#he thinks he can see a soft side in this frosty witch

[softquietsteadylove]

Hi! Newbie here🙈 it took me months to send my first request. Can I request something like witch Thena randomly seeing Gilgamesh in the forest and playing with her magic so she randomly turned him into a baby bear. And of course she had to face the consequences of taking care of him because bear Gil doesn't leave her alone, he always finds his way to Thena. So Thena finally gave up and took care of him, she hated it at first but bear Gilgamesh is just so cute and is all clingy to her and would also throw cute tantrums. She had to endure how messy bear Gil eats and how he needs to be cuddled up to sleep. And each night Thena tries to put a spell or a potion on him and at one point there's this last potion she has left and it didn't work. Bear Gil was just teary when it didn't work on him and Thena just had to apologize because she turned a random person into a bear forever, she could only cuddle him to sleep. But when she woke up, she wasn't expecting that the small bear she was cuddling last night was back into its original form and still cuddling with her.

And thank you! I hope this is not a lot, bye😭🙈

Thena huffed as a nose nudged her elbow. "What?"

The bear whined/growled at her, her cloak between his teeth.

She sighed. There was once a time she would have given it her coldest glare and yelled at it to get away from her. But she accepted the cloak before pulling it around her shoulders, "thank you."

The bear moaned before lumbering across the fire from her. He sat patiently, knowing how this worked by now.

It was far from their first attempt to change him back into a human.

If she knew how she had turned him in the first place, she would undo it. But it had been reactive--instinctive! She had felt a presence in the precious isolation of her northern forest and responded by sending out a burst of magic as a hand grasped her shoulder. Then, the next thing she knew, there was a small bear lying in the snow.

He was all paws, at first. Clumsy, unused to this body. She reasoned that time as a bear would do him some good! Humans were such terrible creatures, no magic at all, unconnected from the elements and the world around them.

But the bear toddled after her, whining and growling in its frustration. She had slammed her door in its face at first. But when the chill of the night set in, as did her guilt. She had only intended to let it in to warm by her fire for the night. Then she would find it a new home.

But the bear made itself at home. He got into her honey, pawed at her spell books, even made his way to her bed to snuggle up to her! She had half a mind to turn it into a mealyworm for that, but maybe its pitiful little face had gotten to her. She said just that night!

Now it was later, a number of new moons past. She couldn't undo it--she couldn't even figure out what exactly she had done to cause it! And the creature once a human trapped as a bear cub was now a midsize bear. He had acclimated to his new form, and cooperated as she tried to find ways to undo her magic.

It wasn't a spell, because spells wore off, or changed with the condition of the subject. It wasn't a hex, that couldn't be completed by reflex alone. And it wasn't a curse, because nothing had happened to her in the process. Nothing tethered her life to his.

But she had a duty to him, nonetheless. He had gotten too big for her bed, but he still slept by her hearth every night, she still shared her meals and they tried spells and potions every night together.

"This might be it," she dared to speak aloud as the steam from the potion receded. Its colour turned, and she could practically see her face in the surface of the viscous matter. She picked up a ladle of it and offered the bowl.

The bear sniffed it and recoiled, sticking out its tongue.

"Oh, stop," she chided him, still holding it out.

He puffed through his nose before accepting it in his paws. They were twice the size of her hands, now. He sniffed at it a little more before taking a lick.

She smiled as he flinched. "It's steaming hot, you."

He made a variety of sounds, and she wondered if she would ever know what he sounded like as a human. He set the bowl down and took a mouthful of snow before eating the potion with his grotesque teeth.

Thena held her breath, gripping the edges of her cloak as they waited for a reaction. The wind even this far up the mountain was chilly, but he was now to the size where they didn't really want to experiment with spells inside the cottage. The last one had doubled the volume of his fur, creating a mess that took her a week to clean in total.

He looked around him for a few moments, then at his paws, before slumping down in the snow again. It didn't work.

Thena looked down at her feet in the snow as well. Yet another failure. It wasn't just the potion, it was how truly saddened he seemed. Perhaps he was yearning for home. Perhaps it was nearing a time in his human life of significant importance. She hadn't exactly gotten around to asking if he had a family waiting for him.

The bear sat up again, although his ears had a heavy droop to them. He moaned faintly, his breath showing in the cold air from his muzzle.

Thena's throat clenched. For every time that didn't work, this was the worst. Their hopes had been high, and after more than half a year, she really did think she had found the right mix.

She had even gotten his hopes up about it. They had read the spell book together, gathered the ingredients. She had told him that perhaps this would do it--a potion to revert the development of cells. Technically it was for unpickling a vegetable, but she had done her research, and she was confident she could use it on a living subject.

She had practised on fish! All of which went to him as a meal to reward him for his help. But she had successfully used it.

"I'm so sorry."

The bear lifted its head, and even seated, he could see eye to eye with her. Even the breath from his wet black nose was visible in the air.

"I thought-" she pressed her lips shut as her throat squeezed again. She had no right to cry. It was his life which had been changed irreparably. She moved her hand to his head, rubbing the soft black fur there and around his much softer ears. When he would sneak into her bed for warmth, she would play with them while he slept. "I thought this would be the one."

The bear bellowed gently, moving his snout to brush his nose against her cheek before resting his head on her shoulder. His arm tucked her closer to him, his paw hanging loosely so he wouldn't claw her by accident. Bears had amazingly warm bodies.

Thena sighed against his neck. He smelled much better now than he did when he was small, always getting his food everywhere and needing to be brushed. She patted his shoulder, "come on."

He followed her silently, kicking snow up with his paws behind him to douse their fire. It was a sombre occasion; they could come back for her cauldron in the morning.

Thena tried to keep her tears at bay as they walked back into the cottage. She hung up her cloak while her companion lumbered right over to the fire. He dropped down on the rug she had woven for him more heavily than ever. Her heart twisted again.

He stirred as he felt her against his back.

"I'm sorry," she whispered again, pressing the tears she couldn't contain into his fur. He huffed and she nuzzled into him until it rustled her hair, "I'm sorry I have altered your life so. It was never my intention."

He didn't exactly have a reply for her.

"I won't stop," she promised, leaning more heavily against his shoulder. She was exhausted. "I won't stop until I change you back."

Even if he was a human. Even if he hated her. Even if he yelled and screamed at her as soon as he was back to being a man. She couldn't blame him for it, now could she? Even if he returned with a pitchfork to burn their cottage to the ground.

No: her cottage.

She had brought him into her home. But for him, this was just a shelter from the cold, after she had turned him into a beast. Surely he was yearning for his own home. Was he missing a wife who would say soft things to him at night? Did he have children who asked every night where their father had gone? Did their mother tell them stories of wicked witches who snapped away handsome men to be their familiar servants for all their lives?

She would try the potion again. She would test it more. She would test it on more species, larger and more varied. If a witch's life was devoted to magic and the pursuit of its endless knowledge, then she had a new mission. Her only reason for all her days forward was helping this bear become a man again. A man who would hate her and curse her name for generations to come.

She had no idea how she could sleep at all with thoughts like that in her head. But she had indeed slept, her face buried in the bear's soft fur, smelling of the smoke from the fire. But he was just so warm. She nuzzled her face against it again, even coming her fingers through it.

It didn't feel the same, though. And he wasn't as soft as he had felt the night before, either. She winced as she tried to drag herself awake. Potions still required magic, and creating a new potion or casting a new spell every night had her at her limit.

"You okay?"

"Hm," she sighed, blinking as the sun hit her eyes. She was still on the floor, she realised as she looked up at the hearth, eating up the smoke from the fire that had gone out in the night. She should have been freezing, though, if that were the case. Why wasn't she in her bed? She was on the floor. She was on...a chest.

Her head shot up. It wasn't her bear, with his massive black eyes and cold, wet nose. It was a human. A human man with a face, and a smile. It was a nice smile. He had a soft voice.

"Hey."

[supersilversleuth]

This Pain Isn’t Real (Because I Couldn’t Handle It Alone If It Was) by SuperSilverSpy

Fandoms: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)

Rating: General Audiences

Category: Gen

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Jason Todd & Stephanie Brown, Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne, Jason Todd, Stephanie Brown, Dick Grayson-centric, Dick Grayson Whump, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Comfort, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Whumptober2021, touched starved, Bruises, Starvation, SuperSilverSpy, SilverGrayson, SilverWhump, Dick Grayson is Damian Wayne’s Parent, I think I might have attempted, Fluff, in this

"I'm telling you, brat, Goldie is probably fine. It wouldn't be the first time he'd run off without telling anybody. Besides, it's only been..."

"Tt, something doesn't feel right, Todd. He would have answered my calls by now, if he were oka—"

Jason saw him first, then Damian. Both of them freezing in place, staring at him with wide eyes.

OR Dick&fam in the aftermath of his kidnapping (comfort-ish fic)

No. 6 - TOUCH AND GO bruises | touch starved | hunger

Part 6 of 2021 Most Whumperful Time of the Year - Dick Grayson-centric

Language: English Words: 1,410 Chapters: 1/1 Collections: 1

It’s fine, Dick thought, it’s fine.

Your fingers are bruised , said that incredibly negative voice in his head, so are your toes, and your back and your bu—

Shut up , Dick thought back firmly, I’m not bruised, see? He looked down at his arm. No bruises. I can’t see them so they’re not there.

Liar, hissed the voice.

Memories flashed through his mind, courtesy of the crazy witch lady that had captured him two weeks—no, two days ago.

Just because it felt like two weeks and she said it was two weeks and my body is missing two weeks worth of breakfasts and lunches—doesn’t mean it was two weeks.

Afterall, the newspaper and his phone and the nice old lady across the hall said it’d only been two days.

So, Dick concluded, he had no right to be acting as he was. Kneeling on his living room floor, barely clothed, holding his weak and shaky arms out awkwardly as if keeping them from touching anything would make them hurt less.

Which, he thought, it might.

But it was all in his head, the bruises weren’t actually there. It only felt like they were. Just because he’d seen them with his own eyes didn’t mean they hadn’t gone away when he’d escaped.

Even so, Dick couldn’t bring himself to move, let alone stand up and actually do something productive. Any time any part of his body so much as touched something, it would hurt. Not to mention, his muscles were sore and achy, and he was very thin and malnourished. Stupid witches and their pain-in-the-a** magic. Dick smirked bitterly to himself at the pun.

You’re pathetic, said that incredibly motivational voice again.

Fine, Dick thought back, I’ll get up.

So he did. Well...he tried to at least. He made it to his feet, staggered a bit, and collapsed against the side of his couch. Progress.

Oh but how it hurt . His feet couldn’t handle the pressure of his body weight--lessened though it was--and when he hit the couch, it was as if every breath of air left him at the pain.

Dick groaned.

—

He didn't notice it at first, through the agony, but a couple hours later he could really feel it.

The cold.

Oh, f*** his life. The one time when his skin felt so tender he felt like a mild breeze might send him crashing to the ground—and now he was feeling cold.

It was ironic.

His blankets were heavy and soft, but it was the heavy part his brui—body didn't agree with. Dick dragged himself onto his couch, pressing against the cushions. Stars seemed to spark in his vision, pain radiating from his shoulder and arm, where he was putting the most pressure. His legs sank into the scratchy fabric as well, creating a sharp ache in his shins.

Dick shivered.

It felt as if he were trapped in a freezer. He breathed heavily, trying to control his breaths, looking ahead of him as if he might see the product of frosty breath in the air.

Relax, it's nothing, it's all in your head. He thought to himself.

Dick shivered again, tried to keep his teeth from chattering. It wasn't a very successful attempt. Against his better judgement, Dick rubbed harshly at his arms. He felt as if he was tearing through his own skin, though he did feel a very brief flash of warmth.

When was the last time I had a hug? It was three weeks ago—no, just a little over a week.

Dick sighed into his couch. He was a grown adult now, there was no reason for him to be sitting there, wishing for a hug as if he were some hopeful, naïve child.

Just as he was in the process of making himself pass out from pain, the door opened, and in walked two of his younger brothers.

"I'm telling you, brat, Goldie is probably fine. It wouldn't be the first time he'd run off without telling anybody. Besides, it's only been..."

"Tt, something doesn't feel right, Todd. He would have answered my calls by now, if he were oka—"

Jason saw him first, then Damian. Both of them freezing in place, staring at him with wide eyes.

"Hey, hey Dickie?" Jason asked slowly, "You alright?"

Damian burst into movement, hurrying towards Dick's side. He knelt on the floor, hesitantly putting a hand on his shoulder.

Dick held perfectly still, trying not to flinch away or show any kind of pain. But Damian knew him better than that.

The kid's warm palm against Dick's skin felt wonderful, and there was hardly any pressure behind it.

Dick felt his eyes water at the relief.

Behind them, Jason scoffed, shuffling his feet as if uncomfortable. Finally, he began heading towards Dick's kitchen, muttering curses under his breath.

Not long after and there was a loud exclamation from the kitchen, Jason had probably found out just how much food Dick...didn't have.

"Richard?" Damian asked him, completely ignoring Jason in the background. "What happened to you?"

"It's—it's nothing," Dick stuttered out, "N—Nothing happened."

He shivered, instinctively clutching Damian's arm, bringing it up to his face.

Damian's expression was solemn, yet concerned. "It's alright, Grayson. You needn't have to tell us."

"You're so warm," Dick shuddered, running tender fingers along Dami's arm.

"Richard? Where are you injured?"

"Everywhere." Dick felt the words slip through his usual defenses. He would've felt surprised, but all he could feel was numb except for that one spot where his little brother's hand lay on his cheek.

Baby Bird pulled back, and the previous warmth was gone, taken from him. Dick whined at the loss. Damian froze yet again, startled expression trained on him.

"Dami..." Dick whispered, drawing out the "e" sound. "Come back."

His arm flopped out, reaching out half-heartedly for the kid. It hit the edge of the couch, sending a wave of pain through his arm and back to his chest.

"What is wrong with you, Grayson?"

Dick closed his eyes, muttering tiredly about physical touch and feelings of cold--likely caused by starvation, he might add. Not because he needed a hug or anything. He hoped Dami would get the hint without him having to actually say it.

"You...of all people..." Damian stared at him in disbelief. "I consented to such physical atrocities just last week!"

Sighing, Dick turned his head away. "It's a long story."

He opened his arms as wide as they could go (which wasn't very), and tried to look inviting.

With mild grumbling, Damian stood, slipping onto the couch to join Dick there.

He sighed, content, wrapping his arms around the boy and burying his face in the kid's hair.

—

"Geez, what happened here?" Steph took in the disorganized mess before her.

Jason scowled. He wore a stained, ugly-yellow apron around his waist, and looked like he'd been in the middle of cleaning up something nasty.

"Dickface went and got himself starved in the two days he went missing—how is that even possible? And he seemed to be all drugged up on some sort of cuddle concoction. He was in the middle of snuggling the demon spawn when his fever started."

Steph winced. "How bad is it?"

"He's been lucid exactly twice since the first time he woke up and spat out parts of his stomach that I'm pretty sure should still be in there. The little sh** there though," Jason nodded to where Damian was adorably curled up within Dick's embrace, "Somehow Dick doesn’t splatter him every damn time he expels little bits of his organs. And he won't let go of the kid. I swear the universe is getting back at me from the last time I flipped it off..."

Steph cracked a smile, "So why am I here then? You're obviously being overdramatic about Dick's health, I can tell you're not that worried, you know."

The man just chuckled, tossing her the mop that had been in his hands before. "The next time Goldie wakes up, I'm gonna have some soup all ready for him. You, young lady, are here to clean up the rest of this mess."

Steph looked around, opening her mouth to argue.

Jason just raised his eyebrows, shooting her a pointed look as his phone seemed to materialize between his fingers.

Crap. That's what she got for letting blackmail material fall into the wrong hands.

[marilynsweet]

WITCH AU: Red

Part 2/3,the first part is “The Witch’s House.”

General warning for PG-13 esque stuff, I don’t wanna spoil too much;;

The gentle glow of the sunrise glimmered through the curtains. The window, closed, kept out the freezing air. The icy chill of late autumn had begun to set in, though there was warmth in the room. Scents of fresh greenery permeated the air.

Asriel’s eyes opened, finding himself staring up at the ceiling. His arms rested above his head.

After taking a few moments to stir himself from slumber, he sat up, rubbing his eyes.

