#but turning towards summer when winter seems so deep and inescapable

[andwhateverwalkedthere]

Can we talk about how we definitely don’t give the Magnus Chase books enough credit? Like these books are such a beautiful depiction of coming to terms with grief and finding purpose in new relationships. Magnus’ struggle to accept his mother’s death and his guilt over it culminating in a beautiful moment where he feels her love and presence with and for him in his battle with Surt. The horrific despair he feels whenever someone around him is hurt, literally moving him to tears every time, even when it’s Gunilla, someone who has been actively hunting him. The line about how they are all empty cups, but that they can share each other’s burdens instead of filling themselves with pain. Just the beautiful bonds these characters who have each been isolated in their own way have formed with each other. How each of these characters have every right to be bitter and spiteful as a result of the tragedy in their lives, but choose love and each other at every turn.

[oikawa-tuwu]

Sitting Room (gn!Reader x Tendou)

Rated T, 2.3k words

Not Home for the Holidays Masterlist

"We're snowed in."

Once upon a time, waking up to a winter wonderland of snow outside your window was something to be excited about. It was the first snow of winter, a sign that the holidays were soon to come! Time to make snowmen and drink hot chocolate and bring out the big old bin of decorations from the attic!

Now, some decade and a half later, all the sight of the snow does is fill you with an inescapable dread.

Someone has to scrape the snow off those sidewalks. Someone has to worry about the heavy snow bringing down a power line. Someone has to put salt on the pavement to prevent ice so someone doesn’t get sued.

And yes, that someone is you, so you roll out of bed, into your best winter clothes, and hurry downstairs. If you’re fast, maybe you can get most of it done before you need to make breakfast. It's not a huge rush; you only have one guest right now, a tall man with red hair, and from the last couple days, you already know likes to sleep in. This snow, however, needs to be gone before your new guest arrives today, so snow first, then breakfast.

You take a deep breath, embracing the warmth of the house for just one last measly second, and go to open the front door.

It doesn’t budge.

Frowning, you double-check the lock, making sure the deadbolt is in the correct position. It is, so you try the door again.

It doesn’t budge.

You push harder.

It. Doesn’t. Budge.

With a grunt, you shove your entire body, every ounce of force you can manage, half-asleep, at seven in the morning, against the door.

It budges. Just a little, just a tiny crack through which you can see the… four feet of snow.

You’re snowed in.

Wonderful .

Shedding your winter gear as you go, you make your way to the sitting room, trying to figure out the next step. Maybe you could call for help? Pay a couple local teenagers to shovel your door free? You have to let your guests in and out somehow , what the hell were you going to do about this new guest-

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. Your work phone, so you dig it out of your five million layers, answering the call without even reading the caller ID.

“I have to cancel my reservation,” says the voice. “My train got cancelled because of the snow.”

You hang up the call with mixed feelings. That solves some of the urgency, but you would be lying if you said you weren’t disappointed about the missing income. Still, it gives you time to breathe, and think, and you hold your head in your hands for comfort.

You’re sitting there for so long (maybe you accidentally fell back asleep?), that when you look up, you jump. Your guest is awake, leaning against the entryway into the sitting room, one confused eyebrow cocked as he looks you up and down.

“We’re snowed in,” you say.

“I don’t have anywhere to go,” he says, nonchalant. He shrugs, gestures to the television above the fireplace. “I can entertain myself.”

For a second, just a single second, you allow yourself to feel relieved. Maybe you’ll get through this after all.

And with that, the power goes out.

“ Fuck. ”

 

It’s a delicate dance, carefully avoiding being in the same room as your lone guest.

It’s nothing against the guy, Tendou, you believe his name is, but it's… awkward. You can’t leave, you have to use flashlights to get around due to the lack of electricity and lack of sun (thanks again, snow), and you’re lowkey convinced that you’re living in a horror movie, because sometimes you’ll turn around without realizing he followed you into the kitchen and all you see is tall and red and oh my god , oh! It's just Tendou. Again.

You do what chores you can. Changing bedsheets with a flashlight in your teeth, setting out a couple ingredients for dinner (thank god you have a gas stove and can cook dinner at all), vacuuming downstairs ( battery-powered vacuum, thank god), etc.

The lights still don’t turn on.

In all honesty, with the holidays and this storm and on a Saturday , who knows how quickly they’ll get them up and running again.

You check the time.

It’s only eleven.

“Fuck. ”

 

Lunch is sandwiches. Normally, you don’t serve lunch, as most of your guests choose to go out themselves to get it, but that’s, unfortunately, not possible on this fine day. So instead, you throw together a couple cold sandwiches and bring them out to the sitting room.

Tendou is in there already, lounging on one of the couches, scrolling through his phone. At this point, most of the clouds have receded, so, from the light filtering in through the windows, you can see him without need of a flashlight. It’s a welcome change from the narrow beam that only seemed to pick up his ginormous red hair. When he notices you approaching, he clicks off his phone, and doesn’t quite smile out of joy, but gives an awkward, thankful half-smile, as he accepts the plate of food.

Halfway through your sandwich, the silence starts to grate on you.

“Sorry,” you say, setting down your sandwich. “I guess this isn’t how you imagined your holiday going.”

Tendou shrugs. “You can’t control the weather. Besides, I’m not sure what else I would be doing. I booked this trip on a whim.”

“Really? You don’t have anything that you wanted to do while you were out here?”

Tendou ponders the question, chewing on it like he chewed on his sandwich. Finally, he says, “Maybe eat. Find a local sweets shop.”

“There’s one on main street in town,” you say, and your mouth waters remembering some of the treats you’ve bought there. “They’re very good.”

“Good to know.”

It falls silent again (god, were you tired of the silent ), without even the ever-present hum of electronics to distract. You’re debating between your lackluster prepared get-to-know-you questions (top contenders are What do you do for work? and What’s your favorite food? ), when suddenly and without precursor, Tendou throws down his sandwich.

“I’m bored,” he announces, with the disbelief of a man that had never been bored before in his life. “I lied, I can’t entertain myself. Let’s say the snow never melts, lights never come on, what’s our game plan?

You snort. “ Our game plan? Please, after day three it's every person for themselves.”

“I like the way you think, that fear of being murdered will keep things interesting.”

“Exactly.”

Tendou laughs, gleefully. He laughs, and you realize very quickly that you want to make him do that again.

“I’d bet,” Tendou says, leaning back in his loveseat, a challenge in the curl of his lip. “Thirty-six hours in, one of us is jumping off a balcony to take out chances in the snow.”

“What, you think we can’t handle being around each other alone for thirty-six hours?”

Tendou shrugs. “You did threaten to kill me, your perfectly innocent guest, not thirty seconds ago.”

“Please don’t put that in your review.”

There it is again. That laugh. You’ve only seen it twice now, but you’ve already decided you like the way he laughs, throwing his whole body into it, an already expressive face devoted to that pure joy of laughter and humor.

Just two minutes ago, it had been awkward, silent, cold, but that that ice hadn't so much as broken as completely obliterated, like dropping an ice cube on pavement on a blistering summer day.

It's not summer, it's winter, and yet the chill of the big old house sans the central heating slowly fades away at the sound of Tendou's gleeful laughter.

"Why don't you have any decorations?" Tendou asks, once his giggles have subsided, and he glances about the sitting room. His voice takes a melodic, teasing lilt. "It's the holiday season , isn't it?"

Now that was a question you had been asking yourself recently. Everytime you walk past the attic ladder, you have half a mind to just get it over with, pull out the box and go crazy with the lights and tinsel, but you always hesitate with your hand on the door. Something about this year just didn’t feel real. It felt like you were stagnant in November, a weird limbo where the holidays never come.

It never seemed to feel real until it snowed. The first real snow that sticks.

Well. Crossed that bridge.

“I haven’t put them out yet,” you say, finally. “They’re up in the attic, I just haven’t had time to bring them out.”

“Let’s go then,” Tendou announces, pushing aside his empty plate and standing from the couch. “Lead the way.”

You blink up at him, trying to catch up with his leaps and bounds and grins. “Right now?”

“Do you have something else you need to be doing right now?”

Fair point.

It takes a fair amount of maneuvering to get the both of you into the cramped and dark attic. Thankfully, Tendou was smart enough to bring his phone with him, so he turns on the flash and directs it towards a group of cardboard boxes. There, scribbled with marker, it says holiday decorations , so you make some noise of triumph, carefully sliding between Tendou and another pile of boxes to reach the decorations. Unfortunately (fortunately?), that means the two of you are incredibly close, close enough that your sides brush and you can smell his cologne, something just a touch sweet, like the first whiff after walking into a bakery.

One hand bracing the box, you take a second to relax. It’s too much, him, this, that laugh, too much.

“Need help?” Tendou asks, leaning over your shoulder to peek at what it is holding you up.

You clear your throat, carefully inching around the boxes so that he’s not so close that you can smell that cologne. You go to lift the box, but before you can, Tendou tosses his phone to you, and as you fumble to catch it, Tendou picks up the box instead.

“Could you shine that light on the steps so I don’t kill myself?” Tendou asks, still smiling despite the giant, heavy box of holiday decorations in his hands. Silently, you do, and all three of you: the box, Tendou, and you, make it down the attic ladder and back down to the sitting room in one piece.

Tendou flips open the lid, revealing the mess of blue, white, red, and green.

The both of you get to work.

The first thing to come out of the box is the garland, plastic greenery with little lights, so the first strand goes on top of the fireplace, and as you go to head back into the entryway to wrap the second strand around the stairwell as well, Tendou unearths… the snowman.

It’s an old thing. Small, a little more cream-colored in the places it should really be white colored, with a missing button on its jacket. Where the rest of the decorations are clean, new, commercial, like an artfully staged set for a Hallmark movie, this piece is a little more… homely.

“And who is this guy?” Tendou asks, lifting the plush.

How to explain the snowman? In all honesty, you can’t even remember where it came from. Maybe it was a garage sale, bought as a joke? Maybe one of your employee’s kids had made it, hence why it had never been thrown away. In the end, you suppose it doesn’t matter, because over the years, it became a staple of your holiday decorations.

