#of herbs crowns and soot | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tayyibesteatutorials · 4 years

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Of Herbs, Crowns and Soot

Decided to share this here ‘cuz my ccount got deleted lol thank you brain. Enjoy, friends. :D

During the 19th century London, Harry Potter falls down the chimney of one Severus Snape, bringing him with him dire inconviniences.

A Severitus and Snape study story, one without magic.

Chapter One - Down the Chimney Hole

Harry Potter was highly unusual in many ways. For one, he didn’t have to live in an orphanage, despite his parents being dead. For another, he really wanted to go to school, but he had to focus on earning his keep with the Dursleys: Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia and his cousin Dudley. And he also happened to be a chimney sweep’s apprentice.

It was nearly dawn and Harry and his fellow climbing boys -and girl- were sleeping black. The cloth and sacks Master Edwin used to capture fallen soot draped over them, bodies shaking nonetheless from the cold seeping through the dirty cellar floor.

Harry untangled himself from the heap of bodies first. Treading with care as not to wake anyone up, feet unsteady. He shivered. Wrapping his jacket around him for warmth, eyeing his friends with their rising and falling bodies with a glint in his eyes. Tempting. So very tempting. But Master Edwin would come soon. Shrill voice jolting them awake and among the hustle, Harry would miss the opportunity to wash up, be late and suffer Edwin’s wrath.

What would Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia say when Master Edwin complained to them? Hurtling Harry back home and declaring him useless? Uncle Vernon wouldn’t take his small physique as an excuse and no doubt throw him out. Screaming that no sissy boy deserved to be housed under his roof.

He shuddered again, not cold, and when he was ready enough the lofty steps of Edwin’s boots echoed behind the door. A momentary fumbling of keys and the wood hurled open, smashing against the wall with enough force to wake the others.

And if that wasn’t enough to stir the heaviest of sleepers (namely Oliver), the ragged shouting certainly was.

“Wake up, ‘ye useless clotpoles!” Erwin boomed, snatching the blanket from over the boys. Draping the fabric and sacks over his soot-stained jacket while the five others withdrew with sharp flinches. Sleep induced and tripping over their feet in the result, they scurried off to the morning routine none were too pleased to share.

For once, Harry -almost thirteen and not showing it- watched. Sight a blur of shapes and shadow. Running wild like the thoughts in his mind. Another day. Another sun. And Harry Potter has woken once more to the void in his chest eating away the heart he prided himself to have. Oldest he might be, to these children… a brother that they didn’t have and the hope they would better be without… but the light from life was starting to dim for him after all. Oliver… Little Joe and the only girl, Marie-Lue... All lined beside him, ash and dark and clothes that were never meant to be theirs.

Another clench of his heart and Harry faced forward.

Edwin, scowling in the face Edwin, took them in with a grunt. Eyes narrowed. Searching for a toe out of line, as the thought bolted in their minds , “That all of you?” he asked, adjusting his cap.

Harry nodded, curtly, and only because the rest did not. Clenching his jaw hard enough to rattle his teeth, Harry allowed the man his petty fun of spitting at their feet. The hands clasped behind his back jarring his skin, drawing angry gashes over the ones already lining them.

"A'ight. Off with you all, then," Edwin said, banging his cane against the metal rails. Making small Marie, only six, flinch and duck her head. Launching for Harry's hand when Edwin marched up the steps, head ducking to get past the door when his hat almost fell off.

Despite himself, despite what he told everyone in the business, Harry squeezed back. Hard flesh against Marie's soft, innocent skin snagged by two weeks of labour. Tears already forming, trails against red skin. The disappointment Harry had to learn to leave behind as not to stagger. As to win. As to earn his keep.

As to earn the love that he now doubted he deserved to have.

London, on this summer morning, wore fresh fog. Cold fumes, dirty and from the mines and factories. The ones the adults assumed as progress and what the children assumed as early death. Harry squeezed again, against better logic. Meeting Oliver's eye -the second oldest- and shaking his head. Oliver raised a brow and turned back around. And left. Left him all alone. Fending for the girl, whimpering and weak when he wasn't anything more.

When the cart, a feverish clutter of dark shapes appeared, Harry tugged, pulling the girl closer. Eyes lifting from under the cap to eye Edwin, now smoking Edwin, and leant down to her ear.

"Marie," he whispered, sharp as winter snow, "You have to stop crying."

Marie sniffled, shaking her head. She lifted an arm, wiped her eyes. Fast and fuming, though not scared, "I want to go home. To mummy and daddy."

Mummy and daddy. The words winked from the corners of nightmarish nights. Glinting in the stars that sang of them, rose for others. Harry risked another look. This time Oliver nodded in his stead and Harry sighed. When he stopped walking, Mary slammed against his back.

Her fingers lifted. Cradling the bridge of her nose, now tutted red and glanced up. Slow and trembling. The wind sweeping loose strands of black, once blond and no more the silk it used to be. Harry’s hair wasn’t much the same. Reddish-black now soothed dark and rough under the cap.

Harry lifted a single finger to his lips, light brown and not from the soot, "We have to stop crying. Alright, Marie? Your-" he bit on his lips, blinking hard, "Your Mummy and Daddy aren't here... yet. So you must- you have to... you should be strong, yeah? You're a strong girl. Mummy and Daddy want little girls to be strong because everyone loves strong little girls," he whispered, standing up and tugging on her hand, walking faster to keep up.

Marie-Lue sniffed. Wiping the soiled tears from her eyes -brown, doe eyes- and looked up when they stood in line to get on the carriage, "Will Mummy and Daddy love me when I'm strong?"

Harry stared. Stared until Edwin was behind him. A hand smacking down on his neck, ripping off his cap and barking at his face. Smoke and spit coiled around Harry's nose. Taking most of the willpower Harry had to not scrunch.

He bent down for his cap. Thanking Marie-Lue by lifting her into the carriage for finding it, he jumped on. He took the seat at the very end for his tardiness and Marie-Lue cuddled to his side, rubbing her head against his chest. The others watched. Harry watched them back. Little Joe and Oliver... David and Rory and Harry number two (or as they called him Mums, since he never talked), all small and searching. All learnt of affection here, or the lack thereof. Not to look for it. Not to search for it. Keep the yearning inside you, where it won't come to harm you.

And still, yearn you would.

The carriage jolted. The children jolted with it. The driver's whips sliced the air, earning a shrill whine from the 'beast' that didn't look like it could pull anything but its own weight.

"Harry," Marie whispered, only six and so small, "Will they come back for me if I'm strong?"

A family walked in his mind. Happy and laughing. A woman wearing dark blue robes and a man wearing a suit, smart and something Harry saw behind the glass one freezing Christmas two years back. Getting a shaky look before the tailor chased him out, screaming about how Harry would scare off customers. He only found him because Harry had left his soot in the snow. Betraying him in the ally where he lied, frozen and beaten with blood in his teeth.

Bad Christmas. But he'd seen his parents there and begged to join them. In his mind, his mother black-haired and kind-eyed. His father red-haired and green-eyed and only because he once saw a heard of red-heads and their own father in town. Poor, not well off but happy all the same. Happy. And Harry would doubt Aunt Petunia in these instances. How poverty, while making those five children happy, made Harry Potter's parents leave him on his Aunt's doorstep one summer night.

One summer night almost twelve years ago, and even now Aunt Petunia refused to say anymore.

And Harry wouldn't either.

He cleared his throat. The girl, only a girl, looked up and returned Harry's smile, though it didn't resemble the grimace on Harry's face, "We'll pray for it."

"Every night?"

"Every night."

"Will you teach me?"

Harry paused and looked up. Oliver regarded him with narrow eyes and crossed brows. The look Harry had become better at ignoring over the years.

And ignore he did.

"I will. I promise. We'll pray... we'll pray for a family."

Marie nodded. Harder than necessary and held up a curled pinky finger, "And for food. Yummy food, like in the big town."

Harry opened his mouth. David, eight years old, talked instead, "And clothes."

Rory, ten and a half, "And a warm house!"

Mums, who communicated with hands alone, clasped his hands and faked sleep, winking at them when the rest fell into soft laughter.

Well, most of them anyway. Little Joe joined in, despite not having said anything but Oliver stood stern. Cocking his head when Edwin -bastard Edwin- twisted his neck with nasty threats of no dinner. Took Harry and Marie-Lue with a look that promised far more and turned back to the front with a grunt.

Harry heard the curse. But smiled at Marie. Only Marie. Taking her finger with his own and shook, a deal well made. An oath well earned, "I promise, Marie."

And Marie grinned with hope Harry had lost. She hugged with strong arms. Warm and still alive, and her breath fell soft and steady while Harry watched her closed eyes. Tufting a strand away from her face, Harry leaned back on the wood. Pulling his jacket tighter around himself, against the summer wind that sang of winter. Of sleep. Of today.

The today masked by tall, grey buildings that swam in hasty shapes. Tall and beautiful and alive. Parents and children and families that were warm and not some wind to jolt them out of a dream that wasn't real. Just them, and warm fires and someone's presence to look forward to. Despite the cold. Despite the fog. And no matter what London or England could be, a family it would stay.

He frowned.

And then Harry prayed.

London, for all it's worth, was less grime and more stares. And climbing down from the carriage in an unfamiliar neighbourhood was always foreign and strange. Edwin called them all identical. So did Harry, with the shapes and colours so familiar in his eyes that he needed someone to tell him which house was which when Edwin wasn't looking.

Taking one large sheet over his shoulder, Edwin turned to the street. Cupping a hand over his mouth and shouting with a voice no longer raspy, "Soot- Oh, Sweep!" over and over until there were at least two people peekeing through their blinds, their curtains closing just as quick when they caught sight of them.

Edwin clearly didn't mind being at the receiving end of the glares from the residence. Or he was good at hiding it. Or that these particular glares weren't as bad, seeing as most the buildings here belonged to tradesmen and shopkeepers, judging by the signs that lined over the brick architecture.

"A'ight," Edwin turned to the line of children. Dropping a pale sheet over each of their arms, he swept a look over each of them as he passed, the only black eye on his face seizing up Harry when he stopped in front of him, "You come with me."

And with a sharp jab to his chest, Harry followed. Not sparing a glance behind him, Harry squared shoulders. Throwing the worn sheet over his shoulder and stuttering to the sidewalk.

Harry's feet shuffled on the cobblestone. Cold, due to the holes in the soles and the socks that thinned to strings. Edwin didn't look behind him. Grumbling now and again to a passerby, complaining about their dress or shoes or the riches they most likely possessed and Harry was once again reminded of Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. They too took great pleasure in gossip and complaint, sneering at anyone who looked to be better off them in any detail. Gloating over the souls that were unfortunate enough to have the little they didn't. Though, Harry couldn't call their assets little. With their servant and three large bedrooms and the kitchen that never seemed to lack food, they certainly weren't poor. And taking in Harry at a young age and keeping him in the cupboard under the stairs and rarely feeding him could hardly diminish their wealth. Especially when Dudley's birthday gifts showed a visible accumulation over the years.

Harry, called back from his daydream by bumping against Edwin's back, looked up. Ducking his head at Edwin's scowl, he shuffled his weight from one foot to the other. Nodding when Edwin barked at him to wait outside. His ears pricking at the sound of the bell, though his eyes did not falter from the cracked stone on the ground. Interesting stone it was. Grey, dark and not ugly like Edwin. Harry leaned against the glass, crunching the pebbles with his toes.

His breath swirled in a white mist over his mouth and nose. Unsteady. Breaking. And his fascination lasted the three minutes Edwin spent inside before he was dragged in. Arm burning even after Edwin let go.

The shop, in question, was warm. Not the uncomfortable warm that lasted two rare days of summer. Or the chimneys he climbed with their suffocating heat. No, this warmth was tender. This warmth smelled sharp of herbs and teas and flowers he didn't know. Of medicines terrible and strange that reminded him of... well, he wasn't sure.

But it smelled of home.

Either way, Harry made sure to keep his head down. Made sure that his eyes, green and not to everyone's liking hid behind his cap. Stay out of sight. If you can't, stay silent. Be the next best thing and keep still. Mummys and Daddys only like quiet, obedient kids, don't you know Potter? Not some scrawny dark-skinned boy with knobbly knees. Harry nodded, reluctant. But the voice in his head disappeared all the same. Leaving behind a chuckle and a slap on his neck.

Harry sputtered. And then met the eyes of the client.

Black, piercing, angry. Dressed all in black and a not someone Harry would like to meet on a midnight traverse. And though Harry's eyes dropped the black shirt, the man's did not. Continuing to listen to Edwin with his eyes not lingering.

"We settled on the price, then?"

"I suppose it's an adequate amount, in return for your, ah deliverance," the man said, smooth but snide, and Harry's head lifted in surprise. Breath jerking because the man was still looking and it wasn't what Harry would consider in his favour.

A moment of silence. Then, "This way, please. I had the chimney in the shop swept not a while ago. The same cannot be said for the one in my personal quarters and laboratory," and he led them around the brown oak counter to a door behind a shelf of jars and glass bottles. Opening the door that led a flight of stairs, shadow drawn and narrowed between two black walls.

Edwin cleared his throat, making the man turn around. His shoulder-length black hair falling curtain around his face,

"Eh, Mr Snape-"

"Professor Snape,"

Edwin clenched his fist, "Of course. Professor Snape. Do you want another worker for the second chimney, or would this lad be of use?"

For Professor Snape, the question must not have been an easy one. His brows knitted closer and the lean form hunched forward, long arms crossing over his chest.

And then the Professor did something that made Harry stagger down a step.

He kneeled to his height. Taking the arm that wasn't holding the brush and sheet. And with a touch that should not have been gentle, squeezed.

It was in no way familial. Nor parental and no matter how much the scent of the shop swirled the man, Harry told himself it wasn’t home.

He wasn’t home. But now, with his dark eyes soot-black and searching, Harry’s breath did hitch and his heart fell into an unsteady run. Fast, uneven and to his dismay, something the professor noticed. How he knew, Harry couldn’t say. But after that bony finger slithered to his wrist and pressed down, the professor knew.

The arched brow complemented his features. With those sharp and high cheekbones, and the lingering suspicion that the professor wasn’t just a professor bothered Harry. Not much, but enough to take another step back before he was cornered by Edwin. Snatching his wrist back, Harry rubbed the skin and faced away.

Professor Snape, quick to let go and quicker in gaining back his decorum, stood up. He clasped his hands behind him, and with a look positively bored, faced Edwin, “He will suffice, assuming that your...climbing boys clean more than a chimney per day.”

“Oh, yes. Mark me words, five and six if their luck. The economy as it is… Need some income, you know, not that you yourself-”

Professor Snape held out a hand. And Harry allowed himself to grin under his cap at the way Edwin’s face morphed into surprise and then rage.

“Yes yes. Very drastic. God bless the Queen. Now,” he then turned, resuming the rest of the climb, “If you’d follow me?”

They complied. But the sneer that pulled on Edwin’s lips couldn’t mean he was pleased. Harry could almost read the man’s mind, after spending four years with the man. Something between a scoff and a chuckle sounding from his lips when Edwin’s voice echoed in his mind. Complaining in a rigid voice, stomping over and over his mechanical brush while cursing at every professor that came to be.

He hid it, of course. Behind a cough and a grin bit back, just in time for Professor Snape to open the door (oak and dark) on the landing, giving way a large living area.

And it was nothing like Harry imagined.

A dark shadow followed Professor Snape. In the corner, in his heart. A shadow that sneered and scowled and growled like a beast and Harry assumed... well, it wasn't right to make assumptions. No. But with the warm chocolate walls, wooden tiles beneath multiple dark green carpets and furniture that was welcoming more than menacing, Harry could admit that his taste wasn't half bad. Sure, the space was small. With a chimney in the corner below layers of shelves and a long couch and single armchair, there wasn't much area left to the circular dining table and two chairs, as well as the kitchen area lining the opposite wall. All warm and colours of dull brown and green. Not wild, not snark but some comfort to his eyes nonetheless.

"You have a nice house," Harry said, soft, certain. Then immediately clamped a hand over his mouth when the man's head whirled around. Making dear Harry pinch the inside of his palm and avert his eyes.

A slap on the back of the head was Edwin's -cruel and disgusting Edwin's- response. Along with a hiss in the ear to behave while he apologised to the Professor, hands clasped together in apology, back bent.

Disgusting. And people thought the kid's kissed up to others.

Professor Snape waved a dismissed hand, one hand still behind his back, "I do not mind. Now, I'm a rather busy man. Hence I ask you to be quick about it, Mr Edwin."

"Yes yes. Of course," Edwin said, honeyed. Grabbing Harry around the cuff the next second and dragging him across the parlour to the well-furnished chimney. He kneeled down to his knees, bones groaning in protest. Grabbing hold of the metal long holder and removing it from the hearth. Then, he lifted up a hand and Harry passed him the white cloth. All the while the Professor sat in his armchair.

And watched.

Harry wasn't about to return the gesture. So while Professor Snape watched Edwin lay the cloth over the hearth, Harry watched the ornaments that lined over the mantelpiece. A few viles, dried flowers, a portrait of a young Professor Snape and a woman, and an antique table clock.

Edwin's voice rose him, and Harry was once more pushed forward. Stumbling and finding his support on the brick fireplace.

Professor Snape watched.

Professor Snape didn't say a word.

"Eh," Edwin cleared his throat, "Will you be here, Professor Snape?"

"Why yes. I find it impractical to leave children unsupervised, considerably so when dealing with... hazardous tasks."

"I's keeping 'em supervised, Professor."

Professor Snape's arched brow was nothing short of humiliating. Seizing Edwin in a mock question and doubt, "Whatever for?"

"...You're keeping him under lock and-"

Professor Snape held out a hand and Harry indulged himself in another grin at the pale-faced Edwin. Almost liking the man who was now crossing his slender legs, pants pulling high enough to share a glimpse of his black socks, "I shall endeavour to be abundantly clear. I am keeping the boy under supervision so I keep up my honour as a responsible man with proper moral. You, Mr Edwin, have a charge of children needing to be taken care of, to my precise knowledge, and no time to waste. The boy will do fine, and my chimney is in no rush."

"We always keep on the lookout, Professor Snape. We-"

"Are not in a shop your opinions are favoured, as I have made clear to every single sweeper to cross into my quarters. The boy alone, please. You may collect him in, hmm, on your way back from a neighbourhood that hasn't been cleaned just yesterday by another hoard of children."

These things happen, Harry told himself. Running a hand down the shelf, brows disappearing in his blob of hair when his finger came back dust-free. Some others were quicker. Sweeping the neighbourhood clean and making them search for another. Making the children grin while Edwin got scolded by the tenants of the houses. But never was it as fun as this.

