#I know in these old bones I would have been cast a witch and burned | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

boricuacherry-blog · 5 months

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"Oh, mon Dieu, Jesus!" said her mother, "there are so many witches nowadays that I dare say they burn them without knowing their names. One might as well seek the names of every cloud in the sky. After all, one may be tranquil. The good God keeps his register."

The Place du Parvis Notre-Dame, upon which the balcony looked, presented at that moment a singular and sinister spectacle which caused the fright.

"Is it true she has refused a confessor?"

"It appears so."

"You see what a pagan she is!"

At that moment, midday rang slowly out from the clock of Notre-Dame. A murmur of satisfaction broke out in the crowd. The last vibration of the twelfth stroke had hardly died away when all heads surged like the waves beneath a squall, and an immense shout went up from the pavement, the windows, and the roofs.

"There she is!"

A tumbrel drawn by a stout Norman horse, and all surrounded by cavalry in violet livery with white crosses, had just debouched upon the Place through the Rue Saint-Pierre-aux-Boeufs. The sergeants of the watch were clearing a passage for it through the crowd, by stout blows from their clubs. Beside the cart rode several officers of justice and police, recognizable by their black costume and their awkwardness in the saddle. Master Jacques Charmolue paraded at their head.

In the fatal cart sat a young girl with her arms tied behind her back, and with no priest beside her. She was in her shift; her long black hair (the fashion then was to cut it off only at the foot of the gallows) fell in disorder upon her half-bared throat and shoulders.

Athwart that waving hair, more glossy than the plumage of a raven, a thick, rough, gray rope was visible, twisted and knotted, chafing her delicate collar-bones and twining round the charming neck of the poor girl, like an earthworm round a flower. Beneath that rope glittered a tiny amulet ornamented with bits of green glass, which had been left to her no doubt, because nothing is refused to those who are about to die. The spectators in the windows could see in the bottom of the cart her naked legs which she strove to hide beneath her, as by a final feminine instinct. At her feet lay a little goat, bound. The condemned girl held together with her teeth her imperfectly fastened shift. One would have said that she suffered still more in her misery from being thus exposed almost naked to the eyes of all. It was la Esmeralda.

The tumbrel had entered the Parvis. It halted before the central portal. The escort ranged themselves in line on both sides and the two leaves of the grand door swung back on their hinges, which gave a creak like the sound of a fife. Then there became visible in all its length, the deep, gloomy church, hung in black, sparely lighted with a few candles gleaming afar off on the principal altar, opened in the midst of the Place which was dazzling with light, like the mouth of a cavern. At the very extremity, in the gloom of the apse, a gigantic silver cross was visible against a black drapery which hung from the vault to the pavement. The whole nave was deserted. But a few heads of priests could be seen moving confusedly in the distant choir stalls, and, at the moment when the great door opened, there escaped from the church a loud, solemn, and monotonous chanting, which cast over the head of the condemned girl, in gusts, fragments of melancholy psalms -

"He that heareth my word and believeth on Him that sent me, hath eternal life, and hath not come into condemnation, but is passed from death to life."

This chant, which a few old men buried in the gloom sang from afar over that beautiful creature, was the mass for the dead. The people listened devoutly.

They untied her hands, made her alight, accompanied by her goat, which had also been unbound, and which bleated with joy at finding itself free, and they made her walk barefoot on the hard pavement to the foot of the steps leading to the door. The rope about her neck trailed behind her. One would have said it was a serpent following her.

Then the chanting in the church ceased. A great golden cross and row of wax candles began to move through the gloom. A long procession of priests in chasubles and deacons in dalmatics marched gravely towards the condemned girl, as they drawled their song.

At the moment when the archdeacon made his appearance in the full daylight beneath the lofty arched portal, enveloped in an ample cope of silver barred with a black cross, he was so pale that more than one person in the crowd thought that one of the marble bishops who knelt on the sepulchral stones of the choir had risen and was come to receive upon the brink of the tomb, the woman who was about to die.

The archdeacon approached her slowly; even in that extremity, she beheld him cast an eye sparkling with sensuality, jealousy, and desire, over her exposed form. Then he said aloud -

"Young girl, have you asked God's pardon for your faults and shortcomings?"

He bent down to her ear, and added (the spectators supposed that he was receiving her last confession): "Will you have me? I can still save you!"

She looked intently at him: "Begone, demon, or I will denounce you!"

He gave vent to a horrible smile: "You will not be believed. You will only add a scandal to a crime. Reply quickly! Will you have me?"

"What have you done with my Phoebus?"

"He is dead!" said the priest. He staggered, passed his hand across his eyes, looked again, muttered a curse, and all his features were violently contorted.

"Well, die then!" he hissed between his teeth. "No one shall have you." Then, raising his hand over the gypsy, he exclaimed in Latin, in a funereal voice -

"Go now, soul, trembling in the balance, and God have mercy upon thee."

This was the dread formula with which it was the custom to conclude these gloomy ceremonies. It was the signal agreed upon between the priest and the executioner.

No one had yet observed in the gallery of the statues of the kings, carved directly above the arches of the portal, a strange spectator, who had, up to that time, observed everything with such impassiveness, with a neck so strained, a visage so hideous that, in his motley accoutrement of red and violet, he might have been taken for one of those stone monsters through whose mouths the long gutters of the cathedral have discharged their waters for six hundred years. This spectator had missed nothing that had taken place since midday in front of the portal of Notre-Dame. And at the very beginning he had securely fastened to one of the small columns a large knotted rope, one end of which trailed on the flight of steps below. This being done, he began to look on tranquilly, whistling from time to time when a blackbird flitted past. Suddenly, at the moment when the superintendent's assistants were preparing to execute Charmolue's order, he threw his leg over the balustrade of the gallery, seized the rope with his feet, his knees and his hands; then he was seen to glide down the facade, as a drop of rain slips down a windowpane, rush to the two executioners with the swiftness of a cat which has fallen from a roof, knock them down with two enormous fists, pick up the gypsy with one hand, as a child would her doll, and dash back into the church with a single bound.

He held the young girl, who was quivering all over, suspended from his horny hands like a white drapery; but he carried her with as much care as though he feared to break her. One would have said that he felt that she was a delicate, exquisite, precious thing, made for other hands than his. There were moments when he looked as if not daring to touch her, even with his breath. Then, all at once, he would press her forcibly in his arms, against his angular bosom, like his own possession, his treasure, as the mother of that child would have done. His gnome's eye, fastened upon her, inundated her with tenderness, sadness, and pity.

At that moment, Quasimodo had a beauty of his own. He, that orphan, that outcast, felt himself august and strong, and gazed in the face of that society from which he was banished, and in which he had so powerfully intervened, of that human justice of which he had wrenched its prey, of all those tigers whose jaws were forced to remain empty, of those policemen, those judges, those executioners, of all that force of the king which he, the meanest of creatures, had just broken, with the force of God.

#the hunchback of notre dame #book quotes #victor hugo

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wonderfilworld · 3 years

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Move Together - S.B.

Sirius Black x Reader where Sirius didn’t die in OOTP and it’s before the battle of Hogwarts.

word count: 1.2k

Warnings/contains: angst, talks of war, talk of death, one or two swear words I think, kissing, fluffy-ish ending? If I missed anything let me know!!

Masterlist

The war had been going on for almost a year now. The Order was on edge, constantly anxious about Harry Potter and how close You-Know-Who was to finding him. There wasn’t much you could do except wait; wait for war, wait for news of death, wait for the end of this shitty cycle of death and destruction.

You were standing outside, looking up at the night sky. The stars and the moon shone brightly, like a taunting, deceptive symbol that things were okay. It was strange, you thought, how someone could be looking at the exact same moon and stars, and their lives weren’t falling apart. You wished, selfishly, that you could have been born oblivious to the world of magic - growing up in a muggle village with muggle friends attending muggle school. But, instead, you were thrust into this world of wizards and magic. It would have been great, being a witch, if you hadn’t been at war most of your life.

“What’s on that beautiful mind of yours?”

You smiled softly, not turning to the voice coming from behind you. “Thinking about you,” you lied, wrapping your arms around yourself. There was a nice breeze, and you closed your eyes, keeping your chin up to the sky.

Arms wrapped around your body, and your boyfriend set his chin upon your shoulder. “Liar,” he said, always knowing when you were. Sirius moved your hair away from your neck and planted a few chaste kisses there. “What are you really thinking about?”

You sighed, not wanting to turn around and face him because in all honesty, you’ve had this discussion before. You worried for your lover’s godson; you worried for your own family and how you all were going to make it out of this alive. “Same old,” you said quietly, knowing he would understand.

Sirius let out a long breath against your neck and you shivered, the cool breeze along with your boyfriend in such close proximity erupting chill bumps along your whole body. “What did I say about worrying about things we can’t control, hm?” He lifted his head then, grabbing your waist and turning you around. You didn’t want to look him in the eyes, knowing what you would see there. You know he worries as well, and you hate it. After everything Sirius Black had been through in his life, you try to always be the one with a positive outlook on things, and with the way you had been feeling lately you felt extremely guilty. You instead stared at his chin, and the stubble that resided there.

He was so handsome, long black hair and piercing gray eyes. You met at Hogwarts, and while you didn’t have the best first impressions of each other, it didn’t take long for Sirius to become your whole world. And you thought you loved him then, but childhood crushes were nothing compared to the all consuming fire of love and desire that surged through you when you thought of this man, when you saw this man, when you touched this man. Nothing compared and you knew nothing ever would.

You loved him so much, it felt like you would explode. That your heart weighed ten thousand pounds whenever you looked at him for too long and realized that he chose you. You could burst into tears if you thought too much about how much he loved you.You were so lucky and he was so special and amazing and beautiful and you loved this life with him. You wouldn’t trade it for anything. Not even when he was gone for twelve years and you didn’t think he would ever come back. There was no one but Sirius Black for you.

You realized you never answered his question, so you gathered all the courage you could find and looked into his eyes. “Sorry,” you mumbled, not wanting to disappoint him, although unbeknownst to you, in his eyes, you could never. You cast your eyes back down to his mouth this time, edges of his lips turning up in a smile. You smiled back involuntarily, you really just couldn’t help it. “Won’t happen again,” you say louder, your small closed-lip smile turning now into a full-mouthed grin.

Sirius mirrored your smile before opening his mouth to speak, “better not, pet.” He smirked and pulled you flush against his chest. You wrapped your arms around his neck before leaning on the tips of your toes to give him a kiss, hoping he could feel the unyielding love that you carried for him deep in your bones. His arms grew impossibly tighter around you keeping you standing because you surely would have fallen if he hadn’t. You could sense, somehow, that he was showing you the same fire-burning love he felt through this kiss.

The two of you stood there - how long, you’re not sure - kissing and whispering words of your love until you were dizzy and the both of you were grinning and giggling like kids. Your hands were in his hair and his were under your shirt laying flat on your back. Eyes still closed, noses still rubbing together affectionately, you opened your mouth to speak again.

“I love you,” you breathed out, planning to say things that you weren’t sure you’d ever be able to again. This war was nasty, and there was no guarantee that any of you would make it out alive. You didn’t want to be a casualty of this war, but you wanted to tell Sirius - no, you needed to tell Sirius, how thankful you were for this little life you had with him. “I love you so much, and I need you to always remember -”

“Don’t,” he said, voice deep and unwavering, “you’ll always be around to say it, love.” You opened your eyes, noticing that his were still closed. You pulled back slightly, not wanting to upset him but needing him to understand. You brought your hands to fist at the front of his shirt as you took a deep breath. “You don’t know that, Sirius. Anything could happen, and I can’t risk not telling you every day how much you mean to me, that I appreciate you, and that this life with you is more than I could have ever asked for.” You were rambling, speaking fast and tears pricked at your lower lash line, and you silently cursed yourself for being so emotional.

“I know, sweetheart,” he brought one of his hands to cup your cheek, and ran his thumb across the bone there, ready to catch the tears threatening to fall. You rolled back on the balls of your feet, looking back up towards the sky in hopes of drying your eyes. You were frustrated, truthfully, at your inability to formulate the right words to let this man know the feelings that ran deep through you.

His other hand traveled to rest on the other side of your face and tugged, bringing your gaze back to his. You almost lost your ability to breathe, the intense look in his eyes squeezing your lungs. “I love you,” he started, whispering this tiny affirmation to you directly, “more than anything in this world. Don’t worry about tomorrow, love. Be here with me right now.”

You nodded, not being able to find the words to say. He brought his lips back to yours and you went back to stand on the tips of your toes as you returned your hands to his hair. The pair of you stayed there longer, noses and fingertips turning red from the late night - or is it morning?- breeze. You knew Sirius was right, you knew you may not have tomorrow, but you sure as hell had right now, and you didn’t want to waste a single moment.

#sirius black #sirius x reader #sirius x y/n #marauders #remus lupin #Harry Potter #ron weasley #hermione granger #hogwarts #battle of hogwarts #sirius black angst #sirius black fluff #sirius black fanfiction #sirius black x reader #sirius black x you #sirius black x y/n

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midnightmoonkiss · 4 years

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Esoteric.

Witch!Izuku Midoriya X Fem!Reader

Summary: What was a witch, exactly? Someone who casts spells? Dabbled in medicine? Fought in battles? You didn’t know. That was, until you met one.

WARNINGS!: Soft!Dom!Izuku, Face-sitting, Fingering, Potion-play

Category: Smut

Word Count: 7.3k (more than half is like.. pure smut..)

A/N: The final day of the Izumonth Collab!

P.S. I really love Witch!Izuku, idk if you can tell,,, Also, I made the witch!collage above! ‘Tis just to suck you into the mood. And sorry this was.. a bit late.. heheh,,,

Just To Clarify:

You’re both consenting adults

Witches, though actually fairly rare, are seen as common beings

Witches aren’t human

Fantasy-ish au!

Tag List:

@coupsieddori @desia2 @strwbrry-lia @my-bnha-things

Every castle has a witch.

It’s been that way for as long as you, or anyone else, could remember.

It was normal.

Mundane to some.

Just something you’d hear about time and time again.

They were workers, just like you.

But yet, that never stopped your sense of wonder.

They never were in plain sight, not for a peasant such as yourself, anyway.

It always brought up so many questions whenever you’d stop to think about it.

What did they look like?

Were they nice, or wicked?

How did their magic work?

What did they wear?

Depending on the kingdom, most witches were treated like royalty, especially those who worked in castles.

Of course, how could someone so powerful not have such a title?

It made you question if it was given out of fear, or respect.

It wasn’t until you met the witch of Thidel castle, the ever-so-generous Izuku Midoriya, that your questions were all willingly answered.

You truly weren’t anticipating meeting him during such a catastrophe of a day. Looking back, it was quite embarrassing.

You were the baker’s assistant, tasked with making the batter to elaborate sweets for the King’s ball that evening.

The flour was freshly ground from the mill, the vanilla was as pure as a white daisy, the sugar ever-so-sweet, eggs fetched that morning, everything was perfect.

In fact, everything was running all nice and smoothly, until the King decided to ask for triple the amount of baked goods he had originally requested.

Not only did that mean running to town and back in shoes already falling apart, but that also meant stirring and stirring and stirring until it felt as if your arms were on fire and about to melt off.

You were covered in ingredients and sweat, the other bakers and assistants were running around, spilling things on each other, and making large messes as they pulled their hair out to get everything done on time.

It was chaos.

And that’s when he showed up.

You forgot what he was originally there for, herbs, perhaps?

Batter smudged on your cheek, you were carrying a large sack of flour to the mixing station when the door opened.

You slipped comedically on an egg that had fallen on the floor, and of course, you had to slam into this sudden brick wall of a man.

White powder flew everywhere, and the clock stopped in your head as you watched in horror as the last bag of flour you had was just about to spill all over the dirty cobblestone.

That’s when you saw it for the first time.

Magic.

He had simply flicked his wrist and all of the flour was back in its bag, and such a high ranking individual was on his knees, sputtering apologies to you.

To you, of all people.

A lowly peasant.

It felt unreal.

But that was how you met him.

He looked up and the first image he had of you forever imprinted in his head was wild (H/C) hair coated in sweat and flour, cheeks smudged with chocolate and dried batter, eyes wide with panic, and cheeks a burning red.

He never let you live it down, the bastard.

That night at the ball, you met him again. He had the gall to note how you cleaned up fast, all while sheepishly smiling at you like you were the only girl in the room.

You wanted to punch him at the time. Or die of embarrassment. He was still the witch after all, and never before had someone so high class spoken to you before. You were filled with so many emotions that night, you were sure you were going to throw up.

Instead, you smiled, offered him a pastry, and walked away.

He just had to follow you, though.

His reason being, “I was looking for some entertainment at such a boring event.”

It had made you laugh, as IF you were any entertainment. From then on, though, after having spent an entire night chatting the time away, he was as hooked on you as you were with him.

Nowadays, you got to frequent his studies often.

A privilege not many had, as apparently- witches were quite stubborn with letting people into their sanctuary and touching their things.

Perhaps it was a possessive trait of theirs, one that kept them from misplacing important potions, books, and ingredients, but nevertheless you were absolutely honored to be allowed somewhere so.. otherworldly.

The King and his youngest son were the only ones besides yourself allowed in.

But stepping inside would always be a slap to the face, no matter how many times you actually did enter.

It wasn’t exactly clear to you how he did it, or how the witch before him did it, but the small study tucked away on the east wing of the castle wasn’t a small study at all.

The old, heavy brown door was signed with words of a language unknown to you and others, the hinges creaking ever so slightly as you pulled it open, only to be met with a two-story home inside.

Your nose was always immediately hit with the earthy scent of rain and plants, no doubt from the plethora of the heavenly greens hanging about the place, glowing orbs of light hovering near the ones doomed to never touch true sunlight.

The place was cluttered yet neat, parchments piling up in one corner, yet another where they laid organized.

It was almost like a different world crafted by steady and loving hands.

Old maps were tacked to one of the walls, scribbled writing and red circles pointing out certain areas of the land beyond the one you knew.

Witches apparently had their own realm, or at least, “a pocket of Earth hidden away from humans by magic”, as Izuku had thoughtfully explained one night as a thunderstorm raged on outside.

Old books smelling of age are scattered about, the large bookshelf barely able to contain them all.

Candles lit by a green flame surround a large wooden table, herbs such as chamomile, ginger, ginseng, valerian, lavender, and saffron are neatly placed by a bowl, wrapped in bundles. Clearly, he was going to try and make some more anti-depressant mixture for the prince again.

He was more of a naturalist when it came to the sick, unless worse came to worse.

He was essentially a glorified doctor who was far more knowledgeable on plants rather than bone structure and types of sickness.

He was a sweetheart who helped all he could.

Hell, he was even taken to some battles as a last defense.

Despite looking so innocent, with his baby fat still hugging his cheeks and freckles splattered all about, the definition of youth, he was quite powerful.

Scarily so.

You had heard hushed whispers from fellow servants about how he had taken down armies alone multiple times before, coming back with nothing but burns and a broken bone or two.

He was terrifying to those who didnt take a mere second to glance at him.

But those who did were greeted with nothing but a warm smile and the fleeting wave of a busy man.

It was a mystery how you had managed to capture his undivided attention, enough so that he had made you his, the plain-looking bracelet made from leather string holding an emerald sealed with magic signifying that.

You were untouchable.

Once gutted with fear, you walked the polished grounds of the castle freely.

After all, not even a King would so much as dare to harm witches beloved, lest he wanted to be burned alive by immortal flames and sent to the ninth level of hell.

A level solely made by strong users of the past, the ones who carved the road for witchery, having bent time itself to do so.

Truly terrifying how powerful they could be, but yet it was so mystifying.

You’d be lying if you said you haven’t spent nights wide awake listening to him ramble about their history, about how they came to be and how they flourished.

They didn’t start off as human-like creatures, they started off as a ball of magical light in a land filled with nothing.

It was said that witches built the Earth from the ground up until greed overtook the lands and the humans overpopulated them.

And yet, they work harmoniously together.

Humans fearful of their power, and witches just naturally seeking to help people and continue their craft in harmony with all those who share the lands they grew from scratch.

It truly was a peaceful existence they led, you couldn’t help but admire it.

Just like you always have.

Pulling the door shut, it locked behind you as you stepped over some paper with doodles, knowing better than to mess with his disorganized things without him in the room to see it.

Speaking of, you were asked here this evening, something about wanting to try out a new potion he had made.

He was always making new things, an inventor of sorts, but never one to have you as a test subject.

Of course, it piqued your curiosity and had you quickly cleaning up the mess you had made in the kitchen when the day was officially over just to get here as fast as you could.

The large window covered in vines holding a small couch beneath it glistened with the light of a crescent moon, casting the room lit with an array of colors in a cool glow.

Smoke from the candles blurred the light, only to collide with the wooden floor above them.

Humming, you grabbed an orb sitting on a side table, holding it in the moonbeams so it would absorb its brightness. A candlestick of sorts made from magic. You weren’t going to risk going into complete darkness again.

He was obviously not in his work area, so he was probably upstairs.

And so, as quietly as you could, you crept up the old stairs, holding your breath and biting your lip whenever you came to a creaky step. You wanted to scare him, or at the very least surprise him

He was so easy to scare, and he always made the cutest of noises when you did it.

It was hard not to try everytime you were given the chance.

Once you made it to the top, fingers clasped tightly around the carved wooden railing, you looked around the darkened hallway, searching for the room he’s most likely to be in.

None of them had any lights on, which was eerily odd.

He never was much a fan of complete darkness.

It only raised questions as to if he wasn’t here yet, or if he was leaving you high and dry.

No, he would never do such a thing. Perhaps you’re early?

Chewing on your thumbnail, you stood dead at the top of the stairs, waiting for a sign that he was here.

“BOO!”

“ARGGHH!” you shrieked, jumping away from the noise only to have your back slammed against the wall.

Horrified, you snapped your head to the direction of the noise, only to find a giddy Izuku covering his mouth with a leather-gloved hand, holding away his giggles.

Huffing, you placed a hand on your heart, ignoring the laughs that seeped out of him.

“Geeze, you scared me!” You chided, glaring up into his playful green eyes.

“Oh, like you weren’t trying to do the same to me just now.”

Laughing still, he bent down in front of you, offering you a hand to help you up.

Ever the gentleman.

Placing your palm into his own, he easily pulled you up to your feet, holding you against his muscular chest in a welcoming hug, to which you eagerly returned, arms wrapping around his slender waist.

Though you didn’t know the common body type of a witch, you had to admit, he was certainly buff. Not that you minded.

He could easily throw you over his broad shoulder, and you loved it.

Completely defenseless and vulnerable.

Oh, how sweet it was to trust fully in someone.

His foreign clothes were soaked in his familiar thick scent, the smell of the forest after it had just rained, dewdrops in the early morning sun, a hint of pine, and his own natural musk that always had your head spinning. He tends to travel the forests in the kingdom often, collecting natural herbs and stones he found interesting.

He had jars and jars of rocks and stones, sometimes cracking them open to reveal crystals tucked away inside. He’d always make little trinkets out of them, giving them to people he deemed as friends as a sign of gratitude. You only had one, made from the rarest crystal he had ever found, taaffeite.

“So, why did you need me?” You mumbled against his chest, cheek rubbing against his familiar warmth.

“Firstly, I always need you.” The sap.

“Mhmm..” you hummed out, letting him pull away and grab your hand, taking the glowing orb and tossing it up and down as he led you down the corridor.

“Secondly,” he trailed off, leaving the orb to float in the air as he unlocked his bedroom door, pulling you inside.

“It’s a bit of a personal thing I can only trust you with testing.”

Smiling to yourself, you sat down on the edge of his large bed, running your fingers over the soft wool that made up his thick comforter.

Never one to use dead animal pelts.

“Is that so?” Your eyes naturally follow his being as he walks around the room, shuffling through different materials before snapping his fingers to light the stone fireplace off on the other side of the room, providing more light, as well as warmth, so he could see where he was going and not trip on the books scattered across the floor.

He didn’t like the windows in his bedroom open at night.

“Y-yes..” he stuttered, fumbling around with a few glass jars on his desk, muttering to himself as he examines the label on each one. Seemingly finding what he was looking for, he turned back to you, proudly showing that he had found it before making his way back to the bed.

“What is that for?” Curious, your fingers brushed against the cool glass containing the shimmering magenta liquid as he sat beside you on the bed, mattress dipping enough from his weight that your sides knocked together.

“A few weeks ago, Shōto had asked a familiar question, if I possessed the ability to make every potion out there. Of course I- I can’t exactly, but I’ve enough skill to make some rather.. exotic potions. He questioned if I ever tried something different than just potions to heal the sick or offer beauty, and I haven’t. I don’t know why, but realizing that upset me. As if my skill set was limited to just some average joe healer,”

“Izuku..”

“So for a while now, I’ve been branching out. Trying different types of potions and having him as the tester.”

“Is that why he’s been acting different these days?”

“Precisely. I’m just lucky I haven’t gotten in trouble for turning him into a frog yet..” he chuckles, rubbing the back of his head as you took the glass from him to ogle it.

“So what is this then?”

“Um..” Embarrassment was creeping up his neck and resting on his cheeks as he averted his shy eyes, “I have a hunch of what it might do. But.. secret?”

You pout at him, “Shouldn’t I know what this is?”

“You’ll know soon! I promise it won’t harm you, darling.” Leaning down, he pecks a kiss on your cheek, large arm wrapping around your waist to pull you into a side hug.

Taking the glass from your hands, he pulled the cork out, glittery, pink mist floating out like smoke from a blown-out candle.

“So, what do you say? Will you try it?” It was almost as if he was giving you no option other than yes with those big puppy eyes of his staring into your soul.

