fic #javier pena x reader

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opbackgrounds · 1 year

Note

How long do you think Oda had the idea of the Nika fruit in mind for Luffy?

it’s impossible to know for sure, but I would not be surprised if we find out someday Oda’s had it in mind from the beginning. Ask any fanfic writer from the past 25 years and they’d tell you Luffy’s been associated with the sun since forever. He’s from Dawn Island, the first chapter and first volume is called Romance Dawn, and a lot of Luffy’s fights have sun imagery at the end—perhaps most famously the lens flair sunbeam shining over Luffy’s shoulder after liberating Cocoyashi Village from Arlong’s tyrannical rule. The Straw Hats traded the peaceful lamb the Going Merry for the fierce lion called Sunny. The don sound effects that pop up multiple times per chapter when characters say something with particular conviction are meant to symbolize the taiko drums of Japanese theatre. Everywhere Luffy goes he brings people freedom and the ability to laugh with his absurd antics.

If Oda didn’t have it planned from the beginning, he picked something that slides into the series thematically pretty damn well.

#sarc talks

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thecarnivorousmuffinmeta · 7 months

Note

Fifty Shades of Grey posits "What if Edward was a sexy rich entrepreneur" and aside from all the hate that series usually gets, I just want to stop and consider for a moment.

Edward. Edward "Totally Sane Decisions" Cullen. As a successful CEO guy. Do you think canon Edward could start/become in charge of a major business, and how long before he runs it into the ground?

Well, the thing about CEOs, is they're odd ducks. They're not always (or even usually) the smartest of those who come up with "the thing" what they are instead is cut-throat workaholics who tend to be jackasses (every time I think I see an exception of that level of CEO, turns out, they were secretly the worst the whole time). It comes with the territory of having to beat out rivals, secure the position at the top, and manage everyone under you.

What I'm getting at is that Steve Jobs wasn't exactly a rational guy either, or even that technical for that matter, he could just make shit sound good sometimes.

Canon Edward's busy being a vampire and hating himself, obviously, and wouldn't be interested in being that type (he's more of an intellectual aesthetics guy who would disdain such things). He also wouldn't have an idea he'd want to push forward that badly or to deal with people at all, so I don't see him starting a business either.

So, this was a long way of answering your question and saying "no, he'd neither start one nor run one".

Though there's an AH AU to be had where he inherits the business he never wanted and is a moody troll about it while Bella is the hot personal assistant, he's horrified at being super attracted to (even though in this universe that's socially acceptable/he's not going to eat her probably).

Now, instead of complaining that he's a lion and she's a lamb, he complains that his father left him this company and he just wants to play piano!

#twilight #twilight meta #twilight headcanon #twilight renaissance #edward cullen #meta #headcanon #opinion

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alabasterpickles · 1 year

Note

hi i sent an ask about persephone and hades a lil while ago!! heres some questions i had :3

1. how did they officially meet?

2. what were pain and panics first impressions of persephone?

3. persephone looks older then some of the other gods (like hera and aphrodite) is she older then them? i really like that you gave her some wrinkles :]

4. any issues that come up in p/h's relationship? like goals, little pet peeves, etc

5. how angry has persephone seen hades get? and vice versa, how angry has hades seen persephone get?

- 🖋️

Hey!! Glad to have you back!!

1. I have this idea that their meeting is almost entirely by chance, in the series he loathes spring and tries to sabotage it and I really want to channel that energy into my funny little AU (which actually takes place post film) 😂 It’s during Spring that he officially runs into he, she’s just doing her Cthonic goddess thing and Hades is up top causing problems as per usual, when he sees her manifesting apricots on a tree, aaand obviously an unattended goddess is fair game! Sidenote but I like to think Eros is the one that gives him the low-down on who she is, kind of encourages him to make a move, mostly because it’s a welcome distraction and keeps him out of his hair.

2. They were extremely weary of her at first, the assumption was that anybody Hades brought home wasn’t going to be nice to them. Once they realize that’s not the case she pretty much becomes their favorite person.

3. Thank you!! I have gotten this question a lot! I like to think of Hades being somewhere in his early to mid-forties, and it just felt right to put Persephone somewhere in her thirties (leaning toward 33-34). I imagine her being quite stressed and possibly overworked most of the time, which has imbued in her a kind of maturity that makes her age difficult to peg on face value. Since I’m working with Disney logic rather than historical accuracy, I figured that was an appropriate age! I wanted her to be young enough that she found Hades’ idiosyncrasies endearing rather than immature, but still old enough that she wouldn’t be intimidated or put off by his outbursts. I don’t envision her being older than either of them, no, actually the opposite! But her job is much more “hands on” which I think makes her appear a little more weathered, if that makes sense?

4. Oh this is a fun one!! *rubs hands together evily* So naturally there’s issues because they are so different from one another! On one hand, I imagine Hades’ impulsive and impatient nature (along with the way he tends to take his frustration out on his poor minions) is a point of contention between the two of them. My Persephone’s personality is very dry, deliberate, even tempered and easy-going. She’s not easily irked, but I imagine when she is pushed into a corner her temper can be pretty ferocious. My mom always likes to say that spring “comes in like a Lion and goes out like a lamb” 😂 which is a very fitting description of this Persy! She doesn’t necessarily agree with Hades’ initial style of management, which obviously softens up over time as their relationship progresses. When it comes to goals! Persephone loves her solitude and independence, she’s a free spirit and the idea of being tied down bothers her. She doesn’t prefer the company of the Olympians and she finds their social politics/drama incredibly draining so I think the one major issue she would go into that relationship having is this fear of losing her autonomy and being trapped in an exhausting relationship. She waffles a little in the beginning, not quite committing to her feelings for him because she likes not having to be beholden to anyone. Hades’ goals I imagine change once he prioritizes her company. I think he’d be willing to give up his desire to overthrow Olympus to keep her around, so I definitely don’t think there’s much holding him back from being with her. After his massive blunder in the film, he has nothing to lose and everything to gain. Although I see them changing perspectives on eachother’s stations and therefore developing a deep respect for one another, I do think Persephone’s holistic lifestyle would get on Hades’ nerves in the beginning, and vice versa. They manage to find a balance that works for both of them. I also think Persephone would initially find him a little dishonest and pushy which would drive her crazy, as well as the way he picks on Pain and Panic. He doesn’t have an off-button either which she’d have to get used to. In the end though, they’re both the black sheep of the Pantheon and they find comfort, solace and understanding in one another. ❤️

5. Hades’ fuse is so short it’s practically nonexistent, so I imagine Persephone has seen him get angry a lot, but in my head I like to believe the angriest she’s every seen him was when he was coming to her defense against her mom (which is a sort of long story I’ll save for another time!). I think it’s the first time she feels it’s genuine, not simply an overreaction or irritation, but like actualrage. For Persephone, since her buttons are so hard to push, he’s probably only seen her truly angry a couple of times. I envision her being seriously unreasonable when she gets to that point though, and it takes her a while to cool off. I don’t have a specific event in mind for this (yet!) but I think one of the times she’s been absolutely livid is when he first draws up the agreement with Demeter to keep her for half the year in the Underworld. She hates the idea of feeling like someone has more control over her life than she does!

