#Farming Estate AU

[whatgaviiformes]

Fic: Tracy Seaside Orchard and Farm - Epilogue

Summary: Alternate Universe. Gordon is a farmer. And he seems to have nothing to do with International Rescue. Now on AO3!   Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Family.    *Warnings for previous chapters: phobias and panic attacks*

Prologue here

Chapter 1: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Ao3

Chapter 2: Part 4 | Part 5  | AO3

Chapter 3: Part 6  | Part 7 |  Ao3

Chapter 4: Part 8 | Part 9 | Ao3

Chapter 5: Part 10 | Part 11  | Ao3

Chapter 6 Part 12 | Ao3

Chapter 7: Part 13 | Ao3

Chapter 8: Part 14 | Ao3

Chapter 9: Part 15 | Ao3

Chapter 10: Part 16 | Part 17  | Ao3 

Epilogue: You are Here | Ao3 

 Tracy Seaside -the playlist here

A/N: Do me a favor and make sure you are caught up, as I did a lot of writing the past few days. I will admit, finishing this one is a special sadness.

*****

Epilogue 

As with the cadence of the tide, time ticked on, the seasons changed, and fall became winter on one side of the world while spring became summer on the other. Christmas came, went, and the folks at Tracy Seaside started their year growing anew, planting tiny seedlings into moist soil at high humidity in the greenhouses to get them started before transplanting them into the ground. 

His brothers were there through all of it, if not directly during their planned visits, at least in spirit as they continued to bridge the gaps that the years had created. With Gordon and Virgil’s reconciliation, the tenuous bonds he and his siblings had been scrambling to keep from fraying over time were reforged, rebound and continued to grow strong. As strong as the grappling cables of Thunderbird 2 with Virgil’s voice added among their chorus. 

In February, Everett and Scraps planned the surprise birthday of the century, and the speculator world went wild, imagining where Earth’s four most heroic and eligible bachelors could possibly be on Valentine’s Day, and more importantly - who with? Gordon was, of course, none the wiser, as Scraps knew her way around keeping him occupied and away from news articles that would let the cat out of the bag. It was an easy sell when Grandma had already promised to visit and had expressed the desire to make him a three tier birthday cake. Well, he didn’t leave his kitchen for the need to “supervise” his grandmother, and by the time the two made it across the estate to Scraps’ home where the rest of the Tracy’s were waiting, he was still wearing his baking apron and covered from head to foot in flour, but with one edible birthday cake.

Come spring, they added two new hens to their flock and broke ground on a new enclosure and fenced-in pasture for their future plan to bring in goats and sheep. 

There were many exciting changes around the corner, and Gordon looked forward to the longer days, the additional sun in his heart, the flutter of new life and new beginnings, this time with the tether to his brothers stronger than it had ever been. 

Yet one thing remained looming over him. The SOS. 

He was among the first to know about the possibility that their father was still alive, still out there somewhere, after Scott (in an iR submersible pod) retrieved first Brains’ old robot and then never-before-seen footage of the explosion from the Hood’s escape capsule. It was both a thrilling and terrifying truth.

 Foundation shifting. 

It colored everything, knowing that for all the home-growing he did, his father likely was somewhere out there, maybe managing to make food to sustain himself. For all the times he felt distant and disconnected from his family, his father was further. What were miles in comparison to lightyears?  

He watched his brothers fret, obsess, and make plans.  

It was a pleasant day in April when Scott pulled himself away from the technology on the Island to sit down with him and explain what searching for their father would involve: all of the Thunderbirds, and all of his brothers to pilot them. 

He knew terror, he knew fear, and they were palpable in his ears as he processed Scott's words. But there was no greater dread than the heart-dropping realization that this mission would be risking the lives of his whole family, that in a moment, they could all leave the atmosphere and he may never hear from them again and would never know what happened if that were the case. 

But if… if on a chance they succeeded, they could have Dad back. 

He wasn’t sure he had the strength to lose his family again. For a chance.

Gordon talked to Grandma for a long time that night. About her memories of her son, about his brothers, about what it meant to be the ones left behind, and what- what they would do if the worst were to happen. Neither of them closed the call feeling better, per se, but after airing their fears, it helped to know they were not alone in their grief. 

But there was also hope.

And Tmtrust in Brain’s workmanship to protect his family like he'd always done, confidence in his brothers’ abilities, and belief in that stubborn Tracy tenacity to never give up. 

They promised to return, and so it was with faith in that promise that Gordon waited for news. 

~*~

On the day of launch, minutes before countdown, Virgil sat on the floor and against the wall  of the Zero-XL to callup Gordon. There was barely a second for a breath before Gordon accepted the call, and it was apparent he was wide awake despite the dark on his side of the world. 

“Hey,” Virgil whispered, wearing his iR blues.

"Hey " The quiet sound of  Gordon's voice came through with with a low, content murmuring in the background. It was the voice he used when speaking to his animals, words disguised as a coo. 

“Are you in the coop?” Virgil's lips curled into a light smile Despite the weight of their task sitting heavily on his shoulders, the coop was a place of calm. “Is my girl there?”

Gordon’s smile twitched, but it was as if it hurt to muster. “Sue me”

He recognized now that Gordon was sitting against the back wall of the coop, and wearing a long sleeve flannel. Some of the chickens must have been resting in his lap. As he shifted to pick up Ginger to show her to Virgil, Mocha gave a small squawk of displeasure at the movement and jumped up to his shoulder.

“Gordon” - brown eyes met brown - “we’re going to bring him home.” 

For a moment Gordon considered him, continuing to pet the soft feathers on Ginger’s back while his face broke into a number of expressions before he schooled it back into calm. 

“Well, yeah,” he said. “You’ve promised my girls to swing by when you get back.”

“True. But, Gordon.” He waited until Gordon looked back up at him, eyes prickling. “I’m promising you. We’ll all come home.” 

~*~

There was a moment, deep in the Oort cloud, after Alan returned and they suddenly lost communications with Scott, that Virgil truly thought he’d have to tell his family that they’d failed. He’d have to break his grandmother’s heart at the loss of her son… again. And Scott… his own heart was thundering in his chest at his worry for their eldest brother, wondering how he could possibly tell Gordon. Wondering if Gordon would ever forgive him for losing their brother in the cold void of space. Eyes wide with terror, he found himself looking to John for answers.

And then they found lifesigns. Two of them. 

There was business to be done after that. The med bay to ready, the Zero-XL to reassemble. Home to get to. In the deep vastness of space, they reunited with their father, and the back of Virgil’s head tingled where his father’s hand had found stability within their embrace. 

It caught up to him much later, what it would have meant if the Hood had managed to leave them stranded in deep space. So quickly they had to act to halt the T-drive and to stop him, that Virgil didn’t have the time to think about just how close they were to never making it home and what that would’ve done to his brother and their grandmother.  

He secured their father’s straps for the return journey home, trying hard to find the balance between keeping him secure and taking extra care not to pull too tightly around the tender areas of his body.

His father leaned towards him to garner his attention. 

“Virgil?” His voice croaked with lack of use. “I need to know. Where’s your brother?” The grey in his father’s eyes swirled with the storm of the unknown.  “Where’s Gordon?”

“He’s safe,” Virgil assured him, knowing how their number might have looked to their father. It was a long story to tell and not Virgil's to do so.  “Funny you should ask though. I know a rather good healing retreat that would love to have you.”

“Son, I’m going to be ok.” 

“I know, Dad.” He smiled at him warmly. “We all are."

The End 🐓

#Gavii Scribit #Fic: TSOF #Farming Estate AU #Virgil Tracy #Gordon Tracy #Chicken Dad

[m0stlygh0st]

*my ass falling into hell as soon as I realize I can make my own fun AUs for my ships*

#*vibrates* fantasy au farming sim au band au #it's free real estate #self shipping #self ships #what're some fun AUs ya'll like to do? #sav's ships

[tarjapearce]

Mi Dulce Cereza (Pt. 4)

Ranchero AU! Miguel x f! Reader

WARNINGS: clasism, Telenovela level Drama, fluff.

Summary: Against all odds, a new life starts ahead with Miguel.

Intro:

Ever since Miguel had came into your life, it felt like a new perspective of how to truly live was revealed to you. He was a simple yet hardworking man. He was everything you weren't. An opposite really.

He had his temper, he knew hardwork possibly from a young age, he knew patience, he knew how to enjoy the little things and appreciate them. He enjoyed his life, his work. Enjoyed you.

Contrary to him, you were sometimes spoiled, Luis your horse was the proof, you were treated like a porcelain doll and not allowed to do hard work, possibly getting too comfortable in the fact that you'd always have what you currently did, you were a socialité, an expensive doll according to some rejected marriage prospects, that if you wished you could get a whole stable full of horses within days.

And of course, the Pastor's daughter. You were immaculate, pure and a perfect soon to be wife. You didn't know hardships, the only outstanding thing that made you "different" was your good aim at shooting. Your ex fiancé, a man from another wealthy family, was the one that taught you that out of boredom. He was the only most exciting thing that had happened in your life so far.

Till Miguel came.

He had swooped off your feet, showed and taught you so many things you were good at, but none really had taken their time to teach you. Not that he minded you being a spoiled princess, like some workers called you behind your back. You liked animals, being around them, but your ever perfect mother was always prying you from that. From anything that involved looking imperfect really.

Ah your mother.

The natural enemy of everything Miguel rendered. Perfectionist, shallow, clasist, oh but never racist. Like if that feature alone saved her from the rest of her twisted virtues. She took her role as a socialité seriously, more than you ever did. Parties were the only sort of meaningful thing you had, you could have fun, be yourself for a bit and forget about being the Pastor's daughter and setting the example within your circle, as usual.

Not that you minded, God and church had always played a huge part of your life ever since you had conscience. But in reality, you never really meddled too much in it, it was just for the sake of pretense.

Pretension, that's what your life really was about.

Friends weren't really friends, just acquaintances that you stumbled upon often, playing their part in the game of conceit. Just approaching you when they needed something, like everyone really. Your father was always busy, more married to church than your own mother. You didn't know if your mother resented it, neither cared.

All you could think was how this tall, tanned, strong, mulish, resolute, terse of a man was gentle, loving, unabashedly in love and oh so hot and bothered for you. You still couldn't quite believe that he was in love. At first you thought it was a game, something to just get his spite out from the constant implicit belittling your mom and sometimes your dad partook in.

But the way he held you, the way he looked at you, kissed you, touched you, made love to you, had proved you wrong. He knew what he wanted out of life.

"Solo imagínate, Cerecita. Tú, yo, una gran finca, muchos animales e hijos." (Just Imagine, Cerecita. You, me, a large estate, lots of animals and kids.)

He used to dream about it during pillow talk. You'd lie on his chest while he talked about his dreams, and the very thought would make you giggle and kick your feet.

Miguel was a certified farm manager. After all, you parents estate produced pure breed horses, foods like cheeses, milk and seeds.

You knew how to manage the food area since, your mother though it suited you more, instead of having back breaking and skin burnt jobs like the men. But once you entered the mid twenties, your 'work' turned strictly executive. Helping your parents with the office automation of the whole management.

So far a good job, but you knew it was only a deceit to make you look more suitable for those that showed the littlest of interest in you. Sometimes you felt your parents were offering your hand in marriage to anyone with enough money on their pockets.

Although their steadfast resolution to get you a good husband never died, you didn't want any strangers and play date with them. You wanted Miguel.

He had treated you like a normal person, not like a China doll, not someone fragile. He taught you things that you didn't even know you could do. You were good at gardening, feeding the animals, small little tasks that people around you had denied or thought you too dumb to do.

He had expanded your prospect of just being a trophy wife. You were always learning from him, but soon, harvest season and renovations around the farm started and you saw him led  You also had your own share of work.

Work that somehow had made your stress levels to rise so high that your period had been delayed. You still wished that you could repeat the last session you had in his room in the barn weeks ago. The mere though of his display of prowess in bed had made you clench.

No other man could compare him really. You sometimes daydreamed about having more time alone with him, talking about your fears and hopes, everything that made you both who you were.

But a hurling wave of nauseas shot through your system as you rushed to your bathroom, emptiying your stomach's content down the toilet. And still no sign of your period.

---

You thought that avoiding certain foods would actually make the sickness that sat heavily on your stomach to go away, but it had only turned worse. You'd have these spasms of nausea through the day. And your suspicions only grew one day that one of your friends had gotten an apple pie nearby you. The smell so pungent to your senses that made you retch a little while after.

"Migraines for the strongest smells are the worst" one of them commented, trying to not pry too much on the obvious. It wasn't the time to prey on gossip.

------

You had woken up nauseous and queasy, for the third time in a row, at this point your mother was concerned. Had something made you sick? Food poisoning?

Of course the kitchen staff would hear a mouthful of her concern. She was stricter regarding the way your foods were made. Unavoidable realization hit harder than your mother swatting your head when you ogled at Miguel a second too longer.

Swallowing hard after retching in the bathroom again, the moment you smelled your morning soup, filled your eyes with tears.

How could you not notice? How could've you be so stupid? Sure stress had made you sometimes cause an anomaly in your cycle, and you though it was the case, but seeing the two positive parallel lines on the pregnancy test, only made your eyes turn glossier and wet.

You were pregnant.

Almost two months and counting. You barely had the chance of seeing Miguel anymore. Oh, Miguel. What would he think of it? Would he be mad? Sure you were his girl, but nothing else had been spoken further. Would he still want you?

God, you were so scared. You knew how your parents thought of him, and for all you knew, they still thought you were pure, immaculate, a good example to every lady in the little town.

They'll find out.

Of course they would. Sooner or later they'd find out. Probably kick him out and you'd be forced to marry a guy that looked like him to make pass the child as his. Right?

No. Your parents wouldn't be that bad. Nah, knowing how your father had done so many shotgun weddings because of sinful pregnancies told you that everything was possible. They were none to be underestimated. The thought scared you shitless, so you washed your mouth, bathed, got dressed and went to him.

The more you approached the antsier you got. He was talking to another helper, the talks of a new mare being brought spreaded through fast in the estate. However upon noticing you, he cut the conversation short and came to you. Like a magnet.

His smile faltered when your whole frame came into view, solemn look, and red nose by the constant sniffling.

"Hey, hey. Come here. ¿Qué le pasa a mi chula?" (What's wrong, gorgeous?)

You whimpered and buried your face in his chest. He held you tightly.

"It's fine, yeah? Wanna talk about it?"

You clung to him.

"You mom got you on another date?" He rolled his eyes and you shook your head with a shaky sob.

"Your dad tried to sell Luis again?" Another shake of your head.

"Then what is it? You gotta tell me, princesa."

He cupped your face gently and wiped your tears.

"I..." You hiccuped, "I think I'm pregnant."

You could feel him tense and he made you look at him directly. A glint in his eyes shining brighter than when he was popping your cherry.

"¿Voy a ser papá?" (Am I gonna be a dad?)

He questioned with a excited yet strained voice. You just stared at him and he kissed you, deeply. 

"¡Me vas a hacer papá!" (You're making me a dad!)

His hands shook you softly. He could stop marveling at the fact that finally one of his dreams were coming true. But you seemed off, shut off to his joy.

"Why... Why are you crying? You don't... want it?

" No, no. It's not that, Miguel. I'm... scared. I'm so scared" You sniffed and he kissed your forehead.

"Dad will kill you."

He chuckled and nodded

"Might as well chase me down with a gun." His hand was placed on your lower belly.

"He might kick you out and..." You hiccuped and he just held you with a smile.

" Ps, que me eche. And if... things get bad, you'll come with me. Okay?" He squeezed you tightly and grunted happily, "Dios te vas a ver preciosa con esa panza toda grandota y redonda. Te voy a cuidar, vas a ser mi reina. Ya vas a ver."

(He can do that.) (God, you'll look gorgeous with that big and round belly. Imma take care of you, you'll be my queen. You'll see.)

He just kept rambling things you couldn't understand, but seeing him overjoyed made your aching heart to relax.

"I'll talk to him. I... Le voy a pedir tu mano." (Imma ask him your hand in marriage)

"W-What? are you sure of it?"

"You thought I was kidding when I told you that I wanted you for myself?"

His eyes softened

"I might not have much, or give you this kind of life you're so used to, yet, but... You have me. I want this with you." The steadfastness in his words made your heart leap and flutter.

"What if he says no?"

"You're coming with me anyways. Can't leave my future wife here knowing what they are capable of."

"God help us. Mom will be...-"

"Don't worry your pretty head over it."

"I do worry. She's... you know how she is. And what he thinks of you."

"Eso es lo de menos." (That's the least of my concerns)

"How far are you?"

"Seven weeks."

He cradled you. Arms full of love and devotion.

"They're coming back tomorrow"

"I know. Pack whatever you think is worth packing, and try to rest."

He slept with a smile on his face that night.

-----

"Papa?" You knocked and he called you in. Miguel awaited outside the office. To your surprise your mother was with him, discussing something. Mid day sun hid behind heavy dark clouds.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"I... eh. Wanna talk to you both."

"Oh?"

"You alright, Mija?"

You nodded and sighed.

"You know how... you are always talking about me getting married, serving in church and the like, right?"

"Of course dear. We wouldn't want it other way."

Your mother gasped as excitement crossed her features

"You... You want to get married?! Oh dear.! I thought I ever hear that from you! I was growing concerned, really. Thought that... farm boy had done something to you."

"Mom-"

"I know he is wicked!"

"Let her speak. Don't take inspiration from her." your dad grumbled and the nausea crept up to you. Maybe it wasn't a good idea, but you were already here and see this through.

"What kind of man you both envision for me?"

"A hardworking one, that fears God, that treats you like we have, spoils you, that he knows your worth."

Ironically they had described most of Miguel's traits.

"Someone who knows that you aren't cheap. That isn't afraid of investing on you like you deserve"

Someone wealthy, of course that's what your mom would say.

"What about someone different?" Your hands fiddled nervously as your eye casted down.

"Different how, sweetie? You deserve better. Not different."

"Maybe I do want different, Papa"

Your name was chided as he looked at you with sternness.

"Different how?"

Sighing you stood and motioned for Miguel to approach. Your parents face fell instantly as he crossed the door.

"W-What is this?" You mother mumbled with a gasp as you sat with Miguel across your parents, entwining your fingers together.

"You're always saying that... You want a hard working man for me, right?"

"Yes, but not him." your dad nearly hissed through gritted teeth, "Do you know how many others are waiting for you to just look their way?"

Miguel chuckled and removed his hat.

"Too bad for them" You grumbled.

"Sir, suegrito, with all due respect your daughter-" (Father in law)

"Jesus Christ... How can you be so condescending?! Know your place!" Your mother shrieked.

Miguel's eye twitched slowly but remained shut.

"You think you can give her what we have? What could possibly a man such as yourself could provide her?"

"More than all those pretty boys that parade around but are useless for working, that's for sure."

"We'll too bad, cause she's already settled for another date!"

"I don't want another of your dates, mom."

"What did you just say to me, little brat?!"

"That I don't want dates! They're boring, they always talk about money and they're so shallow! I have enough of that kind of people"

Your mother prayed as your father rubbed his face in frustration.

"Like... You're always saying how you want the best for me, how you want a hardworking man for me. Miguel is that. He just... he is so smart and has given me a chance to try things I have never done before! I am good at things you said I wasn't! He... he loves me."

His grip on your hand tightened for a bit, reassuringly despite your mother's mocking cackling.

" He loves you?! Cariño... He's only been here for six months and you think this... man, loves you? Don't be ridiculous. He just wants your money. You think I don't know people like him?!"

Your eyes were slowly drooping and blurring with angry tears.

"Evidently not, cause if you gave him a chance to-"

"Never. You are not staying with him. Look at you, sweetie. You are pretty, you are young! Rich! You can have anyone you want"

"If that's so, won't you let me have him then?"

"This is just another of your whims. You're dragging him to this." You dad gestured to Miguel.

"It's not! I'm old enough to make my own choices-"

"And what could you possibly know about life?"

"Certainly more than you actually think. And I would've known more if all this time you wouldn't have treated me like I was fragile and stupid! I wanna be more than just... a stupid trophy wife"

"What would be the difference with him?"

"That he actually teaches me how to work, dad. I know I am pretty, but that won't take me far. Beauty fades, but... knowledge in life is something you earn, that you shape. And Miguel has helped me realize that. That's why I love him."

"You don't love none-"

"Don't project on me, mom."

Her dolled up eyes widened in disbelief at your words.

"You brat!"

"Look at you. Is this what he has taught you as well? To disrespect your mother?"

"Oh please! Don't talk about respect when even you at times give him a bad time unnecessarily. Look at what he has done so far! Look at Agustín! None wanted to be near him and you even wanted to sacrifice him cause you couldn't handle him!"

"This conversation is getting tiring."

Your stomach bubbled.

"I will marry him. With or without your blessing."

"No. You won't cause you will marry a decent man! Not this... This..."

