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inkedtae · 12 days ago

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elixir of the damned ⇾ bgc. [M]

⎡sun bright, sun light burns the flesh of those that bite. moon’s gleam, night’s scream as shadows linger in lonely blight. but in the dark where spirits wail, a witch will rise— her power prevails⎦

⌁ pairing; vampire!chan x witch!reader (f.)

⌁ genre; vampire au, s2l, some angst, smut, 18+

⌁ word count; 19.5k

⌁ summary; leech, nightcrawler, monster— chris is a vampire aching for sunlight. when he swims to a witch’s hidden island, badly burned, she offers him a secret remedy to survive daylight; he must drink her blood during her cycle, unleashing her true power and binding them for life.

⌁ warnings; graphic depictions and consumption of blood, graphic depictions of severe wounds, dom!chan, sub!reader, masturbation (f.), voyeurism, degradation, slight humiliation, rough sex, period sex, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, rough oral (f. receiving), body worship, spanking, teasing, slight edging, cum eating, blood play

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𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 prefer ao3? keep reading here

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 a special thanks to dee ( @awrkives ) for making this sexy banner for me, and to my ride or die beta reader, jen ( @anobodyslove ) for consistently supporting me and reading over all the nonsense i write. i am nothing without you.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 please enjoy this final Chantober fic!

On the brink of winter, Elderwood is a haze of greys. Roads are bleak black. Sidewalks are cracked and chipped. Streetlights illuminate no more than five inches in diameter, dim and distant. Seemingly void of life, the little town exhales a puff of condensation as it inches towards November. In a matter of days, the saturated warmth of autumn reds will wither, the cold air frosting over every morning, until all pigment completely fades.

It’s depressing to watch the world around him drain of colour as he wanders the streets. Still, Chris is grateful for the consistency. One thing he can always count on is the changing seasons. He may not be getting older, but the world is.

The wind whips against his muscular frame. It should make him shiver, but he can barely feel the chill, only aware of the wind because of its force. The only time he ever felt the cold was midnight on a particularly wet February two years ago. It was pouring down on him as he walked back to Jisung’s house from the shore. The wind was knocking down street signs. The earth was drenched and cold. Chris felt the chills on his skin, the faint prickle of goosebumps. He inhaled and pretended his lungs worked, filling up with oxygen. Pulling his shirt off, he exhaled and pretended a cloud of air was breathed out. The chills running down his spine made it easy to pretend he was alive.

Now, Chris pretends he can feel the breeze blowing through his muscle tee, still exhilarated by the memory.

There are only two moments when he forgets he’s a vampire. One is when he can feel the cold, and the other is when he’s feeding. The taste of bitter iron and copper staining his tongue makes him feel real . With every gulp, Chris can feel the consumed blood run through his veins, drenching his heart and organs. There is the lightest hue of pink in his skin once he’s done. It lasts for a few hours before it fades and he grows hungry again. As much as it annoys him, Chris looks forward to every meal.

In a matter of days, he will be closing in on eight years as a vampire.

Leech, nightcrawler, monster— Chris cannot block out the voices that chime in every time he thinks about that word. They loop in slow circles around his mind on a daily basis and taunt him between his insecurities and mistakes.

He’s not sure how it happened. He stopped sleeping. It was hard to keep things down. He didn’t like to eat much before swim practise anyways. Even a bite of food would sit like a rock in his stomach. He’d have to excuse himself five minutes into his laps to empty his stomach in the nearest trash can.

“Knocked up?” one of his teammates teased from the pool.

Chris wiped his chin with the back of his wrist. He glared at the diver, eyes wet and red, before clearing his throat, swallowing thickly, and diving back in himself.

Hand on his stomach now, Chris yearns for that disgusting feeling that burned his chest and scratched at his throat. He hates throwing up, but it seems so humane now to get sick, to feel sick.

Once he attempted to starve himself in hopes of emulating something similar to an illness. All it did was make him irritable, almost rabid. He thought it would at least be similar to sleep deprivation but it instead sharpened his supernatural senses for blood.

More than anything though, Chris misses the sun. Every morning, he senses its warmth against the boarded windows of Jisung’s basement. For a handful of minutes, he can bypass his inherent fear of the sun to imagine beams of light cascading over him. He imagines the heat kissing his flesh, returning his admiration, and basks in the feign brightness.

Sand invades his shoes.

Chris opens his eyes to find the sea before him. The waves crash against the shore, inches away from his toes. He inhales sharply. Salt and seaweed plague his tongue. He swallows breathfuls of the scent anyway, chasing nostalgia.

He took his first steps here, had his first kiss by the rocks at thirteen, learned to swim, to build extravagant sandcastles and raced along the shoreline with Jisung and Changbin. How many summers had he guarded the lives of beachgoers? How many bonfire bashes had he patrolled?

Chris gazes out at the horizon. His enhanced vampiric senses have sharpened his sight, refining the mesmerising image of the serene scenery. Even the far island of Crow’s Nest looks clearer. It has been bogged down by heavy fog for as long as he can remember. Sometimes the island seems so hazy, Chris is only reminded of its presence by the crows circling around it. He smiles to himself as he recalls the countless times he, Changbin and Jisung dared each other to swim towards it, each one boasting about how they would be the one to swim the closest only to rush back to shore.

Fuck— it all feels like a life time ago.

The ocean laps closer to Chris’s feet. He surveys his surroundings. Fog settles over the quiet town. Silence replies to his inquisitive stare. He turns back to the sea and considers the horizon. It must be nearing four or five in the morning, dawn slowly approaching. The sky is mostly cloudy too.

He wonders if— No.

His vampiric instincts shudder at the thought. Chris fights through it, resisting the urge to turn around and hurry back to Jisung’s basement.

I have time , he mentally hisses.

The sun won’t be up for another hour or so, and given how considerably cloudy it is, he might have an extra fifteen minutes to collect his clothes and rush back into the safe darkness of the basement. His enhanced speed would get him there within ten minutes anyway.

Chris tugs at the hem of his shirt while kicking off his shoes. He feels the wind push around his muscular torso. He takes a moment to inhale deeply, swallowing the scent of the salty sea, and resists the urge to gag. Determined not to let the suppressed reaction discourage him, he unzips his jeans and pulls them down along with his briefs. For a second, he braces himself, expecting a chill upon his full nudity.

Then the reality of his being sets in.

He huffs an annoyed groan and marches into the water. He’s so frustrated he doesn’t feel it at first. However, as he continues to wade further into the ocean, the water now lapping just above his waist, Chris shivers .

Cold— ice cold. The sea welcomes him home.

Chris chuckles, relief blossoming in his chest. He caresses the surface of the water as another chuckle tumbles out of his full lips. If he was still human, tears would prick his eyes from the sheer relief of finally feeling something. Embracing the biting chill, he dives in.

Under deep blue darkness, the world muffles around him. He points his hands in front of him, the same way he was training eight years ago, and propels further into the ocean. Seaweed dances beneath his feet, the current moves around him. Being undead gives him an advantage as he can remain submerged for longer now.

Twirling, swirling, he swims and swims— faster than he could before his shift. The rush of the waves propel him further into the water, caressing his toned body. Chris suppresses a smile as he watches fish dart and algae float around him.

When he finally surfaces, he lets out a heavy breath on instinct, but he doesn’t care. He pushes his hair back and wipes his nose, heaving anyway because in this still moment, Chris is teetering on the edge of humanity for the very first time in eight years.

Looking back to the shore, he finds that he may have gotten carried away. The mainland is almost a figment of his imagination with the amount of distance he has created.

And Crow’s Nest is completely visible.

Chris looks between the shore and the island, then lets out a full bellied laugh, one he hasn’t been able to muster in years. Changbin and Jisung are never going to believe him when he tells them he got this close to Crow’s Nest .

Not only is it far, but most believe the island is haunted. Townies for years have claimed to witness figures lurking between the trees and flickering lights throughout the night. Someone once swore they saw a figure flying over the island on a broomstick amongst the crows. Throughout the years, many sceptics have tried to travel to the island, only to be deterred by the current and pushed back to shore. Changbin once told him that one person did make it onto the island but was never heard from again.

Chris was not completely convinced by the tall-tales of Crow’s Nest, but he still constantly felt unsettled by its presence.

However, surveying the island now, he cannot remember why he was so scared. Sure, the myths were strange, but they were myths in the end.

Vampires were once a myth , a little voice murmurs.

Stifling the sinister voice, Chris looks to the sky and finds it’s still a swirl of charcoal grey and slated blue. His smile returns before another chuckle bubbles from his eased chest. Floating upon the surface, he lays back, allowing the current to guide him for a moment. He shuts his eyes and focuses on the fading sensation of the cold upon his pale skin.

While Chris knows he has more time to revel in this rare human moment, he cannot help the anxiety festering in the base of his stomach. What if he never feels this way again? What if he has to wait another eight years to feel something, anything again? And yes, this has been a cathartic experience by himself, but some of his favourite human memories are shared with his loud, chaotic friends. He can imagine Changbin complaining about how deep the water is and Jisung making jokily suggestive comments about how naked they all are. He would never be able to convince them to go skinny dipping in the middle of October at dawn. Changbin is too much of a whiny baby to handle the cold and Jisung sleeps as deep as the dead— Chris would know being undead himself.

So, while he may feel a fraction of his humanity again, he cannot forget that he is still alone.

A sense of deep danger surges through him, silver eyes snapping open. Amber light spills across the once frosty charcoal-blue sky.

The sun is rising.

His vampiric instincts rage in his chest, as if scolding him for being so reckless.

Chris internally curses at himself. He’s about to swim back to shore when he notices rays of light shining against the sand, inching towards his clothes.

Fuck .

How long had he been floating? When did time start to move this quickly? The last eight years have felt like eternity, but it’s as though the last two hours flew by within twenty minutes.

Chris lets out a shaky sigh and considers his options. He can try to make it back to shore and sprint home, grabbing his clothes later (if the current doesn’t swallow them). He can try to dive deep enough in the water to evade the sun, but risk drowning over and over for the next twelve hours. Or…

A murder of crows circle the island to his right.

Crow’s Nest.

“ Shit ,” he mutters under his breath.

Chris dives. He uses all his strength to fight against the current. The closer he’s gets to the island, the harsher the ocean becomes. The waves are not forceful, simply persistent with their suggestion to turn back. It’s as if the sea is warning him against reaching the island.

He fights through it still, pushing himself to swim faster.

Though he does not have a pulse, Chris is heaving by the time he can walk onto the shore. He runs a hand through his hair and spits the excess seawater out of his mouth. Leaning on his knees, he takes a moment, for the first time in eight years, to catch his breath.

Vision blurring, hands shaking, Chris mutters a string of vulgar curses. The swim has depleted his energy. Thirst— No, hunger gnaws at his chest, his gut, his very being, tearing through his innate instincts to find shade. His senses instead sharpen for a hunt. The scent of crow, frail and small, immediately overwhelms him. He can nearly taste the thick blood that pumps under their onyx feathers.

“ Ah!” Chris hisses, jolting forwards as the light nips at his ankles.

The sun .

Using the last bit of his strength, Chris dashes towards the trees. However, as he’s about to cross into the safety of the shade, the sun strikes, scorching his skin.

Chris screams, collapsing to his knees. His back stings with a relentless hiss. Scurrying forward, he manages to make it into the shade with only a few more minimal, yet painful welts on his thighs and calves. He chokes back more groans as his pale skin bubbles and burns from the intense heat.

He shifts further into what he thinks is the shade, trembling and whimpering, when the breeze kicks in and rattles the already loose leaves from the trees. Chris looks up, watching a gap form and give way for another attack from the sun.

Bright rays blaze his face. Another fraught scream tears through his throat and he tries to shield his eyes with his arm. Only one eye could be saved, the other feels as though it is melting into his skull.

Pain, pain— aching pain. Chris screams, his voice cracking as he channels that last of his strength and throws himself against the tree stump with unnatural speed.

Hiccuped moans tumble from his wounded, cracked lips. He heaves, voice nothing more than a wheezing shattered mess. His flesh deteriorates, once eternal body now crumbling under the bright light. The rotting smell of his dead body simmers around him, brewing nausea deep in his gut.The sand bites into his burnt skin, like salt on a fresh wound. Whimpering, he grits his teeth and attempts to bear the pain.

It’s not that bad. It’s not that bad. It’s not tha—

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he groans, the pain overtaking his mind. He tries to repeat the phase again but can barely get past the first syllable.

Chris knows he can’t stay here. The sun will move, the light will shift, the fucking wind will betray him. He is not guaranteed safety if more leaves fall and the light seeps through again. Yet, he cannot move. Without blood to sustain his movements or renew his vampiric healing abilities, he might just die anyway.

So, Chris simply stares at the clutter of copper and gold leaves around him and suppresses whimpers. Is this the sickness he was previously craving to feel? Is this the humanistic pain he so badly yearned for? Chris cannot help but curse at himself over and over as his vision slowly blurs.

Is this really how it ends , he wonders. Wet from the sea, hot from the sun, eight years of demonic hell inch to this painful end.

Coughing up bile, he spits it over his shoulder and exhales deeply. Well, at least, he was able to experience a final moment of humanity, even if it was alone. And when he sees Changbin and Jisung again, he’ll tell them all about how he swam to Crow’s Nest and wasn’t immediately devoured by the monsters that they believe lurk within.

And if nothing else , he thinks as the darkness slowly closes in on him, I had one last moment in the sun.

“What have you done to yourself?”

A soft flowery voice caresses him. Chris mentally leans into the feminine allure of the voice, allowing himself to be wrapped in her gentle tone.

Then, the voice suddenly solidifies shattering the warm cocoon Chris found himself giving into, as she repeats, tone firmer now, “Are you insane?”

Chris tilts his head, choking on more bile as a surge of pain ripples through him. A curvy figure dressed in a thin, white sundress rushes towards him. He can barely make out her face, his sight almost completely gone, but her scent— fresh rain, lavender and sage— overwhelms him. For a second, he sees himself strolling through a field of wildflowers after a rainstorm, following the full figured beauty into the warmth of the light.

“Wow, you’re really naked,” she suddenly mumbles under her breath.

Voice raspy, Chris asks, “Are… you an angel?”

Soft hands cup his face; delicate, sweet, and gentle. Chris tries to regain some semblance of his sight, eager to take in her ethereal features but the pain hinders his focus.

And then, all at once, darkness claims him.

Dawn is still. While the sun peeks through clusters of clouds, the sky shifts from pale blue to rose-gold. The wind, once flowing through the small cottage through the open windows, disappears. Even the crows, who often guard your little hideaway, fall silent.

You freeze mid-chop and turn towards the backdoor. A murder of crows still lingers around your backyard, but they seem rigid, as if they are not sure how to react.

Furrowing your brows, you set down your knife and abandon your half-chopped eggplant. You wipe your hands on your apron, making your way to the door.

A loud buzzing rings through your ears, stopping you mid-stride. You furrow your brows, senses finally flaring.

Abandoning the back door, you move towards the front instead. The moment you pull it open, you feel it— the shift in the air, swirling with panic, fear and… pain ?

A loud scream suddenly echoes through the morning fog, taut and sharp.

Chills run down your spine.

You’ve found many injured animals while hiding in Crow’s Nest within the last decade. You’ve repaired broken bones, mended mangled wings and even helped beached sea creatures find their way back into the ocean. However, nothing you have encountered has ever sounded so huge.

Shaking off your nerves, you step out and shut the door behind you. The wind picks up, colder than before. It ruffles through your white sundress, forcing you to wrap your arms around yourself. Another frail scream echoes, this time starling the crows back into motion. Hawthorne, your clingiest crow, lands on your front porch with a concerned tilt of his head, as if coming to check on you. Your face deadpans as more crows settle on the rickety, oak wood and peer up at you.

“You literally saw me from the garden,” you sigh. Stepping around them, you ask, “Do you know where that sound came from?”

Poe squawks before fluttering into flight, and a few other crows follow after him as well. You trail behind them, pulling your wand out from between your breasts. You assume that whatever washed up on your island must be harmless enough for your wards not to alert you upon its arrival. Still, you keep your twelve-inch mahogany wand, the polished ebony wood twisted and glittering like silver stars, steady before you.

Rotten vanilla and burnt, parched oak intoxicate your next breath. The scent envelopes you in despair, as you draw closer to the source. Heaving, whimpering, coughing, the broken sounds of pain become clearer with every step.

And then you see him— extremely pale and teetering consciousness. His face, which might have once been a handsome blend of soft masculinity, is grey and blistering. Arm, shoulder, ribs; the left side of his body is peeling skin, almost as if dusting and rotting all at once. The edges of the wounds are lined with black. It’s as though he’d been charred under open flames.

“What have you done to yourself?” you whisper under your breath.

You draw nearer, trying to make sense of this… being? You’re not quite sure what he is. He most definitely cannot be a human. He should be bleeding and the welts would be blistering, eager to reverse the damage.

His eyes squint open and you almost miss it. The right one is a rich chocolate, purely humanistic and warming. The left, however, is a blinding silver. Swimming with thirst and desperation, even exhausted, that gleaming grey eye conveys more threats than promises.

Vampire .

Dawn, light, burns, it all starts to make sense.

“Are you insane?”

He chokes on bile, resting his head back against the tree trunk.

As he tries to find his voice, you take a moment to scan his frame, looking for more wounds. It’s then that you notice just how naked he is. Guilt and shame fester in your chest at the realisation that, despite the wounds, he does not look so bad, perhaps even… attractive.

Your attention lingers below his waist. The sight heats your face. “Wow, you’re really naked,” you whisper more to yourself than him.

“Are…” he starts, summoning your attention back to his mismatched eyes, “you an angel?”

The question startles you. After a few blinks, you swallow thickly and clear your throat.

Wraith, nightshader, monster— you’ve been called many names throughout your life as a blood-witch. Your previous coven conjured most of the insults, but the mundane town of Elderwood has never been a friend to the supernatural either, despite its mythical origins. Ridiculed for your magic, banished by family and supposed friends, you didn’t think you’d ever meet another paranormal being, let alone be confused for an angel.

Cupping his face, you decide that he’s delirious. Scorched by the sun, thirsty for blood (if his nearly translucent skin is any indication), he probably took one look at your white dress and assumed he was dying.

You gasp as he suddenly falls limp in your hands. You’re about to check his pulse when you remember he’s a vampire. Muttering curses, you stand up.

“Create some shade,” you order the crows. As they cluster overhead, you add, “We need it dark enough to move him.”

More crows fly in to help, clouding over the wounded vampire to shield him from the rising sun.

Deep breath in and out, you centre yourself. Your lungs carry his festering scent, the faint notes of sweet vanilla and sturdy, dry oak soothing your erratic heart.

You open your eyes with a heavy, steady exhale. Holding out your wand, you dig your heels into the ground. Magic flickers from your fingertips and warps into the wand, waiting for your direction. Only, you’re not sure if you’re making the right choice.

Healing animals, saving helpless lives is much of what you do on this little island, besides tending to your magical garden, brewing potions and crafting talismans. You’ve always felt grounded when you’re able to help someone, anyone . The only other time you feel as accomplished and useful is when you update your journal. Keeping a detailed grimoire of new spells, potions, thoughts, and observations has been your only other source of stabilising your sanity amidst such a solitary life.

But, a vampire is not some other helpless animal. You don’t know a lot about the blood-demons, only that they have been damned upon their own moment of desperation. He clearly made naive deals without much consideration of the consequences. And the fact that he wandered out in daylight does not help his case.

He could be recently turned or just simply stupid and desperate. Either way, you wonder if this is a good idea. Moving him would mean inviting him into your home. Is that really the wisest decision? It would mean that he would have access to the little cottage without your permission, even if you reinforce your wards. Your invitation would be enough to welcome him in every time.

Still, you know you cannot heal him out here. The sun will shift and only shine brighter throughout the day. The crows can only fly for so long as well. And while your magic is malleable, it is not infinite. It will not be able to sustain a shield weaved of your powers without an anchor like the hearth of your cottage to truly ground and replenish your strength. The only way to save him would be to bring him into your sanctuary.

Or, a little voice mutters, you can just let him die.

You recognise that internal voice as your mother’s. It carries the same sharpness and disdain for your intuitive decisions. You’re not surprised it has reared its ugly head in a moment of uncertainty and distress. It often has a habit of kicking you while you’re down, or coaxing the worst out of you.

Shoving the vile voice back to the farthest corner of your mind, you wave your wand. The handsome vampire levitates under the allure of your magic.

“We move as one,” you order. “And, be careful.”

The crows mutter amongst themselves, but follow your commands. Together, you slowly move further into the forest.

Once you step foot onto the porch, the cottage anticipates your needs. The windows and curtains shut and candles flicker to life along with the hearth. You push open both front doors to accommodate his broad frame. Guiding him into your living room, you wonder if he was an athlete or swimmer prior to turning. His lean yet muscular figure indicates one or both hobbies.

Shame rises in your chest again. You have no idea what has gotten into you. When did you become so perverted and disgusting? How could you check out a wounded man so casually like that, like he’s not unconscious and on the brink of death?

Swallowing your shame away, you lay him down on your soft, velvet green sofa. He sinks into the comfortable cushions, still and frail. Draping a handknitted, midnight black blanket over him, you notice his skin becoming grey. And even the parts that have not been touched by the sun begin to peel.

You mutter a curse and rush to the kitchen. Rummaging through the cabinets, you look between jars of carefully crafted salves and mud masks. Aloe, honey, shea butter, coconut– what the fuck would heal the undead flesh of a vampire? If he was conscious, you’d give him a jar of blood from your preserves and hope that with enough consumption, he’d eventually heal himself.

The cottage attempts to help you. It pushes open drawers of loose ingredients. Even a few stray crows, who managed to sneak in before the house could shut the door behind you, fly from book to book, trying to inspire you to just look up the information you need. You wave off the house and ignore the crows. You need something quick and complete. You don’t have time to brew something or search through old pages.

Shifting its approaches, the cottage offers salves you’ve already made and saved from different cabinets around the kitchen. It hovers the jars before you, continuously suggesting a variety of creams as you wave them off.

You’re about to wave off the next suggestion when the name catches your eye: Sunveil Balm . Golden yarrow and rosemary oil, lunar lilac extract, white ash bark powder, dewdrop resin, the essence of morning fog and the rare but potent dust of golden pearls, you remember crafting the balm for a bat with scorched wings. It stayed out in the sun for much too long one blistering summer and received several burns. A few generous swipes of the salve repaired the damage within ten minutes.

You snatch the gold-shimmering cream, darting back to the living room. With a wave of your hand, the jar twists open. You dip into the pot and scoop out a good amount before gently tilting his face and slathering the soft, creamy balm over his left cheekbone and temple.

Mismatched eyes of brown and grey snap open. A loud scream tears through his throat as the wound hisses under the golden salve. He instinctively brings a hand up to his face to wipe it off, only for the salve to burn his fingers.

“Shit,” you murmur before shouting, “Get me blood, now!”

The cottage complies, hovering various jars of animal blood in front of you. It’s the human blood that catches your eye, though. You know that if you want him to recover quickly, you have to supply him with your best stocks. Human blood, however, is rare for you. Without a coven of well-connected witches, harvesting human blood from your remote little island has proved to be a difficult and daunting task. You only have about five large jars left.

He trembles into the sofa, choking on his own bile.

You sigh, realising you’ve made it this far. You have already invited him into your home and made the decision to save him. If that weren’t enough, you’ve just deepened his pain with fresh burns.

With another wave of your hand, you twist the jar of human blood open, then snatch it from the air. “Shh, shh,” you calmly whisper, snaking your arm under his head to support the lift of his neck. He tries to swallow thickly, but chokes on the smell of fresh, cold blood. You bring the lip of the jar closer to his mouth and administer small, careful sips.

You watch as his eyes roll back from the taste. Arousal pools between your thighs. You curse yourself three times over for the way your body reacts. It’s been ten years of using your wand as a vibrator or making do with your fingers. You tell yourself that it’s simply pathetic desperation, a chronic need for human interaction that triggers this sort of reaction to him. Shame and regret still tighten in your chest, encouraging the continuation of your internal insults and curses.

A croaky groan echoes within the jar, pulling you out of your thoughts. The vampire sits himself up and takes the jar from you. He starts to down the blood in large gulps. His chest heaves, throat bobs and rogue trails of blood leak from the corner of his lips.

You stand and turn away from him, much too aroused by the animalistic sight. Trying to ground yourself, you take shaky breaths in and out, and focus on the length of your breaths, the sound of the exhale. You don’t realise he’s done until you hear him clear his throat.

Turning back to face him, you find his skin has solidified back to its normal pale, white colour. The black soot around his wounds remains along with a few remaining welts, however life (or lack thereof) has returned to his undead body.

“More?” He quietly asks, voice deep and husky.

You nod and hold a hand towards the kitchen. Another large jar of human blood shoots into your grasp. The vampire blinks as you wave the lid open, and lower the glass down to him. He trades you the empty one, letting his attention drift up and down your frame.

Your shoulders roll back, chest puffing forward under his curious gaze.

You are pathetic , you think to yourself.

Embarrassed by your actions, you leave him in the living room with his meal and return to the kitchen. Hawthorne and Poe perch on the counter by your recipe books. They cast disapproving stares in the dim candlelight as you enter.

You roll your eyes and whisper, “He was dying.” When they continue to silently judge, you add, “I happen to recall a time when two little birdies got into a fight for the fourth time and begged me to help them even when they promised not to let it happen again. So, maybe we shouldn’t be so judgemental.”

Both crows tilt their heads downwards in shame.

“Who are you talking to?”

You squeal, jolting as you turn to face the vampire. He stands in the archway of your kitchen, blanket wrapped around his waist. He clutches the soft fabric with one hand by his hip and the empty jar with the other. You resist the urge to look at his fully healed chest, knowing it will only further arouse you, and fixate your attention on his face.

While the blood has completely reversed the damage of the sun on his skin, his eyes still remain discoloured. You draw closer to examine it, getting within a hand’s reach before remembering that you two are still strangers, he’s still naked and there’s still steaks of blood staining his chin.

He raises a brow at you, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

Does he think I’m into him , you wonder as panic fills your chest. You clear your throat and take a step back.

“Your eye,” you start, pointing to your left one, “It’s still silver.”

He reaches up to touch it. Understanding shifts his features from arrogance to self-caution.

“Do you need more blood?” you ask, wondering if perhaps more consumption would help.

He shakes his head. “I’m full,” he replies. Stepping into the kitchen, he holds the empty jar out for you.

You take it and place it on the counter by the other one he finished. You turn back to face him, regrettably letting your gaze flicker down his defined chest again. It’s buff and broad, the perfect addition to his strong shoulders. His waist is slim, toned and narrows down to delicate hips that you are sure have some unforgiving moments. Internally cursing yourself for your lack of self-control, you note that, at least this time, you’re lusting after him while he’s conscious and not in active pain.

He suddenly clears his throat, beckoning your attention back to his face. A shy smile settles on his lip and he raises a brow.

Great , you sarcastically think, now he’s going to think I only helped him because I think he’s hot .

“I’m Chris,” he introduces, holding out his hand. “And I suppose I should thank you for saving my life.”

You bite your lip. Maybe he was tired before or you were just too preoccupied by the gravity of the situation to catch it the first few times he spoke, but he has a thick, lazy accent that comforts your reclusive soul in ways it probably shouldn’t.

You offer your name, accepting his hand. The chill from his skin is all encompassing and it takes everything in you not to shiver. After a couple of good shakes, you release his hand to reach back and grab a clean tea towel. You hand it to him and gesture to your chin. “You’ve got a bit of blood,” you carefully inform.

Chris scrubs his face harshly. You thought the knotting brows and darkening eyes were an indication of embarrassment upon the mention of the little mess he made of himself. However, from the way he drags the tea towel over his newly healed skin, you wonder if he is upset, perhaps hateful.

“Thanks,” he mutters again, catching your lingering gaze.

You take the tea towel back when he’s done and toss it to Poe. The little crow catches the stained cloth and flies it over to the dirty pile. A little amused smile plays on your lips as you watch Chris look between you and the crow. He parts his lips to ask something, but he cannot find his words.

“Let’s have a seat,” you softly suggest, nodding towards the archway. “You must be exhausted.”

Chris nods, letting out a heavy breath. He steps to the side to let you weave around him and lead the way back to the living room. His steps are so light and gentle as he follows. You probably wouldn’t have heard them if you weren’t paying such close attention, sneaking a look behind you.

His gaze focuses around your hips, or rather the sway of them. You catch him biting his lip before turning to face the front again. Letting out a shaky sigh, you try not to let the little gesture go straight to your head. You’ve received quite a few stares when you lived with your coven once upon a time ago. Most would either linger around your breasts or rear. Sometimes it was due to the sheer size of your voluptuous body and very rarely was it done in admiration when it came to staring at your arms or stomach or thighs. Your backside, however, always received that same carefully longing attention.

So, he doesn’t like you , you tell yourself. He just likes what he sees .

You take a seat on the black leather armchair by the fireplace, sinking into the comfortable cushions, and nod to the emerald couch he previously laid on.

Chris sits across from you. Shifting in his seat, he adjusts the blanket to properly cover his hips and crotch. Your eyes meet and, for a brief second, you swear you catch the lightest, faintest hint of pink creeping up his neck and spreading to his cheeks.

Shifting uncomfortably in your own seat, you offer an apologetic smile and say, “I don’t think I have any clothes for you.”

He returns the gentle gesture with a small grin of his own and shakes his head. “It’s fine. I can try to get the ones I left on the beach later tonight.”

You raise your brows at the new information. Leaning over one of the arms on your chair, you attempt to peek into the kitchen. “Hawthorne?” You shout.

Chris looks back at the archway only for Hawthrone to dart out. He flies over head, startling Chirs as he ducks his head to avoid the fast bird.

“Go to the mainland and see if you can find some clothes on the shore for me,” you order once he lands on the arm of your chair. “And take Tenny and Poe with you.”

Hawthorne squawks. He takes flight again, heading to the front door when you tsk at him. He returns to your side, waiting for instructions.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you ask then nod to the back of the cottage, “We have a sun sensitive visitor. Take the back door.”

He caws again and zooms right over Chris’s head. There is a ruffle of feathers, followed by more cawing before the slam of an open and shut window sounds.

Chris swallows thickly, sitting back into the couch. “So you talk to birds,” he says as a way to break the silence.

“Yup,” you nod.

He nods along with you, rubbing the back of his neck.

Your attention falls on his cleanly shaved armpits, the flex of his bicep. You cross your legs and press your thighs tightly together at the thought of being caught in a headlock, or cuddling under his arm and inhaling his thick, sickly sweet scent.

“Um,” he starts, pulling you out of your thoughts. You blink at him upon meeting his gaze. There is a knowing look in his mismatched eyes, and the faintest flicker between your own and your tense thighs. But he does not comment on your suddenly rigid posture. Gesturing to his face instead, he asks, “What was the–”

“Sunburn cream,” you answer, cutting him off. “It’s called Sunveil Balm. I guess it doesn’t work on vampires.”

He tentatively nods. “And what are you?” He registers the bluntness of his question the moment it leaves his full lips, and panic floods his eyes. Quickly, he adds, “No offence. It’s just– the magic–” he cuts himself off, pointing to your hands.

A little smile plays on your lips with a slip of a chuckle. “I’m not offended,” you reassure, shaking your head. “I’m a witch. A blood-witch.”

“What makes a blood-witch different from a witch?”

“What makes a vampire different from a demon?”

Your voice is light and teasing but your playfulness falters at the sight of his concerned features.

“I-I’m a demon?” he asks, confusion creasing between his brows. He looks so lost, you’d think he’d never seen one before. It’s as if he didn’t conjure darkness to trade his soul away.

Perplexed yourself, you nod. “Well, yes. How did you not– No,” you shake your head with a few blinks, then look back at him, starting again, “How long have you been a vampire?”

“About eight years.”

“Eight?”

He confirms with a nod.

What the fuck?

Now, demons are tricky and conniving. They always make a deal that falls more in their favour than their summoner’s, but they have some decorum, especially towards each other. Upon their summoner’s shift into a vampire, the demon must have visited and informed him of his new, undead state. You recall reading about countless accounts of demons shadowing their newest additions and teaching them how to hunt, run and hide in the shadows. It’s common practice.

But more than that, you wonder how a vampire of eight years would miscalculate the rise of the sun and self-inflict such terrible wounds. Given the fact that he used his last bits of strength to find shade, you have to assume it wasn’t done on purpose. But, you also have a hard time believing that he’s naive enough to not know when the sun will rise during this time of year, especially after eight years of being undead. From the few books you’ve read on vampires during your studies as an apprentice, you know that they have a biological clock, an inherent instinct to not only avoid the sun, but fear it.