"Its my snowman. His name is Jeffery."

"Jeffery," Tendou repeats. "Alright."

With a giggle, you take the garland and continue on your way back to the stairwell.

You hear Tendou talking to the snowman, something unintelligible, until you manage to make out the word, "Fireplace."

“If you kill my snowman, I’m killing you,” you shout back, and Tendou’s laugh echoes through the whole downstairs.

When you return to the sitting room, you see the snowman resting peaceful on top of the garland, the centerpiece of the fireplace mantle.

Slowly, the pile of decorations in the box dwindles, and the room looks more and more holiday-esque, fairy lights and snowflakes and candles and garland abound.

Finally, the last decoration, one last snowflake to hang from the wall, is hung up, and the box is empty.

The clock in the corner reads 4 pm, and you wonder where all the time went. Wasn't it just noon?

You glance around the room again. The two of you did a good job, and you’re sure once the lights are on again, the view will be beautiful.

“We did good,” you remark, and when Tendou’s hand slips into yours, much softer and gentler than you expected, you don’t complain about it.

And then, with impeccable timing as always, the power comes back, starting with the hum of the heat making its way through the vents, and then the lamp in the corner flicks on, and then all the fairy-lights, twinkling bright, and, sure enough, its breathtaking in its entirety, and you feel that little rush that comes with the holidays.

You look at Tendou and Tendou looks at you and you both grin.

“We did really good.”

 

It’s a couple weeks before you check your bed and breakfast’s review page. Probably longer than you should have waited, and immediately there's one review in particular sticks out, so you click the link to read it in its entirety.

 

Tendou Satori 5 out of 5 stars

owner of B & B threatened to kill me on multiple occasions. 10/10 would stay again.

Successfully resisted the urge to write about Candlenights, you are very welcome. I was also super tempted to roll out the mistletoe this chapter too (it was gonna be hella smooth too), but nah, saving that for another chapter. Maybe I'll write it anyways and post it as an extra or smth. I'll see you in five days for Kuroo's! (Which is actually the first one that I wrote, like two weeks ago! I really like it 😌)

[bugheadfamily]

🎶 They're creepy and they're kooky 

Mysterious and spooky 

They're all together ooky 

The Bughead family 

 Their fic is for the season 

When people come to read 'em 

They really are a scream 

The Bughead family 🎶

Happy Halloween, Buggies! We gladly feast on these mysterious and spooky fics. Below you’ll find a mix of supernatural, horror, dark, and seasonal type fics with Halloween specific ones (marked with a 🎃). Curl up in your favorite costume, pull out the treats, and get your Halloween fic fix here below the cut!

🎃 10.31.17 by @jugandbettsdetectiveagency | T

On that night, when the veil is at its thinnest, he finds his way home.

🎃 A Kiss That Thrills by @lilibetts | E

On Halloween, college students Betty and Jughead go through a Haunted House and finally act on their respective crushes.

And the Ash Shall Rise by @likemereckless | M

Riverdale is actually Purgatory (why else would so many crazy things happen in one town!) Jughead Jones, Shadowman of purgatory level one has been tasked with finding an Awakened soul, one who the Premier Shadowman says jeopardizes the future of their world. When Jughead discovers Betty Cooper’s soul down by the River Styx he finds all is not as it seems and a final battle between Heaven and Hell is on the verge of breakout. *It’s Purgatory so ALL characters are dead. *You will find out how they died. *Get ready for a ride!

🎃 Be More Chill by @literatiruinedme | M

Betty and Jughead run into each other in the bathroom at the annual Blossom Halloween party.

body talks by @justcourbeau | NR

Instead of late morning light being his wake up call, Jughead was woken by the horrendous chirp of an alarm clock going off, and, really, that should have been the first sign that something was wrong.

Cooper’s Monsters by @cooperandjonesinc | M

In the darkened halls of an abandoned mental hospital Dr. Hal Cooper has been making monsters.Betty, oblivious to her father’s machinations, comes across a horrifying creature. Together can they stop the doctor and free the others?

Curl of Ash by @darknessaroundus | T

Jughead attempts to save a strangers life in Queens one night. Nothing is what it appears to be.

Darkside by @exmachina187, @itsmarscosta | E

Jughead has had centuries to reflect on his life, but none of it had meaning until she came along.

Dear Angel series by @tory-b | M/E

🎃 Dirty Devil by @thesecretfandom | E

Betty and Jughead are celebrating Halloween, but their costumes seem to be interfering with their fun.

Dust & Desire by @darknessaroundus | T

They have a rhythm to their days, the result of having very little company but each other for years now. When Betty wakes from the nap, they eat mac and cheese before they go hunting. A Vampire Slayer AU.

erase & rewind by @sopaloma | M

When a powerful storm hits Riverdale, five students are hit by lightning as they leave school. The result of that storm will change their lives forever, in ways they never could have imagined. A Misfits AU.

Ever Since We Met by @lilibetts | M

It's almost All Hallow's Eve and witch!Betty has a broomstick breakdown. She lands near werewolf!Jughead's bar and he helps her out...by giving her another broom to ride.

🎃 go home people (the party’s not over) by @grilledcheesusyouredelic | T

“It was your dad’s idea,” Betty chirped. “He told my mom that if people were going to stare at us she may as well make it worth her while.” Jughead bit back a sigh. “And she said ‘like what, throw a party’? And he said ‘sure, Alice, the perfect holiday is coming up’.”

🎃 Howling by @lovedinapastlife | T

Jughead’s working a shift at the Blossom haunted house when he spots a familiar blonde ponytail and decides to try and give her a scare. He ends up smashed in the face, real blood added to his costume. Horrified, Betty tries to make it up to him. She’s nervous to finish the house by herself, so Jughead offers to let her work on a few scenes and scares with him until Archie comes back from his break. There’s nothing quite like method acting with a childhood crush and best friend when hearts are pounding and limbs are entangled in a ravenous display. Something’s building inside of them, a low, penetrating howl.

🎃 I Don’t Have a Lot of Friends by @typing123 | M

Joker Jughead and Harley Betty meet at a Halloween Party. It’s definitely a treat.

Interview with the Coopers by @typing123 | E

What a perfect little family they make

🎃 It’s A Great Pumpkin, Jughead Jones by @alisoncollis | NR

Jughead and Betty go to a pumpkin patch.

i will hang on the hook of your splendour by @jughead-jones/@stark | G

“We have to go up to Woodland House tomorrow,” Betty said, hopping out of the back of the van the night before, dressed in something that she called summer sleepwear and Jughead deemed to be sweet torture. “There has to be a clue there about these abductions.”Mystery Inc AU

Jug the Ripper by @lovedinapastlife @theheavycrown | NR

Murder kink isn’t on the menu—not really. But he’ll do anything for his beloved.

🎃 Let the Right One In by @yavannie | T

When Jellybean talks Jughead into going to a Halloween-themed birthday party in Greendale, she does such a good job on his make-up that not even his best friend can tell it’s him.

🎃 love is kinda crazy (with a spooky little girl like you) by @whaticameherefor | G

Jughead always thought that falling in love would feel like a punch to the gut. It didn’t, of course. It was more like a punch to the face. Right in the nose, to be exact.

🎃 Movie Night on Elm Street by @bettsc | NR

Jughead Jones finds himself at the Cooper household on Halloween night, and it’s not just the scary movies that are giving him goosebumps.

🎃 No Guts No Glory by @thesecretfandom | E

Jughead may have taken their pumpkin carving competition a bit too far, and now it’s Betty’s job to get the both of them cleaned up.

🎃 Nobody Knows You Now by @bettsc | M

They moved like this for what seemed like hours; neither one relenting to the other; both losing themselves in the intertwining of two souls.

🎃 october 2017 by @elizabethbettscooper | G

“Jug, you’re home!” she glanced up, grinning at him. He nudged off his shoes and started towards her.

“So it seems.” he said, smirking and dropped onto the floor beside her. “What’s up, Betts?”

“Do you have plans tomorrow? I want to go to the pumpkin patch.”

“The… pumpkin patch.” Jughead raised an eyebrow and put his arm across the sofa seat, leaning in to look at Betty’s planner.

Outbreak by @moon--mama | T

The breakdown only took 36 hours. 

🎃 Over the Wall by @typing123 | T

The Over the Garden Wall AU nobody asked for.

🎃 Pumpkin Spice (and all things nice) by @itsindiansummer13 | G

Jughead, Betty, and Halloween through the years.

Seek Forbidden Things by @maeve-of-winter | T

Kevin Keller has gone missing from Riverdale, and it’s up to Betty and the rest of the gang to bring him back.

🎃 Self control by @bettyscooperr | NR

Jughead just really hates Halloween

Spirits, Are You There? by @jugandbettsdetectiveagency | T

An abandoned asylum, plus a ouija board, plus Cheryl Blossom? The perfect potion.

Strange and Unusual by @lovedinapastlife | M

AU loosely based on the film Beetlejuice - where a ravenous ghoul and a shrewd teen make a strange and unusual alliance that goes far deeper than convenience.

strange days by @sopaloma | T 

His sister is missing, his dad is talking to Christmas lights and Betty Cooper needs his help. November 1983 is a strange time for Jughead Jones. A Stranger Things AU.

Taboo. by anonymous | NR

Death becomes her.

The Beast Within series by @cooperjones2020 | M/E

He likes to watch her sleep.

🎃 the business of being dead (and the curse of virginity) by @thetaoofbetty | M

🎃 The Cooper House by @satelliteinasupernova | T

“Let’s go to a haunted house, Jughead,” Jellybean had said. “It’ll be fun,” she said.

Except, now he was turned around somewhere in a dark hallway; alone. With no source of light nearby, he could barely make out his surroundings. Tentatively, he reached out to use the wall to guide him, taking one step at a time. The surface of the wall was uneven and with each step he felt another notch as his hand moved across one panel of wood to the next. The floor creaked softly under his feet. Here in the dark, it was unnervingly quiet. The only other sound he could hear was of the wind passing through the trees outside the house.

