#I was meant to dance in the moonlight and bathe in a cold stream!!

[identityunfounded]

I WAS NOT!!!

MEANT FOR THIS!!!

WORLD!!!

[wlwmarvelenthusiast]

AU with vampire Natasha x reader with a happy end? Please and thanks.

May I present to you: vampire Natasha and werewolf reader.

Stakes and Silver Bullets

Summary: Hunting at the full moon with Natalia by your side is a perfect cross between heinous and beautiful. One particular night proves that it can also be dangerous.

Pairings: Vampire!Natasha x Werewolf!Reader

Warnings: Repeated mentions of blood

Word Count: 4,485

To most people, the moon represented the fall of night. It was just this simple rock in the sky that reflected just enough sunlight that the planet wasn’t tossed into darkness as the sun dipped beyond the horizon. Sure, artists might have loved the way it bathed the land before it in a different type of glow, and maybe some people could appreciate the beauty that was so much gentler than the harsh glare of the afternoon sun. For you, it was different. The moon was beauty and terror all wrapped up in one, simple celestial body.

Tonight, the moon wasn’t quite full, but it almost was. You didn’t have to check a calendar or even take a single glance out the window to know that. You felt it in your very bones. It was urging and primal. It had erased every other thought that might have flitted through your mind. In comparison to it, they were irrelevant. The glowing orb spoke to you. It made your soul sing along to its silent melody, your heart pounding to the steady beat. It was your very reason for being. But so was she.

“When is your night?”

You turned. There she was, the bright moonlight streaming through the window she sat at, shining upon her and making her glow even more beautifully than was her usual. Her red hair was still tousled from her midnight hunt, like dancing flames falling over her shoulders. Your eyes fell to the stain on her white dress, even redder than her hair. You only hummed in response as you stood up from your chair, paper and quill abandoned on the desk thoughtlessly. You moved toward her, arms moving delicately around her waist. Soon, you were standing with your head buried against her neck, revelling in that familiar feeling of the cold surface, lack of a throbbing pulse comforting in the strangest of ways.

“Tomorrow.”

She was clearly resisting still, refusing to succumb to the arousal she knew would start building any second now. “And how are you feeling on this eve?”

You actually growled a little, the sound canine in a way that no simple person would be able to achieve. “Primal.”

She hummed contentedly as you brushed your lips against the skin where you rested. You pulled away, delicately pressing the pads of your fingers against the underside of her chin, directing her lips onto yours. She immediately responded, her hands moving onto your cheeks, thumbs brushing against your cheekbones as you kissed her. The taste of blood in her mouth was exhilarating. Everything about her was. You ran your tongue along sharp fangs, loving the slight sting in the muscle as the surface scratched open. She retracted immediately.

“You are truly foul, my love,” she said, disgust crossing her features as she wiped her thumb against her lips, removing your blood from her mouth.

Maybe that’s why the two of you worked so well. This proximity with any other person would have been enthralling. The smell alone would have had her digging her fangs into the pulsing artery in their neck. That sweet substance that flowed through the veins of any breathing person was irresistible to that person she’d become all those years ago. You weren’t just any person. You had the blood of a wolf, and it repulsed her.

She was void of any of the substance. Those nights when you lost yourself, when you let that beast take over you completely, she was of no interest to you. The townsfolk were all you cared for- all you ached to taste between your lips. She would take hunt beside you, by your side during night as well as day, love burning so strong within you both even when you were doing things so hideous.

You were both killers. You were among the most hideous things that dared walk the Earth among things so beautiful. Monsters already, what was the harm in loving one another? You’d be burned at the stake for the blood that ran through your veins anyway. In for a penny, in for a pound. At least now, neither of you was alone. You loved each other fully and entirely. If love was a human emotion, then she was your humanity, and you were hers.

“Foul? Is that so, Natalia, my beloved?” You jeered, a smile crawling across your lips. “Who is it that loves you so dearly?”

Her taunting halted immediately at the husk in your words. Your hands were sliding down from where you’d had them linked over her shoulders, fingers sliding over the silky fabric that draped over her body. Your gaze wouldn’t leave hers, the image of the moon shimmering in your irises as if it were a reflection of the beast that lived within. She knew who you were. She was the only one who knew who you really were, and she loved every piece of you, including that beast, with her unbeating heart. Her words caught in her throat for a long moment.

“You,” she couldn’t help but hum as your hands squeezed her hips. “Only you.”

Your hands slid down to her thighs over top of her dress. “I know.”

Your hands moved away. Despite the small whine that escaped her, it seemed the absence of your touch allowed her to regain her composure a little. Your fingertips danced across her chest and against the pendant that you’d given her a year ago. It was a gift, something you reasoned you earned for her, even if you’d taken off the lifeless body you’d woken up next to after a long night of feral canine power. She leaned forward to kiss you once more, but you leaned away from her, a smile on your face. You extended a hand.

“Come.”

She put her hand into yours and you led her toward the bedroom. Her lips touched yours once more. The feeling would always be so much stronger and far more intoxicating than the feeling of the full moon inching closer day by day. The moon used to be the thing that made you. It had once been your heart and your soul, and it had guided you through every aspect of your life. That was years ago. Today, it was her. Everything was her.

“I love you,” she whispered, red eyes boring into yours with such intensity you were sure she could read every single piece of your soul.

“And I you, my love.”

You embraced her, lying her down and kissing her again.

Tomorrow, she’d be with you in a way that would make the townsfolk cower in their homes, as if thin walls were any defence against your combined bloodlust. Her thirst and your hunger had wooden doors shattered into splinters within seconds of discovering the scent of life, or the sound of a terrified heart beating inside a breathing chest. Nothing would keep either of you away from that.

That night, though, wasn’t about the kill. It wasn’t about what you would do in the future at all. Right then, you lay with your skin against hers in the most sinful of ways. Hers was so cold but the canine blood running beneath yours was hot, as if you were made to balance each other out. Her lips were roaming across your torso and your hand was moving toward that part of her body only you knew. If you weren’t already damned from the wolf in your spirit or the blood that had spilled beneath you each month, then you’d surely be for lying with a woman in such a way. That, though, would have been a risk you’d have been willing to take.

Still, you had to wonder if those other nights were just as intimate. On those nights with her, when the moon was at its fullest and her body ached for that bitter taste it needed so badly, you felt so close. Those nights weren’t necessarily something you wanted. They were something you needed; to fulfill those carnal needs and satiate your body in a way nothing else could. Without those nights, neither of you would survive to love each other through to the next moon. When she was by your side, performing those nefarious acts and satisfying her most primal of needs, you were both showing that part of you that you knew only the other would ever be able to love. That meant just as much to you as hearing your name tearing desperately from her lips on a silent night like that one.

As the body beneath you began shuddering uncontrollably and your name was repeatedly thrown into the cool air like a prayer, you decided it didn’t matter. You had both. It didn’t matter which brought you closer. Both things brought her a satisfaction that made you just as content. Both would have you watching her with love coursing through your veins hot as lava and yet somehow as cold as ice. Maybe that’s what made them so intimate. How you loved loving her and how you loved being at your very worst by her side.

“How are you feeling, my darling?” You cooed softly, loving the way she threw her head back for you upon hearing your words.

You grinned a little as her shaking subsided. She kissed you with a force and passion behind it that any living person would have lost the energy to do. Even you were worn out. When she pulled her lips off yours, you couldn’t help but fall back against the pillows, breathing a little heavier than usual. She chuckled at this, beckoning you to come closer to her bare body. You did so without hesitation.

“Goodnight,” she whispered as you lay down at her side.

“Hold me, Natalia?”

“Always.”

It amazed you, the patience she had. She couldn’t sleep. She didn’t need it. Yet, her arms would wrap around you as you drifted off to a world where still your dreams were of her, and when you’d awaken, she’d be in that same spot right by your side. It was endearing, and made you lean to kiss her each and every morning. Each of those mornings she’d ask you the same questions: wondering how you slept and making sure her arms hadn’t been too tight around you. She did, after all, have the strength of a mammoth.

Your answer was always the same, too. You were fine. You would always be okay, as long as she was by your side. You both knew that if she had blood beneath her skin, she would blush. She would still giggle softly, turning her cheeks away from you on instinct, as if they were burning with that bright colour of embarrassment. The action was sweet. It would make you smile as you reached out for her, bringing her back against your chest for another few minutes before the both of you decided to venture out into the other rooms of your house.

Maybe it was the nightmare you’d had last night, but something was off in the woman you loved. She was busy sitting in one of the armchairs in the other room, cowering away from the sunlight that had managed to penetrate the small crack in the boards over the windows. You covered it up, taking away that dangerous ray of light as you moved swiftly to take a spot beside her. Your fingers threaded into hers with one hand, as the other came up to her cheek. Her face was filled with such concern, and it was making your heart ache.

“Natalia?” You tried ever so softly. “Speak to me, my dove.”

Slowly, her eyes turned to yours. “One day you will depart from this world, and I will be left without you, and you own a piece of me. I will never be whole without you.”

Truthfully, your mind sometimes wandered to that inevitable day as well. You worried, the thought constantly in the back of your head, wreaking havoc on your mind every time it dared wander to the event. It had taken her more than a hundred years to find someone to love the way she loved you, and the two of you were interconnected in a way you were sure a mortal person could never dream to understand.

You reached out for one of the old wooden chairs, bringing it toward you and, in a flair of theatrics, snapped off one of the legs. The superhuman act seemed to have quite the effect on her. Her tongue darted out from between her lips, eyes tracing the strong muscles on your arms. You chuckled, moving forward and flipping the broken chair leg over in the air, catching it back in your hand.

“When I depart from this world, my dearest of loves, you take this. If you find that you cannot bear this life without me, then follow me.”

She took the broken piece of furniture into her own hands. It was the only thing that could tear her from the life she’d been so long living. Splinters of wood fell from the end, scattering silently on the floor. She ran her fingertips over the old wooden stake, and you could tell she was wondering what it might feel like to have it driven through her heart. She set it on her lap and looked up at you, head tilted to the side in curiosity.

“And what if something befalls me?”

That was something you’d thought about before as well. She may have been unsusceptible to time, but she wasn’t so to the weapons the townsfolk brandished whenever they heard the name of the monster that lived over the hillside. Losing her would tear you apart, and you knew that, after all this time with her, you’d never be able to survive without her. That was a fact you’d long accepted.

You reached into your pocket, pulling out something so small you could hold it between two fingers. “Then I will follow you into the next life.”

The silver bullet shone in the candlelight, glistening as if to taunt you, knowing it was the only thing that would ever hurt you.

She beckoned you. You pocketed the small piece of metal once more, sitting down beside her as she brought you into her arms as if you were the most delicate material on the planet. That was how you stayed, knowing now that you would never have to live on a planet that didn’t have her, and she wouldn’t have to live without you. It was comforting in the most morning of ways. It seemed though, that was your normal: morbid and loving.

That was how you remained that day. She didn’t like you exerting yourself the day of a full moon. It kept you up all night and, if you didn’t rest the day before, you’d be worn when the sun came back up. She wouldn’t let that feeling of absolute exhaustion take over you. She could hardly remember how it even felt, having not rested for so many years, but she knew she didn’t like when you were uncomfortable.

You were only made aware of the time when the candle died out in front of you. You squirmed in her arms, kissing her cheek when she let you go. You peeked out the window to get the last glimpse of an orange sunset over the horizon. You couldn’t help but grin as you felt something tugging deep within your chest. You turned back toward the woman behind you, eyes already glowing with that golden shine when you did.

“My, is it time already?” She chuckled, rising from her seat so that she could run a hand lovingly down your cheek. “Let me know when we leave, my darling girl.”

You burst out the door just as that last glow of the sun finally faded out. The way your body bathed in the moonlight was addicting. You felt every last bit of human in you fade away, golden eyes reflecting that white orb in the sky as you watched it, morphing into that canine form that would make the townsfolk tremble in fear. The feeling of your body becoming who it was meant to be was indescribable, but it was so right.

You didn’t attempt to suppress the canine howl that erupted from your gut. It would have been unstoppable, and letting it out was like breathing out a breath that you’d been holding in all month. At the sound, too, she finally stepped through the front door, the sunlight that reflected off the moon not enough to hurt her in the way it did in the day. She took one look at you, eyes still so full of love even when you were in this form.

“You sound excited, love.”

You couldn’t have answered her if you wanted to.

The two of you tore off toward the town at a speed that would have had any regular person reeling. The doors were all shut and locked tight. You let her break down the first one. You approached, standing back and staring at hers, two sets of unnatural eyes locking in a passionate gaze. She smiled ever so gently before she moved forward, tearing the door off its hinges.

The screams from the couple inside only fueled you forward. You raced into the house, headed immediately for whatever beating heart she hadn’t already claimed. The man begging for life beneath you couldn’t have been more than twenty. He was pleading and sobbing and chanting his girl’s name, not knowing that yours had already killed her. You made sure to silence his cries.

Natalia was done long before you were. Even as you fed, you felt her eyes on you. It didn’t bother you. She never judged you, and she never would. How could she, being a monster herself? When you pulled away, blood coating your lips and cheeks, dripping down your neck and onto your chest, her pupils dilated a little. She moved forward, using her thumb to brush some of the blood off your cheek and putting it to her own lips.

“Shame. You taint that sweet taste,” she chuckled a little, letting you eye the red substance that was dripping down the corner of her mouth. “You are, however, still as beautiful as you are on any night.”

You wished you could kiss her right then, instead settling for the press of her forehead against yours. You could actually feel your heartbeat shift so that it drummed in time with hers. It was a long couple moments of that, her against you like you were the only two people in the entire world, before she finally pulled away. She smirked as she looked you up and down.

“Repulsive.”

You would have laughed.

The two of you moved through the village like that for a little longer, finding your next victim stupidly roaming the street at midnight on a full moon. You agreed to share the meal with the woman who’d actually been the one to catch it. You took a few steps back, watching as his face paled as Natalia drained the blood from his body. You could hardly believe how beautiful she looked. The moonlight hit every feature just right, illuminating her in a soft glow.

She stood when she’d finished, hand caressing your cheek as she did. “Had your fill yet, my darling?”

You shook your head no.

Neither of you had time, though, to go in search of your next meal. When you turned around, one of the townspeople was standing on the street, aiming a gun at you. You were cocky, at first, staring down the barrel knowing full well that no simple bullet would hurt you. When it whizzed toward you, though, and pierced your skin, ripping through your gut and shooting a searing pain through your body, you got considerably less cocky.

You watched as the woman who had been at your side flew forward and in one swift move, ended the life of the man in front of you. When you fell back, your eyes found the wound that was pushing your blood onto the cobblestone street below you. It was pooling, reflecting the moon above it. You felt blood starting to bubble up in your throat and you coughed violently.

You felt yourself being scooped into a strong set of arms. Her face looked blurry. Though, so did everything else. You could feel that you were moving so fast you were practically flying back toward home. You wondered if you would make it all that way, but it seemed that she was determined. You strained to keep awake, just for her. You weren’t successful.

The world wasn’t dark for long. Yet perhaps it was just that it didn’t feel long. When you blinked your eyes back open, red ones were watching you with such concern that all you wanted to do was kiss her worries away. Unfortunately for you, though, her worries were you. You didn’t have the strength to sit up and pull her toward you. You hardly had the strength to groan her name and let your hand travel over your own abdomen.

“Be careful, my love.”

You felt her hand cover yours in an attempt to bring your fingers away from the wound. You felt first that the skin beneath your fingertips was smooth. You’d morphed back into your human form at some point while you’d been unconscious. Then, you felt the dried blood that caked the area where you’d been shot. You whimpered at the tenderness of your own touch. A hand tugged on yours, bringing the pressure away from the area.

“Don’t touch.”

You squeezed her hand with all the energy you had. “Darling…”

“I know, Dove.”

Pain was searing throughout your body in a way you’d never experienced before. The bullet had not only pierced your body, but it was poisoning your blood in the way that only silver could. You groaned softly, clutching tight onto Natalia’s hand with all the strength that you could muster, which wasn’t a lot. Tears were streaking down her cheeks now, showing you an emotion that you didn’t often see on her face.

“Please,” you begged softly. “I cannot move on without you. I cannot leave you here to continue on without me.”

You immediately felt guilty for the effect of those words. She pulled you close, getting on her knees beside the bed and resting her head on your arm. You hushed her softly as a sob broke through her lips, the sound able to shatter your heart as if it were made from the finest glass known to man. You apologized as soft as you could, repeatedly and honestly. You beckoned her into the bed beside you.

You knew you were starting to fade. You could feel it. There was no light at the end of the tunnel. You could feel darkness looming in that place, waiting for you and waiting to punish you for every life you’d ever taken. That number was higher than you could count. You were shaking, sure the woman beside you could feel it against her body. You weren’t sure if it was a last effort of strength from your dying body, or a display of absolute terror to leave life behind.

“Natalia…”

“I am right here.”

You grabbed the front of her shirt in a weak fist, using gravity to help you in pulling her closer. At first, she thought you were trying to bring her lips onto hers. When she tried to kiss you, though, you shook your head, turning away. Face turned away from her, now, you had exposed a different part of your body to her. You guided her mouth down to her neck, whimpering as you felt her lips lightly brush the skin.

“No,” she refused. “You have the blood of a wolf. You could die.”

“Without it, I surely will,” you gasped, air feeling further away with each passing moment. “Please. Try.”

You could only feel it as she nodded. It was so carefully that she nuzzled against you, as if trying to memorize what your pulse felt like against her cheek. However tonight ended, that was something she’d very likely never feel again. You managed to hush her quietly as you felt a tremble run through her body. Her hand came to clutch yours as you finally felt her part her lips against your skin.

“Vile,” she muttered, and you felt a small smile grace her lips. “I love you, my darling.”

“As I you.”

With that, her fangs punctured your skin. The world went dark around you.

*

You were sore when you woke. Mostly it was in your neck. You swung your legs off the bed despite it, desperate to go find the woman who must have been worrying. You found her in the living room lighting a candle. She turned to you before you even had a second to clear your throat and try and get her attention. She was on you in an instant, peppering your face in soft kisses.

“You stayed with me,” she whispered.

“I could never imagine life or death without you, Natalia. I had to stay,” you chuckled, kissing her back briefly. “So, what am I?”

She shrugged. “The woman I love. Is that not what matters?”

You chuckled lightly. “Of course.”

She smiled, bringing you to her, resting her head against your chest. You wondered if your heart had stopped beating beneath her ear, but it didn’t really matter. All that mattered was that you were with her, as alive as you needed to be. You couldn’t be in life without her, just as you couldn’t be in death without her. She was your everything, and nothing would be whole away from that.