He’d been here for about two months. The lack of such a busy lifestyle had made this place seem like paradise; he’d grown used to the quiet chirping of the birds in the woods, the sound of wind rustling through the tree’s branches, and the sounds of the goats and chickens outside each morning. His injuries had healed to the point where the only thing that irritated them was sudden quick movement. Frostbite trusted him on his own, now, to not hurt himself trying to do too much.

After a quick change of clothes, Asriel made his way out of his room and into the kitchen. The wood stove contained the soft embers of the previous night’s fire. Though it was still warm, a chill had spread through the house. Asriel took it upon himself to add another log and some twigs to reignite it.

His attention was grabbed by the sound of a THWACK! outside. Curious, Asriel took his boots from the mat by the door, laced them, and headed outside.

His breath fogged before him, and icy frost decorated the outside world in white crystals. The grass crunched beneath his feet, and sunlight sparkled through the few remaining leaves upon the trees. Two black goats trotted across the yard, along with a small flock of chickens. The thwack interrupted the air again, and Asriel followed the sound around to the side of the house.

There, he found Frostbite. She had laid her cloak across a stack of cut logs, and her arms had slipped out of her wide-necked shirt, the sleeves tied neatly behind her to keep it in place. In her hands, she held a woodcutter’s axe, and she stood in front of a pile of uncut logs. She had taken one log, and placed it upon the trunk of a long-dead tree.

He noticed black markings and symbols decorating her arms. Her arms themselves were toned by years of hard work and turmoil. She swung the axe, Asriel noticing the outline of her muscles in the movement, and slicing the log before her in two with another thwack!

He shook himself out of his staring, suddenly aware of the heat in his face. He took a deep breath, turning away from the scene to watch the goats, trying to purge the pink in his cheeks.

“You still can’t sneak as well as you think you can!”

Asriel perked, turning back to the scene to see Frostbite facing him, running a hand through her hair. Her breath fogged up quickly, sending clouds into the frosty air as she caught her breath. She swung the axe into the trunk, where she let it rest.

“Just came to see what you were doing!” Asriel replied, watching her retrieve her cloak and untie her sleeves. She slipped her arms into them, and then clipped her cloak back around her shoulders.

“Yeah? Wanna help me feed the goats?” Frostbite asked when she approached, offering him a smile. Her cheeks were flushed from her previous efforts, and she again ran a hand through her hair.

“Sure!”

She walked across the yard towards a small shed. Asriel had helped her build it about a month ago, to store the animals’ feed somewhere other than her bedroom. Following, Asriel watched her drag out a heavy canvas bag, pulling it open.

“Need help?” He asked, and she shook her head.

“I got it,” she replied, heaving it into her arms to get a better grip on it. “I’ll carry, you dispense.”

They made their way over to the wooden trough, worn through years of usage. There, Asriel helped Frostbite lay out a batch of alfalfa, and the two goats came trotting over.

“I’ll have to get more of that,” she murmured, closing up the bag. “They seem to love it.”

They returned the bag to the shed. Their footsteps left prints in the frost, and the sun was beginning to rise further against the tall trees. Beautiful reds and oranges and pinks decorated the sky, along with shadowed clouds.

“I fed the chickens earlier,” Frostbite stated, tossing her hair to move it back in place over her right eye. Her hair was smooth, shining in the gentle morning light. Her amber eyes glowed with that same shimmer. She took the heavy board hanging on the shed and swung it forward over the door to keep it shut tightly.

Asriel shook himself again, blinking as if awakened from a trance.

“You alright? You keep spacing out,” Frostbite asked, though she walked back towards the house. She motioned towards it with her head, indicating he should follow.

“Yeah— Yeah! I’m alright, I… I think I had a weird dream last night. I just… don’t remember anything about it,” Asriel replied, walking after her. “I think it threw me off.”

The kitchen had been warmed in their absence as the log caught fire in the stove. The chilled air was left behind when the front door closed.

“How long have you been awake?” Asriel asked as Frostbite sunk into one of the chairs at the table, stretching her arms above her head. She seemed tired.

“A few hours,” she murmured with a yawn. “That wood wasn’t going to cut itself, it has to be done before the snow comes.”

“I could’ve helped—!”

“No. I want to be sure your neck isn’t going to act up again before I let you exhort that much energy,” Frostbite replied quickly, before he could retort. “I’m not taking the risk of you hurting yourself again.”

Asriel couldn’t think of a retort to that.

“I’m going to gather eggs for breakfast in a bit, then I’ll make something. Bread should still be fresh.”

“I can make breakfast, if you need a break! I know how to make eggs!” Asriel replied, perked and eager to help.

A small smile crossed her face as she leaned back into her chair, running a hand through her hair. She took a deep breath before letting it out.

“Fine,” she murmured, sitting back up to look over at him. “But don’t hurt yourself!”

“I won’t!” Asriel replied, and before she could get up or retort, he had already headed outside.

When Asriel returned, Frostbite wasn’t at the table.

“Frostbite?” He called out, setting the eggs into the designated basket on the wooden counter.

No reply, but he could smell the faint whiff of a freshly lit candle.

Curiosity sparked in him as he looked over to the stairs. In his time here, he had never been upstairs. Frostbite had moved her things from his room to hers once she had made room for them, but he hadn’t been able to help because of his injury. Now, he was curious.

Tentatively, he took hold of the railing and began to climb the stairs.

When he reached the top, he was taken aback by the room. Two walls were entirely covered by bookshelves, upon which rested more than books. Crystals, jars, plants, and small chests. A bed lay on top of a rug on the wooden floor, above which was hung a wooden ring, decorated with feathers and strung with pink blossoms he hadn’t seen anywhere in the village. Above that, a hand-carved moon cycle was hung in an arch. Candles were placed upon the bedside tables, as well as on empty shelves. To his left, a wardrobe was pushed against the wall, in a hollowed out area of the shelved wall. Plants hung in hangers around the ceiling, in strange balls with what looked to be small trees and ivies sprouting from them. To the right, Asriel found Frostbite.

She was sitting on a cushion next to a low table. The table was set against the wall, with an open ornate box sitting upon it. There was a statue of a woman holding a staff, a closed book, a wooden cup, a variety of crystals set into an arch, and a rainbow of colored candles upon the table. Asriel noticed that only the red and pink ones were lit.

Frostbite sat cross-legged, with her hands in her lap. Upon approaching, Asriel noticed her eyes were closed.

“You should really knock before entering someone’s room,” she said without moving. “I could hear you.”

“What are you..?”

“Meditating,” Frostbite replied, again not moving. “I’ll be down soon.”

Asriel chose not to comment, only staying for a few more moments before heading back downstairs.

The room was quiet, but Asriel quickly set to work preparing breakfast. About halfway through, he heard the padding of footsteps on wood.

“Surprised you went to find me,” Frostbite said, and Asriel heard her moving a chair.

“I could smell the candles — wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“...I assure you, I can handle myself, don’t worry,” she replied, and Asriel could almost sense the smile on her face. “Breakfast smells wonderful.”

“I picked up on a few things from my mother,” Asriel replied, taking two plates from the cabinet. “She taught me how to cook.”

“Impressed, I am. Not many seem to know how, aside from the women in the village.”

“Eh, mother thought I should know, and I enjoyed it.”

Asriel was done quickly - eggs didn’t take too long to cook, nor did slicing bread - and returned to the table. He set a plate before Frostbite, and then himself, before sitting across from her at the table.

“How’s your neck?” Frostbite asked, watching him eat for a few moments.

“It’s fine, better than it was. It only hurts now if I do something like jerk it to the side too quickly.”

She nodded, before divulging in her own food. Asriel took notice of how her ears pricked at the first bite.

“You did very good,” she said, causing a smile to cross Asriel’s face and pink to flush his cheeks.

“Thank you! It’s, ah… it’s been a while,” he said a bit sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I might just keep you around!” Frostbite said with a small giggle, and Asriel perked upon hearing her laughter.

“I’d hope so! I do like it here!” He said, returning to his own food. “I figure I should at least try to do something.”

“You can help me bring water back to the house and stack the logs, how’s that sound, hm?” Frostbite said, shooting him a smile. “You can do that.”

“Of course! But you need to finish eating! Gives energy for hard work.”

Frostbite rolled her eyes, snorting.

“I wouldn’t let such a good meal go to waste,” she joked with a small smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll finish it.”

The rest of the day was busy. Asriel helped Frostbite with the wood, with her cutting the logs and him stacking them up against the side of the house in a way that would keep them the driest. Asriel was in awe of her strength and efficiency, and more than once Frostbite had to remind him that the logs wouldn’t stack themselves. By the time the afternoon came, the final log had been split, and they had a sizable stack against the house.

After the wood, Frostbite took him into the forest, along a well-beaten path she had traveled many times. She carried with her two sturdy buckets, as well as some jars. From the house, she led him deep into the woods, where Asriel was able to take in the fresh breezes and chirping of the birds. Clouds drifted across the bright blue sky, visible through the branches above. Winter was coming - the clouds were gathered in larger and larger clumps.

Deep in the woods, they stopped at a creek. The water was clear and fresh. Occasionally, a fish would swim by. The pebbles were visible in the bottom, along with tall grasses along the banks and stepping stones that peeked out of the water. Frostbite took the buckets and walked out onto the stepping stones, again leaving her cloak behind, draped over a dry rock on the bank. She rolled up her sleeves, crouched upon the rock whilst balancing on her toes, and dunked the bucket under the water. Asriel assumed that to be the deepest part of the creek.

She did this with both buckets, Asriel helping by filling up the jars. Their breath fogged in the chilled air, the cold nipping at their wet hands and making them shiver. After filling their containers, they made the hike back to the house. Frostbite carried the buckets, Asriel asking many times if she needed help, to which she simply shook her head.

At the house, Frostbite dumped the water into an airtight barrel, kept in a cabinet under the stairs, so well-hidden Asriel hadn’t known it was there until she had first shown it to him. Many hikes and many hours later, they eventually had filled four barrels, stashed safely in the cubby.

Night seemed to come quickly with the hard work of the day, the darkness spreading over the woods. An occasional star would dot the sky through the gathering clouds, and the cold sunk deeper into the air.

After a hot meal and a change of clothes, Asriel sat on the floor next to Frostbite’s bed. Frostbite had lit her red candles again, though he didn’t ask why. A few rose petals lie upon her table by the wall.

She had a hand on either side of his head, gently tilting it either way to gauge the healing process. The rope burns had long scarred over, but the internals had taken much longer to heal.

“This doesn’t hurt, does it?” She asked softly, and Asriel shook his head.

“Feels better and better every day,” he said, feeling her lean his head back.

“You’ve got a leaf,” she murmured, and he felt her pick something from his hair.

“Thanks.”

Frostbite didn’t reply, though she did shift her hands to his neck, and her touch was soft. One of her hands was roughened by age-old burn scars, and the other soft and smooth. He guessed that was because of the glove she wore to protect it.

There was a mild discomfort when she pressed against the back of his neck to feel the bone, but nothing he couldn’t bear.

“You’ve healed well,” he heard her murmur, though her hands let go of him after a few moments.

“That’s good to hear — means I’m not going to be unable to do anything forever!” Asriel said with a soft chuckle, lifting his head to look up at Frostbite. His head was about level with her knees, from where she sat cross-legged on the bed.

He noticed her shifting her hands in her lap,

“Frostbite?”

She wasn’t looking at him, seeming deep in thought. He didn’t like the look of reluctance on her face.

Before he could ask again, she slid off the bed and walked over to her table by the wall. Confused, Asriel stood up, following after her.

“Hey— Frostbite, what’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer, taking one of the rose petals in her palms.

“...You’re going to want to leave,” she murmured after a long silence. “You’re going to want to go back. You’ve healed - why stay?”

Asriel felt his heart sink at the heartbreak in her voice.

He hadn’t considered that. Yes, he had missed home, but he hadn’t been thinking of the day that he’d leave. Maybe every now and then, he’d consider it, but the thought never came to him that it would come to pass.

He felt a tug on his heartstrings. Frostbite was refusing to look at him, running a thumb along the delicate rose petal in her hand.

“...I won’t make you stay,” she muttered. “I’m not going to keep you hostage, force you to live here. I know your beliefs conflict with mine. I know you have family elsewhere. I know you miss home. I just…”

Asriel noticed her hands shaking as she tightened her grip upon the petal, crushing it in her palm. He was lost for words. What could he say that wouldn’t make it worse? However, it was the next words that took his breath from his chest.

“...I love you.”

His cheeks flushed with heat. Before he knew it, she had grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him down, and kissed him.

Asriel was taken aback. Unable to think, to move, for a long moment. His eyes were wide, and he felt stiff all over, frozen in shock. However, he didn’t push her off of him.

She was soft and gentle, the grip on his shirt loosening.

Frostbite let go of him after a long while, slowly, almost seeming shocked by her actions. Silence fell, once more, broken only by the chirping of crickets outside and the hooting of owls in the distance. The moonlight shimmered through the curtains, illuminating the room in a soft glow.

There was a fluttering in his chest he hadn’t felt before. Butterflies filled his stomach in a swarm. He raised a hand, and touched his lips.

Had that just happened?

Frostbite stood in silence, not looking at him, but at a spot past him, seeming to consider her next words very carefully. She bit her lip, trying to find the words.

After a few moments, she began to speak.

“...I’m sor—“

However, before she could finish, Asriel had taken her face in his hands and returned her kiss. Though the butterflies swarmed, though his heart raced, his mind told him one thing, and one thing only:

I love you, too.

Though his eyes closed, he could feel her run her hands along his shoulders, pulling him closer. One of her hands trailed into the hair on the back of his head, the other moving to wrap her arm around his neck.

Though he had to let go of her face to do so, his hands moved to her waist, holding her close as the kiss broke apart. He instead moved to press slow kisses against her cheek, then jaw, neck, collarbone, and then exposed shoulder. She leaned her head back, giving him more room. Every new kiss against her skin prompted her to grip him tighter, hold him closer.

I need you.

Her touch was gentle against him. In turn, her skin was soft against his hands. Burn scars be damned, the feel of soft flesh wasn’t only foreign to him, but it was addictive. He hadn’t felt anything like it. A lover’s caress, a kiss, holding and being held. The way she held him tight, the way her hands traveled across him, the way they seemed to just… fit together. The way her hands ran through his hair, holding him closer, longing for his touch, his kiss. The shivers down her spine when he buried himself into her neck, the feeling of his touch, the need for him.

It was intoxicating. They needed more.

The night had never felt so long, but not empty. Far from it. In the heat of the moment, in the desire, the need, they didn’t want it to end.

However, it did.

In the dead of night, when silence fell and the night grew cold, sleep came quick from exhaustion. The bed felt unusually comfortable, the blankets warmer than normal, the pillows softer.

The room fell into silence, the red candles on the table finally flickering out.

-

Frostbite woke that morning to the sun’s beams peering through the curtains. Birds outside sang their familiar melody, and it took her a few moments to register the morning.

Though, from her position, she didn’t want to get up just yet. It was warm… warm and comfortable. She trailed a hand behind her, feeling the sheets.

“Asriel?” She murmured, rubbing her eyes and turning over.

He wasn’t there.

She shrugged, yawning and stretching in her bed. He’d probably woken early.

It took her a long time to get out of her comfortable bed, though upon doing so, she wished she hadn’t. The air was icy and cold, especially against bare skin.

Odd… He would have thrown a log into the stove. Did he forget?

She picked up her clothes off the floor, with a wince, before walking over to her wardrobe. Everything felt sore from the previous day. It hurt to lift her arms, and her calves hurt from the trekking to the creek.

She pulled open the doors, tossing the previous night’s clothes into a hand-woven basket at the bottom. In the back of the wardrobe, a tall mirror hung, allowing her to take in her reflection.

Her neck and shoulders were covered in small bruises, and her hair was a tousled mess. She tidied it with her hand, tucking strands back into place and combing through it with her fingers. She then quickly dressed herself, hurried by the cold air nipping at her skin.

“Asriel?” She called out again, a bit louder this time, making her way down the stairs after closing up her wardrobe. On the way down, she clipped her cloak around her shoulders.

Upon reaching the kitchen, she noticed that the stove was cold and ashy, no embers glowing inside. The front door was slightly ajar, and Asriel’s room remained silent.

Eyebrows creased, she walked over to the door and shut it. Something was wrong.

Had he gone to the creek, perhaps, and forgotten to start the fire? Why would he leave the door open?