“Hey, JB?” he called out. “Where the hell did you go?”

🎃 The First Halloween Since by @typing123 | G

Single Mom Betty doesn’t think she can face Halloween this year. She just wants a quiet night in with her daughter. Jughead’s not so sure.

THE HOUSE IS NOT HAUNTED by @satelliteinasupernova | T

“For the hundredth time, the house is not haunted,” said Gladys Jones as she lifted another box from the U-haul to carry into the house. “Now, go help your brother carry your things to your bedroom.”

JB huffed, and marched over to Jughead, reaching for her box of vinyl records, “How else did we get this place so cheap? You know it’s because that girl disappeared here.”

Silently, Jughead agreed with her, but he was getting tired of the argument. He knew JB wasn’t bringing this up to stop them from moving into the new house, she just wanted their mom to admit that was the reason they could even afford it. Gladys Jones wasn’t one to own up to her own methods, much less admit weakness.

The Hunger by @mistressofmalplaquet | M

Betty is being slowly starved at the Farm, while Jughead is hungry for blood. Hunger and seductive Blood Lust leads the pair into a swirl of terror, torture, and an inescapable dark fate.

🎃 The Jack-O-Gram by @noorakardemmomesaetre | T

The Jack-O-Gram has become the perfect way for Riverdale High students to express their feelings for someone special before the Halloween Banshee Bash at the end of the week.

Betty can't help but hope she receives one from the only boy who's ever captured her heart, Jughead Jones.

the key to (harm)ony by @lovedinapastlife | E

Everything else falls away, even her mother, sister, and Geraldine, when he steps towards her, untethered and confident with the grace of a circulating fountain. Up close, his eyes are blue - brilliant and deep like Sweetwater River, just on the verge of a knowing wink. His long spider-leg lashes flutter as he exhales in a hum of satisfaction, and the longer she looks at him the more it feels like she’s in the tub, water rising up over her chin until she can’t breathe.