Chris, pretty eyes round and youthful face uncertain, looks like he woke up one day, never went to sleep again, and was never told why.

“Am I missing something?”

“That’s what I’m wondering,” you reply. “This doesn’t make sense. How did you turn? And why were you out this late, anyway?”

He bites on the inside of his cheeks and averts his gaze. “It’s complicated.”

Furrowing your brows, you’re not sure which question that was supposed to answer. You decide to take it one step at a time, asking, “Did you want to get burned?”

“No,” he immediately replies, meeting your gaze.

Had it not been for the firm eye contact, you might have doubted him.

“So, what is it then?”

“It’s just…” he trails off, running a hand through his damp hair. “Complicated.”

You raise a brow, lingering your attention on his head. Recalling your thoughts about his physic earlier, you wonder if he really is a swimmer. If he perhaps ventured too far out into the sea and exhausted himself in the process. However, noting the way he nervously averts his gaze, you decide to redirect the conversation to something that’s hopefully less complicated.

“You don’t need to tell me why you summoned the demon,” you start, knowing the reason must have been dire for him to turn to the darkness for help. “I just don’t understand how you didn’t know that you, technically, are one.”

His face scrunches in concentrated confusion. He thumbs his nose and tilts his head at your words, and you’re starting to wonder if he’s been cursed or simply a pretty face.

“I didn’t summon a demon. I just…” he trails off, averting his gaze as he searches for the best way to word his transition, “ became a vampire.”

“That’s not possible.”

“It’s what happened.”

“Explain the process,” you order, sitting back in your seat. “How did you know you were a vampire if no one told you?”

There is a twinge of challenge in his narrowing eyes. He flits his gaze up and down your relaxed frame and tongues his cheek. He then leans his elbows on his knees, broad shoulders now on full, flexed display under the warm glow of flickering candle lights.

You swallow thickly and force yourself to maintain eye contact.

“Do you always use that tone?” He suddenly asks, voice low and deep.

Barely above a whisper, you reply, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

He smirks as newfound understanding glimmers in his silver eye. “That’s better,” he says before sitting back into his seat.

You’re not sure what’s more lethal, the way he leans forward, every curve of his muscles contrasted perfectly in the shadows of the dim lights, or the way he leans back, legs spread and chest open. Both are equally as inviting, enticing you to shed your inhibitions and completely lose yourself against him.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” he starts, shattering your focus on his sprawl body. “I was feeling sick for weeks. I could barely keep up with my training, and–”

“Training?”

“I was a swimmer.”

Knew it – Your eyes flicker to his shoulders for a split second.

“I was the fastest on the team. I even had a scholarship,” he says. A faint smile hovers over his plush lips at the memory. “I stopped drinking. I stopped eating. And on the day of the championship, I was terrified to leave my dorm. I nailed wood and bedsheets over my window and hid under the bed. My friends found me at one point, much later in the night, and I…” he pauses, swallowing thickly, “I attacked them.”

You remain still, expression neutral. He watches you closely, as if waiting for a gasp or blink of acknowledgement.

“I just remember being really, really thirsty. I chased them through the courtyard until they talked me out of ripping them apart. And–” he cuts himself off with a little laugh.

You raise your brown trying to fight off your own smile at the sweet, deep rumble emitting from his buff chest.

“Sorry, I just remembered one of my friends’ screams– Changbin. He’s a complete wimp and was squealing the whole time. You’d like him. Everyone likes him,” he explains. When you return his sweet smile, he continues, “Anyway, they talked me out of killing them, helped me hunt a rabbit, which took too fucking long for three grown men, and then made fun of me while I drank it’s blood.”

“They sound like idiots,” you joke, fighting your own laughter at the image he crafted for you.

“They are,” he nods, voice thick with nostalgia. Then, he clears his throat and adds, “Anyway, there weren’t any demons or witches or anyone else. Just us and the internet.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “While that sounds like a terrible disaster,” you tease, much to his amusement, “that’s not really how vampires are made.”

“I wasn’t bitten either.”

“That’s misinformation,” you dismiss. “No one gets bitten to turn. Anyone who has been bitten by a vampire and survived merely experiences more drastic symptoms of rabies then dies. They are bats after all.”

Judging by the constantly confused expression on his face, you deduce he has not discovered he can turn into a bat yet. You hold off on that nugget of information for now, returning to your explanation, “Vampires are the result of humans making deals with some sort of demon. While possessions are common, demons do not want your body. They are always after your soul. Whatever remains is the demonic shift from humanity to deviance. You may still have your body, but your connection to the supernatural is your only thread to the living.”

Chris nods, sitting up in his seat. You regret to find that it doesn’t make you want to straddle him any less than before.

“I can understand that, I just don’t know what that has to do with me. I swear I had no reason to summon anyone from any realm or world or wherever the fuck these things come from.” His voice wavers with sincerity, eyes distressed with confusion. He takes a second to breathe in deeply, trying to ground himself, only to clench his jaw, never exhaling. “I just want my life back,” he mutters.

Me too , you think as you gnaw on your bottom lip.

While your mother discouraged you from being yourself, and so-called friends betrayed you, there was a life back between the Mountains of Cleo that was waiting for you to reach your full potential. Working alongside the greatest witches of the century, charting stars and researching the full scope of potential power within the moon, you were on track to finally securing a position within the Arcane Court , and earning the respect of your family for once.

You wish to return to that moment before everything had shattered around you. Work was stolen, lies were told and reputations were ruined. You never thought you'd be forced to defend yourself against people you loved, people you considered your found family. However, you did expect your biological family to believe the worst about you.

Looking back at Chris, you notice he seems lost in his own thoughts too, gazing at the polished hardwood floors aimlessly. His explanation seems genuine and you really do believe him. He seemed to have the world at his fingertips, on the cusp of achieving all his dreams, before his life ended.

He suddenly meets your gaze. The angle of his head blends his brown eye into the darkness, the silver one gleaming brightly in contrast. You know you should be scared, and you try to find a reason to feel that way, looking for even the faintest hint of danger. Instead, honesty greets you. If you hadn’t known he was a vampire, you would have assumed he was human from that look alone.

“I want to help you figure out what happened,” you announce.

Chris blinks at you. “What?”

“Vampires are made by demons,” you repeat. “If you are a vampire, then you were made. And if you didn’t bind yourself into a contract, someone else must have done so on your behalf. You could be in danger, could even be hexed. I want to help you find out what’s going on.”

His throat bobs, brows knit and he licks his lips before asking, “Why would you help me again?”

“I’m curious,” you shrug. And when his stare does not waver, you add, “And this is the longest I have spoken to someone other than a bird in the last ten years, so I might as well make the most of it before sundown.”

At that, Chris smiles. You notice he has a way of making it look so easy, that gentle, boyish smile. It’s full of intrigue and amusement and even admiration as his mismatched eyes twinkle with delicate notions of mischief.

“I’m going to look into making another salve for some of your scars,”you say, standing from your seat. “The crows will be back with your clothes soon. You can go up to the bathroom and shower in the meantime, if you’d like I mean.”

Chris stands with you, glancing at the stairs. “Thanks,” he murmurs as if he doesn’t trust his voice.

You ignore the heavy emotion laced in his tone, to save him the embarrassment, and continue, “It’s the third door on the right. The house will lead you.”

As if on cue, you hear the soft echo of shutting doors and the whispering squeak of a single door opening.

Chris’s ears twitch at the sound. He swallows thickly and gives you another nod of gratitude before heading up the stairs. You watch his back flex as he rolls his shoulders back. Now that you are going to help him, you really need to stop practically panting after him. The last thing you want is to make him uncomfortable in a tiny house he can’t leave for the next twelve hours.

Letting out a heavy breath, you make your way to the kitchen and wave all your relevant books on burns, salves and blood-beings towards you. But the distant spray of the shower rattles your focus, plaguing you with images of his naked body caught between water and steam. Shaking your head, you force him out of your thoughts.

You have work to do– a purpose to finally follow. And you won’t be deterred.

Despite the brightness of your flowy white dress, which cinches at your waist and beautifully accentuates your curves, your little cottage is a sanctuary of moody shades and warm textures. Chris surveys the polished dark wood floors, adorned with a large, red rug that captivates his attention, on his way towards the stairs. A piece of onyx fur casually drapes over the exotic rug, adding an extra layer of softness beneath his cold feet. Leafy green plants cascade from the ceiling and trail their long vines over the edges of the shelves. They bring a subtle sense of life to the space, even in such dim lighting. The deep violet walls bring out the vivid colours of the flowers—magenta, indigo, and plum. He assumes, based on your determined personality, that each bundle of petals serves some sort of purpose. Between flickering candles, well-worn books, and vials of mysterious substances, you've crafted a harmonious blend of oak table sets and plush, comfortable seating, creating an inviting atmosphere that feels entirely your own– warm and beautiful.

As Chris enters your bathroom, he finds that it is no different. Only, instead of a cosy ambiance of lived-in comfort, you’ve created a refreshing forest oasis. Dark green tiles line the walls, casting the room in deep, earthy hues. The floor is a mosaic of midnight green and jade patterns that seem to shift with the light, an intricate dance of natural tones underfoot. From above, more plants with long, draping vines hang over the obsidian sink, suspended in delicate macrame nets that sway gently with each movement in the room. Chris’s throat dries at the swan faucet poised elegantly above the sink, its neck curved in a graceful arc. In the corner, the shower nestles like a hidden grotto, glossy tiles and rainfall shower head turning it into a misty forest retreat, with aged brass fixtures catching the light. And finally, his gaze drifts to the grand, black bear claw tub—a magnificent centrepiece that seems plucked from a woodland dream.

He swallows thickly, inhaling the subtle scents of eucalyptus and lavender. Upon his exhale, the shower head turns on. He peers around the bathroom again, wondering if the house is watching him. When only the steady spray of the shower echoes against the dimly candlelit walls, Chris rolls his shoulders back and takes a step further into the room.

The door clicks shut on its own.

Chris shakes off his uneasiness and drops the blanket from his waist. He’s not sure why, but his hands shake as he steps under the shower. A part of him hopes to feel stark cold, just as the ocean was a couple of hours ago. But the water is…water– Chris cannot feel much of a temperature, even with litres of human blood spreading through his body. Still, the strong pressure beating down his head, shoulders and back ease the tension in his once wounded muscles.

Suddenly, the water stings with the faintest hint of coolness. It gets colder and colder, nearly replicating the frostiness of the morning sea, before Chris realises that the house is adjusting the temperature for him.

“This is good,” he mutters, tipping his head back.

The house slightly warms the water, silently asking if he’s sure.

“I like it cold,” Chris reassures. A ghost of a smile hovers over his full lips. He wonders if you put the house up to this or if it is simply trying to make him feel welcome. Either way, he’s grateful for the consideration.

Consideration . Chris ponders over the word, mulling over every syllable, every decision you’ve made while he was unconscious. You’re a witch with angelic intentions, that much seems to be clear. But he still cannot help wondering what it was that made you consider saving him? He’s just a stranger, afterall. No, he’s a demon . And yet, you brought him into your home, created salves and offered him jars of blood.

Why do you have stores of human blood, anyway? Is it part of your practice as a blood-witch? Do you conjure spells that include elements of blood? Or do you merely harvest litres of it like a collector of sorts?

Questions lap round and round his mind as he reaches for your honey-infused shampoo. It smells faintly of your wild, flowery scent. Chris cannot help his smirk at subtle notions of rainfall and sage amidst that lavender. With a playful smile and inquisitive, bold eyes, you are the epitome of life and purity– and you smell like it too.

He leans into the faint scent as he lathers his seasalt drenched hair with the silky, sweet soap. After rinsing the suds out, he grabs the matching conditioner and finds it is heavily imprinted with your scent. Perhaps you use it more often, or in larger quantities than the shampoo, but Chris is not all that curious why. He continues to lean into it, moaning softly as he combs it through his slightly curled strands.

You’re incredibly enchanting, and Chris wonders if you’re aware of that. From the sway of your hips to the glint of intrigue in your alluring gaze, you are a vision of beauty. You radiate confidence, even when you’re perplexed and unsure. You stand in your own light, take control of a room and demand answers. Had Chris met you in college, between frat parties or music classes, he is certain he would have pursued you. Bossy, bratty, brazen, you command attention within a few words and a firm tone. And when he tested your limits, correcting your ordering tone with him in the living room, and you yielded to his tug of power, he swears his cock twitched.

Maybe eight years of solitude has made him desperate, or the near-death experience has renewed his connection to the living, but Chris cannot deny that he wants you. He scrubs his body now and imagines your hands over his chest, along the width of his shoulders and trailing down his arms. He imagines your face inches from his and your warm breath fanning over his lips. He imagines your naked body, smirking when he recalls the way your gaze lingered over his in the kitchen.

Do you like him too? Is that the real reason why you’re helping him?

A series of gentle taps rap at the door.

Chris snaps his attention to the black wood. He focuses his enhanced hearing, hoping to pick up your heartbeat in the hall. Instead, a pair of rapid pumps and fluttering wings greet him. He assumes it’s the crows with his clothes and quickly rinses away the soap.

The water shuts off as he steps back out into the bathroom. A soft, grey towel hovers in front of him.

Chris smiles at the ceiling. “Thanks,” he says, accepting the towel and wrapping it around his waist. As he makes his way to the door, another smaller towel gently lands on his head. Chris chuckles and ruffles the soft cotton through his clean hair.

The door opens for him as he approaches it.

I can get used to this .

His clothes lay in a pile on the floor, wet and littered with sand. Looking up at the house, Chris asks, “Um, can you do me a quick favour?”

The candles momentarily shine brighter in reply.

Chris bites his lip. He glances back at the shower, realising that the house has already done so much for him. He might be pushing his luck with another request. But then the lights shine again, as if reassuring him that it’s okay to ask for more.

Throat bobbing, Chris asks, “Could you help me clean my clothes?”

A wicker basket emerges from a door down the hall. It hops over to Chris from side to side, in a manner he can only describe as gleeful. Once in front of him, it shakes as though it is asking him to drop his clothes into the hamper. Chris tentatively bends down and tosses the sandy clothes in. The basket returns to its spot, disappearing behind its door, cheerful and almost giddy.

Chris smiles to himself. The house must have your personality, or perhaps just aspects of it– playful, helpful, thoughtful. You bleed into every crevice of the warm cottage and Chris, for the first time since turning, is delighted.

A quiet chirp from the crows pulls his attention back to them. They caw a couple more times before flying over to the edge of the stairs.

Chris wonders if they are asking him to follow them, looking between them and the cold bathroom behind him.

They caw again, hopping in place.

He glances down at his towel and raises a brow. “I’m not really–” he starts, only for the crows to cut him off.

One of them, Poe perhaps, lets out a long, almost exasperated squawk that leaves no room for refusal.

With a roll of his eyes, Chris follows after the birds. “Alright, alright,” he sighs. “Stop nagging me.”

The crows fly down the stairs and into the kitchen. Chris takes his time, following the scent of wild lavender and sage. He barely makes it to the archway when he sees your dress flowing around you with every step around the kitchen.

You’ve pulled your hair up, neck on full display. Moving around the dark kitchen, you trade your attention between a hovering book and your breakfast on the stove, all while sneaking sips from your steaming cup of tea. Chris detects notes of chai, cinnamon and anise stars amongst hearty eggs, and fresh tomatoes and chives.

It takes you a minute, but you soon notice his tall figure entering the small space. Your eyes don’t remain on his for too long before trailing down his chest and lingering around his waist. He’s starting to realise that you seem to have a habit of that and it doesn’t bother him at all. If anything, he finds himself puffing out his chest and tightening the tension around his stomach under your watchful gaze.

“They haven’t returned with your clothes?”

Fuck, that voice– light, airy and sweet. Chris averts his gaze and bites on the inside of his cheek to hold back a groan.

Clearing his throat, he replies,“No, they did. They’re just dirty. The house is cleaning them for me.”

You flash him a knowing smile and Chris swears his breath would hitch if he would breathe. “Yeah, it likes feeling useful,” you chuckle, taking a sip of your tea. You then nod at one of the indigo stools before your gleaming marble-topped island in the centre of the kitchen.

Chris takes a seat, ensuring his towel stays put as he adjusts it around his spreading legs. As you turn back to your black iron stove, Chris takes a moment to really take in the kitchen.

With deep crimson walls that cradle the space in a comforting embrace, the space excludes warmth. The soft candlelights that hover above cast playful shadows on the deep charcoal countertops, almost mirroring the crackle and pop of the hearth in the living room. Hanging between the candles are clusters of copper pots and pans, adding notions of rustic charm. Chris then realises that this might be the first room in the cottage without plants dangling from the ceiling or over surfaces. Instead, the shelves are lined with jars of spices and herbs and… body parts. He catches pickled eyeballs, dusty toes, fingers–some with matted fur–, and about three cases of teeth.

“They were donated,” you clarify.

Chris blinks his attention back to you, finding a guilty smile playing on your lips.

“Well,” you start again, “ Most of it was donated.”

He teasingly raises his brows at you, suppressing his own smile. “I suppose that makes it okay then,” he jokes, subtly testing your boundaries again.

There is a flicker of surprised intrigue in your gaze. “It seemed okay when it was saving your life,” you shoot back with the same level of teasing wit.

Chris cannot help the excitement in his chest. Do you know how exhilarating you are? Is that why you keep staring at him with those enchantingly mischievous eyes?

He bites his lip, conceding to your wit. “Learn anything new,” he asks, nodding to the levitating book.

You plate your breakfast with a sigh. The stove shuts off on its own as you round the island and take a seat next to him. Chris stiffen, adjusting his towel around his crotch. The once floating book rests on the countertop between the both of you.

“See for yourself,” you reply before eating.

Chris notes the title: Origins of Vampires, Bloodsuckers, and Incubi , then scans the first few paragraphs. Besides accounts for the first sighting of vampires and the fact that they are apparently extremely lustful beings, it does not inform Chris of anything he does not already know from you. A deal needs to be made with the devil, his soul must have had to be traded as payment, and his body begins to reject all things human.

Furrowing his brows and sucking in his cheeks with a little hiss, Chris shifts forward in his seat to get a better look at the book. There is an extremely long passage about consistent erections, and the next page is filled with a list of the best hideouts to escape the sun during the day. Chris is more concerned with the inconsistency of the author than the fact that he has yet to get an erection since he turned years ago.

“Nothing new,” you finally reply after a few bites of your food. “Nothing useful either.”

“May I?” Chris asks, reaching for the edge of the page.

He flips the page when you nod. The list of hideouts takes up the next three pages and Chris resists the urge to roll his eyes. Information about vampiric cycles, peak slumber and feasting times, and tips on how to hunt fill the remaining pages on vampires before moving onto bloodsuckers and incubi. Again, the information is not anything Chris is not already aware of from the sheer experience of being undead for nearly a decade. He knows that around noon, his body tends to shut down and he seeks the darkest, coldest part of the basement to lay still and close his eyes. He’s not exactly asleep but he’s also not exactly awake either. The stuff about peak feasting times does not really apply to him. Just like when he was human, Chris is always hungry and ready to consume something.

With a heavy sigh, he shuts the book. “That was a waste of time,” he mumbles as you finish your breakfast.

You wave your empty plate and cup off to the sink, then shrug at him. “Well, we now know this book is useless,” you say, voice light with hope. “We can cross it off our list.”

Chris raises a brow. “How many more books are on this list of yours?”

Your gaze is shifty and Chris starts to get nervous. He murmurs your name carefully, merely trying to get you to be honest, but then he notices the way you tremble at the sound of his low, deep voice. He can’t help the smirk tugging on his lips.

“Cold?” he teases before he can stop himself.

Your eyes meet his with careful conviction. You lick your lips, as if debating how sharp your response should be. Attention flitting down to his chest momentarily, you finally reply, “Not at all.”

With that, you wave off the useless book and summon two more. One is for salves and creams, the other is an encyclopaedia of vampiric traits and rituals. It sounds just as useless as the last one but if it’s on your list, Chris is willing to indulge.

“You can get started on this,” you push the encyclopaedia towards him, “while I look into treating those scars.”

“I don’t mind the scars,” he shrugs. “They kinda make me feel human.”

When you meet his eyes this time, your gaze is not filled with caution or calculated intrigue, instead they round with empathy. The sincere reaction triggers another pressing question Chris cannot seem to shake.

“Why are you here?”

Your face folds in confusion. “What?”

“You’re here on this haunted island all alone. Why? Don’t you have a coven or something?”

You pause for longer than usual and Chris worries if he used the wrong term, or perhaps merely asked a more personal question than you’re willing to answer.

But then you clear your throat and adjust your posture in your seat. Staring down at the counter, you let out a heavy sigh and say, “I did and now I don’t.” Again, you take a beat lick your lips. “I wasn’t wanted there, so I needed to go.”

Chris scoffs. He doesn’t register the bluntness of his gestures until you glare at him.

“Have something to add?” you question, that usually sweet voice of yours now sharpened.

It really shouldn’t but the sharpness makes his body buzz with excitement. Chris is fascinated by your darker edges. They contrast so beautifully against your usual lightness, enchanting him with supple seduction.

“I think that’s bullshit,” he replies.

“I think the fact that you just so happened to lose track of time is bullshit,” you remark. “But I have the common courtesy to keep my rude opinions to myself.”

“And you’re doing a great job,” Chris can’t help but tease. “But I was referring to the fact that you would ever be unwanted. If you weren’t such a little…” Chris trails off just to watch your nostrils flare and smirks, “ witch , you would have known that.”

A flicker of regret flashes in your gaze, but it doesn’t take long to harden again with a clench of your jaw.

“Maybe you should’ve added that sooner.”

“Maybe you should’ve given me the chance to.”

“How is any of this my fault?” you ask, voice still irritated but a chuckle manages to slip past your sweet lips.

Chris smiles at the girly sound, suddenly feeling… warm?

“I never said it was,” he answers. He keeps his voice tempered and gentle, watching as you bite your lip again.

There is a shift in the air. Chris catches the sudden thickness of your scent, the newfound depth it carries and you shift in your seat again. Furrowing his brows, he leans forward to hold your gaze and asks, “You okay?”

You nod, yet shoot up from your seat. You push that book towards him again and point to the living room. “The house made you a little nook by the fire. Try reading as much as you can. The sooner we find out about you, the sooner you can return home.” Your voice sounds as sweet as it normally does, but carries a certain weight to it. Chris has trouble placing it as you continue, “If you get thirsty or need anything else, just ask the house. It’s happiest when it can provide.”

Inhaling sharply, Chris collects the book and stands. He holds his towel in place with his other hand, the same way he did with the blanket not too long ago, and starts to make his way to the living room. When he gets to the archway, he pauses to glance over his shoulder.

You’re still watching him, captivated by the broadness of his back.

“I think the house takes after you,” he says, turning to face you. “You seem content providing as well. So, I really can’t imagine anyone not wanting you around.”

You shift your weight and clench your jaw. With a thick swallow, you shake your head. “You don’t know me,” you mutter, face contorting with shame.

“And you don’t know me,” he shrugs. “But here we are, a vampire and a blood-witch. Is that a common pair amongst the supernatural?”

You shake your head.

Chris smiles. “And yet you saved me. And you continue to help me. And I might not know you the way the house or crows do,” he chuckles, watching a smile play on your lips, “but I know that I can comfortably go into the next room and not have to worry about you suddenly opening the window and burning me alive. And I think that’s a good sign when you’re getting to know someone, yeah?”

With a roll of your eyes, you cross your arms over your chest. Chris does his best to ignore the way they press together and jut out. “Your bar is way too low for strangers, Christopher.”

He tongues his cheek. “ Chris ,” he corrects.

A mischievous smile spreads across your soft features and Chris wonders if he may have given you some ammunition to tease him later.

“Happy reading, Chris ,” you say.

The way you emphasise his name almost makes him shiver.

“Happy conjuring, little witch.”

A renewed sense of pride blooms in his still chest at the way you shyly avert your gaze upon hearing your new nickname. Chris thinks it has a nice ring to it, and you look absolutely adorable when you’re flustered. He allows himself one last once over of your curves, then pulls himself towards the living room.

True to your words, the house has provided a long, wide chaise of midnight blue velvet. It sits before the fireplace with a soft amber blanket draped over the back. Chris settles into the plush cushions, sinking into comfort and props his feet up. He throws the blanket over his waist to replace his towel and asks the house to dim the fire.

Flipping open the book, Chris starts to learn more about himself, pushing every tempting thought of you out of his mind.

Two weeks go by in a blur and you find that you are no less infatuated by Chris than when you first met him.

He has such an easy way about him, smiling effortlessly. His eyes are still mismatched as if the sun had burned the vampiric silver of his left iris into his retina. No amount of blood has reversed the damage. However, you don’t mind. In fact, you find yourself feeling relieved when his eyes remain the same pair of brown and grey every time he takes a sip of animal blood. You like the twinkle of mischief that seems to glow so brightly amongst the two colours. Its allure is deliciously dangerous with promises of subtle destruction. You especially enjoy how they squint when he laughs or smiles with his white teeth, still gleaming with joy and lightness.

You’ve gotten used to his presence, and you think that maybe he has gotten used to yours too. Just two nights ago, he finally told you why he was out so late the night you met. You instantly empathised with him, knowing all too well how powerful the yearning for connection can be. It’s the reason you promised to help again, desperate for a semblance of real, tangible interactions too.

“And your parents?” you asked, after he told you all about how he hides out in his friends’ basements. “Do they know?”

His jaw set. “They think I died,” he sighs. “Well, they think I’m missing, but it’s been eight years and they bought a headstone so…”

Regret tightened in your chest. “I’m so–”

“My little brother took my old room,” he continued, cutting you off . “I snuck in one night, just to… see, I guess? He still has some of my stuff there, all dusty and untouched. He’s so big now, almost as tall as me,” he chuckled, a small smile settling on his lips. “He plays baseball though. I don’t think I’ve seen any of them go near a swimming pool in years. ”

You bit your lip, unsure of what to say. You wanted to just swallow your previous words, the regret of mentioning his parents wrapping tighter around your heart.

“My mum saw me once,” he said, finally meeting your gaze. A muted sadness greets you, but his little smile remains on those pink-stained lips. “She was bringing groceries in one night and caught me staring behind some tree. She dropped the bag and called out to my dad. I ran before either of them could see me again,” he paused to swallow.“ I still can’t get the sound of her sobs out of my head.”

You blink the memory away, pulling your dusky plum coloured comforter up to your chin. A part of you wishes you had asked him why he never went back to his parents or let them believe he’d gone missing. Clearly, the thought of them moving on without him still weighs heavy on his heart. But you couldn’t find your word at the time, blinking back tears as he hung his head and spoke so quietly. Besides, you are sure, based on his caring, selfless personality, he likely thought he was doing them a favour by shielding them from his new reality. He was practically brimming with self hatred when you met.

And you realised, in that vulnerable moment, it was never about feeling the sun or the cold or even the sensation of swimming again. It has always been about being human . Chris craves his humanity more than he values his life. You both know that he was well aware of when the sun would rise, that he fought through his inherent fear of it for the chance to feel near-human again. He even keeps his remaining sun-scars and winks his mismatched eyes because they are consequences of feeling that pain. And as you read more and more about vampires together, the hindrance of potentially accessing his full abilities does not surprise you. To his core, Chris is human, so he is constantly rejecting his vampiric turn.

That realisation shifted your focus last night. You moved from books about vampires to those about demons. Flipping through pages and pages of information, you found multiple passages about soul-trading. You discovered that some demons demand pure souls in addition to the ones they have already swindled from their summors. This detail, likely lost in the fine-print of most deals, implements a vampiric gene into the summors’ genetics. The variant remains dormant, passing through the bloodline until it finally finds a pure soul to claim.

Chris still can’t believe that one of his ancestors would stoop so low, but you find that reaction in itself is just another testament of his purity.

Smiling to yourself at the thought of him, you stare at your star-speckled ceiling. You enchanted it to reflect the night sky on your first night at Crow’s Nest . Actually, you had enchanted the ceiling of the living room, having slept down there until you were able to slowly build your little cottage and refine your new sanctuary. You were terrified of being found and snatched back for sentencing by the Arcane Court. You’re well aware that blood-witches don’t simply break blood bonds and live to tell the tale. You remember using whatever magic you had at the time to unshackle yourself from the bounds of your coven, hop on your broom with your life magically crammed into a knapsack, and escape into the same dark night.

And as you lie here now, sinking into your silky sheets, you find that staring at a shimmering night sky can still ease your nerves all the same. You try to identify constellations and search for the moon between the clouds. You curse under your breath when you finally catch a glimpse of its glow– waxing gibbous .

Tomorrow is the full moon.

You let out a shaky breath, attempting to get lost in the stars again, but it’s no use. All you can think about is that damned elixir.

“I found something,” you muttered to Chris.

He laid in his little nook by the dimmed fire, one hand clutching a book and the other folded behind his head. Peering over at you, a little smirk tugs on his lips. “A new blood recipe?” he asked, knowing you have been testing out some new blends of spices in his blood.

You shake your head and reply, “A solution . ”

You feel your skin grow hot from the memory of having to explain to him what this solution entails.

At its core, it is simply a recipe for vampiric vitality. And after hearing about his parents and how they have tried to move on from losing him, how he had tried to move on, you remember feeling hopeful. Maybe this could be the key to reclaim his life, to possibly see them again without shame.

However, the summary still gives you pause. It reads:

“The Elixir of the Damned is a rare, potent potion crafted to primarily shield vampires, and other sun-sensitive creatures, from the deadly effects of daylight. By harnessing the mystical properties of a blood-witch's full-moon blood, the elixir enables these creatures to walk under the sun without harm, preserving their strength and powers. Beyond sunlight protection, the elixir grants a surge of energy, reduces the need for frequent feeding, shortens sleep cycles, and reverses their natural nocturnal schedule.

The thick, midnight violet elixir is a luminescent liquid concoction of moonlight essence, ground sage, sunroot and the dust of two diamonds: obsidian and sunstone. The mixture must be thoroughly stirred and refrigerated for a minimum of twelve hours before use. Upon a full-moon, the elixir must be mixed with the menstrual blood of a blood-witch and consumed immediately. For best results, pour and harvest the menstrual blood directly from the source.”

You have the stupid thing memorised, having read it countless times, before finally telling Chris. Though he can’t breathe, you’re certain his breath hitched at the explanation. You remember parting your lips to further explain when he suddenly agreed.

“It’s only weird if we make it weird,” he argued. “I’m willing to keep it strictly professional if you are.”

You swallowed thickly, nodding. “Yeah,” you found yourself replying. “I can do the same.”

And yet you lay here, naked and squirming at the thought of his mouth between your legs because he insisted, and you quote, “If we’re gonna do it, we might as well do it right.”

Do me right , you wanted to reply. Just bend me over the couch and do me right now .

Instead, you continuously agree and nod and pretend that your arousal isn’t sticking between your thighs as your clit throbs for attention.

You cup your crotch now, unable to take it anymore. He’s fucking hot– so fucking hot . You have been trying not to stare but he wears these tight tank tops that showcase his muscular arms all the fucking time. You mentally curse his stupid friends for sending such revealing clothes through the crows. He sent them a letter with Poe a day after you agreed to help them and you wonder if he specifically requested these pieces or if this is his usual style.

Either way, you cannot stop staring. Every ridge and crevices of his buff chest and toned stomach is outlined, completely captivating your attention. You are constantly trying to maintain eye contact, but even that feels too much sometimes. He is always teasing and joking with you, gazing at you with such consuming warmth, you cannot help but feel hot .

A little gasp escapes you as you spread your legs and drench your fingers with your arousal. Sticky, wet, you need him. Maybe it’s been too long without a good fuck, or you are simply obsessed, but it really doesn’t matter. You need a release right now or you might not make it through the night.

You start slow, rubbing circles over your needy clit. It doesn’t take long for you to overheat, however. So you pause your movements to shove your blanket off. Now fully naked and exposed to your cold room, you return your hand between your legs.

A wet squelching sounds as you rub and rub your fingers round and round. You test out rhythms, squirming under your desperate touch–slow–fast–slow–fast, and bite back a whimper.

What would Chris do, you cannot help wondering.

Administering featherlight touches, you know he’d play with you to start. He’d keep his pressure light and quick, wanting to watch you chase after his hand after every fleeting touch. Then, you push down harshly on your clit and bite into your lip harder to hold back a moan. You just know he’d be rough too, forcefully pressing down until he hears you whine his name.

