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tanoraqui · 4 years

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uhh please enjoy this rough draft of the first half of chapter two of Iron, Blood, and Grave Dirt, aka the demon baby!A-Yuan au

0. Lan Wangji arrives at the Burial Mounds too late to find A-Yuan, but not too late to see Jiang Cheng and the YunmengJiang disciples flying away with him. He follows.

He waits, bleeding and aching, for night. It doesn’t take long - Lotus Pier isn’t far from Yunmeng, as the sword flies, but the day has already been long. When the sect compound quiets, Lan Wangji slips in.

He is spotted almost immediately. He is clumsy with pain and grief, and Jiang Cheng has not trained his people to be incautious of intruders. Through sheer force of will, he (mostly) does not lean on the alarmed disciple who offers him an arm, a seat, a bed in the infirmary, Hanguang-jun?!?

It’s easier when Jiang Cheng stalks into sight, because Lan Wangji is fueled by determination and fear and rage and love and just a little bit of spite.

He may never know what in his face - his posture? his mere presence? - makes Jiang Cheng’s eyes widen in realization. He will certainly never realize that Jiang Cheng’s voice cracks more with betrayal than fury when he says, “You? You knew?”

He dismisses his disciples with a sharp wave of one hand and Lan Wangji stays standing because he is bleeding and broken but his hand is on Bichen’s hilt, he will fight if he has to, because -

“Wei Yuan.”

“Is my nephew, and you are not touching him.” Zidian throws off sparks.

It’s a testament, frankly, to Jiang Cheng’s mental and emotional disarray, that Lan Wangji is the first to realize that they do not need to kill one another in defense of the same child, because Lan Wangji is, as discussed, bleeding and broken and 3 steps from passing out.

“He needs to be...hidden,” he says.

Jiang Cheng laughs with bitterness so vast it can only be folded and compressed to rage, like steel folded into a sword, and waves a handful of papers bent in one fist. At Lan Wangji’s stone-faced bafflement, he loosens his grip and smooths them out, and shows off the familiar handwriting. Unfamiliar designs, but recognizable concepts.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji breaths without a thought.

“I went looking in his room for- some sort of explanation,” says Jiang Cheng. “Found this half-baked thing - it’ll disguise resentful energy as spiritual, if- when I finish it.” (The sort of invention that would get the Yiling Patriarch accused of villainy and deception from the eastern sea to the western heavens, but both of them know that’s not the reason for it.)

“Will you?” says Lan Wangji (and can you as well; both rude, but the older Lan Wangji grows, the less time he has for politeness.)

Jiang Cheng nearly spits at him, and for once, that is answer enough.

Here’s where, in another timeline, Lan Wangji might collapse and need a bed to lie on, or Jiang Cheng might look him over and offer one, and the Second Jade of Lan might spend his seclusion, very quietly, at Lotus Pier. This is not one of those timelines, though. In this one, Jiang Cheng looks him over and maybe, maybe he thinks about it - but instead he bunches the paper up in his fist again and drops it to his side, and says gruffly and almost kindly, “Go home, Lan-er-gongzi. Can you make it?”

Lan Wangji doesn’t waste his effort nodding.

“Good. Then go. You being here will only raise more questions.” As an act of mercy he says, “Wei Yuan has a fever, but it’s probably some fucky demonic thing, not real illness. He’s - ” his face twists - “strong. I’ll send you a message when he pulls through.”

1. Wei Yuan is still bedridden when he receives his first (remembered) assignment from his sect leader (that isn’t “go to sleep” or “eat your soup” or boring stuff like that). But he’s been permitted to sit up and provided pencils and paper with which to draw, so long as he does both without either getting up further or making enough noise to wake the baby (again). He’s doing it all fantastically, singing softly to himself in accompaniment to the story he’s drawing about two butterflies who are friends, when actually it’s shushu who breaks the quiet.

Wei Yuan looks up in shocked delight. “That was a bad word!”

“Oh shut the- ” Shushu, who is also Sect Leader Jiang, takes a deep breath and puts aside the papers he’s been reading, in chair near Wei Yuan’s bed. He eyes Wei Yuan sitting attentively with his lapdesk, and the baby (Jin Ling, Wei Yuan’s cousin) in the crook of his own arm, and opens his mouth to shout for a servant - than looks again at the sleeping baby. At Wei Yuan. He releases the shout as a slow, quiet, exhale.

Very carefully and slowly, without adjusting the angle of his bed-arm almost at all, he stands, walks over, and puts the baby down on the bed next to Wei Yuan.

Wei Yuan holds perfectly still. He doesn’t even breathe. Jin Ling squirms a little, and shushu takes Wei Yuan’s arm and tucks it around his fuzzy head, so Jin Ling still has something to nestle into. Possibly even shushu holds his breath as Jin Ling quiets again.

“Don’t move,” shushu instructs quietly and quickly. “Don’t let him move, except to wiggle or whatever. I’ll be right back, I’m just going to go get a couple reports from my room. If he wakes up and starts crying, shout for help.”

He pauses and adds, “Breathe, A-Yuan.”

Wei Yuan takes in a deep, gasping breath, and immediate tries to calm it so the baby doesn’t notice.

“Got it?” asks shushu.

Wei Yuan nods as furiously as possible without moving anything below the neck. Shushu gives him a serious nod and slips silently out of the room.

(Wei Yuan doesn’t...remember either his uncle or his cousin, or Lotus Pier or much anyone or anything else. Shushu and the doctor say the second thing is okay because he’s never actually met Jin Ling before, and anyway Jin Ling is so little that he doesn’t remember anything at all; and the first and third are okay because he had a bad fever and it hurt his head, and so long as he can still remember things like words and how to draw butterflies, and kind of remembers enough that he never thought to be scared of waking up in Lotus Pier with a grumpy uncle beside his bed, then that’s okay. And they also say it’s very impressive that he can count to three, which is satisfying.)

2. “I’m Chifeng-zun!”

“I’m Sandu Shengshou!”

“You always get to be Sandu Shengshou - I want to be Sandu Shengshou!”

“Fine - I’ll be Lianfang-zun!”

“I’m Hanguang-jun!”

“Don’t be stupid,” scoffs A-Jiao, and pulls the sword-shaped stick from his hands. “You have to be the Yiling Patriarch.”

“Who says!” Wei Yuan demands, and grabs the stick back. “Gimme Bichen!”

“Everyone says!” A-Jiao refuses to let go, and gives it a good hard yank for good measure. “You look like him, my mama said, and he’s your dad and you’re weird!”

It’s one of the weeks when Jin Ling is at Carp Tower, is the problem. Those weeks are always the worst. When Jin Ling is here, Wei Yuan can bounce happily between training and lessons and playing with Jin Ling, and nobody complains at all. When Jin Ling gone, Wei Yuan has to try to play with the other kids, the couple in the sect and the varying dozen who run around the market while their parents tend stalls. It’s pretty much always terrible.

He lets go of the stick abruptly and lets A-Jiao stumble back.

“Fine!” he shouts. “I don’t want to play Sunshot anyway! It’s stupid!”

Jiang Cheng finds him a couple hours later, sitting in a corner rather than eating dinner with the other young disciples like he should be.

“What are you doing?” he demands. “What’s this I hear about you shoving a girl in the market?”

“I didn’t - ” Wei Yuan redirects his scowl to his knees (it’s not a very good scrowl, anyway. There’s too many tears hovering at the corners of it.) “Sorry, Jiang-zongzhu.” (It’s Jiang-zongzhu when he’s yelling, especially if Jin Ling isn’t here.) (Wei Yuan can call him shushu sometimes, but not Jiang-shushu, because he makes a Face and then snaps at everyone even more than usual.)

“Hrmph,” says Jiang Cheng, because there’s clearly, like, Feelings happening here, and that’s bullshit. “Are you still wearing that necklace I gave you?”

“Yes, Jiang-zongzhu.” Wei Yuan brushes his hand along the chain and pulls the pendant out for inspection. It’s not especially pretty, just a few lotus seeds carved with marks indicipheravle through the thick lacquer that glues them together. It makes him feel a little better and a little worse, because it’s something his father, the Yiling Patriarch made for him, a protection charm that shushu found (he says) in a pile of Wei Wuxian’s things, and passed on to Wei Yuan.

“Good,” says Jiang Cheng. “Now, if you have a problem with anyone, show them up by getting your butt to dinner and eating well, and going to bed early, and being better than the rest of them in training tomorrow. And every day after that. That’s the only real way to get people to shut up.”

Wei Yuan looks up with a little bit of hope in his eyes.

“And you’ll be waking up early to kneel for an hour, because YunmengJiang disciples don’t shove girls in the marketplace. What are you waiting for, go! You want all the food to get cold?”

3. Wei Yuan thinks that maybe the Second Jade of Lan is heartbroken, that Wei Yuan doesn’t recognize him. It’s very hard to tell - there’s the slightest widening of his eyes, the tiniest downturn of his mouth - but that very reticence of expression is what makes Wei Yuan think that even the little he sees probably says quite a lot.

