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tadpolesonalgae · 8 months

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Azriel x Third-oldest-Archeron-sibling!reader: Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You - Part 4[*]

A/N: a truly beautiful friendship is always founded in chaos (it’s funny because of who Eris is in mythology)

Also, I would like to emphasise the bickering at the end is entirely whispered—enjoy

Warnings: Just general angst, sexual undertones, unjustly jealous!Azriel, swans (don’t even get me started on how scary they are, and don’t try to tell me otherwise if you haven’t been cornered by at least one)

Word Count: 6,618

-Part 3- -Part 5-

A voice is calling your name from somewhere: somewhere foggy, and distant.

A voice that really has no business interfering with the hot, male body that’s pressing you into the wall.

Large, playfully rough hands grip your hips, using his own to keep you pinned against the brickwork, groping your ass appreciatively.

You arch up into him, mouth opening over his own, tongue stroking and flicking. Fingers rake through his hair, turning it messy as you haul him closer. The lovely press of his cock against your abdomen, the ego-boosting sign of his appetite. He groans into your mouth, bucking his hips, and you drag the soft swell of your breasts over his chest. The cool night air scrambles beneath your skirts, making them flutter and billow, urging him closer.

The voice sounds again. Clearer; closer.

It’s strange how it sounds like—

The male body is forcibly torn off you, cold flushing your front, leaving the uncomfortable dig of brick into your backside. You blink away your haze, real world events crushing back down, slamming home when your eyes lock with sharp hazel. He’s clearly pissed. It’s probably the most emotion he’s ever shown to you.

How miserable.

“Did you forget we’re have dinner tonight?” He asks gruffly, hand still resting firmly over the male’s shoulder who’s looking warily between the two of you. It dawns on you what he’s just seen you doing, the position he’s caught you in; heat swallows your body whole. The shameful, humiliated type, and you force yourself to keep his gaze. Beg yourself not to hang your head.

“I’m not going,” you manage, eyes flicking away from his. “I already told Fey, and she said it was fine, so…” His brow narrows, attention piercing into you, judging. “They’re not compulsory, anyway,” you mumble, “so really I— there’s no reason for me to be at one.”

“It’s a family dinner. There’re plenty of reasons for you to be there.” His eyes flick to the male who just had you pressed between him and a wall, “unless something more important comes up.”

There’s no obvious sign, but he’s agitated. Irritated. Maybe a foul mood.

Azriel releases the male, eyes flicking over his shoulder—a sure dismissal. When the male refuses to leave, Azriel’s shadows thicken. Definitely a foul mood. “Is there something I can help you with?” He mutters sharply, piercing attention zeroing in on the male—Bas.

His golden eyes turn on you, peering warily, “who is this? You said you were on your own.” Heat washes down your spine, gaze flicking between them, wishing for the floor to open up under your feet. “He’s—nobody. Just a—…” You fumble, unsure what to say. “Acquaintance,” Azriel finishes for you, hairs rising at the back of your neck as he stares at you. “A friend of a friend.”

Bas’ lips lift into a smirk, and you pray he’s going to keep his mouth shut for once. But he turns to Azriel, standing less than an inch shorter than the shadowsinger, “I don’t see what business you have with a friend of a friend,” he drawls, making both of you stiffen.

The dim faelights gleam in his intelligent golden eyes, bringing out the rich darkness of his skin, the outcropping of his sharp jaw, the thickness of his hair that hangs in lovely, rough locks.

Azriel’s eyes narrow, shadows coiling at his back, peeking over menacingly large wings, “and what business do you have with her? She has plans for tonight.” One of Bas’ brows quirks in subtle challenge, and you brace yourself. “Considering she sought me out, I think her plans have changed,” he says, that provocative smirk still tipping his lips.

“Bas…” you murmur, stress tensing your muscles.

Both of their attention switches to you, and your mouth seals itself shut.

Azriel shakes his head, “she’s coming with me. Don’t bother her again, Bas.” The words are final, and you can tell the conversation is over. Bas doesn’t back down, though. Always ready for a bit of rough and tumble. Practically lives off the edge. “Now I didn’t realise she was your property, Az,” he drawls challengingly, his attention then settling over you. “And you should have told me who this other person was, sweetheart.”

They know one another?

“She’s not your anything,” Azriel says, a rough sharpness to his voice. “Back off, Bas.”

The male doesn’t budge. Instead his gleaming eyes fall on you.

Oh no…

“Sweetheart?”

Heat warms your skin, gaze darting anywhere but the two males before you. You really don’t want to go to the dinner. To see all of them so soon after the mess that happened precisely one week ago… And it would be weird to show up after having said you weren’t going. What if you went and there wasn’t enough food? She has enough on her plate, she doesn’t need to worry about extra dinner guests.

You’re staying with Bas.

Hazel meets your gaze, and words stumble. “I…” I’m not going to the dinner.

“You…?” Azriel repeats, jaw tightening.

You flush, eyes lowering, heat warming your cheeks against the cool night air.

You turn to Bas, and he frowns. “Sorry,” you say gently, “I should see my sister.”

The wings at Azriel’s back loose a slight bit of their tension—still pulled taut. “Right, let’s go,” he says, cutting off any communication, “we’re already late.” You shoot Bas an apologetic look as you move to follow behind Azriel—keeping his gaze ahead. He merely shakes his head, giving you an easy smile, “find me after, okay?” A wave of gratefulness washes over you, and you push every drop of it into the thankful look you send him. Then you turn, hurrying down the uneven cobbles after the Shadowsinger.

He’s silent when you catch up, walking at his side, a pace behind. He doesn’t look at you once, continuing down the road that will lead to the River House. Fighting down the humiliation, you clear your throat. “Can you—” You nearly trip, righting yourself a second before your tipping point. Stumbling, you scoop the fabric of your long dress into your hands, raising it out of the way of your feet.

He continues walking, though slows a little as you scramble after him.

“Azriel,” you say, a little breathless. “Azriel, wait.”

He halts suddenly, making you flinch with the abrupt stop. Sharp hazel eyes press down on you, and you falter. “Yes?” He asks. Fumbling for words, your eyes flick out from under his, skipping over the shops in the darkening streets. “I—…” you begin, unsure what to say. “Can you…can you not mention any of that?” You request softly, embarrassing heat warming your cheeks.

“Who would tell?” He replies coldly.

Humiliation settles in the pit of your stomach. You lower your head a little. Nod. “I didn’t want you to think…”

“I don’t make a habit of interfering with other people’s business,” he says pointedly, watching you. Why does it feel like he’s scolding you?

Your lips press together, shoulders curving inward almost imperceptibly.

His eyes flick to your hair, and his hand raises, as if to shift a strand—tuck it away. But he stops, noting your gaze. “You need to fix your hair,” he says, a touch softer than before. “It’s obvious what you were doing.” Shame is like a deadweight in your gut, hands feeling dumb as they attempt to neaten out a mess you can’t see. His eyes narrow when you lower them, and you both know it would be easier if he was the one to right whatever’s wrong with you. He doesn’t, though.

“I’m not like Nesta,” you say softly, a little shakily.

His brow narrows slightly, “nobody said you were. There’s nothing wrong about being similar to her.” Heat warms your skin, and you stumble under the look.

“I mean, that—what you…saw—that’s not normal. It’s not a… I’m doing doing any of that…”

“Drinking and fucking?” You flinch at the crude wording, and a gleam of apology flashes in his hazel irises. He watches you quietly for a moment, and you shift under his gaze, hands moving to rest on your elbows, dress swishing close to the ground.

“You know it’s fine if you are,” he says, gently. “As long as you’re being sensible about it,” he adds, “there’s nothing wrong with doing that if it works.” Your lower lip wobbles at the implication—that he knows you’re doing this to try and get over him. How desperate you’ve become.

“But find someone other than Bas,” he says, making you furrow your brow.

“What’s wrong with Bas?” You ask. He’s been great. Azriel watches you silently again, hazel eyes piercing into you blankly. Has your lip-tint smudged?

“He’s not…” Azriel begins, as if debating how to frame what he wants to say. Make sure you’ll understand. “You shouldn’t spend your time with someone like him,” he settles on.

“‘Someone like him’?” You echo, looking back up the street to where the two of you had been. Heat crawls up your spine, and you hastily look away.

“He’s different from you,” Azriel says, bluntly.

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” you argue softly, peering at the cobbles. You hear him sigh, as if he doesn’t know what to do with you. “He can’t give you what you’re looking for. He’s the type to string you along until he’s bored, then never visit again. Stay away from him.”

“He hasn’t done anything bad…” you say quietly, shifting lightly from foot to foot. “He’s been…he’s been very nice.”

Azriel sighs again, and that funny feeling settles in your stomach. Disappointment tickling your insides. “That’s to draw you in. As soon as you try to bring him to a dinner, or to meet one of your sisters, he’ll bolt.”

“Why would I bring him to meet any of you?” You ask bitterly at the lack of confidence. “Do you plan to keep your partner a secret?” He counters with, tersely. “Maybe.” You reply defensively, still looking at the ground.

He’s quiet again, and you can almost feel the air shift. “Need I remind you of last week’s events,” he asks, quietly. “You’re not known for keeping your mouth shut.” You bite your lip to keep it from trembling, nails digging into your elbows. “And I thought you didn’t make a habit of interfering with other people’s relationships,” you murmur.

“I know they’ll make good decisions,” he counters. “You don’t have enough experience. To know what you’re doing.”

“Stop treating me like a child,” you whisper, head dipping. “I know what I’m—” you cut yourself off as a sob tries to work its way from your throat. Take a deep breath. Swallow. “I know what I’m doing,” you manage quietly.

“You’re going to get yourself hurt,” he argues. “You don’t want to damage yourself like that.”

Your body stiffens at the words, then a breath eases from your chest. You nod. “Okay.” You begin walking again, one foot in front of the other. He sighs again. “I didn’t mean it like that.” You keep walking.

“I’m trying to help you,” he says flatly, falling into pace.

“Okay.”

“So you’ll stay away from him?” Azriel asks, eyes falling on your smaller frame.

“Okay.”

His brow narrows on you, watching intently. Then, “look at me.”

Look at me.

The feeling of his fingers inside of you, close enough to share breaths, yet you were the only vulnerable one. Not an ounce of intimacy to be exchanged. You keep walking toward the River House.

Azriel doesn’t say another word.

————

In the end, you’re somewhat glad you went to the dinner.

If you hadn’t, you would be back here, in the mortal lands.

Well, with no wall, you’re not sure what to call your previous homeland. But you’re here, nonetheless, and all thanks to Elain. She’d wished to see Lucien, who had near permanent residence in the mostly intact house, and had invited you along with her. Whether she knew you needed some time away, or simply offered, you don’t know.

You’d arrived most likely around an hour ago, Fey and Cassian departing soon after, leaving you and Elain to spend the day as you pleased. You’d opted to take a stroll around the gardens, walking alongside the river that was just beginning to refill after an apparently hot and dry summer.

That was your first encounter with Eris.

You nearly jump out of your skin when he winnows to the river bank mere feet to your left, stumbling backward a few steps in surprise. Cutting caramel eyes pierce into you with razor-sharp scrutiny, noting your pointed ears. His brow narrows as he takes you in; he doesn’t look pleased with what he finds.

Blinking, you mark the blazing colour of his hair, the beautifully tailored finery, the flicker of flame in his eyes—remarkably similar to Lucien. “What…who are you?” You manage, calming your heartbeat. It’s a nonsense question, you realise—it’s obvious who he is. Anyone could figure it out through simple deduction. So you shake your head, “why are you here?”

Eris’ eyes narrow on you, then he’s striding forward, moving up the river bank until he’s come to stop before you. You take a single step back—if you have to crane your neck to look at someone, you’re too close. He’s remarkably imposing with his height and muscle, despite the inherent beauty of the fae.

“Who are you?” The words are short and efficient in a sharp, brazen way, and you find yourself wondering if you should have just continued on your way. “I’m—” you open your mouth to give your name, then realise it would be rude to assume he knew who you were. There’s no reason for him to. “Feyre’s my younger sister,” you supply instead.

His brow narrows. “I didn’t know there were four of you.”

Heat flushes your skin, and you look away. It’s not an insult, yet you feel embarrassed.

“So, why are you here?” You repeat, a little quieter, trying to change the subject.

“I’m expected,” he replies shortly, turning to face the way you had come. “Why have you been kept a secret?” He asks. You mentally scramble for an excuse to continue on your walk. You don’t want to go back yet, and he’ll probably expect you to winnow, and you aren’t really in a talking mood at the moment. No excuse comes to mind.

“I haven’t been kept a secret,” you respond finally, falling into step a little behind him. “Not intentionally, anyway,” you add as an afterthought, frowning. He's walking fast, and you’d like more time to take in the scenery. At least he’s not winnowing.

“You haven’t been present at any meetings,” he counters, “I find it hard to believe that’s a coincidence.”

Your frown deepens, “why would I be at any of them? Elain hasn’t been to any, either. The only time you would have seen her is in the Hewn City.”

“Which you were kept away from, too.”

You come to a stop, watching him. His brow narrows as he’s forced to slow his pace, looking vaguely irritated. “I was there when you danced with Nesta,” you correct, “all of us were.”

Eris stares at you blankly and it’s an effort not to squirm. “I was there,” you insist, “behind Elain?”

He doesn’t remember you.

Well.

“So you’re good at remaining unseen,” he says, turning to set you into motion again. You hurry after him, a little taken aback at the compliment. It’s a nice way to think about it, a faint smile tipping your lips, “thank you.”

“It was a question.”

“Oh…” you say, smile vanishing. It hadn’t sounded like one. “I guess… I prefer it…”

“You and the Shadowsinger must get along swimmingly,” he mutters, continuing along the path, neatly avoiding muddied parts. Something you fail spectacularly at.

The comment registers in your mind and you stiffen, muscles contracting as you force yourself to continue moving. “Not particularly…” you hedge, uncertain what’s appropriate to tell him. You aren’t familiar with Court politics. “No more than anyone else, anyway,” you correct, soothing out the slight rumple.

“No? Not settling in well?” He asks. You could swear there’s some sort of mocking undertone to the question, but you can’t figure out what the taunt is for.

“I…I guess not?” You answer, slowly. “It’s not bad,” you add hastily, not wanting to talk negatively behind their backs. He might bring it up later. You repeat the thought in your head, then shake it, smiling faintly. He hadn’t even know you existed until a few minutes ago, yet you think he could be trying exploit you. How silly.

The result of an over-inflated ego. Maybe you really should stop fooling around with Bas—he’s giving you all sorts of ideas about the value of your person, and it probably isn’t healthy.

“I mean, it’s fine. Just…normal, I guess. Compared with the initial chaos,” you add, satisfied with the end result of your rambling. The house is in sight now. All you need to do is pass between the river and the pond, and—

You stumble.

Not literally—it’s more of a mental scramble. Because right there, where they weren’t mere minutes ago, are a pair of large, powerfully built swans.

Eris continues walking like the two beasts aren’t eyeing you up with those sharp, beady eyes. You can practically see the light catching on the small teeth hidden beneath the beak. Glittering with menace.

“Let’s go this way,” you say abruptly, pointing to the path that winds around the pond. He comes to stop, clearly irritated by the unnecessary hinderances you’re causing. “This way is perfectly usable. We go this way,” he turns, continuing forward, fear rising in y our throat.

You scramble forward, clutching the skirts of your dress, “Eris!”

His caramel eyes slice into you, piercing in their intensity, but you don’t buckle. “I understand that maybe they don’t seem as vicious as the creatures of Prythian,” you murmur, as if they can hear you, “but swans are still very dangerous. We should go around.” Again you point to the pathway, ears perked up for any signs the massive birds are approaching. “And I get that you have magic, but you can’t just go around butchering local animals if they get in your way. That’s not how things are done here.”

He stares at you, as if asking if you’re serious. You hold his gaze because yes, you’re completely serious.

“You know they won’t attack you,” he counters, “and you’re correct, they aren’t dangerous compared to the beasts in Prythian. So move aside.”

You shake your head, “they could break your arm,” you insist, refusing to budge. His brow narrows in a scathing scowl, “they could break a human’s arm. I am not human.” He walks around you.

“They’re still dangerous, Eris. We should really go around,” you urge, watching as he walks along the path, remaining rooted to the spot. “Just winnow,” he snaps, then looks over his shoulder. “Unless you aren’t strong enough.”

“I can winnow fine, but…” Even that’s too close to them. You firmly believe animals have a sixth sense humans do not—you wouldn’t put it past them to know they’ve been cheated. “Please, let’s just go around.”

He watches you with narrowed eyes, weighing; judging. You freeze beneath his gaze, refusing to even breathe in case it’s the wrong thing to do. He turns fully to you then, and you think he might listen to you. Relief washes over you, but—

“You’re scared of these creature?” He asks, amusement underlying his tone. You flush. “Like I said, they’re dangerous,” you defend, lowering your gaze a little.

“You know, you’re fae. They won’t attack you.”

Your eyes flick up, doubting. “Why would they act any differently?”

“We are creatures of magic. Greater than they are. They know it would be unwise to attempt anything.” You blink, having not thought of it like that. The fae had felt different when you were human, more intense, more concentrated in a way humans weren’t. You hadn’t considered maybe other animals would understand that primal difference, too.

Eris’ lips twitch, and he holds out his arm—you’re completely certain it’s a mocking gesture this time. But also a challenge.

It’s also a prompt to face your fears. It’s been long enough.

You can do this.

You can prove to yourself there’s no need to be afraid of them any longer.

You take some small steps forward. Then a few more. And a few more after that. And then your arm is overlapping with Eris’, feeling the hot strength of muscle cording his forearm. An odd feeling of security settles over you, as the two of you begin to move forward.

You’re unable to help tensing as you pass them, even if Eris is on the side closest to them. Then to your dismay, he stops. “You can pet them, if you want,” he says, lips still quirked in the corners. He’s enjoying watching you shake and tremble at something half your size. “Are you insane?” You mutter under your breath, staring at the white beasts that seem to be waiting for an opportunity to strike.

Eyes widen and you stare at him, “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean that.”

He watches you steadily, eyes gleaming as he turns toward the swans, forcibly dragging you with him, despite your protests. “Eris…” you mutter, digging your feet into the mud, but you nearly slip. “Eris, seriously, stop it.”

He stops; you sigh in relief, but the tension doesn’t leave your body—still much too close to the great birds.

“Go up to one,” he says, a smirk on his rosey lips. “Touch one, then you can go.” He’s enjoying this far too much for your liking.

“No way,” you hiss, trying to pull out of his hold. The swans shift at the jerky movement, and you still. You stare at him, but he doesn’t seem inclined to move. “They’ll definitely do something if I try to go up to one!” You argue, as softly as possible. He just hums, and you wish you had continued walking instead of addressing him. Then you could be looking for blackberries, enjoying the natural sounds of the outside.

But here you are.

“You’re fae,” he reminds, eyes gleaming as he watches you intently.

Muscles tremble, thoughts flash in and out of existence within your mind as you look at the swans, sat neatly on the river bank, just at the water’s edge. A few long steps there, then back, and it’ll be over.

He’s right—you’re fae. They won’t attack you.

Still.

His arm unlinks from your own, hand pressing gently against the base of your spine. Egging you on.

You exhale a heavy breath, then move forward. Silently cursing him—unkind as it is. One step at a time as you descend the bank. The wind seems to have picked up, and you’re grateful for your preternatural sense of balance as you move down the muddy slant, feet settling on the pebble-filled shore.

Just three more steps, and you can turn back.

Two more.

One more, and then you’ll be in reaching distance.

The beady eyes pierce into you, wings stiffening, and you force yourself to breathe deeply.

“Just tap one on the head, and it’ll be over,” he reminds from your back, a little too loudly for your liking. Like he’s trying to get them to startle.

You steady yourself, blocking him out.

Come on, you can do this. You’re twice it’s size, and have immortality on your side. You can do this.

Slowly, shakily, you take the last step forward, reaching out your hand.

Black eyes meet your own, and you falter.

The swan shrieks, the second one hissing viciously, wings flaring to strike. You jump away, feet landing on the slippery rocks of the river. The massive birds surge forward, beak opening to snap at you, and you stumble, yelping as you fall backward. Icy water soaks up to your waist, and the breath whooshes out of you, your arms covering your face as wings flap.

When you open your eyes, the swans have taken off, and you’re up to your ribs in freezing river water. Trembling and shaking, you ease yourself out, soaked from the waist down, clothes wet and icy against your skin as you shiver.

Up on the bank, Eris is grinning, eyes gleaming with mirth as he watches your soaked state shuffle from the river, barely keeping his laughter to himself.

“You said—” Your heart is still pounding, vision blurring a little as you fumble for words. “You said they— That they wouldn’t…” Your teeth are already chattering, and you have to get warm quickly. You know how deadly the cold can be. Even with a reinforced body, the cold is as vicious as you remember, softly sinking into your arms, numbing your lips.

“Every animal has a fight or flight response,” he replies, voice lilting with amusement at your terror. “It was foolish of you to think you were above that.”

“But you said—”

“If I told you to dip beneath the river for five minutes without coming up for air because fae lungs are larger, would you do it?” He counters.

“…I wouldn’t disbelieve you,” you stammer, lips numb from the cold, lumbering back toward the bank.

The water in your shoes makes it hard to climb the muddy slope, and you end up having to use your hands to keep yourself steady, gritty dirt sliding beneath your nails. “Why did you lie?” You manage, heart pounding from fear, blinking away tears. His lips are still quirked into a rueful smile, enjoying your terror.

Hateful, hateful, hateful male.

“Don’t blame your idiocy on me,” he says smoothly, offering you a viper’s smile as he turns to continue along the path, leaving you freezing and shivering, soaked in river water. “Anyone with half a brain would have been able to see through that,” he calls over his shoulder. Tears spill down your cheeks, and for once, you don’t think, or fret over the consequences.

You winnow, and land a smack square across his cheek. As hard as you can.

He blinks, startled.

Then flame ignites in his eyes, glittering ire blazing hot as a forge.

“Don’t you ever,” you snarl, “do something like that again.” Fury heats your body, and you feel like a physical warmth is wrapping around you, fingertips tingling as if glowing, skin itching just below the surface. “Do you hear me, Eris?” You repeat, rage sharpening your words as your lip pulls back from your teeth.

The flame banks in his caramel eyes, and he yields a step. It’s satisfying, until you realise why.

You are glowing. But it’s not the bright, warm golden of Feyre’s happiness.

It’s green, and vivid.

Hands the colour of radiant starfall.

————

The Mother seems to enjoy putting you through various trials.

You come to this conclusion as you resist the urge to press deeper into the firm heat of Azriel’s chest as he carries you through the air.

For reasons you can only guess at, Cassian was otherwise preoccupied, leaving the Shadowsinger to fill in. Now Elain understands your relationship with the male, Feyre can guess at the complexities, and Azriel is part of the mess, so it should be obvious you’ll fly with your younger sister, right?

Unfortunately, Lucien had to be accounted for.

He’s well aware of the history between the Spymaster and his mate, and while he would never ask Elain to avoid him, she can guess well enough it would make him unhappy. That’s how you end up in his arms, split between wishing to be anywhere else, and wishing to be able to bask in his touch without anyone questioning how close you would lean. As it is, you’re stuck between keeping your distance, and not leaning so far it looks like you’re attempting to plummet to the ground far below.

The group is moving in silence, passing over the final stretch, and you can make out the twinkle of lights in the distance—Velaris. They’d gotten caught up in—what sounded like—a rather heated conversation with the Autumn Court heir, while you had opted to wait outside. The hallway had seemed too cramped, and you weren’t sure if you could manage being pressed so close to him without making your discomfort obvious.

Azriel breaks the silence. “Was everything okay with Eris suddenly turning up?”

The question startles you from your inner thoughts, and you replay it to catch the beginning. “Yeah,” you reply, trying to keep your eyes off him. “He’s just a bit…” You fumble for words, but he’s already nodding, knowing what you’re getting at. “He’s a little intense,” you settle on, “but everything was fine. For the most part, anyway.” You’re rambling.

“For the most part,” he echoes, a soft question in his voice.

“Well, I ended up falling into the river, but you know how it is…” you mumble, suddenly finding the sky very interesting. More interesting than Azriel.

(Liar.)

