#general springs the stubborn fool

[crxssdhearts]

@slivertm (any muse)

Cillian needed to train. He needed to feel the metal of his sword in his hands and take something down with it. Luckily for him, he had made nice with some of the staff in the palace and he had been shown the training arena it had. It was exactly what he needed that day. With his two favorite swords strapped to his back, he found his way into the place of refuge he had made in the dusk court. He needed every swing of his sword that day to take his frustration and to make sure he kept his temper in check. Fifteen minutes in he was sweating, so he stripped off his tunic. Thirty minutes in he began to feel the familiar burn that told him he was working hard. Forty-five minutes and he was breathing heavy, but not losing any form or power in his strikes. He was so focused on the target, so focused on what he was doing he hadn't heard the other enter.

[crxssdhearts]

Cillian had found himself in temple often when he was back home. His mother encouraged it. He wasn't sure he was much a of a believer, back then he went to appease her. Now, being in this place that he didn't know, trying to figure out what was going on, and everything happening with the king, he thought a temple visit sure couldn't hurt. "That is certainly truth it appears." He nodded. He couldn't help but agree with the High Lord. He had no idea what he thought he might find there either, but he figured he would try it as he had tried everything else as of late. "I am afraid I am the same. Not sure what I can gather from the priestesses." He shrugged his shoulders. "I am the same as most. We are keeping things together, but are certainly feeling the strain of having been away from home for so long." He debated for a moment about his next question. He wasn't sure how it would be taken but ultimately decided to a more general ask, than specific one about Eri. "How is your family doing?"

a  temple  was  one  place  he  scarcely  stepped  foot  unto  in  dawn,  he  has  nothing  against  the  concept  of  prayer,  and  these  he  certainly  felt  as  if  it  could  not  hurt  to  adopt  this  practice.  he'd  heard  some  of  the  other  dawn  fae  speak  favorable  of  dusk  temples,  and  while  they  were  nothing  like  that  of  prythian  -  consider  this  court  did  not  have  high  priestess,  his  curiosity  certainly  lured  him  towards  one.  saint,  however,  doesn't  expect  to  find  his  youngest  sister's  fiancee,  but  he  offers  the  man  a  slight  nod  of  acknowledgement.  while  he  has  nothing  against  the  man,  he  knew  the  betrothal  between  cillian  and  lyn  was  one  made  against  his  sister's  will  by  their  father.  one  that  he'd  also  ended  for  her  sake  when  he  took  his  father's  life.  "seems  one  way  or  another  most  of  us,  non-believers  alike  will  find  ourselves  here."  he  muses,  sparing  the  other  a  glance  before  turning  his  gaze  to  the  front  of  the  temple.  "to  be  frank,  i'm  not  certain  what  i  came  here  seeking."  it  wasn't  an  entire  lie.  he  doubted  he'd  find  answers  here,  but  perhaps  it  would  aid  him  in  clearing  his  mind.  "how  are  you  faring,  lord  cillian?"

[twilighttheater]

If you were mine, I would be cruel. You would be my plaything and I would toy with you and I would hurt you and I would smile about it. I'd keep pushing and pulling to see just how much strain I can put you under before something somewhere buckles. When things twist a little too far I would walk away without looking back.

But, you aren't mine.

Since you aren't mine, I won't hurt you. (Rather, I should say that I'll hurt you less.) I am unable to smile about it. I suppose I'm still going to be unfair to you either way. I don't think I can help that.

-To Blanc.

"If you were mine, I'd..." Finish it in my ask

It's probably the most brutally honest thing he's ever heard from him. Never have words ever felt so much like knives personally aimed at his throat, like a sore reminder that no matter how you tame a feral creature they will remain so. But even while staring down the metaphorical blade, he's not scared in the way that someone would normally be.

Where's his famed sense of self-preservation? He supposes that what he's doing could be viewed as idiotic especially in the face of this. But he still doesn't feel he's in any danger, even while he directly feels the need to fight back against several points.

He breathes a sigh.

"If you really think of me as not yours, I won't try to change your mind." He gives a light shrug, "but I do think that even if you did consider me yours, I don't believe that you would hurt me the way you're implying you would; not with such intention anyway."

The intention behind it, matters a lot more in his mind.

"I'm not doubting what you're capable of, I've only seen a fraction of what you can do I'm sure, and even this description is generalizing. You know my life practically inside and out, there's a lot of havoc you could wreak without even trying."

"But you don't." He points it out so simply, "you don't, and I trust that you won't. Because I choose to believe that our connection is stronger than your want to destroy it all."

"If I am not already, I can be yours without you tearing my life apart." He's adamant, refusing to believe that the two options given are the only choices. "You can call me a fool idealist again for suggesting this, but I said it before: if you hated my ideals that much, I don't think you would still be here. Evidently there must be something that you see that makes not tearing my life to shreds, more worth it than doing so."

"...But that's just what I think anyway," his stubborn expression fades to one of patience, and understanding. "I think a lot of this is up to you to think about. But I already knew that you were going to be unfair to me at times, and that you can't entirely help that."

He actually manages to smile.

" "Of course I’ll hurt you. Of course you’ll hurt me. Of course we will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. To become spring, means accepting the risk of winter." "

"And nobody knows how to handle winter, better than I do."

[crxssdhearts]

Cillian chuckled. "Well if its only for the day I guess I will take it." He teased. "It is beautiful." He added. "So, what do you think of the dragons?" He asked his cousin as they walked heading towards the gardens. "I was trying to imagine them flying in Spring and all I could think of was how the other creatures in the wood would react." He shrugged. "I noticed the horses here don't even flinch, but I can see Cleo freaking out. She would not like them." He added speaking about his chesnut colored horse back home. He had her as long as he could remember, a touch of sadness hitting his eyes at her thought of her.

Her face brightens even more at his acceptance, a stroll was always far better in good company of another. without hesitation she takes his arm as the begin a slow but steady walk, perhaps she would guide them to the gardens covered in the beautiful mantel of white it was a entirily different sight than the greenery she had grown accustomed too, she was fascinated. "you're no officially my favorite person of the day." she muses. "i think i might love this weather, of course spring will always be the main one in my heart, but look how beautiful and still everything looks." she points out.

[tathrin]

Angmeril 7, 13 & 40.

Question J?

Ahh, Angmeril! I would love to talk about her, thank you anon. (Questions from this list.)

7. What triggers nostalgia for them, most often? Do they enjoy that feeling?

I don't think it's something that has a lot of weight or meaning for her before she leaves the Greenwood, but once she (reluctantly) sails to the Undying Lands I think that she ends up pretty consumed by nostalgia, because she didn't want to come and doesn't want to be here and desperately misses her home and her people and she feels so very, very alone without them and her trees.

At that point anything can trigger the feeling/memories, and often does. The wind whispering through the branches of trees that sounds a little bit like it did at home? The wind not sounding like it did at home? A flash of the right shade of green on someone's clothes, a shadow that hits her face just right, the moon framed by the fingers of tree-branches overhead? etc etc.

Once more of her people cross the Sundering Sea and they decide to start making their own space in Aman, start the effort of bonding with and settling in a new forest, it gets better (because she has a distraction, because she has a place that might someday be home) but also worse, because there's so much more to remind her now; because this simple plain young forest doesn't have any of Greenwood's strength, its weight. Because for a moment she can maybe fool herself, glancing out at the trees...but they're not the same, and she can't fool herself for long, and then it hurts more.

So to the question of whether she enjoys the feeling...? Well, yes and no. Because it's painful, so painful, to feel forever sundered from your home and all you know and love. But her memories are also all she has left of the Greenwood now, so as much as the reminder of her losses hurts her, she cherishes them too.

13. What color do they think they look best in? Do they actually look best in that color?

Oooh this is an interesting one. Definitely some shade of green and that would likely suit her, with pale spring greens looking striking against her rich brown skin and darker, deeper greens making the sort of faded-bark-brown of her hair pop in contrast. For preference, I feel like she'd mostly dress more for blending with her trees than standing out against them, so it's convenient that that coloring suits her. She'd probably look equally good in blues, but greys and some shades of browns might make her look washed-out, I'm thinking. Reddish-browns would either look really rich and vibrant on her, or very wan; it would depend very much on the individual tones.

I think in general she dresses very plainly and practically, and especially during and following the Last Alliance she pretty much eschews any concerns for aesthetics. (See: the hair chopping incident.) Her only ornamentation in those years would be flowers that somebody (Thranduil, Merilgais, the kids, whomever) wants to braid into her hair or loop around her neck. Even in Aman, where there's endless time and no danger to fight, I think she'd stick with a lack of ornamentation and "superficial" interest in her own appearance both from habit and out of stubbornness—very plain clothes, braids whose complexity is solely a result of wanting to keep the hair held back securely rather than out of joy in the patterns themselves, etc—until Gimli comes along and starts gifting everybody with jewelry that's made with too much love and care to refuse. (Then it turns out some of the haughtier Noldor are irritated by seeing the "simple" Greenwood elves prancing around with brand new dwarf-made accessories, so she makes sure never to go out without at least one bracelet or hair-comb after that!)

40. How sensitive are they to their own flaws?

In some ways probably too much. Angmeril inherits her mother's sense of (over)responsibility, and takes on a lot of guilt for not doing enough—about anything: not being able to keep more of her people alive during the Last Alliance, not being able to fill-in for their missing parents for Merilgais better, not being able to free her forest of all threats, not being able to stay and continue to defend her trees and see her son grow up...etc. She's focused on the practicalities almost to the point of being cheerless sometimes when things are dark; even when there isn't an imminent threat she's still always running what-ifs? in her brain, constantly aware that there could be a threat and consequently very unforgiving of herself when she doesn't reach her own expectations.

In others, however, she'll definitely gloss-over both her own flaws and those of her fellow Greenwood elves, out of mingled pride and defensiveness. How dare those uppity High Elves say that Oropher was to blame for the "recklessness" of the charge that saw so many of her people killed? If Gil-galad wasn't such a pompous, arrogant, condescending ass that he refused to "set his ego aside" and order the rest of the army to follow what was obviously the right call, Greenwood wouldn't have been slaughtered and the siege would never had happened because they'd have defeated Sauron right then and there! And Gil-galad definitely had it coming when she decked him for expressing his sympathies for their losses too. She's protective of those she loves, sometimes at the expense of a rational assessment of reality.

Angmeril is not as (sometimes willfully) oblivious as some elves of the Greenwood (cough*Merilgais*cough) so she knows that sometimes they aren't in the right, or have to at least take a share of the blame, etc etc — but she's very good at mentally skipping-over that possibility whenever there's a chance to blame a Calaquendi, especially a Noldor and especially someone related to Gil-galad instead (Elrond is very lucky that she wasn't still in Middle-earth when he sent Legolas off with the Fellowship into danger y'all). She's also got a fair portion of that "the best way out is through" attitude that defines so much of Mirkwood's elves, so sometimes self-awareness falls to the wayside in favor of just yeeting herself directly at the problem until one or the other (or both) of them are eliminated. Problem solved, yes?

Thank you so much for giving me an excuse to think and ramble about Angmeril, anon, she's one of my favorite bits of Greenwood and I don't get to write her much due to timeline. Thanks!

[sacerdotessa]

TAROT GUIDE FOR BEGINNERS

Hi cuties! I tried to create an apposite blog for witchcraft/spiritual stuff but tumblr decided to be a bad bitch and marked my blog as a spammer, so I decided to post this guide here on my main blog. These observation are based on my 6+ years experience with tarot cards. I need some friends in the witchcraft community and more blog to follow, like this post and I will check your blog! <3

⚠️ If you want to repost this on your Instagram, please tag the creator: @sacerdotess4 on IG⚠️

Sorry for my bad english.

MAJOR ARCANA: 

The Fool (0) :  This card is all about cycles, it could be referred to a new beginning in your life, a feeling of joy and excitement. It could also be associated with an happy ending followed by the beginning of something even better.

it's usually a positive card and it's energy's able to protect you from the energy of negative cards. It suggests you to have faith, to act in a positive and optimistic way and to follow your instinct.

in some occasion it could mean impulsive and childish behavior and a return to “point zero”.

It's referred to something that's going to happen pretty soon.

The Magician (I) : This card's about YOU and your ability to excel in a specific aspect of life. You have the ability to be successful and the strength to overcome obstacles, it reminds that you are the creator of your destiny. It's also connected to intelligence and suggests you to connect to your higher self. It's an invite to ACT NOW and to avoid procrastination.

In a negative scenario it could be referred to a manipulative person with bad intentions.

It's referred to something that's going to happen pretty soon.

The High Priestess (II) : This card's all about secrets and things that are hidden from you. It could also mean that you're not allowed to receive the answer for your question (I noticed that if this card come out frequently during your readings it's signal to stop doing tarot for a while and to recharge your energy). It suggest you to connect with your spiritual side and to follow your intuition or that you're going to receive a wise advice from someone that's close to you.

The Empress (III) : It's all about confidence, self-love and being happy with your yourself, sometimes it could be related to a mother or to a woman in your life. It announces a time of personal growth, self discovering and connection with your truer self. It's related to a happy state of mind, creativity, new projects and love stories. It suggest you to believe in yourself and in your ability to create something new.

It's related to spring/summer and announces that you're going to see the product of your work in a while, changes will not be noticeable immediately.

The Emperor (IV) : This card suggests you to act in a strong and powerful way, to persist and to follow your goals. Like The Magician it suggests that the right time to act is NOW and that you should put your needs first. What you're hoping to achieve is already yours.

In a negative scenario it could be related to a stubborn and closed minded individual who's not going to compromise.

The Hierophant (V) : Like the High Priestess, this is a card about secrets and things that are hidden, in this case the card shows you that a secret's going to be revealed pretty soon or a conflict will be solved. It reminds of a situation of peace and clarity. It's also referred to a marriage or a long term relationship, to your father or an older man in your life, to a teacher, mentor or a guide. It announces the resolution of a problem.

In negative scenarios this card protects you from the negative cards and suggest you that the obstacles will be solved fast.

The Lovers (VI) : This card's all about duality, choices and relationships. It could suggest a romantic relationship or romantic interests, but it's not always the case, sometimes it suggest an important decision that's going to change your life. It reminds that you should trust your emotions and follow them. It can talks about a partner or someone who's in love with you, a reciprocated crush, good choices and happiness.

The Chariot (VII) : It's a card about victory and overcoming fears. It suggests that you're going to win and to excel, but first you need to overcame some obstacles. It could be related to travels. It reminds you that success is around the corner, your commitment will be repaid.

The Strength (VIII) : It's a card about commitment, power and pride. In a love reading it reminds of a strong feeling, true love and honesty. It suggests to maintain a positive and optimistic attitude e to stay focused on your goals. In a reading about a specific problem it suggest that you need to be patience because the solution of the problem's not there already, you need to wait for a while and to fight against your problem a little more, it suggest you to be optimistic because you have all the abilities to overcame your obstacles.

It's usually referred to the summer.

The Hermit (IX) : It's related to intelligence, being wise, loneliness and research. It suggests a lonely period and introspection, a transitioning phase in your life, you should take advantage of this period for studying something new and the card suggests you to read more books. If you are asking if you're on the right path the answer is “yes”, it suggests that your soul chose a difficult path but you're going to overcame all the obstacles. It's the right time for counseling or seeing a psychologist.

It's associated with waiting for a long time for an effective change in your life.

The Wheel of Fortune (X) : It's about changes, new opportunities and the beginning of a new cycle, usually it's a positive card but it's pretty sensitive to the influence of other cards. It suggests that you're entering in a new chapter of your life or that you're going to move on in a painful situation.

The Justice (XI) : It's a card about equality and fairness. It could be either a positive or negative card, it means that those who act good will be blessed with a positive change, those who act bad will be punished for their action. It could be related to authority and making choices, a marriage or a divorce. It suggests you that your problems will be solved in the right way, you just have to trust the universe and allow the divine energy to guide you. It's about telling the truth and talk in a clear way.

It's related to patience and long time waiting.

The Hanged Man (XII) : It's a card about blockages, anxiety, bad periods, waiting for something, impossibility to act, stagnancy. It's related to a bad situations, feeling trapped and problems that cannot be solved for now. It suggest you to wait for better occasions and to explore your spiritual side, the right intuition will come to you at the right time.

It's associated with long time waiting.

The Death (XIII) : This card's about the natural end of a cycle, radical changes, moving on and ending in general. It's not always a bad card and generally it's not related to an actual death, it will just bring a change in some aspects of your life or in a relationship. It suggests you to let go of the past. In some cases it could mean that someone of your past is going to get back into your life.

The Temperance (XIV) : It's about finding a new balance after a bad period, healing and inner work. It suggest you to relax, to calm yourself, to stay in the present moment and to take care of yourself. It's a positive card and announces a period of calm and peace of mind. It's a good time for counseling, seeing a therapist, begin a diet or take care of yourself in general.

The Devil (XV) : It's a card about obsession, secrets, negativity, manipulative behavior, gossips and bad energy in general. It announces an obstacle in a situation or that someone's not being honest to you. It's related to anxiety, being worried, hyper sexuality and toxicity.

In a good scenario it could be related to a passionate person, with persuasive manners and a charismatic personality.

The Tower (XVI) : It's about destruction, surprises, shocking events. It's not necessarily a bad card, it's always associated to an unexpected event, in a good scenario it could mean “love at first sight”. As a mental state, it's connected to depression, anger and mental breakdowns. It forces you to let go of something to make space for something better.

The Star (XVII) : It's all about dreams, good luck, protection and hope. It's a good card and encourages you to dream bigger and to trust the universe. It announces a dream that's going to came true, a good opportunity and success. It's connected to spirits and suggests that they're protecting you. Everything will turn out fine. It suggests you to pray and to connect to your higher self.

In presence of bad cards, it could be referred to a dream that's not going to came true or false hope.

A change will shows up into your life at the right time.

The Moon (XVIII) : It's a card about fears, insecurities, danger and lies. Like The High Priestess, it suggests that the cards are not able to answer your question. The situation in unstable and it generates anxiety and fears. It suggests to connect with your spiritual side and make clarity inside you mind.

The Sun (XIX) : It's a positive card that announces happiness, joy and clarity. It's connected to a secret that's going to be revealed, peace after a conflict, harmony, beauty, something good in your love life or good times with friends.

It's related to summer.

The Judgement (XX) : It's a positive card related to resurrection, resolutions, shocking news. In some ways it's like a positive version of The Tower, it could be connected to love at first sight, someone of the past that get back into your life, insights and unexpected news. It could be referred to the internet.

It's associated with something that happen in an unexpected way.

The World (XXI) : Like The Fool, it's a card referred to cycles, ending a chapter, receiving gratification after hard times. It means that now you're able to see the “biggest picture” and see things in perspective. It could be referred to an important gift, a resolution to a problem or a dream that came true. It's connected with abundance and being wise.

[baepsaesbae]

Babysitters Club

Pairing— Kim Taehyung x reader    

Genre— SMUT, fluff, babysitting au, strangers to lovers au

Warnings— Dom!Taehyung, roleplaying, face fucking, oral sex (m and f), bondage, explicit rough unprotected sex please stay safe irl, squirting, choking, hickies, a surprise cameo from Spring Will Come Again!Jungkook because I have no self control

Word Count— ~7.6k  

Summary— A generic summer job hunt leads you to babysit rowdy (but still cute) kids alongside the most handsome man you’ve ever seen. What shenanigans will you get into with Taehyung by your side?

A/N— HUGE shoutout to the lovely @kimtaehyunq​​ for making this beautiful banner for me! This was literally the Taehyung I had in mind while writing this uwu. This fic is the epitome of self indulgence but I truly hope you guys like it too! Please let me know what you think! My askbox/inbox is always open, don’t be afraid to come chat with me. Love you all, hope you guys are safe <3

Crumpled up newspapers littered the floor as another ball was apathetically tossed aside. A sigh of defeat escaped your lips as you looked up at the ceiling in desperation.

“Still at it with the job hunt, huh?” your roommate, Hyuna, said when she saw your mess, “I told you to search online. Or try to get a job at a cafe or a boba shop or something.”

“Easy jobs online seem sketchy, and I told you I don’t want to work in the food industry ever again,” you groaned.

“But you’d rather...be a babysitter?” she questioned as she held up an ad, “Wait you could get paid up to $15 an hour? That’s pretty good.”

“I didn’t see that one. Is it an agency or something?”

“Not sure, take a look,” she handed you the paper.

