#and the snow keeps falling and the trees stretch on for miles and the smell envelops you

[materlux]

I had an idea

Okay, so, we know the empowered population have different auras, dependent on what they are.

So i was thinking, what if does auras felt different, not just from power to power, but also person to person.

Maybe they feel different dependent on personality, or maybe peoples personalities reflect their auras.

While thinking of this, i came up with a couple of ideas for some of the characters:

Huxley: Being an earth elemental means his aura must reflect that; i fell like Huxley is hike in the woods (like the one audio), you've gone of the main path and are by yourself. The birds sing around you, the leaves rustle gently in the wind, gravel crunches under your shoes. The sun is high in the sky, shining down between the conopy above, it's calm and friendly, and sort of homey.

Imp!Huxley: Imp!Huxley's aura would be a stark constrast to Huxley's, and yet the same scene; your in the forest, you were just hiking down a known trail, when you somehow got lost. The woods are endless, sretching for miles. The sun has set, and know the moon watches over you, casting little light around you. Twings and branches snap all around you, you are being surrounded by something. His aura is unnerving, scary.

Kody: Kody's aura is violent and hostile, as a water elemental i feel his would be something akin to a raging ocean, dark clouds stretch over top tall white capped waves. The ocean roars arund you, threatining to drag you down, to consume you.

Lasko's listener: In comparison Lasko's listener's aura is much mor gentle and calming; it's a quiet stream deep in the woods. Gently running over rocks, and carring sticks and leaves. The sound of the water running drowns out any fear the woods hold. It welcomes you to run your fingers through it's cool water, to follow it as it bends.

Damien: Damien's aura is warm, that is a given, but it's not a burning warm. It's a campfire in the woods, warming the night and keeping animals away. It's a fireplace in a cabin in the dead of winter, keeping you warm as you curl up infront of it. It warms you to your bones, but it never burns. It feels safe.

Lasko: For a nervous guy, i think his aura would be relaxing. An endless field of grass with specks of colourful flowers. Wind blows over the grass, sending waves over the grass and making the flowers bounce. The endlessness of the field is eerie but the wind welcomes you, pushes you around the field. As his emothins vary so does the strength of the wind.

Xavier: We didn't see much of him, but i wanted to do a fire contra elemental just to explore the ideas. Xavier's aura, to me, would be an open snowy field, surrounded by a thick spruce forest. Snow slowly falls from the sky, the wind blows and howls around the trees. The wind is strong and chills you to your core, but it doesn't hurt, nor do you shiver. It's strangely welcoming and comforting.

Freelancer: This one is the hardest, because a freelancer can learn and control all elements, i think it would vary. Some times it's a mix of things, a forest fire, a sunny warm beach, a rainstorm with strong winds, and so on. Any combination is possible, and can be overwhelming, not only to the freelancer themselves but people around them. This one really is just up to interpretation, whatever feels right.

Gavin: Gavin is an incubus, but he still has an aura that others feel. To me it's soft sheets and scented candles. A marble statue surrounded by blooming roses, the smell is overwhelming. It's gentle touches and quiet words, that form into a sensation of love, lust and desire.

[wheniamamongthetrees]

The fireplace stays lit. The dishwasher mangles the silence that we have otherwise managed to preserve. We had tenderloin, eggs, and vegetables for breakfast. We are on our second French press pot of the day, at just after 1pm. Reflecting. Reading all about love. Getting married at 23- I see you and all of the things that you have been and all of the things that you are trying to become and I am aching for all of it at the very same time. We step outside and freeze in the same cold that called us home. I have walked this path in a past life and it has always brought me back to you. You are a lighthouse and I’m shaking off the saltwater. You keep me warm even as I’m leeching cold. I’ll love you when the world ends. I’ll love you even more if it never does. I’m promising you pieces of myself that don't even exist yet. I’ll always save a piece of the cake for you, and we can pretend at knowing what forever actually feels like. I catch your gaze over a taper candle and a walnut-crusted walleye, and I think that there's no other way for this life or any other to stretch out in front of me. You look beautiful in the sunlight, yes, I’ll wear gold even if I like silver best, but only because it is yours. Thank you, I love you, I do. Little slices of eternity in each fresh layer of snow. Drive carefully tonight. Thank you, I love you, I do. My husband labors over the fire that will cook our food. The rhythmic stock of his axe splitting wood. A small creature falls through the semi-frozen lake, twenty feet away, and there is no way that I could reach it if I wanted to. I approach the silence with care and with the respect of an old friend. A white and black speckled bird sits on the tree directly above us, observing our pretend hubris as if with a sense of comedy. At 34 degrees and sunny with no wind to speak of, it feels gloriously warm when you meet the elements with the right materials. It is so beautiful that I can’t even put a name to it. The smoke smell catches every scrap of wool. Cold struggles in, but it is welcomed. I wiggle my toes in the leather, slipping carefully across thick and melting snow that gives way to ice. I listen to Low records with little volume, understanding that with the very recent death of Mimi Parker, there will likely never be another. I inhale the clear-blue, the expanse of the miles that sit before us. I understand a little bit more about the things that we will do for each other.

[pleasantanathema]

Santa Daddy | Jean Kirstein x Reader

Pairing: Jean Kirstein x Reader

Rating: Explicit 

Warnings: Daddy kink, dirty talk, thigh riding, mutual pining, friends to lovers (or, rather, idiots to lovers), lots of holiday fluff

Word Count: 6k

A/N: This is my Secret Santa gift to @whats-her-quirk​ 🎄💕 June, thank you so much for being a wonderful friend; I was truly lucky and privileged to get you as my Elf for Secret Santa! I hope this fluffy (and dirty) little fic with our best boi Jean brings you some holiday cheer! 

           There were only a few things in the world that made you happier than watching Jean Kirstein smile. Like most of your friends, you’d met him through work, but there was always something so special, almost magical, about seeing his darling smile and hearing his boisterous laugh. And you rarely passed up on a chance to see delight spread across his handsome face, which is why you couldn’t say no when he asked you to join him on a get-a-away with your friends for the holidays.

           The inquiry came after you mentioned how you wouldn’t be able to make it home for the holidays due to a winter storm blowing in. It would be the second season in a row that the weather kept you from visiting home.

           You could still hear his voice in your head, “alone? For Christmas?”

           He’d then insisted you join him and his friends at Sasha’s family cabin. It was tradition for them, a gathering of misfits finding communion together out in the wilderness for a few days before the new year. You had taken trips with your friends before to amusement parks, festivals, even to the beach at Armin’s request, but something about being invited to an intimate setting to celebrate holiday traditions had you anxious.

           So, there you were, swaddled in blankets, listening to Eren bicker with Mikasa while Sasha and Connie bustled in the kitchen to make eggnog and treats. Armin had declined to join, citing that he’d seen too many horror movies about young adults alone in cabins to feel comfortable making the trip.

           And, true to form, Jean was running late. He was always late, his mind constantly moving a mile a minute unless he consigned himself to much needed rest and relaxation. Though, this time, you felt a little lonely while waiting for him on the couch, like there was a small part of you missing as you watched the snow fall outside.

           “So, none of you guys go home for the holidays?” You looked over toward the modest, plastic tree that Sasha had thrown down from her attic to bring a little holiday cheer to the living room, a few poorly wrapped presents and bags nestled under the branches.

           “Well,” Eren cleared his throat, “we are orphans.” He pulled at Mikasa’s scarf for emphasis.

           “Oh fuck, yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

           “Don’t worry about, he just always brings it up to get sympathy gifts.” Mikasa sighed, jerking the red cloth from his hands and scowling. Eren only laughed, brushing a stray hair from his face that had come loose from the bun at his nape.

           You sunk a little deeper into the cushions, eyes glancing out the window in hopes you’d see headlights flash in the driveway.

           “Do you think Jean’s okay? He should’ve been here a while ago and the storm is getting closer.”

           “Jean, Jean, Jean,” Sasha trotted into the room, balancing a mountain of sweet-smelling cookies on a plate, “you’re always worried about him.”

           “Someone should be, guy’s an idiot.” Eren chimed in, green eyes shining from the low flames rolling in the fireplace. He and Mikasa were sitting in the floor, a game of checkers spread out before them, with more stolen pieces resting near the cunning Ackerman’s side of the board.

           Eren wasn’t wrong, but over the years you’d known your group of friends, you’d noticed just how much the man in question had grown. In his early twenties, Jean had been quite the bumbling fool, having literally met you by bumping into your shoulder while leaving work, only to look at you and mumble “god you’re beautiful,” before issuing a quick apology as he rubbed at his neck sheepishly. You’d never mentioned the moment again, though your stomach still churned with a slight thrill every time you thought about it.

           But over the years he’d managed to turn that puerility into something much more charming. He was more refined, almost infuriatingly suave, easily gaining attention from anyone and everyone. And though you sometimes hated to admit it, he’d captured your thoughts as well.

           You kept your budding crush on Jean Kirstein close to your chest, not admitting it to any of your close friends. You always figured he was out of your league, seeing that he had a new, more beautiful girlfriend just about every other month. But, despite your simmering feelings, you still allowed yourself to get closer and closer to him over the years—some might say he’s your best friend, but you might call him your most treasured vexation.

           Another hour or so went by, your time spent nibbling at cookies and reminiscing with everyone about another year passed.

           Then the door finally opened, cold air gusting into the small living room as Jean stomped his damp boots on the entry mat.

           “Have you guys opened presents yet?”

           You glanced over the back of the couch, heart tugging in your chest as you noticed snow dusted in his long hair and a sizeable red and white polka dot package in his hands.

           “No because Christmas is tomorrow, or did you forget that too?” Connie said it with crumbs in his mouth, feet kicked up on the coffee table.

           Jean laughed, running a hand through his hair before wrapping the gift in his arms like it was something valuable.

           “I know, I know, and sorry I’m late, had something important to go get.” He smiled, bright and cheery, hazel eyes bouncing between his friends and the carefully guarded box, “I ask because…uh, this needs to be opened kind of soon.”

           “Is it perishable?” Sasha perked up, already ready to go make room in the fridge if something delectable was waiting as a gift.

           “I mean…you could say that? It may or may not be alive.” He was laughing, that kind of infectious laughter that had everyone in the room grinning whether they wanted to or not.

           Jean didn’t set the present down to even take off his shoes, instead tracking snow in with him and plopping onto the couch with flurries still on shoulders. He nudged your knee with his, pushing the present toward you. You pressed your lips together, hands getting sweaty as you pieced the puzzle together.

           “Is that…?”

           “Yeah,” his grin was pulling at his cheeks, eyes so sincere and happy and it almost startled you, “it’s for you.”

           The top of the box moved, the green bow popping on top of the polka dots.

           You moved the gift into your lap, pulling off the top to find perky ears and green eyes peering up at you—a kitten, grey and striped, with long, white whiskers and a pink bow around its neck greeted you with muted curiosity. You just stared at it for a moment, and it stared back, like you were both wondering just how it got into your lap.

           “I just,” Jean was getting nervous, carding his fingers through his hair again as he waited for your reaction, “I wanted to make sure you’d never spend another holiday alone, you know?”

           You carefully picked up the little cat, watching how it stretched and yawned as you pulled it from the carefully lain blanket inside its temporary home.

           You smiled, pulling the warm little bundle to your chest.

           “Um, Jean, this cat has six toes on her paws,” you said, pressing your thumb gently against one of the extra appendages in question.

           “Six toes?!” Sasha was jumping up from her seat, bounding over to kneel in front of you and pluck one of the kitten’s paws into her fingers. The cat quickly pulled its paw back, little black toe beans curling to its chest.

           “Yeah, it’s what drew me to her. She’s extra special…” you could’ve sworn you heard him mutter something under his breath, a little musing of “just like you,” but any hushed murmur was overshadowed by the ohs and ahs of your friends gathering around to look at the adorable little creature.

           The kitten had been lulled to sleep by the car ride from the shelter to the cabin, content to just curl up in your arms as inquisitive fingers prodded at her little kitten mittens and the silky, white tufts in her ears. Even Mikasa was enraptured by the tiny animal, taking the time to retie the little pink ribbon around her neck to make a bigger, prettier bow.

           You noticed how your friends were whispering, cheeky grins pressed against eager ears as they looked between you, the precious kitten, and Jean on the couch. You were starting to feel like you were missing something, or maybe that you were at the end of a joke you hadn’t caught on to yet.

           “Thank you,” you whispered to Jean after the fuss died down, everyone returning to their seats and back to their previous fixations.

          You’d mentioned perhaps wanting a cat a few weeks ago; it was just a silly, off-hand comment you made over coffee about how you’d once read that people with cats live longer because they pick up on the nine-lives of their feline partner. You didn’t believe it to be true, but you’d mused about the idea of having a cute kitten of your own to snuggle up with on lonely nights.

           “I know it’s sudden and a lot of responsibility, so if you don’t want her—”

           “No,” you cut Jean off, bundling the kitten a little closer in your arms, your heart singing as you felt her start to purr, “no, I want her, she’s perfect.”

           Jean finally started to get settled himself, standing up and shrugging off his jacket. He was in a tight turtleneck, coal black threads stretched to their limit across his broad chest and shoulders, hugging his trim waist. You were careful not to stare for too long as he stretched his arms above his head to shake off the weariness of his drive through the snow.

           He always looked like he stepped out of a fashion catalogue, fresh and so put together that sometimes you were tempted to snap his photo when he wasn’t looking; he just looked that good all the time. He loved to wear designer clothes and keep up with the latest menswear trends, and tonight was no different, that beautiful black turtleneck (that was covered in grey fur) undoubtedly belonging to a designer whose name you probably couldn’t pronounce.

           “What are you gonna name her?”

           He sat a little closer this time on the couch, a brawny arm outstretched behind you as he leaned over to scratch at the kitten’s chin.

           “I don’t know,” you admitted, gazing down at the serene, sleepy face in your arms, “I’ll have to get to know her first.”

           “Well, I’ve been calling her Frankie.”

           “Frankie?” You smiled through your confusion, the name sounding oddly right.

           “She was pretty wild in the car and kept meowing when Frank Sinatra was on the radio.”

           “I see,” you laid the kitten down into your lap, sweeping your fingers through her fur and watching as she curled up into a tighter little circle, “well, I’ll consider it.”

           You felt warm, heavy fingers brush against the back of your neck, Jean absentmindedly painting figure eights into your prickling skin. Heat flushed to your face as you realized just how close your bodies had become—his thigh was pressed against your own, dark jeans tight and hot, the scruff of his cheeks brushing against your own as he toyed with the sleeping cat’s tail.

           There were voices all around you, the muffled sounds of your friends relaxing together falling almost on deaf ears. Your whole world felt like it just revolved around this couch, like nothing else mattered beyond the simple touches to your skin and the drowsy kitten beneath your hands. He never wanted you to spend another holiday alone, you replayed his words, the sweet sentiment finally settling into your spirit.

_______________

           You could tell everyone was starting to get a bit sleepy, a few hours spent drinking spiked eggnog and chasing the new kitten around with a feather toy having left you especially exhausted. Your head was a little swimmy as you bid everyone goodnight, the grey tabby cat following closely on your heels to your bedroom where Jean had already brought in a litter box and a bed for her to sleep in. Jean, underneath all the designer bravado and smiles, was perhaps the most thoughtful person you knew.

           But despite the heaviness in your head, you couldn’t seem to sleep. You tossed and turned in the bed, occasionally picking up your phone to scroll through it or just watch the time tick by. You had a lot of thoughts mulling around in your mind, most of them revolving around the man sleeping just right across the hall.

           Never in a million years did you expect Jean to walk in with a beautiful, perfect kitten as a gift. The little thing was back to sleeping again, this time curled around one of your feet, each exhale a little purr against your toes.

           You’d carried the weight of this crush around for too many years. You rubbed your palms against your eyes, sighing as you came to terms with your feelings for Jean for what felt like the thousandth time. Your pining was starting to take its toll, too, what with the sleeping giant so close yet so far away.

           And you still felt like you were missing something.

           Throughout the night, your friends had seemingly been playing coy, teasing Jean about getting you such a big, sentimental gift. Maybe they had all caught wind of your suppressed feelings and were poking at Jean for even daring to indulge you. Now you were just getting frustrated with your thoughts, sighing as you tried to squeeze your eyes shut and force yourself to sleep.

           But then you heard a little sound, the soft buzz of your phone against the wood of the night stand.

           Jean: You awake?

           Your heart skipped a little in your chest as you saw his name flash upon your screen. You texted him nearly every day, yet he never failed to send a little jolt of adrenaline down your spine.

           You: Yeah. Can’t sleep.

           Jean: Me either. Cabin is too fucking cold.

           You: I have a kitty asleep on my feet, definitely helps beat the chill.

           Jean: A warm kitty sounds nice right now.

           Only a few seconds passed before the next message appeared.

           Jean: Wanna come keep me company?

           Your thumb hovered over the keyboard for a moment, your mind not even thinking about the words in front of you. Instead, you were picturing Jean in his bed, hair tussled with his own phone in his hand as he texted you, light spilling over his bare chest in the dark. You wondered what he was thinking—maybe he just wanted you to bring the cat over to see him for a bit, or maybe his mind was wandering in the same place yours was, which was picturing him naked beneath his sheets.

           You set the phone down, momentarily starting to panic.

           You hadn’t prepared for this, hadn’t prepared for the possibility that Jean might be asking you to come get in his fucking bed with him. Thank god you took a leisurely shower earlier—and you still smelled good, you checked.

           You stood up from the bed, watching the kitten stretch and quickly fall back asleep on top of the blankets. You bent down to slip on your pajama pants, but then found yourself debating if you should just leave the flimsy material behind.

           If this was what you were hoping it was, walking in without pants would send the “I got the hint, I’m here to fuck,” message loud and clear.

           But if this was just “hey pal come keep me company, I’m bored,” walking into his room in nothing but a shirt and panties could be quite awkward.

           You decided to hedge your bets, stuffing your pajama bottoms back into your bag as that lingering liquid courage from the eggnog set in. If worse came to worse, you could always say you forgot to pack them.

           You carefully closed the door behind you, making sure the cat didn’t follow.

           Then, it was literally just a few steps to Jean’s room. Conveniently, his door was cracked. Did he get up and leave it open for you? Did he always sleep with his door cracked? Or had he planned all along to ask you to come over?

           You shook your head, taking a deep breath. Those inessential thoughts needed to be quieted.

           The door creaked as you slid past it, the old hinges signaling your arrival and making Jean’s attention whip towards you. His phone was still in his hand, like was watching your messages and too-eagerly anticipating your reply.

           “Hey,” you whispered into the darkness, wincing as the door kept groaning as you pushed it shut behind you. You leaned against it for a moment, too nervous to just waltz up to his bed and fall in. You chewed at the inside of your cheek as you waited for him to break the silence.

           “Aren’t you cold?” He whispered back, shifting in the bed.

           His figure was illuminated by the pale, grey light from window, the snow clouds still keeping the moon suppressed in the sky. Like you’d imagined, he was shirtless, all those hard-earned muscles on display from where he was propped up on his elbows, sheets low against his waist.

           “I thought you were cold, Mr. No Shirt.”

           “You’re not wearing pants.”

           “I’m not wearing pants,” you parroted back.

           You watched the smile spread across his face, that darling, infuriatingly pretty smile that made you a little too happy in this moment.

           He pulled his sheets back in invitation, revealing that he, too, was not wearing pants, only clad in blue boxer briefs that were sinfully tight around his upper thighs, etchings of Calvin Klein pressed against his lower stomach.

           His hands were on you before you even settled onto the mattress, warm and greedy and pulling you flush against his body. All those worried thoughts you had before vanished under his touch, the message you had been missing suddenly loud and clear: you weren’t the only one hiding your feelings. All those veiled emotions came alive beneath wandering hands, your fingers digging into the meat of his shoulders as his found the flesh of your thighs.

           “Was this what you were thinking about when you invited me here?”

           You breathed in the smell of his warm skin as you settled against him, notes of his cologne still lingering against his body.

           “This is what I think about all the time,” he confessed, nudging his thigh between your legs.

           You couldn’t stop the moan that fell from your mouth as the muscles of his thigh pressed against your aching core.

           “Me too,” you were pulling his face down to yours, thumbs against his cheeks as you pressed your lips to his.

           A satisfied sound rang from both of your throats, lips melding and slanting against one another hungrily.

           “Why didn’t you say anything?” His words were lost within the kiss, being swallowed down as you kept drinking him in.

           “Why didn’t you say anything?” You echoed back, gasping as his hands slid underneath your shirt and began to wander across your belly, reaching up toward your ribcage.

           You both knew the answer to that: you were idiots, too scared to admit feelings even though they were clearly on display for everyone around you. But now the question didn’t matter, all the answers you wanted about to be shared between your anxious bodies with starved kisses and touches.

           You shamelessly pressed yourself a little harder against his thigh, sighing as your pussy found relief against his leg. He groaned at your action, moving his thigh back and forth a little bit to see how you would react. When you whimpered, your own thighs squeezing around his, he smirked, repeating the motion of sweeping his thick, sturdy thigh back and forth between your legs.

           “You like that?” His head was tilting down, teeth nipping at your jaw and down your neck as your head fell back against the pillow.

           “Y-yes, feels so good.”

           His hands were still traveling, wandering across your heated skin like he wanted to map your curves into his memory. He groaned against your throat when he discovered you’d also forgotten to wear anything under your t-shirt, his thumbs lazily brushing the undersides of your breasts.

           You felt like you were burning beneath his sheets, like he was painting fire against your skin with every touch. His large hands engulfed your breasts, carefully kneading and rolling your soft flesh in his palms. He was eager to kiss you again, to slip his tongue past your parted lips and get addicted to your taste.

           Jean pinched and pulled at your hardening nipples, greedily taking your little mewls into his mouth. He touched you like he already knew you, pulling at your body like you were the perfect little sex doll on strings for him to play with; rocking you on his thigh, tugging at your nipples, tongue dancing in your mouth, his hair tickling your cheeks, his cock hard and hot against his stomach.

           Your panties were getting more and more wet by the second, the soaked material sinking into your folds as you rubbed yourself against the downy hairs and rounded, solid muscle of his upper thigh. His boxer briefs were bunching closer to his hips, pre-cum already staining against the fabric where his cock was imprinted into the threads. You slipped your hand down his impressive chest, fingers dipping into the elastic of his briefs.

           “Oh fuck,” he groaned against your lips, pulling back to suck in a breath as your fingertips brushed against the head of his cock, “fuck you’re so hot riding my thigh like that, so fucking wet.”

           “You did say you wanted a warm kitty.”

           Your words had him pinching harder at your nipples, making you gasp as he chuckled.

           “Mhm I can’t wait to play with your kitty, make you mine,” he punctuated his sentence by bouncing his leg up, sending electric pulses of pleasure racing over your nerves.

           You responded by pulling his cock from its confines, wrapping your fingers around it and tugging at the silken skin. God he was thick, barely fitting in your palm as you moved your wrist up and down. You suddenly felt so small against him, realizing that he was dwarfing you just by lying next to you in the bed. His long, thick fingers could spread across the entirety of your chest, the thigh sliding against your pussy was enormous, but it felt like it belonged there; you could get used to riding him like this.

          You both fell into a frenzied, delirious rhythm, your bodies bucking and panting as you found bliss against each other.

          His hands slid down your body, leaving your tender breasts and searching for a new home. He found your hips, fingers digging into your skin as he rocked you back and forth against his thigh himself, using the strength in his forearms to have your pussy pressed down against him in the most perfect way to have you seeing stars and whining his name.

          “Gonna cum, baby? Gonna cum just from riding me?”

          “Fuck, yeah, yes, please, make me cum like this.”

          Your hand had gone slack against his cock, your mind almost unable to concentrate under the waves of pleasure building and coiling inside you.

          It felt too good to have his rapacious hands on your hips, grip mean and tight as he basically fucked you against his thigh. You wanted to scream, your other hand clawing at the back of his neck for stability.

          “Baby,” he breathed, peppering a few kisses along your cheek, “could…could you call me daddy when you cum?”

          There was a hesitancy in his voice, like he was ashamed to ask such a thing.

          Your lower belly clenched, heat racing across all your nerve endings like he’d just poured sin straight out of his mouth.

          You nodded your head for him, uncontrollable moans and gasps getting in the way of your own words. The thought of calling him daddy, that sent something wicked down to your pussy, had your fingers squeezing and tugging at his cock again and your eyes falling shut.

          It felt like your sanity was breaking, like reality was splintering and this wasn’t real—you were dreaming again, weren’t you? But then you felt his cock twitch in your hand, felt your swollen clit brush against your panties and his thigh, and you were thrusted back into the actuality of your situation. You were with Jean, he was groaning in your ear, and you were about to cum all over him.

          “D—da…,” you were choking, so overwhelmed with a final cresting of bliss that you almost felt like sobbing.

          But he just clutched you more tightly, pressed you harder against him, whispering your name in encouragement to let yourself go for him.

          Then, you lost all of your sensibilities, euphoria washing over your body as you snapped and came undone with a little whine of, “daddy,” against his lips. You slowed the rocking of your hips, your heart beating out of your chest, your pussy pulsing and clenching as you rode out the last remnants of your orgasm.

          ��Holy fucking shit that’s so hot, you’re so hot,” he mumbled, one of his hands smoothing against your cheek.

          “Wha—,” you smiled, shaking your head as you caught your breath, “what are you doing with a daddy kink, Jean?”

          He mimicked your smile, hands moving to slide your ruined panties down your legs and removed the rest of your clothing as he repositioned your bodies. You let him move you around like a ragdoll, so delirious in your afterglow that you barely even registered how he was hooking your legs onto his shoulders.

          “Do you not like calling me daddy?” There was a seriousness laced into his tone that told you he’d drop it if it made you uncomfortable.

          “I like it,” you fisted one of your hands in his hair, bringing his lips to yours for a slow, messy kiss, “just didn’t expect it.”

          “I’m full of surprises, baby.”

          You felt the head of his cock nudge between your wet folds, his hands back on your hips where they belonged. Your head fell back against the pillow as he started to push inside of you, stretching your walls and making your toes go almost numb from the pleasure. You felt like you were splitting apart, like a fissure was forming down the middle of your body, stemming from where he was spearing into you.

          With your legs on his broad shoulders, he was pushing you into the mattress, his hands urging your hips to relax and let him sink into your warm heat.

          “Ohhhh fuckkkk daddy,” you couldn’t help but to whine, all your senses suddenly overwhelmed again. You were drowning in him, falling deeper and deeper into the throes of heaven with every inch of his fat cock slipping inside of you.

          “God you’re so tight,” he presses his forehead to yours, keen eyes watching how your lips were falling apart and your eyebrows scrunching together in pleasure, “that’s right, daddy’s going to take such good care of you.”

          It felt like all your history with him was being wiped away, like this moment wasn’t about two friends fulfilling all their years of mutual pining, but instead about a new relationship blooming between two bodies full of lust and desire. This was about Jean fucking you senseless, about him taking control and finally having what’s belonged to him for longer than he probably even realized. You wanted to lose yourself to him, lose yourself to his appetite and just let him devour you.

          All the air left your lungs when bottomed out inside of you, your walls clenching and sucking him in. He stayed still for a moment, nearly lost himself at the feeling of your cunt wrapped so tightly around his cock.

          “So fucking perfect,” he groaned, dragging his cock out of you slowly before pressing in again, your cunt greedily sucking him back in.

          “I always have been,” you teased, one hand lost in his hair while the other slid down the expanse of his back. You bucked your hips in his hands, coaxing him to keep moving.

          “Oh fuck. Good girl.”

          His praise made you feel drunk, liquid heat rushing to your ears and between your legs.

