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nabrizoya · 3 years

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RoW Theories and Things I Want to See

with RoW literally a few weeks away, here’s some theories your way.

this is Really long. like, really very long; mind you.

Nikolai might become a disabled character.

It’s just the vibes. If we can take reference from the Too Clever Fox story, there’s a line that says “...and his [Koja’s] fur never quite sat right the same...”, which might hint at it (mostly bc i don’t want him to die). Also if this is indeed possible, it can be used to address ableism if it exists in this universe, especially since Nikolai is someone in the highest position of power.

Zoya will experiment the shit out of powers.

Idk why the synopsis says that using her powers might be a great deal, which tbf will be because she is truly the most most powerful atm; but Zoya wouldn’t mind taking the step outside of the old norms and bend the orders until they serve their purpose. That’s the entire goal rly.

But all along, she will consciously keep herself mindful to not hunger or discharge her power in a way that may cause harm. She knows the tyranny of the Darkling and the ways he employed. She knows better.

More character depth to Zoya.

Given the excerpts, the book does seem to explore Zoya’s infinite grief. And of course her Suli heritage, which a great part of the fandom consistently wants to shadow what with the talk “white features/ part Ravkan” bs.

But there’s more. I hope RoW will show Zoya’s dilemma (that was alr hinted in KoS) she has with the power she holds, the responsibility she has with having that power + using it in the way that will not be detrimental to her and the country. It will be a great way to portray her self-awareness and doubt and insecurity. She is a good leader, that much is told in text but not shown. There’s character development from the end of R&R until KoS that makes her evolve from a what she was then to the capable and mature 22 year old she is in KoS.

Of course all of their capabilities will come to light in RoW but I think Zoya and the agency to her as a character will play an integral part. More so because Zoya is to be the conduit to reversing the current Grisha orders, which runs in parallel with the fact that she needs to go back, go back to the roots of her Grisha knowledge and roots of her i.e. her unending grief and trauma.

She will need to forgive herself while also dealing with the guilt and anger she may have caused due to her position and power. All of this while dealing with her own complex and contrasting emotions due to her own trauma.

Nikolai is held for treason.

The word of allying with The Darkling may be out and that is enough reason for the entire country to turn against him. The secret about the monster causes issues more than enough already, and this will plunge the country into deep political turmoil and threats to security. So RoW will be more politically driven. That said...

There’s no overt war.

By this I mean that there will not be war on the battlefield, both armies or more charging at each others’ enemies and such. Ravka cannot afford one either. The excerpts have already proved that. There will be skirmishes akin to a war scenario, but a complete battle like the last battle in R&R? Like a final battle? That’s not going to be there, I think… What I’m assuming might happen is that the Fjerda and Ravka will take a possible Cold War route, if it isn’t already the case they’re already dealing with atm.

Ravka’s monarchy will collapse.

It may become a democracy or any other form of public or majority vote. But the monarchy (as well a possible dictatorship, esp with the Darkling returned) will be eliminated. ...Or so I hope, since it has been alluded to in KoS.

But that poses many problems. With no one line for the throne, let alone with a crime so dark like a blot on Nikolai’s skill (of taking the Darkling’s help), it is possible that Ravka will shun it, right alongside being torn about it because Nikolai has been, for the best of his ability, a good King. All of this in line with the Resistance rising in West Ravka.

This ties in with the court matters, especially if I want to hold the further points I make true. The resolution to acquit Nikolai of his charges requires a testification forth a jury which will then make a decision about his motives and future.

Zoya as the Interim Head.

After all of this, Zoya’s point about Ravka not accepting a Grisha Queen will be true after all, because there will be no monarchy to welcome such an arrangement.

But Ravka will need a good and trustworthy leader despite Grisha powers and Zoya is the best person to take care of that. The comment “...becoming a steady leader...” and the “Welcome home, Commander,” were there in KoS for a reason (and this is what I think it will link to).

That being said, there’s more nuance to this than my summary. Zoya is a character of colour. That—in addition to the already existing threats, objections and possible question of capability in the position—ill play into how she will be able to discharge her responsibility. It’s not going to be convenient.

EDIT: taken from a reblog/addition to the og post:

A smoother/more structured transition

Once after the monarchy collapses and a leader must be chosen, it will not be Nikolai. Nor will it be Zoya, though she might serve as an interim head. What I assume might be possible is that someone older is chosen, someone older and loyal and with the proof of knowledge and service to the country. Possibly by majority vote or elected by a council.

Instead of the sudden change, this can be a smoother (if that can even be said about such a major political scenario change) or more structured. I also say this because a. if Nikolai is indeed charged (and later acquitted), firstly his political career will already hold a blot if the word about using the Darkling as a resource is out and secondly, he’s way too young to serve as the leader (by modern standards, sure, but like, the required age will be set while drafting the constitution? currently its 35+).

Instead, the current cast can become representatives (which Zoya would already be, (mostly the head of the) international committee that safeguards the Grisha all over the world) and the Triumvirate will be dissolved. (it should be, tbh)

And hey, b. after all of this, they can and kind of need to take a step back. Nikolai and Zoya will be able to truly explore their relationship, given how Nikolai mentions how he wouldn’t marry unless he’d have had the chance to court someone and marry someone he barely knows nor knows him. For Zoya’s part, she does know Nikolai but surely probably not the extent of openness that a healthy relationship has, and on Nikolai’s part, he admits he barely knows her beyond as a General except for just little things about her.

They could be able to realize and work on their feelings while alongside being involved with the workings of the country and the constitution.

“One day you will overstep and I will not be so forgiving.”

Need I say more? Something that Zoya does will cost her Nikolai’s goodwill and we know Zoya knows her practicality and the extent to which she will unapologetically move if there is threat to the country and its King. She will do what was right and required.

A major part of that line ties in with Magnus Opjer and I think with the confidence in the versatility of her powers, Zoya might as well move w/o any word to the Triumvirate to eliminate the most direct threat to the throne. This will bring splits in Nikolai and Zoya’s relationship.

How this tension between them will be resolved without compromising either of their values, without playing into fandom stereotypes and others must be carefully handled. All of this while showing the best of their dynamicity, practicality and priority as they carefully pull out just those weak sticks of the jenga without putting the whole country into trouble. And with a war in plain sight, they’d know better than pointlessly argue and would rather see how the two of them are wrong. This ordeal will bring out just how condensed power is in the current scenario, imo.

Importance on the way women have shaped history.

Something that KoS has already set precedence for. Zoya being a PoC, Nina taking into account of the sufferings of women she comes across and the consistent ‘Who will remember them?’ will be elaborated on further. As for how it is done and how well it is done, that remains to be seen.

Baghra is alive but maybe not thriving bc she’s stuck in the Ice Court.

They entered a chamber where an old woman sat with her hands chained, flanked by guards. Her eyes were vacant. As each prisoner approached, the woman gripped his or her wrist.

A human amplifier. [...] But the Fjerdans used them for a different purpose – to make sure no Grisha breached their walls without being identified.

Kaz watched Nina approach. He could see her trembling as she held out her arm. The woman clamped her fingers around Nina’s wrist. Her eyelids stuttered briefly. Then she dropped Nina’s hand and waved her along.

Had she known and not cared? Or had the paraffin they’d used to encase Nina’s forearms worked?

- Chapter 22. Kaz; Part 4: Trick to Falling, Six of Crows.

Nina will be the one to free her and together they might wage a war from Djerholm together.

This gets even more interesting because we know the anguish and scorn that Baghra feels for her son at the same time; she understands the wrongness that he used to seek and will continue to. Zoya does take Baghra’s name at the Fold when she mourns and rages over how people forget the destruction and most importantly, forget the women. Baghra could be the symbol of the stag as the art piece depicts, or will be shown with relation to the Darkling’s powers.

As for how she will play into the story, perhaps she will be the one to help reverse and find the roots of the orders, in the sense that changes the perception of the Grisha powers for the Grisha as well as the common folk of Ravka. She is the only other person other than Juris and the Darkling to have the age of eras together, knowing Ilya Morozova, and she will be instrumental in giving Ravka an advantage over Fjerda. Either that or she will help in scrubbing the prejudices of Fjerda slowly away with whatever powers she has left. Or both.

Alina will reappear, but will not contribute to the plot significantly.

Zoya understands that the truth she knows about the Darkling is very minimal not enough to end him for once and for all. It makes sense that she will probably consult Alina for it. So, Malina appearance, possibly at the orphanage. Alina will not directly contribute to this war, but she will play a critical role in defeating the Darkling.

Besides, Alina —and Baghra— are the only ones who know that there has only ever been two Darklings. Zoya did sense, multiple times during KoS, that the Darkling is damn old. Yuri mentions it. And while it is not outright specified, the fact that Zoya thinks that she realizes just how ancient Lizabetha is in context of meeting the Darkling is enough proof for her to seek more information about the age and the older skill of the Darkling.

And I think it goes without saying that I want to hope that the Darkling and Alina will not meet. Pls, she’s had enough.

Lada is the lost, other friend that Zoya refuses to bury.

“She saw her mentor die and her worst enemy resurrected, and she refuses to bury another friend.”

Liliyana is dead, we know. But there’s no other mention of Lada except for the “wondering what happened to the pug faced girl.” Lada is possibly a part of the group of women and a Grisha returning to Ravka from Fjerda, exploited by the parem. She might die being unable to withhold the sheer torment of the parem induction, which will devastate Zoya because Lada was also the closest she’s had to a family with Liliyana.

Either that or Lada is already dead or dies some other way, and Zoya cannot bring herself bear the grief of losing her.

Cameos: Inej and Jesper.

The most likely of the crows to appear in RoW are Inej and Jesper and they’ll play equally important roles in the plotline. Here’s a breakdown of why:

Inej

Inej has taken the responsibility of becoming a slave hunter, and it makes sense for Inej to make an appearance in the book, given that there’s going to be a ship taking the Grisha from Fjerda to Ravka.

The women aboard are vulnerable and require immediate attention, which Inej will immediately zero in on. She will have enough reason to suspect both Leoni and Adrik on the ship, especially when the jurda parem is still a secret. Leoni and Adrik cannot give that information away because they don’t trust Inej (and have no reason to either). Inej won’t trust them either, not until she understands that the reason why the women are being taken to Ravka and for what reasons.

Which gives her excellent reason to step in, try to analyze the situation and help the women accordingly.

Here’s an exciting thought though. Once after the entire misunderstanding is overcome and Inej understands (esp. if Nina is brought into the conversation and security and secrecy of the conversation is ensured), there may be discussion about how the Grisha might find a safer space in Ravka.

Inej’s appearance might also extend to playing a pivotal role in giving Zoya the confidence to seek her heritage and where she hails from, to embrace the part of her past and forgive herself and others for her mistakes.

ALSO,

Grisha finding a safer space in Ravka will mean that Inej can pitch Jesper’s case for him to Zoya. Being the highest authority who takes cares of the responsibilities of the Grisha, Zoya will be the best person to talk about this with.

And so, here comes Jesper.

Jesper

For one, I wish Jesper and Leoni interact, talk and just bond like the iconic siblings they would be. <3 But more than that, Jesper plays very integral to the plot for more reasons.

Jesper’s arc will parallel Zoya’s. Both of them are new to their powers in their own individual sense; Zoya is trying to use her new powers in a way that hasn’t been done before, thereby breaking the Grisha orders of powers and Jesper (assuming he has decided that he might want to learn and embrace his Grisha powers) is learning them afresh.

This journey of them trying to embrace, learn and relearn and reject older norms and experiment really work in tandem.

That will lead us to a further (plot) theories.

Ties with Novyi Zem

As of the KoS end, Ravka has no support from anyone atm. Sure the Kerch will provide funds but Ravka has no real allies. Here’s where Novyi Zem and Jesper come in.

We know Novyi Zem is a new country and also that it is the second safest country for the Grisha in the universe. As of KoS, their agreements are not renewed and they would be since between Kerch and Novyi Zem, Ravka was forced to pick Kerch. Yet Ravka needs their help in acquiring jurda for the antidote.

So here’s the deal: Ravka will get their jurda but at many conditions that the Novyi Zem will impose on Ravka to not let exploitation get in the way.

The conditions imposed could be (these are just some at the top of my head but I hope there are more to ensure the safety and security of the Zemeni, in Novyi Zem and in Ravka too) :

Naval support from Ravka

We know of the Zemeni ships and ofc Nikolai has been hard at work trying to develop plans to use the sea to its fullest advantage. While the news of the izmars’ya isn’t public, Zemeni can place a condition for technical aid from Ravka since Ravka does have the technical knowledge it can dispatch as a condition.

A Grisha School in Novyi Zem

Think about it. Ravka, despite being the safest place for the Grisha, still isn’t entirely safe. Not all Grisha become soldiers in Ravka, they have a choice to abstain but those who are training are still recruited a honed for purpose alike preparing for war, especially the teens and preteens from the time of the Civil War. The training does take a lot of time. Ravka intends to make a home first and then service, but at the moment, while the Grisha are provided safety, it’s not assured in the best sense. Both the facts about a home and service are in precarious positions atm.

TL;DR: Ravka isn’t entirely safe for Grisha therefore the Grisha themselves too are not + Ravka is war torn.

So what happens?

One of the conditions as the next best country that serves as home to the Grisha, Novyi Zem may put forth the prospect of building a Little Palace like institution for the Grisha in Novyi Zem. It sounds morally wrong in the sense that the Grisha there will also be trained for war, but the war will end and soon, the Grisha will not be subject to serve for something but engage in economic activities as anybody else with the progression of time.

All of this won’t happen immediately either; learning their powers, honing it in the way that is unocnventional from what it had been pre-RoW and that transition + the building of the establishment in Novyi Zem and laying foundation for the transnational panel or committee for Grisha that Zoya talks about will all take so much time.

A few Grisha representatives from Novyi Zem can learn at the Little Palace and by the time the construction of the institution is done in Novyi Zem, these Grisha, along with other willing Grisha who either want to return to the country they were born in (like Leoni) or are offered to teach in a different country can do so too.

There will be stricter terms so as to not ensure exploitation and possible colonization in these nations.

Zoya mentions in one of her chapters that eventually there will be a need for the a transnational panel or committee for Grisha. Jesper can Zoya can make it possible, adding in other countries to the panel slowly as the war recedes.

Kaz and Wylan?

Least likely to make an appearance, in my opinion. I think they’ll be mentioned plenty of times or brought up once and given great importance for how they can help in the side plot.

Shu Support:

This is more a hope than an actually theory dfbkdhjadfh but Makhi might have to step down from the throne because Ehri will take the place; either as a Queen (no...) or she might oversee the process of strengthening Shu Han and finding a leader (if she doesn’t want to become one herself).

Ehri is capable, more than capable despite the little we know of her from the last chapter in KoS. All I hope is for an understanding and friendship between Nikolai and Ehri (and the subsequent cancelling of the marriage duH) for this to happen. She has little interest in statecraft but with the time she might spend with Nikolai, she might change her views. Even if not then she still gets the happy ending she deserves with Mayu (which is canon at this point rly).

Emotional Development or Breakdowns

Okay but I really, really, really hope we get to see all the three protagonists lose their shit and deal with their trauma, seek help or trying to stop isolating themselves or anything else they do to cope? Nina, Zoya and Nikolai, all of them cry, all of them get to completely lose it, let themselves be human and healthily cope and learn to rely on the people they trust the most. Like the sheer power and potential to show the myriad of ways to deal with grief, sadness, stress and more and make use of the trio’s backgrounds to show healthy and diverse ways of helping themselves, by letting themselves and others help them is just *combusts* Incredible!

That being said, can I also ask for moments of fear and desolation from the side characters too? Impending war isn’t small business, it will take its toll on people, and all these reactions just cement their fears and what they value the most so. pls. Humanizing them rly.

The Saving Each Other

As much as I mostly kinda hate this trope, there are traces in the KoS that Zoya might be the one to end Nikolai’s affliction. On the other hand, there is talk of Nikolai helping Zoya control her powers which seems counterintuitive when you consider that Zoya knows that there is a line that she must never cross and that she is very, very careful about it and will continue to be.

They can instead be the ones who motivate each other in times of distress as they always do (as shown with how Nikolai tries to gain control over his monster during the burning thorn ritual in KoS, allowing himself the vulnerability but also knowing that giving up will be unforgivable to both himself and Zoya as well) but I seriously do not wish for each other to be the ones directly ending one another's misery. Or perhaps this is just a fear imo that Leigh wouldn’t even take the route of (in which case, thank fuck).

Stab Stab Stab

Zoya gets the chance to kill the Darkling with the rest of her friends. After all, Darkling does call them all his old friends. Just Julius Caeser him all the way and put a bow tie on the book. *chef’s kiss* Everybody deserves a second chance... at ending a tyrant when it fails the first time.

So far, this is it. Rule of Wolves is in less than a few weeks and im- asdfghjkl. not Ready. i’m more Worried than Ready.

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the-darklings · 3 years

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╱ i only love it when you touch me, not feel me.

pairing: jean & clara verse: npfh word count: 3.1k+ warnings: nsft, bathroom/mirror sex (because that's who they are as people), rough sex (but they're both so into it I'm not sure it even counts), cockwarming. notes: so this was written all the way back in January but it's the first piece of what I considered to be the real beginning of their dynamic (which I've expanded upon in ASE) despite writing them a lot prior to this point. it's also the first time I ever tried to write from jean's pov so enjoy. this is not super explicit and more character exploration because apparently smut is good for those. as always, any feedback is loved and appreciated 🌿 ✨

He’s never cared much for his name.

Or, more accurately, never cared what sentiment it was spoken with. He’s heard his name being called lovingly, with hatred, suspicion, fear, and hatred alike. Moaned desperately and worshipped—latter he’s always preferred the most.

“I'm not going to touch you unless you beg.”

Clara, however, has an infuriatingly persistent ability to make him crave his own name. From her mouth specifically.

Jean could fuck her until she’s barely coherent and it still won’t be enough. This woman fights and fights, and doesn’t give him an inch of ground. All liquid flame and viciousness, and he can’t help but wonder where the hell she’s been hiding all this time.

With Camorra, a sly voice reminds him, Giovanni De Stefano’s deadly little matchstick. So good at death.

She is. She's a master at death and maybe that’s what makes this so fun, so good, and addictive. Why he irritatingly finds his blood burning whenever he sees her. Why he looks forward to every occasion their bodies touch. Whenever those dark eyes fixate on him and pin him in place, a monster deep down stirs, purrs at her presence. His desire is a monster with its own life, its own insatiable appetite for her.

Jean prefers when she pins him with her lithe body—eyes flashing and teeth bared, a powerful but dangerous package of hunger.

He had expected her to be meek. Broken. Especially after Tokyo. She’s proven to be anything but. Even at her worst, she’s still a sharpened blade. A danger, a promise of destruction. Damaged, certainly, but unbroken and unyielding. The more he learns about Tokyo the more his head rings with but one downright greedy thought.

The Viper hasn’t taken another lover since then. No one has touched her or tasted her since her rebirth. No one has fucked her, brought her to the edge, made her moan and shudder. Given her an escape and a release. Satisfied her.

No one knows the scrunch of her nose or the way her lips part softly. A whisper of air slipping free with every slow, lingering kiss against her throat.

Expect him.

His hips stutter at that thought. It always makes him feel good. To know that he alone has claimed some tiny part of her. Jean knows full well it’s only because she allowed him to claim it but that’s its own kind of buzz. He likes how she burns. How she yields only when she wants to. Liquid flame melting into his body like she was made to fit in his arms.

It’s sex at the end of the day. It doesn’t have to or even need to have meaning—he would know—but she makes it mean something. Emotions aside, she challenges him with such acute precision, he can’t help but come and meet her in the middle; an unending battle of wills. For all the dullness and predictability of their world, she’s a tempest, utterly untamed.

“And would you prefer if I begged?” he whispers against the shell of her ear, watching their reflection—the way they fit, the way she leans into him, trust, trust, trust, that he won’t let her fall, and they exist in these tiny victories. “Mmh? Ma vipére.”

He hums with a wolfish grin, his words throaty, pressing another greedy kiss against the back of her neck, then side, his lips dragging over her soft skin. “For you, I might,” he adds slyly, meeting her stare in the bathroom mirror again.

He might be losing, but she's losing quicker.

Clara doesn’t answer right away—a clever, careful thing that she is, his viper—and they watch each other for a moment, his pace slowing.

The bathroom door is closed, secured with one of her blades, they don’t need to rush but Jean wants to. He can savour her later, in their bed, where she’s his and his alone, where he can do everything to her. If only because he knows she’s no better. Because any scrap of pleasure she will return with an intensity that will leave him bloody.

She has in the past. His back is a colourful tale of her ravenous hunger. The Viper likes to mark him. It likely pleases her, to know she has her venom in his system in the form of her sultry whispers, kisses and moans. Blazing eyes and coil of her limbs around his.

Clara’s stare is, as usual, burning—an almost physical thing. Even like this, with him so deep inside her—and fuck if she isn’t hot, and slick, and welcoming in ways he quite remember fitting with others, and there've been plenty—she doesn’t lose her proud edge. She enjoys it, getting under his skin. Pushing him. Melting the ice, she once murmured with her mouth pressed against the taut skin of his lower stomach and sinking ever lower. Testing his self-control with her mouth wrapped around him, and her tongue searing and wet; a viper delighting in her poison spreading so effectively.

It does say something about his self-control because, despite the temptation, he doesn’t simply fuck into her until they’re both lost in pleasure so deep they can’t get out of it.

The skin of her chest is flushed, her swollen lips parted, her expression slacker with pleasure but she still stares him down.

His fingers sink into the cut of her hip, pushing her harder against the cold marble of the bathroom sinks, rolling his own hips, and it makes her shudder in his hold. So Jean presses another hungry kiss to her pulse, lets his teeth scrape against it, sucking on it. Prodding at the weak spot masterfully. He can be mean, too. She likes it when he is. Just as much as he likes it when she lets those sharper edges of hers out.

Her strong legs hold her upright but she clenches around him in reply and fuck, fuck, fuck, what is it about her?

All he wants to do is bend her over this fucking counter and fuck her until she’s screaming his name. Not that it would do him much good. Clara is as likely to let him do it as she is to graze her blade across his throat for trying. He would be lying if he said the thought of that fight doesn’t thrill him, makes him want to try it anyway. He’s only managed to get a drop on her like this a few times. Sink himself into her from behind so deeply she hadn’t been able to shake him off till she was sated and panting with pleasure.

Then, of course, the viper had tightened her grip on him in return, paying him back in kind with her bite and her venom.

The bite he enjoys a little too much. The venom is becoming… a concern.

He’s worked for years to remove any ties, any weaknesses, from his life. No one can ever have anything on him. He’s the one with the web, he’s the one who controls others. Sly implication and whispers and they’re oh, so destructive but she…

Jean snaps himself inside her, pulsing and so hard he has to grit his teeth. Clara’s hand seeks purchase desperately, her fingers snapping behind herself. Breathing deeply, she lets her nails sink into the back of his neck—firm, near painful—and he hisses through his teeth, pulling away from the hollow of her neck.

“You would like it, won’t you?” he gasps into her ear, and her nails sink deeper, so he fucks her harder. His hips are merciless against the soft skin of her thighs. Yet Clara stands unmoving, near silently goading him with her resilience and coyness. She’s so fucking wet. He’ll need a cigarette after this, or three. “On my hands and knees, non? Vicious vipère. Give in first.”

“No.”

He almost laughs at that. At the caustic hiss of her voice. Of course, she won’t. It’s why even though he’s gotten her, it makes him wonder if he truly has. If he ever will.

The more he has her, the more he wants her. And it’s a dangerous thing. To want, to crave, to hoard her the way he does.

“Then I’ll just fuck you harder, chérie.”

He wraps around her tighter, nibbling on the shell of her ear, dragging his other hand between her thighs. He feels the muscle there, the strength, he likes those legs around his waist and head too. Usually when her taste is hot on his tongue and she’s a squirming, hateful mess above him, tearing at his hair as hard as she can while she grinds onto his face.

He sucks on the curve of her neck at the memory, nibbling, wanting nothing more than to mark her with his teeth as she marked him this morning. Crinkled eyes and a content smile when she curled around him after. A predator satisfied with her hunt.

She’s addictive.

Usually, it’s the other way around. Maybe still is. But he can’t let it go much further than this. A carnal need and nothing more than that.

If he knew about this, about her…

Jean doesn’t allow the thought conclusion.

She’s nothing, he repeats to himself with every push and every strangled exhale, just a means to an end.

She never once looks away.

Clara gazes at them, takes in the way he moves in her, her eyes hooded and intent. Daring him. Even after she confessed to him how that man used to watch her. How it made her abhor every touch, despise being watched. She watches him—them, joined, with his fingers hard against her clit, drawing more of those little gasps of pleasure that sound like music to him—and he can’t help but stare too.

He should take advantage of the weakness, prod it and scrub at it until he can bend her to his will, but he loves her fire too much. Covets it like a man starved—and they both are, aren’t they—starved for more. Each other.

He wants her. For more than just a quick fuck. More than just a means by which he can bury his problems. Just more, more, more. And it sickens him, but it also makes him feel strangely relieved as well, that realisation. The acceptance of it. He would never admit it to anyone but himself but he does. It forces him to feel raw, unbalanced. He hasn’t felt like this in years. He hates it but it also makes him feel high, alive.