“Oh, it seems like it’s a daycare run out of someone’s house. They’re looking for multiple applicants. You wanna do it with me?! I think it could be fun!” you ask excitedly.

“And spend most of my summer vacation with a bunch of snot nosed brats? I don’t think so. You have fun though!” she blew you a kiss as she walked away.

You whipped your phone out and immediately called the number in the ad. This job was the only one that seemed bearable, and you thought kids were cute for the most part. You’ve had a few babysitting gigs in the past so this shouldn’t be too bad.

“Hello?” a deep voice answered the call.

“Hi, I saw your ad in the paper! I was wondering if there was still a babysitting position open?” you inquired.

“Oh yes! Yeah there’s still a spot open. Um, can you give me a sec?” the man said quickly as you heard wailing kids in the background. After two minutes or so he returned to the phone.

“I’m terribly sorry about that. You don’t have a criminal background or anything right? Gosh, I’m sure this sounds unprofessional but--”

“Nope, I don’t have any charges or anything like that. Should I call back later?” you offered since it seemed like the man was a little preoccupied.

“It’s like this all the time. Why don’t we do a practice run tomorrow? Oh! I mean, whenever you’re available to start. Or technically have an interview? I guess? Hey, don’t put that in your mouth!” the man chastised at someone in the distance.

“I can come in tomorrow!” you said.

“Great! Just use the address in the same ad you got this number from! Oh, and please get here by 9am! See you soon!” the man hung up abruptly.

“That was chaotic…” you said to yourself.

A moment later your phone began to ring. It was from the babysitting guy.

“Hello?” you answered.

“I realized I never got your name! I promise I’m not always this frazzled,” he laughed as rambunctious laughter erupted behind him.

“Oh, I’m ______,” you gave him your first and last name.

“Cool. See you tomorrow Miss ____!” he said before hanging up again.

You were actually excited to babysit. It had been a while since you had done it, and playing with kids was usually fun. Then again, you’ve never had a bad experience with babysitting before. You prayed that this gig would continue the positive trend.

Donning shorts and a simple Mickey Mouse t-shirt, (you figured some kid was bound to like the mousey character) it was time to head off to your potential workplace. The babysitting place was actually fairly close to you, only about a 10 minute drive. It was 8:55am by the time you arrived. A couple of parents walked past your car to drop off their kids. All of the kids seemed to be pretty excited to enter the house, which was definitely a good sign.

You gently knocked on the door at exactly 9am. There was no response as you awkwardly waited for about a minute or so. All you could hear was shrill laughter and thumps that you presumed was the kids running about. You realized there was a doorbell, and sighed at your foolishness.

The door opened seconds after you rang the doorbell. A tall man with dark hair greeted you with a warm smile. You were taken aback by the handsome guy, suddenly questioning whether you were at the right place or not until a child popped up from behind his shoulder and yelled out a loud “Boo!” that caused you to jump.

“Ah, sorry about that! This one is always trying to play pranks,” the man laughed as he playfully jostled the child that was latched onto his back, “You must be ______?”

“That’s me!” you say with a little too much enthusiasm.

“Cool. C’mon in, I’ll introduce you to the kids,” the man led you inside.

The living room was littered with toys, from cars to building blocks to barbies. This place was definitely a kid’s happy place. Four little kids were playing with various things when you walked in. All of the kids there seemed to be between the ages of 4 to 6. At a glance, it seemed like they were all playing house. It took you a few seconds to realize that one of the kids was actually playing by herself; she was just physically close to the other kids.

“Everyone! This is our newest helper! Her name is Miss ____. Let’s all play nicely with her okay?” the man announced.

The kids playing house immediately stopped what they were doing and rushed to you. Two boys began asking you questions in a rapid fire succession, while the little girl merely clung to your leg.

“Those two are Kota and Bel,” the man pointed to the two boys, “The little girl stuck to you like glue is Ava, and the one playing over there is Lucy,” he continued to name each child.

“AND I’M SAM!!” the last boy exclaimed over the man’s shoulder.

“Yes, this troublemaker here is Sam. That’s basically the whole gang! We could get a few more additions as the summer goes on, but these guys are the OG crew. They’re all really sweet kids, once you get to know them. Any questions so far?” your employer asked.

“I don’t think I ever caught your name, sir,” you say politely.

“Oh! No need to call me sir. I think we’re probably around the same age? Not that I’m assuming your age or anything but--”

“He’s my horsey!” Sam interrupted.

“No, he’s the chef!” Kota yelled.

“No, he’s our dad who’s not our dad,” Lucy chimed in.

“My mom told me he was a babysitter?” Bel added, now visibly confused.

“I am all of those things,” the man reassured the children, “But my name is Taehyung. The kids call me Tae or Mr. insert whatever title I have in the game we are playing on that day. Pleasure to meet ya,” Tae extends a hand out to you, “Let’s see how your first day goes.”

The first few hours consisted of a rather intricate game of pretend set up in a fantasy world. You played a princess who was captured by an evil dragon, who was played by Taehyung (you couldn’t help but think about how you wouldn’t mind being his hostage).

The boys were valiant knights on their quest to rescue you. The girls played different creatures that aided the knights as fairies or unicorns or any other things they wanted to be. Most of the game consisted of you and Taehyung sitting together in a corner of the living room. Even though you didn’t have to do anything, it was fun watching the kids play. Their imagination amused you.

“Enjoying yourself, princess?” Taehyung asked as he also watched the children run around.

His deep voice sent chills down your spine. Something about the way the word “princess” rolled off his tongue was so enchanting. You cleared your throat before answering.

“This job has been pretty fun so far, Mr. Evil Dragon,” you smile.

“Hey! I’m not evil, just misunderstood,” he protested.

“Oh no! The dragon is about to eat the princess!” one of the boys cried out.

“What? No, I’m not going to eat her,” Taehyung said defensively.

“You need to pretend to eat the princess so that the knights save her,” Lucy, the quiet one, scuttled over to whisper to the both of you before hurrying back to her spot.

Taehyung turned towards you to appease the kids as they held their breath in anticipation.

“Rawr! I’m going to eat you!” he said in a deep voice.

“Oh no! Somebody save me!” you cried out, playing along.

A few moments passed but none of the kids moved. You both turned your heads towards them in confusion. They stared back at you blankly.

“You need to bite her!” Sam demanded.

“What?” you and Tae said in unison.

“Bite her! Bite her! Bite her!” the boys started to chant.

“But not too hard!” Ava expressed her worry for you, making you smile.

“I…uh…” Taehyung was at a loss for words.

“They’re not gonna stop, are they?” you whispered to him.

He nodded with a sigh as their chanting got louder. You offered him your arm. Kids can be crazy stubborn over silly things. Besides, you’ve done worse for less (college is crazy).

Taehyung shot you an “are you sure about this?” look, to which you just nodded. Once he got the okay, Taehyung grabbed your arm and pulled you harshly, causing your face to be a mere inches away from his.

“Fools! You think you can save the princess? I will devour her before your very eyes!” Taehyung declared with an even deeper voice. He opened his mouth menacingly, as if to show off his fangs. Then, he proceeded to bite your bicep. To be honest, he was being so forceful that you thought he was going to bite you for real, causing you to involuntarily close your eyes.

Instead, he gingerly placed his teeth on your skin so lightly that you could barely feel anything. You opened your eyes to see Taehyung grinning at you with your arm in his mouth.

“Aaaaggghhh GET HIM!!” Sam yelled, leading the other boys straight into Taehyung.

Taehyung quickly let go of you before he rolled out onto the floor. The boys began to pummel Taehyung with their foam swords and pretend bows and arrows. The girls came to your aid to help you escape during the battle.

The little boys triumphantly stood over their defeated babysitter who pretended to be passed out on the floor. You applauded their victory as the girls sat by your side.

“Okay! Good game, it’s almost lunchtime,” Taehyung announced as he quickly popped back up.

“Chef Tae makes the best mac and cheese!” Ava informed you excitedly.

“I wanted dino nuggies!” Sam puffed out his cheeks in disappointment.

“Sam, you know it’s Ava’s day to pick out lunch. It’ll be your turn tomorrow okay? I promise! You guys can stay here and play with Miss ____ till food is ready,” Tae called out as he walked to the kitchen. Lucy silently followed Tae.

“Lucy likes to help out in the kitchen a lot. She sets the table,” Ava explained when she saw you watching Lucy.

“You’re good at being a princess!” Kota butted in as he ran to hug your leg.

“I like your shirt! I like Mickey Mouse too. I saw him in DisneyWorld last year,” Bel said as he clung to your other leg.

The kids took turns holding onto your legs as you tried to walk around. Apparently the thought of making you tumble over was an exciting one, and that kept the kids busy until Taehyung called for everyone.

Five little bowls of mac and cheese were set up on the dining table. The kids took their seats as Taehyung handed out juice boxes. He positioned himself by your side as the little ones began to chow down.

“I normally just eat the rest out of the pot, but since you’re here I can get you a bowl. Sorry about biting you earlier, the kids really like it when I get serious about my roles,” Taehyung chuckled as he scooped out your portion.

“It’s no problem, you’re a great actor. Thank you,” you say politely as he handed you a bowl.

Lunch was spent making small talk with Taehyung. He was a newly graduated college student trying to make extra money before starting a real job hunt.Taehyung had been running this makeshift daycare since he was a senior in highschool.

“Summers are always fun with them,” Taehyung said while smiling fondly at the kids, “How has it been so far?” he asked.

“I’ve been having a good time. The kids are all really sweet! They have so much energy,” you answer.

“They do indeed, which is why playtime is so important in the morning! It makes what comes next easier,” he winked at you before collecting the empty bowls, “Okay kiddos! Who’s ready for nap time?”

Lucy quietly raised her hand while the boys groaned. You figured it would be hard to get those active boys to settle down, let alone to take a nap. You helped Taehyung set up blankets and pillows in the game room. The kids made a beeline to their designated blankets without a fuss.

“Do you sing, Miss _____?” Taehyung asked out of the blue.

“Um, not really?” you say hesitantly.

“Ah, I see. No worries. Everybody ready?” he said.

“Yes!” all the kids replied.

“Alrighty. Do you have any song requests, Miss ____?”

You thought about which songs would make for a decent lullaby, “Do you know Adore You by Harry Styles?”

“I’ll have to look up the lyrics but yeah I like that song! I like his whole album actually,” Taehyung nodded as he pulled out his phone and took a deep breath, “Walk in your rainbow paradise~”

You were shocked by his vocal talent. His voice control was superb and the quality of his voice was downright euphoric. Even though Taehyung’s voice is deeper than Harry Styles’, his range was incredible. He was still able to go as high as Harry without any trouble. All the kids had fallen sound asleep by the time he finished the song.

“This is when I typically have about an hour of free time,” he said after quietly leading you back into the kitchen.

“You have such a beautiful voice! Do you sing to them every day?” you praised him.

“Thanks! Yeah, I sing to them every day. They used to get duets actually,” Taehyung sighed.

“Did you have another coworker before?” you asked.

“Yep. My best friend actually. He’s my roommate too, but he landed an internship this summer so he couldn’t be here. I’m very proud of him! But usually this is a job for two people so I decided to put that ad out. I’m happy you came out! The kids seem to like you,” Taehyung gave you a thumbs up.

“I hope so! Lucy might be scared of me though,” you recalled the way she mostly avoided you all morning.

“Nah, she’s just really shy. She told me that she thought you were really pretty though, so that’s a good sign!” he tried to reassure you.

“I guess it must be true then. Kids are brutally honest,” you smiled.

“She definitely wasn’t lying,” Taehyung smiled back at you.

You had to look away awkwardly to hide your blushed cheeks. There’s no way you could handle a direct smile from this guy. How was it possible for someone to be that handsome without even trying?!

“So what happens after naptime?” you quickly asked to change the subject.

“Basically more playing until their parents come. It honestly just depends on what the kids wanna do. We can play inside, in the backyard, and sometimes we go to the park,” Taehyung answered with an amused smile, “Let’s use this free time to conduct a more formal interview, shall we?”

Taehyung then asked you a series of questions about your summer schedule, if you’re willing to work every day of the week, how you feel about the kids, along with other things. You answered truthfully and kept up a professional demeanor. Taehyung seemed to be satisfied with your answers and leaned back in his chair.

“That all works for me! The people who really need to approve of you are the parents. I’ll introduce you to them later this afternoon. I’m sure they’ll all be fine once I vouch for you,” he nodded.

Soft giggles caught your attention. Taehyung signaled that break time was now over and led the way back to the living room. Kota and Bel were wrestling each other while the others threw pillows at them.  

“Did everyone have a good nap?” Taehyung sing songed.

“Yes!” they replied.

“Can we play house now?” Ava asked.

“Yeah! Miss ____ can be the mommy now!” Sam bounced up in excitement, “Our last mommy used to be a boy.”

“Jimin was a great mommy and I’m sure he misses you all dearly. Jimin is my roommate/best friend/ex-cobabysitter,” Taehyung explained.

The game of house was more hands on from your end. The kids demanded you to carry them and read them stories like a real mommy would. It was mainly the girls who wanted to play with you, while the boys took turns wrestling with Tae or riding on his back. You were braiding Lucy’s hair when the doorbell rang.

“Kota! Your mom is here!” Taehyung called from the front.

All the kids trickled out one by one as their parents arrived. Taehyung introduced you to each parent; their reactions were all positive, especially when their kids raved about you being the new Jimin.

“If she’s anything like Jimin, then I have nothing to worry about. I trust your judgement, Taehyung,” one of the sterner looking parents said (Sam’s father to be exact).

“Congrats! You got the job,” Taehyung congratulated you once all of the children were picked up, “We get paid on Fridays. I’ll basically just split what we earn 50/50, cool?”

“That’s fine by me! I’m looking forward to working with you,” you bow graciously.

“Ah! No need to be so formal. We’re partners now! I’m not your boss or anything,” Taehyung gave you a friendly pat on the shoulder, “See you tomorrow!”

Summer was about to get rather eventful. All of the children warmed up to you surprisngly quickly, even timid Lucy (who had arguably grown the most fond of you). As the days went on, you couldn’t help but admire Taehyung’s kindness and patience when it came to the kids. From firm to understanding, he was everything a caregiver should be. He handled spats between kids with ease, often by making them forgive each other then laugh at some silly joke of his.

One afternoon, the kids voted to watch a Disney movie. All seven of you curled up on the couch together with you and Taehyung in the middle. Lucy sat in your lap while Bel sat in Taehyung’s. Halfway through the movie, Taehyung fell asleep. The kids didn’t notice since they were so engrossed in the movie. You however, DID notice. Mostly because he rolled his sleepy head onto your shoulder.

Your heartbeat quickened as you slowly turned to take a peek at the handsome man sleeping beside you. He looked angelic, and you realized that he smelled pleasant too. He had a sweet scent that was uncharacteristic for a young man. You took a deep breath and pretended not to notice him. He didn’t wake up until the doorbell rang near the end of the movie.

He seemed to be confused and perhaps even slightly flustered when he lifted his head from your shoulder, but quickly shrugged it off to go answer the door. The incident (and the drool on your shoulder) was never mentioned.

It had been a month since you started babysitting with Taehyung, and it honestly had been a lot more fun than you expected. The kids are wonderful silly little beings and Taehyung is...well...Taehyung.

You were cleaning up the living room on a late Friday afternoon after all the kids had been picked up. Taehyung was somewhere splitting up the week’s paycheck. Once all the toys were back in their respective bins, it was time to gather your stuff and go.

“Great work this week,” Taehyung commended as he handed you your cut.

“Thanks! Same to you as always. I’ll see you on Monday,” you wave as you open the front door.

“Actually um--” Taehyung cleared his throat.

“Yes?” you whipped around with almost too much eagerness.

“My friend is part of an art gallery showing tomorrow night and I was wondering if you’d like to go with me? I heard there will be drinks and finger foods…” Taehyung trailed off, presumably due to imagining what kind of snacks will be served.

“I’d love to! I’m not an expert on art or anything, but it sounds cool,” you smile.

“No worries, I’m no expert either. I’m just a guy who appreciates neat expressions of creativity,” he nodded humbly, “I can pick you up at your place, if you’d like.”

“Sure, I’ll text you my address. Oh uh, what’s the dress code like? I don’t really attend these things,” you ask shyly.

“I’d say a step down from formal? Like no t-shirts or jeans. Pretend like you’re going on a date to some restaurant that isn’t a michelin star but is still classier than Olive Garden,” Taehyung tried to explain.

“I’ll do my best,” you smile at his peculiar way of describing the appropriate attire.

A smile never left your face as you drove home. A chance to hangout with Taehyung one on one without any kids around? All of his attention will be on you? Yes please. You love the kids and all, but you finally have a real chance to get closer to Taehyung. To be honest, you might have the teensiest little crush on him, but who could blame you?

The next day was spent preparing for your night out with Taehyung. It probably wasn’t a date (90% sure it’s not), but you wanted to look irresistible anyway. You put on a purple dress with flowy sleeves that made you feel like a princess. It was on the dressier side, but being slightly overdressed never hurt anyone.

You usually only had time to slap on mascara and a lip tint in the mornings before babysitting, but now you had abundant time to play around with your makeup. You settled for a soft yet glamorous look with shimmery eyeshadow and eyeliner. Sparkly lip gloss tied the whole look together and made your lips look tempting (or so you hoped). You decided to leave your hair alone since you were having a miraculously good hair day.

“Wow are you sure this isn’t a date?” Hyuna whistled when she walked into your room.

“It’s not! This is just the first time Taehyung will see me actually trying to look good,” you say defensively.

“You’re cute even in ratty t-shirts, but I get what you mean. Have fun tonight!” your roommate gave you a tight hug.

A strong knock on your front door indicated Taehyung’s arrival. Hyuna tagged along as you went to answer the door; she wanted to see the guy you’ve been gushing over for the past month for herself.

Your mouth hung open in shock for a split second when you opened the door. Taehyung also dressed up. He was wearing a bright sunflower shirt paired with a black blazer that perfectly combined fun with sophistication. He wore a red silky bandana looking belt for an added pop of color with his black pants.

“Hey Taehyung!” you greet him happily.

“Good evening, Miss ____. You look spectacular!” he complimented you immediately.

“So do you! It’s funny seeing you not in a t-shirt, though I’m sure you’re thinking the same thing,” you say.

“You’re charming even in your graphic tees, but this is a nice change of pace too,” Taehyung agreed.

“Hi! I’m Hyuna, ____’s roommate,” Hyuna butted in to shake his hand.

“Hi, I’m Taehyung, ____’s babysitting partner,” he introduced himself.

“We should get going,” you say politely before Hyuna could start to get chatty.

Hyuna mouthed an exaggerated “oh my god” coupled with a double thumbs up as you waved goodbye after Taehyung was already out the door. You playfully rolled your eyes but blew her a kiss anyway.

“I didn’t realize you lived so close to me,” Taehyung said as he pulled away from the curb.

“Yeah, it made the job even more appealing,” you nodded.

“I really am glad that you applied,” Taehyung said softly, as if to himself.

“Sorry, what was that?” you couldn’t hear him properly.

“Nothing! I said I’m glad you agreed to accompany me tonight!” Taehyung quickly stated.

“Thanks for inviting me out! I’m actually pretty excited,” you admitted.

The gallery was somewhere in the swanky part of downtown. You gazed out of the window at all of the high end stores Taehyung drove by. Everyone walking around the stores looked like supermodels, which was actually pretty intimidating. What if the people at the gallery looked like that too?

“We’re here!” Taehyung announced, interrupting your thoughts.

There was a decent amount of people wandering around the venue when you both entered. It was basically one big dimly lit room with spotlights on pieces scattered around on the walls plus some sculptures in the middle. Thankfully, the patrons already inside looked like normal people, most of them probably students like you.

“Taehyung!” someone called from the side of the room.

You both made your way towards the voice, only to find a man who was just as handsome as Taehyung greeting you with a bunny like smile. He had long hair that almost covered up his assorted dangly earrings. He definitely had art student vibes mixed with a dash of bad boy. The boys greeted each other with a ferocious hug, indicating that they’re probably good friends.

“Oh! What’s up, I’m Jungkook,” the boy shook your hand once he noticed you.

“She’s my babysitting partner this summer,” Taehyung said proudly.

“She’s replacing Jimin huh?” Jungkook laughed, “Taehyung and Jimin are like my brothers. We were all pretty close in college and are batchmates, even though I’m younger than them,” he stuck his tongue out at Taehyung.