“Chris,” you let yourself whisper. “Right there, baby.”

A quiet moan slips out with your words and you’re not completely mad about it. It was silent enough and you’re certain he’s too busy sipping on the warmed seven herb spiced blood you left out for him to pay much attention to you right now.

As much as you enjoy imagining him playing with you, you cannot stand the anticipation anymore. Your needy hole clenches repeatedly, aching to be filled. You shakily gasp and decide to fully give into your desire. Grabbing your wand, you place the handle against your clit and will it to vibrate. You use your other hand to finger yourself, shoving three ambitious digits in.

“ Oh!”

You bite your lip, panic sprouting in your chest at the sudden spike in volume. Glancing at the door, you’re relieved to find it still shut. You lay back against your pillow and pick up your pace. He’d be unforgiving. He’d be rough and reckless.

Your body trembles at the thought.

“Chris,” you whisper into the room. “Please don’t stop fucking me like that.”

Eyes fluttering shut, you imagine him leering over you, smirking and groaning. You imagine his strong frame ramming into you, his relentless grip keeping you in place. Would he want you to hold his gaze? Or would he bury his face in the crook of your neck to kiss and nibble on?

The pleasure only increases. You tense up. The vibrations rumbling from the hilt of your mahogany wand intensifies. Your fingers eagerly move in and out, tight walls closing in on them.

“ You’re gonna make me cum,” you mutter, breathless and whiny.

Cum for me , baby , a whisper of a voice orders. Be a good little witch and cum all over my fingers .

The sound is so deep and husky, but also murmurous and hazy. If you had time to focus on it, you wouldn’t have automatically assumed it was internal and perhaps investigated. But the constant pleasure is all too consuming. Working you closer and closer to your release, you cannot register the source of any sound besides that of your fast fingers and vibrating wand.

That pretty pussy looks so delicious .

Your orgasm catches you off guard, suddenly rippling through you. You squeal lifting your head from your pillow to almost hunch inwards and cum.

“Chris, Chris, Chris, Chris,” you whisper between whimpers and you rapidly draw every last surge of arousal out. “Oh my god ,” you heave, tossing your wand aside. The stimulation is nearly agonising when paired with your still moving fingers.

After a few more thrusts, you lay back into your bed, heaving. Your hand slides out and up towards your clit. A single brush of contact makes your body tremble. You retract your hand all together, swallowing a moan. Your legs come together, eyes droop from exhaustion and fatigue.

You have no idea how you’re going to remain “professional” tomorrow. The sheer thought of him down there coaxed one of your most powerful orgasms. How will you be able to keep your moans at bay, or your body from rolling into his mouth?

Click.

You snap your attention to your door. It’s shut. Holding your breath, you try to listen for footsteps. When that proves useless, you squint at the gap between the door and floor for movements of shadow. Still, silent, the hallway is empty.

With a shake of your head, you rest back into your pillow and wave yourself clean. You then tug your comforter back over your spent body and shut your eyes. You just need to get through tomorrow. Once the elixir and ritual is complete, he can return home and you won’t have to see him until your next cycle.

Chris stands in your room, arms crossed over his chest. It looks warmer under candlelights than it did last night beneath glimmering stars. Unlike the darkness of the bathroom, or warmth of the living room and kitchen, your room is a collection of cool tones, invoking quiet serenity. The walls are a hazy blue, trimmed with crown moulding around the baseboards and ceiling. One wall of the room is lined with shelves upon shelves of books, plants and a plethora of magical objects, like stones, crystal balls, and the occasional skull. A chestnut vanity, large wardrobe and oval mirror sit on his left side by an open window. Sheer violet curtains dance with the gentle wind.

Underfoot, a thick, handknitted rug of pewter, amethyst and onyx yarn stretches over polished, dark walnut floors. Chris curls his toes into it, attempting to ground himself, as his eyes follow you towards your four-poster bed. It must be a queen– rather fitting for you– since it takes up a substantial amount of space in the centre of the room. The gauzy mauve curtains surrounding your bed part as you approach it. Your matching greyish-plum comforter pulls back, as if welcoming you to silky starlight silver sheets. You wave it back into place then turn to him.

“It’s almost time,” you say.

The slight tremor in your voice draws Chris back to the events he witnessed last night. You keep talking now, gesturing to your bed with one hand, while clutching onto the small vial of a deep, inky violet elixir in the other. He sees your pretty mouth moving, but does not register your words. All he hears are your delicate, fragile moans.

Chris didn’t mean to linger or leer last night. He doesn’t usually go to the second floor when you go to bed, not wanting to disturb you. But he had just come back from collecting some ingredients for the elixir around the island, heard you calling his name and got curious. Once he realised what you were doing, he just couldn’t tear himself away. He remembers the way you squirmed and begged. He remembers the way you worked your fingers in and out of your perfect, needy pussy. He remembers how you held your wand, the one laying on your nightstand right now, and wonders how often you use it for that purpose. How often do you use it thinking about him ?

“Did you hear me?” you ask.

Chris’s eyes widen. “What?”

You tilt your head and give him a serious look. “Chris, do you still want to do this?”

“Of course.”

“Listen, if you’re having second thoug–”

Chris quickly cuts you off with an urgent shake of his head. “No, no, I want this,” he quickly reassures. The eagerness of his statement dawns on him the moment the words leave his lips. Chris immediately tries to save himself from further embarrassment, adding, “I want to feel normal again.”

You nod, inhaling deeply.

Chris’s attention flickers down to your full chest, watching it rise under your silky black robe then fall as you exhale. He meant to meet your gaze again, but he couldn’t stop himself from taking in your frame. From the curves of your waist to the roundness of your stomach and thickness of your thighs, you are a vision of temptation.

Your fingers trace the ribbon of your robe, drawing his focus back to your face. You bite on your lips, nervous eyes peering at him cautiously.

“Are you okay with this?” Chris asks. “It’s never too late to change your mind.”

You swallow thickly. “I want you to feel normal too,” you replied, lips slighting relaxing into a soft smile. “It’s not about changing my mind. I just…” you trail off with a sigh.

Chris remains silent, giving you the space to collect your thoughts.

Rolling your shoulders back, you hold his gaze and confess,“I just haven’t been naked in front of someone else in a really long time.”

One of the things Chris has come to find so admirable about you is how unapologetically honest you are about yourself. You do not mince words or circle difficult topics. You stand your ground and say what you mean, uttering every syllable like you are reciting a declaration of love, sincere and unwavering. He catches the way you fist your hands to keep them from trembling and he finds that defiance all the more endearing.

He tries to bite back a smile at how strong and cute you’re being. Fuck, he’s wholeheartly ready to devour you and show you just how wonderful you are.

Without another word, he tugs the hem of his shirt up and over his head. He can’t help smirking when you gasp at his bare chest. He’s caught you staring enough time to know you like what you see. Unbuttoning his jeans, he pulls them down with his briefs and steps out of them, fully naked in front of you.

“Now, you’re not alone,” he smiles.

Eyes widen, mouth slightly agape, you slowly drag your gaze down his frame. You shift your weight and he catches the way your legs press tightly together. The image of them spread and glistening with your arousal flashes between blinks.

You take another deep breath then untie the knot of your robe. The delicate silk slips off your shoulders, revealing the epitome of supple seduction and plump perfection.

Chris, already salivating, swallows. Your gaze trails back down to his crotch and he’s certain you are seeing exactly how he truly feels. His cock hardened last night the moment he saw you all needy and whiny. He tried to jerk himself off, hoping to soften again but failed– even after cumming three times.

“Does it bother you?” He gently asks, not moving to hide his erection yet.

You shake your head.

“I can put something back on if it does,” he tries again, wanting to be sure you know he is not ashamed of his desire. You’re incredibly hot and you must know it too with the way you constantly tease him with low-cut, form-fitting dresses. It’s partially why he asked Jisung to send him tank-tops and sweatpants when crafting a letter for Poe to send.

“It’s fine, Chris,” you whisper.

His jaw clenches at the memory of your whiny voice saying his name.

A little smile plays on your lips as you toss him half a shrug and add, “It was bound to happen at some point tonight. Might as well get over the awkwardness now.”

Chris glares, but the smirk on his face does not hint towards conviction. “Oh, yeah? Get this kinda reaction often, little witch?”

You bite your lip then teasingly quirk a brow. “Why,” you shoot back. “Jealous?”

He tongues his cheek. “I just wanna know how many members are part of your little fan club.”

You turn towards the bed, displaying your round rear, and reply, “There’s room for one more.”

Chirs suppresses a groan. He tightens his jaw and follows after you. As you lie back into your propped, plush pillows, Chris meets your eyes. All notions of uncertainty have been replaced by carefree mischief. He sits on his knees in front of your legs and offers a small smile.

“I already recited the spell,” you say, holding out the vial. “All you have to do now is pour it over me and… harvest the blood.”

Chris takes the tiny glass bottle, nodding. “If you ever need me to stop–” he starts, only for you to cut him off with the spread of your legs.

A richer, more musky aroma of your usual rainwater, sage and wild lavender scent instantly overwhelms his senses. Laced with your menstrual blood, it evokes the earthiness of damp soil and the sweetness of blooming flowers.

His jaw goes slack, eyes darkening. He can feel his fangs poke out and involuntarily takes a long, slow breath. His lungs do not work, heart still and cold, but he swears he feels them filling from the sheer smell of you.

Your soft voice cuts through his primal desires, as you whisper,“I trust you.”

With that, Chris uncorks the vial. His free hand settles on your thigh. He smiles to himself at the softness, having only imagined the feeling of it for the last two weeks. He knew you’d feel so delicate, rubbing his hand up and down your warm skin.

He looks back at you and meets your confident gaze with a little nod, confirming that he’s ready too. Then, he brings the tiny glass bottle to your blood-glistening lips and pours the elixir. It looks a lot like violet-coloured lube and feels that way too as he uses his thumb to rub it around your pussy.

Your hips stiffen, core clenches at the sudden sensation and Chris darts his attention up to your face again, concerned. However, tentative notions of pleasure greet him. Your brows furrows, and eyes flicker with shy delight. You bite your lip, and that’s when Chris catches the rapid pounding of your heart.

As he continues to rub the elixir over your clit then drag it down to circle your needy hole, Chris wonders if this is what you imagined him doing to you last night.

“I think it’s good now,” you say, voice wavering. “We don’t have all night, you know?”

Chris smirks at your little joke. You have a tendency to be rather bossy and he’s been trying to subtly reign in your sassiness with challenging looks and sharper words every now and again. But then you go and test his patience with shit like this– speaking to him like he works for you. It excites and enrages him all at once.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to be taking that tone with me, little witch,” he warns, applying pressure with his thumb against your clit.

Your breath hitches before you clamp a hand to your mouth.

Chris stifles his laughter. You’re a good girl down to your core. You just need the right person to remind you of that sometimes.

Now that you are behaving, Chris lowers himself towards your delicious pussy. You smell divine, leaking of blood and drenched in the glow of the elixir. He cannot hold back any longer upon another strong whiff. Tongue flat, he drags it between your lips with a deep, full-chested groan. He repeats the slow action again and again, lowering himself further against the bed until he’s lying down on his stomach.

He pulls back to loop his arms under your thighs. Pulling the top part of your pussy up, he dives back in. You taste like the ocean breeze on a sweltering summer day, purely refreshing. His tongue circles around your lips and clit, gathering all the leaked blood, which adds a metalicy sweetness to your arousal. A part of him wishes he was able to taste you without the juicy influence of the elixir, wondering how the flavour of your blood would change.

Chris tongues the entrance of your hole, hoping to ease you into the–what did you call it?– harvest?

However, upon the first real sip of your menstrual blood, something profoundly primal snaps in the depths of his chest. Unbound by his inhibitions, he growls against your core and shoves his long, wet tongue deep into you.

A tiny whimper cuts through the loud sound of his slurps, but Chris pays it no mind. He laps and laps tongue-fulls of your blood, swallowing with eager delight. His fingers press into your soft skin, still Chris does not worry about bruising you. Instead, he shakes his head and lets out a series of pleased groans.

Your hips roll into his mouth and he welcomes the gesture with another slurp of your blood. He can feel the magical substance rush through his body, warming his once cold skin. Every swallow fills another organ and Chris is addicted to that rush of awakening nerves.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, shoving his face further into your sex. Legs wrapping around his head, Chris is only just realising that you’ve been whining and moaning this entire time. He focuses his enhanced hearing on your fragile voice, humming approving groans.

“Give it to me just like that,” you whimper. “Please, please , Chris.”

Again with those little demands , Chris thinks. At least you remembered to say please this time.

A mixture of your arousal and blood pools at your entrance, drawing Chris back to his task. His vampiric senses igniting all over again, he does not attempt to hold back. In and out, he shoves his tongue between your tightening walls, gathering as much blood as he can.

But, it’s not enough. His tongue is only collecting sips. Chris needs gulps .

He adjusts his grip on your hips, now pressing you firmly into the mattress and latches his lips over your entrance. With a deep breath, Chris begins to suck. He suctions his mouth and siphones your blood out. He swallows mouthfuls of elixir tainted blood and arousal, mismatched eyes rolling back at the satisfaction of such unholy hunger.

The more he draws, the darker you taste. Chris cannot describe it well, but he thinks it’s the taste of magic, fizzing on his tongue like sparkling water.

“ Oh, fuck ,” you cry, voice breaking as you cum.

A hint of lightness settles on his tongue upon sucking out your orgasm as well. Chris moans in delight, gulping down two more mouthfuls before finally pulling away with a wet pop .

Your legs are hyper-extended, trembling over his shoulders.

Chris glances up at you, curious to see if you’ll own the fact that you just came on his face or if you’ll get all shy and bashful. Your pleased features are laced with exhaustion as you pant. Tired eyes meeting his lustful ones, you quirk a brow. Chris licks his lips, taking the gesture as a silent question of if he is satisfied.

Physically, Chris is full. He is not sure he can down even the tiniest of sips. Sexually, however, he is just getting started.

“You alright?” he asks, sitting himself up on his knees again.

You nod, but Chris shakes his head. You know better than to respond like that , he thinks.

“Talk to me, baby.”

The term of endearment was not intentional, but Chris also does not hate the way it sounds. It slipped out last night too as he talked you through your orgasm. He can tell from the way your lips part and eyes slightly widen that you’re waiting for him to correct himself, but he refuses to. Instead, he holds your eyes without a notion of panic or regret.

“I’m okay,” you finally mutter between heavy breaths. “I…” you hesitate, attention flickering down to his crotch momentarily. “I need more.”

Chris smirks. “What do you say?”

“Please.”

“Please what?”

Your lips quiver, desperation seeping into your gaze. “Please fuck me, Chris. No– don’t look at me like that. I know you want this too.”

Chris was trying to hide his smug smile, but upon your demand, he lets it take over his features. You’re a fucking brat, and he has extended the last of his generous patience. Before he can think twice, Chris smacks your sensitive pussy.

“When,” he smacks it again, “are you,” smack , “going to fucking” smack , “learn?”

Your hips jolt up with every hit, moans trembling as they tumble from your beautiful lips. Your face is a crumpled mess of pleasure and pain, desperate eyes boring into his.

Cupping you with one hand and harshly rubbing, Chris places his other by your head and hovers over your shaking body. “Listen to me, little witch,” he whispers, nudging his bloody nose against yours. “If you talk to me like that again, like I’m your little pet , I will fuck you even after the sun comes up, do you understand?”

You nod eagerly.

Chris tightens his grip on your crotch, baring his teeth with an annoyed growl. “Use your fucking words,” he orders. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“I’m sorry,” you reply, voice quiet and meek.

The little whimpers you subsequently let out don’t do much to ease the throb of his cock. In fact, they only intensify it. You sound like wounded prey and he’s tired of fighting against his instincts. He’s been stifling the beast inside for the last eight years, filling himself with self-loathing instead. He’s done hating the power, fully embracing his new supernatural form.

Releasing his hold on your crotch, Chris immediately aligns and shoves himself between your walls. A loud hiss escapes his blood-dripping lips, fangs on full display, at the tight pressure around him. Fuck, if he hadn’t seen you skillfully fingering yourself last night, he would have believed you were a virgin.

You moan with him, clutching on his shoulders. “Oh, god ,” you groan, enchanting eyes fluttering shut. “ Fuck, fuck– Chris, you’re h-huge. What the actual fuck?”

Chris’s previously irritated resolve wavers upon your squealing voice. He pauses his shallow thrusts to give you time to adjust.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat as your nails dig into his warming flesh. “I-I know you need this too.”

Shifting down to his forearms, Chris buries his face in the crook of your neck, and fondly inhales your scent. “Don’t be sorry, baby,” he murmurs. “I waited two weeks for this. Another minute won’t make a difference.”

You let out a breathless giggle, wrapping your arms around his head. A delighted hum sounds from your lips and Chris feels the vibrations of it against his face. He smiles to himself before licking and kissing your delicate skin.

Your heart is beating so fast. He can feel the thumping pounds against his tongue and can’t help but chuckle. Your skin suddenly grows hot and he realises he has embarrassed you. Yet, instead of pushing him off, you clench tighter around him.

“Please don’t laugh at me,” you whine.

Chris smirks at your tone and wording, glad to see you’re finally following his orders. Still, he decides to test it again, wondering if it’s just a fluke.

“I’m not laughing at you, little witch,” he lies.

Instead of calling him out, you remain silent.

Chris pulls back to gauge your features. Though pouting, you refrain from glaring at him too hard. Filled with pride, Chris kisses your cheek, down to your jaw then up to your chin again.

“Good girl,” he mutters once his lips are hovering over your mouth.

Your gaze flits between his eyes and blood-stained lips. Chris makes the conscious choice not to kiss you, unsure if the taste of your menstrual blood will be as delicious to you as it is to him. For a second, he thinks you might kiss him anyway, panting beneath him even when he remains motionless inside you.

But then you simply arch your back, pushing your full breasts against him, and mutter, “I’m ready now.”

Chris dips his head back down to your neck. He kisses and sucks on your hot skin, gently thrusting into you. He takes his time, with his hips and lips, dragging the process out only to forcefully shove it back in.

You’re already trembling, sweet voice hiccuping moans. Chris scratches his fangs over your collarbone just to hear you whimper his name.

“Please, Chris,” you cry.

He kisses the slightly wounded area and quietly chuckles to himself. “Do you need something, little witch?” he teasingly asks.

“F-faster, please?” you quickly ask. “I’m not telling. I’m asking– begging! Please, please , Chris!”

His cock twitches. He groans at the sound of your desperate, whiny voice, physically incapable of torturing you any longer. With supernatural speed, Chris’s hips snap into action. He thrusts harshly, fisting the sheets beneath you. The bed creaks and slams against the walls over and over again, overtaking the slapping sound of his hips meeting yours.

Your body shakes and jiggles under him, and he is obsessed with how amazing your skin feels rubbing against his. Your nails scratch at his back, before finally sinking into his shoulders. You brace yourself against him, the sounds of your broken, sobbing moans encouraging him to continue.

"You have no idea what your voice does to me,” Chris groans, lips smothered under your jaw. “I could listen to you all fucking night.”

Your legs wrap around his waist. Chris groans even louder, addicted to the way you’re clinging onto him.

“Only you can make me sound like this,” you whimper then warn a thrust later, “I’m gonna cum!”

Chris lets out a low, satisfied growl, relentless with his speed and power. He presses his lips to the shell of your ear and whispers in a deep, breathless voice, “ Cum for me, sweet girl. ”

He can feel the erratic beat of your heart against his chest. Your pussy tightly clenches around him, gripping harshly onto his cock. As you cum, squealing his name like a practised spell, he chokes on his own moans. His hips push deep inside you, tensing as he finally unloads himself. Ropes and ropes of his cum fill you up as he growls in response to your meek moans.

Chris thrusts a few more times, wanting to ensure you’ve exhausted your orgasm. Then, in two swift motions, he lifts, pulls himself out, and rolls off you. He lands on the bed with a little bounce and content sigh. He expects to see the night sky on the ceiling, like it was last night, but instead finds the sea. And there, between the lapping waves, Chris catches your reflection.

Raising a brow, he tongues his cheek and looks at you. “Enjoy the show,” he teases.

You roll your eyes, heat crawling up your neck to spread across your cheeks. “I did, actually,” you definitely reply as a last ditch effort to save a semblance of your self-respect. “You have a great butt, by the way.”

Chris laughs. He throws his head back and lets out a full-chested roar of a laugh. He can’t remember that last time he did that without you around. The last two weeks have made him feel more human than he probably ever had in his life. You’re absolutely remarkable and he’s lucky to have met you, even if it means he had to lose his soul.

Lifting his arm, Chris nods at you, silently ordering you to lean into him. You shift closer and hug his waist without another word, much to his surprise.

“You’re so pretty when you're doing as you're told,” Chris praises.

“I’m pretty always,” you retort.

Chris rolls his eyes. “Just take the compliment,” he chuckles.

“You’re not fucking me,” you practically whine. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“You’re impossible,” Chris mutters under his breath. But he still holds you close, tracing soothing circles around your shoulder.

You both bask in the silence while he gives you a second to catch your breath. Once he hears your heart beat normally again, Chris asks, “Does it work right away?”

You hum with uncertainty, waving your hand to summon the book. It flies towards you then hovers over your faces. After flipping through the pages, it lands on the recipe for the elixir.

Chris tilts his eyes, brows furrowed in confusion. “Is this the right book?” he asks, as he skims through the paragraphs.

You flip the page, mumbling, “Yeah.”

There are only a few books in your personal library that Chris cannot read, having been written in an ancient language he has tried and failed to understand. However, as he stares longer at the page, Chris finds that he can read every word.

You gasp, sitting up. The book moves with you, hoving in front of you instead of on top of you now. Not that it even matters, since you grab the book from mid-air and pull it into your lap.

Chris sits up beside you. He brushes your hair off your shoulder and asks, “What’s wrong? Did we do it wrong?”

You bring a hand to your mouth as if you cannot believe what you’re reading. “We fucked up,” you whisper.

A smirk plays on his lips. “Does that mean we get to do this again?”

Setting the book down, you rub your face and choke back a chuckle. “No, I mean,” you start, turning to face him. “We really fucked up.”

Chris’s smile falters. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, gently running his hand up and down your bicep. “It’s alright, little witch. Take a breath,” he whispers, making sure to keep his voice light. “What happened?”

Your eyes shut, brows knotting, and lean into him. “There is a disclaimer at the end of every spell, recipe, ritual– Whatever it is, there is always a disclaimer that outlines the side effects or possible consequences to alterations.”

Chris nods, urging you to continue.

“The magic we were using is called sex magic. It usually uses the sexual energy created between the participating parties to harness power. In our case, we were only meant to use it to make you sun-proof, for lack of a better word.”

“I can think of three better words,” Chris can’t help but tease.

You fight off a smile, glaring at him. “Keep them to yourself,” you demand.

Chris pauses, wanting to tell you to behave but he can’t move his lips. His voice has diminished too, like his body is physically incapable of ordering you around.

Guilt flashes in your eyes. “When we had sex, with the elixir and spell tangled in the initial act of harvesting my blood, the purpose of the ritual shifted,” you continue, shoulders tensing. “It may have bound you to me.”

“What?” Chris asks, trying and failing not to sound annoyed. “What does that mean?”

“Witches often have familiars and demons are often serving creatures. They get summoned and must fulfil the summoner's request to be released. The spell has been documented to intertwine the two when more than the required act was performed,” you explain.

What about the crows , Chris wants to ask. He thought they held the role of a familiar.

You shake your head. “They’re more like co-inhibitors. It is their island afterall.”

Chris retracts his arm from you, setting his jaw. He knows he did not say that out loud so how the–

Shit, did I just read his mind?

Your voice is clear in his head. Blinking, Chris swallows thickly. “Is that normal?”

You hesitate. “I’ll look into it.”

“How could you have missed this?”

“I was a little busy trying to find all the ingredients,” you argue.

Chris deadpans. “ I found the ingredients,” he corrects.

You bite your lip, face crumbling with remorse. “I’m sorry, I–” you cut yourself off with a sigh then start again. “Honestly, I was too busy thinking about you eating me out. It’s why I made you go out and get those ingredients last night. I wanted the house to myself to just let out some of my–”

“Temptations?”

“ Frustrations ,” you correct with a playful glare. “I did not mean for this to happen.”

Chris sighs. He rubs his face and slumps back against your pillows.

This may not have been what he wanted, however while he wants to be upset, he cannot find it in him to be disappointed. You’re a great friend, a better lover and he’d be insane to reject you. The only real downside about this newfound connection is his inability to put you in your place. You tend to get a bit too cocky and mouth off when he lets one too many sassy comments slide.

“I don’t want this going to your head, little witch,” he warns, meeting your gaze again.

You try to hide that mischievous smile and not being able to correct it is already driving him crazy.

“No promises,” you tease. Leaning over him, you stroke his chest and add, “But you have permission to keep me in check whenever you please.”

Chris tongues his cheek. “You had to have known that I would hate the way you said that.”

Your little smile is enough confirmation.

Chris shoves you back into the bed with a gentle push of your shoulder. “You clearly haven’t had enough,” he murmurs, stationing himself between your legs again.

“But the elix–”

“To hell with the fucking elixir,” he growls. “I’ll be damned if I don’t fuck your mouth clean.”

The way you shiver at the sound of his voice arouses him all over again. Shifting off the bed, Chris stands at the edge and gestures for you to adjust yourself so your head is hanging off the mattress.

And with a simple tug of your chin, he’s determined to stay true to his words.

You eagerly oblige him.

note; please do not leave hate towards me or any other readers. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work.

#chantober 2024 #bang chan smut #chan smut #stray kids smut #bang chan fanfic #bang chan x reader #chan fanfic #chan x reader #stray kids x reader

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itsonlydana · 6 months ago

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where snow falls and conversation strikes | hobbit

pairing: Thranduil x fem!reader 👑

Your train gets caught in a snowstorm and when the first class gets moved into the normal compartments, a beautiful man asks to sit with you

warnings/tags: modern(ish)!AU, First Meetings, Fluff

wordcount: 3,7k

an: wrote this mostly on the train on my way to work every morning so it took a while and suddenly its 25° c and not 0°c anymore... oops? and lets ignore that my layout for fics is not even close to uniformly

+ masterlist + rules + read the fic on ao3 +

🌿 reposts and comments are appreciated, they motivate me a lot and keep me writing <3

The view outside the train window was white in its purest form. The mush of white flakes went from gently landing on the glass to completely covering it, obscuring everything behind an opaque wall.

A few hours ago it had been a wonderful sight of frost-tipped mountains, sloping meadows, and high-risen forests that made the long journey not only bearable but quite enjoyable. The hours had flown by just like the landscape, yet – as the newspapers had predicted it would happen – the gray clouds coming in from the seaside had caught up with the train weaving through the country and now, ever so slowly, it lost its speed.

It couldn't have been long to the city. The last stop had been a while ago and if it weren't for the clouds hanging so low, coloring the sky ashen and the snow that just wouldn't stop falling, you could have probably seen the first small villages that dotted the outside of the city.

The train slowing down had been inevitable, you had known as much when you had boarded earlier this morning, though you had hoped to arrive at the destination fast enough that you would have outrun this weather.

Back in the city, back home, the weather would have been a small inconvenience but nothing that would hold you back.

The old speakers crackled just as you adjusted your seat, bringing forth another storm though this one ravaged through the inside:

"We're mighty sorry 'bout this bother, but we kindly ask for yer patience. We've been movin' at a snail's pace 'cause of this darn weather, and now we're told we gotta face this blasted snowstorm 'fore we can carry on."

Even through the walls of your compartment, you heard the groaning and moaning of the other passengers.

It wasn't surprising, the decision to travel onward would be foolish – everyone on this train knew – but the times you did travel like this you found that people seemed to bond over these expressions of annoyance toward something no one could be blamed for. The annoyed grunts that were passed along the rows with an eye roll made up for hours of silence daring the others to interrupt their own peaceful silence.

Your sigh fogged up the window, and you let your head fall back against the cushions, fixating your gaze on the white haze outside when the scruffy voice continued speaking after clearing his throat:

"As it's damn impossible to know how long this weather's gonna last or whether it'll get worse, we kindly ask our first-class guests in the rear carriages to come through to the front. Heating there could be gone any minute. Make room for 'em. You'll of course be helped with your luggage."

Knowing that there is not much else to do than to sit back and wait, you picked up the book you had been reading, a collection of short stories by your favorite author that you knew by heart yet the familiar words provided comfort and you were quickly far away in those lands described.

Before you could finish the story you had left on though, a noise startled you and pulled you right back. The door of your compartment slid open by a tall man peeping his head in.

"Good evening, forgive the intrusion, but might I trouble you for a moment? I was told I could find a seat here. Would that be alright?" The man raised his shoulder to stop the bag he was carrying from sliding down, it wouldn't do what he wanted and slipped to his elbow.

He was beautiful, despite the distressed look on his face that was covered by his long blonde hair falling into it as he glared at the bag; on its way down his arm, it had taken the coat he had hung over it with it so that it dangled close to the carpet floor of the train.

You stared at him long enough that he arched a thick dark eyebrow and you flinched.

"Oh, yes.. yes of course!" You prayed that your cheeks weren't as red as you feared they might be as you nodded.

There was enough space inside the compartment, your suitcase was pushed under your seat and the bench across from you had been free, but you felt the need to look like you would make room for him.

Since there was nothing in the way, really, all you did was pull the bag next to you closer and kick away a piece of lint that stuck to the carpet.

"Thank you," the man slipped inside, coat, bag, and another suitcase dangling from his long arms.

You tried to look busy and lifted your book high up to your face while he stowed his suitcase away, a sleek dark blue leather one that unlike yours had no stickers on it or clothes sticking out. Then he entangled the coat from the bag to hang it on the door before he turned and stared at you.

"Can… can I help you?" you asked when he remained silently scrutinizing you.

His eyes were an icy hue of blue and you would have compared them to the snowy weather outside, cold and unmoving, if there weren't the slightest hints of nervousness in them.

"I don't want to inconvenience you any further but" – he swallowed and lifted a hand to brush some hair away, revealing the faintest of blushes on his high cheekbones– "I fear that I can't stomach traveling backward very well. Would you mind switching places or I could sit beside-"

"It's fine!" you interrupted him. Just him standing there seemed to affect the man quite a bit, he was swaying even though there was no movement, and what harm would it cause you to switch places?

You quickly gathered your back, closing the book with your thumb in between to mark the page you had left on and smiled at him as you sat down on the other side. "It's no problem at all, I have no preferences where I like to sit."

The upholstery was chilly under you and your legs groaned as you moved them for those few steps for the first time in hours instead of just folding them over each other

The man sat down, mumbling a soft "Thank you". His legs were long enough to brush against yours before he angled them toward the window, his slender hands resting on his lap.

Silence fell just like the snow, with the man growing as still as a statue, his eyes hefted outside the window, and you finding a comfortable position to get back to your book.

Despite your best efforts to concentrate on the poetry, your mind couldn't stop straying to the man.

He must be one of the first-class-traveler, you would have noticed him on your short walks through the train whenever you got bored or had grown restless.

His hair stood out, worn long enough to brush past his shoulders and over the cream-knitted sweater he wore, and then there were his eyebrows, the only dark spot of color in a face that could have been cut out of marble. He certainly looked expensive. He made the impression of a man who owned his own – equally perfect – bust.

He suddenly turned his head, not by much but he caught you looking at him nonetheless. Like a deer in headlights, your mouth simply fell open in a forgotten lie to excuse yourself for staring.

Thankfully he didn't comment on it, instead, his rosé lips curved into a smile.

"I'm Thranduil, by the way. I think I should tell you so that you have a name to complain about the stranger who not only stormed into your compartment but took your seat as well" He held out his hand.

You took it after a relieved breath. His fingers were cold, his grip firm. "Nice to meet you Thranduil," you introduced yourself and noted how his fingers flitted over your racing pulse point at your wrist, "Don't worry, I'd be a fool to moan about having a conversation partner, you've done nothing but turn this boring journey interesting"

"Ah, but you haven't realized how awful I am at small talk. I make a dreadful conversationalist," he admitted with a laugh and let go of your hand.

"We could simply skip that part then," you offered boldly and finally closed your book in your lap. "Tell me, what stop did you get on?"

He arched an eyebrow at you and rested his elbows on the table between you, placing his chin on the intertwined fingers. "What? You want to know where I came from and not were I'm going?"