You were snapped out of your thoughts when you felt her hand slide. It moved down your arm, across your side and your hip until it had slipped into your pocket, pulling out that shining piece of metal that resided there. She rolled the bullet slowly between two fingers, glancing at it with deep interest before handing it back to you. You took it in one hand, your other staying on her.

“I do not think it will work,” she remarked softly. “I think we have forever.”

You tossed the bullet out the window into the light of the waning moon. She pulled away from you. You watched as she moved away and picked up the splintering wooden stake that leaned against the table, smiling once at you as she held it out. She turned away, tossing it upon the roaring flames in the fireplace; the wood catching quickly and becoming nothing but fuel.

“Forever,” you hummed as she moved back into your arms. “Forever with you would be beautiful.”

[phoenix-downer]

The Princess of Light Chapter 3: Falling In

1800 words. Angst, Romance, Fluff, Fairy Tales. For SoKai Week 2021, Day 3.

Summary: Princess Kairi is cursed to be without love when she is a baby. She grows up cold and without a heart to help her understand other people’s feelings, no matter how hard her parents try to help her. One day, however, she meets a mysterious prince from a faraway world, and he just might hold the key to breaking her curse.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7

Now at last we come to the prince. He was from another world, one that was as hot as Princess Kairi was cold, with warm beaches and yellow sands and salty seas. Naturally he’d heard of Kairi’s condition, as that sort of thing is not something people can keep quiet about, but he had no plans to actually meet her. 

He was on his way to another world, in fact, when his Gummi Ship ran into an asteroid and he had to make an emergency landing on Radiant Garden. As fate would have it, his ship crashed on land the royal family owned, though of course he didn’t know this at the time.

“Ouch,” he muttered, rubbing his head as the engine sputtered and moaned and various things that shouldn’t be creaking creaked. “That could’ve gone better.”

But at least he was alive and in one piece. He’d need help to repair his ship though. Stumbling out of the beaten-down vessel, he paused to take in his surroundings. The most delicious scent hit his nose, fragrant flowers and pines, and water bubbled in the distance. A full moon shone overhead, and scattered moonlight danced through the trees.

“This must be Radiant Garden,” he said as he trudged through the knee-high grass. “If I say I’m a lost traveler, someone around here oughta be able to help me.”

The prince followed the sound of the water till he reached a small stream, then took a drink to refresh himself. 

“The water of this world really does seem magical,” he said as he scooped up another mouthful. It tasted delicious and soothed his parched throat. Cold and clean and refreshing. Just as he was about to scoop up some more to pour over his head, a noise in the distance stopped him. It sounded like a young lady crying out, and he ran towards her at once, as princes are wont to do.

When he made it out of the thicket, he spotted a pool of something shimmering and shining in the clearing. And in that pool was a young lady, and that young lady was Princess Kairi. She was laughing and giggling as she frolicked in the light, but of course the prince had no idea of this. Her laughter had no warmth to it, so he thought it sounded like cries for help instead.

“Oh my gosh, she must be burning up!” was the only thought in his mind, and he shouted, “Hang on, I’ll save you!” 

He dove in and scooped her into his arms, and this time she really did shriek, though not for the reasons he thought. He staggered out of the light pool as she kicked and struggled, yelling, “Put me down, put me down!” 

This he did, and she let out a loud “Hmph!” and smoothed her skirts. The grass beneath her feet was already turning icy away from the light, and she knew her skin would soon be “cold.” Of course it never felt cold to her, just normal, but this strange young man would no doubt have complained about its “coldness” if he’d touched her bare arms much longer. Especially if his hand turned to ice.

Now that she’d recovered from her surprise a little, she gave him a closer look. He was about her age, if she had to guess, and wearing clothes from some far-off world. They certainly weren’t the types of clothes people wore here on Radiant Garden. Too light and breezy for that. His spiky brown hair looked like he’d never taken a comb to it in his life, and his eyes were as blue as the sky. 

“What on earth came over you, yanking me out of the light like that?” Princess Kairi scolded. “Don’t you know it’s the only place where I don’t turn everything my skin touches freezing cold?”

His eyes widened as he put two and two together. “So you’re the cursed princess.” 

“Yes, yes,” she said, rather irritably. “I’m guessing you’ve heard of me wherever you’re from.” He wasn’t the first person she’d met who’d gawked at her, and he certainly wouldn’t be the last.

“I have,” he said, “I just… had no idea you’d be this beautiful.”

The prince was already quite taken with the young lady before him. Her red hair reached her shoulders, and her violet eyes were lovely despite their iciness. Without the curse, the princess was naturally spirited and fiery, and perhaps the prince sensed that and saw what she could be if she still had her heart.  

The princess hesitated despite herself. The prince did not seem put off by her manner; if anything, he seemed intrigued. 

“My name’s Sora,” he said, then bowed politely. There was something about the warmth of his manner that intrigued her as well. 

“Well, Prince Sora,” she replied, for she could tell by the way he carried himself he was a prince, “would you mind putting me back where I came from?”

“Oh, back in the light pool?” 

She nodded. “Yes. I’m afraid that I turn anything that I touch cold, and there are some very nice flowers and grass around us that I don’t want to kill by stepping back in myself.” 

Sora glanced at the ground, and the grass Princess Kairi was standing on had already withered and turned icy. Her feet were bare, and as such there was no clothing guarding her surroundings. 

“Oh, sure,” he said. “I’d be happy to.” 

“Just make sure you don’t touch my bare skin, or you’ll feel cold and get frostbite.” 

Sora held up his hand. “No worries, I have gloves.” 

He scooped her into his arms and noted that she was very cold indeed. But it didn’t matter all that much, for he climbed the little hill over the light pool and jumped in, plunging himself into its warmth along with Kairi. She was intrigued by this, for no one had ever jumped into the pool with her before. Sora had a big, caring heart, especially for someone his age. It provided the weight that she lacked in her heartless state, and that weight made for a much more exhilarating plunge than what she could ever achieve on her own. Soon they were swimming and laughing in the light pool together like old friends.

“Woah, this feels incredible,” Sora said, and he could see why the princess enjoyed it so much. He felt like he was bathing in liquid warmth, and that liquid warmth made him feel like he was floating. He’d heard about this pool before, but the stories didn’t do the reality justice. 

“It does feel nice, doesn’t it?” Kairi agreed as she paddled around.

“Wanna fall in with me again?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye. For the moment they’d fallen in together, he’d experience another kind of falling as well, and pairing the two sensations, the adrenaline rush from jumping off the hill combined with the rush from holding this lovely young lady in his arms, was the most enticing prospect he could imagine. 

“Sure,” Kairi agreed, and he grinned and scooped her up into his arms, carried her out of the pool, strolled back up the hill like she weighed nothing (for indeed without her heart she weighed less than most people her age), and jumped in the pool again as she shrieked with delight. This they repeated over and over again till Prince Sora was quite worn out. Then they just floated in the light pool, enjoying its restorative effects and how it was replenishing their energy bit by bit. They talked, too, about all sorts of things; their favorite books and stories, their favorite foods and the ones they couldn’t stand, how it felt to grow up as royalty. 

Sora was much loved by the people of Destiny Islands, but the people of Radiant Garden rarely got to see or interact with Kairi because of her curse. He felt sorry for her, because how was she supposed to learn how to rule properly without getting to know her people? And setting aside all the ruling stuff, did she really have any friends her age? Or even a sweetheart? She hadn’t mentioned anyone, and Sora was quite eager to know if she’d be open to his advances.

“Well, it’s getting late,” she said, before he could ask. “I should be going home before my nurse or my parents start searching for me.” 

“Please, may I escort you to the castle?” Sora asked. 

“You’d better not. My father is very strict with me. I don’t care two cents about what other people say, but I’ve been scolded for not ‘acting like a princess’ before, and coming home with a strange young man at night isn’t very princess-like.” 

She waded out of the light pool, leaving Sora feeling slightly deflated. He understood why her parents would balk at the thought of her coming home with a young man they’d never met, but he meant no ill. 

“Can I see you tomorrow then?” he pleaded. He didn’t want to leave without the promise he’d get to see her again. Any chance to spend more time with her, to get to know her better, was one he wanted to take. 

She paused, the light gently lapping at her bare feet. “If you’d like to come here again, sure. Falling in was fun. I’d like to do it again.”

He smiled. “Anytime.”

The princess felt a strange fluttering in her stomach that she chalked up to being hungry. That was her only frame of reference for such a feeling. None of her former suitors had lasted long enough to make it past her many barriers, and Sora had a smile that lit up his whole face and made his eyes look even more beautiful than they already were. 

He reminded her of the special pool in a way. Yes, that must be it. He was sunny and warm and cheerful like the pool, so of course her stomach fluttered the way it did.

“Oh, Princess?” he asked as she put her shoes and socks on. Not the proper use of her title, but somehow, she didn’t mind. 

“Yes?” she replied. 

“Where’s a good place to stay for the night?”

Kairi gave her recommendation based on what her parents had told her before, and Sora thanked her politely. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he said as he waded out of the pool. With that they bid each other goodnight, and Sora felt that he was very lucky indeed to have crashed on Radiant Garden this evening. He watched to make sure she made it back to the castle okay, then returned to his Gummi Ship for a few more supplies before heading into the castle town.

Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough. 

[seancekitsch]

Intended: Chapter 2

warnings: none i think??? talks abt betrothals and gender roles, canon witcherverse stuff

You arrive at the gates, half starved and littered in cuts and bruises. You cling to the dagger like it is the one thing keeping you alive. Foolishly, you had not rolled up the bed roll and taken it with you, so now your back bends at an odd angle filled with exhaustion and discomfort. After a stern conversation with the guards at the gates, the people of Brugge welcome you in. Lady Venzlav, the widowed sister of the queen, taking you in like an adoptive grown daughter. First thing she does is give you a much needed bath. She gives you new dresses, ones that go to the floor and do not show off your riding boots, ones that are suitable of a lady of the court and not of a vagabond or a traveler. You get new plaits in your hair gifts of jewelry from men at court to replace what you lost and as an attempt at flattery or courtship. For all intents and purposes, you return to your old life. Only, it's not. Your family, your home; it's all gone. You struggle to find new friends, a new place in the court despite Lady Venzlav’s encouragement and the welcoming of everyone else. But there is a twinge of pity in their eyes, and you feel it when your back is turned, you feel it licking at your back like the flames that Cahir- stop. You are safe. You are in Brugge; You can reinvent yourself as a Bruggian. You can forget the knight and the week in the woods.

Exactly a month and six days later, you find yourself waking from your fifth dream of the night in the black armor and his soft smile that used to make you swoon. These dreams are bittersweet, reminding you of the future that could have been, what you almost had. But they also stir up his lies. Cahir had looked you in the eye, kissed you, laid beside you and held you in his arms all while lying to him. He kidnapped you, but somewhere deep down you knew it wasn't meant like that. You know that every time you practice in your chambers, swinging clumsily with the dagger, sloppy movements in the mirror alerting you to all of your inadequacies. It reminds you of what else he could have taught you.

Lady Venzlav is a nice woman, if not set in her ways. She encourages the book reading, the writing, all of which you always loved. She encourages music and dancing, which are fine. But it’s the scripture and the belief of a woman’s place that tend to upset you. She believes you should be a good and dutiful wife, demure and obedient once you are betrothed to a suitor. She proactively considers you betrothed in her mind, and has been watching you closely. Had she known there was a dagger concealed in your stays when you had entered through the gates, especially a Nilfgaardian dagger, she would have had it destroyed. This was your big secret, one you were sure you'd be punished for if anyone were to catch you practicing combat with a weapon belonging to the enemy. The dagger feels heavy in your hand, it's a comforting heaviness, one that feels like safety and comfort. One that you can hardly bear to think about, for it reminds you of an embrace by a campfire. You're confident in your abilities, as clumsy and foolish as they might look. You had a good teacher, that you couldn't deny, and you know with practice you will only be better.

The dagger keeps your mind at bay. Your slashing and weaving in the mirror with a torn chemise and stays you kept hidden from Lady Venzlav making you feel strong and self sufficient like being on your own had made you feel. Lady Venzlav had been less than subtle about taking up your parents' mantle of having you married off sooner rather than later. Your status of a spinster did make you a questionable wildcard at court, and she already had several prospects for you. A small charity, she was going to let you pick from the possible suitors; all of them twenty years your senior, known for being womanizers or brutish, all abhorrent in their own special ways. Of course this is because you are an outsider. Although you may adopt the identity of being Bruggian, you are not, and you will not be afforded the luxury of a choice of Bruggian in your marriage prospects. Not that you mind better choices either, you intend to snub them all as you did the suitors in Cintra. Before your heart belonged to you alone, but now you fear you may have left it in the woods. You angrily throw the dagger to the ground, huffing at the thought of being resigned to the title of wife.

Cahir wanders alone. Heading slowly east, but mostly hoping to avoid any detection. He knows, should he be found to have failed his mission, to have failed to bring Cirilla back to Nilfgaard, makes him an enemy and a fugitive in his own right. He faces imprisonment, possibly execution, if he returns home. Truly, if he had just let the woman go, sent her to another kingdom or let her to her own devices, he might have been able to find Cirilla before she found herself with the witcher. He might have been able to succeed in the quest and been able to bring her to Nilfgaard, where he would have been rewarded and maybe even given a shiny medal or some other trinket that seems inconsequential now. But he knows that slim chance dried up like a stream in a drought, and now he walks in hopes of finding you, the one living soul on this continent that he would feel safe seeing, and even then you might run him through with that dagger when you see him. Cahir knows he would not blame you if you tried.

He had never, truly, intended you the harm or heartache he caused. He had realized the moment he entered Cintra that there was no good reason whatsoever a man like the emperor would want a little girl. Cahir always longed to be a knight, like the ones he would read about in legends and would play pretend as when he was a child. He wanted to be a hero, to help someone and be dashing and put his life on the line and return home with a hero's welcome where a nondescript beautiful lady would give him her favor and they'd fall in love, just like in the books. When he saw you, savage and hardy, the face of the woman he imagined as a child came into focus, features unblurred, sharpness set in. He knew he had to save you, even if he didn't fully realize what he was doing yet. He realizes the moment you leave that knighthood is no longer on his list of priorities. The moment he wakes up alone, his priorities in life become a humble one, wanting nothing but to be back by your side and to make you happy. Cahir is a realistic man, however, and knows traveling must be done by moonlight, and that if he is truly going to defect he must lose this armor somewhere along the way. He has been shunned from three towns he tried to search for you, and hopes none of them were where you were. There was one where he was able to work for a horse, and now saves his muscles riding. He has a good feeling about the next country over, about Brugge. This is where he heads now.

“Cahir, I mean to ask,” you start, a little nervous. What if he wasn't the man you knew him to be? The armor he wore did not reflect the gentle man he was. He nods, encouraging you to keep talking as he carves the fish he had caught earlier for dinner.

“Why don't you have the Nilfgaardian accent? You have the armor. You look the part, but you don't sound it.”

At your words, his posture straightens, a look of pride flashes across his eyes as he sets aside the fish to talk with his hands presumably.

“Ah,” he begins, “Beauty and extremely perceptive. That's because I’m not Nilfgaardian. I’m from Vicovaro.”

“Isn't that one of the Nilfgaardian vassals?”

“Yes, but it is also so much more.”

You can tell that this is a point of pride for him in the way he can't hide a smile, and the way his hands are already gesturing before his thoughts are fully out of his mouth. You fiddle absently with the hem of your skirts as he tells you of the beautiful sunny shores, the memories of the sun tanning his skin as a child, the magnificent sprawling schools, the beautiful ancient castles and lush greenery.  He’s proud of his mother’s homeland and to bear her name along with his own. There is a difference between Vicovaro and Nilfgaard, how silly you were to not know it before.

“Vicovaro,” you repeat, tasting his home on your tongue. You'd only known Cintra, though you know you weren't a born Cintran. The cold and wind didn't suit you, often spending the winter months hiding indoors by a fire and writing away in your journals.

“Maybe one day I can take you there,” he offers, truly meaning it.  You scoot closer to him, curling your fingers around his palm and bringing it to your lap.

“We could make it home,” you say, equally truly meaning it, “I’d follow you anywhere, Cahir.”

You lean in for a kiss.

Lady Venzlav’s screaming in the hall outside your chambers snaps you out of your memory. You scramble to hide the dagger back in your stays as her voice gets closer and what she says becomes more clear.

“It’s the army! The Nilfgaardian army, they’re riding to the gates!”

Again? Again you must flee from this army? Again you must watch your home and all of your belongings burn around you. Not this time, you resolve, you will not go down without a fight. There's no knight to kidnap you and spare you from whatever fate you face and that's how you want it. You tighten the laces on your boot and move across the room to fling the door open to find the lady your mentor.

“Nilfgaard is here? At the gates? We must fight!” you exclaim, head swiveling in search of anything to rip off the walls to help arm other women of the court if you were to need it.

“We must hide,” the older woman counters, no doubt remembering the sacking of Cintra, no doubt remembering the friends she lost. You decided it best not to tell her of the knight that helped you from the flames and the letter opener you’d swung screaming like a banshee and his gentle care in guiding you from peril, despite how you hope you'd never see him again, nor do you care what his fate might be.

“If hiding does not work, we need to have a choice,” you spit with finality, the scar on your collarbone looking garish in the torch light and reminding the good Lady Venslav of what you’d seen. She nods solemnly and goes further down the hall, no doubt to alert the other ladies of what they must do.

You, however, run to the window of the staircase at the end of the hall, the only one that gives you a view of the gate. There is exactly one knight on one dark horse making his way to the gate. Nilfgaard would never send just one soldier, you think, they are not in the business of parlay or envoys before an attack.  It has to be a trick, a trap, a diversion, but why? It's not any of those things, it dawns on you, and your heart lurches into your stomach. It’s him.

You descend down the stairs in a fury, blindly pushing past guards and other nobles on your way to any level that will grant you access and force your way through until you reach the servants kitchen. There's always an exit in the servants kitchen. You untuck the dagger and hold it tightly in your hand, like a lifeforce in its own as you push through the heavy door that leads to the grounds. The grass is muddy, no doubt from the cold misty rain of the evening, and your boots sink slightly, slowing down your hellpath to the knight.

He immediately spots you, skirts flowing and the same ethereal anger following you as the night he met you and the night he lost you. He halts his horse and waits for you, a smile gracing tight lips despite the snarl he sees on your own face. You stop several feet away from him, the man you visit every night in your dreams but  haunts your waking thoughts.

“Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach,” you address him with his full name, commanding attention you've already won.

“At your command, my lady.”