“Yeah yeah okay whatever. Skipping grades in elementary school and bringing in a ton of transfer credits will help you do that I guess,” Taehyung shook his head even though he was still smiling.

“Are these your pictures?” you asked Jungkook, motioning to the mounted pictures behind him.

“Yeah! I took most of these in Madrid, I’ve been working abroad for my dream company,” Jungkook answered you proudly.

“Who’s this?” Taehyung pointed to a picture of a girl laughing by a giant tree.

“Yeah, she’s gorgeous!” you added.

“She’s um...a good friend. She was the perfect model,” Jungook said with a faraway look in his eyes that told you there was more to the story.

“Tell me more about her on our next phone call. Tonight is for celebrating you!” Taehyung picked up on Jungkook’s sudden change of tone.

You enjoyed listening to their old college stories as the boys reminisced about their past together. Jungkook relished telling you all of Taehyung’s embarrassing moments at various parties. Taehyung returned the favor by recalling Jungkook’s past run-ins with women. Despite his natural charm and god like looks, apparently Jungkook gets really nervous around girls.

You and Taehyung were on your own once Jungkook was flagged down by an older patron interested in purchasing some of his work. Taehyung stayed close to your side as you explored the rest of the gallery. Each artist was so incredibly talented as their pictures told  stories with just a single frame.

“____ look! They have those fancy charcuterie boards!” Taehyung grabbed your hand and excitedly dragged you over to the snack table. You couldn’t help but smile at his childlike elation.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’ve been getting tired of being force fed fruit snacks every day,” you laughed as you ate the assorted appetizers.

“I completely understand. Unfortunately, the kids are too sweet when they want to share. I don’t have it in me to turn them down,” Taehyung agreed.

Once the food was eaten, you resumed walking through the gallery. It was fun making up stories to go with each picture. Taehyung seemed to gravitate towards adding a romantic twist to each story, while you opted for a bit of mystery. At the end of the event, Taehyung met up with Jungkook once more to say his goodbyes.

“Thanks again for coming with me, I had fun! I hope you enjoyed yourself,” Taehyung said as he drove you back.

“It was really neat! I liked hanging out with you outside of work,” you nodded.

“Would you say it was a successful date then?” Taehyung raised an eyebrow with curiosity. Your heart skipped a beat as your eyes widened with surprise.

“Was...was this a date?” you asked quietly.

“Did you want it to be?” Taehyung teased.

“I wouldn’t have gotten so dressed up otherwise,” you said defensively, taken aback by his sudden cheekiness.

“I realized I should’ve clarified that after you had already left. My bad,” Taehyung shot you a boxy grin, “But then I figured maybe you would be more relaxed if I didn’t mention it.”

“That’s odd logic, but I guess it worked,” you admitted begrudgingly.

Taehyung walked you back up to your house. He sweetly kissed your cheek and bid you goodnight, leaving you frozen in place.

“S-see you on Monday!” was all you were able to stammer out, to which Taehyung just smiled and waved back.

Hyuna happily freaked out with you once you were back inside. She was watching you from the moment Taehyung pulled back up. She shrieked with excitement once you told her that Taehyung confirmed that it was a date. Hyuna didn’t let up with grilling questions about how your night went. She even asked if the Jungkook guy you met was single, to which you truthfully answered that you didn’t know.

“Besides, he told me himself that he’s scared of girls. You’re scary enough as is,” you teased her.

“Oh shut up. So is Taehyung like, your boyfriend now?” Hyuna asked the million dollar question.

“I don’t think so. I think it was just a date, but that’s a good start!” you declared optimistically.

Babysitting on Monday went on like normal. Taehyung didn’t act any differently, which was both concerning and relieving. You were in the backyard pretending to eat whatever dirt concoction the little kids were serving you.

“This one is for you,” Lucy quietly offered Taehyung a clump of dirt sprinkled with blades of grass, topped with a dandelion.

“Oh, how pretty! What is it?” Taehyung played along.

“It’s a love potion. The next person you hug will fall in love with you,” Lucy smiled.

A smirk crept on Taehyung’s face as he pretended to eat Lucy’s love potion. He made a satisfied “Ahh” sound that made Lucy giggle.

“Tae has to hug me now! He loves me the most!” Sam yelled as he ran over to latch onto Taehyung.

“No, Tae loves me!” Bel argued as he pulled on Taehyung’s shirt.

“That’s not how it works!” Lucy huffed as she yelled at the boys.

You watched with delight as the little kids chased Taehyung around the backyard, demanding that he has to hug them. It was easy for him to juke them out as they constantly ran back and forth. You were content with just watching them until Taehyung began to make a beeline for you.

“Oh no no no,” you cried as you got up to run.

Taehyung (and the kids) chased you around for a little bit. The backyard was on the smaller side, so there wasn’t much space to evade all of them coming for you at once. To make matters worse, Taehyung actually started to try and catch you. His speed was no joke; he was much more agile than you gave him credit for.

With one pounce, Taehyung tackled you to the ground. Somehow he managed to whip himself around while you were falling, so you ended up falling on him. Now wrapped up in his arms, Taehyung smiled up at you with a shit eating grin.

“I guess you have to fall in love with me now,” he smirked.

“You wish,” you laughed as you pulled yourself up.

“Aw now he loves Miss _____,” Sam pouted.

“No, now Miss ____ has to fall in love with Tae,” Ava corrected him.

“That’s dumb,” Kota shook his head.

“Tae! Kota said a bad word!” Bel immediately tattled.

“Kota, remember what I said about bad words. No one wants to play with someone who says mean things,” Taehyung chided him.

“Sorry,” Kota mumbled.

“Let’s play go play inside. Who wants juice?” Taehyung patted Kota’s head.

The kids followed Taehyung inside like little ducklings. You loved that sight, you always thought it was the cutest thing. The rest of the day went by without a hitch.

The topic of favorite movies came up during lunchtime the next day.

“I like Frozen 2,” Ava stated, and Lucy nodded furiously in agreement.

“Detective Pikachu was better. Pikachu is funny,” Sam interjected. The other little boys then began to argue about which pokemon was better/stronger.

“I’m not really a big movie watcher,” Taehyung confessed as he took a bite of a dino chicken nugget.

“Have you at least seen the classics? Harry Potter? Lord of the Rings? Star Wars?” you listed with concern.

“I’ve seen Harry Potter and Star Wars. I think I saw the Lord of the Rings? I can’t really remember. I know I wanted to watch the newer Lord of the Rings movies,” he chuckled at your growing disbelief.

“Newer Lord of the Rings? You mean the Hobbit series?” you were disgruntled.

“Yeah those. I didn’t realize you were a nerd,” he nudged you.

“What of it? All of those are great movies. I have copies of the Hobbit series if you ever wanted to watch them,” you offered.

“Do you wanna watch them with me?” he perked up.

“Sure, I love them! You wanna do a marathon? It’ll take up a full day though,” you warned.

“I’m down. Are you free this Sunday?”

“I believe so.”

“Great! I’m excited to see you geek out over hobbits. Okay kids, naptime!”

You drove up to Taehyung’s place Sunday morning, you weren’t kidding when you said it would take all day. Taehyung said to dress comfortably so you showed up in your sweatpants and oversized college tee. He answered the door wearing gray sweatpants and his favorite CELINE shirt. His dark fluffy hair fell over his forehead and was almost long enough to cover his eyes.

“Good morning! I hope you’re hungry. I made some waffles to eat while we watch the first movie,” he greeted you.

His humble abode smelled heavenly as the scent of dough tinged with a hint of cinnamon wafted through the air. The soft belgian waffles were delicious as they practically melted in your mouth. Taehyung asked a ton of questions with nearly every scene, but you didn’t mind. You were happy to flex your knowledge of Tolkien lore.

Hours later, you found yourself cuddled up with Taehyung as the final credits of the Battle of Five Armies began to roll. Taehyung was still trying to process everything that happened as he asked you clarifying questions about each character.

“Well crap, now I’m sad,” he pouted.

“Yeah, the ending is kind of a downer, but that’s what makes it so good! The Lord of the Rings has a happy ending if that makes you feel better,” you look up at him from his chest.

“You look cute like that,” he observed.

“Like what? Tiny from your angle?” you tilted your head.

“I guess so? Tiny, maybe submissive,” Taehyung’s voice lowered with his suggestion.

“Submissive? Is that how you see me?” you sit back up completely with defiance.

“Not at all. You’re pretty feisty, which is why making you be submissive is even more alluring,” he raised his eyebrow in a suggestive manner.

“Do you want me to be a damsel in distress for you? Not happening,” you smirked.

“Pretty princesses are good for one thing,” Taehyung hopped off the couch.

Before you could say anything, he promptly grabbed you and swung you over his shoulder. You were too shocked by his boldness and physical abilities to retaliate.

“They’re perfect for kidnapping!” he let out a dramatic evil laugh as he carried you off to his bedroom.

Once there, he roughly threw you on the bed. You couldn’t help but look around curiously since this was the first time you’ve ever seen his room. It was surprisingly neat; his bed was made and there were no messy clothing piles in sight.

“Are you an evil dragon then? Capturing princesses and such?” you teased.

“Evil dragon, dashing captor, I can be anything you want me to be. Just please not an orc,” he let out a chuckle before getting back into character, “Just know that you’re trapped here with me. No one is going to rescue you.”

“Oh no! What a terrible situation to be in! What on Earth is this extremely handsome dragon going to do with a poor defenseless princess like me?” you taunted.

“Ok this is all very hot but before we go any further, are you okay with this?” Taehyung asked sincerely.

“I can’t think of anything that I’ve wanted more,” you nodded.

“Perfect. Safe word is red,” he winked at you, “Now strip for me, princess.”

“And if I don’t?” you challenged.

Taehyung grabbed a fistful of hair on the back of your head and forcefully brought you up to his face, “I suggest not making me angry,” he sneered.

You didn’t think you were one for being manhandled, but god damn that was hot. There was already a tingle between your legs and he hadn’t even really touched you yet. You complied with his request, and quickly tore off your shirt and pants. Though you weren’t wearing any fancy lingerie, you were wearing a gray bra and gray panties that could pass off as matching.

“Mmm what a pretty treasure. It would be a shame to let it gounappreciated,” Taehyung stretched out that last word as he gently ran his fingers from your torso up to your neck before firmly grasping it.

Taehyung straddled you as his long fingers were wrapped around your neck. Slowly, he leaned down to kiss you. Though apprehensive at first, he gradually got more bold with it. His tongue dipped into your mouth the instant your lips parted. His other hand crept under your bra to fondle your breast.

“You take your clothes off too,” you said as soon as the kiss broke.

“You don’t get to make any demands, silly princess,” Taehyung shook his head.

You pouted and reached out to tug at his pants anyway. Big mistake. Taehyung slapped your hand away and slammed you back onto the bed.

“You don’t listen, huh? I’ll have to do something about that. Stay still or else you’ll make things worse for yourself,” he ordered.

You reluctantly obeyed, partly because you were curious about what he was going to do, and partly because you were actually intimidated by him. He returned back to the bed a few seconds later, but with a familiar silky red belt in hand.

“Give me your hands. Good girl,” he smiled deviously as he bound them together, “Remember the safe word is red, okay?” he gently reminded you.

He looked down at you with a satisfied grin as he began to take off his sweatpants. He had an obvious bulge in his underwear that outlined his massive dick. You were further entranced by his physique when he took off his shirt. He wasn’t ripped, but he was still fit, as you could plainly see when his chest was finally revealed.

“Open wide, princess,” he demanded.

You opened your mouth, and even flattened your tongue out a little bit for him. He pulled his cock out of his underwear, finally exposing his full length. You doubted you could fit even half of him in your mouth, but at this point it wasn’t up to you.

Taehyung lowered himself down to you, and teasingly tapped the tip of his cock on your tongue. He slowly eased himself into your mouth, forcing you to open your mouth even wider to account for his girth. He made his way back out once you gagged. He grabbed your head to hold you steady as he fucked your mouth once more. He got closer and closer to the back of your throat until he finally hit it. All you could focus on was breathing as tears welled up in your eyes. Taehyung thrusted a couple more times before he pulled out completely.

“Good girl indeed. Well done, princess,” he softly stroked your chin before wiping your tears away. All you could do was smile meekly back at him.

“Don’t worry, it’s time for your reward,” Taehyung smiled down at you as his hand slipped under your panties, “Oh you’re so wet. I can’t wait to taste you.”

He positioned himself between your thighs after he tore off your panties. His thumb fiddled with your clit, causing you to squirm. He placed a strong grip on your thigh to hold you down as he circled your clit faster. Your helpless whimpers were music to Taehyung’s ears.

Without warning, he easily stuck two fingers into you. He didn’t even let you adjust as he rapidly fingered you, his fingers curving to graze your g-spot with every stroke. His tongue swirled around your clit, adding even more toe curling sensations.

Him adding a third finger was the catalyst for the strongest orgasm you’ve ever had in your life. There wasn’t even a build up, everything just hit you at once. Suddenly you were crying out even louder as you violently came. Did it occur to you that you were squirting all over Taehyung and his bed? No. Were you doing exactly that? Absolutely.

“Delicious,” Taehyung said as he licked his lips, “Look at the fucking mess you made.”

“I-i’m sorry,” you managed to stutter, you were still recovering from your orgasm.

“It’s only fair that it’s my turn to make a mess now. Do I need to get a condom, princess?” he cooed.

You weakly shook your head. You needed to feel all of him, right now. Taehyung chuckled at your neediness as he aligned himself with your pussy. He slowly inserted his entire length into you until the base of his cock touched your soaked pussy. You moaned together as he stayed still for a second. You looked up to see Taehyung’s face lit up with pure bliss.

“You’re still so fucking wet,” he growled as he began to mercilessly buck his hips into you.

You moaned with every thrust as Taehyung shook the entire bed. Taehyung placed both of your legs on his shoulders, allowing him to hit you even deeper from this new angle. He leaned over to plant his lips on your neck as he fucked you. What started as a gentle peck took a violent turn as he harshly sucked on your neck. He left dark spots wherever his lips touched, and soon you were covered in dark blooms.

“Do you want me to soil your back or your chest?” he asked in a guttural tone.

“Back?” you answer dubiously.

You were immediately flipped over. You were laying flat on your chest waiting for him to prop up your ass, but he never did. Instead, he simply spread your legs wider and fucked you flat against the bed. Taehyung grabbed your ass and spread your cheeks to get a better view of your sopping pussy. You could feel another orgasm brewing as he fucked even deeper into you, and his cock was continuously dragging against your g-spot.

“Taehyung, I--”

“I know, princess. Let it all out. I want to feel you come on my dick,” he demanded.

A few more strong strokes was all it took for you to go limp under him as your orgasm took over. Seconds after you hit your high, Taehyung pulled out and came all over your back.

Once you were all cleaned up, Taehyung untied you and kissed your forehead.

“How was it, princess?” he asked as he stroked your hair.

“I’ve never been fucked by a beast before, but now I don’t want anything else,” you admitted before kissing his neck.

“Good. I was worried about going overboard. As I told you before, I really like getting into character,” he laughed.

“I’ve never been into roleplay but I’m willing to change for you. Oh shit, it’s late already,” you noticed the time on his alarm clock.

“Just stay the night. I don’t think the kids will care if you’re wearing sweatpants or not. I can lend you a turtleneck to cover up those hickies though,” Taehyung yawned.

“Are you sure?” you questioned.

“Yeah, I don’t mind. Be warned, I’m a cuddler,” he pulled you closer to him.

“I guess I can sleep in a little later then,” you reasoned.

“Perfect. Goodnight, princess,” he quickly kissed your lips.

“You’re sleeping like that?”

“Like what?”

“Butt naked?”

“I can put clothes on if it makes you uncomfortable. I just figured it would make things easier for tomorrow morning,” he said sleepily.

“Tomorrow morning?” that got your attention.

“You’ll see! Be patient, princess. Night night.”

Never in a million years would you have guessed that applying for a babysitting job would result in this, but you weren’t complaining.

Published April 17, 2021. No editing, copying, translating, or reposting allowed. All Rights Reserved © 2021 Baepsaesbae.

[crxssdhearts]

Cillian was looking for the spymaster. He was hoping she had some information that would help him wrap his head around what was going on. She would hopefully have the level head that he seemed to be lacking at the moment. He shook his head. "I think I have known you long enough to be able to handle your moods." He told her with a knowing nod of his head. "My own mood might match yours today though. So the rest of the Dusk watch out." He told her. "Anyone in particular causing this mood that I can take care of for you?" He would love a fight, something he could use to get the excess energy he felt.

↷  ・   PRIVATE  :  ( @n1ghtsongs ) + ( @stxrslisten ) + ( @ethercvl ) + ( @crxssdhearts )

       𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽  𝚄𝙽𝚂𝚄𝚁𝙴  ,  𝙺𝙸𝙴𝚄  𝚆𝙴𝙽𝚃  𝚂𝙸𝙻𝙴𝙽𝚃  .  𝙰   self  imposed  isolation  until  synapses  fired  ,  linking  together  to  make  sense  of  the  muddled  puzzle  that  grew  more  murky  as  the  days  passed  .  the  rumors  of  the  king's  own  inner  circle  unable  to  make  heads  nor  tails  of  the  change  in  the  boy  king  ,  yet  it  clear  that  as  he  grew  in  power  he  would  ,  too  ,  in  boldness  .  pouring  over  the  coded  word  various  spies  offered  yet  to  make  anything  more  clear  added  a  growing  layer  to  her  own  discontent  ,  jaw  clenched  into  a  firm  line  that  grew  tighter  when  her  gaze  raised  .  "  it  would  be  unkind  of  me  not  to  caution  you  against  my  mood  .  "  very  few  would  use  terms  baring  a  description  of  warmth  nor  kindness  with  her  even  in  the  happiest  of  times  ,  but  she  wasn't  inclined  to  make  more  enemies  due  to  misunderstanding  .

[crxssdhearts]

@stxrfclls : Erilyn

Being a general normally means commanding armies, and directing soldiers. Right now in a place that was not home, with no way to get home, without his soldiers, Cillian hadn't felt much like a general. It had been months since he truly felt like a general. He wasn't sure what to do with himself most days around this new place, but he was doing his best to be at his cousins beckon call. But tonight, he was on his own. He had finished his post dinner drink and was making his way to visit, a friend who helped with a distraction. His walk took him down a hallways he had avoided, not because he cared, because he didn't, but he knew if his father were there, he would want him to be walking down this hallway every day. He counted the doors as he walked, knowing the one he was trying to avoid. On the fifth door, it was cracked open and someone was sneaking out of it, hood drawn. He stopped for a second before stepping nearer to them, reaching out to stop them. "You know, sneaking out of a room after stealing from a high family, you might want to figure out howto not get caught."

[wearywinchester]

Sweeter Dreams

Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: When you have another nightmare, you seek comfort in someone you didn’t think you would.

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: mild angst, nightmares, fluff

You awoke with a gasp and a jerk of your body, heart hammering in your chest as you tethered yourself to the current moment. To reality.

The hand that was on your shoulder had since slipped away then, the squeak of the mattress springs in the bed next to you having sounded at the weight pressed upon them once more. You knew who it was, knew exactly who it was just by the mere smell of his cologne wafting faintly in your direction. Not to mention the fact that you’d been sharing a motel room with him.

But in case you needed any form of clarification, his voice had done just that for you.

“You okay over there, sweetheart?” He asked, the click of the keyboard sounding as he typed something in on his laptop.

You glance over at him to see his gaze on the screen, one that shifted to you when you hadn’t said anything in response to his question. You eyed the way the corner of his mouth had quirked up, your eyes rolling.

“‘M fine,” you say, dropping back down to your pillow and rolling to lay with your back to him.

“You’re fine,” he repeats, snorting a chuckle at your words. “You had a nightmare again.”

You stiffen, eyes opening to stare at the wall in front of you. You were quiet for a moment, milling things over in your mind. He wasn’t wrong, you did in fact have a nightmare. The same one you’d had for a week or two now that had insisted on taunting you the second you let yourself fall asleep. But he didn’t need to know that, especially when it was about him.

“No, I didn’t,” you say, stubborn as ever as you let out a huff.

“Right, ‘cause I just imagined you screamin’ in your sleep,” he says, sarcasm having woven around his every word as he laughs once more at the way you won’t admit.

