#( open . ) — the dance of the leaves when the autumn wind blows .

[magnusmodig]

𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐍'𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃 was a medium sized wooden block. one that he was slowly whittling away at to form a wooden boat just large enough to hold a small bouquet and some burial ornaments. he was working on a third of these such wooden vessels. the rest were placed soundly on the grey pebble-sand beside him. on their starboard and port sides were asgardian runes.

ᚢᚦᛁᚾ . ᚠᚱᛁᚴ .

one for father . one for mother . one for asgard .

amity celebration / open !

[adventuresofalgy]

The following morning was a great deal calmer, for the hoolie* had eventually blown itself out, after roaring and raging the whole day long. Algy often thought that these winds were just clumsy big bullies, for they swaggered about, blustering and buffeting the bushes and trees for hours on end, but then sneaked away sheepishly and vanished into thin air when they found that they had achieved nothing more than a scattering of a few leaves and twigs about the landscape.

Nevertheless Algy was glad that the hoolie had passed, and even more pleased to find that the new day was not only calm, but more or less dry, and - at times - even sunny, although the wind was uncomfortably cold.

So without further ado he fluffed up his feathers and flew back to the cotoneaster bush, which had apparently suffered very little harm. Settling down to resume his feast in comfort, he was suddenly reminded of a poem:

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stained With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit Beneath my shady roof; there thou mayst rest, And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe, And all the daughters of the year shall dance! Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers. The narrow bud opens her beauties to The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins; Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve, Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing, And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head. The spirits of the air live on the smells Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round The gardens, or sits singing in the trees." Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat; Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.

[Algy is quoting the poem To Autumn by the late 18th/early 19th century visionary English poet William Blake.]

*“It’s blowing (or blawin') a hoolie,” is a phrase that is supposedly derived from the Orkney Scots word ‘hoolan’. Hoolan describes a strong gale wind." Please see yesterday's post for a demonstration. Algy was interested to note that hoolie is also an abbreviation for hooligan 😀

[grapejuicestyless]

can you do a conrad fic based on sad, beautiful, tragic by t.s.?

Sad, Beautiful, Tragic.

Conrad Fisher x fem!reader

Summery: Y/n is young, naive but not stupid. Conrad had made one too many empty promises for even her to continue believing.

My feet stood cemented on the pavement, stuck to the grounds that lingered in deadly details of him, but never us. Not now, not ever.

I felt like an idiot, showing up now, so late. A random autumn night in Boston. The streets in the city still bustling with life, longing for the scents of pumpkin spice and apple cider. The further into the suburbs you drove, the quieter it grew. The trees became plentiful, black streets becoming canvases of orange and yellow.

We weren’t right. It was obvious. Laurel reprimanded me for this, my great attempts to salvage what little we had left between us. A dwindling flame, a broken glass spilling wine across a pearl white table cloth. She called me a fool, too blinded by what I wanted to work so badly in my head that I refused what was being presented right in front of me.

His snide remarks with his school friends, all much smarter than I. They knew it. I was never a prodigy, a prospect, gifted. Each dig was minor, easily brushed away like dust on the pages of a forgotten story page. But Conrad always had a way with his words, a tongue that made even the kindest comments come out like daggers. Backhanded and cruel, aimed at the naive.

Gullible was never written on the ceiling yet each time he smiled and pointed I looked. I was a scarlet thread, wrapped tightly around his thumb.

When the door opened, Susannah greeted me with a sad smile. Her eyes spoke a thousand sentences, pleading for me to leave, walk away while I still could. But Conrad had promised, promised that if I just gave him one more chance it would be different.

And I believed him. I believed him because when I met him, he was a good man. Shy, sweet, observant. He was charming, and god he was always handsome. The Conrad I fell for never lied to me. If we disagreed, it was quickly resolved.

Now it seemed like each phone call was just another nail in the coffin. Another reason flying by, red flags blowing in the wind begging me to follow, to leave. It was walking on eggshells, fragile. I was clumsy and they broke. I sit alone in my room sometimes, phone beeping to its death, hanging off my shoulder and I forget. I forget all the reasons I am fighting, what I am fighting for.

But then he comes back, just like he always does. A vicious cycle. He throws daggers at my deepest hurts, freshest wounds to have the pleasure to watch me crumble within his grasp. And when I’m too weak to stand, he lifts me back up. Suddenly, my stomach aches, I want to throw up. It’s bubbling up my throat, the guilt is eating at me until I am nothing. How could I ever even forget how wonderful this man is to me, how could I ever want to leave? I wipe my memory of all the nights I spend crying on the floor. We never speak of it, what we’re doing, but the guilty look in his eyes tells me he knows. We both do. I sleep on the floor for another week, I can’t move. I am paralyzed by my heavy heart, a locket around my neck. It’s golden, decorated in whimsical swirls. A picture of Conrad stays with me always, I clench in my fist. I want to rip it off, watch the chain scatter. It weighs me down, I can barely breathe.

I am a good girl, I don’t fight. I stay quiet while Conrad fights himself. I don’t buy into his attempts to work me up anymore. I know that with him, with us, we are destined to see storms. I know better now that once they pass, the sky will clear and the tragedy of it all will fade away. So I wait. I always wait for that moment of clarity. I refuse to think when I’m so worked up.

It’s sad, and it’s beautiful and oh so tragic, the way we dance around each other. How hours ago I was standing outside his door, regretting my naivety, trying to salvage us. Now I sit in his living room, waiting for him with my legs crossed. The melodic ticking of the clock alerts me of the time. I’m cold, my nose is rosy. I let the house capture me in its warm blanket. A sacred place of safety, I smell Susannah, I smell my mother. I see Belly’s old pictures on the wall in frames and Stevens gifts to Jeremiah and Conrad.

“Y/n/n, hey.” His voice is airy, lips pressed to my temple. I didn’t even hear him coming in the deafening ringing of silence in my ears. My eyes shift to his face, but I cannot move.

“Hi Con.” My voice is coarse, tired. It’s so late, my eyes hurt from being open so long. His arms wrap around me as the couch dips beside my thighs. He’s so warm, so gentle now, I find myself drifting away again. Getting lost in the calm, I forget about how devastating the storm was. I haven’t even picked up all my discarded pieces yet. Somehow, I manage to keep giving away more and more, even now. I am not sure how I can afford this.

Our conversation is warm, long. He talks about school and I talk about mine. With us being alone, I miss any snide comments or judgmental stares. He is so much kinder without the influence of others. He is almost the same man I grew up loving.

“You’ll still visit me, won’t you?” He pleads innocently. The look in his eyes is genuine, I almost crumble. A sharp intake of air is stuck in my throat, my brain becomes re-wired.

I remember the sad looks from Susannah, the fights with my mother. I remember how disappointed Belly was when I left again. How Steven yelled and fought until I was gone. Everyone in my life sees it in a bad light and I still managed to miss it.

Suddenly the golden chain around my neck feels heavy again. It hurts my skin, it’s burning the back of my neck. I hold it in my hand, it’s still heavy in my palm.

“Y/n?” His hand is on my thigh, I can’t breathe. My chest heaves, my throat is burning. There’s a lump stuck in my throat. It’s expanding and my eyes hurt. I’m tired, I’m sick, I’m sad.

Standing up, his hands drop from my lap. I close my eyes so I don’t have to look at him anymore. I can feel my lip quivering while I suck in a harsh breath. My eyebrows are furrowed, fists clenched.

“Y/n, hey, baby…” He cooed at me, palm pressing to my cheek. I am inconsolable, irrevocably damaged. Too lost in our beauty to remember the tragedy, the sadness that defines us. That is us.

“Conrad, I’m leaving.” It comes out sticky. Quiet other than my sniffles and his breathing.

“You just got here, did…have I done something?” I feel his hands slip down to my elbows. He holds me in place son the carpet. It hurts, not because he’s holding too tight, but because his touch burns.

“No, Conrad.” My eyes open, I search his blue ones. I get lost in our deep they are, collecting my thoughts. I feel trapped.

“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t. If I stay any longer I’m afraid I won’t ever leave.” His face is blank until it isn’t. It’s shifting, contorting into something that looks incredibly confused, pained.

“What, what are you saying?” His voice is less calm now, raising. Not quiet reaching the level of desperation I can see building inside of him already.

“It’s a cycle, Con, can’t you see it? We’re toxic and it’s sick because we are the ones letting it be this way. We fight but we never talk. You promise me you’ll get better but you never do! I’m tired of trying to be alright when I’m around you! You don’t make me feel good.” It’s off my chest, yet he hasn’t comprehended any of it.

“Y/n, please. We can work through it, right? I love you, I do. Please just, please. I love you, you have to love me. It doesn’t just go away like that, I love you.” He’s crying now. His blue eyes clouded in a dark overcast. He makes me feel guilty. All self respect I have is gone, and suddenly I’m back in his arms.

My head finds its place on his shoulder, I tuck my face into his neck. Not to be close, but because I feel to ashamed to show it after falling so quickly under his mind games.

Silently, I agree with him. Of course I still love him, I always will. So I stay, a fool who got so close, but remained so far away. He presses another kiss to the side of my head and tells me I won’t regret it. When I wake up alone in his bed, cold the next morning, I know I’ve been blinded to another empty promise. It’s so hard to stay when he’s mean, but it’s even harder when he’s sweet. So I pack my things quietly and leave. I won’t visit him at school. Not until he comes home will we see each other again.

Oddly enough, the thought doesn’t drain me. I don’t dread never seeing him for weeks on end. I don’t regret not choosing somewhere closer to get an education simply to be near him. I am relieved he will be gone. My heart keeps beating.

It’s barely a month before I’m stood back in front of him. Only now the carpet is cold cement and his living room is the train tracks. He is in Boston, he’ll never leave. He tries his hardest to get me to stay. He’s the nicest I’ve ever seen him. He’s persuasive, but in our time apart he doesn’t know I see it less as a genuine feeling from him and more as a twisted tactic of manipulation.

“We can settle down, we’re almost out of college. Just me and you and it’ll be great. If you’d only give us another chance.” He pleads, hands not yet on my skin, but he’s so close. I can feel his warm breath on my skin.

“I don’t want that anymore, Conrad.” I try to be kind about it, I try and blame my distance on myself. It is me who is trying so desperately to break things off. He’ll never know it was his cold heart that shattered our beautiful love. But it’s helpless, he won’t stop.

“Then we’ll travel the world. Y/n, I don’t care, I just want to be with you!” He tries again. Yet all his words are the exact same. He’s not even trying to understand me, I feel like screaming.

“No, no.” I reaffirm. I won’t look at him because it hurts me too much. I know if I look at him I’ll stay again. My chest is closing in on me, I can’t help but reach to hold onto it. My pinky grazes the same locket when I do. It’s dainty, but gorgeous. There’s stacks of photos within it. Mostly of Conrad, but a few of my family underneath.

“I’m not understanding, Y/n. I don’t get it?” He’s desperate, the train is coming. Once it pulls up to the platform, if he hasn’t convinced me one last time to stay, I’ll be forever gone. It’s the final fight, we can feel it.

“All we do is fight, Conrad. I can’t fight anymore. I tried to end it earlier and you promised me it would work out, it would stop but it hasn’t! And I can’t do it anymore.” My hands rest on the bends of his elbows. I hold him close, I look into his eyes finally, I want him to understand me, I beg for him to understand me.

“Then let me fix it. Let me make it better, Y/n. Anything, I’ll do anything I just can’t-don’t walk away.” My pleads are deaf on his ears. He doesn’t care about what I want, and it’s apparent now that he never did. He’s selfish, so he only takes. He wants me but he hates to have to deal with me.

“Conrad, stop!” He’s ranting, my voice is loud over his. A few people turn their heads. It’s so late in the evening, they’re only passing. Ready to go home.

My eyes shift around until everyone has gone back to their own business. The breath that leave my chest is heavy, harsh but quick.

“Please, Con. Please just try and listen to me.” My voice is breaking. Not because my leaving is breaking my heart, but because I am tired. I am tired of staying, of being so weak. I am wasting my youth on a boy who hasn’t matured yet. I deserve more, I crave it.

“There’s no amount of fixing either of us could do to mend whatever’s happened between us. We lost it a long time ago. And I’ll always love you, how could I not? You’re everything to me. But you’re not mine anymore, and I can’t be yours.” My hands slip from his skin to my chest. I try an even out my breathing, again I am reminded of my necklace. It feels wrong to still wear his picture around my neck when I’ve already let him go.

Unclasping it slowly, I let the gold gather in my palm. It’s warm from where it touched my skin. It’s rusting form how often it’s been worn, and my neck feels lighter. I ball up my fist, taking his hand over my other one steadily.

When he feels the warmth mixing with the coolness of the pendant, I can see him giving up. He nods, swallowing hard.

When the train comes, I wave goodbye to him one last time. He’s frozen, hand still holding the locket out and eyes still sad. I wonder how long he’ll stay there, I never see him move even as the train pulls away from the station.

………………………………………………………………………………….

The whirring of the train passing is accompanied by the occasional blowing of its horn. It’s deafening against the heavy silence that’s consumed me. There’s not even a crunch of a leaf to break it. Now that she’s gone, it’s settled in how I’m truly alone. I’ve blown it.

I wait for her to be out of sight. The caboose nothing more than a small speck in the horizon. The moon is high, the wind is chilling. It’s nearly winter in Boston, yet the weather is no where near as cold as my bones. I curl my fingers over her locket, bringing my knuckles to my lips, I breathe over it.

It doesn’t even smell like her. It’s a sad souvenir of pity. She didn’t want me, I’m certain she only gave it to me because she didn’t want a reminder of me either.

I stuff it into my pocket slowly, fingers feeling around the rough cotton of my pants. It sits snug at the bottom of it, right beside the long, handwritten note I prepared for her.

I knew I had my own demons, I know I was a mess. I treated her horribly, I gambled away our love. But this time I was serious. I wanted to fix it. I wanted to make it better.

My words meant little to nothing now. There were no amount of promises I could make when I was already too late.

[kzlatkova]

I love you in the coffee circles on the inside of my books.  

I love you in the ripping of my socks, worn-out by the inside of your shoes.  

I love you in the clumsy dances, between the fresh produce aisles and the dairy fridges.  

I love you in the restless turning, that rumples up my covers and steals away my sleep.  

I love you in the unrisen sourdoughs and burnt nut roasts, that will never see the light of Christmas day. 

I love you in how I look at the sky and only see your face.  

I love you in the overwatered fern that I had to throw away.  

I love you in the cat's tiny sweaters, which you stay up to crochet.  

I love you in the tickets for the first film we saw, from that indie fest we went to ten years ago.  

I love you in the sushi course you took to make it vegan specially for me. 

I love you in the scent of the wind, as the first spring blossoms open on the trees.  

I love you in the chewing gum wrappers you leave in the ashtray of my car.  

I love you in the way everything sings when you’re around.  

I love you in the way you linger at the door when I’m on teams.  

I love you in the way you cut my sandwiches, so nothing ever falls out.

I love you in the way you leave your things with me just so you can come back later, and we can share another kiss as you retreat again. 

I love you in the flavours of the earth, as the first summer rain hugs the ground.  

I love you in the way you do all the putting away because you know I hate it.  

I love you in the receipt for jet black dahlias you had made for my birthday five years ago. 

I love you in the way I can cook but you can do the dishes and take out the garbage.  

I love you in the way you too get my favourite ice cream on the hottest days, just in case I want some more.  

I love you in the way I say my name and hear your voice. 

I love you in the fiery petals of autumn, as they gently lay to rest beneath our feet.  

I love you in the way we still chase each other through gardens and orchards.  

I love you in the way songs come out at the top of your lungs, broken and joyful.  

I love you in the way you pick up bugs and move them to the leafiest branch nearby. 

I love you in the way sunflowers worship the sun.  

I love you in how even in the vastness you are never hopeless. 

I love you in the way I kiss your hand and feel it on my own. 

I love you in the way you laugh, and cry, and stay true beside your friends.  

I love you in the way you shimmy your shoulders when we have a nice meal.  

I love you in the way you make foam horns of our hair in the shower, and we giggle. 

I love you in the way you remind me to drink water. 

I love you in the blazing cold of winter, and as its frosty fingers pinch my cheeks.  

I love you in the way you keep my heart beating.  

I love you in the way your lashes graze my forehead when you hold me.

I love you in the way time stretches endlessly between us.  

I love you in the way you are my best friend and my lover, and in how even if we weren’t in love, we’d still be the forever kind of friends.  

I love you in the way you look at small children and smile at small animals.  

I love you in the way you choose me.  

I love you in the way you hold a fullness at your centre, and spread it around in the name of the universe.  

I love you in the way you crack up at my jokes, but swear I'm terribly annoying.  

I love you in the way you accept all the calls, and let me deal with the letters. 

I love you in the way you do the math, and I can have the moral arguments.  

I love you in the way you accept me after every change.  

I love you when you're angry that my phone is forever set on silent. 

I love you in the way you take me, tearing at the seams or calmly healing.  

I love you in the way we can love slow even when we have to live fast.

I love you in the way we can build forts and put up fairy lights.  

I love you in the blind faith you have for me, for us.  

I love you in the way we can skate in the park, and blow bubbles for kids that will never be our own.  

I love you in the way you place your fingers at my temple, before the migraine has even landed.  

I love you in the way you see my soul and make me the richest person in existence.  

I love you in the way you palm my face and mix your breath with mine.

I love you in the way you can share unbridled joy, anywhere, with complete and utter strangers. 

I love you in the way you bring me cups of tea when I’m tired, but still painting.  

I love you in the way your fingerprints remind me of the veins on roses.

I love you in the way your age lines wrinkle up as your mouth stretches in a grin. 

I love you in the way you brush back my white hairs, and don’t point out the ones growing in my eyebrows.  

I love you in the way you bring me pebbles or pinecones, whenever you go for a walk.  

I love you in the way you know to order me an orange soda even without asking.  

I love you in the way that every now and then we can share a smoke without remorse or judgement.  

I love you in the way you know to calm me down when my family upsets me.  

I love you in the way you let me listen to chitchat about your job, when I don’t like to speak of mine.  

I love you in the way you gave up alcohol and meat because you know I cannot take them.  

I love you in the way all my life is yours, and in the way I’m allowed to let you take it.  