In revenge, he sucks on the smooth skin again, lets his teeth bite and nibble, releasing her hip and burying his fingers in her pulled-back hair. Chestnut strands loosen in his iron grasp and he only does it because he knows for a fact she doesn’t have any sharp pointy metal hidden up there. He watched her get ready. Her graceful, supple body was an open invitation for him. A sight to admire, and he did. He worshipped her with his attention, letting her know without a word how every curve and every freckle of hers sang to him. Beguiled him further.

He pulls on Clara’s hair, forcing her chin upwards, at an angle, and she still defies him. Still glares and brims with power.

A strangled pant escapes her at the change of angle, in how he slams back into her, her nails slicing into his neck. Jean hopes she draws blood even if he would have to get creative about explanations later.

“Jean.”

It’s a breathy, bewitching thing—snaring him, pulling him deeper into her, and he audibly gasps a breath, feeling even more starved. Now he wishes to claim a litany of those tiny, appreciative exhales of his name. He feels the muscles in his lower stomach grow tauter with every thrust, with every taste of her skin, and the sounds of their shared pleasure.

They penetrate the air, echoing off the walls, and they are as animalistic and as intensive as the pleasure they create.

“What?” he groans appreciatively, their eyes still locked, and heat between them sweltering. She drives him insane. He’s removed emotional attachments from himself years ago—didn’t even realise he’s still capable of them—but nothing about her, them, makes sense. She’s the one thing he can’t predict or control. “What do you want? Tell me.”

Drive me to the edge, he wants to goad her, tugging on her hair again, and he manages to dislodge a moan from the back of her throat, push me, claim what you want.

“You,” she whispers in teeth-clenched defeat but to him, it’s a symphony. This time, he won. He knows she’ll get him back. Twice as badly most likely. But saints above, did he win? She’s so open and warm, the scent of jasmines and earth mixing with his cologne and musk of sex, and he pushes into her deeper till they’re completely pressed into each other. Moulded into one being. “You.”

He feels every tense muscle in her body, and his fingers slip from her hair, curving around her throat instead, and a flutter of a smile appears, coy and knowing.

Fuck.

The things this woman does to him.

He speeds the already merciless pace until she’s a shivering mess inside his embrace, clinging out of sheer stubbornness alone. Deeper, deeper, deeper—a cruel part of him is set on planting himself inside her very marrows, so she will never be able to feel or know another lover. Not even the Italian, a voice deep down snarls. It’s so wholly and truly selfish yet he craves it. If he is to lose this game between them, he will make her lose first. Make this need between them mutual until neither of them knows where one ends and the other begins.

Jean can’t look away from her, certainly not when pushes and pushes, not when he feels her throat bob under his hand as she swallows. Wanting and needing and trusting his touch. He feels her quivering, her muscles tightening, whispering to him that—

Her orgasm washes over her like a tidal wave—slow but so intense that for the first time, he feels Clara’s legs tremble. His hold on her constricts, steadying her, and his viper withers in his embrace, a beautiful undoing. He lets her ride her orgasm out, watching her mouth, her fluttering lashes, the bead of sweat clinging between the dip of her breasts.

It's then—watching her, memorising how she looks like this; relaxed and glowing—that his own orgasm finally overpowers him. For a moment, Jean finds himself robbed of sight because she washes everything away. He spills himself inside her, letting her feel his pleasure this time. He moans for her, splinters for her, lets the world fade away just for a moment.

This is his gift, he wants to tell her then, the fact that when it’s them, it’s just them alone. There’s nothing else outside of her and he’s never allowed another this close, not since…

But he can’t adequately put that into words for her, nor does he want to. She can’t know. He hopes there will never be a day when he has to explain everything to her.

If she knew him—saw all the festering darkness like a rotting carcass out in the open—she would hate him. It would be better if she did. Maybe her hatred would make it easier to let her go.

He can’t think of that right now.

Instead Jean sinks his teeth into the slim arch of her throat, savouring the appreciative gasp she releases, dragging her nails down the side of his neck. He promised her this morning he will return the favour sooner rather than later after all.

He laps at the bite with his tongue—heat, sweat, and remnants of her soap tingling his tongue—and looks up from beneath his lashes. Her eyes appear black with pleasure. He can barely see blue in his own.

Two monsters, a thought comes then, unbidden. It’s as pleasant as it is seductive. Mainly because he knows he’s right. Cut from the same cloth, sewn into being by similar hardships, and capable of such awful things.

He’s still semi-hard inside of her but his grip on her throat loosens—and the thought she trusts him enough to let him touch her like this is thrilling enough—his palm journeying downwards. Clara sighs quietly when his palm settles against her lower stomach, and he pushes gently, savouring the breathless gasp that follows. He has to choke one back himself. She feels like heaven. Or hell. A mix of both. Still, he keeps pressing, letting the pressure sit there, feeling himself twitching inside her. Them, joined together at the seams, and the heat between them overbearing. They could go again but he doesn’t want to move just yet. It feels good to be inside her like this; a promise of more gratification sitting snugly between them.

His nose drags up the length of her neck, and he buries his face in Clara’s hair, inhaling deeply. She’s wearing his favourite perfume tonight. Something warm and deep with jasmines blooming in his lungs. If it were her, she would go on a whole monologue, breaking each chemical ingredient down and every scent used in creating it.

He likes her distracted, mind-boggling dialogues. Then nearly scoffs at the mere thought. Since when? Since when does he give a shit about something like that? It serves no purpose to him and he doesn’t waste time on things that don’t.

Because it’s her, comes the sinking realization, because she says these things, so they matter.

Merde.

He tenses when her hand settles on top of his, pushing once, harder. Another soft sigh leaves her while Jean doesn’t bother biting back his groan of appreciation at the flare of fierce hot pleasure.

Clara’s mesmeric expression arrests something inside of him when he spots it. For a second, his vision blurs and the black dress drips into white, and she wears that same peaceful expression as she sinks into a river and doesn’t resurface. A dream that haunts him near-nightly now.

He blinks and then he’s back in the bathroom, his arms still around her. She’s here, with him, and his grip constricts further. He can make it work. He’ll find a way.

When has he ever compromised?

She means nothing, he tries to convince himself once again now that he’s back from his high.

But as he peers her—tiniest of smiles on her face, her freckles a roadmap for him to re-examine, loose strands of dark hair framing her flushed cheeks—a voice scratches itself from deep inside his chest.

A voice he hasn't heard in years, not since he called somewhere earthier and greener his home.

Liar.

an: head empty, just them. I could go on about them for five calendar months but hope you all enjoyed this little peek inside his head. ASE does contain Jean's pov so you'll def be seeing/learning more about him outside of just smut dfjhgdfg

#original writing #original prose #spilled prose #oc x oc #oc writing #writing #s: almost love #c: jean #c: clara #nsft

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godkilller · 3 years

Note

Does Gin's experience in Hell change him in any way?

WHEN GIN FIRST AWOKE IN HELL, HE DIDN’T KNOW WHERE HE WAS. He genuinely believed, for a moment, that he simply reawakened in Karakura Town rubble in the midst of Aizen succeeding in creating the Oken. The skies were dull, scorched, ashes whipping in the winds. Apocalyptic. He couldn’t sense Rangiku anywhere, in his immediate attempt to stretch his awareness out -- he couldn’t sense anyone. For miles and miles that Gin’s perception of reiatsu allowed, he couldn’t sense a damn thing.

To Rangiku, it has already been over a decade since Gin died, but to Gin, his awakening within Hell was instant in following his death. Time gets a little warped, after all, given that Gin’s essence was simply awaiting the burial ritual up until now, unable to move on. If Gin retained any awareness of that particular state, he couldn’t remember it right away in his waking.

It happened fairly quickly, Gin waking and his subsequent confusion -- merely heightened into panic -- NOT REALIZING A LONE DARK FLAME SLOWLY GROWING, Gin was then abruptly engulfed into a black flame which ate, burned, and formed a black chain spewing forth, embedded into the skin beneath his robes. This birthed a new right arm and subtly different attire whilst also binding Gin to the dry lands stretching out endlessly before him.

Gin spent the entirety of his time in Hell utterly alone. Isolated. Being one of the first captain-class Shinigami to die since the last Kenpachi, with Tousen’s Hollowification being an exception and possible disrupt to his own soul burial ending with him sent here -- the district of Hell Gin was transported to was wholly empty of companions. Malformed bodies licked in flame would occasionally spawn, lost damned souls crawling to get a foothold in the rough terrain, but they were unspeaking things, abominations wailing into the dark -- and Gin did well in slashing down any who dared try to overtake him. They seemed drawn to him, for power perhaps, reminiscent to Hollow mindlessly hunting for a snack.

Hell is barren. Smokey skies and lightning churning without show of a single drop of rain. Gin tries following the chain embedded in his chest to see where the other end led him, but it mostly remained slackened -- merely tugging, albeit painfully, when Gin attempted leaping to the skies to get a better view of his surroundings. Smaller jumps, and climbing up scaling rocks worked better than trying to fly past the clouds -- so Gin spent a vast amount of time simply walking towards the horizon, sharp mountainous fixtures off in the distance.

Gin forcibly having to dwell on his actions, his life, beyond what he could accomplish on a regular basis whilst alive -- the hindsight, the mourning, the despair? It hits him all here, so much so that Gin loses his patience and lashes out at Hell, drawing forth his Bankai to see if he could slice through the ground beneath him, the sky above, the mountains off in the unending distance ---- but no matter his destruction, Hell mended its skies, and the fissures in the ground at Gin’s feet spat lava, which bled and then sealed the wound in time, and the mountains in the distance collapsed to join the flattened landscape beyond. Nothing mattered.

Nothing mattered. Nothing mattered. Nothing mattered. Nothing mattered.

Nothing fucking mattered.

Gin struggles with that for two years of nothing else; barren lands, loneliness, an itch of hunger and thirst but not a crumb to eat nor a drop to drink, an inevitable doom of mindlessly moving forward -- the insignificance of his life, and the utter uselessness of himself -- what was the point? Outwardly, Gin will flash that wicked grin and still seethe a sinister aura to any who dare to approach, but inwardly? Gin is bitter, defeated, and suffers from a moderate level of derealization. Nothing matters! It isn’t an awful fate, and Gin knows he deserves it, but the dull and otherwise uneventful state of his afterlife is... worrisome. Will this be his existence for the rest of eternity? Perhaps he may really lose his mind. But two years of this -- Gin knows, deep down, he’ll weather it, and he won’t lose his mind with simple things such as isolation and meaninglessness creeping up his throat. He’ll live. And maybe that’s part of the worst of it, living, not succumbing. Still existing.

Perhaps he dreams of the state he was in before waking here; mindless, without a body, without a sense of self. Gin tries to sleep in Hell, but can only manage short bursts here or there, as remaining still for any longer than an hour typically brings crawling ghouls and other blindly hunting things wailing and searching ---- but when Gin does manage to sleep, he dreams of that. Being nothing, weightless. There’s a familiarity, like the 64th district of the Rukongai, a warm kiss of sunlight, parting words of love and an offered unopened haiku. Maybe he’ll remember more in time, or maybe he’ll forget that vagueness in time instead... but it’s something of a comfort.

If he thinks back on when he was alive, oh, the feelings churn and grow sour and despairing too quickly, his heart hurts, he misses her. But the dreams would still come, and he’d wake feeling deep hollowing pains in his chest, a physical feeling of utter heartbreak and loneliness and grief.

A fresh-from-Hell Gin would struggle with reality, ultimately, he’d think he was dreaming. He’s not here right now, she’s not here, he’s dreaming and he’s going to wake up and it’ll all be gone. He isn’t real, none of this is real. Or even if it is, he’s not actually here, experiencing it, he’s become so removed from himself that he struggles to reel himself back in and stop viewing everything as a hallucination or story to be read over a shoulder. He knows he’s experiencing these episodes of such struggle, and therefore keeps quiet about them, grounds himself with a bitten inner cheek or a digging of fingernails into palm. An unspoken reminder; I’M HERE, I’M HERE.

Those are the changes to Gin following his stay in Hell, but of course he won’t say them aloud. He won’t confess to these feelings, no, he’d rather smile and sway and be his usual playful self as though a decade of death never happened to him, and he’ll perhaps glance off with that hidden gaze of his at times and stay quiet, silent, and may need a poke or prod to gain his attention back. Distant. Separated by a thin film of bulletproof glass, impenetrable. Maybe his smile seems strained, sad, so utterly pained that it’s best to not even dare ask ‘are you alright?’ because no, no he isn’t. But he’s here, and that has to count for something. Surely, this has to count for something, otherwise nothing matters.

#[ headcanon ] fresh snowfall; fading footprints mark his path #[ verse: hell ] and shall cast them into a furnace of fire; wailing and gnashing teeth #tw derealization

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youngster-monster · 3 years

Text

shallow grave

Archmage Kael’thas Sunstrider comes back home to a kingdom in ruin, a city in flames, and a father whose body has not yet finished cooling on the cold dry earth. The sky is choked with smoke and ashes; the streets run red with blood. His people need him — his people need better than him — and if he’s all that they have, then he’ll have to be enough.

He allows himself a day and a night to grieve, to bury his father and water his grave with his tears. Then, in the hours before dawn breaks on that second day, while his people do the same — while they bury their dead and mourn all that they’ve lost — Kael’thas lays down his grief and goes to the Sunwell.

The font of magic, like its city, like its people, was broken and tainted at the hand of the Scourge. The air echoes with a sound like the distant howling wind, but it sits heavy and still around him. Once it rang like a struck chord with the arcane energy swirling within.

This, nearly more than the bodies still lying in the streets, tells Kael’thas that they are dying.

His people need magic to thrive. They need magic to survive. Arthas has cleaved through the city to reach the heart of their power, but it’s no surprise that he wouldn’t bother to destroy them the way he has destroyed Lordaeron. What is left of them, without the Sunwell? What more does he need to do than sit and wait for them to succumb to the hunger that Kael’thas can already feel clawing at his heart?

Their survival isn’t a given anymore. It’s a question.

And what remains of the Sunwell offers an answer.

It is alive, Kael’thas finds, though he’s always expected that much. It is alive enough to be in pain, as its body is the sin’dorei’s body and their suffering is its suffering. Soon, it will die, and there will be nothing left to soothe the pain of their people.

But in these last moments, the Sunwell does not look for a way to ease its own anguish. It doesn’t fear its own end; for really what end can there be, for the mindless soul of a people, that shall live as long as they live and die alongside them? But it fears that they might never be avenged. They have been baptized anew in blood; now it would have them drown their enemies in it.

Magic, like its practitioners, holds grudges. It is a language of debt, spoken only through what you draw from it and what it takes from you. And there’s nothing quite so daunting as a debt never paid back in full.

Kael’thas hears this — the rage, wordless and unending, of a being that only exists as an instrument to a people’s collective will. Something in him answers.

This anger that finds its echo inside of Kael’thas is a pyre, he thinks, and it shall consume him if he lets it.

(His name means phoenix, in their language. He can no more fear the flames than the Sunwell can fear death. It is not in his nature.)

Prince Kael’thas Sunstrider walks into the throneroom changed, though the people gathered would be hard-pressed to say how. Perhaps it is in his eyes, the barely noticeable flicker in their golden light.

The Sunwell is gone. Long live the Sun Prince.

Still, no one speaks of it. They may not know what has transpired, but there is an instinctual recognition of the Sunwell buried deep in them. Like a compass points true to the north, they recognize this magic without knowing it.

He can feel it as well, like another heart within himself. The pulse, alien as it is, chills and comforts him in equal measure. He is both more and less than what he was before stepping into the Sunwell. Maybe he isn’t even the same person at all; something different, rather than exalted or diminished by the change.

“We will march in a week’s time,” he tells the new Ranger-General, Lor’themar Theron.

The man looks weary. The mantle is heavy on his shoulders, for all that he wears it well. Already he looks Kael’thas in the eyes when he speaks, and refuses to flinch at what he sees there.

“With what army, my lord? Over half our forces are dead; those who still live are exhausted, or stationed too far from the city to reach us before we depart.”

“You worry about the living, Lor’themar, and I will worry about the dead.”

The Sunwell was tainted by the Scourge when it sunk into Kael’thas; he can feel that as well. But Kael’thas is not a Well of magic that feeds an entire kingdom.

He is but a man, and a man may be touched by necromancy and survive in a way a Well cannot.

A man can be a necromancer.

And Kael’thas intends to be one. He intends to be the best necromancer there ever was, actually, because when has he ever settled for anything less?

When he walks through the streets, people hush and step aside. They see that he is grieving, and the world knows what happens when the Sunstriders grieve.

Dath’Remar founded a kingdom over this grief — for a time past, for magic that he could not bear to be parted from. Kael’thas has lost so much more; his retribution will match the scale of his grief.

He walks until the ground underneath his feet has gone black with ashes and graveyard dirt; until the stench of rot chokes him; until he can walk no more for all the bodies still not buried, and the few still walking that threaten to take notice of him. They could tear through him in seconds, alone as he is, still strong from their master’s passage.

That’s fine. He won’t be alone for long.

He knows his people by the shape of the space left empty by their absence. The awareness is unnatural — no, not unnatural. It’s foreign to him; not meant for a body like his own. Not meant to be embodied at all. It’s like an itch under his skin, a calling that he can’t quite hear.

When he reaches for it, something reaches back.

It feels rather like fire, where he would have expected ice. It stands to reason that his magic would not suffer the cold, no matter how necromantic the source. If anyone were to raise the dead with the very fire that would see them cremated, likely as not it would be him.

The flames race across the ground, seeking their brethren: the fires that used to burn in the heart of dead sin’dorei. Once found, the embers are rekindled by the deadfire; light blazes in empty eyes, and what few bodies were left behind by Arthas rise to their feet. Fire can be seen through the gaps in flesh, beneath exposed ribs, like a coal engine fueling the precious machine of their reanimated body.

The ghouls shy away from them, hissing at the light they cast. The burning dead pays them no mind, if they have any mind left to pay; they gather themselves into neat ranks to be inspected.

Kael’thas expected it to take more energy, but even the shattered remains of the Sunwell are more magic than any one man should hold; he doesn’t even feel winded. He steps up to one of the risen bodies. A civilian, he thinks; most of them must be, to have been discarded by Arthas. She looks up at him and he sees nothing in her eyes but a reflection of his own resolve.

These he will walk out of the city, to be buried with dignity. They didn’t live a life of battle, and he finds himself reluctant to give them such a restless death. Without the instinctual knowledge of weapons carrying over from their life, he’s not even sure he could make them fight.

But after— he’ll have to find motivated graverobbers, he thinks, and appeal to the noble houses of Silvermoon for authorizations to desecrate family crypts. There are many soldiers buried in the city, and he intends to make use of them all.

Again bodies walk through the streets of Silvermoon, though this time the prince that leads them trails embers in his wake rather than frost. It’s a testament to their grief that few bother to curse him for it; once he’s laid the bodies outside of the city, away from the ghouls that would devour them before they can be buried, his people come to him with questions on their lips but little blame.

Though it might be because they are too shocked for outrage to take root.

“How?” Lor’themar asks, helpless, as they watch the last of the dead lay down at the end of a row of their kind and go back to their eternal sleep.

“It is my duty to keep this kingdom safe,” he replies, which is not much of an answer at all. “And, this failing, to see it avenged.”

It doesn’t feel wrong, that playing with the natural order of things, though he expects Arthas had a remarkably similar train of thought before laying waste to the city of his birth. It feels as natural as all other magic Kael’thas has ever wielded. It will take care to keep it from getting out of hand; this is the kind of power that corrupts absolutely.

Unlike Arthas, this magic does not come from a place of corruption; it is born of the sin’dorei and for them, and draws its power from the seven thousand years of memories and magic that made up the Sunwell. As long as he holds on to that impulse of protection rather than destruction, he thinks he can make it.

Maybe that’s why it doesn’t feel any different than other spells. Because it fits him, that burning desire to keep what belongs to him safe, to the point that he’d bend the laws of nature to do it. Maybe it wasn’t so much a transformation as an evolution; a rebirth into something not so much changed as made better suited to its task.

“You’re different,” Rommath notes nonetheless, though it doesn’t sound accusing.

In the absence of the Convocation of Silvermoon, Kael’thas brought his demand for bodies directly to the noble houses. Most have agreed, animated by the same desire to see their enemies brought down, never to hurt them again, no matter the cost. He’s making rounds through their cemeteries now, watching every undertaker in the city and any abled person willing to take up a shovel digging up caskets and carrying shrouded bodies to the outskirts of Silvermoon where their troops are gathering. They’ll have to be quick. Work with corpses requires speed as hygiene can hardly be guaranteed.

It’s lucky that they’ve somewhat lost the tradition to cremate their dead. Many still do; and they are safe from his sacrilege now, though all sin’dorei soldiers are sworn to protect the kingdom any way they might, in life and beyond. Commoners have been coming to offer their own dead to his cause. He would not ask that of his subjects; but they understand the need for desperate measures.

What good is a full grave to the living?

“Am I really?” He asks idly, crossing names off his list. The Brightwalker crypt has been emptied already; their matriarch watches over the process herself, red-eyed but strong in the face of her youngest son’s body being brought out and covered by a veil for transport. “Besides the obvious.”

Rommath tilts his head, considering this. “Not by much, I suppose.”

“Is it a good difference?”

“That, only time will tell. But it’s a necessary one; that much I believe.”

Of course Rommath would understand. They are, in the end, creatures of pride, and pride begets duty. Good has nothing to do with it.

They march out of Silvermoon with a force diminished from the invasion of Quel’thalas — but still thousands strong, and twice what they might have been able to gather if not for Kael’thas’ foray into graverobbing. Grave-borrowing? He’s regent, now, would be king if he had bothered to get crowned. He has a right to conscript a few bodies, he thinks, if he promises to give them back after.

Arthas leaves a clear trail to follow, and they do. The dead can march forever, if need be; the living are not so impervious to fatigue, but desperation pushes them forward nearly as efficiently as Kael’thas’ magical control would.

He rides at the front, half a mind on the control of the army of undead at his back and the other half on the army of undead they’re marching towards.

They plan to cut Arthas’ path in Northrend; they meet the Forsaken on their way north, which is a surprise for both parties.

An arrow nearly takes Kael’thas’ head clean off his shoulders. It combusts in flight and disintegrates to ashes before reaching him, caught by a mage more attentive than he is. The next volley meets the same fate, and is quickly followed by the soldiers shifting formation — Lor’themar’s cry of protect the prince answered by hundreds of clanking armor.

Looking up, Kael’thas sees them coming from the trees like wraiths; dark figures, alight with death magic, but walking with a confidence that the shambling masses that Arthas controls simply lack. He holds his counter-attack, for now, though their approach makes his entire body shake with a kind of aimless bloodthirst. The Sunwell remembers what has hurt it; it does not forget hate nor fear easily.

When it becomes clear that the undead will neither attack nor come forward, Kael’thas rides out of the protective circle of his men, heedless of Lor’themar’s complaints. He recognizes Sylvanas soon enough. She’s a difficult woman to forget, even looking for all the world like she’s just clawed out of her grave.

“Ranger-General Windrunner,” he greets, as pleasantly as he can muster. He’s had a hard time sounding pleasant, lately. “I’m afraid I’ve given away your job.”

Her glare is a fierce thing, and her hand flexes around her bow like she’s considering striking him down anyway. “Prince Kael’thas. You’re alive.”

“No need to sound so disappointed.”

Ignoring him, she casts a look at the troops at his back. He can imagine what she sees: the strange glow of the reanimated soldiers, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the living in an uneasy, desperate show of force.

“Your soldiers are not.”

“Indeed they aren’t.”

Her sharp eyes come back to him, assessing. “Have you gone and pledged yourself to the Scourge, then, since you could not beat it?”

Her tone suggests he would not leave this place alive, if that were the case. But her assumption is only met with a flash of rage; Kael’thas’ grip over his reins goes white-knuckled, and he has to breathe shallowly through his nose before he speaks again.

“I would have Arthas dead by my hand, if I can; the Sunwell concurred, and gave me the means to achieve this goal.”

It is a remarkably reserved way to summarize events. Yet Sylvanas looks as if he had struck her, eyes widening as she takes in the force behind him once again, quickly.

“Ana’band tur, anu dor’ishura belore.” You speak, and we should hear the sun. Once a ritual phrase meant to show respect to the king or queen of Quel’thalas; now a literal truth.

He tilts his head to the side in acknowledgement. “So it is.”

As expected from the fierce ranger, she takes that information with suspicion rather than relief. She squares her shoulders and asks, walking the fine line between curiosity and suspicion, “What makes you different from the Scourge?”

“I do not claim to resurrect anyone.” At her disbelief, he gestures at the army at his back. The corpses are still in a way the Scourge, ever shifting like one giant creature of hunger, could never manage. “They are all animated, by magic and the lingering will of their soul to protect their land — puppets rather than slaves, I suppose.”

When one lives hundreds of years, their soul leaves an imprint on the body that is hardly scrubbed by death. Even when only skeletons remain of the people they once were, the bones remember what it was to love Quel’thalas — and to die for it. They are ready to do it again, if they must.

Sylvanas observes him silently. Gauging him, though what she hopes or expects to find here he doesn’t know.

“Will you join us?” he asks, once it becomes clear she will not speak again.

“We have taken Lordaeron for our own — as free, independent people. I cannot fight your war, prince.”

Death changes them all, no matter which side of it they are on. If she considers herself more undead than she is elven, then so be it.