I hope that answers your questions!

#asks #anonymous #hades #Persephone #Disney’s Hercules #lore #fan oc

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ann-writes-universes · 1 year

Text

Foxglove (Cassian x Reader) preface

A/N: This idea came from a short story I wrote with my own OC's ten million years ago. This is also the start of a Cassian series <3

ALSO this is set Pre-Feyre/ACOTAR/Nesta

Warnings: Smut (IF you can call it that), Angst

W/C: 1.4k

Footsteps thundered through the silent wood. Twigs snapped and branches bent out of the way as the figures danced furiously though the forest. Delicate steps and leaps were crushed by thunderous lopes and bounds. Just as the lion began to catch up with the lamb, she released a fit of giggles and collapsed in the clearing they had reached.

The owner of the louder step slowed before her and peered at her splayed form upon the ground. He was in awe of her beauty, so simple and yet so devastatingly gorgeous at the same time. Silken hair fell in soft waves around her head forming the perfect halo, and though they were closed now he could see her hues behind her fluttering lids.

When she finally opened them, she could see his own beauty before her. It was much different from her own. She had been pretty in the way of a sunset and he in the way of woodcarvings labored over for hours by a skilled hand. Her eyes roamed over the muscled planes of his bare chest and down, down, down the dark locks that fell before his face and gently covered the pointed slopes of his ears. His hands hung beside him, their expanse covered in slim, silver etchings that spoke of memories she had not been a part of. She shuddered at the thought and reached for him. With a soft smile he collapsed by her side, his honey gaze traveling up to the small opening in the forest's canopy above.

Cracking through the greenery, the setting sun shined gently on their faces, warming their bones from the new spring that chilled them moments before. She too had begun to stare so intently at the darkening sky that she hadn’t noticed as his gaze shifted from the blue expanse to her profile and then to her lips, to her chest, and down to the swell of her breasts.

The thin chiffon gown she wore did nothing to hide her figure from him or anyone else who dared gaze at her as he was now. He swallowed as he realized the hardness of her nipples, the pertness of the swell. She was looking at him now, a sly smirk on her face as she reached for him and urged him atop her.

Her gown and his dark trousers were all that separated them at the waist. She hooked a leg over his hips and urged him forward towards her. She traced the shell of his ear with her lips before whispering low and sweet,

“Make love to me Cassian, this last time, please.” Her voice was pleading almost as she cupped his cheek with her hand and forced his eyes to meet her own. A tear had escaped the endless sea of her eyes and he leaned down to kiss the salty drop from her face before it reached the ground below.

He merely smiled at her and captured her lips with his own, crushing himself against her with so much force that if it had not been now, she may have screamed and cursed at him for his forwardness. Now she only melted into him and relaxed completely against his war-stained fingers as they traveled down the length of her torso and to the hiked-up hem of her dress.

She murmured quiet nothings in his ear as his fingers found purchase in the fabric and slid it up, up, up her body and over her head leaving her gentle skin bare to his wandering eyes. She was perfect, absolutely perfect, and he wanted nothing more than to paint this picture permanently on the backs of his eyelids.

Lithe fingers found the hem of his trousers and pulled hungrily at them. He shuddered when the ivory digits slipped beneath the mahogany band and rested gently on his lower stomach, tracing small circles in the skin there. Her hair was fanned in a perfect halo atop the emerald grass. It was a devastating beauty he had he realized, the kind a man would go to war for and lay his life down for. He murmured this much in her ear as he slid into her slowly and gently.

As the sun began to set their moans peaked in a guttural crescendo, a symphony for only the trees to hear. Her hands roamed his body, soaking in the feel of the toned muscles and scarred skin. He had been clean of them once, many centuries ago when they were mere children, now his bodice was a map of silver ridges and ebony tattoos that only she had been privileged enough to see.

As she thumbed over a large scar on his abdomen, she realized something silently on her own, he had laid his life down for her. Years upon years ago he had willingly taken a blade meant for her throat and fallen to the earth with it piercing straight through him. She remembered the sigh of death and the reflection of her scream in blood-stained steel as his knees buckled and crashed to the sod below.

She held him closer then, shuddering in his warmth and soaking in the scent of him. He had always smelled so much like the sea, the salt and freshness of him calming her flighting nerves and racing mind.

He reveled in the feel of her holding him after they had finished romping in the dirt. Soaked in the smell of her primrose hair and lilac skin. She had fallen asleep, that sweat soaked hair fanned behind her on the grass. Her dress had been shifted back to modesty and he stood carefully as not to wake her.

As he lifted her from the ground the train of her gown fell to the floor, dragging behind the pair as he made his way back to the torch-lit cabin beyond the tree line. Her arms hung limply now at her sides and tears slipped from his eyes as he felt her skin grow cold and her silken hair begin to fall as they walked.

Her debt had been reclaimed, a life for a life whenever the devils below so chose to claim her.

Such a devastating beauty and such a devastating love they had shared. So much so that she had sworn to whatever was listening that she would give herself to bring him back all those years ago, if she could only have more time with him.

As he held her wilting bodice close to his chest, he wished she had not loved him so much, so fully that she had given her everything so he could have a century more.

⥈

The minute he reached the cabin door, and the others came rushing in he understood the solemn truth that he did not want a single century more if she would not be the one to greet him on the steps he kneeled on now, her fading figure clutched so tightly in his arms that their friends could not pry her away.

“Cassian?”

