#crag bone

[milramemo]

My friend said they were the ones who rewinded the canon

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤBEAUTY AND THE BEASTㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Sun Wukong x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How Would He Be When He's Obsessed?

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

It starts like a whisper.

He sees you once. Just once.

A mortal. Small, soft, fleeting. Beautiful, in the way flowers are beautiful before a storm rips through the valley. You were helping someone—you always are. You give without asking. You smile with the kind of kindness that gods have long since forgotten.

And Wukong watches.

Perched high on a crag, cloaked in fog and shadow. His golden eyes slit against the wind, tail flicking slowly behind him, like a tiger considering prey. But it isn’t hunger that stirs in him. Not yet.

It’s curiosity. Then fascination. Then obsession.

He doesn’t approach you. Not at first.

You’re mortal. He is not.

He is chaos and violence and divinity twisted into a monkey's form. He is the Great Sage Equal to Heaven. He is not meant for tenderness. He doesn’t feel the same way others do—he feels more. Louder. Like a storm slamming against the gates of the underworld.

He follows you instead.

Silently.

Wukong watches the way you braid your hair in the morning. Watches how your lips move when you whisper prayers. He’s crouched on rooftops and in trees, clinging to shadows like moss. You start to notice things missing: fallen petals placed on your windowsill, golden hairs clinging to your blankets, footprints that don’t belong to anyone human.

You think it’s a spirit.

You're not entirely wrong.

He grows restless.

You spoke to a man.

You laughed. Touched his arm. Wukong saw. He was right there. His claws gouged the bark of the tree he clung to. His tail lashed like a whip.

He thinks of turning that man inside out. Making a necklace from his bones. He doesn’t, but only because you might cry.

(He doesn’t want you to fear him. He wants you to love him.)

So he gets... clever.

He disguises himself. Not fully. Not well. He comes to you as a traveler, as a wanderer in need of rest. The moment your eyes land on him, his body goes hot. He thinks he might burn the entire village down just to feel your gaze again.

You offer him food. Shelter. You laugh at his riddles, even when they don’t make sense.

You’re not afraid of him.

He’s doomed.

The obsession turns physical.

He finds ways to be closer.

He brushes your shoulder when he passes. Steals the comb from your room just to breathe you in. He sleeps where your scent lingers longest. He’s feral about it—he thinks of biting your clothes, marking you with his teeth, claiming you in every way the beast in him understands.

Wukong carves your name into trees. Into stone. Onto his staff.

He mutters it like a mantra when he kills. You become his prayer, his divine purpose, his everything. The gods call him mad—he was already mad long before this. But now, you are the madness.

And he likes it.

He starts dreaming of you.

Gods don’t dream. But monsters do.

He dreams of you wrapped in his tail, riding on his back as he soars across heaven. He dreams of you sleeping in his lap, smiling at him like you’ve known him across lifetimes. He dreams of you begging him not to leave, kissing his jaw, whispering how much you need him.

He wakes up hard, wild-eyed, snarling. Kills three demons in a row just to cool down.

He’s not sure he can live without making you real in his arms.

He decides you belong to him.

Not in a way that he says out loud. No—he acts it.

You wake up to a golden hair curled around your finger. Your door opens by itself. No one can touch you without getting sick. The man who once flirted with you? Gone. The monk who tried to take you on pilgrimage? Dead by “mysterious demon attack.”

He stares at you when you sleep. Doesn’t blink.

He talks to you in riddles and parables, but the meaning is always the same:

I love you. I need you. I will never let you go.

He thinks about kidnapping you often. Taking you to his hidden temple, binding you in silks and worshipping you as a goddess until you forget the outside world. He doesn’t do it—yet. He’s waiting. Waiting for you to love him first.

(Or at least say you do.)

When you smile at him?

It’s over.

Wukong lets out a broken laugh. Loud. Joyful. Frightening.

That smile becomes sacred to him. You could slit his throat with it and he’d thank you. He begins to spiral, sees your face in flowers, hears your voice in wind. You touch his arm and he falls to his knees like you’ve blessed him.

He tells you you’re divine. That you were born from lotus and moonlight. That he saw you before he ever tasted sunlight. That the world existed only to create you.

He swears himself to you. Calls you “my moon,” “my soft one,” “my little heart.”

He’ll kill for you. Die for you. But most of all:

He’ll make sure you never leave.

It happens slowly.

A shift in the wind. A shadow across the moon. The kind of change that only someone truly paying attention would notice.

Wukong stops smiling with his mouth.

He starts smiling with his teeth.

You were kind to him again.

You stitched a tear in his robe. You brushed a stray leaf from his hair. You called him "friend"—and that word sliced through his chest like a blade.

Friend.

He laughed too loudly when you said it. His golden eyes didn’t crinkle like they used to.

The night after that, he sat on the roof of your home in the rain, whispering your name a thousand times over. Each time softer. Each time more broken.

He starts talking to you in ways you don’t understand.

“You’re not meant to be here,” he says one morning. “Not with them. They don’t see you like I do.”

You laugh nervously. “Wukong—”

“You don’t belong to this world. I’ve seen it, little flower. You were carved from stardust. You’re not like the rest.”

And then he stares. For too long. Like he’s trying to memorize you. Like he’s wondering if he can rip out his own heart and place it in your hands and if that would finally be enough.

Your life starts to fall apart.

Small things at first. A cracked wheel. A spoiled crop. The village elder dies mysteriously. The people whisper that you’re cursed—that you brought something unnatural with you.

And he’s always there. Comforting. Sweet. Smiling.

“I’ll protect you,” he says. “Even if the whole world burns.”

You start to feel like a butterfly pinned under glass.

You try to leave.

Only once.

Your bag is packed. You don’t leave a note. You tell no one. You slip out at dawn, your steps careful and quiet.

But he’s waiting for you in the forest.

Perched in a tree. Legs swinging. A smile on his face.

“You dropped this,” he says, holding up your scarf. His voice is honey, but there’s a tremble under it.

You don’t run. You don’t scream. You just... stare.

And his smile fades.

“…Why?” he asks. Soft. Hurt.

You don’t have an answer.

He drops down from the tree. Walks slowly. Hands raised like you’re a frightened animal and he’s trying not to startle you. And when he reaches you, he kneels. Claws digging into the dirt. Head bowed.

“I would never hurt you,” he whispers. “But I can’t live without you.”

He takes you.

It’s not violent. It’s not dramatic.

One night, he scoops you into his arms while you sleep. Cradles you like something sacred. You wake up to the sky bleeding with starlight, curled into him as he runs across mountains and clouds.

You scream. You hit him. You beg.

He doesn’t let go.

He carries you to a place forgotten by time. A ruined temple wrapped in mist and flowers. He lays you gently on a bed of silks, brushes your hair back, kisses your forehead.

“You’ll be happy here,” he murmurs. “I’ll make sure of it.”

You cry the first week.

You scream the second.

You go silent the third.

He tries everything to make you smile. Dances. Jokes. Stories from the heavens. He brings you flowers that don’t exist in the mortal world, serves you tea that glows with starlight, wraps his tail around your ankle while you sleep.

But your eyes don’t shine anymore.

And that kills him.

The bitter truth?

He loves you.

But he’s breaking you.

He knows. He can feel it in the way you flinch when he touches your hand. The way your laugh sounds like sorrow. The way your body stills when he whispers how much he adores you.

He wants to let you go. He tries.

But his hands won’t open. His heart won’t stop. He’s tasted your presence and now the absence feels like drowning in a sea of stars.

And then one day...

You touch his cheek.

You don’t say anything. You just look at him—really look. At the beast, the god, the broken thing who loves you too much to set you free.

Your eyes are tired. But there’s no hate in them.

Just... acceptance.

And that breaks him.

That night, Wukong curls around you like a dying flame.

He presses his forehead to yours. Trembling. Barely breathing.

“You were supposed to save me,” he says. “Not stay.”

And you whisper:

“I didn’t stay. You kept me.”

And for once, he doesn’t argue.

He just weeps.

Wukong begins to change.

Not in a way you expect. Not into something worse.

He becomes quiet.

Still obsessed. Still in love. Still hopeless.

But he stops trying to make you smile.

He just watches you now.

From doorways. From mountaintops. From across the room with those burning gold eyes that flicker when you breathe too deeply or look like you might run again.

You live in a soft golden cage.

It’s peaceful. Beautiful. A fantasy.

He cooks for you. Sleeps near you. Hums strange songs while brushing your hair.

But he doesn’t touch you unless you allow it.

And when you speak, he listens like your voice is the wind that moves the heavens.

It hurts, sometimes.

Because you know he’s still trying so hard to be what he thinks you want.

And you wonder if his madness is quieter now because it’s sinking deeper.

One night you wake up to sobbing.

You find him in the temple garden. On his knees in the moonlight.

Claw marks in the earth. His staff thrown aside. His tail limp behind him like a broken thread.

He’s crying. Ugly. Raw. Like someone bleeding from the soul.

You’ve never seen him like this.

Not Wukong, the arrogant king. Not the demon who stole you from the world.

But Sun Wukong, the lost thing. The lonely creature who once believed he could become a god and now only wants you to look at him like he’s human.

You don’t speak. You sit beside him. Slowly. Quietly.

After a long time, he says, “I hurt you.”

You don’t answer.

He turns his head toward you. His voice cracks:

“I don’t know how to love you right. But I love you so much, I’m going to rot from it.”

You close your eyes. The wind moves through the trees like breath.

“…I know,” you whisper.

After that, something shifts.

He stops calling you “mine.”

He starts calling you by your name again.

You notice he gives you space, but he’s always close.

He leaves gifts outside your room—simple ones. A fruit that tastes like honey. A carved wooden figure of you. A silk ribbon for your hair.

You start talking to him more. Not because you love him.

But because the silence feels lonelier now than he does.

You start to see what he used to be.

Not the madness. Not the cruelty.

But the playfulness. The joy. The mischief and the grief of someone who wanted to belong and never did.

He lets you ask him anything.

He tells you about Heaven. About the gods who mocked him. The chains. The mountain. The endless sky he stared at for five hundred years.

He tells you about the dream he had once—about protecting something instead of destroying it.

You say: “You could’ve been good.”

He says: “I still can be. If you teach me.”

Maybe he isn’t just obsessed.

Maybe he’s mourning.

Mourning the version of himself he lost.

Mourning the life he could have had with you if he’d only been better. Kinder. Less cruel.

You don’t forgive him. Not yet.

But you begin to feel the echo of something tender.

You touch his hand one morning. Just briefly.

His whole body shudders like the heavens cracked open.

And that night, when he falls asleep curled around your side—clutching your wrist like a child with a lifeline—you don’t pull away.

You let him stay.

You should hate him.

He stole you.

He trapped you.

He made you forget the smell of your village, the sound of your friends’ voices, the way your own name sounded when spoken without reverence.

And yet.

You wake up now to the sound of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

You feel his tail twitch when you shift beside him.

You feel his hand always near—not gripping, not restraining. Just there. In case you need it.

Like he’s guarding something precious.

Like you are something he’ll die to protect.

You test him.

You ask, “What would you do if I left now?”

His expression breaks.

But he bows his head. His voice is soft. Sincere.

“I wouldn’t stop you.”

You blink. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” he says. “But I’d follow you.”

“…To bring me back?”

“To see where you go. To make sure you’re safe.”

He smiles, slow and crooked. “I’m too selfish to stay behind. But I won’t steal you again. Not like that. Not if it makes you look at me like I’m a monster.”

And then he says something that ruins you a little:

“Even if you never love me, I still belong to you.”

It starts small.

You laugh at his joke. Just once. His eyes light up like he saw the sun rise after centuries of darkness.

You braid his hair one evening because it’s wild and tangled. His ears twitch the whole time. He doesn’t speak. He just leans into your touch like it’s holy.

One day, you call him “Wukong” and not “hey” or “you” or “demon.”

He repeats it under his breath for hours. Like a prayer.

And when he makes you tea, and you say “thank you,”

He stares down at the cup in his hands and quietly says:

“This must be what heaven feels like.”

You begin to miss him when he’s gone.

Only for a moment.

Only when he’s quiet for too long or disappears into the mountains for a day to hunt or gather or simply escape himself.

But you find yourself glancing at the door. Waiting for the sound of his voice. The thud of his staff. The rustle of his fur-lined robe.

You realize you trust him now.

Not because he earned it—but because he keeps choosing you over his own hunger.

And that means something.

One night, you speak first.

“You scare me sometimes,” you admit.

He stiffens. His whole body tenses like he’s ready to vanish.

“But I feel safe with you,” you add. “I don’t know how that works.”

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“You should’ve been a goddess,” he says, brokenly. “You forgive like one.”

You shake your head. “I’m not forgiving you. I’m still here. That’s all.”

And that night, when he kisses your hand before bed,

You don’t pull away.

You let him press his forehead to your palm. Let him tremble. Let him whisper thank you, thank you, thank you into your skin like a starving man at a feast.

You almost love him.

Not because he’s gentle now. Not because he’s beautiful or strong or speaks to you like you hung the stars.

But because when you cry, he cries with you.

When you bleed, he shakes with rage.

When you smile—truly smile—he touches his chest like he can’t believe his heart still works.

You find yourself hoping he never dies.

You find yourself wishing he’d never stolen you—so you could’ve met him another way. A softer way. A life where maybe you could’ve fallen for him freely.

But this is the life you have now.

You sit beside him in the ruins of the world.

He leans his head on your shoulder, eyes glowing like the sun behind clouds.

You don’t speak. You don’t move.

You just stay.

And in his silence, you feel it—

He’d burn down the heavens for you.

But he won’t ask you for love again. Not unless you offer it.

And somehow, that’s the cruelest, sweetest thing of all.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Not Without You Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester xf!reader, Dean POV and Reader POV

Summary: A cursed crown, teenagers, an evil goddess bent on revenge, and two best friends who have secretly been in love for years. What could go wrong?

Word Count: 11.7K

Tropes: Angst, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers (Eventual), Cursed Objects, Supernatural Scenarios.

Warnings: Fluff, Flirting, Cursing, Violence, Drama Mutual Pining, A little bit of self deprecation (Dean), Sadness, Angst (it's me are y'all surprised?). KIDNAPPING (or adult-napping?), Older Dean? A little bit of a fix it fic to the ending of Supernatural, Reader is also a hunter but a bit soft, Reader likes to cook and tease Dean, Sexual Innuendo, Sexualish thoughts? Dean might be a little bit OOC.

A/N: Hey y'all I started writing this fic for @chevroletdean's 500 follower celebration! She made the super awesome moodboard pictured above! I'm not going to lie I didn't mean for this to be more than one part, but I couldn't stop.

Internal monologue is in first person and is in italics.

Here In A Forest Dark and Deep, I Offer You Eternal Sleep...

There is a place where the sun dare not go, where shadows slip and curl over smooth rocks glazed with dew, where the river boils and froths with white, and where a snarl of branches twist and tangle overhead.

A place where the wind breathes through the eaves, sending leaves to scuttle and crackle over stone. A place that no one man can find. A place that time no longer touches.

An ancient place deep and dark and full of secrets.

A hidden crag overgrown with grass and vine where darkness writhes, silent, restless, shielded from sun and storm. Waiting in the broken remnants of a forbidden grove lost to time.

She slumbers there.

Forgotten.

Buried.

Nothing more than a myth from a world bathed in blood and silver. The cave rumbles with the memory of times forgotten. The clash of swords, the sharp tang of blood, the caw of the birds that feasted on the fallen, the roars of men scorned, and the cries of despair from the women left behind to waste into nothing waiting for them to return

Still she sleeps.

Enrobed in emerald.

Entombed in cobwebs.

Waiting in the still silence for someone to speak her name and call her forth from this forgotten tomb.

And when the world burns she will claim what is owed her.

Dean POV

Dean couldn't put his finger on it, but something was wrong.

Frankly, in his life something was always wrong, and years of him living out on the road chasing after things that went bump in the night meant that he was usually better at pin pointing directly what that was.

But not right now.

Right now, Dean Winchester felt like a cardboard box that went toe to toe with a semi-truck.

He groans to himself as he stirs from an unfit sleep, feeling the bones of his arms pop as he stretches them above his head, groaning again before settling down into the creaky bed. He'd been up late researching a case, the evidence of which was strewn all over the small motel room he was inhabiting.

Scraps of paper, books, and printed newspaper articles were in different stages of crumple all over the bed and the small table under the front window was covered in papers and stacked high with ancient books, kept company by a week old half-drunk bottle of beer and a greasy bag full of stale fries that stagnated nearby. A broken pen drips black ink from the table in a steady thump, the sunflower shaped stain growing steadily across the musty red carpet.

Dean presses his palms into his eyes, with another groan, the throb of his head like a thunderclap.

Fuck, I drank too much last night.

He had.

Dean was stuck in a rut and he'd thought that by drinking a little more, maybe he'd be able to crack the case that had held him hostage for the past two weeks in the armpit of America, but he still had nothing.

Zero, Zilch, Nada.

The three murders that had caught his attention two weeks ago now mocked him from every angle of the disheveled motel room. He'd exhausted every option, read every page of his dad's journal, called every number in his phone, but no one seemed to be able to find a connection between the three men who were killed.

The only person he hadn't called was Sam.

A frown pulled on the end of Dean's mouth at the thought of his brother. He hadn't spoken to him in… Dean scrunches up his face trying to remember the last time he talked to Sam.

Can't have been more than a few days? Okay maybe a week-

The thought of his brother made a dull ache throb in the center of his chest, the guilt that Dean was trying to ignore coming to the surface when he was still half asleep and vulnerable.

Things were different now.

Dean didn't want to bother his brother with something like this, not when Sam was living the white-picket fence American Dream out west with Eileen who was pregnant and due any day. Dean knew that his brother didn't need the extra stress, Sam had a new job, he was moving on from all of this, and Sam didn't need a reminder of the life he used to have. Not when Sam had a new life that made him happy.

And not when Dean didn't know who he was or what he was hanging on to anymore. Sometimes Dean wasn't sure if he was still chasing after things that other people ran from or after the young man he used to be.

Dean was reminded of that every morning when he woke up, the gray flecks in his hair and beard that had become more prominent, the crows feet beneath his eyes rimmed with dark circles, and the way his back and knees cracked when he stood up. Dean was still in good shape, but lately he was feeling his age more than anything else.

Maybe it was because everyone else was moving on and he wasn't sure who he was anymore.

The lack of sleep didn't help, but Dean had been dealing with it all the way he usually did, by pushing down his feelings into the deep dark hole where they wouldn't see the light of day. The same feelings that began to unravel in the middle of the night when all was quiet and kept Dean from the sound sleep he so desperately needed.

Dean sits up a little too quick and sighs to himself when his head spins. He was in desperate need of coffee, or something to make the hangover stop. He sniffs the air, still not opening his eyes, and runs his right hand through his hair shaking through the blondish-brown strands.

The strong smell of coffee and cinnamon floats through the air making Dean’s stomach rumble.

Shit. I want it so bad I’m imagining it. Oh wait no. Maybe I’m having a stroke. Is that toast?!

"Morning Sunshine." A familiar voice sing-songs. "How'd you sleep?"

Dean's head snaps up to the small kitchenette, while one of his hands instinctively goes for the gun underneath his pillow.

You're standing there with a wide smile on your face, a spatula in one hand, and wearing one of Dean's favorite t-shirts over a pair of blue jeans. Your eyes sparkle with mirth at the sight of Dean, hair mused from sleep, eyes just a little manic in surprise at your greeting.

Dean blinks for a second, not sure if it's really you or if he's still dreaming. The cold metal of the gun shoved under his pillow grounds him. He says your name hesitantly. "What are you doing here?"

"I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd drop in, see if you were eating trash." You gesture with the spatula to the greasy brown paper bag on the table by the door and the large pile of to-go boxes in the trashcan. "Something you want to confess to?"

"Those aren’t mine officer." Dean cracks an easy grin holding up his hands in surrender, the gun forgotten.

It felt good to smile. Dean couldn't remember the last time he had.

"Still a bad liar." You roll your eyes and turn back to the hotplate. "I'm borrowing your shirt, because it was pouring when I got here and my duffel got wet. And before you say anything, I know, I know I should get a new one, but it's my lucky bag! And my lucky bag just so happens to not be waterproof."

Dean spots your duffle by the front door where it's split open and multicolored clothes erupt out of it. He leans forward to look into his bathroom, catching a peak of your clothes hanging from various places to dry. Something stirs in the pit of his stomach when he sees a collection of bras hanging from the towel rack, and he tries to avoid getting too excited at the image of you wearing them.

Dean and you had been best friends since you were both twelve. His dad and yours had served in the war together, a fellow soldier who stumbled upon the supernatural in his own right. And every few months your dad and Dean's would plop Sam, him, and you in front of a tv in a motel room and go off to get a drink. They'd be gone for hours, while Sam, Dean, and you gorged yourself on junk food and late-night TV.

And despite what Dean thought about girls at that time, you were cool. You knew just as much about cars as he did, you too were obsessed with rock music, you knew how to handle yourself, and you weren't afraid of anything.

As the two of you grew up, you never lost touch. You’d text each other from the road, complain about your dads, exchange mix tapes of music that you’d burned (Dean had a whole box under the front seat of Baby that was purely music you'd given him), shared motel rooms, joined each other on hunts, and you’d call him whenever you could, talking for hours into the night so long that Dean would close his eyes and pretend that you were laying there right beside him instead of miles away.

Dean loved it when that happened. When his mind wouldn't shut up and he needed something to distract him, and all it took was you calling in the middle of the night to send him off into the sweet abyss of sleep while he imagined you laying beside him.

Dean didn't know how you did it, but you always seemed to know when he needed you, almost as if you had a supernatural alarm that went off in your head whenever he was lonely.

Which was a lot especially now that Sam was gone. And usually Dean would try to find someone to occupy his time at a local bar, but lately he hadn't wanted to, all he'd wanted was to talk to you. Every time that something happened, you were right there, the person that Dean always needed when things went to shit.

But it wasn't just in the bad.

Whenever he and Sam were out on the road, sometimes you'd bump into them calling it a 'happy accident,' and Dean and you would lay on his bed at a motel talking and listening to a mixtape through a walk-man, sharing the earbuds just like you used to when you were teenagers lounging in Baby's backseat drinking milkshakes and eating French fries. And when Dean woke up in the morning with his body curved protectively around yours while you curled into him, your soft breath on his neck and his face buried in your hair, it felt right, as if you belonged there in his arms.

But despite everything the two of you had been through, you were just friends.

A thirty-four year friendship and Dean didn't want to mess that up. He'd messed up so many things in his life, lost so much, and he couldn't lose you. You were more than just his friend, you were his family as much as Sam. And Dean knew that his feelings had passed friendship forever ago, but he refused to act on it.

Not when Dean was sure he wouldn't recover if you ever cut him out of your life.

So Dean did his best to pretend. Pretend that he didn't imagine a life with you beyond all of this, beyond all the running, and the hunting. Because Dean would never admit this out loud, but he was tired.

He was so tired and sometimes when the world slowed down and there was only the quiet of the night, the buzz of the whiskey in his system, and the whisper of your voice in his ear, Dean imagined more. He imagined what it would be like if the two of you had something like Sam and Eileen, what that would look like, if it could happen.

Dean wasn't sure that he'd ever be able to have what his brother had. If he deserved that. He'd tried with Lisa and he still couldn't think about her without feeling an ache in the pit of his stomach.

Sometimes Dean wondered if you wanted that too. He'd heard you talk about slowing down in the past, finally settling down, getting away from all of this, but other than a handful of boyfriends that Dean never once got along with (including one whom he broke his nose), Dean had never seen you try.

He wished you would. Not that Dean wanted you to be with anyone else, just that Dean wanted you to be safe, not out along the road God knows where dealing with this shit alone. He'd been doing this as long as you had and he still knew that sometimes he needed help even if he didn't ever admit it aloud or want to.

Not to mention that lately all he could think about was you. His anxiety since Sam left had only worsened and his phone calls to you had gone from 3-4 a week to every day.

Dean needed to hear your voice. He was an addict of the worst kind, but he didn't care. Not when hearing you say his name was like a soothing balm, a cold beer after a long hunt, a hot shower that made each muscle un-tense and unwind, and a strong but steady hand braced against his shoulder.

But being here with you in person, couldn't compare to that feeling.

"But I'm pretty sure this is mine and you stole it." You continue, thumbing the soft fabric at the bottom of the shirt with your free hand, oblivious to Dean's train of thought. "Been looking everywhere for it."

"No way!" Dean exclaims getting out of bed. "That's my Metallica shirt. Got it twenty years ago."

"I remember buying this shirt from a vendor young enough to be my son, who kept mispronouncing the name of the lead singer, while you complained that we were missing the opening song." There's a flash of silver from a knife as you begin to cut up a handful of strawberries with a practiced precision, twirling it in your hand once for show.

"We were missing the opening song." Dean laughs. "And I paid for it!"

"Yes, but you said you wanted to get me something and I wanted to get a shirt before the concert, because who knows what would be left over after!"

Dean only shakes his head at you. "I think you're just getting old Sweetheart. They say the memory is the first thing to go." Dean smirks, while you give him a death glare over your shoulder.

"Say what you want," You point the knife at him in a cute, but threatening way, "but you've had custody of this for twenty years, and now it's my turn."

Dean rolls his eyes, before his gaze sweeps through the small kitchenette and he notices the collection of plastic bags on the counter. It looked like you’d brought enough groceries to feed a small army despite there being only two of you. You always did that whenever you showed up, toting food that Dean wouldn't usually have around. He frowned at the prospect of eating vegetables.

But Dean didn't care, you were here and that's all that mattered. And he also hoped that the large amount of groceries meant that you would be staying with him for a while.

He'd missed you more than he realized.

Sure the two of you talked on the phone at least four times each week and Dean always got a random text from you at sometime during the day, but nothing compared to being here with you.

He approaches slowly, sniffing the air again while he tries to figure out what you're cooking and if he'll eat it. Dean wasn't sure he'd like it. Not that you were a bad cook, but over the past few years you'd been trying to get him to eat a little healthier. Sneaking vitamins into his burgers, making things that had less grease and more greens, and Dean would sigh and eat every bite because you told him to.

Of course you would complain almost as much as he did about eating healthy. You weren't exactly a health food nut and loved fast food, but you knew that Dean rarely got a good home cooked meal and Dean thought it was kinda cute when you'd show up toting bags filled with fruits and vegetables out of the blue talking about A1C numbers.

He stops about a foot behind where you're fusing with a frying pan on the stove, turning over some white object with the spatula.

"Hey." Dean says softly, leaning back on his heels.

You turn around to look at him, really look at him. "Hi." Your smile makes Dean a little weak in the knees.

The hug that follows sets Dean on fire.

You pull him in tight, nuzzling your face into his chest with a happy sigh, while Dean curves his entire body around you. It was moments like this that Dean thought that you were made for him, because there was a little you-shaped nook under his jaw that allowed him to rest his chin on the top of your head while he squeezes you just as tight against him.

The smell of cinnamon and something citrusy comes as he holds you closer, the same perfume you'd had since you were sixteen, the one that you always left behind when you stayed with him. Sometimes Dean found himself using the pillow you borrowed when you left, inhaling the smell of your shampoo until it faded and there was nothing.

When you were with him Dean actually slept, as if just being in your presence made all the anxiety and the memories of the past fade away.

He could feel a melancholic feeling bubbling up in the back of his throat as he holds you, something he can't name, but embraces. Dean feels your hands slowly rub up and down his back in a soothing motion that makes him tighten his grip and lean further into you so heavily that you stumble back a little step.

When you laugh Dean feels like he's in heaven.

"Missed me huh?" You murmur into his shirt, but you don't let go of him.

More than you know.

"Nope."

"Liar." Your body shakes with your giggle as you pull back to look at him, still not completely releasing him. "I missed you too."

"I know. You can't live without me." Dean smirks.

He watches you raise an eyebrow to challenge him.

"Says the guy holding on so tight he's going to snap my spine." You joke, but Dean watches something flash in your eyes that isn't humor, and you gently release him so you can touch his cheek. Your thumb gently traces over his cheekbone, palm cupping his strong jaw.

Dean swallows at the sudden contact, his heartbeat fluttering like a damn teenager, but he can't stop himself from leaning into your hand. Despite your time as a hunter, the palm of your hand is soft, your touch reverent as you cup his jaw, not bothered by the prick of stubble that Dean is sure you can feel.

It was longer than usual. Dean kept putting off shaving, it had been a few days and he was sure that you were clocking the beard.

"I was worried about you." You say with a soft sigh, a worried frown on your face.  "You sounded bad on the phone last night, and when I called Sam he said you've been dodging his calls."

"I'm fine." Dean sighs, but he knows that you can see right through him, that there's no point of trying to lie. "And I have not been dodging his calls! He just happens to call at the worst time."

"Uh-huh. Well how come whenever I call, you pick up?"

"Because you have better timing than Sammy, always have Sweetheart."

You roll your eyes at him, but don't move your hand from his cheek. Dean watches your gaze soften as you study him, eyes tracing his features in a way that always makes Dean feel stripped bare, open, and vulnerable.

"Really Dean. How are you?"

He sighs again, debating if he should try to lie again, but he knew that it was fruitless. You knew him better than he knew himself, not to mention you could always tell when he was lying. Your internal lie detector for his bullshit was practically mystical. Dean never understood how you did it, just that he hated it.

Not really.

"Don't try to lie. We both know you can’t do that to me." You narrow your eyes, brow furrowed, but you don't lose the concern that hangs heavy in your gaze.

"I'm a little tired." He admits reluctantly.

"I could have told you that."

"Shut up." Dean snorts out a laugh, but then raises his own hand to touch the dark circles ringed under your eyes. "How long did you drive to get here?"

"Few hours." You shrug.

Dean's frown deepens. Just as you could tell when he lied, Dean knew every tick you had. The twitch of your upper lip, the subtle tilt of your head, the arch of an eyebrow- Dean knew you better than he knew himself.

"Fine, ten but-"

"Are you kidding me? Ten straight?! You should be asleep, not cooking for me."

Damn it she always does this. She always runs herself so thin.

Of course this was also the same thing that you'd said to Dean countless times and he never listened. It was different, he was him and you were you.

You were more important.

"I like cooking for you Deanie." You pinch his cheek with a grin, using the stupid nickname you made up for him years ago. Usually it makes Dean roll his eyes, but not tonight. He missed you so damn much that it makes him smile. "Plus I drank way too much coffee on the way in and I have so much energy. I'm waiting to hit the wall. While you were asleep I also thought about reorganizing your bag, but I didn't want to snoop through your dirty underwear."

"Hasn’t stopped you before." Dean smirks.

"Shut up, I do not snoop through your dirty underwear. Just your clean clothes for shirts that are mine."

"It's not yours and you're not keeping it!"

"It is and I am. Now sit down." You shoo him away to the small folding table that you'd pulled down from the wall and set for breakfast. "I would have woken you up, but you're like a damn grizzly bear in the morning so I thought I'd play it safe and let you follow your nose."

"For the fruity taste that shows." Dean chuckles.

"You can remember the Fruit Loops commercial, but you can't remember to not eat fried food at every meal?"

"Priorities, sweetheart."

“Dean I’m serious. We’re not kids anymore, you can’t eat how you usually do without consequences. You know that cheese looks exactly the same in your arteries as it does on a plate and I-" You continue to chatter, subtly scraping a spatula along the bottom of the pan on the stove, but Dean doesn't hear any of it.

Yeah. We’re not kids anymore.

He thinks to himself as his eyes trace your figure. Dean could still see the shades of the girl he met when he was a boy, the one with the bright eyes that always saw through him and the wide smile that made him feel like his insides were molten lava.  The same girl who knew whenever Dean needed her, the same girl that always made sure he was taken care of, the same girl who always had his back, and the same girl that Dean had loved since the moment he first saw her.

Sitting there, watching you cook in the small kitchenette Dean couldn't help but admire the woman you became. Although you were only a few months younger than him, age had been kinder to you than him.

The few gray hairs that wove through the hair you had tied at the back of your head were like braided silver, the curves of your figure softened by a gentle hand, and the smile lines on your face only made you look kinder, softer. Nothing like the hunter Dean knew you were. There were signs of wear around your eyes that Dean didn't like, the permanent dark circles that curved under your eyes a little more prominent this morning, but you were still just as beautiful as the day Dean met you.

And even though you kept saying that it was your shirt, Dean was trying not to focus on how good you looked in his clothes or how it made him think that you looked like you were his.

The thought makes an uncomfortable feeling rise in his chest.