“Then will you fight with us?”

Sylvanas Windrunner has never turned down a fight. Especially not against the Scourge.

Northrend is a cold, barren place, but Kael’thas’ army burns bright as if it is carrying its own sunlight, stowed away in the gaps between their bones. It keeps them warm when the howling blizzard would tear the flesh right off their skeleton.

It is only a worry for those of them who still have flesh to lose, which is a majority by not quite as much of a comfortable margin as they may like.

Kael’thas makes them march on until they can’t take another step, and then a few miles more, until the snow and the storm-grey sky have become one uninterrupted expense of darkness and they have no choice but to put up tents and fires. His men suffer through because they, too, can feel the end coming. They are running out of time. Soon fate will decide whether Arthas lives or dies, and Kael’thas intends to wrestle the decision from its hands.

The dead among their ranks light the way in the dark, they keep frostbite and hypothermia away, they keep their kin safe. That is what they were made for.

The fire set to an arrow and the fire of the hearth come from the same ember.

And through it all Kael’thas keeps a tight hold over the magic that animates them. It grows in him, like a fire kept well-stoked by rage, rekindled whenever it falters by the sight of yet another body puppeteered by Arthas.

Every forward party, every cohort of undead they cross paths with, they dispatch with immense prejudice. And once the dead have been killed again, they sort through the wreckage and pull the sin’dorei from their hard-won rest.

Fight for me, Kael’thas whispers, breathing fire into the furnace of their chest. Fight for your people, so that they may one day rest as you do.

There is nothing left of the person they once were in these restless dead — sometimes very little of their body even — but that small kernel of devotion to their kin, that banked ember that he coaxes back into a blaze.

Their numbers keep growing as they pick the Scourge apart, little by little. It makes them easier to spot; good. Let Arthas come track them down. Let him face the people he sought to destroy, and be destroyed in return.

Someone else takes notice of them — this glowing army of half dead men that burns through Northrend on its way to the Frozen Throne.

The demon hunter descends upon them, armed and unafraid, as if he might fight them all single-handedly if given the chance. But he keeps his hands at his side as he asks which master they serve, with a kind of foolish hope that they may not fight him.

“We serve the crown of Quel’thalas,” Lor’themar says, bright and sure in his role of Ranger-General, shielding Kael’thas behind his greater bulk. “Who are you? Who do you serve? Who do you fight?”

Illidan Stormrage serves no one, he claims, but himself; but he fights the Scourge, and the man at its head who would summon Archimonde to their world, and little matters more in an alliance than shared hatred for the Scourge nowadays.

Kael’thas steps past Lor’themar, crosses the barren space between his army and the lonely figure of the Betrayer, stands toe-to-toe with him and asks, “Will you fight with us?”

And Illidan — anger burning in face instead of eyes, a grief too large for even he to carry — a man who has only ever had himself to fight for, and to fight with—

This man looks back at Kael’thas’ smaller form, at the burning army of the dead that follows him, at the suffering of a people hounding his steps. He looks at the dark resolve in his golden eyes and the stubborn set of his shoulders as he prepares to fight — he’s always prepared to fight — and sees himself, younger and fairer but just as hungry. Just as desperate.

Victory or death, he whispers, quiet around a mouthful of teeth and blood, taking Kael’thas’ hand.

Sometimes both, Kael’thas replies, only half in jest, and shakes it.

These are three armies alike in desperation, taken to the limit of their force, unified in singular hatred of the force marching to the Frozen Throne.

It’s their edge, in a cruel way. No one could expect them to reach Arthas in time to cut him off; no one but themselves, pushing themselves to cross the continent in half the time it ought to take, the dead carrying the living when their mortal bodies fail.

They’re sharp, the three of them, all too clever for their own good, each ruthless in their own way. Each foolish in the same way. Sylvanas would have their men die to reach the battle one day sooner; Illidan would die himself for a chance at slowing Arthas down; Kael’thas would burn this continent to the ground and fall with it, if it meant ridding the world of its curse for good.

They balance each other out, somewhat, or rather keep each other contained by virtue of their sharp edges, like brawlers stuck in a fighting ring made up of the drawn blades of the audience. Stray too far from the plan, and you bleed. It’s as simple as that.

As a long-term alliance, calling it flimsy would be an abject overestimation. But here, in Northrend, with their time quickly running out, it’s as solid as steel to Kael’thas.

“You are fascinating,” Illidan says, watching the way golden light plays across Kael’thas’ skin as he weaves the spell over his troops stronger, makes sure they keep moving, keep burning, and never run out of fuel. The Sunwell is not an endless source; but it will hold until the end. That much he knows.

“I don’t think I am,” he replies easily, though that’s a lie. He knows himself to be one of a kind; but he’s been raised properly, and it’s impolite to brag.

Illidan doesn’t buy it for one second. “You are,” he insists, holding a strand of Kael’thas’ hair between two claws. It emits a faint glow, like heated metal, that might go unnoticed if not for the color it casts over Illidan’s darker skin. Like holding sunset in his palm. “All the power of a well of magic, held within one man— It’s not so much a surprise you can raise the dead, when one thinks about all the other things you might do with such magic at your disposal.”

Slowly, so Illidan might clue in before he makes a remark of it, Kael’thas lifts his eyes up and quirks up an inquisitive eyebrow at the piece of his hair that the other man is currently manipulating. He flushes, dark against his nightshade skin, and drops it as if it burned.

Pity; Kael’thas did not mind the touch, only found it amusing that Illidan would give it so freely. But the man might not have noticed himself doing it. Out of habit, perhaps, of being more free with his affection among other demon hunters; or because he, like many of the magic-infused elves, finds himself drawn to Kael’thas for reasons he could not put into words if pressed upon it.

Pushing the offending strand of hair behind his ear, he casts a glance across their assembled troops again. His men mill about, as comfortable among the Forsaken and Illidari as among their own. Only the dead stand still, puppets without a purpose yet. He longs to put them to rest. It aches to see them denied their rightful afterlife.

“This power isn’t mine,” he says eventually. “I must give it back, though I do not know — do not wish to know — how I will go around to doing it.”

It surprises him that he’s willing to say that much, to a man so nearly a stranger as Illidan. But it is true: he is running out of time in many more ways than one, and once Arthas is dead and he has brought his brethren back to their graves, he’s afraid of what will be left for him to do.

A phoenix must die to be reborn, after all.

At least he would die for his people; there is honor in that. What would happen if he were to die here, on this frozen hellscape, bears not thinking about.

He will not, cannot, fail.

In the final battle — their last chance before Arthas ascends to the Frozen Throne and crowns himself Lich King — Kael’thas thinks he may die.

His blood is hot on his skin, the stench of the undead pervasive in the air, and though every one of his men that fall can still fight he’s not sure the same can be said for him. He’s nearing his limits; he’s not sure he’ll notice he has crossed it until it’s too late.

Kael’thas wants to scream as he struggles to wrestle the control of sin’dorei from Arthas’ grasp, to cut the strings that tie their spirits to this world and burn the Lich King’s mark from them until only the piece of sun inside of them remains. Give me back my people. Let my kin come home. Let me bury them properly, and never disturb their rest again.

The wind whips his hair around his face as the battle rages, and each arc from his sword draws blood, too thick with decay and frost to splatter over him. All the blood on his skin is his alone; or his kin’s, but that is very nearly the same thing.

But he’ll make it through; he has to. For his people, for his father, for all the bodies held together by magic and prayer fighting around him.

When he reaches Arthas, the world falls to a standstill.

He’d like to gloat; he’d like to rage. But words fail him. Felo’melorn in his hands, the ghost of the sin’dorei at his back, it does not matter. Actions speak louder than words.

Whatever his sword says for him, Arthas gives his answer in blood.

#writing #world of warcraft #kael'thas sunstrider #illidan stormrage #necromancer kael'thas

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monsterlovinghours · 3 years

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I'm feeling very soft for Angel!Dewey and I was wondering if I could get some soft/romantic stuff from the fluffy boy. Maybe a soft, wine drunk, s/o because am I projecting? No! If you feel like tossing incubeej in there you know how I feel about poly but don't feel pressured

*spongebob narrator voice* one thousand years later...

The rain that pattered and tapped against the glass panes of the semi-open window didn't match the rhythm and tempo of the gentle music he had put on for her, but it didn't deter her from dancing, from holding out her hands and insistently tugging him to his feet to dance along with her. Dewey Finn didn't dance, at least not in any way that could be considered "good," but the call of her embrace was too sweet to ignore, and with her tipsy on good wine, she would barely notice if all he did was sway with her in his arms. It was warm here in her kitchen, the only light coming from the various scented candles she'd strewn around the counters and his own golden aura. There was hardly a sight he loved more than to see his halo reflected in her eyes, even if they were a little hazy. It had been a long week-a long month, if he were being honest-and he had all but forced her to take a night off, to let him take care of her and relax. At first, she had balked, insisting that she didn't need to be taken care of, that she wasn't some delicate flower on the verge of wilting, but Dewey had assured her that taking a break wasn't a sign of weakness, that letting yourself be cared for didn't mean you couldn't take care of yourself. Finally, she had relented, though it had taken her a while to actually relax enough to let go and enjoy herself as Dewey showered her with affection and tenderness, pampered her and wouldn't let her lift a finger for herself the entire evening.

As always seemed to be the case with humans, food helped ease her anxiety, dinner brought in from her favorite place. That seemed to be the final blow to her barriers, though the wine didn't hurt. Fed and tipsy, she had crawled into his lap and asked him for music, and he had had to stretch out the tips of his wings to knock the needle onto the spinning record. Slow love songs filled the room, and while he was expecting her to start theatrically gagging as she usually did when such music was played, she only snuggled closer, pushing her face into the side of his neck and humming softly. Dewey sang the bits he knew in her ear-admittedly, love songs weren’t his forte, and he wasn’t as well-versed as he perhaps ought to have been. Still, she didn’t seem to notice when he stumbled over a lyric here and there, and soon began to unfurl herself from his lap to get to her feet and dance. Which is where they found themselves now.

She kissed him, her lips tasting of wine and warmth, lingering against his as her fingers wove into the curls at the nape of his neck, sending the lightest of shivers down his spine. There was no way she could fully know the effect she had on him; how could she? The lightest scratch of her fingernails on his skin felt as monumental as the cosmic match struck to light the universe's very first star, the hum of her sleep-heavy voice in his ear like the thrum of macrocosmic gravity. Though her life was fleeting and his unending, when he was in her arms, Dewey couldn't help but feel made anew, an infant universe wrapped in the embrace of its creator. She was stars and void and infinity and unfathomable space contained in flesh and blood. How could his clumsy tongue possibly find the grace to tell her this?

Instead, he kissed her back, pressing forward as his hands slid into her waist, palms pulsing warm against her skin as they slipped beneath her shirt to press against her back. The worn vinyl tile of the kitchen floor creaked beneath them as they swayed to the music, until her mouth broke from his and her head drooped onto his shoulder. Her body felt pleasantly heavy in his arms, her lashes brushing against his neck as her eyes fluttered shut, trusting him to hold her upright. Smiling tenderly, he gathered her close, drowsy protests and all, and carried her back into the living room. By the time he had them settled on the couch, her body folded comfortably in his lap, she was asleep, breath deep and even and untroubled.

They hadn't moved an inch when a shift in air pressure announced the return of the third member of their living arrangement, eyes glowing faintly in the semi-darkness as his tail twitched at his side, fangs exposed in a smile at the sight that greeted him. Beetlejuice could smell the alcohol lingering in her bloodstream, heard the reassuring, steady thudding of her heartbeat, and a gentle, loving purr rumbled in his chest at the sight of her curled up so sweetly in the angel's arms.

"Ain't that cute?"

Dewey smiled back at the incubus, stroking a strand of hair off of her forehead. "Wine knocked her out," he whispered as Beetlejuice crossed the room to kneel in front of them. It didnt escape his attention that Dewey's grip didnt tighten instinctively as he drew nearer, as it certainly would have earlier in their arrangement. The angel would likely deny it if asked, but after months of living and loving alongside what was meant to be his adversary, he had grown to trust and even become fond of the semi-feral demon. Beetlejuice ran his fingers down her arm, his chilled touch leaving goosebumps across her skin even in her sleep.

“You think she’ll be waking up anytime soon? I’m starved.”

Unable to hold back a soft snort, Dewey shook his head. “Of course you are. No, I think she’s down for the count.”

Despite his apparent hunger, the demon didn’t seem to be upset at being unable to access his most convenient food source. “Ah well. S’pose we should get her to bed.” He reached out to pull her gently from Dewey’s embrace, and his tail curled in satisfaction when the angel released her without complaint. He followed quietly as the demon carried her into the bedroom, settling her among the pile of soft pillows and tugging a blanket over her still form. She had barely stirred or made a sound, so deep asleep beneath the safety of her lover’s watch. Beetlejuice straightened, and for a moment, the two just stood and watched her, watched the minute rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, the subtle tremor of body with each gentle heartbeat. Then the demon broke the silence, murmuring gently.

“We’re a couple lucky sons of bitches, you know?”

Dewey couldn’t help a smile at that. “We are,” he readily agreed. He sighed, then glanced up at Beetlejuice, whose green-hued hair was beginning to dull a shade or two, a sure sign of impending starvation. “So you’re just gonna go hungry?”

A smile of a different sort curled on the incubus’s mouth, fangs catching the low light as his eyes pulsed with a greenish glow, the tips of his horns and the roots of his hair fading into a suggestive magenta. “I didn’t say that. You’re not planning on going anywhere tonight, are you, twinkle-toes?”

A flush crept from his ears to his cheeks and down his neck as he slowly shook his head. Beetlejuice grinned and pointedly let his long, striped tongue curl around one of his fangs, licking his teeth with a low, grating purr. “Perfect. Out in the living room, and be quiet about it. Don’t wanna wake Sleeping Beauty, do we?”

#angel!dewey #incubeej #HAXLEEN SPOTTED BEING A SOFTY SOFT SIMP BOY #MORE AT 11

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trillian-anders · 4 years

Text

bewitched

pairing: geralt of rivia x reader

warnings: violence (physical violence, mentions of suicide, death, harm to a child), angst, smut

word count: 4544

description: part 1 of 3. there’s a curse on your kingdom and as the king’s mage it’s your duty to break it. but only when the curse seems to befall you do you call for help. a man you’d seen once in your youth. a witcher.

note: (can be read as stand-alone) there are some trigger warnings, it’s dark as far as mentions suicide and a child is harmed in this.

It was slow, moving through the foggy moor. The dew not yet settled. The sound of the spectre cutting through the grass could be heard if you listen, but the poor victim was not listening hard enough. A man who’d been travelling for days, escaping to the next village over for fear of prosecution. His hands were stained with blood for the woman he loved, and he accidentally killed. The man’s guilt was feasting on his belly, rum and whiskey he’d been trying to burn it away with did nothing more than stir the bile.

Vomit stained his boots, upchucking again, dry heaving by the side of the road. He gagged, sipping water from his hide, he persevered on. Through the fog and tall grass he could see his destination. The village was a good size for him to disappear into, in a dip of land behind a mighty castle, large sea rock behind, waves crashing upon the cliff in steady beats. It was lively enough to have an open pub. A place to further drown his sorrows.

A scratch. That’s all it takes. Deep and unseen. The scratch that leads into madness. His guilt the trail of breadcrumbs leading the spectre to its feast. He stumbles into the warm stone building, stragglers and early morning travellers dipping into their vices once more before starting their day, those who’ve not rested since the previous evening.

A stumble and fall into the bench, his eyes unfocused. Sweat pooling on his brow as he replayed his crime. Over and over until the slosh put in front of him wasn’t enough to drown. He swallowed his guilt, coins tossed on the table and asked for a room. Sleep his sorrows away until they no longer felt so raw.

But it did nothing to quell the festering wound left by the spectre, the wound he didn’t know existed. The spectre stayed in the shadows, enjoying the meal it had been given. The guilt filled it’s belly for the first time in ages. But it wasn’t enough. The spectre was patient. This wound would fester more until it consumed the man’s body, until he was empty in madness or until he ended his life. And it would be fed. After, it could sense the delicious trail of guilt and sorrow in this village, it would feed again. The shadow demon grew satisfied in that it would no longer feel the acidic gnaw of hunger.

A place destined for madness.

Years passed and those who did not live and die in this village never stayed for long. Some stories would say it cursed. People would grow mad, men and women slitting their throats in the street. Hanging themselves in the gallows. Screaming and becoming belligerent. Locked away for the rest of their lives. Holy men dared not step foot on the plagued ground. And the king grew sick with it. The disgrace handed down to him from generations before. The blame put on a mad King, his Great-Great-Grandfather now long dead, buried in the crypt below his feet.

With three wives dead, a fourth with a child on the way, hopeful for a son. He buried himself into resentment for the life he’d been given. Ungrateful for the fortune and wealth. Ungrateful for the ease in which he was able to live.

That’s what you resented him for.

You’d been given away as soon as your parents realized you had the gift. Trained and tasked with becoming the mage you were today. A king’s mage. The Cursed King’s mage. You’d seen this lineage’s descent into madness and were expected to stop it. You lurked in the shadows of his life, willfully standing by as wife after wife failed to produce him a son, the curse of the town pulling them into madness.

The first threw herself from a tower. The second put rocks in her pockets and walked her and her newborn daughter into the sea. The third was locked away in the asylum, screaming until her throat bleeds. The King, unsatisfied with his brood, took on a fourth wife. Maybe this time she’ll provide him a true heir.

But in all this, you felt, maybe you were the ungrateful one. You were given whatever you wanted, whatever resource you could possibly need or want. And you didn’t even have to fetch them yourself, a courier would pluck your herb and slaughter your animals. Your hands, shaking as they may be in grief for your position, no longer have the dirt and scars from your youth.

“You’re a beauty.” He’d mused. Your old King. He’d sought for you, the talent you’d possessed when you’d felt yourself still a girl. You were naive then, unknown to you the curse he brought on his back and lay at your feet. The dance in court, a seduction to your new position. Whether it was for you or him there was no clear answer. You knew, as your master had taught you, that he would never see you as more than a pretty ornament. A tool for his mastery.

It was better than digging up radishes and eating half cooked potatoes in your family’s shed. You wouldn’t care to wonder what they are doing now. Your parents and sisters are most likely older, more gray and more dead. A lineage you know not if it was passed on, but you weren’t of them anymore. Not for nearly half a century.

He was fat, your king, stuffing his sorrows down with roast pork and wine, blind with it. You mused if he could even perform at all let alone produce an heir on his part. His pretty bride, sold to him by her own family, a noble’s daughter who was afraid, very afraid.

“Will I be cursed?” She asked, made aware of her pregnancy, the seed having taken root in her belly like the beginning of her end. A death sentence created by rumor. “When my babe is born, would I sooner throw myself into a pyre than try to produce again?” Her eyes dazed, wide, and unblinking.

You were meant to console her, you assumed. Tell her what she wanted to hear, that she wouldn’t fall into the same madness that had taken every Queen before her.

“Madness only takes you if you let it.” A small vial for the health and well being of her baby. “Persevere and keep yourself strong.” That’s all you could give.

You’d come here softer than you should, calloused from your training, but training and real world experience were very different. The first time the old King had come to you in ramblings and despair you’d given him something to sleep, you tried to find the source of his pain like he’d instructed, but he’d soon fell. Locked away in the stone walls of this castle until the day he’d passed, his son taking the throne hastily after and finding a proper bride who quickly sired him a son. Your current King. The one who took his throne only after his Father was slipped into madness like a dream in the night. Swift and abrupt, unending nightmare of a dream.

He’d hung himself in the main hall.

His son was a child then, twelve when he’d taken the throne. You’d served a boy who’d barely found his own cock before he was giving you instruction. Pompous and confident in the wake of his Father’s death, the boy seemed so sure he would not meet the same fate. But now as his beard turned gray without an heir he claimed he was given a headier curse.

“Is there anything you could do to guarantee me a son?” His face half lit by the candles in your room, red and puckered with age.

“There is nothing guaranteed with magic.” You state and wrap your gown further across your body, the King having interrupted your bath, gown sticking to your legs. “I’ve done everything I’ve known to try to give you a son, everything ethically possible.” His mouth stank of rot. Spitting, snarling, hair pulling,

“Well try something unethical then or it shall next be your neck hanging from my gallows.”

It was hard to be grateful for this life, but swallowed down by the guilt of others suffering. Those you could see without food or drink, empty bellies in his Kingdom he cared not about more than his own life.

There was a way, but it was never something you’d expected to be pushed to do. It seemed madness had already taken root in him, or perhaps it was you for you were not sure who was more mad for this act. Him requesting it or you following through.

It made you sick, but it was not something you could show. And when he asked it done you appeased him. The memory of the sweat and crying, your fingers aching with it. The unrest afterward.

The village, thick with mud from the last rain, smelled of shit. You thought about all of the other mages that were gifted with you, their gilded cages in high towers above prosperous cities. You’d picked the short straw. Or perhaps you’d been the short straw that your old King picked himself.

Winter was approaching, snow would soon lay thick on the ground, so you had to move quickly or else you’d never get a moment of peace until well after the birth of the new prince. Your fingers found the precarious rock’s surface. A deep crawl belly to salty rock to make your way into the sunken cave, the ocean spraying against your side, soaking you to your slip as you made entrance.

A wave and the fire roared to life, illuminating your place of escape.

You’d found it in a dream, leftovers from the mage before you, burned on a pyre for bringing this curse upon the village. The curse upon her king. But you knew it wasn’t a curse, you’d known that for a while now. It was your purpose to identify the source of the curse, but you had. It was not something you knew how to fight.

The beast was uncommon, a whisper heard in the shadows, a task only a Witcher could take on with hope to survive. The last Witcher that had stumbled upon your town had gone mad in his own right, succumbed faster than any before him and threw himself into the sea.

That seemed like a lifetime ago.

The cave was hot with the fire, clothes discarded, you kneel at the foot of the fire. Seeking, in fear for your own life now, the guilt of what you’d just done was enough to take root deep in your belly and rip you apart. You had to find another Witcher. And soon.

You drift into a memory. Just a girl, well before you knew what you would soon become. Your hands, clean, reverting to calloused and thick with dirt. You hadn’t had your first blood, your breasts mere buds, new and tender, you were back on your family’s farm.

You saw him there for the first time. The man they called the White Wolf. He threw a creature at the foot of a man’s hearth. An exchange of coins, your eyes looking up to meet his; gold. You felt bewitched by them. A wash of familiarity... You’d been waiting near his horse, a gut feeling you couldn’t resolve. He’d paused, you were sure looking down at your dirty face and hands. An empty belly. A moment of eye contact while you waited for him to speak, but he didn’t. He’d slipped you a coin, pulled from his pocket and into your grubby little hands. One coin. Before his back turned and he rode his horse out of the village and far away from you.

You felt it, beneath your fingertips. Smooth and cold. You marveled at how men would kill for this shiny piece of metal, given no more worth than what they themselves give to it.

When you’re pulled back to your present it was there, between your thumb and forefinger, the only difference being fifty years. But the world was vast. It would take a certain orchestration of events to get your Witcher here. It would be your paranoia maybe, or the fact that the spectre knew what you were doing, but you could see the shadows shift out of the corners of your eyes.

The Witcher needed to get here fast, the Hym seemed to have locked it’s sights on you.

…

The Witcher heard tales of a beast, coin for another, and another. He’d never had good enough fortune for money such as this. Every village he went to seemed to have a story for another, and another. On and on until the realization. A clear path on a map leading him to an unknown destination. He wondered who’d orchestrated this. You could sense it from your sanctuary.

The wonder of the plan. The hope that it would be a lost love. You cared not for who he loved but only wished he would quicken his feet. The paranoia grew by the day. The fear buried in your gut and sickness that washed over you as the Hym suckled at the guilt, feeding it’s belly on your mistakes.

A trail of breadcrumbs stained the bodies of creatures you’d placed into his path. Bodies slewn and dispatched for thankful villages and the satisfaction of a job well done. It had been months before you saw him cross the threshold of your castle. The paranoia and fear growing in bile in your belly. You weren’t sure he was even real until your King called an audience with him.

The Witcher, Geralt of Rivia. He stepped into your throne room and there was a primal feeling in your gut. You’d brought him here, to you. The Hym scratching at your back. You knew your King would seek any cure to save his life that he could, even if it wasn’t actually his life that was in danger.

You could imagine the spectre’s claws in your back as your King began to speak.

“I’ve heard tales of you, Witcher.” Your King’s voice, sure and booming for respect. “The White Wolf.” You watched Geralt, expressionless, almost bored. “I have a task for you Witcher.” You saw those gold eyes shift from him, a pull towards you that you’ve created. A raised eyebrow. “My family has been cursed for nearly a century now.” He stood from his throne, stepping towards the man. “My useless mage has not found a resolve for said curse,” His eyes drift to you as well as your King’s. You willfully show no response. Your King scoffs, “I’m hoping to employ you for the cause of saving my kingdom.” More to save himself.

The Witcher looks to you, the familiarity on his features, the same familiarity you felt when you’d met him as a child. You could see the gears of his mind turning. He turned his gaze from you slowly as your King continued.

“We’ve been under this curse, turned my family, my citizens into madness.” He says, “With not a clue as to the cause. If you listen you can hear the screams from the mad in the asylum upon entrance. If any being born of magic can break this curse, it would be you Witcher.”

