#a shade darker than red chapter 2 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

eoieopda · 1 year

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menace (pjm) — pt. ii

“Be careful with that lip,” he warned in a thick voice dropped low, “Pout like that again, and I might bite it.”

Pairing: Park Jimin x Kim!Reader Type: 2/6 (Mini Series) ⇢ Previous Chapter | Masterlist Word Count: 6.5K Content: (General) Seokjin’s younger sister AU; fuck buddies that hate each other; reader is AFAB & queer; surprise cameo by my current dream girl. (SMUT | 18+) this part is written in sort of an omniscient POV; brat-tamer!Jimin & brat!Reader; oral sex (m); manhandling; spanking; slight degradation & spit kink; unprotected sex (p in v); safe word in place (unused). A/N: Absolutely re-worked a shit ton of this part after “Smoke Sprite” dropped because I needed this cameo to happen 😵‍💫 I'm gonna put the tags in the comments this time because Tumblr has been shitty about them lately, lol.

Immediately after Jimin left you in that green room, dangling off a ledge, you did your best to bury that blush on your cheeks in pressed powder. The lip balm he was wearing when he kissed your temple caused that powder to cling where you didn’t want it, and it left you with two options:

You could uproot the flawless base you’d created prior to his unwelcome arrival, spend time you didn’t have destroying evidence. Alternatively, you could pretend not to notice the faint lip print shining in a shade just slightly darker than the rest of your face. Even if it was more or less invisible to the naked eye, it was a flashing, neon sign to you.

And just like that, his unanticipated crumb of affection made sense. So, you grabbed a makeup wipe from the travel-sized package you brought with you and set back to work.

That motherfucker.

When you’d gathered yourself to the best of your ability, you glanced in the mirror. Still a bit flushed, still a bit shaky, but still deadly. Any other loner you'd run into wouldn’t stand a chance; and though your primary goal was paying off the orgasm debt Jimin had defaulted on, it didn’t hurt to consider how far up a wall it would drive him to watch you weigh your options.

You wouldn’t chalk it up to jealousy, the way Jimin reacted when he saw you convert strangers into acolytes. From where you were standing, that telltale clench of his jaw wasn’t precipitated by your habit of looking at anyone but him. More than anything, his problem likely had to do with the fact that it was you people were staring at — not him. The name of the game was desirability, after all; and Jimin seemed to really fucking hate it whenever you pulled ahead — collected more merit badges in the form of phone numbers.

Of course, he might not have hated it as much if you didn’t love rubbing his nose in it to the extent you did.

Upon walking out into the club’s private bar, the first face you caught sight of was that of your brother. Judging by the way he was sputtering, Seokjin was witnessing your weather-inappropriate outfit for the first time — and he was not handling it well. You rolled your eyes, refusing to give him and the burnt-red tips of his ears a second glance. If you did, he’d be launching himself over bar stools to force you into his winter coat.

Worse, knowing how reactionary he was when it came to you, it was safe to assume that he’d enucleate every wandering eye he found fixated on you. That wouldn’t bode well for the stranger seated at the center of the bar, whose whiskey-warm gaze in your direction was an invitation in and of itself.

Coincidence or kismet, it didn’t matter — the only open spot at the bar happened to be right next to her, whoever she was. She grabbed her clutch off the bar top in front of that unoccupied stool as soon as she saw you headed her way. Despite the distance, you could see the smirk working its way across her lips; and the nearly imperceptible dimple she’d unearthed in doing so.

Target acquired.

When you finally reached her, it was difficult to tell whether the slight tremble in your knees was due to the discomfort of your heels, or the sharp cut of her jaw jutting out beyond the razored edge of her hair. Pretending that it was neither, rather than both, you gestured to the open seat with a coquettish smile, “Saving this for someone?”

The stranger’s voice was deeper than you expected from someone as petite; it left your whole hopeless body vibrating.

“My Valentine,” she said with a dreamy sigh, and it sounded like a song. Mirroring the movement of your finger, she pointed nonchalantly to the stool, silently telling you to claim it. “Lucky for me, I think I found them.”

“Lucky for them,” you corrected, sliding into your seat and title simultaneously. Now with your elbow resting against the bar, you propped your chin up on the heel of your hand and narrowed your eyes thoughtfully. “If only they knew your name.”

The same finger that guided you to your spot raised to flag down the bartender. What else can it do? Killing two birds with one stone, she told the bartender which tab to put your drink on: “Hwang Soyoon —”

“Someak, please.”

“— but naekko works, too.”

It might’ve been the cheesiest line you’d ever heard, but goddamn, was it effective. You accepted your drink with a quick bow of your head, then even more quickly, you took a swig to calm the heat threatening to burn through your cheeks. Once the butterflies in your stomach were sufficiently drowned in alcohol, you set your glass back down on a coaster and picked up Soyoon’s hand in its place.

“You this smooth on the dance floor?” you asked as you tilted your head in the direction of your destination.

In lieu of a verbal response, she got to her feet and, with another smirk, she helped you to yours.

Two drinks and no small amount of shameless, wholly observable flirting later, you and your prize stumbled off the dance floor to reclaim your seats at the bar. Soyoon’s arm likely would’ve remained draped around your shoulders whether your heels hurt or not; but you had no qualms about playing it up, playing right into her hands.

Tragically, with you deposited safely on a bar stool, Soyoon’s hands slipped away — but not before her fingertips slid slowly down the length of your spine, leaving you to tingle hopelessly in her wake. Oh, for fuck’s sake, was it really that easy to get to you?

She ducked down and came in close so you could hear her over the music. “I’m headed for the restroom,” she said, “Don’t run away, yeah?”

Eyes wide and twinkling, you nodded obediently — albeit more enthusiastically than you wanted to let on — and you felt a small crack form in your nonchalant façade. Never were much good with a poker face, huh? Unable to cover it, the corners of your mouth automatically curved downward as she turned away. They didn’t stay there for long.

Several meters away, now unobstructed without Soyoon in front of you, stood Park Jimin. To put it mildly, he was incensed, angst radiating off of him like a smoke signal. His stony gaze pinned you where you sat; and those eyes narrowed further, flashing a shade darker when you raised both middle fingers. They were near to black when you used those neatly manicured fingertips to push the corners of your mouth into a shit-eating grin.

“Smile, fucker!” You mouthed.

Jimin, now positively glowering, held up his own middle fingers in response. This time, he didn’t imitate your smug antics. The look on his face was a bullet, hitting you hard in the chest and causing your body to clench on instinct, and your stomach to flip with anticipation. Oh, you were going to get it for this.

So, you figured, why not push that thorn a little further into his side?

Without stopping to think twice, you rose again to your feet. God, these fucking heels. You swallowed down the pain emanating from the balls of your feet and strutted up to him like it didn’t ache to do so. Unfortunately, none of the heads you turned in the process would suffice.

By the time you were halfway to his small, circular table, Jimin had already looked away. Drink held up to his lips, he sipped and stared coolly off into the crowd. Like you weren’t there, like you weren’t worthy of ongoing attention.

Liar.

He continued looking everywhere else when you slipped in beside him — when you flicked your hair over your shoulder and grazed his in the process — when you failed to conceal the pout beginning to form on your face.

This motherfucker.

Even as you glared up at him, Jimin ignored you. With a huff, you crossed your arms over your chest and shifted your weight from one leg to the other.

You played this game with him constantly but in reverse, allowing him to feel like he was invisible, like you couldn’t be bothered to register his presence. With that ego of his, you knew it stung — and you knew exactly how childish it was to hate the taste of your own medicine.

“You know, it’s rude to leer,” you breezed, “Worse, the optics are a bit… predatory, don’t you think? Weird, lone male shooting daggers at a couple of sapphics?”

He took another sip of his drink, set the glass down, and tilted his head to flutter his eyelashes at you. His tone was dripping in feigned innocence when he replied, “Would the optics be better if I left a pretty girl alone at a bar? What if I did it just to throw myself at someone else?”

You didn’t know why you felt the need to defend yourself, but you did; rushing headlong, right into the pitfall, “I didn’t leave anyone — she went to the restroom.”

Jimin smirked and nodded once over your shoulder, “Well, she’s back now.”

You quickly turned your head to see what he did: Soyoon rolling her eyes while you froze and Jimin waved at her with a frighteningly accurate imitation of friendliness. She was gone again in the blink of an eye, slipping off towards the door, before you could even dream of catching up to her.

Shit. Why were you like this?

“Poor baby,” he cooed with the world’s most patronizing frown. “Gonna pout some more?”

Already cutting your losses, you plastered on a saccharine smile, “Of course not.” Your fingertips whispered over his forearm as you leaned into his ear. With a voice that dripped dark and sweet like honey, you quoted him and watched his pupils blow, “I’m going to make you cry.”

Jimin grabbed his glass and tossed back the liquor that remained without flinching. Then, he leaned down, lips damn near touching your ear, and snapped, “Get your shit and meet me outside in ten minutes. If you’re late, you’re walking.”

You exhaled a laugh through your nose and raised an eyebrow, “Who said I wanted to leave with you?”

With how closely he was standing to you, Jimin had completely shielded you from the throng of people standing nearby. Cloaked in low light, his hand ducked under the hem of your dress so he could scrape his thumb nail over the spot he’d marked earlier with your own wetness.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he whispered darkly with eyes fixated on your mouth. He licked his lips, then emphasized each word: “Ten — minutes.”

Jimin disappeared and left you to stand there with a wildfire tearing through your insides. You waited until you knew he was gone to let go of the breath you’d unintentionally been holding, now a shaky gasp that died as soon as it hit the air.

It took you less than three minutes to race off to the green room and gather your coat, purse, and regrettably large makeup bag. Despite that fact, you made a point to stand a few meters from the club’s exit for what remained of your ten minutes. You stared down at your watch, still aflame, and watched the seconds tick by; smirking as you allowed one extra minute to slip away.

Eleven minutes after you’d parted ways, you slipped past Seokjin and out the back door to find Jimin leaning impatiently against his car with his arms crossed.

“Brave of you,” His tone was light, but his eyes were anything but. “You gonna be like this all night?”

You cocked your head to the side the way he’d done earlier. “I’m not sure what you mean, Park,” you said with your blinking eyes sweet enough to cause a cavity. “You gonna stand there, or are you gonna help me with these?”

He watched you raise your encumbered hands like your cosmetics were made of bricks, and let out a long-suffering groan. Jimin knew you were full of shit; you were the last person who ever needed — or wanted — his help. You were just an unmitigated pain in his ass, always. But he clearly had places to be and people to ruin, and your brattish behavior was once again interfering with well-laid plans.

When he crossed over to you, his footsteps kicked up a cloud of dirt that swirled in weak pirouettes around his ankles. In no time at all, he grabbed the bags you pretended to struggle with and carried them just as easily as you could’ve, if you deigned to lift a finger. He shot you a look that broadcasted: I’m only doing this to get your ass moving.

You giggled meanly as he dealt with your burden and sauntered off to the front seat of his SUV. It took a bit of effort to balance yourself on your fucking heels as you slid onto to leather, but you were immediately grateful to be off your feet again. Once you’d settled, you glanced down and realized how far the hem of your dress had shifted in the process.

In any other circumstance, you’d fix it, cover the dangerous expanse of your exposed, upper thigh. Now, though, you opted not to do a damn thing about it. Instead, you did what came naturally: you made it worse.

With a contented sigh, you kicked off your pumps and rested your feet on his dashboard, bare legs stretched out ahead until they crossed at the ankles. If your brother were here, he’d tell you that you were being rude; and in anyone else’s car, Seokjin would be right. Still, you knew it ate at Jimin whenever you did whatever improper thing you wanted.

You knew the way his cock twitched when he watched you not give a fuck; when you suckered him into doing menial tasks, like tucking your belongings into the backseat of his car. He’d never say so and you’d never ask, but there was no other explanation you could think of for why he gave in. Punctuating your thought, he slammed the back door and made his way to the driver’s seat.

Jimin slid into the spot next to you and immediately clocked the way the skirt of your dress had hitched up. He stared for a moment longer than he likely meant to, then his eyes trailed down your legs to find your bare feet resting on his dashboard.

“Were you raised by wolves?” He waved his hand at your legs with annoyance that only grew alongside your smirk. “Seriously, you’re a fucking animal.”

You let your head roll to your shoulder as you leaned over the center console. “Oh, you cut me, Park.” You teased and poked out your bottom lip out in a put-upon pout.

Adding injury to insult, you threw your hand up to your forehead in your best imitation of his usual theatrics — then, you let it drop. The back of your hand collided with his bicep as it fell; and it remained there long enough for him to reach out and grab it. His fingers encircled your wrist easily, doubling over and gripping hard.

“Be careful with that lip,” he warned in a thick voice dropped low, “Pout like that again, and I might bite it.”

You raised an eyebrow, silently daring him to try. To the contrary, Jimin let go of your wrist and pushed your hand off him so he could slide the key into the ignition. The engine sputtered without turning over, leaving you to wonder if it was going to start at all.

He scoffed, “See? Told you that if you weren’t here in ten minutes, you’d be walking.”

To both of your surprise, you exhaled a laugh — a genuine one, no less — at his little joke. It caught him off guard and caused him to chuckle, too, for just a moment before he stopped abruptly and muttered, “Shut up. I’m concentrating.”

“Like I’ve never heard you say that before.”

You rolled your eyes and then your neck to lean your head against the seat rest. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him shoot you an indignant look; but as usual, you ignored it. “Should I just leave then?”

When his exasperation briefly flickered over to confusion, you gestured out the window to a taxi parked nearby. If you ditched him now, you’d be home in five minutes instead of however long this was going to take.

“Patience,” Jimin growled as he wiggled the key and turned it again. “If you could — just once — stop bitching and wait —” The engine roared to life with one last turn of the key. “— you could wipe that miserable look off your face.”

You turned in your seat, genuinely offended, as he pulled out onto the street. “I look miserable?” You laughed hotly, “You look like a kicked puppy every time I see you.”

Jimin’s hands gripped the steering wheel tightly enough to turn his knuckles white. “Did you ever think about the timing of that?” He fired back. “You think it’s a coincidence that I look like this whenever I’m confronted with that?”

He didn’t take his eyes off the road, but he did remove one hand to point it right at your face, which featured wild eyes and gritted teeth.

“I swear to God, it’s like you were designed in a lab somewhere for the sole purpose of sapping my will to live. How the fuck else does a person end up being this much of a nightmare?” Jimin was nearly shouting now. As his voice raised, so did your heart rate — so did your chest as you heaved forceful, angry breaths.

Though the heat of your seething bodies was starting to steam up the windows, you could still see the shadow of your tiny house approaching quickly from the middle distance. Throwing your arm out, you pointed to the driveway he was about to rocket past and snarled, “Fucking brake!”

Jimin begrudgingly did as you said. Your bodies both lurched forwards. Your seat belt gripped you the same way his arm had earlier, but when you crashed backwards, your back was flush to your seat instead of his chest. Just as suddenly as he’s braked, he whipped his car into your driveway and came dangerously close to your garage door before throwing the gear shift to park.

“You absolute fucking menace!” You smacked his bicep again, harder now, “Are you trying to forfeit my security deposit? Why don’t you just open my wallet a burn every won you find?”

With a grunt, you threw off your seat belt and let the end of it smack against the plastic molding as it returned to its resting place. He did the same, in the same manner you had, but went ahead to criticize you for your roughness.

“I only give a shit about the dents you’re so dead-set on making in my car,” Jimin spat. Turning abruptly to you, his hand darted out, dipped under your left leg, and prompted you to pull your feet down from his dashboard. “Your rental means dick to me.”

You rolled your eyes for the hundredth time that night as you slipped out of your seat, grabbed your heels, and slammed his passenger door shut behind you. Shoving your clenched fist into your coat pocket, you gripped your keys and pulled them out as if you were wielding a knife. Rage still simmering, you stomped barefoot up to your doorstep just to fumble with the lock on your front door.

As you struggled, the key slipped from your fingers and clattered down against the concrete patch below. That pin dropped from the grenade and exploded through the quiet. As you stared down dejectedly at it, your tiny growl came out like a whine.

Before you could snatch it off the ground, Jimin swooped in. “Give it here, crybaby,” he said while shooting you an exasperated look. With ease, he jammed the key into the lock, turned it, and shoved the door open.

The inner doorknob smashed against the wall of your foyer, and you rounded on him immediately. Jimin raised one finger in your face, and it stopped your shout before it could fly out at him. He stared straight ahead of him, positively seething, “If you mention your security deposit again, I’ll lose my goddamn mind.”

Beyond fed up, you huffed once more and stomped off over the threshold. You didn’t give a shit if he followed you.

As you tore down the hallway to your bedroom, you didn’t bother switching on any of the lights you passed. You were too busy throwing down your shoes and wrestling out of your jacket; leaving a trail of outerwear behind you as you went. Entirely incapable of caring that you’d created an obstacle course for the boy mere steps away.

Jimin staggered along after you, dodging the various items of clothing you’d left scattered across the hardwood. His jacket and shoes clattered to the ground on top of yours, thudding heavy like his pulse in his ears. Twin tornados as usual, you left a path of total destruction in your wake — every single time.

When he finally reached your bedroom, Jimin was panting. You were sitting and seething on the edge of your bed, trying desperately — and failing — to reach the zipper on the back of your dress. True to form, he leaned against the wall and watched you with quiet amusement but offered no aid.

Truthfully, he liked the idea of you wearing that stupid little number while he fucked you; he’d been marinating in that little fantasy all night. Unlike every other person in that club, Jimin didn’t have to imagine the curve of your ass underneath that red satin. He didn’t have to dream about kissing at your thighs the way the edge of that fabric did when you danced, or sunk down onto a bar stool and crossed one leg over the other.

No, Jimin had no quarrel with that dress — he felt equal to it, rather than robbed by it. He’d been everywhere it had and then some, a million times or more.

As he watched your frustration build, he wondered if you’d give up soon. His dick was swelling uncomfortably against his chinos, and he was beginning to lose his already limited patience. So, apparently, were you. Reaching behind your back, you gripped the sides of your dress in both fists and pulled — hard. You gasped as if it’d hurt you, but Jimin knew it would take much more than that.

There was the unmistakable sound of plastic breaking, and then the familiar look of triumph on your face as you stood. Your dress slipped off you like water and dropped dead in a pool of red at your feet. The mangled zipper was somehow still attached, but its teeth had been pried open. Jimin tried not to look impressed — your ever-present ego didn’t need to be bolstered.

You stepped out of the halo around your ankles and kicked it carelessly aside, vowing silently to replace the zipper tomorrow. You lifted your head, breathing hard, and locked eyes with Jimin. The sight of him standing there, doing fuck all, forced an indignant groan out of your parted lips.

“Why —” You hissed, “Are you still dressed?”

Jimin shrugged noncommittally, knowing full well it would enrage you. “Figured you had a knack for zippers,” He murmured innocently, “Was thinking you could handle mine.”

He was goading you, and you knew it, and you still took the bait. He wanted your animalistic hands clawing desperately at him, and to an extent, he’d get them. But he should have been more careful with what he wished for because he wasn’t ready for you.

You closed the distance between you and pushed the center of his chest — not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough for the unexpected force to knock his head back against the wall. You were on one tonight, and for once, he didn’t bite back at you. The look in his eyes admitted that he enjoyed this side of you; that he wanted to see what came of it.

You wasted no time dropping to your knees in front of him and flicking open his belt buckle. Once you had proper access, nimble fingers undid the top button of his slacks, exposing his zipper. You were half-tempted to rip it the way you’d ripped your own — to teach him a lesson — but you didn’t. You inhaled slowly, and exhaled more so.

As sluggishly as you could, you tugged the zipper down. Your knuckle brushed against the side of his cock as it pressed eagerly against the fabric of his trousers and underlying boxer briefs; it twitched at the brief contact. Even more slowly, you slid your fingers through belt loops on either side of his hips and tugged. With the pressure of his pants alleviated, you heard him sigh softly overhead.

It was so stupidly easy to get him hard like this. And on the off chance it wasn’t this easy for everyone, you were an expert at making him like this. You leaned towards the tip, and as you did, you looked up at him from under your lashes. His cock jerked in response, begging for attention you were still refusing to pay it.

You had him, hook, line, and sinker.

Without breaking eye contact, you let your tongue slide out from between your lips. As chastely as a thing like it could be done, you ran it over the tip of his clothed cock, fabric already dampened by pre-cum before your saliva could stain it.

“Fucking touch it already,” Jimin snarled from above you.

You smirked, bumping your chin against the side of him but childishly refusing to put your mouth back on him.

“You begging, Park? Is that what that was?” You pressed up higher on your knees so that his length rested against the center of your throat. If your hypothesis panned out, the vibration of your voice alone might kill him. “If you’re going to beg, you should use your manners.”

He groaned exactly as you predicted he would, letting his eyes screw shut — half blissed, half vexed. With them still closed, his hand reached out and carded gently through the hair at the crown of your head; uncharacteristically soft until he grabbed a handful. The sting at your scalp caused your eyes to water, and your head to tilt back.

Now with half-lidded eyes, Jimin watched the column of your exposed throat bob as he used his free hand to push down the waistband of his briefs — the last barrier between his cock and your mouth. He wanted you full of him if that’s what it took to finally shut you up.

Your index finger traced the vein running along the underside of his length, dragged out another involuntary twitch that burned him up inside. You then switched to your thumb as you went gliding back the way you’d come, and when you finally reached the base of him, your hand teased his balls. Left without words to hurl at you, all Jimin could do was swallow a groan and grip your soft strands tighter.

It was a drag-out fight to keep his eyes open, but he had to if he wanted to watch you kneel in front of him as if you were praying. So perfectly obscene; he’d die a thousand times before you finally took him in your mouth.

You spat in the palm of your hand — unexpectedly crude for a princess like you — and then you began working the length of his dick with alternating pressure. As your small, soft hand pumped him, your mouth surprised him. When you enveloped one of his balls with your mouth, he keened and allowed his eyes to flutter shut again.

As far as Jimin was concerned, there was one use for that bratty mouth, and this was it.

After too few moments massaging his balls with your mouth, you tragically pulled back. The interruption in contact caused him to crack his eyes open and peer desperately back down at you. Under a curtain of dark lashes, your gaze rose to meet his — and then, without warning, you spat directly on his cock. Involuntarily, Jimin’s mouth dropped open and stayed that way as he watched the trail of saliva connect your bottom lip to him.

Oh, fuck you.

Your tongue swirled expertly over his tip while your hand worked over the base of his cock. Try as you might, you’d never fit all of him in your mouth at once — at least, you were sure Jimin assumed so. You hallowed out your cheeks and bobbed your head along as you took more and more of him; earning shuddered moans as you did.

Every now and then, he’d pull at your hair and roll his hips forward, fuck himself a little further into your mouth. You’d feign a whimper as if he was pushing you to your limit, and you let him think so. The sick sound of you pretending to struggle was dragging him close to the edge, but Jimin had no idea what his undoing would truly be:

Smirking to yourself, you wrapped your hands around the back of his thighs to anchor yourself. Undoubtedly confused, you felt him tense in the moment before you pushed further, further, further. Blinking away tears, you noted the way his eyes sparked when his tip slid past your soft palate and touched the back of your throat. They screwed shut as soon you caught him staring and swallowed.

“Ohh, fuck!”

The words sputtered out of Jimin’s mouth the same way his cum shot down the back of your throat. Tensed fingers twisted in your hair as his hips jerked helplessly against the heat of your wide-open mouth. Unable to process any part of what you’d just done to him, he couldn’t seem to get any air in his lungs either — somehow, you’d broken his brain, and his body didn’t know what the fuck to do about it.

You pressed against the front of his thighs as you leaned away from him, eyes still locked. Then, you lifted the back of your hand to your mouth — twisted in some devilish grin — and wiped the spit that had dribbled down your chin.

You little fucking demon.

Jimin hated it when you finished him off during the first round; and you knew it. It infuriated him to no end when you spent him like that — right out of the gate — because he’d have to wait to retaliate. You were well aware of that fact, too. Goddamn menace.

As blissed out as he was with his cock shoved down your throat, he was bubbling over with exasperation in the aftermath. “What the fuck was that?” He panted.

Jimin had so many questions, but he wouldn’t ask you anything further. Who does that? Who planted that idea in your head? Who had you been practicing on, and why hadn’t it been him?

The impish glint in your eyes didn’t dissipate when you shrugged noncommittally — just as he’d done to you, mere minutes before you’d successfully scrambled his brains. Because there was nothing you loved more than weaponizing his own words against him, you sighed with a frown, “Was thinking you could handle me. Nobody busts that fast, though. D’you think you should see a specialist about that?”

Instant gratification came when his arms hooked under your arms and lifted you abruptly from your feet to your knees. So, maybe there was one thing you loved more than firing his bullshit back at him. You tried not to let the excitement show on your face when he spun you around, left you staring down at your bed while you dripped with anticipation.

“Shut your mouth,” Jimin demanded while he took your arms hostage behind you. Evidence of his returning arousal was pressed flush against the small of your back, stoking the fire building in your core. “And lay down on your stomach.”

For once, you did what he said without putting up a fight. Despite the scowl on your face, there was a hurricane inside you that left your mind dizzy, and your panties soaked. Falling into place atop your duvet, you stretched your arms up and under the coolness of your pillows with a sigh. The soft fabric against your cheek and naked chest nearly had you in a trance.

It was a hard slap on your ass that brought you back to the present moment; and ravenous hands tugging down your underwear that kept you there. Your pleasured cries filled every space between his words and his swift smacks, but they went ignored; dead and buried in the fibers of your bedding.

“Why is it —” His warm palm collided with your doughy flesh again and you whimpered, though you tried to swallow it. “— that you look your best — ” He kept his hand still to dull the sting, only to dig blunt fingertips into your ass cheek. “— with your face buried in your pillows?”

You turned to putty in his hands every time he played so roughly with your skin, left little keepsakes behind to remind you where he’d been. If you hadn’t encouraged him to mark you, you suspected he wouldn’t. To his credit, Jimin was much gentler before you stopped letting him be; and as time passed — to your surprise — turning you on seemed to factor heavily into his own arousal.

Not inclined to waste any more time, he leaned over your reddened, stinging backside and grabbed the hands you’d stowed away under your pillows. Though he took care not to ring out your shoulders, he nipped cruelly at one with his teeth as he encircled your wrists with his fingers and jerked them down behind your back. He held them in place with his left hand and brought his right hand expectantly to your mouth.

Jimin didn’t have to say a word for you to hear him, loud and clear. You spit into his hand and, within seconds and without speaking, he pulled away again. In your peripheral vision, you watched in a daze as he pumped his fist back and forth to spread your saliva down his length, rolling his wrist as he worked the tip, bottom lip clenched between his teeth.

Selfishly, albeit predictably, he was more fixated on himself than you – and it drove you mad. You knew better, but you still interjected: “If you’re not going to fuck me, can you get out of my house?”

“Really sealed your fate with that one,” Jimin laughed dryly before smacking his hand down on your ass. As he gripped, he spread your cheeks apart, though his knees on either side of your legs kept you from moving. “Remember to say boksunga when you can no longer handle the consequences of your own actions.”

With that brief reference to your safe word — the one neither of you had used since it was chosen several months ago — he lined himself up at your spit-slicked entrance. The feeling of his tip at your slit caused you to swallow hard; and knowing what was coming next made your stomach flip. Your lips parted in the anticipation of a gasp.

The pressure of him driving himself into you — slowly and conscientiously, but to the hilt, nonetheless — was all but blinding. You needed him to move for you to acclimate to his size, but he stayed torturously still, leaving your shocked walls struggling to adjust. With your legs pinned together the way they were, you felt every vein, every slight curve — but what you still didn’t feel was movement.

“Move, Park,” you hissed through gritted teeth. The stretch brought on by his girth threatened to split you clean in half, no matter how many times he’d entered you before. It was difficult to breathe apart from gasping.

He responded in your own words, mocking the tone you’d taken with him not ten minutes earlier. “Are you begging? If you’re going to beg, you should really use your manners.”

“P-Park, I swear to God —”

He leaned down to your ear and somehow — though you’d have thought it impossible — his cock buried deeper inside of you. One wrong move, and you could kiss your cervix goodbye. In every way that mattered, you were trapped.

“There’s gotta be a please rolling around in that space between your ears,” He teased in a low voice that broke you.

Your swallowed pride burned on its way down. “Please,” you begged, “Please move. I need you to move.”