As much as Dean wanted you, there was another part of him that whispered that you deserved better than him, that out there was a man who was worthy of your love, not him. Not someone broken down from years of hunting, not someone who barely knew who they were anymore, and not someone who would only drag you down.

“Dean did you hear what I asked?” You say raising an eyebrow.

“Nope.” He clears his throat, shaking off the feeling that makes his heart sink into the pit of his stomach.

You huff out a sigh as if you're not surprised. “I asked when was the last time you ate something green?”

“Last night.”

Dean watches you narrow your eyes in suspicion. “A piece of lettuce on a burger does not count.”

“It’s green-“

“And I bet you picked it off.”

“It left it’s essence behind!”

“Ah yes essence of wilted leaf. How nutritious.” You huff out an annoyed sigh, but when you turn back to him there’s humor flickering in your eyes. “Here.” You place a plate in front of him. “Egg white omelet with spinach and onions, a piece of bacon, fruit salad, and oatmeal.”

Dean wrinkles his nose in disgust and mashes his spoon down into the oatmeal like a toddler, squishing it around on the plate.

This looks like brains.

“And if you eat it all," You continue as you turn back to the counter for the glass decanter of coffee. "I’ll give you an extra piece of bacon.”

“Real bacon?” Dean perks up at the thought.

“Yep. 100% heart attack inducing, cholesterol raising, pig bacon.”

“Fine.”  He grumbles.

“Good boy.” You snort setting down a cup of black coffee to the left of his plate. “You know, Sam didn’t give me any trouble when I used to make breakfast for him too.”

“Sam’s a health food freak. I wouldn’t be surprised if he and Eileen are vegan now.” Dean says beginning to shovel the omelet into his mouth.

He fights the urge to moan out in pleasure. He wasn't expecting it to taste so good. You were always a good cook, but Dean still hadn’t expected this to taste anything like this.

Dean glances up and sees the triumphant smile on your face. "Good huh?"

"It’s okay." He mutters through a mouthful of egg and spinach.

"You're insufferable." You throw a grape at him. "But I don't think they're vegan. Eileen's got the ultimate diet now. None." You sigh mournfully, trailing one hand down to your stomach, squeezing and make a face. "Oh to be pregnant and not worry about gaining the extra weight. I swear I've been trying to exercise more, and it does absolutely nothing-"

"I think you look beautiful." The words slip out of Dean's mouth before he can stop them, and he tenses, fork frozen halfway to his mouth.

"Aww." You lean over to pinch his cheek with a sweet smile. "Thanks Deanie. But no amount of flattery will get you any brown sugar for your oatmeal."

Dean laughs a little too hard for that to cover up his slip, but something inside sinks a little bit when you don't react to his compliment. He wished that you believed him. The uncomfortable feeling comes back, this time pinching just under his rib cage. He hated when you spoke that way about yourself, and Dean noticed that you had started to say things like that more and more as the years crept by.

Making faces at your reflection and making subtle comments under your breath mocking all the ways your body had changed and aged. But the truth was, you were beautiful, always had been beautiful to him. And even though you could never see it, Dean did. He thought that the years made you only look better, aged you like a fine wine as cliche as that sounded.

"Okay. I am going to take a shower and wash the road off, then we can talk shop and figure out how to solve this case."  You say walking over to your duffle, sorting through for your toiletries bag.

"And how do you know I haven't solved it?" Dean asks, glancing over his shoulder at where you're bending over your bag.

He's trying not to stare at your ass, he really is, but damn it those jeans are his favorite. Somehow they're worn in just right, accentuating the natural curves of your body and your butt. He swallows the lump in his throat and starts to think about taxes, AI, Clowns, the skin that shapeshifters leave behind- anything to avoid the situation happening in his very thin sweatpants that would leave absolutely nothing to the imagination if his mind kept going down the road it was.

Damn it. Get it together Winchester.

"The beard is kinda a dead give-away." You straighten from the duffle, cocking your hip to the side, and lean back as you look through the smaller fabric bag of toiletries in your hand, looking for something that Dean can't see.

Dean clears his throat, trying not to notice the way your boobs are pushed out from your chest as you lean back.

Sam’s chubby imaginary friend. That ridiculous suicidal teddy bear. Rowena- Okay wait that last one is not helping.

“You don’t like it?” Dean clears his throat.

It’s so hot in here.

“Oh I love it. Very sexy. Like a lumberjack who lives under the highway.” You smirk. “But when I’m done I kinda hope you take one too.”

“Why?”

“Because you also smell like a lumberjack who lives under the highway.”

“I thought I’d commit to the role.”

“Very convincing.” You start to walk to the bathroom, but when Dean turns around to his plate he feels your arms go around him once more. “I missed you Deanie.” You whisper on a soft breath, burying your face in the space between his shoulder and his neck.

Dean inhales another gulp of your perfume like an addict, relaxing into your embrace. It was the first time he could remember in a long time feeling relaxed, probably since the last time he saw you a few months ago, when you were helping him on a vamp case and saved him from a near miss with a twisted piece of metal.

Dean didn't like to think about 'what if,' but you did. And after when the two of you got back to the bunker, Dean remembered you hugging him and refusing to let him go for a while. It took your favorite mixtape that Dean burned for you when you were seventeen and sitting on his bed for an hour after to help you relax, until you fell asleep curled up against Dean muttering things that he couldn't understand into his chest.

He sighs to himself feeling the tightness of your arms around his body, leaning into you. “I missed you too sweetheart.”

Reader POV

"I cannot believe that you couldn't figure out this was a vengeful spirit." You snort, grabbing the shovel that Dean holds out to you.

The half moon above the cemetery bathed the tombstones in a silver glow, washing the concrete slabs white beneath its rays. The wind that sifted through the trees overhead held the chill of winter, rustling the branches, and sending the loose leaves down around where Dean and you were standing at the back of Baby.

It had taken you exactly forty five minutes to solve the case that had taken Dean two weeks. Maybe it was because luck was on your side and a fourth (not so lucky) victim was found this morning, or maybe it was because Dean was well…

You bite the inside of your cheek as you examine your best friend.

Dean looked bad.

You had heard it on the phone last night when he talked to you, sensed it in the way he spoke. The long pauses, the heavy sighs, even the words he was using… you knew that something was wrong.

And it scared you.

It scared you even more when Sam told you that Dean was dodging his calls. That was also never a good sign.

So you packed up in the middle of the night, abandoning the case you were on, and took a ten hour drive to get to Dean. You'd driven far longer for far less, but you didn't care.

When you'd lock picked the motel room door and seen the mess Dean was living in, it only justified the drive. Yes, Dean was usually a little more messy than you, but this was different.

The stacked to-go boxes and bottles of whiskey in the overflowing trash can, the empty beer bottles scattered around the room, the mess of his clothes on the floor, and even Dean himself. The stale smell of him and the beard were dead give aways for you. It broke your heart. You knew that Dean was lonely, had been for a long time, even when he was with Sam at the bunker, but now was worse.

Making him breakfast had made you feel a little better, seeing that he still had an appetite for something that wasn't in a bottle was comforting, but you knew that you weren't going to leave him anytime soon.

You were going to prolong this visit for as long as you had to, to make sure your best friend was okay. Dean was the only person you had left, besides Sam, but Sam was different than Dean. Sam was better at handling his emotions in a healthy way (most of the time), but Dean, no way.

If suppressing your feelings was an Olympic sport, Dean would be a gold medalist a million times over.

Besides, Sam had Eileen now, and that meant Dean was going to have you even if you annoyed him to death.

The thought of you being to Dean what Eileen was for Sam made butterflies erupt in the pit of your stomach. You knew that it was a complete cliché, the stuff of rom-coms and hallmark movies, falling in love with your best friend, but you had.

You can't exactly remember when... Okay you could.

When you were fifteen and Dean and Sam got dropped off at Bobby's, and Dean and you spent the night listening to mix-tapes in Baby's spacious backseat with your legs kicked up over the back of the front bucket seat sharing a milkshake. You remembered looking at Dean with the sound of Open Arms by Journey playing through the headphones and admiring the way the moonlight kissed his skin and how the starlight brought out the flecks of gold in his eyes.

But you couldn't act on it.

Nope, nope, nope.

Dean was Dean. And you didn't want to mess up the thirty four year friendship the two of you had by doing something stupid by confessing that you were in love with him and wanted to spend the rest of your life with him.

You did.

The past few years as you'd gotten older you'd been thinking about settling down. Finding something a little more permanent, maybe finally trying to sell some of those paintings you'd been doing since you were a kid. The ones that your dad told you were a waste of time and Dean only encouraged by stealing the good paint and brushes from art stores to support your hobby. The backseat of your Bronco was loaded down with sketchpads bursting at the seams and each time you took a turn, there was always the roll of an oil pastel or a half-empty bottle of watercolor paint flying somewhere beneath the seat.

It would be nice to actually have a place to paint for real, maybe a small house or an apartment where the sun streamed through the open windows and a cool breeze rustled the hair at the nape of your neck while you lost yourself in the brilliant colors on the canvas. Somewhere it didn't feel like you were running around in circles doing the same thing over and over again, somewhere you could build a life with someone…

The problem was the only person you saw yourself building that life with was standing in front of you holding a shovel and a can of gasoline. And you knew that Dean didn't see you as more than a friend.

But could you blame me?

The years had been kinder to your best friend than to you. He'd grown so much from the little boy with the mischievous green eyes into a man with ruggedly good looks, freckles over his cheeks that kept Dean's boyish qualities, broad shoulders, and a sinfully perfect mouth that made your throat tight.

You'd stupidly thought that over the years your crush would go away, but it only grew. And you didn't know how Dean did it, but the age looked better on him than it did on you. The flecks of silver in his hair made him look even more devilishly handsome, the crinkles around his mouth that shown with his easy smile, and the beard.

That damn beard.

Yes, you'd also thought that Dean looked adorable with his hair all mused from sleep, but the beard. You'd been trying your hardest not to stare at him this morning when he woke up.  Made an off-hand joke about how the beard made him look like a lumberjack and homeless, but by the stars that beard made your brain short circuit. Not to mention coupled with the signature Dean Winchester smirk and the brilliant shine of his emerald eyes… fuck. It was like a walking Michelangelo sculpture. Each time you captured the planes of Dean’s face with charcoal, lead, or paint never seemed to compare to the real thing.

But you knew that your little crush was the exact kind of thing that could throw a monkey wrench into the most meaningful relationship you'd ever had in your life, so you pretended it didn't exist.

Pretended that each time you saw Dean and he wrapped his arms around you didn't make you feel like you were coming home, pretended that you didn't sleep the best you ever had curled up in his arms at night, pretended that you could not see a future with him outside of all of this with a stupid white picket fence and a baby that had his smile and mischievous green eyes, and pretended that you weren't in love with him.

More importantly, you pretended that being his best friend was enough.

That being said you did allow yourself the indulgence of cooking for and taking care of Dean. You didn't care how much he complained or how much you didn't like salad, you knew that Dean needed to eat a good heart-healthy, home cooked meal once in a while. And you didn't care if you had to force feed it to him.

Dean Winchester is going to live to be a hundred and five damnit!

"Whoa. You don’t get to judge me for this, not with that super sniffer you have glued to your face." Dean pokes your nose with his fingertip. "How was I supposed to smell the differences in the wife's perfume and the perfume of his mistress?"

"Vanilla and Lavender are two very different smells." You shrug, shouldering the shovel.

In hindsight smelling the corpse at the crime scene was probably not your best move, but the smell of vanilla that wafted up when Dean flicked the victim's collar was so obvious you couldn't keep your mouth shut. And after smelling the strong scent of lavender on the victim's wife had only confirmed your suspicion, that he had been cheating on her.

Everything else had fallen into place, finding the newspaper article about a man who had died in the same way as all of the men forty years ago, talking to the man's son who told Dean and you through tears of his father's sins against his mother who had disappeared a few days before his father was found, and following the trail to the town cemetery was the final step in the process.

Salt and burn. Just like clockwork.

Truth be told you were a little bit disappointed on how quickly you solved the case, now you were coming up with excuses for you to stick around with Dean, maybe even go back to the bunker with him for a bit.

You knew that Dean didn't love to stay there as much as he had. The emptiness only reminded him of Sam's life somewhere else, but you were willing to stay there with him forever if that's what it took.

Even if that meant watching Dean charm the pants off every co-ed on the East Coast.

Because that's going to be so fun for me.

"I thought that somebody as slutty as you would be an expert in women's perfume." You muse with a smirk to hide the hurt at the thought of Dean with someone else.

Him going off with Lisa had hurt enough. That had been a long year.

Sure Dean still called and texted, but it was awkward. You didn't want to step on Lisa's toes. She was his girlfriend and he was living with her. The one time that you'd come by to stay with them for a few days had been one of the most awkward experiences of your life.

For one, when you'd showed up Lisa had been surprised that you were a girl because apparently Dean hadn't said anything to clue her in about that. And when you made dinner for all of them as a thank you for letting you stay, the whole time there had been this weird energy sitting in the dining room with the four of you, like a giant purple elephant that you couldn't see, but you could feel behind you squeezing it's trunk around your chest.

The last straw had been when you accidentally overheard a conversation between Dean and Lisa where he was trying to convince her that he'd never been more than friends with you and she didn't believe him.

"Did you just call me a slut?"

"Yep." You reply.

The cemetery was eerily silent. Somewhere off in the distance you could hear the sound of the ocean, the harsh crash of water against sand and the jingle of the ships at the docks in town where the water gently lapped against the strong wooden boards of the seaworthy vessels. The cloying smell of salt came on the wind that pulled almost playfully at your clothes, beckoning you to the darkness of the vast sea in the distance.

"Takes one to know one sweetheart." Dean calls from behind you before he slams shut the trunk of Baby with a loud 'thunk.' "Not all of us are blessed with a super nose. And unlike you I don't go around smelling dead people. I don't even know if there's a name for that fetish. Kinda feels like necrophilia."

"It's a blessing and a curse."

The beam of light from your flashlight brings a yellowish glow over the smooth tombstones, each one beaten soft by the wear of rain and wind.

"My gut says over there." Dean nudges his arm into yours towards the right.

"Your gut couldn't tell this was a vengeful spirit, why should I trust it now?" You raise an eyebrow, flashing the light into Dean's face.

He squints his eyes at the offensive beam, but it does little to make him look ugly. There was nothing that could do that. You were speaking from experience because you'd seen your best friend covered completely from head to toe in blood and guts and you'd still wanted to lay a big one on him.

Maybe there's a support group online for people who are in love with their best friends. Because I should join that.

"One time I've been wrong-"

"Phoenix." You say immediately.

Dean frowns at the memory. "Okay two times I've been-"

"Tallahassee."

"You're just listing state capitals." Dean sighs heavily.

"No, I am listing places in which you've been wrong. If you want I can call Sam to cross reference my sources."

"Don't call Sam." Dean pushes past you and begins to walk to the right with you following behind him.

"So are you going to tell me why you're dodging his calls?" You ask, sweeping the beam over the tombstones again to see if you can find the right person.

"I am not dodging his calls!" He shouts increasing his speed.

"Dean." You gently catch the back of his flannel.

He stops dead in his tracks, but does not turn around.

"I know you." You whisper. "I know when something is wrong. Come on."

There was something wrong, you knew it the moment you picked up the phone last night before you drove ten hours to get to him. Felt it in your bones. The hard part was just getting Dean to tell you.

"Come on what?" Dean half-turns to look at you. There's something lurking in his eyes, a flash of vulnerability that makes your heart break for him.

The shovel you have no longer seems important, so you lean it against a tombstone and tug on the bottom of Dean's shirt until he turns around to face you.

"It's just you and me here. There's no cameras, no canned audience, no one else. Talk to me." Your hand falls on the arm that Dean is carrying the gasoline in, smoothing the fabric of his leather jacket.

He hesitates for a moment, long enough that the wind picks up and rustles through his golden brown hair. It too seemed just a little longer than he usually kept it, and you fought the urge to run your fingers through it.

"I didn't want to bother him with all this." Dean mutters. "He's out there living his life, a real life, something that he's always wanted and he doesn't need me dragging him back into all of my shit."

"Dean-" You sigh. "He's your brother, you're not bothering him-"

This is so much worse than I thought.

"I am." Dean shakes his head. "He's moved on and I'm still here doing all of this and I-"

"Hey." Your hand moves up to cup his cheek before you can stop yourself. The prickle of stubble beneath your hand is familiar, reminds you of when you would wake up in the morning before he did and his chin would be resting on the top of your head while your face nudged into the space between his shoulder and his jaw. The little place against his throat where you always fit. "You're not going to bother Sam by telling him about what you're doing. He loves you and he's worried about you and I am too. And yes he's doing something different, but what you're doing is a life too. It might look different, but what you're doing matters."

Dean frowns a little, but doesn't answer.

"Dean." You say his name, this time bringing your other hand up to hold on to the other side of his face. "Just because you don't work in a fancy office or have a white picket fence does not mean your life isn't a life. It is. Everyone finds their own way. There isn't one carbon cut copy about what life is supposed to look like. No one can tell you how to live it, the only thing that you should care about is if it's a life that makes you happy." Your thumbs drift to his cheekbones gently brushing back and forth in a soothing movement.

"Does it make you happy?"

Dean's question catches you off guard. He hadn't asked you that in a long time and certainly not before he'd had at least one or two drinks. Dean's shovel leans next to yours and he reaches for your wrist, the warm roughness of his palm against the skin comforting.

You think about lying, but you know that Dean will only clock it. You hated how much Dean knew you.

Not really.

"I mean-" You clear your throat. "Lately not so much." Your hands drop from the sides of Dean's face, but he doesn't release your arm. His thumb gently smoothed over the skin on the inside of your wrist, comforting you the way you had comforted him. "But being here with you is making me feel a bit better. It always does."

Why did I say that? That’s way too much-

"Me too." Dean breathes.

Electricity dances between the two of you, curling up your arm where Dean still has his hand around your wrist gently cradling it between the two of you. And you see something flicker behind the warm, familiar gaze of your best friend, a ghost of something that you can't put a name to.

His words reverberate in your head, vibrating through your skin, bringing a warmth through your body and sending the butterflies in your stomach fluttering.

Dean hasn't looked away from your face, his gaze focused as if he's waiting for something, watching for one of your ticks, but he won't find one. Not when Dean is looking at you the way you always wanted him to. You reach out to lay your hand against the front of his shirt, feeling the gentle beat of his heart beneath the palm of your hand.

Is this really happening?

Thunder rumbles in the distance over the sea, a storm brewing, the flash of lightning shattering the spell between the two of you.

"We better um- get this done." Dean clears his throat, releasing your wrist to find the shovel once more. "Don’t want to get caught in the rain."

"Yeah-" Your voice comes out a little high and squeaky. "Right."

The buzz of whatever the hell that was still thrums beneath your skin as you follow behind Dean, looking from tombstone to tombstone, trying to shake it off. And much to Dean's chagrin, his gut was correct, but he doesn't gloat, he just starts digging.

There's a part of you that wonders if it's because Dean is dwelling on what almost just happened- if there was an almost. You still were a little bit fuzzy about that. Your best friend was far from shy, when Dean wanted something he took it.

The silence grows between the two of you as you start to dig, so you decide to break it.

“How about after all this we drive out West and do some recon on Sam and Eileen?” You say, shoving the shovel deep into the hard earth.

“Really?” Dean asks with a grunt throwing a shovel of dirt over his shoulder.

“Yeah. We can stalk him when he goes to work, test out his security system at his house- just like how we used to when he was at Stanford.”

Dean and you had taken a few trips out West when Sam was at college. You'd always wanted to see the west coast and your dad was letting you go solo just as John let Dean solo. So naturally the two of you met up along the road and decided to cause some mischief.

It had been a nice trip, the feeling of the warm sun on your skin, the wind in your hair when Dean rolled down Baby's windows while the sound of classic rock pumped and hummed through the speakers. It was the closet you had come to a vacation, and something the two of you desperately needed. During the day you'd sit nestled in the front seat of Baby with a sketchpad perched on your lap that you didn’t have to hide from your dad, who told you that should be doing something else, something that mattered. At night Dean and you would share a motel room and when you'd woken up Dean was always on your side of the bed with his head buried in your hair, murmuring things in his sleep.

It was also nice to not worry about your dad for a while. He was as hard on you as John Winchester was on Dean, and you'd cut him out of your life a few years ago. Last time you heard from him was a voicemail two years ago telling you that he'd settled down somewhere in Texas and that he wanted to see you, but you couldn't.

Things hadn't ended well between the two of you and it was Dean who had blocked your father from getting closer to you while he shouted things over Dean's imposing figure that made you want to squeeze your eyes shut and turn away from him.

"That was a fun trip." Dean half-smiles.

"It was." His smile is encouraging. You noticed that in the time you'd been here Dean had been smiling more often, but you were still worried at him.

“You’d do that? Go with me?" He sounds hesitant.

"Of course I would do that for you Dean." You nudge him with your elbow. "I’d walk through fire for you, you’re my best friend. I would sing karaoke to 'Girls Just Want to Have Fun' for you." You hesitate. "Well maybe after a few drinks, but I would still do it."

He snorts. "I'd pay to see that sweetheart."

"Mhmm. And this time we'll be sure to bring sunscreen. Can't have you turning into a lobster again."

The only downside of the trip was that Dean had refused to wear sunscreen when the two of you stopped along the road at one of the beaches, and he'd turned the color of a tomato. Of course later when you were slathering him with aloe at the motel, dragging your hands down his arms and over his face, you could feel your own cheeks heating with your blush.

"How was I supposed to know that the sun was so damn powerful out there?!" Dean exclaims.

"Because I told you! You never listen to me."

"I do too listen to you!" He thrusts his shovel down into the earth with an increased enthusiasm, but instead of hitting the earth, there's a loud 'clunk.'

Guess we found it.

"No, you don't." You say as you crouch down to uncover the coffin with Dean.

"You know what? I'm not talking to you for five minutes."

"Toddler." You mutter under your breath. "You're a bit old for the silent treatment."

He doesn't answer and you roll your eyes again.

When the body is salted and burned, the warmth from the fire flares up from the grave, warming the chilled tips of your fingers, but you still shudder in the cold breeze. Dean's jacket comes down around your shoulders so fast you didn't realize that he noticed you shudder.

"Can't have you catching a cold Sweetheart." Dean flashes a signature grin that makes your knees weak. "Come on, let's get back to Baby. We can plan out where we're going on this road trip."

As the two of you make your way back through the cemetery, you see the beam of a flashlight on the other side of lot coupled with the high pitched squeal of laughter as it sweeps across the smooth weather beaten stones. Another rumble of thunder shakes the sky, rattling your teeth and vibrating against your skin.

Dean and you crouch down on instinct, and he makes a hand gesture.

You look at him confused.

The laughter gets closer, the people weaving through the graveyard, running after one another, oblivious to Dean and you.

He makes the hand gesture again.

"What?" You whisper.

He makes the gesture again.

"Dean, this isn't charades. Use your words. I can't understand what you're saying."

He sighs. "I was trying to tell you that it's okay, it's just kids." Dean whispers back.

"You could have just said that, you didn't have to make the gestures. Especially because you're the only person who understands them."

"I am not the only-" Dean huffs out a breath. He turns his head to watch two teenagers run by, giggling and laughing all the way as they do.

"Come on Shawn!" A girl shouts with a cackle lost on the wind, her blonde hair like a beacon, turning silver in the moonlight.

"I don't think we should be here!" The boy who you assume is Shawn shouts back, the beam from his flashlight flickers against his glasses.

"Don’t be such a wuss." The girl yells back over her shoulder. The lithe imprint of her form small and petite a contrast to the boy who stumbles behind.

Dean leans so close to you that his nose is pressed into your hair, his breath a warm exhale against your ear. "You wanna mess with them?"

A shiver travels down your spine with Dean's close proximity and you hope that he doesn't feel it. “You have to ask?”

“Come on.”

You leave your shovels and supplies behind, following behind the teenagers who laugh as they make their way through the lines of tombstones, but then something happens. They vanish.

"What?" You whisper in confusion, sweeping your eyes over the end of the cemetery. It came to an abrupt stop over a cliff that dropped off into the ocean over a thousand feet below. "Did they jump?"

The wind is harsher here, pulling and tugging at your clothes as if inviting you to fly with it, to jump into the darkness beyond and sink into the depths of the black sea below that writhes and splashes.

"This way." Dean tugs your elbow and turns you to a small set of steps that leads down the side of the cliff.

Okay. Maybe this was a bad idea.

Dean and you follow down the steps, unable to hear the laughter over the crashing of the waves against rock below, where the water rubs the stone smooth. And just when you think the steps will end, they twist and curve back into the cliff, depositing Dean and you in a cave.

"I still don't think this is a good idea Kayla." The boy, Shawn says. You can hear the tremor on the edge of his voice.

She obviously doesn't listen to him.

"Hey look at this!" You hear a girl's voice say. "I'm Queen of the world!"

Dean and you peer around the wet wall of the cave.

It's a crypt.

The walls further in are lined with bodies embalmed and wrapped in soft cloth, the musty smell of death wafting out to where the two of you are. Armor, chainmail, swords, and axes sit in neat piles to the left of the room, shining in the dull light of the beams. Various intricate designs are carved into the walls, semi-circles that entwine and tangle over the hewn stone, shining in the yellowed beam of the flashlights. 

The two kids from the graveyard are standing just a few feet in front of Dean and you, the boy has his back to you while the girl with the blonde hair who you guess is Kayla stands proudly on a rock wearing a crown.

You're sure that she must have found it a few moments ago, but something about it feels wrong. The crown is made of a silver metal, each point encrusted with emeralds that seem to absorb the light in the room rather than reflect it. Odder still is that for something sitting in a crypt, it doesn't look old, it looks brand new, not covered in the thick layer of dust like everything else in here.

Kayla wears it proudly, posing for an invisible camera. A low hum vibrates through the cave, hidden to the untrained ear beneath the distant rumble of thunder, and the crash of waves outside.

But you can.

"Dean." You mutter.

"I feel it too."

"I'm definitely wearing this to prom! Who cares about that plastic tiarra? This is a crown." Kayla giggles, taking it off to admire it in the light. "Oh look there's something written on it."

Oh no.

Before Dean and you can step forward to shut her up and stop her from pulling an Evil Dead, she begins to read the inscription. You have no idea what language it is, just that this is not good.

As soon as she finishes the last line, every single torch mounted on the walls flare to life without being lit.

Oh shit.

Kayla screams, throwing the crown down to the stone floor, clutching her hand. Her palm is seared a bright red, the imprint of the jewels forever etched into her skin.

"Kayla!" Shawn shouts rushing forward to see if she's okay.

"You just had to do it didn't you!" Dean says not bothering to hide as he comes out from teh mouth of the cave. "You just had to read the inscription off the creepy crown!"

"Who the fuck are you?!" Shawn stutters.

"Well I'd say I'm your worst nightmare, but I'm pretty sure we're about to meet whoever that is." Dean throws a knowing glance at you, but you're not focusing on that.

Because the entire room has gone silent. You can no longer hear the rumble of thunder, no longer feel the power of the storm brewing outside, no longer hear the sound of the crashing waves against the rocky cliff outside- there's nothing.

Just an eerie silence that hangs thick in the air.

The temperature in the room drops, sending a shiver down your spine, and goosebumps puckering against your skin while the hair at the back of your neck stands straight up."What the hell is going-" Kayla begins to sob, her ruined hand clutched to her chest, but Dean shushes her.

Shadows flicker and move around the edges of the cave, shifting into the forms of men and women running together like oil over water, rushing towards the crown that lies a few feet away.

The woman forms from the shades, born of darkness, of flesh and shadow as the dark imprints weave together, twisting and knotting, creating her from nothing.

Her skin is almost translucent white in the firelight, her hair a darkly woven web that tangles over her shoulders, while her eyes glow a menacing green. There is a necklace at the base of her throat, a strong mesh of iron to match the crown on her head and a collection of emeralds each one the size of your little finger.

The corpses that line the wall tremble in their cubbies, the rattle of bone and metal, and the stale smell of decayed flesh filling the room as they stir.

"Holy shit." Shawn gulps.

You can say that again.

Her robes are old fashioned, dark green, woven from strong fabric and imprinted with a twisted silver thread that forms sigils of stars and moons,  the garments flowing out behind her on some invisible wind that drifts through the crypt, but only seems to touch her. She makes no move towards you, only watches, her eyes piercing in the firelight.

The sound of the thunder outside is back, shaking the walls of the tomb and making the light from the torches flicker over the cold walls of the crypt.

Dean and you draw your guns at the same time, a reflex given you have no idea who or what she is.

You mentally go through the filo-fax in your head categorizing her into classes of what she could be. Comparing her to things you'd seen along the road. If not for the green robe she could be a woman in white. The way her skin is so sallow you can see the criss-cross of black veins beneath and the way her hair falls over her shoulders. But there's something about her you can't place, some throb of energy in the room that scuttles over your skin like a swarm of cockroaches, feels different than any other creature you've come along.

The woman's form flickers once as if she's not quite in the room with you, the motion sends a rustling through the bottom of her skirts, and the crypt fills with the smell of wet earth and dead leaves.

Dean pushes you behind him, a subconscious action that the woman clocks with a twitch of her bottom lip. Her head tilts just slightly, eyes narrowing a fraction.

We have to get the kids out of here.

"Look. We don't want any trouble-" You begin to say as calmly as possible.

Being diplomatic felt like a good idea right now or at least a good enough idea to buy you some time.

The woman moves faster than you thought possible. There's a terrible flash of green light and you feel an invisible force hit you in the center of your chest, propelling your body backwards through the cave. Dean shouts your name, but it sounds far away. Your stomach plummets with the few seconds of weightlessness, before your head hits the rock wall sending a jolt of pain through your body.

You lay there stunned, listening to the sound of the kids screaming, unable to move for a few seconds. Your mind is hazy, memories of the past slipping into these few moments.

The smell of the Impala, the soft scritch of a pencil against paper, the feeling of Dean's arm over your shoulders, the soothing motion of a paintbrush stroke-

You gasp as you come back to reality shaking your head once, twice to clear itself.

The kids are no longer in the crypt and you guess that the screaming you heard was them running for their lives, instead the woman floats in the center of the room, her hand clasped tightly around Dean's throat. She appears to be examining him, her eyes trace his features, unaffected by Dean struggle to get free.

A cold feeling of fear trickles down you spine, a raindrop in a thunderstorm finding the curves and plains of your back, melting snow against warm flesh.

"Put him down." Your voice is hard, the gun in your hand heavy as you train it on the woman.

She turns to look at you.

The rumble of thunder outside shifts to a higher pitch, a crisp sound, the clash of swords and the roar of a battle-cry merging into the howling of the wind.

"Now." You say.

Her mouth opens, and a language you don't know vibrates through the stale air, the sound of her voice is musical, a soft lullaby. The edge of her triumphant smirk curls back to reveal pearly white teeth, but she doesn't release Dean.

Your eyes flick to where Dean struggles in her grasp, his own emerald gaze focused on you. The fear you see in his eyes is not for himself, you know that. Years of hunting together, you knew that your best friend couldn't care less about himself, not if it meant you were hurt.

"Dean-" You whisper.

You didn't know what to do. You had a hunch that the rounds in your gun wouldn't do anything to her, and Dean and you had left the salt in the cemetery overhead, not to mention the iron knuckles you usually carried were still on the front seat of Baby where you'd left them.

And the lady was covered in iron so you doubted it would do anything to her.

"It doesn't have to be this way. We can talk this out. Just put him down. Please." You say it as calmly as you can, trying to think of something anything to do, but nothing comes.

The woman's smirk deepens. "No, more talking." Her voice slips into something harsher, speaking English through a thick accent.

The ground beneath her feet opens, the sharp sound of stone cracking while the crypt trembles around you, sending you stumbling to the right as the cave begins to tear itself apart.

Before you can do anything, the woman drops into the cavernous fissure dragging a struggling Dean with her.

"DEAN!" You shout, throwing your gun to the side and grabbing for his hand as he's pulled into the earth.

Dean gasps your name, his hand tight in yours, as the woman works her way down his body to hold tight on to his ankles. She hangs there in the space below, smile triumphant, as she playfully tugs on Dean's body as if it's a game.

"I'm not gonna let go okay?" You grunt, tightening your grip on his hand.

The weight of his body and the woman is too much, almost ripping your from it's socket, but you can't let him go. Not when Dean is the only person you have left. The ground beneath your body begins to crack, the stone flaking off to fall into the dark chasm below. You can't see the bottom, the cold hand of fear closing hard around your throat.

Dean says your name again. "It's gonna be okay."

"What?"