Like poison in your veins, black and thick, you dipped down into that madness. Sweat on your brow, sorrow and rough cries in the night. It’s how he found you.

“How long have you known of this Hym?” His voice gruff, deep. You could see in the mirror your sunken eyes and vacant expression. A pallor of death.

“Long enough to be a fool to be taken by it.” You breathe, dampening a cloth to place on your neck. He leaned against the wall by your door, reflected in your mirror.

“Were you the one laying beasts in my path to lead me here?” Those eyes, focused and calculating, sent a chill down your spine as you turned to him.

“How else would I have acquired a Witcher?” His eyes focused on the shifting shadow. A pass of the spectre hiding behind you.

“What is your guilt?” He asked, hands clenched tightly by his sides. You swallow roughly, the words not wanting to peel from your throat.

“To be fair,” You bemoan, “I deserve death.” A hand braced on the table. “It feeds on the despair of the guilty and has served its cause.” You can’t sink down into it, the drowning.

“Killing.” He states. You shake your head, swallowing roughly.

“Saving.” He circles the room, stepping close to the shadow, the spectre moving out of his way. “Brutal men... rapists and murderers. Women who drown their children based on their sex.” Your heart picks up speed as he settles in front of you, “It deserves to die with me.”

“So you would let it take you?” His eyes looked through you, burying themselves into your thoughts.

“I deserve this madness.” A hand placed over your belly to steady yourself, “I’ve given the King what he wants at the cost of my own conscience.” You had to admire the Witcher for his poker face. Not many men would not show emotion when you admit to a child sacrifice. The give and take of magic a cruel fate for the King’s needs. It felt justified and left you craving his disappointment, his ire. But it hadn’t been given.

“Slaying a Hym isn’t easy.” You could feel the spectre, the emotions it felt at the cost of the proximity to the Witcher, but departing a Hym from its meal was a feat on its own.

“You’re Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf,” you muse, “If anyone can do it, you can.” You see him swallow, eyes focusing in on yours. Close enough that you can feel his breath.

“We’ll have to go somewhere a little more private for that, its lair will be the place tied to your guilt. We have to go there.” The sorrow, the lust for death, a sweet release from this ebbing guilt. You could almost taste it.

Your shadow shifted and he could see the horns. A demon to be exorcised.

He followed you to the cliffs, trusting your footing to be true as you climbed down into them, sliding your belly against the wall and watching as he held his sword aloft to fit through the small space into the cavern aglow by fire.

“I’m going to need more light than this.” His eyes focused on the damp walls and dim glow. A log pulled from the fire. He lit the torches in the corners of the room, a deep dark hole that led further into the cave systems beneath the city forgotten, his back to it while he faced you. “I need you to focus on something, anything else but the guilt… preferably something pleasant.” He steps towards you, “It’s going to come out of hiding and what you will feel will be intense, whatever you do, don’t succumb.” A vial, procured from his pocket and quickly drank, eyes blackening.

“You make it sound so easy.” A drawl from your mouth as the whispers begin. The haunting demon who plagued your every thought, the despair that grew on your tongue.

“Focus.” His voice cut through, pushing you back against the far wall, “And stay here.” His sword gripped in his hand. “Do not interfere.” He turned his back to you, the shadows shifting on the ground as the Hym exposed itself. The tall spectre’s horns brushing the top of the cave. Red eyes glowing in the pitch black.

Elder spilled softly from your mouth, his sword turning in his hand, before striking the beast. Your vision blurred, knees sinking into the floor as it flooded your airways, burning down your throat.

“Again!” a yell. A rod against your back, you straighten. Your training, so long ago now. Tissaia. The old mage taught you well. Raised you practically in the cobwebs of her home. The place that birthed every proper mage of your lifetime. The chaos that spilled from your fingertips, the fire burning in your belly, stoked by her hand. “You’re better than this.” Her beauty matched only by her venom. Her bite, fierce and lethal. “Do better.”

You flourished under her through perseverance and determination. These private lessons you’d suffered through long before you were brought into the circle, years before you would ascend, years before your time in court.

“Focus!” Was that her voice or… your vision snaps back to the present, Geralt damp with sweat, blood cascading down his arm you find yourself panting on the ground. His silver sword slashes across the demon’s belly. A high pitched whine. You could feel the edges blur again, ebbing and flowing, taking your consciousness.

A boy birthed in the asylum. A slight deformation. You hushed him quietly as you robbed him in the night. Villain. That’s what you were and what you’d come to be. This boy wouldn’t survive. A slim chance with the ailments he was born with. He would soon be ripped from this world regardless, that’s how you reasoned in choosing your prey. Your last ingredient for a spell you shouldn’t be casting.

You’ll do this, and then it will take you. That blissful Hym. It will give you the final push into cowardice. The push you would need to finally be rid of this place. This useless mage you’d become. His belly was round, so were his cheeks, his legs kicked in the cold air of the cave as he wailed.

Elder words spill from your mouth as you raise the blade into the air. Striking true between the third and fourth rib. A wheeze and he’s gone.

You found yourself gasping for air. Screaming as the wind picked up, a strong force over your mouth and chest. You felt trapped, cold stone against your back. It clears, your vision focusing in the dark. Whimpering against Geralt’s hand, “You’re fine.” Gruff words of comfort. “It’s gone, you’re free.” You catch your breath against him, pinned down by his arms in your anguish. What had you done?

You wail. Embarrassingly and out of code. You wail. He lets you struggle out of his grip, hands beating on his chest. “I told you to let it take me!” His jaw clenched, letting you sit up, backing yourself away from him and pressing as far into the wall as you could possibly be. “I told you--”

“I know what you said.” Voice level as always, even though there’s blood crusting on his arm and neck. “I saved you--”

“I should not have been saved.” He scoffs, sitting on his ass.

“I thought that was the Hym talking.” He shrugged, steeling you with his eyes. You glare.

“It was not.” He hummed, looking around the room, seeing the vials and herbs strewn about, glasses broken in battle.

“I thought Mage’s brave.” He mused, “You’re a coward.”

“I brought you here for a reason, Witcher.” Your head leaning back against the stone.

“If you wanted to die, you wouldn’t have brought me here at all.” His brow furrows, in mock contemplation, “But why wouldn’t you let it just take you? Once you’re dead you’d no longer have to concern yourself with a Hym anyway. It doesn’t torment the dead. So that means…” You roll your eyes, avoiding his gaze. “You care enough about the people here, as much as your cold dead heart could, to save them from the same fate…. How noble of you.”

“Shut up.” His smirk, you let a heavy breath, eyes dry and itchy from crying, “I still killed a child.” The smirk drops, and he sighs as well. You were sure your womb would be aching if you had one.

“The child,” He starts, “Wouldn’t have survived either way?”

“It might have if--” You shake your head, rubbing your eyes with your hands.

“You wouldn’t have chosen a child not destined to die.” A glare, your glare.

“You don’t know me.” You spit, pushing yourself up from the floor. He follows suit, standing across from you.

“You’re right, I don’t.” A step closer. “But I’ve known Mages like you.” Another step. “And Mages tend to have a soft spot for children.” You could feel anger bubbling up in your chest,

“I’ve never wanted a child,” You bite.

“Regardless of that you no longer have the choice.” His canines were sharp up close. “And that kills you.”

“If only.” He scoffs, close enough to taste his breath. You remember the rumors about Witchers, the rumors you knew to be true. How they were formed. “You know,” his head leaned down, forehead brushing yours. “I’m sorry for what they’ve done to you.” A stab into his chest, drowning out in a primal need. The comment ignored as he smashed his lips with yours, tangling his fingers into your hair. His teeth were sharp against your bottom lip. You beat him back with your fists, blood smeared on your bottom lip, his pupils blown wide. “Cad.” You spit, a grin, and you meet again.

The stones rough against your back as you submit to him, his palms wrapped around your wrists and pinning you to the floor, a rough thrust and a gasp from first contact. Those eyes, black around the edges still, boring into your very soul as his hips meet yours in a brutal pace, splitting you into eye rolling pleasure.

The friction of primal need. A burning of adrenaline in your veins. His hands release yours, sitting back on his haunches he grips your hips tightly. Your own hips rocking to meet him on their own accord, chasing the pleasure you so desperately sought. The slip you’d been wearing, torn on the sides from hasty tugging, he leaned over lavishing a nipple into his mouth, your fingers drifting between the two of you to bring yourself over, breath being caught in your throat, face red with exertion you push him over, his back meeting the stone floor where you straddle his hips.

You slip yourself down his length, legs still shaking in orgasm and press your hands to his chest, rocking yourself, grinding your oversensitive clit against the course hairs at the base of his cock. His head hits the ground, hands bruising your hips as you work both him and yourself to a release. Head tossed back, sweat dripping down your spine. He spills himself inside you while you work yourself through your own aftershocks. Panting and suddenly extremely tired. Drained, you collapse next to him, his seed dripping down your thigh.

“Collect your coin,” You pant, “And be gone before I wake.” You could see from the corner of your eye, his head turning towards yours. A pause, your breath catching. You felt bare, naked before this man. The forgetfulness of lust crusting on your leg. You needed him gone, if only to drown your sorrows once more before moving on. You see his mouth open, then close, deciding against whatever he was originally going to say. A moment of quiet.

“As you wish.”

taglist // @bookish-shristi @saturnki @jennmurawski13 @geeksareunique @the-soulofdevil @tinmunky @gifsbysimplysonia @alwaysbenhardysgirl @beck-alicious

#henry cavill #geralt of rivia #geralt x reader #the witcher #witcher #geralt of rivia x reader

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winterysomnium · 4 years

Note

just realised i forgot the ship WangXian kiss print #18

slides in five months later hi hello I have answered the prompt even tho it took me like half a year I’m so sorry

it also wasn’t supposed to be this long but it sorta ran away from me and wherever your fic goes you gotta follow tbh lol. thank you so much for prompting! ♥ means so much to me.

AO3 link here

(tumblr kinda messed up the format so it might be easier to read on AO3 honestly)

—

the borders of you (untouched);WangXian; 5,900+ words;

Wei Ying creates a talisman that’s supposed to keep all the fierce corpses and beasts away. Problem is, it keeps away everyone, living people included. And worst of all? It’s not going away. (prompt 18:kisses where one person is sitting in the other’s lap)

—

It’s not that Wei Ying has messed up.

The ward works,works well, as it has kept Wen Ning about four feet away from him from everyangle and he hasn’t been able to break through the barrier, not even after theadded strain of several fierce corpses that have been roaming the remote villagefor days on end.

Therefore, his inscription can’t be incorrect in thatsense, no. It’s just … the ward works toowell, is the thing.

When the paper burned up and the hour mark has passed,Wen Ning is still unable to get anywhere nearer, bounced back against the invisiblebarrier like a stone, skipping across the surface of a lake. Not only that: noone else has been able to either. Notany of the villagers, their grateful bows directed towards the Lan juniors andtheir liquor bottles towards Wei Ying, not any of the juniors and not even LanShizui, increasingly worried the more the sun dips, low into the horizon.

At last, knowing that he must have made a mistake ortwo somewhere, Wei Ying watches as a birdcan’t sit on a branch when he stands underneath it, watches on as the curiouscat that has been sniffing at the robes of every unknown person, keeps pawing atthe barrier with a bit of irritation at the tip of her tail.

It isn’t trulyworrying Wei Ying yet. He can touch the liquor bottle and drink from it justfine, and some talismans were known to dissipate after half a night’s time at earliest.Maybe he added a stroke too many to his blueprint, strengthening and prolongingthe effect inadvertently.

He couldn’t have accidentally created a full on permanentbarrier, he knows that, because thereis no visible or spiritual writing anywhere on his clothes or his person andhis paper prototype has been ashes as soon as he surged his powers through itsform.

So he convinces the juniors to stay for dinner andsettle in for the night; it’s past everyone’s bedtime and the comforting scent ofsoup and roasting meat painfully flares the hunger in Wei Ying’s stomach,overriding any lasting thoughts of worry or anxious fears.

His mood doesdip slightly when he realizes he can’t truly share the table with anyone, thesweet taste of the sugar spun fruits souring in his mouth with every lonelybite. He’s gotten too used to this easy kind of company, to Lan Zhan’s quiet,steady presence, his fingers never too far from Wei Ying’s aid, from gettingtangled up with Wei Ying’s own. He’s gotten used to the bundle of juniors followinghim around during the classes he teaches (to Lan Qiren’s unending chagrin) andhe almost misses JingYi’s – a little tooloud – voice right next to his ear.

His exasperated huff must reach all the way across thetavern, because Lan Shizui stands as close as he can to his table now, hiseyebrows etched with something nervous and small. He pauses as he tests the wardonce more, with the tip of his shoe.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t head back right away,Senior Wei?” he asks, ever considerate and Wei Ying sees Lan WangJi’s teachingsfilling out A-Yuan’s shoulders, the chambers of his heart. It makes him missLan Zhan suddenly, with a pang of something sore, like swallowing a painfulgulp of water, feeling it travel all the way down his throat.

He rubs his sternum through his robes, the phantomfeeling making him feel silly (they’ve been gone for barely a day and a half) as he shakes his head.“There’s no point in leaving this late. We’ll arrive too late for breakfast ifwe do, anyway,” he reasons, but A-Yuan’s face stays cautious, eyebrows drawn. (He’stoo good of a child, honestly, Wei Ying thinks.)

“What if theward isn’t gone in the morning?” he asks and Wei Ying drinks another cup ofwine, just to dissipate the distant, cold restlessness stuck at the back of hisskull. There’s no need to be worried, yet.

But it must be a question that’s not just runningthrough Shizui’s mind, because the white robes of the juniors have gotten muchcloser now, JingYi’s questioning look clearly convicting him of eavesdropping,alongside with the others, craning their necks in a – fully inconspicuous –way.

Wei Ying feels a smile graze his face as he watchesthem quietly strain their ears, despite how obvious they are, how much he stillhas to teach them.

(Are they even trying to hide their curiosity at all?)

“Then it won’t matter if I find out here or in theJingshi,” he decides to come back to the question, answering it firmly, decisionmade.

(It’ll just worry Lan Zhan if they arrive and theeffects are not gone, he adds, for only his heart to hear.)

He gets up, brushing out his robes, stepping aroundthe table. Worrying Lan Zhan is one of the last things he ever wants to do.

Copying his movement, the juniors stand up from theirempty bowls and reserve a tired bow to the owner as they head up the stairs totheir bedrooms, quiet enough not to wake anyone else. Shizui and JingYi are thelast in line and they reluctantly look over at Wei Wuxian as he stands at theentrance of his own room, the dissatistified look on JingYi’s face so much morevisible than the slight crook of Shizui’s eyebrows, the corner of his lips.

JingYi opens his mouth, undoubtedly to argue Shizui’spoint again in a more, well, JingYiway, but Wei Ying is faster, interrupting him as soon as he takes in a slightlybigger breath.

“Go to bed. Worry about the report you’ll have towrite, if you want to think about something,” he tells them, with a smile thatis just a little bit too fond and after a moment of decision between arguingfurther and just letting it be for the night, they slowly step over thethreshold of their room, closing the door behind them, softly and slow. WeiYing lets himself collapse onto the single bed of his, a little too stiff underhis weight but clean and with thick covers and a pillow so soft it begs for himto stick his face in.

He really should take his own advice, he thinks as ayawn cracks through the bones of his jaw; his thoughts scattered across theheavy set of his mind. He thinks of Lan Zhan, of a symbol he might have torewrite on the talisman, of Lan Zhan’s chest rising and falling, the lullaby ofbeing there that he plays to Wei Yingevery night.

He doesn’t recall anything after that.

—

Wei Ying knows he’s stalling. He’s decided to stay inCaiyi Town for lunch, sending the juniors ahead and idling about the riverbank, picking all the deserted spots so as not to raise too much attention,twirling Chenqing and wondering just howhe’ll explain this to Lan Zhan so that his mouth and brows don’t curl into thatconcerned shape like they do whenever he does something detrimentally stupid,usually to himself.

He doesn’t get far beyond the edge of the town after hefinally starts up the journey up themountain when he spots him, the afternoon trailing across his robes, awakeningthe woven patterns as Lan WangJi walks towards him, regal and ethereal asalways; even more so with the sun gingerly touching his features between thetrees.

(The same sun feels suddenly way too warm on WeiYing’s own neck.)

“Lan Zhan!” He greets him, happily, despite theprevious moments of avoidance: something about this man just reassures him tothe deepest parts of his soul, calls him to be paid attention by.

Lan WangJi pauses, stands at the exact border of thecharm, tracing the unseen outlines with his eyes before he carefully extendshis fingers, the tips pressing against the ward.

“Wei Ying,” he answers, in a tone hard to describe:relief, concern, affection, each atthe tip of a different finger, a different note.

(Wei Ying’s heart is an instrument, lovingly played.)

“Don’t look so worried, Lan Zhan! My dearestHanGuangJun,” Wei Ying smiles and it’s never been so difficult to keep still,to keep away from that beautiful face in front of him, kissable and dear. “I’mperfectly fine, see? Aiya, the children must have been telling you all kinds ofgruesome stuff, haven’t they?” he twirls around just to show he can, thatthere’s nothing hurt or aching (besides his poor heart, trying to press itselfout of his ribcage, pulled towards Lan WangJi’s own).

Lan WangJi watches, a stern look slowly seeping intohis features, a sigh buried deep within his lungs. He’s not fooled and Wei Yingknows this, all too well.

“Shizui said no creature living or dead can get closeto you,” Lan WangJi answers and an aborted twitch of his arm belies the intentto hold, to try to defy the limits of whatever Wei Ying has created, despitethe impossibility of it all.

(It’s more painful than Wei Ying imagined it would be,if he’s honest with himself.)

(He’s not.)

He lets out a sigh, tracing the invention he’s stuckin through the air, each stroke a confident memory. “I must have strengthenedthe effect of the charm with a stroke too many somewhere. I already have a fewideas to try out,” he promises and while Lan WangJi still doesn’t look happy, probablythinking: how many have you tried already,unsuccessfully?, he nods anyway, aligns himself at Wei Ying’s side as closeas can be, always beside him, always a guardian of Wei Ying’s own.

“Let’s go back,” he says and the smile Wei Ying feelsblooming on his own face is positively hurting his cheeks. He grins, relieved. “Let’sgo home, Lan Zhan,” he agrees, pleased at the warm hue enveloping Lan WangJi’sears like little buds of flowers.

No touches needed for Lan Zhan’s ears to go warm, henotes, fondly amused.

(Thoroughly in love.)

—

Neither of them can sleep peacefully that night. LanWangJi forfeits his bed to sleep at the other side of the room, even when Wei Yinghimself protests profusely against it (to no avail).

If it’s the unfamiliar scenery of their empty bed orsimply being too far away from Lan WangJi himself he can’t tell, but not evenWei Ying’s usual bedtime can lull him to sleep. He misses the satisfied achesof a night well spent, of loving and being loved in Lan Zhan’s arms and feelingeach of his touches bitten into his skin; the only pain he’s currently feelingis the unpleasant twitch at his back as he slumps over the table, scribblingnonsense into his notes.

So maybe he hasmessed up. He’s studied every stroke’s direction and count on his blueprint,has corrected all the places he felt unsure about and yet, not one modificationhas worked one bit. He’s cast tens of reverse charms, trying to unweave the spellhe’s trapped himself in but nothing has changed: the space he’s isolated inhasn’t shrunk and not even one of the bunnies has been able to hop through tonibble at his robes (he’s been baiting them with carrots all evening so thatthey would actually get near enough to him, too).

Wei Ying doesn’t think he’s an impatient person. He’snot patient per se, either, but he’s able to withstand things. To persevere.He’s lived through enough to know that he’ll thrive in places others go to to becondemned and damned: he’ll root through the soil and he’ll rise like a lotusflower, crawling through to live, to resurface, to be plucked by Lan Zhan’skindness, by his heart.

Perhaps Wei Ying’s been spoiled. Spoiled by Lan Zhan’svery own hands and very own warmth: he simply doesn’t want to struggle anymore.He wants instead, yearns, he wantscomfort and softness and affection and he’s frustrated when it’s this close yetout of his reach altogether. It’s in the very room they share, in the robesthey store in the same place, in the kisses they wear on each other’s lips;they’re two strings bound together.

And now they’re like two parallel rivers, longing toget closer but held apart by earth itself, by soil and trees, the miles inbetween.

Wei Ying must have been worn down by Lan Zhan’s love,a stone sanded down to a grain, because he’s frustrated and unsettled, alonein a choice of his own making. But maybe it’s Lan Zhan’s fault too, just alittle bit, Wei Ying thinks, petulant. Just for all the ways he has indulgedWei Ying, spoiled him to pieces.

It’s completely unfair.

As if responding to his thoughts, Lan WangJi shiftsunder his blanket and his face turns towards Wei Ying’s, laid down on the table,the feeble cushion of own his arms. Lan WangJi’s still asleep and Wei Ying letsout a quiet huff, just to conquer the need to curse at his own stupid luck, thegrind of his frustration.

“Lan Zhan,” he whines, quietly, barely a sound underhis breath. “How unlucky is it of me to have you so near yet unable to touchyou at all? How miserable is this fate of ours, keeping us apart like this?Truly such rotten luck,” he complains, letting the childish words run theircourse, soothe the fear guarding the back of his throat.

He tiredly follows the slope of Lan WangJi’s nose withhis eyes, the bow of his mouth, the press of his chest, the dips and highs ofhis knuckles; falls asleep to the longing of a man dying at an empty well.

He wakes up confused and sleepy, thoughts still sunkenunder the syrupy pull of a dream, a blanket stolen from their bed slipping downhis shoulders as he raises his head and blinks: Lan WangJi is sits across fromhim, a cup of tea in hand.

“Lan Zhan, good morning,” Wei Ying, smiles, softly,but purses his lips upon noticing where he’s slept, confused. “Why am I sleepingon the table? And why are you sitting so far away and not right next to me?” heasks through a stretch and a yawn; what a strange morning it is. Usually Lan WangJinever lets him get away with falling asleep on the table or in the bathtub andalways carries him off, carries him right into their bed –

“Oh,” the memory falls on him like a bucket of water, cuttinghis stretch short. Lan WangJi simply pushes a steaming bowl across the table:the bowl inches closer over to where Wei Ying has pillowed his head on hisarms, but Lan WangJi’s own fingers cannot pass beyond the outer edge of hisnotes.

“Still here, huh,” Wei Ying comments and Lan WangJinods; pushes more insistently. It must be close to lunch time, the air insideof the Jingshi warm and fragrant, the afternoon outside inviting itself inwithin a soft breeze.

“Eat your breakfast,” Lan WangJi says, picking up hisown cup again, carefully adjusting his sleeve. Wei Ying accepts the hot bowl ofcongee, sipping at its contents and contemplates, grazing his lips across therim.

He vaguely feels fifteen again, waiting for Lan WangJito look his way, to pay attention to his whims.

“Lan Zhan. HanGuang-Jun. Did you throw this at me?” Hetouches the blanket after a moment between them stretches and laughs when LanWangJi nods, then looks at the papers strewn all over the table.

“Any progress?”

Wei Ying swallows another gulp of his congee and shakeshis head, supporting his chin with his palm. “There must be something I’m missing.Will you look at it as well for me?” He takes the papers and pushes them allthe way across and leans back, waits for Lan WangJi to accept them, follows hisface as he meticulously reads every line, studies every annotation and scribble.

His forehead ribbon is as immaculate as ever and WeiYing really wants to play with it, tug at the ends and mess up the linecrossing Lan WangJi’s forehead, hold it until all of its length is as warm asthe parts warmed by Lan WangJi’s skin.

It reminds him of the time he had a paper body,blowing Lan WangJi a kiss and crooking his ribbon, annoying Lan WangJi’s patience,when all of this between them was still unsure and hidden away.

“Lan Zhan, remember when I – wait,” Wei Ying stops, straighteningup, and Lan WangJi’s eyes flicker towards him, caught by the movement, sudden,a spring unleashed. “All this time, I’ve been trying to dispel the ward fromthe inside. But maybe it can only be reversed from the outside.” He taps his chin with a finger, already biting into histhumb. “I mean, this kind of thing doesn’t usually happen and therefore doesn’tneed to be specified, but I didspecify the outside protection so maybe I’ve only made it reversible from theoutside, as well.”

Lan WangJi opens his palm and waits for the freshlymade talisman to flutter his way, catching it smoothly between his fingers. “I’llcast it,” he nods.

“Mn, yeah. Thank you, Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying smiles andthe hope swells in him like a tidal wave, like the breath you take in afterbeing submerged for minutes on end. The sound he lets out when the paper burnsout and Lan WangJi is still unable to touch him is almost pained, like all theweight of the failure dragged his heart down to his feet.

He lets out a frustrated growl instead and his headthuds against the table, nearly knocking his finished bowl of congee over.

Lan WangJi sighs too, quietly, almost like he forgotto breathe for a moment as well and just remembered, willed his lungs to let go.

“Are there more?”

Wei Ying looks up. “More reverse spells?”

“Mn.”

“I’ve written down a few.”

“I will try them as well.” Lan WangJi gathers up WeiYing’s notes again, copies down all of the talismans, no matter how minisculethe correction and uses them one by one, always pausing to test if it worked,relentlessly, without a second of complaint or anger, without losing hope.