“Hello, Betty,” he says with a soft, secret smile, and her heart rattles.

~~~

Betty resents her drunken mother's attempt to replace the recently deceased Charles with a stranger, his enigmatic half-brother Jughead. It's almost like he's waiting for the right moment to please her, to slink into her latest mystery and submerge her in something foreign: Freedom.

🎃 The Mouse by @typing123 | G

A hungry Jughead is lured into the woods on Halloween by a hungry vampire.

🎃 The One That I Want by @dreamersshouldknowbetter | T

Betty and Jughead meet at a Halloween party where they accidentally form two halves of a couples costume

the strange death of Elizabeth Cooper by @wolfofansbach | T

Betty Cooper, after a long struggle with illness, has passed away. Except–she hasn’t, because against all rhyme and reason, she awakens on the coroner’s slab, hale and healthy. The illness is gone, and she couldn’t be in better condition, to the weeping relief of her friends and family, not least of all her longtime boyfriend, Jughead Jones. No real explanation is forthcoming, but what does it really matter, when Betty is alive? And he can discount the occasional oddity in her behavior. She’s been through a lot, after all. Except, as the days go by and the strange happenings pile on, Jughead begins to suspect that whatever it is that crawled out of the grave that day isn’t really Betty Cooper.

🎃 the unexpected perks of being a pumpkin by @thetaoofbetty | M

Jughead Jones has a damn good Halloween.

🎃 Things that Go Bump in the Night by @createandconstruct | T

Are sometimes things that also squeal…

Thrill Me, Chill Me, Fulfill Me by @ms-maj | T

The gang does Rocky Horror.

Time Honoured Tradition by @jugandbettsdetectiveagency​ | T

When Cheryl dares Betty to spend some time in the abandoned house across the street she gets a little more than she bargained for.

What Happened on Elm Street by @tory-b | M

When Jughead Jones moves to Riverdale with his family, he uncovers a few mysteries this simple small town has been trying to cover up–specifically the murder that occurred in his house during the late 1950s that was never properly solved. Unable to keep his curiosity away, he teams up with neighbor and fellow mystery lover Betty Cooper to uncover the truth.

🎃 what we pretend to be by @sylwrites | G

It’s his little sister’s first Halloween, but his parents don’t have money for a costume or the time to take her trick-or-treating. The answer to both of these problems comes in the form of his best friend’s neighbour.

🎃 What’s Your Favourite Scary Movie? by @gellsbellshead | T

Betty Cooper doesn’t do scary movies. However maybe she could be persuaded by some cuddling from her boyfriend Jughead. This is a continuation of the fic “Movie Night”

🎃 when things go bump and grind at night by @rainystripe | M

Betty dresses up and Jughead is her slave.

Wild Creatures by @lilibetts | E

Neither Betty Cooper or Jughead Jones were particularly hopeful about their soulmarks; the inky black First Words seemed custom built for their hole-hearted selves. But with a mysterious game ensnaring students on campus, and killing some, it was a question of whether they would learn to work together before them being at cross-purposes destroyed everything.

🎃 Wish Fulfillment by @lilibetts | T

On Halloween, the core four meet up to go Trick-or-Treating, only to find themselves turning into their costumes. Revelations are had for Jughead and Betty.

🎃 won’t you tell me what you’re thinking of? by @flwrpotts | G

Betty enlists Jughead, Reggie, and Archie to help her set up for the annual Riverdale middle school Halloween dance.

Still haven’t satisfied your itch for Halloween fics? Check out our fanfic tag on @riverdale-events! Our Halloween event, Tricks and Treats of Riverdale, is going on and you can find fics posted exclusively to Tumblr there!

[until-we-fall-in-love]

creature-song

Pairings: Wanda Maximoff x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader, light Steve Rogers x Reader, light Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers, light Wanda Maximoff x Bucky Barnes

Summary: You should turn away. But you let it happen, let it happen because some dark, most trapped part of you wants to. A piece of you that you have chained like an animal, a mongrel bitch, and tried to let die. It paces inside you now, hungry and waiting and ready.

1600s America AU, Witch!AU, Possesed!Bucky, Gothic, Horror

Warnings: Smut, gore, violence, demons, possession, sacrilegious themes. This is 18+ as most of my works are.

If you are under 18 you should not be reading this!

A/N: hello guys!! this is a little late but its for @barnesrogersvstheworld​ writing AYAOTDchallenge!! it was supposed to be for halloween, but i’ve been insanely busy and i think November is spookier anyways because it’s when things truly die and whither away and the cold comes on lol. this is a whole mess, but i’ve been heavily inspired about witches and possession because of a class im currently taking! it got long so i’ll split it into two parts! enjoy and pls let me know what you think!!

my prompt was: the task of navigating darkness by candlelight

***

1692, Massachusetts

The day is filled with fog and smoke, a bleak grayness that shrouds all in it’s gloominess. The whole town seems washed out, everyone’s faces grey and slack. The crops are dying, growing brown and muted in color, fading away into death and nothingness. Your world seems covered in death recently, in the thick, heavy, inescapable blanket of it. 

There’s been another two murders. People torn apart, their bodies lie in the main road of town for all to see and gawk and pray over. 

Their blood is the brightest color you have seen in all of November. Saturated and sticky, sliding from them like the juice of berries in high summer, like the color the leaves had been before they’d all fallen away, like poppies and roses. Their skulls are bashed inward, as if made of clay, the sludge of them leaking through as flies buzz, buzz, buzz around them. As if they weren’t people once, but always food for insect, for the earth. Their limbs are twisted at strange, rag doll angles, and you think there was nothing but softness inside of them. No bone, there couldn’t have been with the way they lay there, all twisted and slack.

Their eyes are hollow. Open. Their mouths agape as bugs skitter and crawl and press outward in their feast of flesh.

There’s moaning in the streets, howling cries of a mother or a sister or a wife. It’s horrific, if you dig into the pit of yourself, but it’s the fourth pair of bodies that have been found dead in recent weeks. It almost isn’t shocking anymore. 

Wanda presses closer to your side, your dearest friend, her body warm and soft. Flushed with color and light, the cold nipping at her cheeks, her nose. The wind lifts her auburn hair from her cheeks, her lashes fluttering in the breeze. She catches your hand with one of her own, tangling your fingers together. Her palm fits yours easily and swiftly, as if it’s where she belongs, as if it’s where you belong, too. 

“At least he’ll stop breathing down your neck about an engagement.” Wanda says quietly, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. She is warm and lulling in the cold autumn air that seems to be pushing through your wool dress, your scarf. Trying to worm it’s way beneath and make a home of your body. 

Perhaps you will never be warm again, if the cold decides to settle deep into your bones.  

“What?” You ask, blinking away from the bodies, from your murky thoughts. 

“Mr. Fowler.” Wanda murmurs, nodding to one of the bodies, “He always upset you, he always pressured you for an engagement.” 

You glance towards the bodies once more, find the shape of them, the faces so crudely misshapen now, but you finally catch the lines of his features. The dark hair, short and balding. As if you finally see the full picture. 

Oh. It’s Mr. Fowler, then. And Mr. Adams rotting beside him. 

“Yes,” You say quietly, weary of the spark in Wanda’s eyes, the glimmer that ensnares you, “I suppose so.” 

Wanda is all you have in recent years, another orphaned girl your village does not wish to worry or feed. So you worry and feed each other. You both claim to be trying to find husbands, trying to marry off into another household. Truthfully, though, neither of you have ever searched. You’re content to live together, secluded, removed from all of the prying eyes of your small, imposing world. You wish to go home with her now, in fact, want to curl up beside a fire and lean into her side until your eyes grow heavy and soft. You want her nimble fingers carding through your hair, her touch upon your neck-- 

A broad hand comes down upon your shoulder then and you jump, almost let out a yelp in surprise. You whirl around to face them, tilting your face up to find Steve Rogers looking down upon you. The sculpted lines of his face, the shocking blue eyes, the flush to his pale cheeks. He has always looked like a tragic hero to you; a Hercules, Perseus, noble and damned and fighting against all odds. 

Beside him, Bucky stands broad and pale faced. He won’t look at the bodies. There are deep, darkened blossoms beneath his eyes. It makes his already depthless and haunted eyes look worse, blackened out, charcoal blue. He crosses his arms across his great, wide chest; one of them the off-beat shine of metal, iron and leather creaking with the movement. Like a piece of armor, the leather strap reaching up to his shoulder, so that if he moves it, it may move the forearm of his appendage. The fingers lay motionless, cold and gleaming. Such an odd, strange invention to the rest of the town; they fear him because of it. But he has only ever helped you and Wanda, the way Steve has kept a watchful eye on the pair of you. 

If Steve looks like a Greek hero to you, you think Bucky looks like a Shakespearean one; damned because of his own choices, falling from grace; A Hamlet, Macbeth. 

“You shouldn’t watch this,” Steve murmurs to you two, already turning you from the gore and bloodshed with his warm hand, wishing the flesh of him would sink into you and flush you with heat, “Come on,” He then urges you gently, “Buck and I will help you with some morning chores.” 

He’s always been so giving, overly helpful, a twinge protective over the pair of you. Loyal, terribly so, as he stands beside Bucky, the pariah of town. 

And you let him guide you away, your fingers still woven tightly with Wanda’s, who still peaks over her shoulder at the seeping crimson of flesh and blood and body, as if they were petals of flowers to admire than corpses to rot. Her eyes glitter strangely when she turns back to you. 

Bucky follows like a shadow, head hung low. 

***

The crack, snap of wood being split into two is felt in your chest, the steady motion and sound falling into tune with every other beat of your heart. Bucky lifts the axe high with one arm, before bringing it down sharply upon the wood. It splits easily, a crack of lightning, of metal as it falls apart then. 

You feed the few hens that you and Wanda share, spreading feed onto the ground as they cluck and scurry around you. 

Steve helps Wanda fix the barn door, their figures blurry and grey in the fog and bleakness. 

You gaze at Bucky, the shadows that seem to cling to him. 

“You look tired, Mr. Barnes.” You speak up, tossing the rest of the feed to the chickens who scurry after it. You leave their pen, the gate creaking as you step nearer to him. The axe falls with strength and brutality, bursts the wood in half. 

“I haven’t been sleeping well.” He grunts, tossing the wood aside. He sets another piece upon the block, lifts his axe high. You can see the movement of muscle, the strength and cutting edge of them.

“No?” You ask, curling your fingers into your sleeves; you’re so cold still, stiff and frigid and snow hasn’t even touched the ground yet. You shiver, you think it will be an awful and long winter. “Why not?”

The axe smashes down upon the wood. 

He lets out a breath, shakes his head, the dark locks of his hair brushing his cheeks which are deeply flushed from the cold, from the exertion. He looks handsome, you think, with the peak of his chest beneath his long shirt. 

“I’ve been having strange dreams recently.” He then admits with the soft gruffness of his voice, eyes flickering to you.

You stand idly, know that idleness is a sin; you should be working. Working, busy hands can never sin. But you step towards him and your eyes watch the movement of his chest and torso, wonder what he looks like bare--

“What kind of dreams?” You ask, voice gone soft as you peer at him.

He straightens up a moment to his full height, now turning his eyes on you, “Curious little thing, aren’t you?” He half scolds you, and you feel small but suddenly bold. There’s a catch in his eyes, a gleaming not dissimilar to Wanda’s. It’s haunting, exhilarating, it makes you take another few steps closer as if drawn to him by an unnatural force. And then he answers, “They’re nightmares. Horrible dreams.”

“Of what?” 

His lips twist into a ghost of a smile and he shakes his head, “They’re not for a girl’s ears.” 

“I’m not a girl,” You counter, “I haven’t been for many moons.” 

His eyes flash to you, at the rather crude reference of the blood that spills from you monthly. He is not appalled, he is not shocked or scandalized, instead he peers deeper into you. As if he can see the twisting of your innards, all of the blood that might spill from you the way it had from Mr. Fowler. Would you paint November in the bright flare of red, too? Bring color to this washed out world. 

