#i am well fed and will grow strong on his silver light

[maxsix]

#i can't even edit bc i got too fixated on this part #seonghwa #park seonghwa #ateez #the angel baby bad btch #i love him and everything he gives and provides #Praise Be to the Lord #i am well fed and will grow strong on his silver light #Amen #help me #why is he serving so hard

[rebrandedbard]

A little drabble exchange for @theamazingbard that accidentally became more of a ficlet. Threw in a little hispanic nursery rhyme since I don’t know if we have them in english for making pain go away. I tried googling but it was unhelpful. 

TW: Descriptions of blood, drinking it, gross stuff like that. Canon-typical wounds. References to drinking and inebriation.

WC: 2617

Lips Black as the Rose

Featuring highervampire!Jaskier as he tries to figure himself out after being turned. A bit of spice in there. Am I picking and choosing parts of the lore as I see fit? Yes. Is it very sexy of me to do so? One hundred percent. Will I beta this before posting? Oh absolutely not, you know the drill. ‘No beta, we die like men and get our shit wrecked in the comments’ is my go-to Ao3 tag for a reason.

-

Under no circumstances would Jaskier ever cause harm to another living thing, but the world did not reciprocate that exact philosophy. He’d been chased and held at the business end of many a sword, dagger, lance, and—on several unfortunately memorable occasions—a startling variety of available flatware. Things were rougher after meeting Geralt and having his usual human pursuers overshadowed by the threat of monsters.

Where once a spoon in the hands of a rabid duke would seem a most threatening opponent, Jaskier now found himself on the run from a more literal array of rabid beasts, and he could quote the running speeds the prove that having an extra pair of legs did indeed give certain monsters a leg up, so to speak, on the competition. But then, having no legs at all could prove a better advantage, and such creatures as those often had the additional advantage of long, venomous teeth.

Suffice to say, it was a difficult thing to be a lover in a world of fighters. Particularly when one falls into the company of another presumed lover, only to discover that their invitation to dinner was, in truth, an invitation to be dinner.

A vampire. Young, wine drunk, and foolish, Jaskier allowed himself to be led into the vampire’s den. It had been many years ago, he no longer remembered the details. He only remembered a sharp pain on his shoulder, followed by a woozy numbness, and he awoke in a strange bed, in an inn he did not check into, with his reflection missing from the mirror. He’d run away from home shortly after, fearing a bloodlust that was never to come.

It was a strange thing, being a vampire. After months of research, Jaskier came to no conclusions as to what it meant to be one exactly. He experimented with the content of old myths, touching silver very cautiously, taking delicate bites of foods prepared with garlic. He could cross a river just as well as any man. All in all, there was not much wrong with him, and he wondered what all the fuss was about. Well, there was a bit of fuss in that he could no longer be sure of his appearance, and he’d become more vain than ever, relying on the opinions of others to assure him that he looked presentable. This was a particular bother where Geralt was concerned, for he rarely paid compliments—if ever—and was not inclined to offer opinions concerning such trifling things as fashion or appearances.

Jaskier felt sure that Geralt would have noticed right away, but when their paths crossed again, Geralt seemed entirely ignorant of Jaskier’s dramatic change in biology. Running his tongue over his teeth, he could find no fangs. People complimented him on his eyes, still cooing over how bright and blue they were; and he’d been so afraid they’d turned a ghastly red as in the stories. From what he could tell, he appeared human. He had no violent urges to drain the blood from red-cheeked virgins, nor had he transformed into a bat and flown into the night. Sunlight only burned his skin as much as it had before, though it might have been harder on his eyes. He found himself squinting more in the afternoon, and it was unpleasant hot at times.

All in all, he was relatively normal.

“Such beauty ought to be preserved evermore.” That was what the vampire had told him that night. A great favor, immortality, but he wished he might have been offered a list of instructions to go with it. Figuring things out on his own was exasperating. And though he was not quite compelled to drink blood, there were times when he was … drawn. By curiosity.

When Geralt returned from a hunt, his flesh torn and body bleeding, Jaskier found it challenging to tend his wounds. Many times, he’d almost given into temptation. It did not help that he’d wanted to know the taste of Geralt’s skin long before the transformation. Now, there was an intoxicating layer to the fantasy, and the smell of Geralt’s blood made him hazy, like the bouquet of a strong wine. Or more realistically, the cloud of bitter vodka. If it had been a particularly nasty fight, Jaskier was sure he could taste Geralt’s blood by the smell alone, so powerful it made his nose wrinkle. He could get drunk on the fumes, and it was not always so pleasant.

He never dared try. There were too many things to consider. For a start, there was no telling what the blood of a witcher would do to him—and that was before factoring potions into the equation. Having never fed of blood, Jaskier did not know how his instincts would react, and he was sure he had some animal instinct to him now. He might drain Geralt dry in a matter of minutes, or the taste of blood might make him go insane and start tearing at his surroundings like a mad beast! Or, simplest and frightening of all, Geralt might kill him. So Jaskier kept his secret, never giving in to his curiosity.

But one day, he’d slipped.

“Fuck,” Geralt grunted. He clenched his hand and a sharp smell pervaded the air. In sharpening his sword, his hand had slipped. He’d cut the meat of his palm, just above his wrist.

Jaskier was up at once, Geralt’s bag in hand, ready to wrap the wound. He was very quick these days in getting things bundled up as soon as possible. Once the wounds were wrapped, the smell was not as pronounced. He fished out a strip of cloth and had it round Geralt’s hand in a matter of moments, working efficiently with good practice.

Geralt smiled ruefully. “A clean wound, at least. Should stitch itself up by morning.” He chuckled and inspected the wound, his eyes flicking over to Jaskier. “Haven’t done that since I was a child sharpening my first dagger,” he said.

“Did you cut yourself often in training?” Jaskier asked.

“No, not so often. We didn’t waste wrappings on such small scrapes either.”

There was a distracting shadow of red seeping through the cloth. Jaskier scoffed. “So you let it bleed into the open air, did you?”

“We were less inclined to coddle than humans.”

“Coddle?” Jaskier said, raising an offended hand to his chest. “My dear, a dressing is hardly evidence of coddling. If I wished to coddle you, I’d kiss it better and sing a little chant.”

Geralt presented his hand to Jaskier, smirking humorously. “Then do it. I’ve never heard of humans having such power as to kiss wounds better. Would save me a lot of trouble.”

“Erm … ” Jaskier flushed, considering the proffered wound. He nearly made a joke about lacking such power, being no longer human, but he bit it back. To cover his hesitation, he took Geralt’s hand and gently sang the rhyme his nurse used to calm him after a scraped elbow or knee. His tongue rolled musically as he rubbed the dressing carefully. “Sana sana colita de rana, si no sanas hoy, sanarás mañana.” Then he bent his head down to kiss the place.

“I don’t see what frogs’ tails have to do with my hand,” Geralt joked.

But Jaskier did not hear him. Instead, he felt oddly fixed in place, a metallic tang on the tip of his tongue. He opened his mouth slightly, closed it, and licked at his bottom lip to chase the memory of the taste. As he did, his tongue scraped the end of a long, pointed tooth. He stumbled back unsteadily, muttered his excuses, and fled to the safety of his bedroll across camp. There he sat, writing nonsense in his notebook as though struck by sudden inspiration.

He’d tasted Geralt’s blood. And now he wanted more.

The next few hunts were blessedly without injury. Jaskier found he was able to breathe again. It twisted his gut whenever Geralt went off to fulfill a contract, and his conscience was at odds with this new obsession. He wanted Geralt to come back whole and unharmed. But he wanted some cut, some smallest scrape upon which to lathe his tongue. When he thought of it, he felt a stirring in his gums, and touching the place, he found the fangs had grown in again. It took concentration to hide them again. He took to smiling with his mouth closed after the first incident, and he developed a habit of biting his lips.

When they came to a larger town, Jaskier went straight to the butcher. To quell his growing need, he bought fresh meat, sneaking a sip from the blood dish beneath the draining sheep’s carcass while the butcher’s back was turned. It had the strangest effect on him. Within minutes of leaving the butcher’s shop, he felt light-headed. He felt drunk, in short, and he wobbled his way to the inn, a giggle in his throat.

For dinner, he asked the potmaid to send the loin to the cook and surprised Geralt with it: a small treat to celebrate his recent hunting success. In truth, he wanted nothing to do with it, festering in the shame of his lie. The loin had merely been an excuse: something to keep the butcher busy while he drank his curiosity like some writhing leech dredged up from the water.

It made him drunk. He made note of it in his book and swore that would be the end of things. This odd affair made it easy to forget, his stomach turning in guilt and disgust at the thought of repeating the act. He was fine and healthy without blood, therefore there was no need to partake. He could go the rest of his life perfectly happy never drinking another drop. Until the day it fell from Geralt’s lip.

Jaskier stared at it from across the room. Geralt had just returned from a fight, his eyes and blood black with potion. His armour was scratched up, covered in foulness from monsters unknown, but he was alive and whole, hardly bruised. Jaskier tried to focus on the smell of the guts dripping from his armour. It was still as disgusting as ever, even with vampiric senses to influence his opinion. The wretched blood was still unappetizing. But above it, he smelled a strange scent: sweet, a touch of iron. And there, shining on Geralt’s lip, the wet glisten of blood.

He swallowed hard as Geralt wiped the cut on the back of his hand. The blood smudged along his chin, all the more enticing. His knuckles turned white on the sheet of his bed as he held himself in place. Ordinarily, he would be up on his feet to help coax Geralt out of his armour by now, but he did not trust himself to be so close.

Geralt shed his shoulder pads, looking at Jaskier from the corner of his eye. “It’s a bit slippery,” he said. He inclined his head, beckoning Jaskier over. That was their way. They did not ask things from one another. It was simple routine, and the brief lapse was something awkward to acknowledge.

What excuses could he provide? Jaskier stood on trembling legs and made his way, biting his own lip to hide the fangs he felt beginning to grow. His fingers were clumsy as he fumbled with the clasps, far too close to Geralt’s face. His breath caught, watching a bead of dark blood roll down his lip, over his chin. His lip was stained black.

Geralt had always had nice lips, Jaskier felt. He was always reminded torturously of this fact when he helped Geralt out of his armour. How could one undress such a man without indulging in the fantasy of what came after, even a little? But oh, it was a dangerous line of thought. Now he was bewitched by his senses, his focus single-mindedly drawn to that point on Geralt’s lip. To kiss him now, to lick the blood from his lip—it would be divine. He felt his heart beat faster at the prospect, his hands stalling to unbuckle Geralt’s breastplate as he stared. Just one taste. One kiss was all he wanted.

A hand pressed against his chest, stopping him short. Jaskier startled out of his unconscious reverie and looked at Geralt in horror. He hadn’t—! Had he? His attention flicked between Geralt’s eyes and his lip, and to his relief, the blood remained untouched.

“Not just now,” Geralt said, voice rumbling in his chest. “The potions might paralyze you—at least for a day. Anything lesser would die from a drink of it. It turns my blood to poison.”

Jaskier blinked, edging back. “I … don’t understand your meaning,” he feigned.

Geralt followed him, stepping forward. He raised a hand, caressing Jaskier’s cheek gently. “I know,” he said. “You’re not the best at keeping secrets. I noticed some time ago you stopped aging, and there’s no shadow at your feet, even on the brightest afternoon.”

He swiped his thumb over Jaskier’s bottom lip. Jaskier gasped, his lips parting, and Geralt pushed in. Then, his thumb was pushing Jaskier’s top lip away, revealing a glistening fang. He nodded, satisfied, and stepped back once more.

“You’re a vampire,” Geralt said. “And not a common one either. My medallion doesn’t react to you at all.” He chuckled and added, “As if you could be common by any measure.”

Jaskier turned away, picking up one of Geralt’s shoulder pads. He clutched it to his chest, whether for protection or for comfort he could not say. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was afraid to tell you … afraid what you might say. What you … might do.”

A warm hand smoothed down his arm comfortingly. There was a teasing quality to Geralt’s voice when he spoke. A hand wrapped around Jaskier’s waist, making him nearly jump in surprise.

“In regards to what: the knowledge that you’re a vampire, or the knowledge that you want to kiss me?” Geralt asked, words hot against Jaskier’s neck.

Jaskier shivered, the adrenaline of his fear quickly turning to something sweeter. “Both,” he sighed. He closed his eyes, trying to focus, to understand Geralt’s intent.

“You cannot drink of me tonight,” Geralt whispered, “but I can satisfy that other hunger, if you only have the discipline to keep your teeth to yourself.”

“What are you saying, Geralt?” The way Geralt’s hand slipped lower and lower down his front, Jaskier thought he knew. Even so …

Geralt chuckled, nose pressing to the back of Jaskier’s neck. “I’m saying I’m tired of the way you look at me like a man starving and refuse to do something about it. It’s gotten worse. It was bad enough before, waiting for you to make your move, but since your turning, it’s insufferable. I feel like the centerpiece of a banquet, waiting to be devoured.”

“You said I couldn’t kiss you,” Jaskier said, breath coming up short as he felt himself pressed back against a firm chest, a second hand coming up to tug at the edge of his chemise. “I have no discipline whatsoever. And you know that.”

“Well then.”

Jaskier dropped the plate of armour as he was pushed backward. He fell, his knees caught by the edge of the bed. Arms caged him on either side, and above him. Geralt smiled, a drop of blood falling onto the sheets below. He pressed his thumb to Jaskier’s mouth once more, something ravenous in his eyes.

“Well then,” he repeated. “Looks like I’ll have to devour you instead.”

#my fic #drabbles #witcher #the witcher #geraskier #geralt #jaskier #vampire!jaskier #highervampire!jaskier #showing off a bit of my culture there with the little rhyme #mexican / irish blended household baby! #sadly though I learned the rhyme from spanish classes instead of from my family lmao #such is life #lips black as the rose fic #persie's tag #I TOLD you I'd leave things unfulfilled #suffer

[acahope311]

I Promise

A/N: Amari, Queen of Erebor and wife of Thorin Oakenshield, spends a day exploring the secret tunnels with their son, Arnel. But when a friendly and peaceful mother-son outing turns deadly in a heartbeat, can she keep her family and home safe? This is my first ever fic, so I hope you like enjoy it :) Also the lullabye I reference is “Hushabye Mountain” from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang

Warnings: blood, angst, tears

Words: 6547 (it’s a doozy)

I wanted to say thank you so much to everyone for taking the time to look at the story and reassuring, supporting, and hyping me up through the whole process! ^-^ 

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Deep in the heart of the Lonely Mountain, in the walls of a secret tunnel, the quiet calm was broken by childish giggles and squeaks. Amari, Queen of Erebor, and her son, Arnel, explored secret tunnels that snaked in and out of Erebor with excitement. Initially, Amari was reluctant to venture into such a dangerous expedition with her son, but even she could not stand against a cherub face framed with a hint of dark peach fuzz. Preparing for this outing, she decided to move her queenly duties aside and trade her gown for a borrowed tunic and trousers from her husband's wardrobe, her bladed tonfas sheathed in her hip holsters. Although still in their home, it was best to always be prepared when entering unknown areas of the mountain. 

"Amad, hurry!" the squeal of a child reverberated down the abandoned walls of an ancient tunnel that wound around the base of the Lonely Mountain. Amari smiled fondly at her son as he pulled at her hand, urging her to quicken her pace.

"Calm down, ibinê. We have all day, sweetheart. If you keep pulling, you'll run out of energy, then we'd need to return." The queen warned as she gently pulled the young prince into her arms. Whining, he tried to pull away from her grasp. 

"Maaaa, I'm not a baby, I'm almost seven! I'm a warrior!" Arnel scowled as he fended off his mother's affection, but failing as he too started to giggle at her kisses. 

"Of course, my warrior prince. Now let's just walk a bit further, then go and save your father from those boring councilmen, hm? I’m sure your sister is there too." She gently placed him down and ruffled his hair affectionately.

The dwarf prince was about to object, when suddenly a low growl came from his stomach. Embarrassed, Arnel looked down. "That wasn't me…"

Amari laughed heartily at his expense, further annoying the child prince. 

"S’ not funny!" He whined, stomping his tiny foot. Looking up indignantly at his mother, his ocean blue eyes flashed a storm. Although a Durin worthy scowl took place on his face, little tears formed in his eyes, threatening to fall from embarrassment. Amari held her laugh in as she picked up her son again and wiped them from his face.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. Of course it didn't come from you. Now, why don't we head back? I am getting a bit hungry…" Arnel took this opportunity to divert the blame to someone else; he stroked his non-existing beard mischievously and looked away for a moment.

So much like his father. She thought as she studied his face.

"Well if you are tired, it is only right for a warrior to keep the Queen safe and well fed. Right, Mama?" He asked, unsure but firm in his thinking. Amari nodded and put him down.

"Right you are! Spoken like a true prince. Now, let's head straight to the kitchen and make some pizza, then I'll tell you a story from my world while we cook. I think we will need to make a BIIIIG pizza for your father and sister. What do you say, kiddo?" Arnel perked up at that; he always loved hearing tales of your life before coming to Middle Earth. 

"Yes please! Can you tell me the story of your amad and namad? I like hearing that story." Reaching up to her, she picked him up and cradled him to her hip. 

"Of course, my-" 

Suddenly a rock tumbled across the flat ground towards them, as if kicked by an unseen being. Its sound echoing through the darkness making the hairs on Amari’s neck stand on end. Instinctively she hugged her son tighter to her chest. A menacing laugh surrounded them, thickening the air with fear and anxiety. 

"I'd like to hear that story too. Can I join you?" A deep, rasping voice came from the end of the tunnel, shattering the safe haven of mother and son. Amari turned protectively to the source. Stepping out of the shadows, a group of orcs emerged. 

Orcs?!?! Here in Erebor?! Adrenaline started to course through the woman's body. Looking more closely at the creatures, she realized these were not orcs. Uruk Hai. Amari's face paled at the realization. It was no wonder, though, she thought them to be orcs at first sight. However these creatures were taller, more muscular, and oozed evil- so much so that even the eternal torches that lined the tunnel cowered before them. She hadn't even realized that she started to back away until they moved forward menacingly. Stained with blood and hair, they gripped a black sword in one hand, and in the other… 

Oh no…

A large body was being dragged, no bigger than a dwarf. 

Frode… 

The young guard’s uniform was torn and tattered, soiled with dirt and blood. Amari had wondered where her assigned guard was that morning, but never in her life would she have anticipated this. Her flight or fight reaction kicked into fight mode, but in her arms, she could feel Arnel's shaking body, eyes brimming with fear and tears. Gently, but quickly, she brought her hand to shield his view of the carnage and threat looming over them.

"How did you get into our home? Get out!" She yelled with such fierceness that it startled both herself and Arnel. The leader chuckled maliciously before dropping the body with a sickening thud. 

"I don't think so. We like it here, you see. But even more so! Boys look, this isn't any human. The queen under the mountain has graced us with her presence." He sneered, his companions growling like a pride of lions, eyeing their prey. "And look… she brought a snack. How thoughtful your majesty." Amari tightened her hold on Arnel. Not breaking eye contact from the advancing Uruk hai, she spoke to her son softly and calmly in their secret language.

"Sweetheart. I need you to be brave. Can you do that for me?" Arnel looked at his mother, her brown eyes looking away from his, but he could see her panic. He had never seen his father, nor his mother afraid, but witnessing her fear, he let out a small whimper, but he knew that he had to be strong. Gulping audibly, he nodded. "Yes, mama." He whispered as bravely as he could.

"Thank you, my brave, brave warrior. Now, I need you to hold on tight, and hide your face to my neck. Don't look up, no matter what ok? It'll be like when we play peek-a-boo with adad. Remember? It'll be just like a game!" Amari says the last part as lightheartedly as she could, but a quiver in her voice betrayed her. She was terrified; under normal circumstances, the Queen would never back down from a fight, but with such precious cargo in her arms, she did the next best thing. She ran.

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How did they get in?! How the fuck did this happen?! 

Deep in the heart of the Lonely Mountain, the quiet calm was broken by the sounds of quick and light footsteps, rapidly outrunning the thundering and heavy footfalls of evil. 

Amari ran as fast as she could down the tunnel, retracing her steps to break out of this hellish nightmare turned reality and back into the safety of the open halls of Erebor. 

A little more! Mahal please! The queen begged the gods for the chance to escape. She could feel her son's quivering and whimpers, her shirt already wet from his silent sobs as he kept his head tucked into her neck. 

"Amad I'm scared! I want adad!" He whispered fiercely. Her heart breaks with every word. "I know ibinê. I'll get us back safely, I promise. But please, don't look up, keep your eyes down!" she begged between each hard breath she took, her lungs burning from running for what seemed to be an eternity. However she saw the familiar light of the main hall, where they entered. Yes! 

"Oh no you don't! It’s rude to abandon your guest, your majesty" the cruel voice raked down her back, but she didn't care. She just needed to get Arnel out. At whatever cost.

"MAMA LOOK OUT!" Arnel's shriek broke her concentration as she felt a sharp pain in the back of her thigh. Suddenly the ground came up to her face, instinctively she shielded Arnel with her body as they tumbled forward. Her arms held him close, however her body tumbled further and jostled on the floor, losing her grip on him, he rolled out of her arms and into the hall. Luckily, her training kicked in and she steadied herself and corrected her stance, pulling out her tonfas. Battle ready to defend her son and herself. The advancing Uruk hai halted in their tracks and grinned cruelly. 

"Tired your majesty?" They taunted, eliciting a menacing growl from her.

"On the contrary, scum, I have never felt more invigorated." She retorted. Her mind is running a million miles a second. She knew if she left with Arnel, the Uruk hai would follow them into the mountain, truly threatening the lives of innocents. However if she stayed, she and Arnel would never make it…

No… not Arnel. Not him. 

Calling to him, she yelled in their secret language.

"Sweetheart, are you ok?" Silence. "Arnel!" She barked. More silence, just as she was about to risk a glance, she heard his little sobs.

"I want adad… Amad I'm scared…" His quiet cries were starting to grow louder as he saw his mother’s leg pierced with a silver dagger, blood dripping and pooling at her heel. Amari took a deep breath to steady her nerves. It wouldn't do anyone any good if they were in hysterics. Without looking at him, she continued talking.

"Arnel, everything will be alright!! I promise, sweetheart...I need you to do something for me. I know you are tired and scared, my love, but I need you to run as fast as you can and get  adad-" 

"Mama-"

-He is in the room where he meets with the important people. Do you remember where, sweetheart?"

"Mama I don't wanna leave you! I'm scared- "

"I know." By now, Amari's tears fell freely down her face, but she made sure her fear and sadness would not reach her words. 

She could see them inching forward, growling and grinning at the prospect of hurting the Queen herself.

"I know you are afraid, ghivashel. I am too my love… but you need to be brave and bring adad here. And then everything will be alright. Can you do that, my brave warrior? C-can you do that for mama?" Arnel sat for a second, processing what she was asking him. She was asking him to leave her… and get help. The prince stood as tall as he could but he kept his eyes on his mother’s back; he could see her shoulders shake- he hesitated. And that was all that the enemy needed. 

In that second, a dagger flew to the face prince of Erebor.

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"Adad! Look! Troll!" Darna squeaked as she held up the King's notes to his face, obscuring his line of sight to his councilmen. She could feel his chuckle rumbling through his chest as he took the piece from her small chubby hands. 

"Hmmm, who is this supposed to be ghivashel?" He inquired, tilting his head to the side as he studied it with such scrutiny, you'd think he was looking to buy it with a whole bag of gold. Darna mirrored her father's expression and stroked her non existent beard. 

"Its Unca Dain!" She proclaimed. The King's booming laugh echoed through the room, pausing the meeting and aggravating the council. The dwarf in question strode into the room and stood next to them, looking at the picture, then nodded.

"Not bad lass, I guess you take after yer amad." Placing two glass chalices on the table that glittered and cast beautiful shapes light that captivated the princess. Thorin took them and gave Darna hers before turning his attention back to the meeting, drinking his ale. Darna, looking up in awe at her father as he chugged the liquid down in one go, tried to mimic him and did the same with her milk, only to start coughing. Her coughing fit halted the meeting once again and Thorin gently patted her back.

“It went up my nose adad…” She whined, pushing her glass away. Thorin wiped her tears and milk on his sleeve, staining his royal robes. 

“That’s why we do not rush when drinking, men uzbadnâtha.” Taking a handkerchief from his pocket- a parting gift from Bilbo- to clean up her mess. Fili smiled at the sight, never would he have thought that his uncle, Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, would be a doting father- wrapped around a little girl’s finger like a ring- then again even he could not be spared from the princess’ charms, nor her brother’s. Kili frowned, as he noted the queen’s empty seat thirty minutes into the meeting. 

“Uncle, where is auntie?” He inquired. 

“Your auntie took a break to spend time with Arnel, something about exploring.” Thorin, without breaking from his fatherly task, answered. Worried glances were thrown across the table, the silence made him look up. “What?”

Balin cleared his throat and looked nervously at him. “Laddie, there have been some reports of our people going missing in the mountain. I thought you told her?” 

“I did, and I assigned Frode to be her guard.” Thorin replied. Dwalin- who had not been paying attention to the meeting- suddenly sat up. “Thorin, Frode has been missing since last night.” 

A chill ran down his back as his mind ran a mile a minute thinking of the worst scenarios that could happen to them. Fili and Kili stood, knowing how their uncle’s mind worked, and headed to the door.

“Do not worry uncle. We will look for them and make sure they are safe” Fili reassured.

“Not that she’ll need it- You know how auntie is with her tonfas. Mahal help the assailant! Remember when the assassin at their wedding tried to- ” the dark haired prince’s conversation was cut short by the heavy door being thrown open, banging against the stone walls. The sound startled everyone in the room- Darna nearly fell off her father’s lap. In turn, the King stood- holding his daughter protectively against his chest- and angrily turned to the door.

“What in Durin’s name-” He stopped, staring in horror as the image of his six year old son, blood dripping down his face from a cut, breathlessly gripped the door. 

"ADAD! ADAD HELP!" His shrieks echoed in the room as he tried to rush further into the room to the safety of his father, but fell onto the floor, breathless. Fili bent down to catch him as the little prince’s legs gave way. Blood stained the golden dwarf’s hands as he tried to look for other injuries. Gently putting Darna down, Thorin rushed to his son. 

“Inùdoy! What happened?! Who did this!” He howled, causing Darna to whimper. 

“Adad…” The little girl walked slowly to her brother and father, fearful of her brother’s situation. 

“Do not move! Stay there... sweetheart!” He yelled, making her sob softly. Kili saw her distress and went to comfort her. “Uncle please…” But it fell on deaf ears as Thorin tended to Arnel.

The young prince gasped for air as he tried to stand again. Everyone stared in horror at the child prince- disheveled, bleeding. 

"AMAD! FIGHTING MONSTERS IN THE GWEAT HALL! ADAD PLEASE SAVE MAMA! MONSTERS COMING!" Arnel gasped as he stood up, only to collapse in on himself. He hated how he looked right now, he needed to be brave. He promised amad. Looking, pleading with his father. Without thinking Thorin ran out the room, flanked by his nephews. The company who attended the meeting raced after him. Except for one; Bofur stopped mid stride, grabbed the prince and placed him in the arms of Balin. 

"Keep the lad company, we'll be back.” Bofur ordered before swiveling on his heel and running out the room. The walls rumbled from the heavy footsteps of a Company of dwarves running down the hall. The dwarves’ protective instinct drove them to run to the Queen’s side but Thorin’s mind set on one task: Save his One.

Unbeknownst to him, two pairs of little feet followed the men, just as determined to save their mother, the Queen.

---------------------------

"Hurry up Arny!" Darna squeaked as she tried to keep a safe distance from the group of dwarrows running to their mother's aid. Her brother wheezed as he tried to keep up.

"Darny, I cant… my legs hurt so much! My chest is hurting!" The young prince whined, slowing to a halt and falling on his hands and knees. Darna stopped and worriedly toddled back to her twin. As she got closer, she was finally able to get a good look at him; his hair was sticking up in different directions and his braids, always so neat and in place, were falling out of its plait. What really scared her, however, was his cut; even though she knew it was shallow, the gash would scar and leave him and his family a lasting memory of today. The weight of the danger weighed heavily on the young princess, the reality that she could have lost her beloved brother shook her to her core. Darna kneeled next to him and gently placed her hand on his sweat soaked shoulder. 

"Nadad… are you ok?" 

Arnel looked at his sister's face but quickly turned away in shame; although young, they were told often that they were the spitting image of their parents- and it wasn't until he looked at his sister's face did he believe them- for he saw their mother's scared face in hers. Arnel looked down in shame.

"Namad… I'm so sorry." He whispered, watching as his tears fell onto the stone floor. Each drop seemed to weigh a ton and echo through the hall. Arnel hated feeling like this; he felt weak. He couldn't protect his mother, he can barely keep up with his sister. "I couldn't help amad." He hiccups as his crying increases. Darna hugged her brother tightly, her own tears cascading down her chubby cheeks. "And she could be dead. Mama… mama she told me to run and get help. I couldn't do anything else." Darna rubbed his back, starting to hiccup herself. "I'm weak, Darny…" 

"Nadad, you're not! You're able to get adad! You're hurt, but you still did it! You're so b-brave, brother. I bet even braver unca Dwalin.” Darna pulled back and watched his hunched figure shaking. 

“ Were they orcs? Were they like how adad said they were in the stories?” Darna couldn’t help but ask- little did she know the loaded question she’d just asked. A heavy silence descended on the children as memories of the recent events flashed through Arnel’s mind- huge creatures with eyes as dark as night, hands and skin stained red, gnashing mouths with sharpened teeth… their strong and lithe mother taking on the menacing evil with shaking shoulders that he knew she tried to control for his sake. A sudden wave of bravery and adrenaline washed over the young prince. Standing up, he stumbled a bit before Darna could steady him. Looking at his face, she notices the shift in his resolve- looking more like their father during his meetings on topics of war. 