How he’s so composed, so seemingly calm ruffles WeiYing’s feathers – he wants to ruffle Lan Zhan’s instead, but not like this, not in ways that hurt underneath: hewants to watch him flick all of them back into its place, not render him unableto fly.

Yet there’s this undeniable, irrational annoyance whenthe last talisman is gone and instead of offering alternatives, Lan WangJi proposesWei Ying should take a bath, Wei Ying’s inner robes the ones that he’s arrivedin yesterday, his hair tangled up around his ribbon in stubborn knots.

“A bath won’t solve anything,” he protests but LanWangJi’s already gotten up, leaving to fetch their bathtub and hot water,silently preparing it like he always does, like nothing’s different, payinglittle attention to Wei Ying’s protests beyond a glance.

Wei Ying keep sitting down at the table, as aprinciple, because there are more pressing matters than a dirty robe, like whyhe’s still not figured this out and why his notes aren’t clear to his own mind, why Lan Zhan’s fine with all of this, why is he notvisibly upset, why isn’t he angry with him for causing this mess.

Why, instead, he stands as close (far, far) as he can, beckoning him into the water.“Wei Ying,” he says and just stands there and watches him like Wei Ying’s the unreasonable one, theneedlessly annoyed child.

“Fine,” WeiYing huffs, giving in after a two minute stare down, jerkily taking off hisclothes right there at the table, notstomping across the room naked, plopping into the water with an unnecessarysplash.

The water presses into all of his tensed up musclesand it does clear his head as hedunks it under, refreshes parts of him he didn’t realize were this tired as hescrubs the remnants of travel and uncomfortable sleep off, decidedly notlooking Lan WangJi’s way.

He’s slowly getting unwound by the soft suds slippingoff his shoulder, the weight of his body that just always lifts when he’s inthe water, when he’s brought back to being small and never cold anymore: he canalmost feel Shijie’s careful fingers combing through his hair.

(He can almost feel Lan Zhan’s, even gentler,somehow.)

Wei Ying sighs.

He’s not sulking and he’s not feeling guilty for being petulant, for making things harder forthe one person who’s chosen every hardship just to be by his side, just toprotect what he’s already lost once before.

When he looks up, embarrassed at his own meltdown, LanWangJi is at his work table, two stacks of papers neatly pressed against eachother, one pile decidedly bigger than the second and Wei Ying’s hit with hownormal, how routine this feels: Lan Zhan grading reports as Wei Ying bathes,Wei Ying reaching over and helping when his cheeks are already pink and hisskin all scrubbed, commenting on the wonky calligraphy of one student, praisingthe neatness and detailed work of another’s next.

It’s still a long way until evening but Wei Yingshifts in the tub until he’s at the other side, wet fingers tapping at the edgeof the desk. “Let me help, Lan Zhan,” he offers, drying his hands and eventhough there’s the everlasting unnatural gap between them, it calms his heart,this quiet time of togetherness, this little piece of normalcy.

His irritation dissipates fully, sinking to the bottomof the bathwater, forsaken and ashamed.

—

Lan WangJi collects Wei Ying’s discarded clothes to bewashed, pausing at the threshold, holding the inner robe close, enclosed withinhis arms, wrinkled and worn. He lifts the cloth to his lips, inhales shakilyagainst the tightness of his pulse, the emotions knotting up his heart.

He stalls, allows himself this minute of longing, thisminute outburst of missing a person who’s standing right in front of you, sofamiliar yet strange, unreachable.

(He makes sure that Wei Ying doesn’t – that no one –sees.)

—

Another two nights pass and Wei Ying decides to stophiding in the Jingshi and doesn’t cancelhis late afternoon class like they’ve planned: he’s bored out of his mind.

(And he’s not getting any new ideas either, anyway.)

Lan WangJiwanted for them to head to the Library Pavilion right after breakfast buttruthfully, Wei Ying is going stir crazy, stuck at the table and riflingthrough notes close to two days in a row now. He needs some movement and aslovely as watching Lan WangJi is, he needs a change of scenery, too – and eventhough it’s not night, he can still teach the juniors a thing or two,especially when the sun beckons so sweetly and the news of a lone ghoul findingits way into a pond halfway to Caiyi Town has reached Gusu just days before.

(It reminds him of Yunmeng summer days, sticky and hot,with a bundle of juniors at his heels and Jiang Cheng scowling right next tohis side.)

It barely stings anymore, memories like this, so helets them pass, focuses on the uniform footsteps that follow in his wake.

“Who can tell me where we’re headed?”he turns aroundas he asks, pausing when the juniors seem to be hesitating on the cuff of the crossroad,not one disciple trying to answer his question or meeting his eyes.

He frowns. “What’s wrong with you all? Did someonespill chili powder into your breakfast?” he asks again, teasing, but his eyesnarrow when even A-Yuan shifts nervously. “Come on, spit it out. What’s thematter?” He tries for a gentler tone and unsurprisingly, it’s JingYi that stepsforward, a stubborn air to his stride.

“Why wasn’t HanGuang-Jun seeing us off today?” heaccuses, quickly, and some of the juniors nod their head along.

Wei Ying gapes.

“Huh?”

“HanGuang-Jun wasn’t –”

“I heard you, I heard you!” he interrupts, indisbelief.

No one makes a single move for what feels like anhour, no one starts laughing telling him he’s fallen for this elaborate prank,this gaggle of teens frowning upon him for not letting his husband see him off.

Okay. What’s trulygoing on?

“HanGuang-Jun hasbetter things to do than standing around watching people leave,” Wei Yingcounters, arms crossed in front of his chest. He’s never been faced with thejuniors’ disapproval like this and he’s as taken aback as he’s slightlyannoyed.

(Isn’t there a rule that says not to question yourelders about their love life or something?)

“But he always sees us off when we leave with SeniorWei,” a disciple interjects, quietly piping up from among the crowd. Thedisciples around him nod, gravely, as if they’re judges of a severe crime,ready to profess him guilty as charged.

(Wei Ying feels like he’s living through a rathersurreal dream.)

“Senior Wei, did you tell HanGuang-Jun we were leavingCloud Recesses?” Shizui asks then, kindly, with the smallest hint of hesitationthat tells Wei Ying he’s worried about something, troubled by the possibleanswer Wei Ying will give.

It softens Wei Ying’s temper, just a little bit.

“Aren’t you guys being a little too much? HanGuang-Junknows perfectly well I am teaching a class.” He doesn’t quite know Wei Ying has left Gusu, per se, true, but they’re goingbarely halfway to Caiyi Town. It doesn’t even count as a field trip.

“HanGuang-Jun always tells Senior Wei goodbye, nomatter how far we go!”

“That’s right!”

“Yeah!”

The disciples chime in and for once, Wei Ying almostregrets how openly him and Lan Zhan operate. Now even the kids think they areprivy to the details of their relationship, is it?

“We believe you didn’t tell him we were leaving CloudRecesses at all! Because the ward is still there and HanGuang-Jun wouldn’t behappy with you leaving in such a condition!” JingYi finishes for everyone andWei Ying has a moment of thorough disbelief at how transparent both his and LanZhan’s motives seem to be.

(And here he used to believe his husband was an enigmato anyone but Zewu-Jun.)

“You kids –”

“HanGuang-Jun has been really worried for Senior Wei!”

“Maybe we should head back?”

“Yeah!”

Wei Ying subtly pinches himself, making sure he trulyis not, in fact, stuck in a fever dream.

“Am I still with the obedient, quiet, good Landisciples? Or have they all been possessed?”He shakes his head, uncrossing hisarms to put them on his hips, authoritatively (he hopes).

“Now, everybody, listen up. Of course I told everyonewho needed to know where we are going. While I am objectively the safest I canbe in this state, it is you juniors we are worried about. So of course there’ssomeone who knows where we are. And I have signal flares with me in case we runinto more trouble than we can handle.” Not that it’s likely, if there truly isonly one or a couple of water ghouls – they should be perfectly capable oftaking care of a situation like that, even withouta supervising elder.

There’s a hum that sweeps through the crowd at that and with distinct relief upon nofurther protests being received, Wei Ying deems the problem settled, returningto his first, original question, repeating it just a tad louder to overpowerthe remaining echoes of suspicion and his own rattling surprise:

“Now, does really noone know where we’re headed?”

—

Naturally, Wei Ying cannot keep the children’soutburst to himself.

He’s sprawled on the ground with a cup full of wine andwith his stomach all warmed up by dinner, just spicy enough to redden hischeeks a little, just red enough to quicken his pulse (or is that all Lan Zhan,watching him so intently?)

So, naturally,Wei Ying complains, shaking his head after taking a generous, alcoholic sip. “Canyou believe the children accused me of not telling you I was leaving with themtoday? They were saying I didn’t let you tell me goodbye!”

“You didn’t,” Lan WangJi retorts, not disapprovingly,but his lips might be just a littlebit tighter, pursed the tiniest amount.

(Wei Ying wishes he could kiss them, kiss all of itoff.

Alas -)

“I told your Uncle,” he defends himself, belatedly andLan WangJi pauses as he refills his own cup of tea, herbal and scented aftermedicine, the fragrance bittersweet.

Wei Ying quickly raises his own cup, chasing the heavyscent from his throat. “And we didn’t go far! Not even as far as Caiyi Town,”he adds.

Lan WangJi takes his time with his answer, but after amoment he sighs, voice soft. “I still wish to tell you goodbye, no matter whereyou go or how long you will be gone for.” He’s talking carefully, as if he’steaching this, as if he’s intent on not being misunderstood.

It’s endearing as hell.

“That’s what the juniors said too,” Wei Ying responds,grumbling, despite the pounding of his heart.

How can any man resist a confession this sincere?

“And, well – I’m back now. Will you tell me welcomeback?” He grins. He means it as a tease, a way to change the subject of beingguilty of exactly of what he wasaccused of: but Lan Zhan’s just too good of a person, too good of a man to notdo it anyway.

“Mn. Welcome back, Wei Ying.”

God. Wei Ying’s insides hurt with how much he wants to touch him, devour him on the spot.He hurts with how much he just wants and wantsand how every time he’s being kept apart, it’s by his own doing, his ownfaults, his own actions, keeping him stranded in empty fields, in places thateat him alive.

“Lan Zhan! Iwas clearly teasing you!” he yelps and hides his flushed face behind the cup ofwine he’s emptied two times over by now; peeks over the edge.

Lan Zhan’s never letting him go.

“Mn. But greetings are polite. Wei Ying should saygoodbye properly next time, as well,” Lan WangJi says, tucking in what’s trulybothered him in such an efficient way Wei Ying just can’t help but feeladmonished and endeared – again – at the same time.

“Your notes say so, as well,” Lan WangJi adds and it’sa strange enough remark to tilt the world right into its axis again, away fromLan WangJi and words that Wei Ying can’t possibly fit all in, can’t keep all ofthem without an overflow.

(Lan WangJi is always so helpful, he truly is.)

“My notes?” Wei Ying shuffles through the – lessmessy now that Lan WangJi’s organized them – papers on the table, trying tofind what Lan WangJi means. Has he mentioned anything like that on them?

“Mn. Here. ‘Don’t forget to say goodbye.’” Lan WangJi’sfinger points to a corner of Wei Ying’s final page, underneath the finishedlayout of the ward.

Wei Ying’s heart stutters.

“… Lan… Zhan. Lan Zhan! ”He laughs, and stumbles,hastily getting up with a sudden buoyancy of hope, of a memory gasping for air.

“Of course it’s this simple!” He laughs again and his reliefcould span the universe, it’s so vast and deep. He claps and perfectlypronouncing, says: “Goodbye.” and even though he doesn’t feel any difference, inhis gut he knows: it worked. He knows because he’s remembered, he’s finally remembered and he curses his badmemory, curses working late into the night, half delirious and halfway todrunk, because it has finally bit him in the ass.

God, he really should listen to Lan Zhan more.

With a leap that might have sent all his notes flying,Wei Ying jumps into Lan WangJi’s arms, somehow already open and prepared tocatch him as he crashes into Lan WangJi’s lap heavily, kissing every inch ofLan WangJi’s cheeks and nose and temples, pecking his lips and holding onto him,desperately, holding onto the one anchor he has in this world.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,” he repeats after eachkiss, chanting the words into Lan WangJi’s skin and he knows, he knows there’s no I’m sorry’s and no thank you’s between them but he’s finewith breaking the rules; he’s kissing a thankyou right into Lan Zhan’s mouth.

Lan WangJi’s fingers tremble minutely against hisback, his heart is loud under Wei Ying’s palm and Wei Ying loves him too muchto just not kiss him some more, to press himself into every little space leftbetween them, no matter how small.

Of course he’duse something so simple to break the ward. Something anyone can do. It is a talisman meant for ordinary people in thefirst place, not for cultivators: the person can best decide themself whenthey’re safe. When they do, the talisman vanishes, without any other wards,without any spiritual energy necessary. Ofcourse he’d pick something he has felt so smart about only to forget aboutit right after.

Of course.

Lan WangJi’s palm slips under his outer robe, his lipsmessing all of Wei Ying’s thoughts up – they fall apart when Lan WangJi’sfingers cross his skin and push his hips forward, keeping Wei Ying incredibly –impossibly – close.

There’s a laughhe presses into Lan WangJi’s cheek, right next to his temple, there’s anotherone trapped in the crook of Lan WangJi’s neck, airy and soft.

I have missedyou, Lan WangJi says, in a crushingly gentle hold,bruising but tender; in a kiss tracing Wei Ying’s hair, his neck, the curl ofhis shoulder.

Wei Ying’s eyes sting.

He thinks he might never let Lan Zhan go.

(He thinks Lan Zhan wouldn’t mind it either, at all.)

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan.”His fingers cup Lan WangJi’s face and he can’t help himself but push againstLan WangJi’s cheeks, pressing his fingers against Lan WangJi’s perfectlyimpeccable features. “Tell me, Lan Zhan: would you have stayed even if I’venever remembered how to get rid of this? Would you have gotten sick of mehaving our bed all to myself? Would you have finally gotten angry at me forruining something good? Would you have told me to leave?Would you have saidgoodbye and found someone else to –”

“Wei Ying,” Lan WangJi interrupts him; face still alittle smushed, held fully between Wei Ying’s palms, a frown hidden deep in hisvoice. “Stop talking nonsense,” he tells him, seriously, sincere.

There are tears falling off the precipice of WeiYing’s jaw, dropping onto his arms like heated wax, a melting sob curling up inhis throat. Lan WangJi stays still under his fingertips but his thumb brushes atear away from Wei Ying’s cheek, rests underneath, waits for more sadness todispel.

“I want you, wherever you are,” he says, simply and WeiYing doesn’t know why he was crying in the first place, why he continues tofeel tears slip past his cheeks but soon after, Lan WangJi’s mouth replaces histhumb, replaces the air on Wei Ying’s own lips and they don’t quite tumble intobed: they don’t really make it that far.

For once, Wei Ying doesn’t complain about it, at all.

#Anonymous #wangxian #wei wuxian #lan wangji #mdzs #the untamed #mo dao zu shi #posting fic after half a year #wei ying has big dad energy #same as Lan WangJi #more tags on AO3 #long post

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cryptidqueerr · 4 years

Text

hey what’s up I’m writing fanfiction now I guess

y’all said “I used to be team jacob in 2006 but now I’m a giant lesbian” and I said “what about.....lesbian jacob black? and what about no imprinting? and also pepper in some more involved parents and more queer folks?” and you said “sure sounds good”

(x-posted to ao3 which is also where more chapters will be posted)

This story begins with an ending.

For six months, I followed the deepest drive of my human heart and loved Edward Cullen. For six months, he bent his nature to love me in return. But that which bends will inevitably break, and the stories warning young girls to stay away from the glittering eyes of vampires exist for a reason.

He abandoned me in the woods. He had thrown open the gates of heaven and then declared me too sinful to stand in its light. He told me that he loved me for my humanity and then told me that in my humanity, I was a liability. He left me to crash onto the ground alone. I couldn't think without him. I couldn't breathe without him. He had so fully inhabited my soul that my body did not remember how it moved before him. For hours, I curled up, the dark outside pressing against my skin to meet the darkness inside. Sam Uley carried me out of the woods, my father carried me into the house, and I carried me through the unending agony that came after.

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Weeks pass. My thin body, growing thinner by the day, feels as though it will crack under the weight of my sorrow. I don't sleep at all - then I do nothing but sleep. I barely eat. Offering smiles to soothe my father's worry feels like carving gashes into my face. I fumble for the right answers to give to the therapist my parents insist I see. She prescribes me a handful of pills that I flush down the drain.

I send texts that return undeliverable. I don't dare try his number - just the thought of the confirmation that his number is dead, that my last connection to him could be severed, drives me into an hours-long breakdown. Instead I text Alice: losing her friendship is an added pain, but a bearable one. Dozens a day, then less. Then more again. Then just one, every night.

I'm waiting. I'll always be waiting. I love him.

I think this must be what praying feels like.

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I am ruins

covered in vines

my temple long lost to age.

the darkness here is deep

shadowed corners whispering ancient

sadness

but still

the air here is holy.

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"Julie Black's coming by later."

I lift my head from my bowl of cereal. Charlie stands at the sink, in front of the coffee pot from 1997. Frost covers the kitchen window, the late November chill pressing its face against the glass. "What?" I say, seconds before my brain processes the words.

"Julie Black. She's swinging by to pick up some of her dad's stuff that he left here a while ago," Charlie says, his hands methodically adding nine sugars to his coffee. He doesn't look up.

He doesn't look directly at me very often anymore. I catch him watching me when he thinks I don't notice, his worried eyes following me from the couch to the fridge to the kitchen table and back again. He likes that I stay downstairs, I think. I don't bother to tell him that my bedroom is filled with Edward, that sleeping on my bed is like sleeping on his grave. My promise to stop saying things like that was my ticket out of weekly therapy appointments and back into my sophomore year of classes at Peninsula College, the community college in Forks. When I'd moved in with Charlie last August, I'd hoped to be moved to Seattle for a four-year college by the fall. Now, I barely manage to pass the few classes I had remembered to sign up for.

I search the blankness in my head for a response. I come up with nothing, save a vague sense of a tall, smiling girl. What does this have to do with me?

"I thought..." Charlie hesitates, then tries again. "I thought maybe you girls could catch up. Billy says she gets pretty lonely down there on the rez, with her sisters gone. She'd wanted to start taking classes over at Peninsula this semester, but it didn't work out. I bet she'd appreciate a friend."

Ah. I nod, returning my attention to the mush of Frosted Flakes. "Okay."

I sense Charlie's stillness: he hadn't expected me to agree. He doesn't answer, just mutters a wordless affirmation. But he finally shuffles into the living room, carrying his coffee and a little less tension.

I bump a cluster of soggy cornflakes, watching as it sets on a spinning path through the off-white milk. I push through the gray fog that fills my skull to idly thumb through my memories, carefully avoiding the ones I don't want to see, like navigating a dark room without barking your shins on furniture. The memory from before (before what? before Ed...no, before, before just before) comes to mind: Julie Black, Billy Black's youngest daughter, had come with him to drop off the truck Charlie had gotten from his old friend for me, right after I'd moved to Forks. I hadn't even started classes when I met her. She had shown me the trick to the clutch. I remember her height - towering over my 5' 4", probably even with Charlie's 5' 10" - and her broad shoulders, built more for soccer than basketball. I remember a bright smile, crinkling her dark eyes, so much like Emmett-

My brain throws the emergency brake before the thought reaches my heart. My head clears out completely: I think of nothing but Frosted Flakes.

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I join Charlie on the couch after breakfast. There's a game on TV. I stare at it for a full half-hour before I realize that it's football and not baseball, though that doesn't really help me understand it any better. Charlie alternatively groans in annoyance and punches the arm of his recliner in celebration. I give him another half hour of pretending to join in before I give up and grab the battered paperback I left on the coffee table the night before. It's one of the 80's-era high fantasy novels that I loved when I was thirteen, filled with knights and princesses and sexism. It's engaging enough, even though I've read it before.

My stomach has just started to rumble into hunger when there's a knock on the door. Charlie glances at me, then makes to get out of his chair.

"I'll get it," I offer. I try not to be offended by the look of surprise and excitement on Charlie's face. I'm depressed, not an invalid, I want to snap. But sniping at Charlie doesn't make me feel any better: I already tried.

When I open the door, my brain immediately scrambles to update my memories. The Julie I remember as tall-for-a-girl is now whoa-did-you-see-how-tall-that-girl-is, grinning down at me from at least six feet. Her long black hair hangs damp over her shoulders, trailing down her bare arms. There's ice pelting down with the fine rain, but she's only wearing a black tank top and jeans stuffed into muddy motorcycle boots, a dark red flannel shirt tied around her hips. Her eyes, dark as sweet coffee, are the same. They crinkle at the corners with her wide smile.

"Hey!" she says brightly. "Long time no see."

"Hi," I say.

"Hey there, Julie. Come on in, you must be freezing." Charlie appears at my shoulder, just in time for us to move out of the way for Julie and shut the door against the cold.

"It's not so bad." She stomps the mud from her feet onto the doormat, carefully shaking the rain from her hair. She's telling the truth: she doesn't even have goosebumps on her leanly muscled arms. I, on the other hand, have to cross my arms over my chest to block out the rush of chill, burrowing myself deeper into my sweater. "How've you been, Charlie?" she asks politely, sliding her hands into her pockets.

"Can't complain," he answers, but he's glancing at me. Julie, seemingly unaware of the simmering awkwardness, looks down at me again.

"Did you shrink, Swan? Weren't you at least five foot the last time I saw you?" she teases.

I feel Charlie tense slightly behind me, but for a moment my old instincts return and I roll my eyes. "I haven't changed. You're the one who looks like she's been putting Miracle-Gro on her Wheaties."

Julie grins again, running one hand through her damp hair. "I blend it into protein shakes, actually," she retorts.

Something that feels like a smile tugs at my mouth. I'm surprised by how little it hurts.

"Let me, uh, go grab that stuff for you." The words have barely left Charlie's mouth before he vanishes upstairs.

For a moment, I panic - I can't sustain small talk with my mom on the phone anymore, much less a girl I barely know. I shift from one foot to the other. The fog in my head won't clear. I can't think of anything to ask her.

If Julie notices my empty nervousness, she doesn't seem affected by it. She leans her shoulder against the doorframe, looking down at me with a crooked smile.

"So what do you pale-faces do for fun up here?" she says, a teasing roughness to her voice.

I lift one shoulder in a shrug. I hadn't done anything fun since -

My brain slammed the door shut before I could count the days.

"That's fair," she says, as though I answered. "There's not much to do around here, if you don't go in for some variety on going out in the woods to bring a bunch of dead animals back with you."

"I heard that!" Charlie yells from upstairs. Something bangs on the floor: I spare a small prayer that he doesn't break anything in his charade.

Julie's smile widens easily to a full grin. I've never seen anyone like her: when she smiles, her entire body lifts, like she's seconds from bursting into light. She runs one hand through her long hair. "Can't get mad if it's true," she calls back at him. "Not that the rez is much better. Oh, you don't want to hear the tribe's histories again? You don't want to go to the same stretch of beach and stare at the ocean? How about drinking a bunch of cheap beer in the woods? No? Guess you're out of luck."

My old instincts take over again and I snort out a laugh. "I thought the Forks kids invented standing around drinking Natty Light in silence."

"Nah. That's an old Quileute tradition." Julie rolls her shoulders, wincing slightly as she flexes her muscles. The rain is starting to evaporate off her skin already. The only moisture left clings to the hollow at the base of her neck, the dip in her collarbones, the curve of her elbow. I wonder briefly how she manages to dry off so quickly. My hands are still damp with melting flecks of ice.

"We really do steal everything." The words come out of my mouth automatically; I'm not really paying attention. The part of my brain that keeps me alive is nearly smoking at the effort of keeping the thought of cold hands and icy lips from crashing to the forefront of my mind.

"Which is why they send me up here to steal away the hearts of your women," Julie says with a wink. She isn't acknowledging the monumental effort it's taking me to stay functional. But the quick sweep of her eyes across my face, the practiced ease of her smile, are all a little too careful - she's noticed, but she isn't commenting. From anyone else it would seem like discomfort: from her, it's a kindness.

"From what I hear, you don't have any problems with that on the rez, either." Charlie reappears with a few fishing poles and a jacket that I'm sure is his. I was there when Mom bought it for him one Christmas.

Julie lifts one shoulder in an acquiescing shrug. "It's in the Black genes. We're a long, proud line of very attractive people."

"Just what every father wants to hear." Charlie grins and hands over the poles and jacket. "You, uh, heading back to the rez?"

"Yeah, I've got some work to do on the Rabbit. I'm not saying I heard Dad on the phone trying to talk Hawkins into finding me a new transmission, but I am saying Christmas is coming up and she is nowhere near close to transmission transplant ready." That broad, easy smile softens Julie's face again.

"Don't suppose you'd feel like trying to teach Bella here a thing or two about engines, would you? Every time she has to call me to change a tire I feel like I've failed as a dad." Charlie's casual almost-joke doesn't fool either of us, by the look on Julie's face. I feel Charlie's eyes dart over to me, but I stare out the window past Julie's arm. I feel myself sliding - out of the conversation, out of the kitchen, out of the entire morning. I don't make plans anymore. I don't go places anymore. What the hell is Charlie doing?