“I dream I slip from my body.” He says and his eyes grow glassy, far-off. You near him as he continues, “Or that I no longer control myself.” His breath stutters and you are fully ensnared in him now, “And I do monstrous deeds.” 

“Of what?” You breathe, looking up into his face, so haunted and hollow and frightened.

His lip trembles, and he exhales;

“I knew they would be dead this morning.” 

“Mr. Barnes,” You gasp and his eyes suddenly snap to you, wholly black and wide, and you are so startled that you try to lurch back. 

But he grabs you with speed and strength, and cold metal wraps around your wrist, around the fluttering, lively pulse beneath your thin skin. A moth’s wings pinned, a rabbit in a snare. When he speaks, it is strange and spellbinding, “I know you hated Mr. Fowler.” He says through a wall of his white, white teeth. 

You look down at the metal hand that seems to have come to life, yelp at the way the unnatural fingers tighten upon you, squeezing, as if they are his very limb. As if it is flesh and bone, a steel skeleton come to life. 

“I have peered into your soul, temptress, and I know you thought his blood was pretty.” He snarls low and guttural, his eyes digging into you like a curved, arching dagger. 

Wildly, your eyes fly over his face, now twisted into such misery and rage. You try to pull your wrist from his metal grasp, your face flushing with color from exertion. Your eyes glitter with sudden tears, the cold air pricking at them. “Mr. Barnes--” You gasp, voice catching, breath curling into the air between you two. 

All he does is pull you forward, jerking you into the strong expanse of his chest as he lifts your wrist. “I know your thoughts are rotting.” He rumbles, and the sound vibrates through him and down into the marrow of your bones “You want more than this. Your heart longs for what it shouldn’t.” 

“Bucky, you’re hurting me.” You whimper, trying to twist and squirm but it's useless against the strength of him.

“Am I?” He hisses, voice like insects swarming, “I know what you want, little one.” He then croons so lowly that it slithers down into you like a serpent, coils into the darkest, most wretched parts of you. Sinks down into your core to unfurl in a sudden burst of heat--

And with the way he looks at you; as if you are to be devoured, as if you are to be torn apart by him or worshiped on an unholy altar. Your heart beats an unsteady, thunderous rhythm in the cavity of your chest. 

It echoes inside of you, demanding of you something you don’t know how to feed. 

His body is warm against yours, unnaturally so, save for the frigid hand constricting around the delicate skin of your wrist. You think he’ll bruise you, you think he’ll mark you for all to see and you’ll carry his brand. His eyes are as dark as a starless sky, blown out black as coal, as black as the he goat in the barn, as the smoke of hellfire.

“Bucky!” Steve shouts suddenly, and the two of you lurch away as if something has forced you apart. You cradle your wrist, try to rub the ache away, your heart still ricocheting around inside of you, as if it very well might escape entirely. 

Bucky blinks in horror, his eyes returning to the gentle midnight blue that you know so dearly. He stumbles back, his metal arm returning inanimate by his side. If it weren’t for the frightened, wild look in his face, you’d think it would’ve never happened at all.

“I need your help for a moment!” Steve yells, voice echoing. 

A flock of black birds burst into the shapeless, endless, grey sky at the loud noise. You jump at their sudden explosion of flight. They squawk and screech, wings flapping like your heart beating. 

Whatever had filled Bucky has fled now and his eyes are clear and shining, his cheeks flushed again, no unnatural darkness tracing the edges of his features. You watch him warily, your mind suddenly feverish with what he’d said to you, with the searing touch that now seems to scorch your skin. 

I knew they would be dead this morning. 

You should tell someone; Steve, Wanda, a minister. You should flee. 

But all you say is, “Go,” And you nod your head towards Steve and Wanda, “I will light a fire to warm you after.” 

He looks at you warily, as if he might apologize or thank you or question you; there’s such confusion in his eyes. He is lost, swimming in that black sea. What did I do? He asks silently, pleads with you, what have I done? 

You look away, unwilling to answer. He moves on cautiously, towards Steve and Wanda in the distance. You begin to make a fire as if all is normal, and all you can think about is how you are no longer shivering with cold. 

As if an ember has sparked, been cradled to a small flame in the cavernous depths of your soul. 

***

Some days later, Wanda wakes you at an odd hour of the night, moonlight spilling in through the small window of your shared bedroom. It fills the room with reaching shadows and cutting, silver light. You’d been sleeping soundly, curled onto your side when you are roused by small, seeking hands. 

You turn, eyes fluttering, a blurry shape in front of you. You make out Wanda’s impish features, the shadow of her slender figure. And her eyes--

Oh, her eyes. 

They’re glowing strangely, fever bright and glittering like rubies in the night. She sinks upon you, her body sliding so she straddles your hips, laying herself along you. You can feel the soft lines of her; her chest to yours, the heat of her nose and lips upon your neck and shoulder. 

“Wanda,” You exhale, twisting, a little confused. Her fingertips are hot, like little embers, dancing along bare skin. 

“Hush, my heart.” She shushes, “My little shrike.” She cooes, “My moon and stars.” Her nose and lips brush your cheek, her searching hands dipping underneath the thin, cotton nightgown that wraps around your body. 

“Wanda,” You gasp as her lips settle into a kiss upon the flamed skin of your cheek. “What are you doing?” 

She pulls back so that you may see her in all her nightshade glory, her hair sliding along her bare shoulders, her nightgown down, spilling around her arms so the tops of her breasts are revealed. She looks almost wild-eyed, strange and beautiful and seductive in the night. Her eyes swim before you, blood red and glittering and enchanting. There’s something heady and intoxicating about her, something you want to taste, that you want to sink into and drown in. 

“Giving you what you want,” She says on a simple sigh, just as her fingers find the curve of your breast, little dancing flames that have you shutter and arch. She tilts her head with wide, bright eyes; there’s a sweet, coy smile playing at her lips, her lashes fluttering like moth’s wings, as she asks too innocently, her voice gone high and soft and beguiling;

“Isn’t this what you want, little one?” 

Her clever fingers find the peak, make you squirm, make heat flood through you. She draws back the covers with her other hand to find your bare leg, your bare thigh, sliding up to your bare--

“Wanda!” You jolt, suddenly shy, trying to sit up but she forces you down. 

She grins wickedly, “Don’t hide from me.” And her nimble fingers stroke between your legs where you’ve become slippery and warm and silky. You feel flushed and heady, hypnotized by her. She sighs against you, settles deeper into your body like a corpse sinking into a grave, pushing her finger inside to make you gasp aloud. To claim you, to touch you in a way that no hand has ever touched before. 

“This isn’t new to you, though, is it?” She breathes, almost hisses, “I know because I hear you some nights.” Her fingers twist and a moan tumbles out of your lips, and she laughs, bright and warm, “Just like that, dearest.” 

You squirm, and slowly lose your inhibitions with every push and pull of her fingers, every glide of her. Had you not dreamed of this? Had you not wondered with a sinful mind what it might be like to feel her like this, to taste and be tasted by her? Had you not wondered what heaven or hell might have felt like? She’s damnation, sweet salvation; something so visceral and entangled within the pits of you, something profound and holy. 

The world falls away so that it is only you two and the moon, the pleasure she gives and torments you with. The town slips away, the rules, the Bible, your Holy God all dissipates like fog until you are only born of this warmth and vicious sweetness. She keeps you teetering on an edge, cruel mistress of night that she is. She trembles with you on a new beginning, baptized between your thighs, between hers. She lets you touch and explore the softness of her body with curious and hungry hands, no longer idle. 

She brands you with lips and teeth and tongue, makes you wild and insatiable. Her fingers wrap around your tender throat as she guides you towards another sharp and jagged edge. 

Her cheeks glow against yours, a face of fire and heat, her breaths tumultuous and warm against your shoulder. “You’re mine,” She seems to half-sob, her little hand tightening upon your throat as if to claim you, “Mine. I live in you, and you have possessed me so thoroughly I think I could die.” 

A broken moan from you, a gasp. 

“Say it,” She then hisses through her teeth, “Say you’re mine.” 

You whimper, push your hips into her hands as if she has bewitched you, taken hold of your very soul. The words fall from your kiss stung and abused lips, eager and knowing it to be true, “I’m yours, Wanda, I’m yours--” 

And then she claims you with lips, with body and soul, forces you into oblivion. She laughs with delight against your mouth, drinks up your cries and buries herself into the crooks and corners of your body. Of your very being. 

She lays with you beneath the moonlight, a new strange power surges through her, a brightness that cannot be dimmed. You think she might be a devil, a witch, a creature of the night with her lullaby voice and twilight kiss. You think she is damned and maybe you are, too.

You think she has claimed you and, as you tighten yourself around her body, your nails digging into her soft flesh, you think that you have claimed her, too. 

***

Wanda has never looked brighter, more flushed with life and vitality. She is radiant, even in all the grayness of devouring and lonesome autumn, when winter is on it’s tails. The town is thoroughly terrified and sick with horror as another two bodies arise. They’re just as the others, a bright mess of crimson and maroon and sludge. 

Steve and Bucky stay near you and Wanda, watch over you both closely. Bucky is changed, too, something in him has been bent and broken and fractured. You think he’s bleeding internally, you think there is something in him that needs to be taken out. 

Or maybe it doesn’t. His smiles are more hooked, shadowed, strange and tempting. You wonder what his teeth would feel like against your neck-- if he would taste like Wanda, if he’d touch you like her, too. 

You’ve never touched a man before. You’ve never been touched by one, either. 

Wanda and Bucky are strange together, you think. And you grow jealous when you see her fluttering her lashes at him and cooing. You don’t know who you’re more jealous of, which one of them you want to claw and tear apart with viciousness, with love and heat and something demented.  

Steve notices this new change, too, and he tries to console you when you pout. You think he would make a good husband if a husband was something you were interested in. So valiant and golden, too polished for your unclean hands. 

But husbands are so base, so simple. Wanda has opened your mind to something higher, something more enchanting and powerful. 

And in the middle of the nights, when it is only you and her, she promises to give you more. She promises to guide you further into such wonder that she has discovered. Then she devours you and makes you tremble and shake with her might and love. 

She grows stronger with each day; odd happenings following her. She grows angry and a glass may shatter. A neighbor who glares at you suddenly loses two of his cows. Someone calls Bucky an abomination and suddenly they are struck ill. 

When she returns to you, while you still pout with Steve, still mad over her attention to Bucky, she smiles brightly. She wraps her arms around your shoulders and kisses your cheek, “Tonight is the night, my stars.” And then she nuzzles at your jaw, amorous and warm, “Tonight is the night that I give you all the power I have been harboring.” 

She takes your hands in hers, kisses the inside of your wrist, “Tonight you become like me, in eternal darkness.” 

Her teeth nick your wrist playfully and she looks at you with burning, hooded eyes. You think if she could, she’d lay you out on the dirt and take you right there. Hitch up your skirts and grind her hips against yours until you were both desperate and wild for release. 

But Steve is there, and Bucky, too. 

You wish she would, still. 

She laughs and saunters away as if she knows your thoughts. The wind howls and bays, as if it knows, too. 

***

She dresses you that night in a thin, white gown. You whine that you’ll freeze to death, but she shushes you with burning lips. She promises not, promises that you will never feel cold again after tonight. 

She leads you barefoot and shivering out to the forest by the dim, flickering light of a candle. It burns in her hand, wax dripping and sliding the way honey does in the summer. You long for summer suddenly, for the warmth and sea of green. The candle casts little, dancing shadows that seem to lurk and follow you both.