"I promise that it's going to be okay."

"I know it's going to be okay because I'm going to pull you up!" You struggle, tugging hard on his arm as you squirm to try and shuffle your body back on the ground, but it only makes more cracks spread and more earth fall into the chasm. "And then we're going to send her back to wherever the hell she came from."

His lips are pressed into a tight smile, eyes flashing with something melancholic you can't place. "Sweetheart. I promise that it's going to be okay. You just have to let go."

"No! I can do it!" You shout back, tears burning and falling from your eyes. "I-"

More of the bodies fall from the crypt into the chasm, disappearing into the darkness around Dean. The ground beneath your body shifts as more of it falls away. And you know at any moment you'll get dragged in too.

Dean looks down at the woman who hangs from his legs enjoying the scene in front of her, her dark eyes glinting as her green robes float out around her, then back up at you. The cold determined look in his eyes familiar.

"Dean please, I can't do this any of this- not without you!" You sob as you see the plan form in his mind. "So no to whatever you're thinking!"

"The only thing I'm thinking is how beautiful you are sweetheart." He flashes a signature smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "And that I'm sorry."

"Sorry?"

He lets go, the final flash of his eyes the last thing you see before the darkness swallows him whole.

"No! DEAN!" You scream his name, prepared to dive in if that's what it takes, but the ground closes, shutting up the cavernous mouth that swallowed your friend, smoothing over so that there's nothing left but the cool stone floor of the cave.

Leaving you alone in the chill with the rumble of thunder and the crash of waves against stone, smoothing away the rough edges and taking them out to sea.

A/N: Please don't hate me for the cliffhanger 😅 Or for yah know, throwing Dean into a ravine... I promise that this one will have a happy ending. Eventually?

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, Reblogs, and Comments are not required, but are always appreciated. I love hearing what y'all think and the comments keep me going! If you'd like to be added to the taglist for the next part please let me know!

Taglist:

@roseblue373 @livya99 @mrsjenniferwinchester @zepskies

@angrydragon90 @waynes-multiverse @kr804573 @maddie0101

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Pact 1

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, violence, size kink, blood, 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: your city has been ruined by goblins and must make a deal with a different sort of beast to save your people.

Characters: orc!Steve Rogers, orc!Bucky Barnes, human!reader

Note: here we go.

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. 💖

The mist wafts around the mountain pass, the dulled glow of firelight speckled through the camp. As the sky dims, bodies shiver, with more than the cold, and voices lower as ears listen for the howl of wolves or winging of fanged bats. You hunch down between your sisters, Medra and Castina, holding your hands up to the flame above the kindling and cinder. Your brother, Ralf, whets his blade, as your other, Frin, chips stones to points for the tips of arrows. The same labour can be heard from around the encampment.

Your mother and father are in the tent already. The rest of you are sleepless. You don't think they are dreaming peacefully, only hiding as their aging bones ache from the damp cold. You glance down and scratch away the dry blood around the linen wound tight around your hand. Castina reaches to pet your arm as she notices the movement.

"I can smell the smoke from here," she whispers.

"The foundation will hold," Ralf intones, always the one who knows. "It's stone. The pillars are strong. There won't be much to rebuild."

"Only goblins to chase out," Medra, the youngest retorts. "Ugly creatures."

"Beasts," Frin agrees. "But we will regroup and we will reclaim the city."

"Will we?" Castina asks. "Or shall we perish here in these crags? A fortnight now and we only move between the same caves."

"What do you know of war, hm?" Ralf challenges. "Here, take my sword and go down there. See how far you get, girl."

She frowns and rescinds her hand from your arm, pulling her cloak tighter, "I don't not reproach, I only wonder."

"You speak too much," he snorts.

You lean into her as she wipes her nose and her teeth chatter. You open your cloak and spread it over her shoulders. You are the middle of your sisters, of all of you. She is the eldest girl and yet she is so thin she cannot stand the frost. Her nose has been dribbling for days. You hear her trying to clear it at night. That and many noises which trouble you more.

"It is late, arguing cannot do us any good," you gird as you welcome Medra under the other wing of your cloak.

"Then go and put your head to rest, sister. Hide in your fancies as the men tend to the real world," he scoffs.

Frin tosses a stone at him. "Don't be such a mule. Did you not snore until midday?"

"I was on night watch last eve," Ralf hisses.

"Yes, I'm certain your rumbling scared away the night creatures," Frin chuckles.

"At arms!" The holler brings both your brothers to their feet and you squeeze your sisters. "At arms! At arms!"

Footfalls sprint in all directions as the men stir to action, each quick to man the border of the encampment with steel and hide. You shudder as Medra whimpers and Castina wipes her nose. Your father pokes his head out and hacks into the dirt.

"Have the come to finish their work?" He asks dryly and pulls on his pointed helm. "Aditha, my sword."

He turns back at the rustling within. You stand and Medra clings to your arm. You tug on Castina as she struggles. She needs to keep warm.

"Halt!" The echo rolls around the stone wall of the mountain and sends a ripple through the women and children as they recede from their fires, clustering against the stone. "Men, to your lines."

The bodies in armour, leather and otherwise, form a boundary around the camp, locking together in formation. Shields at the front, arrows to the rear. Yet, you do not hear marching in responses.

"A shadow--"

"Shhhh---"

The voices hush as the collective draw in a terrified breath. Your father emerges and scrambles to join the ranks. A child cries and their mother cooes. An infant begins to fuss. You squeeze your sisters' wrists.

"You should only draw steel if you mean to use it," a sonorous voice carries as if from the heavens.

"East!" A soldier hollers.

"No, west," another claims.

"Well, city of man, is it blood you search for in these mountains?" The voice bounces off the walls once more.

"Show yourself!" The general demands. "What foe hides himself like a snake?"

A rock tumbles down the rock face and lands in the midst of the camp, sending dirt up at impact. You cry out in surprise and turn to look above. Tall shadows loom on the narrow ledges. You back away with the rest of the women in children, likes tides off the coast. The men redirect their bows.

"Ah, now, you will not fire," the beast above proclaims. The mist slowly clears. "For your women and children are not behind your shields, rather at my mercy." The large figure lowers himself to sit, with his legs hanging over the rock face. He is not spindly and sickly like the ravenous goblins, rather thick as a great oak. His dark hair hangs past his shoulders, his beard thick around his square jaw, two teeth poking up from beneath his lower lip. Orcs.

"Beasts! You would savage the defenseless," The general accuses.

"If I wish to do so, so I would," the orc replies.

"Knock," the general calls.

The orc shows a palm, "loose your bows and I shall loose hellfire." He closes his fist and lets it drop.

"You are upon orcish lands. We only wonder why." Another appears behind him. His skin is a fairer shade, yellowish green, and his hair is gold, a braid on each side of his head against his loose locks. He looks over the edge.

"We men do not fear monsters," the general calls.

The soldiers break out into a rabble, clanging their shields and swords, shouting to the sky. The orcs laugh. Both of them.

As silence casts back upon the men with the weight of their fear, you peer between them and the creatures above.

"There are only two," you say. Medra squeaks and Castina hisses as she tugs on you weakly.

"Who speaks?" The general snarls. "This is no business of women."

"Sister," Ralf booms, "silence."

"Is sense not in a woman's domain?" You return. "There are two against you all. Has enough blood not been shed?"

The dark-haired orc scoffs, "your wench speaks sense, does she not?"

"It is not her place." The general snaps.

"Nor is this yours," the blond orc insists. "Though we can see that your own is in ash."

"Are orcs and goblins so different?" Another man shouts. "It is a trap!"

"Goblins," the brunette spits at the very word. "Those mongrels."

"I'd listen to the woman. She speaks wisely," the blond adds.

"We would not let ourselves be seen if we meant harm," the other adds.

"Then what is your meaning?" The captain barks.

The dark-haired orc laughs, the blond puts his hands on his hips.

"The goblins are a plague and we mean to cut the disease out of these lands," the golden-haired orc declares. "So let us agree over a keg of ale, lest we drown in blood."

"And how do we know you are not the ones to hold our heads under?" Another accuses.

The rumbling from above is like an avalanche. More laughter. Medra nestles closer and Castina groans. Her hand is clammy in yours. You let go of your younger sister to untie your cloak and slip it fully around the eldest.

"Let us hear them out," the captain counters, then moves closer to the general to speak unheard.

"We will feed your masses. Your stores will have been raided by the heathen," the blond orc avows.

"A discussion might be held, beyond our camp." The general agrees. "My people are tired and scared."

"I do not blame them," the dark-haired one returns, reaching up as the other helps him to his feet. "There is a pass, west from here. A series of stones jutting out like a great wave. We will await you there."

The orcs disappear as swiftly as they appear, the mist curtaining their departure. The general convenes with his officers as the soldiers exchange looks of concern. The women and children wail and whine in a tempest.

"You," a captain approaches, "since you do think yourself fit to meddle in the affairs of men, you will attend to pour the ale."

"My sister is sick," you hug Castina.

"You have another," he grabs your arm and tears you away. "You undermine not only the general but the city with your tripe. Come, lest you bring further shame to your father and brothers."

Ralf lashes your name out and you wince. You turn and bring Castina's arm around Medra, "take her to mother."

You face the solider and let him lead you away. You knew better than to speak up and yet you could not witness any more blood. You cannot stomach it.

"Churlish girl," the man grips his sword as you follow at his heels.

A party forms near the edge of camp. The general leads four captains and a dozen common soldiers. You walk amidst them with your hands clasping your skirt. Your father will have another reproach waiting.

You shiver without your cloak as you walk along the craggy ground, stones skittering away from your shoes and bouncing off the soldiers' boots. The scout ahead whistles but you can't see much beyond the wall of bodies around you. There's a grunt and a loud thump as the party comes to a halt and you nearly stride into the back of one of the men.

"As promised, fine orcish ale," the voice carries on the wind. "We will light a fire to keep warm and speak."

The soldiers fan out in a line. The general keeps to the head of the pointed formation. Your sights are obscured.

"We've brought a wench to pour serve the ale," a captain declares.

You are thrust forward suddenly by your arm. You scramble to keep up and are hurled ahead. You stagger and crash against the tall barrel before the two tall orcs. You catch yourself on the slats and peek up at them meekly. The dark-haired one reaches for you and you exclaim and collapse to the dirt, shielding yourself in fear.

He is unexpectedly gentle as he lifts you to your feet, "only meaning to keep the lady on her slippers."

You steady your legs as he releases you. The other reveals a wooden tap and shoves in into the barrel. The men reach for their belts and free their bone cups and brass flasks. The orcs reveal long tusks hollowed out for drink.

"General," the blond orc stands patiently.

You pour for the general first, then the orcs, and finally the assembly of men patiently approach and claim their frothy prize. The general and his captains stand in a half-circle as the dark-haired orc strikes a fire over kindling and stone. He stands and claims his ale from his companion.

"A truce between man and orc," the general mulls as he eyes the ale. The orcs drink.

"A pact which might prove fruitful to both," the blond suggests.

"You offer homecoming and food, but what do you ask?" The general growl.

"Let us introduce ourselves, first, eh? Let us meet with more than suspicious. You may call me Steve, my companion is Bucky. We hail from the Stonehead horde." The blond declares.

The general clucks, "General Howler," he returns. "The Duke was slain in the fire. His son is but a lad."

"Tragic," Steve replies with no lack of pity. "You require to rebuild, to feed those who will soon starve in theses passes. And labour to aid in all that. We have many who are strong who might bring timber and fortify your city anew. We have stores of stock to share. We do so with open hands in exchange for one thing."

"One thing?" The general repeats warily.

Steve and Bucky share a glance. The latter beckons to you and hands over his empty cup. You fill it and return it to him. His thick fingers brush yours. He is gargantuan compared to you. His brows are heavy, his jaw is square and stone, and his skin has a reddish undertone. His blue eyes gleam as he looks upon you, he cheek twitches. The other orc skims you with a glance.

"Daughters," Steve says at last.

"Daughters," the general echoes.

"Aye," Bucky says. "Women."

"For what purpose? You think we would let you desecrate our wives?"

"Wives? Not your wives. Ours," Bucky argues.

"Can not you lay with your own kind, cretinous beasts," a captain snarls.

"A plague," Steve intones. "A plague has swept through us and it took as many mothers as it did their babes. My own beloved among them. There are few left, not enough."

"It's... no, it cannot be done."

The orcs look to each other again then to the men. They dip their chins. "Enjoy your ale then. Go back to your people. Batter down and pray."

The general winces. The other men whisper and the captains drone behind their gauntlets. You skirt toward them.

"One daughter," the general says. The crowd grows silent. "Her." He points at you. "Prove that it can be done. That your seed does not split her in two and you will have more. And you will deliver us food enough for the winter to come. Should you bear fruit, you will have more and you will help us rebuild in the spring."

The orcs shift and turn to each other. You back away from both monster and man, pressing yourself to the rockface. The dark-haired one spins around and gestures to you.

The blond presents his sword. "On my blade, let it be done," he declares.

[bowieandqueen11]

Sanji With A Clingy Reader Would Include...

Request: OH BABY telling about one piece is like unlocking a whole second heart of mine i have fully for that anime and manga and live action. and so, if you ever decided of course, you writing something similar to something you did on marvel once and sanji with reader that has no personal space and is touchy would be amazing. but also... kissing zoro is great to, if you ever decided? anyway! HOPE YOU LOVE IT (one piece i mean), and if not ignore me UwU

Ooh yess babes this is so SWEET!! :3 I LOVED IT omg hello to my latest obsession not me ordering the first collection of the manga

This was really sweet and fun to do, but I did stay up all night writing it so all comments are much appreciated!

Warning: slightly spicy, some mentions of fighting!

(I do not own One Piece or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @fanpageknight.)

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°

Look at this man. Seriously, look at this man with his little bottom lip bite and eyes like the sun shines heavily out of them and tell me he would be anything less than absolutely madly, heart wrenchingly, soul crushingly enthralled with a clingy reader??? That's right you can't take the l on this one.

It all started that day when the three of you ended up shipwrecked on that sad sack excuse of a rock. When you and Sanji huddled on one side of the forsaken isle to stay away from the terrifying Pirate Zeff. His hands had shaken as he drew them up to his chest, but he mustered the nerves to string open the sack Zeff had thrown at his feet. Once he had counted out the cans, he offered all the food to you.

He wanted you to stay alive far more than himself. Ever since you had landed on his ship he had been smitten, and his weary heart would beat its last under this smothering sun as long as you would live on for the both of them.

To keep him calm: to stop his gasping, tortured heaves as he tried his best not to writhe in panic at the thought of never stepping back on safe land again, you would spent most of those 85 days sitting over the cragged edges. Sanji couldn't tear his eyes away from peering down at the gushing shards of stone below that seemed to rip up in tides and tear for his swinging feet; to try and distract him from sniffling any longer, your hand would tentatively creep over the rock until it landed flatly, and unceremoniously on top of his own. His fingers flexed beneath your own, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he folded them upwards, giving your hand a shaking squeeze: a dutiful promise, a flitting confession of love, that you just happened not to feel in your ruminations of the circumstances.

In fact, he asked you that night, in an uncharacteristically quiet and bashful voice, if you would keep his nightmares away by holding him like his mother used to. You felt terrible: you were so stunned that for a moment you stood with the last piece of mouldy bread you had in your hand in shocked silence. Poor Sanji thought you were about to reject him outright: throw what little he had left of his heart - that he had so carefully lifted out and placed in his hands to offer to you, only to have it thrown back to his feet in the usual ridicule he got for his love. His bottom lip began to tremble, until you nearly knocked him onto his bottom with how fast you dropped everything and flew over to lock him in a tight hug, not minding the fact that your shoulder was growing wetter and wetter despite the brewing rain each time Sanji buried his snivelling head against it.

So you would let him rest safely in the bracket of your arms: his left cheek resting in the warm stretch between your collar bone and your neck, his right hand draped leisurely around your waist as you told him stories of pirates and treasure: of the Deep Blue and tropical fish that shone like bursts of fragmented starlight every time their fins graced the water. Although he would groan any time you removed your hand from where you were stroking the wet strands of his hair back from his forehead, it was quickly replaced with wonderment as you would point up at a cluster of stars and whisper excitedly: 'look, there's some now!'

He had never been afraid of nights ever since that moment, not when the stars were still out and he could trace with the butt of his cigarettes the fish you had drawn specially for him in the skies. It was like a secret message: a lover's reminder that he was never alone. That you were always with him. That your beauty - your light, it shone everywhere, no matter where he was.

It was the first time he had kissed you, two forgotten children lost underneath the dripping crevice of your little hideaway. As your belly began to rise and fall underneath his elbow, and he believed you had exhausted yourself out after trying to make him feel better, he dared to dart up from your shoulder and press his lips firmly against your cheek. It had been quick, almost gliding past time like a dolphin leaping up out of the water, but it had meant so much to him that he curled up into a ball in your side and flushed a bright cerise, having to shove his fist into his mouth to stop his manic giggling from waking you up.

But you weren't asleep, and as Sanji settled back into your neck with a smile bright enough to rival the shine of buttercup petals, you swore as he began to drift off in the first peaceful dream he had had in years that one day you would return the favour, but in full.

The two of you were thick as thieves growing up, to the point where Zeff became so distracted by your antics that he often tried to separate the two of you by making you work the floor and Sanji either in the kitchens, or off fishing at the docks. Ten seconds later though, he'd be kicking through the kitchen doors again to find you leaning on the kitchen counter next to an eager faced Sanji, whose to busy to register Zeff's shouting. Instead he places the spoon to your lips, having spent half of lunch service prep cooking you a brand new recipe he had spent the whole night creating out of a medley of your favourite foods. He subconsciously licks his bottom lip, the tension in the room felt by the other chefs who try to carry on washing pans and cutting vegetables enough to put everyone on edge as Sanji refused to look anywhere but your lips. Holding his hand under your chin, his dipped eyes were broken by a sudden grin as a loud 'mmhhh' left your mouth and you chewed in sweet bliss.

Still ignoring Zeff's increasingly erratic rant, as Sanji goes to start cleaning up his pan you slide down to stand behind him, wrapping your arms tightly around your back and jutting your chin into his shoulder blade like a baby koala. You can tell he's laughing silently by the way his shoulders shake against you, but all he does is pull up your hand from his belly button to press sweet, dainty kisses up and down the lengths of your fingers, before dropping it down to press your palm flatly against his heart.

'I think that might be your greatest dish yet, buttercup!'

'From you, that means everything my precious heart.'

'Why do you call me that?', you murmur, refusing to lift your lips from his shirt.

'Well my sweet love, why do you call me buttercup? I mean, I always know I smell of butter and the likes-'.

He's distracted by your snort against the side of his neck, but the two of you are too love-strikingly embarrassed to say anything again. Even if neither of you could see the warm peach rushing up both your cheeks, Zeff could. He could also hear the padding thuds of Sanji's heart as he gripped his fingers that almost imperceptibly bit tighter around your hand, and he found himself sighing at how oblivious you two idiots were.

Sanji is definitely just as clingy as you, if not more so. You've definitely met your match in this man. I mean, any time you're out on the floor, handing out bread to tables and scanning the room to check if there were any patrons you may have to throw out by the scuff of their collars later, his eyes are trained on yours. He leans against the banisters, not even trying to remotely hide how obviously he's tracing your path with a dumbstruck, lit up smile. If you're in the kitchens, desperately trying to bite your tongue and not tear Zeff a new one as he chops his hands together and rushes you to plate up? He's sliding up to your side in an instant, throwing scathing looks at the man while trying to help you spoon thyme onto your bass, nuzzling the side of his head into yours encouragingly. If you have any free time at all? Sanji is fast on your heels, darting after you like someone's firing shots at his dress shoes, as if you have his heart tied to a string on your wrist as he seeks out whatever nook you're going to relax in. It doesn't matter if you're at the bar, watching the docks, or trying to hide from Zeff in one of the cupboards in the pantry: Sanji is squatting down and grunting as he shoves himself in right next to you. He sits criss cross, only satisfied when at least one of his knees is resting heavily over yours, and he has full access to watch what you're reading over the side of your neck.

He only fully settles, though, if you touch him in some way. He genuinely will begin mewling once your hand reaches over to brush your knuckles over his jawline, or your hand finds itself guided to bunch itself up in his hair. One time, he guided your hand into his lap, and you began to absentmindedly stroke your pointer finger along the seam of his inner thigh. Thank goodness you had your head buried in a book one of the pirate crews had come to swap some dried meats with you for, because it took every muscle in Sanji's body twitching: every finger clenching and unclenching into his knee until he drew blood not to knock you flat right there and then and kiss you like there was no tomorrow.

He gets a MASSIVE nosebleed - so gushing, in fact, that he tries to reassure you he's fine as you hold him by the elbows and lead his tilted back head and pinched nose down to Zeff for some help.

It becomes a very major recurring issue every time he looks at you. He makes sure to carry a handkerchief in his breast pocket from then on.

God, if he didn't love you more than anything in all the seas. If you weren't the only one that he let see past his charming nature: if you weren't the only person left in his life that truly could recognise the young boy left in his eyes, in his gait, in his smile, in his dreams. That little kid on that great big ship, the one who had found you stowed away behind one of the barrels of rum, and instead of calling for the crew had taken your trembling hand and led you into the kitchens, introducing you as his newest sous chef. That same kid, who stood beside you and held your hand so gently, so heartbreakingly gently under his as he guided you through lessons of chopping onions and sautéing garlic, breaking out into long strings of rushed, praising French every time you got it right. The same one, who would frown as if he were the one who had been hurt any time you burnt your hands or sliced your fingers. Who would unravel the knot at the back of his apron, and tug it over his head to carefully place it over yours.

'This always brings me luck', he would say as his fingers daintily tucked the strings underneath your shirt collar. 'But I don't need it anymore, because you've brought me all the luck and happiness a man could ever dream of, my cherie.'

The same kid who would tip toe out of his bed to sneak down to your hammock, crawling in and burying himself underneath your blankets where you slept in the brig, telling you fantastical stories about his mother until you fell sound asleep. He would watch you from where he lay on his side, hands folded by your head, as if you had hung every star in the wide skies. He would brush his fingers over the edge of your cheek and curl up beside you, wishing that every minute of every day of the rest of his life could be spent with you.

Yeah, smitten wasn't enough to cover it. Only destiny could be raw enough to draw the two of you to each other, Sanji always thought.

As teenagers, you would end every shift outside, sitting on the wonky boards of one of the jutted docks. Just sitting side by side, as you always wanted to be, pretending you weren't playing a game of chicken as the two of you teased and pressed and glanced your fingers over each other's, leaning back and looking up at the stars. Sanji always appreciated the better chance it gave him: shrouded in naught by wisps of moonlight and the rare flashing neon of ship string lights, to take you in as much as he could. You didn't mind the fact that he spent the whole time staring over at you. In fact, if you hadn't been so lovestruck, you might have found the courage to tear your head away from the horizon to meet the look of gut-wrenching devotion that always seemed to pour out of his eyes and beam only on you. It always felt like warm sunlight, sitting next to him, and so you finally dared a chance at grabbing his fingers and intertwining them between your own, pretending it was because of the sea chill spraying a fine mist over your legs.

Again, the squeeze he gave your hand was almost, almost imperceptible, but you felt it this time. And you could feel the look of enduring devotion he pierced into your skin, a warm tingle washing like a spring tide through your tired body.

He always knew. He always knew that if he had stayed on that rock, he would have been content to. Happy, even. Because he would have been with you.

'I love you', he said without words. He gave your hand another squeeze. 'I'm going to love you forever. No matter how many lifetimes. No matter who I am. I'm always going to find you, and I'm always going to love you.'

His voice nearly made you jump, surprising you at how it started with his usual buttery smoothness, before cracking with a thick gulp as his words trailed of. 'Never leave without me.'

'I promise, as long as you don't leave without me.'

He shakes his head. 'You never leave me. Not even for a moment.'

Sometimes, when the two of you are older, he still comes stealing into your room at night, wiping his nose with the back of his hand as his lips wobble into a frightened frown. Turns out, as he draws the covers back and comes reaching in for you, he had another nightmare that pirates had come to steal you away from him again. With an aching sigh for how stricken he looked, how desolate, you let him claw at your shirt and bury his head into the side of your neck until the rest of the world melted away.

He kissed you again, that night. When the feel of his legs strewn familiarly between your own began to burn against his skin, and the weight of hand perched over his thrumming heart became too heavy to bear in secret. With nothing but the light streaming like shards of pearly stars through the porthole to betray a moment so special, so longed for, Sanji let his eyelashes flutter close as he slowly... slowly pressed his lips against your cheek again.

This time, his eyes widened in shock as the feeling of your hand gripping at his jaw and turning his face straight on to your own. Before he can even open his mouth in confusion, the sweet pressure of your lips pressed against his top one. For a moment, Sanji doesn't move an inch: doesn't even breath, not even processing that the thing he’s spent every moment of his waking and sleeping life wishing for ever since he found you on that boat was actually happening, right here right now. He tries really hard to stop his whole body from shaking, as his silky lashes finally falter shut against the top of your cheeks and he tries to focus his whole attention on the way your plush lip seems to press so perfectly against his own.

When he finally pulls away, he lets out a loud 'OW' as he pinches his arm.

'What did you do that for!?'

'I had to double check this wasn't a dream, my sweets!'

And then he's on you again, like a ravished man gasping for air. God, he wasn't sure if soulmates were real, but when your top lip pulled down against his, and he could feel the thud of your heart synch against his own beneath the tips of his fingers, if he didn't know that he was yours.

He stays in your room a lot more often after that, using it as an excuse for you to help him button up his shirt during sleepy mornings, smiling at the feel of your fingers as they knocked against the muscles of his chest. It was also his favourite part of the day - the good morning kiss the two of you shared before you raced down to be at your shifts before Zeff decided to knock your heads together.

One time you forgot to give him one, too distracted by one of the sous chefs busting into your room with a bloodied nose and a chipped front tooth, whistling through the gap as he begged you to come down to the main foyer and help him break out a fist fight that had started between two gangs of rival pirates. The pout on Sanji's face that day was enough to make even the most bounty-heavy pirate's knees tremble. Every other chef steered way clear of his station, watching the arch of his back and the jaw in his muscle jump as he busied himself by frying his steak of tuna, so gutted at the loss of just one kiss. Not angry, no: just grief stricken, because this man seriously just adores you that much.

When you finally get your lunch break, the first thing you do is throw your napkin down on the kitchen ground and grab Sanji by his suit collar, enjoying the surprise tilt of his head as he drops his spoon onto his serving tray and allows you to lead his feet backwards to the fire exit. As soon as he's outside, you slam him gently against the wooden beams of the Baratie restaurant, and kissed him silly to make up for it. His look of trusting confusion suddenly melt into jumping heart eyes when your knee slides up between his thighs to try and pin him in place. His breathing comes out in harsh, shallow gasps between ferocious kisses, and you have to press him back against the wall every time he comes arching forward to follow your head for even more kisses. No, this was about you making him feel good. And by goodness, as your tongue pressed against the seam of his lips and tentatively ran over his front teeth, if he wasn't two seconds away from falling to his knees right there and then.

When you let him go, he slides down the wall like putty until he's sitting with legs stretched out and both his suit and hair a ruffled mess. He's literally never been more deliriously happy in his whole life.

Your favourite time of the day is when the restaurant closes, and the two of you finally have the kitchens to yourselves. Once you've tossed your aprons back onto the rack with a tired sigh, the only thing that can cheer you up is the sound of Sanji kicking his chair back with the toe of his shoe, and the sight of him beckoning you over to him with that tilted head and pearly beam of his. Mmh, how safe you feel, how loved as you collapse down to sit on his knees, and he tucks you in between the brackets of his arms in a vice so tight it could match any Marine knot.

You take one of his hands off the pen he was holding, turning his palm round to face you so you could fiddle with the rings he was wearing. You draw one up, curling his finger before your eyes, before slotting one off and sliding it onto your own ring finger. It was the one his father had given him: one he so loathed to wear, and yet felt guilt bore down too heavily on his conscious to ever take it off. You turned the one on top of it, one you know Zeff had given him after his first day working at the Baratie, and you smiled at the memory.

'You know', you start, still fiddling with his hand, feeling him shift his thighs as you pressed a gentle kiss on the pointer finger you were currently grasping onto. 'I may just have to keep this one.'

'Oh yeah?', he says dreamily, and you could feel his grin growing as he hid his burning face in the nape of your neck. 'Don't worry sweetheart. One day, once I find the perfect one, I'll give you a ring of your own.'

The two of you sneak out and share cigarettes out the back door a lot, where Sanji steps forward and kisses you like a man possessed every time you pinch the stub from out of his mouth and draw it along your bottom lip teasingly. When you try to get him to go back in, he just wraps his arms around your waist and lifts you up, spinning you around to stop you from leaving him alone. Laughing, you try to shove him off, swatting at the hands that form a tight clasp over your belly button, until his large fingers finally slide down to hold your waist. You glance behind you, smirking at the way his eyes are tightly shut in euphoria as ducks down, chest nearly enveloping in his desperation to reach your face again. His kisses become sloppier: smoke stained as they leave wet trails up your jaw, before he finally gives in and tries to make you laugh one last time by nibbling at the lobe of your ear.

Whenever he has a fight with Zeff, you have to hold him afterwards. The feel of your fingers curling the hair at the nape of his neck, or rubbing soothing circles into the sore muscles of his shoulders stops the furious darts of air from flaring his nostrils almost immediately.

Man has blaring heart eyes 100% whenever he's in a fight with rowdy customers, and you get to kick the flashy knife out of the last one's hand before the pirate could launch straight for Sanji's neck. He tilts his head at you with those amazed eyes, a gentle smile growing almost shyly on his face like a secret wink, before he throws his now empty plate at the pirate trying to sneak up behind your back. The crash echoes out through the booth area, a cry so furious: so full of rage that anyone would try and dare hurt you, that it makes all the remaining pirate crews crawl out towards the door on their hands and knees.

Stitching each other up afterwards is a motherfcking mess though, that Zeff straight up just abandons all hope of being able to use his kitchen. With a defeated rub of his pounding temples, he lets the door slam shut on his heel because he just can't deal with the two of you. He'd much rather pick up a brush and start sweeping bits of crushed and splattered asparagus off the floors than have to watch you to battle it out in a stiff competition of who could be more sickeningly, maddingly in love with the other. Between you standing between Sanji's entrapping thighs, closing you in tighter so you could have full access to kiss his bobbing Adam's apple as you use a rag to swipe bits of dry sauce off his neck, and him throwing his head back and whimpering, Zeff was going to go insane. Even worse, as soon as you're finished, Sanji's reaching between your fingers to lick split consomme off your nose.

The two of you are literally insufferable, and if every one apart from Zeff doesn't find it the cutest thing I-

When Luffy comes and wrangles Sanji into joining his crew, the chef's first thought is to be distraught. He seeks you out straight away, nearly breaking some poor fisherman's pole as he tries to hurdle over it and grip onto your shoulders, making you drop the barrel of dried meats you were carrying from Luffy onto the planks and watching Luffy nearly dangle off the edge of his ship to stop it from rolling into the ocean.

'Y/n- I- I can't go!'

'You're hardly scared!'

'I'm not scared of going, I'm terrified of going without you!'

You let him pour his heart out for a moment, before stopping his rambling, near sobbing mess of a sentence by bopping the tip of his nose. You giggle, swiping some hair from his forehead. 'Sanji, Luffy asked me to come first. I promised I wouldn't go without you, and I meant it.'

You manage to unlatch his twitching hand from your left shoulder, and give it an almost imperceptible squeeze. The tears that threatened to fall from his eyes finally cascade down, although he's so relieved that he's smiling through the blurriness. You swipe them away with your free thumb, finally, after all these years, feeling the squeeze of your hand that Sanji gives you back, before he envelops you in a breath taking hug.

'Awww, you guys are so sweet!', Luffy calls out from where he's hanging by his sandal off the railing of his ship. 'But could someone give me a hand before my hat falls into the waves? That would not be very cool.'

The first thing the two of you do once you're on The Going Merry is to find your bunk. Sanji isn't very subtle when he kicks your door shut with his heel, and comes scampering towards you like an upended sand crab, pinching for you until he's hefted you up over his shoulder and has unceremoniously landed you in your shared hammock. He's quick to jump in, straddling you as the hammock sways back and forth with the commotion.

He nearly starts crying again when he sees a flash of silver poke out from underneath your neckline; he grazes his hand over the chain, recognising it as his father's ring you had taken months ago. The one he had hated so much. The one you had tried to save him from. A small piece of him. A weight you tried to bear for him. A reminder of how much he was loved.