“This one apologies, Hanguang-jun,” he says with as formal a bow as he knows. “I had a fever, when I was little. I don’t remember a lot, from before I was four.”

Lan Wangji remains silent.

“I’m seven now,” Wei Yuan says helpfully, straightening, because he just had his birthday and he’s proud of the fact.

“You have grown,” Lan Wangji manages, because that’s certainly one of the things that is leaving him frozen.

Wei Yuan beams up at him. “I’m 120 centimeters tall!”

“And you are...well?”

(It’s...possible that Lan Wangji had entertained himself, from time to time in the last three years, with thoughts of striding into Lotus Pier the second he was free of “seclusion” and being instantly greeted by Wei Yuan flinging himself into his arms. Wei Yuan would be simultaneously weeping with yearning and beaming with pure joy, that wide smile that was so very much Wei Wuxian’s even when nothing else about their faces looked particularly the same (except the eyes, the ghost-pale eyes). Wei Yuan would cry that Jiang Wanyin was a wholly inadequate guardian and beg to go back to Gusu with Lan Wangji, or maybe to travel around doing righteous things, and in the truly extravagant dreams, he’d say that before leaving him in the tree, Wei Ying had confessed that - )

“I’m very well, thank you!” Wei Yuan says with perfect manners, and beams Wei Wuxian’s smile. “I...” He looks around uncertainly. “I was doing sword practice, but I guess that’s...over?”

“LAN WANGJI!” comes a familiar bellow as Jiang Cheng stalks into the training yard, a couple junior and senior disciples at his heels. Others have clustered at the edges of the yard pushed back by more or less the force of Lan Wangji’s focused attention. It is...possible that Lan Wangji carried out the first part of his daydreams without thought, striding (barging) into Lotus Pier without warning and not stopping until he found Wei Yuan and confirmed that he was -

He blinks. “You plan to wield a spiritual - ”

Jiang Cheng grabs the interfering idiot in white by the elbow and pinches hard enough to bruise, and hisses in his ear, “Don’t you dare fucking tell him.”

4. Jin Ling sprinted down the corridor, shrieking gleefully at the top of his lungs.

“I’m gonna get you! I’m gonna get you!” Wei Sizhui hollered at his heels. “I’m gonna - ”

“HEY,” Jiang Cheng broke off conversation with a disciple to bellow, as both boys skidded to a halt. “Do you think this is a playground? A race course? Shouldn’t you both be in lessons right now?” In fact he knew they should be, Jin Ling with learning letters with his brand-new tutor and Wei Sizhui in basic talisman class with the other young disciples, under Yang Bozhao’s watchful eye.

“Lessons are boring,” Jin Ling said promptly, though he had the grace to look shifty.

“Many apologies,” Wei Sizhui said much more politely and a little out of breath with laughter, half a step behind him. “A-Ling wanted to play, and Yang-shixiong said we may have a stretch break - ”

“So you run screaming through the halls of my ancestors?” Jiang Cheng snapped. “A-Ling, back to your tutor - I’m sure she’s looking for you.” Though how the woman could’ve missed the trail of shouting, he couldn’t imagine. “Wei Sizhui, you will return to class, then you will report to the discipline hall, for three hours’ scrubbing floors and contemplating proper behavior.”

Wei Sizhui looked unhappy, but he bowed. “Yes, [shifu].”

“What- but then we can’t play [checkers]!” Jin Ling complained.

“Tough luck,” said Jiang Cheng.

“But - ” Jin Ling looked between his cousin and his uncle in bewilderment. “I wanted to play tag and I don’t have to scrub floors! Why’s A-Yuan got to!”

“Because Wei Sizhui is four years older than you are and should know better,” Jiang Cheng snapped. (Though, gods all above, he regretted letting Lan Wangji choose that stupid courtesy name.) He loosened his darkest glower. “Such impropriety brings shame on our sect, and on any decent ancestors he has.”

“A-Ling.” Wei Sizhui caught him by the elbow.

Jin Ling shook him off, balled his fists and planted his feet with all the authority of his five years, and glared back at Jiang Cheng. “No!”

Great, now Jin Ling’s getting into trouble because of him, Jiang Cheng thought, and, I don’t know why I expected propriety from a literal demon child anyway, and, Mother, please! You don’t have to cut off his hand!

Ever since he’d first gotten it, Jiang Cheng had gotten used to letting Zidian react to his mood with little restraint. So what if it meant people could read him - they’d also know he was strong. He was used to the comfortable feeling of it warming on his finger, sparks crackling, bond to his golden core strengthening.

With hardly an indrawn breath, he cut it off so hard and absolutley that for a moment the ring felt foreign on his finger, cool and distant and dull.

5. There is something terrible in the Lotus Lake.

It comes and goes, swimming here and there or not appearing at all. Often it is with a group of living things, or at least one or two, though it does not devour them. Always, it is draped in illusions such that the water ghoul trapped under the boulder cannot identify it apart from the other bright and living things until it comes close, terrifyingly close. Close enough to see the ghoul and, according to the ecosystem of the dead, devour it.

But it does not. Nor does it devour the bright things among which it swam, ripe with power through they were. So very ripe, so very bright... the water ghoul strains to reach them, scrabbling against its imprisoning boulder with resentment that grows day by day, year by year. Only when the dark and terrible thing appears does it cease its struggles, frozen in the pale fear of the dead.

Until the boulder moves. Years of scratching and scrabbling with nothing more than fingertips, from the ghoul’s place buried in the silt...the boulder moves. It tips just an inch, just a millimeter - and then another. And then another. The ghoul scrabbles for purchase to pull itself up, to push its cell door further; it twists and contorts and shoves and breaks free.

The water ghoul has long since forgotten who exactly it blames for its death. It rages simply at the living, every bright, breathing one of them. They’ve taunted it for years, swimming down to tap its prison door like a challenge, ignorant of the hatred beneath - no more. There are two little bright things on a raft above. The ghoul rockets silently up toward them with all the hunger and fury of the dead. They will make a good start.

Too late, as usual, it realizes that one of them is the monster. It cannot stop its charge - it crashes into the raft and knocks it over, throws both riders into the moonlit water. The ghoul does not think well; it is a creature of jealous rage and hunger. It hesitates - and goes for the smaller prey, the one that is prey, is bright and screaming with life and breath and a flickering, half-grown golden core -

“Stop!”

If the ghoul has long-since forgotten language, stewing in silt and resentment, cannot misunderstand the monster’s terrible will, carried on a wave of resentful energy that crashes on it with frothing fury. it cannot resist the wave, either, strong with inpatience though the ghoul is. The ghoul freezes -

“Come over here!” follows on the first demand’s heels, crashing upon the ghoul with a panicked desperation that it would wonder at if it had the mind to do so. With what it has, it fights this one harder, self-preservation stronger even than the need to kill that one child that dares live when it was dead. It snarls silent defiance at the monster even as it swims helplessly closer.

Go away! It’s not spoken at all this time, but that hardly matters. The monster’s eyes are wide and white-edged and its power floods over the water ghoul, and the ghoul accepts the mercy for what it is and swims as fast and far as it can.

“A-Yuan?” Jin Ling’s voice is high and just barely held together, though at least he’s managed to get back on the raft. “Is it gone? Did it bite you? Was that a ghoul?”

“...Yeah,” Wei Sizhui says slowly. He stops treading water and swims back to the raft (overturned, and all their illicitly collected lotus seeds lost). He doesn’t climb on when he reaches it, just holds the side and looks back in the direction the...thing went. He can almost still feel it, he thinks, if he focuses his golden core like he’s meditating, reaches out to commune with the energy around him...

“Yeah,” he says more confidently. “It’s gone, A-Ling. You don’t need to worry.”

Jin Ling lets out a shuddering breath of relief. For a moment, Wei Sizhui feels pretty good, Responsible Older Cousin-wise.

Then Jin Ling scrambles over to his side of the raft, threatening to overbalance it again, and asks, “How?”

#mdzs #the untamed #lan sizhui #jiang cheng #jin ling #lan wangji #my fic #fanfiction #there is...not actually very much demon baby content in this one #like i said: meant to write an au where sizhui has cool demonic cultivation powers #ended up writing an au where wwx has a son and how that works out for everyone

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airthatkills · 4 years

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Brahms x Reader - Aftermath

Your heart is beating so fast you think it will burst through your chest and kill you stone dead. In this refuge, this maze of lath and plaster, this dark and scary cellar, you skid to a halt in a complete dead end. With bemused horror, you stare at the locked door, the reinforced glass and padlock, the bars outside. Behind you, you hear his ragged breathing, and the deadly patter of feet. Brahms is coming.

You batter on that locked door, screaming with terror. You've just seen him kill Joel and you can still hear the noises your ex boyfriend made as he died. You'll be next because you've rejected Brahms and run away.

Your brain clamours with the why's and if only's. Why did you ever come here to work as a nanny to a life sized doll...a substitute child for an elderly couple? If only you'd listened to your instincts the moment you saw that porcelain monstrosity!