"Whatever... whatever shall the boy do, when done with 'em both?"

Professor Snape rolled his eyes, "Ensnare me, Mr Edwin. Actually, no. Rather not. But I imagine that in an apothecary, there is enough work to humour a senile child. I am a busy man and having some additional aid would be much appreciated. Of course," he added, looking right into Edwin's eyes, a smirk twisting his lips, "You'll receive the payment necessary."

In a twist of fate called 'money', Edwin's crooked back straightened and Harry didn't even have the time to be offended at the word 'senile' before a nasty crack came from his spine, making Harry wince and Professor Snape's mouth twitch. Black eyes glaring at Edwin's hand, which was shaking the Professor's vigorously.

“That’s a deal if I’ve ever seen one,” Edwin said with a toothless grin and only Harry noticed the Professor wiping his hand on a handkerchief after he stood up and led them both to the door. But Edwin turned around just before disappearing. Back arched and on his toes to peek above the Professor's shoulder, a finger jabbing the air rather sharply.

“An’ don’ forget to buff it, boy!”

A muscle twitched near Harry’s eye. And when the door closed, masking the last of their ceasing steps, Harry rolled his eyes. Most adults in his life treated him in the same sense as the Dursleys and Edwin. Stupid, ignorant, arrogant, nuisance, burden… And a couple more which were less mundane. But stating the obvious to his face always got Harry’s blood pumping the worst of ways and anger was never slow to follow.

So when a cough from behind him interrupted him from striping from his pants, anger and surprise found themselves equally alive.

Professor Snape, already by the door, had his arms crossed. Scowl still in his face, though less at ease snapped, “What are you doing?” eyeing Harry's hands.

Harry frowned, “Buffing it, sir?”

“What?”

“It’s to go in nude, Professor,” Harry explained, patiently, like he supposed the Professor did at school. But when the scowl deepened, he grinned. Likely not, “It’s easier to clean that way. Less likely to get stuck.”

Professor Snape hummed while Harry got rid of the remainder of his clothes. Now a nasty pile beside the heath, Harry greeted the man with a mock salute before entering the hearth, heart already thumping wild. This was fine. He’d done this before. For years, since the day Uncle Vernon finally kicked him out of the house and Annabeth helped him pack his bag, tears in both their eyes, he’d done this before. No need to throw a tantrum now at the sight of the dark, narrow chute that could mean a possible death with a single wrong movement.

No need at all.

So Harry breathed. Readied himself by pulling up by the walls and climbed. Using his arms and legs, he hoisted himself up. His brush ridding the flue line of the black soot. Keeping his head down as to breath as little as the poisonous material into his lunges, body moving much like a caterpillar up the line.

Little help that did, Harry sneered. Over the years he’d spent, climbing chimney after chimney, always panic and little fun, the soot would get to him sooner or later. Suffocating him in an alleyway where nobody cared.

Little left to take his mind off things, Marie-Lue smiled at him in the darkness and their clasped fingers were close behind.

And then, Harry prayed.

Prayed for love. Prayed for a family.

Prayed for a mother and a father and wouldn’t a brother just be perfect? A little family away from the world, away from the soot that would care not because they had to because Harry was Harry and that was all he had to be.

Under the cap, no one heard him cry.

That was a harsh reality to live and when his head shot through the chute, another day alive, the wind bit at his cheeks and burned his lungs clean.

A harsh reality. An unfair life but Harry was always complaining, wasn’t he? And adults complained about their complaining and loved to remind them life wasn’t a silver platter and he would have to live his way through it.

There’s always a fine line between living and surviving.

Adults told him to live. Live in the only way he could: Survive.

Harry wanted to live, as the sun dawned upon the roofs. Silver and pale but nothing short of a sight when the bricks and steel glinted in the light of a new day. Harry wanted to live as he slipped back down, having enough of the London city tops starting to bustle with life.

Wanted to live when he was falling fast. Faster than he should have. Wanted to live when he regained his hold to cushion his fall, still fast but not fast enough to die.

Even when the Professor's face, wild with concern, danced in his view before finally, he closed his eyes.

Black as soot.

Peaceful as the night.

#severitus #severus snape #harry potter #fanfic #prosnape #snapedom #of herbs crowns and soot #my writing

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virgil-writes · 3 years

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ash & soot

Long before the Winters come into play, a monster stalks the Forbidden Forest that surrounds the Village. Karl Heisenberg is sent to investigate, and heads deeper into darkness to find his prey, a thorn on his side and someone just like him. (Heisenberg x OC)

chapter 6 - the spork

SFW, but usual blood/gore warning. around 2.7K words.

chapter 7 - shower thoughts

on ao3 only, to avoid tangling with tumblr's nip ban rules. contains naughty things.

Why was it he had let her live again? Heisenberg couldn’t help but wonder, making his way across the bridge that led to the factory. The pot of stew felt heavy in his hands, heavy and warm; a pleasantry, not a threat, despite his impulsive behavior. What puzzled him, really, was that she seemed so comfortable in the face of animosity, like an aggressive man invading her home and threatening to kill her was just part of a humdrum day. He had thought the illusions and ominous offers were meant to lure passersby in, to drain them of blood and use their skin and bones for sordid rituals. He had gone through it all because he was certain nothing could kill him, even if it tried, but no violence came from her. Was she trying to keep people out?

There was no trace of blood on his face, no trace that he had ever broken his nose in such a ridiculous manner, no trace that he had ever been bitten by a half-dead lycan. She had been the only witness, and he doubted she would bother entering the village to spread the news. He would go as far as saying she was happy to see him, his restraint a breath of fresh air in what he could imagine was a violent existence. He would know; they both had that look in their eyes, the look of someone drained of life because they had seen too much, done too much.

Power, he cut himself off when his thoughts had started leaning too much towards emotions. Power, that was the reason he had let her live. She was a cyphered book, an old witch’s grimoire locked away in a dusty tower. He had treaded dangerous waters and climbed through the window holding onto unsteady stones, and had only been given a glimpse, a quick look at the first page. And what he had seen was intriguing, dark and mysterious, so alien compared to his parasite-infested, mold-ridden world. Power and curiosity, nothing more.

As if on cue, the front gate’s buzzer went off, the whirring sound reminding him of the old American game shows he used to watch as a child. Wrong answer.

“Oh, fine.” He grunted in exasperation, free hand thrown in the air in defeat. “I liked her.” The words felt like soap in his mouth, a punishment for his profanity and transgressions. But there was no mother to wash out his mouth anymore, to keep him quiet and obedient. It felt good to say it, good to admit it. He was no machine; he may no longer be simply a man, but he still had his humanity well rooted within him. Or at least he liked to think so.

He liked her, he repeated, an awkward wave of relief washing over him. Not in a sit and commit sort of way, though, he wasn’t about to run back to her cabin come morning with a fancy ring to put on her finger. Hell, not even in a hit it and quit it way, either. The enigma of her existence was intoxicating, a lonely witch living in the woods of powers untold, his very own little secret. His own puppet to manipulate, another tool in his arsenal against Big Bird Bitch, if all went well. What a great find, his chest swelling with pride at his masterful move.

And she did seem to take a liking to him, modesty be damned.

The garage doors greeted him with the familiar screech of metal, a cloud of soot and hot air blowing out into the yard, like a nice warm hug from his beloved metal beast, like it wanted to congratulate him on a job well done. Though there was little need for such precautions, Heisenberg checked the locks, scanned the room for any suspicious activity. Everything in place, every last bit of scrap metal thrown carelessly to the side exactly where he had left it. The factory was quiet enough at this hour, and you would have to pay close attention to hear the haulers walking to and fro, their rare vocalizations every now and then. He was in high spirits and there was much work to do, improving Eins and Zwei, setting aside some time to study Sturm’s case and prepare accordingly. And then there was the planning, the pouring over reports of the latest events, coming up with the best strategy to take out each of his precious “siblings”, wedging his beautiful little hag in just the perfect place within his plans.

The complexity of it all was a marvel to him, a puzzle he never got tired of putting together. He supposed he had Miranda to thank for that, for turning his world upside down, forcing him to push his capabilities to the limit because of it. Sometimes he dreaded to think about what would come after; his hatred was all that kept him going, doing the bare minimum to keep himself alive and functioning, to get him out of bed come morning. What would he do when they were all out of the picture? He could finally be himself, he supposed, though that sounded like a tremendous amount of work and pain for the meager reward of knowing the shell of a man he had become.

This was not the time to think about it, he reprimanded himself. The rebellion hadn’t even began and he had many sleepless nights ahead of him.

The smell of the stew reminded him that he would starve if he waited any longer to eat. He barely remembered when he had eaten last - was it this morning? Yesterday? Such moments were but a blur, a mere nuisance in his schedule. Heisenberg was good at many things, but cooking, that he had never gotten the hang of. Putting a stove together? Piece of cake. Making a fridge out of scrap metal and elbow grease? That he could do. It’s not like he had grown up on much, either, had developed a taste for fine dining, wine and biscuits. His parents had been the industrial kind in more ways than one: blunt, efficient, cut and dry. Their meals were few and far in between, whatever cooked up fast and was filling enough to keep them standing. He had lost the parents, but kept the philosophy over the years, surviving on jerkies and raw produce, or whatever the Duke had in stock to be stored and crudely roasted later.

Heisenberg turned the key to his quarters with a sigh. Home, sweet scrapyard at last, and he wasted no time kicking off his boots and levitating the hammer to place it against the wall next to his favorite chair He set the pot on the metal table before discarding his hat and trench coat, eyeing the bowl the entire time as if it was about to attempt murder. Which he figured it might, considering the person who had given it to him was a woman he had met just a few hours prior, who lived in a hidden shack in the woods and could shapeshift into a giant horned monster. She had tasted it before preparing his bowl, and it did look harmless enough. Heisenberg inspected it closely - it definitely looked very appetizing. Some meat, potatoes, herbs mixed into a thick broth. A hearty meal for a cold winter night. Even if it was poisoned, it looked good enough to be worth the hassle.

“Ah, right.” He stared at his empty hand, shaking his pointer finger disappointingly. A laugh escaped him as he pulled every drawer, went through every shelf. Chisel, saw, hammer. Screwdriver, nails, wrench. Pliers, clamps and cutters, nuts, bolts and screws. An old TV antenna, pewter tankard, and even a goddamn tooth crown. Everything he could think of, except the one thing he needed: a single fucking spoon.

He stormed out of his quarters and into the foundry with the fury of a god. Nothing would keep him from the possibly deadly bowl of stew that smelled like the best thing that would ever grace his lips. He had reanimated the dead to do his bidding, could move metal with his fucking hands. A spoon was no match for him. Grabbing a sheet of metal and a long-abandoned pen, he roughly drew the shape of what he remembered a spoon to be - it had been a while. Cutting through took longer than he expected, and he refused to buff the steel to make it shiny. If he did not ingest his sustenance within the next few minutes, he was positive he would simply lay down and die. He took hammer to metal to make sure the thing would actually hold liquid, then the idea hit him like a flash of lightning, and he cut three small indentations at the tip: half spoon, half fork. The perfect piece of flatware. He would call it… The spork. Finally, he filed the edges just enough that it wouldn’t accidentally rip out a piece of his tongue, and proudly walked back to his quarters, plopping himself down unceremoniously onto a nearby stool.

If this turned out to taste like boiled dirt, it would be the biggest disappointment of his life yet. But it wasn’t - in fact, it was the best thing he had eaten in decades. Creamy, just the right amount of spice, meat cooked to perfection. Somewhere deep within his soul, he knew a proud ancestor watched as he took a generous bite out of a tender potato chunk. He could get used to this, he mused, a mouthful of pork and a hum of approval later. Maybe he should visit more often.

It was over all too soon, and he found himself staring at the empty bowl with so, so much sadness in his heart. Maybe he should have stayed for dinner. Forlorn and full, he leaned against the workbench, one hand reaching down to untuck his shirt, dexterous fingers then quickly unbuckling his belt and popping the button on his pants. Head thrown back, he let out a happy, satisfied sigh when his stomach was finally free of its cloth constraints. He pat his belly with a chuckle, feeling the faint lines of toned muscle above his belly button, then the creases on his hips - he didn’t look bad for being almost a century old, eh? He had gained some extra weight, it’s true, since the Duke introduced him to some modern novelties such as frozen pizza and energy drinks, but hauling corpses and building intricate machines was good exercise. Just the right amount of bulk and sprinkle of muscle, if he did say so himself.

For a moment, unbidden, he wondered if she would like it. If she would like him, all of him, more than what she had seen, more than what she had heard, more than what he had offered in their brief encounter. He hadn’t kept up with the beauty trends, and any man with functioning limbs and two braincells passed as hunk material in the village, but he just knew that he was quite the specimen. He was reminded of that look in her eyes, the one that stirred something within him he hadn’t felt in way too long.

Not that he was interested, of course. His curiosity was only natural, seeing as he hadn’t spoken to anyone from outside this little bubble of a hellhole for decades. Even when he was sent out into the world, his orders were very specific - grab what needs to be brought back, do not talk to victims of the evil plan. As much as he wanted to do it as a fuck you to Miranda, instead he always decided to bide his time. Blowing his cover could mean failure - or death.

She would like it, he decided, checking out his reflection on a well polished piece of metal. Not that it was difficult, of course. Who wouldn’t? The charming beard, killer smile, steel blue eyes. He could treat his hair better, true, wash the soot off his face. His clothes needed washing and his feet needed some time out of those damp boots. He had one too many broken fingernails and more scars than skin at this point. Still, she would like it - on second thought, maybe after a nice, hot shower.

He busied himself with all manner of tasks after dinner. Washed it down with a nice gulp of Gibcos, then made his way down to one of the operating rooms. He pushed aside the gurneys in his way, the quiet humming of the soldiers’ reactors a comforting sound despite the macabre landscape of the room. Beyond the door and behind the large window pane a very, very dead body lay waiting for him, a chunk of its torso and head missing. The lycans had done a number on the poor bastard, catching him off-guard as he made for the outhouse, so we was told. A man couldn’t even shit in this village in peace, he laughed humorlessly. The corpse was barely cold when Heisenberg dug it up and dragged it back to the factory. There was no funeral, no mourning of the deceased: in cases such as these, the villagers thought it best to bury the disfigured relative and be done with it, fingers crossed that they wouldn’t return with a hunger for human flesh a scant few days later. Despite the body’s horrid conditions, it would still be of great use to him. Strong legs and a wide torso, a perfect specimen for his latest experiment.

Sturm, he would call it, after the god-awful noise the propeller engine made. He tentatively pushed down one of the blades - it needed more oil. Rusty recycled chainsaws had been abandoned for a reason, but there was time to better the mechanical parts yet. First, he needed to figure out how to attach the engine, set up the circuitry, add in the artificial blood. Removal of internal organs was simple enough, a nice big heart to tie it all together. On the other hand, seating the mechanical core was a messy process that took him hours to get right. He didn’t want to waste time, or this corpse, when he had already come this far. He abandoned the project for a few minutes when the thighs gave with the weight, off to build braces to hold the thing together.

It looked mostly done after that, and revival was one powerful electric discharge away. Heisenberg held tight against its mechanical nervous system, focusing on channeling all of his energy - it would need an even bigger discharge than Eins and Zwei. Seven thousand volts, and not even a hint of movement. Eight thousand, he grunted as the current flowed through. Attracting metal was easy enough, but having electric organs was tiring work. He had all but given up when he heard the whir of the blades, Sturm’s body jolting on the operating table in a mix of eagerness and terror. The thing lifted its arms to touch him, chainsaw rippers spinning uncontrollably as Heisenberg took several steps back. He covered his face just in time - the desperate creature once again reached out to him, dumb enough not to notice the death machine attached to its own body. An arm hit and shattered the glass of the operating room, the other colliding against Heisenberg’s chest. Fuck, there was blood everywhere.

“Halte!” He bellowed before Sturm could get any closer, removing his now bloodstained glasses to stare at the thing like his gaze could drill a hole right through its spine. “Dummkopf.” And just as quickly as it had risen, it fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes, metal bending in odd places with the impact. Heisenberg let out his frustration with a furious kick on the engine before deciding that if he tried again for the night, he would probably end up throwing the whole thing in the grinder. He’d rather avoid having to clean the blades of all the tissue that would be stuck to them.

Seemed like he would have to take that shower after all.

#resident evil village #karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg x oc #karl heisenburg x reader #but only if you squint really #virgil writes #long post ///

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writingsbychlo · 4 years

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stone walls (01) | void!stiles

word count; 15,462

summary; stiles is a witch for king Derek, and pretty evil. he’s given a test subject in the forms of a traitor from the Argent kingdom who was found stealing on their land. he wasn’t supposed to fall in love with her.

notes; this is kind of a medieval/royalty au, and he’s not really a witch with magic, but in those times, his talents would have been considered witchcraft.

warnings; reference to abuse, torture, blood, gore, violence, sickness, near-death experiences, abduction, arson, sacrifice, murder.

There had once been a brightness that had shone in Stiles’ eyes. The same whiskey-brown colour that his mother’s had been, the same fair skin, speckled with moles and soft brown hair that could never quite seem to be tamed.

The burning of the Hale castle was heard of by every Kingdom known. The youngest prince had been betrothed to one of their princesses, and everything had seemed bright. Stiles remembered their home palace, it had been larger, and full of life. Soldiers had been buzzing around, and his favourite place had been the gardens, his mother had taken him to visit them on every journey they had taken before the wedding between Prince Derek and Princess Kate had been due to take place.

Two weeks before the ceremony was upon them, Kate had arrived in horse and carriage, his mother and father, both being part of the royal escort to welcome her, had been present as she made her way through the halls of her new home. That night, the walls had been scorching hot as flames curled up into the night sky, the screaming sounds of terror echoing out of every window, door and passageway in the castle.

Burns and scars still crawled along his father’s arms from where he had pulled a sleeping Stiles from his bed and raced through the halls to get him out. Stiles had tended to those injuries himself, with the limited medical knowledge he knew from what his mother had taught him, but the man had never been the same.

His mother hadn't been so lucky. The last memory he’d had of her was her lips pressing to his forehead as she tucked him into bed, promising she would teach him all about herbs and how to write with the curly signature he admired so much when he woke up in the morning. When the fires had finally stopped burning three days later, Kate had been gone, her belongings, her carriage, every trace that she had ever been there had vanished. It had rained for the entire day, thick plumes of smoke billowing up into the air and he had spent the day searching through the charred rubble until his fingers were burned and bleeding, his body covered in soot and ash as he coughed and screamed for his mother.