You shook your head, "No, I'll see where you have to get off, this is much more interesting."

Thranduil looked at you for a moment, his eyes taking you in like he wanted to figure you out. Then he huffed, giving in. "I got on right at the first stop," –you smiled, encouraging him to continue talking, which he did, his lips twitching to a smirk– "I stayed in Laketown with a friend over the holidays, but I didn't want to impose on him any longer."

"So you brought this weather with you?" You grinned.

"Oh, one hundred percent," he said, sounding so serious that you nearly giggled, "I had so much fun shoveling snow every morning for ten days that I simply wanted to continue at home." Thranduil tipped his head to the side, examining you once again. "And you?"

"God no, I don't get to pick up any tools while I'm on vacation," you said, knowing full well that's not what the question was about.

"No?"

"No," you sighed, "Try being the youngest at the family reunion. I'm glad my parents let me shower and dress myself. Gosh, I think they would've cried if I even thought about helping with the snow."

Amusement lit up his face, lifting all his sharp features. "Tell that to my friend's little one. She's a fierce thing; knocking at my door at sunrise all dressed up and threatening me with her shovel that I better be outside before she had to come again."

"Oh my! Say, whatever was she threatening to do instead?"

Thranduil chuckled and shook his head, "I didn't stay long enough in bed to find out."

A knock sounded from the door, interrupting the conversation as an older woman opened your compartment. "Hiya, loves. May I offer you some tea? Dreadful weather outside and with the heating back there gone completely, we don't want ya to catch a cold," she said.

"Ye–"

"We'll take two cups," Thranduil's directive voice overshadowed yours, there was an authority in it that even you wouldn't want to cross. He was already pulling a fancy black wallet out of his pockets, which produced a fresh note that gave no room to argue or chip in. "Keep the change," he said while the train service employee shuffled inside and placed a tablet on the table between you.

"Thank you, Sir Oropherion!" She beamed at him and slipped the note through the buttons of her blouse, "You're always too kind!" Then she turned to you and lowered her voice in a faux-whisper: "He's just as handsome as he's single. But you didn't hear that from ol' me."

Thranduil scoffed, though you could see a faint blush on his cheeks. "You are a horrible gossip, Hilda! Go bother some of the other passengers or they'll freeze to death."

A little bit louder and glaring toward Thranduil, she added: "A shame his attitude is like the weather; he could use a sweetheart like you.

With a last wink, she turned and left you to stare after her, wondering what just happened.

"Impossible, that woman."

Thranduil's low rumble pulled you back to him, leaving that poor – now again shut – door alone before your eyes drilled a hole through the wood in search of an explanation.

The man across from you didn't offer you one either, instead, he was reaching for one of the silver spoons that the woman, Hilda, had given to you as well as a cup filled with milk and a small tower of cookies.

Somehow you had the feeling this wasn't what the other customers would get but rather a gesture of whatever fondness the woman pledged to the blonde, who used the tiny tongs to drop two cubes of sugar into his cup.

"So," you said and cleared your throat. Thranduil looked up, nearly killing you on the spot with the daggers in his eyes daring you to speak on the matter. Of course, who would you be if you shied away because of that? "She seemed lovely. A friend of yours?"

"No. No, she's not," Thranduil said. He pushed the other cub toward you, encouraging you to take from the all-paid-for beverage.

You wrapped both hands around it, marveling how beautifully and frail the cup looked and felt, and after taking a small sip, you smiled benevolently and waited for Thranduil to continue.

He rolled his eyes, admitting defeat in his thickheadedness of remaining aloof. "I travel this route to Laketown quite a lot. Once a month, sometimes two or three times, or whenever my schedule allows me to actually. That woman made it her personal mission to get on my last nerve; chatting to me and leaving me sweets and tea without me asking for it. After a while, I could at least get her to accept my money for it. She's keen on finding me my soulmate so I no longer travel this much alone."

"Aw, but that's cute," you said and drank another sip of the hot tea. You didn't know what burned more, the tea or Thranduil's hardened eyes, "What? She looks out for you; the journey is long and she just doesn't want to be lonely."

"Whyever you feel the need to defend her is unfathomable," he scoffed as if you taking Hilda's side was the most outrageous thing he'd ever heard, "You don't even know if her accusations are true– if I'm lonely. Maybe I like traveling alone!" Thranduil placed the cup back onto the tray with such an energetic movement, that it clinked. His lips twitched.

"That…" you started and nodded toward the cup, "was far too defensive. Why, Thranduil, it's no shame to admit to something, especially not to a stranger." His expression was still unreadable though the sharp line of his jaw protruded even more like he was biting down on his teeth. You made sure to keep your tone lighthearted: "Dare I say this is even the perfect chance to get it off your chest? Who knows if we will see each other again. Time to spill all your deep, dark and dirty secrets."

He fixated you with his cold blue eyes. Your words had left an impression on him, that much was clear and you would even go so far to say he was considering them.

Thranduil made a sound close to a "Humpf!" and you smiled and nodded, pushing him evidently over the edge for he rolled his eyes, clasped his hands together and leaned back into the cushions.

"Very well," he sighed though clicked his tongue as he saw your satisfied smirk, "You are right, traveling alone can–" lifting one finger, he punctuated the word "get a bit lonely. Not to say it's like that every time but I find that this conversation, despite the uncalled-for nosiness on behalf of my private life, makes it a lot more enjoyable than the hours I spent in the first class."

"Aww," you waved off in false modesty, "that's such a sweet way of saying I basically rescued you from a death of boredom."

"Bit of an overstatement"

"Okay, first-class, no need to knock my ego down like that."

"Anyone ever tells you how cheeky you are?"

You smiled brightly, "All the poor, single, and handsome men I chat up on these travels."

Thranduil laughed out and shook his head more for himself than anything else. He extended his hand towards his cup once more, coinciding with the moment you brought your tea to your lips.

As your gazes met over the rising steam of porcelain, the black tea seemed to carry a subtle sweetness reminiscent of the shared smile between you, if only for a fleeting moment.

Or maybe it was the sugar, combined with the subtle loneliness that was your own travel companion nowadays, a constant bitterness coating your tongue.

No matter what, another sip of tea flushed it down.

"Now," Thranduil cleared his throat and dabbed the sleeve of his sweater at the corner of his mouth where a small drop of tea rested next to a shy smile. The tea disappeared – the smile stayed. "Do you want to tell me where you are going?"

The answer was simple, you just had to tell him the name of your station, but you hesitated.

This felt too good to be true, and maybe, if you disappeared without giving him any real information, there wouldn't be the urge to keep your eyes open when you arrived home, hoping he would be looking for that mystery woman he met on the train.

Before the moment passed for far too long to be deemed anything but awkward, the train jolted. First, there was this one tug, then another one, and then, right when you looked up at Thranduil and understanding passed across his face like a ghost, appearing and disappearing right again, the wheels set in motion.

"Seems like we're off again," Thranduil said quietly, turning his face to the window.

He cleared his throat and you watched him swallow, not breaking away from the fuzziness outside that mirrored what you felt in your stomach right now. He was beautiful, even with that sadness settling heavy on his shoulders.

Why you couldn't just offer a piece of yourself now that he has given you some of him, that you didn't understand yourself because this trip had been the loveliest in a long time, the conversation quick and easy and nothing like the pestering questions about your romantic life that your brothers and your mother had poured over you, and while yes, you just met him, there was a connection between you.

More than strangers on a train.

And you wanted it, so so much.

To have someone by your side wherever you go.

"Thranduil–" you spoke so suddenly you not only startled Thranduil; the sound of your own voice frightened you as well.

"Yes?"

"This thing working again? Ah yes, now yer can hear me 'gain. Darn line cut off for a moment there. Next stop, Mirkwood Central Station, arriving in 'bout five minutes. We apologize for the delay 'n hope y'all get to your destination safely. To all those leavin' us: Remember to grab all your things before ya go. Hope to see y'all again real soon."

The rest of the sentence died on your lips as you listened to the announcement. How they managed to be on time when you needed another delay, another moment to sort out your thoughts was an unwanted miracle.

Right when you wanted to panic and quickly pack up the book you hadn't opened up again, Thranduil got to it first.

"Five… five minutes?" he gasped and jumped out of his seat, knocking his long legs into the table resulting in you both reaching for the rattling cups trying to stop them from crashing down, hands brushing just enough for you to nearly smash the pot of sugar away as well.

"Wait. This is your stop?"

Thranduil nodded, already throwing his coat on. "Yes, oh it's such a shame! I had hoped we had more time to finish our tea." He threw a sad glance at the half-empty cups; although the switch to look at you spoke of a far greater regret than simply leaving two cups of tea behind.

A laugh burst out of you, taking both of you by such surprise that you wondered if it had come off as discouraging or far worse: like you were making fun of him.

You hastened to explain: "This is my stop as well!" – the wide smile that shot to his eyes turned into a smirk – "This is me, Mirkwood Central. So if you want–" you interrupted yourself by standing up and grabbing your jacket, "we could get a tea later?"

"Yes!" Thranduil said quickly, "Yes, I would love to. Do you have any plans for the rest of the evening?"

You copied his smile. "The rest of the evening? Bit eager, aren't we?" You were teasing, mostly, because that seemed to affect that glimmer of playfulness in Thranduil's eyes that made them look like molten silver, but you couldn't deny that you wouldn't have canceled all your plans if you'd had any to begin with, to stay in Thranduil's company.

"I will gladly take every bit of time you can offer me," Thranduil said, "Any man would be this eager to get to know you."

You were still blushing when you stepped into the narrow corridor of the train, the tight space and crowding of passengers waiting to exit as well making it impossible to stand anywhere else but close together, Thranduils taller body a warm presence in your back and whenever you swayed his large hand found your shoulder to steady you and his amused chuckling reverberated in your stomach.

The train finally made its way into the bustling train station, the smoke of other trains clouding up the window and excitement like only arriving at a special destination could evoke in one filled the air inside the train, the hushed talking growing as other passengers saw relatives or friends or lovers waving to them, children pressing their faces against the glass or tried to run past you with their parents following close behind.

One particular stormy child knocked you straight into Thranduil as the doors opened and cold air greeted you while your face lightened up with a blush.

"I hope I won't lose you," you said, jokingly but the air was stolen right out of your lungs as Thranduils gloved hand grabbed yours.

"Don't worry," he said and helped you step onto the metal platform, watching carefully as you hopped onto the platform. He looked beautiful in the evening lights of Mirkwood Station, white snowflakes landing gently on his long lashes. "I won't let that happen!"

©itsonlydana 2024

#📁files: thranduil fanfics #thranduil x reader #thranduil fanfiction #the hobbit fanfiction #thranduil x you #the hobbit x reader #thranduil oropherion #king thranduil #thranduil #the hobbit x you

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boohorns1136439 · 28 days ago

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Learning to belong ~ poly!MHA x fem!Reader (02)

Already? I know, right. I don’t know what’s happening to me right now, but let’s hope it lasts. I never knew it would be so fun to write, clearly not the same high as reading a great book or fic, but pretty close. This is slightly longer than the first chapter.

01 <- 02 -> 03

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Warning: cursing, nsfw (but like you should expect it), a little smutty but nothing too explicit

tags: aged-up characters ; Pack! Izuku Midoriya X Bakugo Katsuki X Shoto Todoroki X Kirishima Eijirou ; Omega!Izuku Midoriya ; Omega!Bakugo Katsuki ; Omega!Shoto Todoroki ; Omega!Kirishima Eijirou ; technically Beta!Reader ; afab!Reader ; modern Au ; post-UA ; Reader has a quirk ; non hero!Reader ; eventually smut ; bisexual!Reader

A chilling sweetness was the first thing your nose picked up. The longer the scent wrapped itself around you, the more you recognized the undeniably sweet, tangy, and fresh aroma of ripe berries. The crispness of the scent left you wondering if the berries were slightly frozen, adding a refreshing and pleasant coldness. You couldn’t quite tell which berries they were—blueberries, raspberries, maybe even strawberries? It didn’t matter, because the blended scent left you craving a taste. You could almost picture a glass bowl full of ripe berries, your hand reaching in to devour the sweet treat.

Your body didn’t quite know how to handle it, instinctively tensing against the overwhelming sensation. You felt an involuntary shiver run down your spine as the sweetness invaded your senses, leaving you both mesmerized and disoriented. It consumed you, making your pulse quicken as your senses struggled to process it. Your head felt light, almost dizzy, like the ground beneath you had shifted. Just when you thought you might find yours footing, the coldness of the berries began to melt away, and the scent transformed—richer, warmer, sweeter. Honey.

You could smell honey now, hot and thick, being poured over the berries. The heat of the honey mixed with the berries was almost too much. Your pulse escalated, racing out of control, and every breath you took only pulled more of the intoxicating scent into your lungs. It flooded your mind, clouding your thoughts. The hot honey turned the berries into a syrupy, luscious jam, and you could practically taste it, the sweetness lingering on your lips. Your entire body tingled, unable to escape the pull of the scent.

The culprit behind the scent was obviously Todoroki. In the back of your mind, you could hear a little voice—your inner doctor—saying he was showing signs of entering his heat. But it was still confusing because you had never smelled anyone’s scent, heat or no heat, this strongly before. It had never affected you this much. Usually, you could only pick up faint hints of sweetness or sourness from others, but this... this was different. You had never been able to distinguish someone’s scent this clearly before, but with Todoroki, you could name it exactly—frosted berries and honey. Not only that, but the way your whole body tingled just from smelling it was entirely new. It was overwhelming, all-consuming. And from the way Todoroki was looking at you, eyes dark with a knowing smile, and how his scent spiked in response, you knew he noticed how deeply his scent affected you too.

"Alpha... you’ll take care of me, won’t you?" His voice had dropped lower, breathless, tinged with desperation but still confident, as if he was sure you would give him everything he wanted. As if the two of you weren’t practically strangers, as if the sterile hospital room around you didn’t exist, as if everything he was thinking about wasn’t entirely inappropriate. Embarrassingly, it wasn’t just him. You were really really trying to not focus on how your thoughts were heading down the same dangerous path.

“Todoroki, it seems you’ve entered your heat. Don’t worry, we’ll prescribe you some medication to help manage it until you can be released home.” You tried to force professionalism back into your voice, but the way his eyes, once filled with raw desire, narrowed at you with disapproval made your heart stutter. His eyebrows furrowed, and his lips parted in something close to frustration.

“I don’t want medicine, Alpha. I want you,” he rasped, his voice breaking slightly. His hand shot out, more desperate now, as if he couldn’t bear the distance between you. Before you could react, he grabbed your hand, and you were too startled—too affected by the intensity of his words—to pull away. With a shaky breath, he pressed your hand against his cheek, closing his eyes and sighing deeply, almost in relief.

He didn’t stop there. He nuzzled your hand, the gesture so gentle, like he was seeking comfort and your touch was the only thing that could soothe him in that moment. It was adorable in a strange, needy way—like a cat demanding affection. But there was an underlying desperation in the way he leaned into you, and the way he pressed into your palm made you feel how badly he needed it. The innocence of the gesture was overshadowed by the unmistakable tension in the air. He was scenting you, while the overwhelming sweetness of his scent was making you clenched your thighs tightly together as a wave of heat washed over you.

Todoroki hadn’t forgotten his own wanted. His lips pressed eagerly against the palm of your hand, each kiss slower, more intense than the last. Instinctively, you tried to pull away, a small yelp escaping your lips, but his grip tightened. His eyes opened, locking onto yours, annoyed with your actions.

His grip on your wrist was bruising, a stark contrast to the frantic, needy kisses he pressed against your hand. His body trembled, grinding desperately —Oh God— against the blanket resting on his laps, frantically looking for any relief. Kissing your hands weren’t enough to calm him. He guided your hand to his neck, forcing your fingers to press against his scent gland, but that didn’t satisfy him either. His breath hitched as he moved your hand lower, dragging its down his chest. When your finger brushed over his nipple, a high, strained moan slipped from his lips. His hips jerked upward, aching for friction, anything to break the suffocating need building within him. His body was on the edge, desperate for release, and craving more.

You felt feverish, trapped by his grip. The warmth of his skin seeped through his shirt, so hot it was burning you in the most delicious way. When your eyes met his, the smile he gave you was ravaging, and you felt yourself leaning closer into his warmth. He seemed to have the same idea, trying to close the distance between you. Your lips are now within reach for his—lips that had been tempting him for what felt like an eternity.

His hands eagerly moved yours, guiding them to the place he needed you the most while his legs was spreading in impatience. His mind was too clouded with desire to even consider removing his clothes, despite how uncomfortable they felt against his skin. As your faces drew closer, he whispered a soft "alpha," and breathed a warm laugh brushing against your lips as his eyes fluttered shut, ready to claim yours.

You felt it before you saw it. The loud crash of the door slamming open, hands seizing your collar and yanking you off the ground with brutal force. Your head slammed into the wall, a vicious crack of pain exploding through your skull. Even through the blinding haze of disorientation and the tears stinging your eyes, one thing stood out—red. Red eyes, blazing with fury and barely-contained rage.

"What the fuck are you doing to him?"

Alright, this one’s finally done! Did you like it? I hesitated for a while about ending the chapter with “You felt it before you saw it.” Like, setting up people to expect smut in the next chapter, then plot twist: “I lied, put your clothes back on, someone’s trying to beat your ass.”

But I feel like, since I’m still at the beginning of my fic, I shouldn’t do that. I need to make y’all want to come back, so I figured not revealing who the angry person was at the end would be better (especially since I haven’t even started working on the next chapter yet).

Have you noticed? I always try to end the chapter with a little cliffhanger, so y’all get curious about what might happen next. Also, I was considering changing the reader to gn!reader so it would be more inclusive but I wasn’t sure about it.

For those who asked me to tag them, tell me if this works. I have never created a tag list before so I am not sure.

This is a long ass note, way too long. None is reading all of that 😭

As always, I am open to criticism.

Big thank you to @cafekitsune who made the beautiful dividers

01 <- 02 -> 03

Taglist

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wangxianficfinder · 2 months ago

Text

In the mood for...

Sep 15th

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1. hi, hope you’re doing well.

i’m looking for post-canon fic recs with wangxian living in their own home (not at the cloud recesses)

or they could be travelling cultivators like songxiao.

thank you in advance 💖

❤️ Attempting the Impossible by Ariaste for williedustice (T, 36k, WangXian, JC & WWX, Post-Canon, Yunmeng Bros Reconciliation, Adoption, Family Fluff, Kid fic, Family drama, Fluff, 🔒[PODFIC] Attempting the Impossible by Ariaste by lunatique)

🔒To heal and nurture by Aki_no_hikari (G, 11k, WangXian, Post-Canon, Memories, Married Couple, Domestic Fluff, Festivals, Healing, Trauma Recovery, Light Angst)

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2. hello, do you have fic recs for yunmeng jiang head disciple wwx? him being a mentor, a kind and reassuring presence by his juniors’ side.

Dispersing Clouds by dreamingofcake (E, 283k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Genius WWX, Inventor WWX, Not Jiang Family Friendly, Abusive YZY, Canonical Child Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Eventual Sex, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm (Background Character), Background Character Deaths, child deaths, Canon JC, Good Uncle LQR, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Cultivation Sect Politics, Homophobia, Heteronormativity, Feelings Realization, WWX is Not Oblivious) WWX does quit the Jiang sect in this one, but the earlier chapters do show him going about his duties as head disciple & generally being good at it

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3. hi! ITMF wangxian fic where wwx is a clan leader of the wen remnants, preferably finished:D i dont mind any lenght or rating @brokensvndown

body and soul by TooSel (E, 41k, wangxian, Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Marriage Proposal, Everyone Lives AU, Cultivation Sect Politics, Yílíng Wèi Sect AU, Adoption, Smut, Friends to Lovers, Angst with a Happy Ending)

Grave dirt by esama (T, 92k, WangXian, canon divergence, yiling wei sect au, demonic cultivation, farming, found family, pre-slash, politics, fix-it of sorts)

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4. ITMF request! I guess this falls under CQL/Untamed than the novel, but I'd love any fics where WWX gets found/raised by/raised with Xiao Xingchen (and/or Song Lan!). AUs okay but please no Jiang bashing. Thank you so much for all you do for us!!!!

Become Tomorrow by ShanaStoryteller (Not rated, 39k, wangxian, BSSR/LY, Alternate Universe, a story full of tragic pining gays, and one chaotic gremlin, Cloud Recesses Study Arc, WWX is BSSR’s disciple) link in #15A has WWX as BSSR's disciple and XXC shows up later in the fic

Frost moon's sun by RenaFair (T, 116k, WangXian, XXC/SL, Slow Build, Childhood Sweethearts, Angst and Feels, Fluff, Family Feels, Canon Divergence, Mentions of Smut, Attempt at Humor) link in #15A

I Will Call You By Name by DisasterMages (T, 73k, WangXian, WWX raised by XXC, Canon Divergence, Family Feels)

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5. I'm looking for fics where wwx is assaulted (SEXUALLY OR NON SEXUALLY, DOESN'T MATTER) and there's AFTERMATH AND PUNISHMENT for the assailants.

Last time I asked, a single fic was rec'ed. After that I went to Ao3 to filter search myself. But I was disappointed by a lot. Under r*pe/non- con (rape) tag it's actually pwp fics. Under aftermath tagged fics, there's isn't actually any aftermath , like one I read was so unrealistic and.... that it hurt.

Please help.

🧡 Heaven Has No Rage by flipfloppandas (M, 51k, WWX & YZY, JFM/YZY, implied wangxian, WWX/WC, WWX/others, rape/non-con, modern, hurt/comfort, protective YZY, good parent YZY, hospitals, medical procedures, vomiting, trauma) Madam Yu finds WWX in the aftermath of SA, and stays with him thru the hospital visit and talking to detectives. Ends with her being determined to fuck his attackers up, has lots of good bonding moments as she makes up for her bad parenting and gets protective of him. Very emotional and cathartic, 10/10

a rumination of things by AvoOwO (M, 89k, WangXian, JC & WWX, JC & LWJ, LWJ & LQR, LXC & LWJ, LQR & WWX, JC & NHS & WWX, NHS & LWJ, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Cloud Recesses Study Arc, Fluff and Angst, Cutesy, LWJ Has a Crush, POV LWJ, Protective LWJ, Pining LWJ, LWJ Has Feelings, Courting Rituals, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Poisoning, Dorks in Love, Love Confessions, First Kiss, Mind Manipulation, Manipulation, JC & LWJ Dislike Each Other, Good Sibling JC, Rabbits, Feels, Emotional Hurt, Supportive LXC, Good Uncle LQR, LQR Metaphorically Qi-Deviates, Blushing, Fainting, Soft WangXian, Cute WangXian, Laughter, Dubious Consent, Kissing, Feelings Realization, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt WWX, Hurt LWJ, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Drowning, Torture, Threats of Violence, Death Threats, Choking, Stabbing, Major Character Injury, Smart LWJ, Smart WWX, Murder, Kidnapping, Gags, Vomiting, Literal Sleeping Together, WWX Has PTSD, Food Issues, Sharing Clothes, Hair Brushing, Hair Braiding, Heavy Angst with a Happy Ending, Holding Hands, Angry WWX, Protectiveness, Caretaking, Crying, Food as a Metaphor for Love, the mortifying idea of being known, Suicidal Thoughts, Angry LWJ, Night Hunts, Protective JC, WWX Has Issues, Aftermath of Violence, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Graphic Description of Corpses, Corpse Desecration, Trauma, Body Horror, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Case Fic, Dead CSSR, Memories, Emotions, Past Child Abuse, Canon Divergence, Painting, Temporary Amnesia, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Drink Spiking, Victim Blaming, WWX is a Mess, Politics, Protective LXC, Good Sibling LXC, LQR Tries, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, WWX Needs a Hug, someone gets punched a lot, LWJ contemplates murder for a moment, JC almost gets it done, not quite about romance as much as romance elements there, more so about the small things, LWJ loves how WWX smells, some nasty things are said, WWX def needs a nap, he gets one dw, LQR Gets Shit Done, NHS is a Little Shit, Scheming NHS)

Silenced by Tasharene (M, 63k, WangXian, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Temporary Blindness, Aversion to touch, Fear of crowds, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, WWX Whump, Hurt WWX, Whump, Angst with a Happy Ending, world-class troll LXC, see the archive Warnings BEFORE you accuse me of not tagging things!!!)

And Time Is But a Paper Moon by sami (M, 138k, WangXian, XiChengQing, Time Travel, Fix-It, Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Healing, Mental Health Issues, PTSD, Hurt/Comfort, Depression, BAMF WWX, BAMF JC, BAMF LWJ, BAMF JYL, Getting Together) There's an arc from Ch. 28-33 where WWX is temporarily kidnapped and tortured. Chapter 28 includes the initial attack and some very swift justice/revenge, followed in Chapter 33 by further apology & recompense. Intervening chapters are wwx receiving medical attention and recovering. I also suggest trying the "Rape Recovery" tag if you haven't already.

Dream a little dream of me by Moominmammashandbag (M, 60k, WangXian, SangYu, Prison, Hair Washing, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, mentions of torture, Mention of dismemberment, Coming Out, Anxiety Disorder, Anxiety Attacks, goose!NMJ, Reincarnation, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, Dreamwalking, Angst with a Happy Ending, JZX Lives) instead of being dead, wwx is imprisoned & tortured under koi tower during the timeskip. he's rescued and heals and there's a big trial at the end where he (& nmj) get justice.

clean from the war (your heart fits like a key) by sysrae (E, 28k, WangXian, Modern AU, Reunions, past xy/wwx, xy is fucked up but not evil because it's a modern AU and I said so, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, past wwx/jfm, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Abuse, Rape Recovery, transphobic violence, Victim Blaming, Past wwx/others, allusions to past self-harm) tagged past jfm/wwx (wwx runs away and has trauma)

I searched for another fic but couldn't find it--wwx gets drunk and gets taken advantage of but thinks he has cheated on lwj and is broken up about it. It had very well-written exploration of both wwx and lwj figuring it out.

~*~

6. Hello,

Do you know any lwj-critical fics?

Not condemning but discussing his inactions when he was actually known for being stubborn and "righteous".

Something like that. Itmf

Thank you!

New Perspective by mrcformoso (T, 8k, WangXian, LSZ & LWJ, Major Character Death, Angst, Hopeful Ending, Fatherhood, Regrets, Flashbacks, POV LWJ, LWJ-centric, Canonical Character Death - WWX, Pining LWJ, LWJ Has Feelings, LWJ Needs a Hug, Character Development, Dead WWX, LWJ deals with the death of his love, And learns to be a father along the way, Introspection, Feelings, LWJ is Bad at Feelings, Character Study, WWX’s death in The Untamed was too raw, Regretful LWJ, Breaking Toxic Cycles, Canon Compliant, LWJ in Seclusion, Post-LWJ in Seclusion, Child LSZ) does being critical of himself count? Hahaha

Arrayed by FirefliesNLightningBugs (M, 5k, wangxian, angst w/ happy ending, LSZ found by LXC, LSZ keeps his memories, alive JYL & JZX, canon temporary character death, WIP) kinda does this with an outsider pov referencing how lz tried to report true info and take action but he wasn't believed and prevented from acting (with the outsider pov of lxc slowly realizing that lz had the right of it)

~*~

7. Hello, this is for ITMF, are there any fics where WWX is a doctor or a health professional? It can be both modern or not. I have read one before, and hopefully there are more. Thank you 😊. @suibianxjiangui

Anginal Equivalents by fakeplasticlily (E, 23k, WangXian, Modern, Medical Residents AU, Childhood Friends, Mutual Pining, Oblivious WWX, Sexual Content, Podfic Available)

🧡 Like a House on Fire by KouriArashi (T, 82k, WangXian, Modern au, Paramedics, Firefighters, Light angst, Mutual pining, Kid fic, Past drug use, Past child abuse, Families of choice, Domestic fluff)

trust your fingertips by plonk (Not Rated, 15k, WangXian, Aphrodisiacs, Medical Kink, Canon Era, Different First Meeting)

plant a little happiness (let the roots run deep) by fleurdeliser (E, 47k, WangXian, Modern AU, Car Accidents, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Non-Explicit References to Injuries and Death, References to Addiction, Doctors & Physicians, Falling In Love, soft romance, background 3zun, [Podfic of] plant a little happiness (let the roots run deep) by knight_tracer)

To lurk, to lie in wait by trippednfell (M, 124k, WangXian, Modern AU, strangers to co-parents to lovers, Strangers to Lovers, Kid Fic, teenage juniors, background NieLan, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Not Really Character Death, If there is main character death it's very temporary, Fox Spirit WWX, Dragon LWJ, Blood and Injury, Additional Warnings In Author's Note)

Nursery Rhymes by manaika (M, 96k, WangXian, NieLan, Modern AU, Inexperienced WWX, Experienced LWJ, Reconciliation, Budding Love, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Unreliable Narrator, Medical Inaccuracies, Slow Burn, Past Character Death, Childhood Trauma, Found Family, Past Injury, Nurse! WWX, Doctor! LXC, Teacher! LWJ, Character With A Heart Condition (Major), Past Incarceration (Major Character), Underage Character With Leukemia (Minor))

To Deliver an Heir by cerbykerby (E, 49k, WangXian, slight dubcon/noncon but wangxian are into it, A/B/O, Alpha LWJ, Omega WWX, Heat Sex, Knotting, Royalty Medical, Emperor LWJ, Physician WWX, Mpreg, Postpartum Depression, Breeding, Creampie, LWJ literally cannot stop himself from coming in WWX, Breastfeeding)

Eyes by SplitGirl28 (M, 60k, WangXian, WIP, Adopted WWX, Adopted by Doctor, WWX Isn't Adopted by the Jiangs, Cultivator Apothecary WWX, No Golden Core Transfer, Meet Different, WWX has a secret, Secret BAMF WWX, Pining LWJ, Oblivious WWX, WangXian Get a Happy Ending)

Operation Old Men by Chiharu (Not Rated, 37k, WangXian, JL & LJY & LSZ, JYL/JZX, Modern, Boarding School, Single Parents, Everyone Is Alive, Matchmaking, Family Dynamics, Hospitals, Meet the Family, Family Vacation, Weddings, School Reunion, Happy Ending)

~*~

8. Hii , im currently ITMF a fic where lwj and wwx have a heated fight or a fic where they have a nasty breakup in their teen. Thank you

Tempo Rubato by Spodumene (E, 108k, wangxian, modern, angst w/ happy ending, romance, persuasion au, separations, pining, miscommunication, depression, self-harm, reconciliation, smut)

Couldn’t Scream Couldn’t Shout by mermorgie (T, 42k, WangXian, LXC & WWX, LXC & LWJ, LQR & WWX, JZX & WWX, WWX & NHS, LWJ & NHS, WIP, Not for JC stans, Muteness, Sign Language, references to selective mutism, Homophobic JC, canon JC characteristics, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Anxiety Attacks, Pining, LWJ is a Panicked Gay, Supportive Sibling LXC, JZX Tries, LQR Tries, Protective JZX, Scheming NHS, Bisexual JZX, LWJ is Bad at Communicating, WWX Has ADHD, Autistic LWJ, WWX Has a Fear of Dogs, Jiang Family Bashing)

~*~

9. Hi! Firstly, thank you for all you do, I've got so many of my favourite fics from looking through your posts! Secondly, for the next ITMF, I'd love to read something about post-resurrection wwx finding out about lwj's punishment and going OFF at the lan elders. Preferably not too lxc bashing but i'm not too fussed. Bonus points if it's pre-wangxian and wwx's yllz-esque rage on his behalf *does things* for lwj @scenicpixie

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10. Hi so I'm looking for a fic that has wwx kind of doing gymnastics not in a modern era but like he's super flexible and he does kind of something like gymnastics to dodge or in a fight I just want him to do gymnastics too you know impress everyone not like he's showing off it's just that he's doing it because he wants to I don't know I thought it would be a great idea for a fact that I really wanted to read one if you can find one that would be great

The Darkness Before Dawn by PsycheStellata707 (M, 113k, WIP, WangXian, Angst with a Happy Ending, Time Travel Fix-It, Canon Divergence, BAMF WWX, Time Travel, Attempt at Humor, PTSD, Oblivious WWX, WWX-centric, Blind WWX, Sentient Burial Mounds, Self-Indulgent, Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Oblivious Pining, Not Canon Compliant) flexible wwx dancer moves to fight, I think darkness before the dawn on ao3 is the one where he's raised by a traveling performer group and incorporates fan dancing and other skills into his own martial art style. In it wwx is blind and its a time travel fix it, where "the price of seeing the future is the inability of seeing the present"

~*~

11. hello! I think this qualifies as fic finder? (ITMF is probably better because I don't really know the specifics or what fic I'm looking for exactly). I just remember scrolling passed it in once in the old ITMF posts where it's a !nie WWX in modern setting. So just give some recs of !nie WWX not on the non-yummeng wwx compilation list if possible because I've read all those (both canon and modern setting are okay!), thank you!! :D

~*~

12. hi, i’m looking for fanfics

a) where wwx is kicked out from lotus pier after punching jzx

b) wwx is best friend with nie huaisang and jwy behaves like in canon

c) people discover madam yu’s abuse on wwx

12A)

Cultivating immortality by KizuKatana (E, 231k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Rogue Cultivator WWX, Mutual Pining, BAMF WWX, BAMF LWJ, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, unreliable narrator, Found Family, First Time, novel canon relationship dynamics)

🔒 crying like a fire in the sun by Reverie (cl410) (T, 10k, WangXian, SongXiao, BSSR/LY, Runaway WWX, Canon Divergence, Everyone Lives/Nobody Die, rogue cultivator WWX, Angst, Post Cloud Recesses, Not YZY Friendly, Happy Ending, BSSR is WWX’s grandmother instead of grandmaster) link in #15A

💖 Xiao-Ying of the Third Refugee Village by abCEE (T, 31k, wangxian, WWX banished from Jiang sect, not Jiang friendly, found family, mpreg, fluff, flirting)

12C)

🔒🧡 rain falls and soaks into the earth series by RoseThorne (T, 57k, WangXian, WIP, Near Death Experience, Attempt Drowning, Madam Yu Bashing, Recovery, No war AU)

🧡 To have and to hold by Moominmammashandbag (M, 78k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Major character injury, CQL verse, Happy Ending)

🔒🧡 Company by WithBroomBefore (T, 29k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Pre-Relationship, Getting Together, POV LWJ, Fix-It, Pre-Canon, at least to start, WWX goes to Cloud Recesses, But Not In The Usual Way, fear of character death, Everybody Lives, Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Light Angst, good teacher LQR, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, brief discussion of past minor character suicide, Kitten, Not YZY Friendly)

🔒 Warming up (to him) by barisan (T, 9k, LQR & WWX, WangXian, Hypothermia, Cloud Recesses Study Arc, Temporary Character Death, Medical Inaccuracies, YZY Abuses WWX, JFM Bashing, pre-wangxian, Good Uncle LQR, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort)

🔒💙 Holding shreds by barisan (T, 5k, WangXian, Cloud Recesses Study Arc, No Sunshot Campaign, Body Swap, Not for sexy shenanigans, Chronic Pain, Hurt WWX, Hurt LWJ, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Abusive YZY, Bad Parent YZY, Bad Parent JFM, Good Uncle LQR, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Inaccuracies, POV WWX, Angst with a Happy Ending, Jiāng Family Bashing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Getting Together, Smart WWX)

Like stones on an unseen board by Vir_Abelasan (Not rated, 11k, wangxian, Canon Divergence, Dark LWJ, Older LWJ, Teacher LWJ, dark twin jades, Age Difference, Manipulation, Protective LWJ, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Corporal Punishment, Relatively canon-typical abusive Jiangs, WWX Get a Happy Ending, WangXian Get a Happy Ending, Not JC Friendly, Not Jiang Clan Friendly)

~*~

13. do you have any recs for fics with wangxian exploring intimacy and/or sex together? i read a really good modern au fic about it but i was wondering if there are ones set in the canon universe. tysm!