It was his brother then, a single sound in the myriad of voices that bombarded him. At the sound of the Lordling’s voice the others hushed and pulled their prying hands (and eyes) away from the kneeling Adonis.

The ebony haired man rushed forward to his sibling and he too fell to his knees at the sight of the woman crushed to his brother’s chest. Tentatively he reached for her only to be met by a growl more animal than man. The others retreated then, leaving the two men to kneel in silence on the front steps of the manor.

“I- It hasn’t been long enough brother, this can’t be…” His voice was desperate, pleading for answers as his amber eyes left her face for a moment to peer into the purple gaze of Rhysand’s own. His friend could only meet him with a sympathetic gaze as he once more reached a hand to stroke her hair instead of stealing her away.

He allowed this, knowing that Rhysand had loved her deeply once too. Rhysand’s hand stroked the thinning hair gently as he scanned her body. Cassian’s hands had not left her sides until now when he gently laid her on the wood below.

The man let out a choked sob as he saw the sallow skin and the hollowed cheeks. Her eyes were closed but the sinking beneath could not be hidden by the lids or doe’s lashes. Rhysand’s breath caught in his throat and the man stole a glance at his brother who was now a mask of non-feeling. He resembled the sea after a hurricane, gray and somber.

Much to the young Lord’s surprise the general stood, his gaze traveling from his dead lover to the dark woods before the cabin.

“I’ll have his head on a fucking stake.” Cassian snarled, and before his brother could speak the General had disappeared in a flurry of wing and shadow into the night.

TAGS:

@brekkershadowsinger @piceous21 @younxii @momlo @morelovemorepeacemoretattoo-blog @highladyofillyria @crimsonandwhiteprincess @purplevitagen @isthataknuck

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neopuff · 10 months

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Little timeline I've been using in my GenRex fics. I know there's only supposed to be one year between Six finding Rex and Promises, Promises, but I don't like that it's such a short amount of time so I made it two years lol It's fine, I can ignore canon sometimes (slams my head thru drywall) I'm good at that it's fine

Rex is presumably 14 when Six finds him. They celebrate his 16th (or ?) birthday in Nov 2010, but when Caesar arrives they would learn Rex's real birthday (I picked April 'cause I wanted something earlier in the year) and so Rex would be 17 in S3

I also really want Rex to have had a blackout at some point while at Providence. I would've liked it to be earlier but the timeline really doesn't work out lol I mean it doesn't really work in timeline anyway but I don't caaaaaaare. Six says "You only remember the last 18 months" in Wasteland, which I assume is letting the audience know that 6 months have passed between Promises, Promises and Wasteland but I'm just shortening up that timeline. They can rebuild Providence HQ faster than that it's alright

Some notes:

One would've been an EVO for more than 5 years in Divide By Six but I figure it's okay to round down. 5 years sounds more dramatic than 5 and a half years

(Plus Caesar says he missed five years in Mixed Signals even though the Nanite Event was five years prior to The Day That Everything Changed, which means characters are doing a lot of rounding)

A Family Holiday would be Beverly's 18th birthday

This isn't referenced in the above image but I put Holiday at 33 and Six at 35 (start of series). Noah calling her 28 doesn't make her actually 28, he is a 16 year old boy he doesn't know how old women are

Holiday and Six got in less than a month of dating before Six Minus Six lol

And Six got about 2-3 weeks to get to know Rex before Lions and Lambs

Uhhh hmm. Anything else? Sorry I typed this all once and lost it all so I'm trying to remember what else I had.

OH YES a pre-Providence Rex timeline with a focus on his amnesia blackouts. Here we go:

Late 2004/Early 2005: Rex has an accident in Abysus. His family infuses him with nanites to help save his life. Rex has his first mini-blackout (not full amnesia, but he starts to have trouble remembering bits and pieces) due to the accident or the nanites it's hard to say. While his body adjusts to the nanites, he has a bunch of mini-blackouts and starts forgetting important things. He starts keeping a digital notebook around Feb/March 2005

April 2005: Nanite Event - Rex blacks out due to the shockwave/trauma/both. He turns into the Giant Robot EVO Thing and flies out of Europe. Heads in a random direction and ends up tired and without memory in Hong Kong. He still has his digital notebook and it's kind of the only thing that keeps him sane

Mid 2005 - Mid 2008: Rex in Hong Kong. He starts working for Quarry because he needs to make money/get food somehow. He also meets the Hong Kong Gang one-by-one and they become good friends, though Rex is secretive and anxious and paranoid. Incident with Scarecrow doesn't help.

Mid 2008: Rex knows he has family in Mexico thanks to an early entry in his digital notebook and decides he wants to find them. Quarry agrees to help Rex get to Mexico if he makes a deal with him. Rex hasn't blacked out in so long and is feeling confident about finding his family (Quarry told him he had a contact in Mexico City who would help Rex out) so he doesn't think he needs the notebook anymore. Quarry keeps it as collateral.

Nov 2008: Rex gets to Mexico but he is lost and scared and Quarry lied about having anyone there to help him out. Rex has another blackout (combination of stress and guilt) and turns into the Giant Robot EVO Thing again. Six finds him and brings him to Providence.

Aug 2009: Rex has another blackout while training with Six (something similar to what happened in Frostbite). Holiday and Six don't realize this is a Thing with him so they just start over from the beginning. Training is easier and faster now that they know how Rex's powers work and they're prepared for everything. Six gets Rex some goggles, Holiday gets Rex some gloves.

#generator rex #timeline #keeping this all here for my reference #i might update it who knows who knows #genrex timeline #rex salazar

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semperama · 8 months

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I was tagged by @jouissants to answer these book questions. Thanks, friend!

An estimate of how many physical books I own: Too many and somehow still not enough! My guess is somewhere in the ballpark of 150? 200 maybe? Probably no more than 200.

Favorite author: WHO can pick a favorite. My usual answer to this is Wally Lamb, but it's been so long since I've read one of his books, I'd have to think about whether that's changed.

A popular book I've never read and never intend to read: Pretty much any blockbuster YA novel, but to pick something theoretically more in my wheelhouse: One Hundred Years of Solitude. After white-knuckling my way through Love in the Time of Cholera, I just can't do it again.

A popular book I thought was just meh: The Night Circus. That book was all concept and no execution, to me.

