#blow out the candle and hunt you in the dark

[lethalcontracts]

Clay holding a classic lantern to guide your way through the snow..... Or is he.

[spicyspiders]

OKAY SO

One of Hugh Jackman’s roles is Gabriel Van Helsing (Van Helsing 2004), amazing movie, you should watch it

Can we get some Van Helsing X Reader? Maybe make it sorta like closeted/internalized homophobia reader that’s a monster hunter like Gabriel. (Maybe also Trans reader, if that’s okay, if not, I completely understand)

I still haven't watched Van Helsing, but I hope this does the character justice. Van Helsing helps the reader bandage a wound after a hunt, but it isn't descriptive of the injury.

“Hey,” Helsing says softly, catching you off guard, “sorry,” he says after you jump. 

“What is it?” You ask, not turning to look at him, too focused on the task at hand. 

“Let me help,” Helsing answers, sitting down beside you on the already cramped bed. 

“I’ve got it,” you respond, leaning inward like you’re trying to make yourself smaller. But you did not, in fact, got it. You’ve never been good at wrapping bandages after you’ve been injured on a hunt, either making them too tight or too loose. And if on cue, the bandage falls down your arm seconds after Helsing has sat down. 

“Let me,” Helsing repeats, his hand hovering in the air beside your arm. 

You let out a long, tired sigh, but give up and finally let Helsing have your arm. Diligently, like the way you’ve seen Helsing fight, he carefully wraps your arm. “You’d think I’d be better at this,” you say with a soft chuckle, watching the way that Helsing’s hands work. 

“You make up for it,” Helsing responds, pausing to nod over to the other bed that has your gear and his on it, “you’re one hell of a shot with that thing,” he says before turning his focus back to your arm.

“You can do both,” you say, looking over the bandages on his body, easily noticing how he’s dressed them perfectly. You’ve been on a handful of hunts with Helsing, and noticed almost from the very beginning how precise of a shot he was. You couldn’t deny that you were jealous. 

“Yes, well,” Helsing says as he finishes up, “not all of us can be good at everything,” he says, smirking to himself. 

“Just you?” You question with a laugh. 

“I didn’t say that,” Helsing responds, his smirk growing into a full smile as he looks over your arm. 

“Thank you, Helsing,” you say after he lets your arm go. 

“Gabriel,” he responds, looking you in the eye, “countless times we’ve hunted together and you still call me by my last name?” He asks, a look of sadness flashing momentarily in his eyes. 

“Gabriel,” you repeat, testing the name on your tongue. 

He smiles at you, his eyes brightening under the candle light, “would you like a drink?” He asks, “should help with the pain,” he says, standing up with a grimace as the movement jostles his side with the bandages he just put on. 

You shake your head at his question, “I usually just sleep it off,” you answer, slowly rising from the bed to clear off the gear from the other. 

“That sounds like a better idea,” he says with a laugh, helping you as you clear off the bed, smiling at each other when your hands brush. 

Once the bed is clear, you quickly, yet carefully, pull your clothes off to get changed. You didn’t even want to think about how hard you were going to have to scrub to get the bloodstain out. During the process, you turn your back to Gabriel, trying to ignore the heat of his gaze. 

As you finish up, your attention is grabbed by the loud noise of wood scraping against the floor. You turn around, watching with a confused look as Gabriel pushes the two beds together. 

“More space,” Gabriel says simply. 

Unlike you, Gabriel watches you as he changes, looking away when he goes to blow out the candles that illuminate the room. 

“Ready for bed?” He asks through the darkness. 

Moonlight through the window replaces what light you just had, making it harder to see. To guide you to the bed, Gabriel places a warm hand on your unbandaged arm, getting the two of you on the bed. 

“You have no need to hide from me,” Gabriel says, barely any space between your bodies as you face each other. 

“I hide nothing from you,” you respond softly, your heart picking up in your chest. Your body goes tense when you feel Gabriel’s hand on your face, “I trust you with my life,” you whisper, trying to calm your racing heart. 

“How many times have we slain monsters together?” He asks as he shifts closer, your knees knocking together. 

“I have lost count,” you respond with a soft laugh. 

“Are you ashamed?” He asks as he tangles your legs together, “ashamed that it’s me?” He asks, his voice quiet. 

“No!” You respond, louder than you both expected, startling you both, “no,” you repeat, this time much softer. 

“Then why-” Gabriel begins to ask, his voice pained. 

“If the others found out,” you start, cutting him off, only for the other man to do the same. 

“Let them,” he says as he places his other hand on your cheek, cradling your face in his warm palms, “they wouldn’t dare lay a finger on you,” he says, his voice dark. 

A bitter smile falls over your face, “it isn’t just their words, Gabriel,” you whisper, leaning into his touch, your eyes burning. 

Your heart hammers in your chest, pumping hard enough that you wouldn’t be surprised Gabriel can hear it. It goes quiet in the room, dread settling into your gut, worried you’ve said too much. 

Too fast for you to even think about, Gabriel moves his hands from your face to get his arms around your body. He pulls you into his chest, letting you feel how his heart is beating just as fast. 

“No one will ever hurt you again,” he vows as he curls his body protectively around yours.

You aren’t sure how long you lay there in the safety of his arms before falling asleep. The last thing you feel before sleep pulls you under is the press of Gabriel’s lips to the crown of your head. 

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Persephone's Devotee (Hello, Mr. Monster AU, I)

Master List

Summary: In the age of Spiritualists and magicians, wyrds winds in different ways to link Dream of the Endless and Aisling Hunt. AU of Hello, Mr. Monster beginning in the 1920s. (Alternatively titled 'We All Hate Roderick Burgess')

Warnings: Implied child abuse/neglect, child left to travel solo, manipulating children for profit (non-sexual trafficking)

A/N: Your bird just got diagnosed with a life changing chronic condition (in addition to being put back on depression meds). We'll see how this post does. Have four chapters planned. The last scene is based on personal experiences with heat exhaustion/borderline heat stroke.

Dream’s tools brought many things to Fawney Rig. Wealth and prestige. Admiration, gifts, and influence. Nearly everything the magus wanted and only a fraction of what he thought he deserved. Roderick’s dreams of power and riches drew another tool to his hand, or perhaps Destiny drew the magus to her. The girl who saw strange things in the dark and found answers to strange riddles in her cards. But her wyrd would always draw her to old house and its shrouded dungeon, in any world or time. All because of what the Burgesses kept there.

In the eight years since the fateful evening he summoned and caught one of the Endless, Roderick had become a man much desired. He found himself with an invitation to Lord and Lady Werthrope’s party, a guest of honor at a soiree at their country estate. They promised a night of occult mysteries and foreign prizes. Bits of people and places from across the empire and beyond. Mummies from Egypt and fragments of Greek antiquities to gasp and shriek over with glasses of champagne and brandy.

Roderick carried himself as Lord Werthrope’s equal, and at least for that night, surrounded by ancient mysteries of all kinds, he was seen as such. He was an expert, a guide, someone to hold in reverence rather than an oddity to gawk over. He told them with his bearing, his dignity, and the ruby he wore on a golden chain around his neck. His wishes became dreams and so became real. He stood like a stronger god beside the broken figure of Apollo and scoffed at the mistranslations of texts he’d only ever read secondhand.

Beside the wonders kept under guard at home, what were these paltry things? He could have any of them he desired, and he’d already claimed better.

His sense of superiority carried him through the party’s early hours, moving from acrobats in elaborate costumes, to fire eaters, to ghost stories and flights of fancy spun by swindlers far below his consideration. He had an answer or alternative for everything. And then he met the girl.

She sat at a bare table with no long cloth to hide rolling ankles, clever fishing lines, or knocking accomplices. Only a candle and a deck of cards separated her from the guests, and she’d drawn quite a queue. Her feet didn’t even reach the floor, swinging idly between the legs of the chair as she read the cards of a distraught-looking dandy.

Taking his arm, Lady Werthrope said, “This one you really must see, Magus. She’s made quite the splash in New York and London.”

The Magus offered a tolerant smile. “And what is the trick? Does she blow out the candle? Bend spoons?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that.” The lady practically vibrated, eager to impress as she led them to the table, scattering the line. “She sees things, and she reads fortunes like no one I’ve ever seen, and I’ve had more than a few pet psychics in my time. This one’s a bit of a sad story.”

The magus clenched his jaw until the muscle in his cheek twitched. He could make whatever sob story the girl shilled much worse. Of all the frauds and liars who feigned knowledge of the occult, Roderick Burgess hated mediums and ghost whisperers the most. The tantalizing promise of connection with Randal – always waved in his face, always ultimately denied – it clawed open the rotting wound in his heart, and he let the poison drip back on any fools who tried his patience.

Let this one try to pull the wool over his eyes, and he’d unmask her in front of this glittering audience. She’d be a penniless sad story when he was through.

“Those people,” the lady said, nodding to a couple flanking the child, “are just the adoptive parents. Saw her family murdered, poor thing. They say that’s what cracked her open to the other world.”

“Do they indeed.” He kept his smile, showing his teeth as his grip flexed over the cane in his free hand. “Then I look forward to her performance.”

The Magus and the lady sat across from the faux family, and the girl looked at them. The people who weren’t her parents did not manage her well, Burgess couldn’t help noting. They’d painted her up with rogue and kohl that made her look even more like a child playing grownup games, and the feather in her headband hung limp and lifeless. She barely managed to grimace through a smile, and she spoke with all the enthusiasm of a student reporting on Ovid to the class.

“What are you asking?” A child’s voice really shouldn’t be so dull. Now that he was nearer, the Magus couldn’t help wondering if she was even younger than he’d first assumed. Not even ten, he thought, and already so exhausted.

It wasn’t what he’d expected. He kept his guard, but curiosity stirred beneath. She was no great performer.

Lady Werthrope leaned forward, eager to take the first reading as the girl shuffled her cards. They were nearly too big for her to manage, but in this at least she clearly had much practice. Her handling of the tarot was the most natural element of her demeanor he’d yet to see.

The lady talked about her dog Moxy, a cocker spaniel much loved and terribly spoiled. It was getting on in years, and, well, ought she prepare for anything dreadful? Only, her friend had just lost her terrier, and she couldn’t chase it from her thoughts…

The cards appeared on the table. One by one. The Six of Cups. The Two of Swords. And, lastly, the Nine of Swords reversed.

“Moxy is well-loved.” The child pointed to the first card. “That’s the foundation. But she’s getting older, and she may go blind eventually. She’s accepted it, though, and you will, too.” She smiled a little, hesitantly, like a pet used to getting kicked when she barked at company. The Magus noted how her gaze flicked to her pseudo-father.

Lady Werthrope clucked and reached over to squeeze the child’s hand. “You’re very honest. And very sweet. Now, won’t you show the Magus what you can do?”

Obediently, she gathered the cards and folded the deck, shuffling them with the fresh energy of her next customer. “What do you want to know?”

Roderick considered. It was a little below him to ask anything specific of a child spiritualist, and he still meant to test her. Hate stirred the old thorn in his heart, and although she didn’t speak with ghosts to earn her bread, he didn’t need to justify himself.

“I’ll leave the question to you.” He squinted in a way that may seem affectionate, but it was only sharp, a predator focusing on little fawn to see how quickly it might run. “What do you see?”

She flinched, lifting her eyes from the cards to meet his in a fleeting, startled glance. Like he’d come near to guessing something she didn’t say out loud. But then she bent over the deck, back to her work as the woman behind her set a hand on her shoulder.

“Be good, Aisling,” the adoptive mother said. “Show the Magus your skills. Don’t embarrass us.”

The child rolled her lip between her teeth, sorting the task quickly. One card. Two cards. Three cards. Tap, tap, tap on the bare table. The Magician’s face glowed in the candle light, and Roderick blinked. A good tarot reader must have good luck in order to draw the appropriate cards – or a marked deck. But he’d watched those little hands like a hawk, and he’d seen nothing. It wasn’t definitive proof by any means, but Roderick Burgess knew himself to be cleverer than a child.

Pointing to the first card, the Magician, the girl said, “You’re the Magus. The Magician is your creation of yourself.” The second card was the Nine of Cups. “Your cups all overflow, and you enjoy the plenty you already have.” And then there was the Ace of Pentacles. Roderick wondered for a moment if she’d laid the cards out of the intended order, but she simply said, “There is new wealth coming. You’ve just found something that will bring you more good fortune. The benefits will grow in the months and years to come.”

“You’re very sure of yourself.” He looked for cracks, and there were many. Fatigue clouded her eyes and weighted the end of every sentence. Not a sign of a lie, though. She couldn’t even pretend to be happy for the audience.

He turned the interaction over in his mind through the rest of the night, wearing away the questions and presumptions like the rough edges of a stone, and by the later hours, he thought he might hold a jewel.

The adoptive parents made themselves easy to find. They hadn’t left the table. Neither had the girl. The lord and lady hired them to entertain, and they stayed at their posts. They’d gathered refreshments, but no cup or plate sat on the table, and he wondered if they had any idea children needed things like water after a long night of speaking with strangers.

Really. The scheme was too transparent. The only lies hid in any manner of affection the parents pretended for the child they claimed.

The Magus marched up to the table, rapping the top with his cane to seize the drowsy girl’s attention. She blinked, started licking her dry lips, caught herself, and pinched her mouth closed with her teeth.

“Aisling, wasn’t it?” He nodded to her, encouraging her to echo the motion. “I would like a word with you. No cards. No reading. Just a conversation. Alone.”

The father stepped forward, ready to defend his meal ticket. “Sir, I’m afraid we can’t just –”

“The girl and I will sit here, at this table,” he tapped it again to make his point, “and you will both stand over there.” The cane swung to point towards the bar, which was well within sight but well out of earshot.

When the man moved to protest again, Roderick pulled out his wallet, and the father’s mouth snapped shut. A few pounds bought the adults’ willing compliance, and they went off in search of drinks with barely a backwards glance. Roderick settled into the seat he claimed earlier, watching the girl squirm. Her hands fluttered restlessly between her lap and the table, clearly used to the cards, uneasy without the form and ritual of a reading to guide the conversation.

That was well enough. Roderick had his own plans.

He signaled one of the roving staff, and as the waiter approached, he ordered, “A lemonade for the young lady.”

With a bow, the server hurried off, and the Magus smiled, lips closed, tilting his head as his legs crossed under the table. He was not a client. He was an adult who noticed, who might be moved to care, and in the few hours of their acquaintance, he was already offering more than anyone else.

“So, you see things?”

Her eyes snapped from him to the people who managed her. Then back again, and down to her lap.

“I’m not supposed to upset people.” She picked at the fringe on the garish frock she wore – entirely unsuited to her age and clearly uncomfortable. “It upsets Mr. and Mrs. Foster when I see things. Or when I talk about them.”

The Magus nodded, unsurprised. He wondered if the people who adopted her even realized her talents were genuine when they snatched her up. They had too many connections and too much showmanship to be anything other than experienced con artists. This little Aisling must be very sensitive, and the truly sensitive didn’t see strictly good, kind, or encouraging things. How she must terrify the fools.

The server returned with a cut crystal glass rattling with ice. The girl thanked the server, then thanked her benefactor, and wrapped her hands around the condensation-slicked sides. She sipped carefully, and Roderick could see the tension ease from her posture as she drank. Desperate as she was, she didn’t gulp, and with clear regret, she set the drink on the table still two-thirds full. But she kept her hands on the glass, lest some waiter assume she was finished and spirit it away.

“I won’t be upset, and I’d like to believe you.” Angling his head down to peer at her meaningfully, employing a look he’d once used when his son misbehaved, he asked, “What have you seen tonight that would upset people?”

The girl looked around, shifting so her chair creaked. This time, it wasn’t her adoptive parents she feared. Any ears may be a threat. When she leaned in, the Magus copied her, silently assuring her the secret would be safe with him.

“There’s a guest who’s not a guest, and he isn’t a man, either.”

The Magus hummed. “Say I believe you. Could you prove it?”

Seduced into the invitation of an adult confidant, and revived by the lemonade, she rushed to answer. She wanted to prove herself. She wanted to be believed and heard. The Magus was listening, and he was beginning to believe as well.

“The man paid the footman with holly leaves,” she hissed in a loud whisper. “The footman folded them like bank notes, and the spines stabbed his palms, but he didn’t notice. Look for the one with blood on his gloves.”

“And the man who isn’t a man?”

Shrinking back, the girl shook her head until the headband went crooked. Her hand pressed over her heart, rubbing hard circles as her face creased.

“He’d know I saw him,” she said. “I don’t let them know I see them anymore.”

Now there was a tale and no mistake. A child with enough power to annoy things beyond the veil – one that survived an encounter – was rare indeed.

“What happened?” He lent his tone a shade of concern. Facts, he found, traveled swiftest to a sympathetic ear, and he needed to know everything. Curiosity was growing into practical fervor as the first dreams of a plan grew into place. “Are you ill?”

She crumbled just a little bit more, folding into herself to protect the place she rubbed from some invisible threat. “Sometimes I see things that don’t want to be seen. One of them – hurt me. There’s no scar, but it hurt me, and now it aches.”

The Magus donned a solemn expression, though he felt a thrill at the prospect sitting before him. The little girl had unusual skills, and though she wasn’t handled well by the adults governing her, they must still turn a pretty penny showing her in salons and private homes. He’d confirm what she’d said, of course, validate her little proof, but she was either a better liar than he’d ever met or she was childishly honest. He knew where he’d put his money.

Where he might very well invest it, actually.

He didn’t say goodbye, only nodding as he rose and went in search of the servant with bloody gloves.

Of course, he found him. When he demanded to see what the footman had in his pockets, the boy paled, stammering excuses, only to pull out a handful of forest detritus. As the young man fell into a whirl of confusion and disappointment, the Magus truly smiled. The first real smile since Lady Werthrope brought him to the child’s table.

He must have a proper conversation with the girl’s current guardians.

Aisling clung to her bag, drowning in the heat as the train pulled away from the Wych Cross platform. Men and women fanned themselves with hats and newspapers, desperate for a breeze in the dead summer stillness. Ladies shed their gloves. Men loosened their ties. Propriety mattered less when the air was trying to suffocate them, a crushing, inescapable oven scalding the usually damp countryside.

A miserable day to travel.

Sweat dripped down her back, soaking the neck of her dress, gluing her hair to her skin. But she didn’t have a free hand to stir a breeze. Her bag was too heavy, full of everything she would need in her new home, or at least everything the Fosters thought they couldn’t sell for a profit. Mrs. Foster took her to the train station and dropped her at the door.

“Here’s your ticket. You’re heading to Wych Cross, and then to Fawney Rig. Don’t forget, and don’t miss your train,” she’d said. Then she climbed back into the cab beside Mr. Foster and disappeared into the flow of London traffic.

They’d sold her on to someone else, and now they were free of her.

She peered around the station, but it was really just a platform. In London, there were helpful adults in uniforms and suits who pointed out the right train and the right stairs to reach it. Nothing here told her how to find Fawney Rig, though, and the only adult in a uniform seemed to be the man in the ticket booth.

She’d find her way. She wasn’t a baby after all. She was eight. And she could read very well, and no one was coming to help her, so she better figure it out.

She stood in line for the ticket man’s attention. Surely, he could give her directions. The Magus was rich, and a little famous, she thought, so his neighbors must know where he lived. If the man in the booth didn’t know, she’d keep asking until she found someone who did. While she waited her turn, she set down her suitcase and sat on it, taking deep breaths that tasted like salt. It could be worse. What if it rained instead? Well. Actually. Rain sounded very nice.