Licking your lips, an action his eyes followed, you gulped the nervousness away.

What had you to fear? This was Izuku after all. Had he ever done you harm? Absolutely not.

You had no reason not to trust the man who held your heart.

“Alright.”

Joy lit up his face, smiling so widely his eyes crinkled.

Huffing out a laugh, you took the bottle from him again, curiously sniffing its fragrance.

“Chocolate and.. maca?” The scent was certainly familiarly tasty, having worked with the foods before, being a baker. Judging how the liquid didn’t resemble them at all, it was off-putting. How had he managed to trap such a delicate smell inside?

“Mhm! That’s right! Apparently, when made, the potion takes on a heavenly smell. Most are usually bitter.”

“Ahh..” Trailing off you eyed it up one last time before finally bringing it to your lips, a shiver running down your spine at just how cold the glass still was, despite being in a warm room.

Tilting the glass up, the liquid glimmering in the light of the fire traveled down the shoot, pouring into your awaiting mouth, feeling as if you were swallowing a runny syrup.

It had the slightest hint of sugar and cinnamon to its flavor, but nothing else. How odd.

Gulping it all down just to get it over with, your eyes that unknowingly closed fluttered open as he pulled the glass away.

Feeling perfectly fine, you stared up at him with confusion, about to speak before his lips cut you off, tongue poking out to lick the renaming liquid from the corner of your mouth.

The clink of the bottle being set down echoed around the room before his gloved palm delicately cupped your cheek, tilting your head as to deepen the kiss.

His tongue eagerly explored the wet cavern of your mouth, as if he was drinking the little essence from his own creation left over.

Pulling away with a wet pop, his forehead rested against yours, mesmerizing green eyes staring softly into your own, waiting.

Waiting for what was what you didn’t know, perhaps for the potion to take effect.

You were eager to find out just what it was, but you had a semblance of a guess considering the position you found yourself in.

“How do you feel?” he whispered breathlessly against your parted lips.

Just as you were about to reply, your words got caught in your throat as your body began to heat up in a familiar way.

“I..” You pant, grip on his cotton shirt tightening as your gut suddenly twisted with a burning need for HIM.

Your (E/C) eyes glaze over with lust in front of his own, pupils dilating as your body began to shake, whimpers escaping your throat.

Thighs rubbing together to offer friction you didn’t know you desperately craved until now, you looked at him helplessly, so close to falling apart if it weren’t for his large hand on the small of your back holding you close to his steady figure.

“I-I feel hot.. Izuku..”

You whined, chewing at your lip as you wiggled beneath his excited stare.

“Good.”

Suddenly, his lips connected with yours once more, drawing a stuttered moan from your throat at the contact you unknowingly began to crave more and more as your lips connected again and again.

You clung to him like a koala, kissing him fervently like you would never be able to again, desperate to have his undivided attention.

Hands sliding to your hips, he pulled you onto his lap, legs hugging his own as hot breaths mingled together with the wet sound of kisses.

“Ah..!” You squeaked against him, your hips involuntarily grinding down onto his crotch, greedily searching for the pleasure your body desperately craved.

“M-mmm.. Izu.. I-” Your apology was cut off with a nip to your neck, “Don’t apologize,” he scolded. Grip still on your hips, he pulled you down rougher against his hardening dick, his hips thrusting up to meet your own, eliciting a sharp cry from your being as your head threw back at the sudden pressure where you craved it most.

He was quick to chase your lips, dragging you back into your heated makeout, swallowing every moan you let out as you both humped each other like horny dogs, the eagerness from him only adding to the pool of moisture leaking out of your body.

The button on his trousers was rubbing deliciously against your clothed clit, making your hips stutter every so often as you fought to maintain that hard surface.

Saliva began to drip down the side of your mouth from the intense kissing, but you hadn’t a care in the world.

No, your mind was too fogged to even think about it.

All you craved was him.

Him.

You yearned for him like he’d been gone a decade, and your body acted on it in a way you were typically shy about.

Biting your lip, he pulled away from the kiss, dragging a whine of protest from you before he hushes you by licking the outer shell of your ear, breath fanning across it only adding to the tingles of excitement shooting down your arched spine. “Hush,” he commanded, and as if you couldn’t disobey him, your words of protest died on your tongue, leaving only a parted mouth and heavy breaths.

Licking down the column of your neck, nose brushing against you, he searched for that familiar sweet spot on you, teeth grazing your flesh.

Still grinding on his hard cock covered by pants, a wet spot no doubt leaking past the underwear you wore beneath your hiked up skirt and onto him, you gasp once he found the place he was looking for.

Smirking, he nibble gently, holding you still as you began to wiggle once more.

Your head tilted to the side to give him more room as he sucked on your skin, teeth repeatedly nibbling at your sensitive flesh. Biting down harshly, you cried out with pain and pleasure, hips grinding down so hard onto him he groaned, the vibration making your heart jump in your throat.

“A-ahh… hnng.!” Moans poured salaciously past your thoroughly kissed lips, holding onto him for dear life as he controlled your being with every fiber of his own.

A button on your blouse popped open, and your foggy gaze traveled down just to see his fingers expertly undoing each one without looking, letting your bare breasts bounce out above your corset.

Not giving you a second to cover yourself out of embarrassment, his large hand cupped one of your tits, massaging it gently just to feel the soft flesh as your chin rested against his grounding shoulder, small moans now directly in his awaiting ear.

“You’re such a good girl, (Y/N).” He praised, eyes filled with nothing but love as he got to watch your unusually heated body search for the pleasure it craved.

You were usually so shy in bed, but with this potion pumping through your veins, he hoped it’d help give you the confidence boost you needed.

Though, that wasn’t the only thing it did.

He was filled with anticipation, if his throbbing member was anything to go by.

Thumb circling around your cute, perky nipple, he took the bud between his thumb and forefinger, pulling gently and rolling it between them, dragging high pitched whines from you.

You couldn’t help but pull away from him again, body constantly shifting from the delicious pleasure you were being given.

Fully pulling your blouse off, he left your chest completely bare, giving him the chance to dip his head down and latch onto the opposite nipple, lathering it in attention with his warm muscle, sucking softly and continuously rolling your other nipple with his hand.

It left you craving more, fingers threading through his messy green curls, pulling as to not lose yourself, only eliciting yet another deep groan that vibrated on your skin.

Feeling yourself slowly start to come undone, you desperately ground against him, pants becoming high pitched and moans being louder.

He could tell you were getting close, and from grinding alone no less, it made him feel so damn good to know he could get you to come purely from grinding.

But he didn’t want you to cum like this.

Certainly not.

And so, he fell back on his back dragging you with him as his lips found yours again.

Gripping at the hem of your skirt, he yanked it down, pulling it off your legs. Using a little handy magic, he effortlessly pulled your own shoes off, already working your underwear down your quivering thighs, eyes zeroed in on the drip of wetness attaching your core to them for a split second before they were across the other side of the room.

Corsets were always his worst nightmare.

He couldnt think too clearly to untie the knot in the back as your now bare crotch rubbed against his own, so without thinking, he ripped it off, the bare display of strength having you keening against him.

“Princess,” he whispered against your lips, dragging your hips upwards, “please, sit on my face.”

How vulgar of him to say, with a smile no less, but nonetheless it scent a throb of want to your stomach, and you found yourself, once again, unable to disobey him.

Your body burned red from embarrassment as you crawled up his own still fully clothed one, but you weren’t given the chance to dwell on it before he moved your hips directly over his face, tongue poking out to lap at your dripping folds.

“Gaah..!” You cried, fingers digging into the blanket beneath him as your hips once again helplessly sought the pleasure you craved, unafraid to press down against him.

Your juices tasted so sweet, he eagerly lapped at you like a dog deprived of water.

He had to hold you still against his face, drinking in the image of your breasts jiggling like jelly with every shuttered breath you took, head flung back and eyes shut tight as you focused purely on the way the flat of his tongue licked you up like a sugary treat.

He couldn’t help but occasionally press a kiss against your sobbing flesh, teasingly avoiding your clit begging for attention each time you moved against his mouth.

Your cries of pleasure filled the room, only sending his mind into a state of hunger, wanting to drag every noise out of you he could, along with the loud licking that caused your essence to drip down his chin.

His aching cock was straining against the flimsy button of his pants, desperate to be released and buried deep inside your soul-sucking pussy again.

Tongue dipping inside you and lips pressing against your sensitive, pink labia, he ate you out with earnest, squeezing your hips tightly with his fingers as he fought to control himself from shoving you to the blankets and fucking you raw without finishing his dessert first.

A choked sob tore from your throat with his lips finally encased your puffy clit, the tip of his tongue tracing around the bundle of nerves before flattening his tongue against it.

Your hips bucked involuntarily against his face, pressing him harder against you just so you could cry out his name like a sinful prayer.

His heart was full of love for you as he observed your reaction did everything blissful he did.

You were in heaven, walking on clouds as wet squelches from your own body surrounded your ears.

“Z-Zuku..!” You cried as he sucked on your clit like candy, enjoying the rough treatment. The tip of his tongue traced his name possessively over your button, marking you as his forevermore, silently vowing to never let another man do the same.

“I-I’m close..!” You cried, tears of pleasure falling down your flushed cheeks, dripping onto the thighs squeezing his head like warm earmuffs.

He hummed against you, dragging his tongue across the expanse of your womanhood before enclosing around your clit again, lathering it in the attention you needed to be pulled over the edge.

Your thighs clenched around his head, his hair tickling you, body stilling as you screamed out in pleasure, back arching and giving him a lovely view of your demise.

You came on his tongue, the stimulation he gave you throughout your orgasm sending you higher and higher in that clouded head of yours.

When you finally came down and slumped forward, catching your breath, he licked up the mess you made, pulling away from your lower lips and running a tongue over his own to greedily savor your delectable taste.

Placing you off to the side, giving you a second to calm down,, he hurriedly shuffled out of his clothing, throwing his cloak, gloves, and various other things on his person to the floor, kicking his boots off that landed with a heavy thump, leaving his underwear on as he crawled over on top of you.

Dazed, you stared deliriously up at him, a bashful smile on your lips, watching as he wipes your juices away with the back of his wrist before licking it clean. He was so sinful and messy.

The warm fire crackling in the corner hugged at his soft skin, making his eyes blown wide with lost twinkle like starlight. He looked so in love as he stared at you as if you were the only person in the world.

Breathing heavily, you reached out for him, and he was happy to lean in so you could wrap your arms around his neck, toying with the shorter curls at his nape as he kissed you again, your taste still on his tongue as your tongues intertwined. You weakly fought against his intrusion, teasing, only for him to grab a handful of your ass, making you gasp and effectively losing the battle.

He flooded your being with everything he had, his scent, his love, his passion, adoration, everything.

His knowledge on your own sexual human anatomy astounded you, but always left you moaning against him, much to his utter pleasure.

His thumb circled your twitching clit, bringing your attention back to his actions and the way you clenched helplessly around thin air, waiting for him.

You hungrily eyed the bulge in his underwear, licking your lips at the spot of wetness where his dripping head was.

You wanted to feel him inside you again, to clench around the very thing that drove you insane other than his skillful touch.

“P-please..” You begged, detaching yourself from him, pleading for mercy under his sharp gaze as he soaked up your wrecked self.

He loved hearing you beg.

“Please what?” he drawled out, running his lips down the side of your face and neck, pressing kisses against your collarbone. Moving his thumb previously giving you what you desire to your thighs, he held them in his grasp just to feel your smooth, warm skin against his rough, scarred palms.

You whined, shimmying your hips to draw his attention to them. He ignored your advances, peering up at your face with a glare and crooked smile that shot sparks down your body, “Tell me.”

As if on cue, and unable to disobey his words that squeezed your heart, you sputtered a response, barely able to maintain eye contact, “P-please touch me..! M-more.. I, I need more, please! I want..” your breath was stolen from your lungs as he began to grind his clothed crotch against your wet core, “I want you! I w-want you to fuck me, please..! I- I can’t take it anymore.. Please, Izuku..!” More tears fell from your eyes, falling onto the mattress below you, “Please fuck me..!”

Happy with your response, but still not quite ready to give in, he pulled away, circling your clenching hole with his middle finger, watching as your head flew back with tears as you meekly thrust upwards.

As much as he wanted to pull himself out right now and fuck you until his bed broke from the sheer force, he couldn’t risk hurting you.

Even if the potion was designed to make you ready for everything sexual, willing to comply with his every demand, you still were his princess, his angel, and he was going to treat you like one.

He didn't want you to wake with the soreness of not being properly prepared, even if he could heal you a minute after. That minute of you crying from the pain that HE selfishly caused would always be stabbed into his heart, and he certainly didn't want that, nor you to experience it.

“Sorry, love..” he apologized, finally plunging his thick finger inside you after thoroughly coating it with your slick, moaning at how tight you were for him.

“Fuck..” he whispered under his breath, keeping your thighs splayed wide open as he sat back on his haunches to watch you react to him.

Your back was arched, begging for more as you gripped the sheets below you, cheek pressed against the mattress as low moans trickled out your sinful mouth like water.

Face hot, a boyish smile fell on his face as he added another finger, observing how you hotly throw your head back as he pressed against the spongy spot inside your walls.

“Aaahh..! T-there! R-right there..!”

“I know, darling, shh, shhh.” He cooed at you, curling his fingers against your G-spot with each thrust in and out of your sopping pussy. His fingers made wet clicks inside of you as they rubbed against your walls, dragging more and more moans out of you as you ground down on his large digits.

His eyes couldn’t leave the view of you sucking him back in every time he pulled his fingers out, it left him imagining more and more scenarios in his head.

God, how he wanted to destroy you.

Have you screaming his name so loudly you broke the sound barrier he had set up ages ago, letting all of the castle and its snobby guards know he was fucking the love of his life and doing it damn well.

He bet they would be jealous.

Those thoughts of it made his adrenaline spike, adding a third finger to the squelching party mixing your insides up, leaving you at their utter disposal.

Arousal poured from you like a steady stream, gushing down and leaving a wet puddle under your ass.

You were so wet for him it was hard to bear, but you felt so, so good.

Your mind was so muddled with lust, you couldn’t think straight, all that entered your mind was ‘more, more, more.’

You were being greedy, but you couldn’t help it.

Deciding you were prepped enough, his fingers pulled fully out of you, putting on a small display of licking them clean as you watched with wide, doe eyes, stuttering out about how dirty that was.

“More dirty than you using my face as a seat, my lady?” He teased, tucking his face into the crook of your neck.

“T-thats..”

He chuckles at your flustered response.

Pulling his underwear down, his cock slaps against his toned stomach, fully erect and dripping with precum.

Throwing them off to the side, he noticed the way your eyes greedily looked at his body, confidence burning his veins as he sees the impatience in your eyes as you stare at his member.

He was tempted to say, ‘like what you see?’ but he himself was far too eager and impatient to wait any longer.

Grabbing himself, he ran his thickness between your lips, gathering your arousal on him before leading himself to your entrance.

“Ready?” He asked whilst kissing the skin below your ear.

You nodded, hips wiggling in anticipation.

“A-ahh! Fuck!” You cried out as he fully sheathed himself inside you with one thrust, bottoming out immediately.

He bit at your skin, concealing the deep moan that rumbled in his chest as you strangled his weeping dick at last.

You were so intoxicating, you sweet aroma wafting off you with every breath.

Grinding himself inside of you, he waited patiently for you to adjust, leaving hickeys all over your skin with each passing second.

Gulping down air, you thrust upwards, dragging him out of his blissed-out state just to moan heavenly deeply in your ear.

“Naughty girl..” he seethed, making you giggle, only to be shut up as he pulled out and slammed his hips back into your own, drawing out a garbled moan.

Skin slapped wetly against skin with each rough thrust he relentlessly delivered, drinking up your cries for more.

Leaning back to watch you with hungry, dark green eyes, pupils blown wide with lust. He pinned your arms to the bed above your head, a punishment for catching him off guard.

His cock was truly a godsend, thick and long, curved upwards just to slam repeatedly into your soft g-spot over and over.

You could only hold on for dear life as he fucked you good and hard just like you wanted, just like you craved.

“O-Ohh!!! Izu!! Izuku-! Ahh.! F-fuck..!” You moaned with each thrust inside your wet self, body being pushed back from the sheer intensity of which he fucked you with.

He knew your body so well by now, he knew each and every way to make you fall apart by his own doing.

He knew how to break you in the most sinful way possible, and he loved it.

Your face was lewdly contorted with pleasure, eyes looking back, eyebrows pinched together, (H/C) baby hairs plastered to your sweaty forehead, and mouth gaping wide open so he could hear every slur of words and every noise you emitted.

He wanted to hear everything you had to say, every reaction to the way he fucked you.

He could feel you growing tighter around his throbbing cock, juices coating his thighs with each heavy thrust inside of you.

He loved how much he could turn you on, even if right now it was all thanks to the potion that added pink hearts to your innocent (E/C) eyes.

The same potion that had you openly moaning unashamedly, whereas you previously would have held them in by biting your lip and hands.

He was so happy to hear how good he made you feel.

At long last.

“(Y/N)..” he panted heavily, peering deeply into your glossy eyes, movements becoming more and more sloppy as he lost himself to the pleasure, a burning pressure building up in his gut with each shallow and deep thrust.

Falling down on top of you, he held you close to him, letting your arms go so you could dig your nails into the flesh of his toned, freckled back flexing with each movement.

The bed banged loudly against the wall, he momentarily worried it would leave a dent- but he couldn’t think about that now. Not when you were crying out his name so sweetly.

“I’m here, I’m here..” he soothed as you clung to him.

Your hips began to move in circles, drugging him with intense ecstasy as he thrusts into you. You kept him wanting more and more. He was addicted to you.

Pushing your legs back against the mattress, he reached so deep inside you, you swore you could feel his head kissing at your womb.

You were so helpless to the waves of infinite pleasure he washed you over with that all you could do was take it.

“You’re doing so.. hah… so good, baby..” he praised breathlessly.

“Gnnn! Gaahhah..! Izuku!!”

“Let me hear it.. let me hear you, princess.” He smiled against your skin as you let out an onslaught of sultry moans, fueling his inner fire.

“I’m..! I- gwaahhh..! I’m so c-close..!”

“Me too, me too..” He fervently pressed kisses to your cheek, letting his other hand travel down to coat his thumb in your spare wetness, just to rub circles on your puffy clit, applying the right amount of pressure that always drove you insane.

Drool dribbled down the side of your mouth as your tongue flopped out, breasts bouncing with each and every thrust, constantly captivating him as he could feel their softness against his pecs.

Holding you flushed against him, he let magic crackle to life on his hand, green sparks lighting up the area around the two of you just barely. His hand began to vibrate, magic he learned was good for massaging muscles, but of course, it had.. other uses..

The vibration against your clit, added to the pounding of his cock expertly slamming against your G-spot, sent your head flying back, white vision going black as your pussy strangled his cock like a python.

“Haaahh.! Aah!” You cried his name out so loudly it burned your throat, leaving you to cum harshly on his dick, the strange sensation of liquid squirting from your body making your mind go numb as all you were left with was burning hot stars in your eyes.

The display alone was enough to drag him over the edge as well, slamming his cock into you once more before warm ropes of cum spurted into you, completely coating your walls and spewing out from the sheer amount as he let out a silent moan.

His thighs twitched and his stomach felt empty when he finally came down from his high, the same time as you.

Love filled his gaze as you both peered into each other’s eyes, enraptured by the souls sealed within.

Heavy breaths blew past your lips, desperate to calm down your racing heart.

“How was it..?” He questioned lightly, moving hair out of your face so he could get a better look.

“How was… what..?” Your mind was still clouded. You hadn’t any idea how he could still think straight.

Giggling, he rubbed his nose lovingly against your own.

“The potion. Could you feel its effects..?”

Staring at him in bewilderment, it took a second to register his words.

The potion.. what had it done again..?

Oh..

You slapped a hand over your mouth, pulling away from him. “Oh gosh..!”

You were so embarrassed!

Gah, to be so loud!! You wanted to hide in a hole..!

“Don't be shy, my love,” He pleaded sweetly, placing a kiss on your sweaty forehead, “it’s just me.”

“That's the point!! I-it was embarrassing to- to be so.. lewd in f-front of you…”

“You say that, and yet I’m still deep inside you,”

“Izuku..!” You groaned, shoving his smiling face away with both hands, only for him to grab your hands and place gentle kisses on them.

“I.. I liked hearing you..” he flushed, bashfully looking away.

Though he could be quite the dominant man in bed, it was always endearing how he was still the shy witch you fell in love with at the end of the day.

“W-well I..” You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, “Well I’ll be louder for now o-on then..!” Your declaration surprised him, shock resting on his features before he broke out in another smile, flopping on top of your sweaty body just to hug you to his own equally as sweaty body.

“I love you, (Y/N)..” he sighed blissfully, burying his nose in your hair as he cuddled you, the crackling of the blazing fire just now reaching his ears.

“I love you too, Izuku.”

Though he could be a handful at times, with his insistent drive to be better and push himself beyond his current limits, as well as running headfirst into danger and getting littered with scars, you still loved him.

You always would.

He was your kind witch, and you, his darling beloved.

And nothing would ever get between a witch and the one he called his.

…

….

“So, are you going to pull out? I feel a little messy.”

“In a minute..”

“Izu!”

748 notes · View notes

lachesis-games · 3 years

Text

Trouvaille Short Story

m!Trouvaille

tw: swearing, mild violence

This trip started out very simple. Go into the forest, gather spell ingredients, then get out. Getting dragged underwater by a sticky horse was not part of the plan.

While the others were searching for normal herbs like tarragon, nutmeg, or wormwood, you and Antigone waded knee deep in a wide pond. Morning sunlight streamed through the trees, casting an ethereal glow on the water’s surface.

“Remind me again what you need curly pondweed for?” you call out to her.

The witch doesn’t look up from her task when answering, “They promote growth in spells. And encourage perseverance.”

The plant itself was plentiful. Too plentiful, as she told you earlier that it was an invasive species. But every time you thought you found a good stem, Antigone waved you off, stating that your pick was too dark or too old or too tough.

You straighten up and stretch out your aching back. Tedium aside, the forest was beautiful in the morning. Red dragonflies skimmed the surface, creating ripples that jostled the aquatic flora. The natural song of chirping crickets and croaking frogs sounded throughout the clearing. At the water’s edge, a few meters to your right, you can see a dark figure among the cattails. It’s wide, but short, and moving slightly.

When you get closer, you can make out the creature’s long gray mane and thick black body. There are mossy spots and algae strewn across its body. It looks like it lives near the pond, but something about it seemed out of place in the tranquil forest.

“Um, Antigone?” you try to keep your voice down.

“What?”

“Are there supposed to be ponies in the forest?” You take your eyes off the animal to glance at her over your shoulder.

Her head snaps up and she drops the flat woven basket she’d been holding.

“Shit!”

Before either of you can react, the pony whinnies, rears up, and charges you. You’re too slow to dodge and it rams into you. Instead of sending you flying, you find yourself stuck to its flank as it dives deeper into the pond.

The pond is much deeper than expected and every few feet, the water gets colder and darker. Light brown sediment billows up as the probably-not-actually-a-pony settles into the bottom.

The surprise attack, along with your wildly thumping heart means you’re losing air fast and the creature doesn’t seem like it’ll surface any time soon. Your elbow is fastened tight to the creature’s side. If you can just get to your dagger!

You open your eyes and regret it. The sting of the dirty water only hinders you more. You can’t see anything more than two feet in front of you clearly.

Panic sets in and you thrash and kick, desperately trying to separate from the creature. Its skin’s adhesive surface clings onto you. The harder you thrash, the more you pull at your own skin and clothes.

They say to be completely calm if you’re ever being held underwater, but the proverbial “they” are stupid and clearly have never been drowned before.

Black spots dance across your vision. Your lungs burn and your head starts to ache. Great. The artifact wouldn’t kill you. Nor would vampires or werewolves or any other badass way to die. No, you’re a lucky one. You get to die via drowning, stuck to this thing like gum on the bottom of someone’s shoe.

The pony flinches and so do you. It kicks up sediment in its panic. You get tossed around along with it until you feel a small hand on your shoulder. Sharp claws dig into you as it drags you away from the pony.

You can finally make out Antigone’s silhouette as she pulls you close. She presses her lips to yours. Air fills your lungs. Your vision and headache settle, and the burning sensation in your lungs subsides.

A blast of light breaks through your clenched eyelids. Her mouth is on yours again, breathing life into you. For some reason, though, she doesn’t do anything else. Just sits there and keeps breathing into you whenever your lungs start to burn again.

There’s a heavy splash above you. The cold sediment kicks up again and tiny bubbles pepper your face.

Someone hooks their arms under your armpits and the next thing you know, you’re being dragged up the bank of the pond.

Head spinning, you cough up what feels like gallons of water. In your delirium, you think you hear your name.

“There you are!” a familiar voice cries.

You rub your eyes and look up.

T.V. takes a step towards you, then stops. You want to tell him you’re alright, but Jackie grabs you in a bone-crushing hug.

Her clothes are soaking wet.

“We saw the basket floating in the pond! What the hell happened!?”

You hack more water and algae out of your lungs.

“Water pony,” you wheeze out.

“Huh?”

“Kelpie,” Antigone says through violent coughs. Despite her having been the one to save you, she seems much worse for wear. Dakota white-knuckles her hand.

“Kelpies are shapeshifters.” He pants, also soaking wet. T.V. is the only one bone dry. “They take the form of a pony or horse and drown people for fun,” he explains. “What happened?”