          He began to snap his hips, repeatedly burying his cock into your depths, the angle of your body making him hit that fleshy patch inside of you. You cried out at the feeling of being so stuffed, your walls burning from the intrusion but that coil inside your belly tightening again, hotter and more intense than before.

          “Mhmmm, such a good girl, I promise,” you pressed your lips to his in reassurance, letting your breathy moans fall into his mouth as he started to get a little rougher. His pace was steady, solid, a hard motion of his cock thrusting in and out of you, each push and pull full of purpose and passion. Every plunge was making your lower stomach spasm, making pleasure burst across your body so forcefully that you felt that urge to cry again.

          “Wanted to fuck you for so long,” his face was tucked underneath your chin, mouth trailing across your throat between his words. A particularly hard suck against your neck had your back arching, breasts flattening against his chest and your nails clinging to him.

          Jean sat back on his knees, big hands smoothing down your thighs as he looked to where your bodies were conjoined, watching how your pussy enveloped his cock with every thrust of his hips, sweet skin encasing all of his length. He looked enraptured by the sight, groaning and hissing every time he pressed inside of you.

          Then his eyes were flashing up to your face, softening as he took note of your blissed-out state, your face flushed and your lip between your teeth.

          “So pretty,” he mused, a palm ghosting up to your chest to toy with one of your tits as he found a new rhythm.

          You were ensnared by the scene before you as well, eyes wide with delight as you admired the man before you. Jean felt unhinged, electric between your legs, like he’d finally let go and was pouring all his clandestine secrets into your willing body. His chestnut hair was swept over his shoulders, the muscles in his arms and across his body rolling, rounded and thick like he was marble come to life. And his face was smooth, pretty, concentrated, cheeks dusky with a dark blush as he found euphoria from within your body.

          Your hips began to match his thrusts, bucking up into him in order to feel his thick cock fall deeper into you. His strong hands encouraged you, gripping into the supple flesh of your thighs as he pressed himself into your wetness, faster and faster with every thrust.

          “Daddy,” you called out to him, having to bite back a grin as you observed how quickly you earned his attention, “you feel s-so good,” your hand was traveling down your chest, trailing over his fingers on your breast before snaking down to your clit, “p-please let me cum again.”

          You had an inkling that he would take over for you.

          His thick, long fingers hovered over your own, carefully aiding in swirling over your aching clit. You hissed, recognizing the buildup to orgasm pooling within your belly.

          Jean’s other hand slid higher upon your body, fingers lacing around your ribcage, framing the underside of your breast. He began to forcefully pull your body into his, sliding you upon and down the sheets and upon his cock. You cried out, legs tightening at his waist, pulling him closer, deeper, begging him to devour you and take what he wanted. His thumb was almost impatient on your clit, now circling so quickly that your body was shaking, lower stomach clenching and unclenching repeatedly like you were lost in a reckless tide.

          “Shit, I’m not gonna last with you squeezing me like that, baby.”

          Your mouth watered at the thought of him finding that ultimate pleasure inside of you. Your ears became tuned to the chorus of resonances between your legs, the sweet, wet sounds of skin against skin, of slick at the base of a fat cock, of Jean grunting your name like a lost prayer.

          The final chord of your sanity was threatening to snap, you could feel it again, like he was pulling the strings of your body too tightly and you were going to splinter and break with just the right swipe of his thumb.

          “I-inside,” you mewled, unable to keep your eyes open any longer as your thighs began to quake, “daddy—oh fuck, fuck—cum inside me, please,”

          God you were so fucking close to falling off the edge, and he could feel it, using his grip to bring you even harder and faster down onto your cock to get you careening and falling again.

          Your push into oblivion came when you heard him pleading, almost whining, above you, sweat dripping down his skin as his syllables flowed together, “please, please, please, fuck, cum for daddy, cum for me, please.”

          You could both feel it, how you creamed around his cock, pussy sucking him in so deliciously tight that it caused him to lose all control. His fingers dug a little too deep, his cock throbbing and pumping deep inside of you with his release. It was like the world went quiet, like a blanket of snow fell onto your bodies and hushed your sounds and cooled your skin. You could feel the heavy weight of him inside of you, like he was meant to be there. Your body relaxed, feeling like you were sinking into the mattress and he was the only thing keeping you from being lost.

          When he finally pulled his spent cock from inside you, he wasn’t gone long. His hands were back on you again, pulling you in for simple, affectionate kisses and rubbing tenderly at the places he’d perhaps explored too roughly.

          “Jean…” you cut yourself off with a yawn, fatigued limbs winding into his own.

          His thigh found its home between your legs again, both of you groaning with a mixture of lust and disgust as you felt his cum drip into a mess between your thighs.

          “Whatever it is can wait until morning, we need to sleep.”

          “Oh fuck, it’s Christmas.”

          He nuzzled your cheek, lips searching for yours.

          “Mhmm, Merry Christmas, baby.”

          You laughed, laying your head against his chest.

_______________

          You weren’t sure how long you slept, but it felt like you spent a small eternity in Jean’s bed before your eyes opened again. When you awoke, he was already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed with the kitten in his arms. She was ready to play, striped tail swishing as he dangled a toy mouse just out of her reach.

          “What time is it?” You stretched, suddenly all too aware that you were still very naked beneath the sheets.

          “It’s only eight, everyone else is still asleep aside from Mikasa who actually went for a run in the fucking snow.”

          Jean smiled, hair tucked behind his ears, and you felt your heart skip a beat as you realized just how madly in love with him you were. You always aimed to make him smile, to hear him laugh, but to see him gazing at you in the morning sun with pure adoration shining in his hazel eyes had you practically melting into the bed.

          “I meant what I said last night, you know,” he said, turning the kitten loose to run across the bed.

          “You said a lot of things last night, daddy,” you teased, watching his cheeks turn a pretty pink at the mention of that name.

          “I meant about you never spending another holiday alone. Because, you know, I’d like to…” he trailed off, rubbing at the back of his neck like he was genuinely nervous.

          You sat up, running a hand down his arm before kissing at his shoulder, momentarily getting lost in the smell and feel of him.

          “Yeah, I’d like that.”

          No one was surprised that the two of you, and the kitten, spent every single holiday together thereafter, mostly naked, and always smiling.

[sabraeal]

Get Up Eight, Chapter 7

[Read on AO3]

Obiyuki AU Bingo 2021 Free Space

The air is sweet outside of Hiratsuka; the ocean’s salt still carries its pale sting on the breeze, but it cannot compete with the last of the spring’s harvest. The paddies are flooded still, slowly draining under the heat of the sun; wet earth weighs down the air’s sweetness, rich and full. This far into the season it is gold and green as far as the eye can see, set over a shimmering stretch of blue; a precious comb laid on silk. But this, this is finer than any gift an emperor could give his concubines. Ryo might buy jade and sapphires, but it could not buy a moment in time, experienced with all the senses of the body.

The threshing would come soon, as the end came for all beautiful things. The fields will be allowed to dry, and in weeks, this ground would lie fallow, a barren marshy plain awaiting its next use. But impermanence is a part of beauty, what made a sight such as this so precious and so dear. Just as petals fell from cherry trees, or snow sifted from the winter sky, this moment only existed in the here and now. In mere days, all of this would be gone.

Even Obi slows ahead of her, hands resting on the tight nip of his hips. Stalks spring thickly up beside the road, paddies dug so close the cobbles have sunk, curving the edges of the walkway like a scroll unfurled. He stands in the middle of it, a samurai out of a wood-block print, surveying his domain--

“Well,” he huffs, turning his chin over his shoulder. “It sure smells like shit.”

Shirayuki tries to stifle it, to keep the noise buried deep in her chest, but it’s impossible-- a laugh hiccups up between her lips, and try as she might, her sleeve doesn’t muffle it a single bit.

“What, ojou-san?” His mouth quirks at a corner, too sly for innocence. “Don’t you think so?”

Now that he mentions it...yes. That sweet earthy smell mixed with standing water gives off a fragrance that only a fly could love. The rice may be sweet on the wind and salt may still roll through with a breeze, but when the skies were quiet and her feet were still, it savored of nothing so strongly as the pies oxen dropped on the road.

Not that she’d ever give her samurai the satisfaction of agreeing.

“Surely it isn’t so bad as all that.” She takes in a large, pointed breath, and prays she won’t cough. “I only smell sweet grass.”

Both narrow brows scurry up his forehead, rumpling his scar. “Is that so, ojou-san?”

With a sharp smile he swaggers over to one of the sparse pines clinging onto the road, dropping down into a squat. “Then you won’t mind if we take our rest here?”

“W-what?” There’s barely any room for the cobbles, and none at all for two travelers trying to stay off them. And the smell...

“Come on.” He pats the muddy ground beside him; it splats beneath his palm. “This water looks healing if I do say so myself. Perfect to rest your poor feet in.”

Shirayuki casts a dubious glance over the road’s edge, knowing full well what she will find. These paddies are not freshly filled, water sparkling blue under the fair sky like in the ukiyo-e; oh no, this is a field left to drain, the water growing murkier with every day, probably rife with leeches and worse. Fine for plants, but for her poor, weeping blisters--

Well, she’d certainly collect quite a few friends putting her feet in there. They would be such a comfort before she succumbed to whatever infection stagnant water gave her. He blisters throb at the thought.

“We should keep going,” she informs him steadily. “Weren’t you just saying there was much road left to be traveled?”

At least, that had been his excuse in Hiratsuka. No time for dallying, ojou-san, he’d told her, slipping a vendor a few mon for the onigiri in her hands. We’ll have to sleep on the road if the light fades before we get to Odawara.

Obi doesn’t exactly frown; such an expression isn’t in his nature-- instead his mouth pulls to the precise width of the line she’s toeing.

“Well,” he hums his dangerous way, the sort that says only her twelve ryo stand between his hand and her cheek. His body unfurls to standing with an exaggerated slowness, a threat in every curl of his limbs. “Since ojou-san doesn’t need a break, I suppose we can walk all the way to Oiso.”

Her ronin stands across from her, kimono threadbare, hakama in hardly better shape, arms folded across his narrow chest. She knows that cock to his hip, that hint of a smirk on his face-- he expects her to fold, he expects her to beg like the delicate ojou-san she’s pretending to be.

Even wrapped tight under her tabi, the warabi loosely tied, her feet ache. Kino’s wife would plead to stop-- no, command him to. Either way, she would merely confirm what he already knew; she was a pampered fine lady, unable to keep up with the grueling pace he set. A burden he would be made to bear all the way to Kyoto.

Shirayuki shifts the sack on her back, Buddha’s hand pressing into her spine. “Fine. Let us keep going.”

Marsh bleeds into hills, the road flattening and slanting both, reeds rising up into pines. The shade is a welcome reprieve, as is the sea breeze that stirs the branches overhead and sends shadows to dance at her feet. Even as nature’s wonder presses in around her, Shirayuki cannot help but think she might be able to enjoy it better if her feet were not about to pop off at the ankle.

Oiso is hardly an hour’s walk from Hiratsuka, but every step is on needles, stabbing wherever her sole touches cobble. Still, still-- she will not relent. Surely they would see the post for the shukuba at any moment, and then she might--

“Ojou-san?” A shadow falls over her; even if she could not see the patched hem of his hakama, the scent of his sweat, clean and earthy, would give him away. His hands hover at her shoulders, steadying without touch. “Are you all right?”

“Ah!” She steps back, covering a wince with a smile. “No, no. I’m just fine. I can keep up! Oiso is only a few miles away, isn’t it?”

“It is.” He shifts back, arms folding into a forbidding bar of steel across her vision. “Do your feet hurt, ojou-san?”

His tone might be playful, a little sing-song like a child at play, but it is a knowing gaze that he wears, fixed to the hem of her kimono. She shuffles her feet, hoping they fall into shadow-- if only she had bought new tabi in Hiratsuka, she would have had a few more hours before the blood stained the new cloth. 

His breath hisses through his teeth like a palpable hit. “Ojou-san!”

Ah, so he’s seen it. That will make this conversation a hair more difficult.

“Don’t worry about me!” she yelps, sweeping away from the hands that would grab her, that would hold her in place to behold the extent of her foolishness. “It can wait until we get to Oiso-juku!”

He shakes his head, sitting back on his heels. “We’ll rest.”

Her cheeks puff out with annoyance. “Aren’t I the one who makes those decisions, samurai-dono?”

His mouth pulls thin for a moment, considering her, but the next has it bent in a bright smile. “All right then. Let’s rest. We can have some of those onigiri in your pack.”

Shirayuki longs to protest-- she did not make her way trading on feminine weakness in Yokohama, and she was not about to start here and now because this man would let her-- but her stomach growls long and loud, a beggar on its knees.

“Well,” she murmurs, looking away from that smug grin. “If you insist.”

“You know.” Obi’s fingers pluck nimbly at the twine knotted around the bamboo leaf, slipping it open with a firm tug on one end. Inside, the rice still steams, just cool enough to touch. “If you had said something, we could have stopped at Hiratsuka.”

Shirayuki looks up, her legs stretched out before her, wiggling her toes with a grimace. She spares him a raised brow, managing only a strained, “Could we have?”

His mouth opens, then closes again. Gold eyes shine almost green in the shade of the pine trees, but they drop away before she can determine whether it is merely a trick of the light. “Maybe.”

Her lips press tight as she watches him, long fingers separating one sticky triangle off from the others. “You’re worried. Did something happen...?”

At the hatago, Shirayuki assumes, but caution stills her tongue. The days she has spent with him have been long, but still-- she’s known him for only three. What trouble dogs his steps now may have been bought and paid for long before she knelt across from him in a tea house and offered twelve ryo to take her away from her own.

“Should I rewrap them?”

Her head jolts up; the amber of his eyes waits to trap her, honey-warm with curiosity. He presses the still-warm onigiri into her palm, and she-- she nearly says no. She may be smaller than him, but she’s not a child. A single rice ball would not a meal make.

But then he chucks his chin downward, toward where her feet sit bare save for the bandages.

“Oh,” she breathes, flexing them. Even that small movement sends pain lancing up her legs. “No, not yet.”

He shifts, mouth rumpled into a dubious knot. “It’s soaked through in places.”

“It’s fine.” Sour plum bursts on her tongue, rice sticking to her teeth as she tries to hurry it along. “It will take too much time to tend to now.”

If anything, his frown deepens. “I can work quick, ojou-san. You said last night that I’d done a good job.”

“I...” A frisson ran through her when he’d cupped her heel in his palm, fingers brushing over her blisters with a gentleness she had not expected from a man as rough as him. And when his hand had slid higher, gripping her calf to hold her in place-- “It can wait. Until we stop.”

Until she is sure she won’t need her legs to support her afterward.

He hums, unconvinced, but settles back onto his seat, knees crossed in front of him. If he were born to a greater station, there would be block prints of him like this, desultory and cross-legged, moments away from a war.

“Oiso is close by,” he reminds her, as if she did not tell him the same only minutes ago. “If the pain’s too much, let me know. We can always stop for the night.”

She swallows her bite of onigiri, watching him steadily. “Would you stop on your own?”

He lets out a long, annoyed breath. “No.”

“Then we’ll press on to Odawara.” She offers him a soft smile. “I’ll be fine.”

“It’s not a short walk,” he warns her, impatience creeping into his tone. “If you’re really hurting--”

“I know.” She smiles. “I’ll tell you.”

He leans back on his hands, a laugh rasping out of his throat. “I doubt that. You’d faint before you’d admit you can’t keep up.”

She lets out a huff. She can’t say it’s not true, but all the same, he doesn’t have to say it. “I--”

“Well, well.” A man emerges from the pines, lips stretched to a smile so wide that her own cheeks hurt. “Look at what we have here, boys.”

Shirayuki jumps-- not far, stretched out as she is, but enough to tuck her feet beneath her kimono, hiding the bandages. Obi’s already got his own beneath him, his knuckles bone white where they wrap around his hilt. His gaze fixes on the treeline, steady and gold, the way a tiger might watch from the long grass, and her breath catches. Obi might wear a man’s skin, but in this moment he is more wolf than warrior, a predator in the guise of its prey.

But that man doesn’t see it. He strides into the copse, blades rattling at his side, heedlessly smiling at his death. “No need for that, oni-san.”

Obi’s hilt creaks beneath his grip. “I’m not your brother.”

Her eyes blink wide, searching the strained planes of his face. This man may be a stranger, unwelcome in their company, but to be so unconscionably rude-- well, Shirayuki can hardly countenance it. Not from a man who slid goshujin through his teeth like steel bared from its sheath, a man who wielded manners as a weapon--

A man who knows that his rudeness would mark them more than submission. She’d seen what counted as fighting words when she ran the sake house; not a single bushi worth his blade would let a ronin parry their generous parity.

But still, this one only smiles. Wider now, the sharp edges of his eyeteeth cresting the ridge of his lips.

“Oh, no?” Men shuffle through the trees, the boughs obscuring their gaunt faces, but still, Shirayuki is sure-- they don’t smile like this samurai. No, ronin. He might have the paired blades wrapped at his hips, but there’s no crest on his haori, only a single long tail winding over his shoulders from the hair at his nape, instead of a bushi’s top-knot. “But we shared a drink back at the hatago, didn’t we?”

Shirayuki takes in the worn hem of this ronin’s hakama, the meticulously mended seams of his haori, the fine material his kimono had once been; none of it is familiar, nor is his face. “Obi-dono?”

Something twitches in the depths of Obi’s jaw. A flicker of recognition, perhaps, to pair with the fleet warning that lopes across his eyes.

“Having a rest, I see?” the ronin observes, edging ever closer to the clearing, his men jostling around him. Three of them, plus the headman; more than any man could manage, no matter how skilled Obi might be. “Now, we were just thinking the same thing, weren’t we?”

Tension thickens the air, and there’s no reason for it, none at all. Not unless her yojimbo is restless, eager to prove to her his prowess. It’s an exhibition that she is less than enthused to participate in, especially with these odds.

“Please.” There is no sake house for her to serve, but her old role drops over her like a mask, mouth stretching into that close-lipped smile, hiding in behind her sleeve. “Come in. I mean--” Obi stares at her, chin slowly shaking, a silent plea-- “please, come sit.”

It’s his stare-- pupils pinprick small with shock, white a thin ring all around the gold-- that reminds her that she’s still looking up. Her eyes drop, fixing to the stranger’s hands, where no dirt lingers beneath his nails, each one diligently picked and scrubbed to cleanliness. But no-- it must drop farther still, down to rest demurely on her knees. Already she's done too much, said too much; a hostess speaks to custom with ease, but a retiring ojou-san in the company of her retainer...

She would be silent. A woman ready to fade into the background as the men carried on her business.

Shirayuki shifts, rolling up to rest on her knees, head bowed. Not three days on the road, and already the role she has chosen for herself chafes.

“Well, since onee-san has been so kind.” The man saunters from the shade, crouching down to a kneel. “It would be rude to refuse.”

Obi’s jaw works, a rebuttal brewing on his lips, but she holds out a hand instead, quelling. Her palm brushes over his knee, the muscles hovering beneath her fingertips going tense, his breath caught in his chest--

And she jolts it away, letting it hover safely over him instead. Still, he lowers onto his feet, placing the blade at his side. The right side, she notes with satisfaction, until he rolls back, legs crossing at the ankle before him, hands braced on his knees. A shogun’s stance, she had thought when Kino took it, but Obi in his threadbare kimono, juban long since lost, and faded hakama...

He makes it look like trouble.

Shirayuki swallows a grimace, bowing her head over her hands. “You are too kind, oni-san--” Obi grunts, displeasure stark on his sharp face, but at least leaves his protest to that-- “please, partake in our meal as well. We have only just started.”

Obi swivels toward her, betrayal writ clear in his eyes, but there’s nothing for it. She’s already asked the headman to sit; she can’t possibly ask him to starve. Not unless Obi would like to risk these men finding them on another stretch of road, far from any shukuba, the night much closer, their minds less wary.

The ronin casts a lingering glance at the onigiri still on the leaf, his tongue tracing the barest path over his lips--

“It is you who are too kind, onee-san, by offering,” he says, the picture of well-born courtesy. “We’d be happy to. As long as you don’t mind sharing our food as well?”

Obi blinks. “Your food?”

The headman holds up a hand, and at once his ronin come forward, dropping their sacks in front of them, and--

“Oh,” Shirayuki breathes, staring at the array of bento tumbled across their makeshift camp. Thinking of what they might well find inside them, her stomach shivers, just short of making its anticipation known. “Well, if you insist...”

As each lid springs open on the men’s hakubento, a feast spills forth: rolled egg and minced fish cakes, soy bears and boiled lotus, taro and shiitake. One has whole, simmered shrimp with pickled ginger, and the water in her mouth nearly leaks out at the sight of it.

“So much,” Shirayuki murmurs, palms pressed flat to her thighs. “Where did you get it all?”

“The hatago.” The ronin’s mouth lifts at a corner, gaze darting to where Obi sits beside her, stiff. “I’m surprised your man didn’t have them pack one for you.”

She resists looking at him, just waits until he’s finished his sticky bite of onigiri to say, “We were in a hurry.”

The ronin’s reply is a sly flash of teeth. “Hope you made it where you were going.”

Obi settles back onto his heels. “Not fast enough.”

It’s an answer made to be muttered, but Obi enunciates every syllable clearly, punctuating it with an insolent lift of his gaze, meeting the man’s with a pointed finality. It’s her first instinct to scold him, the way she might with Kino-san when he acted out of turn, but her breath catches in her chest.

She would do that. Her, a girl raised beneath the bar of a sake house, used to putting men in their place before they reached too far out of it. But a young ojou-san, naive to the ways of the world-- she would sit silent, letting the men speak their piece. If a fight broke out, she might scream, covering her fear with her sleeves, and hope for the best. Ah, never has she been so ill-suited for a role before. 

It doesn’t matter in the end; the ronin only twitches his mouth to mark it before turning to her, smile firmly seated on his lips.

“I’m the headman of this outfit.” The man pats his chest, drawing her attention back to the fine material worn thin, to the juban that is still meticulously white when it has not yellowed at the collar. “They call me Mihaya.”

No family name, she notes. That’s fine enough for her. “And I’m Shirayuki.”

She casts a pointed glance toward Obi, willing him to show one glimmer of the respect he pays every other creature that’s made their acquaintance, but he makes no move to introduce himself. Instead he only reaches forward, past all the fine foods Mihaya’s men have provided, and picks up the last of their onigiri.

“Are you going to have this, ojou-san?” he asks, so mild. “Or should I?”

She draws in a deep, steadying breath. “Go ahead. I’ll be fine with sharing with the others.”

His lip juts at that, sullen, but it disappears behind a sharp smile. “Well then, more for me.”

Her only solace in his rudeness is that at least Mihaya’s companions return with the same, too busy stuffing their mouths to pay attention to propriety. Even with such fine bento as these, they dig into each box like men who haven’t eaten in days instead of mere hours ago.

“You must be from around here.”

Shirayuki startles, attention whipping back toward where the headman sits smiling, one hand brace on his knee. “Since you’re traveling south, I mean. Unless you’re traveling back home, onee-san?”

“Oh, no. I’m from--” Obi’s warning glance stills her too-honest response-- “not so far away.”

“Thought so.” There’s a conspiratorial sparkle in his eye as he leans toward her. “I don’t see many of your kind on the road, at least not without an entourage.”

“Oh.” Her fingers clench in her kimono, keeping her seated. She should have thought of that; a girl from a family with money to spare would have sent her with a handful of men, carrying her from Edo to Kyoto slung like precious cargo between them. “I thought-- I mean, my grandfather thought traveling with one guard would draw less attention than a dozen.”

“Might keep more eyes off you, sure,” Mihaya agrees, crunching on a slice of taro. “But it’s safer to have more men when the roads get...rough. You get set on by bandits, and one sword won’t do you much good, onee-san.”

“Is that so?” she asks mildly. “I thought-- what is the saying? Having a single, well-made blade is better than a thousand that will break on the first strike.”

Obi coughs.

“True enough, onee-san.” The headman’s smile wears thinner with each word. “And it’s so much harder to find quality nowadays.”

They have only known each other this past hour, but already, Shirayuki finds little quarrel with Mihaya or his manners; at least, not as much as she does with Obi and his, but still--

Still, she mislikes the smug glance he cuts toward Obi, his gaze raking up his worn and well-mended clothes, the lack of his juban, and clearly, clearly-- finding him wanting.

“For some.” There’s a bite to her voice that surprises her, but she likes it. “I am fortunate indeed to have found such an exemplary bushi as Obi. I could hardly wish for better.”

Mihaya’s expression crumples like a paper lantern in the rain. “I’m sure--”

“Where are you from, Mihaya-san?” she interjects; the last thing they need is to have this rest spoiled by this odd hostility between headman and yojimbo. Especially if it might force her to admit she’s only had her exemplary guard for all of two days. “You don’t sound like a man from Edo.”

A dark shadow flits over his face, like a cloud passing over the sun, gone before she’s ever truly seen it. “Here and there.”

The west, his accent says, though it’s too crisp to be from any common man. Just like his clothes, his voice betrays him. Still, there’s no reason to push; plenty of men have left their domains these days. With tension between the shogun and emperor--

Well, Shirayuki wouldn’t want to be a man with a blade in hand. Samurai had once lived and died by the sword before the shogun wrenched the domains beneath him and brought an end to the warring states. But with all the silken pillows being pulled from beneath the tender seats of the daimyo, blades rattle in their sheaths, threatening its return.

“Where are you off to, onee-san?” Mihaya’s smile is brittle as he sits back, eyes casting her a hooded, measuring glance. “Not all the way to Kyoto I hope.”

Obi shifts, restless beside her. Her fingers sweep out subtly between them, thumb and small finger spanning the gap. It stills him, but not his grunt, wary and dissatisfied. Too cautious, her yojimbo. To avoid so obvious a question only means she has something to hide.

And she does, she does, but none of these men need to know it. Let them think her a loose-lipped ojou-san, if they wished. Better than a girl with no family and a dozen ryo in her bag, with only one guard to keep her safe. “I am.”

Mihaya whistles, long and low, impressed. “That’s a long journey for an ojou-san like yourself. What’s so important in Kyoto?”

“Ah...” A cousin, she should say. That’s what she told Obi, after all, and one story was easier to keep track of than a dozen. But still, there’s something in the headman’s eyes that demands more, than makes a cousin seem a pale prize to crawl across a country for.

“A husband,” Obi offers, so easy. “Arranged. You know how these things are. Ryo flows through fingers easy enough, but blood binds. Man’s eager to have her too.”

“A girl as pretty as this one?” Mihaya laughs, giving her a demonstrative glance. “I can believe it.”

“How about you, Mihaya-san?” she asks, if only to keep from more speculation. “Where are you and your men heading?”

“Funny you should ask, onee-san.” His mouth twitches, almost triumphant. “Kyoto. Just like you are.”

[sleepdeprivedheretic]

Heart of the Wild (Ch.1)

Notes: Here I am, with my favorite tropes and high-key copying the plot to my other fic, Wild Heart. Oh well, I had fun chilling and plotting it with my friend, @mha-girl674 while listening to Celtic Woodland music :3 This story is basically a little self-indulgent “re-write”, but Wild Heart is still up and it’s own fic <3

Pairings: Taishiro x reader, a little bit of Kirideku, and Miro x Tamaki next chapter

Setting: Hybrid Au in medieval times? Ig? Like they have villages and stuff. Idk, imagination :3

Warnings: Self Indulgent Spicy Plot with consensual and self smut thrown in around here and there. Characters are over the age of twenty.

Trigger Warnings: Heats, terrible parents (of the reader), and fear of non-consent, but there is no no-consensual touching, just chasing from an unknown character.