“We need to go help mama, Darny.”

“But you’re hurt! We need to go back, I’m sorry I made us leave but-”

“No, you don’t understand namad. Mama is very hurt and we have to help her and adad!” His blue eyes flashing like an ocean storm. 

“Will you follow me, sister?” Darna couldn’t help but be moved by his determination. Returning his intense gaze, she nodded.

“Anywhere you go, I’ll follow, brother.” Hand in hand, they ran down the hall to their parents.

---------------------------

The mountain thundered as news of the danger spread like wildfire. Every available dwarrow dropped their task and took arms to defend their home and beloved queen- for although she was no dwarf, let alone from Middle Earth, she had been blessed by their Maker to bring hope and happiness to her people. She cared for them as though they were her kin. Amari could feel a shift in the air, as though someone opened a window to let fresh air into a stuffy room, but she could not be distracted- not when she was fighting for her life. 

Left. Right. Parry. Dodge. Repeat. 

Is Arnel alright… 

Please hurry Thorin! Fucking King under the mountain my ass! I always have to clean up the mess here! 

Amari’s mind jumped from indignation, anger, annoyance, worry, then ran her mind back to her training as she took on a mini legion of Uruk hai. Her tonfas cutting a path slowly but surely through her enemy. Her mind set on making sure none would make it through the threshold of her home- she is Queen under the Mountain, born in a modern world, a mother to two blessings of Mahal, wife of Thorin Oakenshield- if she could not defend her home and family, then the burden would fall on others and she would have failed. So lost in thought, she failed to register a pair of assailants and landed deep wounds on her back, raking down from shoulder to hips. Her pained scream echoed through the hall, suddenly she felt cold air hit her bare back as the uneasy feeling of warm scarlet liquid trickled down. Nonetheless, she persisted. Pushing back even harder, one by one they fell to her attacks until there were only two. 

“Tired your majesty? You seem to have left quite a mess in your wake.” One of the beasts taunted. Her enemy cracked his whip dangerously close to her. Dodging it, she failed to realize the feint and dove straight into the path of his waiting ally. Amari stared in horror at her mistake and did her best to regain her footing to dodge once again, but was ultimately unsuccessful. The uruk hai brought down his blade across her torso, slicing her chest open. At first, Amari thought it was the end, but upon second thought she realized her three doublet undergarments saved her life. 

Thank freaking Mahal! I knew it was a good idea to wear these!

Taking advantage of her enemy’s false victory, she took her tonfas and cut his head off, watching as it rolled to the side. Breathless, she turned to the last one standing- his face bared the anger and hatred that was unleashed upon her new world.

“Tired already?” She taunted, throwing his words back at him. The queen slowly slunk into a dangerous prowel. She exuded grace and ferocity, elegance and power. No longer was she prey, she was the predator. This was her territory and he was her victim. Quick as lightning, Amari lunged. Her eyes set for her target, no hesitation. One slice was all it took for her to incapacitate the beast. The uruk hai was wailing in pain on the ground helpless, however she did not kill him- one thing Dwalin taught her was to always keep one alive for questioning. As the monster lay on the ground bleeding, his wails subsided to malicious cackling. Amari’s fury flared again.

“What’s so funny? Does death seem like a joke to you?” She grit through clenched teeth as she painfully approached the helpless form- every step like a burning wave through her body. Her injuries finally catching up with her as the adrenaline subsided. She knew she had a little over an hour to get help before it would be fatal. The uruk hai seemed to know this too, noting her pale face and scarlet pool gathering at her feet.

“You don’t look too well, your majesty” he taunted, another cackle followed by a coughing fit echoed through the hall. “I suppose there is some prize to this whole ordeal. If I am going down, I made sure you are coming down with me, foreign queen.” With every word spoken from the vile creature’s mouth, Amari’s blood boiled another degree. “It’s just a shame we couldn’t take the half-breed down. But we will. And your husband will be none the wiser.” 

“Wanna bet.” a booming baritone voice echoed down the hall as the dwarf King descended on the evil creature- maiming him with his bare hands. After a moment, a group of dwarves pulled the king back.

“Let me go! That scum deserves to die!” Thorin roared as he fought off his kin. Dwalin pulled him back, fury raging in his eyes.

“Thorin, I know. But we need to interrogate him for information. You know this.” Dwalin growled so low, it surprised even himself. Shoving off the hands pulling him back, Thorin had no choice but to agree. Nodding, he turned to his friend. “Make sure he suffers.” 

A thud to his right brought his attention to Amari, laying on her side, facing them. Thorin’s blood ran cold as he swiftly gathered his beloved carefully into his arms. He noticed the gash on her torso but felt the wounds on her back to know that those were the worst.

“Amralime, I am here. You’ll be alright.” He softly reassured his queen. Amari’s eyes started to close, worrying the King. “SOMEBODY BRING A HEALER HERE NOW!” Thorin ordered. “Look at me, Amari. Keep those eyes open…” He begged. “You cannot leave us, my love… you cannot leave ME.” He shook her gently, making sure that she stayed awake. Amari fought with every ounce of strength she had to keep her eyes open, not because she knew she was going to be alright. But to make sure to burn into her memory the face of her most beloved. If this was to be last view, she was glad it was her husband. The thought calmed her enough to smile. Reaching up, she pushed his hair behind his ear, before caressing his cheek.

“If you keep frowning, you’ll get wrinkles, your majesty,” she teased. Even in her weakest moments, she lived to see her loved ones smile. Managing to pull a brief and soft chuckle from the distraught king.

“Thorin, Frode… he’s dead. He- in the tunnel. The Uruk hai-”

“Shhhhh. Ghivashel, please. We can look into this later but right now, we need to get you to Oin.” Thorin began to pull her up, only to stumble when she yelped in pain. His knees buckled at her pained voice

"It hurts so much, love" Amari whispered. Every word is a knife to her husband's heart. 

"I know, my love I know." Thorin kissed her forehead and brought her closer, ignoring the warm wetness staining his sleeve. "But Oin will be here, and you'll be fine. Everything will be fine, ghivashel so please…" the king's voice broke. Trying to keep face, he took a deep, shaky breath. Amari could see his resolve break. She'd only ever seen her King let his walls down in their chambers. Her heart broke at the first tear that fell from his ocean blue eyes. Amari wiped it away, smiling. 

"Don't cry, my love." Thorin leaned into her touch, "Oh Amari..." Another tear. "Please, just a little while longer, ibinê. Talk to me, my love… Don't leave me." Thorin begged, and he didn't care. He didn't care that his royal garment was being stained red. He didn't care that his eyes watered his lover's face with tears. He didn't give a damn when his body shook with grief and he whispered soft prayers to his Maker to save his One. 

"My love, our people are here… you need to be strong.” She whispered, gently stroking his bearded cheek. Thorin in turn leaned into her touch. “If not for me, kurduwe, then stay strong for Darna and Arnel.” The names of their children brought a minute wave of strength.

“Arnel…” Amari gripped his coat tightly. “Did he-” 

“Mama?” two tiny soft voices rang through the halls, like bells in a steeple. 

----------------------

It was my fault.

Arnel looked at the small figure in their father’s arms. Frozen in place, as Darna sprinted to them. 

“MAMA! MAMA! DON’T GO! DON’T LEAVE ME PLEASE!” Falling on her knees and vigorously shaking her mother’s arm. Amari turned her head and moved her hand to caress her daughter’s face. 

“Darling, I didn’t pick your clothes today but you look so pretty.” Amari noted, smiling warmly. She was determined to make sure that she showed no pain or sadness to her cherished treasures. 

Darna looked down, a tiny flicker of pride flashed within. She always worked hard to get praises from her parents, even for the smallest task like closing the door to keep the draft out. She smiled and tugged on her garments. 

“I… I picked it myself, amad...But I don’t- I don’t wanna pick my clothes anymore, so- so you have to pick them for me forever, amad. And you promised we would go out again next time, and you said princess and queens don’t break promises.” The princess of Erebor weeps as she wraps her little pinky finger around her mother’s pinky, her fragile voice breaking every heart in the hall. “Mama you promised- you pinky swore.” She whispers, giving up and curling into her side. The whole time, Thorin tries to keep his tears at bay, keeping a mask of hopefulness and stoicness but failing as each tear drop trails down his aged face, the facade is breaking. Amari chuckles

“I did, didn’t I…” Frowning, she moves her head slightly- hissing. 

“Amari.”

“Mama no…”

“Where’s your brother?” Arnel, still as a statue, flinches. Thorin’s blue gaze reaches his own. Arnel has never seen his father so broken- he always saw him like the statues of his forefathers: grand, big, immovable, majestic. But here… Arnel saw a scared and heart broken dwarf. 

“Come, inùdoy.” To the ears of those around, it sounded just like any command the dwarven king would give. To the ears of his closest friends and family… it was the plea of a broken husband. Slowly, the young prince walked to his family. The hall was silent except for the sound of his little shuffling feet and the quiet whimpers of their kin. When Arnel reaches his mother’s side, he breaks. Falling to his knees, he places his head tucked in his arms on her belly, weeps heavy tears and wails. The cry shakes the halls that even the mountain itself seems to weep with the prince, not soon after the wails of his sister follows, amplifying the pain of the inevitable possibility that the Lonely Mountain could lose a queen, that a husband could lose his wife, that two little children could lose their mother.

“I’m sorry… amad, I'm so sorry…” a hiccup. “I should’ve been stronger. I should’ve fought with you. I should’ve protected you.” Arnel grips his mother’s clothing. “I promise I’ll get stronger but- but you have to help me, amad...I don’t wanna be weak anymore. So promise you will help me mama… A queen keeps her promises- so you have to mama!” The prince raises his little finger and wraps it around his mother’s finger. Amari is quiet. She knows what they’re doing, trying to buy time for her. As much as they can. 

Little rascals. She smiles.

“Mama…” Darna pulls her attention back to them. A soft chuckle escapes her. Thorin can see she's trying- holding on as long as she can. But even she has limits, just as he does, and right now his heart is pushing past its own to make sure to be strong for their children.

“I promise sweetheart. When I’m… better, we can train together. After, your sister and I go to Dale. Do we have a deal, my lovelies?” She shifts so that now she is leaning on her husband's strong arms- trembling arms. Not from tiredness of holding the weight of his family- Mahal knows he will hold that weight forever in his arms if could. No, they trembled from sadness and fear. Amari gathers her son and daughter in her arms, inwardly wincing at the pain, but Thorin feels her flinch.

“Kurduwe, don’t overexert yourself.” He warns, readjusting his hold. Amari ignores his warning and starts to sway a little.

“My loves, I will be fine… I did say I will be with you, no?” She asks playfully, the two whimpers and grip their mother’s clothing, placing their head onto her torso- ignoring the moist feeling on their cheeks that they know aren't their tears. Thorin embraces his queen tightly and sways along with her, he turns his head and pushes his nose into her hair- inhaling her scent. Turning to the group, he sees the Company in tears, all their heads slightly bowed, giving the family the privacy they need. Only Balin is holding his head high- taking in the sight of the Queen Under the Mountain caring for her husband and children, and sending fervent silent prayers to Mahal, to Manwe, to any of the Valar to hear the plea of an old dwarf to save this woman beloved by dwarf, man, and elf.

Amari hums a quiet lullaby that calms the room, Arnel and Darna’s cries have quieted and only the uneven breathing of sorrowed children escapes their mouths. Minutes go by and they yawn. 

“Sleep my darlings.” Amari whispers, her voice weak and light. The twins shake their heads, they do not want to lose a second without their mother.

“M’not sleepy.”

“Me too.”

Another yawn spills from them. Darna’s eyelids begin to droop as her mother strokes her hair

“How about a lullaby then?” Amari moves so both children are safe within her and their father’s arms.

“Don’t wanna sleep… Don’t wanna lose you mama.” Arnel whimpers, another bout of crying threatening to envelop him. At that comment, Darna’s little chubby hands grip Amari's clothing.

“You won’t lose me, sweetheart. I’ll be here, I promise.” Thorin exhales sharply, his heart breaks at her promise; he knows that even though she is answering their son, she is also reassuring him. 

“Promise, you’ll be here when we wake up…?” Darna asks, her eyes closed and Arnel close to follow. 

Silence.

“I promise, I will be with you when you wake…” Thorin grips his wife tighter- the implication heavy on his heart.

“Adad you too? You’ll be here too?” Arnel asks sleepily. Thorin nods.

“Yes, ibine, I will always be here with you.” A promise verbally etches into the walls of his mountain. I will always be with you. I promise. Amari sniffles, moving so her hand is cradling Arnel, and the other arm moves and caresses the back of Thorin’s neck to bring his forehead to her’s.

“I promise, I will be here when you wake.” She promises again to her king. Closing their eyes, Amari sings.

“A gentle breeze from Hushabye Mountain

Softly blows over Lullaby Bay,

It fills the sails of boats that are waiting,

Waiting to sail your worries away.

It isn't far to Hushabye Mountain,

And your boat waits down by the quay.

The winds of night sdo softly are sighing,

Soon they will fly your troubles to sea.

So close your eyes on Hushabye Mountain,

Wave goodbye to cares of the day,

And watch your boat from Hushabye Mountain

Sail far away from Lullaby Bay.”

A heavy silence falls. Thorin opens his eyes and sees his children softly snoring, looking up he looks at his queen.

“Amari..” he shakes her gently. “Amari!” His voice makes Darna shift. 

“Mama…” she whispers in her sleep. Arnel is gripping his mother’s ripped tunic tightly in one hand, while his other is to his face as he is sucking his thumb in comfort. Amari doesn’t move, nor does she open her eyes, her breathing is shallow and weak, her face pale, but her grasp on their children does not falter or weaken. 

“Mahal please…” Thorin begs. “Anything, please… just save her.” The king quietly sobs into his lover’s hair. He opens his deep blue eyes and pleads to the surrounding dwarrows. In the distance, he sees two tall men walking toward the group quickly. The crowd parts and rushing to their side, Gandalf the Grey and Thranduil, king of Mirkwood, urgently looks at the queen. 

“Thranduil, take the twins. I need to look at Amari.” Gandalf orders, immediately, the elven king reaches out to the children. Thorin growls and pulls his family closer to his chest, his eyes glaring at the elf. The wizard heaved an exasperated sigh at the gesture.

“Save me from the stubbornness of dwarves! Thorin if you do not give them to Thranduil, I cannot see Amari, and she will die.” Begrudgingly, he loosens his grip and Thranduil carefully cradles the small bundles in his arms- a peaceful tenderness befalls the face of the elven king, reminiscent of when his own son was at this tender age. 

Gandalf’s hand hovers over the small frame of the queen, when he comes back to her face, he whisper’s a spell. Thorin watches the mage with bated breath, praying that he can save his beloved. After the incantation, Amari gasps a heavy breath, but her eyes stay close. Thorin had witnessed his life saving magic, he himself experienced it during the quest for his home, but never had he seen the victim not open their eyes. He started to panic again.

“Gandalf-” 

“She needs urgent help. Thranduil-” 

“Say no more, Mithrandir.” The elvish king gently deposits the twins into the gray wizard’s arms. Then tenderly, he lifts the wounded queen into his arms and without another word, turns on his heel and strides to the healer’s wing. Thorin is just about to protest when Gandalf gently places Arnel and Darna’s sleeping forms into his arms- he notes the huge change of weight in his grasps and begins to show distress. 

“Thranduil is gifted with healing- you know this. If anyone can save your queen, it will be the King of Mirkwood.”

“But-”

“Stay with your children, Thorin. They need you more than ever now.” The wizard’s eyes fall on the sleeping pair and he gently touches their head, whispering another spell. Thorin looks at him questioningly.

“To sleep soundly and peacefully, for they deserve happy dreams away from this living nightmare.” With that, Gandalf hastens out the hall, towards the halls of healing, joining Thranduil. 

Deep in the heart of the Lonely Mountain, the quiet calm was thick with the smell of blood, and sorrow as the King Under the Mountain, held his slumbering precious treasures, staring helplessly at the direction that his beloved was taken, tears endlessly streaming down into his beard as his closest friends and family reassure him of her safety, but even they are unsure. Thorin exhales a breath he did not realize he was holding and sends another endless plea to the gods.

Mahal please… Keep my One safe.... Amari, come back to me, to us...I promise I will wait for you.

To be continued?

Taglist: @cassiabaggins @guardianofrivendell  @elles-writing @lathalea (thank you so so much for reading and double checking me :)  )

Thank you for hyping me up! :D @luna-xial @fizzyxcustard   @tschrist1

#thorin x oc #thorin oakenshield #angst #uruk hai #the hobbit #tolkien #im sorry #first fic #thorin x reader #thorin's company

[thebmatt]

FFXIV Write 2021 Prompt #20: Petrichor

Petrichor – a pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather.

The seaside cave well shimmered, and a woman fell out.

She groaned in pain, clutching her head. She tried opening her eyes and almost immediately pressed them shut again, recoiling from what was not a particularly bright sunlight, but seemed blinding to her.

“What….what the hells was that…by the Titans why is it so loud??” she muttered, to no one in particular. The tide wasn’t particularly high, but the sound of waves crashing against the rocky shoreline provided a constant background noise.

She stumbled towards the entrance. It led to a rocky shoreline. She still wasn’t quite ready to open her eyes, but the pain her feet felt as she stepped on rocks to get to the path that led away from the cave opening led her know that somewhere her boots that she vaguely remembered wearing were apparently gone.

Finally, after what seemed like entirely too many steps, she felt grass under her feet instead of sand and rock. She fell to her knees, clutching her forehead. Her mind was swirling with concepts and ideas she knew she’d never known before but somehow felt like second nature to her, as though she’d spent years working with them. What was happening to her?

Her lips felt dry, and she wet them with her tongue. Wait, lips? Since when did she have lips? Ugh, had she just covered them in ichor? Wait…no her tongue tasted salt…salt on the air. But she’d been near oceans any number of times in the past decade or so, she’d never remembered tasting that since…her change. Everything had been cold and numb and lifeless, and she’d grown accustomed to it. Now she felt warm. Wait, no, she felt like she was burning, just a little. Was she on fire?

She forced her eyes open. No….that was just the sunlight beating down on her skin. Her arms and hands, they have living, feeling skin.

She looks at them in terror, breathing rapidly rising. The light is too bright again, and she shuts her eyes again. The sensations, there’s too many of them, too much all at once, she can’t-

“Madam, are you all right?”

It’s a voice, another woman’s. She focuses on it. She sounds genuinely concerned. She opens her eyes, trying to focus them on the direction the voice came from, and slowly but surely they focus on a woman in a black dress (robes?) trimmed in gray feathers or fur. She has brilliant silver eyes that almost perfectly match her hair and….wait, are those cat ears on her head?

She opened her mouth. A weak voice that she doesn’t immediately recognize emerged. “Please. I…I don’t know what’s happened to me.

The cat-eared woman reached into the pack she was carrying, pulling out what looks to be a light colored blanket the color of grass and trees. She wraps it around her. It feels soft and worn. As she takes the blanket and draws it in close, she realizes that same softness is all around her, and that she must have been naked. “Th…thank youi”

“Of course.” replied the other woman. “My name is Y’shtola. Can you tell me what befell you?”

Her voice is soothing, and the woman felt like she could be trusted. “Um…well, the last I remember, I was deep in the jungles of Stranglethorn, places that no civilization had touched in centuries, and I came across a cave. I was looking for…someone, and I tracked them to a cave. It was…deep. I have no idea how it got there, it certainly didn’t seem like a natural formation. A-anyway, I made it to the back and I sensed a strange magic, obscured in one of the walls. I placed a hand near it, to try and get some kind of a sense of what it might be….and it yanked me into the wall…through the wall, really. Then I saw…strange sights I can’t make sense of. I must have blacked out, because I woke up in another cave back over there.” She raised a single arm back in the direction of where she came. “And now….everything is so bright and loud and my thoughts aren’t making any sense, and everything feels…just feels weird. Wait…”

She opened her eyes again, looking at her arms. Smooth, slightly pale but still healthy skin covered them. Her eyes went wide, she immediately picked up the blanket wrapped around her front and looked underneath it. That same skin covered her entire body. There was no sign of decay or open wounds that had to be stitched shut. She looked fit and healthy (and had some gorgeous curves, she noted with a blush) “No…this can’t be….how….I’m ALIVE??”

Everything gets loud in her ears again, and only now does she realize it’s not the ocean, that is her breathing. Rapid and shallow and growing in intensity. She’s panicking.

Y’shtola is in front of her again. “Breathe deeply, my dear. In, and hold for a bit, that’s it. Now out, slowly. Good. A few more times, if you please.”

She complies with her instructions, and soon, she feels calmer. “I…I haven’t needed to do that in so long. Was it always that loud?”

Y’shtola smiles. “I suspect you’ll get used to it soon enough, if what I am guessing about you is at all accurate.”

The woman looks at her, fear in her eyes. Or maybe it’s hope. “Do…do you know what’s happened to me?”

“I have a hypothesis. But to confirm, I’ll need to ask you some things, if you’re up for that.”

“Please.”

Y’shtola nods and helps her sit, wrapping the blanket around her to both sit on and protect her modesty. before sitting next to her. She looks her up and down, a hand on her cheek. “First of all, would I be accurate in stating that you were a walking sentient corpse before you came through? A…what was the term…undead?”

The woman nods.

“Your people called themselves “the Forsaken”, right? Because though you’d regained free will, you believed the rest of the world would shun you for your state?”

“Yes. But I’ve never seen anyone with….forgive me if this is offensive, but ears like yours. So how do you know all of this? Where exactly am I?

Y’shtola smiled at her. “It is not. And there is a reason you haven’t. This may be hard for you to understand, but…you are no longer on your world. This world is known as Hydaelyn, though it has other descriptors as well. There is much about the Rift we do not understand, but for the one other instance of this that I have an example of, the person who came through had their own form altered as well. You…you may not look as you remember.”

Y’shtola looks above her eyes, to the…top of her head? The woman’s right arm reaches out to touch it. Her hair is soft, and she brings it to the front of her eyes. It’s graying, even has some blue in the highlights, but it’s a healthy color. It feels strong, not the putrid pile of straw she’d had for too many tears. Her arm keeps raising and she finds…something soft growing off the top of her head. Her other arm shoots up and finds a similar one on the same side. “What on….are those….are those RABBIT EARS?” Her arms shoot to the side of her head. Nothing, just more smooth skin.

She stood, quickly looking around. There was a stream, not far from where they were sitting that fed into the ocean, and she bolted for it. Once she made it there, she leaned over. The water’s reflection wasn’t perfect, but she was able to make out enough details. “Oh, Light…” She began tearing up, placing her hand over the lower half of her face before she quickly dropped it again.

Y’shtola came up behind her, draping the blanket over her again. “Apologies if this is unwanted, we are alone out here, but I did not wish for a stranger to behold your nude form if you did not want that.”

She sniffed, wiping a tear from her face. “No, I wouldn’t. Thank you. I’m sorry for running like that, I just…”

“I know this is all a shock, and to look so different must be-“

“No, you don’t understand.” the woman interrupted, emotion thick in her voice. “Ears aside…that face…is mine. It’s what I looked like so many years ago, before I died. Hells it’s even before the decades long passage of time of being human. I…I never thought I’d see this face again.” She sniffed.

Y’shtola looked a bit startled. “Ah…well I’m very happy for you. And the, ah, ears? I assume you didn’t have anything like them previously.”

She chuckled. “No, I didn’t. But honestly, they’re kind of cute. Is this something unique to this world? I saw…I saw your tail when I got up. Do people in this world have animal features? Wait, is that insensitive? I’m so sorry if it is.”

Y’shtola laughed. “No, not everyone. My people are called Miqo’te. We do have features that are also shared with feline creatures. Your….what you have become are known as Viera. They have rabbit-like ears.

“Miqo’te and Viera. Well, at least this world calls its peoples prettier names than where I came from. So, um, you mentioned another person came through this portal before me?”

“Ah, yes. I wasn’t here when this happened, you see. He only told me the story recently, within the past couple of days, actually. That’s why I was out here, I wanted to investigate this portal and see what I might learn of it, and maybe ward it so that no one discovered it from our side. His story was remarkably similar to yours, actually. He stumbled into it and fell through, emerging here in a body returned to life in prime health. Before that he was undead, himself, though he became a hyur instead of a viera. Hyurs, from what he said, are physically similar to a species called “humans” from your world. Azeroth, I believe that was the name, yes. Is that what you were before you…died?”

The woman grabbed Y’shtola’s shoulders. “The person who came through, he was a male Forsaken? How long ago? Do you know where he is?”

Y’shtola’s shock gave way to suspicion. “I know where he can be found, yes. But you said you were tracking someone. Do you mean him harm? Because he is a dear friend of mine, and I’ll not bring you to him if you do.”

She shook her head. “No…the person I was tracking is…he’s extremely important to me. Someone I thought I had lost, that might have been dead. But I uncovered evidence that he’d been seen to the south, and so I…”

Y’shtola cursed her lack of natural sight, because she suddenly had a feeling she knew who this woman was. Though she could sense the hope and trepidation this woman’s aether, she couldn’t behold simple physical details, and a glimpse of her own eyes would confirm it. But instead, she had to ask.

“My lady…what is your name?”

Startled, the woman blinks. “It’s…Gwenefyr. Gwenefyr Franks. The man I’m looking for is named Aleister Franks. He’s my…my husband. Is….is he the man you’re referring to.?”

Y’shtola inhaled sharply. “By the Twelve, it’s really you. He….yes, Gwenefyr Franks, he is. He…he thinks you’re dead!

Gwenefyr Franks laughed with joy. “I thought he was for the longest time! But he’s here! What has be been doing? Will you take me to him, please, Y’shtola?”

“Of course! Please come with me! I’ll….there’s a lot to cover of what he’s been up to. Even I don’t know the full tale, but…I’m part of an order that’s dedicated to saving this world, we use the term “star”, by the way, from forces that would see it annihilated. It’s called the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. Aleister…he’s a member as well. I’ll take you to our headquarters, our home, and if he’s not there, our administrator will know how to get in contact with him. I will see you two reunited by any-“

Thunder rumbled overhead. Clouds had gathered above the two, unnoticed as they spoke. Rain began pouring down.

“Well, we’d best get moving. This will slow us down some, but it shouldn’t take long to reach the nearest settlement, and from there we can-” Y’shtola realized that Gwenefyr hadn’t moved. “Gwenefyr? Are you all right?”

She had closed her eyes and was inhaling through her nose deeply

“Gwenefyr? Is aught amiss?”

“No…I just…I really loved the smell of the earth just when it starts to rain. It always makes me think of renewal and growth. And that feels kind of fitting right now.”

Gwenefyr smiled and tried to dance in the rain, but quickly stopped when she realized that such an action was proving difficult when keeping the blanket covering her naked form.

“You, uh, you think we can find some clothing along the way, Y’shtola?”

Y’shtola smirked at her. “Don’t want to greet your husband in the altogether?”

“Not in front of anyone else!”

“Sensible, given the motley crew that makes up the Scions. Yes, I suspect we can find you some clothing along the way. I’ll even cover the cost for you, since I doubt you’re hiding money anywhere on you.”

Gwenefyr laughed. “Well, I’ll pay you back…somehow. “

“I accept payments in embarrassing tales about Aleister!”

“You have yourself a deal!”

#Final Fantasy XIV #FFXIV 2021 Writing Challenge #oldmanfranks #Old Lady Franks #Aleister Franks #Gwenefyr Franks #Y'shtola Rhul #Oh this reunion is gonna be so sweet

[destiniesfic]

A little dark!Alina for Tumblr user @darkalinas​. Merry Christmas, Maven! I was your Secret “Sankta” for @darklinadaily​’s Darklina Secret Santa. 👼 I had a blast writing this and I hope you like it. ♥

Fandom: Grishaverse (post-Ruin and Rising and King of Scars) Pairings: Darklina & Malina Word Count: 5,000 Rating: T+ Summary: Three years after the end of the Ravkan Civil War, the woman once known as Alina Starkov begins to dream.

Or: he can go anywhere he wants (just not home).

Read on AO3 or read below:

It would have been easy to think the mistress of Keramzin, who saw that the orphans straggling through her door were fed and cared for, little more than a girl herself. Boys of twelve seemed tall beside her, and the more daring among them would ask her to stand back to back with them so they could measure the difference in height and come away whooping at how they’d grown. She wore her hair unbraided and walked the halls with bare feet. Sometimes she would lose herself in a daydream and move to tackle a different section of her latest mural with her brush still wet in her hand, trailing little drips of paint like a line of kisses on the floorboards.

But appearances deceived, for the girl was a woman now, and married. She and her husband took their meals sitting among the teachers and staff, not their charges, although either of them could be tugged away from the table with the slightest excuse. Some of the youngest children, confused by her snow white hair, called her Baba like she was a grandmother. Though she was still a young woman, she sometimes moved stiffly, after she had sat too long or hunched her shoulders up to her ears while she painted, like whatever she had done before coming here siphoned some of her youth away.

When the woman slept at night, it was stretched out beside her husband under a warm duvet, safe. Neither of them dreamed often, and when they did they dreamt mainly of sunlight dancing over skin, of the woods’ silent call. But the other times, the few bad times, he was there when the nightmares reached for her with greedy fingers.

“It’s all right,” he would whisper, gathering her into his arms. “You don’t have to carry it all alone. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Although they were the right words, the things a person should say, her mouth always went dry before she could tell him that she knew.

When one night she arose from their bed in the very early hours, nothing seemed wrong. She had not woken from a nightmare, just suddenly, with no preamble and no cause. Her husband slept on beside her, his brown hair rumpled, one shoulder, sun-kissed from work outdoors, turned toward the ceiling. She thought about kissing it, but she didn’t want to wake him. She left her bed and went to the window, sitting on the bench in front of it and looking out at the pond.