Longest book I own: Probably either The Stand or It, not sure which is longer. Stephen King loves to put out a crazy-long book.

Longest series I own all the books to: Stephen King's Gunslinger series, which I actually still haven't read, oops.

Prettiest book I own: My mom just bought me an edition of Anne of Green Gables that has a really pretty illustrated cover.

A book or series I wish more people knew about: Ummm I don't know, I'm so bad at ~discovering niche books on my own. Most of the time I'm reading books that are either classics or well-reviewed or talked about a lot. I guess one book I really enjoyed that I haven't heard many people talk about is The Inn at Lake Devine by Elinor Lipman. I think I saw it on a list somewhere as a recommendation for people who like the movie Dirty Dancing, and it ended up being so unexpected and really, really great.

Book I'm reading now: Just finishing listening to Lie With Me by Philippe Besson on audiobook, and I checked Weyward by Emilia Hart out from the library, but I haven't started reading it yet.

Book that's been on my TBR list for a while but I still haven't got around to it: So many, because I'm very slow at reading lately. I've started reading East of Eden approximately 20 times and never managed to finish it, so let's go with that.

Do you have any books in a language other than English: I have many, because my husband and father-in-law buy me books in other languages whenever they travel somewhere out of the country. I have the first book in The Witcher series in Polish, the first three Harry Potter books and Alice in Wonderland in Hebrew; Pride & Prejudice and Jane Eyre in French; and The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe in Japanese.

Paperback, hardcover, or ebook?: When I buy a physical book, I prefer hardcover, because it bothers me how beat-up paperbacks get so quickly. These days I almost exclusively read ebooks though. It's just so much easier to have them in my phone, and I'm out of space on my bookcases anyway, ahaha.

tagging: @psicygni, @apeacebone, @boxboxlewis, @blamemma, @veryspecificfantasies

#about me #books

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honeysmokedham · 7 months

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TIMING: While Wynne was in the hospital PARTIES: Nora @honeysmokedham & Wynne @ohwynne LOCATION: The Hospital SUMMARY: A freshly de-crystaled Nora goes to visit Wynne in the hospital after their run-in with a vampire cult. They are friends now. CONTENT WARNINGS: suicidal ideation tw

Nora’s body felt weird and light and wrong. Each movement she made felt awkward, she was already so used to accommodating the crystals pushing out of her skin. Now she was a blank canvas, stripped from everything she had felt made her her. Sure, it was nice to no longer be obsessed with the mines. Those thoughts had muddled her mind. They’d consumed her and eaten her from within until she was a shell of who she really was, and just a mouthpiece for the mines. Having her thoughts and her control back, that was nice. But there was still the part of her that longed for that version of her. A body that was beautiful. A creature she wanted to be.

Whatever. Nora marched through the hospital, ignoring calls from a nurse asking her to sign in. She lost a security guard that had started following her with a series of ducking in and out of places she shouldn’t be. Finally she ended up in Wynne's room. Nora didn’t knock before she entered. She walked in, slumping down in the only seat that wasn’t easily seen from the door’s window. “Sup.” Nora asked Wynne, feet lifting to share the bed with her. “Hospitals suck.” Then, as if she’d forgotten - because she had - Nora reached into her pocket and pulled out some carefully wrapped cookies. “Stole these for you.” She tossed them to Wynne, hoping they’d catch.

—

All of this was dizzying. The people that kept coming. The texts. The concern. The fact that none of them chastised them for being upset, for feeling afraid, for being in pain. The care. Wynne felt so wholly undeserving of it, this feeling of victimhood and their near-willingness to succumb to it and yet, here they were. A martyr with wounds on formerly bound wrists, pale and dehydrated, with puncture marks on their neck. When Nora appeared, they wanted to sink into the bed and its pillows, not even wanting to know what she saw when she looked at them.

But Nora just acted like herself. Put her boots on the bed, which made Wynne a little nervous. Wouldn’t the nurses get mad, if there was dirt on the sheets? “Hi.” Their voice was still not what it used to be, not just the dehydration and former screams impacting it but all the suppressed tears somehow straining it too. “I think I agree with you. It’s my first time but it’s not very fun.” They wanted home. They tried not to think of it, lest they start crying again. They moved to catch the cookies, but failed. Wynne grabbed them from where they’d plopped onto the sheets. “Thank you. And for coming.” Were they friends, then? Maybe. It seemed so. “You know what else sucks?” This was an attempt at a joke.

—

Wynne’s voice was different, raspier, harsher without intent. The voice of someone who went through something. Yeah. Going through things sure put people in the hospital. “What I hate most about hospitals is they want to know who you are. Can’t stand that. What do they need my name for?” It was the truth, but Nora was attempting a more comical ice breaker then she’d normally use. It wouldn’t be fair to try and scare Wynne for an ice breaker when Wynne was plugged into machines and unable to punch her. “I could get you a ballon though. If you think that’s fun.” A peace offering. A way of saying, I’m here to make sure you’re okay, not because the lamb is weak so the lion will slaughter.

“The vampire?” Nora tapped a spot on her neck, the place where a bandage wrapped carefully around Wynne’s neck. “Good one. Don’t tell that to Mimi, I think he’ll start crying.” Their mutual connection, the bond that held their steady alliance, was always a mess, but this was effecting him more in a silent brooding way he wouldn’t talking about. Noticeable because of time spent together. “You got a lot of friends.” Nora was looking around at the flowers that adorned the room, cards clipped to their vases. “I get it. You’re brave. I knew that from the moment you punched me.” Nora’s lips tugged into a micro smile, the only break in her normally emotionless features. “I think that’s cool. No one was brave enough to punch me before.” Nora stretched her arms, fingers tapping against the arms of her chair. “More people should be like you.” That was probably enough being nice. Right? Not that Nora thought being nice was a chore or anything. She just didn’t know hospital etiquette.

—

“I don’t like … the lights. And the smell. The food. And the fact that I can’t just lie in a bed in another room. I don’t mind them knowing my name that much.” But their name carried no weight in this world, and it wasn’t like Protherians monitored hospitals. At least, Wynne assumed they didn’t. They smiled a little. “A balloon would be fun.” What a strange thing, that Nora offered to get them a balloon (presumably through theft) rather than offer them something else. But Wynne thought they could get used to it, this different routine.