[padfootagain]

Fifteen Steps

Well, I asked you to choose, and you unanimously voted for Sirius, so here we go!! I hope you like this! Tell me what you think of it!

It's a mix of angst and fluff, because, that's the best mix you can have, right :) Nothing too dramatic, though, don't worry.

Gif not mine, as usual (I love this gif, I use it too much for angsty fics **devilish laugh**)

Word Count: 2936

Time is a strange thing. People tend to see it as a straight line going on forever, but it is not. It bends under the weight of stars and planets, it's stretched and compressed in black holes. It twists and folds up and changes shape, and it doesn't pass at the same rhythm everywhere in the universe. At some points it passes faster than others where it slows down forever until it's almost still. There are places out of time. And then, there is our own way of dealing with time. Our own way of feeling it passing through us, an unstoppable stream carrying us through life until we reach the deadly waterfall at the end of the river.

But if time passes the same way everywhere on earth it is not, on such a tiny scale that our planet is, in any way stretched by a nearby star or compressed by the weight of a nebula floating through the void next to us, it is because our own mind has a tendency to distort it. When we're bored it seems that time passes more slowly. When we're in a hurry, it flows faster. It is merely a trick of our minds, but it's pretty spot on and fools us all every time.

And Sirius knows it, but he won't escape the trick now either. Time slides around him in slow motion. And it's entirely your fault.

He struggles to swallow as he spots you in the crowd. He hasn't seen you in months. Not since he accepted this mission on the other side of the country. It was dangerous to say the least, one could have even said suicidal. That's why he broke up with you first.

He didn't want you to mourn him. He didn't need that. If he were to die in these mountains, he wanted you to go on with your life, find someone else, build a life of your own.

The thing is, when he left, he didn't think he would survive the mission. He didn't think he would come back.

So what is he going to do now?

Now that he is back in London. Now that the war is over. Now that Voldemort is gone. Now that the Death Eaters have fled. Now that he is free to have the life he wants. Now, what is going to happen to him?

He can hear Remus, Peter and James, all three of them on their way from tipsy to fully drunk, laughing behind him. He knows Marlene and Lily are close by. He expects to hear from Alice and Frank soon too. He drinks up the rest of his shot of firewhiskey, his grey eyes still fixed upon you.

You're laughing with Dorcas. You're smiling, you're laughing, you're happy.

You're happy without him.

He thinks about all these times he was hiding in the cold, all these nights he spent awake because he was too afraid to sleep. You were the only thought that got him through it all. You were what brought him home.

He travelled further down his memory lane, back to Hogwarts. Back to the shy girl that you were back then. Back to the long nights spent talking and eating cookies. Back to the afternoon walks across the grounds. Back to the secret conversations bathed in moonlight. Back to your arms wrapped around him as you soothed the pain holidays had brought onto him.

You have been guiding his steps through long nights for so long. He realizes then that it doesn't matter if he can't have you. You'll always be with him. It will always be you.

When he falls asleep, it is your face that will be drawn on his tired eyelids. When he wakes up in sweat after a nightmare, it is your voice he will hear to sooth his demons. When he wakes up, it is your eyes he will see first through dawn.

It is you.

It has always been you.

It will always be you.

He wants to go there, cross the room, and reach you. Through the euphoric crowd celebrating the victory against the Dark Lord, he counts the number of steps that separate the two of you.

About 15, he'd say.

15. 15 steps, what a ridiculously immense distance. It's only 15 steps, he could cross the distance in mere seconds, just a few strides, and yet it seems unreachable. Things could be back to normal, back to how they should be, and he could wrap his arms around you and forget about the rest of the universe and kiss you… Merlin, how he wants to kiss you… He closes his eyes and remembers how it feels. Your soft lips against his, moving with his like a dance you've mastered to perfection. He remembers how you taste. Mostly of joy, candlelight, parchments and rainy afternoons. Sometimes, you taste like stars too.

And how you smell, Sirius can remember your fragrance it now as he takes in a long breath. Chocolate, candles, parchments, soft sheets, blue skies, wintery wind.

He opens his eyes again, and they find your frame with ease, they have kept the habit of finding you in any crowd.

And you're smiling. And laughing. And you look happy.

It's the end of the war, the Wizarding World is free.

Perhaps he should free you for good too.

At first, he wanted to cross that ridiculous distance of 15 steps. But now, that he stares at you, he finds himself uncapable of doing so. After all, he did break up with you.

When he came back, he asked Lily about you, and she didn't mention any new boyfriend who would have taken his place. But then, how could he be sure?

He isn't sure it's the right thing to do now.

So he turns around, adds three more steps to these 15 that separate the two of you, and puts his glass down on the bar.

"I'm heading home, I'm knackered," Sirius informs his friends.

As expected, James and Remus argue that it's still early. They have won the war and are all still alive to celebrate it, they should get gloriously drunk. But Sirius shakes his head. And as his friends spot you in the crowd over his shoulder, they understand.

"You should talk to her. You could get back together," James advises, but Sirius sends him a glare that makes his friends fall silent.

"I'm very tired, I just got home yesterday. I need some sleep. I'll see you all tomorrow at Godric's Hollow, right?"

"Of course."

He can't walk out without hugging his friends, his brothers. So many times, he thought he would never see any of them again. And now, here they are, all alive and well and out of the war. He can have them in his life still.

But he can't have you. Not now. Not ever again.

He strides out of the bar in Diagon Alley. The street still bears the scars of the fights that raged here, the many shops that had to close either because their owners were scared, or killed, or mysteriously disappeared. It was empty during the last months of the war, but it's buzzing with people again. The main passage, at least. Families coming to celebrate the victory, many wizards and witches gathered to try and believe that it's all real. It happened. They're all free now.

But Sirius doesn't want to be surrounded with people, right now. So he walks down the road, as he knows that it will be much quieter there, and readies himself to Apparate.

Above his head, the stars shine a bright light, whitish against the inky sky for most of them. Stars too are a strange thing. Burning balls of gas lightyears away, and yet visible from here. It takes so long for light to travel these distances though, some of them are already dead when their light reaches the Earth. Sirius wonders how many have gone out already, lost in the cosmos, dying on their own, sending their light through space in one last spasm that won't be seen before several millennia. He thinks it's quite sad. They die on their one, with no one to see them disappear. And he knows how much it hurts to be alone, how terrifying it is to face death on his own. Maybe he does deserve that name of his after all, maybe, just like the stars, he was meant to fade away with no one by his side.

He's almost out of the crowd, he will Apparate in just a few seconds, when the voice that calls after him has the young man frozen on the spot.

"Sirius!"

It's you. Of course, he knows it's you. He would recognize your voice in a thousand shouts. He dreams of it every night.

He turns around slowly. He can't fake to not hear you. You're not stupid. There's no point in denying that you're here. It won't stop you from telling him whatever it is you have to say.

Are you going to shout? To cry? To slap him? He reckons he would deserve your rage.

You're motionless in the street as he turns to you, the lampposts shedding a yellowish light onto your shape, getting caught as glimmering droplets in your hair.

"Hey," is all he manages to say.

What else could he tell you? That he's sorry for what happened, but he had to protect you? That he thought he would never have to face this situation because he never thought he would come back alive? That he loves you so much it hurts and burns every cell of his body and consume his heart and soul?

What is the point?

But instead of being met by your anger, instead of the burning sting of a slap across his cheek, or terrible words screamed and spitted to his face, you smile.

You smile the brightest grin there is. One that lights up the dark so much more than any of these burning, old stars above your heads. One that blinds him so much he has to blink.

Sometimes, looking at you feels like staring at the sun.

Before he can move, you run to him, a proper, desperate run to throw yourself into his arms.

And then your arms are wrapped around his neck, and you're pressed against him and it's almost too much.

He has dreamt of this for months, and now… but… it isn't right, is it?

He can't manage to properly think now, not when your breath tickles the skin of his neck, when your fingers are running through his hair, when your warmth flows from your chest to his, when he can feel your heartbeat against his own.

So he just wraps his arms around you, and holds you close.

Maybe it's the last hug he will have from you. He expects then that when you break the embrace, you'll beam up at him and tell him about this new life you've built with someone else. He just hopes he doesn't know the man who owns your heart now. He was so proud and lucky when it was him who held it in his own chest. He never felt like he deserved it though, perhaps this new man is better than him.

He reckoned it isn't a hard goal to reach.

He can't refrain a smile. If you could read through his mind now, you would glare at him for thinking like this of himself. You've always insisted on him thinking more highly of himself. But seeds planted in one's childhood are hard to shush and destroy.

He pushes the thought away. None of this matters now. He holds you, for what he guesses is the last time. And he can't allow anything else to exist in his world, not for now.

You finally break the embrace and hold his face in your shaking hands, your eyes filled with relieved tears. And there it is again, that blinding grin of yours.

"Oh Merlin, Sirius… I thought you were dead! Why didn't you tell me you were back? How… Why didn't you tell me anything for five months?! Do you have any idea how scared I was?!"

"I couldn't. I was undercover. I couldn't put you in danger by writing to you. And they would have killed me if they had found out the truth. And I only came back yesterday."

"You really are a moron, you know that? You scared me so much!"

You burrow your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in him. Firewhiskey, leather, fire, danger and a bit of twilight. It's him. It really is him. No one can have this scent but him.

But he gently holds your upper-arms, slowly pushing you away to break the embrace, and you stare at him.

"Y/N… We can't…"

He sighs and changes his mind.

"Are you okay?"

"Now that you're here, yes."

"Don't say things like that."

"What do you mean?"

But he looks at you with a frown.

"We broke up, Y/N. You can't act like nothing happened, giving me hope like that…"

You break out into laughter, and he merely quirks an eyebrow. What the hell is going on?

"What, you mean… that fake excuse for a break-up you came up with? I'm not stupid, Sirius. You were just trying to push me away because you were leaving for this mission, that's all there was to that."

"How can you know?"

"You were crying on your motorbike. I know. I saw you by the window. Besides, it's rather convenient to break up with me out of the blue five hours before leaving for a suicide mission."

He could deny it, but what would be the point? You're right. About everything. He sheepishly looks down at his shoes.

"Are you mad?" he asks in a shaky whisper. "I just thought… it had to be done, but I didn't think anyone could come back from that mission. At least, if I broke up with you, you would… have not mourned me so much and you would have found someone else and… Have you found someone else?"

There are tears rolling down your cheeks now, but Sirius doesn't want you to cry. He's never wanted you to cry. He would do anything to bring a smile back to your lips, anything at all…

"You bloody idiot!" you shake your head. "Of course there's no one else. What do you think? That making a tantrum is going to make me stop loving you? Do you really think I wouldn't have been shattered if you had died simply because you broke my heart? I love you! It's not a question of being together or not, it's not a question of time passing by, or water running under a bridge. I love you. I love you so much. I'll never stop loving you. Nothing and no one can change that."

It's his turn to let a tear escape his grey eyes.

"So… no one else then?"

You shake your head.

"No one. Just you."

"I don't deserve you…"

"Yeah, you do. You're an idiot sometimes, but you're such a good man, and I love you so damn much."

By now, you're both a crying mess. There are strangers passing by around you, but you ignore them and they pretend like they can't see you. Only a little girl in a red coat asks her mother why you and Sirius are crying.

Because they're in love and they can be together now. That's all her mother answers. And it's quite right too.

"I love you too, you know?" Sirius whispers, running a hand through your hair. "I've missed you so much. But I thought… I saw you there in the bar and I… I thought maybe you… you were laughing and perhaps you were better off without me after all."

"Don't ever say something like that. I knew you were back. Lily told me yesterday. Trust me, I haven't laughed for all these months you were gone. I need you, okay? I don't want anyone else."

"I'm not perfect."

"I know. I just happen to love your flaws too. That's what they call real love, I reckon."

Finally, he wraps his arms around you again, burying his face in your hair, breathing you in, holding you so tightly it's hard for you to breathe but your hold on him is just as desperate.

"I do love your flaws too, Merlin help me with that," Sirius moans in your ear, making you laugh.

And it's a very strange thing indeed, time. It passes, an unstoppable flow that carries moments after moments in its wake. But sometimes, it stops. As if it understood that some moments deserve a bit more time than others. And two people loving each other is quite one of these moments.

So time stops. Oh, it will resume its flowing soon enough and make both of you move again, and soon dawn will break the stars above and replace them with a vivid blue sky. Strangers in the street will go home, and lie down, and repeat to themselves that the war is over, they can sleep without fear from now on.

But right now, time stops, just so you and Sirius can hold tightly on each other for just a little longer. The number of steps between the two of you is down to zero, just the way it should be, and Sirius intends to keep it that way for as long as he can.

***********************************

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[unlockthelore]

Need

On a chilly night, Hisui recollects, and tries not to freeze when he puts his thoughts into words.

From the series Yashahime Route on Ao3. For more updates, follow the yashahime route tag on this blog. 

Hisui smothered a yawn behind the seam of his lips as he listened to the frog’s croaking near the stream’s bank. Moonlight glistened over rolling waters and bathed the sloping hillside in its luminescence.

As minutes ticked by, he wondered why he hadn’t descended into sleep alongside the others near the campfire. Its copper glow barely visible over the knoll, but the tendrils of smoke curled to the starry night sky bespoke of warmth.

Hisui sighed, rubbing the underside of his arms to ward off the chill.

Cold threatened to slip into the crevices of his uniform but he hunched his shoulders, allowing the breeze to nip at his nape and ears. Hisui almost wanted to say that this was ridiculous. Any troublesome soul that aught to come their way would be foolish in thinking any of them to be an easy mark.

Nearly everyone in their group were armed to the teeth, almost literally. However, he couldn’t win an argument against his partner and resigned himself to a sleepless watch amidst the night’s gelid ambience.

Drawing his knees to his chest, Hisui braced his arms around them and gazed tiredly at the dense stretch of forest beyond. His thoughts wandering blithely to his mother’s gentle hands cupping his jaw as she warned him of the forests outside of their home. With a brazen attitude attested to the follies of youth, he proclaimed that he was unafraid.

Yet now, as he sat on the incline and studied the rustling leaves and shifting grass dancing to the wind - he knew it was not fear but caution his mother tried to impart.

He allowed his eyes to drift shut and imagined her hands on his face once more. This time, he was much older and could almost look her in the eye at his full height. Her smile warmed his chest and led him to try and stand taller and straighter.

Brown eyes, rounded with concern, as she glanced over him then tipped his head up further. Her lips, soft and warm in their caress, were sweeter than any words she could give him. They pressed gently to his brow then the swell of his cheek before ending at the tip of his nose.

Pressure built behind his eyes but he blinked it away, looking up to her as she held him. Her warnings weren’t voiced but Hisui needn’t hear them to know they were implied. What he wanted to hear from her, he wasn’t sure. His mother could have spoken a thousand words but if she had told him goodbye, he wasn’t sure how he would’ve taken it.

Nevertheless, the time for their privacy had come to a close. Once they’d stepped out of the safety of her quarters, they slipped into their roles as seamlessly as they’d done for the past four years.

She was no longer his mother, but the chieftain of the slayers, and Hisui was but another in her ranks. He didn’t mind as he wandered through the throng of slayers preparing for their own missions while they awaited word from their leader. Brief glances were tossed in his direction but upon noticing who it was, Hisui was quickly disregarded. It didn’t matter. He did his duty and followed orders just as they did. Even if their whispers showed skepticism.

Somewhere amidst the noise, his uncle found him and clapped a hand against his shoulder. The scar across his nose seemed shallower in the lantern’s warm orange light.

“Take care on your mission,” he said. “Stick to the trails as we know them and keep a watch throughout the night.”

The look on Hisui’s face must have given away his displeasure at the idea of a nightly watch. His uncle shook his head, a deep sonorous chuckle parting his lips with a smile that made the shadows around his eyes vanish and his face that much younger. Hisui heard his uncle had been a gentle boy in his youth, and that experience changed him irreversibly, but it was in his smile that Hisui felt he glimpsed the boy his uncle had been.

“I’ve already relayed the same to Setsuna,” warned his uncle as his laughter died, and any argument Hisui might have had was lost. “She may not seem like it, but I’m sure she’s nervous…”

Hisui couldn’t blame her if she was. They were often paired with Moroha when her wanderings with Shippō returned her to the slayer compound. To have the rambunctious girl in their midst was nothing new. However it was her companion, a young woman bearing a familiar face and name, that set them all on edge. It’d been ten years since Hisui laid eyes on Towa and she was scarcely anything like the girl she’d been. Foolishly perhaps, Hisui hoped it’d been the changes in her demeanor that left Setsuna puzzled to their connection. Alas they quickly found she truly didn’t remember her at all.

No amount of reminiscence and correlation to their appearance would sway Setsuna in her belief. In her eyes, she had no sister.

Disheartenment Hisui felt was mirrored on Towa’s face as Setsuna bared coarse words upon her head during their initial meeting. Still, emboldened by courage, love, or yearning to remain at her sister’s side - Towa refused to leave. It took a miracle for the two sisters not to come to blows, and Moroha’s assurances that she would bring Towa with her on her next journey to the village left Hisui with a sense of camaraderie and foreboding.

Now, the moment that was nigh upon them and he stared up at the lone figure of Setsuna standing beneath the stone and wood archway forming the village’s entrance. Her silhouette, untouched by warm pools of orange light and avoided by the slayers milling about, strengthened his resolve before his uncle imparted it upon his head.

With a firm squeeze to his shoulder, Kohaku said, “Look after her, Hisui.”

Those words reverberated in his ear and their echo whispered to him on the winds. Gradually, Hisui opened his eyes as he heard the quiet sshk-sshk sifting through the grass. His gaze cut right. The silhouette he’d regarded in his memories came into view as Setsuna wandered down the incline. She showed little sign of trouble with keeping her footing, her head held high and gaze focused somewhere amidst the skyline. Fur curled around her right arm flowed behind her in twin tails, almost ethereal in the moonlight.

Hisui sighed. He would have almost expected her to be a little less put together. When he’d left their campfire to sit by the bank, she had been leant against one of the trees still dressed in her uniform with Kanemitsu no Tomae laid across her lap as she dragged a whetstone along the pole arm’s blade. How the others had gotten to sleep with the grating drag of the stone across the curved edge was beyond him. Although, he’d hoped that she had gotten some sleep herself.

“Coming to watch the stars with me?” Hisui asked, not minding the cool sidelong glance she gives him. “Or relieve me of my duty?”

It must have been the latter because she stands beside him, a few paces between them, and moves no further. Stretching out his legs and arching his back as he lifted his arms above his head, Hisui sighed. The cold had already sept into his bones and they ached. Nothing new in the way of things but he couldn’t wait to curl up by the fire himself. Without a word exchanged between them in parting, he stood and turned to walk up the embankment.