"Say it" Miguel growled as his arms crossed. He'd do things his way anyways. He was just being civil and respectful enough about the whole thing.

"A Nobody" His fist clenched.

"Stop." You stood in between them, "Stop." your tone warning.

"Or what? Just imagine the scandal!! You are shaming us! What would the people say?!"

"Shame us? Are you serious right now? You deserve to be shamed! You profess about God and his love at your church and how much we gotta love eachother yet you treat people like shit. You specially mom."

A slap. Hard, burning in your face.

Shock plastered in your crying face, Miguel stood and prowled your way, your mother recoiled at him approaching.

"See? You can't teach me about love cause you love none!" Miguel held you in his arms as you tried to get to your mom.

"Take all the money from me if you want, but I refuse to marry someone for the money like you did. I refuse to be like you and this loveless marriage you have!"

Now it was his turn to try and stop your mother getting at you. Your dad shot in the air, startling everyone in the room. The rushed steps of people outside scattered around. Even the staff could hear everything that was happening.

"Don't touch me!" She pried herself away from him.

All the emotions made your head spin, Miguel pushed gently your mother away to hold your careening form before you could actually collapse.

"Cerecita!" You held onto him, then held your mouth. You guided him to your dad's office bathroom to just spill the contents of your upset stomach.

"Dios mío..." The annoying voice that always belittled him broke, realizing what was going on right away.

"No... No no. You... You couldn't. Why?!"

Your mother shrieked in horror. So many emotions were going through your father's face. Disappointment and a silent rage. The latter aimed at Miguel.

"¡Ya cállese, señora!" (Just shut up already) Miguel roared and your mother stood frozen in the spot. Too angry and stunned to actually do something.

Miguel helped to clean up after yourself, then you stood, facing your parents. You had expected them opposing, but not this bad. Not like this.

"Are you okay?" His eyes softened as he cupped your cheeks with concern. You just nodded, still feeling weak.

"I'll marry him. And that's not up to discussion. And I will do it, with or without your blessing. Understood?"

"Since you are making your own decisions now, I'll have to ask you to pack your things and leave tomorrow morning with your... man. You want to get married? So be it. You see... When you are going to venture in these sort of things, a house on your own its the first thing you must have.-"

"Don't worry about that, Patrón." Miguel's voice laced with venom, "It might not be like this pompous state, but at least it's mine. And none shall ever disrespect her or me again."

"You're fired."

Miguel smirked

"I expect my complete payment in my account then. Wouldn't like to return for a check."

You were taken to your room by some of the staff. As they prepared you something to eat. Your mother, Rosaura, was long gone from the scene.

"Too bad you're too stuck up to actually see that I did try and make the right thing with your daughter. I might not be what you wanted for her, but... I am what she wants and that's more than enough for me, sir." Miguel's voice only matched the steely glare your father made his way.

"Don't expect to see your grandchild."

"Don't worry. That wretched child is none of my concern"

"No le escupa al cielo, suegrito." (Don't spit to the sky)

His tone a warning as he tipped his hat and left.

-------

Morning came and some people of the staff were helping you pack things, Pastor William refused to wed you. Rosaura had barely showed up, just gave you a quick despising glare.

"You're really leaving miss?"

"Yeah. I can't stay here."

"Wouldn't that be harmful for the baby?"

You shook your head.

"It'll hurt more if I stay."

"We'll miss you."

"I'll miss you guys too. Thanks for... teaching me so much."

Your dad was a silent spectator, Miguel helped to put your things in his old truck. There was a genuine smile on your face everytime you looked at your future husband. William could've married you, but of course he was petty. For once your words had marked him.

It wasn't easy for Miguel either, Agustín seemed restless that day.

"I'll come for my horse later." You spoke as you gave the last suitcase at Miguel. William just gave you a dismissing nod.

Words were stuck in his mouth. He had never seen you this determined towards something. A sudden change he truly wasn't used to. Changes didn't sit well at all to him.

You didn't look back, instead just got in the car with Miguel and left. Leaving everything you knew behind. the thrill of a new adventure buzzing through your body. Miguel took your hand and kissed it with a puppy love eyes.

"Let's get married, Cerecita."

----

Taglist:

@thebettybook @allysunny @v4leoftears @brooklynscherry-z @lovingarcardeprincess @pinkiemme @bigbassbug @ceoofmiguel @loonalockley @nine-of-cherries @saph-cyare @mintqueenjo @arrozleche

Sorry if I forgot someone 😅

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #atsv miguel #Miguel Ranchero #t writes✨ #telenovela fic #Spotify

[cirrus-grey]

Arranged marriage AU where Jon and Martin are Nobles With Neighboring Estates who meet as teenagers and fall in love. When they come of age they find out their respective families have engaged them off to strangers, so - unwilling to face a life apart - they flee their homes in the middle of the night to be together.

Cue Peter Lukas (distantly related head of Martin’s family) and Jonah Magnus (ditto for Jon) frantically beginning their own months-long searches for the runaway grooms, desperate to find them and drag them back to their weddings.

Eventually the two are located on a small rural farm, living the cottagecore life. Peter and Jonah are summoned; their carriages pull up outside the small house at the same time. They disembark, frowning at each other.

"What are you doing here?"

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm looking for my family's runaway groom, Jonathan Sims."

"I'm looking for my family's runaway, Martin Blackwood."

They both look at the house.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

-

There's a knock at the front door. Jon opens it and finds himself face-to-face with Jonah.

"Hello, Jon."

Jon pales and takes a step back. "You can't make me go back."

"I think-"

Before he can speak, Martin enters from another room in the house. "Jon, who's-" and then he freezes, and pales as well.

"Hello, Martin," Peter says.

"I won't go back," Martin replies, his voice shaking. He steps up next to Jon and puts a hand on his shoulder. Jon reaches up to hold it with his own, and Peter and Jonah's eyes focus in on the rings on their fingers.

"Please," Jonah says, through gritted teeth. "For the love of god. Tell me the two of you didn't run away to marry each other."

Jon's chin juts out in defiance. "And if we did? You can't separate us."

"Oh for goodness-!" Peter says. "We've been looking for you for months! Countless man hours we’ve wasted to bring you back for your wedding, only to find out you're already married?"

"Maybe you should have thought of that before you went and sold our futures away!" Martin says. "We're not pawns in your chess game, we're not just going to go along with whatever schemes you come up with to marry us off to-"

"-each other?" Jonah interrupts.

Jon and Martin freeze.

"...What?"

Peter waves a hand at Jon. "Martin, this is the Magnus boy you were arranged to marry!"

Jonah nods at Martin. "This is the Lukas child to whom you were engaged, Jon."

"What?"

"Did you seriously," and there is a vein throbbing in his temple, "know each other for years, run away from your homes together, get married, and it never, not once occurred to you to tell each other what families you came from?"

-

Jmart get their asses dragged back home for a Real and Proper Legal Wedding (the first definitely wasn't - they exchanged rings and declared their undying love for each other in a moonlit field with no witnesses). As soon as the ceremony's over they're banished back to their farm because no one wants to put up with any more of their bullshit.

And there they live happily (if somewhat embarrassed) ever after.

#the magnus archives #my magnus archives stuff #my writing #magnus archives fanfiction #the dinghy #jonmartin #original post

[yoonia]

the bedroom hymns ● chapter xv

⟶ Chapter summary | Yoongi knows that he is treading between the lines as he continues to approach you, taking more risky steps in getting you to open up to him. But secrets are meant to be kept, and Yoongi needs to hold on tightly on his patience, even when he soon finds out that time may not be on his side after all.

⟶ Title | The Bedroom Hymns: a Bluebeard’s twist ⟶ Pairings | Min Yoongi x female reader  ⟶ Genre | Fairy Prince!Yoongi, Crown Princess!reader, Fantasy AU, Fairy Tale retelling ⟶ Word count | 7,925 words ⟶ Ratings | PG-13, +18 / M for Mature for future chapters; include classism, mentions of black magic, deceit, mentions of abduction, fantasy weapons. ⟶ Story Masterlist: The Bedroom Hymns | ⤎ previous chapter | next chapter ⇢ ⟶ Main Masterlist | Mailbox | Taglist | Feedback | Music Playlist | Ko-fi

chapter xv. crescendo

The air has grown cold by the time you return to the other side of the village, making your way back to the main road leading to where you first came from. Chilly breeze passes around you, strong enough to pierce through your thick coat that your body shivers in its presence. 

Above you, the sky is shifting. The golden shades that you saw in the afternoon is blending into the muted hue of the sunset. A display of pastel clouds and indigo-coloured shades are seen dancing on the darkening sky, with merely a thin layer of gold left surrounding the descending sun like a golden halo glowing right above the horizon. 

As you continue your journey home, leaving the famers’ village and the vast farm estate behind you, you find yourself getting lost in the display of light and colours that seem so uncommon to your eyes. 

It amazes you how the places that you have been to lately could be so different to one another. Not only in terms of their culture, the people you see, and the local weather that you must endure, but also in the myriad of shades of colours that you get to see in the surrounding nature, as well as the scents wafting through the air.

Noticing you shivering under your coat, Yoongi delicately reaches out to grab your hand as he walks beside you. He has been silence for a while now, ever since you left the tavern together soon after sharing a long, deep, and surprisingly, meaningful conversation. But never once had he ever let his attention on you slip that he can easily notice it when the expression on your face gradually changes over time. 

“Perhaps, the next time you are out traveling like this, you might want to consider wearing thicker clothes and prepare some gloves,” he says as he gently rubs your hands in an effort to warm up your frozen fingers. 

Little does he know that he is doing more than keeping your hands warm, as the heat starts coursing all the way to your chest, flowing right into your fluttering heart and spreading all over your face that you can barely look at him. 

But Yoongi is too deeply concerned over your dainty fingers to notice it, and you are enjoying this moment too much to stop him.

“Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind,” you whisper to him while keeping your eyes down, still too flustered to look at him in the eyes. 

Ever since your unexpected date at the tavern, everything about Yoongi has become more intense. His deep gaze which lingers on you until you are made to feel completely exposed, vulnerable, as if he could see right through your facade. His actions and gestures that are still as graceful yet has gradually grown more intimate with each passing second that you spend together.

And there is also the change in his speech, his soft spoken words that feel like a gentle caress reaching deep into your soul. Even when all he does is to ask about how you are feeling with the rapid change of temperature and the buzz from the brew that you had drunk back at the tavern still coursing through your body.   

It feels overwhelming, although instead of feeling like you are intimidated by his rapt attention, you simply feel somewhat reassured. 

You feel seen, after years and years of having to live in the shadows and having no one understanding what you had to go through. At the same time, he makes you feel heard, when you were finally able to share with him your deepest and darkest thoughts, your troubles, everything that has been left unspoken for many years. And Yoongi has been so respectful as he listened, never once undermining your fears and worries when you opened up about how it felt for you being kept hidden in the dark for so long.

But keeping your eyes away from his only allows you to focus on something else. Like focusing on the flow of energy coming out of his body, for example, and the way his touch seems to exude unnatural warmth which feels like an electric current transferring into your skin. 

“I suppose your experience in traveling to different places have taught you how to adjust better,” you murmur to him with a smile once you realise that while you are trembling under your cloak, Yoongi doesn’t seem to be struggling when he is the one wearing nothing more but a thin layer of clothing that doesn’t seem adequate enough to protect him from the cold. 

“You’re still warm.” 

Yoongi lets out a chuckle, and only then do you finally raise your head to look at him. “I do adjust better with the weather, no matter where I go. It doesn’t affect me that much,” he reveals with a grin, as he talks about it as if it is something that is common to happen.  

His words take you back to your past conversation, when he talked about his life and the work that he does for the mercenary army. Granted, he didn’t tell you much about himself aside from the general things that he was willing to share, but you have learned a bit more about him which has given you a sense of relief, giving you more reasons to feel much safer when you are with him and less wary. Not even when you look at him with the knowledge that you have gained about his secretive brotherhood of the mercenary army. 

Once the cold no longer bothers you all that much, you continue to walk together a bit further until you are back at the crossroad where you had started your afternoon trip at the village of Grimm. 

The farmers’ village lies behind you, while the dark pathway leading back to your father’s private property lies ahead of you. Looking around, you finally notice what you have failed to pay attention to today before you managed to learn more about this place—that the eerie forest that you had been warned to stay away from has always been closer than you had thought.

Stretched out across the rising terrain before your eyes and atop of the surrounding hills, the forest appears to you in a form of a massive wall of trees, all standing as tall as your eyes can see, with intertwining branches and thick canopy of leaves spread high above to shield you from the darkening sky. 

In the daytime, the forest itself didn’t seem as eerie or intimidating. 

But of course, the first time you laid your eyes on your surroundings, you hadn’t met with the farmers or received their warnings, nor had you paid any attention to the deep woods. Now that the darkness has begun to spread around you, everything about the forest seems to be warning you to stay away. 

“Are you sure that you’re not interested about that tour downtown?” Yoongi asks as you stand together at the crossroads, with your eyes looking into the deep forest and his eyes locked on you. A part of you wishes that you could stay with him just a bit longer, yet the dark sky above becomes the silent reminder that you shouldn’t. 

“I’m quite sure,” you quickly say to him before you start to consider otherwise, because you are also quite sure that you are running out of time. 

Yoongi had first offered to take you on a tour downtown once you concluded your talk, to see more of Grimm and the places that should be more interesting than this secluded village and its modest tavern. But your time spent with him had already lasted longer than it should have. 

So the moment you realised that the day was already turning into dusk, with a heavy heart, you were left with no choice but to refuse his offer and let him know that it was finally time for you to leave.  

“That’s too bad, because if I am allowed to be honest with you, I am not ready to see you go so soon,” Yoongi admits to you, which warms your heart just as much as it warms your cheeks. Standing before you, Yoongi takes your hand in his and leans down, pressing his lips on the back of your hand in a gentlemanly manner as a way to bid his goodbye.

“Still, I must thank the Fates for keeping our paths crossed, that we are able to meet like this despite our limited time together,” he gently says to you as he straightens back up. As his gaze softens just as much as his voice does, your chest feels tight with doubt. 

Will we see each other again? 

Will I have another chance to speak with him like we did today? 

Have I missed out on a chance to learn more about him?

These silent wonderings continue circling through your thoughts, and for the first time, fear grips at your chest at the mere thought that you might not see him again. 

“Do you trust the Fates to bring our paths back together again?” you ask him in return, unable to hold back from wishing loudly that you will meet each other again the next time you walk through the portal, that he would be there when you emerge on a different foreign land for another unexpected journey. 

With certainty in his eyes, Yoongi nods and says, “I do. I believe it will happen, as long as our souls continue to look for one another, we will find our way back to each other again.” 

His faith seems alluring, that you cannot help but feel the same hope growing in your chest that perhaps fate would bring you back together again. But you are too deep in admiring his confidence with his belief that it would take hours later for you to recall his words and wonder what he truly means.

“Then I shall pray that you are right,” you mutter to him, “If we do ever cross paths again, then I’ll be able to admit that Fates may have a hand in us finding each other no matter how odd the possibilities are.” 

Your words seem to please him. “Then I shall count on it to happen again,” Yoongi says with a wide smile on his face, while you silently wish for the same.

Unlike before, Yoongi insists in walking you home. With the night soon falling, and the threats of the dark curses of the forest troubling your thoughts, you have no choice but to agree with him this time. The journey is more tasking now than before, when you are going uphill rather than going down from the main road. 

But with Yoongi by your side, you find no trouble carrying on. His presence brings you peace, while his gentle voice keeps your nerves from spiralling out of control as the darkness around you thickens. 

Yoongi glances at you to notice that you keep sneaking a peek through the shadows, wary of what you might see in the dark, and he begins to question you, “You know, if the darkness bothers you, perhaps I could—” 

Even before Yoongi can finish his words, you can already tell what he is trying to offer you, as he has been trying to do the same ever since the moment he first brought it up back at the tavern. To be given the chance and reason for him to use his magic, to display his mana right before your eyes, just so he could get a reason to see yours. 

You had expected that he would bring it up again before he finally lets you go tonight, after you had solemnly refused that offer previously at the tavern. Only because you knew that you couldn’t do the same in return. 

To reveal to him the mana within you that may lie dormant, or the magic that your father may have placed on you to keep your safe in your journey. 

And yet, as you silently anticipate to hear Yoongi’s alluring way of stating his offer, those words never come. You turn curiously to question him about it, only for you to notice Yoongi looking far away into the distance, far beyond the deep foliage of the woods to see something that your eyes cannot see. 

The way his brows are furrowed and the stiffness forming on his shoulders feel unsettling. There is tension coming out of his body, even if it doesn’t seem enough to show you that there is a possible danger lurking through the darkness.

“Is something the matter?” you question him while glancing around, wondering what might have caught his attention, since it seems to be important enough to draw such reaction that you are now seeing from him. 

At the sound of your voice, Yoongi snaps out of it. Drawn back to your presence, the dark expression he wears on his face clears out as he turns to look at you. 

“I have been looking forward to finally gain an extended time with you by walking you home, but I’m afraid this is as far as I can go,” he suddenly says with regret in his voice. 

A myriad of questions come to surface, filling your head along with uncertainty, yet you choose not to question him further. A part of you feel the same regret of not having that extended time to spend with him, but there is also a part of you that is overcome with relief, because this would only allow you to hide your father’s secret hideout from him and, hopefully, the magic portal that is hidden behind the locked doors.

“I suppose I’d have no choice but to let you go, after all. What a pity,” you mutter to him with a low voice, hoping that your conflicted feelings wouldn’t show through your words.  

“Yes, it’s a pity indeed,” Yoongi says, and you can see a glimpse of bitterness sparkling in his eyes; his annoyance at the sudden disturbance which seems to require his presence seems so palpable. “But I will make it up to you if we do meet again,” Yoongi stops himself by shaking his head before correcting his words, “No, what I mean is—when we are to meet again.” 

You cannot resist the ghost of smile forming on your face at how promising his words sound. “You sound so confident.” 

“I must, if I am to see you again,” Yoongi says to you with a genuine smile, and you find yourself sharing the same feeling of hope of seeing him again. As he bids his goodbye for the second time, Yoongi doesn’t take your hand in his, but politely bows before you as he says, “Until then, Princess.”

As Yoongi rises to his height, you can only look at him while feeling dumbfounded. The different nickname that he has given you is filled with jest, no doubt spoken with humour instead of derision—because there is no way that Yoongi knows who you are, isn’t there?—yet it still throws you off that you find yourself unable to speak. 

With a small grin, Yoongi lowers his hat to cover his face, allowing you no chance to speak at all before he turns away and starts walking down the pathway where the two of you had come from. You remain for a moment at the same spot to watch him disappear between the trees before turning away, continuing your journey back to the house hidden beyond the hill. 

For a moment, you continue to walk as if you are lost in a daze. Something inside you feels heavy, and it seems to be getting worse the more distance you have between you and Yoongi.  

Suddenly doubting that you will have the same luck of seeing him on your next journey, you quickly turn on your heels and rush back to find him. 

You have no idea what you are hoping to find by chasing his tracks and following his shadows. Perhaps your desperate need to cling to him has taken over you that you fail to think logically about this. But you know for sure that you have no plan at all as you rush between the trees, ignoring the shadows reaching out to you as you follow the trails that he has left behind in his departure. 

And yet, the pathway that you had walked on with him has been left vacant, with no trace of his shadow left behind. 

He is gone, you wonder to yourself as disappointment grows within you. How did he manage to move so fast? 

As you take a moment to catch your breath, you take a quick glance around, trying to see if you can still catch his shadow and find a way to stop him before he could go any further. You continue going down the hill until you nearly reach the line of trees bordering between the woods and the village, where you finally catch the sight of Yoongi disappearing towards a different part of the woods, and you quickly run to catch up with him.

Yet Yoongi is walking too fast. 

From one side of the woods to the next you try to follow him, walking across the foot of the nearest hill without emerging into the main road, and you find that Yoongi has gone further away from you. 

There is nothing that you can do to stop him as he walks straight into the deeper, darker side of the forest, disappearing between the shadows of the trees just as the sun dips beyond the horizon, making it seem as if the darkness has engulfed him completely. And it steals any chance that you have left to catch up with him before the curse of the forest rises in the coming nightfall.

Yoongi’s legs feel heavy as he trudges along the dirt path taking him through the deep thickets. His heart feels just as heavy, though it has nothing to do with the unsteady ground or the muddy path he is walking on. 

He simply feels this way because of his reluctance to be apart from you. 

Deep down, he realises that this feeling will only get worse the more he spends time with you. The pull that he feels toward you has been growing steadily stronger, and if he should continue meeting up with you like this, the longer he is in your presence, the bond that has been formed between you will only become more solid. 

Even as he has gotten further away from you, his heartbeat is still racing rapidly. His entire body still feels tense, not only because of how excited and nervous he had been for being able to spend time with you. But because he had gotten close—so close—to revealing everything to you. 