You bite the inside of your cheek then, hearing the click of his tongue on the roof of his mouth as he continues typing, a hum sounding when he’d found something even remotely interesting on the case you’d been on. He knew, he knew you did and there was no excuse to say you hadn’t had a nightmare when you so clearly did. There was no hiding it now and it only made it all the more worse as your cheeks burned in embarrassment.

The room was dim, lit only by the lamp on the nightstand between the two beds and the tv playing something he wasn’t really paying attention to save for a few laughs here and there. It was just you and him this time.

The words of your dream had taunted you still, leaving an aching feeling to sit heavy in the pit of your stomach. It’d been a loop, a nagging loop of torment that set itself on repeat just to keep you simmering in your own misery till you close your eyes and dream of it all again.

All you could see was the green eyed Winchester standing in front of you, that same half-smirk he always wore sitting on his lips. The words sat on his tongue as he looked at you, ready to be spoken and break you apart with a single three syllables. Three words that he’d spoken every time you dreamt of it, stuck on that very same loop.

I hate you.

You hadn’t realized you were halfway into drifting off until you opened your eyes just a few minutes later, opening to the very same room in the very same hour. The very same Winchester sitting just a few feet from you doing the same thing he’d been doing the first time you had woken up so ungracefully.

You were tired, that was for sure, fatigue weighing heavy on your eyelids from the lack of restful sleep you’d been getting the last handful of nights. Your eyes burned as you blinked, inhaling deeply through your nose before exhaling a quiet sigh. You knew if you fell asleep you’d just pick up exactly where you left off because that’s what always happened, you weren’t expecting it to be any different than it had been.

The older Winchester got on your nerves just as much as you got on his, constantly bickering over this, that, and the next thing. Not a day goes by where you don’t.

But it was different.

It was different and you knew that. Knew it by the way this nightmare had even come about, and by the very way it bothered you. The way it hurts you a little more each and every time the dream clouds your mind when you sleep. Maybe you bickered with the guy, but there was never any malice behind it.

Though the more you thought on the matter, the more you became unsure, the more your mind was starting to convince you that your imagination wasn’t so far off.

You heaved another sigh as you stared ahead, thinking things over as you heard the sound of his research behind you. The pros of what would happen if you did what you were thinking of doing, and, worse and possibly even more likely, the cons to occur should you show even an ounce of vulnerability in your potential next action. Your mind was a whirling spiral of thoughts as you laid in that bed, plaguing you with what if’s and maybe’s that just might drive you crazy if you dive into their possible truths. But you couldn’t help it.

Nor could you stop yourself.

You sat up then, glancing sideways at him before turning your head, the glow of the computer screen glowing against his face. Boldly, you stood to your feet, your embarrassment still simmering in your stomach and threatening to make your cheeks burn depending on what he might say. But you stood there regardless, foot tapping on the carpeted floor.

It was when he looked at you that you caved, the need for comfort to great especially when you saw that hint of a knowing grin on his lips.

Within a moment, you tugged back the covers on the empty side of his bed and climbed in, tucking yourself into his side without a word about it. You knew he’d say he told you so if you’d said anything suggesting you did in fact have a nightmare, you knew that.

You were a bit tense as he sat there quietly, tense until you felt him lift his arm, wrapping it around you in favor of tucking you a little bit closer.

You felt his chuckle rumbling softly in his chest and you found yourself sighing, the fear and worry you held in that moment that maybe you were making a fool of yourself having dissipated until it ebbed away completely. If he didn’t want you there, he would have nudged you away.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” He asked, eyes on his laptop screen as he scanned through an article.

He felt your nod then after a few passing moments, one that widened the knowing smile on his lips. It was bittersweet because he knew the answer to his question before he’d even asked it, he knew the answer for the past two weeks you’d made an outburst in your sleep. He could tell by the way your brows would furrow and your fists would clench. He could tell by the way you try to wipe your tears slyly with the back of your hand as if you were just rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. He knew it by the way you frowned just now even if you hadn’t meant to.

You were great at hiding your emotions, but he was better at noticing them.

“Find anything on that vamp nest?” You mumble as you sit slouched, head against his chest as you try and steal his attention from the fact that you’d been laying there.

He nodded even though you couldn’t see.

“Looks like we’re workin’ with a group of four or five in the next town over,” he says, nudging you softly with his shoulder. “Think you can handle that?”

You smile as your eyes fall closed, “you bet I can, Winchester.”

It was obvious you were tired, the grogginess dripping from every word very telling in that fact. He knew you were tired.

He knew what your nightmares were about, at least the general idea. It wasn’t hard to tell with the way you talk in your sleep. It messed with his heart and it messed with his mind, thinking that maybe you took that to heart each time it happened. Thinking maybe he’d said it done something that pushed you to think he felt that way when really it couldn’t be farther from the truth.

Yeah, he argued with you on just about anything you could get your hands on to bicker over. You’ve gotten on each other’s nerves over the years to the point where you shouted and slammed doors, sulked and ignored each other for days on end. But those days were brief, two never turning to three until you were back to your usual selves. It could never last more than that and he knew just why it was.

So he sat there and let you tuck yourself against him without a moment’s hesitation, without an indication that he didn’t want you there. Because the truth was, he did.

You were quiet when you felt his hand run over your head when you were half asleep, the cold of his ring on your skin reminding you that you weren’t dreaming just yet. His hand dropped from your head to the edge of the blanket he sat on, pulling it up to your shoulders.

You were too tired to say another word, to keep your eyes open a minute longer to follow along with the research. You were nearly asleep, but not enough to miss hearing the words that fell from his lips.

“I don’t hate you.”

They were soft, just barely above a whisper as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his arm draped around you as he continued to type one-handedly before glancing at the tv for a moment. The softness of a smile tugged at the corners of your mouth when you’d heard him, and to be fair, he thought you were asleep. He had to have.

Or maybe he didn’t care. But he said it, he said those four words that sent a feeling of relief to blossom through you as he carried on with what he was doing before you accompanied him. Whether he knew you heard him or not, you stayed quiet as your arms folded to your chest, taking comfort in his presence and you were glad you were bold enough to push your stubbornness to the side. But it didn’t take long for you to fall asleep with those words sitting fresh in your mind, that weight on you not quite so heavy.

He knows you heard him, could feel your smile. He meant it.

—

Tags: @flamencodiva @stixnstripesworld @elegantbutedgy @humanmistakes @agalliasi @campingmonkey @deandaydreaming @lanea-1 @akshi8278 @kidd3ath

[lady-o-ren]

The Dig

You can read this on ao3 // HERE //

Suffolk, England

1939

“What's going on in Sutton Hoo, then that has you in such a hurry?”

James Fsaser reluctantly looked up from where his head had been braced on his leather satchel, clutched atop his knees, and gave the old ferryman a one-eyed stare.

“I've a job. Digging,” he swallowed, trying mightily to keep himself from retching as the wee boat he was in bobbed up and down like a mad carousel.

“You came all the way from Scotland to dig like a dog?” He laughed hoarsely, hawking up a wad of phlegm into the murky river water as he swung his oars.

“Ipswich,” Fraser muttered, turning a bit more green.

Ipswich Museum to be exact.

He'd been hired to help excavate a centuries old burial site located at a rural estate in Sutton Hoo, overseen by the archeologist, Dr. Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp. A woman much admired (or envied depending on the man) for her keen mind and boundless curiosity (and unrivaled stubbornness that often spiraled into outright defiance according to those same particular men) that had her uprooting half of Great Britain in pursuit of the secrets hidden beneath the mossy plains. And more often than not her instincts were right and another antiquity would be dusted off to be reborn again.

Fraser wasn't sure what he'd done to earn the right to work by her side but Christ, he wouldn't question how lucky he was.

The boat then suddenly coasted to an abrupt stop against the rivers side.

“Here we are, Mr. Fraser. All in one piece. And I thank you for keeping me boat and boots tidy,” said the old ferryman with a wink.

Fraser didn't bother with a retort, he was just happy that the world had blessedly stopped spinning and hopped onto wonderfully solid land.

Smoothing the wrinkles from his attire and fixing his father's old grey cap atop his head (taking special care to tuck in his dark ginger curls that always peeked out from just under the rim), he made his way down the brambled path that the old man said led to the big house. After a brief introduction with the owner of the estate, he was then directed to where he'd be working, and trotted past the trees and sprawling country green to an open field.

From afar, Fraser could see three burial mounds jutting from the earth, grassy topped with yellow dandelions sprouting all over.

But what made his breath catch was the sight of the woman he'd been so eager to meet.

She was surveying the site with her hands on her trousered waist looking like a general on the cusp of conquest. Sensing his approach, she turned away from her prize and future glory, her short curls bouncing and gleaming a rich shade of earth in the dewy sunlight, and met his gaze with her own.

Sharp with intelligence. Kindled with mirth. Shimmering like molten gold.

"A Dhia," Fraser whispered to the fragrant spring air, and took off his cap, twisting it between his hands that ached to trace and memorize every curve of the archeologist's face.

She waved him over seeing him linger and a terrible heat sprang to the young lad's face at having been caught staring at the beauty like a halfwit, and forced his legs to move. Prayed he didn't fall flat on his face.

"Hullo there," she greeted, and clasped her small hand to his, but there was nothing dainty about its grasp. Fraser could feel the years of hard-earned experience chiseled in her palm that held his hand firmly, letting him know exactly who he'd be working for.

It sent a thrill down his spine.

"I'm Dr. Claire Beauchamp. And you must be the very late Mr. Fraser I've been waiting for."

"Aye, and I beg yer pardon for that, ma’am," Fraser replied in earnest, detecting a subtle spike of irritation in her voice, seeing the annoyed flick of her brow. "The morning train was running late.” By three hours! “ Then I had to wait for the ferryman to take me across the river -" He'd been taking his "tea" in the pub " - all a lousy excuse, I ken, but I promise ye it willna happen again."

Beauchamp crossed her arms and tipped her head to the side giving Fraser a scrutinizing once over that made his throat bob and the blood in his heart to palpitate.

"Good," she smirked, nodding her approval from his noticeable discomfort. "If you're anything like how the stiffs at Ipswich Museum described we'll get along well."

He clenched his jaw at the mention of the museum, the cantankerous men who worked there. Especially a certain Dr. Randall, who valued a good cigar over the work of a “farm boy”.

"And what do they say of me, if I may ask?"

Beauchamp bit her full bottom lip (wonderfully pink Fraser bashfully noted), quirking wryly.

“Quite a lot depending on who you ask. From what I've gathered you're hardworking, painfully intelligent and have an innate knack for reading the earth. But that you're also highly unorthodox, difficult and the most insufferable Scotsman ever to step foot in Ipswich. So naturally I had to work with you."

He let out a tightly held breath and chuckled softly.

"Weel, who am I to argue wi' a reference like that. I'm passionate about my work and little else, apart from food and kin. And while I've never been disrespectful to reason, I haven't the patience for men who think a title is deserving of my unquestionable fealty."

"And why should you? The conviction of a Viking is something to be admired not belittled,” she praised, making Fraser glow. "I only wish I could've been there to witness how you earned the ire of half the museum.”

“I'm merely in the right and they the wrong, more often than not,” he shrugged.

“I'm just as terrible,” she proudly grinned. ”But I know we'll make a good team. We'll have to if we want to tackle this lot.”

She motioned her head at the site looming tall, brimming with excitement that spoke to Fraser's own spirit.

"If that's so then it'll be an honor working wi' ye, ma'am."

He shook her hand once more and thought he felt her thumb move against his knuckle, light and curious as a brush stroke.

//

Working with two assistants from her previous digs (the studious Jeremy Foster and the wide-eyed youth Elias Pound), Fraser and Beauchamp made great strides in plowing the core of the mound that was the larger of the three, even when logic argued that the dip in the middle meant thieves of the past had already plundered it's horde.

But Fraser's gut and bones told him that there was something different about this one.

Beauchamp had thought so too.

"There's something grand and marvelous here begging to be found. Don't you think? Can't you feel it?"

The deeper they dug only intensified that feeling.

As had his attraction to the irrepressibly brilliant Dr. Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp.

However, after a fortuitous streak of good weather, the air started to blow with the sweet scent of rain and the leaves of the oak trees that dotted the lush clearing turned toward the skies, parched and longing.

"We have some time, I think, before the rain comes," said Beauchamp, gauging the skies westward still clear of thunderclouds.

Fraser leaned against his shovel in the hollow of earth he stood in, his dirt stained sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and could see the mad impulse to defy mother nature flash in her eyes.

"Usually I'd agree wi' ye, ma’am, but yer hair -" his mouth flicked upward in unbridled appreciation. "Is curling like a tumbleweed."

She pressed a dirt-flecked hand near her temple and felt the wild frizzy pushback of flyaway curls fallen loose from her twisted bun, springing around her face like a mane.

"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” she huffed. “Have I been like this all morning, Fraser?”

"Pretty much," he grinned, enjoying how her usual regal self pinked across her freckled cheeks and the wee scrunch of her nose.

But Fraser's smile faltered, catching himself for a fool, and averted his attention down to the soil where his heart had fallen. Writhed. Burrowed with the worms and roots.

For what use was it for a man like him to yearn for a woman like her?

He swallowed the hopeless lump in his throat.

"Shall we go for lunch then, wait for the weather to clear?"

Hearing the word lunch, Foster and Pound looked up from their own end of the excavation with hunger in their eyes.

"Did that on purpose did you?" said Beauchamp, throwing an accusatory glance at the ginger lad while trying to gather her wayward curls back to partial respectability.

He gave her a half smile.

"The Almighty is the one making it rain, ma’am. Take it up wi' him."

She sighed and her hands fell to her waist as she took one last disappointing glance above.

"I would if He ever bothered to listen,” she frowned, then gave the other men a nod that made them hoot and holler.

“Numpties,” she mumbled, though did so fondly, and puffed at a rebellious forelock flirting with the wind.

After covering the ditch with a tarp secured to the ground, the men headed for the local pub raucously singing an old drinking song with a few choice words changed.

Our Lady must have been an Admiral, a Sultan or a Queen

And to her praises we shall always sing

A pint for our Lady Beauchamp who fills us up with cheer

A pint for our Lady Beauchamp . . .

Their lady laughed and rolled her eyes, before waving the lads off with a promise to catch up to gather her things, and headed to the shepherd's hut that had been provided by the estate.

Fraser glanced back watching her go, and after a moment's hesitation where he reasoned it would be rude to leave without her, he too told the others he'd forgotten something and went after Beauchamp.

Cursing himself an "EEJIT!" every step of the way.

//

Inside the hut was a small curtained window softly lighting the room from the back and two wooden scuffed chairs positioned along the side wall with a table snugly fit between them. Beauchamp herself was crouched by the table legs where Fraser had left his satchel but it was now laid open on its side, contents spilled over.

At his unexpected appearance that shadowed the doorway, she turned his way with an apologetic expression.

"I'm sorry, I was just grabbing my bag when I tipped yours over and . . ."

She held up his small green fieldbook opened at the first page.

And white-hot panic flooded Fraser's veins.

"The writing caught my eye," she continued on, seemingly unaware that the poor lad was gripping the doorway for support. "I didn't know you spoke gaelic beyond the odd phrase here and there. That you can even write it too is something of a feat,” she said, impressed by the words secreted on the page.

“Aye,” he managed to breathe, relieved that she hadn't seen a thing. Not a thing! “I don't get much practice living away from home so I speak it in my mind and heart, write letters to my family when I can.”

“You've spoken of a sister, if I'm not mistaken. Older or younger?" She prodded, as if he were a new discovery, and he answered in hopes to distract her from what she still held in her hands.

Felt a fluttering warmth overtake him that she recalled him having a sister.

"Jenny,” he said, as he moved to kneel down beside her to stuff his scant belongings back in his bag. “She's older and feels the need to remind me of that fact whenever we see one another.”

“And you're the brat aren't you?”

Despite his predicament, Fraser couldn't help the grin spreading across his face.

"I was the devil's spawn, aye, but Jen was no angel. We once got into a terrible stramash about our chores on the farm, the way wee bairns do, and I ended up telling her she had a face uglier than a coo, smelled worse than one too. Next I knew, I was being tackled to the ground wi' my face shoved into a ripe pile of coo shite and my sister above me laughing her wicked wee arse off.”

Beauchamp broke into laughter and it made his stomach do a flip.

“I'm sorry, that must've been awful for you, but I think I may love your sister for that.”

“Everybody says so. Not sure it was worth it in the end myself . . .” said Fraser, his voice suddenly trailing off at the end seeing her attention turn back to the page.

His mind spiraled into action.

"But we really should get going before the rain catches us. It looks to be a downpour, a terrible one.”

“Well it's a good thing we're under a roof then isn't it?” She countered, eyes sparkling through her long lashes. “ Besides I'd rather have an impromptu lesson in gaelic on what,” she paused, squinting down at the book opened on her knees. “Baa-mia-’bruu -” means.”

“Bha mi a ’bruadar mun bhròn mhòr,” he begrudgingly corrected, wondering how rude it would be to just snatch his own fieldbook away. But then Beauchamp smiled as if charmed by his voice and echoed back his words with near perfect silky inflections, looking pleased as punch as she did so.

Endearing herself even more to the young Scot's already smitten heart.

“Verra good,” he hummed softly.

“Absolute luck,” she grinned, tapping her fingers atop his writing. “Now tell me what does it all mean?”

He shook his head embarrassed. "You'll think me daft, ma’am."

"I promise I won't."

She said it in such an earnest way, Jamie knew she spoke true. But then a deep rumble of thunder sliced through the air, enough to give Beauchamp a jolt that made her forefinger on the page slip and Fraser's stomach to rip and plummet to the old wood floor.

There, drawn on the page, was Beauchamp's face staring back at her.

“It’s nothing but some wee scribbles,” he stammered to explain, reaching for the book only for her to angle it away.

“You're right about that,” she agreed, her fine brows furrowing as she traced a slim finger to her pencil drawn cheek. “You've made one of my eyes bigger than the other, my nose a dash too long and -"

Her eyes went comically round as she pressed the pages to her chest, a sudden thought coming to her.

"You don't have anyone posed in the nude here do you?"

"O-Of course not! I'd never. I- I'd -"

"Breathe Fraser, I was only teasing you," she nearly giggled, but then her face softened with regret seeing his own face take on the horrible color of a split beet left to shrivel in the sun.

“But really, why bother with me?”

He had no answer but the one that pounded from his heart, a noise like a thousand drums that all struck the same adoring note. She could see it beaming from his face and a hushed silence fell between them as the rain finally came down, hitting the rooftop in a pitter-patter that enveloped her quietly spoken -

“Oh.”

That single utterance had Jamie wishing the rain would flood and swallow him up but it was now or never to speak his heart. No matter that hers would never be his to cherish.

Looking down at his hands, anxiously wringing the strap of his satchel, he spoke.

“There was never any helping it, me liking you. I'd never seen a sight sae fair as you, stubborn as you, nor wonderful as you. And I could never get ye out of my mind, no matter how hard I tried, but ye were always there like the sun and air."

He lifted his gaze to her likeness on the page.

"And then I just started filling my fieldbook wi' pictures of you if only to have something to remind me of you for when the job ends and we part ways. But I'm none so good as ye can see. I never could capture the grit and fire of yer spirit, the way yer curls bristle in excitement or the way yer eyes glow like a match to a candlewick . . . "

His heart tightened as his words faltered while Beauchamp remained quiet. Then like a blow to his chest she flipped through the small book once more, her face unreadable as stone. She looked through his sketches, one of her curls drawn like the ripples of the tide, another of her hands digging through the earth, and of her lush determined mouth curved into a beaming smile, bitten with impatience, beneath a perfect speckled nose.

And threaded between her gestures, her features were more bits of gaelic.

 A bòidhchead . . .

Tha pian orm . . .

Tha cho teann sa tha a ’bhriogais gam iomain

"I told you I was no good. I ken I should just rip up the pages -” Fraser began to miserably say, but Beauchamp hushed him by taking his hand in hers and softly stroked her thumb against the work-hardened skin. 

"You have a fine hand, Fraser. Especially for making my nose look as delicate as Garbo’s,” she smiled, cheeks touched lovely in pink.

Then in a moment that made it hard for Fraser to breathe, she simply said . . .

“Ask me for a drink.”

He blinked, thinking he misheard her, mouth agape. But there was no mistaking what brightened her eyes to shine like whisky.

“Ask me,” she repeated impatiently, almost laughing, as she squeezed his hand. 

Fraser inhaled sharply and tentatively squeezed her small hand back.