You swing to face the passageway. You can barely breathe and take deep juddering breaths, verging on hysteria. What will he do when he finds you? Kill you? Torture you? Cut you into little--

"Y/N?"

That ghastly man-child's voice with its pleading tone. Plaintive and corrupt. You cower, even though you know you should dredge up courage and die with some dignity. You wonder if you can do your own damage before he takes you down. Gouge out an eye, break a finger, bite that hideous mask to pieces...

You crouch in the gloom, glaring at him. He's bent double, that stark white mask staring across at you. He uses a wheedling tone again and you can feel another scream building in your throat. "Be good to me, please...and I'll be good to you...I will..."

"Go away!"

You watch him shuffle forwards, one arm outstretched.

"Don't come any nearer...Leave me alone!"

You try to squeeze as far back against the doorway as you can, right though it and out the other side. He's feet away now and closing.

"I won't hurt you, Y/N" he whispers.

You're almost crying now, because you're utterly at the end of your tether. All the tensions of the past week; Joel returning from America to bully you again, finding out Brahms is a grown man living hidden in the walls of this house, the suicide of his parents, your own desperate loneliness. You hold both hands over your mouth to stifle the sobs and pull your body into a ball. Like a child you close your eyes as though this might make the monster disappear, as if this might break the nightmare.

You feel him then; so close you smell the stale sweat of him and that musky male odour of pheromones that subconsciously sets your heart pounding and tears you in two. You fear him but...

At his touch, your eyes fly open and that white mask is inches from your face. Behind the cut out holes you see his eyes glittering. You kick out but he seems immune to the pain.

"Don't touch me!"

You turn again to the door and pound on the glass, but then he has you, and he's strong, so strong, and dragging you backwards. You hang onto his forearms desperately, trying to relieve the pressure of the headlock, but the more you struggle the worse the pressure and in the end you give up and let him drag you back towards the light. The light gets brighter and then you're both standing in your bedroom closet; the one with the false door at the back, and Brahms lets go of you. You stumble into the room and fetch up against the bed. For a heartbeat you imagine him coming in for the kill and you tense and turn to glare at him.

But he's just standing there staring back at you.

It's an impasse; a stalemate. Cautiously, you straighten up and try to smooth your hair. Your heart's still drumming but you feel, sense, that he's not going hurt you...at least not yet.

His clothing is dirty, old fashioned and shabby; the stained white singlet, ill fitting pants flapping around his ankles; that God-awful grey green old man's cardigan. Brahms stands immobile, getting his breath. You stare crazily at that broad, heaving chest with its mat of dark hair. He's very tall and in spite of the awful clothing that body is athletic and fit. You glance up at his face again, or rather the pale porcelain mask he's wearing, the one made in the image of the doll Brahms that Joel shattered just hours ago.

Joel? You close your eyes and think of him dead downstairs, his jugular sliced with a piece of the doll's smashed face, bleeding out like the slaughtered pig he was. You remember watching in a daze as he died, his blood spreading over the floor like the blood from your broken womb on the night he kicked the baby from you. You watched him pass from this world and you were glad of it. Secretly.

Brahms won't let go of you; he holds you with those eyes and you take a sneaky glance over at the door. Then you realise the front door downstairs is sure to be locked. Resigned, you sit down on the bed.

He says your name again in that fluting baby timbre and you snap at him. "Stop that! Stop that silly voice...you're a grown man not a child!"

He stands almost to attention and looks so comical you almost laugh out loud. But you're not done with him, Goddammit!

"You lied to me!" you cry, pointing an accusatory finger. "You made me believe you were a dead child! How could you? How?"

He stands there almost penitent and the edge is suddenly off your anger. You remember how it was when you thought he was the ghost in the walls, how affection blossomed on both sides; his little gifts, the telephone calls you thought were a spirit child, the sweet conversations, so innocent and childlike; the affinity you felt because of your own dead baby. You'd nurtured this with him and enjoyed it, accepted it; thought that all the movement behind the walls and in the house was the spirit of the dead eight year old Brahms that the Heelshire's lost in a fire twenty years' ago.

You hold your head in your hands your mind reliving the moment the adult Brahms materialised through the broken mirror after you screamed for his help as Joel got violent again. Joel who you thought you'd left behind in America, Joel who followed you here; Joel who refused to let you go...ever. Shy, timid Brahms, who for weeks had never shown himself, coming through the walls to save you. Some part of you, the fair and logical part, knows that Brahms has done no more than protect you when he attacked and killed Joel. You also know too that, had Joel ever beaten Brahms, he would have killed Brahms...and probably you. You know this, but there's a darkness inside that you refuse to acknowledge. And the denial is tearing you apart.

You feel treacherous tears and fight them back. His voice breaks the silence.

"I'm sorry."

This is the man speaking, his voice wiped of the doll. He has his hands behind his back, head bowed, and you reluctantly feel a little sorry for him. You suspect that the child in him has been nurtured either as a psychological protection mechanism for him, or by his parents as a means of control. You hear Mrs Heelshire saying to you before they left their son forever..."Be kind to him and he'll be good to you."

You come to a decision.

"Brahms, look at me."

He glances up.

You lift your chin and muster determination you don't really feel. "You need a shower and a change of clothes. I'm not putting up with you in that state, do you understand?"

He nods and bows his head again. You feel like a bossy old school teacher, so you soften your voice. "Let's go then. To the bathroom with you."

He follows you obediently, and at the big old fashioned bathroom you get some towels from the cupboard and hand them to him. "You must have a change of clothing surely?"

He nods. As he takes the towels you realise that his fingernails are clean and manicured which seems odd considering his grubby old clothes. That's when you realise it's been a week since the Heelshire's killed themselves. And you know he's aware because you found the letter in Brahms's hidden rooms that they wrote to their only son explaining their actions. He must have neglected himself for that week by not changing his clothing or bathing. Perhaps it's the shock of knowing his parents abandoned him and are gone for good.

You suppress a shudder when you think of that place. His hidden lair. You stumbled across it searching for a way out of the maze of the hidden passages; a self enclosed apartment filled with clutter and dead things. There'd been bottles of formaldehyde and embalming fluid, reels of cotton and stuffing. Fleshing knives dangling from the ceiling, brain hooks and eye tools. You'd understood then that taxidermy was his hobby and all you could think of was Norman Bates!

Oh, but worse, so much worse was the full sized you - made from old garments, complete with stolen dress and wig and your lost gold chain, supine on the narrow cot bed with... your face flushes as you remember... a handful of tissues all balled up beside it. In that moment you came over all hot and flustered and appalled but now, in reflection, you remember that the dress was pristine, the dummy laid lovingly on the quilt, the hair brushed, the chain around the cloth neck neat and tidy, and you hope in your heart that all he really wanted was company and a cuddle.

Now, you watch as he pulls off the cardigan. His arms are muscular, the pectorals well developed and you try not to stare, glad he's preoccupied with undressing. You reach inside the shower and switch it on.

"Use the shampoo and soap and plenty of it," you order. "And when you're done use that robe and find something clean to wear. I'll be in my room." You march out as though you have everything under control when really, you're quaking inside.

Across from the bathroom, you sit on your bed with the door open so you can hear the shower running. There's an urge to lock yourself in, but you don't want him scavenging around behind those bloody walls again. You'd rather know exactly where he is.

After what seems an age, you hear him cleaning his teeth. Then he emerges, all wet and tousled in the soft white bathrobe. The robe gapes to his waist and you see most of his muscled torso and have a Mr Darcy moment that rocks your hormones. Then you regain control and point to his parents' bedroom. "You should be able to find some of your father's clothes in there. Please don't stand there staring, Brahms. Just go!"

He pads off and you chew your fingernails and pace around your room. What now? Bedtime, you think. It must be gone midnight. You need a shower yourself but you're determined to see him tucked in bed first. Thank God your bathroom is en suite.

When Brahms returns he's wearing a dark blue singlet and a pair of candy stripe pajama bottoms that are too short. At least he's ready for bed!

Brahms's bedroom is along the landing a few doors down from yours. You act all prim and proper and cultivate your best no nonsense tone. "In bed with you." He complies and snuggles down. The mask is clean now, no more blood splashes. But it still creeps you out, and you wonder what he looks like beneath it.

You pull up the blankets for him and smile down as his eyes flicker over your face. "Goodnight, Brahms."

"Kiss?"

It's a whisper that barely registers but when it does your heart sinks. House Rule Number Ten. Kiss Brahms Goodnight.

You bridle, unsure of what to do. The whole thing is bizarre and sad and broken. As you hesitate you catch him searching your face. Those eyes are wide and guileless. There's none of the murderer in them and this confuses you. Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, you lean down and touch your mouth to those hard, cold porcelain lips.

You hear his breathing coarsen, and he pushes upwards and grips your arms. The rigid surface of the mask knocks your teeth and you try to pull back but he lunges up not wanting to lose the connection of your mouth. Instead of fighting him, you relax and tell him gently, but firmly, "You're hurting me, Brahms."