To Know, To Be Known series by cqlorphan (E, 38k, wangxian, Cock Warming, Multiple Orgasms, Marathon Sex, Under-negotiated Kink, Porn with Feelings, Aftercare, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, let LWJ get railed agenda, LWJ Learns Some Things about himself, sex tears, gratuitous use of names, Begging, Kink Discovery, Post-Canon, Bottom LWJ/Top WWX, Top LWJ/Bottom WWX, Switching, Light Bondage, Blow Jobs, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Let wwx get tied up but also let lwj railed, Repressed LWJ, and his journey to sexual abandon aided by, Inventor WWX, Cock Rings, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Dirty Talk, Rough Sex, Dildos, Rimming, Edging)

the hidden source is the watchful heart by o_honeybees (E, 10k, WangXian, Post-Canon, Getting Together, Domesticity, Touch-Starved, Grief/Mourning, Misunderstandings, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Unresolved Sexual Tension,Eventual Smut, reflections on selfishness and selflessness)

hunters seeking solid ground by Attila (E, 23k, wangxian, Canon Compliant, discussion of canon character death, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, bed sharing, Getting Together, Yearning, Literal Sleeping Together, Really Excessive Amounts of Hurt/Comfort)

Tripped at Every Step by brooklinegirl (E, 28k, WangXian)

~*~

14. Hello, can anyone give me some recs of canon divergences that start after Wei Wuxian’s 3 months in the burial mounds? Thanks! :) ♡ @menimimimeni

🔒 A Heart Undying by NonsensicalRambling (M, 114k, WangXian, Undead WWX, Canon-Typical Violence, canon-typical dead things the burial mounds, Fix-It of Sorts, Canon Divergence, Eventual WangXian, No Yīn Tiger Seal, Morally Gray WWX, Animals Eating People, WWX’s questionable choices, Morally conflicted LWJ, Oblivious WWX, WWX Creates a Sect | Yiling Wei, YLLZ WWX, Sect Leader WWX, LWJ & WQ have an Understanding) WWX dies in the Burial Mounds & is undead

we’re starting at the end by Miss_Enthusiasimal (M, 92k, WangXian, JC & WWX, Time Travel, Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Golden Core Reveal, Burial Mounds, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Starvation, emaciation, Cannibalism, Self-Harm, Amputation, Suicidal Thoughts, Sunshot Campaign, let JZX and WWX be friends club) WWX time travels without realising to when he was thrown into the Burial Mounds, & thinks he's dead, so instead of leaving on his own he's rescued by LWJ & JC

Return to Me by Dragon_Scribe (T, 1k, WangXian, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Fierce Corpse WWX, Angst, Music, Violence, Blood and Gore, Crying LWJ) WWX dies in the Burial Mounds & emerges as a fierce corpse

🔒 Heart of hearts series by apathyinreverie (M, 40k, WangXian, Dark LWJ(Ish), Amnesia, WWX gets to be Not Okay after the BM, Hurt WWX, Recovery, Caring, Protective LWJ, Possessive LWJ, some definite manipulation but not everything is as it seems, not nearly as dark as the tags make it sound, Canon Divergence, Golden Core Reveal, Golden Core Transfer Fix-It Kind Of, Domestic WangXian, Fluff, WWX Goes to Gusu, Possessive WWX, WWX happily atticwifing away, Sunshot Campaign, BAMF WWX, BAMF LWJ, ridiculously self-indulgent, Not Cultivation World Friendly)

Cloudy Memories Recessed by FirefliesNLightningBugs (M, 7k, WIP, JC & JYL & WWX, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Sunshot Campaign, Good Person JZX, Good Sibling JC, Good Sibling JYL, Amnesia, (kind of), Weird Magic, Demonic Cultivation, post wwx disappearing during sunshot campaign, POV Alternating, POV JC, POV JYL, POV WWX) cloudy memories recessed is a diverging au after wwx escapes bm. Wip where he comes out not fully aware of his surroundings and is initially mistaken as a fierce corpse by cultivators cause he's in such bad shape

Tether by WithBroomBefore (T, 40k, WangXian, SangLi, WWX’s passive suicidality, Canon Divergence, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, WWX Lives, JYL Lives, Golden Core Reveal, Minor Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, POV JYL, Grief/Mourning, Sunshot Campaign, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, LWJ makes friends, Fix-It, Happy Ending)

~*~

15. A) Hello mods! Thank you for being absolute gems and doing this all! Itmf fics where wei wuxian is/used to be baoshan sanren's disciple, got raised by SongXiao (one or both), wasnt adopted by anyone/raised on the streets on his own and was raised by the Wen clan/wen ruohan himself. thank you!

B) OMG i forgot to add this one and sent my previous ask ugh but also wangxian in opposing roles AUs...like police/criminal, doctor/patient, teacher/student, lawyers for two parties on the same case etc

P.S. yes, i am looking for fics of all the above mentioned types! @yiling-laozu-is-loml

15A)

Heliocentric by Coolio101 (T, 8k, WangXian, in which WWX is born as part of the Wen Sect, Mutual Pining, LWJ and JC are friends....kind of, Wen Sect WWX, Fix-It, LWJ has zero chill and is always 2 sec away from throwing hands, but that's basically canon, also WRH is still an asshole, so if you were expecting redemption fic this might not be for you, Canon Divergence)

Sunset, Sunrise by Ariana Deralte (ArianaDeralte) (T, 57k, WWX & WRH, WangXian, WIP, Time Travel Fix-It, Crack, Temporary Character Death, sorry I killed a-Yuan for a few paragraphs before the time travel, WWX is a Wen, Genius WWX, WRH gets to rewatch the series as a treat, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, in this house we acknowledge that all the sects have flaws, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, WWX Has ADHD, Bad Parents JFM & YZY, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Autistic LWJ)

Scars of Lightning by The_peregrine_falcon (T, 6k, YZY & WWX, WWX & WRH, WangXian, YZY’s A+ Parenting, Canon Divergence, Not Canon Compliant, Wen WWX, zidian, YZY is a bitch, Canon-Typical Violence, Blood and Injury, Major Character Injury, Heavy Angst, Lotus Pier, Nightless City, Young WWX, Muteness, Hurt kind of comfort)

All Things Belong by kuroi_atropos (M, 65k, WRH & WWX, wangxian, WN & WWX, Wen WWX, abuse, whipping, manipulations, smart WWX, possessive behavior, implied/Referenced rape/non-con, past rape/non-con, WIP) Wen Ruohan realizes teen Wei Ying is his grandson & tries to lure him from the Jiang

A Thousand Things by tickertape (M, 108k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, WWX Isn’t Adopted by the Jiāngs, Developing Friendships, lots of OCs, miscommunication and misunderstandings (they’re idiots your honor), Nightmares, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Cloud Recesses Shenanigans, Slow Burn)

Frost moon's sun by RenaFair (T, 116k, WangXian, XXC/SL, Slow Build, Childhood Sweethearts, Angst and Feels, Fluff, Family Feels, Canon Divergence, Mentions of Smut, Attempt at Humor)

Going on charmingly by scribbet (T, 21k, WangXian, Teenage LWJ, Cloud Recesses Shenanigans, Cloud Recesses Study Arc, WWX is BSSR’s Disciple, Genius WWX, Petty LWJ, Meddling LXC, What if LWJ didn’t have an excuse to instantly write WWX off?, Canon Divergence, JFM Doesn’t Adopt WWX, WWX minus canon sense of obligation, but still with an inability to shut up around LWJ, I swear LWJ’s inner voice was no quite so snarky when I started this, JZN is unfortunately present but only to lose face, LQR’s inconsistent adherence to the Lan clan precepts, writing the effective Lan education you would like to see in the world, Technically pre-relationship, but in the typical Wangxian way of them being in deep but just not acknowledging it yet, POV LWJ)

15B)

mission report by bosbie (T, 13k, WangXian, Modern AU, superhero AU, Fluff, Humor, Getting Together, First Meetings, Falling in love, Spanish Translation)

Wei Wuxian, worst supervillain by antebunny (G, 3k, WangXian, WWX & WQ, WWX & WN, Modern, Superheroes/Superpowers, Fluff, Attempt at Humor, Light Angst, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Crack Treated Seriously, superhero LWJ, supervillain WWX, but it's stupid)

This Tornado Loves You by FeelsForBreakfast (M, 8k, WangXian, Horror, modern cultivation au, Pizza Hut, Humor, Mistaken Identity, Modern with Magic)

Fight Me? by Witch_Nova221 (G, 5k, WangXian, Romantic Comedy, Hospitals, patient LWJ, Nurse WWX, Medication, Minor burns, under the influence of medication, Funny, Silly)

~*~

16. Hello! I just want to start off by saying you’re doing a thankless job running this blog so seriously thank you for helping us poor folk. I was wondering though if you have any possible possessive or possibly simp Lan Zhan fic recs? I want that man to be obsessed with his husband. Please and thank you 🙏 😭

🔒 At heart by apathyinreverie (M, 36k, WangXian, WIP, Dark LWJ(Ish), Amnesia, WWX gets to be Not Okay after the BM, Hurt WWX, Recovery, Caring, Protective LWJ, Possessive LWJ, some definite manipulation, but not everything is as it seems, not nearly as dark as the tags make it sound, Canon Divergence, Golden Core Revea, Golden Core Transfer Fix-It, kind of, Domestic WangXian, Fluff, WWX Goes to Gusu, Possessive WWX, WWX happily atticwifing away, Sunshot Campaign, BAMF WWX, BAMF LWJ)

Do not take that which does not belong to you by Selene210 (E, 7k, WangXian, LSZ & WWX & LWJ, dark LWJ, YLLZ WWX, Canon Divergence, Protective LWJ, Possessive LWJ, Jealous LWJ, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex, Kidnapping, Murder, Blood and Violence, WangXian married and have a son, Explicit Sexual Content, Biting, Marathon Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Bath Sex, Rimming, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, WWX has an angry LWJ kink, WWX Has a Breeding Kink, Wangxian canon breeding kink, LWJ’s canon massive dick)

🔒💖 Advisable Lan rules and other shenanigans by apathyinreverie (G, 4k, WangXian, Humor, Canon Divergence, Fix-It, as in utterly unapologetic fix-it fluffiness, Drunk LWJ, exasperated WWX, Smitten LWJ, Soft WWX, Gusu Lan Sect Rules, Possessive LWJ, In Vino Veritas, Drunk Shenanigans, Fluff, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian)

🔒 Something is wrong with A-Zhan! by HeloSoph (M, 15k, WangXIan, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage, Canon Divergence, Time Travel Fix-It, Sort Of, Dark LWJ, Morally Gray WWX, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, WWX Isn't Adopted by the Jiangs, WWX is a Lan, WangXian Get a Happy Ending, JC Bashing, Smitten LWJ, Possessive LWJ, Engaged WangXian, because of course, though this part comes later, Blood and Violence, a lot of people die, LQR Metaphorically Qi-Deviates, because of, Shameless LWJ, LQR Tries, to fit into the following tag, Good Uncle LQR, Semi-Public Sex, or at least wangxian's version of it, Scheming NHS, POV NHS)

A Matter of Time series by mrcformoso (E, 84k, wangxian, time travel fix-it, graphic depictions of violence, underage, LWJ pov, JC pov, dark LWJ, manipulation, grooming, teen body adult mind for LWJ, happy ending for wangxian, problematic consensual underage sex, blood & violence, insane LWJ, manic LWJ) Read all the tags and warnings!

~*~

17. Hi, itmf fics that explore wwx belief that he won't ever get a family of his own (due to position in Jiang household, social status etc) and his cottagecore fantasies.

Thank you!

🧡 Stunted, Starving Juvenility by TomatenMark (E, 859k, WangXian, WIP, Fix-it of sorts, Talisman master WWX, Not JFM Friendly, Study Arc, Getting together, Fluff and Angst, Engagement) There's a few scenes in the early chapters where WWX ponders how LWJ is out of his league due to their relative statuses & that he'd rather not marry at all if it was someone other than LWJ

~*~

If you didn’t get an answer to your ask here, don’t forget to make use of @mdzs-kinkmeme and MDZS KINK MEME on Dreamwidth. Authors actually do use them for ideas. You may get what you order!***Your prompt doesn’t have to be kink! Fluff, crack, whatever - it’s all good!***

#wangxian #mdzs #wangxian fic recs #i'm in the mood for a fic #the untamed #wangxian fic search #wangxianficfinder #long post

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the-kr8tor · 2 months ago

Text

Dead Man's Hand

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 11.5k

Tags: Use of Y/N, sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), Cowboy AU, wild west AU, CW food mention, CW vomit mention, CW blood and gore, CW guns, TW violence, TW abuse, TW suicidal thoughts, TW death.

A/N: if there are any warnings that I've missed please tell me so I could add it in.

This chapter tackles dark themes, read at your own discretion.

Our Place in the Middle of Nowhere Masterlist

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CHAPTER 10 >>>

The pungent, acrid and hot air of metal and gunpowder brings Hobie back in time as he slams open the steel doors to the factory with a harsh kick. Machinery whirs, and twists, sharp steel dancing to the beat of the flames as it turns molten iron into instruments of death.

Hobie roams his fury-filled eyes around the factory, green flames flicker in those eyes, finding grime coated faces of strangers staring back at him and his posse. One glances their dark eyes towards the upper level of the factory where a balcony is placed. Where Hicks would look down with contempt, and would scream at the overworked employees to hurry production. Hobie knows it all too well, the factory mirrors the one back home. In the middle of the balcony sits an office with frosted windows that bear Hicks’ name. But the man is nowhere to be found within the crowd.

“If you're not Hicks, get the fuck out.” He doesn't need to yell the command, for everyone turns to run outside towards the back exit where half of Miguel's gang lies in wait; and Hicks' lackeys lay dead on the soft muddy ground.

One running and hiding away amidst the crowd catches his eye with the same face as one of the men who buried him all those years ago. “‘cept you.” With one swift raise of his six shooter, smoke billowing out, a hole now sits on the man's torso where his heart should be. “Hicks, better get down ‘ere or my people will blow this place to the ground.” Hobie steps over the bloody body, crimson coating the sole of his boots. “Rainin’ bullets don't mix well with a room full of explosives.”

There's no movement nor a whisper in the entire factory save for the fading sounds of the machines slowly shutting off. He catches a glimpse of a shadow behind a closed frosty door in the upper level of the factory. It was quick and sudden, if not for Riri's gentle nudge towards the movement, he'd think he was seeing you again for a brief cruel moment.

“Ri, Karl, come with me.” Hobie emerges behind the blackened air from the large machines. Three sets of boots thumping silently as they bound upstairs.

He reaches the door, back on the solid wall and away from the glass. Riri stays on his right, shotgun cocked and ready while Karl checks his bag of TNT on Hobie's left. As he moves to open the door, a bullet pierces the glass, shattering it into sharp tiny pieces. A shard nicks Hobie's cheek, but he ignores the throbbing pain as blood trickles out.

“You're still alive, you little shit?!” Hicks yells, shooting blindly at the door.

The trio stays still and waits for the opening. A click echoes in the quiet, and clouds of gunpowder float through the air. Hobie and the others take their opportunity. Karl lights a stick of dynamite, chucking it inside the room and then ducking down to cover his ears. Hobie doesn't waste time, leaving the safety of the cover, he twists to face the door, shooting at the flying TNT— effectively blowing it near Hicks while Hobie holds onto his hat so that it doesn't get blown away.

The explosion causes Hobie to stagger backwards, if not for Riri pulling him back to the side, he would've fallen off the railings. Sulfur fills the air as they cough, puffs of grey smoke clouds the entire office space.

His ears ring, a sharp high pitched sound that he's awfully familiar with. He gives Riri a thankful nod, which she replies with a smug smile and a raise of her eyebrow. Hobie takes the lead, flicking his eyes towards Karl, who gives him a thumbs up, and with his hair all messed up from the explosion. Satisfied that his group is alright, he enters the fray. Smoke giving way to him and his raised gun. Shards of glass crunch at his feet, singed papers lay burned on the floorboards as embers flicker out in the air.

As the smoke clears out and the hot air of the south enters through the broken windows— Hobie finds no one inside the room.

“Fuck!” As he yells into the emptiness, a horse neighs outside, hooves running frantically away while bullets fly and ricochet. He immediately looks down, finding Hicks half burnt and riding away. “Like a fuckin’ roach.” Without thinking ahead, Hobie vaults from the window, softening his fall with a roll. Landing, knees aching but intact, he whistles for Bucky.

“Hobie, what the fuck?!” Riri and Karl simultaneously scream out, but Hobie's already running while Bucky follows right behind him.

Once Buckeye trots next to him, Hobie grabs hold of the saddle's horn to swiftly lift himself up on the saddle with a quick pull. No one's going to stop him, Miguel already considers Hicks dead just from the look of determination behind those green eyes.

Hobie leaves everyone in the dust. Bucky neighs wildly, huffing and puffing as he tries to catch up. “Hicks!” Said man turns on his saddle a few ways ahead, arm raising to aim and to shoot his gun. Bullets whizz past, hot air passing by as Hicks misses every single bullet.

Hicks’ scalding flesh makes him keel over in pain as his blood drenches his horse. “Shit!” He kicks roughly, his horse whines before speeding off.

Bucky gains speed, catching up to Hicks whilst he reloads. But of course, his hired guns finally catch wind. A handful of them appear from the side, trudging from the muddy swamp with alligators lurking underneath, and riding towards the bumpy road where the main chase is happening.

The rival posse hollars and hoots, sneering smiles and guns aimed at Hobie. Riri and the others are still catching up to him, so he's left alone to defend himself and Bucky. With fury fuelling him, he has everything to lose so he'll shoot through all of them like a hot knife through butter.

While the mercenaries leave the line of trees, Hobie enters the thicket, swerving to the side, using the large and sturdy trees for cover. The ground may be soft and muddy, but Hobie and his loyal horse have been in dozens of situations like this. The swamp might've slowed them down but it doesn't stop them as splintered wood flicks and flies while his enemies continue to shoot at his swift horse.

A bullet comes too close to his head, piercing a hole in the brim of his hat. He clicks his tongue, annoyed at the damage. Patting Bucky, he takes his foot off one of the stirrups to bring it to the safer side where no bullets could come at him. With two legs on one side, hand holding on to the saddle horn and reins, Hobie rides sideways, hiding his body while peeking over and shooting with calculated aim as Bucky runs back towards the path. One by one, the mercenaries fall off their horses with his bullets pierced through their bodies. The road is coated with their blood, leaving trails of rubies for his posse to follow.

Miguel trots closer, shooting at what remains of Hicks' men. The gang hoots at the sight, adrenaline rushing through their veins, and blood heating up from the violence.

While Riri and Karl have their eyes on Hobie, who now sits upright on Bucky, they kick on their horses and off they go, riding side by side with Him. Hicks panics from the sheer volume of horses running after him, with his last bullets, he aims at Bucky's leg.

Hobie beats him to the punch, quickly thrashing his whip made out of jagged metal wires, tearing the skin off of Hicks' arm apart when Hobie pulls hard at it. Hicks screams in sheer agony, tumbling and falling off his horse into the moist ground, soil entering his burns and mouth. When the dust settles, he looks up to only see the end of Hobie's gun.

It's silent in the marsh as the sun shines on his gun; frogs hum in the distance, gators trill when they smell meat while Hicks' labored breathing quickens. Hobie has his gun digging into Hicks’ skull, skin red and angry from his burns. Half of his face has melted into a mess of meat and bones, left eye barely opening from his melted eyelid. A pungent smell permeates from his oozing wounds, clothes torn and burned to ash, and ankle twisted at an angle. Hicks’ hands are buried halfway into the ground as he sinks down to the muddy plains.

Everyone thinks he should be dead by now, even Hicks himself, but death won't grant him the sweet release just yet— not until Hobie takes what he is owed.

“My, don't you look pretty, Hicks.” Hobie doesn't smile nor smirk at the sight of the man who buried him alive five years ago. A man who now kneels before him, disfigured beyond recognition, feeding the soil under him with his own suffering.

“F-fuck y-y-you.” Hicks' lips tremble from the unimaginable pain. “I w-will not b-beg.” He manages to curl half of his melted lips into one final sneer. “Not l-like how you did.”

“I don't want you to beg, Hicks.” Hobie digs the metal harshly, skin ripping and tearing like paper from under the gun. “I need to know where she is. You're dyin' anyway, your last words might as well be somethin' useful.”

Hobie's cold words makes the man scoff that quickly turns into a painful cough. “No. Didn't your old man tell you that revenge is a f-fool's game?”

“This isn't revenge, this is retribution.” Hobie tilts his head, looking behind Hicks where a pack of gators trill and show themselves under the green swamp. “If you tell me, I won't let the gators eat you alive.”

“Wha–?” Hicks' slowly turns his trembling head, skin painfully tugging with every movement. One of the gators snaps its maw, warning with its sharp teeth. The entire gang hears this grown man whimper from fear.

“They look mighty hungry, Hicks. Better hurry up.”

“You'd t-take me away from them?”

“No, I'd put you out of your misery before they get to you. Something you didn't give me back then.”

Hobie can practically see the rusty cogs in Hicks' head turning. “...alright, just don't let them eat m-me.” His burns flares up as he doubles in pain.

Hobie makes the man raise his head with the barrel pushing his chin up. “Sure.”

“She's at the big white house near Blackwater, just west of the r-road. You can't miss it.”

“You lyin’” Hobie doubts the information when he gave it to him too fast. Jaw tightening at the thought of you being so close yet so far from his reach.

“No, I'm not.” Hicks hears the unmistakable sound of the reptile crawling closer. “It's the truth.”

Riri flicks her eyes towards Hobie, leaning close, whispering lowly at his ear. “I know the place.” Hobie doesn't miss the hard look in her eyes. “He's not local, that place is well hidden, he wouldn't know that only the locals know about it.” She glares at the sniveling man, “It's ways away from the road he's talking about. Fucking far from it. Easily missed if you're not familiar with the place.”

Hicks figures out what she's whispering when Hobie's anger flares, hand tightening around his gun. “I'm telling the truth, Hobie. It's there and she's waiting for you! I promise! She's the one lying!” He points a crooked finger at Riri.

“Thought you wouldn't beg.” His fate is sealed with the gators. “Technically you did lie.” Hobie drops his arm, gun aimed away from Hicks. “Off you go with the gators, boss.”

“No, no, Hobie! Please, I'm sorry!” Hicks tries to grab at Hobie's leg, but Hobie kicks him down on the ground and on his back. He tilts his head back, meeting face to face with a ten foot alligator that seems to smile at him.

His screams echo around the marsh while Hobie and the others get on their horses. He watches the gator death roll the flailing Hicks on the muddied ground until the wailing stops completely.

Hobie leads the pack away while he leaves behind the sound of tearing skin and bones cracking under sharp teeth. And all he could think about is you, and how he could've had a good life with you.

—

Draped in chiffon and stab silk, iridescent blues and purples dance along the fabric as light hits it. Expensive fabric that hides all the aching blemishes on your flesh by the same men who claim that they are doing it for your sake, that it's the only way you would obey.

Your hands are tied behind your back with Cross' hand wrapped around your wrists in a sickening grip; preventing you from moving. You shine under the southern sun, all gold and frills but none of the happiness behind your sullen and dull eyes.

For a fleeting moment in those months you were with Hobie, you had peace. You'd stay there forever if you could, if only the world had granted it to you, instead of the pain that it brought down upon you.

You could've had a good life together.

It's been a whole month since the last time you saw Hobie alive. A whole month without hearing his voice, without his loving touch; and a whole month with the same family who has hurt you in every possible way they could. The image of Hobie buried under the rubble of your shared home spirals you over the edge once again. You've cried, wept and sobbed some more, but nothing has helped. You feel like you've died right next to him. You wish you had.

Meanwhile you have a wound that was never meant to be healed inside you. A wound that was momentarily healed, until you were brought back to the reality of your dreaded life.

You instinctively run your finger around the gold band around your finger, finding the unfamiliar diamond instead of the simple gold band that turns your face even more sour at the scalding heat that turns your heavy dress into an oven. You had the foresight to hide Hobie's ring the second you had a chance. It now lays underneath your floorboards waiting for you.

There's a heavy feeling in your chest, grief running along your heart, plunging your very being into darkness. It was like that day five years ago, you have no knowledge of him alive, no way of knowing if Hicks ended him. It's an awful case of déjà vu.

Both men stand beside you, as if they're meant to guard you. The estate stands behind you, its large shadow looming over you. All Its white marble and columns stand tall, doors that don't creak, windows pristine and gleaming— but you'd rather have the pile of ashes you once called home.

This place lacks a heartbeat.

You flick your tired eyes over to the well beside the estate, your body shivers from how cold it was inside, when you sank into it like stone the first time Hicks threw you inside. It's a miracle you didn't break your neck, in that moment, you wished it had.

A carriage arrives from a distance, horses galloping along the road towards the estate. Wispy cypress trees sit around the path, parting way for the dirt road leading to the house. Its soft leaves dance in the wind, leaves fluttering by as you watch the carriage get closer and closer.

“Remember to smile, we can't lose their money.” Hicks grabs the back of your dress, yanking your neck down for emphasis. “Don't be a bitch like last time or you'll get the well tonight. And I heard it'll be cold tonight.”

“I'll be in my best behavior, uncle.” Your glare towards the rich couple exiting the carriage says otherwise.

Hicks only gives you a stern look before letting you go. Cross loosens his grip for a moment and you immediately take your hands in front of you so he couldn't hold you again. You haven't spoken a word to the man you call husband since you arrived at the estate. Your defiance got your bedroom door locked from the outside for now but was taken apart for the first week of your stay. Showing you bare to the entire world, revealing to the world that you're his.

The woman clad in gold and gemstones huffs, flinging away a fly from her painted face. “God, I hate this humidity.”

“This better be good this time, Hicks.” Her husband takes his tophat off, wrinkling his nose at the scent of heat and damp marsh.

“You won't regret traveling for this, Mr. Burnell.” Hicks sucks up to the man. “My, don't you look lovely, Mrs. Burnell.”

She giggles, hiding the blush dusting her cheeks with a fan. “Oh don't be such a gentleman, Hicks.”

“Stop sucking up to my wife, Hicks.” Even though his smile tells you that it's a joke, his tone says that he's completely irked by your uncle. Perhaps this has happened before.

You roll your eyes subtly, Cross’ jaw tightens as he shakes hands with both guests. “It's a pleasure to have you both today.” He says flatly.

“An honour.” Your tone is tight, lips turned into a strained smile.

“I remember you,” the male Burnell smiles faintly at you. “And you too,” he points at Cross. “I was at your wedding, what a wonderful ceremony.” You clench your fists tightly around your lace gloves, almost tearing the fabric.

“Oh I also remember!” His wife claps, “your gown was lovely, and the deviled eggs were to die for!”

You laugh, a sound more akin to a scoff. “I should've had some back then.”

Mr. Burnell reaches for both of your hands, holding you gently as you make a face at him that doesn't quite reach the man's full understanding. “I'm sorry about your aunt, we sent flowers to the funeral. I hope it was to your liking.”

“I wouldn't know, I wasn't there.” You swallow thickly.

“Oh poor dear,” The woman touches your cheek, and you flinch away. She coos as if you're a child. “You couldn't even bear saying goodbye.”

“Sure,” you slide your hands away from the man's hold, and then you take her hand away from your skin. “That's why.”

Hicks inhales deeply, “why don't we go to the gazebo? Tea is being served there.” He takes their attention away from you.

“We came all this way and you don't even have lunch for us?” Mr. Burnell raises a thick brow, his wife agrees with a nod.

“We did.” Cross finally speaks through gritted teeth. “It got cold.” The couple flares their nostrils in annoyance.

“This place was hard to find.”

“You had us waiting for two hours. Hardly an excuse, Mr. Burnell.” Cross doesn't back down from the older man's stare.

“W-what my associate was trying to say was that— we didn't want to serve you all cold beef! No one likes cold beef, correct?” Hicks tries to save the day, but they don't respond. “There's deviled eggs in the gazebo.” That seemed to work as they followed Hicks towards the blue gazebo behind the house.

Cross yanks you back to his side before you could get far. Your chest tightens, threatening to stop your breathing as he whispers towards one of the estate workers to prepare a batch of deviled eggs immediately. The second they leave, you glare at Cross, refusing to touch him even though his fingers dig into your arm.

“Don’t run, Y/N.” He says for the umpteenth time. You would run, and you had a few times while you're with him. But you were only met with your cheeks burning into the shape of his palm, and his hired guns dragging you back inside the mansion with their lassos tied around your ankles.

“I can't even breathe in this dress, moreso run in it.” You try to take your arm back but he stops you with his nails dragging along your sleeves.

“Be good, be fucking obedient. Don't be impossible like you always were.” His green eyes remind you so much of Hobie that it taints his image in your mind. You refuse to let it fog his image.

“I am not a dog, Cross.” You fight back, why shouldn't you? You have nothing to lose now.