It was on that day that the hail kingdom had gone dark, a young Prince Derek crowned King at the tender age of seventeen as everything warm and bright within Stiles slipped away, as though it had gone up in flames with his mother and the Hale family who had protected them. That day, Stiles had grown dark, his young screams of revenge muffled as his father had held him close, but they had always stood true.

His studies no longer centred around healing and medicine, but instead around how to use his knowledge to his best possible advantage of harm. He wanted to know how to protect himself, not how to heal. He’d been defenceless and weak when he had lost his mother, and he wouldn’t let that happen again. The bright spark in his eyes had slipped away over the years, as he hid himself in the deepest darkest spots within the newly rebuilt castle he could find, perfecting his trade over the years, the darkness that had bloomed that day had grown, infecting every part of his soul until he’d truly earned his nicknames over the years, the Hale kingdom coming to know him as exactly what he was; Void.

Stiles grunted as deep footsteps echoed along the floor of the stone corridors outside of his chambers, a single brow arching as the heavy wood scraped against the stone tile as it was forced open by whoever had decided to bother him with their presence today. Placing down the small purple flowers he was in the process of wrapping in twine around the stems, he paused, waiting for the person to make their purpose known.

The angry face of his king met him, a snarl on his lips as he tossed forward the body in his grasp, the figure falling to the floor with a loud cry, a flurry of torn rags and messy hair meeting the floor, catching themselves on their hands and knees before rocking back to kneel, looking at their scraped and bleeding hands as they wiped them on the ripped dress hanging on their shoulders.

He glanced between the girl on the floor and the man who had delivered her, a bored look in his eyes, and he sighed as he gave in, rounding the collection of wooden desks he worked behind, his fingers flexing as he gripped his hands behind his back, coming to stand before his king. “Hmm, you brought me a gift?”

“I brought you a scrap of rags that I found in the woods, just on the border of the Argent kingdom. She was hiding up in the trees, I had to pull one of the hunting dogs off of her when she tried to run.” Stiles’ lips curled up at the story, a dark grin twisted on his features as he came to crouch before her, two of his spindly fingers hooking under her chin to direct her face up to his, and he scanned his eyes over her features, carefully.

“And what exactly is it that you would like me to do with her, your majesty?” Derek snarled at him as he spat the words, and Stiles simply smirked up at him, cocking a brow as the girl tore her face from his grasp, a chuckle spilling from him at her bravery as he stood back to his full height.

“I don’t care what you do, just make sure when she dies she sends a message to keep their spies off of my fucking land.” With that, the man was gone, a twist of fur and capes and the door was slamming shut as he left, leaving him in silence with the girl still sitting on the floor. Holding a hand out to her, she glanced wearily between his face and his hand, before slipping her own into it. The second he had a grip on her, he was yanking her roughly to her feet, a yelp leaving her as her arm jolted in its socket from the force of the pull, and she stumbled over her own feet as he dragged her across the room.

In the furthest corner, a grimy set of bars she hadn't quite noticed until now were slid open with a grating whine of rusted metal on metal, and shackles soon fastened tightly around one of her wrists, the cold metal soothing over her skin as she found the other being threaded through the bars of the wall.

Tugging at the restraints, her jaw fell open, and she stood idly in the small cell, looking around in the darkness. On unsteady feet, she raced back toward the barred door that was sliding closed, stopped only by the pull of the chain around her wrist as she approached them, and her captor stood over her carefully, grinning down at her as her hands came up, fingers curling around the metal as she watched him.

He expected her to put up a fight, to shake on the bars and scream for help, but instead, her eyes just watched him, scanning over his face, before flickering over the room, still as she took in the messy desktops he had, laden with books, plants, bowls and boxes.

“The shackles aren’t necessary, you know. I’m not going to run. I don’t think I could get very far if I tried.”

“Hm, and I would believe a word someone who was found travelling from the Argent Kingdom for what reason, exactly?” He growled, his own hands grasping the bars in anger and he shook them, the girl stumbling back in shock as she backed into the shadows, a wicked smile on his face as he watched fear take place in her body, his eyes narrowing on her barely visible form. “I lost everything because of your people. Everything!” His voice had risen from the usual eerie calmness it held to a loud roar, his chest heaving as he glared at the space she stood. “You have one purpose, and that is to serve as a walking blood bag that I can use to drain for experiments and sacrifices.”

With that, he spun on his heel, making his way back over his table, fingers dancing along the wood as he picked back up the purple flowers he had been working with, wrapping the thin strands of thread around the bases in clumps. The rattle of chain sounded in his ears, his jaw clenching at the sound and he flicked his eyes back over to the cage, watching as her messy head of hair came back into view, her eyes sweeping curiously over his work station, and he reached out, slamming closed the pages of the books he’d been reading from.

He’d been damned if she was getting any information on their Kingdom from him.

“They’ll dry faster if you press them first.”

His fingers stilled in their motions, the tight-binding around the gathered stems of his final bundle, his eyes flicking up to peer at the shadows, barely catching her movements within, but he could hear the rustle of the chains and fabric of her tattered clothes as she sunk to the ground, a deep sigh leaving her as she settled onto the stone. “Be quiet, or I’ll silence you myself, and you don’t want that.” Glancing between a set of heavy books and the plants in his hands, he shook his head, continuing on with the twine wrappings he had set off on.

It was quiet for a long time, and he had moved on from wrapping the purple flowers, having hung them in the window with rays of sun shining through in order for them to dry, having moved on to sitting in the comfortable seat across the room to read by the time you were speaking once again. He tuned you out, instead choosing to focus on tidying up the counter around him, his every nerve thrumming with the need to do something and he cleared his throat, working in his own mind as he popped the lids from the many glass jars lining the shelves, stuffing ground up herbs and dried flowers inside of each one, his nose scrunching up occasionally as they occasionally let out a smell he wasn’t as fond of, the scent hanging in the air and he could practically taste in in his mouth.

Your commentary had continued on, and he was growing irritated by your constant slew of questions, your commentary to each action and your little laughs to yourself as you cracked jokes that only you were finding funny, and he rolled his eyes, biting at the inside of his cheek as a threatening growl rumbled in his chest. “I thought I told you to be quiet, or else?”

“There’s not much you can do to me that hasn’t already been done.” You sighed, his body stilling for a second as he looked over at you, a single brow raised, but your attention wasn’t on him, instead, you were peering around his room, looking at anything you could see, presumably planning the best way for you to get out.

He was rather proud of his chambers, he took good care of them, and he’s carefully chosen where he would reside, in the furthest corners of the castle, the rooms being smaller but he enjoyed the distance he got from the others, not wanting to be easily found, and he smirked, knowing that there wasn’t a chance you would be able to find your way through the maze of corridors without knowing where to go. “I could cut out your fucking tongue.”

Your jaw snapped shut, your eyes finding his and widening as you looked at him, and he watched as you swallowed thickly, nodding as silence enveloped you both once again, and he scooped up a dish, taking your arm in his and pulling it harshly as your body slammed into the metal bars, wincing but staying quiet. Flicking up the blade of the knife he carried in his pocket, he placed the dish underneath your arm, pressing the blade firmly against your skin, dragging it across your arm as crimson red began to flow rapidly from the cut.

Your fist clenched as the muscles of your forearm tightened, rivers of blood dripping from your arms and collecting in the small wooden container, but you never flinched, your eyes cast downwards as you bit at your tongue, arm shaking slightly once he released you, and his brows raised as you continued to allow the blood to drip from your arm, gathering in the jar. “Good girl. Now keep your fucking mouth shut while I work, and consider this a warning.”

You didn’t speak again after that, and he was once again plunged back into his own silence, only the thoughts in his mind to keep him company as he busied himself, your presence almost slipping from him entirely, until you shuffled or took a particularly deep breath, once again reminding him that you sat locked in the cage in the corner of his room, the remnants of the old prison-cell serving him perfectly for this occasion.

That night, he had pushed a single thin blanket through the bars for you, no words spoken but your hand reached out to take it, dried blood still crusted tp your flesh, your skin inflamed in some patches where you had scratched it away in irritation, a simple ‘thank you’ being uttered, the gesture catching him off guard as his brows furrowed, merely humming in response as he moved around the room, blowing out all the candles until the room was in darkness.

He felt uncomfortable in his own bed that night, the sound of another person's breathing being something he was unfamiliar with, and his skin crawled as he felt crowded in. He’d made sure to move away to the furthest parts of the castle to be alone, and now he wasn’t, the thought sickening him as he rolled over, relaxing his tensed jaw as your own steady breathing lulled him into a more relaxed state, despite how much it made him feel unsettled.

With a final glance at the dark cage in the corner, he shut his eyes, burying his face into his pillow and tuning out the sounds around him.

Stiles wasn’t used to having company while he worked, and you liked to make your presence known. He wasn’t sure whether or not you knew you did it, but you tended to hum under your breath. Different tunes each day, and depending on your mood, they would be louder and happier ones or slower and quieter, more sombre melodies. There were many factors that would affect how you felt; they ranged from the weather to the quality of your own sleep, to reflections of his own mood, and even whether he would drain you that day.

He would be begrudging to admit that he somewhat enjoyed having the silence that normally surrounded him now filled with the subtle hums of tunes under your breath, and he had even caught you singing quietly to yourself a few times when he had returned, only for you to go quiet again, retreating back to the wordless forms of your songs when he closed the door, making his presence in the large bedroom known.

You often went quiet after the times he would drain you, the thick silence would drip back into the room for hours on end, and those hours seemed to drag on for days as he awaited the time that you would pick back up your filling of the quiet. You were a puzzle, you were something of an enigma and he didn’t quite understand.

You never tried to escape, he was dark and twisted and incredibly fucked up but he wasn’t used to having a prisoner and he wasn’t good at it. He left keys lying around and often got himself way too close to the cages, within reach where you could easily grab him and yet you never made a move. You had made yourself comfortable hidden in the shadows, your head resting on the wall as you snuggled against your mattress, a blanket he’d used to mop up dried blood when he was finished with you could now be found often sitting over your body and covering you, just enough to keep you warm.

You never even flinched, any time the blade met your skin, you were still as a rock, arm held out to him and face twisted away as your blood dripped into a bowl for his uses in spells and testing the effects of new ingredients, and your features hadn't once flickered to even show an ounce of pain. He used the same place, a gash on your arm that would barely close before he would use it again.

At some point, you had ventured out to press your cheek to the bar, watching as he worked, and it had unsettled him for a little while, until he paused long enough to observe you and realised that you weren’t making notes or observing him, searching for escape routes. Instead, you were just watching him work and taking an interest in his movements.

It wasn’t long after that when you began to ask questions, and while at first he had been irritated by the motion, he found himself becoming oddly fond of it. You asked good questions, you asked him about his passions and you were a surprisingly quick learner, and he found it rather beneficial to himself when he talked aloud to you because it only helped him to confirm things to himself. He was finding himself less and less angry with your presence, finding it easier to have another person around him for every minute of the day, because the more you spoke the larger the range of topics had become.

After simply asking him about what he was doing, you had moved on to asking him about his book collections and his flowers and herbs, to asking him about his passions for spellcasting and mixing, something between harm and health, and that had led him to ask you questions in return. You had told him your favourite books, and songs, and the way your mother had taught you how to knit and stitch when you were young, and that by the time you were eleven you could make your own gowns and dresses. You were deeper than he knew, and the more he found himself happier and more relaxed in your company was even more concerning for him, because he was tasked with killing you when the time came, you were a bargaining chip and a prisoner, and he wasn’t supposed to get close to you.

He wasn’t supposed to get close to anyone, because the last time he allowed himself to care, he lost it all.

The weeks were ticking by, faster than he could possibly imagine, more diaries getting fuller and fuller as he scribbled his notes and spells down, the worn leather growing weaker and lighter, the pages changing from crisp and pure to torn and weathered, scratched with ink stainings and splotches, taped down herbs and doodles to compliment them. He had been on a high with you, the drainings becoming less and less frequent as he tried to give you longer times to heal, because what had once been an easy task had begun to morph into something that made him feel slightly sick to his stomach each time he entered the dark cage to reopen the wound on your arm.

In the last couple of days, your questions had become less frequent, your humming quieter and raspy and your appearances at the cage door rarer by the hour. You were quiet, quieter than you had been in weeks, and he gave you space but was slightly frustrated. Not only at you for your sudden lack of interest but also in himself for being so bothered by it in the first place, because Stiles Stilinski didn’t get attached, he didn’t do feelings and emotions and he certainly didn’t have enough time to care about what others thought of him. Stiles Stilinski was void, and he liked it that way, and he was damned if any girl in a cage with pretty eyes and a sharp mind was going to change that.

“Stiles?” He was labouring over his workbench when you first spoke today, and his teeth ground together in irritation as his foul mood overlapped upon hearing you calling out to him, your voice droning on repeat in a low whine in his ears as he slammed down the book in his hands, your voice cutting off as he turned to look at you. Your hands were wrapped around the bars of the cage, your body leaning against the cool metal as he looked at you, eyes narrowed and jaw clenched, his fists almost painful as his nails dug into his palms by his sides.

“What do you fucking want?” He hissed, your jaw dropping as you peered at him from within the shadows, and he knew he wasn’t angry at you, he was just in a bad mood, but you were an easy target for taking his anger at the day out on, the memory of losing his mother on this day all those years ago was flashing through his mind, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth and a storm clouding his judgement.

“I don’t feel so good.”

“Boo fucking hoo. Get over it, I couldn’t care less that you’re feeling a little under the weather.” He scoffed, and you let out a low groan at his words, your head thumping against the bars as your head dropped against them and he rolled his eyes at your dramatics.

“No, I really don-”

“Shut the fuck up! Just be quiet, okay? I'm busy!” His temper bubbled over, and he heard you huff quietly, the silence settling over the room in uncomfortable tension before the chains wrapped around your wrists rattled, and you were slipping back into the shadows to rest in the corner of the cell, and he breathed out a sigh of relief.

Once he had calmed back down, he continued to shoot sly glances over to where he assumed you do be within the darkness, slight guilt clawing at his gut as you continued to sit in silence, but he rolled his eyes, knowing you would just be sulking in the corner because he had shouted at you. He worked quietly at his workspace, rearranging the jars on his shelf and relabelling those that had become worn and faded from all his use.

He refilled each glass container, the quiet in the room reminded him of before you had been delivered to him, and an unusual sense of loneliness was creeping into him as the tense silence continued to drag on. It wasn’t until quiet rapping came on the door that he sighed out in relief as he paced across the room in large and rapid footsteps, smirking at the trembling servant standing outside of his door, a tray of food held out to him as he accepted it, dismissing her with a mumble in thanks, the door slamming shut behind her as he relocked the bolts.

“Eat.” Placing the dish of broth down in front of the barred door, dropping a spoon to the floor beside it for you with a clatter as he took his own food across the room, sitting under the grated window as the final rays of the sun shone through across the large chair in the corner beneath it, the cushions warm from the heat and his book lay on the edge of the seat, and he settled down comfortably to read his book and enjoy his food.

He was barely ten pages in, halfway through his food as he looked up, expecting to hear some kind of comments about the meal, when he noticed that the dish was still sitting on the cold stone, wisps of steam waving into the air and dissipating as he sat before him, and he placed down his spoon, a growl on his lips as he ducked down the item in his hands to stare at the vacant spot for a moment.

“Eat your damn food, no wonder you feel bad. What use are you to me if you die before I can get any more blood out of you, hm?” The snarky comment left his lips before he could stop it, and he waited to hear your sarcastic retort, something telling him you were listening to him, and yet evidently, you were still ignoring him.

He wasn’t in the mood for your pathetic sulking, and so instead he chose to go back to his reading and his food, knowing that if you wanted to act like a child then he would surely let you. You would cave eventually and give in, this was the first meal you’d had in twenty-four hours and he knew how much you complained about him only giving you the one meal a day, and he hoped you’d get over it soon, because he was starting to miss your commentary on his every little action.

Your silence was making him feel more alone than he had in a long time.

By the time it was getting too dark for him to see the words printed on the pages, he gave up, the dishes long discarded and he had moved through another few chapters of his book, deeply enthralled in the story he had chosen, a chill sweeping through the room. Getting up, he checked the windows were all locked, before moving around the room and lighting the few torches, an orange glow lighting up the stone tiles of his room walls, and he set off on piling logs and kindling into the stone fireplace.

He watched as the flames curled up, a scowl on his face as the thick smoke disappeared up through the chimney as warmth began to spread through the room, and he lifted a metal safety grate over the exposed flames, unwilling to let the past repeat itself as he pridefully put all precautions in place.

Void spied the bowl of food still sitting by the cage doors, untouched as he glanced at it over at it. Steam was no longer curling up, and he frowned, moving to crouch by the door as he looked at it, even the spoon sitting in the same place it had landed all those hours ago. “I know you’re angry at me for shouting, but you need to eat!”

You didn't even shift, not even a grunt in response to his words and anger raced through his body once again, his jaw twitching and he scooped up the meal from the floor, uncaring toward its cold state as he swiped the collection of metal keys from his side counter, the bundle jingling loudly as he unlocked the door, sliding it out o the way with a loud clang as he growled at you.

“Fucking eat!”

He waited, your silhouette barely moving and he felt furious, dropping the bowl to the floor as some of the food sloshed over the edge of the dish, spilling out onto the tarmac and wasting the broth meal as you remained still, and he tipped his head back in a long groan, before stepping towards you and crouching down. You didn’t shift, even at his close proximity and he hummed in irritation, finger raising to swipe some hair from your face as your head hung low, and he gasped at the coolness of your skin under his touch, all anger seeping away as worry took over his body.

“I need you to say something now, okay?” His voice was shaking toward the end of his sentence, and he tipped back your head to rest against the cold stone walls, and he became eerily aware of just how cold it actually was within these walls, the darkness making it much chillier than the rest of the room was and your eyes stayed shut, and he squinted, unable to find movement in your shoulders or chest. “Now would be a great time for one of your stupid comments.”

His teasing went unheard, and he fumbled for the collection of keys, scooping them up and quickly undoing the chains around your wrists, his arms scooping you up under your legs and behind your back as he lifted you into his arms. Your body slumped into him, and his heart raced with panic as he removed you from the cell, cursing under his breath as you lay like dead-weight in his arms.

He dropped you down onto the bed, shaky fingers delicately brushing the hair the was glued to your clammy skin away from your face, his hands skimming along your body as he searched for anything to clue him in, the pale colour of your shining skin scaring him deeply as he looked at the deep purple rings around your eyes and the blue tint to your lips.