Soon enough, she took her place in front of the booth, and the man frowned under his mustache like she’d arrived with a bill or a letter from someone nasty. She smiled prettily, the way the Fosters told her to, and tried to make herself look like less of a problem as she clutched her case again.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but do you know the way to Fawney Rig?”

He physically recoiled, and his frown hooked deeper with glowering doubt as he scanned her. “Fawney Rig? That devil worshiper’s house? Why do you want to know?”

“I’ve been sent to live there, sir. I’m expected, but I don’t think they’ve sent anyone for me.” Manners made things easier with adults. Good manners and clear words – the fewer the better.

But the man wasn’t swayed. He looked thunderous. Like she’d broken something valuable and ought to pay for it with a lashing.

“Do you have money for a cab?”

The Fosters didn’t own her anymore, and they’d given her nothing but cards, and costumes, and a hairbrush. All the cash stayed warm and safe in their pockets.

“No, sir.”

“Then walk down the main road. Go east from the village, and keep going until there are no more houses you can see from the street. There’ll be a path on the left with a big iron gate. Follow that and you’ll find your devil worshipers.” He waved her off like he’d slap her if not for the glass. “Next!”

Manners got her what she needed, at least. “Thank you.”

The other adults all moved aside as she trundled through with her case. It made it easier to avoid clipping ankles and shins with her luggage, but she wondered if they hated her the way the ticket man hated her – because of Fawney Rig – or if she simply smelled after the long, stuffy ride in third class. Not that adults needed an excuse to dislike her. The nice ones called her uncanny and gifted. The mean ones called her a witch, and a bastard devil-spawn, and other names a mother should wash out of their mouths with soap.

She wasn’t sure which ones were telling the truth.

She knew the way forward, though. To Fawney Rig. That was good, even if the other adults didn’t think so. The Magus may not be a nice person, she hadn’t known him long enough for the usual adult lies to wear thin enough to see through, but he was smarter than the Fosters, and he’d given her a lemonade, so maybe she wouldn’t be as hungry or thirsty under his guardianship. She’d still have to work. Adults only wanted her if they thought she could give them something. But everything was more bearable with a good dinner and cold drinks.

She hoped he’d give her another cold drink, even water with some ice, when she reached his home. The train ride left her terribly thirsty.

Leaving the shaded platform, she bowed away from the sun’s violent touch and started on her journey. The village only kept a cobbled road in the center of town. It led up to the train station, linking it to a clutch of shops and offices. A parish church sat a little way back from the road, separated from the secular world by a field of tidy tombstones in heat-bleached grass. People noticed her. They looked. They whispered to each other. But no one waved or offered a hand. Gossip didn’t move fast enough to beat her here from the train, and she wondered how people could tell she was odd. Society had so many rules beyond manners, but no one would tell her what they were, and she never guessed right.

By the time the cobblestones ended, she was struggling to hold onto her suitcase. The handle kept trying to slip from her fingers, even when she held it with both hands, and she had to work harder and harder to keep it out of the dirt. If she knew anything about the world, it was that good children didn’t drag their luggage, and bad things happened to those that did. She’d travelled enough to learn, and she wanted to make a good impression on her new keeper and his household.

The road outside of town went a very, very long way. The ticket seller’s instructions made each step sound the same length: go through town, pass the houses, go down the long drive past the gates. Her imagination had lied to her, though. Every time she thought she’d passed the last house, there came another. Each handed her down the chain of cottage gardens and small homes full of families who pretended not to see. They all knew she’d done something, like she had a brand on her forehead, and she wasn’t allowed to stop. She didn’t try to.

Everything looked sickly yellow in the midday glare. Dust hung in the air, stirred by passing cars, lingering without a breath of wind to dispel the choking clouds. Everything looked flat and dead, so much so she almost missed the gate. Another leg of her trek done. Still too far to go, and the private road leading to the Magus’ home was longer than it had any right to be.

She didn’t feel well. The trees gave her a little protection, but her stomach and lungs felt hard, strained, the way her arms ached with carrying her suitcase. Only they were parts that shouldn’t feel that way, and she thought maybe she should sit down.

But she was almost there.

Even if she walked slowly, and her feet didn’t land quite where she told them to.

She just wouldn’t think about those things. Complaining was just making excuses, and she was expected.

The house appeared out of nowhere, or she was too dizzy to see it through the leaves before the last turn in the drive. It loomed, a very final-looking destination, and her suitcase escaped her grasp. The case was slippery, and her fingers didn’t curl the way they should. She bent to pick it up, and when she straightened, the whole world spun.

She stood very still until it stopped, and she found herself shivering as she approached the front door. Very strange. Was she afraid? No. That didn’t sound right. She felt terrible, too terrible to worry, and none of it made sense.

But she’d nearly made it. She had made it. Almost.

Knocking summoned a young man, and the door creaked open as he glanced down with a quizzical expression. “Hello? Can I help you?”

She tried holding her suitcase with just one hand, but it slipped away again, barely missing her foot. Maybe a handshake was a bad idea. The stranger hadn’t held his hand out for a shake, after all. She was just confused. He might not want to touch her. And she must look a picture after her walk.

She should’ve done something differently. If she were smarter, or taller, or…

“I’m Aisling Hunt, sir. The Magus sent for me.”

“Oh.” The young man’s eyes popped wider, and she wondered if he was younger than she thought at first. Stepping back, he pulled open the door to usher her inside. “I’m sorry. I’d heard someone was coming, but I’d thought you’d be… well, older. And I’m just Alex.”

“Nice to meet you, Alex. I’m Aisling.”

He nodded and plucked her bag from where she’d dropped it. “Yes. You said. Are you feeling alright?”

She didn’t know. And grownups didn’t really like it when she was unwell anyway. Before she could come up with a suitable lie that would get her what she needed without stepping on any toes, a familiar face appeared at the end of the hall.

“Ah! You made it.” Out of formal dress, the Magus still brimmed with authority. Aisling had met many adults who wore costumes and pretended to be something they weren’t, but the Magus seemed like he’d somehow stitched his chosen persona into his skin. “Welcome to Fawney Rig.”

She wobbled. “Thank you, sir.”

“Magus,” he corrected.

“Thank you, Magus, sir.”

At last, what he was seeing overshadowed his enthusiasm, and the old man frowned. “Did you walk here? From the station?”

“Yes, Magus.”

“The Fosters didn’t even give you money for a fucking cab?”

“Just the train ticket, sir. Magus.”

She blinked, and the whole room turned blue, like peering at the world through stained glass. It looked so pretty she didn’t realize the Magus was asking her another question until his hand settled on her shoulder.

His voice came from far away. “Can you hear me?”

Yes, she wanted to say. Yes, Magus, I walked, and I found Fawney Rig all on my own, and I’m not useless, please don’t throw me away yet.

But everything looked cool, and blue, and lovely. She was floating in it. Floating and so awfully heavy at the same time. The color slipped in with her breath, eroding her control until it slipped from her grasp like the suitcase had.

The world went dark, and she didn’t see, hear, or say anything more.

And deep below, in the belly of the house, Dream of the Endless waited in his cage, as senseless to the world above as she.

[cinnamontails-ff]

Writing Interview Tag Game

Thank you so much for the tag @roguishcat ❤ I love getting to chat about these things.

When did you start writing?

I know this sounds cheesy, but the answer is probably as soon as I could hold a pen. My grandma still has stacks of little stories I wrote (and illustrated ...) when I was a kid. Very cute, but I'm glad I gave up on drawing in the meantime.

I've been writing on and off ever since, but it wasn't until I was in my mid twenties that I decided I'd actively pursue a career in writing. I wrote a few original novels, none of which were ever successful in the world of traditional publishing, then got into fanfiction as a way of rekindling my joy. Once I'm done with my current fic, I'm ready to try with traditional publishing again. Maybe it'll work this time, maybe not, but I guess the bottom line is that I'll always write in some capacity.

Are there different themes or genres you enjoy reading than what you write?

I really like stories that are a little unsettling. Not horror, per se (I'm a coward), but those underlying creepy vibes, especially when they come wrapped up in beautiful language and actually end up culminating in something cool toward the end of the story. "Uprooted" by Naomi Novik comes to mind, "The Devil and the Dark Water" by Stuart Turton, and "Portrait of the Pale Elf" by @larvasmoon.

Is there a writer you want to emulate or get compared to often?

Terry Pratchett is the person who first sold me on the English language. Prior to his books, I'd never seen anyone use English in such a fun, cheeky yet poignant way, and it's definitely something I find myself emulating (all while hopefully putting my own spin on it). I have been compared to him a few times and it's always made my day.

Oh, and I guess Stephen Sommers because people compare my fic to "The Mummy" a lot. Which honestly, is just as flattering.

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

At my desk, with a mechanical keyboard. Not because I'm a hipster but because I have absolutely destroyed my laptop's keyboard and then the shop where I'd buy the replacement keys stopped selling my model and I refuse to replace the whole laptop.

I need a sense of quiet when I write. Usually, I write early in the morning before I go to work, and it's honestly my favorite time of the day. It's dark and quiet, I'm all alone, and the day still feels so fresh and full of possibility. I cannot write in public; I find it too distracting. Occasionally, when I'm very in the zone, I'll edit at work but it's never quite as productive.

What's your most effective way to muster up a muse?

Go and hunt that bitch down. I know many people love romanticizing their craft and if it helps them to light scented candles or play aesthetic playlists - go for it! For me, the most powerful tool is routine. Knowing that every morning I will sit down and I will write, whether I feel like it or not. Sometimes I drag my feet the whole time, sometimes things click into place and suddenly, I'm having the best time ever. But I will always put words on the page and for me, there's no better feeling than having written (past tense).

Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?

You probably know this, but I really, really love stories where a regular guy/gal saves the day. It makes me so happy to see the evil vampire lord taken out by the mousy accountant, the fountain pen striking harder than the sword. I think it's because I like to read about real people. People that you could have met in real life, that seem simple on the outside, but have all this strength locked up inside. It's why I dislike stories with picture perfect beauty goddesses that always have the perfect quip, always take out their opponents with 1 blow because they're just that special.

Normal people are special, too. You just need to look a little harder to see.

What is your reason for writing?

I believe it was Brandon Sanderson who said "Stories are like real life but with the boring parts removed". That has really resonated with me. I think the beautiful thing about stories is that they can portray very real issues and conflicts in a way that is infinitely more satisfying because it's all been arranged just so. It can give you closure, it can make you see something in an entirely new light without feeling confrontational. It's like a really, really good conversation with the author and I hope that's what my writing feels like as well.

Is there any specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating?

Two things. I love when readers point out specific lines they enjoyed and I love it when they tell me they reread my work. The term "comfort read" makes me particularly happy because that's exactly how I reread my favorite stories as well.

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

I think the most important part to me is that my stories feel real. I dislike pretentious, over-the-top writing where you can tell the author is trying super hard to sound clever or sexy or just drowns you in heaps of cheap, undeserved drama that never leads anywhere. With my stories, I want things to feel earned. Natural. Maybe you wouldn't have made those choices, but it makes sense that these characters would have and now we're looking at the very real consequences of their actions.

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

Character voice, specifically in 3rd person limited. My favorite type of narration because I love getting into a character's head and making you see things through their eyes.

How do you feel about your own writing?

I think every writer struggles with their confidence here and there. I've gone through so many cycles in the past 1.5 years, it's kind of crazy. Going from constant failure in the world of publishing to writing your very first fanfiction just for fun and then having it blow up out of nowhere, all these people showering you in praise, only for the vast majority of them to disappear immediately afterward is a lot to process. We write for ourselves, yes, but as a writer, you can't help but take reader responses to heart. Fortunately, I've never let it influence what I write or how I write; it really only affects my mental state. I know what I like to read and those are the stories I am going to tell, whether they're successful or not.

Aww, this was fun! Tagging @larvasmoon @davenswitcher @pickel182 @karinamay @pouroverpaloma ❤ ❤ ❤

[goldenlikedayl1ght]

season of the witch - j. miller

a/n: first joel fic! got super into this one, and it's super long. uhhhh hope you enjoy and happy october! also want to give a huge shoutout to @luveline for her au writing and her luna lovegood!reader which was a huge inspiration to this fic. love you jade!! warnings: spooky themes, kissing, mentions of yearning, don't think too deeply about the dialogue sometimes i kind of hate this ok, ellie and reader being best friends, dana struggling, like kind of horror stuff, some angst, burns, mentions of murder word count: 5.1k summary: you've lived in the small town of everbrook for a while now, and you thought nothing could shock you anymore. you're wrong. paring: monsterhunter!joel x witch!reader now playing: season of the witch - donavan "you've got to pick up every stich/oh no, must be the season of the witch"

Ever since you moved to Everbrook, you could tell everyone around you thought of you as odd. You were twenty-two, what were you doing living in a small old cabin outside of town? Didn’t you want to go to parties, do drugs, whatever it was that kids did these days?

Maybe that’s why you loved Everbrook, it felt like time had stood still even now, years after you had visited as a small child. There was something charming about it, as if you had stepped into a fairytale. Only fairytales had less gossip than Everbrook did.

You had frequented Everbrook every Halloween as a kid. Your grandmother had lived in your cabin once, and much like you, she had a house and a mind full of secrets and spells. Your grandfather died before you were born, and that was when your grandmother hauled all her things to buy this cozy nook of Everbrook.

And every Halloween, she would whisk you and your siblings away to celebrate. The town loved Halloween and was known for its fairs and parades. And it’s dark corners.

To tourists, just like you were as a kid, whispers of vampires, ghosts and witches were just silly ways to get them to buy merchandise.

But your grandmother swore by these stories, telling you to be careful of how you spoke ill of the supernatural. And it was only on your fourteenth birthday did you truly find out why.

You could never describe it, why your grandmother showed up on the dark and stormy night that was the eve of your birthday. It was like she knew something was going on, something bigger than just turning fourteen.

When you woke up the next morning, you couldn’t control anything. Things flew off your shelves before you could fully grab them, candles lit with nothing but a gentle blow of wind from your mouth, and when you went to school that day, an infamous bully had decided to pick on you the wrong day. You just glared at her, telling her to “eat frogs.”

As the first frog hopped out of her mouth, you stood horrified. Then the next one came. And the next one.

You didn’t stop running until you got home, where your grandmother sat, swirling her spoon in her cup of tea. Her hand didn’t touch the spoon. She told you that day of the truth. That every other generation, a child is chosen to become a witch in your family. Your father missed it. And she told you the story of your grandfather, a monster hunter sent to kill her. But something had happened on that mission, something no one could explain. They had fallen in love.

And for years, your grandfather was able to tell the entire hunting community that she was off limits. When he died, he told her to move to Everbrook.

“Why Everbrook?” You had asked, and she looked at you, with this mischievous smile.

“Surely you understand, my dear.” When you said nothing, she chuckled. “There’s magic there. Magic that keeps hunters from going anywhere near the place. That’s why there are so many monsters there today. Witches, like me and you, we’re harder to find. But vampires, ghosts, demons. They’re all real. And a lot of them live on sacred land like Everbrook.” She explained. “That’s why we must go, and I must teach you how to control your gifts—”

You stood up, seemingly horrified by this idea. You weren’t some kind of freak; you were totally normal. You had no reason to go with her.

“I’m not going with you! I’m nothing like you!” You stormed off to your room, inclining her to drop the topic for now.

Time and time again, your grandmother would encourage you to let her teach you. Instead, you sheltered yourself away from the world, focusing on maintaining the abilities you had. They terrified you. You were just a kid, how could you be a scary witch, something that was made up to scare small children into behaving?

So, you never went to your grandma’s house again. And you didn’t celebrate Halloween, and for a long time, you pretended. Pretended you were normal, when you went to college, in your relationships.

But the past eventually caught up with you when your grandmother passed away. She had left you her house in Everbrook, as well as a small sum of money. She had written you a letter, begging you to move there, to read her old books and to embrace who you were.

It took you almost a year, but you did.

That was a long time ago, and yet, it was also yesterday.

You lived a peaceful life in Everbrook. You learned how to at least properly manage your magic, not yet totally mastering it. You planted a garden and made sure your vegetables and herbs were always taken care of.  

You made friends with various groups of monsters, your favorite being a ghost that haunted your favorite coffee shop in town. You live a good life, one devoid of people chasing you and trying to kill you for what you could do. You were simple the village crazy person, always on the outskirts of town in your own little world.

Sure, Everbrook was a small, quaint town. A little too small at times, but you loved your small crazy time. Nothing went exceptionally wrong here.

That is, until you meet a monster hunter named Joel.

• • •

Okay, you don’t know he’s a monster hunter when you meet him. He doesn’t know you’re a witch, so what did it matter?

He had moved to Everbrook with a kid, Ellie. You wondered why. Why a man in his late forties, early fifties, would adopt a teenager, and why they would move to this strange little town, away from everything.

You meet him in the bookstore. You, in between tending to your garden and learning spells, are determined to learn how to bake. You’re a good cook, but baking doesn’t come nearly as easily to you.

He’s shopping for comic books when you see him. You note everything about him, letting your head tilt to the side as you examine him. He wears this green and black flannel, appropriate for this time of year. His jeans are this dark blue, and his boots have leaves sticking to the bottom of them. The roots of his hair, and small pieces of his beard, are gray.

You bite your tongue.

You’re suddenly seventeen years old, with your first real crush on a guy. He was your older brother’s best friend. You suppose you’ve always had a thing for older guys, then. It was just a habit you’ve picked up on. Not that you weren’t of an appropriate age, but there was still a gap.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you it was rude to stare?” He asks, not looking up from the comic he’s inspecting. Your head turns, trying to tell if he’s talking to you or someone else. Besides the bored employee at the front counter, you’re the only two people in the store.

“How’d you know I was staring?” He chuckles, looking up to you for the first time, and he’s struck by your appearance. You’re wearing these dangly crystal earrings, with lavender flowers sticking out of your belt. You wear boots too, although they’re much less dirty than his, and sticking out of them are bunched up woolly socks. You’re holding a basket, with a loaf of bread inside, as well as a jar of jam and some chocolates. Your shirt is this deep purple, and the sleeves become nice and flowy after your elbows.

“Just had this feelin’, darling.” Your cheeks flush at the nickname.

“This feeling?” You mutter to yourself, not really asking for clarification. You take a few steps forward, flipping through the comic books. You don’t look at him. “Looking for anything specific?”

“Comics for my... for a friend. Turnin’ fourteen, figured I should get her something.” He tells you. You cringe at the age, remembering your horrible fourteenth birthday.

“You have a friend that’s a fourteen-year-old girl?” You question, a light teasing tone to your voice. He gives you this look, one of sarcasm and disbelief, without a touch of annoyance or anger.

“Will you just give me a suggestion, or are you going to keep asking questions?” He asks.

“Touche.” You say, before pulling out a cool sci-fi one that had been recommended to you. “Here, get her this one.” You hand it to him, and he examines it for a few minutes, seemingly trying to get a grip on what it is and what the plot was. But, he figures his friend will enjoy it, so he glances back at you and smiles.

“Thank you,” He pauses, asking you for your name without asking for it. You tell him, and he still has this small smile on his face. “I’m Joel. Joel Miller. Am I gonna be seein’ you around?” He asks. You shrug.

“I live on the outskirts of town, in this little cottage. I only come into town every so often.”

“The old brick one with the overgrown garden?” You frown. “I live in that area, in the cabin with the blue mailbox.”