“Will ye join me for a pint, ma’am?”

“Claire,” she grinned, and coyly tilted her head . “And of course I will. Took you long enough to ask,” she winked, making Fraser stare at her in charmed disbelief.

And then Beauchamp closed the distance between them, hand light as a feather against his chest.

“But first you ought to kiss me, Fraser. It's still raining and I might catch a chill from all this waiting."

Still staring at her mesmerized, with questions that could wait another day flitting through his mind, Fraser wove an errant bonnie curl around his fingers and smoothed it behind her ear. Letting his thumb drag against her cheek.

“It's Jamie,” he murmured, in a brush of his lips to hers. 

And on and on it went.

//

Bha mi a ’bruadar mun bhròn mhòr. . .

I dreamt about the mourning. The deaths of great men. Terrible men. Old and young. Of Kings lost in battle buried beneath us. They cried out to me and the Earth came to life and twisted her roots around me, dragging me inside her womb. Dark and cold, breathless like a cave. But I wasn't frightened. I saw lights rushing around me, bright as the twilight sky. The souls that lie ahead. Surrounding us.

They brought me to you.

//

A/N: This had a ton of notes and explanations so you can read all those on ao3. But for sure I’ll say here this is very loosely based on the movie The Dig.

[nuckswriting03]

Pain- The Canucks

You were extremely lucky to get a job as an equipment person for the Vancouver Canucks. Ironically, the job was uneventful for the most part. They allowed you to still attend school and finish off your degree in kinesiology at SFU. You spent your mornings at school nearly falling asleep in your lectures or completing projects with your classmates and your afternoons shadowing the more experienced equipment managers.

As of the current moment most of your shifts were spent restocking the crates after road trips, taking inventory for all the different types of equipment, and rushing around the rink to get supplies to the bench.

You were doing your standard rounds for the day when a head popped into the room you were in. It just happened to be Bo, occasionally he or one of the other veteran players would come say hello when they saw you.

“Hey Cassie?” he asked poking his head through the doorway.

“Yes?” You mumbled continuing with your work.

“You’re a kinesiology student right.

“That is correct, I’m in my second year of my degree, I should graduate next spring. Why?”

“If you’re a kinesiology student then why are you working as an equipment manager and not as a training or coaching intern.”

You sighed and put down the rolls of tape you were restocking, “Well firstly, there wasn’t any openings in those positions when I was job searching and secondly this was the job that had hours that I could mold around my class times.”

“Makes sense, well Rob has his hands full with the ‘young guns’ and probably could use a second set of hands. Could you do us a favour and help him out?”

“Where is James, I thought he was working today?”

“Nope, James had to call in sick, his niece got a cold, and he told his sister he would take care of her for the day. Please, ill buy you that really good ice cream you like from Earnest’s.”

“Fine, I’ll help out today. But, if I get in trouble with Red for not being here or for my job being completed late, I’m dragging you down with me.”

“Noted,”

Bo led you to the weight room where you saw a group of five of the “young guns” fooling around while the vets just shook their heads and Rob was visibly distraught.

You walked over to him and patted him on the back motioning that you would handle this.

He looked wide eyed at you in disbelief, “You sure? I can just call the coaches in here, that should get them to stop fooling around.”

You shook your head, “Nope, its all good. I can handle this; I’m getting a degree in kinesiology next spring so I can handle the training bit. Plus, if they think that I’m going to go soft on them they clearly know nothing about me.”

Rob turned to look at the vets who were smirking at the young players knowing generally what was in store for them. Shrugging he said, “You can try. They’re quite stubborn”

Just as all the vets and Rob were leaving Bo smiled saying, “She was one of two girls on her hockey team growing up she can handle herself.”

The last thing that could been seen by them as they left was Cassie’s mouth quirking into a smirk.

Forty-five minutes later five exhausted Hockey players stumbled into the locker room followed by a smiling Cassie. An astonished coaching team stood with Rob and Red at the front of the room watching the players collapse into their places in the locker room while Cassie bowed to the rest of the team who were applauding her.

“What did you do to them?” Rob asked.

“The work out that was on the board,” she paused for a moment, “with some extra exercises I found in my textbook for school. Nothing too serious. But they’ll never goof off that much during training again, right boys.”

The boys just groaned, “Never again.”

Red jumped in, “I think we hired you in the wrong position.”

Everyone laughed as you walked out the room to finish off your actual work for the day.

[broadstbroskis]

funny | mat barzal

a/n: quite frankly, i don’t exactly know what this is. i was listening to the song funny (stripped) by jasmine thompson and zedd and pulled this little thing together. it is not, actually, funny at all; if you’ve listened to the song you’ll know we’re headed more for angst (and if you haven’t listened to it, i highly recommend!)

-----

It's funny how you miss me more than you could ever love me How you couldn't give me everythin' and now you want it from me Yeah, it's funny how it's different now that I got somebody

It’s the kind of fall night that made you wish you could live in the season forever. That perfect crispness in the air, where you steal your boyfriend’s jacket from him with just a kiss as you settle into his side near your firepit at the bar, surrounded by all your friends, laughing and drinking. It’s perfect, ideal even, so naturally your phone starts to buzz in your pocket.

do not call him flashes across the screen and you quickly ignore the call, slipping it back into your pocket.

“Everything okay?” Josh is the sweetest, kindest, most caring guy you’ve dated ever, and each time you think the other shoe is going to drop to prove that wrong...it doesn’t. He brushes his nose against your cheek as he checks in, the coldness causing you to flinch away, but he wraps his arms around you, pulling you even closer.

“Yeah.” You allow yourself to be pulled into his arms. “Just spam.”

“Those fools never stop.” Josh laughs, taking a sip of his beer.

You think of the instagram you’d posted earlier, a picture of the two of you laughing doing some corny cheers motion in front of the firepit, and looking happy and in love and all the things people say you look now, and well, you’d heard some things about this fool not being happy.... “Respect the hustle.” You joke, because frankly, you couldn’t care less about Mat Barzal anymore.

It’s the last thing he said to you anyway.

-----

It’s, of course, too much to think that one phone call would be the end of this. Mat’s always been stubborn, always been headstrong, so yeah, of course shit’s different now that you’re happy and he’s not.

But you should have known better. This smoothie place was Tito Beauvillier’s before it was yours and he was Mat’s friend before yours too. Besides the occasional instagram comment, you hadn’t had much interaction until this run-in, but the look on his face tells you exactly how this is going to go.

And sure enough, after small pleasantries while you’re both waiting for your smoothies, he drops exactly what you knew he was going to. “He misses you.”

“That’s nice.”

Tito gives you a look; the seriousness doesn’t fit him at all. “He’s not looking for anything from you. He just-he knows he messed up and he’s sorry. Will you just talk to him?”

Behind the counter, the barista calls your name, blessedly, because you’re done with this conversation. “I wanted to talk to him last spring. He doesn’t just get to decide he wants to talk to me again now, now that he’s decided I am a good enough toy for him.” Tito winces and like, good fucking riddance. “Fuck off, Tito, and tell Mat the same.”

-----

Your best friend’s golden birthday falls on a Saturday, and she sends everyone a detailed itinerary for her plans for the evening, including but not limited to: sparkly dresses, champagne, and shots. She’s only been planning this occasion since her last birthday, so you’ve got the short, silver, sparkly dress already planned for the evening, and jello shots prepped in the fridge for the pregame. 

The jello shots and champagne turn out to be needed because somehow, someway, there’s a pack of Islanders at the third bar you turn up at, Amanda already pushing her way up to the bar for a round. “It’s my birthday!” She shouts to the bartender, who’s definitely eyeing up more than her face.

You only just manage to get a drink in your hand when the reason you ordered a double appears at your elbow. “Can we talk?” Mat requests gently, even as you stare at him entirely unimpressed. “Please.”

Honestly, you want to say no, so badly. You’d given Mat so much; he was the one who’d ended it with practically nothing, the one who didn’t want to say a word to you about it afterwards. You’d been sad about it, you’d been angry about it, you’d moved on. There wasn’t anything to say to him.

And it’s that, the idea of telling him there’s nothing left to say, more than anything, that has you agreeing to follow him. Mat walks outside the bar completely, away from the bouncer to a quiet spot just a few feet away. 

“Thanks for coming out here with me.” Mat says and then stops.

“Mhmm.” You nod, hoping it’ll spur him into talking, but it really doesn’t, which just annoys you. “Do actually have something to say, or-”

“I miss-” Mat starts, but you cut him off abruptly.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” He frowns.

“Don’t say it.”

He huffs and you can see him start to get annoyed, which just flares your temper. “You asked me to say it, so I did!”

“Well, you don’t fucking get to say that!” You cry, breathing heavily. “You didn’t have shit to say to me when I wanted to talk to you. You didn’t have shit to say to me all spring or summer.” You can feel the tears coming to your eyes,  the frustration you feel from the situation not helping. 

“I didn’t...I didn’t handle it well.” Mat says quietly. He looks down at the sidewalk, scuffing his shoe in a way that’s unlike him;  he hates doing that, loves his shoes too much to risk messing with them.

“No fucking shit.” You can’t even fight back the sarcasm or the eye roll. 

But now Mat’s on a roll. “I should have talked to you before I broke up with you in the first place, but I could have at least said something to you when you wanted to last spring. I loved you then and I still love you now and I miss you.”

Those are definitely tears sliding down your cheeks and when Mat reaches a thumb out to wipe them away, you can’t even bring yourself to stop him. “That’s not fair.”

Seriously, fuck him. Fuck him for making you think you were over him. Fuck him for being so gentle. Fuck him for putting you in this position. 

“I’m sorry.” Mat says and you don’t even realize he’s gotten closer until he’s pressing the softest kiss to your forehead.

“For last spring in general?” You hear the hiccup in your breath, know that Mat hears it too. “Or for waiting until I was happy to apologize for it?”

Mat’s silent at that and you both know the answer as he presses another kiss to your forehead, before stepping away. “Fuck you, Mat.” You repeat, as he slips away toward the club, leaving you once again, crying alone in the cold.

[ibijau]

Futures Past pt7 / On AO3

Lan Xichen's plans for the day get derailed, but not as much as he feared

After a long and silent eternity, the people of Yunping Huang finally started to wake up, as did their Lan guests. Lan Xichen and Nie Huaisang, both relieved to have company at last, joined everyone else for breakfast. The younger boy made a point of sitting as far away as possible, clearly still upset about that Su She incident. Even like this, Nie Huaisang threw a sharp look toward Lan Xichen when Lan Qiren dropped by to announce that they would all be staying until that afternoon, since the three sect leaders present had things left to discuss.

Lan Xichen tried his best to look surprised at the news, and discreetly nodded at Nie Huaisang to confirm he would still be helping.

By the time Lan Xichen felt it safe to head out without risking being seen by his uncle, Nie Huaisang was already at the door of the sect, nervously biting his nails again and tapping his foot on the ground as if waiting to be given a chance to bolt out. He must really have wanted those spring books, Lan Xichen thought.

It wasn’t so hard, convincing the Huang disciple guarding the entrance that Nie Huaisang was actually allowed to go out if it was in Lan Xichen’s company. It helped that Lan Xichen, in spite of his age, already had a small reputation going for him, and that he’d performed so well against those fierce corpses the previous day that the guard was a little in awe. The two boys then headed out together, having agreed to stick together until they were out of view, and to meet again at a certain hour when they had both taken care of their respective errands. They would surely be scolded when they came back, but less than if they returned separately.

Nie Huaisang was about to run off on his own when they heard someone calling their names behind them. They turned as one, terrified to have been already discovered, only to find Jiang Cheng running toward them, a frown on his face.

“Where are you two going?” Jiang Cheng asked when he caught up with them, throwing them a suspicious look.

“Nowhere,” Lan Xichen said.

“And we’re not going together,” Nie Huaisang added. “We just happen to be heading out at the same time.”

Jiang Cheng’s expression only turned more suspicious. If that Huang disciple had been easy to fool, it seemed Jiang Cheng remembered that Lan Qiren’s punishment of Nie Huaisang had made no mention of exceptions.

“Can I come with you?”

Lan Xichen gave the younger boy a puzzled smile, and turned to look at Nie Huaisang, awaiting his answer. He hadn’t noticed that the two boys had talked at all the previous day, but he wasn’t surprised either that they’d have some affinity. 

They weren’t supposed to have met yet, but Lan Xichen remembered that they would become somewhat close the following year, especially after that Wei Wuxian boy would be sent home. He didn’t think the friendship between Nie Huaisang and Jiang Cheng had gone anywhere after they’d left the Cloud Recesses, but it would still be good for them to…

“No, I meant with you, Lan gongzi,” Jiang Cheng corrected with some embarrassment, having followed his gaze. “I had a few questions I’d like to ask you, about yesterday. Lan gongzi really was very impressive,” he explained with a small bow. “I hoped he might spare some time to teach me?”

The request startled Lan Xichen, as did the rather mild and calm tone in which it was made. Come to think of it, in that terrible future he’d very rarely interacted with Jiang Cheng without Wei Wuxian being present as well, who always unwittingly drew out the worst sides of his shidi’s personality. And then, after Wei Wuxian’s death… well, Jiang Cheng just hadn’t been a pleasant man with anyone.

He too would grow into a lonely man, Lan Xichen recalled, and the idea upset him. How much could have been changed, if he hadn’t relied so much on Meng Yao’s friendship, if Jiang Cheng had had someone on his side other than Wei Wuxian?

“I have an errand to run,” he explained, only to see Jiang Cheng’s face tighten at the apparent rejection. How odd, that he’d never noticed before that Jiang Cheng was a little sensitive, but he recalled an argument in that temple where Meng Yao would die, and… well. Sensitive was a mild thing to call it. “It’s fine if you come as well,” Lan Xichen heard himself say.

“Really?” Jiang Cheng asked, sounding almost suspicious.

It would be a dreadful idea to think of dragging the son of a sect leader into the sort of places where Meng Yao could be expected to be found. But Jiang Cheng looked too pitiful to be left behind, and Lan Xichen decided even if this visit to Yunping City turned out to be a failure, he could always try to come again later. He’d have to lie about the reason why, but since it was for a good cause, he figured it wasn’t too big of a crime. In fact, maybe it was for the best if he gave up for the day. He hardly had a plan on how to deal with Meng Yao, anyway.

“I was also impressed by how well Jiang gongzi did yesterday,” Lan Xichen said with a smile. “For being so young, you are very competent already. I was wondering why Jiang zongzhu had brought his young son to a Night Hunt that could have been dangerous, but after seeing you in action I understand better.”

“Yes, Jiang gongzi was really impressive,” Nie Huaisang exclaimed, as if he knew enough about martial arts to give his opinion. “Yunmeng Jiang trains for flexibility and speed, right? It really showed! And you have very good posture and a strong grip on your sword. I think even my brother would have found nothing to say against how you fought!”

Lan Xichen threw Nie Huaisang a sharp glance, surprised to hear him make such an accurate assessment of Jiang Cheng’s skill. Apparently lacking any talent himself didn’t stop him from understanding the strength of others.

Jiang Cheng’s cheeks turned a little pink at the double praise.

“You’re both too generous,” he said in a tone of voice that made it obvious he thought he deserved the compliments. Then, quite suddenly, his face turned sour. “To be honest, I’m only here because Wei Wuxian was supposed to come as well and we work well as a team. But he got punished and had to stay behind. If you’d seen him, then…”

“That Wei person isn’t here though, so who cares about his skill!” Nie Huaisang cheerfully cut him. “If he got punished, he can’t be that good. Ah, but I really should get going now… Jiang gongzi, please entertain Lan gongzi for me, and I’ll see you both later when it’s time to leave!”

With this, Nie Huaisang darted away, the way he’d been wanting to do since Lan Xichen first saw him that morning. For someone so reluctant to do any physical exercise Nie Huaisang could run fast, and in the blink of an eye he had just disappeared in the sparse early morning crowd.

“What a weirdo,” Jiang Cheng remarked.

“He’s a very unique person,” Lan Xichen agreed. “I just hope he won’t get himself into too much trouble. Ah, well… shall we go?”

“Sure. What’s your errand? I’ve been here a few times before, maybe I can guide you around.”

For a brief moment, Lan Xichen was very tempted… but no. He would find another occasion to deal with Meng Yao. This was important too, he felt.

He'd been focused on saving Nie Mingjue, on protecting his sect's library, on averting Meng Yao's fate, because those had been the thing weighting down the man he would have become, but he didn't have to stop at that. There were many more tragedies in the world, small and big, and maybe Lan Xichen could change those too. 

Maybe Jiang Cheng didn't need to grow with no friend but Wei Wuxian. 

“Forget about my errand, it’s something that can wait. Instead, would Jiang gongzi show me around while we chat? I’m sure you know some interesting places.”

The praise, however mild, had an instant effect on Jiang Cheng who proudly nodded, and offered to take Lan Xichen to the market by the lake, where some sellers always had some unique things to sell, he claimed, as well as delicious food. Besides, if Lan Xichen didn't enjoy the market, then they'd have the option to just walk by the lake and enjoy the sight. It seemed like a pleasant enough plan so Lan Xichen agreed. 

As they walked side by side, Jiang Cheng started asking questions about Lan Xichen's performance the previous day, and about Gusu Lan's style of cultivation in general. Jiang Cheng was surprisingly observant, it turned out, and quite curious as well as gifted with a good memory. He lacked the sheer genius that Wei Wuxian seemed to have, but hard work and stubbornness were valuable skills as well. After just this short chat, Lan Xichen thought it made sense that Jiang Cheng had managed to single-handedly raise his sect from the ashes, in that future that couldn't be allowed to happen. 

He thought, also, that his future self had missed out by never taking the time to really talk to Jiang Cheng. The younger boy's character was a little rough around the edges, but he knew how to be polite, and some of his remarks showed an understanding of politics that surprised Lan Xichen. In some ways, Jiang Cheng reminded him of Nie Mingjue as he had been before rising to power. 

When they reached the market, their conversation drifted to lighter topics. Jiang Cheng was disappointed at first to learn Lan Xichen was a strict vegetarian who couldn't handle any spice to his food, but quickly took it as a challenge to find something his companion could still taste. They also wandered from stall to stall, checking on the various wares offered. Lan Xichen was thinking of buying something for his brother, who had been quite unhappy to be left behind when Nie Huaisang had been invited, but wasn't sure what to pick. A year from then he could have gotten something rabbit themed and be done with it, but Lan Wangji hadn't yet developed a love for those animals, and was just impossible to shop for.

Just as Lan Xichen was about to ask for Jiang Cheng’s opinion, since he was of a similar age to Lan Wangji, a commotion further away in the market caught their attention. There seemed to be an argument happening just three stalls away from them, between a seller and a young customer whose voice Lan Xichen had the displeasure of instantly recognising.

Lan Xichen pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed. Of course Nie Huaisang would have gotten in trouble.

“Isn’t that…” Jiang Cheng started, squinting toward the altercation.

“It is. I’m sorry, Jiang gongzi, but I fear our little excursion ends here.”

Lan Xichen darted ahead, and couldn’t help feeling a little grateful when Jiang Cheng decided to follow, even though this didn’t concern him.

Nie Huaisang, it turned out, had gotten into an argument with a middle-aged man selling cultivation manuals. Both he and the man were shouting loudly at each other, sometimes trying to drag two other people into their fight, a boy whose face Lan Xichen couldn’t see but who even from the back was radiating embarrassment at being caught into this, and an elegant woman who looked just as ashamed.

“If you don’t want me to ruin your business, then you should have an honest one and this wouldn’t happen!” Nie Huaisang was shouting, pointing a threatening finger at the merchant even though the man was two heads taller and at least twice as large as him. “But if you scam people, then I’ll call you a scammer, and a disgrace as well. I’m going to denounce you to the Yunping Huang sect, and then they’ll just…”

“You’ll keep your stupid mouth shut if you know what’s good for you!” the merchant retorted. “Or else I’ll…”

“I’m not scared of you!” Nie Huaisang boasted. “You’re just a liar and a scammer and I’m not scared and I’m going to make sure you never sell fakes again!”

“I'll teach you some respect, you brat!" the man shouted, as he grabbed a sheathed sword from his stall and raised it above his head in a threatening manner.

There were a few frightened cries coming from the crowd that had gathered to watch the argument, but nobody seemed inclined to move forward and protect an insolent but scrawny child from a much more imposing adult when the adult in question had a weapon. Lan Xichen and Jiang Cheng too only watched with some curiosity. 