Hot breaths panted into the chilly air from within your chest. You couldn’t feel anything, other than the white heat burn within your feet and legs from the blistering cold. You’ve been running for who knows how long, heart screaming within your chest at the thrill of finally being free, and what a stupid decision that this was.

 It was in the middle of winter, and you’ve chosen now to escape. It was smart as well as stupid, for your parents, thinking that they had you metaphorically tied to a tight leash, would have never expect you to rush out into the cold dead of the winter night.

 They were wrong, but you were suffering. There was no food, lest hardly any shelter or warmth. Your scrap of a tattered cloak, barely weathered the unforgiving wind and snow. Yet, trudging on was the best bet, it was the only bet.  

 At least the cool weather flushed down your heat, but not the scent. Being within a tundra had scared you; not only that there were more ferocious, bigger hybrids that could smell you out, but as well as it was so open. Nowhere to hide, plenty to run, and you’ve practically already exhausted yourself, your natural cycle to breed didn’t help matters, either, for it drained energy, as well.

 Was this better than having your parents keep a constant watch over you? Planning to hand over you to who knows who, in exchange for some pretty fabrics and seeds? Granted that you’ve thought this through in what seemed to be a million times, but you didn’t know what laid outside of your little nomadic tribe.

 Gritting teeth, leaning against a boulder, you gasped as pain shot through your leg. You were use to traveling with your tribe, carrying things for miles, but not running in constant fear into the vast unknown, perhaps miles away from any place that was safe.

 A low whine had cut you out of your thoughts, your head swerving around as a musky scent had now reached you. A fox was staring at you intently, licking his bottom lip as his hands clenched the boulder just ten feet away. Your own rabbit ears folded back in fear, yet his scent had sent yours screaming. Of course, your stupid inner omega was processing the idea of settling down in the tundra raising fox kits, but you weren’t having it.

 It was tempting to just lay down and rest, but not get bent over by the first stranger that you saw, especially one so wild looking and probably was more feral than your clansmen. You bolted. He gave a short yip of frustrated shock, and he chased.  

 This is what you had been fearing for your whole life. If it wasn’t in the back burner of your mind, it was the hungry looks that your clansmen shot your way, the way your parents were only interested in you as a future bargaining chip, and of course, the prospect of getting used by a stranger, and bearing unwanted kits.

 It upset you, and undoubtedly made your resolve to choose your own mate, even greater, if you wanted one, at this point. You didn’t know where you were going, all you knew was that in your fear, the scent had gotten closer, giving the fact that the arctic fox was practically nipping at your heels. You yipped in surprise as pain shot through your foot, after suddenly tripping over a branch, the ground closed in as you squeezed your eyes shut, feeling the impact of the fall hit your arms and side as you tumbled a little ways.

 It didn’t take you long to recuperate, as you scrambled backwards, fearing for the worst yet to come as your back had hit a solid trunk of a tree. Surprise had hit you, for the fox stopped dead in his tracks. Once a musky scent, was now flooded with dread as he stared onward behind you, and then back at you. As if making up his mind after a mental process, he growled in frustration as he let out one last angry yip, before running off.

 Relief had wafted to you, slightly, but you were left with more questions than answers. The tree of all things against your back, and the way the fox had fled in fear, motivated you to turn around. It was a forest, to your utter surprise and shock. Running in a blind panic, you weren’t aware of your surroundings, just the pure fear mixed in with your inner omegas snapping demands to breed, had made you rushed and unfocused.

 By the way the stretch of lush pines and firs, had the forest itself look so dark and intimidating. You had an inkling that the snow and cold, and possibly even sunlight, hadn’t reached within it’s mysterious depths, and it looked oddly inviting. You knew that the fox had fled for a reason, and that it was a stupid idea to even think of venturing inside, but you were out of options.  

  You didn’t want to freeze to death in the snow, after all. Steadying yourself up against the bare cedar you’ve bumped into, you took a step forward, wincing at the pain from your hurt ankle and sore legs. However, the lure of the possibility of safety, was more strong than your will to just lay down. Inching forward into the darkness, you let the trees within guide you. It was dark, at first, but of course, trees could only give only so much shade. Dim, was the more correct use of the word as you inched closer and deeper within the forest’s heart. Despite the atmosphere, the birds were singing to their heart’s content, as you could hear the sound of rushing water in the background somewhere.

 You jumped a little as your foot brushed up against something soft. Green, you couldn’t help but stare in awe at the little patches of grass and clovers littered across it’s floor. It was cold, yes, but not as cold as it was outside the fortress of trees. In what had seemed eerie and intimidating at first, now had filled you with an odd sense of serenity and calmness. The area around it had an odd, yet highly welcomed earthy smell with a splash of something sweet in which had you relaxed and sated the crawling of your heat.

 Why did the fox fear this place? It had seemed so safe. The hairs of the back of your neck had stood up as you stilled. It had took you longer to realize, that the forest’s unique scent, didn’t belong to the forest at all. Eyes widening in realization, your hands gripped the tree that you were leaning up against. Fate, so far, was kind to you, and although you didn’t want to push your luck, you were hopeless and out of options. Was it a bear? Even then, they usually didn’t let their scents be covered in trees like this. It was baffling, as well as a mystery to you, and you wanted to find out.

 Yet, exhaustion had finally taken it’s toll onto your weary body as you could feel your remaining strength just physically drain from you. Tired, hungry, scared, and hurt through the array of emotions, your body had decided that you were going to rest, whether you liked it or not. As you collapsed onto the forest floor, a shout of surprise echoed as your world turned into black.

…………………

 “-tch. Annoyin’ bunnies an’ their heats.” A huff of annoyance broke out into the silence. Once dark, life had filtered through your senses once again as the scent earlier, was the strongest here. Crackling of fire, warmth, and the scent had awakened you as you cracked open your eyelids.

 A house, you couldn’t help but wonder in awe. The fireplace had created a warm atmosphere against the darkened room, lighting up a place of comfort and furs from non-hybrids. You yourself, were in a bed, bandages were wrapped around your hurt ankle and arms as warm blankets had covered you. What had caught your attention most in the lit room, was the tall figure of a man stirring something within a kettle, back turned against you. What had surprised you most definitely, were the orange and black appendages that were his ears and long, swishing tail.

 A tiger? You had wondered. They were rare, here, and more rare if they were orange, those being in the east, not the north. Oddly enough, fear didn’t prickle you, but your heat, just stirring awake with you, had. If he wanted to hurt you, he would have, already, not literally save you from the cold and bandaged your wounds.

 Not wanting to startle him, you rustled a bit, letting the bed creak a little to get his attention. An ear of his flicked as he then turned around, giving you the full view of your mysterious stranger. Curious amber eyes, soft blonde hair, he wasn’t big, but he wasn’t slim, having a hefty amount of a belly fat on him, due to the winter. Years of work had shown on his shoulders, creating muscle mass as well as around his arms and upper chest. Only what has been covering him, was a loose pair of pants. You had to furiously mentally beat your heat and thoughts down with a stick as he then spoke.

“Ya look like a mess.”

 And there it was, the trickle of slick leaked out of you as your face burned with embarrassment and shame and you then covered your face with a downy pillow. A huff of surprised laughter at your expense made you peep out and give the best glare that you could manage, yet the stranger just gave you a grin.

 “I must say, yer lil’ reaction’s a bit different from a lotta other beings bein’ near a tiger. Name’s Taishiro.” To your utmost surprise, he let out a please little purr as he then turned back to the kettle. You gave him your name.

 “So, why is a lil’ thing like yerself doin’ out in the middle of here?” He pondered, as if he already knew the answer, but for conversation’s sake, you enlightened him, watching his tail swish with annoyance at your parents, and ears flickering with interest as you explored the forest.

 “What about you?” You turned to ask. His back stiffened a little, as if caught with surprise at the notion.

 “Came from the east, lookin’ for a new start in life away from my parents. I knew that a lotta others would fear me, but I didn’t know that they’d avoid a whole forest ‘cause of me,” He then took a wooden bowl and ladle, dipping the curved spoon into the bubbling stew as he continued.

 “-granted, I made some friends, even adopted some younglin’s. Strangers just usually don’t come ‘round here.” He finished, pouring the delicious smelling broth into the bowl, tucking a wooden spoon in it as he turned around.

 It was an odd atmosphere, and you were pretty sure that you weren’t dreaming, but for your sake, you went along with it.

“Are you lonely?” You asked bluntly. He froze, and then gave an indigenous huff as he set the bowl down at the table closest to you. Ears flattened and tail swishing, at first you thought that you made him angry, but he avoided your curious stare as he looked rather nervous.

 “Ye’re pretty wordy for somebody who jus’ woke up. Ya must be starvin’, here. T’s not much, but I figured that ya might be hungry.” He changed the subject as he gestured towards the bowl. Telling him your gratitude, you gripped it, lifted a spoonful of the soup, and took a sip. To your surprise, the sweet taste of carrots had mixed in heavenly with the starchy potatoes, crisp lettuce, and the slight bitter bite of spinach.

 “It’s delicious.” You admitted truthfully, not missing the way his ears picked up at the compliment.

 “Thanks to the trees blockin’ the cold, ‘s not hard to grow yer own food. I might be a predator, but I can live without meat.” He rambled, There was so much to say, and many questions left unanswered, but you knew that you were on borrowed time, until your natural cycle would bite back with a vengeance, later. He must have known it, too.

 “The worried look on yer face is a dead giveaway, Hon. I never housed somebody in heat, before, but don’tcha worry ‘bout it. Ya can stay here fer a while, seein’ that a hurt ankle might take longer to heal. I ‘ave some friends that I can stay with.” He rambled, but you looked at him with pure confusion.

 “You’re giving up your home temporarily? For a stranger?” You asked, baffled. At this, his tail swished, as if a little shy.

 “Temporarily. I don’t know what yer plans are in the future, but the forest doesn’t belong to me, ya can hang around an’ have yer own place, within the depths. I couldn’t just leave somebody there, sufferin’ and the brink of death, anyways.” He murmured lowly, but you could hear it clearly. Warmth that wasn’t heat, clouded into your chest at such kindness from the stranger. He was a stranger, yes, but you felt as if you could trust him fully, giving that his actions of helping you and not asking for anything in return, had screamed volumes.

 “Thank you, for everything.” You blurted out, and the corner of his lip twitched upward at your honest gratitude.

“Not a problem, Sweetheart.”

…………………….

 He knew the dangers of housing a slick, hot-blooded omega rabbit, of all beings, had included. What he didn’t expect, was the general bluntness and forwardness of the little thing. Not as timid or shy, but generally open and forward with emotions. Being in the early stages of heat, right now the bunny was coherent, but he knew that it would only last for so long before the true, ugly nature of one’s natural heat cycle, took over.

 “So, here’s what’s gonna happen, Hon. I’m going to stay far away. It’s fer your safety. I might prowl around my area and scent everything, keepin’ unwanted guests, away, but I’m not gonna barge in on yer privacy or be too close to the house.” He told you, laying out a plan. You nodded, setting the empty bowl aside as you listened closely.

 “-believe it or not, I know somebody who could bring ya rations an’ talk with ya after yer heat spells. He’s a dwarf rabbit, an’ already mated to somebody who I see as a son of mine. Since he’s an omega, like yerself, he should be more immune to yer smell. Green hair an’ freckles, can’t miss’im.” Taishiro explained, and you listened with interest, seeing that you weren’t truly alone in your being as well as dynamic.

 “Sorry that we won’t talk, much, but I thought that I’d best introduce myself ‘fore ya wake up alone and scared.”

 “I’m not scared.” You admitted, and he huffed.

 “Now, ye’re not, but if ya woke up alone an’ in a stranger’s house, ya would be.” He argued, and you let him win, seeing that you were too caught up in emotions, and just wanted to process everything. Noticing your state, he gave out a chuckle.

 “Alright, I’ll see ya later, when yer heat’s over. Ya kinda intrigue me, a lil’ bit, so I’m hopin’ that ya might stay, a lil’ while longer after yer heat.” As soon as he admitted it, his ears flattened with embarrassment as he huffed out a sigh, the apples of his cheeks reddening as he swiftly turned around, opening the door, closing it swiftly behind him.

 You bit your bottom lip. For an apex predator who was lethal as well as dangerous, he was almost as soft as a kitten, and you hoped that, at the very least, the two of you could be friends.

………………

  You were weak, you huffed, panting out hot air as one of your hands gripped the pillow, harshly. Usually, you didn’t have a face, or a body in your images as you tried your best to sate the flash of hot emptiness. It has always been nothing but hot and drowsy images of the blurred shapes of your pillow and furs in the past, leaving you unsatisfied and on the brink of frustrated tears.

 This time, you had kindle to feed that ever demanding fire of yours, licking sharply at the heels of your feet as you were on the brink of the edge. Smooth muscle, soft fat, warm amber irises, and that twinge of a smile, had pinned your focus. You felt guilty, but you couldn’t help it, nor could you think clearly of anything nor anybody else.

 He was so friendly and helpful to you, and here you were, ruining his bedding and furs with your slick, fingers deep within you, wrist hurting from the desperate climb, but no full relief avail. Your body couldn’t had waited, as soon as he left with that calming scent, a spike had hit you in where it had hurt, the empty ache shooting up in full demand.

 Where was this man? Your inner omega screamed, but you harshly shushed it, focusing on the edge, and how to clean the sheets, afterwords. In your blurred state, you knew that you had hardly knew him, but already, he was so far the perfect embodiment of what most beings had wanted in a partner. You admitted freely, that you were no different.

 Letting out a small squeak within the bitten pillow, harsh relief shot through you, as you clenched on your fingers desperately, your body trembling and tears pooling from the corners of your eyes at finally, finding a sudden rush of relief.

 You huffed, calming down from your euphoric high as you palmed your face against the pillow in which smelled exactly like him. You were in too deep, you couldn’t help but think, a little guilty for desecrating the hospitality by literally cumming onto his blankets with him in your mind.

……………………….

[clevercxs]

Believer - Sigefrid Thurgilson [Ch 2]

[MORE CHAPTERS]

Pairing: Sigefrid Thurgilson x female oc

Word Count: 6.8k

_______________________________________________

With dawn came an uneasy feeling of dread within the Saxon warrior. Her face, distorted with worry, belied her ethereal youthfulness. She seemed to have aged an entire decade in the day it took them to reach the fortress of Beamfleot.

Beads of cold sweat glistened upon her furrowed brows. Lady Blædswith found herself anxiously gnawing at the insides of her cheeks like some famished barn rodent - though it wasn’t out of hunger. She’d bitten her chapped lips until they were stained red like fresh blood upon newly fallen snow. Her fair skin was drained of all color except for the rosy hue beneath her windblown cheeks.

Dark rings had formed beneath her pale eyes causing her to look all the more ghostly. Once filled with such vigor and spirit, her irises were now dull; lifeless even, and heavy with exhaustion. Her body, bruised and broken from the trauma she’d endured, swayed achingly with the rhythm of Sigefrid’s steed beneath her. It was by the strength of Sigefrid’s arm alone that she managed to sit upright for the duration of their travels.

She was a lamb being led to the slaughter, or frankly something far worse for a woman to endure than death itself - the wrath of men.

Unlike a lamb, or cow for that matter, Lady Blædswith didn’t have the luxury of being blissfully unaware of what lied ahead.

For the first time in a long while she was completely and utterly defenseless. Above all else, she believed it to be the scariest, most unusual feeling she’d ever known.

And she hated every second of it.

A light mist began to fall from the sky awash with ominous shades of grey. The air was humid and smelled of a storm brewing in the near distance. Thick clouds of fog encompassed each horse and rider though they began to dissipate over time. An unmistakable roll of thunder rumbled through the damp earth causing the horses to feel uneasy once more.

Lady Blædswith firmly grasped handfuls of mane between her fingers and took as deep of a breath as her ribs would allow.

For the love of God, or gods, please don’t throw me off.

Barren trees shivered in the wind, their naked limbs often snapping beneath the weight of fleeing crows and squirrels alike. Eerie branches, gnarled and twisted, extended towards the band of Danes and their princess like the very hands of Skaði herself - the Pagan goddess of winter.

The shivering princess found herself retreating into the fur pelt draped over her shoulders for warmth. Sigefrid decided she’d suffered enough from the cold, though found himself growing fond of the way his grey fur looked beneath her dark, unruly curls.

Although Lady Blædswith was born and raised in Wessex, Sigefrid could see there was something different within her; something worth saving. He could sense a feral presence bound by chains that could never be tamed - not even by him.

Odin had dealt her a great hand, and she spat it back at him by defying all odds.

____________________ ➴  ____________________

The infamous fortress of Beamfleot was a rather grim sight to behold.

The surrounding field was brown with decay. Remnants of battles past lie scattered in the weeds; broken swords, cracked shields, dented helmets, and the occasional skull or two left inside said helmets.

Its cold, uninviting walls of aged wooden planks loomed high above the approaching Danes and stretched towards the gods. Stone watch towers encompassed by cages of sharpened wooden pikes protected archers keeping watch over the land; Sigefrid and Erik’s land.

Sigefrid led his fellow Danes along a narrow path and towards the main gates. “Lady Blædswith of Wessex. Welcome, to Beamfleot. Your new home... should you want it.” His dark eyes gleamed with mischief, the corners of his lips perking into a rather menacing smile.

Lady Blædswith shook her head with confusion. “I-I do not understand. I thought you intended to sell me for ransom? T-to my father?”

Sigefrid chuckled haughtily, “Oh, for a while I did.” He tightened his arm around her waist and pressed the entirety of her back against his firm chest causing her breath to hitch. “But then I grew to like your company.” She could feel every muscle in his core flex and constrict against her frame as he held her in place. Every part of her yearned to resist his warm touch yet she couldn’t bring herself to do so… and she couldn’t understand why.

“How could I join you?” Lady Blædswith scoffed and craned her neck to face the Dane whose arm encompassed her being. “I have experienced quite enough to know better.” She pressed the palm of her hand against her dried arrow wound as if recalling the incident all over again. “You must think me a fool!“ She twisted back around and purposely bumped her back into his chest.

“I do not-“ Sigefrid growled lowly.

“Then how can you possibly expect me to trust you so soon?”

Sigefrid’s nostrils flared and his lips pursed out of bitterness; his narrowed eyes seemed to burn with a newfound frustration despite the truth behind her words. “Very well.” He huffed. “Warriors join us by the day. With word of your... capture… there will be more; all waiting for war.”

“Against who?” She urged. “Mercia? Wessex? My father?” Both kingdoms, as far as she knew, had large armies of noble and courageous men… but the average Saxon warrior was no match for a Dane like Sigefrid Thurgilson. “Tell me.”

Sigefrid smiled wickedly from ear to ear and simply responded, “You have my thanks, Lady.”

As they grew nearer, a set of heavy gates were drawn open revealing the inside of Beamfleot. Lady Blædswith could hear Danes of all walks of life applauding their Lord’s fruitful return. Once through the gates and inside, Hæsten rode up beside them and nudged her boot with his own. She kicked him back, harder, causing him to curse beneath his breath.

With the sound of the gates closing behind her and locking in place, all hopes she had of escaping fell into a pit of despair; of defeat.

The two Danes proceeded to ride through the village, passing by mothers joyfully embracing their children and drunken men clinking horns of ale together.

“Lord.”

“Yes?” Sigefrid drew slowly out of exasperation. “Speak.”

“How does she feel? Warm?” Hæsten’s serpent tongue grazed over the bottom of his busted lip. His eyes dilated at the mere thought of his hands ravishing Lady Blædswith’s womanhood. He believed it to be what she deserved for not only being a Saxon, but publicly humiliating him and nearly taking his life in front of everyone.

“Rich, as she should.” Sigefrid leaned forward and firmly pressed his lips to the back of her hair, exchanging a sly grin with Hæsten before leaning back. “She is priceless.”

Lady Blædswith felt completely numb; frozen in time as the world around her faded to a blur. Danes began clawing at her legs once more and tugged at her clothes. No one knew of her identity thus far but some had their suspicions. It was clear she was of grave importance to their Lord, therefore she had a great value.

She remained stoic; her attention fixated on the large building up ahead with pits of seductive flames dancing in front of frostbitten Danes.

Hot tears streamed down her flushed cheeks yet she kept quiet; there was nothing she could say that would matter to anyone - assuming she could even get them to listen in the first place.

Lady Blædswith could feel each tear dripping from her chin and falling onto the dense fur around her neck, one she wished could shield her face from the dirty looks she received as Sigefrid paraded her around.

“I bring you King Alfred’s eldest daughter! I swear to the gods… that this prize will not be sold cheaply. There will be wealth and glory for every man here!” An uproar of cheering and laughter rang out from children of all ages, the elderly, returning warriors and even slaves who’d taken a break from their chores to gape in awe.

They hoped they would have an easier week ahead of them now that a new woman had been introduced, so they celebrated her capture without drawing too much attention to themselves.

Sigefrid marveled triumphantly at the celebration that had begun in his honor. He could hear his name being praised and chanted loud enough to be heard for miles, a sound he would never tire of.

After the crowd simmered down he was the first to dismount. His boots, upon doing so, struck the earth like the mighty hammer of Thor. He reached up and grabbed Lady Blædswith by her waist as best as he could without harming her with his hand-blade nor disrupting her broken ribs. It was a rather tedious task.

The Lord of Beamfleot decided it was worth the risk of impaling King Alfred’s daughter if it meant no other man would lie a hand on her.

By the hour he found himself increasingly selfish and greedy; hungry with lust and a burning desire of having a princess all to himself in the interim of negotiating a price for her release.

She carefully dismounted and found herself clinging to Sigefrid’s armor for support. The warmth of her hands seeped through his leather attire causing his breathing to hitch for a moment. His hand remained a constant upon her waist until she found her balance. They held each other’s gaze a moment too long before she cleared her throat. “I’m fine. You can let go, now.”

With a sigh, Sigefrid rolled his eyes and stepped back just in time for a friendlier face to arrive by his side. Whoever he was, he seemed to have missed the big announcement.

“Sigefrid? Who is this woman?”

“Erik!” Sigefrid clapped a hand to his brothers shoulder and brought him closer to see her. “This is King Alfred’s daughter.”

Erik’s lips formed an ‘o’ before he stepped even closer out of sheer curiosity.

When Lady Blædswith looked up she met a pair of gentle blue eyes underlined with kohl. He had a small, rounder face than Sigefrid decorated in thick scars and smudges of dirt. It seemed Erik had been kept rather busy in his brother’s absence. Below his button nose was a short, dirty-blonde beard bound by a single ring of silver. Similar to Sigefrid, his head was shaved at the sides and his hair was knotted into a short braid down his neck.

“How did you come across her?” Erik asked over his shoulder though quickly turned back when she answered for his brother.

“My men and I were ambushed on our way to Mercia. They were all slaughtered in cold blood and I was taken as a hostage.”

Erik’s brows furrowed as he gently caressed the side of her bruised cheek with the tops of his knuckles, retracting his hand after she winced in pain.

“She is unwell, brother. Who did this to her?”

Lady Blædswith looked around to see if anyone would try to stop her from confessing. When she looked to Sigefrid he averted his gaze and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Hæsten.” She croaked, “But Sigefrid stopped him before it was too late.” The mere mention of his name through her lips caused Sigefrid’s chest to constrict.

“Lady,” Erik took a step closer with his hands raised to show her he meant well, “I would like to see what Hæsten did to you.”

She scoffed. “You want me to undress, here, in front of everyone? In the cold?”

Erik nodded with a sigh, acknowledging the extent of his request.

“Are you mad?” She then turned to face Sigefrid. “Sigefrid you can’t let him-“

“I can, and I will. Take off your fur, Lady. Now. We want to see such a woman in all her beauty!” The eldest Thurgilson pressed firmly, asserting himself to the Saxon woman who so boldly spoke out against him.

Exhaling slowly, she allowed the fur to drape down her arms and pool at her wrists before falling to the ground. The back of her neck was scorching hot as hundreds of eyes watched her every move.

“I’d like that back.” The princess wore a long sleeved shirt beneath a leather vest tied in the back like a corset. Her chainmail armor had been torn to pieces and left in the clearing where she was ambushed.

“Now, your vest.” Sigefrid motioned with his blade.

Lady Blædswith slowly reached behind her to untie the laces of her vest but stopped halfway, wincing as pain coursed through her body. “Damn!” She hissed, “I can not.” Her hand tightly clutched her right shoulder as she cried out in pain. “I can not lift my arms high enough to do so.”

Erik’s brows furrowed with confusion. “Why is that?”

“Well,” She gulped dryly, “it would appear that I’ve been struck by a bloody arrow! So I will not be taking it off.”

“Then I will. Allow me to be of... assistance.” Hæsten cooed as he slithered past the Thurgilson brothers.

“No!” Sigefrid and Lady Blædswith shouted in unison, leaving Erik unable to determine who’d taken greater offense to Hæsten’s offer. It struck Erik that perhaps Lady Blædswith meant more to his brother than he’d let on.

“Leave us, Hæsten. Now.” Sigefrid dismissed.

Hæsten swore to himself once more and passed by Lady Blædswith, though stopped dead in his tracks after she grabbed his wrist. “You should have killed me when you had the chance.” She whispered by his ear. “One day I shall make you beg for mercy as I did. Only your Lord won’t be there to save you like he did with me.”

“Sigefrid needed you alive. He knew he couldn’t hump a corpse.” Hæsten sneered, only to be knocked off balance by her forehead slamming into his nose - causing it to break and ooze blood down his lips. Before he could raise his fist Erik grabbed him by the forearm and redirected the hostile Dane elsewhere. Hæsten brushed shoulders with the younger Thurgilson before searching for a slave to take his aggressions out on.

Lady Blædswith caught sight of Sigefrid with his bottom lip between his teeth, concealing a coy smirk of amusement as his chest shook with laughter. He ran a hand over his devilish beard before strolling towards her.

“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

The Dane shrugged. “Mmm….Maybe I did? Though Hæsten was right. I needed you alive.”

“So you could hump me, is that it?” She yanked him down to her eye level by the collar of his leather armor and narrowed her eyes. “You couldn’t handle me.” The princess hissed through gritted teeth and released him with a shove.

Sigefrid chuckled to himself after regaining his stance. “Oh? Is that right?” He’d caught onto the game she dared to play without realizing she’d awoken the beast within him. It was risky of her to challenge such a man of Sigefrid’s reputation, but she couldn’t help it. It was simply in her nature. After all, what had she to lose?

“It is. Besides, I would slit my own throat before bedding a Dane, especially you.”

Sigefrid laughed heartily, evoking Erik and the surrounding Danes to harmonize with him as they mocked the injured woman.

“I mean it. Lord or not, I don’t give a damn.”

“That is enough, Lady. Turn around.” She sighed and did as she was told, now facing Erik who passed her a subtle grin. Sigefrid began working the laces out of their knots until her vest fell open in his hands. Once it was discarded he tore the sleeve from her shirt to reveal the main source of her discomfort.

Sigefrid and Erik visibly cringed at the sight - and smell - of her wound seeing fresh air for the first time. She handled the pain better than Sigefrid expected she would, and by a long shot, her strong will to live had exceeded his expectations.

Lady Blædswith had the face of a beautiful Saxon woman... but the heart of a Dane.

“Sigefrid, if you value Hæsten’s life you will keep him away from me. I will not hesitate to defend myself against him. He still wishes me dead.”

Sigefrid narrowed his intimidating gaze into her eyes. He knew she was right; Hæsten, almost as much as himself, couldn’t keep away from the Saxon princess.

“I do not take orders from you, princess!” The dark haired Thurgilson growled. “You should be glad to still have your tongue.”