Dark red blood was staining the sleeve of your worn and ripped jacket, and his fingers hooked under the end, pushing it up your arm and grimacing as he took in the still running wound, white torn flesh from the place on your arm that he’d been taking blood from wasn’t healing, and your veins could no longer be seen under your skin, deflated around the purple and blue bruises, your skin gaining a yellow tint toward the edges before fading out into sickly white, skin even paler than his own.

He rushed around the room, gathering up bundles of supplies and medicines in his arms as he tried to think back on what his mother had taught him about healing all that time ago when she had still been with him. With a bowl of warm water beside him, he balanced it on the covers, dipping in a soft rag and wiping it gently over the dried blood trails on your arm, taking both the old and fresh blood from the wounds, dipping it back in the water and ringing it out carefully.

Once he could see the damaged flesh, he pinched it together, glad you were unconscious for it as he lifted the metal pin up to one of the flames on the torches around him. The tips of his fingers were burning slightly from the pain, but he held out until the tip of the pin was glowing orange, before bringing it away and waving it in the air as he rubbed his sore fingertips from the heat exposure.

Threading the needle carefully, he looked up at you, biting his lip and pressing a delicate kiss to your forehead, mumbling an apology into your skin and pinching the skin tightly as he focused on it, pushing the needle through the flesh and suppressing the churning of his gut and the desperate urge to wretch as he felt the needle pierce your flesh. He had never been good with needles, and yet he knew he had to keep going.

Weaving the thread through your skin was tortured for him, your muscles and nerves twitching under his touch as he did and he whispered the most soothing thing she could think of as he worked, despite knowing it was falling on deaf ears. Once he was done, he was careful to wrap it in soft fabric, pinning the bandages carefully and running his knuckles over it.

The skin around your wrists was raw and bruised from the heavy shackles he’d had you wearing, and he massaged the skin carefully, before picking up a fresh cloth and wiping the sweat, dirt and grime from your skin as he adjusted you into a more comfortable position. He took a spare blanket, hanging it between items of furniture as he warmed a blanket in front of the fire, taking a seat beside you on the mattress after he had cleared away all the sides and herbs he had used in his best bid to cure you.

He sat beside your bedside, your good hand clutched in his as he worried beside you, the blanket he had warmed up over the fire laying over your body, and he was happy to see the colour returning to your skin as your body warmed back up. His cheek had been resting on the edge of the mattress as he sat on the floor, his eyes just drifting shut when he felt your body twitch, his head snapping up and a second later your body jolted, a loud cry leaving your lips as you tried to bend your arm, and his hand closed over your wrist to hold it down as he leaned over you.

“Woah, woah, woah. Take it easy.” He mumbled, and you let out a pained sigh, your eyes watering as the pain shot through your body, and he bit on his lip, rubbing a hand over your shoulder as your bottom lip trembled.

“Shit, it hurts. It really fucking hurts.”

“Yeah, well, you should've told me before it got bad!” His voice was higher than usual as he spoke, and you fixed him with a cold glare, an odd sense of relief filling him as your attitude was coming back in droves already.

“I fucking tried!” You snapped, wincing as the movement rocked your body and you struggled to sit yourself up, allowing him to help you as he positioned a pillow behind your back, frowning as he thought back on the way he had acted all day, and his eyes avoided yours, but your hand landed on his upper arm as he adjusted the sheet around you. “Thanks, for helping me. For patching me up. Also, this blanket is really warm.”

“I hung it over the fire to bring your temperature up.” He sighed, shaking his head and sitting on the edge of the bed beside your legs. “I should have listened to you this morning. I didn’t realise how cold it was in there, and the state you were in.”

“S’okay. I am starving though, did I miss lunch?” His jaw dropped as he looked at you, a surprisingly genuine laugh leaving him as he studied you before he was nodding, motioning to the darkness outside of the windows and your eyes widened as though you only just came to realise the late hour the day had moved onto.

“I’ll get someone to bring you something to eat, alright? Take it easy.” You simply nodded at him, and he made his way to the main door, lifting heavy bolts and locks across the wood as he flagged down the nearest maid he could find, growling out his instructions as she nodded, fleeing the second he dismissed her, pride filling him upon knowing that even if you weren’t, at least some people were still scared of him. When he turned back to you, your fingers were picking at the loose threads of the blanket, your eyes locked on him already. “Can I keep this blanket?”

“No. It was my mother's and it lives on the chair. What do you need it for?” He tipped his head toward his favourite lounging place, a large and comfortable looking chair in the corner, worn but still plush-looking cushions sitting on the seat - the original resting place of the soft knitted piece - and your fingers stilled, smoothing over the surface as you shrugged at him, avoiding his gaze.

“Said it yourself, it gets cold in there. An extra blanket would be nice.”

He swallowed, glancing between the cell in the corner and your form sitting on the bed, tucked under all his cosy sheets and lit up by the warm light coming from the fire, the crackling of logs filling the room as he took quick steps over to you, taking a seat on his usual side of the large bed as a prominent gap formed between your two bodies. “No, no you’re not going back in there.” Your brows raised at him, and he made himself busy with other tasks to avoid having to acknowledge the way you were looking at him made him feel. “You’ll be out here with me, from now on.”

“That sounds.. nice.” He merely nodded in response, his back still turned to you as he struck up a match, lighting the candle on his bedside as a comfortable quiet fell over the pair of you, and now that you were awake and sitting beside him, he once again felt a little less alone in the world.

You were sicker for longer than he expected, and it worried him for a while when your condition showed no signs of improving. Your body could now be found curled up on the covers beside him, the two of you rigid as your backs faced away from one another at opposite sides of the bed.

You slept long hours, and often went so quiet in the night that he had to roll you over just so that he could check you were still breathing, and buy the mornings your arm would be brushing his as the two of you inched closer to the middle of the bed progressively during your unconscious states. You were tired, and sluggish, and for almost two weeks you never left the bed. Your skin grew paler and you grew weaker, and you didn’t eat as much of your meals as you used to, despite how much you insisted you were hungry. Deep bags hung under your eyes, the same pale and sunken look that he had gained himself after his mother had died, locking himself away as he refused to eat and go outside, and he had opened the curtains a lot and often helped your shuffle across the bed to sit on his side so that you could look out through the bars.

In the third week since he had removed you from your cage, you got up on your own, shuffling uncomfortably in your clothes and wrapping your arms around yourself self-consciously, surprising him as you made your way over to him with cautious steps, and he resisted the urge to rush over to you in a bid to help you walk better. You had requested a bath, and a chance to wash your clothes, in which he had graciously accepted both. A wing to his room in which you had never been in was shown to you as your arm looped through his, your shaky and weak fingers clinging to his arm as he guided you through and tried to suppress the urge to scoop you up into his arms and carry you, because he knew how badly you needed to regain your own ability to walk, even if you had nowhere to go.

You were still a prisoner, you were still just a bargaining chip, and he had to constantly remind himself of that, even if you now shared more than just his bedroom.

You had bathed, and he had given you sets of his own clothes to wear as he disposed of the torn and blood-soaked rags he had left you in since the day you had arrived with him. You were smiling to yourself when you reemerged, your hair still wet and dripping along the cloth you had wrapped yourself in as you snuggled down into his clothes, and he had helped you back into bed before checking on your arm. You had fallen asleep before he had even finished rewrapping it, the sleeves of his shirt falling over your palms as your other hand sat in a loose fist, clutched to your chest as your nose buried into your hand, breathing even and soft but stronger than it had been, and his cheeks had flared with a very subtle warmth that he hadn't experienced since he was a child.

That bath seemed to have been the trick, because the following morning you had been awake before he had been, colour seeping back into your skin as your fingers danced over the spines of the books on his bookcase, pulling some out and checking the titled, before adding them to a stack that had been growing on a stool beside you.

The collection was one that you quickly worked through, taking a seat in his chair when he wasn’t using it and reading under the warmth and light of the days sunrays, taking up in idle conversations with him when you found parts of books you particularly enjoyed, or things you needed to talk about, and when you grew bored of the tales, you would stand on the other side of the workbench and watch up close as he did his tasks.

A routine formed between the two of you, very quickly; a steady schedule that was quickly becoming uncomfortably comfortable for him. The mornings would be spent with the two of you eating breakfast together, a luxury you had teased him for lightly for a while as he had only allowed you one meal a day, to begin with, before he would leave you for his meetings and to go to the markets. You would read, and he would come back to find you deep in a new book from the shelf or snoozing in the chair with his mother's blanket tucked over you.

He bought you a notebook and quill almost two months in, because the afternoons had come to consist of you watching him work, handing up different pots as he taught you the names and uses of different things, he allowed you to help him in wrapping and grinding plants and flowers, topping up the bottles and boxes of ingredients lining his shelves, and your own book was quickly filling up much like his own, your handwriting quite the opposite to his, neat and swirling and eligible, as his own barely readable chicken scratch filled the pages.

He had worried at first, that he was going to return each morning and find you gone, find the room empty and the door hanging open from where you had smashed open the key lock and undone the bolts, or that you had climbed from the windows after pulling off the bars. He was waiting for the bubble to pop, for the day he would come back and find the room trashed, scratch marks on the door and a weapon in your hands as you tried to flee, and yet all you ever greeted him with when he returned was a barley present flick of your lips in a smile and a nod of your head, perhaps even a verbal greeting if you were in a particularly good mood.

You were becoming a part of his life that he found hard to ignore, hard to deny that he wouldn't miss when he eventually had to give you up, and the summer heat faded as he found himself growing closer to you.

Longer nights and shorter days brought fewer meetings or trips to the market and more time sealed away in his room as the temperatures dropped and your healing continued. Your arm was no longer red and inflamed, visible veins with blue and purple skin, but was instead back to its normal shade, a slightly raised patch of pinky-white pale skin with a red rim as a scar in the shape of a long slash found itself on your arm instead, and he often found himself racing it with a frown when you rolled your sleeves up to your elbows.

He never felt guilty, not in his sacrifices or killings, but this he had felt guilty for because even if nothing else, he was beginning to look at you more like a friend than anything else. During the conversations you filled the extra time with, the chats you shared deep into the night as candles flickered and blankets were wrapped around shoulders for heat, you had learned more about him than anybody else ever had, he’d unwittingly bared his soul to you.

He knew so much about you in return, like your favourite meals or your preference on the genre of books you liked to read, and yet he still felt like he knew nothing. The more he learned, the more questions he had, the mystery that you were was becoming more and more tangled as he went, and yet he enjoyed getting to know you, in a way he had never experienced before.

Stiles had friends, Scott and Derek and Lydia among them, he was used to having friends, but the more he awoke in the mornings to find your body almost pressed to his as your eyelashes fluttered against your cheeks, or the way your eyes connected with his and your smile was just soft enough to make him want to smile back, or the way it felt more right to have your body working beside his with quiet laughs and innocent brushes or arms and bodies then it did alone that made him realise this was soon becoming something more than friendship to him.

By the time the winter had rolled around your sickness had passed, and the chill of the season was setting in. He clenched his jaw, the chattering of your teeth and barely visible shaking of your body was irritating him, and he glanced across to the side of the bed you were laying on, your eyes closed as you hovered as close to the edge of the mattress as you could, huddled under the thin blankets as you clutched them to your chin.

You took a deep breath, and he watched for a moment as you calmed, rubbing at the red tip of your nose, before burying it in the covers and rubbing your hands together, and a growl left his lips as your shivering picked back up. “Your fucking teeth chattering is driving me insane!”

You managed to still your body, a muffled apology leaving you as you adjusted yourself under the sheets, and he let out a long sigh, placing his book down on his lap and reaching a hand out, patting at the vacant space between you both.

“Just fucking roll over before I get irritated.” He swiped his hand up, and you paused, before shuffling over in the bed and moving your body closer to him, letting out a satisfied sigh as you gained some warmth as you moved closer to the centre of the large bed. He leaned over, pulling the covers back up over your shoulder as you nuzzled down into the pillow, his fingers brushing your skin. “Shit, you really are cold.”

“Mhm.” Your eyes were squeezed shut, snapping open with a squeal as he scooped his hands underneath you, tugging you up until you were resting between his thighs, your cheek pressed to his chest as he wrapped his arms around you, picking his book back up. Your body was stiff and tense, uncomfortable against his own and he rolled his eyes, glancing down at you as you avoided his eyes.

“Oh, relax. I can’t concentrate with you shaking the bed with all your shivering, and the cold has never really bothered me, but I have a lot of body heat. I can’t have you getting sick again, so just go to sleep.” The aggressive tone he normally held was more of a struggle to get out now, and he huffed as you curled your arms around his body, getting yourself comfortable as you settled into him.

He let out the breath he was holding, his stomach sagging under you and his muscles relaxing as your body curled around his, an unfamiliar feeling settling in his gut at the feeling of having someone holding onto him so comfortably. He ran his fingers over your body beneath the covers, noting the tears and rips in the thin material, the same rags you had arrived in the day you’d been brought here to begin, and he could understand your problem with the cold.

Clearing his throat, he settled his hand on your hip, tucking it underneath the flimsy material of your top to stroke along your side and warm you up, the goosebumps that had been covering your body beginning to settle and disappear as you warmed up. “I’ll get you some warmer clothes tomorrow.”

Your face turned into his stomach more, a smile on your lips as you squeezed your arms around him, the silent thank you not going unnoticed, and the silence that enveloped the room hung heavy for a few minutes, the flicking of the pages as he thumbed them over with his one hand, the other still tucked under your shirt, tracing patterns into your skin absentmindedly as his natural tendency toward fiddling took over. It wasn’t until his fingers brushed over the collection of raised scars on your hips that he stilled, pressing down on the spot and you squirmed under him, swatting at his arm sleepily.

“I noticed these when I pulled you up from the floor all those months ago. What happened?” You snorted at him, cracking an eye open to look at him before you rolled over, propping your arms on his stomach, your chin resting on top of them as you looked at him. You were judging him for his lack of subtlety in the asking of the question, but instead of acknowledging that, he simply raised a brow, the frown on his face not moving. “Tell me.”

“Alright, alright. Pushy.” You muttered, rolling your eyes at him and he scowled at you, glaring at you for your attitude but you seemed unaffected by it. He continued to poke at the collection, running his fingers over the raised flesh, waiting for you to continue. It was a moment before you did, your bottom lip clenched between your teeth as you nibbled on it for a second, shaking your head and shrugging, before settling yourself back down into his chest, your eyes closing again. “It’s where Gerard would cut me.”

His fingers stilled, body tensing and eyebrows furrowing. He closed the book in his hand, discarding it quickly as he waited for you to say something else, elaborate or explain that it was a lie, but you seemed to just have accepted it without expecting him to question it. You let out a sudden groan as he moved you unexpectedly, your body curling in on itself as he ripped the covers from your form, a knee on either side of your legs as he lifted up your shirt to expose your hip, and he smoothed a thumb over the cluster of pinkish-purple marks. “But, there’s a lot?”

“Yeah.” You seemed to give in, sitting yourself up a little and looking down at the healed injuries, smirking proudly as you looked at them, but his eyes were narrowed on you as he waited. “He tried to carve the Argent ‘A’ into me when he first took my prisoner and I kicked him off. He didn’t like the fact that I ruined the symbol, so he added another cut every time I disobeyed him.”

Stiles wasn’t quite sure how to handle this information, the cogs in his mind spinning as he reeled at the idea of you locked in another cell, bleeding and tending to your own injuries after refusing to do whatever it was that he had wanted from you. “You weren’t born in the Argent Kingdom?”

“No. I was born here.” He almost felt as though he’d been winded as he looked up at you, your gaze questioning as you looked at him, your brows raised and you licked over your lips. “They took me prisoner when I was younger. My mother and father died, I didn’t have much to work from and I accidentally wound up on their land, stealing apples.” You were far from the person he had assumed you to be, his jaw hanging slightly slack, and he looked between your eyes and the scars on your hip in confusion.

He moved before he had thought about it, pressing a kiss to the bundle, your muscles twitching under him as he did and he moved between cuts, pressing a light kiss to each one, your hand coming down to thread into his hair carefully as he did, and he made sure to press his lips to each one before dragging your top back down, his hand tucked under the fabric, palm covering the scars as he blew out the candles still flickering, his body covering yours as he lay atop you, just enough to cover you without crushing you.

It was a moment before you moved, your hands pulling the covers back up and you timidly wrapped your arms around him, shuffling and clinging to him as you relished in the warmth he was providing you, your cheeks heated in the darkened room as his hands held you protectively to his body.

“Would you like to walk to the markets with me tomorrow?”

“Really?” You practically buzzed with excitement, rolling onto your side to grip onto him tighter as you peered at him in the dark, and he could still make out the grin on your face, and he had to suppress his chuckle at your excitement, choosing to simply nod in response as his eyes closed. “You’d take me out, even dressed like this?”

He frowned, shaking his head and inching closer to you until the tip of his nose was brushing your forehead. “We’re going out to get you new clothes. I need some new plants and jars, so we can pick those up too. Nobody will say anything to you.” You opened your mouth again to speak, and he groaned as he heard the intake of breath, your jaw snapping shut when he huffed. “Just go to sleep before I regret not being horrible to you.”

“You’re being nice to me.”

“No. I’m not nice, I’m just being less awful. There’s a difference.” He muttered, his fingers tightening their hold on your hip in warning of your arguing with him, and you didn’t speak, muffling the sound of amusement you made as you settled into sleep, and while the coldness had never bothered him before, he couldn’t deny that he enjoyed the warmth you provided when your body was pressed up against his.

Neither of you ever bothered to speak about what had changed between the two of you, but it was clear that something had.

His touch lingered longer on your skin when he was around you now, and he was closer to your side whenever he possibly could be. The gap between you on the bed had quickly become nonexistent, the cold nights meaning he would hold you closer more often, and it had quickly become familiar to him to have your body pressed up to his during the night as your hands wrapped around his body and lips pressed to your hairline whilst your heart beat steadily against his chest, in a comfortable rhythm with his own.

As promised, he had walked you down to the marketplace the next day, the excitement on your face as he finally allowed you an escorted trip away from the room you’d been locked up in for half a year had almost made him smile, your arm looped through his as your unsteady almost skips took place beside his even and long strides. He had glared daggers at anyone that had sent you unusual looks, your body draped in the large material of his own clothes as you waited for new garments.