She leads you by hand, guides you into the thick of the forest where the wolves howl and the foxes yip and the coyotes yowl. The owl cooes, eyes peering at you in the darkness. You are lead to a clearing, and the small, fluttering candle that you’ve used to navigate illuminates the shape of a man.

Large and muscled, broad shouldered and lonesome in the woods. 

“Don’t be scared,” Wanda coos, “Go to him.” 

Warily, you ease past her, past the flickering, gold light of the candle. And even in the darkness, you recognize his face, the unnatural metal arm--

Bucky stands bare from the waist up and you flush at his nudity, at the shape of a man. Hadn’t you wondered about his chest beneath his clothes? About his abdomen? Your eyes flicker lower and you blink, quickly avert your eyes as your blush grows deeper. His body is far different than Wanda’s. 

“Mr. Barnes,” You breathe, and Wanda comes to your side, lifting the candle up to illuminate his handsome and shadowed face. 

His eyes are purely black, inky, the way they’d been that day not so long ago, when he’d seized you so tightly. He looks different, cutting and jagged. 

“Somewhat.” Wanda answers you with a smile. “He is changed, though.” 

“Possessed,” You gasp, the thought striking you deeply and suddenly. Like a blow to your chest, you realize you gaze upon a demon. 

His eyes snap to you,“Hello, temptress.” He says in a voice that is his and not his all at once. 

“Are you afraid?” Wanda purrs and you shudder at her voice, at the cold that pricks your skin, at the hungry, hollow look in Bucky’s face. The forest seems alive and breathing, shuddering with you, terrified and expectant of what it is to transpire. 

The moon is full, hanging and heavy and open mouthed in a horrified scream against the sea of blackness. 

“Should I be?” You ask quietly, a whisper of the wind, and Wanda’s eyes glitter excitedly. Her eyes flash red, warming and shimmering like embers. 

Wanda sets the candle aside, comes to your back. She slides her fingers beneath your nightgown, begins to ease it down past your shoulders. You should protest, you should force her to stop, shield yourself from the gaze of the man in front of you. From the demon in front of you. But you let it happen, let it happen because some dark, most trapped part of you wants to. A piece of you that you have chained like an animal, a mongrel bitch, and tried to let die. It paces inside you now, hungry and waiting and ready. 

It runs its teeth along the tender, pink inner flesh of you. It’s creature-song sings to you now, a siren to surrender to.

So you stand in the darkness, the guttering flame of the candle upon you, bare and shivering in front of evil.

And evil lies you on the cold, unforgiving ground. Wanda is there beside you, stroking your face and your hair with warm, gentle fingers. More gentle than she has ever been with you, as if she can hear the fearful, pounding of your heart caught between your shuddering ribs. You’re suddenly new to touch, virginal and trembling, a new flower to be opened.

The weight of Bucky settles upon you, his body unnaturally warm and burning, his broad shoulders wide upon you. His lips and nose nuzzle your jaw, your neck, also with surprising care. You shift your legs, open them tentatively to fit his waist in the cradle of your hips and—

You can feel him there, the hard line of him and you flush, suddenly squeak. 

“Don’t be afraid, little one.” He rumbles, and his voice sounds clearer, as if the demon doesn’t speak for him any longer, but only the midnight timber of Bucky’s sweet voice. He lifts his head and only the slate, blue eyes of him gaze down at you. “I’ll be gentle,” He promises, rubbing his bearded cheek to yours; so rough compared to Wanda’s smooth one. 

“I know this is what you wanted.” Wanda says softly, her lips at your ear, tucking your hair from your face. “I know how you gaze at him.” 

The first touch of Bucky’s hands are rough and make you jolt; one calloused and scarred and another cold and metal. They slide along the dips and curves of you, firm and gentle. You squirm slightly, base and animal upon the ground. 

“I’ll make you mine,” He murmurs, nosing at your neck, his teeth skimming lightly there. “My bride of darkness, queen of beasts.” His voice dips now into that lowly, snaking one of a demon, “I’ve been waiting for you for so long, my love.” 

His hips roll, a push against yours that have you clinging to his large frame. He is so much bigger than what you know, so overpowering. Wanda ravishes you but she is slight and nimble. You make a noise of surprise, a whimper, a squeak. 

“Relax,” He coos darkly, his flesh hand sliding up your bare legs. “You’re hurting here, aren’t you? Aching in the pit of you.” And his warm, rough fingers slide against you; revealing that, despite your fear, you’ve become molten and slick. You can feel his hooked grin, “Oh, little queen, and how you’ve longed for me, too.” 

He strokes until you are pliant beneath him, urging you on, Wanda pressing kisses to your cheeks and neck, collar bones and shoulders. You shudder beneath him, let something inside of you curl and coil, like a serpent, like the tightening of a rope, pulled to its full length, creaking and swaying as everything grows that much tighter. 

“You were born for me,” Bucky’s rumbling voice is in your ears, against your throat laid bare for him, his voice seems to echo in the darkest pieces of your mind and heart. “Born for this.” He sighs, leaning heavier into you before he suddenly pushes down the length of your body.

He settles between your legs, spreading them wide with his shoulders. Pearl moonlight, silver and opal fall across his features like pale silk that you have only ever dreamed about. In this light, he could’ve been an angel, a creature made of softness and delicacies, his black eyes turning up to find you and stuttering back into lovely blue. 

He bows his head like you could be holy, like you are to be prayed to. His hair tickles the bare skin of your thighs, his fingers prodding gently and then his mouth presses to where you’re most sensitive. 

You arch like a bow off the ground at the first touch and Wanda is there to comfort you. She eases you up slightly, let’s your back lay against the soft warmth of her chest and strokes your face and neck, down to your breasts. 

She grasps your hands when you pull and twist at him so that you lay helpless in her arms, helpless to the too-hot glide of his mouth against you. The forest is silent save for your cries, you are the wolf that howls, the crying fox, the whining coyote. You let go, let them consume you until you don’t recognize yourself. Until your nails feel sharp and your heart feels so full it could burst from all the aching. 

“Please,” You whimper, your hips pushing towards his lips in desperation, “Please, I can’t take this any longer!”

He laughs darkly against the slick pink flesh of you, “Didn’t their God teach you patience, darkling?” 

And he waits until you’re nothing but an animal for him, until your head is spinning and there are tears streaming down your heated cheeks. Not until you dig nails into Wanda’s hands so deeply that you have broken skin and she hisses through her teeth. He gives you no release, cruel as he is, and eventually slides up along your body once more. 

He grasps Wanda by the back of the neck and pulls her sharply to his shining lips. She moans, the sound going straight down into the depths of you. 

“My loyal servant,” He tells her, his eyes once more black as a raven, shining under the flash of silver moonshine. “You brought her to me.” He murmurs reverently and she looks up at him adoringly, her wide eyes that flare deeply red and maroon are glittering like gemstones in a cave.

“Make her ours.” Wanda then breathes, and he smiles all sharp and gutting. 

He grasps your hips with metal and flesh, draws them closer and slides you towards him. Your head falls to Wanda’s abdomen, her lap. Her fingers brush your wet cheeks and you mewl, twist into her touch. He kneels before you, worshiping, and opens his trousers. 

You don’t have time to think because you can feel him between your legs now. He brushes the hard length of him along where you’re most sensitive and desperate. You feel empty suddenly, knowing that he will fill you, and suddenly tentative. 

He is large and burning and the crown of him dips inside of where no man has been. He exhales harshly, eyes seeped in black, so depthless and dark that it swallows the moon light. The first slow, heavy push of him makes you cry out.

“I-I can’t—“ You half beg, feel the stretch and breach of him deep inside of you, the pressure and heat that terrifies you. 

“Oh, you will,” He almost growls, as if you’re undoing him. His eyes are fixed to where he eases in deeper, slides slowly and he groans, broken and in the back of his throat. “You will, even if you’re so small.” 

Another slow push and then he sinks into you entirely, sinks down so that he covers you in all his strength. His breaths are ragged; he is unwoven by you, falling apart as he stretches you open.

You give another cry, hold incredibly still beneath him as the pressure mounts. You feel as if you’re splintering, broken open like ripe fruit, bursting forth with a new heat. Your hand squabbles over the muscles of his back before sinking into his skin with nails. 

You become overwhelmed, drag your nails deep into his skin to mark him, to urge him on or force him out, you can’t tell. You bare your teeth, let out a broken moan, a half-growl against the vein of his neck. You realize your own vulnerability, belly-up and soft to him, open and waiting. 

Wanda soothes you when he begins to move in you, traces her fingertips over your swollen lips, sinks inside the sweetness of your mouth and lets you suckle and kiss and bite. There’s a fever inside you, tormenting your insides. You whimper, the sound pulling at Bucky, and when he looks back down at you, his eyes burst back into blue. The demon seems to slink away, or Bucky has regained control, again. 

You almost expect him to jolt away again, to flush with fear but—

“Oh,” He gasps instead, unraveled man, fallen from grace. He gathers you in his arms, pulls you closer and tucks you into him, as if he could pull you beneath his skin and bury you behind the strong bones of his ribs. He holds fast to you, suddenly lifts you into his lap, into his arms. “Oh, pretty girl.” He murmurs as he moves you slowly over him, foggy and heady with you. 

Your world begins to blur. You don’t know where the demon ends and Bucky begins. You don’t think you care, when all of that pain and burning gives way to a hedonistic pleasure. You move over him on your own, can feel the slickness of you, you can feel the deep seated ache you need to ease. 

The teetering edge, the right and creeping rope, ready to snap. The leash on the beast inside of you begins to splinter. 

Wanda’s at your back then, lips at your neck, brushing your ear. “Repeat after me,” She murmurs, voice a lulling warmth that sinks into your marrow. 

“Et dabo tibi animam meam,” She murmurs, her voice gaining a haunting, otherworldly inflection, as if other voices buzz alongside hers. 

So you repeat with a thick, honeyed tongue the Latin words that seems to simmer and etch themselves into you. You feel the power surge in her, in him, in you; a tether woven tightly between you three. His thrusts become rougher, his eyes flooding with crude black once more. 

“Nunc, et in perpetuum magis.” Wanda finishes in your ear, a possessive hand curled around the bones of your waist, along the curve of your breast. 

The words fall from your mouth as easily as if you’ve known them your entire, unforgiving life. And then there is a pull, snap of your heartstrings. The howling mongrel in you bursts loose, the heat and life and viciousness unfurls from within. You feel as if you’re being torn apart, as if another creature is clawing its way out of your core, your soft stomach and aching chest. 

The demon groans, spills inside of you; his seed so hot that you feel it may burn you. As if it burns its way through you, into your womb and heart and being. 

“You’re mine now,” The demon and Bucky say, rough hand cradling your cheek. “Semper magis.” He hushes against your lips and seals it with a claiming, damned kiss.

Then he sinks talons into your soul, teeth into your bottom lip and your heart, locks his essence tight to yours and throws away the ancient, heavy key.

***

Part Two

[willowishstudios]

Character Narrative: Taqtu

The gilded halls of Huatzintepec were enchanting in a way that Taqtu found difficult to describe, his tongue still stumbling over the sharp consonants of this foreign language.  

"C-cali... cualtzin?"  

Despite his best efforts, the Empress laughs, her voice throaty and commanding even when mirthful, as she kneels down and hands him a small piece of parchment. 

A map?  

He feels his father's hand on his shoulder, and watches the Empress' smile widen as she gestures around the map, sharp tones falling easily from her painted lips. Her teeth glint white, and the image of a jaguar flashes in his mind.

Back home, people say the Sun God chose her to do his Will. Seeing her now, he has his doubts. The sharp and graceful features of her face, the golden sun inlaid in her forehead, the crimson red lines over her skin that he remembers from tapestries of heroes of old.