The moon was strong tonight, a silver dish suspended in the sky. Everything she touched—the grass, the sliver of creek—seemed to glow. Her light spilled in through the window, washing the floor and the foot of the bed in desaturated hues, somehow making them both more and less. Where the light did not reach, shadows pooled on the floor like tar.

Most people thought that darkness was the absence of light, its opposite. She knew a different truth. Without light, there could be no shadow. Where one ventured, the other kept close.

And then, out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw one of the shadows move.

She spun around, but her room was as she always knew it: sleeping husband, solid oakwood furniture, dead fire in the grate. Across the room, a ghost stared back at her, hollow-cheeked and bright-eyed. She startled, but it was only her reflection in the full-length mirror. Then, in her periphery, motion: darkness like smoke, sliding under the closed door and into the hall.

She followed.

The rebuilt Keramzin was completely dark this time of night, orphans and staff alike asleep, lost to their own dreams of tomorrow. Patches of moonlight glimmered at her feet, but the shadows between them seemed to grow darker, deeper, until she thought she might fall into them if she took a step forward. Yawning chasms, or hungry mouths.

This was like no dream she could remember. As far as she could see there was no one beside her, no one behind her. Yet she could feel a presence, she would swear to it. Something winding around her, working its way up her body. Something with a voice.

Alina, it murmured. A name only her husband called her now, when the fire was dying and they were alone, the children tucked safely in their beds.

“Alina is dead,” she said. “No one here has that name.”

A lie—Ravkans began naming their daughters for the Sun Summoner as soon as they learned of her. There were two little Alinas, both under four, in the nursery where the youngest children slept. But she didn’t think this phantom cared for technicalities.

The voice chuckled. Are you really so eager to forget yourself? She felt the brush of lips against her ear, but when she turned her head there was nothing. She was alone in the darkened hall, and she thought he had left, but then a whisper slithered into her other ear. Are you so eager to forget who you are?

“I am the mistress of Keramzin,” she told the voice. “I am the painter of these walls. I am the guardian of these children. I have made my home here, and if you won’t leave it, I will drive you out myself.”

There was silence. Then:

With what power?

“Darling?”

She turned. Her husband stood in the doorway of their room, his hair sticking up endearingly at odd angles, pajamas slung low on his hips. The shadows reverted to their normal shade, strangely innocent, keeping their secrets.

“What is it?” he asked. “I heard you talking.”

She blinked back to herself and reached for a plausible explanation. “I don’t know. Must have been sleepwalking.”

He nodded, distantly, then walked over and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Back to bed,” he said, a yawn stretching the last word wide.

“Back to bed,” she agreed, but not without a last glance over her shoulder.

---

“Have you heard from our friend in Os Alta?” the woman asked her husband over breakfast that morning.

That’s what they called the king, that or sometimes their friend in the palace. They had a handful of friends in Os Alta, of course, the lingering remnants of another life entirely. But those friends—the Grisha Triumvirate, the king’s bodyguards, and others—could be mentioned by name occasionally. Davids and Nadias were common enough. Nikolais were, too, but it was better to be cautious with him. Better to leave nothing to chance.

Her husband frowned. “No,” he said. “Were you expecting something?”

She shrugged. They had briefly housed the king’s escort a few weeks back, sans king; the orphans had crowded the windows to gawk at the gilded carriage. When the riders went on their way to the palace, she sent a letter with them. Nothing serious, for there was nothing serious to report from Keramzin, just well-wishes and a request for news from the court. The king was a lively correspondent and usually quick to reply, happy to unburden himself of gossip or fears which he could not, or would not, share with courtiers.

“I wrote to him,” she said, spooning sugar into her tea. “But I haven’t heard back. He’s probably busy.”

“Busy choosing a wife,” her husband replied, with a hint of a snort and a solemn undercurrent that said he did not envy the king one bit.

The woman looked into the glassy surface of her tea. “I forgot,” she murmured, though that news had reached them even in Keramzin and the staff had been buzzing about it for weeks. A royal betrothal was a rare event, and an important one.

Her husband bumped her knee with his, and teased, “Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

“Hardly,” she scoffed, and smiled at him. That ship had sailed long ago.

Still, it bothered her that she hadn’t heard from her friend. She knew that court obligations must be keeping him occupied, especially with eligible young women swarming the capital, but she wished she had a letter back so she could reply in kind. He was the only person who understood the way darkness had lodged itself between her ribs like a long thorn, reaching to pierce her heart. If she could just slip in a question about his demons, if she could just have reassurance that all was well with him, then maybe she would cease to worry about the impossible.

She took a deep breath, inhaling the earthy scent of her tea. It seemed silly to have those fears here. The air was bright with the chatter of children being herded into their first lessons of the day, with cooking smells, with autumn sun. Half the walls were covered in paintings of fantastical scenes, her own doing, and she wondered if she had been trying to create a ward to keep the darkness out.

“I heard there were earthquakes last night,” her husband said, changing the subject. “Maybe that’s what woke you.”

She frowned. “Earthquakes? Here?”

“All over Ravka. As far south as Dva Stolba.”

Dva Stolba. A shiver ran down her spine. “Why do they think it happened?”

“An act of nature,” said her husband, unbothered. “These things happen, beloved.”

The woman nodded and looked back into her tea. Strange things had been happening all year, it seemed—bridges of bone, statues sprouting flowers, forests falling in the night. It might mean nothing.

And yet when she tried to paint that day, her blues kept running into her blacks, and shadows marred her paintings like bruises. She retired to her room early, dreading her dreams.

---

She did not dream that night, nor the next, nor the one after that, and she breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that her husband was right, that things do happen. That sometimes earthquakes were only earthquakes, and dreams only dreams.

The next time she woke unexpectedly it was to the sound of a bright, sustained note, like ringing in her ears. Someone was playing the piano downstairs. One of the kids must have gotten up and decided to wander around in the night.

Her husband slept on next to her, bracketing her back, and she knew it would fall to her to handle this before the playing woke up the rest of the orphanage. She sighed, pushed her hair back from her face, and slipped out of bed, quietly pulling the door to behind her.

The child fooling around with the piano kept playing and holding the same note, as if not sure where to go from the single key they’d discovered. It was in one of the upper octaves, and although she’d begun to learn how to play the piano alongside some of her more gifted charges, she did not have the knack for knowing which note it was.

But when her feet found the cold tile of the foyer and she hurried to the drawing room where the piano stood, she saw the person sitting at the keys was not a child at all.

The phantom had shape now. He wore a long cloak of all black, with the hood pulled up to cast his face in shadow. She knew what he would look like if he drew it down, and it was that terrible knowledge which rooted her to the spot. He sat on the piano bench like there was real weight to him.

“You’re not here,” she said, as if the words alone were a revocation, a shield.

The phantom pressed the piano key again, and the note held, high and wavering, suspended in the air between them. She looked around, thinking it might wake the staff, or maybe some of the children would stumble bleary-eyed from their rooms, but in her heart she knew no one would come.

“You’re not real,” she insisted.

“Come and sit,” he said. His voice was cool like a poisoned spring at the height of summer, the last drink of the desperate.

She refused to slip into the well of him and stayed where she was, folding her arms over her chest. “You’re in my home.”

“Yes, and such work you’ve done, rebuilding it.” He didn’t need to remind her that he had once burnt Keramzin to the ground, slaughtered all those that had a hand in raising her. She could hear the smile in his voice, picture the way his lips curved under that hood. “Sit with me. I’ll be on my way soon enough.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Would you believe a dead man’s word?”

She shook her head. She wouldn’t have believed him when he was alive. “All you’ve ever done is lie, dead or not.”

“I bent the truth to my will, Alina. I omitted.” There it was again, the name that was hers and wasn’t. She hated the tenderness with which he said it, the same her husband’s voice held when he called her beloved, or my heart.

“A lie of omission is still a lie,” she said.

He made a small, skeptical sound, and then began to play in earnest, coaxing sad, strange music from a piano more accustomed to the clumsy fumblings of students. She had never heard a song like this, composed of discordant notes that didn’t quite fit together and made the hair on her arms stand on end. She found herself moving closer to the piano, watching his bone-white fingers move over the ivory keys, trying to figure out how he was doing it.

He softened his playing, gentled his touch, so that he could speak to her with his head still bowed. “How long has it been since you’ve seen my face at night?”

“Years,” she whispered. Another lie. She couldn’t keep him from entering her thoughts, the man she’d almost loved, the man she killed. She would go weeks at a time without thinking of him, and then he’d glide into her last thoughts before sleep, or she’d feel her husband’s callused hands on her skin and think of the one breathless night he’d gripped her thigh and nearly had her, all of the other evenings that weren’t.

“Would you like to see it again?”

“No.”

He chuckled and stopped playing, then reached up to draw back his hood.

At first she saw only what she expected: his familiar, beautiful face, with its high cheekbones, his thick, dark hair, his cruel mouth curving up at the corner. There were the faint scars that marked his survival of the time she stranded him on the Fold. But that was what she wanted to see. The other half of his face was a rotten mess. Mottled grey skin flaked away from bone, a dark hollow gaped where his eye should be. There were no lips to hide his straight white teeth, and no nose at all. How he would have rotted, if he hadn’t burned.

He smiled.

She screamed.

The cook, emerging from her room to set out breakfast, found her asleep at the keys, her forearm slung in front of the music rack, pillowing her forehead.

---

The woman was led to her bed, skin hot, buried in blankets as soft and heavy as the first snow of winter. A doctor from the nearby town was summoned to diagnose her with influenza, told her husband to see to it that she rested and drank her tea. She had always been prone to sickness when the weather changed–except for the one glorious, blazing year that her ill health could not touch her, when the light she wielded kept it at bay.

She gave that up. She was supposed to have her happily-ever-after.

“I saw him, Mal,” she said, clutching at her husband’s sleeve as he pressed a cool compress to her forehead. “I saw him.”

“Your temperature’s still high,” he replied, cupping her cheek in his work-roughened hand. She closed her eyes. “Fever dreams. He’s gone, love. You saw to that.”

Later, she saw her husband standing in the door, speaking in a low voice to the doctor, asking about paranoia, about delusions, about what it meant that his wife saw ghosts. The doctor shook his head, told him she needed to sweat it out, that after a few days she would be right as rain.

She told no one there was a weight on her chest that had nothing to do with her flu.

But her body won its fight eventually. After a few days her skin cooled, and instead of sipping clear broth from a bowl held carefully by one of the orphanage nurses, she was able to join the rest of Keramzin at dinner, seated at her husband’s side. The staff all greeted her warmly and told her how much better she looked, even though she knew they whispered about the circles under her eyes even when she was well.

Sitting there in the dining room, she was struck suddenly by a sense of profound dissatisfaction with her life. Why should she endure gossip and speculation? Why should she have her counsel so easily disregarded by the physician, by her husband, her words of warning dismissed as flights of fancy? She, who had been a saint. She, who was nearly queen. Why—

But then one of the little girls threw her arms around the woman’s legs and said, “Baba, I’m glad you’re better,” and the world righted itself. She let her hand rest on the back of the girl’s silken head, and breathed.

---

“Keep me awake tonight,” she told her husband later, as they turned down the gas lamps and climbed into bed. “I don’t want to dream.”

“You need your rest,” he replied, smoothing a lock of white hair back from her face.

She twined her arms around his shoulders. “I’m not glass,” she murmured. “I won’t break. Keep me up.”

He tried his best, and so did she, but sleep, ever the creditor, claimed its debts in the end. Although at first she did not realize she was asleep, having sild into it sideways; one moment she watched her husband’s chest rise and fall, and the next she blinked, and the waning moon had moved outside the window. The back of her neck prickled with the creeping certainty that she was being watched. There was someone else in the room with them.

She reached for her sleeping husband to wake him, to tell him, to show him, but her hand passed over his shoulder like rain running down a windowpane. She jerked it back, as if she had burned it. Her husband didn’t stir.

“He won’t wake,” said the soft, cool voice from behind her. “You’re in my domain now.”

The woman closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, steadying herself before speaking. “I thought it was ours,” she said after a moment. “Not yours. I could call to you, too.”

“But you haven’t, have you, Alina?”

“There’s no point calling on a dead man.”

“Am I so dead?”

The more fool her, expecting a nightmare to know he was deceased. The more fool her, for thinking him just a nightmare. She turned over, holding her blankets close to her chest, and found a figure standing at her bedside, nearly human, not a shadow, not half corpse.

She blinked up at him. “You’re whole now.”

“I only wanted to remind you of the damage you did,” he said.

How could she forget? She killed both him and her husband that day, so much heart’s blood gouting warm over her hands. If one had returned to her, it didn’t seem so unlikely that the other would as well, even though she’d watched him burn.

But she wondered if that was it, or if he simply had the strength now to appear as he liked. He had been formless at first, just a whisper in her ear. Now he stood at her bedside, lifelike. His hood was pushed back from his face, and the moonlight glimmered on his sharp, elegant cheekbones, haloed his dark hair. His scars, which had appeared after she stranded him on the Fold, were gone. He looked down at her with his pale grey eyes, and she very much wished she were clothed.

“What do you want?” she asked, smoothing her hand over the blankets.

“A word. A walk.”

“And what if I don’t want to give you those things?”

His mouth curved into a smile, but she read sadness in his eyes. “Then I will come again, Alina. The tracker may think he has you in the day, but your nights are mine.”

She closed her eyes again and imagined him eroding her dreams over and over, until he became the only thought left in her head. She imagined sitting up for days, trying to avoid him. It chilled her blood. If they had thought her paranoid before…

“No tricks,” she told him. “Look away. I need to dress.”

He scoffed, “You act as though we’re strangers.”

“Some things belong to me,” she reminded him. “Look away.”

He pursed his lips, but turned his head away from her. She slipped out of bed, careful not to touch him, and gathered up her discarded nightgown, her underwear, dressing as quickly as she could. She stepped into her slippers, determined to make him wait as long as possible, before asking, “Where are we walking?”

“Around your orphanage, to start.”

“Fine.” She crossed her arms and tucked her hands under her armpits so he couldn’t take them.

The door to their room had a squeaky hinge, one her husband had been meaning to grease for a couple of weeks now. When the phantom opened it, it made no sound. She listened, hard, for his footfalls on the floor.

“Tell me, does this life suit you?” he asked, as they walked side by side through the darkened hall, the only two awake in a house, or perhaps a world, of sleepers. “Do you enjoy being painter and patroness?”

“I do,” she said. It did not taste like a lie.

He hummed. “Do you enjoy being a mere wife, when you might have been a queen?”

“Men wanted to make me their queen,” she reminded him. “That was never something I chose for myself.”

“All the more reason you would have been a good one,” he said. “Power is wasted by those who crave it. It’s twisted, perverted, misused. You would have made an excellent queen.”

“That’s a rare moment of self-awareness from you.”

An amused glint lit his eyes, a candle flame in a darkened window. “I never wanted power for power’s sake, Alina. I loved my country.”

“Did you?” She paused for a moment to consider a painted vine snaking around a bannister, which was already beginning to flake off. She scratched at a leaf with her index finger; green came away under her nail. “Then why couldn’t you stop destroying it?”

“Ah,” he said.

“Well?”

“So young, so wise, so married,” he mused, “and yet you know nothing of love.”

He took the stairs without waiting for her to follow. She did, of course, determined to chase him down and to explain all the ways that he was wrong, then realizing, partway down, that he would only take her arguments as defensiveness. So she reminded herself of what she knew. She loved her life. She loved the children in her care. She loved her husband. Her love would not destroy them. It would not destroy her.

But she had loved power, too, once. And now her power was dead.

He waited for her by the two grand double doors that stood at Keramzin’s main entrance. She tried to follow the lines of his cloak with her eyes, but it bled into the shadows at his feet. He watched her steadily.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Now we walk.” And he held out his hand.

She stared at him.

“You won’t get to where we’re going if you don’t take it.” He spread his fingers out a little, beckoning her. “Alina.”

She held his gaze as she slipped her hand into his. She half-expected to feel the surge of power, familiar and wild, that used to always manifest when she touched him. She didn’t feel that, but she didn’t feel nothing. Some dark thing fluttered just to the side of her heart, a fledgling raven not quite ready to leave the nest.

“Aleksander,” she said.

He pushed open the door.

They stepped together, and for a moment it was as if the shadows had swallowed them whole. She felt like she had stepped back into the nothingness of the Fold, an all-consuming, weightless darkness. But then it resolved itself, and she saw that she was in a grey, windowless room. She blinked and pressed her hand to one of the walls, feeling cool stone under her palm. With a surge of panic, she looked over her shoulder and saw the only door was metal and sealed tight.

“This is a cell,” she said, her heart sinking. Had she stepped into a trap without knowing? Would she be able to leave? “Why would you bring me here?”

“A glimpse of the future,” he said, ever inscrutable.

And then his mouth was hot and hard on hers, and her back collided with the wall. She was so surprised that for a moment she didn’t react, for a moment her lips parted and she let herself be kissed, and then she grabbed his shoulders and pushed him away.

“What are you doing?” she cried, as if someone might hear, someone outside. Someone who could intervene.

“What you want.”

That dark thing fluttered behind her ribcage again. “I have a husband.”

“Your husband,” he said, voice heavy with derision. “The tracker. Have you forgotten? You murdered your husband the day you murdered me.”

“Clearly it didn’t take.” She kept her hands firm on his shoulders. He certainly felt real, firm and strong, all lean muscle.

His laugh was low and dangerous. “Are you so deserving of good things? Are you so deserving of kindness? You put a dagger in both of us, Alina. Tell me why I shouldn’t repay you in kind.”

She felt one of his hands slip up her nightdress, settling on her thigh, a strange echo of the position they’d been in years ago, that very different night. Her blood pulsed hot in her ears, and she knew it was not a dagger he was planning to stick her with. “You’re dead,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. She refused to let him rattle her. “I think that would make it difficult. No blood to spare.”

He gave her a narrow, rueful grin. “If I’m truly dead, does it matter what we do?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

His other hand traced a half-circle over her collarbones, where Morozova’s antlers once sat, before gently tilting her chin up. She could not look away from him. In life, there was always such intensity in his gaze, and the gaze of this nightmare, this dream, was no different. “I’m going to kiss you again,” he said. “Tell me to stop, if that’s what you want.”

She didn’t tell him to stop. He was gentler this time, his lips ghosting over her cheek before finding hers, molding to her instead of forcing his way in. She shut her eyes tight, but her grip on his shoulders turned into something else, a near embrace, another battle in their war. She could even smell him, cool and crisp like the approach of winter. His hand was warm on her thigh.

“You have something of mine,” he murmured against her mouth. “Do you know how to use it?”

“What?” she asked breathily.

She felt him smile. “I’m not so far away, Alina,” he said. “Come and find me.”

---

When she opened her eyes, she found herself standing in the middle of Keramzin’s drive in her nightdress and slippers. Although it was late autumn and a breeze brushed her white hair back from her face like a lover’s fingers, she didn’t feel the cold.

Dawn was just beginning to break in the east, a pink tinge illuminating the dark branches of naked trees. She stood there, watching the morning sun rise, and held her hands up to it, hoping to catch the rays in her palms and hold them for a while. But they glided over her skin, indifferent to what she wanted. She tried not to let her disappointment swallow her. She had felt a tug when he touched her. She had hoped...

But maybe that wasn’t the answer.

“There you are,” said a voice from behind her. She turned and found her husband standing in the door, his feet bare. He had dressed in haste, and his shirt didn’t quite sit right on his shoulders. She saw the nurse peeking out behind him.

“Sleepwalking,” she called from the drive. “Don’t worry.”

“You should come in,” he said. “You’ll make yourself sick again.” She could hear his concern warring with his impulse not to frighten her off. If they could only pretend everything was fine, then everything would be.

“In a minute.” She looked toward the trees bordering the drive, their little patch of forest. “There’s something I want to try.”

“Ali—” he began, then stopped, remembered himself. “Just come in.”

She smiled at him like she couldn’t still feel the ghost of another man’s kiss on her lips. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

Before he could say another word, she walked off into the trees, where the shadows grew thick like underbrush, even at midday. But it was dawn, with the sun’s light slanting at an angle, and the thick trunks of trees sprouted long, dark shadows that blanketed the leaf-covered ground. She walked until she was sure she could no longer be seen. Eventually, someone would come to bring her in. Better to be quick. Better to be sure.

Alina held out her hands.

The shadows greeted her like an old friend.

#darklina #alarkling #darklinadaily #darklina secret santa #grishaverse #alina starkov #aleksander morozova #the grisha trilogy #shadow and bone #mine: fic #darklinasecretsanta

[elena-reina]

Worth It - Draco Malfoy x Reader

Request: (1/3) heyyy, can you do an imagine that draco comforts you for having depression for whatever reason and one day he saw you standing on the roof of hog warts almost leaping off the balcony but he catches you in time (you can create the ending) thank u if you do!! :)) - Anon

(2/3) Can you do a one shot where Draco knows about the readers eating disorder and he helps her overcome it? I hope that makes sense, I love your stories so much, please don't stop writing! - Anon

(3/3) Yay, you’re back! I was wondering if you could do a Draco Malfoy x reader where he finds her self harming? I get it if you aren’t comfortable - Anon

Warnings: Very triggering- read with caution please, depression- suicide related, anorexia, self-harm

A/N: PLEASE READ! These three all fall under the same category for me, so I just combined them. I just want to make it clear that I am not, in any way, romanticizing or making it seem as though I am pro self-harm whatsoever; I purely write whatever requests come in. To those that do, I know you’ve got a lot going on and there is a lot of emotions, trauma, and hurt; believe me I know a lot about it. But it gets better, I promise you. It always gets better. Incase you all haven’t heard it, I love you, I care about you, and I know you’re strong enough to make it through anything. If anyone needs to talk, my messages are always open and again don’t ever think you’re not enough or worth it because you all are golden. You were put on this earth for a reason :)

Just another day on top of another.

Yawning, you lightly scratched your head and stood in front of your mirror in your dorm room; nothing covered you besides your undergarments. Looking up and down your body completely still, you wouldn’t be able to tell there was anything wrong. You lifted your arm and looked at your wrist leading down your forearm; the markings covered the insides of your arms and varied in color, shape, and size. Some of them were old, obvious by how they shined and caught light at just the right angle. Some were bright red and bold, there was no denying it. Most were about a month old, looking like a cat scratched you and drew blood; which would be believeable considering you owned a cat- Pumpkin; some you could also blame on an accident. 

Well, what kind of accident?

Well, you didn’t have that answer. Not as if anyone were to ask anyways due to the fact that you kept them hidden in the first place.

You started at your feet, averting your eyes from your own reflection. Your feet were bony and thin, like the rest of your body. Raising your gaze, you winced at the emaciated figure that stared back at yourself. 

What had you let yourself become? 

To others, you looked sickly. 

Had you come to Hogwarts like this initially? No. It was harder to hide it at home, so your mind never crossed it other than maybe dark thoughts here and there.

Did you have a good life at home? Well, that’s subjective. You had a roof over your head, clothes on your back, and food in the fridge. All the necessary things to provide as a necessity to live.

But did you have genuine friends, loving parents, and a place to call home? No.

Your once plump and vibrant self, now looked thin to the bone. Once the soul becomes so thin, the body will inevitably follow in its footsteps like a wandering toddler, learning and adapting from the shadows within. Instead of a growing sense of ultimate self-love, self-worth, or self-positivity, the soul doesn’t have the strength to ascend upwards to health anymore. And so it is extremely hard to eat more, even when it is a simple bite at a time; drink more, with a tiny sip of water needed to survive; live more, the simple act of breathing eventually gets difficult from time to time; and ultimately hard to listen to that part of yourself that wants to stay alive and be loved.

Would you still go to the Grand Hall? Well of course, if there was one thing you hated more than yourself was unwanted attention. Part of you belives it’s your fault that you don’t have friends soley because of how introverted you are. And with the friends, well friend, that you do have just so happens to be the person most people don’t get along with; Draco Malfoy.

What’re the odds.

There definitely was more to it than just being “friends” with Draco, but neither of you fully acknowledged it. He knew about your eating disorder, and he tries his best to help you, encouraging you every step of the way- even when you blatantly push him away.

You never asked for help- Not that he cared if you did or didn’t anyway.

Turning away from the mirror, you slipped on your white button up shirt making sure to clip the button around your wrist, taking attention away for your skin. Sliding on your skirt, Y/H tie, and your Y/H robe, you were ready to head down for breakfast. 

Your hand rested on the cold metal door knob, as you stared at the small piece of silver metal on top of your dresser; whom you have a terrible relationship with. You bit your lip, hesitating. You knew you shouldn’t take it. You knew you shouldn’t have it on you because it will only ingite triggers. 

Fuck it.

You quickly walked over to your dresser and picked up the sharp piece to put in your pocket. Spinning on your heel, you headed on out of the room and to the Grand Hall.

You walked through the aisles, and immediately met with Draco’s eyes. He lit up and waved you over to your usual seat right beside him. He scooted over, patting the space next to him as you sat down. He grinned, happy to see you.

“G’morning, Y/N,” he said pulling you into a tight hug. He was always careful when touching you because he felt like he could snap you in half if he were to be too rough on you.

You smiled warmly, breathing in his calming smell. “Good morning, Draco.”

“Alright, I know we’ve been doing baby steps for the longest time, but I think you are just about ready,” he spoke.

You furrowed your eyebrows. “What’re you talking about?”

He leaned over the table and placed food onto your plate, more than he’s put on the last times. Before it would just be pieces of fruit here and there, maybe a piece of sausage; but this time he put a waffle, more fruit, and two slices of bacon.

Your stomach gurgled for the food, desperate to be full off of something. But at the same time, you felt sick to your stomach.

“Draco, this is too much. I’m not even all that hungry. We had a big dinner the night before remember?”

“Nonesense, you literally only ate a handfull of rice and two small pieces of asparagus last night. Even my owl eats more than that,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes.

You stared at your plate, leaning back. Your tongue felt dry, despite your cup of water being right in front of you. Your throat felt as if someone thrust a handful of itching powder down and it was dying to be coughed out. If possible, you could sit in the chair for fifteen hours straight; you just weren’t in the mood to eat.

“Listen, you don’t have to eat it all, but please try for me.”

You nodded and picked up your fork, stabbing to the orange melon. Bringing it to your lips, you slowly chewed as your stomach was growling in pleasure being finally fed. 

Draco cheered you on with every bite, causing you to laugh. He wanted to distract you so that you focused less on what you’re eating and more on conversing with him so you weren’t as distracted with how much you were eating.

Eventually, you finished about half the waffle, all your fruit, and had no more bacon left. You were surprised at yourself when you looked back at your plate and then to him.

“I’m so proud of you! You ate more than I expected- not that I am complaining, I’m definitely not because I am really happy for you,” he quickly chuckled, “Maybe tomorrow we can put two waffles.” He nudged the side of your bony rib jokinly.

“Ha ha very funny,” you joked, rolling your eyes. 

After some time, you had to go to class. Sadly, you didn’t share many classes with Draco if at all. Walking into potions, you sat in your usual seat in the back of the room. As usual, there were always a few Slytherin’s that would pester you  solely because you were one of the few people in the school who was able to even share the same space as Draco; it was pure jealousy but you didn’t have a say in anything, or even how your friendship blossomed in the first place.

“Y/L/N,” Daphne sneered, leaning close to your face.

You really tried your best to focus on your Potions book but the group of girls that taunt you every single day just so happened to want to be extra annoying and sit around you. And when I say around you, I mean literally in front of you, next to you, on both sides, and even behind you. You lifted your head from your hand to looked at Daphne in front of you, considering she was right in your face. You opened your mouth to speak, but she beat you to it.

“I really don’t understand how us purebloods are forced to associate with people like you rotting mudbloods,” she giggled, making a disgusted expression as she said the last part. Her friends burst out into obnoxious laughter. 

You weren’t even a mudblood. You had friends who weren’t magical, but that only led people to paint you as a mudblood.

"Can’t say anything? Can’t stick up for yourself Y/L/N? My goodness, do you even speak or is that too hard for you?” Sarah on the side of you asks, awaiting your response, “I see the way you have Draco baby you. It’s pathetic really.”

They took your silence as an answer and continued but this time it was Heather behind you. "See, she doesn’t even deny it,” she snickered, "Just look at you. I don’t see what he sees in you. You look like, I don’t even know how to say it, a walking pole-”

“No, a broken twig!” Daphne interjected, laughing.

“Yes a broken twig!” Heather continued, slowly enunciating each word, “Nothing but a pathetic, filthy, mudblood who pretends to be sick just to get the attention from those who actually matter.” 

Each word felt like a stab in an open wound over and over again, being thrusted through your entire body. Tears welled up in your eyes as you blankly stared down at your Potions book, threatening to fall at any given moment. 

“What? Cat’s still got your tongue?” Alicia from the other side of you jerked, shoving on your roughly causing you to bump into Sarah. Sarah let out a disgusted groan and pushed you back off of her.

“Gross! Do not touch me!” she gagged, as Heather joined in and pushed you to the point that you fell out of your seat and roughly onto the floor with a loud smack.

“HEY! LEAVE HER ALONE!” someone in the classroom, whom you recognized as Justin Finch-Fletchley, spoke loudly finally witnessing what was happening.

Tears silently cascaded down your cheeks. He quickly jogged over to you as the mean girls dispersed to a different part of the classroom snickering together.

“Are you alright?” he asked concerned, extending his arm out towards you. You looked at his hand through blurry eyes and nodded, lightly grabbing onto him. He helped you to your feet. Grabbing onto your book, you turned and rushed out of the room and headed in the direction of the bathroom.

Keeping you head low, you sped walked, and crashed into someone that sent you flying to the floor. Choking over your tears, you didn’t bother to look at who it was and instead rushed to find your Potions book and hurry out of there.

“Y/N?” that familiar voice spoke.

Draco.

You still avoided eyecontact as you kept searching to your book only to find him holding onto it, to give to you. Standing up, you straightened out your skirt. Lightly grabbing it, you whispered a quiet thank you and tried to continue down the hallway. He stopped you grabbing onto your arm, alarmed.