He lets go and sinks back into the bed. "It's the mask," you say. "It doesn't feel good for kissing." In the dim lamplight, you see the whites of his eyes glisten and you know he's watching your mouth. Impulsively, you reach out and stroke the damp dark curls. "I'm going to my room now, Brahms. I'm very tired and need to sleep. I'll see you in the morning."

He nods. You stand. The night is nearly over.

#brahmsheelshire #brahms heelshire #Fanfic #Wattpad #JamesRussell #the boy 2016 #wallboy

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terry-perry · 4 years

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Preyed Upon pt. 2

A/N: This chapter will include a small flashback. Once again, OCs were created by @ladyfluff, and the flashback setting is based off her Fire Beneath His Skin. series. Give her a follow if you haven’t already, especially since her current work is full of amazing Arthur Fleck/Joker fanfiction.

Also, TRIGGER WARNING for torture, kidnap, and other dark themes!

And as always, enjoy the read!

Some centuries ago...

Peter glanced up at the entrance to the tavern when hearing it be opened so abruptly. He gave the small hooded figure that came in some mild interest before he went back to wiping down the bar. With a book clutched in their hands, the figure took in their surroundings for a few moments until taking light, quick strides to where Peter was and sat down.

“Ale, please,” they requested in a low tone.

Peter almost didn’t hear them since their head was bowed as well. He poured out a glass of the drink they asked for, slid it over, and then returned to his previous actions.

“Did father bring home another suitor for you?” he asked, not even bothering to glance up.

“This one is, at least, closer to my age,” the figure said, opening up their book. “By ten years.”

Chuckling, Peter looked up in time to catch his baby sister twist her lips with contempt.

“You know, you and Adam have the same disgusted scowl,” he chuckled once more when she sent a serious stare his direction. He raised his hands up in mock surrender. “Looks better on you, though.”

Y/N gave a small laugh of her own in spite of herself; Peter always had the ability to make her smile. She missed his presence at home. He was protective of her the way Adam was, sure, but he showed more leniency with the decisions she made and just cared more about her happiness. He was supportive with everything she did, and always by her side when she wanted to learn how to shoot a bow and arrow, ride a horse, or anything else that wasn’t considered “lady-like.” And while Adam was the one she enjoyed spending the quiet with, Peter was the one she loved going to to share witty banter and gossip.

“Speaking of Adam,” Peter continued. “Is he doing all he can to keep them busy?”

“As we speak,” Y/N answered, taking a swig of her drink afterwards. “He should be arriving before sunset to take me home, if things go according to plan.” She took another generous sip of her ale and sighed. “But I don’t know...I feel this is all becoming too much. Perhaps I should consider meeting with one of-”

“Y/N,” Peter interrupted, now watching her with a solemn look. “You can’t be serious.”

She swirled the last of her drink around the glass and shrugged. “It’s just a thought I’ve been having lately.” She peered up at him. “You’ve seemed to have made the most out of your marriage. Perhaps I can do the same.”

“It’s different with me, you know that. The second you’re married off, it’ll be the end of any remaining freedom you can have.”

She knew he was right. Although Peter couldn’t openly be with who he truly loved, he still had a good say in where he went and what he did while his wife Mary stayed at home and patiently waited for him. That could easily be Y/N’s fate as well: a dutiful life of slaving away and waiting for her husband that was off doing God knows what, along with tending to their children. Some of the girls she knew from town had been wed by their late teens, then had their second or third child on the way by the time they were in their twenties. Her father was growing more insistent in having her be married off since she was already reaching her mid-twenties.

She managed to distance herself from the girls she knew, and did her best to evade the path that was made for her since she first bled. Though as much as she craved for excitement and change in lieu of the infinite security a woman was promised in exchange for their hand, that idea constantly fell on deaf ears. It was all becoming too much of an effort to find a way to explore any other possibilities the same way her brothers tried to. Surely there had to be more people who shared similar viewpoints.

Y/N drained the last of her ale and had Peter fill up her glass again. “I just wish you and Adam didn’t have to go through so much trouble for me, as well. This is my issue alone. I must learn to make peace with what I have.”

Peter gave a long, weary sigh of his own. He reached over to place his hand over hers and give her a soft, sincere smile.

“We do it because we love you,” he told her honestly, giving her hand a squeeze. “You know that. You are a good person with a good heart. No man should take advantage of your kind and clever nature if he isn’t worthy of you. You deserve much more than what you can settle for.”

Once again, he had no trouble getting her to perk up.

“Have you...also thought more about my offer?”

Peter now spoke of the job offer he gave her last week to help him tend the tavern. He told her that Herman was always in need for an extra set of hands to help run the place, especially lately since he was still recovering from a bad illness.

“Are you sure Herman wouldn’t mind my working here?”

“Absolutely! That bum is always asking for some help around here. There’s even an extra room upstairs you can stay in. It may not be the most exciting job, but it pays well enough for you to get by. And there’s always plenty of interesting folk that stop by, though there might be some that will grab at you. You remember some of the tricks I’ve taught you, correct?”

“Avoid aiming for the chest and knees - go for the nose, underneath the chin, or the jugular instead,” she remembered. “Strike with the heel of my palm or elbow with a full and quick force since a strong recoil of my attack will keep them staggering long enough for me to escape.”

His smile morphed into a proud little smirk as he raised a small glass of wine that he poured for himself to her. “I’ve taught you well,”

The siblings clinked their drinks together and switched the conversation to lighter topics. The afternoon soon grew to early evening, and Y/N’s inhibitions began to slowly drop once she was halfway done with her third ale. Her giggles were a little more random and audible; Peter having the need to shush her every time she got too loud and might bring unwanted attention. It was when he leaned over to help her stay steady as she swayed a bit in her seat that her book slipped and fell to the floor instead.

“Oops,” she squeaked.

She reached down to pick it up when her head met with someone else’s in a harsh THUD! She winced from the pain and did her best to massage it away (Peter snorted behind his hand from watching the scene). Once she properly stood up again and opened her eyes, she froze from seeing who stood before her.

Standing in front of her was a young man that looked to be around her age and rubbing his own head. He was pale with bright, blue eyes and dark, brown curls. When looking at him, the first word that came to her mind was “cherub.” Especially when a light blush rose to his cheeks after they locked eyes.

“F-Forgive me, miss,” he stammered out. “I was just trying to pick up that book of yours for you. Didn’t mean to bump into you.”

Y/N shook herself out of her daze and gave him a sweet smile.

“That’s quite all right darling,” she giggled. “I should’ve been smarter with where I put it.”

“I-I’m sure you’re very bright. Judging by how large the book is, anyway. Looks as though it contains words I don’t even know.”

In an instant, she knew he was different from all the other men who’d talk to her. From his not seeming to care about her being a woman alone in the tavern, to his praising her assumed intelligence instead of her looks. Peter, sensing the connection forming, made his way down to talk to another patron with a cheeky smile on his lips.

“Do you enjoy reading?” Y/N asked the boy.

“Um, I’m not very good at it, I’m afraid,”

“Well, perhaps I can teach yo-”

“Y/N!”

At the sound of her name, Y/N turned towards the entrance and had her grin quickly vanish from her face. Adam had sheepishly came in as he trailed behind their fuming father. The place went silent when the two men came in, with even Peter feeling like a cowering child despite his height and built. Their father’s rage always seemed to have that kind of effect on them.

“P-Papa,” Y/N muttered.

“So it’s true then!” The older man barked, marching across the tavern to yank his daughter towards him. “Here you are!”

“Father, it was my fault,” Peter defended. “She was in the village picking out ingredients to take home for supper, and I had invited her in for a small visi-”

“You hold your tongue!” Their father snapped at him with an accusatory finger. “I know exactly what she’s been up to!” He then pointed back to Y/N while the daggers in his glare sharpened. “You are coming home this instant!”

His voice was beginning to rise a bit. She knew that he was more upset than he wanted to let on, but he’d rather save the verbal lashing for when they got home. She let out a pained squeak from the tightening grip he placed on her wrist...

----

Y/N drew out a sharp intake of breath as though she was being brought back to life. Her chest heaved, and she looked around the room with eyes rapidly opening and shutting. Though it had little to no effect on the darkness of where she was.

It had been several days since she was brought here. Weeks even. The only time she was able to place a date to a day was when she had talked to her family on the dying, disposable phone that Raymond gave her. Before it had died on her shortly after; before she could even think about reaching out for help once more on it. Though what was she exactly going to say to 911, especially since she didn’t even know where she was?

With a miserable amount of effort, she made another attempt to pull at the chain around her ankle before pulling at the collar around her neck. Needless to say, it was no use; the combined rage and fear that had bubbled up inside her previously had been washed away and replaced with hunger and hopelessness. She was at that dangerous level of starvation, feeling as though her mind was slipping away from her. The dreams had become a regular occurrence and grew more vivid with each moment she rested her eyes. She supposed it must’ve tied into that old saying of your life flashing before your eyes when you’re nearing death since she’d see bits and pieces of it all:

She saw the meadow her and her brothers played in when they were children, smell the flowers she’d pick, almost taste a stew she had helped her mother make for dinner, hear the constant commotion that went on in that little cabin she used to live in with her family. She would hear the music she’d listen to from each era she lived in, revisit the places she had collected her antique pieces from. She’d see the people she once knew die before her eyes, and experience once again the moments she’d been glad to share with the ones who’d been there for her for over 500 years.