“I might have to show it to you to prove it…”

He can still hear his own voice as he was offering you a quick show of his magic, the words came slipping out of him before he could stop it, before he could even think or consider all the risks.

It would only take one touch, one single brush of finger, one contact between his hand and yours, and he would have revealed it all. His secret. His father’s secret. Your father’s secret. 

His hand tenses right beside him as he walks through the woods, still feeling the urge to reach out to touch your fingers. The tingles of his magic that had been calling for you still lingers with every twitch of his fingers and ever stretch of his palm. 

If only you had said yes and accepted his offer. 

He regrets that it never happened, as not only did he lose the chance to hold your hand, he had also lost the chance to be completely truthful to you. And yet, at the same time, he is also relieved, because your rejection had only given him more time to be able to get closer to you before something like that—the revelation of his identity—could ever happen. 

It would be too soon for it to happen now, he keeps telling himself as he slowly clenches his hand. Because she might pull away if he finds out about everything before she is ready. 

He can already imagine what would have happened if he had pushed his intention earlier, if he had been more adamant in forcing you to reveal your true self and have his magic activate the mana inside you. 

All he intended to do was to confirm his suspicions about you using the Wicked King’s magic to travel around. Such action would help him find answers, and he would have been able to use it to track down the King, and then after, to be able to find Queen Milena. 

But the more he thinks about it, the more it feels like a breach of trust. He can picture you steadily pushing him away once that happens, that the truth will only scare you away instead of pushing you closer to him. 

One day, it would still happen; the day when the truth behind your heritage is finally revealed to you and how the two of you had been connected since birth. But that time is not now. For that moment to happen, Yoongi would have to gain your complete trust, to allow you to get to know more of him and him to you. Something that would be impossible to gain with just a couple of short encounters made. 

As Yoongi continues his journey through the forest, he uses the silence that is now engulfing him to silence his mind. 

The scent of the forest mixing in with the evening breeze calms him down, while the dark movement of trees distracts him from his own thoughts. It would be crucial for Yoongi to regain his composure and clear his mind before confronting the ripple of mana that had summoned him merely moments ago, forcing him to separate himself from you. 

Yoongi is quite familiar with this energy, hence he knows what to expect as he continues going deeper into the woods, ignoring the sounds of the forest and the branches that seems to be reaching out to him, until he finds the dark presence standing in his path. They are standing merely a few feet away from Yoongi’s portal once he stops, not too far from the gate which he had used earlier in the afternoon as a mean of transport to reach Grimm. 

Which only means that he had been using it to follow Yoongi’s trails. Once again. 

Wearing the formal uniform from the Empire’s knighthood instead of a disguise that he normally uses as a common member of the mercenary army, Sergeant Jang Yijeong stands under the shadows formed by the thick foliage, his back leaning against one of the thickest trees with his eyes looking straight above his head, as if he is able to look past the foliage and see the darkening sky above. 

He still has his gaze locked on the unseen sky as Yoongi approaches him silently, and the fairy soldier murmurs with a voice that comes out as gently as a hum, “It seems that it would rain soon.” 

“Would that be the reason why you sent out a sign for me to find you here?” Yoongi jokes with a scoff, “Have you come only to tell me that it’s raining tonight? Do you perhaps carry an umbrella with you to protect me on my way home?” 

“Not really,” Yijeong says with a shrug, unbothered by Yoongi’s mockery. His expression remains calm as he turns to look at Yoongi. Even if the sight of the Crown Prince wearing a commoner’s clothing surprises him, he surely isn’t showing it. But the flair on his skin bothers Yoongi a little, showing him that his friend had been using an additional magic when he was stepping across Yoongi’s portal. 

For what, he has no idea. But it is enough to make him grow alert. Because there has to be a reason why his friend needed to use magic to cover his own trail.  

“So—what have you gained from today’s meeting with the mysterious princess?” Yijeong asks before Yoongi can start asking questions.

This time, Yoongi is the one struggling to control his expression. With his bamboo hat still covering his head, he knows that the shade would still be enough to hide his furrowed brows as he questions his best friend, “What are you implying?” 

“I am just assuming that you are to gain some information the moment you have the chance to,” Yijeong continues, “Wasn’t that the reason why you sought her in the first place?” 

“That’s not the only purpose that had led me to start following her, and you of all people know that,” Yoongi seethes, hating the way he cannot actually argue with that assumption when it is partly true. 

Yoongi curses inwardly as guilt grips at him in the chest. He suddenly feels like a criminal for deceiving you, while at the same time, he cannot regret the actions that he had made so far because they have given him the chance to meet you and talk to you in person. He sees it as a blessing to have been given the chance to get to know you, after all the years that he had spent chasing shadows without a single clue where to find you. 

He had even spent years questioning himself, doubting his own memories and faith, almost believing that you never existed. 

Until the ripples of magic first began appearing, stretching out through space and time each time you used the magic which took you to different places the same way he uses his portals. 

As if Yijeong has the ability to look into the inner battle that Yoongi is currently having, he tilts his head and raises his brows. “It’s not?” he questions Yoongi, remembering quite well everything that Yoongi had shared with him in the past. 

It was during the first night he felt the burst of energy that came when you opened your father’s portal when Yoongi revealed his true mission for the first time to Yijeong. Except that the only thing that Yoongi did was to reveal who you were, just to let his friend know that the mysterious traveller that Yijeong had met back in Smotia may truly have a connection to the missing Queen, and that you have somehow made contact with the magic that not many would be able to control.

Yoongi had shared his suspicions with his friend that night, believing that you had been granted a way to use the magic. 

It was then when he decided to follow you, except that while he did so to confirm the threads of fate connecting your souls together, he merely revealed to Yijeong his need to find out about your magic; to see if it had been the same magic which was used by the person responsible for the Queen’s disappearance, to learn the secrets behind the missing Queen, and to see if following your trails would lead him into finding her. 

Yoongi has yet to understand the reason why he felt the need to hide his own agenda, when he could have opened up and shared everything with his best friend. Just like how he has always been able to share about everything with him for years. 

Perhaps he had done it out of pure instinct, as he had been tormented by doubt at the time he was divulging his thoughts to Yijeong. He was doubting not only the soulmate bond that he believed to have since he was no more but a young child, and he was doubting your existence, having lost sight of you ever since the day the Queen disappeared. 

And he wanted to keep everything to himself until he was able to prove it. 

That you are truly the missing piece of his soul that he has been seeking for so long. 

“Oh, that’s right. What was it that you said before?” Yijeong says in a mocking tone, drawing Yoongi back to focus on him again, “You’re only making sure that she remains safe.” 

With a frown, Yoongi recalls saying those exact words to Yijeong just a while ago. Hearing it spoken back to him only makes him feel uneasy. 

He has been keeping too many secrets and has been spending the whole day teetering on the edge of spilling everything out, and his friend seems to be poking at the right direction because his skin will not stop bristling in annoyance. 

“I meant it when I said that I felt the need to protect her,” Yoongi slowly admits, and hearing himself saying this out loud, he realises that these are no longer empty words to be spoken.

Especially after what he had learned earlier when he sat down with you, when he listened to you sharing a small part of your life that he couldn’t have known if he had only relied on the intel that his men had previously given him. 

Yijeong gives him a sly grin. “Protect her, by stalking her and acting like a mysterious escort?” he asks again. Only this time, Yoongi can sense his mocking tone softening. 

“When you first told me about it, I had assumed that you would remain in the distance, hidden away as you watch her movements, instead of approaching her directly and going on dates with the innocent girl,” Yijeong continues to question Yoongi as he shifts against the tree that he has been leaning on and moves his arm around. 

Only then does Yoongi notice that his friend has been swinging his short sword lightly by his side. Free from its sheath, the sword glimmers in the dark. The tip has grown stained, making him wonder if Yijeong has been using it as he was strolling through the deep forest. 

A protective magic to cover his trails. A sword on the ready and pointed out as he made it all the way here. 

Something is happening. Yoongi can feel it, and he knows that may have something to do with the reason why Yijeong had decided to come here after finishing his royal duty at the palace. 

But Yoongi merely shakes his head, unable to focus on his friend, nor to try and guess what his friend had been dealing with before he made it here. Not when his mind keeps replaying the conversation that he shared with you. Yijeong’s curiosity of his actions keeps triggering his memory that he can almost hear your voice again, to hear your words, and he can almost picture you being locked up inside the main palace at The Citadel as how you described it in your story. 

No wonder you had been so desperate to step out of the palace. 

And I had been so close, he wonders to himself as realisation dawns on him. As he recalls those long nights when he sent out his men to observe the main palace of The Citadel, only to receive reports about them being kicked back from the territory. As if there was an invisible barrier stopping them from getting too close. 

Within that kind of protection, the King and his men would have been able to protect you from any kind of threat that may come towards the empire. But outside, with nothing more but the spell that had been cast inside your ruby necklace, you are more liable to incoming danger. 

Just like that day in Narlès, when you were almost put to harm as you came across the group of thugs that seemed to have the ability to use dark magic to look past the shielding spell protecting you at the time. 

Sighing, Yoongi shakes his head once again to brush away the thought of you coming into harm’s way. “There are varying factions in play who have set their eyes on the Wicked King at the present time, now that he has gained attention with his empire growing in strength and territory, and human kingdoms seeking alliance with him,” Yoongi says bitterly while growing more and more concerned has he continues, 

“He may have succeeded in hiding the Princess’ existence from his enemies for so long, but if someone like me was able to find her through the magic that she is using to travel around, someone else could be looking the same way. Not only would they be able to trace her, they could use her as a way to get to the Wicked King once they know how important she is to him.” 

Swinging his short sword side to side while looking as if he is deep in thoughts, Yijeong glances sideways at Yoongi. “Of course, you would know, because that was your initial agenda when you followed her, wasn’t it? To use her to get to the King,” Yijeong mockingly says, poking at Yoongi’s deep remorse further, leaving him speechless. 

Yijeong stops talking, and the weapon that he is playing with glows under the streaks of light surrounding them as he lifts it up. “Are you sure that gaining information and protecting her at the same time were the sole reasons why you have been trailing her?” 

The crease in Yoongi’s brows deepens. “What do you mean?” 

Yijeong says nothing at first and continues swinging his sword around the same way he would during his practice routines. Yoongi realises that Yijeong is doing this to help him think, so he remains quiet and waits until Yijeong is ready to share his trail of thoughts. 

After a short while, Yijeong stops playing with his sword and turns to face Yoongi. “I know who she is to you,” he suddenly says, and before Yoongi can say anything to respond, Yijeong continues, “I can tell from the way you’d react whenever I talk about her that she means something more. Not just a means to an end, but something more.” 

“And what would that be?” Yoongi asks in return, trying to see how much Yijeong knows about his well-kept secret. 

The grin on Yijeong’s face widens as he playfully—with a disrespect that should be frowned upon at the empire yet welcomed by Yoongi only because of their friendship—clutches at Yoongi’s shoulder with one hand. His eyes glowed with mirth when he speaks, “Once upon a time, back during the ancient times when fairies were roaming freely in this realm—”

Yoongi groans and mumbles, “Here we go,” not knowing where this is heading, although he does have an inkling of what his friend is trying to say. 

“The Fates had found us all—our ancestors, I mean—valiant, slightly feral and unruly, but it was all because most of us had to roam through the realm without a purpose, without anything to bind us to one place, and most of them, in their lives of solitude, managed to create havoc. So they started to created us in pairs,” he continues on with a light tone while a mixture of dread and unease begins to rise in Yoongi’s chest, for knowing that his connection to you is about to be revealed. 

And yet relief washes over him when Yijeong continues on to say, “The Fates gave each of the ancient fairies their love-mates, to whom a fairy would have their soul bonded with so they could have some place, someone, to come home to after their wild adventures. If only to make sure that order could take place once again in the realm. And that was before our ancestors began building our empire into what it is today.” 

With a deep sigh, Yoongi feels as if the weight on his shoulders being lifted, knowing that the wouldn’t have to keep this fact as a secret for much longer. Seeing the tension in Yoongi’s body fading away, Yijeong nods and takes a step back, releasing him from his hold. 

“That is what she means to you, isn’t it? She’s your love-mate,” Yijeong says. “Your soulmate, if we want to use a present term.” 

Closing his eyes, Yoongi releases a deep exhale of breath and nods. “How did you know?” 

Shrugging, Yijeong sheaths his sword away. “Having a soulmate is a rare thing to happen for the likes of us, especially in the present time. Now that we have order in place, finding someone who is fated to our souls have grown rare,” Yijeong muses with a soft voice. “And we’re not Weres or Vampires who are still destined to have a companion to spend the rest of their immortal lives with, so obviously, that thought never crossed my mind. Until recently.”

Yijeong turns to look straight into Yoongi’s eyes, staring deeply as he speaks with a gentle voice. 

“The night I was out in the slum district of Smotia to search for the runaway mage under your command, you sent out men to track down the source of an unfamiliar mana, you felt from downtown did you not?” he asks, to which Yoongi confirms with a nod. “That was her, wasn’t it? It was the night when I met her at a tavern. Unfortunately, I had to encounter her without knowing this.” 

Yoongi says nothing, so he simply continues, “But she has yet to make contact with magic then, so the only thing that I could gather is that you felt her soul that night, calling out for you for the first time.”

With a bitter chuckle, Yoongi shakes his head. “I keep forgetting how perceptive you can be. I still don’t understand how you managed to put things together when I tried my best not to give it away.”  

Yijeong responds with a scoff. “I’ve been to places, just like you have been, remember?” he grins, causing Yoongi to chuckle. “I’ve seen soulmates recognising one another, and how they were able to find each other through the invisible threads pulling them together. And I’ve seen how these bonds growing and strengthening once they gave in to the connection that was fated for them. It isn’t hard to notice that you are being drawn to her presence the same way, that it wasn’t just the magic that she is using which helps you to find her.” 

Narrowing his eyes at Yoongi, he tilts his head, as if he is trying to get a read of the Crown Prince. “I can tell that the more you spend time with her, as you keep getting close to her, the more you would be able to feel it. Is that also the reason why you have been staying close? Have you been trying to confirm the bond that you have between you?”

Yoongi’s shoulders sag in defeat for the first time. “Again, you are too perceptive for your own good,” he says, drawing a smile on Yijeong’s face as he looks at Yoongi without a hint of guilt in his eyes. If any, the Sergeant of his Empire’s army looks proud of himself for being able to read him. 

“You are partly right, as much as I hate to admit it. I wasn’t sure about the mate bond, thinking that it was nothing more but an old myth that belonged in the past. I didn’t even want to admit it to myself, much less to share this with anyone else. Not until I have everything confirmed and make sure that  

Yijeong leans back against the tree behind him. “When you first told me that Queen Milena had a child, and that the Wicked King may have been hiding her from the world, I had an inkling that there was something more about her that may have caused you to be so invested in finding her, but a part of me refused to believe it.” 

Yijeong squints his eyes as he gauges Yoongi’s reaction, who isn’t giving him much. Not like it would be easy for him to see it anyway, with the bamboo hat shielding his emotions and the dark crawling closer now that the sun is completely gone. 

“I couldn’t put it together until recently, only after I went on that mission to the Werewolf Kingdom, East Hallow, and met this newly mated couple who had hired me because they have been in a bind,” Yijeong continues.  

“And then, of course, the matter that happened with your necklace,” he adds, as his gaze flickers down Yoongi’s chest, right where he knows the necklace would be hanging under the thin shirt that Yoongi is wearing. “The first time she used the portal by herself, your necklace showed a reaction. I thought that it happened simply because your magic reacted to the portal magic that mirrored your family’s, but I know that there is something else affecting it.” 

Yoongi clenches his hands, resisting the need to reach for it as Yijeong continues, “Your amulet was supposed to help you find her, wasn’t it?”

“I hate that you are always right,” Yoongi says as he lifts his head with a deep huff of breath. Carefully, he reaches up to his neck to pull the necklace out of his shirt. The amulet shines in the dark, sprinkles of blue dust coming out of the stone, allowing Yoongi to tell the moment you walk through the portal taking you back home. 

“The amulet—it was imbued by the same magic that was passed on to me by my father. It was supposed to help me track down the source of magic that The Wicked King had kept hidden from us. Obviously, I never thought that she would have access to the magic herself in the King’s absence,” Yoongi explains while he continues to observe the reaction coming out of the necklace, until the blue gleam begins to fade. 

“But the Emperor had placed another spell inside the amulet,” he adds, as his memory takes him back to the Emperor’s chambers, on the day he received the secret mission from his ailing father. “A spell that he once used to track down the Queen, altered in a way that I would be able to make use of it by tracking down the only missing link I may have left to find the Queen.” 

Yijeong nods. “The Princess. Your true soulmate. Which gave you another purpose for you to go through with this mission.” 

Once again, Yijeong surprises him for being able to surmise this much. What Yoongi cannot reveal to Yijeong is that he is right about Yoongi finding a new purpose now after meeting you. 

Thinking about you only reminds him yet again of your story. Picturing you living such a sheltered life before you were finally brought here to the fairy tale realm causes a tight pinch in his chest. 

If only you hadn’t been under the Wicked King’s care, perhaps you could have had so much more. You could have been able to see the world, to experience life the way you deserve it. Instead of having to find it by sneaking out of the palace’s walls and slipping away from the King’s guards with measly disguises protecting you, or by sneaking through the King’s hidden portals just to see the world. 

Recalling the way you looked at your surroundings when he took you on a walk across the meadow today, how your eyes were filled with wonder and joy the whole time, Yoongi hates thinking that you were never given the chance to have it all. 

When Yoongi talked about you finding freedom during your excursion back in the market town, he never could have known how close he was from the truth. He also never expected that you would admit to it so openly once he gave you the opportunity to share a bit of your life. Bot now, after listening to your story, he can’t decide if he should be happy that he had been right about your circumstances, knowing now what kind of life that you have had to endure under the Wicked King’s rules. 

But knowing the truth had only made him feel determined to change that. 

The freedom that you have been yearning so badly in life, Yoongi is willing to give it to you in a heartbeat, to make it possible the moment you allow him to do it for you, to help you escape from the life that you had to remain stuck in because of your family’s secrets. 

Despite the trust that he has for his friend, Yoongi has no idea how much about this fact that he could share. Even with the signs, how his feelings are constantly growing within him, the doubt that he feels about this soulmate bond is still present in his thoughts. No matter how small, it does come in his way of focusing on his true mission for reclaiming the empire’s true glory. 

“Look, I’m not here to stop you from messing around with her,” Yijeong casually says as he straightens up right in front of Yoongi while giving him a slight bow, a gesture that is meant to show respect to the apparent heir of the empire’s throne, which only means that whatever it is that Yijeong might say next would be important enough for him to shed his title as the Crown Prince’s best friend.

The sudden formal stance that Yijeong holds as he speaks only makes Yoongi grow wary. Because despite the calm tone of his voice, Yijeong’s gaze becomes hard when he looks at Yoongi to say, “You’ve been summoned.” 

Swallowing down the uneasiness taking over him, Yoongi lifts his chin to ask, “By who?” 

Yijeong refrains from answering for a moment, which isn’t making things any better. But Yoongi’s unsettling gaze soon makes him waver, and Yijeong has to reluctantly speak up. “The Empress wants to see you.” 

Sighing to himself, Yoongi tries not to be bothered by the news. He had somehow expected that the Empress would one day find a way to bring him home under her terms. Being left in the dark with no power in her hands would have made her feel restless, especially knowing that she no longer has any control of Yoongi as long as he is away from home. 

He shouldn’t worry about the Empress when he has eyes on her even when he is away. But it does make him wonder what the Empress is up to now. 

“Did she say what she wanted?” 

“Only that she wishes to see you. To talk,” Yijeong continues with a small grin. Yet the bitter and unamused tone that he is using when he talks about the Empress’ wicked schemes makes Yoongi grow restless even before Yijeong adds, “She has guests staying at the empire that she wishes you to meet.” 

Something flares in his eyes, and Yoongi’s chest tightens. He doesn’t like seeing that look. Not from him. And Yoongi already knows that he wouldn’t like whatever Yijeong is about to say next.  

Yoongi seethes. His voice is filled with venom when he asks his loyal friend, “Who?” 

“Byron Koshar. The Emperor of the Neo Empire of Kosha.��� Yijeong’s voice is filled with hatred as he mentions the name of their former enemy, and that hatred brings chill running down Yoongi’s spine when his friend continues to say, “And his daughter, Princess Celestyna, the second Princess.” 

— © 2024 Yoonia, all rights reserved. reposting/modifying of any kind is not allowed. unsolicited translations are not allowed.