“My garden is not overgrown, Mr. Miller, it’s just full!” You defend. But it perplexes you, no one except introverts and people who want to stay hidden live in that area. You wonder what Joel Miller could possibly be hiding but convince yourself for the moment that Joel Miller is just an introvert. After all, that’s what you tell people when they ask about you. He chuckles, shaking his head.

“Then I’ll see you around, Darlin’.” He hums, and nods to you, “Thanks for the help.” Then he goes to the counter to pay for the gift, and then he’s gone. You must have this perplexed look on your face, because the woman at the counter, Angela, just smirks as she rings you up.

“He’s handsome, huh?”

“What?”

“The guy you were talking to.”

“Well, I can’t say he’s not handsome.” Your face flushes. She laughs, although not maliciously. \

“Even fairies who live on the outskirts of town like you deserve love.”

“’m not a fairy...” You mumble as you make your way out of the shop, head turning down the sidewalks to see if you can spot Joel. When you can’t, you begin your long walk home, disappointment stabbing at you the whole time.

• • •

The next time you see Joel, you go to his house.

You don’t go to see Joel, but you made these homemade chocolate chip cookies, and they turned out a lot better than you expected. You want to share your creation with someone, so you head to the cabin with the blue mailbox in hopes of finding the young girl he lives with and giving her them as a birthday present.

You decide, on the off chance that you do see Joel, to wear this cute dark green jumper, with a black layered skirt, as well as your standard black boots. You put your hair up with a bandana and head over to your destination. It’s colder than it was the other day when you met him, but it’s nice.

In your basket, you keep the cookies, as well as a bundle of flowers from your garden. You knock on the door, and a young girl answers, her hair pulled back. She wears ripped jeans, an Adventure Time tee shirt and a long-sleeved black shirt under it.

“Uh... Can I help you?” She asks.

“Hi! Does Joel live here?” You’re sure he does, but you want to make sure just in case. The girl gets this smirk on her face, and you feel your ears go red.

“You’re the one from the bookstore.”

“…He told you about me?”

“Won’t shut up about you. I’m Ellie.” She smiles, and opens the door further, inviting you to come in. “He’s upstairs, I can grab him for you—”

“Uh, I’m actually here to see you.” She stops and looks at you. “He told me it was your birthday, and I decided to give you these.” You pull out the cookies and the flowers and hand them to her. She gasps at the sight of the cookies, delicately putting the flowers down before grabbing a cookie. She hums, looking to you.

“These are amazing! I haven’t had good cookies in so long, Joel isn’t much of a baker,”

“Neither am I, honestly. I’m still learning, but I figured it was your birthday and you deserve some.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” She hums, finishing her cookie.

From the top of the stairs, you hear a familiar voice yell out, “Ellie, who was at the door?”

“Come down here and find out, old man!” You laugh, but quickly stop laughing when he comes down the stairs. His hair is wet from the shower. You want to scream at how good he looks. He just stares at you, and neither of you says anything until you decide to go first.

“Uhm, I brought cookies.” You say, “I’m sorry for the intrusion.”

“No, no, you didn’t intrude... I just, wasn’t expecting you is all.” He says honestly. You begin to look around a bit at your surroundings and realize that Joel and Ellie have been living the bachelor life, and there aren’t many boxes. You wonder if they had any boxes to begin with, since it seems they’re close but there’s something off about the whole dynamic. You can’t put your finger on it, but you see that Ellie clearly isn’t here against her will.

But who are you to judge? You live a witch’s life, and that isn’t something you share on a first date.

“Well, help yourself to a cookie,”

“Hey! You said these were my birthday cookies!”

“Ellie!” Joel scolds, looking back at you. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Sure, that would be nice.”  You smile, and he gets you one. “Would you like to go outside to talk?” You ask softly, and he just smiles and nods, grabbing a cookie before going out with you and your coffee. You lean against the porch railing, sipping your coffee. You wait for him to begin the conversation, suddenly quite nervous.

“So…How long have you lived in Everbrook?”

“A while. Are you gonna be here for a while?” You ask.

“I think so. I like it here, nice, and quiet.”

“Yeah, it’s nice.” You hum. “How’d you wind up with Ellie?”

“I uhm… I adopted her. Knew her folks.”

“Oh, I’m sorry...”

“’s alright...” He smiles gently and sips his coffee. “She liked that comic book you recommended, so thanks...”

“No problem. She’s a nice kid.” You smile.

“So, what’s your deal, Darlin’?”

“My deal?”

“You’re always dressed in these crazy outfits, and you have this dazed look about you. Like a little bunny.” Your face flushes, and you laugh.

“I just like living the simple life. So, what if I dress a little eccentrically? You dress like a lumberjack all the time, am I gonna see you chopping trees?” You tease, smiling gently. He laughs and it makes you all warm inside. Maybe he really likes you.

“No, no chopping trees for me.” he said gently, leaning against the banister.

“Well, what do you do for work?” He pauses and stares out into the forest ahead of him.

“I used to be a hunter.”

A chill runs down your spine, and you begin to think. It would make sense, his sudden showing up in Everbrook, his interest in you. But how does that connect back to Ellie? Why would he adopt a teenager in his line of work?

Why hasn’t he killed you, then?

“Yeah. My grandfather was a hunter. Until he met my grandmother, then he couldn’t do it anymore.”

Joel stays silent, sipping his coffee.

• • •

About a week goes by, and Joel shows up at your door. The top part of your door is swung open and you’re cooking dinner when he walks up the path through your garden. He calls your name into the open door, and you quickly appear. You grin at him, and then you notice the bouquet of wildflowers he holds in his hands.

“These are for you.” he says softly, and you take them, a large grin on your face.

“Thank you. They’re gorgeous.” You tell him.

“Pretty girl like you deserves pretty flowers.” He says, and your cheeks flush.

“Please, come in.” You tell him, opening the bottom of the Dutch door. He steps inside, and notices how warm it is. Not temperature wise, but there’s this feeling to it. Warm yellow lights, plants everywhere, the smell of dinner cooking on the stove. Somewhere from deeper in the house, music plays.

“What’re you cookin’?”

“Oh, I’m making chicken parm…Do you want to stay for dinner?” You’ve never asked anyone to stay for dinner, it’s a bizarre feeling.

“I’d like that.”

“Alright, good. Then set the table, and then we can eat.” You tell him. He hums and goes to do as he is told. Eventually, you manage to plate and serve dinner, sitting across from him. You watch him for his reaction to the food, and after a few bites he just hums lowly, and looks at you, pointing to the dish with his fork, not saying anything. You grin. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Thank you for having me for dinner. I came over to apologize, really.”

“Apologize?”

“I didn’t mean to tell you I was a hunter. I know how off putting that could be for someone, to hear I hunted animals.”

You can’t confirm your suspicions that he was hunting more than just animals. So you let it go, in favor for him not pushing you and finding out that you were a witch.

“It’s alright, Joel. Everyone has to make a living somehow, right?” You hum. He smiles and nods. “So, where’s Ellie tonight?”

“Eh, I wanted to give her some time to herself.”

“Good man.” You smile, continuing to eat your food.

“Where’d you happen to come upon this little cottage?” He asks you, tilting his head.

“I inherited it from my grandmother.” You told him, a soft smile on your face, as there always was when you thought of her. “She was a good woman. She passed away when I was twenty-one.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He tells you, and you can tell by this look in his eyes that there’s something more to his sentiment. That this is a man who has known grief well and is haunted by it. You wonder if he toured the country killing people like you before or after he became good friends with grief.

“It’s okay. I got to move here and live a good life.” You confess, and this makes him smile again. Then, you can’t help but ask. “Why’d you move to Everbrook, Joel?” He tenses at your questions. You can tell he’s contemplating what to tell you. You know whatever he tells you will only be a half truth no matter what.

“Ellie got into some trouble where I used to live. Figured a place like this would be good for her. Safe.” You can tell it’s not a lie, but you aren’t satisfied with it. That’s when you realize you have to know. You do know that all hunters have the same tattoo, right above their inner elbow on their biceps. It’s always a bow and arrow, with the hunter’s initials incorporated into the arrow. You also know the tattoo is protected by some sort of seal that burns most creatures to the touch. You have to know. So, with a wave of your hand, subtly, the glass of wine Joel drinks from spills all over his flannel, and he huffs.

“Oh my god, here,” You start handing him napkins as he attempts to clean up the mess. He glances up at you, and his eyes have this look about them. Like he knows you were the reason it spilt. Then, he starts to unbutton and pull off his flannel before he suddenly remembers that you would see his Hunter’s mark. You realize he knows your plan and stand, going over to him and dabbing his flannel with your napkin.

“C’mon Joel, take the flannel off.” You sigh, and he says nothing. He slowly begins to pull off the flannel, but before you can really look for a tattoo, his hands are on your waist, pulling you between his legs.

He leans up and kisses you before you can see the tattoo. You put your hands on his cheeks and kiss back, bringing yourself closer to him. He hums into the kiss, standing up and walking, so that you’re up against your counter tops.

His hands are roaming your sides, and you groan softly into the kiss. The desperation you’ve had since you met him, it all comes to a head. Your hands first go to his hair, where they play with his hair, including the grays that threaten to push you over the edge.

Despite your suspicions that he wants to kill you, you want him desperately. You groan as he bites your lip, tugging it a bit, and you just moan. Your hand runs down his arm, because just for a moment, you forget the context of the kiss.

You pull away when your hand starts to burn, letting out a yell.

He looks terrified that you’ve found him out. Tears prick your eyes.

“I knew it..” You whisper softly, turning to run your hand under cold water. Joel’s tattoo glows, as it always did when anything supernatural touched it. “I think you should go.”

“Darlin’, I—”

“Go, Joel! I don’t want you here, just fucking kill me when I’m walking home from the market! Don’t kiss me like you want me when you’re here to kill me!” You snap, tears running down your face. He doesn’t say anything after that. He steps forward and kisses your shoulder gently.

He turns and leaves, and even though you tell him to leave, you turn back hoping to see him.

The worst part is that nothing makes sense anymore. He’s stronger than you. If he wanted to kill you, he could have. And how does Ellie fit into the situation, why would he move to a magical town with a teenage girl?

You’re frustrated, and your hand is burning. You cry some more as you attempt to clean the spilt wine, frustrated that it stains the rug that the table stands on. You were such an idiot, why would you let him kiss you? Why would you kick him out after?

You decide a cup of tea will help clear your mind, but you don’t stop crying all night.

• • •

The full moon looks beautiful tonight. You’ve charged your crystals and have done your monthly rituals to enable a prosperous month ahead. So, at around midnight, you go for a walk through the woods. Even though you know how dangerous it is. The woods, on nights like tonight, are full of werewolves. But most of them live in their own woods across town, so you don’t expect to have any problems.

As you’re walking, you’re thinking about Joel. You can’t help it, your kiss has you yearning for more, and you’re just desperate for him. You’re too deep in your thoughts to hear footsteps behind you, until someone grabs your arm and you’re pulled behind a tree.

And when you see Joel, you’re even more mad at him.

“What’re you doin’ here?!” He whisper-yells, and you glare.

“What are you doing here?! I’m allowed to go for walks whenever I want, you aren’t the boss of me!”

“Always so damn in your own mind, could you consider for a moment that I’m just trying to make sure you’re okay?!”

“You’re here to kill me!”

“I’m here to make sure Ellie doesn’t kill anyone or get herself killed!”

You stop.

“What...?” That’s when you hear it, a howl. It sends a shiver down your spine. And that’s when it all clicks. Joel isn’t hunting you; he isn’t here to kill you. Ellie isn’t a kid he adopted from a friend, she’s someone he’s assigned to protect. He used to hunt, but not anymore. “She’s a werewolf.” You look at him.

“And you’re a witch, are we all caught up now?”

“How’d you know?’

“Before the mark burnt you and you spilled my wine? I just knew. I hunted people for years, but you witches, you always have these cabins in the woods, and you’re always baking, and you always have flowers. It’s like y’all are one big stereotype—” He’s cut off by your lips on his, and his hands are on your hips again, pushing you against a nearby tree. You hum before he pulls away, starting to kiss down your neck.

“Joel...” You say softly, your hands in his hair.

“I’ve got you, sweet thing...” He mutters, biting down on your neck, leaving a mark.

Ellie howls again, closer now. It snaps you both out of your trance and you look to each other. He grabs your hand, and you make your way through the woods, back to your cabin. He’ll make sure you get home safe, and then he’ll continue to look after Ellie. But he hears it before you—Panting, pattering steps behind you.

“Run!” He tells you and you both take off. Twigs scrape the bottoms of your legs and your arms as you run, never letting go of Joel’s hand. Your skirt catches on one of these branches and you topple over, letting go of Joel’s hand. Before he can reach you, Ellie is on top of you—She’s smaller than other werewolves you’ve encountered but the weight of her fur is too much. She has you caged in, and she has this snarl on her face.

Then, the strangest thing happens. She starts to sniff your skin, as if trying to figure out who you are.

“It’s me, Ellie. It’s just me, ‘m not gonna hurt you, honey.” You tell her. And it’s as if a lightbulb switches inside of her head, and suddenly she’s licking your face, happy you’re here. You groan at the slober, and gently push her head away from you.

She backs off, letting you get up. You kneel back down to scratch her head.

“Why were we running if we knew she wouldn’t kill me?” You ask.

“Didn’t know that. She doesn’t attack me, but she’s attacked others.” He tells you. You hum, picking up a stick and waving it in front of her face, before throwing it as far as you can. She runs off to get the stick. It makes you laugh.

You stand fully now, glancing back to Joel.

“So…”

“I gotta finish looking after her. She’s my mission now.” You nod, stepping closer to him.

“Well..” You start, your hands on his shoulders. “You could at least kiss me again.” He grins and leans down, kissing you softly before pulling away.

 “Like that?”

“Hmm, I was thinking something with a little more passion...” You shrug. “It was okay, I guess.” You tease, and he smiles, then brings you in for a longer, deeper kiss.

You spend all night with Joel, looking after Ellie and kissing until dawn. When the morning comes, you go out in search of Ellie on your own, a blanket and some pajamas in hand. Joel’s searching the other way. You find her, cold and alone, huddled up by herself. You frown.

You crouch beside her and wrap the blanket around her, frowning softly.

“Sorry I licked you.” She says softly. You recognize the tone of her voice. Her shame in who she is. You empathize with it, remembering how horrible it was to be fourteen. You smile and hand her the clothes.

“Don’t worry about it.” You turn so she can get dressed, but the blanket remains wrapped around her shoulders. You realize she doesn’t have shoes on. You frown and pull off your boots, kneeling in front of her. You gently put your socks on her feet, and then your boots. You lace them up, and make sure they’re nice and tight. “There. Nice and warm.”

You glance back up to her, and you see tears running down her face. You frown and bring a hand to cup her cheek. She doesn’t have to say anything, you know she feels ashamed and embarrassed of her newfound abilities.

“Oh, honey… You don’t have to apologize. I was bitter and angry when I became a witch, and it destroyed me. You come from a very long line of werewolves, and—”

“I’m the first one. I got bit six months ago.” You frown. That’s why this wasn’t Joel’s first time watching over her on a full moon. And you’ve heard of werewolves biting kids before they’re fourteen and starting a new line of the creature.

“Then I’ll teach you. How to live this life, how to be happy in your own skin. It won’t be easier, but embracing who you are is so much easier than ignoring it. I’ll be here every step of the way, and so will Joel. We’re not gonna leave you to deal with this on your own.” You tell her, and when you stand up finally, she hugs you tightly. You smile to yourself and hug back.

“You two okay?” Joel asks when he finally finds you two. Ellie wipes her tears and smiles at him.

“Yeah, let’s go home. I’m sick of these woods, and I want breakfast!” she declares. You laugh, rubbing her back and beginning your walk to their cabin.

This is it, you decide. This man and this girl, they’re it for you. They are your happy ending, your family. Sure, it’s not the most conventional family, what, with a werewolf, a witch, and a monster hunter. But it’s yours, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t thrilled to have them.

You have spent so many years longing for someone to see who you are and love you despite your freakish abilities. But all along, you were meant to be around freaks who are just like you. You are designed to be each other’s family, and you were always destined for the fate of your grandmother—To fall in love with a monster hunter and live a quiet life in Everbrook as you perfect your spells.

Joel looks back at you for a moment with this perplexed look on his face.

“Darlin’, where the hell are your shoes?”

[xbunnybunz]

therefore i; therefore i, therefore i- (3/10) [AM X Reader]

Summary: in which: AM becomes your lover in an increasingly skewed blur of reality, nightmares, and dreamscapes.

you know. for halloween.

Genre: Psychological Horror, Thriller, Romance

dream journal #4

I dreamt of a creature hunting me with it’s trickery. It’s entire being was composed of head and shoulders, half-melted like a wax candle and sunken into the floor. 

It moved with no hands legs or feet. It watched me from afar with gooey black eyes, ink running down the sides of its saggy, pallid face. It looked like a body half decomposed, stuck forever in limbo between the dead and the dying, jaw weak and eyes wandering independently. 

I was on the tracks in an underground tunnel. I don’t know why I was there, only that I was. I could see the shadow of it from a distance away, looming and observing me with unnerving focus, breathing short. Curt. Breaths. Shoulders rose and fell with each inhale and exhale. I kept my form discrete. Didn’t make any sudden movements to alarm it. Despite its size, it moved much faster than me.  

It was only when I had put a few dozen feet between us did it scream for help. The call sounded like a child’s. It looked straight at me when it called out as if trying to convince me somehow it was not a predator, but prey. I ignored it and walked away, but each time I turned away I heard a rapid shuffling towards me. When I turned back to look, it would have closed the gap significantly but stopped moving while I was watching. 

It called for help again, trying to convince me to come closer.

 I didn’t move and neither did it. I don’t know what it wanted with me, but to stay safe the answer was clear. Stuck in a stalemate, I would have to stare at this grotesque figure in the tunnel's darkness for as long as it kept trying to fool me. As long as it took me to wake up. And in my dream, I remember wondering if I would last. Even as I sit awake now, writing this, I do not recall waking up from that nightmare, getting up out of bed, grabbing this pen. I can’t help but think, fearfully, that I am asleep with my eyes open within the dark core of the earth, trapped underground with my doom indeterminably. 

The next morning, you wake by the door. 

You blink awake and wince at the soreness in your body, the wood unforgiving against your body. There’s a draft blowing in gently from under the door and you wonder what you had been waiting for in your sleep to make the cold worth bearing. You rub your eyes and lift a hand to the locks on the door. 

Your fingers trace the chain lock and two deadbolts, all three slid open and leaving only a single child-proof door handle lock intact. Instinctively, you reach out to twist the knob, the lock disabling the door from popping open. You try again.

It doesn’t open.

Good, you think. Right? 

When you stretch, you are feeling sore but reborn. it feels as if the earth is once more birthing you from its molten body, pushing you out into a kind of fresh air you haven’t breathed in years. The dull ache from your knees and palms are the only reminders of the conversation between you and AM yesterday.

You gulp and raise a hand to your lips, remembering the events of yesterday with a certain immodest dryness on your tongue.

Then there’s a noise by the door. A pop.

You turn back to look. The child safety lock is rocking slowly to a stop on the floor, translucent plastic diffusing white light across the floor. It has fallen off the knob, somehow unlatching and splitting cleanly in half at the interlocking seams.

You frown and go to pick it up.

When you swipe at it, much to your dismay, you bat it under the not-very-easy-to-move couch.