"Thinking about taking shop as an elective next semester?" Julie tosses the question back to me. I don't look at her, but I shake my head. Like before, she takes my silence as a response, letting it slip into the flow of conversation as easily as if I'd spoken. "I didn't really take you for a mechanic type."

"I don't really know what type I am," I say. I see Charlie's face fall slightly, and my stomach with it. He thought he was doing good. He thought I was getting better. He tried so hard. "But I could give mechanic-type a shot." An uncharacteristically broad smile lifts Charlie's face before I even register the words that came out of my mouth.

What the fuck, Swan.

Julie laughs and stretches her arms over her head. It feels like she takes up the entire kitchen, though I can't decide if it's her physical size or just her energy, if she'd fill up a room the same way if she was the same size as Al-

"I can probably teach her how to at least change a tire," Julie interrupts the dangerous thought before my self-preservation can get to it, like she saw the pain coming.

"Great!" Charlie's almost beaming now. My face flushes slightly: I didn't think I had the capacity to be embarrassed anymore, but when your dad is practically wriggling like a puppy over the thought of you leaving the house, embarrassment manages to find its way back in. "You girls have fun. Just bring her home before midnight, huh?"

"I always do," Julie says and tosses her hair over her shoulder. I feel the flush on my face warm a little more. I don't bother trying to understand why.

#twilight #twilight is gay now #lesbian jacob black #college au #fanfiction #fanfic #twilight fanfic #I'm just occupying my time writing sad gay shit #text

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chrisstork · 4 years

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Halloween Time

Apropos of the day, my favorite horror story I’ve written:

Addict

Soldiers moved through the gloom. Shadows flitted into and out of the darkness. It was raining.

They crawled toward the lone building in the woods. A church, fallen into decay. Rotten boards drooped and black lichen covered the once sanctified edifice. Lighting flashed, the thunder rolled languidly across the countryside. They stopped, waiting for the signal.

Seras darted through shadow and shade. Silently creeping toward the church. Four vampires had taken hold there. They had slaughtered dozens of people. Now their lives were over. She reached the edge of the church. A scent caught her nose. A woman. Someone still lived in this ruin.

She jumped forward and became as insubstantial as the mist around her. She pushed forward. Determined to find her. Through walls and floors she moved. At the center the church, Seras found the woman.

The four vampires were torturing her. Their threats tore through her shattered psyche. Their claws ripped into thin flesh, drawing slender lines of blood. Her quiet sobs echoed across the wide room.

The smell of terror burned her nose and roused her Hunger. It lie quiescent, unheeding the outside world. Until one of its joys woke it up. It writhed and twisted. Laced her mind with the anguish of its confinement. Demanded to be fed. She wobbled unsteadily, nearly tumbling into a wall for balance. Each time she promised, she swore she would never fall to Its depredations. And here she was again.

Seras seized control of herself, snatched a piece of wood and threw it to the far side of the room. She quickly faded into the shadows, raced to the woman. The clatter stole the four's attention away. In that lone moment of carelessness Seras reached out and pulled the woman into her arms, took her into the void. The smell of blood and terror was overpowering, it took every once of her willpower to not devour the woman.

"Stay here", Seras whispered as she brought the woman to the basement.

Seras launched herself through the darkness. She trembled with the effort to restrain herself. That obscene pulsating, so warm and comforting, had started. It had fully stirred from slumber. She couldn't think. She gasped for breath she didn't need and tried to gather her thoughts. The vampires upstairs would know they were not alone. She would have to neutralize a few, otherwise some of the men would be killed when they stormed the church.

She floated through the nothingness to the room. Already they hunted, thinking their victim had run off. With a thought Seras closed and sealed the doors. Their tiny spark of fear lit her senses on fire. It was pleased. Their fright tasted better than the woman's.

Fighting her instincts she drifted toward the closest one and pulled it into the darkness with her. He managed a small shriek before vanishing from this world. Seras ripped into its chest and destroyed him. Unwillingly she drank of his terror. The pulsating increased, spreading its heat over her body, thrilling her with dark comforts and horrid fantasies. She quivered with the effort to suppress herself.

She couldn't fight It anymore. Maybe if she appeased it, just a little, it would go away. She turned back to the floor above. The three vampires were scrambling around, trying to figure out what had happened. She drifted towards the one farthest away. Reaching up she clawed his lower leg, drawing streams of blood, and withdrew before he could react. Their screams echoed in the room. They crashed about as they sought the intruder.

Seras's body was burning hot, their fear was so perfect, so delicious. Just another small taste and I'll stop, she promised herself. She watched the remaining three who still called out to their dead companion, fear flitting about them.

Unseen, she followed the injured one. She magnified the quiet noises of the night until his nerves were shredded. Then she attacked, ripping flesh and cracking bone. He fell screaming and twitching.

Seras hid beyond the light and feasted on the terror. The others stormed closer. With a thought she stole the dying vampire's soul. She watched it wriggle and writhe, Need destroying her senses. Then she devoured it.

Ecstasy beyond anything she could ever dream of exploded throughout her. Terrible desires flooded her mind and drowned out all reason. Sensual horror engulfed her body. Her promise forgotten, she floated off to slaughter the last two.

They scrambled around trying to breach the doors, to batter down the walls. Seras gleefully crept into their brains, whispering of all the dark things set after them. Fear drained their strength and dulled their minds, and she fed of it. She waited while they battered themselves against fate. Abruptly, one broke off and dove into a corner. Lazily she moved to him, listened to it pray to an uncaring god.

She drank his terror, made its broken mind see things, things too terrible to be real, things that defied everything good and right, things that finally destroyed its sanity. She took it then, moved to the in-between so her thirsting desires could have all they wanted. Seras made it dance and twitch for her, its long slow death an epicurean pleasure. When its body was nothing more than a hollowed out husk and its soul dead she drifted back to the other one.

It stood in the center of the room, yelling its petty defiance. It wore despair as a death shroud. Its friend's dying screams had driven hope from it. Slowly she rose above the floor, draped in gore and shrouded with blood. Seras let it see the monster coiled within her, the unending Hunger and Thirst. It whimpered and cowered before the nightmare. She opened her fanged mouth to drink deep of it.

It screamed for a long time, longer than all the others combined.

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"Seras to Alpha One, Seras to Alpha One."

"Alpha One here, situation?"

"Targets neutralized, cargo safe."

"Acknowledged, leave some for us next will ya."

Seras tried to smile.

"Next time, I promise"

I promise, never, never again, I promise.

#Hellsing #Seras #Seras Victoria #Horror #Vampire

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gyromitra-esculenta · 4 years

Text

YESSS! Nephilim PART 4! Finished, in general <3. Okay, so this is only checked for some spelling errors - otherwise unedited. That one mystical eldritch horror thing trying to pull off Evangelion, stuff from this one is under bureau-verse tag.

Warnings: this is ‘eldritch horror’, so: gore, violence, disturbing imagery, eldritch pregnancy (having fun with the possibilities), Famous Last Words

The air inside the barn is warm—moist and cloying—reminds him of the jungle during the rainy season’s mid-day, only the sounds of the insects and birds are displaced by the incessant whispering and the barely audible hummed song. His light flickers on and off for a while and Gabriel waits for it to stop acting up.

There is something quintessential about the smell of warm meat that had been left out of the fridge to thaw, the tart metallic tang giving the animal brain conflicting instructions: threat and food. He almost gags on the omnipresent reek.

Slowly, he turns the flashlight to the wall, walking along it mindful of the distance. The fleshy mass covering every surface glistens in the light. Looks almost as if it’s breathing. He can make out some shapes but he isn’t sure what they are–until he stops by what looks like a tail above a hoofed hind leg sticking out of the growth on the wall. Guided by morbid curiosity, Gabriel pokes it with the end of Remington’s barrel.

The tail twitches from side to side and the limb kicks back, barely missing him. The murmur grows. The whole fleshy mass undulates, and he sees hands, legs, eyes, teeth in it, everything that makes up people and animals. To the side, there are several wings with molted feathers frantically beating the dead air.

The inconsequential question of what had happened to the inhabitants of the farm is answered. It would be a lie to say it is something unexpected–or the worst of what he had ever seen. Gabriel waits, motionless, for the hectic ruckus to die down. Only after it returns to the slow movement, he turns around shining his light on Jack.

He's kneeling hunched on the floor, swaying forward and back with an occasional aborted tremor - beginning of some motion discarded immediately - arms wrapped protectively around the twitching mass held close to his chest that hurts to look upon.

Hoarse voice hums single notes of what Gabriel now knows to be a lullaby, one bafflingly too familiar to be any comfort to him.

The understanding strikes him as he looks around again: the air and the smell, the lining of the all the surfaces. The barn, it's a womb.

The thing Jack cradles to himself, it's trying to be born, properly this time - and it took Jack to be its surrogate, to act as its umbilical cord tethering it to reality it wants to invade.

And for the birth to be complete, the umbilical cord must be severed. Cut down.

The metal canister outside, the cap had been screwed shut with the chain still intact. Slowly, Gabriel circles Jack and moves towards the door, with care not to brush against any part of the fleshy mass.

Past the threshold, the starts are brighter than before, bigger and closer.

Watching ravenously from the distance of the void, the avaricious angels swarm. He feels their glare on his back, heavy pinpricks of fierce interest - of claws, teeth, and unending hunger - but he knows to not give into the whispering madness.

The smell lingers in the air.

It crowds his senses, wet and metallic, leaves the weight on his tongue. Sticks to his skin, viscous, flowing thicker than the air itself.

Gabriel turns and picks up the canister. Judging by the weight and the sound of its contents splashing on the inside, it's full. Good.

The growth spreads on the outside, tendrils crawling over the ground and on the walls - he tries to step over it, the soles of his boots lift with a snapping squelch. There's not much time left now, and a wicked thought forms, if maybe it is his presence that facilitates this.

'In the end, you will choose wrong.' Can't be more than an hour or two since he's been told that but seems like a lifetime ago.

Back inside, Gabriel unscrews the metal cap. The odor of the petrol does nothing for the stench of oxidizing meat. Even worse, it becomes accentuated.

Methodically, ignoring the rising ruckus, he splashes the walls with the gasoline - the last of it he uses to make a trail to where Jack is in the middle of the barn, still humming, still rocking the thing as if it's a baby.

Probably, it's exactly that, in some sense.

And so much worse.

Gabriel sets the empty canister aside and crouches in front of Jack - no reaction, and no recognition, his eyes are almost closed, only a sliver of white and blue visible behind the lowered lashes.

He reaches into the pocket for the lighter, it's still there

Incredibly funny, in a way of sad that just crosses the line, how the somewhat vindictive action of taking it away from Jack to keep him from smoking plays into his impromptu plan.

He puts the lighter between his teeth and freezes with his palms hovering over Jack's crossed arms

The thought of touching even through the gloves the lump of flesh Jack is holding is viscerally revolting. It's hard enough to look at anything in the vicinity of the thing shifting as if it's breathing with its whole mass.

At the worst is, he can hear it cooing.

Beyond the edge of perception, baby-like, little gurgling sounds, but the dissonant wrongness bubbles up mid-sound.

Slowly, Gabriel puts his palm against Jack's left forearm and curls his fingers to get the grip on the fabric of the hoodie - careful to not disturb the creature.

The resistance is static, the hand moves more like the muscles holding it in place are locked stiff - and after he manages to shift it away, the hand falls limply under its own weight, fingertips brushing against the ground.

The creature stirs, alarmed, mewling.

Gabriel bites back the urge to curse out loud - the plastic of the lighter creaks between his teeth dangerously - and moves around Jack so he can reach over his right shoulder. Cautiously he positions his hand again, the left palm resting on Jack's other shoulder.

His fingers sink into the thing, mushy and airy consistency of its flesh nauseating, and with one swift movement he yanks Jack back to the side and hurls the now screaming creature at the wall. It lands, the sound of the impact meaty and wet, almost drowned out by its screech.

The lump of rotting and squirming flesh draped over a malformed skeleton cries piercing gurgling mewls of an unborn calling after its mother as it starts to crawl back towards him - calling the things from the void to its aid, too - and, god, it's in his head.

The mother: drugged, gutted, and then hanged from the sacred tree, and when the rope had rotted through and let her fall to the ground, they buried her and it, her wretched spawn, under the holy roots.

Gabriel stands, transfixed in place by the sheer wrongness of it.

And... Jack's screaming too, clutching his head between his clenched fists, screaming at him to kill it, to shoot it, to make it stop.

He brings up the rifle and squeezes the trigger, again and again - the chunks of flesh fly off with each hit - and it's still coming.

Even after he runs out of the bullets, it's still crawling, undeterred, and Jack is still screaming - his vocal cords ready to give up just like when his voice broke...

The lighter. Gabriel swears around the plastic reaching for it, it works on the first try.

He leans down and ignites the gasoline trail, backing off as soon as he's sure it caught proper, and grabs the back of Jack's hoodie, dragging him on the ground towards the exit. The flames engulf the inside and the howling now creature still moves, its flesh bubbling and popping

The smell of burning meat and feathers immediately overpowers the rancid reek of old blood, and as soon as they pass the threshold, it's as if the oppressive atmosphere had lifted. Gabriel stops only a dozen or so meters away from the building and collapses to the ground.

Without delay, he pulls Jack close - his pants are slightly off but otherwise he looks more or less okay, there's only a shallow cut on his forearm, the sleeve dark with crusted blood, whole palm smeared with it - and silent, dazed, his fingers curling into Gabriel's shirt.

Morning is breaking.

The thing inside is screaming but now it's merely something ceasing to exist, and its hold on the reality had slipped. He cannot pinpoint the moment when Jack had stopped screaming himself, he cards his fingers through white hair keeping his eyes on the fire

Only when the roof of the barn starts to collapse into the flames below, Gabriel sees her.

The girl.

Short and gaunt, with dirty blonde hair stuffed behind the rotting rope coiled around her neck. She turns away from him and slowly walks into the fire.

He almost moves to try and stop her until he remembers the weight leaning against his frame.

And then, silence. Gabriel buries his face in Jack's hair and takes a deep breath.

“Is she at peace? Now?”

“No. I don’t,” Jack swallows, his voice hoarse from singing and screaming. “I don��t think she’ll ever be... She only wanted for it to stop crying."

The look in her eyes, it was the same resignation - or acceptance - the undead Nazi taking a drag from the cigarette Jack gave him had uttering whatever he did before crumbling to dust.

"So there's nothing to be done after..."

"Nothing good for those touched," Jack wearily shifts, taking out a single cigarette out of the front pocket of the hoodie, and puts it between his lips.

"I left the lighter inside."

"That's what I thought. I've got another."

He fishes out the lighter from the pocket - green, not black like the one Gabriel took from him - and lights the cigarette. "I was humoring you."

He inhales and immediately starts coughing, the smoke irritating his sore throat.

"Those will kill you."

"Yeah, fuck you. Died once, already, didn't care for it much." Jack takes another drag after his cough dies down. "Fuck it," he adds, his voice almost breaking, "take off the gloves, I want to feel you."

He would protest, but there's no point in it now, and Gabriel gives in. As soon as one glove is off, Jack grabs his hand and puts it to his cheek, covering the palm with his own fingers. With a shudder, he exhales - the sound sob-like but constricted and halted.

"You okay?" Gabriel asks, careful not to nick the skin with the claws.

"I have to be. Just... give me five, and I'll get Lena, to clean this up."

"No service."

"Mine will have it. Just a moment," Jack trails off, breathing into his neck. Fuck. It only serves to remind Gabriel how fucking selfish he's being, dragging him back into his own bullshit. But the detour was Jack's idea - and that idea wouldn't be there if Gabriel had not knocked on his door month ago asking for help with the missing children - so all his fault, and...

A distinct meow and a ghostly brush against his leg trip him out of his thoughts. Dizzy, in all her translucent glory, the tail swishing and ears laid back a bit, walks over his thigh to curl next to Jack - and Gabriel chuckles.

They're going to be okay, and even if not, they're going to be not okay together now, whatever the future throws at them.

#sometimes I write #r76 #reaper76 #bureau-verse #horror #supernatural

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infinitum-imaginaerum · 5 years

Text

Joshua | S. 15 “Are you sure? Once we start, I might not be able to stop.” | Thirsty Peach Anon

Words | 4,770

Warnings | Virgin!Joshua, UNREALISTIC EXPECTATIONS, ya virgin lover ain’t gonna do this for you I promise, ya not virgin lover probably don’t even do this.

Notes | My dear thirsty peach anon requested an inexperienced relationship so I just went ahead and made Joshua a virgin; I also changed the prompt a tiny bit but uhhhh. It’s fine right. YOOO LOOK AT THOSE EYES!!!!! (If y’all don’t follow my personal blog... well I am deep in it for Joshua and his gorgeous eyes okay).

Send me a bias, a section, and a number and I’ll write you a thing!

It was another late night home for Joshua, the third time this week. Sleep filled his eyes as he pushed his way through the front door to the apartment with a heavy sigh. You could hear him from the bedroom; the door was cracked knowing that his entrance would wake you from your light sleep. The kitchen light flickered on followed by rustling in the cabinets and the spigot of the fridge filled a glass of water.

Then, the fridge opened, and you knew there was something in there that he was going for. With that in mind, you shuffled around in the sheets a bit more—he was going to be a while before making it to bed. When you finally rolled out of bed, and the cool air pulled goosebumps to the surface of your skin on your bare legs, your nightgown fluttered back down to its rightful spot as you trekked across the carpeted bedroom to silently slip out of the door.

He sat in his usual spot at the dining room table with his back facing the bedroom, making it easy for you to sneak up behind him. Silently your feet shuffled across the carpet and onto the tiled section where he was seated; the floor was colder than the air of the apartment.

You admired his honey brown hair, the way it still laid perfectly cascading down the back of his head and tickled the neck of his collared dusty rose button up. His shoulders shifted as he sat and ate his treat—a slice of the peach tart you’d made that reminded him of home in the states—until your hands were soothingly rubbing those shoulders as you leaned over to place a chaste kiss against his jaw.

He gasped, surprised by you before relaxing into your touch and your subsequent kisses.

“You scared me,” he purred, eyes fluttering closed, “I thought you’d be asleep.”

“I always wake when you come home,” you reminded him, threading your hands through his hair to pull it away from his forehead. He slouched back into the backrest, letting you guide his head against your torso. “May I sit with you?”

“I would never deny your company,” he replied as your caress disappeared from his hair and you slipped into the chair beside him.

He picked at his tart, almost more infatuated with you than he was the dessert he sought out. Small bite after small bite had you touching against his leg with your foot, caressing his calf as you sat next to him. He swallowed hard now and again, eyes darting over to you to make you fall in love all over again.

Joshua’s gaze had to be the eighth wonder of the world. Those eyes did things to you that you couldn’t explain, but you swore every time you looked him deep into those unending galaxies that you fell deeper in love with him. He had to have known it, too, because you got a little lost, often ignored the things he said but you couldn’t ignore the purr that was rumbling in his throat as your foot continued against his leg.

“You know, it’s bad to have sugar right before bed. They say it causes a lot of weird dreams,” you mentioned, resting your elbow against the table and your chin in your hand as you continued to admire him.

His eyes shifted to you in a way that had your skin crawling as he took another bite of his tart. “I guess you’ll just have to keep me awake for a little longer while it wears off, then,” he teased with a wink. One look into those gorgeous eyes had you wrapped around his finger, so when he leaned over to collect your mouth in a tender kiss there was no arguing the matter. The peach syrup on his lips was a delightful treat in addition to his soft lips finally against yours in over twelve hours which didn’t seem like a lot to other couples but you were in a very affectionate relationship in which everything warranted a kiss.

Despite the affection, Joshua wanted to take things slow with you. He was a virgin, and blessed that you were so understanding; the pace of the bases was entirely at his whim. But a few weeks prior, he had mentioned something in passing about maybe being ready which you completely didn’t hear and when you asked him to repeat himself, he flat you refused to tell you.

At any rate, Joshua had been getting a little more suggestive with you, at least vocally and often moved your innocent touch to slightly more intimate places against his body. A good example of that was when you touched his shoulder, he’d drag it down the front of his chest; or if you touched his knee, he’d pull it a little further up his leg. It wasn’t as though neither of you had touched each other intimately before, but it always took you by surprise the more aggressive he got.

“Are you being suggestive with me, Joshua Hong?” you asked when his lips finally departed from yours. He gave you a sweet grin then bit at his bottom lip.

“Maybe I am,” he replied playfully and pushed a hand under the table to your bare thigh, feeling the goosebumps that peppered it. You shifted a bit, shocked but not uncomfortable. “Especially when you come out here like this, all satin and low cut,” he teased some more, that hand leaving your leg to touch against the lacey cut of your night-dress and spaghetti style straps that held it on your body.

He never blushed when he got in his moods. He was confident and smooth, perhaps building up to the home run. But you blushed—you blushed like mad when he talked to you that way.

“Joshua!” you quietly called with a nervous laugh.

Another devilish grin tugged at the corners of his lips as he turned his attention back to his tart which was just about finished.

“You just look so good in these; it’s hard not to admire,” he replied, fingers back on your leg to tease the hem of the beige satin gown you were wearing.

“Are you feeling some type of way tonight? What’s gotten into you? Usually you just want to come home and go to sleep,” you replied with a laugh, “not that I’m complaining! It’s just unusual.”

“Well… I’ve been thinking,” he started which piqued your interest. Your foot stopped caressing his leg as you waited for the words following as you swallowed the lump in your throat.

“I could eat you up,” he uttered and swooped in for another kiss, this one a little more aggressive than the last as his mouth slanted over yours. His tart was mostly gone, which was good because it was basically forgotten as he shifted out of his chair to deepen the kiss. His gentle hand cupped your jaw to tilt your head for him and pretty soon his velvet tongue was dancing with yours. The chair you were seated in squeaked against the tile as you pushed yourself out of it. Joshua’s hands clutched at your hips before wrapping around the small of your back.

“Is my baby a little needy tonight?” you uttered against his mouth, toying with the hair on the back of his neck as you finally broke the kiss enough to breathe. His hot breath against your face tickled you some type of way as he sharply exhaled with a small grin.

“Maybe a little bit,” he replied with a shy laugh as he turned to walk you backwards back towards the bedroom. His arms were stuck around you like glue, even as you attempted a couple of times to tug at the top buttons of his shirt, hushing you with passionate lip-locks until your bum hit the mattress to break the kiss entirely.

His breathing was already a little ragged, matching yours as you looked up at him. The top few buttons of his shirt managed to be popped open before he dumped you on the bed and he looked down at those buttons before looking back to you. His nimble fingers worked the rest of the buttons to let that dusty rose shirt hang open draped over his gorgeous skin.

It wasn’t the first time you’d seen Joshua shirtless—in fact you saw him that way every night but it was different in a situation like this where you were clearly not getting ready for bed. Half of you expected him to continue the same path he always did with some easy touching and some soft grinding with innocent kissing, so you were a bit taken aback when he put his hands on either side of you and dove into the curve of your jaw with a tender nip. Your breath hitched, fingers tentatively weaving into his hair as he kissed fervently at the curve of your jaw. He’d kissed your neck before, but it lacked the hunger this advance carried.

His hands smoothed across the top of the messy comforter, pushing you onto your back with his body as he slid over you, hot mouth still aggressive against your neck and lower.

“Joshua,” you breathed; voice barely audible as he nestled between your parted legs—a move already leaps and bounds advanced to the normal path. With fingers spread, your hands shifted against his bare skin as he curled over you, kissing every inch of skin he could reach.

“I never thought I’d love the way you sigh my name like I do,” he replied against your skin. “I thought that was just something superfluous that dudes said to hype the game, but it is what they all say.”

You would have replied if his mouth wasn’t occupying yours a moment later. His hands slipped to your hips from the comforter, one of them daring to trail the joint of your hip and across your leg that your gown had slipped away from. The noise he made against your mouth when he hooked your leg over his hip was nothing less than sinful as he rolled the ridged of his jean-clad crotch deep between your legs. Though there were a few layers of fabric between you, the sheer friction from the zipper of his pants against your practically tissue-paper thin underwear had you feeding him a noise that gave his hips a stutter.

There was something hanging off the tip of your tongue, somewhere in your blurry mind that you wanted to voice and so turned your head to the side, but Joshua’s warm mouth occupying every inch of skin against your neck had you quickly forgetting whatever it was you were going to say. Instead, your right arm wrapped around his shoulder, clawing at his skin through his button up while your legs clenched against his hips.

His hum into your neck was a sweet reverberation as he curled over you, digging further between your legs to get some good friction for himself. Nimble fingers peeled at the cut of your nightgown, pulling it down just enough that he could latch onto a sensitive patch of skin and elicit a quiet hiss from you as you attempted to peer at him. Featherlike touch against your legs had you shivering in his grasp before he was tugging at the back of your knees, feverishly attempting to delve as deep as he could while still being separated by three layers of clothing until he decided he couldn’t take it anymore.

Leaving a dark purple mark behind on your once immaculate skin, he tugged away from you entirely so that his eager fingers could pick at the closures of his pants. The clink of his belt against the floor finally opened your eyes. You gazed at him, watching his quick fingers pull the brass button open, quickly followed by the zipper and you couldn’t deny your salivation as you watched him push his jeans off his hips.

He cooed your name, bringing your trance-like gaze up to his smiling face, a smile so soft it betrayed the current situation and drew his bottom lip between his teeth. The air seemed colder without him hunched over you but you continued to patiently lay there in anticipation. Slowly, he leaned down to capture you lips, coaxing your arms around his neck so he could lift you and trade places. After settling your knees on either side of his hips, he broke the kiss to look up at you with that pleading gaze, asking you to move.