#yoongi fanfic #yoongi scenarios #k-vanity #btscreaturescoven #bangtanwhq #yoongi scenario #yoongi smut #yoongi angst #yoongi fluff #suga scenario #suga smut #suga angst #suga fluff #yoongi x reader #suga x reader #bts fanfic #bts scenario #bts smut #bts angst #bts fluff #bts x reader

[leclsrc]

we need need neeed a charles variant of the media naranja fic :( just a multiple lives au even just a drabble or a headcanon auds audrey big a please only u do this shit justice

bec this has been rotting and i needed to practice writing :)

divine sense – cl16

Charles is always led back to you. title from this

“Your mole is nice,” he says, cutting himself off and thinking a bit more on his words. “It sits just there, on the corner of your eye.”

“Really? God.” You poke at it, rub over it even if it sits relatively flat and unassuming and a bit tiny. “I’ve always hated it. People mistake it for leftover eyeliner or mascara all the time, and it’s—whatever.”

“It’s pretty.” His gaze could light you on fire and water it down all at once. “It’s one of the first things I noticed about you. Granted, I thought it was a, uh, how you say? Mascara, yes, that flicked off your eye a bit, but now it’s just there. I like it.”

A slow smile creeps its way onto your lips and you bite it back, to no avail. “Thank you.”

“It’s the reason why you look so familiar to me.” My mole? You ask, your head turning to the side a bit. He nods. “I don’t know why, either. I mean, clearly we didn’t know each other then. But something about you—you’ve always felt familiar, I think.”

“I have?” 

The trees are greener in the spring, but they’re thin still, not yet too thick with leaves that will fade into orange and die and fall. It’s perfect, Charles thinks, because then the sun filters perfectly through the green of them and shines through the blinds and onto your face, smiling tenderly and warm and waiting. Your eyelashes cast a shadow across the rest of your face and he could stare forever.

“You have.”

—

“Did you get mascara on your eye?”

“What? Oh. Fuck, no. This—it’s a mole.” You turn quickly to the mirror. “I know, it looks a bit like it, yeah.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.” 

“It’s all good. So, Charles, right?” You reread the application sheet and stretch a hand forward to shake his. “My new roommate… taking up Architecture.”

“Yep.” He smiles proudly, the emblem of your university front and centre on his sweatshirt. “I hope this doesn’t sound weird, but have I met you before? You just look a little familiar. Mole and all.”

“Oh.” Instinctively, you reach up to touch the area on which it sits. “I don’t think so, sorry. Um, but in my Lit class, we did have a discussion about how… like… moles are places where you were kissed in your past life.”

“Oh?” 

“Yeah.” You smile up at him. The fall breeze filters through the open living room window, blowing tendrils of hair over your face that you’re quick to brush away. “Granted, I don’t know who would want to kiss an area like this.”

“You don’t?”

And maybe you’re a bit loopy from the drive, or hungry from waking up early, or maybe not at all. Maybe Charles the college roommate is messing with you, or maybe pulling a prank, or maybe not at all. The sunset today is beginning to tint the room and his pretty face a muted orange and you could stare forever.

“I don’t.”

—

Your first time in Italy is marked by a series of ugly firsts: first catcall, mistranslation, scam, blistered heel. But you make it, despite it all, to your foster family’s farm estate, all old vine-caked buildings and stables and lemon trees. You spot somebody poking their head out of the upstairs window but the mop of hair disappears just as quickly.

The door is answered by Pascale—the one you’d been corresponding with prior to today. With her is her husband, Hervé, and two sons, one of whom is somewhere in the house getting your room tidy, she says apologetically. You’re quick to quell her apology, sated by the ice water and bowl of fruit (Hervé says something about picking them all out himself; Arthur, the younger one, pulls you aside with a boyish smile and says it was actually him.)

“Lorenzo is off at university for summer classes,” Pascale explains when she’s putting the second spoonful of pasta on your plate. “So I am stuck with Arthur here, and Charles. He’s about your age, yes? Twenty-two in October.”

Charles descends into the kitchen talking in rapid Italian to his mom, that only tapers off when he sees you at the table. You smile, dopey, raising a careful hand to wave.

He stares. 

“Vieni a sederti,” Pascale says, pointing to the empty seat beside you. Shyly, he takes a seat and fills up his glass with water—then yours. 

“Oh,” you say. “Thank you.” Your gaze travels to him, and find he’s already looking—at the corner of your eye.

“It’s a mole,” you clarify with a quiet, pretty laugh. “Are you excited to take me around? Pascale says you’re my tour guide.”

“Sure, sure.” He laughs. “Where do you want to go?”

Hervé has played some Italian music on his vinyl, so it’s what scratchily plays through the dining area, accompanied by the scent of garlic and lemon and olive from the trees outside, blowing a gentle breeze through the archway of the house.

You turn away from his green eyes to answer one of Arthur’s questions, peppering chili flakes over your aglio olio to twirl and deposit into your mouth. One red flake stays on your lip and he imagines swiping it off with his thumb. Your eyes meet his again, gaze amused and gentle and Charles could stare forever.

“Anywhere, really.”

—

“Oh, honey,” you whine playfully, letting your husband crowd you against the counter of your kitchen, peppering kisses all over your face. “Missed me that much?”

“You know I did.” He parts from you, and even if he's taller his gaze seems to convey looking up at you, adoration and love crowding his green eyes. A hand caresses your jaw, cheek; his thumb rubs over the corner of your eye. The blank skin there, unmarked, unblemished.

He kisses it. His favorite spot. “I woke up this morning thinking about you,” he says fondly.

“About how I left you in charge of changing Mila while I slept in?” You tease lowly, forehead pressed to his.

“About how in love I am with you,” he says honestly. Your heart pulses. It was never a whirlwind of love for either of you. It was slow, warm, familiar. Hey, you.

Despite that, he means it, you know he does, he’s never failed to show just how much. When he wakes up early to change Mila, or when he takes charge of the stove when you’re sleepy. When he lets you walk him around the winding avenues of Manhattan to get cookies or a good coffee or a better beer. When he watches you sing karaoke tipsily, Billy Joel or The Smiths. The way he memorizes every part of you, the way he knows you. Any and all of the love Charles ever had and ever felt always answered to you. 

Lips meet the corner of your eye again. “You know that? I love you. You changed me. You know that, right?”

You could stay forever, in the dusk of the city, questions suspended in the air to be lovingly answered in the lifetimes to follow. They will come, though. You can stay for now—you’ve done your waiting for a love like this.

You smile. “Right.”

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc drabble

[allwaswell16]

A fic rec of fics that I think should be movies (that are not already movie AUs) as requested in this ask. If you enjoy the fics, please leave the kudos comments and kudos. You can find my other fic recs here. Happy reading!

—Louis/Harry—

✧ Darling, so it goes by @disgruntledkittenface

(E, 195k, royal au) Harry Styles is a world-famous actor at the height of his career but a personal low point when he meets His Serene Highness Prince Louis of Monaco by chance. 

✧ Love After the End of the World by @mercurial-madhouse

(E, 168k, dystopian au) When staying alive is already a constant battle, the deadliest weakness is to be in love. For Harry and Louis, finding each other sits on top of the endless list of What Else Could Go Wrong.

✧ Wild And Unruly by gloria_andrews / @gloriaandrews , @100percentsassy

(E, 123k, farm au) Harry is a cowboy sitting on the biggest oil reservoir in Wyoming, and Louis is the paralegal assigned to pressure him into selling his land.

✧ I'll Fly Away by @juliusschmidt

(E, 122k, small town) Harry and Louis grew up together in Lake County, Harry with his mom and stepdad in a tiny cottage on Edward’s Lake and Louis in his family’s farmhouse a few minutes down the road. But after high school, Louis stuck around and Harry did not

✧ Have Love, Will Travel by @kingsofeverything

(E, 97k, road trip au) Rather than spend the summer working at their desks, Louis and Harry are given the opportunity to crisscross the country together in a tiny camper, filming their adventures for a YouTube series.

✧ Flightless Bird by audreyhheart

(E, 97k, ballet au) AU where Louis Tomlinson is a principal dancer with The Royal Ballet. When his rival from ballet school, moody dance prodigy Harry Styles joins the company, old wounds are reopened and old passions reignited.

✧ Black with Autumn Rain by whimsicule

(T, 93k, magical realism)  Harry is a journalist, Louis has lots of secrets and the moors aren't exactly the ideal place to rekindle a lost romance.

✧ After Dark, After Light by QuickedWeen / @becomeawendybird

(E, 71k, historical) Harry Styles is the laird of Clan Edwards who is just trying to keep his clan afloat when they get word that the Mackenzies have been cutting a swath through the Midlands and beyond, and their sights are set on the northern Highlands next. In an attempt to garner extra protection for his clan, Harry sets out to mend his father's past wrongs and ally with their neighbors to the west, Clan Sutherland.

✧ this charade (was never going to last) by @scrunchyharry

(E, 68k, spy au) As if the whole ‘industrial spy’ business was not stressful enough, Harry found himself in a hatred-at-first-sight relationship with one of his new coworkers, Louis, a man intent on detesting Harry.

✧ Adore You by @isthatyoularry

(M, 66k, historical au) Against his wishes, Harry spends the holidays at his family’s summer estate, and is reluctantly pulled into a courtship he didn’t ask for. 

✧  Unveiled by @phdmama

(M, 60k, a/b/o) There are no robes. And not a single one of them is veiled.

✧  Old Photographs & Times I’ll Remember by @jaerie

(E, 54k, time travel au) A camera, a suitcase, and a relationship forged through time.

✧ Tied Down by HamPalpert / @ham-palpert

(E, 48k, crime au) The most interesting case in Liam and Niall's careers falls directly into their laps, courtesy of an epic fuck-up of one Harry Styles, partner to the almost-infamous drug dealer Louis Tomlinson. 

✧ That’s What I’m Here For by @taggiecb

(E, 46k, farm au) Louis needs help running his business but has no idea where to even start looking. Luckily for him his children know just the man for the job.

✧  Counterbalance by YesIsAWorld / @louandhazaf

(E, 44k, racing au) Harry Styles loves two things: teaching ballet and racing motorcycles. Those two worlds collide when his greatest rival on the track, Louis “Tommo” Tomlinson brings his tiny siblings to Harry’s class.

✧ The Haunting of Louis Tomlinson by @helloamhere

(T, 31k, ghost fic) Louis is a plucky Gothic Heroine, Harry is a Mournful Spirit, and Big Country Houses are full of mystery and suspense, as Big Country Houses ever are!

✧ I Am the Blinking Light by @dearmrsawyer

(G, 19k, ghost fic) There is a legend of a lighthouse far out to sea. It can’t be found on any map, and those who do find it never return. 

✧ No One Like You by myownspark / @myownsparknow

(M, 19k, historical) Where Liam and Niall are art historians discovering the truth about two nineteenth century painters on opposite sides of an artistic divide.

—Rare Pairs—

✧ Untamed Hearts by Layne Faire  / @laynefaire

(E, 68k, Zayn/Liam) In the end, though, it all came down to two meddling friends, a touch of Prince, a bit of Keats, and the moon over the ocean. Its a recipe for disaster. Or love. Probably love.

✧ We Used To Wait by sunsetmog / @magicalrocketships

(E, 56k, Louis/Nick Grimshaw) Louis has an accident, but nobody even knows he and Nick are going out.

#1dficvillage #trackinghappily #trackinghome #hltracks #tracksintheam #1dsource

[the-lonelybarricade]

I've Given You Sunshine - Elucien Oneshot

Lucien VanTree Or; An attempt at a Prythain Little Shop of Horrors AU

CW: Monsterfucking, Tentacle Sex, Blood Drinking, and Violence

A 13k word fever dream as a Halloween treat!

Read on AO3

-

Red and gold leaves crunched underfoot as Elain dashed through the Autumn woods. She was panting—quick, shallow gulps of air that clawed down her throat. She could taste copper on the back of her tongue, but that was the least of her concerns.

Her attention fixed less on the blur of skeletal branches she ducked and weaved around, and more on the furious clop of hooves at her back, stamping and pushing from the dirt with far more power than her aching legs could muster. They were gaining on her too fast.

A river cut haphazardly through the land ahead, where it led down to a nearby farming village. There was no time to turn for one of the bridges. Elain vaulted herself over the edge of the bank, trusting the momentum to carry her past the coursing water.

Not quite. She landed with an inelegant splash in the frigid, waist-deep water, slowing her down as she waded the remaining distance. But it would slow them down, too. And she needed to only buy herself enough time to climb up the bank.

Horses whinnied. Elain turned her head to spy the cloud of dust where the riders had ground their chase to a sudden halt. They dismounted at the same moment she grabbed a fistfull of grass and pulled herself up.

The riders didn’t pursue. They waited at the bank, watching as Elain scrambled to her feet. The air here, on the other side of the bank, felt different. Crisp as the Autumn wood, with none of the rot. She took a heavy exhale, scenting the pollen carried on the wind. Even the breeze itself was different—lighter, more playful, tugging at her long hair as if to say welcome. She smiled, taking a step forward.

Or, rather, she tried to.

Glancing down, Elain could see that below the knee, her right leg was solid wood, sprouting roots into the ground. She stumbled back, losing balance, and as soon as her left foot touched the soil it, too, became rooted. She opened her mouth to scream, but her throat was now hollow. Only the whistling brush of wind was left to convey her horror.

All she could manage was to turn her head, glancing back across the river, her eyes begging for help as her arms sprouted branches and her hair turned to vines. The man leading the pursuit—a tall, lean man with a stern face and long, scarlet hair—only crossed his arms and frowned. Watching, face tightened with disapproval, as Elain’s body turned to living wood and she became one with the earth.

-

Elain sat up in bed, hands flying to touch her face.

Her fingers met the soft flesh of her cheeks. Though flushed and dampened with sweat, she was still human—thank the long forgotten gods.

Scrambling out of bed, Elain padded across the floorboards to pry the rusted latch of her window open. She greedily swallowed the cool, night-kissed air that rushed in, allowing it to soothe the heat still smothering her.

It was a few hours off from sunrise—though Graysen often left before the sky lightened. Elain glanced over her shoulder, towards the empty half of the bed. There was a time in their marriage where she used to wake up beside her husband, but that was before his father had passed away and Graysen inherited the Nolan estate. Now, he slept in the late Lord’s chambers, and she warmed their marital bed alone.

Today, Elain was grateful for it. Graysen would have asked what had frightened her from sleep and Elain did not know how to describe the dream that she’d had, not without courting paranoia from her husband.

What could you possibly have to run from? He would ask, thinking logic would calm her. Why would the fae be chasing you?

“Maybe because I’m married to a faerie hunter,” she muttered, gazing towards the direction of the Wall that separated mortals from the faeries. Not that she could see it. From here, the only wall that Elain could see was the thick iron rampart boarding their land, rising like a black tidal wave on the horizon. So tall that not even the tops of the trees could reach it.

The Nolan estate was built like a prison.

Nesta had said that to her. Once.

At the time, Elain brushed it off. Of course Nesta, with her guarded heart, would look upon the walls surrounding the estate and see a fortress. At the time, Elain chose to see a man dedicating his life to the safety of his family, his village.

“If you spent your life making an enemy of the fae,” Elain said to Nesta, “You would choose to live behind walls as well.”

“And when you marry into Graysen’s family, you will inherit those enemies.”

A frightening thought, but not frightening enough to dissuade Elain from marrying Graysen. Love could do that to a person—conquer not just their fears, but their entire sense of reason. Elain had believed that Graysen would keep her safe, secure.

And, truthfully, he did.

It was everything her sisters dreamed when they’d been living in the cramped cottage of their youth. After so many years of hunger, she no longer worried where her next meal was coming from. Only that she might have someone to share it with. Dinners with her husband did not count. She might as well have been the embroidery on the tablecloth, for all he took notice of her.

That was another thing he’d inherited when his father passed. The Graysen she’d married had been kind, forthcoming. But it was as if some curse had been triggered when Lord Nolan died, as if when he and his father before him had chosen to encase their home iron and rock, they’d accidentally locked away their hearts, too. Graysen’s heartbeat—the heartbeat of the man she loved—was now the faintest echo through the stone. If she held her breath, she thought she could sometimes hear it. Calling to her, begging her to set him free.

From below the open window, the front door creaked its greeting to the night. Elain turned her head, watching curiously as her husband snuck out the front door. He always made an effort to be quiet, unaware that Elain was often awake by this time, roused by the strange dreams that so often plagued her.

Graysen didn’t so much as glance towards her window as he ambled down the front steps of the manor, headed towards the stables where he would mount his horse and rendezvous with the other fae-hunters of the village.

Despite their five years of marriage, Elain had never seen any evidence of her husband’s enemies or the so-called threat of the fae. Every morning, her husband went into the woods armed with iron weapons and ash wood arrows and every evening, he returned with a great tale of heroics and the same number of arrows in his quiver.

Sometimes, she wondered if he exaggerated the danger of the world as an excuse to keep her inside the walls.

That was an ugly thought. One she tried not to think very often, but it loomed, flickering in the back of her mind like the candle she kept on the side of the bed that he no longer slept on. Maybe it was envy that stirred her thoughts bitter—that Graysen had become far more consumed in his hatred for the fae than in his love for his wife.

But if he wanted a pretty wife to stay cloistered behind his mighty fortress while he prowled the woods for an imaginary threat, that was just fine to Elain. She liked the estate best when her husband departed for the morning.

And now that he was gone, she turned from the windowsill to begin dressing.

The land had finished thawing into spring two weeks prior, though the crisp air lingered. Elain took a deep inhale of it as she stepped out through the manor’s large wooden door. Graysen had left for the woods an hour earlier, before the sun peeked open an eye. Now that golden light was breaking past the horizon.

Silver-tipped in morning dew, the long grass glistened beneath the rising sun, swaying as they brushed and splattered against Elain’s skirts. She made an effort to lift them, if only out of consideration to the exasperated housekeeper. Elain’s skirts rarely returned from these outings unscathed—Unlike her husband, who returned from his daily excursion still impeccably dressed.

Birds chittered overhead, singing greetings to each other, to the morning, to their lady, who hummed as she made her way towards the estate’s private woodland, empty basket perched in the crook of her elbow. It was too early in the season for the strawberries she was allegedly on her way to gather, not that anyone in the estate had stopped her. Elain learned early on that if she put the right amount of vacancy into her smile, her husband and his servants would believe that she was simply vapid and misguided, and would indulge her whims so long as they were founded in the barest truth.

Good job, they would tell her when she returned with a handful of under ripe berries. We shall bake these into a pie. Elain would beam and pretend she was nonethewiser when the pie served that evening tasted nothing of strawberries. If her husband was permitted his fictitious fae-hunts, then she was allowed to wander the estate to gather fruit that wasn’t in season.

The still-waking sun disappeared as Elain stepped beneath the canopy of trees. Graysen’s men largely neglected the woodland on this part of the property—it was on the opposite side of the estate from the Wall that severed the mortal realm from the fae, and thus was deemed a much smaller concern. No human could climb the imposing rampart that cut across the woods, and even if they somehow managed to scale the smooth iron and evade the defensive spikes, they certainly wouldn’t survive the fall.

Which was just as well. It meant that Graysen’s men never bothered to pay much attention to the woods on their patrols, and that no one insisted for a guard to accompany Elain. Otherwise, they might have found it imposing how the shadows loomed when the angle of the sun wasn’t quite high enough to scatter through the canopy. At this time in the day, the trees were little more than silhouettes, and Elain, too, became one of the shadows as she weaved through them. Birdsong still drifted overhead, but it was quieter, like they knew something rested here. Something that should not be disturbed.

Yes, it was a fortunate thing that Elain was alone this early in the morning. Otherwise, they might have seen the silhouette lounging comfortably on the low hanging branch of the largest oak tree. A man, with one hand tucked lazily beneath his head, the other casually outstretched toward her. He had one knee crooked, the other following the curve of the tree.

“Good morning,” Elain chirped to the sleeping figure.

He didn’t respond, which was no surprise to Elain. She stepped closer. The underbrush hissed beneath her feet, as if warning her not to come any closer. Gradually, the silhouette became more distinguished—the proud nose and the full lips, the long vines of hair that spilled over his shoulders and onto his strong chest.

She liked coming here in the mornings, before the light hit, because it was when he looked the most human. When the sun rose, it would illuminate the bark of his skin, the twisted wood of his bicep, the hollow of his just-parted mouth. And she would remember that he was just a tree branch with unnervingly human-like features.

“I’m to collect strawberries today,” she told him with a soft laugh. She hoped he would think her excuses to visit him were amusing, too.

The first time she had seen the tree, four years ago, the silhouette of the sleeping man had startled her, and yet—she hadn’t fled.

She’d only called to him, hello? Who’s there?

There had been no response, of course. Save for the small, inexplicable tug in her chest that practically begged her to stay. To go see. Elain could feel that same tug now, once again luring her closer and closer. Sometimes she woke to it, yanking her so violently that she sat up from bed, gasping with the urge to go to him.

It was loneliness, she’d long since concluded. Her husband was inattentive and the tree, for all its silence, was an excellent listener.