They nodded. “The vampire. He sucked a lot.” Wynne didn’t want to think about Zane. Zane who almost cried before his eyes had turned red and his teeth sharp. Zane who had ripped open their neck with those teeth. Who had apologized afterwards. He had sucked, in the literal sense. But whether they disliked him for what had happened, they didn’t know. Wynne had never been very good at hating those who harmed them. “He would. I don’t know why he feels so guilty. He saved us, he and Metzli both.” It was so hard to understand him. He’d done what he’d said he’d do: he had protected them. He’d done what their parents had not been able to, had caught them when they’d fallen and showed up at the hospital as they slept. “Oh. I mean,” they murmured, shrugging. Did they have a lot of friends? It was quite overwhelming how many people had reached out and come over. “I don't know. I'm a bit of a coward most of the time. When I punched you I wanted to not be one for once.”

—

Wynne started a list about what the hospital contained that they didn't like and once they got started it spiraled into something longer. All of which seemed so inconsequential, but stacked on top of each other really made for a discomforting time. "Yeah, you should be able to lay in whatever bed you want." Nora agreed. "If you want I can help you. We can go to a different room right now. Then when they ask us why you're in the wrong room, we can tell them you were always in that room. It's called gaslighting. It's a manipulation tactic that is sometimes used for pranks. This would be a prank." Nora picked at the cuffs of her jacket sleeve as she talked, her hands never did good idle. Sitting still and talking, that was a lot. The urge to pull out her phone and scroll through mindless media as they talked was strong, but Nora persisted.

"Metzli?" A blink as Nora tried to parse the information presented to her. Emilio knew Metzli. Metzli the vampire. But Emilio and Metzli had saved everyone, from vampires. Nora's feet landed on the floor with a loud thud, as her body moved forward. Closer to Wynne as if she was leaning in to tell a secret. But really she was invested. There was a larger part of the story here. Something she wanted to understand that was just out of reach. "Metzli wasn't the vampire that bit you, right? Because Metzli ran away. They said that it wasn't safe for them to be around, that they were going to hurt everyone one day. Then they left." It had been a sore subject. Cass had cried for days, and Nora had one her best to comfort her friend but it never seemed like enough.

"Isn't that what they say bravery is?" Nora added, lightly, waving off the comment that Wynne was a bit of a coward. "Standing up in the face of fear?" Nora could never be brave, because Nora could never be scared. But Nora could respect Wynne for their bravery.

—

Their face turned a little, as if they were confused by this suggestion. Break the rules? Made by people more knowledgeable and authoritative than them? Lie to them after doing so? Wynne opened their mouth and closed it again, trying to figure out an answer. “I mean, I don’t even know how to … what to do with this thing, if we were gonna do that,” they said, lifting their hand which was still connected to the IV drip. “But if we were, I’d like to go where my roommates are, of course. It is so quiet here. I don’t know why they think that is good for me!” The private room was to stop others from asking upsetting questions or looking at them funny, they had said — but Arden and Zack wouldn’t do either of those things.

They shook their head furiously, “No, no, it wasn’t Metzli. Metzli saved us. Metzli —” They became very silent, their throat seeming to dry out in a way that wouldn't allow words to exit. There didn’t seem to be a tactful way to mention that Metzli had ripped off vampire’s heads with brute strength. Wynne frowned at the revelation of what the other had done. “What? But they —” They sat up. “Them and Emilio, they make no sense. They saved us, all of us, and they feel like monsters? The monsters were those vampires, that woman – the people that took us!” Their voice was breaking, frustration seeping in. All Wynne had wanted was someone to save them back at home, and now the people who had done so seemed riddled with guilt and now they felt riddled with guilt. Maybe no one should save you. “They didn’t hurt me. Or Zack, or Arden. They saved us.”

They shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s the first time I did it. Maybe the only time. I tend to just run away.” Wynne frowned, wondering if that would bring up questions they didn’t really feel like answering. “I’m afraid all the time. And I didn’t stand up to anyone there, in that cellar. I just let them —” This was too honest, wasn’t it? They hardly knew Nora. But Nora had called them brave, and something unlocked. “I would have just let them kill me.”

—

Nora eyed the IV. “We can move it with us. Or we can rip it out.” Nora eyed the needles. “That would probably hurt.” Wynne went on to talk about their roommates, and there was a tenderness in their voice, a kindness and a love that Nora could recognize now that she had the same emotion for people in her life. A warmth filled her. It was dumb. It was dumb to care that other people cared about things, and felt happiness. When had she turned into a person that cared about that? Had it been when people started caring about her? Not caring for the person she was supposed to be, but the person she wanted to be? “We can do that. We’ll take you to your roommates.”

Another person for Metzli to disappoint. Emotion spread across Wynne as they sat up straight. “It wasn’t Metzli.” Nora repeated an agreement. Because Nora trusted Metzli, and trusted they wouldn’t hurt people they cared about, and trusted that this self isolation they had put themselves in was the most stupid reaction they could make to their problem. “Metzli saved my life before too.” So had Emilio, in a different way. In the way that someone saves another from themselves. “I-” Nora opened her mouth, closed her mouth and chewed on the words. She had to be sure these were the correct words to say, they had to matter. Because words mattered, even if they were hard and laborious things. “I think they are scared that whatever they did might one day be something they do to you, me, people they care for. Zack and Arden?” Nora assumed those were their roommates.

The word monster had been thrown around, carelessly and with vitriol. The monsters had been the vampires. The monsters had hurt them. When Wynne looked at Nora, sitting on the seat next to the hospital bed, did they see them for the monster they truly were? Did Metzli stop being a monster because they did something good? Did being a monster make someone inherently bad? “Metzli can be a monster, and Metzli can be good, and Metzli can think that being a monster will make them bad.” The words were slow and hesitant and they stumbled their way out of her mouth, but the word monster was vast and complicated. The word monster meant something and it needed more than those who had hurt Wynne and their roommates. “They don’t want to be a bad monster, so they are scared.” Because fear was the only emotion that Nora knew with the certainty that she knew she was a monster. It was the only emotion she knew how to invoke in conversation to explain away a problem. It was the only explanation she had for Metzli’s reaction. “But it isn’t right.”