The sound of gravel crunching beneath the steady rhythm of boots caused them both to look up as Erik approached.

Heavier droplets of rain began to fall upon their heads as forbidding clouds lurked overhead causing some to retreat indoors for warmth.

“Enough, Sigefrid. We need to get her inside before she freezes to death.”

“Very well, Erik. She is coming with me.” Sigefrid roughly grasped onto the princess’s forearm.

“Wait!” Lady Blædswith shouted, tugging her arm free of Sigefrid’s calloused grip before pulling her torn shirt up and beneath her bra line for all to see. Dark, unpleasant blotches of purple and green had appeared overnight as the pain worsened. It looked - and felt - as if she had been kicked by a horse when both brothers knew the truth.

“You have broken ribs... Hæsten did this as well?” Erik frowned solemnly, receiving a nod from the princess as she covered herself up once more. Sigefrid took a rather possessive hold of her hand in his and squeezed it tightly to ensure she wouldn’t slip away.

“It will not happen again, Lady. You have my word.” The sincerity of Erik’s words was as refreshing as a cold drink on a hot summer day. However, she had to remind herself that he was no saint.

Erik Thurgilson was the lesser of two evils. Lady Blædswith couldn’t help but feel safer around him despite the fact that he was Sigefrid’s younger brother.

The princess mouthed a quiet thank you and passed the blonde Dane a frail smile before Sigefrid pulled her towards the Mead Hall.

“Sigefrid, you will not hurt her.” Erik demanded of his hot-headed brother whose mind was already made up. Lady Blædswith stumbled behind him in an attempt to keep up with his long stride to avoid being dragged through the mud.

“I will do as I please.” Sigefrid laughed with a smirk. Erik couldn’t help but shake his head in disapproval, now trailing behind to ensure no further harm came to King Alfred’s daughter.

“Try, and see what happens!” With a loud huff Lady Blædswith dug the heels of her boots into the dirt causing him to stop and face her. “Your hand won’t be the only thing missing from your body when I am through with you.” As their faces drew closer a single white cloud was formed from their sharp breaths intertwining. Suddenly she felt the pad of his thumb flicking over her bottom lip and resting upon her chin as he held her gaze.

“You have a sharp tongue, Lady.” Sigefrid snarled, his nose scrunching with vexation. She could feel the warmth of his breath upon her lips. “That will get you in trouble.”

“How fitting.” The princess muttered and swatted his hand away before he snatched it back it in his own. “That seems to be all I am good for lately.”

____________________ ➴  ____________________

A frigid breeze nipped away at her face and had crept beneath the tattered remains of her clothes, spreading across her skin as if she were trapped in the frozen realm of Nifelheim.

Her hands, tucked away in the cavities of her armpits, were painfully numb to the touch. Her pale lips had turned a bluish hue and her teeth chattered with the unsteady rhythm of her breathing. The nearest fire pit was just out of reach no matter how far she stretched her arm; it was close enough to tempt her like the Forbidden Fruit to Eve, yet remained unattainable despite her efforts.

Lady Blædswith fell heavy with exhaustion after frantically searching for a way out; a weak plank of wood, a loose nail… nothing. She had repeatedly thrown herself at the locked gate, crying out in frustration each time whilst doing more harm to herself than the filthy cage that confined her. Its rusty bars remained stationary yet they closed in on her all the same, and she couldn’t help but feel a sense of claustrophobia curdling within her.

A shroud of darkness had enveloped her broken wings, for Lady Blædswith was a flightless bird.

Occasionally she found peace by slipping into an unconscious state, only to be startled awake by ungodly booms of thunder or Danes clinking horns of ale along the metal bars. Even a brood of clucking chickens strutted past her, showing off their boundless freedom before Danish children chased them outside. Curious hounds sniffed around the princess from time to time, trying to determine whether or not she was to become their next meal, or perhaps just something to urinate on.

And by the smell of it, they chose the latter.

An overwhelming series of events had occurred in the mere day or so she’d been in the Thurgilson brothers’ possession. Evidently, the Saxon princess began to lose track of time.

How long had she been trapped here? For a few hours? Days? And how long had Sigefrid allowed his men to tease and taunt her whilst she lay curled in a ball, weeping as a small child would? Praying to her God who seemed to have turned a blind eye once and for all?

From beyond the shadowy gloom of the dimly lit hall came a tall silhouette carrying something. Lady Blædswith found herself scrambling to the furthest corner from the gate out of fear of her approacher’s intentions. When they stepped closer to the cage their face became visible beneath the chandelier hanging overhead, revealing it to be Erik Thurgilson with a fur pelt in his arms.

She had ill-heartedly anticipated it to be Hæsten returning for a helping of spiteful revenge.

“Are you ready to talk, Lady? I brought you something warm.” Erik gestured the fur towards her, receiving a frantic nod as she rose to her bare feet. Sigefrid had ushered everyone out of the hall and into the cold, barring the doors behind them. He then found himself drawn to her cage like a moth to candlelight, watching wearily as Erik retrieved a key from his pocket and opened the gate. He carefully set the fur down for Lady Blædswith before locking her in once more.

Collapsing to her knees with a gasping sigh of relief, the trembling princess wrapped the thick pelt over her body and curled into a ball, now teetering back and forth on her tailbone. Sigefrid and Erik pulled up a carved bench and made themselves comfortable for what they anticipated to take some time: interrogating the rogue daughter of King Alfred of Wessex.

“I shall t-tell you everything you wish to know,” She shivered, “b-but only if you release me from this wretched cage where I am to remain under your protection. I am not a damned chicken… This cage is rather small for a princess.” Lady Blædswith quirked a dark brow. She smirked ever so slightly and allowed her gaze to fall deep into Sigefrid’s lap, “I expected it to be… bigger.” She so crudely joked, catching both brothers by surprise at her sudden vulgarity.

Humor, of all things, seemed to keep her sane even through the worst of days.

Sigefrid’s eyes glimmered as he chuckled into the palm of his hand as he stroked the length of his sleek, raven beard.

“I like her.” Sigefrid cooed, turning to face his better half though his eyes remained glued to his Saxon prisoner.

“Perhaps too much.” Erik grinned teasingly, “Shall I leave, brother?”

Sigefrid shook his head and sighed. “No, stay.” He then directed his full attention to the princess. “I accept your terms, Lady. It is done.” He muttered, “You will be freed... And, you may be surprised how well such a cage would… suit your needs.” Sigefrid smirked devilishly at the witty Saxon, displaying teeth as sharp and frightening as knives. Her heart seemed to beat faster in a dizzying manner that her breathing could not keep up with.

How was he menacing yet alluring at the same time? How could she loathe such a man yet want nothing more than to be in his presence? To hear the low growl of his voice sent shivers down her spine in the most pleasant of ways. She craved the danger; the unpredictability of his Pagan nature. It was all so new and enticing to the Saxon woman whose recurring thoughts have been far from Holy. He was her enemy; her kidnapper. Sigefrid Thurgilson was a deviously charming Dane with an edge of mystery to his every whim. She believed if he had intended to do her harm, he would have done so already.

Her only dilemma was that she couldn’t bring herself to forgive him for Lunden… not now, anyways.

Sigefrid Thurgilson held the power to decide her fate; whether or not she lived or died — and how. He had chosen wisely thus far, and appeared to see Lady Blædswith in all her grandeur.

Erik Thurgilson spoke uncomfortably,, “I must be going-”

“No! Stay.” Lady Blædswith chirped. “I am ready to talk… But only to you, Erik. You have shown me a great kindness.” She directed at the blonde Thurgilson. “As for your brother… not so much. He is the reason I almost died at Hæsten’s hand.” She spat at him through the cage. “I will never forget that, Heathen.”

A loud stomp echoed throughout the hall as the floorboard beneath Sigefrid’s boot nearly cracked. “I am the reason you are still alive. Do not forget that.” Sigefrid leaned forward, pressing his elbow into his knees. He slowly unsheathed his hand-blade and sneered mockingly, “Christian.”

“Perhaps what my brother is trying to say is… we would greatly appreciate your... cooperation.” Erik grinned sheepishly as a low growl rumbled within his brother’s throat. “Where were you headed, Lady, with the king’s men? You said you were headed for Mercia when Sigefrid… found… you. Is this true?”

Lady Blædswith nodded with a troubled sigh. “Yes, it is true. I was headed North to visit my sister, Lady Æthelflæd. I traveled with my men; they were loyal to me, and to me only. And in return I led them to their deaths.” A light shudder rippled through her body as she fought the urge to dispel the meat they fed her earlier.

“To see the Queen of Mercia — yes. But why?” Sigefrid’s brows furrowed tightly together in uncertainty.

Lady Blædswith inhaled sharply. “I thought... we could be of use to each other. I sought her protection, and Mercia needs warriors with my skillset.” She feared she had already revealed too much, but there was no turning back now.

“You do not have King Alfred’s protection?” Erik frowned and rose to his feet, taking firm hold of a metal rod in each hand. He was unsure of what to make of her words.

Lady Blædswith chuckled and shook her head, wet strands of hair falling over her eyes, “No, no. Of course I do not. He is the one I sought protection from! For years I have drowned in my father’s politics but I have had enough!” She shouted angrily, causing both brothers to flinch ever so slightly. “I met suitor after suitor... they never stopped asking for my hand in marriage. Strange men; always foreign and often old enough to be my father…. or grandfather.” She could feel herself fighting back a sob brewing within her throat.

The Thurgilson brothers exchanged sour looks of disgust.

“I can not imagine what you have been through, Lady.” Erik soothed and leaned closer to her cage. “No father should force his daughter to wed, not even a King.”

Lady Blædswith smiled softly at Erik, though noticed the way Sigefrid had began glaring down at her. She felt almost obligated to explain herself, “I-I never loved any of my suitors — I couldn’t. I was always able to scare them away, and Alfred resented me for it. I humiliated him, time and time again, in front of numerous princes and lords… until one day he found a man most unafraid of my strong will…”

“What do you mean?” Sigefrid snapped resentfully. Erik could see a blazing pain of jealousy ignite within his brother. “Who is this man you speak of?”

“I am engaged to a Frenchman whose name I can hardly pronounce nor remember. He has…” She motioned to the top of her head, “...thinning, grey hair like a corpse! I have heard the servants’ whispers, and they say he is a cruel man. He hates women, especially women like me.” Lady Blædswith rose to her knees and crawled a few feet closer to the brothers, no longer apprehensive of their presence. “He remains in Wessex with my father but I doubt they will send scouts to find me. I may not be worth the trouble... But if they did, they will not succeed.”

“Your fiancé fears a woman so strong; so unafraid to will her own destiny.” Erik smiled and took a seat. “He sounds a cowardly prick. You deserve far better, Lady. A man who is your equal-”

“Silence your flattery, brother.” Sigefrid snapped with a harsh jab of his elbow into Erik’s arm. “Continue.”

She nodded and did as commanded,

“I told King Alfred of the rumors I heard but he did not believe me…. and God forbid I seek proof for myself - I knew better than that. The moment my own mother, Lady Aelswith, decided to support the marriage I knew there was no longer a life for me in Wessex. I no longer had allies; no loyal family left but in Mercia. One night, on a whim, I simply gathered my things and left with the few men I could gather…” She sighed heavily and allowed her shoulders to droop. “We later passed through Lunden and, well, you both know what happened next.”

The Mead Hall fell silent, only to be disturbed by the frantic pounding of fists upon the main doors and a voice asking for Lord Erik. “If you will excuse me,” He rose to his feet and slipped the key into his pocket instead of trusting it with Sigefrid; this did not go unnoticed by his brother nor the princess.

Although Lady Blædswith asked to be freed, and Sigefrid agreed to uphold her request, Erik knew she was safer behind bars where no Dane could harm her - not even Sigefrid or Hæsten.

Erik made his way through the doors and was virtually out of sight. Alone, in the wet darkness of the Mead hall sat a Saxon beauty and her beast.

“Why did you kill the man who shot me?” Lady Blædswith wasted no time in bluntly asking her most burning question. “You did not know who I was. I was but a Saxon woman, y-you’re enemy.” Crawling towards the gate, she rested the palms of her hands against a wooden plank.

“He acted on Hæsten’s orders, not mine nor Erik’s. It did not matter... whether or not I knew you were Alfred’s daughter.” Sigefrid looked up from his lap and appeared unusually calm; sympathetic, almost. “I have never seen a woman fight as you do, Lady Blædswith of Wessex. Not even a Danish shieldmaiden could compare. Sparing you... went against everything I stand for… everything!” He slammed his hand down on the bench beside him. “But you were worth saving.”

He then paused, glancing over his shoulder to ensure they were truly alone. “And I would do it again... without hesitation.” Sigefrid sighed in defeat, not wanting to accept the fact of the matter but it was true.

She was taken aback by his confession, unsure of what to say or do. Ever so carefully she reached above her head and took hold of metal bars, helping herself to her feet. The cage was barely tall enough for her to stand upright but she managed. “You still believe me to be worth saving even though I am in ruins?” She asked in disbelief and Sigefrid nodded.

She couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you for sparing my life, Lord. All day I have feared Beamfleot; you, Hæsten, Erik… and everyone else. But now I fear returning home, how foolish is that? Despite the unbearable conditions I have been kept in, here…. I would gladly choose it over the life my father has planned for me.”

With a grunt Sigefrid suddenly rose to his feet, turning away whilst repeatedly running a calloused hand over his face.

“You do not wish to sell me for ransom… do you?”

“I am… conflicted, Lady.” He turned around on the heels of his boots to face her, “As you are. I promised my men wealth and glory, but they do not see you are priceless.” Frustrated by the decision at hand, Sigefrid neared a long table set with platters of food and cups of ale, and with one big sweep of his arm sent dishes crashing to the floor with a loud yell. “Damnit!”

Now seething with sudden rage, Sigefrid abandoned the princess and strode towards the doors to find his brother, only to be stopped by her shouting, “Stop!”

As if compelled by the gods Sigefrid found himself immobilized a mere foot from the door. The princess sniffled beneath the pelt now draped over her head and wiped away tears from her cheeks. “Sigefrid you will not receive what you desire from King Alfred.” She confessed, knowingly signing her own death sentence.

She heard his loud boot steps approaching as he breathlessly snapped, “What? What do you mean, woman?”

“I mean you have the wrong daughter!” She sobbed, watching as the Dane before her grew increasingly hostile and agitated by her words. “I was never his favorite child, never! He cared for me once but my constant defiance has shamed him beyond repair. Why would a king pay a fortune for a disobedient princess whom he no longer loves? He does not value me as a skilled warrior like you do, I am simply a pawn. If and when he negotiates a price… you will not be satisfied with it.”

“Are you saying I should have killed you in the woods?”

“No! And I am grateful you did not. I thank… I thank the gods that you see some greater value in me than my own father, b-because at least I-I know I matter to someone.” The princess choked on her own tears and displayed her aching heart on her chest. “For better or for worse, I matter to you.”

“You speak often of my gods.” Sigefrid folded his arms over his chest and began walking in a circle around her cage. “Have you lost faith in your God?”

She squeezed her ocean eyes shut and nodded, fishing down the collar of her shirt for the wooden cross hung around her neck. She took it in her hand and yanked the necklace from her person. “He has ignored my prayers for longer than I can remember. He turned my own family against me… my own kingdom. I prayed to Him before I fought Hæsten… and I lost miserably.” She gently laid the broken necklace on the floor before spitting on it. “I could never bring myself to denounce Him, but I feel I may soon. Meeting you has been the ultimate test of my faith, Lord.”

Heaven lost an angel the day Princess Blædswith met Sigefrid Thurgilson.

When she opened her eyes she saw that Sigefrid had reclaimed his place on the bench, nursing his hand-blade, slowly working the buckles to relieve his discomfort.

“Who did that to you?”

Sigefrid glared up at her for daring to ask when he assumed she knew. “Your Lord, Uhtred.” Sigefrid groaned, struggling to free his stump from the gnarly contraption.

“I am… sorry he did that to you. I hope it brings you peace knowing I no longer serve Uhtred Ragnarsson.”

“Oh?” He disregarded the buckles on his hand and allowed it to rest upon his knee. “Who do you serve, Lady?”

She scoffed with a smile and leaned her back against the bars, “I serve myself, as hard as it may be to believe. All men who have tried before have failed. For a short while I was sworn to Uhtred of Bebbanburg. I fought by his side and loved every moment of it.”

“Why did you stop?”

“Well, it was not up to me. King Alfred welcomed the idea of his daughters learning to protect themselves. Growing up, Æthelflæd and I trained with the captain of my family’s guards, a man named Steapa. Unlike my sister who was married off to a pig’s ass named Æthelred-”

“-A pig’s ass!” Sigefrid shouted with amusement. “How fitting.”

“He is but a shit stain upon my boot as I have come to know. I fear no man, but he… he is no man.”

“Will you tell me about him?”

“I shall, another time.” She grinned and continued her story, “I pursued my skills in fighting, and once I was good enough Uhtred gladly took me under his wing despite my father’s wishes. Uhtred taught me that not all Danes are cruel and merciless. I am hoping that to be true of yourself and Erik. He seems a kind man.”

Sigefrid nodded in response to her compliment. “He is a good man. I would be lost without his head.”

“I have no doubt.” She teased with a mournful grin. “I wish I could say the same for my father - that he is a good man. It was not easy for Uhtred to let me go but he was ordered by King Alfred to do so. He took away everything I had; my freedom, my happiness. I lost not only my own blood, but Uhtred and his men. I was suddenly… alone.” She glanced at Sigefrid through eyes blurred with tears. “My sister is all I have left. God forbid she turns on me, too. I am not sure what I would do.”

“What are you prepared to do?” Sigefrid cocked his head to the side and attempted to decipher her words. “Are you prepared to kill your own sister? A queen?”

“Is that what you would like me to do?” She scoffed. “Would you kill Erik? Your brother? Surely not.” Lady Blædswith challenged, not able to help herself from feeling defensive over Lady Æthelflæd’s life. The entire hall fell silent except for the sound of rain falling in sheets upon the roof. Sigefrid shifted uneasily in his seat and allowed for his head to hang below his shoulders.

“I… would be lost without Erik.” He repeated quietly, craning his neck to nod at her before returning his undivided attention to the screwy buckles on his hand-blade.

Fascinated by Sigefrid’s troubling efforts the princess blurted, “May I see it? Your hand?”

Sigefrid’s face hardened with shame and distrust. “No.” He hissed and turned away from her like a stubborn child refusing his vegetable dinner. “You may not.”

She took a calming breath and knelt before the gate. “I can take it off and help soothe your pain-”

“Why would you want to help me, woman?” He continued to fumble with the buckles though frustration clouded his focus.

“Well… I’m sure Uhtred had his reasons but no man deserves that. Not a Dane, not even my father.” She rolled her eyes. “Well, maybe my father.”

Sigefrid paused with a grin, and looked up though his gaze refused to find the Saxon woman kneeling before him. “Not even a Dane holding you hostage?”

She gulped dryly and shook her head. “No, not even him.” Her eyes met his longing gaze and the world seemed to stop spinning; the heavy downpour even ceased to fall. “I will not hurt you, Sigefrid. I could not bring myself to.”

Sigefrid contemplated whether or not to expose to her his blessèd curse of an arm; his most loathsome insecurity that had only damned the eyes of his dearest brother. Would she see him as less of a man? Weak; vulnerable, even? The Lord of Chaos decided he was willing to let his guard down as she had done. Perhaps the gentle touch of a woman was all he needed. Though it may not ease his pain entirely, it would surely lift his spirits and remind him why he initially spared her life. He took great pleasure in her company, though not without dreading what was to come of her and his decisions left unmade. With a definitive nod he agreed,

“Very well.”

_______________________________________________

Author’s Note: This was more of a filler/informational chapter regarding *some* of Lady Blædswith’s background. I promise chapters 3+ will be more action packed. I hope this chapter was worth the wait! ;)

(FYI, reading all of Sigefrid’s lines in his voice makes it 10x better)

TAGS: @finantheagile​ @inforapound​ @cheapcakeripper​ @wildwren​ @metall-and-dust​ @onesaltyhunter​ @wessexcrown​ @destinysall​ @lauwrite1225​ @lumxnously​  Feel free to ask to be added to the tag list xx

[mikahorror]

another old story, sorry. this one was published in a short story anthology called Screech: A Collection of paranormal Stories (i had to go wayyy back to to this post bc i’m not searching through a ton of boxes for that book lol) but the publisher no longer exists so i think it’s okay to post this here. 

This was my first horror story and I only edited a few words here & there, so keep that in mind 😬

Aniyah Burke’s slippered footsteps were muffled as she walked the carpeted hallways of her new home. A two story mansion left by a grandmother she’d spoken to only by letter and in hazy memories from childhood of conversations in a kitchen that smelled of herbs. Of cookies, and incense. That same kitchen felt cold now. It held a heaviness that could only be left behind by sudden emptiness. Now silence reigned, darkness drew back from the sun’s rays but gathered its strength in corners daylight couldn’t reach. All that remained then was the waiting. Aniyah stopped her wandering to find she stood before a door she’d kept locked for weeks. Weeks of time marked by the only working clock; a loud jolting noise that rattled her bones wherever she was. She heard it when she visited the town. She heard it when she was miles away lost in the noise of the city. Until she confined herself within the walls of this family gift. Waiting for the thundering ring. For the voice. For….

“Aniyah. I am here.”

A voice that sung of wilderness unchecked. Paid no heed to self-important boundaries of the mundane. A voice that has called to all who stood within these walls. That now calls to her, reaching inside to tease the locks of her mind.

Her hand turned the knob though her mind tried to reject her actions. Her eyes were blind, blinking as if that could dispel the darkness as she crossed the room to stand before it’s only window. She drew back the dark red, silk drapes to see him. A wolf made of shadow and smoke that moved between trees on the same winter breeze that blew away what remained of their leaves. His eyes had filled her dreams. Eyes holding the richest browns; flowing from light to dark with just a turn of his head. Her eyes.

“And you will wait. Out there. Until I’m too feeble to turn you away.”

His laugh was brittle, sadness laced with wariness. It sent a rush of cold over Aniyah. She tried to fight the shiver that ran down her spine, making her stomach cramp and toes curl. Through the tears that sprang to her eyes, Aniyah saw him move closer. He left no footprints in the steadily building snow. Not a single blade of grass noted his passing but his presence filled the space between them. 

“Then I will wait.” Images of his curved fangs flashed through Aniyah’s mind. “I have waited before. Waited for them to bring you here.”

“My grandmother didn’t bring me here for you.”

None of her letters had mentioned a spirit of the woods. Even in the last letters when she revealed the depth of her craft. His nearness made her senses tingle. A disorienting nearness that made Aniyah press her hand against the window pane to remind herself she was still within the house.

His response was a thoughtful, drawn out, “No.”

She looked up and met his gaze across the backyard that stretched on for another mile.

“But you are here, with me. Our magic together again.”

Aniyah closed the drapes and ran from the room. She couldn’t hear through the pounding in her ears. Her chest ached and her throat burned as her lungs tried to take in enough air. Aniyah found herself in her grandmother’s bedroom where the protective warmth of her magic remained the strongest. The light of her spirit, her work, gave Aniyah hope. Someone had removed her grandmother’s altar, sanitized her room of any ritual work, long before Aniyah’s arrival but it was here she felt the most protected. Where she’d come since he first showed himself to her. Falling onto the bed, she waited with her face buried in the comforter. Waited for the clock to chime again, when the door between them would be closed. But this time he didn’t leave. Didn’t accept her dismissal.

“I have waited through generations.”

Aniyah prayed fervently for the clock to chime. Her hands clenched.

“I will wait until the seasons bring a form you will accept.”

Aniyah let out a shuddering gasp and, finally, the clock chimed.

.

.

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[alolowrites]

Cuddling Through the Seasons

Summary: Fatgum’s cuddles never go out of season

Author’s Note: This is my third story for the @bnhabookclub​’s Hero Camp Bingo event. This was also a request from @bnha-homeroom​ (sorry it took so long!) 

The prompt used was Cuddles and this is my first story for Fatgum. Hopefully I’ll do more stories for this guy because he’s deserves the best. 

Enjoy!

Word Count: 1.6K+

Spring

High in the sky rests the glorious bright sun. It’s golden rays shine through the vibrant pink flowers blooming on every tree, emphasizing their natural beauty. Two birds playfully chase each other in between the branches, their lovely chirps in harmony with the soothing sounds of the gentle stream below—Mother Nature is simply a lady with many hidden talents.

Although the grass maintains a healthy green coat, it too is covered by fresh cherry blossom petals blown off the trees—it adds a beautiful pop to the land. Few people arrive and wander through the peaceful park. Some snap a couple of pictures on their phones, their bodies bent in odd angles to capture that perfect Instagram-worthy shot. Others silently take in the whole scenery with their eyes and save the mental image deep in their memory jar—that’s how you are enjoying today with Taishiro.

Both of you sit under a tree that is different from the others; it’s branches are abundant, and some hang charmingly over the water. A quick wind blows through the park, tugging the delicate petals until one slowly falls to the stream. Everything is serene, almost like an abstract landscape painting on display at an art museum.

Closing your eyes, you sink in deeper into Taishiro’s plump chest. A relaxed sigh escapes his lips as you enjoy your massive pillow. His large arms wrap around you like a snuggly safety belt—they are protective and warm. Your fingers affectionately glide up and down his sweater to the beat of the stream. You hum, “Everything is so beautiful.”

Taishiro leans back on the thick tree trunk and glances at you; he cheekily grins, “That’s ‘cause you’re here, darlin’. The cherry blossoms are a nice touch, though.”

You roll your eyes, “You’re such a cheesy guy, you know that?”

“Yeah, but that’s what you love ‘bout me.”

“That is very true,” you playfully tap his arm, smirking up at him. Another cherry blossom falls and lands on top of your head. Taishiro raises on hand to carefully pluck it off your hair and holds it high against the sunlight. The flower is so soft and just the right shade of pink. He thinks it’s perfect, just like you.

Taishiro shows the sakura petal to you, “Here’s a little present.”

Your heart swells, a tiny blush dusting your cheeks as you reach for the flower. You take a whiff of the sweet aroma and lean back against your living pillow. Squeezing the hero’s hand, you look up to flash him a faint smile, “Thank you.”

You never let go of the cherry blossom petal.

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

Summer

Far in the distance lies the vast calm sea. Ocean waves creep steadily toward the fine white sand, kissing the land hello before returning outward. Light puffy clouds float along the peaceful cerulean sky, morphing into different images at the hands of your wild imagination. It’s a fun way to pass the time and relax the mind.

You inhale the fresh, natural air—it smells like freedom. The city’s chaotic and bustling streets are an afterthought. The prying eyes of paparazzi and other media hounds are thousands of miles away from your paradise home. The avalanche stress tied with Taishiro’s hero lifestyle vanishes when the two of you step on the warm sand.

“Whatcha’ thinkin’ about, darlin’?” His voice is loud but soothing at the same time. You feel the gigantic teddy bear stand behind you. It wasn’t long until Taishiro traps you into his loving embrace, giving you a quick squeeze. Your toes wiggle into the smooth sand as a sharp wind whistles by; the waves hear it and crash against the shoreline.

“How a place like this,” you nod toward the dancing water, “somehow exists. It’s almost as if I’m dreaming—” You yelp at the slight pinch, and Taishiro roars with laughter. You crane your neck up to glare at him, “What was that for?”

“Well you’re not dreamin’, that’s for sure.” You elbow into his stomach knowing entirely well it did not phase him at all. Taishiro retaliates by hugging you harder, enjoying the delightful squeals ringing into the semi-deserted beach. Other tourists linger around, but the land is so spacious that you barely see them. It’s easy to think you two are alone with all the privacy in the world, an idea that doesn’t exist back at home—a small price to pay while being a pro hero.