“I don’t think I do,” he replies. “What does soaking yourself to the bone have to do with him?” He asks, grip tightening ever so slightly as you begin the descent. You really don’t want to tell him—it’s not going to win you any adult points. At best it’ll just show how emotional your are, and that means baggage.

“It’s a long story,” you hedge, trying not to cling too tight to him as your stomach lifts in your belly. “We’ve got a while left,” he replies, gazing ahead. He could definitely be going at a steeper angle.

You sigh softly, trying to figure out how to make it as quick and concise as possible. “Well…he kind of…appeared out of nowhere, and we ended walking back together.” Azriel’s fingers press into your skin lightly, slowly spiralling in wide circles, “and there was a river involved.”

You nod gently, “yeah.”

“How?”

Teeth worry your lower lip, mouth pursing.

He exhales quietly. “We’re in an alliance, but that doesn’t mean you should trust him. I need to know everything that happened so precautions can be made,” he explains firmly.

“Okay…”

“So tell me what happened when you were walking alone with him,” he prompts.

“There’s not much to say…” you try, but he gives you a look that tells you to quit lying. “I don’t know…we were walking past the river, and there were some swans, and he convinced me to touch one, and…well, I slipped and fell in.” You leave out the glowing hands part. If you mention it, you know they’ll pounce. You don’t want to go through what Nesta did. The things she had to endure just to activate her powers…

Granted, there’s no looming threat of the queen anymore, but still. You’d rather not.

“He convinced you,” Azriel mutters under his breath, “and how did he do that?” You flush with heat, and pray he can’t tell. “I didn’t want to walk past them, and he…encouraged me to tackle my fear.”

“Stop forcing a good narrative on that prick,” he says sharply. “He didn’t encourage you, he manipulated you.”

“Maybe,” you murmur, “but I’m a little less afraid of swans now.”

Azriel sucks in a steadying breath. “And what did you talk about?”

You cast your mind back to the conversation. “He said he hadn’t known there were four sisters,” you admit, quietly, “he thought there were only three, and that Rhys was hiding me, for some reason.” He hums, and your hairs stand on end, able to feel the resonance thrumming through you. You hurriedly shift your mind elsewhere before your scent changes. “What else?”

You put your teeth into the inside of your lower lip, “I…” said we weren’t on the best of terms. “He asked…how…I was settling in,” you manage to string the words together, selecting each one with great care. “And?” He prompts. Oh dear.

“I said it was fine,” you reply, purposely vaguely. His eyes flick to you, and your own snap away in response. “Just fine?” He questions, softly. You make to nod, but he mutters your name under his breath, a quiet reprimand on his tongue. Heat coils in the pit of your belly, making you shift uncomfortably in his arms, leaning away.

A muscle feathers in his jaw, and he tightens his grip on you. “Stop doing that. You’ll fall.” You’re squeezed closer to him, and you squirm, the heat doubling. He mutters your name again, rougher.

“Stop doing that,” you hiss, sharply. You don’t have time to feel bad—it’s better to be rude than for him to realise the immense effect he has on you. “Stop leaning away from me,” he counters, “you’re being difficult.”

“I’m sorry my responses are an inconvenience for you,” you snap, quietly. No louder than a whisper.

“Don’t weaponise your emotions like that,” he murmurs back.

“I don’t see how I’d be able to when I don’t even know what that means,” you return, quietly. You feel his eyes press into you, and you look further away, inspecting the ground. “Don’t feign ignorance either,” he says sharply, “it’s immature.”

“Immature is making a problem out of something I can’t help,” you whisper back, snappily. His eyes narrow on you, and you shift again.

His hold tightens abruptly, fingers digging into you as he roughly readjusts his grip on your thighs and around your back. You squeak at the harsh treatment, heat bursting in your lower belly, and you squeeze your lips together, praying no sounds slip out. “It’s like you’re trying to get me to drop you,” he mutters beside your ear, “just keep still. We’re almost there.”

“Keep still?” You repeat incredulously, staring at him. “I don’t know if you’ve somehow forgotten, Azriel,” you hiss, emphasising his name. Hazel eyes flick down to you, and you gently push away the heat for a moment. “But I struggle to even think straight when you’re around. I can barely keep my head as it is, so forgive me if I’m a little shifty in a position like this,” you snap quietly. Probably the most aggressive you’ve ever been for a consistent time period.

“And I don’t know if you’ve forgotten,” he snipes back, eyes piercing into you, “but you managed to pull away on the brink of an orgasm.” Wild heat swallows you whole, and there’s no way your scent is remaining undetected now. “So you’re clearly more in control than you say you are.”

You stare at him, lips parted, skin flushed with heat.

“We are done with this conversation,” you hiss, breaking your gaze away. He doesn’t appreciate the verbal dismissal. “We’re done when I say we’re done,” he hisses in return. “Now what did you mean when you told Eris you were fine?”

You purse your lips, pointedly averting your eyes.

He mutters your name, grip tightening on you. You ignore him.

He repeats it, rougher this time, shadows twining around you.

“Cut it out,” you whisper, sharply.

“Expand on the fine comment,” he pushes, and you can physically feel the weight of his gaze upon your cheek. “Why are you so hung up on that one, tiny part?” You return, a sliver of irritation peeking through. “Because you’ve been acting strangely for a while now,” he hisses, “and if you’re starting to spiral like Nesta—”

“Do not threaten me, Azriel,” you snarl softly, skin heating—tingling. His eyes flicker, and his hold lessens on you a little, “it’s not a threat,” he soothes, “just an observation.” You narrow your brow as you watch him warily. “Like I said: you’ve been acting strange recently, and if you even gave the slightest hint that something’s off, Eris will exploit it.”

Your eyes flick away, slightly embarrassed by your tiny outburst. That wasn’t appropriate.

“So tell me, what happened when you said you were fine?” He repeats, gritting out the question.

“I…” You bite your lip, then give up. “He asked if I was settling in well, and I said I wasn’t.”

“Why did you tell him that?” He asks, gaze returning to pick out Velaris, much closer now. “Because it’s the truth,” you reply, a little weakly.

“I don’t care if it’s the truth, you shouldn’t have told him,” Azriel hisses. “He’ll give you the comfort you want, offer the reassurance, until you’re wrapped so tightly you choke on it.”

Hurt flickers in your eyes, vision blurring. “Maybe if I was better than fine I wouldn’t need the comforting,” you snap, turning your head and blinking away tears. His jaw tightens, “that’s not the point.” You stare at him. He stares back, features set in a stony line. “What is the point, then?” You ask weakly, the small spark of fight banking, beginning to flicker out beneath his oppressive gaze. “The point is,” he says, dragging out the words like he’s talking to a child. “You’re too naive.”

It’s like a smack to the face, your head reeling.

“You don’t know the dynamics between the courts. You don’t know about the feuds, or the history of Prythian. You don’t know enough to be trusted to act on your own,” he continues, oblivious to the number of scars he’s striking. “You’re a loose cannon, that I now have to compensate for.”

You stare up at him, hazel eyes glittering beneath the starlight.

“What’s worse—”

You put your hands over your ears. You can’t take anymore. If it was coming from someone else—fine. From anyone else it would be fine; understandable.

But not Azriel. That’s too much.

His brow furrows, lips moving, and you can guess he’s telling you to remove your hands.

You shake your head softly, unable to stand another word.

But his shadows contract around your wrists, tugging them away, and you hate the heat the bubbles in your lower belly at the roughness.

“You need to grow up,” he mutters, lowly. “You can’t just run away from something if you don’t want to hear it. You’re going to have to face it.”

A sob breaks from your chest, and your hands cover your face as the tears finally break, spilling down your cheeks. “Just leave me alone,” you cry, shoulders shaking as the tears continue streaming. “You find me irritating? fine. You find me annoying? Fine. You think I’m the worst, ugliest, most useless female in the world, fine,” you sob, unable to look at him. “But keep it to yourself, because every single word from your mouth holds more weight that you can probably even understand. And it is crushing me.”

You tremble in his arms, wishing they were there to offer comfort instead of being purely obligatory.

“You think Eris is the viper? You think he’s the one who’s bad for me? The one who’s trying to choke me?” You ask through your tears. “But you’re the one succeeding.”

Azriel’s eyes harden, and you feel the fractures growing larger. “I’m trying to keep you in line,” he replies, coldly. “For the sake of my Court, my High Lord and Lady, I am doing my best to keep people safe,” he emphasises. “And you are a proving to be a burden.”

You don’t know if he intentionally selected that word, burden.

You don’t know if he even realises which wound he’s targeted—so many have been picked open.

But you go quiet in his arms.

Docile.

The fight finally winking out.

General Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb

Az Taglist: @azrielshadows1nger

CBMTHY Taglist: @impossibelle @naturakaashi @sakurafrost3-blog @ficienjoyedrbspot @azriels-shadowsinger @marina468 @misstea12 @going-through-shit @fussel9913 @minakay @i-am-infinite @wannabewolf @thegirlintheshadows101 @kennedy-brooke @esposadomd

#Azriel #Azriel x reader #Azriel x Archeron sibling #Azriel angst #angst #CBMTHY #Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You #Part 4 #CBMTHY Part 4 #Eris

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honeybeezgobzzzzz · 11 months

Text

𓅨 Just One Sip: Chapter Three

Just One Sip: You take a job as a security guard at an old manor to pay off your crippling student debt. You did not expect to be guarding a mysterious man trapped in a glass cage or to fall under his starry eyes. You were going to break him out, but becoming his snack was not part of the plan.

Warnings: Explicit Language, Vampire Shit/BLOOD (What You Came For), Explicit Material (Unprotected Sex is a No No), Kissing in the Rain (Morpheus Makes it Hot, K?), You Get to Wander the Palace in a White Nightgown (Peak fanfic rt there), Filth, Two Fools in Love.

To Note: Vampire!Dream x Female!Reader, It’s a little dark but Reader doesn’t complain.

Word Count: ~10.1k

Previous | Masterlist

This is half edited, I’ll take care of it later so enjoy!

You’d been wandering around the palace, a little aimless, when a woman had approached you, asking for help. Apparently a little girl was having a ball with a bunch of dreams and nightmares, but the woman that usually played the part of a princess, was needed elsewhere. The issue? The little girl really wanted a princess at her ball and would most likely burst into tears if one didn’t show up. A dream to a nightmare really. You were all for helping out, happy to have something to do if it meant that the little girl would be happy.

So with a quick wiggle of her fingers, the woman had transformed your simple jeans and shirt into a lavish dress fit for a princess. You felt like you had stepped into the world of Cinderella. Shimmering silver fabric wrapped around your body, tightening around your waist before billowing out in an enormous skirt. Lifting a hand, you ran your fingers over the unique neckline that was in the shape of butterfly wings, bejeweled with pearls and other crystal gems. Every inch of the dress sparkled with stars you really did feel like you had been plopped into a fairytale.

Feeling your shoes shift from flat soles to heels, you grabbed at the layered skirt and pulled it back to see your feet neatly tucked into a pair of silver heels that were just as shimmering silver as the dress. There was so much fabric, shimmering with every little movement, you were certain that you’d be the center of attention… you probably should have thought this through before saying yes.

“Oh, one last touch,” The woman spoke, peering at your face and hair. Another wiggle of her fingers and your hair was shifting to match the elegance of the strapless dress. Your hands reached up and brushed across your shoulders as you nervously looked around. Certainly you would look ridiculous in this outfit just wandering around the palace… at the very least, the enormous dress was practically weightless on you and you had no difficulty wearing it. The heels were another issue all together.

“I’ve never been good with wearing heels,” You worried, looking at the woman who then wiggled her fingers at herself and dressed herself in a dress fitting for a ball, but nowhere near as stunning as yours.

“You think the girls will care?” She countered.

“I look like I stepped off the set of Lily James’ Cinderella.” She snorted.

“This dress is so much better, it’s spun from stardust and stitched by the cosmos. Lily James could never pull off wearing pure starlight like you can.” Your hand was grabbed and she started pulling you through the palace. “Come, we’re late as it is.”

“You haven’t even told me your name!” You exclaimed.

“You can call me Andy,” She said as you both crossed a hallway and turned down a corridor that led to the great hall.

“Andy,” You repeated, trying to keep up with her hurried steps. “It’s nice to meet you.”

You both came to a stop in the grand hall and Andy turned to face you, taking both your hands in hers.

“You look tense,”

“I have no idea what I’m doing and have never worn anything like this.” You pointed out. “What’s not to be tense about?”

“They’re little girls, they’ll adore you.” Andy reassured you. You were about to remind her that looking like a princess and acting like one, was completely different, when Morpheus’ voice echoed in the large room and he appeared with several subjects following him.

“There are several other nightmares we need to discuss regarding the Corinthian’s relievement of duties…” Morpheus trailed off the moment he saw you standing in front of Andromeda. His entire being froze in place, his eyes taking the entirety of your beauty. Morpheus didn’t know what you were doing with Andromeda, but you were dressed in starlight and your precious skin was laid bare to tantalize him. Even across the grand hall he could already smell the bewitching scent of the heavenly blood coursing through your body, see the way you shifted in place with your muscles extending and contracting in obvious fluster… you were a sight to behold and erased all thoughts from the Endless, temporarily blocking the collective unconsciousness of the universe.

But as soon as your eyes connected with his, Andromeda was speaking to you and a shimmer of the Greek woman’s magic enshrouded you both. Then you were gone and the bright source of life and vitality disappeared from the grand hall.

“Sir?” A nightmare probed, having noticed that Morpheus’s attention had been drawn elsewhere.

“We shall continue this conversation at a later date, I have somewhere else I must be.” Morpheus told them, his voice touched with a hint of strain. Oh he was so hungry for you. Hungry not just for your precious vitality, but your light, your scent, your touch. Morpheus craved you like nothing he had in his entire being. So he followed you and Andromeda to the dream she had taken you to.

For a moment, you thought your ear drums had burst from the squeals of delight from the ten little girls all dressed up in gowns. When they had spotted you, they had been awestruck for but a few moments, then the happiest little shrieks erupted from their mouths and they swarmed you. Their faces had instantly dissipated your nervousness and you crouched down to their eye level with a big smile.

“Cinderella!” One of them exclaimed with a crooked smile, her eyes nearly glowing in delight. “I can’t believe you’re here!! Best. Birthday. EVER!!” You couldn’t help but giggle at her enthusiasm, very glad that you had said yes to Andy. It was worth seeing their smiles.

“Ooh, ooh, can you tell us all about Prince Charming?” Another one of the little girls begged. “I mean surely by now you know him well enough, you did marry him.” Shit. What were going to say? Just by their babbles you knew they were talking about Lily James and Richard Madden’s Cinderella… but you really didn’t know much about Kit in the movie. It wasn’t like there was an in-depth guide on the prince… granted he had more personality in the live action than the animated films.

“Oh,” You echoed, stalling and trying to come up with a way to appease them. Well, you suppose you could bull shit your way through it. No, children sometimes had a knack for seeing through lies. You’d tell them about your Prince Charming. If you had one that is… “Well, he is kind, though it might not seem like it because he is so focused on his duties. Being a Prince is a very important job.” The little girls nodded in agreement, fully engrossed with your words. “But if you are lucky enough to get to know him, you’ll learn how important family is to him, and I’m not talking about direct family, but friends as well.”

“My mom says that having good friends is really important.” You nodded in agreement.

“Very important, you can rely on friends for help you when you need it.” You said before continuing on with your description of your dream Prince Charming. Little did you know that while you spun a tale of your dream prince, you were describing a certain Endless, and that Endless was hanging on every word you spoke. He memorized those details, ingraining them to memory, becoming everything you wanted and dreamed of. When you were in the middle of telling a tale of how you and your Prince Charming had met, Morpheus changed his clothing to formal ones, dark as eternal night. Then he began stepping forwards, making his presence known.

The little girls surrounding you zeroed their eyes on him in a matter of moments and fresh squeals permeated the lavish ball room.

“It’s Prince Charming!!!” They cried out in excitement while you raised your eyes. Shock rippled through your body and you rose to your feet, clutching your hands to your silver stardust covered chest. It was one thing to be dressed like this in front of a bunch of princess loving girls, but Morpheus!? You felt embarrassed and self conscious of your body. So you stared at your glove covered hands and let the elated little girls fawn and squeal over the inhumanely beautiful Morpheus. Before you knew it, he was standing in front of you with a puzzled look on his face.

“They keep calling me ‘Prince Charming’… do you know why?” He quietly asked you as the little ones gathered in a group and looked at the pair of you standing together with wide eyes. If was like their fairytale had come true, for you and he were the picture of Prince and Cinderella.

“Just go with it,” You whispered back. “They think we are two Disney characters they love and I do not want to ruin this dream.”

“Very well,” Morpheus spoke, having no problem letting the dream progress with the little ones calling him ‘Prince Charming’. He had you in front of him, dressed beautifully and draped in stars. It was an indulgence to see you like this. “Will you tell me about this ‘Prince Charming’?”

You blinked at him, wondering how a being like him had no idea who Prince Charming was. Then you remember he’d been trapped for 106 years and inwardly chastised yourself for assuming he’d know about Disney.

“He’s from a children’s movie. Basically, a poorly treated woman, Cinderella, is forbidden from going to a ball by her stepmother. Her fairy godmother helps her out with a little bit of magic and she get’s to go to the ball.” You began explaining, picking at your glove covered fingers. “So she goes to the ball and meets the prince, Prince Charming, they dance, only the magic has a time limit that expires at midnight. The woman has to rush away from the ball because of it, leaving behind a shoe which the prince uses to find her again.”

“And these little girls think you are that Cinderella?” Morpheus asked for clarification, thinking over what you had told him. You nodded.

“And they think you are Prince Charming, I don’t want to ruin this for them, they’re so happy.” The hopeful look on your face was one that Morpheus refused to ruin, so he smiled (more like smirked), and offered his hand to you.

“Would you do me the honors, Cinderella?” You nearly blanched at him, your jaw threatening to drop open at how easy the Dream Lord fell into the role. The little girls, who had shuffled closer, looking between you two in reverence, gasped. Then they squealed.

“I don’t know how to dance!” You whispered shouted at him, panic filling your body. Morpheus could hear your heart speeding up in your chest. Could see the way fresh blood bloomed beneath your skin to perfume you with a heavenly scent. So delectable. So hungry. Morpheus’s fangs threatened to descend, your bare shoulders and neck enticing, all but calling for him to bury his face there. Sink his teeth into your flesh. Drink your sweet, sweet blood, warm liquid pouring down his throat. Ecstasy. “Morpheus.”

He blinked from his intimate thoughts and arched an eyebrow at you, finding delight in your wish to make this dream perfect for the little ones.

“This a dream, Y/N,” Morpheus reassured you. “All you have to do, is wish to dance.” You stood stiffly for a few moments more, the little girls on the edge of excitement. It wasn’t as if you didn’t wonder what it would like to be swept around on the dance floor by a prince, by Morpheus. So you raised your gloved fingers and took his offered hands. The little girls all squealed with glee and Morpheus, putting on a show of a life time, led you to the center of the ballroom. You swallowed thickly, worrying about tripping or making a fool of yourself in front of both Morpheus and the little ones. The morbid embarrassment you would feel…

And yet… Morpheus’ eyes, staring deep into yours, captured your entire mind and stole all thoughts of unease and insecurity. Your body seemed to know what it was doing the moment music began playing from somewhere, and your feet began moving in time with Morpheus’.

“I’ve never danced with someone before,” You absentmindedly spoke while Morpheus effortlessly twirled you around the dance floor. He smirked, pleased to know that he could have one of your firsts. He’d have all of them in time.

“I am honored to have that privilege.” He told you, spinning you in a circle. You were surprised that your feet effortlessly pulled off the maneuver, not tripping over the skirts swilling about your legs in a shimmering silver storm. Around and around you went, almost floating across the beautiful tiled floor. The Dream Lord twirled you around, effortlessly lifted you off your feet, and held you against his chest with the gentleness of a lover. Gods you were falling all that harder for the being.

Morpheus wasn’t that far off from your feelings, indulging in the closeness of your body, enraptured by your stunning beauty that was only enhancedby the stardust and cosmos wrapped around your stellar body. Andromeda had done a wonderful job dressing you up as a fairytale princess, because you truly looked like royalty. And your skin. The neckline of your dress left much to be desired for Morpheus was tantalized by the perfume of your blood. The flush that bloomed just beneath your skin spread your divine blood all across your body. It was like you had doused yourself in an aphrodisiac. Your smell was already making him loose his inhibitions.

So when your dance finally ended, Morpheus was glad that the little ones had disappeared, falling into a deeper dreamless sleep that left you all to himself. Pulling back your hands from his, you stared at your covered fingers with a slight frown.

“Is something wrong?” Morpheus questioned, intending to eliminate anything that took away your bright smile and adoring gaze. You looked back up at the impeccably dressed Endless, and once again admired how incredible Morpheus looked dressed as a prince. Even if it was a dark one.

“My hands,” You spoke up, raising your sweating fingers. “I never realized how hot gloves might get when dancing, I can only imagine what it was like for the woman who wore these for hours.” Morpheus shifted his hands and began tugging the glove from your left hand. You let him, watching as he carefully pulled them free of your arm and hand. The soft fabric melted to shimmering dust that floated upwards and disappeared. He pulled the remaining glove from your hand and settled his eyes on yours once more.

“Those women were accustomed to such dealings, it was normal life for them.” Morpheus gently spoke, his eyes trailing along the curves of your face. “Would you care for another dance?” Your face warmed once more, and unbeknownst to you, that only made more of the sweet scent of your blood perfume your skin. Morpheus shivered in delight, his throat aching to be parched by the sweet nectar pulsing within your body.

“If you have time, I know you are busy.” You shyly answered, not wanting to hog Morpheus’ precious time.

“I will always have time for you,” Morpheus reassured you before taking your hand in his and gripping your waist once more. This time he chose a slower song for the orchestra to play, wanting to savor and enjoy every millisecond he had of you dressed in starlight and within his arms.

“Do you? I mean, Lucienne explained to me what it is that you do and that seems like a very important job.” You said, finding yourself all that much closer to the Endless. Your bodies were practically touching now. Morpheus could feel the softness he craved, only just barely hidden from him by billowing layers of silver cosmos. And your scent. Oh how you made his hunger burn in the back of his throat. One hundred and six years was nothing compared to how you made him hunger. Almost like the forbidden fruit, for Morpheus knew that if he had one more sip, he would never let you leave.

Perhaps it was cruel of you to remain in his palace, teasing, taunting him with your ambrosial smell that echoed the divine blood that ran through your veins… and yet Morpheus would find himself once again despondent if you ever left. You were such a beautiful life residing within his dark halls.

“Am I not doing my duty?” Morpheus countered with a smirk. “I am overseeing a dream, ensuring that Andromeda is doing her duty as intended.”

“That sounds rehearsed,” You rebutted. “And like an excuse. The Dreaming is impeccably run and everyone does their job very well. You don’t need to oversee anything.”

“Then perhaps I simply wished to indulge in the honor of dancing with you when your beauty shines brighter than Sirius.” Your mind went blank and so did your ability to dance. You tripped, your legs in a tangle, and let out a yelp. Good god, you were going down hard. But rather than ungracefully falling to the floor in a jumble of limbs and fabric, Morpheus plucked your falling body and stepped in a half circle, using your falling momentum to pull you right back to your feet. Only he didn’t just make sure you didn’t fall. You didn’t know if he meant to or not, but Morpheus’s strength sent you crashing right into his chest.

Letting out a small grunt as you collided with his black covered figure, the hand that had been resting on his shoulder, hooked around his neck to stabilize yourself. Your heart was trying to beat its way out of your chest at this point.

“Oh my god,” You wheezed, clutching Morpheus’s hand which you still held, and pulling your face away from where it had almost smashed against his shoulder.

“My apologies for distracting you,” Morpheus’ voice floated into your ear in close proximity and with barely a shift of your head, your eyes met his. He had the subtlest of smirks on his lips (because he definitely knew he was the cause of your tripping and was entirely unapologetic as it had landed you within his arms) and his eyes were a mix of silver and black, no hint of their usual blue storm. You really needed to figure out what each color meant.