A confused Zoro, not realising there are new crew members on board, follows the sound of Sanji's voice crooning out how much he adores you, and how he loves you more than every star in the sky, down past the window on your bedroom door. Let's just say, he's not very impressed when he catches sight of the hammock swinging wildly from side to side, and an array of clothes thrown out and discarded in a mess around it.

[3amfanfiction]

What about Simon as the bog witch?

He sits on his front porch, wooden boards cracked and blackened with age. There's moss growing along the sides of the house, creeping fingers into every crevice. The window panes are caked and dirty with untold years. The stilts it sits on sink deep into the mucky ground in an attempt to keep it raised and dry.

It doesn't work.

He has his rocking chair out front, a great creaking thing that glides back and forth in perpetual motion, idling the day away talking to the toads and the ghosts of the land, skull mask on so as to blend in. His closest neighbors are half rotted away in the wet ground not three miles over, the mottled skin of their bodies giving way to ivory bone. They find comfort in the familiar.

You can't find him if you're looking. The paths that meander through the swamp lands warp and change and lead to no-where dead-ends as you circle and circle and circle, feet sucked into the wet ground, each step a chore, a great prying of foot from earth only to be reintroduced a scant distance later.

No, his house isn't one to be found. It does, however, show itself to those who have the right shade of despair about them. A fine fragrance of anguish only the truly despondent can carry. Something he can sniff out with his bloodhound of a nose as soon as they enter his territory.

Those.

Those make their way to his doorstep, raised paths giving no choice but to follow as they twist and wind through the murk, will-o-wisps luring them ever forward. They stumble across him right as it's dinner time, candles flickering in the window as the shadows begin to loom, smoke creeping up from the chimney in a playfully taunting curl, enticing you into the warmth.

And his door opens with him backlit in its frame. This behemoth of a man, shoulders turned sideways to fit through the doorway as he steps forward, deep thump settling his weight firmly on the weathered boards of the porch.

You think it's death come to greet you, the way he's decked out in all black, bone white skull leering at you, dark, dark eyes pinning you in place. A knife half the size of his forearm hangs from his belt.

He waits. Waits for you to make the first move.

Always.

You're the one who decides how this plays out. What side of him you get. Tooth or tongue. It's all up to you. Your actions.

If you play your cards right he invites you inside. Into the maw of his control, a slavering thing that has its teeth covered at the moment, a tight reign on emotion but one that stirs as you step inside. The wakening of a beast that draws its first breath, searching, searching.

The inside of his house is eclectic. A fascinating display of handcrafted trinkets and trifles, made by him or traded for over the years, an organic blend that could have only come from time. Years and years. Decades even. How old is he?

You won't ever know. Would never get a straight answer if you asked. Those kinds of details no longer matter. Not here. Not in this place.

So you sit. And you talk. And you never notice. Never notice his long steady inhales, drawing something (drawing you) in. You don't notice the way true night falls over the house, a steady blanket of shadow that engulfs everything, leaving you buoyed together, surrounded by these four walls. Never notice yourself slowly becoming more tired, sinking into the warmth and the ambiance of the house, its own breaths settling in the evening coolness.

Things wind down, conversation slowing and then stopping as he ushers you away to a bed tucked into the corner covered in hides and rough pillows. Ready to kip for the long hours of the night, when the true chill set in and things in the dark would bite first.

But you don't have to worry. Because you fed him that night, didn't you realize?

Even as he scented your anguish and despair, he drew it in—pulling it deep into the crags of himself, letting it fill all the dark spaces. All the putrid dark corners that oozed in the decay of him filled with your hurt. Shed and consumed in one swoop, gone to never bother you again. Unburdened of the weight you had carried to his doorstep. Carried for far too long. Each word you spoke, another piece.

It was such a shame that the memory went with it.

So you were safe from his teeth.

But he had other hungers that swelled in the long hours of the night.

The next morning saw you lighter, no longer dredging the bottom with every step you took as you leave the house in the bog. Your path back straightforward and unwavering, leading you forward with assured steps.

Simon would watch from his porch as you made your way, dark eyes sated in the morning light as he sat on his rocker once more. The steady creak creak creak of the wood filling the morning air, accompanying the buzz of insects already starting to pick up in the mid morning warmth.

Next

[starfallforest]

SINGULARITY » 1.9k words tags: NSFW, reader is gender neutral, xavier bottoms a/n: I do not kid you when I say we're jumping right in it babes with that nsfw tag! things might get a little weird. I even did research for this lil guy. a super thank you to my friends (especially @ourlittleuluru and @leaderincrows) for being supportive of my first fic in awhile 💙 ao3: 🔗​link summary: When Xavier orgasms, your combined Evol disrupts the cosmos.

When Xavier cums, it’s a flash in the night—a lighthouse beacon in the storm of you. When he cums, his entire body alights, and with his skin translucent under your wavering gaze, you can count every vein beneath his surface. He shudders violently against you, wet and wanting, as the bones of his fingers bite into your arms like the jaws of a snare.

He didn’t warn you it would be like this. He didn’t warn you he would be like this.

Moments ago, he watched you through heavy lids as you pumped your hips to him. The back of his hand was pressed to his mouth—a self-soothing habit he never quite shook. You listened to his muffled panting, studied the way his knuckles tapped against his lips with each stir of your body. His eyes were black and starless, his mind a void you couldn’t reach. But you were trying. Gods, were you trying.

You bent over him, ran your fingers over the crag of muscle tensed along his neck. 

“Relax, Xavier,” you exhaled over him, as if you could breathe life into the command. Then you paused. 

“Do… you want to stop?”

“N-no—”

It comes out as a quiver, an apology ripe on his tongue. It’d been there all night: a forbidden fruit dangling over the both of you. A sorry, never uttered, in every lingering touch. Overripe. Rotting. 

He seemed to notice your hesitation then, barking out a laugh that was dark and desperate. 

“Trying—” he ground out, voice strained. “This is—” 

The rest of the words were lost when your fingertips reached the line of his jaw.

It happened all at once: the hitch of his breath, the grip of his fingers at your wrist. For just a moment he gaped at you—marveling—eyes glinting wide in the low light. A sigh left the back of his throat as he flicked his gaze downward, turning his head towards the warmth of your hand in a single exhale of uninhibited indulgence. That’s when you saw it.

Your other hand had settled lightly over the confluence of your bodies, fingers pressing into the smooth bumps of flesh there, and like a switch you caught his eyes illuminating with a white, white light. It was gone the next instant with a clench of his eyelids, swallowed down with the veracity of a cornered animal to its prey.

He was holding himself back, you realized. He was afraid.

It made sense when you thought about it. Time was never kind to Xavier. Rather, it acted as a harbinger that took everything he ever loved and, in the cruelest ways, spared himself. How could he trust that this moment wouldn’t also bring him ruin? As if in response to your thoughts, the hand around your wrist squeezed.

You reached out once more with your free hand to drag your fingers through his hair as the realization settled like iron in the knell of your heart. This time, you wouldn’t let him go anywhere without you.

“It’s okay,” you told him, and your throat constricted at the unfamiliar promise. You bent to kiss the corner of each of his eyes, then pressed your forehead to his. For a beat you held him there inside you, breathing the scent of sweat in the space between. His grip on you relaxed.

“Alright,” he finally said, filling the quiet in earnest, filling his lungs with air. “I trust you.” 

When he looked at you, his eyes were brighter than you’d ever seen.

It was reassurance to yourself as well: It’s okay. The two words were a metronome as you dragged your body over his, quicker now. 

He moved his hands to your arms to better anchor himself to your rhythm. You pressed deeper into him, tracing your fingers along the bones of his ribcage and the skin of his neck.  

The air around you pulsed once, twice—a warning. You felt a wind pick up, warm and without origin as it ripped through your hair. Xavier’s movements quickened under you erratically. Long lashes fluttered as his eyes rolled wildly behind closed lids. You could see the light spill out from beneath them, like daybreak through your curtains. Little light particles lit up beneath you like stars.

He was close. 

With furrowed brows, he parted his lips as if he wanted to say something more, but before another word tumbled from his throat you pressed your palm against the hard ridge of his chest. His eyes shot open in an awful mix of fear and wonder and you felt all the breath leave his body at once.

“It’s okay, Xavier,” you said again, a little more firmly this time. Then you pulled your Evol from the deepest parts of you and pushed it into your fingertips.

—

Type la supernovae. Before a star erupts, it pulls the matter from the atmosphere of a nearby companion star until the pressure becomes too much and it explodes. You think he told you this once, some sleepless night on your porch stargazing together. You think you get it now, as Xavier comes apart beneath you. 

And once Xavier unravels, he’s a supernova. All at once, you feel his heat inside of you. All at once, the light of his body envelops you. 

It’s you who was his ruin, after all. It was always you. 

—

There’s nothing but white, at first, and a terrible, discordant roaring of the blood in your ears. Then the pressure in the air shifts, pitching up into an inaudible whine.

The light Xavier emits bends around you before warping out and into a thin line that stretches and settles over the both of you. Time stops. Darkness surrounds your peripheral of white.

Xavier is still beneath you, but something is wrong. His body floats, limbs splayed frozen as if suspended in liquid. Tiny solar flares slough off his skin in waves, rivulets of gold light thread the tips of his fingers and spin reflections in his unmoving eyes. Although unfocused, they remain fixed to your face as if looking through you.

“Xavier?”

At your call, his eyes snap into focus. He reaches a hand out and caresses your cheek, but at his touch, his form convulses. The edges in your vision shift wildly, kaleidoscopically. It’s mystifying, the way he flickers in and out of existence. Each time you blink, he looks different: a new hairstyle, a change of clothes. Yet his face remains the same, unchanging for eons. For reasons unknown to you, you recognize every version of him.

You take the hand at your cheek and wrap your fingers in his, clutching tightly as if he might slip away. You move your hips slightly and realize your bodies are still connected, somehow, as if you were back at home in your bed. 

“I’ve got you,” You’re not sure if he can hear you, but you’re compelled to say it nonetheless. “Don’t go… don’t go off without me again.”

In response, he leans up and kisses you, long and lingering, and the light about him swells—it blinds you, washing over the shadows where flesh meets flesh until they’ve all dissipated and the lines that separate your body from his become indistinguishable. 

You taste his ecstasy in the back of your throat. You feel the blue of his eyes burned onto your skin, your hair. The shape of your name vibrates beneath your tongue like electricity and you know, somehow, that it’s how it feels when he calls to you.

Then your body becomes heavier, unfathomable. When you look down all you see is white, white, white. There’s a coil in your belly, a tightness that drives into the core of you like an anchor. When it releases, you feel a rush of pleasure and shutter the air from your lungs. But you feel alone.

“Xavier?” you snap to attention with a start, crying out to him in the shrill of the silence. 

“I’m here,” comes his response, calm and familiar.

“Where? I don’t see you.”

An echo: “...here. I’m here.” 

Upon his response, you notice your lips are moving. Your entire face flushes hot when you realize this, the back of your hand pressing up against your mouth out of habit. Your breath wavers over the callused skin of your knuckles and your chest heaves with a weight that isn’t yours.

“I’m sorry,” your mouth forms around the words that aren’t yours—are yours. The apology takes shape in front of you. It’s an ugly little shadow amongst the white of the light in your peripheral and it reeks like rotting fruit. 

He’s sorry for not telling you this might happen. He’s sorry for going off without you. He’s sorry for taking from you, even now. Even now, he’s sorry, sorry, sorry.

Stop. 

His wall of his regret crashes against the sharpness of your will and you strike it down. In a rush of determination, you pluck the sentiment out of the air and crush it in your jaws. Lightning arcs off your teeth with a crack. You roll the regret on your tongue, tasting its bittersweet release. After a thousand deaths, after a thousand years alone, it doesn’t matter anymore. You love him—you’ve always loved him—and you will love him until he accepts that he is worthy of it.

Suddenly the relief of forgiveness seizes your body and contorts it. Your stomach drops from under you in a ripple of anticipation. An icy lightheadedness tingles all the way down your spine and as it leaves you, you can feel the sheets of the bed materialize beneath you.

Xavier is propped on his elbows over you, caging you with his forearms. Your bodies are pressed together under a layer of sweat and stardust. Xavier’s neck flashes with a beeping and a warning light. You curl your fingers into the bedsheets now fully formed beneath your palms.

“What just happened?”

Xavier blushes to the tips of his ears. “I don’t know,” he quickly admits. He silences the device at his collarbone and pulls back from you, embarrassed.

 “That’s… never happened to me before. Any of this.”

Still reeling, you sit up and tug Xavier back to you, clumsily throwing your arms over his neck. You don’t even realize your breath coming in shallow, frightened gasps. Xavier’s eyes soften and he takes your face into his large hands. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. Before you answer, he’s already pulling you in, nudging his nose along your cheek soothingly.

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. You can feel the heat still radiating from him.

“What about you?”

He hums in thought. You feel his eyelashes flutter along your cheek.

“Something feels… different.”

He sighs into your shoulder, his warm breath summoning goosebumps along your skin. He ghosts his lips over your neck, kissing the soft tissue behind your ear.

There’re so many words unsaid between you, but as usual, Xavier relishes in the silence that hangs heavy in the empty air.

“Thank you,” is all he says. You place your hand over his at your cheek, running the other along the hair at the nape of his neck. You kiss him once, twice. When you pull away to look at him, you realize the ends of his hair are glowing golden, backlit by his own luminescence. You chuckle at the sincerity that literally emanates from him. Xavier is unreadable—and yet, somehow, he’s as evident as words on a page.

He catches on quickly to your musing. “I can’t help it,” he relents, “I feel…” He pauses deliberately and leans in to peck the corner of your mouth. 

“I feel… lighter.” His eyes wane to crescents while he gauges your reaction, pressing his mouth to you a few more times for good measure.

”My elusive star-boy,” you mumble back against his lips, smiling, “I’ll follow you to the ends of the universe.”

He laughs.

Thank you for reading! 🌝

[zorosdimples]

UNDER HIS THUMB ꒰ uraume x reader x sukuna ꒱

minors and blank/ageless blogs do not interact—i will block you. cw: suggestive content. nonconsensual nudity. dubious touching. brief descriptions of cannibalism and violence. suicide mention. reader is referred to as “bride” and “wife.” reader has breasts. wc: 1053. notes: uraume ily—please ditch shitkuna for me <3 (based on this idea)

A fire blazes in the yawning hearth, bathing your bedchamber in a warm titian. The shadows of flames leap and dance across the cragged stone walls—a solar flare—a cosmic spectacle. Logs and branches resembling human bones sputter and spark, crackling in your ears. You shift in your seat. 

The diaphanous veil remains pinned to your crown as Uraume’s fingers move deftly through your locks, the sweeping gossamer that brushes your ankles now pooling on the floor. They unravel the intricate updo they crafted for the ceremony, your hair a glowing halo in the firelight, head bowed in gentle subservience. The pins that bite at your scalp are crusted in blood; the sharp pain has long-since softened into a dull throb.

“I hate him,” you announce. 

(It’s how you cope with your precarious situation: burying your fears beneath carefully woven layers of disdain.) 

Barren aside from a bed, a wardrobe, and an armchair, your threadbare accommodations are as cozy as a dungeon. No torch, tapestry, or looking glass adorns the walls. Your companion’s expression is hidden as they continue their work atop your head.

Uraume chastises you after a few beats, affectation frigid as ice. “You shouldn’t speak of your husband in such a manner.” 

You snort. This one-sided union will only further scar the ugly face of matrimony; looking upon your captor with respect or affection is as likely as you kissing the cheek of your slain mother a final time. “My ‘husband’ for all of ten minutes.”

“And still your husband, nonetheless.”

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” you snap. 

Uraume pushes you to your feet and fluffs the veil with a hum. They circle you, appraising your body—the flimsy, silken robe that ripples across your curves hides nothing from their piercing stare—then, for what must be the fifth time, they adjust the knot that holds the garment together. When their eyes meet yours, you find yourself falling for the ruse, plucking fresh buds from a field of fuchsia.

How you wish their gaze held more than cool indifference.

Ever perceptive, they reach out to gingerly tuck a wayward strand behind your ear; if you close your eyes and still your heaving chest, you can pretend that it’s an intimate gesture—the touch of a lover. “Rarely do we have a say in our own fates,” Uraume muses. 

Fidgeting with your fingers, you quell the urge to embrace your attendant. (It’s a disgraceful thought for a newlywed. But you can’t spool in the words that unfurl from your lips, the edges raw, frayed with longing.)

“I would have taken my life if it hadn’t been for you, Uraume. I can’t stand him.” 

“Master Sukuna would never allow you to harm yourself.” 

“Tch—that vile brute cares little for my well being.” Hatred flares within your chest, your once-blooming heart now withered with rot. Tears of anguish blur your vision and make each syllable tremble. “If he didn’t want to harm me, he wouldn’t have murdered and feasted on my family.” 

A smile tucks itself in the corners of Uraume’s lips like a secret, though you miss it—misty-eyed and waist-deep in a deluge of painful memories. “You seem to forget that I prepared their flesh at my lord’s behest.” 

“I can’t fault you for being trapped under his thumb; you’re kinder than you give yourself credit for, anyhow.” 

They chuckle darkly. “And what leads you to believe that?” 

It doesn’t occur to you until this moment that you’ve edged closer to Uraume. If you leaned forward, you would smell the frost on their porcelain skin, taste the mint on their breath. Despite yourself, you reach out, cupping their cheek. 

“You’ve been my devoted caretaker since I arrived, patient and helpful at every turn. Your presence is the only constant here—my sole comfort.”

“Oh? Is my blushing bride ready to consummate our unholy union?” A rumbling voice cracks the tense air open like a bone, marrow seeping out, juices staining the tender earth. 

Your neck snaps to the doorway. Your monster of a husband nearly blots out the frame with his inhuman physique, clothed in nothing but a simple pair of black trousers, both sets of arms crossed. Disgust pinches your brow and purses your lips; you sneer. 

“With you? Never.”

Amused by your vehemence, the King of Curses approaches you, both mouths curled into wolfish grins. Uraume bows as Sukuna invades your space, two clawed hands wrapping around your waist, the other two cradling your skull. He demands your attention, irises a wine-dark sea of skeletons and ichor. A cursed siren urges you to plunge into its depths. End your suffering.

“Uraume—has my wife been inappropriate with you in my absence?” 

Without hesitation, they answer: “Yes, my lord.” 

Several sets of eyes—one belonging to Uraume, the others to Sukuna—gorge on your discomfort. You bristle under their scrutiny, and fruitlessly attempt to rip yourself from your husband’s grasp, nails scratching angry lines across his tattooed forearms. 

He clicks his tongue. “My naughty little bride.”  

Bile burns your throat at the mock-endearment, bitterness coating your tongue. For as resolved as you’ve been, you shake with rage, the hulking beast before you stoking the embers of your wrath. He smiles something sharp and wicked before releasing you. You stumble backwards, limp as a ragdoll. 

“Uraume,” Sukuna commands. 

There’s an unspoken agreement between master and servant. When Uraume steps forward and swiftly unties your robes, you shriek, the fabric slipping open to expose your nude form. They proceed to rip the garment from your body; it falls to the floor in wispy shreds. 

Attempting to preserve your dignity, you scramble to wrap an arm around your chest and press a palm between your legs. “This hardly seems proper,” you pant. 

Sukuna snickers as he sits at the foot of your bed, spreading his legs. “How else is a ‘vile brute’ supposed to learn the intricacies of his little wife’s body if not through careful examination?” 

As much as you want to spew poison at him, you gasp when Uraume’s chilly lips graze the arch of your neck, their delicate hands slipping up to caress the swell of your breasts. Unable to stifle the moan that warbles past your lips, you make the sinister decision to revel in this pleasure—no matter how short-lived, underhanded, or wrong it may be.

[takingstockofwhatmattersmost]

Graves Are Never Still

there are graveyards shrouded in silent mist hollows of time where stones bear untold secrets the spirits wander down a long corridor of sorrow within it...shadows trail shadows like ruined vessels we sink into lost reflections as though we were sinking into the murmur of a heart

and there remain husks limbs formed of cold wet earth petrified bones the silence embeds itself in marrow like echoes in an empty city emerging from forgotten alleys...from silent crypts growing in the moist gloom like droplets of despair

sometimes i glimpse afar caskets adrift on phantom streams setting sail with the long departed with souls...unruly and uncultivated with merchants whose faces are chiseled like old stone and somber maidens tethered to the annals of time drifters ascend the soaring mountain of memory the crags of deep crevices carrying with them the silent toll of oblivion filled with the stilling resonance of final quiet

death comes among the murmurs like a void where a hand was meant to be like a garment missing its wearer it raps at the door using a knock without a sound without the weight of a key in its grasp it bellows without a throat...without any echo the phantom knock ripples through the air its rhythm a distant heartbeat in a silent hall and its passage is marked by the rustling of unseen leaves

i wander with hesitant eyes and dim sight as if the sight of death glows with a hue of damp iris iris that bloom in the underworld of the soil soul because the visage of death pulses with a viridian tint and the gaze it bestows is a deep red allure imbued with the wet caress of a fragile petal and the muted tone of an endless midnight

yet death roams like a silent caretaker tracing the floors in search of forgotten remnants it dwells within the simple sweep of its tool a language of absence seeking the strands of life a needle stitching the empty cloth of fate

death resides within the slumbering cradles resting upon the languid surfaces of quiet beds enshroud by dark linens it exhales softly sending a somber scent...that fills the still air and the chambers drift toward a harbor unknown where death awaits

cloaked

as a venerable commander

[hrizantemy]

Worldbuilding Hybern

Geography and Climate

Hybern lies on a large island west of Prythian, across a storm-tossed and “violent western sea.” Its geography is remarkably varied – rugged mountains and windswept moors dominate the interior, while the coasts are marked by towering bone-white cliffs that rise high above crashing grey waves. Near the northeastern shore where the King’s castle stands, flat grassy clifftops give way to sloping, barren hills inland. The land carries an eerie emptiness; Feyre described an “overwhelming sense of nothingness” in Hybern, as no animal life stirs in its wilderness. Indeed, aside from the immortal faeries themselves, one would find little in the way of birdsong or beast – it is as if the natural world recoiled from Hybern’s centuries of dark magic and bloodshed.

The climate is cool and damp. Gale-force storms blow in from the sea year-round, lashing the island with salt spray and rain. Thick fog often clings to the cliffs and hollows at dawn. Summers are brief and mild, bringing gusty winds and drizzling rains that keep the hills a pale green. Winters are long, bleak, and windy, though snow rarely falls except on the highest peaks. In the interior, patches of hardy thornbrush and dark ivy cling to life, but much of Hybern’s terrain is treeless moor and rock. Some whisper that the soil is tainted by the island’s violent history – that nothing but coarse grass and poisonous thistle will grow where so much blood has soaked the earth. Beneath those desolate hills run rich veins of a rare mineral called faebane, a magic-dampening substance that Hybern has learned to exploit. These faebane deposits are as much a part of Hybern’s landscape as its cliffs and crags, and the toxic ore’s presence further contributes to the uncanny stillness (few living creatures can long thrive in a land laced with faebane’s nullifying power).

Despite its dreary aspects, Hybern can possess a stark, haunting beauty. On rare clear days, the western sun breaks through the clouds and paints the sea in bands of silver and gold. Misty green highlands roll across the horizon, and ancient standing stones crown a few hilltops – silent witnesses to ages of faerie presence. But even this beauty is somber and wild. The very air carries a chill of foreboding. Hybern’s people have a saying that “the land remembers.” Every bitter winter wind, every empty moor and black crag, serves as a reminder of glories lost and a harsh future promised – a reflection of the kingdom’s own hardened heart.

Culture and Society

Hybern’s culture has been forged in isolation, resentment, and unyielding pride. For five centuries since the War, the kingdom stewed in its hatred, cut off from allies and denied the slaves that once sustained its luxuries. As a result, its society values strength, loyalty, and ruthlessness above all. Mercy and compassion are viewed as weaknesses; cruelty is not only normalized but celebrated. Many High Fae of Hybern even exhibit physical markers of this ingrained brutality – eyes that are pitch-black, appearing “soulless and cold from centuries of indulging in cruelty,” even among nameless courtiers at the King’s own castle. In Hybern, to be cruel is to survive.

Values and Traditions

From a young age, Hybern’s citizens are taught an ethnocentric creed: Hybernian supremacy. They believe their kingdom represents the true, pure might of the faerie race, unfairly diminished by the Treaty with the mortal realm. Humans are slandered as vermin or cattle, fit only for servitude, and the very idea of treating mortals as equals is anathema. This extreme viewpoint was only hardened by the War’s outcome – rather than accept defeat, Hybern chose to slaughter every human within its borders rather than free a single slave. That bloody choice is held up as proof of Hybern’s resolve and used to instill pride (and fear) in each new generation. Never bow, never yield – better to destroy what you possess than let it fall into enemy hands. This is the Hybernian way.

The kingdom’s long isolation has bred a culture of bitter nostalgia. The centuries before the War, when Hybern was wealthy and humans were in chains, are remembered as a golden age. Bards at court sing grim songs of those “better days,” and storytellers recount the deeds of ancient Hybern warlords. One popular tale is the Tragedy of Princess Clythia, a cautionary legend about the dangers of human treachery: Clythia (sister to Amarantha) was seduced by a mortal general and fed him information, only to be brutally betrayed and murdered – “crucified with ash wood and cut to pieces” by the human she loved. Her shattered body was left for her sister to find, and Hybern’s people say that in that moment, any illusion of human innocence died forever. Parents invoke Clythia’s story to frighten younglings: “Show kindness to a human and you’ll end up like her.” Thus, hatred is passed down like an heirloom.

Ritual and tradition in Hybern tend to glorify conquest and endurance. There are holidays commemorating wartime events – though these “celebrations” are solemn, vengeful affairs. For instance, on the anniversary of the Treaty’s signing (an agreement Hybern considers a day of humiliation), the kingdom observes a Day of Oaths. On that day, Hybern’s citizens dress in black and bone-white and gather in town squares to burn effigies of the Treaty. Nobles renew their blood-oaths to the King, swearing that their children’s children will remember the injustices until the mortal Wall is shattered. Rather than mourning defeat, Hybern turns the occasion into a collective vow of revenge. Conversely, they hold a Victory Rally each year on the date of a famous early battle where Hybern forces had triumphed over human armies. During this rally, war horns echo from the castle ramparts at dawn, and the names of Hybern’s honored dead are recited before the assembled crowd. There are no joyous feasts – only a fierce, grim pride as the people shout ancient war-cries and toast with bitter faerie wine to “the next victory, may it come soon.”

Blood sport and trials of strength are common traditions as well. In the capital, the court sometimes amuses itself with ritual duels or contests. Young nobles prove their mettle in knife fights or dangerous hunts. (It’s said that in older times, they hunted live humans for sport, but with no humans left in Hybern, the nobles now must settle for hunting each other in carefully staged war games.) Coming-of-age rites often involve tests of cruelty: a Hybernian youth might be tasked to execute a captured enemy spy or to withstand torture without screaming, as a way to demonstrate loyalty and hardness. Success is rewarded with recognition at court; failure brings shame (and sometimes fatal consequences, if the King deems the youth too weak to serve him). Even Hybern’s humor is cruel – jests and pranks tend to be barbed, sometimes literally. A “jest” among young courtiers might involve slipping a mild poison into a rival’s goblet to watch them squirm, or releasing scuttling faerie spiders into someone’s bed. Laughter in Hybern often has an edge of malice.

Yet amidst this brutality, Hybern’s people do value loyalty and honor – in their own warped sense. Loyalty is expected first to the Crown, second to one’s family, and never to outsiders. Oath-breaking is one of the few crimes universally despised; if a Hybernian swears an oath (especially a blood-oath or magical bond), they will go to extraordinary lengths to keep it, or else face severe punishment and social ostracism. There is also a stern code of honor in warfare: not honor toward enemies, but toward one’s comrades and superiors. Cowardice in battle is the ultimate disgrace. A soldier who flees or surrenders is likely to be executed by his own commander before the enemy can even touch him. By contrast, acts of extreme bravery or vicious effectiveness are celebrated. Warriors proudly recount how many enemy heads they took in a skirmish or how they torched a village in the last war. This grisly boasting is socially encouraged – it’s not seen as ghastly, but rather as each warrior’s duty to add to Hybern’s legend.

Hybern’s social etiquette reflects its values. Courtesy exists, but it is a cold, formal thing. Bow too low or use overly flowery flattery, and you’ll be mocked for sycophancy; show the proper respect due to rank, but no more. In Hybern’s court, fear and respect are intertwined. For example, it is customary for lesser fae to bare their necks when a High Fae lord passes – ostensibly a gesture of deference, but in truth a holdover from the days when a dissatisfied lord might physically grab and punish a servant. Similarly, at royal audiences, courtiers kneel on both knees (not just one) and keep their eyes lowered until spoken to. This tradition began as a way to remind everyone that the King could snap their neck if he pleased. Over time it has simply become protocol. Through countless such practices, Hybern’s culture continuously reinforces a singular message: strength and obedience are life, weakness and mercy are death.

Social Hierarchy

Hybern’s social structure is strictly hierarchical and authoritarian. At the pinnacle stands the King – an absolute monarch wielding all political, military, and magical power. Unlike Prythian, which is divided among multiple High Lords, Hybern entrusts everything to one throne. The current King (an ancient, malevolent High Fae whose name is rarely spoken aloud) rules unchallenged, supported by a small inner circle. Directly beneath him are a handful of high-ranking nobles and military commanders who form his Inner Court. Historically, this included figures like Amarantha (once his chief general) as well as the King’s own kin, such as Prince Dagdan and Princess Brannagh. These individuals serve as the King’s lieutenants, enforcers, and advisors. They carry out his will across the island, command segments of his army, and oversee the enforcement of his laws.

Below the royal inner circle are the rest of Hybern’s noble houses. Several powerful High Fae families hold titles equivalent to lords or governors, each controlling a region or vital function of the kingdom. These nobles maintain private estates or fortresses on the island and have their own retinues of soldiers and lesser faeries. In theory, they owe total fealty to the King, and most are indeed fiercely loyal (both out of genuine belief in Hybern’s cause and fear of royal wrath). In practice, noble houses compete constantly for the King’s favor. There is endless jockeying to be named as one of his Commanders or to have one’s son/daughter marry into the royal line. The King encourages this competitive fealty – it keeps the nobles focused on currying his favor rather than plotting rebellion. A lord who brings him a valuable prize (like a rare magical artifact or intelligence on enemies) might be rewarded with command of a larger legion or a grant of coveted land. Conversely, failure or dissent can mean immediate and brutal demotion. The nobility of Hybern thus walk a knife’s edge, ever fearful and ever ambitious.

Hybern’s common folk occupy the lower rungs of the hierarchy. Common High Fae – those of modest magic or lineage – may serve as officers in the army, administrators in the sparse bureaucracy, or skilled artisans. Many of them reside in the shadow of noble houses, effectively acting as middle management in the feudal structure. Lesser Fae (faeries of weaker power or more bestial appearance) form the bottom tier. In the absence of human slaves, lesser faeries now perform much of the menial labor in Hybern. They work the scant farms, tend to workshops, and scrub the castle’s stone floors. Their status is only marginally above what the human slaves’ once was – they are often treated with disdain or open cruelty by their High Fae overlords. It is not uncommon for a High Fae noble to punish a disobedient lesser faerie servant by torture or mutilation, and there is little legal repercussion for such acts. The King’s law primarily protects property and obedience, not the wellbeing of the low-born. As long as the lesser fae fulfill their duties and keep their eyes down, they are allowed to live. If not, the dungeons of Hybern’s castle or the execution block await.

Social mobility in Hybern is extremely limited. Birth largely seals one’s fate. A lesser faerie cannot rise to nobility except in the rarest of circumstances (perhaps if they performed an act that saved the King’s life, and he saw fit to reward them – but even then, a title granted to someone of low birth would scandalize traditionalists). A common High Fae might, through great valor or usefulness, be elevated to a minor noble role – for example, being knighted or given command of a small unit and a land grant. But such cases are the exception, not the rule. For most, the hierarchy is rigid. Everyone knows their place in the grand design of hatred and war. The nobles command, the commoners toil, the lesser faeries obey, and all kneel to the Crown.

That said, Hybern’s long-term isolation and decline did foster a sense of shared hardship in some communities. Among the lower classes, there is a grudging solidarity born of suffering. Villagers forced to fend for themselves when trade ceased learned to rely on each other. Within those humble circles, traits like generosity (sharing food during lean times) and cooperation still quietly persist – though such values are kept private, lest a snooping lord see it as softness. In public, even peasants parrot the kingdom’s hard ideals, but in private, some semblance of basic decency flickers. It is a subtle undercurrent in society: the common folk endure the edicts of their betters, biding time and doing what they must to survive, even as the nobility broadcast cruelty from on high. In Hybern, fear flows downward and silent resilience upward.