Only a few steps were taken before he glanced over his shoulder, taking in the rigid line of her shoulder and her straightened posture. She was unyielding unlike the wind she commanded. A faint reminder of the yōkai in his memories who was as resolute as he was strong. No, Setsuna bore a stark resemblance to his wife. Though she didn’t smile as her mother did or dance beneath shady groves where a cool breeze played wantonly, her presence was comforting just as hers had been.

It wasn’t right to leave her alone.

His pinky twitched as the ghostly impression of another looping with it returned, pressure as they swung in the sticky heat of a summer night. Towa’s eyes bore into his own that night when they were barely more than four years old and she made him swear.

We’ll protect our home.

Four words she meant but when she looked away, her eyes were on Setsuna. Home, though she said, Hisui knew then what she meant.

If anything happens, you’ll protect Setsuna.

Hisui set one foot in front of the other so he didn’t slip as he tread, but instead of retreating toward the campfire, he walked back to Setsuna’s side. Violet eyes shifted toward him and her brow quirked. Hisui could imagine what sight he made shivering from the cold. If he had fur warm as hers and a resilience to showing his woes, then perhaps he’d appear as confident as well. Setsuna seemed to wait for something, whether it was for him to speak or otherwise - he didn’t know. But quietly, she returned to her silent vigil and Hisui shuddered at her side until the winds ceased their howling.

“Did you need something?” Setsuna asked, startling the croaking frog to leap from its perch on one of the bank’s smoothed boulders.

Hisui rubbed his hands up his arms then down, brushing his thumb against one of his mala’s smooth beads. “No, just enjoying the night.”

Setsuna hummed, and he knew his flimsy excuse didn’t convince her.

“I was only thinking…” Hisui trailed off as he felt his ears growing warm when she glanced toward him. “Its odd.”

She regarded him in silence then closed her eyes, her arms folded loosely across her chest and chin slightly tucked. An opening if he’d ever seen one. Glancing over her, Hisui wondered how long she had slept. Since they joined again with Towa and Moroha, she had been on alert, putting every bit of distance she could between herself and Towa while simultaneously keeping an eye on her. Setsuna didn’t trust her at all, and the strain it put on her wasn’t visible to anyone who didn’t know her beneath the armor.

Hisui doubted she even slept during his watch. She hardly slept in the village as it was. Preferring to exhaust herself with every training regimen imaginable until her body was rendered unable to go on, and sleep was the only recourse.

“It’s been the two of us for awhile now, hasn’t it?” asked Hisui, lowering his hands to his sides as he turned his gaze northward. It wouldn’t bode well if she caught him studying her after all. The lingering silence rolled in his direction was enough to spur him into talking though. “Moroha leaves often, and we only see Takechiyo when there’s a profit to be made. Training, missions, traveling, it’s just been… us.”

Hisui snuck a glance at her and started when he incidentally met Setsuna’s gaze. Her face, impeccably neutral as it always was, somehow radiated an intense inquisitiveness while giving nothing away. Hisui wisely kept mention of Towa out of the spiel despite desperately wanting to speak of her. It was only right. However, he knew Setsuna wouldn’t take kindly to it and the tension between the sisters seemed to be something that only occasional intervention, time, and their own relinquishment of pride could ease.

“Do you miss it?”

Hisui blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“When it was only us,” elaborated Setsuna. Her voice was quietened with an emotion Hisui couldn’t put to name, and though her expression didn’t change, Hisui felt a shift in the mood. As if there was an air of unease and doubt cast over them.

Hisui stared at her, then muttered softly. “Do you?”

Setsuna seemed shocked by the question and only the briefest widen of her eyes showed it. Then, her face returned to its neutrality and she turned her head away. Hisui felt his heart pounding and a twist in his gut. When she said nothing, and the wind’s howling filled the silence, his stomach fluttered and a slight smile formed on his lips.

“I was happy when it was only us,” he admitted, unsure if the slight twitch in her shoulders was from surprise or the cold. “And if we went back to that, I would still be happy..”

The years he spent by her side weren’t unhappy ones. Riddled with worry, guilt, unease, and hardships but there were moments of happiness which made up for all the ones devoid of it. Hisui thought to Towa and their promise and his smile fell.

If he protected Setsuna as he promised he would have, then would she have never lost her memories? Setsuna was extremely reticent about her feelings toward the void in her mind and Hisui neglected to push her toward seeking them out. He’d hoped with time, and perhaps new experiences, the old would return and they would gain answers of what happened that night.

Ten years passed, and while he hadn’t lost hope, his focus had shifted from rebuilding Setsuna’s past to helping her build a future. A focus that’d been shattered with the reappearance of her sister — and the start of a journey he was unsure they would ever be the same from.  

Hisui closed his eyes, the weight piled upon his chest lifting as he muttered, “But I’d worry.”

Once those words were set free from his lips, Hisui found there was nowhere else he could redirect the conversation. Setsuna eyed him. Her dark hair curling against her cheek where it escaped from her ponytail, the single strip of red catching his eye. He wanted to curl his fingers in it, brush his thumb against the red strands, just as he’d seen her mother do to them years prior.

It always seemed to bring them comfort then. Setsuna, moreso than Towa. There were few of his memories which were crystal clear but he did remember Setsuna curled on her mother’s lap while she combed her fingers through her hair. A pang of hurt and yearning coursed through Hisui as he met her eyes. She couldn’t remember. The presence her mother had, her father’s adoration for them - she could remember none of it.

Hisui refused to let the stinging heat behind his eyes give way to tears, blinking slowly. “If Towa and the others can find a way to give back what you lost, then…”

Pain flickered in Setsuna’s eyes for a split second and she tore her gaze away from him. “I don’t need them,” she said and he could see the beginnings of her shifting.

“I do…” Hisui demanded, feeling as if the breath had been punched out of his chest. “If what lies at the end of this will keep you from harm, then I need them…”

Setsuna would never allow herself to seem as if she were running, and Hisui wasn’t sure what he would say if he let her go now.  How couldn’t she understand? They stood there in the moment. Setsuna’s eyes closed, and Hisui looking down at her nervous and incensed. How could he make her understand?

Finally, Setsuna exhaled a sigh through her nose. “I don’t need you to care for me.”

Hisui felt a pang of hurt in his chest and for a moment, it was difficult to breathe. “I know you don’t…” he muttered softly, his right hand shifting to reaching out to her while the fingers of his left toyed with his mala. When he grasped one of the hanging beads, he pulled his hand back and let it fall to his side. “I chose to.”

Throughout it all, he knew that he could leave her side at any time. Perhaps he would have been in his right to. He was a young boy who didn’t know the gravitas of what was going on. However, every time he thought of going somewhere else, he would stop and wait for her.

Always looking to see if she were at his side.

Hisui tucked his chin and sighed, quelling his nerves with a few gulps of air. Slowly he crouched down in the grass then took up another seated position with his knees raised and arms resting atop of them. They said nothing to one another for awhile and Hisui couldn’t bring himself to look in Setsuna’s direction, unsure of what effect his words would have. A shree-shree of a cricket’s chirping filled the quiet and Hisui allowed it to lull him lightly, filling the fog in his mind.

He wasn’t sure when his eyes slipped shut but the next brush of cold nipping at his ears didn’t bite at his hands or his arms and legs. Hisui opened his eyes and started, staring down at the fur wrapped around his shoulders. Twin tails of it wound around him like intersecting blankets, covered the length of his torso and up to his knees where they hung near his hands. Furtively, Hisui glanced to his side where Setsuna sat with her arms folded. The length of her fur extended to where it wrapped around her back.

As if sensing him staring, she opened her eyes and looked at him pointedly. “Rest.”

Hisui smiled faintly, tilting his head. “You haven’t slept at all.”

“I don’t require as much sleep as you do,” she retorted, the quiet implication of the difference in their nature lingering in the open air.

It didn’t bother Hisui at all. Hanyō or not, Setsuna would always be Setsuna. “If you rest for my sake, then I will for yours,” he offered, shuffling slightly in the fur to make himself comfortable. He knew she wouldn’t like him lying on it though he wasn’t sure how well he’d fare sitting up.

The twin tails constricted around him and a flash of panic burned hot in Hisui’s chest as he was pulled to one side. His head resting flush against the pauldron of Setsuna’s armor, her hair tickling his forehead as she turned her head away.

“Sleep,” she commanded and Hisui could have sworn he heard the request beneath the firmness of her tone.

Hisui smiled and closed his eyes, rubbing his cheek against her shoulder lightly then settling with a sigh.

[audreyhheart]

Book rec! I recently finished the third instalment in Steven Saylor's excellent Roma Sub Rosa series, Catilina's Riddle. This mystery series is set during the late Republic in ancient Rome. The protagonist is a fictional sleuth named Gordianus the Finder. Saylor uses real historical events as the backdrop of each novel. Catilina's Riddle is about Lucius Sergius Catilina and the Catiline Conspiracy.

It's a very pro Catilina, anti Cicero take.

Among other important political questions, the book asks: what if Catilina was hot? Like really, really hot?

This is the historical fiction we deserve.    

“Catilina says, ‘A man’s palate was meant to experience every possible flavor, or else a tongue is good only for talking.’”

This struck me as vaguely obscene.

Gordianus is wary but we stan.

One of Catilina's men (a double agent for Cicero) wants to hide Catilina in Gordianus' house. He's worried about the effect this will have on his wife.

What would happen if I allowed Catilina himself to visit the farm, as Caelius desired? What sort of effect would that have on Bethesda? Catilina was well into his forties, barely younger than I, but he was famous for having the energy of a man half his age. And for all the insults that had been hurled at him, no one had ever called him ugly. In his own way he was as good-looking as Marcus Caelius, or had been once, for I had not seen him close at hand in many years. Beauty is beauty no matter what the gender. Beauty brings universal pleasure to the eye….

Are we still talking about Bethesda?

More than handsome, he was quite remarkably attractive, with an appeal that seemed to emanate from within him in some invisible way, outwardly manifested by the playfulness that lit his eyes and the smile that came so readily to his lips.

You're married.

Catilina arched an eyebrow. The gesture was typically patrician, but together with his chin-strap beard and unruly curls, it gave his face the shrewd look of a satyr contemplating an unprotected sheep.

So it begins.

I did smile, and even laughed a little, for the first time that day. I was suddenly at ease, as I realized with surprise. The change in my mood was because of the cool shade and flowing water, the respite from Aratus’s scowl and from the sight of Meto’s delight in the stream, I told myself. It had nothing to do with Catilina’s smile.

Sure Jan.

My favourite character, Gordianus' adopted son Meto, is a Catilina fanboy.

Meto drew nearer with a crooked smile on his face, a bit flustered at meeting such a notorious character. Catilina extended his hand, and Meto took it, rather too eagerly.

A subplot in this book is that Meto, sixteen, has come of age and will don the toga for the first time. But Gordianus still sees him as a little boy. He's not taking any chances around Catilina, who has a reputation for corrupting young men. In the baths:

I was not quite sure I wanted Meto displaying himself naked in Catilina’s presence. In matters of the flesh, Catilina’s appetites were said to be voracious and his self-restraint nonexistent.

Hide your sons!

But Catilina isn't left wanting. He has an extremely hot young lover named Tongilius.

His standards, at least, were rigorous, to judge from the sight of Tongilius in the nude. The young man’s sleek, well-knit athlete’s physique was of the sort to make boys jealous and older men sadly nostalgic, or else lustful. As I discovered in the baths, he was one of those handsome, charming youths who became more haughty with their clothes off than on. There was a trace of self-conscious preening in the way he lifted his well-muscled arms from the water, raised his chin, stared into the middle distance, and pushed the shimmering hair back from his forehead, like a sculptor smoothing and molding his own perfection.

Catilina seemed to approve of this gesture, for he watched it intently. Though their eyes did not meet, they smiled at the same moment, in such a way that I suspected that a secret touch had been exchanged beneath the water.

I ship it.

Meanwhile at the Senate House, Cicero tries to drag Catilina but makes his revolution sound lit.

“...what would Catilina and his boys do without their debauched socialites and whores to tuck them in at night? Perhaps, Cicero pondered, their notorious practice of dancing naked at parties had only been conditioning for the cold nights to come by the campfire.”

While hiding out at his house, Catilina tries to loosen Gordianus up and low key set him up with his boyfriend because he's all about free love.

“Tongilius is beautiful,” I acknowledged.

“Yet you do not desire him?”

“That would hardly be proper, would it, since I am your host and Tongilius is your companion?”

“Now who plays games with words, Gordianus? My point is this: if you have an eye for beauty, why do you not act on it? How can you resist?”

Please Gordianus enjoy my beautiful boyfriend, I insist.

“Catilina, you are incorrigible.”

“No, insatiable perhaps, but eminently corrigible. I am always ready to learn something new and to be corrected when I’m mistaken. You’d do well to follow my example, Gordianus. In this matter, as in others.”

“What matter?”

“The unreasonable restraint you show in your relationships with beautiful young men.”

There are so many bath scenes in this book I lost track. But there's one with Gordianus and Catilina where instead of taking a cold plunge, they decide to cool off by taking a naked moonlit walk. Catilina does this all the time of course.

“We would take a long walk around the block, naked and steaming, letting the wind dry us. It’s delicious, isn’t it? Rome is full of naked statues which offend no one’s dignity; why should a naked man? You might think it would have caused a scandal, but it didn’t. Would you believe that no one ever complained?”

“Had you not been so good-looking, they might have,” I said.

I'm—

I looked up at his heaving chest and the muscular arms crossed over it, his flat belly, his sturdy legs and the pendulous sex between.

PENDULOUS SEX

“You are resplendent in your nakedness, Catilina!” I said, laughing and trying to catch my breath. I gazed at him openly, and not without envy. “Truly, like a statue on a pedestal.” I felt a little drunk, not on wine any longer but on moonlight and the peculiar novelty of being naked out of doors. The wind had dried the steam from my body, but I was covered with a fresh sheen of sweat from the exertion of the climb.

Yes, it must be…the climb.

When Cicero has a group of Catilina's men executed for treason, Catilina is sent into exile and goes on the run. Gordianus' wife thinks it's too dangerous to harbor a group of wanted fugitives, but Gordianus won't let his hot friend go down like that.

“Wife, think of handsome Catilina and the beautiful Tongilius. Would you have them wither to skin and bones for want of a few bites from Congrio’s kitchen?”

Woman, think of how sexy these men are! We must help them even though it’s certain death!

Meto is all too eager to help.

“Food!” said Meto. “I almost forgot. What can we take to them?”

It's all fun and games and naked moonlit walks until little Meto runs away from home to join his fave in the revolutionary battle.

“What is he doing here? He’s only a boy!” I whispered.

“But he wants so desperately to be a man, Gordianus. Can’t you see that?”

Like father like son.

“Please, Catilina, don’t tell me that you’ve seduced him, too.”

He paused for a long moment then smiled wistfully. “All right, I won’t.”

[surrounded-by-superheroes]

Crave (Bucky Barnes)

Song for this series; Guns and Roses by Bohnes

Summary; The Asset.

Makes it sound like there was only one, doesn't it? One assassin, one soldier, one life stolen and taken over to be used as a tool for evil minds. There was never only one. Hydra's bloodstained hands, people called them. And once one's hands have been bathed in blood so many times, it's near impossible to look at the skin and not see red. Yet, when Hydra has been pushed out into the open by the Avengers there's the slightest flicker of hope for the asset left behind. You see, I never had a Steve Rogers. No one is looking for me. The only person I've ever had is the one I was trapped with, the one that's now free. The one who, if he finds me, I will surely destroy.

A/N; Hiya, been a while since I’ve posted anything original but I’m excited about this! O/C and Bucky Barnes. O/C’s aren’t things I do often, but I’m hopeful with this. With all this craziness with Tumblr, people have been freaking out, but I’ll be staying until this site shuts down. But, just in case, my Wattpad account is @kensy_lane There are longer stories on there and it is up to date. Hope you enjoy this new series! Please comment and reblog! It’s the only way I know you all like something.

Warnings; Blood, torture, mind control, dead bodies, it’s a rough chapter guys.

Words; 2,218

Crave Masterlist~~~Complete Masterlist

Chapter One

Old Friends and Memories

Dark. Humid. Wet.

Sweat drips off the ends of my hair to the floor and droplets stream down my back, neck, and arms. I do nothing to impede the droplets progress. It’s not in my nature to care about appearance. Metal and concrete are cold and hard on my body, but both are a relief. My limbs ache from an earlier mission, but I remain seated on the floor where I was placed. Mission complete, targets neutralized, I’d usually be put away by now.

“Hey, sweetheart. Sorry to keep you waiting.” I instantly stand at the sound of his voice and straighten into attention. My eyes don’t dare look up into his.

“This is a bad idea.” A man behind him whispers with an American accent and I don’t hesitate in meeting his eyes. Green eyes, brown hair, white skin, thin lips. His clothes tell me all I need to know about his standing here, as well as the heavy sigh given to him by the man in charge. When my eyes meet his he visibly flinches.

“Pity you think so, Dane.” The boss speaks with his own American accent and I drop my eyes to his boots as he steps in front of the young rookie. Usually, I’m working with Russians, so this is a change. This means something is happening. “Even more pitiful is that you think your opinion matters whatsoever here. Open the cage.” There’s a surprising amount of hesitation before the metal bars shift and open to reveal the small group of men. I remain stone-still until ordered otherwise.

“Sorry, sir.” The subordinate apologizes and I nearly smirk.

“Apologies don’t belong here, Dane. We don’t make mistakes.” He corrects him and steps inside the cage with me. “Shut the door.” The metal screams as they slide it closed. I watch his slick black boots as he walks in a circle around me, white hands with red knuckles hanging loose at his sides in confidence, black cattle prod strapped fondly to his right hip. “Head up.” Instantly I snap my head up and the group outside shuffles unsteadily. He keeps walking around me and I still avoid his eyes. I don’t have to see his face to call it to the forefront of my memory. Wrinkled. White. Aging blue eyes. Reddish blonde hair. Lips perpetually pulled down in a frown although I’ve seen him smile before. Usually with the cattle prod in his hand.