“Don’t apologize, I’m just clumsy,” You replied faintly, every inch of your skin feeling hot from his proximity. You almost wanted to get closer to him, his coolness soothing the flames dancing along your flesh. Morpheus was drunk off your scent, the sweetness of your blood no longer subtly perfuming your skin but ensnaring all of his senses to that he was under your spell. Your heart rate was coaxing him to you, fast and rhythmic, pushing your ambrosial blood through your body in a manner that repeatedly called to Morpheus. Starving. He was starving. Had been since indulging on the blood straight from your vein. None of his usual sources had been desirable or palatable to the dream lord since his return. Only you.

“You’re far from clumsy, Y/N,” Morpheus murmured, maintaining his arm around your waist while bringing his hand up to trace the curve of your jaw. “I have encountered many royalty and fairness within my existence and yet none of them compare to your astral beauty.” As he spoke, Morpheus allowed himself to sneak closer to your bared skin. Your cheeks almost brushed, no they did, and you shivered slightly as pearlescent skin cooled your inflamed one.

“Pretty sure you can thank Andy for that,” You meekly whispered. Morpheus chuckled at your deflection.

“Andromeda merely enhanced what you already have,” His lips brushed against your neck, against your pulse. Fluttering, fast, full of delectable life. You slowly exhaled, feeling the gentle brushes of midnight strands tickling your cheek. Did you really need to still be leaning into him? Probably not, but you weren’t inclined to move, not when it felt so nice to be in his arms. Not when the Endless had you enchanted like this. You bewitched each other. Morpheus’ lips rested over your pulse, his throat arching and teeth already sliding free. Oh to have just one more sip. His lips just barely parted, itching to sink into your flesh and finally sate the agony of hunger churning inside his being. The breath caught in your chest because you could feel the heat of his mouth. No. He promised himself that he would not do this to you, he had already disrespected you by taking without asking once before. He refused to harm you again for he knew that he might not be able to control himself.

So Morpheus promptly detached himself from you, his inner being raging from the loss of your soft warmth, your ensnaring scent. He saw confusion bloom within your eyes, tinged with hurt, and put an end to the temptation.

“This dream is over,” He spoke, ending the fairytale just as quickly as it had started.

You were suddenly standing in a darkened grand hall, the silence of the large room almost deafening now. Your aching heart was in your throat and your eyes burned. Then Andromeda hurried up to you. You turned your eyes to her.

“What did I do wrong?” You whispered, trying not to cry because surely you had done something to anger Morpheus, to ruin the idyllic dream in which you felt so happy. You had felt like a princess, had danced like one, had been spun around, lifted off your feet… you’d danced like Cinderella and felt like her too. “Andy, what did I do wrong?”

The Grecian woman strode up to you and took your trembling hands, wishing she could placate you with an answer that would bring back your lovely smile. But she couldn’t, because nothing she could say would explain Morpheus’s abrupt departure from the dream. Nor could she tell you of her lords intimate thirst for you. So she led you towards your rooms, determined to at least sooth your hurt and confusion.

She led you to your rooms, had you change out of the gorgeous stardust and cosmos dress, and take a soothing bath full of herbs and perfumed oils that would surely ease you. While you sat in the bath, there were cracks of thunder. Booming, echoing, almost shaking the marble of the palace. Eyes lifting to the beautiful skylight overhead the bath, you watched lighting illuminate pitch black clouds. A storm was building overhead, souring what had once been a gorgeous day.

“It looks like it is going to rain,” You softly commented. Andromeda, who was kneeling behind you and absentmindedly tending to your hair by hand, rather than by magic, hummed in agreement. Oh yes it was going to rain, perhaps better described as a storm. A violent one. The Grecian woman knew not what her lord was despondent over this time. You most likely. But why? Had you and he not had a nice time dancing within the dream? You’d been the picture of perfection upon the dance floor, footsteps in time with endless grace and beauty. No one could quite predict what Morpheus’ mood would be like when he was in love. Would he fall into a state of depression this time? Crushed once more from a lost love? Andromeda didn’t know for you were a mortal living within the Dreaming. Would you spurn Morpheus’ love for you? Or would you be accepting of his true nature?

“Yes it seems so,” Andromeda echoed quietly. Whatever might come from Morpheus’s infatuation with you, it had to be your decision on how you would proceed once you learned the truth. And you would, for you were a persistent mortal. Eventually you would worm the truth out of someone, if you didn’t already have your own suspicions. “I am sure the storm shall pass, my lady, for they always do given enough time.” You spent the rest of your bath staring up at the tumultuous clouds, wondering what was causing such unpleasant weather.

Your skin was pruning by the time you decided to pull yourself from the cold waters. You dried yourself and changed into one of the fancy yet incredibly comfortable white nightgowns Morpheus had supplied to you. Fixing your hair for the night, you slipped into your lavish bed and snuggled yourself into the blankets. Surely a good nights sleep would alleviate your unease.

Rather than peaceful dreams which you had been used to since arriving in the Dreaming, you were tormented by nightmares. The nightmares of course, didn’t torment you, but the dreams you had were still unsettling and made you feel restless. After yet another nightmare talking to you instead of doing their proper duty, you woke up and stared at the canopy of your bed. Shimmering fabric glimmered overhead, highlighted by flashes of lightning that seemed relentless, fluttered and swayed.

Wind was wailing outside the palace, screeching and beating down on the Dreaming with the might of the fiercest hurricane. Punishing even. Sighing to yourself as rain drowned out your thoughts, you pulled your bedcovers aside and got up. Restlessness had settled in your body and you doubted that you’d get any more sleep, so you were simply going to walk the halls until sleep finally came back. Departing your rooms, you wandered down empty halls while the storm outside continued to batter the realm. No lights were needed as you walked the halls, the flashes of lightning illuminating every surface of the palace.

Your wandering felt aimless, and you had perhaps walked halfway across the palace to new halls before you became aware of your surroundings. You didn’t recognize where you were.

“Well this is a bother,” You sighed to yourself, looking around and wondering where the hell you were. You weren’t bothered by the fact that you had no idea where you were, but by the fact that you could have sworn you’d seen all there was to see in the palace. Apparently not. So you poked around and took your time to marvel at statues and works of artwork. Trailing your fingers across a statue of a very beautiful woman, you were admiring her facial structure when a bright flash of lighting revealed a shadow of a person behind you. Turning in place, you glanced out the wall of windows to see a balcony and someone standing out in the storm. “What in the— who would stand out in that mess?” You questioned, moving to the window for a closer look.

Making it to the window, you peered out and squinted through the torrential rain…

“Morpheus!!?” You gasped, your eyes wide in shock. What was he doing outside in weather like that!? The dream lord was standing outside on the balcony, allowing the full force of the rain and gale pelt his body. Wondering what he was doing, you searched the hallway for the nearest door, and ventured out into the storm.

Rain pelted your body, soaking your white nightgown and quickly plastering it to your skin. You held a hand up to stop the harsh rain from hitting your eyes and approached the brooding endless, having no idea that it was him causing the torrential downpour and thunderous skies. Shivering from the cold, you came to a stop next to Morpheus and looked up at him in confusion.

“Morpheus?” You questioned, hoping that you were speaking loud enough so that the Endless could hear you. He did and turned to look at you in surprise. His eyes were black and shimmering, not to mention ringed with red. You hugged yourself, disliking the way the pelting rain made your skin sting.

“You should not be out in the rain.” The despondent Endless told you, not wishing for you to be out in such an environment. Certainly with the way your hair and nightgown stuck to your skin.

“You’re out in the rain,” You pointed out. Of course he was, he was punishing himself for hurting you and wallowing in self pity from knowing that he could not have you in the way that he wished.

“This is where I wish to be,” He told you, standing stiffly next to your body. Even with the torrential rain washing over your skin your scent still permeated his senses. It certainly didn’t help that he was envious of each and every drop of water that trickled across your skin. Your nightgown was soaked and almost sheer against your lush flesh, giving a sneak peek of all that Morpheus wished to adore. It only grew worse when you stepped closer and tilted your head to look at him, baring your neck to his intimate desires once more.

“Why are you punishing yourself?” You softly asked, worry etched upon your lovely features. “In this kind of weather? What is wrong, Morpheus? What did I do?” You further questioned, thinking back to how he had ended the idyllic dream so quickly. Morpheus forced his gaze away from yours and turned back to stare gloomily out over his realm.

“I have gravely hurt you, Y/N,” Morpheus replied, his pain rich within his voice. “I have hurt and wronged you in a way that I shall never forgive myself for.” You were confused, having no idea what he was speaking of and with no memory of him ever hurting you.

“I don’t understand,” You whispered, your eyebrows drawing together. Morpheus refused to look at you, feeling as if he had no right to gaze upon you. A Night and Time sent woman who had saved him from his confines. You reached to tug on his coat. “Morpheus, what is there to forgive?” Your fingers slipped down his star lined coat as you began retracting your hand, feeling like you were not making any progress getting through to the Endless… but then Morpheus’s fingers sought out your retreating ones. He grasped your hand and slowly brought it up to reveal your palm. The same one you had sliced open.

“Have you so easily forgotten what I’ve done?” Morpheus questioned with a strained voice, keeping your palm exposed in a point. He still wouldn’t look at you, but you knew what he was talking about. Your neck tingled in reminder. Teeth sinking into your neck, blood slipping down your neck to your collarbone… sounds of relief, pleasure, desire. Right, Morpheus had vampire tendencies and had a snack upon being released… why was he so bothered by that? “I have wronged you, hurt you, and refused to allow myself to do so again.”

What? Is that why he was trying to keep you at arms length? That every time you got close he suddenly drew back? Because he was afraid of hurting you? Pressing your lips together, you raised your hand and slipped your fingers to his face, gently forcing him to turn his head and look at you. The Endless looked so tormented and upset, and that greatly upset you. So you gave him your boldest statement to date.

“What if I gave you my permission,” You told him, slowly drawing your fingers along Morpheus’s sculpted cheek. Staring determinately into the eyes of the Endless, you stood in the pelting rain and shivered from the cold. You wouldn’t leave until you had an answer. Morpheus stared down at you, his entire being a mash of conflicting emotions and urges. His throat was dry, his insatiable thirst momentarily at bay, and stared down at you. Slowly, painfully slowly, his face drew closer to yours. You leaned closer, feeling sheltered from the harsh rain and blustering winds.

Your heart was beating rapidly and your shivers getting more pronounced the longer you stood in the rain… but all you could focus on was the inhumanely beautiful being in front of you. You thought that maybe you wouldn’t get an answer from Morpheus this night, or any time soon for that matter… just tension, silence, and the sound of the hellacious storm.

“Is that enough or shall you still keep your distance from me?” You faintly asked, still insistent on getting an answer from him. Morpheus would have you beg no longer, closing the minuscule gap between your faces. His first kiss was soft and gentle, long. His lips pressed against your own with a touch of starlight. Enchanting and hypnotic, hot and cold. You felt like you were frozen in place for a moment, only able to stand there while the being that had you wrapped up in his spell, kissed you.

But then you finally managed to kiss back, and the sweet and delicate kisses turned shorter, quicker, more urgent and almost even desperate. Those thoughts were fleeting as Morpheus slipped an arm around your waist and pulled your shivering body flush against his. Star-sculpted lips pursued your own desperately, despite the rain constantly running down your faces and trying to break you apart.

It wasn’t long before he had you gasping for air in between kisses, wanting more but still needing to breathe. Kiss after kiss, each one more intense than the previous, the Endless’s hunger only became more and more apparent. To kiss your lips was better than he had ever dreamed about. You weren’t that far off either, having been drawn into a daze just from his taste.

Morpheus brushed his hand over your cheek and dug his fingers into your wet hair, pushing your mouth closer to his while flicking his tongue along your lip. More, he wanted more. Not just to kiss you. He wanted to drink in your taste, indulge his tongue, feed on your soft sounds. A small moan slipped from your lips and the Endless devoured it greedily, feeding off the precious sound as he so intimately desired. It was almost as delicious as your blood. Your own fingers found midnight strands and wound themselves around them as the Dream Lord moved in a half circle, effortlessly lifting you off your feet. The bitter cold and pelting rain disappeared as warmth surrounded you, followed by low light.

Opening your eyes, you wanted to look around to see where Morpheus had moved you, but the moment your eyes connected with Morpheus’, you couldn’t tear them away. He was looking at you with those starry pitch black eyes, but you could see the want and desire within them. Oh how he wanted you, and not just for the blood running through your veins, but he wanted to taste your flesh, adore your skin, lavish your body in all the ways he’d imagined while locked in his cage. He wanted to love you, adore you, worship you in a way that was sure to indicate his true ardor for you. You would know of his reverence, surely. Your heart fluttered in your chest and your blood began rushing across your chilled skin.

You drew your fingers from his hair to his jaw, captivated by his beauty and numb to the chill in your body. You stroked his jaw, traced his lips with your fingertips while marveling at his sheer perfection, then appreciated how snowy and marble like his skin was.

“You’re so beautiful,” You whispered in awe. Morpheus’ eyes glowed with cosmic embers and he leaned in once more, your noses brushing. Resting your fingers lightly where jaw met neck, you looked at the Endless being with a pleading look in your eyes. “Let me love you, please.” You whispered your plea, trying not to shiver as your soaked nightgown cooled, only adding to your chilled state. He would have you beg no further, twisting his head so he could claim your lips once more.

While the Endless pursued your lips and taste, his long fingers met at the center of your soaked back and his fingers pulled outward. The satin material of your night gown disintegrated beneath his pull and you felt the top loosen around your shoulders. Morpheus’ fingers pressed into your bare skin while he kissed you deeper, tangling his tongue with yours. Your bare skin beneath his fingers was cold and damp and the Endless disliked that greatly. So he tore at the fabric of your nightgown, stripping the soaked material from your body until you were shivering in front of him, naked and entirely beautiful.

Your noses brushed when Morpheus’ lips departed yours, and for a few moments you mourned the loss of warmth, but then his deep starry gaze connected with yours. Keeping one arm firmly wrapped around your waist, Morpheus drew the fingers of his other up your side. He took a moment to appreciate the pure majesty and delicateness of your being. Precious, pure… all his. Fingers trickled along your flesh, lips brushed against your own, it was debatable who was under whose spell, for you both were spellbound.

“I crave you,” Morpheus softly rumbled words flittered across your lips and you brushed your fingers through his obsidian locks once more.

“I’m here,” You replied, eyes searching his. His eyes, they glowed silver when his powers expressed themselves. Blue was his normal color, bright and intense… But black, black meant hunger, and you knew that he was starving. The fingers you had resting against his neck crept up to dance across his cheek. “I’m here and you can have as much as you want.” Rather than reply to your affirming words, welcoming words, Morpheus gently lifted you into his arms and carried you to a lavish bed fit for a being such as you. Gently placed upon sheets that felt like satin, you let your thumb brush over his lips while the vampiric being stared at you with the intensity of a supernova. Hunger. Desire. Want. Need. Desperation. You pulled his lips back to yours, desperately wishing for that wonderful floating feeling within your body once more.

Morpheus hungrily responded to your demand, nipping and tugging at your lips until you were softly panting and moaning beneath him. You could feel sharp teeth scrape over your lips, the being hovering over you just barely holding back his monstrous side. But he couldn’t hold back when his teeth caught the edge of your lip and small trickle of blood was smeared across your mouth. Morpheus pulled your lips closer, dragging his tongue across the smeared crimson and shuddering as your exquisite taste once again filled him with euphoria. Your lips parted with a soft moan as Morpheus’ mouth wandered, the being having licked every smear of blood from your lips.

He let his lips follow the curve of your jaw to the soft flesh beneath, and then to the place where your pulse fluttered at an increased pace. Every bit of your body was blooming with reaction, tantalizing and beckoning to be lavished, and you couldn’t help but squirm against soft sheets when cool fingers carved paths up your bare frame. Morpheus ran his fingers across your stomach to your ribs, taking in every bit of your beauty as he went. With every bit of your skin exposed, Morpheus found himself running his teeth along the places where your veins ran, taking the time to kiss your skin with ticklish teases.

“I have dreamed about touching you, caressing your skin, taking you far from that place which treated you with so little respect,” Morpheus husked against your skin, his teeth playing a dangerous game of teetering between scraping and cutting your skin. The wicked sharpness of the points made you shiver and tremble. You felt like you might beg to feel that wonderful feeling that came with Morpheus sinking his teeth into your flesh and whimpered, tugging on his hair and dragging a hand down his neck. “I have dreamed of nothing but you since I first caught your scent.”

“What do I smell like?” You questioned, suddenly self conscious about yourself. A silly notion, you were already naked beneath him. He made it clear that your scent was like drug to him. Morpheus nipped at the curve of your breast, a tinge of black creeping into his vibrant blue eyes as he lifted them to yours.

“Sweet,” Morpheus’ tone was low, dulcet, drawing out inner stirrings of desire that already nipped at every corner of your body. It was almost unbearable. “Your scent winds its way into my senses like the first signs of spring flowers. Fresh and teasing.” He moved his lips to your navel, marveling at the softness of your body. It was as if you descended from the goddess Aphrodite herself, plump and soft, naturally beautiful. “But then once it truly ensnares me, it locks me within its grasp. Twists my mind up in an agonizing temptation that pulls on every bit of will power I possess.” Morpheus drew from your touch, moving his hands to your hips where he drew your left leg up and tilted his head to press his face into your thigh. “And when I think I can’t get anymore wrapped up in your spell, you rip away all other primal desires until all that I can want… is you.”

This time Morpheus made a point to drag his teeth along the delicate flesh of your inner thigh, feeling the lovely hum of your blood rushing from the veins that lay just beneath your skin. It was torturous. Fast paced. Lush and thick. Hot. Full of life. Morpheus could help himself and nipped your inner thigh, only drawing the barest hints of blood from your skin to taste the nectar that filled your veins. You gasped and scratched at his hair, feeling only a kiss of pain before his mouth sucked on your skin and tongue flicked across the little puncture wounds. Your face warmed the moment your ears caught the soft sounds rumbling from Morpheus’ chest. God, it sounded like even a drop of your blood tortured the Endless with divinity.

“I fear the only one that shall ever sate my thirst is you.” The Endless admitted, nuzzling your thigh further and kissing the oozing bite. You ought to be scared from that statement. Fearful that you would be the only one who Morpheus would ever want to feed from, for surely that might put you on the brink of life and death. What if he took too much? What if he accidentally killed you because he was so hungry? Those thoughts didn’t scare you. You liked that he wanted you just as much as you him, and not just for your blood. No being spoke as poetic about your scent, your body, and not appreciate your being as a whole.

“I— I want to be yours,” You told him, working up the courage to say what you had been wishing the past few weeks. “There is nothing more in my life that I want than to be yours and for you to be mine.”

“And you shall, for I refuse all others,” Morpheus promised, the dark beast within him clawing at the seams of his mortal form to have you. Morpheus returned his lips to the little bite mark he had made on your thigh and he licked it, making sure that it was bleeding no longer before dragging his tongue along your skin to your hip. A beautiful moan touched by a breathless gasp departed your lips the moment his mouth drew close to your cunt. Oh, you had never had a mouth that close to your intimate flesh, and just his proximity made you want to squeeze your thighs together as electricity sparked from deep within your cunt. But the moment Morpheus sensed your muscles contracting and moving, he was placing his hands on your silken skin and forcing them to stay apart.

Morpheus started out slowly, gently, eager to taste more of you but wishing to treat you with the reverence of a thousand queens. His lips planted kisses along your hip, inching closer and closer to your throbbing flesh. Teasing. You wanted to squirm and push his head right where you wanted his mouth, your cunt. He wouldn’t let you even if you tried. So you were resigned to breathe heavily, chest rising and falling in anticipation while the blood rushing through your body only swelled and perfumed your flesh further. The Endless effortlessly draped your leg over his shoulder and slipped his hand around your thigh to your ass, closing the gap between his mouth and your flesh.

Your first gasp was one of surprise. Ragged and breathless. The second, drowned out by a whine as Morpheus snaked his tongue through your folds and around your clit. You couldn’t help but try and wriggle your hips within his grasp, face on fire and fingernails clenching around the bedsheet. You were already wiggling around? Oh Morpheus was in for a treatif you were already reacting this beautifully… and he’d only just begun. He held your hip in a tighter grasp, one that would imprint his mark upon your body for eternity, and let loose the desire for you, through his tongue.

Morpheus carved a blazing trail across your flesh, igniting every nerve ending his devlishish tongue touched. He teased you menacingly, feeding the burning need that had consumed him for weeks. Only a pane of glass separating you from him. What exquisite torture. It was not enough to have you within his realm, his palace, his need surpassed your physical presence. The Endless had desired your flesh, your blood, your soul. Morpheus wanted it all…

You cried out sharply when your darkened lover’s lips found your most intimate flesh and sucked… and oh how glorious that sound was. Hand finding its way into midnight strands, you clenched your fingers and scratched at Morpheus’ scalp. You clawed at him, dug your other hand into soft bedding until you were fisting it, and writhed. Your hips thrashed, protesting the boundaries that Morpheus’ grip has set. Your shoulders arched and waned, and your leg kicked out while the hell of the one he had over his shoulder pressed into his back. You were feeling everything at once and it was overwhelming. Gasping on another whimper turned cry, your fingers harshly tugged on Morpheus’s hair. The endless felt the pull, the sharp tug on his hair that prickled across his scalp in sweet ecstasy. Your reactions were everything to him. Sweet. Inviting. Fueling. And your taste. The taste of your intimate flesh almost rivaled that of the divine blood rushing through your body. Growling softly, Morpheus raked his tongue over your clit once more, feeling the pronounced shudders within your body and the desperation in his own.

He wanted to sink his teeth into the soft flesh of your thigh. Drink your vitality. Sate the ravaging hunger that seared in the back of his throat in an endless reminder.

It took everything Morpheus had to hold himself back from sinking his incisors into your thigh the moment you came undone beneath his ministrations. Head thrown back, you shook violently as what felt like molten pleasure rocketed through your veins. For a few moments your body had a mind of its own, muscles clenching and limbs jerking, you were along for the ride. So while you were writhing in pleasurable agony, Morpheus lapped up your liquid pleasure in an effort to distract himself from his burning hunger. It wasn’t hard, for you did taste exquisite and your pleasure was so beautiful and satisfying. But that hunger was getting so hard to ignore now that he had you stretched out and naked.

Your body finally relinquished control back to you and your limbs flopped to the bed as you moaned softly, wondering how one person could cause such ecstasy. While you continued to moan and pull yourself together once more, Morpheus licked at the remnants of your orgasm before slowly kissing his way up your hip. Your fingers curled briefly within his hair and you forced your eyes open to look down at the inhumanely beautiful creature currently kissing your body like it was the most precious thing he had ever seen. It was. You were.

“Morpheus,” His name came from your lips in a sweet whisper, but to the Endless it was like a crescendo. He shuddered and purred, ingraining the way you spoke his intimate name to memory. When he reached your breasts, he nuzzled your soft flesh and slid his hands up to your sides. His physical touch was almost like tortureto you. “Morpheus,”

“Have patience, beloved,” Morpheus purred, eyes glowing silver while his clothes began melting away from his body. You whined in frustration when his cool skin met your inflamed one and twisted beneath him, still feeling electricity along your skin. It was nearly impossible to stay still. Kissing his way along your throat, Morpheus couldn’t help but drag his teeth over your pulse. No, he would always taste that temping flesh if his mouth was near, no matter what the circumstance was. But you were getting impatient. So you dug your fingers into his soft hair and dragged his mouth away from your neck to put them where you wanted them: on yours.

The moment you had his lips pressing against yours, you pressed upwards, sliding your tongue across his lips while a rumbling chuckle came from Morpheus. You didn’t care that your own taste was on his lips, you just wanted every bit of him you could get, and you did. Morpheus raised a hand to grip your neck, fingers cradling your jaw while his teeth nipped at your sensitive lips and his tongue tangled with yours. You felt light headed, kissing him so deeply, so passionately, with such concentration that your forwent breathing just to kiss his lips… but even as you sucked greedy breaths for air, panted heavily, and felt a slight burn in your chest, you still didn’t stop. Morpheus could feel the way you were pushing your body to the limits, chasing after your want, your need. You wanted him almost as bad as he wanted you. He took pleasure in knowing that, great pleasure. Breaking the ravenous lip lock, Morpheus stroked your jaw while your noses brushed and you shuddered. You were his. He was yours. Mine. Mine. Mine.