“Woah, wait. What’s going on, what happened, what’s wrong?” he asked all at once as he watched the translucent tears glide down the sides of your face. You stood straight.

“Please, let me go,” you spoke softly, your voice slightly cracking.

“Was someone saying bullshit to you? Did someone hurt you? Because you know I’m always here for you and I’ll make sure they don’t say anything to or about you ever again.” He growls getting angrier by the second.

“I just really want to be left alone, Draco. I’m sorry,” you said snatching your arm back and sped walked down the hallway.

His scowl lightens, worrying for you. He slowly followed you. 

Initially you wanted to go to the bathroom, but changed your mind last minute. Turning a different corner, you kept going up more and more stairs until you inevitably reached the top of the Hogwarts building. Rushing to the edge, you dropped your book onto the floor and stood slightly leaning over the edge to get a good look at the bottom of the building with your hair flowing in the wind. It was a long way down that will ultimately end up in costing you your life. Trying to force yourself out of your thoughts, you looked in your pocket for that piece of metal, grateful that you grabbed it earlier. Frantically unbuttoning the shirt around your wrist, you felt numb as you choked over your tears silently.

“I’m not worth it,” you thought to yourself.

You stood on the brink of something you couldn't describe. The weight of everything seemed to press down on your shoulders and you struggled to take even a single step forward towards anything positive.

You felt worthless. 

A waste of space. A waste of air. A waste of life. 

It was too much. All of it. 

The tingle as the sharp metal glided against your skin provided a senseless, numb feeling. Every step cost you as the darkness in your mind grew darker and darker; the pain grew sharper and stronger; all of it seemed to only swell in strength and you began to wonder if things could ever get better.

You were tired of feeling things. Everyday felt like never ending dread. With an exception of Draco, nothing seemed worth it anymore. Hell, Draco will only end up forgetting about you in the end of it all.

You don’t play that much of a significant role in his life to matter to him in the long run.

Sometimes you wonder if someone ever notices that sad, broken look in your eyes that you see in the mirror that are masked with a smile and fake enthusiasm. 

If they see beauty where you see ugliness. 

You laugh, traveling up your arm going over old scars, a bitter, sarcastic laugh, at yourself. Nobody cares. No one notices. 

They never seem to, do they? You’ve fought for years, all for what.

The crimson liquid dripped down your arm, falling onto the stone floor. The wind pushed and howled against you as though to try and shove you back. Clumsily, you dropped your metal blade.

“No!” you shouted, dropping to your knees and it fell further and further, out of your sight. You choked over your sobs, feeling broken. Your arm stung and you looked at it through blurry tears.

“I can’t take this anymore,” you spoke aloud to yourself and shakily stood up. You inched closer and closed on the edge, as you looked up inhaling the fresh air. With one last breath, you closed your eyes, opened your arms, and took your last step forward and felt the pressure of the wind beat you on the way down. 

The blackness behind your eyes was perfect. It provided a visual silence that gave a respected admiration. With your eyes closed there was the simple sweetness of the longing of existing, of being, of breathing, and how those moments extended with such grace until you are met with the concluding dark abyss.

Prior while had Draco followed you, he could feel the dark and depressive energy emerging out of your presense. He knew you needed your space, but something was off. The higher and higher you went up the stairs, he had enough of following you and simply looked up. Only the worse things plagued his mind as he quickly rushed back down the stairs and sprinted through the halls to hurry and get outside. He had no seconds to waste, because he had a feeling you were going to try and jump.

He could’ve followed you all the way to the top, but if you had jumped he would’ve been to late. At least this way, he had a chance of catching you.

Ignoring the pain in his chest from running, he ran pushing anyone and everyone who got in his way. 

Darting outside, his eyes widened as he saw your body flying down the side of the building. With one last push of exertion, he caught you in his arms just in time. He fell forward into the floor, but was sure to cradle your head so you got the least amount of injury.

Breathing heavily up and down. You opened your eyes and met Draco’s silver, scared ones. You didn’t know what to think. You didn’t think he was going to be there. Your fresh wounds, began to soak up in his white shirt. Draco sees them, the sight of your new scars reveal themselves to him. He sees your arm, not that he’s surprised. Still being held in his arms protectively, he starts to cry. 

“Y/N,” he says your name like you had just broken his heart.

Your throat tightens and you feel yourself on the brink of tears as your eyes stung. You didn’t know what to say. You were broken.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, not knowing what else to say or do. “I’m sorry. I–”

He interrupts you. “Why...” he stammers gazing down at your arm, “How many times?” He rang a soft finger down your arm, wincing at every raw wound.

“I don’t know,” you mumbles. 

“For fuck’s sake,” he cried out, his tears dripping off his chin. “I’m sorry I wasn’t…I wasn’t there for you enough.”

You shake your head, “No, Draco, it wasn’t your fault–”

Draco looked down at you with confusion and anger before he smashed his desperate lips onto yours.

Suddenly, the anger, the self-hatred, the loathing, the rage left your body for a split moment. It diminished as soon as his lips pressed against yours in a long over-due, intense passion. It was as if he was taking all away all your pain and misery and threw it away.

You kissed him back with burning amount of fiery love he was kissing you with. Your lips worked hungrily against his as his hands snaked their way to your waist and pulled your shaking body closer to his to kiss you deeper.

Your cold hands grabbed his face and pulled it closer to yours, if that was even possible. His calming scent flowed through your nostils, making your eyes water under your closed eyes.

Too many emotions were going through your brain and you couldn’t handle it. Deep down,  you had always dreamt of being with Draco. Although, you wish that it could have happened under very different and happier circumstances. Nonetheless, you were grateful.

Pulling away, he gazed into your eyes. “Y/N, can you answer me why? Why didn’t you come and talk to me.”

You tried diverting your gaze, but he grabbed your chin with his hand lightly to keep his eyes locked with yours. “Please.”

“I can’t take it anymore. I hate myself and everything I stand for,” you began to cry, “I just... I just thought it would make it easier for everyone else if I were to end everything and erase myself from existence.”

“I would miss you and I don’t know what I would do without you. What if I had just offed myself and left you there to wonder where you went wrong.”

You broke down into sobs, burying your face into his neck as he embraced you in a tight hug.

You shook. “I... I know, but I’m nothing special. I’m just–”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” he snapped harshly. “You are so fucking perfect, it drives me insane. I love you so goddamn much, do you know that? Do you? I love you too much to let you keep doing this to yourself. You are worth it. You are loved. You are my everything. I want you to remember that feeling you had right now at the thought of me ending my life, because that’s what you’re doing to me whenever you cut me out of your life like I’m nothing.”

“I’m sorry,” you cried lifting your head sniffing, “Draco, I wasn’t trying to hurt you, I swear. I was just…I was just..” but you didn’t have any excuse, so you collapsed back into his warm embrace.

“I know,” he murmurs against your hair. “I know. I love you. I love you so much.”

#Draco Malfoy #Draco #malfoy #draco malfoy fanfic #draco malfoy fanfiction #draco fanfiction #draco malfoy one shot #oneshot #one shot #draco malfoy imagines #Harry Potter #harry potter imagines #harry potter imagine #Tom Felton #tom #felton #harry potter oneshot #draco malfoy imagine #imagines #imagine #fanfic #fanfiction #hp fanfic #hp imagine #hp reader insert #HP

[tilltheendwilliwrite]

Star-Crossed: Bound by Blood

Chapter Two

Master List / Read on AO3

Previous Chapter

Pairing: Mando/Din Djarin x OFC Baast’Mal

Warnings: I’m making this up as a go, Canon divergent from the series during chapter 13, mild violence

A/N: I make this stuff up as I go along, if I screw something Star Wars-y up, apologies in advance, I didn’t do it on purpose, but I’m new to this Fandom. I will be cross posting this story between AO3 and Tumblr except the smutty bits. Those chapters will only be available to registered users on AO3. (I’m trying something new for people who want to read here on Tumblr, but to also avoid the smut for minors controversy. We’ll see how it goes.)

*I do not have a tag list* Please follow the story on AO3 if you want email updates, or follow @tilltheendwilliwrite-library where I post the new/latest chapters of all my stories.

***

Baast woke to the scent of cooking meat. It made her stomach rumble and mouth salivate but also confused her. There had been no one in her life for many years. There should be no one to cook. Her eyes snapped open, prepared to fight whoever had found her.

Then her eyes fell on Din playing with Grogu, and it all came flooding back. He spoke softly through the modulator, encouraging the boy to float the small silver ball from Din's hand to Grogu's.

When the child succeeded, Din whispered a pleased, "Dank farrik!"

Baast almost purred, watching him with the child. He made an excellent father, and she was of an age to desire a mate, a home, a pride. But a warrior like him deserved someone better than a broken Zentari. It mattered not that her soul cried out whenever he touched her without the barrier of his gloves.

He'd stripped them off yesterday, and she could smell him—the spicy scent of masculine soap blending seamlessly with the musk of a man warm in his beskar. But the underlying scent of Din Djarin was that of the sandy dunes of her homeworld. He smelled of warm winds and dusky plains, of tall grasses whipped by fragrant breezes. 

He smelled like home. 

The stars were cruel indeed to drop her in the lap of the one made for her.

She watched them for a time as he encouraged Grogu. Their bond was strong, too strong if the Jedi were to be believed. Such attachments bred fear for the one they loved, and fear lent itself to the Darkside. 

The idea of Grogu's pure soul becoming tainted made her ache, and though she said she couldn't help them, Baast knew she must. Grogu deserved a chance to grow up on the side of good. 

She sat up, drawing Din's notice, the man turning toward her across the fire. 

"Morning."

Baast wondered at the voice behind the modulator. Would it be deeper? More robust? Would it be even more pleasing than this one that stroked fingers of violent want through her blood?

"Good morning," she murmured, voice husky still with sleep. 

Before she could ask, the canteen he carried on his belt was in his hand. "Drink?"

She nodded, catching it easily when he tossed it to her. "Thank you. I'm not used to morning conversations anymore. Or any conversations in some years."

"You've done well, evading capture until now. Now, the Tribe will help."

"The Tribe," she whispered. "I've been alone for so long." The idea of being part of something was both appealing and terrifying. "I look forward to meeting your Alor."

"She will be glad to meet you. They all will. Everyone will hope-" He cut himself off, busying himself with the lizard cooking over the fire. 

"Mando, they should not hope for what I do not think I can give," she sighed, lifting Grogu to her lap when he shuffled over.

"You don't know for sure you can't bond, Baast. Give it time."

Time was all she had. Life was a long thing for a Zentari alone in the universe. 

Small green hands gently touched her cheeks, causing her to look down at Grogu. He cooed a sweet noise as she gazed into big, dark eyes. They were expressive in their own right, and she felt herself falling, diving once more into his mind. 

The images came fast and furious. Din running, fighting, killing, but almost always alone. 

Baast closed her eyes as pain washed through her for the Mandalorian. "I cannot," she whispered to the child. "It would not be fair."

Grogu frowned at her before squealing loudly. More images filled her mind, these of a man reckless with his safety, one who had little to nothing to live for. 

She gasped and wrenched her face away from his hands, but it didn't stop the flow of ridiculousness. Kriff! The man had a death wish!

When Grogu disappeared from her lap, only then did he release her from his grasp. 

Baast sent the green menace a glare. "That was entirely rude."

He smiled and blew a raspberry. 

"I'm sorry," Din murmured, holding the child away like Grogu was a danger.

She held up her hand, continuing to glare. "Do not apologize for something he did. It sets a poor president. Invading my mind is bad manners, little one. Disregarding another's desires is a step down a dark path. This will not be allowed."

"Dark path?" Din asked. 

"The Jedi and the Sith. One force believes in peace and passivity. The other wants power and are often corrupted by that passionate desire, both use the Force. He has the potential to be extremely powerful, but with that power comes responsibility. It is a razor's edge to walk, one I am not confident I have the skill to help him navigate."

Din straightened, but his shoulders lowered, relaxing his posture. "You'll help him? I didn't want to bring it up, but I'm running out of options."

"Yes," she sighed. "I know of one who may be able to help him, but I do not know if he will come at my call. Where is your covert?" He said nothing, and Baast tilted her head in apology. "That was an improper question. Forgive me."

"Always," he murmured.

She wondered if that would still be true should he learn what Grogu already suspected. "If I am to make contact, it must be from Tatooine."

"Why Tatooine?"

"Because it is the planet we agreed upon." She turned toward the fire and the spit of roasting meat before looking up at Din. "Have you eaten?" 

The movement was subtle, a single negative action.

Baast hummed and reached for the cloth that tied her pants' to her calf and began to unwrap it. 

"What are you doing?"

She ignored him and continued until her pant leg fluttered free. The cloth was only a couple inches wide, but it was long and thick enough to make an adequate blindfold. 

She lifted it to her eyes, only for his hand to shoot out and grab her wrist. It felt odd for him to touch her with the slightly cracked but soft leather of a glove now that she knew the feel of his skin.

"You don't need to do that."

Baast blinked slowly, gaze drifting to his hand before returning to the visor where his eyes would be. "It is not a need but a want. I will do this, Din Djarin, so that you may eat freely with the child and I. This is the Way."

"It is unnecessary."

She unfolded, rising gracefully to stand before him, wrist yet held in his grasp. "When last did you eat?"

He said nothing.

She tilted her head and held out the cloth. "I have not shared a meal with another in many years. I would share this meal with you and Grogu. Allow me to honour your Creed."

There was no sound, no movement beyond what Grogu contributed to the conversation in small burbles of noise. The Mandalorian was still and silent, a hunter in all things.

Baast waited, quiet, calm. After so many years in a cell, the forest gave her peace, but those years had taught her patience. She could wait for eternity for his decision. She had the time, after all.

What went on behind the helmet, she couldn't know, but eventually, he set Grogu down, released her wrist, and took the blindfold. "Turn around."

She did so, pushing her hair back to uncover her ears. "If possible, try not to cover them. The tips are sensitive, and the fabric will feel abrasive."

The cloth came down over her eyes, hooked behind her ears, and crossed at the back of her head. 

"Again," she murmured. "I can still see."

Twice more, the fabric circled before he tied a knot. 

Her senses heightened, hearing, smell, and the sixth sense that had been with her all her life. The Force resonated in every living thing, glowing and pulsing, connecting all of them. She could see it like an orange glow, thin lines and thick, veining out around them. 

"Good?"

"Yes." The heat of the fire warmed her skin, but before she could move, Din took her hand and elbow. 

"Kneel. I'll get you some food."

Baast followed his direction, aware of the bright light that was Grogu coming to her side. He placed his hand on hers, flooding Baast with a gentle apology. She turned her hand over to hold his little claws.

A quiet hiss filled her ears, causing her to turn toward Din. The beskar blocked some of his energy, the Force somehow muted by it. Then he lifted off his helmet. 

It took every effort to restrain herself from gasping. He glowed white, the shining brightness of a sun. Shock left her mute as she tracked the supernova that was this Mandalorian as he set down his helmet and removed the spit from the fire. He pulled off a piece of meat, maybe a leg, she couldn't quite tell, and brought it to her. 

"Here." The deep baritone was like the softest of silk to her senses. 

Baast held out her hands for the meat. His bare fingers grazed her palm as the hot meal hit her flesh, and grease trickled through her fingers. 

"Thank you," she managed to force from a throat gone tight with emotion. 

"It's hot. Be careful."

She stuffed down the aching need to reach out and feel the lips that produced such a voice and smiled crookedly instead. "Too long have you travelled with only Grogu for company."

He chuckled. "Perhaps."

Another wave of needy desire hit her, but Baast fought it off. She would not doom him to a half-life with an unfinished bond.

She ate and made sure he ate once Grogu was fed, asking questions about the child and how they came to be together simply to keep him talking. His voice was a balm to a soul grown used to silence.

When they finally finished their meal, she waited for him to return his helmet and come to release the blindfold. His hands were deft, skilled, and careful not to pull her hair.

Baast blinked to adjust to the quickly blooming daylight, then retied her pant leg as Din smothered the fire. She reached for Grogu and stood, ready to leave. 

"I can carry him."

She tilted her head, already missing the gentle ebb and flow of the Force from him, now encased in all that beskar. "Do you object to me carrying him because you think I am weak or out of principle because he is your foundling?"

"Uh…"

She arched a brow. "Do not underestimate me, Mando. I live because I am jatnese be te jatnese. The best of the best."

"I know what it means," he huffed.

"Then stop being ori'buyce, kih'kovid," she smirked. "I will care for the child as you have cared for me."

"Atin," he muttered. 

She didn't protest because, yes, she was stubborn.

"Fine." She could almost hear a pout in his modulated voice as he turned and marched out of their temporary camp. "And I'm not all helmet," he grumbled, likely thinking she couldn't hear him.

Baast smirked and gave Grogu a wink. "Come along, ad'ika. We weak ones best keep up with the big strong Mandalorian," she teased.

"I will leave you behind."

She grinned at his back. "No, you will not."

***

By the time they reached the Razor Crest, he was sweating in his beskar again, but with the luxury of the fresher within sight, Din didn't let it bother him.

He disarmed the ground defences and lowered the hatch, heading inside to get them underway. He wanted off the planet before anyone else thought to come looking for Baast'mal. 

Hopefully, the Alor would know who to bribe to falsify a new chain code for her. Either that, or there would be an all-out war to eliminate the threat and bounty on her head. Or, she would spend the rest of her life hunted by the Empire.

He hated that thought. Baast was not a creature who should spend her life hiding. She should be allowed out into the light, a creature of hope and beauty. 

Though he hadn't seen the true colour of her eyes, the rest of her was so mesh'la, when he'd removed his helmet, it had momentarily taken his breath. And without the helmet, her scent had filled his nose like something he'd loved and long forgotten. It was warm, soft, and decadent, all things a Mandalorian put off when he put on the beskar. 

It was getting harder and harder to keep his hands to himself.

She closed the ramp and followed him to the ladder, climbing up with Grogu to slip into the seat back and to his right.

"Once we've left the atmosphere, you're welcome to the fresher, food, whatever you need," he offered, getting them airborne.

"Do I smell?"

He froze. "That wasn't what-"

Her laugher, that throaty purr, cut him off. "It's fine, Mando. An actual fresher after years of lakes and waterfalls will be pleasant."

"Hm. I have to make a stop on Nevarro, then another before we go to Tatooine. Is there anything you need?"

"Clothing. A cloak. And a weapon."

They cleared the planet, and he made the jump into hyperspace before turning around. "What kind?"

"Short sabres or staff will do."

He watched her pet Grogu's ears, gently using those long claws in such a fashion the kid was almost comatose in bliss. She sat with one foot propped on the seat, comfortably leaning on the armrest. He wondered if her skin would begin to lose its sun-kissed nature now that she was off-world.

"How did you learn to fight?" he asked, forcing himself not to think about her skin and how soft it was. 

"Mandalorians are not the only warrior race. Zentari are taught from birth; the rest I learned from the idiots who held me captive. They sought to make me a weapon or a slave, with that came training, but Zentari are not so easily coerced, nor do we forget the slaughter of thousands. I am no weak-minded individual to be controlled by some Sith," she spat.

"Sith?" He knew next to nothing about Force-wielders and felt the lack of knowledge acutely. 

"They oppose all things the Jedi stand for, desiring power over peace or balance. They corrupt what they touch.."

"And how does a Zentari hold out against someone so powerful?" He didn't wish to insult her, but surely a child against a master Sith couldn't win.

She sighed and looked away, watching the lights of hyperspace. "Zentari are neither good nor evil. We are Force neutral. The blood bonds distinguish much of our future. To avoid creating bonds with those that would bring harm was why Zentarus was so well hidden. But someone betrayed us. They used to brag about it, the Imps. How one who we trusted gave us up to the Empire."

"If you are Force neutral, why allow Mandalorians to know of Zentarus? Why let us come seeking mates?"

She shot those vibrant eyes back in his direction. "Because the Way was honourable once. Perhaps, at some point, Mandalore was led astray by their leader, but that was not our doing. Those that came to us knew the Way. They humbled themselves before us, and if they were denied, they left knowing such was not their destiny. Those who came knowing not the Way… did not leave Zentarus alive."

"Then I am glad I knew the Way," he murmured, wondering who would have won between the two of them had she not revealed herself.

"As am I," she nodded, looking as regal as the Sand Panther she claimed in her blood.

"Were the Jedi not part of your Way?"

She scowled. "The Jedi saw us as a threat. Naturally born Force users who required little training to do much of what they could, who lived for generations, and who were neither good nor evil. They feared what would happen if we were corrupted. An attempt was made to wipe us out. It failed, and we Zentari veiled Zentarus from those who knew not where to look."

"And that's why you didn't want to help us," he sighed, realizing the untenable position he'd put her in.

She stood, placing the sleeping Grogu down on her seat before taking the step she needed to stand between his spread knees. Her hands lifted to land lightly on the sides of his helmet, gliding over the metal. "It is no longer a want but a need. I will not watch Grogu fall to the side of the Sith because of my fear of the Jedi. He must be trained."

She leaned down and rested her forehead against his helmet as long lashes veiled her eyes. "This is the Way."

Without his permission, Din's hands found her hips and drew her incrementally closer. "I will protect you, Baast."

"We will protect each other."

He hummed his agreement and wondered at the low ripple of sound vibrating through his chest.

Next chapter

#Star-Crossed #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x ofc #star-crossed:bound by blood

[whirlybirbs]

𝒜.𝑀.   ;   rattlesnake whispers.   |    a high-society drabble

summary: you’re beginning to distrust dutch van der linde.

pairing: arthur morgan/reader (turner placeholder lastname), hosea + reader friendship-centric in this drabble.

a/n: things weren’t gonna be peachy forever. part of a companion piece to simpler said aloud. this is a drabble for the collection high-society, which follows the events of that fic.

In the last handful of weeks, you can't help but feel as if someone has suddenly plucked the pair of rose-colored glasses — ones you weren't aware you were even wearing — from your nose.

...Concerning the one Dutch van der Linde, specifically so.

In the beginning, when you'd been swept from that stagecoach on that hot summer day — when you'd eventually ended up marooned by your own family, left with nothing but a trunk of old belongings and a growing sense of alienation... Well, Dutch had been nothing but kind. Fatherly, even, and you'd found yourself admiring that gang's head of household.

After all, he and his boys had dragged you — quite literally — into this mess; Dutch would see to it that his well-manicured and grandiose reputation as the good (not the bad, nor the ugly) would ring true.

He fed you, sheltered you, even let you dig your roots in when that ransom money never came, and when it felt, at times, you brought more trouble to them than good.

There were times when the sheep's clothing slipped, however; when he showed his teeth and spun silver-tongued threats veiled in well-to-do manners. There were times when Dutch van der Linde's voice was gilded with promise, yet all you heard was greed. You knew that sound well. You were practically weaned on it.

Oily and greasy and slippery.

High Society and the like.

You dared not say a word of these thoughts — though, you could sense the shift in the air when you'd all been forced to Clemens Point many weeks ago. Between him and Hosea, a canyon had been driven. The divide seemed to shake Arthur.

At the time, you didn't know any better.

Now... Well, you know the exasperated wince that flickers onto Arthur's face when Dutch raises his voice beyond the tents, down by the lake — insisting a stagecoach robbery would do the boys some good.

To get out there! Get some cash... and soon! California...

You know the gentle squeeze of his hand on your shoulder; the passing mutter of a promise he'll be back soon... All the intricacies of Arthur Morgan sewn uptight with irritation and hesitation. He rides off with Charles and Bill, blue eyes cast back your way. The errand boy once more.

You fiddle with the dog-eared page of the book in your hands.

You've read over the same paragraph a hundred and one times by now.

Hosea notices.

"You're fussing."

Your lashes flutter.

Hosea is smirking — he turns his attention back to his newspaper and if you knew any better, you'd think he was simply trying to quiet the vicious paranoia beginning to unravel itself in your brain.

"I suppose I am."

Hosea's brows furrow at the quiet admission; he looks back up at you with a mild sense of surprise.

You're a smart girl — very smart. So smart, in fact, that Hosea is continuously wondering how on Earth Arthur keeps up. You've got a sharp sort of wit that could cut a man down in two strokes. To hear you go quiet at a playful jab... Hosea decides, in that moment, he will follow up when there are not so many souls around.

"You an' our dim-witted golden boy, then?"

You note the change in subject with a sigh of appreciation.

Your book snaps closed and falls to the table; you cross your legs, sunshine colored gingham skirt swaying in the afternoon breeze. Hosea managed another wry smirk in your direction as you shake your head and laugh.

"He isn't dim-witted —"

"Says you," Hosea mumbles, "I taught the oaf how to read..."

"Last week?" you chirp, voice alight with amusement, "Late bloomer, he is."

Hosea barks out a laugh. He folds his paper up. "Is it serious, then?"

You waver. "I certainly m'not lookin' t' play his heartstrings like a harp, if that's what you're wonderin', Hosea."

A hum.

"Good," he knocks his knuckles on the wood of the table before him, "You two are a smart pair. He's... had his heart broken before, poor sod, but... He's good. Strong. Has a lot t' give to th' right person."

You fiddle with your fingers, a light smile playing upon your lips. "He's far too hard on himself."

"Always has been," Hosea sighs as he leans back in his chair, "When he was younger..."

The words die off like Hosea remembers something with an immeasurable fondness. The twinkle in his eyes finds the afternoon clouds, and you exhale softly through your nose.

"He's a good man," Hosea says finally, "Robbin' an' killin' aside. Given th' chance, I know he'd a' been more in this life. Just th' way things worked out, s'all."

"Isn't that how it is for all of us?" you earnestly, "If things were different..."

"If things were different," Hosea continues, gently and with a warm sort of fatherly care, "Would you still be here?"

"How y' mean?"

"If that daddy a' yours had paid the ransom," the seasoned con-man explains, "Would you still be here?"

Would you have left? Broken Arthur Morgan's heart once more?

You pause. The paranoia that sits on your tongue tells you to think quick but — this is Hosea. Blind faith and undying loyalty matter little to him. You know that. Hosea is not Dutch van der Linde. You wonder, bitterly, if that will be his downfall.

He cares about his son. You know those intentions sit deep in his words.

You fiddle with the hem of your linen shirt, rolling the sleeves as you weigh your answer.

"I knew I cared for Arthur back when we were camping at Horseshoe Overlook," comes the timid confession, "He... He went and bought me this beautiful gold fountain pen, and..."

Your brows furrow and you look as if you might bleat out a laugh.

Hosea smiles. "I remember."

"I acted like it was nothin'. Both of us did... but, I think we both knew we didn't nearly hate each other as much as we went on about," you sigh with a little laugh, weaving your fingers together and leaning forward onto the table, "And, Christ... You and Dutch and Miss Grimshaw and... I'd never met people so quick to take me in. Had that money ever come... I wouldn't have wanted t' leave. But, debts owed are a dangerous thing."

Hosea is quiet for a moment.

"You know," Hosea lowers his voice, "Leaving, sometimes, isn't a bad thing."

He then sees that flicker of emotion from earlier — the very one you'd been fussing over — and he knows you get his meaning. Your eyes dart to the tent of the man in question... But, before you can open your mouth to press on about it, the roar of the very one you'd come to stiffen around flashes his teeth and rounds his tent.

"My, my!" Dutch calls, "Look at you two hens, gossiping the day away."

Hosea sees the flash of anger on your face. Only for a moment. Well-timed and well-bided. Gone as quickly as it came.

You turn in your seat, smile as bright as the morning sun.

The con-man wonders how many years of practice that took.

"Hello, Dutch," you call with such sincerity, Hosea nearly wonders if he'd misread your previous worries, "How are you?"

"Just peachy, my girl," he swaggers forward, hands tucked into the pockets of his vest, "And what, may I ask, had you both so deeply engrossed in conversation?"

"Our bumbling idiot son," Hosea supplies, waving his hands as he drops the paper down, "and his good-nature."

"Ah, yes, Arthur."

You'd wished Dutch would just move on. Slither to whisper in snake-tongue to his rattlesnake brethren, Micah, across the camp.

But, no.

Down he settles into the empty seat across from you. Dark eyes try to pin you in your seat — but you don't allow it. You're quick. Wretchedly smart. You lean forward and drape your chin into your palm, attention fully rendered on the gang's leader.

How Hosea ever thought you to be some pure, little lamb... He knows better know. Better than Dutch, it seems.

He supposes that's what High Society does to women like you. Anger and hatred and all those very human emotions... You learn to disguise them beneath facades of couth manners and passive smiles.

"You say that as if y' have an amendment you'd like t' make, Dutch."

There's a beat of silence that washes over Dutch at the polite challenge to speak his mind — and at first, the dark-haired man can only muster a bark of a laugh and slip his eyes to Hosea. He hadn't expected that. You'd caught him off-beat.

Dutch then wets his lips and reaches to palm his pockets for a cigar.

The gears are turning as he reaches for a match.

"Well," he begins, striking it on the table with a flick, "I s'pose our blockheaded enforcer is a romantic, is all."

Hosea feels as if he's watching something he should stop.

"And do y' have quarrels with romantics?" you ask with a well-manicured kindness. Hosea wonders if Dutch even questions it, or if he's got his head so far up his ass he can't even hear you, "I, well... I always thought yourself a romantic, Mr. van der Linde."

"An idealist, Miss Turner," comes the puff of cigar smoke, making his gaze look hollow and lifeless, "I am an idealist — our dear boy Arthur, however, is not. He lets... fantasy cloud his better judgment."

"Does an idealist not drown himself in ideals," you tut easily with a smile sweet like honey, "As a romantic does in fantasy?"

Dutch's words falter for a moment.

You fill the silence.

"A well-spun argument, I must say, but semantics all-the-same," you wave off the idea that your words could be construed as anything less than polite as Dutch narrows his gaze, "Wouldn't you say so, Hosea?"

"I s'pose so," comes the hesitant affirmation, "When it's put like that."

Another beat of silence.