When her thoughts and dreams would come across Ian, she would feel a great amount of pain as she wondered where he was, what he was doing, and if she would ever see him again. But the interspersed visions of her old life seemed to have now mixed with the current life she shared with her human love. She could recall that time at the tavern Peter used to work at, and the lashing she received from her father after she’d been caught. And she also remembered meeting the boy that was there, but surely it couldn’t have been-

Y/N flinched hearing thumps above her head that stopped and was soon replaced by the sound of the basement door opening. The footsteps were now more clear as they made their way down to her. She still felt exhausted and dizzy, but she did what she could to sit up and shake some of the hair from her eyes.

“Aw, baby doll, you look so cute when you’ve just woken up,” she heard Raymond coo. Through the darkness, she saw him reach out to her, squatting down to her level and tap her nose while beaming. “If you were human, I would eat you right up.”

Y/N only gave him a silent glare in return. His playfulness was put on pause when he presented her with a small cup that was filled up with blood. She eyed it hungrily, but then set her sights back on him with suspicion joining her weary and hateful stare.

He tsked at this. “Now don’t you think if I wanted you dead, I would have done it the moment I walked into your apartment?”

He wishes for me to suffer. She deduced in her head. If he wished for my death, it’d be a slow and painful one. Tainted blood can do just that.

Though as she ran her tongue over dried, cracked lips, her hunger decided to choose this hypothetical way to go and took hold of the cup with both hands. She gulped down the blood eagerly, it going down her throat with a pleasant burn to it like a warm bowl of soup. She became more at ease, soon no longer feeling any pain. It almost felt like she was in her own little world, like she was floating away from it all.

The rush had her heal up, with her throat slowly becoming less sore from the aches she gained from shocks and tortured screams. Her voice only being somewhat raspy from not talking for quite some time.

“My family...” she croaked. “Where are they?”

“Still in New York, from what I gathered,” he told her, letting out an irked huff. “Your brothers are still as meddlesome as ever.”

“Shouldn’t have kidnapped their little sister then if you didn’t wish for them to interfere,”

He smiled once more. “Oh, don’t worry. I want them to be involved in this as you are. They have reasons of their own on why they should suffer. From the first day we met, they always thought themselves better than me. Even when I was turned, they always found something about me to look down on.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have made it so easy for them to do so,” she heard herself say.

The sudden scowl on his face made her realize that was a stupid thing to say and had him remind her of the situation she was trapped in. The agonizing jolts of electricity she had grown familiar with took hold of her and had her writhing on the floor while gritting her teeth to keep her from releasing a pained shriek. When it all eventually subsided, she was left with feeling as though her bones would break and her head would explode. She hoped that if that happened, it would be quick.

He grabbed a hold of her; taking her from beneath her jaw and holding her head still. Looking at him up close - staring at those hardened eyes that were also so vain and cruel - she wondered how she could have ever thought she could love him.

“Your pain and humiliation will have them suffering just as much as you,” he hissed with his face uncomfortably close to hers. “With all of you begging me, the one person you all thought so little of, to put an end to it all.”

He didn’t force a kiss on her like she almost expected him to do, only letting her go of her face with such disdain and disgust like she was some contagious thing he needed to stay away from. It might’ve been the haziness she felt after the shocks, but when she glanced up at him, she saw no true expression on him. She knew that despite his cruel ways, he did not truly hate her. And he clearly didn’t love her. He felt nothing for her but a need to control her, it was only now that realized how much control he wanted over her.

After he was gone, she sank back into the concrete floor and stared blankly at the boarded up windows until she bowed her head and succumbed to the tears she had been fighting. She wanted so much to rage out and hurt him the way he’d been hurting her. But overall, she just wished to be home. So she decided to do her best in keeping the promise Ian wanted her to make and stayed brave and fierce, even if she felt the urge to crumble and whimper like a little girl.

And if you get a chance to escape, you take it! She remembered him telling her. Those words replayed in her head after her crying stopped and she looked down to the shards of glass on the ground from the cup Raymond offered her. The one that fell out of her hands after she dropped down from the shocks. The searched until she found one that was long and sharp like a knife.

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mydisenchantedeulogy · 5 years

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Good Enough [Part One] Sweetly [Madara Uchiha]

Preview:

“Feels sickly sweet, doesn’t it?” Madara closed the gap between them and placed his lips over her own. The first thing he noticed was how warm she felt; her heat was comforting. The second, satisfied him. Kururi was shaken, but gradually pressed her mouth harder against his. It wasn’t difficult to loosen her lips enough to slip his tongue in. She allowed him with a content sigh. Like he remembered, Kururi tasted delightful.

Disclaimer:

I do not profit from this story and all creative rights to the characters belong to their original creator(s); pictures and songs included.

Just to be clear, GE is an alternate universe type work, considering Izuna died young in the original story line.

I made a promise to him, didn’t I? To go back on it now would make me a liar, and I’d rather not listen to him cry about it later. Displeased, a woman in sparkling gold and white fabric drummed her finger against the table top and aimed a deep scowl at said man. His lively, brown eyes met hers, urging her on. It was time to act, she could almost hear him say. This angered her even more. Not like she wasn’t going to. But does it have to be so … embarrassing. She huffed a sigh and tensely lifted a finger into the air. “If I may, there is another that I wish to nominate.”

She was accredited without appall. Standing, the stiff woman cleared her throat and spoke with self-control as she had practiced earlier on. “I, Kururi of the Uzumaki clan, wish to nominate Uchiha Madara as a candidate for the position of Hokage.” Already she could feel heat spread to her pale face.

An elder of the Shimura clan scoffed, forcing Kururi to crinkle her nose in disgust; a look that didn’t suit her. “Preposterous is such a claim.” He laughed in spite of her. “A member of the Uchiha as leader of our peaceful village. Have you gone daft girl?”

Hashirama stood to her aid. “Allow her a chance to speak. She means no ill intentions by doing so.” If he had known that she’d have to undergo such mockery, Hashirama would have never asked Kururi to do this.

“Might I remind the council that it was because of the Uchiha that we almost didn’t make it to this point,” Shimura Tomohisa spat in revolt. “Should this be allowed, and Madara become Hokage, the village will be in ruin before it ever has a name.” His eyes flared at Kururi. “Furthermore, young Uzumaki, as a member of an eminent clan such as your own, to waste a proposal on an Uchiha is unfortunate for your people.”

The bright, red haired woman had to bite her tongue to refrain from chewing into him. If there was anything she took pride in, it was her clan. To hear the fool utter nonsense about them – especially about her – ticked her off.

Alas, she couldn’t do much about it and practiced the deep breathing exorcises her sister taught her, not caring who saw. Once she was content, Kururi opened her painted lips to speak. “Times have changed, surely even you can see that. This village was established to unify clans; all of them. What hope does it have if even one of us has doubts about it’s future? Might I remind you, Elder, that this village you adopted as your own was the dream of both Lord Hashirama of the Senju and Lord Madara of the Uchiha, and by such I believe Madara should have the chance to run as leader of the village too. It’s his right after all; a respect that you should do well to give him for providing you this peaceful village.”

“And furthermore,” she continued. “It was by unfortunate events that I, as a woman, gained the title of Head of Clan. My father bestowed this title on me at his death bed in hopes that I could ensure the safety of the second branch. I fought like hell in that war to get here, and I am still standing. Believe it when I say that no matter who the leader is, I will keep his wish.”

The room was silent. Having said all she needed to, Kururi pressed her kimono beneath her legs and sat down. She waited with baited breath for someone to speak, and when someone did, she was shocked to see the same, narrow-minded elder concur with her.

“Hashirama, your response.”

“I honestly agree,” he responded almost immediately. “Please allow both Madara and I to campaign for the title. It would be an honor.” To stress his point, Hashirama dropped into a bow.

An elder of the Mitokado clan tapped his knuckles on the table, gaining the attention of the room. “Allow us time to debate this further. We shall have the answer in the morning. But, in the meantime … Hashirama … Madara … the two of you should sign a blank note in agreement to their nominations. Failure to do so will mean exclusion from the title.”

“With the topic of Hokage underway,” Tomohisa mentioned curtly. “Hashirama, you may take the floor. I believe you put in a proposal for adequate shinobi attire. The council will hear it.”

Frankly, the red haired woman stopped listening after this. She had already heard the proposal once before. Though, it was the gentle laugh of Uzumaki Kirino that gained her attention.

“Something you feel like sharing with me?”

Her younger sibling pressed against her side and snickered again; her warm breath fanned across Kururi’s ear as she whispered. “Not to concern you, but a lot of eyes are on you this morning, sister.” Her fingers tugged in jest at the soft, red laces that fell down the Leader’s back.