You had purchased a selection of loose-fitting pants and jumpers, skirts and even some dresses, the bundle building in your arms as you mumbled about not remembering the last time you’d actually had any new clothes of your own to wear, clutching them to your chest and waiting patiently as he moved between the other stalls and gathered the thinks he needed for himself. When you had returned home, he’d cleared a drawer in his dresser, for you to unpack them into, and the more you spent time with him, the more reluctant he was to let you go.

You were becoming more and more intertwined with his life, his shoulders felt lighter when he was talking to you, or able to watch you work, and when your chin would rest on his shoulder from behind as you watched him work, your arms looped around his waist as you tried to stay out of the way but still wished to observe. You made his bad days feel a little easier, when he was in a bad mood you were able to soothe him, his eyes closed as he sat back against the bed, face pushed into your neck and arms around your waist as you read aloud to him or told him about your own projects and what you had been up to.

He knew he should let you go, that he should stop letting the bond between you get so deep and meaningful. It kept him up on the occasional night, as he listened to your steady breathing and relished in the warmth of your body, that he was only going to end up hurting himself in the long run. He couldn't keep you prisoner forever, one day the king would come back for you, or he’d have to let you go himself and you’d run from him never to return. It only ended in him getting hurt, and yet he couldn't help but dig himself in deeper, drown in you a little more, because being around you was such a sweet taste in his mouth and he wanted to savour that, before it turned bitter and made him only the more darker, stormier, angrier version of himself that he would undoubtedly become when you left him.

He was closer to you than he should be, the urges bubbling up inside of himself making him feel like he had to hold himself back more and more, because you confused him. He liked it when your fingers scraped over his scalp as you played with his hair and the way he sometimes wanted to get even closer to you, to be in your face, his lips pressed to yours as your body wrapped around his entirely, the two of you practically becoming one. He didn’t like the guilt that came with that feeling, the anger at himself for being too scared to take it that final step and let himself become yours entirely, to claim you as his.

He was used to having fear from others, but he also wasn’t used to having love, and you supplied him with enough for him to suffocate in, and die happily. So, in order to gain as much as he possibly could before you were inevitably torn from his arms, he made the most of every touch you gave him, every second of time he got with you, and every time you’d let him brush his lips across your cheek or sweep loose hair behind your ear, or lace his fingers with your own on the nights the two of you would lay in bed, facing one another on the pillows and talking until the darkness passed on the sun was once again cracking across the horizon to signal in a new day.

Adjusting himself in the pillows, you shifted in his arms, his fingers stilling their movements from tracing patterns along your skin once again as he waited for you to get comfortable, and you eventually huffed out, trying to continue in you reading of the book before you were once again stopping as you looked up. Your arm was aching as you tried to hold yourself up to read the book, your thigh shifting from where it had been draped over one of Stiles’ legs as you leaned up, stretching your arms above your head as cracks and pops sounded, a relieved sigh leaving you.

“This isn't working. My neck hurts.”

He chuckled at your words, his hand dropping to smooth along your thigh through the cover as you sat up further, rolling your neck from side to side as your body adjusted from the awkward pose you had been in. “It was your idea to read in bed.”

“I know that.” You scoffed, his brows furrowing at your tone and he let out a warning growl, your eyes rolling at him and he pinched your thigh, your body jolting as you scowled and rubbed over the spot. “That was uncalled for.”

“You sassed me. Don’t sass me.” He watched as you swung a leg over his waist, a smirk curling on his lips as you settled yourself onto his upper thighs, balancing the book on his chest. His hands found your waist, tugging you up closer until you were seated in his lap, and he popped his legs up behind you, letting you lean back on his thighs for support. His hands slipped down to your mid-thighs, fingers digging into the supple flesh on either side as he squeezed gently. “Better?”

“Much, actually.” You wiggled in his lap, and he bit down on his lip to choke down the sound he wanted to release, your voice soon picking up again as you began to read to him. For a while, he was able to focus on the words you were saying, his eyes closed as he listened to you speak to him about the different ways to preserve and use herbs best. It wasn’t until you jumped in his lap, his eyes opening suddenly as you let out a small yell, the weight of the book sitting on his ribs being lifted as you held it up before him. “Look!”

“What am I looking at, dove?”

“This! It says you should press wolfsbane and then powder it, instead of hanging it to dry!” You looked at him pointedly, letting out a long sigh as you marked the page of the book before throwing it to your side, a cheeky grin on your lips as you leaned down. Poking at his chest, you made a proud noise in the back of your throat, and Stiles tried to ignore the way you were practically buzzing in his lap. “That’s what I told you! All the way back on the first day, when you locked me up in that cage over there!”

His lips dropped into a frown at the mention of the abandoned cell in the corner of the room, the thought of you in there again making his stomach twist with nausea. He huffed out at the thought, and you leaned in further, your chest almost pressed to his and you pinched at his cheek, your breath fanning over his face.

“Now, now, Void. Don’t pout.” You grinned, and he rolled his eyes, raining a hand to poke at your side as you teased him, and he swallowed thickly. Your mouth opened, presumably to make another snarky comment, the attitude and humour he hated to admit that he’d grown so fond of beginning to shine through again. Instead, though, the fingers pinching his cheeks flattened out, your hand smoothing around until your nails were scratching lightly in the short hairs at the back of his scalp, a sigh falling from his parted lips at the feeling.

Watching you carefully, his eyes dropped to your lips as you licked at them, before you were leaning into him, your lips pressing to his delicately, a barely present kiss being placed to his lips as you bumped your nose against his, the breath between you both sharing as you moved your lips with his in shaky rhythms. The tension fled from his body, his hands flying up to hold onto you, his fingers in your hair as he groaned lowly into your mouth.

He had been kissed before, but this kiss was different. This kiss was one that someone wanted to share with him, not one that was being given to him as maidens from around the palace threw themselves at him for one night to be able to say they tamed the darkness for a few hours. Your hands were cupping his cheeks, before smoothing down his shoulders to rest on his chest, your own body relaxing atop him as he pressed back with force.

He leaned back into the pillows, pulling you with him until your hair was framing around his face as you kissed him, his tongue snaking out to lick along your lower lip, a whine leaving you as he did. His tongue tangled with your own, your breathing becoming lighter as you panted above him and pride swelled in his chest at the needy way your hands scrunched into fists in the material of his shirt, nails scraping at his pecs through the fabric.

Teeth practically clashed, as the kiss moved from shy and experimental to heated and sloppy, fingers grasping as you both dragged in raspy breaths, your lips meshing together in a connection that was long overdue, feelings rushing to the surface as overwhelming arousal flooded through the both of you, the air around you heating up. Tilting his head to the side, he earned himself a deeper access to your mouth, relishing in the whimper you rewarded him with as his tongue travelled the inside of your mouth, memorising the feel of kissing you so intimately.

Your hips ground down into his, a grunt falling from his mouth as you did, the sound muffled between wet and smacking kisses as his cock twitched in the thin pants he wore to sleep in, your hips repeating the motion, and he couldn't hold back the thrust of his hips up into yours this time, a cry falling from your lips at the feeling. You pulled back, pushing yourself up with your hands spread on his torso and he chased your lips, propping himself up on his elbows as he followed you.

The complaint he was about to voice died in his throat as you used your new position to rock your core down against him more firmly. “Fuck, darling, you need to stop.” He mumbled, and he slid down from your face to gain a bruising grip on your hips, moving you to a halt as you became steady in his lap once again. Your cheeks were flushed, eyes wide as you peered at him cautiously, and a blush crawled up your cheeks. “What are you doing?”

“Kissing you? Or at least, I was..” Your words trailed off in a whisper, your hands pulling back from the grip on his top so you could play with your fingers nervously, and he could feel your legs twitching around him as you considered bolting from your position, his hold tightening to keep you where you were.

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to?” You offered, and he ran a hand over his face, huffing at the way you were practically answering his questions with more questions, and he fixed you with a stern glare. The silence between the two of you hung thick and awkward in the air, your eyes leaving him as you squirmed in his hold, uncomfortable with his stare on you.

“Why did you kiss me?” He had taken on his deeper tone, the cold and menacing one that had always gotten him answers before now, and you sighed, your body practically deflating under his gaze as you let out an aggravated sound, dragging a hand through your hair.

“Because I wanted to! Because I like it when you start rambling about all your herbs and mixes when you’re working, and that you let me sleep in the bed with you, and that you let me read your books at night! You also have really nice lips!” Your words were near-shouted, and you crawled away from him, pushing his hands from you as a scowl took over your features. “I thought that would have a better outcome, but I’m getting the feeling I was wrong and that I’ve messed things up, so I think it’s about time I headed back into the corner an-”

A loud growl tore from him as he wrapped his fingers around your wrist, tugging you back onto the bed as you tried to stand up, and he rolled your body under his, caging you in with a hand either side of your head. “Don’t you dare fucking mention that. I told you that you sleep here with me now, where you belong.” Your eyes widened at the tone of his voice, and he smirked lowly, dipping his head down to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth, before kissing along your jaw and down your neck, two fingers on your chin gripping tightly as he tipped your head to the side, exposing your collarbone to him.

Nipping at the sensitive skin, he grinned as you moaned, finally letting the sound through when he found the sensitive patch of skin that made your back arch into his chest and your eyes slip shut. Sucking on the patch of skin, he made quick work of nibbling and licking at the patch, until a large red blemish appeared that would soon sink into an even larger purple bruise. “You’re giving me really mixed signals, here.”

Your words were slurred as you wiggled under his hold and he smirked, pulling back to look at you. Dipping his head down, he let one of his hands drift up to cup your cheek, his lips pressing to your own delicately, a sweet kiss being left on your lips as he bumped your nose aside, tilting his own head until he was letting his tongue dip out to meet yours between your parted lips, a slow and passionate exchange as you whimpered into his mouth, kissed breathless and flushed when he finally pulled back.

“That clears up nothing. But I’d really like to do it again.”

“I intend to keep doing that with you. A lot.” He whispered, rolling onto his side and shuffling up until he was buried back in the pillows, a satisfied smirk on his lips, and he wiped the edge of his mouth with his thumb, poking your side with his foot as you continued to pant and stare at the ceiling. “Get up here before I kick you from the bed.”

You scoffed at his warning, smacking idly at his foot as he nudged you, before rolling up onto your hands and knees, crawling along the bed and collapsing down beside him, his nose burying in your hair as your body pressed up to his side, the warmth from you spreading over his skin. Your leg came up to sit over his waist as your cheek pressed into his shoulder, and he stretched his head to the side for you as your lips tickled over his throat in feather-light kisses.

Dropping a hand to your thigh, he gripped tightly at the exposed skin that was revealed from your nightgown, a grunt leaving him as your lips worked sloppy to leave marks on his neck. He dared to trail his fingers up, searching for the edge of your gown and his fingers toyed with the material once he found it, subtly inching it up further, one of your hands sliding over his chest to lace into his hair. Tilting his head toward you with the hand on his cheek, you guided his lips back to your own, a satisfied hum sounding from him as he puckered his lips to return the affections.

Kicking your feet at the covers, you tried to inch them up your body, and he chuckled as you pulled away, yawning into his shoulder as you hid your face. Leaning over you, he placed the book on the side table, catching it just before it fell from the edge of the mattress. Taking the covers in his hand, he tugged them up over your figures, huffing as you placed a hand on his chest and forced him back down into the bed, your form slumping against him tiredly as you buried your face into his neck.

Running his hand over your back, he leaned to the side, blowing out the final candle keeping the room alight and plunging it into darkness, tiredness sweeping over him, too. The warmth you spread to his chest was now no longer just from your body pressed to his, but filled him internally as you curled up against him, a smile tilted on his lips as he nudged his nose into your hair, his eyes sliding shut.

That night, he slept with kiss-swollen lips and a slightly off-pace heart, skipping beats and pumping erratically as your legs tangled with his. His mind had been spinning for hours afterwards, balancing out the pros and cons of allowing himself to sink into the idea of being in a relationship with you. The former heavily outweighed the latter, and he was somewhere between irritated and amused at himself for it, the idea that he might actually be capable of having a normal concept like love or affection was foreign to him, and he let himself drift off in distraction when you subconsciously nudged your nose into the spot between his neck and his shoulder, your lips brushing his skin, and his arms had wrapped around you tighter as he let unconsciousness take him.

He noticed a considerable difference in you after that night, one that made his lips quirk into a cheeky look every time he thought about it, or studied the way you had begun to act. He was having a different kind of effect on you. His kisses had originally made you flushed and pink-cheeked, and now you teased him just as much as he teased you.

Your nervous hands that would sit on his cheeks or chest would now wander, tugging at his hair or scratching at his chest lightly, enough to make him shiver and growl as he held onto you tighter and pulled you in closer. Your once sealed and soft lips were now more kiss bitten and swollen, your tongues playing together in familiar patterns as you sucked on his lower lip and batted your eyes at him in ways that made him breathless and dizzy. You took up all of his time and thoughts, letting him spend his days laying over you on the bed as your neck became littered in purple marks from his teeth moving across them, and his lips sucking at the skin until he was satisfied with his print being on your flesh.

It never went too far, for the first time in his life he was enjoying something in moderation, he wasn’t rushing or struggling, but instead, he had faith that you didn’t want to run off anyway, that you wanted to be with him as much as he wanted to be with you, and so as the ice melted away in to spring and dead trees began to blossom once again, he found that he didn’t care if ting never went further than just your hips rocking up into his through layers of clothing as your mouths pressed together and you panted into one another's mouths, because what he had gained with you was more than physical, it was spiritual.

It wasn’t just the affectionate side of you that had changed, but the mental side too. You were becoming more and more like him with every passing day, you were learning enough from him that you’d even begun to make recommendations and suggestions during his work, mixing your own little recipes and he was incredibly proud of how far you were coming. It was like you were made for him, a perfectly twisted match to his dark soul, and the more he got to know you the more it became true.

You were a team, a unit, and the power of the two of you together far surpassed his power alone, even if it was simply that the feeling of no longer being alone made him more confident and sure in his own abilities than he ever had been before. He felt like the purpose of taking on a darker trait had finally come to light, long-buried and forgotten as he had gotten lost in the fear he inflicted onto others. He wanted this power, these abilities, that automatically instilled fear just at the mention of his name all as a method to protect someone, and now he had someone to protect.

He had someone to defend, to care for and shelter, and yet you were also able to take care of yourself. You were strong-willed and determined and sharp, you were a jagged piece that fit his own cracks and splinters without cutting either one of you, he had a partner in an attack and someone to channel his power toward. You gave him direction.

Days felt more meaningful, he had the time to take on new hobbies once he had someone to complete all of his work with, and he no longer felt useless and bored during the time he spent off, because he didn’t have a shrouded goal to work towards anymore, a hidden ulterior in his own mind that made him feel unaccomplished when he didn’t work. Instead, he was fully aware of everything he did and you made him feel better about himself, you made him feel like the best version of himself.

The only wrinkle in his joy, the only problem he had with his own joy was the knawing guilt he held every time he looked the front door tightly again, the way if you got too close to it his eyes would still flicker over to you untrustingly as he watched to see whether this was the moment you were going to bolt, and yet you never did. Now, he felt obligated to give you the benefit of the doubt, he felt like he owed it to you to try and give you freedom, because it was the last step he had to take before he could wholly, and completely believe that you were as invested in a future as him as he knew he was in having a future with you.

He was selfish, and insecure, and he just had to take the leap in giving you the choice to come back to him, to give you the ability to leave and live your life, and simply trust that at night you’d crawl back into bed beside him instead of leaving his bed colder than it has ever been before.

That moment of reckoning, that day in which he would give you a chance to make the decision for yourself came as a split-second decision on one of the days that the spring rain was just clearing up, warm and humid heat sitting int he air as dark clouds loomed overhead and blocked out some of the sun’s light, and yet it was still a bright and warm day, because you had woken up in a good mood and forced him to enjoy it too.

It had been quiet between you, only the flick of the pen across paper and your humming as you tinkered with different activities around the room as you had yet to decide what it was that you actually wanted or do was filling the silence, and he was more than content just sharing the space with you, occasionally looking up to watch as you move around. You had made the space your own as much as it was his, and his attention was torn between you, and the activity he had chosen for himself all those hours before.

He let out an indignant huff as you plucked the drawing pad from his hands, his fingers reaching out for it as you held it further out from your body, and he gave in, slumping back into the cushions lining the seat and shooting you a glare, his brows furrowed as he looked at you. “What do you want?”

“Well, fine.” You muttered, handing the pad back to him and crossing your arms, a pout on your lips as you looked at him and he smirked, taking the book from you and opening it back up to the page he was on, and you sighed, turning from him to walk away, his hand shooting out to grasp your wrist. Without looking up, he tugged you toward him, holding the book away from him as he made space for you to settle into his lap, his smirk only widening as you grinned, crawling into the seat and settling your legs across his own, your arms looping around his neck.

He adjusted the sketchbook to rest against your legs, his free arm sitting low on your waist as his fingers smoothed along your hip, your hands holding his face in your hands as you kissed at his cheek, his eye and nose scrunching up as you did. And the charcoal stilled on the paper as he waited. “I’m trying to draw.”

“Mhm, what are you drawing?” You continued to trace your lips along his skin, eventually giving in as you reached his neck, ending the exchanges with a final nip to his jaw before pulling back.

“You.” You straightened up, looking over at his drawing as you gasped with excitement, and he snickered at the way your body sagged in disappointment when you looked at the sketch, taking in the flowers on the paper. He looked at you carefully, and you placed a hand over his face, pushing him away from you, but you laughed as you did, and he grinned, biting playfully at the finger over his mouth. Instead, he lifted up the tattered paper bundle, holding it out to you and flipping through previous pages. “I normally draw you when you’re doing something.”

He held the book out to you, watching as you looked over the drawings carefully, your fingers brushing the edges of the paper and you smiled at him, handing the pad back to him. “You’re cute.” His lips pursed, and he raised up the block of charcoal in his hands, drawing a solid black line along your skin and you groaned out in irritation. “I take it back, you’re just annoying.”

“Don’t tell me I’m cute.”

“Why not?” You were teasing him, and he leaned up, capturing your lips with his in a slow kiss as he pulled you in closer to him. He teased his lips over yours, your hands coming up to hold his face once again as you tipped your head to the side, granting him deeper access as he sucked on your lower lip.

“I’m not cute, I’m fucking terrifying.” He argued, and you rested your cheek against the top of his head, a hum sounding from you.

“Are you planning to kill me?”

“No.”

“Are you planning to hurt and torture me?”