Even a cultivator as mediocre as Nie Huaisang could deal with such a situation. The merchant might have been big, but the way he moved and breathed showed he had no martial training at all, while Nie Huaisang was already positioning himself to avoid whatever blows might be thrown at him. And anyway, even without seeing the blade, Lan Xichen could tell that the man’s sword was of very low quality and would likely bend or shatter should it encounter the blade of Nie Huaisang’s high quality sabre… but it was unlikely it would come to that.

The issue of the fight was obvious to all watchers, although Lan Xichen guessed that most of the crowd was deeply wrong in their certainty.

Among those people was the boy standing near Nie Huaisang, and who appeared to be involved in the dispute as well. He and the woman with him had been trying to get out of this mess up until then, but seeing Nie Huaisang in apparent danger, the boy’s posture changed and he sprang forward when the merchant brought down his sword, pushing Nie Huaisang out of the way.

The boy cried in pain and fell to his knees when the sheathed sword hit his shoulder, while the woman with him gasped in horror and ran to his side to check on him, as did Nie Huaisang once he got over the surprise. It had not been a particularly hard blow. That merchant, regardless of his business practices, must have known that seriously harming even a particularly bratty teenager would turn the crowd against him. But the boy wasn’t strong, and even that light attack seemed to have been too much for him.

Sensing that the situation was about to go bad, Lan Xichen pierced through the crowd to try and calm things down, Jiang Cheng still trailing behind him.

There were a few murmurs when the two of them came into view. The people gathered there glanced at Lan Xichen dressed all in immaculate white, at Jiang Cheng in rich purple, took note of their posture, the sword at their hips, and started whispering among themselves. The merchant too, who had been so confident when arguing with Nie Huaisang, and who had started accusing the other boy of faking his injury, went pale when he realised that some true cultivators had joined them. 

The man immediately started gathering his merchandise to run away, but wasn’t fast enough to stop Lan Xichen from grabbing one of the manuals on sale. He quickly browsed through it, and pinched his lips.

“That is indeed a fake,” Lan Xichen announced, much to the shock of the crowd. Then, behind him, the woman yelled in rage. She jumped to her feet and abandoned the hurt boy to throw herself at the merchant, slapping him so hard he dropped all his merchandise.

“You liar!” she shouted, trying to slap him a second time. “I’ve been buying from you for nearly a year! You said A-Yao would become a cultivator for sure with those!”

“They’re real, they’re real!” the merchant replied, trying to shield himself from her blows. “Maybe your son just doesn’t have what it takes!”

“No, he’s got it,” Nie Huaisang announced, causing all eyes to turn on him. He had kneeled down to grab one wrist of that other boy, and seemed to be inspecting his meridians for any sign of talent. “In fact, I think he could be very good. He just needs some real lessons.”

The boy’s mother stared at him for a moment. Her eyes were wide with surprise at first, but quickly her expression turned into one of triumph at the news of her son’s potential, before she became enraged again and started hitting the merchant once more, demanding her money back. After a moment, Jiang Cheng intervened, trying to calm down the woman while preventing the merchant from fleeing now that his crime had been exposed. Lan Xichen should have helped, he truly should have, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from the woman’s son.

From Meng Yao.

Because that boy, shorter than Nie Huaisang but with a slightly broader frame, who looked dazed from the unexpected turn his morning had taken and perhaps also from the blow he’d suffered, was Meng Yao. Having seen his face there was no doubt possible, even if he was younger than Lan Xichen had ever known him. That boy was the one who, one day, would murder Nie Mingjue and many others, who would ingratiate himself in Lan Xichen’s good graces, who would use Lan XIchen's reputation as a shield before ultimately turning him into a hostage, only to die by his sword.

Lan Xichen felt his throat start to close, the now familiar choking sensation slowly seizing him as he watched Meng Yao, until…

“Really, you’ve got great potential,” Nie Huaisang exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear as he patted the other boy's hand. “You know, my da-ge is a sect leader. Maybe you’ve heard of us, Qinghe Nie? Well, my da-ge is its sect leader, and if I tell him about you, I’m sure he’d be thrilled to let you join us!”

“Nie Huaisang!” Lan Xichen cried out, his panic fading quickly in the face of absolute horror. 

Everyone turning to stare at him. Meng Shi stopped trying to hit the crooked merchant, and liked her son seemed puzzled by his intervention. So was the crowd still watching everything unfold as if it were a particularly entertaining play. Jiang Cheng frowned but retained his hold on the merchant, while Nie Huaisang…

Nie Huaisang was not happy, a scowl forming on his face.

“Nie gongzi shouldn’t go around making this sort of offer,” Lan Xichen said, only to see Nie Huaisang’s expression grow darker still.

It wasn’t quite the open hatred he would have shown two decades in the future, at the second funeral of Nie Mingjue, the very last time they would have spoken.

It wasn’t far from it either, and that realisation made Lan Xichen shiver.

“I’m not saying anything unreasonable,” Nie Huaisang argued. “I know my da-ge, and if he hears about a competent person who wishes to become a cultivator, then for sure he’ll want to give them a chance. It’s the sort of person he is.”

Of course Nie Mingjue would give Meng Yao a chance. That was how Lan Xichen had ended up in this whole mess, wasn’t it?

“I am most grateful for these venerable immortals’ interest in my son,” Meng Shi said, returning near her son and bending to wrap an arm around his shoulders, the very picture of a proud mother. “But this will not be necessary. I have good hopes that someday my A-Yao will enter the Jin sect, and…”

“No!” Lan Xichen and Nie Huaisang shouted at the same time.

Meng Shi startled at the cry, as did her son.

He looked so young, Lan Xichen thought. So young and innocent and… but of course, Meng Yao was innocent, more so than when they would have met in that other future. He hadn’t yet lost his mother, though Lan Xichen thought her complexion already betrayed early signs of illness. He also hadn’t yet been thrown down the stairs of Jinlin Tai by his own father, not for nearly another year, if Lan Xichen were to guess.

Meng Yao was just a boy, who hadn’t yet started on his path of murder and betrayal.

He was a boy who could still be saved, just like Nie Mingjue.

“Oh, I really wouldn’t recommend that you try joining Lanling Jin,” Nie Huaisang said, throwing Lan Xichen a suspicious look. “It’s not a very good place, not unless you’re born into money and power. Their sect leader is a bit of a prick, too.”

“Nie gongzi shouldn’t gossip,” Lan Xichen said out of habit, earning another glare.

“It’s not gossip if it’s the truth. Everyone knows Jin zongzhu is the worst,” Nie Huaisang insisted. “Did you hear about that girl he seduced some years ago? Da-ge said she was just sixteen, and then she got with child, and then he told her that he’d take care of the child, and then he got bored and never went back again.”

“Oh, the one from that rich family in... what was it again? Mo village?” Jiang Cheng remarked. “I’ve heard mother talk about that one. She’d been pestering Jin zongzhu about taking their son into Lanling Jin, but he was worried his wife would figure it out. But Jin Furen still heard about it even like that, and she made a scene. That’s why he stopped going. Well, that and he’d started playing with that other girl… where was it, the one because of whom he didn't go home for two months?”

“No gossip,” Lan Xichen repeated without conviction, his eyes set on Meng Shi.

She’d gone pale at the mention of another bastard, paler still at the news that even a woman of higher standing than hers had failed to make Jin Guangshan keep his promises, but she said nothing and only tightened her grip on her son’s shoulders. Meng Yao too looked shaken by what Jiang Cheng had said, but he appeared less distraught than his mother, as if perhaps he’d already guessed this might be the case but kept on hoping for her sake more than his own.

“It’s really not gossip,” Nie Huaisang claimed, throwing Lan Xichen another annoyed look. “Anyway, Lan gongzi, what if you went to fetch Huang zongzhu and your uncle and Jiang gongzi’s father? Then you won’t have to hear anything that might upset you, and after we’ll get to deal with that man who scammed money out of honest people.”

Lan Xichen hesitated, glancing again toward Meng Shi. She didn't look like she might still try to send her son to Lanling after this, not for a long while at least. But to leave her with Nie Huaisang who had apparently decided to ruin all of Lan Xichen’s plans by inviting Meng Yao into Qinghe Nie.

And yet, there was no other option but for Lan Xichen to be the one who fetched the grown-ups. 

If Nie Huaisang went, Lan Qiren would lose time scolding him, which would give that merchant a chance to run away, or to turn the crowd against them if he was smart… not to mention the Meng family probably had other business to deal with and wouldn’t wait forever, not even for a chance to enter a cultivation sect.

If Jiang Cheng went, he might just get ignored. Lan Xichen hadn’t personally seen it yet, but he knew his future self was aware that Jiang Cheng had a… complicated relationship with his parents, and Jiang Fengmian didn’t particularly favour his own son.

But if Lan Xichen went, his uncle would give him due attention, as he always did when Lan Xichen made it clear he considered a matter important. Perhaps he might even listen to his nephew’s argument in favour of a poor but talented young man, one righteous enough to get hurt trying to protect Nie Huaisang.

That might mean further punishment for Nie Huaisang but Lan Xichen, furious at the other boy for trying to ruin his great plan, didn’t feel particularly sorry about that.

“Nie gongzi, don’t make any more outrageous offers while I’m gone,” Lan Xichen ordered, then turned to Jiang Cheng. “I’m sorry to impose on you, Jiang gongzi, but please keep the situation under control for a little while. I know I can count on you, and I’ll try to be quick.”

Nie Huaisang rolled his eyes, looking more angry at Lan Xichen than before, if that was possible. It mattered little, because Jiang Cheng’s face shone at being trusted like this by someone older, and he nodded with such serious that Lan Xichen felt a little less worried as he left the little group behind.

[emachinescat]

The Day that Camelot Forgot

A Merlin Fan-Fiction

by @emachinescat ​

@febuwhump​ day 24 - memory loss

Summary: A vengeful Morgana casts a powerful curse on Camelot on the day Merlin is named Court Sorcerer, making everyone in the citadel forget that Merlin – and his impact on their lives – exists. She can only maintain the spell for one day, but twenty-four hours is more than enough time for the warlock to get himself into some serious trouble.

Characters: Merlin, Arthur, the knights, Gaius, Morgana is mentioned

Words: 6,444

TW: anxiety attacks, burning at the stake, main character near-death

Note: This story is a bit late, as it was meant to be published on day 24 of Febuwhump, but I got sick, and missed a few days.  I did post the first half of it on Tumblr on the 24th, but this is the finished product. I am seriously considering writing a sequel, because there are definitely a lot of ramifications that I gloss over here, a lot of angsty, whumpy stuff that I could (and most likely will) expand upon in another story. But I'll let you read the story for yourself, and see if you're interested in a sequel! 

Keep reading here, or on AO3!

If you enjoy, please consider liking, commenting, and re-blogging, and you can follow me for more content like this! :)

Merlin woke up to a broom head hitting him in the face, which was not how he expected his first day as Court Sorcerer to start.

An indignant squawk escaped him as he rolled off of his bed in an effort to escape the assault. He already had an insult for Arthur on his lips when his bleary eyes cleared and he realized that it had not been the king at all who had woken him in such a manner. It was Gaius, and he was poised to strike again.

"Gaius!" Merlin stammered, scrambling to his feet and dodging another blow from the broom. "What the hell are you doing that for?"

Gaius didn't answer. Instead, looking as mean and ornery as Merlin had ever seen him, the old physician demanded, "How did you get in here?"

Merlin cocked his head to one side, completely nonplussed. "I… live here? I remember turning Arthur's offer for new chambers down so I could stay and care for you – OW!"

Gaius had hit him again. "Who are you?" he all but growled.

Merlin blinked. "Gaius, you know me," he insisted, his heart hammering out his uncertainty at the pulse point in his neck. Something was wrong; Gaius might be cantankerous for his old age, and he might have enjoyed the odd joke at Merlin's expense, but never something like this.

Merlin tried again. "Gaius, it's me… Merlin." When Gaius only glared at him distrustfully from beneath two gnarled eyebrows, he added hopefully, "You know… Hunith's son?"

To his relief, recognition lit in his mentor's eyes at the mention of Merlin's mother, but distrust immediately replaced it. "I have known Hunith all of her life," Gaius said, voice low and measured, broom still held at the ready. "But she has no son."

Real fear exploded in Merlin's chest – fear for Gaius, not for himself. There was only so much Gaius could do with a broom, but if he was forgetting Merlin so suddenly and so completely…

"Ah, I'm sorry," Merlin said as calmly as possible, raising his hands in front of him to show he meant no harm. "My mistake. I'll … get out of your hair."

He darted out of his room, across the physician's main chamber, and out the door, leaving a confused and agitated Gaius in his wake. Merlin prayed that the old physician wouldn't get himself into too much trouble while he was gone, and then darted for Arthur's chambers.

***

He ran into Gwaine on the way – literally, he ran headfirst into the knight, so distracted by Gaius's sudden and dramatic loss of memory. At first he wasn't sure whose ridiculously muscular torso he'd bumped into, and despite his worry, he couldn't help but grin when he saw the bearded face glaring down at him in surprise.

Wait…

Glaring?

Merlin stumbled back.

"Watch where you're going, friend," Gwaine said in response. The way he spoke sent a wave of wrongness down Merlin's spine. He had called Merlin friend, but it was a vague, generalized term. When Gwaine normally called Merlin his friend, the word was saturated with warmth and shone with the light of a dozen charming grins. Now, it meant nothing. And when Merlin looked up into his friend's dark eyes, there was no recognition there. No smile that Merlin had come to understand as reserved especially for the knight's closest friends. Gwaine's eyes landed on him, flashed in brief annoyance, and then skirted off of him almost nearly as quickly.

"Gwaine?" Merlin asked, irritated at the uncertainty in his own voice.

Gwaine, who had already started sauntering away, turned back with a puzzled expression. For just a moment, Merlin was sure that kind, mischievous face was going to open up in an eyes-to-mouth smile like it always did upon seeing him, but then the brow furrowed, and Gwaine asked, "Do I know you?"

Merlin opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He stood there, gaping like a fool, his whole body coiled as if ready to spring into action, limbs numb, fingers trembling, fear wrapping its constricting tendrils around his chest.

Gwaine gave Merlin an odd look, then shrugged. "Maybe we drank together once."

Merlin nodded weakly, remembering not just once, but many times he and the man before him had gone to the tavern together, often with the rest of the knights, sometimes even the king, in tow. He thought of laughter, and promises of friendship and loyalty, and tavern songs and Gwaine standing on top of a table doing a clumsy jig. He thought of the first time they'd gone to the tavern after learning of Merlin's magic, how Gwaine had asked him a million questions that had gotten more idiotic with every drink. ("No, Gwaine, I have never tried to transplant my nose into the center of a rose to see if flowers can smell themselves.")

By the time he had resurfaced from the barrage of memories that Gwaine had forgotten and that Merlin now clung to with a new ferocity, the knight had gone.

Feeling distinctly sick, Merlin resumed his trek to Arthur's chambers, noticing with fresh terror that every person he passed either didn't acknowledge him at all, or gave him a second, bewildered glance like they'd never seen him before, like he had no right being where he was – being in his home.

***

Arthur didn't remember him, either.

Merlin was so near panic when he got to the king and queen's chambers that he almost forgot to knock. Knocking was never something Merlin had been particularly adept at remembering to do, especially when it came to his duties to Arthur, but since the king had married Gwen, Merlin had made sure to amend his habits. There were some things that Merlin absolutely did not want to walk in on, and besides, he respected Gwen too much to risk barging in on her unannounced.

It was Arthur who answered the door, and Merlin was so flustered that he didn't wait for an invitation to enter (when did he ever, though?), and he squeezed his way into the room past the king. Gwen was nowhere to be seen.

"Thank the gods you're here, Arthur," Merlin huffed as he bustled in. "Something very weird is going on. Gaius and Gwaine are acting like they don't know me, like they've never seen me in their lives!"

He turned around to face his friend. To his surprise, Arthur's hand was on the hilt of his sword at his hip, and suspicion rolled off of him in waves. "Who the hell are you?" he asked flatly, blue eyes flashing with an intensity reserved for those who wished to do him, his kingdom, or his loved ones harm.

Merlin had been expecting a joke like this. Arthur was never one to pass up an opportunity to tease his former servant, soon-to-be Court Sorcerer. The dry retort, "Very funny, Sire," died before it could escape his mouth, though, because when he looked at his king, his best friend, he saw no glimmer of recognition. No familiarity. No kindness or warmth or irritated indulgence. Arthur's face was that of a man who had just had a complete stranger barge into his room and started talking to him like they were old acquaintances – which, Merlin was beginning to realize, was exactly what had happened from the king's point of view.

Merlin swallowed heavily and entreated, "Arthur … King Arthur. Please tell me that you know me." Desperation clawed at his throat and infected his next plea. "Please."

Arthur didn't speak, didn't relax his grip on his sword hilt, but he didn't draw the weapon either, which Merlin thought had to be a good sign. Finally, after several long, tense moments, Arthur responded in a slow, cautious tone, "I'm sorry. I have never seen you before in my life. What business do you have with me?"

Merlin's world, everything he knew and understood and loved, crumbled around him in that moment. He staggered back, managed to stay upright by pure strength of will alone. What the hell was going on? The familiar sting of tears pressed against the back of his eyes, and he only managed to keep himself from crying by sheer stubbornness. He took a deep, steadying breath, made a conscious effort to look as non-threatening as possible, and tried very hard not to panic.

"Okay," he said, and his voice shook, so he tried again. "Okay." This time, his voice was steadier. Arthur's glare pounded into him from across the room, and knew that the king's already thin patience was running out. "Something very wrong is happening in Camelot," the sorcerer began.

Arthur interrupted him. "I agree," he said pedantically. "There's a strange man in my chambers."

"I'm not – I am, or I was, your servant."

"My servant's name is George."

Merlin couldn't help it. He groaned. "George? The one who makes jokes about brass? He's your servant in this hellish version of Camelot?"

Arthur sent Merlin a look that was almost pitying. "You are obviously very confused," he said in a surprisingly gentle tone. "But I am king of Camelot, and you have no right to be in my personal chambers. Go now, and I will think nothing more of this intrusion. If you do not, then I will have to treat you as a threat, and call the guards."

Merlin shook his head, unwilling to let this go. In the span of a single morning, his entire reality, the world he and Arthur had worked so hard to build and the future that they were about to step into, his new position as Court Sorcerer, his friendship with Arthur, everything, had been ripped away from him. He had to figure out what could have caused this to happen. He didn't have to think long – who was out there with enough power to make what seemed like the entire citadel forget he existed? Who was angry and envious and vindictive enough to take away everyone he loved on the very day that the culmination of his and Arthur's dreams were finally taking shape?

Even as Arthur stepped forward, hand tightening on the hilt of his sword, preparing to draw it, Merlin blurted, "It has to be Morgana!"

All the color drained out of Arthur's face in an instant. He stood there, frozen, a horrible expression of pain manifesting in his eyes. "How dare you speak of my sister," the king growled, and Merlin actually backed up a few steps, bumping into the end table that he'd polished more times than he could count.

"I know she's a difficult subject to talk about," Merlin managed, striving to keep his voice steady as the grief in Arthur's eyes turned to fury. "But it's the only explanation. Morgana must have cast a curse on the citadel – you have to let me go find her, please, and I can stop this, and the world can go back to normal."

Arthur drew his sword now, and Merlin had no more room to retreat. He stood before his king, his closest friend, his muscles aching from the tension gripping his body, his heart pumping so fast and hard he could feel the flutter in his chest. "Arthur, please–"

"I am your king!" the man who had Arthur's face but spoke like his father spat. "You will address me as such! And how dare you insinuate that the Lady Morgana was a sorceress! What vile game are you playing?"

Merlin's head spun; he had no idea what was going on, how Arthur was currently seeing the world, but he did know for certain now that Morgana was behind it. The reverence and love with which the king said his half-sister's name could only come from a delusion the sorceress in question had placed there. Then something Arthur had said hit home. "What do you mean 'was'?"

The expression on the king's face was faintly nauseated, as if he were being forced to remember something that he had hidden away deep inside, or as if he were actively fighting the urge to cut Merlin down on the spot. Either scenario felt entirely wrong and filled Merlin with a sense of dread. "My sister is dead," Arthur said flatly. "She who would have been queen – should have been queen." Oh, yes, Morgana was definitely behind this, Merlin thought wryly. It was bad enough she had these sick delusions in the first place, but to force everyone in Camelot to play a part in them was equally terrifying and sad. "Struck down by a sorcerer in cold blood."