Looking around the room for clues prompted her to spot a torn sheet of paper on the table. She approached the table and took the scrap into her hands.

Her heart sank into her stomach.

Upon reading its contents, tears began to quickly flow from her eyes and down her cheeks. Her hands began to shake, then the rest of her, and it wasn’t from the cold. Her grip tightened on the paper, threatening to tear it.

On the paper, written in hasty, messy handwriting, was one sentence:

God forgive me, for I have sinned.

[almostkoo]

How Not to Train Your Dragon | Kim Namjoon

pairings: kim namjoon x oc

summary: getting placed with a familiar creates a sacred bond but when your familiar despises you with a passion the hoops you’ll jump through to patch things up will lead you on a journey

word count: 2.1k

warnings: language (as always), 1 (one) death threat, oc & namjoon got more beef than wendys, i swear one day i’ll write them being friendly .. but it is not today 🤡

author’s notes: day four !! of spooktober! getting these stories out back to back have been challenging but i’ve been having fun with this and i hope you guys are enjoying my stories ! we’re almost done :)

link to my main masterlist

The sweet smells of your workshop swirled around in the air as you bustled around over your cauldron, dropping things in and stirring around every so often. You were focused on the potion that had been taking you months to master. Shrinking potions were always hard to do, anything with changing anatomy was always hard to do. What made things worse was that potions were never your strongest area.

Stirring the lime green substance around you looked around at the shelves around you trying to find the one last ingredient you’d need for this and you’d be sure it would tie this potion all together.

The Water Buffalo’s tooth was placed on the shelf to your left in a transparent pink jar. Keeping an eye on the cauldron you started side stepping in an attempt to reach for the tooth. Your hand remained on the handle of the ladle you were using to stir. Fingertips barely ghosting the jar at all you didn’t know what to do. If you tried levitating it towards you there was a chance you would accidentally release the jar from it’s hold and drop it. If that Water Buffalo’s tooth hits the ground it’s gonna be of no use. You let out a sigh doing something you dreaded to do.

“Namjoon? Can you come help me in here please?” you called.

Every witch had a familiar, yours so happened to be Namjoon. It was bad enough he seemed like he hated you the moment his sharp, slit frosty blue eyes laid on you. He was a dragon too. The most hardest to deal with of all the supernatural beings. Namjoon was stubborn, arrogant and stand offish. You hated having to deal with him for prolonged amounts of time.

The curtain to enter your workshop pushed to the side and in came Namjoon, his grown out purple tresses hung wildly around his face.

“What do you want?” he asked, arms crossed.

“Can you please hand me the Water Buffalo’s tooth, it’s right there on the shelf in the pink jar I just can’t reach it.” you asked. Namjoon snickered at you.

“You can’t just make it fly over to you?” he waved his fingers around mockingly.

“Don’t you think if I could I would. If I do I could risk dropping it. If I drop it I’m going to have to travel just about half way up the mountains again to get another one and I really don’t want to do that.”

“That’s too bad. Figure something out. If you need me, which I hope you don't, I'll be out front handling your store while you squander ingredients trying to be a potions master.” Namjoon turned on his heels and stepped back out of your workshop. You felt a hot tear start rolling down your cheek. Quickly, wiping it away with your free hand. You straightened up, reaching out your hand to summon the tooth to you. Multitasking between that and stirring you looked out of the corner of your eye, watching the jar slowly float to you. The cauldron started bubbling and you looked away from the floating jar. When suddenly you hear the glass shatter, you looked down at the floor where the Water Buffalo tooth laid useless. Fighting back the urge to cry some more. You waved your hand freezing the potion in place. You walked towards the door to your workshop grabbing your cloak on the way out.

Namjoon looked up from the book he was reading. He snapped it close, the sound making you jump and stop in your tracks.

“Where are you going ? Thought you had a potion to finish.” He said.

“I dropped the Water Buffalo’s tooth on the ground, I can’t use it anymore. I’m gonna hike up the mountains to get another one.” You said, pressing the door open to the shop to exit. You were walking down the road in the direction of the mountains. Loud footsteps came from behind you, not even bothering to turn around you knew who was following you.

“Why are you following me Namjoon?” You sighed.

“I can’t let you just go off into the woods alone. Why don’t you let me fly you up there? It's going to take you hours to get up there and that’s if you don’t rest and power through.”

Not many things scared you. That’s something you learned early into your existence. Until you met Namjoon, then you realized heights and Namjoon’s dragon form was two of the only things that truly shook you to the core. Them put together you couldn’t just handle it it was too much.

“I don’t like heights and you know that.” You kept walking forward, dreading the trip up the mountains. A shot of fire blasted straight past your shoulder. You jumped back out of the way, whipping around to look at Namjoon who blew a puff of smoke out of his mouth.

“Namjoon? Are you serious? Did you just try and burn me?” You questioned. Namjoon let out a loud sigh, dropping his shoulders.

“Come on y/n. Please let me fly you up the mountain. I don’t wanna do this walk either! I still have to protect you and assist you. Stop being so damn stubborn.” Namjoon hissed at you.

“Me being stubborn you’ve got to be kidding me.” You shook your head, turning back around to continue walking.

“Y/n if you want you can close your eyes. I fly quickly, we’ll be there before you know it.” He pleaded.

“No Namjoon” you snapped. “I don’t care if my eyes are closed! I don’t care if I had soundproof headphones so I won’t feel the wind rush into my ears! I don’t care if I have on mitts so I won’t feel your rough ass scales on my hands! You’re NOT flying me up the mountain.” You yelled.

“I hate dealing with you.” You heard Namjoon mumble.

“I fucking hate dealing with you too, you aren’t special.”

Hour One

Somewhere during the first 30 mins of the hike up the mountains Namjoon’s airpods found their way into his ears. His loud rapping filling up the quiet air, annoying you very quickly. You scanned the ground as you continued walking until you saw a small pebble. Stopping in your tracks you picked it up, turning around in one swift move throwing it right at Namjoon’s chest. He flinched back in pain, snatching an airpod out of his ear.

“What the fuck is the matter with you?” His eyes narrowed at you.

“Cut it out with all that loud ass rapping. I don’t wanna hear that shit!” You shouted.

“So what you’re gonna assault me with fucking rocks?”

“If I could levitate a boulder and get away with crushing you to death I would. But I can’t so the pebble will have to suffice.”

“You wouldn’t kill me.” Namjoon said smugly.

“Don’t tempt me.” You stated, sternly. Your cold stare peering into Namjoon’s eyes. He rolled his eyes and looked away. Muttering a soft “Whatever” under his breath.

You continued moving up the mountains and Namjoon resumed rapping out loud.

Conjuring up a pair of earbuds to listen to your music from your own phone. Seeing that your device was on 25% you hoped to the heavens your phone would at least get you the full trip up the mountains. You couldn’t even conjure up a portable charger because you know you would’ve managed to electrocute your hands … again.

Hour Two

The 25% did not last the complete trip up the mountains. Leaving you once again to listen to Namjoon’s loud rapping up the mountains. Slowly you found yourself getting irritated again. Scanning for another pebble you found a slightly bigger one than last time. You picked it up, tossing it up in your hand a few times to feel the weight of it. You turned around like a pitcher aiming to throw the pebble at Namjoon again, he attempted to dodge it, he missed it but his phone in his hand didn’t. It fell underneath the small rock, the now dark screen had a visible crack in it. You could see the smoke leave Namjoon’s nostrils.

“Y/n” Namjoon hissed. “You did not just do that.”

“Oh, but I did.” You said, in a saccharine tone.

“Why would you do that? You keep acting like a fucking caveman. You could’ve just asked me to stop rapping out loud.” He scoffed.

“I’m acting like a caveman? Says the giant lizard. You’ve got to be kidding me.” You muttered.

“If I’m a giant lizard why are you afraid of me then?” Namjoon taunted.

“I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid of flying.”

“Well if you’re not afraid of me then I guess you won’t mind if I stretch my wings and trot around then until we get to the top of the mountain then.” You quickly turned around, spotting Namjoon’s blue scales appearing all over his arms.

“CUT IT OUT! I’M SERIOUS!” You yelled. Namjoon started cackling. You felt yourself getting angry. It wasn’t funny that you were scared. You could quite piece exactly why you were scared of Namjoon. But you knew you were and that was enough.

“Namjoon don’t talk to me for the rest of this hike. I swear to the heavens if you don’t you won’t speak again unless I want you to.”

“But y/n come on-“ You turned, waving your hand, binding Namjoon’s lips together.

“That’s enough out of you for now.”

Hour Three

The rest of the hike up the mountains was pretty peaceful. Quiet and serene, except for the small sounds of nature here and there. Water running in a creek, birds chirping, animals running over leaves. The only non nature sound was the occasional grunt from Namjoon.

Soon you found yourself met right with a board of Water Buffalos. You searched around. The tooth you needed was from a special specific silver Water Buffalo, that made whoever wanted its teeth solve riddles. You found it in the back of the hoard. Bumping in between the Water Buffalos you stood in front of the silver one, taking a bow and waiting for it to speak to you.

“How could I be of service to you child?” the Water Buffalo hummed.

“I need another tooth … please.” You said.

“To receive one of my teeth, you must answer a riddle correctly. You may only have one chance. Are you ready ?” It asked you. You nodded.

“This number added to it's square, and the digits of that summation added together, bring it back to itself. What is it?” It questioned. Your mind went blank and then filled itself with confusion.

“I thought I was supposed to be answering a riddle. Is that a math question?”

“It is indeed a riddle.”

You were stumped. You couldn’t tell if this was going to be one of those twisted riddles that had some philosophical meaning or just one straight forward. You started thinking deeply when that was interrupted by Namjoon’s grunting. You looked at him. He pointed at his mouth in frustration. You waved your hand removing the binding.

“What is it? You better have something useful to bring to the conversation.”

“I have the answer. I do.” He stated, eyes big and his smile wide, deep dimples indenting his cheeks.

“Namjoon, I swear if you say something incorrect and I can’t get this tooth.” You rubbed your temples.

“I’m not stupid. I know this one. I swear, let me answer it.” Your eyes scanned Namjoon’s face trying to see if there was any indication of him lying or being uncertain and you couldn’t see any. You really hoped he didn’t fuck this up.

“Fine answer it. But I swear if you fuck this up I will never forget it. When I finally master this potion I’m going to shrink you down and keep you in a jar for the rest of your days.” You stated, sternly.

“3. 3 squared is 9. 3+9=12. Take the two digits of the summation and add them; 1+2=3. In short; 3-9-12-3. This can also work with the number 0 and 9.” Namjoon said, proudly. Hands on his hips and puffing out his chest like a superhero that just saved the day.

The Water Buffalo hummed in approval. Before opening his mouth and dropping out one single tooth.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.” You smiled, bending over and picking up the tooth. Wrapping it gently in a cloth and placing it in your bag. You bumped your way back through the hoard and started your way back down the mountain.

“So what, you aren’t going to thank me?” Namjoon called from behind you.

“Jesus. Fuck. Thanks Namjoon. Are you happy?” You snapped.

“Yes actually I am. Thank you.”

“You are so annoying I can’t wrap my head around it.”

“Thank you.” Namjoon smiled. You looked at him as he poked his cheeks right in his dimples. You shook your head laughing.

One would say you and your familiar have a dysfunctional relationship. Maybe one day it would change maybe one day it wouldn’t. You’d work through it any way it went.

[maladaptive-ninja-returns]

Dawn(4)

Loki x fem!Reader

ONE/TWO/THREE SHOT

Warnings:hurt, anxiety, missing(?)

Summary: A truce to end all wars leads to an alliance between Earth and Asgard in the form of Loki marrying a mortal. None of them what this. None except fate.

Word Count: I’ll be leaving this job when things settle down. I cannot work for a company that does not have humanity or sympathy for the people that keep it going. I would rather get a decent pay and be treated with the respect I deserve for the job I do. This pandemic really brought a whole different side to how much they care for you.

MASTERLIST in bio, darlings. Tags are open (check bio)

The rough kisses of the wind under the light of the moon bring with it the song of nocturnal birds ready to take the night. Every little ecosystem of the witching hour is alive as the light brings forth a new day and a new adventure, bursting out into songs of the twilight; or their supper. Everything except for the God on the horse that zooms past them, interrupting their daily chores to look at him in curiosity for five seconds before going back to whatever it is they were doing.

For Loki, it is less of an adventure and more of a race against time. He knows firsthand the sensitive areas of the Asgardian mountains, especially the ones lying close to Vanaheim and Alfheim that are hiding the remnants of old enemies of the throne. Once the war was over, it was a given that the invaders from other galaxies who had set their claws in the weakest kingdoms would have to face the Asgardian forces to draw them away, and so they had fled in the darkness of the many nights to prevent being captured and exiled to their planets or worse, being left on a barren moon to fend for themselves. And it would not be any barren moon but one which the Silvertongue would choose specifically for their suffering.

One of the reasons Loki had travelled to the borders just a day after his wedding was to take care of the still weak defences of the kingdom. Several aliens who had surrendered because of their children and to prevent violence were assured a safe refuge and means to make an honest living by both the Princes. But the once who had fled with the motive to not negotiate for a mere living had full intentions of coming back with resources. Loki made sure that guards were stationed near the villages by the edge of the cities so as to prevent the fiends from pillaging the hard work of the innocent while at the same time, releasing the wild animals under the care of the crown- more precisely, his command- to make sure they kept the threat in check.

It had been hard for Loki to get up in the morning with you by his side, sleeping without a care in the world. He’d watched you snore, your lips parted and your sleep reasonably heavy after the week you had had, and questioned himself to have found you more mesmerising than any time before. He knew Thor could have handled the situation without him, but seeing you sleep next to him with your guard down brought an unknown sensation from somewhere deep inside him, unfurling like a whirlpool in the midst of an ocean. The sensation, the instinct to protect you- to watch you like this more often. After all, how many people in his life had he witnessed to trust him enough to tell him his brother was afraid of spiders.

And now as he is flying in the wind through the forest trail to reach you, Loki can only think about your safety. Well, that and the endless rant he would have to hear from Tony if something happens to you and he finds out about it.

If his memory of the lessons of the kingdom’s Geography serves him right, the Nightweed can only be found by the rivulets flowing from Vanaheim’s direction. That would mean the group would have to travel south-west to reach it a few hours before the crack of the dawn. And the trail he follows suggests his observation be correct.

Just a half an hour journey later he finds a soft glow of lanterns up ahead on the trail, his pounding heart feeling an unexplainable rush that makes his grip on the reins tighter as he directs his horse to reach it with full speed.

What he does not expect to see is Sybll being the only one sitting on the ground next to a few horses while a guard keeps a watch for anything out of the ordinary. The lines of worry on her face are visible in the glow of the white lanterns but the fear that creeps into her eyes when she sees Loki emerge from the darkness is no match for them.

“Your highness,” she breaks while trying to get up from the ground and bow her head in the presence of her Prince.

“Where is she?” is all he asks.

The answer does not come abruptly. Instead, Sybll’s eyes well up and her fingers torment the flesh of her arms till she has grounded herself to finally speak.

“She’s missing. Someone took her,” she winces.

.

The visit to the forest feels like a dream. The smell of the flowers of the night, the cool breeze caressing you with the frostiness it brought you from the nearest waterfalls and rivulets, the happy songs not holding much meaning for you, the laughs and cheers. Everything seems to be blurring into a sweet memory.

Till you remember the urgent need to pee that led to you losing consciousness. And with that one thought gathering amplitude inside your head, your eyes open wide while your head throbs, looking in every direction for Sif or Sybll or anyone else who is familiar. Instead, you lock eyes with a gross creature sitting at the entrance- of what seems like a tent- looking at you with utter disgust in his eyes and a wicked smile on his...well, whatever this orc has for lips.

That creature runs out of the tent before you can ask him anything and you take that time to look around for any clue as to where you are. One thing that does make sense is the seal on the grain sacks and chests kept in one corner which does not belong to any royal families you were introduced to on your wedding day.

Wait, my wedding day was yesterday.

Just the thought of that fact gives you a headache.

Getting up from this quilt that you have been laid over, you feel the frost of the night over your exposed shoulders, really missing the cloak you'd kept on your horse when you dismounted it.

Steps sound outside the tent and you are obligated to turn towards the opening to see who is responsible for getting you unconscious and dragging you away from another Asgardian tradition.

Well, the master, or chief, looks nothing like the one he had stationed to guard you.