"Perhaps you misunderstand me," Dutch laughs loudly, clapping his palm on the table — and you watch as the silver tongue spins his web up and around, as he always does when caught in the mouth of the truth, "Arthur is... well, he loses himself in romance. Very different."

Very different, indeed.

Loses faith. Clears his head. Realizes you're goin' batshit, Dutch.

You hum, leaning back and tilting your head.

Hosea clears his throat.

"Speaking of," Hosea tries to redirect, "Where did they head off to?"

Your eyes never break from Dutch's stare.

It's he who looks away in the end.

"Micah heard whispers of a stagecoach passin' through the Bayou. Some real estate brokers, lookin' to reinstate foreclosed land. Could be some papers we could work on sellin'."

"Whispers."

Not a question. But it's laced with doubt. You're playing a dangerous game.

Hosea's eyes bounce to Dutch. "We dealin' in whispers, now, Dutch?"

Irritation bubbles in his voice when he speaks. He takes a long puff of his cigar. "An' just then, were you not th' one chastizing me on my semantics, Miss Turner?"

Yet, despite the tipping point of rage indicated in Dutch's voice?

You smile and laugh and shake your head. "All in good fun, Dutch. I caught your meaning."

It snuffs out the fire. Where there is no means to justify it... Dutch knows anger that's seen as undeserved will draw sides.

Smart.

"Good fun, indeed, Miss Turner," he says as he stands, "Hosea."

"Dutch."

Those rose-colored glasses are gone.

Hosea's were lost long ago.

Now, the two of you share a long look sans the hue.

#simpler said aloud #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan imagine #this is mostly PLOT device #bc things r gonna pick up for a bit

[existential-celestial]

in today’s Andrew’s IG live advice:

enjoy the profound sadness of a hungover. “it is a real, raw, vital sadness. it is living.”

salad spinners are useful: "a salad spinner. i cannot...i cannot dry my leaves quick enough, let me tell you. that’s what’s been on my mind...tryin’ to rinse my f*****g salad leaves.”

if your week has been bad, “consign it to the grave, a liquid grave.”

---

poems/poets read/mentioned:

• Ezra Pound, “And the days are not full enough”

And the days are not full enough And the nights are not full enough And life slips by like a field mouse                Not shaking the grass

• Wilfred Owen, from “Futility”

Move him into the sun— Gently its touch awoke him once, At home, whispering of fields half-sown. Always it woke him, even in France, Until this morning and this snow. If anything might rouse him now The kind old sun will know.

• James Joyce, “A Flower Given to My Daughter”

FRAIL the white rose, and frail are Her hands that gave, Whose soul is sere, and paler Than time’s wan wave. Rose-frail and fair—yet frailest, A wonder wild In gentle eyes thou veilest, My blue-veined child.

• Pablo Neruda, from “Keeping Quiet” (tr. Alastair Reid)

If we were not so single-minded about keeping our lives moving, and for once could do nothing, perhaps a huge silence might interrupt this sadness of never understanding ourselves and of threatening ourselves with death.Now I'll count up to twelve and you keep quiet and I will go.

• Langston Hughes, from “I, Too”

I, too, sing America. I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen When company comes, But I laugh, And eat well, And grow strong.

• Imtiaz Dharker, from “She Must Be From Another Country”

from where we are it doesn’t look like a country,     it’s more like the cracks that grow between borders behind their backs. That’s where I live. And I’ll be happy to say, ‘I never learned your customs. I don’t remember your language or know your ways. I must be from another country.’

• W. B. Yeats, from “When You Are Old”

How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

• Stephen James Smith, from “On the Bus”

I was on the bus and this sunset it screamed at me, reminding me of life, and reminding me to shine. [...] It was really like fire that was friendly and kind to touch, and that sunset, it touched me, so let it touch you, and accept love, and accept the things. They are intended to be given like beauty, or heart, or life. 

• Seamus Heaney, from “St Kevin and the Blackbird“

‘To labour and not to seek reward,’ he prays,

A prayer his body makes entirely For he has forgotten self, forgotten bird And on the riverbank forgotten the river’s name.

• Seamus Heaney, from “Sweeney Astray”

The alder is my darling, all thornless in the gap, some milk of human kindness coursing in its sap.

• Maya Angelou, from “Touched by An Angel”

We are weaned from our timidity In the flush of love’s light we dare be brave And suddenly we see that love costs all we are and will ever be. Yet it is only love which sets us free.

• Garrison Keillor, from “Supper”

It was beautiful, the candles, the linen and silver, The sun shining down on our northern street, Me with my hand on your leg. You, my lover, In your jeans and green T-shirt and beautiful bare feet. How simple life is. We buy a fish. We are fed. We sit close to each other, we talk and then we go to bed.

• Pablo Neruda, from “Sonnet XCIV″

Absence is such a transparent house that even being dead I will see you there, and if you suffer, Love, I’ll die a second time.

• T. S. Eliot, from “Ash Wednesday”

Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still. Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.

• Ovid, from “Metamorphoses”; The Four Ages of Man

The first age to arise was one of gold. There were no lawyers because without need of laws every man worshipped faith and righteousness by his own will. There were no threatening words fixed to bronze tables in the Forum, nor did suppliant throngs fear the face of their judge: they were safe without a lawyer.

Not yet was the pine tree cut from its native mountain to plunge through the flowing seas on the way to a foreign shore. Not yet did sheer walls ring cities, not yet were there straight trumpets or curved horns, not yet helmets nor swords: men lived secure in peaceful leisure without the need of soldiers.

VIDEO

#andrew hozier byrne #hozier #andrew john hozier byrne #ireland #hozier poetry reading #poetry reading #poem #literature #poetry excerpt #poetry in translation #* #this was a loooonnnngggg one

[lyrazehedgieboiii]

Sonic Babies! (Oneshot)

I still have some asks, and don’t worry, I will get to them, I just had a sudden urge to write this story, and I just couldn’t help myself tho-

    “WHAT. THE. HELL. JUST. HAPPENED?!” 

Amy and Tails stood in shock as three baby hedgies and a baby echidna were on the floor, gurgling at the sight of the older hedgehog and fox.

    “T-They just turned into babies...” Tails murmured. “I told them to stay away from the machine. What do they do? Go near the machine. Chaos, now I have to fix this...Amy, I hope you’re not ma-” Tails turned around to find Amy laying on the floor, while baby Sonic was nuzzling Amy’s cheek, baby Silver was climbing onto her stomach, baby Knuckles was chewing on Amy’s thumb, and baby Shadow was rested on Amy’s legs. 

   “I had no idea they were so CUTE as babies!” Amy gushed as Silver giggled at her. Amy got up and scooped them all up into her lap and cuddled with them. 

   “Hey Amy, do you mind watching them while I find a way to reverse this?” Tails asked the pink hedgie, who had stars in her eyes.

    “Yeah! Don’t you have a stroller from when you were younger?” Amy replied, and stood up. She saw a red chaos emerald, and assumed that it was Shadow’s, so she gave it to Tails to keep safe. 

    “Yup, it’s under that table, Cream used it last week for Cheese’s kids.” Amy nodded, and grabbed the stroller, and put everyone in, or at least three of them in...

    “SONIC!” Amy screamed. Baby Sonic had wires in his hand, and even though he was a baby, he still had that annoying smirk of his. “Put the wire down, or you will be in time-out faster than you can run!” Sonic dropped the wires immediately and Amy could see tears starting to make its way down his cheeks. She ran to him and hugged him close to her. “I’m so sorry, Sonikku. I promise I won’t yell at you like that, again. Or at least while you’re a baby. All you have to do is be a good boy to me. That applies to you three as well,” Amy looked at the infants which were playing with the stuffed animals in the stroller.

    “M...Mama!” Everyone suddenly went so quiet, you could hear a pin drop. Sonic giggled and continued to babble. Even Knuckles, and Silver started saying ‘mama.’ Shadow only grunts, and mutters something that sounded like “momma.” Amy squealed and scooped them out of the stroller and hugged them once again.

She put them down into the stroller, again, and gave them pecks on the cheeks, and then giggled.

     “Your older selves would kill me if I did that.” Amy walked out of the workshop, leaving Tails processing everything that just happened.

- In The Village -

    “Now listen here, boys. You have to be on your best behavior, and no crying. Got it?” She commanded the boys, but they only tilted their head. “. . .Let’s just you do.” She walked with the stroller, earning many odd stares from the villagers, but Amy didn’t seem to notice. “Let’s see, Shadow likes oranges (LMAO IDK) Silver likes honey, Knuckles likes grapes, Sonic likes chilidogs...There isn’t any chilidog flavored baby food...I’ll buy some of this, and if he doesn’t like it, I’ll just blend up the chillidog!” She bought everything, until she saw Blaze, Rouge, and Lyra standing near a boutique. She walked over to them (Let’s talk about her outfit first)

 She’s wearing a Ditsy Floral Print Square Neck Dress (Link to dress on Pinterest) With a white sun-hat with roses on the side.

     “Why do these little guys look like our boys?” Rouge asked with interest, focusing mainly on Knuckles.

     “Oh, you know, I fucked all four of them and gave birth to their kids. Their names are Dash, Emo, Weed, and Steroids.” Amy sarcastically said. Blaze and Rouge looked frightened for a moment before they realized that she was only kidding. “They’re the boys, I have to take care of them. Long story short, they got into an age-changer invention thing, and they all turned into babies. Aren’t they the cutest? Especially little Sonic.” She bent down and started cooing to him. “Yes? Who’s the cutest little baby in the whole universe? You are! Yes you are, yes you are~!” The girls watched as Amy fangirled over her crush as an infant.

    “Wow, Pinky. I’m guessing if you and Big Blue were to have a kid, he’d look just like that.” Rouge smirked. Amy blushed.

     “That is, if he actually likes me...” Amy muttered. “But what about you and Knuckles, hmm?” Amy smirked back at her. This time it was Rouge that had gone the same color as her favorite red echidna. Amy giggled at her reaction. “Anyways, we should buy some clothes, because they’re only covered by their normal outfit, but the sports tape was there, and Amy was worried they’d wrap it around their necks and suffocate.

    “I have some baby clothes from when I was taking care of Cheese’s children. Maybe that could fit on them?” Blaze asked. Amy nodded eagerly.

   “Yes please! I don’t want to waste money on something that won’t even come to use later on!” Amy squeaked out in agitation. They all separated to retrieve everything they needed for the boys. They all met back at Amy’s house.

    “Okay, now, we should feed them. Yes~, we should feed your chubby wittle tum-tums!~ Yes, we should! Who wants chilidogs, and grow so big and strong, and have your little Ames swoon over how handsome you are?~” Amy continued to baby-talk to Sonic, as he only giggled and fell over to his side. This made all the girls go crazy over how adorable and pure he was acting. The others, desperate for attention, dragged themselves onto the girls’ laps. They all fan-girled because the boys they’ve wanted since, well, FOREVER, crawled into their laps submissively! 

    “OH MY ASS, THE DAY HAS FINALLY COME, KNUXIE IS ON MY LAP! I mean, not the way I wanted, but YES.” Rouge squealed with excitement. She stroked his dreads, while Blaze was running her hands through Silver’s quills. Lyra was gently traced the red stripes on Shadow’s quills, being very light, so he wouldn’t get all moody and fuss about it. Sonic noticed this and grimaced at them. He climbed up on to Amy, and nipped at the top of her dress.

   “Oh my goodness! Uhh, what am I supposed to do? SONIC! Stop nipping at my dress, little gummy bear!” Amy said, grabbing baby Sonic’s torso and lifted him up, while he flailed his arms and legs around. “Stop it! Do you want any chilidogs?” Sonic immediately stopped and smiled with his mouth open. He put his tiny little hand in his mouth and gurgled. Amy inwardly swooned, her cheeks heating up. Even as a baby, Sonic was still a ladies’ man. She put them on a floor, after putting a plastic tablecloth cover under them, and prepared their food. Amy mashed up the chilidogs, making sure it wasn’t too spicy, and fed it to Sonic.

He happily ate it with no complaints, but you couldn’t really say the same for Knuckles and Silver. Silver constantly kept rejecting the food, and Knuckles wouldn’t pay attention. Knuckles seemed to look at something else, which wasn’t exactly food...

   “WOAH MY CHAOS! KNUCKLES! I’M NOT FOOD!” Rouge yelled as Knuckles pounced on Rouge and attempted to pull down the heart on her outfit. After a few minutes of squirming and yelling and Lyra having to pry Knuckles’s hands off with a crowbar, Silver and Shadow seemed to be enjoying the show in front of him, and Sonic was laughing hysterically and clapped his hands. After all that happened, the girls decided that the boys needed a bath. 

Amy filled the bathtub up, strapping Sonic to her with a scarf, seeing as she didn’t have those baby-body carrier things. (I’m not going to look it up to confirm its name) The bathtub was too deep for the kids, and they couldn’t exactly sit on their own, so the girls got their swimsuits and went into the water with them. They used washcloths to cleanse them, covering their eyes when they got to the lower body. They gurgled and giggled. (Lmao I keep repeating the same words over and over again) Shadow, being Shadow, only huffed, while his tail wagged. Lyra chuckled at his reaction.

Now, you might be wondering, ‘Doesn’t Sonic hate water?’ Why yes, he does. I forgot to mention that Amy had a hard time getting him into the bathtub, he kept spindashing out of the tub and Amy had to catch him before he fell on the ground. 

    “Sonic! Get in the bathtub, NOW.” Amy gave a deadly glare to Baby Sonic, and he widened his eyes, a little creeped out by her, but didn’t obey her. He tried to run, but only being around six months, he had a little trouble crawling. Amy picked him up, and distracted him by kissing him on his bare stomach, while he laughed. While he was chortling, Amy quickly bounced right into the tub. Silver was making the bubbles and water float. As if sensing Sonic’s fear of water, he made the water fall onto Sonic. Blaze scolded him, while Amy glared at him.

Sonic smirked at Silver, while Shadow did something that wiped the smug look off his face. Shadow took a toy that could soak in water, and he squeezed it, causing the water to fall all over Sonic. He whined, splashing water into Shadow’s eyes, and before the girls could even blink, they started a water fight. They got the babies out before the fight got physical.

Amy got a call from Tails that the age reverse mawas face, and they quickly took them to Tails’s workshop. 

    “Are you girls ready?” Tails asked. The girls were internally crying. They had grown emotionally attached to the babies during the one hour they had them. Perhaps it was because the boys gave more attention to them more than they had when they were adults.  They brought the kids in blankets, so the neighbors wouldn’t start rumors.    

     “Can we just say goodbye?” Blaze asked in a depressed tone. Tails nodded.

     “Take all the time you want. I don’t think anything’s gonna happen, anyways.” He replied. The girls smiled.  

   “Even though the babies are far more charming, cuter, kinder, and actually appear thankful when we do something for them.” Amy sighed as she snuggled Sonic into her arms. “But I love him more as his normal self. Even if we have to endure their dumb, cruel behavior, we still love them. Don’t tell them we said that, or else.” Amy continued, before glaring at Tails to keep the secret. Tails nodded rapidly. They placed the babies in the invention, after giving them kisses on the cheeks and forehead. 

   “One...Two...THREE!” And with that, the boys were back to normal. The girls ran up to them, and hugged their favorite boy, from Amy to Sonic, Blaze to Silver, Rouge to Knuckles, and Lyra to Shadow. Sonic didn’t know what to do, Silver hugged her back, Knuckles was blushing by the ‘you-know-what’ squishing against his chest, and Shadow was trying to push Lyra away.    

  “Sorry, Knuxie. It’s just that...we missed you!” Rouge cried as she jumped on Knuckles once more. Once Tails explained what had happened, Sonic grabbed Amy’s waist and whispered into her ear. 

  “By the way, we could see and hear everything while we were babies. We could also control ourselves.” Insert a blushing Amy Rose processing everything he had just said.

#sonic babies! #lyra ze hedgie boiii #lyrazehedgieboiii #sonamy #shadow x oc #shadyra #sonamy boom #knuxouge #silvaze #sonic fanfiction #sonamy fanfiction #amy fanfiction #sonic fanfics #sonamy fanfics #Lmao i need to stop procrastinating #sonic boom

[wildwren]

The Last Kingdom // AU Canon Divergence // Erik x Aethelflaed // Rated E

Chapter Eleven: For The Sake of a Ship, read on AO3

featuring: Erik, Christian and Pagan ship blessings, Norse spirituality   

CWs for the chapter: animal sacrifice

Erik and Aethelflaed prepare for war in the North, but first there are two ships that need to be blessed in very different ways....

They stood on the bank of the river, a disorganized crowd of warriors and servants, townsfolk and children who craned and jostled to see the ships bobbing on the water. The sun came weakly through the thin screen of cloud, but it still glinted in sharp points upon rings of shining mail, and on the cuffs of helms that had been polished to a bronze luster.

The Mercians were stiff-backed and somber with the pomp of the morning, their blue cloaks thrown over their shoulders like folded bird’s wings. They would lose their layers with desperate speed once the rowing began, Erik knew. But for now they looked fine and fearsome in their metal.

Smoke drifted across the gray water from the decks of the ships, where silent monks swung great silver pendants of flaming herbs. Oswey’s voice followed behind the sweet, acrid smell.

“Lord in Heaven, our guide and savior, I pray that you bless these ships, that they might be protected, that they may be held in the safety of your Holy love!”

He spoke with more passion than Erik was used to seeing in the man.

“May they be free from evil and corruption! May they be free from danger and disaster! May all foul demons and devils flee before them! May the men…and…the women…on these ships hold your righteous work within their hearts, may they be free from corruption, may they….”

And so it went on. The rhythm of the words became lost in the hum of Erik’s mind.

He watched Aethelflaed, where she sat astride a roan stallion, its dun-white coat brushed to a gleaming shine. She was dressed in her own peculiar way - half a Lady, half a warrior. She wore a madder-red gown which draped down to her knees, but below its hem Erik could her hart-skin trousers, and her high leather shoes fixed around her ankles with bands of hammered metal. Atop her head lay a a green-gray hood, held to her temple with a circlet of pure gold. And over her body, like the scales of her dragon, her mail shirt rippled and clung to her form. It was hooded, and it capped her shoulders before giving way to the long, tapered sleeves of her overgown. Around her waist was cinched a wide belt of braided leather and tablet weavings, a tiny tapestry rendered in green and drawn-gold thread, winding in the shapes of beasts and angels. Bjarta-Blotha swung from the front, hung even with her waist from two leather loops, its sheath embellished with silver filigree, its pommel of polished horn bright like a bone against her mail.

That had been Erik’s seax - Bright-Blood - his ancestral blade, given to her in a ritual to seal their bond all those years ago. He had not taken it back, even when she had offered. The mail coat had been a gift of his as well, and he was glad to see it still fit, for it had been fashioned especially for her shape, and now she looked as fierce and as proud and as beautiful as she had on the field of Alnecester five years before. He only hoped it did not weigh too heavy on her.

Oswey’s prayer was coming to a close. “In the name of the Lord, and in the name of his son Jesus Christ, our blessed savior, may this be done. Amen.” There was echoing rumble, as all the villagers spoke their own word in return, and Erik found his lips turning around the word as well. It was hard not to, when it seemed to live in the air. But his had been a different kind of prayer.

Amen.

The quay was suddenly churning with activity, as men shouted commands, as warriors, and horses, and the final loads of cargo were directed into place. Erik’s let his eyes leave Aethelflaed as he turned to his own work.

“Horses to the stern!” He bellowed. “Men to the benches! No sail yet! NO SAIL YET, Eadger, you fool!” The overeager youth dropped the rigging and scurried off towards his seat.

“There’s no room for your horse, Daga, we spoke of this!”

The older man tried to protest.

“I know you think it’s a slight, but we’ll have more horses once Lord Aldhelm meets us in the North. Send it back to the stables! Before I offer it as blood-tithe to the Gods!”

The man paled at that and disappeared.

“You’re not coming on my ship. You’re for Lady Aethelflaed’s crew.”

The woodswoman Clufweart looked up at him with wide brown eyes, her dirty braid swinging across her shoulder. “No,” she said with calm confidence. “She says I’m to go with you.”

Erik sighed. “She has sent you to punish me then?”

“Perhaps she has sent me to protect you, Lord.” She raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not your Lord.”

“You’re my Lord now, aren’t you?”

For fuck’s sake. This would be trouble.

“Make yourself useful, and bring me the goat that’s in the workshop there. Give the boy a penny.”

“My own penny, Lord?”

He glared at her, but he tossed her a coin and was slightly surprised when she caught it with ease. But he supposed she did have a strong arm and a quick eye with a bow. Perhaps she would not be a total waste of space.

Lady Aethelflaed’s crew was nearly settled. He could see across the water to where she sat, beneath a stretched canvas tarp. He knew his ship was meant to go first, and he panicked a bit at the slowness of his own crew. He had left her the best men, it was true. But there was nothing to be done for it now.

“You!” He commanded a cluster of oarsmen. “Stand there, along the bow.”

They did not question him, but they looked at him with wary, curious eyes as they blocked the vantage from Aethelflaed’s ship. Clufweart had returned, and the goat trotted behind her on stiff, nervous legs.

“Bring it here,” Erik said, as quietly as he could make the command.

“Why a goat, Lord? Or is there nothing better to use to wet your —-”

“Enough.”

Clufweart silenced herself, but there was a smirk remaining on her wide, round face.

“Christian men, turn away if you wish!” Erik said to the crew. “I promise I shall not despoil your priest’s blessing.” Some of the men’s eyes had started to widen, their faces turning pale or coloring with red at the realization of what he was going to do. “But I am to captain this ship,” he continued. “And I must sanctify it in my own way.”

One man coughed, spluttered, found his voice. “The Lady Aethelflaed—”

“The Lady Aethelflaed knows what I am,” was all he said in return.

He had spoken truth to Aelfwynn. It had been a long time since he had made a real offering. It is was hard sometimes, to make space for the Old Ways, when his life lay so long in Christendom. He knew his luck had gone thin, his hamingja half-starved for lack of feeding, and perhaps that was why his hugr had been so grim of late. But this ship, this ship would bring him back to life.

And so he had to make an offering.

The goat was tense, wide-eyed. It smelled its own fate like a horse smells the rain. It was a buck - a young one, Erik realized - and that was good. He held a gentle hand out to it. It flinched, but then calmed as he stroked it slowly and softly.

“It’s alright,” he whispered, close to its face. He did not look at the men, he did not know if they watched him, or turned from him, or judged him in scorn. But Clufweart still stood close, and he could feel her eyes on him as he drew the blade slowly from his belt.

“It’s alright,” he said again. “You are going to the God now.”

The breath huffed in short bursts from the goat’s nostrils, heavy and raw, but he did not bolt. Erik stared into the inky blackness of his eye, and the strange square pupil that sat within it.

“Freyr,” he said, and he did not know if spoke in his own voice or in the voice behind his voice, within his mind. The words came in the tongue of his father, in the Norse which he spoke so rarely now.

“Freyr, son of Njord, take this offering. Be fed on it, be fat on it, be full with its blood. Look with favor on this ship, look with favor on these men, look with favor on this voyage — that we may win glory, yes —- but that we may win safety, too…that these men might know peace. I offer to you, Freyr, God of my kin, for it is you who sows the growing field and sings the winnowed grain. I offer that these men may be fat on your peace, as you will be fat on the blood of the goat. I offer to you, Freyr, God of my kin, for Skíðblaðnir sails always on a sweet wind. I offer that your breath may billow our sails and protect us from harm. I offer to you, Freyr, that you may be fat on the blood, that you may bless us, I offer, Freyr, to you, to you, to you I offer, this blood, Freyr — !”

And he drew the knife across the goat’s throat. It choked, it sighed, its eyes rolled wildly, and then it buckled on its knees and the blood flowed like a red wave across the deck. Several men crossed themselves at the sight of it, but Erik paid them no mind. His was watching the eye, and the light that receded from it, carried by Freyr across the worlds.

There was a horn blast from Aethelflaed’s ship - a short, sharp sound. It was time to go. Erik stood, wiping his blade on his tunic.

“Save the body,” he said to a nearby deckhand. “We will cook him, when we reach the Trent.”

The men were all stuck in a queer silence, as if captives of the moment. Clufweart was looking at him with an unfathomable expression on her face. One man stirred awkwardly at his bench, as if to reach for his oar.

“RAISE ANCHOR!” Erik bellowed, undeterred by their strangeness. “WE ROW NORTH!”

And he felt the wind sing in response.

#the last kingdom #tlk fanfiction #fanfic #the last kingdom fanfic #erik x aethelflaed #aethelrik #au canon divergence #angst #slowburn #saxons and vikings #tlk erik #tlk aethelflaed #tw: animal sacrifice #tw: animal harm

[thestarkerisobvious]

Return To Castle Dracula

This Incredible Moodboard by @von--gelmini​

inspired by @starker-sorbet​        

A snugglefic for @mrstarksbabyy​

With great thanks for the betaread by @mrstarksbabyy

The Lovelace House --   Return To Castle Dracula

When Peter opened his eyes to the black fingers bare branches grasping for the sliver of moon, he knew where he was.  He didn’t waste a moment playing “Am I dreaming?” games.  Instead he bolted into Castle Dracula and dashed up the stairs two at a time, pelting down the hallway to the rose-strewn bedroom.

Sadly, Tony wasn’t there at all, not even under the covers of the creamy white bed.  Peter moaned as he began his search of the dark castle.  Dammit, his friend was probably stargazing in the courtyard, and that wasn’t good.  Dream or no dream, Peter didn’t like headed down those inkblack corridors without Tony’s hand in his.

Fortunately he didn’t have to look far.  He found Tony lying motionless on the floor in a vast, empty room that was part of a wide hallway.  It was just at the 

bottom of the large staircase that took them up to the huge black windows that looked down on the Transylvanian forest.  If they ever stopped to look out those windows, Peter suspected, they would see Dracula himself, scaling the impossible walls like a lizard.

“You did very well, Tony,” he said gently, watching the pale face rolling weakly against his bicep.  “You’re my superhero.  You flew in and saved the day.  Thank you.” 

When Tony fed from dying animals he looked much like he did now, pale and drawn.  Peter was used to seeing his friend looking younger and stronger when he was well fed, looking older and more distinguished when he was overworked or tired.  But Peter had never seen Tony look like this.  In addition to the pronounced grey at his temples his beard was very silver.  Pure-white stubble grew over his hollow cheeks and his body was as light as a feather.  And yet Peter thought he still looked remarkably handsome.

“I’m going to build a huge rabbit hutch, I’m going to fill it with rabbits.  It will be Rabbit-New York City.  And I’m going to feed them all to you.  One night you’ll climb into my bed, and you’ll be the same age as I am…”

Tony hadn’t spoken, or even opened his eyes, when Peter carried him through the vast doors that led to the ornate, rose-laden bedroom.  Peter steadfastly ignored this fact.  He could be just as stubbornly cheerful as Aunt May, when he had to be.  He lay Tony tenderly inside the curtained bed.  “Am I going to have to kiss you, like Sleeping Beauty?” he joked, and Tony gave a tiny smile.

“You’ll be the shy moon tonight,” he said as he quickly stripped out of his poet’s shirt and breeches, and climbed, clad only in his boxers, into the bed.  “I’ll be the passionate sun, and I’ll be gentle with you...”

“Be gentle with me, Master,” Tony whispered.  It was the first words he had spoken all evening.

Peter continued to praise Tony tenderly as he worked him out of his complicated shirt and tight pantaloons.  “You did very well, everyone is very relieved,” Peter explained as he lifted Tony up and pulled him completely into his lap, turning back the heavy blankets.  “Although I guess I should have specified not to let Mr. Lovelace hurt the DeSlaughters, but they’re fine now.  Everyone is going to be fine.”

“He bore no ill will toward the father…” Tony tried to explain in a halting voice. Peter shushed him as he tucked them in.  He pulled Tony close as he continued.  “The dawn was coming.  I needed their aid.  I roused the dogs, and dogs roused him, and he took Mr. Lovelace away in his pick-truck…”  but he stopped speaking when Peter brought their mouths together, parting his lips willingly for Peter’s tongue.

Peter offered a vein, but Tony seemed to only want to kiss him over and over again.  For a very long time they held each other silently, kissing and touching.  Peter stroked Tony’s face, lapping his tongue into Tony’s mouth, coaxing out Tony’s tongue.  Tony seemed too weak to even cling to him.  Peter took Tony’s hand and spread it over his chest, letting Tony feel the steady heartbeat.  In time Tony began to rouse, reaching up to tangle his fingers through Peter’s hair, pulling him close.  Finally he broke the kiss and brought Peter’s fingers into his mouth.  As he fed, Peter spoke.

“I guess the owls in the barn weren’t much sustenance.  You left an eight, maybe ten foot blast radius right at our border.  Grass, trees, vines, all black.  They said Mr. Lovelace set fire to it, but of course there’s no ashes.  There’s not even a smell.  We’ve had neighbors driving by looking at it all day.  But that’s okay, killing plants is always okay.  We have plenty of plant life.  I just thought the seals of Evorá were going to feed you because you were protecting us…”

Tony had moved from Peter’s fingers to the vein on Peter’s neck.  Now he turned and suckled at Peter’s wrist for a moment before answering.

“Had he made a threat, but he spoke no threatening words.  He only said “I wish to have a word with the missus.”  He said it again and again.  But I knew how afeared Aunt May would be, to see him in that state.  I would not let him pass.  Because he made no threat, the seals of Evorá would not answer to me…”

“Yes, Mike’s dad said Mr. Lovelace said you two had a long talk,” Peter said proudly.

Tony smiled back.  “I was most frightening, Master.”

“I’ll say.  ‘Eight feet tall with arms that reached to your knees, pitch black.’  I’ve seen that before. I guess it is rather frightening,” Peter said, smiling and kissing Tony’s smile.  “Mr. Lovelace told Mike’s dad you were the ghost of Evan Post, and I suppose Mike’s mom has told the whole town by now.  So now I live on a ‘haunted farm’ again.  I don’t mind, though.”