Kururi huffed a sigh and nudged her aside. “It can’t be helped. The old man hates me, simple as that. A woman as Head of Clan is frowned upon in some nations apparently.”

Agreeing with a nod, Kirino leaned in close again. “I seriously don’t oppose your claim, but it’s not the Elder that I am referring to.” Her bright eyes flicked over to the person in question – sure enough he was still gawking. “Look to your left, seated across the table from us.”

Kururi didn’t have to look in order to know who Kirino was talking about – Madara. She witnessed him come in and sit next to Hashirama before the meeting began. What she didn’t know was why he was interested in her; it concerned her a little.

“I’m jealous,” Kirino chided with a pout.

Kururi rolled her eyes. “It means nothing. Madara is not one to court, so don’t gibber on it.”

“He’s a male … he has needs. If he’s staring at you, Chieftain, then his interest in you is more than nothing.”

“You can tell that just from looking?”

Kirino laughed again. Her sister’s pale face was red with embarrassment. “No … I just simply know men a little better than you do.”

“Wench,” Kururi snorted. She gave Kirino a playful glare, urging the woman to stick out her tongue in retaliation.

“Uzumaki Kururi,” the annoyed voice of Tomohisa snapped. “Is there something the second branch would like to augment to the proposal?”

Kururi matched the scowl on his worn and wrinkled face. “We have nothing further to say.”

The meeting seemed to drag on after this, extending further on into the afternoon than Kururi would have liked. By the time it was over, she was beyond irritated, wanting nothing more than to go home and rest. However, with business left unfinished, she couldn’t.

“Shall I be expecting you back at the compound within the hour?”

“Yes … defiantly yes.” Kururi held back a yawn and clutched the blank note in her hand; it was a responsibility she didn’t want to deal with right now, but she had to. Looking up at her sister, she forced a smile. “Please have Atsuko prepare me a late lunch in the meantime. I’ll be home once I talk with Hashirama about this annotation on the rock face.”

Kirino lowered her eyes. “Very well, but I’m advising you not to forget your duties to the clan. It was you who after all nominated Madara-sama. The blame will fall on your head if the safety of the clan is not ensured.”

“If this is your way of telling me to keep the note then don’t concern yourself about it. I am the clan leader; I’ll figure out something,” Kururi retorted. Her eyes focused on the floor.

But, for the sake of the clan I know she’s right. It would be simple; toss the blank note. Kururi heaved a sigh in defeat. “I made a promise to the cry baby that I’d see this through, and I plan to. Sorry, but I’ll find another way.”

“I trust you, sister. Just reassuring myself,” Kirino admitted. She waved and turned on her balls of her feet, walking from the table and out of sight.

Kururi was left alone with her thoughts for a few minutes. All they did was serve to further her annoyance; she disliked the Elders and their old ways. Snorting in disgust, she began to chuckle. Her fingers moved to the bridge of her nose where she pinched hard to contain the fit of rage she felt breaking the surface of her usually peaceful nature. Those damn fools. None of this is ever going to work if they can’t let go of their anger. Our clans will suffer … my clan will peri–

In shock of her own words, Kururi drew her fist and hit the table top with such a force that it shook her to the core. She hissed in pain, but lifted her arm, battering it again. The final time she went to do it, a familiar chakra signature flared nearby, making her shutter. Kururi puckered her brow and glanced around the room, noticing Madara and Izuna hadn’t left yet. They seemed to be deep in conversation about something, until she lost her composure. In embarrassment, she turned her eyes to the floor and moved towards the exit.

Madara had somehow got in front of her – probably while Kururi was adjusting her setta sandals – as Izuna took up the back. Her blue eyes sized up the man leading; an intimidating man if seen up close. The woman shuttered again and tucked her slender arms against herself. It was strange to feel her heart pound so loudly in her chest, almost like being so close to Madara again was making her feel nervous. Kururi ignored it and spared a questioning glance at Izuna, who merely smiled. Frankly, the action made her skin crawl, but she smiled back regardless.

Without sudden warning, however, Madara halted before the doorway. Kururi peddled back to avoid colliding into him, an action that left her flustered against the chest of his younger brother.

“My apologies Izuna. I’m very sorry.” Her words met deaf ears.

Izuna took her shoulders and kept her locked against him. “Be still now.” His warm breath fanned out against her skin.

Kururi felt abnormally scared; an icy chakra encased her. What’s this wickedness? She panicked, but her legs refused to move. It felt like her limbs were stuck in molasses. Is this a Genjutsu? “S-Stop this. Whatever you have done to me, remove it.” Her voice cracked a bit, yet it still held a bite.

“She bares fangs against us.” Izuna chuckled at this – how cute. It was the first time he had ever felt her chakra waver so much. The sway his brother had on her was impressive. He slid his arms over her shoulders. The woman quietly told him to stop, but he ignored her command and took the ornate hair sticks from her bun, allowing her braids to come loose and fall down her back. Frankly, Izuna wasn’t sure why she wore her hair in such a way – it seemed childish to him – but her younger sister wore them too, in a much simpler design; in tails down the front of her shoulders.

Kururi felt her blood begin to simmer. She was not in the mood to repeat herself. If this wasn’t an illusion, then it was simply a product of overwhelming chakra. Forcing herself to calm down, Kururi increased her own and released her body from the invisible restraints that locked her down. Without a second thought, she curled her fingers and struck at him with her nails drawn.

However, long before she made contact, Madara stopped her, and yanked Kururi towards him. A frightened cry escaped her lips. He took her against him and clutched her arms tightly.

“I don’t think it would be wise for you to do that again,” he spoke firmly. His voice was deep and cold.

Again, the woman froze up, too afraid to move. Her body felt heavy as stone, descending into the depths of his blood, red eyes. By some means, Kururi found her voice. “I’m sorry Madara. I wasn’t considering the repercussions. Let me go.”

He pulled her closer and smoothly declared, “I can sense your chakra trembling.”

“I’m scared of how strange you’re acting right now. This chakra around you is enveloping me,” Kururi admitted.

This wasn’t the first time Madara had kissed her; the first time was as young adults on the battlefield. She wasn’t so willing to taste him back then, and even less willing to speak to him after he bit her shoulder and sucked in her chakra. He was aware of her strange skill, and oddly found her taste to be somewhat welcoming. It was amusing to see how much she pined for him, now that war and death was in the past. Madara always felt Kururi held a strange attraction to him; she turned red whenever he addressed her and often shied away from his touch. Frankly, it was no surprise to him how easy she was to control once his mouth was on hers.

Bringing her closer, Madara all but gently pressed her tiny body against his own. Kururi let out a whine in protest and stiffened up, but he ignored it, releasing one of her arms to bury his fingers into her long, interwoven hair. With a quick tug, he angled her head to his liking and sank further into the kiss. His tongue overwhelmed her own, forcing her to keep up.

Kururi did pretty well in doing so, clutching his robes in haste to keep from toppling over. She sighed through her nose. This wasn’t so bad; a little strange. It brought chills to her body – a wave of excitement that tingled in the pit of her stomach. Lost in the pleasure of it, she barely knew Izuna was still behind her until she felt a sharp pain in her neck. It could have only been him, because Madara was too engaged with her tongue and lips to care. However, the second she cried out in discomfort as the pressure grew, she knew Madara was only acting as a distraction for whatever Izuna was trying to do. It didn’t take her long to figure out what, as her body began to feel heavy with exhaustion.

Izuna was sucking out her chakra. Her eyes flew open wide in panic and she began to resist. Kururi bucked forward with her hips, but with Madara in front of her, all she managed to do was pull a delightful moan from him. In another reality, she might have enjoyed this – succumbing to whatever pleasure Madara would give her – but this was not the case. With all her strength, Kururi parted from the man in front of her, breaking the threadlike line of saliva that connected them, and shoved her elbow into Izuna, knocking him off her. She peddled back until she was a respectable distance away from them and panted in exhaustion.

“Why did you bite me, Izuna?”

Said man ignored her question and touched his lips. “Is this what you meant by unique, brother?”

“It’s a forte of hers,” Madara began. “A skill only known by members of her clan; the ability to heal through consumption of chakra.”

Kururi curled her nose in disgust. True to his claim, she was already starting to recover, but slowly. “Are you serious? All this – she was referring to the kiss – just to … to–

“Flavor your chakra,” Izuna finished. He bobbed his head in agreement. The sad truth was he simply grew curious. “But then, I can’t speak for my brother.”

This took her off guard. Kururi wanted to ask what he meant, but a warm, earthy feeling suddenly enveloped her. She glanced at the door just as Hashirama entered. The wicked chakra from before was immediately oppressed.

“Hashi … what are you doing here?”

The cheerful man smiled at her. “I didn’t see you leave yet, so I came back to check on you.” Frankly, she looked pale to him. It concerned him, but sure that he already knew the reason, he didn’t ask. For a brief second his smile faded as he turned to Madara.

“Is everything okay, old friend?”