Satisfied that he’d snuffed out the fight in you, Jimin acquiesced. As he pulled away from your ear, he rolled back — tantalizing but, as you quickly learned, a false front. He pushed back in just as deeply as the first time without ever pulling out completely. The curve of his cock ground against your g-spot; the hands gripping hard at your captured wrists did nothing to stabilize you as you shuddered.

“Is that all it takes to make you go quiet?” His laugh struck harder than his hips did when they snapped forward. “Shit — if that’s the case, then why do I ever stop fucking you?”

Every time his pelvis collided with the flesh of your ass, the sound of skin hitting skin echoed through the electrified air of your bedroom. It was all unholy, but still, you begged God that he’d never stop. He was wrong, though – you were anything but quiet.

To the contrary, you were on the brink of babbling as your cunt gushed around him. With each thrust into your wet heat, Jimin shook another useless thought loose; sent you out of your mind over him.

You’d devolved into a muttering fool by the time your orgasm crept up from the pit of your stomach. When it finally crashed over you, you sensed that it was compensating for the one you’d been denied earlier. Every sensation seemed doubled, and twice as hard to fight.

You screamed as you came — a sound Jimin had never heard from you before — and he was entirely unprepared for it. You came undone around him with a half-sob and forced his release in tandem with yours, cunt squeezing him so tightly that his vision started to blur.

And when the firefight was over, you were both silent. Fucked stupid, neither of you were capable of speech, let alone critical thought.

It was funny, you thought as you re-entered the Earth’s atmosphere, that the only peace you’d ever known with Jimin came immediately after you did.

#trashlibrary #bts #bts fic #bts smut #pjm #park jimin #jimin #park jimin smut #jimin smut #park jimin x reader #jimin x reader #park jimin x you #jimin x you #park jimin x y/n #jimin x y/n #park jimin fic #jimin fic #re: menace #jade writes

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justporo · 11 months

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A Night of Fake Smiles and Hidden Lies

Hi, uhm - I don't really now how to start. I am currently writing a long fic in which Astarion and Tav get invited to a ball. It's been going for a while and I thought (very selfishly and self-indulgently) how about I promote it a little since so many new people have joined. It's a still ongoing story. I'd say it's a very chaotic mix of sweet, fluffy, spicy even sometimes and some darker tones in between. I really pour my heart and soul into this project and try to challenge myself! But maybe it's better to just give you some sneak peeks (from like every other chapter)? I'd be super happy if you were interested to check it out! Thanks to @megschaef98 for suggesting some of your fave parts, ily!

To the chapterlist!

You looked at the invitation in his slender hands. Two golden lines framed the card and under a decorative print stood in elegant cursive writing: “His Lordship Lord De Grodt requests the pleasure of the Company of Lord Astarion Ancunín & Tav to a Ball at Herrenfordt Castle on October 5th, 1493 DR after dusk.” “They really only just wrote ‘Tav’? Should I be insulted?” “You don’t have a last name?”, Astarion asked while looking up from the card. “No, Astarion, I grew up on the streets, because my parents abandoned me – I’m only Tav, always have been”, you answered, only a tad of bitterness in your voice. “Well, my love, you could always just take mine”, the vampire replied smugly and grinned at you. “Weird way to propose”, you muttered under your breath but then immediately said before Astarion could react: “So what do you make of this?”

(Prologue)

So, you finally strode over and took in the garment: It was a striking deep blue that became lighter and a wonderful shade of purple up to lavender further down the skirt – impressively similar to the colours the sky turned when the sun set. It had a high collar that didn’t fully close around the neck in the front, so it allowed for a deep neckline that almost looked like a four-pointed star and long flowy sleeves that from the elbows down became cascading trains of fabric. The bodice was decorated with embroidered bigger four-point stars and smaller sparkles in silver and a few shiny stones. From the slender belt around the waistline down it became a luscious silken skirt that was carefully draped with few more star decorations that became fewer the more the colours lightened. It was quite frankly stunning. Regal and elegant, but not overly flamboyant which would have been something you would have never felt comfortable to wear. And the most important thing: no corset. You wouldn’t have believed it, but you were actually excited to put this garment on.

(Chapter 2)

All around people were standing as couples or smaller groups: chatting, slandering, laughing, drinking the champagne or eating the food being offered by the many servants passing through the crowd with huge silver trays. Some seemed to be well in their cups already, staggering or sloshing their drinks while talking and gesticulating animatedly. Some couples already seemed very handsy as well – hands wandering deeper from backs to more insolent regions, décolletages emphasised with a carefully placed hand or arched back, spines straightened and shoulders rolled back to look taller and more intimidating. Gold, diamonds and pearls seemed to be everywhere you looked. Everything and everyone was sparkling in their finery and giving off the aura of careless excess and frivolous debauchery. Jewels shone from daunting cleavages, signet rings clanked on chalices, flamboyant headpieces swung around during coquettish laughter, deep red lips left stains on crystal glasses and silk shone like liquid in the dim lighting. An impressive display of languid ignorance and luxurious degeneracy. And it was more than impressive even – it was intimidating.

(Chapter 4)

“So sweet, my dear darling, almost as sweet as you”, he whispered hauntingly while you felt drips from the delicious fruit run over your fingers and hand and waves of arousal ran through your body. Then he leaned in again, taking the rest of the strawberry out of your hand, his soft lips closing around your fingers, sucking for a short moment and his tongue flicking over your fingers. Astarion’s sparkling ruby eyes were still on you, patiently observing your reaction, one eyebrow twitching playfully. Your lips parted slightly and your eyes widened as the vampire then lifted your hand up farther and just licked the remaining strawberry juice off the palm of your hand, his fingers steadily around your wrist.

(Chapter 6)

The demon gave a low and rumbly chuckle. “I see”, he had said and with a snap his admirers had returned to roam his body with their hands. “But if you ever change your mind…” He had left the sentence unfinished, his gaze again boring into you until you felt almost stripped naked in front of him and Astarion had protectively placed his hand on your shoulder and quickly led you out of the room. So now you stood in the back of another dimly lit room and listened to this poet theatrically presenting some of his poems: “The moaning and the groaning, The sighing and the sobbing, Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing.” He enunciated every word carefully, his tone and conduct underlining the meaning of his words – it was quite a thing to watch and listen to. People sat and stood around the artist in a half circle, the performance area marked by some small cold, bright mage lights that were the only light source in this room. The sharp illumination from below then made the performance of the poet even more ghostly. Astarion and you were both leaning against the wall in the back, observing the show in companiable silence.

(Chapter 7)

CHAPTERLIST | READ ON AO3 | MASTERLIST

#astarion #astarion x tav #baldurs gate #baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #astarion x reader #astarion x mc #baldurs gate astarion #astarion x oc #astarion x you #fanfic #fanfiction #astarion ancunin #bg3 spoilers #a night of fake smiles and hidden lies #bg3 astarion #shameless self promotion

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bcdrawsandwrites · 5 months

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[ID: A Team Fortress 2 fic banner showing Pyro standing in front of a fireplace with its back to it, tossing a book backward into the fire. Pyro is in shades of gray, the book is in yellow-white, and only the fire is colored orange, mimicking the style of the Cooking the Books achievement icon. The title is on the left, in yellow-white text on a darker background reading, "CHAPTER THREE: COOKING THE BOOKS" /end ID]

Flickering

Fandom: Team Fortress 2 Rating: K+ Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Friendship Characters: Spy, Pyro, Scout (plus the rest of the mercs, but the others have minor roles in this chapter) Warnings: General references to trauma, TF2-typical violence Fic Description: After the events of the comics, the mercs try to go back to how things were, but it’s never that easy.

Spy can see his teammates going through their own struggles… but something seems to be very, very wrong with Pyro in particular.

And since no one else seems to be doing anything about this, Spy makes it his mission to get to the bottom of what is troubling Pyro. For no particular reason. Beta Readers: @mechmolar, @gonturan0, @junuve

---~~~---

Chapter 3: Cooking the Books Summary: In which Pyro takes notice of Spy.

---~~~---

The bustling atmosphere of the pre-match preparation was tinged with tension, at least for Spy. Sniper kept to himself; Soldier went on a rallying, confusing speech that no one other than Demo listened to; Heavy checked over his guns; Medic prepared his ubercharge; Scout... Engineer talked quietly to Pyro about setting up his buildings.

And Pyro stared directly at Spy.

Spy pretended to check through his disguises, but watched Pyro out of the corner of his eye. The Pyro never looked away, though it did give a tiny nod when the Engineer asked if it heard everything.

"Good to hear," Engineer said, and patted Pyro on the back with his good hand.

That made Pyro finally tear its gaze away from Spy to whirl on the Engineer. But the Administrator’s voice had already called for the match to start, and Engineer was hauling his toolbox out into the fray. When Pyro looked back, however, it gave a start; Spy had taken the opportunity to cloak so he could escape that creature's gaze.

Spy barely suppressed a shudder as he put as much distance between himself and the Pyro as possible. Once he was sure he was far enough away, he de-cloaked and let himself breathe.

Well. This was, indeed, going to make things difficult. If the Engineer hadn't startled Pyro, he wasn't sure what it might have done. But even though he'd gotten away, he couldn't imagine this would be the end of it.

Still, for the time being, he focused on the match. Pyro would likely be spending most of its time in their intelligence room, so he wouldn't get the chance to see it. Probably for the best, this time.

The match went on as it typically did, and Spy managed to sneak in to nab the BLU team's intelligence. As he was bringing the briefcase back, the Administrator's voice cried out that their intelligence had been taken as well.

Interesting—the Pyro had slipped up, it seemed.

Sure enough, Spy entered the intelligence room just in time to see the Engineer's precious gadgets be destroyed by enemy sappers. Sighing, he dropped off the stolen intelligence before charging back out to chase down the thief.

Spy followed the path the enemy had likely taken—through the sewers. Not something he enjoyed doing, but work was work, and the respawn would clean his outfit, provided he actually died. As he was mulling this over, he nearly ran smack into the RED merc standing at the edge of the water. "What are you doing?!" he cried. "They are going to—"

He faltered upon realizing whom he was talking to. Pyro did not acknowledge him, still staring at the water. The last time he recalled Pyro avoiding water was when it was “protecting” something it had set aflame, but it wasn’t holding anything other than its axe at the moment.

Before he could think any further on this, an explosion rang out just outside the sewers, followed by an announcement that the enemy had dropped the intelligence.

"Oh, got some of 'em on me shirt that time!" the Demo shouted with a laugh.

Spy snorted, whipping out his butterfly knife and preparing to leave to defend the intelligence when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye—Pyro had turned around to stare at him. Spy stared back, just for a moment, before cloaking and retreating.

He did not see the Pyro for the rest of the match, much to his relief. It must have gone back to defend the intelligence room again, and Spy avoided the room thereafter, instead opting to aid his own teammates in obtaining the enemy intelligence by taking out the enemy sentries and sniper. The remainder of the match went smoothly, with the RED team scoring yet another pointless victory. Spy rolled his shoulders as he headed back to spawn, only to freeze in his tracks.

Scout sat against the wall, breathing heavily.

Spy's mind plunged into a blank, staticy whirl, his heart threatening to break free of his ribcage. He could smell the smoke from the destroyed robots, the metallic tang of blood, and Scout was so hideously pale. There weren't any respawn machines here, and the Medic—

"What're you lookin' at, chucklenuts?" Scout snapped, tipping back the brim of his baseball cap as he fixed Spy with a look. His face was flushed red and glistening with sweat; he wiped his brow.

Rolling his eyes, Spy forcibly shoved the imagery from his mind. "Only wondering why you are wasting time when we need to return to spawn."

"What, I can't take a breather? I ran straight from the BLU intelligence room to here without stopping, or getting hit." Wincing, he held a hand against the side of his chest. "Mostly, anyway."

So he hadn't been imagining the smell of blood. Though it wasn't as strong as it had been back when... "You can rest after you've seen the Medic. Move."

Scout muttered a few unsavory words before pushing himself up to his feet, trudging back toward spawn, and Spy followed, closely inspecting the walls around them so he could look everywhere but at Scout.

When they arrived, Spy busied himself with tidying up his locker. He could hear Scout chatting with Medic, but tuned it out with the rustle of paper and fabric. His hand found a lint brush, and he used it to gently clean off his jacket and pants. Yes, they had another round in a short while, but it never hurt to look one's best.

As he bent down to clean off the bottoms of his pant legs, the hair stood on the back of his neck. Bristling, he whipped around to see Pyro once again staring at him from the other side of the room. This time, he stared right back, maintaining eye contact (or whatever approximated it with that creature's mask) before slamming his locker door shut and striding off to the bathroom to finish tidying himself up.

When he opened the door to step back out, he almost immediately leaped backwards to find the Pyro staring at him from just outside. He half-expected to see an axe or flamethrower being held at the ready, but Pyro's hands were empty.

...Oh. Perhaps it just needed to use the washroom itself. With a grunt, Spy weaved around it and back into the spawn room. But to his consternation, Pyro followed him.

Finally Spy whirled around to face him. "What?" he snapped.

Pyro said nothing, and turned its head slightly to the side.

Frustration mounting, Spy opened his mouth—

"Mission begins in ten seconds!"

Sniper hurried to the Pyro's side. "Mate, can we have a word? An enemy spy caught me last round, and if you could..."

Spy turned away from the conversation, instead checking over his equipment in preparation for the round.

He wasn't sure what he would've gotten out of talking to that thing, anyway.

—-

The match had gone on as normal, other than Spy doing all he could to avoid Pyro. They'd won another swift victory and returned to their base to cool off.

After hanging behind the others to make sure he wasn't tailed by anyone again, Spy quickly found himself in his smoking room, sitting on his chair and facing the fireplace. He had a fire going—entirely unnecessarily for all but atmosphere—and a book open on his lap, a glass of wine at his side. A few drags from his cigarette and a few sips of wine were quickly taking the edge off of the events of the day's match.

A victory, yes. But with more than a few things that bothered him.

Pyro had, of course, realized that Spy had been... well, spying on it. But what it planned to do with that information, Spy had no clue. It had yet to attack him, and he didn't much enjoy being watched by that creature every second it was around him.

It didn't help that he had no way to actually ask the Pyro anything. It couldn't talk intelligibly to begin with, and now it was refusing to vocalize at all. What was he supposed to do? Give it a pen and paper? He didn't even know if it could read or write, let alone hold a pen in its creepy claws.

Sighing, he tried to turn his focus to the book he'd pulled off his shelf. He could figure this out another time—for now, he only wished to unwind.

Of course, no one else in this stupid base seemed to agree.

THUD. THUD.

Spy's lips pulled back in a grimace. "Who is it? What do you want?" he called out, letting the annoyance edge into his voice. Hopefully whoever it was would pick up on it and decide to leave him alone for once.

He gave a bitter laugh at the thought, and sure enough, the bothersome person was once again knocking.

THUD. THUD.

"You have got to be kidding me," Spy muttered, setting his book aside and rising from his chair. He strode over to the door. "Who is it?" he demanded.

No response.

Frowning, he opened the door a crack and peered through. Upon seeing nothing, he opened the door wider, and to his consternation, found absolutely no one outside.

Ah. Probably another one of Scout's stupid pranks. Rolling his eyes, he turned around.

The Pyro stood beside the fireplace, staring directly at him.

Spy gave a start, his heart jumping into his throat before his fear turned to anger. "You—?!" he sputtered, then stormed closer. "How did you get in here?!"

Pyro lifted its left hand, pointing at the door.

Spy glanced back at the door. "Yes, hilarious. But how—" He stopped himself, realizing that Pyro had probably sneaked into here before he'd arrived. But then why go through the trouble of distracting...

Tap, tap.

Turning back to Pyro, he realized abruptly that it was holding something, which it had tapped against the side of the fireplace. It took him a moment to realize it was the book he'd just been reading. "...Wait."

Pyro's head jerked toward the fireplace, and it held the book out.

Spy gave a start. "Don't you dare."

And Pyro tossed the book into the fire, setting it ablaze, and pointed at the burning book.

"Sacré bleu!" he cried, bolting over to the fireplace. "What have you done?!"

The Pyro's head snapped back in his direction, and it pointed at the fire with more emphasis.

Spy stumbled to a halt beside the Pyro and returned its gaze, staring at the reflection of flames in the creature's dark goggles. For a moment he could see himself in Pyro's room the night prior, the creature staring at him through—or with—those same dark lenses. The memory of it sharply brought him back to reality, and he followed where the Pyro was pointing, staring at the pages of the book as they curled and blackened in the flames. After watching this for a second, he looked back.

Pyro gave a brief nod, and reached for him.

"Mon dieu!" Spy stumbled back. "What are you—?!"

Pyro exhaled a sharp breath through its filter, and took a step toward him. Its suit and mask gleamed in the light of the fire, and it made a grab for him.

With a yelp, Spy stumbled back again, looking from the fire to Pyro and quickly realizing what the thing intended to do. Without another word, he bolted for the door.

Yet Pyro had somehow anticipated his move, and swerved to block him. It held one hand out, palm forward, and its breathing was heavy through its filter.

Spy's heart pounded, but he glared. "Out of my way, you mush-mouthed freak!"

To his fury, the Pyro shook its head, and reached for him again.

Later, Spy would tell himself that it was purely on instinct. Maybe it was. Maybe it was something else. Whatever it was, the next thing he knew he had flipped open his butterfly knife and was swinging his arm in a stab. At the last moment he realized what was happening, and adjusted the stab into an awkward slash, tearing across the Pyro's arm.

Maybe because he was expecting it, he thought he heard a strained noise after the slash. But he was more concerned with rushing to the other side of the room, hoping to find another way to get around that deadly creature. But to his surprise, it was already hurrying out of the room, one hand grasping its injured arm. He watched it leave, and, once he was sure it was gone, hurriedly shut and latched the door behind it.

The room now secured, he stumbled back to his chair, numbly retrieving a cloth from his pocket and cleaning the blade of his knife. As he picked up his wine glass to down it, he happened to glance at the cloth, staring at the mix of blood and soot that was smeared across it.

Why had he ever gotten involved?

#tf2 spy #tf2 pyro #tf2 scout #team fortress 2 #my art #my writing #fanfic #flickering fanfic

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fuckyeahdindjarin · 2 years

Text

III ║ Dapple Grey

Jack Daniels x f!reader

{ << Part 2: Buckskin | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part 4: Strawberry Roan >> }

Rating: M (will be E in future chapters)

Summary: Tinder is a dangerous game. So is Never Have I Ever.

Warnings: Flirting, yearning, insecurities, sexual tension, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, sexual innuendoes, language, mention of food, drinking, drinking games, mention of breakup, no use of Y/N

Word count: 6.5k

Notes: I had a little bit of a meltdown writing this part. Thank you @mandoblowmybackout and @prolix-yuy for talking me out of it ❤️ I had the busiest week so I didn't have as much time as I usually do for edits, so this chapter's a bit of an… experiment 🙈 Thank you for everyone who's been so kind to me and this series - I hope you enjoy this part! 🦄

Dapple grey: A grey or white horse with spots or areas of a darker colour.

Day 2

‘Stop looking at me.’

‘I’m not.’

You turn the camera around to show Jack the photo you just took and deadpan, ‘I have literal proof of you looking straight at me.’

The two of you are sitting underneath the shade of a tree, a simple lunch laid out in the middle on a picnic blanket. The horse’s saddles and packs are resting against the trunk behind you while they graze nearby.

In front of you, several yards away, the grassy plain drops off into a deep valley. And beyond - a sight to behold. If the bentonite hills had been sculpted by a higher being, they must have run an inadvertent finger through the clay while it was on the spinning wheel, creating dramatic curves that cut into the soft rock. The hills are painted from left to right for miles and miles in white, red and green stripes, candy cane colours faded under the sun.

Jack gives you a scowl as he rolls up his tortilla wrap, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. He grumbles, ‘It’s hard not to. You’re pointing the camera at me.’

‘Well, you gave me full control of today’s photography, so you have to do what I say.’

He flings an accusatory finger at you. ‘Only because you promised to help us with our marketing.’

You press a dramatic hand to your chest. ‘What exactly are you insinuating, cowboy?’

‘You’re obviously taking pictures for the Tinder thing instead, which, by the way, I am not convinced about,’ replies and takes a bite of his wrap.

‘Not convinced - ha! Says the guy who drives two hours to a bar and doesn’t even know if he’ll get laid,’ you retort. ‘And don’t you worry, cowboy, these pictures will definitely work for both the ranch and Tinder.’

His frowns. ‘What do you mean for the ranch?’

‘I mean for the website and social media. Honestly, I’m surprised there aren’t any pictures of you on there already. You guys would get so much business you’ll have to turn people away.’

He cocks an eyebrow, arrogance seeping into his smile. ‘Oh, and why is that?’

You roll your eyes at his fishing for a compliment. ‘You know why, cowboy.’

‘Enlighten me, darlin’,’ he insists with a wink. ‘I want to hear it from the horse’s mouth.’

You put the cap back on the lens and reprimand, ‘What did I say about your ego last night?’

You avoid his gaze as you unwittingly steer the conversation into dangerous waters. You probably shouldn’t be bringing up anything from the night before - at all. There’s no alcohol to blame in the bright light of day though. Somehow, just being around this cowboy is enough to cloud your better judgement and make you say reckless things.

When you finally peer at him out of the corner of your eye, he casts you no more than an amused glance. Polishing off his lunch and dusting his hands, he looks away to watch the horses.

The morning hours before passed with no mention of what transpired by firelight. All the tension that has built up between you two in the dark burned off with the daybreak mist, and you’re feeling a lot lighter after your little bedtime distraction. And in the absence of any suggestive ogling or innuendoes from the cowboy, you conclude that you must have gotten away with it. All you are is a bit saddle sore, but nothing too serious, and you ride on with little difficulty.

An easy camaraderie has set in between you and Jack after surviving your first night together in the mountains. The banter packs a bit more punch now that you are no longer complete strangers, and you spend the morning trading horsey stories.

Jack learned to ride on his uncle’s farm. His first pony belonged to his older cousin who lost interest in the sport, so he spent years riding Sparkles, resplendent in matching pink bridle and saddle, until he outgrew her. He worked in and around the equestrian circuit until Champ offered him the job ten years ago, after meeting at a rodeo.

The conversation petered out when the lush green landscape gave way to drier sand, and suddenly, towering ahead, were the famous soaring red earth formations that you’ve been travelling the last two days for. Jutting out of the ground and chiselled by centuries of wind and rain, the echoing clops of the horses’ hooves bounced off the crimson stone as you rode under arches and past columns, dwarfed by the natural architecture.

After spending the better part of an hour exploring the red earth valley, you were taking a quick water break in the shade, when an idea struck you.

‘Do you think I’d get a discount for my next trip if I helped you guys with your online marketing?’

Jack chuckled. ‘Already thinking about coming back, huh? I mean I’ve always been told that I’m charming, but a turnaround this quick-’

You leaned out of your saddle to give him a small slap on the shoulder for his cheek. ‘Don’t let it get to your head, cowboy. I’m doing it for selfish reasons - a project like this would be a great addition to my portfolio.’

‘What exactly do you do for a living?’ he asked.

Capping your water bottle, you fastened it to its holder. ‘Branding and marketing. I work at an agency now, but someday I want to start my own business, so I always take on projects on the side when I have time.’

‘And you didn’t even bring your own equipment?’ he teased.

You pouted. ‘C’mon, let me borrow yours. I won’t drop it, I promise.’

With a dramatic sigh, Jack relented, ‘You know I can’t say no to you, darlin’.’

Now, hours later, he clearly wishes that he did. Jumping onto his feet, he leans down and unceremoniously plucks the camera from your hands, prompting an indignant cry.

‘That’s it,’ he grunts. ‘I’m laying down the law. No more pictures of me today.’

You shrug, not bothering to look up as he walks away towards the saddlebags. ‘Joke’s on you, cowboy! I got more than enough for your Tinder profile and the ranch.’

At the unexpected click of the shutter, your head snaps up to see Jack grinning at you from behind the camera a couple of feet away. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘Taking photos for your profile,’ he replies triumphantly.

You pull your hat down low over your face and grumble, ‘Stop it! I’m covered in sweat and dirt.’

He scoffs. ‘So am I! Didn’t stop you though, did it?’

Ugh. Does this insufferable man not understand that sweat and dirt only adds to his appeal?

You grouse, ‘And how are you going to be able to help with my profile? You’ve never even heard of the app.’

Jack crouches down to pack the camera securely in a saddlebag, peering at you over his shoulder. ‘I’m a man. Surely my opinion would count for something.’

Oh, he doesn’t need to tell you that. He’s all man. One whose very tight jeans are practically straining against his pert backside while he rearranges the packing on one knee.

Standing up, Jack whistles at the horses grazing nearby. He turns to you and says, ‘Come on, darlin’, no more clownin’ around on my watch. We got some ground to cover to get to our camp for tonight.’

You groan half-jokingly, climbing to your feet and grumble, ‘Yes, sir.’

You notice the way he stiffens. There’s a twitch in his neck as if he’s holding himself back from turning towards you, and his jaw shifts like he’s grinding his teeth. When you walk up behind him, he clears his throat deliberately and busies himself with the tack as the horses trot lazily back towards you.

Interesting.

You reach out to rub Scotch on the nose when he approaches, giving him half of the apple you saved for him from lunch. You keep an eye on Jack, your mind whirring, as you saddle up for the afternoon.

Turns out the cowboy wasn’t joking. It’s a seriously hard ride, with long stretches of cantering over flat ground. It’s as exhilarating as it is hard on your body - your calves and thighs are burning, your shoulders ache, and you start to actually worry if you’ll be able to carry on tomorrow. If you even survive this afternoon, that is.

You’re on what feels like the hundredth backbreaking canter streak of the day. Jack and Whiskey a safe four horse-lengths ahead, Bourbon following behind you and Scotch. The sun is veiled by clouds, but the heat is no less forgiving. You’re sweat-soaked to the bone, hair sticking to your forehead and the back of your neck. You’ve never been so desperate for a shower and a cold drink.

You see Jack stand up in his stirrups and turn around in his saddle to check on you. You must look like hell, because he takes mercy on you and holds up a hand to signal the end of the lope. When Scotch slows down to a walk next to Whiskey, he asks, barely winded, ‘You ok, darlin’?’

Panting for air, you reach desperately for your water. ‘Are you trying to kill me, cowboy? You remember what I said about the gym last night, right?’

He chuckles, taking a drink of water himself. ‘I’m sorry, I know I’m pushing you, but there’s somethin’ I want to show you before we lose the light.’

You swipe at a bead of sweat running down the side of your cheek with your clothed shoulder, too tired to sit up straight in the saddle anymore. You point a threatening finger at him. ‘It better be worth it, or I swear I’ll have your head.’

Jack gives you an encouraging pat on the back. ‘I promise it will be. Come on, darlin’, I know you can do it.’

Despite your exhaustion, some baser instinct in you can’t help but preen at his words. Damn your need for approval and praise from the lips of a handsome man.

It’s another hour or so on the road when you discern a drop in temperature, the sun starting its descent for the day, though the sky remains bright. Jack slows you down to an easy trot, craning his neck, as if searching for something. Distracted by an itch on your ankle, deep inside your boots, you don’t notice Whiskey coming to an abrupt halt in front of you.

‘Whoa, sorry,’ you apologise, gathering up the reins last-second to stop Scotch from running straight into the chestnut’s rump. ‘I wasn’t paying atten- ’

You trail off when you look up, hands frozen awkwardly in mid-air as all your motor functions grind to a stop.

You’re not sure how or where it came from - an enormous field of wildflowers in bloom stretches before you, as far as the eye can see.

‘Did I deliver on that promise, darlin’?’

Air rushes into your lungs when Jack’s words register, and only then do you realise you’ve been holding your breath. Robbed of your faculties, you answer with a mute nod.

Jack smiles broadly at your speechlessness. ‘Come on. Let’s take a closer look.’

Scotch follows when Jack nudges Whiskey down the small slope. The meadow parts like softly lapping waves around the horses’ knees, a riot of colour and scent. If it was earlier in the afternoon, you’re sure there would be a muted buzz of honey bees hard at work. It’s mostly still at this hour, other than the whistle of grass and leaves brushing the horses’ legs as you make your way deeper into the field.

Your eyes dart about, barely focusing long enough to recognise what’s in front of you - bluebells, woodland sage, verbena, daisies, foxglove - and far more that you can’t name off the top of your head. The sweet nectar is overwhelming, and when a breeze stirs, it washes over you like a gentle mist from a perfume bottle.