“I have served you well?  Make me your beloved, Master…”

“Yes,” Peter whispered against his mouth.  He slipped his tongue inside Tony’s mouth, letting him feed that way for a long time.

“But why are you weak?” Peter asked as Tony nuzzled back into the crook of his neck.  “That eight-foot tall man, with the long arms, I’ve seen him before.  Does it take a lot of effort to look like that?”

“He was so ill,” Tony moaned against Peter’s vein before feeding again.

“Yes, that’s what they said.  He’s in the hospital now.  He’ll probably stay there.”

“He’ll surely die,” Tony murmured. 

“That’s not our fault,” Peter reassured him.  “That wasn’t you.  That was going to happen anyway.”

Tony fed for a long time from the vein in Peter’s neck before he spoke again.  When he did, he held up his hand in a fist.  “There were so many…” he said, tightening his fingers.

“So many… what Tony?”  Peter asked, caressing his hand.

“Crescimento.  Poison.  Krebsartig.  So many.  I devoured as many as I could.  Had he stayed still long enough, lay himself in my arms, I could have eaten so many more.  But not all.  Not the ones in his brain, the ones in his spine…”

“I don’t understand.  He has… fists in his brain?”

“Tumores.  So many.  Some the size of seeds, some the size of peas, one the size of a grape.  One the size of a walnut…”

“Wait, you mean he had tumors?  And you… were you trying to heal him?”

“I served all the Post elders in this way.  For Bishop Berthwald.  For my Simeon.  I can consume them.  They give me strength, they are substance, but they are bitter…”

“Oh God Tony, did you… did you poison yourself?”

Tony lay a weak hand on his own his own chest.  “Inside my darkness they will… wegschmelzen.  It is very old magic.  But it takes time.  When they are dissolved, they will be sustenance for me.  They will make me strong.  I will come to your bed a very young man…” he whispered with a grin.

Peter kissed him again, willingly letting Tony suck gently on his tongue again, hoping to undo some of the bitter that Tony had fed on the night before.

“You were so gentle with him.  You did so well, Tony,” he said after some time had passed.

“I took the light from one lung, from one kidney.  So poisonous, so much disease.  I took the light, yet he pushed on.  He was so used to pain.  He barely noticed.  He could not move his arms, nor his hands.  But his pistol, in his hand, he could not release it.  Could not open his fingers to release it.”

“That’s what Mike’s Dad said.  They stood with him on the porch and argued with him in until it was daylight.  Said they could give him a ride to the hospital if he put the gun down, but he couldn’t.  It was like he was paralyzed, but he was still standing…”

“You did not wish him to lay down in the road, for fear of his life.  And he would not leave the road.  He would keep moving forward.  I could not dissuade him, although I was very fearful.  He called me ‘Evan Post’ and heeded not my warnings.  When I could not convince him otherwise, I simply showed him ‘forward’ that was not truly ‘forward.’  Over and over and over he found himself walking east when he meant to walk west.  But the dawn was coming.  I was growing weary.  I roused the DeSlaughters who cared for him.  They have taken him to the healing place.  He will not live, Master.”

“Yes, but that’s nothing anyone can do about that.  He has cancer in his brain, that’s what Mike’s mom said.  And it sounds like he has cancer everywhere else too.

“You’re sure… you’re sure what you ate from him isn’t bad for you, is it?  What can I do to make it better?” he asked, hoping Tony would suggest another feeding kiss.

Tony did.

--------------------------------------

Master Post (not THAT Master Post, the big list)

as always please direct comments, questions and constructive crit to @witchwayisright.  

#The Thing That Lives Under The Bed #Demon!Tony #But not THAT Demon!Tony #TheWitchwayWritesStuff #Starker #Von's Moodboards

[vesperlionheart]

Songbird -KakaSaku

Original Ask:

You mentioned Paolo Sebastian and expect us to pick just one?! I tried to narrow them down. 2016 AW Reverie dress 14. 2015-16 SS The Nightingale dress 07 (All the grey/silver wing dresses are amazing.) 2014-15 SS Sirens of the Sea dress 09. The first and second dresses in the 2019-20 AW collection, too. I would also like to tell you about my absolute favorite designer/collection: Hassldriss 2019 SS Ashes. Gives me ethereal, mythical creatures and goddess vibes, thought you'd like it, as well.

Sakura scurried up over the cracks in the rock face and used her momentum to keep her from pitching sideways into the deep valley below. Her hands were rough and held her in place when she paused to catch her breath, reminding her to be proud of her harsher features.

It had been several years since she had moved from the lord’s house with her mother to the outskirts of the Fire Country’s boundaries. Gone were the paved roads and tall buildings with fancy doors and glass windows. The mountains were as rough and rugged as her hands making it no place for a young lady to grow up.

But Sakura wasn’t a young lady.

“Just a little farther,” she told herself instead of looking down.

Her mother had been a maid and in her youth she had warmed the bed of men she shouldn’t have, thinking it would get her ahead. When it didn’t she took her small child with unnatural jewel like eyes and fled to the outskirts. It wasn’t much longer before the harsh climate took its toll on them with Mountain Fever, something only Sakura survived.

The screeching cry of a large bird made Sakura pause on the cliff and listen, waiting to hear more, but the cry was only an echo and there was no sign of the thunder bird who nested in the cracks.

A little while later Sakura pulled herself up onto a ledge and rolled onto her back, breathing hard. The air was thin and there was only so much a person could acclimate to on their own. The climb had been treacherous, but the reward would be worth it.

Sakura rested a minute more before pulling herself up and crawling over to the long nest, easily three times her own size. Inside were the loose feathers left behind that shimmered and gleamed in the pale light. Sakura loaded her pack, amazed by her luck. The thunderbird had left behind so many beautifully colored contour feathers and even some strong flight feathers. When Sakura handled them they greedily reflected the light like they were the only thing in the room allowed to.

Sakura was careful to pick her way around the nest and keep her contact with the boundaries of it to a minimum. Thunderbirds had an excellent sense of smell, after all.

She worked quickly, until her pack was full and then went back to squeeze some more feathers into her pockets. It had been a day’s labor to scale the mountain and two days worth of travel by path to the place where her climbing could begin, far from the village where she lived.

She should have left as soon as her bag was full.

Sakura felt the static in the air and then tasted the tang in the back of her mouth. She looked to the cliff opening and saw thunder clouds in the distance, dull and silent but no less dangerous. She scrambled to the edge, but the screech made her cower on her knees, holding her ears from the nausea.

In the shadow of the storm clouds the mighty bird soared more like a bullet and less like a beast for his den.

Sakura did all she could to roll out of the way and pin herself again the cave wall, hoping she might not be noticed in his den.

The silver bird banked and then touched down, filling up the cavern with his size as it stalked towards its bed with talons as large as Sakura’s torso. She held her breath as it paused and turned white with it stiffened.

The feathers down his back ruffled as it turned, opening its wings part way to block her path as it rounded on her, his gray black eyes charged with lightning.

It screeched again and the sound made Sakura cry out in pain, holding her head as she crumbled to the ground.

“Please my lord, forgive me!” she cried through her tears. “Please, forgive me, forgive me.”

With a strength she didn’t have, Sakura forced her body into a deep bow, pressing her forehead to the stone as more tears fell free to stain it underneath her. She was at his mercy and if the stories were to be believed, the thunderbirds were no more merciful than any of the other beast gods.

“Little morsel, you come into my home, into my nest, with greed in your heart,” it roared with a voice like thunder. He flapped his mighty wings once to shake them out and then bent his head lower. “I smell your fear but it will not save you. Produce your weapon and end your own life if you can.”

Sakura trembled. “My lord, I have no such weapon. I swear I meant you no harm. I-I would never. Please, I beg you to abate your anger against me.”

“Liar.”

“I swear it to you, I never wished you ill.”

It roared with magic, making her bones tremble. “Then why have you dared the wrath of my mountain to post yourself in my nest and lie in wait for my return? Why hide yourself?”

Trembling, Sakura removed her bag and flipped the front flap open. The glare of light from the discarded feathers was bright enough to see without removing. “I am no such fool, but I am a thief and I am a coward, I came here in your absence to plunder your cast offs. I-I meant to leave before your return but I was too greedy. Forgive me, forgive me!”

Some of the electricity in the air snapped and then lessened. The bird flapped once more before taking a step forward to inspect her bag, sniffing it and then nudging it with his beak.

“Filthy cast offs, you risked your life with such a climb for this? None of these feathers hold any magic. What use could you have for my mess?”

Sakura swallowed. “A dress. I wished to sew them into a dress.”

The bird said nothing, but Sakura heard it shift closer. His shadow fell over her and then there was a tingle as his beak nipped at her hair and then nudged against her back. She kept still as it searched her over.        

“You are a dirty human who lives close to the land. What use would you have for a dress with my feathers?”

Under his shadow Sakura swallowed and forced the words out. “I…I wish to sew for myself a wedding dress, so I might…so I might be married at the Crossroads.”  

The bird pulled back. “A barbaric tradition,” it boomed. “A human turning itself into cattle? There is no nature that can explain such things.”

“I don’t have any other choice,” Sakura admitted with distress as more tears fell. “I have debts to pay and-and I can’t live like this anymore. I can’t take care of those who saved me like how I am. If I’m-if I’m married a husband would take on my debts and my family would be fed. There’s nothing else I can do.”

The bird nipped at her hair again, still so close. “You climbed my mountain and made it into my nest but you cry like a lamb and claim uselessness? The humans have fallen further than I had first assumed if they can not see your value.”

“Please, let me leave with my life, my lord. I can not leave my parents alone on this earth just yet, not until I’ve paid back my debt to them. I beg you, please, I beg you.”

The bird made a noise that was like a chuff before  pulling back and flapping hard.The breeze made her flinch.

“Not tonight, little one. You tremble worse than the leaves in my storms. You cannot climb in your current state. Come.”

Sakura almost squeaked in distress as she was picked up by the back of her shirt and lifted into the air before being set down into the middle of the nest. Sakura looked up, shocked as the silver gray bird turned about, circling her before folding his wings and curling down around her. “My lord,” Sakura squeaked.

“Sleep, you will have no peace until you do.”

“Here?” Sakura asked with a voice that pitched high.

She heard the thunder bird rumble in delight at the sound she made and somehow that only embarrassed her. It turned its head and stared up at her with eyes more black than gray. He was a god beast, one of the ancient creatures and it dwarfed her in every way.

“You wish to defy me?” it teased.

“I-this is-this is your nest.I couldn’t-”

“Your eyes are very old,” it interrupted her, looking away to readjust. “I remember with the first gods still walked between the clouds. I’ve not seen such clear eyes since then, but yours come close. You’re not some princess, are you? I thought only the royal families bred with the last traces of divinity.”

The question made her squirm. “I’m nobody, my lord.”

“Everybody is somebody.”

“Not me.”

It turned to face her once more, staring hard until Sakura ducked her face and blushed. She only looked up once she felt the tug on her curls as it pulled with his beak to get her attention.

“Your name?”

“S-Sakura.”

“Just Sakura?”

“My mother’s surname was Haruno, but I don’t know my father so…so just Sakura.”

“Fitting. You look like a flower.”

“My lord,” Sakura breathed, covering her face with her hands as it rumbled in mirthful enjoyment of her honest distress. It was an immortal so of course it would enjoy teasing such an insignificant creature like her.

“You may call me Kakashi, enough with your silly human titles. You owe me no such allegiance, and I’d like it better if we were friendly.”

Sakura swallowed, running the name over in her head before daring to form it with her own lips. “Kakashi.” It sounded so simple, too simple for such a revered creature  

“Very good. Now sleep, Sakura,” it rumbled, sounding more like distant thunder.

So she did.

When she awoke in the morning she felt far more rested than she should have for falling asleep in a bed of sloppy down feathers and twigs. There was no sign of the thunder bird-of Kakashi-but her bag had been left untouched and her stolen feathers were still stuck inside her pockets, so she didn’t question it further.

It took another full day to climb back down the mountain until she was on solid ground once again, and then another two days more traveling down the long, winding paths carts and horses never traveled anymore. All the shrines and crumbling churches lay empty along the roadside, forgotten even by pilgrims.

When Sakura arrived back home Ino and her parents all wept on sight, claiming she had been gone too long and everyone thought she had died. Overdramatic as ever, Sakura let them fuss until they were content before showing off her finds.

“Oh Sakura, no…” Ino whispered, eyes wide with fear.

“We can’t all be lucky and fall in love with good people,” Sakura teased back.

A month later Sakura was done with her dress and Inoichi had his cart ready with wildflowers to sell at the Crossroads. Ino and Sai stood outside, watching her leave with the same solemn faces.

“They’ll get over it, they have each other,” Sakura laughed to her adopted father as he yelled at the horses to move.

“They also had you, but now they don’t. Don’t think they’ll get over it so easy,” he grumbled.

“I…easy or not, they’ll get over it because they have to.”

Inoichi bent his head to hide his tears under the cover of his wide brimmed hat. “Our debts shouldn’t be for our children to worry about. Sakura-”

“I’m not your child, Inoichi,” she interrupted softly, making him jerk, “and this is my choice.”

He swallowed thickly and shook his head. “We can still turn back,” he whispered.

“And you can still be killed for not paying back your money lenders. Don’t ask me to make that choice, you know what I’ll say,” Sakura whispered back. “I’ve come this far, let me face this as I see fit.”

Inoichi didn’t speak up again, but Sakura noticed how he didn’t rush the horses even when the roads allowed it. When the reached the Crossroads he grabbed for her hand one last time and kissed her knuckles, crying over her fingers. “Forgive this old man for his foolishness,” he said.

Sakura reached up and kissed at the corner of his eyes where the wrinkles caught most of his tears. “I loved you and I always will, father. Thank you for letting me go.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really,” Sakura laughed before slipping off the cart.

With hours to go before the bidding, Sakura arrived at the Matchmaker’s early and was let in with a few whispered words. Once inside she was seen to, examined, prodded, interviewed, cleaned, and redressed in the handmade gown.  

“You’re one of three, but you’ll be last since…well…” the matchmaker’s eyes slid down Sakura’s figure and then up again, settling on her eyes. “…we don’t get such rare beauties this matured very often. You’re quite the holdout. What’s the reason?”

“A family debt,” Sakura answered honestly, long since numb to the looks and questions. “When is the noon bell?”

“Not for another half hour, come let’s take you to the lounge where you can have some tea. It’s good for the nerves.”

Sakura allowed herself to be led away to a dainty little parlor where two other girls, both younger, sat drinking tea and avoiding the stale sweets offered on a silver tray. Both frowned when they saw Sakura walk in but neither said anything.

Absently, Sakura noticed both girls looked younger in person compared to their posters. It seems the artist had painted them as more mature to attract more of an audience. Sakura hadn’t seen her own posters, but the painting they were based off of had been flattering enough even if it was only from her shoulders up.

A voice just outside made it through the doorway for each of the three girls to hear.

“It’s a better turn out than the last one.”

“Forget the last season, this is bigger than all last year’s crowds.”

“What do you expect when it’s only once a season they turn out?”

One of the girls made a sound that betrayed her youth and Sakura felt sorry for her, but not sorry enough to open her mouth and lie. They were going to be sold off, they had signed up for this, and the chances of any of them being happy with what came next was slim, no matter what the matchmaker said.

Outside the noon bell rang like a death knell and the first girl stood when the door opened. She held her head high and marched out in a swirl of lavender colored fabrics to the roar of an excited crowd.  

The bidding took five minutes, but the preamble was ten times that. Sakura could hear how the girl was led around stage and talked up, listing the number of instruments she could play and languages she could speak, but little else.

She didn’t go for a poor price, but it would likely be the lowest since she was first.

The next girl stood when the door was opened. She stared straight ahead and marched with less grace, but as her virtues were read off to a frenzied crown the stiffness mattered less and less.

Her bidding took less than ten but more than five minutes.

When the door opened again Sakura saw the attendant laughing. “The crowd’s only grown,” was his excuse.

Sakura swallowed her nerves and threw her head back. She had climbed the Spine of the world, plucked feathers from the nest of a thunderbird, and slept under his wings. This crowd would not frighten her.

“This way,” the attendant said.

Sakura put one foot in front of the other, measuring her pace the way she’d seen noble ladies do. Through the short hallway and out onto the stage she followed the attendant out with a mask of indifference. The Crossroads’ open square was packed and all the nearby buildings had faces in their windows.

When she had been a child she had enjoyed the thought of being considered beautiful.

Now all she could do was curse it.

The matchmaker waved to the attendant and Sakura squared her shoulders as the long fur coat was pulled from her shoulders. The crowd’s reaction was understandable as she stepped forward into the light.

The cut of her dress was low, reaching almost to her navel as the bodice was crafted out of the thunder bird’s silver feathers. Glittering feathers hugged her waist and covered her hips, but did little else as the dress morphed into glittering see-through fabric that hid nothing of her figure from view. When she was asked to walk across the stage, the crowd roared at the sight of her, her indecency, her immodesty, her beauty, her legs, the swell of her breast, the dress, the way she reflected the light…

“And she sings, ladies and gentlemen,” the matchmaker cooed in mock adoration. “What a little songbird. Who wouldn’t want to have her in his own golden cage?”

“Sing!” the crowd demanded.

In reaction the matchmaker motioned to the attendant who had pulled out a simple hand drum. When he struck it the drum gave a solid thud that repeated and repeated and repeated. With every strike the crowd quieted until they were silent.

Sakura shut her eyes and inhaled.

On the next strike she let her voice out, low and rolling. When she sang she sounded like the mountain, loud and booming with highs and lows an eagle could soar through. The language was an old one that sounded as lost as the forgotten religions and shrines left at the base of the Spine of the world.  

Spellbound am I, am I

The wizard bewitched me, bewitched me

Spellbound deep in my soul, deep in my soul

In the heart glows a burning fire, a burning fire

The song morphed until it was less lyrical and more a testament to her range as she held a note up high and kept it aloft until the last sudden beat of the drum. Then all at once there was silence.

When she opened her eyes the crowd before her was just as spellbound as her parents the first time she sang for them-before they made her swear never to again.

What a horrible daughter she turned out to be.  

The crowd broke like a dam and the roar was deafening but Sakura refused to flinch. She was numb to it as the matchmaker rushed to the front of the stage and motioned wildly for the crowd to quiet.

She couldn’t get them under control for a good five minutes as they screamed for more. She tried to read off more of Sakura’s qualifications, but it seemed no one was interested in anything beyond her song.

“Then the bidding for our songbird…”

Sakura closed her eyes as it began.

Her price climbed rapidly until it became apparent only two men in the crowd had enough of an estate to shoulder the expense. From 300 Krown (a moderately rich man’s yearly salary) to 500 to 700 her bridal price climbed. She breathed a sigh of relief when she realized her cut would be large enough for Ino’s family to live comfortably on for the rest of their days.

“Five thousand Krown!” a new voice boomed.

Sakura raised her face and saw further back a man flanked by attendants, all dressed in the same dark uniforms trimmed in silver. In the afternoon’s sunlight the medals on their breast pockets gleamed, making them all look impressive.

At the front was a man with dark eyes and silver hair that betrayed his youthful face. For a noble he seemed too beautiful.  

The crowd grew quiet.

In the history of the Crossroads the bridal price had only exceeded 1000 Krown a total of three times, but the highest bid had been three thousand five hundred and paid for by the envoy of the emperor. This man was unrecognized and bore no such crest. Who could have that sort of money?

“Sir?” The matchmaker squawked.

He waved to one of his guard and he rushed forward with a small metal box. He opened it for the matchmaker to peer inside, only for her eyes to boggle.

“My master is good for the money,” the man holding the box chuckled before shutting the lid.

“Th-that…is…is there anyone who opposes?” the matchmaker asked once more, sounding numb.

Neither of the other two nobles raised their hands as they glared across the crowd at the newcomer. There was a low murmur through the crowd before the bell rang out, signaling the sale.

Sakura shut her eyes and followed the matchmaker off the stage into the rooms where her sale would be finalized. She sat on the couch watching as several iron chests came into the room, carried by three identical servants. Inside each chest was 1,500 neatly stacked bars of Krown. The last 500 came in a smaller chest.  

It took several minutes for the chests to be counted and the money organized. Sakura closed her eyes and ignored the stares of the three identical servants who watched her where she sat. Her silence and seeming indifference seemed to amuse them.

Then the door opened once more for the silver haired man to enter. His fur collared cloak trailed after him like a pair of long wings, flapping around his legs with each of his long strides. Up close he was even more handsome and Sakura prayed that didn’t mean he was cruel too.

She stood as he entered and met his gaze head on. A different servant bent to talk with the matchmaker while he stared down at her, eyes creasing in the corners even though his mouth didn’t bend in any such smile.

“Then, your mark sir?”

Sakura inhaled sharply and readied herself for the branding all bought brides went through. Some saw it as a mark of pride, but others recognized it for what it was-a shackle.  

“I will not brand her,” he said, speaking with a voice so deep and full it filled the whole room.

“-B-but she might run. A mark is traditionally what-”

“I will not brand her,” the young lord interrupted more firmly. He took a step closer to Sakura then reached for her hand. “But let this serve as my testament.”

Sakura watched as he slid a rose gold colored band onto her ring finger. When she looked down she saw the massive emerald in the center, flanked by a multitude of smaller diamonds.

She stared up at her to-be husband with wide eyes that only made him smile more openly.

“Mah, I’ve been waiting too long for someone I could spoil to my heart’s content. I’ll never give you a reason to run, Sakura.”

“What… what is your name, my lord,” Sakura asked, feeling a bit light headed at the prize on her finger and the message it carried with it. She wasn’t a prize, she was a bride. If she wanted to run her ring would pay her way several times over, and he knew that.

He pulled her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. “Hatake, but you may call me Kakashi.”

She didn’t have the breath to ask any more questions as his servants stepped up to finish the paperwork that allowed him to take her. He folded her under his arm and lead her out of the room, through the halls, down the stairs, and into the awaiting carriage.

Inside there was a dressmaker’s box on one of the seats he encouraged her to open. She lifted the lid with trembling fingers and gasped at the sight. The same silver feathers that she had sewn together to make her dress were crafted into a similar bodice that complemented a much fuller skirt.

“Your wedding dress. This one served its purpose for our engagement but,” Kakashi kissed the back of her shoulder as he stood behind her, “us old gods are terrible about showing off our extravagance.”

“Kakashi,” she breathed again, not daring to believe it.

He hummed cheerfully. “Yes?”

“Thunderbird…Kakashi.”

“One in the same, my dear.” He ushered her into her seat and sat down beside her. “I’m glad you remember me. Sometimes they don’t. When witnessed in our divine beast forms there are only certain brains that can hold onto the memory. But you,” he kissed under her left eye, “you, are worth far more than gold could buy. I’ve not seen such eyes in many thousands of years.” Kakashi leaned over and kissed under her other eye, reaching for her hand to hold as he did so.

“Why did you do that, though? You…you’re not human, so what could you want with me?” Sakura asked, still feeling light headed even as he kissed the side of her neck.

“I said so, didn’t I? The humans are fools to not see your value, but now you’re mine and I’m yours and we have lifetimes to enjoy together.”

His voice made her feel like melting. As powerful and old as he was, she still felt safe next to him. He was an ancient god who could tear her apart in an instant, but she knew she had never been safer.  

“Lifetimes?”

“I’ve waited too long to have a mate to spoil. I won’t let you go so easily, not even to death,” he promised darkly before bending her down to kiss deeply, lips to lips.

Later that night Kakashi stirred in bed and growled at the presence behind his bed chamber’s doors. His wife was warm in his arms and there was nowhere else he’d rather be. But his stupid servants wouldn’t leave until they had given their report, so he detangled himself and dressed in a simple robe to greet them at the door, making sure the bed curtains were drawn to save Sakura from sight.

“What?” he growled low, promising thunder and pain.

“It’s done, sensei.”

Kakashi exhaled forcefully. “And?”

“As you wished, the lost revenue has been recovered and the Crossroads razed.”  

“The people?”

“After her family left we… took care of them.”

Kakashi scoffed at Naruto’s soft tone. He was too young to understand how sometimes these things needed to be done. They were divine beasts, they didn’t need to feel sympathy for the masses.Their feelings were meant for precious few.  Just because the humans had forgotten that didn’t mean they had to. Naruto had a long way to go before he could be trusted with his own dominion.

“It’s their fault for looking at wasn’t theirs to behold,” he commented darkly, shifting so more of his body filled the gap between the door and the jam. “Is that it?”

Naruto nodded.

“Then make yourself scarce. Don’t show up unless I call for you again. I don’t plan on attending to any business for the next…couple of weeks.”

“We’ll cover it.”

“Yes, you will.”

And with that Kakashi shut the door on his student. When he drew the curtains back he chuckled at how Sakura had rotated onto her back, fingers curling in her sleep for something she could no longer hold.

He brushed aside the stray feathers and pulled back the covers to slip in and reach for her hip. She turned to him easily and he kissed her shoulder in thanks as she melted against his side.

“Mine,” he breathed in tired fascination. “My precious songbird.”

SS The Nightingale dress 07 (All the grey/silver wing dresses are amazing.)

Engagement

Wedding

#Kakashi #KakaSaku #kakashi hatake #Sakura #Sakura Haruno #fanfiction #writing #prompt #ask

[spectralscathath]

Charcoal Scales and Tattered Fins

Fair Game Week, Day 7: AU/Free Day

Five times Qrow swam away and one time he took Clover with him.

Ao3 Link

Clover always loved the sea. 

He loved the way he could stand on a ship and overlook endless, deep blue, how the sun would be at the highest point in the day and the waves would scatter the white light across the ocean surface like a thousand diamonds. He loved the motion of the waves, how his weight naturally adjusted to the rocking of the boat under his feet. The way the open ocean stretched endlessly towards a sky full of stars would always be the most beautiful sight in the world to him. Nothing could ever compare.

So it was obvious to everyone that on the times when his work didn’t send him sailing with the military that his home would be near the ocean. His shack was small, but wellkept and cozy, sheltered from strong weather by the natural cove. He had a small pier on the sand that stretched into the shallow waters, where he could bring out a fishing boat on the days when he had time to spare. 

It was his own personal patch of paradise, one he shared with the seabirds on the rocks, the silver fish in the bay, and his dog Failinis, a large mixed-breed who loved water just as much as he did. 

Said dog was currently trotting up and down the beach, leaving webbed pawprints in the wet sand as his thick tail wagged slowly, waiting for Clover to finish tying off his boat. He’d taken the little dinghy out for a spin, to where the waters were deep enough to get good catches without the waves overturning him, and he’d gotten lucky as usual. He’d always had unusually good luck. 

It was when he hefted up the catches he’d chosen to bring home rather than release that Failinis went mental, baying and howling like it’s the world’s end. Clover put his catches down, too well-trained from military experience to drop them, and rushed over, sans his pistol and cutlass. He usually went without, in his home. 

His boots were heavy on the sand as he ran to the far side of the beach, where the sand turned to rocks and interesting things tended to wash up. The sky was grey, tinging black, and he could smell the oncoming storm that would hit later in the night. Failinis stood steady, letting out deep barks that started in his barrel chest and ended up echoing through the cove. 

He saw why immediately when he reached the rocks, and spotted the unconscious girl strewn over them.

She couldn’t have been very old, mid-teens, at her eldest, possibly younger. There was a lot of red in the water and it looked like blood, which worried him. He started picking his way carefully towards her, avoiding seaweed so he doesn’t slip. 

He doesn’t even think to question why there’s a child passed out on his beach, all that mattered was getting her out of the water, warmed up, and given as much medical aid as he can manage before a doctor arrives.

He jumped down into the waves beside her when he was close enough to do so safely, the red-tinged water lapping up to his mid-thigh. This close he could see how pale she was, her black hair so waterlogged it shone. He slid his arms under her and hefted up to try to get a better grip, and he nearly dropped her when he saw that it’s not just the water that’s red.

Red scales covered her shoulders and the tops of her arms, wrapping around her chest and down her sides until they turned into her tail. Fins stretched from her elbows and poke out of her hair to take the place of ears, and he can only assume she has others. 

He was holding an actual gods-be-damned mermaid in his hands, and the poor thing was bleeding sluggishly from a jagged wound on her side, one that looked similar to a shark bite, but not entirely. 

He set his awe and disbelief aside and shifted so he had one arm supporting under her back, where he is very careful of the delicate-looking fin he finds there, and the other under her tail, which bends in a way that is definitely inhuman. What she is doesn’t matter, she still needs medical aid.

Navigating out of the rocks is difficult with the added weight. While he would have originally put her at about five foot based on her size if she was a human girl, the tail easily takes her body length up to two metres, and she weighed it.

Failinis has stopped barking at this point, looking rather pleased with himself. Clover looked at him and nodded, telling himself that he’ll give his dog some extra pats after for a job well done. “Good boy.” The tail wagged.

He carried her into his home and hoped that she could survive out of the water long enough for him to dress her wound, possibly suture it if it needed it. He knew how to do the basics for something serviceable, and so he sets to work. 

She’s too out of it to respond, her pulse weak and fluttery but there, and she seemed to be able to breathe well enough for now. When her wound is cleaned, stitched, and bandaged, he carries in buckets of water from the ocean and tosses them into the bath, lowering her in soon after. The bandages and dressing were waterproof, so there was no real worry about it doing further damage.

He pulled up a stool in the doorway so he could keep an eye on her, fed Failinis, and grabbed a book of fairytales off his shelf, setting his reading glasses on his nose as he reads the section on mermaids. He listened to the thunder as it rumbled in the distance, steadily growing closer, and the rainfall outside his window calms him down so much he nearly nods off.

When she wakes up, it’s first with a stir, then the confusion kicks in at the unfamiliar place, followed by fear. He set his book down and took off his glasses, staying in his seat as he reached up and rapped his knuckles lightly on the wood to get her attention. 