Merlin flinched at the way Arthur spat the word sorcerer. It had been years since he had heard the title said with such hatred and derision, and never had he heard this level of malevolence for magic-users come from Arthur's mouth. After everything they had been through together, after the joy of watching their prophesied destiny unfold before his very eyes, after hearing Arthur accept his magic and plan to officially declare him Court Sorcerer, hearing the title that Arthur had so often spoken of with pride slide out of that same mouth slicked with hatred hurt. But Merlin reminded himself of the truth – this wasn't Arthur, not really; somehow he was being fed false memories – and he squared his shoulders and looked his king right in the eyes.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said solemnly. Arthur's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Merlin hoped it was a good sign. "But Arthur – your highness – I need you to listen to me, please. I can explain everything. I can try, at least. But your memories aren't what you think they are. Morgana is alive and… very well, considering the power of this enchantment."

"My sister was murdered by magic, and yet you still insist that she is the evil enchantress!" Arthur fumed, and Merlin felt like he was talking to a stone wall, or even more deaf and unyielding, Uther Pendragon. He very seriously considered knocking Arthur out with magic and tucking him away safely in a wardrobe somewhere while he himself went to deal with the sorceress who had caused all this trouble. But Merlin could sense Arthur, the real Arthur, somewhere beneath the surface of those familiar-but-foreign eyes, and he was sure he could break the spell without having to go to the source. Merlin was Arthur's dearest friend, the king had said this himself (and yes, it still counted even if Arthur had been incredibly drunk after a night in the tavern with Gwaine when he said it). And Merlin knew Arthur better than anyone else, save the queen.

I can reach him, he reassured himself. Arthur is still in there, somewhere. I just have to find him. And once he's back to himself, I can deal with Morgana.

"Please, sire," Merlin said, putting every bit of sincerity he could muster into his words. "Just… let me tell you my side of the story. Let me remind you of who I am, and who you truly are. I am your friend, Arthur, and you have said yourself that I am the most stupidly loyal man you have ever had the displeasure to meet." A desperate chuckle lilted his last few words.

"You have two minutes."

"Um, there's a lot to cover, actually," Merlin responded. "Can I have a bit longer, because I don't think–"

"One and half minutes."

"Okay, okay, I'll stick to the basics!" And so Merlin gave Arthur the quickest and most condensed version of their friendship and history he could cobble together in less time than it usually took to exchange greetings with his king in the morning.

He ended with, "And so you see, it makes sense that Morgana would want to sabotage this occasion, because it marks the beginning of a new era that she desperately wants to be a part of but is too bitter and proud to humble herself and change for. She wants to tear us apart, wants you to do something that you'll later regret. But I know you're stronger than this, Arthur. I know that you remember me, deep down. The life you're living isn't yours. Your memories aren't yours. They belong to Morgana, but your mind does not." A strange, almost trance-like mask had descended over Arthur's face while Merlin spoke, and hope started budding in the warlock's chest – he was so close to breaking through, he could feel it.

"So," Merlin prompted, when Arthur did not immediately respond. "Do you remember? Have you realized the truth, sire?"

Slowly, Arthur nodded, and the dazed quality to his eyes cleared up in an instant. "Yes," he murmured. Merlin allowed his eyes to close momentarily in relief; his body sagged against the table at his back. Thank the gods, the nightmare was over. Now all that was left was to find Morgana and make sure nothing like this ever happened again.

But Arthur wasn't finished speaking, and the hardness had steeled his gaze once more, his lips set in a straight line and his jaw clenched and held high. "I have realized that I was a fool to think that you were a harmless vagrant with delusions of grandeur who wandered into the wrong part of the castle. I should never have opened the door for you."

"Arthur–"

"I am your KING!" Merlin snapped his mouth shut, tears once again prickling at the corner of his eyes. The injustice of the situation weighed as heavily on him as his destiny once had. "You are a sorcerer, an enemy of Camelot, here in an attempt to take down Camelot from the inside. But your spells and tricks and poisoned words will not work on me."

"But–"

"Guards!"

"You don't understand, I–"

"Guards!"

***

Elyan and Percival were the knights who dragged Merlin to the dungeons and threw him roughly into a cell. Then Percival clasped his wrists in shackles, which were chained to the floor. The door slammed shut with a metallic clang.

"Percival – Elyan!" Merlin called out as the knights that had only a week ago pledged their acceptance and loyalty to him as the soon-to-be Court Sorcerer and chief advisor to the king. "Please, you know me!"

"You'll die for your treachery, sorcerer," Elyan spat.

The left, and Merlin sank to the cold, damp stone floor, chains clinking. He drew his knees up to his chest, rested his aching head on them, and did his best to remember how to breathe.

***

Merlin wasn't sure how long he had been in the dungeon, but it had to have been a couple of hours at least. He hadn't eaten breakfast because the old man who usually prepared it for him had instead attacked him with a broom. Now, he was certain he had missed lunch too. His stomach growled at him in protest, but the hunger pangs meant nothing to Merlin. Even if the guards dropped off a meal fit for a king, he wouldn't be able to eat a bite. Everything had gone so wrong.

And now Merlin was at a loss of what to do. He could escape the dungeons easily, he knew, and go searching for Morgana. But there were so many uncertainties, a litany of what ifs that railed against him whenever he thought about breaking out of his chains and sending the cell door crashing into the guards holding a silent but hostile vigil on the other side. If indeed he could find Morgana and discover a way to reverse the curse, then it would, of course, be an easy fix. Merlin's failure to connect with Arthur and break the spell himself had planted a seed of self-doubt deeply within the soil of his mind, however, and now what he had been so sure of before he'd tried to fix things himself – that he would be able to hunt down Morgana and stop this madness with magic – seemed like a distant, unrealistic goal.

And if he did fail? If he could not find Morgana, or if she had managed to employ a magic far more powerful or strange than he currently knew how to counter? If he was unable to break the curse? Then Arthur would go on believing Merlin was the enemy, and Merlin would have forfeited any chance of reaching his friend by flouting the king's edict, attacking the guards, and breaking out of the castle.

Merlin had only been able to get through to Arthur in his other life, his real life, by showing the king over a period of years that magic was not something to be inherently feared, not something evil in and of itself. He had had to show the king through his own life and actions the truth about magic, so that when Arthur had at last learned of his secret, it was from Merlin's own lips and with nearly a decade of loyalty and friendship to back up Merlin's assurances that he had only ever used his gifts to protect Arthur and Camelot. Sure, Arthur had been angry at first, and hurt that Merlin hadn't trusted him, but he had come to an acceptance of Merlin's magic much more quickly than the warlock had imagined. King and servant had grown even closer in the wake of the truth, and soon after, Arthur had started drafting plans for making magic legal and had proposed the idea of Melin's being officially named Court Sorcerer.

But if Merlin was forced to start from scratch, to rebuild his relationship with the king – a possibility that pained him deeply but that he was more than willing to do, if it was the only way to get Arthur back and get their destiny on track – then it would not be wise to start that relationship off with a jailbreak. Then again, he argued against himself, neither was blurting out his secret to an Arthur who had already shown great disdain for magic and who held no memory of or loyalty toward Merlin at all. At this rate, maybe it was better to just take the risk and escape, because how in the name of the Triple Goddess was he supposed to convince Arthur of his loyalty if the king most likely planned to execute him for treason?

He almost made his escape then, but something stopped him. At first, he couldn't identity exactly what it was, just a feeling, an uncomfortable squirming in his gut that could have been the voice of destiny, or instinct, or, quite possibly, hunger. But either way, it bothered him enough that he held off on his plans to break out and examined the feeling more closely. Eventually, he realized – if he left Arthur now, especially in the state he was in, alone and unprotected and with Morgana out there somewhere with her eyes feasting hungrily on the citadel she so earnestly believed should be hers, he could be putting the king in more danger. If Merlin wasn't able to find Morgana in time, and she used his absence to ease her way into the citadel and onto the throne, which Arthur would readily give up to her in his current state.. With him under her influence, she could do whatever she wanted to him – kill him, imprison him, break his mind forever… and Merlin wouldn't be there to stop her.

With this thought, he decided to wait it out, and to see how events would unfold. He would not use his magic to defy Arthur or make his escape unless absolutely necessary. After all, he tried to assure himself, there was the very real possibility that Morgana would not be able to hold this powerful of a spell for long. She might be a priestess of the Old Religion, but even she had her limits. Perhaps her plan was to lure Merlin out to find her and then to use his absence to take Camelot for herself, but it was entirely possible that she only had a limited window of time to achieve her goal and that she was counting on Merlin to act on his emotions and search her out immediately.

Or maybe her plan was just to simply wreak havoc in Merlin's life for as long as she could. Either way, Merlin reasoned, her hold over the entirety of Camelot could not last forever. Sooner or later, her grip would weaken and Arthur and the rest of the citadel would wrest their way out of her control.

Merlin just had to survive until then.

***

He was unsure of how much time had passed when they came for him again. No one had brought him food, or water, and no one had come to visit him during his imprisonment, either. Merlin thought it was highly likely that Arthur had ordered any curious parties to stay away; the king had made it abundantly clear that he considered Merlin a dangerous threat. The fact that he had not been given even a hunk of stale bread or a flagon of water sent warning bells off in Merlin's mind – if this strange Arthur was anything like Uther had been, then he knew that he would be executed swiftly and without trial, and there was no need to feed a dead man.

Gwaine and Leon came to collect him. Leon unlocked the shackles and shoved him at Gwaine, who spat at his feet. "And to think I was kind to you this morning," he growled, and Merlin fought the urge to remind him that he hadn't exactly been kind, more indifferent. Gwaine roughly spun Merlin around, wrenched his hands behind his back so hard that pain sliced through his shoulder blades. Merlin felt his hands being bound tightly, expertly behind his back with course, thick rope. He reached into himself and felt his magic, alive, pulsing, ready to rise to his defense, and he took solace in it, but kept it at bay.

Not yet, he told himself.

But he was getting scared, and he was running out of options.

***

They shoved him to his knees before Arthur, who sat unyielding and terrible on his throne, a mirror image of his father. Merlin realized with a start that there was only one throne.

"Where's Gwen?" he asked. Now that he thought about it, the servant-turned-queen hadn't come up when Merlin had told his story to Arthur earlier, and the king had made no mention of his wife. In fact, he recalled with a start, none of Gwen's more domestic touches had been in Arthur's chamber.

Arthur stood, striding forward and looming over his prisoner. "You should have gagged him," he groused. "He doesn't know how to shut up." For a split second, Merlin thought that maybe the real Arthur was beginning to resurface – that was exactly something that he would say! Then he crossed his arms over his chest and asked irritably, "Who is Gwen? Your accomplice?"

"No, no," Merlin quickly assured him, not wanting to cause any trouble for Gwen, wherever she was. It was odd, he thought: Most elements of Camelot had stayed the same in Morgana's living nightmare, like the knights – even the non-noble ones, even Elyan, Gwen's brother, had remained as they were. But Arthur, in this version of reality, had never married Gwen. It made sense if he thought about it, though. Gwen had occupied the role that Morgana had believed was hers, had, in the witch's eyes, betrayed her trust and left her for the man that represented everything Morgana hated. Of course, Gwen wouldn't have her happy ending, her marriage to Arthur, with Morgana in charge. She was being punished as well. Merlin wondered if Gwen had been left with her memories of the real world like he had been, or if she was somewhere in Camelot, living and thinking as a maid when she really was a queen.

To Merlin's relief, Arthur didn't pursue the line of questioning any further. "I have talked this matter over with my council and advisors," he said in a measured voice. A burst of bitterness howled inside of Merlin – he had been named Arthur's chief advisor! He had been a part of the original council, the Knights of the Round Table, when Arthur had first brought them together! And now this illusion of Morgana's had stolen that away from him, too.

Not yet, he reminded his magic, as it raged and boiled and frothed inside of him. Be patient.

He might have been able to control his magic, but he could not keep his sarcasm completely in check: "And I am sure that in your discussion with the council, you all came to a completely fair and totally unbiased decision based on facts and not the unfounded prejudices of your father's rule."

He didn't know what he had been expecting, but it certainly was not Arthur's face flushing an angry red, nor the back of his hand smashing full-force into Merlin's cheek, snapping his head to the side violently. He felt one of the king's rings split the skin on his cheekbone, and thought for a breathless moment that the entire left side of his face had caved in.

He couldn't keep back the lone tear that crawled from the corner of his eye. It didn't come from pain or even shock – but a sense of gut-wrenching betrayal that he could not reason his way out of, even knowing that Arthur was not himself. Even in the state that Arthur was in, even knowing that the king would make plans to execute him, Merlin never anticipated Arthur himself becoming physically violent with him. Somehow, Arthur's hitting him was so much more of a betrayal than a death sentence.

Just. Wait. He didn't know how much longer he would be able to keep his magic from rising to his defense.

"You will learn your place, sorcerer," Arthur hissed. "When you burn. Take him; we light the pyre at first dawn."

***

Fear screamed through Merlin's body like a whirlwind, and coherent thought fled in the wake of his worst nightmares manifesting before him. He had been sure that Arthur would have chosen hanging or even the chopping block, but a pyre –

Merlin had grown up terrified of fires, horrified at the possibility of dying a brutal, torturous death, swallowed and ravaged by flames, all because he was born with magic. Because of who he was.

No one had been burnt at the stake in years in Camelot. Certainly not after Arthur became king. It was a barbaric practice, and even the worst war criminals and traitors were given a swift, merciful death. He had assumed that Arthur would continue that tradition.

But no, when he was dragged out into the courtyard – the sky was dark, but the air chilly and damp, heralding the approaching dawn – a great pyre had been constructed, and the rest of the knights – his friends – had gathered around, their faces lit eerily by the flickering flames of the torches they held at the ready. At least Gaius wasn't there.

You're not actually going to die, Merlin tried to remind himself, dragging desperately for air through his nose, his mouth blocked by his neckerchief that they'd dragged over his mouth in a bid to keep him from talking, or screaming, or just out of pure spite, Merlin didn't know. You can escape. You will escape, and find Morgana, and stop this. You can't delay any longer.

He drew himself up as tall as he could between Leon and Gwaine, calling his magic to his aid and –

He wasn't sure what happened, or how his friends-turned-enemies had guessed that he was about to try something – maybe he had given himself away somehow, maybe they had noticed the change in his stance or a shift in his energy, or maybe Morgana was interfering even now, ensuring that he would not escape his fate so easily. Whatever the reason, just as Merlin drew upon his magic, something blunt – a sword hilt? – crashed into the back of his skull, and everything was pain.

Agony ripped through his head, his neck, and crackled down his spine. Any grip Merlin had on his magic slipped through his fingers, and he fell forward, held semi-upright only by the knights escorting him to his death. He didn't lose consciousness, but he did lose all sense of control over his body and his magic, and the only thing that existed was pain. His stomach churned in time with the throbbing of his head, and his eyes were driven shut instinctively by the light of the torches before him.

The next few minutes passed in a state of distanced terror and pain. Merlin was acutely aware of the heaviness and agony of his head and the nausea in his gut. He also felt every spike of fear, every bit of helplessness, every scream that wanted to rise up from the most primal part of his being. And yet, at the same time, it was as if it was happening to someone else, and he could do nothing about it. Everything hurt and he was going to die and Arthur was going to burn him alive, his friends were going to light the pyre, and he would die in agony, and not even his magic could stop it, because he couldn't feel it, couldn't find it – he was magic itself, and yet it eluded his grasp, all that existed was pain and confusion and his head swam –

He felt, as if from a great distance, himself be hoisted onto the pyre. He felt the rough wood of the stake rub blisters into his tied hands as he was shoved against it, head lolling uselessly as if it belonged to someone else. He felt rope wrap around his torso, his legs, securing him to the pyre, and he tried to lift his head, which rested on his chest, tried to find his magic, but all he uncovered was fear and despair and pain.

He vaguely heard Arthur speaking from somewhere close by – or maybe it was from miles away. He did not understand the words but knew them to be a list of the supposed crimes Merlin had committed – being born with magic the chief of those. And then, far too soon, Arthur stopped talking, and Merlin sensed through his partially closed eyes the knights approaching with their torches, and he felt the warmth of the fire as those torches were lowered to the wood.

Merlin forced his eyes open, thrust his head up and looked at his friends, then beyond them, at Arthur. He maintained eye contact with his king, his brother, his best friend, even as the knights lit the pyre and he felt the heat begin to spread. Merlin didn't know if Arthur could hear him from this distance, if his words would be loud enough, strong enough, or if they would be caught up and consumed in the rising flames. It took every ounce of strength and concentration to push past the pain and call out, as loudly as he could, "I forgive you, Arthur."

And then, as the flames began licking at his feet, his boots, his clothes, something popped. I was as if the world itself had been out of joint, like a dislocated shoulder, and in that moment, the painful but satisfying second of release, it had snapped back into place. The air shifted, the world stopped spinning for the briefest of moments, and then, it clicked back into its rightful place.

The spell had been broken; Merlin could feel it in every fiber of his being – his magic cried out in relief, and it was only then that he realized that it hadn't been his head injury that had prevented him from fighting back, from escaping – it had been a last, desperate attempt by Morgana to get her revenge, to hide his magic away from him just long enough for him to die.

But she had failed. Her power, her hold and control, had finally given out on her, and Merlin felt his magic bubble back to the surface, and despite the pain and the fear, he summoned rain from a cloudless sky as the sun continued its golden ascent and put out the flames.

Around him, he heard yells, and cries, and his name was shouted from all directions, from the mouths of those he loved and trusted and who had very nearly killed him. But his head pounded, and he was so weak, and the fire was out. He slumped in his bonds, eyes fluttering shut, head dropping to his chest.

He didn't even feel the hands untie him. He didn't feel the knights gently lift his too-warm body from the pyre, didn't feel himself being carried into the castle and placed on a bed, didn't feel Arthur's tears of mingled guilt and relief splash onto his face.

He did, however, somehow, amidst the quiet and dark of unconsciousness, hear Arthur's voice cut through the silence, strong and familiar and real. "Gods, I – I'm so sorry, Merlin. My dearest friend, I–"

When he woke, Merlin would embrace his king, reassure him that no lasting harm had been done. He would smile at his friends, clasp hands with the knights and hug Gaius, find Gwen and make sure she hadn't suffered the same disorienting day that he had. He would answer all questions asked of him, and he would assure Arthur and the knights as many times as it took that he did not blame them, would explain Morgana's dark role in everything. He would find Morgana, and make sure that nothing like this would happen again.

When he woke, the world would be right. It wouldn't be normal – after everything that had been done to him, after all the betrayals, even though he didn't blame his friends, it would take a while for normal to come back around. But Merlin would persist, and he would have his friends – his real friends, with their real memories – to help him through it. As he would help them through the ramifications of their own pain, guilt, and regret.

And when he woke, he would be named the official Court Sorcerer of Camelot. He would be given a robe fine enough for a king, but he wouldn't care about that. All that would matter would be him, at Arthur's side, protecting him and fulfilling their destiny. That was how it had always been, and Merlin, when he woke, would look forward to a bright future of peace and hope.

But for now, he gratefully, peacefully slept, knowing that when he next opened his eyes, Camelot would remember.

[punkandsnacks]

Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter One; Lifeblood.

Author: @punk-in-docs​ and @adamsnackdriver​

Also on AO3

Trigger warnings; This is a slow burn story. NSFW comes later, but there is gory descriptive violence in this later on- I’ll tag the chapters with warnings-

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilisations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it. 

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia. 

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

   ~  ~  🥀 ~  ~  

 Hampshire, England. 1816.

Winters here were always of the bitterest kind.

Everything hardened by frost. All of nature slaughtered and gnarled and made ugly by it. Everything deadened and driven away until yellow spring sunshine butters it all up. The ground wintry solid and as unyielding as the bite of stinging chill in the air.

Every loud footstep from under her cracked boots crackled and crushed with ice-crusted mud. Her treads echo off about her in the oppressive silence of the air.

Iris Ashton walked along the lonely pale road. The path ahead scattered with linen-white snow, thick like cloth, settling down in ghostly sprinkles - like fluttering ash.

Snow comes from a sky as thick and as soft as a eiderdown. Graphite grey smeared all over the horizon signaling the worst yet to come. Sky is heavy and blotted with it. Flecks already kiss and cling at her hair and her blue wool coat collar.