Gender Roles

Unlike some human societies, Hybern’s harsh culture is relatively egalitarian in its brutality. Both male and female High Fae are expected to be formidable and merciless. The kingdom does not bar women from power – in fact, one of Hybern’s greatest military leaders was Amarantha, a female general who became the scourge of mortal armies. Competence and cruelty are valued far more than gender. That said, traditional gender expectations do exist in certain contexts. Within noble families, male heirs typically inherit leadership of the house, and there is an old-fashioned expectation that females in a noble line will marry to forge alliances. Many high-born women are trained in courtly arts (music, dance, manipulation) in addition to combat, with the understanding that they might serve as spymistresses or diplomats – weapons in silk rather than steel. A daughter who proves herself vicious and cunning, however, can break out of those confines. Amarantha and her sister Clythia, for example, were raised to be warriors and commanders, not genteel ladies, because their family recognized their potential and the King had need of every capable general. In Hybern, powerful women are respected (and feared) nearly as much as powerful men.

In day-to-day life, gender roles among commoners are pragmatic. With no human slaves and limited resources, everyone – male or female – must work and fight as needed. Fae women in villages plow fields, haul nets of fish from the stormy seas, and will pick up a bow or sword if raiders attack. Chivalry in the human sense is absent; a woman is not shielded from hardship just because of her sex. Some female lesser fae even serve in the military units, especially in archery or aerial roles, and they are expected to prove their mettle just as the males do. There is, however, an ingrained patriarchal streak at the very top of Hybern’s power structure. The fact that the throne has always been held by a King (and not a Queen) is often pointed to as justification that males should lead. The King’s inner circle, while including women, is ultimately dominated by his own authority and that of his male relations (e.g. Prince Dagdan). Many noble houses still prefer a son to inherit command of their forces, viewing sons as less likely to show “sentimentality.” Thus, a high-born woman in Hybern often has to be twice as ruthless to earn the same fear a man might command by default. Amarantha’s rise is sometimes regarded (in envious whispers by male courtiers) as an aberration permitted only because of her extraordinary brutality and the King’s particular favor.

Despite these undercurrents, Hybernese culture does grant women a unique sphere of power in the realm of intrigue and sorcery. It is often assumed that a mother will be the one to indoctrinate her children with Hybern’s values in the home, so women bear the burden of raising each new generation to be hard-hearted patriots. Noblewomen, in particular, are the keepers of a family’s social alliances – arranging marriages, correspondence, and information networks between houses. Many a poisonous rumor or subtle threat in Hybern originates from the lips of a lady over tea, rather than the bellow of a lord in the council hall. Women who excel in manipulation or stealth thrive in these shadows. Men might dominate through overt force and title, while women often dominate through subtlety and fear veiled behind courtly smiles.

Gender dynamics in Hybern therefore come down to capability. A docile, gentle woman is scorned just as a gentle man is – not because she’s a woman, but because gentleness itself is reviled. Conversely, a fierce woman can attain heights of influence, as can a cunning, politically savvy man of lower military rank. Both sexes are expected to contribute to Hybern’s war machine: men typically as front-line soldiers or brutish enforcers, women often as sorceresses, healers with twisted morals, or crafty schemers – though there are plenty of female warriors and male schemers too. For example, Hybern’s court has battle-healers (some female) who mend wounded soldiers only to send them back to fight anew, and poisoners (some male) who craft toxins for use by assassins. Each role is valued if it serves conquest. One notable custom is that widows of fallen generals in Hybern often take up their husbands’ command until the Crown appoints a new general – a practice dating back to ancient times when a warlord’s wife would rally his soldiers if he fell. These widows are expected to be as pitiless as their late spouses, and many succeed. In short, Hybern recognizes no gentleness in either gender; all are tools for the King’s ends. Only in the privacy of their households might a rare soft-hearted woman or man (such as someone like Myrsina) dare to deviate from the cruel expectations – and even then, they must hide it well.

Religion, Mythology, and Ancient Beliefs

Hybern is a kingdom outwardly obsessed with temporal power, but it still harbors its share of dark faith and superstition. Unlike some human realms, Hybern has no single organized religion or benevolent pantheon – its “gods” are the twin forces of Conquest and Vengeance. Many Hybernian High Fae claim to put their faith only in themselves and their King, yet in secret even the cruel have things they fear or worship. Over the long isolation, a sort of folk religion developed that blends reverence for ancient faerie entities with the kingdom’s militant ethos.

At the center of Hybern’s mythos is the Cauldron, a primordial magic artifact believed to have shaped creation itself. The Cauldron is not just a tool in Hybern – it is quasi-divine. The King of Hybern keeps the actual Cauldron secured in the depths of his castle (in a dark dungeon room, set atop a dais like an altar), and for many Hybern loyalists it is a holy relic. Priests (few in number, but influential) whisper that the Cauldron chose Hybern as its guardian. They hold that when the Cauldron yielded its power to the King during the recent campaigns – for example, to resurrect the dead or forge new High Fae – it was a sign of divine favor. It’s said that before battle, Hybern’s commanders will pour blood or wine into a ceremonial iron pot, invoking the Cauldron’s name and asking for victory. This practice is half ritual, half superstition, but it’s widespread among the army. To “thank the Cauldron” is a common refrain in Hybern after any triumph, big or small. Many warriors even wear tiny cauldron-shaped pendants under their armor for luck.

Aside from the Cauldron, Hybern’s old beliefs include a handful of pagan gods and spirits. These are not kind deities; they mirror Hybern’s values. One such figure is Dôrhga, often called the Blood Mother – a war-goddess that Hybern’s soldiers honor. In myth, Dôrhga is said to have emerged from a pool of blood at the dawn of the world, granting the first king of Hybern a crown and unholy strength. Statues of a female figure wielding a curved blade (interpreted as Dôrhga) stand in a few ancient courtyards and shrines. The Blood Mother’s holy day is the winter solstice, when nights are longest. On that night, Hybern’s nobles gather in the castle’s great hall for a grim ceremony: they spill a few drops of their own blood into a great bronze bowl and then paint sigils on their foreheads with it, beseeching Dôrhga to harden their hearts and sharpen their blades for the year ahead. It’s an unsettling sight – dozens of High Fae with blood-marked brows chanting old war hymns in the firelight – but it is one of Hybern’s oldest rituals, predating even the War. Common folk typically aren’t invited to this noble ceremony, but some villages hold simpler observances on solstice, like slaughtering a black ram and burning its entrails while calling on the Blood Mother to protect their homes.

Another entity often spoken of in Hybern lore is The Weeping Knight, a ghostly figure said to roam the cliffs on stormy nights. Legend claims he was a Hybern warrior prince who died in the War after betraying an oath, and the gods cursed him to wander eternally, weeping tears that turn to salt. Although not a god, the Weeping Knight is a supernatural cautionary tale – parents warn oath-breakers that the Weeping Knight will find them and drag them to the chilly sea. Some even say if you stand atop the cliffs at midnight when lightning flashes, you can see him: a tall armored shade with eyes running like water. Hybern’s sailors customarily leave an offering for this spirit before a voyage, tossing a jug of wine or a handful of faerie bread into the surf, in hopes the restless ghost will spare their ship from wreck.

Hybern’s mythology also includes twisted versions of the Great Mother revered elsewhere. In Prythian and other lands, the Mother is a benevolent creator deity. In Hybern, that concept has split: the kinder aspects of deity have long been abandoned, leaving only The Crone – an ancient female figure representing fate and vengeance. The Crone is envisioned as a withered faerie woman stirring a cauldron, deciding who lives and who dies. (Some scholars note this is clearly an interpretation of the actual Cauldron’s power, personified.) Hybernian witches and seers, such as they are, claim the Crone whispers omens to them. It’s said that the King himself consults a secret coven of oracles “who speak for the Crone” when he must make the most fateful decisions. Whether this is true or mere rumor, the idea of a dark feminine fate-goddess suits Hybern’s outlook – fate is seen as cruel but just, giving triumph to the strong. A common expression when something unfortunate happens in Hybern is: “The Crone stirs her pot,” meaning fate is simply taking its due and one must endure it.

Rituals in Hybern are invariably on the darker side. Blood, bones, and oaths play a role in nearly every ceremony. There are sacrifical rites performed at the few ancient temples scattered in remote parts of the island. In one marshy region stands a ring of megaithic stones called the Gallows Circle, rumored to be an altar to an old god of death. During times of extreme crisis – famine or plague – local faeries have been known to offer a life there (animal if available, or occasionally a volunteered lesser fae) to appease whatever dark power might be listening. These practices aren’t officially sanctioned by the Crown, but neither are they forbidden – the King largely ignores religion unless he can harness it. In fact, the King has appropriated religious symbolism for political ends. When he rallies his lords for war, he often invokes “the sacred right of Hybern to rule” and calls their cause “hallowed by the Cauldron’s will.” He styles himself not only as king but almost as a high priest of vengeance, presiding over war-rituals like an ordained celebrant. This blending of state and superstition means that even those who might not be devout find themselves participating in ritualistic displays of allegiance (like swearing by the Cauldron, or cutting their palms and letting their blood fill a goblet that the King then drinks from to symbolize their shared cause – a gruesome rite practiced at some war councils).

Interestingly, due to the lack of joyful religion, superstition fills the void for common folk. Simple charms and household practices are widespread. A bowl of salt at the threshold of a home is said to ward off malevolent spirits (or perhaps the Weeping Knight). Newborn faeries in some towns have their foreheads smeared with ash in a quick baptism of hardship, as if to say “you are born to a hard world; may you be strong.” In Hybern, even a baptism is about strength, not purity. If a child cries excessively, elders mutter that a spriggan (mischievous fae spirit) might be pinching them – and to fix it, they’ll hang an iron knife over the cradle to scare the spirit off. Such folk beliefs sit oddly alongside Hybern’s official stance of might and reason, but they persist in the shadows of daily life. After all, when living under a regime of fear, people often cling to any small rituals that give them a sense of control, even if it’s just leaving an offering of bread and milk at the crossroads for wandering ghosts.

Ultimately, Hybern’s religion is less about worship and more about justification. Every god or mythic story emphasizes that Hybern’s cruelty and ambition are part of a grand cosmic order. The old gods are violent, thus Hybern is right to be violent. The spirits punish the weak, thus Hybern must not be weak. It is a theology of brutality. There are no loving gods watching over Hybern – only ones that demand strength or sacrifice. In this way, the Hybernian people reconcile their conscience (if any remains) with their deeds. When a Hybern general orders a massacre, he might say a prayer to the Blood Mother, believing he is doing holy work. When a lord oppresses his peasant subjects, he may invoke the Crone, claiming fate decrees the strong dominate the weak. Myth and reality bleed together: Hybern sees itself as both executing and embodying the will of unforgiving deities. In a sense, the King has made himself the living god of Hybern – the avatar of their cruel fate – and most of his subjects accept this. They whisper their prayers to the Cauldron or the old gods at night, but by day, they obey the King as the highest power.

Architecture and Infrastructure

Hybern’s architecture is as stark and intimidating as its landscape. There is nothing gentle or whimsical about the kingdom’s structures – they are built to impose and endure, not to delight the eye. The centerpiece is undoubtedly the King of Hybern’s Castle, an ancient fortress fused into the cliffs on the northeastern coast. From afar, the castle looks like a jagged extension of the very land: perhaps a dozen slender spires claw upward, black against perpetual clouds. The lower portions of the stronghold are carved directly into the pale cliffside, so that sheer rock walls form part of its exterior. Time has weathered the fortress; its stones are crumbling and pitted, an off-white color like old bone rather than the gleaming marble of Prythian’s palaces. The effect is a castle that resembles a giant skull on the coast, crowned with towers as sharp as horns. Waves batter its foundations far below, where a small sea-door is hidden at water level for ships or secret exits. Above, the main gates are accessible only by a narrow, steep road that winds up the cliffs – easily defensible and utterly perilous for any invader.

The castle’s interior is famously austere. Visitors from other courts have remarked that it feels less like a home and more like an enormous crypt. There is no finery, no warmth. The halls are bare stone, stripped of tapestries or paintings. Columns and arches of bone-white rock frame the corridors, giving the impression one walks through the ribcage of some long-dead beast. In many chambers, not even furniture can be found – the King seems to prefer emptiness. The grand throne room has only a single raised dais of dark green stone at its far end. Upon that dais sits Hybern’s throne, a grotesque marvel: it is crafted entirely from human bones, fused and polished by magic and time until they are brown and smooth like old ivory. Skulls and femurs intertwine to form the high back and armrests. When the King holds court on that throne, sunlight (when there is any) slants through narrow windows to illuminate the throne’s grisly details – a deliberate choice to remind every courtier of the cost of defying Hybern. Feyre noted that the throne room had “no furniture or decoration other than a throne made from human bones.” Indeed, this throne is the chilling focal point. Courtiers stand rather than sit in the King’s presence, arrayed on the bare floor before him. It is said that if one’s knees ache from kneeling on stone during long court sessions, that is simply a lesson in endurance.

Throughout the castle, the architectural style is massive and defensive. Ceilings are high but not elegant; they are built to accommodate large winged faeries (like the King’s Attor-creatures) and to make intruders feel small. There are murder-holes and arrow slits integrated even into indoor spaces, so defenders could fire on anyone who breached an inner hall. Heavy iron chandeliers hang from rafters, though often unlit, leaving many corridors in shadow. The castle includes extensive dungeons beneath its foundations – a labyrinth of lightless cells and torture chambers with iron shackles bolted to walls. The stones down there are dark, stained by untold years of blood and rust. It is whispered that spells of binding are woven into the very mortar; prisoners with magic find themselves markedly weakened as soon as they’re thrown behind those bars. In a sealed chamber in the lowest level, the Cauldron is kept on its pedestal – that room is said to be warded so heavily that not even sound escapes when the Cauldron hums with power. The castle is also protected by countless wards and spells. During an attempted infiltration by enemy High Fae, the King activated enchantments that prevented teleportation (winnowing) and even cut off psychic bonds, turning the castle into an arcane trap. These magical defenses are part of the infrastructure, renewed by Hybern’s spellcasters each full moon.

Beyond the castle, Hybern’s architecture in general tends toward the practical and militaristic. There is no true capital city as one might find in other kingdoms – the castle complex itself, with a small attached port and a scatter of surrounding barracks and storerooms, functions as the administrative center. A modest town of grey-stone buildings clusters near the base of the cliffs by the sea, housing the servants, blacksmiths, and laborers who support the castle. This town has a few winding lanes (muddy more often than not) and a marketplace that springs up irregularly when goods come in by ship. Buildings there are simple: two-story homes of stone with slate roofs, tightly shuttered windows, and little in the way of adornment. Even the tavern has heavy iron bars on its door, a reflection of the ever-present caution in Hybern’s life. What one will see plenty of are fortifications. Watchtowers ring the coastline at strategic intervals – squat round towers of dark granite, manned by sentries day and night, each equipped with a horn or mirror system to signal the castle in case of approach by foreign ships. Inland, where old mountain passes could allow entry from the sea on the far side of the island, there are ruined forts from centuries past, some rebuilt as training garrisons. Walls are another common feature: the larger villages often have rough stone walls or spiked wooden palisades encircling them, erected during the War and maintained out of habit. The very roads themselves are remnants of war logistics – straight, broad paths (now cracked by weeds) that once allowed Hybern’s legions to march swiftly from one shore to another.

Austerity defines Hybern’s aesthetic. Beauty is a luxury the kingdom largely abandoned after the War. Functional design prevails in everything from architecture to civic planning. For example, a noble manor in Hybern might look more like a small fortress than a manor: high walls, narrow windows, a courtyard that doubles as a mustering ground for soldiers. Gardens are virtually unheard of, except perhaps small herb patches for practical use (poison plants, medicinal herbs, etc.). Instead of fountains or statues in public squares, one might find a stark memorial obelisk engraved with the names of fallen Hybern warriors, or a platform for delivering speeches (or executions). The influence of centuries of scarcity can be seen – when Hybern cut off trade, fine materials became rare. So architecture shifted to use what was plentiful: local stone and iron. Any decorative touches were achieved by carving into stone. In a few older buildings, one can find weathered carvings of crests or symbols. The royal symbol, for instance, is thought to be a simple crown (as depicted on old maps), and this motif can be seen above the castle gate – a minimalist crown relief chiseled into the keystone. Noble houses too might have emblems carved above their doorways (a sword, a raven, a flame, etc.), but little else in the way of embellishment.

Despite this spareness, there is a grim grandeur to some Hybern structures. The enormous scale of the castle’s spires, the cyclopean stone causeways that connect cliffside barracks, and the haunting emptiness of its great hall all leave an impression of antiquity and power. One can sense that Hybern’s buildings were made to outlast: outlast storms, outlast sieges, outlast even memory. In fact, many of Hybern’s oldest structures predate the War and have simply been repurposed. An example is the Bridge of Woe, an ancient stone bridge spanning a chasm near the castle. It was once part of a grand processional route to a now-destroyed palace from long before the current King’s reign. That palace was razed in some forgotten conflict, and the current castle built more defensively by its ruins, but the bridge remained. Now it’s used as a training ground – young soldiers must run across its precarious length under a rain of blunt arrows to test their agility. Thus, Hybern repurposes its past constantly, turning former temples into armories or old courtyards into drilling squares. The result is that the whole kingdom feels like a relic turned war-camp. Travelers (not that Hybern gets many) sometimes remark that setting foot in Hybern is like stepping into a giant mausoleum that someone has tried to equip for battle.

Infrastructure in Hybern is minimal beyond military needs. Roads between major forts and ports are maintained to move troops and supplies, but smaller paths connecting villages might be left to rut and ruin. A few collapsed bridges from the bygone era are simply never repaired – unless they serve a strategic purpose. There is no grand network of waypoints or tunnels beyond what war requires. Harbors are similarly spartan. Hybern has one sizable harbor near the castle town, where warships dock (more on the navy later), and a couple of rough anchorages on other parts of the island for fishing vessels. These harbors have jetties of heavy timber and stone, but no bustling mercantile ports or lighthouses with welcoming beams – instead, bonfires are lit on shore to guide ships in, and those flames cast an otherworldly red glow on the dark water.

In essence, Hybern’s architecture and infrastructure serve as an outward manifestation of its soul. Cold, unadorned, unyielding – every wall is a shield, every tower a spear pointed at the sky. Comfort and art have been forsaken for security and intimidation. A traveler moving through Hybern would find it devoid of the gentle touches that make a place civilized. Instead, one finds a land of battlements and bones, where even the homes of its people resemble fortresses and its few public works stand as monuments to war. To walk under the bone-white arches of the King’s castle or through the iron-studded gate of a noble’s manor is to feel the oppressive weight of Hybern’s history bearing down – a reminder that here, peace is merely the pause between conflicts, and everything built in Hybern is built with the next battle in mind.

Fashion and Attire

Despite its lack of artistic architecture, Hybern does have a distinct sense of style in clothing – one that reflects the kingdom’s austere, martial culture while still indulging in a measure of dark elegance. Fashion in Hybern is another form of silent warfare, a way to project power, status, and intimidation without a single word. As such, the clothing of its people, especially the nobility, tends to be structured, somber-hued, and often decorated with subtle motifs of dominance or fear.

Example of a Hybern noblewoman’s formal attire – a structured corseted gown in muted gold and green, with sharp silhouettes and heavy brocade.

Among the High Fae nobility, attire is richly made but not frivolous. Gowns and suits alike favor structured silhouettes. Noblewomen often wear corseted bodices of stiff leather or whalebone, giving the impression of armor even in a dress. High collars, pointed shoulder accents, and fitted sleeves are common, lending an authoritative sharpness to the figure. Skirts are long and layered, made of heavy silks, brocades, and velvets in earth or jewel tones (deep forest green, wine-red, black, slate gray, and the occasional burnished gold for contrast). Rather than frilly lace and excessive gems, Hybern fashion uses texture and shape to stand out. For example, a lady’s gown might incorporate pleated skirts that resemble the fanned pages of an old book or the gills of a mushroom – beautiful in a severe way, as shown above. Embroidery, if present, often carries symbolic patterns: entwining thorns along a sleeve, stylized ravens or serpents hidden in the brocade, or abstract geometric designs that might represent the Cauldron or a crown. It’s not unusual for a Hybern noble’s outfit to include actual metal accents – small spikes or pauldrons on the shoulders, a girdle of interlocking steel links worn over a gown, or gauntlet-like bracers on the forearms. These serve both decorative and practical purposes (in a pinch, they can deflect a knife or be used as a weapon). The overall impression is that a Hybern noblewoman could stride from the ballroom to the battlefield with only a change of shoes.

Men’s attire similarly balances elegance with martial readiness. High Fae lords favor long tailored coats or greatcoats, often double-breasted and buttoned to the neck, with militaristic styling. Epaulets or braided cords are sometimes worn on the shoulders – a nod to their roles as commanders. Under the coat they might wear a waistcoat of patterned damask (again, subtle patterns like stags, swords, or the Hybern crown emblem woven in tone-on-tone). Trousers are usually dark and tucked into knee-high boots. Many male nobles also wear belts with prominent buckles or weapon holsters as part of their outfit, normalizing the presence of a dagger or sword at their hip even in formal settings. It’s an unwritten rule that one is never truly unarmed at Hybern’s court. The color palette for men skews dark as well – black, charcoal, deep navy – sometimes accented with a flash of color from a sash or a lining. For instance, a lord might have a cloak lined with blood-red silk that flares when he walks, reminiscent of spilled wine (or blood) swirling.

Jewelry and accessories in Hybern carry great symbolic weight and are often made from the relics of conquest. It is not uncommon to see nobles wearing ornaments fashioned from bone, teeth, or horns taken from defeated foes. Amarantha herself famously wore a jeweled ring that contained the petrified eye of Jurian, the human she vanquished and tortured– a grotesque token of victory she flaunted at all times. Following that example, other Hybern courtiers have adopted similar trophy-jewelry. One lady of the court wears a necklace strung with what she claims are carved knucklebones of a mortal queen. A general might fasten his cloak with a brooch made from an enemy lord’s finger bones set in iron. Such pieces are conversation starters and intimidation tools at once. More conventional jewelry does exist: rings, earrings, and circlets are worn, but usually in heavy, old-fashioned designs. Rather than delicate chains, Hybern jewelry leans to chunky collars, wide armbands, and signet rings the size of a small egg – statement pieces that convey authority. Precious stones are less favored than dark metals and enamel. A popular gemstone in Hybern is the black ruby (a deep crimson so dark it appears black in low light); nobles prize these for their similarity to congealed blood. These might be set in tiaras or rings but always in moderation – a Hybern lord might wear one signet with a black ruby crest and nothing else, letting that singular bloody gleam speak for itself.

There is a functional side to Hybern clothing as well. Armor and uniforms are a key part of fashion for those in the military. High-ranking individuals often blur the line between uniform and formal wear. It’s not unusual to see the King’s commanders and officers attending a war council in tailored military jackets adorned with their house colors or insignia. Hybern soldiers of all ranks wear a standard field uniform: ash-grey jackets with bone-white piping and the kingdom’s coat of arms (the silhouette of a small crown) on the shoulder. In more ceremonial contexts, such as a triumphal parade or a court appearance after a victory, these uniforms are cleaned and complemented with additional embellishments – silver aiguillettes, a cloak dyed Hybern’s signature storm-grey, and polished boots. Some officers also don ceremonial half-capes lined with white fur (one of the few uses of animal product, likely sourced via trade or rare magical beasts, since local fauna is scarce). These capes denote valorous service and help them stand out amid the sea of grey. Rank and status are encoded in every stitch: the number of buttons on a sleeve, the cut of one’s collar, the presence of a particular brooch – all carry meaning within the court’s unspoken sartorial language.

A bone-white ball gown with a dramatic silhouette, as might be worn by a Hybern queen or high lady during a ceremonial court gathering.

For high ceremonies and significant events, Hybernian fashion takes a turn for the symbolic and theatrical. One striking trend among the elite is the wearing of bone-white attire during momentous occasions. This trend harkens to Hybern’s imagery of bones and the pale cliffs of the kingdom. A queen (were Hybern to have one) or a leading lady at court might appear in a gown like the one shown above: flowing white fabric of heavy silk, with an exaggerated, sculptural collar and an immaculate, almost cold perfection. Such a gown deliberately echoes the bone motif – the off-shoulder wrap could resemble the curve of a collarbone or shoulder blades. Wearing pure white in Hybern carries a dual message: it invokes the bleached cliffs and bones (symbols of Hybern’s enduring, deathly might), and it dares anyone to spill blood upon the wearer, a challenge of sorts. In a court where deep colors dominate, a noble clad all in white is making a statement of fearlessness (for any bloodstain would show starkly) and of mourning-turned-power (white being the color of old bones and also, in some cultures, the dead). It is rumored this style became popular after Amarantha once wore a gown of glimmering winter white to a revel, claiming that “I wear the color of my enemies’ shrouds.” Ever since, the boldest Hybern fashionistas occasionally sport bone-white at festivals or ceremonies to emulate that chilling confidence.

In terms of daily wear for commoners, Hybern’s clothing is much simpler but still reflects the environment. Common faeries wear sturdy wool tunics, plain linen shirts, and leather jerkins in drab colors – browns, grays, dull blues – built for work and frequent mending. They favor practical layering (shawls, aprons, knit caps) to deal with the damp chill. While nobility might import fine fabrics or dye, villagers rely on local sheep’s wool and nettlecloth. It’s worth noting that dyes are scarce due to limited trade, so a brightly colored garment is a rare luxury. Most peasants’ clothing is undyed or earth-toned. To compensate, some communities have adopted subtle embellishments of their own: a particular style of knotwork embroidery at the hem of a dress or a carved bone button with a protective rune on a cloak. These small touches serve as cultural identity markers and talismans, even if they are humble.

One distinctive accessory seen across classes in Hybern is the use of cloaks and mantles. The weather and the culture of concealment make cloaks quite ubiquitous. Highborn individuals have cloaks lined with satin or trimmed with rare fur, fastened by elaborate clasps (like a silver brooch in the shape of a screaming face, perhaps). Middle and lowborn fae wear thick woolen cloaks with hoods, often coated in oil or fat to repel rain. The hood is not just for weather – pulling one’s hood up is an accepted way of indicating one wishes to remain unnoticed or unbothered. In Hybern’s streets, shadowy hooded figures are common, giving public gatherings an ominous atmosphere of conspiracy.

Hair and grooming in Hybern also follow the theme of severe elegance. Long hair is common among both genders (as is usual for fae), but styles tend to be neat and battle-ready. Men tie their hair back with leather cords or braids, sometimes incorporating small metal rings engraved with their family sigil into the plaits. Women frequently braid their hair as well, coiling it into crowns or knotting it at the nape – styles that keep it out of the way and present a dignified, no-nonsense appearance. On formal occasions, women might adorn their hair with bone combs or pins tipped with black pearls. Cosmetics are minimal; a Hybern lady might darken her eyes with kohl for a predatory look, or stain her lips a deep red (the pigment often derived from crushed berries or alchemical mixtures). Interestingly, pale skin is considered a mark of high status – not for aesthetic reasons, but because it implies the person doesn’t toil under the sun (and also brings to mind the “snow-white” pallor of a specter or the famed white skin of Amarantha). Many Hybern nobles have a naturally pale or ruddy complexion and accentuate it by avoiding sunlight or using powders. This can give them a ghostly, deathly beauty.

In summary, Hybern’s fashion is a language of power: disciplined, somber, and edged with menace. Every garment seems to declare: we are a people who have not known joy in a long time, and we dress accordingly. Yet there is artistry in the severity. The interplay of rich fabric and martial cut, of bone motifs and dark color, creates a striking visual identity. A hall filled with Hybern courtiers is a study in predatory pageantry – a murder of ravens in sumptuous attire, each trying to appear more formidable than the next. And among them, those rare few who wear a shock of white or a gleam of gold stand out like bait or challenge, depending on one’s perspective. Fashion in Hybern may lack the exuberance of other courts, but it has its own cold glamour.

Magic and Mysticism in Hybern

Magic in Hybern is deeply entwined with the kingdom’s identity as a force of domination. The faeries of Hybern are inherently magical beings – like all High Fae, they possess long lifespans, superior strength, and varying mystical abilities – but what truly sets Hybern apart is how it harnesses and weaponizes magic. In Hybern, magic exists to serve conquest, and any other use is considered frivolous or suspect. There are a few key facets to Hybern’s magic system: innate powers of individuals, learned sorcery and spells, control of magical artifacts, and the strategic nullification of enemy magic.

Firstly, Hybern’s High Fae individuals each have their own innate magical gifts, which can vary widely. Some have elemental affinities (though not organized by Courts as in Prythian – one might find a Hybern lord with a talent for shadow, another with minor fire manipulation, etc.), others possess heightened senses or shape-shifting. However, unlike Prythian High Lords who command vast unique powers tied to their Courts, Hybern’s High Fae are generally less specialized and more homogeneous in their abilities. This is partly due to breeding and bloodlines – centuries of intermarriage among noble families have kept a baseline of abilities, but true prodigies are rare. The King himself is an exception: he is ancient and enormously powerful, with a broad command of magic rumored to rival that of multiple High Lords combined. He can cast complex spells, ward entire territories, and channel the Cauldron’s might. Under him are a few notably gifted fae (Amarantha was one, possessing considerable raw power and cunning spellcraft). But for the rank-and-file Hybern faerie, magic tends to manifest in simpler ways: enhanced strength, limited glamour (illusion) abilities to trick human eyes, maybe a small knack like beckoning flame or hardening their skin. These gifts are honed for combat. From youth, any fae who shows a spark of power is trained to use it in battle. A child who can summon a flicker of fire will be taught to ignite arrows or enemy tents. One with a siren-like voice might learn to unnerve foes with battle chants. All magic is viewed through the lens of utility – if it can’t help Hybern win, it’s not worth pursuing. Thus, arts like healing or growth spells are neglected (few in Hybern bother learning healing magic, for instance, which is why they rely on potions or captive healers from other lands to mend wounds). Conversely, destructive and coercive magics are highly prized. Illusion magic (glamour) is taught to scouts and spies to aid in infiltration. Mental manipulation (the daemati gift of mind-reading or hypnosis) is rare, but whenever a Hybern faerie with any telepathic talent is found, they are immediately taken into royal service as an interrogator or spy.

One hallmark of Hybern’s magical approach is its systematic, almost scientific development of spells and tools. The kingdom has a small circle of scholars and sorcerers who have spent centuries refining dark spells. These spellcrafters operate in the shadows (literal and metaphorical) of the court – they maintain the wards on the castle, brew poisons, and develop new enchantments for warfare. Unlike the Night Court’s daemati or the Day Court’s scholarly High Lord, Hybern’s sorcerers are not well-known individuals; they are faceless, secretive, often referred to by titles rather than names (e.g. the King’s Spellmaster, the Coven of Twelve). They pour over ancient grimoires and the knowledge left from the last War. For example, it was Hybern’s spellcasters who concocted the potion that Amarantha slipped to the High Lords of Prythian, drugging them and allowing her to steal their powers. She “used a stolen spell from the King” to do this, indicating that the King’s repository of spells is extensive – and that Amarantha, as trusted as she was, had to steal it, implying the spells are guarded closely. Hybern specializes in binding magic: spells to shackle power, ensnare beings, and enforce oaths. Amarantha’s binding of Jurian’s soul into an eye and a finger bone is one notorious example – a feat of necromancy and binding that trapped a living consciousness in eternal torment. Hybern’s lore is full of such grim sorceries. They have spells to bind a faerie’s magic (indeed, they bound the powers of the seven High Lords under the Mountain through Amarantha’s deceit), spells to raise wards and barriers impenetrable to teleportation, and curses that can blight land or bloodlines. One ancient curse that Hybern allegedly used on a rebel noble house long ago caused every firstborn of that line to be stillborn for five generations – effectively ending the family without spilling a drop of blood in open combat. This kind of generational curse indicates Hybern’s willingness to delve into long-term, insidious magic.