He comes close to your face, jade eyes reflecting the fear in your expression, breath wafting over your face. “Then don't act like one.” His eyes pass over your face, finding fear laced in between the creases of your expression. His tone softens, one that sends shivers down your spine. “Why don't you call me by my real name? Cross is our last name, Y/N. Can you call me—”

“No.” You yank yourself away even if it means that his fingers drag along your arm in a manner that makes your skin run cold.

The next thing you know you're sitting next to Mrs. Burnell, who swallows down deviled eggs like its water. The entire table is set all prettily, blue laces sitting under white porcelain, utensils draped in silver, and chairs soft whilst the gazebo with lilacs growing on the roof acts as your shade. A graveyard full of Cross’ ancestors lies just a few ways away from the gazebo. Withering gravestones left unattended, and overgrown grass drowning each of the carved names. It leaves a heavy presence in the back of your mind.

The fork in your hand shakes, silver shining in the sunlight bearing down behind you just as when a pair of red cardinals fly next to the gazebo. The murmurs of the marsh echoes around the estate, gators trilling a few ways away, birds chirping and cawing right next to croaking bullfrogs. You're surrounded by green with a dash of greed as Hicks continues to suck up to the rich prospective partners.

A hand cups your own, and for a flicker, you thought it was Hobie's calloused hand gently holding onto you until his nails jab into your palm. Cross gives you a hard look, gesturing for you to eat instead of staring blankly at the cakes in front of you. With a mocking smile, you take a glass of cold orange juice on your right, condensation drenching your ungloved hand. You don't break eye contact as you gulp down the entire glass, making the Burnells look at you with pinched brows. For the final touch, you exhale loudly as if you were thirsty beyond belief.

Hicks chuckles nervously, eyes darting from you to the rich couple. Cross is fuming silently, letting your hand go limp on the table. An employee comes to your side, refilling your glass as everyone at the table stays in awkward silence. You can't help but puff out your chest with pride. Hobie would've loved to see that. Their faces would be worth it for the wrath you're about to face.

Mr. Burnell clears his throat, “as I was saying, we can't give twenty thousand for only ten percent shares. It's daylight robbery, Hicks.”

“Oh come on, Quentin, you've known me for a long time!” Hicks plays the ‘old friend’ card, a trick you've seen one too many times. “You know I can be trusted, and that ten percent will go higher once we've had our foothold here in America.”

“I do know you, that's why you can't be trusted. Even her aunt knew better when she gave the company to her.” Burnell pauses, bespectacled eyes staring at you briefly. Your lips curl up into a smirk. You probably don't have to work too hard in sabotaging this one. “Besides, that was back when you were the leading manufacturer in the UK. There was a guarantee, now you're here in a country that is practically shitting bullets by the buckets.” He leans back in his seat, “face it, you old dog, there's no profit here for you.”

“He's right,” His wife enters the conversation, dabbing her mouth daintily with a handkerchief. “Why did you even move here in the first place? I heard the company was doing badly back home but not that bad, right?”

Hicks coughs, drinking from his glass, stalling from answering. Cross has had enough, he leans on the table, elbows right next to his untouched plate, white suit unblemished.

“Because I'm here.” He takes your hand, making a show of it for the Burnells. He's using the ‘I love my wife’ card. Surprisingly, it's only the second time he has used it on the rich and stupid. “And my wife deserves to be with her husband, yes?” The couple looks at each other, then returns their attention to you as you try incredibly hard not to vomit all over the table. “I've…ignored her for far too long while I'm always here tending to my own business.” He clasps the back of your hand with his free hand. “We were deeply saddened by her aunt's passing, but I saw a silver lining. Taking the tragedy and turning it into something better by bringing her and her family business here to my home so we could finally start having our own family here without the dark cloud looming over us.” He was right about one thing, your aunt was a dark cloud looming over everyone. Cross leaned close, pecking your hand chastely. “Right, love?”

You close your eyes to prevent yourself from heaving out what little you've eaten. “Right.” Tone small and disgusted, you have the sudden urge to stab his eyes out with a fork. For a second, your mind gives you that exact image. Seeing his blood spurt out from his sockets and spraying on the deviled eggs.

For some reason, even with the disgusted look on your face, the Burnells' hard exterior softens. The missus clutches the pearls on her chest as if she just heard the most romantic story, and the male Burnell nods along with a fond smile. “You two remind me of my first marriage.” His wife chuckles, you frown, eyebrows knitted together as Cross plays along to his concocted story.

They continue their negotiation with more enthusiasm. Hicks pats Cross gladly on the shoulder, already drafting up a contract on a piece of parchment. Thankfully, Cross has let you go. Free to wipe your hand on your dress. You replay the last minute in your mind, like you're stuck in the moment he touched you with his dry lips upon the same hand you used to cradle Hobie's face with.

The conversation fades into the background, a thought passes you by, one that you're too grief stricken to see until now. Why is Cross even helping Hicks? He has the money to fund whatever the factory needs, he doesn't even need to be in the conversation. He has nothing to gain from this. He already has you, so why does he seem so desperate to get this partnership?

Then it hits you, he's as bankrupt as Hicks. Hicks, who drove the company to the ground with his moronic decisions the second your great aunt was in the ground. And Cross, there was never a day in your short marriage with him that he wasn't out gambling his family fortune away, or going to exotic places you've only read in books. When he doesn't have his hands on you, he's at the nearest pub or the derby races, betting everything in his pockets. You always just thought he had that much money to lose. But you were wrong. And the only reason you're here is because of the money your parents have set aside for you, money that is tied up with the company or what is left of it— the company that you own and have the last say in. Until your name isn't written in that contract that Hicks shoves in your face every morning, they have nothing.

“You have nothing.” You blurt out, you don't regret it immediately.

“Excuse me?” Mr. Burnell says, offended.

“Not you, I know you have money.” You place your elbows on the table, chin propped up on your scarred palm. “I was talking about my dear uncle and beloved husband.” Your words drip with venom and sarcasm.

“What are you saying?” Mrs. Burnell asks, concerned, either for your well being with the two men or for the money she almost lost.

“Shut it, Y/N.” Hicks says through gritted teeth, eyes warning you.

“Don't tell a woman to shut up, Hicks.” Surprisingly, Mr. Burnell defends you. “Speak, girl.” And there goes your respect.

“They don't have anything.” Cross tries to yank your hand back but you quickly tug yourself away. “Hicks is lying, the company is losing money, not gaining it. Production has been down since they moved here, probably because Hicks doesn't know how to run a company.”

You continue your tirade without missing a beat. “He was a manager before marrying my aunt, but he was a shit manager. If not for Peter—” you inhale and clear your mind. “All I'm saying is, he's asking for a scapegoat for the debt collectors, not a business partner.” You flick your eyes mockingly towards the seething Hicks. Meanwhile, Cross sits quietly, you're afraid but you have to continue. “I retract my previous words.” Hicks inhales with relief. “It's not probably, it's definitely.” He stutters, trying to save face but you continue. “He's overworking the workers and because of that there's more mistakes. More mistakes means more bullets that come out a little crooked. That's good, if your targets swerve to the left.”

“She's lying!” Hicks laughs shakily, fists slamming down on the table. “You know how women are? She's hysterical because of her aunt's passing.”

You scoff. “You said it yourself, Mr. Burnell, you don't trust Hicks.” All eyes are on you. Your words fill you with pride, Hobie would be proud. “As for Cross, I wouldn't even trust him with my coin pouch.”

The Burnells seemingly believe you, heads turned slowly towards Cross and Hicks, eyes boring holes in their foreheads. “Looks like we wasted our time. You're right, honey, we should've gone for the Winchester instead of this clown show.”

“You believe me?” You ask, bewildered. “That quick?”

“We passed by the factory on our way here, that's why we were late.” Burnell answers back. Already taking his belongings to leave. “We saw the horrid conditions. We were naive to believe that it was like that because you're still getting used to the transition.” He helps his wife up as Hicks follows behind the couple. Cross stays behind silently while you stay with the Burnells in hopes that they'd take you with them. “Thank you, girl.”

“You're welcome, c-can I—” The couple gets in their carriage, eyes blinking at you. “Can I come with you?” You sound like a child, voice trembling in hope that they'll say yes. “Please.”

Hicks chuckles incredulously right next to them, but his eyes grow dark at your request, a warning. Cross appears behind you, green eyes hidden by the shadow of his hat, lips clamped into a fine line.

“What for, girl?” Mr. Burnell asks, “We don't need any more bootlicking. We're not giving you the money for the factory.”

You flex your fists on your sides, eyes darting in between Hicks and Cross. Heart thumping, you have to try. “I don't— it's not that. I don't need the money. I—”

“So you do have the money for the company then? Why bother asking us?” The older man cuts you off, scoffing while his wife rolls her eyes. “Kids these days, so greedy.” He gets in the carriage, following his wife.

“Wait! Please!” It's too late as they run off in the distance. In your desperation, you start to run after them. But before you could go far, Cross stops you with his arms embracing you from behind. “No! Please come back! They're hurting me here—!” Your flailing stops when Hicks steps in front of you with his gun raised.

“Do you have any idea what you've done?” He clicks the hammer down, finger right on the trigger. “You've doomed us.”

With tears in your eyes, Cross holds you against him tighter. Chest aching, breath stolen from you. “No, just you!” Yet, you continue to fight. You might've lost hope a long time ago if not for Hobie. Hope that you'll get out like last time, hope that Hobie will be there waiting for you. But there's a part of you that just wants to let go. Looking over your shoulder, you're met with familiar green eyes that used to fill you with calm. “And you.”

“I should shoot you right here.”

“Do it then. But you can't because without my signature you're fucking broke!” With a cackle, Hicks yanks the back of your head, taking you from Cross' arms, dragging you towards the well. Body scraping against soil, you try to scratch at his hands but it doesn't deter him as his anger fuels him.

“Fucking bitch, you keep ruining shit!” He yanks you to your feet, and then pressing your front to the mouth of the well while pushing you down harshly, making you look down at the depths.

You yelp, sharp rocks digging into your stomach, eyes forced to look down at the deep dark well. It's cold down there, you wonder if this is what it felt like for Hobie back at the farm. Staying quiet, your hands grip the sides to keep your balance, a bead of sweat falling down and leaving ripples as it hits the stagnant water.

“What, no begging or screaming and crying this time?” Hicks latches on your hair tightly, scalp burning from his hold.

“I've gotten used to the dark. You won't hear me begging ever again.” Your voice echoes down to the bottom. “You can't hurt me anymore, not in the way that matters.” Releasing your hold on the sides, you lean closer to the edge. Expecting the cold embrace and the familiar weightlessness, it doesn't come.

There's a scoff above before you're let go. “I have to correct your fuck up.” He seethes, giving your leg a swift kick as you lay your head on the stone. “Deal with her.”

“I'm not one of your employees, Hicks.” Cross challenges him.

“She's your fucking wife. You discipline her while I go to the factory. As for you,” he flicks the shell of your ear. “Your name better be on that contract when I get back.” You hear their continued bickering whilst you even out your breathing. Just like what Hobie would tell you.

After a rustle of clothing and dress shoes thumping on the ground, you fall on your knees, still clutching the well. Face hidden from Cross, he sighs, hand reaching towards you. Feeling the sickening familiarity of his hand wrapped around your arm, you instinctively flinch away.

“Why couldn't you just obey, just this once?”

You heave, furrows knitted in anger. Looking over your arm, your glare sends goosebumps up his arms. “I'm not one of your hounds.”

“Then why do you kneel like one?” The sun behind him engulfs his entire form, turning him into a breathing shadow.

“Go fuck yourself, Cross.” You shakily stand up while avoiding his gaze. Walking towards the house, you clench your fists until you feel your blunt nails leave pin pricks of crimson

“I'm trying here, Y/N. You're making it impossible.” He yanks you back, neck craned to the side to look at you. “I'm holding back but you're not making this easy.”

“You sound like this is all my fault.” You still avoid his eyes, forgoing to look at the tree behind him. “I'm not the one who gambled all your money away. And I didn't force you to marry me.” His fingers pull you closer.

“Look at me.”

“Fuck you—” you try to escape but he's stronger.

“Look at me just like how you look at him.” He forcefully turns your head with his hand burrowing into your chin.

With apprehension, you chuckle, a cracked dry laughter. Your eyes slowly move to the green eyes in front of you. “I'll never look at you like that. Nothing you do will make me look at you with the same love I give to him.”

Cross swallows thickly, jaw tightening. “Why him?”

“It felt right. We share the same heart.” It's the first truth you've said in a month, and for once you smile genuinely. “I'll always love him, remember that.”

He inhales, and you wait for the impact.

“Sir?” The housekeeper asks from the side, hands wringing in front of her. “Is everything alright?” Her brown hair shimmers in the sun like copper, lips turned into a fine line.

She reminds you of the former housekeeper that tried to help you by taking your letter addressed to Hobie. Cross found out about it, you haven't seen her since then.

“We're alright, Belinda.” Cross lets you go, leaving a mark on your arm. “Fetch me my hunting rifle.”

You leave with haste, hands shaking as you hitch your skirt up. You can feel his sickly green eyes on you, like a shadow that envelops you whole.

You've crossed the line, and you fear that this is the end for you.

—

Pacing around your room, you walk around and hold your breath. It's like waiting for the gallows, waiting for the bullet to hit you. Hobie's ring is back on your finger instead of what Cross gave you on your wedding day, which is the exact same one you left on the bedside table when you escaped. You twist it around your finger as the room shifts and twirls in your vision.

The room is finely decorated with daffodils painted on the walls, gold fixtures on the ceiling with painted deers trotting overhead on fields of green on the ceiling. The room looks like it used to be a child's room. A pale blue bed sits in the middle of the room, draped in a satin canopy. It's a stark contrast to the room back at the farm, all wood and none of the gilded walls. But you'd choose that a hundred times over if given the chance. Especially if Hobie's there waiting for you.

You feel like you're slowly disappearing into the walls.

Your eyes have been glued to the door as you chew your nails. You'd lock the doors from the inside if the locks weren't instead bolted from the outside. Tears brim at your eyes, but you refuse to let it go as you sniff. You miss your home, you miss the smell of dew in the morning. You miss Clover and how she cuddles on your side. You miss Cherry and Bucky and your afternoon rides with them. You miss him, you miss Hobie and how he holds you gently, how he talks to you about things. It's him talking so you'd listen and speak with him until the sun decides to sleep. You miss his voice telling you that everything will be alright.

You wonder if everything will still be alright when you hear heavy footsteps outside your door.

Cross doesn't knock, and you wait at the foot of your bed, standing straight, eyes forward and daunting despite your fear. If he shoots you through the door now, would Hobie be there to greet you on the other side as darkness engulfs you one last time?

This house will be a tomb. Your tomb.

The door doesn't creek as Cross opens it. “Hunt with me, just like old times.” He has a rifle strapped to his back, suit traded in for his haunting gear, still clad in white leather. Your eyes flick over to the two guns on his belt. If only you could take it from him. Or at least one.

“Giving me a gun? Do you think that's wise?” You cross your arms over your chest, clearing your throat so he doesn't notice the shaking of your voice.

“Why? You'd shoot me in the back?” He asks chidingly.

“In a heartbeat.” You say without even a hint of a joke. “What's even out there, Cross? What are we hunting down?”

“A deer.”

“I don't think there are any deer out here.” A dangerous silence hangs in the air, choking you as he stares deeply at you. You inhale, swallowing down your fear as best as you can. “If you give me a knife instead, I will stab your eye out. Killing other things won't keep us from killing each other.”

He clicks his tongue, hand on the gun like he's mocking you. “Take the dog instead.” Taking the leash off his belt he holds it out for you. “A dog for a hound. At least this one is loyal.”

“Which end of the leash is the hound?”

“What do you want, Y/N, hm?” Tossing the leash harshly, he stalks closer, and you flinch back. A doe caught in the coyote's eye. “I broke your heart, I get it. Do you want me to apologize to you?”

“My heart? That's the only thing you haven't broken yet.” He stops a few feet away from you, yet still too close to you. “You broke my body until I could barely recognize myself anymore. My arms bear the shape of your nails, my scalp remembers the sharp tugs of your hands.” You exhale as a tear falls down your cheek. “Hobie broke my heart, but he pieced it together, piece by tiny piece.” You point at him repeatedly. “You, you broke everything else.”

“If this is about your aunt—”

“Fuck you! This isn't about her.” If this is really your end, you don't want to leave without saying the words you've been meaning to say out loud. You tremble for a second before grinning with tears in your eyes. "I'm glad she's gone. Her hold on me is gone.” You chuckle breathlessly, sighing loudly. “There I said it. It's like a boulder has been lifted off my shoulders.”

“Y/N,” there it is, the patronizing tone he uses on you. He's about to guilt you into something you haven't had a hand in, or chastise you like a child.

“Stop being so fucking delusional, take the blinders off for one fucking minute.” The fire in you latches on you. “This is about you and how you hurt me the second you brought me home after the wedding. You knew that I never wanted to marry anyone else, and that my aunt and Hicks hurt me back home. And instead of helping me, taking me away from them, you joined them.”

“I got you out of there. I married you.”

You laugh without an ounce of humour, clapping wildly. “Well thank you very much, Cross!”

“I tried for a little while, Y/N. But I'm your husband, and you continued to disobey so I had to go to them, ask them for advice.” He walks closer, you stop him with a hand in front of you, as if it will shield you from him. You've tried that once, it didn't work.

“Nothing you do will make me forgive you. I hope you drown in your guilt if you even have an ounce of it. I hope you lay awake at night thinking of how much you hurt me. I'd rather die than forgive you.” Cross steps forward with an unreadable expression, and the back of your knees hits the bed as you try to get away. You eye the gun, you fear that you won't keep your promise to Hobie.

The world already ended for you when Hicks killed him.

Cross tries again. You think it'll be the last time he will the second he walks closer to you, so close that you can see yourself in his eyes. “Sign the papers, Y/N, and everything will be over.”

“You know the second I sign it, Hicks will kill me.” Your eyes wander towards his unlatched gun.

“I won't let that happen.”

You laugh in his face, “Sure, but you'll let him hurt me. Might as well sign my death warrant instead.” Standing back up, you inch towards him bravely despite your instincts telling you to shield yourself. You have to get that gun. “I–I tried to love you at first, and remained optimistic in this marriage.” His eyes are on your face, irises darting over your lips while you sneak your hand towards his gun belt slowly. “Even indulging my idiotic childish whims of what a marriage could be like. But I couldn't, not when you hurt me just like they did. Only because I didn't love you like how you thought I would.” Your hand finds the cold metal, fingers wrapping around the handle. “For a second there I thought you'd be my saviour, when in fact it was the opposite. You joined them instead. You were just as bad as them.”

You stand toe to toe with him. You hear a glass breaking downstairs, and then the smell of something familiar. Snatching the gun quickly, you aim it at his stomach, steel meeting flesh. You feel the same sensation against your chest.

“I love you.” Cross utters, finger right on the trigger.

“I've seen love, this isn't it.” With your cold words, you shoot.

Both guns go off.

Both hitting their targets.

—

The sun is just beginning to set, orange peeking from the horizon, hues of pink and orange blanketing the three men. Each inhale from the cigarette perched in each of their lips has grey smoke filtering through their lungs. They should be guarding the front door like they were hired to do, instead they chainsmoke their way out into an early grave while hiding behind the estate, facing the vast green marsh that hides their debauchery from the rest of the world.

“You hear any cryin’ last night?” The one with an auburn beard asks, his rifle leaning against the wall right next to him instead of in his hand like it was supposed to be in.

A dark haired man answers, belching out smoke while crouched on the ground, eyes narrowed at the whispering willows. “Yeah, i think the stable boy wasn't lying, there's a fuckin' ghost here.”

“You two think it's a fucking ghoul or some shit?” The third one replies with a scoff, blonde hair peeking out from his hat as he takes a swig of moonshine.

“Yeah,” The first two responds, spine tingling when a cold breeze passes through them.

“It's the boss’ wife, not a ghost, you morons.” As the yellowed haired man responds, a bright flicker of light appears in between the willow trees. “What the fuck?” The two men next to him follows his terrified gaze, cigarettes falling off their lips.

The light moves, as if it dances in the wind. It flickers, brightening up into an orange glow before turning yellow once again. The three outlaws move from the wall, eyes glued on the mesmerizing ball of light.

“Fuck, it's a swamp ghost—” the one with the red beard gasps, choking on his own blood, frantically trying to stop his neck from gushing out ichor with a knife stuck to his throat.

The other two only had a split second to react before a sharp knife slashes at their exposed necks. They mirror each other, shirts stained with red, palms coated in warmth and crimson while they frantically try to stop the bleeding. They croak and creak out, eyes managing to fall upon hazel eyes, and one with his face covered in soot. They both hold a glinting knife, blood still trickling down from the steel.

Miguel leaves from his hiding place in the thicket, eyes flicking briefly towards their twitching forms before returning his gaze at the ball of light. He nods to Riri and Karl, who stand above the corpses. And then he gestures with his gloved hand, giving the warm light a small nod.

The light comes closer, footsteps echoing as boots sink in moist soil— appearing behind the darkness of the trees and into the fading light of the sun. Hobie's face is revealed behind the light with a lit cigarette in between his lips, shadows dancing around the fury behind his green eyes hidden by the brim of his hat. He inhales before flicking the cigarette away, falling into a puddle. More appear behind him, trees and bushes parting before the dozen men and women following in his steps.

“Karl, light the oleander for me will you?” Hobie tosses the bag of pink flowers in Karl's waiting hands. And then he takes his knife back from the auburn haired corpse, wiping it on the grass before sheathing it back on his belt.

“D’you think that'll work? What if she gets caught in it?” Riri whispers, gesturing for the gang to crouch down and hide beside the wall where the trio were last seen smoking.

Hobie drags one of the bodies, hiding it behind the bushes while the rest of the gang help with the other two. He follows Riri, blood rushing in his ears, adrenaline pumping through his veins at how close you are from him. It's only a matter of time before you're back safe and sound.

“She knows the smell, she'll cover her nose.” His voice doesn't waver, but his insides are turning and twisting inside him. He can't fail. “As for everyone, cover your damn noses, and protect your eyes as much as you can.”

“This won't kill us right?” Karl weighs the bag in his hands.

Miguel checks his bullets beside him, giving Hobie and Riri a once over if their weapons are lacking. “At most it'll make us sick and itch. Right, Hobie?”

“Just don't inhale it directly.” Hobie yanks his bandana up to his nose, fitting it snugly. He notices his hands shaking, closing his fists tightly, he cannot fail. A month of tracking you down can't end with him failing to save you, he can't lose you. “You know what to do, Karl. Ri go with him.”

“Hobie,” she clasps the back of his fist. “Be careful, alright? If you get hurt, call Roberto, he'll treat you.” Inhaling sharply, she pats his cheek. “Get her back but don't die on us, alright?”

Hobie couldn't look directly at Riri, “She goes first, Ri.”

“I know, that's why we brought Roberto with us, remember? He's the doctor, he knows what to do and…what to expect, if need be.”

Hobie nods, staring at his family. “Thank you for backing me up, I owe you. All of you.”

“Don't die and we're even, Hobie.” Miguel pats Hobie's bicep before heading to his designated position.

“What he said,” Karl smiles brightly, fist connecting to Hobie's clenched one gently. “Also if I don't return from this, Robbie's gonna fucking kill you, man.”

Hobie cracks a smile. “Yeah, I know. Try to stay alive for the both of us then.” Karl makes his way towards the front while Riri staggers behind, still holding onto Hobie's hand. “Just like Valentine, right?” Riri smiles, hiding her trepidation behind her bandana. He fixes the cloth over her face carefully, tugging it over her nose and ears. “Keep that snug.” She could only nod, eyes brimming with tears. “Don't die on us too, Ri.” With a quick embrace, she leaves, following behind Karl who was waiting for her.

Hobie takes a second to breathe. He has done things like this a hundred times before, but never with you on the line. He can't leave without you like last time. He won't cower behind wooden walls like last time, he's not gonna stand here and tremble and rot and bleed. He's going to get you back. He knows he will.

There's a gunshot echoing inside the estate just as when a glass window breaks, signaling the beginning of the end.

—

The house falls and chaos reigns. They tried to stick to their plan of using stealth, but of course someone saw them and alerted everyone in their presence. Karl got the oleander thrown inside the halls, puffs of pinkish fumes swell out from the bag. Hobie sees the result of it as black smoke turns the estate into the pits of hell. Hobie's eyes waters but he continues to strike anyone who wasn't on his side. He throws his spiked whip towards someone who tried to shoot at Karl, the barbed whip rakes and breaks skin as he tugs and pulls until the man falls down next to his shredded flesh.

Screams echo around the estate, his posse lets go of the innocent unarmed employees while the others aren't so lucky the second they aim back.

They try to fight their way inside, finally thinning the outlaws outside as flames trickle from the burning bag towards the velvet curtains. Embers climb up until they hit the ceiling, fire licking at the once white walls, leaving burn marks in its wake.

A few of the hired guns surrender after recognising Miguel's gang, some were fools who tried to shoot them down but his allies were in greater numbers. More experienced, more bloodthirsty than the hired guns.

All the winning cards are in his hand, all he needs to do is play them right.

“Miguel!” Hobie yells while he and three others try to push through the main doors that refuse to budge open.

Miguel, who was currently brawling with a man taller than him, grunts when a fists harshly connects at his jaw. Hobie curses under his breath, without wasting a second, he aims and shoots. Gunpowder fills his lungs once more as the burly man falls on top of Miguel in a thud.

Hobie stalks towards Miguel, he shoots someone who was aiming at him on his left, his bullet doesn't miss even without him looking at the target. He grabs the body by its vest, yanking it off Miguel.

“Get up,” he reaches for the breathless gang leader, hazel eyes smiling at his old friend.

“I had that, Hobie!” Despite his broken nose, Miguel is back on his feet the moment he takes Hobie's helping hand. “Retirement, huh?”

Hobie shakes his head with a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Fuckin' retirement.” Reloading his gun, he goes back to the locked doors with Miguel now in tow. “On three!” His shoulders meet with the oak, “one!” Miguel nods next to him, bracing himself on the door. “Two!” A few more join in, ready to push the moment he says, “three!”

The doors burst open, splintering wood scattering, smoke coming out into the fray. Hobie meets with Sheriff Lee's eyes before a bullet hits him directly on his shoulder.

“Fuck!” He falls on his knees, clutching his wound as blood seeps through his fingers.

“Should've left when you had the chance, Mr. Brown!” Lee taunts, reloading his hunting rifle, giving Miguel enough time to drag Hobie back outside and placed behind the wall. “Come back here, murderer!”

A few shots ring out, both parties exchanging bullets. Your face appears in front of him before it’s replaced by the doctor's face. He needs to get you out quickly before the oleander takes hold. Hands tie a bandana around his wound, Hobie stands up the second that the cloth is tightened.

“Keep that on!” Roberto yells above the booming gunfire. “I’ll fix you properly right after this!”

Hobie nods, blinking the haze away. Miguel shakes him awake while avoiding his injury. “Lee's down! We'll handle the rest down here, we heard that she's upstairs.”

“Okay,” Hobie inhales and exhales, I'm almost there, love.

When the bullets stop flying inside the now bullet ridden manor, he steps foot inside. Glass crunches at his feet, eyes darting and alert from any surprises. He sees bodies littered on the marble floors, both from his side and Lee's. The sheriff lays under a pile of broken vase, eyes wide open, fingers still enclosed around his gun. The smoke thickens, and he hears blasts reverberating around the house.

Miguel's posse storms the place, pocketing whatever shines inside the house. A few more bullets are shot from deep inside the walls, but it's clear who's the winner. Hobie just wants you back.

Just as when he's about to climb the winding stairs with his throbbing shoulder, he sees a man stagger out from a room. “Is that—?” The bloodied man in the hunting gear trips and falls off the railing, plunging down right next to where Hobie's standing.

Cross lays on his own puddle of rubies, a gaping hole in his stomach instead of his insides. “H-help me,” Begging, he looks at Hobie with his bloodshot eyes, reaching towards Hobie's leg with his broken hand. “She's upstairs. Y-you can have her.”

“Is that him?” Miguel asks, and Riri appears from the side. Eyes watching the wounded man. Hobie nods, eyes never leaving Cross.

Hobie aims at Cross' head, seething. “She is not a thing to be had.” His aim stays true, but he shakes his head, lowering his gun down. “Nah, I'll let her bullet kill you.”

Miguel smirks, while Riri and him have a silent communication. “Don't worry, Hobie, we got rich boy.” He takes out his lasso from his waist, crossing the distance towards the dying Cross.

Riri gestures for Hobie to continue up the stairs. “Go! We'll be waiting.”

With a grateful nod, Hobie runs up the stairs towards his fire and his light. His heavy footsteps echo, breathing staggered as he thinks of you. What if he finds you in the same condition as Cross? What would he do if he sees you bleeding out? So he runs despite his own injuries, to see you again, to hold you again.

He follows the blood trail once he gets close enough, instead of your smiling face greeting him back, he stares at your body covered in crimson. Soft blue bed sheets stained with dark rubies. Arms spread on the bed as you lay on the soft mattress with your eyes unblinking towards the ceiling.

Hobie calls for you, air sucked from his lungs with every step he takes. He reaches for you, tears turning you into a watercolor painting in his vision. Red and blues blending into a watery picture.

You feel like you're in the bottom of a well, staring up at your aunt's sneering face. Your breathing is labored while the bullet is stuck in your chest, right below your ribcage. There's no pain, no feeling in your fingers as you see Hobie's face appear from above. Head perfectly lined up with the deer antlers painted on the ceiling.

“Found the deer, Cross.” You murmur, eyes hazy, lips barely opening.

“Stay awake, love.” Hobie's hand trembles as he rips his bandana off to stave off the bleeding by plugging the wound. You cry from the sudden pain, hands flying towards his wrists. “‘m sorry, ‘m sorry.” His tears flow down your cheek. “This'll be over, I need to carry you.”

“Hobie?” Your eyes focus on his face, meeting with his viridescent eyes. “Are you real?” Nails dig into his flesh, you sob, fingers shaking whilst you reach for his face. The pads of your fingers brush along his jaw, stubble returning you back to reality. “I'm so s-sorry, I should've told you.”

“None of that.” He holds onto the back of your hand, letting your palm rest on his cheek, lips brushing along your wrist. The matching rings reflect the growing fire ebbing towards the room.

“It h-hurts, Hobie.”

Sniffing, burning wood enters his lungs, sobs threatening to pull him down to you. “I know, I know.” He wipes the tears and the sweat off your forehead. “But we need to move, love, there's a fire and I need to carry you down.”

You gaze at his green eyes, sorrow and grief twisting and turning behind them. They remind you of home, of Clover, of Cherry and Bucky. And you remember your promise to him, an impossible promise that you will try to keep. But if it means that it's his end too, you have to break it. For his sake.

You grip his shoulders, Hobie notices how weak your hold on him is. “Okay, okay, carry m-me down.” There's a taste of copper in your mouth, lips coated in the bitter taste.

He nods, wiping his tears with his sleeves before sliding his hand behind your back, finding your warm blood sticking to the bedsheets. “I got you.” Whispering against your crown, he lifts you up mere inches away from the bed before you scream in agony. “‘m sorry!” He cries into your hair, your grip weakening even more.

“W-we can try again.” You slide your palm to his nape, “try again, Hobie.”

Hobie flicks his eyes towards you, the light behind your eyes is starting to dim. “Help!” He yells in desperation at the door, in hopes that someone comes bounding up the stairs. “Riri! Miguel! Anyone!”

Your heart breaks, “Hobie, Hobs.” Patting his chest, it's getting harder to breathe. “L-leave. Leave me here.” Hobie's already shaking his head. You smile softly at him, the best you could do despite your body dying. “You have to, you can't die here.”

“And you do?” He cups your face, “we still have forever to go, remember?”

He doesn't want you to come back as a dream anymore, or a shadow embracing him from behind; or a pain in his chest when he hears your name in his mind. He doesn't want your ghostly kiss to taste like ashes on his lips.

He doesn't want you to go.

“I'm sorry, I can't keep my promise. B-but you still can.” You weakly push down at his nape to feel his forehead against yours one last time. Your eyes are starting to close. “Live for me, would you?”

“No, please.” His palm slides right above your heart, feeling your heartbeat slow down. One last time, he yells for help. His throat burns as the ceiling above is engulfed in flames. No one comes to help. “I have to break my promise too, love.”

“Don't, please.”

“A life lived without you isn't a life well lived, remember?”

You accept death in his warm embrace. “I'll see you in a bit then.”