Slowly regaining your senses, a familiar sound catches your ear. Glancing to your left, Jack has his camera aimed at you as the horses walk slowly.

You grin, not caring that you’re a mess. Your knees brush when the horses drift into each other’s course. ‘Thanks for bringing me here, Jack.’

‘My pleasure,’ he tips his hat at you. ‘So - there’s a camp around three quarters of an hour’s ride away, but we can stay here tonight if you want to.’

Your chest swells excitedly at the prospect, but you demur, ‘Will it be too much hassle? We don’t have anything here.’

With a wave of his hand, Jack dismisses your doubts. ‘It’s just the two of us, it can be easily done. There’s a stream a short distance that way, which is all we need. I’ll take care of everything else.’

A grin breaks across your face. ‘If you’re sure it’s not too much trouble - I’d love to camp here tonight. Thank you.’

Jack nods. ‘Of course. Anythin’ for you, darlin’.’

You don't want to contemplate how you’ll ever go back to an existence where you don’t have cowboys with gorgeous brown eyes telling you things like that. And you suppose you don't have to - at least for a few more days.

‘Can I help with anything?’ you offer.

He shakes his head adamantly, one hand outstretched as if to physically stop you. ‘Absolutely not. Stay here with Scotch and Pinto, take a breather, stretch your legs - I’ll get everything ready.’

When Jack and Whiskey return half an hour later, having loaded up on water and firewood, he finds both horses untacked and brushed down. A smile tugs at his lips - of course you wouldn’t listen to him. The tack and saddlebags are neatly laid out, the cooking supplies already unpacked in preparation for dinner.

Scotch and Pinto are lying down, hooves tucked tidily under themselves, snacking on grass and half-dozing. You’re sitting cross-legged next to the palomino, braiding daisies into his white mane. You look up when you hear Jack approach.

‘I moved us further down so we don’t set fire to the field,’ you joke, pointing at the slightly barer patch of land.

‘Well done, darlin’,’ he replies and dismounts, giving Whiskey a big pat before quickly unsaddling him. Tipping his face to the sky, he remarks, ‘I think we’ll have quite a sunset tonight.’

Despite it only being the second day of the trip, you and Jack seem to have settled into a comfortable rhythm. He sets up the fire while you shower, and then you feed the horses - dry feed with apple and carrot bits for tonight - while Jack nips off for his.

He doesn’t protest when you help with dinner - corn chowder and jacket potatoes are on the menu this evening. While Jack preps the vegetables for the soup, you oil, season and wrap the potatoes in foil, planting them directly into the fire for a slow roasting.

At the first sign of the sky turning colours, you set up your phone on timelapse, propping it against your water bottle behind the two of you, with the horses and the campfire in-shot as the sun starts to sink. You don’t have to worry about battery life as the solar chargers are fully charged from abundant sunshine these couple of days, and there will be electricity at the Halfway House when you get there tomorrow.

At some point, both of you stop what you’re doing to watch the sunset. The sky is stained blood orange, the colour dripping from the horizon to stretch across the field of wildflowers until it is awash in red. A flock of birds cut across the cloudless horizon in a homeward formation, their caws echoing in the valley.

The digital click of the shutter pulls you out of your thoughts.

‘Jack,’ you berate him half-heartedly.

‘Come here, darlin’,’ he shuffles closer and turns the camera around so the front is pointed at you both. You can see your reflection in the lens - and he presses the shutter-release.

The chowder is delicious, as has been everything Jack has made so far on the trip. But after dinner, when the plates have been washed and the sleeping bags rolled out, belly full but slumber not yet come knocking, and Jack asks if you want a nightcap with a twinkle in his eyes - you decide that’s your favourite time of the day.

He puts a kettle on the fire, and pulls a tin of cocoa from a saddlebag. ‘You want a hot chocolate? We can make it Irish.’

You chuckle. ‘Sounds good, cowboy.’

Steaming mugs in hand, Jack carefully makes his way to your sleeping bag, the fire tracing his silhouette in bright orange. You take one, legs crossed and elbows on your knees, thanking him before taking a ginger taste.

A violent cough racks your frame, the potency taking you by surprise. ‘Jesus Christ - is this three-quarters whiskey?’

Jack cracks a roguish grin in your direction. ‘Maybe. But I bet you can take it, darlin’.’

Holy fuck.

Heat creeps up the back of your neck and spreads over the planes of your cheeks, and you duck behind your drink. Under the cover of night, in that gravelly Southern drawl, his words wield an unholy power.

Not ready to spar yet, you take a steadying inhale and a long sip, the alcohol burning on its way down. You grab the camera that’s been lying closeby all evening and say, ‘Let’s go over the photos I took today. I might even let you choose which ones to use for your profile.’

He snorts in jest, but shifts closer so that he can see the screen. ‘Sure, I believe you, darlin’.’

For such a good-looking man, Jack doesn’t seem to have a vain bone in his body. He is complimentary of your photography, stopping you when you want to zoom past the reel of your scenic shots. Instead, he takes the time to politely appreciate the composition, framing and lighting. But whenever one of him shows up, it’s he who wants to fast forward, uncomfortable with the attention of seeing himself on film.

When your drinks run low, Jack gets up to get more cocoa and hot water. You two are in the middle of an argument about the merits of (or according to him, the lack thereof) candid shots, after he vetoes one that you propose for Tinder.

‘Why that one?’ he disputes, collecting your mug. ‘I’m not even looking at the camera!’

‘That’s the whole point!’ you rebut. ‘It’s natural and in the moment. It’s a great photo of you!’

You ignore him as he grumbles while he mixes the cocoa. You click all the way through the reel, reaching the last photo of the day - the selfie of the two of you at sunset. Glancing up to make sure Jack is still occupied, you steal a moment to really study at the shot.

It’s a flattering take, the lighting and angle kind on you. You admire the way Jack’s eyes crinkle warmly at the corners, one side of his moustache tilted up with his smile, tidy teeth peeking out from behind that wicked mouth.

This damn cowboy.

Accidentally, your finger brushes a button on the dial, taking you to the top of the SD card. What comes on screen first appears innocuous enough - but when your gaze focuses, you freeze and your jaw drops.

Jack’s just poured a tall measure of whiskey into each mug when he notices you’ve fallen completely motionless, camera still in your hands. With a frown, he leans over to see why.

‘Jesus Christ!’ he swears loudly, leaping forward to snatch it away from you, nearly knocking over both drinks in the process. He just about tosses the machine away as if it burns him. ‘Shit, fuck, shit. Fuck!’

You haven’t heard him cuss much yet on the trip, and you’re not sure if that’s what triggers it, but suddenly you’re laughing so hard that your chest heaves and your lungs ache. Tears sting the corners of your eyes as you gasp for breath, what you saw on the screen seared into your memory.

It’s a photo Jack took of himself in what you assume is a bathroom mirror, his left hand holding the camera. Something about him is different, maybe his hair is a bit shorter, more slicked back. A flannel shirt hangs unbuttoned on his firm body, just like yesterday when he was undressing at the lake. It’s innocent enough up to this point.

Lower still, his belt with the now familiar flask buckle dangles undone, jeans shoved carelessly just past his pelvis. His large hand - which you’re now used to seeing deftly grasping the reins or resting on his thigh as he rides next to you - is wrapped around the base of what appears to be a very generously sized, very hard cock.

You just wish you’d been granted a few more seconds to peruse before Jack ripped the camera from you.

Finally, you wheeze, ‘Who takes nude pics on a DSLR?’

Jack runs a palm over his face and sighs. ‘You saw the state of my phone, the camera doesn’t work. The pictures were for my ex, she lived two states away and we didn’t see each other much. I thought I deleted them ages ago.’

You make grabby hands at the fresh hot chocolates, which he passes to you. You squeak, ‘I’m not drunk enough for this.’

Even in the dark, you can see the tips of his ears turning beet red, and you don't think you're imagining the insecurity in his tone as he mutters, ‘Sorry, that was embarrassin’.’

‘Why are you sorry? I didn’t see anything you should apologise for,’ you reply truthfully, swirling your drink, the hot steam warming your nose as you take a sip.

Jack peers at you with a bemused frown. ‘No?’

His gaze follows as you lick an errant drop of chocolate from the corner of your mouth. You add slyly, ‘I don’t see anything to be embarrassed about, either.’

‘Is that so?’ He hums thoughtfully, a self-assuredness squaring his broad shoulders as he leans towards you. ‘Does that mean you liked what you saw then, darlin’?’

It’s a loaded question. You give him a lopsided smile, and with more bravado than you feel, you quip, ‘I don’t know - I’ll have to take a closer look, cowboy.’

He holds your challenging stare when he knocks back a mouthful of his drink, and smacking his lips, he grins, ‘All you have to do is ask.’

Batting your eyelashes ironically, you half-joke, ‘Do I have to say please, too?’

Jack breathes out hard through his nostrils, a strangled laugh caught in his chest. He chides, ‘Behave, darlin’.’

And with two little words, he turns the tables on you and shoves you up a metaphorical wall. The shudder that ripples through your body at being told to behave by this cowboy doesn’t escape his keen observation, and his lips quirk in a cocksure manner.

Jack opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something, but he’s interrupted by a quick succession of pings from your phone, which has been silent since the start of the trip. The sound is alien in the quiet of the mountains.

Your brow wrinkles in confusion. ‘Uh - what’s happening?’

It might be wishful thinking on your part, but disappointment seems to flash across Jack’s features as you change the subject.

‘There’s a weather station nearby. Sometimes we get the splash off,’ he explains.

You give him an enquiring look. ‘You know what I’m going to do now?’

Jack sighs in resignation. ‘I won’t be able to get away with this Tinder business, will I?’

‘Don’t be so glum about it, cowboy, it’s fun,’ you wink. ‘First things first - do you have a Facebook account?’

Lying on your stomach, your pillow tucked under your chest and your socked feet up in the air behind you, you look like you’re settling in for the long haul. Jack rearranges himself accordingly, rolling up his sleeping bag and reclines into it like it was a beanbag. With a deep drag of his drink, he takes stock of the situation.

First, Champ tries to set him up with you.

And now, you’re trying to set him up with an online dating account.

If questioned a few moments ago, he would still have thought that he was the cause of your little show last night. Right now - he’s not so sure anymore.

He’d been on the cusp of sleep when he heard you - a whimper that would’ve passed him by if the fire had cackled, or if a breeze had rustled the leaves in the trees. But in that window of perfect silence, he heard you. It paralysed him, sending blood rushing everywhere but his head, and he was up for hours, until his erection was eventually forced to dissipate from literal exhaustion.

Today has been something of a struggle, but he has bouts of sleeplessness every now and then, and even when it gets really fucking bad - he copes. He knows for a fact that you haven’t noticed. Hell, even his own team can’t pick up on it unless it’s been three nights and he literally trips over his feet walking on the fourth morning.

On the upside, at least the fatigue has forced him to keep his head on whatever task is at hand, sparing no room for thoughts about what he heard in the dark. But when you said ‘yes, sir’ earlier with such casual nonchalance, and the way you so boldly met him blow for blow just now - it took him all he’s got to fucking physically hold it together.

He’s not sure how it’s gone from that to you setting him up on Tinder, and by extension, with other women - in so fervent a manner.

Has he been reading you wrong this whole time? He’s barely taken a break from flirting with you, and he knows he’s not imagining your reactions to him when he pushes you a bit harder - just so he can see your eyes widen and hear your breath hitch - for him.

Watching you type on your phone with gusto, shooting questions at him - what’s your email address? How old are you? Do you want to link your Tinder account to your Facebook? - he wonders if he's lost his touch without realising it.

It’s been a couple of years since he broke up with his ex-girlfriend. She was sweet but his heart wasn’t in it, and the long-distance didn’t help. It’s been the odd one night stand here and there since, and while he’s not one to brag, his record is pretty damn near perfect.

Not that there’s much competition in this neck of the woods - well, Tequila puts up a good fight if they’re on a night out together. But right now, he’s the only man for miles and miles, and somehow, he’s still losing.

So he tops up his mug (it’s mostly just whiskey now), and he drinks until you reach out and poke him on the knee, grinning from ear to ear. Jack bites the inside of his cheek and wishes you wouldn’t smile at him like that. Not when he can’t figure you out.

You wear the fireside glow so well, like you’ve always spent your days in the saddle, traversing the Wyoming hinterland, and ending your nights at the warmth of a campfire.

Like you belong here.

‘What do you think?’ you prompt him, tipping the screen towards him.

He takes your phone and studies it. It’s a photo of him that you took this morning, with his age and job listed on top of it in the bottom left corner. He shrugs. ‘I don’t know, you tell me. I have nothing to compare this to.’

Undaunted by his uninspired response, you swipe through enthusiastically, showing him the other uploads. ‘Look, I took some pictures from your Facebook page too. Trust me, you’ll be knee deep in pussy before you know it, cowboy.’

He chokes on his drink, which draws a chortle from you. He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. ‘Are you always so crass, darlin’?’

You salute him with your almost empty mug. ‘Only when nefarious cowboys spike my hot chocolate with way too much whiskey.’

He huffs a laugh. ‘One more or should we call it a night?’

‘We can’t go to bed yet, setting up your account is only step one. I still have to show you how to swipe right,’ you protest, but the screen abruptly goes blank when you tap on it. ‘Shit, the connection’s gone!’

‘Praise the Lord,’ Jack proclaims, turning his palms heavenward in relief. His knees creak when he gets up to add more wood to the fire. ‘What do you want to do now, then?’

You put your phone away reluctantly. ‘I don’t know. What do you usually do with guests?’

‘Depends,’ he grunts when he sits down, close to you. ‘If the Kingsman were here, we’d play poker and darts.’

‘I got to say I’m glad they’re not here, then,’ you say with a wrinkle of your nose. It’s getting colder, so you sit up and drape the cosy blanket across your shoulders. When the idea comes to mind, you almost leap up from your seat in excitement. ‘Oh I know! How about a game of never have I ever?’

Jack scoffs. ‘Are you fourteen?’

‘It’s a classic. Please? It’ll be fun,’ you needle, waving the now half-empty bottle at him. ‘We still have to finish this off.’

He pins you with a stern look. ‘We’ll get wasted.’

You shrug with a cheeky grin. ‘So? I’m on holiday, and we’re halfway there already.’

‘Just don’t blame me for your inevitable hangover tomorrow, darlin’,’ he replies in capitulation.

‘I’ll give you a get out of jail card,’ you assure him. Rubbing your hands together, you jump right into it. ‘Ok, I’ll start - never have I ever had a dog.’

Jack drinks, repositioning his long limbs so that he’s sat with one leg outstretched, and the other bent at the knee. He asks, ‘You’re not a dog person?’

‘I love dogs, just never had the space in the city,’ you answer. ‘I’m the designated dog sitter for all of my friends and neighbours though.’

Setting the bottle down between you, Jack continues, ‘Never have I ever had a cat.’

You drink and muse, ‘I miss having a cat - haven’t had one since I was a kid. Maybe I’ll look into adoption when I get home.’

Travel comes up next. You drink at his never have I ever been to Asia (you went backpacking all over for two months after graduation), and he drinks at your never have I ever been to Europe (he travelled to Greece for the Olympics when he worked as a groom for a short stint).

You trade several more benign questions until, with an impish grin and a rush of alcohol-induced adrenaline, you tilt your head to one side and change the direction of the game. ‘Never have I ever - sent nudes.’

‘That’s not fair!’ complains Jack as you giggle, thrusting the bottle towards him.

‘I’m the guest, I don’t have to play fair,’ you retort.

‘Two can play this game,’ he shoots back, narrowing his eyes playfully. ‘Never have I ever used Tinder.’

‘Well played, cowboy,’ you smirk, grabbing the whiskey from him and taking a sip. After a moment’s consideration, you divulge, ‘Never have I ever had a one night stand.’

His eyebrows reach for his hairline, his voice deep as he comments, ‘So you’re one of them good girls, huh?’

Teeth catching your bottom lip, your answer echoes so clearly between your ears that for a moment, you thought you’d said the words out loud.

I can be. For you.

‘Always been a relationship kinda girl,’ you admit, somewhat belatedly, as he takes a sip.

He smiles, then with a wriggle of his eyebrows, he fires his next shot. ‘Never have I ever - fancied a cowboy.’

Your mouth hangs open in bewilderment, your heart threatening to hammer its way out of the confines of the ribcage. Is he drunk?

Well, you both are.

He’s watching you, his posture loose and relaxed. There’s no deviousness in his gaze, not even the playful kind. If anything, he appears - genuinely curious?

You suppose you could lie, but… you don’t want to. Keeping your eyes on him, you pluck the whiskey from his grasp. You add high-handedly, ‘Just so you know, I’ve met a lot of cowboys before you. So many, you wouldn’t believe.’

A lazy smirk curls his lips as he watches you take a swig. ‘Sure, darlin’ - what with all the ranches you’ve been to.’

Dangling the bottle in front of his face in a challenge, you retaliate. ‘Never have I ever fancied a guest.’

Instead of reaching out with his fingers, Jack drags himself across the sleeping bag so he’s practically hovering over you to grab the whiskey. Echoing your words, he says, ‘Just so you know, I’ve met a lot of guests before you.’

You watch his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows. He’s so close you’re tempted to count the whiskers on his neatly trimmed beard.

‘It’s your turn, darlin’,’ rasps Jack, but you’re immobilsed by the brush of his calloused fingers against the tips of yours, planted on the sleeping bag.

You stammer, coming up blank. ‘Um - uh - never have I ever - ever -’

Jack gives you a crooked grin. ‘Need some help?’

Throat dry, you can only nod.

He leans in, his exhale hitting the shell of your ear, and he delivers the coup de grace. ‘Never have I ever touched myself thinking of said cowboy.’

Your eyes widen and you stop breathing. Oh fuck. He heard you. He knows.

Turns out you weren’t quiet enough after all.

And yet - you can’t bring yourself to be ashamed, not when he’s staring you with something that looks a lot like reverence.

You realise you haven’t addressed the gauntlet he’s thrown down at your feet. Bringing the whiskey to your lips, you confess with a wet gulp of whiskey, the liquid sloshing hollowly in the almost empty bottle when you place it down next to you.

The tension thrums between the two of you like some quantum disturbance, one that’s been building and ebbing for the last forty-eight hours. The air grows thick, his eyes dropping to your mouth the same time his rough palm moves to cover the back of your hand, startling you. Misjudging his proximity, your nose knocks into his cheek when you turn your head, and a quiet gasp slips past your lips when you feel his hot breath brush the hollow of your neck -

So caught up in the moment, it takes you three long seconds to realise that the two of you have suddenly broken apart, and three more for your head to grasp why.

The ringtone blaring from your phone is deafening in the tension-laden silence. Across the bright screen, your ex’s name flashes clearly.

Motherfucking cockblocking asshole.

Before you can unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth to protest - or ask him to please stay - Jack has gotten onto his feet with a rueful smile and a shake of his head. Scooping up his sleeping bag and tucking it under one strong arm, he reaches for a bottle of water that he filled up earlier and places it next to your pillow, knowing that you’ll need it in the morning.

Even in the shadows, you can discern his eyes sliding over your face. His whispered words barely reach you as he turns on his heels. ‘Good night, darlin’.’

You let the call ring out.

It’s still dark when you feel a hand grip your shoulder, pulling you out of a shallow slumber.

‘Jack?’ you croak, rubbing your eyes that are sticky with sleep. ‘Is something wrong?’

He shakes his head with a reassuring smile that you can barely see in the din. ‘No, I just wanted to show you somethin’. Put on your shoes and bring your blanket, darlin’, it’s cold.’

Even wrapped up in fleece, you huddle into yourself as you follow him. He leads you past the dying fire and snoozing horses, a thermos in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of a battered thick denim jacket.

You stumble when your feet catch on knots in the grass, and Jack reaches out to steady you, his reflexes fast even in this ungodly hour.

When your sight slowly adjusts to the darkness, you see that you’re approaching what you presume is Jack’s sleeping bag on the ground. He nudges you gently towards it with a quiet, ‘Make yourself comfortable, darlin’.’

You do, hugging your knees to your chest, your icy fingertips trying to find warmth under the blanket. Jack settles down next to you, and noticing your shiver, he wraps his extra quilt around your shoulders.

‘Tea?’

‘Yes please.’

The thermos warms your hands as you hold it, hot steam hitting your face as you drink carefully so you don’t burn your tongue. You’re too groggy (and more than a bit hungover) to try to figure out what is going on, and Jack doesn’t enlighten you, happy to sit in the silence as you pass him the bottle. The tea burns a comforting trail down to your stomach, warming you from the inside.

You don’t have to wait long for what comes next.

It starts with the faintest of glows. The ghost of your breath misting in front of your face. The distant, backlit profile of the Bighorn. The outline of bush and flora, then the textures fill in as the light swells. And without warning, the dawn breaks, colour spilling across the field of wildflowers, like a light has been switched on.

A light fog hangs in the air, gently refracting the morning rays into an iridescent sheen. In every direction, the ground is carpeted by a sea of summer blooms. It looks like a page ripped straight out of a book that starts with the age-old refrain of once upon a time.

You turn to Jack. He’s watching you closely with a smile, hair sleep-mussed, the sunrise casting him in rose gold.

It might have been you. It might have been him. It might not matter in the grand scheme of things.

The next thing you know, your shoulders bump and your lips meet. A sigh catches in your throat when he takes your lower lip between his, dragging slowly and sweetly, the wet friction and the tickle of his moustache on your Cupid’s bow chasing a shiver down your spine.

When he pulls back, he traces the tip of his nose across your cheek before tucking it behind your ear, his arm closing in around your waist.

‘Happy birthday, darlin’.’

More notes: They're going to get to the Halfway House next chapter. Just FYI 👀 I've really made you guys wait for the smut for this one, I swear I didn't plan it this way, but here we are. In the meantime, I'm going to try not to psyche myself out because I haven't written any smut since Consent ended. But I'll worry about that later, for now, thank you for reading and for the wonderful feedback so far - comments and reblogs are so appreciated as always!

Horsey notes (optional reading): This part is a bit thin on horses so this is quite random. Horses love treats - carrots, apples and polo mints will all be devoured. Make sure the treats aren't cut too small to encourage horses to chew before they swallow. Carrots can be broken into 2 or 3 pieces, and should be fed horizontally instead of vertically, to encourage chewing. Apples can be quartered or halved. When feeding, stretch out your hand flat, don't curl up your fingers or you can accidentally get bitten!

#jack daniels x you #jack daniels fanfic #jack daniels x reader #jack whiskey daniels #jack daniels #jack daniels x f!reader #jack daniels x fem!reader #jack daniels au #kingsman golden circle #kingsman fanfiction

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skullhorn59 · 4 months

Text

Clouded Sensations 2

A/N: my first Hazbin Hotel Fanfic! heres chapter 2, for all of Moth-hungry Tumblr! :3 if you wanna request anything, go for it! Tags are going to get added progressively! this chapter is an introduction to Y/N's life! Some Angst, but no smut yet. :P

Pairings: Valentino x Fem!Reader Legend: ❲☆❳ - flashback, 『♡』 = change of scenes Warnings/Promises: Valentino, Manipulation, Drugs (his smoke/saliva), flirting, alcohol, smoking, Hell being Hell, mentions of traumatic events, self harm/neglect, implied and mentioned self ending

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Minors DNI 🚨🚔

"so, tell me about yourself, amorcito.~ what's got you down here?" The Moth Demon regards you with a curios gaze, and his smile gains a hint of something hungry.

You think back; how did you get here?

❲☆❳

Your life was rather unspectacular - you never achieved anything great, only ever strifed to find your personal happiness. (greedy, sure, but what else were you supposed to do?) although you tried your best, it always seemed like there was none reserved for you. the night you died wasnt much better - you just couldnt take it anymore. the next time you woke up, you were confused at first.

where the actual fuck were you?? was this a dream? are you in a coma and this is conjured up by your brain? theres only one way to find out, as much of a cliché as that may be. so you pinched yourself, which followed a quick, sharp pain, making you wince. okay, so this was real. in the clarity of the pain you stood up, first examining yourself. aside from ripped clothes and lots of dirt, not really much seems to have changed.

well - except the claws, and that big ass white tail you had. following a quiet suspicion, your arms shot up, and you felt around your head. and your suspicion proved itself right - your fingers touched sensitive, white ears atop your head. feeling your face next, you find no major changes, except a bit of a pointier, wetter nose. based on that, you could only guess what you represented. a fox? a cat? both? something entirely different?

You shake your head - those thoughts had to wait. so you looked around you, trying to see if you can figure out where you were. from the looks of it - you were in a city. all around you rather tall buildings, the streets were sprinkled with burning cars, burning creatures, fire in general, blood, demons murdering... wait. demons?! you quickly hide in the next best dark alley, keeping yourself hidden as best as you could, while you observed your surroundings. and as your eyes met with the red sky decorated by a huge pentagram, you sighed. this gotta be a joke, right? like, seriously? Hell?

either this was a crazy expensive show, or actual hell. and judging by the creatures all around here, they seemed too casual and too murdery to be anything else than real, since you could literally watch one of them getting brutally murdered right then and there on the open street. you shuddered; yeah, no way you wanted to be part of any of that. this has had to be hell.

first things first, you looked deeper into that dark alley you were hiding in, and considered your options. you could 1, lie in that alley for days and cry your soul out in hopes that anyone might have pity with you and grant you shelter, or 2, get a grip for once and get yourself in a stable situation. undead sinner or not, you didnt want to find out if you could die from starvation or not, so you chose the second option. so, you had to get out of here and somewhere safe.

examining the alley, you found nothing besides blood, trash and muddy puddles. you scrunched your face at the latter, because you knew you couldnt stay as white as you were now. you have had to dye yourself in a darker shade, or be spotted immediately and murdered on the spot. and you were, ironically, dead-set on not dying. so, following the most logical option, you began covering your ears, hair and tail in mud.

logic. yes. it was gonna keep you alive, if everything else failed.

logic, and your instincts.

『♡』

after what felt like an eternity of hiding, and sneaking around, you found an abandoned apartment, and immediately made it yours. barricading the door, you tidied the thing up as best as you could, shoving and pulling broken furniture into a corner, and wiping the most important surfaces and items clean. you closed the ripped courtains, falling into the bed exhaustedly. "tomorrow," you thought to yourself while drifting off to sleep, "im gonna look for a job."

after you woke up from a dreamless slumber, you went into the bathroom, examining your appearance in the mirror. Fuck, you looked terrible. it was about time you fixed that. so you tidied up your ruffled hair, washing the mud off of where your skin was exposed. although you did keep the mud in your hair, tail and ears. no way you were risking your life just to look good. when you were satisfied with how you looked, you sat back down on the bed, with the sewing set you found, in one of the closets, the previous night. while fixing up your ripped clothing, you thoughts went to the task before you - finding a decent job. assuming it was much more violent down here than up on earth, you defintely wanted a safe job, something similar to shopkeeper, cashier or bartender.

stashing the kit away, you went outside, immediately trying to act as if you were a regular resident and not embarassingly new to Hell, calmly heading down the street while glancing into shops and bars, even stepping into some clubs, just to take a look. none were looking all too comfortable to work in, let alone the staff even friendly enough to even ask them for a job. while a cashier growled at you, a butcher even threw a knife near you, yelling at you to piss off. ears flat to the head, you quickly retreated, continuing your search.

luckily, as you entered one of the more grand looking clubs, it didn't look too bad. sure, it was hell, so of course it was bad, but not bad enough for you to keep looking. and so, you approached the bar, hopeful for success. and, fortunately, the bartender didnt dismiss you right away. he just waved you to the backdoor, redirecting you to his manager. so, with a pounding heart, you carefully slipped through the door.

mentioned manager wasnt very nice, treating you more a whore than a person, but you didnt mind too much. better have a job than pride. only barely able to convince him, you managed to get yourself a job as bartender. polite as you are, you thanked him before leaving, barely able to hold back a giddy smile. stretching yourself as you stood outside the club, you thought about what to do next. time was on your side now - you just had to find a reliable source of food, you mused.

in your head, you made out a plan to cover your white features in mud everytime after showering, and spraying perfume overtop so you wouldnt smell too bad. so you began to stroll along the streets again, until you found the source you needed. returning to your makeshift home, you spent some time showering thoroughly, and went to sleep after.

soon enough, - still not soon enough for your taste - you found into a rythm. nearly every day - if you could even call it "day" with the non-existent day-night cycle in hell- you woke up, got yourself dressed and ready, checked the fridge for any remaining food, headed out while dodging dangerous scenes of arson, murder and/or sex, worked at that okay-paying club, afterwards went scavenging for food, then headed back home, slept, and repeated that cycle the next morning.

you didnt have the time for hobbies, friends, let alone lovers. work and the hunt for food kept you plenty occupied. and you didn't need anything else either, considering the bar was a source of information and entertainment. through listening and looking, you quickly figured out how things worked. someone named Valentino owned this club among many more, and based on the things you heard about him, you were definitely gonna avoid him. at least, that's what you told yourself, until you found yourself in his grasp.