“No.” He spoke through gritted teeth, jaw clenched as he realised what you were getting at and instead he just shifted in the seat, dragging you down until your body was pressed up to his, your legs stretched out over the seat and your head resting on his shoulder so you were fully seated in his lap. He wrapped both of his arms around you, toying with the strings on the front of your dress, tugging on them until they fell loose, and you took a deep breath as the corset loosened. “I like you in dresses. They make you look-”

“Feminine?” Your mouth practically spat the word, but you let him undo the knots along the front, tugging at the stiff material until it was loose on your chest.

“I was going to say powerful.”

He scowled at you for your assumption that he would insult you, before he was inching his hands up your legs, taking the heavy skirt of your dress with him, a smirk on his lips as you allowed him to, his fingers skimming over soft flesh until they were sitting in the middle of your thigh, his nose trailing along the underside of your jaw, and you let out a happy sigh for him.

“You and I could do great things, you know.” He mumbled, lips latching onto the spot beneath your ear, sucking lazily on the skin as you squirmed under him, a gasp sounding out as you twisted in his arms the moment he began to nip and bite at the sensitive place, and he licked over the spot, a proud smile on his lips at the red mark showing up on your wet skin. “We could rule the fucking world.”

“Together?”

“Always.” He growled the word out, his lips smashing into yours as you mewled under him, parting your lips for him the second he sucked the lower one between his own, his tongue snaking out to tangle with yours. The wet muscles dragged together, a breathy moan slipping into his mouth and dying out as his mouth moved relentlessly against your own in heated patterns.

You shifted, a groan falling from his lips as you turned in his hold, your arms looping around his neck, your fingers moving to play with his hair and tug on the soft locks to tease him, handfuls of the hair woven between your fingers as he continued to kiss you sloppily, the sounds echoing around the room, and his fingers tightened their grasp on your thigh, anchoring you to him as you shared the passionate embrace.

When the burning for oxygen became too much, your mouth parted from his, your eyes still closed as you panted for breath, his own needy gasps washing over your lips each time, and your eyes only opened when you felt him run his thumb over your lips. He admired the swollen and darker colour of them, knowing he was the reason you looked quite so dishevelled, warmth bursting in his chest as he took in your flustered and flushed appearance, a small smile pulling on his lips when he backed away.

“Stop staring at me.”

“You look beautiful when you look all fucked out.” He grinned at you wickedly, your cheeks flooding with more heat as you laughed, standing up carefully and brushing the skirt your dress back into place, and he followed suit, his hands on your hips as he looked down at you, licking the pad of his thumb and smearing away the charcoal that was still present on your skin. Your face scrunched up as he did, a grimace forming, and you rubbed your palm over the skin roughly until the wet feeling was gone, the dark smudge disappearing too, red and irritated skin taking its place. “I need a new sketchpad, and some more candles.”

You looked up at him, nodding as you began to adjust the corset of your dress back into the correct place, and he lifted his hands from your hips to take the string between them, pulling tightly, your back straightening and a gasp sounding from your as the material clung around your torso. “Are we going to the markets, then?”

His gaze was focused on the intricate lacing across your torso, his fingers tugging on each strong carefully as he laced it back up, his eyes barely flicking up to yours for a second, but the edges of his lips pulled up in a barely present smirk. “No, I smell like soot and smoke, and I have some things to finish up.”

“Oh.” Your face fell, your eyebrows furrowing, and he tied the strings tight at the top of your breasts, the mounds swelling beneath the dress, his knuckles brushing against the plump flesh lightly as he retracted his hands, letting them smooth back over your sides.

“Why don’t you go and get them, and we can have a bath when you get back?”

Your eyes widened, your face splitting in a bright and beaming smile, and you were practically bouncing in your place as you watched him. “You want me to go alone?”

“Yes, but be quick, because it won’t take me long to find someone to heat water and fill the tub for us, and I’m not waiting for you if the water starts getting cold.” You nodded happily, and he took your hand in his, guiding you towards the large bolted door at the front of the room. His fingers stilled over the cold metal, doubting his movements for just a second as he glanced at you, before unlatching each bolt and lock individually, the heavy wood creaking as it fell open, and you peered out excitedly into the hallway.

You’d been out many times by his side, but he could practically sense the anticipation and excitement rolling off of you as you stared out at the castle corridors, and he dipped his head as he waited for you to be ready, his body warm and tingling as he took in the joy he had given you. Instead, he reached for the hooks, taking his favourite fur and draping it carefully over your shoulders, tucking it securely around you for warmth, and he let out a deep breath, his dark eyes finding yours.

“You know where you’re going?”

“Yes.” You nodded firmly, and he grinned, taking a small sack, the dirty material sitting in the palm of his hands as he took out a few coins, placing the cold metal into your palm and folding your fingers over it, holding your hand in his.

“This should be enough. If anything happens, if anything seems off, you find a guard. You ask for Scott, and tell them you’re under my protection, okay?”

“What if they think I’m lying?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nobody would optionally associate themselves with me, little dove.” Your free hand smoothed up to cup his cheek as he looked at you, eyes wide and skin warm under your touch as you stared at him, a look he had never quite seen in your eyes before shining through.

“I would.”

The simple words winded him, and he let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding, nodding as he leaned into you, an arm wrapping around your waist to bring you flush up to his chest as he kissed you, deep and slow. There was no frantic need in this kiss, no lust or desire, just affection and longing, your lips sliding together in an intimate and meaningful exchange, your body buzzing with thrill under his hands as you looked forward to the trip.

“I’ll be back soon. A sketchpad and more candles.” You nodded to yourself as you confirmed your small list, and he let out a small hum, not quite trusting his voice as he choked down whatever emotions were bubbling up within him.

You turned towards the door, your body freezing in the entrance as you rocked on the balls of your feet, almost afraid to leave on your own, and despite his own worries about letting you out of his sight, he placed a hand on your lower back, feeling the way you relaxed into his touch, tension leaving your body as his he pushed you forward a little, taking your first step over the threshold, a small squeal leaving you. You turned, pressing a final kiss to his lips that he barely had time to return, before you were clenching the fist with the coins in, giving yourself an affirmative nod.

“Here I go.”

“Here you go.” He returned the words, slightly strangled in sound as he watched you step back, walking away from him as his touch left you, his hand falling back to rest at his side, and you turned your back to him, never once glancing over your shoulder as you bounded along the corridor quickly, disappearing from his sight once you rounded the corner.

A strange mix of pride, anxiety and longing churned in his gut, but despite it all, he smiled, closing the door and for the first time since he’d allowed you out of the cell, he left it unbolted, choosing instead to trust that you would come back to him, that you cared for him as much as he did for you.

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thecleverdame · 5 years

Text

This Is Not A Fairy Tale - Two

Alpha!Prince!Sam x Omega!Reader

Story Masterlist

Summary: You’re a suppressed Omega who is forced into servitude after the death of your father. Your stepmother Naomi is a heartless woman who forces you to do the cooking and cleaning, while she tries to marry off her own two daughters, Alex and Claire. But your life takes a wonderful and dangerous turn when you meet the charming Prince Sam who also happens to be an Alpha.

Warnings: ABO smut, abuse, death of parents, magic

Beta: ilikaicalie

*This story is complete and posted on Patreon. Become a patron for a monthly pledge of $2.50 and get access to all my Patreon content.

“What is wrong with you?” Dean watches his brother with a skeptical eye. “You’re this worked up about some girl you met in a field?”

“It’s more than that.” Sam looks around, ensuring they’re alone. “She’s an Omega,” he whispers.

“What?” Dean scoffs, then chuckles at the absurdity of it. “Now you’re just making things up.”

“I swear to you.” Sam is earnest, breathing fast and sweating as he looks Dean head-on. “I’ve never felt anything like it in my life.”

“You’re serious…” Dean inspects his brother. “How do you know?”

“Because I could feel her. Like how the air is alive when there’s lightning in the sky. And her scent was incomparable. No Beta has ever come close. And when I touched her, it was-”

“Touched her?” Dean smirks, then whistles. “Things progressed quickly I see.”

“You had to be there to understand, the attraction was consuming.”

“It must have been for you, a crown prince, to fuck some servant girl in the middle of a field.”

“My God.” Sam rolls his eyes. “I didn’t take her dignity there in the dirt. We just...touched.”

“I don’t need to hear any more details.” Dean raises both hands in caution. He shakes his head and pours them both a drink. “How can you be sure she was really an Omega? We’ve never met one before.”

“If you had smelled her, felt her, you’d know. She was breathtaking. I have to find her, Dean.”

“I can’t believe you let her run off.”

“She was out of sight before I could get to my horse and give chase.”

“Why would she run?”

“Any number of reasons.” Sam has given this a lot of thought. “Perhaps I was too forward. She seemed scared of something.”

“Well, any Omega tucked away in some country home is quite the secret. How old would you say she was?”

“I can’t be sure. Twenty-five, maybe older, perhaps younger.”

“Twenty-five? How the hell has she managed to keep herself hidden for that long?”

Omegas are sought after, snatched up by powerful, wealthy Alphas as soon as they come of age. While Dean has never met one, he’s heard the stories. It’s unbelievable that an Omega would make it past her fifteenth birthday without being claimed, forget twenty-five.

It would, however, make you a perfect match for his brother. Sam has just turned thirty-five and the older he gets the more he suffers. Alphas are meant to pair off, and he should have chosen a Beta long ago. He almost did, several times but couldn’t quite bring himself to make the final commitment. As he’s aged his ruts have grown more intense. If he doesn’t mate soon he’ll begin the descent into something darker, more feral. A primordial throwback to their ancestors and their parents will never allow that. The pressure has been on for some time for Sam to find a wife.

And you, well, once discovered you wouldn’t have much of a choice in the matter. All Omegas end up as mates to royalty or someone with powerful connections. Out of the options you might have, Sam is the best-case scenario. That goes without saying.

“I hate to say this, but has it occurred to you that someone has been keeping her? A duke or baron has been using her for their own. It could be the reason she ran.”

“I don’t know.”

Sam’s stomach goes tight at the very thought of someone else touching you, hurting you. He can still see your face, those shining eyes, and shy smile. There was an inherent innocence to you, the way you responded to his touch, the way you looked at him.

“I know she was terrified of being in trouble. She said she needed to get home before someone returned.”

“Well, let’s go find her.” Dean shrugs, tipping back the final vestiges of his drink. “We’ll start at the tree where you met her and search all the houses in the area. Shouldn’t take more than a day.”

Dean’s plan was a good one, with one exception; Sam can’t find his way back to the spot where he met you.

His rut is days away but in preparation he often goes for long rides to clear his head, leaving at dawn and not returning until after the sun has set. He rode for hours and hours that day, taking every side trail and galloping across meadows. He only stopped when he came across the willow tree because he was starving and needed to eat.

He found his way to you by chance and now he can’t retrace his steps for the life of him.

“Which way do you think you would have gone?” Dean asks. “Use your instincts.”

The brothers sit side by side on horseback. The trail ahead of them forks off in half a dozen directions.

“The far path to the right I think...no wait...I’m not sure.” Sam runs a hand over his face.

Being with you for such a short time only to be ripped away feels like a simmering panic. He has no idea how it’s possible that he wants someone he hardly knows with this passionate desperation, but he does.

“Maybe we should ride back from the castle. Do you remember the way you took to get home? We could backtrack.”

“I don’t think I can.” Sam balls his fist around the reigns. “I rode looking for her for an hour and then came back. I was so worked up, I don’t remember which way was which.”

“Well,” Dean nods, a hand on his hip as he thinks. “Why don’t we go home and talk to our lovely mother. She’ll be thrilled at the prospect of an Omega for you. I’m sure she’ll have a few ideas on how to find her. She always does.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Alex snips, tapping at the shell of her boiled egg.

“Nothing,” you murmur, snapping out of your daydream.

“She’s more melancholy than usual.” Claire gives you a smarmy little grin and butters her toast.

“Is there something wrong?” Naomi asks, resting both palms on the table. You shake your head no and pour hot water for her tea.

“Just a bit tired.” You force a smile.

The truth is you feel like death. The herbs you’re forced to drink have always sucked the life from you, but after that afternoon with Sam, it’s only gotten worse. Yesterday you could barely stay awake through lunch. You’re not ignorant. While you don’t know all the ins and outs of what you are, you understand the basic mechanics. Being around an Alpha has awakened something inside you that’s been fighting to get out for some time.

There’s a ring of the bell at the front door and you hurry to answer it. The courier is a young boy. He hands you a message and blows a sweet little kiss before scampering away. You bring the carefully rolled parchment to Naomi.

The royal seal gets her attention. That signature gold melted wax can only mean one thing.

“What is it?” Claire asks.

“Tell us what it says!” Alex chimes in, smacking her fists on the table.

“Shh,” Naomi hushes them as she unrolls the paper and scans the message. A wide smile blooms across her face. She looks up at her daughters with bubbling excitement. Sitting up straight, she’s unable to contain the terrifying grin across her face as she reads aloud. “King John and Queen Mary cordially invite you to a royal ball in honor of Prince Samuel. Every eligible woman in the kingdom is expected to be in attendance.”

“A ball!” Alex’s eyes light up.

“Can we pick our own dresses?” Claire asks. “I shall wear my red velvet with lace trimming.”

“Do either of you realize what this means?” Naomi hisses, slapping an open palm on the table to silence the room. “They are holding a ball in honor of the prince. They’re looking for a suitable wife. It’s about time, he should have been married off long ago. But other’s poor judgment is our good fortune. My daughters, I need you to understand, you are both excellent candidates, with your background and unmatched bloodline. You are both beautiful young women. A man of his age would certainly be happy to have either of you in his bed.”

“Oh, do you think so?” Alex claps her hands together in excitement. “Well, I shall wear just a simple skirt but put my coat with the golden flowers over it and, of course, there's always my diamond necklace, which is really rather special. I imagine a prince would appreciate understated elegance.”

“Oh my God,” Claire giggles placing a hand over her mouth.

You’re frozen, hearing the sound of chattering voices but absorbing none of it. Two opposing thoughts are swimming in your head.

You let him put his hand up your skirt under a tree in the middle of a field. Any woman with any self-respect would not have invited a stranger to touch her in such a way. You came on the ground like a whore in the streets. A Prince, a man of his social graces would never want a woman who was so willing to offer up her body to the first man that came along. Sam, a man of a certain age, who needs to marry sooner rather than later. Perhaps you were a meaningless little fling before he’s expected to settle down for good.

But there’s also the other possibility. What if he were willing to overlook your scandalous encounter because of what you are? What if he’s expecting you to attend? What if this is his way of looking for you? You can scarcely stand that thought without feeling lightheaded. You felt what he felt, the charge in the air when you were near and the wild excitement when he scented you. Perhaps this is how every Omega responds to an Alpha, you wouldn’t know, but it felt like something special.

“Every eligible woman in the kingdom?” you ask and their voices go silent. The three women stare at you and Alex bursts out laughing. “I just, I’ve never been to a ball. I would like to go.”

“You?” Claire sputters, joining her sister. “Covered in muck and soot! What would you even wear?”

“She’d leave a trail of cinders behind her,” Alex snickers.

Naomi knows the gravity of your question. She understands the power of what you are even when you don’t. Any Omega, despite her title or appearance, would certainly be the first choice for an Alpha prince. And if Sam rejected you there’s a chance the King and Queen would consider annulling the marriage of their oldest son to pair him with an Omega of childbearing age.

She wants this prize for one of her own daughters and she’ll do whatever she needs to ensure you stay as far away from the royal family as possible.

“Y/N, dear,” she offers a sad little pout and extends her hand toward you. “The invitation said all eligible women. You are far from eligible. Look at you, coated in ashes and little more than skin and bones. We wouldn’t want to disrespect such a generous offer by bringing a scraggly little thing such as you, now would we? And I certainly can’t ruin your sister's chances with the Prince. This is serious.”

She only refers to Alex and Claire as your sisters when she wants to make a point.

You nod in silent understanding, holding back tears. It’s likely you will never see your handsome Prince again and you only have yourself to blame. But he’s better off with you. You’re a broken, withering woman whose life has been coming to an end for some time. You were condemned to a lifetime of misery the day you buried your father.

For two weeks you live the hell that is preparing Alex and Claire for the ball.

All they talk of is dresses and hairstyles and what other women will be their competition for the Prince’s attention. You try to cover up your disappointment but it gets proportionally more difficult as the date approaches. The longer you’re away from Sam the more the memory of his face fades away, and the less you can remember the details of what he felt like as doubt creeps in.

By the night of the ball, you’ve convinced yourself that you made up some preposterous connection to a man who was hoping to bed a servant girl in the woods. You’ve romanticized a man’s basic urges and created reciprocity that simply cannot exist.

“How does it look?” Alex inquires, reaching for her hand mirror and holding it up.

You slide the last hairpin into place and hold up another mirror for her to inspect your work.

“Oh, it’s actually good.” She eyes herself, pursing her lips in a practiced pout. “Not bad for someone who’s hands won’t stop shaking.”

“I’m glad you like it.” You brace your hands together, subduing the tremors.

“I’m next!” Claire runs into the room, pushing her sister out of the chair before taking her place. “Make it quick, we need to leave soon.”

“I’ll work as fast as I can.” Your eyes are heavy. You scrubbed pots and cleaned floors all day. Naomi picked today of all days to give the house a proper cleaning from top to bottom.

“Y/N,” Claire looks at her sister and fights back a chuckle. “Would you like to go to the ball yourself?”

“Please don’t make fun of me.” You whisper. “There’s no way I could go.”

“Quite right too: everyone would laugh to see Cinderbritches at a ball.” Both girls break out in a fit of laughter and you try to focus on her hair, instead of the sorrow swelling up inside you.

“I hate it when you call me that,” you tell them softly.

“Always so sensitive.” Claire rolls her eyes. “Hurry up! I want to get there!”

Once the girls are styled and polished Naomi loads them into the carriage and returns to the kitchen to find you.

“Have you forgotten something?” you ask, wiping your forehead of sweat as you clean a pot.

“Only one thing.” She lifts her chin, mouth in a tight grimace. “Come with me.”

You follow her down into the basement, to your makeshift room amongst the clutter.

“Over here,” she moves to the corner, bending down to pick something up. Once it’s in her hand you realize what it is. A metal chain with a cuff attached to the end.

“Don’t, please,” you panic, stepping back. “I beg you, don’t chain me up.”

“I’ll take the switch to you here and now if you don’t do as I say.”

You could run or fight, but you don’t have the energy for either so you walk over to her and watch as she kneels down and locks the metal around your ankle.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask. Tears stream down your face as you let emotion overtake you. “Please, it’s too tight. It hurts.”

“We both know what a sneaky thing you are. I remember what you were like as a girl.” She rubs her hands, looking satisfied.