This one looks more like an elf with a backbone straighter than any protestant you would witness in a 'go away immigrants' rally. His golden hair falls till his hips, not a single strand out of its place; even when he walks towards you. For a second you really think he has walked in here by mistake till his yellow eyes start to observe you from head to toe.

Creepy elf.

"Hm," he breathes out, his head held so high he has to look down at you even though he is barely two inches taller than you are, "I thought the prince of Asgard would do better than...this."

"Hm," you mock back, not acknowledging that petty insult with an answer. But you really cannot help it. "I'm sure if you had asked nicely he would have considered your hand in the marriage too..."

"Torbarik," he introduces himself, never breaking that stoic ego of his, "and I would rather eat dirt than marry that bastard," the elf creature purrs all the while unconsciously avoiding anything that would get his white robe with sparkly embellishments dirty.

"So...you would marry him," you state, narrowing your eyes in introspection at that guy who is clearly irritated now.

He takes a step towards you, enough to bend a little when he wants to stare you directly in the eye. "Your father in the name of the law promised us a place in the kingdoms before your husband-" he practically hisses the word in your face- "and his high and mighty brother took over the territories to make it their little playground and drive my people out."

As much as you want to pay attention to his words there is something else that bothers you on another level.

"I'm sorry," you finally blurt out, "I cannot concentrate on what you're saying with those two little hairs standing up on your head. Right there. Yeah. Near the forehead."

Torbarik moves his head back, like a little jolt he feels at the thought of someone pointing at his imperfections.

"Look, I don't know what Odin promised you," you shrug, "and whatnot. But I do know that whatever Loki and Thor and doing is probably for the best of all people involved."

“What is best for their interest,” Torbarik interrupts you, walking around the tent, his eyes looking around, his marble-like face expressionless, “that is how the royal family has always been. I claimed the lands of Alfheim with power-” he pauses in front of a small mirror hanging by the pole in the centre of the tent and checks himself and those loose hair strands you mentioned- “and no one can take that away from me.”

You have to pause and take a breath. Initially for clearing your head, mostly for keeping you from throwing words at him he might not recover from.

“And where do I come into this?” you finally ask. “I do not have a political standing in the Asgardian court if that is what you are going for.”

Torbarik feels a shift in lips, a slight smirk forming on them as he turns to face you with an eerie look in his eyes. “Oh, but you are the most vital piece of the court, your grace.”

You know he means to mock you when he addresses you that way, and that look of madness in his eyes is not helping. “You, the latest addition to the royal court, a...low blood but married into the royals, nonetheless, are the key to it all. You are what I will bargain for power in these lands, my dear.”

So, he is insane, your inner voice shouts in a mad fit of hysterical laughter while you scoff at him. “And what makes you think anyone will negotiate with you? What makes you think Odin will negotiate for my life? Like you said, I’m just a human.”

For the first time that night, you watch Torbarik smile the broadest smile, revealing those unresting sharp white teeth. What is worse is his steps towards you, not halting till he has you pinned into the tent’s wall with his body, not even giving you much space to breathe.

“Oh, but not just any human,” he sings, his dirty-nailed fingers running lazily over your jaw, “you are the human who could bring havoc to Asgard with one simple scratch. Or maybe a broken bone. Or worse....your death.”

The nail from his index finger goes down the jaw, over your neck, deeper than before, definitely scratching something. “Imagine the destruction,” he whispers into your ear, sending uneasiness crawling down your skin, “when your family on earth finds out about something happening to you. The war they are going to wage. Bringing Hel on this land Odin is so proud of. And all-” his fingers wrap you by the throat, not yet turning it into a grip- “because Odin or his sons could not protect you.”

Even in the chill sweeping from outside on your feet, your back feels sweat trickle down while your heart tries its best to maintain a survivable pace.

“Loki would see this coming a mile away. Do you really think you stand a chance in front of hi-”

The grip tightens around your throat. You can feel the nails digging into your skin. “Oh, I want him to see this coming. I want him to know there will be blood if he does not agree with my terms. Even if your life means nothing to him, he will pay the price for it.”

It is not as much the words but the thoughts they conceive in your mind. Restless, unnerving thoughts. Thoughts of what weight do you exactly carry for Loki. Do you even carry some significance for him? Or are you just another peace treaty that was done and dusted?

Your heart feels a pain rush into it as quickly as you try to hide it on the outside.

“My husband does not negotiate with a terrorist. And you are a fool if you think he will not find a way through this web you think you are spinning for him.”

Torbarik breaks into laughter that chills your veins. Your skin feels something sticky where his nails are digging into your skin. “I would like to see him try.”

.

“...and by the time I came back to where I had left here, she was gone.”

The defeated sigh that leaves Sif’s lungs hurts her more than anyone for not being able to do the one thing she was meant to be doing.

“It’s not your fault, Sif,” Loki is quick to point out, knowing that look in her eyes well enough to know where her thoughts are spiralling right now. “Whoever took her must have been following you for some time to know when to strike. Are all the handmaidens accounted for?”

Sif nods, looking over his shoulder to watch them stand huddled together by the horses.

“Okay, here is what we will do-”

“Loki,” Sif interrupts the God before he can put a plan in action, “I can find her. Let me find her.”

Loki blinks. “Of course you will. You are the best asset we have right now. Baldur can take the handmaidens back to the palace. We have a lot of ground to cover so-”

“Pardon us, your highness,” Sybll’s voice stops Loki to make both the warriors turn around and face her form that is barely keeping it together underneath the tightly held cloak, “but we would like to be a part of the search too. We cannot go back to the palace when the Princess might be in danger right now. Please, we have been taught how to defend ourselves by the Queen. Let us be of some help as well.”

Loki has to pause and look at the eager faces standing their ground to do as much as possible. He turns to Sif for an opinion and she silently agrees with the lot.

A sigh escapes his nostrils in the form of visible air in this night getting colder by the minute.

“Fine,” he finally agrees, allowing the handmaidens to breathe easy, “but not without security.”

Loki gets down on one knee to touch the soil with his palm, reciting an ancient spell that reverberates through the land of the forest- its epicentre where Loki stands- with visible green and golden waves rolling right on the dust. Just as the recitation stops and his hand leaves the soil, everything goes silent; not even the owls hoot nor does a leaf.

And then Sif sees them. At the top of the nearest hill. Golden orbs- too many- in pairs, looking down at them, as if floating in their direction. The fear of the unknown takes root in a corner of her heart right before the moonlight shines on them.

Sif feels a touch on her shoulder and turns her head just enough to witness Loki’s hand shifting her and every other lady’s armour in something as black and as the night.

“Search for my wife,” Loki announces with a subtle hint of something dark without ever raising his voice- changing into a battle-ready black armour- and summoning his sword, “and they will take care of the rest.”

[lynelovespopculture]

A CAOS CHARACTER PROFILE: ZELDA SPELLMAN

Woman, witch, sister, aunt, mother figure, devoted daughter of night, midwife, teacher, lover, wife, and stepmother. These are all titles belonging to the head of the Spellman family. Zelda Phiona Spellman is also nothing if not a bunch of contradictions. Her cold, hard outer core hides a huge, warm heart.  She’s ambitious but will not take power not due to her. She may cook children in crazy dreams but while awake, she will do anything to keep them from harm.  So, what makes Zelda tick? It’s time to take an in-depth look at Sabrina’s beloved Aunt Z.

BACKGROUND

We are not sure where or even when Zelda was born. What is clear (well, pretty much) We can assume that Mr. & Mrs. Spellman or as Hilda affectionally calls them, Mum and Dad, were a happily married warlock and witch. Over time, they welcomed their 3 beloved children. (I’m very aware that I said 3. I didn’t forget about Ambrose’s parents. I read somewhere that Ambrose is only a distant cousin therefore his mother/father wouldn’t be a sibling to the other 3. I don’t know how true this is but it’s the only theory I found so until the show says otherwise, this is theory I’m going with.) We never get an exact answer of the children’s birth order, but we do know that the red-headed, blue-eyed Zelda was born before her sister, making her the eldest girl and possibly the oldest overall. Given how they treat Sabrina, I think it’s fair to say that Mr. and Mrs. Spellman are loving yet firm parents. Never favoring Edward over their daughters just because he’s a boy. Zelda was always proud of being a witch. She recalled being not being able to sleep for days before her dark baptism. Unlike Hilda and   Sabrina, Zelda had no doubts at all about joining the Church of Night. On the night of her 16th birthday, Zelda willingly knelt before a high priest and signed her name in the book of the beast.

SCHOOL DAYS AND YOUNG ADULTHOOD

With her baptism behind her, Zelda was enrolled in the Academy of Unseen Arts. At first, she had a ball; gaining a lot of long-lasting friendships and having lively debates about magic. However, as she rose to a senior student, Zelda found more and more doors being closed to her because she was a female student. One example of this is the vote for ‘top boy’ Edward got the vote when it was his time but Zelda? She was never even considered just because of her sex. This must have made Zelda, intelligent and a born leader, angry and frustrated. To cope with these kinds of unfairness, Zelda could have started to develop her harder outer shell, realizing her male teachers and students responded better to a cold fish rather than a crybaby. She also became somewhat of a mean girl.  Maybe Zelda figured if she was unable to be ‘top boy’, she would rule over the girls with fear as ‘top witch’. She oversaw harrowing (bullying) of other students but no one ever died on her watch. When Hilda got to the school, there could’ve been whispering among Zelda’s group that she would go soft on her little sister. This gossip only angered Zelda and pushed her to treat poor Hilda the worst of all. So bad, in fact, that even years later Hilda would recall her sister’s behavior as ruthless. At some point, the school got involved and contacts   Mr. and Mrs. Spellman. The Spellmans try to calm their youngest daughter and scolds their oldest. It’s here, alone with her parents, that Zelda admits to her inner pain. Explaining that the school gives Edward everything because he’s a boy, she feels her parents are overprotective over the sweet temper Hilda, and despite her perfect attendance in church and flawless grades, Zelda feels that she gets nothing. Her parents are not unfeeling to their daughter, but gender roles have never been questioned in the Church of Night so they’re not sure how to help their unhappy child. Despite her ruthlessness or perhaps because of it, more and more boys are attracted to the beautiful, teenage Zelda. None more than a young, powerful warlock named Faustus Blackwood. We are not sure about the age difference (if any) between Zelda and Faustus, so they are either students at the academy together or Zelda is a senior student while Faustus is a   young teacher. If it is a student/teacher thing then, of course, their relationship is forbidden so they are forced to meet in secret, and they get creative to be together.  Given their mutual glee at Lupercalia, it makes me think that they share a secret Lupercalia in the past. During Zelda’s senior year, Faustus was a teacher who was officially supervising the matching but he secretly using magic to guide Zelda to a warlock, who is gay and in on the plan. For the next 2 nights, Faustus with the gay warlock’s partner sneak into the woods, find Zelda and the warlock and go their separate ways. I like to think that this is when Zelda lost her virginity and after their nights together, the connection between Zelda and Faustus only deepened. Months after Lupercalia, Zelda graduated from the academy with full honors but soon returned to the school as a teacher.  Now that they’re both teachers, Zelda and Faustus can and do go public. As hard as Zelda falls for Faustus, I believe that Faustus falls even harder.

MOVING ON

At some point, the high priest of her childhood dies, and Edward gets the post of high priest and headmaster of the academy of unseen arts. It would be a lot of pressure on anyone and very likely that Edward asks his sister, Zelda, to stay at the school and be his support. She does and these are the times of power and glory for the Spellman family. Power that Zelda very much enjoys. However, after a few years and especially after the deaths of her parents, Zelda Spellman might feel like life is passing her by. Same town, same job, and same boyfriend.  She and Faustus have been together for years now but with no commitment. What Zelda doesn’t know is that   Faustus is dying to marry her, but Edward has forbidden the marriage. Somehow, Zelda is given the chance to train as a midwife, the same job that Hilda, who now lives in England, is training for. After some soul searching, Zelda tells her brother that she has decided to quit teaching and move to England to study with Hilda. Edward, who knows Faustus’s obsession with Zelda is only deepening, encouraged her to go. Zelda and Faustus part on good terms but inside, Faustus feels like he’s dying, Zelda’s leaving completely breaks his heart. Yet, he doesn’t blame her, he blames Edward. Once arriving in England, Hilda is thrilled to be with her sister again and Zelda meets little cousin Ambrose, who now lives with Hilda. It takes time, perhaps years, but Zelda and Ambrose form their own bond. For a while, the 3 live happily together. In addition to helping Hilda out with Ambrose, Zelda proves to quite a natural midwife, completing her training with ease. She even starts to date again. (She has dealt with her fair share of sex demons you know.) When Ambrose gets old enough to go to the academy, the sisters feel it’s time to go back to Greendale. Right before the move, Zelda is a little shook to learn about Faustus’s sudden marriage to Constance. Again, Zelda doesn’t know is that the marriage was forced on Faustus by Edward. Once back in Greendale, Zelda releasing how much she missed her own coven. Zelda becomes a renowned midwife, famous for never losing a baby. But the dark days are coming for the Spellmans. Ambrose was caught trying to blow up the Vatican and was placed under house arrest by the witch’s council. Ambrose must have felt awful for letting down the 2 women that he considers his own aunties. Hilda forgave Ambrose easily but his relationship with Zelda remains frosty. Then Edward dropped a bombshell. He was in love and planned to marry a mortal! Marrying a mortal is forbidden by the church of night for any warlock, let alone a high priest! Even if Edward is given special permission to marry Diana, Zelda faced a personal crisis. She’s devout; what she believes in, she believes in deeply. She is torn between the church’s teachings and wanting her brother to find happiness. Zelda may feel a  need to talk out her feelings but see how well Hilda and Diana get along,  talking with her sister is the wrong choice so she goes to an old friend, Faustus, who is happy just to be near her again. Yet unlike Blackwood, Zelda doesn’t hate mortals, she bares them no ill, she’s just doesn’t understand their world and it may even scare her, not that she would ever admit it. Over time, Zelda does see just how much Edward and Diana love each other and accepts the union. She goes with her siblings to meet Diana’s family, though it’s unclear of just how much they know and attends the wedding. To Diana’s family, this may seem like small gestures, but Edward and Hilda know how much Zelda’s support means and they love her for it.