“See, she’s perfect.” He coos and stops in front of me facing his men. “Kneel.” Immediately, I kneel. “Open your mouth.” My jaw drops. He turns and nods satisfactorily at me. “Good girl.” He commends and I see the men outside smiling and elbowing each other. Suddenly I’m struck by a fist and I collapse to the side. My cheek thrums with pain, but I remain still on the filthy, sweat-covered floor. “We’ve reached perfection here. We’ve had great success with our two assets. One here, in America, meant to pave the way for the greatness of Hydra. One in Russia, keeping our assets there safe and furthering the cause we’ve fought hard to protect all these years. Now, it’s time we take another step.” He waves a hand and the door opens. He steps out and the group of fearful men scatter as someone else walks down the hall. Heavy boots hit the floor speaking of a weighted step. The expressions of the men outside speak of fear, apprehension, and…anticipation. “Stand.” The man in charge commands and I obey, not bothering to wipe the dirt off my cheek. My eyes wait and watch for whoever is coming just like the rest. When he rounds the corner, everyone but me takes a breath. Tall, broad, and dark is the man that emerges from the shadows as if he is one himself. Dark, greasy hair falls to strong shoulders and hands barely swing at his side. Dressed in black that’s a stark contrast to the white skin of his face but matches the scruff decorating his cheeks, he’s formidable. I recognize the clothing. It’s the same that I have on. It doesn’t take long for me to come to a conclusion.

This is the asset from Russia.

He takes two steps into the cage at a wave of the man’s hand, then turns back to the man in charge once he’s next to me. My eyes remain on my superior’s chest. “Arms.” He commands and we both raise our right arms in unison; wrists up. He steps forward with a gleaming silver syringe in his hands and takes my arm first. Ripples of fear and disgust roll throughout my body at his touch, but after the small prick and the injection of a sickly orange liquid, it’s done. He puts my arm down and trades his syringe for another. He injects the man to my side and once again hands the syringe off as he steps back. One of those rare smiles appears on his face and I feel unease swirl in my gut along with…something else.

“Welcome to the future.” He whispers as my stomach starts roiling. While he walks out and the cage shuts again, I fall to my knees with my arms around my stomach. “They’ll stay in here since the chemicals won’t work in cryo. You.” My eyes look up into his with defiance as pain rocks my body. Amusement dances across his face. “Make sure neither of you get out.” All I can do is gasp and dry heave since nothing’s in my stomach. Only now does the man next to me fall to his knees, but he’s still quiet. The man walks away among whispered congratulations and shakes hands with another down the hall.

“Well done, Pierce. Your work here will affect millions.” They exchange pleasantries as I finally fall to the floor and curl in on myself. My eyes meet the vivid blue of my cellmate and his eyebrows furrow at me. Something in them…calls to me. My hand shoots out and grabs his fingers, smudging dirt and sweat across them. Surprisingly, he lets me. Heat sears our skin when we touch and both our eyes widen, but we don’t part. He’s the thing I cling to as pain steals what sanity remains in me.

When it’s over, we’re not the same.

*Five Years Later*

                                                 Alexander Pierce

                                       August 18, 1936 - April 4, 2014

Hm. That’s it. Wish they’d put traitor on it too, but I guess I can’t have everything. Isn’t even worth the price of the headstone anyways. I take great satisfaction shoving my shovel into the dirt of his grave and shoving it to the side. It takes me a little less than an hour to hit the hard shell of his coffin. Dark, smooth, and still glossy, it gives me a little pleasure to chip the top with my shovel. Tossing my shovel to the side, I stoop down and take a deep breath before opening the top half. The smell of embalming and decay hits me instantly and I make sure to breathe it in deeply. I will savor every facet of this moment. He’s still relatively fresh, so I can easily make out his pale, wrinkled face, downturned lips, but not those eyes. I have no desire to see those eyes again. Relief washes over me so ferociously I sway slightly in the hole I’ve made. My hand shoots out and grasps a handful of grass to steady me while my eyes burn into his face. The face that has tormented my every step for all my life. After I’ve regained my breath, I bend down and rest my knees on the rest of his coffin so I can hover over him.

“Seems I’ve beaten you, old man. I outlived you.” I smirk and tuck back my wild red hair so it doesn’t touch him. Grimacing, I note my hands are shaking. Looking back at the corpse, I spit in his face and slam the coffin shut again, climbing out of the hole victoriously. After rolling my shoulders, I begin the process of reburying the scum. So, it’s true. He’s dead. A weight lifts off my shoulders at the revelation.

“What the hell are you doing?” My arm lifts and chucks the shovel metallic end first at the voice. His gleaming left arm snaps up and catches it easily. Sitting at a stone bench, he looks like some version of the grim reaper come to snatch me into the afterlife. Well. Many have tried and failed.

“You know why I’m here.” I sigh and straighten up, wishing I hadn’t thrown my shovel. It’ll be dented now. He stands and my breath hitches at the mere movement, my heart speeding up ridiculously. The sight of him is a salve to my heart and eyes after years of avoidance. My soul sighs it’s relief to be near him again and begs me to get closer. He walks over and tosses the shovel back to me.

“You had to see him dead yourself.” He says with understanding shining in those familiar blue eyes. Moonlight makes them seem slightly silver, also making his arm seem polished. Or maybe he’s just taken to polishing it these days.

“The real question is why you’re here.” I comment before continuing burying my monster, ignoring my body’s ache. He crosses his arms and sighs, leaving a puff of mist in his breaths wake.

“I’m here because you’re here. Wanted to see you.” He reveals and I can’t help but chuckle.

“We both know you could find me any time you wanted, James.” I shoot back and his lips curve up a little when I say his name.

“Missed you sayin my name.” He teases and I roll my eyes.

“Don’t start that.”

“Why not?”

“Because we both know it’ll lead to something we don’t want.”

“We both know that do we?” He questions and elicits another heavy sigh from me.

“I asked you to knock it off. You’re just avoiding my question anyways.” I point an accusatory finger at him and proceed in my mission.

His arms uncross and instead bury his hands in his jean pockets. “Thought maybe you’d be a little more open to me now.” James eyes me carefully so he can read every slight move I make. It’s irritating. I pause and lean against the shovel as my eyes run up and down his familiar shape.

“You seem good.” I comment civilly for once. “Are you?” His expression lightens when he gifts me a small, genuine smile.

“I’m better. Better than you, I’d say. Why don’t you come back with me, Rosie?” My eyes narrow at the use of the nickname, but my heart soars that he remembers it. I shake my head and finish the job as Bucky waits for his answer.

After wiping the sweat from my brow, I start heading back to the parking lot with Bucky at my side. “Don’t call me that, first of all. Second, it’s a bad idea. Third, I like being on my own.” He scoffs.

“You can’t say every idea I have is bad just because I came up with it. I’m not the worst strategist in the world.” He jokes as I watch him. It’s good to see him like this. The emotion in his eyes belies years of emptiness and the small smile on his face could almost make me forget that he was by my side during those years of abuse. “So, Rosie? Come back with me.” He emphasizes that damn nickname before reaching out and taking my free hand just before we get to the asphalt. Warmth spreads through me as the tiniest contact and his eyes shut a moment in relief. The shovel falls from my other hand from the shock of his touch but I can’t resist letting my fingers cling to him like sailors to a life preserver. I jerk my hand away as soon as I realize what I’m doing. My eyes consider his for a moment before walking over to my motorcycle and grabbing a pen and receipt from the bag on the back. I hold the paper steady as I write down my address, then shove it into his hand, careful not to touch his skin.

“Here. Next time you won’t have to surprise me in a graveyard.” I tease softly before mounting my bike and kicking back the kickstand. Bucky moves in front of me with the piece of paper held tightly in callused fingers.

“How do I know this isn’t fake?” He asks and I shake my head at him.

“You’ll know if you go to it and I’m not there. Now, I will run you over if you don’t move.” A smirk curves his lips up as he steps out of the way and I start her up.

Chapter Two Here!

[kyashidioctober]

A Moth in a Spider's Snare (hetalia FRUK)

Reading into the late night one evening, dressed in my evergreen nightgown, I saw a moth. It was a black peppered moth with a white body; it was beautiful. Gracefully drifting towards my candle light, but there was something in between my candle light and the beautiful moth; a shimmering spider’s web, and the moth was so entranced by the flame’s flickering glow that it didn’t notice the web. I tried to stop it and catch it, but every time it fluttered out of the way of my hands. I attempted in vain to save the moth and watched as it flew straight into the spider’s trap.

The poor thing only entangled itself more as it struggled in the spider’s pearly strings. When it struggled it only solidified its death more because now the sector spider, that had made this beautiful and elaborate trap, came down to meet the little moth that struggled in vain.

Slowly it encased the peppered moth in it’s silky threads until I could no longer see it. Then once the moth had finished its struggling and accepted its fate the spider sunk its fangs into the innocent moth and like that the moth’s life was no more.

I sighed and watched as the spider enjoyed it’s meal then slink back into its hiding spot to wait for another innocent creature to fly into its embrace again.

I sighed. I was at another ridiculous ball, but luckily I was with a friend this time. Amelia Grace, a very excitable young woman that had many men after her affection. Tonight Amelia was dressed in a very fancy evergreen silk ball gown with black velvet gloves, as always, she liked to flounce around and let everyone know that she had money.

On the other hand I was dressed in a simple white ball gown with ebony lace trimming. Nothing too fancy, but my name was so well known that I didn’t have to dress up to let everyone know I had money.

Amelia came back to me and grinned, “oh Alice! Don’t you think you’re being a bit boring just standing there taking sips of your champagne? Were at a party in Paris, Paris!” I rolled my eyes, yes it was another simple party, nothing exciting about it. I had been to far too many to be excited about parties, I would've preferred to be back in England at my summer estate in my library reading.

“Yes I know that, and this is not champagne, this is water.”

“Realy?! You’re drinking water at a party full of wine and booze?!”

I glared at her then sighed “yes, you should know my family well enough by now that you know that none of us can hold our liqueur.” I grumbled to her. She rolled her eyes then gasped. “What?” I questioned turning my gaze to where hers was. My emerald eyes clashed with a pair of sapphire blue ones and I realized with a start that the host of the party Francis Araignée one of the wealthiest bachelors in France was staring at me.

I looked over to Amelia and she was smirking at me, “what?!” I snapped “it looks like someone’s got a bit of a crush~” she cooed. My face turned red from embarrassment. “Wh-what?! N-No! I-I-I-” I continued to stammer on until Amelia’s smirk grew and she took out her green fan with its black fluffy tips and unfurled it in front of her face then turned away.

At first I was confused but then I heard a deep and smooth voice behind me “bonjour.” I swiftly turned around startled by the sudden voice, and there standing behind me in a dark blue winter suit, in the middle of summer, and black pants. His blond hair was tied back by a navy colored ribbon and it gently fell down just hardly touching the end of his neck.

He had a small bit of stubble over his jaw and his blue orbs were even more piercing up close. My heart fluttered and I could feel my cheeks turning red, “ah um, b-bongour.” I was horrible when it came to needing to speak French with anyone, but if it were on my own with my tutors or when I was at least calmed down! I could speak French without a problem, but this was not the case.

“Hmhmhmhm, you are not very good at speaking my language, no?”

“N-Not at th-the moment.” I blushed cursing myself for being so nervous.

“Hmhmhmhm, there’s no need to be so scared mon cher~”

“Oh bloody god he-he really just called me hi-his- oh- oh god.”

I cleared my throat and tried my best to calm my nerves, “sorry, that was quite rude of me, stuttering and acting so scared when there’s nothing to be nervous of.” I smiled politely and a beautiful smile came over his face. “There’s no reason to apologize, I actually found it quite endearing and cute of you. Ah, where are my manners, my name is Francis Araignée.”

Francis bowed lowly, took my left hand, and kissed my ring fingers’ knuckle. I felt my face turn a dark shade of crimson “u-umm. Kmhm, Alice. My name is Alice Ignatius a pleasure to meet you.” I curtsied and looked towards the ground then glanced back up to him, “my my, Alice Ignatius? How is it that I’ve been blessed to have you come to my humble ball?” He chuckled playfully.

I smiled sweetly “I was dragged here against my will by my strong willed friend Amelia,” when I mentioned that I hadn’t wanted to come in the first place Francis looked truly decimated, “but I’m beginning to be thankful for my friend bringing me here. The party’s seemed to become more enjoyable now that you’ve joined me.”

Francis looked like he was about to pop with joy knowing that he had made the party more bearable for me, even though I would've been fine. We quietly talked with one another and shared our enjoyments and our distastements.

Francis even convinced me to come out to the dance floor and join him in a dance. The dance ended up being a slow dance and all I could do was fall more and more helplessly in love with this man.

The dance had ended and Francis had left me for the moment to go and get us some drinks when Amelia came up looking quite worried. “Alice! Alice we need to leave now!” I was taken back not just twenty minutes ago she was happily dancing and enjoying herself.

“What? Why?”

“Mr. Araignée isn’t who he says he is! We need to get out of here.” She whisper yelled.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s a killer, he’s like the Jack the Ripper of Paris!”

I was taken back, Francis was a killer? Like Jack the Ripper? My Francis was a murderer?! No! I wouldn’t believe it! He was so kind so sweet so gentle and… and loving. “Amelia I’ve gone along with your charades before, I’ve believed whatever strange stories you’ve came up with, but this, this I will not believe.” I huffed,

“Mr. Araignée is nowhere near the standard you’ve made up.”

“What- no you’ve got to believe me! He’s not safe, and you’re his next kill! I just-”

“No. I will not believe you. You are making up some strange and absurd story to get me to leave so that you may steal him from me.” I snapped angrily.

Amelia looked taken back, I had never snapped angrily at her. I had always indulged her and her sister in their ridiculous stories, but this was stepping over a line that wasn’t meant to be crossed. I turned away as she attempted and tried in vain to get me to leave, but I wouldn’t, my Francis was no killer.

Sighing I found my way outside. I could hear that the party was beginning to die down, and I knew my friend had left and that meant my way home had left to. I leaned against the white railing that looked out over a beautiful garden that reminded me of my own. A gentle smile drifted over my lips and I gently began to hum a Celtic lullaby that my mother had taught me. “Mon cher what are you doing out here?”

I yelped and turned around, there he was my Francis. “Oh Mr. Araignée it’s just you.” I giggled covering my mouth while I did so. He gently took my hand from my covering my lips; I was confused when he did, “please mon cher call me Francis, and please do not cover up your beautiful face.”

My cheeks turned red and I smiled. Francis gently pressed his hand on my cheek and I hesitantly leaned into his touch.

“Mon cher?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you have any way of getting home tonight?”

I thought for a moment. Amelia was most likely gone, and what she had said really did rattle me, and I guess I could just grab a buggy to get home, but,

“No, my friend and I got into a bit of an argument earlier and I believe she’s left me.” A gentle smile came over Francises lips,

“Then mon cher would you like to stay the night here?”

I was more than delighted to stay the night, and Francis seemed quite happy as well. He lead me back into the ballroom to find it completely deserted, the lights put out, and bathed in the cold but enchanting blue light of the moon. Everything was meticulously cleaned and put away and it looked as if there had been no party at all.

We made our way through the house and he showed me everything. Our arms were hooked around one another's as we made our way through the house, but by the end of the tour my hand was in Francises and his in mine.

Francis and I were in the sunroom, and unlike most sunrooms the whole room was completely made of glass! The icy blue moonlight streamed down and carefully landed on his face that was steadily gazing out into the night, and I could hardly retain the small gasp that came from me.

At the sound of my gasp Francis turned his head to look at me. His bright blue eyes glowed in the dark and his gently tanned face looked pearled in the moonlight. He looked at me in a confused manner “mon cher what is wrong?” I couldn't look him in the eye and I could feel a bright red blush cover my cheeks, “nothing’s wrong, it’s just that you look quite handsome in the moonlight…” I trailed off, I knew women weren’t meant to speak their thoughts but I couldn’t help it, and I didn’t regret saying it either.

A soft chuckle came from him and he gently tilted my chin up so I could meet his gaze. “Thank you for the complement mon cher, you look beautiful as well,” and the next thing I knew he kissed me. It was scandalous, I know, but I couldn’t help but kiss back. This was my first kiss, and I was more than happy to give it to him.

His lips were soft and gentle, but they were cold. It was a strange feeling, feeling something that you would think to be warm be so cold, then I noticed it, his whole body was cold. No wonder he wore a winter suite in the summer, he must have been freezing.

Slowly pulling back we gazed at one another, a gentle smile climbed onto his face. “Mon cher, I love you.” I was speechless he loved me, he loved me! I couldn’t stop the shimmering tears from slipping down my face, “I love you to Fran-” I was cut off by a staggering pain in my side. I stepped back to find a dark red blotch growing in my gown.

Gasping I looked up to Francis and he had a dark and twisted gleam in his eyes, a dagger in his hand, and a charming smirk on his face. “Mon cher, what’s wrong?” He crowed. He began to step forward and I turned and ran. A dark laugh followed me as I clutched onto the bleeding wound,

“You may run mon cher! But I will find you and I will get you!~”

“How could I have been such a fool?!”

Somehow I found my way to the entry way and I desperately flung myself at the door. I pulled and pushed but the doors were locked. Things began to spin and fuzz around the edges, and then his evil laugh sounded behind me. I could feel his breath on the back of my neck, and I could feel him twisting a lock of my long hair playing with it.

“It is a slow acting poison that will take away your sight my dear then slowly kill you~ Hmhmhm~ The doors are lock and the windows are barred you are trapped my dear, and there is no one here to help you~”

“You are a monster.” I slurred as I turned to face him.

He was beautiful, and I knew that I would never not be in love with him. I had fallen helplessly in love with a beautiful and sadistic man. The smirk on his face grew,

“Your little friend was right about me. She saw me kill one of the guests, that is why everyone left so soon. The officers came and arrested an innocent man that I framed;”

When he stated that he was the one to frame the man he put his hand on his chest then flicked his wrist and hair, obviously proud of what he’d done,

“you were so lost in your own world that you didn’t even notice when your friend attempted to get you, but she was not allowed and of course the officers stopped her and sent her home~”

“You. How dare you!” I roared and punched him.

He stumbled backwards obviously taken back by the act of violence, and while he was taken back I ran, well more of stumbled, away. I didn’t know where I was, but I knew he was behind me, and that’s what kept me going.

The poison was getting worse; the spinning was becoming faster and now everything was fuzzy. Colors slowly began to fade as my head began to feel more and more like a fish bowl.

Until finally, I could no longer see.

Now Francis was toying with me, he was drifting just close enough so that I could feel him. A brush of his hand against my cheek, arm, or hand, a gentle gust of his breath against the back of my neck, a soft whisper in my ear. I had no idea where I was going, but all I knew was that I had to run.

My footfalls began to echo and I knew where I was; I was in the ballroom where everything had began.

I felt like I was in one of my horror novels, I could tell that if anyone of the authors that’s beautiful poetry were writing my story this would definitely be one of Edgar Allen Poe’s works.