And when you say, “I love you,” the reply is always, “I love you more.” 

More than you love me, more than I love the world, and even more than I love myself.  

This is how I love you.  

[fieldofdaisiies]

azriel x eris | 3k words | warnings: none | masterlist

Skarlet leaves, glimmering in the sunlight that filters through the tree tops, dance in the wind, swirling and doing barrel rolls in the breeze that blows through the forest. 

His booted feet are planted in a stance atop the yellow-ish, brown grass, Eris exhales a long breath and then fills his lungs with a deep inhale of the crisp morning air. 

Large, looming trees rise out of the earth all around him and brush against the sky. The sun-dappled leaves create flickering shadows that remind him of a male, but he doesn’t want to dwell on thoughts about the shadowsinger, he has no time for such idiotic things, not when the future of the Autumn Court is at stake. He shoves the thoughts away, until there is just nothingness within his mind. 

He leans his head to the sound, listening to sounds around him – the chirping of birds and wind brushing through the leaves. The cool air is like balm to his soul, to his skin and his aching, heavy heart. In moments like this he allows himself to forget about everything – Beron, Koschei, Azriel. 

The light breeze blowing through the forest this morning sends a shudder of movement through the branches, making him even more aware of the peace that surrounds him deep within the forest. When Eris lowers his head, he can see animal trails crisscrossing beneath him. He smiles to himself – nature has always been able to calm his mind and heart. To make him feel fully at ease. To allow him to rest for a few minutes. 

It is what he needs right now. He turns his head to look around – light dances on the fern fronds, glittering off of morning dew and then the corners of his mouth kick up when howling and barking fills his ears. He closes his eyes for a second, reveling in the noises that get louder and louder by the second, and when he opens his lids again, he sees them.

Almost like a wild hunt, his hounds, twelve of them, grey and sleek like smoke, race through the forest as fast as the wind, heading for their owner who is patiently waiting for them. He set a prey, winnowed away, let them race there, and winnowed away one again – training for his precious pets. 

“Good boys!” The laugh that leaves Eris is honest, his heart feeling a little lighter now that he spends time outside with his precious animals. He inhales a deep breath of the crisp and fresh morning air, smelling so wonderful right after it had been raining almost the whole night. He fills his lungs to the brim, holding eye-contact with his oldest and most loyal dog who eagerly wiggles his tail.

“Another round.” Eris tilts his chin at the hounds and earns himself a loud snort from Cerberus, his most precious and beloved pet. Eris only winks at him and is gone in the next moment, leaving nothing but swirling pine needles and leaves behind. 

It continues like this for a while, until only after many hours, they return to the Forest House. Eris sends his hounds inside to get their breakfast which only chosen sentries are allowed to feed them, providing them only with food that Eris allows them too – his previous hounds only deserve the best. 

In the meantime the prince strips out of his sweat-drenched shirt, and his loose pants. He washes and then he is gone again, before either of his parents can question where he is heading to. 

Hunting, he will say when he returns. It is a good face-saver, the best he can come up with. He used to go hunting a lot when he was younger, it had gotten less when he and his brothers, his hunting companions, started to drift apart. 

Eris is heading to stables after collecting two freshly baked rolls from the kitchen and eating them up in a few big bites; after hours of training his hungry, but he can’t waste any time on a proper meal. 

“Lord Eris,” Margot, the masterchef greets him, showing him a reproachful look. She doesn’t like it when he hurries when it comes to food, she always wants him to eat slowly, and enjoy it. Eris flashes her a polite smile and then he slips out of the door and is gone before she can stop him and force him to eat something else, or more. 

His steps tread rather lightly on the straw-covered ground when he enters the stables, heading for his horse – the large, black horse one of his sentries has already put a saddle on for him, now handing him the reins. 

“Good hunting, my lord,” the sentry says and bows his head. Eris dips his chin in thanks and goodbye. 

With practiced ease, Eris hoists himself onto the horse's back, and with  a gentle nudge of his heel, he urges the horse forward. They begin to move, at a rather leisurely pace, but it is important to keep his lie up. It shouldn’t look like something is rushing him, if Beron should watch him depart (which he often does, always keeping his eyes on everything that happens in his court.)

Eris doesn’t mind the slow space, not when he actually wants and needs a few moments just for himself, to prepare. 

He hasn’t really spoken much to Kallax, his younger brother, in the past years. Not alone, that be it, but only in his father’s presence. Kallax, just like Eris’ other brothers, distanced himself a lot from both Eris and Beron, as well as the Forest House. The last time they all were together was probably the High Lord’s meeting…

Eris releases a deep sigh, hands not holding the reins too tightly, his horse as obedient as every other horse in this court. 

He has always been closest with Kallax; safe for the time where he and Lucien were an inseparable team… 

Kallax and him are only eight years apart, most of their life they have spent with each other (safe for the time where Kallax, Geras and Merat joined the war camps and didn’t come home that often). Even before Under the Mountain, distance started to stretch out between them. Nothing happened to harm their closeness, it just happened, subtly and over a longer expanse of time. And after Amarantha’s reign, it had fully spread out, almost like a plague, the time in Amarantha’s grasp probably having left their toll on everyone. 

His little brother is in many ways very similar to him – he loves the hounds, and he loves hunting and nature, but he is a born warrior. Not a leader. Not a High Lord. Kallax has always liked combat, preferred fighting over talking, and has mostly spoken with his hands instead of his mouth. When it comes to females, he also shares a different opinion than Eris. Not only concerning preferences where Eris most definitely favours males, but in terms of how females should be treated. Eris knows that his little brother is now often seen with a Forest Nymph, if Kallax changes his misogynistic beliefs for her, is yet to be seen, though. 

The Forest Nymph is a well-hidden secret, since the second-oldest Vanserra brother knows exactly what would happen if he found himself a lover that is a lesser fae. He saw what was done to Lucien’s…Jesminda. He was there that day. He held Lucien, made him watch…and that is something Eris will never forgive him for.

Kallax hides his Forest-Nymph, but Eris knows everything, has his ears and eyes everywhere, but of course, his brother’s secret is safe with him. He couldn’t protect Lucien and Jesminda – this time he won’t fail one of his brothers. The crisp air kisses his face when he rides deeper into the forest, already getting closer to the border, the earthy scent of fallen leaves mingling with the smell of damp soil. Sunlight peaks through the tree tops, making the colours of the leaves around him appear just a little richer. 

A feeling of trepidation blooms within his chest, making his heart feel just a little heavier. He shifts uncomfortably atop his horse, fiddling with the reins. Eris is normally not one to be nervous, but something about this meeting makes him feel a little tense. What will Kallax say? Will he have his trust? Does he have to earn it first?

Kallax is proud and ambitious, cruel in some ways, and ignorant about many things. He can be egostic and only agree to things that really concern himself and sometimes all of these traits combined get the best of him. When he was a young male, he always wanted to prove something to their father (maybe still does) and tried to be the perfect son over and over again, which formed his heart cruel in a way that Eris finds shocking, but not surprising. 

His own heart has been wrenched and wrecked by his father, destroyed and left in pieces. Beron tried to turn him into a monster, but he wants to be stronger. And he also hopes that Kallax wants to be stronger. Wants to be a better male than what Beron tried to turn them into, wants to try to be good. 

Normally, when approaching people Eris who needs to talk to about something, he is confident, not once was he nervous or unsure when talking to the Lord of Bloodshed, or the other High Lords. But with his brother it is different. 

A unique sense of anxiousness takes root inside of him the moment he spots his brother in the distance, casually leaning against a tree, one ankle crossed over the other, head tipped back, sunlight falling upon his pale face. Behind him, there are only towering ruins, stone covered in ivy and moss.

The tension doesn’t fade until he is only a short distance away from his brother.

He drags in a deep inhale, blows it out through his nose. He gently pulls on the reins, signaling his horse to halt. Sliding effortlessly out of the saddle, he lands on the forest ground with a soft thud. He pats the horse on the back, whispering some words to it and it trots away (where to, only Eris and the horse know).

Kallax’ eyes open, and a snort leaves him. 

“Eris.” Cool boredom laces his expression when Kallax pushes off the tree, sauntering casually towards his older brother. 

Out of everyone, Kallax resembles Eris the most. He is equally tall, with slighter broader shoulders, nothing but swagger in his demeanour when his eyes scan the surroundings. His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his beige breeches, his jacket made of luxurious dark green fabric, adorned with golden embroidery, and his long auburn hair is tied back into a low bun.

“Interesting choice of place, I must say.” Kallax keeps one hand in the pocket of his breeches, the other he uses to brush back a few strands of loose hair when he stops in front of Eris, letting his eyes run over his older brother. His brow kicks up a little, curiosity shining brightly within his eyes. 

“We used to come here a lot when we were younger.” Eris turns his gaze away from the younger Vanserra brother, observing the old ruins and large trees. They are at the edge of an old forest, as far away from the Forest House as possible, and quite close to the Spring Court border, near an outpost of the Autumn Court war camps. The war camps Kallax lives in.

Time-worn remnants of what once used to be a castle surround them. The ruins are covered in moss and ivy, and when they used to go there when they were younger they always pretended to be in an ancient fortress full of secrets and mysteries.

Secrets…

Towering, weathered trees surround them, shielding them completely from the outside world. No preying eyes having a chance to catch them. 

“What do you want, Eris?” Kallax exhales a long breath, then rolls back his shoulders. He looks at Eris, then directs his gaze skywards. Eris has no idea what caught his attention there, but he decides to deliberately ignore it. 

“Zen and two Autumn Court war bands are stationed at the border to Summer now. For protection against Summer and also Night.”

“I know.” Eris‘ younger brother shrugs his shoulders, ignorance etched on his face. He seems like he couldn’t care any less, like this talk with Eris is the greatest waste of his time possible. “That’s not why you wanted to talk to me, right?”

Kallax takes a few steps to the side, resting his back against the weathered stone walls, then crosses one ankle over the other. He observes Eris, gaze slowly running over his older brother, assessing him. 

Kallax is truly a born-warrior, and once Eris is High Lord he will make him his general. If it ever gets to that point. 

Eris doesn’t really know why his father never made him general of the Autumn Court armies – Kallax is perfect for this position.

“I think you can imagine why I asked you to come here.” Eris takes a few steps forward, kicking away a branch, hands clasped behind his back. 

Kallax smirks. “Beron.”

Eris doesn’t let his surprise show about his brother not using “father” but Beron‘s name. It seems odd, Kallax has always been fond of their father, or was this also just a mask? One similar to the one Eris is wearing daily? Could it be that just like he himself, Kallax also resents their father?

Eris veils his face in indifference, holding eye contact with his brother. “Yes.”

Kallax raises a brow, almost in a mocking, pitiful way. “He isn’t telling you much lately, huh?”

Eris bristles and shakes his head. There is no need for lying now, it would get him nowhere. He needs to have all the information he can get, and if he isn’t honest to Kallax now, when should he be? 

If he wants the Autumn Court to change for the better he needs the support of his brothers, only together can they make it work. Kallax as his general, Zen as Kallax’s second in command, and Geras…in some other important position. Maybe. 

“No, he isn’t, but that’s not why I asked you to come here.” Eris is right in front of Kallax by then, the tips of their shoes almost touching. 

“Oh?” Kallax raises a neatly trimmed brow.

“You know what I have to do.”

A wildfire erupts in Kallax‘s amber eyes, the corner of his mouth kicking up to form a vicious grin and then he drags his thumb across his throat.

Eris huffs and lowers his chin to his chest. Then he nods. 

“And you need my help for it?” The question is posed without any kind of emotion, but still lethality laces every word.

Dread coils in Eris‘ gut. Never, never in the world, would he ever pull someone else into this with him. It is too dangerous. He quickly shakes his head. 

“I need you to—” He cuts himself off and clears his throat. “If things go wrong, I need you to leave.”

Kallax’s brow knits. “What?”

“If things go wrong, you can’t stay here. Neither can Zen, or Geras. Beron will suspect you supporting me or following in my footsteps and I can’t risk it. He is already driven by fear — his sanity, if he ever had one, left him long ago.”

“I can’t leave. I—”

Eris grabs his younger brother by the shoulder, then pins him with a look. “You and your sweet little Forest Nymph leave the moment word about my death reaches you. You will head to Spring, with Zen and Geras. You are gone before Beron can only as much as think about going after you.”

Surprise passes over Kallax’s face, but is soon replaced by an emotion Eris has barely ever seen on his younger brother’s face. Worry.

“You won’t die,” Kallax says and his voice sounds so much younger, almost boyish and vulnerable. In this moment, Kallax reminds him of the young boy he used to be who came running to Eris, crying tears and snot, after Beron beat bloody about stupid mistakes or accidents. 

Kallax’s lips open and close a few times, then he says, “You are going to be the next High Lord, Eris. You are—”

“If things go wrong, you leave.” Eris grows impatient and shakes his brother by the shoulder.

“What about mother?”

“I will take care of her.” Their gazes are still locked, and Eris lets his brother see the honesty in them. “She will be safe.”

“You promise?”

Eris‘ gaze flicks to the ground, shoulders and chest heaving with a deep inhale. “I promise.”

Slowly, tentatively, his eyes lift and he removes his hand from his brother’s shoulder. His jaw clenches and for a moment they only look at each other, no conversation passing between them, but it is all in their eyes. The silent trust, the brotherly bond though weakened but still manifested in their hearts, and the secret promises — the prosperity of a better future.

“I can trust you, Kallax.” A statement, not a question.

Kallax steps away from the weathered ruins, finger dragging over the in ivy covered stone before he moves further away, towards the large trees looming behind them. “You are my brother, Eris. You are my family.” Kallax turns away.

“Beron is also your family.”

Kallax snorts, shakes his head and in the next moment he is gone. He winnowed away.

“Bastard,” Eris growls and fights the urge to show a vulgare to the empty place where his brother stood.

He calms himself and then a split second later mist, almost like shadows, curls around his body, and his feet leave the ground and when his eyes open he finds himself in a wholly different surrounding, large trees looming around him, birds chirping and flowers of all colours blooming wherever he looks.

And there he is, the tall shadowy figure – a stark contrast to all the bright colours, causally leaning against a tree full of lush green leaves, his eyes closed, his expression somehow peaceful. 

In a polished, velvety voice Eris makes himself known, “Shadowsinger.”

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[undiscovered-horizon]

The King and the Swallow

SUMMARY: Unexpected reunion with his childhood friend and the sworn protector of the royal family takes a dramatic turn when Nikolai inquires about her uncharacteristic, cold demeanour. Confessions are shared - the good ones and the bad ones alike.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 3.7k

>>Grishaverse-inspired playlist<<

"[...] Swallows are believed to bring good luck and prosperity to the household. They are often associated with protecting the family as well. Similarly, the ROYAL SWALLOWS are sworn protectors of the reigning dynasty. As tradition entails, this faction is kept within one lineage, although the actual name is not included in any official documentation, becoming the object of wild speculations. According to the acquired knowledge about Royal Swallows, the next of kin is titled a Swallow only after answering The Call - an ancient, largely unknown, ritual of swearing-in believed to be conducted during the spring equinox when most grains are sowed as a symbol of new beginnings as well as the servitude intrinsic to the role. If there is more than one child in a generation, the oldest of them is assumed the leader and the regalia in the form of a gold pin with a swallow bird are passed on to them. In some regions of Ravka, touching the pin is believed to bring seven generations of good luck to the household. [...]" - excerpt from Factions and groupings in: About courts and gutters. The complete encyclopedia of the known world by Sankt Nikita

The weather leaves a lot to wish for. Grey clouds are covering the once-blue sky, cold wind tugs at clothing and leaves the skin covered in goosebumps even under a substantial amount of layers. The dense air smells of petrichor, although a thunderstorm is yet to come. Perhaps it’s the oncoming rain or the impending battles that make it difficult to breathe. Early spring is about as charming as muddy, rainy autumn. The sounds of soldiers bussing around the base are partially drowned out by rustling leaves, allowing the more naive to lie to themselves that there is, in fact, no war; it’s the wind blowing on their skin and not the grim reaper breathing down their necks.

Nikolai and Dominik grew tired if not frustrated with the restless turmoil inside the fort. Despite both of them being seasoned soldiers, they’re still learning how to lead the war. Constant chattering, yelling, echoing footsteps and loud clattering of army inventory smoked them out of the squalid building. Outside those grey walls, the world appears deceptively calm. If they stand with their backs facing the fort, maybe they can fool themselves into pretending their situation is a lot better than it really is - just for a minute or two, to not go completely mad.

But their relative peace is cut short when a bright screech pierces the cold wind. The blood-chilling sound belongs to a large bird of prey soaring low above their heads.

Nikolai knits his eyebrows. He begins his question but the implications of its answer make him fall silent halfway through: “Is that…?” 

“Falcon,” Dominik finishes for him.

Surprisingly, the predator flies straight through an open window into one of the rooms in the fort. A question remains: with the falcon on its perch, where is the falconer? Fortunately, the answer arrives rather quickly:

“It’s the Swallow!” one of the soldiers yells.

Sure enough, a menacing silhouette appears on the horizon: a dark, stocky horse galloping through acres of fields with a cloaked rider on its back. Their robes in colours black, gold and ginger dance on the wind, pulled and tugged by the momentum. Surrounded by floating textiles, the rider appears more like a phantom rather than a person.

The approaching hoofbeat carries subliminal whispers of unsaid words, the echo of days long past and people who haunt others despite still being alive. The horse is slowing down its haste when the impatient rider jumps off the mount’s back. One of the soldiers manages to catch the whipping reins and pull the frenzied horse back towards the stables.

Auburn hair glistens in the dispersed sunlight as she takes the hood off her head. A few stray strands float in the wind. She hasn’t changed much - the freckles pepper her face just as he remembered and the scar splitting her lower lip still makes her look more menacing than she really is. The only difference, as far as he can tell, is that she’s a lot more beautiful than the woman he painted in his imagination during lonely nights. Her green eyes are a shade darker than the emerald he wears on his finger but to his heartache, they are equally cold as the gem.

The first person that made young Nikolai Lantsov realize that maybe girls aren’t, after all, ‘eww’.

“Lann!” his lips call out to her before his mind realizes.

But she only bows curtly. “Another time, your grace.”