FAMILY

To Zelda, only one thing matters more than her faith and that is her family. Losing Edward and Diana in that plane crash must have been a terrible shock and it changed the Spellman family forever. It certainly changes Zelda forever. We learn in the dream episode that Zelda’s greatest fear is losing Hilda forever which is completely understandable when you remember that they already lost their brother. The sister’s relationship also changes by Edward’s death. Sabrina is less than a year old when her parents died. Given Hilda and Ambrose’s close easy bond, Zelda might have been nervous to care for her niece, she didn’t need to fear. Even Diana’s ghost admitted that her daughter is well cared for by 2 mothers who adore her. Hilda is the one who wants Sabrina to be well-rounded by knowing her mortal side. Taking her to see a mall Santa when she young, making mortal friends, going to mortal schools and again, over time, Zelda accepts this as just part of Sabrina’s life. As Sabrina grows older, Hilda and Zelda become more a united parental unit. A perfect example of this is when Zelda and her niece get into a huge fight and Sabrina stings Zelda with, You’re not my Mother! And Hilda jumped in without a second thought. As this episode ends, Sabrina walks home, wounded and defeated, Zelda is waiting for her and Sabrina breaks down on the steps and Zelda comes down just to hold her. They’ll always love her, but Zelda is upset and disappointed when Sabrina flees her baptism. She feels like she is failing Edward because she knows this is Edward wants, Zelda was her brother’s witness when he signed Sabrina’s name. The ensuring trial must have been bittersweet for Zelda. Sabrina is accepted into the academy, but Hilda is cast out of the church for witnessing a catholic baptism. It’s only at the privacy of confession that Zelda tearfully admits that she feels like she’s failing. Under Edward’s rule, the Spellmans knew glory, under her, they’re a fallen family. As head of the family, Zelda feels that she should have all the answers, but she doesn’t know how to fix this. It’s also hard to pin down Zelda’s moral character. She tells Hilda, she feels bad about mistreating her when they were younger and clearly means it yet both sisters brush off the killings, (it’s probably like a form of bittering.) She uses magic on Mr. Kringle so he can’t hit Harvey. She is sweet and caring to Constance as a midwife but shows no guilt about having a passionate affair with the pregnant woman’s husband. Speaking of Constance, Zelda tries everything to save her during childbirth, but Constance dies anyway. However, Zelda has another problem. Not only is 1 twin a girl, not both boys as she told Faustus, but she’s the firstborn something Blackwood would never accept. So, Zelda hides the child with plans to raise the baby herself but soon realizes she’s not safe with the Spellmans either. Zelda’s motherly instincts kick in as she puts the little girl’s needs before her own wants. By season 2, with Sabrina busy with school and boyfriends, Hilda, a boyfriend, and a new job and with Ambrose no longer on house arrest, Zelda may feel like her family no longer needs her. Luckily, she’s not idle either. She’s back teaching full-time and she and Faustus are continuing their affair. When she tells Faustus that she’s the victim of gossip and asks to clarify their relationship now that Constance is dead. Faustus shows little concern and that’s when an annoyed Zelda breaks off their sexual affair. Knowing Faustus’s huge sexual appetite, Zelda knows she’s taking a risk. Blackwood could very easily find another woman who would willingly fulfill his needs (Shirley Jackson comes to mind.)  But Faustus has no intention of losing the love of his life again. He respects Zelda’s boundaries but as soon as they’re back on good terms, despite the short time since Constance’s death and the bitter memories of Edward’s disapproval, Faustus proposes and after considering, Zelda accepts. I know she says she only says yes for power and I don’t doubt that Zelda will enjoy the power that being the wife of a high priest will bring her.  There is much evidence in this show that Zelda loves Faustus. Going back to the dream episode, it clear that the dark lord and Faustus Blackwood are 1 in her mind and she’s devoted and attracted to him. One of her great fears is being rejected by him. Later, they kiss and she doesn’t back away. They make love and by the next day, she’s craving more of him. When Faustus admits that he likes whipping, it excites her. Zelda wants to be told that she’s more than sex to him and upset when she’s not reassured. Even after they’re engaged, the tarot card reading tells us that she feels a little guilty about hiding his daughter, unsure about what the right thing is and she afraid Faustus may cheat on her. After all, she was his mistress during his marriage to Constance. Zelda might even want this marriage for another reason; motherhood. Just by marrying Faustus, she becomes the stepmother of 3, Sabrina is getting older, could this former midwife long for a baby she won’t have to give up? On the wedding eve, the anti-pope is murdered. Zelda thinks it would be best to delay the wedding, but Faustus won’t hear it. Sabrina, Nick, and Ambrose   ruin the church wedding, but Zelda and Faustus successfully marry privately in his office. It’s a stressful honeymoon. It must be maddening to hear your new husband plot against your family and have to do nothing. Even after the spell is broken, Zelda returns, despite her husband’s growing madness, to protect her family, her stepchildren and the coven. She tried her best but gets caught and must flee before the mass murder.

THE FUTURE

We leave the Spellman family on a rather sad note. Blackwood is the run with his twins, there is no more dark lord and no one is exactly sure what comes next. Still, we know that Sabrina and the fright go to hell to save Nick while Prudence and Ambrose track down Blackwood. As for Zelda Spellman, a woman who has been sister to a high priest and wife to another, there will be no more supporting roles. She is ready to lead the coven as high priestess and the school’s headmistress. First, she and Hilda must help the coven heal. Then Zelda must decide on her own manifesto.  She will not put forth Edward’s rules blindly, but she will consider them. Zelda will count on those she trusts most, her family, to advise her.  She is not a great reformer as her brother was, so I really see her outlawing or taking away anything, but I do see her reworking some things, such as

-a bride on the eve of her wedding will not be taken by force. Instead, the bride and her attendant will be visited by the high priestess for a private audience and blessing.

-on feast of feasts, the queen will help prepare and serve an actual feast of food before taking her place of honor when the coven will sup together before attending mass in Freya’s name. No bloodshed of any kind!

-top boy shall hereby be known as the top student and shall be open to anyone who wants to run, regardless of gender except of course, for the outgoing top student.

Again, these are my ideas. I’m sure we’ll get tons of cool stuff once Part 3 drops on JAN 24TH 2020.

LIKE THIS? DID I MISS OR FORGET ANYTHING? WHAT CHARACTER SHALL I DO NEXT? LIKE, REBLOG AND COMMENT!!!!!!!!!

[malereader-inserts]

Big Wilding

Fandom: Game of Thrones Pairing: Tormund Giantsbane x Stark!Male!Reader Summary: The little wolf will soon return to his big wilding lover Word Count: 1,344 Request: “Hey so I loved the last tormund one you done and I was wondering if you could do a sort of continuation where the reader and Grimm reunite with tormund at castle black after the attack of kings landing, please.” Warning: Injuries - because I’m a sucker for concerning! protective! Tormund A/n: I’m ignoring what happened in the last episodes of GoT, sorry, poor writing and I refuse that is canon - lol. Part two of Little Wolf

“You treat her good, alright?”

There was a playful tease to your tone as you stare at your brother, well cousin - it was all confusing and yet it wasn’t. Daenerys giggled at your simple joke as Jon shakes his head annoyed, but there was a lighthearted smile on his face. You cast Daenerys a look.

“You’ll get used to his brooding matter,” You continue to poke fun at him as Dany gives her love a soft smile, “Well, aren’t you two a handsome couple?”

Jon grasps Dany tight as Dany looks up to him with a fond smile, which Jon had returned. You had come down to Kingslanding to help Dany take the Iron Throne, you had enough of Cersei and you found Dany worthy to be Queen and it was her birthright. Unfortunately, as much as you wanted to spend the rest of your days with your love, you couldn’t. 

Perhaps, you had thought you were rushing too much into a relationship and so going to Kingslanding with Jon had given you time to reflect. You love Tormund with all your heart, he was a goofball and yet so intimidating at the same time. Tormund was left devastated when you had told Grimm to go with him, thinking you would settle down at Kingslanding, as Dany had promised you to be the leader of the Royalguard. 

“You could still be Warden of the North,” Jon advice as you looked at him.

You had turned down the position of the lead and it was bestowed to next best; Jaime Lannister - who had surprised everyone when he came down to Kingslanding and murdered his twin. 

“No, I think Sansa has proven her worth to be Wardress of the North,” You softly hummed, “She’s a better leader than I could ever be.”

You stood in the middle of the Throne room, Drogon had melted the throne made out of swords and currently, the Smithers was working on two thrones. A lot had happened in the battle of Kingslanding, there were no innocents killed at least there wasn’t a mass amount. Dany had killed the Greyjoys fleet and Euron was begging at her feet, but she simply gives Euron away to Yara to kill.

The Unsullied, Dothraki and Northernmen had fought against the Golden company, despite being out numbers, your side had taken them down fairly well before Dany had decided to help and allowed Drogon to kill those lathered in Golden breastplates and helmets.

However, it did cost you some injuries. You had managed to get a strike through your left eye. You should be able to see within the next few days but for now, you were blind in one eye, so it was bandaged up and covered up until you were in the all clear. Also, your right arm, which was the arm you had fought with, was in a sling. Turns out horses crashing into you could mess with your shoulder and a few of your ribs.

Those were your major injuries, you were sporting minor ones as were many. As you were recovering in the few days in the Red Keep, the city was thriving with the harvest that Dany had brought over, and when you were strong enough to at least walk, you had witnessed the marriage of Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen, though Jon had accepted his true name as Aegon Targaryen.

With that, the two had a coronation in front of a crowd. King and Queen ruling together for a better realm, but for now, you were saying goodbye to Jon and Dany in an empty Throne Room.

“So, what will you do with Varys?” You questioned out of curiosity, “He tried to murder you, your grace, and tried to get you to betray your love.”

“He will meet his demise,” Dany spoke, her eyes sparkled towards you as a fond smile had graced her lips, “Are you sure you are well enough to travel?”

“I have enough strength to walk at least,” You nodded, “Though, I cannot wait till I can get rid of this bandaged eyepatch.”

Jon chuckles, “Well, where will you go?”

“North,” You responded as the two looked at you in confusion, “The real North.”

Jon took a moment to processed before a smile had beamed towards you, “Tormund?”

“I have enough time to think about it, and seeing you two be happy with the love of your life, I figured I shouldn’t let that escape me.”

The two had grinned, nodding with encouragement. Jon had pulled you into a tight hug before releasing slightly when he had heard you groan lightly when parting he gives you an apologetic look. You give Dany a hug as well, hers was much tender. 

“I will get a ship ready for you, it would be quicker and safer for you to get to the wall,” Dany announced as you give her a thankful look, “You deserve your happy ending.”

“Thank you,” You sincerely thanked, “You wish you two the best, I will send ravens and perhaps I may visit, the next time I come I better see more Targaryen around.”

“I cannot bear children,” The queen informed you as you give a pointed look.

“The witches can only be right for a certain of time, do not give up,” And the happy couple savours your charming smile one last time, “You deserve your happy ending.”

You had arrived at the port in the North within a week, then you rode up in a horse provided up to Castle Black. Luckily you’ve been trained from a young age to ride a horse with one hand because you seemed useless with a slung arm.

The doors had opened wide at Castle Black, you slowly trotted in as you had noticed that Tormund was leaning against the railing of the balcony overseeing his people. His back straightens when he sees you, you softly smile with furrowed eyebrows, a fond look gazed over your face as you climb off the horse. 

You see the wilding barrelling down the stairs as you move down the crowd of wildings. You meet at the end as Tormund looks at you with unreadable eyes, his large rough hand gently placed on your right cheek and his thumb stroking it ever so lightly.

“Turns out the South is full of shit-” You greeted but was cut off when he pulls you into a massive hug, you let out a small squeak of pain before he had released you, “There was one hell of a fight, you would have loved it.”

His big hands were at either side of your face, inspecting your bandaged eye. Before looking at your arm that was in a sling, he stares at you with wide eyes, he had yet to speak.

“My little wolf,” Tormund affectionately calls, he pulls you close and kisses your hair, “You’re never leaving my side again.”

You chuckled, burying yourself into his warmth, “I don’t plan to leave, my big wilding.”

He chortles as you wiggle out, there was a small whine behind Tormund, you sidestep to see your direwolf patiently waiting for you. You chuckled as you walk past Tormund, knelt down and ran your hand through his black fur.

“Hello Grimm, missed me?”

“He’s been whining for you since we left,” Tormund explains, “Just like me, he’s been missing you.”

“Sorry, I-” You paused as you looked up at Tormund, “I, just-”

“Never mind, boy, you’re here aren’t you?” Tormund questions as he stands at full height matching his gleeful smile, “Now, you have to tell me about this fight, lad, I’ll kill any more Southern cunts about your eye before we retreat back home.”

A frosty breath was released into the air in front of you as you were amused, “Worry not, my big wilding, I’ve killed all the cunts down in Kingslanding. In other news, Jon is a King.”

“Prissy,” Tormund dryly commented, “He’s fucking that dragon queen, never saw him as a King.”

“Let’s go inside, and I’ll tell all.”

[hyperionswrath--archived]

@onepartbrave

If there was one thing that had finally gotten through Squall’s head that night, it was that Seifer genuinely seemed not angry with him. Despite the fiasco the previous night, despite the unwarranted trip down memory lane, despite his frosty nature that had only warmed due to inhaling too much drink. The blond was still amicable, considerate and bizarrely accepting of all Squall’s current problems and flaws digging out of the technical woodwork. Yeah, he’d just been called a constant pain in the ass but the tone infusing the words suggested nothing but camaraderie backing them. No vexation. No resentment. Just… comity.

Those facts eased a huge chunk of Squall’s stress away. Shoulders sagging slightly from the sudden weightless feel of being almost tension free, he pondered on what that implied next. Would they become friends, if only for the drunken night? Even if they weren’t, his unspoken trust in Seifer was starting to show. Considering over the last month alone, he’d allowed none to come near him, let alone take his hand. Here the man had held his numerous times and Squall hadn’t even decked him for touching—

No. Nope, we’re not going there. It was an accident, don’t overthink this for Hyne’s sake.

Eyebrows lowering into yet another frown, this time directed at his inner thoughts, Squall successfully banished them to the recesses of his mind and concentrated on the now. Like—how close the blond was. Sitting next to him, he predicted if he shifted his left knee a smidgen, it’d bump Seifer’s. Why was he so close? When had he gotten so? Had he really been so deep in thought he completely missed what occurred in reality?

Swallowing down what felt like a knot of trepidation forming in his throat, it feeling less ‘bad’ anxious and more ‘puzzled’ anxious, the entire night was becoming a far cry from the picture he’d had in mind. Previously, he thought they’d drink, eat, sass each other and retire to not see one another again. Now… they were still here, still hanging out, and had plans for tomorrow. I—I’m… Unable to finish the thought, he relaxed back against the rear of the seat, frown softening.

Should he feel uncomfortable? It wasn’t like they hadn’t had close proximity before; sparring ensured that, but this was different, new. New worried him but for a reason that consistently eluded him. True clarity was becoming a drawn-out battle and he’d always been better at the quick-paced, adrenaline fuelled altercations instead of a marathon skirmish. Sighing softly, he allowed his head to loll back against the squishy, warm backrest. …That shouldn’t be warm since they’d vacated their seat. Not daring to turn his head obviously, while Seifer made short work of ordering their water and some bread, he flicked a sneaky glance behind him—to see the blond’s arm present. Almost… around him?

Wha…?

Comprehension fleeting, Squall’s head turned to face forward and, with dawning realisation of horror, felt his face heighten a few degrees in natural warmth. He was blushing like a goddamned idiot and there was no way Seifer’s perceptive glare wouldn’t pick up on it. Shit. What’d I do? Do I leave? Move? Shove him away? Stay still and pretend I don’t know? Fuck—

Inherent ranting cut short by Seifer’s slurred baritone registering. Embarrassingly, clouded grey-blues shot up to try and meet vibrant greens. His mission failed as Seifer was busy thanking the waitress and looking all weird in the dim lighting and— Oh my god, I will stab myself if it makes me stop thinking.

“I—what?” he asked feebly, missing the man’s question entirely as his whirlwind of a mind had been occupied. With him. Ugh. “The… bread? Wa’ that it? S’good lookin’.”

Zipping an imaginary line over his dumb mouth, Squall sat slightly more forward and reached for the aforementioned bread. Breaking a piece off, he guided it to his mouth and took a generous bite out of it. Instant gratification overcame his tastebuds and (finally) his conscience silenced to appreciate the tasty morsel. Swallowing the bite after chewing, he quietly confessed, “Damn, t’is good,” before resuming his previous task, albeit with more enthusiasm.

When finished that portion, Squall grabbed a whole other small loaf to nibble on, mindful there was enough left for Seifer. His worries were amiss as many more little loaves remained. Satisfied with his finding, he shimmied back in his seat, and, in his blissful state of mind of not worrying, all caution was thrown to the wind. Reclining back as he went, he instinctively pressed closer to the searing warmth on his left side, relaxing honestly for the first time in weeks. While he worked on consuming his latest bready goodness, he observed the pub settings with muted interest, wholly uncaring he was essentially using Seifer as a leaning post.

…Warm.

Truth be told, there was an ever-burning fury somewhere deep inside of the tall blond, constantly burning and eating away at him. It had been there his whole life but had started blazing higher, burning fiercer during and after the war. Yet it wasn't directed at Squall. Not anymore, at least. While he had been the Sorceresses Knight, there was wrath in his every fiber, not his own entirely, clouding his mind and judgment. After the war, there had been seething anger about the fact that Squall had not only bested him inside the Lunatic Pandora, but also left him there to die. But that grudge wasn't upheld for long, for once he was able to reflect on everything that had transpired, the act seemed more than plausible. There hadn't been much humanity left in him when the witch pulled his strings and made him believe sacrificing Rinoa would be the right thing to do. The only right thing.

So, no, he harbored no ill feelings for the man anymore who in his mind had far more reason and justification to hate him instead. But so far, except for their first encounter the night before, there seemed to be no ill-feeling at all between them and it felt both odd and relieving. Seifer had carried the shame, guilt and self-loathing with him for so many years, he would have never expected to be treated as friendly as he had been, all things considered. Sure, Squall was still his old self in some ways, but there were also other sides to him he had allowed the blond to see and for all that he knew, they were good changes.

What exactly all of this between them meant, he dared not think about. Granted, he had always been a man of action first, thoughts second, and right now he was willing to just let things happen as they did, not question anything. And if they never saw each other again after tonight (well, there were already plans in place for the next day though), then so be it. Still, a small voice in the back of his head dared to hope that this was a way to redeem himself, if only a little. Maybe that, too, was the reason he felt so protective of the younger one?