❲☆❳

Valentino interrupts your thoughts by placing his hand on yours. "Hello? anybody in there?" he sounds a bit annoyed. shit, did you already piss him off? you flash a quick smile at him, before answering. "sorry, got lost in thoughts for a moment. I dont really know what's got me down here. maybe the fact I ended myself? is that even a valid sin?" he raises his eyebrow at that, taking a drag of the cigarette he holds on one of his lower arms, before he leans in, blowing a cloud of red smoke in your direction. "how interesting. tell me, baby doll, are you interested in a better job~? I can make so much more out of you than a simple Barkeeper." you swallow hard, swirling the alcohol around in your glass as you try your best to casually not breathe in the smoke.

is he gonna kill you if you deny?

A/N: i made a doodle of Y/N!! be sure to check it out :D

─❲♡❳▷Hazbin Masterlist ─❲♡❳▷Main List

Taglist: @diffidentphantom @helreyy @alastorthirsty

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pencildragons · 8 months

Text

another snippet (from chapter 2 this time lolol) for my foxquinweek sinner sinner (come to dinner) which shall be posted 22/01!! (fair warning, fox is a VERY unreliable narrator here)

The gloves Vos is wearing, Fox notes distantly as his pounding heartbeat echoes in his ears, are a deep red. Not quite the shade he dictates all armour be painted with—that’s all the same colour, the same pattern, eliminating external individuality for every man except himself, eliminating any identifiable target except for him, because what is his duty as a commander if not to be a shield—but close. A little darker, a little more brown in it. Maroon, he thinks it might be called. He heard a natborn say that, once. It had been a Mando trainer on Kamino, or maybe even Prime himself. Mah-rone. Mah-rone. Mah-rone. He heard a senator’s aide call it that too, later on. They say it differently here on Coruscant, drawing out the final syllable into mahrooon instead of dissecting it into even halves. Everything is different here. Conformity is survival, and deviation is certain death. (Shields are hit first. Shields are targets. What is his duty as a commander if not to be exactly that?) (He thinks, if he were to ever utter the word, he would drawl it just like that senator’s aide did. Better to be a nothing than remembered after the fact.) Conformity is survival. Deviation is certain death. He does not know how to conform in this situation, does not know what counts as a deviation. The rules of the game he and Vos play are an unknown, and Fox is all too well aware how dangerous ignorance is. Vos has just trapped Fox with him in a durasteel box halfway between the ninety-first and the ninety-second floor of the Rotunda. Whatever is going to happen, he will not be able to escape it, and he does not know what to do. Vos is silent. Fox wonders if he’s waiting for him to talk, but all the things he desperately wants to say—starting with how did you know I was here? And followed by, why are you so close with my brother’s general? And finishing off with why the everloving fuck are you following me?—are wildly inappropriate, and he is not certain that he wants to know the answers. He is trapped here with Vos, and there is no one else around. Even if he called for backup, it would be too late, and he does not want to risk angering Vos, does not want to risk him taking out any rage on his vod’e. He’s seen it happen before, too many times. He is a commander—the commander. If something is going to happen to him, it will be his to bear, and no one else’s. The silence stretches on. Fox’s skin is itching below the dermis, rotting, rotting, rotting. Everything is different here. Everything is a putrified corruption, and he is no exception. Vos is. The elevator smells of too much metal, and of deathsticks, and of Vos—minty, a hint of the thing that may or may not be woodsmoke. Fox corrodes with this city, with this planet, with this galaxy, but Vos stands apart from it all, whole and hale and untouchable. He leans against the wall, blocking the control panel with his body, and studies Fox, arms crossed against his chest. He’s keeping his distance for now—as much as that’s possible in this tiny, cramped space—but the elevator is small. If Fox were to stretch his arms out, his fingertips would brush its sides. Vos could be on him in a heartbeat if he wanted. The silence stretches on.

reblogs are very appreciated, and tysm to everyone who interacted with my last snippet posting :3

#foxquin #wyrm writes #sw #star wars #tcw #the clone wars #quinfox #vox #quinlan vos #commander fox #ss(ctd)#oranges and sunflower seeds 'verse #wip (wyrm in progress)

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theviridianbunny · 5 days

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THE BLACK SAPPHIRE GALA - PART 2: THE FASHIONABLY LATE NETWATCH AGENTS

The night of the Black Sapphire Gala holds many stories, memories and secrets.

After months of thinking and ripping my hair out - I realised my evil bitch of a netwatch agent [Edith nox] and her charming companion [Bryce Mosely] would rock up to the gala and be a part of this evergrowing ball of chaos and make my V's time at the event EVEN WORSE!!! Yiipe yaho for making Viridian's life a nightmare for everyone's enjoyment 😉

Here's the VP that inspired this idea

The events of this chapter run alongside the events of the previous one - just imagine it's from a different POV

You can read the previous chapter of this ongoing fic here

Victoria Crane [who makes a smaller cameo compared to the last chapter] belongs to my dear friend @another-corpo-rat 🧡

Chapter is not beta read or edited- wrote in one sitting at about 11pm last night. Thanks audhd!!!

Edith grumbled to herself with an aura of discontent.

The blonde haired netwatch agent stood on the balcony. Dressed in a figure flattering blue suit blazer and high waisted trousers. A low cut lace bodysuit in a darker shade of blue hugged her chest - the outfit complete with a pair of geometric silver earrings and open toed strapped heels

She was focused on the extravagant waterfall- illuminated by golden hues - illuminated further by the darkening sky of Dogtown. Booting up her holo as her eyes still focused on the waterfall and it's near relaxing aura

Her companion was running late. She was not worried about him. Not one bit - she was more worried about the loss of time and loss of intel

Yes- netwatch had agents all around this area of the world - but Edith?? She always wanted to be the one to hear the monstrosities and the horrors of Dogtown first

She always had to be first.

[OUTGOING CALL- BRYCE MOSLEY]

As soon as Bryce picked up - Edith spoke before her partner never even had the chance to breathe. She leant herself over the tall railings as she complained

"You know you've made us at least 30 minutes late-" Her south African accent coming out thick as she complained- she absolutely detested how the night were starting

The man on the line broke into a chuckle - making the blonde haired agent purse her lips and scowl to herself

"I'll be there sooner than you think Edith.. don't you worry

And before the blonde haired agent could even complain- the line cut - and she felt a cold chrome hand on her shoulder

"Told you I wouldn't be long" a sly whisper against her ear

Edith rolled her eyes and turned to see her companion. A fellow netwatch agent. Bryce Mosely - fresh out of Pacifica - out of the frying pan and now into the fire of Dogtown... He watched as Edith took a moment to study her companion.. dressed all in black - a foreign sight from his normal working uniform of pinstripe and dark tyes.

Without warning - Edith's metallic whiye hands tugged at the collar of his black blazer with force. Her voice was quiet and stern as she spoke

"You've made us loose time-" spoken through gritted teeth

Bryce quickly tugged away from Edith's grip - straightening his blazer and scowling for a moment. He knew Edith were a power hungry bitch - but he thought tonight were to be different.. that she'd loosen up and enjoy the party - it wasn't every day the pair were invited into dogtown

"It's not my fault I got stopped at the border... " he stated - head turning to the open doors of the gala "security has tightened... word has it Arasaka’s red rabbit and it's valentino brute somehow managed to sneak their way in..

Edith watched how the light reflected over Bryce's chrome and cyberware - as he turned back to face her before continuing

"I've been wondering how the rabbit and her pet brute managed to get in... it feels like only a few days they were in Pacifica"

"I told you the pair move fast" Edith interjected

" I know Edith... " he breathed- "anyway - The CCTV footage from January 2075 and the medical illustrations of Ms. Crane's injurys... .. they were truly harrowing yet astonishing.." The pair were quiet for a moment - before Bryce raised a burning question

" What did the trauma team researcher think of the CCTV footage and medical illustrations?" His tone genuine

" oh- I've yet to release ether to Mr.Sundburg.. The footage shown was more of a formality for the rabbit. A soft reminder that her old life, and all the enemies she made at arasaka will always come back to her with time..

She spoke in hushed whispers - even though deep down ?? She knew she didn't have too.. her and Bryce were about to rub shoulders with like minded people... The wealthy.. the elite... the criminals and down right evil people... safe to say, they were about to fit in perfectly...Her little smile turned into a grin.

"Ready to go and ruin more lives?" Edith asked Bryce - genuine joy within her voice.

"Always, dearest" Bryce answered.. hnoticed a glint in his companions eyes - how she smiled ever so slightly as they made their way into the grand ballroom

As they made their way down a large staircase - Edith waved to a woman to dressed in a sleeveless gold fronted body suit. Bryce recognising the woman as one Victoria Crane. One of Edith's only long time friends. It'd been what felt like an eternity since the two women last spoke

He also recognised the man next to her - the man dressed down on such an evening. Black tshirt tucked into slate grey cargos. Combat boots polished with new laces. - Bryce watched as the shorter gave Victoria a kiss on the cheek before walking away - out to the balconies facing Night City.

Bryce and Edith parted ways when they reached the bottom of the staircase- Edith heading to Victoria.. Bryce watching with a level of admiration at how she greeted her friend... and how the two imediately began ordering waiters around.. Bryce knew she would would have her fun with the viper - and then reconnect with him later

Bryce on the other hand.. now alone - He scanned the ballroom floor until his eyes locked onto another woman. - one he could recognise from a mile away. Her teal hair shone under the golden lighting.. even with black rounded sunglasses on - her acne scars and golden plated cyberware gave her identity away - the single arasaka cyberarm didnt help her case.. to anyone else she was just another corpo.. but thoes who knew Viridian Miller - knew her..

He watched her from afar as he sat at the bar - ordering himself a drink.. taking a sip of imported whisky - he felt the burn of it donw his throat and knew tonight was going to be fun.

#oc: edith nox #bryce mosley #otp: government hooker #cyberpunk 2077 #cp2077 #cyberpunk 2077 fanfic #oc: viridian #oc: rasmus #victoria crane #kurt hansen #i genuinely dont know how else to tag this so *throws writing at you and buggers off to think about blorbos-*

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amorest-viesse · 9 months

Text

[You And I In This World Adrift] - Chloe SSR Card Story Translation

Ft. Akira

A Reassuring Presence - Chapter 1

[Manor Living Room]

Akira: (Whoa! What’s with all this fabric!?)

Having finished lunch, I was making my way to the living room for a break only to find it covered in fabrics of all different colors and materials. At the center of the chaos was of course, none other than…

Chloe: Should I use… red here? No wait, the blue might be nice…

Akira: (Chloe seems to be working really hard on something. I wonder what he’s making… Although, maybe I shouldn’t interrupt.)

Just as I was turning around, Chloe suddenly looked up from his project, and we made eye contact.

Chloe: Oh, Master Sage!

Akira: Good afternoon, Chloe. I wasn’t bothering you, was I?

Chloe: Not at all! In fact, I’d say you’re right on time. Come on over!

At Chloe’s invitation, I made my way to him.

Chloe: Could you do me a favor and hold still for a sec?

Akira: Oh, uh, sure.

Upon my agreement, Chloe began to drape several fabrics on my shoulder.

Chloe: Oh, I just can’t decide which one is better! The lighter blue or the darker one? …Ooh wait, what about something right in the middle?

As he swapped colors in and out, Chloe would occasionally turn and look at a sheet of paper.

Akira: Is that a new design? I’m sure it’ll turn out amazing.

Chloe: You really think so? That’s great! It’s supposed to be for you, so I’m really giving it my all.

Chloe: You’re always doing so much for us that I wanted to thank you somehow, and this was the first thing that came to mind.

Akira: Chloe… That’s so sweet of you.

Even without the gift, his words alone made my heart swell with joy.

Chloe: …Alright, this shade of blue has gotta be it! Although it looks like I’m a little short on fabric, so I’ll have to get more.

Chloe: Oh, do you wanna come with me? I gotta figure out what to do for the ribbon too, so I’d love to hear your opinion.

Akira: If it helps, then of course I’ll come!

♡♥♡

[City of Affluence - Day]

Akira: I’m glad we were able to get that fabric you wanted, Chloe. It’s lucky we came just in time to grab what was left.

Chloe: Yeah, me too! It could’ve been bad if we’d just been a little later.

With the goods safely in hand, Chloe sighed in relief although his face was full of determination.

Chloe: Just you wait, Master Sage! I’m gonna make you the perfect outfit with this!

Akira: I’m looking forward to it.

Chloe: Yep yep! …Oh!

Chloe: That golden braid is gorgeous. I didn’t think to include one when I first came up with the design, but I bet it’d look great with this color.

As Chloe zeroed in on the stall’s goods, his eyes sparkled like a child discovering a new toy. Watching him brought a smile to my face as well.

Akira: (There he goes again. Ah well, while I’m here, I might as well take a look around too.)

Hooded Old Man: You there. Youngster.

A Reassuring Presence - Chapter 2

Akira: Huh? Are you talking to me?

Hooded Old Man: Yes. You. If ain’t too much of a bother, could ya help an old man with his wares?

I quickly scanned the crowd for Chloe and spotted him chatting away with the stall owner. Noting his presence, I felt a sense of reassurance.

Akira: (I’ll probably be back before Chloe’s done shopping, so it should be fine…)

Akira: Sure I can. What do you need?

♡♥♡

Chloe: Master Sage! What do you think of this color? It would look so good on you, but—

Chloe: …Huh? Where’d they go…?

Chloe: (Maybe they saw something interesting and went to check it out…?)

Chloe: (If so, then I should probably wait here. It’d be bad if we both wandered off.)

Chloe: (Although… this isn’t exactly the safest city. What if they were kidnapped or something like I was…?)

Chloe: (I could never forgive myself if something happened…)

Chloe: I was the one who invited the Master Sage here, so it’s my job to make sure they’re safe!

♡♥♡

Akira: (We’ve gotten pretty far from that street stall… I wonder where we’re going.)

As the distance between us and the noise of the city increased, the sounds of our individual footsteps grew louder, and with it, my anxiety.

Akira: Um… Could I ask where these wares are?

Hooded Old Man: It’s just a little further.

Below his hood, the man’s lips curved into a smile. In contrast with the soft tone of his voice, it sent a chill down my spine.

Akira: (I didn’t say anything because I thought this would be quick, but I really should’ve told Chloe where I was going…)

Hooded Old Man: What’s wrong? We’re almost there.

Akira: Umm…

I had no idea where we were. Stuck in an unfamiliar place, my legs froze out of fear.

Akira: (Now that I think about it, didn’t Chloe mention something about being kidnapped before…?)

He had said it happened because of his naivety. Now it seemed I was learning the hard way what he meant.

Akira: (I fell for the same trap. Since I had Chloe here today, I thought everything was going to be fine and let my guard down…)

It was a huge mistake to leave without a word. If anything happened to me, Chloe would definitely blame himself.

Akira: (I can’t make Chloe sad because of my stupid mistake. I have to find a way to get back no matter what.)

I hardened my resolution and spoke up.

Akira: My deepest apologies, but I need to head back. My friend will be worried if I’m gone for too long.

Hooded Old Man: Is that so…

Akira: Apologies once again, but if you really need help then my friend and I can return together…

As I turned around to leave, the old man suddenly grabbed my hand with a growl.

Hooded Old Man: You’re not goin’ anywhere!!

A Reassuring Presence - Chapter 3

Akira: (Agh, he has a tight grip!)

Chloe: <<Suispicibo Voitingoc>>

[Smack!]

Hooded Old Man: Ack! Was that… a button?

The man cried out, grabbing the back of his hand. At our feet, a single button rolled to a stop.

Chloe: What do you think you’re doing?

Akira: Chloe!

Chloe: You’ve got a pretty important person to me there, so you better watch yourself or you’ll regret it.

Hooded Old Man: Hngh…

[Running Steps]

Pressured by Chloe’s fierce conviction, the old man quickly turned tail and darted down a back alley.

Chloe: Eh!? He’s already gone…!

Chloe: I guess he was just pretending to be an old man. His voice did seem young for his age…

Akira: …

Chloe: That aside, are you alright, Master Sage? I’m sorry I didn’t show up sooner…

Doing a complete 180 from before, Chloe looked at me with worry in his face.

Akira: Yes, I’m completely fine. Thank you so much for saving me, Chloe!

Chloe: I’m so glad you’re okay. I shouldn’t have gotten so swept up in shopping and left you alone like that…

Akira: Oh no, you’re fine! I was the one who followed a stranger without saying anything.

Akira: I guess I thought everything would be fine since I was with you today.

Chloe: What do you mean…?

Akira: I know you told me about the kidnapping incidents in this city before, but I didn’t remember until it was too late.

Chloe: …Well, I know how that feels.

Chloe: During my travels with Rustica, the dangers of the world always felt so far away. With him by my side, it felt like nothing could touch me.

Chloe: Which is why I’m happy to hear you say that.

Akira: Say what?

Chloe: You felt safe because I was here and that everything would be fine.

Chloe: I guess that makes me a little like your “Rustica”.

Chloe sheepishly gave me a smile—one that’s been supporting me all this time without me even realizing it.

Chloe: Ah, but we’re getting off track! I’ll do my best to keep you safe from now on!

Chloe: I know I was the one that asked you here, but if you’d ever like to go somewhere, I’d be happy to accompany you too!

Akira: I’ll definitely keep that in my mind for the future.

Chloe: Alright! Anyways, let’s head back now. I have everything I need, so your outfit will be done in no time!

Akira: I’m looking forward to it.

Chloe vigorously nodded his head as if to say “leave it to me!” With smiles on both of our faces, we set off for the manor.

Chloe and the Bygone Gate - Card Episode

[Chloe’s Room]

Akira: It seems like a gate that shows the past has appeared on Borda Isle’s beach.

Akira: It reminds me of when I had just arrived in this world. I often thought about the past as a way of calming myself down.

Chloe: I totally get what you mean! It’s nice to think about happy or comforting times!

Chloe: What kind of stuff did you think about?

Akira: I’d go back to when I was a kid being read a story by someone I trusted.

Chloe: Whoa! That sounds just like you! I bet you were a real cute kid.

Akira: Ehehe, thank you.

Akira: Do you have any comforting memories like that? Something you hold onto when the going gets rough…?

Chloe: Oh! I wonder… I feel like there’s a lot I could talk about.

Chloe: Of course, most of them have to do with Rustica… Hmm…

Akira: It sounds like you have too many to even choose from.

Chloe: Well, that is true, but it’s also that I just haven’t had many bad experiences since meeting Rustica…

Akira: Whoa! That’s pretty incredible.

Chloe: I know right? I’ve been so lucky that I can barely believe it myself.

Chloe: It’s not that I haven’t experienced any hardships.

Chloe: But whenever I do, I can always find comfort in those memories…

Chloe: It’s all thanks to Rustica’s kindness and the new sights he’s shown me in our time together.

Akira: Knowing him, you two are always making happy memories together, aren't you?

Chloe: Ehehe… We really are.

Akira: Rustica’s pretty cool.

Chloe: Ehehe… Isn’t he? That’s my teacher for you.

Chloe: Even if time rewound to before I met Rustica…

Chloe: I don’t think I’d be the weepy mess I used to be. I don’t think I’d hate myself like before.

Chloe: No matter what terrible things people say to me, I’ll continue to love myself. That’s what Rustica taught me.

Chloe: Even if I have to relive my childhood once again, face my family and their relentless bullying, the way they singled me out, their sudden anger…

Chloe: If I had my memories of Rustica, I think I’d be able to protect myself this time.

Chloe: Haha… It’s just like how you dealt with coming to this world.

Akira: Chloe…

Chloe: Hey, Master Sage. Let’s make a lot more of those memories together.

Chloe: That way, when the hard times hit, we can always go back to them.

Chloe: I love you so much, Master Sage! Spending time with you makes me so super happy! I really, really mean it!

Chloe: Don’t you ever forget that! Remember it!

Home Screen Voice Line

“Surely we’ll experience both sad and happy times in the future, but no matter what happens, let’s enjoy ourselves! After all, we’re wizards who revel in all the world has to offer!”

#mhyktl #chloe collins #mhyk #mahoutsukai no yakusoku #mahoyaku #i wrote this in between watching persona 5 cutscenes #fun times

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butchkaramazov · 1 year

Text

A Shade Darker Than Red: Chapter 3

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Six months passed by. The results of our board examinations were out. I had scored around 95.6%, surprising even myself. Paro had scored 97%.

“Always two steps ahead of you, Renu,” Maa said playfully.

“Mediocre coaching,” I laughed, pointing at Paro.

She smiled back. Her lips were pressed into a thin line as she tried to cover her teeth with her hand. On wild impulse, I leaned forward and gently pulled her hands apart. “Not happening,” I said.

Paro looked at me like I had punted her puppy into the sun.

I rolled my eyes. “Stop looking at me like that, idiot. Have a sandesh.”

That day, I was once again invited to watch her practice. I sat on the edge of her bed, swinging my legs and trying my hardest not to glance at her heaving blouse.

She was dancing to her favourite Hindi song, which was, rather unnervingly, starting to grow on me as well.

I watched her as I scribbled incoherent lines of poetry—poetry, or desperation? I do not know. Everything was red, anyway. The only poetry I could think of right then, was Paro.

A swat of black hair sent me tumbling back onto the bed—did she just slap me with her hair? Paro quickly paused her playlist and climbed onto the bed, leaning her elbow on the headrest. She still looked at me like I was the stupidest thing she’d ever seen.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, not looking sorry at all.

“Doofus,” I muttered, grabbing her elbow and pulling her down with me. “If I go down, you go down with me.”

Laughter echoed throughout the room as she fell on top of me and roamed her fingers along my sides, trying to find my ticklish spots. I let out a strangled laugh, rolling over on my side.

“I’ll—I’ll tell Mumma,” Paro gasped between laughs.

“I’ll tell Mumma,” I mocked her, making her laugh. I could drink up that sound, smear it over my wounds like it was ambrosia.

A comfortable silence ensued, broken only by her fading chuckles and the creaking of the bed as I sat up. “Wanna go out for ice cream?”

Paro raised an eyebrow, arched perfectly over her almond eyes. “At three in the afternoon?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

Paro leaned her elbow against my knee, using my leg as a lever to push herself up. “Sure, okay.”

I climbed off the bed, holding up a finger gun. “I’m not letting you go today, Topper-ji.”

Paro rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Miss Head Girl. Text me when you get home.”

@avani-amulya @manujanolavu @nirmohi-premika @lovesickpdf @arachneofthoughts @sonilaalbindi @desi-yearning @alhad-si-simran @thatpagalchokri @trashmeowcan @waitingforthesunrise @vellibandi @thesunandstarss @chanda-chamke-cham-cham @damnn-dorothea @the-unhinged-fanwinggg if you wanted to be added or removed from the taglist, please let me know<3

(we're in the denial phaseee guys and gays) this was pretty short, but we have smth intense coming up next sooo :p (LISTEN I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT BOARDS OK PLS DONT COME AT ME)

#a shade darker than red chapter 3 #gaylord writes #I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT BOARDS OK #PLEASE #this is based on my cousin's marks ok

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foundtherightwords · 5 months

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The Firebird - Chapter 14

Pairing: Prince Paul (Catherine the Great) x OFC, Fairytale AU

Summary: When Paul, a spoiled young prince, spots a strange bird in the forest near his palace, he impulsively chases after it, hoping to both escape from and prove himself to his disapproving mother. Thus he is plunged into an exhilarating adventure across a magical realm populated by enchanted princesses, dangerous monsters, and powerful wizards, an adventure that may change him more than he can ever imagine.

Chapter warning: violence, fire, gore

Chapter word count: 3.8k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13

Chapter 14 - Deathless

After everything he'd heard of Zhara's brother, after witnessing every act of cruelty Illarion was capable of, Paul was expecting a villain, someone who exuded power and wickedness. What he saw instead was a boy, looking no older than sixteen, of the same tall, slender build as Zhara, with the same red hair, though it was a shade darker, almost auburn, and the same freckles. There was even something of Zhara's impishness in the turn of his mouth as well. Only the eyes were different. When Paul looked into those eyes, his heart sank, and all his doubt about the boy's true nature vanished. They were the same glittering green as the medallions, hard and cold. Zhara's eyes were always human even when she was transformed into a bird. This boy's eyes didn't even seem alive; the only hint of life in them was a glare of hate.

But Paul didn't spend too long contemplating those lifeless eyes. His attention was riveted on a large mesh cage at the window. Zhara was fluttering in it, while the setting sun cast its light on her plumage, turning her into a fireball, just like the first time Paul had seen her in the forest of Tsarskoye Selo.

Underneath the cage, laid out on the table, were an array of strange items and instruments—a gold chest, a hare, a duck, and an egg. The animals each had an angry red slash on its chest. It seemed Illarion had everything he needed for the Deathless ritual, except for the most important one—the needle containing his death. This the boy was twirling between his thin fingers while he leaned casually against the throne, watching Paul with a curious, almost fascinated expression. Under the disconcerting gaze of those flat green eyes, Paul became too aware that he was no knight in shining armor, with his torn and bloody shirt and mismatched weapons. He could only hope that appearances may be misleading.

"For a mere mortal from Rus', he did quite well, did he not, Zharissa?" Illarion said conversationally. "Much better than those bumbling bogatyrs of yours. I wonder what other surprise he may have in store."

To Paul's shock, Zhara spoke. "Paul," she said. "You shouldn't be here. Go! Save yourself!" He stared at the bird. It was Zhara's voice, desperate and full of tears, coming out of her beak. What trick was this?

"Oh, now she talks," Illarion said, sounding annoyed. "I gave you the power of speech so we could have a chat and make the waiting a little less tedious, and you refused to talk to me, but the moment he showed up, you started chattering away?"

"If you don't want to wait until I'm human again to perform the ritual," Zhara said, "why not undo the curse and just kill me now?"

"I would if I could!" Illarion shouted. "Do you think I want to wait? But they are very imprecise, curses. I never meant to curse you, you know. This avian form greatly diminishes your power. If you would only agree to wear that medallion—"

Why, he doesn't know how to undo the curse, Paul realized. He's nothing but a boy, in over his head. He wondered if Zhara had realized this as well and was stalling for time.

"You didn't have to control me," Zhara said to Illarion, spreading her wings in an imploring gesture. "I would've gladly let you rule—"

"What, so you could go behind my back and gather the support of the boyars?" Illarion hissed, baring his teeth in anger. "So you could play the victim and undermine my rule? I know you too well, sister."

They sounded like siblings bickering over a game rather than discussing matters of life and death. Paul took a tentative step forward, reaching for the skull in his knapsack, the only weapon that might stand a chance against Illarion's magic. "Let her go," he said. At least his voice was steady.

"Or what?" Illarion snickered. "Are you going to throw that skull at me?"

In reply, Paul raised the skull. Fire shot out of its eye socket. He meant to aim it at Illarion, but the flame hit a corner of the velvet curtain instead, setting it ablaze. Illarion shrugged, looking almost bored. "I never like those curtains anyway," he said. "You're going to have to do better than that."

"How's this for better?" Paul aimed the skull at Illarion's robe. There was a flash, and the robe caught fire. Illarion didn't even flinch. He beat out the fire with his bare hand, as casually as blowing out a candle. Refusing to be intimidated, Paul advanced upon the boy, the skull held in front of him like a musket. He shot another bolt of fire; Illarion dodged it, and the flame hit the corner of the throne in a shower of sparks.

"Enough of this," Illarion growled. He pinned the needle to the shoulder of his robe before slipping something out of his belt and throwing it at Paul.

Belatedly, Paul saw that it was a medallion.

He threw up his arms, but the medallion hit his chest, burned through his shirt like a cattle brand, and adhered itself to his skin.