So while his lips dove back to yours, the hand Morpheus still held on your side rapidly slipped down to your thigh and hiked your leg up against his waist. You raggedly gasped into his mouth the moment your soaked and pulsating cunt met his stiff cock. Morpheus devoured that beautiful sound you made. Even when your gasp morphed into a moan, the Endless continually pursued your mouth. To you it was almost overwhelming, Morpheus kissing you so deeply and him pulling your cunt against his cock. You raked your nails along his back, the muscles of your inner walls clenching aroundnothing… much to your disappointment. Whimpering against his mouth, you felt like you were going to combust into stardust when Morpheus rocked his hips into your throbbing flesh.

It was pure torture.

Feeling his cock rut against your damp flesh, push through your folds to glide ever so easily over your clit. Having the little sparks of pleasure that were always just short of true satisfaction burst along your inflamed skin. And the way he could twist your tongue with his… Your mouths broke apart and you sucked in oxygen while Morpheus gazed into your eyes. His own were a cosmic mix of blue and silver, shifting like pools sand. You went to beg him to do more than just tease you, but before you could utter even a single syllable, his cock was finally siding into your body.

You couldn’t help the little noise of surprise that caught in the back of your throat, nor the ever so soft whimper brought on by the slight sting of your walls. Nails clinging to whatever they could purchase, you trembled and shuddered beneath Morpheus while he buried his face in your neck and tried not to viciously rut into you because your body felt so damn good. Between the tantalizing blood rushing beneath your skin and the way your walls squeezed his cock, Morpheus had to force himself to take a few moments to collect himself when his hips pressed against yours. You yourself were nearly overwhelmed, torn between trying to wriggle and worm yourself free of the sting, and wanting to fulfill your intimate desire for the Endless being. But then Morpheus’ lips pressed against your neck and you could feel his breath on your skin, and that made a lightning bolt of electricity run straight through your body.

Entire body jerking in surprise, your proceeding gasp morphed into a moan when your movement made Morpheus’ cock push against spots within your cunt that made pleasure burn. Oh, oh my. Now you understood why your college friends were obsessed with their boyfriends. Your fingers clawed at one of his shoulders as you shifted in place and tried to replicate that wonderful feeling. Morpheus put and end to that immediately, body dropping against yours and sand slithering along your skin to keep you from moving about. Hand on your jaw, he forced you to stay still while his black eyes rose to meet yours.

“Don’t be greedy, Beloved, for my patience and will power hangs by a mere thread,” He softly warned. Clearly patience wasn’t your strong suit… he could play with that later, but not now. “I do not wish to accidentally hurt you.” Your thighs trembled against his and you slumped in place, ceasing your struggles against the Endless forces holding you still. God, could this being get anymore desirable?

“I’m not trying to be, I’ve just wanted you for so long.” Morpheus brushed a few tuffs of hair away from your face.

“And you will,” He reassured you, eliminating the small space between your lips to brush his against yours. “For eternity.” That made your breath hitch in your throat and your heart skip a beat. Seeing the blood rushing beneath your skin, perfuming it, Morpheus smirked and kissed you again. You could have sworn that you tasted starlight, or even dreams themselves as the Dream Lord kissed you. It was like getting lost in a sea of dreams, its gentle waves brushing against your skin and caressing your body.

But as lost as you felt in the soothing and bewitching lulls, nothing compared to the feeling of Morpheus’ inhumanly beautiful body brushing against yours as he drew his hips back before thrusting them forwards. A low moan departed your lips, sweet and dripping with a melodic quality that made the Endless tremble above you. And so you fell into a molten mess of pleasure beneath Morpheus, your hands barely clinging to him. His own hungrily worked over your body, brushing tantalizing curves, squeezing them, imprinting his touch upon your body.

Hand wrapping around your thigh, Morpheus hiked your hip up against his and pressed deeper into your body. Another whimper bubbled up from your throat. Surely it was a mix a of pleasure and discomfort that held you in its intimate grasp, snaking tendrils of addicting ecstasy around your mind until it had you within its grasp. You were nearly choking on it. Head turning to the side, your eyes caught starry black ones while your face pressed against Morpheus’. When his hips crashed into yours and sparked a crescendo of lighting through your body your lips parted with a cry, and he took that invitation.

Morpheus’ lips took yours by storm, his tongue seeking out yours while he swallowed your beautiful cry and endeavored to draw more from your. It was all so beautiful. Your lush body beneath his, so soft and warm. Your dizzying and desirous scent that bewitched his mind and ensnared his thirst. Your cunt squeezing ever so tightly around his throbbing cock while he repeatedly thrust into you. Never before was there a more beautiful sight before him. Even as you panted against his rabid kisses, struggling to breathe beneath his tongue and cock, the Endless still sought more.

Perhaps it was his way of distracting himself from the thick and delicious vitality thrumming just beneath the skin of your neck, so close to his mouth. Or perhaps it was finding out that your physical bodily pleasure was just as divine as your blood. Morpheus wanted you so terribly that he would reign hellfire upon anyone who dared to think to lead you from his side.

Your mouth broke free from his as you rasped for air and bucked your hips into the ones repeatedly crashing into yours. Shifting the leg Morpheus held firmly against his side, you dug your heel into his lower back and clung harder. What sweet and blissful ecstasy you felt, and yet, hew was still holding back. What more did you have to do to drag the entirety of this gorgeous being out? Tears hit your shoulder and you buried your free hand into his hair, tugging on the strands.

“Do it,” You rasped in between heavy pants. “Do it, I know you want to, I know you need to,” You pressed, nearly at the point of shoving his mouth against your neck until he took what you new he has thirsted over for so long. “Please stop starving yourself!” You practically begged. No, you did beg, for you would do so until he stopped starving himself and took what he wanted. You wanted him. He wanted you. Why didn’t he see that? Saline nipped at your eyelashes as emotions clashed with physical pleasure and you began to shake. “Morpheus, Morpheus please,”

The Endless had the goddess of temptation naked and beneath him, and begging. No matter how much control he had over himself, Morpheus could no longer hold back his insatiable hunger for you. Lips paring, his incisors descended just as his mouth sealed over the place on your neck and sang ever so sweetly to him. A pained squeak followed by a whimper erupted from you the moment teeth broke flesh, and Morpheus moaned as your hot lifeblood filled his mouth. The pain you felt from his bite was ever so brief, lasting but a mere millisecond before unadulterated pleasure took over and heightened what you were already feeling.

Choking on your neck breath of oxygen, a wheeze passed your lips when pleasure filled ever nook and cranny your body had. Your cunt clamped down around Morpheus’ cock, holding him deep within your body. Rippling and forcing you to experience the most intense feeling of ecstasy you had ever felt, you were trapped within your own body and unable to do anything as your mind spun. You were oblivious to Morpheus’ own ecstasy and orgasm, the sounds he made as he drank your precious blood. Oblivious to his seed which filled your body in a territorial claim. Oblivious to the fact that after this night? You would never be leaving the Dreaming. But you didn’t care for in that moment, you felt you were exactly where you both wanted, and needed, to be.

A shudder went through your body as it fell lax and your limbs flopped to the soft silken sheets beneath you. Your mind still felt like it was floating and your body still basked in pleasure when Morpheus forced himself to stop drinking from your precious vitality, smearing your ruby blood along his lips and chin. He licked the wounds on your neck closed before lifting his head to urgently look at your face. To ensure the you were well.

You had a dazed look in your eyes, and your body trembled beneath him. Warmth seeping from the space where your were still connected. You didn’t react to the blood on his face, your blood, neither did you react to the ache in your neck. Fresh and staining. No, you were only focused on how beautifully gorgeous this Endless being was above you. You raised a hand and placed in on the back of his head, pulling his lips to yours for a kiss. The metallic tang of your blood upon his lips don’t bother you as you licked it away and kissed him deeper. You finally had what you wanted and it was addictingly sweet. Pleasurable.

Morpheus brought his own hand to your jaw, cradling your face as he drank sweetness from your lips and basked in the visceral pleasure that ricocheted within his being. Perfect. You were so perfect. And his. All his. One hundred years of captivity was nothing compared to an eternity of you by his side. After all, just one sip, was never going to be enough.

Date Published: 6/13/23

Last Edit: 6/13/23

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akunokomadori · 4 months

Text

William/Kate

tags: William's manicure word count: 1.4k

“Well, well, isn’t it the robin herself, home so soon. I take it the mission went well?”

Kate turned her focus from bidding goodnight to Harrison and Liam after their return to the castle, instead looking toward Alfons. Whereas they had just gotten home, he was shrugging on his coat, no doubt heading out for yet another night on the town. He said “so soon” but the sun had long set and it wouldn’t be an hour before the clocks chimed midnight.

She cast him an easy smile. “Yes, thank you. Take care of yourself tonight too.”

“You’re as foolishly kind as ever. As a show of my utmost gratitude, may I advise that you pay a visit to the lounge before you tuck in for the night? You might find your beloved William partaking in something most amusing. Tata for now.”

With that, he swept past her and out of the castle, his coat billowing behind him like raven’s wings. She narrowed her eyes, given that any and all of Alfons’s “amusing” suggestions needed to be taken with a grain of salt and a mountain of caution. However, if Will was there…

As she’d learned from Liam, it rarely did her good to stifle her curiosity. Besides, there was nothing in the castle that could do her harm, right? …Aside from Roger’s lab and Alfons’s gloveless hands and Jude’s sharp tongue—well, nothing that she hadn’t learned to handle.

Smoothing down her skirt, she headed to the lounge and indeed found William there. Except he wasn’t alone.

William sat relaxed in an armchair, a glass of red wine beside him, with his hand stretched out as if in offer. And Ellis, perched on a stool beside him, was holding William’s hand in both of his. He also was slightly hunched over, leaning into William, and—for a split second—it looked as if Ellis was kissing William like a knight paying tribute to a king. But that couldn’t possibly be right.

For one, Ellis didn’t pull away, maintaining his position as he did something to William’s hand. And two, William’s attention wasn’t even on the younger man, instead shifting to pick up his wine glass and bring it to his regal lips for a long and savoring sip.

His gaze flickered over to her and the corners of his lips curled over the rim of his wine glass. “Welcome back, my robin.”

She crossed the room without waiting, as if following a command bidding her to him, and the only thing that kept her from kissing his wine-darkened lips was Ellis muttering a greeting to her as well.

“What are you doing?” She leaned over and caught a glimpse of a bloodred compact. Ellis was buffing William’s nails, causing a matte red to turn shiny. “Oh, is this how…?”

“My manicure needed a touch-up.” William’s voice was as musical as always. “Ellis noticed and volunteered to help.”

“I thought it’d make him happy,” Ellis explained, as if there were any other reason for why he did things.

“Indeed. He’s doing a fantastic job. Don’t you think so, Kate?”

Nodding, she grabbed another stool from nearby and sat down next to them so she could watch. Ellis had buffed William’s nails to shiny perfection, then gently turned William’s hand so he could do the same to his thumb. And, for the first time ever, she saw the natural pink of William’s nails.

“Wow…” Somehow, the actual color felt unreal.

She’d heard from Liam that some French theatre actors he’d met had colored nails, and apparently there was a growing trend among noblewomen of using powders to pinken their nail beds to achieve the perfect manicured look, but she had never witnessed it herself. Of course, outside of William. She’d noticed his red nails, just as she’d noticed his eyes, the evening they’d met and yet they seemed to be such a natural part of him that she never gave it much thought. A dark part of her had simply assumed that his hands had been stained by blood so often and for so long that the color had engrained itself in him as a permanent reminder of his sins. Seeing it actually being done was fascinating.

William set his wine glass down on a small table beside his chair and there Kate noticed the manicure kit. It was standard, with cuticle pushers, snips, and a nail file amongst other things. Next to it were two compacts—one containing a bloodred powder and the other that resembled a cuticle cream.

“Is this always how you color them?” Kate asked, watching in fascination as Ellis started the process by nimbly rubbing a very thin layer of cream onto William’s nail.

“Yes.” William nodded. “Sometimes my maid will do it, sometimes I’ll do it myself. Victor is actually quite skilled at it himself, but our darling Reaper has been a tad too busy of late to indulge me. I was thinking to do them myself tonight, but Ellis beat me to it.”

“I don’t mind,” Ellis reassured, working with steadfast dedication. He dabbed the red powder over the top of the cream, building up the color until it was dark and foreboding. Cleaning the bit of excess traces off William’s skin, he then went over the nail with a strip of buffer leather until it set and shone. Now that she thought about it, Jude also had perfectly manicured nails which she’d considered a bit odd before, but perhaps this was the reason why: Ellis. “There, all done.”

William took his hand back from Ellis, curling his fingers into his palm as he inspected them with a hum. “Stunning. Don’t you think so, Kate?”

She did, nodding her compliments to Ellis who was wiping his hands clean on a small towel.

“Hey, Will… How happy are you right now?”

“What do you think, my dear boy?”

“Hmmm… Very happy, but not quite enough.” Ellis’s words formed a statement rather than a question. Kate couldn’t stop her gaze from flickering to the sheathed knife strapped to Ellis’s thigh. Ever since William had explained to her the contract between Ellis and Jude, she had the sense that the right—or the wrong—answer to that particular question would result in a happy ending only for one person.

William chuckled in confirmation. “You did a fantastic job. Thank you, Ellis.”

“Anytime.” Ellis shuffled off with a small smile, quietly wishing them both goodnight before he disappeared down the hall.

With him gone, Kate moved her stool closer to William and took his hand. She skimmed her fingertips over his newly recolored nails, but her skin came back clean without any transfer. The color really was the perfect red, deep and haunting. “You know, Alfons told me I’d find you in here.”

“Is that so?”

“I wonder if he thought seeing this would make me jealous…”

“Did it?”

She paused, considering her feelings. William was so loved, so adored by so many she often felt it a wonder that of everyone who passed through his world, he’d chosen her. And in return, she always wanted to do whatever she could to make herself feel like she deserved it. “Would you mind it if I learned how to do this for you? I… I’d like to be the one you ask from now on.”

“Of course, I’d be honored.”

The sweetness in his voice made her chest warm, affection bubbling up inside her. Maybe she could practice on herself, surprise him with a matching set on their next date. Normally, something like a red manicure would draw far too much attention for her to be comfortable, but if it were for William… There was nothing she wouldn’t do for him.

“Ah, but what if you’re not around when I’d like them touched up? Will you make me wait?”

“I don’t mind if you ask someone else then. Like Ellis, or Victor. But I’d like to be the one to do this for you when I can.”

William chuckled, slipping his hand out of hers to cup her cheek. He stroked his thumb over it, his long red nail just brushing her skin. “My robin is always so very greedy.”

“And who made me that way?” she asked with a smile, tipping her face into his touch.

“Hmm, I wonder… A man just as selfish, no doubt.”

She laughed and leaned in, catching his lips with her, just as greedily as he'd taught her to be.

#ikevil #ikemen villains #ikevil fanfic #ikevil kate #ikevil william #ikevil ellis #william rex #ellis twilight #alfons sylvatica #ikeseries #otome #william's voice clip preview and the focus on his hands makes me go feral #that man has no right to look so good

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shaydeoffical · 11 months

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Demon Slayer x Plus Size Fem!Reader: Clubbing AU

Intro: It’s Friday night and classes are out for the weekend. (Y/n) and her friends are hitting the club and confessing their deepest feelings for each other. Join (Y/n) as she navigates her feelings, body, and drunkenness on a night that could change her life.

Tags: Partying, Confessions, Chubby body, Chubby reader, Fat Reader, Plus Size Reader, Demon Slayer AU, Happy Endings, Giyuu, Shinobu, Genya, Kyojuro Rengoku.

Warnings: Drunkenness, alcohol, body image, creeps at the bar.

Notes: Big thanks to @the-secret-thief and @heartfeltcierra for helping me edit and encouraging me to post again! I hope you all love the new story.

Start Here

“You’re shaking, are you nervous or excited?” Shinobu winged my eyeliner, her hand resting on my stomach as she balanced the liner on both sides. The bathroom in Giyu and Tanjiro’s home had terrible lighting, so Shinobu was inches from my face, pressing me closer to the light over the sink.

“Both?” My breath hitches in my throat, my white knuckles gripping the sink counter harder as Shinobu and Mitsuri giggle.

“Don’t be so worried.” Mitsuri played with the hem of her skirt. “You guys are going to have an awesome road trip.”

“I haven’t left campus except to come here, or visit home. Plus, you can’t predict how things will go at a new club.” Flashes of my cousin’s recording me on my twenty-first birthday, roll through my mind. I suck my stomach in, taking a deep breath before laughing. “God, I’m really killing the vibe. I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re just expressing what we all are thinking.” Kanae slips into the room, and it takes everything to keep my lips off the floor. She’s in a skin-tight lilac sleeveless dress, with a sheer butterfly shawl over top.

“Wow.” Mitsuri studies the glitter in her eyes and the highlight on her cheek. She had graduated from college last year and was working on her master’s degree, so she still liked to go out with us. “You’re stunning.”

“Thank you. You all look amazing.” Kanae winked at me, and I was frozen to my spot long enough for Shinobu to finish.

“There, beautiful.” Shinobu’s eyes never left mine, she ran her hands down my dress. It was a pink dress covered in hearts, Mitsuri had made it a point that we needed to match. While hers was loose and billowed around her body, mine was a little too big at the chest, and tight in the arms. But the fabric was forgiving, and she was so happy for us to match and I was just so happy to support a brand with a wide size range….

“You’re spacing out.” Shinobu pulled me off the sink and made me spin. “I know you love to dance, you’re going to have fun.”

“Why are we partying before a road trip?” I groaned hearing bass start to pound from outside… Kyojuro was defiantly waiting for us.

“Because it’s ladies' night.” Kanae smiled, wiggling her finger back and forth. We filed out of the washroom, and down the steps to the living room. The house was clean and simple, like a crisp spring in the morning. Their Uncle Uro had let them stay here during school. He was a teacher for the remote students, so he stayed in his office more often than not. That’s considering how often he was away at conferences, like tonight.

“Wow.” Tanjiro’s smile widened. “You all look lovely.” Kanao was beside him on the sofa, the two surrounded by books and loose papers.

“Be safe tonight,” Kanao whispered, turning back to her notes quickly.

“We will. Giyu will be looking after us.” I teased as the dark-haired man emerged from the downstairs bathroom. He was wearing a button-up, with all the buttons latched as they should, and a pair of black slacks.

“Of course.” He tinged red, and the front door opened, all our focus going to Kyojuro and Obanai.

“Hey, guys.” Mitsuri doesn’t miss a beat greeting the other half of the group. Now we were just missing-

“Oi, why are y’all so slow?” Sanemi bellowed from his car, laying on the horn. The only one not cringing was Kyo, who was way too focused on, me.

“Hey! We’re coming alright.” Shinobu growled, grabbing my arm and pulling me along. “We’re riding with Kyo, right?”

“Yeah.” I barely slipped my shoes on and clasped Kyojuro’s hand to have him follow along.

“(Y/N), you look amazing.” He didn’t need to be dragged, as he lopped arms with me and kept pace with Shinobu.

“Alright, here we go.” I laughed as they rushed to the red SUV. “Thank you Kyo, I feel good.” He smiled, and even in the dark the way his eyes crinkled made my heart race.

“Dibs on the back!” Shinobu opened the back door and tucked me inside like a cop, holding my head and everything. While she was studying medicine like Kanae, she might have had an affinity for criminal justice. She wasn’t strong, but she knew how to command a room and stay calm in a hard situation. Like the time we had to dissect a frog and it started to move….she might have quickly poisoned it, but it was quick and painless.

After more of a ruckus, everyone was in their cars and on their way to the club. Kyo looked back before we took off, he reached back and rubbed my knee and I swatted at his hand. “Kyo.” The smile that spread on my face was infectious as he grinned back at me.

“Ach hem.” Giyu had crawled into the front seat and was feeling infected with a smile. “Let’s follow Sanemi before he leaves us in the dust.”

“Is Genya coming this time?” Shinobu hummed, holding my hand and encouraging me to relax back into the seat.

“I think so.” Kyo then nodded. “I see his mohawk in the back seat.”

“They put him between Mitsuri and Obanai, how cruel.” I sighed, Kyo passing back a bottle of rum…my favorite brand.

“He’s abrasive.” Shinobu opens the bottle and then hands it to me. I take a long swig, and she follows suit. “But, I was the younger sister tagging along when I turned twenty-one. It’s a rite of passage.”

“I suppose.” I take another drink and pass the bottle to Giyu who takes a quick sniff of the bottle before taking a smooth gulp.

“Good choice Kyo. Did you pick it with someone in mind?” Giyu pointed his head back at me, and I nervously laughed, shrinking into Shinobu. It had been our pre-game choice since I mentioned liking it last year. There was no reason to call Kyo out now. I thought Kyojuro would deny it or make an offhand comment, but he didn’t.

“Why yes. (Y/N).” Kyo grins, shifting his car to the next gear. My heart was already racing, but now it was flying.

“So, Sanemi and Kyo are the designated drivers tonight.” I could feel heat settle on my cheeks, and a sense of weightlessness hit my limbs. Oh, to dream.

“Yup, they are.” Shinobu was still cuddled next to me, nuzzling her head on mine, our hair was gathering static and handing straight up, so I smoothed it.

“It’s not me for once.” Giyu could have been described as bitter at this moment, but the truth was he didn’t trust just anyone to D.D. Especially if I was volunteering. He really didn’t trust my driving and with good reason. Drunk or not, I tuckered myself out way too easily at the club and was always super sleepy at the end. Kyo verged on the same, but he knew when to hold back.

“We’re here.” Kyo parks, and we tuck the bottle under the back seat and hop out of the car.

“(Y/N)! Save me!” Mitsuri ran into my arms. I caught her with a slight wobble to my steps, thankfully Giyu was behind me and gave me a boost forward.

“What’s wrong?” I pet her hair. Most of the group went on to buy our wristbands. “Did someone hurt you?”

Kanae stayed back and whispered in my ear. “Genya ignored her and started to growl. So, she’s a little worked up.”

“He’s going to pay.” Obanai was muttering to himself, and I couldn’t help but think that Mitsuri might not be the only one needing saving tonight.

“Let’s get inside. How about that?” I offered.

“Yeah. Let’s have some fun?” Kanae was my backup, grabbing Obanai and following behind me as we got to the front.

The bouncer looked at my I.D. and then huffed. “You clean up nice.” He smirked, putting a band around my wrist.

“Um, thank you.” I looked into the club, mist scattered across the floor, and as expected, there were ladies in large amounts.

“(Y/N)! Over here.” Kyojuro waved me to the dance floor, a drink in his hand.

“On my way,” I called back to him. There was a large dance floor, with plenty of flashing lights and cool patterns to make me dizzy. But first, I needed to set my purse down with the losers who wouldn’t dance.

“There you guys are. Gosh, what took so long.” Genya was the one complaining this time. Sanemi and Kanae were sneaking off to make out, no doubt. Those two didn’t seem compatible, but there they were, just behind the speaker swapping more than secrets. “What are you staring at?” Genya took over my vision, and I yelped stepping back. Why was he so close, and why did he smell so good?

“Nothing.” I shivered, rubbing my mostly bare arms…fuck cap sleeves.

“Here.” He shoved a bottle into my hand. “I got this for you.”

I looked closer and it was a wine cooler, in my favorite flavor. How did he know? “Thank you Genya, this was very sweet.” I reminded myself he was still learning how to act in adult spaces…and it’s not like he had a solid role model in Sanemi.

“Will you, drink one with me?” he held up another cooler and uncapped it.

“Of course.” I break the seal on mine and undo the lid. “To tonight.”

“To tonight.” He nodded and we both downed the drink. While we should have been doing shots, this was cute. He was so sweet, and I’d go as far as to say thoughtfully. While I trusted him, he still left it sealed…

“(Y/N)! Come dance with us.” Shinobu was dancing with Kyojuro, pulling me towards her like a rope. Giyu was standing close by as my bodyguard, as usual.

“Come on, let’s dance Genya.” I tugged him with me and got to the dance floor.

“I can’t dance.” He whispered.

“Well, just watch us for a minute, and bob to the music,” I instructed, joining my favorite people.