Happily chewing on his spoil, namely the goodness that was the potato wedges, thoughtful eyes following the retreating waitress, he only paused when he felt a slight bump against his right arm, making him glance to the side. The look on Squall's face was enough to make the tall blond chuckle lightly, pulling in his lower lip to bite on it though unable to completely wipe the grin from his face. He'd be a liar if he'd claim he didn't push the boundaries between them right now, and much against his better judgment too. What about the whole 'I can never touch him' vow he had taken? But then again, the reaction this small brush of head against arm had caused was entertaining enough to throw at least part of that determination out the window. After all, he was still the smug shit of the town, right?

Even more intriguing, however, was the observation he now made. Squall blushed. And not just a bit. Most interesting. He'd probably be pushing his luck by now but before he could even stop himself, his hand had shifted just so, allowing his thumb to briefly flick over the now heated skin of Squall's neck, brushing at the soft brown strands there. Dangerous as this game may be, he had to admit it thrilled him, and whatever was able to do that to him usually flicked the switch of being reasonable (well, as much as he was able to, anyway), and just go all in. And right now, he was most curious what kind of reactions he could provoke and, most importantly, how much deeper this blush could get.

Apparently, it was enough to distract the brunet from what he had asked, flustering the guy enough to give some entirely unrelated answer which only served to tug on Seifer's lips more, creating a lopsided smirk. "Very." he hummed in agreement, not even sparing the damn bread one single glance. Willing to let his teasing of an entirely different kind go for the time being, he busied himself with his water, glad for the chance to help to mellow his drunken state a little. He wanted his attention on full alert right now. Also, Squall was well advised to eat that much bread to help him along with the amount of alcohol in his system. It wouldn't magically sober him up but at least help a little, which had been the plan when he ordered it. On top of that, for some reason watching the other eat had some kind of fascinating appeal all of a sudden?

Emptying his glass, he placed it back on the table, releasing Squall from his observing stare as he leaned forward to snatch his own small loaf, chewing slowly while he mulled over the entirely unexpected development of events right there. More so even when he felt the smaller body sink against him, leaning on him. Looking down at the brown tuft of hair he hummed, half astonished, half content because he'd be damned if this hadn't been one of his ultimate teenage fantasies. Well, among others, but he'd be content to have this to remember in the future. Lingering in his position, his arm on the backrest still, he swallowed hard against a lump in his throat. Not the kind he had noticed a while ago when dark memories started rushing in. This was different. Better. "You good?", he heard himself murmur and only then noticed that somehow, he had leaned down, the tip of his nose not far away from brown hair, close enough that he could breathe the other in. Shit, what exactly was he even thinking here? Was he thinking at all?

[toomztoom]

She looked of archaic magic

Hooves kicked up the soft surface of the white snow, leaving shallow holes in the ground. Four horses ran in the cold night, the rhythmic sounds of metal from the saddles following the powerful beasts. The lead horse carried the king himself on his dark, muscular shoulders. The other three carried trusted guards on their haunches. They galloped out of the castle walls and out into the unprotected land, the horses' heavy breathing echoing in the darkness. The moon illuminated the night sky and shined down on the horses flanks. The king and guards pushed their horses a little past their limit. Time was precious now, and they couldn't afford losing it. They needed to reach the cottage.

The woods could be seen in the distance, encouraging the men to move their horses faster. One of the guard's horses nearly tripped as the guard kicked the horse's hips. The king's strong horse sent snow and dirt flying with it's powerful hooves, it's black coat shining in the moon. It was by far the most beautiful out of all the horses, but not only did it have beauty, it had strength and courage, making it the best war horse out of them all. As they reached the forest, they slowed to a halt, the king observing the twisted trees.

"We need to be back by sunrise!" The king bellowed, his breath puffing into clouds.

The guard's replied with a quick, "Yes, your majesty."

They let their horses catch their breath for a minute.

"Your majesty?" Requested Odin, one of the guards.

The king looked over his shoulder at the guard in the back of the group.

"What shall we do if she doesn't agree, sire?"

There was a hesitant pause.

"Odin," the king said at last, "let's pray she does."

They yelled and kicked their horses back into action, although none of them were eager to enter the dark woods. The witch in the forest gave everyone shivers. No one dared speak her name, let alone mention her.

Thick evergreens stood tall and hid the skyline. Snow covered every branch of every tree, just waiting to collapse to the ground. The snow covered the ground like a white blanket. Everything looked dead.

As they made their way deeper into the woods, the lush evergreens were soon replaced with plants that resembled burnt sticks. The snow was now bare, showing the dead and shriveled plants on the forest floor. One of the horses whinnied.

The air shifted, and if possible, became even colder than before. The wind batted and scratched the guards' faces, doing no justice to the horses, either. In the corner of the king's eyes, he could spy shadows running along with them, but he knew not to pay them any mind. Laughs could be heard in the distance. Screams and scratches filled the frosty air, even though there was nothing alive here.

No one dared step foot near her.

The men hopped off their horses and tied them to a hopefully sturdy tree branch, checking to see if their weapons were somewhere they could reach.

"She's close by." The king warned. "Whatever you do, do not provoke her."

The men took the rest of their journey by foot, all becoming uneasy as they spotted the cottage. The king knew what would happen if she were to be provoked, making his heart race with dread. But he had no other choice.

They breached the tree line and entered the clearing.

The cottage was old and run down, with weak wood as support beams and pests as guards. A pang of guilt shot through him. 'She's been living like this this whole time...' He winced. Two giant trees stood tall and proud on either side of the cottage. They were the only trees with leaves and strong branches, while the others in the forest were rotted away and lifeless.

They got closer to the cottage, keeping note that the clouds began to grow dark and swirl above their heads. The king glanced at the sky just in time to see lightning strike the two trees. The men jumped in surprise and took a few steps back, expecting the trees to catch on fire. However, nothing happened.

Confused, they stood there, watching them and glancing over at the others nervously. The king took a step forward, before retreating again as the trees began to groan and creak, writhing and shaking in their place. Their roots began to protrude out of the ground, slithering like snakes on the forest floor. Some of their leaves fell to the ground as one of the trees used it's roots to stand up. The other soon followed, shaking dirt off itself and standing tall.

There was a pause. No one dared move as the living trees stood still. The king held his breath.

The tree on the left swung its branches like fists at the group, flinging dirt up in the air as it crashed into the earth. The men were lucky enough to be able to throw themselves out of the way before impact. The other tree grew its branches out of its trunk like spikes and spun, sending up a dust storm. The dust got in the men's eyes, temporarily blinding them. A thud and a scream of agony came from one of the guards.

"Simone!" Yelled Roth, watching his friend get flung into the air and thrown into the woods. The guard ran after him, avoiding the spikes of the tree as it unleashed them in different directions.

The king ducked and watched the spikes fly overhead, knowing he shouldn't have brought himself into this situation. He shouldn't have brought anyone into this situation. He rubbed the painful dust out of his eyes and stood before the trees, shaking with fear. "Hey!"

The trees turned to him, rearing back in preparation of attack.

"Wait! We mean your mother no harm!"

They froze.

"Please, we need her help! She knows who I am! She's the only one who can help... I'm begging you, let us pass!"

The trees hesitated, before relaxing, turning to each other as if they were speaking through a language no mortal could comprehend.

"Kaal, Shoc! That's enough, my lovelies. Go back to sleep." Said a soft voice behind the trees.

Roth came back supporting an injured Simone, who was dripping crimson from his right leg and arm. The men watched the trees go back to their spots in the ground, their roots digging into the ground once more. They shook as they got into position, becoming dormant once more.

The king turned his attention to the lady in front of him, his heart dropping as he gazed at the women he had known long ago.  

The only parts of her body that were showing was her head, feet and hands, all covered in unnatural tattoos that glowed and moved and changed colors on her skin. If the women were to take off her ripped, worn dress, the tattoos would be there too, swirling and shifting in magnificent ways that were almost hypnotizing to watch. Her curly red hair was tangled and matted, and her rosey cheeks had turned to gray. Her eyes were dark--oh so dark and stormy. Anguish and hate filled those beautiful gray eyes... It wasn't fair.

Archaic magic coursed through her veins as bright as day. A magic that has been long forgotten, for it was a dangerous art that no one wanted to try, let alone master. It was so dangerous, in fact, that many ignorant people believe it to be a curse... One of the reasons why the king banished her in the first place. He was blinded by fear and his own selfishness when he exiled her, believing that she would attempt to overthrow him. He knew she would win that battle, so he threw her into the woods, decreeing that if she were to step foot in the castle walls, she would be beheaded.

However she dared not lay a finger on him. She had loved him oh so long ago, and though he was cruel to her, she still did. She loved him with all her black heart. She never wanted anything more than his love. She didn't care to rule, or to be wealthy, or even wear a single jewel from the castle's treasury. The women just wanted to be by his side.

Before he was crowned king, and when his father ruled, Gerald had known and loved a beautiful healer who lived in her own quarters of the castle. Levana was her name. Known throughout the whole kingdom for her kind yet witty heart and her amazing gift. She was the only healer, so she lived in the castle, where she was needed most. There, Gerald and the healer's friendship started when she moved in.

Right after she got settled, the prince fell ill with a horrible flu and was bedridden for days. Levana was ordered to heal him, or the king would personally kill her. Of course she didn't care about his threats. She knew she would be able to take anything he threw at her.

Levana knocked on the mahogany doors to the prince's room, waiting for them to open from the other side.

A maid answered the door, her thick, graying hair secured in a tight bun and her eyes tired with worry. "Are you the healer?"

"Who else would it be?" Levana pushed the maid aside, walking to the prince's bedside. She looked about the room and scoffed, thinking it absurd to have such a large room. 'What a waste of space...' A lavish bed sat in the middle of the room, big enough for a family of ten to sleep in. There the prince laid, looking nearly dead with his hollow eyes, pale skin, and shallow, ragged breaths. Levana pulled up a chair and got comfortable, before holding the prince's weak hand.

The maid choked on her saliva, petrified. "Y-You're not allowed to touch the prince!"

"If the king wants him alive, then I must." She spat with a glare.

The maid flinched, holding her hand to her heart, before cowering into a far corner.

"That's what I thought."

She held his hand with both of hers, the veins under her skin beginning to give off an eerie, golden glow. The color spread like wildfire, and soon she was brighter than a bonfire, her eyes clouded and smokey white.

Sweat began to drip off her forehead, but she paid it no mind. Healing someone took an extreme amount of energy, and it wasn't uncommon for a healer to die during the process. She could feel her life force getting sucked out of her, and she began to gasp for air. The prince's temperature began to lower, and his appearance became healthier. His eyes fluttered open, and the healer yanked away, drenched in sweat as her heart pounded like a war drum. The fog clouding her eyes cleared, and her veins returned to their original state.

"The... The prince..." Levana panted, "is... is healed... The king may see... see his son, now..."

The maid scurried away.

Gerald groaned, catching the healer's attention. He lolled his head to look at her, his eyes half lidded tiredly. The prince examined her for a minute, before a tired smile formed on his lips. "Thank you..."

She smiled back. "My pleasure..."

"Levana," king Gerald whispered in a hoarse voice as his eyes began to tear up, "what... what has happened to you?"

"What did you expect would happen when you exiled me? I'd live in a magnificent castle?" She snorted, grinning in disbelief.

He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, before repeating the same action again and again. Finally, he said, "You shouldn't have used black magic."

She snarled. "It wasn't black magic! It was *archaic* magic. Very old and almost extinct."

"Never mind. Levana, the reason I came here is for your help. Not to fight."

She laughed maniacally, throwing her head back. "Help you?!Why would I help you? You threw me out of my home because you were stupid enough to think I'd overthrow you! I didn't even care about a throne, I cared about you! I loved you, Gerald!... But what did you do? Exile me because you were too cowardly to do anything else."

He took a step back, ashamed in himself. "Please, Levana, the kingdom is under great threat. The Giants claimed war; we stand no chance!" He got on his knees and grasped her hand, looking into her eyes pleadingly. "Thousands of lives will be lost! I know you don't want that to happen. Please, I'll give you anything, just help!"

She stared down at him, cocking her head to the side in thought. "Anything, you say?"

"Yes, anything!"

A grin spread on her face, and the king's eyes widened as he gulped in fear. She knelt on one knee to meet his eyes, smirking as she patted his hand. "I heard that you finally have an heir. An only son among many daughters."

His hand began to shake under hers.

"I've been thinking about having an apprentice for some time, now." She continued. "I will help you... If you let him live with me so I can teach him magic, and once he is thirteen, we shall both move into the castle, and he shall be crowned king. Do we have a deal?"

The guards looked at the king. Surely he wasn't selfish enough to give away his only son for a war and to continue being king... Could he?

"... How have you become so heartless? Taking my only son away from me!" He began to sob.

"You took my life, home, freedom, and love and threw me in these dark woods alone! This is merely  delayed justice."

Pain was written all over his face as he looked down, his thoughts reeling.

"May I remind you, your majesty, that the giants are merciless and will easily wipe out your kingdom. As well as that, there are no other beings that will willing help you, seeing that half of the races on this world are against you. The only way you'll survive," she put a finger under his chin and lifted his head, forcing him to meet her eyes, "is if I step in and stop all this."

He avoided her gaze, contemplating. 'If I agree we could stop the war... I could have another son in the future...' he greedily thought. He looked back up at her, tight lipped. "I agree."

She hummed and kissed his forehead, standing up. "Very well. Send him tomorrow, and I will give you all the help you need."

thank you @character-prompts for the inspiring prompts 

[antiloveenergy]

Obey Me! MC Introduction—Ava.

MC Character Sheet idea — courtesy of @luciferasmr ♡ thank u sm!

i have many depictions of her but i chose this one. courtesy of picrew.

Name: Aveline Mille-Feuille de Poivre et Cornelia

Nickname (if any): Ava (pronounced ah-VA. she’s the type to correct you every time.) 

Age: 19

Height: 5′4

Weight: ~130 lbs

Race: Human 

Gender: Female

Birthday: 1st February

Star Sign: Aquarius

Hair color: Ivory/Light blonde

Eye color: Lilac

Skin tone: Pale white

Which sin are they like?

1. Pride

2. Greed

3. Gluttony

4. Wrath

5. Lust

6. Sloth

7. Envy

Personality Traits: Ava is a mild-mannered and soft-spoken girl. I like to think she is the traditional Aquarian. She prides herself in being intelligent and having the ability to view things objectively. She comes off a little frosty, sporting a bored facial expression and preferring to let her friends do the talking for her. However, she is very friendly and honest to a fault. Ava is also very sensitive, even though she never likes to show her feelings. When she is comfortable with you, you’ll notice how eccentric she actually is. 

Background: Ava was born in Paris, France, in a (fictional) 21st Arrondissement known as Royaume—meaning realm, in French. This district separates magic from non-magic humans. She was born to a family of noble sorcerers, the Mille-Feuille family. (ENG pron. meal-foy) She recently graduated from the Young Sorcerers Academy, a distinguished wizarding school within Paris. Although she is an Honors graduate, she is considered a Rookie Sorcerer and must continue her studies outside of school. This is a firm expectation of her mother, who emphasizes that her magic sophistication is more important than anything else in her life. Ava develops a hidden resentment for her mother because of her lack of freedom. 

Why were they chosen for Devildom?: I like to think her “kidnapping” to the Devildom was for her sake. Not only does she get to experience a world outside the “realm” of the magical district, she also has the opportunity to study demonic dark arts and form alliances with the most powerful demons in the Devildom. Maybe that will shut her doting mother up, no?  

Hobbies: Ava has a keen interest in sewing and embroidery, as well as fashion. Designing, couture, modelling, the whole nine. She’s French, so it’s inevitable that her modish style would be influenced by what she sees in her world every day. She also likes to collect jewelry and stuffed animals. 

Likes: Accessories of Sanrio characters (& other copyrighted animal friends), chemistry, truffles, thigh high boots. 

Dislikes: Being told what to do, people disagreeing with her, the food of the Devildom. 

Appearance

Casual Clothing: Ava’s everyday clothing is usually a white or black fitted turtleneck. This is paired with a denim or black bodycon skirt and thigh high boots. This simple outfit is paired with a pendant, bracelet and a hairpin.  Although she does have plenty of clothes, being in the Devildom limits her selection of wardrobe. 