The pain was unbearable. He'd thought being pinned under an iron-and-copper dragon was bad, but it was nothing compared to this, this red-hot agony, this hellfire that seared his very bone, that reached all the way to his heart, that spread through his blood. Was this how it had been for Afron when he foolishly cast in his lot with Illarion? Was this how it had been for poor Alyosha Popovich?

Paul collapsed, clutching at his chest. The last thing he heard was Zhara's panicked voice, calling out his name, as the white-and-gold room around him faded to black.

***

When the darkness cleared from his eyes, Paul found himself on a bed, a large bed, with the silk cover of a pillow under his cheek. There were blue velvet drapes with gold fringes around the bed. The room around him was blue and gold as well, and strangely familiar. It took him a moment to realize this was his bed. His room, the one at the Winter Palace in Saint Petersburg. An untrimmed candle still flickered on the bedside table, but the morning sun was pouring in through the curtains being swept back by a servant. The door opened, and his mother walked in.

"What, still abed at this hour?" she said, though she didn't sound quite as harsh as usual. "And on such a big day?"

Paul sat up, blinking stupidly. His hand flew up to his chest. The pain was gone. Had there been a pain there at all, or had he dreamed it?

"A big day?" he repeated.

"Your coronation, of course!" his mother said, laughing and clapping her hands together.

Paul stared at her, too stunned to speak. His mother seemed almost giddy, quite unlike herself. "Are you—are you abdicating?" finally he asked.

"That was always the plan, wasn't it?" She briskly walked over to an array of frock coats and robes being laid out by the servants, pointing to several. "That one, that one... no, that one. Yes." Turning back to Paul, she said, "It was agreed that I would only rule until you reached your majority. Now that you have, it is time for me to step down."

Something was not right, but Paul couldn't quite put his finger on it. He felt dazed, half-asleep, as though he'd just come out of a nightmare and was not quite awake. Yet he vaguely remembered that it was true, the council had finally convinced his mother to pass the throne to him. He let himself be dragged out of bed, washed and dressed in full ceremonial regalia, and before he knew it, he was standing in the cathedral in front of a crowd, while priests chanted over him and the crown, the crown he'd seen on his mother's head hundreds of times and coveted each time he saw it, glittered on a velvet cushion before him.

Could it be? Could it be that he had finally achieved what he desired the most?

He looked at the crowd, at their adoring faces all turned toward him. Yes, this was what he wanted, to be seen and respected and appreciated. But he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something else he wanted, something missing. He noticed a young lady standing by his mother, doll-like with her porcelain face and tiny rosebud mouth, eyes cast down demurely. Paul didn't remember having seen her before.

"Panin," he said to his old governor, who was standing by his side, "who is that young woman?"

"Why, that is your betrothed, Your Excellency."

Startled, Paul wracked his brain. Again, he had some vague recollection of having chosen one of the princesses from all the miniatures given to him, but try as he might, he couldn't remember her name. Why couldn't he remember her name? It would be terribly embarrassing to ask Panin her name, wouldn't it?

The young lady lifted her eyes to look at him, and Paul suddenly found himself expecting her eyes to be a warm, golden color, honey held up to sunlight. How strange. Her eyes were blue, perfectly pretty, but for some reason, he kept thinking of those amber eyes. Where had he seen such eyes?

And then, to his shock, the young lady's face began to change. Her eyes turned golden just as he'd imagined; her powdered wigs became a long, red braid, and freckles splattered across her skin. If he looked closely, he could see seven freckles curve around the corner of her mouth... he remembered kissing them... he remembered running his hand over that hair, having those eyes look into his in the moonlight...

"Your Excellency," Panin said in his ears, but it wasn't Panin's voice, it was a strange voice, oily and cold, a voice he'd heard once before in a dark forest. "This is what you want, isn't it?" the voice continued. "You can have all that, and more. As long as you obey me."

Paul turned to his old governor in horror. Panin was looking at him with eyes the color of malachite.

"If you want her," Panin said, still in that spine-chilling voice, "well, I cannot give you the real thing, you understand, but I can give you something very similar." And he nodded at the young lady who looked like someone Paul both did and didn't know.

There was a weight on his chest. He couldn't breathe.

The young lady opened her mouth. She was standing not five feet from him, yet her voice seemed to be coming to him from far, far away. "Fight it, Paul!" she was screaming. He knew that voice. He knew her.

The crowd around him faded, leaving only her eyes and her voice. Holding on to them as an anchor, he clasped a hand to the base of his throat. His fingers closed around a hard disc, something like a pendant or a medallion that was stuck to his skin. It burned. He pulled it out, screaming as it took some of his skin and flesh along with it, and flung it as far away as he could.

The cathedral vanished. Paul found himself on the floor of the throne room, the marble cool under his cheek. The burning sensation on his chest had gone, but the pain lingered, weakening his limbs. Lifting his head with difficulty, he saw that Illarion stood over him, nostrils flared in fury, while the cage stood empty, with a gaping hole in its side—fragments of the medallion scattered nearby told Paul that he must have hit the cage with the medallion by accident and broken it open. Where was Zhara?

The thought of Zhara finally cleared the cloud in his head. She had saved him. She had pulled him out of that—that vision or hallucination or whatever it was that Illarion had used to tempt him, and brought him back to reality.

This, this was real. Not his mother's palace, not his coronation, not his nameless betrothed. This was real. Zhara was real. And he must save her.

And there she was, a spot of red circling close to the ceiling, out of Illarion's reach. Illarion was flinging his hand at her with his fingers outstretched, launching all sorts of things at her—lightning bolts, stones, even sharp icicles—anything he could conjure out of thin air, it seemed. Strike after magical strike hit the ceiling and the walls, and bits of marble rained down. Zhara flew on agile wings, narrowly avoiding the missiles and the debris that flew off the ceiling and the walls. But she could not hold out for long, not when the sun was getting lower and lower by the minute. Why wasn't she fighting back? Her power may be weaker, but she could still throw a few fireballs, surely? Or did she hesitate because she still thought of this crazed boy as her little brother? Well, if she refused to fight him, then Paul would.

As Illarion twisted and turned like he was battling a particularly pesky fly, Paul struggled to his feet and pulled out his broken sword, holding it ready. At one point, Illarion turned fully toward Paul, arms wide open as he tried to hit Zhara with a whirlwind. This was Paul's chance. He ran at the boy at full tilt and stabbed the sword through Illarion's chest.

Staggering back, Illarion stared at the sword's handle sticking out of his chest in astonishment.

Then he started to laugh.

"You fool!" he said, still laughing. He pulled the sword out and threw it to the floor. There wasn't even any blood on it. If it wasn't for the torn patch on his robe, nobody would know he'd been stabbed.

He truly was Deathless.

With a flick of his hand, Illarion threw an invisible force at Paul, sending him sprawling.

Paul's eyes caught a glint on Illarion's robe. It was the needle, reflecting the red rays of the sun.

The needle! Of course! To defeat Koschei, one had to destroy the needle. Paul picked himself up on trembling limbs and aimed the skull at it. If he could at least damage it somehow, that would distract Illarion long enough to give them a chance...

Illarion spun around. Another unseen hand slammed into Paul. This time the force knocked the air out of his lungs and hurled him across the room. The back of his head hit the wall. Stars burst in front of his eyes. Golden ropes sprung out of the floor like tree roots, binding his wrists and ankles. He strained against them, but they only tightened, threatening to slice off his hands and foot. The skull clattered away, rolling to the foot of the throne. Illarion's boot came down, smashing it into bits.

Paul was still staring at the smashed skull, his last hope, when Illarion came to stand in front of him.

"Stupid mortal!" he spat at Paul. "How dare you defy me! Now you shall pay!"

He pointed his hand at Paul and curled his fingers into a fist. Paul gasped. It felt as though there was a claw inside him, squeezing his heart, cutting off the flow of blood in his veins. Incredible, indescribable pain radiated from his heart to his ribs, his neck, his arms and shoulders, and the rest of his body, choking him, paralyzing him. He could feel his life force draining away, but he was helpless to stop it.

From the ceiling, Zhara came barreling down like a golden arrow. She dashed past Illarion, who made a grab for her but missed her by just a hair's breadth. The pressure around Paul's heart loosened, and he collapsed to the floor, coughing. Zhara shot back to the ceiling, and Illarion clasped a hand to his shoulder, the first hint of fear creeping to his face—the needle was gone.

"Please, Lariosha, stop this," Zhara said, the needle tightly grasped between her talons.

"Do not call me that!"

"The magic is killing you! If you go through with the ritual, you'll be dead! Baba Yaga told me—the same thing happened to Koschei—"

So Baba Yaga had told Zhara the truth after all. Was that why she wasn't fighting Illarion? Was she still trying to save him?

"See, that's where you're wrong, sister," Illarion said, though he indeed did not look well. The boy's face was pale, as pale as the marble walls around them, his hands shook, and he was breathing hard, spittle spraying from his lips. Only his green eyes burned feverishly. "Koschei was an old fool. He put his death into an ordinary needle. But I am cleverer than that. This needle will be indestructible once I temper it in your fire. Don't try anything stupid. Whatever you do to it will only make it stronger."

"I'm sorry," Zhara said. "I can't let you go through with this." Turning to Paul, she said, "Hold on to Baba Yaga's handkerchief. It will protect you."

"Protect me—from what?" Paul gasped. He still hadn't quite regained his breath after Illarion's attack.

"From me."

With that, she pointed the needle at herself and plunged it into her chest.

"No!" Paul and Illarion both screamed.

Blood spurted from Zhara's breast, dying her red feathers a darker shade. Blood dripped to the floor below her, and wherever the blood fell, fire sprang up and spread around the room as though the floor was made of the oldest, driest wood and not cold, hard marble. Flames surrounded Zhara, turning her whole body into a fireball, burning the needle white-hot. Flames swallowed up the table with its instruments of magic. Flames licked around Paul, but he strained his bound hand to find Baba Yaga's handkerchief in his knapsack, and the fire never touched him, though he felt its heat on his skin.

"You think you can stop me by killing yourself?!" Illarion hissed. "No, no, dear sister, you will live—at least long enough to serve me!"

He raised his hand. Zhara was pulled toward him on an invisible string, her wings flailing uselessly against his force.

"I have taken Koschei's powers," Illarion said, "and now I'm going to take yours!"

Just as he had done to Paul, Illarion curled his fingers into a fist. Paul knew now that the gesture meant Illarion was draining his victim's life force. And there was Zhara's life force—flames rolled along the string of air between them, flowing from sister into brother, until they were connected by a rope of fire. Paul could only watch, powerless, while Zhara's eyes rolled to the back of her head, and she made a strangled sound. Her plumage started losing its color and luster. The paler she got, the stronger Illarion seemed to be—his face was no longer deathly white, his hair became redder than the fire itself, and his eyes burned more brightly.

The fire was almost gone from around Zhara's body now, her feathers a dim, dark shade of purplish brown, like old blood. She was limp, only held up in midair by the force of Illarion's magic. The needle was lifted from her chest by that same force and flew into Illarion's hand. He caught it, laughing, paying no heed to the incandescent metal.

"Yes, yes!" he shouted. "Why didn't I think to do this sooner? This is so much better! Now I can temper the needle with my own fire! I shall be truly invinci—"

He didn't finish the sentence. The smug smile vanished from his face. The fire continued to blaze around his body as it blazed around the room, sucking out all the air, turning the whole place into an inferno. Despite the protection of Baba Yaga's handkerchief, Paul could still feel the heat blasting him in the face and scorching his lungs.

"No, this is enough—" Illarion was saying. "The tempering is done—I want it to stop—Zhara! How do I get the fire to stop? Help! Help me, please! "

Zhara, who was suspended lifeless in the air with her head lolling back and her wings drooping, gave no answer.

"It burns—oh gods, it burns!" Illarion moaned. He tried to throw the needle away, but it had melted into a puddle of liquid metal in his palm. Still the fire raged on. "You witch!" Illarion screamed at Zhara, his face twisted with rage. "You've tricked me! But you won't get away with it! If I die, you shall die too!"

He clenched his fist again, and some of the fire flowed back to Zhara, searing her feathers. She remained unconscious. Soon, the fire would consume both brother and sister...

Paul took his hand out of the knapsack and dropped the handkerchief to the floor. The moment it left his fingers, flames roared up around him. He angled his body toward it, letting the fire burn the ropes around his wrists and ankles to ashes, biting back a scream as it scorched his skin. As soon as he was free of the ropes, he got to his feet.

Illarion saw the handkerchief, and his eyes went wide. They both dove for it. Paul—perhaps by sheer luck—was a fraction of a second quicker. He scooped the handkerchief up, jumped at Zhara, and snatched her out of the air, wrapping her in the square of fabric.

"No!!!" Illarion, now nothing more than a pillar of fire with a vaguely human shape in its middle, charged at Paul. Paul leaped aside, and Illarion crashed through the window, plummeting down the sheer cliff, burning like a falling star.

A long while later, a blast from the sea below told Paul that the boy had met his end.

The flames rose all the way to the ceiling in one last furious eruption, and then, with a rushing sound of air being sucked inward, they vanished, leaving behind only a few scorched patches and an acrid smell.

Paul looked down, not quite believing what he was seeing. Zhara was lying there, in his arms—Zhara, as he'd seen her that first night in the woods of Lukomorye, freckles standing out on her skin, her hair covering her body like a cape, her eyes closed, the wound on her chest still bleeding. Outside the broken window, the sun was taking its plunge into the sea, turning the water into molten gold for a moment before winking out, and darkness descended on everything.

Chapter 15

Taglist: @ali-r3n

#prince paul #tsarevich paul #catherine the great #prince paul fic #prince paul x ofc #joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic

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demonicdames · 1 year

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Second Vol in The Assistant series: Rated: E F/M Cardinal Copia x F!Reader Papa Emeritus IV x F!Reader The results of the poll!!! you can also read it on my Ao3 Here Previous Vol. : The Assistant Part 1

Chapter 2: Unplanned get away

You awoke to the sounds of birds tweeting and the wind blowing gently through the now open windows of Copia's Buick. You both were laying in the back seat snuggled together under the blanket that you had used for your little makeshift picnic.

Looking up at Copia's sleeping form, he looked so peaceful a smile on his lips rather than wake him up you snuggled down against him once more closing your eyes as sleep took you again. The next time you opened your eyes you felt fingers brush over your hair. "Mmnn.. that's nice," you mumbled as your eyes opened glancing up at your mismatched-eyed Cardinal. "Morning Bella." he greeted

"Morning handsome." you greeted him as he dipped down for a kiss, you could taste the faint remains of you on his lips especially when his tongue dipped into your mouth. "Mmph- Easy Copia we don't have any condoms and I don't know if I could hold myself back again" You winked at him watching his cheeks gain a soft hue of red.

"Sorella you have no idea how much I was holding myself back last night." "I did see a drug store a few ways back," you muttered trying to implant the thought in his head. "And a hotel." You gave your most innocent look as he stared down at you his face a darker shade of red, that is all it took in minutes he had everything packed back up then again there wasn't much, he had you tucked under his arm as you both left the little alcove, which you'd have to remember it for later. Copia looked like a man on a mission as he walked into the drug store his head held high. It only took a couple of minutes before your Cardinal exited the store and headed back to the car slipping into the driver's side and greeting you with a kiss while he held up the bag. "Condoms of destiny." that got a snort from you. "You dork!." You laughed watching as he dug around in the bag and passed you your favorite candies which he had picked up. "Aww thank you! now let's blow this pop stand." the Cardinal laughed as he started the car. "Okie Dokie bellezza." Taking off out of the driveway his hand searched for yours taking hold of it, bringing it up to his lips for a tender kiss against your knuckles making you giggle as his mustache tickled them, Copia then laced your fingers together, you stayed like that the entire ride to the hotel you had seen the night before.

When you got there both of you stepped out of the car the Cardinal holding the bag in one hand and your hand in the other, stopping at the front desk he got a one-night stay. Once you got your key cards you headed to the elevators, as soon as those doors closed Copia had you pressed against the wall kissing you as if your kisses were as necessary as the life-giving air he breathed. You could feel his clothed erection press against you. He smothered his face into your neck. "I could fuck you right here against the wall tesoro." Just to add fuel to the fire you moaned into his ear. "Fuck me Copi-aaaaaa." Your voice made his cock twitch in his pants. "You damn gorgeous she-devil." he panted against your neck he was desperate and his cock weeping with need. He was about to yank down his pants and do just that thankfully he was quite literally saved by the bell as the doors opened to your floor.

Walking hand in hand you headed to your room with the key card being slid through unlocking the door. Walking in Copia set the bag onto the shelf that housed a television and a small fridge just under it as you walked to the large comfy bed throwing yourself down onto it your arms above your head with a sigh. "Oh, this feels so comfortable." Soon you were even more comfortable as you felt the bed shift from Copia's weight as he crawled over you, laying on you his head resting on your breast. Your legs wrapping around him it was weird how right this felt, how right he felt as the Cardinal pressed his lips to yours letting it linger there for a few moments. "I want you so fucking bad tesoro." You could feel his hands going for the edge of your skirt pulling it up while he moved down along your body. Your legs instantly fell open for him giving him a good view of his prize, for Copia he was trying hard not to pinch himself fearing that this was all a pleasant dream and he'd wake up in bed alone dick in hand. Moving slowly wasn't an option after the heavy play the night before which was nice but it only relieved you both for so long, grabbing the box of condoms Copia opened it pulling the strip of foil wrappers free, pulling one free the man opened the foil square with shakey hands. Pushing his pants down below the swell of his ass allowing his cock to spring free, the condom was slipped down over himself making sure that it was on correctly before leaning over you once again.

Your lips connected in a sweet kiss as Copia took hold of the base of his cock lining up and guiding himself inside of you, as soon as you felt him spread your folds and rub along your slick walls your head fell back from the kiss with a moan. "O-Oh fuck C-Cardinal."

His face smothered into your neck showering it with kisses as he moved within you. one of your hands dug nails into his back while the other weaved itself into the hair on the back of his head while he fucked you down into the bed. Back at the ministry, the ghoul had pulled up to the building flinching as Secondo slammed the door hard enough to cause a small crack in the window, he wanted to say something to lighten the man's mood but for his safety, the ghoul remained silent while driving the car around the back of the huge building to park it. Secondo stormed into his room grabbing the clear bottle of whiskey the top being flicked off, with his head thrown back the burning liquid drained down his throat. Pulling it away a drop fell down the corner of his mouth the man panting to get a breath in when he finished it the glass bottle was thrown across the room shattering against the wall as he fell back onto his couch. Why did he have to open up to you? why did he have to tell you the truth all the damn time? why did he fall for you? Having stormed in Secondo had forgotten to close the door so the crash of the glass was heard in the hall, Emilia had heard it and came running.

"Papa Secondo?!." She yelled out as she jogged into the room stopping in front of him with a delicate hand reaching out to gently pat at his cheek. "Secondo?." "Em, leave me be." He spoke sounding lower than the dirt in the courtyard. "Papa- I can't leave you like this-." "WHAT PART OF LEAVE ME BE DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND BITCH?!." He shouted making the Latin student jump back her lip wobbling, Secondo stared at her for a moment when she took off his arm and stretched out his hand missing her. Taking his sunglasses off they were the next thing to be thrown, great now she probably wouldn't come back either he was going to end up alone, an old bitter man that couldn't control his temper. Secondo flopped his face into his hands giving a long-winded sigh. The Emeritus looked up as he swore he felt a hand on his shoulder, he did. "Emilia you came back-." The broken man spoke sounding shocked, She didn't say anything before hugging him his mismatched eyes wide. "It's gonna be okay Secondo." 'It's gonna be okay' Those are words that he liked to hear and rarely did he hear them, rather than pull away Secondo wrapped his arms around her hips his face buried against her as she stroked the back of his head. "I'm guessing you came for your lessons?." "No remember today is an off day Papa, I heard a crash and rushed to see if you were okay." "Grazie sorella." Emilia watched her Papa for a good few minutes before leaning him back against the couch. "I'm going to go make us some tea with honey okay?." Getting a nod from him she went to the kitchen to prepare two warm cups for the both of them, Secondo eased back into his place on the couch eyes closed for a few moments before getting up from his spot and moving to grab a few heavy books from the shelf that sat nearby along with some empty sheets of paper.

Emilia came back into the room holding the two steaming cups seeing Secondo set on the couch again, however, the coffee table had several books on it opened. "Papa?." She asked making her way over to the couch and taking a seat beside the man the cups set down. "Well, I figure if you are here there is no harm in a little extra credit eh?." A soft chuckle passed her plump painted lips as she nodded. "A little extra credit sounds good Papa." Perhaps she was taking advantage of the man while in this extremely rare 'low mood' but as long as she got a smile from him she was content with doing so especially if that meant she could scooch closer to his side.

Meanwhile, back at the hotel you and Copia had ordered takeout, Chinese. You were shocked at how good the Cardinal was with chopsticks then again, you knew he was good with his fingers. While he handled them like a pro you were struggling and trying to hide it. "Cara, do you need help? or would you like a fork instead?" "No, no I got it don't you wor-." As if to add insult to injury when you attempted to pick up a shrimp you somehow magically flicked it across the room and splattered it into the television where it stuck for a few seconds before slowly slipping down the screen, both your and Copia's eyes watched it slide down until it hit the floor with a small wet plop.

You looked at him, defeat written all over your face as he offered you a fork which you finally accepted. You both ate in silence for a few minutes giggling when Copia fought with a noodle before slurping it up the thing smacking him on the nose. "Cazzo-." He cursed as you grabbed a napkin and wiped the tip of his nose clean. "Dinner fighting back, huh?." You managed to say through the laugh. "Si sorella and I think it is winning." You both shared a laugh before you continued with your meal together as silence fell between you again, you could tell there was something on his mind, you were about to ask him if everything was alright but he spoke up before you could. "Why did you choose me?." "Excuse me?." "Eh… ah.. let me rephrase, you chose me over Secondo." "Yeah so?." "It, well it surprises me not that I'm complaining no no no I am eh.. like that cow from the storia per bambini." You arched a brow at him as he panicked for a moment setting his food down his hand moving with his words now. "You know the the the, that story the cow over the moon Si?…. I am over the moon that you chose me" He spoke his face flushed with embarrassment which only got redder as you laughed. "You are so fucking adorable." You managed to say through the laugh which got a lopsided grin from your Cardinal.

Wiping a tear that managed to escape from the laugh, with a sigh and a few giggles the laughter ended.

"Well, you were always so sweet and kind to me we've never fought, you always make me laugh and you tell me how you feel I'm not left in the dark trying to figure out if I should bring something up to you or not, you were there for me even at that late hour" Your words brought that red back to his face. "It is just hard to believe, between me and the others… I've… I've never been anyone's choice before." You watched as the Cardinal's eyes looked down at his gloved hands as he slowly rubbed them together you could see the pained look as memories crawled back to him.

"Each time I thought a sorella or fratello loved me, wanted to be with me they always chose Terzo or Secondo, and when that didn't work out they just…" He shrugged his shoulders. "Or they would as you say… eat the cake and have it too." Copia sighed looking deflated. "Copia…" You watched him for a few moments you never knew just how much pain was behind that cheerful smile when you met him in the halls of the Abbey. "So when you came back to me… I was all happy, scared, and shocked." You scooted over to sit beside him your head resting on his shoulder your hand taking his gloved one holding it tight.

The gesture put a smile on his face, a kiss on his cheek put that rosy red back on them. "You know dolcezza we are going to have to return home soon." "Yeah I know, but we do have all day and night so let's have fun before heading back, I mean they have a pool downstairs and a hot tub we should go and swim." "Un problema cara." He spoke holding up an index finger. "And that is?." "No swimwear." "Ah, damn you're right." Copia frowned seeing the disappointment in your face. "Unless we go to the store and buy some for this little ehh.. unplanned trip si?." Your face lit up not only because you were gonna be able to swim but you were going to swim with him and go shopping, it was almost hilarious how two mundane things brought such happiness to the both of you.

Finishing your food you both hopped up and headed out down to his car, both giddy with excitement Copia maybe even more than you. He was so excited, not only to be out of the Abbey for a little while but with his girlfriend… you were his girlfriend now, right? maybe? perhaps he'd ask you later the last thing he wanted to hear was 'no' so he'd stay quiet and just pretend that you were for now as you headed off to the store together. --To be continued--

Tag list: Remember if you wish to be tagged for the next chapter let me know! @thesoundresoundsecho, @xpapaemeritus

#cardinal copia #copia #Papa Emeritus II #Papa Emeritus 2 #Cardinal Copia x Reader #Cardinal Copia x F!Reader #Copia x Reader #Copia x F!Reader #GhostAU #the band ghost #Ghost #ghost bc #ghost oc #sister of sin #mywriting

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mantis-dea · 10 months

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When a Good Deed Causes a Series of Unexpected Events - Chapter 7: Wayward

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6

You park your car right across from where the incident happened. Both you and Giorno step out of the car and head towards the scene of the kidnapping, ready to investigate.

The narrow alleyway stretches out before you, nestling between two neighboring restaurants, Trattoria Trussardi and Shing Market. This is where it happened. Where Matteo’s sister went missing.

Just as you were about to take your first step into the alley, Giorno’s hand unexpectedly reaches out, enveloping your own.

“Let me take the charge. Stay close,” he states.

You concede, realizing that stepping in by yourself with no means of protection is a foolish choice. With Giorno by your side, you both venture into the alley, your senses on high alert.

The only sources of lighting in this dimly lit alleyway are two feeble lightbulbs hanging above the backdoors of the adjacent restaurants. Further down the alley, you see a few flickering streetlamps, casting a faint glow over the small parking lot reserved for only the restaurant workers’ cars.

As you approach the backdoor of Trattoria Trussardi, your eyes catch sight of the flashlight Matteo dropped. You bend down and retrieve the flashlight with your free hand.

You recall what he told you, “Matteo said that he wasn’t sure why his sister was taking so long to take out the trash. He took his flashlight with him since the alleyway was dark.”

You glance towards the small parking lot and notice a portion of a large green trash bin to the left, being poorly lit up by another flickering streetlamp. “When he walked out, he saw his sister, yelling in the distance. She was only ten feet away from the trash can when a bright light suddenly overtook her whole form. He became blinded, dropping his flashlight. He went back into his family’s restaurant, panicking because he couldn’t see. The police nor his family could not locate Belladonna.”

You look up at Giorno and exchange a glance with him, both of you silently acknowledging the need for caution. You both enter the parking lot area and stand where the incident most likely occurred – ten feet from the trash can, possibly facing to the right.

You attempt to release your hand from Giorno’s, but to no avail.

“No. We stay together. We don’t know what we’re dealing with.”

You shrug, unaffected by his overtly protective stance. It makes sense, you propose. Afterall, he is the Stand User here, and he knows more about this stuff than you.

You begin to inspect the area. The parking lot is relatively clean, minus the few syringes in the corners and tiny potholes scattered about. The yellow lines indicating the space for a car are faded and need to be worked on. You don’t see anything out of the ordinary; it looks like a basic back-alley parking lot.

However, as Giorno crouches down to surveil the ground, you notice something peculiar about the wall right next to you. You point Matteo’s flashlight towards the wall and turn it on.

With the flashlight’s assistance, you can see the red brick wall sharply transition from a very light shade of red to a darker shade.

“Giorno, do you see this?” you ask.

“Yes,” he responds, “it seems the ground is also this way.”

You point your flashlight towards the ground to see what he is inspecting. The pavement also follows the same suit – from a light grey color to the familiar black pavement.

“The walls and pavement are two separate colors…” you think out loud, letting the gears turn in your head.

There is no reason why they should be different colors. The sun doesn’t even reach this place, it doesn’t look like there is an oil spill, and there are no signs of the walls being painted on.

“Whatever was here,” Giorno begins, “must’ve acted as a sunblock. The darker shade is the original. This is the only spot that has this lighter color.”

You shine your flashlight around the parking lot. He’s right; this spot is the only one in the facility.

You recall a documentary you’ve watched about the Hiroshima bombing. When the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, people close to the bomb instantly vaporized due to the amount of UV radiation, leaving shadows of people behind. These shadows happened because their bodies acted like a sunblock when the radiation bleached out everything around them, permanently marking what their last action was before they inevitably perished.

“She didn’t get kidnapped, she evaporated…” you say, stunned at the revelation.

“It’s the work of a Stand,” Giorno says with scrunched eyebrows. He stands up, “You were told there were multiple people disappearing, correct?”

You nod, “In fact, just across the street, the owner of the candy shop disappeared.”