“I can’t reach the fire from here, or my blankets in the corner. Will you hand them to me?”

“You’ll be fine for one night.” She sneers, looking at you as if the sight of you offends her very senses. “Take this time to think about what and who you are. Knowing her place is the best attribute a woman can have and you are nothing more than a mistake.”

She kicks the toe of her shoe into your stomach with enough force to knock the air from your lungs. You lie on the stone, writhing in pain and sobbing in despair as the sun sets over the horizon.

You wake up to a small squeaking sound. When your eyes flutter open it’s dark. But after you adjust you’re met with the sight of a small white mouse nosing his way around your hand. There are plenty of nasty rats that chew holes in nearly everything, you hate those little beasts, but this small mouse has been coming to you in the evenings for a year now.

“Hello my friend,” you whisper, lying limp on the ground as a fresh tear slides over your temple. “At least I’m not alone tonight.”

You watch as the mouse cleans his tiny face with a pink paw, smiling softly at the sweetness of such a simple thing. If you die down here, at least someone will miss you, a rodent but it’s better than simply vanishing and leaving no trace.

“Hello?” A musical, airy voice calls out from somewhere upstairs. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

Wiping your nose you gather your strength, propping yourself on one arm.

“Who’s there?” you yell back.

“Where are you?” The voice asks, getting closer. “I’m looking for Y/N.”

“I’m here.” You wait as soft footsteps descend toward the basement and a petit redheaded woman emerges from the dark with a flickering candle in her hand.

“What in the world are you doing down here?” She looks around and you move to sit as the chain rattles. Her eyes dart to the metal around your ankle. “Now, now, what do we have here?”

“Do you think you can help me?” you ask. “I think my stepmother keeps the key upstairs, in a jewelry box in her room.”

“Don’t be silly dear,” she crouches down, offering a genuine smile. “We don’t need all that.”

She snaps her fingers and sparks fly. In the same instant, the metal cuff falls open. You look at her in astonishment and she just smirks.

“Nothing a little magic can’t fix.”

“What are you?”

“There are many names for what I do, but I don’t like any of them. To you, I’m Rowena, your Godmother I suppose. A sort of, fairy godmother.”

“I don’t understand.” She offers her hand to help you up.

“I’ll explain. Let’s go upstairs to the fire and warm you up.”

Rowena makes you tea and explains that she knew your mother well. They grew up together in Scotland and stayed in touch throughout the years but grew farther and farther apart as time went by.

“I thought it was time I paid you a visit. I never dreamed I’d find the daughter of Ellen and Robert Singer chained up in a dirty coal room.” She pours you another cup of special tea. She insisted you drink it and as you have, the more you perk up, energy building for the first time in a long time. “Where is the lady of the house?”

“At the ball.” You sigh, looking down at the mug in your hands. “Every woman in the Kingdom was invited. The prince is expected to find his wife tonight.”

“Why are you here?”

“Look at me,” you snort. “Sam wouldn’t want to so much as look at me in this state.”

“Sam,” she coos, eyebrows wiggling. “Do I hear a hint of familiarity?”

“We met. It was only once but he was...wonderful.” You blush, swallowing the rest of the tea.

“Well, you must get you back to your prince.” Rowena spreads her arms wide. “We can’t have you sitting here dreaming of a future. You have to go out and make things happen. Take what you want from life.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Look at me? What would I even wear? I couldn’t even borrow a dress, they would hang off me.”

“Don’t you worry about that.” She smiles, patting your shoulder. “I know a trick or two.”

*This story is complete and posted on Patreon. Become a patron for a monthly pledge of $2.50 and get access to all my Patreon content.

#sam winchester x reader #alpha!sam winchester #alpha!sam x omega!reader #sam winchester smut

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musicofglassandwords · 4 years

Text

COS snippet #18

Kai knocked on the dungeon door, waiting until Lyssa called him in, her voice surprisingly faint.

He coughed as a haze of scented smoke wrapped around him as he entered. Lyssa looked up at him, alien in her copper rimmed goggles, a scrap of old silk tied around her face to filter the smoke.

Purple fire burned in the brazier on the heavy wooden table in front of her, casting odd, almost transparent flickers of shadow. The light in the room was dim, a few lamps hanging against the ancient walls.

“What are you doing?” Kai raised his eyebrows, grinning at her.

“The usual.” She pushed up the goggles, moving pas thim to wedge the door open wiht a brick, letting the smoke waft out of the stuffy room.

Kai leaned forward to investigate the contents of her table; a mortar and pestle filled with a dusty blue substance, dozens of haphazardly scattered dried herbs, and vials of a clear liquid substance.

“I’m testing different kinds of poison,” she informed him calmly, peeling off her gloves and extinguishing the brazier.

“Ah,” Kai nodded, pointing towards a spiked plant with tiny black thorns, “Isn’t fidana poisonous to the touch?”

Even though Lyssa was wearing gloves, her Lumen curse made it so even the slightest brush of a poisonous plant would affect her drastically.

He wasn’t too worried about her; he knew that she was always cautious.

Plus, he knew that if he expressed his concern, she’d probably scold him about nagging her for a good ten minutes.

“Yes, which is why I’m not using that much of it. Even with gloves I don’t really trust myself,” she said, neatly piling her packets and vials together, and going to the sink to wash her hands.

She stepped up to him, inspecting him closely, rising up on her toes to look at him face to face.

“What?”

“You look exhausted,” she commented, as she pressed a hand to his shoulders, green light flowing into him, and he sighed as his muscles loosened.

His mouth quirked up into a smirk. “You mean I look devastating handsome.”

“Absolutely not,” she smacked him on the back, and he winced, the soreness returning.

“Okay, but hurry up, Lyss, Jay’s in a mood.”

“He’s always in a mood,” she laughed, and Kai froze for a minute, his head filling with the music of her smile.

Idiot, he chastised himself, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“Here,” she handed him a glass jar with a pair of metal tongs, “Can you close this for me, VERY tightly?”

“Yeah,” he took the vessel of heated glass, looking curiously at the viscous liquid within.

“It’s a very potent poison,” she said, without looking over her shoulder, “Be careful.”

She finished cleaning up her work bench, while Kai extinguished the lamps with a snap of his fingers, and the two of them made their way up the stone stairs back to the ground floor of the castle, Lyssa blinking as her eyes adjusted to the warm gold light.

Richly embroidered tapestries adorned the walls of the castle, painting a picture of an idealized legacy. Threads of gold and scarlet highlighted the successes of the crown, noticeably hiding the history of plague and death.

Kai strode along the thick carpeting, intentionally ignoring the signs of wealth around him, as always. The portraits of royalty with the same eyes as him.

This could have been you, the voices whispered, you could have been part of the world trying to murder you.

You could have been someone else, someone not dressed in shame and soot.

You could have been greater.

Kai bit his lip, as pain surged through his body, the fire in him aching for release, and turned back to see Lyssa who had paused, intently staring out the window.

“Lyss?” He stretched as he waited for her, wincing as his sore muscles complained at the movement. He took a second to peek out the window, but he saw nothing of interest besides a great deal of empty land.

She turned back towards him and her face immediately darkened with alarm.

“Are you bleeding?”

Tagging: @writingqueensworld @dowings@joyful-soul-collector @thescholarsninja @stuffaboutwriting @panic-at-my-sexuality @nomadian-novelist @waterfallofinkandpages @tragedyshow @onthewingsofwords @writingonesdreams @storiesbyrie @citylightverses @qlpwrites

#city of shards #writeblr #writing #my writing #violetvineyard #snippet #fantasy #lyssa #kai

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jayalaw · 5 years

Text

HTTYD3 Fix-It: How to Crown A Dragon King, Chapter Two

@evilwriter37 @ashleybenlove @jettara @inhonoredglory @kingofthewilderwest @wolfie-dragon-rider

Hiccup groaned when he woke up. His head was spinning, and part of him was wondering if Tuffnut had goaded him into another drinking contest with Eret. Except Eret would have refused after how Astrid had threatened to tie all of Berk's men up if they messed with Hiccup's brain again.

Fire. The sting of a dart. A man sitting in his father's chair.

Memories returned. He would have shot up straight, except he couldn't move without every muscle complaining of pain. His head ached badly. Cold metal encircled his wrists.

"I was wondering how long you would be out," Grimmel commented. "Normally that drug would make a Gronckle sleep for days."

Hiccup coughed out the foul taste in his mouth. He got his bearings. Wooden boards beneath his cheeks. The glint of nails off iron. They seemed to be in a ship, but he heard no waves lapping against the boards. He pulled himself to a sitting position.

"What is this?" he asked.

"A sky ship," Grimmel said. "My dragons carry it, avoiding the currents and allowing for bulk. Surely you have thought of it."

Hiccup had thought of it. He had once used a shipwreck to ferry baby dragons from where they had hatched on a tropical island. These days, however; the mating cycle was more synchronized; the dragons all went with their riders, had their babies, and returned.

He lifted his head and got to a sitting position. Then he rested his cuffed hands on his good leg. Pain clicked in his brain as he tried to think of how to escape. It was like Grimmel had cut open his forehead and poured alcohol on his brain.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Away," Grimmel said. A tight smile crossed his frame. "You'd best get comfortable, Hiccup. It's going to be a long ride."

"Yeah, no." Hiccup fumbled for the side of the ship. "I think I'd rather tend to those fires that you set. Chief duties, you know."

Grimmel watched. Hiccup tried to pull himself up, ignoring the wobbling feeling in his legs. His head kept spinning like a child's toy.

"Why were you given that name anyway?" Grimmel asked. "Is it meant to sound like a hicc-up? Like the sound you make when you've had too many oysters?"

Grimmel made a hiccuping sound to demonstrate.

"It's tradition to name runts that," Hiccup responded shortly. It brought back a memory, of when he had asked his father the same question.

“Ah, so you were a runt. That explains the tininess,” Grimmel glanced away. “A shame. He was a good chief.”

Unlike you, the rest of the sentence seemed to say.

“He was the best,” Hiccup said, and he knew that it was true.

He managed to glimpse the ocean below puffs of cloud. They were hundreds of feet in the air, and night breezes shot past them. Hiccup tried to think. It made his head throb.

"Just to be clear, you need me alive?" Hiccup asked, trying to sound casual. "Because you want my dragon?"

"I don't need you alive," Grimmel said. "I’ve caught and killed many Night Furies. One more won’t make a difference. The factions that paid me to bring you in would be satisfied with your head probably."

"Sorry, I'd rather keep it," Hiccup said. He leaned against the side of the boat, looking down. Unless he got his hands free, the fall would kill him; he was still wearing the flight suit, but it meant nothing unless he could spread the leathery wings. Still, he had a lockpick somewhere in the suit. If he could struggle for it. Or he could go for the simple solution.

He tripped on his prosthetic as he turned to tackle Grimmel. The man watched as Hiccup fell on his chin, hard. He felt a splinter lodge under the white scar from when he was a baby.

"Did you actually think you'd be up to fight?" Grimmel smirked. "No wonder the other chiefs wanted to underpay me."

"Well, you know Vikings," Hiccup quipped. "We have stubbornness issues."

He swiped with his bound hands. Fists connected with Grimmel's knees, a trick Astrid had taught him. Grimmel grunted as he went down. Hiccup pounced on him the way Sharpshot had. He wrapped the short chain around the man's neck. not enough to strangle him, but enough to hold him.

"Give . . . me . . . the key," Hiccup panted.

Grimmel growled and bucked his thighs. Hiccup yelped as he went sailing through the air. It was only by some miracle that Grimmel didn’t toss him over the side. This time he landed on his shoulder. Below him, the dragons jostled the ship, making it sway through the air. That hurt more. Before he could get up, Grimmel placed a thick boot on his back, pinning him to the ground.

"You don't know when to quit?" he said, no longer smiling.

"Never," Hiccup grunted. "Even if I have to toss myself into the sea, I'm going down fighting."

"That won't be necessary, Chief," a familiar voice said. "We'll do the fighting for you."

Grimmel's expression changed. Eret straddled Skullcrusher, his mouth in a hard line. Astrid hovered beside him, her face promising murder.

"Give me back my fiance," she said.

Grimmel pulled out a sword and pressed it to Hiccup's throat. Hiccup saw his bloodshot eyes in the blade.

"That's not going to work a second time," Astrid said. "We brought along backup."

She whistled. The antlered dragon crashed into the ship. Grimmel and Hiccup yelped as the force tossed them into the air. Strong claws caught Hiccup; Skullcrusher. He wondered when his head would stop spinning.

Stormfly and the antlered dragon released fire on Grimmel's ship. His red dragons grabbed the man and pulled him away into a retreat.

"We got you!" Eret shouted. "Let's get back to Berk!"

"Astrid, come on!" Hiccup called. "We need to stop all the fires."

"We handled the fires!" she called back.

Though it took her visible effort, she turned her dragon around. Skullcrusher dropped Hiccup onto Stormfly, nearly behind Astrid. Hiccup tightened his thighs around the leather saddle.

"Are you hurt?" Astrid asked, twisted her head to look back at him.

"Eh, a few bruises and a splitting headache; nothing that will leave a scar. And I still have my leg! I hope Gobber has a good lockpick." Hiccup lifted his bound hands. "Wasn't able to get to mine."

Astrid grunted in relief. Sweat ran down her hair in streaks, and soot covered her front.

"Where's Toothless?" Hiccup asked.

"Back on Berk," Astrid said. "I didn't want to risk his safety since Grimmel wanted him."

Hiccup nodded in thanks. It's what he would have done. Poor Toothless must be tearing up the floorboards while pacing Berk.

"Who was that guy?" she asked. "He sneaked past all our defenses."

"Grimmel," Eret said. "One of Drago's top Trappers, except for yours truly. A man who enjoys the thrill of the hunt. It would be like him to infiltrate the village and set everything on fire. We're just lucky he didn't get far."

"How far DID he get?" Hiccup eyed the sea.

"Quite a bit but Skullcrusher and Stormfly were fast," Astrid said. "It's fine. We'll double the defenses. And we'll rebuild. We always do."

Hiccup relaxed. He wanted two blocks of ice for his head, and to sleep the next twenty hours away. And he wanted to ask Eret more about Grimmel. Part of him wanted to recall what King of Vikings was, and why the man wanted Toothless. But for now, things were calm. He was safe. Toothless was as well.

Gothi looked over Hiccup, after she shoved a metal tankard in his hand with mead and gestured at him to drink up. Hiccup tried, but the alcohol was too strong so he managed a few sips. His hands still ached despite Gobber using blacksmith tools to remove the cuffs. Gothi ran her thin fingers over the puncture wound in his neck. She frowned. A Terrible Terror, one of her dozens, was dozing in her hair. It snored as she moved, making a strange growling sound.

Toothless had already come and given Hiccup a thorough tongue bath; he was checking on all the dragons now, to make sure none were hurt and missing. All the Vikings huddled there in the cove. The last of Grimmel’s were burning the remains of the village down. Hiccup could still see the orange glow in the sky.

“We tried putting the fires out,” Fishlegs said. “The water didn’t work. The dragons somehow managed to gather dirt from the woods and toss it. Most of the ashes are greasy.”

“I’ll take a look at them tomorrow,” Hiccup frowned. “A fire that water can’t douse. We need to look into it.”

“Probably oil-based,” Eret mused. “I’ve seen those sorts of flames when you want to burn something and make sure it never comes back.”

“It’s too late to rebuild,” Snotlout said. “I’m going to KILL Grimmel! He burned down all my shinies!”

“We can camp here for tonight,” Hiccup said, tilting his head so Gothi could look closer. “Any casualties?”

“Fortunately, no,” Gobber said. “We’ve been so used to fires that first sign of smoke, and we’re all out there. But there was a close call with some of the children.”

Hiccup gulped. He managed some mead to go with that swallow.

Gothi narrowed her eyes. She drew in the dirt.

“Can someone get us a light?” Hiccup called. Someone brought a torch over. “How bad is it, Gothi?”

“She says that you’re banged up, nothing that a little sleep can’t fix,” Gobber said. “Obviously she orders a full night’s sleep, lots of herbs and bath salts, and take a break from chiefing duties tomorrow.”

“I can’t take a break,” Hiccup said. “We just got attacked! By someone who slipped past our defenses and burned down our village! We need to rebuild, and reinforce the island. No one else is going to sleep tonight - ow!”

Fortunately Gothi missed whacking him on his injured side. But she glared at him. The Terror opened one lazy eye to glare as well. The pupil glowed a fierce red.

“Doctor’s orders, Hiccup,” Gobber quipped. “I’d suggest listening to her.”

“We’ll take care of the rebuilding,” Astrid said. “We did use to run the firefighting squad.”

“Grimmel doesn’t take defeat well,” Eret said. “It is unlikely, however, that he will make a repeat attempt with how his ship was damaged. He likes to be the predator, not the prey. The Crimson Goregutter bought us time, a day at least.” “He called himself King of VIkings,” Hiccup said. “My father’s books have that term. I know it sounds familiar.”

Toothless bounded towards them. The dragon looked sobering. Hiccup reached toward him.

“You did your best, Bud,” he said. “This was an enemy we didn’t see coming at all. But we know now. And we’ll learn.”

#httyd 3 spoilers #fix it fic #grimmel #httyd3 fix it fic #httyd3 #hiccup fanfic

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naireides · 7 years

Note

Can you write a short one shot/fic for bellamy finding out octavia is alive??

i wanted to post this before 405 but i didn’t have time sorry babe; so here it is now, just tweaked a little bit.

ao3!

Dawn is just breaking when Clarke stumbles down next to him, soot stained and weary, leaning heavily on his shoulder. Around them the triage was finally nearing an end, most people heading off to what little was left for sleep.

Octavia still lays in his lap, a furrow between her brows and Bellamy has been focused on nothing but the quiet up-down of her chest for the past few hours.

“How’s she doing?” Clarke asks, her voice hoarse.

He gives a one shoulder shrug, taking care not to jostle either one of them. “Alright I guess. I can tell she’s in pain, but she’s trying to hide it,” he says as he fondly looks down at his sister, tenderly brushing her hair away from his face.

She gnaws at her bottom lip, absentmindedly rubbing circles into Octavia’s hand. “I wish I had painkillers or something to help her-”

“Clarke,” Bellamy interrupts, finally tearing his eyes away from his sister to look at her. Her eyes are glassy, dark purple bruises beneath them and her skin is streaked with soot and ash. She looks as though she’s ready to fall over any second now, and his heart clenches at the thought of her running around and spreading herself thin as one of their only medical officers left.

He lets his free arm shoot out, pulling her into him for a clumsy hug, and she makes a surprised sound in the back of her throat.