You take a deep breath, “It dragged me down underwater. Antigone came to save me.”

Dakota’s eyes widen as he grabs the witch by the shoulders.

“You did what? Are you high?” he demands.

“Wait, hang on!” Jackie interjects. “What’s the problem here? She kept them both alive until we got there!”

Dakota crosses his arms. “The problem here is that Annie can’t--!”

Antigone cuts him off. “What was I supposed to do? Let the kid drown?” she rasps and shrugs off her knit sweater.

“Of course not! I just--” Groaning, he buries his face into her neck. Antigone allows the touch and strokes his hair gently. Her tired gaze flickers over to you. Jackie’s concerned voice steals your attention.

“Let’s get you back to the shop,” she says, holding a hand out to you.

You clasp her hand and the two of you pull in tandem. The moment you put weight on your feet, searing pain shoots up your leg.

The ground rushes up to meet you, then stops when a pair of strong arms wrap around your middle.

As soon as their fingertips make contact, your head erupts in a pain like someone took an axe to it. There’s a ringing in your ears and you cry out.

Whoever’s holding you lets go and you hit the mud, writhing in agony.

“I— I’m so sorry!” T.V. manages through his groans of pain, hands clenched tightly to the sides of his head.

It feels like your skull is full of liquid metal. The cool water of the pond is tempting all of a sudden, kelpie and all.

Antigone presses a cool hand to your forehead and whispers something in a language you can’t understand.

Your head is still heavy, but the white hot pain ebbs.

She crawls over to Trouvaille to give him the same treatment. His agony seems to decrease faster than yours.

Through your delirium, you hear her snap at him, “That was unbelievably stupid!”

“I know,” he replies, rubbing his temples.

“You know? Mistakes like that can be fatal. Do not let your bleeding heart be the reason you both die.”

Carefully avoiding her eyes, he says, “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t talk to him like that!” you protest through the pain.

“Shut up,” she snaps. “I don’t need one idiot defending another idiot.”

Jackie crosses her arms, “Very original with the insults.”

“I’m just calling them as they are. If they feel insulted, that’s on them.”

You clench your teeth, “He said he was sorry!”

“Sorry won’t bring back the dead,” she says directly at Trouvaille. Rounding on you, she says, “Let me take a look at that ankle.”

Your left ankle is inflamed and is taking on an angry red color. It must have happened when the kelpie hit you. The throbbing pain only grows as the adrenaline flushes from your veins.

She pokes an especially puffy part.

“Ow, fuck!” you cry out, hands grabbing onto your injured leg. “Why would you touch it!?”

“Punishment for being too slow to dodge the thing,” she deadpans.

“You think getting nearly drowned wasn’t enough punishment?”

“No.”

Thankfully, the poking ceases. A purple light emits from her clawed hand. She hovers over your ankle.

“Well, that is going to need a splint.” She retracts her hand.

“You can mend ribs but you can’t unsprain an ankle?” Jackie demands.

“For one thing, ‘unsprain’ is not a word. Second, normal treatment would take weeks. I can make it a few days. Any other grievances, hotshot?”

“Maybe if you were paying attention, oh powerful witch, you could have done something before it got this bad!” she shoots back.

The witch’s mercury eyes narrow. “You want to blame me for this?”

“I do. What are you gonna do about it?” Jackie takes a step forward.

“Don’t pick fights you can’t win, you little--” Antigone begins.

Dakota nudges her.

“We should head back.” They share a tense look, but she ultimately backs down. Then he turns to you, “Can I carry you?”

You nod in agreement. He places his hands under your knees and behind your back, careful not to jostle your ankle too much.

As he stands up, he takes on a comically cheerful tone. “Thank you flying Dakota Airlines! Please fasten your seatbelts and keep all electronics stored away until we reach cruising altitude.”

“Does this flight have snacks?” you jokingly ask.

“Check my pocket!”

You reach down into his kangaroo pouch and pull out a waterlogged 4 pak of Nutter Butters.

You raise an eyebrow. “You just carry these around?”

He shrugs. “I’m a growing boy.”

“You’re 25.”

“Okay? And?”

You chuckle. On the trek back to the car, you look over his shoulder to see sunlight glimmering off of caramel hair. Trouvaille strolls several feet behind you. He gives you a weak smile but makes no attempt to get any closer.

Reaching out for him, you beckon him closer. Not to touch, but you don’t like the wide berth he gives you.

He shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mouths.

‘Don’t be.’

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Instead of coming to you, he speeds up to catch up to Jackie.

The few seconds that he’s near when he passes by makes your hair stand on end. You almost reach out to stop him. You don’t. You can’t. Dakota readjusts you in his arms. After making sure everyone’s out of earshot he finds your gaze.

“Try not to be too mad at Annie. She just wants to keep all of us safe,” he says.

You briefly wondered if he swallowed too much pond water.

“You make it sound like she cares,” you grumble.

“She does. She really does. You know how if you don’t socialize dogs at a young age, they have trouble with other dogs later on? She’s like that.”

Raising an eyebrow, you reply, “Would she be mad at you comparing her to a dog?”

“Not if you don’t tell her.”

You chuckle and look ahead to see the three of them walking side by side. Trouvaille turn his head slightly. For a moment, you lock eyes before he pointedly turns back around. Your heart reaches out for someone who won’t reach back.

“Hey,” Dakota recaptures your attention. “Sometimes the people we care about decide for themselves that we’re better off without them. Those people are amazingly stubborn, but we love them anyway. Probably because we like pain, but whatever.” Up ahead, Jackie jokes around with T.V. while Antigone keeps her distance off to the side. “I just...” you sigh. “I don’t know what I think. I tell him I’m fine and I’m not afraid to get hurt, but he still pushes me away.” “I think that half of it is protecting himself. You may not be afraid of getting hurt, but he might be. Give him space, but let him know he can come to you.” “Easier said than done.”

Dakota shrugs. “Just know that these things take time. And patience. So much patience.” You glance back and forth between him and the group ahead.

“Why do you sound like you speak from experience?”

He grimaces, “If I said I don’t know what you’re taking about, would you believe me?”

“No.”

“Fair enough.”

Your gaze drifts between the trio in front of you.

“You can’t possibly--”

He cuts you off, “Wow, wouldya look at that! We’re at the car! Everyone please place your tray tables in the up position while we begin our descent!”

Trouvaille and Antigone are locked in a tense conversation. They stop to watch your approach until the witch mutters something and relinquishes her claim to the passenger seat. T.V. slides into the car without sparing you a glance.

#trouvaille #trouvaille game #ch:Trouvaille #ch:dakota #ch:Jackie #ch:antigone #snippet #some days you get snippets

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a-edgar-allan-hoe · 4 years

Text

The Red Witch

Jasper Hale x Reader part 3

A/N: Part 3 is here you beautiful people! Sorry it this is long! I will be working on part 4 soon! And if there’s anyone who wants to be a part of the tag list, let me know so I can make a list. Thanks lovelies! 😊💕

Summary: Imagine being an immortal witch from the Middle Ages and being the previous love of Jasper before he was turned. You two were separated under certain circumstances and cross each other’s path once again, years later in the present era.

Warnings: Language. Violence and gore. Brief mentions of past abuse. Horror elements.

Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 4 , Part 5

It wasn’t long after till you arrived to your home with Harper. It was a gorgeous Victorian style manor that you fell in love with right when you laid your eyes on it. The way it loomed over when you looked up at it, to the dark brooding trees with twisted branches that resembled gnarly hands that seemed to lunge at you, down to the immaculate details that you couldn’t help but admire that covered the house. It reminded you of a life you once lived. When you were a child, your mother would tell you stories of how old houses, these old and beautiful things, in time, would somewhat become a living thing. She’d mention how they had bones and skin, were able to feel and breathe, and how they have seen many things. That phrase always used to spook you as a child. You used to think that your house was always watching you wherever you went. But now, you believe that if you took care of your home, “this living thing”, it would in turn take care of you, and become your safe haven.

You opened the door to your home and inhaled deeply, taking in the interior and the evocative scent that you managed to surround your place with. You loved to lay candles and incense about, filling your home with notes like pumpkin, sandalwood, dragon’s blood, musk, almonds, cinnamon, frankincense, and roses. It always made you feel more at home.

“Maleficent!” You called out as you took your shoes off as Harper did the same.

You saw movement in the far corner, seeing a small blur of black fur before you feel it rub against your legs.

“Hi Maleficent.” You cooed as you picked up your black cat with your gloved hands and held her to your chest, smiling with your eyes closed in content as she nuzzled against your scarf covered neck.

Maleficent let out a little mew as she stared up at you with those adorable big bright green eyes of hers, her purring vibrating through her chest as her abnormally large fangs poked out of her mouth. Times like these were sweet but heartbreaking. You loved Maleficent with all your being but you could never truly pet her. Thus your curse.

Harper geeeted Maleficent as well while she was still cuddled in your arms as you went into the living room, walking up to the large metal birdcage to greet your familiar, a Raven.

“Hi Edgar.”

“Well look what the cat dragged in.” He squawked as he stared at you with those mischievous black beady eyes.

“Oh please behave yourself Edgar.” You rolled your eyes before handing him a treat.

“I don’t need your assistance human.”

“Oh?” You raised your brow. “I don’t remember you sprouting a pair of arms to help yourself, unless, if I’m mistaken, your wings can magically turn into hands.”

“Well if I wasn’t stuck in this form I would be able to do as I wish, but woe is me.”

“I can’t believe you have a stupid bird as a familiar. Wish you got something cooler instead.” Harper rolls her eyes at Edgar as she passes by on her way to drop her things in her room.

“How dare you.” Edgar held his head high. “I am not just any bird. I am a great poet! A writer!”

My goodness, the drama on this bird. You had only met Edgar Allan Poe once, but now it looks as if the fame had got into his head.

“Harper! Make sure to do your homework.” You turn to call after her, only to hear her mimic your English accent.

“Did you just mock me?” You asked with a scoff.

“..........no?”

Maleficent hissed at Edgar, which made him spread his wings and squawk in threat. “Get that thing away from me!”

“Maleficent is harmless.” You rolled your eyes as you set her down. “Besides, it’s not as if she’s going to tear through your cage.”

“I get no respect around here.” Edgar let out a little huff before turning away from you, obviously giving you the silent treatment.

I swear to god this raven is the biggest brat.

“Suit yourself.” You shake your head before making your way to the kitchen to see Melanie preparing a meal.

“Smells delicious.” You tell her as you stand next to her. “Is that vegetarian shepherds pie?”

“It is! I know how much you like those.” Melanie smiles at you, before turning back to her food and gesturing to the the little strawberry tarts.“Et voici, tarte aux fraises. I hope they’re as good as the ones mama makes.”

“They look absolutely wonderful Melanie. And I bet they taste just as great as your mother’s.” You squeeze Melanie’s shoulder before you call out to your sister as you set the table. “Harper! Dinner!”

“Alright! I’m coming!” She shouts back at you, making you smile and shake your head.

“So I’m guessing you’re fine?” Melanie eyes you while finishing up her dish.

“I took care of it. I’m much better now, thanks.”

“And what about him? What about Jasper?”

“Jasper?” You look up at her, feeling that same tightness in your chest from the mere mention of him.

“Mon amie.” Melanie rolls her eyes lightheartedly. “I’m not stupid. I know how much he meant to you. I just want to make sure you’re okay, you know, after seeing him when it’s been so many years.”

“I was just, shocked, if anything. I never expected to come across him again.” You look down at your hands, playing with the loose threads on the sleeves of your sweater. “But, he doesn’t remember me, so I’m fine. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“If you say so.” Melanie sighed, she knew you weren’t okay, and she knew how much his presence ate at you. But she didn’t want to pressure you into focusing on this subject.

The dinner that Melanie made that night was delicious, the perks of having a best friend that was French and a kitchen witch. You had to remind Harper not to scarf down her food so she wouldn’t choke, only to receive a glare, as always. After dinner you and Harper retired to your rooms while Melanie went back to her little cottage that she preferred to stay in that was right next door to your manor. Maleficent decided to sleep with Harper that night. You were already changed out of your clothes and into your long white nightgown, cuddling into your blanket to do your nightly reading of classic literature before crashing out from exhaustion.

The night was dark and foreboding, and the skies were pitch black like the ink of a pen, and the air was crisp as the wind blew sharply through the trees. The thick clouds blanketed the sky, concealing the stars of their beauty and stripping away any form of light besides the moon. It was a full moon that night. And despite the stormy clouds that desperately tried to overpower the moon, the moon still managed to cast some light, illuminating part of your bedroom in this haunting glow. You were lying in your bed, buried beneath your blanket in a deep sleep with the windows slightly down to let in the cool breeze. You had a few candles lit to add some light to your darkened room, when suddenly, your clock struck 3. The wind came to a stop, and your room became disturbingly still. Not a moment later the candles in your room strangely went out all at once, leaving you in complete darkness. There wasn’t the slightest sound, not even the hooting of an owl, nor the sound of a leaf falling to the ground. Everything was as silent as the grave.

Then, as if on schedule, the temperature in your room dropped drastically, and you shivered, clutching your blanket closer to you. Still in a state of deep sleep, you began to have a nightmare. You remember seeing yourself in a beautiful wedding dress. You were waiting for someone, but no one came. The scene slowly shifted around you, then all you could see was fire, this bright and threatening fire. You looked around but the flames were the only things you saw, it completely obscured your vision. The flames seemed to surround you, enveloping you in this smoldering heat. You felt yourself sweat profusely while desperately choking for air, but to no avail, the smoke burned your lungs, you couldn’t breathe. And then there it was, that horrifying noise. That blood curdling scream of a woman in pain. It was your own. Your agonizing screams pierced your ears and the stench of burning flesh stung your nose. It was your own. You looked down in horror to see the flames licking at your flesh, leaving behind these gruesome wounds. You were being burned. Your screams never ceased to stop, but they were muffled by the chants of others. You tried to cry out for help, but no one came. No one cared. You couldn’t even see the faces of the voices. You could only hear those chants, over and over again. It was only a nightmare. And yet, the pain felt real. It all felt too real.

You woke up abruptly from your nightmare. It felt as if your whole body was set on fire in this excruciating pain. You were drenched in sweat resulting to your hair being matted to your face. You tried gasping for air, you tried to scream. But no sound came out. You tried to move but you stayed frozen to your bed, you could only move your eyes. Your eyes shifted frantically around your room and widened in horror at what they saw. You saw your mother in the corner as she stared at you with these white, dead, lifeless eyes. A rope was tied around her bruised neck which was bent at an unnatural angle. Your heart pounded in your chest as you tried to cry out for help but you couldn’t, the only sound that came out was a whimper as you watched her walk towards you, wailing your name. Tears pooled in your eyes and fell down the sides of your face as the furniture in your room started to shake. You then saw your father appear before you, those cold and calculating eyes stared back into yours. You had his eyes, those cold heartless eyes, and that sinister gaze that terrified you as a child become your own. You watched as your father’s cloaked figure brought out his hands, displaying a whip in one and a heated branding iron in the other.

“(Y/N!) You insolent child!” He boomed in his raucous tone that made you tremble with fear. Bloody boils began to appear on his skin, gradually turning into decay as pieces of his flesh began to fall off, one by one, revealing the bone underneath. “Look at what you’ve done to me! You demon! You bitch!”

You shut your eyes against the terrifying image, your breathing growing more rapid by the minute. He wasn’t real. He died many years ago. He can’t hurt you. And yet, the pain that you now felt said otherwise. The long slashed scars that covered your back and the brand on the left side of your chest still burned as if they had just been inflicted.

There was a knock on your bedroom door, making you open your eyes back up.

“(Y/N?)” you heard Harper’s muffled voice on the other side. “What’s going on?”

She tried to open the door, but couldn’t. The door was locked. You tried to cry out for her, but you couldn’t. You still remained frozen. Your parents had disappeared, but now another ghostly figure stood at the foot of your bed. It was you. You saw yourself standing at the foot of your bed, wearing that same wedding dress from your dream with your face barely hidden behind the white veil.

You heard Harper call out for you again, struggling with the door handle, but your eyes remained glued to the apparition of yourself.

“We deserved this. We are monsters.” The face of this manifestation of yourself was blank and conveying no emotion, yet it was filled with such heartbreak and pain. You saw yourself erupt into flames, the veil burning away to reveal your scarred face as it reached a skeletal hand out towards you. “He could never love a thing like you. No one can.”

Tag List: @shakespeareanbooty @justine-en @5sosfanforever2001 @bitchy-witchy-post-mortem @holyhumorliteraturelight @toomanybandstocare @twilight-kpop @cricketlicket @ashdab2611 @pancake-pages @elisemurphy06 @ineffabledears @seraphpheonix @bella-stenbakken

#jasper hale #jasper hale imagine #jasper hale x y/n #jasper hale x you #jasper whitlock #jasper whitlock imagine #twilight imagine #twilight imagines #jasper whitlock x reader #jasper hale x reader

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monster-bait · 4 years

Text

Quarantine; M Drider x F Witch, NSFW, Anzan & Ladybug

The streets were unnaturally quiet.

Cambric Creek’s small town square was normally a bustle of activity at all times, day or night—residents crowding the small restaurants at each corner, coming and going from the bank, from the handful of locally-owned shops, the hardware store, the hair salon, the old-fashioned ice cream stand.

You’d never seen such stillness downtown, and the lack of people around was unsettling.

The pharmacy, your destination, seemed to be busy enough. There was a giant “Wash Your Hands!” banner above the entrance, and as the automatic double doors opened for you, you could see the picked-over endcap of antimicrobial soap and hand sanitizer. Tissues, you mentally checked off, adding two boxes to your basket as you sniffed.

It was good of the community to take this virus seriously.

When the mayor had announced the Cambric Creek would be voluntarily self-quarantining, you’d expected there to be more of a fuss. There weren’t that many human residents, after all. The were community, it turned out, was also vulnerable to exposure, and they were a plentiful demographic. You’d read that there was concern that elves might also be in danger of contracting the human virus, and then that was that. Social distancing was now the community expectation.

It was day five. Five days of kids being home-schooled, of most businesses being shut down. Day five of no dining in restaurants or going to the nail salon or to the theater...not that you often did any of those things. In truth, quarantine hadn’t impacted your household all that much. You and Anzan both worked from home normally anyways, were both introverts who preferred staying in over nights on the town. Still, the fact that you couldn’t do any of those things was strangely chafing, and you’d left the house that day filled with an anxious restlessness.

Business had, surprisingly, picked up with the health scare dominating the news. Customers you’d not heard from in several years, customers who’d discovered you through word-of-mouth, customers you’d picked up through the new coven you’d joined. Requests for home cold remedies and cough suppressants and fever reducers arrived in your email with payments being sent electronically, and you’d been hard at work, getting your new client base and their families through the yearly cold and flu season.

The new coven was a group of younger witches who had, for one reason or another, not been accepted into the circle of sisters, but had welcomed you with open arms.

It was strange, the unusual feeling of belonging, stranger still to find yourself in a group of equally socially-awkward fellows, particularly when they had placed you in a spot of such veneration. Your knowledge was advanced compared to many of the witches, your family history impressive, and you were enjoying your new role as a mentor and teacher. The aunts, you were certain, would be proud.

Now you were caught up on orders, and desperately needed to get out of the house.

You’d jumped in surprise when, upon entering the side door, a giant shadow loomed in the hallway. “Oh! You scared me!”

Anzan remained as unsmiling as ever, cocking his head curiously as he sipped from a coffee mug. “You didn't say you were going out.”

“I needed to get some tissues, and I picked up a few cans of this disinfectant spray...I can leave it on the porch for people to spray their vials down when they do pickups, if it makes them feel better. I just needed to get out of the house for a little bit, this quarantine is driving me crazy already!”

You laughed lightly, stretching to kiss the side of your boyfriend’s sharply-angled jaw. The thin cotton of his black t-shirt was stretched tightly over his well-muscled form, and his glossy, dark hair was loose, swept over one shoulder. You still went a bit dizzy over how handsome he was, you thought, reaching up to tap his scrunched nose.

“Quarantine?”

You watched the rapid wave of blinks or the smaller black orbs on his chiseled face, leading to his narrowed cobalt eyes.

Your own brow furrowed in response. It had been five days, countless news stories and headlines, weeks of growing public panic all over the world. You couldn’t hold back your incredulous laugh.

“Anzan, you do know there’s a global pandemic happening? A major public health emergency?”

You grinned as he rolled his eyes at your question, tugging your hair before his massive legs carried him across the kitchen to set his mug in the sink. “Of course I know that, but when did we start a quarantine?”

“Five whole days ago! You know what this means? You need to leave the house more.”

You turned away to blow your nose in one of the newly-procured tissues, before washing your hands at the sink. You’d been fighting upper respiratory congestion for the past few days, had been drinking a home brew of steeped ginger, adding lemon and cayenne with raw honey, but the sniffles still lingered. As you put away the few groceries you’d also picked up, you realized the huge outline of your boyfriend was still visible on the floor. He was, you saw with a swallow, glaring at you.

“Little bug, you are still sick. And you went out? During a quarantine?!”

“It’s just the sniffles, I feel fi—”

You cut off on a squeak as you were scooped easily by his four massive arms.

“You are not fine! You are not to leave this house,” he rumbled, moving on his many legs with terrifying speed though the house and up the stairs. “You are a human, you're the last person who should be going out. If you need something, I’ll go out for you. I’ll not have you risking your health needlessly.”

You had a mind to complain. You weren’t a child, nor were you a doll, and he was entirely too overprotective as it was. But when he ran a hot bath, stripping you with caressing fingers before setting you carefully in the steaming water, you felt hard-pressed to be angry. You watched quietly, tipping your head back against the tub as he added fragrant oil and mint to the water, clearing your sinuses. One of his lethally sharp nails dragged lightly down your leg, making you shiver beneath the water, before he took up your foot. The press of his thumb into your arch nearly made you dissolve, becoming one with the hot bathwater.

It was long minutes before he spoke again, kneading your foot in silence from where he sat at the foot of the tub. He liked to sit behind you, most nights, washing your hair as you told him about your most recent coven meeting and the orders you were filling, the projects you wanted to start together on the house. The empty days of the previous several years seemed like a distant memory, replaced with his quiet, stoic companionship and fierce devotion.

“You will not be so cavalier with your health, ladybug. No more going out.”

Your breath hitched when he lifted your foot to his mouth, his breath hot against your damp skin before pressing his lips softly to your ankle bone. Driders, you’d learned, were not free with their emotions. Anzan rarely indulged in human expressions of affection, but he showed you the depth of his feelings in his protectiveness, in his intensity, and the way he worried over you.

It frightened you, the world he had come from. Violent and guarded, drider society was secretive and closed off to outsiders. You knew that emotion was viewed as a weakness, and you appreciated the way he had softened, at least where you were concerned.

Sitting up in the water, you reached out for him, pulling his lips to your own as he lifted you once more, wrapping you in a thick towel. You loved him, more than you’d ever expected to, and you knew that keeping you safe and close was his way of showing you that he felt the same.

“I promise, no leaving unnecessarily.”

The steam coming off your work cauldron burned your eyes, and you turned away to blow your nose once more, staggering dizzily.

What you’d thought was just a cold had turned out to be the flu, and the aggravation of the constant congestion and fatigue was driving you to exhaustion. You knew that you just needed to rest, needed to cease working and stay in bed for several days, and you planned on it, were looking forward to snuggling beneath your quilt until you were well…

But there was one last order to finish, despite how wrung out you felt. One last order to finish, and you were missing a vital component of the recipe, a mistake you’d not have made if you weren’t battling your own illness.

Willow bark and camphor, coltsfoot and comfrey...and the bladder of a goose, which you did not have.

You could go out, make a quick run to the closest farm, the one where that nice human who was involved with your almost-tenant worked. You’d have to purchase a whole goose to be butchered, which seemed a terrible waste...you rarely missed the old circle of sisters, the ones who’d cast you out, but in times like this another seasoned witch with a well-stocked cupboard would be an asset to have as a friend.

You were just zipping the front of your coat, the pockets stuffed with tissues, when a familiar shadow filled the hallway.

Anzan had turned the attic apartment into his home office, rarely coming down during the afternoons, although he’d been appearing every few hours to check on you with a frown, grousing that you ought to be in bed before you’d snapped that you had work to do. Now he stood in the doorway, as if he’d known you were planning on leaving the house—numerous eyes narrowed, one set of his muscular arms crossed across his broad chest, the other set of hands resting where his hips would be, were it not for his arachnid lower half.

“Where are you going, little bug?”

You gulped guiltily and gripped the wall as you reeled, watching through glassy eyes as he came down the last several steps, a long-fingered hand reaching out for the door you stood before, sliding the chain into the lock with finality. The gesture was enough to break your stupor.

“But I need to go out! There’s an order to finish! I need to—”

“You need,” he interrupted sternly, “to go to bed. You’re still sick and you’re not going to get any better unless you rest!”

You liked having a dominant partner, liked knowing there was someone there to care for you, who loved you, whose steadfastness filled in the gaps of your insecurity, and you knew that he was right...but you couldn’t leave an order unfulfilled, not when you were so close to be finished. The room was still spinning, however, and suddenly the thought of being able to navigate the side door steps seemed daunting.

“I just...I just need...need to sit—”

The steps where he stood seemed impossibly far away as you staggered, reaching out for the wall which was similarly too wide a distance. The room pitched and dipped as strong arms came around you, and the world went black.

You couldn’t move your arms.

There was a strange weight encasing you, from your shoulders to your toes, and you felt an overwhelming need to be free from it. Panic seized your brain as you tried and failed to move once more. Your arms were pinioned to your sides and you were unable to lift your legs, your entire body seemingly frozen in place, locked in the dark.