Control and monopoly of magic is a critical aspect of the system. The King does not encourage widespread magical knowledge among the populace. There are no open academies or public teachings of spells. Everything is apprenticeship-based and kept in the noble or royal circles. A noble house might have a family grimoire of battle spells passed down, but a commoner likely knows only small charms if any. Those lesser fae who have unique talents often end up pressed into service or quietly eliminated if their power is deemed a potential threat. One exception is the existence of war witches: Hybern has a tradition (though rare) of witches – often female fae with a knack for dark spellcasting – who are valued for specific roles. They might lead rituals on the eve of battle, hexing the enemy from afar or blessing Hybern’s blades with spells to make wounds fester. These witches are usually loyal to the King (out of self-preservation if nothing else), and they form a sort of informal coven. Some say these witches keep the old faith in the Crone and Mother of War, channeling those entities in their magic. Whether divine or not, their spells tend to be fearsome: causing mass hallucinations, calling swarms of biting insects from the mud, or inflicting wasting sickness on besieged foes. They do not advertise their presence, but enemy armies have learned to dread when Hybern’s banners fly accompanied by the faint sound of chanting on the wind.

Another critical component is Hybern’s use of magical artifacts and anti-magic substances. The most powerful artifact, the Cauldron, we have discussed – it amplifies whatever magic is poured into it and can unleash world-breaking power (shattering the Wall, creating new fae, resurrecting the dead). The King, during the recent offensive against Prythian, leveraged the Cauldron extensively, essentially making it the keystone of Hybern’s magic might. Aside from the Cauldron, Hybern also sought the Book of Breathings, an ancient tome needed to control the Cauldron, illustrating their pursuit of arcane tools. Historically, Hybern stockpiled other lesser artifacts: there are rumors of a Crown of Annihilation passed down in the royal treasury that, when worn, strengthens destructive spells, or an Orb of Midnight that can snuff out any light within miles when activated. Such items rarely see daylight; they are contingency weapons, hidden in vaults beneath the castle.

More pragmatically, Hybern mastered faebane, a mineral unique to their land (or at least found in quantity there). Faebane is essentially a magic-nullifying ore, deadly in how it strips faeries of their powers temporarily. The Hybernian army became infamous for its innovative use of faebane: grinding it into powder to lace food and water of enemy forces, or releasing it as a mist on battlefields to weaken opposing fae. They even forged shackles and chains from faebane-laced metal to hold captured High Fae, rendering them nearly human-weak and unable to escape. The incorporation of faebane into their standard tactics shows a very systematic approach to magic warfare – Hybern doesn’t just rely on their own magic; they actively seek to deny magic to their enemies. It’s a great equalizer, allowing their physically trained troops to overwhelm foes who would otherwise fry them with flames or gales. In essence, Hybern developed a counter-magic doctrine: use magic when it gives you advantage, and ruthlessly nullify your enemy’s magic whenever possible. This dual philosophy makes them exceedingly dangerous to fight. A Prythian High Lord might be individually more powerful than any single Hybern spellcaster, but on a battlefield seeded with faebane and cursed by Hybern hexes, that advantage dwindles quickly.

Within Hybern’s borders, the practice of magic is tightly controlled. Unauthorized magic use – especially anything large-scale or subversive – can draw the attention of the Dread Sentinels, a group of enforcers (often members of the King’s Ravens or their agents) who investigate magical disturbances. For instance, a minor noble attempting to perform a forbidden resurrection ritual or a commoner dabbling in summoning a spirit would likely be seized and made an example of. The usual punishment is execution or conscription: a skilled but disloyal mage might be forced to serve in the coven under pain of death. Only the King and his sanctioned sorcerers may conduct high magic freely. This has created an atmosphere of mystique and fear around magic among the general populace. Common folk simultaneously fear magic and respect it. They will swear “by the Cauldron” but also knock on wood to ward off any curses if a stranger so much as looks at them funny. It’s said some peasants wear iron tokens (even though iron is not decisively proven to hurt fae in this world, folklore still holds it might ward off enchantments) because they are more afraid of a bored noble casting a cruel glamour on them than of any bandit.

Hybern’s approach to education in magic is informal. Noble children with potential are taught by tutors – often elder relatives or court mages assigned to noble houses by the King. These tutors ensure that the next generation can at least perform the basics: shielding themselves, maintaining glamours, moving objects with raw power, perhaps mind-detecting lies. Martial application is always stressed. A youngster who shows an affinity for, say, making plants grow will quickly be redirected to instead learn how to use plants as poisons or how to cause vines to strangle. If a gift is deemed completely useless for war (imagine a hypothetical talent to make illusions of butterflies – unless those butterflies can bite or distract enemies, it’s useless), it will simply be ignored, and that faerie will be pushed into a non-magical role. This means some Hybern fae suppress parts of their own magic if it doesn’t fit the mold, which can lead to frustration or instability. But in Hybern’s mindset, magic is a weapon, not a personal quirk.

Despite this rigidity, there remains a small undercurrent of mysticism separate from the militant norm. Particularly among some older fae and the witches, there’s a belief in “old magic” – wild, unpredictable powers that stem from the land and ancient spirits rather than from courts or kings. These might include things like casting bones to tell fortunes, or invoking the name of an ancient ocean spirit for safe passage. Such practices are more superstition than reliable magic, but occasionally they yield real results. The King tolerates these minor magics as long as they do not challenge his authority – a peasant casting wards against evil or a wise woman muttering charms is beneath his concern. But any unsanctioned display of significant power draws swift attention. In Hybern, mysticism lives in the shadows: in the secret sigils scratched on cottage doors, in the midnight offerings to ghosts, in the half-remembered names of old gods spoken when fear grips the heart. All the while, the open practice of power remains the Crown’s prerogative. Magic, like everything in Hybern, is controlled, weaponized, and viewed through the lens of dominance, and even the wild old spells ultimately bend or break under the iron will of the King.

Military Structure and Warfare

Hybern’s military is the iron fist of the kingdom – disciplined, relentless, and honed by centuries of vengeful intent. It operates as a strict hierarchy under the absolute command of the King. The monarch is Commander-in-Chief of all forces; beneath him stand a few trusted generals and commanders (often drawn from the noble houses or the royal family). Historically, Amarantha served as the King’s chief general during the Great War, and later the King’s own kin, Prince Dagdan and Princess Brannagh, held high command positions. These top commanders form the war council, advising the King and executing his battle plans. Each general is given charge of a portion of Hybern’s forces – for example, one might lead the navy, another the aerial legions, another the main infantry host. They in turn delegate to lower officers (captains, lieutenants), creating a clear chain of command that runs from the throne to the lowliest foot soldier.

Conscription and training are fundamental. Every young High Fae of Hybern noble lineage is expected to serve in some military capacity, and even commoners are drilled in basic combat from youth via local militias. There is pride in this: families boast of how many of their number serve in the army. Training is harsh and thorough. Recruits undergo survival treks across the barren hills, weapon drills for hours until their muscles shake, and mock battles that sometimes result in real injuries or death (Hybern’s commanders consider a few training casualties a worthwhile price for weeding out the weak). The result is an army largely inured to pain and fear. Discipline is uncompromising – disobedience can earn a soldier a public flogging or the headsman’s axe, depending on the offense. But most soldiers need little coercion; they are fueled by patriotism and hatred nursed over generations. They march to war shouting mottos like “No mercy, no surrender!” and truly mean it.

Hybern’s military forces can be broken into several key branches:

• Infantry and Ground Forces: The bulk of Hybern’s army consists of foot soldiers – both High Fae and lesser faeries – organized into regiments. They are armored in boiled leather and blackened steel. Their standard armament includes swords, pikes, shields, and crossbows. The infantry is known for its shield walls and phalanx-like formations; Hybern drills its units to advance in lockstep, presenting a bristling front of spears. These formations were effective against human armies in the past and are still maintained. Hybern infantry wear distinctive grey surcoats or jackets with bone-white embroidery and the royal crest on the shoulder. Their morale is bolstered by fervor – they fight not just for King but for ancestral revenge. Surrender is almost unheard of; Hybern soldiers have been known to fight to the last man even when surrounded, preferring death to the disgrace of capture by mortals or enemy fae. In battle, infantry officers (often lesser nobles) carry tall banners depicting a simple black crown on a field of grey, marking units on the field. Drums and war-horns coordinate their movements. If a rank falters, officers will execute deserters on the spot to plug the gap with grim resolve.

• Aerial Legions: One of Hybern’s most unnerving advantages is its air force of flying faeries and beasts. Chief among these are creatures of the same ilk as the Attor – horrible winged lesser fae bred or recruited for war. The Attor itself (a spindly, bat-winged horror) served Amarantha and later the King, and it was not unique. Hybern has an entire legion of flying predatory fae that resemble gargoyles or oversized bats. In battle, these aerial units provide reconnaissance, terror tactics, and air support. They famously executed a two-pronged assault on the city of Velaris, ferrying ground troops over defenses: “the aerial legion flew in… most carrying a Hybern ground soldier. They swooped to the ground to deploy the soldier, then attacked from above as the ground army invaded.” This tactic – essentially paratrooper deployment by monstrous flyers – caught even the Night Court off guard. The aerial legions also drop crude bombs (casks of greek fire or clusters of faebane dust) onto enemy formations, sowing chaos. These flyers answer to the command of a special Captain (sometimes nicknamed the “Sky Master”), who coordinates their strikes using horn signals. In addition to the Attor-beasts, Hybern has a contingent of Illyrian-descended mercenaries (winged bat-like fae warriors, exiled from the Night Court’s legions) who sell their services; the King has not shied from employing them when useful, though he distrusts their loyalty. The combination of native aerial creatures and hired winged soldiers gives Hybern a formidable presence in the skies.

• Navy: As an island nation, Hybern maintains a fleet of warships, though these were somewhat neglected during isolation. With the renewed war effort, the King revitalized the navy, tasking House Marinos (a noble family traditionally tied to maritime trade) with refitting ships. Hybern’s ships are mostly heavy galleys and war barges capable of carrying troops across the sea to Prythian or other lands. They aren’t the swiftest, but they are sturdily built of dark timber and reinforced with iron ram prows. The navy’s strategy relies on ferrying the army rather than naval supremacy in open waters. However, they do have some specialized fire-ships loaded with alchemical incendiaries (to send burning into enemy fleets). During the recent campaigns, Hybern launched its armada against the shores of Prythian’s Summer Court, managing to land forces by sheer number of ships and the cover of heavy fog (some say summoned by sorcery). While not the most celebrated branch of the military, the navy is crucial for Hybern’s expansionist aims – after all, their soldiers must cross the violent sea somehow. Naval commanders coordinate closely with the aerial legions for scouting and with ground forces for amphibious landings. If Prythian’s alliance had not intervened, Hybern’s fleet would have shipped tens of thousands more soldiers onto the continent unopposed.

• Special Units and Beasts: Hybern employs a variety of specialized units for unique tasks. The infamous Ravens are two High Fae spies/assassins (a male and female pair) personally loyal to the King. They are experts at infiltrating enemy territory to retrieve things (or people) the King desires, hence their codename. In the war, they were sent to hunt for the halves of the Book of Breathings, using wiles and winnowing to accomplish their mission. There is also a corps of warlocks or battle-mages who accompany the army to cast destructive spells (for example, unleashing curses that can rot enemy food supplies or shatter fortifications). These battle-mages often fight in teams guarded by halberdiers, ensuring they can chant incantations without being picked off. Hybern is not above using monstrous allies as shock troops: bogge hounds, Naga shadow-creatures, and other fearsome lesser fae are wrangled and driven into battle ahead of the main force to sow panic. In one engagement, Hybern handlers loosed a great wyrm (a dragon-like beast from the sea caves) into the ranks of opposing fae – proving they will use any weapon at their disposal. Even undead have been used; the King’s cauldron-raised wights (reanimated corpses of fallen foes) guarded the Cauldron’s chamber at one point, a psychological horror for any who stumbled upon them.

• Siege Weapons: Hybern’s forges turned out siegecraft as needed. Massive trebuchets and catapults are constructed when besieging fortresses, flinging boulders or pots of faebane-laced wildfire. They also craft mobile towers to scale enemy walls. One particularly fearsome invention is the “Ash Striker” – a ballista that fires oversized ash-wood bolts (barbed and soaked in faebane). These were designed specifically to kill High Fae or beasts resistant to ordinary weapons. An Ash Striker bolt can impale a faerie wing or pin even a giant to the ground, delivering a dose of magic-dulling faebane deep into the target. During the assault on the Summer Court’s castles, Hybern brought a dozen of these siege ballistae, using them to punch through wards and incapacitate powerful defenders from a distance.

In terms of weaponry and technology, Hybern’s arsenal mixes brute force with nefarious craft. Standard weapons are made of good steel, kept keen and enchantment-free (since they rely on faebane to nullify enemy magic, they often don’t bother enchanting their blades – a sharp steel sword cuts fine when the opponent has been stripped of power). Ash wood, deadly to faeries, is a material Hybern eagerly uses wherever possible. They stockpile ash arrows and ash knives for use against other fae opponents. In fact, the King himself armed Jurian with an ash wood arrow to shoot the Night Court’s Cassian during a parley, incapacitating him instantly. Poisons also play a role: beyond faebane, Hybern’s alchemists concoct venoms that can kill or paralyze, applied to arrowheads and daggers. They are known to coat blades with “The Hydra’s Blood,” a toxin that causes unstaunchable bleeding in fae victims. No method is off-limits – chemical warfare was pioneered by Hybern when they vaporized faebane into a fine mist and let the wind carry it over enemy lines, rendering opposing spellcasters suddenly powerless and terrified as Hybern’s troops fell upon them.

Strategically, Hybern’s approach to warfare is twofold: overwhelming force coupled with cunning subterfuge. They will certainly meet an enemy head-on with massive armies if needed (in the War, Hybern fielded tens of thousands of soldiers in pitched battles). But they prefer to tilt the odds before the first sword strikes. This means extensive use of espionage and psychological warfare. Prior to open conflict, the King will sow disunity among his foes: bribing traitors, forming secret alliances (as he did with the human Queens in the recent conflict, and infiltrating spies. Amarantha’s entire “emissary” act was a grand stratagem to lull Prythian into complacency, making her later surprise attack devastating. When Hybern moved overtly, they struck where the enemy least expected. A hallmark example is the attack on Velaris, the famously hidden city of the Night Court. Hybern learned of it through Jurian and the Queens and launched a surprise assault from the sea, breaching what everyone thought was an impenetrable, secret stronghold. Even in the heat of battle, Hybern tactics are cruelly effective. They favor two-pronged attacks and pincer movements – one frontal force engaging the enemy while another force flanks or appears in their rear (often delivered by winnowing or aerial drop). They make excellent use of fear: unleashing monsters early in a fight or catapulting the severed heads of previous foes over enemy walls to erode morale. The King is perfectly willing to sacrifice entire units as cannon fodder if it gains a positional advantage. During the War, Hybern’s generals once drove a herd of ensorcelled giant boars into an advancing human army, causing chaos in enemy ranks before the real clash even began.

Perhaps Hybern’s most unique strategic philosophy is magic suppression. Knowing that Prythian’s High Lords and other fae are individually powerful, Hybern often allocates significant effort to neutralize key targets. This could be through assassination (e.g. sending the Ravens to attempt to kill or kidnap a High Lord before battle), or through battlefield tactics like drawing a High Lord into a trap laced with faebane. They famously managed to dose the High Lord of Summer, Tarquin, with faebane by contaminating captured supplies – his water and wine – weakening him during a crucial confrontation. Similarly, shackles of faebane were prepared for use on powerful captives (Hybern soldiers carried these in their packs once the substance became available). In essence, Hybern seeks to rob its enemies of any advantage: if the enemy has dragons, Hybern poisons them; if the enemy has mighty magic, Hybern nullifies it; if the enemy holds a fortress, Hybern infiltrates and opens the gates from within.

Logistically, Hybern’s isolation taught it some self-sufficiency. The army travels with mobile forges and workshops so they can repair arms on the go. They also employ enslaved Lesser Fae (prisoners or indentured servants) as porters and camp followers to haul supplies, build camps, and dig trenches. Still, Hybern’s supply lines are a known weakness – because they lack friendly territories abroad, they must bring everything with them across the sea or seize it locally. During the latest war, this meant that when Hybern’s beachhead was established in Prythian, they immediately fanned out to capture villages and farms to feed their troops, and used dark magic to preserve and transport food (e.g. storing grains in time-slowed chests to prevent spoilage). The King had also intentionally let his people starve to a degree in the years prior so that his armies would be hungry for plunder – literally and figuratively – once unleashed. A soldier fighting on an empty belly is dangerous when promised the stores of a rich enemy city.

One cannot overlook the role of fear and punishment in Hybern’s military doctrine. The King and his generals maintain control through terror as much as through inspiration. Cowardice is brutally punished: there are tales of an entire company being decimated (every tenth man executed) because they broke formation in a skirmish. On the other hand, rewards for loyalty and valor are substantial – soldiers who perform exceptionally might be granted title to captured lands, promotion into the nobility, or other privileges. This carrot-and-stick approach makes Hybern’s forces zealously aggressive. They know there’s no mercy for failure, so they’d best win. And if they win, they are taught that they earn the right to do anything they please to the defeated – loot, enslave, kill. That promise of unrestrained reward in victory fuels their brutality in war. They want to earn their place in the new order the King promises, a world where Hybern lords over all.

In summary, Hybern’s military is a fearsome engine built on fanaticism, dark science, and strategic ruthlessness. It might lack the sheer refinement or individual heroics of some other realms’ warriors, but it compensates with coordination, innovative cruelty, and a willingness to cross any line. Hybern fights wars like a grand chess game where no move is too sacrilegious or too heinous if it leads to checkmate. From the quiet sabotage of enemy resources to the thundering charge of grey-clad legions under a sky swarming with monsters, Hybern wages war with a singular goal: total, crushing domination of its foes, by any means necessary.

[wreckingtickles]

Onsen Nonsense

Inosuke sneaks into a supernatural onsen and meets a woman who claims that she can remove his weakness.

An SFW, lee Inosuke fic for the amazing @lovelymessybubbly, who helped me pick out his spots! This story wouldn't exist without her art, as I've never read/watched Demon Slayer but her peices for it are just so good. Sorry it took me so long, I ran out of steam towards the end again.

Words: 7,559

WARNING: semi-intense and possibly slightly spicy tickle torture under the cut.

"An onsen?"

"So it seems."

"In the middle of a rocky desert," remarked Zenitsu, spying from behind a jutting crag, his hands trembling as he clutched his weapon.

Where moments before there had been nothing but an endless expanse of gray rock, a wooden structure shrouded in low mist now stood.

“Can we go around it?” pleaded Zenitsu.

“I suppose we have no reason to fight. Wait, it’s…”

“...vanishing?”

The mist around the onsen grew thicker, fully obscuring the structure from view, then fainter and fainter, until the bone-dry rocks where it had just stood came into view again.

“This is too freaky,” complained Zenitsu. “Let’s leave.”

“Wait.” Tanjiro grabbed his sleeve. “Where’s Inosuke?”

—

Inosuke had snuck in through the open front door, the soft thuds of his sandals absorbed by the tatami. The mist behind him was absolute, having engulfed the entirety of his vision except the corridor wrapping around the onsen. A sourceless light lit it, leaving no shadows to hide in.

A human form, kneeling on the ground. A woman.

“Greetings, warrior,” she proffered. “My name is--"

Inosuke dashed forward, swords in hand, cleaving an X into the woman, his motion carrying him forward.

“I don’t care. Die, demon.” 

“There’s no violence here. No pain,” explained the woman. Inosuke turned around, raising his guard: the woman, even her kimono, were completely undamaged. She was regarding him with a polite smile, her eyes two crinkled fissures.

“I am no demon, but a mere scout, wandering endlessly to procure clients for this onsen. The warrior need not fear me.”

“Fear?! Ah!” laughed Inosuke. “You’re freaky, but I’m too strong to be afraid of you!”

The woman cracked a smile. “I offer respite to the weary traveler. The onsen will deposit the warrior back where it appeared once it is time. In the meanwhile, I will cater to the warrior’s desires. The waters of this onsen wash away all that is unwanted. Pain. Ailment. Weakness.”

“Are you calling me weak?!” flared Inosuke, lifting his swords again.

The woman’s polite smile didn’t waver. “I am claiming that I can make the warrior even mightier.”

—

Inosuke stomped after the woman as she glided with practiced grace down a corridor. He’d gorged himself until he was practically bursting and changed into the onsen’s gray-lavender robe.

“So where’s this magic water?!” he repeated for the twelfth time.

“If the warrior would follow me,” she reiterated calmly. Inosuke hadn’t noticed it when she had greeted him, but now that she was standing, she was a full two heads taller than him.

She stopped in front of one of the countless sliding doors in the maze-like onsen and opened it.

A thick wooden pole jutted out from the floor at the center of the room, reaching at about the woman’s height rather than touching the ceiling. Five levigated logs were tied together to form a sport of bench, one end of which was attached to the pole itself. A cushion had been placed on the bench next to the pole. The walls were entirely made out of sliding doors.

She motioned for him to stake a seat on the cushion, and he complied. She then knelt down next to him and produced a long crane feather from one of her sleeves. She then lowered her other hand. “If the warrior would kindly lend me his foot sinistral.”

“Uh?”

“His left foot.”

Inosuke eyed her for a brief second. What was she scheming? He couldn’t begin to guess what a feather might be for. Her smile did not reach her eyes, her professional politeness an impenetrable mask. But he didn’t want to give her the impression that he was afraid of her, so he complied.

She placed her palm under his heel, lifting his square, broad foot, knitted with muscle like every part of him and still red and raw from the day’s travel, so it was level with her chest. Then, she rested the plumed tip of the feather on the heel.

“GYAAAAH?!”

Inosuke flew out of his seat, leaping several paces away from the unfazed woman and landing in a combat pose. “What the hell was that?!”

“I know not of what the warrior speaks,” explained the woman, tilting her head slightly. “This is an ordinary feather.” and to prove her point, she ran it along the length of her palm, then showed it to him.

“I felt… You did something!!” he insisted.

The woman’s smile grew imperceptibly. “The warrior has an extraordinary sense of touch,” she remarked, laying the feather on her lap. “Unfortunately, his formidable senses also allow weakness to fester inside his body. Notice how sensitive he is to the most superficial of touches. He hardened his body to withstand injury and pain, but has left it vulnerable to gentler torments.”

“Vulnerable?!” he shrieked in outrage.

“Vulnerable,” echoed the woman. “Why else would the warrior be unable to withstand what I can?”

That was all it took to get him to furiously stomp towards the bench.

“I can withstand anything!! That’s just a stupid feather!!”

“Tis a mere feather indeed,” she conceded. “And a warrior has no reason to dread its ilk. Its purpose is to make him aware of the chinks in his armor.”

“I’ll show you a chink!” he protested, the wood groaning under his weight as he dropped on it, thrusting his foot forward so hard he nearly kicked her in the chest. “Come on! Get it over with!” he yelled.

She gently cradled the heel again. “If that’s the warrior’s desire…”

The feather drew closer to his sole again, and Inosuke crossed his arms, scrunching his face so hard his jaw was vibrating with effort.

The feather touched down on the mound of his heel.

“PPPPPPPPPPPPPPFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTT!!”

Inosuke sprayed spit like a bathing elephant as he tried and failed to hold the gales of laughter that wanted nothing more than to blast out of his lungs. It… something so much!! What was happening to his body?!

Starting from the bottom, the feather circled around the callused heel, then cut across the mound and headed higher. The woman noticed how his struggling intensified as the feather began its descent up the arch, skillfully dodging the protection of his hardened skin…

“GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!”

Tendons and muscle put up a useless resistance as the tiny barbs nestled in every minuscule wrinkle on the more sensitive arch, a journey that to Inosuke felt endless as the feather slowly rose to meet the mound of the ball, crawling up the cleft in the middle of it where the muscle parted, dodging the callus and unearthing a treasure trove of nerves in that valley.

“NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”

It had only been a few seconds, and Inosuke was a rich shade of purple.

Next, the feather circled the ball before swiping horizontally across the base of Inosuke’s toes.

The sudden acceleration caused a startled cry to escape his inflated cheeks. “AAH!” But somehow, he managed to keep his foot in her grasp.

“I would urge the warrior to keep very still for this next part,” requested the woman was she positioned the feather between Inosuke’s big and second toe.

She swiped.

“NNNNNGH!!!”

She repeated the motion between the next set of toes. And the next, and the next. 

“GHA!”

“UGH!”

“HAA!!”

Inosuke felt genuine gratitude when the feather began to brush the top of his foot, but it was a relative relief. He was still struggling incredibly hard to keep still when every nerve was screaming at him to get away from that cursed feather, which then proceeded to trace the outline of his foot. “NNH! GH! NEH! UAH!”

But his plight was far from over, because the feather swiped at his ankle, then crawled up his calf, and the closer it got to his knee, the higher the pitch of his stifled hysteria. “NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNIIIIIII!!!”

Mercifully, the feather left the underside of his knee alone… only to unleash a much worse sensation as it began to travel up his inner thigh.

“KSHNTSHSHIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!!!” It was unbearable, and Inosuke’s hand shot to intercept the woman’s wrist before the feather went too far up his robe.

“Stop right there, woman!” he thundered. She offered no resistance.

“I will spare the warrior his modesty,” she assured amicably, lifting the feather upright as a show of sincerity. Inosuke glared at her for a few more moments before relaxing his grip.

“I must, however, test the other leg.”

“You must wha-NAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA STAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAPPP!!” screamed Inosuke as the feather began its descent down the other leg.

By the time the barbs left his heel, Inosuke’s chest was flushed and heaving with the double effort to endure the agonizing sensation without pulling away, having shuffled off the upper part of the robe in a desperate attempt to escape the heat welling up inside him.

The woman didn’t seem to mind his heavy breathing as she slid closer to him, pushing her fingers against his left wrist. “Now for the warrior’s torso.”

Although he wished nothing more than to make a run for it, Inosuke followed her gentle pressure and lifted his left arm.

“The warrior’s musculature is a thing of beauty”, stated the woman as muscles and tendons harmonized to allow that simple motion. But before Inosuke could think anything of the compliment, he felt the feather dance down his bicep, starting at the elbow, and he forced his mouth shut again.

The feather located the groove at the intersection of Inosuke's bicep and his tricep, arching slightly under the pressure of the fingers that pushed it inexorably closer to his armpit.

"GGGGGGGNNNNNNNN..." 

Ok, that wasn't too bad, it didn't make him want to set his skin on fire, he could do it.

The tip reached the outer ridge of his underarm.

No, he couldn't.

"PPPPPPPPPPPPFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!"

He didn't need to look at the feather to know that it was starting a clockwork revolution around his hollow, its plumes nearing his scapula, then turning inward, approaching the protruding pectoral muscle, teasing its very edge, closing the circle ...

There were actual tears at the corners of Inosuke's eyes.

Then the feather cut vertically across the hollow.

"ACK!" he exclaimed, pulling at his arm to protect the area, and for a fraction of a second, he was met with the invincible resistance of the woman's grasp, but it came undone before he was able to think much of it.

"Enough! How is this helping me get stronger?"

The woman regarded him dispassionately. " The warrior shouldn't despise the instrument that reveals his weakness, but embrace it to bolster himself."

"I'm not weak!" Inosuke protested, spittle spraying the woman's face, but she maintained her posture, an invitation to resume their weird investigation.

"I'm not," whined Inosuke before letting her hold his forearm again and expose his underarm. 

"The warrior need not stifle his natural impulses," said the woman as she dragged the feather across the inner part of his hollow again.

But Inosuke wouldn't allow himself to laugh.

The feather began to trail along the lower curve of his pec, burning its way to his sternum, then up, to the base of his neck" his Adam's apple, the base of his jaw, the back of his neck, his shoulder, his clavicle...

Inosuke was trying so hard not to move he forgot to breathe, his cheeks puffy and his face beet red.

"The warrior is enduring magnificently," praised the woman, the feather skating diagonally across his chest.

Touching the top of his ribcage.

"PPPPPFFFFFFFFFFFFFFAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!"

Too much. It was too much. Somehow, Inosuke managed to force himself to withstand the maddening kisses of the feather as it counted each and every rib on its way down to his sides.

"HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHH!!!"

It was unbearable, and he could have sworn that she was going slower, she had to, it was just so bad, how many ribs could he possibly have?!

Like closing a dam in a raging river, Inosuke was finally able to shut his mouth when the feather reached his side, though he was still vibrating in place; but this would prove to be a pyrrhic victory, because all too soon the feather skirted the edge of the robe along his waist before starting its final ascent between the ridges of Inosuke’s six-pack, circling each of them, dusting around and inside his bellybutton, lovingly caressing the sculpted muscle over and over…

“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!! HHAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHHAAHAHHAHAHAHA!!!”

The dam broke, having already been eroded by all of the feather’s previous touches, culminating in yet another unbearably sensitive spot it was just having a field time exploring. Inosuke wanted to suck in his stomach, but the deep laughter he was forced to produce made it impossible, so the ticklish muscle kept pushing into the barbs themselves. He despised the sensation, but curling into a ball like he so wanted would have meant admitting defeat, and he couldn’t allow it!

A new torrent of laughter spilled out of him when the feather traveled up his other flank and over his ribs, repeating the horrible ups and downs from his left side. 

When the feather finally left his right elbow, he felt as if he’d been exercising all day.

“Unf… unf…” 

A rivulet of sweat ran down his spine, his skin glistening with perspiration. Was it over? Was he stronger now?

The hated feather disappeared up the woman’s sleeve. “The warrior will have to labor intensely to rid himself of all his weakness,” she estimated with her usual polite smile. “I propose we concentrate our efforts on the four most critical areas, four being the number of death that weakness pulls us towards.”

Inosuke was extremely wary of the woman’s polite tone, as if she hadn’t just subjected him to some unknown form of torture; that said, she was right. She had proven that there was weakness in him, and he had no idea how to stamp it out on his own.

“Ok,” he growled. “But no feathers!”

The woman smiled complacently. “Though it would be a marvelous tool to achieve our goals, the warrior’s skin is too moist now for it to be employed efficaciously.” 

She rose to her feet, towering above him once more. She pointed to the sliding door at the back of the room. “The warrior may bathe whilst I collect the tools.” 

—

The warm water melted all of Inosuke’s tension, including his concerns about this weird onsen and the woman manning it - the only person he’d seen in that massive structure. Well, magic was magic, no use trying to explain it. He relished the sensation of his powerful muscles unwinding, his skin coming alive in the warmth. He felt… clean?

When he heard the woman call him from the adjoining room, he got out of the bath, dried himself off, and tied the robe around his waist, though he didn’t wear the upper part, letting it hang behind him.

The bench and pole looked much more ominous now, as ropes had been coiled around each of the logs of the bench and around the top of the pole. At the opposite end of the bench there was also something resembling a vertical board with two large holes, as well as a basin in which floated two scrub brushes.

“What are you scheming, woman?”

She was kneeling next to the bench, motioning for him to take a seat.

“The warrior is mighty indeed. Although no harm can come to either of us in this place, I would prefer he not strike me while I administer his treatment.”

Inosuke was unconvinced.

“The warrior might be better able to endure if he needn’t restrain himself. He should not let fear stand in the way of strength.”

“I’m not afraid!!” yelled Inosuke mechanically, stomping over to the bench. As he did, the woman pulled a latch on the thick board, causing it to part halfway, splitting the two holes in half. She motioned for him to place his ankles in each opening, after which she shut the stocks and locked them. She then proceeded to tie the ropes secured to the bench around his knees, then lifted his arms up, tying his wrists together to the pole behind his back, so Inosuke’s vision of most of his body was partially occluded by his own biceps.

Inosuke pulled with all his strength. The restraints creaked, but neither the ropes nor the stocks showed any signs of giving.

“How long will this take?” he asked, beginning to regret that arrangement.

“As long as necessary,” replied the woman. “Or till the warrior resigns himself to his limits.”

He didn’t like the way she said that one bit. It felt like she was trying to manipulate him from behind her polite mask. But he was no longer in a position to do anything about it, beside calling quits. But he wouldn’t do that.

“I shall proceed soon,” informed the woman as she reached for a bowl into which she had mixed salt and oil. Then, she rubbed the mixture onto her hands and proceeded to massage it into his skin, starting at his shoulders and working her way down his body.

“Is this too much for the warrior to handle?”

On the contrary, it felt… weird, but quite pleasant. He still felt that odd, sharp sensation when her palms, textured by the salt and lubricated by the oil, massaged certain spots, such as his armpits, certain parts of his chest, and he actually hid his mouth behind his bicep when she began to work his ribcage, then moved down to his flanks and belly, the salt coagulating in the deep grooves of his abdominal muscles.

She then repeated the process on his legs, rubbing his thick thighs one at a time, and he couldn’t help the little shudders when her fingertips trailed along the inner portion. Fortunately, his shins would prove to be less sensitive.