Madara bobbed his head. “No cause for alarm. Though someone does look a bit tired.”

“Nothing escapes you,” Kururi jested with a laugh. “Please forgive me, Hashi … but I’ll be heading back to the compound for a rest.”

“Another time then,” Hashirama mentioned, referring to their talk. He watched her leave the room quickly, and shot a brief look at his dark haired friend.

Madara was grinning, and honestly, it concerned Hashirama.

Part 2 preview:

“Besides, it feels odd. It reminds me of drowning. Fighting to resurface but I can’t. The current only pulls me further along.”

“Would it be so bad to just let go?”

#madara uchiha #original character #naruto #izuna uchiha #hashirama senju #suggestive themes #alternate universe #bite kink #madaraxoc

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bookaholic1012 · 6 years

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Prythian Magazine Part 11

Cassian and Lucien talk, Azriel gets his tea, and the Archeron sisters will soon be reunited. Oh, and Rhysand's mom and sister make an appearance.

Tagging: @sugarcoated44 @unicornbooks @ourbooksuniverse @ame233

If you want to be tagged or no longer want to, let me know!

ALL CHARACTERS BELONG TO SARAH J. MAAS

PM Masterlist My Writing

Was going over to Mor’s armed with a thermos of soup for Lucien’s ‘sickness’ when I was really going to find out the truth a bad idea? One may call it that, but not me. In fact, I would say this is one of the best ideas I’ve ever had. Part of me knew that there was a reason why my friends lied about Lucien’s reason of absence and I should leave them alone, but I couldn’t. At least if he is ill, I would know that I did something to help him get better.

I pulled up in front of Mor’s and walked up to her front door. It only took a moment for Mor to open the door after I knocked.

“Cassian!” She greeted me, “What are you doing here?” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, voice laced with distrust.

I gave a nonchalant shrug in return. “I had some leftover soup from dinner last night. I thought I could some over for Lucien.”

“Oh. Uh, thanks. I’ll just take that for you.” Mor’s tanned arm reached out for the thermos in my hands. I pulled it out of her grasp as her hands clenched around where the thermos was a mere second ago.

“Actually, I was hoping to bring it to Lucien myself. Give him my best wishes on his recovery and whatnot. Also, I owe Feyre an apology for cornering her earlier.” I explained.

“Okay. First of all, ‘Give him my best wishes on recovery’ really? By the Mother, Cass, you sound like he was in an accident, not like he has a cold. And second, what about me? Don’t I deserve an apology? Need I remind you, that you hounded me all day trying to get information on Lucien’s health? Finally-”

“I’m sorry, Mor.” I interrupted.

“Apology accepted, don’t worry about it. And don’t interrupt. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Finally, you cornered Feyre? Jeez, Cassian. He has a cold. Why must you ask so many questions?” Mor threw her arms up in exasperation when she was done scolding me.

“I asked questions because I don’t- I mean I didn’t - believe you two. Now I do, and I have something for Lucien. Can I come in now, Mor? It’s cold.” I said.

“Fine.” She grumbled, stepping out of the way.

Victory is mine!

“We should put makeup on you!” Feyre whisper-shouted at me.

“What? No!” I whisper-shouted back.

Through my open door, which Mor forgot to close on her way out after informing us she ordered pizza, we heard her and Cassian’s whole conversation. Currently, we were rushing around to get things that would help me appear sick.

“My skin’s paler than yours! If we put some foundation or something on you, you’ll appear sickly!” She explained.

“We are not putting makeup on me, and that is final!” I stated.

“Fine. You would look hot with makeup though. I might have some eyeshadow that would bring out your eyes…” She trailed off, most likely thinking about me,makeup, and how hot I would look.

“Feyre! Focus!” I told her, breaking Feyre out of her thoughts. Just then, we heard two voices, one male and one female, and heavy footsteps coming closer to the door. I dove under the covers, ruffled my hair, and attempted to look groggy and under the weather. Feyre grabbed a trash can, filled it with crumpled tissues, and sat down on the edge of my bed, so she appeared to be taking care of me.

The door opened fully, revealing Cassian and Mor, the former carrying something that resembles a thermos.

“Hey, Foxboy. Hi, Feyre.” Cassian greeted us.

“Hey, Cass.” Feyre said, getting up from the bed to give him a hug. I greeted him too, attempting to sound like a person who has a cold. I don’t think I succeeded.

When they parted, Cassian came over and took Feyre’s spot beside me, placing the thermos on the bedside table. He smiled down at me, which made me feel… something.

“Mor, Feyre, can you guys leave us? I want to talk to Lucien alone.” He requested, still holding my gaze.

“Sure, but aren’t you forgetting something, Cass?” Mor said with a pointed look in the other male’s direction.

“Hmm?” He looked up, “Oh, right. Sorry about earlier, Feyre. I was just doubtful, but now… I see you were right, so sorry for doubting you, and for questioning you earlier.”

“Eh, don’t worry about it, Cass. I get it.” Feyre shrugged it off.

With that, the ladies left, leaving me alone. With Cassian. In my room.

Someone help me. I begged. It’s not that I’m uncomfortable around Cassian. I just… feel something when I’m around him. I become aware of everything he does. Everything that happens when I’m with Cassian makes me feel guilty; I feel as if I’m betraying Jesminda and Andras, the latter more than the former.

It was then I realized there was an expectant silence in the air. Hazel eyes shown with amusement.

There’s more green than brown today.

Stop it. I reprimanded myself.

“Sorry. What did you say?” I asked, embarrassed at being caught not paying attention.

“I was just asking how you felt.”

“Oh, I’m feeling a little better thanks to the medicine I took.” “Good. Good. I hope you feel better soon. We have to get back to our regular scheduled bickering at work.” He teased. Him wanting me to get better though… that was sincere. It left me baffled. After everything my family has done to Mor, why would he want to get better? I always thought his comments were out of spite, not because we were friends, or something akin to that.

I let out a chuckle. “Yeah. I’ve missed our little squabbles.”

“Do you mind if I stay here and just talk?” Cassian asked, breaking the comfortable silence that enveloped the room.

I expected myself to feel that I did mind, but I found myself wanting to know what it was Cassian had to say.

“You can stay.” I told him.

“Bron. Hart. What information do you two have for me.” I said, hiding in the shadows. They knew who I was, but I couldn’t risk any paparazzi or passerbys to take a photo of myself.

“Well, we found out Tamlin has a meeting with Anthony Hybern. Ianthe will be with them.” Bron informed me.

“Do you have any details?” I inquired.

“We don’t know what the meeting is for,” Hart added, “But we do know that it will be held at Tamlin’s office at six in the evening on Friday.”

Two days from now.

“Is that all?” I further questioned.

“For now, yes. After Feyre and Lucien left, he’s been more secretive than usual.” Hart said.

“Okay, then. You’ll receive payment at the end of the week.” With that, I left. As I walked over to my car, I mulled over the information I received. Whatever the reason was for the meeting, it couldn’t be good if Hybern was being involved.

Before driving away, I made one last call.

“Amren? It’s Azriel. Are you in your office?”

“I am. Did you find something?” Her voice answered.

“I did. And it’s not good.”

“Where is my sister?!” Nesta screeched. I took a step back from the terrifying girl. Nesta Archeron is someone you do not want have angry with you.

“She left.” I answered, mustering up my courage.

“I know she left, but I want to know the correct circumstances as to why she left.” Nesta yelled.

“You read the article.” I said, nodding in the direction of Elain, who held the magazine where I told reporters of why Feyre left me.

“Feyre, would never cheat on someone. Whoever she is dating can be a scumbag and treat her poorly, but she would still remain faithful to them. What. Is. The. Truth.” Elain’s voice iron, her face contorted with fury. Elain, who was usually so kind and calm, was much more frightening when angered.

“Why do you care? It’s not like you ever cared for her in the first place.” My voice rose along with my temper.

A loud slap filled the room and my head cracked to the side. Nesta stood in front of me, her hand raised.

“We had our reasons. Tell me where my baby sister is now!” Nesta roared.

“Ask her yourself. She’s in the Night Court.” I snapped, trying to not lash out. Nesta was a lawyer, and a damn good one, too. Loads of people respected her. I couldn’t have someone like her ruin my reputation by informing the world of what I had done.

Feyre will tell them though. A nagging voice in my mind told me.

They’ll never find her. I reassured herself.

“Come on, Elain. Let’s go to Night Court.” Nesta said, storming towards the door.

“How do you know she’s in the Night Court?” I asked.

“Because you just said so, you moron. Even if you didn’t, your question confirmed it.” Elain snapped, before Nesta could even open her mouth. Before I could say anything, Elain slammed the door shut.

I’m not a moron… Am I?

“Rhys, can you please set the table.” My mom asked while checking the chicken she was baking.

“Of course, Mum.” I got up from the chair I was reading in to get the dishes and silverware for dinner.

“And please get your sister.” Mum added.

“Got it.” I told her, hurrying to finish setting up the table. When I was done, I rushed up the stairs to Luciana’s room.