Then Wynne was admitting it was their first time having a brave reaction. The signature micro-smile, the one that tugged at the corner of her lips and expressed happiness, pricked at her cheeks. The expression she had learned and embraced so recently. “It’s a good start. I’m a good start.” Because Nora was fear, and if Wynne could face fear, Wynne could face anything. Honestly? She was honored. “It's okay to be afraid. Everyone is afraid. I can smell it.” Every day Nora passed people pretending not to be afraid of something, and every day she could delight in their fear, even as nothing was happening. But when Wynne admitted they would have let them kill them, Nora tilted her head to the side. “Why?” It was an honest question, it held no judgment. Nora just wanted to understand. “If you would have let them kill you, what were you afraid of?”

—

They nodded. It would probably hurt. Besides, Wynne was terrified of upsetting the staff that was taking such good care of them, who carried themselves with knowledge and authority. They knew by now that the measures they’d taken to ensure obedience at home were not taken in these corners of the outside world, but they still worried about them. “Let’s just … keep it where it is. Maybe. If you want to do some crime, you can steal me jello?” Maybe that was how Nora showed affection. Was that was this was? Friendship? They thought it might be, and they were glad for it, glad for the attitude Nora brought. Something steady, something powerful.

Their jaw set as they tried to think to Metzli on that night, their entire body growing featherlight as the vampire had tore off heads and whatnot. Would Metzli do what Zane had done? What the vampires had done when they’d been captured? How did Metzli feed themself? “But they wouldn’t. If that’s not something they want to do to their loved ones, they wouldn’t.” They doubted themself as they said, remembering how different Metzli had looked. Admittedly, Wynne didn’t know them that well, so their impression of the vampire was rather shallow and limited. Maybe there was good reason for Metzli to be afraid of themself. Wynne knew part of them was very afraid of them. “My roommates. The ones I was with.”

They fiddled with the sheets as Nora spoke, trying to sense what it was she was getting at. Wynne hadn’t thought when they had taken the word monster into their mouth, but it seemed that the other had thought plenty on the term. It made sense, considering she could conjure monstrous things and also was a bear. “I never thought about it like that. That a monster isn’t inherently bad you mean, right? That it’s … just that. No judgment.” They looked at her, lips twisted and pushed to the side in insecure thought. If that was what Nora meant, it did align with what they thought, didn’t it? Wynne thought everyone was capable of good and bad, both human and not. What they were wasn’t the deciding factor. “In there they were a good monster.”

They tried to calm, to stop overthinking everything and to stop feeling guilty. Wynne leaned back against the pillows, their breathing hurting their neck. They looked at Nora with interest. “What does it smell like?” And then came the question — honest and perhaps even fair, but so hard-hitting all the same. Their gaze redirected, shoulders lifting. “I don’t know. I felt maybe it was a long time coming.” Lips disappeared in the flesh of their lip, eyes tilting up and they wondered how to explain what that meant. How much of the veil did they want to lift. They eventually looked back at Nora they let out a breath of air. “I was supposed to die last November. I didn’t. And then when that vampire was drinking my blood I thought maybe it was enough, you know? The time I bought myself.” They inhaled sharply. “I mean. I know now it wasn’t. I don’t want to die. But … yeah.”

—

“Jello?” Nora was almost taken aback. Because she was basically a crime lord, right? She spent a lot of time stealing and breaking into places, but the only crime Wynne wanted her to commit was stealing Jello? “Okay, what color?” She wasn’t sure if Jello had flavors, or if people pretended to because of their colors. Nora settled back into her chair, boots back up on the bed, eyes fixed on Wynne with full respectful attention. No action right now. Relax. A hand wandered into her pocket, absently petting the snake she found in there.

It felt like Nora was having a repeat of this conversation with everyone lately. Words to describe Metzli’s actions, but how could she explain it when she didn’t understand it? “Metzli saved my life.” Nora commented. “I used to think that no one else was like me. Like, it was humans versus me, you know? But then I moved here, and people started telling me things and I thought they were lying. People lie a lot.” Nora was a child of the internet, morphed and raised by its treacherous forums. It was where the knowledge that everyone was a liar cemented itself so deeply in her brain, just as she became a liar as well. “But a hunter found me, and they ripped off his head. It was me or them.” The blood was warm. It spilled everywhere. The head rolled away. The knife’s hilt was pressed into her hand and Debbie’s dead eyes were staring at her as blood dripped down. It always linked back. It was all connected. Death had caught her scent and it followed her. Maybe she could understand Metzli’s point of view.

“I think they don’t want to be that person. I don’t know. They don’t want to be a murderer. You know? They want to…” Nora shrugged, dropping her feet down. “I don’t know Wynne. I told them it was dumb. Many people did.” Nora sighed. “If they were bad Emilio would have killed them already, so they should accept they were good.” Because Emilio was always right about those things, no matter how hard Nora pretended he wasn’t.

Nora cracked her neck, thinking carefully how to answer. “Your fear smells like you. Everyone’s fear smells like them, but there is something extra in there, I guess that is the fear. It’s different for everyone. Yours?” Nora took a deep breath, imagining the moment when she last got a taste of Wynne’s fear. “Yours smells like sulfur. But it doesn’t… it doesn’t really taste? You know? Like, it's delicious, but it's not like eating candy or ham. It just...” These words were struggling to come out, how did people describe things? “It just is.” Nora let that drop there. She wasn’t sure there was more she could say about it.

It was a good place to drop, because Wynne confided that they should have died last November. Nora leaned forward, drawn in by that information. "Why?" The first question. Set the story, give the scene. Let her understand. “You didn’t fight to live, because you’re already supposed to be dead.” Nora rephrased the sentence, repeating to make sure she understood. “But you’re not dead.” Nora tilted her head. “I don’t think I understand. Can you explain?”

—

Maybe it was stupid, to request something as seemingly meaningless as jello. But their stomach felt like an empty pit that shouldn’t be filled these days, and the one thing they liked about their meals was the sugary-shivering stuff. “Yes. I like the green one best.” They gave a little smile to Nora, as if that would fully underline and justify their request. Wynne wasn’t sure if the other would actually do it, but it mattered little. She said okay, and acted like herself with those boots on their sheets and they thought that this was just how friendship could be.