Top: ♡ , ☾

Bottoms: ♡ , ☾

Shoes: ♡, ☾

Accessories (if any): ♡, ☾, ☆, ♢

Glasses?: She does not need reading glasses

Uniform: So when Ava first received her RAD uniform, she thought it was ugly. It was the typical uniform with trousers and the coat, you know the drill. When she requested to alter her uniform, Lucifer almost objected to it but Lord Diavolo didn’t seem to mind, as long as the adornishments of the blazer weren’t manipulated. 

Any alterations to their uniform? If so, what?: She decided to elongate the coat and put some light padding underneath to emulate a dress. She also cinched it to fit more tight on her waistline. It reached to her mid-thighs, and maintained its proper buttons and things. With the trousers, she cut them by leg and constructed them into knee-high boots. The process was lengthy (and expensive), but it was done. She pairs this fit with a white frilly blouse underneath the blazer-dress.

Family

Mother: Lady Cornelia Savarin (neé Mille-Feuille), a noble sorcerer and the eldest of the 5 Mille-Feuille daughters. Her appearance is icy, with long ash grey hair paired with sharp baby blue eyes. She seems to never smile. Very bourgie and exudes royal energy 24/7. Cornelia loves her daughter dearly, but she wants to mold her into the woman she grew up to be: Powerful, well-respected, etc.

Father: Duke Poivre Savarin. He was born to a neighboring family of sorcerers. Messy blonde hair and lavender eye color—where Ava gets her looks from. These days, he has abandoned his magic and is currently on a 100-acre farm in the South of France. Ava still has no idea as to why he chose to ditch his life in Royaume. Rumor has it that he committed wrongful acts and fled, others speculate that the Mille-Feuille family disowned him as an in-law. Maybe he just wants to raise cows and chickens. Nonetheless, Ava keeps some contact with her father. 

Siblings (if any): None. 

Pets?: Ava owns a chinchilla named Bisou, which she obtained while in the Devildom. Satan was the one who brought her and suggested she get a chinchilla. (Lucifer may not approve of having a pet in the house, while also having a massive three-headed hellhound...)

How many friends does your MC have?: While her stay at RAD, she became friends with three low-ranking demon girls: Cléo (ex-human), Bianca (a succubus) and Lolita (a divination witch). 

Ava and Cléo have met previously when the latter attended the same school as Ava. However, Cléo’s destructive tendencies got her banished into Hell indefinitely. (long story short she committed domestic terrorism by releasing demonic spirits into the city and possessing a shit ton of people.) 

Past relationships: N/A

Has your MC had a relationship before?: As a child she may have had a boyfriend, but that barely counts, right?

Have they been in love?: Nope. Whenever she does though, she will go insane. 

How easy do they gain crushes?: Not very easy, to be honest. She tends to be impersonal to people she is not friends with. In a crush, Ava typically keeps people at a distance, especially if she finds herself ‘feeling different’ when she’s around them. 

Do they believe in love?: She absolutely believes in love, especially monogamous love. She takes it extremely seriously, making any romantic relationship she finds herself in a slow-pacing one. “The strength of your heart compromises the one of your mind, so why would you give your heart so easy?” she would say.

What’s their type? A confident, intelligent person. Someone that can stimulate her mentally and provide her with devotion. Someone adventurous and sporadic, who is willing to show her a different side to them. 

Sexuality: Ava is heterosexual but she came to the conclusion that women provide more emotional comfort. 

Which one of the 7 brothers does your MC like the most? okay this is hard one. it’s a tie between Asmodeus and Satan. 

Why? Asmodeus, because she got along with him first. They have shared values in beauty and fashion, so it was easy for them to find common ground. She can show off her hobbies and have Asmo be receptive to it. Satan, because they’re both Intellectuals™ and can have a good debate with their big juicy brains. She also likes to compete with him to see who receives the better marks in school. 

What traits do they look for in a partner? Dignified, loyal, smart, soft-hearted, sincere, masculine, and protective. 

General

Favorite food: Chocolate covered anything. Berries, nuts, lizards, beetles, anything! She also loves anything with cheese on it. 

Least favorite: Chips. Too salty.

Favorite topic in school: Science and Magic Studies

Least favorite topic: English 

Favorite color: White

Least favorite color: Red

Do they like to be sociable or are they more of a recluse? Ava’s more introverted, but she finds herself to be more sociable in a group.

Favorite movie genre? Fantasy 

Do they read a lot or no? Yes, if you count spellbooks and magazines!

Favorite animal: Rodents (i.e, chinchillas, squirrels and ferrets etc.)

Favorite genre of music: She likes French pop from the 60s. This is her favorite song. ♡ she also likes R&B and some rap, introduced by her friends.

Least favorite genre: Acoustics. She prefers the electric guitar over the wooden ones. 

Do they like sweets? Yes! The namesake of her last name is a popular dessert, so it’s no doubt that she loves anything pastry and sugary. 

Do they like spicy food? Not as much as she likes sweets. She does like red pepper flakes in the inedible Devildom cuisine, if the taste calls for it.

Do they like school? Ava is a dork so she loves school. When she found out she was returning to an academy, she wasn’t that upset about it. This gave her an opportunity to learn more, outperform her peers, and go back to the school atmosphere.

Pet peeves: When people don’t match their clothes, when people question her, anything that she cannot put logical reasoning to, and clutter. 

[satangivemestrength]

Tired

'God, I am so tired,' Alex thought, nearly tipping forward on her walk back from the lab. Sleep fought for dominance over her mind, her eyes closing briefly before snapping open at her internal scolding. 'Only a few more minutes, just a few more minutes.'

It had been two weeks since Alex had slept, working day and night with Tony and Bruce and running off of sugar-infused caffeine. The two Avengers had tried to convince her to go back to her room and take a break but the woman refused to leave, stating the stacks of work she still had to do as evidence. Still, they wouldn't break.

The woman cringed at the memory of Bruce carrying her out of the lab, her arms too weak to fight back. Tony had told her in that signature dad voice of his to get some sleep or else pancake privileges would be revoked. She chose to leave in peace.

Alex was making more noise than she thought, using the wall to hold herself up. Also unbeknownst to her was the god listening to the stumbling steps outside his room, wondering who would be up at this hour of the night. Curiously, he stepped towards the door separating him and the mystery person and opened it, streaming light into the near-black hallway.

Alex's eyes slammed shut in pain, the bright glare stinging her cognac orbs. She's glared at the light a second later, cursing the person shadowed in its halo for bringing the unexpected pain before realizing who it was. That gorgeous raven black hair and those piercing emerald eyes could be recognized anywhere.

Loki looked on the smallest Avenger in confusion, not understanding why she'd be outside his door of all places in the middle of the night. Was she in trouble? Was she hurt? Worried eyes looked over her muscular frame, checking for anything that might indicate she was injured in any way. Fortunately, the only thing he found wrong was her bloodshot eyes.

When his gaze returned to her face, her eyebrow was raised in a silent question. His face burned red and he immediately tried to change the subject. "Um A-Alex, what-what are you doing here?"

Loki cursed himself for stuttering, hoping she didn't catch his anxiety at seeing her in front of him in such a vulnerable state. The god always Alex, whether from exhaustion or inability, didn't seem to hear and simply narrowed her eyes at him.

"Currently being blinded, you?" Alex asked, annoyance splayed across her features. Loki apologized and motioned for her to enter, stepping to the side hurriedly. He shut the door and subconsciously picked at his hand. The enchanting woman before him surveyed his fidgeting form, her eyes softening at the beautiful man before her.

Stepping forward and grasping his hands to stop him, Alex looked into Loki's eyes and saw they were slightly red and puffy around the edges. Disregarding her overwhelming need to sleep, she dragged Loki to his bed and sat with him, holding his hand a bit tighter. "What's wrong, Lokes?"

The god's eyes widened, his face being replaced by an expression of panic before taking on his usual demeanor of coolness. He scoffed and took his hands out of hers, immediately missing her warm touch. "My dear, I believe you are more tired than you're letting on."

Alex rolled her eyes and placed her hand beside his, careful not to set him off. "Loki, you only stutter when you're upset. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to but please don't shut me out, I want to be here for you in any way I can."

The Trickster's could only stare at the Avenger in shock, wondering why she would pay him enough attention to know what he did when something was wrong. No one had ever cared enough to take notice except his mother. Swallowing the warmth he felt in his heart, Loki merely waved her away.

"I am fine, mortal, I do not need your sympathy." Alex sighed and nodded, realizing she wasn't going to get anything out of him, and rested her head on his shoulder. She was honestly too tired to care where she slept at this point.

Loki's breath hitched, his heart stopping in his chest as he looked down at the beautiful woman leaning against him. Her eyes fluttered shut, content written over her features, seeming almost..... happy at being with him.

"Is it okay if I sleep here tonight? I don't think I could make it back to my room, honestly," Alex softly murmured, sleep clouding her words. She felt Loki nod and settled into his chest. His cool skin caressed her cheek, lulling her into a peaceful sleep she knew only his presence could bring.

Loki didn't know what to do. His heart was pounding against his chest with a strength he had never known before and all he wished was to wrap her in his arms and pull her tighter to him. All his instincts screamed at him to wake her up, to snap himself out of this false heaven he thought he didn't deserve and remember that an exquisite creature like her could never love a monster like him.

But all he could do was gaze at her beautiful brown skin and her gorgeous freckles he knew she hated and those perfect red lips he needed to claim as his own.

Loki had known of his feelings for Alex for a year and he had given up fighting them. When he had first found out, he couldn't have been more horrible to her. He found every single way to ruin her day: messing with her projects, hiding her books, embarrassing her, and insulting her. No matter what he did, though, Alex was still kind to him, trying to see the good in him despite all the awful things he did.

Turning to the woman cradled against his chest, Loki swept a piece of curly brown hair out of her eyes and she wrinkled her nose at the light touch. The god smiled softly, the kind of grin only she brought out, and lightly picked Alex up. Loki had decided that he wouldn't make her wake up to him and regret her decision to stay.

With an arm around her shoulders and another under her knees, Loki walked through the halls of the compound, navigating purely on memory as he didn't wish the sleeping woman to stir. The Trickster took the long way, cherishing Alex's warm skin against his, and unfortunately landed at her door. When he opened the door, his mouth dropped and he looked at Alex in exasperation.

Her room was spotless, the bed made with no clothes on the floor or meals half-eaten or notes splayed across the room in a system only Alex understood. It had been nearly a month since the soldier had pleaded with her to clean her room, which meant Alex hadn't slept in a month.

Sure, Loki had visited her and brought her food while she was in the lab but he thought she had returned to her room at the end of the day. His heart dropped, filling with pain at not realizing that she needed him sooner. His eyes found her form again, weighed down with exhaustion and stress, and he swiftly laid her down, careful to not disturb her. Loki ghosted a hand over her head and poured his magic into her, hoping it'll help bring her back to health.

After being completely sure that Alex would be okay, Loki stood up to leave, wishing to leave the overwhelming temptation to lay with her. Before he could, however, he heard her sweet voice.

"Loki, don't leave," Alex mumbled, barely awake. The god halted in his path and turned, half expecting to see her asleep. What he saw made him question if he was dreaming as well.

Alex's eyes were barely open, golden brown eyes staring up at him in a silent plea. How was Loki to refuse her when she looked at him like that?

Loki quickly flashed out of his leathers and into his sleepwear. He avoided Alex's eyes as he pulled back the clean linens, slipping under them in one graceful move.

"Loki?" Her small voice asked, laced with anxiety. His eyes found hers and she looked down. She was playing with her fingers, having found a new apprehension.

"Yes, my love?"

Her cheeks reddened with the name and Loki smiled, appreciating the new color. Her thumbs circled each other and they suddenly became very interesting.

"Thank you," the woman softly said, the sound barely reaching the god's ears. Loki's eyes softened and he pulled her hand out of her lap, holding it lightly in his. Alex looked up and into Loki's gorgeous emerald eyes, smiling when she saw that light only reserved for her.

"Always, my little witch." Alex rolled her eyes at the name he had given her upon their meeting, despite the growing warmth inside her chest.

"Who you calling witch, witch?"

"I am not a witch!"

"And I am?"

"Yes!"

"Takes one to know one," Alex sang, clearly celebrating in her childish retort. Loki sighed and dragged a hand over his tired face, eager to just feel the quiet embrace of sleep.

"Just go to sleep, darling," Loki grumbled, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. His eyes widened once he realized what he did, going to pull away but being stopped by Alex's head hitting his chest, her arm snaking around his waist. She buried her face in his chest, listening to his pounding heartbeat and inhaling his smell of pure winter and leathers.

"Why do you sound like you just ran a marathon, frosty?" Alex questioned, unconsciously running a finger up and down his chest.

Loki couldn't breathe, to put it lightly. His face flushed brighter than a thousand Suns and he was suddenly glad she couldn't see his face.

When he finally answered, a high voice shadowed his own. "Go to sleep, love, you need it."

Alex didn't have any obligations, going to sleep almost instantly with the racing heart beneath her as a lullaby. She must have been dreaming when she felt the soft caress of a cool hand through her hair and a pair of lips pressing against her head with the serene voice of the god she loved whispering, "I love you."

[catsafarithewriter]

“Surely you must know - you must know it was all for you.”

A/N: So I ended up watching the third Mummy movie and kinda fell in love with the premise of the Zi Yuan/General Ming romance. If you remember that, you might know where this is going. If not… well, enjoy the ride. 

[Note: Sorry for taking so long (I kept changing angles) and sorry for the length… (4K words?!) it was on the verge of becoming a whole fic, if I wasn’t careful!]

It is winter, the first time he meets her. 

It is winter, and the air is frosty and the ground is icy and he can’t quite believe that the homely little cottage before him is home to a witch. 

But still, he knocks, because he’s chased down more dead ends than he can count, and what difference would one more make? He knocks, and a young woman answers, as ordinary as the cottage she inhabits, except for the crow atop her shoulder, and he allows himself to think that this time, maybe this time, he’s finally found the answer he’s been looking for. 

And he bows and introduces himself and he can tell the crow doesn’t like him, but she smiles when he explains his quest awkwardly in a language he has learnt from dusty books, and she doesn’t shut the door in his face so he has to hope it is a good sign.

“Immortality?” she echoes. “Why, that’s easy. Tell your king to eat healthily, exercise often, and mind his own business. Works wonders.”

And, in another time, another life, he might have smiled and thanked her and moved on to the next dead end, but this is this time and this life, so he smiles and thanks her and tells her of the tales that have brought him here. Of the woman who lives by herself in the mountains, who never ages and never sickens, and who knows the secret to eternal life. 

“Life is quiet here,” she tells him in return. “People tell tall tales to keep themselves entertained in these cold months. There is nothing for you here. Go home.”

“I cannot,” he says, and she pauses in closing the door. 

“You’ve lost your home?” she asks softly.

“Those the king sent out in pursuit of immortality cannot return until they are successful,” he says, and although he never intended it, he sees pity creep into her brown, glimmering eyes. Maybe the rumours are true. Maybe they’re not. But he cannot force anyone to answer to a king that is not their own. Will not. He tips his hat and steps away. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time, miss. Have a good day.”

“Haru.”

He hesitates. “What?”

She steps out from her house, and in the cold winter sunlight, her eyes seem to glimmer more than ever. “My name is Haru. I thought you should know that, if we’re to be travelling together.”

And he doesn’t question why she changed her mind, or if she even does hold the secret to immortality, although he suspects an answer to both. Instead, he tips his hat again, his shoulders dipping into a short bow. 

“Baron.”

x

It is spring when he brings her to the king’s court. 

They have travelled across the globe, through the winter, and the snowdrops and crocuses are just beginning to flower as they step back onto his home soil. The air is soft and the world is bright with freshly-grown green and it is a far cry from the snowy mountains of her country. From one island home to another, and she seems to shine in her nominal season. 

She stands before his monarch - an ageing man sprawled back in an oversized, extravagant robe and an oversized, extravagant throne - and he translates as she promises immortality. She spins an explanation of elements and magic and the age trapped within those that are ageless, and other things he doesn’t fully understand, and neither does the king, but she speaks with knowledge and all the king cares about is his immortality. 

In the autumn, she assures. 

In the autumn, when the harvest moon comes, will she be able to administer the secret of immortality. 