The song changed, it was just words at first, then the beat slowly started to build up, with each new sound, I added a movement. Starting with my hips, working up my arms to my head, and back to my legs. Without noticing, I fully submerged myself into the music, my eyes shut tight, but I could see everything I needed to.

“Those hips don’t lie,” Kyojuro whispered in my ear, breaking my concentration long enough to get behind me and bump a stranger from joining us.

“No, they don’t.” I see Giyu had also turned away a few people from our group. I see Shinobu was still dancing with us, and Genya had loosened up a little and was using his arms and hips to dance.

Another song comes on, and we kept dancing, and drinking our collective body weight in rum. Soon Obanai and Mitsuri pulled us off the dance floor to do some test-tube shots. I was more than ready for another round of shots.

“I have an idea before we just take these.” Mitsuri put the bottom between her lips and balanced it. “We Ta-E iT li-E T-is.” She grabbed Obanai and kneeled In Front of him and lined up the tube to his lips, before pushing him down and letting him swallow it whole.

“No way.” Genya walked away.

“I wanna! (Y/N), do me.” Shinobu offered me the vile, her hand lingering on mine.

“No, me.” Mitsuri volunteered.

“Huh, she isn’t doing anyone but me.” Genya turned around, puffing out his chest.

“How about she do Giyu?” Obanai licked his lips. “ I can do you.” He looked at Mitsuri with narrowed eyes that kept daring the rest of us to offer to sensually pour booze down her throat.

“(Y/n), who do you want to do your shot?” Kanae snuck up behind me, laughing as I stiffened.

“Uhhh?”

#x plus size reader #demon slayer x y/n #demon slayer #giyuu tomioka #kny shinobu #demon slayer genya #rengoku kyojuro #plus size reader #party au #club au #fanfcition #story #choose your ending

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immeasurable-depths · 6 months

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Sooo I had to write something when Laura made it canon that Imogen has seen Jester’s bug. This is pretty bleak in the beginning but Laudna makes everything better in the second part I promise 🖤

Suddenly she isn’t lying on the couch staring at her fingers - her mind explodes into the memory of standing beneath the darkened canopy of the stable eaves, magic bursting purple and white out of her fingertips in a terrible flash. With a wave of revulsion, Imogen feels the ripple of energy coursing through her fingertips, illuminating those lightning streaks into iridescent purple as they glow and lightning erupts from her. The bright light puts the silhouettes of the townsfolk into stark contrast with the rapidly sinking sun behind them, suspicion and anger etched on their hardened faces. Another flash: she sees the look of pain and resignation plastered across her father’s face, feels the wave of disappointment, of hurt. The suffocating thoughts of history repeating billow off him like storm clouds, battering Imogen’s consciousness with their intensity and anguish, threatening to bowl her over. Another flash, and in her mind’s eye, she sees him shake his head slowly. Another flash, and he turns his back, disappearing into the night to trudge back through the fields towards the empty farmhouse. Defeated. Alone.

And through it all, Imogen’s fingers shine with that spectral purple glow.

She jolts back to consciousness with a quiet whimper. That damned sofa is still scraping against her skin as she draws in a shaky breath.

Must have fallen asleep again, Imogen thinks to herself. She tries to ignore the tears that slide silently from between her clenched eyelids, hot and wet and stinging as they spill over the bridge of her nose and splash into the scratchy fabric below her.

Need to stop doing that. Drifting off.

Still.

What else is there to do?

She isn’t sure which is worse, at the moment. The disturbing dreams of red dust that sneak in at night; the feeling of panic and loss of control as the wind picks up and threatens to whisk her away. Or the crippling, yawning numbness she feels during the day - especially when Laudna is away.

Imogen is pulled unceremoniously back into her body by a faint tickle across her forehead. She is torn from her dark reverie with a jolt: her eyelid flinches instinctively, and she realises the tickling is caused by the legs of a tiny insect across her cheek. She swats at it half-heartedly, too slow to catch it but stirring the air enough that it takes flight. The buzz of tiny wings permeates the air and Imogen flinches again, irritated. Her eyes track its flight path from where she still lies, horizontal, to where it lands on the dilapidated staircase a few feet away. Iridescent wings fold neatly on its back and it begins its trek, skirting along the grain of the partially rotted wood. Imogen realises it is carrying something on its back: a crumb of bread from the meagre meal they’d had the night before, clenched precariously between two microscopic front legs. It clambers along the horizontal before pausing, readjusting its vice grip before hauling itself vertically up the step. It continues, painfully slowly, but relentless.

Imogen stares, unable to take her eyes off it. The crumb is bigger than the length of its body, but it persists, heaving it up and along and up and along.

What are you doing? You’ve got wings, you dumbass. Why don’t you just fly up?

It takes Imogen a moment to register that she’s reached out instinctively with her mind. Blearily, she realises it doesn’t have enough of a consciousness to answer her.

Oh. I’m talkin’ to a bug.

Great.

She drifts.

———

The happy part is on AO3 ☺️

#critical role #imodna #imogen temult #laudna #laura bailey #marisha ray #imodna fic #whumptober #I guess #hurt/comfort

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aidanchaser · 6 months

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how fair you were in [moonlight]

This was one of my favorites to Remix (I feel like I've said that about all of them but i mean it every time). I had a lot of fun puzzling out the poetry/structure for this fic! I hope you enjoy.

Read the original - how fair you were in summertime by @ladyofthenoodle Read on Ao3 Send ladyofthenoodle a thank you for organizing the @mlsquaredance and managing this lovely event

The full moon arrived at its appointed time, and Marinette donned the glittering red earrings that had been given to her by her master. She couldn’t say what the glamor did, exactly, because it refused to show itself in her mirror, but when she looked down, she could see a gown that draped over her shoulders in long, billowing sleeves and light, airy skirts in a crimson as brilliant as any sunrise. She had to infer, though, that her mask had all the markings of a ladybug, because that was what the fae called her when they saw her.

Though her heart pounded in her chest, she held her head high and picked her way through the shadows of the trees until she arrived at the infamous fae court.

Stepping into the clearing, where the moon’s light filled the round space as fully as a spotlight on a stage, was like stepping into a dream. Everything from the gossamer-like wings edged in glowing gold that draped from one fae’s shoulder to the glittering green armor of another, as if he were cloaked in hundreds of scales like the wings of jade beetles, felt eerie and unreal.

It was easy to get lost in the romance of it all, to be swept up in the dance and moonlight, but Marinette was careful to keep her wits about her. Even as a passing masked young man pressed a goblet into her hand, she set it aside. She would accept no food nor drink, would make no deals nor offers, not until she had what she had come for.

There were a number of stories about the fae court that wove their way throughout the land. There were tales of travelers who wandered for hours, only to turn up days or months later, caught in a dream for far longer than they had imagined. There were young men and women who had stumbled into the dance and stumbled out, only to pine for the pleasure they had partaken of, however brief, until they wasted away from wanting. But lately, there were new stories, stories of a fae who offered power to the desperate and vulnerable, and the cost was their very humanity.

Marinette paused to listen to a nearby fae play a haunting melody on a reed. She wore a coat of silky red fur, and a tufted tail swished at her waist. She winked at Marinette as she passed and jerked her reed in a clear motion for Marinette to join the dance.

But Marinette stepped back to the edge of the clearing. Not only was she afraid to accept any invitation, however innocent it seemed, but she had to consider that the fox might be the very monster-maker that she hunted. She could not afford to be wrong. The iron dagger at her hip was cloaked by her glamor for the moment, but once she withdrew it, she would have only one chance to strike.

She still wasn’t entirely sure how she would know which fae was turning humans into monsters and unleashing them on the villages that surrounded the forest. Her master had told her that the monsters bore the mark of the butterfly, but she could not be certain the fae would bear that mark anywhere that she could see. Each night she slipped away from her home to join the court’s evening celebrations, but she had seen no clues yet. She hoped that tonight, at a full moon gathering when every fae slipped from their homes of hollowed oaks or abandoned the edges of winding trails for a midnight revelry, she might find something to point her to her target, but so far, she had seen and heard nothing.

“Why, my lady, do you wait in the dark?” a lilting voice curled in her ear.

The hair on the back of her neck stood on end as cool breath ghosted across her skin. Though her flesh pricked like a plucked goose, she kept her face calm and turned to find a fae lounging in a low branch of the tree just behind her.

His face was smeared in black, though his hair glistened like gold, interrupted only by a pair of pointed cat’s ears, as black as pitch. No silver moonlight reached him. She had never seen him at the gatherings she had tended before, so he must be one of the few who only came when the moon was full, when all the court gathered in celebration.

He stretched out along his branch, and his long, black tail swished mischievously at his waist. With a Cheshire-cat-sized grin, he added, “You are far too beautiful for shadows.”

Marinette, despite her fear, returned the compliment with a curtsy. Manners were everything to the fae. So was truth, so she had to be careful not to lie. “I wait, good sir, for the right time and mark,” she said, “and find you too friendly for such shadows.”

The fae dropped from the tree and gave her a sweeping, dramatic bow. “As the moonlight makes nightmares out of dreams, forgive me, then, for lurking out of sight.”

Her heart pounded in her chest as he held out his hand in an invitation. She wondered if his hand was a binding invitation if he did not speak his offer.

“There’s always more to the night than it seems,” she agreed, and allowed him to take her hand. His hands were smooth and soft, like the pads of a cat’s paw, and even in the dark, his eyes glinted like emeralds. Breathlessly, she finished, “but there’s plenty of joy found in the light.”

“There is enough joy to be found right here,” he said, and pulled her hand up to his lips.

Heat rose in her cheeks, and Marinette prayed her glamor hid it as well as it hid her humanity. “And if that is all the joy you receive?”

The ears in his golden hair seemed to flatten at her words. He straightened but did not let go of her hand. He took a step closer. “Then that joy is in my memory seared, and I shall take my lady’s cue and leave.”

His breath was unnaturally cool against her lips. It was no longer fear that had her heart pounding. Desire and longing curled in her stomach and climbed her spine like a rose in pursuit of the sun. She swallowed it down and reminded herself that she was prey among hunters. She could accept no food nor drink, could not partake of the pleasures of the court unless she was willing to give up all that she was.

“Give as you like, sir, but I may not take.”

He tipped his head and curiosity glinted in those green eyes. She wondered if her warm breath or her refusal to accept a trade tipped him off. But he did not shy away from her, did not slink back into the night nor find another fae and raise an alarm. Instead, his soft, cool fingers found her chin and tipped her lips towards his. “Then just enough to relieve my heart’s ache.”

It was a gentle kiss, little more than his lips pressed against hers—and it relieved no aches in Marinette’s chest. As he pulled away she leaned into him, chasing the kiss until his hand on her chin held her back.

“My lady teases me so unfairly, to try to give me what I may not have.”

“What you gave, sir, was given so sparely. Did you give at all?”

“Then let me give half.”

His wide smile softened into something far more warm and gentle, belying his cool, inhuman lips. He pulled her again into another kiss, this one deeper, slower, but just as gentle. The moment she pushed against him, the moment her tongue brushed against his and she tasted moss and worn leather, he pulled away.

She swallowed hard and gathered her breath. “And will you take my half from me—for free?”

His thumb brushed against her lips longingly. “I can’t take for free.”

“If you will forgive, may I return what you have given me?”

“As my lady may not take, she must give.”

And this time she surged into him, lips crashing into something passionate and heated. She pushed past his cool lips to find his mouth warm and pliant. His hand stayed steady on her chin, but his other hand slid up her back and to the base of her neck. He pulled her into him and it was suddenly hard to remember why she had come at all. She might have stayed there for the entire evening, content to do nothing but this, this, this—until her tongue brushed against the edge of his teeth and she tasted blood.

She drew away, reminded all at once of the danger she was in. His sharp fangs were an unfortunately painful warning about what he was and why she had come.

He shrunk back further into the darkness of the trees, hand pressed against his own lips, fear blooming in those sparkling green eyes. She wondered what the iron in her blood tasted like to a fae.

“I see the forest hides your secrets, too.” It wasn’t just his eyes that betrayed him. His voice trembled, and the words slipped past his fingers almost against his own will. “The darkness is meant to make lies unseen.”

“I have told you nothing that was untrue.” She swallowed down her panic, tempered it with hope. He had not alerted anyone else, had not sent for someone to throw the human from the fae’s celebration—or worse, force her into partaking. “I trust my good sir played no tricks for me.”

He looked away. She did not know him beyond this moment, yet she felt like she knew the shape of every thought that flickered behind those glittering eyes: sorrow, regret, and finally despair as his shoulders slumped and his hands dropped from his mouth to his sides.

“My lady—” but he was interrupted.

“Where is His Highness?” someone shouted from the court.

“Snuck away, no doubt,” someone else replied.

“Then go and find him!” another called.

“He can’t have gone far.”

He looked for all the world like a man standing at a freshly dug grave. He stepped towards her once more and it took all of her willpower stay where she stood. But he did not reach for her again. Instead, he paused beside her, on the edge of the clearing. His voice was still thick with fear, but a smile played on his lips as he met the eyes of another member of the fae court. He raised a hand in greeting, but his voice was low and desperate as he whispered, “My lady ought to leave while she can.”

“I’d be caught before I even began.”

He sighed again, and that taste of despair seemed to press against his shoulders with a fresh force. With the urgency of a man approaching the gallows, he stepped into the moonlight.

At once, the black that cloaked his face and shoulders melted away. The pale moonlight washed him out in pure white. The gold in his hair transformed into silver as his pitch dark ears turned a shade of white far paler than anything that Marinette had ever seen. The soft pads of his hands glinted with finely sharpened silver claws. He seemed to be a moon all his own, reflecting a dimmer light than its source. And as he turned to smile at someone else who called for the fae prince’s attention, she saw his face and gasped.

All the joy and mischief that had drawn her into him were doused. Beneath smears of white powder, his warm, emerald eyes had become cold sapphires that, despite the light all around him, refused to offer even the slightest glint. But that wasn’t the part that terrified her the most.

More horrible than the dramatic and tragic change that swept through him was the glowing lavender outline of a butterfly’s wings, shining on top of the pale white dust that streaked his face. It was the very mark she was looking for, revealed in the moonlight.

Marinette turned and fled.

✦✧✦✧

Marinette did not dare return to the fae court again. She shut her earrings into an iron box and buried it beneath the floorboards of her kitchen, near the hearth. She tried to put the night from her mind entirely, but like so many had before her, she often found herself sitting at her window and staring out at the stars twinkling over the forest with a sense of longing in her chest.

She had tasted the revelry of the fae court, and it had left a hunger in her bones.

She had sobbed that first night, alone in her bed. She had cried for her own foolishness for flirting with and kissing a fae, for her regret over what she would have to do to him, and pity for that poor boy and the unbearable weight that he walked with.

She had imagined facing the monster-maker so many times before. She had never imagined him heartbroken and mournful.

Her tears dried eventually, but she could not shake him from her mind. When she worked in her garden, she caught herself stopping to stare in the direction of the forest. At night, when she joined the rest of her village by the bonfire, she found herself listless, unable to take pleasure in the company of her friends.

The boy next door asked after her health one afternoon, and when she told him that she was fine, he asked her who she was so in love with then.

Marinette had very sharply told him that she was not in love with anyone. This wanting and longing in her chest wasn’t love. It was a curse.

The only way to be free of the curse would be to kill the fae. And she had to kill him. He had tormented the humans and stripped them of their sense of self for his own amusement. She convinced herself that she had imagined his sadness, that she had merely been projecting her own heartbreak onto him. She was hunting a monster, so she made him a monster in her mind and waited for the next full moon, for his return to the court, where she would strike on sight.

But she could not stop running her tongue over her teeth.

When the day came, she dug up her earrings and her iron dagger. She carried her weapons to the edge of the forest, though she couldn’t say that her glamor would offer any protection at all. He knew her mask. He knew her blood.

The sky softened into orange as the sun began to eclipse the horizon. She stood at the edge of the woods, uncertain if the way the shadows shifted was the wind or something more unnatural. Unnatural or not, she had to go in.

But as she began to fasten in her earrings, she saw those glittering green eyes, the ones that had appeared in her dreams as often as the cold sapphire ones, and she froze in place.

He did not step out of the shadows, but he approached, hands lingering on the bark of each tree he passed.

Marinette tightened her grip on her dagger and lifted her head. If he had come to kill her now, then all the better. She would not have to worry about the court witnessing his untimely end.

“My lady,” he said with a smile, though she was wearing her plain work clothes, still streaked with dirt from the gardening she had done that day, “how you’ve lingered on my tongue. Your blood and its taste bind my emotions, the memory of you aches in my lungs, and I long for naught but your devotion.”

As he extended a hand to her, she searched his posture for a threat, for a coil in his shoulders before he struck or the glint of his fangs before he lashed out, but she saw none. He was as eager and playful as he was in her memory. Perhaps more desperate and forward.

She tightened her grip on her dagger. “You think you can simply woo me back into your arms? You tell me you’ve pined for me, you’ve ached for me, and you think I’m supposed to care? I know what you are, what you’ve done to the humans who’ve dared to come to you vulnerable and lost. You’ve made them monsters, and you’re going to pay for it tonight.”

The sun slipped over the horizon, and her shadow disappeared into the darkness of the trees. All the bravery Marinette had felt as she had promised to end this fae vanished with the light. She could see the glint of the moon just over the treetops, but it had not reached her yet. They had this single moment in the dusk before the moonlight would wash him out again, before she would have no choice but to kill him.

“If it’s the monster-maker that you want,” he said slowly, “then let me offer my assistance. It’s not only humans my father haunts. For his fall, I’d trade my own existence.”

Marinette blinked at him, surprised by such a statement. It had not occurred to her that the mark of the butterfly would have shown itself not because he was the fae controlling the curse, but because he was as much a victim as her people. Her heart almost leapt for joy at the idea. How wonderful, to not have to kill this young fae, to have an answer that would let her have everything that she wanted.

But her head had always been stronger than her heart. Marinette lifted her dagger and pointed it at his chest. The silver moonlight crested over the treetops and glinted off of the dark metal.

“The fae may not lie,” she said, “but you can twist your words to tell the truth you want. Why shouldn’t the monstrous fae prince convince a human to help him kill the fae king? You get the crown and a target to pin the murder on. You think I want you so badly that I’d give up my humanity to destroy for you? I won’t let you trick me the way you tricked the others.”

He frowned and stepped closer, out of the shadows and into the point of her blade. As the moon crested the treetops and its light washed over him, every bit of black was whisked away by pure white. His emerald eyes once more turned cold and sad. The white cat ears in his silver hair went flat.

“Then kill me, my lady. Death is preferred, when weighted against carrying this curse. Trust that I would rather die by your sword than live by his word. I know nothing worse.”

The blade trembled in her hand. He pressed himself against it and a pinprick of blood bloomed in his chest. It continued to spread, staining the white dark and black, as if confirming his claim that only death would let him take back what the moon had stolen.

There would never be an easier chance. It was the moment she had dreamed of and dreaded for the last month. She couldn’t believe his words, couldn’t believe that he was as cursed as the monster-maker’s human victims.

But when she looked into those cold, empty blue eyes, she knew the truth. She had never imagined his sadness. She knew it now better than she had known it before, because now she knew what it was to want someone.

She lowered her blade.

His shoulders slumped, though she couldn’t be sure if it was with relief or regret.

“Then what else would my lady have of me?” he asked.

“All of you,” she whispered, and his ears perked up, “if you’d have all of me.”

He reached for her again and this time, she took his hand. He pulled her back into the shadows and she was happy to go, happy to let the darkness wash over them again and to press their lips together once more. This time, when she pushed into his mouth, he opened eagerly for her.

He had tasted her fruit and longed for it again in defiance of all else. She complied, and ran her tongue along his teeth. He moaned as her taste filled him once again. If the iron in her blood burned him, he did not flinch, but welcomed it, surging up into her for more.

There was more to do. There was still an iron dagger, now abandoned at her feet, and still a monster-maker to hunt, but for the moment, all Marinette wanted was this, this, this. And she would take it as long as it was given to her.

#miraculous ladybug #ladynoir #ml #ml fic #ml fanfic #miraculous ladybug fanfic #miraculous square dance 2023

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vespidaze · 2 years

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artfight attacks for BeebFreeb (@beebfreeb), spectacledraws (@spectacledraws), BigBee (@big-bee-png), Melanc_Hex (@aroantic), flame-shadow (@flame-shadow), TattersTheBat (@tatters-the-bat), and ADragonSoulArt (@adragonsoulart-blog)!

ID's in alt text and under the cut

ID 1: A digital drawing of Omega (character by BeebFreeb), drawn in both of his forms. On the left is his computer form. He is a chunky black and beige CRT computer with a red PH logo and a large eye on the screen. The eye is dark pink with a gold outline. The iris is made of a gold omega symbol, with a blue dot inside for the pupil. He has a webcam and microphone plugged into the monitor. Both the eye and the webcam are looking to the upper left. To the right is Omega's digital form, which is a long black worm with 8 sets of legs. He is covered with blue splotches with gold outlines throughout his body. He has the same single eye as the computer form on his head, which is looking to the right, as well as a halo floating above. He curves above the computer, seeming to have come from behind it. The background is purple and there's a subtle blue gradient over the drawing. End ID.

ID 2: A half-body digital drawing of Leviathan (character by spectacledraws). He is a large, muscular fat man with a pink, purple, gold, and white color pallette. He is wearing a purple belt and suspenders, and a purple crown on his head. His mouth seems to take up his whole face, so that all that's visible are his rows of large, sharp teeth. His shoulderpads appear to be parts of a dragon, with the left shoulder pad being the head. The dragon's eye looks at Leviathan's face. Leviathan is also wearing a purple cape and a few gold heart accessories. He stands up straight with his hands on his hips and his cape flowing out behind him. The background is a blue-green gradient. End ID.

ID 3: A digital drawing of Cheri (character by BigBee). She is an anthropomorphic ant nest beetle. She is red all over, with large antennae. Her eyes are lime green with pupils that are cross-sectioned like compound eyes. She is wearing a loose red shirt with her shoulder and a black bra-strap exposed, black pants, and red boots. She absent-mindedly walks to the left while staring at a purple smartphone in her hand. The background is pale yellow. End ID.

ID 4: A digital drawing of Agi (character by Melanc_Hex). It is a yellow anthropomorphic firefly, with a purple torso, limbs, antennae, and elytra. One side of his face is normal and has a purple eye with dull green tears coming out, the other side is covered with void, and the eye is blank white. It wears a long black cloak that billows to the side. Underneath the cloak, a glowing abdomen is visible. Behind the cloak, the wings are extended. He holds a gray dagger in one hand. The background is beige. End ID.

ID 5: A digital drawing of Cyra (character by flame-shadow). She is an anthropomorphic blue spider wasp. She is wearing a purple poncho and holding a spear with 2 hands to her right. She sits atop a rock, with her other 2 hands supporting her on it. Her wings are blue and pointed up behind her. The background is a dull green. End ID.

ID 6: A digital drawing of Dr. Antiforme and Glossy (characters by TattersTheBat). Glossy is a red shrimp-like creature with googly eyes. To the left of veir is Dr. Antiforme, a humanoid purple slime creature, wearing a gray metal chestplate and dark gray pants. They kneel in front of Glossy, poking at veir with a hand, and staring at veir with its one huge eye. The background is purple. End ID.

ID 7: A half-body digital drawing of Mel (character by ADragonSoulArt). He is an anthropomorphic eastern carpenter bee, with a dark-brown exoskeleton, dark green eyes, a white mark on his face, and a fluffy golden mane. He is wearing a see-though beige poncho, and a beige skirt. He faces the viewer with one hand waving, another hand below his mandibles, and his lower 2 arms pointing downwards. His wings are positioned upwards behind him. The background is transparent. End ID.

#ves art #artfight #friends ocs

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tyrian-wanderlust · 8 months

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Nothing if Not Gracious

Here I stand, ever vigilant, for my nightbloom to flower, crowned in thorns upon her brow.

I wait patiently for my beloved Finlaithe, Commander of the Pact, to emerge as Mordrem. To emerge as a better version of herself...what she was meant to be.

She has seen much in her life; the differences of the Dream and Nightmare, her beloved mentor slain by a champion of Zhaitan, the Death Dragons demise at her hands, the razing of Lion's Arch by Scarlet Briar, saw the last moments of Wynne to learn the truth Mordrem had known all along, and saw the Pact she built destroyed. So much loss, yet she still found time to find joy and kindness. Perhaps...she is a stronger Sylvari than I.