The two of you head towards the front of the candy shop. Unlike the alley, the sidewalk is understandably well lit with there being a streetlamp brightly shining down upon the sidewalk every few feet.

As Giorno bends down to examine another bleached spot, you feel a deep sense of sorrow wash over you. The sign on the glass entrance door, 'Closed temporarily until my father is found,' carries the weight of a family's despair. You can't imagine the pain and uncertainty they must be going through. They’re hopeful he will come back, that his sudden disappearance is a misunderstanding, not knowing that he has passed.

You and Giorno look around, finding no immediate clues. Deciding it would be unsafe for you to stay in what’s now considered enemy territory, Giorno proposes to head back.

“Are you sure?” you ask.

“I do not want to risk the two of us being in enemy territory.”

“Who the hell kills three people in the span on two days?” you ask, trying to wrap your head around this situation.

“A member of Superare.”

You tilt your head, “Superare? Is that the mafia in Foggia?”

“Yes, the reason why my boss wanted to talk business was because of territory issues-“

His words fade into the background as you catch a suspicious shimmer beneath a distant streetlamp. A gut feeling intensifies tenfold, signaling impending danger. Something is amiss; something is about to unfold. Without a moment to spare, you shove Giorno out of the way.

A deafening bang echoes.

Instead of the anticipated sharp sting, you buckle and awkwardly collapse to the ground like a rag doll.

You try to squirm.

You try to talk.

You try to move all parts of your body; all attempts prove futile.

Giorno acts with urgency, swiftly lifting you up off the ground and sprinting towards cover behind the candy shop. As he gently sets you down, your condition becomes his immediate concern. Leaning you against the brick building, he observes your inability to sit properly;’ you slump back down to the ground. Picking up your arm and releasing it, he notices how it immediately falls limp. It becomes evident that even the simplest movements, such as blinking, are out of your capabilities.

“You can’t move.” He comments, “What do the Americans say? It’s like a deer caught in the headlights…”

A figure emerges from the corner of your stilled vision. In response, Giorno takes his brooch and summons a vine to envelop the two of you. You hear two pairs of footsteps, circling the barrier Giorno created.

“Don Giovanna,” the man starts, “My, what a pleasure it is.”

Another deafening bang pierces through the air, but the expected silence does not follow. Instead, a whizzing sound reverberates outside the barrier, echoing as if bouncing off unseen surfaces, until you feel a sharp sting in your left arm,

You’ve been shot.

Astonishingly, a bullet found its way through a miniscule gap in Giorno’s vines.

Another bang, another whizz, and Giorno stumbles, a grunt escaping him.

“Merda. I suoi proiettili sono simili ai Sex Pistols.”

You’re both ensnared, backs to the wall struggling to find a solution. Giorno, formidable as he is, struggles to shield you; you’ve unwittingly become an impediment to his victory. Your heart pulls at knowing this.

You want to support him.

You want to protect him.

However, you find yourself unable to move, drifting in and out of consciousness. You feel utterly useless, unable to provide the support you desperately wish to offer. Yet, this hopeless feeling sparks a newfound sense of determination sparks within your core.

I will support him, and I will protect him.

A yellow hue envelops you, and something surges within you. Your attention is drawn to a gleam racing towards Giorno just before succumbing to the weight of your eyelids. One of the Stands is inspired by a fic I read a while ago. I don't remember who wrote it, but when I find it, I will credit it.

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nbkuhn · 4 months

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The Siren's Lover, Ch. 2

(Chapter one, if you missed it.)

(Read on AO3, if you prefer.)

As Matthias walked away, Finch allowed himself one moment longer to stare, studying the hard lines of the stranger’s calves and the steady back-and-forth motion of his tail. Calling him handsome left too much to chance. His good looks were an assault: the heavy brows, weighed down by grief; the full lips always turned down in a frustrated frown; and, most potent of all, the golden eyes, bright as the sunlight they reflected.

But Finch’s time was up now. He walked down to the waves and immersed himself, relishing the weight of his tail, of water flowing over his gills, then surfaced and floated, taking deep breaths of salt air. Mother Ocean cradled him in her hands. How he wished he could float forever, eschewing every responsibility and difficult decision.

No, he wished he could stay on land and work. He was exactly as selfish as he told the land dweller. Sighing, he sank beneath the surface and caught the current to take him home. Long before signs of their habitation appeared, the voices of other sirens stirred him from his thoughts. Soon enough, a great underwater canyon came into view. His home.

He sensed the presence of another siren before he saw her, a whisper of song in his mind like breath against his ear. As she illuminated her stripes, red light filled the water around him. Adult sirens could consciously control their bioluminescence, but Finch shone whether he liked it or not, though the dim glow of his freckles felt like glow-in-the-dark stars in a child's bedroom next to the full glory of the night sky.

His sister Vané appeared, eight feet tall and a much darker, mature shade of teal, unlike Finch's own pale skin. She carried no weapon; she didn't need it, between her muscles, her claws, and her teeth. She would never be defenseless like Finch. "Brother. You’re late.”

Finch drew up short. The lack of greeting was no surprise—he could count the number of times Vané had smiled in his presence on one hand with fingers to spare—but her presence was. “Vané? I thought you were still out on a research trip. Did something happen?” His chest tightened as if he could suddenly feel the weight of all the water surrounding them. Only something awful could bring Vané home early, and he would know nothing about it on land.

"No,” said Vané, for once answering quickly enough to put his thoughts at ease. “I needed to be here. The reason is not mine to say.” He studied her face, but, as usual, Vané’s stoic features gave nothing away. “Don’t tarry. Mother will explain.” She pointed down the canyon, as if he might get lost on the straight swim.

Finch smiled and nodded. Pointing out he was an adult who, if nothing else, could read the pod markings on every wall to direct him, would get him a stern frown at best and a lecture at worst. "Thank you, Vané. It's good to see you."

She nodded jerkily. She couldn't make herself say the same thing back, but he expected no different.

Finch kept the same even smile on his face. He'd gotten very good at it over the years.

As he swam deeper into the canyon, cut-outs began to appear, different family dwellings. Some of them let the sea in, and some were bubbled, protecting the contents from the water. He passed a few other of his cousins, aunts, and pod members on the way, but none acknowledged him beyond a nod, and most not even that, ducking inside their cut-outs rather than risk awkward conversation.

His mother's home was right at the edge, before it opened onto a flat expanse of rock. Finch meant to go straight inside and get things started, but instead he stopped short. The weight of memory pressed him down as surely as the thousands of pounds of water around him: year after year living in that room with his mother, watching the tides ebb and flow. Watching everyone else move on without him.

A shudder rolled through his whole body, an echo of the child he used to be, who never thought he would see the surface without a hand clamped down on his shoulder, guiding him where he was meant to go. A life spent keeping his most important parts tucked away so they wouldn’t catch the light.

Once he was certain the feeling had left him, he swam forward to his mother's cut-out and through the curtain of kelp without knocking. Here, the water was slightly warmer and the weight of the water slightly less, though the voice of Mother Ocean was stronger somehow, maybe because this was where Finch was used to hearing it.

Usually, setting foot in his cut-out relaxed him immediately, even with awkward discussions to look forward to.

Today, though, no one was at home. He felt no whisper in his mind, no breath of song. His mother was supposed to be here, and probably his middle sister, Milly, who collated her research since Finch had moved to land.

He swished his tail back and forth, then made himself stop, too used to hiding the obvious sign of his distress. Had he gotten the time wrong? But they'd agreed on this date to ensure his mother would be at home, not out in deeper waters studying the movements of sea serpents, where Finch couldn’t follow.

He bit down hard on his lower lip. Any rightness and relaxation he'd felt upon entering the ocean had left him, and now he was only nauseous. He didn’t have any good choices to make.

If he left, and his mother had been expecting him after all, she would scold him for not waiting. If he stayed, he had no idea when she would return, and wasting his entire day here when work was piling up on his shoulders on land—

And of course looking for her would be pointless. The rest of his pod was always quick to usher him back under his mother's arm or behind one of his sisters, where they wouldn't have to figure out what to do with him. The only place he felt safe and accepted was here, within these four walls of stone. If that was no longer the case, then he was truly marooned. He had nothing on land, not really, only an apartment he barely remembered the address to and students who wouldn’t remember him once the semester was finished.

In the end, he settled against the wall. Waiting for his mother was even more unbearable than he remembered. As a child, he would have had something to draw on, even if he had to hide it before his mother returned. But he hadn't brought anything waterproof, and he no longer knew what was important and what was scrap paper since he didn't manage his mother's notes.

With nothing left to do, Finch’s thoughts slipped back to the beach. He hadn’t expected the stranger to be shy, not with his good looks, but it was endearing. And intriguing to learn the anger in his face came from a wounded heart, not a bad temper. But that wounded heart meant Finch should keep his distance. The land dweller didn’t need the whole weight of the ocean added to the sadness he already carried.

As it happened, he was only waiting for about half an hour, though of course that time was interminable. Still, vast relief swept him when he sensed the approach of a familiar song—his mother was coming home after all. Maybe she'd gotten caught up talking to a neighbor or one of her cousins. Maybe she'd apologize and ask to see his work.

Maybe Mother Moon would come down from the sky into the loving embrace of Mother Ocean.

He put a smile on his face just in time for his mother to emerge through the opening of the cut-out. She was everything a siren of her age should be: eight feet tall, muscular, a gleaming, gorgeous shade of dark blue. Her stripes slowly cycled on and off, flaring red, then fading. When she saw him, they flashed once and went dark. A smile crossed her face, so gentle and affectionate he felt like crying with relief. Every time they parted, he always worried she would change her mind while he was gone and finally decide he wasn’t worth the bother, that she wanted to spend the rest of her life focused on her studies, not on a son who would never grow up like his sisters.

She held out her arms, and he swam into them. It was hard not to feel like a child next to his mother or other full-grown sirens, but with her, at least he was supposed to feel that way. "Hello, Mother." He cut himself off before he could comment on her lateness. No reason to immediately start with something unpleasant.

She brushed her lips over his temple, and she murmured his name in his ear—his real name, the name Mother Ocean had chosen for him when he was nothing but a reflection of the moon on the surface of the water. For that moment, his mother’s voice joined with the voice of the ocean, and everything was right in the world. No silly comments about the surface-name he’d picked for himself; no pointed barbs about his choice to leave the sea. Only his true self.

Cupping his face in her hands, she held him at arm's length to inspect him the way she did whenever they'd been apart for more than a few minutes. "Ah, look at you. I don't suppose you're here to tell me you've changed your mind about everything in your life again?" She laughed before the words could sink in. "I'm joking, I'm joking. Come, sit. Are you hungry?"

"I had breakfast before I came." He didn't want to admit he preferred to the variety of food available on land. Maybe eating raw fish day in and day out was satisfying when you could catch it yourself, but he was stuck accepting the leftovers of others, always eating with the children and the elderly. At least on land he could pay.

"Good, good, then we'll have nothing to do but talk."

Apparently, she wasn't going to acknowledge her lateness. Fine. He wasn't owed every detail of her life, and he'd been careful to leave out extra time for this very reason. They settled on the floor together, where his mother continued to peer at him as something was markedly different.

The only change was his conversation with Matthias, but one talk with a land dweller hardly mattered. "How have you been, Mother?"

Feeling passed over her face, so quickly he might not have noticed if he wasn't used to divining every little detail. "Oh, this and that. You know how bored I am between migration periods. Out the field, it's all data collation and research reports and conferences. Nothing you'd want to know, I'm sure, since you suddenly decided you were made for art and not science."

Finch smiled apologetically. Acknowledging her comment would only put them further off track. "Well, Mother, it's one thing to hear it over email and another to hear it from you. Why did Vané leave the field?"

His mother relaxed, and Finch’s shoulders loosened. Asking about Vané was usually the right tactic. She was following in their mother's footsteps, not merely assisting her but actually studying the same creatures. "Oh, you know your sister. She has her own schedule, and nothing makes her deviate from it, not even—family matters."

Had she been about to mention his visit? But he wouldn't have expected Vané anyway. A decade older than Finch, she'd already been busy out of the home when he was a child. They barely knew each other. "I'm glad to hear she's doing well."

"Of course she is. Vané always surfaces gracefully." His mother rested her hand on her cheek. "I suppose we should talk about your work now, though."

Finch smiled. Gratitude. Sweetness. He was an imposition, but he didn’t have to remind her of that fact by kicking up sand, especially not when he’d been working so hard to settle the water. "Yes, I'd love to show you if you have time."

Smoothing her palm over the crown of his head, she smiled indulgently. Finch's expression turned truer, softer. His mother touched him rarely in public, but in private, he received all her attention. "Of course. You're the busy one right now, rushing around with all your business on land. I can't wait until you get sick of it. The cut-out is so empty without you."

She was already turning away to get her computer, enchanted to work underwater, so she missed the way Finch's expression immediately fell. By the time she returned, he had put a smile back on, although it felt false, fixed.

"I didn't have a chance to look at anything you sent me ahead of time, but that only means that we get to look at it together." She pulled up the photos he'd sent her. A concrete topic to discuss helped, since she hadn't yet found a way to deny his skill.

They were discussing his last portrait when his middle sister, Milly, swam into the cutout unannounced. He'd been so focused on explaining his work he hadn't noticed the touch of her song in his mind. "Oh, little brother, you're home!" Milly was also the picture of an adult siren, though she was only seven and a half feet tall and slenderer than their mother or Vané. Still, she was a sleek shade of dark blue, and her black stripes were thick and beautiful.

"Hello, Milly." Finch glanced at his mother for permission before he got up to greet her. But his mother had an odd, fixed expression he didn’t recognize.

He went over to Milly, and she hugged him around the shoulders. "It's good to see you, little brother." She was speaking oddly too. Usually, Milly was bubbly and irrepressible, so much so their mother tended to scold her into silence. But today, she seemed reserved.

Finch glanced between the two of them. "It's good to see you too, sister. Am I—interrupting something?"

Milly glanced at their mother, which all but confirmed that he was, and Finch bit back an irritated noise. He was getting into bad habits on land, becoming less respectful.

Then Milly huffed. "It's no good, Mama, I don't know how you expect me to keep this a secret." When she looked back at him, he realized the strange thing he'd been seeing in her eyes: an apology. No wonder he hadn't recognized it.

And, equally suddenly, he realized what this was about, even as Milly told him: "Little brother, I found my heartsong."

Finch didn't have to force his smile now. "Oh, Milly, that's wonderful news!" He leaned in to embrace her again. She hugged him tight, and for a moment, at least, everything was right with the world.

But, when he drew away, the question still hung between them. "Why didn't you tell me ?" He tried to keep any hint of accusation out of his tone, though he worried she would find it regardless. He wasn’t in control of himself as he should have been. "I could have come back a different day."

His mother focused on shutting down her laptop, as if that took her whole focus, and Finch's stomach started churning again. She drummed her fingers on the plastic—click, click, click. The eternal sound of her displeasure. Even Milly stiffened. "Let me see what your sister needs first, child, and then I'll explain."

"I can wait. You'll only be here for a short time, won't you, brother? I'm sure you have important things waiting for you on land."

Her tone was indulgent enough to rankle, but Finch nodded. "I do have a schedule to mind."

Squeezing his shoulder, Milly chuckled. Her palm was large enough to reach from the base of his skull to the top of his ribs. "Of course. I’m sure it’s difficult for you, since you always had Mama to mind your calendar before." She bent to kiss his temple. "I wish I had time to introduce you to my intended, but she's on land. I'll send you a picture."

"That would be—wonderful, sister, thank you."

She didn't notice the catch in his voice, only patted his shoulder and swam off as abruptly as she'd arrived.

Finch bit down on his lower lip hard to keep from saying anything until she was gone. "Milly found her heartsong?" Here, underwater, his voice sounded like it was supposed to: deep and ringing, the voice of Mother Ocean humming under every syllable. But at the moment, the voice of the ocean had deserted him; he was only himself, small and helpless.

His mother set her laptop aside. He feared he would see the same indulgence on her face, as if she thought because he looked like a child he was not capable of talking of anything but childish things. But her expression was not indulgence or even irritation at being caught out; for a moment, her face was nothing but grief.

Finch's stomach churned for an entirely different reason. Why couldn’t he take the question back? He knew better. His mother had good reason to behave the way she did. He moved to her side again, a silent apology, and she took him under her arm without speaking.

He'd learned many valuable things on land, but in exchange, he was losing his grip on things here: he couldn't tell the time by the tides without thinking about it, he had to work to remember the lunar calendar, and he couldn't even have a single conversation with his mother without upsetting her. He'd already broken her heart once. He couldn't do it again.

"I see now what this looks like." His mother heaved a deep sigh he felt in his own bones. "As if I were being petty, keeping the details of our life here from you because you left us behind. But you know I don't grudge you the choice to change your life so abruptly. No."

She took his face in one hand, holding his gaze, even though he would have given anything to look away and avoid seeing her naked sadness. The weight of Mother Ocean was welcome; the weight of his mother’s agony made him want to sink through the floor. He’d borne it with her since he was truly a child, too young to know anything but his name and her love, and even still, it was so heavy.

"I only wished to spare you a shock. I can't pretend to know what it's like to be you, my son, forever so small, always trailing behind your sisters. But I feel like I understand one piece of you better since—since your secondary mother died. When Milly found her intended, of course I was overjoyed, but it hurt me too, to know I shall never again feel the kind of happiness she's experiencing. And you, my son, have no heartsong, so you shall never feel it at all. Perhaps it was my own selfishness, but I couldn't bear to hurt you like that, to remind you what you lack."

Nodding, Finch made sure he had a good grip on himself before he opened his eyes. "Oh, Mother. I understand. You were only trying to look out for me. I know it hasn't been easy, raising me on your own."

She finally let him go. "It isn't as if I can ask anyone else for advice on raising a son." Her lips turned toward a smile, though it was exhausted. "At least I know your secondary mother wouldn't have been much help. She was terrible at emotional conversations."

Finch had been told as much many times. He crossed his arms, trying to resist the urge to hold himself tight. "Well, now I know." He called back his smile. Maybe being reminded why he bothered was good for him. He was forgetting what was truly important, becoming the selfish child his mother all but accused him of. "When is the wedding?"

"We're still working out those details. Milly's intended works on land for the time being, though of course now she'll transition back to the sea where she belongs." His mother gave another deep sigh. "Milly is already talking about transferring to her lover's pod instead. I suppose my only solace is in thinking you'll be home soon too."

Taken aback by the change in topic, Finch blinked and blurted out his first thought. "I will?"

His mother narrowed her eyes, but not like she was upset—like she hadn't understood what he said. She'd looked at him the same way when he first declared his desire to live on land to pursue his art, as if he'd suddenly transformed into a stranger.

The expression always made him quail. His mother knew everything about him. If she didn't understand him, how would anyone else?

"Well, of course. I'll be all by myself now, my dear. Vané does most of the fieldwork for me, so she's hardly ever home, and you know how she is—even when she's not at work, she's thinking of work. And now Milly will be gone, off starting her own family." She beamed at him. "You, though, are the blessing I didn't know I needed when your secondary mother passed away—a child who will never leave me."

Finch clamped down on his thoughts, hard. He'd already been planning for at least another semester at the same campus, not to mention his gallery show—and he had so many half-finished ideas. The thought of leaving them stillborn to return to the same four walls he'd lived in his entire life—

But he couldn't say any of that. He smiled as brightly as he knew how, like the idea delighted him. "Milly will still be home for a while yet, Mother. And if I abandoned my obligations, it would reflect badly on our family. I know my work might as well be on a different planet from yours, but academics talk. I wouldn't ever want to jeopardize your reputation."

"Of course not. Such a thoughtful boy." His mother rubbed his back. "Listen, I will be on land soon, as it happens, to meet with Milly's new relatives. I thought I would come see you at the same time."

Finch knew what was expected of him, so he nodded, even though the idea of his mother coming to see his work in person was terrifying.

But it would give him time to think of a way to tell her he wasn't ready to return home yet. A way that wouldn't break her heart. So he only leaned his cheek on her shoulder, as he had done since he was even smaller than he was now. "Of course, Mother. I'll be sure to clear my schedule for you."

She chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "My little rainbow fish. It's always so odd to hear you speak of schedules. But I'll email you." She released him. "You should swim on now, though. I need to get back to Milly."

"Of course, Mother."

On the long swim back, he should have thought of his work, or the conversation with his mother, or maybe his students. He thought of none of those things. He sank into the memory of Matthias instead, the only thing on land he could bear to lose.

Chapter Three

#the siren's lover #mermay #writeblr #lugosi falls #monster romance

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anarchy-n-glitter · 8 months

Text

Blood of the Dragon

Another long chapter just a heads up. I don't think I have any warnings this time, maybe just for Viseryon's previous behavior being mentioned.

Chapter Summary: A mystery begins to unfold in Edoras as the city erupts into chaos. What better time is there to sew the seeds of doubt into the king's mind and embed yourself within the king's court?

(Chapter 1 HERE, Chapter 2 HERE)

(Song inspo: Me and The Devil - Soap&Skin, The Green Dress - HOTD soundtrack)

CHAPTER 3:

Lady Aelora Dressed in Red

It was dawn. The sky was clear and painted with different shades of orange and lavender as the sun rose slowly over the snowy peaks of the mountains on the horizon. The air was as frigid as the day before, the winds whipping harshly for so early in the morning. In the distance, just beyond the grand Starkhorn, grey clouds gathered and grew darker. A storm was coming, and it was likely to bring the first snow of the season.

Rohan had not seen a snowy winter since the Long Winter, and with each morning that grew colder and colder, and as the clouds grew darker and darker, the people of Rohan worked harder to prepare.

If the next cold, unforgiving winter was not to come that year it certainly would come the next, bearing its ugly teeth through icicles that clung to the sodden rooftops and frostbite that killed their livestock, young, and the sickly.

Hilda stifled a yawn, pressing the back of her hand hard against her mouth to hide the slight way it opened as she was given her morning assignment. The lead housemaid, an older woman named Godiva, handed Hilda clean linen and fresh water for the Lord Draecyr. The look of disappointment in the older woman’s wrinkled eyes did not go unnoticed by Hilda. The younger woman had been late; her dress was wrinkled and her strawberry blonde hair was still tousled from when she woke up, and the wind certainly didn’t help straighten out her appearance. It seemed as if Hilda hadn’t gotten much rest the night before, but in truth she overslept.

The young woman was surprised when the dawn came so quickly, for it never felt like she fell asleep at all. She slept so soundly through the night, yet that morning she hardly felt rested. She stifled another yawn.

Godiva huffed and ran her hands along Hilda’s skirt, aggressively trying to straighten out the wrinkles before sending the younger maid to Lord Viseryon’s room. “You better hope he isn’t awake.” The lead housemaid grumbled. “Don’t let him see you like this.”

The older woman’s instructions and warning sent shivers down her back. Hilda was well aware of Lord Viseryon’s awful temper; she'd watched him snap at her fellow maids on multiple occasions, raising a hand to them even if he never did strike them. He would apologize immediately, of course, running a hand across his face and flashing his large, grey eyes. He would smile bashfully as if he hadn’t been acting like a toddler moments before.

Most of the women feared him, the men hated him and avoided him, and most recognized what a nuisance he truly was. Hilda noticed how people would rather stand beside Wormtongue than be near the Lord Draecyr and it was all due to his sour attitude. I would much rather be made uncomfortable by Wormtongue’s quiet, creeping presence than be snapped at and nearly hit by Lord Viseryon, thought Hilda. She had noticed even his own creation thought the same. Lady Aelora had been spotted alone with Wormtongue quite a few times, and Hilda heard from a few of the wash maidens that they saw the two in a loving embrace.

She had been walking along the banks of Snowbourn, carrying a basket full of cloth that she had washed thoroughly. Hilda had been on laundry duty that day, as much as she hated the job, and she was on her way to report back to Godiva when the conversation of two other wash women caught her attention.

The wash women giggled at the scandalousness of it all, making jokes about the advisor and his new dragon blooded mistress as they washed their clothes and linen in the river.

“I can’t believe she lets him get that close to her!” One exclaimed in a hushed tone. “He looks like he smells of fish.”

“I saw him following her around when she first got here, then, last night, I saw him enter her chambers! He’s so creepy… why she would ever entertain his presence I have no idea.” The other answered before going back to scrubbing the garment in her hand.

“She is a dragon blood, maybe he’s the first man to give her attention. He seems desperate enough.” The other maiden gasped and lightly slapped her friend’s shoulder.

“You say that like Lady Aelora is ugly.”

“Well…” The first maid trailed off, prompting the other to roll her eyes.

“It’s alright to say you’re jealous because no man in Rohan would look at you the way he does her.” Hilda arched a brow at that. Certainly they hadn’t been close enough to see how they looked at each other. She left the girls alone, their shrill laughter fading as she rushed to find Godiva in Meduseld… and then she saw them.

Just behind the hall, partially obscured by the grand walls of Meduseld, she saw Lady Aelora and Wormtongue. Indeed, they were kissing, and from the looks of it the lady didn’t seem to mind where the grotesque advisor’s hands wandered. Hilda let out a gasp and dropped her basket before hurrying behind a rocky formation, laying flat against the ground so as to not be seen by the lovers. She could hardly believe what she was seeing. The maid let out another, quieter gasp, for her eyes did not deceive her.

When the duo pulled away she saw how tenderly Wormtongue caressed the lady’s cheek. She saw the bright smile that grazed Lady Aelora’s face. She was almost taken by the breathtaking beauty that Aelora was, with her silver hair and otherworldly smile. The dragon blood was nearly elf-like in grace and looks. She wondered, just like the maids before, why Aelora would entertain Wormtongue’s presence like she had been. Certainly she could have anyone she wanted. For a moment, Hilda could have been fooled into thinking the two had been in love the whole time and had known each other for years. Wormtongue led Aelora slightly further behind Meduseld and sat in the grass, his form nearly disappearing completely in the sea of green. She heard Lady Aelora let out a small giggle as she lifted her skirt and joined him in the grass, straddling his hips.

Hilda determined she’d seen enough, hoping to get out of there before seeing parts of either party she’d rather not, and since she felt like a dirty voyeur as it was. The noises Lady Aelora made were embarrassing enough to have to listen to. The maid hopped to her feet, collecting the now soiled laundry back into the basket before finding the established path to Meduseld. Her feet found the stone steps and it felt like she’d found sanctuary.

She wondered what she’d do with this newfound information. Would it be wise of her to forget what she saw, or would she engage in gossip alongside her fellow maids? Hilda was shocked by how little discretion they had about this dirty little secret. She would have thought the king’s advisor would be more careful to not expose a potential affair, and with a dragon blood nonetheless.

Hilda had rushed inside the Great Hall that day, shutting the doors as quickly as possible. She let out a small squeak and pressed her back onto the heavy, wooden doors, as if she were hiding the advisor’s secret herself. Her eyes struggled to adjust to the darker atmosphere of the hall, at the moment she was only able to see silhouettes of people in the distance. When her eyes did adjust she noticed just how crowded it was. A number of noble women were lounging about the space, some were seated at tables, while some laid across the steps by the throne. They were all accompanied by handmaidens, some of which the maid recognized. Hilda’s eye was caught by a woman wearing lavender whose golden hair was being braided by the maiden Cwenhilde.

This woman, with fair skin and dark eyes, was Lady Beolyn. Her father, Beonræd, had served the court of Edoras for decades before his service was determined to be no longer needed. Her family was well respected and still lived in the lap of luxury. Beolyn was seated on the steps closest to the center of the room. The little sunlight that filtered through the roof fell upon her, casting a cool white light on her, as if even the heavens above favored her. Her focus was taken by the larger than life man before her.

He was seated on top of a table in the middle of the hall, practically lounging on it with one foot on the wooden top with the other resting on the bench below. Surrounded by women, he strummed at his lute and sang softly and sweetly a ballad about love and longing. His sapphire eyes were glued to the lady in lavender, and with how passionately he sang it could be assumed he was singing about Beolyn. The small smile on his face told Hilda it would be hard to get him alone.

The man, Kenric, was a musician who traveled with other musicians across Middle Earth, performing in different courts and cities for the noble men and women. Kenric especially loved performing for the women. He was a very flirtatious man whose only weakness is a pretty face, and to him it was clear Beolyn was the prettiest of all. He enjoyed having the freedom of moving from place to place, yet he seemed to love lingering in Rohan, and Hilda knew he lingered for Lady Beolyn. His carefree, womanizing nature could never hide how he looked at the Lilac Lady of Edoras.