“Thank you,” he says, voice cracking. His chapped lips catch on her hair and she smells overwhelmingly of smoke and musk, but he can still make out that faint note of something else underneath, the barest scent of antiseptic and herbs that’s just so Clarke as he presses his face to the crown of her head. “Thank you for saving her.”

Clarke clings to him just as fiercely, he realises, tucking her head into the crook of his neck and taking a shuddering breath. “It was nothing,” she replies, voice thick, “I did what I had to do. Octavia did all the hard work.”

“Still.” Bellamy pulls back, but she doesn’t go far, leaving her fist curled into his jacket and an arm slung around his waist. His own hand drops to her hip, pressing lightly there. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

They both fall silent, watching as their people sort through the wreckage while the early morning sun streaks through the remaining tendrils of smoke.

“You should get some rest,” he says after a while, when the sun is almost fully above the horizon.

“I know but I,” she falters for a beat, eyes dropping as she stares off into the distance, “There’s so much that we need to see about now.”

“You’re no use dead on your feet,” he scolds her gently, before smoothing his hand up her side, “Everything will still be here to figure out in a few hours.”

Clarke slumps, letting her head drop onto his shoulder, and he feels the expansion of her chest as she breathes him in. “Can we figure it out later?”

His lips tick up at the familiar words, and Bellamy lets his head drop on top of hers. When he closes his eyes, he can pretend, just for a moment, that everything is okay. That the air isn’t cold and heavy with smoke, that people aren’t already dying, that they’ve somehow found that one miraculous solution to all their problems.

Her hand sneaks into his, linking their pinky fingers, and his breath catches when she squeezes gently.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he breathes out, before squeezing back in turn.

#bellarke #bellarke fanfiction #Anonymous #nai answers questions #my writing #nai did a thing

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tiefling-druid-blog · 7 years

Text

Backstories and Such

Morning had arrived with the rain, and as the soft patter of droplets sounded upon the roof, dull light leaked into the enclosed room and flecked the shadows sleeping upon the rough soil floor. Used to rising with the sun, Meia stared at the yawning opening to the burrow, a timid creature, suddenly within a strange and unfamiliar place. Something had jolted her from rest hours ago - a familiar, clutching hand which liked to wrestle for her heartbeat in the dead hours before dawn. And now...now she mustered the confidence to brave the crude floor with her swollen feet.

Standing was a balancing act, the damp floor giving barely beneath her reluctant step. Wincing, she flexed her toes as if trying to shake off the miles she had run. Where was she? The air she breathed was thick with an alien musk, a wet, heavy scent, weighted with white-sage and woodsmoke. Further in the dimness, her eyes picked out a cluttered landscape of shelves, laden with herbs and slender bottles, and hand-bound books leaning in crippled support of one another. Their pages were marred with foxing and bloated with damp, the binding slowly unpicking itself in mutinous boredom. Behind the stacks, an abrupt ascent by way of ladder led up and out of the cavernous gloom, climbing into the muted light of the morning.

When she reached for the rungs, she was halted by the command at which a stranger’s arms moved in front of her, stretching forth in the semi-darkness with a quivering and determined strength. Hers, but equally not. She could not work out the cerulean pallor of her skin beneath layers of dust and dirt and blood. Blood matted with soot, like strange warpaint retelling the events of hours ago. Merely hours?

Slowly, she crept from the shelter of the burrow. Light broke over the crown of her head, dazing her for moments as her eyes worked to adjust. When her hands found the top - the floor of which was carpeted with dew-drenched grass - she discovered rain mingled with a kind of dust. It made the droplets look like strange snow as they crushed ash into the hardened ground. Above her, branches formed a canopy before the roiling sky, where bulging clouds collapsed into a horizon which was sharp with a rising crimson that she’d never imagined from the confined walls of her once-home.

Home was such a solid word. Meia stood beneath the strange sky of the forest, rainwater streaming across her cheeks and melting into the blood there. Her hair was stuck to her back, matted, and her toes curled into the cool, relenting floor of grass and pine. Old leaves pricked at the blisters there, but it was a gentle, nipping pain. Almost affectionate. Strands of mist snaked in between the rising trunks of trees from a brook that gurgled unseen in the distance and, as the earthen floor fell away into the sloping undergrowth, she found herself within a dell, caught between briar and bramble and pitching birdsong. The wind breathed an intangible chorus through the long grass. Strange air washed against her, mingling with the rain into a crisp and mellifluous perfume. Home seemed shed its meaning and, haltingly, grow to fill a new one.

#writing #fantasy #dnd #dungeons and dragons #backstory #my writing

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heiligenscheiss · 4 years

Text

FLYING OINTMENTS

Their Ingredients and Their Use

the Wanderling

Below are three examples of the use of Flying Ointments from classical sources followed by a modern day version in the Addendum. Flying Ointment is typically an oily or greasy concoction of herbs and other materials combined together and said, when rubbed all over one's body, to contribute toward one's ability to fly. Early recipes always included some ingredients that were either socially unacceptable, "off limits," difficult to obtain, or were obscure or unclear in what was actually intended. Modern recipes use a variety of substitute materials, hence rendering the ointment ineffective for all practical purposes. In both cases, however, some ingredients remain downright toxic, poisonous and lethal, especially if consumed in quanities unmetered by someone not versed in their safe administration.

You will notice the account of Lucius Apuleius, written in 160 AD and BEFORE the rise of religious strengths of the Middle Ages, that it is fairly straightforward in what transpired in the use of an ointment. The others are somewhat more vague. Somewhere over the centuries as the early European tribes disintegrated, assimilated, or were destroyed, a slow but meticulous coverup and transformation occurred to the beliefs and traditions of Shamanism and practice of tribal magic and socerey into that of a more sinster era of witchcraft. What is most important to realize is that during the Middle Ages the use of certain specific herbs and their power that originally came down from Shamanism is significantly downplayed, and the outcome and power of occult abilities is attributed more and more to evil sources in the form of Lucifer, the Devil, or Satan. You should also notice if you research Flying Ointments that a lot of the ingredients vary between recipes and many of the ingredients seem to be inert or no more than simply filler. However, whether in ointments, chewed, ingested, or used in a broth, brew, or potion certain key elements remain down through the ages, that being tropane-containing plants such as Sacred Datura and various Nightshade and genus Solanum for example. It is cited as a main ingredient right up to today's use by present day men of spells called an Obeah, to others of similar ilk such as a Diablero (a sorcerer said to have evil powers, usually with the ability to shapeshift) and/or more specifically the Diablero female counterpart as found in the sorceress 'la Catalina'. The tropane-like plant extract or derivative found in Sacred Datura is suspected to have been used in the mysterious and possible "flying potion" employed by the Native American tribal spiritual elder in the incident described in The Sun Dagger and explored more thoroughly in Apportation Revisited. Sacred Datura is also cited in both of Carlos Castaneda's first two books for the same or similar reasons. Sacred Datura or other closely related tropane-like plant extract or derivatives may also have been used in 'la Catalina's' infamous morphing into a marauding amorphous blackbird or her reported ability to become a sailing silhouette.

Lucius Apuleius. From Golden Ass, Book III, Chapter Sixteen (160 AD):

"On a day Fotis came running to me in great fear, and said that her mistress, to work her sorceries on such as she loved, intended the night following to transform herself into a bird, and to fly whither she pleased. Wherefore she willed me privily to prepare myself to see the same. And when midnight came she led me softly into a high chamber, and bid me look through the chink of a door: where first I saw how she put off all her garments, and took out of a certain coffer sundry kinds of boxes, of the which she opened one, and tempered the ointment therein with her fingers, and then rubbed her body therewith from the sole of the foot to the crown of the head, and when she had spoken privily with her self, having the candle in her hand, she shaked parts of her body, and behold, I perceived a plume of feathers did burgen out, her nose waxed crooked and hard, her nails turned into claws, and so she became an owl. Then she cried and screeched like a bird of that kind, and willing to prove her force, moved her self from the ground by little and little, til at last she flew quite away."

Abramelin The Mage. From The Book of the Sacred Magic of Abramelin The Mage (1458 AD)

The First Book of Holy Magic, Chapter VI:

"She then gave unto me an unguent..." (Flying Ointment)

"At Lintz I worked with a young woman, who one evening invited me to go with her, assuring me that without any risk she would conduct me to a place where I greatly desired to find myself. I allowed myself to be persuaded by her promises. She then gave unto me an unguent, with which I rubbed the principal pulses of my feet and hands; the which she did also; and at first it appeared to me that I was flying in the air in the place which I wished, and which I had in no way mentioned to her.

I pass over in silence and out of respect, that which I saw, which was admirable, and appearing to myself to have remained there a long while, I felt as if I were just awakening from a profound sleep, and I had great pain in my head and deep melancholy. I turned round and saw that she was seated at my side. She began to recount to me what she had seen, but that which I had seen was entirely different. I was, however, much astonished, because it appeared to me as if I had been really and corporeally in the place, and there in reality to have seen that which had happened."

Giovan Battista Della Porta. From De Miraculis Rerum Naturalium, Book II, Chapter XXVI (1558 AD)

Lamiarum Unguenta (Witches Unguent):

"Although they mix in a great deal of superstition, it is apparent nonetheless to the observer that these things can result from a natural force. I shall repeat what I have been told by them. By boiling (a certain fat) in a copper vessel, they get rid of its water, thickening what is left after boiling and remains last. Then they store it, and afterwards boil it again before use: with this, they mix celery, aconite, poplar leaves and soot. Or, in alternative: sium, acorus, cinquefoil, the blood of a bat, nightshade (Solanum) and oil; and if they mix in other substances they don’t differ from these very much. Then they smear all the parts of the body, first rubbing them to make them ruddy and warm and to rarify whatever had been condensed because of cold. When the flesh is relaxed and the pores opened up, they add the fat (or the oil that is substituted for it) - so that the power of the juices can penetrate further and become stronger and more active, no doubt. And so they think that they are borne through the air on a moonlit night to banquets, music, dances and the embrace of handsome young men of their choice."

NOTE: Again, just as a reminder, according to many scholars, the use of mind-altering plants in witches' flights, such as certain species of the genus Solanum, etc., was underemphasized or even suppressed during the rise of religious strengths during the Middle Ages because plants, rather than the Devil, would thus have wielded the power. Their brews or ointments, with their transformative plant alkaloids, were indeed capable of inducing at the very minimum, visionary flights through the vast and uncharted night skies.

ADDENDUM: Flying Ointment and Ingredients Thereof:

Recently a no small amount of flack has been directed toward me regarding what has been suggested as a glossing over of facts pertaining to ingredients oft cited in flying ointemnts. Namely the the criticism revolves around the perceived playing down or lack of my emphasis regarding the use of the "fat of an unbaptized baby or child" (listed above as a certain fat) as a primary constituent in the ointment, a point that may need some clarification.

The plain truth is I have no personal experience using flying ointments. My experience circles around the use of a "warm tea-like broth" as outlined in the Wanderling's Journey and in the fashion given me left unsaid in the Sun Dagger. The first, under the auspices of a man of spells called an Obeah; the second, a Native American tribal elder. Both situations lean more closely toward Shamans and Shamanism and perhaps tribal sorcery or magic than the media accepted view of European style witchcraft. In neither occasion was any sort externally applied body grease or oil based ointment of any kind involved. My interest is in how the use of tropane-containing plants seems to run through ALL potions and ointments alike when "flight" is involved (Sacred Datura, Nightshade, Solanum, etc.).

Tropane-containing plant and herb-derived ingredients show up from the dawn of time in India, Europe, and the indigenous populations of the Americas as well as elsewhere. The "fat of an unbaptized baby" only starts showing up as an ingredient in Europe with the rise of the Middle Age religious persecutions. Those being persecuted did not have access to publishing or pushing the ingredients off on an unknowing populace...those in power did. How could those in power accomplish their end other than convincing those who they were trying to subjugate that those using occult powers were in league with the Devil --- or that those so accused might snatch and kill your baby or child so they could use the fat?

It should be noted the equivalent of baptized or unbaptized does not show up in the original Latin text. "Puerorum pinguedinem" meaning boy, young man, or child, joined with the word for fat does. In Appendix V of Margaret Alice Murray's rather extensive book on witchcraft The Witch-Cult in Western Europe (1921), A. J. Clark has analyzed three recipes used for making flying ointment and, quoting Pennethorne Hughes researching Clark's works in Witchcraft (Penguin Books, 1952), Hughes comes to the following conclusion:

Discounting the bat's blood and the baby's fat as picturesque accessories, oleaginous if otherwise ineffectual, he (A J Clark) finds that the remaining ingredients do carry important qualities.

Carlos Castaneda writes about his experience using the Datura plant in both his first and second books, the same plant suspected as employed by the Native American tribal spiritual elder with the Wanderling in the incident described in The Sun Dagger. Castaneda is not said to have drank the root extract in a "warm tea-like broth" as in the Wanderling's case, but instead, rubbed himself with paste, a paste or ointment we can pretty much be assured did not have the fat of a baby as an ingredient, baptized or not. Even so, the ointment DID contain fat, or lard, as the case may be. Castaneda, quoting here his Yaqui Indian sorcerer, Don Juan Matus writes:

"My benefactor (i.e., Don Juan's teacher) told me it was permissible to mix the plant with lard. And that is what you are going to do. My benefactor mixed it with lard for me, but, as I have already said, I never was very fond of the plant and never really tried to become one with her. My benefactor told me that for best results, for those who really want to master the power, the proper thing is to mix the plant with the lard of a wild boar."[1]

What followed was in his words "an extraordinary experience." Later, on Friday July 5, 1963, as the afternoon wore on, he and Don Juan Matus discuss the experience and lessons learned. In conversation Castaneda says there was a question he wanted to ask all day and finally, before the evening wore out, he asked, as found in his first book, THE TEACHINGS OF DON JUAN: A Yaqui Way Of Knowledge (1968) Chapter Six:

"There was a question I wanted to ask him. I knew he was going to evade it, so I waited for him to mention the subject. I waited all day. Finally, before I left that evening, I had to ask him, "Did I really fly?," don Juan?" (see)

"That is what you told me. Didn't you?"

"I know, don Juan. I mean, did my body fly? Did I take off like a bird?"

"You always ask me questions I cannot answer. You flew. That is what the second portion of the devil's weed is for. As you take more of it, you will learn how to fly perfectly. It is not a simple matter. A man flies with the help of the second portion of the devil's weed. That is all I can tell you. What you want to know makes no sense. Birds fly like birds and a man who has taken the devil's weed flies as such [el enyerbado vuela asi]."

"As birds do? [Asi como los pajaros?]."

"No, he flies as a man who has taken the weed [No, asi como los enyerbados]."

"Then I didn't really fly, don Juan. I flew in my imagination, in my mind alone. Where was my body?"

"In the bushes," he replied cuttingly, but immediately broke into laughter again. "The trouble with you is that you understand things in only one way. You don't think a man flies; and yet a brujo can move a thousand miles in one second to see what is going on. He can deliver a blow to his enemies long distances away. So, does he or doesn't he fly?"

"You see, don Juan, you and I are differently oriented. Suppose, for the sake of argument, one of my fellow students had been here with me when I took the devil's weed. Would he have been able to see me flying?"

"There you go again with your questions about 'What would happen if...?' It is useless to talk that way. If your friend, or anybody else, takes the second portion of the weed all he can do is fly. Now, if he had simply watched you, he might have seen you flying, or he might not. That depends on the man."

"But what I mean, don Juan, is that if you and I look at a bird and see it fly, we agree that it is flying. But if two of my friends had seen me flying as I did last night, would they have agreed that I was flying?"

Paste, root extract, or otherwise, interestingly enough Castaneda had written, again in his first book, THE TEACHINGS OF DON JUAN --- from information gathered in the field from Don Juan Matus in 1961 --- and covered more thoroughly in The Ally In Shamanism, the following:

The idea that a man of knowledge has an ally is the most important of the Seven Component Themes, for it is the only one that is indispensable to explaining what a man of knowledge is. In my classificatory scheme a man of knowledge has an ally, whereas the average man does not, and having an ally is what makes him different from ordinary men.

An ally is A POWER capable of transporting a man beyond the boundaries of himself; that is to say, an ally is a power which allows one to transcend the realm of ordinary reality. Consequently, TO HAVE AN ALLY IMPLIES HAVING POWER; and the fact that a man of knowledge has an ally is by itself proof that the operational goal of the teaching is being fulfilled.

In reality, the "full use of power can only be acquired with the help of an 'ally'," that Castaneda speaks of, like the use of medicinal plants, drugs, or herbs (Aushadhis) --- which he used intially, but denied the necessary use of later --- is a second level of use between the Shaman and the actual power source, the same source the "ally" would draw upon for power.

In the world of spells and the world at large the use of herbs in tea, broth, or flying ointments is really not much more than a step to initiate the actual outcome. Even though the results can be the same, in Hinduism, Buddhism and Zen there are supernormal perceptual states called Siddhis that for the most part do not incorporate, require, or use any sort of plant, potion, ointment, or drink such as implemented under the auspices of the Obeah or the tribal elder. However, if such outside ingested ingredients are used to actually accomplish results or simply used as a placebo to placate the recipient is not always clear. A lawyer that shows up in court in an expensive three piece suit will probably garner more success than if he shows up in a wrinkled tee shirt, shorts, and flip-flop shower shoes. Perhaps an Obeah or tribal elder might incorporate some sort of ritual or substance to convince a non-initiate to such a level that the expected result would transpire --- OR perhaps even, and possibly in a combination of both, some part of the substance's ingredients could be such that it would replicate, trigger or mimic an untrained, albeit short term, shortcut path to the same mind-strength ability of a person versed in Siddhis. As stated in The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali, Chapter IV, verse 1:

Verse 1: janma-osadhi-mantra-tapah-samadhi-jah siddayahsamadhi.

"The power of Siddhis can come because of previous Karma and genetics (janma), from herbs (Aushadhis), the use of Mantras, the kindling of the psychic fire (tapas), and/or from Samadhi."

The key word for our discussion here of course is HERBS..."The power of Siddhis CAN come from herbs..." that is, Aushadhis in Sanskrit (aushadhi Sk = medicine, herb, plant which has a quality of appeasement, relief from disease), but the effects will be of limited duration.

THE ZEN-MAN FLIES

Let Me Travel Through the Air Like a Winged Bird

THE BLACK CONDOR: THE MAN WHO COULD FLY LIKE A BIRD

(please click)

DO YOU THINK FLYING IN

THE SKY IS MAGICAL?

(click image)