In a way, Taishiro is glad this moment is not a dream. It won’t fade away once he wakes up, but will stay in his memory for a long time. Just as you calm down, a mischievous grin crosses the hero’s lips, and his grip tightens around your waist. You had a bad feeling about this and clenched his hands, “Hey…what are you doing—”

“Hold on!”

“Don’t you dare!”

Your words fall on deaf ears as he effortlessly carries you in his arms and charges toward the sea that is waiting to greet you both.

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

Autumn

Bright yellow lanterns glow above the narrow streets, gently swaying back and forth without a care in the world. Luscious pampas grass decorate the roofs, the creamy-white feathery plumes waving hello to everyone passing through the area. A chubby hand reaches upward; the baby is determined to grab the mesmerizing fluffy grass until something else catches their eye.

An elegant pyramid of tsukimi dango neatly sits on a black plate. There are fifteen white dumplings, each perfectly round and white as the precious moon gleaming tonight. A crowd grows around the delicious display, making it nearly impossible to squeeze through the sardine bodies. Fortunately, the group departs when they see Fatgum approaching with his hearty smile, and you follow closely behind—sometimes being a hero has its perks.

Taishiro greets everyone until a middle-aged man freaks out from his stall, “It’s an honor to meet you, Fatgum! Thank you for keeping our streets safe!”

“It’s no problem really—”

“Please take these dumplings! They’re on the house!”

Taishiro gives you a side-glance, and you shrug. Who were you to deny some free food, especially if they are those moon-like dumplings? You grab the plate from the man’s trembling hands and bow. The hero safely guides you away from the crowd and spots an empty grass field. Plopping down, you dramatically groan, “That was so much walking!”

“Sorry, darlin’! Guess I got a lil carried away,” he chuckles while scratching his forehead. Taishiro takes a seat behind you.  

“I think that’s an understatement, but,” you gleefully raise the plate that barely reached his eyes, “we got free dumplings!”

“They do look good,” Taishiro hums and takes one round treat. You plop the tsukimi dango in your mouth, the rice flavor surprisingly strong, yet pleasing to your tastebuds—it’s a chewy delight. The pyramid crumbles in seconds, and you scoot back to rest your head against the gentle giant; out of instinct, he cradles you in his arms.

A chilly air blows by and makes you shiver despite wearing a cashmere sweater. Taishiro notices and shifts his posture to shield you from the cold—a small act that melts your heart every time. You gaze at the luminous moon until your eyes struggle to stay awake; it doesn’t help that Taishiro feels like all toasty like a fleece blanket.  

It definitely was all that walking, and you yawn before dozing off in his arms.

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

Winter

Snow showers rain down on your quiet neighborhood. The bare tree branches scoff at the fluffy cotton balls falling from the sky; they barely weighed more than a feather. An hour later, the branches are slouching under the heavyweight and weeping for mercy—but the snow never stops.  

A thin white blanket hides the dull, gray streets and vibrant decorations flourish to their heart’s content. Tiny bells chime once Jack Frost blows a chilly wind down the sidewalks. Thick garlands covered in elegant ribbons stretch for miles on some apartment balconies. And others hung colorful Christmas lights that flicker to a very jolly tune.

In a way, the snow ties everything together to bring out the pleasant holiday mood—it’s simply magical. Two pairs of footsteps, one small like a mouse and the other the size of a giant, imprint themselves on the powdery sidewalk. You waddle toward the apartment with arms bundled around yourself; you’re craving for something warm. Any minute longer outside and your legs will permanently turn into icicles.

“O-open t-the do-or, p-please,” you chatter through your teeth while bouncing nonstop. Taishiro chuckles and you glare at him, making his grin widen more. You barge in once he unlocks the door and dust off the snow on your coat. Hasty footsteps rush to the kitchen so you could warm the teapot as quickly as possible.  

Taishiro shakes his head—you quickly get cold. He relaxes on the couch, not bothering to change out of his Santa costume; if anything, the clothes are comfortable and roomy. You wander into the living room and shiver up a storm. A gloved hand beckons for you, “Come over here, darlin’.”  

Shuffling toward the mellow hero, he pulls you on top of him. Without hesitation, his arm wraps around you to keep you steady. One ear sits above his chest, and you focus on the faint sound of his heartbeat. Not even the Santa costume could mask Taishiro’s alluring honeydew scent, which drives you crazy. You contently sigh, “You made so many kids smile today, hun.”

“I’m glad,” he answers while stroking your hair, “Those kids at the hospital deserve all the happiness in the world, ya’ know?”

“Yeah…” A finger lazily draws out imaginary lines along Taishiro’s red velvet coat. An involuntary shiver runs down his spine. Only your charming touches could make him react like this, and he savors them all. You raise your head and squirm closer to the hero’s face. With loving eyes, you whisper, “You make a fantastic Santa Claus.”

“Fantastic enough to get a kiss from Mrs. Claus?”

“Sure,” you giggle and pull down his fake white beard. As you plant a sweet kiss on his lips, you decide that you no longer needed that nice hot cup of tea.

Third prompt is crossed off. Which one will be next? Stay tune! Thank you for reading!

Previous prompt: Betrayal

Hero Camp Bingo Masterlist

[vaire-gwir]

Some Cat and Wolf fanfic I had in mind pt.6

Or: I lost a Friend on ao3.

I really can’t let this one go, every time I’m ready to resign myself to the fact that I won’t finish it, I have to write another chapter. 

It’s winter again, and for the first time in a while, Lambert dreads the coming of spring. He refuses to go to Kaer Morhen cause he knows he won’t find peace there, so he decides to remain south. Eskel being the good and worried brother he is, finds him eventually. I wanted the reunion to be so much better than this, but I can’t seem to write anything happy lately. 

Be kind, english is not my first language and there’s a reason why this blog is called fillingless pie, keep that in mind. 

****

Lambert was passing through Velen when he decided he was not heading north. 

Something about this place gives him the chills. He's never been here with Aiden, they spent plenty of time in Novigrad and Oxenfurt, but they purposely avoided stopping in Velen, mostly because no one was paying them enough to face ghouls, mercenaries, and religious fanatics all at the same time. 

The stained statues, dripping with fresh blood and caked with the remnants of old sacrifices, creep him out. Their empty eyes seem to follow him around, everywhere he looks there's a shrine or a wooden sculpture of some kind, and he can feel their silent judgment. 

Lambert has never been religious, not before being a Witcher and not after, especially not after. If there were Gods, it's hard to accept they grant powers to certain people only to have them play with formulas and tweak mutagens until they could create a bunch of monsters to hunt other monsters. How did the Gods allow things like Witchers to happen?

A long time ago Aiden told him he didn't believe in the Gods because they're a useless device to instill fear, they demand sacrifices and tributes but do nothing when it comes to helping a miserable bastard out. They turn a blind eye to starving communities while rich Lords thrive and get wealthier by the day. 

<i>So much for justice, right? We're told to not anger them, but no matter how hard folks try, they still never answer people's prayers: I've heard poor farmers begging for their fields to be fruitful, and yet all they got was a scorched square of land and starved, I've listened to innocent mothers pleading for their children's lives and yet they had to bury them, I caught children praying for their father to return from the war and all they got was a bloodied sword in his stead. 

If the Gods were listening, they wouldn't allow that, don't you think? If they allow all this to happen, either they don't care about us or they're not really there. I'd rather believe they're not there. </i>

The icy wind howling between the trees surprises the Witcher and tears him from his dark thoughts as he instinctively pulls his cloak tighter. Lambert hadn't noticed how winter silently crept up to him, soon everything will be blanketed in snow, and he should have made its way up to Kaer Morhen weeks ago to retreat to the old keep and wait for spring. 

For the first time in a long while he dreaded the coming of spring. He had nothing to wait for this year, spring sounded as lonely as summer, as sad as fall, and as bitter as winter.

And now it was too late, he told himself, the passes would already be covered in snow and it was too dangerous to climb up the Killer in this weather, it was a treacherous path even in summer. It was a pointless risk to take considering that he could find half-decent work pretty much everywhere, he told himself it all depended on how picky he was. 

And if he's lying, well, no one is here to call him out. 

Because truth is, Lambert doesn't want to go home this year, home is gone and stone walls are no different than the bricks and rocks of any other village. 

He won't find comfort or safety in Kaer Morhen, there's nothing he can do there besides chasing shadows around every corner. He's not bringing another ghost to the party, the old castle is already too full of them. 

Home was just a word. Somewhere to let his guard down and stop feeling like he was constantly out of place. It was acceptance, understanding, safety. It was the chance to feel something else besides anger and disappointment. 

Home was that room at the inn north of Kaedwen where Aiden waited for him at the beginning of every spring, the first time they met there, as soon as Lambert picked up the trail of Aiden's scent his heart started beating so fast he was worried everyone else could hear it and by the time he got to the front door his hands were shaking like a blushing maid. 

He felt so stupid and happy and relieved to meet his lover again, he almost couldn't believe Aiden came all the way there for him. 

 Home was that clearing in the forest out of Redania where they spent the night huddled on the same bedroll after they were kicked out of a tavern, a petty argument turned into foul words and by the time they were forced to leave Lambert had never seen Aiden so annoyed and upset. 

Anger was his thing, it looked out of place in his green eyes. Lambert wanted so bad to go back and set the whole place on fire on principle, cause they don't deserve it, they didn't do anything wrong, and he would have done so, consequences be damned. 

But Aiden said that people rarely get what they deserve and curled up on his side, burying his nose in the crook of his neck and asking Lambert to stay. Suddenly nothing was more important than holding him close.

Home was the empty house by the river where they fucked until sunrise, the cave where he told Aiden he loved him for the first time, the room at the palace in Beauclair where he was so jealous he almost screwed up but Aiden forgave him anyway. That was home, Aiden was home. 

But Aiden was gone. Spending the winter between forgotten walls and frozen gardens is no different than spending it anywhere else if you don't care for the coming of spring. 

And he has no way to explain to his brothers what has happened. He’s not going to face his makeshift family knowing they’ll smell the stench of despair right off of him miles before he reaches the keep. He'll have to tell them what happened, there will be questions on their lips, and he doesn't have any answers. 

The wasteland surrounding him seems to reflect his mood so well, possibly because he has a different understanding of emptiness now: it's not only in the absence of things that were there, it's also in the impossibility to go back to a previous state, as if the shape of what's missing was still occupying an invisible place, so it's not truly empty, it's full of the shadows of those things that are gone. 

And maybe going back is not the point.

Spring is not as alluring and promising as it was before, the rain is not refreshing, the sun less warm, the shadows are always stretching long in front of him, they don't offer relief but only fear. 

But it was not spring that was alluring and promising, it was the chance to see Aiden again that beckoned him out of the keep, to kiss him, to tell him any stupid thing that crossed his mind, or just to sit in silence. 

The rain is still the same, but it won't cling to Aiden's eyelashes anymore, it won't fall on his face, it won't trace imaginary patterns on his shirt when it drips from his curls. 

The sun is still as warm as before, but its bright rays won't dance on Aiden's skin in the morning mist while they're sleeping, and it all seems a bit pointless now if he can't have it with Aiden. 

Lambert doesn't find it fair that nothing on the outside has changed. His whole world collapsed and he almost expected the real world to start crumbling too. 

Nothing will change in two weeks or in two months, it's not a new season that will make him whole. Days are still slipping from his hands, and nights are filled with the same nightmares he had months ago. He'll still be empty and lonely in spring, just like he was in winter, just like this scorched earth has always been. 

Before meeting Aiden he had always lived life like that, without holding any expectations or hope, accepting things as they were, his only defense against the world was his anger. But he's not the same person he was before, much like a snake that sheds its skin can't wear the old one again no matter how much it misses it. 

No, he won't go to Kaer Morhen this time. Every inn, every tavern, every empty house can be almost like home, cause when it's dark and he's weary and he can't bother to scrape monster's blood off of his skin, he can pretend that Aiden is getting food downstairs and he’ll be back in a few minutes, he's talking with their employer, burning a body, getting supplies, he'll be back, he just has to wait and behave. 

And when the illusion holds, he can breathe easy again for a few minutes, cause he knows he’ll wait until the end of times if it means he gets to see bright green eyes and a cheeky grin emerging from the doorway. 

It's not a permanent solution, but he lives by the rule of whatever helps you sleep at night, one more lie won't make any difference. 

It's exhausting, searching for Aiden's face in every single person he sees, but that doesn't mean he knows how to stop doing it. Just like he doesn't know how to stop seeing the damn cats. 

All of a sudden there's an abundance of felines everywhere he goes, nobody owns them, nobody sees them, but even in the middle of all this ruin, he has seen a gray cat jumping out of the rubbles. Its green eyes seemed almost out of place, too bright, too full of life, too clear. Beautiful things don't belong to ruin, almost in the same way Aiden didn't belong to him. 

The cats will follow him all the way to Kaer Morhen, his madness will chase him wherever he goes. 

He can already imagine the peaceful, repetitive life of the winter days at the old fort disrupted by his silent confrontation with a nonexistent cat, and his brother, his perfectly sane and normal brothers, as normal as they can be, even Geralt's bard, and Vesemir, all watching him while he trails after an invisible animal.

That would be something to explain. 

Lambert is still carrying Aiden's medallion with him, he can't bring himself to leave it behind after all this time. 

  He vowed he was going to burn it, throw it in a river, bury it in the middle of a nameless forest, but it's still in his pocket, the weight of it anchoring him to reality when he's drifting through the nightmares. It doesn't burn as much as before, or maybe he's familiar with that slight physical pain by now. 

Some things are easier than others to get used to. Loss is not one of those things. 

And if the Wolf wasn't so lost in his own thoughts, he'd notice the pack of ghouls moving in circles around the ruins of what once was a village, but his mind is not keeping up with his body, it's still focused on the gray cat amidst the ruins, and the creatures pounce before he can even figure out they're there. 

Rookie mistake. 

***

In the end, it’s Eskel that finds him in spring. 

Lambert is investigating a shipwreck along the Pontar river, near Ban Ard, the fourth in a month. He's sure it's sirens he's dealing with, but he hasn't found a single clue yet. 

The first rays of dawn greet him on his spot at the end of the bay and the first thing he can think of is that Aiden would have liked it here. He clenches his fists so tight that the dark leather creaks audibly, frustration and disappointment settling in his veins like a snake. 

Maybe that's why his mood is darker than usual, a sleepless night out on the shore in the middle of winter will do that to anyone. 

Maybe it's because he's not eager to go back to the inn, the maid swore they never let any animals in, and yet there was a ginger cat on the windowsill of his room when he entered and his stomach flipped every time its green eyes moved in his direction. 

It's the same maid that greets him when he gets back to the inn, she's tending to the animals as she say "there's another one" when she sees him, "I sent him upstairs, he said he knows you? I figured...well, I don't want to get in trouble."

Lambert stares at the entrance puzzled: it's a bit too early for Witchers to be this south. He used to be the first to leave the keep as soon as the snow melted, the others always stayed a bit longer. Unless it's not a Wolf. 

He doesn't know many other Witchers that well though, he has vague memories of his brief encounter with the Caravan, he has seen a Bear in Kaer Morhen a couple of times, and once while they were out on a hunt he saw Eskel talking to a Viper. He wouldn't say he knows any of them.

As he walks through the tavern, a familiar scent finds his way into his senses: beneath the leather and the steel he can smell amber, and sandalwood, with a hint of something raw, welcoming, citrus and apples, it's a warm scent, one he knows very well, he used to wake up to that scent on his pillows. 

Eskel always smells inviting to him, like sitting at the table when you're hungry or waiting for a cake to come out of the oven. 

How weird, the only two people he ever loved in his life were nothing alike: Aiden smelled like the sea, or the crisp clean blankets drying in the first rays of summer, fresh, spicy, promising, tempting. Eskel was comfort and quiet, reassurance and furs that have been left to warm by the fire draped over the bed. 

 He stops in front of the door, unsure, for too long. His mind is having a hard time figuring out why Eskel is here, did he happen to pass by, why is he not in Kaer Morhen, what if something happened...

The door opens not even a minute later, and a blur of red and black armor surrounds him distracting him from the questions crowding in his mind. He finds himself enveloped in a tight hug, strong arms circling his shoulders, pulling him closer, muttering something he can't focus on.

When he was younger he used to think that Eskel was the safest place he could find, it's funny how some things never really change. 

He’s worried, Lambert can tell something is bothering him, but for some reasons he looks almost...relieved? That's a first, he finds it hard to believe anyone can feel that way  when they see him. 

"How did you...What are you doing here?" Lambert's confused expression doesn't hide his reluctance in breaking their embrace. 

"Lambert, we thought...I was worried." Eskel doesn’t ask why he did not come home or what happened to him, he clutches him for a moment longer, silently grateful he finally found his brother. 

Fear is a big part of the winter months. Concern and worry sat in their chest like a stone every time they walked through the frozen courtyard. It's something every Witcher experiences, it comes from not knowing how many of those they left the previous season they'll find the next one.

This year, winter had been an ordeal for Geralt and him, Vesemir kept saying they shouldn't worry too much, but it's impossible to do so when they have no idea of what happened to their brother and the list of things that could have gone wrong is endless. 

It's tough, they already have so little, that the idea of losing it is unbearable. Whoever makes it to the castle first is bound to spend at least two awkward and anxiety-filled weeks waiting not so patiently for the others to finally, finally show up. They all know what it's like to lose a brother.

"It's early. You should be in Kaer Morhen," Lambert says trying to avoid his eyes. He sits on the end of the bed as if putting some distance between them could help him explain his brother's presence. 

"I left as soon as I could. Asked around in Ard Carraigh and a friend told me a Witcher was looking at the shipwrecks along the Pontar, figured it was worth checking out."  Eskel stares at him intently to check that the younger Wolf is not wounded or recovering from some injury. The fact that he doesn't find any doesn't settle his concern. 

"It's sirens," Lambert adds scowling. It didn't make sense for Eskel to be here this early, not for such a shitty contract. First job of the season was usually a big one for them, but he must have had a reason to travel so soon just to take a look into this.  

"I'm not here for the sirens," Eskel interrupts, his voice low as he crosses his arms over his chest. He leans on the small table in front of the bed and Lambert can see the way he's staring at him, he has that focused frown on his face, the one he always gets when he's engrossed in a book or when he's trying to plan the best course of action before a hunt. 

It makes him nervous enough to start ramble: "I can't find anything cause of course those fuckers disappear as soon as they feed and I have no idea where their nest is, but I'm on it, and I know it's sirens, you shouldn't worry about that. No point in coming all the way here at this time of the year, I can handle a couple of bloody fishes, and the sailors..."

"I'm not here for the damn sirens! I'm here for you!" Eskel snaps. Lambert immediately shuts up and lowers his eyes to the floor, the room falling into a tense silence. 

Eskel sighs. He sees Lambert fidgeting on the spot, legs bouncing slightly, fingers torturing a frayed thread on the blanket underneath him, unable to settle. Eskel hates himself a bit for putting him in that position. 

"You didn't come home." Eskel keeps his voice soft, trying to mask his concern. He used to be the one to help him calm down, relax and unwind when he was on edge, he shouldn't be making it worse. 

"I spent winter south before. Things happen." Lambert shrugs as if it was the most normal thing in the world. 

He was surprised when he met Eskel outside of Beauclair an early fall afternoon of some years ago. It was always nice to run into your brothers on the Path, that brief moment of respite was worth all the hard days of traveling. 

Lambert felt almost sorry for lying when he said he couldn't stay long because he had a contract. Almost. 

In all truth, he was just eager to go back to Aiden, their little room seemed better than an entire palace. It felt natural, almost too easy, mentioning that he had a good job here and he wanted to spend the winter in town. He couldn't tell the real reason why he was so keen on remaining here, but thankfully Eskel didn't question him. 

The memories of those peaceful and carefree days together still cling to his mind, gnawing at his inside in painful bites. 

He doesn't know that Eskel thought happiness and quiet suited his brother so nicely he secretly hoped to find him in the same frame of mind next time they'd meet. 

"Exactly. Things happen, usually not nice things to us Witchers." Eskel sighs and rubs the lower part of the scar on his face out of old habit. "Do you remember that year I got held up on elf business and I was three weeks late?" 

"Of course I do, some of the worse three weeks of my life," Lambert mumbles. He didn't think it could get any worse than not knowing if one of the most important people in your life was alive or not. Now he knows it can get worse. Knowledge hurts more than doubt.

"You said I should never scare you like that again or you were going to kill me yourself." Eskel grins at the thought, the memories of Lambert clinging to him well into the night and muttering every now and then <i> don't ever do that again</i>. "Can you imagine how I felt when you didn't come at all?"

 Lambert keeps his eyes trained to the floor, unable to look at his brother. He never thought Eskel would miss him like that, he's not someone others usually miss. He's more like the type of person others can't wait to get rid of, the sooner the better. 

Fear of losing someone is etched into their souls from the first trials, when they have to deal with the horrible truth, many won't survive. 

Lambert remembers being in his room with tears still stinging in his eyes, trying to be strong, telling himself he made it through the woods and it would be easier now that the trials were done. And when he thought the worst was over, he quickly discovered it only just begun. 

Every year the apprehension and dread only ease when they're all finally together in the main hall. Lambert has been in the position of waiting for Eskel or Geralt to arrive, every day being a torturous collection of wasted hope. 

That's why Eskel's words hit him differently. He should have known better. 

"I...I had something going on...I'm not...I didn't think it was a big deal." Lambert knows he doesn't deserve his kindness or patience. 

He's always been a selfish bastard, and the fact that they're here in this room, and he's trying to come up with some excuse for his stupid behavior is proof enough.

"Why not? Do you really think you're not important to us? To me?" For a split second, Eskel wonders if maybe his brother didn't want to be found. He wasn't accidentally late, he hasn't been held back like they all thought, he consciously decided to not go home to them. 

For reasons unknown, Lambert didn't think Kaer Morhen was safe for him anymore. And that hurt. 

"Lambert, did something happen?" Eskel silently moves to sit next to him on the bed, his hand laying on his shoulder. His senses scream at him that there's something different in his brother's frown, in the way the lines on his forehead seem more pronounced, in how he seems to be so blank.

Lambert was always the only one of them to express everything in extreme, be it something he was passionate about or the anger that seemed to torment him at times. He was rarely measured or composed, he was everything or nothing, no in-betweens. 

That's what's different in him now. There's no fire in his eyes, no mounting feelings waiting to explode, it's like something was taken from him. 

He doesn't know what's wrong with his brother, but something is off. He's hurt, not in a visible way, but it's there, like a cut you can't see but it keeps bleeding. 

This type of wound, he doesn’t know how to heal. He can’t give Lambert some Swallow and let him sleep it off, there’s no injury to stitch or bone to fix, yet he can see his brother is bleeding and broken. 

[barnesandco]

Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy (4/14)

Story Masterlist

The plum seller at the farmer’s market saves Bucky from being captured for the attack at Vienna that he didn’t commit, but is she really all that she appears to be, or are ulterior motives involved?

This is an entry for @star-spangled-bingo​ 2020. Word count: 2100. Square filled: “They’re on the roof. I’m compromised.”

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Mild swearing (three sh*t’s to be exact)

A/N: Not really feeling this one, but okay. Please let me know what you think...

The sound of sirens starts a chain reaction. Bucky hurriedly takes both mugs of hot chocolate and pours them down the sink, and she grabs her bag and hands him his before they run out of the back door. His heartbeat grows louder in his ears just as the sirens do. Police have no business for miles around -- they can only be here for one thing. Capturing them.

“Down the path, go straight through the fork in the trail,” she says, Bucky realizes she must have studied the map, and they stumble down the trodden track behind the cabin, displacing mushrooms and twigs along the way. Coniferous needles whip at his cheeks, cold of the night biting his nose.

“There’s no path going straight. Left or right?” He hisses through his teeth, coming to a dead stop at the fork. She almost bumps into him, and braces her hands against his shoulders to avoid tipping over. 

“That’s the point, Barnes. Go.” Taking the lead, she stomps into the thick foliage, looking back when she sees he isn't following. She’s about to emerge from the bush when he looks up at the inky sky, stars swimming in its surface. 

“Helicopters.” A thump sounds from the cabin, now at a healthy distance above them. Battering ram. That’s enough to convince him, and he joins her off the beaten path, but she has no time to celebrate before a searchlight skims over the forest, missing them by nary a hair’s breadth. 

“We need to get under deeper cover. They’ll start searching the woods soon.” She tells him over her shoulder, going as fast as the dense undergrowth will allow, littered with tree roots, blueberry bushes, and the occasional porcupine. Bucky follows closely, eyes on her swinging ponytail and the brief glimpses of her lip between her teeth as she tries not to fall. We can’t outrun them, he wants to say, keenly aware that they will have realized that they were in the cabin, and hence also deduced that they cannot be far off. However, he says nothing, permits himself to be guided deeper into the woods -- as if he has a choice -- trusting her apparent knowledge of the region.

For several minutes, there is no sound except that of the crunching twigs underfoot. As long as he blocks out the drone of the helicopters, that is. Even the crickets have gone silent, as if holding their breath for the intruders of their peace. 

Her breaths come in short pants as she navigates the terrain in front of them, until she stops, abruptly, and he has to grip her waist so as to not fall into her and push her over. That’s when he notices there’s something in her ear, and he can hear a male voice emerging from what he presumes to be a communications device.

“They’re on the roof. I’m compromised. Get out and mind the choppers.”

Before Bucky can ask her what the hell that was, and before he comes to his senses enough to take his hands off her waist, she has turned around and begun to look back towards the general direction they came from. Panicked, she takes her bag off her back. “Shit, shit, I’m an idiot,” she mutters furiously, dropping it and kneeling on the forest floor as she rummages through it. Bucky stares down at her and then looks back nervously, surveys their proximity, his mind initiating a countdown for when this pause will become dangerous. Eventually, she produces two cloaks, both a strange, camouflage material, dotted with holes. Something in his mind clicks as he remembers, but the confusion must show, because she rushes to explain.

“Anti-infrared fabric. It’ll keep us hidden from the thermal imaging cameras. Thank God I remembered in time.” She drapes it over her shoulders, and he mimics her, tucking his hair under the hood as they continue.

The green of the woods blurs into the sight of the same green fabric cloaking armored Soviet vehicles lying in wait for the enemy. Siberian snow contrasting against its green, him observing both in the cold of winter as the world would go quiet. Still, patient, watching.

Stubbing his toe against a tree root the size of his arm sends a lighting bolt of pain through his foot. The sound of his stumble prompts a curious glance from her, eyes falling under the shadow of her hood. She faces forward and marches on, picking up speed as the helicopters hover above the cabin, which is now barely visible as a speck of light between the forest canopy. Bucky thinks he can make out a few bodies, bustling like the anthills around his feet. Can imagine people talking into radios and contacting headquarters.

“There’s a cavern under a cliff half a mile further,” she murmurs, as if to herself, and Bucky’s about to ask her how she intends to get down said cliff when a chorus of barks tears through the forest, ensnaring them like a lasso.

“Sniffer dogs. Run,” Bucky says, grabbing her left hand in his right, metal one stretched in front of him to push aside branches and shrubbery, the downhill motion aiding their efforts. More barking ensues and their panting grows heavier, louder, drowned out by a helicopter soaring overhead. Bucky’s senses pick apart his surroundings, informing him that the other helicopter has also stopped hovering, and is headed east. The chase is on.