The way Kenric looked at Beolyn hurt.

“Oh Hilda, you’re all dirty!” Cwenhilde exclaimed from behind Beolyn, drawing everyone’s attention to the maid. Cwenhilde was right, Hilda was truly a mess. Mud clung to the muted green of her skirt and corset and soiled the sleeves of her turquoise blouse. Every time she shifted she could feel the dirt grind uncomfortably against her skin, and she felt the way it clung to her cheek. The maid smiled sheepishly and tucked a strand of reddish blonde hair behind her ear. She would not spill the advisor’s secrets in front of - what used to be - half of the king’s court.

“I fell outside.” She lied, much to the amusement of some of the ladies there. Kenric’s sky colored gaze fell upon the basket of dark colored linen in Hilda’s grasp. He could see splotches of mud and clumps of grass clinging to the drenched heap. Drops of water leaked through the straw and dripped onto the stone floor. There was a puddle.

“Looks like Wormtongue will be without bedding tonight.” Kenric smirked. The women all giggled amongst themselves at his observation. His eyes met hers and she felt her throat tighten. “Godiva might actually kill you for this one after she rushes you back out to fix that. Or she’ll give you a worse assignment than this one was as punishment.” Washing Wormtongue’s sheets was supposed to be a punishment for tripping and breaking an entire table’s worth of dishware the day before. She couldn’t possibly imagine what worse fate Godiva would sentence her to for this blunder. Hilda grimaced at the thought.

“I am not reporting to Godiva like this.” Hilda stated firmly before waltzing up to Kenric. The women around them began to whisper amongst themselves, most likely making fun of Hilda for her appearance. Beolyn still stared at the musician. “I was actually coming here to ask you to walk me home so I can change.” The blond man arched his brow.

“I think you’d be perfectly safe walking home in broad daylight, Hilda.” Kenric began before gesturing grandly to the women who surrounded him. “And as you can see, I am still entertaining an audience.” He winked at Beolyn which prompted a cacophony of giggles from the other ladies and handmaidens.

Hilda found it hard to watch as red dusted along Beolyn’s porcelain cheeks. The display was almost sickening.

“Remember that guard I told you about?” Kenric frowned.

“The one who kept petitioning your father to let him marry you? The one who trapped you in awkward conversations by that very door? That guard?” Kenric asked, stifling an uncomfortable laugh. He did, however, remember this guard as being the reason Hilda asked him to accompany her home, hoping the sight of another man would ward him off. Kenric had been under the impression it worked.

“Yes, that one.” Hilda answered in an impatient tone. Kenric stood in an instant, hopping off of the table’s bench seat with his lute firmly grasped in his right hand. He turned back to the women with a small bow.

“Excuse me, ladies, I’m afraid a man must go teach a boy a lesson.” Hilda rolled her eyes as the women giggled at the theatrics.

Kenric rushed to Hilda’s side, opening the doors of the hall for her before slipping outside behind her. He’d almost forgotten the chill that lingered in the air and he shivered. The sun’s powerful rays still fought to break through the dull blanket of clouds in the sky, and the brightness of the outdoors made Kenric squint. It certainly didn’t help that Meduseld’s great hall was so much darker during the day and empty than it was outside. He had spent all day performing for and chatting with the ladies of the court, something he knew he would never tire of.

He linked arms with Hilda just as he had many times before and began to walk down the steps of Meduseld, but she refused to budge.

“Hilda?” There was a sudden look of mischief in her eye. “Oh Hilda, what are you up to?” Kenric sighed as his grip loosened on her arm.

“I saw Wormtongue and the dragon blood behind Meduseld.” She said finally, amusement present in her voice. Kenric’s eyes widened.

“What?” Kenric had talked to the dragon blooded Lady a few days prior, nearly swayed by her beauty. She seemed quiet and polite, and she laughed at his usual antics. He considered writing a song about her to sing amongst the other courts, for Kenric didn’t consider Lady Aelora to be monstrous like many did about dragon bloods, in fact, he didn’t consider dragon bloods monstrous at all. He used to be fascinated by the creatures, despite the horrific tales his mother weaved about them as he drifted off to sleep as a child.

He had witnessed Wormtongue lurking in Lady Aelora’s shadow, constantly watching her throughout the week and even lurking beside Meduseld when he had stopped to speak to Aelora. It was he who pointed out to her that Wormtongue had been watching her. He did think it odd that she simply laughed. She didn’t react how the other women would - she didn’t show she was alarmed or disgusted. Instead she simply thanked him and went back to writing in her journal. He thought that was odd, but he never expected her to seek out Wormtongue herself.

“It’s true! They had been standing in the fields in an embrace, kissing!” Hilda exclaimed. She loved gossiping with Kenric, it was something they did rather often, but nothing had ever been as juicy and scandalous as this.

“You lie!” He gasped with a large smile on his face.

“That’s why I’m covered in dirt! I had to hide behind that ledge over there.” She gestured as much as she could with Kenric still holding her other arm. The ledge was a bit further from the path they stood on, nearly hidden in the grass but gave a perfect view of the meadow behind Meduseld. The blond man smirked. “Do you think they’re still there?” He asked. Hilda slapped his chest lightly.

“I am not interested in finding out.” She giggled. “Besides, the noises I heard coming from Lady Aelora were enough to send me away, I’d rather not learn what Wormtongue sounds like when he’s being pleasured.”

“I beg your pardon?” A regal voice sounded from behind the two causing them to jump. Lord Viseryon stood behind them, a look of bewilderment upon his face and madness present in his eyes. Hilda felt her stomach drop at the sight of him, recounting the many horror stories her fellow maids had told about him over his short time in Edoras. He seemed to be masking his anger about their choice of topic, and she thought of the maids he physically threatened.

“Lord Viseryon!” Hilda bowed, elbowing her ditzy companion to do the same. Kenric halfheartedly bowed, rolling his eyes when his head was down. “To what do we owe the pleasure? It’s not often we’re graced by the presence-”

“Quit your pathetic groveling, what was it you were just talking about?” Hilda felt a bead of sweat trickle down the back of her neck despite the chilling weather. Viseryon’s scolding silver gaze was focused solely on her, and she feared her gossiping had awoken some beast that lay within the lord.

“It was nothing-”

“It was not nothing, you spoke of Aelora and the king’s advisor, a grave accusation at that. What was it you said?” The lord demanded. Hilda was frozen with fear, unsure of whether it was safe to report to him what she saw. She glanced at Kenric from the corner of her eye. The blond man was not afraid of the lord, he’d bore witness to Viseryon’s fits quite a few times and realized the man before him was all bark and no bite. He even wondered why Lord Viseryon cared who Lady Aelora was seeing in the first place, his concern didn’t seem to come from a place of fatherly caring.

Kenric would understand if Lord Viseryon saw Aelora as his child and was more concerned with finding a suitor for her, thus caring about her purity, but the look on Viseryon’s face was one of jealousy and possessiveness. The musician, as privy as he was to emotion, figured Viseryon viewed Aelora as property - his property to use in whatever way he saw fit. Kenric wanted to spit at the nobleman’s feet.

“We saw Lady Aelora and Wormtongue making love in the field just now behind Meduseld. We think they saw us and stopped but we aren’t sure.” Kenric stated, embellishing the original story in order to get a rise out of Viseryon. The lord’s face grew red out of embarrassment and anger. “They’re there now?” The silver lord asked. Kenric shrugged.

“I’d assume they’ve made their way indoors by now. Lady Aelora certainly saw us for she gasped quite loudly-” The lord turned on his heel and marched back indoors, already calling for Aelora in his usual shrill, annoying way. Hilda glanced at her friend and bit back the urge to shout at him.

“Well, that took care of that.” Kenric stated nonchalantly as if he didn’t start a nasty rumor about the king’s advisor. It was rooted in truth, that much she knew, but to say they were openly making love…

“He seemed furious.” The maid muttered. She sounded guilty. Kenric shrugged.

“It’s no longer our problem.” The musician sighed as he walked down the stone steps. He looked back at her. “Well? Don’t you have to get changed?”

That had been a day ago, and now Hilda stood before the ornate door to the room Lord Viseryon had been staying in for the last five days. She always thought the intricate carvings on the doors of Meduseld were breathtaking, even if she knew they were reserved for the noble men and women who stayed there. That number had dwindled in recent years to just the immediate family of Théoden king and Wormtongue. The Lord and Lady Draecyr were a welcome addition at first, seemingly livening up the halls with the excitement of new people walking around, but that feeling quickly soured with Lord Viseryon’s behavior.

Her legs and arms were shaking. She was still quite nervous to be face to face with Viseryon after what happened the day before. She wondered if he would still be mad at her, especially after Kenric decided to spin what she had seen into his own lie to make the lord angrier. If Lady Aelora denied Lord Viseryon’s accusation, which she most likely would, would he lash out at her today? Would Hilda be the first maid he’d actually hit?

The halls were eerily quiet that morning. Hilda knew it was still very early but she was used to guards and other remaining members of the king’s court wandering about, preparing for their days. Usually on the fifth day of the week the maid would even see the king’s nephew, Éomer, up bright and early. She had seen absolutely no one on her journey to Lord Viseryon’s quarters aside from Godiva. She could feel something was terribly wrong, and that feeling chilled her to the bone.

Her hand hesitated as she raised it to knock on the door.

She knocked three times and waited.

There was not so much as the rustling of sheets or the familiar whiny groan to tell her there was someone inside. Hilda let out a sigh of relief, hoping this meant Lord Viseryon woke up early that day to harass some other poor soul and she could do her job without worry. Yet, when she opened the door and was met by the darkness of his room, she could see his bed was still made. The curtain was still down over his window, and the door to his bathroom was slightly ajar. Hilda rushed inside and drew the curtain, letting the white light of the outdoors brighten the room enough for her to see. It let in the chill. The plush furs were still on the end of his bed and the jade green blankets were still tucked tightly under the mattress. She placed the new pitcher of water on his nightstand and collected the old one, only to realize it was still heavy with water from the night before.

Hilda placed the new sheets and the old pitcher of water down on the desk in the corner of the room and looked around, still not finding a single thing wrong with the room. The fresh candles that were brought the day before had not been lit and still were in their pristine condition. It was as if Lord Viseryon never stayed there in the first place, as if he never even stepped foot in the room. The only sign of life was a maroon tunic draped over the back of the lounging chair in the corner by his bed.

The maid chewed on her bottom lip anxiously. Was she to change the sheets now, or just leave them for the lord if he felt the need to change them. It was clear he hadn’t touched the bed all night. That unnerved feeling returned and crept up her spine. Without a second thought, she collected the clean bedding and left the room in a hurry, holding the linen close to her chest as she slammed the door.

She rushed down the hall, lost in her thoughts as she silently hoped Lord Viseryon decided to leave with his companion in the middle of the night. Perhaps he felt the need to keep her away from Wormtongue, perhaps he-

Her train of thought was interrupted as she ran into someone and fell to the floor. The bedding fell into her lap and unfolded slightly. Hilda glanced up to see the cold, dark gaze of Godiva as she stood over her with her arms crossed over her chest. She seemed angry.

“What has been taking you so long, Hilda? We have other things to do and you can’t just be wandering about and…” She trailed off at the sight of the white sheets in the younger maid’s lap. “Did you change Lord Viseryon’s sheets?” She asked, her voice growing angrier and more bewildered by the moment. Hilda quickly shook her head.

“His bed was still made when I went into his room, it was like he was never even there! The water was still full, too, I swear it!” The older woman cocked a brow, contemplating the younger maid’s words before offering a hand to help her up. Hilda gathered the unfolded sheets in her arms and took Godiva’s help.

“Perhaps he spent the night elsewhere? Well, what he doesn’t know won’t kill him, we’ll leave the blankets be. For now, use those sheets for Lady Aelora’s bed. She’s on the other side of Meduseld.” Godiva commanded, and Hilda abided.

The walk to Lady Aelora’s room was much less stressful. Along the way she even saw a few people, obviously having just roused from their slumber, getting ready for their days. Guards who stood tightening their armor and ladies of the court yawned as they awaited their handmaidens with hair still down and unbrushed. They all looked just as exhausted as she did that morning, sleep still present in their glassy eyes.

When Hilda arrived at Lady Aelora’s door she was still quite nervous. Kenric said she was a nice woman when he spoke to her alone, but Hilda still feared she would be gutted by the woman. Kenric had spoken to her in an open area where anyone could stumble upon them, and while he was not bothered by the tales told of dragon bloods, Hilda most certainly was. Her shaking hand knocked on the door.

Like before, there was no answer nor was there any stirring. With more people rushing around the hall and beginning their days she assumed Lady Aelora had risen early… or that her earlier theory was correct and Lord Viseryon had forced them to leave. She felt slightly more at ease with the fact that the dragon blood was not in her room and she opened the door confidently.

That confidence left her body in one shrill shriek that tore through the air and alerted everyone around her. Her eyes welled up with hot tears and her head became light. She felt like she couldn’t breathe, her arms felt heavy. She dropped the linen to the ground and dropped to her knees, fighting the urge to throw up at the scent of copper in the cold air.

✵✵✵✵✵

When she was sure Gríma had fallen asleep Aelora slipped out of his arms, an action she was entirely too familiar with. Under the dim light of the nearly dead candles, Aelora collected her discarded clothes, managing to only find her dress in the dark. She slipped her nightgown back over her head before tiptoeing over to the bed.

Her lover, so deep in sleep, looked peaceful. His bare brow that was usually furrowed in thought was relaxed, and the frown lines around his mouth were non-existent. She felt a pang of guilt as she looked upon his sleeping face, knowing she would have to leave. She feared him waking in the night to find his bed empty and most of all she feared him assuming betrayal. With everything she told him she wouldn’t blame him for assuming the worst when she disappeared without a trace in the middle of the night.

Aelora, no matter what happened in the future, would always be grateful for Gríma. Despite his oddities, he managed to show her that her life didn’t have to be lonely. Not everyone would look at her with suspicion and fear. She was not a monster…

But she is a dragon. And a dragon is not a slave.

Her knife gleamed in the flickering soft light of the candle, almost winking at her, egging her on. Even it seemed to know what she had to do, and it thirsted for blood. Viseryon’s blood. The blood of the last true Draecyr.

Looking around the room she searched for something that could aid her in getting away with her crime. His room was quite dark, leaving her to feel around for any item that might hold magical properties. She tried to mind the clothes left on the floor and the various furniture that might block her path, trying her hardest to stay quiet so as not to wake Gríma.

She stumbled her way through a door in the farthest corner of the room, and within this new area there was a window. Cool, blue light from the large moon filtered in and cast long shadows over the walls and floor. The floor was stone and cold and had a small step down from where the wood of the main room stopped. The room was mostly empty aside from a large tub toward the back and a wooden stand that stood before her against the wall. Atop the wooden stand was a single ivory comb that seemed to be made from the bone of some sort of animal, and beside it was a handheld mirror with a silver-colored metal handle and backing. Just above the stand was a couple of shelves with various bottles of liquid lining their surfaces. She could see different flowers stuffed into the bottles, and immediately she recognized them as perfumes.

She collected the mirror and perused the selection of perfumes Gríma collected, carefully searching for a particular flower and hoping he had it lying around. Even in the moonlight, the tall stalk of the violet flower stood out to her, practically calling out to her. She took the glass bottle with the Lavender stuffed inside and pulled the cork out from the narrow opening. She waltzed to the tub and sat on its rim, placing the mirror in her lap, and she poured the liquid out into the chilly water that sat inside its basin. It was clear Gríma had been planning on bathing before their escapade.

She had no way of knowing how long the plant had been soaking in the water other than the way the sweet aroma filled the air so suddenly, and immediately she made a mental note to buy Gríma a replacement for the fragrance.

Carefully, she pinched at the narrow stem of the plant with her nails and pulled it from the bottle, eyeing its drowned form with scrutiny. No, that wouldn’t do.

She held the flower away from her face at arms length and took a deep breath. She felt the burning sensation rise in her chest and throat as she blew gently. A warm amber and copper glow rose beneath her skin, trailing up the length of her chest and neck before brilliant flames erupted from behind her lips. The heat from her fire rid the flower of any excess wetness and dried it to the bone. The formerly violet petals turned an ashen purple and curled upwards unto themselves. They became brittle and nearly baked.

With the flower now dry, Aelora stood and brought it to the window. She placed the mirror face down on the windowsill and crumbled the lavender in her hand. She spoke firmly in a hushed tone: “I invoke the power to plunge the kingdom of Edoras into a deep slumber. Let them not wake til the first light reaches above the snowy peak of Starkhorn. Let my creator be exempt, and let my Gríma be easily awoken at the sound of me calling his name when the time comes.”

And with that, she blew the broken, dry petals out of the window and into the wind. As the breeze carried the lavender out into the village, Aelora held the mirror up to the moon, and in an instant the sky became a bright turquoise color as the moon glowed violet. She watched as the aqua color melted into a mist that cascaded down onto the sleeping kingdom, and it remained heavy upon the buildings like a fog upon the water. It glided into the window and filled both the room she was standing in and the room where Gríma slept soundly. He would remain that way for a while.

The candle’s flame was finally extinguished, smothered by the fog.

There was not a sound in the world that could wake the sleeping kingdom of Edoras without Aelora’s say so, and that was exactly how she wanted it. With everyone now under her spell, she grabbed the curved hilt of her knife from the desk and exited Gríma’s room.

Her door was a mere few feet away, yet it felt like a lifetime getting to it. Each footstep felt heavy and prolonged, like she had never walked before in her life. The closer she got to the oak door the less she felt like herself. Her body felt numb and she found it hard to think about anything at all - her mind was blank. Her hand came to rest against the wooden door as she stood still for a moment, taking deep breaths as she fought off tears. She had made it.

She hated Viseryon with every fiber of her being, yet part of her still loved him like a daughter would a father. He was spoiled, and vain, and his feelings for her grew inappropriate over time, but that did not change the fact that he was all she had her entire life.

He raised her. He taught her how to speak and how to read and write. He fed her and bought her the nicest of clothes, even when they were banished to the outskirts of Erech. She admired him at one point in her life, like all dragon bloods did their creators, and she couldn’t help but mourn the bond they used to have, even if he only created her to entrap Aemma.

She was afraid more than anything. She hoped that having Gríma suggest she murder Viseryon was enough for her to get away with it. In the history of Arda, there has never been a dragon blood who killed their creator, it was thought to be inherently against their nature. She could imagine the uproar now, the frightful looks, the suspicion, the accusations. If she could kill her creator, what's stopping her from killing anyone else? What’s stopping her from killing the king?

It mattered not what her creator might have been doing to her, or what he was planning. She hoped the bruises on her neck that took the shape of his hands were enough for them to understand, even though she knew deep down they would never understand. Anger began to chip away at the sadness, slowly bubbling beneath her skin and burning in her gut. She would make them understand.

With one last shaky breath, she opened the door to her room.

It was dark inside, but after a moment she was able to see the silhouette of her sleeping creator. She quietly slipped through the door, closing it as gently as she could, before making her way to the covered window on the wall farthest from the door. She’d kept the window covered all night, unable to look out at Edoras without thinking of what happened earlier in the day and how she may never see its green beauty again. It saddened her, but she needed the light now.

She wanted to see the fear in Viseryon’s eyes, the very fear she had every night when he was around. The very fear she experienced when he wrapped his rancid hands around her throat that afternoon.

She drew up the curtain, the violet light from the moon rushed in almost instantly, despite it residing on the opposite side of the sky from where her room was. The spell made it bright.

She watched her creator silently, observing the steady rise and fall of his chest with every breath he took. Rising and falling that would cease soon enough.

Up and down.

Viseryon’s face scrunched at the new presence of light, and he stirred restlessly before silently waking, blinking the sleep from his eyes as a look of confusion came over his fair features. Aelora stood over him, a blank look in her eye and her hands behind her back. He stretched his arms out, reaching toward her side of the bed when he suddenly realized that her side of the bed was cold. She had been gone for a while. “Aelora? Where did you run off to?” Was all he could choke out. Sleep was still heavy in his voice. The question was not accusatory, or at least, not yet. There was a genuine curiosity in his tone, like how one would speak to a pet after they had been missing all day. Her stomach turned uneasily.

Aelora walked to her side of the bed and knelt on the mattress, allowing her to still tower over her creator. It was almost a display of dominance. She hoped he wouldn’t recognize the violet moon and realize that they were the only ones awake in the kingdom - she hoped he was too tired to put the pieces together. She smiled bitterly at him as she thought of answers to his question.

His silver eyes shone brightly in the moonlight, as if the supernatural occurrence served to emphasize the otherworldly nature of their people. She tucked her knife further into her sleeve and brought her other hand to his cheek. Gently, she caressed his face, brushing a strand of hair from his eyes, yet the look on her face was that of a predator. She wondered if he knew how it felt now, to be leered at by something so dangerous.

“Where was I?” She repeated the question, and her creator nodded. She let out an airy laugh. Her heartbeat sped up, for she knew if she spoke she would have to kill him quicker. She licked her lips to combat the dryness that overcame them. Her hand tightened around the knife. “I was in councilman Gríma’s bed. I let him fuck me.” She repeated the very words Viseryon used against her before, though this time there was truth in them. She let the advisor fuck her and she enjoyed it.

There was sadism in the dragon blood’s smile as she watched recognition flash over Viseryon’s face, then anger, and then sadness. She wasn’t expecting sadness. He choked back a sob, which only served to confuse Aelora further.

“Oh, Aelora.” He cried. She was not moved, in fact, she was repulsed by his pathetic whining. For someone she thought so highly of as a child, she saw now that he was nothing but a pitiful worm. Instead, she readied her knife, holding it over her head as she watched the fear overcome his sorrow. She was not his, she would never be his. Aelora belonged to herself and no one else. Not Viseryon, not Gríma… her. She would make it known to Viseryon that he did not own her, and in that moment, he certainly understood her message.

His eyes were glued to the knife which shimmered a faint violet in the moonlight. He wondered if it was enchanted, he wondered what she would do to him. He looked back at her and could not recognize the beast in front of him, even if it was a beast he created. His dry, cracked lips opened and a gasp left them.

“Aelora, please.” He begged quietly, and she smiled. That was why she wanted him to be awake, she wanted to hear his pitiful cries and pleas. Her eyes were still focused on him, though it felt as if they were looking through him. He attempted to sit up but she grabbed him by his tunic, the same, dirtied white tunic he’d worn to bed for years. She pushed him back into the mattress and took the opportunity to straddle his hips, making sure he would go nowhere.

“I have asked and begged, just as you are now, for years and my pleas have fallen upon your deaf ears, Viseryon.” Aelora seethed. Her grip tightened around the knife’s handle to hide the way her hand shook.

Somehow, somewhere deep within the sneering woman he saw before him, he still managed to see the little girl he raised.

Aelora plunged the knife into his throat.

✵✵✵✵✵

A crowd gathered around Hilda, murmuring amongst themselves as they attempted to get a look into the room. The poor maid was lying on the floor unconscious, an arm over her forehead and the linen laid across her body. Most paid her no mind, finding the spectacle of the bloody body within Aelora’s room more interesting than the maid who discovered it. A guard pushed passed followed by two more, all who looked as if they had just been awoken by the commotion. They each let out a gasp and covered their mouth and nose at the scene before them.

Blood painted the wall just behind the bed near the headboard and stained the white sheets and pillows. Lord Viseryon’s cold, pale hand hung off of the side of the bed, where crimson dripped down the length of his fingers onto the cold, stone floor. His white tunic was darkened and made damp by his blood. His head laid beside his body, pointed up at the ceiling with its mouth slightly agape. His hair was tangled and frizzy, making it hard to see the way his haunting silver eyes were still wide with fear, gazing out into the unknown. The flesh of his neck was jagged and a deep red at the ends, with untrained cuts that made it clear the person who did this beheaded him with a knife instead of something like a sword or ax, meaning this was not the work of a true executioner or a careful assassin. This had gone unplanned.

“Someone get Lord Éomer!” The first guard shouted, feeling his stomach turn uneasily at the sight of the brutalized lord. He feared he would vomit.

The guard to his left took off down the hall to look for the king’s nephew, while the other shifted uneasily. They knew this would be a matter for the king after they found the culprit. Of course, they all knew he would not make a decision without Wormtongue’s say, and they all would wonder if he was the one behind this.

Kenric saw the crowd gathered at Lady Aelora’s door and quickly picked up his pace to join them. They all seemed rather upset, with some letting out quiet sobs and others whispering to the people around them. He immediately felt uneasy as he pushed through, and as he saw the traumatizing body of Viseryon he forced himself to look away, feeling his heart jump at the sight. He had never seen so much blood in his life. He was not one for violence.

Upon turning around, he kept his eyes to the ground and saw Hilda still lying there and his heart sank. Panic flooded the musician’s mind as he dropped to his knees. In a frenzy, he felt her forehead and listened carefully to make sure his friend was still breathing.

Without a second thought, Kenric scooped Hilda up into his arms and demanded everyone get out of his way. He would take her someplace to safely rest and find a healer. He hoped whoever killed Viseryon didn’t harm Hilda. He saw no blood or wounds upon her, which only slightly set his mind at ease. No one seemed to trample her, most likely too frightened to go near the horrifying scene within the room.

In his hurry, he failed to see the king’s advisor peeking from behind his own door at the commotion in the hall.

✵✵✵✵✵

When the deed was done Aelora sat numbly upon her bed. Red stained her hands and face, and it soaked her dark nightgown. The smell of blood was overwhelming, it filled the air and made her head spin. The sight of Viseryon’s metallic eyes staring blankly at her was haunting, and it did nothing but add to the surreal feeling she found herself experiencing. Her intention was not to behead him, yet the way she continued to stab his neck made that decision for her. She felt as if she couldn’t form a coherent thought. The way he choked on his own blood was burned into her mind. The gurgling sound he made as he tried to scream and breath and cry played on a loop in her head. She feared she would never be able to forget that sound.

What would happen when they found him? She slid off of the bed and felt the blood that drenched her dress drip down her legs. Her gown stuck to her skin uncomfortably and the way her thighs seamlessly glided against each other made her want to scream. She glanced back at the carnage she created, and part of her mind wandered. Her knife was still embedded in the jagged stump of his neck, surrounded by still oozing blood. She wondered how much pain he was in when he died. Her eye trailed to the red that stained the tangle of his silver hair - no part of him went unsoiled, clearly. The scene was sickening. Surely they would kill her for this. She knew she couldn’t stay there.

Aelora stumbled her way out the door, feeling her once dry mouth fill with saliva as she fought the uneasy turning of her stomach. She leaned against the wall, breathing heavily and feeling the cool air fill her lungs. Her stained hands spread against the wall, and she knew there would be blood left in their wake. Her tear filled eyes met Gríma’s door. The air was sobering.

She pushed herself off the wall and tumbled to the door across from her. Her hand ghosted across the wooden surface before she gently rapped on it. “Gríma…” She whispered. It was time. There was a shift in the air as the aqua haze before her faded ever so slightly, and the spell she cast on the kingdom was lifted only for her lover.

Gríma awoke with a startled gasp, looking out into the darkness of his room while he slowly remembered where he was. The violet glow poured in through the bathroom door which had been left open by just a crack, and in the low light he realized he was alone. He heard the gentle tapping at his door. He paused for a moment, trying his best to compose himself and think through his sleep-addled mind.

He slid out of bed and felt around for something to cover himself. His clothes were strewn about the room and there were far too many layers to struggle to put on, so he made his way to his desk where a long, dark tunic was draped on the back of his chair. He slipped it over his narrow shoulders and made his way to the door. He opened it slowly.

The sight before him was frightful. Aelora stood in his doorway with a blank look in her eye. Blood painted her hands and face, and it drenched her long, silver hair. He couldn’t help but take a step back out of fear. He never expected her to kill Viseryon that night, he figured she would have waited. Despite his fear, he reached out for her and caught her collapsing form in his arms.

“Aelora?” She looked up at him through half lidded eyes. “Come inside, my love. I’ll run a bath for you.” He chose not to bring up what she had done. He took one last look down the hall to make sure no one could see her, and he made sure her door was shut, before leading her inside. She seemed to be in a daze. He guided her to the bathroom and rushed around to light the coals beneath the tub, grateful that the water was still there. He couldn’t summon someone to fetch water at that time of night, especially not with Lady Aelora in his room at all, let alone covered in blood.