"The Empress has decided to allow you to explore the palace at your leisure, my son, but to stay away from the private quarters." The grip on his shoulder tightens, if only slightly, a warning implicit in the action. His breathing quickens. "What do you say?"  

"Cenca tlazohcamati." Taqtu recites, his voice as level as he can keep it. His father's grip loosens as the Empress nods, responding with a short Ahmitla.  

With that the adults disappear, as do the anxious whispers in his head, and what feels like seconds later he finds himself alone, staring into the open air of the center garden.  

Green, green, green. From floor to ceiling, only interrupted by the vibrant blue-green of the fountains that start so high he can't tell where the water comes from, and the climbing, flowered vines that he wishes he could reach out and climb.  

Nothing like the glimpses of long-dead green peeking out of packed snow, the near-uninterrupted white land and sky that he has come to love.  

It's that thought that brings him back to the present, and his current predicament.

On the map, it had seemed like there was more space to explore, but he had underestimated the sheer size of the various private quarters. He could barely walk ten steps without landing in front of one of the forbidden hallways.  

Taqtu sighs heavily, blowing a stray strand of white hair out of his eyes. The parchment mocks him from the railing where he left it.  

Where he left it.  

This is a huge place, it'd be so difficult to find that slip of paper again if he lost it. And it's with that thought that he flicks the map off the railing, and watches as it flutters towards the lush, green ground.

By the time it lands, he's already standing in front of a tall, tall door. So tall he almost lies down on the floor in an attempt to see the top. Cut gems depict a figure standing before the sun, not eclipsing it, but seemingly becoming it.

Taqtu has studied the prominent religions of the area, but never understood them. He thinks of the long, long day of the summer, and the even longer night of winter, inescapable dark and light.

He thinks of a God in the Sun, bearing down on his people, watching their resolves fail and spirits break under unnatural heat. He thinks of the Empress and wonders why his father wouldn’t warn him of Gods living in the city of Sun, so close to the rest of them, mortal and fragile.

That’s when a rumble of deep, staccato huffing catches him by surprise. Looking over his shoulder, he sees a snout, barely visible as it crests the water, the maw of a predator falling open to make a show of its teeth. His whole body tenses down to his fingertips, and he doesn’t even feel himself shift to mirror it, that same rumbling tone rattling out of his chest.

The animal huffs, seemingly unimpressed with his display, as it emerges from the pond. The beast’s size was cause for concern on its own, and his father’s lessons on approaching your prey intelligently echo frantically in his head. Taqtu runs through options, something small and fast that could escape- a fox, perhaps? Still, he can’t gauge the speed of this ...reptile? He had heard stories of enormous creatures with tough scales and gaping jaws that roamed the swamps of these lands. He should have kept that map. He should not have strayed.

A small, young voice cuts through the echoes of his thoughts.

“Cacao!” Small footsteps grow closer, and the creature moves in response. It heaves its heavy body to block the hall as a boy visibly younger than him stumbles to its side.

Red hair, a sharp, straight nose at odds with his youthful features, a resemblance that turns Taqtu’s blood to ice in his veins and thaws it just as quickly as the boy pats the creature like a beloved pet.

The boy- the prince, his mind supplies- looks up from the creature, and immediately shrinks in on himself as he looks Taqtu over. Hurriedly, Taqtu allows himself to shift back into a human form.

“...Are you the son of my mom’s friend?” The boy asks, timid, even as the flowing syllables of Taqtu’s own language fall from his mouth. He speaks Inuktitut? At that age? Granted his vocabulary is a bit strange, but his accent is nearly unnoticeable. 

The familiar sounds and brief surprise soothe some of the remaining adrenaline from Taqtu’s muscles, and he finds it’s not as hard to work a smile onto his face.

“Tulumaaq is my father, if that’s what you mean.” Their parents had never seemed like friends to him, but maybe that’s what friendship was like for adults? “Is this your friend?” He gestures to the creature where it sits, having curled into a  seemingly defensive half-circle around the prince.

“He’s very big. Your dad, I mean. And you, and Cacao, but I meant your dad.” The boy says, stumbling through the sentence rather impressively. “Even my mom isn’t that tall, or my dad.” He bites his lip. “Cacao is my friend, though, yes.”

Poor kid, must not get out a lot. Taqtu huffs a laugh through his nose, pointedly ignoring the irritably swinging tail of the creature. “What is he?”

Taqtu swears he sees a sparkle in the boy’s eyes as he answers. “A crocodile! They’re aquatic reptiles that live in tropical areas.”

A crocodile, huh? The word brings the prince’s name out of the back of his memory where they overlap. Cipactli.

“Huh. Well, it’s nice to meet you, Cipactli and Cacao.” The creature smacks its tail into the tiled floor restlessly, the thwack a testament to the mass of the animal. “I’m sorry I scared you, I got lost in the halls.” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, silently resolving to never mention his natural sense of direction.

Cipactli lacks the bravado Taqtu expects of a boy his age, deflating slightly and clambering over the creature’s back to stand before him. “S’okay. You didn’t mean to.” He pauses, that same glint in his eyes. “I’ve never seen a white crocodile. It was really pretty.”

Taqtu’s brows raise, and an easy grin tugs at his lips. For an awkward princeling, this kid sure does say what he thinks. “You think so? Huh.” The smile grows a bit wider, into that grin he knows displeases his father. “Any other animals you haven’t seen? I’d be happy to show you.”

Cipactli’s eyes widen to nearly comical proportions, and he seems to stutter over several words before landing on “P-polar bear?” He takes a beat to put his thoughts in order, seemingly embarrassed by the outburst. “I’ve seen them in books, but the books in our library don’t say much about them…”

A polar bear? The number of times Taqtu’s fallen asleep a boy and woken up a polar bear is impossible to count. The prince might as well have asked him to demonstrate his breathing techniques. A boisterous laugh is out of his throat before he can stop it.

“A bear? I can do that, no sweat.” The prince’s brow creases at the colloquialism, but the gleam that Taqtu has come to pin down as ‘blossoming intellectual fervor’ grows even brighter. What a bookworm.

The ensuing delighted gasp at Taqtu’s transformation and excited pleas to touch his fur having him laughing as much as he’s able through the maw of a bear, rumbling out as a chittering purr. 

From what he's seen in just a few minutes, Cipactli would fit in perfectly with the other kids at home, once he finished breaking out of his shell. 

It’s with that thought that a pang of discomfort worms its way into his mind. If Cipactli keeps growing as he has, with only a crocodile and his parents for company, will he ever break out of that shell?

Unlikely.

But is it worth the danger that comes with exposing a prince to the outside world? Full of bitterness and rot, the churning disquiet that accompanies war and hate. Even the gilded city of Huatzintepec is not immune to it.

Perhaps the Empress is right to seclude her son so. But this visit could be the compromise he needs. A friend, a confidante willing to be his bridge to the outside world.

A laugh like wind chimes solidifies his resolve, and Taqtu steels himself for the inevitable ire of his father. Making a request like this of the Empress will be no easy task.

This is worth it.

[lovehaswonangelnumbers]

New Post has been published on https://lovehaswonangelnumbers.org/21st-june-29th-july-2019-eclipse-season-returning-from-exile/

21st June – 29th July 2019: Eclipse Season - Returning From Exile

21st June – 29th July 2019: Eclipse Season – Returning From Exile

By Sarah Varcas

21st June 2019 sees a number of astrological events occurring in quick succession, alerting us to a significant energetic shift. At 8:27 a.m. Neptune stations in its own sign of Pisces, beginning its annual five-month retrograde journey. At 2:03 p.m. the Moon becomes void-of-course in Aquarius until it enters Pisces exactly 24 hours later. This is a particularly long stint for a void-of-course moon. At 3:55 p.m. the Sun enters Cancer, marking the Summer Solstice in the northern hemisphere and the Winter Solstice in the southern hemisphere. Amidst all of this an eclipse season  begins which lasts until 29th July, featuring a solar eclipse in Cancer on 2nd July and a lunar eclipse in Capricorn on 16th July.

When so many shifts coincide with the start of an eclipse season we know this will be an energetically significant few weeks. It may help to think of energy as encoded wisdom: a particular resonance or vibration with the potential to recalibrate our understanding of life in general and/or specific situations in particular. This current season will illuminate the feelings, sensations and intuitions which reveal the quality of any given moment. Like learning a new language, we can become more intimately acquainted with the nuances of our inner wisdom which will, in turn, help us draw upon the information encoded in the prevailing energetic field. We can invite guidance on how to integrate these new levels of awareness into daily life, seek clarity about when to share what we perceive and when to remain silent, and explore when to act on intuition and when to simply acknowledge its guidance, postponing action for another day.

Whilst the impact of eclipses always radiates through the following six months, the eclipse season itself establishes the perspective and state of consciousness needed to make the most of these cosmic graces. In this instance, the shadow work begun when Saturn and Pluto turned retrograde in April will act as an important foundation stone for us. The extent to which we’ve embraced the personal shadow as manifested in recent weeks, will in large part dictate the extent to which we can confront challenges and receive blessings in the weeks yet to come.

A Formidable T Square

But the real story begins on 18th June when Pluto begins to oppose Mercury conjunct Mars in Cancer, all forming a T Square to Eris until 24th June. Here we find Eris poking at our sensitivities. Tendencies toward passive aggression and ‘acting out’ (whilst claiming we’re not!) may be heightened. Stay alert to your true feelings, aim for sensitive but honest communication and remember we’re all under pressure here and relationships may suffer as a result! This alignment demands a pragmatic approach to interpersonal dynamics alongside a willingness to recognise not only where our own wounds skew our perception, but also how we continue to wound each other.

This isn’t an exercise in self-blame, but in understanding the ego-force that inescapably shapes our lives. No one can avoid subjectivity. We all see life through our own eyes, assess it according to experience and react to protect what feels like a vulnerable core. In doing so we impinge upon the lives of others, often in ways we fail to perceive. Relationships are intensely complex. This T Square will bring some of those complexities to the fore, muddying waters and revealing the grey areas where we can’t simply point the finger and say ‘this is all YOUR fault!’. Only by setting blame aside can we make the connections which reveal what’s really going on.

This heavenly configuration acts as a doorway into the eclipse season, supporting those who seek to master emotions and penetrate their true message, not be forever swamped by their unremitting force. We cannot wait for feelings to subside, fear to abate, emotions to settle or our brains to churn out the chemicals of happiness to ease our lot. Instead we must get to know our feelings: how they arise, their triggers, their patterns and, most important of all, how we create, perpetuate and manage them. In doing so we may just discover an inexorable source of energy to draw upon when we life is overwhelming and we feel we don’t have what it takes. This T Square assures us we do. Always. As long as we’re prepared to call upon our inner warrior as much as our inner empath; to resist as much as acquiesce; to speak out perhaps more than we hold back, whilst knowing sometimes silence is the truest response of all.

Neptune Retrograde

The signature of this eclipse season is writ large by Neptune’s retrograde station at 8:27 a.m. on 21st June in the 19th degree of Pisces. The Sabian Symbol for this degree is a master instructing his disciple, a motif which speaks of the transmission of wisdom from one who knows to one who seeks. In its retrograde phase Neptune reminds us the knower and seeker are one and the same. We need only still the mind and look within to discover well-springs of wisdom: the very heart of all that we are. But how often do we ignore a wordless inner knowing and choose what’s ‘expected’ over what feels right? How often do we profess a certain belief only for it to go out the window once challenges arise? How often do our feelings tell us one thing but we do something else instead?