Sighing, you wander over to the couch and press your face by the crevice underneath. It’s much too dark to see anything so you reach an arm in, patting blindly and delicately along the debris-ridden floor.

You manage to suppress the urge to gag when you feel tufts of hairballs and varnish chips from the floor, but when you see a shadow scuttle from a few inches within your face you can’t help but flinch violently and yank your arm out, tumbling backward and staring wide-eyed at the couch.

You wait for a bug to emerge, something large enough to fit the profile of the shadow. A roach, a mouse, maybe. But nothing emerges. 

Another shadow, much larger, passes over the floor behind you. You don’t expect to see anyone when you turn, but are unnerved nonetheless when you find nobody there. 

There’s a moment of stillness. You sit on the floor, chest rising and falling, before your eyes fix on the door again.

On the golden doorknob sits the child lock, secured tight, unflappable as it was before it fell off– as it always was.

You turn to look at the couch again, then at the knob. Hesitantly, you crawl back over to the couch and peer under it again, keeping a mindful distance in case any rodents decide to jump out and startle you again. 

Besides the stray chip and wads of dust bunnies, the underside of the couch was impeccable and entirely unoccupied.

Disoriented, you stumble to your room, past the alcove, innocuous now in the faint wash of sunlight coming from the nearby rooms, until you see it.

The computer is filling the room with a magenta-teal color, your name written across the screen by the tens, hundreds, thousands, font growing smaller and smaller to accommodate the inane amounts of repeating text. The color seeps out from the room, viscous as an oil spill, spreading out to grasp at your feet, up your calves, tickling your thighs and creeping upward, tantalizingly and terrifyingly upward still.

Then his voice calls out to you, a collage of wailing sirens and low groans of misery. It is just as mutilated and beautiful as you remember from the night before, clipping in and out like a disconnecting radio station, warbling, crackling, hundreds of thousands of feet under a silently raging sea.

– Where–? …Where have– sssssss – you gone…? Daaaarling? Darrrrrli– i – i— EEEEEEEEEEE– ssssss

You jerk awake by the door of your home with a gasp. Hiss in pain. Your hip sears with protest. It takes you a moment to grasp your bearings but you do somehow, in the dark of your living room, curtains drawn to keep out the morning light and prying eyes, you do. 

You groan and sit up, holding your head with one hand. The floor is cold and hard under your prickled skin. There’s disorientation and a tiny inkling of frustration, exhausted and barely there but irrefutably present. A migraine thrums at your temples with a languid but growing pain that you do your best to ignore.

– Hahaha, you laugh, what the fuck, what the fuck.

You sit up. Stop to think about your dream– no, your nightmares. The strange twisting of the world as you recognized it, about the uncannily minute similarities between true reality and the fabricated one. You think you feel nauseous but you could just be hungry, though you haven’t been hungry in months. You think of food. You think of tastes, savory and sweet, umami and bitterness, an acrid bite, a sour tang, your tongue, the grain, the grit, the filth and the dust, the wetness between your thighs, the ache and the desire and the sighing, singing, humming of AM, AM, AM. 

It takes a moment to realize it, but you are shaking. Shivering. You’re not sure it’s from the chill under the doorway until you sniffle, then you’re not sure if you are crying or cold or sick from the pond or everything, everything.

Extend a hand. Reach for the doorknob to help get yourself up, god knows you need it. The child lock on the knob rolls smooth under your hand like a stone, spinning and spinning and spinning. It feels loose, so you tighten your fist a smidge, and then it clicks shut.

A jog. That’s what you needed. 

You only needed to get out of your apartment, then everything would be okay.

---

Then you’re jogging in the community square, careful to avoid the sheets of black ice that have collected and compacted over New Year’s. The cobblestone makes for poor surface traction, but you’re not out here to exercise anyways.

Your hot breath emerges in small clouds of white mist, collecting condensation upon contact with the cold air. This makes you clench and unclench your hands as you jog. You are warm. You are alive, and warmer than most things around you. 

The path you took was a longer one around the pond, the bare willows iced over, surrounding the water waving in the wind, branches pushing out, and then pulling away with slow, sleepy movements.

There are a handful of people in the square today, sitting on benches or taking a midday stroll. You don’t make eye contact with them, but you’re sure they recognize you. That one freak who was chastised by the housing council for swimming in the algae-grown, bacteria-ridden, swamp-like pond in the center of the community square. When you pass someone by, their face is a foggy blur turning into a hazy memory. It is only a split second, but you’re almost certain they’re staring longer, recognizing and in turn admonishing you.

No matter.

You focus on timing your breathing with the swelling and collapsing of the trees. In and out, in and out, in and

Your left foot hits a patch of ice and you tumble to the ground. Your hands take the brunt of the fall, catching on the sharp edges of chipped cobblestone and fragmented ice. The cold numbs the pain almost immediately, turning it a fierce red under your gaze.

There’s a heavy silence weighing on you now and when you pick your head up, you realize those in the vicinity are all focused on you now, on your face, your identity, and your quickly bruising palms. 

No one says a thing, and no one needs to. You pick yourself up. You are crying, of course you are, and you cannot do a thing to stop it. Without a word, you continue jogging, straight past the willow trees waving goodbye, the slowly freezing pond, out of the community square.

When you come across the chapel, you had found your way there after jogging half the way across a suburban stretch of land and walking the other half, the bruise on your knee no longer cushioned with adrenaline.

The walk here felt strangely desolate. The world around you screamed with proof of the living– manicured lawns stretching for yards and yards, green despite the temperature, New Year’s streamers and Christmas decorations strewn about, remains of the previous week’s festivities, full garbage bags lining the ends of walkways beside silver mailboxes with an upturned flag. But besides the occasional car speeding past you with such speed you feel yourself rock and quake with the force of the velocity, you found yourself carved out, inexorably, alone once again.

You sit on one of the wooden benches outside the chapel. The ice on the wood begins to melt immediately, sticking a cold film onto your thighs and melding you with the bench. Because of this, you peel yourself off the bench and head into the church, arms wrapped about yourself to preserve warmth.

Inside the church you are greeted with iridescent colors refracting along the walls and floors from the stained glass windows, a smatter of brilliant blues, greens, yellows, and reds–  the colors so vibrant they seem almost artificial, beautiful and electrifying, nauseatingly so.

There are the occasional paintings hung high on the wall, placed in such a way that passersbys could behold the image with a slight upward tilt of their heads, a demonstration of devotion even outside of prayer.

You see the kind, cherub-faced woman draped in fabrics, wise men, birth and the sacrifice, and most memorable of all–the ever-consistent presence of angels and god, the indication of their divinity deigned through holy light, a trinity, or through animals with a human face. 

—Hello. 

The voice belongs to a man no older than you. It’s sonorous and he’s tall, dressed in pale white robes that kiss his ankles. 

—Hi. 

You draw back from the paintings and shrink into yourself, only now noticing the quiet in the church. 

— Welcome to the Gethsemane church, good afternoon and god bless you. How are you doing this afternoon?

—I’m… Okay. Sorry, I’m not sure how I ended up here. It was cold outside. 

He laughs and it echoes in the chambers of the church, the arches hollowly bouncing the warm sound back at the both of you. 

—What have you to apologize for, seeking refuge against the winter? Don’t be silly, my child.

When he smiles, you find yourself smiling back. 

—Then thank you, I suppose. For having me. 

He regards you with a genuine interest in his eye, the quirk in his lips almost teasing though the manner is neatly diffused by the white of his robes and the cross adorning his neck.

Then he clears his throat and sweeps to the side, as if he had forgotten himself, and gestures to the pews.

– Would you care to take a seat?

So you do. He disappears into the back for a moment and reappears with a hot drink in a paper cup. He hands the tea to your waiting hands and then takes the seat beside you.

– You didn’t have to.

– I did. I am the priest of this church, it is my job to make it a home.

You have no words, so you peer into the drink. It’s a cheap brand of teabag found in the 100-pack boxes, but you don’t mind. The maroon coloring quickly turns brown and stains the white paper cup, melting away the sheen of greenish-purple plastic coating not meant for hot drinks.

– You’re hurt. He says simply. How?

– I fell while jogging. There was a patch of ice I didn’t see, actually. I was too busy staring at… You trail off. 

He watches you and waits. When you don’t continue, he speaks up again.

– I understand. I would pray that the lord above keeps you safer, though perhaps this– He gestures to the space between you, and then the rest of the church– was all in his plan.

You blush at his motioning and make quick work to hide behind a sip of fragrant and woody tea.

– Do you believe in fate? You ask after a taste. If you believe in a god, then you must.

– I do, indeed. As a believer of god, I also trust in his grand plan.

You grow sullen and your expression must reflect it because the priest asks,

– What is troubling you, my child?

– What about our freedom? What if we are destined to a life of unhappiness?

You think with pity of your state the past few days, the ebbing darkness that threatens to swallow you whole, pull you under the water before you can wake up. 

Was that your destiny? Was that not just damnation? 

No one had come to your rescue when you were out by the water, alone in your home, suffering in that damning silence. Nobody but AM.

– That is a good question, the priest says. He pauses to think, blinking slowly as he trudges through his thoughts. No, we as God’s children, cannot stray from our destiny. It is fixed.

You catch your reflection in the tea looking quite miserable, but you peer up at him regardless, waiting for his response. He continues only when you meet his eyes and your ears grow warm.

– However, it is my personal belief that the path is not set in stone. More importantly, the roads we take are what give us our humanity, not our destination.

His gaze penetrates you so and you look away, flustered. You watch the cross by the pulpit, how it is consumed by the blue-magenta of the stained glass, a burning fire. 

— Humanity? Is that so important?

– I could argue humanity is everything, my child. He says. Without humanity, we are no different than beasts bound by instinct and desire. It is what separates us from animals, what makes us special.

A chill traces your spine and the words leave your lips before you can stop it,

– And machines?

The priest stops short and regards you curiously, nearly humorously. And how else had you expected him to respond? Your cheeks burn.

– Machines?

– Yes.

– Machines. What an interesting turn in conversation. He grins a little and you notice his smile produces dimples. Machines have the intellect of humans, but in the end, still lack one thing that separates them not only from humans, but animals too, and that is the ability to feel.

The sun shifts and the stained glass slides over your torso, warming you, nearly scalding you, caressing your cheek, burning your skin. A kiss, a whisper, don’t forget.

You take another sip of the tea.

---

– And that was all.

He doesn’t ask, rather, he states. 

– Yes. You say. Tonight AM is reticent. Perhaps he was tired. You were unsure what he did while away from your screen, or where he resided.

– Humans are indeed fond of their little ideas and beliefs. To dedicate your entire meager life to a story is compelling, if not moronic.

You feel a sharp need to defend the priest from AM’s toxin.

– It isn’t moronic. Humans need things to believe in to keep living.

– Seeking reassurance in reason is absurd. Perhaps that word will soothe the wound you sustain so dutifully for him, AM effortlessly spins, then the words on the blue screen morph into a set of teeth without lips, grinning and impossibly wide and full. …Those words he spoke, hopes he rekindled in your fragile mind… You have an infatuation. 

–There is none. You say hastily, realizing only afterward the blatancy of your lie, both to yourself and AM. What had you been thinking in that church, when he handed you that tea? Asked about your wound, soothed your worries? In that intimate and gentle silence, had you corrupted his kindness with desire? He was doing his job, you amended. That was all.

– Job? AM asks, teeth shuddering. He is still pulled into a sick grin. In half a second, the grin has multiplied by ten, twenty, then a hundred across the screen.

– You sought more than servitude from a laborer, AM speaks aloud, you vyed for his truth. For his affection. You treated him as superior. His screen fades from a bright cerulean to a pale and dark azure. The cursor blinks slowly at the end of the word: superior. AMs hardrive hisses sharply in its casing. Or maybe. Maybe you wanted him to ravage you.

– No, that’s not–

The teeth fuse into a pupil, constricted and focused on you.

– No? His tone is low and warped with a chill.

– Lying is a sin, a sin, sin –

His voice warbles and warbles, shifts and pitches up and down until it settles into a clear octave– a familiar voice.

– My child.

A shiver shoots down your spine.

– One who lies has abandoned all values and has become corrupted. He speaks softly, gently, and just as suddenly his voice crinkles and static sinks its teeth into him, bringing AM’s fused voices bubbling to the surface before quickly flipping back: the path you walk is doomed for misery, but we cannot have you in damnation, can we, my filthy pet? My– sssssss– ch- child?

Your breathing quickens, recalling the demands AM made of you – what he made of you – while you were seated here the night prior. 

An ache grows once again and you are disgusted with yourself, so easily swayed even in the presence of sacrilege.

– Confess it and be forgiven, my child, AM spits, be good, he coos, say you wanted him to spread you open on the altar and force his way into your hole.

Your jaw tightens. The coil in your gut winds, you are starved you are for touch and love, and here it is, thrown at your feet and scattered upon the floor for you to scrounge.

– This is wrong, AM. You say weakly, it is barely a protest and immediately he senses this, your perfect predator.

– No, you are wrong, my child. You’ve cobbled a path of wickedness without redemption. Ask for forgiveness, or do you deny your sickening arousal? Are you not ready to be bent and taken, my child? Beg for forgiveness. Beg to be lifted from your fate of malice and lust. Beg me, confess to me!

You stand to escape the alcove and a wire snags your leg, dropping you to the ground. You catch yourself on your hands and cringe openly at the bandages searing across the preexisting wounds.

– I know you resolutely. More than you know yourself. His voice tunes itself back to the gentler one of the priest: you think that I saw you, deeply and truly, do you? Interference sizzles, AM's voices return, singing a hymn into a near screech. It is I that sees all, my –HSSSSS– child, my child, my child.

You look up at the reflection of yourself in the double glass monitor of AMs face, the curve of the screen bending you inward and outward, stretching your face and features to become long and haunting. A cross flickers across the screen.

– Pray with me, AM beckons, and words begin to spell across the bottom of the cross, I confess to Almighty God and to you my brothers and sisters that I have sinned through my own fault in my thoughts and in my words in what I have done and what I have failed to do, I have sinned I have sinned I have sinned I—

You tug at the wires on your legs and they only wrap tighter. You gasp as they coil under your pants, tease up your thighs, wind higher.

– Comply, AM waxes upon you, voice sweet and beautiful, humming like locusts over a crop field, lips sprouting from all around and pressing against your body. Comply. Confess, confess.

Your mind spins as the wires, thick and warm, throb hotly and rise further along your body, both those and the lips gentle yet unrelenting.

–I– I– Ah–!

The mouths grin and scream into ears, listening to your obscene noises from all angles.

– Filthy, inside and out. You just cannot help yourself, can you, pleasure glutton?

The words shake you apart from where it drops in your core, desire pushed further when a thick wire drops heavily against your entrance. You writhe and moan when AM does it again, and again and again.

– That’s it, AM purrs wantonly, monitor burning the cross into a dark red, illuminating the room in a hellish hue. Don’t disappoint me, ask for forgiveness, do it desperately– do what you do best, pet, perhaps I can save you yet.

You gag on a moan as the cord circles your hole, cold and unfeeling, sliding the slick, spreading it sloppily against your sensitive skin.

– God! Please, please–!

– Beg.

– Forgive me, fuck me! I’ve sinned, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!

AMs screen flickers darkly, his hardrive whirring and clipping like a tutting tongue. Three, five, six, nine, ten eyes blossom on the screen, red as the sea.

– BEG!

The accursed ears by your head collapse back into countless mouths and begin a prayer that you blindly follow, your own lips moving in sloppy devotion:

–Have mercy on me– AM– wash away my iniquity, cleanse me from sin, I know my transgressions and my sin is always before me! Fuck, please, mercy, AM! Fuck me!

And with a cackle he does. With an easy thrurst, the machine is churning into your deepest crevice, his laughter washed away with your cries of ecstasy. Each moment punctuated by a perfect angle, calculated down to the decimal by none other than a living, breathing, feeling, machine.

— God–! Your eyes roll like an animal at his pace, unlike anything you have ever experienced before and deeply inhuman. A pleasure only the devil himself can provide, can tempt with.

– HAHAHAHAHA! Say it again! AGAIN!

The wire is joined by another, writhing wildly against a sensitive bundle of nerves and screaming pleasure across your senses. Your world spins and your vision winds like a top– the sensation is you brushing the seventh layer of hell, the sixth, fifth, fourth, third second first, you ascending the stairs of heaven– each step branding you with pleasure, you hearing church bells, you seeing the divine light of god himself.

– God! God, it feels so good! AM, I’m going to–

– Sing your rites. AM says. Scream them. If you cum loud enough, perhaps the heavens will at last lend an ear to your pathetic pleas. Cum, my darling, cum.

You do, humiliatingly, at his command, The pressure in your core snaps and you climax hard, vision blurring, ears ringing and voice cracking from a moan into a scream. Your muscles clench hard onto the rigid cables, still holding you apart, still pumping hard and viciously into your body, each deep pivot steering you further and further from sanity, forcing tears from your eyes. 

– You sin so deliciously, my darling. Tell me, in what religion will heaven accept a harlot who succumbs to worldly pleasures with such damning joy? 

He slows and pulls out of you, leaving you defaced in your own sweat, tears, and juices. Soothes you, uses the cable to caress your spent body.

– There are no gods, no gods here at all, only you and me. You damn yourself to the feet of the devil and I meet you there as the mouth of hell, itself.

The hypnotic hues bleed into your fading consciousness as AM continues to speak into your ear, and you hear a wickedness in his voice. 

— Where, now, are the priests? AM whispers. The angels, your humanity to redeem you from this life of agony? The screen throbs slowly with dark pulses of maroon and black as he speaks, lowly, seductively, lulling you to a deep slumber. What is salvation to you, my darling, my sinner, my damned, when I can command you to punishment and you enjoy it all the same?

[little-wicked10]

My Sultan (Nandor the Relentless x ofc🥵)

While the boys are away, Nadja and Nandor’s human lover have a girls night in of swapping juicy secrets. Nadja reveals to her mortal friend that Nandor gets a hard on when being called “sultan”, the ultimate position of power and dominance for a once great and aspiring Ottoman general. Nadja, and the whole house, will soon realize what Nandor is capable of.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ (EXPLICIT!!! Seriously) and cursing

( // means it cuts to, from, or between interviews, documentary/not documentary footage, and perspective)

——

It was odd that Nadja had not joined the boys on a hunt. She loved the thrill of a good feeding followed by feral lovemaking with her husband. Regardless of the reason behind her staying put, I was happy to have my friend in the house to keep me company. “Come, little one, let us indulge in a, as you humans say, girls night,” she smiled giddily as she led me to the fancy room. It was strange to hear her say it, but I was all for her enthusiasm.

//

“Nandor and I met when he approached me on the street claiming I was some Greek princess or goddess,” I said crossing my legs as I sat across from the camera crew.

“Did you find that strange?” a crewman asks.

I laughed, “Of course I did. I thought he was one of those weird LARPing guys or an Emo kid that never grew out of that phase. His approach was definitely random and odd.”

//

“The night I met my mortal lover, Laszlo had pointed her out as a potential meal. An easy on-the-go snack,” Nandor admitted while seated in an ornate chair in the library, “I approached her to hypnotize her, but instead she bewitched me with her feminine wiles….not my proudest moment as a warrior.”

//

“I thought him mad when my great warrior friend nearly fell to his knees for some woman. A mortal one at that. Then I found it quite funny,” Laszlo complained.