In my time before becoming Mordrem, I found no joy. I was lonely, even among other Soundless. I was obsessed with myself and how others saw me, but once I was given my purpose...my TRUE purpose, I felt alive. Liberated.

Joyous.

Lost in my thoughts, I heard her stir within, and soon...the pod opened and she tumbled onto the ground with a soft gasp and groan. Quickly, I rushed to her side and paused as I looked at her new form...

She was...gorgeous.

Finlaithe always was a beauty among Sylvari, but this was new. Different. Gone was her innocence and purity, and here lies an elegant nightflower, with thorns and strong roots needed to flourish in adversity, with a gentle brow untroubled by Tyria's petty needs and demands of her time.

I knew that purple glow anywhere, like a fire that burns within a lightning struck tree. Ah, but her form is different from mine. On my back sprout 'wings' of leaves, but hers bear twisted boughs with red-purple leaves. They looked painful, like they would burn me if I touched them.

Yet how I yearned to caress them. Feel their bite.

Kneeling down, I inspected her form further. Her features were no less delicate than before, but instead...more defined. Her purple bark had turned to green, and I could admire the freckles that danced upon her cheeks better than ever. They...looked like pollen, in a way...that pale yellow-green.

Groaning softly, she stirred and furrowed her brow. How disoriented she must be. With care, I helped her sit up, cooing softly.

"There you are...sit up, take a few breaths. It...is an ordeal, to be birthed once more. Take as long as you need, my flower."

Finlaithe took several deep breaths in and out, kneeling and trying to orient herself. The way her petal-like skirt billowed out was nothing short of breathtaking. I admitted...I was enraptured by her. I was before but like this? Now? By the Jungle Dragon it felt like I couldn't breathe.

After a moments rest, Finlaithe spoke softly, barely above a murmur as she tried to stand carefully.

"My body...hurts. It felt like I slept one hundred years in there...and forgot all life outside of that pod...all life except you, Diarmuid."

She gave a knowing, demure smile as she admired me in a new light. A new mindset. She saw me not as a Mordrem threat, but as her own. Her beloved one, who granted her a new way of looking at life and its grandest designs. I smiled in return, feeling heat in my cheeks.

"I waited for what felt like one hundred years for you to emerge and blossom forth. And how blessed I am to be the first that sees you, my nightbloom. To see your radiance."

With a smile, she twirled and billowed her skirts, seeming to admire herself and the newness of this form.

"It feels stronger, this body. I feel more at one with the world around me, as if it is part of me. I feel...right. This is right, isn't it Diarmuid. To be Mordrem."

Leaning in to whisper warmly to her, I couldn't help but admire those bright eyes of hers...new and familiar.

"This is what we ware meant to be. We're meant to be the thorns of the Jungle Dragon. To be the fierce extensions of his very mind and being. How does it feel? Have you felt his voice yet?"

"I have not, but if we're being honest I'd rather hear your voice. Teach me how to be like you. Teach me to be Mordrem. To command Mordremoths armies as you do. I want to feel that power, and I want to feel it alongside you."

With a big smile, she wrapped her arms around me, and I wrapped mine around her. I didn't have to worry about my thorns harming her or my grasp being too tight. Her thorns pierced me in return, and her grip was strong around my waist.

The back of my thorned hand caressed her cheek, knuckles brushing along strong flesh that no longer bruised like delicate lily petals...and I took my chance.

Our lips touched and the world faded around us. I saw nothing more, only her. Only us. The only thing that mattered.

And for the longest time in what felt like forever, the Jungle Dragon was silent, despite his gaze upon us. A gracious master, to allow us this moment.

For the will of my master is nothing if not gracious.

First chapter: The Will of my Master Previous chapter: Petals for Thorns Status: COMPLETE

#guild wars 2 #gw2 #sylvari #heart of thorns #mordrem diarmuid #diarmuid #finlaithe #guild wars 2: the bad timeline

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nickyroethemarinebiologist · 3 months

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Hoorayy chapter five!!!!! Just about a third of the way through now, which is easily further than I have ever made it through writing before. I will admit I am not terribly proud of this one. However it is here, and so I will share it, and hope you might like it a little more than I do :)

Chapter V

The covert in Plymouth laid high upon the stony beaches of England’s south coast, looking out on the channel; a fellow standing atop the very edges of the cliffs might endeavour to see the beginnings of the Atlantic, where the grey waters familiar to England joined the rolling, deep blue swells of the ocean, mighty and furious in all her billowing prowess.

The cliffs were somewhat slanted and crumbling with recent rockslides, and topped with rolling pastures of thick, clumping masses of peat, brown against the green; these served in some part to conceal the beginnings of the covert, some ways lower inland, where the battlements were nigh invisible from such a way upwards. A dragon and his handler might miss it completely if he neglected to search the hills afoot; Linsey did have to admit, in circling curiously upon Timor’s back, it was an impressive means of deception; he might have missed it wholly himself if Franklin had not ensured to guide him.

The covert itself was somewhat sprawling, and rather crude in nature, built up within and around the remains of an old stone fortification and comprising largely of thick canvas tents. These were scattered about in a disorderly manner, and what with their differing sizes, and the few about the outskirts which edged upon the fringes of the cliffs, it presented a rather meandering appearance; Linsey likened it to the sprawl of the old port towns he frequented in sailing, far off on the coasts of the Caribbean.

He ignored the immediate weight that settled in his breast—such endeavours were painfully impassable now—and turned to heed Franklin’s call; the aviator had dipped below Timor, who was somewhat distracted in sweeping about the cliffs, and now signalled curiously; Timor swept down and craned his head inquisitively over the grounds, and after a brief perplexity Linsey found what he was indicating: a wide berth towards the middle of the covert, partially walled on one side by a wood fence, largely fallen in and leaning dangerously. Sprawled on the stones was a young dragon of a pleasant pale colour, with a long, spined tail curled about and over itself; beside were two smaller breeds, compact and beaky, of scales in impressive shades of grey and black and crimson, and smoke curling about their nostrils in sleep.

Franklin directed them to land in this courtyard, which was not so much a courtyard but a rather wide clearing, with the remnants of large cobbles protruding in clusters about the soil. Timor nosed at these curiously and sniffed the air, then shook out his head in displeasure; the spines upon his neck clattered, and Linsey was made to brace in the harness, jostled somewhat by the motion.

Linsey dismounted and stood aside in watching the proceedings of the covert, unable to keep from glancing curiously about at the sleeping dragons, and the couriers sweeping this way and that. He kept a hand upon Timor’s snout, to offer the dragon a small comfort as much as calm his own treacherous nerves; his heart fluttered in his breast, an uncomfortably familiar notion, like the first change in the air before an ocean storm.

‘Oh, what are those?’ said Timor; he had raised his head inquisitively, looking off to the side of the grounds. Linsey followed to a small flock of dragons which could be no bigger than his palm, wheeling about in great arcs over the cobbles. Occasionally they skirted too close to the sleeping dragons; the largest flicked its spiny tail and snorted loudly, and then all went away again, skipping to land momentarily upon the stones before sweeping upwards in a dark mass of little wings.

‘They are Slights, I believe.’ Linsey said. He watched the little dragons skip in flocks about the grounds, with hides flashing grey and brown in the lowering sunlight, rallying intermittently with the sparrows and shorebirds; he smiled a little in remembering a rather similar display above the pastures about his home in childhood.

‘You would be quite right. They are lovely creatures, rather, but wholly feral; there isn’t much use in taming a beast so small.’ Franklin had come upon them without notice; he smiled in watching the Slights, while Linsey fixed his expression in false apathy. ‘They fly up around the spring, we think it is our dragons; they must like the company.’

‘Do they have names?’ Timor asked, tilting his head in watching. ‘I think I might like to meet one.’

‘No, fellow, they cannot talk, unless I find myself mistaken,’ Franklin said kindly; he turned to Linsey and indicated one of the larger tents, a small ways inland. ‘Come, you might like to meet our commander; I assume he will be wanting to speak with you. Caritas will keep company with Timor, we’ll only be a short while.’

Linsey was not a little discomforted by this; already he was growing tired of his shepherding, and found himself dreading an introduction with the Fleet Commander, who no doubt held the Navy’s same reservation towards his piratical career. Still he nodded and allowed Franklin to lead; Timor reluctantly bid him farewell, then stretched out upon the stones and very deliberately turned his back to Caritas, who blinked large, curious eyes and nestled happily against Timor’s warm hide.

Linsey was directed through the sprawl to a large tent of thick green canvas; the entrance flaps were set half-open and glowing with quivering lantern light. ‘You mustn’t fret, he is a kind enough fellow,’ said Franklin, kindly; then he lifted the canvas and stepped inside.

The arrangement inside was much like a mess hall, rather than the grand study Linsey had anticipated, and disdained. Fellows were taking supper—great piles of steaming meat and potatoes—upon benches laid out in three rows, and sharing ample laughter between them; he noticed many wore their coats folded over their laps, or had discarded them entirely in favour of their simpler evening dress. All fell silent and turned in hearing them come in; Linsey paused at the entrance, feeling uncomfortably perceived.

The commander was at once obvious; he wore a coat of light blue wool, the standard for any aviator, but where their shoulders bore only bare fabric, his were adorned with golden epaulettes, similar in colour to the embroidery upon the collar, but rather more grand for dignity and prestige.

He rose from his seat to take Franklin’s offered hand; they shared brief respects in low voices, then the commander waved, and the watching fellows resumed their dinner and easy conversation. ‘Gentlemen,’ He said, coming over; his face was very unpleasant, and did not match his coat at all. ‘Admiral Chauncey told me you would be arriving; I am Commander Davis, I trust Captain Franklin has not disparaged my reputation?’

He stretched out a hand; it was clear he expected some show of respect, and Linsey disdained to give him one; he paused in considering the gesture, then very deliberately clasped his hands behind his back.

Davis marked this display of insolence with a raised brow; he looked to Franklin, who frowned in dismay and said, a little uncertainly, ‘Sir, this is Captain Linsey, he arrived on Timor.’

Davis nodded his recognition; he paused to inspect Linsey closely, frowning in apparent disdain. ‘The pirate,’ he said, with little of his polite friendliness prior. ‘I see your manners have not exceeded reputation.’

‘My manner is not any of your concern,’ Linsey said, neglecting to conceal his frown.

‘Hm. Well, you are a good deal older than most of our handlers, but you will do,’ Davis went on, ‘Your quarters have been set aside for you; Chauncey has kindly sent up an escort, he will accompany you about the grounds, I take it the admiral had little faith in your disposition to duty.’

Linsey was not a little dismayed to hear this proposal, which only served to diminish his already lowering mood; he found it required an effort to restrain his first response, and the second was hardly kinder, so he drew his lips to a thin line and stayed begrudgingly silent. The commander seemed to take this as consent, so nodded his satisfaction and said, ‘Very good; you may tell Timor I will need to see him flying—first light tomorrow, and we can fit him for harness. Gentlemen, that is all.’

He nodded politely to Franklin and dismissed them both, then turned abruptly on his heel, with hands clasped at his back, and resumed his supper, slipping easily into conversation with the fellows at his side.

They walked together back to the courtyard in silence, though Franklin did not seem spiteful, only puzzled by Linsey’s presumed distaste. Linsey was privately grateful for this moment of quiet, and set to wondering of the Delight, and the state of her crew; he had scarcely been a day without them, yet already he felt their absence keenly, and found it a struggle to repress an uncharitable resentment: if he were not Timor’s handler, he might have taken his liberty without reservation, and would be some long ways out upon the ocean now.

They came out to the courtyard and found Timor sprawled drowsing upon the cobbles, and any such sentiment vanished at once; Linsey woke him gently and laid his cheek against the warm hide, silently condemning himself for even entertaining the notion. Timor nuzzled back affectionately, rumbling his delight at Linsey’s safe return, which woke a sleeping Caritas; the little dragon blinked wide, sleepy eyes and yawned enormously, much to Franklin’s apparent amusement.

‘Well, Linsey, I suppose we will see you soon enough,’ he said, and smiled, reproval apparently forgotten; Caritas tottered over and chirruped in greeting him, to be patted affectionately in return, then Franklin knelt to adjust the straps of his harness, brow furrowing in a rather appealing expression of focus.

Linsey blinked at him, faintly puzzled. ‘You won’t be staying?’ he said, concealing his dismay; their journey together had not been pleasant, what with his dwelling unease, but he found himself reluctant to lose a familiar face.

‘No, no; we are not yet at liberty, I’m afraid,’ Franklin said; his smile bordered upon a grimace of mock displeasure. He unhooked the clasp of a rather large leather satchel fastened to the side of Caritas’s harness, then loaded into it a small stack of parcels, folded over and tied neatly in twine. ‘I am due for Gibraltar before the dawn, and no doubt they will send us off again, if we make good time.’

‘You are flying through the night?’ Linsey said, frowning a little.

‘Of course; in fact I prefer it, it is far quieter, and dear little Caritas will have no trouble with the dark.’ Franklin said. He climbed back up and petted Caritas fondly, earning him a delighted chirping. ‘Fair seas, Captain, I trust you will be treated kindly,’ he said, and smiled, and with a great fluttering of wings they were a quickly diminishing figure in the dusking light.

‘Linsey, are you feeling well?’ Timor said, after a moment.

Linsey paused, and realised after a brief perplexity that he had been frowning. ‘Splendid,’ he said, patting the warm nose. ‘Perfectly splendid. I have only been thinking.’

Timor nosed his shoulder, somewhat anxiously. ‘Was the commander unpleasant?’

‘Oh, very. You will have to meet him; perhaps you might have a taste for beef after all.’ Linsey said, with some great amusement. Timor tilted his head uncertainly, apparently misunderstanding him; Linsey smiled fondly and patted his snout. ‘He would like to see you flying tomorrow, at dawn, you will meet him then.’

Timor sniffed disdainfully. ‘I do not think I want to,’ he said, with a low grumble, and laid his head upon both forelegs. Linsey laughed faintly and settled against the golden hide, drawing the coat more closely about himself; for the night air was somewhat cool, despite Timor’s familiar warmth.

‘Linsey,’ Timor said then, a little sheepishly. ‘I think I am hungry.’

‘Again?’ Linsey said, amused. He smiled and stroked Timor’s neck affectionately; Timor flicked his ears and rumbled in delight. ‘I am not so sure there will be much about, but I will certainly make a go of it.’ He paused to resettle the coat upon his shoulders: it had become somewhat rumpled in flying, and his curled position at Timor’s side. ‘Will you be well by yourself?’

Timor nuzzled him affectionately and hummed his gratitude. ‘I should think so,’ he said, ‘But please be quick.’

Linsey smiled; he nodded and patted his neck in farewell, then walked out to the grounds in search of fresh meat, or perhaps a pasture of cows.

Several of the smaller tents had been opened on one side during his walk with Franklin, with the canvas rolled up smartly and tied at the peak; now they were set loose with the coming of night, and the faint amber glow of lantern light brimmed beneath the coverings. Linsey assumed these must be personal quarters, for the carpenters—responsible for the assembly and maintenance of a dragon’s harness—and the flight crews; Franklin had indicated the separate quarters for the captains prior, a smaller cluster of tents arranged in round, much closer to the cliffs, where the dragons presumably slept.

A cluster of lanterns had been set out at rather sporadic intervals, lighting the entrances to each tent and presenting an image rather like a small port town at dusk; the likeness was familiar, and warmed Linsey somewhat. He passed several tents whose flaps were drawn open; the fellows inside glanced up curiously, marking his unfamiliar face, but made no introductions, which Linsey was privately grateful for.

After nearly half an hour of searching and yet still no earnings to his labour, Linsey paused in the middle of a small round of tents, feeling a rather profound sense of misery: he had caught little rest in their movements from the harbour, and felt now a great fatigue, and rather off-balanced by solid ground, for his legs were accustomed to the motions of a ship, and ached oddly in walking.

He felt some reluctance to return empty-handed, and a great disappointment also: for several months he had been living off salt beef and sea biscuits, then the stale remnants dredged up from his old coat; he quite fancied a fresh cut of mutton himself.

There was a dim light a small way upwards: a tent with the canvas lifted on one side, and a lantern set out upon a small wooden table at the front, offering a little warmth. A strong-looking fellow was set to folding cloths inside; he had a face quite round but not unpleasant, softened with stubble, and dark hair tied smartly into a short queue.

Linsey stood watching him for a moment, with hands clasped firmly behind his back, lest they begin to fidget in his unease. He was unsure if the man had heard him come up, or whether he was ignoring him deliberately; he cleared his throat loudly so that he might catch his attention.

‘Yes, yes; I have been told, and I’ll have it done, have some patience,’ said the man, without glancing up. ‘If you might leave me alone for a moment—’

He stopped abruptly and stared, presumably registering Linsey’s unfamiliar face; his brow furrowed minutely in confusion.

‘Oh.’ He said, frowning; his brow pushed deep lines into his forehead. ‘Lieutenant Peter Malcolm, presently unassigned. Do you need something?’

‘If you might direct me to your pastures, or wherever else I should find food enough for a dragon, and for myself, that will be enough. Quick as you like.’ Linsey said, a little coldly; there had been an irritable quality he did not like in the other man’s tone. ‘He will take fish, if you have it, which I assume you must, being so close to port.’

This last remark was made more for Timor’s sake than his own, though he enjoyed his own belligerence, and condemned himself for it. Timor had become rather particular with his food, after having eaten nothing but cod and seabass for nearly six weeks, and though he could not be impartial to alternatives, least not when he was so hungry, Linsey knew he would much rather take what was familiar to him, and found little reserve in pressing for such.

‘We do not.’ Malcolm said shortly. ‘We have lamb, or cattle; and for you there will be very little, with a manner like that.’

He turned his back before Linsey could reply, occupying himself in neatly folding a pair of breeches onto a small pile, apparently having dismissed himself. Linsey paused, faintly baffled; he could not be wholly sure whether this was a deliberate show of insolence, and so waited quite awkwardly outside, largely wishing he had stayed with Timor in the courtyard instead.

Then Malcolm paused abruptly; he turned to Linsey and said, ‘How long were you at sea?’

Linsey frowned, somewhat perplexed by this sudden change in temper. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘You are the pirate, are you not?’ Malcolm said, very sharply. ‘I am not a seaman, they puzzle me to no end, but I understand you will be wanting something fresh. Come, and quickly now.’ He discarded his flight dress, now folded, and brushed himself over momentarily, then waved a hand. ‘You certainly have some nerve coming up this close to dusk, mind. I shan’t be surprised if the cooks refuse to serve you; they have certainly done so before, pirate or not.’

What with Malcolm’s irritable tone and apparent lack of any restraint to effrontery, Linsey felt profoundly that he would easily rather starve until morning, if he might be freed from such unpleasant company. But he would not put Timor to such discomforts, and condemned the notion severely, so he put aside his reservations and begrudgingly allowed Malcolm to lead him out to the pastures, a little further downwards.

Malcolm picked out a rather scrawny sheep from the fields, and sent a young servant out to put it to slaughter. Then he brought out a fresh meal of mutton and roasted vegetables; this he loaded into Linsey’s arms, for which he was privately grateful for, and dragged the slaughtered sheep down to the courtyard himself, while Linsey picked at his meal in walking, feeling a great deal of his happiness restored.

Timor was waiting eagerly upon their return, with ears raised in delight and crest quivering; Malcolm flung the animal down before him and wiped his hands on a fresh cloth, grimacing in displeasure. He stood to the side while Timor feasted, keeping well clear of the mess and inspecting the dragon’s smooth hide, brow raised faintly in mild curiosity. Linsey ate quickly and loaded the remnants into Malcolm’s hands, without thanks or ceremony, as private revenge for his insolence prior; Malcolm frowned bitterly but stayed thankfully silent, and both men stood aside to watch as Timor lapped up the last of the meal and deftly licked his claws clean.

‘That was odd.’ Timor said; he sat back on his haunches and nosed curiously at the scraps of wool left strewn at his claws. ‘Are you sure there is no fish?’

‘Very sure, dear fellow, I am afraid.’ Linsey said, patting the warm nose fondly, and wiping the last leavings of blood from his harness. Timor rumbled gratefully, apparently quite satisfied; though he glared openly at Malcolm, dark pupils narrowed to slits, and nudged Linsey protectively closer against his breast.

Linsey grinned privately and petted him back into temper, faintly grateful for Timor’s seeming fondness over him; he was keenly aware of Malcolm’s presence close behind, and so gave Timor a final pat upon the neck, and turned to the lieutenant with his face set in rigid apathy.

‘Thank you, Lieutenant, that is all.’ He said, stiffly; it was a clear dismissal, and yet apparently not enough to send Malcolm off, for the lieutenant only frowned.

‘I had assumed you would need guiding to your quarters,’ he said, with a hint of belligerence; he seemed not hostile, only unendingly bitter, which Linsey considered a great slight to his repute. ‘You surely cannot hope to find them yourself, if you wandered far enough to seek me out at mine.’

‘I will make room enough here, and I won’t have you guiding me about, as though I am some miserable dog.’ Linsey said, his temper breaking loose; he glared at Malcolm savagely, and felt the colour coming into his face. ‘I am not bound by your laws nor your customs; you had better keep yourself civil, or by God I will hang you from the rigging, and you may go to the devil in my place.’

Malcolm blinked in momentary confusion; then he frowned and said, ‘If you insist, Captain, though I think you had better tend to your finery. I do not know how it is on your ship, but here in the Fleet there are certain standards you must attain, if you can manage it.’

It was now Linsey’s turn to fall silent; all the outrage went out of him at once, and he looked down at himself, faintly puzzled: his coat was somewhat rumpled, and the shirt perhaps a little too loose, but he did not feel as though he presented an undesirable image.

‘Your coat is creased,’ Malcolm said, noticing his confusion. ‘And an aviator is to keep his hair in tie; yours is loose. Perhaps you disdain to be called a dog, but I shan’t fault the fellow who made that mistake; it is not so easy to tell you apart.’

This last remark was made with little reservation, and perhaps a hint of amusement in the lieutenant’s expression; Linsey paused, put somewhat at odds by his open derision, for it was startlingly unfamiliar from the thinly veiled contempt he had received in his encounters with the Navy. He stared momentarily, feeling the angry colour rising again to his face, then was put to rest in his confusion, and said only, ‘If there are such issues with the men here, I have not seen them.’

‘No, and if I was of higher authority, I would tell them much the same.’ Malcolm said sharply, ‘It is all well going about in a mess, though you might at least have the experience to dignify it, of which you do not. If that is all, Captain?’ he added, in false courtesy, and so turned abruptly on his heel and left.

‘I do not think you look like a dog,’ said Timor afterwards, though of course he had never yet bore witness to such creatures, and was merely offering some small reassurance, which Linsey was quietly grateful for. He smiled without mirth or conviction, otherwise wholly occupied in thought, then went into the sea chest, which had been fastened to the front of Timor’s harness for their flight from Weymouth, and dug out the red silk scarf ordinarily worn beneath his hat; he took the adornments—two rings of gold, likely stolen, and a pleasant yellow stitching to match—in one hand, and tore a piece from the other end, with some difficulty. In the end Timor was made to tear it with a claw, and did so most carefully; Linsey laughed fondly at this small kindness and patted the smooth hide.

He took his hair into a short queue and tied it off with this strip, and spent a great deal of time afterwards pushing it into shape; for his hair was somewhat filthy, and matted with salt and sea air: it dealt well enough when set loose, but stiffened oddly in tie and would not sit comfortably, despite Linsey’s persistent coercion.

This unpleasant task completed, Linsey unhooked the sea chest from Timor’s harness and set it at his feet, rather dreading its awkward weight now that Grayson was not there to relieve him. He was most comfortable in sleeping at Timor’s side, feeling it his place, and so disdained to make use of his quarters, but he might at least take it as holdings for his effects.

There were two smaller dragons curled about each other on the further side of the courtyard; they had raised their head curiously in hearing his dispute with Malcolm, but now closed their eyes, and twitched faintly at the wings and tail in sleep. Linsey paused in watching them, marvelling quietly at their apparent placidity, and wishing impractically that he might have such quietude for himself, and for Timor.