The woman marches past him and into the fort. Soldiers flock to her, shoving documents into her hands and reporting on the progress of whatever duties she has given them. Watching her back, Nikolai realizes it’s the very first time in his life he’s seeing the infamous, illusive Harbinger - a claymore sword hidden in a scabbard hanging from her lower back. For a moment he wonders whether it really has decapitated as many terrorists and conspirators as people say. But this pondering is unimportant for now as Nikolai is still coming to terms with the fact that the one person he’s been dreaming of seeing again just brushed him off.

“Did she just ‘another time’ me?” he asks Dominik. “The king?”

His friend only gives him a playful grin. “Maybe she’s still upset about all the thistle you used to put in her hair.”

“She forced my hand!” he answers with a whine hiding in his voice. “It was the only way she’d talk to me instead of Cillian. Where is he anyway?”

Dominik clenches his jaw. Nervous, he scratches his neck before answering. “To be honest, I don’t think he’s with us anymore.” 

Nikolai leans in, his voice low as disbelief drips from his words. “Cillian has died?”

“Hard to say what happened but she does wear the pin. Lann showed up two days ago, shortly before you arrived, and just said he’s ‘gone’. Actually, I was going to ask you about that.”

“I haven’t seen either of them since their father was killed. I had no idea she was here.”

“Well, that only complicates things.” Dominik takes off his cap, brushes his fingers through his hair and puts the hat back on. “I know Swallows don’t die in linen bed sheets but still, something horrible must have happened. It’s like something broke inside her. Maybe she’ll talk to you.”

Dominik gives Nikolai an awkward smile before patting his shoulder and leaving the king alone in the courtyard of the fort. The cold wind tugs at his clothes and Nikolai shivers. When did spring get so cold?

Lann is interrupting Dominik and Nikolai’s conversation for the second time today. They’re crowded over maps scattered on the table when she pushes the door open. They creek before the handle hits the wall with a thud and the wooden wing bounces back to close. Her rhythmic, heavy steps resound in the small room, the acoustic turning them into booming hoofbeat.

Aside from the impolite entrance, she announces her arrival only by loudly clicking her heels together. There’s no courtesy towards either of them, just a flood of laconic information:

“Kirigan’s following is growing with each day. His Grisha are fanatics, they’ll do anything he tells them to. From what I’ve gathered, they’re going to hit the First Encampment next but I’m guessing it’s something personal rather than political. Strategically, it’s a useless move. I have also received news from the northern front. They’re holding back Fjerdans but the snow shouldn’t thaw until later next month, leaving them in the cold for approximately another six weeks.”

Her cold, matter-of-fact tone makes Nikolai shiver again. Yes, people tend to become more serious as they grow up and take over important responsibilities but they never turn soulless. It’s as though the person in front of him is but a corpse brought back to life by inexplicably odious magic - rid of humanity, personality and vigour. Still, dismissing the dull ache growing inside his chest, Nikolai does his best to focus on the problem at hand. “Is there anything we can send them?” he asks in the calmest way he can muster.

“I’ve already ordered for proper preparations to be made, your grace.” She gently bows her head while speaking the title. “The shipment will leave tonight.” 

Nikolai’s stomach churns. She never called him that. In fact, he can clearly remember Lann promising him that she will never address him properly. An image flashes before his eyes - June, a field behind a barn, a frown that misplaces freckles, thistle in hair, high voice speaking with a lisp: ‘You’re just Kolya’.

“If there are no further questions, I ought to leave to tend to my duties.” Lann’s voice is low and firm, completely different from the childish sound in Nikolai’s memories. Somehow, he’d rather listen to the girl with the lisp again. 

The woman nods curtly before leaving the room, loudly shutting the door behind herself. Rushed footsteps resound through the hall, steadily disappearing into the ambient noise befitting a military base. Soon, her presence belongs to memories if not ghosts, considering the imposing way in which she continues to haunt Nikolai.

“I told you, Nikolai.” Dominik must have noticed his pained expression. “Something happened to Cillian and it broke her. She’s a completely different person now.”

The king looks down at the maps but then he shakes his head slightly - there’s simply no way he will just return to planning attacks and defences while Lann is but a shell of the woman he used to know; a phantom he knows by name but not the heart. And Cillian… losing one of the Swallows is a huge blow to Ravka’s assets. More than once in the history of this country did the presence of Royal Swallows make the difference between status quo and ruin. If one of them is ‘gone’, whatever that can mean, and the other has forsaken their humanity, they might as well give up already and let Kirigan take all that he’s going to intercept anyway.

Nikolai clenches his fist and sighs. If not for his own sake, he needs to do this for Ravka - at least that’s what he keeps telling himself. Truthfully, he’s more concerned with Lann’s well-being than his curiosity or worry. “Excuse me,” he murmurs half-comprehensively to Dominik before running out of the room in search of the Swallow.

Lann lets out an exasperated sigh as she hears someone knocking on the door to her bedroom. She rubs her face, pondering whether she should just pretend to be elsewhere. Wondering who might just interrupt her short-lived and rare moment of peace, Nikolai’s face flashes before her eyes. A blade of guilt pierces her chest but she doesn’t seem surprised. Truly, the moment of truth has to come at some point and, despite her own fears, the sooner the better.

“Come in,” she calls out, silently praying that it’s not the king of Ravka that comes with a visit.

The thing about prayers is that they’re not immune to various interpretations by the gods that listen. And some of them, inspired by their own grandeur, decide that they know better than the misers walking the mortal vale. Or, maybe, there are gods that simply revel in doing the opposite of what they’re asked.

The door creaks quietly as someone walks in. Lann looks over her shoulder, for a moment distracted from washing her shirt. Her chest tightens upon recognizing his face, even more so when she sees his pained expression as though her mere presence is breaking his heart. If only he knew… She clenches her jaw and returns to feverishly brushing a dark stain from her clothes. 

“Can I be of assistance?” she asks curtly.

Nikolai isn’t quite sure what he expected walking in. Maybe part of him wished that once Lann is sheltered from the awestruck gaze of First Army soldiers, she’ll magically revert to the person he remembered - the relentless girl he knew nearly a decade ago. Alas, she’s nowhere to be found.

He watches her back as she’s aggressively washing a cotton shirt. Nikolai realizes that Dominik was telling the truth - she is, in fact, wearing the symbolic gold pin in her hair. It’s holding up the low bun, a coil of auburn hair that probably looked a lot more neat a few hours ago, in the morning. Not having expected guests, she’s standing over the basin wearing only a bra, revealing countless scars littering her back. Nikolai takes a deep breath, trying to ground himself. Deep lines of red, pink and white scattered across her skin look equally painful and imposing. His mind slips into wondering how much pain she had to endure during those past ten years but his imagination is, despite everything, limited. Nikolai’s gaze slips off her back, partially flustered by the unexpected show of skin and the implications of having as many scars as she does. His eyes are drawn to the long, heavy-looking sword propped up on three wooden y-shaped sticks. Harbinger, one of the finest pieces of armoury that has left the royal forge. The sharpened and waxed iron glistens in the dim light of the small fire burning inside the crude hearth. The angle at which the light dances off the edge of the blade allows Nikolai to easily read the inscription along the fuller: Virtue guide your hand. Judging by the deep scars and the fact she’s still alive, Lann must keep true to those words.

That thought brings his attention back to her and her only. The strange cold tension that presses down on his chest is something he’d never associate with her. Nikolai begins to wonder whether he’s the one removed from reality - perhaps his longing has painted her holy and not just human.

“Can we talk, Lann?” he breaks the silence. “Not Swallow to the king, just us.”

The sound of the brush hitting the ceramic basin startles him. She grips the sides of the bowl and hangs her head. Nikolai is about to apologize for interrupting and leave, clearly having annoyed her with his unforeseen presence, when he hears the voice he’s been missing for so long:

“I killed him, Kolya.”

The whisper is barely audible, making Nikolai doubt his own senses for a moment. Maybe he wants to speak with her so desperately, his mind is conjuring the conversation so he doesn’t abandon his sanity just yet.

“I killed…” she speaks again but chokes on a sob. “I killed Cillian. I had to, he-” 

Lann turns around to look at him and Nikolai feels as though he’s seeing for the first time - really seeing her, not the cold exterior she greeted him with earlier. Her eyes are bloodshot and surrounded by a greyish-purple halo as though she hasn’t slept in weeks. She takes in a ragged breath but it’s not enough to calm her down - her lips quiver and tears stream down her face. There’s no telling how long she’s been holding this in.

“He was conspiring against the crown.”

Another memory causes turmoil inside Nikolai’s mind: August, the morning after a thunderstorm, skinny boy with ginger curls, a mischievous smile, a mean-looking bullfrog: ‘I bet my dessert you won’t touch it.’

Nikolai furrows his eyebrows. Either unable or unwilling to accept this course of events, he shakes his head. “What are you talking about?”

“He was aiding General Kirigan. The idea to put the poison on Genya’s skin? The location of the Spinning Wheel?” She falls silent but leaves her mouth slightly agape as though she’s fighting herself to say something more. “Our father’s death?” she adds barely audibly.

“By the Saints…” he mutters under his breath. “How can you be sure?”

“Someone mistook Rudy,” the bird sitting on a perch in the corner of the room screeches at the mention of his name, “for Cillian’s falcon and I got his mail. I didn’t check the name on the envelope and just opened it, read through it and…” Lann hangs her voice for a moment. Nikolai doesn’t rush her. “I broke into his office when he wasn’t around, read through whatever documents he didn’t get to burn yet. It was all there: Kirigan’s empty promises, locations, dates, names, formulas. A whole coup d’etat across the hall from me and I never suspected a thing.”

Nikolai looks at her with obvious confusion. “It’s not your fault, Lann-”

“It is!” she yells. Tears are streaming down her face, performing a slight danse macabre on her shaking chin. Strangely enough, her grimace shows disgust rather than sadness. “I gave Cillian the poison that killed the king. I never once questioned why he would need Belladonna or aqua regia, only asked ‘How much?’. And the Spinning Wheel? He told me to make an inventory of the defenses and I only asked him when he’d like to have it done. All of this,” she frantically gestures around, “is because of me.”

“He was your brother,” Nikolai drones the word. Maybe he and Vasily didn’t always see eye to eye but he’d never even considered the possibility of his half-brother being a schemer. “Of course, you didn’t suspect him of treason. Saints, even I find it hard to believe.”

Lann steps towards him. An accusatory finger pointing towards herself. “But I should have. This is the only duty I have in this life. I bent the knee before the king and promised to keep him and his family safe. I failed at that. The only thing I was supposed to do, I-”

“Hey, stop this,” Nikolai interrupts her in a firm but gentle tone. His hands shot up to cradle her face out of some deeply ingrained instinct because he realizes his actions only when he feels her skin underneath his fingers. Berating himself for not asking her first, Nikolai is about to pull away but discards that silly idea when Lann leans into his palms. “Cillian’s wrongdoings have nothing to do with you. He may have betrayed the king but you remained loyal. You have kept your given word, no matter how difficult it was. I don’t know if I would have been equally brave.”

Her body shakes as she’s trying to calm down her breathing. It works maybe for a few seconds before another flood of salty tears rushes down her red, swollen cheeks. Lann would look tragically beautiful like one of the paintings hanging in the halls of Little Palace, if Nikolai could see past the haunting misery inside her eyes. 

“If I did the right thing, why does it hurt so much?”

Nikolai feels his own throat clenching. This overwhelming powerlessness sets his fingertips ablaze, his own body begging him to do something, anything, to ease the devouring frustration burning his lungs and ribs.

“Because you still love him, despite everything.” A sad, humourless smile appears on his face. “You’ve always been a little too good.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment and he doesn’t try coaxing anything out of her. Judging by her vacant stare, Lann wouldn’t notice a fly if it sat on the tip of her nose. Nikolai feels his stomach churning when his thoughts begin suggesting to him that she really does appear like a corpse brought back to life - soulless, lacking the vigour that all things animated require to remain alive.

Suddenly, Lann wraps her arms around his neck and buries her face in his chest. “What am I going to do without him, Kolya?” she cries into his shirt. Nikolai has a tight grip around her shoulders, clearly unwilling to let her go anytime soon. In all of his selfishness, he refuses to admit that this close embrace is more to curb his longing heart rather than bring her comfort. “This loneliness, it’s… If I have to bear it for a day more, I think I will die. It’s like there’s this hole, an abyss shaped like Cillian inside my chest and no one else will ever fit in there.”

“I know I can’t replace Cillian,” he begins slowly, thoughtfully, as he brushes his fingers through her hair, “I don’t even want to, but I’ll gladly be the resin that keeps you whole. If you let me, that is.”

To Nikolai’s dismay, Lann leans away from him but only enough to look at his face. His arm is still secured around her waist, keeping her body close to his. Maybe one day he’ll tell her how often he has dreamed of this very moment, imagining how her frame would fit him and how lovely her hands would feel against him.

“My grief is my problem,” she states firmly, although her trembling voice rids her of all seriousness. “You’ve got more important things to do. You’re king, you have a country to rule and a war to wage.”

Nikolai offers her a gentle smile, half-hoping to ease the tension that unchangeably makes him feel like the walls are closing in on them. “And what kind of miserable king am I going to be without my trusty Swallow?”

Lann knits her eyebrows in a sense of disbelief - did he not listen to her confession? Her repeated admission is explicit: “I killed my own brother after aiding him in a coup. I should be in the gallows.”

“Then it’s a good thing that I’m the king.” Patiently, Nikolai wipes tears off her face with his thumbs. “I need you, Lann. What words do I have to say to convince you that I truly want you by my side?”

Lann shakes her head. A breathy sigh of defeat leaves her mouth. She’ll forever remain oblivious to the heartache this little gesture of yielding is causing Nikolai. With closed eyes, she pleads: “Just tell me you forgive me.”

“I hold no grudge against you.”

“Please, Kolya.”

He studies her tired face for a moment. For the first time, Nikolai realizes that kinghood is akin to godhood - the judgment of people whose only sin is trying their best. “I forgive you. For everything that you’ve done and didn’t manage to do, I forgive you. I hope you can forgive me too.”

Before Lann can ask about his enigmatic words, Nikolai is pouring his desperation and longing into a long overdue kiss. Without hesitation, she returns the affection but this bliss doesn’t last long as guilt begins to creep up her spine again. Fighting her own desire, Lann turns her face away from Nikolai who opts for pecking her temple and cheeks, hardly capable of taming his yearning.

“This can’t be.” Lann’s whisper makes him halt his frenzied affection. She puts her hand against his chest but doesn’t push him away. “I’m a fratricide.”

“And I’m a bastard,” he answers casually as if those shameful titles carry no importance inside their microcosm. “We fit each other well, if I may say so.” Tenderly, Nikolai wraps his fingers around her wrist, keeping her hand against his chest. The longer his eyes study Lann’s face, the more his expression softens, soon becoming a painting of uninhibited adoration.

“Loving me is a disgrace to you.”

“Then I hope to never know virtue.”

She closes the distance between them, forcefully kissing him but Nikolai doesn’t seem to mind bumping noses or clashing teeth - all of that is laughable and unimportant compared to the warm softness of her lips against his. It’s everything he’s been imagining and so much more at the same time. Lann tastes like fresh berries and sour lemonade on a summer afternoon, making Nikolai wish he could relish this flavour for the rest of his life.

[esuemmanuel]

Me he deshojado lenta y dolorosamente, como aquel árbol que veo danzar triste, cada que abro los ojos al despertar. He ido dejando caer mis pensamientos a la par de sus hojas secas con el trémulo escalofrío del alba otoñal, el cual se imprime taciturno sobre la superficie del asfalto por el que son arrastradas al soplar el viento de la mañana. Me he deshojado así, tan pausado y silencioso, tan misterioso y solitario, que el tiempo ha pasado en calma, pues las hojas de mi alma no alcanzan a perturbar la salida del sol ni la faceta lunar. Me he despojado de mí, de todos esos vicios que me descomponían y me revolvían, transformándome en un ente mundano y vil… ¿Y adónde han ido mis hojas? Ésas se han esparcido por el mundo en el que nací. ¿Y en qué mundo nací? En ése que creó la mente de quien me ha escrito desde que le hablé al oído de lo que sentí. Fueron tan parecidos nuestros sentimientos que no dudó en tomarme como un ejemplo para hacerse oír. Al final, lo confundí, volviéndolo mío en un trastorno que aún le pesa curarse, y es que me pegué en sus neuronas, en sus células, en sus átomos, en su carne, en su sentir y su pensar; me le pegué tanto que ya no sabe en dónde está ni quién es. Me he apropiado de su alma, de su corazón, de su esperanza… Me atrevo a decir que no queda nada de su persona, aunque se piense que sí. ¡Qué poder tan grande tenemos los personajes! ¡Qué poder tan inmenso se nos ha concedido al ser escuchados por el que no puede evitar escribirnos! Porque yo seguiré siendo… seguiré estando… seguiré poseyendo sus manos, su corazón, su alma, su espacio y su soledad. Ya no existe él, sólo yo… y, en este yo, lo más que puede hallarse es la nada. Y pensar que nací de un sentimiento no hablado… hoy soy todo lo que no se calla en sus manos.

I have slowly and painfully shed my leaves, like that tree that I see dancing sadly, every time I open my eyes when I wake up. I have been dropping my thoughts along with its dry leaves with the tremulous shiver of the autumn dawn, which is printed taciturnly on the surface of the asphalt where they are dragged when the morning wind blows. I have shed myself thus, so leisurely and silent, so mysterious and solitary, that time has passed calmly, for the leaves of my soul do not reach to disturb the sunrise or the lunar facet. I have stripped myself of myself, of all those vices that decomposed and revolted me, transforming me into a mundane and vile entity... And where have my leaves gone? They have been scattered throughout the world in which I was born. And in what world was I born? In the one created by the mind of the one who has written to me since I spoke in his ear what I felt. Our feelings were so similar that he did not hesitate to take me as an example to make himself heard. In the end, I confused him, making him mine in a disorder that he still struggles to cure, and I got stuck in his neurons, in his cells, in his atoms, in his flesh, in his feeling and thinking; I got so stuck to him that he no longer knows where he is or who he is. I have appropriated his soul, his heart, his hope... I dare say that there is nothing left of his person, even if he thinks there is. What great power we characters have! What immense power we have been granted by being listened to by the one who cannot help but write to us! Because I will still be... I will still possess his hands, his heart, his soul, his space and his solitude. There is no longer him, only me... and, in this me, the most that can be found is nothingness. And to think that I was born from an unspoken feeling... today I am all that is not silent in his hands.