They quietly listened to Nora speaking, reiterating the now well-known fact that people lied. Wynne thought of the people at home, of Padrig, Alys and Siors, of their parents — how many of them had lied to them? How much of it had been nonsense, and how much of it was real? It was a lonely realization, to find out that people lied as easily as breathing. It was lonely too, they imagined, to feel like you were the only one out there like you. “I know they do. I’m –” They swallowed. “Sorry. That must have been lonely. I’m glad Metzli saved you. And that you have maybe found more proof that you are not alone in what you are? Have you met someone else like you?” Wynne had. Sitting across Teddy, sharing their pasts … it had made such a difference. It was sad, that there was someone out there like them, but it was also a comfort.

Lips pursed into a scrunched up crinkle as Wynne tried to grasp the situation. “I guess shame can make us do things that don’t make a lot of sense sometimes. It’s not always … rational. Guilt.” They felt guilty for leaving the commune every day, even if plenty of people had by now pointed out that they had been right to, or brave to. “That’s true. Emilio — he didn’t do anything to them. Maybe I will talk to them.”

They resisted commenting on the fact that dogs also smelled fear. It seemed maybe a little bit rude to compare Nora to an animal, even if Wynne had seen her turn into an actual bear. “That makes sense. That it is different for everyone.” Sulfur, Nora said, which they supposed made sense. It was the scent that had rolled over the commune during certain rituals, when the demon had made some kind of appearance. “Oh. Okay. But it like … feeds you still? You need it like we need, I don’t know, broccoli and stuff?”

It wasn’t strange that Nora didn’t understand, given the way Wynne had skirted around the topic of their impending death. They hadn’t found a right way to mention it, and wondered if there maybe even was one. “Um,” they said, wanting to backtrack but also not being sure how to go about that. “I –” They let their gaze flick up, the way Nora looked at them intense and demanding, even if she didn’t mean for it. The words eventually came, but somewhat like an avalanche: “I was meant to die in a sacrifice ritual for a demon, because that’s what my people do every – every so often, and I was the one destined for it.” Destined, what an ugly word, but it’s what they had always called it. That, or purpose. Like it was good. It was supposed to have been good — but what good was dying? “I ran away, because I didn’t want to die, but I was supposed to, I knew … for most of my life I knew I was gonna die that day, but I didn’t, and so when that vampire bit me —” Zane, they thought, the name swallowed on purpose. “I thought, maybe, that was just fate catching up with me.”

—

Green jello. Nora would get that as soon as they were done talking here. If it was what Wynne wanted, it was what Wynne would get. Besides, how often had she eaten Wynne’s food. Without even realizing it. It was the least she could do. Her jacket had a lot of pockets. She’d be able to steal a lot before anyone noticed.

“No, I haven’t.” Nora bit her lip, her tongue rotating the ring in her lip over and over again a few times before she spoke. “This wasn’t. – I mean, you don’t need to comfort me or ask about me or whatever,” Nora was not doing a good job. “I just mean to say, todays about you and Metzli or whatever. I just wanted to tell you that like I get it?” Between each pause of the word came another flick of the ring in her mouth. The piercing had been a declaration of her independence but recently it turned into a fidget toy. “So, you don’t feel alone, or whatever. And like because it doesn’t make sense that Metzli would take it so badly after saving you, when they’ve done things like that before. You know?”

“Good luck. If you talk to them. Maybe they’ll listen to you because you were there.” Nora sighed a bit. It was all very confusing and complicated. Saving people had been a good thing, but feeling guilty over hurting someone who had hurt you? Nora could understand that. She understood it every night Debbie’s face swam in her mind’s eye. It was fucked. All of it.

“Yeah, it’s like having an empty stomach, but it’s not my real stomach. It’s like my fear stomach. Then I smell fear and its full. But I don’t physically consume anything? At least, not that I see. I just.” Nora made a whiffing motion, but she realized she was making it about herself again, and she was supposed to be here for Wynne. “But I don’t think anyone needs broccoli. Food, sure. Just not broccoli.” Ham for sure.

Nora listened with patience as Wynne searched for the words they needed to tell this story. This personal story that they were trusting her with. Because they were friends now. Surely, this was friendship. Nora waited until the end and until she was sure Wynne didn’t have more to say. “That’s dumb.” Which wasn’t helpful or comforting. But it was true. It was dumb that their family had raised them to be a sacrifice. “Destiny is fucked. No one has the right to tell you what to do or who to be. It’s fucked that they expected that of you. If they want a sacrifice, then they should have sacrificed themselves.” Nora crossed her arms as she considered it deeper. “You ran away so you could choose a life you wanted, right?” Because Nora had done the same thing. Because Nora could understand that. “You lived and you get your better life. You get to fight to not die at the hands of a vampire.” Nora mined a staking motion. “Fate only works if you follow expectations. We ran away, we get to change fate. You get to fight for a death you can be happy with.” Nora yawned. “Or something like that. I’m not going to die, so I can’t help with that.”

—

Nora seemed to reject their pity and Wynne wasn’t sure how to feel about it. They flocked to concern, it seemed, taking any of it they could get and holding it close to their chest. They didn’t want people to feel sorry for them, but they wanted someone to be sorry, some kind of apology. They had cried when Emilio had apologized after they’d told their story. They were glad when the nurses fussed over them. As if they were something worth not only caring for, but keeping alive as well.

But Nora rejected it. “It’s alright. I mean, you can talk about it if you want. It’s good to talk about things. But you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” They smiled a little, though it was half-hearted. They felt infinitely tired. “I do feel less alone. I’m glad you’re here. And telling me these stories.” It was hard to think about, this idea that just because Metzli had done this before – this meaning beheading people who posed a risk – they shouldn’t react this way. Murder was bad, wasn’t it? But what if you killed murderers? Wynne felt another wave of fatigue, a want to just close their eyes and not interact with this wretched world any more.

It seemed like it was so much pain. Maybe it was better to sometimes lay a person on an altar and watch them die than this, all this unexpected death and suffering. “Maybe. I don’t know. Depends on when I can get out of here too. And how I feel.” Because part of Wynne was afraid of seeing the vampire again, their mind still a trap of memories of that barn, of those red-glowing eyes, of the feeling of teeth in their throat.

They frowned a little at Nora, curious and a little concerned. “Do you smell me now?” Because Wynne was pretty sure they were afraid all the time. Nora must have had a couple of feasts from just being around them, they figured. “I like broccoli. It’s very versatile and tasty. But to each their own.”