While my mind had drifted off one of my feet caught the hem of my dress and I fell. “Ahh!” Catching myself I could hear his footsteps behind me. My head whipped around and I felt his hand on my cheek. He lowered himself down to me, and my blind emerald eyes glowed in fear. Tears began to fall from my eyes and drift down my face.

“Oh mon cher~” his voice was soft and sounded like he was hurt looking at what he had done to me, but I knew, he held no remorse for me; this was his favored part,

“Spare me your taunting Francis, I know I’m going to die.” I spat at him.

“Hmhmhm~ even when you are moment’s away from death you are still a burning fire~ I truly wish that I did not have to kill such a beautiful creature…” Francis mused as his frozen hand stroked my cheek lovingly.

I was taken back; my mouth hung open like a fish’s,

“But alas I have no other choice~ the monster must be fed~”

Francis leaned down and captured my lips in a hesitant kiss, unlike our first there was regret in this one, and I nearly fell for his fake love again. He could cover everything in honey and make anything beautiful but even though I was blind I could see that he was a psychopath, and he held no love for me.

“Je t’aime Alice Ignatius~”

The next moment I felt a sharp pain rip through my heart. Pain seared through my veins, due to his poison, but then quickly faded as things became cold. I began to hear less and my sight was already gone from the poison, but I felt Francis stand and begin to walk away.

The vibrations from his foot falls rippled across the dance floor like music, as he retreated my hearing faded away with Francises vibrating footsteps.

Collapsing onto my back I looked over to where I thought he was,

“N-no...”

Francis stopped and turned around as her weak voice echoed around the room and attacked him. He was taken back none of his other victims had ever spoken in their final moments, had ever lasted this long with his poison running through their veins.

He was stunned to silence as a broken but triumphant smile came over her cooling lips his eyes were wide and a look of fear shone in them.

“No you don’t…”

With those few words said death stole her away and brought her to a kinder land, and Francis Araignée staired in fear at the glassy green eyes that shone as bright red blood stained the white gown and the golden hair of Alice Ignatius.

He turned shaking his head telling himself that she was dead and gone, that she was another successful kill, but he could feel those, her emerald eyes burning into his back as he retreated into the dark hall, and a cool chill washed over him as he faintly heard her soft giggle drift and ripple through the air, and a gentle hand barely held his cheek only to slip away ahead of him.

[upstartpoodle]

Bad Tidings (Chapter 2)

Rating: G

Pairing: George x Elizabeth

Summary: The second chapter of the banshee AU, in which disaster falls on the day of the Queen Charlotte's maiden voyage and Elizabeth contemplates her encounter with George on the moor.

Previous chapter

Chapter 2

The ride back to Truro had been as long and as tiresome as George had predicted, and made him wish that he had just taken the carriage to Bodmin in the first place, as Trigg had suggested. This was not least because of the strange encounter that he had had on the moor. Once he had put enough distance between himself and the place where he had seen the peculiar woman, he had vowed to but it out of his mind and not to think on it again. Unfortunately, he had broken that promise to himself not moments later, when he found himself mulling it over in his head anyway. It had been nice, just speaking to her, his treacherous brain conceded as he did so, for all that her last words had cast something of a shadow over the conversation. He couldn’t remember the last time he had ever talked with someone so easily and openly, aside from Francis, and even their time spent together had become a little fraught recently, in part due to the difficulties his friend was having in his own life and also—if he were to be honest with himself—because of his ever-worsening feud with Ross.

Yet despite this, he could not help but be unsettled by her last words, not to mention her sudden disappearance. Whatever could she have meant by them? Perhaps, he supposed, she had intended to refer to the now infamous confrontation between Matthew and Ross during the ball at Cardew, where his cousin’s dishonest conduct had been exposed, but somehow, George did not think that could be the case. While talk of the event was rife amongst Cornwall’s gentry, the majority of whom had been witness to it in some way, he doubted that this strange woman would have known a great deal about the matter, and besides, the tone with which she had said those words hinted that her consolation had been for something of a far greater magnitude than a little social embarrassment. Well, either way he could not make head nor tail of it, and there was little use in lingering on something so bizarre, for all that his mind desperately wanted an answer to the mystery it had been presented with.

He arrived in Truro just as the afternoon was beginning to fade into the evening, tired and a little confused but, overall, none the worse for wear. Being the end of summer, there was still plenty of daylight to be had, and the sun was warm and bright as it beat down upon the harbour, where a cool, salty breeze blew in from the sea. It was to here that George headed, where his uncle and—hopefully well—cousin had said they would be waiting for him. As he walked along the harbour wall, enjoying the caress of the sea air on his face, so different to the harsh winds up on the exposed moor, and taking in the creaks and groans of the ships, the shouts of the men as they busied themselves with some task or other, and the smell of saltwater and seaweed that he was long accustomed to, he couldn’t help but feel his mood lift a little. He had always been attached to Truro, and right now, its uncomplicated familiarity was something of a comfort to him.

“Cousin! Haven’t been lost to the wilderness, I see!”

George turned to see the approach of Cousin Matthew, Uncle Cary following shortly behind with a habitually sour expression plastered across his sharp features. George smiled in greeting.

“I trust that I am sufficiently capable of following a path in broad daylight without getting mired in some bog, Matthew,” he replied drily, taking a few steps forward to meet them. “How are…?”

He trailed off, the inquiry half-formed on his lips. He found himself quite unable to complete it, however, for he had just noticed something rather alarming—something which he couldn’t quite believe he was seeing.

“George…are you well?,” Matthew asked him. “Good God, you look as if you have seen a ghost.”

George blinked up at him, taking a moment to register what he had said. Once he did, he shook his head slightly in a vague attempt to clear it, dearly wishing that, with such an action, he could dislodge the undesirable train of thought that was rapidly taking root in his brain.

“I…I am fine, Matthew,” he lied, perhaps not as convincingly as he would have liked, not least because his eyes were still firmly fixed upon the cause of his sudden distress. “I am simply a little tired—that is all.”

“So tired that your attention has been taken entirely by my waistcoat?,” returned Matthew wryly. “I was pleased with the purchase myself but even I do not consider it to be that arresting!”

George shook himself and, with some considerable effort, tore his eyes away from the man’s attire and up towards his face.

“Oh…forgive me, cousin. It seems I am a little distracted this evening.”

“That much is clear,” groused Uncle Cary, who had, up until now, been watching the exchange with no small measure of exasperation. “But perhaps if you can bear to redirect your attentions towards more important matters, we have business to attend to.”

“I…yes, uncle, of course” George replied, seeing the dangerous glare the man was throwing his way. With a put-upon “hmph”, Cary turned and strode swiftly away. Matthew and George followed, the former amused and the latter disquieted. It was perhaps well that neither his uncle nor his cousin had seen fit to properly dwell on his momentary lapse, he considered, for if they had known what thoughts were currently racing through his mind, they would surely think he had succeeded in overtaxing himself to the point of inducing temporary insanity. George himself was not sure what they could possibly mean, but one thing was undeniable: Matthew was wearing the very same clothes that he had seen in the grasp of the woman in the moors.

The moon was huge in the sky above Bodmin Moor that night, its silvery light drowning out the twinkling stars that sat alongside it in the deep black sky, and illuminating the rolling expanse of the land beneath it so brightly that any traveller who might have been treading the old paths would have needed no other aid to show them the way. There were, however, no travellers abroad on the moor at that time. The only person in sight was a lone figure—that of a woman—making her way along a thin, winding stream towards the rocky tor sat in the middle distance, silhouetted against the moonlight. She was a tall woman, slim, elegant and—to any human observers that had seen her in the past—dressed rather strangely. Amongst her own kind, her attire would have fetched little comment, however, for all that it was rare to come into contact with another of her people—nor, indeed, all that desirable.

The woman sighed, hiking up her muddy skirts as she began to make her ascent up towards the top of the tor. She didn’t feel the cold of the sodden peat seeping between her toes, nor the pain of the rough stone under the unprotected yet unblemished soles of her feet. In truth, she felt very little at all in that regard—she herself was not a creature of warmth, and was thus all too accustomed to such things to take much notice of them even if she were able to properly experience them. Sometimes she wondered what it would be like to feel those things—humans were such fragile creatures (the consequences of which she was all too intimately acquainted with), and she did not know how they could bear to be constantly beset by sensation—but now was not the time to think those thoughts. Not out here on the moor, basked in moonlight.

With some small effort on her part, the woman reached the top of the tor. She stood silently for a while taking in her surroundings from her vantage point, bathed in silver and drained of colour in the darkness. This was, by all rights, her time—deep into the night—but, for all that she could appreciate the beauty of it, it was not something she could revel in. It was too bleak, too empty, and though there were many who claimed that that, according to her nature, should please her, she found no joy in her solitude.

As she stared out over the dark horizon, there was not another soul in sight, living or otherwise—none to see her disappear as she passed straight through rock and into her concealed home, her own little pocket of space that was adjacent to put not quite part of the world above her. It resembled a cave of sorts, firelit and spacious, shadows dancing over the small treasures and magical objects that she had collected over the years, housed in grooves that had been cut into the walls long ago. Between those walls hung several thin cords, adorned with the shredded fragments of the clothes of those departed, and in the far corner sat a basket, filled with the garments of those condemned, ready for her to prepare for their passing.

It was to this item that the woman made her way to, a grim sigh escaping her lips. She had never liked this duty of hers, though she never shirked from performing it. Humans died so easily—so frequently—and each time she was there to prepare for their departure from their mortal coil. Sometimes it was disease, sometimes starvation. In other times it was simple age, or a foolish accident. Worst of all, sometimes they were killed by their fellows, or had killed and were paying the price according to their people’s laws. With each death, she would wash the clothes of the condemned, tear them up and hang them up in her cave in their memory. With each death, she would sing for them in warning, but it would never be listened to, or even understood—death did not like to be robbed of its prize once it had singled it out, and there was little she could do to change that.

She had been kept particularly busy recently, much to her dismay. A dangerous, fast-spreading illness had gripped her territory with an iron fist, and she feared it would only deign to release it once it had taken a good half of the county’s human population with it. It was horrible, seeing the grieving families, or finding that an unusually small piece of clothing had entered her basket, the soul of its infant owner ready to pass on before they had even truly had the chance to live. Her mother would have advised her not to care, as so many of her kind chose not to, but for all she tried she could not do it. She loathed it—both the events themselves and how powerless it made her feel, for she knew that, for all the magic and knowledge that she had at her fingertips, attempting to temper death would have had as much chance of success as trying to turn back the tides.

Smoothing down the front of her dress in an entirely unnecessary motion, the woman sat down on the floor next to the basket, staring darkly into its contents. The once pristine white shirt and fine navy waistcoat only served to remind her of one of the reasons this melancholy line of thought had been triggered in her once again. The image of the young man she had met on the moor swam before her eyes as she stared morosely down at them, and she swallowed thickly at the thought of him. No human had ever spoken to her before. Most who saw her chose not to linger, knowing what she was and what that meant. The remainder, who were unaware of what manner of being she was, did not care to halt their journey to stop and converse with a strange woman washing shirts out on the moor, and paid her no mind. And yet he had been different. He had not only spoken to her, but had shown concern for her wellbeing, however misplaced it may have been. She had been stunned by it at the time—so unexpected had it been—and with the shock of having been spoken to by a human still lingering in her mind, her thoughts now refused to do little else but dissect the entire encounter in the minutest of detail.

It couldn’t have been plainer that he had not recognised her for what she was, nor what her actions had signified, but that, as far as she could tell, was not unusual amongs some of the wealthier humans. It had, however, filled her with a horrible guilt which, try as she might, she had not been able to rid herself of. She had enjoyed his attentiveness, enjoyed having somebody else to talk with for once, all the while clutching the clothes of his soon to be dead cousin in her hands. Perhaps that had been what had prompted her to give him her condolences, for all that he would not understand them until the event itself occurred. Once he did, he would likely guess what she was, she supposed, and with a disappointed stab in her gut, she realised that she would probably never see him again.

Well, she thought to herself with another heavy sigh, it had been nice to have a little company, if only for a time. But now, staring down at the clothes of the young man’s cousin, she had to concede that it had only made her duty harder. Before, she had cared out of principle, due to the idea that the loss of life before one’s time was inherently repellent, but now that she had met and spoken with—and indeed rather liked—a loved one of one of the men condemned to death, it felt so much more awfully repugnant to her, almost as if the man’s blood, and with it his family’s grief, were on her hands.

It didn’t help that he, as far as she could tell, had had more than his fair share of grief. She, like all others of her kind, could see the passing of loved ones in the lives of all humans, and from this she knew that death often had its favourites among certain families. This young man’s family, unfortunately, seemed to be one of them. She could see that he had lost both his parents as a child—a highly unpleasant but not uncommon occurrence amongst humans, for all that she wished it were otherwise. Staring up at the lines strung with fabric—memories of those who had already passed—she wondered how that must have affected him—while she could see the bare facts of what had happened, she could not see into men’s hearts. She could guess though, she reminded herself as she thought of the muted, lonely look in his eyes that she had seen far too often in her own reflection. Would the death of his cousin worsen that look? Yes, yes she thought it would. Humans valued family far more highly than her kind did after all.

Scowling, she shoved herself to her feet, staring around at her empty, empty surroundings. She hated it—hated that she knew all this, all these deeply personal parts of his life, simply through the virtue of what she was, and yet she did not even know his name. And yet this was the task she had been given, her only purpose in life—one which she must fulfill, for what was she if she didn’t? She was well beyond hoping that it did not have to be all she was, for she existed invisible, unseen by the living and outside the realm of the dead. But now she had been seen—not just seen but noticed—and, not for the first time in her long existence, she wanted more.

George did not think a great deal on his realisation in the coming days. True, he had been a little shaken by it at the time, but had the woman on the moor not said those parting words to him, he doubted he would have made much of it, if at all. After all, it was nothing short of ridiculous to think that only one gentleman could own a dark blue waistcoat at any one time. No, it had simply been a flight of fancy that he did not in the least care to indulge and, busy with the preparations for the maiden voyage of the Queen Charlotte and the thorough thwarting of the Carnmore Copper Company, it was the easiest thing in the world to put it out of his mind. He was soon shaking his head at himself when he thought back to it—honestly, he liked to think that he was, in general, a rational man, and he didn’t particularly care for his brief stint acting as a hysterical heroine of one of Mrs Radcliffe’s novels.

This, however, was not to last. It was the night before the Queen Charlotte was due to set sail, and the Warleggans were partaking in a private meal at Cardew, both in celebration of their achievement and to see Matthew, who intended to sail with the ship in the morning, off. George wasn’t paying a great deal of attention to the rather dry conversation his two relatives were engaged in, lost in his own thoughts, but he was brought sharply out of his reverie when his cousin cut himself off mid-sentence, a frown etched upon his face.

“What the deuce is that sound?” he grumbled suddenly, twisting in his chair to stare out of the window in consternation.

“What sound?” Cary asked, taking—in George’s opinion—an overly liberal swig from his wine glass.

“Can you not hear it?,” Matthew asked, his frown deepening as he turned back to his two dinner companions. “I think it is coming from outside.”

“Bah! In that case it could be anything,” Cary snorted. “We are in the middle of the countryside—you hear all sorts of odd sounds all the time here. No doubt it’s far from what you’re used to, but it’s nothing to fret over.”

George, however, was just beginning to hear the sound too—a quiet, wailing song that somehow managed to pierce straight through Cardew’s thick walls and into their ears. Or at least his and Matthew’s ears, for his uncle didn’t seem to be paying the noise any mind whatsoever. The moment he heard it, he nearly dropped his fork in shock, his mind taking him back to when he ha last heard that very sound, and his meeting with its source. But no. Surely not. She couldn’t be— It didn’t—

“As you say” Matthew shrugged, and seemed to put the sound out of his mind, apparently oblivious to the effect it was having on his younger cousin. Cary huffed in what could have been anything from consternation to amusement at the response, draining the dregs from his glass.

George, busy straining his ears to decipher the sound, started when an entirely different noise, much more immediate than the first, interrupted him in his aim. With a high-pitched whine, Ambrose scampered into the room in a frenzied panic thought would perhaps have looked more at home in a smaller dog—or at least one of a more skittish temperament. Ambrose had always been a placid, rather doleful animal, to the point where he might even have been called lazy, so for him to act this way—and for no apparent reason no less—was highly irregular.

“What are you doing, you daft mutt?” Uncle Cary scowled, shoving the dog away as he attempted to paw at his leg. With a resentful look at his older master, he turned his attentions to the younger. George reached down and scratched him behind the ear absentmindedly. The eerie, screaming song was louder now, he noticed, and clearer. If there had been any chance of thinking it had been his imagination playing tricks on him before, there was none now.

The wailing continued all through the evening until it was almost unbearably loud. Or at least, it seemed so to George. His uncle appeared to barely notice it, and though Matthew looked a little perturbed, he seemed similarly unable to focus on it. The only other inhabitant of the house that seemed as affected by the noise as he was was Ambrose, who had whined and whimpered throughout the evening despite Cary’s exclamations of annoyance, coming instead to sit by George on the divian, resting his head in his lap. George was not sure how much comfort he was to the poor creature—he, after all, was just as unnerved, and feeling none too well on top of that. He felt a little light-headed, and at some point in the night had broken out into a cold sweat, so that his hands felt horribly clammy against the dog’s shaggy fur as he petted him. He could only hope that he wasn’t coming down with an illness of some kind—or worse, the putrid throat, which Francis and all his staff had been struck down with at Trenwith, though the sickness had deigned to bypass Agatha, despite her considerable age.

The clock in the parlour began to chime, indicating that midnight had come. Matthew took it as a cue to announce his intention to retire for the night and headed upstairs. He was not the only one for whom the chimes had signalled something, however, for George noticed that the wailing had stopped very abruptly once the clock had fallen silent once more. Possessed of an undefinable, inexplicable urge, he stood and made his way over to the window, staring out at Cardew’s expansive, moonlit grounds, not entirely sure what he was hoping to see. Everything was completely still outside. No breeze stirred. Not even a single twitch from the leaves on the trees. It was then that he found himself remembering an overheard conversation which he thought he had put out of his mind long ago—a conversation about how the inhabitants of Trenwith had heard a strange wailing noise in the night, how Francis had thought it to be the wind, despite it being a calm evening. Above all, however, he thought about how they had heard that sound the night before Charles Poldark died.