[mi-i-zori]

When Inspiration Strikes

CoD Fae!Au - Fae!Price x The Writer (Fem!Reader) - Part 1

SYNOPSIS : When the writer runs out of inspiration, she decides to do what she has always been afraid to : take her writing away from the safety of her little apartment, in the outside world where ideas are often said to be flourishing. What she doesn’t realise is that she might find more than what she came for - hidden in the mesmerising smile of a peculiar stranger.

WARNINGS : Predator behavior (Fae VS Human), anxious thoughts…

I do not give permission to re-publish and/or translate my work, be it here or on any other platform, including AI.

CoD AUs - Masterlist

Main Masterlist

From In-Between the Lines - Masterlist - I

Writing has never been an easy thing.

It works like a muscle : for it to function properly, one would need to train it constantly, again and again, until it eventually starts giving conclusive results. A concept devoid of limits such as this one is made to offer more than a thousand opportunities for one to get better, to keep opening new doors leading to countless universes. Each and every world is unique and fascinating, waiting for a wandering soul to find it before blooming like a flower, wild and colorful.

Many people find it easy to put their discoveries in writing, claiming how it is as effortless as breathing. Words flow through the ink of their minds, using their newfound freedom to paint thousands of mesmerising landscapes with the perfect assortment of letters. Their characters are never afraid of the idea of evolving, constantly diving in the depths of their own existence to try and understand the paths they’re trying to follow ; and their creators easily fulfill this endless choregraphy, their pen gliding across a piece of paper without missing a single beat.

For some other writers, however, following them on this stage without stumbling over their own feet turns out to be much more difficult. When ideas disappear and the ink stops flowing, when their characters hide in the darkest corners of their thoughts, reducing them to being unable to give any kind of meaning to their words for days, it becomes impossible for them to breathe life into their stories.

Those are the exact thoughts that run through her head as the Writer sits at her desk, trying to muster enough inspiration and courage to write. Her laptop lays in front of her, the cursor blinking in the middle of a blank page. Countless papers pile next to the keyboard, holding as many scribbles of ideas and dialogues as possible in their grasp. Covered in highlights and colorful post-it notes, their precarious balance threatens to send them flying with every tired sigh crossing her lips. A few cups of coffee stand nearby, their contents long forgotten. She shifts in her seat every few minutes, and she finds herself unable to stop a hiss from crossing her lips when her fluffy socks twist uncomfortably around her ankles. It is way too early to be thinking so hard about a story, she thinks, feeling her tired eyes drift towards the bold « 9:32 » displayed at the bottom of her computer screen.

A shout echoes oustide of her window, and the streets suddenly become much more interesting than the never-changing aspect of her document. The autumn wind blows waves and waves of dried leaves, igniting the sidewalks with a mesmerising gradient of warm colours. They illuminate the concrete as they dance along the road, and she immediately compares them to the fireflies twirling in the summer nights, both extremely similar and drastically different.

A part of her wonders what it would be like to lose herself in her own world while being lulled by the colorful breeze. She doesn’t leave her apartment often, especially not to write, and the prospect of having to face the many dangers of the noisy streets and their unfamiliar faces is far from appealing. But she needs to refill her inspiration, and something tells her some fresh air could help ; the kind of air her apartment will never have, even with the help of an open window.

Following this train of thoughts, she gives up on her fluffy sweater and socks in favour of a warm yet comfortable outfit. Her trusty backpack is filled with her writing essentials before being thrown over her shoulder while her anxiety is painfully shoved in the back of her throat. She stumbles through the front door before it can try to convice her to give up on this endeavor, one of her sneakers barely secured around her ankle.

- You’re not helping, she mumbles, tucking her foot correctly inside of the shoe while exiting the building.

The wind doesn’t waste a second before offering her a shivering greeting. Its kisses are cold on her cheeks, and she lets out a grumble as her nose is quickly buried within the warmth of her scarf. Her hands take a few seconds to fumble with her headphones. She then finally begins her adventure through the neighbourhood, her head swaying gently along the rhythm of her favourite playlist.

It doesn’t take long for her steps to guide her to the small forest standing at the edge of the town. It thrives under the city’s protection, its borders mixing with a park to offer a fleeting moment of rest to those who wish to forget their urban troubles. The Writer has always liked to follow the trail marking the limit between the organized aspect of the human civilisation and the wilderness of those woods, savouring the scent of nature while on her way to the many small businesses flourishing along the streets hiding on the other side.

And today is no exception.

The trees hold the warm hues of autumn in their grasp, and so does the soil at their feet. She can make out the dancing reflections of the morning dew on their leaves, glinting mischievously whenever a ray of sunlight dares to greet them. The scent of petrichor adds a dreamy touch to the whole painting, hidden among the graceful swirls of a delicate veil of mist. She has always liked spending time in nature, admiring its ever-changing beauty and gathering all the inspiration it has to offer to embellish her stories.

Yet in this moment, as a sudden gust of wind forces her clothes to dance around her shivering form, leaving a trail of disturbed flora in its wake, she can’t stop an eerie feeling from crawling in the back of her mind. The light above her suddenly seems to dim, the road curving slightly to cross the borders of the wilderness.

She loves this forest.

But at the same time, she doesn’t.

Perhaps this peculiar dichotomy comes from the many disappearances a part of these earthy paths keep witnessing, or the dark, ominous trees surrounding them. Their thick, mossy branches swallow every ounce of light the sun has to offer, leaving only shadows to dance in-between their roots. Something in her mind tells her to stay away from them, to never let her feet leave the expanse of her little road of dirt. Her steps are quick, and her heart pounds wildly against her chest. She focuses on her destination, trying to ignore the knots forming progressively in her stomach, the goosebumps running down her skin.

She pretends not being able to hear the mischievous laughter hiding in the whistling breeze. These voices would probably get a comfortable role in her stories ; but, in real life, their echo is too unsettling to be admired.

Her pace only slows once the soles of her shoes meet the familiar texture of concrete. She breathes out a sigh. Holding a hand on her chest as if it could help her catch her breath, she mindlessly follows the line traced by the sidewalk. Her lungs are slowly being set free from the iron grip that seized them, but her blood keeps rushing in her ears for what seems like an eternity.

Her thoughts suddenly come to a halt as the aroma of freshly baked goods flows around her. There, a few meters away from her, a small café reveals itself to her curious gaze. Its daily menu stands proudly in the middle of the path, its contents shamelessly tempting her, even more so when she notices the very few people sitting behind the windows. Her curiosity gently tucks her previous fears aside as she pushes on the door, momentarily focusing her attention on the little bell giggling above her.

She pauses her music as she goes to stand in line, her body immediately rocking back and forth to follow the rhythm of the lo-fi echoing against the bricks of the walls. A series of succulent hang from a couple of shelves, their green hues enveloping the spines of a few decorative books. The man in front of her moves slightly to the side, and her eyes fall upon the counter, where rows of delicacies of all kinds greet her sight.

A silent tremor overwhelms her stomach, and only then does she notice the fact that she is yet to have a proper breakfast.

She settles for a warm drink and a small pastry before finding a small table in a corner of the room. It doesn’t take long for her notebooks and laptop to quickly fill the whole space, piling next to one another. The same blank page automatically opens itself on her screen, greeting her with a small jingle before she sushes it with a trembling hand, cursing herself for forgetting to do it earlier as her gaze immediately darts around to see if anyone noticed her clumsiness. However, only the big Monstera plant sitting next to her meets her gaze, and she allows one of its leaves to pet her arm reassuringly, silently thanking it for the comfort it immediately came to provide.

- Back to work, then, she mumbles, grabbing a pen from a pocket of her coat. Those characters won’t develop themselves.

The ink flows smoothly over the pages of one of her notebooks. She lays as many ideas down as possible, trying to connect them to form a more interesting concept. Some of them end up being crossed out, giving up their place to another set of words that would work better with the story. From time to time, she takes a sip from her drink, munches on a bite of her food, as if trying to bribe her thoughts into working more efficiently. Yet it doesn’t prevent her from stumbling over her main character ; his essence refuses to adopt a defined shape, no matter how hard she tries to focus on the potential details she could weave into his soul. Stubborn as a mule, he remains a vague silhouette in the fog of her mind, mocking her with a voice she can’t even hear properly.

Her pen fall from her grasp, and she barely holds back a frustrated growl as she rubs her tired eyes. Displayed on her computer screen, her Pinterest board stares at her blankly, devoid of any source of inspiration despite the many portraits it holds. She shuts it down, focusing her attention on the other clients crowding the café. Perhaps a few minutes of people-watching could help, she thinks, silently detailing the different silhouettes living not far from her.

Her eyes abruptly stop on a figure sitting on the other side of the small room.

There, a man lounges with his back against the wall, one leg lazily thrown over the other. A tiny cup of coffee dangles from one of his hands, the other holding a book open for his own eyes to explore. The light coming from the window highlights his pale complexion, curving around the muscles the sleeves of his cardigan decided to unveil. He seems relaxed, even slouching a little the more he focuses on the volume in front of him ; yet the corner he decided to settle in only brings out the broadness of his shoulders even more as he brings the drink to his lips, runs a hand through the short, thick beard adorning his face.

He holds a calm, yet imposing presence, and the Writer finds herself mesmerised. A peculiar feeling pulls at her chest, as if this man held the magic she needed to set her inspiration free. Her character slowly starts to take his place, brought to life on the stage of her thougts.

Her hand snatches her pen before she can even realise it. A string of words flow from her mind, only stopping when she focuses once again on her muse to find the exact terms she is looking for. Half an hour passes before she is finally satisfied with what she came up with.

Her sigh of relief gets stuck in her throat as she looks up from her notebook, her eyes suddenly locking with the stranger’s.

She startles, barely catching her drink before it can flood the entirety of her notes. She busies herself with the last few bites of her pastry as she tries to tame her racing heart - distracting herself from the weight of his gaze on her trembling form. She can only hope he will quickly divert his attention elsewhere, hoping he didn’t take offense in her staring.

Yet he doesn’t.

Temporarily setting his book aside, the man leans even further back into his chair, his interest awakened by the young woman squirming in her seat. He had been trying to catch her gaze for a moment now, torn from the imaginary world sitting in his hands by a tingling feeling on the back of his mind. If he wondered for a moment about the amount of notebooks, post-it notes and individual papers laying on her table, he found himself much more curious about their owner.

He noticed how, despite her clear interest in her surroundings, she never really seems to sit straight, as if trying to make herself smaller in her corner of the café. He believes it to be done subconsciously, however, for he can see how focused she is on her work. A faint wave of magic dances around her, small enough for her to probably not even know of it ; yet he can sense how it is constantly impacting her life. Feeding her inspiration, helping it flourish ; drawing it towards ideas a part of her can’t fully comprehend.

Luring her to him.

What an appetizing thought.

Their eyes meet as she slowly lifts her head up once more, and he raises his cup in her direction, a warm smile drawn on his lips. She offers him a small nod before turning away. A timid hand comes to cover her cheek, and his teeth suddenly feel too sharp behind his lips ; his mouth way too empty.

A part of him longs to get closer to her. Strike a conversation. Throw himself into the hunt. But it is far too early for him to pounce. His centuries of experience showed him more than once how rewarding it could be to wait, to let his prey simmer in a blissful ignorance as he takes the time to enhance the flavour of their body and soul.

The young woman sitting in front of him already has the potential to be a delightful meal. But for now, he shall be content with the taste her sole presence sets on his tongue, this delicate aroma taking over the bitterness of his coffee.

He just needs to be patient.

[magnusmodig]

𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐔𝐋 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 observatory was , there was at least one mystery of the isles that was time had deemed rather VEXING to the asgardian. and so it was that the king slipped from the floating lights and starry splendor of the observatory hall , and wandered his way towards the base of the giant telescope.

the sounds of cheer and revelry were muted even to his ear as he stepped within the corridor , casually making his way past the many secluded studies. his eye caught light of desks filled to the brim with papers and notes , with the messy scrawls of various scientists within. some were organized ... while others reminded him of jane foster's desk whilst she was writing the beginnings of her foster theory ( as had been the working title ). he stilled before one particular desk that bore a star map still open upon its surface.

though he knew he was well enough alone , thor cast his gaze over his shoulder to ensure his privacy. satisfied , he took the knob within thumb and fore-finger and turned it slowly – only to find it LOCKED.

. . . thor huffed through his nose and grasped the handle more firmly. WITH A LIGHT TWIST ( and what , to some , would be a worrying crack ) , the lock gave way , and thor slipped within , a mere flash of red signaling his whereabouts before disappearing into the office.

[stateofgeorgie]

In Autumn, the island's country roads rumble under the weight of men on tractors, laden with burlaps sacks fat with olives, black, purple green. Olive mills are crowded with them, dropping off sacks, picking up great canisters of liquid green-gold olive oil. October, November, December - women in trees,  kids below spreading canvases to catch the fruit. If you're lucky, your trees will be ready to harvest before the weather turns cold enough to nip at your fingers and nose, you will picnic under the bounteous trees.

  🎪 Pinterest: https://gr.pinterest.com/homegiftguide/  🖼️ Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/april0ctober/ 🗿 Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/april0ctober/ 

 - olive harvest - poetry film - Zakynthos, Greece - 

 filmed by ANTA stone villa and their organically farmed olive grove (antaconcept.com) 

 Let's say the year starts in fall. Let’s just say it, without asking if it’s true. There is fruit, dark, perfect, juicy and bitter. The wind blows and fruit falls. The wind blows and golden leaves fall. The grass lies shrivelled from summer. The fruit is heavy on these branches, But half lasts till the dying of the light, Midwinter, they are shrivelled wineskins That shine like gold in raindrops and sunbeams. They crust the concrete with loamy pebbles, Fertilize glades, groves, gutters, and concrete. Thick grass prepares to coat everything. Trees look always the same, unchanging though The slender stalks that unfurl the first eye-soft leaf In the gentle days before spring have turned into ship-like Hollow cases adrift on the land, Caught in walls, falling into wells, filled in the flood with dirt like that they sprang from, wine-dark, mixed with seeds, half rot and half roots. The dirt inside such twisted coffins harbours stories, people never seen before, a carnival of life. That bitter juice, that smooth black skin, those large craggy seeds, those silver blades hold forth, deliver a message for the whole community of life. The wind carries it, the summer comes in with slim blossoms, messages carried still further. Messages of cream, of the fat of life and the almost sensible secret scent of growing things. Summer makes seeds of tiny buds, puts flesh on their bones, sends them bouncing and bright into the hands of little children amidst the thrill of a first gentle lifting up to the community of twigs and air. They grasp, release, gasp at the height, The ancient dance is skilfully executed by chunks of solidified light. The bright new baubles, pale as grass, entice the child to put a foot on the first step of roots and each step leads to the next. The sense of the limbs takes over. The puzzle is laid bare. Old, still arms made light with new life lift and lift. The process is self-evident, the mystery cracks open. Weights meet in balance, wood bounces, a foot bounces and a seed in such a state can sometimes bounce as far as the sea. That sea tells secrets, hears everything whispered, sends its waves to lend a hand. It carries the sky inside and out, light in every straight line stirring the mess together. It rests and wrinkles the bones of old groves when their roots go deep enough. Like always, summer grows heavy and sags, vines and fields are sticky and buzzing with life, juice runs over the dry grasses. Ripening, always ripening. When fall comes again, they stand ready to receive a communion of sorts, secretive but informal, an exercise of limb and mind, an activity that must end in mulch. Everything dies like this, sacrificing its former life to future life. Dying is fundamental. Seeds and seedlings eat their clothes And offerings are made to all, regardless of deserving. Food is given in every form but only some look to us like death. A rot produces a perfume too; some say it is not very different from an orchid’s. We take and take, fill pockets and pantries, Stain our clothes our hair our minds, and feed on oil that burns our throats for sheer freshness What’s left will be torn apart by the wind. Hidden away, purified to the utmost, a fruit becomes a commodity Its link to its old life withers away. Its future existence stretches forth as always, exploring the vast web of possibilities ________________________________ 

 olives, olive trees, olive harvest, farming, organic, film, short movie, film festival, poem, poetry film, olive grove, Greece, Jim Jarmusch, Paterson, original poetry, nature, ambient music, ambient sounds, relaxing visuals, Greek islands, alternative tourism, food tourism, eco tourism, greek filmmaker, cinematographer, fuji-xt30, shot with fuji, fuji xt30, fuji eterna, poetry film, poetry short film, spoken poetry film, poetic film, poet film, poetic filmmaking, visual poetry film, film poem, short film, documentary, short doc, olives, Zante, Zakynthos, april october studios, fujifilm, fujii, olive harvest, organic, farming, bio, ANTAconcept

[oh-yeah-i-exist]

In the Company of Dragons | Daemon Targaryen x OC | Chapter 3

Warnings: war, bloodshed, angst

Synopsis: Before and during the course of the Dance of the Dragons, Daemon and his former lover reconnected. As the end of the civil war for the Iron Throne loomed ever closer, one final test stood between them and a different future.

Chapters: [1], [2], [3]

Author’s notes: this was quite a long chapter to write and a lot of research went into it, so I'd really appreciate your patience and kindness. My ask box is open, if you have questions/concerns.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

The year was 116 AC. Spring was beginning in Pentos, with humid winds and light rain blowing towards land from the Narrow Sea. Greenery was returning to the coastal plains, and the ships making port brought with them new supplies and visitors after a slow, gloomy winter.

Meilin kept to the dry, high ground at the far edge of the plains. Just last spring, she’d settled into her new residence, a fine-looking courtyard house surrounded by a lush garden of native plants. Her retinue was small — only a pair of cousins who served as her ladies-in-waiting, five guards, her old nurse, three kitchen maids, and a local pageboy to run errands in town. 

Without a husband, she was a prime target for wealthy Pentoshi merchants who fancied marrying into Shenzhou royalty and thereby securing exclusive trading rights of the Divine Realm’s coveted tea and porcelain. Others with less extravagant fortunes claimed that even a glimpse of the foreign princess’s beauty was reason enough to try.