“Luciana? May I come in?” I asked, knocking on the door.

“What’s the password?” My little sister’s voice answered from the other side. I smiled at her antics.

“Rhysand is the best big brother ever?” I guessed.

“Nope.”

“Rhysand is the best male model ever?” I suggested.

“Guess again!” Luciana sang.

“Rhysand is the handsomest person to ever grace the universe.”

“Wrong again! And you are not the handsomest person, Rhys.”

I gasped and grasped my chest even though Luciana couldn’t see me. “I’m wounded! Someone doesn’t think I am handsome! Help me by opening up this door!” I cried, jiggling the doorknob.

“Don’t be so dramatic.” My sister said, but she still opened the door. I stepped in her room, twirling as I did.

“I’m saved! Thank you, Lady Luciana. I am forever in your debt.” I bowed down at her feet.

“Get up, Lord Rhysand.” Luci snorted.

I did what she said and plopped down on her bed, dragging her down with me. Luci let out a squeal as she fell, and collapsed into giggles when she landed on top of me. I then proceeded to tickle her.

“S-stop! P-please!” She called out between her laughter.

“Never!” I exclaimed.

“Rhysand! Luciana!” My mother stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips. She tried her best to look stern, but her hazel eyes shone with amusement, and the corner of her lips were tugging upwards. I stopped tickling Luci immediately, trying to contain my own laughter.

“Rhys, I told you to get Luci for dinner. Not for you to start fooling around!” Mum scolded me.

“Sorry, Mum.” I apologized.

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Just come down you two. And no more shenanigans.”

“Okay.” Luciana and I said in unison, but we shared a look, agreeing that the battle wasn’t over.

We gathered around the table, filling our plates with baked chicken, salad, and a variety of Illyrian meals.

“So, Rhys, when were you going to tell me that Feyre and Lucien were staying with Mor?”

I choked on my food. “How do you know?” I asked, staring bewilderedly at my mum, who kept on eating.

“When I invited Mor to dinner on Sunday earlier today, she asked if it would be alright if she brought along Lucien and Feyre.” Mum explained.

“Wait, you are hanging out with Feyre and Lucien again? Why didn’t you tell me?” My sister demanded.

“I was going to say something, Luci, but I knew you would beg to see her, and I wasn’t sure if Feyre would be ready to handle anymore company than me and the inner circle.” I explained to my sister.

“Still should have said something.” Luci pouted.

“I’m sorry, Luci.”

“Your forgiven, I suppose.” Luciana responded with a dramatic flair.

“Anyway,” I said, turning back to Mum, “I was going to tell you, promise, but like I told Luci, I didn’t know if Feyre could handle more people.”

“It’s alright, Rhys. I hope they can make it. Feyre and Lucien are such lovely people.” Mum said, though I could tell she was curious as to why Feyre may not have been able to handle more than a few people.

After dinner, I went to bed claiming I was tired. I laid, burrowed in my black sheets, trying to continue reading my book. In ten minutes, I read one sentence. My thoughts were consumed with Feyre Archeron.

*Luciana is Italian for 'light;moon' (at least according to the internet. If it's wrong, please let me know!)* *Selene (Rhys's mom) is Greek for 'moon' (again, according to the internet. If it's wrong, tell me!)*

Luciana is 10 in this fic. And now, that I'm thinking about it, you guys don't know any ages for the characters. I'll let you know, next chapter. As usual, please let me know your thoughts on this chapter! Weekly updates on Saturday!

Much love, bookaholic1012 <3

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mxladymorgan · 6 years

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♡ @pilawforhire submitted; reply under the break

There was an island rumoured to sell churros. Law could not let such an opportunity slip by. He consulted one or two trusted sources, did his research, and made the island one of their next destinations. Imagine his delight when they finally arrived and the rumours were confirmed.

Law bought Morgan a small bag of churros and rushed back to meet her. (He didn’t buy any for himself.) After placing the bag in her hands, he sat back and intently observed her reaction. (He didn’t even hold a book to pretend to be busy reading. His eyes were fixed on her.)

If and when Morgan would have eaten all but the last churro, Law would make his stealthy approach, inching closer and closer, his head bowing lower and lower, until he was literally breathing down her neck. His lips parted slightly, revealing glistening, predatory teeth. And then — he lunged! His jaws opened wide and snapped shut, snatching the last churro and clamping it down between his incisors. Law darted back. He tilted his head back and gobbled up the last churro piggishly without using his hands. Then he made an unimpressed face as he swallowed.

“Tastes like bread,” he said with regret.

Not being a member of the navigation team, there was no way for Morgan to know the Tang’s course… Yet she always did even if maps and charts were locked away and the captain’s mouth stayed shut, as his crew’s would not. A “Where are we headed?” would suffice for someone to spill the beans, no terms of political correctness of familial endearment needed, but Morgan would use those anyway. It was easy to know where the submarine was and how long it should take, as an estimate, to reach the next destination.

And a good thing, too, in order for Morgan to prepare her outfit before landing. Not out of vanity - not just out of vanity - but out of practicality as well. For what could be worse than donning beachwear to a Winter island or boiling under layers of warmth in the hot air of a Summer island?

Thus, Morgan learnt the name of the place they were reaching but, to the Heart Pirates’ everlasting credit, remained ignorant of the churro affair.

Churros were a local delicacy of Shipwreck Island. By no means were they exclusive to it, them being found throughout the South Blue and other locations its natives had chosen as their place of residence, yet any Shipwrecker’s chest would swell with pride as they boasted of the pastry’s exclusivity. Never mind that was a lie. Shipwreck’s churros were the authentic-tasting ones, everyone knew that.

When Law rushed to her with the bag of still hot fried goodies, Morgan met the offer with apprehension, same way she always did whenever he gave her a present. Save for the chain and heart medallion around her neck, most of his gifts were horses of Troy in a variety of guises. Law would not put bugs inside a bag, would he? Her brow tensed.

Then, she caught a whiff of that lovely sugary smell and her expression melted at the same rhythm her heart perked up. Could this be? It was! Churros! A whole bag of them! Morgan’s face lit up in a way one would have thought Law had just given her a diamond ring and popped the fundamental question.

It would have been indecorous to say this but… this was the biggest turn-on Law had ever performed. Well, it was in the top three. Not that she would have wanted food anywhere near their non-marital bed… Strawberries and champagne would be fine.

When the first bit of churro melted in her mouth, coating the tongue with grease and sugar, Morgan knew of so many things. She realised she was hungry; she discovered she was more homesick than she cared to think about; she knew Law was the one for her. The quickest way to a lady’s heart was via churro.

In spite of feeling ravenous, Morgan ate the treats with small bites and not only because it was educated to do so - that way, the churros appeared to be bigger and last longer.

Stupid though it was, Morgan wondered if this was how it felt like to be pregnant with a craving. Would Law fetch her treats to satiate her desires should Morgan be with his child? And if he did not, could he be blamed for not giving a crap about his baby’s progenitor’s well-being or on the contrary commended for taking care of both their diets? It seemed that Morgan thought a lot of silly things ever since meeting Law.

When she was almost done with her indulgent snack, Law neared her neck, fangs and all, causing Morgan to eye him with suspicion again. This was no time for vampirical foreplay.

But Morgan did not have to worry about her greasy lips engaging with Law’s anything as his target was not any part of her anatomy… but the churro. That lovely, innocent, little sample of heaven churro! Oh, he was a fiend indeed!

Morgan’s blue eyes darkened at the sudden storm of anger - which she otherwise repressed anyway - and narrowed too, never leaving Law’s face. It also looked like Morgan could go an extended period of time without blinking when upset. There was even a certain… Lawness to her piercing stare.

More often than not, Law would act like a bored kid who found entertainment in playing with a box of matches. Today, he really was playing with fire, approaching the flame of his flesh in a confused blur of excitement and fear. Today, he’d learn something as pretty as a candle flame could burn.

As if it wasn’t enough that he stole what was rightfully hers - and that alone could have been excused as part of harmless fun between two elements of a couple, with stolen bites and stolen kisses - he compared it to bread. First of all, bread and churros were nothing alike in taste. Secondly, from Law’s voice, this was not an ignorant remark but a provocation, as he loathed the loaf.

Law might as well be insulting the island of Shipwreck, its good people, its benevolent ruler and this one’s daughter, all in one go. Feeling she had to speak in defence of her homeland, Morgan adopted a vexed and ungentle tone.

“So far I have withstood your pigheaded tomfoolery out of pure affection and genuine devotion for you. You know what they say… love is blind. However… there is so much a person can take and I shall not have you speak ill of churros! …and just when you did the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me!”

Why? Why did Law always have to ruin his good deeds with more arse behaviour?

#pilawforhire #submission #long post for ts #(i kinda wanna say this is crackish but they should be dorky sometimes too)#(churros > law)#(watch morgan pig out on churros the day law breaks up with her or something and put on some 20 kilos)#(law you ruin everything!!!)#(wonder if babies can suckle churros as if they were pacifiers: google search)

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