It was some time in the afternoon when a footman came into their study the next day, bearing a letter which he handed directly to Cary before leaving the room as quickly and as efficiently as he had come. George barely looked up, busy pretending to be engrossed in a table of figures when he was in fact turning over both the awful news of Ross Poldark’s daughter and the strange meeting he had had with the woman on the moor in his mind. Both were somewhat trying subjects, albeit for different reasons. The former, of course, was obvious—to most people anyway, he considered with a rather sour glance towards his uncle, who had been quite happy to toast the infant’s death as the final blow to their bitter rival. It did not sit quite so well with George, however. For all that he disliked Ross, and for all that he had wanted to see him brought low, this would never have been the means he would have chosen to bring it about—the loss of one’s child was not a fate he would wish on anybody.

His other concern was more insidious, lurking underneath his other thoughts and preoccupations and surfacing at the most inopportune of moments. It was ridiculous, he knew—he had never believed in portents of doom or death omens or whatever that small, traitorous part of his mind was insisting the encounter with the woman had been, and he wasn’t about to start now. Matthew would be fine, and when he arrived at his destination whole and hale, George would no doubt feel awfully embarrassed with himself for thinking such absurd, hysterical thoughts. There was still a part of him, however, that refused to be appeased by such logic, and he was just attempting to stamp it out when his uncle’s enraged roar brought him sharply out of his reverie.

“Hellfire and damnation!” Cary spat, thrusting the letter forcefully towards him. George leaned forward to take it and, scanning the brief missive as swiftly as he could, felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

“It cannot be.”

He too was on his feet now, barely paying attention to his uncle, who was pacing to and fro like a caged lion. No. Surely this could not be happening. It was… He was dreaming or…or…

“Hendrawna Beach…isn’t that—?”

“Poldark land” George finished, but he wasn’t thinking of Ross, or the cargo, nor anything else that was likely passing through the other man’s mind at that moment. No, he was thinking of something very different and far more unpleasant, and, for all that his rational mind rebelled against it, that disquieting idea had latched itself firmly into his thoughts and refused to be dislodged.

The rest of the afternoon passed in much of a blur, in which they received constant news of the happenings on Hendrawna Beach. With each new missive, Uncle Cary worked himself up into a new level of fury, incensed at the thought of the result of all their hard work being plundered by the rabble on the beach. To his dismay, upon reading the letter, George found a small part of himself, rather than sharing his uncle’s rage, wondering in a detached sort of way whether Matthew would be drowned or killed in the villagers’ desperation to make off with the cargo. The rest of him was half tempted to burst into hysterics right there and then upon realising this, but the sane part of him (which quite frankly he feared he was on the verge of completely losing his grip on) suppressed the irrational urge.

“Captain Bray must testify,” Uncle Cary snarled, drawing his nephew’s attention.

“To what?”

“To the plunder and lawlessness. No, better yet—Matthew. He can testify against Poldark.”

“Always assuming he witnesses” sighed George. Thinking of Ross at least offered a distraction from his other dark thoughts, but considering all that had happened, and the news of his daughter, it brought him no consolation. He had not the energy to fight with his long-time rival, for all that the threat to the ship’s cargo had stoked that fire in his uncle more than ever.

“Whether he witnesses or not!,” roared Cary, incensed both by the events of the day and his nephew’s lacklustre response to them. “Good God, boy, you don’t suggest we wait for actual evidence?! Matthew is a gentleman! He’s a Warleggan—worth twice of any Poldark, and his word will carry twice the weight, and I’ll be damned if we don’t turn this debacle to our advantage!”

He finished his piece with a fierce glare, before striding off to the window to stare out at the heavy raindrops spattering against the outside of the glass.

If George had thought waiting for the first missive had been a painful experience, the rest of the evening was positively torturous. They had sent a dispatch of soldiers to the beach in the hope of quelling the rabble, but received no specific news beyond general reports of violence on the part of the miners. This, understandably, did nothing to soothe George’s tattered nerves and eventually Cary, tired of his nephew’s fretting, snapped at him to retire for the night.

The wind from the storm howled viciously that night, rattling at the window of George’s chamber as he dressed for bed. He wished it would stop—the noise was abominable, and reminded him all too much of what the storm had caused, along with what he dreaded but did not yet know for certain. As the cacophany outside continued, he began to pace to and fro across the room, silk dressing gown clutched tightly around him and bare feet padding silently across the floor. After a while, even that became too much to bear, and he got into bed, tossing and turning in agitation, unable to keep that horrible, morbid anticipation from his mind. Eventually, he fell into a fitful sleep, plagued with strange dreams about storms, a wailing song that sounded like the howl of the wind and a lone woman out on the moor. He woke up the next morning to the news that his cousin was dead.

Next chapter: George questions Francis about his aunt's superstitions and goes back to Bodmin for the election.

[wendynerdwrites]

Recovered Jonsa Fics #13: Bastard Boy

@qinaliel​ will be especially happy to have this one back!

Another fic repost!

“Come up and see, Sansa.”

He helped her up into the attic of the far Northwest corner tower. This tower, only partially remade, was used for the storage of furniture, hangings, and raw materials. The attic room was wide, encompassing the whole tower, and filled with straw and couple of old mattresses. Two large windows sat opposite each other, the entrance to the room accessed by a trap door and ladder in the middle.

The area was dark and a bit chilled, even in summer, the nights could be a bit nippy up North. Jon sat over the trap door, looking down at the hesitant redhead, a lantern by his side. He grinned as he looked down at her. Despite the chill, Sansa’s plum gown had a very spacious square neckline. Her blue velvet cloak was open enough that from his angle, he could see down her bodice.

He knew it wasn’t honorable, but that wasn’t exactly a sight that was easy to pull his eyes away from. 

His only salvation from feeling like a complete dog was the fact that as glorious as her teats were, her big blue eyes were even lovelier.

The way their hesitant expression held a degree of trust appealed to him as well. Sansa smiled slightly and began to climb up the ladder slowly, taking care not to step on her skirts.

When she got close enough, Jon found he could take it no longer. He reached down, grabbed her by the ribs and lifted her swiftly through the trap door, setting her down next to him. She giggled.

“You lifted me so easily.”

He’d taken care to make it look easier than it actually was, but this pleased him nonetheless. “You’re as light as a feather,” he insisted modestly.

This was a bit of an exaggeration, but Jon wanted to make her happy even though he didn’t really consider being light as a feather to be a good thing (why ladies wanted to hear that he’d never know). Sansa had many of the Tully features, but she’d inherited more than her share of the Stark height. Despite the slenderness of her waist and limbs, those limbs were still very long, and Sansa also had somewhat wide hips and a lush bosom. Jon liked the weight of her, not to mention the feeling of her in his hands, which he removed reluctantly. “What is it you wanted to show me?” She asked.

Jon turned and gestured towards the east-facing window, which was partially closed. A slim stream of moonlight cut through the darkness like a knife. “Go and open it. Take a look.”

Sansa took his lantern, which cast a gold glow over her, and began making her way over. Jon followed her a few feet behind, smiling, enjoying her silhouette. Sansa opened the shutters and gasped as she was bathed in silvery moonlight.

 “Oh!”

Jon came close, leaning on the windowsill next to her and grinning. Below them was an exquisite view of the grounds of Winterfell cast in the light of the full moon. They could see so much: the first and great keeps, the glass gardens, the broken tower,  the courtyard, the godswood, the North and East gates, Guest House, and armory. Above it all, the stars twinkled like diamonds.

“It’s beautiful,” Sansa sighed.

“I thought you might like it.” Arya had shown him this. Bran had shown it to her. Now Jon was showing Sansa. Jon smirked. “It’s the third most incredible sight in the North.”

“The third? I mean, I imagine the Wall must be amazing to behold, from what I’ve read and what Uncle Benjen told us. But what’s the other? What else could possibly outmatch this?”

Jon stared at her, bathed in the silver light, making her blue eyes almost glow, the red of her hair forming an intense contrast. Fire against the grey. She seemed to glow all over. “I’m looking at her.”

She blushed so prettily. “Thank you. You’re being very flattering tonight.”

“Those gallant, courtly lordlings and knights of yours flatter. I’m just expressing myself.”

“Well, thank you.” She shivered.

“Are you cold?” He asked, knowing the answer. He’d downplayed the chill of the evening so she’d wear slightly lighter clothing. Her cloak and gown were both somewhat light for this weather. “Here, why don’t you come under my cloak.”

He’d downplayed the weather in order to make this exact offer. But Jon saw, to his delight, that this action came with other advantages. The bare skin of her collar the upper part of her chest was gooseflesh. And apparently, her gown was made of either linen or a very fine wool.

It also appeared that she wasn’t wearing a breastband, either, for Jon could just make out the peaks of her hardened nipples through the fabric. His cock twitched as she moved a bit closer, smiling. He lifted his cloak and she stood against him, letting his arm around her. Jon draped some of the length of his fur-lined wool cloak over her, pulling her close as to cover her and settling his hand over her shoulder.

“Thank you,” she said, still blushing. She leaned against him eagerly, her head against his.

Jon caught a bit of her silky red hair between his fingers and stroked it. He loved her hair. He could spend hours on end just stroking it, playing with it, burying his face in it.

They stayed quiet for a while, Jon growing ever-harder with the heat and softness of her body so close. He carefully angled his hips, hoping to conceal it from her. If he failed to, she gave no sign, too focused on the view of the grounds.

But after a while, she shivered again.

“Are you still cold?” He asked.

“N-no. I’m fine.”

He smiled and dared to touch the skin of her collar. It didn’t feel cold at all. Her breath caught slightly as he touched her skin. Jon smiled and dared to let his fingers linger. She didn’t move away or protest. So he began to lazily stroke the skin. Her breathing became a bit louder, but she didn’t pull away or protest. Indeed, she seemed to lean into him more. He dipped his finger a little lower, still staying away from where her breasts began to swell, but touching more flesh. Her breathing increased, and her color rose.

A soft little whine came from her throat. It was the most intoxicating sound. Then, eventually, Sansa spoke. She turned to face him, her eyes searching his. 

“Jon…”

He started stroking her back instead, running his fingers up and down her spine. “…Yes, My Lady?”

“I—“ She paused to shiver. Then a slight moan. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” he told her, “Just showing my sweet little Lady Sister some affection.”

It amazed him how easily he was able to process that. How little that seemed to stand in the way of his passions. It wasn’t like with Arya. The thought of touching Arya in such a matter disgusted him, even though she had blossomed into young womanhood and had grown into a very pretty face of her own. Jon thought Arya was beautiful, objectively better looking than some of the other girls he’d lusted after. But he still found her wholly unattractive. Thinking of her in relation to anything carnal made his skin crawl. She was his little sister.

Sansa though… Just a thought of her, just the slightest move she made heated his blood. And nothing seemed to be able to dampen his passion for her. He didn’t see her as his sister anymore. She’d grown from that silly, sweet, but somewhat bratty little girl into a beautiful, clever, kind young woman with a quiet strength and elegant resolve to her. A perfect lady in ways that went beyond the superficial trappings and did credit to all the virtues a true lady was meant to have. Where she was once silly and overly-romantic, she’d grown wary yet hopeful, and very, very insightful. Her prettiness, practiced manners, and delicacy had become a hardened, finely tuned elegance that could withstand anything. Her mind, which once contained merely an encyclopedic knowledge of songs, stories, and sewing patterns, had expanded to include extensive social, political, and cultural knowledge and instincts.

She went from the stereotypical willowy creature who sat in a tower, brushing her hair and waiting for a knight to save her to a sensuous woman who sat in a tower, brushed her hair, and came up with ideas as to how to protect others without the use of knights or swords.

And, of course, she’d also developed a face and body for bedchambers. All lush curves, long limbs, creamy skin, pouty lips, big eyes, and silky hair. Not only was she gorgeous, she knew it and was unashamed of it. She wasn’t horribly vain, but she definitely took pride in her looks and wasn’t afraid to use them. What was once vanity had turned to confidence and self-possession. To Jon, that just doubled her already considerable physical appeal.

She smiled up at him, a little nervous, but with a hint of fascination behind her innocent blue eyes. Jon could see it. She’d never admit it, but she was drawn to him. Jon knew he couldn’t keep away even if he wanted to.

“That’s… That’s kind but… Isn’t this a bit… Improper?”

“I’m a bastard. I was born improper.”

“But I’m a lady.”

“You are. You’re a kind, clever, strong, lovely lady. You’ve had perfect, spotless manners since you were three. You’re dutiful and accommodating to a fault. Do you really think that with all your virtues, your perfect manners, and your rank that enjoying a little love could make you any less of one? You’re a perfect lady, and for that, you deserve to be loved.”

“But.. but you—-“

“I absolute adore you. Surely you’d be kind enough to let me show you how much?” He drew his hand up to stroke her hair again. “I yearn to show you. To the point where it pains me. Relieve me of that pain, Sweetling. Please. I promise you won’t regret it. I just want to love you and make you feel good. Surely you’d be merciful enough to let me, bastard that I am.” His hand went to her cheek, then stroked her neck. She moaned. “What—what would you do?”

“I’d like a kiss. Just a kiss. Please.”

“Oh—- okay.”

He drew his fingers up and pushed her chin up, then kissed her. She gave another soft moan. His tongue sought entry, and her lips parted. Their tongues danced together. Jon felt overwhelmed by the sweetness of her mouth. But the sweetness of her skin also called to him, and so he moved, pressing kisses to her face and working his way down her neck.

“Joooon…” She moaned. “We have to—- to—- to stop. I’m—-I’m—I’m a l-lady.”

Jon groaned. “Please, Sweet Lady, don’t deny me. I’m in such pain.”

“You are? How? Where?”

Jon forced himself not to laugh at this. He pulled away, searching her face, which stayed innocent despite how undone she seemed already. She stared at him expectantly. Really? That innocent?

He found himself enjoying this far more than he probably should. Jon took her hand and pulled it down boldly so she could feel his cock straining against his breeches. “There, My Lady. I’m in horrible pain.”

“Oh no! That’s very… Why is it like that?”

Jon forced back a laugh. Ridiculously easy. “It… It needs attention. That’s the only way to make the torment stop.”

That or a cold bath. But Jon wasn’t going to pass this up. Surely a girl of sixteen couldn’t be this innocent. But apparently, that was the situation. Sansa knelt down, wide eyed.

“May I see?” She asked. Jon nodded eagerly.

Her hands palmed him through the fabric and Jon moaned. Then her fingers began undoing his laces. His cock was freed and Sansa gasped. “Oh gods! It’s so swollen! How do we get it normal-sized again?”

That won’t be the only thing that gets swollen if you keep talking. Jon looked down. “Try touching it. Just… just stroke it.”

She nodded urgently and did so, wrapping her hand around his length and moving. Jon threw his head back and moaned.

“Better?”

“A little. Can you try…” He hesitated. “Can you try kissing it better?”’

She planted a chaste little kiss to the tip, earning another moan.

Absolutely giddy, he asked her to try sucking on it. And she did. The glorious girl did.

Jon watched in amazement. Her lips looked incredible wrapped around him. And the way her eyes looked up at him so innocently… He almost spilled right there in her mouth. He forced himself to hold back as long as he could.

“Sansa… Sansa—- Something… Something is going to come…”

She pulled off of him and he spilled his seed. The white fluid spilled on her chest. Jon gasped.

“J-Jon…” Sansa moaned, dazed and painting. “I feel… I feel funny. All warm. I… I think I have a fever. And… And it’s hard to… to breathe. And… There’s something strange happening… I feel all hot and sticky… Between my legs.”

Jon almost fainted. Seven hells.

“Oh, I hope I didn’t infect you with something.”

“N-no. I don’t… I’ve… I’ve felt like this before just… Just not as… as much. But… I… I have to… to make it go away. You need to leave.”

“No, Sansa. I’m not going to leave you when you’re feeling unwell. Please, let me help you.”

“No… To.. To fix this… I need to… I need to touch my—-“ She turned red and hid her face in her hands. Jon bent over and pulled her hands away.

“It’s alright. Let me help you.”

He had her lay down in the straw and knelt over her. She stared up at him with wide eyes. The bastard of Winterfell grinned.

“Sweet Lady, let me help you, alright? I’ll take care of this. Just lie back.”

Maybe what they said was true. Maybe bastards were more lustful and deceitful than other people. Jon couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. He liked being this way too much.

He unlaced her gown, opening it down the front. His suspicions were confirmed: no breast band. Or corset. Or smallclothes. All she had on were stockings.

What… How…? Jon gazed at her glistening, red-haired cunny. Resisting the urge to put his mouth to it, he gave into his curiosity instead and drew his gaze up to Sansa’s face, trying to get a read on what was happening. She kept her eyes wide and innocent.

“I’m not the proper lady I thought I was,” she said softly, casting her eyes down. Then she looked up again, her gaze bold. A smirk spread across her face. “But you’re every bit a lusty, filthy bastard, aren’t you? Seducing an innocent, virginal lady like me?”

Jon grinned, his heart beating furiously. “You don’t look that virginal right now, My Lady.”

“Oh, but I am. It’s not my fault you’ve begun to corrupt my innocence with your dirty bastard ways. You’re a hot-blooded bastard, you’ve proved it. My question is, are you a bastard man, or just a bastard boy? I won’t know until you manage to seduce me completely.”

Jon growled and went to seize her mouth with his, giving her a bruising kiss. 

His hands went to her breasts, kneeding them and pinching at her nipples. He pulled at them and twisted. She moaned against his mouth.

Her skin was now coated in sweat. Jon began licking it away, first at her neck, then her shoulders and chest. He lapped at her breasts as well. With a whine, he heard her say, “Bite.”

Jon nibbled at her breasts. Sansa began bucking her hips. Grinning, he started a trail of kisses down her belly until he came to her pretty little red and pink cunny. 

Smirking, he lifted his head and brought his hand to it, parting her lips. She was soaked, her pink nub sticking out. Jon latched his mouth to it, delighting in the taste. Sansa cried out, calling his name and fisting his hair.

His fingers went lower to her entrance. He penetrated her, hooking his fingers so that she screamed. Something within her broke loose, and she came with several harsh spasms that soon became a slight hum. Sansa panted, her head thrown back.

It was more than enough. Jon was hard again. Not to mention soaked in sweat. 

He shed his cloak and jerkin, then peeled off his tunic, leaving his chest bare. Sansa looked up at him lazily, but she gasped and became alert when she saw him chest, her hands reaching up and her eyes darkening with lust. Her eyes trailed down his form, and when she saw that his hardness had returned, she grinned.

“Have I proven myself a man yet, My Lady? Bastard that I am?”

“Y-yes. Bastard that you are. You’re a man. Now please,” she bucked her hips wantonly, “Make a woman of me.”

Jon pounced, grabbing her by the arm and flipping her over, pulling at her so she was on all fours. “You’re as much a wolf as you are a lady, so I’m going to take you as one,” he growled into her ear. Then he pulled back, lined himself up to her entrance, and buried himself in her.