Flames engulf the room in its fiery destruction. Paint melting off the walls, wood and glass cracking under the pressure. And yet, he still holds on to you, lips pressed on your cold lips in a fleeting goodbye.

“Hobie!”

—

In the middle of nowhere sits the remnants of a farm with clovers growing all around it. Vines snaking along what remains of the farm house, and in those vines, pink hydrangeas grow and thrive amidst the cinders. And behind those darkened wood sits two graves with clovers growing on top of the soil. Two names are etched on simple limestone graves, they bear the same last name and same date of death.

Many travelers pass through the place without ever knowing the story behind the two graves. Seasons come and go, flowers bloom and wither. But only a few ever knew what used to stand on the emerald farm. What used to grow, what colour the house was, and who used to live in it. Stories were whispered and told but only a few truly knew the story behind it, few who came and visited and placed flowers on each of the graves.

And in those few, only three of them know that the once abundant farm where two graves were dug right under an oak tree, are empty.

The stories and the graves were enough to fool anyone left that wants to hurt either one of you to turn back and lament.

The true story lies behind the northern border, where pine trees grow up to the skies. Where snow and ice envelops the whole place. Where the two names etched on the gravestones in the empty farm now live.

“Stop bullyin’ your brother.” The dappled foal yelps, trotting away from his much bigger older brother. The dark horse with white splotches turns his bright blue eyes towards Hobie, huffing and puffing like an annoyed teenager. “Don't huff at me,” great, now he's the one talking to horses. “Go tell your dad not to have any more kids. Not my problem, junior.” The young horse rears, running towards the barn where Buckeye and Cherry sleeps.

Hobie leans on the fence, watching the sunrise on his expansive land. Horses and foals run around freely, feeling the cold gust of wind in their manes. A few sheep roam the grounds, while a pair of cows chew their way towards the fences. Snow-capped mountains rise up high in the background, white snow dusted along the rocks like sugar. While the trees dotted along the mountainside makes for the perfect scenic view. He pulls at his jacket closer to himself, fur tickling his nose as he breathes out puffs of smoke from the cold temperature. Winter’s coming, he can feel it in his joints as another breeze rolls in. He smiles in contentment when the air carries the sound of ducks quacking from their coop, and the smell of morning dew passing by. No more does the smell of fiery gunpowder graze his senses, and no sounds of bullets firing ringing in his ears.

He keeps his hat snug on his head, Clover runs by with her litter of puppies tugging along. And he feels you before you arrive by his side. A smile tugs on his lips, hand already reaching for your waist.

“What are you thinking about, cowboy?” You flutter your eyelashes, chin placed in his shoulder.

“That I have it good, too good.”

You give him a tender smile, leaning to kiss his jaw. “None of that. This isn't too good for you, you deserve all of this.”

“Too early to wallow, huh?” Hobie wraps his arm around your waist to pull you closer, and then he twists around to face you fully, back leaning on the fence, admiring you in the bitter blue of dawn.

You find penchants on his sternum, nose nuzzling his scar. “So fucking early.” He laughs, music to your ears.

“Hard to get used to, huh?”

“Kind of, it's a good feeling though, waking up.”

“You feel okay, right?” His palm pats your chest gently where a scar lies. “No breathlessness? Nothin'?”

You sniff at the cool wind, “nothing, I'm fine, Hobie.” You cup his cheek, jaw rounded at the edges, scruff tickling you, he looks as if time hasn't passed. “Nothing to worry about.” He leans towards your touch, fingers bracelet around your wrist gently, lips meeting your skin. “You okay?”

“Never better, love.” His green eyes twinkle, free arm pulling you impossibly closer. “Especially today.”

You tilt your head playfully. “What's today exactly?”

“Cheeky,” he pokes your side. “You know what day it is.”

You feign realization. “Ah! I remember now, Riri and the gang are coming over.”

“Yes, and?” He grins, biting his lower lip, jade eyes crinkling at the corners. Seeing the matching rings on your finger and his own makes him smile wider.

You suck in your teeth, acting like you're thinking. “It's Bucky's birthday?” Hobie rolls his eyes with a chuckle, and you finally relent. “I know what day it is.” You lean away, taking out a letter addressed to Hobie from your pocket. It's filled with affectionate words, loving thoughts and everything in between. It's a love letter just for him. “Happy anniversary, Hobs.”

Hobie's chest fills with a sense of belonging, heart full with his love for you. He keeps the letter in his coat pocket, right above his heart. “Happy anniversary, lovie.” He pulls you back, you giggle as your palm hits his chest, fingers snaking up to his nape to guide him towards your waiting lips.

“Forgot something, cowboy?” You say against his lips, and he nudges your nose with his own.

You feel something grazing against your chin, and when you flick your eyes down, you see a letter written in his hand, addressed to you. You tamp down your excitement, snatching the envelope, giving it a peck and tucking it inside your jean pocket.

“Never, read it together like always?” He pecks your warm lips once, then twice before indulging himself in your warmth.

“Yes,” you utter, breathlessly. “But inside, your tea, and the girls are waiting.”

Hobie chortles, kissing you again before reluctantly pulling away. “They're awake?”

“They smelt breakfast.” You inhale, letting his sandalwood and mint scent waft over you with ease. “If you hurry, there might still be some left for you.” You begin to walk away, hand grasping his palm.

“Alright, just one more then we'll go.” He pulls you back to his chest gently as you giggle atop his lips. He kisses you like he did all those years ago.

In the middle of nowhere, his story begins. And in the middle of nowhere, his story ends with you.

A/N: Thank you so much for sticking around this long! Our beloved cowboy is finally happy and at peace 🥺 If you loved reading OPIN please consider reblogging ❤️

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 month ago

Text

Great Expectations 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, power imbalance, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Professor Holmes’ class is your most difficult, but he’s about to make it even more challenging.

Characters: Sherlock Holmes (modern AU)

Note: monday

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Friday arrives too quickly for your likely. Amid the usual cluster of readings, lectures, and assignments, you have Professor’s Holmes’ additional task to add to the pile. It feels unfair that he would point out your own efforts only to force more upon you. His praise hardly seems like that in retrospect.

That you did the readings likely made your experience simpler, though the vague instructions leave you uncertain. No rubric, no objectives, no outline. Your format in the usual style and triple-check the word count before you resign yourself to fate or fortune, whichever favours you.

As usual, Professor Holmes prefers a physical copy, neglecting the digital workspace designed by the campus for ease of access. He doesn’t seem to be the type for the easy way out, does he? You try not to malinger on your gripes and head off, promising to reward yourself with a double whip frap for your work. It’s certainly more than you’ll receive from your professor, even if you do manage to gleam your first A+ from the man.

The softness of autumn mingles with the crispness of early winter. You mourn the orange and yellow leaves as they start to curl at the edges and brown, blowing across the pavement and catching on pantlegs and tree roots. Midterm season is almost over but it won’t be long before finals rise to haunt you.

You come up the Herringbone building and look up at the romanticist arches and columns. The esteemed architecture has you feeling even smaller. Surely, the professor will only add to that.

Inside, the air is dry from the heat blowing from the high vents and curved staircases crest the foyer. You follow the left one up and continue along to the small set of steps that lead up to a hallway with only three office doors. Holmes is at the very end. You went there once before when you needed to be signed into the course; he was certain to make you wait then threatened not to sign the form at all.

You stop and stare at the frosted glass with his pedigree emblazoned on it. You contemplate just shoving the paper through his slot but the light is on. You raise your fist and gently tap on the wood. You bounce on your feet as you wait, tugging at the itchy collar of the blue sweater dotted with little clouds. In the warmth of the stuffy building and under your wool jacket, it’s stifling.

You hear movement from within and ready yourself for the encounter. You don’t think you’ve ever talked to Professor Holmes without some degree of awkwardness. On your end, of course. He can’t be bothered to care what others think of him.

The door opens and you try to smile but it feels like chewing rocks. He looks back at you without an ounce of emotion. You gulp.

“Um, Professor, I have my paper--”

He’s already walking away as you stand dumbly in the doorway. You blanch as he circles back to his desk and sits heavily in his seat. He leans forward and dips his head, bending over an open leather folio with a lined pad within. A curl falls onto his forehead and he reaches without looking for the pipe propped up on a mahogany tray.

“Come in,” he says before he puts the pipe to his lips and bites down. He teethes on it as he snatches up a pen with his other hand. You warily obey and cross the threshold.

“So, um, here you go,” you near the desk and lay down the stapled paper. He doesn’t look up. “Erm, thanks, professor. I hate to disturb, so I’ll just leave it here--”

He sighs and sits up, flicking back the curl as he replaces the pipe on the tray, “they won’t let me light that, even with the window open.”

You glance over at the drawn curtains and nod, “oh.”

“You’re the first,” he interjects before you can summon any sort of response.

“Ah, oh--”

“You are rather quick, aren’t you?” He challenges as he rolls the pen between his fingers, his shoulders spreading wide against the puckered leather chair, “fleet of foot, as some Victorian ponce might say. Quiet.”

You blink and purse your lips, giving a shrug.

“You didn’t say hello,” he intones, “it is courteous when you see an acquaintance to greet them, though I suppose etiquette does continue to change.”

“Um, I didn’t want to... impose?” You murmur.

His expression remains cryptic. You can’t tell if he’s annoyed or amused or something else.

“So you didn’t,” he shrugs, his vest bracing on his chest.

“Sorry, er, sir. But um, there’s my paper, I’ll... let you be. I’m sure you’re busy enough--”

“Terribly busy,” he confirms dryly. “Since I’ll have a new batch of papers to mark, I’ll be kept well in hand.”

You clasp your hands together and sway, “right, uh--”

“And you’ll be off like the rest of those dull girls, paying no mind to the real purpose of study, but rather the wordly pleasures of the modern campus. All that pumpkin spice and such.” He reprimands.

“Oh, uh, professor...” you know better than to argue. He is set in his ideas of his students and what should make you any different than the rest.

“Right then,” he reaches for your paper and barely glances at the title page. He flips to the short essay and his eyes skim. He reaches for the antique pen and marks up the page as he goes. He hums as he scratches with the nib. “Good point but clunky prose. No, redudant.” He scribbles his comments in the margins. He turns to the second page and sighs. He closes it and holds it out. “You show comprehension but you need refinement.”

“Um, thanks, er...” you take it hesitantly and back up again. He watches you with his bold blue eyes, not showing a single crack in his veneer.

“Go off and enjoy your weekend, don’t fret over the fault of others. Certainly, you show more promise than most who haunt my lectures,” he says. His tone is flat but his words are praising. The contradiction has you off-foot.

“Thank you, Professor, have a good weekend too.”

He doesn’t respond as he puts his attention back to another stack of papers. You turn on your heel slowly and scurry to the door. He clears his throat and you stop.

“Perhaps I mightn’t have such a tedious weekend.”

You glance back but he still has his head down. You nod and leave him be with a sharp inhale. You hold your breath in until you close the door from the other side.

Only a few more weeks and you’ll be through this class. Hopefully, you won’t ever have to face the heart palpitations that come with each encounter after that. For now, you will focus on the last paper and the eventual exam. Those are hurdles that look higher the closer you get.

📕

There’s a cafe off campus you prefer. The library kiosk and the franchised booth in the Student Rec Centre are always overcrowded. This place isn’t so bad. A local mom and pop with a single barista. Maude, the retiree turned businesswoman, works slowly but efficiently. Traffic matches her pace but is enough to keep her thriving.

“I’ll bring it to you, dearie,” she smiles as she hands you a plate with a crumbly scone on it. You thank her and go to find a seat.

The place is homey. The seating is mismatched. There are armchairs around a low coffee table, some long tables with thrift store dining chairs, and square table in the corner with two benches and some stools. The rug that stands center to the sitting space is faded but its patterns still visible.

You claim one of the armchairs near the bookcases and sit. Despite the tense submission, you’re glad not be stressing over another mark. Another A- to add to the rota in Holmes’ class. You could do a lot worse given what you’ve overheard from your classmates.

The door opens and closes, letting in a chilly. You keep your coat on as you balance the scone on the coffee table. You’ll wait until you have your mocha and savour them together. It’s a rare treat but the dropping temperature coaxed you into it.

A familiar baritone pricks your ears. You glance over before you can bury your nose in your phone and flinch. What luck. You almost doubt it’s a coincidence. Twice in a row you’ve managed to stumble upon the Professor outside of class.

Your shoulders sink as you turn back and plant your elbow on the armrest, shielding your face behind your hand. What do you do? Your mind races. Despite what he said in his office he does not radiate welcoming energy. You can’t just flee and leave your order behind; it isn’t fair to Maude and you wouldn’t want to waste the money.

Professor Holmes’ voice carries. He orders a black coffee and two shortbread biscuits; the Saturday special. The elder barista takes his order and as usual, bids him to sit down so she can bring it to him. You chew your lip as time ticks on. Make up your mind.

Too late.

“Pardon, oh,” Holmes approaches and gives pause as you look up at him. “You aren’t reserving these for your friends?”

He gestures to the other arm chairs. You shake your head and clasp your phone tight in your hands. He dips his chin and sidles around the coffee chair. He removes his jacket and hangs it on the rack between the bookshelves. He lingers there as he browses the titles on the spines.

Maude appears with your mocha in a large mug on a matching saucer. You thank her as she sets it by your scone. She calls over to Holmes, “I’ll have your coffee and biscuits in just a moment, dearie.”

He turns his head and nods but says nothing else. She shuffles off and you lean forward to take your mug. Somehow your chocolatey treat doesn’t seem so sweet any more. He backs up and lowers himself across from you. You shyly return his gaze over the brim of your cup.

“You come here often?” He asks.

The question has you off-guard as much as his presence. You slurp noisily before you pull the cup away and put it down. You take the napkin by your scone and wipe your lips.

“Sometimes. Once in a while. Er, I... I make my coffee at home. Tea, more often.” You clamp your lip shut before you can ramble on.

“Mm, yes, I prefer tea as well. I was suggested the dark roast here by a colleague however.”

You don’t know what to say. You’re entirely unprepared for the conversation. You’ve never thought much of what he might speak of outside his lectures. His interests, you assume, would align with his expertise.

“You are enjoying your time? You haven’t any schoolwork?” He asks.

You slant your lips one way then the other. You look down at the bag by your feet and back at him. He wears a wool sweater with elbow patches; not quite casual but casual for him.

“I was going to do my readings...” you say.

“Ah,” he sits back in the chair as Maude brings his coffee and biscuits. He thanks her tersely.

You bend over and reach for your bag. You slide out your notebook and open it to the printed articles stashed between the pages. You hope it’s enough of an excuse not to talk as much.

“My class?” He asks.

“Yes, sir, er, Professor,” you answer.

“Those are available digitally, as I understand.”

“I know, but I, er, prefer print.”

“Mm, yes, it does permeate more effectively, doesn’t it?” He intones.

You agree with a silent nod and try to focus. You’re too shy to check if he’s watching you but it feels like he is. He sighs and sips from his cup.

“What were you on the hunt for then?” He asks abruptly before you can read the introduction for the fifth time. You look up, perplexed. “At the craft store?”

You open your mouth then pause. Finally, you summon the answer, “thread.”

“Thread?”

“Yes, I... make little things. Sometimes. It wasn’t urgent. I don’t have my sewing machine in my dorm and... no time.” You shrug and let the papers lay flat on your notebook.

He considers you as his cheek dimples and he leans his chin on his knuckles. He looks down at the cup he holds over one leg. He sucks his teeth.

“Rather flat,” he dislodges his elbow and leans forward. “And what did you get? It smells intriguing.”

“Mocha with peppermint,” you answer.

“Mm, with whip?” He peeks at your cup and the melting glut of cream.

“Yes, Professor,” you reply.

“I think I might trade mine for the same,” he stands with his cup in hand.

You watch him, confused and uneasy. So much for getting some studying done. You doubt you’ll be able to concentrate with him looming on the other side of the table.

#sherlock holmes #dark sherlock holmes #dark!sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes x reader #series #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #great expectations #au #professor au #modern au #enola holmes

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swissmissficrecs · 6 months ago

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A-Z Johnlock Tropes

This time it's all the tropes in my favorite fics! Limited to one fic per author, and I tried to include other authors than on my A-Z classics list.

A lternate Universe(s) - A Vintage Exceptionally to Your Liking by EmmyAngua (95K, E): A love story across alternate dimensions.

B DSM - Shames and Praises by s0mmerspr0ssen (51K, E): D/s AU with Dom!John / sub!Sherlock.

C rossover - More Things Than Are Dreamt Of by 1electricpirate (37K, M-E): HP crossover with Wizard!John / Muggle!Sherlock.

D omesticity - Where Else Would I Be? by cwb (34K, E): Retirement in Sussex with flashbacks.

E stablished Relationship - Breakable Not Broken by MissDavis (227K, E): Dealing with permanent injury together.

F uture - Software Malfunction by tiger_in_the_flightdeck (16K, E): Sherlock is a Companion android with a malfunction.

G en - The Green Blade by verityburns (72K, T): Serial killer casefic.

H istorical - The Beast of Baskerville by Mildredandbobbin (74K, E): 15th Century/fairy tale AU.

I llness - On Pins and Needles by 7PercentSolution, J_Baillier (588K, G-E): Sherlock contracts Guillain-Barré syndrome.

J ealousy - White Knight by DiscordantWords (69K, M): Sherlock fakes a relationship with Janine, to John's distress.

K idfic - Intentions by KeelieThompson1 (216K, G-M): Sherlock discovers he is the father of 10-year-old John.

L ongfic - Sketchy by serpentynka (876K, E): Johnlock and Mycroft/OMC slow-burn casefic(s).

M agical Realism - Shatter the Darkness (Let the Light In) by MojoFlower (109K, E): Sherlock is a djinn.

N SFW - The Great Sex Olympics of 221B by XistentialAngst (58K, E): Sherlock and John compete to see who's better at sex.

O megaverse - The Illusion of Control by starrysummernights (253K, E): Alpha!Sherlock / Omega!Johnwith mpreg.

P arentlock - The James Holmes Chronicles by prettyvk (338K, T-E): Sherlock and John raise Moriarty's son.

Q ueer Representation - The Adventure of the Consulting Woman by DancingGrimm (56K, E): Trans character assists in a case.

R etirement - Through the Clouds by Mazarin221b (20K, E): Sherlock and John retire to Sussex.

S oulmates - Colors by Quesarasara (140K, E): When you meet your soulmate, you finally see the world in color.

T eenlock - The Frost is All Over by Chryse (148K, E): 19th-century AU, Sherlock is an Earl's son and John is a commoner.

U ndercover - Corpus Hominis by mycapeisplaid (47K, E): Posing as a couple at a spa retreat.

V ampires - Bleed Me Out by antietamfalls (87K, E): Vampire!Sherlock with whump, hurt/comfort, and fluff.

W hump - All the Best and Brightest Creatures by wordstrings (188K, E): Moriarty is back and out for blood.

X enomorphism - Names for the Galaxy by evadne (191K, E): 22nd-century Alien!Sherlock.

Y enta* - May Your Heart Purr Like A Bumblebee by destinationtoast (14K, M): Harry helps Johnlock happen.

Z oomorphism** - The Horse and His Doctor by khorazir (128K, T): Vet!John and Horse!Sherlock.

*Used here to mean a female character playing matchmaker. Y-word tropes are hard, you guys!

**Not sure this is technically correct, but I'm using it here to mean fics in which a character has animal form. Z-word fanfic tropes are also hard and I already used zombies on my previous list!

#rec list #best

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starlost-mochi-x · 3 months ago

Note

hello! just read your chan helping reader on their period post, it was so good, could you do one for changbin too? would be amazing <3

yayyy second request ! glad you liked the chan version, love 🤍

he comforts you on your period - seo changbin

pairing: seo changbin x reader

summary: you're struggling with your period and changbin helps you out

genre: fluff, non-idol! au, comfort, cramps and period pain, reader has a period, slight suggestiveness

a/n: comments are appreciated <3

You're curled up on the couch, a thick blanket draped over your body. It cocoons you completely, providing a bubble of intoxicating heat and warmth that seeps pleasantly into your bones. You've been feeling sleepy all day but the drowsiness isn't enough to distract you from the constant, thrumming pain in your abdomen.

Shifting slightly to the left, you turn just enough to look out the living room window. It's clouded with fog, frosting the glass and making the outside world seem far, far away. It rained earlier, a few hours before you and Changbin had gotten up. You'd spent the morning talking in bed, laughing and sharing stories, and adoring each other (in more ways than one).

You'd been perfectly fine through all of that, up until Changbin had kissed your forehead and gotten dressed to go to the gym. You'd protested and whined about it, arguing that there was no reason to go work out this early in the morning, and that skipping one gym session wouldn't hurt. Especially in this weather. It was freezing.

He'd simply laughed and peppered a few more kisses to your face before quickly cooking you breakfast and leaving. You hadn't managed to eat it, though- as soon as you had left the bed, your phone rang. You'd been taking several phone calls from work for about half an hour, casually ignoring the faint, dull warning thuds in your stomach, signalling that your period was about to start. Instead of resting or at least warming up a heat pad, you'd gotten around to doing chores while on the phone with your boss. You figured that there was no harm in doing two things at once. If anything, it meant that stuff got done.

Determination had taken a firm hold of your senses, and you aspired to have finished most of the chores while on the phone. As you worked, you began to realise it was a bad idea; your stomach was beginning to throb, and you couldn't focus on what your boss was saying. The pain in your abdomen spread all the way down to your toes, making it difficult to do anything more than stand stiffly and wash the dishes, your shoulder propping your phone to you ear.

As soon as you had ended the last call, you sat down hastily. The cramps were beginning to set in now and it was too late to take medication. Even if you had taken a few painkillers, it would have taken an hour or so to set in, and you didn't have that kind of time. There was work to be done and you wanted everything to be done before Changbin got back.

Of course, no such luck.

Now you lay on the sofa, having had no more strength to do anything but pull out the biggest, fluffiest blanket you could find, and collapse into the cushions like a ragdoll. It was comfier than expected, despite the throbbing pain in your gut, but it didn't do much to alleviate it. All you could do now was push your way through it. Or you could call Changbin.

But you knew how much he loved his workouts, how much he loved pushing himself to do better. You knew it was unreasonable to be thinking like this, but you couldn't help but feel that he deserved a morning to himself undisturbed.

Yeah, no. If i have to go another minute without painkillers-

Pulling out your phone from under the thick folds of blanket, you clicked on Changbin's contact, waiting for him to pick up. It rung three times before he answered. The sounds of clanking, chatter, and faint workout music sounded from the speaker of your phone. Changbin's voice came through crisp and clear.

"Hey, bunny," he sounded breathless.

"Hi," you whispered, suddenly feeling guilty.

There was a pause.

"Bunny, you okay? What's wrong?"

You shifted to the left again, hip jerking suddenly as a particularly painful cramp shot through your abdomen, needle-sharp.

"Can- can you come home? My period started and-"

There was a heavy clank from the other side of the phone, followed by a hiss and a groan from Changbin. You fought the urge to smile. You'd heard that sound many, many times when he'd been working out at home. It was usually followed by Changbin's characteristic whining as you pressed an icepack to his foot, carefully and gingerly shifting the weight he'd dropped on himself to the side. His dramatic sigh sounded through the speaker.

"Why didn't you call me as soon as you started?"

You whine. "I didn't want to disturb you, I know you like working out uninterrupted-"

"Bunny, that's no excuse. I'm your boyfriend, it's my job to know about this, okay? I'm coming home."

"But-"

"No buts. I'll stop by the store to get snacks. We can have a day in, yeah?"

You bite your lip. "I can always try and get up-"

"Nononononono, don't do that. I'll be there soon, okay? We can eat and cuddle and watch a movie," his enthusiastic tone floated through the living room, making your mouth lift up at the corners.

"Binnie, are you sure?"

He laughs, "Of course I'm sure."

You smile freely then, feeling a fresh surge of affection and love wash over you, momentarily dulling the aching, cramping pains in your abdomen.

"I love you, Binnie."

"I love you too, bunny. Now, what ice cream do you want?"

a/n: requests are open !

#changbin #skz #stray kids comfort #skz changbin #changbin x reader #starlost mochi fics #starlost mochi #stray kids #skz fluff #skz x reader #skz scenarios #stray kids fanfic #seo changbin #binnie #stray kids changbin #changbin skz #changbin stray kids #changbin scenarios #changbin soft thoughts

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serenitysilverheart · 2 years ago

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"Instead I content myself with watching them grow. They're so perfect." - Sasha (Return to the Clans) page 27

i decided to try my hand at redrawing a panel from the tigerstar and sasha graphic novel trilogy using my designs for the clouded frost au, since it gave me an excuse to draw the three siblings together overall i really like how it turned out! and i think i like the way the designs look together as well; overall i really enjoyed doing this and will definitely try to do another graphic novel panel redraw in the future!

art by Don Hudson

#clouded frost au #hawkfrost #mothwing #tadpole #warrior cats #warriors #warriors au #au hawkfrost #tigerstar and sasha panel redraw #tigerstar and sasha

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cloudedfrostau · 23 days ago

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#hawkfrost #clouded frost designs #riverclan #warriors au

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doumadono · 1 year ago

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Warnings: violence, viking!Dabi, viking!Shoto, earl!Endeavor, viking!Hawks, viking!Natsuo, fem!reader, viking themes, smut (deflowering, p in v, blood)

Summary: as you reconcile with Touya, the dynamics between you two intensify, and with his departure alongside Shoto and Hawks, you find yourself grappling with the profound implications of Touya's gift, navigating a new chapter in your life

Word count: circa 8.1k

A/N: if you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series, please let me know ♥

KVITRAVN - MHA VIKING AU • MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST

PREVIOUS CHAPTER • NEXT CHAPTER

ACT IV - IN THE VEIL OF DARKNESS

Several days had slipped by.

Touya, consumed by the impending expedition, had become an elusive figure in your world. The anticipation of the journey ahead, alongside his youngest brother Shoto, Hawks, and a group of warriors, left little room for casual conversations. The Great Hall bore witness to his unwavering focus as he meticulously prepared, sharpening his weapons with an intensity that hinted at the challenges that lay ahead.

In the midst of the preparations, you frequently encountered Touya in the hall. His presence was undeniable, a brooding silhouette engrossed in the art of perfecting his sword and axe. The air around him crackled with an energy that mirrored the impending adventure.

Yet, despite the shared space and the fleeting glimpses, there was a palpable silence between you two. Whenever your paths crossed, he would promptly withdraw, leaving unspoken words hanging in the air.

In the meantime, Shoto, on the other hand, endeavored to draw nearer to you, under the impression that you harbored an interest in him. However, you gracefully declined each of his advances. Yet, in the face of his advances, you maintained a graceful poise, politely but firmly declining each of his attempts.

The evening was bathed in a cold, biting chill, the kind that seeped into the bones. As the sky painted itself in hues of indigo and ebony, you found yourself entrusted with a task that seemed simple on the surface but proved to be more challenging than expected.

The warriors' clothes, worn and stained from battles past, awaited a thorough cleansing. The Great Hall had called upon you to fetch water from the bay, two heavy pails that seemed determined to resist your every attempt to carry them. Wrapped in a thick fur that clung to your shoulders, you ventured into the frosty night, a lone figure navigating the shadows.

The bay was a silent expanse, its waters reflecting the pale light of the moon. The air was crisp, filled with the briny scent of the sea. With each step, the crunch of frost-coated grass beneath your boots echoed in the stillness of the night.

As you reached the bay, the water shimmered in the moonlight, a tranquil contrast to the arduous task ahead. The pails, when filled, felt like anchors, their weight digging into your weary arms. The wind whispered tales of distant lands, carrying with it a numbing cold that penetrated through layers of clothing.

The journey back to the Great Hall became a battle against the elements. The fur draped around your shoulders provided little solace against the biting wind, and the weight of the water-laden pails seemed to increase with every step. Your breath formed delicate clouds in the frigid air as you pressed forward, determination masking the discomfort.

The Great Hall loomed in the distance, its warm glow promising respite from the harsh elements. With each step, the anticipation of a crackling fire and the warmth of shelter spurred you on.

As you struggled with the weight of the water-filled pails, a smooth, male voice sliced through the cold. The offer of help hung in the air, a surprising interruption to your solitary struggle. Instinctively, you refused, a reflex born of independence and perhaps a hint of pride.

Yet, within moments, the burden was lifted from your frozen hands. Bewilderment etched across your face, you slowly raised your head to find the source of assistance. A shock coursed through you as your eyes met those of Touya, draped in a thick, black bear fur.

Silence lingered for a moment before you managed a nod, acknowledging his unspoken gesture of aid. The air crackled with unspoken tension as the pails now rested in Touya's capable hands. The night seemed to hold its breath, awaiting the exchange of words that hung in the chilly air.

You suddenly uttered, your voice measured, "I appreciate the help, but I had it under control."

A chuckle escaped Touya's lips, warm against the icy backdrop. "Sure looked like it," he remarked, a teasing glint in his turquise eyes. Touya's gaze lingered on you, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Sensing your reluctance, he ventured, "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

You nodded, the weight of unspoken words lingering in the air. The memory of Touya witnessing to Shoto's unexpected kiss, cast a shadow over the present.

Touya, breaking the awkward silence, continued, "Listen, about that night…" He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "I should have said something. I should have…"

You interrupted, your voice a mix of reluctance and honesty, "It's in the past, Touya. Water under the bridge. And just so you know, I didn't want that. Your brother was drunk."

"I avoided talking to you," he confessed, his voice tinged with bitterness, "because I thought you were into Shoto. I thought he'd be better for you in so many ways than I could ever be, Y/N."

His words halted you in your tracks, and you turned to face him, your expression a mix of surprise and bitterness. "Why say it now?" you asked, your tone edged with a bitter curiosity.

Touya sighed. "Because I need you to know the truth. I need you to understand why I've been distant. My scars, my fucked-up character — I didn't think I was enough for you. I thought I was saving you from someone like me. Not to mention I brought you here against your will."

The truth hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, the silence between you was almost suffocating. Lowering your head, you took a deep breath before opening up to him, "Despite all that, Touya, you've always been kind to me. You've seemed to genuinely care, and I appreciate all the little gestures."

A hint of surprise flickered in Touya's eyes, and you continued, "Even tonight, when you helped me with the pails, it didn't go unnoticed. And about your scars, both physical and mental — I don't mind. They don't define you." You paused, reflecting on a specific memory, "Remember the night we kissed? I felt comfortable, Touya. Despite the circumstances, I felt a connection. Your scars never mattered to me then, and they don't now. And I have no idea why you like me. I'm nothing but a thrall."

Touya's frown deepened as the word "thrall" escaped your lips. "Don't say that," he hissed, a hint of intensity in his voice.

You chuckled bitterly, "But it's the truth. I'm just a slave to you and your family. After these months, I've gotten used to it, even if it's still hard to be polite at times when people treat me like a piece of meat."

The weight of your words hung in the air, and Touya gently placed the pails on the ground. Cupping your face in his gloved hands, the soft touch of thick leather against your reddened cheeks felt surprisingly comforting. "Don't ever call yourself that," he insisted, his eyes searching yours. "You're not just a thrall to me. You're… you."

You met his gaze, a mix of confusion and gratitude in your eyes.

Touya continued, his voice softer now, "Around you, I don't have to pretend. I don't have to be someone I never was, you know? Only with you, I feel like I can be myself fully."

His words lingered in the cold night air, a vulnerable admission that cut through the complexities of your situation. The touch of his gloved hands on your face, an unexpected tenderness, conveyed a depth of emotion that defied the roles you both found yourselves in.

In that moment, beneath the moonlit sky, Touya, for the first time, allowed himself to be seen, and you, in turn, found solace in the unexpected warmth of his touch.

Silence settled between you and Touya, a quiet understanding born from the unspoken exchange. You nodded, acknowledging his words, and without further discussion, you both resumed the journey back to the Great Hall.

The moon cast its gentle glow on the path ahead as you walked side by side. The rhythmic sound of boots on frost-coated ground echoed in the stillness.

As you approached the Great Hall, the door creaked open, and you both stepped inside, the warmth enveloping you like a familiar embrace. The pails were set down, and the flickering light of the hearth danced on the walls.

"Thanks, Touya. I appreciate the help," gratitude filled your voice as you thanked him for his assistance.

A small, genuine smile curved on his lips as he removed his gloves and fur. "It's no problem. Let me know where you want these," he gestured to the pails.

"The backroom," you replied, "Hilda and the other girls are there. We're doing laundry tonight."

With a nod, Touya complied, carrying the pails to the backroom.