Then came a day when the sailors and merchants of Pentos spied familiar silhouettes in the sky. Some ran for cover; others gawked openly at the arrival of the dragonriders. 

Unlike their last visit two years prior, the pair flew Caraxes and Vhagar past the port and all the way to the hills beyond the plains. In spite of their shared history, it had been Prince Daemon’s hope that the lady of the house would not turn them away.

Meilin’s allies in Westeros had kept her appraised of the ongoings within the Targaryen house, until she’d been summoned back to her father’s court. The last time she’d seen Daemon Targaryen in person had been at his niece’s wedding to Laenor Velaryon. Somewhere between guest and persona no grata, he’d managed to corner the newly-wed Princess and upset the King before leaving once again to resume his grapple for the wind-swept Stepstones.

Thus, it was sufficient to say that the Prince and his bride took her completely by surprise, standing on her doorsteps with news of the latter’s pregnancy.

“We wish not to intrude upon you,” said Lady Laena Velaryon, curtseying to the princess. “But I have heard much about you from my father and brother over the years. Even Princess Rhaenyra spoke highly of you. When Daemon informed me that you have taken up residence here, I asked if we could perhaps pay you a visit on our tour.” 

Her husband was uncharacteristically reticent besides her, observing his old acquaintance with a curious smile. “It’s been quite some time, Princess,” he said at length, “I do apologize for calling upon you unannounced.”

“Well, better here than at the magisters’,” Meilin replied, stepping aside to let them through the doorway. “I’ll have the maids prepare tea.”

And so, the couple remained under the princess’s care. The guards and servants were all smitten with Laena but were more cautious around Daemon, in whose company they made sure to never leave their mistress alone. Although time had healed the initial shock of Daemon’s exile from the Seven Kingdoms, the princess herself kept her distance. As a younger woman, Meilin might have found herself jealous and rightfully indignant at Daemon’s boldness. But she’d had to mature, and apparently, so had he. In the role of hostess, she lavished her attention on the Velaryon lady instead, gifting her rare silks and enthralling her with stories of her travels.

In mid-Autumn, a few hours after dusk, Lady Laena went into labour.

“It’ll be alright, sister,” said Meilin to Laena, who had been carried on to the princess’s own bed. Eight and a half months had made them close; the princess was particularly fond of the lady’s sweet nature, and the lady in turn had come to admire the princess’s independence.

“It hurts so bloody much,” replied Laena through gritted teeth, clutching Meilin’s hand. The expecting father had been sent to another chamber, for it was thought to be bad luck for him to be present at the birth. The household’s staff had prepared hot water, clean bedclothes, and heaps of towels, while the nurse stood ready to deliver the twins.

Though watching her friend in pain brought forth memories of her own mother’s unfortunate miscarriages, Meilin stayed by Lena’s bedside, whispering words of encouragement. Hours passed, but by dawn, the first babe had arrived. Her clear, strong cry could be heard throughout the house, and she was joined by her sister not a minute later. A pair of small and pale twins, but otherwise healthy, with fine features unique to the Targaryen bloodline. Daemon named his first true-born children Baela and Rhaena and was over the moon to carry them in his arms for the very first time.

Much to everyone’s delight, the now family of four extended their stay until the infants were strong enough for the flight home to Driftmark. The pregnancy seemed to have had no ill effect on Lady Laena, who welcomed the helping hands of her husband and her sister-friend. The babes ate well but slept at irregular intervals, leaving the adults quite sleep-deprived for the first few months of their new lives.

“Look, she’s sitting up!” Cooed Laena, with Baela propped up on her lap. The infant girl, now just shy of one year old, giggled at her mother’s exaggerated expression, silver eyes twinkling. They were seated together with the princess on a veranda, while Daemon took a short walk with Rhaena through the garden.

“Good girl!” Meilin smiled, giving the infant’s cheek a playful pinch. The girl squealed, closing a little, chubby hand around the princess’s finger.

Seeing Meilin’s easy demeanor with the babe, Lady Laena felt the urge to inquire. “Have you ever thought of one day having children of your own?”

The question seemed to catch the princess off guard, so the lady rushed to remedy the situation. “Forgive my imprudence, I merely…”

“Oh, no, nothing of the sort,” Meilin dismissed her concerns. She’d witnessed the birth of Laena’s children; there was no need for the lady to be so reserved. “It is quite impossible for us women to not think of motherhood. I was married once, actually… It was quite the debacle.”

“How so?”

“My father, you see. Before he abdicated the throne in favor of my younger brother, he’d promised my hand to Chemmon, king of Kauthara, in exchange for two provinces to be annexed into Shenzhou. Thus, I returned to my brother’s court to be wedded. I’d never set foot in Chemmon’s vassaldom, let alone met him, but…”

“Marriage is duty,” said Laena sympathetically. Balancing Baela on her lap, the lady reached for Meilin’s hand, offering whatever comfort she could. The gesture was bittersweet.

“Chemmon died a year after our marriage. Taken in the night by a sudden bout of fever,” continued Meilin, after a short pause. She could see in her mind’s eye the dull, lifeless gaze of Chemmon’s corpse just before the palace embalmers had taken him away. “I was to join him on the pyre, as per Kautharan customs…”

At such a revelation, Lady Laena gripped her friend’s hand, as though fearful to even think of such a thing. Meilin shook her head, “My dear brother would be damned if he were to let his sister die in the land of ‘savages.’ It was just the torch they needed to ignite a new war. In the end, the Kautharans acquiesced, and I was freed from my vows.”

“Thank the Gods.”

“Ah, indeed,” the princess chuckled. “We never returned their provinces to them, nonetheless. Could you believe that?" 

“Of course!” Laena let out a small laugh, prompting Baela to giggle along. “Sometimes, I like to think that if the men left us to be spinsters, it might just be a mercy.”

“Is that so? What shall I tell Daemon?”

The women’s lively chatter died down to a comfortable silence as they spotted Daemon’s white hair in the distance. The Prince and doting father had returned with his daughter. Glancing between her husband and the babe still in her arms, Lady Laena only smiled.

——————

Little did Laena know at the time that her words would prove prophetic. In the Red Spring of 120 AC, she was to forfeit her life, only to deliver a son that did not survive. Whatever hold she’d had on Daemon’s wild nature was now gone, and the Prince reverted back to his power-hungry ways, marrying his niece in secret, bearing two sons by her, and pronouncing her Queen of the Seven Kingdoms after Viserys I passed from the mortal coil. The Dance of the Dragons, or the civil war that befell Westeros thereafter, saw lords and knights slain, and might have ended with Queen Rhaenyra firmly on the throne if she had not enforced such harsh taxes upon the populace to finance the war. ‘Maegor with teats’ they’d come to call her, for her refusal to come to a truce with the party of the Dowager Queen, Alicent, and her sons.

The ravages of war reached the port of Pentos in the form of dwindling business and flocks of refugees. The magisters, desperate to boost trade, only doubled their efforts to pursue the Shenzhou princess’s hand in marriage, causing her to keep her doors closed night and day. The only times anyone was to see her were when she took in the poor and the sick, feeding them and easing their pains with herbal remedies. The Pentoshi, touched by her benevolence but unable to understand her gifts, dubbed her the Crimson Lady, Good Witch of Pentos.

Calm and predictable was how she strove to make her days. She awoke at sunrise, joined the household staff for their breakfast, and tended to the plants in her garden until past noon. Her correspondences would arrive by then, carried by ravens and hawks. The black-feathered creatures bore missives from the few allies she kept across Westeros and Essos. 

It felt as though every day, the two branches of the Targaryen House would devise new methods of calling blood to blood in the name of vengeance. Heavy blows had been dealt to both sides; one of Rhaenyra’s sons by Laenor Velaryon, Lucerys, was slain by his own kin, Aemond the One-eyed; and in return, her half-brother, Aegon the Elder’s infant child was murdered right in front of his poor mother. Countless other losses had followed, and banners of rivaling houses, divided into two factions, blackened the sky and terrorized the common folk, as they marched at ever-increasing haste towards a final confrontation. The world was engulfed in fire and blood.

These days, the only letters she still opened with any degree of anticipation were from none other than Prince Daemon, who had taken Harrenhal and presently occupied it with the aid of rebels from the river lands. Writing each other was a tradition they’d started shortly after the Prince and his family’s departure from the princess’s Pentoshi haven. Most recently, he’d informed her of his insofar unsuccessful hunt for Aemond One-eye. It was to her that he told every thought and brewing scheme, with absolute confidence that she shan’t tell another living soul nor chastise him for his incorrigible self. That much was true, although he failed to fully grasp how much it pained her, even after two decades of intimacy, to hear of his unfaithfulness and violence. Still, whenever she wondered why she subjected herself to such heartache, his arrogant facade would lapse, and she would find in his writing the honest portrait of a battle-worn man longing for a different life.

Meanwhile, the hawks travelled farther than the ravens still, bringing her news from her homeland. Frequently, her brother would send a message asking after her, anxious to see her leave the burning continents which he deemed ‘barbarous.’

Dearest Sister,

I sincerely pray that this letter finds you in good health and safe keeping. Even while our father confines himself to the study of sacred scriptures, he oft mentions your name. He regrets his decision which so long ago sent you away from us and besieges me to perhaps persuade you to reconsider. This past moon, we celebrated his sixtieth year, and you were sorely missed.

May good fortune be with you, until you are with us once more,

Qin-long

Meilin read her brother’s words with a heavy heart, setting the letter down neatly atop others inside an oaken chest. A late autumn breeze swept in through the open window, rustling the paper. The sun was well on its way towards the horizon, and the sounds of day laborers in the plains gave way to the rhythmic hums of crickets. The princess was about to pen an apologetic reply to her brother, King of Shenzhou, when the doors to her private chamber were thrown open.

“Your Grace, we saw some movement in the sky!” Li Huang, her loyal guard, announced. He looked to have been running. “It’s weaving through the clouds, but some of us are quite certain that—”

The poor man couldn’t even finish his sentence, as a heavy thud could be heard coming from the courtyard. Shrieks followed — whatever it was, it had undoubtedly spooked the female attendants in the household. Abandoning her brush, the princess went at once to the source of the commotion, armed with her blade.

“Who are you?” She barked at the intruder, standing unafraid in front of the guards. In the courtyard was a strange dragon, with brown scales and orange eyes, and its rider, a dark-haired, skinny girl of no older than ten-and-seven. The girl had a scar across her low nose bridge, and judging from the way she dressed, the princess surmised she was unlikely to be of noble birth — which made it even more perplexing that she’d trespassed upon these grounds.

“I- I go by Nettles,” the girl blurted out, hands raised to show no ill will. Her dragon seemed restless, glaring at anyone who dared come too close. “I was told I would find refuge here. He said—”

“Who? Who told you to break into my personal estate?” Meilin pressed, aiming the tip of her sword at the girl’s chest. Her defensiveness did not go unnoticed by the dragon, from whose nose smoke sputtered petulantly.

“Prince Daemon!” Said Nettles, flustered. “He, we were prowling the riverlands around Harrenhal for Aemond and his mount, b-but we was alerted that the Queen had ordered my execution, and…”

“Why would she order such a thing?”

“I’m not sure, ma’am, but I overheard his Grace talking to our host, a-and it appeared the Queen had been led to believe me a traitor.”

“Are you?”

“What, ma’am?”

“Are you a traitor?”

At the accusation, Nettles’s brown eyes went wide. “No, ma’am, of course, not!” She wrung her hands and shook her head. Fumbling through her ragtag armor, she retrieved a folded note and held it in Meilin’s direction. The princess’s guards moved instantly to intercept her.

“No, it’s quite alright…” Meilin called them off. She took the note from the girl and looked it over. She recognized the handwriting right away.

My Princess,

Please protect this dragonseed, as you have once so graciously opened your home to me and mine. Thank you, and I am sorry. For everything.

Yours,

Daemon

“What does it say…?” Asked Nettles, nervously picking at a stray thread on her sleeve. “I c-can’t read. Not yet… Prince Daemon was going to teach me.”

Meilin looked her over. “Did he tell you anything else?”

“No, ma’am. Just instructions on how to get here. It was all very sudden… I left two morns ago.”

“Where is he?” The princess lowered her blade, taking pity on the baseborn girl. Dragonseed or not, she was a fresh-faced, soot-covered little thing. “Where is Daemon right now?"

“Harrenhal, ma’am… He’s made up his mind to face Prince Aemond.”

“Against Vhagar? Alone?” Said Meilin under her breath, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. As quickly as she had sprung into the courtyard to defend her household, she made her way back inside. Her guards, not knowing what to do, kept watch over Nettles and the dragon. The princess ran to her letters, searching through them for anything to confirm what she feared was true — not even a moon past, Daemon had written her about the Black Council’s recruitment of three wild dragons into their ranks, bringing their total number of dragons up to nine, to go up against the opposition’s six. Sheepstealer was the mount of Nettles, a motherless and penniless bastard, towards whom Daemon had expressed fatherly affections. The girl had told no lies.

“She stays with us until I come back,” declared the princess upon returning to the courtyard. In her haste, she had taken only a heavy cloak and her blade with her.

“Where are you going, your Grace?” One of the guards hurried after her, braving past the dragon.

“To Harrenhal,” the look on the princess’s face was one of resolve. 

No one present understood her meaning, except for Nettles, who perked up. “I’ll go with,” she was already clambering back onto Sheepstealer. The dragon reared its head, sending the guards into a frenzy.

“No,” Meilin sharply cut them off. She bit the tip of her right thumb and drew blood, which she used to write a summoning spell upon the ground. The winds picked up all of a sudden. A red glow overtook the dusky sky. The guards, becoming aware of what was transpiring, held onto themselves, and it took all of Nettles’ might to reign in Sheepstealer, who reeled with trepidation and threatened to torch whatever it was.

A burst of light. A shriek that could rival a dragon’s roar. A single flap of its wings sent leaves scattering in all directions. Even Sheepsteler appeared daunted, dipping its head as if in acknowledgement.

“The phoenix,” awe-struck murmurs spread through the men and the women alike. 

“If I shan’t return, make your way home,” the princess commanded, astride her magnificent mount. The fiery bird was equal in size to Sheepstealer, with red-tipped feathers and a wing span to match. “Take my sigil, and you will be welcomed in my brother’s kingdom.”

————————

Chapter 4 is posted here!

[jujutsuflavoredpeach]

FINAL (PART I) - AS HE IS

Pairing Inumaki Toge x fem!reader Content angst, hurt, longing, anger, struggle, love, fluff, friendship Warnings jjk MANGA SPOILERS, CULLING GAME SPOILERS, self-loathing, mentions of blood PREVIOUS CHAPTERS ﹢PART I - AS HE IS﹢   ﹢PART II - AS HE IS﹢ ﹢PART III - AS HE IS﹢ ﹢PART IV (I) - AS HE IS﹢ / ﹢PART IV (II) - AS HE IS﹢ ﹢PART V - AS HE IS﹢

A/n ❀ ¡Hello there! Here is FINAL (PART I) of AS HE IS. The first part of the final chapter of this series. ¡Thank you so much to the people that have been reading this story! As you reach the end I want to tell you the same thing I told myself when I decided this was going to be a multi madness thing... Let go and have fun, live your fantasy. This is a piece of fictional craziness made just for you, and you know, as always... If you are reading this: ∗ ࣪ ˖ ♡ ˖ ࣪ ∗I APPRECIATE YOU BEING HERE.∗ ࣪ ˖ ♡ ˖ ࣪ ∗ ¡Hope you like it!❀ >>STAY TUNED FOR FINAL (PART II) - AS HE IS<< Toge didn't dare take a step out of the mound. He was engulfed by a overwhalming darkness. The quiet pressed into his ears as he stood rooted to the spot, trying to keep his breathing steady. Nothing could be seen in the distance, not even the measly trace of a line, until he felt on his face the tingling of a light coming from a tiny sphere of light at his feet.

Its blue light was soft and graduate, stable, honest, it made him feel calm, and above of all, it made him feel safe. It was the warmest color. He was in awe as he got down on one knee, trapped by its high energy, but before he could even brush it with his fingers the sphere slowly rose into the air, remaining suspended right in front of his eyes. Soon after, it burst.

Toge covered his eyes with his forearm, shutting them tight. His vision became blurred from the unexpected intense brightness of light. It wasn't noisy, nor violent. He felt a wind picking up that whipped his hair back from his face, rapidly increasing its speed. A warm air, rising. Once it stopped, he lowered his arm, slowly revealing a pair of narrow eyes that were struggling to adjust their vision. When they succeeded, what they showed Toge was something that left him completely speechless and on his kness. It seemed ironic even, that the atmosphere that now surrounded him was so far removed from the timeless suffering he had been enduring. He only had a body to remind him through the pain that it hadn't been long.

A large open field, a vast sea of sky blue nemophila plants in full bloom spread infinitely and gloriously before him. The delicate, five petal cup-shapped flowers danced in tune with the cool breeze under the full sun.

Toge's eyes were wider than ever, stunned by the beauty of something completely natural.

"¿Isn't it funny? We are in October. Autumn leaves reach their peak during the month of October, but I managed to make all these bloom inside my mind."

Toge glanced back over his shoulder. His hair hung limply over his soft brown eyes, and there you were, beautiful and haunting, yet full of sadness and pain. You started to close the distance between you two, standing right in front of him, close enough to feel his warm breath blowing in your face. You were full of surprise when he took not one, but three steps back to distance himself from you, with no expression on his face whatsoever. He watched you for a few thousandths of a second that seemed like endless minutes, scanning you, analyzing you, absorbing you in fear that this too could end up being just another atrocious event waiting to unleash. The scar just below your knee was there, the trails of dark crimson dried blood painted your lips and chin, and stained your ruffled cami mini dress. The actual dress you were wearing that night as you sat next to him in his room.