As you struggled to control your breathing, you mentally ran through everything you knew about being buried alive, wondering if that’s what had happened. You were too frozen for that scenario, you decided, panicking further. A coma? Could you have been suffering from the killer virus in the news after all? Had you slipped into a coma?!

As you contemplated the possibility, your eyes adjusted to the darkness.

The exposed beams of the attic ceiling were above your head, and now that you’d ceased panicking, you were able to discern a familiar springiness to your prison. Anzan. You were in a web, you realized, one of your boyfriend’s sticky confines. You’d been captive in his webs many times, but he normally favored elaborately woven harnesses that braided around your curves, leaving you somewhat mobile. You’d never been cocooned before, and the feeling was more than just a little unsettling.

You heard the heavy tread of his many legs creaking up the ancient staircase a few moments later.

“You’re awake.”

Straightforward and unsentimental, but you heard the relief in his deep voice, making you wonder how long you’d been asleep. A long, lethal talon caressed the side of your cheek, a gesture that you’d learned was more intimate than a kiss. Nodding wordlessly, you attempted to speak, finding your mouth bone dry. Instantly he turned, moving down the staircase with that unnerving drider speed, returning with a tall glass of cold water and a straw.

“Just a little bit at a time,” he murmured, after helping you to sit up by pulling on a section of webbing. The water was cool, soothing to your parched throat. After you had your fill, you were startled when he carefully lowered the webbing he held.

“But I want to get up!”

Anzan’s chuckle was like a swathe of black velvet, plush around you in your sticky confines. “That’s not happening.”

“But—”

“No,” he interrupted. “You are sick. You’ve been practically unconscious since yesterday afternoon, ladybug. Do you have any idea how worried I was? Since you seem to have no great attachment to your own health, I’m taking over. You can get up when you’re well and not a moment before.” He leaned forward, pressing his lips to your forehead, ignoring your pout.

You considered, as he left you once more, that the blasted flying potion would have come in handy right about then.

For the next several days you were a well-cared for hostage.

Anzan was always there, plying you with water and juice, home made soup and toast, lovingly stroking your hair and holding tissues to your nose. “Honest, I’m full!” you’d assured him when he’d tried to hold another spoonful of the mysterious green soup to your lips. You normally took turns cooking for each other through the week, and your palate had yet to acclimate to drider cuisine.

He’d consented to remaking the web so that you were able to sit up on the second day, releasing you from the confining cocoon on the third morning, once he was confident that your fever had broken. You woke sometime before dawn on the fourth day, the sky beyond the small attic window showing a still-dark sky. Your cheek was pressed to the cool, familiar contours on Anzan’s bare chest, you realized, shifting slightly. Finally free from your webbed confines, he was holding you to his chest, cradled in his arms.

For a long moment you were quiet and still, enjoying the weight of his heavy arms. You were wearing your favorite nightgown, you realized, worn kitten-soft, slimming your thighs. For the first time in over a week, you were able to breathe clearly, the heaviness in your head absent. His measures were extreme and you’d had your fill of his cooking, but he’d taken excellent care of you, effectively nursed you back to health. Snuggling against him, you closed your eyes, letting the rise and fall of his broad chest lull you back to sleep.

When you woke again, you’d been shifted. The web was surprisingly comfortable, you were forced to admit, and one of his long-fingered hands had slipped beneath your neck, cupping your head. Your body tingled. You were surprised, after being sick for so long, that your first physical impulse was to slide one of Anzan’s hands between your thighs.

You were surprised, but you did so anyways.

His deep groan vibrated the web around you, his fingers moving against you on their own after a few moments of leading. A flush spread down your chest as you thought of a day from the previous month, when he’d kept you suspended in a web with your legs opened wide, level with his thin-lipped mouth. He’d feasted on you repeatedly, nipping at your thighs with his sharp fangs, and bringing you to ecstasy repeatedly with his tongue.

That was what you wanted now, you thought, squirming against the web, trying in vain to lift your hips to his stroking fingers. You were still too weak to take him fully, too fatigued to withstand the burn of his venom through your veins, a necessary precaution before taking his cock.

“You’re not strong enough, little bug,” he murmured, as if he’d read your mind, sliding a long finger into you until you keened. “But there are other ways to give you what you need…”

The first stroke of his tongue made your thighs quiver, long licks that made you arch, desperately trying to meet his mouth. His massive hands curled under your knees, spreading you wide and pressing them to the springy web. His tongue pushed deeper. Lapping and sucking, filling you completely, the vibration of his deep groan against you making you gasp.

He would go into a rut twice a year, you’d learned, eagerly anticipating the return of that heavy, potent smell; dark and alluring, advertising his seasonal arousal and desperate need to mate. That didn't mean that you were left unsatisfied in the months in between, of course. You didn't realize his own excitement rivaled yours just then, not until you felt the silver-white burn of his fangs.

It was barely a drop; not quite enough to leave you twisting, desperate to be filled over and over...but it was more than enough to push you off the ledge of an explosive climax. A strangled cry strained your still-recovering throat, as your body bent, attempting to fold itself in half in an effort to crash into his mouth. Anzan continued to bathe your clit with his tongue, sliding one finger, then two into you, curved to press into that spot within that made you come undone. On and on, you came against his tongue in one shuddering wave after another until you were nearly sobbing, spent and limp and thoroughly satisfied.

There was a web over the front door. It was the first thing you noticed, as you came downstairs, later that morning. Despite the devoted care of your live-in nurse, it had been nice being able to get up and stretch, to take a shower and scrub your skin pink, to put on actual clothes.

As you moved down the curving staircase, the smooth wooden bannister cool beneath your palm, you saw the curious glimmer over the doorway. There must have been a breeze coming in, you thought with a frown, mentally adding checking the frames and re-plumbing the doors to the endless list of home improvements the old Victorian needed.

You could smell coffee brewing, smiling as you approached the kitchen. Anzan had eagerly adopted the caffeinated beverage as his favorite human convention, and there was almost always a pot brewing. You wondered, as you pulled out your own mug, if you might make it to the farm today. There was still a goose bladder in need of procuring, and you might even be able to barter with the centaur who owned the farm for whatever other unusual stock he might be able to provide. A stop at the grocery store, maybe the beverage store on the corner that stocked the imported sparkling elderflower water you liked...

There was a web over the side door as well.

You gasped in outrage, spinning to find Anzan there, standing in the doorway, watching you silently. His blue eyes sparkled with mirth, and you were stunned to find his mouth–impossibly!–pulled into a smile, his fangs gleaming in the sunny kitchen.

“We’re on quarantine, little bug,” he reminded you cheerfully, moving across the kitchen to refill his coffee mug. “That means no leaving. You’re stuck with me, for however long it lasts.”

A long talon,deadly sharp yet gentle against your skin, caressed your cheek before you gripped his shirt and pulled him down, returning his smile with one of your own. “That’s the best way to spend a quarantine,” you assured him before pressing your lips to his.

#Exophilia #monster lover #monster boyfriend #monster x human #monsterbait writes #drider #drider lover #drider boyfriend #Cambric Creek

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kirisaki-daichi-scenarios · 3 years

Text

the artiste; hanamiya makoto

tags; fashion/modelling industry!au, lowkey sugar daddy!hanamiya, not telling you anything else so you gotta read these 3.8k words now

tw; unhealthy weight loss techniques

note: charon is the dude who carries souls of the deceased across the river styx - the river which connects the earth and the underworld

“Well, aren’t you pretty.”

These are the first words Hanamiya ever directs towards you, raising his champagne glass as you approach, with the same sleazy smile across his lips that you’ve seen on the face of every man who steps into the host club to soak up the atmosphere of women and wine.

“I’m flattered,” you upturn your lips - amiable but not too friendly, ladylike but not cold.

“Not you’re not,” the man’s tone holds none of its previous singsong. In your shock, you lose the smile, “you’re sick and tired of hearing the same words come out of every man’s lips, right? Nor are you particularly subtle with how you looked up at the clock.”

“I apologise-“

“Don’t. I’m not kidding when I say I’m pleased to meet you,” he stretches out his hand, takes yours and shakes it hard, “Makoto, Hanamiya Makoto. And I’m here to be your Charon.”

At first, your conversations with Hanamiya - always at the club, of course, though they grow more frequent, and soon he doesn’t even need to request you either; all the staff know that he’s only got eyes for you - are stilted and stiff. He’s charismatic but you’re not trained to talk to charismatic men.

“I’m not like the others, am I?” Hanamiya chuckles as if savouring his own sense of superiority. “I don’t work with the script your manager tells you to follow. I bet you’ve never told a single one of your customers what you actually think about them. You know, I used to work for a place like this, a common place pimp, picking up pretty girls off the street for the manager - that’s how I know just about everything you’re thinking. I understand more about your profession than you do.”

“What do you do now?” you ask, noting how the discussion is slowly falling into dangerous territory (the manager’s number one rule: never tell the customer anything they can’t just see).

“I’m a fashion designer, producing haute couture gowns for those with too much money to spend.”

It’s only then that you understand why his name sounded so familiar. And maybe Hanamiya sees how your eyes sparkle at the recollection, because the grin slips back onto his lips.

After that, conversations start getting easier. Hanamiya’s still a little too questioning, just a touch too intrusive, but you can’t avoid the questions of a man who dwells in the summit of society, which you could only dream of looking up at as a child. After all, who hasn’t fantasied about walking down the runway, being the object of everyone’s envy, being the centre of all the photos?

And that’s the worst part of Hanamiya - he keeps saying it’s possible, for you.

“It’s your bones,” Hanamiya tells you, running his hand across your cheek, his fingers pressing down gently onto what lies beneath your skin (the manager’s second rule: never let customers touch you in any way vaguely intimate - insist on boundaries). “God made you to be a model.”

Of course, you tell him you’re not interested (you’ve got a comfortable paying job now, and it doesn’t lack in glamour either, entertaining rich old men with pearls on your neck), but, every time he visits, he asks again. And it slowly gets harder to resist how sincerely he squeezes your hand, how authentic his smile has become (no longer do you feel the sensation that he’s inspecting you - he’s a friend now, more than anything), and how this could be your only chance to fulfil those childhood dreams that would have never stood a chance, if not for Hanamiya.

“I need you,” murmurs Hanamiya, staring so intensely into your eyes that it’s like he’s not looking at you at all, “you’re perfect.”

“Why me?”

“There’s this one dress... It’ll only reach its true potential if you’re the one wearing it. Just one show, just a couple steps down the catwalk, that’s all you have to do. If you don’t like it, you can leave the industry the next day.”

You glance around the club you’ve come to call a second home, at its plushy red sofas which look almost blood-coloured, dimly lit by the chandeliers overhead.

“I’m happy here.” Once, that wouldn’t have been a lie.

Hanamiya sits back, but his gaze still doesn’t leave yours. “You enjoy grandeur here, but only in the night. Don’t you want it in the light too?”

That evening, you quit your job.

It’s raining outside. As the two of you rush to his car, parked a little while away, Hanamiya holds his coat over you head.

“I thought your coat was too expensive to get wet!” you laugh, your hands still shaking with the adrenaline of your own rashness, the soles of your shoes slapping against the puddles on the pavement.

“You’re way more expensive, angel,” replies Hanamiya.

In the moment, with his raindrops glittering across his hair, and a boyish smile across his face, you can forget that this man is a multi-millionaire who now owns your future. Right now, he just seems like an ally - maybe even a friend.

“You’ll stay with me for now,” Hanamiya’s saying as he slips his key into the lock of a tall mahogany door, with his face turned away from you, “model apartments, agencies: they’re all shams. It’s tricky business for a newcomer. You’re safest with me.”

You’ve worked long enough in a shady industry to know that it’s never wise to put all your eggs in one basket.

“Why not an agency? Don’t I need someone to represent me?”

“Agencies only exist to take as large a cut of your earnings as they can, and get you in debt - that’s what the apartments they set you up with are for - and then make you reliant on them, so they can keep taking your money. They don’t care about your potential,” the light down the corridor is flickering, casting fleeting shadows over Hanamiya’s form which distort his face as he turns towards you, “not like I do.”

Something in his tone suggests to you that, firstly, you don’t know the first thing about this industry you’re stepping into, and that, secondly, you don’t need to know. You just need to stick with him.

You can trust him (you think).

After all, Hanamiya’s the one who’s responsible for your being a model in one of the biggest fashion events in this half of the year - you, someone with no experience apart from a couple hours practice with an expert (who had only agreed to it, you understood, because they were desperate to work with Hanamiya too). He’s also the one who kept you company during the dress rehearsal, when all the other models were eyeing you, mumbling together from the distance, dressed in their various shades of blacks and greys and purples like a plague about to smother you whole.

“Ignore them, they’re just envious that you’re the star of the show,” Hanamiya whispered, his lip just grazing the top of your ear, before announcing to the room, “work hard, ladies, and maybe, one day, you’ll get to be my favourite instead!”

You had asked him to not make such a big show of it. One of the best parts of working at the host club had been sitting with your fellow hosts at the end of the day, slipping off your high heels to give your feet a rest, gossiping together about that day’s customers. Making friends with these new colleagues of yours, you explained to Hanamiya, was just as important to you. You didn’t want to be the lone wolf; you didn’t want to feel like you were walking down the runway alone.

“Why?” Hanamiya had replied, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Looking at the mirror before you, you were convinced the other models were glaring at you. “Can’t you cope with the pressure?”

And, now, in the final hour before the first (and potentially last; now it’s so close, you’re starting to realise just how unqualified you are) show of your life, still no one’s talking to you. Even the three people working on you - two on your hair, one of your makeup (in Hanamiya’s words, the star shouldn’t have to worry about anything but the walk ahead) - refuse to speak to you, or even meet your eye in the mirror. Your only option for conversation is Hanamiya, who’s barely interested in you. His eyes keep straying to look over the preparations being performed before him, like a boy studying his ant farm.

“You’re got too much trust in me,” you say to Hanamiya, as your head gets wrenched back by one of the stylists, “I could ruin your whole show.”

“If I thought that,” Hanamiya’s eyes flicker over you, and then return to observing the other models, “I wouldn’t have offered the position to you.”

“I’m no professional model.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

Hanamiya’s casual smile slips off his face. He’s displeased. You have to put more trust in his decisions, you remind yourself, as black lipstick and eyeshadows is smudged across your lips and eyelids, giving you the appearance of a banshee.

Around 10 minutes before you’re supposed to go out, you’re helped into the gown you’ll be wearing (the other models have been dashing back and forth to get changed into their next outfits, whereas you just have the one), and hairspray is once again sprayed over the crow’s nest that was once your hair (you look deranged, you think to yourself, but Hanamiya gives a satisfied hum once he sees the stylist’s finished product).

And then, in the final seconds, Hanamiya approaches you - “make me proud” - and pushes you onto the catwalk.

One step in front of the other. Let the satin skirt swing. Don’t move your arms too much. Expose the lace that attaches the sleeves to the skirt, hanging down like great wings of spider’s webs. And keep your arms raised, just slightly. Even when the heaps of black satin, piled across your biceps and forearm, make your muscles burn, keep your arms up. Look confident. But haunted too. Walk slow. Let your hips slip to the side, but don’t overdo it. Not like the other models. Remember, you’re the witch. You’re wearing the dress of the witch. You’re not a model.

You’re the star.

At the end - and it’s curious how long the runway feels whilst you’re on it, and how short it looks when it’s over - the lights dim, and, the minute you’re backstage, high on adrenaline, you race into Hanamiya’s arms. You’re shaking too much to speak, but Hanamiya holds you closely, like you could crumple any minute.

“Good girl,” he purrs, “you did exactly what I told you to.”

And then he tosses you to the side, as he goes out to greet the applause.

-----

You’re not sure how (in the photos, you look like a woman possessed - perhaps you shouldn’t have been concentrating so hard on remembering Hanamiya’s advice) but the show’s a success. More than that, you’re a success. Suddenly, your schedule starts being booked up. There’s magazines interested in this new look, photographers keen on being the ones to represent it, and even the tabloids have been writing about “designer Hanamiya Makoto finds yet another hidden talent!”

“’Another’?” you ask Hanamiya, stretched out underneath his bed’s thin black duvet - he keeps saying he’ll find you your own place to stay, but he’s yet to refer you somewhere, and you’re not sure you’d want to go, even if he did.

“There’s been a couple models in the past that I brought to the industry,” he replies, slipping off a dark grey tie, unbuttoning the top hole of his black shirt, “but none with your potential, angel.”

Your attention returns to the magazine, as you reread the article for the tenth time. There’s something addicting about seeing your name written there, seeing your photo printed into the glossy paper. Over and over, you run your fingers across the ‘truly the star of the show’ printed in Times New Roman, and, every time, the words bring a shiver up your spine. That’s you. You’re the star. You’re Hanamiya’s star.

-----

A few weeks after the show, and your days are spent on booking after booking. Today’s job involves wearing a collection of what Hanamiya deems as ‘funeral dresses’ - long black frocks, not quite ballgowns but clearly not designed for the average grieving mademoiselle. And it’s only the three of you in the studio today: you, the photographer, and Hanamiya.

(You’re not sure why Hanamiya attends all these bookings of yours. He’s a busy man, after all; just organising your schedule seems a lot of work for someone whose main job is focused on something entirely different. The one time you asked him as to how he finds the time, he replied that, “as the artist, I cannot possibly leave you - my muse. Not unless you want me to?” He raised an eyebrow, and you never asked again, knowing very well that you weren’t ready to be separated from his company).

“Hand up a little,” says the photographer now, “no, put it back. The pose isn’t working. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

He approaches you, squints, grins, and begins to adjust the positioning of your legs and torso. His hands slowly slip to your hips - you bite your lip as to not gasp - and then to the inside of your thigh, give your skin a slight squeeze.

And that’s when you slap him. Storm over to Hanamiya.

“Makoto, this man is no photographer,” you retort, filling your voice with rage to hide how your hands are shivering, “he’s a commonplace groping pervert at best.”

“Hush up, angel,” Hanamiya doesn’t even look up from his book, flicks to the next page “the plot twist is coming up.”

Just the three of you in the room, you think once more, frozen to the spot. And then the photographer guides you back to your position, and, though he’s less loose with his hands now, his grin has only grown.

“You’re being paid to be a mannequin,” he says, rubbing his thumb down the side of your torso, as if adjusting how the dress sits on you, “keep that in mind.”

Perhaps it’s due to his book, but, in the corner of the room, Hanamiya’s starting to laugh.

-----

In the evenings, the two of you return to Hanamiya’s apartment together. He cooks - you always offer to, but, in his words, you’re too good for household chores - and then, sat at opposite ends of the mahogany table, you both eat and discuss the day. Even now that he spends most of his day with you (and when you’re not on a booking with him, you’re trapped in his apartment, whose key you’re still yet to receive, not that you mind, of course: there’s plenty of fashion magazines here to entertain you, many of which now include photos of yourself), Hanamiya continues to ask you questions about your life. It’s like nothing has changed since the two of you were chatting together at the host club.

But that’s the pleasant thing about Hanamiya. He’s always so easy to talk to. He never treats you like the man who’s brought you all this success; rather, he treats you like you’re the one who’s enriching his life.

And that’s why, months later, sharing a meal together as per usual, you raise to Hanamiya your concerns as to how you’ve been getting less bookings recently.

“Of course I know you’re busy,” you twist the spaghetti around your fork, “but I’m getting more popular with each passing day. I need to keep up with it.”

“Oh, and that’s my job, is it?”

“You’ve always done it before.”

“Aren’t you getting a bit above your station, angel dearest? If you want more jobs, make a network and find them.” You can tell, from the way Hanamiya’s voice has dropped, from the way he’s placed his wineglass back down on the table, that you’re pushing your luck, “I’m no slave of yours.”

Fighting to keep your voice composed, as you wind the pasta tighter around your fork, you respond, “then at least give me a larger percentage of the payout from my bookings than I’m currently getting.”

“Do you even know what percentage you’re getting right now?”

You don’t. You’ve been relying on Hanamiya to handle the financial side of things; he always said that it made more sense for him to manage the books, since he was the one finding the jobs in the first place.

Your silence is telling and Hanamiya grins, takes a long sip of his wine.

“Just remember, I brought you into this world. It wouldn’t be hard for me to take you back out of it,” he purrs, glancing at how your plate is still full, “and that reminds me. Do be careful with what you’re eating, angel. I wouldn’t want you to lose your edge.”

That evening, you throw up the little of the spaghetti that you had eaten. It’s time for a change, you reprimand yourself. You can’t let yourself fall out of Hanamiya’s favour.

It’s with this in mind that you start swallowing down cotton balls, dipped in juice beforehand, and, as you feel them slide down your throat, you tell yourself that you’re full.

But still, the number of bookings continue to decrease. Those that you do attend are often filled with other models, so you’re just one of the crowd, one of many faceless limbs and torsos. No one speaks to you, even though Hanamiya’s not spending much time with you either. You stand in the queue, waiting for your photo, and, as the photographers criticise your inability to look natural in a pose or to even maintain it - “is your head full of wool, woman? Keep your hand there!” - you think back to your first (only, so far) fashion show. How you were the star of the show. How you’re still the star of the show.

These petty little bookings with their petty little photographers simply don’t understand your potential.

That’s what you’re repeating to yourself during your lunch break, having snuck outside to swallow down another couple cotton balls - this time dipped in chilli oil (if your mouth is burning, you can’t be hungry, right?). The sky glares down at you, painfully bright, as you run your tongue over your lips again and again, feeling the grooves in the flesh, where you’ve bitten into your lips hard enough to make them bleed.

“You’re the girl that did Hanamiya Makoto’s last show, aren’t you?”

“And what if I am?”

The woman, who’s just stepped outside to stand beside you, blows smoke into your face, before inspecting you more closely. She’s tall, and there’s something skeletal in her fingers as she brings the cigarette up to her lips once more.

“He’s losing interest in you, isn’t he?”

“How dare you-“

She glances down at the remaining cotton ball in your palm.

“Just take coke if you want to get skinny,” the woman states, looking you up and down like she’s pitying you, “it’s downright weird to eat cotton. Coke speeds up your metabolism, makes you less hungry too.”

“Coke also gets people addicted, and then killed.”

“In that man’s mind,” she leans back against the wall, as a cloud of grey trickles from her lips, “beauty comes first. So us models who hope to work for him can’t prioritise our futures. You’re not going to last long with your current attitude.”

“What would you know? I bet you’ve never been in one of his shows.” Your words come out tenser that you had wanted them to. “I’m the star of-“

“There’s nothing permanent in this industry,” she lets her cigarette fall to the floor, and grinds it into ashes with the heel of her platform boots, “but I guess you’re still new to the game.”

-----

The booking grows worse throughout the day. As the humidity increases, the photographers’ tempers shorten - and Hanamiya doesn’t look your way when you get yelled at once again. You’re spending even longer stuck in the queues, standing silently, listening to the conversations of the models around you.

One woman glances at you with a smirk, and then tells her companion, “there’s rumours he’s found a new girl, another host club adoptee.”

You don’t have to guess who the ‘he’ is.

So, that evening, when Hanamiya returns late as he has been doing for the past coupe weeks, you confront him. Dressed in the slick black dress he bought you, wearing the diamond necklace he offered you as a birthday present, you pin him between against the wall, the minute he walks through the door.

“You’ve been at the host club, haven’t you? They’re saying you’ve found someone new, that you’re going to replace me!”

Loosening his tie, Hanamiya murmurs, “you’re not my wife, you know, angel.”

“I am the star of your show,” you hiss in response.

Hanamiya pushes your torso away from his, and something about his touch, or perhaps how you haven’t eaten anything substantial since 6am this morning, makes your knees weak. You collapse to the ground, your head slamming against the wall beside his leg.

Slowly, Hanamiya rolls up his sleeves, grabs your chin and pulls it up - hard.

“Don’t tell me this is all you’ve become - a jealous, talentless bitch?” He smiles, but there’s nothing entertained in his eyes. “All my expectations for you, and yet here you are, keeling over like a donkey in a fucking third world country.”

You fight against the pressure of his hand on your chin, but his hold is too strong to go against. “The new collection, “Styx’s Allure’… I’m going to participate in that show, right? Everyone’s talking about it, all the magazines are raving about it; I can’t not be in it.”

“Sure you can,” Hanamiya pulls you back up to your feet, and now it’s you being pressed against the wall, “in fact, I’ll save you the trouble of having to wait to find out. You’re not in it. You can beg all you want, and you still won’t get it. There’s a cute little girl at your old employer’s place; she’s much more suited-“

“I thought you said I’d be the star!” you snarl, overwhelmed with an exhausted rage.

“I thought you’d be capable of being the star,” sighs Hanamiya, running his hands around your neck, like he’s contemplating just how thin it is, just how easy it would be to snap, “but don’t worry, angel, you’re not entirely useless.

Just the other day, I was talking to a taxidermist about you.

You know, some things just don’t reach their true potential in life.”

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dontmindmyshadowhunting · 3 years

Text

The new Shadowhunter Academy (Fan Fic) - Chapter 1

In the mood for a bit of Shadowhunter Academy drama so there goes chap 1 of my new fic (it's part of my "To never being parted series" though it can be read as a standalone story).

Ao3 link here.

*****

This is how I die, Ash thought. He was surprised by how indifferent he was to the news. He had always imagined he would have more fighting in him.

If he were honest, it was not such a bad place to die. Green grass had started to grow again in the lands of Faerie, where there had only been wasteland and death before. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe Ash was exactly what he had been named after. Ash, the symbol of rebirth, his blood fertilizing the land and giving way to lush vegetation and the chirping of birds. Through his blurred vision, he could see Jace lying a few feet away, unconscious. He held on to the steady rise of his chest that told him he was still alive. But barely.