‘Fellow, are you comfortable here?’ he said, turning to Timor.

Timor turned and looked down at him curiously, and Linsey said, ‘You might find a quiet spot out on the cliffs, if it suits you; I will meet you afterwards. I shan’t be long,’ he added afterwards, a quick reassurance.

Timor looked out over the cliffs, and the wide ocean far behind; his crest quivered along the curve of his neck, interest clearly caught. ‘Oh, yes please,’ he said; he nosed Linsey affectionately and went aloft, spiralling far out over the grounds with quick, sweeping wingbeats. Linsey stood watching him for a moment, feeling some quiet affection, and a great sadness also; then he righted himself and took up the sea chest, and walked out to the quarters set aside for his holdings.

With his things tucked away and covered loosely with old cloth, and the night quickly approaching, Linsey set out again across the covert, somewhat uncertainly; Timor was no longer visible overhead—presumably having landed further upwards on the cliffs, and likely already growing impatient—and in the coming dark he had some trouble picking his way through the meandering campgrounds. He found himself again in the courtyard and stood looking around, wholly at a loss, for the sleeping dragons had since departed, and he felt some great reluctance to seek directions from the other aviators, when the company prior had proved so disagreeable.

There was a shout and a great fluttering of wings overhead; Linsey turned in momentary confusion and watched as a large, trim-looking dragon landed across the courtyard: the same beast he had seen slumbering on his arrival. It had a rather long and narrow snout, like a heron’s beak, with teeth that poked a little from its mouth and small round eyes, yellow and shining in the low light. It was a long, supple thing, with a tail almost as long as the full length of its neck and body, and curling over and about the long, splayed talons as it settled itself upon the stones, humming delightfully.

It had, also, a set of spines running down the full length of its back and tail, and an impressive crest behind the head, which fanned twitchily when it glanced about; these were much the same as Timor’s, but a good deal longer, and largely laid flat or grew small and stubby around the end of the tail and in the natural space for a rider, just at the base of the neck.

The wings were rather impressive, long and wide, and tipped with black scales at the outermost edges, in some contrast to the blue and grey accents striped along the pale head; they stretched immensely, then furled quite neatly against its hide. It tucked its talons in beneath itself also, then sprawled the long tail out across the cobbles and laid its head turned back upon its flank.

The rider dismounted and petted its hide, very fondly, then turned and smiled to Linsey, something like surprise in the windswept expression. He was a little younger than Linsey, with brown hair plaited quite severely into a long queue, which gave him a rather sharper look than his softer face might have accounted for.

He came over and offered a hand, still smiling; he had a mild sort of expression, but a pleasant one, with kind brown eyes despite the lines beginning to form just beneath them.

‘Hullo,’ he said, hastily dropping the offered hand when he noted the furrow of displeasure in Linsey’s brow; the tone was not irritable but plainly confused, and strangely high, for a man of his age. ‘Have you just arrived? I take it you have not been given the rounds, if you’ll forgive me for saying so; you look lost.’

‘I am perfectly alright,’ Linsey said, a little sharply, in an attempt to escape any further introduction. He cast a glance across the courtyard; the grey dragon had one eye open in watching, and yawned enormously, showing off the long, serrated rows of teeth.

The captain blinked at him. ‘Oh! Well then, that is certainly favourable. Captain Mary Elliot, at yours.’ She said, gesturing to herself and smiling, pleasantly.

Linsey stared; she was wearing the standard aviator dress, with the usual shirts and breeches, and a neckcloth tied smartly almost up to her chin; her coat, well-kept, bore the gold trimmings of a captain, though Linsey had to look twice to be certain. With her hair pulled back so tightly she did look laddish, along with the clothes clearly tailored for another fellow and then adjusted hastily to fit; his mistake had not been unnatural.

Her presence there at all baffled him, more so than the startling appearance of her male dress and captain’s coat; he would not have a woman aboard his ship, the men would likely throw fits and fall into disarray, for it was well-known among sailors and pirates alike that such a presence would certainly bring foul fortune to their vessels; the notion sickened Linsey somewhat, and he found himself frowning a little. He could not imagine why the Fleet would put a woman to charge of such an impressive beast—or any beast at all. Perhaps, he reasoned silently, the aviators were not so tied to the stiff formality of their fellows in the Navy after all; or perhaps this captain had found herself in rather similar circumstances to he and Timor, and only happened upon her dragon, and the resulting duty, by chance.

‘Are you looking for the captains’ round?’ Elliot said, with a little less warmth; evidently she had noticed Linsey’s agitation, and was seemingly disheartened by it. ‘I am just going; we might fly you over, if you are having trouble, dear Fancy will manage.’

Linsey had halted in astonishment; now he fell back automatically on rebuke, and condemned her rather more harshly than he meant to; he snapped, ‘No, I am a pirate, not a fool; I am damned sure I can find my way about.’

‘A pirate? How strange.’ Elliot said, with brow furrowed somewhat; she paused to inspect Linsey more closely, perhaps marking the matting of his hair, and his work-roughened skin. Linsey passed a hand over his face subconsciously, feeling awkwardly perceived, in a rather more uncomfortable way than he had at the mess hall; he felt the stubble upon his jaw, and the faint filth dusting his cheeks, and realised he must be presenting a rather rotten image—not so much a slight to himself, for there were men in his crew who faired far worse, in face and tidiness both, but wholly out of place in the trim dress of an aviator.

‘No; certainly not so strange as your being here,’ Linsey said scornfully, less of the captain herself—for though she perplexed him to no end, she was polite as a lady, and kind enough—but more so for his own wretched predicament, and the constant woes it seemed to bring him. He felt his composure slipping gradually, and tired only more at every turn of company, used to the familiarity of his crew, and the wide ocean all around; but he could not press his anger upon Timor, a dishonourable notion which he condemned severely, so turned it elsewhere; he glared severely now at Elliot and spat, ‘There is poor fortune in your like upon the sea; you’ll have my respect, perhaps, but do not fault me for my habits, when your own are hardly desirable. Out, Captain, I want no help from a wench.’

Elliot blinked in confusion; then her brow furrowed, and she pressed her lips together into a thin, unhappy line.

‘Well then; we may see you about,’ she said, though she sounded perhaps a little restrained; the warmth in her expression had all but vanished, to be replaced with plain affliction. ‘Take care, Captain.’

With this she left; Linsey watched her climb back up into harness, then her dragon shook out its wings and went aloft, and both vanished quickly in great, sweeping wingbeats across the sky.

It was easy enough to find Timor, after a great deal of looking this way and that, and the first settings of shivers in his hands; he was grateful for his coat, what with the wind sweeping across the cliffs, and for his neckcloth also, tucked up around his chin, though the sensation of his dress folded about him so closely was still rather difficult to ignore.

Timor was curled about himself in a quiet spot a little ways out from the covert, with clumps of peat and brushwood growing all around, offering a little shelter from the cold winds blowing in from the sea. He raised his head in hearing Linsey approach, flicking his small ears impatiently; the golden hide stood out a little in the dark, and his great eyes were shining watchfully.

He lifted a wing in welcome, tucking Linsey close against his side; Linsey had taken a blanket from his quarters, and was comfortable as he could wish, curled against the warm hide.

‘Timor,’ Linsey said, hoping to ease some of his own unease; Timor heard the restraint in his voice and turned his head around to nuzzle him anxiously. Linsey smiled a little and stroked the warm nose, feeling again wholly grateful for the dragon’s presence there.

‘Is something wrong?’ Timor said softly, with marked worry in the amber gaze.

Linsey blinked at him, surprised by this quick perception, then smiled stiffly and said, ‘No, Timor, only I am beginning to lose faith in our company.’

‘Oh.’ Timor said, ‘I had wondered why you were gone so long. I would have come and found you, if I had known.’

He said this very sensibly, and Linsey felt his smile relax at once to an expression of fond amusement. ‘Thank you, dear fellow,’ he said, patting Timor’s side, ‘Though an escort is already along the way; I think I will manage well enough without you herding me about as well.’

Timor rumbled in something like delight; he was silent for another moment, then he said, more quietly, ‘Was it that foul man again?’

‘Malcolm? No.’ Linsey said, ‘No, it was another captain, though not like you would expect.’ He paused in remembering Elliot’s expression falling to dismay, feeling faintly shameful, and added only, ‘I am afraid I have been untoward.’

Timor paused to consider this, humming a little in thought. ‘They have been unkind to you.’ He said, a little uncertainly, and perhaps with the beginnings of a growl beneath his voice. ‘They have stolen us away, and put us to work here; surely they cannot expect you to be kind?’

‘No, not at all,’ Linsey said, nodding, though he was surprised to find he felt a little uncertain in his agreement. ‘Though it was not the Fleet who sent us here, and I suppose this, er, captain was not so deserving of it.’

Timor sniffed. ‘Then he can leave us alone, and let me eat the rest of them.’ He said. His eyes glimmered eagerly; Linsey laughed, with surprising ease, and patted his side.

‘And I would be very grateful for it.’ He said, and meant it wholly, for he had not before been recipient to such devotion, save perhaps from his crew, who he knew would put themselves to battle a dozen times over for him, just as he would do for them in turn.

He smiled sadly at this notion, and laid his cheek against Timor’s warm hide, trying to ignore the misery setting himself sombre.

Timor yawned enormously and made a small rumble, in such a way that reminded Linsey sharply of old Estella, the ship’s cat. He paused to scratch at a spot just behind his shoulder, where the leather straps of the harness looped around buckles set firm against his scales. Linsey inspected these with displeasure, and some quiet shame also; Timor’s scales had hardened somewhat in his weeks of growth, but they were still flexible and soft, and Linsey worried suddenly that the harness might begin to cause him discomfort. He had removed it to wipe away the remnants of Timor's meals upon the Delight, but had not thought to consider his comfort besides, and condemned himself harshly in realising he had forgotten to put it off entirely since their departure from Weymouth.

‘Timor,’ he said now, reaching up to stroke the dragon’s nose, a little anxiously. ‘I am very sorry, I had not thought to take off your harness; is it not uncomfortable?’

Timor paused thoughtfully, then he said, ‘It does not chafe.’

‘No, dear fellow, but you may have it off, if you’d prefer.’ Linsey said firmly, to be sure Timor would understand; to ignore a dragon’s discomfort until it bordered on injury was a sour notion, and it worried him somewhat that Timor might think him of such cowardice.

‘Oh,’ said Timor, brightening a little. ‘Yes, that would be nice.’

Removing the harness in the dark was a good deal more difficult than Linsey would have liked, but he was not going to refuse Timor now, and so worked slowly at the buckles mostly blind, fumbling at the straps with hands trembling somewhat in rising frustration, until finally the harness came loose; he flung it down beside, then climbed from Timor’s back and patted the smooth hide.

Timor stretched enormously, then shook out his wings and tail; the spines upon his back quivered with the motion. ‘Oh, that is much better,’ he said, with a delighted rumble, and pushed his head gratefully against Linsey’s palm. Linsey patted him in turn, smiling fondly, though his hands now ached somewhat; he shook them out and tapped the fingers of one against the palm of the other, then righted himself and folded them into his lap, resettling beside Timor, and feeling a great deal of his satisfaction restored.

‘Linsey, will you sing to me?’ Timor said then, his eyes shining.

Linsey smiled at his enthusiasm, but found himself somewhat reluctant; his easy indulgence prior had come about with the shielding of his ship, and of Richards’s presence near at the mast. ‘No, dear fellow, I do not think I can,’ he said regretfully, and stroked Timor’s side in quiet apology.

Timor drooped a little, his shoulders hunched in sulking, then he stopped and rumbled thoughtfully, small ears twitching. ‘Then you might tell me a story,’ he said, ‘If you like.’

Linsey looked up at him, faintly surprised. ‘Of course,’ he said. He thought for a moment, remembering with amusement his excursions upon the sea as a younger man, some several years before he became captain of his own vessel; then he smiled involuntarily and said, ‘You have heard of Edward England?’

‘No,’ said Timor, puzzled. ‘Was he English?’

Linsey patted his side, fondly. ‘Oh, fortunately not.’ He said, ‘No; he was my mate, we shared all holdings—gold and company both. I took it all when he passed.’

‘Oh.’ Said Timor, somewhat disheartened; evidently his interest had been caught. ‘He is dead?’

‘‘Fraid so, though he was a good pirate, and a fellow enough.’ Linsey said, ‘You might have liked him; he was a fisherman, once.’

‘Oh, that is nice,’ Timor said, wistfully; Linsey laughed and patted him heartily upon the neck.

‘We met in Tortuga; I happened upon him by fortune, and thought him a good fellow—foolishly, I suppose. I told him of the frigate I had seen on coming in—the Royal James,’ he said, ‘I had the wildest notion of making off with her. It was his ship, of course, and he flogged me for it, rightly so,’ and as he continued, Timor put his head down on his forelegs and unfurled one wing to shelter them, making grateful, quiet rumblings as he listened in the dark.

#edward england was a Real Guy btw #I LOVE historical cameos I couldn't help it #hoping ya'll like Elliot also!! She's my best friend she's my one and only she's got so much love to give #timor: here be dragons #guess we're tagging it now #enjoy <3

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twstinginthewind · 2 years

Note

🏠 Sindren Booby (she would cling onto him she is hella scared, has a steam punk outfit)

🍬 April and Joker (April has a priest costume thanks to her dorm theme)

💃 Carol and Punch (I have her costume ready)

pick what you wanna do

Autumnal asks!

🏠 - Our muses visit a haunted house

"Wh-why does it have to be so dark?" Sindren inched her way down the haunted house corridor, flinching at every little noise. She had wrapped both of her arms around Bobby's waist, slowing him down on their walk through the building. The broad skirt of her costume kept brushing the walls, and every irregularity made her jump.

"It's for atmosphere, kiddo," he chuckled, as he draped his arm over her shoulders. He adjusted his three-corner pirate hat slightly, so he could see ahead more easily. "This ain't like you, though! You're usually the brave one, what's the deal?"

"D-dunno. It's just. It's. It's scarier like this!" A recorded laugh played over the loudspeakers, and she squeaked, squeezing him so hard her corset creaked. "Are we almost done?"

"I don't really know. Probably not. We've only done a couple rooms." Bobby stroked her hair absent-mindedly. "Want me to see if there's a way for us to get out sooner?"

Sindren trembled, but shook her head. "Nnnn. No. A crusader for justice must face their fears." She straightened up, but maintained a bone-crushing grip on Bobby's arm, crumpling the sleeve of his billowing shirt.

"As you wish," he chuckled, and opened the door to the next room. They stepped inside, the lights went out, and he heard a blood-curdling scream followed by a series of thumps.

When the lights came back on, Bobby had to stifle a laugh. Several costumed performers were scattered on the floor, groaning and clutching at assorted injuries. He looked up. Sindren was dangling from a chandelier, looking down at what she thought were her attackers; her satin gloves were torn at the knuckles, and her tiny fascinator top hat dangled from a loosened lock of hair.

"You good, 'Dren?" he finally managed to squeak out, wiping a tear of laughter away. "I think they'll let us out now. Unless you wanna hang a little longer..."

🍬 - Our muses give out candy to trick or treaters

"There you go, ya little monster! Happy Halloween!" Joker grinned as she waved to the tiny werewolf, who toddled away with a brightly-colored lollipop clutched in her fist. "Whew! I wasn't expecting there to be so many kids. We've been swamped! How's my halo?"

April looked up from opening bags of candy to refill their bowls, and blushed a bit. She wasn't expecting Joker to wear anything that matched her own costume, but when she arrived to help distribute candy on campus to the local kids, Joker greeted her in an angel costume. She was all in white, her long curls loose beneath a tinsel halo, and with cardboard wings that bent at unfortunate angles in the wind. April thought she looked beautiful.

"Ahem! 'Father' Richter!" she quipped, waving her hand in front of April's face. "Lost in thought again?"

"I'm fine!" April said, tearing a bag open a bit too quickly. Some sweets wound up spilling onto the table.

Joker stepped up, and started to move the spilled candy into a bowl. "I know you're fine, hon. Fine as the day is long. I have eyes, after all." She giggled. "But I was making sure you were all right. You seem distracted."

April looked at her hands, twiddling her fingers awkwardly. "It's nothing, really."

"And here I thought you priests were forbidden from fibbing." Joker winked, her eyes twinkling. "It's all good, April. I'm only teasing. Now come on! I see another wave of sticky preschoolers on the horizon, and we have to give them their sugar or be scorned forever."

💃 - Our muses dance together at a halloween party

"IT SURE IS LOUD IN HERE, ISN'T IT?"

"WHAT??" Carol leaned in closer to Punch, cupping her hand around her ear. "I CAN'T HEAR YOU OVER THE BAND. IT'S REALLY LOUD."

"YES." Punch nodded, laughing. "THAT'S WHAT I SAID."

"WHAT??"

"NEVER MIND!" He waved a hand dismissively. He had never seen Ramshackle dorm this packed! Since there were no restrictions on having a party at this particular campus building, Carol and the rest of the Ramshackle residents had decided to throw a Halloween party for their friends, and had pulled out all the stops. The Pop Music Club had set themselves up in one corner of the lounge, and had been playing at top volume since they started their set.

The song they were playing finally clattered to a halt, and Punch leaned over toward Carol. "I wanted to tell you! You look really cute tonight!"

"Thank you!" Carol beamed back at him. "And I really like your robot costume, it's clever!"

Punch started moving stiffly, and grinned. "Clank, clank!"

There was a short sharp snap of feedback from the amps. "Allllll right everyone, time for us to slow this down a bit, give Lilia a chance to recover from the last one," Cater announced with a laugh. Lilia held up a bottle of water, grinning triumphantly, then took a sip. "This next one's gonna be for all those lovebirds out on the floor, or anyone who hopes they can be one by the end of the night. Hashtag Always Hope, am I right?? Haha! Oh my seven that was awk!! Kalim, count us in!"

Drumsticks clicked together, and a slow bass groove began. The crowd in front of the band dissipated slightly, replaced with a scattering of couples. Carol looked at Punch hopefully. "So. Mister Robot. Are you programmed to slow dance?"

"Affirmative," Punch chuckled, and led her out to the floor.

#little snippets to keep the flow rolling #they're all so cute!!#story #twisted wonderland oc #bobby sherwood #joker carder #punch carder #friend's ocs #sindren #april richter #carol ann

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teabooksandsweets · 1 year

Text

A City of Bells

Chapter II — Part IV

It had been Henrietta who had discovered he was there and it was Henrietta who discovered he was not there.

It was a windy Saturday in early November, when the red and yellow leaves were drifting through the streets of the city and torn wisps of grey cloud sailed across the stormy sky behind the Cathedral towers. Every now and then a scurry of rain swept by on the wind and the cry of the bells as they rang for matins, now loud and now faint as the gusts carried the sound and then dropped it again, was inexpressibly sad.

She felt restless and depressed. It was Saturday, and a whole holiday, but Hugh Anthony was in one of his tiresome moods and wouldn’t play with her. Instead he lay flat on his stomach on the dining-room floor and studied football, a pursuit from which nothing roused him but the periodical need of going to the kitchen and refreshing the inner man, which seemed to become very empty when lain upon. She decided that she would go and see Ferranti. He never lay on his stomach and studied football, a game he heartily detested, and could always be relied upon to leave his writing, or gardening, or whatever he was engaged upon at the moment, and come into the garden and tell her stories.

Like a flash she ran out of the house, down the garden and out into the Close, just as she was, in her red serge dress and white pinafore, with the rain stinging her cheeks and her hair flying out behind her in the wind.

When she got to the Cathedral she turned to her left on to the Green by the west front, for it was possible for pedestrians to get from the Green to the Market Place through a little tunnel that bored through one of the houses. Hardly anything was still on the Green and it was wildly beautiful. The elm-trees were swaying and creaking and their leaves were falling and drifting and bowling over the grass in golden battalions. The few people who were about were clutching their hats and billowing skirts and breaking every now and then into absurd little runs when the wind caught them. The rooks, storm buffeted, were cawing angrily and flapping protesting wings. Only the carved figures on the west front were still, those kings and queens and saints and angels who had faced a thousand such days and would face a thousand more. The clock struck as Henrietta went by, booming out over her head, but she was in too much of a hurry to look up at the carved baby over the west door, as she usually did, always hoping that he would jump and crow in his mother’s arms at the sound of the bell.

She ran across the Market Place to the house with the green door, but she saw at once that it had a very shut-up appearance, and she thought that Ferranti must be in his garden, so she went in through The Green Dragon, pushing past the astonished Mrs. Wilks and running down the passage to the cinder path. She scaled the wall and clung on with fingers and toes, but there was nobody in the other garden and the roses were gone and the cabbage-stalks looked limp and desolate. She ran back through The Green Dragon and out into the Market Place again and round to the front door of the house. She mounted the two worn steps and beat on the door with her hands. She went on beating, a wild tattoo of brown fists on hard wood, but no footsteps came down the passage inside to answer her, and the windows, shut and clouded with raindrops, were like closed eyes with tears trickling out under the lids.

So he had gone. The Pied Piper had disappeared and would perhaps never be seen again. She had no doubt that he had gone for good and a terrible feeling of desolation overwhelmed her. She ran back across the Market Place and the Green, so blinded by her tears that it was not until she had actually bumped into him that she saw Grandfather, bobbing along to matins with his hands clasped in the small of his back and the wind bulging out his surplice so that he looked like a white balloon.

“Henrietta, dear child!” he exclaimed in horror.

The relief of finding him was so great that Henrietta’s tears, which until now had been a mere sprinkling, became a positive Niagara, and Grandfather had to pat and soothe her and mop up her face with his handkerchief before he could make head or tail of her story. But when he did understand he was, though grave, by no means despairing.

“He’s just out,” he comforted her. “I expect he’s gone to the bank.”

“He hardly ever goes to the bank,” sobbed Henrietta. “He hates the bank because there’s never anything in it. And you can see that he’s left the house because it’s crying.”

“Now, dear child, don’t be fanciful,” said Grandfather, but her distress was so great that he decided to leave matins, which was his responsibility this morning, to the tender mercies of the Dean and the Precentor, risking what the Dean would have to say about it afterwards, and look into this disappearance of Ferranti’s at once … He could not bear Henrietta to suffer and her capacity for doing so seemed to him alarming.

So they went together to the Market Place and looking at Ferranti’s house Grandfather saw that Henrietta was quite right, for it had that indefinable air of desolation that an abandoned house always wears.

They stood together in the gutter and looked at it sadly and at that moment out came Mrs. Wilks, followed by Mr. Wilks, a large person with a ginger moustache whose waxed ends stood out further than one would have believed possible.

“Do you know where Mr. Ferranti is?” asked Grandfather politely.

“Flitted,” said Mr. Wilks, and he said it with such grimness that Henrietta’s heart sank.

“How do you mean, Mr. Wilks?” said Grandfather … He said it a little sharply, for he did not like Mr. Wilks.

“Gorn,” said Mr. Wilks. “In the night. And owes me a bill for beer as long as your arm.”

“And that not the only bill owing,” said Mrs. Wilks. “It’s no wonder he’s taken himself off. He’d better. He’s done away with himself, you may be sure.”

“That’s enough, Mrs. Wilks,” said Grandfather with, for him, extraordinary sharpness, and turning round he marched abruptly away across the Market Place with Henrietta pattering after him. He was very angry, she saw to her surprise, and talking to himself. “Saying a thing like that before the child!” he muttered. “Pray God she didn’t understand!” She did not, so it was all right.

But at the west door of the Cathedral his rage seemed to evaporate. “We’d better go inside, Henrietta,” he said, “and ask God about it.”

“Yes, Grandfather,” said Henrietta forlornly. Her ideas about God were at this time extremely hazy but correct as far as they went. He lived in the Cathedral, she imagined, much as Grandfather lived in Number Two the Close, and was kind and good like Grandfather, only more so. He had made her, so she understood, and provided her with her dinner daily so as to perpetuate His work, and He must be great and beautiful because His house was like that.

Grandfather pushed open the heavy swing-door and they were inside and in spite of her grief she thrilled a little, as she always did, to its grandeur and loveliness.

From where they stood at the west door it stretched from their feet away into the shadows in the distance so that they could not see where it ended. Great pillars stood in ordered ranks all the way up the nave, so tall that it gave one a crick in the neck to look up to the place where their straightness curved into lovely dim arching shapes that went up and up into the roof and criss-crossed high over your head like the branches of trees in a forest.