That’s dumb. They blinked at the other, at this expression of disrespect that would have never stood at home. Wynne found themself speechless for a moment, letting the other speak and talk with proper insight, but the sentiment of it being dumb just kept echoing. She didn’t say she was sorry, or that it had been wrong, or looked at them with that look that Zack, Arden and even Emilio had had. That’s dumb. And maybe it was. Maybe all of it had been. “I thought it was this great honor. But I also always just kept being mad, I guess, that everyone was so okay with it. With me dying for them.” Nora’s words rang true, though. They were exactly what Wynne wanted to hear, wanted to believe. “That’s right. I ran because I wanted to live. However I wanted. And I don’t want to die. Not like that, not just yet — right? I want to be old, one day. And I want to be better at fighting, even if I didn’t like it when that vampire …” They shivered. Wynne raised their eyebrows. “Are you immortal?” Maybe all bearshifters were.

—

“I’m not who I was when I came to this town. I’ve seen people die. I’ve seen death.” I’ve killed. The words remained unspoken, because of the bind that kept her silence, but in that moment Nora would have confessed her murder to the person in front of her. Once an enemy. Now a friend. Surely after this, their shared confessional, they could at least be friends. “But what I like most about who I am now, is that I get to choose. I don’t tell a lot of people this, but I think it’ll resonate with you.” Nora swallowed, the lump in her throat burning at the words that she had kept to herself this entire time. Words that she hadn’t told anyone. They had either known without her input, or they didn’t. “It’s not the same. You had it worse, but I get it. In a different way. I was Eleanor once. Eleanor Pine, the model.” Considering Nora now knew Wynne grew up in a cult as a sacrifice, she figured it would mean nothing to Wynne. Nora pulled out her phone, opening up to a missing article about herself. She tossed the phone over to Wynne.

“I hated it. I hated being in the public eye. I was raised by humans who wanted me to be human, but I’m not. They didn’t know better, but I still didn’t get a choice. It was be a model or.” Nora shrugged. It was dumb to say, be a model or don’t be loved by your fathers. Not at all as dire as be a sacrifice for your cult or run away, but it was hers. Nora cracked her neck. “I wasn’t happy, but they thought I should be and that was enough. They never asked what I wanted. So I turned eighteen, and I ran away.” Nora lifted her arms, as if to say look at me now. “Happier than ever. Because I get to choose. Despite it all. Despite everything that’s happened since I’ve been here. I wouldn’t trade it for shit. Because I’m the master of my own choices here. I live in a crypt. I work for Emilio. I have friends who like me for me. Not because I could get them internet fame. I think that’s happiness, you know? And I think that’s why it's cool you ran. And I think that’s why you should never forget that. Even when a vampire is biting you. Because you chose to live. You can choose to keep fighting for that.”

Each interaction with Wynne gave something new for Nora to think about. A new positive trait to assign under their name. Resilient was today’s. Nora let out a bark of laughter, uncharacteristic for her, but so was the oversharing. “No. I’m not immortal. I mean, I’ll die one day. Just not now. Not now I finally get to live. I’ll die when I’m old, and I’ll die having lived the life I wanted.” Nora paused, before amending. “We will die having lived the life we wanted.”

That was a lot of talking. A lot of sharing. Nora felt uncomfortable for a moment, twitching in her seat. Quickly she got to her feet. “Hang on.” Nora stomped out of the room. It took five minutes, but she was back with a bottle of water and a pocket full of green jell-o. “Thirsty.” Nora explained, holding up the water bottle. She threw herself back down on the seat, with the uncaring ease of a cat who did whatever it wanted. “Catch.” It was the only warning Nora gave as she once more started tossing things at Wynne. This time it was thirteen green jell-os she’d stolen from trays getting ready to be served to other patients. Wynne didn’t need to know that last fact. It would devastate them. They were kind like that.

“What are you going to do next time someone tries to kill you?”

—

Wynne looked at Nora with a greater understanding than before, one that continued to grow with every word she said. Who could have known, that there were such similarities between the pair of them? The bear and barista, the scary and the scared. And yet here they said, not just bonded by their shared care for Emilio Cortez, but bonded by similar pasts too. It was strange, because Nora’s life sounded entirely and wholly different from their own, but still there was something like recognition. Wicked’s Rest had changed them, had shown them things they’d never seen. But their parents had changed them too, had put them into molds and though they had tried to grow into them to fit those visions, they’d abandoned it.

They understood that now, that they scrolled through the phone. Wynne looked up and down a few times, to try and compare the Eleanor Pine they saw on the screen and the Nora the Bear they saw in front of them. Somehow, through the story the other told, they grew to understand not only her, but themself too. “That’s not right, still. That they wanted you to be something that you didn’t want to be. That they didn’t want you to be happy like that.” They had both been wronged by their parents, hadn’t they? And wasn’t Wynne, in some crude way, happier than ever? Even if they lied here now, weak and ripped open? They had friends, people who wanted them alive — people who thought them worth saving. They were afraid, but no longer of dying: they were afraid of living, which was also just an exhilaration. “I’m glad you ran away. Not that you had to, but that you did. And that I did too. Even if this town has shown us some ugly things. It’s also given us good things, right? Choice, and friends.” They handed back the phone. “I like you better the way you look now. Even if I sometimes wonder if those piercings hurt to get.” They smiled a little.

“Oh! Ah. Yes that makes more sense. I mean, there are also immortal people.” Like vampires, clearly. “But you were born the way you are, right?” That prospect that Nora offered made Wynne beam a little, nodding their head seriously. “Exactly. On our own terms, or at least a little. I’m glad … you’re saying these things. Sometimes I feel guilty for wanting this much out of life. But I don’t always think it’s selfish any more.”

And suddenly Nora was gone, leaving Wynne in that big, yet small hospital bed and contemplating all the wisdom they’d gained. Nora, though blunt, had given them much to think about, allowing them to look at their life through an outsider’s perspective. They didn’t mind the moment of solitude, but when Nora reappeared they were glad — because for a while they were worried she’d just left. They managed to catch the first jell-o, much to their surprise, but the others just fell against their body, their hands not quick enough. “Wow. That’s — so much. Thank you.” They chuckled a little, amused by their treasure.

They didn’t look as amused as they answered Nora’s question, though, but rather determined and serious: “I’m going to fight to stay alive.”

#chatzy #chatzy: wynne #call this place my home

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