Ash coughed up blood in the already drenched soil. He tried to lift himself up, but the muscles in his arms were failing him and the slightest move equalled to excruciating pain. He felt as if all the bones in his body had been crushed into small pieces that were piercing through his organs.

He thought about the girl he had met in the weapons room, the girl in the drawing. Drusilla Blackthorn. There had been loneliness in her blue-green eyes, yet there had also been a fierce will to live despite everything. A hope beyond despair. You and I are the same, he told her in his mind. We witness the worst horrors, suffer the most intense grief, but keep our chins up and stand ready to fight to live another day. We do not give up.

Ash craned his neck sluggishly to get a better look at his opponent.

The new King of both Seelie and Unseelie Courts, a Herondale no less, who looked more like a Californian surfer boy with his tousled blond hair and unforgiving bright blue eyes, was standing before him, hands curled into fists against his hips, his white wings tipped with gold rustling behind him. He was glorious, an angel of death, and Ash idly wondered how someone so beautiful could be so cruel.

“Stand. Now. There is no fun in striking someone lying on the ground,” the King said, his blue eyes rolling in a very unkingly manner. Even his voice was not that of a monster. It was a nice, clear voice, that sounded like it belonged to a sweet boy. Ash knew, though, that he was anything but. He needed to distract him, to play for time.

“All these faeries that you have massacred,” Ash managed to utter through the blood in his throat. He flinched at the pain that the mere act of talking caused him. “And you call yourself their ruler… I don’t understand. Why this… bloodbath? What did they do to you?”

“What did they do to me? What did they do to me?” If the King’s face bore any expression at all, it would be pure hatred and contempt. “How about what did they do to my mother? And her parents, and their parents before that? Did they really think I would never find out, stay in the dark forever? Remain a blind and helpless mundane my whole life? I see them every single night in my dreams, you know… I am haunted by the cries and howls of my ancestors. Always running, always hiding, never allowed to rest, never allowed to live. No more. I crushed the faeries who stood in my way as if they were cockroaches under my shoe. If there was still such a thing as Shadowhunters, I would have them suffer the same fate, if not worse, for they have betrayed my bloodline just as much.”

As the Herondale King talked, Ash slowly moved his hand to clutch the folded paper inside the left pocket of his jacket. The psychopathic witch that had grown so fond of him – Annabel, the mere thought of her still sent shivers down his spine – had at least taught him one useful thing. How to get out of this hell hole.

He held on tight to the drawing in his bloody fingers. If he focused enough on creating an interdimensional Portal to her… Surely, he would go back to where he came from himself. The drawing had probably been made with material found in Thule, but the artist… the artist was from the other world. Maybe it could work. It was a long shot, but it was the only chance he and Jace had.

My blood, willingly given. He had lost enough blood as it was, but it had certainly not been willingly given. Trying to grab his sword, which was lying a few feet away, would draw too much attention. A deep paper cut could work. That’s how potent his blood was. He brought the paper to the palm of his hand and sliced through the skin, murmuring the incantation.

As the Portal started shimmering before him, Ash heaved a sigh of relief, causing a sting in his lungs. That was the first step. Now, how the hell would he find the strength to haul himself and Jace through it, without being stopped by the Faerie King?

“Wow, you will have to teach me how to do that,” the Herondale King said, showing for the first time a flicker of emotion. “I mean, I probably have enough power for that – Aren’t you like a cheap knockoff of me?”

Ash was spared to give an answer as the King whipped around at the sound of swords being drawn out behind him. The Riders of Mannan. There were only five of them left.

“You again?” The King rolled his eyes. “Ever thought of a retirement plan? Aren’t you like, thousands of years old?”

One of the Riders shrieked. “You killed two of our brothers. It has become personal. We will never acknowledge you as our new King. So that leaves us with only one option.”

“Yep, got it. You pick option B. Getting your decrepit asses kicked by me, myself and I.”

The Faerie King advanced with a casual stride on the five Riders, drawing two longswords that he immediately started twirling as if they were cheerleaders’ batons.

This was Ash’s chance.

He crawled to Jace, grabbing their two swords - Heosphorus and Phaesphorus - on his way. Pulling on a strength he didn’t know he still had, he finally managed to stand, ignoring the ache in his limbs – he had known torture and pain had become a familiar companion – and hauled Jace’s body up and they both stepped through the Portal, with only two swords and a folded bloodstained paper as their interdimensional trip’s luggage. He let himself be transported in between worlds, drained and already fainting from the strained effort.

When he came to, he was lying on a sand beach, the sun barely peeking out from the horizon, casting a reddish glow on the sea. He inhaled deeply the clean and salty air, like a treat to his lungs, so pure compared to the one in Thule. He turned his head to find Jace’s limp body a few feet away. If only he had been taught how to draw the Angel’s Runes his uncle had told him about. The ones that could heal the wounds and ease the pain.

He heard voices and started to drag Jace’s battered body behind a nearby rock, breathing heavily as he did. The fresh air and the sound of the soft push-pull of the ocean made him feel better already.

He peered around to see three figures approaching.

He instantly recognized the girl. Drusilla. She looked a little bit older than he remembered but she had the same thick and luscious dark brown hair and freckled milky skin. She was wearing her pyjamas, black fabric with a pattern of white skulls. She was laughing carelessly, throwing her head back, and it made Ash smile, his zygomatic muscles almost aching as they awakened from their deep slumber. They hadn’t been put to such use in a while. She was holding the hand of a younger boy with rumpled hair of the exact same colour. Their eyes shared the same singular summer-blue shade. Probably her little brother. He seemed to be around ten years old, but Ash wasn’t very good at guessing age.

The third person was a very tall boy, with hair as black as a crow’s feathers, walking along the water’s edge. Ash couldn’t see his face because he was looking away, toward the sea. There was something fragile, almost poetic, in the graceful curve of his neck and the delicate line of his jaw. Something hypnotising about the careful yet purposeful way he moved his long limbs. Ash almost felt disappointed he could not see the face of the person they belonged to.

“Tavvy!” Drusilla cried out as the younger boy released her hand to run to the edge of a tide pool.

He picked something in the water and held it up in triumph.

“Starfish,” he yelled, hopping up and down excitedly. “I have found a starfish!”

Tavvy ran, though not in the direction of his sister, but of the older dark-haired boy.

The tall boy held out his hand and the younger one put the starfish gingerly into the other’s palm.

“Pisaster ochraceus, also known as the purple or ochre sea star,” the mysterious boy said, after a single, swift glance at the starfish. He had a deep, raspy voice.

“It’s beautiful! Please! Please! Can I dry it and keep it in my bedroom at the Institute? I could have it framed, and maybe even painted by Jules!”

“It’s a keystone species that controls mussel populations. It was nearly wiped out by the sea star wasting syndrome. In other words… Waste of a perfectly good starfish,” the voice of the graceful boy caught at his last words and he trailed off, his head still turned toward the sea, almost as if he was no longer talking to Tavvy. He lifted his free hand absently to grasp a shiny object - a silver pendant? - resting on his chest.

The three Shadowhunters snapped their heads in the opposite direction from where Ash was hiding, when a fourth person called. A blond-haired girl – probably a Shadowhunter as well, though she had pointy ears - was coming down the beach wearing slippers, an apron tied around her slender body.

“Breakfast is ready! I have managed not to burn the whole stack of pancakes this time.”

Ash heard his stomach growl. How long had it been since he had last eaten? Probably days. But much sharper than the pain caused by hunger or even by the battle wounds, he felt longing… Longing for a normal life, in a normal happy family. What would he not give for carefree strolls on the beach in the dawn, surrounded by loved ones, followed by something as simple as a breakfast of – even burnt he didn’t mind – pancakes?

The landscape swirled and changed into the dark, dirty and moisty walls of a cell. He was so thirsty, so hungry, and so cold. Two Unseelie guards were staring at him through the bars, with a smirk on their narrow faces.

“We are here to bring you to your bedroom. Yes, you will get a bedroom. How fancy is that? The King just wanted to make sure you knew it was in your best interest to fully cooperate. From now on, and for as long as you behave, you will benefit from the most luxurious accommodation befitting to your royal lineage.” Ash – the younger, clueless version of him – found he did not care for a fancy room. He had known the most decadent living conditions and the worst. Knowing the full spectrum, he had realized nothing really mattered but a place to call home. Mom, where are you when I need you the most?

The door rattled and one of the guards came in.

“You have a pretty face, skinny boy,” he said, as he opened Ash’s bloody shackles. “When we will have cleaned you up, maybe you and I could have a little fun.”

Ash spat on the rude intruder.

The faerie was about to slap him when the other guard grabbed his wrist.

“Careful… He is the Seelie Queen’s son. You can’t take liberties with him as you can with other regular prisoners.”

“He may be of royal blood, but his father Sebastian Morgenstern died leaving us alone to bear the consequences of his mad plans, to suffer the Cold Peace. The traitor is the reason why the Fair Folk are treated as if they are less than nothing.”

A wave of pure hatred – that he had not felt at the time, having never met his father – woke Ash up from his dreams, his whole body drenched in sweat. He almost sighed in relief as he realized he was in his wide bedroom, in the house in the hollow hill.

There was a pain in his stomach, different from the one caused by hunger. He immediately ran to his bathroom and retched above the sink. There had been no time to run to the toilet. He opened the tap and splashed water over his face. As he stared at himself in the mirror, he noticed there were dark circles under his eyes and that his features, although smooth and ageless as all faeries’ were, bore the permanent mark of having seen too much horror, suffered too much pain, loneliness, and sorrow before he had even reached adulthood. He swiftly schooled them into the mask he wore in public. He had become good at that.

****

“Riders of Mannan, tremble!” Mina cried out as she burst into the kitchen and started running around the table on her little legs, brandishing her Cortana baby-sized wooden replica. Her dark hair was now long enough that she could wear them in two tiny braids. It was Kit’s job, and Mina loved to barge into his room at ungodly hours with a hairbrush to jump up and down on his bed until he had performed his daily task. So much for privacy.

“Oh no, here comes Emma Carstairs!” Kit raised an empty pan from the stove to use it as a shield. “Quick, run! Or she will end us all!”

“Nooooo, Kit-Kat” Mina paused to strike a dramatic pose and rolled her eyes. “You are not a Rider.”

“No? What am I today?” He asked, putting down the pan.

“My fiancéééé!”

“Ooooh.” Kit drew himself to his full height, putting on a very serious don’t-mess-with-mine-and-I-won’t-mess-with-you face and brushed his hand through his hair in a mock nervous gesture. “Beware Riders, I will strike you with my wits, if not my crossbow.”

“No. Not Julian. I have changed my mind. I want to marry Tiberius Blackthorn!” She said and shook both her hands in front of her the way she always did when she was very excited about something.

“Oh. Oh. Well don’t tell Julian that, I am not sure he will appreciate the swap.”

“Do Tiberius! Do Tiberius!” Mina exclaimed, hopping up and down. Kit knelt in front of her and rested his hands on her shoulders to calm her down. “Do him, please!” Mina whined.

“Sure, Min. I will imitate Tiberius but please stop shouting that,” Kit said, feeling heat rush up his entire face.

“Yeaaay! Do him!”

“SHHHHhhh,” Kit said, putting a finger on her pouty lips. “Understood, Min-Min. I will play Ty’s part.”

Their parents were in the room next door and though both knew that he and Ty were a thing now, Kit had obviously not gone into detail as to the physical part of their relationship. He expected that they would simply guess and leave it at that.

He had a vivid memory of the time he had been cornered to sit through the “sex talk.” Tessa and Jem had made some Earl Grey tea and scones for the occasion and had taken the opportunity during one of Mina’s naps, to go through the whole process of explaining to Kit that it was the most natural thing in the world and that he shouldn’t feel uncomfortable raising any questions he had on the subject. Kit had dutifully listened, his head bent and his ears red, slouched in the middle of the couch, fingers knotting and unknotting where they rested on his lap. As the awkward conversation had gone on and on, he had disappeared little by little into the plump cushions, wishing he could vanish entirely inside the furniture.

Jem had been the old-fashioned gentleman, talking about “mutual respect” and “the shared responsibility of contraception and adequate protection”, but had been clearly as red faced as Kit, while Tessa had been the modern mom, freely and animatedly speaking about “exploring one’s sexuality” and “ignoring peer pressure and imaginary standards��.

When Jem had started listing all the STDs he had encountered in his life as a Silent Brother, Kit had secretly hoped there was poison in the tea. Dropping dead in the middle of the living room would have made for an adequate diversion. Fortunately, Tessa had silenced Jem with a glare.

In the back of his mind, Kit had wondered if Ty had gone through the same ordeal. He had imagined scary-overprotective Julian discussing sexual intercourse and condoms and had suddenly been profoundly relieved that – where Kit was concerned – the task had befallen to Tessa and Jem.

Kit had to admit, they employed the same thoroughness and dedication in everything they taught him. With Jem, Kit had learnt how to fight, how to heal wounds, how to waltz and – though that part still required a lot of training to get over his bad habits – how to behave like a gentleman. Tessa had taught Kit how to drive, how to cook and how to uncover and harness his First Heir powers. Both his parents had given him history lessons and they were the reason why he now knew how to speak five languages. He had read more books since he had joined their home than throughout the rest of his previous life. While Johnny Rook had taught Kit how to pick locks and steal pockets, Tessa and Jem had taught him trust and boundless generosity.

Truth be told, they were the best parents he could ever have dreamt of. He had the best family he could ever dream of, he thought, watching Mina’s big dark eyes widening as her gaze caught the plate of homemade chocolate cookies.

“Oooh you baked cookies! Can I have one Kit-Kat? Pleeeeeease?” Thank God for her short attention span.

“You already had a croissant this morning, Mina. You can have a cookie tomorrow. Remember, us Shadowhunters must eat healthily.”

Mina raised her eyebrow at him, in a way that reminded him of his boyfriend. Kit slipped a cookie in her tiny fingers.

“One. And remember how generous I was when I am sent away to sugar-addicts rehab and I beg you for one last shot of candy for the road.”

Mina nodded. He loved the way she always acted as if she understood his ramblings.

“Kit?” Tessa called as she entered the kitchen, waving her phone. “It’s Jace. He tells me you’ve been dodging his calls.”

“I am not here,” Kit mouthed.

“He told me you would say that. So, he wants you to know he still has this picture of you from last Christmas and he will not hesitate to send it to a certain dark-haired Centurion if you don’t take the call.”

Kit shot out his hand, palm up, and Tessa handed over her phone.

“This is blackmail.” Kit tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder as he swept the plate of cookies away from sight.

“Never said I was above blackmail. Just make sure it’ll work if you are ever to use it.”

“Is it another one of your cardinal rules and guidelines to being a proper Herondale? I am pretty sure half of them are made up.”

“They’re not.”

“They are,” Tessa mouthed, grimacing, as she whisked Mina away from the kitchen.

“So, here’s the thing. I usually act as a guest lecturer at the Academy, you know, for basic stuff. Learning how to jump and fall properly, balance in swordfight, choice of weapon… I was scheduled for next week, but Clary decided to plan her art gallery opening at the same time. So, I was looking for the best person to fill my shoes and of course immediately thought… who else than Kit?”

“Liar. I know you asked Emma first. What’s her excuse?”

“She sprained her ankle during training two days ago.”

“She posted a video of herself dancing in a nightclub with Cristina and Mark. That was yesterday.”

“This girl sure knows how to put on a brave face.”

“She was doing backflips in front of a cheering crowd.”

“Like I said, brave face. So, you’re in?”

“Do I really have a choice?”

“Not really, but I thought it would be nicer if I asked.”

“Whatever.” Kit grumbled.

“Great. You won’t regret it. I will even buy you dinner in Manhattan while you’re in New York. Fancy restaurant with amazing desserts.”

“Are you trying to seduce me, Jace Herondale?”

“Just lie down and let me do the rest.”

“WHAT?”

“Sorry, not talking to you. I’m in the middle of a training session. We’re stretching. Have you trained this morning?”

“It’s 2 PM here, Jace. I’m on my break. I already trained for six hours, starting at the crack of dawn.”

“You put us all to shame.”

“So, I guess I’ll leave you to it.”

“I was not finished.”

“Raziel, what else is there?”

“The Scholomance is sending a Centurion to represent them and provide a two-days training course for the Academy’s senior students who wish to apply to join them after they graduate.”

“Oh,” Kit said, with a familiar flutter around his stomach. “Do you…” He swallowed. “Do they already know who they will send?”

“Probably that Joshi guy. But it’s not set in stone. Jia Penhallow told me they have been trying to convince their best Centurion to go for months now, but he keeps saying no.”

“Oh, so he gets to say no.”

“I told her Herondales can’t resist a challenge...”

“You didn’t.”

“… and that I had a secret weapon to convince him to go this time.”

“You mean me.”

“Use your body!”

“WHAT?”

“Not talking to you, sorry. Beatriz, use your whole body’s strength, not just the muscles in your arms!”

“Thank the Angel.”

“What was I saying?”

“You were using me to try to convince Tiberius Blackthorn – who absolutely loathes talking in public, by the way – to give a two-days training course at the Academy for Scholomance applicants. Jace, I don’t know how I feel about this. I don’t want him to feel obligated in any way, just because…”

“… just because you let him play with your sword?” Jace offered.

“God, Jace. I am going to pretend you never said that.”

“Make us proud.”

“I hate you.”

“Love you, too. Gotta go. Catch up later.”

“Jace,” Kit groaned in frustration, but Jace had already hung up.

Tagging @gabtapia <3

#the dark artifices #the wicked powers #kit and ty #kit herondale x ty blackthorn #kit herongraystairs #kit herondale #ty blackthorn #tiberius blackthorn #jace herondale #jem carstairs #tessa gray #mina carstairs #tsc fan fiction #cassandraclare #the shadowhunters chronicles icons #the shadowhunter chronicles

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aidanchaser · 2 years

Text

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Everyone Lives AU

Table of Contents beta’d by @ageofzero @magic713m @ccboomer @aubsenroute @somebodyswatson

Chapter Twenty-Eight The Final Horcrux

The pain was blinding and shared.

The silver doors of Gringotts that had once stood proud and fierce were rent and crumpled by powerful talons. They laid limply on the cracked white flooring.

He could not fathom the truth he knew was coming.

“My Lord,” the goblin at his feet trembled, “w-we tried to stop them… Im-imposters, my Lord. Imposters broke into the Lestrange’s vault —”

Though he already expected the answer, already felt the truth crawling into his bones, he asked, “Impostors? What impostors? I thought Gringotts had ways of revealing impostors?” His hand tightened around his wand and the words slipped from his mouth in a sharp rush. “Who were they?”

“It was the P-potter boy and his father… and three accomplices.”

He hesitated, surprised by this revelation. Perhaps not all was lost. Perhaps it was only the sword that the boy was after. If Regulus Black had not been involved, then perhaps there was truly nothing to fear…

But he had to know. He was not used to panic, but his blood sang with it now. He had to know!

“And what did they take?”

“A… a small golden cup, my Lord.”

The rage and fear that filled him swelled from his core, consuming him and the boy he was so unfortunately tethered to in a single fell swoop.

He was no longer in Gringotts with goblins grovelling at his feet; he stood instead in the girl’s bathroom at Hogwarts, whispering to the figure of the coiled snake along the sink, embedded into the tap that had not worked since it had been built. Only he, the Heir of Slytherin, had uncovered its secret.

The floor opened beneath him and so did one of the bathroom stalls behind him. She was an obnoxious girl with thick glasses and an excess of pimples. He did not hear what she said; he was too busy listening to Slytherin’s pet — his pet.

The giant basilisk’s head emerged from the sink, and as he commanded stared directly at the girl. Her thick glasses were no protection from its deadly stare. She fell to the ground, cold and limp, and he retrieved his diary from his pocket and retreated to the chamber that only he had discovered. This had not been his plan, but it would suffice. The damage had been done and it could not be undone, so he ought not waste it. He used the notes within his diary to carefully, skillfully, draw the runes required to sever his freshly damaged soul.

The mansion’s dining hall was grand, at least when it came to Muggle residences. It was nothing like the grandeur of Hogwarts, of course, but it was enough that jealousy burned inside of him. This could have been his home if his foolish, weak mother had done as a witch ought to have and survived. She could have taken this for herself; she should have taken it for him.

He had never cast the Killing Curse before, but he cast it thrice without hesitation, killing the older couple and their adult son who had just sat down to dinner. The bottle of wine that had been set with the meal fell to the floor and soaked into the rug. It was the only sign, other than the slumped bodies, that anything had gone wrong. He laid his uncle’s solid black ring, etched with an unfamiliar crest, on the table and began to draw the runes around it as he had with his diary less than a year ago.

The old woman’s smile was as sickening as his grandmother’s. Her house was stuffed full of wealth, of history, and of objects that did not belong to her. He struggled to hide his glee as he poured her tea. Impatience would not do now, not when he was so close.

He watched, eager as the plump woman shuddered and gasped — then she was still. The damage to his soul was familiar by now. He could tell when a mark had been made, and though the damage itself no longer hurt, he knew it would be agony to rend it in two. Still, he did not hesitate. He pried the golden cup out of its silk setting and began his ritual.

The foul creature approached him on the dark, empty street. It reeked of human waste, and a scraggly beard covered half of its face. It wore a tattered scarf and coat and dared to extend a hand to him and ask for money.

He had not yet found a suitable kill for the locket. He was not ready to make his name public just now, and though it disgusted him to make this kill into one of his treasured objects, he was not one for waste. He killed the foul Muggle and dropped the locket into the centre of his circle of runes.

The diadem had been so difficult to find. He had spent ages wandering the forests of Albania, memorising the trees and trails, and he was eager to have the diadem transformed. The first woman he crossed, in her ragged clothes and worn shoes became the impetus for his fifth Horcrux. He was no longer interested in the worth of his victims, not when he was so nearly finished with his plans.

Concealing each object proved to be as challenging as finding them. He returned the ring to his ancestral home. No one but Dumbledore, who had told him of the Gaunts, who had offered him a chance to know his family as if that was something that he wanted or needed, was aware of his parentage. The ring would be safe here.

The caves he had explored as a boy became a suitable hiding place for the locket. He Charmed the stone, he Summoned the corpses to the water, he poured the poison over the locket. No wizard could get here and survive, none but him, who knew the protections around it, who would readily sacrifice a servant should he need to retrieve the locket.

The diary and the diadem were harder to hide. He wanted one more Horcrux, to split his soul into seven pieces. Seven would offer the best protection, and he had one more founder of Hogwarts to bring into his collection. He needed the Sword of Godric Gryffindor, and why not solve two problems at once?

But he did not see the sword in Dumbledore’s office, and he was forced to leave empty handed. It was not all a loss. A short detour on the seventh floor led him to the Room of Requirement. The diadem would be safe there. No one knew Hogwarts’ secrets as intimately as he did. No one would ever find it.

He left the diary in the care of Lucius Malfoy, and the cup was given to Bellatrix Lestrange. His two most loyal servants, who had donated their time, money, and blood to his magical conquest, could be trusted with these precious artefacts. They had the power and influence that he had always deserved, and they had the means to protect such items while he decided how he would craft his sixth Horcrux and split his soul into its final seventh piece.

Then the prophecy reached his ears and he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, where he would make his seventh Horcrux.

He approached the Potters’ hidden home on that cold, windy, Halloween night. He threw open the entrance and within moments the father had come running — what a fool, to arrive without a wand.

But the bigger fool pushed his way forward.

“Pettigrew?” he sneered in disbelief. Was the foolish man who had led him here truly going to throw his life away like this? It made no sense. “What are you doing here?”

“You can’t —” The fool bumbled over his words. “I won’t let you. He’s just a baby.”

“Now? You choose now to defy me?”

“Yes.”

“I have no desire to spill unnecessary magical blood. Stand aside.”

“No. If you want to kill the baby, or hurt James and Lily, you’ll have to kill me first.”

It was so foolish, so arrogant. He wanted to spite this poor man, punish him for his treachery. It was the child and the parents that had moved him so? Then he would watch them die. All of them.

He took aim at Potter instead. The green spark shot from his wand and Pettigrew, fool as he was, intercepted it. His body hit the floor with a dull thud.

He felt the familiar damage. It was nothing, certainly nothing compared to the anger and rage he felt as he Stunned Potter. Perhaps the pureblood could be reformed somehow, reshaped into what Voldemort needed, since he was of no use as a means of torturing Pettigrew, and of no use to his family without his wand.

He climbed the stairs to the boy’s bedroom and found the mother standing between him and the cradle. He did not understand why Severus had asked him to spare this woman, but he kept his word.

“Stand aside, you silly girl.”

But she did not stand aside. She lifted her wand and an explosion knocked him off his feet.

With a snarl he hurled the Killing Curse at the cradle. It shattered the woman’s Shield Charm and struck the child. The room filled with a brilliant green light and pain ripped through him as the Curse rebounded, leaving him nothing more than a fragment, drifting, reliant on others to bring him back to power.

When he was nearly whole again, he ordered Barty Crouch, Jr to bring the traitor Igor Karkaroff to him. Karkaroff had been a suitable helper while Crouch had left to kill Bertha Jorkins, to make up for his terrible mistake, but now Karkaroff had to pay for denouncing him.

The old man begged, which was new for his victims. He so rarely gave them a chance to speak before bringing about their end. But he let Karkaroff weep, let him make empty promises and plead for his life, and then he killed him.