It always seemed to Henrietta that there were flowers growing in the forest, for on sunshiny days the sun shone through the stained-glass windows and spread patches of colour over the floor of the Cathedral, and on wet days the candles lit in the shadows shone like daffodils.

The nave and the choir were separated by a carved screen where angels and saints stood in their ranks as they did on the west front, and when the choirboys were hidden behind it and singing, as they were now, it seemed to listeners in the nave that the angels themselves were singing.

Grandfather and Henrietta walked up the nave towards the first row of chairs, but when they got there they remembered suddenly that St. Paul had very strong feelings about little girls who went into church without their hats, and Grandfather made Henrietta fasten his handkerchief round her head with a safety-pin that she fished up out of her underclothes for the purpose.

This little matter attended to they knelt down side by side and Grandfather in his absentmindedness began to join in with the choir. “I will sing and give praise,” he sang in his cracked old voice. “Awake up, my glory, awake, lute and harp, I myself will awake right early.”

Henrietta, who could see nothing at all to awake a lute and harp about in their present situation, prodded him gently. “We’re going to tell God about Mr. Ferranti,” she reminded him.

“Dear me, yes, so we are,” said Grandfather, and began to ask God if He would be so kind as to look after Mr. Ferranti and see that no harm came to him.

Henrietta prodded Grandfather again. “But God doesn’t know what’s happened,” she said. “Couldn’t you explain it all from the beginning?”

“God knows everything,” said Grandfather gravely.

“But He might have been looking the other way when Mr. Ferranti went off,” said Henrietta desperately. “I want God to know about the house crying, and what Mr. Wilks said, and everything.”

Grandfather, scratching his head in perplexity and wondering if this was, or was not, the time to try to explain the omnipotence of God to Henrietta, decided it was not, and going back to the beginning again explained the situation to God down to the smallest detail. Henrietta, leaning against Grandfather and gazing up into the soaring arches above her head, was comforted. God, she felt, was now in possession of all the facts and, if He was anything like this wonderful house of His, was quite capable of dealing with them adequately.

Then they walked home together and Grandfather told Henrietta that she must try not to be unhappy because Mr. Ferranti had gone away. She had prayed and must continue to pray, and Grandfather would make inquiries of the police as well as pray, and that was all they could do … In this beautiful world that God had made joy was a duty.

So Henrietta tried very hard to be happy again, and succeeded, but she did not forget Ferranti and the thought of his disappearance was a wound in her mind that never quite healed.

As the months went by and he was not found in spite of all Grandfather’s efforts, the past of which he was a part stepped into the background. Henrietta found it quite hard to remember exactly what he had looked like, but she never forgot the stories that he had told her. The pictures that they had created in her imagination linked themselves to the music that a woman in a blue dress had once sung to her and became one with it in her memory.

#torminstertravels #a city of bells #readalong #literature #booklr #a city of bells: chapter 2

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feferipeixes · 3 years

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Pretty Warrior Demon Transform~~! ✨

(TAUtober day 13, also inspired by this lovely art)

Mira grunted as the first cultist came running at her. She bent her knees and lifted up the weapon Alcor had given her -- the famed Cultbasher that had belonged to the very first Mizar. With a swing, she guided the nail-studded bat its way into the cultist’s skull, as easy and natural as if the weapon was an extension of her own body. Then it came free and she spun with the bat’s momentum, twisting out of reach of a counterattack.

The cultist let out a wretched, gurgling scream as he went down. Mira paid no attention to it -- her focus was already on the next guy, who was crouched in front of a tall, bronze statue of a tree. The statue was some sort of mind control thing for the forest dryads -- Mira couldn’t really remember the details -- and they had to return it before midnight or something bad would happen. It was not actually a very odd Tuesday evening for her and Alcor, except for the fact that she seemed to be doing all the work herself tonight.

“Alcor, a little help?” Mira called out, to the demon who was standing stock still in the middle of the room, facing away from her. A knife narrowly missed her nose, and she dove to avoid the rest of the cultist’s body. “I’ve only got one bat and there’s like 15 cultists in here!”

“You’re right,” Alcor said, in a low voice that nonetheless echoed right into her ears. “We’re outnumbered.”

Mira furrowed her brow. “Dude, we’ve taken on worse than this. Just start doing something instead of -” (she yelped as someone kicked her in the knee to try to take her down, but she parried and ended up sitting on their back) “- instead of doing nothing!”

“It’s no use!” Alcor spun around, and his eyes were fully blown with shimmering gold. He was holding something close to his chest with both hands -- it looked like a little rod with a star and wings on it. “I’m going to have to... I’m going to have to...”

He closed his eyes for a moment. When they reopened, he thrust one hand out and wove the rod in an arc around his head. “TRANSFORRRRRRRM!”

“You what?” Mira yelled, as she punched a cultist in the face.

The air was filled with a blinding light. Alcor rose up, his every movement making a little twinkling sound. He let go of the rod, and it began to float in front of his face.

“Oh wand of darkness,” he cried. “Concealer of dreams, and guardian of oblivion! Upon our eternal contract I call to you to release!”

A cutesy chime reverberated through the room, followed by another burst of light. Mira was so flabbergasted at what was going on that she almost forgot what she was supposed to be doing. Luckily for her, it seemed like many of the cultists were also distracted by the hubbub, and she found that many more swings of her bat were making contact.

Meanwhile, Alcor was doing some kind of dance in mid-air. He flicked a foot upward and a bright yellow thigh-high heeled boot with blue lace trim materialised onto his leg. He spun around and the same happened to his other leg. Another flip, and there was a squeaky giggle -- the same sound he made whenever he watched Ducktective, although that was usually accompanied by bouncing up and down and waving his arms around.

Alcor made a peace sign in front of his face, and then blew a kiss in the direction of the bronze statue. Out of nowhere, a heavy wind buffeted the room -- Mira had to dig her nails into the drywall to stay still. Alcor’s outfit billowed, and seemed to turn inside out. One moment it was his standard black suit, the next it was a yellow-and-blue dress with a cinched waist, a flowy skirt, and little adornments shaped like his symbol. He shook his head, and his hair grew down to his waist, with sparkly bows and ribbons threaded throughout. His pitch black wings remained unchanged, and grew large as if ready to wrap the room into their grasp.

“That’s right!” Alcor announced, in a sing-song voice. “Magical Girl Alcor is here!”

He reached out and grabbed the star wand out of the air, and spun it around like a sheriff cocking their gun. “Evil cultists: prepare to die!”

At last, the smoke and mist dissipated from the room. Alcor floated down to the ground, and surveyed the room. All around him were face-down hooded figures, some with pools of blood around them. Mira was standing near the sacrificial table, and had the bronze statue balanced on her shoulders.

“Looks like my work here is done,” Alcor chirped, with a sly smile.

“You didn’t do anything!” Mira yelled, clearly strained from the weight of the statue.

Alcor grabbed his wing and pulled it in front of him like it was a cape. He gave Mira a wink, and then dove out the window, leaving her to drag the statue out of the warehouse by herself.

(”He’s trying to make you hate magical girls,” Ian said, later.

“Yeah...” Mira groaned, completely buried under the throw pillows on their bed.

“Wow. Remind me never to overwrite his Ducktective recordings. Then again,” he mused, as Mira’s groaning grew louder, “it would be really funny to see Alcor dressed up as Sam from Mizar the Magnificent...”)

(AO3 link)

#transcendence au #mira ramachadran #alcor the dreambender #ian beale #fic #my stuff #tautober #long post

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beinmybonnet · 4 years

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29th June 1613 - London, England

“Remind me again why we’re doing this?

“He went to the trouble to have a draft carried all the way to Brandenburg for me, the least I can do is attend the opening night.”

Andromache rolls her shoulders into her partlet. “The least you can do maybe. Why am I doing this?”

“Because you missed me. And because you cried when we saw Othello.” Yusuf replies, looking sideways at her. Curbing the inevitable objection, Quynh squeezes Nicolò’s arm and strides forwards to overtake them. He lets himself be dragged after her, taking care not to tread on her skirts.

“I love the theatre. Plus, we’ve spent the last week sleeping in a shack in the Dales. This,” Quynh waves her free arm over the bridge rail, “is a nice change of scenery.”

London Bridge is teeming with people, the warmth of the bustle settling like cinders into his skin. The city writhes in its haste. Against the far bank of the Thames tall buildings strike against the horizon, the old Southwark Priory still reaching high in spent pride. Buildings are painted pale with dark beams striking bold across them. It is beautiful in its own way, Nicolò thinks. Inelegant, but unique.

“It wasn’t that bad. I still think we should have stayed a little longer, at least until-

“Andromache we’ve slept in nicer caves.”

Quynh glances back over her shoulder meaningfully, brow rising. Andromache shrugs. A smile, although few would recognise it. They step down onto the riverbank as one, turning east.

Nicolò nudges his shoulder into Yusuf as they pass the gardens. “You fail to mention you sent that script back with corrections.”

“Revisions. Small ones.” Yusuf’s voice is low, his expression impish. “Barely noticeable.”

“Ah, here we are.” Yusuf waves Andromache forward into their usual first-floor booth and steps back to allow Quynh to pass. Nicolò pauses, peering up the stairwell.

“Full house.”

“First performance. Trust me, this will be one to remember.” Yusuf is bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, and it makes Nicolò want to tuck his chin over a bobbing shoulder.

“You’d think the city would be a bit more subdued,” Andromache settles herself on the bench tucking thick plum skirts around her calves. She happily accepts a bag of roasted hazelnuts from Yusuf as he passes her to stand at the balcony. “They’ve only just recovered from their last bout of plague.”

“Exactly! This is the power of art.” Yusuf beams, arm sweeping wide. “Look at these people.” All around them the crowd is seething with anticipation, the noise growing as the wait goes on. Children scramble in the lower level of the yard for better vantage points, clawing their way up the beams supporting the lower galleries. People are shouting and laughing and drinking, the sound cocooned tight within the impressive structure. A man swings a laughing boy up over the mass, and a small group of women pressed against the stage begin shouting a suspicious sounding rhyme, pointing across the pit. Before they can finish a man in the gallery beneath them roars his response across the yard.

Nicolò’s brow furrows. “Clot-pole? I don’t…”

“She’s calling him an idiot,” Andromache supplies, “and insulting his hat.”

“It is a bit much.” Quynh’s leaning over the balcony to get a better look. “I think she’s accusing him of, err – short-changing her. Last night.”

Still grinning, Yusuf peers over beside her. “Oh, she’s quite angry. Here we go.” He sounds delighted. What looks like a parsnip sails over the head of the crowd. “A pity, she’ll want those for the third act.”

Quynh’s now bent almost double over the bannister and Andromache reaches to steady her without looking. “Isn’t this sort of thing that made the man move half of the troupe over to Blackfriars?”

Yusuf shakes his head in fond exasperation. “Ah, William has become far too prudish in his success. The engagement of the audience is the nature of theatre.”

“Engagement?” Nicolò smirks as something below meets its mark with a splat and a shout.

“Well, you cannot deny their enthusiasm-”

Quynh reappears with a whoop of triumph clutching her prize; a browning cabbage intercepted in the air. She rotates the rotten vegetable in careful examination. “Excellent.”

Yusuf raises his hand in hopeless protest as Nicolò leans back in his seat, eyeing Quynh. “10 crowns says you can’t hit the stage from here.”

She snorts derisively.

“20 if you can take King Henry off his feet.” Andromache counters, rising slightly to gauge the distance. Done, Quynh agrees happily, settling beside her and tucking her cabbage under the bench. Yusuf mutters an exasperated appeal for help to the heavens and Nicolò quickly tugs him down into the remaining space with a hand over his knee.

The parting of the stage curtain prompts the dropping of remaining projectiles and an enthusiastic cheer from the crowd. The herald clears his throat, steps to the edge of the stage and spreads his arms.

The first and happiest hearers of the town,

I come no more to make you laugh; things now,

That bear a weighty and a serious brow,

Sad, high, and working, full of state and woe,

Such noble scenes as draw the eye to flow,

We now present. Those that can pity, here

May, if they think it well, let fall a tear;

Be sad, as we would make ye

“Oh, so a comedy?” Quynh says brightly and Yusuf shushes her.

The first actors emerge from the wings in their velvets and the tale takes flight.

In all this noble bevy, has brought with her

One care abroad; he would have all as merry

As, first, good company, good wine, good welcome,

Can make good people. O, my lord, you're tardy:

Yusuf is mouthing the words soundlessly, engrossed.

There are many things Nicolò has enjoyed about visiting theatres over the years. He will readily admit this performance is an enjoyable one - the young man playing Buckingham is particularly charismatic, the audience viscerally immersed in his indignation. The actors proudly deliver their lines and their story to an increasingly hypnotised audience.

But the play itself has never been what really draws Nicolò to this place. He glances sideways again and immediately, expectedly, loses the thread of the plot. In this moment the talent on the stage could never hope to hold his interest as he sits beside this man. Yusuf has lost himself entirely to the unfolding tale, gaze flitting from figure to figure calling below. Passion alight in his eyes. The arts do this to him in a way Nicolò has seen nothing else in all their time together. They have walked familiar paths in gallery halls for hours on end, Yusuf’s eyes roving walls of painted expression. They’ve sat in houses of the dying and listened to children bringing comfort with songs of naivety. Literature, dance, poetry, music; in all their changing forms they have always arrested Yusuf in his entirety.

These things give people freedom Nicolò, true freedom, he had once said. Free of limitation and expectation, in art people reveal their true selves. It is beautiful.

For Nicolò, that beauty is reflected blindingly in Yusuf’s own experience. To watch him like this for the rest of his given days would see him depart this earth achingly grateful to his God.

But Yusuf feels his distraction and leans toward him. “You’re missing it,” he murmurs, smile pulling impossibly wider. Unbridled delight is etched at the edges of his eyes, and Nicolò wants to trace his fingertips over the creases. He only realises he has reached out and done so when Yusuf captures and kisses his palm. “Watch the play.”

“It is a story still within living memory, I know how it ends,” Nicolò whispers.

Yusuf will not have it, nodding towards the actors. “Watch them tell it.”

Anne Boleyn is drifting across the stage, hand at her chest and Nicolò turns dutifully back to the performance.

Was he mad, sir?

O, very mad, exceeding mad, in love too:

But he would bite none; just as I do now,

He would kiss you twenty with a breath.

This time it’s Yusuf’s eyes that flicker back towards him and Nicolò hears silent words in the curl of his lip. Twenty kisses in a single breath. A risky venture, no?

Nicolò hums, his thoughts mirrored beside him. We shall see.

Good lord chamberlain,

Go, give 'em welcome; you can speak the French tongue;

And, pray, receive 'em nobly, and conduct 'em

Into our presence, where this heaven of beauty

Shall shine at full upon them. Some attend him.

You have now a broken banquet; but we'll mend it.

A good digestion to you all: and once more

I shower a welcome on ye; welcome all!

King Henry VIII emerges from the curtains with a flourish, the actor clearly taking great pains not to stumble in breeches that billow around his knees. The theatre bursts into applause as a round of trumpets sound, and they shout their approval at the blast of a canon from the rafters. The actors move to their marks to begin the scene in earnest, and Andromache leans forward with interest for the first time.

“See, I told you! With the funding now available, they’ve really spared no expense,” Yusuf is still clapping. Andromache hums noncommittally sitting back, but her eyes are suddenly bright with curiosity.

“Quynh, if you’re going to win your money, I suggest you do it now.”

“Why? I was going to wait until the trial scene,” she replies, confused.

From his place beside her Nicolò can see clearly that Andromache is struggling to suppress a smirk. “Well, there won’t be much left by then.”

“What?” Quynh looks down the bench at him. He shrugs. Andromache sighs around her growing amusement.

Seconds pass before she speaks again.

“They’ve set the roof on fire.”

He doesn’t need long to piece together what’s happened. There’s a thin plume of smoke rising from the inner curve of the roof and within, a flicker of light no bigger than that from a candle waving gently in the rafters. The canon. They wadded the canon, he realises. The little flame wafts higher in the breeze. The crowd is oblivious, too focused on the stage to be looking upwards. He taps Yusuf’s thigh.

It does take a moment. “Oh dear.” Yusuf looks back and forth between the roof and the stage, face falling. “Well maybe-

There’s a loud pop as the flame meets eager fuel. It dances up into the thatch lining the hooped roof and flares wide and greedy. Whip fast, it licks across the reeds consuming them in crunches and cracks that have people now looking skywards and shouting. Those in the highest galleries rear back as the fire completes its rapid circuit of the roof. By the time the actors have abandoned their attempts at continuing and stand dumbstruck on the stage, the theatre is ringed in an ominous halo of flame.

“Yusuf, unless your intention is a repeat of ’54…” Quynh trails off sadly, holding her cabbage.

Clumps of lit thatch are beginning to drift into the standing audience and the pushing and shoving follows in earnest. One man charges through the crowd braying, his breeches alight. Andromache stands looking decidedly more cheerful. “Come on, we’ll help them clear the pit.”

Nicolò follows suit, a hand falling to Yusuf’s shoulder. He has to work to quell an absurd urge to laugh; Yusuf is glaring at the roof with all the stubbornness of a chastised child. He squeezes gently, sympathy winning out. “I’m sorry.”

“Canons, who on earth thought canons in a wooden building was…” Yusuf trails off, glancing up. “Nothing to be done I suppose.” He holds out his other hand. “Shall we?”

Drawing Yusuf up behind him, Nicolò moves out into the stairwell twisting up into the higher galleries where people are starting to pile down in haste. An older man stumbles in the rush and he reaches out to steady him. “Careful, sir. Head out towards the river.”

The man nods and quickly hurries on pressing his handkerchief to his mouth. The next woman through the door snatches her arm up to her chest before he can move to offer any assistance. Dirty papist she spits as she veers away. Yusuf tenses, a hard line pressed at his back. Nicolò just dips his head.

“Please hurry.”

By the time the flow of people has ebbed the flames are beginning to consume the ornate stage pillars. The curtains masking backstage catch like parchment and blaze furiously. “We should make sure the galleries are clear,” he says, “you take the east, I the west?”

Yusuf eyes the roof timbers warily. “Five minutes. No more.”

In the end it only takes Nicolò four minutes to usher the last stubborn gamblers from the gentleman’s room. The fact that the smoke has now crept down to waist level speeds this along nicely, and they hurry to the stairwell hunched and coughing. Nicolò stays low, following them down the last steep flight when his foot catches on something in the darkness, almost putting his hand through the adjacent wall in an attempt to steady himself. There’s a man slouched in the corner, limbs sprawled wide and snoring. An empty bladder clutched to his chest. The strength of the brandy fumes punch through the dense smoke to further sting at his eyes and his irritation almost threatens to outweigh his conscience. Almost.

By the time he staggers out into clear air dragging his oblivious charge Nicolò know he’s been much longer than five minutes. Behind him there’s a crash which sounds very much like the galleries have finally given in and collapsed. Sounds like, because his eyes are clenched shut, burning and watering. Pressing his hands to his knees, he tries not to gag on the tar in his throat.

A hand settles on the back of his neck whilst another cups a palmful of water to his face. Nicolò winces.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, “He’s heavier than he looks.”

He can hear Yusuf grinding his teeth but his response is surprisingly placid. “Rinse your eyes.”

Yusuf presses a water skin into his hands and moves away. When Nicolò’s vision has cleared he spots him back near the eastern entrance, patiently shepherding two enraptured boys further from the fire as they gape at the sky. Even for one who has seen much, Nicolò must admit, it is quite a sight.

The playhouse’s cylindrical shape has moulded the fire into a twirling steeple of flame inside the structure, now reaching twenty feet clear of the building itself. The Globe resembles an enormous cauldron struggling to hold its roiling contents. It belches clouds of thick black smoke as its rim splinters and cracks under the pressure and heat. What’s left of the thatch continues to feed the furnace, keeping the flames bright and fierce.

Quynh appears, sliding her hand into the crook of his elbow to steer him away. She leads him to a grassy curve of the riverbank where people are congregating in groups and beginning to resettle on the ground. From one muse to another, the audience remain eager spectators, gasping and whooping as the bones of the building begin to break, sending up showers of sparks. Yusuf and Andromache join them just as the walls start to keel inwards.

“You were right, definitely one of his more memorable works,” Andromache announces as they sit. “Perhaps my favourite.”

“Yes, I’m so very glad you enjoyed yourself.” Yusuf’s tone is flat, but his eyes roll indulgently.

Quynh settles herself back against Andromache’s bent knees, facing the playhouse. “We can still make a night of it. We get a bottle of wine, some pastries. Watch the sunset.” Her voices softens slightly and she levels her gaze at them. “You really must go so soon?”

He looks to Yusuf, who nods. “We have passage on a ship to Antwerp. She leaves on the tide tomorrow morning.”

Quynh’s sigh is dejected. “You won’t consider staying just a little longer? We’re moving on to…” she trails off, peering up at Andromache – Devon, she supplies, “We could use your help relocating these women. The trials are becoming barbaric.”

Yusuf shakes his head, surveying the crowd. “I’d prefer not to tempt fate. London is not at its most welcoming for us presently.

Nicolò quirks his lip. “You mean for me.” Ah, he sees now. The woman from earlier is stood just a little further up the bank, clutching at well-dressed man and pointing at them. Yusuf stares back unflinchingly. Nicolò feels him shift to further block her line of sight to him.

Then he turns back to meet Nicolò’s eye and speaks firmly. “For us. If a place does not welcome you, it does not welcome me.”

Quynh has watched the exchange carefully and suddenly sits up. She clears her throat and calls out loudly enough for those nearest to turn. “Thou art a boil, madam, a plague sore!”

Andromache snorts and the woman raises her fan to her face appalled, tugging on her husband’s arm. It has the intended effect on Yusuf though and his grin returns to its proper place. Nicolò feels a familiar rush of affection for Quynh and her unfailing ability to put people at ease.

“King Lear,” Yusuf says proudly. “I didn’t think you were paying attention.”

“Of course she was,” Andromache interjects, “It’s a magnum opus of insults.”

Quynh grins up at her. “Oh, you worsted-stockinged knave.”

The retort is instant. “Brazen-faced varlet.”

“Ancient ruffian.”

Andromache shrugs. “Accurate.”

Their laughter comes in easy unison and Yusuf’s expression is unbearably soft as he watches them. “It won’t be for long,” he promises.

Quynh pulls her eyes from Andromache and nods. “Probably a sensible choice at the moment. You do look violently Venetian Nicolò.

He wrinkles his nose, affronted. “I do not-”

Yusuf is reaching for his face, so he pauses his protest for the gentle pass of a thumb over the bridge of his nose. “It’s your profile my love.” Yusuf’s tongue darts out over the pad of his thumb before it returns to rub more firmly at his nose. “Which currently is very sooty.”

With his hands still upon Nicolò’s face he murmurs. “Oh but what a piece of work is this man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel,” Yusuf blinks, his sincerity blinding, “in apprehension how like a god.”

It’s all Nicolò can do not to rub his flushed cheeks into Yusuf’s palms like an alley cat.

Andromache arches a refined brow at Quynh. “Nicolò gets a Hamletian ode to his soul, and I get ‘ruffian’?”

Quynh rocks onto her elbow in the grass without missing a beat. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Mayhap a smouldering playhouse, ablaze in righteous flame?

“Likened to a smoking wreckage, how romantic.”

Nicolò would laugh but Yusuf is still holding his gaze and his face, everything else muting around him. He does this; bestows his love in soft declarations that leave Nicolò stunned, and then holds him steady until the words perfuse. Nicolò loves him so much he feels he might combust, with all the ferocity of the fire at his back.

Centuries before, he had allowed his disbelief to ask a question once, and only once. The intensity frightening him. Could a gift such as this truly be his eternal?

Nicolò smiles at his world and whispers.

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and gives life to thee.

held in the embers on ao3 at theexistentialteapot

part one of this series can be found here

#god this one took years off me #but it's done!#thank you bones for the final shove over the finish line #i am so soft for this found family #and they deserve happy memories #yusuf would 1000% have been a theatre kid #the headcanon is lodged #userbones #usermarwan #tusermj #tuserceleste #the old guard fic #the old guard #mine

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