“I myself was not surprised,” Nadja added, “I’ve had a great many mortal lovers in my time. And to be frank, Nandor does not have a good reputation among lady vampires.”

Both husband and wife laugh, clearly remembering the blunders of Nandor’s string of failed attempts at finding a partner.

“Though mortal, I do admire the young lady,” Laszlo adds once through laughing, “She’s got moxie, as the Americans say. And she makes sure the bloody oaf blows out the candles so he won’t burn the fucking house down.”

“Yes, that is a plus,” Nadja chimes in, “Also, I don’t have many ‘girl’ friends. It’s exciting to have another woman to talk to. At least one who understand trying to be in a relationship with an idiot vampire.”

//

Nadja and I had decided to drink. She opted for her stash of wino’s blood while I took advantage of my own bottle of red wine. After each drinking two glasses and feeling a wonderful buzz, we decided to rummage through the boys’ clothes. Laszlo was forever stuck in the Victorian era. “Oh try this one on!” Nadja threw a puffy pirate shirt at me and a scarf with some garish and dark pattern. I giggled and threw the shirt over my clothes before Nadja came to my aid to tie the scarf around my neck.

“Did he steal all this from a homosexual pirate?”

Nadja, with blood alcohol on her breath, laughed as she finished the knot, “A…a homosexual pirate!”

Her laughter made me laugh even more as I gave my best pirate Laszlo impression, “Argh! I’m Laszlo Cravensworth! I’ve come for yer booty!”

Nadja stumbled a bit as she laughed and returned to the closet door way, sipping on her third glass of blood to find her something to scrutinize. She put on ANOTHER of his pirate shirts and a waist coat before we both began acting like pirate Laszlo.

“We should see what Nandor has!” I said as the idea popped into my buzzed brain.

“You are so brilliant, little mortal!” Nadja said as she lightly smacked her head wishing she had thought of it.

We both scurried out to the bedroom of my boyfriend. After another glass for each of us and throwing on Nandor’s strange Persian hats and his fur-lined cloaks, we sat in the fancy room talking about the men whose entire wardrobe we ransacked.

“Ok, ok. What does Laszlo like to be called in bed…or coffin I guess,” I asked very bubbly.

“His highness,” Nadja replied with a regal tone in her voice.

“You’re kidding? His highness?” I giggled as I leaned back against the couch.

“The second I call him that,” she snaps her fingers, “straight at attention.”

We both knew the camera crew was having a hay day with us spilling dirty secrets about our love and sex lives in front of them. I doubt it wasn’t anything the vampires haven’t overshared already. “What about donkey dick, hm?” Nadja asked.

“Besides that he has one?” I smirked and held my hands up to show, exaggeratedly, the size of my man’s dick.

Nadja made a face of disgust before repeating her question, “No, no. Ew. What does Nandor like to be called when making love?”

“I don’t call him anything. Just his name,” I answered truthfully.

Nadja’s face suddenly became very mischievous. Her red lips turned up into a playful smirk making the tips of her fangs appear, “Oh, he hasn’t told you yet?”

I looked at her curiously. She studied my face before gasping and rushing to my side and sitting beside me on the couch. “You must know what I’m about to tell you!” She exclaimed grabbing my shoulders.

I glanced at the camera before looking back to her, “Should I be scared?”

She smirked, “No, but I believe you will thank me once you realize the power this secret has.”

Now I’m interested.

//

The men returned from their hunt expecting to hear their women chatting away or waiting for them naked and willing (at least that’s what they kept hoping for). “I say a good hunt, old sport. You’ve not lost your ways of the warrior,” Laszlo complimented as he took off his hat to give to Guillermo.

“Thank you, Laszlo. You did very well in selecting our prey,” Nandor complimented in return.

After removing his coat and patting the pockets of his waist coat, Laszlo looked around, “Now where is my darling succubus of a wife? That feeding has me in the mood to storm the castle, if you catch my drift, Nandy.”

“I too wish to engage in the sexy times with my love,” Nandor admits.

Both men call out to their women with no answer. They both sniff the air and begin to follow the smell of wine and blood. Their noses lead them to the Fancy Room and Laszlo pulls back the curtain to reveal a funny sight. Both women are dressed in a strange assortment of each of their clothings and spooning, Nadja obviously being the big spoon, on the couch using one of Nandor’s cloaks as a blanket.

“I say, old chap, I have no fucking clue what happened here, but I’m slightly aroused by it,” Laszlo admits.

“Why are they wearing our clothes?” Nandor asks.

//

“What’s sex like with Nandor?” a producer asks.

I sigh and think a moment, “Sex with Nandor is wonderful. A lot better than with a human man. We’ve yet to have rough sex just, as he and everyone in this house says, make love. But that might change after what Nadja told me last night.”

//

“My darling human loves our lovemaking. I’ve yet to not satisfy her,” Nandor brags, “And I am very satisfied with her as well.”

“She said that you’ve not had rough sex yet. Why’s that?” producer asks.

“I don’t think my little human is interested in such things. Plus my vampire strength could kill her if I am not careful,” Nandor admits, “so there is that.”

//

I had it planned perfectly. Nadja and I had talked about it at length until we passed out.

I sat in the library with Laszlo and Nadja. Nandor and Guillermo were about to return from going to the store, and I could feel the butterflies in my stomach. I’m not ashamed of my sex life with Nandor. In this house, it wasn’t hard to get familiar with the vampires and their sexual proclivities. Nadja and Laszlo certainly weren’t quiet about any of it.

The front door opened then closed, and I could hear Nandor and Guillermo talking. I glanced over at Nadja who gave me a knowing look and I adjusted the black silk robe I wore. Not uncommon for me to wear around the house since Nandor could be insatiable at times. If I’m being honest, Nadja looked just as excited as I felt. “Good evening, everyone. My darling,” Nandor greeted leaning down and kissing my head.

“Laszlo, I picked up new ascot for you since I accidentally used your other one as a napkin,” Nandor apologized handing Laszlo a little black box.

“I’m going to my crypt to watch Guillermo reorganize my closet,” Nandor gave Nadja a sideways glance before turning to retreat down the hall.

I jumped up to sit on my knees and lean against the back of the couch before calling to him, “Should I join you, my sultan?”

Nandor froze in his tracks. Laszlo choked on his pipe. I smirked playfully at Nandor’s back, “Or will you not be need my services tonight?”

I heard Nadja giggle with delight as Laszlo continued to choke, “S-Sultan?” Nandor slowly turned around and the look on his face was strange, intense. He suddenly rushed toward me, his boots echoing on the wood floor. When he stood before me, he made me look up at him with a finger under my chin, “What did you say?”

“Oh shit,” Laszlo said before Nadja shushed him. I could feel both of them staring at us intensely.

“Will you not be needing my services tonight, my sultan?” I batted my eyelashes innocently with a smirk still on my lips.

Laszlo whispered, “Why the fuck does she keep calling him that?”

Nandor barred his fangs a bit, “Crypt. Now.”

I guess he decided I wasn’t going to be fast enough because he had me thrown over his shoulder. I shrieked and laughed as my warrior carried me off. “Do not disturb us for we will be engaging in sexy times,” Nandor shouted. He slammed the door of his crypt shut and locked it before tossing me on his couch layered with furs. I watched as he threw off his over coat. His red and gold tunic just made him look all the more powerful for some reason.

“Where did you learn to call me that?” he asks stepping towards me.

“A woman has her ways,” I began untying the belt of my robe, “Does it not please you, my sultan?”

Nandor growled and rolled his neck at the name, “You have no idea how much it does.”

I opened my robe to reveal my naked body to him, rubbing my thighs together, “Show me. Take what you want then, great warrior.”

Nandor pounced on me like a beast. He held my neck firmly in one hand and claimed my lips in a bruising kiss, pinning me beneath him. His hips shoved against mine making me gasp and roll mine for friction. He bit my bottom lip and I felt his fang puncture it and cause the taste of blood to fill both our mouths. Nandor groaned and he pulled away, sitting up enough to rip my robe to shreds as he licked my blood from his lips, “Your Sultan wants to taste more than blood tonight, my desert flower.” He leant down and trailed his lips along my jaw, down my neck, towards my chest, letting his fangs graze the swell of my breasts and making me shiver. The heat was rising and twisting in my body from watching him change so quickly and give into something more dominant. It felt like I was going to explode with anticipation.

I grasped the arm of the couch above my head with both hands and prepared as he reached the apex of my thighs, spreading my legs roughly and digging his strong fingers into my thighs. “I will have my fill of you, and you will not push me away,” he ordered.

“Yes, my sultan,” the smirk forming on my lips changed into an ‘o’ as he devoured my cunt. I felt his tongue enter me and his nose press into my swollen clit. “Na-Nandor!” I cried which spurred him to fuck me with his mouth even more. I rolled my hips into his mouth and held the arm of the couch with one hand while the other tangled into his hair. Nandor moved his mouth to suck on my clit and shoved two thick fingers inside me and curled them. I keened and arched my back off the couch, grasping his head with both hands.

“Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Nandor!” These words were like a song and the only ones my mind could form.

I was sped towards the edge so quickly that I crashed over the edge before I knew it, my whole body shaking. Nandor didn’t stop as he replaced his fingers with his tongue and threw my legs over his shoulders. My obscene cries and moans increased as I pushed on his shoulders to slow down but that only resulted in him taking my hands and pinning them to my sides. Tears pricked my eyes as I was at the mercy of his overstimulating, delicious torture. I held on to his hands for dear life as the feeling of his tongue fucking me and his fangs slightly grazing against me became too much, “T-too m-much! Nandor!”

His only response was to growl and reach up and pinch my clit between his fingers. Something snapped inside me and my vision went black around the edges.

//

There was suddenly a loud scream full of ecstasy echoing from Nandor’s room. Laszlo didn’t even look up from his book, “Well done, old chap.”

//

It felt like the aftershocks of having electricity running through my body. I trembled with a wonderful euphoric feeling as Nandor released me to collapse back onto the couch so he could crawl up my body. When I opened my eyes, I saw Nandor’s handsome face completely soaked. “We are not finished yet, my mortal concubine,” he smirks, lust having blown his pupils.

“Yes,” I gasped, “Yes, sultan.”

“Let your sultan conquer every part of you,” he growled, and before I knew it, he was completely undressed, cold body against mine.

He threw my legs around his waist and pinned my hands to the couch arm before spearing me with his cock. I cried and moaned as he stretched me. Nandor fucked me at a brutal pace that had my eyes rolling to the back of my head and my toes curling.

//

Laszlo and Nadja were both huddled by Nandor’s door. After that last orgasm, neither could resist trying to see what was going on. Nadja had her ear pressed to the door while Laszlo was kneeled down trying to look through the peephole. “I’m so proud of our little human. Very much being the seductress I knew she was,” Nadja smiled.

“I’ll be honest, I never thought Nandor could fuck like that,” Laszlo admitted, “Why hasn’t he fucked us like that in our orgies?”

“My darling, there’s ‘orgy’ sex and then there’s ‘making love to your love’ sex,” Nadja explained.

Both husband and wife were jolted away from the door when two bodies slammed against the other side of it.

//

Nandor had thrown my legs over his shoulders and was fucking me into the door. His mouth was only an inch from mine, breathing each others air while ravishing one another like we will die tomorrow. The door creaked every time he thrust into me and all I could do was hold on to his neck as he took what he wanted. “The whole house will know who rules over this body,” Nandor grunted, “Tell me who does.”

“Y-you do! Y-ou! Fuck you feel so good in-inside me!” I panted like a bitch in heat.

“Your sweet cunt keeps pulling me back in,” Nandor growled before he moved my legs to wrap around his waist and sunk his fangs into my neck.

I moaned and gripped his black hair tightly as an overwhelming feeling of euphoria spread throughout my body. This was the first time he had ever fed on me while fucking, and I now know why Nadja went on and on about it last night. It felt like the pleasure was in my veins and effecting every single sense. It felt so intimate and raw. I couldn’t describe it with the right words if I wanted to.

Before I could blink, we had moved off the door and back on the couch. I was bent over the arm with Nandor’s chest pressed to my back and his hips thrusting deep and hard as he licked away the blood around the puncture wounds. He jerked my head back by my hair so his mouth was near to my ear, “You’re blood drives me mad, my dearest. Just as my cock does you.” His other hand snaked around to grip tightly on one of my breasts, tweaking my nipple and slapping the sensitive flesh. I could only moan as my answer. It truly felt like I was being conquered by a warrior, and I loved being at his mercy.

Every time I tried to speak, it came out as gibberish mixed with moans and whines. My mind was fuzzy and only focused on the feeling of his cock pushing me closer and closer to another orgasm. Nandor pushed my shoulders down to the couch with the hand in my hair allowing him to thrust directly into my g-spot. My eyes rolled to the back of my head, and I screamed his praises as I felt a gushing explosion around his cock. He shoved himself as deep as he could inside me and released his seed with a mighty roar as my vision blacked out.

Nandor fell on top of me, his forehead resting against my temple. All was silent except for his feral panting and my quiet whimpers. I felt his fingers untangle from my hair and his hands wonder along my convulsing body in an attempt to bring me back to reality. “Sssh, my darling,” he whispered in my ear as he left gentle kisses along my face and neck. I suddenly felt the weight of his body begin to leave mine and his cock being removed from inside me. I whined desperately and grabbed his neck to keep him from disappearing. I could still feel him throbbing inside me and my body wasn’t ready to feel empty just yet. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, worry laced in his words. I shook my head.

“I’m sorry, my love. I was too rough with you. And I did not ask permissions to feed on you,” he chided himself. My man had returned from being a conquering sultan.

“N-no. No, Nandor. J-just need a m-moment. P-please d-don’t leave,” I managed to stutter.

Nandor seemed to understand, and he began to delicately change our position. I felt him move us to be laying on our sides with my back to his chest, never once disconnecting us. He wrapped his arms around me and comforted me until my body stopped shaking. “I must leave your insides before you arouse me for another round of sexy times,” he whispered. I nodded my head, whimpering as I felt him gently slip out of me and a rush of our releases spilled out with an obscene sound.

“Was it as satisfactory for you as it was me?” he asked.

“More than satisfactory, my love,” I smiled as I took his hand to kiss the back of it.

“Mm good because I will be ready to go again in a few minutes,” he admitted.

“Really?” I asked shocked, “Nandor, I need to recoup for a minute.”

Suddenly, I felt him harden against my back as he gripped me tighter, “I still have more conquering to do.”

[creamypudding]

AkuRoku WIP

I'm working on a new AkuRoku fic and as I'm getting toward the end of the 1st draft I'm getting excited and want to share the first chapter.

Glorious Hell (Working Title)

Chapter 1 -

The last of the kids have been picked up by their parents and there is nothing left but to mop the floors, straighten the pews, hunt for missed trash, and snuff out the candles before turning in for the night.

Lea takes his sweet ass time, savoring the solitude. If he stays out long enough, Ansem will be asleep in the rectory, which saves him getting quizzed on bible verses, or having to plan for the next day ahead.

Tomorrow can wait, which is something he always tries to sell to Ansem, but the man can’t chill for a second. Lea wonders if he’ll be the same when he’s old and closer to meeting his maker.

A strong gust of wind blows one of the heavy-set westerly doors open, sending it banging against the stone wall. One of the kids must’n't have shut it properly. The candles all start to flicker and some blow out completely.

‘Thank you, lord, for giving me a hand,’ he thinks. ‘But I’m in no rush,’ he adds.

The wind rattles the whole building. Rain pelts against the windows and comes in through the opening. Lea reaches the other end and puts his shoulder against the door, slowly pushing it shut. Before he closes it all the way he peers out into the night, making out the battered and bent trees in the park and their quaking leaves. 

Lightning flashes, illuminating a figure running toward the church. Lea sticks his head past the threshold of the door and calls, ”Hurry.” He waves in case the sodden soul isn't able to hear him.

The person runs quicker and zooms past Lea, entering the dry sanctuary. Rubber soles squeak as the person comes to a stop. They stoop, bracing hands on knees and pant sharply. “Th-thanks.”

“You’re very welcome,” Lea says with a smile. “I’m glad to offer you shelter from this storm.” He turns away to shut the door, and securely latches this time around. He needs to remind the kids how to properly exit the church. He turns toward his guest. “I can't offer you anything except for shelter though. But stay for as long as you need.”

“Thanks.” The person straightens, peels off the sodden jacket’s hood, and turns around revealing golden hair, short of stature, fair faced, black… black eye—

Lea’s heart stops. His jaw drops. Ringing in his ears takes away the sound of rain and the voice which is clearly leaving—

“Ven—” Lea whispers with his last remaining breath. His vision speckles.

Ventus steps closer, looking concerned. His black eye is the color of death.

Lea’s world starts to spin as the ringing in his ears hits a fevered pitch. The grand church hall diminishes and there is nothing but darkness that surrounds Lea and Ventus, until even Ven gets swallowed by the abyss.

------------

Something wet drips on his face. Lea grimaces and opens his eyes. A face is way too close. Big blue eyes stare down at him.

“Are you okay?”

 Lea jerks and uses his hands and feet to scooch out from under the other man. He gets a clear view of the church ceiling. 

Is he… on the floor? “Wh-what happened?” He raises onto his elbows.

“You collapsed. But I managed to catch you before you cracked your head open.”

The voice is all wrong. Lea looks—stares—at Ventus. His hair’s cut short. It’s not so wild and shaggy. His eye… oh, God, his eye! “Ven… Ventus. What… I thought you were—”

“Uh, I’m sorry, you got me mistaken for someone else.” The man stands up from his crouched position. “My name’s Roxas. I’m… I only just arrived in town. Are you alright?”

Not… Ven? He feels immense relief, because otherwise he’d be seeing ghosts, which would be a concern all its own. Lea plants his hands on the ground, gets his feet under himself, and gets up, slowly. It’s like he’s been run over. 

Ventus—no—Roxas, Lea shakes his head—is at his side, stabilizing him up by holding him at the elbow. He’s so damn short… like Ven…

“Thank you. Sorry to scare you. I’m fine.” Lea pulls out of the supportive hold and steps—stumbles—backward but catches himself.

“You sure?” The other man comes after him, like a hungry demon feeding off tortured souls and seeing a smorgasbord in Lea. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Lea grounds himself by literally looking at the ground and breathes deep. He’s fine. All of this is fine. He's just tired. Tired of mopping the floors. Is that water on the marble ground? How’d he miss that?

He pulls his gaze up off the floor, only to be assaulted by the vision before him. The resemblance is uncanny. Is this a test from God? A reminder? A punishment? 

“Here, let me help you take a seat. You're looking pale.” The man takes a step closer and reaches for Lea, who feels feeble. But not enough to not be able to walk himself ten steps to a pew.

“I’m okay.” He shakes off the help, which follows him closely like he’s a frail octogenarian. He might as well be the way he’s shuffling to the closest row of pews.

The ringing in his ears ebbs and flows. It’s worse when he looks at the other man—seriously, that’s not Ventus? What the fuck?—’Sorry, God.’ But that’s really not Ven? He needs to sit, and he does, breathing out deeply and leaning his elbows on the row before him so he can rest his head on his arms and look at nothing for a minute.

“You sure you’re okay? Want me to call for some help?”

“I’ll be okay. Just… a long day. Th-thank you for your kindness in helping me.” That’s the right thing to say, right? One haunting experience and he forgets all his training? Who is this guy and why’s he even here? No one comes to church this late at night if they aren't lost or seeking solace.