“Is this for me?” she murmured, noticing the flower that bloomed from the outstretched branch. The one that attached to his would-be shoulder, stretching towards her like an arm. “How kind of you,” she said, reaching for the stem.

It was not a flower typical of an oak tree. Large pink petals curled away from the bright yellow stamens in the center, dusted with pollen. She cataloged it in her mind, trying to match the shape and colors to the flowers she was familiar with. A camellia, perhaps? Elain could not make sense of how it had grown here. She hesitated, not wanting to hinder the flower’s unusual growth, but she felt the strange tug again.

The leaves of the oak tree rustled.

It’s for you, she swore they whispered to her.

Mouth feeling oddly dry, Elain plucked the flower from the sleeping man’s grasp. As she ducked her head to place it gently in the basket, she could have sworn his smile broadened. But she snapped her head up and those wooden lips were still softly parted from sleep. If she held her breath, she imagined she might hear his steady exhale at any moment.

There was only the wind, dancing through the canopy and batting at her hair.

“Thank you,” she said. To him, or the flower, or the woods, she wasn’t quite sure.

The servants expected her to return with some attempt at picking strawberries, so she set the basket around his would-be wrist.

“You don’t mind holding this for me, do you?” Silence. “Good.”

She hooked the basket around the branch, smiling to herself at the exasperation she could imagine radiating from the tree. Elain knew precisely how frustrating it was to not be able to speak one’s mind. She had endured as much for five years, from the moment her husband returned from the woods until they parted for the night in their separate bedrooms.

“My mother used to tell us a story,” Elain said, idly searching the nearby brambles for berries. “I’d nearly forgotten it, but last night it came back to me in a dream. Do you mind if I tell you?”

After a moment’s pause, Elain felt compelled to explain, “I’m not allowed to speak of these things, you see. Not in this estate. You’re the only person I can share it with.” She slowly lowered herself to the dirt floor, squinting through the darkness to search the brambles in front of her. “Last night I had a dream that I was running through the woods. Something was chasing me, something dangerous.” Elain shuddered as she recalled those menacing amber eyes. “I knew I had to get to where it’s safe, that I needed to cross the river. But once I did, my legs turned to wood, and my hair to leaves. And when I woke up, I remembered a story that my mother used to tell us—that if you crossed into Faerie without permission, the land would trap your soul in a tree as punishment, keeping you for eternity. I think it’s a story meant to stop children from wandering too close to the Wall, but I wondered if that might have been what happened to you.”

She glanced up considerately, studying the man’s relaxed posture. “You don’t look like you were running from something, though. And the only place you would have been trespassing was the Nolan estate. They prefer pointy weapons to curses.”

Dawn was creeping through the forest, now, breaking past leaves and timber to cast the sleeping oak tree in shafts of gold. The male features faded again into wood—knots and curves and slits that seemed far more natural beneath the light of day.

This was usually when the embarrassment set in for talking to a tree like it was truly a man. And after her mother’s bedtime story had resurfaced, Elain felt doubly foolish for hoping that it held some kernel of truth. That magic was truly capable of turning someone to solid oak.

With five green strawberries in hand, Elain lifted to her feet and deposited them into the hanging basket. As she lifted her arms to unhook the handle, prepared to return to the manor where she would spend the rest of the day convincing herself that she wasn’t some sad, delusional girl making friends with trees to soothe her lonely heart, she noticed something in the filtered light that she’d missed earlier.

Nestled in that outstretched branch, like it was being held in offering, was a small round seed. Elain’s hand retreated from the basket. She carefully picked up the seed, holding it to the light so she could examine it closer. It was slightly larger than her thumb, with a small green sprout already budding from its splintered side. An oak seed? Elain didn’t think so. It was too early in the year. There were no other seeds on the ground to compare it to, and it lacked the distinctive cap-like shape of an oak seed. From its size, larger than the width of her thumb and equal in length, it had to have come from a tree of some description.

Pursing her lips, Elain added the seed to her basket before slinging the handle into the crook of her elbow.

“Thank you for the gifts,” she said, because it always felt rude to leave without saying something in departure. “And for lending me your ear. I hope you enjoy the rest of your nap.”

She turned, quickly enough that she questioned why she was embarrassed at all. It’s not like the tree could witness that she was talking to it like a person. And if it could, then there was no cause for embarrassment at all. Even so, she continued walking, not daring to glance over her shoulder.

Even when she swore she could feel a pair of warm eyes laughing quietly at her back.

-

Elain spent the remainder of the day crouched in the flowerbed outside her window. The early spring meant the perennials were already regrowing—poppies and peonies and daylilies that would soon become a vibrant mesh of colors, though for now they were a cluster of green leaves and budding stems. Even the foxglove she had planted two years prior was beginning to grow back. She’d gasped when she’d seen the small stalk rising between the rosette of large, downy leaves. Legend whispered the plant only flowered when the fae were present, and when they had not flowered last year, Elain had decided anything associated with the fae simply wouldn’t grow on the Nolan estate.

But if the foxglove could bloom on inhospitable land, then she hoped that meant the seed from the sleeping oak could, too. She planted it in the soil beneath her window, where she could easily monitor its growth. If it was a tree, there was a chance it would not reach adulthood in her lifetime. Oaks could grow for centuries, she knew, and she wondered how long the oak in the forest had sat on this estate. Had it existed before Graysen’s family claimed this land, before the humans and faeries were separated?

Maybe it had known a time when the fae owned the whole of Prythian.

“Lady?”

Elain turned her head. A servant stood behind her on the stone-slab garden path, offering a strained smile. “The Lord will soon be returning from his hunt. Would you like to have a bath?”

The servant’s eyes flickered to Elain’s soil-covered hands. The servants were well aware that Graysen didn’t like to see dirt beneath Elain’s fingertips. He claimed it was unbecoming of a Lord’s wife, that his mother’s hands were always pristine, uncalloused. He never mentioned the bruises that once decorated his mother’s skin. Neither did Elain.

But in their silence, those violent memories lingered. Elain could see it—in the careful distance the servants kept when Graysen was in the same room, in how they jumped when he stood up too quickly. And now, in the shadow that passed over the servant’s eyes as she examined Elain’s dirty hands while they defiantly gripped a pair of iron shears.

Elain understood the wariness in those eyes, even as she restrained the urge to insist that Graysen was not his father. He had never raised a hand to Elain. And despite his judgment of it, Graysen let her garden. So long as Elain was clean by supper.

“Just one moment,” Elain said. She was trying to prune back a rose bush to ensure the seed would have ample room for growing. Using her free hand to position the rose stem, Elain resolved to cut back just one more before she returned to the task tomorrow.

Perhaps it was her awareness of being watched, but as Elain cut the stem from the root system, her sure grip faltered, and she winced as a rose thorn sliced against her skin. She snapped her hand back with a sharp hiss.

“Are you alright, lady?”

An innocent, well-meaning question. But Elain feared the servant would report back to Graysen, who would claim she was too ill-equipped for gardening. Recently, he’d been pushing for Elain to take up playing his mother’s harpsichord instead of spending her time in the flower beds.

“I’m fine,” she said, staring at the welling blood in her palm. She squeezed her hand into a fist in an attempt to hide the wound from sight. “It’s just a small cut.”

The servant didn’t look convinced, but she politely ignored the blood dripping down Elain’s wrist, splattering into the soil below. “Let’s get you cleaned up inside.”

Elain’s shoulders slumped, but seeing as she needed to clean the wound before it became infected from the soil, she obediently followed the servant back into the house. It didn’t occur to her to glance over her shoulder. Why would she? The gardening tools would be collected by a servant, or otherwise left for her to find tomorrow.

And the blood would already be soaking into the earth, undetectable by morning.

-

Elain was running through the forest again.

Light burst through the gaps in the trees and smeared the passing leaves in the honey gold of the rising sun. There was nothing pursuing her—aside from that light breaking at her heels. But it moved altogether much slower than the men and the horses, more like the slow drip of thawing ice, creeping steadily through the waking, lethargic earth surrounding her. She managed to evade its touch as she wove deeper into the woods, where wide tree trunks guarded the shadows and morning fog.

Here, she was welcomed. Embraced, as the shadows folded around her, concealing her for however long the trees could ward off the light.

Elain knew this place. It was a different woods than the one she fled in her dreams.

And she knew the sleeping man cradled on the branch of a sturdy oak.

He sat up, cutting a familiar figure through the wafting mist and shade, though she had never seen the full shape of his shoulders. Never seen his head tilt, as though in recognition.

She stopped running.

Her bones cried in protest at the sudden loss of momentum. She stumbled, betraying a single step as everything in her body, in her blood and bones and every ravaging breath, fought to hurdle her forward.

Through all these years of running, had she always been fleeing towards him?

“Elain,” he said.

His voice was…

Elain shut her eyes as that rich voice wrapped around her, evoking images of a crackling hearth and sun-warmed apples and the buttery sunlight that kissed her shoulders in summer. It did not match this place, this nestle of darkness.

“Who are you?”

The figure shifted back, as if affronted by her question. He was so alive here, his hair spilling over his shoulder, moving with every subtle shift of his head. She wouldn’t risk moving closer to discover whether he was still mounted to the oak.

“You know who I am,” he said.

Then he leapt from the branch.

Even the leaves beneath his feet whispered their astonishment, rustling as he walked around her in a wide arc. His movements weren’t stiff or rigid, as she might have expected from someone who had been embedded in wood not a day prior. Each fluid, calculating step made her feel more as though she were being circled by a mountain lion.

A dormant instinct was screaming at her to run. And not away from him.

He maintained a careful distance, keeping his features obscured in shadow. But he could walk. He could talk.

“Granted, you don’t know my name,” he said. “But I’m what greets you every morning, what calls to you at night.”

“A faerie,” she whispered.

There was no other explanation.

He paused, inclining his head. “Are you afraid?”

“No.”

Elain knew was a fool not to be, moreso to admit it outloud, lest he perceive her composure as a challenge.

“Good,” he said, sounding sincere. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

Elain swallowed. She didn’t know how, but she could feel the truth of it, taste it on her tongue as she whispered, “I know.”

She thought he might have been fighting a smile as he added, “You are the one who sought me out tonight. For a married human, you seem to have fascinating difficulty with staying away from me.”

Absently, she pressed her fingers to her ribs, feeling for the phantom tug that had initially drawn her into the woods.

“What’s your name?” She blurted.

This, too, seemed to delight him. “Lucien.”

Her heart constricted. She mouthed it—Lucien—searching her memory for any person she’d known in passing. Any story or myth or whispered rumor in the village. His name was so familiar it could have been her own. And yet, she’d never heard it spoken until this very moment.

“You’re a… tree faerie?”

“Presently,” he said, voice dripping with a wry humor she did not understand. She took it this was not his usual form.

“What are you doing on the Nolan estate?”

“You have a lot of questions, lady.” Though she could not see his eyes, she could feel them trailing over her. Heat prickled over her skin, and she shifted, struck with the awareness that she was in nothing but her sheer nightgown. “Allow me to ask you one in exchange.”

Elain nearly agreed, before Graysen’s warnings clawed at the back of her mind. Never tell a faerie your name. Never eat their food. Never agree to a bargain.

“I don’t make deals with faeries,” she said.

“Why’s that?”

“Y-you…” She stumbled over her words, only realizing at this moment that Graysen had never truly explained why. The children’s rhymes were vague, the stories all exaggerated—peering at this faerie, she saw no claws that could strip her to ribbons, no rows of teeth to grind her to dust. If he wanted to eat her, he surely would have gone about it sooner. “Because you’re experts at crafting clever words and exploiting loopholes. You’ll trick me into agreeing to more than I intend.”

Lucien laughed, soft as the wind swirling through the trees. It carried towards her, brushing against her neck, teasing goosebumps that rippled down her spine. “It’s true we excel at tricking the common human fool,” he conceded. “But I expect you and that sharp mind will not be so easy to trick.”

He would be the first to hold that opinion.

Elain yielded a step to that deep, intrinsic pull. He took a sharp breath, holding himself still as she took another. And another. It was all there—the nose and mouth and jaw that she’d always felt the strangest temptation to run her fingers along. In the dim light, she swore that was flesh on his cheek, the color of brown oak, but now soft and smooth and warm if she dared to venture close enough to touch it.

Did she dare?

“What’s your question?” She asked, stopping an arm’s distance away.

He considered her for a long moment before he asked, softly, “Are you happy?”

The thrall that tugged her was severed abruptly. Elain took a sharp breath, like she’d been smothered in icy water and the cold had only just broken through the numb. She knew the honest answer, and she knew how to split it from her words, leaving behind a carcass of the truth. She’d been letting her shadow speak for years, and this was no different.

“I am a Lord’s wife,” she said. “I am never cold, never hungry. I have endless time to garden. How could I deny that I have every comfort?”

“Every comfort but love,” he said quietly.

The ice in her chest splintered. Cracked. From the way he said it—not with anger or pity, but with a bleak sort of understanding—she wondered if what beat inside his chest wasn’t a mirror to hers.

She hadn’t married Graysen because he was a lord’s son. She had never cared about the money, not really. Her family had been wealthy once, too, and she’d enjoyed the comforts, the parties, the clothes. But when their family lost their wealth and they’d been impoverished, she had not mourned the luxuries as much as the friends she had lost, who’d pretended they did not know her. And during those years in the cottage, even with the hunger and cold, things had never felt so unbearable with her sisters and father always close by. Somehow, despite the nights she’d shivered in bed with her sisters, those years were colored in her memory with far more warmth than her time at the Nolan estate. And she found she missed them, longed for them.

She supposed that without love, every lavish comfort felt meaningless.

“I’ll ask you again, Elain. Are you happy?”

Maybe not presently. But that didn’t mean the path was barred to her, that she might never find happiness again. She reasoned, “I might have children one day. They will love me.”

This time, Lucien was the one to take a step forward. “What if I could offer you a husband who would love you? Who could give you every comfort, and as many strong, healthy children as you so desired?”

Elain thought that the promise sounded familiar. Graysen had promised to love her, too.

“I suppose you’re referring to yourself.”

His final step planted him right at her feet. She could not resist lifting a hand to his chest, awed by the heat he emitted and the steady beat under her palm. The same as any other heartbeat, she supposed, and yet she heard the echo of it in her ears, like she was finally unlocking the rhythm to a melody she’d sung all her life, never quite right.

Until now.

The world tilted and sunlight burst past the treeline, filling the space around them. She could see the rise and fall of his chest beneath her touch. He was unclothed, revealing every inch of smooth, human skin that practically glowed against the light haloing his back.

Exacting a great deal of restraint, Elain tipped her chin up, and found her head emptying of every thought as she glimpsed his face for the first time in the full light. She had always known his features were handsome, as a tree. But now, in the flesh, he was the most beautiful man—male—she had ever laid eyes on.

Mischief sparked in the russet and gold eyes that watched her.

“Would you deny me, if I was?”

Yes, she thought. She should. But she was finding it hard to form sentences as he stared at her, radiant as the gods they had surely once worshiped.

“I wonder.” He gripped her chin and leaned forward, his scarlet-silk hair falling against her cheek. He whispered, “Do you hesitate because I’m fae or because you are already married?”

His breath ghosted over her lips. Elain licked them, hopeful there might be some lingering taste of him there. She did not miss the way he laughed, a soft caress of air against her face. Or how his eyes darkened.

Elain managed to find her voice long enough to answer, “Because I am uncertain if this is a dream. Are you real, or will I wake tomorrow to find that you are a tree, and I am again a lonely creature inventing you in my mind?”

“This is a dream and I am very, very real.” He laid a large hand over the one she braced against his chest and guided it down. Over hard, coiled muscle. “Would you like me to demonstrate how real I am, Elain?”

She could not remember the last time Graysen had kissed her and meant it.

This was just a dream, wasn’t it? It would carry no weight over into the real world. She could indulge in the fantasy of him and know that when she woke, he would be just a tree in the woods. And she could finally feel warm again, if only for the night.

“Kiss me,” she whispered.

He was already halfway there, his thumb propped beneath her jaw, tilting her face higher. Their eyes met as he leaned in, as their breaths mingled. He paused when their lips were centimeters apart.

“Only you can wake me,” he said.

Then he surged forward, kissing her before she could ask what he meant. And the second his lips slotted over hers, she decided it hardly mattered. He groaned, a gratified noise that lit a fire in her blood. She’d forgotten what it felt like to be wanted, desirable.

Lucien banded an arm behind her back to bring her closer, so their bodies were completely flush. The material of her nightgown was thin, leaving her completely exposed to the heat flooding against her, blazing in every place they touched.

Her mouth parted open for him, an offering which he greedily accepted. His tongue swept into her mouth, and she moaned, relishing the taste. Was this what they meant, when they spoke of the intoxicating fae wines? She felt drunk, her head spinning, as she clawed blindly at his back, his hair, needing him closer.

Lucien indulged her by grabbing her hips and hoisting her up without breaking the seal of their lips. Her legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, not caring that her nightgown was riding up, or that his hands were creeping beneath it.

She liked this angle, she thought with a contented sigh. There was more of him to explore—the broad shoulders she wrapped her arms around, the strong muscles of his back that flexed and shuddered beneath her nails. But her favorite of all: his erection, pressed deliciously between her thighs.

“Oh,” she gasped, as she moved curiously against it and felt his arousal grow in answer.

He made a rough noise in the back of his throat that sounded vaguely like a laugh, already knowing what she had just discovered—that he was obscenely large, and that she was already wet where she was rocking her hips against his.

Not to be outdone, Lucien threaded his fingers through her hair, creating a handle from her locks that he could pull until she arched her neck, her back, her entire being into him. With a low hum of approval that churned low and warm in her blood, he brought his mouth to her throat, teasing her skin with playful nips as he used the new angle to grind his hips harder.

Elain was panting, utterly lost to the rhythm as she swore she’d never felt anything so good, so right, so—

Rough tree bark scraped against her back. She hadn’t realized Lucien had been walking them backward until he flattened her against the oak tree she visited every morning, an extension of his body once again as he trapped her between the harsh wood and his warm skin. She didn’t care about the sting, not as he tore her undergarments away and braced each of her knees beneath his elbows so he could open her legs wider, push himself closer.

She was pinned under his body, unable to move and entirely content not to.

“Could we have been doing this all along?” she whispered.

“No,” he said, that smooth, deep voice now guttural. “No, only tonight. I needed—fuck,” he hissed, cutting himself off as he guided his hips forward enough that his cock slipped over the seam of her cunt, gliding and covering himself in her arousal.

When his thick head nudged against her clit, Elain pressed her tongue to the back of her teeth, trying—and failing—to contain the whine building in her throat.

“Elain,” he sighed. With no gods to celebrate in the human realm, it was the closest thing she’d ever heard to prayer. He dropped his head to her shoulder, leaving a trail of kisses that started tender, before he followed the slope of her neckline. Somewhere between the valley of her breasts, his touches became frantic. Feverish.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for you,” he said, his words muffled in her chest and nearly lost to her soft, hitching whimpers. He was still rubbing his cock against her, offering just enough friction to leave her frazzled in sharp, aching pleasure. His mouth closed over one of the nipples poking through her nightgown, and she cried as he lashed the sensitive bud with his tongue.

Her body felt ignited. Burdened with light and heat and pleasure, building the more he touched and licked and tasted her. She needed more, even if she wasn’t sure if she could survive it, if what she yearned would destroy her in the process.

“Please,” she whispered, tugging his hair in an attempt to lift him off her chest.

He complied, raising his head to meet her eyes. And offered her a slow, utterly male grin. “Please, what, lady? You want me to put you on my cock, is that it? Fuck you against the tree?” He flashed his teeth at her silent nod. “Say it.”

Elain scrambled for the part of her brain still capable of forming sentences. “L-Lucien, please—”

She watched his eyes shutter at his name. If he intended for her to say the rest, he didn’t give her a chance to. Instead his mouth slammed against hers, smothering her voice alongside the grunts of pleasure vibrating in the back of his throat.

The kiss was claiming, mostly teeth and tongue and she lost herself to it, melting into his touch as he repositioned their hips and finally aligned himself against her entrance. Despite his frenzied touches, Lucien was surprisingly gentle as he pushed his hips forward.

It had been years since Elain lost her maidenhead, but it had also been months since Graysen last visited her bedroom. And even so, Lucien was thicker than she was used to. She winced at the stretch and he stilled, giving her a moment to adjust. She clung to him, breathing heavily around his lips and tongue. Aware, with every rapid rise and fall of his chest, that he was doing the same.

He forged another inch, breaking their kiss for a sharp exhale as her body clenched in protest. She’d never felt so full, and he only pushed further—in and in, demanding more space than she’d thought possible.

“You’re doing so well for me,” he whispered, pressing their foreheads together. His eyes were blazing, holding her still as he thrust the rest of the way, forcing her body to take it.