As he stared at the man’s still, prostrate form, he felt the damage in his soul as he did after each kill. Pettigrew had prevented him from making his final Horcrux, but he supposed Karkaroff was as worthy a kill, certainly worthier than the Muggle tramp or Albanian peasant woman.

With his wand, he drew the runes around his frail body and called for Nagini, the loyal pet who had sustained him in this horrid form. His soul had spent many years flitting about between animals until their bodies wore out, but she was stronger, and the ritual would bind them more completely. She was a fitting host for his final Horcrux. She slithered towards him and coiled her cool body around him as he rent his soul again.

The Sword of Godric Gryffindor sat before him, after all these years. He was not sure that his soul would sustain another tear, but he no longer had six Horcruxes to support him. That traitorous Regulus Black had seen to that, and Malfoy’s foolishness had cost him the diary. At least Black would never be able to open the locket. At least he was certain that the cup was safe, now that Bellatrix had moved it from Paris to Gringotts. And now that Dumbledore was dead, no one alive knew of his past and could find the ring he had hidden in his family home. And certainly no one else knew the secrets of Hogwarts as intimately as he did. He may have lost the diary and the locket, but he had the sword, and he could retrieve the locket when he killed Black. His collection of Founders items would be complete.

The woman’s body was still warm as Nagini swallowed her whole. He drew the runes around the sword and, as he had done so many times before, tore his soul in two. But it did not do as the runes commanded. As the fragment of his soul touched the sword it burned painfully. Something was terribly wrong. He scrambled for something, anything to protect this vulnerable part of him —

His wand was the first thing he reached for. The wand that he had been given at the age of eleven in Diagon Alley, the wand that tethered him to the boy — the wand that was woven into the prophecy. Yes, it would do. It would do just as well.

Harry was drowning. He remembered when the wand had plunged him under in a similar fashion, kept him from the senses in his body. He fought against the current of Voldemort’s thoughts. He struggled to think of his family, of his friends, of Ginny, of everyone that he had ever loved and who had loved him in return.

He pushed back against Voldemort’s rage, pain, and fear with his own compassion. The grief of remembering his own wand, snapped in two, helped, and the pain began to fade, but the drowning sensation did not.

Because he was drowning.

Something grabbed his shoulders. Harry struggled, but could not grab his wand. He remembered, vaguely, that he could no longer use this hand. He twisted, struggling against whoever held him and groped with his other hand for his wand. The grip on him only tightened and pulled on him, but he did not have the wits to know if he was being pulled up or down. He panicked and tried to breathe —

He broke the surface of the water. He sputtered and coughed and, probably much to his rescuer’s relief, stopped struggling.

“Bloody hell, mate,” Ron grunted. “Don’t you dare do something like that again.”

“Ron!” Hermione shouted. “Harry!”

Harry struggled to open his eyes. Despite the overcast sky and late hour, the sunset seemed so bright. He felt as though he had been stuck in darkness for so long. His head still ached dully, a distant reminder of Voldemort’s agony, but he focused on his surroundings.

They were in a lake, and though Harry did not remember how they had gone from the back of a dragon to cold water, he could fathom a guess.

“I’m sorry,” he said to Ron, and searched in the direction of Hermione’s voice. He hoped Neville and his father were with her.

“Can you swim alright?” Ron asked.

His body was weak, as it always was after a dip into Voldemort’s mind, but he refused to be useless. “Yeah.”

Ron kept a hold on him, working to keep them both above water as they swam towards Hermione’s voice. Neville and James were not far, and together they swam for shore.

Fortunately, it was not a long swim. The lake was not small, but it was also not deep. Before long, slimy mud and clumps of reeds squelched around Harry and Ron’s shoes. The walk through the muck and water was not any less taxing than a swim, but at least Harry was less afraid of drowning in it.

Together, he and Ron stumbled through the mess of vegetation and onto the shore. Harry collapsed into the reeds and stared up at the clouds above, now tinged pink and gold by the sunset. The dragon’s roar carried well across the water and he forced himself to sit up and gauge the threat. His body ached with protest, but he lifted his head above the thin stalks.

The pale dragon was pearlescent in the sunset. Its white, translucent scales caught the sky’s multitude of colours and reflected them in new hues as it dove down into the water and back up in a spray of colour. It was beautiful, and Harry was glad he could appreciate that beauty, since the dragon was on the opposite side of the lake, and in search of things more interesting than a cluster of humans who had hitched a ride.

The reeds cracked and thrashed beside Harry, and he turned quickly, half expecting to see a dragon running towards him, but it was only James, Hermione, and Neville.

“You’re alright!” Hermione practically sobbed.

Harry instinctively pressed his hand to his head, though he knew pressure had never mitigated the pain in his scar before. “Yeah, I’m alright,” he said.

James knelt beside him and checked for any obvious breaks or wounds, but of course there were none, none except the burns they had received in the Lestrange vault.

“It was just a… a dip in his head…” Harry explained. “Nothing unusual.” Harry winced as Voldemort’s rage struck him again. He caught a glimpse of Gringotts again, of the broken floor and wizards and goblins alike prone and unmoving before Lord Voldemort. Voldemort’s destination flashed briefly in his mind: Malfoy Manor. “He’s just ridiculously angry.”

“Are you sure?” James asked.

“I promise, Dad, I’m alright. It wasn’t as bad as last time,” he said, and was grateful for Ron’s foresight in the bank’s vault. If he had been the one carrying the cup when Voldemort’s vision had struck, it really could have been the wand and the diadem all over again.

“Let’s get back to the castle,” James said, and pulled Harry to his feet.

But Harry quickly pulled his hand away, afraid his father might Side-Along him without warning. “Dad — we can’t. We have to go to Hogwarts.”

“Hogwarts?” Hermione, Ron and Neville repeated.

James looked into Harry’s eyes with a frown. “I think you might have hit your head a bit hard on the water. I tried to cast a Cushioning Charm, but you fell so quickly —”

“I’m fine, Dad, honest. We have to get to Hogwarts before You-Know-Who.”

James shook his head. “We’re going back to the castle first. At least to get help.”

“We don’t have time! He knows we have the cup. He thinks the diadem is at Hogwarts, and he needs to know if we’ve found it. He already knows that Dumbledore and Regulus found the others, and he’s checking Malfoy Manor for the wand first, but the diadem’s the one he’s been counting on as safe this whole time. He’s panicked. We have to get to Hogwarts before he does.”

“No,” James said firmly. “You’re all hurt, and your mother and Sirius are waiting for us. You’ve already destroyed the diadem, so it won’t be there when he arrives. We won’t lose anything.”

“Except the students he’ll kill in his rage, Dad! And we don’t have the sword. We’ll need the Sorting Hat to summon it.”

“He’s got a point,” Ron said. “I’d love to go back for sandwiches and some burn salve, but it sounds like we should get to Hogwarts quickly.”

James let out a long, exasperated sigh. “And how do you suggest we do that? We can’t Apparate into Hogwarts.”

Neville frowned. “I’m sorry, Harry. If I’d been with you all from the beginning — I bet this is what the feather was really for. I could have taken us to Hogwarts.”

“Don’t be daft, Neville,” Hermione said. “Dumbledore never believed there was a Horcrux in Hogwarts. Whatever he thought when he gave you the feather, you used it when you needed it. That’s what matters.”

Neville sucked in a deep breath and stared at Hermione with wide eyes, but he said nothing more.

“We can’t get into Hogwarts,” James repeated, “so we’re going back to the others. Come on.” He held out his hands, but no one reached for them.

“You know,” Ron said thoughtfully, “couldn’t we Apparate into Hogsmeade?”

“Oh!” said Hermione, and Neville’s eyes brightened.

“We can go to the Hog’s Head!” Neville said. “We’ll be safe there.”

“Brilliant,” Harry said. He reached for Hermione’s hand and looked at his father. “Dad, if you want to go back to the castle and tell them we’re alright, we can go on ahead.”

James ran his hand through his hair and eyed the four of them critically, like he was searching for some excuse, some way to break through their argument. His reluctance gave way to surrender as he realised that he was outmatched. “No, I won’t let you go alone. But I am warning you, your mother is going to kill all of us before You-Know-Who gets a chance to.”

#dh #hp everyone lives au #hp everyone lives

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lailoken · 3 years

Text

‘The Tools of Cunning’

“The Knife

A blade used by the Pellar is sharp and it will cut, for that is the nature of the tool. It is usually single edged with a hilt of bone, horn or wood, and is traditionally crafted by the witch's own hand as far as their skills will allow, or received as a gift. The Pellar's knife is used for tasks both practical and magical, it can be used to cut and carve new wooden tools, to dig holes and even to open a tin of paint. If you make good practical use of your knife in the mundane world, your faith in its ability to aid you in magical matters will be all the greater. The knife or collel of a Cornish witch is used to send magic over long distances, for weather magic, to conjure and bless the ritual fire or simply the candle's flame. It is used to conjure the red serpent; the 'fire in the land', and to awaken the Cunning flame within. It can subdue troublesome spirits and exorcise, but it is not used to conjure the working circle.

The Cup

Materials that have had life are most favoured to fashion the cups used by Cunning folk, the majority of cups I know of are made from horn. They are used in the Troyl rite for the ritual sharing of drink and food that is so vital to maintain the bonds berween witch, Bucca, the ancestors and the serpent.

The Bowl

This is used also in the Troyl rite to hold the sacramental food, and to leave food offerings overnight to the spirits, traditionally at the back door of the cottage or at the hearth - where the offering may also be made to the witch's familiar spirits and other serving spirits. Newly prepared magical substances or charms are also left in the bowl on the hearth overnight, thus allowing the settling in of the prevalent planetary or lunar virtues for which their making was timed to coincide, along with other raised powers and intent. The bowl is often made from wood, clay or horn. A good bowl or basin of copper is also sought after and kept by most Cornish witches. It has many uses and is most often employed in workings of healing, seeing' and of course love; copper being the metal sacred to Venus.

The Cauldron

Keep a good old cauldron; it is a useful tool for both magic and ritual use. Older ones are best for they are full of character, and usually a better quality casting. I must admit that of all my tools my dear big old cauldron, Old Bet', is perhaps my favourite. Along with a large cauldron, Cornish practitioners have also traditionally kept a small portable' example, handy when the Pellar is making visits to their clients. A cauldron has its most obvious use as the cooking vessel for magical ointments, or the food for a ritual feast, hung over the hood fire'. In ritual or magic, it is a symbolic portal of the Otherworld and a vessel of change; a womb of generation or a tomb of consumption, depending on intent and the phase of the moon, Herbs and magical substances can be cast into a caukdron with smoukdering embers, or a small fire kindled within, and the required virtues stirred up with the Pellar's staff, conjuring that which is required into manifestation within the rising smoke issuing forth from the vessel's depths. Visions and spirits can be conjured in this way, to be born forth from the Otherworld during generative workings of the waxing and full moon. Indoors, during workings at the hearth, a candle may burn within the cauldron, with herbs smouldering on charcoal and other symbolic items arranged also within. Above this are conjurations made with repetitive stirring gestures and muttered chants. During the waning or dark of the moon, those things that are required to be gone can be placed within the cauldron fire, in the form of symbolie items, images, knotted cords or pertinent substances, as the witch stirs or moves quietly about it in a sinistral circle, willing the undesired thing to be gone. In seasonal rites things may be born symbolically forth from the cauldron or sacrificed within, and it may become a vessel for sacred fires of the year.

Sweeping Tools

Sweeping magic was, and is, much used by Coenish practitioners. The most famous sweeping tool, the winch's broom, is symbolic of travel berween the worids, and passage from one phase into another. In ritual, it may sweep the working circle, not only as a tool of esorcism sweeping away influences that might impede or interfere with the work, but as a symbolic gesture to establish that exchange between the worlds is about to take place there. The beoom is used in magic so sweep bad influences out of the house, and fortunate or lucky influences in at certain times of the year. In curse magic, ill-innent and bad or unlucky influences can be swept via the beoom into the doorway of an enemy or wrongdoer. Feather sweepers are traditional West Country working tools, most often fashioned from long goose feathers bound with wax, or goose fat and string, to form a handie. Sometimes a left hand and right hand sweeper will be kepe the left hand one to sweep harmful or unlucky influences away and the right hand one to sweep in fortunane or lucky influences, others have kept a single sweeper for both actions, switching hands acconding to intent. The sweeping gestures may be made over a candle, charm, or symbolic item, or to sweep virtues and influences in, or out of a place such as a client's home. Magical sweeping gestures might also be made over a person or an animal. In this way, sweepers may also be employed within healing work; to sweep away the ailment from the affected part of the body with the left hand, and then to sweep in the healing influence with the right. The witch's whisk is a West Country sweeping tool parely used to exonrcise evil spiries and negative influences from a place. It is made by binding thirteen dried and thorny blackberry twigs together, using the string binding to form a handle. The ends of the twigs are set alight in a blessed fire, and the smoking whisk is waved and danced around the place with vigoeous gestures to ward off all evil and harmful influences. Conversely, a similarly bound bundie of rwigs, such as Pine, may be employed in a similar fashion. In this case however, the West Country witch is drawing helpful spirits to the working place, attracted by the pleasingly scented wood smoke.

Drums

Various kinds of drum may be kept by West Country witches, for they are useful within the circle for drumming up sproul and the presence of helpful spirits. They may also be emploved to drive awan evil spirits and negative influences. Cecil Williamson gives two interesting recommendations for West Country witch drumsticks - ones made of glass, the handles of which must have unfinished ends, being useful for banishing harmful influences, calling upon the aid of helpful spirits and for drumming up changes in the weather. Drumsticks formed from human arm bones however are recommended to drum up the presence of any required spirit.

Wind Roarers

Another noise-making ritual tool wind roarens, or "bullroarers have been employed within tradicional magical ritual and spiritual ceremony in many cultures and in many places across the globe, including here in the West Country They must be specially formed from hand wood, and spun above the witch's head in the air, they produce strange and otherworldly throbbing, moaning sounds. These are employed by the West Country witch to atract helpful spirits and to raise spirit forces at the creation of an outdoor working space, and to aid the achievement of trance states These may more usually be employed to begin simple, solitary workings, although I have heard three wind roarers used sogether during a working gathering of wise- women here in Cornwall, the sound was quite remarkable and the Hidden Company' left no doube that they had drawn close to see what was going on! Stones would also be carried as protective amulets and provide warning of the presence of poison by sweating. Devil’s Finger also known as Thunder Bolts are the belemnite fossil. They have been used in Cormwal by Cunning folk who also named them Sea Stones o make predictions by casting one or more and reading the directions in which they point. Waner in which Devil’s Fingers had been soaked for some time is seen in eradition to have curative powers against worms in hones as wellas rheumatism and eye complaints. They are also used by the Cunning to add potency to workings, sometimes being incorporated into charms or set into the end of curative wands. Tongue Stones are the fossils of sharks' teeth which, to the ancients, appeared to be the petrified tongues of serpents. Kept in the home they would ward off misfortune and prevent snakes from entering. Tongue stones are also worn as protective charms against evil and to protect the wearer from snake bites. Immersed in red wine they would provide a cure from venoms and poisons. Toad Stones were believed by our ancestors to grow inside the heads of toads. Most known examples of Toad Stones have been found to be the fossilised teeth of the extinct fish Lepidotes. Toad stones were most often set into rings to provide protection and to aid healing rites. Stings and bites could be cured by the Charmer's Toad Stone ring being touched to the affected area and worked against all venoms and poisons. The Toad Stone ring will warn the wearer of poison by becoming warm in its presence. Necklaces West Country witches, male and female, will often wear a necklace or pendant of magical virtue. Such things as hag stones and bird's feet are used. Strung beads of serpentine, quartz and obsidian represent the serpent and the generative and introspective virtues. A particularly potent and traditional West Country witch necklace consists of strung snake vertebrae, sometimes with the inclusion of glass beads, conferring upon the wearer serpentine powers and the ability to work with the "spirit force' of the land.

To Hood the Tools

The ways to empower the tools and to charge them with life and virtue are many and are to be determined by the nature of the tool itself, it is also the case that each practitioner may have their own ways. Following the exorcism of the item, with the aid of purging and cleansing substances, it will be charged with the powers and virtues pertinent to its nature and use. They may also be anointed with Witch Oil, and passed through the smoke of a pertinent suffumigation before being bound with the practitioner's working cord, to seal in the virtue, and left over night on the hearth. There are also such traditional actions as the anointing of tools with three crosses of spittle, the breathing of life into tools and even taking them into the bed for three consecutive nights. Tools are also often buried beneath the ground at known places of power for varying periods to be infused with chthonic force, whilst tools for working with the dead are often charged by the virtues of the North Road and coated with "Spirit of Myrrh'.

The Cunning Altar

The altar and focus of operations within the rites and workings of the Pellar, either at the hearth or outside, traditionally includes four basic things which are the staff, stone, flame and bone. For the staff, the Pellar's traditional working stick is of course most often employed, becoming a bridge/vehicle' to join and give access to the Ways', and a representation of Bucca. Pitch forks or hay forks are occasionally used instead. Within Ros An Bucca, we are fortunate to have a six tined threshing fork, which we employ as the altar within our six main seasonal ‘Furry’ rites. The stone is the foundation stone or hearth stone around which the cultus of the Craft operates. In some traditional groups this is a whetstone that keeps the blade of Cunning ever sharp, but for the solitary witch any of the working stones may be used. Quartz is a good choice for it attracts and enhances the serpentine flow and the breath, whereas obsidian would be more fitting specifically to the new moon. The flame is the flame of Cunning, the light betwixt the horns and the light on the heath that illumines the path of the Cunning Way. It may be a lantern or simply a candle. During indoor rites and workings, where a full 'hood-fire' is not possible, a ‘hood-lamp' may instead be employed upon the altar. Known examples are formed from horseshoes fixed to a wooden base, with a candle fixed between the upward pointing arms of the shoe, or a forked section of tree branch fixed also to a wooden base, with the candle stuck between the forks. This bewitched lamp is both a devotional object, being a potent visual representation of the Horned One and the light betwixt the horns, and a practical item for magic. Just as the hood-fire may be employed magically, so may the hood lamp assist workings to attract that which is desired and banish that which is not, often by the aid of pertinently coloured glass headed pins once the candle is identified with the object of the working. The bone is the representation of the Old Ones, the gods, spirits and ancestors of the Craft and the 'First One' of the Cunning Way. In grand rites this may be an actual human skull, although other smaller human bones are more usefully portable and thus more often used. Animal bones and carved skulls have also been employed for this. Alongside human bones, I also sometimes make use of a pre-historic, yet still sharp, flint cutting tool as a potent link to the ancestors. Some will keep about their person a stone, bone and candle within a handkerchief that along with their stick/ staff, a small flask of drink and a little food, may form a good and proper altar when out and about in the land. The Pellar's blade is also usually carried which doubles as a handy carving tool.”

—

Traditional Witchcraft:

A Cornish Book of Ways

by Gemma Gary

#magic #witchcraft #traditional withcraft #cunning Craft #cunning #Gemma Gary #a cornish book of ways #ritual instruments

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riotwritesthings · 4 years

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The Curious Witch and the Cursed Wolf

Chapter 1: A Man and A Wolf | AO3

Hello! You may have noticed, I am not doing Kinktober this year. Instead, I bring you a fairytale based on the crazy adorable art by @gayspacesprinkles from last October (and used with permission!). Because that’s when we became bros.

HAPPY BRO-ANNIVERSARY BRO. 100/10 would bro again.

Anywhooo updates every Saturday until the spooky day itself, when I will hopefully have a long awaited sequel. Bonus point to anyone who can guess what it will be ahaha.

Title: The Curious Witch and the Cursed Wolf (Chapter 1) Collaborator(s): Riot @buckybarnesbingo Square Filled: C2, AU: medieval/fantasy Ship/Main Pairing: WinterIron Rating: T Major Tags/Warnings: fantasy AU, witch!Tony, wolf!Bucky, fairytale vibes, Non-graphic injury Summary: Once upon a time there was a man, and a wolf. They both went into the forest looking for different things, and instead they found each other. Word Count: 1,288

Once upon a time, there was a man.

Far too clever, too curious, too driven to understand. He always insisted on looking to the future, finding a better way.

The rest of the village didn’t like his talk of the future. They preferred to keep themselves firmly rooted in the present, thank you very much. There was always far too much work to be done.

The man still tried. He learned everything he could, studied math and languages and science. He built fantastical machines using the meager supplies available, genius creations to try and make the work easier, but the people of his small village weren’t interested.

They didn’t like change, and they didn’t understand why the man craved it. They didn’t understand him.

They never asked him to leave, but the man could tell that they wanted to. They gave him the cold shoulder, they whispered about him as he passed in the streets, they treated him like he was already an outsider.

So the man left.

He had plenty more to learn anyways.

~~~

Tony ends up at the edge of a forest, following rumors of magic of all things.

In the tiny village he grew up in, the idea of magic was scoffed at and quickly dismissed. Everyone was too practical, too down to earth, too busy to wonder.

But Tony has always been told that he’s too curious, after all. And he’s always wondered.

So he hears the rumors, and he follows them. From cobble streets to small dirt roads, until he reaches a tiny rundown inn, built right against the edge of a thick, sprawling forest.

“In the trees,” says the wrinkled man behind the desk, in a voice that crackles like a burning log. “Lots of things in the trees, lots of strange and wonderful things.”

He tells Tony about giant beasts and shifting lights, about people who go into the forest and come out healed, stronger, different, about people who never come out at all.

Tony listens late into the night, until the candles burn low and cast wild shadows on the walls, until the inn falls quiet around them. Then he goes up to the attic room and stares at the cracks in the ceiling, the bright starlight that winks through, and struggles to sleep.

He’s too excited, too lost in imagining all the things he can learn, and he finally falls asleep to dreams of moon light on shifting leaves, of cold wind and sharp teeth.

When he leaves in the morning the inn is empty, everything covered in thick layers of dust, cold and empty. As if it’s long been abandoned.

There is undeniably something magical about the forest, as he steps into it.

The trees tower above him, as wide around as the small houses of his old village. He can hear the rustle of giant wings, the call of birds and the shuffle of animals in the brush, but he never sees a thing.

He walks deeper, until the thick leaves cast everything in shadow and the trail gets smaller, until the trail disappears entirely.

There are plants he doesn’t recognize, swirls of minerals in the stones that he’s never seen before. The old man in the inn had given him plenty of warnings, but Tony has always been too curious for his own good.

In a clearing he finds huge chunks of gemstone, bursting through a crack in the earth and splitting off into sharp peaks, surrounded by a perfect circle of flowering vines.

Even in the heavy shadows of the trees, the crystalline structure of the stone glows, as if lit from within. The forest has fallen silent around him.

Tony should know better than to touch something without thorough examination first, but the gentle glow calls him in, beckoning, and Tony reaches out without thought.

The crystal is warm beneath his fingers, almost pulsing, and then a bright light consumes him and a shockwave ripples through the clearing.

He wakes up to birdsong, golden light of sunset making the leaves above him glow, and Tony pushes himself upright slowly.

He appears miraculously unharmed, even if his clothes are a bit worse for wear, although it’s disappointing to see that the shards of crystal have gone dim.

And then Tony realizes, there is still a faint blue glow hovering around the clearing, a glow that’s coming from his chest.

~~~

Once upon a time there was a wolf.

Or maybe he was a man, just caught under a terrible curse. Because sometimes he had dreams about holding a sword, about speaking, about clutching someone’s hand in his own.

But that was a long time ago, and the wolf could barely remember it anymore. He could still make himself understood, if he really tried, and he didn’t have anyone to cling to anymore anyways.

The only constant he had was being hunted, by men and other beasts and figures in dark robes. Always hunted, always being followed, and so he was always on the move.

If the wolf had ever had a home it was a terribly long time ago now, left behind terribly far away. He’d long since stopped dreaming of going back, or of finding a new one.

All he had was running, staying on the move, trying to stay alive.