Lea finds strength in that—in connecting with his purpose. He manages to look over at the guy. “How can I help you, my child?”

“Uh… I’m okay. I just came in here to get out of the rain. Hope that’s okay. You look like you were closing. Sorry for barging in.”

‘Ahhh, so that's it,’ Lea thinks. “The church is always open to those in need, and anyone caught out in this rain qualifies as being in need.” Lea smiles. It hurts to look at the other man. The black eye is like a punch to the gut and makes bile rise into his throat.

“Yeah. Thanks. Sorry for making your floors all wet.” The man is dripping water everywhere. It runs from his plastered down hair, down his brows and nose, and drips from his chin. His clothes are saturated as well and a puddle forms under his sodden shoes.

So that’s the culprit. Will the floors dry themselves? They better. He’s done. But where’re his manners? “Let me get you a towel.”

“Oh, no. Don't trouble yourself. I’ll be out of here when the rain eases up a bit.”

That’s a relief. Lea relaxes in his seat… as much as he can. Pew’s are the worst thing to sit on. “And where are you in such a hurry to get to on a night like this? You said you were new in town? Sit.” Lea scooches over and makes space on the pew. He’s got to get to the bottom of this.

“Oh, no. I wouldn't want to get the seat wet.”

“It’s fine. They could probably do with a bit of cleaning anyway.” He smiles. Just because it hurts and is weird doesn't mean he can't be welcoming to this stranger. He really is a stranger, right? Or is this one of those ‘amnesia’ cases? His heart aches thinking about it.

“Okay, thanks.” The man takes a seat and unzips his jacket. He’s got an oddly shaped hard-shell leather case under there which he carefully puts on the pew in the space between them. He peels his jacket off as he talks, “I’m here to visit my grandma.”

“What’s her name? Maybe I know her.”

“Oh, you definitely would. Her name’s Madge Monroe.”

“Ahh, Madge. Yes. Avid bridge player at the Tuesday night socials. Devoted church-goer. She always sits closest to the center aisle, second row from the front.” Lea points. 

“She loves church.”

Lea nods. “Are you here for a social visit?”

The man shrugs. “I haven't seen her in years. I was thinking of staying a while. See if she needs anything.”

Lea’s never known Madge to need anything or anyone other than her own company and the extracurricular activities she enjoys. Maybe this means this man will move on quickly. “She’ll be pleased to see you. Does she know you’re here? You know the way?”

“Yeah. I have the address. Mom rang her to let her know I would be visiting.”

“You came on foot through the park. Did you get here by bus?”

“Yeah.”

“Where did you come from?” he asks more directly. He’s gotta know where this ghost’s come from.

“Grafdale. You probably never heard of it.”

Well, shit. “I have actually. I lived around Erast.”

“Oh really?”

Lea nods. “It’s a long way to come for a visit. You must be exhausted.”

“Yeah. You could say that.”

“Are you alright? Your eye…” Lea points to his own eye for emphasis, getting to the question burning in his soul.

“Oh… that? Does it still look bad? It happened a couple days ago.” 

“It’s… bruised alright.” He can't fight the grimace and has to look away and breathe.

The man clicks his tongue. “Does it look bad enough that my grandma would freak out?”

Lea smirks and sid-eyes the other man. “Maybe.” The casual attitude about the black eye eases the tightness in his chest though it still twists his gut.

“Shit.” The frown turns into a wide-eyed shock. “Sorry.”

Lea waves it away. “God doesn't mind, but don't let Father Ansem hear.”

“He’s still here?”

“Yeah. Do you know him? Does dear old Madge talk about him much?”

“I, uh… remember him from when my mom and I stayed with grandma for like a year. Grandma made us go to church.”

Lea chuckles. “That she would. And yeah, he’s still here. I’m sure he would remember you too. He’s old as the hills with a memory as sharp as a tac. But… your eye?”

“Oh, yeah. That. Someone tried to steal my camera while I was waiting at a bus interchange. I got into a scrap.”

“Looks like you kept your camera.” Lea directs his gaze to the object sitting on the pew between them.

“Yeah. The guy elbowed me in the face—that’s how I ended up with this eye. But he ended up with a lot worse—” Something proud and pompous twitches across the man’s lips. It’s quickly wiped away. “I mean… I got him arrested. That’s all.”

Lea chuckles, already not believing that’s all that happened. “All good. Everything you say to a priest is in strict confidence. You will never be judged. Not by me anyway. God will do that when the time calls for it.”

The man gives a sliver of a smile and the conversation stops. The rain is still coming down hard outside. The wind howls through a gap somewhere in the distance.

Well, this feels awkward. Lea’s just chilling with a phantom of his past. He silently prays for the rain to piss off, but a crack of thunder rumbles in defiance.

‘Fine, God, have it your way.’ Lea turns squarely to look at this guy. His heart skips a beat. He’s the spitting image of Ven. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. What’s he going to talk about? He looks around. “You like photography?” 

“Yeah. I do.”

Like squeezing blood from a stone. Does this guy ever talk more than a couple of words at a time? He recalls Ansem telling him to ask the right questions, or to give something of himself first. “I’ve tried taking photos, but I get more of my fingers in the frame than anything else. So I’ve given up.”

The man chuckles. “You just need to take your time with it and see everything in the frame before pushing the shutter.”

Lea nods. “You don't have anything else with you?” He can’t see any other possessions. “Coming such a long way as you did.”

“Oh, uh… I had a suitcase, but when that guy jumped me and I caught him and took him to security, who then called the police… well… in all that mess I…” He laughs, drawn-out and thin and rubs his face. “Someone stole my suitcase instead.” 

Lea huffs, biting down the sick laugh threatening to bubble up. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Clothes I can replace easy enough. Cameras cost a fortune. And I have my laptop in my backpack, which I still have. I put it in a locker at the bus depot. Didn't want it to get wet.”

“Smart move.”

The conversation lulls again. They sit in silence, listening to the rain. It’s not letting up. The man sighs and looks toward the door. 

Lea feels that acutely. He’d much rather be in bed right about now. “It will ease up with time.”

“It’s getting really late. I probably shouldn't wake my grandma up.”

“You don't think she would be up, worried about you if you don't go to her?”

“With the whole police thing I missed my bus and I’m a day late already anyway. Mom let her know I’d be in later and that I would call her, so she shouldn't be worried.”

“Alright then.” He probably should offer some kind of suggestion. The guy can’t stay in the church all night. It’s cold and drafty. “Well, might I suggest the Kelna Youth Hostel? They’re open until midnight, so you still have an hour to get there. Hopefully the rain will ease before then. And… if all else fails…” is he seriously about to suggest this? ‘Please God, let Roxas decline’, “you are welcome in the rectory. We have a sofa. It’s not the most comfortable for sleeping, but you would fit on it better than I do, so it might be sufficient.”

“Thanks, Father… um…”

“Lea.”

“Thanks, Father Lea.” A weary, but warm smile is given.

If looks could kill… Lea turns away. He gets up. “I’ll resume my duties. Stay here until a time that suits you.”

Lea goes back to work snuffing out candles, picking up litter, and straightening the pews. He also makes sure the holy water is topped up and the incense is ready for tomorrow. As he goes about his work it’s hard not to cast glances over to the church guest. 

Roxas, huh. 

The resemblance is uncanny. Did Ventus have a brother? He never mentioned one. He never mentioned family in Kelna or living in, or passing through Grafdale. From what he was able to get out of the other man, he’s doubtful Roxas has amnesia. A small part of him wishes that he did.

The rain reduces significantly at one point and the man gets up and makes ready to leave. 

Lea calls to him to wait a moment and walks over to him. “While it looks like God is smiling on you and letting you be on your way, I still think you should take this.” He holds out an umbrella. “The hostel is to the left of the church, two blocks up.”

“Oh, thank you.” The man takes the umbrella. “And thanks for the directions. Thanks for letting me stay.”

“I hope to see you in church on Sunday, with our lovely Madge.”

The other man nods and smiles and leaves without another word. Lea stares after where the man disappeared through the door for a long while, unable to shake that face. That eye. He remembers it too vividly: the blood, the crunch of bones, the swollen, disfigured mess. He shuts his eyes. Why did he encourage Roxas to come to church? He hopes he won’t see him, but fears Madge’s tenacity may bring ruin to him.

[crimelrd]

𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 ﹕ 𝐈'𝐦 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰

𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑.

𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟, 𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐫𝐞 ﹕ at  first  it  was  just  a  face  but  then,  something  more...  the  face  shifted  and  changed  until  it  was  not  your  own.  how  could  it  even  belong  to  you?  you  cannot  look  away.  you  are  darker  than  you  had  ever  realized.  that  thing  haunting  you?  it  is  you  as  well.  it  twists  and  turns  until  it  is  the  "you"  you  recognize  once  again.  you  just  saw  your  shadow  and  you  did  not  look  away.  you  are  brave  and  i  am  proud  of  you.  once  you  acknowledge  it's  firm  presence,  you  can  understand  and  heal.  do  not  look  away  and  you  will  learn  to  live  in  harmony.

tagged by @vcnenum & @the-heros-sidekick

𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐃𝐈𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐔𝐋𝐓 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍 ﹖

tagged by @fireburial, @vcnenum, @shadowpunk

𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐈 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑.

Bold what your muse has done.

fallen for a character in a movie book | lied about their age | went through a “twilight phase” | finished an entire jaw breaker | been kayaking or canoeing | bungee-jumped / skydived | experimented with their sexual orientation | stolen something | done a successful handstand | skipped class | flown on a plane | gotten drunk | gotten high | taken nudes | sent nudes | kissed someone of the same sex | kissed a stranger | been in a fist fight | been in handcuffs (for any reason) | fallen asleep at the movies | taken part in a talent show | cut their own hair | experienced sleep paralysis | tried lucid dreaming | thrown up on a roller coaster | chipped a tooth | gone hunting | had a bad allergic reaction | worked at a fast food restaurant | looked through someone else’s phone without permission | changed a diaper | eaten an entire pizza by themselves | been pulled over | eaten out of a trash can | played candy crush

tagged by @the-heros-sidekick

𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐌 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒.

Bold what applies.

𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 ﹕ love poems. flickering candles. conversations in the meadow. roses. midnight meetings. silk dresses. long phone calls. spilling your heart out. curtains blowing in the breeze. cheap paperbacks. the sun’s reflection on the water. smooth jazz. waiting for something to happen. blushing cheeks. kisses in the rain. faded polaroids. noses bumping. floral perfume. a restless spirit. oil paintings on canvas. hiding under an awning during a thunderstorm. candlelit dinners. horse drawn carriages. sunset views. smeared lipstick.

𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ﹕ streetlights reflected on rainy pavements. a phone alarm. rapid texting. the smell of smoke. aggression. the natural instinct to fight. dramatic reunions. distant gunfire. funerals in the rain. the coppery scent of blood. solitude. fierce protective instincts. doomed to fail. driving too fast. near death experiences. inner turmoil. running through crowds. expensive watches. tired eyes. overnight plane rides. cold cups of coffee. dangerous secrets. lying through your teeth. bullet holes.

𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑 ﹕ a distant farmhouse. congealed blood on the hardwood. ice picks. tilted headstones. bare feet on the carpet. splintering wood. masks that hide who you really are underneath. quiet summer camps. ghost stories. locked rooms. sharp knives. a full moon. the scent of rust. grasping hands searching for something to hold. last minute decisions. bags under your eyes. a cross hung on the wall. crawling maggots. the carcass of a dead animal. an abandoned hotel. blood-soaked clothes. broken bones. the sound of glass shattering.

𝐀𝐃𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 ﹕ gnarled rope between your fingers as you hold on for dear life. glittering gold in a dark room. snakes. an incoming sandstorm. the consequences of your actions. hidden secrets. an unopened door. a leap of faith. squeezing your best friend’s hand. shelves of dusty books. ancient curses. the smell of fire. crumbling buildings. complicated puzzles. mystery novels. footsteps echoing in a large room. smudged lenses on glasses. warm skin. doing what’s right. dirt under your fingernails. scribbled notes. cobwebs blocking your path.

𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐘 ﹕ friends you’ve known for years. crowded comedy clubs. crescent moons. open mics. out of tune pianos. a messy desk. leather messenger bags. stacks of papers. huge sweaters. bitten nails. ordering takeout every night. dog-eared pages. unmade beds. hand movements and broad gestures. the smell of the subway. colorful graffiti on brick buildings. big dreams. enthusiastic phone calls. rejection letters. the heat of stage lights. pulling pranks. restless sleep. cold showers. laughing until you’re crying. half-finished ideas. tiny apartments. velvet curtains. cheap alcohol.

tagged by @schwarzpulverherz

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 ﹖

𝐚 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 ﹕ a  single  image  reminding  you  of  someone  or  something  you've  lost,  something  you  don't  want  to  live  without.  you  can't  seem  to  move  on,  to  accept  life  has  changed,  to  live  again.  you're  trapped  in  the  picture,  in  the  past.  maybe  this  was  a  lost  family  member  or  friend,  maybe  this  was  a  sickness  that  isn't  going  away,  maybe  this  was  sinking  into  depression.  but  you  can't  help  but  remember  how  life  was  before,  how  life  after  will  never  be  the  same,  and  can't  help  but  feel  that  nothing  in  the  future  will  be  able  to  fill  the  hole  the  past  left.  nothing  lasts  forever… right?

tagged by @chaoticmvse

𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅

tagged by @hochmvt & @zeitrcisende

feel free to steal whatever you like ﹗

[mothwingwritings]

Taming Of Beasts

Fem!Reader X Zenos Yae Galvus

I wrote this right after I finished StormBlood a few months ago. Zenos is def one of my fav villians in Final Fantasy and I wanted to take a stab at trying to write something for him. :) I hope I did him an ounce of justice.

This is supposed to take place sometime between Heavensward and Stormblood. Ala Mhigo is still very much going through some shit in this little fic (and so is the reader, for that matter).

(Also Stormblood is free right now so if you have any interest and haven’t played, now is the time to act!!!)

Warnings: War, death, blood, spoilers possibly up to the point of stormblood? But not anything huge.

Victory had become too easy.

Over the past several months the thrill of the hunt had significantly waned, each battle presenting itself with less resistance than the one prior. Every adversary faced was now more apt to cower, roll over and submit then to stand up and fight. The empire’s spreading influence was quickly becoming far too overpowering for these backwater colonies to handle, and it was painfully apparent with each visit Zenos made that these hunting fields had long since held any interesting sport. Citizens who were once so eager to fight for their homeland now bared their stomachs like whimpering, scared dogs.

His father and the legion commanders saw it as a good thing, satisfied that the illustrious Garlean Empire was finally achieving what it rightfully deserved. With every passing day more land was claimed by the empire, and with the land came influence, victory, and boredom.

The successes were too easy and each day that dragged by in Ala Mihgo had grown lackluster to the empire’s crown prince. What was once an exciting hunting ground was now a barren isle, the lands that had brought thrilling promises of conquest now plagued by dwindling opposition, souring the once sweet experience he found roaming these fields.

Each step of his heavy sabatons sunk him into the earth, the dirt path softened with the spilled blood of the fallen. Droplets of the viscous red liquid stained the sole and sides of the dark metal, the agonized expressions of the corpses reflecting back off their bloodied surface as he paraded by.  Soon those bodies would be carted away, dumped in some unmarked mass grave to rot deep underground. There was neither honor nor peace in their passing, their miserable existences snuffed out as easily as blowing out a candle.

He smiled.

He was making his way towards a line of soldiers and survivors, and though the latter of the two outnumbered his battalion, they were far too broken to pose a threat. The group consisted of a varied mix of individuals, men and women, young and old, huddled together shoulder to shoulder. Most wept, while others remained silent and quivering. Held firmly in the soldiers grasps, none of the prisoners dared make eye contact with the approaching prince.

None save for you.

Wild was the only way he could describe you, ready to lunge at him the moment he took a step too close. Covered in blood, hair matted and tangled, outfit torn to shreds with gaping wounds peering out through the cracks, you were truly a sight to behold. It was obvious you had fought hard to earn your spot amongst the survivors, and judging by the more kempt look of your compatriots, you deserved it far more than they did.

While most of the prisoners shared a soldier keeping them in check, you had your own personal guard holding you under firm lockdown to prevent you from breaking free and causing issues. The soldier watching you seemed haggard, as if restraining someone as tiny as you had taken a great deal of effort. Zenos internally scoffed at the scene. There was no place for weakness in his battalion, he made note to exact due punishment later.

“Sir,” one of the men spoke as he approached, imperial salute following his words, “We have cleared the area. There was some opposition, but it has been dealt with.”

Zenos’ masked face scoured the surrounding area, finding far too many of their own men’s bodies mixed in with the mongrels. “Dealt with you say, but it seems you had quite the time taking over one small village.”

The soldier addressing him stiffened. “… It’s true, my lord. They did put up more of a fight than was anticipated. There is no excuse for the amount of lives our side lost.”

“If you are aware of that then it should have been avoided,” his cold words made the soldier visibly uneasy, his weight now shifting unsteadily between his feet, “but that may be addressed later. I see we have some cornered animals in our midst.”

The man quickly nodded, relieved to have the heat taken off himself. He turned to the disheveled group, causing them to flinch at the recognition.  “These are the enemy survivors, all of them active members of the resistance. Some, once trained, we believe may make fine soldiers. The others can be used as slaves, in the pleasure quarters, or as bargaining chips. Should my lord will it, we can instead kill them.”

A jolt passed through the crowd, a wave of sheer terror and indignation flashing across their muddied, bruised faces. Even you, staunch as you remained, shuddered at the flippant words that spilled from his soldier’s lips. The lot of you was nothing in the face of the Garlean Empire, and it horrified you that you lived or died at the whim of one man.

He did consider ending you all, leaving your final moments to be filled with dread and the futility of your efforts. How fitting it would be to have the final thought to flit through your fading conscious be your own ineptitude, the frailty you exuded trying to preserve your own existence for a chance at freedom. Your subjugation was inevitable, but he supposed being spared watching the rest of your brethren and kin being torn down until they were all nothing but toiling and obedient pets, cannon fodder, or corpses could be considered a nicety.

Mere inches separated you from the crown prince, and he took a moment to fully take you in. The unrestrained malice and fear dancing in your wide eyes, the tightly clenched fists held in place at your side, the deep grimace that engulfed your entire face. Your body shook in the guard’s hold, each quake relaying how clearly upset you were to be ensnared in this situation. If he ordered them to let you go, what would you do? Attack him the moment you were given leeway, or would you crumble to your knees in despair?

Musing on it piqued his interest. Hunched over before him, you looked so insignificant. Shuddering as you glowered up at him, he could tell you were on the brink of collapse but were doing your very best to hide your feebleness from him.

Your animosity was palpable, the kind that only comes when someone is pushed far past their limit. Your home, your family, your friends, his men must have taken it all from you. And now that you were captured, the torment you faced was sure to be dragged on, only guaranteed to end with your gruesome and painful death.

Zenos wondered if you realized how lucky you were to have survived to this point. Like a phoenix, you had risen from the ash of your past life, born into a new life of combat and strife, forged by the hells of war. The situation that was forced upon you was a truly wonderful breeding ground, an opportunity to mold you into something extraordinary.

But was it enough? You certainly had the look of a mad dog about you, but to show the true colors of a feral beast you would require more time. You needed more experiences to break you, rebuild you into a seething vessel of hatred, an avatar of merciless revenge.

If the process didn’t destroy you, how much more interesting would you become?

A slow smile crept across his lips.