Elain left out a soft cry, stranded between the discomfort and the confounding rightness settling around them like a blanket. Sunshine poured over his back, against her face, and she wondered what he saw as his lips parted open, and he ground into her slowly, watching every shift in her expression in unrestrained reverence. “You were made for me, Elain.” He kissed her slow, soft. “My sweet, beautiful mate.”

“Mate?” she repeated.

His eyes glazed a bit.

“Mate,” she said again, watching the way it stirred him, how his whole body shuddered and his eyes became half-lidded in desire. He mouthed the word back at her—my mate.

She didn’t know what it meant, not fully.

She did know that when he thrust his hips forward, and his cock dragged against a spot inside her that had her vision erupting into stars, that her whole body—every part of it that could move, that wasn’t held open by him—curled forward, around him, chanting inwardly: mate, mate, mate.

It was too much and not enough and just right, and she thought she might truly be torn apart by his slow, steady dismantling. Their hips flush, he ground against her, against that spot, intent on seeing her unravel in his arms. Elain’s head lulled back against the tree, not caring if the rifts in the bark caught at her hair, clawed at her back.

Lucien bowed his head to kiss her neck as he continued canting his hips. “That’s it, Elain,” he said, feeling her walls flutter on his cock. He bit her neck, and she felt his smile warm her skin when she keened. “Does your husband know that you like being fucked in the woods? In the dirt?”

“No,” she managed to choke through her cries. Fire licked up her spine, uncontrollable, insatiable. She could feel herself teetering on an edge as a golden light wound tight in her chest, coiling until it hurt.

She couldn’t breathe as Lucien said, “I’m the only one who can give you what you want, Elain. Who can make you happy.”

“Yes,” she babbled, “Yes, yes, yes.”

His thrusting picked up pace, velocity, punching the air out of her lungs. All of her awareness narrowed to that golden light, banding and tighter with each decadent drag of his cock.

“You’re my mate,” he said.

“Yours,” she gasped. “Yours, Lucien—”

Then he was kissing her again, like he couldn’t stand breathing air anymore. She felt her inner walls tighten around him as that pleasure built to unsustainable height, and then she was drowning in him, wrecked—utterly devastated by every touch as she forgot the world around her. Forgotten anything had ever existed before him, that anything would exist after.

There was only Lucien. Lucien and that light threading them together, yanking her over the edge. She thought she might have been screaming, chanting his name—or maybe he was. His thrusting faltered into deep, erratic grinds that kept their bodies flush, preventing any air space from invading their connection as the world fractured and rebuilt around them.

She couldn’t say for certain how long they stayed like that. Frozen, apart from the slow movement of their lips. Their bodies were a permanent addition to the forest, another branch of the oak tree.

“Forget about the plant,” he said, once he finally found the strength to sever his lips from hers.

Elain already wished he would forget about speaking and just kiss her again. “What?”

He kissed her forehead. “Let it die,” he instructed. “It was enough to have this.”

She blinked, not understanding what he meant. But before she could demand clarification, before she could memorize his face or the feeling of his body pinned against her, the sun rose high enough to break through her window pane.

And she sat up, gasping, in bed.

-

The window in Elain’s bedroom was open.

That was the first thing she noticed, as the world slowly reoriented, and she was reminded that she was in her bedroom. That she had gone to sleep with the window closed, that she had a terribly vivid dream, and that now the window was open, inviting cold air that she was not quite ready to confront.

Just a heartbeat ago, she’d know warmth beyond any blanket or hearth or raging forge.

Now, her fingers were ice as she pressed them to her flushed cheeks.

The sunlight pouring into her bedroom was a strange sight. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept past sunrise, the last time she hadn’t jolted awake from her nightly terrors. Graysen would have long since departed for the day. Would the servants think it was odd that she had slept in, too? Or would they be grateful that their lady was at last keeping herself inside? Well, not for much longer.

Elain dressed quickly, throwing on clothes without much thought. The servants spared her odd looms as she rushed through the house and out the door, but she didn’t care about those, either.

It was unusually cold today. Or perhaps that was still the remnants from her dream scrambling her perception of warmth. Everything would feel cold in comparison to Lucien’s touch. But the breath clouding in front of her face as she stepped into the forest—that told her it was not just her heart playing tricks on her mind. The air grew colder, heavier, as she wove the familiar path through the dense thicket. Birds chittered overhead, unfettered by the cold or the rustling wind.

The ancient, silent oak waited for her in its usual position. As a whole, it looked unchanged. Its roots dug deep into the earth, splitting in various directions, many of them spanning wide enough to reach Elain where she paused several yards away.

Sunlight poured proudly through the canopy, dashing any chances of seeing the familiar silhouette. It was always harder to see in the daylight, but she swore as she squinted at the lowest hanging branch, that the human profile was gone. No notches in the branch that could mark a nose or mouth, no offshoot for his tucked arm or crooked knee.

Lucien wasn’t here.

Had she imagined him entirely?

She ran her fingers over the curve of the branch like he might emerge from her touch. Coarse bark scratched her fingers in answer. She listened for the whisper of leaves and when she heard nothing, she called for him.

“Lucien?”

Nothing.

Clinging to the impossibility of it, Elain stumbled through the woods, searching every tree as she called his name. He’d walked in her dreams, she rationalized, what was to say he hadn’t simply walked out of the forest? It was more conceivable than having made up his silhouette. She had traced those perfect lips too many times with her eyes to believe that they were an illusion.

When there was no sign of him in the forest, she returned to the house, thinking maybe he had left in search of her. Maybe they were simply on opposite sides of the estate, searching for each other.

“Lady!” A servant gasped as Elain rounded a corner too quickly, nearly colliding with the poor woman holding a pile of folded sheets.

“Apologies,” Elain said with a hand pressed to her chest, pretending that her racing heart was from the fright.

“Is something the matter?”

“No, not at all,” Elain rushed, though she knew she must have looked a mess. Flustered and red-cheeked and half-delirious.

“Let me get you some tea, lady,” the servant said, placing the sheets aside. “You look as if you’ve been terribly frightened. Was it the tree in the garden? The Lord was worried it would startle you.”

“The…” Elain allowed the servant to place a delicate, guiding hand on her back. “The tree in the garden—”

“Frightening isn’t it?” the servant cooed sympathetically. They turned down the hall into the kitchen, and Elain numbly sat at the kitchen table while the servant took to boiling a pot of water. “We all swear it cropped up out of nowhere. And with the foxglove blooming around it…” she glanced over her shoulder, face pinched in concern as she studied Elain. She pursed her lips. “Well, it’s an unsettling omen to say the least.”

“Tis,” Elain said, numbly. She was glancing toward the window overlooking the garden. From her vantage point, all she could see were the artfully trimmed hedges and the stone and mortar exterior of the house.

Bubbling water stole her attention back to the kitchen. She watched the servant ladle several spoonfuls of hot water into the prepared teapot, steam now billowing from its stout. “Here you are, lady,” the servant said, placing the pot and a cup before her. She curtsied. “Please, take as much rest as you need.”

She said nothing else before scurrying from the room, returning to whatever task Elain had interrupted. Only once the door firmly shut behind her, and the sound of footsteps retreated down the hall, did Elain stand up from the table and cross the room to the window.

Across the garden, she could see the flower beds she was working on the day before. The peonies and poppies and daylilies still blooming, the rose bush pruned back. As the servant had mentioned, the foxglove—which yesterday had barely been a stalk peeking out of the rosettes—bloomed in vibrant pillars of blue and purple. Situated between those pillars of foxglove, there was a tree unlike any she had seen before.

Tea on the table forgotten, Elain dashed for the door to the garden.

“Lucien?” she called.

If there were any servants close enough to overhear, Elain didn’t pay them any mind. All she could see was the tree rising from the ground—a familiar torso flexing upwards, one arm skyward and the other behind his neck, as if he were stretching out of a yawn. His head was tilted back, exposing the column of his throat, face basking in the sun like he hadn’t felt it upon his skin in years.

She supposed, tucked away within the shaded forest, he wouldn’t have.

Now within earshot, she pitched her voice lower. “Lucien?”

He did not move when she called. No twitch of muscles, no ripple of emotion across his face. If he could not move like he had in her dream, there was no explanation for how he was here.

Aside from the seed she had planted the day prior.

Elain glanced at the soil he emerged from. The shears from yesterday were exactly where she had left them, and as she opened her palm, she could see the puncture from the rosebush.

Curiosity getting the better of her, Elain dodged around the foxglove to study the back of the tree. Predictably, he was naked in this form. It was while she was admiring his beautiful backside that she noticed his roots sprouting into the earth. They managed to tear her eyes away from his muscular form as she noticed they spread to the edge of the house—and up, under and over the trellis, artfully obscured by the hanging wisteria, leading all the way up to her bedroom window.

She hid a smile as she recalled the open window. “So it wasn’t all a dream?”

No answer, of course. She ran a finger up his spine anyway.

Humming, she asked coyly, “Can you feel what I do to you in this form?”

In case he could, Elain brushed her lips along his neck, just to give him a reason to visit her dreams again. She didn’t linger, aware the servants were wary of the tree and were likely monitoring it. Would they tell Graysen she’d touched it?

“My husband’s paranoid,” she told him, stepping away from his figure. Giving herself an excuse to stay in his proximity, she sat in front of the rosebush to resume her task of pruning. He’d need the room at any rate. “If I’d know you’d grow where I planted the seed, I would have chosen somewhere more… subtle.”

Could he will it, she wondered? Or had he been forced to grow at Elain’s whim? She had so many questions, and was becoming increasingly frustrated there was no way to probe him for answers. She should have demanded more from him last night, but she had been too distracted by his—

She yelped as something brushed against her inner thigh. She swatted, thinking it was a bug, only to find it coil around her leg in retaliation. Elain moved to shoot to her feet, to flee, but her other leg became ensnared faster than she could react. She squirmed against her restraints, but found them ironclad. Pulling up her skirts, Elain saw it was vines chaining her to the earth. Firm, smooth to the touch, impossible to snap no matter how hard she clawed and tugged.

Elain turned, throwing a scowl toward the kneeling tree. She swore his smile had not looked so smug before.

“Lucien,” she said sternly, “I—”

Her words trailed off as one of the vines climbed higher up her thigh, sweeping lazy circles along her inner thigh. Her breath caught. Encouraged, the vine creeped higher, until it teased at the seam of her underthings.

A reluctant moan broke from her lips, but Elain shook her head. “Not here, Lucien.” A flush crawled up her cheeks at the mere thought, the scandal, of letting another man—male—tree—whatever—touch her in the garden where anyone could see.

The vines twining around her thighs forced them to spread wider, bearing her to his seeking touch under her skirts. Elain fell forward onto her palms, digging her fingers into the dirt trying to hunch with the illusion of working in the flowerbeds while she caught her breath, steadied herself.

“Is this revenge?” She demanded. “For a small kiss on the neck?”

As if in answer, Lucien swatted her cunt. Elain’s entire body bowed forward. Her thighs flexed against her restraints, trying to close her legs, but they remained pried open. The vine soothed away the sting with slow, decadent circles over her clit.

Elain sank her teeth into her bottom lip. Could he feel through the vines how wet she’d become already? Against her better judgment, Elain rocked her hips forward, encouraging the vines to increase their pace. Lapping and flicking and circling her clit until she felt drunk on the friction.

“Lucien,” she gasped, swallowing down a moan. She grappled at the dirt, feeling it come away in clumps as the pleasure overtook her. She was aching, lost in visions of how he’d pinned her to the tree in her dreams.

The vine snuck beneath her underthings, slicking itself through her arousal so it could slip easier against her skin. She gasped as it toyed at her entrance before refocusing at her clit, repeating the pattern again and again, until she felt frayed, like a dancer atop a music box whose winding key had been twisted too far.

“Please,” she whispered to the earth. “Please, Lucien, I—”

Elain held her breath as the vine dipped to her cunt again, this time taking mercy by sliding inside. She nearly sagged in relief, feeling her body clench around the intruding object, filling her pleasantly as it dragged against the same cluster of nerves he’d discovered last night.

She gasped, cradling a babble of words on her tongue—please, yes, more, Lucien. As she was nearing the precipice, the vines stilled inside her. At first, she thought, to tease, but then—

“Elain?”

She turned her head, barely containing her horror at the sight of her husband, face drawn tight from where he stood before the tree.

“Graysen!” The vines kept her rooted to the ground, one of them still inside her, moving just so. Enough that Elain had to swallow her moans, though her lips remained parted, her breathing far from even. “You’re back from your hunt already?”

“We didn’t go very far today,” he said. If he noticed her cheeks were unusually bright, he didn’t comment. His eyes slid over her entirely, as they usually did, in favor of scowling at the tree. “Did you plant this?”

What was the right answer? She couldn’t think beyond the vine writhing inside her, or the second one that had appeared to rub her clit in tandem. Tears sparked behind her eyes from the pure frustration of keeping her voice from trembling.

“I did,” she said. “I found the seed on the estate. Pretty, isn’t it?”

“It wasn’t here yesterday,” he said, as if he were debating stabbing it.

“I’ve been—” her breath hitched, drawing Graysen’s attention to her face. She plastered on her best vacant smile, trying not to shift her hips as she took a heavy swallow. “I’ve been pruning back the roses. Maybe it was just a bit obscured before?”

This answer subdued him enough to turn his head back toward the tree. He stalked forward, leaning to study Lucien’s face with a severe frown. “None of the servants recall seeing it.”

“I’m out here every day,” she said. Lucien flicked her clit and her entire body shuddered. Desperate, she reached over and grabbed one of the rose stems, squeezing to fight the pleasure back with sharp, blistering pain.

“And the foxglove?”

“I planted that two years ago,” she said, weakly now. She withdrew her wounded hand, cradling it in her lap. “It’s a biennial plant.”

She wasn’t certain he knew what that meant, but he didn’t demand clarification. He only offered her a subdued hmm, before turning on his heel and walking back into the house.

“Lucien!” she hissed, the second he was gone.

The vines uncoiled from her thighs, and she stood up, drawing her bleeding hand protectively to her chest. The vines pawed at her, distressed.

She kicked at them. “We could have been caught!”

One of them snatched her skirt, pulling her towards his kneeling figure. The sight of his handsome face subdued some of her temper. With a sigh, she placed her uninjured hand on his cheek. “I need to go inside and clean this up.”

But the vine was still nudging at her skirt, saying, Don’t go.

“I have to.”

Not yet.

She swore his lips parted open. For a kiss? Her eyes darted to his mouth, then to her bloody hand. And it was only then that she remembered the cut she’d received yesterday, how it had dripped into the earth.

Only you can wake me.

“Is it blood?” she asked. “Is that how I… free you?”

Again, the vine tugged at her skirt. Yes. Seeing no harm in trying, Elain lifted her wounded hand to his mouth, smearing the blood against his lips. When nothing happened, she immediately felt foolish. Until the abrasive, dull coloring of his cheek turned into ruddy flesh. And his parted lips stretched into a smile.

“Lucien.”

An arm fell over her back, tugging Elain to his solid torso—still partly encased in wood. Petal-soft lips parted against her hand, lapping at the wound on her palm. His eyes were fluttered shut, long lashed skimming his cheekbones, his brows pulled tight. She was so relieved by the sight of him, she didn’t even mind the blood on his mouth, his chin.

He grunted, pulling away from her hand. “Stop.”

The strain in his voice tightened something in her chest. Her hand fell away, but he caught it before it dropped to her side. His grip on her wrist was firm, all that predatory focus narrowed on welling blood. She could feel the puncture wounds throbbing, each a small echo to the roar in her ears. She thought Lucien might raise her palm back to his lips, but he held unnaturally still. A metallic scent twisted in the air, and the pain ebbed like a wave pulling back from the shore, before it vanished entirely.

Magic.

Lucien didn’t release his grip. She wouldn’t mind, if his fingers hadn’t tightened hard enough to bruise. But he couldn’t move them, she realized. Elain tore her eyes from her miraculously healed palm to the fingers curled around her wrist—once flesh, now once again wood.

Her eyes snapped to his face. Sweat was gleaming on the strong column of his throat. His lips were parted, panting softly.

“It taxes you,” she said.

Lucien leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “It takes a great deal of magic to stay in this form, even partially.”

“The blood helped you.”

What had he taken, a few mouthfuls? It wasn’t that much, really. She could afford to give him more—

Lucien shook his head, already seeing the plan forming in her mind. “No, Elain. It’s not enough—it never will be. The curse is degenerative. Every day I’ll need more.”

Would it make her mad for trying? She could find blood from other places. Feyre used to venture out into the woods to hunt. Elain could learn, too.

“Does it have to be… human?”

Lucien gave a small, dismayed nod.

She swallowed. “Does it have to be mine?”

He shook his head. She searched for relief in that small comfort, but all she could find when she hauled the truth to the surface was that she had her arms wrapped around a faerie who ate humans. It was every horror story she’d been told as a child, where she at best played the maiden fallen into his trap. Or worse, the villainess who lured other humans to their doom.

“What happens if you don’t get blood?”

He grimaced. “It will take centuries, but I’ll eventually wither and die, like any tree would.”

“Not if Graysen has any say,” Elain said bleakly. “I don’t think he believed me earlier—and even if he did, he wouldn’t take the risk. Not for a tree.”

“I know.” He pressed a kiss to her cheekbone, catching a tear she didn’t know had escaped. “Let him kill me, Elain. There’s not much alternative.”

She was shaking her head before he’d even finished speaking. “How do I free you?”

“You can’t.”

“Liar,” she hissed. “I thought faeries couldn’t lie.”

But they could—he was. Not just a half-truth, but a blatant, outright lie. She could tell by the way his jaw clenched, how he glanced away, mentally deliberating. Then he sighed. “Elain.”

“Tell me.”

He narrowed his eyes. If his arms hadn’t returned to their wooden state, she had a feeling he would have crossed them. “You are not a killer. I do not expect you to become one for my sake.”

“But that’s what it would take.”

No answer.

“How many?”

“Elain—”

“Curses are specific, right?” Every curse she’d ever heard of had stipulations. She knew they needed to be specific to prevent any exploitation of the wording, as the fae were prone to do. “What is it? A blood sacrifice from a virgin, a dozen maidens—”

“Just one person.” His lips curled back into a snarl. “Either my mate, or someone she has killed and offered to me in her place.”

“An innocent person?” She pressed.

Lucien released a long exhale through his nose. “Anyone, Elain. By four faerie lives it was done, by four human lives it must be undone.”

Just one to free him, but four humans in total? Did that mean that other humans had already been killed? Or… were there other faeries like him, cursed into this state? She was consumed by questions—what had been done, what would be undone by freeing him? Who, or what, had cursed him in the first place? Those nightmares she had of running through the woods, of turning to wood the second she crossed that immortal border… were those dreams, or memories?

She opened her mouth to demand more answers, but was cut off by the sound of the kitchen window creaking open.

“Elain!”

Graysen was staring at her, mouth set in anger. Her heart sunk into her chest, realizing they’d been caught, but when she glanced towards Lucien, she saw that his appearance had reverted to a tree once again.

One wood eye—the one that was ordinarily gold, slashed with a terrible scar she would one day ask him about—winked at her.

She would have smiled, if not for the burden of all she had learned.

“I need to go,” she whispered.

The grip of his wooden fingers around her wrist hadn’t eased. Elain wasn’t certain he had control over the limb, and she was given no choice but to wrench herself free. The momentum caused her to stumble back, and she rubbed mournfully at the scratches left behind by the bark.

If Lucien was capable of any parting words to her, he kept his silence.

-

Sleep eluded Elain that evening.

She’d gone to bed earlier after a tense supper with Graysen. He’d said very little, electing to communicate through the tinctures of his fork, stabbing and scraping against his plate with far more force than was necessary.

Elain had excused herself early. She knew there would be no persuading her husband out of whatever he’d concluded about the tree and her involvement with it.

He hadn’t asked her what she’d been doing and she hadn’t offered any details.

Tomorrow, she’d think of something. Maybe while Graysen was away, she could uproot Lucien and replant him elsewhere. In a nice grove, maybe by the ponds, where he could soak in the sun and watch over the ducks. If she gave him enough blood, he might even be able to walk the distance himself. She would mourn having him so close to her window, though.

A cool, floral-scented breeze wafted in through the hatch she’d deliberately left open, hoping that he might pay her another visit.

Maybe that was why she was restless. Her anticipation was keeping her up. Like clockwork, she kicked off her blankets and rolled toward the window in search of those overly-friendly vines. And when she found none, she would turn back over, readjust her flimsy nightgown, and scold herself with the reminder that he ate people.

Not necessarily by choice, or so he told her.

It did occur to Elain that she might be falling perfectly into the faerie’s trap—as naive and gullible as Graysen always made her out to be. Spin her a tale of a tragic prince with a cursed fate and she, his true love who could save him, and that was all it took for Elain to melt in his hands… and vines. It helped that those hands and vines knew all the right places to touch her, and that they held her like she was precious without being delicate.