He tried not to let himself dream of something more.

~~~

The dark figures are getting closer, closer, and the wolf runs faster.

He just needs to make it to the forest, he can lose them in the trees, where the thick leaves will dull the bright light of the full moon.

They won’t follow him very deep into the forest, he knows it although he doesn’t know how. The wolf just needs to keep running.

But it seems like no matter how fast he runs, the forest never gets any closer and the field stretches out endless around him. The tall grass sways in the wind around him, nearly swallowing him whole and still the wolf pushes forward.

The hunters are catching up.

As far back as the wolf can remember, they have been hunting him, and his memory doesn’t even go back that far. Certainly not as far as it should, there’s too many gaps and holes, it doesn’t match how tired and bone-ancient he feels.

He remembers the hunters, though. They are a constant, sometimes in disguise and sometimes in their dark robes, but he always remembers the way they smell. Like lightning and brush fire, and always like blood.

He can smell them now, getting closer.

The moon is so bright above him, and the night is endless, and the field is unending.

Until suddenly the grass ends, and the ground falls away into a sharp cliff.

The wolf’s paws slide in the loose dirt, and he skids to a stop just before he goes over the edge. The ground is so terribly far away, sheer cliff face down to a wide river.

The hunters are moving closer, fanning out, preparing to strike.

The wolf snarls, bares his teeth, glances over the cliff again. The river below rushes loudly, too far down to jump.

His fur stands on end as the scent of smoke and flame grows stronger, the sound of low chanting nearly lost beneath the wind.

He can feel magic building in the air and the wolf crouches low, prepares to run. If he can follow the edge of the cliff, if he can slip past them and make it across the river, maybe he can still make it to the forest.

He has to try.

There’s a bright burst of light, of heat, moving towards him like an arrow. It catches him in the shoulder, and he falls.

#My fic #winteriron #buckytony #starkbucks #buckybarnesbingo #buckybarnesbingo2020 #bucky/tony

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freshneverfrozen · 3 years

Text

Tincture - Chapter One

Or, the one where your author lets us do what Ubisoft wouldn’t. Also, the tropey one.

When her home is burned by a mad Dane, a healer must decide if her fate lies with forgiveness or revenge.

I’m back from the dead to inflict on you all an AC Vahalla Reader fic literally no one is asking for. Is it Reader/Ivarr? Reader/Basim? Reader/Hytham? Who knows? No, like seriously, I don’t know.

Multi-chapter Fic

Pairing: Reader +...uh, Ivarr? You expect me to choose?

Rating: M for mmm, slow burn erotica.

On AO3:

Part One, Two

........................

CHAPTER ONE:

Snow burns. No one had ever told you. It is a scalding cold that stiffens your bones and cracks your teeth, and you are glad the moment the last flurries are behind you.

The people whose company you learn to keep are never as bothered by the snow as you. Their eyes shine like ice and their faces are shadowed and grim. They had not taken to you easily, a foreigner like them, but unlike them, you did not earn your place through rended flesh and broken bones.

You mend their flesh. You set their bones.

Eventually, they began to call you something other than ‘troll’ and ‘witch’. Eventually, your hut is traded for a slant-framed house at the edge of a village that survives both Saxons and Danes.

‘Healer’ they call you, and it’s just as well. You left your name behind in a faraway place.

You count a spring with them and then a summer. But just as the north-country snow melts, time changes all things.

One gray morning, when the mists are heavy over the moors, something besides the creeping cold wakes you. Wood creaks under a layer of furs as you sit up in your bed, rubbing sleep from your eyes and straining to hear again what drew you from sleep.

There is only yawning silence. It stretches past the walls of your house and over the hills. Beyond your walls, the wind is still, the farm animals not yet restless, and the corner fire is long dead past the comfort of crackling embers.

No, you realize. It has not been noise that has awoken you.

A feeling swirls in your gut. That’s it. A pack-and-run instinct that you have trusted before. And just that simply, it occurs to you that life here is over. You can rebuild. But you must first survive.

‘Witch,’ they once called you. ‘Uncanny’ would be closer to the truth.

The floor is chilly beneath your bare feet as you slip from your bed. You grab nothing, not food, nor tincture. With a hand to the cord that holds the small draw-string pouch around your neck, you know you will have only a few pieces of silver. That, and your life, will be enough.

You have felt this feeling before. This knowing.

You take only your dark woolen cloak from the back of a chair and, wrapping it around your shoulders, you peek past the hung sail-cloth that serves as a door and out into the foggy blue of early morn.

Quiet. Still. A calm before a storm.

Yes. You know this feeling.

You melt from the shadows of your home, around the side and between the stables and granary. You know the families. Saxons on one side, Danes on the other. One has children. The other an elderly mother. She had been the first in this place to call you ‘healer’ when you eased the ache in her old bones.

Silently, you move on swift steps until cold mud from the cart path gives way to tall grass that stings your feet. There, you crouch. You move a little further and listen for nothing. The further you go, the more guilt turns your stomach. So many are still asleep in their beds. You are their healer.

But you cannot save them.

Near the edge of the field stands an ancient oak, out of place and far from its brethren in the forests to the east. It stands among the high grass, a field’s width from the village. You lower yourself against the gnarled base, settling down until all can see of the village are the plumes of smoke from the hearth fires drifting into the sky. Your feet are chilled to numbness, caked in mud and grit, but your hands shake too badly to massage the feeling back into them.

Instead, you wait, and you exhale your breath between your knees so that it does not rise above the grass.

And you do not flinch when the first of the battle cries pierce the air. You had known they were coming. Danes. Different from the peaceful breed settled here.

Screams follow smoke, and then follows the wafting scent of blood and shit on the wind.

You had known.

You sink lower against the tree and in an awful moment, wish that you might freeze. When the wishing is unanswered, you try not to listen as the screams grow fewer and farther between. The terror of the butchered turns to gleeful cries from the invaders. How long has it taken? The sun has yet to clear the sky. Another sacking done in England. Danes killing Danes, killing Saxons, killing all. But not you. Not yet.

And then you hear it.

A sound separates itself from the victory din. It begins as a rustling through the grass, not soft as your steps had been, but moving quickly and toward you. A wayward Dane? A survivor?

Lie still, you demand of yourself as your muscles seize on instinct. You press yourself deeper into the dirt. A fool would run. A dead fool. Whatever comes, it cannot know you have hidden yourself here, tucked yourself away amid the roots and reeds.

A set of shoulders and a dark head above them glade over the tall grass. He is a Dane. You can smell the blood on him, see the gleam of it against the shaved side of his scalp. At his nearness, your heart pounds until it rattles your teeth, but you do not take your eyes from him. If he spots you, and only then, you will run. It will be the death of you.

But he cannot see you. Not here. But even as you think them, those thoughts sound like lies.

The Dane curses, and it is then that you hear the slosh of liquid against clay walls. His steps are burdened. Carrying something. He shakes the bulk in his arms and you hear the splatter of something wet over grass and smell the cloying scent of oil and pitch.

They mean to burn the fields.

And you with them.

Why harvest, when you can ransack? Why spare lives, when it is easier to take gold from a corpse?

You are a healer, but you would kill them all if you could.

The Dane moves off, his back to you now. His shoulders are slim, his body lightly armored. If you run, there is every likelihood this one will overtake you. But you cannot wait, not as you hear him call out in his rough language for fire. A torch. You will have to slip away or face certain death in this snare.

You shift, quiet as a hare in the underbrush, and begin to move eastward. Wet ground seeps into the thin fabric of the under-dress you had escaped in, but you ignore the spreading damp against your chest as you crawl. The sound of a horse’s braying and the noise of hooves through grass drives you forward. You know without looking that someone has brought the Dane his torch.

The crack of a mad laugh sets your teeth to grinding. The Dane shouts, “Let the ravens pick their fill through the smoke!”

“Careful that you do not burn with the fields, Ivarr,” says another voice, too full of reason to earn anything other than ridicule.

The Dane laughs again and soon, the rush of fire catching fuel overtakes the sound of him. It spreads and crackles at your back, wind carrying the heat, carrying the flame. Toward you.

You’ve no choice but to run now.

You’re going to die after all. By fire or the swing of an axe, it doesn’t matter. Dead is dead. Perhaps, this is punishment for leaving the others unwarned. If that is so, you are cut by the bitter thought that the divine has been swift in retribution.

Heat licks at your calves sooner than you expect and you push to your feet. The forest is a league away, over crag and hill and the sludge of the moors. You will never outrun them. But perhaps the flame and smoke will hide you --

“Aha! Look there! One last sheep left to gut!” The bark of the Dane drives the breath from you. “Give me your horse!”

“But Ivarr -- “

A snarl from the Dane is all you hear before the noise of your bare feet beating over grass drowns out the rest. The moors. You need only make it to the moors and then the muck and hollows will slow him.

With a gasp of relief, you clear the field, legs burning and catching beneath a skirt heavy with mud. Another small hill lies ahead, this one rocky with moss-covered stones. You dart up the first slope, casting yourself over one rock just as you hear the thundering of hooves nearing.

The Dane laughs, a hollow, delirious sound that you have heard before from madmen you could not cure. You glance back, your eyes drawn to the sheen of teeth. His is a gruesome smile, crooked and jagged like a jack o’ lantern on Samhain. Fear boils away the cold as you register just how near he is, and you spot a hand sweeping at you from the back of a dappled horse.

“Where will you go, foxling?” he jeers. “Run! Run faster! This is no chase!”

A protesting snort from the horse ruffles your hair as you near the top of the hill. The beast proves a blessing, and you throw yourself from its path just as the Dane reaches for you again. With curse, he flails at the air, and before he can turn his mount, you are struck with an idea.

Instinct has always served you well and as it beckons, you listen. Leaping with a snarled cry, you catch hold of the Dane’s outstretched arm. Your weight and the momentum of the horse unseats him and for a moment, a very brief one, your eyes lock with his. They widen, surprise sparking behind the wild blue of them, and in the instant before he falls, you think you see a grin turn his lips.

He strikes the ground with a thud, crying out as the horse’s hooves catch his legs. You leap over his body as it rolls, your fingers twisting into the mane of the horse. One bound and then another, and you find your purchase, swinging yourself up into the saddle. You look back over your shoulder, eyes narrowing in focus on the Dane as the horse rocks beneath you. He staggers to his feet, yards away now, and he laughs.

“Well done, little fox! Run, while I catch my breath!”

His laughs grow louder, wilder, and when you turn from him, you dare not look back again.

………………………………………

There might as well be snow.

English nights are cold when spent in nothing but a damp shift and cloak. The horse, at least, makes good company. The village is three nights behind you now, three nights that you feel in your empty belly. On the first, you had not slept, fearing the mad Dane would appear from the shadows. The second had passed in the cradle of old ruins. The third, you had found an abandoned home.

Now, with morning blooming outside, you saddle the horse, a mare whose name you do not know. You had spent the night considering names for her, to replace whatever the Danes called her, if it had been anything at all, but in the end, you decided on nothing. You’ve little fondness for all the names given to you, so you will not do the same to her.

She is simply the mare, as anonymous as her rider.

A starving rider, you think grimly as you swing into the saddle, with your stomach growling to remind you that wild raspberries do not take the place of bread and mutton.

“Will you share your grass?” you ask the mare as you lean forward to scratch between her ears. “You do not seem as starved as I.”

She snorts as though to say too late, and with a glance at the earth below, you see that she has eaten the greenery to nothing.

Muttering through a smile, you say, “Ah, payment for saving my hide. I understand.”

A half-day’s ride brings rain. You pull your cloak tighter around yourself and take solace in knowing bad weather means fewer travelers, and fewer travelers mean less likelihood of bandits. It is by that reasoning alone that you are surprised to see two figures crest the hilltop ahead. Both ride horses of their own and as they near, you cannot make out their faces for the sodden white hoods they wear.

Better unfriendly than dead, you adjust your own hood, and hunker lower over the saddle. You guide the mare off the path to make way for the riders. Monks? They look like men of the Cloth, perhaps on their way to one of the Saxon holdings. If so, they are riding into Dane territory.

But that is their problem, not yours.

Your teeth grit as one slows his horse as they pass.

“Traveler,” he says, his accent strange, as foreign as yours. “Is it this way to Fremdeleigh?”

Fremdeleigh is ash and ember now.

In your hesitation to speak, you cut your eyes upward beneath the edge of your hood. Looking at the man, a length of curling dark hair falls about a dark, trimmed beard. More than that, you cannot see. The other rider, slightly smaller, hunched as though the ride has pained him, turns his face away. Of him, you can see nothing.

The man is waiting, and should you hesitate longer, you risk more questions. “Fremdeleigh was that way, yes.”

The man is quiet for a stretch.

“Was?” His voice...such a simple questions gives you chills. It is a dangerous voice, one that has you wishing for highwaymen rather than priests. If they are priests. The knives and daggers strapped about the men are not lost on you.

“Perhaps it is, if it still stands. Danes took it three days past.”

The men share a look, though you doubt they can see one another’s eyes. You make to move the mare forward.

“A moment,” says the man. “Do you come from Fremdeleigh?”

“Why do you ask this? What is left of it lies down this road. Brave the Danes, if you must go there.”

“Perhaps I make a habit of braving Danes?” Charm settles in the man’s voice too late. It does little soothe your wariness. “And I ask to know what sort of Danes they were.”

Needling man. You should not let his prying bother you, but Fremdeleigh is not so far behind you that the question’s answer is easy to face.

“The wicked sort,” you reply, and at this, you think you catch a snort of agreement from the second man. “Now, safe travels to you both, strangers.” A rolling growl from your stomach accompanies your words, and you quickly turn your face away.

You have just set your heels into the mare’s sides when the first man calls out, “You’ve a hungry look about you. Perhaps you would trade answers for a meal?”

Another dinnerless night feels more than you can stand. But a part of you would sooner starve than risk a camp alone with these men, who are perhaps not as godly as their robes would claim.

The man seems to read your thoughts. Surely, he has figured you to be a woman by now. An easy target, if he wishes it. “We will not harm you, this we swear. We want only your time and to ask a few questions.”

“Men have done worse to women with smaller promises than that one,” you reply.

The rain is coming harder now. The mare throws her head. If you do not get her beneath the shelter of trees, she may take herself. Your stomach growls again. The pain of emptiness is setting in. You consider your choices for a moment -- a hungry, endless ride through this weather or hooded men, armed to the teeth. Before the man can refute this -- indeed, it seems he’s rather reluctant to argue this at all -- you make up your mind.

“Remove your hood,” you say, “I would know your eyes.”

The twitch of a smile appears beneath the beard. “As you wish.”

He raises his hand and pulls down the hood, revealing a head of thick, black hair to the elements. He is a foreigner, and farther from home than the Danes had been. His skin has the dark cast of men from the east, his eyes darker still.

They are a killer’s eyes. You know it the moment they meet yours and a prickling begins at your neck. But this one is not rabid like the men from whom you had fled. He is a killer, but something tells you he hunts more dangerous prey than you.

“Very well,” you say when you can stand to hold his gaze no longer. “Answers for a meal.”

“You are no longer worried we will kill you?” he asks. You do not think he is as surprised as he feigns.

“No,” you reply simply.

The other man, smaller and quieter, shakes his head beneath his hood. This one thinks you stupid or mad, but he winces before he decides to protest, and just as silently, he settles over his saddle and looks away.

……………………..

The thick trees are shelter enough for the three of you. Several times, as you watch the men set about tying off their horses and building a small fire beneath an outcropping of rocks and a fallen log, you reconsider your foolishness. But when one of the men, the quiet one, retrieves bread from his satchel and places it before the fire, you are finally coaxed down from the mare.

“Here,” he says, handing you the bread and a helping of...dried fish, you realize as you unwrap the parcel. “It is fish.”

You know fish when you smell it. This one does think you stupid, after all. Perhaps he is right. But obvious though the words are, you are surprised to hear that his voice is softer than that of his compatriot. It is better suited to a poet than a man strapped to the teeth in blades. As he pulls away, you get a glimpse of his face, still hidden beneath the hood, and find it younger than the other man’s.

“A Dane’s meal,” you reply, glad your eyes are shielded by your own hood.

“A Dane’s meal is still a meal.” He turns away and sulks over to the far side of the fire. His movements are hitched, a hand going to his side as he lowers himself down. You see no blood on the white of his robes, so perhaps his is an old wound. The healer in you nearly as what ails him, but you hold your tongue and take a bite of bread.

The other man moves more quietly than you would like, crouching beside the fire, his eyes and expression hardly warmed by its flames. He tries to smile at you, but seems to know that will not earn him any faith, and after a moment, his expression slips back into something cold and unreadable.

“I am Basim,” he says, “This is my...friend. You may call him Hytham, if you wish, though I cannot promise he will hear you over his groaning.”

“I am fine,” says the other man, but you know a lie when you hear it.

You swallow your mouthful. “Strange names to hear in England.”

“Strange times,” mutters Hytham.

Basim’s eyes run from your feet -- still bare -- to your face, and you fight the urge to draw in on yourself. The urge passes as you realize there is nothing lecherous in the look; it is...appraising. It sees more than you care to reveal, and you make up your mind to eat quickly.

“You have the look of someone who is running. Can I assume it is from Danes?”

“You knew that when you offered this meal. What is it you really wish to know, Basim?”

His lips twitch again. Is it an uncontrolled tick, you wonder? A man like this strikes you as one who has very little outside his control, so perhaps the smiles, if that is what they can be called, are intended to put you at ease.

“We are looking for our friend. We have news for her.”

Looking for a Dane.

You frown at the dried fish and cast a wary-eyed look at Hytham. “A Dane’s meal, after all. You should have just said so.”

“Would you have taken the first bite?” asks Hytham.

You make a face and it is then that you learn that Hytham does not hide his smiles so easily as Basim. You look back to the other man. “I saw little, I’m afraid. One Dane chased me. That is his horse.”

“You stole his horse?” Basim raises a brow.

“He deserved worse. He was scarred. A bigger man than he looked. Another called him Ivarr. That is the only name I heard.”

“That is name enough,” says Basim. He sits back on his heels and gestures to you. “Please, eat.”

As you take another bite, you’ve half a mind to ask if they are friends of this Ivarr, but doing so will open the door to more questions and both these men seem the sort to prefer asking them. You have made it this far; you’ll not have your throat cut for nosiness. As you eat, the skies darken, until midday could be mistaken for night, and thunder rolls overhead.

Hytham’s voice draws your glance. You had thought the man dozing as the conversation waned, but he is awake, though his mouth is set in a bitter line. “That’ll be Thor, or so I’m told.”

“You should have stayed in Ravensthorpe,” Basim says, but his scolding is gentle.

“I tire of four walls. I am fine.”

Liar.

He stretches out his legs, but the motion seems to pain him. He catches you looking. “It has been a long ride.”

“A long ride on an injury, even an old one, can do a man more harm than the change of scenery will do him good.” You shove the last bite of bread into your mouth and swallow. Hytham -- and Basim, too, you notice -- eyes you cautiously as you stand. Or you think he does. He tilts his head, hood slipping until you can see a little more of his cheek. You kneel beside him and ask, “What is bothering you?”

“Not an old injury,” says Basim, “but not a new one, either.”

“Let me look. It will be my thanks to you both for sharing your food, and it will pass time in this rain.”

“Are you a healer?”

“I was. Before Fremdeleigh burned. I will be one again once I am settled.”

“I am fine.” Hytham’s jaw takes on the proud jutt of someone determined to let their pride outweigh their sense. At last, he has enough of the hood, and sweeps it back so that he can glare at you properly. You had been right. He is younger than Basim, perhaps younger than you, though the handsomeness of his features is weighed down by a pain you had only glimpsed beneath the hood.

Despite Hytham’s potent scowl, you shake your head. “That’s the third time you have said so and each time, your whining gets louder.”

A rich crack of laughter from Basim startles you both. “Perhaps I should leave you to her and I shall ride to Fremdeleigh?”

“I should think he has learned this whining from someone,” you reply, and this quiets Basim. “Best you stay and hold him down. In case any bones need re-setting.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Hytham tells you quickly.

“How would I know? You will not let me look.”

“I am -- “

“Fine! You are ‘fine!’” you snap. “Pass the time in pain, then. Have your raider friends look after you. Three days ride from now.”

This pales him. His eyes -- you could not name their color if you tried -- flick to Basim. “Three days? You said it was two.”

“I thought it was.” Basim holds out his hands, but somewhere in the dark of his eyes, you think he knows better. “A simple mistake.”

“You do not make mistakes,” grouses the younger man. He looks back to you. “Have a look if you wish. Or spare me the slow death and kill me now.”

You smile. “I can do either.”

“A healer and a horse-thief. Strange company to find on the road.” Basim stands, drawing his hood over his head. “Swear to me you will not kill Hytham...” He pauses, his eyes flicking to you, and you realize that he has neither asked your name, nor have you given it.

“You are leaving?” asks Hytham, voice rising above the patter of rain. “Leaving me with this stranger?”

“I am riding ahead. Something tells me I leave you in capable hands.”

“No,” protests Hytham. “I can ride.” He gets to his feet. You watch as he grits his teeth through whatever pain plagues him. He holds his ground, even as you stand to reach for him should that change.

“Follow when you can. And you,” Basim looks to you, “If our paths do not cross again, go well. I would be careful returning to Fremdeleigh, were I you. If what I know of Ivarr is true, he will care less for his horse, and more about the woman who dared take it from him.”

Return to Fremdeleigh? The possibility had not occurred to you. Fremdeleigh is gone.

Hytham’s protests cease as Basim reaches his horse, lifting himself into the saddle with a grace you’ve only seen in woodland creatures. He waves once and is soon vanished beneath the forest boughs. Hytham spins on his heel, brushing past you, and drops back down by the fire with less swiftness than which he had stood. You know the sight of a man wounded in more ways than one, and some wounds, even you cannot heal.

Instead, you set to business. “Off with this,” you say, tugging at his tunic. He scowls, but the fight has gone out of him. When the tunic is removed, bared skin is revealed to you. The man is, without doubt, not a priest. His chest and arms are wiry with muscle, a few faint scars marring the skin here and there. It is only a happenstance glance that you notice one of his fingers is missing, cut cleanly at the knuckle.

“You move like a man with broken ribs,” you say, “How long ago did this happen?”

“Months.”

“And it still pains you so?”

“It is the cold.”

At this, you smile. “Foul stuff, the cold. Breeds barbarians.”

Hytham tries not to smile, but that, too, strains him. His friend’s departure -- if that is what Basim truly is to him -- has left him sullen, but he withstands your prodding well enough. Only when your hands run down his sides does he shy.

“I am --”

“Do not say ‘fine.’”

Instead, he says nothing.

His skin is warm to the touch, a good sign for the circulation, and you notice that your roving fingers leave gooseflesh in their wake.

“The bones have set.” You sit back, drawing your feet under you. “Unless you would like me to break them again, this pain will revisit you. If I had my stores, I could make something to ease the burden, but those burned with Fremdeleigh. For now…” You cast your eyes about, at last coming to rest on the sash that had been removed with Hytham’s tunic. “Give me a moment.”

A moment turns into a few minutes. Hytham eyes you warily when you ask for his sash, but agrees, only to panic when you near the fire with the fabric in hand. He is quieted when he sees what you are doing. You wrap a few cooling coals in the material, testing their heat against your wrist, and returning to his side when you are finished.

“Press this here,” you tell him, “It will soothe the ache.”

“For a time?”

“For a time.”

Bitterness clouds his expression, but it is short lived, disappearing with a nod. “Thank you, healer.”

Your fingers flex at the word. You had not thought to hear it again so soon. Last time, it had taken a year, maybe two, after you had lost everything to find yourself again. As Hytham’s eyes meet yours, you wonder if, perhaps, the Danes were not as thorough in their destruction as they had hoped.

Hytham’s eyes study your face; they are keener than you had given him credit for, and you feel them pulling at the edges of what you wish to hide.

“What will you do?” he asks. “Could there be anything left of your home?”

“In Fremdeleigh? I doubt it. If I returned, I would likely only find Danes.”

“The Danes are not all so bad.” His smile is wry one, a little more honest than you would like. Either it or the fire has given a pretty flush to his cheeks. “You were unlucky to cross Ivarr. He is a menace.”

“You know him?”

“I know of him.”

“Will you go to Fremdeleigh? To find Basim?”

Hytham nods. “He is testing me. To see if I will return to Ravensthorpe, or follow him. I am good for more than reading scrolls and maps.”

“You look as though you are good in a fight.” You tap a finger to one scar that runs over his shoulder, paler than the rest of his skin. He glances away when you say this, like a maid who has been she is pretty. “It would be a risk to return there. Not when I’ve no promise that there is anything left to salvage.”

“A shame,” says Hytham with a smile, glancing at you, only to look away again. “All this bread and...fish,” his nose wrinkles, “is going with me.”

“Speak plainly, priest.” Your teasing is less pleasing to him than the idea of dried fish, and he waves you off with a flutter of a four-fingered hand. “If you’ve an idea, let’s hear it.”

“Return to Fremdeleigh. Recover your stores if you can. And if you can, come with us to Ravensthorpe. A healer is always welcome, especially one who is not empty-handed.”

“Healer?” You raise your brows with a laugh. “In Fremdeleigh, I am a horse-thief. What if this Ivarr recognizes me?”

“He cannot recognize you if he does not see you.”

“Spoken like a man who watches the world from beneath a hood.”

Perhaps it is the firelight, but you think you see Hytham’s ears flush a deep red. “Do as you wish,” he says after a moment. “I ride when this rain stops.”

So it is that when the rain stops, you go with him.

#Assassin's Creed Valhalla #Reader #Ivarr #Hytham #Basim #Reader-Insert #ac valhalla #fremedeleigh is made up #i wanted to see how many e's i could fit in one word

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alarawriting · 3 years

Text

52 Project #33: Amaldis

Yikes, I completely forgot to post this! Hard day at work. -------------------------------------------

The prince was young and handsome, as they all were, with the sort of arrogant good looks that wealth and power almost always brought. It was a tragedy that so many of these young men had to die, the old woman thought. Such a waste. She stepped out into the road, into the pathway of his horse.

The horse reared up as the prince pulled on the reins. "Out of my way, old woman!" he shouted.

"Are you going to the capital?" the woman asked. She was over 40, but well-fed, clean and well-dressed. His eyes flickered over her, as if trying to decide her station.

"Yes. What business is it of yours?"

"Have you come to join? To swear allegiance to the sorceress Amaldis?"

"No." The prince's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword as fury darkened his features. "I've come to kill the witch."

"Are you a fool, young man?" The woman's eyes blazed, and she stepped up to his horse, glaring up at him. "Threescore young men, brave and noble, have come to Cythia to kill the sorceress, and all of them have died. Are you so arrogant and foolish as to believe you'll succeed where so many have failed?"

"I don't fear the witch's sorcery," the prince said firmly. "I have a good sword and a trusty mount. That's all I need."

"Oh, you are a fool. A younger son? Expendable? You need to do something impossible, to make a name for yourself?"