“This area will require a lot of preparation before we can begin to cleanse it of weakness,” she announced as she began to massage the salt and oil into his broad soles. Inosuke wouldn’t have expected it, but he found himself enjoying the attention, though that weird sensation that shot up his leg whenever her touches softened prevented him from relaxing completely.

“The ensuing step may be slightly unorthodox, but a skin as tough as the warrior’s demands it,” she expounded while lifting the two dripping brushes out of the basin. A hint of concern showed from between Inosuke’s arms when he saw her move them closer to his torso. 

It finally clicked. “Wait!”

But there was nothing he could do to prevent hundreds, thousands of soft bristles from being pressed into his skin as the woman proceeded to obliterate Inosuke’s underarms with furious circular scrubs.

“WAHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIHIHIHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!! HAAAAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA!!!”

Up and down, left and right, the two brushes removed every spec of salt on the muscular outer ridges, the sensitive hollow, then the curves of his chest, effortlessly and torturously gliding along the thin film of oil.

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHA!!! THIHIHS SUUUUHAHAHAHAHHAHHAHAHAHACKSSSS!!!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA!!!”

The vigorous scrubbing gave a vibrato quality to his laughter, as if the sound was attempting to empty his lungs to settle there. 

Inosuke became rapidly and keenly aware that the bristles of each brush were arranged in three separate rows, each capable on its own to cause untold mayhem on his skin as it exfoliated it in the most excruciating way.

The woman’s motions became broader to encompass his entire chest, causing Inosuke to shimmy comically as he laughed his frustration at the ceiling, higher pitched staccatos intruding when she ventured too close to his ribs.

“HAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHA!!! Haahahahahahaha…”

Inosuke’s laughter tapered off for the briefest moment while the woman dipped the brushes into the basin. 

He didn’t get to savor the brief moment of respite before she started scrubbing his midsection.

“Ha… What the HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHEHEHEHEHEHHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHELL!!! HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHA HAHAHAAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAA!!! NOHOHOHHAHAHAHAT THEHEHEHEHEHHEHEHEHEHEHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA!!!”

Inosuke pulled at the ropes, hard, forgetting for a moment that he was supposedly undergoing some form of training, the sensation simply too much for him to bear.

The bristles bending a little bit more when they encountered the ridge of a rib, then snapping forward after cresting it, descending into the groove like the tiniest fleet defying a tall wave, only to do it all again at the next rib, and then backwards, over, and over, and over again.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAAHAHHAHA!!!!! SSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAHHAAHHATTT!!! HAAHAAHHAHAHAHA HAHAHAAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAAHAHAHHA!!!”

The woman was indefatigable, her practiced motions seeding a completely new sensation deep inside Inosuke that wasn’t pain, but that he couldn’t help trying to escape anyway.

“I do believe I have located the warrior’s greatest weakness,” she said with a too satisfied smirk that Inosuke wasn’t able to register, his restraints preventing him not only from shielding his ribcage as he so ardently desired, but even from doing more than catching glimpses of the despicable torment that his sense of touch went into overdrive to faithfully transmit, searing his nerves and leaving him helpless in the face of unbidden hysteria.

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHA!!!! EHEHEHEHEHNOOOOOOUHGH!!!! EHEHEHEHEHENAAAAAAAHAHAHAAHHAAHHA WIHIHITH THEHEHEHE RIIIIHIHIHIHIBBBSSS!!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!”

The relief he felt when the brushes began to go lower and target his sides and stomach was minimal, the two spots proving to be marginally less sensitive, much to Inosuke’s chagrin. The brushes followed the curve of his snatched waist like a lover’s hands… well, the hands of a lover who was very aggressive in their desire to send him ballistic and its execution.

“OOOOHOHOHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA!!!! OHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!! HAHAHAHAH HAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!”

The bristles exfoliating his toned abs awakened something primal in Inosuke, like a wild animal trying and failing to shield its soft belly from a predator, but the ropes wrapped around his knees and the pole behind his back severely limited his range of motion.

And to top it all off, she wasn’t done with his bottom ribs either.

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! CUHUHUHUT IHIHIHIHTTT OOOOHOHOHOHOHFF!!! IHIHIHIHITS CLEHEHEHEHEHEHEHAAAAAAANN!! IHIHIM CLEEEEEHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHHAHAAAAAAAAANNN!!!”

To an ordinary person, the woman's ministrations may have been painful; but since Inosuke's skin was as tough as the hide of the hogs he was named after, the outcome was a harmless response that his enhanced sense of touch turned into excruciating ticklishness.

"The warrior is enduring wonderfully," she claimed, as if he were handling the process better than most instead of having a complete meltdown barely three minutes in.

The woman devoted copious attention to his midsection, rewarding the training that led to Inosuke's chiseled physique with a torment he was unequipped to deal with. He'd never felt anything like that sensation before.

Splash. The brushes were dipped into the water again.

"Now for the lower half," she announced with a serpentine crinkle in her smile.

"NO!" yelled Inosuke, his fury spoiled by the dopey grin still on his face. "This isn't making me stronger! You're... You're..." He had to pause, as he had no idea what the woman was actually doing or what she might want. "You're just making fun of me! So let me go or I'll free myself and kick your ass!!"

It would have been hard for anyone to take his threat seriously when he was flushed pink, he had to scream between his biceps, and his panting like a bellows was due to a few minutes of tickling.

She waited a few moments before stating, "The onsen will return the warrior to his world soon enough. If he wishes to withdraw from the treatment, that is indeed his prerogative."

"Stop talking all flowery and cut me loose!"

She lowered her voice as he raised his, forcing him to quiet down. "However. I believe I have demonstrated the warrior is burdened with a weakness to which he was previously not privy. I also believe I have not done any harm to him, nor warranted suspicion of nefarious designs. Therefore, it may behoove the warrior to entertain the notion that my vow to rid him of his weakness as well as the necessity of the treatment are, likewise, truthful."

Inosuke understood a word in three, but he got the general gist: he was proving to have a glaring weakness he knew nothing about, and that woman might be the only person capable of  ridding him of it. He could go back to his companions empty-handed and defeated, or he could tough it out and maybe get something out of it. He could always murder the woman later.

"Make it quick," he growled.

She nodded and lifted the brushes again. The warm drops dripping on his right thigh warned him of what was about to happen.

"Oo crAAAAAHAHAHAHAAAAAAPPPP!! OHOHOHOH THIHIHIHIS SUHUHUCKS SOHOHO MUUUUUUUUUUUHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHAHAHACCCHHHH!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”

There was also a brush scrubbing the upper portion and the outer side of the thick muscle, but the one harassing the inner right thigh was the only thing that Inosuke could focus on, even though he would have loved to be able to take his mind off it.

That spot felt like it should never be touched, though he’d felt that way about his pits and toes too, and his midsection… but this was different. Though Inosuke had been fighting against his bonds since the brushes first made contact, the tendons under the offended skin writhed like enraged snakes, his leg spasming involuntarily, like it was trying to ditch his body to escape.

In a way, it was somewhat more bearable than what she’d done to his midsection; in another, it seemed to push his “this should not be happening” button even more furiously.

“GEEEHEHET OHOHOHOOOOFF!!! GETOFFGETOFFGEHETOHOHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOFFFFF!!! OHOHOHOHOHOHOFFF!!!” he demanded, the line between an order and a plea beginning to blur.

And the woman did comply, eventually.

Only to repeat the exact same process on his left leg.

“HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!! THIHIHIS IHIHIHSS NOHOOOT WHAHAHAHAT I MEHEHEHEHEHHAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA-- LEHEHHET ME TAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAHHAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHAHHAHAHAHAAHA!!!”

In spite of his considerable physical prowess, the ropes held him firmly in place, making sure he wouldn’t be able to avoid even a sliver of torture.

“BWAAAAAAWAWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHAHA!!! YOUHU WIHIHIHIHTCH!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA!!!”

Having withstood it once already, Inosuke had some sort of sense of when all of the salt would be scrubbed off. Any moment now…

When she was satisfied, the woman began to scrub the inner part of both of Inosuke's thighs, an act that would have been immediately apparent to him as gratuitous and malicious if he hadn't been too busy laughing his head off.

“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHOHOHOHHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAH!!! GHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! IHIHIHITS GOOOOOOHONE IHIHIT’S AAAAAHAHAHAHLLL GOHOHOHOHOHONE!!! HAHAHAHAAHHAHAHA!!!”

“I have to be thorough, the warrior must understand…” murmured the woman by way of explanation, which got drowned out by his mirth.

The first sensation that hit him when the brushes ceased their merciless attrition was a sense of rejuvenating coolness, and only a few moments later did he realize that he was no longer being tickled, the sensation on his inner thighs still feeling much too vivid.

“Uuuugh…” he panted. He’d insisted she kept going. Why had he insisted she kept going?

“The preparations are nearly complete,” declared the woman, taking three steps before kneeling down once again on the opposite side of the stocks. There was only one spot on his body that was still covered in salt.

"The warrior may state his preference."

He was really starting to hate the sound of her voice.

"I may treat his feet one at a time, which would be easier to withstand but would prolong the treatment," she began.

Inosuke cut her off. "Both," he grunted begrudgingly. He just wanted it over with as fast as possible.

"As the warrior wishes."

He wouldn’t laugh this time. He could take it. Yeah, he could take it.

She started scrubbing.

“NNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!”

Oh, hell. It wasn’t the worst. Sure, the bristles ravaging his soles, scrubbing the salt into his skin, adjusting to the imperfections and wrinkles so as not to leave a single spec untouched, did fill him with the urge to get the f out or, lacking that, to produce more of the sound he’d come to despise, which would at least drown out the scrubbing noise he couldn’t help but perceive as a taunt.

“TCH!! KKKKHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGH!”

At first, the occasional giggle only spilled out when the brushes reached his toes or the rare patch of uncalloused skin, resulting in a motley and unpredictable pattern of stimulation. It wasn’t easy, as each brush was constantly hitting multiple such spots at once, and he’d signed up for having two going at the same time, and he was starting to regret it.

“GGGGGGGGGGGGGNNNNNNNNNNNN!!! Eh! NNNNNNNNnnnnoooo! TCH! HeHE! NNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGHH!!!”

But as the woman kept on scrubbing, it became harder and harder to take. It wasn’t just his self-restraint eroding - the sensation was getting worse. With each pass, the salt and oil stripped more dead skin and callus from his soles, smoothing them, making them more tender, vulnerable, sensitive.

“PPPPPPPPPPPPPPPFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTTTTTTT!!!! NNNnnnnnnnnnnnnnooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!! Y-You caHAn’t!! I… I…!”

The scrubbing went on undeterred by his pitiful prohibition, uncovering soft, pink skin that hadn’t been buried by years of feral existence. Civilization was being brought to his soles, and oh, how it tickled.

“NnnnnnnnnnnoooooooooooooooooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOHOHOHO!!! DAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHMN IHIHIHIHIHITTT!!! HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAHHA!!!”

The woman hadn’t changed her approach in the slightest, repeating the same movements over and over, fully aware that her persistence would finally break the floodgates open.

“GHHHHHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHPPP!!! HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA!!!”

As if she’d been waiting precisely for that moment, the woman introduced some variety in her approach, alternating between scrubbing both feet and directing both brushes to assault them one at a time, one ravaging the toes and ball, the other the arch and heel, lavishing attention even on the sides.

That seemed to be even worse.

“GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! YEHEHEHER DOIHIHING IHIHIT OOOOHON PUHURPOOOOOHOHOSE!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”

“It cannot be too much for the warrior to bear, can it?” asked the woman, her tone flat but the inherent mockery plain to hear, though Inosuke was primarily experiencing it through touch.

Heel, arch, toes, ball, sides… the bristles were everywhere, scrubbing away his defenses.

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! SSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAHAHAHAHAAHAHHAAHA!!! HAHAHAHAhahahahaha… HAHAHAHA hahahaha hahahahahahaha… hahaha…”

He hadn’t heard the freeing “plop” of the brushes as they were dropped into the basin, but the rush of cool air on his abused soles let him known that they were no longer in use. Perhaps he should have been wary of her, but after what he’d just endured, he was even grateful for the pressure of her palms, a gentle but firm massage tha rubbed the phantom sensations from his feet, her hands warm and rough sliding easily on the--

Rough? Not her hands, she was rubbing something coarse and grainy on his soles.

“I fear one more pass is required to extirpate the dread callus, lest it be shield and shelter to your weakness.”

She reached for the brushes again.

“No, shit, that’s enough!! That’s enooooooooouuuuahahahaahHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHA!!! NOOOOOHOHOT AGAAAAAHHHHHAAAAAAAAIIHIHIHIHIHNNNNN HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”

By the time she was done, Inosuke’s core had undergone a full workout, and his soles were unblemished as the day he was born, and just about as sensitive, every possible obstruction between the most pristine layer of skin and whatever cruel tool the woman planned to use, removed.

“For this last part, I will need the warrior’s cooperation.”

“NO!” shrieked Inosuke, huffing steam out of his nose. “I’ve had enough of whatever this is. You’re full of crap, and if you don’t let me go right now I’ll cut your head off!”

“Can’t the warrior withstand for five more minutes?”

“Shut your… Five minutes?”

The woman nodded.

 “In five minutes, you will be returned to your world. One ought not choose the ailment because the medicine is too bitter, but if the warrior has reached his limit…”

“Don’t put words into my mouth!” he barked, desperately trying to cling to a semblance of dignity.

The woman seemed unperturbed as she instructed, “Very well.Then we should make haste, lest this opportunity be squandered. I shall untie the warrior, and he shall turn around, kneeling on the bench, his feet hanging off the edge of the bench. I shall move the cushion accordingly. Then, his ankles shall be locked into the stocks and his wrists secured to the pole again.”

Inosuke tried to picture what she was describing. So he’d be kneeling with his ass up, and he’d have an even harder time keeping an eye on her?

His every instinct was telling him to refuse, that something smelled fishy, and besides, he’d be forced into such a humiliating position… but wouldn’t it be even more humiliating to chicken out now? Through all her fancy talk, that seemed to be what the woman was implying. She called him weak, but she didn’t act like she was stronger.

“Fine,” he grunted. For five minutes, he could handle anything.

She untied his hands first, and he immediately knocked her hands aside to worry at the knots binding his legs, but she loosened all of them before he could even undo one. Only when she unlocked the stocks did he proceed to rub the circulation back onto his wrists, as the woman massaged his legs to that same end.

Now that he was free, he really didn’t want to be tied up again.

“Five minutes,” she reminded him with a smile. He groaned but obeyed, kneeling with his shins flat against the cushion, which she’d pushed closer to the other end of the bench, and putting his feet through the stocks again. She then tied the ropes around his calves and secured his forearms to the pole. His chest was almost parallel to the bench, his back only slightly arched upward, and he was off-balance, the pole keeping him upright and the leg restraints preventing him from falling - or throwing himself - sideways.

He felt a lot more vulnerable and a whole lot more embarrassed than he’d anticipated.

“Hasn’t it been five minutes already?”

“Five minutes after we begin,” clarified the woman from somewhere behind his butt..

“So get on with it.”

“I shall. One last thing.”

He heard the sound of a string instrument being plucked, and an invisible pressure stretched his soles taut, pulling his toes towards the bench until there wasn’t a single wrinkle left on his feet. Only unblemished, defenseless, superhumanly sensitive skin at the mercy of a woman who had none.

“What did you do?”

She didn’t reply. As she approached him, he caught a glimpse of her left hand. She was wearing a fingerpick on the tip of each of her digits, and he wouldn’t have been more worried if she’d bared a set of monstrous claws.

“I shall start low and build to your greatest weakness,” the woman informed him from the bottom of the bench. He tried to see what she was up to from between his legs, but the robe and the stocks were in the way. He could almost feel her fingers hovering over his soles.

“What are you waiting fohohohohohOHOHOHOHOHORRRR!!! HOHOHOHOHO NOOOHOHOHOHOHO!!! IT’S SOOOHOHOH BAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHADDD!!!”

There was no buildup or warmup, but eight claws running from his heels to the very base of his toes, then back up again, taking note of how his laughter rose in pitch and the muscles twitched under the skin when certain spots were hit.

“The warrior appears to be struggling more than I anticipated,” declared the woman as she changed her method, scratching multiple times at each spot before continuing first down, then up his soles.

“Y-Youhuhu thihihink that hihHIHIHS!! Thahahahahat thihis wihihihilll--! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! L-LEHEHEHEHET MEEEEHEHEEHEH FIIHIHIHIHIHNIHIHHIHIHIHSSSSHHH!!!”

Inosuke felt naked. It wasn’t the state of relative undress, as he was arguably more clothed than usual. But from the way his feet were reacting, shocking him with jolts of ticklish electricity, he felt as if he had been stripped of a layer of protective pelt, leaving him to the hunter’s claws.

The woman’s methodical approach made it apparent to Inosuke and, almost simultaneously, to the woman herself, that the bottom of his arches close to the heel and the base of his toes were the most responsive areas, so she focused most of her attention there, making sure not to ignore the ball and arch as she alternated between those two spots.

His toes paralyzed by the invisible strings, the woman appeared to be particularly fond of scratching at the uppermost reaches of the ball, proceeding as if she was searching for something. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be the button that made Inosuke ballistic, as she seemed to be finding nothing but.

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAHHAHAAHA!!!! THIHIHS IHIS HOHORRIIIIBLEHEHEHEHEH!!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”

Some part of Inosuke was probably aware of the passage of time, and he should have rejoiced that she was spending so much of it on his feet and not somewhere else. However, baffled by the intensity of the sensation, he could feel no relief. The woman plucked at the strings of his nerves and his lungs responded explosively. But no matter how beautiful, every piece has to end.

“Ah… This… thihis had to be… five minutes…” demanded Inosuke, even as he somehow felt his trials weren’t over.

“Correct. Five minutes precisely,” concurred the woman.

His ears perked up, and he hoped. “So we’re done?”

“Not quite,” said the woman with a smile.

“You said five minutes!!”

“Five minutes per area.”

“That’s not what you said before!! Let me go right now!!”

“I don’t doubt the warrior can withstand,” she claimed as the fingerpicks descended on the back of Inosuke’s thighs.

“SHIHIT, YOUHU SUHUHUHUHUCK!!! HAHAHAHAHAHhahahahahahahahaahhaahahaha!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAhahahahahaha!!! HAHAHAHAHHAAHAHHAHAHAHA!!! Hahahahahahahaha!!!”

He tried to leap forward and out of her reach, but the ropes around his calves and the stocks prevented his legs from moving, and the way his arms were tied to the pole made it impossible for him to block access to that sensitive area by sitting on the back of his legs.

It wasn’t the worst tickling Inosuke had been subjected to that day, but it was the most embarrassing, and his position wasn’t helping. Nor did the woman, as she allowed her fingers to wander inward towards an even more sensitive area of his thighs.

“HahahahahAH NAHAHAHAHAAHAHA!!! AAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!! IHIHIHI HHAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHTE THIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHISSSS!!!! D-DOHOHON’T! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA!!!”

Those fingerpicks really did not belong on his thighs, and he wanted them off. But there was little he could do beside interspersing his laughter with tittering demands and pleas.

The pressure of the picks rippled out as if a much wider area was being touched, but it also dove deeper, awakening the tendons and muscles, sending jolts up and down Inosuke’s legs that resulted in a unique form of tickling that filled him with flighty energy he simply couldn’t let out.

But he found out he could get even worse when she began pinching. In his words, he yelped; in her words, he shrieked.

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHEHEHK!!! SHHAHAHAAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHHHATTT!!! DOHOHOHOHOOOOOOOOHON’TTTTT!!!! FIIIIIIIHIHIHIHVE MIHIHIHIHNUUUUUTEEEESSSS!!! IHIHIHIT’S BEEEEHEHEHEHEHEHEHN FIIHIHIHIHIHIVE MIHHIHIHIHIHINUUUUUUTESSSS!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAAHHA!!!”

“It has not,” remarked the woman, using one hand to squeeze the hard muscle and the other to run her fingers on the sensitive skin. “Is this too much for the warrior? He hasn’t faced the worst of it yet. Would he rather I returned to his feet?”

“GAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHA STOHHOHOHOHP PIHIHIHIHINCHIHHIHIING!!! SHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAAH!! YES! YEEHEHEHEHEHEHHSSSS!!!”

“This is confirmation that much weakness dwells in this area, but how could I go back, when the warrior was begging me so fervently to leave them alone?”

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!! HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! SHAHAHAHAHAHAHAT UHHHUHUHUHUHUHUPPP!!”

“But as the warrior insists, I’ll be sure to treat his soles again once we are done.”

“DOOOOHAHAHAHAHAHAHN’T YOUHU DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHREEEE!!!”

She went on clawing and pinching like she was playing a musical instrument, one whose strings were flesh and tendon and whose music was hysteria, for what felt much closer to 20 more minutes.

But he was given no reprieve as before he even realized the picks had left his thighs when they began to gently skitter along his flanks, his kneeling position making it incredibly easy for her to torment that spot.

“OOOOHOHOHOH!!! STOOOOOHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAHAP IHIHIHIHAHAHAHAHAHAHTTT!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!”

It was unacceptable. She was barely touching him, the picks making the lightest contact that his skin would register, so the intensity of the sensation was absolutely disproportionate. Like the feather from before, it triggered his enhanced sense of touch, straining it to the utmost as it tried to figure out what the hell was crawling up and down his body.

Inosuke was basically doing a strung-up worm in a futile attempt to escape the tickling. It was humiliating, but saving face was no consolation when her fingers converged on stomach.

“HAHAHAHHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! BREEEEEEEEEEEAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA!!! IHIH NEHEHEHED A BREEEAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHHAKKKK!!”

“There are no breaks allowed.”

A fresh batch of tears rolled down his nose and fell on the plank, his toned stomach proving no match for the soft assault. Every frenzied inhale pushed his belly into the fingerpicks, momentarily transforming the torment from one into a deeper, more burning sensation.

Turning the body that bore witness to Inosuke’s relentless training into a source of defeat was no small achievement on the woman’s part, yet there he was wishing that the gentle pressure would chip away his abdominal muscle if it would make it tickle any less. At the same time, he lamented the weakness of his sides, not shielded by muscle, a cognitive dissonance he lacked the ability to unpack there and then.

And when the fingertips finally reached his bottom ribs, he knew it was all over.

“GYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAH!!!”

She started pressing a bit harder, going slightly faster too, the picks making short work of his ribcage. Not being able to see her hands despite them being so close to his face made it even worse. He pulled at the ropes around his arms with all his strength, trying to break them, the pole, heck, even his own arms would do, anything to escape those horrendous claws.

“TOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHOHOHOHO MUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHAHAHAHAHAAHAHCCCH!!! IHIHT’S TOOHOHOHO MUUUUUUUHUHUHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHAH!!!! NOOOOHAHAHAHAHAAHHAHAHAAHAHHAHAHAAHAHA!!!!”

He was done. He was so done. He’d withstood the unbearable long enough, he wasn’t going to put up with it any longer.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH CAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHHAHAHAAHNT IHIHIHIHIHAHHAAHAH CAHAHAHAHAHAHN’T HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHH CAHAHAHAHAHAHAHN’T!!!”

“I am certain the warrior doesn’t intend to admit defeat when he’s so cl--"

“STAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHPPP!!! YOUHU MUHUHHUST STAAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHPPP!!! GIHHIHIIHIIHHIVVEEEEE!!! IHIH GIIIHIHIHIHIVEHEHEHEH!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA STAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHPPP!!”

Her fingers somehow got even faster as she gravely asked, “Does the warrior wish to surrender?”

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAAH!!! YEEEEEEEEEEHEHEHEHEHEHHEAAAAASSSSSS!!! JUHUHUHHAHAHHAHAST STAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAAPPP!!!”

But the claws didn’t leave his ribs.

“IIHAHAHAHAHAAH SAAHAHAHAHHAHAHAID EHEHEHEHENOAHAHAHAHAGH!!! I SURRAAHA-- NAAAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHHAAHAHA!!!!”

“What a shame,” she uttered, her voice dripping with disappointment as she finally stopped tickling him, but Inosuke was too busy panting to listen to her, content with letting the ropework hold him up.

For a moment, he thought he was going unconscious, but it wasn’t him: the sourceless light that lit up the entire onsen dimmed to the level of a small brazier, radiating from the center of the room outward so that Inosuke could see his own shadow and the woman’s on the wall from around the pole.

Inosuke didn’t like that. “We’re done here. Lehet me up.”

The woman’s shadow T-posed. "I'm afraid it's no longer your choice, little warrior."

Something pulled back her large sleeves all the way to her shoulders… Elbows. Two extra sets in each sleeve. Six arms.

The woman stood up to her full height, the hem of her dress lifting to reveal not human feet, but an extra set of hands. She lifted herself up in the air by pulling on invisible threads, the motions of her shadow calling to mind a spider crawling on a web toward its next victim, until she was hanging directly above him.

“You’re not human!! You tricked me!!” yelled Inosuke, redoubling his efforts to break free.

“Look who finally got smart,” mocked the woman, her voice much viler than before. “I’m not done with you, little warrior. Not by a long shot.”

He heard several clicks, and a droning like the sound of angry bees, which would have frightened him far less than the eight rotating brushes that descended on his body all at once.

His ribs. His sides, abs, thighs, and feet. All of them, ravaged by hundreds if not thousands of soft bristles spinning like it was their mission to murder him.

Inosuke opened his mouth to laugh, scream, shriek, but no sound came out.

“Oh? Is this too much for you? It tickles even more after a good scrub, doesn’t it? So much more. Remember that you were having trouble with a feather? A single feather? What about now? With your super touch, you must be feeling each and every bristle. How unbearable it must be for you.”

“......................................................................................AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAGAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!”

Foreign and unbearable, the sensation consumed him from the outside in. The brushes were large enough to cover his feet heels to toes as well as most of his abs, leaving hsi sides, thighs, and ribs no chance to escape them at all.

“GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!! YOOOOOUUUUUU’RE KIIIIIIIIHIIHHIIHHIHIHIHLLLLIIIIIIIING MEEEEEHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAH…………………………………………………………….HAHAHAHAHAAHHAAHAHAH!!!”

He wheezed, coughed, struggled, would have pleaded. The woman whispered through his mop of blue hair. “Like I care. Shut up and laugh, dumbass.”

“.................................................EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHKKKKK!!!! HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! GYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”

“So much weakness in these parts, we gotta do something about it,” taunted the woman, the spinning brushes continuing to ravage Inosuke’s unblemished skin.

The last words Inosuke could make sense of before his mind melt into the lattice of ticklish overload were, “You’re going to be here for a long while, little warrior.”

—

When Tanjiro and Zenitsu found Inosuke, he was passed out on the rocky ground, wearing his usual clothes, his swords resting parallel to him. A huge, dopey grin lingered on his tear-streaked face.

“Is he ok?” worried Zenitsu.

“He’s fine. He’s just unconscious… what’s with that grin?”

“Nothing,” replied Zenitsu, looking first at the rictus etched on Inosuke’s face, then smirking at Tanjiro. “I’ve just had an idea for when he wakes up.”

[shardminds]

wip game!!!

Rules: you will be given a word. Then you share one sentence/excerpt from your wip(s) that starts with each letter of your word

thanks to @thelov3lybookworm for the tag!!!!

my word was: FAMILY

Forgotten the lush fields, the roses swarmed in hedgerows, each more plump, more vibrant than the last; Forgotten the glint of sun on the crystal streams, lakes nestled under the shelter of willow trees, caught in morning sun’s infant glow; Forgotten every dream of escape, of bitten insult, patient violence corded in muscles meant for slaughter and nothing else.

- won't you tell me what it's like / feyre x lucien

“Azriel.” She muses over and over, almost absently, while flexing her unbound hands, rubbing feeling back into her arms. Azriel. Azriel. It sounds something like birdsong, like rainfall. A voice so clear and bright there’s no mistaking the alignment of her soul, a destiny decided for her. He flexes his fist to keep from reaching for her again, for her throat. He should replace the air from her lungs with smoke, savor bone and cartilage crumbling under his touch. Nails bite into his palm. His own.

- a sacrifice in your name (ch 3) / gwyn x azriel

The Middle wasn’t like Emerie had expected. The darkness was oppressive, sinking in from all sides, curled around gnarled tree roots like vines. It leeched the light from the stars, marred by crown shy branches and deep mists. A far cry from the crags and plateaus of Windhaven. Even then, there was a magic to it. A heavy weight that pulled and dragged at her bones. Calling her forward, demanding she retreat.

- mistakes you don't regret / gwyn x nesta x emerie

“I said what I said.” Contemplating something — perhaps logistics, knowing her — Nesta took a long, deliberate sip. Perpetual tactician of the party scene, if there’s anything Nesta Archeron could do, it’s get her way. “I’ve heard it’s lovely in Paris this time of year.”

- no more moving slow / elain x lucien

"Little Lucien, that's the best part," Dark laughter, warm and insidious, sank deep in his stomach. "He burns for as long as I want him to."

- untitled / lucien x [redacted]

"Your human ethics do not stretch to the lives of androids." He says, the speaker behind what serves for his tongue offering platitudes he's hardwired to believe. "We are neither human, nor do we die." Rhys scoffs, staring out at the expanse of space through the viewport on the far wall. Their only light that of a distant sun too far away to have a name worth remembering, and the blue glow from his incision. "Feels an awful lot like death to me."

- half algorithm, half deity / gwyn x azriel (219)

if anyone wants to try it out, your word is WISH.

[delusioniste]

Quirinus Quirrell | Reader (Harry Potter)

It's Christmas and I was watching The Philosopher's Stone when my long-time thirst for Quirrell flared up again. The reader is female. Warning(s): explicit sex, violence, abusive behaviour, angst, death, foul language, it's possibly a bit dark.

Albania, August 1991

You stumbled through the trees spread through the deep gorges that had formed, like murky forest pools, between the towering crags of the Accursed Mountains. Night was falling, falling faster than you had expected it to, and perhaps it was your own fear - but you had a feeling that it might be connected to the reason why the mountain range had come by its name.

You gritted your teeth as each step felt increasingly like lead. Where was he, for God's sake? You were following the path faithfully, but it seemed to have no end. You admitted to yourself, at long last, that you were worried. No, you weren't worried - you were frightened. Your thoughts circled around and around, and images flashed before your mind's eye that caused your heart to seemingly snap and beat out of your ribcage like a rabid beast. Not only were you scared, you were angry. At him and at yourself. Rage coursed through your veins at the same time as your fear, and you thought that you could kill him with your bare hands for the delusions he insisted on following and for the vanity that enabled it - even if half of it was bitterness.

And now the trees, tall conifers with half-naked branches like bones, seemed to grow even taller and larger, merging at times with the hazy darkness that coiled like mist around their trunks and slowly surrounding you. You were half out of your mind, now, each noise making you start in fear. Your lower lip was bitten bloody in fruitless attempts to calm yourself, to gather your composure, to think straight. You looked to your feet and breathed a small sigh of relief that you were still on the path. Quirinus had told you where he expected to be, you had walked this path a few days ago together, but you hadn't come this far then. It wasn't even a path. It was a trail that had been created by treading down the sparse shrubbery and moss and dead pine needles that lined the forest floor. If you didn't look carefully, you could easily lose your way.

What had he said to you the night before leaving? I-I'm going to meet someone - and I might be away for a while, so d-don't worry about me.

You remembered being curious, and you had asked him where he was going.

Oh, I - I'm going to search for an old f-friend I met - last time I was in Albania.

Are they a muggle? You knew he had a fondness for them. After all, his father had been one.

N-no. He... he's a v-vampire, if you must know. Quirinus gave you a faint smile before sitting down beside you on the narrow bed you had been allotted by the inn.

Oh. You thought of Dracula at first, a Muggle novel you had particularly enjoyed reading, even if its depiction of vampires was inaccurate. Then a vaguely worried feeling crept into your mind at the fact that Quirinus was aquainted so well with a vampire that he wanted to go in search of him, but you pushed it down when he brushed his lips over the shell of your ear and whispered: Do you mind if I - if we...

With the forest closing in around you and the fear-fuelled sweat cooling rapidly on your skin, you were sure that he had known all along that it was no simple vampire he was seeking out, but someone or something other, and that they most likely harboured malevolent intentions. Your heart continued to beat erratically, and nausea rose in your chest.

It was this path. You were sure. And you also thought that you knew why he had shown it to you, it must have been so that you would know where to find him if anything went awry. He was intelligent like that, resourceful, and it was all because he was afraid and always on edge - perpetually conscious of anyone or anything that tried to hurt him. God, it was pitiful, but it wouldn't do to dwell on it now. You dragged a hand over your forehead and shook your head to rid yourself of the nervous daze you kept falling into, when you glimpsed a flicker of light in the periphery of your sight.