He spares her a brief glance between paces, their hands firmly clasped together, her eyes wide and fearful. Shimmering pools of determination, they meet his icy blues before returning to the path ahead. Her heart is pounding so hard she is sure it will break out of her ribcage, pulse roaring deafeningly in her ears, nothing break through but the barks of the dogs that seem to come ever closer. 

She gasps when they pass a landmark - a particular pile of rocks - and pulls them both to a stop. Bucky’s hand is clammy with cold sweat but hers -- just as slippery, calloused, perhaps from guns and knives like his, yet so much warmer and so soft -- does not let go of him. 

They turn to the left, but the faint beam of a flashlight shines past them. The dogs’ running is audible now, in addition to their barks; Bucky estimates at least six, a proper squad. Looking at each other, they know they can’t outrun them. She pivots on the spot frantically, searching for escape, her eyes lighting up at the sight of something. A chance at getting away.

“Come on.” She tugs at his hand, dragging him towards a large plant with purple flowers. “Get in.” He looks at her incredulously, as if to say you’re shitting me.

“Dead serious. There’s a gap right there. Try not to disturb the shape of the bush too much,” she says, practically pushing him in. The bush is spread around the base of a tree, and she crawls in after him, so they’re sitting shoulder-to-shoulder against the tree trunk.

Her whole side is pressed against him - he can feel her pulse throbbing through her body, panic tangible. Her profile comes into stunning focus as she leans across to see if the hunters have caught up. Cheek so close to his nose that he feels his exhale reflected back, if he dares to breathe at all. They are frozen in time, his eyes fixed on hers although she is not looking at him, then moving to the bridge of her nose, the movement of her bitten-pink lips as she breathes. 

She pulls back and covers her mouth with a now-free hand as the dogs run past them, then halt, turning on the spot, and yapping incessantly. Bucky feels he might vomit his heart out of his chest; his hands clench around the tree roots he’s sitting between and he bites his tongue, fear seeping into his mouth along with the taste of blood.

The dogs circle, moving in and out of sight, unsure whether to continue because the scent is right there. Bewildered, Bucky looks at her questioningly, asking silently why they haven’t been torn to shreds. She shakes her head, holds a finger against pillow-cloud lips in a hush motion, then point to the flashlights as the owners catch up to their dogs. The helicopter seems to have gotten the memo as well. The purple flowered bushes flicker, but don’t betray them, shielding against the searchlights. She pulls her hood tighter around her head.

The dog trainers are yelling to each other now, clipping on leashes as they patrol the area. One -- their leader, presumably -- speaks into a radio.

“We’ve lost the trail, but they weren’t definitely here. Dogs aren’t going mad for nothing. They can’t have gone far.” A colleague’s flashlight illuminates the words Joint Terrorism Task Force on his jacket. 

A dog stops a few feet away from their hiding place. Sniffs at the ground. Lifts it head and turns, smells at the air around, almost looking her in the eyes. She shuts them, and Bucky can hear her try to bring the crescendo of the drumbeat her heart is playing to a full stop.

“There’s nothing more here. Let’s head back to the cabin, regroup. Maybe try to get a tip out of one of the captain’s buddies,” the man in charge calls, so everyone pulls their dogs closer, and they begin to go back the way they came. Bucky looks at her as she opens her eyes, watering from how tightly she had closed them. She holds up ten fingers, hands shaking, and Bucky nods. Begins counting.

597, 598, 599, 600 seconds -- ten minutes -- later, and he lifts his head from where it had been resting on the tree behind them, and taps her shoulder.

“Why didn’t they find us?” He asks. She motions towards the purple flowers around them. 

“Bittersweet bush. Also known as woody nightshade. Poisonous if ingested for humans, but just the smell is enough to confuse dogs. It hid our scent,” she says. A leaf tickles her face and she wrinkles her nose while adjusting the bag on her shoulder. Bucky is dumbstruck, fairly certain the awe is as prominent as a neon sign on his face, as he watches her check her pockets. He has to physically shake the shock off him, as they creep out of the plant they owe their lives to.

“This way.” She starts moving. Ears peeled for threatening movement, he imitates her cautious footsteps. They can’t risk another dog chase, although she is certain they’re far enough to no longer be able to hear or smell them. The woods have fallen silent once again, and he thinks he can hear a nightingale’s song ahead.

He treads so lightly she has to look to ensure he’s still there, and she finds comfort when his eyes look back. 

As they draw closer to their destination, she holds out a hand to stop him. 

“Careful. It’s steep, and the rocks can come loose.” She points down, and he sees only darkness below.  They begin their descent slowly, steadily, kicking up pine needles and dirt as they move. It’s going fine until Bucky slips on a mossy stone, tumbles forward, and into her. She latches onto him as they fall, landing on top of him and they roll down. Instinctively, Bucky tucks her head against his chest with one hand -- the other belting around her waist -- and tucks his own chin down into his collarbone so neither of them split their heads open on a rock. Her small hands, now bleeding, hold his biceps as they fall, fall, fall.

Then, as suddenly as they started, they stop, coming to rest on a flat ledge on the steep mountainside. Right in front of the mouth of a cavern. He can’t believe their luck, feels the adrenaline bubbling in his spine after the night they’ve had. She pushes herself off of Bucky, coughing up soil and spitting out leaves. Chest heaving for air, he stays where he is, on the forest floor, bag digging into his aching back.

It’s a small shelter, sufficient for the scarce remainder of night, as it’s unadvisable to keep travelling right now, but rest is the last thing on his mind, while he gets up to join her where she is spreading out a sleeping bag. “Who’s talking in your ear?” He asks, gruffly, and she stops. Freezes, and turns slowly with a sigh. 

“Sam Wilson. One of the captain’s buddies.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Silent Night

Based on this: “You aren’t a big fan of Christmas and just want to get out of the city and away from the hustle and bustle. However the one and only Captain America has had his eyes on you and wants to spend a perfect Christmas with you whether you like it or not."requested by anonymous.

Warnings: noncon sex (fingering, intercourse)

Note: Okay, so I’ll be working on holiday drabbles over the next few days.  Hopefully one or two a day if I can manage! Thanks for all the requests so far and I’m working at keeping up.

Hope y’all enjoy. Like and/or reblog!! <3 Reblogs really help especially since I haven’t been getting many.

A quiet Christmas. A once in a lifetime occasion. Convincing your parents to let you skip the family dinner had been a task in itself, only exchangeable for your labour. The old cabin your aunt hadn’t visited since her fall down the stairs a year ago was far away that it guaranteed a holiday undisturbed. A favour, you negotiated, a gift for your aunt who would soon be in shape to once more respite to the northern forests. The place must be dusty, it would need a cleaning before that. Your selfish reclusivity disguised as generosity.

More difficult had been your departure from work for the two weeks that encapsulated both Christmas and New Years Eve. Stark was the festive sort and Nat was the talkative sort. She’d let slip just as you informed your boss you’d be away and unable to attend his respective holiday parties that you hated the time of year. You cringed and it told Tony all he needed to know. But, begrudging and with a vow you’d attend the next year, he approved the time away. You scowled at Nat and promised her payback.

The drive was peaceful. The further you drove along the single lane highway, the deeper the snows grew, the quieter the air. You thought of how nice it would be to be alone. Somewhere where even the howls of wolves were muted in the sheets of snow, completely serene. 

Not hiding in the corner of the room as others drank and made merry in the false spirit of the season. Not putting on a smile to assuage propriety. Not lying about your plans for the days of cheer. Only you and nature and silence. Well, maybe some non-Christmassy music too.

Then your mind strayed. You had tried to be covert. Tried not to let on your pending absence. FOMA was not an emotion for you, in fact you feared having to partake. You made Nat swear not to tell anyone else; not to let Wanda know until it was too late, not to goad Pepper into her nagging, not to allude to Peter that his “second aunt” would be miles away. 

It had almost gone to plan. You woke up early to leave. You lifted your bag, afraid the wheels would give away your escape. You crept to the elevator but when the doors opened, Steve was there. He didn’t miss the guilty frown or the suitcase. He stayed on the elevator, though he’d only just taken it up, and made the descent with you.

“You’re leaving us?” He wondered. “Without a goodbye?”

“I’ll be back. I just didn’t want a whole...thing,” You gripped your suitcase and his hand settled next to yours.

“Let me help you with your bag at least,” He offered. “A Christmas present since you won’t get mine until you return.”

“Present? You didn’t have to--don’t have to--”

“What is it? You hate us, don’t you? Just put up with us for the paycheck?” He kidded.

“Steve,” You rebuked and he subtly tugged the bag away from you. “You know that’s not it.”

“Family?” He asked.

“Well...not exactly.” You admitted as the doors opened and he waved you out ahead of him.

“Not exactly?”

“I’m doing a favour for my aunt. Cleaning out her old summer cabin.” You explained as he followed you across the lobby. “A nice solitary reprieve.”

“Oh, are we that chaotic?”

“Not what I meant,” You grumbled as you passed into the parking garage. “Really. I’ll see you after when the city isn’t so...shiny.”

“Alright.” He wheeled your bag to your car as you popped the trunk. “But I don’t think you realize how much we’ll miss you.”

“You’ll survive,” You scoffed as he lifted your suitcase into the car. 

“Mmhmm,” He nodded and you closed the trunk.

“Don’t,” You warned him. “I already got the guilt trip from Tony. You’re better than him.”

“Sure I am,” He shrugged and you shook your head. 

“Alright, enough. I gotta go.”

Your farewell was more than that. Steve was persistent, as always. You’d finally managed to get a final goodbye as you were halfway in the car and he blocked you from closing the door. Maybe he didn’t realize how often he was in your way. How often he was at your desk gabbing away as you tried to concentrate on Tony’s chicken scratch or how he always found you on your lunch and kept you from listening to the latest episode of that one podcast. Maybe he didn’t, or maybe he did. Maybe the golden boy was a bit more tarnished than he let on. Or maybe he was as oblivious as he seemed.

You tore your mind back to the road. To the dull lights that shone in your rear view. When had they shown up? You were the only car for the last little stretch, not many ventured into this area later than September. You squinted at the car, the specks of snow obscuring it enough to be just discernible, and looked back to the road ahead. 

You were almost there, hopefully before the snow made the way impassable. Before you were forced to park your car in the forest and trek the rest on foot. You’d done it once before, but without the feet of snow to slow you. You wondered if you’d even make it should it come to that.

You made it though. The headlights disappeared from your mind and when you turned off they passed smoothly. You continued up the winding path, just wide enough for your car. Slow, steady, safe. When you pulled up to the side of the cabin you sighed. You’d have to shovel your way in, and maybe out when all was said and done.

You awkwardly pulled on your snow pants in the cramped interior of your car. You hit your head and elbows several times before you were left out of breath but protected. You had to push your way through the snow and into the garage. The shovel was covered in frozen cobwebs, the dusty and undisturbed space smelled like snow and isolation.

You grabbed the shovel and turned back. The snow continued to fall, adding to your chore. A few paths, to the door, to the car, around the back. It’d tire you out and see you til the morning when the real work began.

-

Your first day was spent dusty and wiping down the tables and walls. The work carried over into the second when at last you managed to sit still for more than a couple minutes. There was wood left in the shed but you were nervous you’d be out in the drifts, almost taller than yourself now, chopping more. You didn’t use much in the summertime when it was reserved for evening fires. Now it was shoved in the stove to heat the front room where you huddled under a blanket and shivered.

The generator powered the 70s style fridge but little else. You were left to flashlights and even an old oil lamp your aunt had bought at a yard sale. It was close to evening, the sky a pale blue threatening to turn pitch black. You sat with a book open in front of you, the words bolder in the reserved quiet of the cabin.

Your cell held the pages down, lifeless and without signal. Your mom couldn’t remind you of your desertion, Tony couldn’t try to guilt you, Nat couldn’t send those weird memes that were frighteningly dark. You were entirely unbothered by the winter owls and the distant snowy creatures of the trees. Christmas Eve had never been so perfect.

The date was in the back of your mind. You’d barely take note of it if it wasn’t on the lock screen. You moved to the sofa and reclined to read another chapter, yawning and curling into a ball. You’d been sleeping there to stay close to the stove and feed it in the early hours to keep it from dying. 

Another half chapter and your eyes were closing against your will. You closed the book around your phone and set it on the floor beside the couch. You pulled the blanket to your chin and clicked off the flashlight. You nestled into the cushions, the fire crackling and coaxing you deeper. You fell asleep, a slumber unusually rapt on the night before Christmas.

You didn’t wake to stoke the fire though, not that you realized in your sleep. Undisturbed, unworried. Until you did wake and not of your own accord.

The old cabin was known for its creaks and cracks. First built in the thirties and renovated in the seventies, it was expected. But this wasn’t a groan of aged wood, or the wind battering the old shingles, it was a footstep, and then another, and another. Soft against the hardwood, the clink of dishes, the sound of living.

Your eyes opened and you saw the stove glowing amber; finely stocked and burning boldly. Your heart seized and you sat up so suddenly you had to keep yourself from toppling to the thin carpet below. Surely a bear wouldn’t be so tactful, so careful.

You turned and looked into the kitchen. You recognized the golden head, the broad shoulders as the intruder stood at the kitchen stove. The smell of pancakes filled the cabin and you shivered as the blanket fell from your shoulders. You stood but he didn’t seem to notice. 

You tiptoed to the fireplace and grabbed a log from the stack. Surely a meagre weapon against him but what the fuck was he doing here? Steve Rogers in your aunt’s cabin, uninvited and quite possibly, unhinged.

You neared the door of the kitchen and he turned back to you. You held the log at the ready to swing. He held a spatula and was entirely unfazed by your fearful approach.

“Did I wake you?” He asked as if all was as it should be.

“What--What the hell are you doing here?” You clung to the log as he stepped closer.

“You can’t spend Christmas alone,” He said coolly. “I couldn’t let you.”

“Better yet, h-how did you even--did you follow me here?” You pointed the log at him as he tried to step closer. “No. Don’t. Steve, this is weird.”

“It’s dangerous here. All the snow. Out here alone. You need someone.” He replied as he turned back and flipped the pancakes. “Go on and grab a plate, these are almost done.”

You flinched. What was wrong with him? This wasn’t the Steve you knew. Well, it was in that he was sweetly making you breakfast but he was also intruding on your privacy. You stepped closer with the log and poked him. 

“Steve, you need to go,” You said. “Now.”

“Now that’s not very grateful, is it?” He ignored the log and went to the cupboard. He pulled out two plates onto the counter and switched off the stove. He piled the flapjacks on them and went to the fridge to find the syrup. “I’ve come here to keep you company, to keep you safe, and I’ve even made you breakfast.”

“I didn’t ask you to.” You kept the wood in front of you as he opened the silver drawer. “You’re really freaking me out.”

“And you want me to go out? Into the storm?” He nodded to the window, white with the whirl of the blizzard just outside. “I barely made it here.”

“Steve,” You whined. “Steve, stop.” You jabbed him harder with the log. He dropped the cutlery on the counter and turned to you slowly. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing is--” He grabbed the log and wrenched it from your grip. “Wrong with me.” He broke it in half easily and dropped it. “What is wrong with you?”

“You’re not supposed to be here.” You insisted as you backed away.

“Will you just sit down and eat your breakfast?”

“I don’t want to. I want you to go.” You said.

“Jesus,” He breathed and wiped his hands on his jeans. “You always do this. You’re such a little tease.”

“What are you talking about?” You felt around as you passed through the doorway backward and he neared slowly.

“I might be born last century but I’m not stupid,” He said. “Your blouses, that smile, the way you chew on your pen when we talk, that fake laugh you put on.”

“Steve, you’re wrong, I never--”

“I just want you to have a Christmas to remember. For us to make our first Christmas special.”

You gulped and peered around. You looked back to him and lunged for the poker leaned against the wall. He grabbed it before you and tossed it away just as he pulled you back. He spun you around and threw you against the sofa. You fell onto it with a painful bounce and tried to push yourself back up. He was on you in and instant.

“Steve!” You yelped. “Steve, please stop!”

You beat on his chest as he wrestled with you. You had to be dreaming. This was some sick nightmare. He was so strong, so decisive. You tried to wake up, hit him hoping you would suddenly jolt up and find the cabin empty, but your eyes were already open and this was just as real as it felt.

He soon had you beneath him, straddled and squirming as he held your hands beside your head. You kicked your legs helplessly and he squeezed your hips between his thick thighs. His blue eyes were dilated and sinister as he pinned you down.

“Shhh, calm down. Please,” He tried to soothe you. “Honey, you can’t open your presents if you’re bad.”

“Honey? Don’t call me honey!” You spat. “Get off of me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” He said. “Please, don’t make me.”

You stilled suddenly. You stared up at him, shocked. Was that a threat? From Steve Rogers? Well, he was on top of you and you felt the twitch in his jeans as he stared down at you.

“You wouldn’t,” You gasped.

“Only if you make me,” His voice was low and grimy. “Don’t make me.”

“Steve,” You pleaded in a whisper. “Please,” You tried to move and barely jostled him. “Let me go.”

He closed his eyes and huffed. He lowered his head and squeezed your wrists. He was angry, frustrated. You were terrified.

“You’ve already let our breakfast go cold,” His words were measured though his tone trembled. “You better start listening, honey, or you’ll ruin the whole day for us.”

“Steve, please…”

“Don’t.”

“Steve.”

“No. Don’t make me.”

“Steve, please, you’re scaring me.”

He let go of your wrists and for a moment, you thought he would get off of you. But he didn’t. Instead, he grabbed the neck of your loose sweatshirt and the tear of fabric was like a crack of lightning. The thin tank top beneath showed your nipples, hard from chill air, and he ripped it just as swiftly.

“No,” You tried to bat his hands away, tried to keep them from your bare chest. 

He pushed past your struggles and ground his pelvis into you. “You have to be good.” He hissed. “Or I’ll be bad.”

“Stop,” You sobbed. “Steve.”

You tried to shove him away but he didn’t relent. He bent over you, sliding back just slightly. He held your chin in his large hand as his other tweaked your nippled painfully. “Shhh,” He pressed his lips to yours and muffled your pleas. 

His hand continued to toy with you, kneading and pinching painfully. He groaned into your mouth and rocked his hips against you. His hand moved lower as his other threatened to break your jaw. You were forced to open your mouth and he quickly devoured you.

He tugged at the elastic of your sweatpants, hooked his fingers under your cotton panties as he pulled them lower. You reached down to keep them at your waist but he yanked them sharply from your grasp. He lifted his pelvis as he edge them down your thighs.  

He withdrew from your lip and held you down with a hand on your chest as his other worked at your pants. You grabbed his wrist, unable to budge him as your pants reached your knees. He got to his knees and you wriggled to get away. 

He caught you and pulled your legs out from beneath him. He leaned them against his torso, your feet at his shoulders. He pressed his thighs around your ass as he reached down between your legs. You squirmed and pushed at his hand. Kicked your tangled legs against him. He grabbed your ankles in one hand and held them to his left shoulder.

He shoved his fingers between your thighs and forced them between your folds. He shuddered and pulled his hand away. Your eyes widened, hopeful again. You tried to move your legs but he kept them firm against him. You looked down as he unbuttoned his fly.

“Steve.” You begged. “Steve, I’ll be good.”

“Too late,” He warned. “All you had to do was listen, honey. But you wouldn’t.”

You wheezed as he unzipped his jeans and you looked away as he revealed the head of his swollen cock. You felt him pull himself out entirely and you closed your eyes. You reached down to shove him away with just your fingertips. He ignored you, if he noticed your pathetic resistance at all.

He moved your legs. Pulled them as wide as they would go still caught in your sweats. Not much but enough. He held your left knee and guided himself along your most tender spot. You tried again to draw away but he had you trapped. He leaned over you, bending your legs just slightly as he rubbed his tip against your pussy.

He pushed inside just a little. You were too tight and too dry. You exclaimed and he pulled out. He sighed and you opened your eyes to watch him lick his fingers. You grunted desperately. “Please, don’t.”

He rubbed his slick fingers along you, wetted them again and forced them inside of you. He pressed his thumb to your clit and your body stiffened. Despite your fear, your body responded. He licked his fingers a third time, to taste, to add a little more, and shoved them even deeper.

He played with you a bit and then pulled his fingers out to spread your juices along his cock. He pressed his tip to you again, this time he slid in easily but not painlessly. He didn’t ease himself in. He pushed himself to his limit and past yours and you cried out.

“Ow! Ow! Steve, it hurts. Get off! You’re hurting me, please!”

“I told you,” He thrust once, sharply. “To be good.” He thrust again and you writhed in agony.

You gritted your teeth as you tried to hold back your yelps. He rocked against you steadily, each time you winced at the strain. His hands went to your thighs as he brought himself as deep as he could go. He leaned over you, your back curved as he curled your body beneath him. 

He planted his hands beside you as he raised himself over you. He lifted his pelvis and slammed it down, each time adding to the reverberations along your spine. He hammered you into the cushions as you whined. He watched your face as he worked against you, his pupils dark and wide. You grabbed his biceps and dug your nails into his skin.

“It really h--” Your breath caught. Surprised by the sudden tickle that crested the pain. “St-op...It--no.”

You covered your face with your hands as the coil wound tighter. You were ashamed and shocked at your response. The suddenness of the rise. The sounds of his cock gliding in and out of you added to the heat. Filled your head lewdly and carried you higher. You grunted as you were drawn thin and then the release washed over you.

He kept a hand beside you and pulled away your hands as you came. You closed your eyes and he carried on. Never wavered, only sped up. Didn’t let up as he chased another hill and you were forced over the edge again. You could feel his eyes on you, could feel his pleasure at stealing yours.

His groans grew louder and mingled with the sound of his body against yours. They sickening symphony reached its climax and you felt his release. Felt the gush within you as his hips jerked wildly. He emptied in himself inside you. Let forth all that he’d repressed. Anger, longing, resent; every ounce of it spilled out. He was left panting and weak, crushing your legs beneath him as he barely kept himself from slumping over you entirely.

He pushed himself back onto his knees. He pulled out and let your legs fall. Your body twisted as your knees hinged over the edge of the couch. You were shaking as you pulled your sweatshirt over your chest and his large hand settled on your ass. He caressed you, as if he cared, as if he had been sweet.

“We should eat,” He said as he drew away. The couch shifted as he stood and you heard his zipper. “Then we can start opening presents.”

[sedge-and-sanctuary]

Sanctuary Pack Stories: The Herbalist [Part Three]

[Eight and Dace continue on their journey to track down an expert herbalist in an effort help cure the illness ravaging The Sanctuary Pack]

It’s good to be on the move again; a blue, brilliant winter morning, the air crisp and clear as glacial runoff. A few stubborn birds perch in the barren trees, trying their songs against the silence.

Dace clears her throat.  "Eight. I wanted to say."

"Hm?" Eight looks up, half-startled. She's been deep in thought all morning; 'hunting clouds', as Saturn would say.

And no wonder. There had been a moment, the night before, when Dace had made a mistake. Had made Eight uncomfortable-- had made things uncomfortable, between them.

Eight’s eyes meeting hers; her breath fogging in the winter air, and Dace had thought, I’ve missed this more than I can say. Something must have showed in her face; Eight had stepped away, fast, turning her head. 

She has been quiet, since.

"Just: last night. If I made you uncomfortable, or something." Dace shrugs,  keeps her eyes fixed forward. "You know-- sorry. Won’t happen again."

"Oh!" Eight shakes her head. "Oh no, Dace, that's-- No, I wasn't. Uncomfortable, I mean! It's fine."

Dace does twist, now, to look over Eight. She's not looking back; has her head craned around, staring with great intensity into the trees.

"Alright," Dace says. Resolves to keep a little more distance, anyway, if Eight’s going to be too polite to admit when she’s wrong-footed. 

The walk on, the loudest sound for miles the crunching of their paws through the crusty snow. The sun creeps its slow way across the sky.

 Eight clears her throat, venture: “Um, so--  how is it?”

Dace looks up.

“Being a-- scout. Or a loner? I mean--” she shrugs, looks briefly at Dace and then away again. “I don’t know. Is it-- fun? I guess? Do you like it?”

Dace nods. “It’s alright. It’s good, actually.” She looks out at the frozen wood: at the towering trees, bark black against the snow, the sharp pine-needle smell. At the sky, a piercing, thorn-sharp blue above. “I do like it. In fact…”

In fact, they're right by that old pond, aren't they? The frogs will be dug into the mud hibernating-- they could dig some out, like that crow had shown Dace last spring, and--

She looks sideways at Eight. Remembers her odd stiffness the night before. Clears her throat. “In fact, though, it can get a little boring.”

“Oh?” Eight cocks her head. 

“Sometimes.” Dace shrugs. “And you? Healing? That seems-- interesting.”

A stiff pause. Eight huffs. “Well, I guess-- a little too interesting, lately. Um.”

Dace winces. “Of course. Scat, Eight, I’m sorry-”

“No--” Eight shakes herself. “No, it’s okay. It is- not just now, I mean- interesting.” She laughs, a little awkwardly.

They walk along for a while. Dace watches her paws; studies the prints she makes, tries not to think about much else. 

After a while, Eight laughs again. “I’m sorry, Dace-- I don’t really know-- there aren't. Sorta, fun anecdotes, I guess? It isn’t--”

“No, you’re fine!” Dace huffs. “Just uh, not used to travelling with someone else. Probably getting too chatty.”

“No.” Eight sighs. “If it was spring- or summer or even fall, really- I could show you plants and stuff? Like herbs? But.” She looks out over the forest; undergrowth buried under months of snow, the trees dormant, roots all locked away beneath the frost.

“Sure,” Dace says, easily. “Bad season for it. Maybe--” I can come by in spring, and you can show me then. She almost says it. Clears her throat. “Maybe this would have been a little more fun in spring,” she settles on instead, trying to keep her voice light.

“Less cold,” Eight says, by way of agreement. 

They walk on-- endlessly, they walk on. 

It’s five more days of travel to reach the bear, and even Dace is starting to get a little footsore. The hard, icy surface of the snow is wearing away at her pawpads, sure as rough stone would.

Eight isn’t any better, facing all the same strain of long travel with none of the practice Dace has. She limps up to where Dace has paused on the edge of the forest, and comes to a stop, breath fogging as she catches her breath.

They’ve come to the edge of the forest.

Beyond, the prairie goes on forever. White, flat land, rolling endlessly on until the blue curve of the horizon. It seems very exposed. Dace imagines living there, without shelter of tree or rock, without shadow or undergrowth, and shivers, despite her thick winter coat.

Eight makes a low, uncertain sound in the back of her throat. She’s hunched up into herself; ears flat, tail tucking under, and Dace’s chest squeezes. 

“Pretty weird,” she says, to break the silence. 

And she hasn’t been saying as much, lately. Been trying to give Eight her space. But it’s worth it, now, to see Eight relax, a little. To see her stand up straighter.

“Pretty weird,” she agrees.

And still the prairie stretches on. Beyond the shelter of the trees, a wind kicks up, and a tumbleweed of snow goes skating out across the plain, silver against the brilliant, endless blue of the sky.

“Hoot,” Dace says, and finds her voice comes out a bit hushed. She clears her throat. Tries again. “Hoot used to talk about-- where she came from.”

“Mhm.” Eight can’t seem to find the words to respond; that’s okay.

Dace goes on. “On hunting trips- back when I was hunting- She's say about the ocean. You know?”

“Yes,” Eight says, low.

“About how there was somewhere the land stops. And it’s just water forever, after that. Until the-- the edge. Do you think...”

She doesn’t know how to put it. But Eight nods, eyes still fixed rigidly forward. “Yes,” she says, again. “This is-- it seems like--”

The both look out over the prairie again. Flat land, stretching on. It must end, somewhere. But--

Dace shakes herself. “Well,” she says, sounding just short of upbeat. “Well. Our bear lives out there, somewhere.”