Elain chewed her lip as she thought about it—murder. Lucien had said it did not necessarily need to be someone innocent. She could find someone grotesque, someone worthy of the fate, who had stolen life and would be receiving a fair retribution. Could she sneak to the gallows and find someone waiting in line? Could she steal one of the dead, or did the sacrifice need to be killed by her hand? Nesta and Feyre might help. Not that Elain had seen them very often in recent years. They never sent any letters, nor responded to hers. And leaving the estate to visit them… Elain hasn’t left the estate for years.

So Grayson would certainly notice if she left and returned with a dead body.

And—oh, what was she thinking? Elain scraped two hands down her face, like she might pry the grotesque reality away. Two days ago, her only concern had been whether the handsome tree thought she was foolish for talking to herself.

Elain rolled onto her stomach and threw a pillow over her head in a last show of defeat. That ever-distant heartbeat was stronger than ever, either agitated by her moral quandary, or simply intent on contributing to the ever growing barrier that kept her from sleep.

Whenever she willed her mind to quiet, it became louder.

Once, a soft song, drifting to her through wood and iron and stone. Gentle, seductive, lulling. Now, it was violent.

Thud—

Thud—

Thud—

It reverberated through her skull. Urgent, panicked. Something was wrong, something was…

Thud—

Thud—

Thud—

Even the house shook with the force.

Elain’s eyes snapped open.

Flying out of the bed was a matter of instinct. Something else has taken control of her body, ignoring trivial things she might have otherwise cared about, like grabbing a robe to cover herself or shoving on slippers.

She threw herself down the stairs, landing with such abandon that the whole house might have heard her. Only if they didn’t hear the thudding first.

Not a heart, and not a thud, but a—

Thwack.

Elain screamed as the garden came into sight. She didn’t even realize it was in the shape of a name until that sharp metal paused over Graysen’s shoulder, raised so that it glistened silver beneath the moonlight.

He turned his head to her.

“Graysen!” She screamed again.

Those blue eyes trailed over her, a little stunned, as if he’d forgotten what she looked like in her nightclothes.

Quelling her hysteria, she tried to appeal to that gleam she saw in his eyes. The desire, hidden beneath the anger and hate. She stretched her arm to him, voice lilting, “Come back to bed.”

Maybe that was the wrong thing to say. He shook his head, like he’d been abruptly doused by the reality that they didn’t share a bed. And if that reminder caused him any anger, he directed it again towards the tree, scowling as if he understood the infidelity that occurred here. Or rather, the disobedience. That Elain stood against him, defended the tree despite its potential association with the fae.

Graysen motioned with the axe as if preparing to deliver another blow. Elain didn’t think—she just ran, throwing herself in front of the tree.

Her husband swore, just barely readjusting so that the axe swept the air in front of her stomach instead. The axe clattered to the ground.

“Fucking hell, Elain!”

Now it truly was her heart beating loud enough to shake the earth. She spread her arms in a pathetic blockade, knowing that Graysen was both taller and stronger than she was.

Still, she snarled at him. “You will not cut down this tree.”

Her head snapped to the side before she registered the blow, or the sting of her cheeks. Elain raised her fingers to her face, feeling at her heated skin in astonishment.

Graysen had never hit her. Had sworn he would never be like his father.

His chest was puffing, and he was gulping air in great, gulping swallows. “I am your husband,” he seethed. “I am the lord of this estate. You will do as I say, and you will go back inside!”

“No!” She screamed.

Graysen stared at her, menacing, expecting her to cower. And she stared right back, reminding herself that she was an Archeron. She was fire and thorns and wild. She had weathered winter and hunger and ruin, all with a smile on her face, and she could weather him.

“I am your wife,” she said levelly. “And I will not yield, not for this.”

There was something like surprise that faltered in his expression. He had not seen his mother push back, did not know how to mimic his father in response. How far was he willing to go to assert his control? She could see that question wavering behind his eyes.

“You want to stay?” He said, pushing her aside. Elain stumbled, then fell. “Then stay.” He picked his axe off the ground. “You can watch your precious tree fall.”

Elain couldn’t describe what came over her. All she knew was that Graysen raised that axe over his head, every ounce of his razor-sharp hatred fixated on Lucien, and something frozen and ancient and vicious slithered into her veins.

Then she was on her feet, barrelling towards him with a screech that set even her hair on edge. Graysen saw her coming, but she did not give him time to react as she hurled her body against his. He stumbled back at her momentum, and his leg caught on an upturned root, sending him sprawling onto his back with Elain atop, screaming as she thrashed like a feral animal trying to tear the axe from his grip.

Graysen, wisely, chucked the weapon away before she decapitated one or both of them.

“Elain!” He said, grabbing her wrist.

But when he restrained her wrists, she took to kicking, and leaned forward to bite one of his arms until she tasted copper.

With a string of filthy curses, Graysen flipped them over. “Shut up!” He shouted over her unyielding screams. “Shut up, shut up, shut—“

A hand wrapped around her throat, squeezing until her screams choked and sputtered off. Graysen’s grit teeth flashed in the moonlight.

“That’s better. Now are you finally going to listen to me, Elain? Or do I need to hold you like this until you pass out?”

Elain clawed at the dirt, desperate for something to cling to as black dots spotted her vision. Vines flicked in her periphery, and she thought she might have heard the whisper of a heavy object dragging over dirt.

“The fae can’t have my land and they sure as hell can’t have my wife.”

She tried to protest, but the sound was squeezed and guttural, little more than a hitch of air. And as the world began spinning, cool metal kissed her palm. She closed her fingers around it. The fight was rapidly draining from her body, but she summoned all of her remaining strength into swinging her arm up, jabbing the iron gardening shear into Graysen’s neck.

Blood sprayed, coating her face, her mouth. Graysen’s fingers released their death-grip on her throat. He flailed back, falling with a heavy thud against the earth. Elain couldn’t summon the strength to check if he was dead as she sputtered. Blood was rushing back into her skull in a violent tide that crashed and throbbed against her temples. She groaned, even as her body relished the unobstructed blood and airflow.

“Lucien,” she rasped, turning her head to look towards the tree.

Graysen was dying. How fresh did the blood need to be? She could taste some of it on her mouth and knew that as her husband slumped over, his blood was slicking the earth, pouring onto Lucien’s roots. Would that be enough?

“Lucien,” she repeated, trying to sit up. The world blurred into a smear of colors and shapes, like she was again in the forest admiring only his silhouette. Elain reached blindly towards the flowerbed, searching for his familiar figure. “Lucien?”

“I’m here.”

She jumped, his voice closer than she expected. Elain turned her head to see Lucien crouched over Grasyen. She knew, without demanding clarification, what he had been doing as he lowered Graysen’s limp body back to the ground. The gardening shears had been removed from his neck, and if that wasn’t evidence enough, then the blood smeared over Lucien’s mouth was sufficient.

Their eyes met, and he hesitated, as though unsure if he should approach her. If that would be welcome, while her husband’s death still stained his chin. Maybe the horror was clear in her expression, because he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth.

All it did was smear the blood.

Oblivious, he rasped, “You saved me.”

“He was going to kill you.”

A mechanic answer. All she was truly capable of in this moment. But it was as simple as that. Between her husband and her mate, she had made her choice.

“What happens now?” She asked.

Slowly, Lucien stood from his position in the grass. “You broke my curse,” Lucien said, walking towards her one step at a time, as though she were an animal he was trying not to spook. “You saved me, and claimed me as your mate. I will do whatever you ask of me, Elain. I can take you to Prythian and fulfill every promise I made to you, or we can stay here—”

“The servants will report us to the authorities,” she protested. “They’ll have us hung.”

Lucien fell to his knees in the grass. He gave Elain ample time to move away, but she did not flinch as he reached forward, caressing her face in both his hands. She felt him wipe away the blood, the strangest affection in his eyes. “Thanks to you, my magic is restored. I can ensure the servants wake up tomorrow believing I am your husband. They will never know the difference.”

“I will not call you Graysen.”

“No,” he agreed. “You call me Lucien—or mate if you’re feeling affectionate. Ass, if I’ve infuriated you, which I inevitably will.”

A laugh burst through her trembling lips. Lucien looked relieved at the sound.

“Is it truly over?” she asked. “No more turning into trees?”

He nodded before leaning down, capturing her lips in a kiss that tasted too metallic for her liking, but she melted into his warmth, into the knowledge that she got to keep him in this form.

Though, admittedly, she would miss the vines.

#Elucien #Elucien fic #Elucien fanfic #Elucien fanfiction #Elain x Lucien #Lucien x Elain

[twsted-kinks]

Because I overthink here is a map for the TWST Monster AU

Click read more for a description of each place and who lives there.

The Town of Holyisle: A human town with a monastery run by the abbot, Rollo. The population of the village is fully human and monsters are seen as enemies that should be shunned.

Yuu's Home: Home of the witch, Yuu, and their cat-like imp familiar, Grim. They often make potions for the Riverside Village and the town of Holyisle.

Riverside Village: A farming village that's the home of both monsters and humans. The Lord of the Village is the centaur, Riddle, whose servants include Trey, the minotaur, as his personal cook, Cater, the slime, as his financial advisor, and Che'nya, a catfolk menace who refuses to leave. There are also two newer servants, Deuce, the rabbitfolk, and Ace, the satyr. Another notable figure is the local historian, the human Trein.

Shoreside Reef: A town just off the coast filled fully with merfolk. The head of the village is Azul, an octopus merfolk who also engages heavily with trade on the island and has established a number of businesses on land. His closest confidants are Jade and Floyd, twin eel merfolk who do the dirty work for Azul.

Haunted Cave: A mysterious cave guarded by a small automaton named Ortho who is meant to protect the cave from outsiders, but he mostly just spends time with the resident ghost who is also his brother, Idia.

The City of Pomme: A large city with a population that's mostly monsters. The Lord of the City is the demons, Vil, who is also a popular actor in his theater company. His personal assistant is Rook, a troll and hunter, who was a fan of his performances. The new up and coming star is the fairy Epel who has been taken under Vil's wing. Another popular actor is the angel Neige who is the lead actor in a rival theater company. Another notable figure is the seamster and fasion designer, Crewel.

Duskfall Savanna: A fully monster city with a majority of the population being beastfolk. The lord of the city is Leona, a lionfolk, who doesn't really like his position. His personal servant is the hyenafolk, Ruggie. The gardener for Leona's estate is a wolfolk named Jack. Another notable figure is Vargas, a manticore, who is known for causing chaos from time to time.

Scalding Oasis: A desert city known for its many monster artisans and high quality goods. The Lord of the City is the harpy, Kalim, who is always accompanied by his servant, the naga Jamil. Another notable person is the ghoul, Sam, who runs the most expansive market in the entire oasis.

The Dragon's Domain: A territory ruled by the dragon, Malleus, who lives in his own personal tower. The others who live in his territory include the vampire batfolk, Lilia, the lizardfolk, Sebek, and the centaur, Silver who help care for the territory and act and confidants of Malleus.

Old Ruins: Not much is known about the old ruins other than it acts as a home for a dark feathered harpy.

#twst writings #twst x reader #twst thots #twst #twst monsterfucking #twst monster au #lemme know y'all's thoughts cause nothing is set in stone yet #this is just my current draft of locations so I can start figuring out things #if anyone has like story ideas of why Yuu would visit all these places please give me

[redstonedust]

👀

You can talk about whatever you want and also that sounds really cool and fun!!

screw it, recounting the plot of a dream time:

okay imagine a setting that is like. real life visually, hermitcraft characters/economy, qsmp/new life modpack, traffic life system with demise death rules (absolute abomination of a mixture)

its a grian episode and he's down to like 6 rockets. he lives within gliding distance of the shopping district but unfortunately there are reds on the server and the shopping district is half underground. he manages to get there but passes scar, cub and gem who hunt him down. ends up halfway up a tree fending them off with arrows.

luckily a code monster comes by and makes the reds scatter which gives him time to burn his rockets getting away. starts wandering around what looks like a real world british housing estate. passes an area called mumbo corner which has 24/7 announcements talking about the legacy of mumbo jumbo? did he die? i dont know.

ends up bumping into scar (again?) and bdubs who seem friendly but it turns out they totally sold him out and all the reds are coming. ends up dolphin hopping down the street looking for a waystone with the hopes of teleporting out to a random cactus farm that nobody would go looking in.

this is where i woke up and i am so mad about it. this had PLOT. this had CHARACTERIZATION THAT MAKE SENSE. this is SOMEHOW my second dream about a hermit being hunted by other hermits which is a hilarious trend. also the episode was inexplicably called ''HERMITCRAFT [NUMBER]: I BECAME A BIRD???'' i dont know anymore. watch me make this abomination setting into an AU. yolo.

#asks #long post #cut out some of the completely nonsensical stuff bc it didnt flow

[whatgaviiformes]

Fic: Tracy Seaside Orchard and Farm - Part 16

Summary: Alternate Universe. Gordon is a farmer. And he seems to have nothing to do with International Rescue. Now on AO3!   Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Family.*Warnings: phobias and panic attacks*  

Prologue here Chapter 1: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Ao3 Chapter 2: Part 4 | Part 5  | AO3 Chapter 3: Part 6  | Part 7 |  Ao3 Chapter 4: Part 8 | Part 9 | Ao3 Chapter 5: Part 10 | Part 11  | Ao3 Chapter 6 Part 12 | Ao3 Chapter 7: Part 13 | Ao3 Chapter 8: Part 14 | Ao3 Chapter 9: Part 15 | Ao3 Chapter 10: Part 16 (you are here) 

A/N: Let’s ignore that I should be resting. I don’t have a chapter ready but I do have a part done, which now that we are past the harder, heavy sections.... why not. You deserve it for sticking with me, tumblr. Who wanted big brother BootScoot? it might be obvious I was sick at the end/still *****

Part 16 (Part of Chapter 10)

The hour grew late and it was deep in the night before the party dispersed and they made their way back to Gordon’s home. Scott planned to stick around until the next day to help with clean-up efforts as long as there were no significant callouts. He flung his boots off by the door, and by the time he came out of the guest restroom, Gordon and Virgil had taken over the couch he planned to frequent for the evening. Though, only one of his siblings was awake, staring down at the sleeping figure of their younger brother, still with a mix of awe and paranoia that if he looked away he might disappear.

“He’ll feel like hell in the morning if we leave him like that.” Scott approached the two of them, gently slipping his hands under Gordon’s back and knees and lifting him up into his arms with a grunt. In sleep, Gordon sighed deeply, his head downturned in the pillow of Scott’s chest.

“Wanna help?” he asked Virgil, swinging the door to Gordon’s bedroom further open with the flick of his foot. “Can you grab his cane and the blanket?”

Virgil hadn’t had the chance to look around Gordon’s room earlier that evening, so focused he was on getting Gordon comfortable that he’d beelined for the weighted blanket that rested at the foot of his bed. But now, in the quiet of their breathing, Virgil took a moment to look around the haven space that his brother had created within his home.

The primary color scheme was green, if only for the plants that covered wall to ceiling, including a thriving peace lily so like the one he’d been given when he arrived.

Beyond the greenery, Gordon favored the natural look of the wood of his house, with splashes of color to accompany the neutrals. What was missing was the nautical aesthetic that pervaded the rest of the home; counter to the ship’s wheel of the living space, Gordon’s bedroom was a call back to land with its wide windows opened out towards the farm, foundations of wood with one complete wall in rustic red brick.

Tucked in a corner was a writing desk and chair set Virgil hadn’t noticed at all initially with a laptop sitting closed on top.

Overtop his headboard, a massive macrame art piece draped down from a piece of driftwood, the thick beige cords braided and knotted into an array of chevrons and diamonds above a backdrop of long fringe.  Shelving built atop a modest series of dresser drawers was filled corner to corner with different recipe books, instructional manuals, the occasional fiction novel, collections of plant and animal identifications, and finally, what Virgil immediately recognized as copies of John’s texts. The books were well-loved and interspersed on the bookcase with a small display of single stem vases and picture frames.

He recognized in the collection of memories a copy of their parents’ wedding photo, one of the few Christmas family photos where all five kids were looking toward the camera and Dad had been home to join in, a candid shot someone had taken of a young Gordon cooking with Grandma in which more flour had landed in Gordon’s hair than in the batter.

“Is this your first time in here?”

No, not really. But also, in an entirely different way, “Yes.”

It was one thing to notice the large television screen and the French casement windows on his way towards grabbing the blanket Gordon needed, and another thing altogether to spend the time noticing the details he’d missed. The important information, like the cross-stitch hoops hung on the wall with inspirational quotes and initialed with a JS, the open banjo case set near a guitar case and one nearly the same shape, but much smaller – his old ukulele.  

“Come around here.”  Scott gestured for Virgil to come closer to the side of the bed, reaching for the blanket in Virgil’s hands and opening it wide to cover their brother’s curled form. He tucked the corners in close. “Over here.”

Gordon’s nightstand held simply a chicken figurine and handmade cotton coaster. But hanging above, originally blocked from Virgil’s view by Scott’s height, was a watercolor of a trio of delicate daffodils against a light background of blue sky fading into the edges of the canvas. In the lower righthand corner was his own signature scrawl of V. Tracy.

He remembered it well, a set of three art pieces he’d donated for one of Lady Penelope’s charity auctions, watercolors because it had been for ocean conservation. Of the three florals, the daffodils were his favorite, and he could remember down to the song the inspiration behind them. By nature of the charity, one that had been so close to his brother’s heart, his music had switched to a song that reminded him of Gordon and he painted his forgiveness in yellow flowers. That’s what made the final painting the best of the three.

And yet he hadn’t meant for Gordon to ever see it back then.

“How?”

Scott gestured towards the sky.

“John sent Gordon the auction details,” Scott admitted. “The rest was him. I didn’t know he had one of your pieces until the next time I visited.”

Not just one of his pieces, but that piece. Virgil guessed Scott didn’t understand just how significant it was that the artwork found its way to Gordon’s hands. Forgiveness was a tricky thing; he’d been missing his brother and momentarily ready to ignore the aching in heart for the happy memories they held. But when it came time to donate the work, he hadn’t thought twice sending it away to Lady P. The release was welcome, but he hadn’t been ready.

But the flowers were where they belonged, and he was happy now to see them framed amidst the rest of the natural flora of Gordon’s space.

“Come on, Virgil,” Scott tugged on his shoulder. “We should give him peace to rest. Let’s talk.”

“One moment.” He needed to check his vitals one more time, and if he hitched the blanket more comfortably around Gordon’s shoulders even though Scott had already done so, his older brother had the good sense not to make a big deal about it. Gordon was healthy, safe, and comfortable, and that’s what mattered.

   ~*~

“We never wanted to keep this from you.” Scott leaned back against the counter sink, his arms crossed at his chest, but expression soft. “It was the right thing to do for Gordon at the time.”

Virgil hummed, his fingers idly strumming the banjo they’d forgotten to return to its case, abandoned at the door when Gordon had crashed on the couch. The music kept him centered, considering the day had been one of the lowest lows and the highest highs. His heart had been through a roller coaster of fear, and regret, and hurt, and vulnerability, and love.

Emotionally, he was spent.

“I don’t have it in me to be anything other than grateful anymore,” Virgil said, and he meant every word of it, glancing up from the wail of the banjo to Scott’s sky-blues. “I’m not mad. It hasn’t gotten me anywhere in the past being mad. Clearly.”

Scott nodded. “You’ve had a long day.”

Understatement, truly. He laughed wryly, propping the instrument against the table, and standing up to meet his brother’s height, and Scott straightened his shoulders.

“There’s just one thing I’d like to know still,” Virgil said. “Did you know what Gordon was doing pushing me away for the sake of International Rescue?” He’d never said it with such disdain. “Please tell me that’s not why you never told me where he was.”

Scott shook his head sadly. “I just tried to do what was right by the two of you. Gordon’s reasons were his own, as were yours. I wouldn’t have kept it quiet because of IR. I believe our family should come before International Rescue.”

“Prove it.”

“What?”

“You heard me. It’s time to actually mean it. What’s done is done, but when I get home, things change. We all plan to come to the bonfire, and if there are other events, we attend those too. We invite him to the Island if its something he wants to try to do, and if not, we come here as often as he will have us. I don’t want to lose anymore Christmases or birthdays. He doesn’t deserve to miss anymore either.”

Scott nodded. “I agree. Of course I do. But, Virg,” he gently placed his hands on either side of Virgil’s shoulders, realizing his brother hadn’t realized what he’d said, “I need to ask, are you ready to? Come home with me tomorrow, I mean?”

A beat as Virgil expelled a breath, he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Oh.” Softly, “Can I let you know tomorrow?”

#gavii scribit #fic: TSOF #Farming Estate AU #chicken!Dad #Gordon Tracy #Virgil Tracy #Scott Tracy #hurt/comfort #thunderangst

[ladywolfknight]

Rhaenicent Zombie Apocalypse AU!