Such common-place self-betrayals cast into exile the part of us that actually knows what’s best. Our inner guide can no longer communicate because we’re shutting it out. A vibrant and wise part of us is silenced. We continue with our lives largely oblivious to this fact, but each time we agree when we want to disagree, act when we want to stand back or say nothing when we want to speak up, another part of our core essence is cast into darkness. The longer we live this way, the more of our psyche and spirit is disenfranchised and the smaller our lives become. Eventually, when we really need to draw on our inner-sage, we don’t even share the same language and our exile is complete. The journey of awakening is akin to emerging from this exile to embrace fully the role of wise counsellor, teacher and seer, to and for ourselves.

But in its alignment with Saturn, the Moon’s Nodes and Jupiter this month, Neptune alerts us to the risk of ‘spiritual-bypassing’. To awaken is not to escape into bliss or to avoid the cut and thrust of daily life. We awaken within the fabric of our humanity, not to escape it. We continue to live in a world on the brink, where societies have been torn apart by deep divisions of suspicion, hatred and fear the world over. Where human activity threatens the survival of countless species including our own and patriarchal posturing continues to eclipse a more equitable and heart-centred expression of our humanity. To awaken is to see all of this and our part in it. And then to birth a wise and noble Self that counters the dominant narrative of greed, aggression and war with a commitment to peace, wisdom and hope.

Void of Course Moon in Aquarius

Between Neptune’s retrograde station at 8:27 a.m. on 21st June and the solstice point at 3:55 p.m. when the Sun enters Cancer, the Moon begins a twenty-four hour void-of-course period in Aquarius at 2:03 p.m. A void-of-course Moon makes no more aspects to planets until it enters its new sign, and therefore signals a time of stillness during which activity and effort produces few useful results. Given the Moon’s key role in any eclipse season (both solar and lunar eclipses are dictated according to the moon’s cycle), this is an important significator for the coming one, best read as a warning not to invest too much importance in the effectiveness of our doing but instead focus more on the quality of our being.

This void-of-course Moon speaks of loneliness. It digs at those parts of the self which feel out of place and make it hard to fit in when we most want to. Not to be confused with the uniqueness so cherished by the Aquarian spirit, this disheartening experience of not finding our space in the world can leave us ever more isolated. We may increasingly feel this way as the eclipse season progresses, or we may encounter others struggling to find their place in a confusing world. It may be tempting to feel something’s seriously wrong, that we’ll never find our way back to a sense of safe community. But take heart: every void-of-course Moon is resolved as it enters its new sign, and as much as this one will colour the coming weeks, so too will that sense of resolution.

An Aquarian Moon is resolved as it enters Pisces: the final sign of the zodiac where individuality surrenders to the imponderable mystery from which all life is born. If we feel out of step with our environment or alone in our pain, this Moon connects us with the Great Heart vast enough to contain all joy and suffering, all hope and despair. And as the Sun enters the Moon’s own sign of Cancer at the solstice, it affirms this heart as our true home, offering sanctuary from the growing dislocation of humanity in the ever more frantic modern world.

Eclipse seasons often pose challenges, disguised as disasters or strokes of good fortune in equal measure! Even the best that life offers can stress us out if we let it! What if we mess it up, or it doesn’t live up to expectations?! The mind can turn anything into a source of trouble and eclipses often bring out the inner drama queen or king! So if you find yourself spiralling off into an emo-meltdown, spiritual emergency or plain old temper tantrum in the coming weeks, bear that in mind! Things just may not be as dire as they seem or as far beyond your influence as they feel. A change of perspective may be the key to a change of fortune. And some good old-fashioned patience could be the difference between make or break in the weeks to come.

We have a solar eclipse in Cancer on 2nd July and a lunar eclipse in Capricorn on 16th July. I’ll be sharing more about these specific eclipses soon.

Sarah Varcas

*****

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[pokeasleepingsmaug]

To Lie Down With Wolves: Chapter 5

The fifth chapter of the collaboration fic @underthenorthstar and I are writing, hope you guys enjoy it.

Here’s the AO3, where you can also find the previous chapters: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11931633/chapters/27646050

Tag list: @bonniebird @ally22042000 @persephone-is-here-omg @nekodalita @aalexandra2712 @ceridwenofwales @im-the-pilot-bodhi-rook @ivars-pet @lostinthoughtsandfeelings @bitchccraft @sister-wives-of-kattegat @tiyetiye @letsbedragonstogether @ivarthefuckboy. Sorry if I missed anyone!!

TW: choking, predatory behaviour.

Imogene knows God has forsaken her when she begins to understand the heathen tongue; when the growls and snarls of the tall wolf begin to form words in her ear. She will live and die in sin, and even the flames of hell will not be hot enough to cleanse the filth from her soul. She has not even been among the heathens for a full turn of the moon, and this is the moment that makes her realize rescue is not coming. There was always some hope, buried deep in her, that Brida had rallied the surrounding villagers. She realizes now it was a fool's dream; those taken aboard the long, fast ships never return from the frozen north.

Her hope withers, leaving her empty as a winter woods. Not even the voice of the wolf's pup, bright and clear as birdsong, lifts her spirits on that cold late-summer morning. “Papa, is she staying with us forever? I like her. She cooks better than you.” Her master merely snorts. She's come to learn that he seldom speaks before breakfast. Instead, it's always Jerrik's cheerful little voice breaking the tense silence of early morning. Sometimes his innocence lightens her, but this morning he fills her with despair because she understands everything he's saying. Imogene wishes she had the courage to run to the shoreline and fill her lungs with this bitter northern sea. Instead, she turns the bread over to keep it from burning. Weak, so weak. Her legs are like lead but her hands are steady. A small victory.

Ubbe—that's his name, the wolf's, and although she doesn't dare use it she can't help but wonder how it would taste on her tongue—holds a callused hand out to her. She drops a loaf of hot bread into his palm, keeping her eyes on the floor. His eyes are on her like teeth dragging across her skin. It's all she can do not to squirm under the weight of his gaze. She can't fathom why he fought so hard to keep her, can't forget the anger roiling in his bright eyes. Her upper arm still bears bruises from his iron fingers. She only understands that she's his now, forever, and somehow he seems better than the man with the useless legs. Imogene shudders, remembering again the flash of his knife, the spill of blood from the woman he killed on the docks. Better an angry wolf than a swift, glinting knife.

She can hear the quiet ripping of the bread in Ubbe's long, blunt fingers. He huffs a few short breaths on it, and out of the corner of her eye she sees him hold the bread out to his son. The boy pops it into his mouth and shoots a grin at her. “S'good.” Imogene smiles at him, quick and tentative, before ducking her head back to the floor. Ubbe's eyes are still on her, a wolf deciding where to sink his fangs.  Imogene tries her best to ignore him.

She stands, forces her leaden legs to move to the small bed in the corner. Smoothing the furs gives her something to do, something to focus on besides the inescapable gaze of the predator she calls master. When the furs are arranged nicely on Jerrik's bed, she moves toward the large bed on the opposite wall. She's barely laid a hand on it when feet are thudding quickly across the wooden floor toward her. A hand is on her throat before she can even cry out, forcing her against the wall beside the bed.

“You do not touch my bed,” Ubbe growls, his breath hot in her face. His fingers tighten like chains across her throat, and her hands scrabble uselessly against his iron grip. “Do you understand?” He's forcing her to meet his cold, brilliant blue eyes, narrowed with rage. She barely has the presence of mind to nod. He loosens his fingers just a fraction; she watches his bright eyes flit down to her parted lips before his gaze bores into her again.

He's gone as swiftly as he was at her throat, broad back retreating as she falls gasping to her knees. The silence in the hut seems to hum with tension; she sees it in Jerrik's wide, startled eyes, the way he refuses to look away from the fire. Ubbe carelessly tosses a basket full of laundry at her without even looking in her direction. She doesn't catch it in time, and scrambles to pick it all up before he notices and chokes her again. “Do not come back until it's dry.” He's panting like he's the one who was choked, like he can't catch his breath, and he still won't look toward her.

Imogene is halfway out the door when a snarl from Ubbe halts her, a rabbit frozen in the path of a wolf. He shoves a cloak roughly into her hands. She doesn't pause to put it on until she's well away from his house, but she's glad for it. The sun has barely risen and the cold dew is soaking through the hem of her dress. The village is quiet this early in the morning, only a few women are gathered at the well for water. Imogene ignores them, head down, as she walks to the stream at the edge of the woods.

She sighs and ties her skirt above her knees to save it from the mud of the bank. God has already left her to live in sin, what does she care if someone sees her bare legs? Better the indignity of bare legs than her only dress being filthy. The muck feels like ice against her knees as she sinks into it, pulling the first piece of soiled clothing out of basket and dunking it into the water. The chill settles itself deep into the joints of her fingers. She grabs the chunk of hard gray-white soap and rubs it roughly over the garment.

She sets the soap aside, kneading the large green tunic to work the dirt and sweat out. She pushes it under the cold water again, working her fingers methodically through the soapy fabric. The suds swirls away along the glinting surface, and Imogene pulls the tunic from the water. She shakes it hard, sending droplets flying, and stands to drape the shirt over the branch of a nearby tree to dry.

She kneels again, scrubbing and scrubbing until her hands are chapped and raw and her knees filthy and numb. The sun is high in the sky now and she's since removed the cloak Ubbe gave her and washed it. Imogene presses her stiff hand into the small of her aching back, groaning as she straightens.

“Why didn't you wash your dress?” She jumps to her feet at the deep voice, and her master steps toward her with amusement glinting cruelly in those hungry eyes of his.

“I—it's the only dress I have.” Imogene hates the way her voice sounds, rough and squeaky from disuse. She can't even remember the last time she's spoken.

The wolf wrinkles his nose in mild distaste. “All the more reason to wash it.” He crosses his arms over his broad chest, and Imogene barely stops herself from whimpering. There's something dangerous in the way he's standing, like keeping himself from pouncing on her is an immense effort. “Wash your dress. And,” he swallows, his throat bobbing. “Tell me your name.”

“Imogene.” She's barely breathing as she loosens the ties on her dress, unable to meet his eyes as she feels them devouring her. Unbearable humiliation rises to color her face red. This heathen, this sinful man with his hungry eyes and hard hands, will be the first to see her nakedness. She hates that she is his, hates the way she obeys him. Maybe a flashing knife across her throat would be better than this slow torture, this patient predator toying with his food. She wants to scream, to cry, to push him down into the cold stream and watch his skull crack on the rocks.

Instead, her shaking hands pull the dress over her head. The crisp air kisses her skin, raising goosebumps on her arms, and her nipples tighten against the cold. She shivers as she dips the dress into the cool stream, the water up to her elbows. She drags the dress out and runs the bar of soap all over it, fingers quickly working to scrub her only dress clean. She dunks it into the water again, hating the feel of this man's predatory gaze on her exposed skin. Imogene is weak, so weak, as she rises to hang her dress on a branch.

She finds the damp cloak and drags it down, wrapping it around herself and finally feeling a little safer. When she turns back around, face still burning, Ubbe is gone. Only the snap of a branch and a soft growl let her know he was there at all. Imogene sinks to her sore, dirty knees, and cries. She wants to to bathe, to wash the feeling of his eyes from her skin, but she's afraid he's still watching her. Stalking her from the shadows like the wolf from her nightmares. She hugs the cloak tighter and tries to still her shaking.