Large silver eyes fixate on him, and he’s struck by how young she looks. The way her eyes seem to almost glow from within is a secondary observation. He lowered his hand from the wood and showed her it was empty, smiling comfortingly without showing his teeth. “Hey,” he kept his voice soft, trying not to spook her. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Her eyes are so wide and fearful it hurts. He doesn’t like being looked at as a threat. He wanted to bundle her up in a blanket and tell her she’s safe. He stayed still, letting her make the next move. She figured out quickly enough that he wasn’t immediately trying to kill her or anything, so she looked herself over, her eyes going from scared to curious as she looked around the bathroom. 

“Where am I?” She asks, voice soft as a lamb’s wool and tinged with an accent he could never for the life of him be able to identify. 

He gave her another smile. “Chulainn’s Cove. I found you injured on the rocks and treated your wound. Do you think you’re strong enough to swim yet?” He had no intention of keeping her trapped.

She seemed to consider it, tilting her head before she shook it. How strange that there seems to be such similar language between them. “No, my uncle will come to get me and then I’ll be okay.”

Uncle? So there were more? His own curiosity was desperate to ask her every question he had, but he wasn’t going to throw a bunch of them at a kid who’d just been hurt. Instead he shifted a little bit, so he was leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. Her red tail hung over the edge of the bathtub, translucent white fins flopped over his floor. Her ebony hair’s dried a bit, and he could see that the ends are tinged a similar red to her scales. A few scales speckle her face, just on the top ridges of her cheekbones, and they look almost like freckles.

“What’s your name?” He asked, noticing her fin ears twitching as she spots something that interests her. She reached out to grab it, pale webs between her fingers. 

“Ruby,” she said, rather absent-mindedly as she picked up a bar of soap and tilted her head, before she squeaked as it slid out of her grip and hit the floor. “What is that?”

“Soap. It’s slippery when wet,” he couldn’t stop a smile and she shot him an absolutely adorable pout. Reminded him of the look his little sister would give him when she thought he said something silly. “I’m Clover.”

“Clover.” She repeated it, shifting so both her hands are curled over one edge of the bathtub, her head and shoulders peeping over it in fascination. As strange as it is for him to be talking to a mermaid, for her this must be an entirely new world. “Cool name.”

“Thank you. Would you like anything to eat?” He was going to put the kettle on anyway. She said her uncle would arrive soon, so he may as well do his duties as a good host and offer her tea and snacks.

Those big, reflective eyes look at him with the same eternal hope as Failinis’s at dinner time. How could he refuse?

He offered her one of his books before he went to make tea, one without any mermaid stories in it. They weren’t always flattering. Instead he left her with her nose stuck into a story about a princess who lives in a tower, with hair so long it reaches to the ground.

He put the kettle on and set up a platter of biscuits with it as well, pausing before he grabbed some fish. Mermaids probably ate that, he couldn’t really imagine what else they’d eat. 

The kettle whistled and he poured the two mugs, carrying it back into the bathroom. He set the tray down and got his own mug, putting in a splash of milk. “Here, tea, biscuits, and some fish.”

Ruby’s eyes lit up as she put the book down beside the tub, grabbing a fish and snap-chomp, eating it in two bites. She gave him a toothy grin. “Thanks!”

“Any time. Tea? Careful, it’s hot.” He smiled and offered the mug, taking a sip of his own. Nothing like a good cup of tea. She grabbed it, wincing a little bit from the heat before she copied his movements and took a sip.

She seemed to give it a fair amount of consideration before she nodded to herself. “It’s good!”

“Better with biscuits.” He dunked his, his natural good fortune making sure it didn’t snap in half and fall back into the mug. She watched him like a hawk before she did the same, losing the first biscuit to the curse of over-soggifying. 

She tried again with the second half and her tail flicked in delight as she ate it. He should have guessed. Kids liked sweets everywhere, apparently. “This is so good, surface food is so cool!”

“Glad to help,” he laughed, enjoying the strange moment. “You said your uncle would be on his way?”

“Yep!” She had another biscuit, flecks of white sparkling in her eyes like stars. “My uncle Qrow, he’s the coolest. He doesn’t really like the surface much though. It’s a shame, because I think it’s super interesting. I just have so many things I want to know about it,” she babbled, clutching her mug in both hands as her eyes filled with wonder. “What’s a fire, and why does it, um… burn?”

Her enthusiasm for a world she’d never been to was so familiar to how he’d been, before he’d gotten the chance to sail the seas. Even now he’d just found out that there was even more to his beloved sea then he’d known, and he wanted to know everything. 

He smiled and tipped his mug to her, happy to answer her questions as the thunder rolled outside, muffled by the walls of his home. “Well-” 

His door crashed open with a deafening crack, the thunder roaring as the sound found a way into his little haven. He was too well-trained to jump, instead one of his hands darted to where there was normally a weapon on his hip while his other set the tea down. 

He glanced at Ruby. “Your uncle?”

She smiled sheepishly. “Maybe?”

He stepped out into the hall where Failinis was barking, looking at the figure in the door, rain pouring behind him. Lightning flashed, outlining a swoop of greying hair, scruffy features, a billowy shirt under a dark pirate’s coat. Red eyes sparked with fury as the man in the doorway stomped over the threshold, a knife made from a strange material in his hand. 

“Where is she?” He snarled, teeth bared like he was seconds away from ripping out Clover’s throat.

Clover stepped aside to soothe Failinis, petting the dog’s ears to calm him as he pointed. “Down the hall, second door on the right.”

The fabled Uncle Qrow looked at him, eyes swimming with distrust as he took quick steps towards the hall, blade ready. Clover had, admittedly, not been expecting a human like himself. 

Well, he assumed Qrow was a human. He couldn’t see any of the animal traits Faunus usually had, and his canines weren’t the customary fangs every single Faunus bore. He got Failinis to calm down enough that his dog nosed at his hand, smelling biscuit crumbs, when he heard a delighted ‘uncle Qrow!’ from the bathroom, followed by the sound of a lot of water displacing all at once. He’d have to clean that.

He heard Qrow’s boots walking over his floor, a faint dragging sound from Ruby’s tail fin, before they came into view, her arms around her uncle’s neck as she looked at him like he was a hero. 

She smiled and waved bye to Clover as Qrow carried her back to the door. “Bye Clover, thanks for the tea!”

“You’re welcome,” he smiled back. “Safe swimming.”

Qrow shot him a grumpy look as he reached the kicked-in door, a fish hook gleaming in his earlobe, before he stepped over the threshold and towards the sea.

Clover waited a moment before he hurried to his door, standing in the broken doorway as he watched Qrow wade unflinchingly into the waters of the bay, churned up into seafoam by the storm. A wave crashed over him and Ruby both, and they were gone.

Clover sagged against the wall as the rain came down, Failinis pressing his great head against Clover’s thigh. Clover absently patted his dog as he stared at the ocean, wondering if he’d end up spending the rest of his life searching for a glimpse of mermaids again.

He didn’t know that there was a look of consideration tossed his way by a set of red eyes, before the merman and his niece swam away

---------

Clover took his dinghy out the next day, still awestruck by what had happened. He sat out on the waves, placid after the storm, his reel in the water as he waited patiently for a bite. It was strange, normally this place was alive with fish, but today had been very slow. 

He heard a loud splashing sound behind him and turned around, hand falling to his pistol before he relaxed. “It’s you.”

Qrow looked back at him, pale arms resting on the edge of the boat as he kept his torso hefted out of the water. Charcoal grey scales covered his shoulders, mottled with black. The fins stretching from his elbows were a dark red, rich and opaque. Clover noticed a fair amount of piercings glittering along his fin ears, one of which was definitely a fish hook. 

He probably should stop staring. “You came back?”

Qrow gave him a onceover, almost like he could stare into Clover’s soul. “... You let me take her.”

“Well, yeah,” he smiled at him. “You’re her family. I was hardly going to keep her trapped.”

Qrow looked at him suspiciously. “Most humans who find her kind aren’t the type to just let them go.”

“Well I think that’s a shame.” Clover set his fishing rod aside, where it could still be within reach if something tugged the line. “I’m Clover.”

“She mentioned.” Qrow’s fin ear twitched irritably. “Bet you’re wondering why I came back.”

“Well, I did ask.” It had crossed his mind. 

Qrow rolled his eyes at him before he seemed to steel himself up for something. “... Thank you. She could have been really hurt if you didn’t help her.”

“It was the right thing to do. May I ask what caused the wound? It looked like a shark bite, but there was something off about it.” It was too narrow. 

Qrow looked at him suspiciously, his shoulders hunching defensively. “... Dolphin.”

“Oh.” He liked dolphins, but he supposed that they could still be dangerous if crossed. “I see.” 

He had so many questions he wanted to ask, but he didn’t want to be rude. He wanted to know everything about what life was like under the waves he loved so much. He wanted to know what beautiful sights were there. If nothing could compare to the view of the open seas meeting the sky, then what was the same view like from the sea itself?

“You were a human.” He decided to at least get that question asked. “How?”

“Magic.” Qrow twiddled his fingers, and Clover noticed something strange about some of the strands of his hair, darker than the rest. They looked almost like feathers. “You’re a soldier.”

“I am. Atlas Naval Captain, under Admiral Winter’s command.” The kingdoms of Remnant were connected by the sea, and the twin cities of Atlas and Mantle protected them all. He was proud to serve the world and protect the innocent from what lay beyond the edges of the maps. 

“Bet you think you’ve been all over the world,” Qrow grinned, a snide twist to it.

“I have. Vacuo, Menagerie, Vale, Mistral, I’ve been to all of them, and further.” He smiled at him. “But I’d say you’ve probably seen just as much.”

“More, even.” Qrow chuckled, the sound low in his throat. Clover thought it was a pretty interesting sound. “You’ve got that same look Ruby has when she wants to grill me about the surface world. Okay. Guess I owe you for looking out for her. Two questions.” He held up a hand, silver rings gleaming on his fingers. Clover noticed he didn’t have the webs between them that Ruby did. 

“Isn’t three traditional?” Clover grinned, eyes twinkling with glee. 

“You already used one. Don’t make me count that one too.”

“Okay, okay,” he laughed, the sound bubbling up out of his stomach. He tried to think of something that wouldn’t be too weirdly personal to ask and settled on- “what was that knife?”

Qrow raised a brow and reached down into the water, giving Clover a look at the gills on the sides of his throat, surrounded by dark scales, a necklace with a sideways cross hanging down his pale collarbones. Water droplets still clung to his skin, like beads of glass, and Clover tried not to stare. 

The knife was offered to him, hilt first, and he took it, the grip wrapped with red leather and the blade inscribed with a strange pattern. The heft felt strange to him, almost too light. He couldn’t tell if it was metal or some sort of odd stone, now that he was looking at it. 

Qrow watched him test the edge, sharp and well cared for, before he made a grabby hand to get it back. “It’s marealite, it’s designed to have no resistance when being swung in water. Ruby’s father gave it to me.”

Clover handed it back. “It’s beautiful.” He caught the flash of a real smile on Qrow’s face at the compliment to his weapon, before it got covered up with the general grumpy scowl the merman liked. 

“Alright, one more question. Go on, hurry up.”

Clover had so many, but only one really seemed important. “Will I see you again?”

Qrow’s eyes widened a little bit, like he wasn’t expecting that. He stared at Clover for a moment, Clover’s teal eyes open and honest. 

“... no promises.” Qrow gave him a teasing smirk, almost a touch mean but without real malice. “Besides, you got me a good lunch today, you get a lot of fish around.”

“Hang on, is that why my line’s been dead? He laughed, even more at the fact that Qrow had the decency to cop to it and absolutely no shame over it. 

“Maybe.” Qrow flashed his teeth at him before he twisted away from the boat, disappearing under the placid surf. Clover leaned over the edge, just in time to see red fins and dark scales disappear. 

He sat back in his boat, and right as the merman left his line got a bite. 

--------

“Failinis!” He walked away from the safe haven of his cove and into the fog, a lantern in hand as he went looking for his dog. Stars dotted the skies above, barely visible through a break in the clouds. The light from the shattered moon was almost entirely blotted out, leaving him with just his voice and his lantern to find his dog.

He’d let him out for a run while he sat on his pier, and it was only when he noticed the abnormal quiet did worry curl in his gut. It had taken everything in him not to immediately run off and search, but he’d refrained, grabbing his weapons, boots, and a light source before he went to find his dog.

He trekked around the coast’s edge, where the sand faded to leave mud and rock, mist hanging low over the marshy bog. He strained to see much of anything, only his natural luckiness and his knowledge of the lands around his home saving him from the main places where he’d lose a shoe to the ground. 

He tried to listen for the sound of Failinis’s deep barks, the silence setting his teeth on edge. This didn’t feel right. Failinis was a good dog, he would never have run off like this. 

Clover’s hand gripped his sword as he lifted his lantern higher, remembering the stories his mother told him of hinkypunks, mischievous lantern-bearers who’d lead people deep into fogs, over sinkholes hidden under turf and peat, where they’d fall in and drown. 

“Failinis!” He called again, giving a sharp whistle. It was when he rounded a rocky bluff, pebbles and gravel crunching, that something touched the edge of his hearing, a voice, a whisper? He turned, hearing it mix with the faint sound of the waves lapping on the shore. 

It wasn’t a whisper, the more he listened, the more he realised. It was a song. Soft and beautiful and washing away his worries, soothing his soul as he kept walking. He heard the mud squelch under his boots and ignored it, all thoughts of finding his dog leaving his head as he followed the voice. His hands went slack as he walked, the lantern falling to the ground as he left it behind.

The high soprano warbled and echoed, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. He heard the sounds of mud under his boots turn to splashes, cold water seeping into the fabric of his trousers as it lapped at his knees and soaked his skin. 

He could see a flicker of fire in the waves, a brilliant orange, or perhaps a scarlet red, or neither, the shimmer instead the colour of burnt coal. The song swirled around his head, enticing him forward with its unreachability. He heard a dog howling somewhere and ignored it, his senses overcoming with the lure of the song.

He was swimming forward when he felt pain along his leg, sharp and bright against the song before it was immediately dulled. His leg wasn’t working quite right anymore and he began to sink, seeing a pair of orange eyes smiling at him in the darkness as he sank into the bloody waters, the voice in his head so loud it blotted out even the need to breathe.

Water filled his mouth and nose as there was more pain, ripping through him like teeth, but the lack of air, the sheer cold, and the black spots filling his vision had him floating gently towards oblivion. 

It was so cold.

The claws digging into his shoulders felt like he should feel them, as those hungry orange eyes glowed, a maw of needle-sharp teeth visible under them. 

It was so cold. 

His eyes fluttered shut as the last bubbles of air left his lips, drifting away towards the surface as the ocean constricted his chest. 

It was so dark. Like he was sleeping.

He could sleep forever.

He could just drown here-

Then there was the feeling of lips on his and alertness flooded through him, the tightness in his lungs fading away as though they were filled with air again, light and breathable. He opened his eyes, blackness still clouding most of his sight. He thought he saw tattered red, pale skin, glitters of silver. 

He felt arms wrap around him, strong and powerful, and the water moved around him and his rescuer like they were born to it. He wondered for a moment what was happening, before he slipped back into the nothingness of unconsciousness.

When he woke, it was to Failinis licking gently at his fingers as he lay in his bed, wounds bandaged and covers tucked in around him. 

He stared at the open window as the sunlight filtered in, the sounds of waves against the beach gentle in the air. Faint memories of strong arms and a kiss swam at the edge of his mind, slipping away if he tried to think of them too hard, like a dream he was already forgetting. 

Had Qrow come back after all?

----------

Clover walked down the gangplank onto the main docks, a bag over his shoulder containing his personal belongings, his lucky pin gleaming on the breast of his naval uniform. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, a smattering of freckles across his skin from a year sailing the Vacuan peninsula. 

He smiled at Elm as she helped Marrow carry off some of the supplies, Vine tying up the sails in the riggings as Harriet darted across the deck of the Fable, making sure their ship was in top-notch condition after their mission. “I’m going to go submit our logs to Admiral Schnee. See you all at Murphy’s Reef?” 

Elm waved him off. “We’ll get our favourite booth, see you there!” Marrow gave him a fanged grin as he nodded in agreement, tail wagging and the dog ears on his head swivelling as he tracked the noises around them

He saluted and walked off with a spring in his step, happy to be back in the port kingdom he called home. Atlas was a small island just off the coast of Solitas, connected to the city of Mantle by a natural bridge. Clover had grown up in one of the port towns west of Mantle, the city itself nestled in the massive fjord that led up into the unexplored tundra of Solitas. 

It was as he walked towards the main keep where the military was based that he heard the whispers. An execution, people were saying. Tomorrow at dawn. A pirate long since evading the laws, finally caught and sentenced to beheading. 

He hoped he could avoid it. He’d never been a fan of executions, rare as they were. Not even King Schnee had been able to overturn all the laws the previous king had placed to prevent needless death. 

Truthfully, after a night drinking and celebrating with his team, his plan was to go back to Chulainn’s Cove. He’d have to drop by James’s first, to collect Failinis, the retired Admiral having chosen to seclude himself in a lighthouse with his pets and his books.

It was as he entered the keep he spotted a young lady updating the outlaw bored with wanted posters, pulling down the criminals who had been caught and putting up the sketches of the new. 

He noticed the top poster in her hands, just ripped from the wall, and his heart did a strange wiggle in his chest as he recognised the merman who may have saved his life. 

Clover shook it off. He never usually paid attention to wanted posters, his job taking him on the seas rather than worrying about local criminals, but if Qrow’s poster was down, that meant he had been caught. 

He had a disquieting worry settle in his stomach and promised himself that he would investigate later. His debriefing with Winter came first.

It was only afterwards that he slipped down to the cells, that his worry turned to concern. There was a cell at the end of the prison block, a closed room with only a thin slit in the door for observation, a thick glass pane over the thin window, beyond the prison bars. This was the cell for those who were spending their last night in the jail, the accommodations somewhat nicer than the rest. A warmer blanket, a softer bed, and one final good meal, to make the last night worth something. 

Seeing the merman pacing like a caged beast, a flash of dark scales visible on his nape even in human form, had Clover’s heart thud with dread. Watching the man turn to a bird to peck uselessly at the glass beyond the bars only worsened his turmoil. The sight of his shapeshifting didn’t even bother him all that much. He knew the man was capable of being a merman, and it explained the feathers in his hair.

He’d only met him twice so far, maybe thrice if whatever had happened a year ago had been real, but he didn’t know if he could let him die. He didn’t know if he could deprive Ruby of the man she looked at like a hero.

He made his choice, promising himself he’d come back before dawn. 

His usual celebration of a completed mission with his team lacked his normal exuberance, though he tried to put it on for them. It was hard to keep it up, though Elm’s arm around his shoulders before she managed to lift him off the ground definitely distracted him from his task later.

He didn’t really break the law. It wasn’t in his nature. He preferred to uphold the law to protect people, but if it turned out unjust, then the law should be changed rather than broken. 

Helping a prisoner on his last night escape his cell was not something he’d ever thought he’d see himself do, but he owed Qrow his life, he was almost certain. Not only that, but Qrow was a good man at his core, a man who loved his family and was willing to save a life at no benefit to him.

So when he opened Qrow’s jail cell and saw a very confused set of red eyes staring at him, he reminded himself that this was the right thing to do. “It’s been a while.”

“You bet it has.” Qrow didn’t let an opportunity go to waste, already walking out the cell door past Clover, who closed and locked it again. “Your place was empty.”

“I had a mission.” He tugged him out of the jail and down a side corridor to avoid the guards. “This way.”

“A year long mission?” Qrow looked him over, his billowy white shirt practically falling off his shoulders as it revealed the defined lines of his collarbone. “You have freckles.”

“I get them in the sunlight. We were sent to Vacuo. I’m not liable to disclose why.” He walked with him, putting a hand out to tell him to stop as he checked the next corner. The coast was clear. “Hang on. You checked my house?”

Qrow blinked owlishly at him, a faint point to his ears now that Clover was looking. There was a strange overlap between his three forms, it was interesting and Clover would be lying if he said he didn't want to know where all that overlap was. “Uh. Ruby noticed you weren’t fishing.”

Clover smiled at him, leading him towards the exit that was closest to the ocean. “I’m flattered. How is she?”

Qrow smiled proudly. “She’s doing great. Her and Yang have been learning magic from their dad. Merpeople like them have a lot of natural magic.”

“And you don’t?”

“I’m not a natural mermaid.” Qrow shrugged as he followed him out into the shattered moonlight, his feet bare on the gravel. “I was human once.”

Clover nearly stopped at that, a definite break in his stride before he recovered, looking at the shapeshifter. “... I see. That sounds like quite a story.”

“... Yeah. It is.” Qrow looked at him as they stepped onto the beach, the moon hung low over the waves and painting the shapeshifter’s rugged features in a fey light. Clover had to catch his breath for a moment as the light glimmered on the feathers mingled with Qrow’s hair, the sheen near-iridescent. 

Qrow raised a hand, hesitated, and placed a hand on Clover’s shoulder, patting it once. “Thanks.”

“I feel like I should be thanking you.” Clover smiled at him. “One question before you go.”

“Only one?” Qrow smirked, quirking a brow.

“Will I see you again?” He asked, repeating his question from before. He desperately hoped Qrow would say yes. He wanted to see him again. Learn more about him. Talk to him outside of these stolen moments, find out what happened that night, which had left inhuman tooth marks that had taken months to disappear. 

Qrow cocked his head in an almost birdlike motion, his gaze sweeping over Clover before he stepped back. “You will.”

Clover watched from the beach as Qrow’s fins vanished into the surf, reaching up a hand to touch his lips as he tried to remember the feeling of a kiss he may have only dreamed.

-------

He didn’t know what he expected when he picked up Failinis and went back to his little cabin, but a shapeshifter sitting on his porch was not it. Qrow gave him a faint smile, a bottle in hand that Clover recognised from his personal cupboard. Qrow poured two glasses of the amber liquid and offered him one. 

“Welcome home, Shamrock.” He clinked their glasses together and knocked his back with practiced ease, leaving Clover a little starstruck before he remembered to take a sip, the burn of whiskey sliding down his throat. 

He could probably use some liquid courage, after a year at sea. “I wasn’t expecting to see you this soon.”

“Probably not.” Qrow nodded and gave him a sly look. “So. How about that story?”

“Let me get inside first,” Clover smiled. “And take off my gear.”

Qrow looked him over, something that he seemed to do a lot. Clover wondered when the shift had happened, the gazes that had felt detached and assessing now sending shivers down his spine. Qrow’s lips twitched into a smirk. “Don’t keep me waiting too long.”

Clover’s mouth felt dry and he finished his glass, walking inside and placing it on the table as he took off his weapons, placing them aside as he removed his heavy jacket. He looked at his pin for a moment before he pulled it off his uniform, putting it back on his top. He hoped it was as lucky as it usually seemed to be. 

Good fortune would definitely be welcome now.

He stepped back out to a roaring fire and Failinis resting his head on Qrow’s thigh, getting gentle pets from the merman. Clover couldn’t help but smile at the strange but welcome picture it made. It looked almost domestic. 

He stopped himself there. He’d met this man maybe four times. He had no right getting any sort of attachment or attraction beyond the physical kind. He steeled himself up and walked into his living room, taking the seat beside Qrow’s and giving Failinis a little pet as well. 

“So you’re a dog person?”

“Not literally,” Qrow smirked. “Birds and mermen only. But yeah, I like dogs. They don’t judge.”

“What’s there to judge?” He hedged, wondering if it would be unwelcome. 

“Life as a pirate and a thief, for one thing.” Qrow swirled the whiskey in his glass and Clover wondered when he’d refilled it. “I was sixteen, when I met them. Summer and Taiyang. A pair of merpeople that our tribe had picked up.”

“‘Our’?” Clover repeated. 

“Raven, my twin sister. We were the youngest, and cursed as omens from birth. We always got the menial jobs no one else wanted. No one wanted us.” Qrow stared into his glass. “Summer and Tai were our age. Don’t know how, but the four of us formed a bond. When the ship went down, Raven and I would have died.”

“Did Tai and Summer save you?” He asked quietly, stroking Failinis’s fur as he rested an arm on the back of the couch, watching the way the firelight danced over Qrow’s sharp features. 

“Tai’s a prince among his kind. Powerful magic. He did something,” Qrow held out his hand, a faint scar on his palm. “The four of us shared blood, or something. Some kind of old blood magic. Then… Raven and I could turn into merpeople, and Summer and Tai could be humans.”

“That sounds incredible. So you all stayed together? Like a family?”

“Summer’s dead. Raven’s off doing fuck knows what. She can rot. It’s me and Tai and his daughters now. I do what I can to protect them.” Qrow drained his glass.

“I think you do a lot to protect them.” It was admirable, how much this man cared about them. “I want to ask about something that happened a year ago.”

Qrow went very still, eyes darting to Clover before he looked very deliberately at the fire. “Something happened?”

Clover took a deep breath, desperate to know the truth and praying he wouldn’t drive him away. He didn’t want Qrow to go just yet, though he would eventually. “Tell me what happened.”

“A siren,” Qrow murmured. “She had you under her spell. Would have eaten you alive.”

“You saved me.” This time it wasn’t a question.

Qrow didn’t look at him. “I did.”

“You kissed me?” He wondered if that had happened too.

A faint blush appeared on Qrow’s cheeks. “Haven’t you ever heard the legends? ‘A kiss from a mermaid lets someone breathe underwater’,” he quoted. 

“Oh.” Was it only because of that? Probably. They didn’t really know each other. “Why save me?” Was it because of what he did for Ruby?

“... Because I wanted to,” Qrow admitted quietly. “I didn’t want you dead, I’m not a monster.” He said the word with venom, like it was a barb he’d had tossed at him before. 

Clover wondered if he’d misjudged things. He hesitated before he rested his hand on the side of Qrow’s neck,fingers splaying out and curling gently around the other man’s nape. “You’re definitely not a monster,” Clover reassured him. 

Qrow tossed him a soft smile that shifted to a confident smirk. “So you remember that I kissed you?”

Clover swallowed, looking deep into Qrow’s eyes, feeling like he could drown in them. “I may need a reminder,” he tried, grateful that his voice didn’t waver.

Qrow set the glass down before his hands were framing Clover’s face, lips pressing against his own, only this time he wasn’t dying from oxygen loss and bleeding, which made it about a million times better, in Clover’s opinion. Qrow’s lips were soft and there was a lingering taste of rich whiskey, burning and warm as they made the rest of the night their own.

Clover woke up cold. He looked at the empty space next to him, the covers tossed back as he heard Failinis barking. 

He couldn’t help himself. He ran towards the door, pulling it open as stars shone overhead, and he just barely spotted tattered red fins as they vanished into the bay.

He shouldn’t ever have expected Qrow would actually stay.

----------

Clover coughed up smoke and blood, letting the smile he’d put on drop as he heard Marrow screaming for the rowboat to turn around, that Clover was still onboard. It was good of him to care so much, but Elm had seen what Marrow had refused to. 

So there he sat, fires eating the Fable alive as she sank, half-destroyed by cannon fire and gunpowder. He sat up against the railings, one hand pressed to his side in a futile attempt to stop the blood that poured out, staining the deck under him red. 

The faunus who stabbed him had looked so thrilled about it, yellow eyes bright with debauched glee as his dark stinger tail curled proudly behind him. His team was lucky that they’d brought the attacking ship down, but some mad man enemy had blown up their ship so that no one would win. 

A captain was meant to go down with his ship, everyone said. 

Clover knew he was dying. No one survived losing this much blood. 

He looked forward, at the open ocean, waves stretching endlessly into the horizon to meet the sunset. The remnants of sunlight dyed the sky in pinks and purples, tinted dark blue on the edges, like an oil painting. 

Clover loved the sea. He would have said that there was no sight more beautiful, in all of his travels.A year ago, he would have loved for his last sight to be of his beloved ocean. 

Now all he wanted to do was look into a set of pretty red eyes one more time.

He reached up and gave his pin one last flick, smearing it with blood by accident. At least his team would be okay. They had a chance to get away.

He heard a splash, a sliding thump, like something large had hefted itself onto the deck. That changed to footsteps, and like magic, Qrow was there, stuck between his human form and his merman form as his dark scales clung to his skin. 

“Clover?” His hand rested on Clover’s shoulders, the other cupping his jaw. “Hey, you still with me, Shamrock?”

Clover smiled slightly, tiny pink bubbles forming at the corner of his mouth as he coughed. “Still with you.”

Qrow smiled in mingled relief and fear. “Hey, I can help you, but you have to know that there’s only one way. Tai’s gotta do it.”

Clover reached up, grabbing Qrow’s wrist. “Are you going to leave again?” He was alright with dying, but now that Qrow was here, he didn’t want to die alone.

Qrow cursed under his breath. “No. I want to take you with me. Are you okay with that? You can go home after, I promise, but you gotta be alive to do that.”

Clover blinked at him, white noise starting to buzz in his ears. He felt cold. “I trust you.”

“Good enough,” and Qrow’s lips were on his again, this time tasting like blood and salt. Clover felt himself get lifted easily, Qrow’s strong arms carrying him off the deck of the ship, and this time when Qrow vanished under the waves, he took Clover with him.

-------

Did somebody say mermaid AU? There is nothing I love more then a mermaid AU.

Thank you all for such a good week, you’ve been wonderful! 

#Fair Game #fairgameweek2020 #Clover Ebi #Qrow Branwen #RWBY #me: chanting #mermaids mermaids mermaids #holy rabies this got long #thanks everyone for being so supportive you've all been great! #my writings

[monstersandmaw]

Male vampire (Ruben) x trans male reader (sfw)

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

Because approximately 3 people expressed interest in seeing this 4.4k story extract, here it is. It’s been up on my Patreon since June 2018, so I think it’s ok to post here now...