With your heart in your mouth, you looked around slowly. The light had been faint, but it had been there, pale and flame-like, in the direction of the ascending slope of the mountain that was to your north. There were occasional jagged boulders that lay about between the conifers and ridges of rock that pushed through the forest floor like veins. You narrowed your eyes to adjust to the now almost grainy darkness.

There.

Another wan flicker of white. With a hand held in front of you to steady yourself in case of a fall, you cast a rudimentary silencing spell and tread carefully towards the assumed and elusive source of light.

Please...stop...

You froze. The voice - you recognised it. A tear rolled down your cheek and you wiped it away, suddenly angry at yourself for your weakness. Oh God, Quirinus, please, you begged silently. The light flared up again for a moment, so you took another few steps. With a hand over your mouth, you reached the huge trunk of the pine from behind which you had seen the light appear. Pressing yourself to it, you listened.

It was certainly Quirinus. Please, he whispered. No. No, I cannot - I cannot -

There was no response from his counterpart, it seemed.

Then Quirinus screamed, and you left the safety of the pine tree and went to him as quickly as you could, wand drawn in front of you in your shaking hand. You had expected to see someone there with him, but to your shock, there was no one. Quirinus, alone, was on his knees on among the dead leaves and needles and moss, rocking back and forth, his face ghastly white and his eyes full of terror.

Quirinus! you whispered urgently, falling on your own knees to take him by the shoulders.

He seemed not to be able to hear you, but instead continued to rock back and forth. His face twisted at times into a grimace of what looked like agonising pain, and the only sounds that left his parted lips were groans of what also seemed like pain and terror.

You were at a loss. There was no time to lose, you were desperate to return to the safety of the village, but with Quirinus in this state, it was becoming more and more unlikely that you would manage to do so by daybreak. As gently as you could with your trembling hands, you touched the side of his face, prompting him to look at you. It worked. He raised his eyes and saw you. Suddenly, he grasped your wrist as his gaze turned slightly blank. Leave, he said, and you instinctively flinched backwards as soon as you heard his voice. It had become raw, like metal, and harsh, almost a hiss.

You knelt, slumped, in front of him, wondering what in God's name had happened to him. Quirinus, who was it? you whispered. Please. Tears of frustration pooled in the corners of your eyes and blurred his face in your sight. Please, you cried. Talk to me. Tell me who it was - who the fuck - it was - You can't just sit there and - and be like this.

He opened his mouth and began to speak, but the first syllable was swallowed by violent convulsions as soon as he had uttered it. Do not dare...to speak my name, he hissed after struggling. Now he was strangely still, unmoving, alert.

You took the chance and took his hands in yours, holding them tight out of fear that he would do something to harm you or himself. Quirinus, please, look at me. Tell me what you're - well, what you're talking about. We don't have any time, Quirinus -

Rid yourself of this creature, he said, in the same harsh voice as before. With a sudden jerk of his arms, he freed himself from your grip and had his hands around your throat in an instant.

You screamed and struggled against him, but it was in vain. His sudden strength was astonishing. The calculating look in his eyes was directed at you, and you were frightened out of your wits. Cold sweat ran down your face and your breathing was heavy and irregular. Quirinus' hold on your throat grew tighter, gradually but surely, and you wondered whether this would be your death. Let go of me. Let go, you cried.

I'm afraid...I cannot do that... Quirinus replied. Then he jerked again and cried M-master! in a weak tone that sounded more like his ordinary voice, slackening his grip on your throat by a little, as though he was fighting against something within him.

Evidently, it overpowered him, and he let go of your neck to clutch at his head. My God, he cried. Please, my lord, I cannot - I am too weak -

At the words my lord your skin prickled in another kind of fear. Who was this vampire? What was it, if it wasn't one? You were now sure that he was now the host of something parasitical that was more powerful than him. Master. Lord. Quirinus, what did you let in? You drew your wand and placed it like a knife at his jugular, drawing courage from your frustration. Who were you looking for?

He replied to you, but it was the parasite speaking. I am grateful to this man, he said, and his voice was smiling and soft, like a snake's. He has given me life again... regrettably not his whole being...but enough to sustain myself...

Who are you? you asked again, digging the tip of your wand a little deeper into his skin.

There was a sound like the licking of snakes' tongues, then: I am Lord Voldemort...

You froze and stared, not believing what was coming out of Quirinus' mouth, no, this was a dream - a nightmare. It was all an illusion. You weren't deep in the heart of an Albanian mountain range cursed according to widespread belief by Satan, you hadn't gone anywhere with Quirinus, you didn't even know him. There was no vampire and no Dark Lord.

Kill her...she is of no use.

No. It was Quirinus' voice again. N-not her.

Fool.

N-never, you can n-not make me harm her. As he spoke, blood began to trickle from his nose, over the thin ridge of his upper lip and into his mouth. Moments later, it started to dribble from his ears, and it ran down very slowly, soaking into the collar of his moss-smeared shirt and turning it dark red.

You began to cry again, desperately trying to quench the blood and only spreading it further over his pale skin and over your own hands. Quirinus, please, we have to leave. You pushed his damp hair away from his eyes and wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead with your sleeve. Listen to me. Can you hear me?

Y-yes. He nodded weakly. He looked at you with eyes that seemed to swim, struggling, between recognition and blank distance. Y/N? He began to tremble, and you wrapped your arms around him as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

England, May 1992

The air is still a little cold, even though the summer has begun to set in. The sycamore tree down the road is crowned in lush green and its bark shines like silver in the weak sunlight. You watch a magpie settle on a branch and cock its head before walking on, hoisting the carrier bag up from the ground where you let it sit while observing the bird. The bottle of absinthe you bought clashes alarmingly with the milk. Silencio.

Quirinus lives at the end of the road, in the last house before the rapeseed field and ancient hazel copse. You reach it, slightly out of breath, and unlatch the gate with a soft click. The house is an old detached one, from after the war, and it has copious amounts of ivy climbing its walls to the left and bare, worn down bricks to the right. A chipped enamel plate with an ornate '46' on it is hammered next to the front door with its peeling black paint.

You say alohomora in your head, concentrating on the handle, and the door swings open. The subtle smell of dried flowers and incense greets you as you step inside. On the walls of the narrow hallway there are several picture frames, each containing a collection of pressed petals, leaves and grasses. If you look a little closer, you can see that each specimen has been named in Quirinus' unmistakable cursive handwriting, slanted and elaborate. Cephalanthera rubra, parnassia parnustris, viola odorata. June 1980. October 1977.

Quirinus was a devotee of the art of herbology in his time at Hogwarts. You often found him in the greenhouses or the potions dungeon with Slughorn, studying various plants and their magical properties in painstaking detail. He would spend hours in the library with a pile of botanical works and miss mealtimes and lessons. Often, you would have to run to fetch him against his will. Quirinus, you'll lose points. Quirinus, you're late to Charms. He would protest weakly, but his report and grades were more important than anything, so he complied hurriedly. Despite his occasional digressions into those fields that he loved the most, he was still the best student in most of his classes and the object of both envy and mockery.

The mockery was what broke him in the end.

You bite at your lip as you break your gaze from the gallery of pressed flora. In the small and dingy kitchen, you put the shopping in the fridge and the bottle of Hill's on the countertop. Muggle drinks are surprisingly good. Firewhiskey remains the best, but vodka and liqueurs suit your taste as well. You wanted to indulge yourself a little, and knowing that Quirinus has been a curious lover of Muggle culture since childhood, you hope he'll like it.

You find him in the sitting room in an old armchair that's fraying at the bottom. Staring out of the door that leads to the garden, he barely blinks and seems to have become a sort of statue. An occasional twitch of his left eye betrays that fact that he's nervous, strung up.

"I'm back," you say and grimace at its unhelpfulness.

Quirinus snaps his head around to face you. "Oh. Yes, I heard when you came in." He frowns. He doesn't stutter audibly, which is rare.

Every moment is taut with tension now. You hate that you're left to the mercy of his occupant, who can manipulate him and change him at will. You tried to bind him somehow, to wrest control of him and weaken him, but even the strongest spells failed to work and only left Quirinus weaker than ever and on the verge of a penultimate breakdown. But more and more, you had glimpsed another Quirinus emerge, and he frightened you more than the spirit of Voldemort did.

He changed, sometimes. He seemed unwilling to free himself, lashing out in defense, threatening you. And sometimes it was something as subtle as a look in his eyes that was cold and empty, like the dark black shaft of a well. But at the bottom of the darkness there was life, something shapeless and malevolent, that strived to take on a form and crawl out of its hibernation.

Dumbledore had agreed to meet you in Diagon Alley at your request one afternoon in April.

"I've not seen you since you left Hogwarts," he remarked jovially when you shook hands with him. You had been provided a room above Ollivander's shop by its owner, whom Dumbledore trusted. It seemed to be a sort of study, and you both took your seats in armchairs that stood by the window.

"It seems so long ago," you said. "Tempus fugit, am I right, Professor?" It was a quote that he had introduced you to in your sixth year.

Dumbledore chuckled. "You're quite right." He produced his glasses and his expression became grave. "You wanted to see me for a specific reason, I think?" he asked quietly.

You swallowed and nodded. "Quirinus - He's teaching this year."

"That's right."

"Albus, he's - he's found him," you said. You tore a strip of skin from your thumb and a drop of blood welled up.

"I don't think I understand - Quirinus has found whom, exactly?" said Dumbledore. He leaned forward.

You dragged a finger over the dark circles beneath your eyes. "The Dark Lord."

Dumbledore's expression changed. "Voldemort? Quirinus has found his spirit, then?" He removed his glasses and folded them slowly, deep in thought. Then: "By God, so that was the object of his...sabbatical." He shook his head and looked to you. "Tell me- " he said. "When was this? And where? I gathered that he travelled eastwards after his first year as a professor, and I have heard from Severus that there are rumours he journeyed to Albania..."

"I...went with him, to Albania." You felt your face become warm. It was the first time that you admitted the existence of a relationship between Quirinus and yourself and suddenly you felt self-conscious.

"Indeed." Dumbledore smiled a knowing smile. "Do you know," he said, in a tone that was almost musing, "I dare say I think it is good that he...well, has you - he is fond of solitude, I know...but in truth, a fellow witch or wizard who he is close to might do him more good than you realise."

"Oh, I - yes. Yes, I suppose." You blushed and looked out of the window at the relatively empty alley.

"So the rumours were true...tell me, Y/N, when was this?"

"Last summer. August, I think." You preferred not to think about that August, but it was necessary now.

Dumbledore nodded slowly. "Yes..." he murmured. "The roads all lead there, some way or another."

You watched him, heart beating fast. You hoped desperately that he would find a way.

"And Voldemort's spirit...has - let us say - latched itself onto him?" asked Dumbledore eventually.

"I suppose that it's the best way to describe it."

"Since he will be at Hogwarts in a few month's time, I will notify the necessary individuals, bodies...and I will ask Severus to keep an eye on him." Dumbledore sighed, appearing older than he had minutes ago.

You frowned. Severus? The name served to bring back memories of your time at Hogwarts that was interwoven with bitter memories, among them of Severus Snape and Quirinus. You had never been sure which side you were on, or if you were even on a side. Blurred lines of loyalty and isolation, and in the end, fighting and splintered friendships. Rumours of Death Eaters, of He Who Must Not Be Named, lies and plots. You and your fellow students had left with rifts between you that still existed today, even after the deaths of Lily and James and Sirius' incarceration in Azkaban.

"Can you not trust him, after all these years?" asked Dumbledore. He sounded tired.

"I- " You closed your mouth.

"He is not the same any more. You were all young...he has proved himself since."

"No, I trust him." It was true, in a way. Snape would be suited to that role, seeing as he had always harboured a dislike of Quirinus.

Dumbledore rose to his feet. "Very well. I thank you for coming...and if anything is amiss, or awry, you must not hesitate to write."

You returned home by Muggle transport to garner some time to think, to be met at the door by Quirinus, who dragged you inside forcibly and threw you against the mantelpiece with a strength that was not his.

Shocked, you failed to find any words, and before you could compose yourself, he had you by the throat and was speaking to you softly, like a snake. "Where were you?" he asked. "Answer me...answer me now."

Choking, you tried to loosen his hold, but he was frighteningly strong and you were pushed back further, your feet almost hovering above the flagstones.

"Answer me...where were you?"

"Quirinus, I saw Albus," you gasped.

There was a silence that was heavy with malice.

"It was for you, I didn't know what else to- "

You screamed as he pulled your hair back harshly and tightened his grip on your throat.

In a hissing tone that you were sure was better suited to a legilimens, he whispered in your ear: "If you slip away one more time...he will die..."

With a sudden movement, he released you, and you fell to the floor with a cry of pain. You were afraid now, afraid for his life. "For your whore mother to have never birthed you," you spat at his feet.

Quirinus began laughing in a horrible, deranged manner that turned abruptly into cries of agony as he dragged his fingernails over his face and clutched at his head. "No, no, stop, please stop!" he groaned. Then his expression changed, and his hands dropped to his sides. "M-master," he whispered. "Forgive me, master." There was that cold, abysmal look in his eyes.

You turned away, still sprawled on the cold slate floor, looking up at him. You wanted to flee, but you couldn't, not now, not ever, because there was still hope. You were afraid of him and of the thing that lived inside him, but that wasn't the real Quirinus. God, you couldn't stomach the thought of running away, no matter how appealing it seemed at first glance. You closed your eyes tightly as the tears spilled over and dripped onto the floor in unsightly black stains. Holding yourself, you curled up in a foetal position and shook with sobs while the man standing in front of you stared out into the garden.

"Y/N, won't you sit down?" says Quirinus. He's calm, docile, his old self.

You bring a threadbare cushion from the on the opposite side of the room and throw it down by the armchair. "I'll sit here," you say and settle yourself between his bony knees. He gently runs his fingers over your hair and the sensation makes you shiver.

"I brought you a bottle of Hill's," you say, feeling a little awkward.

Quirinus weaves his fingers through yours. "I've not tasted that in - in years." A short laugh.

Relief washes over you. The sound of his laugh, quiet and nervous, is like water to your thirst. You laugh, too. "This evening?" you say.

"Of course." He tugs at your hands with a small smile. "I've been wanting to go for a walk..." he says, looking down at you, his eyes asking you a question.

"I'll come," you reply.

You both dress in Muggle garb when you go out, you in your green muslin dress and wool jumper and Quirinus in the old combination of worn trousers and shirt he's had since Hogwarts. The Muggle coat is the only relatively new thing he owns and it hangs from him limply like the coat of a scarecrow. He's lost too much weight, you think. Quirinus barely eats any more, and he seems to be wasting away by the day. You play with the idea of bringing Dumbledore here to do something, but what? How?

"Y/N, aren't you coming?"

You shake your head to clear your mind and kiss him on the jaw, making him blush. He takes your hand in his and smiles abashedly.

The afternoon is warmer than the morning and the sun is out. You take the path that runs along the side of the field behind the house that also leads through the hazel copse. A hare bounds through the green stalks of rape that are already beginning to bloom with bright yellow flowers and a kestrel beats its wings overhead.

Quirinus, casting small spells with his mind, makes the clouds that are scudding across the sky take on shapes like a Chinese Fireball or the Whomping Willow. "I hope the Muggles don't see," he grins, though tentatively.

At one point, one small cloud at the edge of your vision begins to look like a skull with the tongue of a snake and you feel a trickle of looming dread. You blink, and it's gone. Was it the remains of the Dark Lord again, playing with its host's mind and will? Your mind circles around and around the words death eater as you follow behind Quirinus. Death eater...the cloud...you convince yourself that it's simply your paranoia toying with you again.

In the copse you harvest a few branches of hazel together to carve into charms or use in potions. "I promised Hooch that I'd - that I'd, well, make her a little something," confesses Quirinus to you as you both walk home afterwards.

You raise your eyebrows. "What will Severus say?" You imagine Snape's fury on discovering that his metier has been practised and perfected by another, this intruder also being the very man he despises and envies over his possession of the title Professor of Defense against the Dark Arts.

"I'm- well, I'm rather hoping that Severus won't find out. Rolanda entrusted me with it because she doesn't like him." Quirinus looks guilty and touches his hand to yours when you say "Fingers crossed, then."

The sun is burnt gold when Quirinus holds the front door open for you. Inside the house it's cool, unlike the warmth of the air outside. The light enters the hallway and is reflected by the glass covering the pressed flowers. You shield your eyes, slipping your shoes off, and when you blink afterwards Quirinus is in front of you with a glass of absinthe. "Here," he says. "Drink it."

You take it from him with a glance from beneath your lashes.

"I'm going to use the bathroom for a minute," you say after draining it contrary to drinking etiquette. "Can I have some more?"

"Of - of course you can." Quirinus watches you climb the stairs for a moment before returning to the kitchen. He pushes the hair back from his temples with an impatient gesture and rolls up his sleeves. His hair is thinning and greying rapidly and the bones of his face have stretched his pale white skin taut. With a sigh that sounds more like a groan, he clutches the edge of the countertop and rests his forehead against the cupboard above it.

You reach the top of the stairs. The house is old-fashioned - almost everything is still the way it was when his mother died years ago, when he was in his fourth year at Hogwarts. His father followed her to her grave soon afterwards. You remember Quirinus confiding to you one evening as you both sat at the end of the Ravenclaw table in the Great Hall, your plates untouched and a jug of pumpkin juice in front of you. I haven't - I haven't talked to my father since - well, since Mother d-died. He had recently received a letter from him and hadn't known how to respond, lingering in the Hall long after the last students had all left to go to their classes.

From the Slytherin table, you heard loud whispering and even heckling, making you instinctively turn around and prepare to defend yourself against defamation. Oi, L/N, what're you doing with the Ravenclaws? called Regulus, beckoning to you.

Fuck off, you hissed. You were treading a thin line between disloyalty to your house - your family - and the attitude of a mere rebel.

You do know that you - that you don't need to do all this, don't you? said Quirinus, rising to his feet and gathering his black robes to avoid tripping. He nervously tucked a strand of lank brown hair behind his ear.

Quirinus glanced at the rows of Slytherin benches whose occupants were all watching what he'd do next. He turned away, straightening his shoulders. It's - it's nothing, he said. His tone was apologetic. Well - I'll see you tomorrow, I s-suppose. With a cursory smile, he walked away, through the doors of the Great Hall, and out of your sight.

You frowned, heart beating hard, and dejectedly made your way over to your house.

You saw Severus smirk ever so slightly before raising his goblet to his lips. Lucius ignored you and Regulus clapped you on the back, guffawing. See, L/N, he said, in a mockingly confidential manner, He's a soft fool - you needn't waste your time on him. The silver and onyx ring on his right index finger flashed in the candlelight as he raised a toast to you.

I said, fuck off. You slapped his hand away and looked down at the tabletop, head in your hands.

In Quirinus' bathroom, you sit down on the edge of the bathtub and prop your chin on your hands. You feel slightly nauseous, and you know it's because of the fear. You have little idea what will become of Quirinus. The lack of knowledge makes you nervous beyond words. In the past days, you've been shutting yourself in rooms to think on your own, but it only serves to dwindle all hope you might have had previously. With nightfall comes the panic, and whenever you look at Quirinus' sleeping face, you can't seem to stifle the rising sensation of being observed. Not by him, but by the thing he shares his form with. Often, with drink, he is weakened enough to resist the insidious grip of Voldemort's whisperings, but he's still there.

You stand up and go to the cabinet above the sink. A mirror has been attached to the left door. Your reflection stares back at you and you step back in some shock at the dark circles beneath your eyes. When did you last sleep without dreaming? With the dreams came the horrors that your mind conjured and you almost always ended up awake, staring wide-eyed at the wall, seeing the Dark Mark in each movement of the shadows and hearing serpentine voices in the wind outside the windows.

Splashing cold water on your face helps you calm yourself. You close your eyes for long moment. When you open them, you see yourself in the mirror with droplets of water hanging from the tips of your eyelashes. They tremble as you blink and they roll down your cheeks, into the crevice of your mouth and down your jaw to your neck. You open the cabinet, wondering on a whim as to what exactly might be in it. Your own things are downstairs in the guest's bathroom.

Nothing much. A razor blade, a comb, shaving cream and a brown glass bottle of what looks like perfume - possibly the incense of some kind? The cabinet is tall and you stand on your toes to reach the topmost shelf. Your fingers brush a small bottle and you lift it down to see.

It has no label on it, and the glass is dark blue, almost black, making the liquid within it look like blood. The lid unscrews without any difficulty. It has no distinct smell, but when you pour a droplet onto your finger, you blanch and almost let the bottle fall and shatter.

It is blood, after all. You examine it more closely. It gleams wine-red, almost brown, and depending on the light it also almost looks oily.

After a while, you recognise what it is, and you feel cold all of a sudden. The blood in the bottle is from a unicorn, and you suspect Quirinus to be drinking from it.

Youth. Vitality. Immortality. So that must be the reason. You frown and quickly return the bottle to its shelf. At the same moment, there is a knock on the door.

"I'm coming, wait," you call. Closing the cabinet silently, you unlock the door and step into the hallway.

"Are you - are you all right?" asks Quirinus. He looks at you strangely.

You swallow. "Of course."

"Here." Quirinus hands you the whole bottle of Hill's.

"What- "

"Wait," he says and takes your hand. "Come."

He leads you to his room, where he opens the window and lets in the last rays of sunlight. A blackbird calls to its mate from the neighbouring roof on the other side of the rotting garden fence. "We can - we can watch the sun set," says Quirinus.

The gesture is so intimate that you feel tears spring to your eyes. Embarassed, you hide your face until you're sure that they're gone.

Quirinus stands by the open window and stares at the sky. He seems deep in thought, somewhere far away, but the expression on his face betrays nothing else.

You leave the Hill's on the covers and join him, lacing your fingers through his, resting your head on his shoulder. "What are you watching?" you whisper.

Quirinus turns and smiles elusively. "Just the sky," he replies. He bends his head to yours and kisses your temple fleetingly.

"Quirinus," you say. He turns to you, a question in his eyes, but you shake your head and kiss him. He tastes of absinthe and smoke and something you can't quite recognise. The image of the unicorn blood rises in your mind and slowly floats in front of your mind's eye. It makes you retch momentarily.

Quirinus backs away immediately, panic in his face. "Did I - did I do something wrong?" he whispers. His fingers brush your shoulders. They're almost all mere bones, now, cold and white and thin.

You shake your head. You wish desperately that you could push everything frightening down, to a place within you that you could ignore for as long as you please. "I just- " you start, but bite your lip in time. "No, it wasn't you, it was me." You wrap your arms around his waist and and bury your face in his chest. The ridges of his ribcage press against the flesh of your cheek and you breathe him in.

"I - I can't do this," says Quirinus after a while. He gently pushes you away.

You stare at him.

He looks uncomfortable, rolling the cuff of his sleeve between his fingertips and avoiding your gaze. At last he mutters: "I - I don't w-want to harm you."

You shake your head. You refuse to think about it, because you're afraid, because you also feel the pain, and because you've grown desperate in the last months. You know that he's fading, the distance between you is growing by the day, and it makes you suffer a misery that you've never suffered before.

"I don't care."

Quirinus looks up. "I don't think y-you understand." Then he lowers his voice and says: "I don't know - I don't know who I am at times. It's - well, it's all becoming blurred... I think I - I'm losing myself to him." His voice trails away and he tries to steady his shaking hands.

Shocked to find yourself crying, you wipe your tears away with the heel of your palm. "I'm scared that - that one day I won't be able to reach you, Quirinus," you whisper. "You're already so far away." You take his wrist and pull him towards you, and he doesn't say anything. "Talk to me. Please talk to me."

"I don't know - I don't know what to say..."

You smile, the tears still wet on your cheeks. "Can you kiss me?" you say quietly. The words are fragile, like glass, and you feel as though you could see them floating in the air between you, and now the ball is in his court, he has the choice of either shattering them or taking them and caring for them, embracing their vulnerability.

Quirinus sighs. Bending down, he closes the distance between your lips and his, and he lets you lean into him. His arms are around you, and he's stroking your hair very slowly, and the last teardrops fall from the corners of your eyes, the salt merging on your intertwining tongues.

A pigeon coos outside the window, somewhere down in the garden.

You break apart very softly. His eyes meet yours and this time, you're looking into clear pools of rain, steel blue with flecks of brown - and not malevolent wells of darkness.

Everything is gentle, as though to him, you're made of smoke that could blow away, out of shape, at the tiniest indication of rough movement. Quirinus is reverential, almost, in the way he brushes a fingertip over stiffening nipples that subtly stretch the thin muslin of your dress over the swell of your breasts. Still standing by the window, illuminated in gold and blue and purple by the setting sun, he presses his mouth to yours again gently. "Am I hurting you?" he murmurs against you and you shake your head and kiss him harder.

He's terribly tentative, his movements slow and careful. He follows you to his bed and lets you place your legs around him as he sits on the edge of it. You're filled with the sort of happiness that makes you smile, and you bury your face in the curve between his neck and shoulder to hide it while Quirinus very gently pushes your dress up your torso, cold fingers bumping into your skin and making you arch your back slightly.

I love you, you want to say, but the words are snuffed out before they can leave your mouth because the dress is slipping over your head and falling to the floor and his hands are at your back, unclasping your bra and laying it aside. The friction of your now bare nipples against his shirt makes you breathe in sharply in pleasure. His lips are trailing over your shoulder, over the smattering of freckles there. The tiny hairs on your skin send a frisson of something beautiful down your arched spine.

[edenspoem]

unrelated but please write more fluff 😭😭 i loooove your way of writing sm 🩷

okay, let me just think of something random I can make into a poem to lighten my blog a little. think i'll do artist!ellie. first drabble thats mostly just poetry woop woop? (you'll see this kind of stuff in any fluff/angst/fantasy au i write) cw: internal organs mentioned, kinda angsty? idk sorry i get DEEP. thats it.

There's an artist in the bungalow.

She's got a mane of fire and a heart of clay. She is everything but skin and bone— for she has borne houses of stars and planets alike. The cosmos is her, and she is the cosmos. In her kindled hand is a means to create, whether she a weeping willow or gone livid in the pursuit for her head. Anguish be her tale of past days over this bungalow, because when all hope was sunken without acquainting grace, you rose upon it on two feet in ache.

You've a body similar— wrists that rebuke gold and sprout isles of lichens interchanging of your fine sylphine hairs. Borne was you, arteries dropped like glue and fled this earth like wax into hot gas, rising and rising somewhere new— instead, branches lie dying with you, inside you, a part of you, giving life to the marrow that is pulsing you. Wood is rot, bark is flaying, you are falling, that is okay. For the cosmos are desolate and resplendent with corpses by the shedload too. She is you, and you are her.

That's why she reached out for you, gave a hand made for crafting— and crafted you her partner.

One day, she took you through her quaint, oaken bungalow. A finger she lifted, pointing out everything mundane and.. commonplace. She pointed at her casement brown—trim windows, calling them the 'eyes of our house', watching the eons age this house away. She then pointed to her hallways, and likened them the 'throats of our house', swallowing every being and spitting them out a whole new person. She would give a last point, towards her bedroom and deem it the, 'heart of our house', for it pumps with life and watches bodies lie there— aging, waning, ever becoming moribund with their lovers held dear, pulse to pulse.

And you question sweetly, "Why are you telling me this, Ellie?"

Why?

Why elucidate the likeness of a visual so natural and so unquestioned in the form of organs? You question, but you do not look. Ellie replies, smooth of her tongue, "Wouldn't be fun if I just said it was my house." completely skipping the main trigger for question— 'our, our.. ours' and no longer just, 'her, her.. hers'.

It is your house. It is her house. It is a bungalow.

No odds about it, be it a jerry—built swamp house, a boxy mansion cruelly boasting over a crag, or a cottage swarmed in pixies preordained to rot in the woods it relies life on; it is a being. It eats personage, lets them linger, and absorbs them at the end of their existence— just like the earth will when it dies. Houses are like us.

Roofs see the same night airglow we gaze at, splayed amongst the grass, you lay with her.

"There's the little dipper, and.. that's the big dipper." croaked Ellie, aiming that same pointer towards the realm above, the dotted fabric we call 'the sky'.

"How can you even tell so easily— is there something wrong with my eyes?" quipped you, pressing the flank of your fist into your cinched eyes, clearing them.

"D'ya need me to point them out again?" She rolls upon her side, rending grass stuck onto her back, "Cause I can point you all the constellations visible right—"

Silenced. You push up on elbows and toss a hand to cradle, bringing her face into yours for a word—gobbling kiss, letting the dying hum vibrate down your chest. Ellie talks too much.

"Nhhmm.."

Satisfied. Spit smacking apart, it draws a line from pink plump to your plump of lip, and severs when you depart enough.

Her lower lip rolls inward, sucking sweetly of the spit you laid upon her mouth, coughing, "Ahem— that.. so you don't want me to show?" Dumbass. "No."

"Ooh—kay," drawled Els', the shuffling of leather and lawn surfing through your senses just a moment as she adjusts, planting that charmed chin on your shoulder— smushed like a rotten apple, "No show." and smiled, bless her smile.

So you lay, let the lay of petrichor waft into your head, and sleep away. Sleep away the life, sleeping away with yours— and hers.

just a teensy bit rushed but hope this is suitable

[lordsovorn]

Raptors

Cruel beasts. Demons, some call them. Scourge.

Lore under the cut:

The simplicity of these things only highlights the contradictions. There is nothing inherently unnatural about them. Nothing supernatural even more so. Understandable why a prouder person might feel indignant that these mere beasts, just a bunch of pack-hunting "bug dogs", are one of the main reasons for the final collapse of human civilization. And yet, it is the fearful who survive, not the proud ones.

The Raptors are the only things in the Under, other than humans, distinctly adapted to light and open spaces. Their keen eyesight is nearly unmatched in an environment with almost no lines of sight, and they are remarkably fast runners for a world of crags and tunnels. At the same time, their strong claws and limbs make them capable climbers, while the tail provides balance in a variety of positions. Bones provide strength, segments of chitinous armor they regularly shed provides renewable protection. Smart and coordinated, deadly and durable. Excellent predators. Entirely unsuited to the environment of the Under.

Just like humans.

It is in this way that Raptors proved to be such a persistent menace. Occupying much the same unstable niche in the world of darkness, they are both a competitor for food and a predator, forced into a rather narrow diet. Nothing about an individual Raptor is extraordinary - perhaps knowledgable Elders might have compared them to wolfs. Dangerous, worthy of fear, but killable. But there is no end to this tangled forest, and no prey except for stranded men. They are hungry and desperate, and fearful too, and so they retreat and come back in bigger numbers, with more complicated strategies. Raptors have ravaged the lines of communications and patrol, starved out of the outposts, raided the Farms to the point they are now completely unmanned. Nothing intimidating about one of them. Nothing unnatural about a pack. But as an endless onslaught of pack after pack of resorceful and adaptive hunters, they are a demonic unstoppable scourge, whose source humans were never able to track down.

They fill the caves with their screeching, grinding vocalizations, and follow the echoes and the sounds of panicked feet. Raptors are careful and vicious in their natural pragmatism, prefering to ambush and wound prey, overwhelm it with a coordinated pack attack, and turn its fear against itself. Like their namesake implies, they need not kill to start eating - grasping an injured creature with their massive talons, Raptors cut through flesh with their sharp mandibles and peel chunks of meat right off the bone.

[ankoku-teion]

A barren clifftop, the stone scraped bare of moss by the howling winds, and roilubg waters far below. This is an edge place, a boundary place where land meets sea and sky. Where the forest gives way to the crag.

Boundaries can become bridges, if you know what you're doing.

I carve my symbols into the face of this jagged tooth of rock. The pentagram, natures ward, that guards from harm. A red candle at each point, to give it warmth and light.

Next The Seraph's Circle, 23 sacred names in angelic script, to summon and to bind in place.

Then comes the Mage's Circle, 15 words in Old Enoch's glyphs, the potency that piers the rest.

To north, east, south, and west, the four black candles that burn with a blue light, these give shape to the shapeless, form to the formless, mind to the mindless.

Last comes the ring of salt, to purify and seal the whole construction.

I take my place before the point of the star, within the salt seal, but without the magic's ward. And I speak the words of summoning.

"bones of the earth, breath of the wind. Blood of the sea, and soul of the fire. Gaia's child, I summon you. By blood and bone and breath I give you form, spirit of the word. Hear your name and come. @maryland-officially."