Chastely you kissed his lips and rolled your hips forward to rub up on him. The hard ridge contained by only his cotton underwear felt unexplainable better shed of denim and therefore drew another pleasured noise from his sweet lips against your own.

“Shua…” you uttered against his lips, clutching at his shoulders while you desperately tried not to throw your head back. He was impossibly firm between your legs, sure that it was almost painful at this point.

“I’m ready for you,” he uttered back. It resulted in you drawing away from him, breaking the kiss entirely to search his eyes to make sure he was telling you the truth. Your hands cupped his warm cheeks as you looked at him, stroking them with your thumbs. This was perhaps the biggest step of yours and his relationship thus far.

“Baby,” you cooed with the tilt of your head, basically questioning if he was absolutely one hundred percent positive he was ready to take the plunge, especially considering the things you had hit so far were child’s play by comparison.

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Don’t think that this is just a spontaneous decision. I want to lose it, I want to give myself to you,” he explained. His nervous hands clutched your hips, tugging you further onto his lap which was next to impossible anyway as he looked up at you.

“Joshua, are you sure?” you asked just to be extra confident.

“Once we start, I might not be able to stop,” he replied with a laugh and a soft grin. “It feels so good dry; I can only imagine how you’re going to blow my mind.”

It was a compliment to the highest degree, honestly, but that didn’t stop the blush that burned against your cheeks. A gentle chuckle escaped your lips as he smiled back and pulled at your hips in attempts to encourage you. So, you started with his shirt, pushing that dusty rose button up off his shoulders to pool against the comforter of your bed. Next, you helped him with your nightgown. He bunched it at the hem in his hands and with the guidance of yours, tugged it over your head and dropped it to the side to let it flutter to the floor.

You knew he’d marvel; it was the most nude he’d ever seen you before. Honestly, you assumed it was going to be awkward, that he was going to stare a little too long and make you self-conscious, but he didn’t. He kept close tabs on how long he was looking, and made sure to look at your face most of the time, albeit his hands traveled the newly exposed skin everywhere. His fingers were cold against your warm skin, pulling goosebumps to the surface and under his touch.

“Warm me up,” you begged, but laughed just the same as you wrapped your arms around his neck to put your warm front against his. The skin on skin was indescribable. It lit a fire in your stomach that was different from the one kindling in your core. He chuckled against the crook of your neck, able to feel his smile against your skin as he turned you back over and laid you into the cool comforter pinned underneath him.

Affection almost masked the lust in his eyes. They were definitely battling for the most prominent position but you couldn’t blame the hormones swirling through his body, touching every bone, falling through every vein.

“May I?” he asked you, fingers curling into the band of your satin underwear.

All you could accomplish was nodding with a shaky exhale as your eyes rolled closed, fingers knotting in the comforter underneath you as the elastic tugged down your hips. You lifted at his request, enabling him to slide them all the way off. Your eyes remained closed, able to feel his gaze all over your skin now and as long as you weren’t watching him, you were less likely to get embarrassed. His soft touch against your abdomen jolted you a bit, but the way he tenderly brushed his fingers across your skin after that soothed you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, replacing his fingers with his supple lips, kissing against your middle and lower, over your hips and legs, back up your torso to your neck and lips while his hands coaxed your legs apart. Your breath hitched when his fingers touched against the outside of your womanhood. You grabbed his wrist, more to steady yourself rather than him. He met eyes with you, never once breaking gaze as his fingers pushed against your folds, touching your most intimate pieces for the first time. His brow quirked, jaw slacking a bit until he harshly exhaled.

Your quiet sigh only encouraged him as he figured your workings, noting every little noise, every twitch of your brow and movement of your mouth in correlation with where he touched. Joshua wasn’t sex-stupid, jut new. He wanted you mapped for the future, easy to navigate to know all of your buttons, when and how to push them to get you crazy.

“I want to touch you, too,” you pleaded and attempted to sit up when he pulled his hand away. He worked his underwear off his hips and down his legs and looked down between your bodies with you when you kneeled in front of him. Tentatively, you leaned down and in, and collected his lips the moment your hand wrapped around him. He groaned into your mouth the way you knew he would, a sweet treat swallowed as your thumb worked against his tip for just a moment, sliding his natural lubricant down the shaft to have him almost jerking in your grasp.

“Being touched is so different than touching yourself,” he breathed against your lips.

“Does it feel good?” you asked him.

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, eyes falling closed as his head lolled back to place a hand on your wrist. “Heavenly,” he replied, letting you continue for a bit longer before he stopped you and leaned over to your ear. “Let me save some appetite for the main course.”

You got a little carried away, absolutely loving the way he reacted to you, the way his hips shifted into your fist, his hand not entertaining your wrist cupped your jaw and occasionally weaved his long fingers into your hair. He brushed his lips against yours in a chaste kiss and coaxed you back down onto your back underneath him. The look in his eyes had you shivering, the way they were half-lidded, hazy, but looked at you with so much admiration and love. He kissed against your cheek before reaching into the drawer of the nightstand, finding your stash to retrieve a rubber.

The purr in your throat elicited a dark chuckle from him and he leaned down to nip at your jaw before leaning back. You watched the way he delicately opened the packaging, knowing exactly what to do as if he was the experienced one, not the other way around. You both watched as he unrolled it over his strained manhood, desperate for something, anything really after being pent up and then abandoned so many times over. That sinful tongue of his flicked across the back of his teeth before gracing his perfect lips. He swallowed hard, but not nervously, just eagerly.

“Joshu-ahhhh,” you whined, throwing your head back into the pillow as your mouth fell agape when he slid the tip of his erection along the length of your core. You clutched his forearm, the one with the hand deep in the mattress to your right as he leaned over you. Joshua was biting his lower lip, keeping the pleasure mostly contained despite the fact that the way you called for him had him pulsing even worse.

“Can I?” he asked.

“Whenever you’re ready, baby,” you reassured him, opening your eyes to peer at him. He hulled one of your legs up over his hip and poised at your entrance. “Take it slow,” you reminded him, responded to with a nod. He pushed his hips forward, burying the tip into your heat with a groan.

“Oh… Oh fuck,” he cursed quietly and dropped his head, hoping you didn’t hear him.

“Yeah? Feel good?” you breathed as a whisper.

“Yeah, baby,” he replied, inching his way in. “So warm and tight, so tight. God, it feels incredible.” His hand previously planted into the mattress grabbed your hip, trying to ground himself as he pushed in to the hilt and stopped for a moment.

A moan, hardly muffled by the way you pinned your bottom lip between your teeth, fell into Joshua’s ears. Your leg hooked over his hip continued around his leg to pull him in, despite being entirely against your take-it-slow policy. He leaned down, almost unable to take it to collect your lips in a heated kiss, sighing into it before he nuzzled into your neck.

You expected him to be stationary for a while as he got used to the new feeling, but he surprised you when he tugged out about half way and pushed back in. A choppy exhale fell from his lips and into the crook of your neck. Slowly, you wrapped your arms around his neck, cradling his head into the crook of your and played with his hair, whispering into his ear.

“Joshua, baby, you feel so good,” you whispered and arched into his body to give him a little encouragement. He hissed, then wet his lips with his tongue and pulled back just enough to kiss you again, this time going for a full stroke—his eyes fell closed and he pulled back.

“I want to just give it to you!” he growled, grabbing both of your hips before a low chuckle escaped.

“Give me what you can handle, love,” you told him, reaching out to run a hand down his chest as you looked at him affectionately. He nodded, a fire in his eyes stoking, determined to not be a typical one or two minute virgin.

He started slow with small thrusts at first, taking breaks as necessary. Every few thrusts, he reminded you of how good he felt, how good you felt around him, how his head was spinning and how badly he wanted to come unraveled. Even still, he did his best. Eventually, he worked his way up to full thrusts at a slow pace but was style a rhythm and honestly, if he could keep it up, that was satisfactory enough for you. A number of thrusts, he’d angled on you just right to rub your sensitive top wall, bringing the nails out into his soft flesh, vocalizing just how good he was getting you, huffy pants in his ear. A couple more curses sprinkled in what few words he did say, mostly just concentration.

“I want to make you come,” he uttered and leaned down for your lips.

“It’s okay if you can’t, yet. We’ll work up to it,” you reminded him. It didn’t seem to be satisfactory enough for him. He had an idea of what he was supposed to do, but needed your help. He leaned off you a bit and flittered a hand down your abdomen. Your eyes widened a bit, anticipating his next move as he examined your face, looking for the go ahead or if he wasn’t even in the correct ballpark.

You cupped your hand over his, leading it down. He nodded, continuing to the best of his ability before you finally spoke again. “It’s going to get really tight, honey, so if you don’t make it—”

He didn’t even give you enough time to finish your sentence before you’d interrupted yourself with a hiss and a tapering sigh as his thumb rounded your sensitive nub. His jaw almost came unhinged at how much tighter it got, but he wasn’t going to give up. He watched you gnaw at your lip, quiet mewls and whines here and there as he looked you over with hazy eyes. Nodding, and swiping his tongue behind his teeth, he continued both ministrations, finding it more difficult to move in and out of you by the moment, but persevered.

Your inhales were getting rickety, which he took as a good sign, especially when you clasped a hand against his shoulder and met eyes with him. Your jaw clenched, almost panting as you were at the edge of your high, so close to tipping over.

“I’m gonna come,” he warned you, almost disappointed.

“Give it to me, love,” you told him, cutting him lose. His thumb stayed steady against your nerves as his thrusts picked up to bring him to his high and, surprisingly enough, you were chasing right behind him. The guttural groans he gave you as he tipped over his edge made you blush, becoming even more flushed than you already were. Rickety full thrusts rode out his high as both hands reached to grab your hips. Your eyes were already rolling back in your head, body arched as high off the bed as he could even fathom as you lingered on your cloud nine. He slowed with some hums, his vice-like grip loosening until he was spent. Both of you, covered in a light sheen of sweat, were panting messes as you looked at each other. You reached up to push his honey-brown locks away from his eyes, eliciting a delicate smile even if he couldn’t keep his eyes open as he slipped out of you with the quiver of your legs. His hands smoothed against your thighs around his hips, caressing your skin as your hand slipped down to cup his cheek.

Lazily, he turned his head to kiss against your palm, still doing his best to massage blood back into your legs before they slipped away from his hip.

“How do you feel?” you asked him.

He nodded which turned into a headshake as he grinned and then laughed, unable to even form a coherent sentence before settling on, “Good… real good.”

You chuckled at him, watching the way he fumbled with the condom for a moment before disposing of it and cleaned himself off and slouched right into your naked body, cradled between your legs, and squished his face square against your chest. It definitely wasn’t the first time he lay with you this way, but it was the first time both of you were completely naked. Regardless, you chuckled and carded through his hair, pulling it away from his face, away from his temple and combed it back. His head rose and fell with your breathing, still trying to regulate it as you fluttered back down to earth.

“I wouldn’t have been able to stop,” he reminded you.

“I wouldn’t have wanted you to,” you told him.

“Did I do good?” he asked, words still a little hard for him.

“Joshua… you made me come on your first try,” you said, spreading a big grin across his face. “That’s far beyond any expectation I thought I could ever have.”

“Do you feel good, my love?” he asked. You tugged his head into your chest.

“Probably about as good as you, minus the first-time rush.”

He’d take it. Especially since he was two seconds away from falling asleep right there. The two of you would wake up in about an hour and get clean, despite the crazy time, and get dressed to crawl properly into bed. He nuzzled into your clean damp hair, letting it wet his body and the sheets as you cuddled up for sleep, long unconscious before he ever would have heard you proclaim your love for him. Even if he was unconscious, you noted the slight upturn of his lips in a gentle smile, hearing you unconsciously. It wasn’t the first time you’d proclaimed your love, but it still made him feel all silly inside.

#joshua #hong jisoo #svt #joshua smut #joshua scenarios #svt smut #svt scenarios #joshua requests #svt requests #hong jisoo smut #hong jisoo scenarios #kpop scenarios #kpop smut #prompt game: svt fas

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larissaloki · 5 years

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sharing is caring 5

chapter 5 is here!! hope you enjoy and thanks to my beta for checking this through! @schwergaeneuser @msmynx @im-tops-bottom @jacksonfrost24 @seven-oomen @el-rezet @thoughtfulbreadpolice @cwar1864 @starsofyggdrasil

Leading the way through the pristine yet beautifully decorated corridors, Bucky takes Tony up to the private wing. This small area of the palace had only a cluster of rooms, just a small branch off from the main body of the palace, yet still as beautiful and welcoming as the rest of it. Decorative robes and tapestries and what Tony was sure were hand-made ornaments, were arranged in a tasteful way.

Moving to a large window located in one of the communal sitting rooms, with various other windows allowing in light, giving the room a cheery glow, bright and yet soothing on his weary eyes, Tony gazes out on the gorgeous view. The city below is so full of hustle and bustle, a remarkable mixture of traditional buildings and newer more tech savvy ones. A wonderful example of how two very different concepts can work together.

Beyond the city, Tony can see the jungles, mountains, and plains filled with wild animals. Rhinos are charging about in one massive area of land. Skilled riders on the backs of the great beasts, they seem to be practising manoeuvre’s, as you would expect any cavalry to do.

“Great view you get up here Frosty, I’m almost jealous,” teasingly, Tony peers over his shoulder at his quiet companion who is watching Tony carefully. Paying more attention, Tony can see some stiffness in the lines of Bucky’s body. Tony isn’t stupid, he can guess what’s the cause of all that stiffness and frankly, it’s probably about the right time to talk it all out.

Making sure to keep his body posture relaxed, calling on his Showman Stark persona a bit to give off an air of indifference, Tony makes his way over to the ridiculously comfy looking sofas and armchairs. Seriously, how is everything so much comfier looking? Tony needs the name of T’Challa’s decorator.

“Got something on your mind Elsa?”

Mouth opening and closing a few times, Bucky mulls over in his head what he wants to say as he slowly, carefully sits in a chair opposite Tony; noticeably much closer to the door as well.

Keeping quiet, Tony gives Bucky time to gather his thoughts and what he wants to say, Tony almost wishes for the much more relaxed atmosphere in the lab from earlier, but unfortunately in an adult world you gotta adult.

Finally, Bucky seems to have found the words he wants to say.

“Why are you being nice to me? Not that I’m not complaining! I’m just…I didn’t expect… I expected you to hate me, be cold towards me after…” Bucky trails off, both knowing the event he means.

Humming to himself, Tony leans back into the cushions and barely holds in a whimper of joy at how he just sinks into the cushions.

“Well, I’m not going to lie Buckster, at first I did hate you. I hated you for killing my mom.” Bucky flinched at that. “And I hated Steve for having all that time to tell me, even hated Natasha, who had all the time to tell me herself, but neither of them did. Neither told me in a controlled way. Not even a compassionate way. They let some angry asshole throw it in my face. I was so angry that Steve would ride my ass for keeping secrets, or for not talking to the team about my plans, yet he was withholding this information about my family from me.”

Sighing, eyes closing, Tony rubbed the back of his neck, his shoulders slumping as weariness started to take over. He was tired from the healing process and the Vibranium ball incident and, really, from the struggle and trauma of the plane crash. But mostly, he thinks he might be more tired of this on-going drama.

“I am still bitter about what Steve and Natasha did, it will take a long, long while for things to be ok again between the three of us. However, the hate towards you?” Tony raises his gaze to look Bucky right in the eye at this, allowing Bucky to see how sincere he is. “It went away. After I had time to calm down after you and Steve left and I got back home finally, my hate changed to... I wouldn’t say pity, but I did feel sorry for you. I knew you had been through hell, what Hydra had done, my anger instead turned on those who used you. As it rightfully should be.”

Leaning forward in his seat, leaning closer to Bucky, Tony gives him a small hesitant smile. Heart racing in elation when he receives a small, shaky one in response.

“So in summary, while I was at first angry due to the situation we were in, and the way I was told, Steve’s betrayal not helping. I lost myself and wrongfully attacked you. After having time to process it all, and being able to step back and logically think it through, I know you are not the one to blame James.”

Jolting a bit in surprise at Tony using his actual first name, Bucky swallows a few times his throat feeling like it is full of lead as he takes in what Tony is telling him. Clearing his throat several times, finally, Bucky nods at Tony, his voice soft but a bit rough with emotions.

“Thank you Tony and I’m sorry you found out about it all that way…if it means anything, I have told Steve that you deserved to have been told everything in person and much sooner”

Huffing through his nose ruefully, Tony shakes his head as he tries to imagine that.

“Thanks Bucko, but you don’t need to apologise” It was Steve he wanted, needed to hear that from, “I’m just glad you’re looking better than you did back then, healthier and if I heard the others right, on the road to being in control again?”

Relaxing finally more fully and leaning back to relax into the cushions, rather than sit on the edge of the chair. Bucky smiles more steadily and nods in agreement.

“Shuri and T’Challa and even M’Baku have helped a lot since I came here, Shuri helped get rid of the triggers and T’Challa gave me work when I felt more stable, and for a bit I lived in a nearby village with my goats. Just for small periods at a time, to get used to being in public places again. Being around regular people again. The kids there are adorable.”

The more he spoke, the bigger the grin on Bucky’s face grew, his frame becoming more open and languid. More comfortable, which pleased Tony greatly. Tony hated conflict and awkward silences, possibly more than Vanko and his bastardisation of Tony’s tech.

As Bucky was getting into a story of how one determined goat kept trying to stick its horns up Bucky’s backside as he worked, M’Baku finally arrived, politely knocking on the door, with a trolley full of a great variety of foods and drinks for them all in tow.

Flashing them a grin, the towering Alpha brought the trolley through to where they were sat, “Sorry it took so long, I wasn’t sure what sort of food you would like,”

With a flourish, M’Baku removed lids and dish coverings to reveal many different things. One of the dishes was a stew/soup dish called Egusi; a dish of ground up melon seeds, leafy vegetables and small chunks of meat. Thieboudienne; a dish of fish, rice and tomato sauce and an assortment of vegetables (possible what the dish Savannah red rice was modeled after.). a pudding like dish that Tony had to ask for the name of which was apparently called Moin Moin. On the next row was a large plate of chips, seasoned in spaces and next to it was a plate filled with Sambaza, a small fish that’s been deep fried and covered in lemon. Brochette and Sambusa make up the rest of that row. On the bottom row was mashed pumpkin, yams, Biltong which is sliced dried meat, seasoned with spices and smoked. Boerewors, a form of long spiral sausage. Some Drywors made up last of the meat dishes. Littered in the small gaps are small plates of slices of cakes that have been carefully placed on.

Tony can feel his mouth water as he looks over each dish, some he recongises from business trips to both East and West countries on the continent, but all look equally delicious. Tony isn’t surprised to feel a bit of drool escape as he lifts his hand to quickly wipe it away.

Laughing lightly, Bucky gets up and hands him a plate as he and M’Baku start to plate up.

“You going to sit there staring? Come eat, before it gets cold!” Smirking, M’Baku quickly moves to the side as Tony rushes over, suddenly realizing just how hungry he is.

After shoveling food onto his plate until no more would fit, Tony settled at a small table with the two Alphas; Bucky producing some drinks for them as they ate in companionable silence. Tony was surprised how nice the Egusi was, God he wished Peter, Pepper or Rhodey were here with him. They would all love the food here, maybe next time he would bring them.

“How long will you be in Wakanda, Stark?” M’Baku broke the silence after they all had nearly two servings each, hunger now somewhat abated enough to eat more slowly.

Dabbing his mouth clean, Tony stopped inhaling his food long enough to answer, “Well I was originally going to stay here for a week. However, with the reveal of what caused me to crash, I may end up needing to leave sooner. T’Challa is gathering all the evidence and collaborating with Jarvis first”

Frowning a bit, unhappy that this visit could be cut short, M’Baku huffed to himself quietly, “Shame. I’d love to give you the grand tour of Wakanda. My kids would also love to meet you. I was going to invite White Wolf here as well.” Grinning with unending glee at the nickname Bucky had been given by the locals, M’Baku sips his drink before looking back at the smaller Omega. “Who caused this crash though? Send them my way, please, my children could use with a new hunting target.”

Snorting at the mental image of Hammer being chased by a horde of small kids, Tony was almost tempted to take him up on that offer but reluctantly behaved himself.

“As tempting as that sounds, I should let my lawyers tackle Justin Hammer. I’ve been far too good lately and I fear they must be bored. Though I’ll bring it as a suggestion for community service.”

Laughing good naturedly, M’Baku sips his drink in between chuckles. Bucky now looking up at Tony curiously.

“It was Justin Hammer that caused it? Isn’t he the engineer that couldn’t even make a functional mechanical pencil?”

Roaring even louder with laughter at that, M’Baku nearly spills his drink. “Any idiot could make one of those! Given that you have all the right parts that is,”

Smirking as he starts on a pudding, Tony nods at Bucky’s question.

“That’s the guy. I’ve never seen such a terrible engineer in my life, I’m surprised the government kept him on contract for as long as they did to be honest. So glad that marriage fell through…”

Both alphas pause briefly at that, Tony had been engaged? That was new information to them, for a guy whose entire life was practically advertised on the daily, you would expect this to be in the news regularly. Or at least common knowledge.

“You were engaged to Hammer? What happened?” Unable to help himself, M’Baku inquired. Drink now forgotten as he tries to temper down the small flicker of rising jealousy.

Making a face of disgust, Tony nods. “Yeah, years ago when Hammer’s family became more well known. Good ol’ dad decided to arrange with Justin’s father to marry me and Justin when I hit 21. When my parents died-“ Bucky grimaced “-Obie took over and while he disliked Hammer a lot, mostly he wanted to keep control of Stark Industries. Couldn’t do that if I married Justin, so he broke off the contract and freed me from that future. I know he did it for selfish reason but boy am I glad he did.”

Pushing his empty plate away, M’Baku leans back in his seat, his thick arms crossing over his barrel of a chest.

“If you change your mind about how to deal with this Hammer, remember my offer. I’ll even include a boat ride experience for him.” The grin that M’Baku shares tells Tony that Hammer would not enjoy this ‘boat ride’. Despite how innocuous it sounded, but Tony suspects that he himself might enjoy watching.

“You know, you and my friend Banner would get along great. Remind me to introduce you to him sometime!”

if you love my writing you can buy me a coffee here! - https://ko-fi.com/larissaloki any donations, send a message with a paring and i shell do an exclusive little ficlet for you! and if i do get donations, other littlw works will be posted exclusively there as well.

#Sharing is Caring #omega tony stark #alpha bucky barnes #alpha M'baku

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faveficarchive · 5 years

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Fire and Ice: Part 1

By Friction

Pairing: Xena/Gabrielle

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: In this uberfic, Danielle (Gabrielle) is robbed by a mysterious woman, and as a result, discovers a lot of new things about herself.

Her uncle circled her like a mother hen. He was appalled that she had to endure such a thing and kept wandering into her room to make sure she was all right. Finally realizing there wasn't anything more he could do he let her rest.

Although tired, Danielle was too keyed up to sleep. Her mind was flooded with conflicting emotions. The police had handled her with care, as if she were in shock, and maybe she was. Why else would she have purposely misled them about his height and the color of his eyes? Although it made no sense, she felt reluctant to see him captured. There was something in his manor that had been almost apologetic. She blushed as she remembered how her skin had tingled when he touched the tip of his finger to her lips.

Danielle berated herself for these irrational thoughts. She could have been raped or killed. She was being foolishly sentimental. Still, somehow deep inside she knew that she had never been in danger. She was certain that he never would have harmed her, even though it defied all logic. Danielle shivered as she thought of his eyes riveted to hers, his gentle touch and soothing voice. Her senses had been keenly alert through the whole experience. She remembered the aroma of his leather jacket and something else, something that tugged at the edge of her memory. Danielle glanced around the room for an item that might have held his scent. There was nothing, even the scarf he had used to gag her was gone.

She scolded herself for romanticizing. He was a common thief, who had broken in, tied her up and taken what didn't belong to him. The safe had been cleared out. Over two million dollars in jewels and cash were stolen.

Even so, the loss was minor in scope of her uncle's wealth. But there was one item among the contents of the safe that could never be replaced: her mother's medallion. It had been handed down through the generations to the eldest daughter on their twenty-third birthday. In a couple of weeks it would have been hers. Now the tradition would end. The thief had taken a piece of her birthright along with the jewels.

The thought distressed her. Feeling too edgy to sleep, she decided to write in her journal and discovered it wasn't where she had left it. An exhaustive search of the house turned up nothing. A chilling thought occurred to her. Maybe the thief had taken it. The idea seemed ludicrous but she had no other way to explain its disappearance.

Her pulse quickened as she thought of him reading her private thoughts. What could he want with her diary? Was he hoping to find information, secrets? Her mind jumped to a variety of unpleasant conclusions. Luckily she had only recently inserted new pages, filing the old entries away.

She tried to recall what she had written in the last few weeks and groaned as she remembered the park. Was she allowing her vivid imagination to get the best of her? Surely if he had taken the journal, he would throw it out, probably without even reading it.

***

Alex poured herself another drink. Her behavior this evening was worrisome. She was indeed slipping. How else could she explain her phone call to the police? She squeezed her eyes shut. God, what had she been thinking?