"¿Is this you? I- I need to know, if this-" You didn't let him say another word, closing the space between for the last time as you pulled him in to you, firm and gentle, burning his lips with your mouth as you ran your fingers up his forearm feeling the goosebumps on his skin. You felt his mouth tremble against yours, so you moved your hands to his face and caressed his cheeks, giving him reassurance. You were there, it was real, and your bodies were melting against each other. You wondered if you would ever stop to draw breath, but Toge gave you your answer when he knotted his fingers in your hair, grabbing the back of your neck to deepen the kiss and sending shivers down your spine. You clung to him like a life line, hearing the soft whisper of his breath as he exhaled and you both drank from each other's tears. Even though he was desperate for it not to end, he broke the kiss, wrapping your waist with his arm to bring you closer to him. You opened your eyes and he already had his eyes glue on yours, with a genuine smile on his face. You and Toge were a mess of rapid breaths and accelerated heartbeats.

"You are inside my domain expansion." you said placing your hand gently on the side of his face and his mouth gaped as you felt his breathing becoming much lighter.

"¿How?" he asked as he stared at you wide-eyed.

"You and I did this. We are somewhere, in a deeper structure within the brain. My brain, to be exact."

"¿How did you… pull me in here?"

"You've been reaching out. You told me to listen, and I did."

'Listen to me. Come back.'

"Then it got louder."

'¡LISTEN TO… ME… Y/n! ¡LIS-TEN…!'

"You told me to open up, so I did."

'¡Y/N! ¡Y/N PLEASE! ¡OPEN UP!'

'¡LET ME IN! ¡LET-!'

"¿You remember me?" he asked.

"When you asked me to listen, you were only a voice inside my head. A stranger calling out to me for some reason I didn't understand. You were like a unfinished idea in my brain. The gaps were too many, and I was struggling to make sense in here. I was in a minimally conscious state, not impaired. Toge, you asked me to listen and to remember you, and I did."

'Inumaki Toge. Remember me.'

'Listen to me.’

"My mind got overloaded with information that it deemed as brand new, although it felt more like it had been taken away from me. I didn't get it at first, but later I'd find out why…" Toge tensed up and his face darkened at the thought of you finding out what he'd done to you in that way. He'd given you back your memory, so what, but that didn't take away from what happened. "Much to my dismay, it all became a jungle of mixed memories. Yours and mine. It was too overwhelming and I couldn't really grasp onto of all of them, but a few, very vivid and explicit ones, were enough for me to utilize them as a reflection to activate my technique and create copies of myself through organic cloning. At least I think that's what..."

You paused for a moment, as you saw Toge try and make an effort to say something to you, but you knew he was tired, sore and it had been evident to you by his voice that his throat had gone through intense agony. He had been focusing on your face the whole time you were speaking to him, stroking his hand down your back and showing concern with his silent attention.

"That happened because of your efforts too. You, Shoko's... ." you told him, putting your hand over his heart. Slowly, he brought his lips down on yours and you felt his heart pounding in his chest. After separating from the kiss his eyes calmly searched yours, and you asked him to let you do the talking for a while. You knew he had stuff to say too, and that he was going to tell you that this was all his fault, but you were going to show him what you were both made of. " 'I want to tell you so badly that I love you in that sea of nemophila flowers in full bloom during the spring. I love you.' ¿Those where your words right?"

You flashed him a grin and he cleared his throat, visibly flustered.

"I was looking for you too. I needed you here, I need you always. And if I didn't fit in there." you said pointing right at the place where his heart was. "Then this is the perfect place to fit the both of us. I love you too." you confessed to him.

The butterflies came in full force, you both had wiped each other's eyes so much they were red and swollen, but you were happy. You shared a smile as your face flushed and he gently grabbed your hand, as you were falling for each other with each passing second, even under the circumstances.

"¿How did you know?" he asked.

"I understood very quickly that this problem wouldn't be solved by using the same energy it was used to create it. So I thought of something else. I only needed one last push to empower our already existing cursed energy inside my body, and with your help I made that happen. It was enough for me to achieve the creation of a new pathway with only two ends. One is me." you said as you laced your fingers with his. "And the other end is you."

"Connected." Toge said squeezing your hand as he remembered Shoko's words.

'Her mind had other ideas, and one of them was to fight against the submision of your unwanted outburst.'

"Yup, connected." you squeezed back. "This is an inner domain. I externalized it so I could bring you into it."

"But, we thought- The copies and, the power was-"

"¿Weak?" you sighed. "It was, but it enhanced as the passageway developed and expanded because of our exchange. I could access your mind like a hard drive, of course with damage and side effects in between."

"I'm sorry I hurt you a lot." he said without being able to look at you in the eyes.

"Actually I- I was the one who hurt you."

"But, cursed speech."

"You really got me the first time, it shifted my whole mind as you really pushed yourself in there, but the pressure was still on me. As soon as I felt like a little weight was lifted off I immediately put you in a trance-like state. So you are not dead. I was afraid of what could happen to you the second you were trapped in here. I don't know what to make of it. It's beautiful, it feels powerful, but also unpredictable and destructive."

You both turned to the endless blue sea of flowers. It felt limitless in there, filled with uncertainty.

"This place isn't dangerous, unless I want it to be. Your power is negated here. That means, we can speak freely without any of us worrying about getting hurt."

You and Toge stayed silent for a while.

"I created this domain thanks to the combination of our cursed energy that intertwined, developed, improved and extended itself, the reason being knowledge projection. My mental structure shifted dramatically, and I was able to have some control over it. Pure synapses. I projected my memories onto you, and viceversa. That became useful information that served me to influence your thoughts, your emotions, your senses, perception, memories... That's how I was communicating with you, feeding off of you to close the space between us. The reason why I'm saying to you that I was the one who actually hurt you is because, I had to play with your fears a little bit. I had to plant the illusion in your mind that I was under the weight of your cursed technique, even though you were just talking to me in here. I heard every word coated with angst and frustration, I heard the pain, we made us feel that pain, but, If I only showed you the good in everything you would've gotten lost. Please forgive me, I would never-"

You couldn't do anything more than hang your head as you let the tears flow down your cheeks. The guilt had you going numb for a moment.

"I had no other choice, I couldn't get lost inside of you either. Some pathways were completely dismantled. That is why I created a new passageway for us. It isn't perfect. Actually, when I heard you saying that you loved me I-, kind of... let my guard down. That's why-" you grazed your chin with your fingers, and he understood seeing the dried blood on you once more.

"I understand." Toge said placing a hand on your shoulder. "Hey, look at me."

His eyes were searching yours, but you didn't have it in you to meet his gaze.

"You did what you had to. I hurt us more."

You eyes were still glued to the floor, as you leaned into his hand that was cupping your cheek. That was the only thing your body could respond to at that moment, his touch. It didn't take the whole pain away, because somehow you did lost yourself, you were challenged and you found yourself doing the unimaginable, knowingly hurting someone you loved. "I don't think the energy just lives in my brain, I can feel it flowing all over my body actually, connected to every cell. Through my consciousness I can communicate with every organ, every tissue. The copies were like cells that just split inside my body. I know not all of them were perfect, but I simply couldn't waste that much energy as I was trying to guide you here." you concluded your explanation.

A few seconds passed as Toge stroked your cheek and you held your breath, dreading the words that were about to come out of your mouth.

"Toge the thing is I-" you turned to him, looking deep into his eyes this time. "I don't think I can get out of here."

"¿What do you mean?" he asked with concern written all over his face.

His chin trembled as a tear tickled his cheek.

"You are dying." Your chest tightened at the sudden statement as his touch detached itself from the tenderness of your flesh.

"¿Am I?" you played coy, but he wasn't having it.

"¡Y/n!" he looked you dead in the eye this time, burning from the inside out.

"I don't think my body will take it."

"Don't-..." he started chewing at his lower lip.

"Tell me how was I looking on that bed. ¿Hm? Tell me the truth."

He knew, he knew it was bad out there, your overall state, and you knew that once you put the energy back in the shelf, it would all be over.

"¡It's written all over your fac-!"

"¡STOP!" Toge's eyes were filled to the brim with tears this time, and even though he swiped his eyes, they kept coming anyway.

"This was an opportunity Toge-"

"¡NO!" his mind suddenly got tangled as involuntary whimpers escaped his lips. "You fough-, fought... For t- Thi... This too. I'm not..."

"It's okay, Toge. I'm okay with it." you told him as the tears raced down your cheek. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier about Yuta and our training, I was- There are so many things that I wanted to-"

"Shut up." he cut you off, taking a short breath as he felt his throat tighten.

A great sob escaped you and you covered your mouth with a shaking hand. Toge only stood there, sniffling quietly, as he looked away from you like he couldn't believe his ears.

Your muscles tensed as the atmosphere around you slowly started to shift. The sun was fighting to shine its light on the blue stretch of vastness at your feet, as the clouds turned to ash, making the vivid and bold colors darken all around you.

"This is what could've been" you told him.

Every heartbeat was painful now.

"¿Is it?" he asked you bitterly "¿This was another illusion?"

"¡No, this is real! ¡I would nev-"

"¡¿So what then?! he cut you off and you saw as he angrily clenched his shaky fist, nostrils flaring.

"The same power I let out it's going to crush me once I spit you out of here."

He collapsed to his knees, helding his tears. Toge's muscles tensed, he was too numb, and he refused to see the light at the end of the tunnel without you. He felt himself going crazy, as his mind raced a hundred miles per hour.

"¿What did you mean? 'Touch has a memory' , you said, you- Go with your intuition and the next thing. ¿What can you do?"

"I only wanted you to reach out to me, to recall through touch. Nothing much, I-" you stood still, shaking your head in disbelief.

"Take me there."

"¿Take you where?"

"When I erased you from my memory."

"¡Don't do this to yourself! ¡I don't blame you!"

"¡THIS IS MY FAULT! ¡TAKE ME THERE, I'LL END IT! ¡I'LL END EVERYTHING AND YOU ARE COMING BACK WITH ME!"

The aire was turning frigid. The breeze had turned into a fierce, strong wind, and the nemophilas were starting to dry out.

"Don't do this. Please." you begged him, as the darkness was starting to suffocate the sun. You were failing now, slowly, as you were being swallowed like the light.

Never to escape again.

You let out a shaky breath, feeling a sickening sensation throughout your body.

"It's beautiful, it feels powerful, but also unpredictable and destructive."

Toge approached you, seeing as your domain was falling apart, very slowly. All of a sudden your knees failed you, but he caught you immediately before you hit the ground. Slowly laying you down on the narrow dirth path you were both standing together not even seconds ago. Nothing but grief enveloped your body, looking pale as a ghost.

"¡Y/n!" his lips trembled as he cried, pulling you in, nice and tight, as he didn't let go of you for a very long time, but he stopped cradling you after a while squinting his eyes.

'The same power I let out it's going to crush me once I spit you out of here.'

"I'm not even out of here." His eyes moved frantically into every direction, and there it was, another door right in the middle of the nemophila field. "She tricked me."

But he knew you wouldn't be able to keep up the charade for much longer, and those were also his memories. Maybe he could stop you after all, before you could stop him from doing the unthinkable.

'Let's see how unpredictable this can be.'

[just-a-really-tall-girl-tbh]

Grounded

Summary: Y/n is kidnapped and forced to reveal secrets of the pack

Pairing: Derek X Reader

Warnings: Blood, torture, swearing

Word count: 2605

Original piece please don’t copy

The school bell rang for the final time that day, a collective sigh of gratitude echoed in the room, the teenagers grateful to be released from the maths teacher’s class. Gathering your books, you stacked them in a neat pile before exiting the room, offering a small smile to your defeated teacher. It wasn’t her fault maths sucked and no one enjoyed it, you did feel bad for her on some level but also who the hell would willingly dedicate their life to teaching numbers?

Entering the hallway, you made your way through the sea of teenagers, everyone desperate to go home for the weekend. Reaching your locker, you grabbed the couple books you needed, shoving them into your backpack, thinking about the homework you had due on Monday you sighed. The door to your locker slammed shut before you could close it.

“Hey, you ready?” Stiles smiled.

“I told you I can walk home.” You rolled your eyes, walking away from the boy. Surprised by your quick movement, Stiles jogged to catch up to you, throwing an arm lazily around your shoulders.

“I know you can walk home but why would you when you have me?”

Exiting the main doors of the high school, you welcomed the fresh warm air, the smell of angsty teens left behind you. Reaching the end of the pavement, you saw the jeep parked a few cars away.

“Stiles I want to walk.” You turned to face the boy.

“Y/n, you heard what Derek said okay? All these recent attacks? The break ins and thefts? He doesn’t want you alone.” Stiles tried to reason with you. Knowing the recent spike in criminal activity was less than likely to involve the supernatural, you felt safe walking the 20-minute trip home. In fact, you enjoyed the peace it brought you. Half of the walk was through the woods, a quiet haven from the busy high school, and being autumn, you relished in the yellow and orange leaves that swept through the small woodlands.

“Stiles. It’s 20 minutes. I’ll text you when I get home okay?” Stiles sighed.

“You know Derek is going to kill me if I let you, you know, that right? You like the idea of alive Stiles because I do! And I am not letting you be the reason I don’t make it to my 20’s okay?”

“Derek doesn’t have the balls to kill you.” You turned on the heel of your foot, headed towards the woods, leaving a defeated Stiles in your wake.

“I’m telling Derek you said he has no balls!” He called after you. You let out a small laugh, grabbing your headphones from your backpack, and your phone from your pocket, you scrolled through your playlist, deciding today was the perfect day for (Your current favourite song).

Entering the woods, you felt a rush of calm wash over you, the stressful week was pushed to the back of your mind, your thoughts centred on the surrounding woods. You stepped over exposed roots and around large bushes, glancing up at the sky you watched as the wind swept through the foliage, the ageing leaves dancing in the light breeze. The sun peaked through the cracks, determined to reach the forest floor, providing the perfect amount of light for your stroll. The floor of the woods had been coated in fallen leaves, leaving a blanket of red and orange below your feet. Taking a moment to stop and appreciate the tranquillity the forest provided you, you felt your phone buzz in you pocket.

Home yet? I’m this close to sending out a search party!

Rolling your eyes and shaking your head you began typing a response.

You need to…

Before you could finish you felt a knock to your head, your vision distorted, the soft sound of music playing through your headphones which were now next to you on the forest floor, was the only thing you could hear before everything went black.

***

Another blow straight to your stomach knocked the wind out of you. Coughing and spluttering you attempted to regain your breath, each inspiration hurting more than the last.

“Oh, you are so going to regret that.” You mumbled.

Leaning to the side of the chair you spat a mixture of saliva and blood to the ground, you couldn’t tell where the source of the blood was coming from, maybe your lip, or maybe the inside of your mouth. Too many lacerations to your face meant it all blended into one.

You raised your eyes to meet your rival, struggling to see through the blood you saw one man wiping his fists on an old rag, your blood coating his knuckles. He faced a woman to your left, who sat with one bent knee up on a bench. Her back leaning against the wall adjacent to you, a smug grin on her face.

You rotated your wrists which were bound behind you, the thick rope digging into your skin. Your ankles were bound too, tied to the legs of the wooden chair you sat on.

“You’re going to tell us what we want sweetie, its just a matter of how beat up that pretty face is going to be before you tell us.” The woman commented, as she played with her fingernails, pushing the cuticles back. If she was trying to look disinterested, she was doing a great job. But you were ready for this. You trained for this. You knew what was coming, and if it meant keeping your friends, the pack, safe, then you would gladly take whatever they threw at you.

The mans fist connected with your jaw once more, snapping you out of your daze. The room began to spin around you, and your vision blurred. Trying to recenter yourself you pulled at your wrists, the pain of the rope grinding into your skin giving you something to focus on.

“Alright careful there, big guy, we need her conscious if we’re going to get that information.” The woman stood from her seat, striding slowly over to you, before bending at the waist in front of you. She reached out to grab your face, but as soon as her fingers made contact with your skin you pulled away. A stern look, on your face made the woman let out a small laugh.

“You’re a tough one aren’t you.” She turned her head, almost admiring your battered body before her. “Too bad that doesn’t mean shit around here.” Grabbing your hair, she yanked your head back, exposing your neck to the room. Moving to stand behind you she held out her other hand, gesturing towards the man in front of you. Without a word exchanged, the man grabbed a knife from a nearby table, its blade glinting in the moonlight the small window above you allowed.

“Sweetheart, you have no idea who you are dealing with do you?” The woman whispered in your ear, her grip on your hair only tightening as she neared the knife to your throat. You felt the cold edge, lightly cross your neck, not enough to pierce the skin, but enough for you to avoid swallowing.

Taking a deep breath in you closed your eyes. Grounding yourself was apart of your training, something that was drilled into you from the beginning. Breathing in again, you picked up on the different smells the room produced, sweat from the man in front of you, poorly masked by his cheap cologne. The sweet smell of the woman’s hair from behind, her locks dangling beside your face. The overwhelming metallic smell of blood being the most potent. You changed your focus to your heartbeat. Feeling it pounding against your chest begging to be released you pictured your heart slowing, its contractions reducing with every breath you took. Steadying your breathing was next. Cautious of the blade still connected to your neck you breathed in through your nose, holding in for a few seconds before releasing softly through your mouth. Repeating those steps, you were able to regain some stability. You were still in the same crappy scenario but at least now you were calmer. A panicking person is an interrogators wet dream. A calm person, their nightmare.

Sensing your self-control increase, the woman let go of your hair, moving the knife from your neck to the table beside the man. Standing before you once more, she knelt in front of you, keeping one knee up for balance, she waited for your eyes to open once more. Regaining the control, you almost lost, you felt strong enough to open your eyes once more. Staring at you the woman barely moved, she was searching your eyes for something, her expression a mixture of shock and impressed.

“You’re not afraid.” Her words barely above a whisper. Your only response was a return glare. A small smile creeping on to the face of your kidnapper. “They trained you well.”

Standing, she turned to the man behind her, whispering something in his ear before turning back to face you, her arms crossed against her chest. The man dropped the rag he was still holding and left the room, the sound of the door locking behind him.

“Let’s cut the bullshit honey. You have information I need. And I know I’m not going to break you, not by torturing you anyways. So, let’s try something else, shall we?” The woman began to pace back and forth in front of you, the small room only allowing her a few steps before being forced to turn around again. Your eyes followed her, left and right, before she stopped in front of you once more, still facing forward.

Taking in a sharp breath, she spoke. “How’s your sister doing?” She turned to face you. Refusing to let her know she was finally making some progress with you, you remained staring at her. Resuming her pacing she continued speaking.