As I said in the answer to the ask that prompted this, it’s a bit AU ish because it assumes that his partner doesn’t know what happened to him with the hunters, which was discussed in his story with Ash, and its a reader insert. Ash is a trans guy in Ruben’s two part story, but the reader here is almost completely gender neutral, with one reference to being ‘male’ (trans or otherwise) mentioned: “You are the most gorgeous man I’ve ever met. Thank you.” and one passing reference to ‘T shots’…

It’s fluffy, with a bit of angst, lots of tender feels, and features some violence/attack (not to the reader), blood drinking and, because it’s Ruben, a bit of vomiting…*shrugs, it is what it is*.

Ruben shifted his weight, pulling you close to him and humming contentedly. It was early for you, around five in the morning. It was a real pain having a boyfriend who couldn’t go out in the daylight and who got weaker and weaker the longer he stayed up past dawn.  

But he was worth it.  

“Morning,” you croaked, grinding your hips playfully back against him where he lay curled around you, one arm draped over your waist.  

He answered by kissing your neck, just below your ear, inhaling deeply as he did so. Something seemed to thrum through him a second later, like the wind in the rigging of a ship, and his whole body went taut.  

“Ruben?” you asked, coming awake with a jolt as his hands tightened on your hips.  

He wasn’t breathing.  

You turned over in his arms and saw that he had rammed his eyes shut and his jaw was clenched. “Stop moving. Please,” he hissed through his teeth as you reached for his face, hard and sharp enough to have been carved from stone. “Lie still.”

You froze.  

“Shit,” he hissed, and suddenly he had dissolved into dark, swirling mist, and left the room. 

The bed was cold where he’d been lying. With no heartbeat, his body was always cold, but now it drove home to you just how inhuman Ruben really was. He’d been good about controlling his bloodlust around you, but Aubrey had warned him just the previous evening that since he was now in a relationship, he needed to feed much more regularly. He still hadn’t got the hang of that, and so his bloodlust was unpredictable.  

You sighed and sat up, running a hand through your tangled hair. Residual tiredness clung to your body like the shadows in the corners of the room, but your brain was awake.  

Ten minutes or so later, you slipped on a pair of jeans and yanked a hoody over your pyjama t-shirt, shuffling out of the room and heading for the kitchen. If you were awake, you might as well be up. Lying in bed without Ruben didn’t seem all that appealing.  

To your surprise, you found him in the kitchen, leaning against the solid-oak island in the middle, head bowed, hair falling forwards. He was dressed now, in simple black trousers and a white shirt, tucked into the waistband. His back was heaving irregularly, almost like he was crying. His heavy, black cane was nowhere in sight.  

“Ruben?” you asked in a small voice from the doorway, not wanting to crowd him if he was still having difficulty.  

He jerked around to face you, and you saw the tell-tale flush in his cheeks that told you he’d just fed. His eyes were a violent, scarlet red, and when he saw you he began to pant again like he’d just come out of a dead sprint. He whispered your name, looking away. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Can I come closer?”

“Yes,” he said after a moment, voice like broken glass.  

You crossed the room straight to him and looped your arms around his solid torso. His chest was hard as marble, and he stopped breathing immediately when you laid your head against him, squeezing hard. “I love you, Ru,” you breathed.  

“I should try harder for you,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you countered. “You are trying. Ruben, you let me share your bed; you’re trying to drink more often even though the thought of it still makes you sick; you’re staying up past dawn just so you can get a few more hours in with me… Ruben, you’re… amazing.”

He heaved a little, as though he really was going to be sick, and you pulled back just in case.  

“I’m sorry,” he said again, bringing the fingertips of one hand to his lips.  

“Ruben… Why does drinking blood make you sick?” you asked hesitantly a moment or two later.  

He sighed and looked down, dropping his hand to run his palm absentmindedly over the top of his thigh beneath his hip where you knew the scars from his old injury lay.  

“I… I wasn’t always like this,” he began. “When I was newly turned, I had no trouble drinking.”  

He didn’t look at you as he spoke, instead his eyes went to the kitchen window, pupils shrinking to mere pinpricks as the rising dawn gathered pace and the sun climbed towards the horizon. The sky above was still a dreamy, lilac blue, but the horizon showed the glow of dawn.  

“Not long after the turn of the century,” he went on, “What with the interest in mesmerism in the early 1800s, and Conan Doyle’s involvement in –”  

“Oh, that century…” you interrupted with a snort, and he did look down at you then.  

For a moment, it seemed he didn’t understand, and then he softened, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he snorted a laugh out of his nose. “Yes, that century,” he chuckled. “Apologies.” The light of amusement faded a little in his bright, red eyes as he went on, but it didn’t leave his expression completely, despite the nature of the story he told you. He seemed to draw strength from the distance you represented between that time and the now, anchoring himself by sheer proximity to you in time and space.  

You went very still as he spoke. He’d never told you why he walked with a limp, or why he bore those terrible scars at the top of his leg, the silvery-grey lines and puckered marks boring into his flesh and snaking up his torso like veins in his marble skin.  

“There had been a steady rise in interest in the ‘occult’ and all things ‘supernatural’, and it prompted the ranks of the infernal guild of people who call themselves ‘vampire hunters’ to swell almost exponentially.” His lip curled in disgust as he spat the words out. “I had been living in London at the time. Aubrey kept an eye on things here, but I shut up the castle every eighty years or so in order for folks to forget about us.”  

“I see,” you said, leaning your weight against the kitchen counter beside him.  

He looked at you for a long moment before smiling sadly. “It’s very early for you. Are you sure you want to hear all this now?”

You nodded. “Yeah,” you rasped. “I do.” No way you wanted to stop him now that he’d started to open up to you.

“Very well. Would you like a coffee at least?”

You nodded again, and he began to make you one while he spoke. He seemed grateful for something to do while he talked. The little espresso machine whirred away, dribbling strong coffee into the mug.  

“You want it watered down?”  

“Yes please,” you said, and he boiled the kettle too.  

“My house was broken into during the middle of the day, and my housekeeper – who knew about me, about what I am – tried to warn me. It’s almost impossible to wake me after I’ve fallen into my trance during the daylight hours, but she managed to rouse me by slamming a silver crucifix into my chest.”  

He snorted sarcastically and shot a sideways glance at you.  

“That’s like hooking a car battery up to your heart, let me tell you.”  

He sighed, turning his attention back to the boiling kettle.  

“The hunters burst in then, and dragged her away, believing I had been holding her there under my influence. I fought for my life, but I was so weak. They almost killed me. They had weapons designed specifically to hurt vampires…”  

The kettle clicked off as it reached a boil, and Ruben seemed to welcome the interruption. He topped the mug up with water before handing it to you, and you caught his retreating hand in your fingers and squeezed him hard. Ruben looked down at you then and smiled.  

The red light had not faded from his eyes and his features still seemed sharper than usual in the dim light of the kitchen.  

“What happened?” you asked, still holding his cold hand.  

He didn’t try to pull away, but he did resume his former stance, staring out of the window with his left hand behind his ramrod straight back.  

“They wanted to try out their new weapons, I suppose,” he said, voice growing a little distant. “One of them had a shotgun full of silver buckshot. I lashed out at him just as he fired it, and it all went into my right thigh and hip. That’s where all those ugly marks come from,” he said, bringing his fingers back to his leg.  

You laid your hand down over his and looked up at him, eyes blazing with the unspoken sentiment that his scars were not ugly.  

He smiled, though the gesture was hollow, and continued. “Another had a phial of silver nitrate,” he said, tone turning bitter. “He was a photographer, and had discovered that vampires could not appear on film because of the use of silver in the preparation of the film. The clever fuck thought to weaponise it.”  

He raised the lower hem of his white shirt and revealed the snaking dark lines up his stomach.  

“I was incapacitated by it, and they thought they’d take advantage of that fact to try out a little experiment they’d been cooking up for us. They forced blood down my throat, but it was laced with garlic and holy water. It wreaked havoc with my insides and I’ve never been the same since.”

“Shit, Ruben,” you said. “That’s… barbaric…”

He smiled at you, and this time it held no humour at all. “Vampire hunters are not known for their empathy, sweetheart,” he said, and you actually shivered. He sighed. “Now every time I drink blood, my body tries to reject it.”

“How did you survive? How did you get away?”

He smiled. “I… I am not a very strong vampire during the day – my bloodline is much more powerful under the influence of the moon – but there are some vampires who can walk about in the day, so long as they are careful not to expose their skin to the sun for any great length of time. I have a couple of friends – twins actually – who are able to walk in the daylight. They are well known for fighting back against vampire hunters, and they had caught wind of the planned attack on my house. They came just in time.”

“I’d like to meet them,” you said. “So I can thank them.”

He smiled and squeezed your hand, still held gently between his fingers. “I would like to introduce you to them. I think you would like them.”

“Thank you for… sharing that with me,” you said in a soft voice.  

He looked down at you and you set the coffee down on the counter behind you and tucked yourself under his arm.  

He didn’t speak for a long while, but eventually he brought the conversation back to the whole reason you were both standing in the kitchen together, and not lying side by side in bed. “Not being able to drink blood very easily doesn’t mean I don’t experience bloodlust though…”

“Do you think not drinking regularly makes it worse?”

“Definitely,” he sighed.

He leaned down and kissed the crown of your head, raking his fingers through your hair, just above your ear. He inhaled deeply, beginning slowly and expanding his chest until he’d drawn in a great lungful of your scent.  

“It doesn’t help that I like the smell of you so much,” he chuckled wryly, letting his breath go in a rush. He didn’t seem to be in danger now that he had fed.  

“Would…?” you began, swallowing, feeling your heartrate rising with mingled excitement and apprehension. “Would… Would it be easier if you… um… you know…” Unable to articulate the rest of your question, you tilted your head to one side and exposed your carotid to him.  

You looked back up to see his eyes locked on your neck. “I don’t know,” he said, unblinking.  

“Ruben,” you asked, an idea suddenly occurring to you, “Have you ever been in a relationship with a human before?”

He laughed. “No. Only vampires, and few enough of them.”

“Male or female?”

“Male,” he said immediately. And then he kissed the tip of your nose.

“Would you be willing to try drinking from me?” you asked.  

“Now?” he blurted, looking taken aback, almost panic-stricken.  

You shrugged. “Why not? You’re full, so you’re unlikely to lose control, right?”

He licked his lips, his irises flaring brighter like hot coals graced with a breath. “It does significantly reduce the danger,” he said. And then he snapped back, blinking. “No. I can’t believe I even entertained the possibility. No.”

“Ruben, please,” you begged. “Just try… It might make things easier.”

“Or it might make everything ten times worse!” he fired back, releasing you and limping a few steps away. “I can’t risk it. I can’t risk hurting you.”

Anger flared in your stomach and you ground your teeth, and you spat, “You’re already hurting me, Ruben, by not trusting me enough to try.” And then you turned on your heel and marched from the kitchen, fists clenched at your side.

You didn’t see him for the rest of the day, and you felt guilt gnawing at the pit of your stomach as the sun wheeled through the sky at a pace that was painfully slow.  

Finally, late in the afternoon, you went to his bedroom, unable to bear his absence any longer. As expected, his double bed was empty, but you pressed your hands on the wall panel where you had seen him disappear into the secret room, and sure enough you found yourself in the little connecting corridor to his room.  

His coffin was in a far corner, tucked up demurely against the wall, and you crossed to it. Your hands trembled as you reached for the lid and raised it soundlessly up, leaning it against the wall. The room was dark, with no windows or lights and illuminated only by the sliver of light which spilled from the passageway behind you. In the gloom, his face looked gaunt and lifeless, his chest was still, and he looked truly dead in a way that chilled your blood. You’d only seen him ‘asleep’ or in his trance a couple of times and it wasn’t your favourite way to see him, stretched out like a lifeless corpse.

Tentatively you reached for his face and as your warm palm came in contact with his chilly skin, his eyes flew open and he sucked in a great breath, like a free-diver coming up for air for the first time in minutes. He sat bolt upright and stared at you, confused, eyes blazing red in the dimness of the room.  

You didn’t wait. You couldn’t wait. You flung your arms around him and hugged him. “I’m so sorry Ruben,” you said from somewhere near his neck. “I never should have said that to you. I’m sorry.”

His breathing was became ragged and irregular for a moment, as though his body hadn’t quite remembered how it was supposed to do it, but he held you in return, somewhat cautiously, and murmured, “Shh, it’s alright.”

“I was wrong to say that you don’t trust me. You do, I know you do. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” he repeated, chuckling this time. “I could have reacted a little better myself. I was just… a little overwhelmed by your suggestion.”

You pulled back, rocking onto your heels while he cracked the tension from his neck and jutted his chin out at you, asking you to move back and give him some room while he got up.  

“I gave your idea some thought before I passed out,” he said once he was standing. He still wore the black trousers and white shirt he’d been in that morning, though there was hardly a crease in them. “I would like to give it a try, if you’re still willing.” He held onto the wall as he stood, as though waiting for a head-rush to pass.

“Really?” you gasped, eyes going wide and heart skipping a beat or three. “Sure.”

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Come, let’s get you out of this dark room. You belong in the light.”

He squinted as he limped out into the bedroom, and, despite the curtains which were drawn, he reached for his dark glasses, the light levels of the late afternoon clearly too much for him. He grabbed his cane, the steel handle slipping into his palm with long familiarity, and made his way wordlessly towards the door.  

You walked through the house beside him in silence, following his lead. He ended up taking you to the little courtyard on the north side of the castle which was walled in on all sides and sheltered from the sun during all but the middle hours of the day. He sank into a wooden chair at the little table beside the fountain at the centre, and waited while you dropped into a nearby one.  

Aubrey joined you a while later, armour clanking quietly, and he took a seat beside his brother. He chatted amicably with news of his partner’s progress on the job that had taken them away from the castle, and then, at a single look from Ruben during a natural lull in the conversation, Aubrey quietly took his leave, and disappeared back inside the castle just as sunset began to gild the upper parapets of the walls above.

Ruben was silent for a long time.  Finally, he crossed his legs elegantly in a way that made your blood pool in your groin, and he looked up at you. “I would like to try to drink from you,” he said slowly. “But you have to understand my reticence.”  

“I get it,” you said immediately. “I know you care for me, and if it really might make the bloodlust worse, then obviously, I don’t think we should do it. But… if you think there’s a chance it could make it easier for you to be around me, then…”

He drew in a deep breath and slid his hand across the wooden slats of the scrubbed table-top. He opened his fingers and invited you to slip your hand into his. He let the pad of his cool thumb play over your knuckles, his face quiet and dark, lost in thought.  

Eventually he swallowed and flicked his eyes up to meet yours. You were surprised to see that they had returned to the chocolate brown colour which he showed when he was passing for a human or trying to make you forget what he was.  

“So, when do you want to try it?” you asked, seeing something akin to resolve settling into his features. He wasn’t happy about it, but you thought you could sense a slight, nervous excitement in the very corners of his pale lips.  

“I think if I spend too much time thinking about it, I’ll overthink myself out of it,” he said very softly. “I want you to be comfortable, and I want to do it while it’s still light.” While I’m still weak.

“Let’s go then,” you said, standing and holding your hand out to him.  

He followed you inside, his hand closing tightly around yours. You felt the familiar, rocking rhythm of his walk behind you, and drew comfort from it.  

“I’ll fetch a dressing,” he said awkwardly. “You’ll probably need it for the wound.” He sighed and added, “I’m not biting you in the bathroom though.”

You grinned, “But it has such a nice alliteration.”  

Caught off guard by your unexpected humour, Ruben did that little snort where his nose crinkled and his eyes creased at the corners. “Come here,” he said, tugging you off balance and into his arms.  

He kissed you then, and it was like the very first time he’d kissed you properly. His hands travelled through your hair and then to your shoulders. He pulled you tight against him and deepened the kiss, his tongue seeking your mouth. He moaned as he traced the contours of your torso til he landed at your hips and then he growled softly, pulling back a moment as he grabbed you and his hips reared into yours. The point where the two of you touched seemed to thrum with energy and you both gasped, panting.  

Ruben began to laugh. “I love you,” he said, shifting his hands to cup your jaw. “You are the most gorgeous man I’ve ever met. Thank you.”

You shook your head, smiling. “You are strange, Ru…”

“I know,” he sighed. “Come on, let’s get this over with. Go and sit down in my room. I’ll join you there.”

You couldn’t help the fizzing fear that ran along your veins as you sat there alone in the waning light of day, waiting for his footsteps on the corridor outside. It felt like the waiting room at the doctor’s or something. Soon, however, the door creaked open and he stepped in looking pale and more than a little grim, his dark glasses folded and tucked into the top pocket of his white shirt.

You smiled, trying to reassure him as much as yourself, and he blew the air from his lungs in a rush. He was clearly as nervous as – if not more so – you were. He laid his cane against the table nearby and limped over to where you sat in the armchair by the window in a perfect rectangle of evening sunlight.  

“I’m glad you pulled the curtains back,” he said, standing right on the edge of the pool of direct light.  

“How do you want to do this?” you asked with trepidation.  

He smiled nervously. “Bring the chair to the edge of the light and get comfortable. When you tell me you are, hold out your wrist to me in the shadow.”

“Not my neck?” you asked.  

“You’ve watched too many vampire films with Aubrey,” he scoffed. When you scowled, he added, “I need to work up to that.”

“Oh,” you said. “Right.” And you began to arrange the chair as he’d instructed. Happy at last, you drew a deep breath, and held out your hand. “Will it hurt?” you asked.  

“Probably at first,” he said, eyes dark and warm with no hint of red. “But your adrenaline will kick in and you’ll probably feel mild euphoria.”  

You nodded.  

“Last chance to –”

“Do it, Ruben. I want this. It’s not as if you’re turning me with this, is it?”

He actually snarled at you for that, and you flinched. “I will not turn you,” he said. “You will never ask me to do that, do you understand?” His eyes blazed scarlet now.  

A mute nod was all you could muster.

Ruben relaxed and took your wrist in his cool hands, massaging over the veins with both his thumbs. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be so harsh. I just couldn’t inflict this on you.”

“I understand,” you said, voice cracking.  

Ruben closed his eyes and exhaled. Then, without opening his eyes, he raised your wrist to his lips and as they peeled back you saw that his canines had elongated. He sank them straight into the flesh beneath the heel of your palm and you flinched in pain as he punctured the radial artery.  

He let out a long, deep moan, as though he’d never savoured anything so beautiful, and then he began to suck. He drank deeply from you, bent over your hand, until you felt him start to shake, and he pulled back with an effort, eyes blazing crimson. He lapped at the tiny, welling pinpricks of blood – you had expected there to be much more – and then in a swift motion he placed the lint dressing over them and taped it down.  

He grabbed your other hand and pressed it down hard over the wound without a word.  

He still hadn’t taken a breath.  

He didn’t look at you as he pushed himself stiffly back to his feet and turned away. You watched his torso contract as his body began to reject the blood already, and he staggered to the en-suite on the far side of the room. He disappeared inside it and a moment later you heard him fall to his knees and wretch into the bowl of the toilet.  

Was it like this every time he fed?  

He heaved again and you heard more fluid hitting the water in the toilet. Rising, you made your way hesitantly to the door and found him clutching the seat of the toilet, kneeling before it, back curved over as his body tried to expel the blood.  

You rushed to him and dropped to your knees beside him.  

“I’m sorry,” he hissed, spitting blood. “I’m so sorry. Please, don’t look. I’m fine. It’s… It’s…” he heaved anew, and spat while you rubbed his back between his shoulders.  

“I don’t mind, Ruben. It’s ok.” There wasn’t much in the bowl, but it still looked dramatic.  

He fell still for a while, and then nodded once, pushing himself up with a grunt and flushing the toilet, closing the lid promptly. He crossed to the mirrored wash basin and splashed his face clean. Eventually, he turned to look at you, standing in the centre of the bathroom.  

“Not a total disaster,” you smiled weakly.  

“Admittedly… no,” he conceded. “But it could have ended a little less… indecorously.”

You chuckled, but the sound quickly died. “Ruben, is it always like that for you?”

He shook his head. “It’s been a long time since I’ve fed directly from the artery. Your blood was probably a bit rich for me…” he said. “The stored blood I drink tends to change the longer it’s kept. Stale blood is… ‘gentler’ on my system, let’s say.”

“Oh.”  

“But I didn’t feel a surge of bloodlust the way I was expecting, so I suppose I should be grateful for that at least. How are you? Did it hurt? Do you need to sit down?”

“No,” you said. “Trust me, my T shots hurt more than that.” You waited for his smile, and then stepped close to him. You held him. “Thank you,” you said. “I hope… I hope it helps, and I hope maybe we can try again.”

He nodded and kissed the crown of your head. “I love you,” he said. “Never doubt that.”

“I won’t,” you said. “I couldn’t.”

________

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#vampire #male vampire #ruben #trans male reader #exophilia #vampire x reader #mlm #male vampire x male reader #blood drinking #vomiting #but only briefly #feels #also Ruben turning into mist because that's what he does when he gets overwhelmed

[roman-catholic-mass-readings]

26th September >> Mass Readings (USA)

Saturday, Twenty Fifth Week in Ordinary Time 

    or 

Saints Cosmas and Damian, Martyrs 

    or 

Saturday memorial of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

Saturday, Twenty Fifth Week in Ordinary Time

(Liturgical Colour: Green)

First Reading

Ecclesiastes 11:9—12:8

Remember your Creator in the days of your youth, before the dust returns to the earth, and the life breath returns to God.

Rejoice, O young man, while you are young

and let your heart be glad in the days of your youth.

Follow the ways of your heart,

the vision of your eyes;

Yet understand that as regards all this

God will bring you to judgment.

Ward off grief from your heart

and put away trouble from your presence,

though the dawn of youth is fleeting.

Remember your Creator in the days of your youth,

before the evil days come

And the years approach of which you will say,

I have no pleasure in them;

Before the sun is darkened,

and the light, and the moon, and the stars,

while the clouds return after the rain;

When the guardians of the house tremble,

and the strong men are bent,

And the grinders are idle because they are few,

and they who look through the windows grow blind;

When the doors to the street are shut,

and the sound of the mill is low;

When one waits for the chirp of a bird,

but all the daughters of song are suppressed;

And one fears heights,

and perils in the street;

When the almond tree blooms,

and the locust grows sluggish

and the caper berry is without effect,

Because man goes to his lasting home,

and mourners go about the streets;

Before the silver cord is snapped

and the golden bowl is broken,

And the pitcher is shattered at the spring,

and the broken pulley falls into the well,

And the dust returns to the earth as it once was,

and the life breath returns to God who gave it.

Vanity of vanities, says Qoheleth,

all things are vanity!

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm

Psalm 90:3-4, 5-6, 12-13, 14 and 17

R/ In every age, O Lord, you have been our refuge.

You turn man back to dust,

saying, “Return, O children of men.”

For a thousand years in your sight

are as yesterday, now that it is past,

or as a watch of the night.

R/ In every age, O Lord, you have been our refuge.

You make an end of them in their sleep;

the next morning they are like the changing grass,

Which at dawn springs up anew,

but by evening wilts and fades.

R/ In every age, O Lord, you have been our refuge.

Teach us to number our days aright,

that we may gain wisdom of heart.

Return, O Lord! How long?

Have pity on your servants!

R/ In every age, O Lord, you have been our refuge.

Fill us at daybreak with your kindness,

that we may shout for joy and gladness all our days.

And may the gracious care of the Lord our God be ours;

prosper the work of our hands for us!

Prosper the work of our hands!

R/ In every age, O Lord, you have been our refuge.

Gospel Acclamation

cf. 2 Timothy 1:10

Alleluia, alleluia.

Our Savior Christ Jesus destroyed death

and brought life to light through the Gospel.

Alleluia, alleluia.

Gospel

Luke 9:43b-45

The Son of Man is to be handed over to men. They were afraid to ask him about this saying.

While they were all amazed at his every deed, Jesus said to his disciples, “Pay attention to what I am telling you. The Son of Man is to be handed over to men.” But they did not understand this saying; its meaning was hidden from them so that they should not understand it, and they were afraid to ask him about this saying.

—————————

Saints Cosmas and Damian, Martyrs 

(Liturgical Colour: Red)

(Readings for the memorial)

(There is a choice today between the readings for the ferial day (Saturday) and those for the memorial. The ferial readings are recommended unless pastoral reasons suggest otherwise)

First Reading

Wisdom 3:1-9

As sacrificial offerings he took them to himself.

The souls of the just are in the hand of God,

and no torment shall touch them.

They seemed, in the view of the foolish, to be dead;

and their passing away was thought an affliction

and their going forth from us, utter destruction.

But they are in peace.

For if before men, indeed, they be punished,

yet is their hope full of immortality;

Chastised a little, they shall be greatly blessed,

because God tried them

and found them worthy of himself.

As gold in the furnace, he proved them,

and as sacrificial offerings he took them to himself.

In the time of their visitation they shall shine,

and shall dart about as sparks through stubble;

They shall judge nations and rule over peoples,

and the Lord shall be their King forever.

Those who trust in him shall understand truth,

and the faithful shall abide with him in love:

Because grace and mercy are with his holy ones,

and his care is with his elect.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm

Psalm 126:1bc-2ab, 2cd-3, 4-5, 6

Those who sow in tears shall reap rejoicing.

When the Lord brought back the captives of Zion,

we were like men dreaming.

Then our mouth was filled with laughter,

and our tongue with rejoicing.

Those who sow in tears shall reap rejoicing.

Then they said among the nations,

“The Lord has done great things for them.”

The Lord has done great things for us;

we are glad indeed.

Those who sow in tears shall reap rejoicing.

Restore our fortunes, O Lord,

like the torrents in the southern desert.

Those who sow in tears

shall reap rejoicing.

Those who sow in tears shall reap rejoicing.

Although they go forth weeping,

carrying the seed to be sown,

They shall come back rejoicing,

carrying their sheaves.

Those who sow in tears shall reap rejoicing.

Gospel Acclamation

James 1:12

Alleluia, alleluia.

Blessed is the man who perseveres in temptation,

for when he has been proved he will receive the crown of life.

Alleluia, alleluia.

Gospel

Matthew 10:28-33

Do not be afraid of those who kill the body.

Jesus said to his Apostles: “Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul; rather, be afraid of the one who can destroy both soul and body in Gehenna. Are not two sparrows sold for a small coin? Yet not one of them falls to the ground without your Father’s knowledge. Even all the hairs of your head are counted. So do not be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows. Everyone who acknowledges me before others I will acknowledge before my heavenly Father. But whoever denies me before others, I will deny before my heavenly Father.”

————————————-

Saturday memorial of the Blessed Virgin Mary 

(Liturgical Colour: White)

(Readings for the memorial)

(There is a choice today between the readings for the ferial day (Saturday) and those for the memorial. The ferial readings are recommended unless pastoral reasons suggest otherwise)

First Reading

Genesis 3:9-15, 20

I will put enmity between your offspring and the offspring of the woman.

After the man, Adam, had eaten of the tree, the Lord God called to the man and asked him, “Where are you?” He answered, “I heard you in the garden; but I was afraid, because I was naked, so I hid myself.” Then he asked, “Who told you that you were naked? You have eaten, then, from the tree of which I had forbidden you to eat!” The man replied, “The woman whom you put here with me– she gave me fruit from the tree, and so I ate it.” The Lord God then asked the woman, “Why did you do such a thing?” The woman answered, “The serpent tricked me into it, so I ate it.”

Then the Lord God said to the serpent:

“Because you have done this, you shall be banned

from all the animals

and from all the wild creatures;

On your belly shall you crawl,

and dirt shall you eat

all the days of your life.

I will put enmity between you and the woman,

and between your offspring and hers;

He will strike at your head,

while you strike at his heel.”

The man called his wife Eve, because she became the mother of all the living.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm

1 Samuel 2:1, 4-5, 6-7, 8abcd

My heart exults in the Lord, my Savior.

“My heart exults in the Lord,

my horn is exalted in my God.

I have swallowed up my enemies;

I rejoice in my victory.”

My heart exults in the Lord, my Savior.

“The bows of the mighty are broken,

while the tottering gird on strength.

The well-fed hire themselves out for bread,

while the hungry batten on spoil.

The barren wife bears seven sons,

while the mother of many languishes.”

My heart exults in the Lord, my Savior.

“The Lord puts to death and gives life;

he casts down to the nether world;

he raises up again.

The Lord makes poor and makes rich,

he humbles, he also exalts.”

My heart exults in the Lord, my Savior.

“He raises the needy from the dust;

from the dung heap he lifts up the poor,

To seat them with nobles

and make a glorious throne their heritage.”

My heart exults in the Lord, my Savior.

Gospel Acclamation

see Luke 1:28

Alleluia, alleluia.

Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you;

blessed are you among women.

Alleluia, alleluia.

Or:

see Luke 1:45

Alleluia, alleluia.

Blessed are you, O Virgin Mary, who believed

that what was spoken to you by the Lord would be fulfilled.

Alleluia, alleluia.

Or:

see Luke 2:19

Alleluia, alleluia.

Blessed is the Virgin Mary who kept the word of God

and pondered it in her heart.

Alleluia, alleluia.

Or:

Luke 11:28

Alleluia, alleluia.

Blessed are those who hear the word of God

and observe it.

Alleluia, alleluia.

Or:

Alleluia, alleluia.

Blessed are you, holy Virgin Mary, deserving of all praise;

from you rose the sun of justice, Christ our God.

Alleluia, alleluia.

Or:

Alleluia, alleluia.

Blessed are you, O Virgin Mary;

without dying you won the martyr’s crown

beneath the Cross of the Lord.

Alleluia, alleluia.

Gospel

Matthew 12:46-50

Stretching out his hand toward his disciples, he said, here are my mother and my brothers.

While Jesus was speaking to the crowds, his mother and his brothers appeared outside, wishing to speak with him. Someone told him, “Your mother and your brothers are standing outside, asking to speak with you.” But he said in reply to the one who told him, “Who is my mother? Who are my brothers?” And stretching out his hand toward his disciples, he said, “Here are my mother and my brothers. For whoever does the will of my heavenly Father is my brother, and sister, and mother.”