She grabbed her leather jacket from the chair and pulled the colorful scarf out of the pocket. Her mind flashed back to the fear she had seen in the young woman's eyes and she winced. Remembering the woman's suffering distressed her. Hoping to erase the vision, she stuffed the scarf deep into the pocket.

Her reason for alerting the police was simple. The thought of the innocent woman bound and uncomfortable had been unbearable. She had to call.

Her actions were completely out of character. She never allowed herself such sentimentality. It was too dangerous in her line of work. But there was more to it than that. She couldn't shake the feeling that she knew this woman from someplace. Looking into those emerald eyes had felt like coming home. She had wanted to kiss her, to take her in her arms and protect her from the world. A ridiculous thought, considering she was probably the only one to ever pose a threat to the young woman.

Alex couldn't explain her feelings, but it was clear that her heart wasn't in her work anymore. She would have stopped years ago, but the decision was no longer hers to make. He was calling the shots now and she knew it would never be enough. He owned her.

She walked to the table and dumped out the contents of her bag. It had been a good haul. There was approximately $500,000 cash and an additional two million in jewels. They were high quality, many antiques. An unusual medallion caught her attention and she pulled it from the pile. It was oval shaped, made of gold with an intricate spiral pattern engraved on the front. It was obviously very old. Alex turned it over in her hands, examining it closely and felt a tingling sensation in her fingertips. She set it down and took another drink.

Her attention was drawn to the leather book. She picked it up and sat next to the fire, gently running her her fingers over the cover. This was old too. The spiral design on the front was similar to the one on the pendant, and there were symbols she couldn't decipher. Its pages were held in place with leather ties. The cover was beautifully cured and oiled. It must have meant a great deal to someone, as it was well cared for. She leafed through the pages and smiled. She loved the scent of ink. Ever since she was a kid she associated the aroma with pleasant memories.

She glanced at the first page. The handwriting captured her attention right away. It was written with an old fashion fountain pen. The strokes widened and narrowed with artistic flair. Looking at the page as a whole, the script formed a beautifully abstract design. The penmanship was flowing, pleasing to the eye. As she looked closely it became obvious that it was a journal. She took another sip of scotch and began to read.

7/1

It was another sleepless night in an unending chain. The darkness calls to me. I'm drawn to the risk, the mystery. The element of danger promises fulfillment, an escape from my ordinary life. I hunger for adventure.

I chose to walk through the park even though my uncle had warned me how dangerous the city was as night. The air was warm. I walked quickly, trying to cool myself with the breeze my movements created. I was lost in my thoughts, as I so often am.

A noise to my left caught my attention. I turned and listened. It was a deep moan. Curiosity drew me to the sound. The area was dimly lit and I had to strain to see two people in the distance. I edged closer. I was only twenty feet way when they came clearly into view. The woman was leaning with her back against a tree. Her lover was pressed tightly against her, their mouths locked in a steamy kiss. The woman was delirious with pleasure, her moans escaping the seal of their lips. I felt like an intruder, but I was transfixed. My feet wouldn't move. My eyes were locked on their undulating bodies. I stood frozen, watching his hands glide up the outside of her thighs, raising the light weight skirt above her hips. His lips were moving against her neck and I could see the intensity of her need in her expression.

The raw sensuality of it, stirred something in me, bringing me to my senses. I stepped back, intending to leave, when the unthinkable happened; a twig snapped loudly under my weight. I quickly glanced up to see if the couple had heard me.

They had, both were facing me now. I willed myself to run, but a realization settled over me and I hesitated. They were both women.

I ran. Flushed with embarrassment, feeling like a common voyeur.

My reaction to these women confuses me. My interest in this couple makes me more aware than ever that I need to get a life. I haven't been out with anyone in over a year. Dating has always been awkward for me. I'm uncomfortable in intimate relationships. There is no desire.

I thought for a long time that the sexual part of me was dead, but tonight, for the first time, I felt... something. Maybe I am capable of those feelings, maybe they are lying dormant, waiting to be awakened. For the first time in my life I have a flicker of hope that I might be capable of falling in love.

It's time I took the initiative, and tried another date. John, one of the sports reporters at work, has approached me several times. He's friendly and attractive, maybe the time is right. Tomorrow I will ask him out for a drink.

Alex was captivated. She felt like a bit of a voyeur herself. But the young woman's words drew her in and she couldn't resist. She smiled and took another drink. Closing her eyes she tried to picture the blonde woman coming across the couple in the park. Instead she found herself fantasizing about the young woman leaning against the tree while she kissed her. The image was so vivid it was like reliving a memory.

She frowned when she thought about the sports reporter. Something told her this date idea had disaster written all over it. Reluctantly she put the journal down. She needed to contact her fence. It would be dangerous for her mother and brother if she were late with her payment.

Alex walked through the dimly lit lot to the back entrance of the pawn shop. She rapped lightly on the door and within minutes Sal answered and ushered her in. He hit a button under the counter revealing a hidden panel. Upon keying in his code the wall behind him slid to one side. There was a metal door behind it. Alex stepped past him and walked in. Once inside he hit another button causing the wall to slide back into place.

He grinned at her. "The wonders of modern technology." He loved gadgets, anything and everything electronic fascinated him.

Alex frowned. "You always did have a flair for the theatrical."

She had known Sal since the early days. He had a bubbling personality, that, while on occasion grated on her nerves, she also found endearing. Their relationship was not built on trust, for Alex trusted no one. Rather she viewed their association as mutually beneficial. He had been fair in his dealings with her and was discrete. It was in his best interests that she not be caught because their association was very profitable for him.

Although the nature of her work demanded that she relocate frequently, she did business with Sal whenever possible. There was a familiarity with one another that gave her comfort. He represented consistency in a life riddled with change.

He carefully emptied the bag she handed him onto the table. "This stuff from the Palanos heist?"

"Yeah."

"Didn't think that one was yours." He eyed her curiously. "I've never known you to have any witnesses. What went wrong?" She shrugged in response. Silently wishing she knew the answer. He sorted through the pile of jewels and continued to make small talk.

"You made the front page of the early edition."

She looked at him with sudden interest. "What did it say?"

"Seems the witness is Palanos' niece, his sister's kid...Danielle something" The mention of the woman made her pulse quicken.

He picked up the paper from the chair and scanned the article "Yeah, her name is Danielle Stafford." He tossed the paper on the table. "Evidently she was just visiting for the weekend."

He looked up and smiled. "Guess she picked the wrong time to visit." Noting Alex's lack of reaction, he continued.

"Anyway she wasn't hurt and, if she saw anything, the police aren't disclosing it. She works for the newspaper. That's probably how they got the story so fast. I had to laugh though. The article says the man got away with about 2.5 million in cash and jewels." He saw Alex's uncharacteristically troubled expression and tried to cheer her.

"Hey, if she thought you were a man, she didn't get a very good look. My eye sight isn't exactly twenty-twenty but it's a mistake I would never make." He grinned at her.

"Don't be so sure. I wasn't dressed in typical feminine attire." She grabbed the paper and read through the article as he examined the jewels. "These are nice pieces. Shame to remove them from their settings. Hmm... this is interesting." He picked up the medallion and examined it closely. Alex looked up from her reading and took it from him abruptly. "I'm keeping this." She pushed it into her pocket. "How much for the rest?"

"I'll give you 1.5."

She shook her head. "And they call me a thief. Haven't you made enough to retire yet?"

"Alex, you know I'm not in it just for the money." He winked. "I get to meet such interesting people."

She ignored his comment and handed him a piece of paper. "Have the money transferred to this account by Friday."

Danielle arrived at the station early and waited outside Detective Bowin's office. There was something about the place that made her nervous.

Marisa Sands walked past Danielle and entered the office.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Yeah, It looks like we might have a lead on the Palanos case. It seems our man left a witness this time.

"Well that's good news."

"I'll tell you though Marse, something about this doesn't feel right."

"You always look a gift horse in the mouth." She smiled and shook her head.

"Why after all these robberies would he slip up? It just doesn't make sense." Bowin puzzled.

"They all make mistakes eventually. Maybe this isn't one of his?"

"No, I'd bet money it is, too many similarities. I can feel it in my bones. And if I'm right, we don't have much time. If he holds true to pattern he'll be moving on soon ."

"Okay, so what's our next move?"

"I want you to sit in on this one. Keep an eye on her while I do the questioning". She nodded and looked towards the door.

"You think she's involved?"

"I'm not sure. Evidently she doesn't visit often. Makes me wonder if it's just bad luck on her part or something more."

Marisa shrugged. "Want me to call her in?"

"Yeah, lets see if she can tell us more."

Marisa led Danielle into the office. Detective Bowin stood politely to greet her.

"Ms. Stafford, thanks for coming down so early. I hope you're feeling better today.

"Yes, thank you."

He shook her hand gently. This is my assistant, Detective Sands."

Danielle nodded.

"We won't keep you long. I just had a few things I wanted to clear up." His tone was casual but he watched her carefully.

"You say the thief grabbed you from behind and held one hand over your mouth while he put a knife to your throat?"

"Yes"

"Do you remember which hand held the knife?"

Danielle thought of a moment. "It was the right."

"I would like to try a little experiment. See if we can trigger any memories, if that's okay with you?"

"All right."

Detective Bowin stepped behind and put his hand over her mouth pulling her back. It felt wrong to Danielle: his short stature, the body type, the grip, the very presence was different.

"Marisa give it a try." Marisa positioned herself behind Danielle.

"She's a bit taller than me. It will give us a different perspective." Bowin explained.

Marisa pulled Danielle against her, covering her mouth. A shiver went through Danielle. The detective was strong, forceful. She hadn't expected that from a woman. There were definite similarities and it unnerved her.

Danielle pulled away, obviously a little rattled.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, just brought back some unpleasant memories I guess."

"Please have a seat."

"So, was he closer to my build or Marisa's?"

She hesitated only a moment and lied, "closer to your height and stature, I think." Both detectives watched her shift nervously.

"When the thief was tying you up did you notice anything about him? You said his eye color was green.

"Yes, green I think." Her voice quavered slightly. But she recovered quickly. "It's kind of hazy and I was frightened."

"Of course, that's completely understandable. Was he white then?"

"I think so. He wore gloves and a mask. I never saw his skin."

"Hmm, but the eye color would indicate someone of light skin."

"Yes" Danielle was feeling uncomfortable with her lies. Why was she protecting the robber?.

"Did he speak to you at all?"

Danielle hesitated again. "No."

Bowin cast a quick glance at his partner, wondering if she had noticed Danielle's eyes lower. "Anything about him that was unusual? Mannerisms, walk?"

"Nothing I can remember."

There was something strange going on. Bowin could feel it. He decided not to press the woman too hard. He could always call her back later.

"Well, that's all I can think of for now. You'll be available if we have further questions?" He stood and smiled. Danielle nodded, wondering if he was asking or telling her.

She was relieved to be leaving. Her head was pounding. She could not imagine what had caused her to lie, but she had done it with barely a thought. It had almost been instinctive. Uncomfortable with her fabrications, she wondered if her face may have revealed her discomfort. She took a deep breath as she exited the station. It was over now and she would just have to deal with the consequences.

***

It was early morning by the time Alex arrived home. She poured herself a cup of coffee and settled on the couch. The journal lay on the table where she had left it. She ran her hand lightly over the smooth leather, her fingers tracing the curious design. ‘Okay Danielle, how'd the date go?' Turning the pages to the point she left off, she began to read.

7/2

The date was disastrous. We went out for drinks and then back to his apartment to see his autographed sports collectibles. God, how do I manage to get myself into these things? I knew early on it wasn't working out, but I wanted to give it a fair shot. After the second drink, his subtle advances escalated to heavy groping and forceful kisses.

He did all the things that make for effective love scenes in movies, the same things others before him have done. I felt nothing. Fortunately, he was oblivious to my disinterest and seemed genuinely reluctant for me to leave. At least, I didn't hurt his feelings. He even asked me out again. At least one of us had a good time. Of course, I declined. It wouldn't be fair to him. What's the point, I'm hopeless.

Whatever triggered the sensations in me last night in the park, wasn't there tonight. Was I attracted to the forbidden, the voyeurism, the sense of danger? Maybe it was the simple fact they were both women? But, my body had reacted long before I knew their sex, or had something deep within me known it all along? I'm curious.

"I'll bet you are." Alex smiled. Something told her that the young woman was far from hopeless. She had seen the fire in those green eyes. It was clear to Alex that the right person would have no trouble stirring the passion she sensed was smoldering below the surface. She got up to pour another cup of coffee, then sat back down to continue reading.

7/3

I made plans to spend the weekend with my uncle. He is such a kind and lonely man. I feel a little guilty for not making more of an effort to visit him since I've lived in town. He was so supportive of my decision to move here. Without his help, my parents would have made it even more difficult for me. They were dead set against me coming out here.

If it weren't for my grandmother, I would think that I was adopted. I have nothing in common with my family. They are appalled by my need for adventure and will never understand why I broke my engagement to Paul. It was the right decision. As nice as he is, I knew we weren't right for each other. I like him, but I could never love him, not the way he wanted.

My father will never forgive me for the embarrassment I brought to the family, breaking the engagement and leaving town. But, my leaving was hardest on my mother. It made the memories of my grandmother surface. When I left, I could see the pain in her face. I knew she was remembering my grandmother's scandalous affair.

It took all my courage to leave what was safe and familiar. I could have spent my entire life trying to fit in there. I never would have. I had to find myself.

7/4

I went to see the fireworks with some women from the paper. They were spectacular. I've always enjoyed looking up at the night sky. The stars fascinate me. My friends seemed much less interested in the fireworks than the men that passed by.

I feigned interest in their observations. Puzzled by what they found so alluring. None of the men we saw interested me physically. But then, they never do.

After the night in the park, I find myself thinking about women, wondering if that's where my attraction lies. I'm more aware of women since that night. I appreciate the beauty of the female form. The soft sloping curves of a woman's body are pleasing to me. Still, there is no physical attraction except for that glimmer of feeling I had watching the women in the park.

I will be twenty-three in a couple of weeks. That has been a milestone year for women in my family. My grandmother was that age when her life changed. Maybe it will be my year for self discovery, too.

7/5

Six years of journalism and I'm stuck writing obituaries. If only I could get a shot at writing a real story. I've only worked at the paper for five months but I've got some great ideas. I wish they would let me try one. I sent the outline for the domestic violence story to Liz, the editor of the women's section. I wonder if she bothered to read it. It's just the kind of story I have dreamt of doing. An opportunity to help people through my writing. Elaine encouraged me to follow through with my idea for the story and agreed to talk to the women at the shelter about setting up a meeting. She has been the director for a number of years. They have come to trust and respect her. I hope we are able to get a few to participate. She thinks it might give some women in abusive situations the courage to leave.

I owe Elaine a phone call. We haven't gotten together in a couple of weeks. She has been a good friend to me, but lately her attempts to set me up with her male friends have made me uncomfortable. She only wants me to be happy. I guess I'm going to have to work up the nerve to discuss it with her.

7/6

I have been trying to avoid John all week but today he caught up with me at lunch. I don't know how to let him down easy. Although he's a nice guy, I don't think that he has any close friends. I should have left things as they were. Now, our friendship seems strained. I'll have to talk to Elaine. She usually knows how to handle these relationship things. Who knows, maybe she could set him up with one of her female friends.

Maybe I should ask her to set me up with one of her female friends.

Since the night in the park, I haven't been sleeping well. I am restless. Until that night I thought little about sex. Now my dreams are filled with longing. I chase a stranger whose face eludes me.

7/7

I walk the park nightly, secretly hoping I will see the lovers. I can't stop thinking of them. They haunt me. I can't shake the feeling that they hold the key that would unlock my heart and end my loneliness.

I believe the answer is linked with this incident. I don't know what I'm searching for, only that I can't give up trying to find it. I feel on the verge of discovering something I once knew and have now forgotten. There is a piece of myself that is missing. Without it, I'm incomplete.

It's a promise of something wonderful, something I have waited my entire life for. My eyes linger on each woman I pass and I wonder if they are one of the lovers from that night.

7/8

An odd thing happened at the hair stylist's today. I was waiting to have my hair trimmed when I glanced at the woman seated in front of me. It wasn't the woman herself that caught my eye, but her hair. She slid a towel off her head, revealing long dark hair. It was wet and hung in tangles down her shoulders. I felt a shiver run down my spine. I watched entranced as she ran her fingers through it, shocked that I wanted to do the same. I don't know how long I stared at her. Time had stopped for me. My heart was pounding furiously. She turned to pick up a magazine from the counter and faced my direction. She was beautiful, but somehow I felt disappointed. What had I expected? Who had I expected? Did the woman against the tree in the park have long dark hair? I can't remember. I'm not sure that I even noticed. I only know since that night I have changed.

Alex put the journal down and stretched. She wondered for a moment what Danielle would think of her long dark hair. She ran her fingers though it and laughed at herself. What an unlikely pair they would be. They were as opposite as night and day.

Although they were worlds apart, the similarities in their circumstances hadn't escaped her. Something was lacking in her life too. Loneliness was a pain she had learned to bear. Like Danielle, she had never been able to commit to a relationship. She took care not to let her guard down. It was the one valuable lesson Julian had taught her. But, unlike this innocent woman, not committing hadn't stopped her from using lovers of both sexes. In her short life, she had slept with numerous men and women. But, for her part it was always a manipulation, she had never opened her heart to anyone. She never felt love for them.

Reluctantly, she closed the journal. There were many things she had to take care of and she needed to rest. Her fingers slowly caressed the journal's surface. The spiral design on the front fascinated her. Hesitantly, she laid it down and walked to the bedroom.

#xena #xena warrior princess #xena/gabrielle #xena/gabrielle fanfiction #author: friction #mature #fanfiction #femslash

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storykeeper-wra · 5 years

Text

Is It A Nightmare?

The Keeper was so tired, plagued by horrid dreamscapes and nightmares. She fought sleep, tea, walks, even sticking ice down her back. But finally sleep claimed her as she relaxed in the bathtub, only to fall deep into the depths. And surface to an unending city with an unblinking sky.

High above a blood red eye stares with its green brother, gazing through all hazes.

Time

Space

Flesh

Bone

Soul

The oculars see all and know what makes those who wander to this dreaming necropolis that they will never be free.

Breath deep the vapors and know the story within our stones. This is where you are meant to be Story. We see your true name and know your true heart.

"You're lying. It's a lie. I don't belong here. It's just another nightmare. I'll wake up." It had to be. It just had to be! The Keeper worked to assure herself.

Follow the path.

A moment in the corner of an eye would bend and bring into focus a cobblestone road that leads deep into the decrepit city. A pulse was throbbing from it, echoing through her feet and up into her body and matching her heart.

It was all a horrible dream she would tell herself, turning to face the road. What choice did she have? She began to follow the path, trying to recall where she had fallen asleep.

The stones are warm at first as the first steps are taken, no sound that should be from bare feet touching a hard surface. The city grows closer but if looking back to the bay dragged from would find her no further from where she began. But the city was closer. And the pulsing continued to match her beating heart.

She paused for a moment, glancing back and forth, "Please wake up..." she whispered to herself before continuing her walked to the city. The pulsing unnerved her but didn't admit this out loud.

The pulses kept in key with her beating heart still, faster it beat the faster it kept with her. Soon the city would catch up with the shortening stone path, and now she enters the crumbling streets. But soon enough as the city accepted her, the wandering chorus of eyes would lock to her.

The eyes upon her made her uneasy as she glanced around, swallowing hard. This wasn't like any city she had been to. Her steps slowed but didn't stop. "Oh Story... wake up..." she whispered.

Stopping was out of the question as her feet seemed a mind of their own, the smooth warm stones giving way to rougher rock. The stone soon peddled and sharper as they broke apart under her step, pain shooting up from her soles. Fearful flitting eyes would see the city moving just as the beach had before with the path. But as she’d look back she’d find the city scale obliterated in empty silence as the debris defied gravity and began to wind into the black skyline. The Keeper winced in pain, knowing her soles were no doubt bleeding. She had no choice but to move forward. But to where? Looking ahead of her tried to steel herself. That small comfort of it being a dream doing very little to help. The eyes were fixated on her, blazing with hunger as the pale girl entered their domain. The path was coming to head, the rocks beneath her feet like glass now as the struck her. But there was no blood. Just growing pain as she enters the center square, a lone dais in the middle.

Her steps were a struggle but she couldn't stop them. She wanted to stop, it hurt. and those eyes, just look forward she would tell herself stepping into the center square and approached the dais. Maybe this would have answers for her.

Three short steps. Three short steps would bring her up to meet the dais. The glass now sharp and steel as the pierced through her feet and bone. The pain matching the wounds but no blood, no slow in her step, as if she were empty and the metal merely pierced the fragile covering that was her skin.

She gave a whimper of pain wanting it to stop as she met the dais. It just felt wrong. The woman was unable to fully understand why she even as if she had no control because she would've fled. She would have stopped from the pain. She peered down at her path and saw no blood but knew there should have been some. Anything. But no...

"What's wrong with me?" She whispered to herself.

The dais reached, the eyes on her, and the pulsing growing and pounding through her core.

Take it.

Trembling hands reached out in a compulsion to the two words as she does, in fact, take it. It was her book.

Two other sets of hands rested on the cover.

Her own hands.

Eyes would lift to look into the same eyes that they were but slightly different.

Three Storys.

One book.

Two eyes.

Take it.

Her heart skipped a beat as her grip tightened on the book giving a hard yank. It was her book. Hers. And she wouldn't lose it. She couldn't lose it. That was her book!

The other Storys gripped the book tightly as well and tugged back just as hard. Their faces the same different. One consumed with fury and rage, a look so unlike her that it was unbelievable. The other filled with terror as she opened her mouth in a silent scream to pull the book to her. The eyes watch. The pulse resounds like a drum through their cores.

"No!" She begged, fighting for her book against the other two. Their faces never to be forgotten as fought for the book. "It isn't yours!"

Take it.

The others pull and scream back as the pulsing blares behind her eyes.

She felt anger at these other two trying to take her book as she continues to pull and yank at her book. Screaming as she would try to focus on making ice erupt from her in a nova. Anything to loosen their grip so she could take her tome back.

As the ice crept from her hands, flames erupted from the terror. Purple skipping tendrils of arcane from the fury. All three drawing from their power to wrest control of their item.

Take. It.

She winced but kept a hold of the book yanking at it with all her strength but they seemed equal to hers. Her own ice began to fill with the corruption she already held forcing it out as she screamed in anger. It was much like when she had been tortured. Spike and shards rising from the ground and the ice creeping down her arms. She wanted to kill them.

The other Storys did the same matching her urge to kill. Fear and terror turning the fire from normal light to a sickly green. The purple arcane flashes of fury transforming into orange and black as her eyes swam over with oil. The very ice that Story called herself began to grow lighter and tinged in silver and steel.

The eyes watch.

The pulse feeds.

Take.

It.

She wanted to take it. Wanted them to go away. It didn't matter. They didn't matter. It was her tome. Her book. Those two words consuming all other thoughts as she growled and yanks with all her strength. Jagged shards of ice aiming for their throats. "It is mine!"

The veil was pierced.

The fire died.

The arcane dissipated.

Steel jutted out from her arms smoking with cold freeze from her arms. Loose hands released the book. The metal stained with the black oil from their eyes as they hung in the air from where she had slain them.

Slain herself.

A helpless sound left her lips as her fingers still clung to the book. She was frozen, eyes moving from them to the steel jutting out of her arms. What had she done? She just wanted them to stop.

The metal was spreading, her magic loosed and fed as the pulse had dropped away with the squeal of the steel as it began to tear apart the earth around her. The dais shaking and breaking as metal split and cut it like flesh, the some leaking the black blood of herself to flush about her feet and ankles. The screaming began. First gurgling noise from her bodies before being accompanied by the raging dark ones who spilled out from the broken city. Gathering around her in spot with hungering eyes and slavering eyes. The creature she first met now multiplied and slurping the blood flooding forth.

The ink. The ink. The ink.

Horror gripped her as she looked around desperately. Shaking her head. "No. Please no..." she begged. She didn't belong here. Why was she here? "I don't want to die!" She had to get free, but how?

The blood was drunk deeply by the mass of ruined flesh that gathered about the ring that it spilled forth from the wounded dais. But as the blood splashed and drank, it kept coming and slowly began to creep higher up her legs. Past her calves, her thighs, and hips. The level never rose, only the ink as it wrapped about her.

No! Not like this! Her heart beat violently against its cage as she looks down at the book. It was still hers. They couldn't have it. Her eyes closed tightly as she willed it away. Go to the first. The Keeper knew she was no immortal. If she was to die then let the stories escape. Some piece of her would remain as she felt the ink crawl higher. Go to the first. They will know my fate. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Silence.

Empty silence.

She swallowed hard, opening her eyes slowly to dare a peek around.

She was in the bathroom. She was standing in cold bath water. She was in the warded place.

Her arms held nothing as she let out a sob. A mix of relief and fear as she stumbled from the bath water. Tripping and banging her shin in her haste to check on her book. What was happening to her?!

Stumbling from the bath would send her sprawling to the floor sliding across the tile in a naked, shivering heap. Struggling to slowly rise with the aid of an old sink would bring her before a mirror. The reflection of an exhausted woman tittering on the edge of some obscene ledge. Staring back was her normal eye and one bloodshot red eye.

[Collab with: @captzexx]

#Horror #Story #The Cursed Tome #Still lovehis writing

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