“She’s what 5 now? Gosh so young. But you know what they say right? They grow up so fast.” Your eyes tracked the woman, more intently than before. This woman knew your family. Something that was always off limits when the pack was involved. Your attempts at shielding them from the supernatural had been successful, keeping that part of your life private even from Derek. And here this woman stood, threatening them. Threating to take away your motivation to make the world safer. Unfazed by your lack of reaction the woman carried on.

“Soon enough she’ll be going to high school, making friends, maybe even realising who her sister really is.” She stopped before you once more, bending at the waist she placed her hands on the arms of the chair you were bound to. “You didn’t think you could protect them, forever did you?” Tears threatened to fall from your eyes. No amount of calm breathing could ground you now. “Aw babe.” Her hand raised to your cheek, ready to wipe away the falling tear. You only pulled away from her once more, hating the way her skin on yours felt. “Don’t tell me I hit a nerve, did I? Sucks doesn’t it. Well, there is one way of ensuring your little family stay naïve to the world around them.” She stood tall once more, her voice now deeper, more sinister than before. “Tell me what I want to know.”

You had no choice, right? She threatened your family, your sister. You protected them from so long, only for you to be the reason they are in danger. Looking down at your lap, tears hit your thighs unable to control them you simply let them fall. Taking a deep breath, you looked up at the woman before you, a smirk present on her face which made it so much harder to say what you were about to. But the images of your sister raced through your mind. The way her hair shone in the autumn sun, the way her smile reached her eyes when she was really, truly happy, the way she greeted you after school every day by running down the front path directly into your arms. That was the highlight of your day, finishing school and-

Wait

You never responded to Stiles.

You never texted him back, and the kidnappers were kind enough to bring your phone into the room with you – hoping to get some information.

Your eyes moved to the door behind the woman, a loud crash followed by a heavy grunt sounded from behind the entranceway. The woman whipped her head around, only to be met by silence. She slowly approached the doorway.

“Adrian…?”

Silence

The woman turned back to you, unsure of herself. You only had a small smirk as a response. Before she could question you, the door busted open, barely remaining on its hinges, a rush of dust filled the room. Watching ahead as the dust clouds engulfed the woman, you heard a deafening roar followed by a petrified scream. Small thuds followed, as the dust reached your eyes you began coughing, the sudden pain in your ribs swiftly returning.

Two hands were placed on your shoulders, looking up you were met by two green eyes.

“Hey, you okay?” A worried Derek scanned your face, concern riddled him as he saw the multiple cuts and bruising before him. You could only nod, the dust denying you the ability to speak.

Moving behind you, he effortlessly cut the ties that bound your hands, then your legs. Using the arms of the chair to stable yourself, you attempted to stand, wincing when the pain became too much. Derek moved to your side, wrapping your arm over his shoulder. Carefully placing his arm around you, resting his hand on your hip he accepted most of your weight, attempting to make standing and walking easier. As you took a few steps forward, the dust cleared from your eyes and you were able to regain focus. Looking forward you saw the woman who threatened you, her back against the same wall the door was, her skin now covered in blood, her chest still rising and falling rapidly. Scott stood before her, looking down at the defeated woman, his eyes still red and his claws still present.

Clearing your throat, you stopped walking, causing Derek to pause and look over to you. You peered down at the woman, no longer in a position of power, she looked smaller, more gaunt than before. Her eyes showed she was petrified, providing some comfort to you after what she did.

“Sucks doesn’t it?” a whisper of a smirk present on your lips.

Proceeding to step forward through the doorway you were met by a panting Stiles, his arms stretched out in front of him, you couldn’t tell him to stop before his body connected with yours. You inhaled sharply, grimacing as pain rang throughout your body.

Derek used his free hand to grab Stiles by the shoulder, pulling him away from you, a small growl forming in his chest.

“Oh, shit sorry of course you’re hurt shit sorry.” The boy stumbled over his words, his eyes finally taking in the battered sight before him. He moved to the side of you not occupied by Derek, his help was welcomed by you, suddenly feeling lightheaded from standing.

The three of you began walking forward towards the exit of the building.

“Is now a good time to tell Derek, you think he has no balls?” Stiles piped up earning a death glare from Derek. “No? Okay we can come back to that.” You used whatever energy you had left to shake your head.

[rotworld]

2: Centaur

it’s said that only pure virgin maidens can call a unicorn, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

->explicit. contains horse genitalia, weird sex magic to enable human-to-horse genitalia compatibility, dubcon/noncon, semi-public sex, implications of mind-altering magic, gore, murder, kidnapping.

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.

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You’ve never seen anything so beautiful.

The meadow is in full bloom, a sea of brilliance. Here, a profusion of daisies. There, a carpet of poppies. Asters and yarrow and little clovers, flowers you’ve never heard of, colors you didn’t know existed, bloom as far as the eye can see. There are starbursts, blue as the sea, that smell of salt and sand, and cones of pink blossoms that glitter in the light. Petals dance in a gentle breeze like prismic rain, carrying a soft, sweet scent. It feels like a dream. You’re knee-deep in flowers beneath a cloudless sky.

“This is impossible,” you say softly, afraid to disturb the peace. Your fingers graze a curving stem, heavy with bluebells. “It’s autumn. The leaves should be turning. How is everything so green?” 

The king’s men sigh tiredly, looking uncomfortable and terribly out of place in their clanking armor. “Unicorn,” they say, the only word they seem to know. Why are the winds so gentle here, spring-sweet and warm? Unicorn. Why is the water crystal clear and sparkling, the perfect temperature for both a quenching drink and a quick rinse of your dirtied hands? Unicorn. Why couldn’t you see the meadow until you crossed the river and passed a certain willow tree? Unicorn, obviously. They shake their heads at you like you don’t know anything.

“Sit here,” one of them tells you, pointing to a spot among the daffodils. 

Another one stops you just as you’re kneeling in the grass. “No, no, wait, over there is better. There are lilies. Lilies are a symbol of virginity.”

“I think the roses would be best,” a third chimes in. “Seems very maiden-like, doesn’t it? That’s what a maiden would pick, I think, if a maiden were out here, picking flowers.” The other knights nod sagely. “Then it’s decided. Over there by the roses, please. Here, sit with your legs folded like this…”

You roll your eyes. You can’t believe how seriously they’re taking the stupid little details. This whole expedition is a lost cause. It doesn’t matter how much they pretty you up, dressing you in this flowing gown and making you wander barefoot among the flowers. You’re a sheepherder, not a waifish little girl. A unicorn can tell the difference. But the king must really be desperate, because the knights are insistent as they correct your posture, smooth out your hair, and inspect you from every angle.

“Good. Perfect,” one of them says, nodding at his handiwork. “We’ll get into position. Do,” he pauses, waving his hand vaguely, “maiden things. Sing songs. Braid your hair. Whatever it is maidens do.” You watch them clang and clatter away to the treeline, hiding poorly among the rocks and flower bushes. You relish in the space and freedom, flopping on your back in the grass. You couldn’t care less if a unicorn comes or not. The fields are yellowed and prickly at home, nothing like the beautiful softness of this meadow. Your cousin agreed to watch your sheep for the day, so you don’t have a care in the world. You close your eyes and let eternal spring wash over you. 

You open your eyes to darkness.

You sit up slowly, groaning and groggy. You must’ve drifted off. Petals fall from your gown as you yawn and rub your eyes. Snoring drifts from the trees; the knights fast asleep. You stand up to stretch, only to find a new, fantastic landscape stretched before you. The meadow is tinged silvery blue in moonlight. New flowers, unopened buds just hours ago, bloom with a faint glow. A river of stars shines overhead. This must be the dream, you think, or maybe you’ve been dreaming since you crossed the river. Everything about the meadow is otherworldly, a place of beauty and gentleness unlike anything you’ve ever known.

And then you hear it. Softly at first and indistinct, but nearing, gradually louder. A rhythmic gait, too heavy for a human, too pronounced for fleshy feet. Hoofbeats. Your breath catches in your throat. You scramble to your feet and look around. Auroras shimmer above you, rippling ribbons of green. Night breeze blows across the meadow and the grass whispers at your ankles. You see him, trotting across the meadow. You see him and there are tears in your eyes. You realize you’ve never known beauty until this moment.

The unicorn is the color of night, black and deepest blue. His mane shimmers, woven with gemstones and glittering flower buds, and his horn shines like polished onyx. He is a man from the waist up, silver eyed and handsome. There are scars along his broad shoulders, puckered skin that healed a lighter gray. Beneath the waist, muscle twists and transforms into long equine legs. His gait is leisurely, a smile tugging at his lips. 

“My oh my, what do we have here?” he says. His voice is velvety smooth and alluring. Your apprehension melts away even as he stops before you, his front legs bending so you’re face to face. A heavy, coat-like fabric rests across the back of his horse body, royal purple and delicately embroidered with intricate floral patterns. He reaches for you, slender fingers curling along your jaw. You’re sure of it now. This is all just a dream. The unicorn chuckles, a warm and rumbling sound that fills you with heat. “You’re wide awake, little one.”

“You can read my thoughts?” 

“I can read more than that.” His smile widens and he stands to his full height. You fidget nervously as he walks in a slow circle around you, a hand beneath his chin. His hooves kick up petals and glittering pollen with every step. “Hmm, let’s see...a shepherd! How precious. What gentle hands. Ah, but a solitary life. You’ve not known a lover’s touch in quite some time.” Your face heats in embarrassment. His palm trails across your back as he passes behind you, squeezing your shoulder. 

“I thought unicorns only came to pure maidens,” you say. His every touch sends sparks across your skin. You can feel his warmth through the flimsy, thin fabric of your gown. At that, his smile gains a sharp edge, almost predatory. It’s gone as quickly as it came.

“What a delight you are,” he murmurs. “Coming all this way was worthwhile after all.” He begins to walk and you follow without being asked. There are flowers all around you but you pay them no mind now, too entranced by the beautiful creature beside you. You don’t know if you go far or not, time and distance rendered meaningless in the dreamlike embrace of the meadow. He leads you to a large, mossy rock formation, the stone sheared away to leave an unnaturally flat surface. You look back over your shoulder, remembering the knights. Did they sleep through all of this? Should you say something? The unicorn’s hand cups your chin, dragging your gaze back to him. His breathtaking smile obliterates all thoughts of anything else. 

“The stories are an exaggeration,” he tells you. He guides you gently, hands on your shoulders, to sit on the stone. His legs fold beneath him and he sits, his hands carding through your hair. The affection and desire in every touch, every gentle scratch of his fingers against your scalp, makes you hotter. “We appear to whomever we wish to appear to. But I confess, some of us do have a soft spot for virgins.” He presses a sharp kiss to your lips, nipping at you. “We enjoy teaching them pleasure,” he hisses, and pushes you suddenly onto your back. The gown is pulled from your body, discarded in the grass. Night air caresses your bare skin and you squirm beneath his wandering gaze.

Somehow, it only occurs to you now what his intentions are. The gentle caresses, the sensual touches and the heat in his gaze didn’t feel real. They still don’t, but now, naked and at the mercy of his hungry eyes, you understand. “You...you want me?” you say, your voice small in embarrassment. When you say it out loud, it sounds even more ridiculous, but there’s no mistaking this. He rests his arms across your abdomen, gazing up at you with fondness and longing. 

“I do,” he says. “Very, very much. Would you let me have you?” 

You bite your lip, your body trembling as he slips a hand between your legs and just grazes your sex with his fingertips. The touch is teasing, too fleeting, and leaves you aching for more. You nod shakily and he hums, pleased at your acquiescence. “What’s your name?”

He looks rather charmed that you asked, warmth filling his gaze. “I am Myurva,” he says. You give him your name in return and the way he says it back to you, the lascivious purr, makes you squirm. The unicorn rests his hands on your knees, gently but firmly easing them apart. “Spread your legs for me, lovely. I want to see you.” 

Myurva’s seduction is slow and patient even as you writhe and beg him for more. He opens you on his fingers, soothing your frenzied whimpers with sweet nothings and loving whispers of your name. You’ve never been treated with such devotion, such smothering lust and affection. He touches you like the love of his life, kisses tenderly and messily, drags his hand along your side and savors the way you move for him. “So very worth it,” he murmurs, kissing your inner thigh. He has two fingers inside you, caressing your walls and curling just right to reach the spot that makes you shriek. “How fortunate I am to have found you, lovely. I want to keep you. I want to spoil you each and every night.” 

You’re keening for him, sobbing with need, when he flips you onto your stomach. You hardly notice. You spread your legs when you feel his hands on you, kneading your ass. Everything is hot and electrifying, hazy with pleasure. Then his front hooves land heavily in the grass near your head and something enormous rubs against you. “Wait,” you say shakily. You hear a chuckle above you. The fleshy end of Myurva’s cock slides against your ass, smearing precum along your spine. Your heart skips a beat feeling the sheer size of it against you. There’s no way. It’s impossible. You try to push yourself up on your elbows and one of his hooves stamps dangerously near your head. 

“I thought you wanted me, lovely,” he says. He thrusts again, the length of him slipping between your thighs and grinding against your sex. “If you move, I’ll have to chase you. You won’t get far.” 

“You won’t fit,” you tell him, voice pitched in desperation. Trying to squirm just makes him rest his weight against you, crushing you between the stone and the bulk of his body. “You’re going to break me!”

“I’ll go slow,” Myurva purrs. He demonstrates with a slow grind, a gradual roll of his hips. His heated flesh feels so good against you. “I’ll be so, so careful with you. Don’t you remember the stories? I enjoy virgins. I haven’t harmed a single one. They wander the woods in search of me, begging to feel my cock again.” You hear his back hooves shifting, repositioning behind you. He lines himself up and his cock prods against your opening. “Let me show you,” he urges. “Let me bring you pleasure you’ve never known.” He grinds against you again, hot pressure building as he begins to push inside. You gasp his name, beg him to wait, to go slow, to give you a moment to collect yourself, but he chuckles and presses harder.

Your nails rake against the stone and your vision whites out. The burn of the stretch becomes a tingling sensation, numb at first and then blindly pleasurable, lighting sparks in your belly. It shouldn’t be possible but you feel the head inside of you. The pain is a dull ache but every movement chases it away, pleasure washing over you. He rocks his hips and the steady, shallow thrusts push him deeper. True to his word, he fucks into you agonizingly slowly, panting and moaning

“How do you feel, lovely?” he asks, his voice strained. He’s holding back, you realize, his hooves stomping restlessly as he makes small, unconscious thrusts to feel you wrapped around him. “Let me in deeper. Let me fuck you properly. You won’t regret it.”

You don’t think he can get deeper. You try to tell him as much, but a hard thrust knocks the breath out of you. The fullness makes your head spin. You feel yourself pushing back against him despite all of the sensations, the ache inside of you, the impossibility of the whole situation in the back of your mind. He makes a breathy, choked sound and then laughs, fucking you harder. “Ohhh, that’s it. Just like that. I knew you’d love this.” You can hear his cock slamming into your body, can feel the weight of his heavy balls slapping your ass with every thrust. You feel like a cocksleeve, a snug toy for him to fuck. The force of his thrusts drags you back and forth over the stone, scraping up your chest, but the pain is nothing compared to the pleasure he gives you. 

Someone is screaming, crying Myurva’s name into the night. You barely recognize your own voice, the needy pitch, the tremor in every word. You’re so full, so unbearably stuffed with cock, no longer trying to meet his thrusts but letting him move you, ruining you for any human partner. Your knees bruise on the stone. Your toes curl. Your cries build to a frenzied crescendo and you cum impaled on his enormous cock, shaking, panting his name.

“Lovely,” he moans, an obscene sound leaving his lips as your inner muscles clamp down on his cock. “Gods above, darling, I’m going to fill you.” He fucks you wildly, no rhythm, no caution, his whole cock slamming into you as hard and deep as he can get. You can’t move. The whole world turns white-hot and blinding. You go limp, gasping weakly as Myurva begins to grunt, his cock pulsing, his whole length crammed inside you.

You thought you were full already, but then he cums. You feel him straining on top of you, his whole weight thrown forward as he fucks ropes of thick cum into your body. It foams up around his length and makes obscene, slick sounds. You feel it overflowing, trickling down your thighs. It feels like it goes on forever, his moans, his deep, straining thrusts, his cock pouring more and more cum into your body until his balls empty and he finally, with a satisfied sigh, pulls out. 

You make an undignified sound at the sudden emptiness, and the rush of cum that follows. You’re grateful for the stone beneath you, cool against your sweat-soaked skin. Your legs are jelly. You don’t know if you’ll ever walk again. Myurva’s front hooves lift, stepping back from the stone. His human hand caresses your cheek. “You’re truly something, lovely,” he says quietly. “I spoke in jest of keeping you, but now...it’s difficult to resist the temptation.” 

You try to speak but only manage an incoherent murmur of noise. He chuckles and strokes your hair. Distantly, you’re aware of other noises than the two of you. Shouting. Footeps. Clattering steel. You remember suddenly that you aren’t alone out here, arms struggling to lift you. The knights. How could you forget? Shame heats your face. How long have they been awake? How much did they see? How much did they hear? Myurva shushes your protests, pressing a gentle hand on the small of your back. “Rest,” he says. You don’t think you’re capable of doing much else, anyway.

You hear a commotion behind you. The knights, shouting in outrage, drawing swords. Are they going to hurt Myurva? Your eyes widen and you try again, uselessly, to lift yourself and see what’s happening. The unicorn gives you one last gentle caress and leaves you, his hoofbeats stopping somewhere between you and the knights.

“At last, you show yourself!” the knights exclaim. You manage to roll onto your side, craning your neck to see them surrounding Myurva, but he doesn’t look concerned. He glances around, examining each of the men. 

“Let’s see,” he murmurs. “Subjects of King Cornelius. And you want…” The corner of his lips twitch in amusement. “A hostage? Is that right? Your people have no claim over our mountains. A hostage will not change this. My king does not negotiate.” His words are ignored. The knights are wary but they do not back down. You feel like a fool. Why didn’t you ask them what they wanted the unicorn for? You assumed it was something trivial, a silly princess who wanted a pet. Nothing like this. 