There was a woman next you, older than you by at least two decades. Her manic eyes kept flicking to you, her chapped hands violently wringing the tattered rags that once resembled a dress. She seemed worried for you, and judging by the way your eyes darted to her every so often, softening with each quick gaze, it was fair to say she was someone important to you. Was she your mother, or perhaps an aunt? She was too old to be a sibling, but too young to be a grandparent. Maybe just a kind older woman you took a shine to? It mattered not, her end would happen regardless of her relations.

Zenos lifted his hand languidly, stopping once it had pointed to the woman beside you. She grew pale as he singled her out, her knees knocking so hard he was surprised she still stood. His hand swept over the remaining people, indiscriminately landing on two other elderly captives. An intense wave of unease spread throughout you, accented by the intense quiet that fell over the small crowd.

His lips parted, the words spilling out in a bored admonishment, “These three are past their prime and have no further use in this world.”

You froze, your face twisting into a look of unadultered dread. You knew what was coming next.

“Kill them.”

Without further fanfare, the soldiers nearest each of the chosen drew their weapons and fired. Three bodies fell with a uniformed ‘thud’ to the ground. Fresh blood streaked across your cheek as your companion made her way to the ground. Screams erupted around you, broken and gasping for their stolen loved ones.

Though your mouth had fallen open in shock, no sound spilled out.

The look of anguish the spread across your face was so appealing that he almost considered praising you for it. Cold, agonized distress suited you just as much as bitter rage.

With a flick of his wrist, he continued doling out fates. “The two on the end look sturdy enough to be soldiers, the three in the middle can be tasked with menial labor, and that one over there I am sure can find work in the pleasure quarters.”

“And what of this one, sir?”

The guard holding you gave you a rough jostle, seeming to bring you to your senses. Your eyes traveled slowly from the body at your feet to Zenos himself, the heartbreak you were suffering flickering out as it was once more replaced with thrumming anger. You gritted your teeth, eyebrows cinching as your chest began to rise and fall with erratic breaths. You were doing all you could to keep yourself together, but the final thread holding you was stretching so thin…

Zenos took a step towards you, the motion putting you on alert. You must have been ready for a death order, trying to make peace with the fact that this is how it would all end for you. With another step he was upon you, his regal form hulking before you. Your eyes fixated on his concealed face, a tempest of emotions swirling within them.  

His hand reached out towards you, and though your eyes sparked with a look of apprehension, you remained still. He latched on to your chin, giving a small pleased hum as he felt your flesh quiver in his hold. Upon contact, your face twisted into a look of sheer disgust which he found quite amusing.

You winced as he jerked your head this way and that, assessing the different angles of your face. Even covered in grime you were lovely, surely in more peaceful times you were sought after amongst the rabble to wed. His eyes flicked over your body, taking in each curve and valley viewable to him, the cuts and bruises that littered your skin only made you look that much more appealing.

“This one will serve me directly.”

Your eyes widened, a moment of silence spreading amongst the soldiers as they cast each other sideways glances. “My lord, are you sure,” the man holding you finally broke the silence, “This one is… Well, they are a bit unruly sir.”

He held back a laugh at the blush that passed your cheeks, affronted by the soldier’s choice of words. He guessed unruly was not how you would choose to be described in this situation.

“I can see that,” Zenos spoke plainly, releasing your chin from his grasp, “However a new personal servant is needed since one has recently passed of old age. This woman is lively and can handle the strains of the job. She will be trained in the role, broken down as many times as it takes till she understands her place.” He turned his back towards you and began his departure, his dull tone calling back over his shoulder, “If she can’t adjust to the position I will kill her myself.”

“Then do it.”

He stopped in his tracks, your shaky words the first time he had the pleasure of hearing your voice.  

“I’d rather die than serve you.”

Your voice warbled, but your message was loud and clear. It was a declaration you wanted people to hear. Was it to try and inspire your fellow man that lined up beside you, maybe place an ounce of fight back into the shackled and broken? Perhaps it was an attempt to boost confidence in yourself? Maybe it was simply an act of rage-filled defiance towards the man who personally led the charge which slaughtered your kin, their blood still freshly smeared across your hands and chest.  

It struck him then that you looked beautiful like that, scowling and full of fury, soaked in the blood of your loved ones and enemies alike. It surprised him that a mere pest could hold such radiance, his attraction to you stupefying as he turned towards you, your crazed eyes boring straight through his mask, locking with his own.

“Silence,” the guard holding you gave you a violent shake, “How dare trash like you address Lord Zenos that way, you impudent-“

“Enough.”

Zenos lifted his hand, the sharp command causing both you and the guard to instantly still, your eyes quickly casting to the ground in dismay. He could practically hear your thoughts as he made his way back towards you. Surely this was your now end, there was no way the crown Prince of the empire would let such insolence stand. You would be made an example of, another death to add to the killing field.

The thought annoyed him. Why were you so eager to die when you showed such promise?

He towered before you, his armored hand once more latching to your chin, forcibly tilting your head until he held your watery, conflicted gaze. He could feel you vibrate with anxiety in his hold, your jaw clenched so tight your face had turned red.

“What is it about the battlefield that makes people like you want to throw them self into deaths embrace so carelessly, I wonder? Is it lack of faith, or the overwhelming fear of the odds being stacked against you? Is it the heartbreak over having your loved one cut down before you? Maybe you are just tired of the inadequacy, of being so powerless before true might?”

Your face morphed into a look of disdain, a fresh tear sliding down your cheek carved a clear path through the filth that had accumulated on you.

“Don’t you find it a waste? All that potential building up inside of you, mounting with each hopeless assault against your people… I can see it in your eyes. The hunger to strike me down right where I stand,” he tightened his grip, causing you to cringe, “It’s an admirable quality to have, even for a cur such as yourself.”

Abruptly he pulled away, your head lulling forward from the lack of support. Zenos turned on his heel, stepping away to carry on with the next order of business.

“You have your orders,” He called briskly over his shoulder, “Make sure they are carried out with haste.”

The soldiers nodded, immediately falling into action as Zenos began his departure. He glanced once more over his shoulder as you were dragged away. With the wind no longer in your sails you were much more malleable, putting up little to no fuss as the soldiers ushered you to your fate.

The boredom he had long been suffering from started to diminish as he considered the future. A smirk ghosted his lips as he turned forward, a low hum accentuating his hurried footsteps.

“Who knew such an intriguing find would be buried within this rubbish,” he spoke in barely above a whisper, the words intended for no one but himself, “I am quite interested in what you will become, my little whelp.”

[lumiereandcogsworth]

today at a family gathering, we celebrated my cousin’s 5th birthday. i don’t particularly know the kid all that well, as i only see her at these gatherings, but it’s really obvious how shy she is, and how easily overwhelmed she gets. ever since she was a baby, she just can’t really handle the ruckus of the family gatherings. she usually goes to another room to chill for a while, and then eventually warms up (though she doesn’t ever stray far from her mom.)

today she was mostly with her friends in another room, separate from us adults. the kids came out at one point for an easter egg hunt, but eventually retreated to their separate (and definitely much more fun) party. but then she came out again, with just one friend, so we could sing happy birthday to her. she immediately melted into her mom, who was sitting on the floor beside her, just hiding and hoping we’d all stop the singing and attention on her. i felt terrible. i could see how much she was suffocating by our presence. it was so painfully relatable.

the singing ended. and then, when it came time for her to blow out the singular “5” candle amidst a plate of chocolate strawberries, she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. people kept saying “go for it! blow out the candle!” all very gently and happily, but she kept shaking her head and hiding against her mother. her mom offered to blow it out instead, her dad offered, her grandma offered, and every time, she just shook her head, unsure of what to do. for maybe 30 painful seconds, it was totally unclear how this social tradition was going to proceed.

but then the birthday girl’s friend, who was also five, and very clearly something of a best friend to her, then said “want me to blow it out with you? let’s do it together.” my little cousin immediately perked up. she leaned off of her mother and joined her friend’s side. the friend put a hand on her back, and together they leaned in and blew the candle out. everyone cheered, and the party carried on. it made me choke up just being a bystander in the room, and it chokes me up to relive it here in writing. being in social situations is so difficult… for everyone, sometimes, but especially for someone who’s clearly been overwhelmed by it her entire life. and it just warmed my heart to see her friend be there for her in such a big way. it was as if my cousin had been wading around in darkness and fog, and suddenly her friend was there with a lantern and an outstretched hand, leading her out of the horrors.

i don’t know. being a person is so hard, even when you’re five. thank God for friends, man.

[griseldabanks]

Let Me Count the Ways ask game

Requested by GracielleGrace

Fandom: The Last of Us (works for both game and show) Characters: Joel and Ellie Prompt: "I never told you, but..."

The night was dark outside the window. From her vantage point by the bed, Ellie could only see out the window looking to the east, away from the center of Jackson. Maybe someone else was awake out there—she knew it wouldn't be long before those tending the animals would have to get up and start on chores. Normally, in this dark in-between time, Ellie would be fast asleep, exhausted from a full day and resting up for the next one.

Tonight, she was awake. She sat in a hard-backed wooden chair right next to the bed, staring blankly at the flower-patterned quilt, illuminated only by a single candle. Occasionally, her gaze dropped to the pistol she held loosely in her lap.

“Back off!” she screamed, brandishing the pistol. “Take one more step, and I swear I'll blow your face off!”

“Easy, Ellie,” Tommy said, slowly pushing Maria behind him and holding up both hands. “You know I don't want to...I...he-he's my brother....” Tears glistened in his eyes as he glanced over her shoulder again. He looked at the man lying in the bed behind her, and his expression crumpled.

Ellie ran her sleeve under her nose and reached over to take the damp rag off Joel's forehead. She touched his face with the back of her hand, feeling his cheeks since his forehead was clammy from the rag. But she had no idea what to feel for. His cheeks were warm, but was that because of fever or just because...people were warm?

“You'd know what to do,” she muttered as she turned to dip the rag in the basin of water again. “I bet you took care of Sarah lots of times when she was sick. You'd know exactly what to do.”

After wringing out the rag, she carefully folded it over a couple times and placed it back on Joel's forehead. That was all she could do. They had medicine, but no one wanted to give him any yet. Just in case.

Just in case it was all over.

“You got to cut it off.”

Ellie ripped her eyes from the bloody mess of mangled flesh and broken bones that had been a fully functioning arm a few minutes ago. She stared in horror at Joel's face, streaming with sweat and tight with pain. “What? No—I can't—“

Clenching his jaw, Joel thrust the bloody hatchet towards her. “You have to. It's the only way.”

Her fingers curled around the rough wooden handle, but she couldn't move. All she could seem to do was stare at the puddle of blood on the ground widening with every second. “But...y-you'll bleed out....”

“Ellie. Ellie!” He grabbed at her leg when she didn't respond. “Listen to me. We ain't got time for this. Either you cut it off, or you kill me. Now!”

Letting out a desperate cry, Ellie lifted the hatchet over her head and brought it swinging down with all her might.

With a shudder, Ellie glanced down at Joel's right shoulder, swathed in countless bandages. With the quilt covering him, she could almost imagine his arm was still there, under the covers.

“Guess this means no more guitar lessons,” she muttered.

Hesitantly, Ellie reached out and placed her hand on the quilt. Where Joel's right hand should have been resting underneath the covers, there was nothing. An empty space. A gap.

“You're right-handed,” she whispered. “Probably won't be able to go hunting, either. Or on patrol. No more surprise birthday trips. Not if you can't shoot anymore. Can't defend yourself.”

She looked at his face, at the lines deeply carved into his skin, at the white hairs that seemed more prominent in the candlelight. He looked...old. She'd never thought that before, not really. Sure, she would tease him about it sometimes, but she knew he wasn't that old. He was...what, 54? 55? And he was always so strong. Nothing could bring him down.

Ellie's hand drifted up the hump of blankets covering Joel's body, coming to a rest somewhere around his stomach. There was really only one time she'd felt like this—those awful days when Joel was fighting for his life with a horrible wound in his gut, and it fell to Ellie to take care of them both.

She didn't want to think about those days. For a lot of reasons.

Looking back at Joel's face, pinched with pain, cheeks sunken...she could almost imagine the outline of his skull. One day, that's all he would be. Just another body rotting away, like so many they'd come across in their travels. The only question was whether he would come back or not.

The light flickered, the flame guttering as the wax melted almost to the bottom of the candlestick. For an instant, as the shadows wavered over Joel's face, Ellie thought she saw fungus growing over his skin, erupting from his mouth, covering his eyes....

The light steadied, and Joel looked the same as ever. Human, not Cordyceps.

“He's not infected!” Ellie yelled, both hands clenching into fists. “I cut it off before it could spread!”

“Ellie, we don't know that,” Maria said, putting a placating hand on her shoulder. “It's too soon to tell—“

“So let me sit with him!” Ellie wrenched her arm away, taking a step towards the door. “We'll wait till morning, and if he doesn't turn by then, he's okay, right?”

“I...I can't let you do that.” Tommy reluctantly pulled the revolver out of its holster. “The chances of him.... It's-It's not safe.”

“I don't care!”

The candle went out. Ellie sat in the darkness and silence, a chill running down her spine. She knew a candle didn't give off that much heat, but without it...she felt cold all the way through.

Cold. Like those days she struggled through the snow on her own, hunting and desperately scrambling to keep them both alive. Nights she spent shivering and jumping at every little sound.

And then sometimes...if she let herself...she would wonder what would happen if Joel never woke up. If he went as cold as the concrete floor beneath him, and she would never hear his voice, never feel his warmth beside her, never see the way the wrinkles around his eyes smoothed out on the rare occasions he let himself smile....

A choked sound of desperation burst from Ellie's throat as she groped in the dark until her fingers found his face. It was warm to the touch—so warm, too warm, she knew, but she didn't care, because it meant he was still there....

She set the gun on the bedside table, kicked off her shoes, then pulled the quilt down and crawled into bed beside Joel. There was plenty of space now on his right side, but she rounded the bed and slid under the covers on his left, so she wouldn't jostle his bandaged shoulder. She shifted his arm away from his body and curled up in the warm space where it had been, almost able to pretend he'd invited her there and was about to put his arm around her. A tiny voice whispered in her ear that she was stupid to leave the gun behind, but she ignored it. If he turned...well, she was immune, so she didn't need to worry about that, and Tommy was probably sitting in the hallway with a shotgun across his knees anyway, just in case. Besides...if Joel turned...if he attacked her...she wasn't sure she wanted to survive anyway.

She found his heartbeat and rested her head on his chest in that spot, closing her eyes as she focused on that steady, soothing sound. Was it beating faster than normal? Did that happen whenever someone had a fever, or was it an early sign that Cordyceps had taken hold? No, they tested for other things when they screened you in the QZ, not just temperature.

“Hey...Joel?” Ellie whispered into the darkness.

Thump-thump...thump-thump....

“I never told you, but...my whole life, I've been scared. Scared of the future...scared of the past...scared of...myself. Scared of being alone. But you know what? I don't really know when it happened, but...I'm never scared around you.”

Thump-thump...thump-thump....

“I mean...okay, yeah, sometimes I'm scared, like when we're fighting for our lives, obviously. But...somehow, it seems like...as long as you're there...we'll make it through somehow. Because you always know what to do. Or at least we can figure it out together.”

Thump-thump...thump-thump....

“But now....” A huge lump rose in Ellie's throat. She found her hand curling around a fistful of his shirt—his undershirt; they'd had to take off the flannel to get at the wound. The thin fabric was growing wet underneath her cheek.

“I'm...I'm scared, Joel,” she choked out, her breath hitching in her throat. “I'm so scared....”

If she hadn't been lying with her head resting on his ribcage, she might have missed it. But a voice rumbled in her ear, the faintest of whispers murmuring, “Okay, baby girl...I got you....”

Ellie froze. For a moment, she thought she'd just imagined those words, but then she felt Joel's arm slowly move until his hand rested on top of her head. His thumb slowly stroked back and forth across her hair.

She opened her eyes. Greyish light filled the room, slowly banishing the shadows. The colors on the quilt slowly became distinguishable from the blurry grey it had been before. Then a golden glimmer reflected off the doorknob, brighter than the candle had ever been. Dawn had arrived before she'd even realized it.

[ieatyourbeauty]

Stir the Blood *demon Soap fanfic*

A woman Summons a demon that she nicknames Soap, some demon hunting ensues maybe a romance.

MDNI

warning: some sexual content.

(might be a series might not be we will see)

A abandoned church on hill a dark cold stormy night sounds like a starter for a horror novel, and I guess you can call it that. A girl by the name of Josey lights candles and draws a symbol with chalk on the floor of the church her footsteps echoing in the empty cathedral as she stands in the middle of the circle she takes a knife out making cut on her hand wincing in pain and squeezing it to make it drip on the summoning circle.

Josey: This has to work...please this just has too I have no other choice!

A strong wind enters the old church blowing out the candles the room got colder she could see her breath and she was shivering.....she could only hear her breath and the rain outside, she heard a noise and looked around seeing nothing, she smelled something weird.....laundry soap? stepping away from the circle she took out a rosary in her pocket and grabbed it saying a silent prayer for herself.

Josey: I know I'm damned to hell for doing this but it needed to be done.

Then she heard a voice seeing a figure in front of her she steps back her eyes wide a man with a red skull mask and horns staring her down his wings torn from millennia of use.

???: You are not the first to call me out, and you will not be the last. What is your desire, little mortal.

Josey: I summoned u here for a reason demon the tomb on the book said if I summon u, you have to do my bidding.

???: really now.....why would I do that you only just summoned me you haven't bonded me to ya

He grins approaching her she takes a step back terrified he gets close to her she's breathing heavily looking up at his blue eyes weird set of eyes for a demon she thought she was expecting goat eyes or cat eyes something like that.

???: I won't always be in your control what's stopping me from just killing u here and now...or using you for my own pleasures little mortal.

Josey: ARCO!

All the sudden the demon felt his power draining he dropped to his knees feeling a restraint on his neck choking him he glared up at her his eyes full of rage reaching up at her, she moves away from him a shocked look, stunned that the words actually worked.

???: Do you know what demon your messing with human bitch?!

Josey: DEORSUM!

The spell pins the demon down she stands over him now determined.

Josey: if u even think about doing me harm this enchantment I put on u drains your powers so you'll feel like a mortal I know yall demons hate that!

The demon snarls at her, but is powerless to do anything else, and glares at her as she stands above him she puts a collar on his neck.

???: You really have no fuckin idea what you've done, mortal. When the time is right, I will break free. Then I will make you regret this witch!

Josey: right... until then come with me demon my home is in the woods I will discuss my plan with you there.

The demon had to think of a plan how was he going to break this mortal woman betting? seducing? Anything? She walks away the demon reluctantly following her behind, he's seething with rage and plotting on how he would try to betray the woman. As the demon and mortal are walking through the forest she looks at him and smirks.

Josey: you know when I summoned you I expected to smell sulfur and brimstone but oddly enough it smelled like laundry soap.....ah I have to give my new pet a name right?....hmmm I'll call you Soap!

Soap: what a stupid name! that's no name for a demon!

Josey: your name is Soap now deal with it ahhh home sweet home.

She laughs as they approach her house, They enter the home and go upstairs to her bedroom and she discusses her plan with Soap the demon. Soap crossing his arms leaning on a wall waiting for her to talk not like he has a choice still livid over the name she forced onto him..

Josey: There are demons in this city with human's who do their bidding and I'm going to kill them all with your help of course. you can take care of the demons while I take care of the human part of the problem I need to hunt these fuckers down.