“It’s done.” She muttered. He glanced back at her from over his shoulder and nodded curtly. “I know, my love.” He kept calling her that, it came so naturally to him, falling from his lips with no resistance. The coals glowed a deep orange and a fire grew beneath the tub, and the smell of smoke filled the air and competed with the overbearing smell of metal that came from Aelora. He turned to face her finally, still kneeling on the ground while she watched the water silently.

“The people of Rohan will be grateful for what you’ve done… eventually.” He tried to find a silver lining in all of this, a way to make her feel better. He tried doing what he did best, and that was kissing up to people. He didn’t mind doing so to Aelora. Her red gaze flickered to him, and behind her eyes there was suspicion. “Will they?” She spoke in a harsh whisper.

“Of course they will. If you were telling the truth then Viseryon would be a traitor and a potential usurper. I think we both know he would have been unfit to wear the crown.” He rose to his feet and rubbed soothingly along her shoulders. “You made the right choice. And they may fear you now but in time they will see the way your actions served the realm.” Blood stuck to his palms.

“They’ll want me dead. They’ll have me killed.” She stated. Gríma shook his head.

“I won’t let them.” He said firmly. He would never admit it to her, but he needed her to kill Viseryon - the lord jeopardized everything he had worked to achieve. Of course, the plan had been slightly derailed with Aelora around, and as of now he was content with remaining the king’s advisor. Her crimson eyes met his and she gave him a small smile, though there was still a sadness to her.

The water in the tub began to bubble slightly and warm steam began to rise off of its surface. Gríma quickly turned around and put the flames out, but when he turned back to Aelora she was already stripping. She dropped her blood soaked gown to the ground and he could see the way the red clung to the pale skin of her thighs and stomach. Her long hair came to rest over her breasts, the length of silver stopping just below her navel. There was blood clumping parts of her hair together toward the ends.

She walked toward the tub, much to Gríma’s alarm. He reached out for her, grabbing ahold of her wrist and stopping her just before she was able to climb into the boiling water. “Aelora, wait. You’ll burn yourself.” She looked back at him with her same tired eyes. She shook her head. “Don’t worry about me.”

Gently, she pulled her hand away and turned back to the tub. She took a deep breath, as if preparing herself for what may happen. He watched her closely with wide, wild eyes, unsure of what she was thinking. He desperately didn’t want her to hurt herself, but he wondered if the boiling water would snap her out of whatever trance she was under. Would the water even hurt her?

“I’ll be fine.” She sank into the water, submerging herself from head to toe. Gríma froze. There was no thrashing, she didn’t rise from the water with a scream, there were no signs to indicate she was in pain. She simply sat still. He waited quietly, holding his breath for as long as she remained underwater. The steam from the bath filled the room and chased the cold back out the window, which had remained open since Aelora cast her spell. Sweat beaded at the back of his neck and beneath his tunic. He could barely hide how afraid he was for her.

It was odd. He had known Aelora for only four days now, yet he couldn’t deny he cared for her. He wondered if it was due to her being so unafraid to be near him, or if it was the way she held his gaze and touched him. In all of his life he’d only wanted one woman, the Lady Éowyn, and much like everyone else around him she would never let him near her. For years he had watched the king’s niece from afar, only dreaming of having her affection. He thought there was no one fairer than she in all of Middle Earth, and then Aelora came along. He certainly saw the parallels when he first started following Aelora around, convincing himself that he was following her out of his duty to the throne as opposed to the fact he found her attractive.

He moved slowly toward the tub, realizing she had been underwater for far too long. As he stared into the water at her white locks floating around her, he thought of how she proved the impossible was possible. Someone could love him, even if so far it seemed she was only interested in the physical. He hoped with Viseryon out of the way their affair could blossom into something more. Ah yes, the other reason he wanted the Sohnyar lord out of the way. He would never admit it aloud, and he hardly liked thinking about it, but he desperately wanted Aelora to stay. With all of Viseryon’s scheming and the way Aelora was essentially his property, he knew he could never have her with him around.

Gríma was and always would be a selfish man.

Aelora arose from the water with a gasp, pushing her hair from her face as the red tinted liquid dripped from her arms. She seemed more awake now, and she looked at Gríma with aware eyes. He dropped to his knees once more, resting his hands on the rim of the tub as he looked at her with awe. She let out an airy laugh that gradually grew into a more manic, uncontrolled laugh. Tears brimmed in her eyes and he could tell something was terribly wrong. She quieted down after a moment, sniffling and wiping her tears away.

“I’m sorry, I just… I can’t believe I did that.” She admitted, hiding her face in her hands. “I can’t believe I’m finally free.” He did wonder what hell Aelora had been living in for most of her life.

“Are you alright?” She looked at him again before looking over herself, and she let out another small chuckle.

“Oh, right. The water.” She stopped and smiled sweetly. She seemed much more lucid now. “The heat doesn’t hurt me, fire won’t hurt me either. Fire does not burn those born of dragons.” She explained simply. Her pale flesh turned a rosy pink in the water, and he couldn’t help but mentally cringe at the sight. She said she wasn’t hurting though, and he supposed that was all that mattered. He inched nearer.

“If I may,” he began, awkwardly clearing his throat as he struggled to word his question, “what exactly did you do to him?” Aelora froze. With how much blood covered her he was sure it was gruesome. She clearly had a lot of vitriol reserved for her creator. She let out a sigh.

“I’d rather not say.” She whispered. He understood.

“Then I’ll ask another question. Why tonight?” Gríma had several questions he needed answered, but of course that one was the most important. When he suggested Aelora kill Viseryon he didn’t expect her to act on it immediately. He hoped Aelora would wait and consult him, perhaps go about things in a more subtle way. He would have given her the poisons to do it without a second thought. The way she did it, and the suddenness of her actions, made it incredibly hard to spin a tale absolving her of the blame. She shifted in the tub, coming closer to the rim and her lover. The violet moonlight shone down on her and made her hair look like pure white. Then, as he looked a bit closer, he saw it.

Around her neck were large, blossoming bruises in the shape of Viseryon’s fingers. They seemed much more vibrant in the unnatural lighting, but that didn’t change the way Gríma’s breath hitched. He knew she mentioned that her creator had tried to kill her before they drifted to sleep, but she never mentioned how. He couldn’t believe it, and he wondered how he missed such a thing earlier in the night. His face was so close to it, his lips brushed over it, and yet he never noticed. He took her hand in his and her flesh nearly burned his.

“I told you he tried to kill me.” She began. The raven haired man nodded. “I said he couldn’t find out about us or he would kill me. Going back to him like that…”

“I’ll find a way to help you.” Gríma promised, bringing her steaming knuckles to his lips. She blushed at the action and smiled. He loved seeing her smile, especially knowing what he knows now.

The steam continued to rise from the tub and he wanted nothing more for the water to cool enough for him to slip in beside her. He reached for the stand against the wall and pulled an old rag from the drawer. It was a pale blue color and looked as if it was falling apart. It looked like it would be scratchy against her skin. He dipped it in the water, ignoring how hot it still was, and brought the cloth to Aelora’s cheek where he gently wiped away the blood that remained after her soak. The blood that still stuck to her skin was flaky and broke away easily with each pass of the cloth.

Aelora closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. “You will tell them what you told me.” Gríma stated firmly. She glanced at him, hardly able to hide the uncertainty and apprehension in her eyes. “Lay low tomorrow. Leave the king and his decision to me.” She nodded. He handed her the cloth so she could finish up wiping away the evidence of her crime. She took it gingerly and began scrubbing her arms and hands.

Gríma turned and gazed at the violet moon, filled with uncertainty. He let his mind wander as he wondered why the sky looked the way it did. He looked back at Aelora, almost afraid to ask about the moon. He thought about the way he woke up so suddenly when Aelora was at his door, and the way the kingdom seemed so quiet, even for the middle of the night. The moon had not budged since he fell asleep.

“I shall fetch a bucket to clear the water before the maids find it.” He told her, rising to his feet. She let out a sigh, sinking back into the water up to her shoulders while her hands gripped the edge of the tub.

“Yes, it would be best to dump the water before everyone wakes.” She remarked calmly. “At least you won’t have to worry about sneaking around.” Gríma frowned.

“What do you mean by that?” He asked. She smirked.

“The spell invoking a violet moon puts people in a deep sleep. Nothing will wake them until the caster says so, or unless they set specific requirements that need to be met. I can assure you we’re fine for the time being.” Aelora explained as she closed her eyes. The way she constantly seemed to switch between alarmed and confidently calm was confusing, to say the least. He should have known she would have taken the precautions to make sure no one would interrupt her.

“Was I-”

“You were. I made sure you would wake when I called your name.” That explained why he woke so suddenly.

When she was done bathing they both worked to drain the tub, dumping the red tinted water out the window by the bucket full. It seeped into the ground slowly, pooling on the grassy surface and splashing mud on the wooden wall. By the morning it would be gone.

Gríma dressed Aelora in a spare tunic he had, and together they went to bed. She curled up in his arms as she did hours before, and for a moment it was as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all.

✵✵✵✵✵

Éomer stared down at Viseryon’s remains, masking his horror.

They had set up a pyre to display the carnage for the king to see, and for anyone who might have wanted to pay their respects. His head had not been reattached, but it was aligned with his neck and a single red ribbon had been draped across the split. The Sohnyar lord’s eyes had been closed, and his hands were neatly folded across his chest. They had someone dress him in the clothes he arrived in: a black overcoat embroidered with diamond patterns and a maroon tunic with black pants, and a bronze pin adorned with a snake-like dragon encircling the world was placed over his left breast. On his left forefinger was a similar bronze ring adorned with a red gem in the center of the dragon’s eye. His long hair had been carefully braided into a single braid that was laid under his body.

He looked like a proper Sohnyar for the first and last time. The last of the Draecyr line, laid to rest in a land foreign to him by his own creation. He might have been unbearable in life but Éomer couldn’t help but feel bad for the nearly forgotten family. Their last son…

It reminded him of the recent loss that plagued his uncle.

Of course, Viseryon’s situation was different. His parents had died by the time the lord turned thirteen, the year the Sohnyar boys were to cut their hair signifying that they were men. The length of Viseryon’s hair showed he kept with tradition and refused to cut it again. He seemed much more at peace now, dressed up by those who tended to the dead, than he did that morning. The image of his detached head and bloodied body would stick in Éomer’s mind for a long time, and he feared seeing it appear in his nightmares.

It would not be the last of the horrific things the young heir would witness.

Théoden king sat upon his throne, wheezing with each labored breath and staring down at the scene before him from behind white bushy brows. Beside him sat Gríma, perched in his seat in his usual gargoyle-like way, who uncharacteristically had not said a word the entire time. He hardly moved to whisper in the king’s ear. His dark aura was a plague upon Éomer’s uncle, who was already a distressed and troubled man. Ever since the death of Théodred, Théoden king’s health began to decline. The already aging man seemed to give in to the effects of time almost rapidly, and he slowly became unable to think for himself. He trusted Gríma before all of this, and he continued to trust the man now, much to the dismay of his nephew. Éomer blamed the advisor for his uncle’s failing health.

In the corner of the room stood his sister, Éowyn, who watched the room wearily. She was dressed in a deep emerald green that juxtaposed her brother’s maroon armor. The velvet dress was embroidered with golden thread. She looked similar to her brother, with golden hair and fair skin. They both had the same round face and sullen eyes. He was taller than her by a few inches, with dark facial hair and an all around rougher exterior.

She stayed close to the shadows, shrinking away in the corner of the room in hopes of staying out of Wormtongue's sight. It didn’t work as she’d hoped, for his eye found her the moment she walked into the room. She came to the great hall to see just what everyone was whispering about, much to her brother’s dismay, and was slightly relieved to see that the body had been mostly restored and made presentable.

The last person in the room was Kenric, who silently sat to the side, opposite of Lady Éowyn, where he tuned his instrument. He rushed back to Meduseld after leaving Hilda with a healer near her home. He was assured she would be alright. He watched out of curiosity, waiting to see what would happen and find out who killed Viseryon.

The front doors to the hall had been left open just enough for people to file through if they pleased, and the bright light of the sun shone through the crack. Its white light fell upon Viseryon’s body and Éomer like a spotlight, and it stretched their shadows across the floor before the king and his advisor. Despite the light, the room was somber and cold. It showed just how empty the hall was, and the contrast made the shadows appear much darker than they were.

“I’ve yet to receive word on the dragon blood’s whereabouts. We found a knife that we suspect belongs to her in his neck this morning.” Éomer’s strong voice echoed through the hall. He reached into the satchel he wore on his hip and produced Aelora’s curved blade, and Gríma felt his body tense.

Aelora was still in his chambers, most likely sleeping soundly in his bed. They discussed the plan one more time before going to sleep, and he decided then to do most of the heavy lifting. He would attempt to convince everyone she was innocent and kidnapped, and if that didn’t work then she would tell the truth of why Viseryon was there in the first place. After agreeing to this, she requested he bring some of her own clothes when it was safe to do so, and when he returned later that day with a few of her dresses she was asleep again, holding the pillow he’d laid on the night before tightly. The dire situation didn’t change the fact that the image before him was one he’d imagined a million times before - though it was always with a different woman than her.

The dark haired man was surprised the guards hadn’t ransacked his room yet, given how much he was sure Éomer suspected he was behind the killing.

Gríma turned to the king and for the first time that day he whispered, “And he suspects the dragon blood of such a crime? They’re renowned for their loyalty to their creators. I have my doubts about this accusation, my king.” Théoden’s tired eyes met Gríma’s, and he thought about the words being fed to him. It was true, dragon bloods were supposed to be loyal to a fault. The day the Draecyrs arrived in Edoras, his niece had reminded him of the tale of Naessa, the dragon blood created by usurper Queen Caecelia of the Six - also a Draecyr, who was executed for carrying out what her creator wanted - which was to kill the then king of Rohan, Alrid, who had been crowned before the first line was established with Eorl. Caecelia plunged the realm into a brief chaos before Eorl slayed Naessa and executed the Sohnyar woman. Ever since then, there had been very few Sohnyar welcome back into Rohan, especially Draecyrs.

From what his fragile mind could remember, Naessa was a pitiful creature. Aelora hardly seemed comparable to her, though.

“Dragon bloods… are… loyal.” Théoden’s voice wavered as he huffed each word out. Gríma nodded.

“Excellent observation, my liege.” He turned his attention to the king’s nephew. “What makes you think she was able to go against her own nature?”

The younger man’s expression darkened with anger. He had to tread carefully and not jump to accuse anyone just yet, given he heard the rumors about the advisor and Aelora. He knew Gríma was lying, as he usually did, but his lies couldn’t completely cover up the evidence. That was Aelora’s knife, it was a particular blade found only amongst the Sohnyar, there was no denying it.

“This is her knife, Gríma. I know it.” He stated firmly, holding the knife by its handle and the tip of its blade. The advisor narrowed his pale eyes at this and frowned.

“How are you so sure?” He asked, leaning forward ever so slightly. If he could continue to sew the seeds of doubt into the young lord then he could easily absolve Aelora of any guilt. “For all we know that was Lord Draecyr’s blade, after all, I don’t see her name branded on it. It’s simply a Sohnian blade, it easily could have been taken from Viseryon earlier in the day and used in the murder later.”

“Do you consider me a fool, Gríma?” Éomer boomed. The lord was quickly losing his patience. The pale man shifted in his seat uncomfortably, practically shrinking back into his over cloak, looking like a pile of cloth seated beside the king.

“Of course not, my lord.”

“Then do not force me to call your character into question in front of my uncle.” That had to be a threat. Gríma brought a hand up to his chest where he nervously played with the bronze chain that hung beneath his cloak.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.” He seethed. The blond glared at him.

“I will not sit to the side and watch as another situation like Naessa evolves before my eyes. I will not lose my uncle.” It took everything in his power to not call Gríma out. He chose the safer route. The treacherous man before him opened his mouth to speak - to spew more lies to protect the woman he’d come to love.

Did he truly love her? Surely it was too early to decide.

“All I suggest is that we mustn’t jump to conclusions. The king is right, a dragon blood would be incapable of such violence against their creator.”

“He was found in her room.” The blond man countered in a harsh voice. Gríma was hardly affected by the outburst.

“This is true, yet we haven’t been able to find her. Who’s to say the killer didn’t kill her too. Perhaps they kidnapped her, not that they would get very far with her in that case. I’d imagine it’s very hard to capture an angry and defensive dragon blood.” Gríma suggested, to which the throne’s heir scoffed. He turned his dark gaze to his uncle, who seemed to listen less and less to his council in favor of Gríma’s as of late. He hoped, for his own sake, that Théoden would listen to him.

“Uncle, please.” He began, his face softening. “I believe she’s dangerous. We don’t know where she is and I fear for your safety.” He was never in danger, Gríma thought exhaustedly.

“We have no reason to believe she would want to kill you, my liege. Your nephew is simply playing up his usual hysterics to convince everyone his own prejudices are rational. Lady Aelora has been a rather polite guest, and I followed her around myself to be sure she and her creator weren’t planning to usurp you. She is not a threat.” Gríma whispered to the king. Théoden sat blankly, taking in the information all at once and struggling to process it. He had hardly been around Éomer as of late and could not confirm whether his nephew did have something against Lady Aelora. He supposed if Gríma had been following her around he would have witnessed this behavior. He trusted the man beside him.

“Have I ever lied to you, my king?” Gríma continued, “I have every reason to believe Aelora was not behind this, and in the unlikely case that she was, there must be a reason behind it. I don’t think a girl of her stature could even behead Viseryon in the way it was done. Look, his hair is uncut. Do you really think Lady Aelora, a woman raised so entrenched in Sohnian culture as herself, would really kill Viseryon without cutting his hair? It signifies defeat in their culture, she had every reason to do so, and yet it remains untouched. Don’t believe Éomer’s fear mongering.”

Théoden supposed they should look for her first and then go from there. He wholeheartedly believed the girl was in trouble, like Gríma suggested, and if they could find her they could get the answers they so desperately sought.

“We… must find her.” Théoden began, his voice less weak than before. “We must… ask her who… did this.”

Then, a large shadow rose over the hill, stretching along the stone floor of Meduseld and casting Éomer, Gríma, and Théoden in darkness. Between the doors now stood Aelora, dressed head to toe in a bright scarlet. Her silver locks were braided back into a single braid that cascaded down her back like the sterling waters of a waterfall. Around her neck was a large, ornate golden choker that took the shape of a dragon. The creature coiled around the length of her neck, hiding most of her skin beneath its golden scales. And on her fingers were two golden rings that connected to a bracelet on her wrist by a golden chain. She waltzed into the great hall, catching the eye of everyone inside and everyone who waited outside.

Aelora usually dressed in black. Every time Éomer saw her she wore a dark dress with red rarely showing on the garment. It was more common to see her draped in gold jewelry than to see the red underneath the sleeves of her dresses. To see her now, when she should be mourning, dressed in such a bright shade of red, was alarming. She had no shame.

Gríma couldn’t believe what he was seeing either. He was the one to bring her clothes when they woke up in the morning, after the crowd had dispersed and the guards moved Viseryon’s body from her room. He brought her three dresses like she’d asked for: two black ones and a red one. He never expected her to choose the red one. He felt his silver tongue turn to lead in his mouth.

The dragon blooded woman stopped before Viseryon’s body, staring down at him silently while everyone watched her. Éomer grit his teeth and pushed toward her, yet she did not flinch. Her hands laid on the pyre gently.

“Lady Aelora,” Éomer began, “where have you been?”

She glanced up at him. He saw nothing but calmness in her eyes. Not sadness, not anger, there was no malice, only calm. Her gaze traveled past him and to the king’s advisor. It was a subtle look, but it was all Éomer needed to confirm his suspicions. The rumors were true, and Gríma had Viseryon killed for his own selfish reasons.

“I was resting.” She answered honestly, looking back down at Viseryon.

“And where were you las-”

“I killed him.” Aelora admitted, though that much should have been obvious. Gríma’s eyes grew wide as he watched everything he worked hard to convince Éomer of burned before him. If he had a little more time he would have been able to subdue the lord. He watched everyone wearily, at a loss for words for the time being.

“So you admit it?” Éomer breathed. Aelora stood up straight and looked the lord in his dark eyes. The look set the hairs on the back of his neck on end, though he would not show it. He was a seasoned warrior and he knew that there was never a proper time to show fear. “You killed your own creator in cold blood.”

“Not everything is as it seems, Lord Éomer.” The dragon blood spoke. Her hands came up to her neck as she undid the golden clasp at the back of her choker. The dragon split and she lowered the necklace to reveal the bright purple and blue bruises that adorned her neck. She dropped the heavy necklace on the ground.

“Viseryon was a dangerous man. He was sent here to kill you, Théoden king, and dragged me along with him. I was to do the killing. He never said what would have happened to me, and I came to love this place. He made me destroy our carriage in order to stay longer, so out of fear of what he would do to me I snuck off in the middle of the night to burn it. He told me the plan, that we would kill the king by the seventh day and he would be rewarded with the throne. I thought about it, and I knew this kingdom would be doomed if he wore the crown. Then I realized I would be the one to take the fall for his actions. If I killed the king I would be blamed and executed. I refused to kill for him.” She stopped and fought back tears. “I refused to kill for him and he tried to strangle me. He said he would kill me for not obeying him… it was him or me, and I refuse to betray the crown.” She cried.

Éomer froze as his heart dropped. He had a sneaking suspicion that was what the Draecyrs were doing in Rohan, much like everyone else. The only person who seemed to think it was a good idea was Gríma himself and from the sounds of it, he didn’t entirely trust them either. Aelora brushed past the pyre and to the steps leading to the throne. Éomer was quick to jump in front of her, fearing for a moment she would attempt to assassinate the king.

“The things he tried to do to me…” Aelora trailed off, finding the new revelation of why Viseryon acted the way he did around her was too much to bear at the moment. She took a deep breath. “He treated me like property. He isolated me from anyone and everyone. When I had begun to make friends here in Rohan he accused me of terrible things and insisted on sleeping with me in my bed for the rest of our stay, as if I was the one who couldn’t be trusted. I did everything he asked me to. He was all I had, my safety, my world… until he wasn’t. The moment he wrapped his hands around my throat was the moment I realized I had to get away.” She explained. She dropped to her knees, her skirt collapsing around her legs like the flaming feathers of a phoenix.

“I beg for your forgiveness. I know what I have done is a horrible crime, but I ask you, am I not a person like you? Do I get no say in what happens to me just because I am the creation of another? Am I not allowed to fight to live, just as you would?” She couldn’t see the way Lady Éowyn’s demeanor changed. She was almost sympathetic to Aelora. Almost.

Gríma, on the other hand, was rather impressed with her display. She was telling the truth, technically. Though she left out the crucial detail of why Viseryon tried to kill her, twisting it in her own way to garner sympathy. One look at Théoden and he knew the old king was falling for her act. Hell, the way she cried about Viseryon’s controlling nature pulled at his own heartstrings, though he knew it would. It happened before.

“You can’t argue self defense with this. The man was beheaded.” Éomer argued, much to Aelora and Gríma’s dismay. The pale man quickly got to work to counter this point with the king.

“She must have been gravely upset, after all, the man did try to kill her. We don’t know if he tried again in her chambers, and in my opinion he must have, wouldn’t you agree?” The king nodded.

“And how do we know those bruises are from Viseryon? The kingdom whispers of how you lay with snakes.” Or perhaps worms would be the more accurate word, Éomer thought as he watched Aelora’s face drop. She looked betrayed, but not angry. The way she was able to camouflage her emotions was impressive. Gríma nervously pressed his thin lips into a thinner line.

“Who I’ve shared my bed with previously has no bearing on the matter, but if it concerns you so I will have you know I am still a virgin, my lord.” She lied to his face with no malice or annoyance in her voice at the accusation. “And I know the people who vie for my affection wouldn’t harm me in the way Viseryon had.” She stood up straight and made her way back to the pyre where she grabbed one of Viseryon’s cold, rigid hands.

“Here, I’ll prove to you it was him.” She bent down slightly and pulled his hand to her neck, readjusting his fingers to fit the pattern left behind from the day before. They fit perfectly, each one sliding onto its designated purple line like a puzzle piece falling into place. She felt her heart beat faster with his hand touching her neck again. The feeling brought her back to the hall the day before, and she didn’t like remembering that.

Gríma quickly turned to the king and began whispering. “His hands are a perfect match, lord, see? She must be speaking the truth.” He gestured to Aelora, and the king nodded. Gríma made plenty of sense to him, it had to have been a self defense killing, and one that preserved his own life at that.

Éomer felt slight guilt as he spoke again.

“We cannot be sure that was him, his hands are about the size of mine.” He stated somberly. Aelora let out a sigh. She wouldn’t give up just yet.

“It’s the truth.” Spoke a meek voice from behind them. Both Éomer and Aelora turned around and their eyes met the small frame of the maid Hilda. Kenric immediately sat up, overwhelmingly relieved to see his friend awake. “I saw Lord Viseryon strangling Lady Aelora in the halls yesterday. He was furious with her, for what I don’t know, but it truly seemed like he would kill her. I saw her face turn purple before he let go.” She recounted, stepping shyly into the hall.

“I wouldn’t doubt it was because she refused to kill the king.” Hilda finished, coming to a stop beside Kenric in the corner. The dark haired man turned to the king once more and whispered one last request.

“Let her stay. She’s proven herself trustworthy.”

Théoden struggled to get to his feet, reaching for a black staff with a handle made out of some sort of bone. His joints creaked and his hand wobbled as he supported himself. Gríma quickly stood, reaching out his arms in an attempt to help the king up and to make sure he didn’t fall. Théoden waved his hand, and his advisor stood to the side. Slowly, the aging king hobbled forward and down the steps. His nephew stepped out of the way, but Aelora stood still. He stopped before her and caught his breath.

“I thank you, then.” He began, “You show loyalty… to… a land that isn’t your own…” He struggled once more, moving his face away as he coughed. “You have earned your… place here.” The room fell silent, but she could tell the king’s nephew was far from pleased. A small smile formed on her lips as she curtsied.

“Thank you, your highness. I am forever in your debt.” She stated as sincerely as possible, when really she knew the person she owed the most was Gríma. She turned back to Viseryon’s body. She had one last request.

“The Sohnyar are to be burned when they die. We see it as a connection to Arien and a way of returning ourselves to her.” She stated lowly. “Viseryon deserved nothing in life, but I ask we at least grant him this.” The king nodded.

As Aelora fled the hall, and Éowyn and Éomer rushed to help their uncle back to his chambers to rest, Kenric strummed lightly on his lute. Gríma stood before the throne, listening as Kenric sang softly.

Lady Aelora, dressed in red,

Not a tear she did shed for her creator

who now lay cold and dead.

____________________________________________________ Some things of note:

This story is a mix of book canon and movie canon

I've taken some liberties with the timeline and had Theodred's death moved up by a year because this story takes place in 3017 while LOTR takes place in 3018.

The lesser born characters Hilda and Kenric will be making multiple appearances throughout this story.

The Sohnyar are a race of man that I came up with, they come from the mostly volcanic island of Sohn which was scorched when Morgoth attempted to ravage Arien. It's mentioned here that the Sohnyar are burned when they die as a means of reuniting themselves with Arien, so that's what that's referring to. Queen Caecelia of The Six is mentioned because she is a very important figure in Sohnian culture. She is the second born Draecyr and the second of The Six original Sohnyar who were created by Morgoth and Arien. The Draecyrs came from the ground and made up the first three of The Six, while the other Sohnian family, The Aeryses, came from the smoke in the air. Their island was sunk by Morgoth in an attempt to wipe his failure from the earth, but the Sohnyar fled and made their way to middle earth where they settled in Gondor. The Sohnyar have a special connection to dragons and are the only group of people on Arda to have created dragon bloods, and the creatures originated with the Aeryses. Caecelia, who married Alrid, was jealous of Tyrienne Aerys who kept her last name after marrying, and opted to create the dragon blood Naessa to obtain power. Just a bit of a lore dump. I plan on writing about this more later after I finish Aelora's story.

Also, Imma be real, I really tried to keep Grima in character but idk if I was able to do it so sorry if it's a bit ooc :)

#lotr #lord of the rings #lotr fanfic #lotr x reader #grima wormtongue #grima wormtongue x reader #grima wormtongue x oc #oc x canon #fanfiction #lotr fanfiction #brad dourif #my fic: Blood of the Dragon #my OC: Aelora Draecyr

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