(Coming soon)

The Hightowers have been maintaining the Targaryen's vanity farm estate - it was their retreat from big city life where they could pretend to be normal, down to earth people. When the world ended the Targaryens came home to escape the undead. Alicent, the property manager’s daughter, grows close with Rhaenyra, the daughter of the property owner. A power struggle ensues as Daemon and Otto get territorial: winter is coming and there is concern about if there's enough resources for both families to live on the property. Otto offers Alicent as a bargaining chip to the Targaryens- she's a valuable offer, as she's the last woman left on the planet who could carry children since Rhaenyra is trans. The only hope for the two families to make peace and for the human race to continue is for Alicent to marry Rhaenyra (they've been falling in love this whole time while taking care of and protecting their home together). Rhaenyra and Alicent try their luck at repopulating an undead world.

#rhaenicent #rhaenicent fic #alicent hightower #rhaenyra targaryen #alicent x rhaenyra #rhaenyra x alicent #rhaenicent fanfic #hotd

[chilling-seavey]

Daniel Seavey Masterlist

♡ Welcome to my Daniel masterlist...the heart and soul of my blog...where you can travel from modern day Connecticut to WW1 England to 1950s LA and everything in between!! ♡ Comments are always incredibly appreciated and please feel free to send in questions or ideas or asks so I can write some blurbs and help keep these universes thriving! Most of my blurbs can be read as individual stories themselves and still make sense (but it’s more fun if you really immerse yourself into the universe first!) Happy reading!

Daniel's Face Claims ♡ Crossover Mini Series

Series

Anything But Mine - Friends to Lovers AU ↳ Florence DiCaprio finds herself navigating life as a nineteen-year-old mother; trying to find the right balance of friendships, young adulthood, and definitely relationships. Her best friend, Daniel, seems to be learning along with her. They discover the importance of sacrifice in the process.

Passchendaele - WW1 AU ↳ It’s 1915 and The Great War is still ongoing. Men from all over Europe flooded to enlist in a rush of patriotism and dedication to their countries, nineteen-year-old Daniel among them. He’s thrilled to fight for Britain, as most men were, but once in the battlefields of Belgium, he realizes that war is truly not as glorious as he once imagined it was.

Amoureux - Royal AU ↳ Louisa is sixteen and prime age for marriage. Her father, the King of France, has been conversing with the King of England in order to hand over his youngest daughter in marriage, therefore bonding their two nations. Twenty-year-old Christian is a perfect gentleman, and he is absolutely smitten by Louisa the moment they first meet, but the young girl has her eye caught by Christian’s younger brother who can’t seem to keep his hand out of the pastries. 

Heartbreak Hotel - Soulmates AU ↳ It’s 1958 and summer has just begun, sending the teenagers of Los Angeles into warm weather freedoms and part time jobs. Eighteen-year-old Daniel finds himself spending his days trying to find his soulmate and he refuses to give up until he has her.

Qui Totum Vult Totum Perdit - Murder Mystery AU ↳ ‘He who wants everything, loses everything’ All Daniel knows is that he woke up the day after his honeymoon to his wife dead at his feet and the bloody knife in his hand. He is suddenly propelled on a mission to escape his own persecution while he works to find the true killer and prove his innocence; He is innocent…isn’t he?

Seasons Change - Small Town AU ↳ Everyone knows everything about everyone in this small rural town in east Connecticut and the handsome single father who owns the farm down the main street seems to always be the talk of the town. Balancing the care of his acreage, raising his eight-year-old son, and coaching the local boys’ hockey team keeps Daniel busy; but his mind never strays far from the expansive and vibrant flower gardens planted outside his farmhouse. 

Life and Death Brigade - WDW x OBX Crossover ↳ Life on Figure Eight is ordinary for Daniel. He’s got everything he could ask for: a huge family estate on the water, friends that love to party as much as he does, and a year round membership to the country club. But just when his life is starting to get predictable, Daniel finds himself caught up in a secret society run by none other than JJ Maybank and his group of empty pocket misfits. 

#daniel seavey #why dont we #why dont we masterlist #wdw masterlist #why dont we fic #daniel seavey fic #daniel seavey imagine #why dont we imagines

[desperatelyseekingcannibals]

Your Humble Servant (Hannigram AU)

Explicit // M/M // Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter // Tags: Alternate Universe - historical, primarily 1912 - 1920s, lord Hannibal, farm boy Will, abandoned Will, adopted Will, childhood friendship, getting to know each other, developing relationship, first kiss, yearning, pining, separation, parental death (Hannibal's parents), angst, period typical societal bullshit, financial ruin, misunderstandings, The Great War, WW1, warfare, trench warfare, kissing, hand jobs, secret relationship, flashbacks, period typical lube, anal fingering, anal sex, love confessions, The Battle of the Somme, injury, injury recovery multiple separations and reunions, pining, angst, life altering injuries, disability, PTSD, nightmares, London secret gay community, 1920s London, classism, reunion, rekindled relationship, revelations, (belated) reunion sex, biting, possessive sex, dirty talk, morning blow job, unexpected visitors, jealousy, flashbacks, revelations, hurt/comfort, family drama, more separation and more angst (sorry), brief Hannibal/Donald Sutcliffe, semi-public sex, declarations of love, family secrets, growing old together, time skips, happy ending. 

From abandoned baby to farm hand, from soldier to clerk, Will's life is a twisted road with only one constant, a love he is sure he can never have.

_______________________________________________________

“Can I help you, my lord?”

Hannibal looked up and blushed when he realised he’d been seen by Mr Graham, peering into his pigpen.

“I, uh…” Hannibal stammered. Almost ten years old and the heir of the lord of this great estate, he knew he should always be eloquent and fair like his father. This, despite the fact that being caught snooping made him feel ashamed to the point of anger. He schooled himself and cleared his throat, but before he could continue the farmer chuckled and shook his head. 

“If it’s young Will you’re after, he’s inside helping his mother with the crate. If you’re wanting to wait m’lord, he’ll be taking it up to the big house shortly. He could keep you company on your way back.”

Hannibal straightened himself and gave a curt nod to the farmer, who smiled warmly and tipped his hat. 

“Go on in then, m’lord. I dare say Mrs Graham has some tea brewing.”

Hannibal gave another nod and finally replied, “my thanks, Mr Graham.”

The farmer tipped his hat with another smile and Hannibal took his leave, trying not to seem too eager in his gait as he strode over the flagstones up to the little farmhouse. 

Hannibal knew from the etiquette lessons his nanny had begun to instil in him that it wasn’t proper to be too enthusiastic or overbearing in a friendship, even as a child. Frivolities should be in measure, and must always be proper. 

Perhaps his friendship with the farmer’s son was improper in some ways - by virtue of their birth at least. But, at almost eight years of age, Will Graham was the only child even remotely near his age in the near vicinity. 

And the truth was, he found Will fascinating.

Your Humble Servant is now posting on AO3

All chapters are already available on my Patreon!

#hannibal lecter #will graham #hannibal #hannigram #hannigram au #historical au #fan fiction #fanfic #myfic

[crypticsiren1]

modern au

"Jenny, pick some apples, please! I'm going to make apple pie!"

“Mom, my name is Shadowheart,” the girl, dressed all in black, reminded her, but still went to fulfill her request. She wasn't even that fond of apples and apple pie, but her mood was too changeable at that age. Maybe she'll eat a piece later, doing her mother a favor; maybe she really will gobble it all up in one go with great pleasure and only make a face for show. She hasn't decided yet.

Life on a small farm was relaxed, but very monotonous: too boring. Jenny wanted something more interesting, like the mysterious rituals from horror films that her mother forbade her to watch in the evenings. But all that remained was to dream and write down interesting observations in a personal diary. Perhaps when she goes to university, everything will become much more cheerful than this dull farm life and she will leave here for a dormitory.

The apples were green and hard, just pick them and eat them now. These are just perfect for a pie: large and sour.

The girl took a basket with her to put it all in and put it under the tree. She jumped slightly to catch the branch and pulled it towards her.

"Ah-ah-ah!" someone yelled above her, because this branch served as part of his support, because of which someone not very large, but still very heavy, fell on Shadowheart from above, immediately crushing her with his weight.

"Aouch!" She lay down under the tree and rubbed her cheek next to her nose. A broken branch cut across her face and left a shallow cut, which immediately began to bleed slightly. "Get off me!"

The girl pushed the stranger off her and looked angrily in his direction. A boy appeared before her, a little shorter than her, with beautiful white curls, looking about fourteen years old, absolutely frightened either by her reaction or by the fact that he had been caught red-handed. One of the apples was clutched tightly in his hand.

"Are you stealing our apples?" She continued to frown, lifting him from the ground by his chest.

“N-no,” despite direct evidence of this, the boy continued to lie to her. He was almost half a head shorter than her and was truly afraid of Shadowheart. "You are beautiful."

He blurted out the first thing that came to his mind to defend himself - and he was right. This took the new acquaintance by surprise, and she let him go, feeling slightly embarrassed. The plan was a success. True, he himself did not yet understand whether he lied or actually found her attractive.

“Very funny,” Shadowheart took the apple from him. "Who are you and where are you from?"

"Astarion. From the Szarr estate. Please don't tell my stepfather that I was here!" according to his request, he was not very eager to receive punishment for such a thing. "I was going to leave home. I needed food with me…"

"From the Szarr estate?" Shadowheart was sincerely surprised. “But they buy everything fresh from our family. Why steal… Why leave home? It's such a luxurious estate there. Literally all of my classmates dream of living in it…"

Shadowheart hesitated.

"I heard that the owner of the house seems to have children, but I haven’t met anyone yet… Do you even go to school there or are you homeschooled?"

Astarion just sighed:

"Homeschooled. I really need to leave home…"

"Jenny, where have you gone?" her mother called, leaning out of the window of the house. Astarion tensed and hid behind a tree so that no one would see him.

"I'm coming now!" she answered her. “And I’m not Jenny,” she muttered under her breath with dissatisfaction.

"Who then?" he asked quietly from behind the tree.

"Shadowheart."

Having collected the required number of apples for herself, the girl nevertheless took pity on the new guest, who still did not leave, despite her threatening appearance, and left him several apples under the tree so that he would not have to climb up again.

After this meeting, she did not see him for a long time. Perhaps he really ran away from home. Perhaps he finally came to his senses and returned home. Every time she saw the Szarr estate from afar, she tried to guess what was happening there, if someone wanted to leave this luxurious place of their own free will. But still, Shadowheart chalked it up to a typical boyish desire to go on adventures after watching stupid cartoons. Although since then she wanted to get a little closer to the estate.

The end of July passed in such thoughts and the remaining days of the hot summer quickly flew by. Black clothes were far from the best choice for this weather, but Jenny had no intention of being like her normie parents. She grew up a little more over the summer and fell into the occult with even greater interest, hiding books of witchcraft from her mother under the bed, because for just one volume of “The Witches’ Hammer” her mother would give her a long and boring lecture.

#shadowheart #astarion #bg3 #baldurs gate 3

[hlficlibrary]

HL Fic Library 🩷 Regency Era Fics

Remember to leave kudos and a comment on the fics you enjoyed to show your appreciation! You can find our other recs here.

🩷 Lightning Strikes The Heart  by @fournipplesau, @justalarryblog (E, 130k)

Shrewsbury, 1814

Dearest reader, I present to you your new bulletin of news regarding Shrewsbury citizen's activities. My name is Lady Merriweather and I will be in charge of the updates. I will make sure you are to know all the important details of what is to happen this season. You must know that you do not know who I am and you never shall. But be forewarned; I certainly do know you. I advise you to be on your best behaviour, lest you want the whole town to be privy of your business.

As expected every year, the Lockhart House hosts the season’s opening ball, and its invitation is the motive of the hustle in town, and every family hopes for the invitation. This year is no different, but this year everyone's attention is focused on the new Duke of Montgomery, His Grace Harry Edward Styles, and whether he will attend it.

All the omegas will be in their best manner, behaviour and clothes as it is expected. And here, dear reader is where we will find out which young omega might succeed at securing a match, hoping to not become a spinster.

Place your bets.

🩷 The Murmur of Yearning by MediaWhore / @mediawhorefics (M, 93k)

Four years ago, Harry Styles was forced into a marriage of convenience to enrich and ally both his and his promised's families. The sudden, and slightly suspicious, death of the Marquess of Haxshire, however, brings great disturbance to Crescentfield Hall and, as his late's husband's closest male relative, Harry unexpectedly finds himself the head of a family he never felt he belonged to. Between a meddling distant cousin hellbent on inserting himself in Harry’s life, his wicked and mistrustful mother-in-law and his late husband’s advisors refusing to help or take him seriously, Harry struggles in the fight to keep what he’s earned and make the Estate finally feel like home.

Luckily, he doesn’t stand completely alone and finds himself an unlikely ally in Mr Tomlinson, the elusive Land Stewart who has been taking care of the property in the shadows for years. Louis Tomlinson is caring, patient, and unlike everyone else, he doesn’t seem to think Harry committed a murder.

🩷 Ace of Spades by @allwaswell16 (E, 78k)

Living as a sheltered omega in a farming village has not prepared Harry for life aboard the most notorious pirate ship to sail the Atlantic.

Or Louis is a pirate, Harry is his captive, and no one is who they say they are.

🩷 Mead Of Poetry by MyEnglishRose / @lwtisloved (E, 65k)

Under the pressure of continuing the Styles viscountcy line now that he is getting older, Harry sets himself three rules to finally settle down and marry: firstly, the omega needs to be reasonably attractive, secondly, they must be of great mind, thirdly, they cannot be anyone he would ever fall in love with.

Enters Charlotte Tomlinson, the diamond of the first water of the upcoming season and seemingly the perfect candidate to the viscount’s plan, but her omega brother, Louis, is in Harry’s way. Louis only seeks to protect his sister and he sure is not going to let a rake play with her heart.

Or. A Regency A/B/O AU loosely inspired by the second book of the Bridgerton series, "The Viscount Who Loved Me".

🩷 Lend Me Your Hand by QuickedWeen / @becomeawendybird (M, 63k)

Society has long since decided that the soulmarks everyone is born with are entirely unfashionable. They're just another way for people of a lower class to scam their way into marrying above their station.

Lord Louis Tomlinson, Viscount Loring, on the other hand, has always believed that he will find his soulmate one day. Despite preparing for a match his whole life, he is entirely unprepared for the arrival of Gemma Styles' younger brother.

Harry Styles has been traveling and away from society for over a year. Coming back, he intends to spend time with his sister, and slowly reacquaint himself with life in town. He doesn't need to wait around for a soulmark to determine how his life will play out.

🩷 For the Sake of Propriety by panda_bear21 (M, 52k)

Louis Tomlinson is the caretaker of an estate that is not truly his, and when his Uncle calls upon him to take it back, Louis knows he will soon be out on the streets with four overly zealous sisters to care for. His only solution: wed the eldest two off and pray for the best. When an even better solution unexpectedly presents itself in the form of the charming Mr. Styles, Louis is faced with a difficult choice. But as with all things in the regency era, reputation very well may threaten to outweigh the fleeting matters of his h eart.

🩷 The Earl and His Duke by QuickedWeen / @becomeawendybird (E, 52k)

Lord Tomlinson, the elusive Duke of Leeds, has suddenly emerged in London for the first time in six years. He is believed to have been abroad. He is believed to have been widowed. He is believed to want to withdraw from society.

Harry doesn’t know what is true and what isn’t. He only knows that the older brother of one of his best friends is back in town to stay, and that time has taken him from merely the most beautiful man Harry knew, to the most handsome man to ever walk the earth. A man whose gaze probably still skips over Harry like he doesn’t exist the same way it did when they were young.

🩷 If I Loved You Less by @allwaswell16 (E, 36k)

Beautiful omega Louis Tomlinson is set to make his come out in London society and determined to find a mate in his first Season. With the help and protection of his oldest friend, Lord Niall Mendes, he takes Society by storm.

Being a wealthy and titled alpha means Lord Harry Styles has grown used to avoiding unmated omegas...until now. This Season he finds himself at every Society event just for a chance to speak with the omega with the flashing blue eyes.

Louis has the aristocracy at his feet and all the suitors he could hope for, but his secrets may ruin his chance at a love match.

🩷 Our Sweetest Memorial by @softfonds (E, 35k)

Ever since Harry was forced to break off an engagement five years ago, he resolved to never marry for the remainder of his life. Now his family must move out of his beloved Kellynch Hall to recover some of their debts that their father had accumulated. The last thing Harry expected was for the new tenants to be related to his former fiancee. And for that fiancee to come back to Somersetshire a much more wealthy man that still holds resentment for their past. A Persuasion AU.

🩷 Lies & Liability by 4ureyesonly28 / @evilovesyou (M, 34k)

Harry Styles has only three wishes when he leaves River Dane Manor to go to Town for his first season: that his sister has rented a townhouse that will provide him as many of the comforts of the country life he has grown accustomed to as possible, that he will not trip and fall when he is presented to Her Majesty the Queen, and that he will enter matrimony out of true love, no matter how favourable the match with any which alpha may be.

🩷 he was sunshine, i was midnight rain by wildestdreams / @thelavendrhaze (E, 30k)

Harry let out a dry laugh. “It’s awkward, Louis. What can I say?”

“It doesn’t have to be. You and I are no longer engaged.”

“No,” Harry shook his head sadly. “You’re engaged to Jane. She’s pretty. How did you meet?”

Louis sighed softly, leaning back against his chair. “My parents introduced me. Father’s getting old. They wanted me to be married and step up for the family and our estate.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “And this was recent?”

This time, it was Louis that looked exasperated. “Does it matter? This was what you wanted, right?”

“I don’t —” Harry stopped short, wondering what he could say. He didn’t want this, but he did give it up. He had no right to argue right now. “I want you to be happy.”

or two years ago, Harry left Louis on their wedding day to follow his dreams of becoming an artist. When he returns, in hopes of reconciling, he finds he may be too late.

🩷 Manners and Misjudgements by bluegreenish / @greenblueish (E, 21k)

“Everyone you mention the Duke to raves about him, just like you are defending him now. But no one looks behind the façade he so ably maintains to deceive you all.”

Liam sighs deeply. “You sound like a crazy man right now, Louis.”

“I will prove to you who the Duke really is, just wait.”

or, the one where Harry is the Duke everyone loves, but Louis thinks he's too nice and decides he's going to figure out what the Duke is hiding. Spoiler: nothing, he's just nice and perhaps a bit clumsy.

🩷 I'm Weaker Without You by The_Halcyonic_Lachesist / @chai-hat-tea (T, 20k)

Alpha Lord Louis Tomlinson is a rake who refuses to settle down. Will he settle down for the Society's most talked about Omega? What about the enticing scent that belongs to the Beta? How will he react to said Beta pursuing the Omega too?

🩷 Something Wicked This Way Comes by @mugglemirror (E, 16k)

They say one can resist everything but temptation. The desire that leads to the passionate pursuit of climax that has built and broken empires. So what was stopping Harry from giving in to the temptation of Louis Tomlinson?

Or A regency murder mystery au where Louis is married to an earl and Harry is a detective. Hatchets are buried but not everyone is as they seem.

🩷 Trust Me Tonight by 28sunflowers / @vintageumbroshirt (E, 10k)

After Harry’s eighteenth birthday, his father calls him into a meeting to say that he is to be married to Prince Louis of France in just over a week.

Harry is excited, of course. The arrangement is better than any he could’ve hoped for, with such a young, handsome and kind husband.

There is just one issue: Harry doesn’t know what happens on his nuptials, or how to get pregnant to give Louis the heir that he needs.

🩷 Curves of your lips rewrite history by @lunarheslwt (E, 8k)

“Kneel.” The prince obliged like a puppet whose strings had been cut, dropping to his knees in one fluid motion. With his bowed back, compliant silence, and eyes that lowered respectfully; he was a perfect picture of submission and trust. He deserved to be captured by Michelangelo, right at this moment, but alas, Louis found himself to be possessive of pretty things. And Harry was, by far, his most ethereal and dear possession. Made sweeter only because he allowed himself to be. “Grace becomes you, when you submit to me,” Louis finally crooned, a ghost of a caress across a delicate cheek sparking goosebumps, “your Highness.” And if Louis were a less attentive man, he would’ve missed the quiet gasp that the title weaved with a taunt coaxed out. A smile curled across his lips. So easy to please, for someone who had everything his heart desired at his fingertips.

Or, everyone bows to Prince Harry, but in the privacy of his four walls, the one he is bowing and kneeling for is his knight, Sir Louis.

🩷 I Think I Dreamed You Into Life by patdkitten / @babyarcanacasey (T, 5k)

Louis is a writer in the modern times, focusing primarily on regency novels. In his latest novel, earl's son Harry Styles is his hero, but Louis can't seem to find just the right person for Harry to fall in love with. When Louis falls asleep in front of his laptop, things get a little odd: he wakes up inside the world of his book.

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