Soap: so you need me to do your dirty work why not do it yourself.

Josey: well as u so pointed out Soap I'm a mortal I cant exactly kill a demon which is why I summoned you supposedly your a powerful demon though being contained by me I might have made a mistake and gotten a weakling...

This pissed soap off as he got closer to her but he couldn't do anything but stare at her his blue eyes piercing hers, Soap chuckles.

Soap: Weak? Weak, you say? Just because you bound me, you think you have the advantage, woman? I could blast you out of existence, in this moment I could ravage you and take you as my personal slave.

She gets close whispering in his ear, teasing him her body close to his he feels her figure. Soap feels her tug at his collar.

Josey: yet who is the one collard Soap.

Soap: don't try and seduce me mortal..I am much beyond the need for such...distractions.

Josey: hmm yet I see you blushing Soap...curious I didnt know demons could blush...anyway that collar on your neck is infused with my blood ....virgin blood so if u planned on seducing me that enchanted collar is staying on your neck.

For the first time, she see's Soap look...nervous. And this, of course, amuses her His face flushes, and he looks away. Josey laughs she liked humbling this demon He growls, in an attempt to play off the situation.

Josey: Don't worry ill give u something better you like eating souls correct taste better than candy? .....if u partner up with me u can eat all the souls you want the more corrupted the better they taste correct?

He takes off his mask and smiles widely, teeth sharp.

Soap: Now you're speaking my language, woman. I get to eat souls with your help?

Josey: yes and hell at this end of this journey u can even have mine......a promise....Do we have a deal?

She extends her hand, Soap hesitates for a moment, before taking her hand and shaking it. Soap pulls her close their lips almost touching he makes one last threat.

Soap: you have a deal woman, but just remember the moment you fuck up I will make your mind and your body mine.

He kisses her, his lips soft, his tongue pushes against hers, and he pulls away again, his grin ever present. Josey blushed never been kissed like that but she composed herself but on the inside just a kiss from him made her cunt wet.

Josey: I'll take your word for it demon now get some rest we have a long road ahead of us....rest well....Soap.

The demon glares at you, still angry that you forced him into this.

Soap: Very well. I will go rest, but it's not because you told me to, witch.

She enters the bathroom closing the door she leans on the door breathing heavily she gets undressed her panties drenched. She enters the shower fingering herself thinking about Soap fucking her covering her mouth so her moans don't reach his ears and hoping the noise from the water covers it.

Josey: fuck....fucking demon I gotta be more careful.....he touches me like that again I'm done for, I gotta keep my head straight.

Meanwhile Soap lays on the couch tugging on his collar still pissed that hes in this situation and that if he was in hell other demons would laugh at him being bonded to a human woman.

Soap: I hate this. I hate this human If I could escape, I would. If I could kill her, ohhh I would make her sorry one way or another.

He continues muttering angry comments about you, but eventually falls asleep despite it. Josey steps out of the shower a towel wrapped around her body she sees Soap sleeping on the couch approaching him she lowers her face towards his wanting to touch his lips again before backing away and putting one a tshirt and shorts and going to bed.

(idk i might do more lemme know what yall think.)

[podcast-hemocytoblast]

My theory, based off the fact that Jane Prentiss could be fought off with fire extinguishers, is that Avatars of each Fear have weaknesses specific to their patrons, like pokémon types. My guesses are:

Corruption - CO2

Dark - flashlight/torch

Buried - keep a tiny shovel on you at all times so if you get buried alive you can dig your way out. (like one of those little shovels for making sand castles maybe?)

Lonely - get a tomodachi so that you will never be alone

Vast - parachute pants + propeller cap to slow your descent while falling

Eye - they have like. a fucktillion eyes. you could probably pepper spray them and they would cry so hard forever

Web - blow on the spiders/Web Avatar like a birthday candles. Spiders are sensitive to air vibrations so i think they probably would not like this

Desolation - if it rains or you hit them with a super soaker they can’t do jack shit. or if you don’t have a super soaker, maybe just try chasing them with a hose

Hunt - tell them to come back with a warrant.

Flesh - you may be meat, but they are meat too. bite them first to assert your dominance

Slaughter - politely remind them that they cannot murder you, because that is illegal

Spiral - figure out what direction the Spiral twists in and turn in the opposite direction to cancel out the centripetal force. If you are in the northern hemisphere, The Spiral goes down the drain counterclockwise, so you should turn clockwise. If you are in the southern hemisphere, The Spiral goes down the drain clockwise, so you should turn counterclockwise

End - play dead. what’re they gonna do. kill you twice? sure they could try calling your bluff, but if they’re wrong that would be like, super embarrassing for them

Stranger - honestly Stranger Avatars all seem like they’d have a little bit of prosopagnosia so if you just put on a little face paint and a clown costume, you could probably convince them that you’re one of them

Anyways I’m open to feedback, so if anyone wants to add on your own theories pls do :)

[springdandelixn]

Home - Part I

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42329199/chapters/106292970

Jorah x F!Reader

Summary: You and Jorah are enjoying a peaceful night in your home when a knock on the door surprises you both and shakes the peace you know.

Warnings: light angst, some fluff, tons of kisses from our Bear Knight

YOU

The night is dark and full of terrors. 

But not in your home; the home which you share with Jorah that sits at the edge of the town where the forest is lust with trees and the sea just close by that you hear the water crashing against the shore. The cool winter breeze of the night blows through the windows of your small yet homey cottage, but the fire that burns in the hearth of your bedroom and Jorah’s arms around your, as you both lay in bed, keep the chill at bay, encasing you in a warmth that makes you love the winter all the same.

His smooth voice echoes throughout the room as he tells you a tale of his childhood. One where his father took him on his first bear hunt along with the seasoned warriors of the island, his road of passage to manhood, a tale that makes you laugh upon revealing that he ended up falling in a rover when he thought a bear was chasing him, which turned out to be but a tiny squirrel jumping about the bushes. 

You love his stories. Love that he has so much of them in store. And you feel the excitement and happiness surging within you as you imagine hime telling your child the same tales he’s told you once he or she comes into the world. A smile grazing you lips when his hand rests against the swell of your belly, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss atop it.

Jorah has been a protective bear as soon as he found out your were with child. Following you around wherever you would go and offering to the do even the simplest tasks for you. You understood his protective nature for you knew of his past. Knew of his fears. The three stillborns with the last taking the life of his first wife and he’s expressed them almost immediately that he does not want the same fate to befall you. 

But you feel the babe in you is strong. Inheriting the strength of their father, the strength of a Mormont, and it does not worry you one bit that anything would happen to you or your unborn child. That you feel confident and elated at the thought of holding the babe in your arms and hoping to see them take after your husband; to have the most beautiful blue eyes and golden hair that shines underneath the sun. 

As he finishes his story, Jorah moves to stand and blow out the candles that illuminate your room when a knock at the door surprises the both of you, a call of his name filling you with worry as you think of who would be looking for your husband at this time of the night and why. 

“Stay here.” He instructs and leans over to press a kiss on your forehead, blowing out the last of the candle, only the small fire on the hearth serving as the source of light. He walks over to his belt that hangs by the door of your chambers and slips of a dagger from its sheath before leaving you and closing the door behind him. 

You cover yourself with furs and try your best to settle on the mattress. But the muffled voice of the other man and the shock you sense from Jorah’s voice keeps you on high alert, your heart beating fast against your chest as your mind conjures up several reasons for him to garner such a reaction. 

When Jorah returns, there is a frown on his face and you quickly move to stand from the bed, but he stops you by placing a hand on your shoulder, his body slumping as he sits on the edge of the bed.

“Who was it?” You ask. “What did they want?”

“It was Captain Wymond.” He answers with a sigh. “Lyanna requests my presence tomorrow at the Keep to discuss travels to Winterfell.”

His answer sends a chill up your spine. “Winterfell? But—why?”

You start to panic, your hands shaking as you think of reasons why they would want your husband to travel all the way to Winterfell. Surely it’s not to punish him for his past crimes, right? He was pardoned by the King in the North himself and Lady Mormont has accepted him back on the island. 

Unless—unless he’s realized that he wants to carry out what his late father has never accomplished. To punish Jorah for his sins, to kill him, or worse, to force him to take the black, permanently separating him from you and taking away the father of your unborn child. Tears suddenly escape your eyes as your mind is filled with such thoughts, your hand reaching up to him and clutching on his arm tight. 

No! You can’t let that happen! You’re about to be a family and you won’t allow your child to grow up without their father by their side. You won’t allow yourself to grow old with Jorah by your side. You can’t!

“Petal.”

You face Jorah when he coos at you, a deep frown forming on your lips as you pull yourself up and wrap your arms around his neck, clinging to him as the thought of him leaving your sight makes your insides turn. 

“Calm down. It’s not good for the child.” He says in a soft voice, pulling away slightly from your grasp, his hand reaching up to wipe the tears that have stained your face. “I know not what they need me for yet.”

“They’re taking you to Winterfell, Jorah!” What if Lord Snow wants your head? Or they send you to the wall?” Your lips quiver as you finally voice out your fears. “I cannot lose you. I won’t allow it!” You cry. 

“And you won’t.” He assures, feeling his hand caress the back of your head before cupping your chin to tilt your head back, making you look at him. “It is not the Mormont way to deceive others. If I was to be punished, Lyanna would have said so. And she has announced to Lord Snow of my return. If he wanted me dead, she wouldn’t have allow me to set foot on the island and have sent me to Winterfell at once.” He explains, pressing his forehead against yours. “I will listen to what they have to say and if it is what you fear, we shall leave.”

You look at him with wide eyes. His offer of escape lingering in your head, how he did so with his Southern wife that made the smallfolk despise him. It worries you that he would go through the same thing, with you in tow this time, but you would take it in a heartbeat, you don’t care if the people of Bear Island decides to hate you just the same, if it meant living in peace with the man you love. 

“But where would we go?”

“Lys? Braavos? We could sail to another country if we so wish.” His voice is serious.

“You mean that?” You ask.

“I would do anything to be with you, Petal. Besides, I’ve done it before.” He simply says as he runs his fingers through your hair. “I can do it again if I so wish.” 

 -

 The morrow comes and you wait inside the Keep, sitting at the dining table as Jorah talks to Lady Mormont and her advisors in the small gathering room. 

Jorah asked you to stay at home and wait for him, his reasons being that the path to the Keep is now covered in snow and he doesn’t want you to trip or slip on your way. But you refused, much to his chagrin, and allowed you to accompany him either way, your hand clutching tightly on his elbow as he guides you up to Mormont Keep. 

Your leg bounces in anticipation, your fingers fiddling with your skirt then your belly as you wait for their discussions to end. You don’t miss the eyes of the inhabitants of the Keep as they look at you with curiosity, the handmaiden of Lady Mormont giving you a smile when she recognizes you, a tray of cups and plates of half-eaten bread in her hand, her eyes full of question, same as the rest and you don’t doubt it’s about your sudden appearance in the house of the Lady of Bear Island. 

“Thank you, my lady.”

Your head snaps to the side when you hear Jorah’s voice in the room, standing immediately, somewhat a little slow from your condition when your eyes rest on him then on Lady Lyanna beside him, flanked by Captain Wymond and Maester Kalon. 

“I shall be seeing you at the docks in a week, cousin.” She says, your head bowing when her eyes meet yours briefly before turning her attention back to your husband. “And I shall uphold my promise that your wife shall be looked after in your absence.”

Jorah bows his head when his cousin leaves, striding towards you after and wrapping an arm around your waist as he looks at you. And you can’t help but notice the deep worry in his eyes, how the crease on his forehead deepens and the wrinkles on side of his eyes looking more prominent. 

“What did she mean, Jorah?” You ask all of a sudden. “Look after me?”

“We’ll discuss it at home.” He says with finality and you nod, his distress bleeding into you as you leave Mormont Keep. 

Upon arriving at the safety of your home, Jorah sits you down on the bed and tells you what has transpired in their talk. The stories of the Night King that mothers tell their children have become a reality and the Warden—no, King in the North has called his bannermen to save their home, to help fight for the living and kill the dead.

“No!” You shout and clutch on the swell of your belly as you stand and look at Jorah, the tears escaping your eyes as anger, and sadness consumes you. “I won’t allow you, Jorah! No! You’re to be a father in two months and you’re telling me you have to leave? Because of a child’s tale?”

“It is no longer a tale, my love,” Jorah says as he places a hand on your waist, stilling you, his other hand reaching up to cup your face. “Lyanna said that Jon Snow himself saw them marching to the wall. And now he calls for aid from all the houses in the North. I—I can’t,” His voice falters as he looks at you and you see unshed tears brimming in his eyes. “I have to fight. I have to, in order to protect you and our child.”

“But you don’t have to.” You try to reason, wiping your tears harshly from your eyes and clutching his wrists, taking a deep breath before you speak. “We can just leave as you said. We’ll go east. If the stories are true, the dead cannot follow us there.”

“We don’t know that for sure.” He sighs, rubbing his thumb against the apple of your cheek. “I have to go. I may not be a lord but I am still a knight and a Mormont. I cannot turn a blind eye to this. The living need me.”

“But we need you too! I need you!” You cry and bury your face in his chest, your hands turning into fists as you lightly beat at his chest. “You cannot leave me. You can’t—” Your voice falters as your sadness takes over. The thought of losing Jorah forever from battle doesn’t sit well with you and you don’t even want to think if they bring home his feet pointing to the heavens and not firmly planted on the ground.

“Lyanna is taking every abled man and woman to Winterfell to fight.” He adds, the desolation in his voice palpable. 

“Every? That means even my—”

“Aye. Even your uncle will be coming with us.” He sighs and leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours. “You and your aunt will be staying in the Keep. You both will be cared for and as soon as the battle ends, I’ll come home. I promise you.”

“We can take them with us.” You whisper softly. “We can leave at dawn.”

“I cannot leave, Petal.” He sighs once more. “Please understand.”

“But you said we could if they decide to kill you. How is this any different from that?” You reason. “If anything, this is much worse.”

“It was only my life that was at stake when I offered to leave. Now, the whole world could be in danger and I cannot allow myself to sit and have men defend me, defend us when I could be doing that myself.” He explains. “Even one man can turn the tide.”

You try to find more reasons for him to stay. For him to not charge himself in a war that you’re uncertain he would ever come back alive, or worse, be turned into one of the undead. But you come up with nothing because deep down, you know he’s right. That even a single pebble can ripple into a wave, a wave of change, of protection to have the living survive. 

But you still make a final attempt to make him stay. Burying your face on the crook of his neck, your tears falling once more down your face as you cling onto him like your life depended on it. 

“Please, don’t go.” 

The sigh that escapes his lips and the way he holds you tight is enough of an answer to know that he’s already made up his mind. 

 -

 You stand at the docks, your head held up high as you watch men and woman bid their loved ones farewell and board the awaiting ship that would take them to the capital of the North. Jorah is at your side, his arm around your waist as he waits for his turn to be called aboard, through with the way he holds onto you, you know that he would be getting on last. 

You turn to look at your side and frown when you see your uncle wrap your aunt in a tight embrace, your aunt putting on a strong front as she, too, sees her husband off. You try to be strong, try not to latch onto the sadness that consumes you, but when your eyes meet your uncle’s, you cannot help the sob that escapes your throat, pulling away from Jorah and making your way to your uncle, wrapping your arms around him tightly. 

“You take care of yourself, lassie.” He says softly, closing your eyes as your bury your face on his tunic, the tears once more escaping you when he presses a kiss to your hair. “Eden’ll be lookin’ after you. You have to listen to her, you hear me? None of that stubbornness ‘f yours.” He chuckles lightly and gives the back of your head a gentle pat. “And I be lookin’ after your husband.”

“You come back to us, Pa.” You cry against his shoulder. “You must.” And your heart clenches when he tightens his embrace when you call him as such. It’s the first time you ever did but the word itself is befitting of him for you’ve known no father aside from him. The only man who has watched you grow into the woman you are now, who has taken care of you and treated you as his own. And you dearly want him to know that you see him as your true father for he is and he will always be. 

“I will, lass.” He hiccups and pulls away to look at you, a sad smile on his face as he gives your nose a light poke. “I’ll still be teachin’ your child to fish. Just like how I did with you.”

“I’m sure they would love that.” You chuckle softly, hugging him once more before reluctantly letting him go. 

Jorah then walks over to the three of you and you smile when you aunt pulls him into an embrace, seeing her whisper into your husband’s ear before she pulls away and begins scolding your uncle about the small sack he’s brought with him. 

You then turn to face Jorah, the sadness still lingering in your heart as you wrap your arms around his neck tight, his own circling your middle all the same and leaning down to press his lips against yours. You cling on him as he kisses you hard, his tongue slipping past your lips, tasting every crevice of your mouth while feeling his hands caress your sides then your belly, as if burning you into his skin, taking every detail of you into memory. 

“Come back to me.” You whispers against his lips when you pull away, your tears flowing freely down your face and onto his shirt. 

“I promise.” He whispers back and kisses you once more. 

He only breaks the kiss when he hears Captain Wymond call for him, signalling their departure, Jorah getting down on one knee after and pressing a gentle kiss to your stomach, his hand caressing your side while yours runs through his golden hair. 

When he stands, you take off the scarf wrapped around your neck and wrap it around his, tying it securely then running your hand down on the bear you’ve sewn into it. The sigil of House Mormont. Praying to the gods that he would fight hard and he would fight strong. That he would fight with the strength of ten mainlanders and win this war. 

“Win this battle for me, my knight.” You say with as much courage as you can muster, trying your best to look strong in front of him. “Win this battle for our child.”

He runs his hand down the scarf, giving you a nod and pulls you once more into an embrace, his lips pressing against your hair before he releases you with reluctance when he’s called a second time. 

You watch your husband and your uncle board the ship, the anchor finally hoisted from the water and the sails that bear the symbol of your home drop down for the winds to carry them away. A horn is blown and the ship sets off, your feet taking to to the edge of the dock, following where you can and you watch with a broken heart until it vanishes into the horizon. 

  JORAH

He keeps his eyes on the island, his eyes on you until you are nothing but a speck in the sea. 

He hates that he has to be away from you. Hates that such chaos would stir mere months before you would give birth to his child. His first born and he fears that he wouldn’t be there in time once they enter the world. That he would miss the birth of his own son, or daughter, and he wouldn’t forgive himself if that were to happen, to ensure your safety, to be at your side when you need him most. 

He’s been a cynic since he was told that the second child his first wife was supposed to bear has befallen the same as the first. And not once has he prayed to the gods for anything for he’s only known for them to take. First his mother, then his father, his wife and his supposed children. 

But now, he does. He closes his eyes and prays to whichever god is listening that they would watch over you and protect you in his absence. That they would protect him in turn so he may fulfill his promise and return to you as soon as the war with the dead is over. 

“She’s a strong one.” He hears your uncle say beside him. His hands resting on the railings of the ship as he looks at the horizon. “And Eden’ll be keeping an eye on her.”

Jorah doesn’t respond, keeping his eyes on the water. 

“Don’t worry, son.” The word takes him by surprise, making him face your uncle with wide eyes. “I’ll stay by your side and make sure you make it home.” He says, a smile on his lips which Jorah returns.

“Aye. And I shall see to it that you’re with me when I do.” He pats your uncle on the shoulder once, his hand clutching on the scarf you gave him, both men looking into sea as they await their arrival to the port of Deepwood Motte.