Eight nods. “Yes,” she says. “Right.”

And if she sticks a little closer to Dace’s side, as they step out onto the plains-- Well. Dace can’t blame her, for it. 

It makes her feel better, too.

They reach the bear that evening. A low hill, a copse of cottonwoods, the ceaseless, piercing howling of the wind, unbroken across the whole of the prairie.

“Strange place for a bear to den,” Eight says, her voice very low. “Isn’t it? I mean--”

“Yes,” Dace says. Finds herself speaking very softly, involuntarily. She tries again, clearing her throat. “But from what I’ve heard, he’s a strange bear. He couldn’t help us if he wasn’t.”

Her voice comes out a little more strongly, and Eight straightens up. Nods. 

The cottonwoods grow close together, trunks dark and strangely straight, an unnatural quality to them. The wind breaks as they come through the trees, and leaves an eerie silence- not much better- in its absence. 

Dace’s own breath is loud in her ears. Something brushes her shoulder-- Eight, drawing close. They look at one another for just an instant. Dace lets out a breath, slowly. Is suddenly very glad to have Eight here with her, in this strange place.

The ground is rucked up by the roots of one enormous tree, in the very center of the grove; its bark is nearly black against the snow, the sharp white-blue of the sky. A dark space peeks out between the gnarled roots. 

They have come to the bear’s den, at last. 

Dace thinks, for a wild, stupid moment, of the stories Rover tells to pups; a great Rowan tree, a pack of monstrous wolves. 

She stares up at the giant cottonwood. Shakes herself. “Hello?” Her voice, thankfully, does not waver. “We’ve come from far away, seeking medicine.” She pauses. Looks sideways at Eight. 

Eight looks back at her, ears pulled down in uncertainty. “I’m a healer myself,” she tries, and Dace touches her shoulder, briefly, encouraging. “But I can’t heal this sickness-- we need your help.”

Another pause. The den is all shadow, before them; a deep pit, an open mouth, plunging down into the frozen earth. Dace can’t quite make herself step towards it; shivers at the idea of it, squeezing herself blind and helpless between the roots, towards who knows what.

She tries again, instead. I will go, she tells herself, sternly, if he does not answer this time, I will go in. “Great-- bear healer. May we speak with you?”

Nothing, for a long moment. Dace takes a breath-- wrenches herself away from Eight’s warm side and pads forward to the mouth of the den. Here goes, she thinks, and then--

“Dace!” Eight says, tight with alarm, and at the same time another, deeper voice sounds out.

“Well,” it says. “There’s no need to shout.”

Dace turns, slowly, and there is the bear.

A massive shape, almost unreal. His huge, blunt head dips down beside Eight, nearly the size of her entire torso. His shoulders, humped with muscle, could put pause to a bison. He crouches, peering at Dace, and when he curls his lip up to sniff, his teeth flash long and white.

Eight is stiff as if she’s frozen solid, only a paw’s length away from the creature. The whites of her eyes show, plainly frightened, and Dace wrenches herself into action. 

She folds into a bow, back hunching, tail tucking automatically. They don’t hold with submission much, at Sanctuary, but it is nearly instinctive to do it now. 

“Great bear,” she says, eyes fixed firmly on the ground- on the bear’s immense paws, heavy and clawtipped, digging furrows into the snow. “I have heard of your healing from other creatures--”

“Yes, yes,” the bear says, his deep voice strangely cheerful. “The geese, was it? They do love to gossip.”

Dace looks up at him, startled, for a moment, and then drops her eyes again, hastily. “It-- was the geese, sir.”

If the bear notices her surprise, he says nothing of it. “Hm. Just as well. Follow me, then!” And he shoulders past Dace- a brush of immense strength, something like one of the human’s cars blowing past on their roads- a near miss, an impression of power- and then he is by, lumbering awkwardly down into his den, and there is nothing left to do except to follow. 

[javistg]

Through the Senses

Chapter 3. Smell.

The third instalment of TTS is here! To read the previous chapters you can go HERE or to AO3 or FF.net.

This one’s from Katniss’s POV.

Hope you enjoy ❤️

  The electric fence, covered in early morning dew, loomed on the horizon. 

 Keeping to the narrow alleys of the Seam, Katniss reached the empty Meadow. The smell of freshly cut grass tickled her nose. 

She quickened her step. The place would be crawling with Peacekeepers soon -- and not the usual lazy kind. 

 The officers patrolling the streets today had been sent directly from the Capitol to oversee the reaping. They wore spotless uniforms and walked in a straight line. 

 Young and arrogant, they always kept their eyes peeled for any irregularities. The thought of catching some poor sucker trying to break the law drew them in, but the prospect of showing up the local authorities --and gaining some glory-- was what truly drove them on their quest.

 Luckily for Katniss --who spent her days breaking the law— their loud, coordinated footsteps, paired with the stench of bleach they left behind, were hard to ignore.

 Stealthily, she walked over to the loose spot in the fence and, hiding behind a clump of brushes, flattened out on her belly and slid underneath.

 After retrieving her bow and sheath of arrows, she moved deeper into the woods. There, hidden by the thick line of trees encircling District 12, she breathed easy again. 

 Wrapped in the scent of pine needles and wet dirt she knew so well, Katniss made her way to the rock ledge where Gale was waiting for her. 

 Breakfast was good that morning. Fresh bakery bread; goat’s cheese packed in fragrant basil leaves; sweet blackberries, tart and juicy, that tasted like summer dreams. 

 The sun was high in the sky when the hunting partners walked back to the district. Their satchels were full; their hearts heavy. A good haul didn’t matter as much when the reaping was just a few hours away. 

 Eager to get rid of their goods, Katniss and Gale stopped by the Hob first. 

 The sweet smell of ripe strawberries followed the hunters. Stubborn and thick, it hung in the air as they traded their fish for bread and salt. 

 After visiting Sae, Katniss wrapped her arms over her hunting bag and stepped out into the bright day. Keeping her eyes to the ground, she hoped the visiting Peacekeepers wouldn’t notice the unmistakable fragrance trailing behind on her way to the mayor’s house.  

 By the time she got home, a warm bath awaited her. 

 After scrubbing off the dirt and sweat from the woods, Katniss washed her hair. Clean and refreshed, she rested her neck on the lip of the tub, stretched out her legs, and closed her eyes. 

��As the water cooled down around her, she took a deep, long breath. 

 The anise shrub Mrs. Everdeen had planted on the windowsill was in full bloom. The soft, cotton-like blossoms released their heady scent into the muggy air, sending memories of hearty winter stews and rainy afternoons back into Katniss’s mind. 

 Soon she’d have to dry off and get ready to go to the square, but for a few blissful seconds, her world was at peace. 

 Prim hadn’t taken any tesserae. Their pantry was full. 

 Somewhere deep, in that place in her soul where she tried not to dwell, Katniss hoped her father would approve.

XXXXX

The cave was still dark when Katniss opened her eyes. 

 Pushing her hood away from her face, she stretched out her neck and greedily filled her lungs with cold, early morning air.

 Outside, a fierce storm raged on, pelting the rocks of the cave, and filling the small space with the rhythmic patter of droplets hitting wet earth. 

 The scent of damp tree bark and green moss that filtered through the rocks reminded her of her woods, but the strong arms holding her tethered her to reality. These weren’t the woods surrounding District 12. Her life in the Seam was miles away. 

 Trying not to disturb her district partner, Katniss gingerly flipped over on her side. It was a tight fit inside the sleeping bag, but she didn’t mind. Having Peeta there, keeping guard right next to her, beat being alone, any time. 

 “You OK?” he asked, lifting his arm to accommodate her movements. 

 “Mm-hmm. Just needed to change position,” Katniss mumbled, drowsily resting her head on his shoulder and her hand over his chest.

 Peeta’s arms wrapped around her. 

 He smelled of sweat, dirt, ointment, and… rust? 

 Probably the dried blood on his bandages, Katniss thought.  

 It wasn’t the most enticing aroma —some might have even found it nauseating— but, to her, it was better than the most expensive Capitol perfume. 

 She was so relieved to have him there, alive and kicking and resting in her arms instead of dead by the river bed, that she rubbed her nose against his t-shirt and smiled.

 “Hey, that tickles,” Peeta chuckled.

 “Sorry,” she said around a yawn.

 Lifting his free hand, Peeta began brushing the loose strands of hair on her forehead, gently stroking them back into her messy braid. “Not a problem.” His voice was a soothing caress when he asked, “D’you want me to tell you a story to help you sleep?”

 A story? 

 The world outside was falling apart. 

 The star-crossed lovers of District 12 were still trapped in an arena with a crazed career hot on their trail, but as she lay there —comforted by the steady warmth of Peeta’s body beside her— none of that seemed to matter much. 

 Maybe a bedtime story is just what I need. “Tell me about those cakes you make,” Katniss asked, “the pretty ones.” 

 Still stroking her hair, Peeta told her about the bits of chalk he collected when he was little, and of the funny animals he liked to draw on the sidewalk. “Then, when I was eight,” he whispered as her breathing evened out, “my father asked me to make those same caricatures on a birthday cake. I’ve been in charge of frosting ever since.”

 Peeta’s soft words blended with the gentle melody of water dancing around them, and before long, Katniss drifted off. 

XXXXX

Wrapped in her mother’s old shawl, Katniss rocked back and forth. Back and forth.

A few feet away, a fire danced in the hearth. 

The smoke of burning hickory and eucalyptus leaves floated through the house, infusing the empty rooms with its soothing aroma.

Dull, Katniss stared at the flames and rocked. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Morning broke.  

Sae bustled about in the kitchen, humming softly to herself until the smell of scrambled eggs and toast filled the room. 

“Come on, girl, breakfast’s ready,” Sae called out.

Too tired to do anything but comply, Katniss dragged her feet over to the table, sat down, and slowly cleaned her plate. 

Days went by.

The rocking chair by the fireplace swayed back and forth. Back and forth.

Sae cooked and scrubbed the house clean. Traces of lemon peel and soap lingered in the air late into the night.

Lost in a world of pain and shadows, Katniss buried her nose in her mother’s shawl and, numbing her senses with the smell of mothballs and lavender that still clung to the soft fabric, rocked in her chair. 

Back and forth. Back and forth.

“Spring is in the air today,” Sae said one morning. “You ought to get out. Go hunting.”

The idea seemed absurd, but a few hours later, Katniss left her chair and walked down to the study.  

Wrapped in the musky smell of her father’s hunting jacket, she fell asleep on the couch.

The next morning, Peeta came back. 

Shaken, Katniss shut the door behind her and ran up the stairs and into her room. 

The scent was very faint, but it still laced the air. 

A white rose —shriveled and fragile, but holding on to that unnatural perfection cultivated in Snow’s greenhouse— stood among the dried flowers in a vase.

Grabbing the vase, Katniss stumbled back to the kitchen and threw its contents into the embers. 

The flowers flared up. A burst of blue flame enveloped the rose and devoured it. 

Fire beats roses again, she thought, smashing the vase on the hardwood floor.

Back in her bathroom, Katniss peeled off her clothes and stepped into the shower. 

Chamomile scented bubbles danced around her, washing away the weeks of dirt and neglect.

Later, as she untangled her hair, rubbing pomegranate infused oil to the damaged strands, she began to wonder about the world outside her door. 

Haymitch was probably at home —drinking himself into oblivion.

Peeta was back. 

Where was everyone else?

XXXXX

Restored after a good night’s sleep, Katniss stretched her arms and legs until they reached the edges of the bed. With a contented sigh, she relaxed onto the mattress and turned to the empty space next to her. 

The sheets were rumpled but cold. Peeta had woken up early. 

Frowning, Katniss flipped over, buried her nose in his pillow, and took a deep breath.

Nutmeg, vanilla, orange peel, and something else —deep and enticing that she identified as exclusively Peeta’s— tickled her nose and soothed her worries.

Smiling again, she pushed the covers away and got up. 

After brushing her teeth and getting ready for the day, Katniss threw the windows open.  

The smell of sweet lemons and ripe cherries greeted her, making her heart jump in joy. The trees in her orchard were in full bloom. Summer had begun. 

Humming a happy tune, Katniss walked down the stairs. 

As she neared the kitchen, her nose picked up hints of cinnamon, melted butter, and bacon sizzling in the skillet. 

Her stomach grumbled in anticipation. Sunday Brunches with Peeta were something she looked forward to all week. 

“Morning!” she said, slipping into the kitchen.

Peeta turned away from the stove. His eyes lit up at the sight of her. “Morning! Did you have a good night?”

“Yup.” Katniss walked over to the counter and reached the teapot. It was already full. “How about you? You woke up early.”

Peeta turned his attention back to the skillet with the bacon. “I woke up at seven. I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I figured I could start my day.”

With a soft hum, Katniss poured herself a cup of tea. “Want some?” 

“Yeah, I’m almost done here.” 

While Peeta cracked two eggs onto a waiting pan, Katniss poured two teacups and carried them back to the table where she sat down. 

Resting her elbows on the countertop, she watched him work. 

He looked good. He had recovered some of the weight he’d lost during the war, and the yard work he did every day had given his pale skin a healthy golden glow.

“Got any plans for today?” she asked as the earthy smell of the freshly brewed tea hung around her.

 Peeta began to plate the bacon and eggs. “Not really, but it’s a nice day out. We should do something.”

 “How would you like to go for a swim?” 

Peeta turned around; eyebrows raised in surprise. “Really? Where?” 

“I know a place.” Katniss reached out and took the plate he was offering. French toast with cinnamon, maple syrup, fried eggs, roasted apples, bacon. The smell alone was enough to make her mouth water. 

Peeta sat down. “Is it far from here?”

“It’s a bit of a walk -- we’ll need to take some food for later -- but I think it’s worth it.” Dipping a bit of bread in the egg, she added, “You should bring your watercolors.”

Looking up from his food, Peeta smiled at her. A soft, warm smile that spoke of the trust between them, the joy he found in the small moments they shared. 

Blushing, Katniss nodded to his plate. “Eat up, your food’s getting cold.” 

They ate the rest of their breakfast in silence, stealing shy glances over their food while Katniss made a mental list of everything she wanted to show him on the way to her father’s lake. 

[fierypen37]

The Oasis: Chapter 17

Chapter 17

 They whiled away the afternoon snuggled on the couch watching movies. Her choice was a rom-com about a hard-ass businesswoman accidentally falling in love with her assistant. Jon felt for the poor bastard loving his lady from afar. It was easy to daydream and project the two of them into the roles. It suited his romantic streak. Daenerys really was a badass businesswoman after all. He’d pine for her in silence. Her tea would always be hot. Her appointments would always be on time. Jon would be her shadow, her right hand as she conquered the world. Watching them fall in love made him absurdly happy. Watching the firelight dance on her features and shine in her hair, he had never felt more content.

Now, in the kitchen, they nibbled on lush strawberries crusted with chocolate. Mesmerized, he watched Daenerys take a bite, red juice dribbling down her chin. Fuck. He could watch her fold laundry or file taxes and it would make him hard. Jon looked away to distract himself. What else could he think about? Her favorite color was green, like tree leaves in summer and the sea near her home on Dragonstone. She always double-tied her shoelaces. She liked wine and hated beer. She had neat table manners, except with dessert. She snored. And she probably needed glasses from the way she squinted at the warming instructions on the prepackaged tea. Well shit. Now his dick and his chest were aching with longing.

“You ok?” her voice was soft. Jon blinked. Sitting on the counter, tousled, in her dark purple nightgown, swinging her feet as she nibbled on another berry. It was really unfair how cute she was. And too sexy to be real. Daenerys was beautiful. Inside and out. How the fuck would she ever pick him? Awkward. Working class. Too serious. A mess of hang-ups and neuroses. There was a list of men a mile long who would be lucky to polish her shoes or fetch her tea.      

“Yeah. Why?”

“You’re staring at that wall like it personally offended you.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I guess I never noticed the crack around the support beam. I’ll have to tell Mrs. Stark to check the foundation.”

“Good to know. You’re a handy man to have around, Mr. Snow,” Daenerys said with a grin. Jon sidled closer to sample a berry. The soft richness of the chocolate exploded on his tongue chased by the berry’s bright sweetness.

“Damn, that’s delicious,” he said. Daenerys smile widened. There was a strawberry seed stuck in one of her perfect teeth. She wrapped her leg around him, drawing him closer.

“Let me taste,” she said, bending to kiss him. Yeah, so good. Soft lips, the faint lingering sweetness of chocolate, the stroke of her tongue. Jon hummed happily into her mouth, hands sliding up the strong grip of her thighs. Velvet-soft skin and so warm. Her hair fell forward around them both like a living veil. Jon cupped her hips, growling as her fingernails delicately scraped his scalp. Daenerys drew his lower lip into her mouth, nibbling gently. The sensation sent blood surging south.

“Yeah, you taste good,” she said with a languid lick below his ear. Jon bit his lip to keep from whimpering. Flirty, dominant Daenerys was a whole new level of sexy. The kiss spun on, Daenerys teased and coaxed him into a fever pitch. Trapped against the counter, his cock twitched, eager for the slick heat of her. Her arms and legs hugged him close, her mouth mapping new paths to pleasure as she kissed and nibbled on his neck.

“Dany,” he breathed, desperate and needy. Daenerys did that thing to his ear with her tongue. Gods, he fucking loved that. Something in him snapped. Jon yanked her hips toward the edge of the counter.

“Lie back.” His accent thickened, his voice was hoarse and rough. Pupils blown wide, lips wet and pink, she looked utterly delectable. Gods, he wanted to devour her. His mouth filled with saliva. She sank back on her elbows on the polished counter, legs spread to welcome him. Jon nudged her thighs wider, breathing deep of her sweet musky smell. Mmm, her nether lips were already glistening from just a kiss. A soft lap opened her. He would never slake his longing for her. As he worked her clit, slowly, patiently, he listened to the music of her whimpers and sighs and incensed breathing. So good. With a sharp cry, she came against his face, awash with lube.

“Jon,” she whimpered, her hands fisted in hanks of his hair. Jon smiled against her pussy, nuzzling her nether lips tenderly. He would exploit his intimate knowledge of her body until she was clawing and begging for his cock. Jon teased her clit with his tongue, feeling her shudder.

“Jon, Jon,” her voice was sharp, cold. Jon looked up at her face, confused. All the lovely color had drained away, now she look pale, scared.

“There’s someone at the door.”

Fuck! Jon whirled around, positioning her directly behind him. The doorknob jiggled.

“Get the gun. Now!”

Daenerys slid off the counter and bounded for the stairs. Jon yanked a knife from the block on the island. Fear doused him like cold water. How was he such a fucking idiot? She was on the run for her life and here he was going down on her in the kitchen without a care in the world with Barry’s gun upstairs. Gods, he could get them both killed—

“Jon? Are you here?” Arya’s voice deflated all his tension. His little sister shouldered her way through the door, laden with plastic bags of takeaway. Outside, he heard the din of the rain, and saw her black truck parked on the circle drive.

“You’ll never believe it, but this fucking cattle truck was jack-knifed on the highway. And somehow the cows got loose and--”

“Arya? Seven fucking hells, you scared me!” Jon said, setting the knife down and moving around the island to help her.

“Dany, false alarm, it’s just Arya!” he called upstairs. Arya glared at him beneath her fringe of wet dark brown hair.

“I called you about a million times. Check your phone!” His phone. Wedged between the couch cushions somewhere. Gods, he was a fucking idiot. Jon glanced toward the stairs. Daenerys would be well within her rights to tell him to fuck all the way off and find a real bodyguard to protect her.

Arya’s grey eyes wandered over the scattered foodstuffs, the faint flickering of firelight, Jon standing awkwardly behind the island. He was decent, at least. That zing of adrenaline had killed any arousal. A catlike grin stretched on Arya’s face.

“You were fucking, weren’t you? Gods, Jon! I knew it! I knew you two were fucking!” Jon lunged for Arya, intent on wrestling her to the ground to shut her up. She danced around the island with ease, giggling.

“Shut up! Gods, Arya. Yes, if you must know, we’re intimate. But shut up about it, yeah?” he said. Arya set down her burden. The potent spice and oil wafting from it made his stomach gurgle. Dothraki barbeque.

“‘Intimate,’ he says. Prig. I can’t wait to tell Gendry. He owes me ten crowns.” Jon cast an aggrieved glance up. Gods save him from little sisters.

“You want me to beg, I’ll beg. Please shut up. She’s been through enough.”

Arya sobered, dragging her fingers through her wet hair.

“Yeah, it’s a tough go. You’re mad for her, aren’t you?” The question brought him up short. Jon swallowed hard.

“I am,” he said quietly. Arya whistled low.

“Does she feel the same?” Jon closed his eyes. Daenerys with the sun shining through her hair, smiling in his bed. Holding her hand in the tense cab ride from the city. The way her mouth formed his name as they made love. Did she?

Gods, he wanted it so bad.

“I . . . I don’t know.”

Arya shrugged, boosting herself up to sit on the counter.

“Have you asked?”

A soft clearing of throat saved him from answering. Daenerys glided down the stairs, dressed now in black leggings and a goldish sweater, the neckline loose enough to bare one shoulder. Barefoot, with her hair a wavy silken waterfall. She looked like something out of the fashion magazines Sansa poured over.

“Hey, sorry if I scared you. I’d phoned Jon I was coming over. I brought food!” Arya said with a charming smile. Daenerys returned the gesture with equal warmth.

“No worries, Jon and I had a movie on. We must have fallen asleep. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said with an easy handshake, “Arya, right? Jon’s told me about you.” Arya cast him a sly glance. A touch smug. It said, ‘She’s got your number, Snow.’ And damn if that wasn’t the gods’ honest truth.

“Good things, I hope.”

“Mostly that you’re a bit of a wild card, and could kick his ass seven ways to the sept,” Daenerys said with shy glance his way. Jon slid his hand into hers, hyper-aware of his little sister’s knowing gaze. Daenerys gave his hand a comforting little squeeze. Arya laughed, preening a little.

“That’s definitely true. Gendry—my boyfriend slash manager slash promoter—he says we could get a title shot if my next few fights go well.” Jon’s jaw dropped.

“You’re fighting again? Does your mum know?” he asked. Arya shrugged, her patented gesture when things got a little too uncomfortable—or if her mother came up in conversation. Arya’s desire and skill in the arena were a source of contention between her and her mother. All of her decisions were a source of contention with the formidable Mrs. Stark.

“She doesn’t want to hear about it. I mailed her an invite to my next fight. I hope to see her there. If not, I have a lot of people in my corner.”

Silence fell for a long, uncomfortable beat.  

“Thank you for braving this weather to bring us food,” Daenerys said after a moment, waving a hand to encompass the heavy rain.

Arya snorted, sliding down from the counter to rummage in the fridge for a beer. Deftly popping the cap off on the counter edge, she handed one to Daenerys before taking another for herself. Jon arched a brow at Arya. She grinned in answer, and Jon released Daenerys long enough to nudge behind Arya to snag a bottle of water for himself. No more fucking around. He was on watch. It earned an approving nod from his sister.

“It’s fine. Just a bit of rain. You should see the roads in winter. Sometimes even the snow plows get buried.”

“I’m a city girl. I don’t even have my permit,” Daenerys said as she sipped her beer.

“The north is the best place to learn to drive. Sheep outnumber people five to one,” Arya joked.

“Maybe I’ll learn then,” Daenerys said. She moved toward the bulging plastic sack of food, sniffing appreciatively.

Talk flowed easily as they heaped delicious roasted meat on their plates, redolent with spice. Traditional Dothraki stuff was mostly game, but the spice blend was perfect for beef. Arya told them about her training, her apartment, Gendry. Jon had met him once. Big bloke, a former fighter himself. The pole-axed look he gave Arya told Jon enough. Gendry was made for her.

“Mmm, you have Dothraki barbeque up here?”

“There’s a Dothraki transplant in Winterfell, Quono Riderman. His food is the best,” Jon said.

“I love Dothraki food. I was horse-mad as a kid. Mother hired a riding teacher Irri. She was a stickler for tradition. We’d always go to this authentic Dothraki restaurant after lessons,” Daenerys said. He was aware of Daenerys watching him as he tucked in.

“I’m surprised you can handle it,” Daenerys teased him, laughter in her eyes. A northerner to his core, he had a Westerosi palate. Arya and Daenerys added hot sauce to theirs, while Jon sweated. The meat was good, but gods. His mouth was on fire.

“It tastes great. The salad helps with the spice,” Jon said, trying not to cough. The greens and vegetables were crisp, and the vinegary dressing was cooling. The melty ice cream for dessert was even better, a coffee and chocolate swirl thing that was Arya’s favorite.

“So I hear there’s some bad blokes after you. Tell me about it,” Arya asked as they tidied the dishes. He watched worriedly as Daenerys paused, hands wrist-deep in soapy hot water.

“They call themselves the Harpy Triumvirate. Individuals from the three great cities of the Bay of Dragons: Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen. I run an anti-trafficking organization called Breaking Chains. They’ve been sending me death threats for years. Only this week they’ve backed up the talk with violence.” The words were cold, clinical. Jon could hear the lawyer paring down the terror and death into impartial facts. Arya whistled low.

“That sucks,” she said. The understatement drew a crooked smile from Daenerys. She glanced at him, a soft, shining look.

“It does suck. But Jon saved me. That day and every day since.” Arya’s grin glowed with pride.

“He’s a good bloke to have around in a sticky spot,” she said.

“He is,” Daenerys said. Seven hells, he was blushing. There was nothing he could say without sounding like a fatuous asshole, so Jon took a long draught from his water bottle.

“Daenerys, I’d be happy to show you a couple things. Just in case.”

Daenerys’ face lit up.

“I would love that.” Both looked to him. Jon lifted his hands.

“I volunteer to finish washing up,” he said. Daenerys chuckled, kissing his cheek in passing. The glancing touch sent little tingles through him. He fancied the spot glowed. Their amiable chatter made him deeply happy. Arya was easy to get along with, but she was also very protective of him. Seeing her get on so well with Daenerys set him at ease. It had been the same subtle feeling when he met and approved of Gendry. Jon washed the dishes, tidied the leftovers, wiped down the countertops and set the kettle aside for tea. An ear turned toward the den heard the murmur of their conversation, punctuated liberally with giggling. With women, giggling was usually a good sign.

Jon tiptoed to the den and peeked in. Arya stood behind Daenerys, one muscular arm locked around her neck, the other pinioning her hands behind her. Gods, Arya’s been training hard. She looks like she’s gained a stone in muscle.

“Ok, so if a fucker’s got you from behind, more than likely he’s gonna feel pretty confident. This hand--” Arya jiggled the one holding Dany’s wrists, “—will more than likely be relaxed, ‘cause he’s got an arm around your throat. So first snap back with your hips, create a little space.” Brow forked in concentration; Dany tried. Biting back a smile, Jon leaned against the doorjamb. It made him crazy to think of Dany having to use Arya’s self-defense techniques, but the demo was important.

“Like that?” she asked.

Arya smile grew broader.

“Yeah yeah, once you do that you break the hold of his hands, you can duck under the arm—yeah like that and rip his junk off.”

“Leave the fucker writhing in pain as you run off,” Jon interjected. Arya had Daenerys repeat the move and its variations on both her and Jon over and over again. After forty-five minutes of training, his shoulders and chest felt a little sore, but he counted it worth it. Daenerys winced as she stood after Arya demonstrating some sort of Yi Tish balance-block move. Arya helped her up, nodding in sympathy.

“My first coach Syrio said every bruise is a lesson, and every lesson makes you better.”

“He sounds like a wise man,” Daenerys said. By consensus, they agreed more training would wait. They collapsed back on the couch. Arya sobered.