As he entered, Hilda and the other thralls, caught off guard by the unexpected guest, momentarily stood up, bowing respectfully.

Touya, however, remained polite and offered his assistance. "Let me help you with that."

Hilda, blinking in surprise, tried to dissuade him. "Prince Touya, this is not a task befitting of your status. We can handle it."

Touya chuckled, a genuine warmth in his keen eyes. "I'm here to help. No need to treat me any differently. What can I do?"

Hilda reluctantly assigned him a task, and soon, the room buzzed with activity. Touya, alongside you and the other thralls, engaged in the laundry work. The atmosphere, once laden with tension, now hummed with a shared sense of purpose.

Conversations flowed naturally as you worked, the rhythmic splash of water and the occasional laughter blending into a harmonious melody. Touya, despite his royal status, interacted with the thralls on a personal level, breaking down the barriers that society had imposed.

As the laundry was washed and the room filled with the scent of soap and clean linen, Touya continued to lend a helping hand. Together with Hilda, he assisted in hanging the freshly laundered clothes, ensuring they would dry efficiently.

However, unbeknownst to all of you, a pair of sharp turquoise eyes observed the scene from a concealed vantage point. The eyes lingered on the group, absorbing the unexpected sight of Touya, a heir, engaging in the everyday tasks alongside thralls.

Hilda's gratitude was expressed through a gentle rub on Touya's shoulder. "Thank you, Touya."

He responded with a nod and a warm smile. "Anytime," he said sincerely. "You can always ask me for help if needed. I will do my best to assist."

The evening continued with the familiar sounds and scents of the kitchen. Pots clanged, and the aroma of simmering dishes wafted through the air as you busied yourself preparing supper for the earl Endeavor, his sons, and the departing warriors, including Hawks. The flickering flames in the hearth cast a warm glow over the room, but a sense of unease lingered within you.

Touya's presence had offered a respite from the isolation you often felt, but the worry about his well-being persisted. The failed attempt to gather information from Shoto had left you in the dark, and the unanswered questions weighed heavily on your mind.

Hilda, noticing your distraction, scolded you for bringing the young prince into the fold of daily duties like laundry. "You shouldn't involve the prince in such matters," she chided, her tone firm.

You listened to her admonishment, understanding the societal implications of your actions, yet you couldn't help but defend Touya. "He genuinely wanted to help. It's more than I can say for some others."

As the night unfolded, you focused on the task at hand, serving the prepared supper to the earl and his sons, hoping that the meal would provide a momentary respite from the weight of unanswered questions and the complexities of the world you found yourself entangled in.

Amidst the clatter of cutlery and the hum of conversation at the dinner table, your keen observational skills didn't fail to pick up on the subtle glances exchanged between Shoto and Hawks. They sat on opposite sides of the table, but a series of shared looks and silent nods hinted at some unspoken understanding. Though you couldn't quite discern the nature of their exchange, a feeling of unease settled within you.

Despite the undercurrent of mystery, your attention occasionally wavered as you found yourself caught in the interplay of glances with Touya. Whenever your eyes met his, a warmth spread across your cheeks, and a shy smile played on your lips. Touya's nods and the subtle touch of his hand when you refilled his cup with mead sent a flutter through your heart.

The atmosphere at the table, fraught with a mix of hidden agendas and unspoken emotions, contrasted sharply with the routine of serving and replenishing dishes.

The night unfolded in a flurry of activity. After the supper, you and the other thralls diligently cleaned the main chamber, ensuring every dish and piece of cutlery sparkled in the soft glow of candlelight. The earl Endeavor and his sons retired for the night, and as the main chamber returned to a state of quiet, the rhythmic sound of washing dishes and the occasional hum of conversation among the thralls echoed through the longhouse.

After the tasks were complete, and the main chamber restored to its usual order, you took a quick bath to wash away the remnants of the day. As you made your way back to your shared room, wrapped in a simple linen robe, you unexpectedly crossed paths with Touya in the hallway.

"Touya," you greeted him, a mixture of surprise on your face as you tightened the robe around your figure. "You startled me!"

He flashed a confident smile. "Hey Y/N. I was hoping I'd run into you before I leave tomorrow morning."

You raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk forming on your lips. "And what brings you seeking my company, my lord?"

"Well, it gets lonely in those grand chambers," he mused.

You couldn't help but laugh at his audacity. "Are you implying I'm your solution to loneliness, my lord?"

Touya's grin widened, and he nodded. "I guess so, yes. Plus, I can't resist the chance to spend more time with someone as captivating as you."

You rolled your eyes, but a playful glint danced in them. "You're quite the charmer, aren't you?"

"Only with the ones who matter."

After a moment of consideration, you nodded. "Alright. I'll stay with you tonight."

The warmth of Touya's chamber enveloped you as soon as you stepped in alongside him, the crackling fire from a fireplace casting a gentle glow.

You tightened the robe around you, feeling a sense of comfort and vulnerability in this shared space. The flickering shadows played on the walls, creating a dance of light and shadow.

With a graceful movement, Touya began to unbutton his white shirt. The flickering firelight highlighted the contours of his physique as he revealed the toned lines beneath the fabric. He folded the shirt with a practiced ease and placed it gently on a nearby chair, the white contrasting with the rich hues of the room.

As he laid on bed, Touya's eyes met yours, a silent invitation lingering in the air. He reached out, pulling you closer, and you could feel the warmth radiating from his scarred chest. The touch was both gentle and reassuring, a gesture that spoke of a shared vulnerability beneath the layers of status and circumstance.

You nestled against Touya, resting your head on his chest, feeling the rhythmic rise and fall as he breathed.

As the quiet moments passed, the inevitable topic of Touya's departure hung in the air like a lingering shadow. You couldn't shake the feeling of sadness that settled in your chest, and the words weighed heavily on your tongue. "Touya," you began, your voice soft but filled with genuine concern, "I can't help but worry about what might happen when you leave. Shoto… He's unpredictable, and I'm afraid he might try to hurt you."

Touya's expression softened, and he let out a gentle chuckle. "You're worried about me, huh?" he said, his eyes meeting yours as he tilted your head by catching your face between his thumb and forefinger.

You nodded, the worry etched on your face. "I've seen the tension between you two, and with the things that have happened, I can't help but be concerned."

Touya's hand found yours, his touch reassuring. "Listen, Y/N," he said, his tone gentle, "I appreciate your concern, but you don't need to worry about me. Shoto and I have our differences, yes, but I can handle myself. Plus, I've got a knack for avoiding trouble." A small smile played on his lips as he continued, "And here you are, worried about your own captor, how amusing."

You blinked, a mix of surprise and confusion in your eyes. "I just don't want anything bad to happen," you admitted. "Despite everything, you've been kind to me, and I don't want to see you hurt. Is it so hard to understand?"

"I appreciate that, I really do," he said. "But you don't need to worry about me. Focus on yourself, okay? Things will work out, and I'll find a way to handle Shoto. Just take care of yourself in the meantime when I'm gone."

Then, with a gentle lean, Touya bridged the remaining distance, capturing your lips in a slow and passionate kiss. The world outside faded away as the warmth of the moment enveloped you. His lips moved with a tenderness against yours.

As the kiss lingered, it held the promise of both solace and anticipation, a silent affirmation that in the midst of uncertainties, there existed moments of connection that could be cherished.

Touya's kiss was intense, a fervent embrace that drew you closer, your bodies molding together seamlessly. A pleasant buzz filled his mind as your lips danced with his, and he felt the alluring weight of your leg draped over his muscular thigh. With a smooth motion, his hand descended, fingers curving to grip the soft flesh of your exposed thighs.

In response, your nimble fingers wove through his white hair, eliciting a soft groan from Touya. A sudden, sharp tug sent a gasp escaping his lips.

Impatience guided his hands as he skillfully unraveled your robe, allowing it to slide off your shoulders, revealing the supple skin beneath. The sight before him left him breathless. "Y/N," he whispered, the words barely parting his lips, "You're so beautiful."

Mounting him fully with newfound confidence, you recognized there was no reason for shame. As the realization washed over you, you deliberately shed your robe, letting it fall to the side, baring your body completely to his keen gaze. Your lips were gently caught between your teeth as his calloused hands found their place on your hips, a slow ascent following the contours of your waist, finally reaching your breasts. His touch was tender, cupping them lightly.

You captured Touya's bottom lip between your teeth, the kiss deepening as you almost drew blood. The resulting pain elicited a loud moan from him, prompting him to assert control - he swiftly shifted, flipping you onto your back, pinning you to the furs beneath with the weight of his hips and his hands firmly securing yours above your head.

A soft grunt escaped you, followed by a whimper that sent a jolt of desire straight to his cock; it was alreadyt tenting in his dark pants.

Touya's mouth found its way to your neck, where he suckled with a fervor that left an angry mark, destined to be a bruise by tomorrow. Your arms instinctively curled around his neck, and you gasped softly, welcoming the pleasant weight of his dominance and the enveloping warmth that surrounded you in the charged intimacy of the moment.

Touya emitted a gruff sound; the truth was, he hadn't been with a woman in years, and the enticing warmth of your body, coupled with your deference and moans, was stirring a primal desire within him. With practiced skill, he unbuttoned his pants with one hand, letting them slide down his muscular thighs. In a swift motion, he kicked them off, unveiling his well-endowed shaft that. A gasp escaped him as the room's air enveloped his throbbing member, causing it to pulsate involuntarily.

Soft, breathy sounds emanated from your lips now as Dabi moved his hips against yours, his throbbing cock damp and solid against the gentle skin of your hip. You responded by wrapping your legs around his firm waist, pressing against him in a mutual, fervent embrace.

"Y/N," Touya murmured, his voice a low, lustful cadence. He descended down your body, nestling his face between the soft contours of your breasts. Warm breath, coming in soft pants, caressed your skin, sending shivers through you. His touch worked its magic; your nipples hardened under his skillful exploration. Touya took one into his mouth, suckling softly, the flat of his tongue tracing a tantalizing pattern again and again.

Firmly gripping the sides of his head, you filled his ears with the symphony of moans, the sounds now unceasing. Your movements became more fervent, heels digging into his firm ass as you squirmed against him.

Touya emitted a gruff, almost winded grunt, his desire evident. His fingers ventured southward, sliding between your thighs.

You sighed as his coarsed fingers touched your soft folds, finding them heated and slick, just for him.

Whispering soft words in a language Touya couldn't comprehend, you gently tugged on his hair, bringing him closer to seal your lips in an open-mouthed kiss. The exchange of tongues was a dance, each movement syncing seamlessly. Touya, guided by your touch, positioned himself at your entrance, teasingly rubbing his cock along your wet folds.

A whimper escaped you, only to be stifled by Touya's loose hair that fell to the side, playfully tickling your face and finding its way into your mouth, causing laughter to bubble between you. As he rested his weight on your body, Touya applied gentle pressure to the front of your neck with his free hand, a delicate squeeze accompanying the sensation. Simultaneously, he drove his rigid cock inside your willing body.

"Touya!" A cry of his name escaped your lips as you endeavored to relax, attempting to minimize the inevitable discomfort of the initial contact. Despite your efforts, the pain was unmistakable, casting a shadow over the shared intensity of the moment.

Lowering his head, Touya pressed a tender kiss to your temple, his lips brushing against your skin. His voice, laced with reassurance, urged you to take a deep breath.

Your eyes widened, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as Touya fully immersed himself within you. Your hands instinctively fisted in the furs around your head as you arched your back.

Touya, grunting at the sensation of tightness enveloping his cock, propped himself up over your form, holding still for a brief moment. As your gaze met his scarred face, lips parted and breath quickened, you smiled softly.

Touya's hand remained at your throat as he initiated a deliberate rhythm, pulling almost entirely away before plunging back in. With each of his controlled thrusts, a soft, breathy noise escaped you, spurring him on. His focus shifted to your flushed cheeks and pert breasts, rising and falling in tandem with your breath. Droplets of sweat traced paths between his shoulder blades and dotted his forehead, a single bead descending from the tip of his nose to splash onto your belly, prompting a gasp from you.

He paused in his movements, fully immersed within your wetness, savoring the intimate stillness that enveloped both of you.

Your hands sought purchase, gripping his thighs and tracing your nails over the taut muscles.

Touya, attuned to your desires, comprehended the silent cue. With a gentle release, he withdrew his hand from your throat and enveloped you in the shelter of his powerful arms, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

A soft whine escaped you at the subtle shift in angle, and as your moan caressed his ear, Touya withdrew, only to return with an impactful force, spreading your pussy wide with his cock. The intensity of the thrust nearly compelled a scream from you, your fingers trailing up his sweat-slicked, scarred back in response.

Touya emitted a low groan as he felt the clenching warmth of your pussy around him. Pulling back, he thrust into you with unrestrained force, over and over again. His teeth found the red mark he had imprinted earlier on the junction of your neck and shoulder, and his body moved with a raw intensity against yours. Your moans, a symphony of passion, intensified the desire pooling hotly in his belly. "Fuck, Y/N," Touya gasped loudly though gritted teeth.

One of your petite hands clutched his thigh, the fingernails like slivers of hot metal leaving an impression on his skin. The other hand wove into his long, white hair, a firm grip offering a delightful blend of sweet pain to complement the intense pleasure of your velvety, gummy walls embracing his pulsating cock. The sounds of his hips colliding with the backs of your pale thighs, his grunts and groans, and the whimpers escaping your lips were the only sounds to fill the chamber, creating a sensual symphony that left Touya buzzing from head to toe.

The fusion of your arousal and bloo, the lingering traces of your virginity, a gift offered to Touya, had become so intense that it now adorned the insides of your thighs and the front of his abdomen, covering the vertical strip of white hair running from his belly button to his groin in slickness. The wet, squelching noises echoed softly as he withdrew and thrust forcefully back into you.

Touya seized your tender lips with his own, engaging in a fervent kiss. His teeth grazed your tongue and the corners of your mouth. Another sharp pull on his white strands forced his mouth from yours, and as you gazed into his turquoise eyes, you let out a tiny gasp. "T-Touya…"

The vice-like grip of your soft walls around his dick prompted a strangled moan to escape Touya, his eyes briefly shutting in response. When they reopened, your back had arched, pressing your breasts firmly against his scarred chest. Your head tossed back, and the hold you had on his hair had loosened. A moment of suspended breath passed before it was replaced by a whimper.

Touya emitted a drawn-out, deep moan, his brow furrowing as you fluttered around his rigid shaft, coating it in a palpable surge of wetness mingled with traces of blood. The sensation sent shivers down his spine, and he sensed himself edging closer to the brink of his own release.

"Touya," you breathed, touching his cheek softly.

He sighed, surrendering to the sensation as he kept moving, albeit at a slower pace.

"Touya," you asserted, gripping his throat firmly, eliciting a raspy breath from him.

His climax engulfed him hard, prompting a whine akin to a wounded animal as he thrust into you with every ounce of intensity, releasing his essence into your yielding pussy.

Your hand descended to press against his chest, and he rode the waves of pleasure, his head dropping forward, lost in the overwhelming sensations, his mind devoid of coherent thoughts. "Fuck," he snorted. "Oh, fucking shit."

Your hurried breaths slowly brought him back to the present, grounding his focus. Tenderly, he draped his form over yours, planting wet kisses along the side of your face, his flaccid cock still nestled inside your folds. As your legs eased down to the bed, your fingers traced gentle patterns across the skin of Touya's muscular back.

Once your breathing had steadied, and the sheen of sweat on Dabi's body had mostly evaporated, he rolled off you onto his side.

You reached up, pushing a few stray strands of mussed hair away from Touya's face, tucking into his arms afterwards.

Touya cradled you, his arms providing a secure embrace, and he sighed, the lure of sleep tugging at the edges of his awareness. Pressing a tender kiss to the top of your head, he murmured, "I didn't hurt you, right?"

You nestled closer, content, and mumbled, "I'm more than good, Touya."

Touya held you close to his chest, his strong arms wrapped securely around you, and he gently rubbed your shoulders. "Thank you," he said, the words soft and sincere.

With a slight frown, you looked up at him. "Why are you thanking me?" you asked, curiosity etched in your gaze.

Touya met your eyes and explained, "You're the first woman I've been with in many years, and I want you to know it wasn't just about… you know, getting laid. It just felt like the right thing to do, to be that intimately close with you."

You fell quiet for a while, tracing patterns on his chest and abdomen with your fingertips. Eventually, you responded, your voice soft and sweet, "Did I let you down with how inexperienced I am?"

Touya's head shook, the gentle curve of a smile on his lips. "No, not at all. It was perfect. You were perfect. I appreciate you letting me claim you as mine."

You blinked, propping yourself up on his chest, curiosity in your eyes. "What does it mean, being yours?"

Touya met your gaze and explained while wrapping a strand of your hair around his forefinger, "It means I want you to be my woman, but only if you reciprocate my feelings."

A blush crept across your cheeks as you reevaluated everything that had transpired between the two of you — from the day he took you captive after the tragic events in your village to bringing you to his settlement and making you a thrall. Despite the lingering anger and sorrow in your soul, you couldn't deny the undeniable spark in your heart whenever you were close to him, whenever his eyes met yours.

After careful contemplation, you silently agreed, the unspoken understanding settling between you two as you gave him a slight nod.

Touya, his grip gentle yet firm, pulled you to him by your chin, sealing the moment with a kiss on your lips. "You're a free woman from now on."

As he released you, you sat up, eyes glistening with a mixture of emotions. With a quiver in your voice, you asked him, "What does this mean?"

He met your gaze, sincerity in his eyes, and replied, "It means you're free, no longer bound as a thrall. You have your own choices now, including whether you want to stay in Skjaldvargr or not."

A chill coursed through your veins as Touya's words sank in — unfamiliar and unsettling, the concept of freedom felt surreal. Blinking in disbelief, you grappled with the weight of this unexpected liberation. It was as if a door to an uncertain future had swung wide open, leaving you standing at the threshold, torn between the familiarity of captivity and the uncharted territory of choice.

Despite the cold tendrils of fear that coiled within you, an overwhelming wave of gratitude and an odd sense of vulnerability washed over. You hesitated for a moment, then, as if propelled by the uncertainty of newfound freedom, you hugged yourself to Touya. Tears spilled into the crook of his neck, a mixture of relief, gratitude, and an acknowledgment of the tangled emotions within.

Amidst your tears, you confessed, "I want to stay. I don't really have anywhere to go, and, strangely, I've grown fond of Skjaldvargr." The admission carried the weight of your complicated journey, a fusion of sorrow, attachment, and an unexpected connection with the people and places you had come to know.

Touya nodded affirmatively. "Well then, you'll stay here. My chambers are now yours, and you are an outright member of the settlement and my woman," he declared.

Shivers of worry coursed through you as you voiced your concerns about how Touya's father and brothers might react to the unconventional decision of freeing a thrall and choosing to be with her. Your apprehension deepened as you acknowledged your own perceived lack of talents, admitting, "I'm just a mere woman, and I don't really have many skills… I can sing and play a harp, but…"

Touya, smiling softly, gently pulled you close and silenced your self-deprecating words with a kiss. As he broke the kiss, he whispered, "Don't worry about that. I'll make it work." His reassurance lingered in the air, a promise that he intended to navigate the challenges ahead and carve a path for the two of you, regardless of the judgments and expectations that might come from his family. Touya, holding you close, looked into your eyes with a tender gaze. "I see way past the talents and appearance," he admitted softly. "What captivated me was your unaware gentleness, the way you carry yourself, and the kindness that emanates from you. That's what truly matters to me."

"Thank you, Touya Endeavorson," you whispered, kissing his jawline.

He chuckled softly, the sound a soothing lullaby, and soon, the gentle rhythm of sleep claimed both of you.

The next day, as the sun hung very low on the horizon, the warriors gathered for the final meeting with the earl.

Dabi, reluctantly torn from your peaceful slumber, pressed a kiss to your bare shoulder before gently tucking you into thick furs. He left the chamber, heading to meet his father.

In the meeting room, Shoto was already present, exchanging a cold smile with his eldest brother. Hawks and the other warriors formed a solemn assembly, awaiting the earl's words.

Natsuo stood nearby, eager to hear what their father had to say and to bid farewell to his brothers.

Endeavor's stern voice echoed through the hall as he issued orders to his sons. "Shoto, Touya, you depart soon. Ensure everything is in order for the journey. You have no time to waste."

Shoto, attempting to be the epitome of politeness, spoke up. "Father, may I suggest we also check the provisions and inspect the gear to ensure nothing is overlooked for the journey?"

Endeavor's gaze shifted to Shoto, a brief nod acknowledging the suggestion. "Very well, Shoto. Attend to the provisions and gear. Dabi, focus on the horses and make sure they are in prime condition. You leave nothing to chance."

Dabi, ever the stoic one, simply nodded in acknowledgment, the weight of his father's expectations settling on his shoulders.

The preparations for the journey became a meticulous dance under Endeavor's watchful eye, each son fulfilling their assigned tasks with a sense of duty ingrained in them by years of training and discipline.

Dabi meticulously checked each horse, ensuring they were in optimal health and prepared for the upcoming journey.

As he worked, Natsuo approached him, a note of concern in his voice. "Be careful, Touya," Natsuo said, his eyes reflecting worry.

Dabi, giving his brother a brief nod, adjusted the long, thick, black fur draping over his shoulders. "I'll. And you, keep your eyes open and make sure everyone is safe and nothing bad happens, understood?"

Natsuo chuckled at the protective tone of his elder brother. "Understood, Touya. Just don't go doing anything reckless."

Dabi flashed a small smirk, a mixture of confidence and assurance. "Reckless? Me? Never." Despite the banter, a hint of camaraderie lingered in their exchange, a silent understanding between the brothers in the face of the impending challenges.

Natsuo ruffled Dabi's stallion's mane, a thoughtful expression on his face. "I hope father knows what he is doing, sending you to a land we've never been to before."

Dabi, continuing to attend to the horses, looked up at his brother. "Apparently, he does. The journey doesn't seem as tough as it sounds," he assured.

As Dabi continued with the preparations for the journey, he turned to Natsuo and asked, "Take good care of Y/N while we're away, will you?"

Natsuo, puzzled by the mention of a name of their thrall, furrowed his brows. "Y/N? Why?"

Dabi smirked and explained, "I freed her. She's my woman now."

Natsuo blinked, a mix of surprise and amusement crossing his face. He smirked smugly, poking his older brother's shoulder. "Well, well, has my brother fallen in love with a woman!?" The revelation caught him off guard, but Natsuo couldn't resist teasing his brother about his newfound connection.

Dabi, his usually stoic expression now tinged with a mix of vulnerability and anger, confirmed, "Yes, Natsuo. I fell in love with her. Any problem with that?"

Natsuo shook his head, a reassuring smile on his face. "No problem, Touya. I'll protect her. You don't have to worry about that. Focus on the trip, and I'll handle things here on your behalf."

A sense of gratitude flickered in Dabi's eyes as he nodded, appreciating the support and understanding from his younger brother.

Touya gracefully mounted his stallion, and Shoto did the same.

As they prepared to depart, Endeavor emerged from the Great Hall. "Bring back as much as you can, and scout around," he ordered, his gaze piercing.

Shoto, ever the dutiful son, assured his father sweetly, "Everything you said will be done, my lord."

They departed in unison, the rhythmic sound of hooves echoing through the settlement.

The horses moved one by one, a procession of warriors embarking on a mission of importance. As they rode, the figures of warriors and their leaders gradually vanished on the horizon, blending with the imposing mountains in the distance.

Dabi, throwing a final glance back at the settlement, silently offered a prayer to their gods for success on the mission. The vast expanse swallowed them, leaving behind the familiar and venturing into the unknown.

You awoke alone in Touya's bed, the furs enveloping you in a warm embrace. Stretching languidly, you shifted, and a blush tinged your cheeks as you became aware of the remnants of wetness and slick covering your inner thighs. With a mix of shyness and self-consciousness, you decided to freshen up.

After cleaning yourself and running a brush through your hair, you prepared for the day. As a free woman with newfound autonomy, uncertainty lingered in your choices. Unsure of what to do, you settled on paying a visit to Hilda.

On your way to your friend, you were unexpectedly intercepted by the earl himself. Endeavor, a commanding presence, stopped you in your tracks. "Come with me, Y/N," he requested, his tone leaving little room for refusal. "I wish to talk to you."

Curiosity and a hint of apprehension danced in your eyes as you followed the earl, the path veering away from your original destination, leaving you to wonder what discussions awaited in the halls of the settlement's leader.

Endeavor, seated on his imposing throne, gestured for you to take a seat on the smaller throne positioned on his left side. Hesitantly, you complied with his request.

Endeavor's stern expression softened slightly as he began to speak. "Touya informed me of what transpired," he stated, and a blush instantly covered your cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and uncertainty coursing through you.

The earl continued, his gaze unwavering. "He freed you. I do not condone such actions, especially considering your status. You are not of royal blood, but as long as you make my son happy, I am inclined to respect that."

You nodded, a mixture of relief and nervousness settling within you. "I assure you, earl Endeavor, my intentions are pure. I mean no harm."

Endeavor, though maintaining his stern demeanor, seemed to consider your words. "Very well," Endeavor declared after a moment. "In such circumstances, if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask the thralls, Hilda, or even me or Natsuo. If you prove your worth, maybe I'll look at you more kindly."

You promised not to be a bother but a valuable asset for the settlement. As the conversation progressed, you gathered the courage to pose a more personal question. "My lord, would you have anything against me fully embracing the worship of your gods?"

Endeavor's initial shock was evident, but after a moment, he smiled at you, nodding in acknowledgment. The acceptance of your desire to align with their religious practices hinted at a potential bridge between your newfound freedom and the intricate dynamics of the settlement. The unspoken understanding between you and the earl carried the potential for a more harmonious coexistence, provided you could prove your dedication and commitment to the settlement's values.

"You wish to step away from your Christian God and embrace our gods?" he asked.

In response, you nodded, meeting his gaze with determination. "Yes, earl Endeavor. I want to embrace the beliefs of this settlement, to become part of the community and honor the gods that are revered here. The day my village was raided, it felt as though my God had abandoned me," you expressed, the weight of that moment etched in the somber tone of your words.

The earl, after a moment of contemplation, surprised you with a geniune smile. He nodded, a gesture of acknowledgment. "Very well. If it brings you closer to this community and my son, then I will respect your choice. The gods, after all, have their own ways." Endeavor considered your newfound interest in embracing the local beliefs and, after a moment, spoke decisively, "I will take you to our seer. She will impart the knowledge you seek. Eventually, you may find yourself visiting Uppsala, a vital religious, economic, and political center in Svealand."

Your eyes lit up with interest at the prospect, and you nodded eagerly, fully intrigued by the idea of exploring such a significant place. Curiosity guiding your words, you asked, "Will I be able to go there once Touya returns?"

Endeavor, after a brief pause, agreed, "Yes, once Touya is back, we can arrange for your visit to Uppsala. It will be an enlightening experience for you."

You nodded at Endeavor, absorbing the significance of the upcoming journey into the settlement's beliefs and practices.

As you settled into the smaller throne, Endeavor looked up at you, a question lingering in his eyes. "Do you know where you're sitting?" he asked.

You replied hesitantly, "Obviously, it's a throne, my lord."

He chuckled, confirming your observation. "Indeed, it is a throne, but it holds a particular importance. This is reserved for the earl's wife, the queen of the settlement."

Your gaze shifted, and you asked cautiously, "Where is your wife then, my lord?"

Endeavor's expression softened, carrying a weight of sorrow. "She passed away after giving birth to Shoto, my youngest son."

You remained silent, acknowledging the gravity of the loss. "I'm so sorry for your family's loss," you expressed.

Endeavor waved his hand dismissively, as if to sweep away the weight of the past. "This is what the gods had prepared for her," he said, a touch of acceptance in his voice. "I miss her wisdom every day." He then looked at you, his gaze steady. "I let you sit here because, eventually, this place will belong to you."

You blinked, shocked by the unexpected revelation. "To me?" you asked, seeking more details. "I-I don't understand, my lord…"

Endeavor nodded, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Yes." Endeavor leaned in, his voice lowered as he shared a revelation with you. "Since you are my eldest son's woman, it is likely that Touya will want to marry you one day." He paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink in. "And I have already chosen Touya as my legitimate heir. Once I am gone, he will take over the throne."

You were shocked by the revelation, and you whispered in response, "But from what I observed, I was fully convinced you would want Shoto to inherit the throne, my lord…"

Endeavor sighed, a mixture of regret and remorse in his eyes. He began to share the mistakes of his past, confessing to an attempt on Touya's life when he was a child, influenced by the wrong people. The consequence was the multitude of scars that adorned Touya's body, a lasting mark from a hot, boiling tar. "After all these years," Endeavor continued, "and witnessing Touya's growth, even though it was much harder for him due to his past and vulnerabilities, I have come to the conclusion that there is no other candidate for the throne than my eldest son. Shoto is full of passion, yes, but he is also very unsorted, having too many ideas and never fully indulging in anything but quick, meaningless affairs." The earl's admission offered a glimpse into the complexities of his decisions, revealing the burdens of the past and the intricate dynamics within the royal family.

As the revelation unfolded, a mix of emotions churned within you. The realization that Touya would be as shocked as you, having believed all along that his father saw him merely as a warrior, added a layer of complexity to the unfolding dynamics within the royal family.

You turned to Endeavor, the weight of the situation settling in, and expressed, "Whatever you decide, I will condone, my lord."

Endeavor's response was a smile, a gesture that softened his stern features. His rough, huge hand reached out, gently caressing your blushed cheek. "I think I'm starting to understand what Touya sees in you," he admitted. "You remind me a lot of my wife. You're very kind, and you seem to carry a wisdom I might not comprehend." Endeavor's gaze held a mixture of seriousness and earnestness as he spoke, "I ask you to be good to Touya. He deserves the world I couldn't provide him with."

The horses moved steadily through the wilderness, Dabi and Shoto riding side by side. The rhythmic sound of hooves on the earth beneath echoed in the quiet expanse around them. Hawks and the other warriors trailed at a distance, granting the brothers a semblance of privacy.

Shoto, breaking the silence, turned to his older brother. "So, how is it to possess a thrall?" he inquired, a curious glint in his mismatched eyes.

Dabi, eyes fixed on the distant horizon, remained silent.

The younger brother, ever probing, continued with a wry tone, "Is she better than the whore you laid with before?"

Dabi's jaw clenched, and for a moment, he maintained his stoic composure. However, the barb proved to be too much, and he finally snapped back at Shoto, his tone sharp and cold, "Watch your tongue, Shoto. She's not just a possession, and you will treat her with respect." The intensity in his words mirrored the protective edge that had developed over the time he spent with you.

Shoto chuckled dismissively. "Why would I respect a thrall? She's nothing but our slave."

"I freed her," Touya retorted sharply, his voice carrying a harsh edge. "So she's not your slave anymore."

Shoto, not entirely convinced by his brother's words, chuckled again. However, when he caught the stern gaze from Touya, he groaned in frustration, relenting but not without adding a snarky, awfully bad comment under his breath. "Oh, brother, you've fallen so low that you bedded a thrall and freed her just because she was good in bed and made doe-eyes at you. Pathetic."

Touya, his patience wearing thin, warned Shoto sharply, "Don't say anything more about Y/N. I won't hesitate to hurt you, Shoto."

Shoto, unfazed and ever mocking, responded with a smirk, "Hurt me? Come on, Touya, you're just defending your little pet. I didn't know you could get so attached to a mere thrall."

Touya's jaw clenched, his restraint visibly tested by his younger brother's taunts.

Their exchange was abruptly interrupted by a loud howling in the distance, a haunting sound that echoed through the wilderness. The mournful cry carried an eerie resonance, adding an ominous atmosphere to the already tense scene between the brothers. As the sun began its descent down the horizon, casting long shadows and painting the sky with hues of orange and red, the howling persisted.

"Wolves," Touya said carefully, his eyes scanning the surroundings. "We should set up camp here. It's too risky to ride further."

Shoto, involuntarily agreeing with Touya, nodded in acknowledgment.

As the camp took shape, Touya decided to rest in his tent. Lying on the furs, he closed his eyes, allowing the sounds of nature and the quietness of the night to envelop him. The occasional chatter of their warriors echoed in the background. Touya's thoughts drifted to you, and as he drifted into sleep, he envisioned you through the canvas of his imagination.

heathen wolves: @queenkhepri @indignant-alpaca @misafiryanki @roast-toast @within-eyesight @crystalwolfblog @haseki-huricihan @violet-forgetmenot @dagger-dragger @smartspot

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