She threw her head back and howled, very much like a wolf. A second later, she was calling for him to go harder, faster. He obeyed.

“Pull me up, Bastard,” she gasped, “I want to feel you against me.”

He reached over, grabbed her by her breasts, and pulled her up, kissing her neck. He tried to catch her mouth. But before he could, she suddenly pulled herself off of him.

The sudden lack of contact shocked him so much he lost himself in disorientation. Sansa used this to her advantage, grabbing him by the shoulder and pushing him down into the hay on his back. Before he could say a word, she swung a leg over and impaled herself on him, causing them both to cry out.

The force with which she rode him was absolutely dazzling. She cried out, throwing her head back. Her breasts bounced magnificently as her hips moved with an increasingly frantic, violent pace until finally, she tightened around him and started to fall towards him with a slack mouth. Jon caught her by the sides and moved his hands up to fondle her breasts. He bucked his hips, pounding into her slick, tight heat with wild abandon until he erupted within the confines of her passage.

Boneless, his arms fell, and Sansa fell with them. He smiled as he felt the cushion of her breasts make contact with his chest and her face buried itself in his neck. She pressed a sweet little kiss to the underside of his jaw. Jon’s arm went around her as she curled up against him. She fondly ran her fingers through his chest hair and hooked one long leg over his.

“I suppose you’ve ruined me now. Whatever is a poor, deflowered noble girl to do?”

“Marry the bastard that seduced her,” he said with a grunt, his fingers stroking her hair again.

“But I’m promised to the prince!”

“Do you really think this prince of your can fuck you the way your bastard can?”

“Mmmm. I think he can. I mean, I’m just a young girl who knows little of such things…” She pulled at his chest hair playfully, lifting her head and meeting his eyes. “But I think he can.”

Jon’s brow arched. “Oh yeah? This prince of yours… I suppose he’s some arrogant, golden-haired, pretty boy ponce running around in embroidered silks.”

“Well, he’s not golden-haired, and he doesn’t wear silks except on special occasions. He’s got a mop of dark curls and prefers wool and leathers and mail like a proper warrior. But he is very pretty. Very handsome. Beautiful enough that I know for sure that he can give me beautiful children. Maybe a bit of an arrogant ponce. But he’s no boy. He’s very much a man.” She curled her hand and ran her nails over his chest. “And I know for a fact that he can fuck me as well as any bastard can.”

Jon smirked and pulled her to kiss him. When he broke away, he spoke in a mournful tone. “Woe is me, I suppose I must say good-bye to the sweet little noble virgin I deflowered.”

Sansa giggled and sighed. “Whoever she is. She’s gone. I’m afraid I’ll have to return to my prince, and you’ll have to return to your wife.”

“Do I have to leave this room just now to do it?”

“No. But I wouldn’t mind a slight change.” She sat up and grabbed his cloak, pulling it up over them to their waists and lying down on top of him. She lifted her chest, propping herself up with her forearms against his chest, kissed him fondly on the mouth, then pulled away to gaze down at him. “Are you warm enough, Husband?”

“Mmmhmm.” He smiled and cupped her chin. “That little tableau took an unexpected turn. I mean, especially after going to far as to pretend not to know how a cock works.”

“Well,” she said, stroking his cheek, “I like keeping things interesting. Keep you guessing. I’m a traditional girl who likes traditional things. But I’m not too proper to enjoy a little twist here and there. I’m a creative soul at heart.”

He moved to stroke her hair again. “One of the many things I love about you. Still… I enjoyed being the filthy base-born seducer more than I expected. It was surprisingly easy to play.”

“Well, I saved it for our visit here because I thought the location might help you get into character.”

“You’re a theatrical prodigy, Wife. If you weren’t born a lady, you’d have become the greatest mummer in all the world, I’m sure.”

She sighed wistfully. “Oh well. I guess I’ll just have to make do with the humdrum existence as your lady wife instead.”

He gave a cry of mock-outrage, smacked her on the ass lightly, then rolled her over and attacked her with a flurry of kisses as she giggled. The rest of the night was filled with laughter.

[ecotone99]

[MF] Sticks and Trains

November 28, 2063

You used to say, “If God has a voice, it’s in the laughter of children.” I would roll my eyes at the comment, disregarding it as a sleazy ideological advertisement. I should have known better.

She laughs the way you used to. A booming cackle bounces deep in her stomach, irradiating happiness, but happiness in this world is intimidating. The fleeting tranquility is uncomfortable, and I ask her to keep her voice down. The wind blows through the emptiness; not a soul to disturb. She’s right to ignore me.

She coughs, and I think of you. Exuberance pours from her as she shakes off the pain in her chest. Pretending not to notice the rattle in her breath, I ask her if she’s ok. I need to hear the words from her mouth. She says it must be a cold, but I know it’s not.

She falls from the monkey bars, scraping her perfect little knees, and cries. I help her up, dusting out the pebbles in her skin. I give her the fatherly speech about picking herself up, but I know she’ll never have the chance to fully understand. Running back to the playground, she ignores my lecture. Good; they aren’t words meant for her anyway. Let her be eternally young. I want to think that, but someday I’ll miss her.

My head snaps up when I hear the train whistle blow; 6:35 as always. How could I have been so careless and lose track of time? The government train is transporting human cargo to the work camp 10 miles west of here. Artists, activists, immigrants, and anyone else who dares to oppose the megalomaniac’s ruthless agenda on board.

The horn blares from over the tree line. The Aspen leaves shiver in the howl. Black smoke and human filth fowl the air. The stale aroma of hopelessness comforts me. I grab her hand. Afraid, she asks what’s wrong. I don’t answer. Just get to the bridge, and she won’t notice.

A rickety wooden bridge extends over the trickling creek; once a roaring river. We race rotting sticks on the shallow, yellow water under the splintered slats. It’s one of our newest past times. I tell her she wins, and she smiles. Faint wails from the train passengers intermingle with her laughter. I examine her eyes; she hears them. The trees block her view as she peers at the screams. I wonder what she’s capable of imagining.

Once the train is gone, I tell her we need to go home. As we walk, she chases painted ladies back and forth across the dirt path; whirling against the wind, hacking and laughing all the while. She approaches me with her hands carefully cupped around one of the butterflies. She still calls them fairies, but she knows better. I don’t bother correcting her. She asks if she can keep it. I hesitate, but I see the way she holds it as if she were protecting the last breath of a long-lost dream. I see myself in her. Impatiently, she waits for my response. Finally, I say yes, and she smiles again, burying her head in my stomach.

***

The barrel fires and she winces in the recoil. The beer cans sit, unscathed by the bullet. I tell her to keep her eyes open. She says the sound scares her. She asks why she has to learn to fire a weapon. I tell her bad men might come. I only tell her the necessary truth. She tries to hand me the gun, saying she doesn’t want it. I remind her that she has to hit the target before dinner. Her eyes tear up as she screams for me to take it. My throat flexes. She collapses to her knees, sobbing. I place my hand on her shoulder and tell her we can be done for the day; grandma’s waiting for us anyway.

***

She’s angry as we eat dinner. Your mother scolds me for teaching her to use a gun. A rehearsed argument she mimics from the television, hollow and insincere. She’s only saying what she thinks she has to, but they don’t know the bad men that are going to come. I apologize, telling them that I love them, and meant no harm. I just want her to be able to fight for herself. Your mother falls silent. The little one tells me she loves me too.

After dinner, she makes her way into the tub for her bath; she reminds me to do the bubbles for her as if I would forget. Singing rings through the halls as she splashes away with her toys. I fight off a smile, dutifully apprehensive to happiness. Dishes clack in the sink as I scrub off the leftover roast and gravy, muttering to myself what I should have said at dinner.

Your mother plants herself on the couch, and turns on the nightly news, nestling into her cozy little hole. She inattentively asks me if I need help. I’m not sure she knows she spoke, so I don’t respond. I ask her to mute the sound; no need to fill young ears with political drivel. She doesn’t hear me. The light from the television engulfs her, searing her skin and illuminating her frame, creating the white silhouette of a ghost. I’m surprised to see the number of folds and wrinkles that drape over her face. She reminds me of the first time I saw a dead body.

After I clean the dishes, I go to the bathroom to finish up her bath. She asks for my help drying off. I blot her skin and tell her it’s time to get ready for bed. She sulks, extending her bottom lip. She wants me to read her a story, how Mommy used to. I tell her I have to go to work soon and it’s not going to work tonight; I lie, just like every other night. We end up reading three stories.

By the end of the last book, my eyes lay shut. I don’t need to look. I remember every word and nuance; I even remember when to turn the page. She begs for one more story. I manage to resist as I switch off her bedside lamp. Shadows douse the ceiling like a black canvass, and we play her favorite game. I point towards the ceiling and ask her, “What do you see up there?”

She says that she sees Mommy dancing in a blue dress with a lily in her hair. A cough rattles in her chest. My stomach twists. Mommy looks like an angel, just like the ones Grandma talks about. She asks me if I see it too. I want to, so I lie and say yes.

I see the same thing I always do: you in a hospital bed, with a warm autumn sun beaming off your auburn hair. Too beautiful of a day for anything tragic to occur, but I’m wrong. Your face blurs through the constant stream of tears, and I hear your raspy voice whisper goodbye. You take your last deep breath, and the heart monitor flatlines. Doctors rush in, going through their rehearsed spectacle, but I can see in their eyes that they know as well as I do: you’re not coming back. I shake off the memory.

She says that she loves me.

I tell her that I love her too.

Goodnight, Daddy. She wraps her arms around my neck.

Goodnight, sweetheart. I kiss her on the forehead and a cough rattles from her chest. I run my thumb down the bridge of her nose, and her eyes flutter. I scour her face, memorizing every dimple, pore, blemish, and line. I can’t forget her.

She tells me not to worry, it’s just a cold. My eyes burn from the tears welling up behind them. I manage to smile as I gaze at her perfect face. She nuzzles her head against my palm, nearly falling asleep. Her hair is like a waterfall of amber cascading across her pillow. White moonlight weeps through the slit of the blackout curtains, and she rustles at the touch. Her skin glows pale in the dark, and my lip quivers. I struggle to peel myself from the foot of her bed, and I stand to walk out the door.

Goodnight, Mommy. She blows a kiss to the ceiling.

I stop at the doorway, waiting for you to respond. The silence twists at my stomach, then I walk out, leaving the memory for another day.

***

Your mother is asleep, and the TV is still blaring at her, fueling her dreams with trending fears and topical fodder. I wonder if she’ll ever use the bedroom she demanded. I doubt it.

The news says the next civil war – whatever they think is so civil about war - is imminent. I mute the sound and watch the reporter’s face. She blinks in bulk and smiles when delivering bad news. She knows she’s telling half-truths. I don’t trust her.

The loose nails in the floorboard pop out as I pry them with my fingernail. The weight of dust fills my lungs. The rattling of the tackle box wakes your mother, and she groans. Piles of bullets and gun clips hide in the shadows, under the removable shelf. Your mother warns me. I tell her, I know. She rolls her eyes and nods back off, unmuting the TV.

I pull out a pistol and secure it in my waistband, just in case they catch my scent. I count the remaining bullets. 236; not enough. I fasten the clasp on the box and snap the padlock shut. I place the slat back over the floor and drop the nails in their holes. I check the clock; time for work.

***

The road is dark. No streetlamps; the headlights fight off the shadows on their own. No crickets; just the whir of a cool breeze and the clunking of a tired engine. I’m afraid to relax, that’s when the monsters come.

I need to talk, so I pretend you’re here with me. I look to the seat next to me. A silhouette of a memory smiles and brushes its fingers across my leg. It says the things you would have said. It feels the way you would have felt.

I wish I could forget how to love. There seems to be no use if I’m always letting go. I can’t do it again, but I know I’ll have to. Maybe I’m not afraid enough. I've read that women can forget the pain of childbirth; is it possible to forget the pain of grief? Perhaps I didn’t forget; I’ve just grown used to it.

***

Security gates sprout through the trees at the end of the road. Barbed wire rings twist at the crest of a chain-linked palisade, and spotlights scour the parking lot for deviants. I'll be right under their nose. Red lights peer from the top of the building, erected on uneven scaffolds.

My truck spits black smoke as it putters towards the iron gate. I check my coat tail to make sure the weapon is concealed and hand the guard my identification badge. He scans the barcode, the gate pops open, and I drive through.

Everyone acts normal; no prying eyes or whispers. No one notices me, but why would they? We’re all ghosts at the munitions factory. All they see are the weapons and quota, which my shift meets without fail. I keep my head down and loot within the margin of error, which is razor-thin when weaponry is involved, but when war comes to my front porch, I’ll be ready.

One of our assembly line workers is out sick. I presume its slag lung; we’ll know for sure in a few weeks. I have to cover the shift; no one is answering the phone. Can I blame them? Who wants to work the third shift?

Protocol states I tuck my shirt in and remove my jacket, for safety reasons, which will leave the gun in my waistband exposed. I excuse myself to the restroom and stash it in my jacket’s chest pocket. I hang it up on a coat hook behind my station on the assembly floor, keeping it close.

Steady howls of thunder from the conveyer belt motors turn my thoughts into fragments of glass. I feel them expand into throbbing stabs above my eyebrows. The faded green fluorescent lights pull the shards through my corneas and fire ferments in my empty stomach.

After an hour of standing at the polishing line, the muscles around my knees tense up, and the callouses on the balls of my feet ache. I cup a bullet from the current load in the creases of my palm then excuse myself to scan the floor, keeping up my supervisor's obligations.

I kick my legs to loosen the knots as I wander the line, dropping the bullet into my pants pocket. 237. The worker’s faces are a collective sea of defeat; eyes sunken into sleep-deprived recesses where their dead dreams lie.

It’s illegal to dream here. One sniff of hope and the government will grind it out at the work camps, leaving a frail husk, incapable of feeling. I have dreams still, I think, but they’ll never know. I keep them protected with a bulletproof veil far from the grubby hands of authority; buried so deep they’re like whispers in the dark.

A cough freezes the steady pulse of machinery, simmering it to a gentle whir. Invigorated with fear, the dead eyes search for the source of the sound. Incomprehensible murmurs spread through the cloud of silence, then another cough kills the voices.

Commotion rises from the far side of the room and a man darts through the machines. The alarm sounds and red lights engulf the floor. The quarantine crew rushes in from the black corners of the warehouse dressed in hazmat suits and armed with tranquilizer guns. He runs. They chase.

Desperate pleas of mercy spill from the man as he collides with racks of supplies and factory workers standing in his way. He stumbles by my station and knocks my coat from the hanger on the wall. I hear the gun skittering across the floor. No one notices; everyone���s eyes glued to the pursuit.

I drift across the floor, back to my station as the pursuit reaches the entryway. As I scale the corner, I see the gun laying on the concrete floor, doused in red light, and my jacket sprawled by the wall nearby. A loud clank echoes through the warehouse, and I look to see the man twitching on the floor with a dart in his neck. I reach down to gather the gun and jacket into a pile. When I stand, I see a factory worker staring at me. The gun falls from the mound in my arms. Before I can explain, the man screams gun on the line. I run.

I check the clip and turn the safety off. No one stops me yet, but I feel the panic spreading around me. Acrimonious confusion rings through the insipid halls as I sprint past the hazmat crew, towards the security desk by the front door; my only way out.

A guard stands in front of me with one hand on his pistol, and the other stretched out towards me. He’s telling me to stop, but I raise the gun and shoot. 236. His head snaps back, and his body collapses onto the desk. I crash my shoulder into the door and the glass splinters as it swings open. Bullets nip at my heels as I run to my truck.

I start the engine and peel out towards the main gate. The officer is standing in front of my truck, waving his arms. I yell out the window for him to move, but he doesn’t. I ram the gate. My truck jerks and my head snaps foreword, hitting the steering wheel. My eyes struggle to focus through the spider web across my windshield. The hood of the truck is wrinkled like a sheet of paper and smoke billows from the engine. I fall out, crashing into the unforgiving asphalt. My bones snap as I stand and my feet stumble across the ground. I rest my hand on the hood and try to focus my eyes. The blurry figure squirms, trapped between my bumper and the metal gate. He’s screaming and begging, but the ringing in my ears jumbles the sound. I apologize then shoot him in the head. 235. I flash my badge under the scanner and dash through the gate.

I run through the trees, towards home. They’ll get there first. Grey sky; the sun’s rising. She’ll be awake soon. Will she see them coming? What are they going to do to her? Oh God, what have I done?

***

For an hour, I sprint. I vomit a few times but eventually, I just dry heave as my legs flail like rubber bands. Needles rasp in my lungs, and the corner of my stomach seizes in a lump of knots. I pass the playground and cross the rickety bridge. Almost there.

***

A black SUV parked in the dirt lot; the engine still running. The front door to the house hangs open. Your mother’s arm draped over the threshold, lifeless. They must have found the stash. I wheeze and rest on my hand on a tree trunk, trying to catch my breath before entering.

Our belongings scattered in chaos inside. Your mother lays dead in a puddle of blood collecting around her head. Her eyes stare with fear; more alive now that she’s dead. The floorboard is gone, and so is the tackle box. Guns are gone too. So is she. Good; they took her alive. They must be checking the fields behind the house, I don’t see—.

An arm wraps around my neck and pulls me to the ground. The gun skids across the floor to the door. I lash my head and kick my legs. I feel a nose break behind my skull, and a low voice curses as the arm grips tighter. I struggle to breathe. I dig my nails into the forearm across my neck. The arm grips tighter, and my lungs throb in panic. I reach over my head to grab the man’s hair, but it’s just sandpaper under my palm.

A man steps out of the hallway, drawn on me. I don’t beg, I barely breathe. He asks where she is. I stay silent. He shoves the gun in my forehead and asks again. My eyes tell him he’ll never know. He cocks the hammer and stands straight. I close my eyes and picture your face.

Warm liquid splatters across my cheeks. No pain. A weight falls on my chest, knocking the short supply of breath from my lungs. I open my eyes, and a head lying in my lap seeps warm blood into my clothes.

The man squirms free from under me and starts running towards the gun by the door. My lungs inhale a deep, metallic breath. A gunshot stops the man. He falls dead onto your mother. I look to my palm. No pistol. Did I shoot?

She appears through the kitchen, holding out a gun in her trembling hands. 233. She’s sobbing. I push the body off and grab her by the shoulders. I run my fingers over her face. I tell her she did the right thing. I tell her to put the gun down. She drops it and falls into my chest. I hold her and sway, caressing her head.

She pulls away and looks at me with brand new eyes; eyes I almost recognize but are grayer than I remember. Afraid, she tells me she kept her eyes open, but I wish she hadn’t.

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