"She stole lands that belong to my father!" he shouted, his face purpling. "My family's honor is at stake!"

"And so you'll die for your family's honor."

"If I die, at least I'll die in glory."

"Glory?" There was cold fury in the woman's voice. "Let me tell you what glory is, boy. Glory is a corpse rotting in a field, the crows plucking its eyes. Glory is your lover weeping, knowing her man will never come home. Glory is children bereft of fathers, crops burning, women raped, people enslaved. I spit on your glory." And she did, spitting on his boots.

The prince drew his sword, provoked beyond endurance, and swung it to behead the woman. But she wasn't there. Startled, he looked about himself, trying to find her.

The ground rumbled. The trees lining the road shed leaves in a storm of colors, and the earth began to shake. The prince's horse reared up in terror, and tried to run, paying no heed when the prince pulled at the reins. Then a chasm opened at the horse's feet, and horse and prince tumbled in together, screaming.

The chasm closed, and all was normal again. Except for hoofprints that led to the midst of a meadow and vanished, it was as if the horse and rider had never been.

***

The scene vanished from the focusing crystal as the woman leaned back. Her apprentice, Joraine, asked, "Did you have to kill him?"

Amaldis turned. She was a stout woman of peasant stock, appearing to be a well-cared-for dowager of over 40 or so, with wavy black hair and blazing black eyes. The fire in those eyes died slightly, to be replaced by sorrow, as she spoke.

"Sometimes it can be avoided," she told Joraine, a large-boned woman in her late twenties or early thirties. "But not this time. You heard him. I tried to get him to turn back, but no. He was bound and determined to die gloriously."

"It seems so cruel," Joraine said. "All these brave young men, in the prime of their lives..."

"Yes. It is cruel, and a waste. But it's them or us. If they had their way, they would make you a serf; condemn you to backbreaking labor all your life, with only the bare necessities of life in return. Some would demand the right to rape you on your wedding night, or whenever you took their fancy; others would allow their priests to torture you for refusing to spout their doctrines; still others would conscript your sons to die in their wars." Amaldis shook her head. "Sooner or later, a group of these young heroes will come together and raise a truly massive army, perhaps a thousand men or more. That will be tragic. Because my powers won't be enough to hold them off entirely; and our people will have to fight and die."

"Why do they keep coming if you keep killing them?"

"You heard the one just now. Honor and glory are worth more than their lives, and they think we stole their land."

"We did steal their land."

"Who gave them the right to own it?" Amaldis looked hard at Joraine, and some of the fire came back to her eyes. "We asked people if they wanted to be ruled by lords, or if they wanted to rule themselves. They wanted to rule themselves, so we extended the borders of Cythia to their areas and let them. As far as I'm concerned, the land belongs to the people who work it, not the nobles who get fat off it."

"Yes, but I'm saying, from their point of view we stole it."

"Yes. And so they'll never leave us alone." She sighed. "That's why I want you a master sorceress as soon as possible, Joraine. Our defenses are strong, but they all rest on me, and I'm only one woman. The most powerful sorceress in the world will still die if someone gets close enough to put a crossbow bolt through her throat."

"We have a militia, Amaldis. They'd die to defend you, and so would I. Anybody in Cythia would-- all of us love you."

"But everyone else in the world is trying to kill me."

"Don't talk like that!" Joraine got up, distressed, and looked down at Amaldis. "Remember the First Rule? 'When a magician and a swordsman fight, the magician will always win, provided she is smarter.' You're certainly smarter."

"Amend that rule. 'Provided she is smarter and makes no mistakes.' I'm 200 years old, Joraine, and I'm tired of being paranoid. I'm tired of constantly scanning to see if anyone is after me. But I can never stop, because if I die, Cythia dies with me. Unless you can protect it."

"I'm only 35," Joraine said quietly. "You've got 8 score more years of power built up in you. Even when I turn master in a few years, I won't have nearly the power you do." She walked around to Amaldis and put her arms around her mentor's shoulders. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes..." Amaldis stared into space. "I've had a premonition."

"Of what?"

"I don't know. Something terrible. I don't know..."

Abruptly, awkwardly, Joraine hugged Amaldis. "I won't let it," she whispered fiercely. "Nothing's going to happen to you, so long as I have breath in my body to prevent it. You're the only mother I ever had, Amaldis, and I won't let you die."

***

Mor rode through the fields and woods of Cythia, heading steadily for the capital.

He was a big, brawny, barbarian type, proficient in any weapon but best with his broadsword, which was unbelievably large. He came from a country many, many miles away, where he had successfully killed over a dozen magic-wielders. He had also been offered the position of heir to the kingdom of Lowellan, if he could kill the sorceress Amaldis. And he had no doubts about his ability to do so.

All this Amaldis could gather just from watching him through the focusing crystal. It had been three days since the last prince had come, and she'd dispatched him; three days since she'd told Joraine about her premonition. A chill went down her spine, watching Mor ride. Something about his aura frightened her terribly. A dangerous man, moreso than any of the others. She was tempted to kill him now, without even trying to persuade him to turn back. But she had vowed she would always give them a chance.

So she focused herself, and appeared as an astral image, as solid as flesh but less real, standing in front of his horse's path. The horse didn't even slow down. It kept trotting on as if it would run her down, and Mor made no attempt to stop it.

Hastily she stepped back from its path. If it went through her, it would do her no harm-- but it would reveal her as an illusion. "Will you stop, Mor, and listen to what I have to say?" she said.

"There is nothing I need to hear from old women," he said.

Well. That settled it, then. She had given him a chance, and he had spit in her face.

Amaldis came back to herself, letting her astral image vanish. She looked deep into the crystal, focused, and spoke a Word. It resonated in the air around her. The resonation through the crystal was even greater. There, the Word whipped the trees and caused the ground to shake.

Mor's mount stood firm, holding in one place as Mor stroked its head. When the chasm started to open, the horse bolted as fast as it could go in the opposite direction, which happened to be the direction of the city. The chasm stopped widening before it could catch up to the fleeing beast, the power of the Word spent, and Mor and his animal made all possible speed for the city.

Amaldis threw another chasm in their way. They leapt it, outran its expansion, and kept going. She summoned demonic familiars and hobgoblins to waylay them. Mor slew them all. She cast illusions, which Mor paid little to no attention to; she summoned elementals, which Mor defeated; and she threw murderous obstacles in his path, which he destroyed, overcame, or bypassed. Amaldis had never seen anything like it. The man was at the outskirts of the city already, and still moving. Nothing magical had done more than slow him, and she was exhausted from rapid spellcasting.

Grieving in her heart, she called for a messenger, and told him to tell the militia about the threat. Good men and women would die at Mor's hands, she knew, and if it were merely her own life at stake, she would gladly die in their place. But she was founder, governor and defender of Cythia. Without her, morale would be destroyed, the government would become unstable, and Cythia would be wide open and vulnerable to whatever conqueror wanted to take it.

In her crystal, she watched as the militia went forth. Then she began preparing for the possibility that Mor would reach her. She set up some powerful and terrible binding spells, summoned a few invincible creatures from the lower planes, and set them to guard her door. Then she sent a messenger to Joraine.

"Tell her I want her to go to the belltower and prepare a Spell of Unbinding of Truths," she told the messenger. "When it's complete, I'll examine it." This particular spell took several hours to complete, and required its caster's full attention. Joraine had been telling the truth, 3 days ago-- she would even sacrifice her own life to preserve Amaldis'. Which would leave Cythia without a sorceress, if both of them were killed. Joraine had to be tricked into leaving the battlefield before the fight began.

That done, Amaldis turned to watch the battle in her crystal.

The militia were getting decimated. Amaldis sucked in her breath. How was this possible? Few of them were very good swordsmen, and Mor was the best of the best, yes. But still. It was impossible that one man could be doing such damage, and taking so little in return. One man, and not a magic-user at that. It wasn't even an enchanted blade he held-- Mor's contempt for magic was legendary. Without assistance from magic, it was just not conceivable that one man, no matter how skilled, could cut his way through an army, no matter how green. And yet Mor was doing it.

He had to be getting some sort of secret assistance. Amaldis focused in, looking for an invisible familiar, an enchanted item, something. There was nothing so obvious. If he had magical assistance, it was subtle and ran very deep. Sick at heart, Amaldis forced herself to watch the slaughter of her people. Here is your noble glory, all you young heroes. Here is what you wanted!

When she felt strong enough, she struck again, after sending a messenger ordering the decimated remains of the militia to retreat. It looked as if Mor would pursue them, and continue the combat until they were all dead, but he changed his mind when she called a thunderstorm down on him, as if remembering that she was his real opponent.

She rained lightning at him, but somehow, impossibly, he always managed to avoid them, fortuitiously moving at the same split-second she initiated the bolt. As he headed deeper and deeper into the city, people fled, knowing from the stormcloud that their governor was trying to stop the man, and failing. Amaldis sent all sorts of creatures at him. He killed them all, and kept coming. Even when one of her creatures managed to kill his horse, he leapt off the beast and kept coming.

If he were not in her city, she could swallow him with a chasm now, or put a ring of fire around him-- without his horse, he was more vulnerable. But this was her place, and she couldn't cause such damage to it. She notified the palace guard that he was coming, hoping desperately that he would be tired from the constant fighting, and easier to take down. She had given the guard strict instructions that if casualties were too heavy, they were to flee. But she didn't truly believe they would obey.

The palace guard met and fought Mor. He was still impossibly skilled-- his battles seemed to have barely blunted his edge. Again, Amaldis scanned him for magic, and this time she did catch a faint whiff. Quickly she focused her probe, sweeping him up and down, but at this range it still eluded her. When he got closer, perhaps she would be able to find it, and negate it; but of course, when he got closer she would have other things to worry about.

She began to scream into the crystal, ordering the guard to retreat, as Mor destroyed them. She appeared to them astrally, pleading with them to run and save themselves, but they ignored her. Mor was only a swordsman-- they should be able to take him down. The fact that they obviously couldn't meant nothing, when it was honor at stake. Tears burned in her eyes. How many more good people would die for honor's damnable sake?

Now nearly all her guard were dead. Amaldis steeled herself. He was coming this way. One way or another, even if he kills me, he won't live to enjoy his victory.

Then the door slammed open, and slammed shut behind as Mor strode into Amaldis's chamber.

"Time for you to die, witch," he said, advancing on her.

Amaldis released the demon guard. Invincible and tireless, the two launched themselves at him, battering him. The air rang with the clash of his sword on their metallic armor. While he was occupied with that, Amaldis searched him magically-- and finally found what she was looking for. There was a magical luck charm on him, cast before his birth, woven throughout his entire being. He had never failed at anything. And there was no way to remove the charm, not without negating her own power.

At this point, Mor defeated the invincible demons by thrusting his sword's point into their mouths. That shouldn't have killed them. But by now, Amaldis knew that the universe was on Mor's side. If an improbable occurrence was necessary for his survival, it would happen. If an impossible occurrence, even, was necessary, it would happen.

How could she defeat someone like that?

She spoke a Word, to activate a binding spell. He hated magic so much-- if she could make him see that he was using magic, perhaps he could renounce the spell, or perhaps he would leave her alone. It was not very likely, but the only other alternative was to negate all magic, and that would destroy her power, too. The spell caught Mor tight, holding him motionless. He struggled against the spell, as Amaldis spoke coldly. "You have such contempt for magic. But you yourself are a magic-user, Mor of Savann."

"You lie, witch," he grated out.

"No lie. How do you think it's possible that one lone man can kill over 50? That you miraculously survived everything I attacked you with? It's impossible. No one else has gotten even as far as the city, much less the palace, except for you--"

She sensed the bonds shattering before it happened. Somehow, he had broken her binding spell by flexing his muscles. That's not possible! Amaldis thought, and then remembered that Mor's luck charm could do the impossible. She leapt out of the way as he grasped his sword and swung it at her.

Amaldis cried a Word of power, and a bolt of light flashed out from her fingertips-- but he dodged. The laws of reality seemed to be breaking down to accomodate him. She threw up a magical shield, and his broadsword cut it in half. That wasn't possible, either.

Amend the rule, she thought, gasping, as she dodged another broadsword swing at her head. The magician will always win, provided the sword-wielding barbarian doesn't have magic of his own. It was getting harder to dodge, and there were fewer places to dodge to. Amaldis truly understood then that no magic could stop him. Even a sudden death spell would unravel against the luck charm placed on him. There was only one thing that could possibly work, and the notion filled her with horror.

There was a secret spell, jealously guarded by the few magicians who knew it. It was a last-resort weapon in magical combat, intended to take one's enemy down with one. The secret spell consisted of a single spoken Word, which could negate all magic within a certain radius. Mor was certainly within that radius. Unfortunately, by definition, so was the caster-- which was why it was a weapon of last resort. Amaldis had built up a great deal of power in 200 years. If she negated Mor's advantage, she lost all of that power, which might end up dooming Cythia as surely as if she died. And without her magic, she would be no match for him in combat anyway.

The sword smashed her crystal, scattering pieces everywhere, as she ducked behind it. Then there was a wall at her back, and nowhere to dodge to. Terror gripped her-- this was it. Only one chance-- and even that was more likely to see her avenged than saved. But it would be enough to be avenged, if that was all she could have.

She said the Word.

The magic drained out of the air. Amaldis sagged against the wall, feeling suddenly a thousand years old. For the first time, she could hear the pounding on the door, and realized it had been going on for some time.

Mor hesitated. He had sensed the change, apparently, though doubtless he couldn't understand what it signified. In that moment of hesitation, Amaldis flung herself to the side, and so when the broadsword came down it pierced through her shoulder, slicing away her arm, not her head. Amaldis screamed.

The door slammed open behind Mor, and there was a flash of light. Mor dropped, an expression of disbelief on his face. With rapidly glazing eyes, Amaldis saw through the pain that Joraine was running toward her. Then it became too dark to see anymore.

***

Amaldis wakened to the sound of Joraine weeping. "It can't be too late," Joraine was saying. "Come on, heal, Amaldis, heal! Please!"

Amaldis swallowed, and croaked in a hoarse voice, "I seem not to be dead. How surprising."

"You're back!" Joraine wiped her eyes and looked at Amaldis. "I brought you back! Oh thank you, Goddess, thank you, thank you..." She hugged Amaldis and began to weep again, this time for joy.

But as memory filtered back, Amaldis could see little cause to be joyful. She was alive, yes, and Mor was dead... but the cost had been her power. The only defense Cythia had had to keep it from a bloody war, and being overrun and conquered, had been her power. And now it was gone.

Tears welled in her eyes. After all her hard work, all the energy and enthusiasm her people had expended to make her dream a reality, one man with a magic charm could bring it all crashing down. What was the point to living, if her dream was dead? In a voice like ash, she said, "Joraine, my powers..."

Joraine lifted her head and looked down at her. "I know. I know."

"Cythia is finished." There was no strength, no life in her voice, just ruins and despair.

"No-- there's a way. There has to be a way."

"That's wishful thinking. " Amaldis changed the subject. "How did you find me? I told you to prepare a Spell of Unbinding..."

"The guard-- what was left of it-- broke in and told me you were fighting with that creature." Joraine's voice had an edge of fury to it. "I couldn't get the door open, at first--"

"His luck charm. It must have kept the door locked."

"When I got it open and saw he'd cut off your arm-- I almost went berserk. But it's all right now. I healed you. Your arm's fine."

"My arm's irrelevant, Joraine. My magic is gone. Without that..."

"No! We can buy time. We can keep going on a bluff for a while. I won't let your dream die like this!"

"Buy time for what?" Amaldis wanted to be swept away by Joraine's youthful determination, but 200 years of experience had told her that when something was doomed, it was doomed. There was nothing they could do. "It'll be another hundred years before you're powerful enough to defend Cythia by yourself..."

"Then we can't rely so much on magic. We need to find other solutions." Joraine got up off the bed. "We can buy time, like I said. And in that time, we can recruit more people. We can train all our citizens to fight and defend the country if they have to. We can try to recruit another magician. If we could get two or three magicians my age, we could all band together. Besides. Once people hear you killed Mor, they won't be eager to try you for some time. No one needs to know you're injured-- and as long as they send in their heroes one at a time, we can pick them off ourselves, the militia and I. We can send emissaries to other countries, and see if they have superior weapons or magical techniques we can use. There are all sorts of things we can try, Amaldis. You can't give up!"

"I'm old," Amaldis said softly. "I had a dream once, a revolutionary new idea, when I was young. But I'm no revolutionary anymore."

"You can't give up--"

"No. I'm not giving up. I'm passing the torch to you." Amaldis forced herself to a sitting position. The change made her dizzy and she swayed. Joraine quickly moved to prop pillows behind her. "You're right, of course. I'll continue to govern Cythia and to teach you magic-- I still know the techniques, I simply haven't got the power for them anymore. But you'll be in charge of devising our defense, Joraine. You're young and creative enough to see new ways of doing things. I can't anymore."

"I don't think you're as old and decrepit as you think you are, Amaldis," Joraine said. "Is this because you lost your magic?"

"Yesterday, for all my years, I was a young woman. Today I feel older than time itself. It has to be you, Joraine. I-- lost something vital when I lost my power, I think. Cythia's future is going to rest on you."

"You should rest," Joraine said, moving the pillows back so Amaldis could lay down. "Go to sleep. You'll feel better when you're recovered."

"I doubt it," Amaldis said softly, but allowed Joraine to put her to bed. The last thing she saw, through slitted eyes near the edge of sleep, was Joraine sitting by her bed. Her face seemed to Amaldis to look like her own had, when she was only thirty and had grandiose dreams for saving the world. Yes. The torch was in capable hands.

Amaldis slept.

#52 project #magic #wizards vs barbarians #democracy and self-rule vs landed interests and their mercs

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arcaneranger · 4 years

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Final Thoughts - 2019 Long Shows

Dear Lord. This is where all the good shows went.

2019 was absolutely awful on a season-by-season basis (except for Summer, anyway), but that’s mostly because most of the best shows ran longer than what has become the industry norm of a single season. And indeed, heading into the new decade, we seem to be seeing a major renaissance for two- or split-cour shows, given the massive success seen by shows like My Hero Academia, Food Wars, and Haikyuu!!..particularly in comparison to the new perpetual-runners Black Clover (which, despite running for over two straight years now, is still not the most popular show of Fall 2017 by viewer count on MAL, and sits at a ‘meh’ 7.2), and even worse, Boruto: Naruto Next Generations, which is faring even worse on both counts even though it premiered two whole seasons earlier and the fact that it is the sequel to Naruto.

As a reminder of my rules, the shows on this list may or may not have premiered in 2019, but they finished airing this year. The split-cour rule (stating that I judge any show that “finishes” and then premieres a “new season” within six months) didn’t come into play for any 2018 shows, but it will for Ascendance of a Bookworm and Food Wars this year, at the very least.

With that being said! 25 shows running longer than thirteen episodes finished airing this year after being simulcast, and of those…

I skipped 6:

Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure Part V: Golden Wind, Fairy Tail Final Series, A Certain Magical Index III, Ace Attorney Season 2 and Cardfight Vanguard (2018) because I either dropped or have not finished their previous (also long-running) seasons.

Yu-Gi-Oh VRAINS because the simulcast started late and also it was bad.

I Dropped 8:

Worst Long Show of 2019: The Rising of the Shield Hero

It’s always fun to see that a show you hated from its first episode only gets more and more distasteful afterwards, but it’s less fun when a service you have to promote because they’re the legal option is forced to shove it down your throat because they had a hand in making it and it became a massive hit that your friends don’t see any issue with because the author wrote a story that justifies its hero’s patronage of the slave industry. This is my punishment for watching the whole first season of The Asterisk War before I knew better.

YU-NO: A girl who chants love at the bound of this world

A confusing mess from the word go, this ill-fated adaptation of a visual novel from the nineties seems like it was mostly made to cash in on the popularity of the Science Adventure series, but failed to present itself in a way that made an ounce of sense or looked remotely interesting.

Fairy Gone

Am I really the only one that saw potential here? I mean yes, it ended up a boring slog that didn’t care to move its plot in a meaningful direction, but the first episode was at least cool. I guess Izetta: The Last Witch should have taught me better.

We Never Learn

I know that I’m in the minority in terms of the male demographic for shows like this, but honestly, how are bland harem shows still this easy to market? A copy-pasted protagonist with copy-pasted waifus drag down what could be an interesting setup for a story.

Karakuri Circus

The first episode of this one had me excited, the second and third left me bored to tears and wondering if it would continue to look uglier by the minute. I haven’t seen a three-cour show look this janky since Knight in the Area.

Radiant

Having heard good things about this show from my cohorts, I do feel bad for saying I’ll probably never return to Radiant, but when you have a show that’s notably written by a European author...and it turns out to be a frustratingly standard shounen affair with middling production values, well, you can see my earlier annoyance with Cannon Busters.

Ensemble Stars

This one still gets to me. It almost looked like a male-idol show I would finally be able to get behind, what with its rebellious attitude and oddball setting...that is, until the setting got to be too unbelievable and the show began drowning its audience in side-characters because they had to squeeze every husbando from the mobile game into the story, and it all began to resemble UtaPri a little too much...but without the production value.

Boogiepop and Others

This was a hard drop, honestly. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out how I felt four episodes in, before concluding that I was bored and not particularly invested, two things that should never describe the experience of watching a Madhouse show. The fact that this was the project responsible for ruining One Punch Man only made it worse. There’s a slow burn, and then there’s walking away without turning the stove on.

And I Finished 11 (holy crap that’s like three hundred episodes just on their own).

That Time I Was Reincarnated as a Slime (5/10 & 1/10)

I’ll be honest, I had forgotten just how livid I was with the ending (and especially the sad excuse of a recap episode) of Slimesekai, and reading back through my write-up of it, it’s certainly coming back to me. While this year had bigger demons to fight (Shield Hero), the bad taste that Slime left me with hasn’t really faded, and the wasted premise bugs me to this day.

Hinomaru Sumo (7/10)

What Hinomaru lacked in production value, it happily made up for in good execution and earnest heart. I can’t believe this came from the same studio as Conception, Try Knights and 7Seeds, but if they can only get out one good show a year, I’m glad that we got one bringing attention to a sport that many will joke about but few understand, respect and appreciate.

Kono Oto Tomare (7/10)

Speaking of giving love to traditional Japanese culture, here’s a decent-if-unoriginal show about a local high school koto club down on their luck, and the troubled teens coming together under a scrappy protagonist to bring it back to life. Kono Oto Tomare doesn’t have much that you haven’t seen before, but a decently-executed club drama with Your Lie In April-inspired musical performances is more than enough to keep me interested, and since Forest of Piano kinda crashed and burned under the weight of its own self-importance this year, it was nice to have an alternative.

MIX: Meisei Story (8/10)

It’s hard to judge MIX next to the other shows on this list because it’s almost too old-school for its own good, revelling in an eighties storytelling style that didn’t end up jiving with a wide audience this year. But at the same time, its fun character dynamics (and a very good dub from Funimation, despite them saying they’d never touch sports anime again) were very entertaining to watch, even if it didn’t focus as much on the sport it was supposedly about as much as I’d have liked.

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba (8/10)

I fully admit that I’m very salty about the fact that this won Show of the Decade in Funimation’s poll while it was still on and I thought there were hundreds of more deserving shows, but I can’t deny that Demon Slayer was a very enjoyable experience, albeit one that I had notable problems with. That’s not gonna stop me from getting mad when it sweeps the Anime Awards in a few weeks, though.

Fire Force (8/10)

I was very afraid that David Productions wouldn’t be able to match the energy of Studio Bones’ adaptation of Ohkubo’s previous work, Soul Eater, but I was happy to be proven wrong. Even if the last few episodes contained a bit too much infodumping, it was all sandwiched between jaw-dropping fight scenes that proved that the people who make Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure can still handle the reins of a more traditional action show.

Fruits Basket 1st Season (8/10)

I know that my score for this one is a bit lower than others, but I think that Fruits Basket did pretty well in its first season, considering that it was largely spent setting up future storylines and adapting the part of the manga we’d all seen before, but with much higher production value. I’ve been familiar with this part of the story for over a decade, and the scene with Tohru and Kyo (you know the one) still made me cry. Now, we get the real plot going.

Dr Stone (9/10)

A great start to a totally new spin on shounen, Dr Stone gives me hope for survival in the post-Shokugeki world in which we’ll soon live, as a show that wears its research on its sleeve. A complex plot weaving interesting characters in and out of a narrative surrounding a philosophical battle where both sides actually do have fair points (even if one of them is going about it in a pretty cruel manner). More please.

Vinland Saga (9/10)

Once again, a great start to what will hopefully be years of quality storytelling, Vinland Saga made it seem like it was dragging in the middle only to reveal just what its slow burn had been leading up to, with twist-heavy storytelling and a fantastic cast to match the high visual quality of its brutal battles.

Run With the Wind (9/10)

It’s not often that Production I.G. gets to make a complete, fully-realized show anymore, and this one was a glorious reminder of the potential of the studio in the TV space, and a great rebound for the director of Joker Game. It’s gorgeous to look at, the cast is wonderful, and the story is both realistic and idealistic in a satisfying balance. It’s a miserable process to get to the finish line in real life, but sitting back and watching this was nothing but a treat. At least, until a minor fumble at the end.

Best Long Show of 2019: Dororo (9/10)

Speaking of complete stories, Tezuka Productions and MAPPA teamed up for a breathtaking adaptation of an underappreciated Tezuka classic that expands upon the story in exactly the right way to create a thrilling, savage, beautiful masterpiece that focuses a laser-sharp eye into the relationship between two characters in their journey to, literally and figuratively, become complete people. Also, that opening was killer.

And that’s it! That’s the fun list. Next comes the painful one. Stay tuned for the trash heap.

#final thoughts #year end anime list #long 2019 #dororo #demon slayer #Fruits Basket #vinland saga #run with the wind #Dr Stone #rising of the shield hero #fire force #kono oto tomare!#mix meisei story #hinomaru sumo #hinomaru zumou #that time i got reincarnated as a slime #tensura

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