She can feel them land and melt on her cold numbed lips. Feels her raspy silver breath run them away.

The trees in the dark wood surrounding her on either side of the ribboning track and the pallid ground; stand majestic and strong. Like a darkly Prussian-blue swathed army standing silent attention. Frost crawls determined up their sturdy trunks. The horizon peeping through the trees is white, like a puff of spilt flour. The craggy black tips of the regimented trees scrape at the thick churning sky.

One hand laden with her heavy wicker basket. Hanging solidly down by her thigh. Handle creaking so under her glove from it’s heavy contents. Her elbow is locked straight and aching fully from the strain of it.

Mother had sent her off on one of her errands; paying calls to give some wrapped linen food parcels to the church. Cold meats and half-loaves of day old bread to give to the poor and needy. And on the way back she’d stopped and called for tea with her doddery great Aunt Lavinia. A more belligerent old dragon never drew breath.

Iris was her favourite of all the Ashton girls. All three of them. Unfortunately the lot of being the eldest and families general paragon of hope, fell onto Iris. Next was her sister Flora who is fifteen, and then there was Posy, at sixteen.

A whole compliment - a bouquet - of Ashton ladies. As the gossip columns always so proudly and wittily declared.

Iris was the level-headed, sensible elder sister at three and twenty. The one who was seen and never heard. The one with unremarkable grey eyes and fair skin. Her teeth were supportable, and her conversation was, well, fine, really.

She didn’t have dazzling honey blonde hair or a sultry head of brunette curls. Her hair was brown. Not chestnut. Not sizzling auburn blaze. Just. Brown. Like mud. Like bark. Like flat Turkish coffee.

The sensible Ashton girl, with eyes as dull as dust, and hair the colour of twigs.

She was pale, with a oval face and a stout figure that was passably pleasing. She had a fine bosom that some men liked to gawp at, and mother insisted she had a touch of child bearing hips. Which would strongly come into her favour when she’s married. As she had once said;

“Your future husband will be much delighted with such a valuable commodity, Iris.” Her Mother remarked once when she was a young girl and she was tugging and yanking her long hair into a plait ready for bed.

Iris can remember how badly she wanted to do something out of spite purely to ruin that chance. But really she couldn’t alter the shape of her skeleton with much ease.

Maybe she wasn’t a diamond of the first water. She’ll never be one of those girls who glide elegantly through a ballroom like a bevy of silk swathed swans. Preening, poised and primly perfect.

To her own mind and credit she was just - plain. Tolerable.

Adequate.

She is sometimes remarked to be too acerbic with her tongue, or her remarks. She’s certainly got a backbone and another quality that stumped men of the ton - a mind of her own making. She doesn’t suffer fools and she likes to venture that she is a blue stocking with a decent and level understanding of this world.

She’s sufficient- she supposed. Simply that and nothing more. She’ll never have poems written about her, or have a man declare he fell wildly in passionate love with her with one glance.

It suits her well enough. The fact that she looked like a dusty dull unrefined ornament next to her polished preening sisters. She’d rather fade into the wallpaper than be a dazzling spectacle of ridiculousness, like that of her two siblings.

Her simpering, inane sisters. Who flirt with any man donning a scarlet coat in the Militia. Flora and Posy, who worry obsessively about ribbons, and seek to pay no mind to anything, of any real consequence.

Iris is never one for fits of jealousy, but she is sometimes envious of their light-hearted puerile, worries. About making up their bonnets or, the next ball, or the most unbecoming stain on their new pelisse.

Aunt Lavinia greatly despised the merest sight and intimation of the younger Ashton ladies too. Iris is usually requested to go to tea with her Great Aunt, alone.

“Silly chit of a girl. The pair of them.” Was her relative’s most favoured and overused phrase.

She’d cackle it as one of her clawed elderly hands - talons - gripped her teacup. And she wouldn’t be happy until she’d griped and moaned and complained about every beast and man put on this earth. For they’ve all been put there with the sole purpose of vexing her greatly -Naturally.

Tea today was no different to any other occasion she pays a visit.

Iris sits with the sniping old matron in her freezing-cold front parlour with a piffling fire barely going. Her Aunt is always bedecked in enough black muslin to cover all of Hampshire.

A black lace matron cap staunchly on her head. Black fichu covering at her shoulders. An inky shawl on her arms and on each of her skeletal fingers sit glimmering gleaming rings which clackclackclack and scrape when she moves and points that every disapproving finger. Big fat stones of amber and ruby and topaz weighting down her frail claws.

Iris always teeters politely on the most uncomfortably hard settee opposite her. Cradling the hot spode bone-china cup of tea that her Aunt shoves in her hands. Sugar staining sickly saccharine on her lips - she never let her guests have unsugared tea.

Quite why she is the favourite Ashton, Iris has no clue. She is always interrogated by the woman as she barks nosy question after nosy question at her.

“Yes, Aunt. No, Aunt. I don’t believe so, Aunt.” As the harridan gripes about beef or sugar or candle taxes, or the local Reverend, or the gaudy new fabric on display in dressmakers window.

A whole ream of grudges being spewed out that wrinkled puckered mouth. Face pale, craggy and screwed up with lines like a sheet of crumpled parchment paper.

Her dark eyes shine forth like raisins sunk deep into scones. Glittering black and always always always dissatisfied with the whole world, and determined to find fault with everyone in it.

Iris brings her the ointment her Aunt asked for. She was suffering a hacking cough that worsened in the winter. Lavinia insists its a damp affliction brought on by unclean air.

Iris bought the woman a bottle of liniment rub, spiced with rosemary oil, camphor and spirit of wine. Her Aunt harrumphed at her offering. Stabs her walking cane into carpet in disfavour. Shoves the bottle away and insists Willow bark tea is what will cure her ailment.

Next she’ll be insisting on leeches and blood letting to balance out the humours-

Iris doesn’t fight her stubbornness - it’s a battlefield over which she will never win or hoist a flag of victory.

She drinks down three more cups of the cloying tea, interrupts the interrogation and insists rather bravely that she must be on her way - for Lord and Lady Hearst are throwing a ball this evening. On their vast estate. And she needs to scurry home to ready for it. That earns her another harrumph in response. Lavinia detested balls.

“Breeding ground for senile men and stupid women. And all that inane leaping about they now call dancing...” She grimaces.

The whole county is in uproar for this ball - little else to recommend or appreciate in this bleak dull midwinter. Whispers flourishing around town seemed inclined to favour that a mysterious Lord from the continent is in attendance tonight...

A Lord. From Bavaria no less. Apparently he owned a vast castle high up in the snowy forest smothered mountains.

Quite why he’s bothered to travel the length of Europe to this savage spit of society in the Hampshire countryside, she cannot fathom. If she was lucky enough to live in a castle, she’d never be seen again.

She recounts that scrap of gossip about the prospective Lord to her Aunt. Who thunks her cane loudly on the floor and scoffs in derision;

“Foreigners are always a grave source of disappointment - and they are so riddled with lice and ill bred manners.” So wisely declares Aunt Lavinia.

She says that about anything to do with anything and anyone not born or formed on good british soil.

She had said the very same thing last week about the pews at Church-

She leaves the little bustling hamlet. Shuts her Great Aunt’s warped cottage door. The wood shuddered, catching on the doorstep. Her arm shot through with needles of pain. Aches slipping up her back, her neck and sparking her shoulders. She hooks the heavy basket onto the crook of her elbow and sighs as she plods homeward.

Away from the small tudor, mouldy mustard walls of Lavinia’s cottage. A pretty little house. Always cold. Formed of thick stone walls and mahogany creaking stairs. Austere bare furniture sparsely filled every room. Wedged into a street with crossed glass windows and a petticoat brown tiled roof.

It was a meagre six miles from here to home. And she appreciates the walk. Or atleast she might be more inclined to favour it, were her coat more substantial.

As it is the blue wool thing is possibly a might too small for her now. It tugs and pinches so across the shoulders. And the hem ends right up her calves. Pebble-grey Kidskin gloves on her fingers, knuckles knotted stiff and her fingertips are tingling with cold.

The hem of her plain cotton voile dress, is dark with damp from the snow. The bluebell cobalt of it leeched darker at her hem. She’s shivering because her stockings aren’t the warmest wool. Her legs are trembling cold and she only wore her lightest chemise. However she is glad she bothered with the scarf.

She hadn’t put on a bonnet today. She can’t stand the fuss of one. Ribbons flapping at her ears. It was uncommon - but she went without.

Simply tied her hair back into a low coiffured bun secured with a snip of wheaten muslin. By now and with lugging this basket across all of the Hampshire countryside, some straggles of hair have come loose. Flopping uselessly to her shoulders.

She ducks her chin into her scarf to escape the exposure of a battering bitter gale, and continues trudging on with wearied, aching determination. She always trudges on. She has too. Is always the one who must endeavour to continue, no matter how bleak she feels.

It gets tiring, carrying great tonne boulders of expectations on her shoulders. She likes to think she bears the task nobly.

As her Mother takes great pains and lengths to always endlessly remind her; she is the vessel in which all hopes for the survival of the Ashton family, are stored.

She will make a good marriage match; to a gentleman of high rank or fortune - preferably both. She will save the estate from destitution. Her sisters from ruin. And her father from debtors prison. She will be the one to keep her family in the moneyed style to which they are accustomed. They will not lose Westwell to the bailiffs.

They have risen far within the ranks of society. And they will not lose their clutch or their pride. Or their respected place among it. Her fathers estate is not a vast one; but it is more than his father before him had. A meagre merchant selling spices and furs out of Putney during the Restoration.

Now the Ashtons are country gentry. With a modest dwelling of an estate, abutting a working farm. Westwell. A manor house of not much splendour and merely thirteen rooms.

Built of gold cotswold stone with huge white windows looking out onto a self-effacing garden of some prettiness. There was a pond where swans flocked in summer. Enclosed wilderness all around. A plank of wood swing hanging off one big oak chestnut that stooped over the front of the house. To the back the garden is walled, full of sculpted beds and privets and the wide green lawn is rather uninspiring in this decimating winter

They had one gardener. Two maids. A cook and a Housekeeper. They live comfortably and hardly ever exceed their income.

Her mother hopes to change that this calendar year. She wants her eldest daughter promised to someone upstanding and rich.

Iris thinks her shrew of a mother would settle with wedding her to any man . So long as he looks pleasing in a cravat, and still has all his own teeth.

She treks on through the snow. Hoping. Dreaming. Dreaming for so many unattainable things.

Wishing her basket was lighter. Wishing her parents had sired a son. So that this evening she wouldn’t have to be bound into a pinching dress, and paraded around the Hearst’s ballroom as if she’s some prized slaughter pig at a county fair.

Wishing that she could instead stay home in her untrimmed, plain nightgown. No laced stays crushing her ribs. With a hot brick at her feet. A dog-eared Swift novel in her hands. Cracked open to the good passages. She’d read by tapered candlelight and be perfectly contented, poised to encounter spinsterhood.

Instead, a painful evening of savage society awaited her.

Poison filled smiles from nasty debutantes or their matronly mama’s. Sniping at her dress or her hair or her pale skin, or her lack of fortune. Crushed mangled toes from dancing with some portly red-faced Lord-whoever-from-wherever. One who stank of port, had bad breath, and tried to pinch her bottom with fat lecherous sausage fingers, when he thought no one was looking their way.

She has no aspirations for marriage or love. She’s not a fool. She doesn’t have her head swimming with fancies from novels. No rapturous desires of tall, sable-haired men, with chiseled marble bodies seducing her astray. No cloaked villain sweeping her away in the dead of night to send her to ruin, to then have her dashing savior ride in on horseback to rescue her.

If she’s one thing at all - it is sensible. She doesn’t like to reflect on the proposition of marrying some stranger simply to arrange the business of money and bearing him heirs. She’s not a broodmare-

She’s a woman. She has a thumping proud heart and a strong-working brain and she hopes there’s more measure to her life, than submitting her body and weak will over to be governed and quieted by a future, faceless husband.

She’s sure many girls of three and twenty have felt this way. She’s sure many generations upon generations of them will continue to do so, until women cease to be sold like chattel - or like cattle at market.

Sold solely to men for the priceless untarnished commodity that lay between their thighs. And based and viewed purely on that frail scrap of fleshed dignity, alone.

She wraps her coat tighter around herself. Distinctly feeling a sense of dread starting to slither sickly cool up her spine from the prospect of the evening ahead.

Mother will wrangle her into her finest restrictively crushing silk gown. Have the maid tug and pull her hair and wrench it into a pleasing style. Jabbing hair pins in her head. Mother will see to it that she splash plenty of Yardley’s water of jasmine blossom, orange and lavender on the pulses at her wrists, and at her neck.

Then, she’ll be practically shoved into the chest of every single eligible gentleman in the room tonight in the hope they deign her to be pleasing. She’ll be pushed and prodded and maneuvered and pummeled-

And she’s exhausted. She only hopes she finds the strength to endure such torture-

She kicks through the frosted ground. Pebbles scatter and skit in her wake. She nudges the sparkling white stones with the toe of her cracked brown boots. Her feet were slowly growing numb. Toes stinging with cold. She should have worn some thicker stockings. Then again, money was not exactly a moderate opulence at home. They had to husband their resources as a family very carefully- which meant Iris couldn’t have some new leather half-boots for romping about the wilds of the countryside.

But she could have as many new hair combs, fans, or gloves and embellished stockings as she wanted. Anything that might help snare a man into visions of matrimony. Not wasted on such a thing as a new wool coat to help keep her warm in winter; or boots that didn’t let the muddy puddles seep in.

For appearances sake, the Ashton’s wealth went solely into ballgowns, perfume and finery for their girls. Some household money of course went into sensibilities like candles, meat, flour and soap. Iris was taught that she should be hugely grateful for everything that was lavished upon her.

Flora so often griped at her that she was so lucky to have such amounts spent on her. She got new gowns of printed cottons and muslin and silks and whatever she wanted. Where her and Posy had to make do with alterations and hand-me-downs to their dresses and bonnets.

Flora was so blinded by jealousy and immaturity that she didn’t quite look - really look at her sister - and realize that Iris didn’t really want any of those things-

She ruminated on all tonight might bring her. She wondered what kind of state her silly sisters would both be in when she gets home. Already donning their paper curls, lacing each other into their stays and chemises already. Arguing over who wore the best pair of silk slippers they had between them.

Mother will be in one of her bitter moods. Trying to determinedly order all her girls ready for tonight.

Moods sour with each other already and they’d be seething and spitting nasty fury at Iris. She had new things especially for this ball tonight. New pair of satin gloves and a printed silk dress. They did not. They never did.

Iris would lend Flora her old reticule - the one Mother had bought for her from Bond street. And she’d give Posy her pearl hair comb to slide into her auburn coiffure. A little balm to both of them to gently encourage some sisterly affection. She didn’t want to be at war with them all night.

She’s halfway down the narrow pale road, kicking snowy stones, when an almighty sound kicks up over the horizon, barreling in her direction. She turns her head back and hears the distant rhythmic rumbling of hooves hitting track and the clack and creak of enormous coach wheels.

Hardly surprising when this is the biggest road leading back to Pembleton, her little village.

She sees through the fog of snow, a huge black shape dominates the road. Moving fast. She lifts her skirts and steps onto the crunching grass so that the raring coach might pass her safely by. At the tremendous speed it’s going she reckons she didn’t have long before it caught up to where she’s walking.

She hears it gaining, closer and closer. Wood and hooves and snorting horses eating up the distance of the road. She dares a glance at the impossibly loud and fast carriage.

It’s a beastly thing. All looming black wood. A black liveried driver in grey wool coat. Two footmen clad the same, on the back stand. Black sturdy luggage safely stowed on the roof. Two hulking beasts of shimmering onyx shire horses are stamping and galloping and heaving the great thing along with no difficulty. Silvery wisps of air pour from their nostrils and the dripping whites of their eyes look nearly devilish past their full cupped blinders. The tack of black leather lost on their gleaming coal coats.

The noise is deafening now. It’s almost passing her. Kicking snow and frosty gritted mud out from under the churn of the hungry wheels.

She’s curious as to who could possibly be residing in such an opulent coach. No one from these parts, she’s certain of it. The richest Lord from here was two villages over on a vast estate. Lord Hexham. Who was one and eighty and had a hunched back. And he was a doddery old recluse. He hardly went raring around town in such an imposing manner.

When it draws level with her she dares a vertiginous glance up at the small arch of the door. A crest is splashed there in gold and scarlet. Like a splash of blood on a gold sword scabbard. Or a healing wound.

It’s no shock that the crest there is unfamiliar to her. It’s entwined with wolves and scarlet banners, and a shield crossed with swords. Some monstrous carnivorous coat of arms perhaps? Maybe this person’s ancestor’s had won victory in some ancient bloody battle dating back to the Normandy landings.

She looks up from the door and to her very great shock, she glimpses a man’s face.

It was a dark carriage, drawn to privacy with scarlet velvet curtains covering at the windows. But the one this side closest to her is peeled back.

Her heart thumps loud in her neck and her chest claws with slight panic and embarrassment having caught this gentleman’s eyes.

Such savage, unyielding eyes.

Bitterly black. Slicing outwards from an alabaster pale face. She barely made out features of a full proud face. A blunt roman nose, full pouting lips, and raven sable hair. Length; rakish.

It makes her inhale a sharp breath. Quickly averting her gaze. Embarrassed. Lowering her eyes.

Gawping openly at the upper echelons was never a good idea. They probably held her in the same standing as that of the mud on the bottom of their very polished boots.

He was probably some uppity Duke or Earl who didn’t wish to be gazing at the common stock. She looks to her feet. Feels the wind whip at the tendrils of her hair. Unfolds them from her scarf and whips them back over her face. Baring her neck. Snow lands on her skin. Flecks of it melt ripping like bee stings onto her hot throat.

Pale, corded, thrumming throat. Bared to the wind and the snow and the cold-

He can hear her pulse and it’s like a sweet sirens call.

She feels the strangest sensation then; no one was looking at her. But it feels like they did. It feels as if eyes are pinning her down. Raking over her skin and assessing her.

When she looks back up, dazed, the rattling loud coach is past her now. Off into the distance, into the snow.

Foggy white and smeared and blurring into the horizon. Roaring away up the track road. Away from her sight. She blinks after it’s wake. Snow tangling into her lashes. She’s shivering now if she wasn’t before, and she can’t fathom why.

She switches the basket into her other arm. Let’s it take the painful strain of the still heavy thing. Items within clunk and thump around. She steps off the crusted grass and back onto the stony pave of the hard road.

She continues on; winding homeward. She thinks about her silk gown, and new pearl earrings. And then of darker things; like devilish horses, and eyes. Eyes darker than inky shadows and deeper rich, like charcoal.

As the coach thunders off into the snow. Rutting and cracking over every bump on the road, Kylo shifted back on the scarlet bench seat. He lifts the curtain on the back window with a suave flick of his fingers, and set his black gaze once more back down the track road.

Looks back upon the lone girl in the blue coat who was walking there.

The scent of her still cloyed up in his throat - Oh, and in all the best ways.

He scented her from a mile down the road. Lavender, clary sage and sharp heat of bursting peppermint on salty skin.

The musk of her made him pant and his chest ragged. His arousal and bloodlust stirred in his chest. The drooling gnashing hell hounds of his appetite waking up and baying to be fed.

He watches her hair sway over her neck. A big gust of frosty wind blew her flavour right into his path.

His eyes rolled back in his head as he savoured her.

It made his mouth water. He’d all but outright moaned. It’s been a few moons since he last fed. His nails dig into the upholstered scarlet bench. Muscles strained. Veins corded tight in his body. Pulled taut.

His butler, Jomar. Speaks up from where he is sat opposite.

Blue silk Dastar covering his silver hair. His goatee beard was arrowhead shaped and always neatly trimmed. It stood out all the more from his bronze skin. His Punjabi cadence Kylo always thought was like cinnamon dashed in milk. He had a comforting warm voice.

“I wonder, shall you like the society hereabouts, your lordship?” He seeks curiously. Melting walnut eyes finding Kylos over his gold half moon spectacles, and looking past the small red leather backed Voltaire, open in his hands.

Lord Ren smirks. His eyes glimmer. Cool and hungry. Silver black like daggers.

“Absolutely.” He wets his lips. “The local cuisine looks delicious.”

     ~  ~  🥀 ~  ~