“Syrio’s a tough old bastard. He told me there is only one god, and his name is Death. And there is only one thing we say to Death: Not today.”

                                                               ~

 Daenerys and Jon stood on the porch waving to Arya as she drove off into the dusk. The rain had let up slightly, but grey clouds brooded overhead. Daenerys nestled closer to Jon’s side. Even in summer, the evening chill was biting. Jon followed her back inside and together they wordlessly began tidying the remnants of their meal. Despite the late lunch, Arya rummaged through the fridge and insisted on a bit of supper. Robb and Margaery’s choice of lobster was excellent, as was the turtle soup sopped up with oven-warmed bread dripping with butter. Calories didn’t count on the lam.

“Are you sure you’re ok with this?” she asked.

Arya had pointed out rather succinctly that given the odds against them, Jon was outnumbered and outmanned. Winterfell with its high walls, cameras, and hired security were a far better option. Anxiety coiled taut in her belly. A sidelong glance found his brow knitted, a frown flattening the lush curve of his mouth. Jon had been explicit: he wouldn’t risk his family for her sake. Arya had been quick to wave off any concern. The youngest two Bran and Rickon were south for the weekend with their mother visiting Mrs. Stark’s family in the River district. Mr. Stark was in the Storm district on business, Sansa was at uni.

Daenerys buried her hands in the dishwater to hide them shaking. Of course he wouldn’t want her in Winterfell. Even with most of his family away, Arya was still there, who he obviously adored. He had only known her for a week. He owed her nothing. The silence was unbearable.

“Would you say something?” she said sharply. Jon glanced at her, his scowl deepening.

“What?” he asked.

“’What?’” Daenerys repeated, “If you don’t want me to go to Winterfell, just say so. I can find my own way.”  

The words emerged sharper and nastier than she intended, but the thought of being unwanted pricked her deepest insecurities. Her father had wanted another son, Vis had wanted to live without the burden of a little sister, Daario wanted Jeyne. Daenerys chewed on her lower lip, struggling to breathe down the shrieking panic. Jon had become a safe place, a peaceful paradise. Without him, she felt cast adrift, rudderless. Something in his posture stiffened. His dark eyes flashed.

“You want to leave?” he said quietly. No. No, never.

“You’ve done enough. I can--”

“‘Done enough?’ Yeah, nearly gotten you killed, right? Or do you mean fucking you? Was that ‘enough?’” Daenerys flinched as if he’d struck her and shook her head, marching in the direction of the stairs. She would pack up a few things and hike to the nearest petrol station. A phone call to Vis or Jory would be enough.

“Stop, Jon. Now you’re just being nasty.” Jon followed her, dark and thunderous as the stormclouds outside. The bedroom was a wreck, sheets and blankets strewn on the floor from their earlier lovemaking. Tears clogged her throat.

“No, no. Here we are again. Spell it out for me,” Jon said.

“Why are you acting like this? You’re the one who didn’t want me to go to Winterfell!” Daenerys said, her voice climbing to a near shout. Jon matched her in ferocity and volume, squaring off across the bed from her.

“I didn’t know my family was away! If I had, I would have taken you there first!” Daenerys blinked, confused.

“But--”

Jon sat on the edge of the bed with his back to her and raked a hand through his hair.

“Do you realize how fucking stupid I feel about this afternoon?” he said. Daenerys circled the bed to sit beside him. His expression was tortured.

“What if it wasn’t Arya at the door? I could have gotten you killed! You deserve a battalion of guards to keep you safe. If you don’t want a fuck-up for a bodyguard, I get it. If things are too intense and confusing and you’re looking for an easy out, I get it. But don’t ever think it’s because I don’t want you around. That never gonna happen. Get me?” Daenerys choked back a sob. One tear eked free, and Jon smoothed it away with his thumb. The tenderness of the gesture broke her heart.

“I trust you, Jon. I trust you. And I don’t want to go anywhere without you.” I love you. How she wished she was brave enough to say those words.

“We’ll go to Winterfell in the morning. Together,” she said, taking his hand and pressing kisses on the back.

“Together,” Jon said, drawing her close for a kiss.

Perhaps it was the thought of separation, or the fact that privacy would be scarce in Winterfell, but passion boiled quick and sweet. Sensation blurred. Mm, Jon’s dark, worshipful gaze, long, drinking kisses, undressing her as if she was something fragile and precious. She let her touch speak for her, writing words of love on his body. They moved together, a gentle, timeless eternity. Climax washed over her in deep spasms. Jon followed her soon after, panting her name against her neck. They drowsed in the tub together, fell asleep in each other’s arms.

A beam of sunlight woke her. She squinted at the aperture of the curtains, and the sun-dappled blur of greenery beyond. Behind her, Jon snuffled in his sleep. The arm draped around her twitched. Daenerys kissed him awake.

“Good morning,” she whispered. Jon cracked open one eye.

“‘Mornin,’” he rumbled.

“Go back to sleep. I’ll make tea.”

“M’kay,” he said, already drifting off.

She slid from bed, stretching. Gods, with Jon she slept better than she ever had. Braiding her hair and dressing in clean clothes made her feel ready to greet the day. The burner phone buzzed on the nightstand. She snagged it, creeping into the hallway so as not to disturb Jon. Good, she needed to talk to Vis.

“Hello, Daenerys.” The smooth voice was unfamiliar. Fear sang through her.

“Who is this?” she whispered.

“Where are my manners? My name is Ramsay Bolton. Now, you naughty girl, look at your boytoy.”

“What—Where--?”

“Look.” Daenerys looked at Jon, asleep in bed, a red laser dot floating on his forehead. Oh gods.

“Now listen very carefully.”          

[acesgroupchat]

This is the tale of a man battered by storms. This is the tale of a man, a general, clever and swift and stolen. A man at war, a man betrayed, a man transformed. This is the tale of his going home.

Nie Feng is a man of absolute loyalty, but loyalty divided. He is a faithful friend, a devoted husband, and a dutiful soldier. In times of peace he is to be found by his wife’s side. When war calls, he goes where his country needs him. It is thus that he finds himself at Meiling, fighting in an inferno as a winter storm tears at the edges of their camp. He is a good general. His commanders are better. His army survives, against impossible odds and with bitter casualties.

And then they are betrayed.

Nie Feng does not recognize the army raining arrows down on them from the clifftops. Da Yu’s soldiers have been beaten back, and he is certain that no other nation could have brought an army across their borders in secret. The alternative, that these are soldier of their own nation, does not even occur to him.

Nie Feng is not called the lightning general without reason. He is surrounded, surprised, and badly outnumbered on unfavourable terrain, but war does not suffer the unprepared to survive, and Nie Feng has been at war for a very long time.  His soldiers are battle hardened and trust him completely. This new army does not know these mountains as he does. He rallies his men and they flee through the mountains and their losses are heavy but their retreat is successful. They are wounded and exhausted but alive.

They turn their horses back to the main army camp, but they are too late. The tents are burned, the army lies in pieces, and over the devastation fly the banners of their own countrymen. They have not yet been seen. They have exactly one chance. Nie Feng makes an impossible decision. He turns his army. They vanish into the mountains unseen.

It is the dead of winter, they are badly wounded, and they have lost nearly all of their supplies. Their own nation has slaughtered them, and Nie Feng swears he saw his wife’s shifu among the slaughterers. He is not a man of politics, but neither is he incompetent. He measures the testimony of his eyes against the testimony of his memories, and finds in them a subtle, horrifying accord.

They cannot turn to their own people for help, but winter is as merciless as steel. Hunting brings scarce game, and even thievery, dishonourable, unconscionable thievery, is pointless. These lands are impoverished, and sparsely populated. They are fewer now than they were, but still more than these lands could support. They could consign every peasant for a hundred miles to starvation, and starve themselves anyway on the meagre fruits of their bitter harvest.

A man at war is a near thing to an animal. A man starved is closer still. They are desperate men, hunted men. A trap is laid for them and they are caught.

It begins as a scent. They wake one morning to find the air suffused with the smell of pork cooking, though they have not had pork in more than a week. One or two of the men are brought near to tears with longing. As the sun crests the hill, the scent takes on a definite directional quality, and with no better options Nie Feng gives the order to follow it.

It is a better part of the day following the scent, which grows stronger by the minute, and never once wavers. By the time the sun has burned through the morning mist, the men are near running after what is now the rich scent of a feast, promising meat and wine and handmade dishes of all sorts. They are not stupid men, they should know better, but they have been hungry for some time and they are exhausted.

It is noon when the woods give way to a clearing and a garden grown rich and wild, oceans of vegetables that break like waves on the tree-line. In the middle stands a feast laid out, fragrant rice and more dishes than the eye can easily count, gleaming in the midday sun. This is richer fare than even a favoured army eats on campaign, better than some of the men have ever tasted.

Or perhaps not.

As his men break the tree-line and fall upon the food, Nie Feng catches a note within the intoxicating blend that brings him to a stumbling halt.

Nie Feng’s wife is a woman like no other. He misses her fiercely every minute of every campaign, misses the home that they have built together, the home that is theirs, that is like no other home in Jinling. These past days, he has wondered more than once if he will ever see that home again. Starving and homesick, he has found himself desperate for his wife’s cooking, which, like everything else about his wife, is unique in all the civilized world. It is this scent that he recognizes, woven into the bright melange of the feast, and it is this scent that catches his feet at the clearing’s edge. Nie Feng loves his wife. He does not believe she would ever betray him, but he watched her shifu slit General Lin’s throat barely a week ago. Nie Feng is no longer certain, and in his uncertainty he hesitates.

This hesitation saves his life. As his eyes scan the clearing, searching everywhere for signs of the Xuanjing bureau, a woman steps into the garden. She is not Xia Dong, and Nie Feng has one moment of mixed relief before she raises her hand. Her face twists into a satisfied smile. “A fine harvest indeed,” she murmurs. She makes a gesture, and Nie Feng watches in horror as his men begin to change.

Skin stretches, flushing pink over swelling flesh that quickly tears through clothing, leaving his men naked and rapidly balding even as they grow. Their cries of alarm quickly become squeals. The first are pigs before the last can even begin to respond. It is then that the woman’s eyes meet Nie Feng’s.

“Will you kill me, little soldier?” Her eyes dart to his belt, where he is startled to realize his sword is already drawn. He grips it tightly. The woman is well beyond his reach, and this circumstance well beyond his understanding, but his men are in danger. Whatever this threat, he will meet it upright, and oppose it with all his strength. His men deserve no less.

The woman’s eyes go flinty. “So protective,” she murmurs, voice dry. “You will make an excellent guard dog.” She flicks her fingers, and Nie Feng feels himself begin to change. His sword clatters to the ground, dropping from twisted fingers that will no longer hold it. His legs bend under him and he collapses forward. He opens his mouth to scream and it is not a human sound. It is over in a moment and he lies panting on the ground as the woman turns away with a satisfied smirk. “Guard,” she says, and he feels the force of her will push down on him, even as she draws a knife and begins to slit his men’s throats.

He lunges for her, teeth bared, ready to tear out her throat, to crush her wrist in his jaws. He lunges. He does not move. She continues, unconcerned. He can draw no closer, can do nothing to save his men. Can only turn his eyes to the horizon to scan for danger. He can feel his own intention beginning to slip away, even as his men bleed out onto the ground as pigs.

It is an unthinkable circumstance. Nie Feng makes an unforgivable choice. With the screams of his men echoing in his ears, he turns and runs.

He hides in the mountains for weeks, moving west along the border. It is easier, as a wolf. Hunger is more bearable, his body better suited to the cold and to winter’s privation. The peasants are no more his friends now than before, but if he keeps his distance so will they, and there is no chance of soldiers finding him now.

It is spring when Nie Feng turns his eyes southward, and begins to consider his situation. His options are extremely limited. It would be safest to stay here in these mountains, but the thought of consigning himself to an animal’s life permanently is more than he can bear.  As a man, he might have more options, but he does not dare return to the clearing where he was changed. The weight of the woman’s command still lies heavy on his mind, and he is not certain he would remain himself, if he were to go near her again.

Jinling has little enough to offer him in this form. He cannot return to his wife and his home, not when he remains unsure of his position and certainly not as a wolf. Nie Feng knows what happens to wild animals that find themselves on the capitol streets, has been involved in those hunts himself in the past. He could not enter the city, could only skulk in the mountains and catch glimpses of travellers. It is not even a shadow of his life before; proximity offers only cruel reminders. Nevertheless, as spring brings new growth to the world, Nie Feng goes south.

At a wolf’s quick lope, it is weeks to the capitol city. For a cautious, prudent creature, one who avoids cities and roads, a month or two at most. If one had poor luck, it might take an entire season.

For Nie Feng, it takes ten years.

This, however, is a story for another time.

He arrives in high summer, and the mountains welcome him home. By autumn, he knows their trails and byways, where game is hidden, where small villages tuck into the hillsides. Just after the first snow he finds a grave bearing his name, and at the turn of the new year he watches, distant, as Xia Dong burns offerings and sends prayers to him. Whatever else may have happened, it is clear that his wife honors his memory. This is bare comfort when he must watch her cry, with no way of soothing her grief.

It is almost spring when he is first forced to take a chicken from a farmer’s henhouse. He does so as rarely as he can, but by summer soldiers have been dispatched into the mountains to hunt for him. Their traps would pose a severe danger for an ordinary wolf, but Nie Feng is a soldier himself. He is not trapped. As the late autumn fills the forests with game, he retreats from the villages, avoids troops, and waits for the new year, when he will see his wife again.

The first buds of spring are just showing on the mountain, when Nie Feng watches the emperor’s procession leave the city on their way to the hunting palace. Six days later, he watches a column of soldiers follow them, armed for war and riding hard. Nie Feng is twelve years removed from the capitol, was never a man of politics, but he knows trouble when he sees it, and there is no version of this situation that will not spell some sort of trouble for Xia Dong. As the army presses toward the hunting palace, he follows.

The army travels at a pace of breakneck desperation, overrunning outposts and gathering speed as it goes. The only messenger who manages to outrun them comes crying the news that it is Prince Yu and open rebellion.  The man Nie Feng had been would have done everything to oppose such a move, would have harried the army's flank, destroyed their supplies, and given his life to slow their progress. As it is, Nie Feng is no longer a man, and no longer certain what loyalty he owes to the man who must have ordered his execution. He follows at a distance instead, and watches with sharp eyes as the army closes on the hunting palace.

Battle, when battle comes, is an ugly scramble, as it always is. Nie Feng has a good vantage on a hillside, just far enough from the fighting. It is for this reason that, as the second day dawns and the gates begin to give, Nie Feng realizes with a start that he recognizes some of these tactics. A closer watch only increases his suspicion. Meng Zhi is an old friend, and Meng Zhi leads the vanguard as he always does, but Meng Zhi is not a strategist. These are someone else’s battle plans, as familiar to Nie Feng as his own. It is impossible, but no more impossible than Nie Feng himself. Nie Feng draws nearer still, and his suspicions are confirmed by the arrival of Nihuang and Jingyan, fiercely determined and clearly working together.

Nie Feng draws so near, in fact, that he is captured by Jingyan’s soldiers. Captured, and not killed, which is an uncertain relief. He is caged and brought to the hunting palace and it is there that he finds the man who was Xiao-Shu. He too is transformed, with a scholar’s unfamiliar face, and the scent of death held close to his skin, hidden to all but Nie Feng. His eyes are knowing on Nie Feng’s own. His voice is steady, commanding as he demands Nie Feng’s release, a reward for his own service that he is granted in a moment. Nie Feng is freed to Xiao-Shu’s side, and so it is that Nie Feng’s shoulder is the first under Xiao-Shu’s hand, when Xiao-Shu collapses a moment later.

The candles are burning low and dim when Mei Changsu opens his eyes. Beside him, Jingyan is deeply asleep, head resting on the edge of the bed, with Nie Feng draped warm over his lap. Lin Chen sits on his other side, fingers buried deep in the fur coverlet, silently watching him.

“You can’t be here,” he whispers. His voice is desperately hoarse.

Lin Chen laughs, soft and deep in his throat. “Can’t I? The grounds here are soaked a handsbreadth deep with blood. This place might as well be a shrine to me.”

And so it must be. They are impossibly distant from his own realm, but Lin Chen’s power rolls through the tent in palpable waves. It is a relief and a mercy, slipping under Mei Changsu’s skin like a balm, cooling the fire in his bones. He presses his own fingers a bit deeper into the coverlet. Beside him on the floor, Nie Feng makes a soft chuffing sound in his sleep, drawing Lin Chen’s eyes.

“Did you change him?” Lin Chen’s mouth twists into a smirk. “Despite what you may believe, I do not make a habit of giving out new bodies to unfortunate mortals. He is not one of mine in any case.”

“Could you change him back?”

“Are you planning another wager, Changsu? I believe your prince has already proven himself.”

“Not as a wager. As a favor. For a friend.”

Something shifts in the wry cant of Lin Chen’s mouth. It does not seem like it should be possible to surprise him, ancient and infinite as he is. Changsu flexes his fingers once more. He should not be doing this. There is no space in his plans for concerns like these, and no margin for error at all. He does not even know what this is, really. Even so, he does not drop his gaze as his fingers slip across the coverlet to twine with Lin Chen’s own.

[livralph]

It isn’t forever

I hate winter. It’s always so much colder than the rest of the year, even though in England we’re lucky when we have a reasonably warm summer. Right now, the reason I hate winter is that my father decided the best idea for his usual New Years ‘party’ all of the old families attend was to have an outdoor celebration. However expensive the jacket of my suit is, it is still doing nothing to keep me warm on the last night of fucking December.

Wellbelove and Bunce have disappeared somewhere with a few of Bunce’s cousins, and so I’ve been left with Fiona and Simon. Fiona hasn’t shut up about things my father has said out of my earshot for twenty minutes. The past five have been Fiona ranting about a comment made about the fact of me being gay. I love that she’s amazingly supportive, but I don’t need to be reminded about my father hating first my sexuality and second my boyfriend.

Especially not when said boyfriend isn’t really comfortable with his sexuality. He’s barely comfortable holding my hand or having my hand on his back while we talk. When I tried to take the hand that wasn’t holding a champagne flute, he knocked my hand away and swapped which he had his glass in. Despite this, I felt his (temporarily) invisible tail move and wrap around my calf once then tap the inside of my ankle. He threw me a sorry smile as he did this.

“I’m going to get another drink.” He muttered, looking very surprised that his was empty when he went to take another sip. I watched Fiona nod at him and leant slightly in to where he put his hand on my forearm for a second before going, his tail leaving my leg just after him.

“I understand Malcom doesn’t like that you‘re fucking the Mages heir—“

“Fiona!” I say, aghast. She’s lost her filter.

“—but he needs to get over himself. This isn’t something he can ignore like—“ I knock her. “Like the other thing he refuses to talk about.”

“He‘ll get over it. With time.” I sigh tiredly. I turn around to look at the drinks table where Simon has supposedly gone to and see he isn’t there. Of course, I know there’s always the possibility that he’s gone off to find bunce, but he’s still being weird around Wellbelove. Even I’m not weird around her anymore. He had watched Wellbelove go inside with Bunce and the others, so I doubt that‘s where he disappeared to.

“It’s been enough time!” A woman stood beside the fountain who had been talking to a toddler looks over alarmed. Fiona drops her voice again. “It‘s been almost three years now, Baz. He’s your dad, and even though you aren’t his what he wanted in his son—“

“Thank you, Fiona.”

She frowns at me. “That isn’t what I mean. He didn’t expect his son to be a vampire, and queer, and end up in a relationship with someone he thinks is on the opposite side. He still loves you.”

“You don’t believe Simon is on the opposite side?” I raise one eyebrow, stepping a hair closer and dropping my voice again.

“I love my sister, but even I have to agree she wasn’t always right. I don’t agree with everything that bloke of yours has to say, but I definitely don’t disagree with a lot of it.” As she spoke she was looking around as if to check no one was listening in on what she said. Crowley, the old families would have a field day if they knew another one of their own was leaning towards the more modern views. By another, I mean that I was the first. Not once have I actually voiced a political opinion to anyone that isn’t Fiona but Bunce, who swore not to say a word. Especially with what she said to me. But when it became somewhat common knowledge that Simon and I were together my views were assumed.

“Of course.” I reply, because I’ve somewhat forgotten what she’d said. Also, where in hell is Simon? He’s definitely not near the drinks table, nor had he gone inside because the doors had remained shut. Even if I hadn’t been watching them, Fiona and I were stood in line with them and would have noticed if they’d been opened. Light would flood over us.

“The old families hate him. You should have heard what—“

“I need to go and find Simon.” I say quietly, but she cut off anyway. “He’s been a few minutes and he tends to...” I trail off, looking around again.

“You called him Simon.” When I turn to Fiona she has a dopey grin on her face. Someone needs to take her drink away. Not me, but someone.

”Crowley, you’re drunk.” I don’t know how I didn’t realise. “I always forget that you talk about politics and peoples opinions when you’re drunk. I’m going to find my boyfriend.” She nodded him off then walked over to the old woman who had looked over at us a moment earlier. Fiona was immediately pulled into a taught hug and I was very glad I wasn’t her. It takes until I pass my father and daphne for the smell of her perfume to finally fade out.

The only other person who I can smell like that is Simon now that he doesn’t rely on Watford body wash. He’s recently discovered a certain cologne that I’d noticed before he’d knocked on the doors of my fathers house. I suspect Wellbelove’s parents bought him it for Christmas, as he hadn’t been wearing it Christmas Eve, but had boxing day. However awful it is at certain moments, right now it will be much easier to find Simon. I can smell him from a mile off.

I walk past Dev and Niall who were leaning on the wall of my house, talking to each other in hushed voices and leaning very close together. Both wave at me merrily, but i watch them step back from each other as they do so. A sigh escapes me, but I keep walking. Simon can’t have gone too far. Unless he’s decided to fly, and I don’t think he would do that to me. Especially not after he heard Fiona say my father made a comment about him flying when mordelia was around. She’d asked when she would get her wings and had a tantrum when he told her she wouldn’t. Mordelia is better than my other three siblings. She had past the loudest phase of her adolescence and thankfully not woken me up by screaming in four years. On top of that, she actually likes me. The others do not.

As I turn at the corner of the garden, I smell Simon. Or his cologne. It doesn’t matter, I’ve nearly reached him. As the smell gets stronger, I hear the sound of his steady breathing. Then I see his silhouette sat on a bench, facing the small pond at the bottom of my families garden. Simon’s wings have appeared and his tail is resting limply over the opposite side of the bench to the side he is sitting on.

It’s not until I sit down beside him that I speak. First I walked around the bench, lifted his tail, and dropped it back down but on my lap rather than the bench. Simon shifts his gaze to me, and a weak smile fills his face. His tail wraps around my self forearm as he does this.

“Ran out on us there, Snow. You missed out on drunk Fiona praising your opinions.” My right hand strokes over his tail where it is on my arm. And Simon shuffles slightly closer. The proximity is already warming me up, and we’re half a foot away, only touching where my arm and his tail are.

“Sat through all the bitching about your dad.” He mutters. The fact that he doesn’t move away tells me he’s not upset with me. Maybe Fiona. Or my father. I can’t tell.

“I’m sorry.” I take his hand where it sits on his lap. He squeezes it. “She can be a little inconsiderate.”

“I like her.” What? This wasnt how I expected it to go. I expected I’d find him somewhere, irritated by my rich and rather conservative family, wanting to go home. He liked Fiona? He’s shifting closer to me again. “I like her, I’m just weird. Like, since the mage... and Ebb... it’s weird. Ebb was my friend but she was kind of like a mother or weird aunt. The Mage was my father figure. Not a good one, but I loved him. Then it turned out he was doing all these awful things. Half of them were to me and I didn’t even notice.”

“Snow.” My voice sounds strained when I speak and he’s turned his head to me, blue eyes looking bright despite the dark because of my somewhat immunity to it. His curls are getting longer now, falling into his eyes and around his ears. “It’s not your fault, Snow.”

“I know.” Simon drops his head on to my shoulder after those words, then continues. “It’s just weird to hear people acting like they hate their parents when I’ve never had any proper ones. Now the closest things I did have are dead. It’s weirder.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I never really feel things like that when people complain about their mothers. People don’t tend to complain about their mothers around me. Dev and Niall have long since learnt what sends me to have a minor breakdown and I don’t spend enough time with anyone else my age to notice.

“It’s fine.” He presses his forehead to my neck, his hair stopping our skin from touching. It feels different to how it usually does because I convinced him to use a little bit of gel to style his hair. It didn’t hold, I’d finished moving it around then watched it flop immediately back to his forehead. “I miss them. One of them wasn’t a good person, the other was one of the best, but I miss them both. Y’know?” It’s odd that he said anything because I didn’t even reply. Simon waits for me to answer. He waits for everyone to answer. I think perhaps he didn’t expect one this time.

“I know.” I don’t. Or maybe I do. Either way, I understand what he means, even if I don’t know the feeling. It doesn’t matter, because right now he needs comfort and I’ll give him that. I kiss him on the top of the head. A few stray curls poke my nose and it makes me want to sneeze but I don’t. One of Simon’s wings has come to rest around me and I didn’t notice when, but it’s come to rest beside my knee. The other wing is stretched out and resting almost limply on the bench. His tail is still wrapped around my arm.

“I don’t want to feel like this anymore.” He barely breathes the words yet they sound like waves crashing against the cliff. The wind had dropped and trees stopped their creaking as if to hear him say the words. My grip on his hand tightens a little and I lean into him further. I could feel my heart shatter at the same time I could hear the words.

I want to tell him that I don’t want him to feel this way either, but I think that would be almost selfish. Simon would change himself for someone else in a heartbeat. Even Trixie the Pixie and Gareth with that damn belt buckle. If I said it he’d do everything he could to make it seem like he was perfectly okay and then everything would be so much worse. Right now I can hold him and he can grieve. He’s telling me when somethings wrong, as long as I make it apparent he can.

It’s the biggest thing me and Bunce have managed to work out in the year since Simon’s magic evaporated. If we’re vulnerable and don’t let him push us away, he won’t. His magickal therapist has spoken to him about talking to his friends as well as her. Simon telling me she’d said that was a big part of carrying out her suggestions. He isn’t good with emotion. Nor am I, really, but we’re getting better. In a year we’ve gotten better. There’s still so much left that’s out in the open and unresolved though.

We haven’t spoken about The Humdrum, not really. And we haven’t spoken about the Mage in depth; what he would try and train Simon to do. We’ve talked about Ebb, but only because she’s the only uncomplicated death. She was his friend, and he’d lost her, and it hurt. Fiona has talked to Simon about Ebb too. Told him things he didn’t know that made him laugh or cry or both. It had been a good thing for them, and me too. I need someone in my family to like my boyfriend, and Fiona adores him.

“I wish I didn’t feel like this too.” I reply. It’s minutes later. I wish I wasn’t confused and angry. But I am and what I need is time. For that I need patience. And that is quickly wearing thin. I wish we could skip through all the hurt and distance and get to where we’re living in a flat together and wake up every day in the same bed, light coming in through the blinds. To where we are properly invested in university. Or even just to where we can talk about further than a week or two away.

That won’t happen.

For now what will happen is we will hold each other’s hands, but not around lots of people. We will sit in the dark with the silence, the absence of sound holding our bubble. We will talk to each other about what we can and give time to what we can’t. We will allow time to heal because it will. Patience may be wearing thin but I will hold out until the world reaches a point where we’re all okay. I’d say again but I can’t remember a point where either of us have been.

“It isn’t forever.” Simon says the words so gently. The air from them brushes me neck.

“No.” I agree. “It isn’t.” I hope we are.