Myurva glances back at you. His silver eyes catch the moonlight and glint dangerously. Those are a predator’s eyes, you realize. A thing that hunts and stalks the night. “You worry for me, lovely?” he purrs. “Your every emotion is so tender. I really must keep you. But, alas,” he chuckles, turning back to the knights, “business first, my sweet.”

You hadn’t looked all that carefully at the fabric across the back of his body. You hadn’t noticed the sword sheaths hanging there, hidden beneath the drapes and tassels. You hear steel scraping steel as he unsheathes twin blades, long and curved, as strikingly silver as his eyes. One of the knights tries to say something. “Come quietly,” or some other meaningless thing. He never finishes speaking. You hardly see Myruva move. A flash of silver, a rush of air; that’s all it takes. The knight’s head falls from his shoulders, and his body sinks to the ground soon after. The others begin to scream and scatter, but they’ll never get away. There’s no outrunning a unicorn. 

Laying there upon the stone, you see everything. Prey fleeing and predator giving chase. Swords clashing. Flesh pierced and mangled. Myurva tramples one of them, snaps the man’s ribs with glee in his shining eyes. Their armor does nothing but trap them in slow, awkward shells, easy prey to catch and dismantle. The unicorn moves like a whirlwind across the meadow, death his shadow. Blood soaks the soil and splatters the flowers, almost black in the night. 

You’re on your knees when it’s over, hunched over the stone with your legs in the grass. You can’t stand. You can’t run. You can’t do anything but turn and see Myurva standing there, fresh blood dripping from his swords. He smiles at the sight of you, the shivers wracking your body. “You didn’t know,” he assures you. “I can read you, remember?” He wipes the blood from his blades, sheathing them at his side once again. You flinch when he comes closer, sitting in the grass beside you. You smell the carnage on him. The fingers that tuck your hair behind your ear are wet and warm. “Pleased to meet you,” he purrs. “I’m Myurva, the royal spymaster. And you are the loveliest little human I’ve ever seen.”

You protest weakly when he scoops you up in his arms, standing suddenly. You’re vaguely aware of moving, of being carried somewhere. You fight to cling to consciousness, but it’s slowly slipping out of your grasp. “Hush,” Myurva coos, kissing your forehead. “We’ve a long ways to go and you’re in no condition to ride me just yet. But, eventually…” He chuckles, one of his hands cupping your backside. “Eventually, we’ll have all the time in the world to do whatever we like, won’t we?”

[heroesfan101]

The man in white

It’s your first college party and you’re excited to experience it with your best friends. What better time to party than Halloween? You’re hoping it proves to be a frighteningly good time but you may get more than what you bargained for.

Pairing: Sugawara x f!reader

Warnings: Dark content (yandere behaviors including stalking) and alcohol. Minors dni. This is 18+

Word count: 3.3k

Tagging: @miyarinrin​ - Thank you for hosting this collab!

“Hurry up! We’re going to be late.” Your friend calls to you as you finish putting your makeup on.

“Coming!” You yell before turning back to the mirror and applying the cherry red lipstick. The vibrant pop of color stands out boldly amongst your sleek black dress and black hat. Your friend calls again once she’s realized you haven’t come right away, clearly eager to leave. Capping the tube of lipstick, you grab your flowy cape and head into the night.

Despite the relief of finally setting course to your destination of fun, the autumn air surrounds you as if it means to blow through you. The force strong enough to send the bottom of the cape up to your ears. It doesn’t let up, almost as if the intention is to push you back into the comfort of your dorm. In that moment, regret crashes in like a wave, making you wish you had worn tights or something. Your two friends at your sides huddle closer to you to brace the wind together. Seemingly weak against your collective determination, the gust eases back to give the exposed skin a reprieve.

As you follow the winding stones to the older houses, the path narrows considerably only allowing two people to pass at a time. Your friends go forward as you fall to the back. Although the path is littered with tall black cast-iron light posts, half of them are out but you suppose it sets the mood rather well. It is Halloween after all. Where the light doesn’t touch the path, the moonlight does through the curtain of sleepy hallow trees. At times, the moon takes the lead and lights the path, especially when a few lights go out behind you.

The faint whisper of a good time grows louder as you can start to hear the music. Your heart quickens as does your footsteps, eager to arrive. The path opens up as you enter a street full of houses, each very similar to one another in the cul-de-sac. But the house in the middle stands out among the rest. The cobblestone house looks well-kept despite the run-down appearance of the others. While the stones give it a classic feel, it almost looks new along with the porch that has managed to withstand the test of time. The house itself almost seemed alive and you could feel a pull but you’re sure that was just part of the holiday fun and excitement for your first college party. Not to mention it’s already full of other party-going college students having a good time. With a nurse and police officer at your side, you go closer and step into the scene.

As you step through the white wooden door, everything hits you at once. The booming music, the scent of sweet treats and alcohol, but most importantly warmth. Something your body desperately needed. Letting the heat liven up your skin, your eyes scan the room. To the left was the living room with antique sofas and tables pushed to the wall to make room for the crowd to dance. Spectators idly watch and chat on the staircase on the furthest wall. To the right was the kitchen with an island full of candies and bowls of liquid regrets. Following your friends to the right, you head into the faded yellow kitchen to grab a cup and pick your poison. Opting for the crowd favorite, jungle juice, you take a sip and hum at the taste. Yes, it won’t be long until you’re fully warm.

“Everyone remembers the plan, right? Make sure to look around first and find someone good to talk to.” The friend on your left says, causing you both to nod.

“Guaranteed you’ll be first. Who wouldn’t want to talk to a hot nurse?” Your other friend, the police officer jokes, pulling a laugh out of everyone. She takes a sip from her cup and almost immediately finds a prisoner she finds interesting. The nurse and you quickly get the hint as they start to make their way over. Giving her a wave, both of you turn to leave the kitchen. But you don’t have company for long as the nurse bumps into a friend from one of her classes who so happens to be a dressed as a doctor.

Politely bowing out, you move from the foyer to the living room. Standing against the nearest wall, you sip your drink as your eyes wander in search of worthy company. Tall pirate? No, too drunk. Maybe Frankenstein? Nope, just grabbing a drink for his matching bride. Definitely not the mummy who is dancing hard enough for his gauze to unravel. A sigh passes your lips as you take a bigger sip. Maybe I’m still too sober and too critical?

Just as hope begins to fade, that’s when it happens. That’s when you see him.

You can’t explain how you feel. It’s almost as though you’re frozen in time, in this moment. Something about it almost seemed familiar like a dream. Have you seen this before? The way his hazel eyes hold yours you could make out the different emotions, beginning with shock before morphing into warmth and curiosity. He was certainly handsome from what you could see despite the crowd blocking your sights. He’ll definitely do. Sending a small smile and a wave, he takes that as an invitation as he starts weaving his way between enthusiastic body shakers.

Once he’s in front of you, it’s obvious he’s taller and more handsome than you initially thought. Taking a moment, you drink in his appearance. Light silver hair. A wig or an amazing dye job? Captivating hazel eyes with a prettily placed beauty mark under his left eye. His attractive features drew you in like a magnet and while your eyes softened at his features, your eyebrows furrowed at his costume. White shirt. White pants. White shoes. What is he supposed to be? But before you can continue the thought, he speaks.

“Hi. I saw you from across the room and thought I would keep you company if you would like.”

“Of course. I did wave you over, didn’t I?” You tease playfully, trying to play it cool. He chuckles, loosening up a bit.

“I’m Sugawara Koushi, but you can call me Suga.” He says lightly and you can’t help but smile. Of course, his nickname fits. His smile is too sweet like a vanilla candle but you find yourself matching his grin. You introduce yourself and he calmly extends his hand to you. A handshake? It was rather formal for a college party, but you couldn’t be bothered to care. As your hand touches his, it’s almost like touching ice. Zing! The frozen spark remains for a fleeting moment before he pulls his hand away.

“Ah sorry about that. I was outside and have not warmed up yet.” He apologizes and you shake your head in understanding.

“No, I get it, the wind was brutal on the way here. But it’s nice and toasty in here so you should be warm in no time.”

“You’re right.” He agrees, eyes locked onto yours. The room lightens up a bit, drawing your attention to a lamp on a pushed back table. The Franken couple look at the lamp oddly but then Suga speaks again.

“So, what brings you here? Are you enjoying yourself?” He asks casually, opting to stand next to you rather than in front. His lithe body leans against the wall as he looks over at you on his right side.

“Yeah, this is a lot of fun. Not only is it my first party but it’s also my first time in a “haunted house”,” You answer playfully, using air quotes, “Although nothing feels haunted about it.” A light chuckle easily leaves his lips, “Well that is a good thing. A house should be welcoming, but only of course if the guests are on their best behavior.” He teases and winks, causing you to laugh.

Taking another sip of your drink, the room begins to fade into the background as you continue to feel yourself drawn to him. Conversation easily passes between you both. You find out he’s a second-year education major who would one day like to be a teacher. You were surprised you hadn’t seen him at all up until now. Not only was the college pretty small, but as a psychology major whose school was next to the education building, you figured you would have seen him before today. But of course, you certainly didn’t mind meeting him now. After all, the things you want most have a habit of appearing at the perfect moment, right?

“Oh so I meant to ask, what’s your costume?” You question, a bit giggly at this point. It appears your question is expected as a sigh escapes his lips, “I couldn’t think of anything so I picked this out. So much for a Halloween party, right?” Suga laughs at his own joke, inviting you to join in and let your guard down.

“I mean it’s cool.” You refute which he waves off.

“Not like yours though. A dark witch? It is pretty . . . cute.” His eyes make his way down as yours did earlier, no doubt taking in how good you look. You can’t help but to feel proud and blush.

“Why thank you! You know we almost look like yin and yang with you in white and me in black.” You offer up, to which he agrees.

“True. I suppose I found my fated partner after all.” Zing! Zing goes your heart yet again as his eyes hold your own. On the surface they were full of mirth, but you could see a flicker of something deeper, something more serious. But perhaps you were reading too deep into it. Going to take another sip, you realize your cup had run dry. You turn your head to the kitchen, not realizing how stiff your neck had gotten from staying in the same position.

“I’ll be right back. I’ll grab a quick refill. Wait for me?” You ask, to which he is quick to agree.

“Of course. Anything for the best company of the century.” He says effortlessly with a small bow, pulling a giggle from you.

“Okay Mr. Smooth.” You tease, throwing a wink at him over your shoulder as the room comes alive and back into focus again. Everything seemed much lighter and brighter, even as you went in the kitchen. Heading to re-up on your drink, you see the police officer enjoying her company. You give her a smile, which she returns excitedly before refocusing on her attention on her captive. Turning around, you were about to enter the foyer when a taller man blocks your path, a pirate to be exact.

“Why hello gorgeous. I’ve gotta tell you, you’ve definitely bewitched my soul.” He smirks, thinking his flirtatious line is certainly going to land you in his arms.

“Well, I can’t say the same so if you’ll excuse me. I have someone waiting for me.” You say dryly as you try to side step him, only for him to step back in your way.

“You didn’t even give me a chance. I can be much better company than whoever you’re talking to.” He grins and all of the sudden you feel a harsh chill in the air. Looking around for the source, you see all the windows and even the door was still shut. As your eyes focus, you see Suga looking right at the pirate from across the room only to be beside you in the next second. Yeah, that drink must have been stronger than you thought. Despite being a tad shorter than the pirate, what he lacked in size he made up in stature and demeanor. The presence stood strong and protective, yet dangerous and cold.

“See? I told you I was talking to someone.” You gesture to Suga, who oddly doesn’t smirk or move but continues to glare at the man coldly. His hazel eyes grew as hard as oak without a hint of life in them. The pirate looks at you oddly before turning away muttering, “Yeah okay weirdo.” You furrow your eyebrows at that but roll your eyes at the comment. A faint whisper catches the air to take flight. Walk the plank. Turning back to Suga, you start to feel the temperature rise again.

“Sorry about that. Must be drunk or something.” You add offhandedly, truly not paying attention to the pirate anymore. It takes another ten seconds before Suga drops his intense gaze and turns to you with a wide smile.

“No, I am sorry you had to deal with someone so rude.” He replies and in the next moment you both hear a heavy thud. The crowd, at least the ones who are still semi-sober, gasp as the pirate falls flat on his face. The man blames a loose floorboard that wasn’t there before but everyone assumed he was trying to save face rather than admit to his drunken clumsiness.

“A loose floorboard? More like walk the plank.” You laugh and he gives you that blinding smile.

“You read my mind,” he easily agrees before asking you, “would you like to dance?” You smile at the offer and down the rest of your drink. Putting the cup down on a coffee table, you both decide to move into the crowd and just dance. He pulls you close, softly holding your hands with a touch barely there as he swings you around within what little room you have. As you dance without a care, the looks from bystanders seem confused but clearly, they haven’t seen moves like yours before. Maybe even you haven’t. Chalk it up to your newfound confidence.

The room gets hotter and continues to spin, but you find yourself enraptured and focused on him. His smile and his warmth slowly but surely taking hold in your heart. A strange thought crosses your mind. I don’t want to leave. The haze continues to fall even heavier on you but you feel a jolt once you feel someone’s hand on your shoulder. Turning away from Suga, you see your friend from earlier, the police officer.

“Hey! What’s up?” You ask, swaying back and forth willing your body to straighten up. But what does it for you in the look in her eyes, a look of deep concern.

“We have to go. Now.” She declares seriously without saying more. You assume there’s a reason she’s not saying why and sigh.

“Sure, let me just say goodbye first.” You agree, before turning around to see no trace of the man you were dancing with. The room suddenly feels cold again as the confusion sets in. He was just here a second ago. But before you can think about it your friend pulls you out of your thoughts, both figuratively and literally, as she takes your arm in pursuit of the exit where the nurse awaits. As your foot steps over the threshold, the lights go out. A myriad of sounds fill the air from laughs, screams, and boos to whoever apparently tripped over the extension cord. Looking back at the house, you feel your heart breaking with every step.  Come back. Come back. Come back. The phrase fills your mind but fades the farther away you go from the house.

Ten minutes seems to pass quickly as you make it to the dorms seemingly in no time at all. Heading into your room, you lock the door and turn to your friends.

“Okay what gives? Why did we have to leave so quickly? Didn’t you see the cute guy I was talking to?” You question, your tone full of annoyance. Your friends look at each other before the police officer decides to speak up.

“Uh that’s the thing. You haven’t talked to anyone all night. You looked like you were talking with yourself.” The police officer replies as your eyes narrow in disbelief.

“No, I wasn’t. I have his name and everything. Sugawara Koushi, second-year education major. He loves the spicy ramen from the ramen shop on campus. Enjoys hanging out at the campus pond during the fall with all the sleepy hallow trees.” You rattle off the facts from your conversation. He was most certainly a real person. You talked to him, felt his hands despite how cold they were, and danced with him. This was clearly a joke and so you started laughing only for their looks to grow more and more concerned.

“Not to be creepy, but I took a few pictures of everyone. You know, for the memories. No one is in the photos with you.” The nurse speaks up as she hands you the phone. You take it, scoffing incredulously. This is definitely a prank. You start to go through the photos and after seeing the first one, you feel as if someone poured an ice bucket on top of you in the middle of winter. The shock hits you hard as you realize your friends are right. The first photo was you with your drink, looking as if you were talking to someone but no one was there. Along with the next one. And the next one. And the next one. Until you saw yourself dancing in mid-spin, once again with no one there.

“Oh my gosh.” You say, the weight of the pictures hitting you all at once. Your eyes widened as you started thinking about everything. Silver hair. All white. Cold hands. The talk about guests behaving.

It seems the house was truly haunted after all.

“You were right. That’s crazy. I’m never going back there again. Thank you.” You say to your friends, who nod and pull you into a hug. Of course, they had your back. After a while, they went to their respective rooms leaving you to yourself. After a nice hot shower, you ease into bed and push yourself to relax. Despite the eerie feeling, you calmed your mind enough for your eyes to flutter shut and enter a dream.

There was an open field near a big pond. You recognized it as the campus pond, despite it being black and white. Your feet continued to move towards the water until you could clearly see your reflection. Eyeing yourself, you were wearing a white lace dress along with white gloves. An odd choice in clothes. Suddenly, you blinked and you were back in front of that old cobblestone house again. Your eyes widen as the man in white comes out with a smile.

“Welcome home, my love. I always knew you would come back.” The smile you once thought to be sweet was sickeningly so. You could feel yourself consumed by his gaze as the words repeated. Come back. Come back. Come back. Forcing yourself out of the dream, you shot up in bed with your chest heaving. The room and your skin feel hot as you break out into a sweat. Grabbing the water on your desk, you take a few sips. It was just a dream. I’m completely safe. You repeat those words in an attempt to calm down, trying to convince yourself that tonight wasn’t real but deep down you knew the truth.

After a few moments, you lay back down, ready to fall asleep and ward off whatever drunk-dazed state you were in. But outside of the window beyond your closed blinds, a man in white awaits with a sweet, sweet smile on his lips. One way or another, Suga will convince you to come back to him. You were always going to be his and he would make sure of it. He found his fated partner after all.

[magnusmodig]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐙𝐄-𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇 soothed the skin , for the wind itself was a most lithe and faithful companion. it feathered through thor's hair , curled around his shoulders in silk embrace , and nudged briskly at his feet before skipping through the budding leaves and shoots of grass.

overhead , it moved the very skies. trickles of moonlight bled silver through the speckled dusting and wisps of clouds. stars twinkled far past even them , glittering in some other star systems in a great beyond.

the wind was chatty this day. no doubt to thor that it spoke of faraway travels and the bumping ride across ocean tides. no doubt it carried upon it the tales from the stars beyond what thor could see , and here the god of storms stood , DEAF TO ITS SIREN CALL.

WHAT WOULD FATHER THINK OF THAT? thor mused , a bitter smile plucking at the edges of his lips. in an instant , it fell again. thor had no doubt his father would find the state of him outright disgraceful. absolutely detestable. it was one thing for ODIN ALL-FATHER to tap a branch of the all-force , and entirely another for the forces of another to swing an axe to it. though then , perhaps he would think it thor's own fault.

( though then , perhaps he would be right. )

sighing through his nose , thor cast his gaze from the tousled grass and the whispering canopy towards those distant stars , and wondered then : do you still watch over me now , father ?