And so the king dismisses her with a wave of his hand and assigns her to the care of the man who found her.

x

Spring lingers, and so does Haru as she stands at the garden gate, while Baron returns to a home he hasn’t seen in nearly a decade. She sees the burden of his lost years weigh heavily on his shoulders as he hesitates, but he knocks anyway, just like he knocked at her door half a world away, and a woman opens it. She is their age, tall but not as tall as Baron, bundles of blonde almost-white hair bouncing around her face, and the world goes quiet for heartbeats. 

Haru is sure she sees Baron hold his breath. 

And then the woman squeals and throws her arms about Baron and draws him into a bone-crunching bear hug that seems at odds with her refined attire. 

Baron freezes, and then his arms slowly find their way around the woman. He collapses into the embrace, his shoulders shaking and the resigned strength  draining from his body, and Haru drops her gaze from the tearful reunion. 

The woman drags Baron inside, calling to the rest of the household, and Haru watches as friends and family converge on their returning companion, and she can’t help but linger at the doorway. 

Toto clings sharply to her shoulder, as if he knows the thoughts running through her head, and he’s known her for so long that maybe he does, and she wants to reassure him that he’s wrong, that his companionship is enough, but doesn’t know if that would be a lie. She watches the people of Baron’s life celebrate his return, and she grieves at the lonely existence of an immortal. 

x

Spring passes, but Baron does not. 

He has a lifetime to gather back together, a decade’s worth of normality to reclaim, but even so, he stays by her side. As she learns about the country she will call home for the next six months and the local knowledge she needs for her promised magic, she also learns of the occupants of the von Gikkingen household. 

She learns of Louise, the woman that greeted them upon arrival and Baron’s twin sister. She is the reason Baron’s affairs are still in order, even after all those years. She speaks enough of Haru’s native tongue to converse, and quickly picks up more, her accent rough but her vocabulary natural and, when Baron isn’t around, Louise often is. Haru wonders if the two siblings are consciously sharing the duty of protecting her between them both. 

She learns of Muta, the chef and Baron’s closest friend. He speaks none of her language, but that doesn’t stop him talking. He tries a few recipes from her home country and, although he doesn’t always get it right, he does try. He is blunt and coarse and Haru spends many days helping him work on his latest attempt at Nippon cuisine. 

And then she learns of Baron. 

She doesn’t mean to, but she does. 

She learns his laughter and his smile and the secret amusement in his eyes as his sister tells stories from their childhood. She learns his good tea and his bad tea and the way it tells his quiet thoughts. She learns the sound of his walk, the tap-tap-tap of his cane and the purposeful beat of his strides, and she doesn’t know what to do with this information or why it matters, but it does.  

She learns of family and friends and sometimes she wishes she had not.

x

It is summer when something unspoken changes between them.

It is summer, and the air is hot and heavy and the gardens ablaze with scent and colour, and Haru finds herself lingering longer in the outdoors with Baron, instead of inside with her research. They talk and they laugh and at some point during those sun-soaked hours something settles between them. 

They don’t name it. 

But it’s there. 

It is summer, but no season lasts forever.

x

It is the end of summer when Baron realises a terrible truth. 

He has been watching her work for months now, accumulating ingredients and researching volumes in his library, learning about his country and its people, and although she explains her work the best she can to him, something is amiss.

“I cannot simply use the same ingredients I would in my home country,” she explains when the king’s lackey visits to check up on her progress. “Every land has its own type of magic - I must use the innate magic of your kingdom to make this work. You believe that cats have nine lives, so an element of that must be included. You put stock into the agelessness of your trees, so that plays a part also. To make this magic work, I must know the folklore and beliefs of your people.”

And Baron dutiful translates, and he translates well for the king’s lackey asks little more, but the king’s lackey doesn’t know Haru enough to see the flickering lies in the corner of her mouth. Maybe it’s not all lies. It probably isn’t. But there’s just enough.

“Tell me truly,” he asks one day. “Are you making eternal life?”

She smiles, a wan smile that reminds him that he’s not dealing with a mortal, but someone, something far, far older. “Oh, immortality cannot be given. You are either born with it, or you are not.”

“So it is impossible.”

“The type your king wants, yes.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Watching.” 

x

It is autumn when the king arrives. 

He comes in pomp and circumstance, and it is still a month before the harvest moon, but still he comes and the quiet comfort of the von Gikkingen home is thrown into disarray. 

Haru stands at Baron’s side and plays the part she is expected to perform, mute and dignified and oblivious to the way the king’s gaze roams over her. Something has changed in his attitude, and maybe it’s because the time is approaching and maybe it’s because the reality of what he asked has dawned, but there is a new interest in the way he looks at her. 

There is an instinctive desire to move closer to Baron, but she sees how closely she is watched by the royal entourage and decides against it. Still, she can’t help but lean towards Baron as the king takes her hand and raises it to his lips, and her preference doesn’t go unnoticed by all. 

“Baron, tell her how good she’s looking today,” the king drawls, and Baron hesitates at the command. He meets her gaze.

“The king wishes to compliment you on your appearance,” he says.

“Tell him how presumptuous he’s looking today,” Haru returns, and there’s only the slightest flicker of unease in Baron’s eyes at her echoing back a phrase in a language she claims ignorance on, but there’s also relief. However politely Baron is obligated to translate his monarch’s words, she won’t miss anything. Still, her reply won’t do quite yet. She gives a small shake of her head and amends, “Thank him for his words.”

Baron does so, but the king doesn’t move on. He keeps her hand in his own, and she pins down the fluttering sensation of a bird in a cage. She seals it away with a thin smile. 

“I’ve been thinking,” the king says, and Baron doesn’t start to translate and she can feel he’s waiting as tightly as she is to hear where this is going, “that once I am immortal, I will need an immortal queen to rule alongside me.” 

Baron inhales quietly, but sharply. “Sire…” he begins.

“Tell her that, as thanks for her work, she shall be married to me. It’s only fitting for the great service she’s done this kingdom.”

And Baron moves his gaze to hers, and she can see in his eyes that she knows what has been said and she knows the tone of a man who will not be moved, but still she must try. 

“The king wishes to repay you for your efforts with his hand in marriage,” he relays anyway. His tone is light, but his eyes are not. 

She bows, even as tightness fills her lungs. “Thank him, but tell him I do not do this for any reward.”

The king only smiles at her answer. “Tell her I insist.”

x

It is autumn, and the harvest moon is nearly upon them. 

Baron lingers by her, her almost-constant companion since the king made his intentions known, and although the air is still warm from summer, it feels cold inside the von Gikkingen home. 

“You should go,” he tells her. 

“Go where?” she asks.

“Anywhere. As far from the King as you can get.”

“I do not fear the king,” she answers. “And I will not run.”

“You should. He is unaccustomed to not getting what he wants. I don’t know what he’ll do.”

“I am not another possession for him to add to his collection.”

“He does not know the difference. And he will not care. Haru, please–” His voice gives, and for a moment, there is nothing but a broken silence between them. “Why did you come?” he asks eventually. Quietly. “You never planned to give the King immortality, did you?”

“No,” she answers. 

“Then why?”

And she looks to him with those eyes that have seen centuries pass and empires rise and fall, and she smiles. “I came because a tired, homesick man turned up on my doorstep, and I took pity. Sometimes, it’s as simple as that.”

“And why stay?” he asks.

Something flickers over those eyes. A half-lie forms in the corner of her lips.

“To see this through.”

x

It is autumn, and the harvest moon is on the next moonrise. 

Baron has tried to stay by her side, but even he can’t protect her against his king’s command, and so when the king requests an audience with Haru, he can do nothing but accept. 

The king comes with a translator of his own - an elderly scholar and adviser, whose tired eyes and resigned tone betray a lifetime of dealing with his king’s fickle temper. 

“So, Miss Haru, I hope you’ve had time to think over my offer,” he begins, and Haru doesn’t need to ask which offer, for there’s only one he could mean. She waits for the translator - Natori, he introduces himself - to finish converting his monarch’s words before responding. 

She bows her head, slow enough to be respectful, but curt enough to not spend a moment too long letting the king out of her sight. “I have, and I thank you for your kindness, Your Majesty, but I am not interested in a throne.”

The king smirks at Natori’s uneasy translation. “Come now, babe, what chick doesn’t want a throne? You want to go back to that rural little backwater you came from? I’m offering you riches, clothes, jewellery. Luxury you could not begin to imagine.”

Natori stumbles a little in translating that. He doesn’t include the babe comment, Haru notices, and he softens his monarch’s sharp dismissal of her homeland. Still, she keeps her smile polite, and bows again. 

“I have lived long enough to know that life is more than clothes and riches,” she says. “And I have no desire to rule anyone. Thank you for your offer, but I still must refuse.”

And that’s when the king’s smile flickers. 

“Natori, please tell her that unless she wants harm to come to her nice host, she’d better rethink her answer.”

Her blood runs cold, and even Natori looks twice at his king.

“Your Majesty…” he begins. 

“Just tell her.”

There’s an apology in his eyes, but Natori relays the king’s words, and even he cannot soften those words. 

She meets the king’s mismatched eyes. “Why?”

“You are immortal, like I will be. Powerful. With a queen like you at my side, no one will be able to stop us.” 

“You cannot earn my love with threats,” she says.

“I don’t need to. You will forget the baron in time, and you will have an eternity to learn to accept me.” He smiles, and it’s the smile of someone who has won. “So, what do you say?”

Something shifts inside Haru. She takes the offered hand. 

“No harm will come to Baron,” she says. 

“Of course,” the king replies, and he doesn’t realise it’s a promise, not a question.

x

It is autumn, and the harvest moon is upon them. 

Haru does not tell Baron of the king’s threats, for she knows he would tell her to run, run despite the danger hanging over his own life, and she cannot do that. 

Instead, she sits with him in the hours before the ceremony, a soft, gentle silence settled between them and she wishes it could stay this way forever. 

But nothing lasts forever. Not even for an immortal. 

“What are you going to do?” Baron asks, and it’s the first time he’s brought up the subject since her admission on the impossibilities of immortality. “The King expects eternal life. If you can’t deliver…”

“There’s more than one way to skin a cat,” she answers, and she thinks of the sleepless night she spent the evening before, pouring over her research and tweaking the enchantments she has crafted, and her heart breaks and hardens at the same time. She leans in and gently kisses him. “Everything is going to be fine. I promise.”

He looks to her like he wants to believe her. “No one can promise any such thing when it comes to the King.”

“He’s never dealt with me before.” She smiles and collects up the tea she’s made. “One last drink for luck,” she says, and she hopes he cannot taste the magic imbued into the liquid, nor see the plea for forgiveness in her eyes, and she kisses him one last time. 

x

It is autumn. 

She sets the potion before the king and steps back. He eyes the liquid with the first dredges of caution, and mutters something to Natori. 

“The King wants you to know that if this harms him in anyway–”

“I know the consequences,” she says. “And he will not suffer by my hand.”

Natori gives her a strange look, and she wonders if his grasp of her language is enough to recognise the careful loophole she has left. If he does, he doesn’t convey it. He nods to his king and under the light of the harvest moon, the king drains the vial. 

A glow runs inside the king’s skin, like magma beneath the Earth’s crust, and the onlookers of the court step back. Only Baron stays where he stands, close at her elbow. When the light fades, the king is smiling and there’s an energy to him that old age had once faded. 

He meets Haru’s gaze and the smile sharpens. 

“Guards. Seize the Baron Humbert von Gikkingen.”

Baron doesn’t move, but Haru does. She grabs the king’s arm and, in perfect Albion, says, “You promised.”

The king freezes at the clear words, but only for a moment. The smile almost holds begrudgingly respect at her little deceit. “I lied.”

There’s a pained gasp as Baron is dropped to his knees

Haru’s grip on the king’s arm tightens. She doesn’t look back to Baron, refuses to see the confusion and fear in his eyes. “I’ll say this once: If you do this, you’ll only bring ruin to yourself,” she warns. 

The king laughs. “I don’t think you’re in any situation to threaten me. Now, stand aside. And don’t worry,” he adds with that same victorious smile. “You have an eternity to forget him.”

Guards pull her back when she doesn’t move, but she doesn’t fight back. She can only watch as the king approaches Baron. He takes a sword from a guard.

“Baron Humbert von Gikkingen, you have been found guilty of treason against your king and country. Any last words?”

“I never betrayed you, my king.”

“You threatened to take what was rightfully mine,” the king replies. “She will never truly belong to me while you still live.” 

Baron’s gaze flickers from his monarch to Haru, and realisation dawns. “She will never belong to you,” he promises. His eyes stay on Haru, and there is an apology in them for leaving sooner than he had planned. “She will never belong to anyone but herself and she knows that.” 

The king shrugs. “We’ll see.” 

He runs the blade through Baron’s chest and there is a cry as two hearts break. Haru’s legs shake, but do not give way, and her breathing is sharp and her head is full and there is nothing but fury in her. The coldness that has lived within her since the king’s ultimatum takes form and she does not fall. 

She brings her gaze up to the king’s. 

“You should not have done that.”

The king smiles. “In time, you will see that it was necessary. He was nothing. But we… we will be so much more…” He takes a step towards Haru, and then stops. He frowns, and looks down to the front of his robe. 

A dark red stain blossoms across his chest. 

That smile slips.

“What…?”

There is movement from behind, and the king looks back to see Baron unsteadily rise to his feet. There is no blood where the sword pierces, and no blood on the blade as he pulls it free. Baron looks to Haru as his breathing changes, hollows, like wind through branches. 

“Haru…?”

She smiles, but it is a tearful, remorseful smile, and she shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I only wanted to protect you, even if…” She swallows. “This was for you. You must know it was all for you.” 

There is a roar, and she tears her gaze away to see the king collapse. “What have you done to me?” he bays, and the blood seeps out and his oversized, extravagant robe is red, red, red and he sinks to his knees in a mess of outrage and pain. “I was meant to be immortal! You said–”

“I lied.”

And she steps up to the king and the guards step back and there is something otherworldly about her as she kneels down before him. “I thought you might break your promise, but I wanted to give you a chance. I tied Baron’s life to yours - if you attempted to kill him, your blow would backfire onto you. I told you that you wouldn’t suffer by my hand, and I meant it.” She smiles without pity. “I did warn you.” 

She rises back to her feet as the king falls and she steps over him to Baron. There is a magic spreading out from his wound, not the crackling glow of the king’s potion, but something else, something that leaves grain lines and fur in its wake, and Baron reaches out to Haru as she nears. 

“What’s happening to me?” he asks, and his voice is already beginning to alter. 

She curls her hands around his, and that same sorrowful smile tugs at her lips. “I made you immortal,” she whispers. “It was the only way to save you in the time I had. I’m so sorry.”

“I thought you said immortality was impossible.”

“The king wanted it without any consequences,” she says. She watches as Baron’s face changes shape, those emerald eyes growing angular and sharp. “And magic doesn’t work that way. This was the immortality I had planned for him before… before things changed. I never meant… but I couldn’t let you die.” 

The magic settles down, and Baron extracts one hand and slowly passes it over his face. He feels the feline angles of his head and the thick ginger fur and the wooden skin running beneath it all, and she can see him recall the elements of the immortality spell she’d made. She sees the pieces slide into place. 

He doesn’t speak, and Haru doesn’t expect him to. 

“I can’t undo it,” she whispers. “I’m sorry. I would if I could, but–”

A gloved hand cups her cheek and brings her back around to face him. “You don’t need to apologise for saving me.”

“I cursed you.”

His gaze seeks hers out and she sees a gleam she knows so well in those feline eyes. “There are worse things than eternity.” He grins. “Even with the fur.”

“Eternity is a very long time.” 

“Eternity isn’t long at all,” he promises, “when I’m with you.”

x

 It is autumn, and everything has changed. 

[clarketomylexa]

To The Witches I Have Known, Chapter I

The Woods and the Griffin’s might as well be the Montagues and Capulets of Polis, Connecticut. As the heirs to their family lines, Clarke and Lexa have been juggling the magical politics of their rival covens with normal life since they were old enough to understand. But when a magical incident sparks fears that haven’t been felt since the unsteady truce was made between them – an incident that Clarke is the prime suspect of – both of them are going to have to get much better at multitasking.

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“I hate Halloween.”

Anya is in a sour mood, so much so that Lexa doesn’t know whether it’s the recent spiral the weather has taken or her cousins frostiness that has her fingers retreating into the woollen cuff of her sweater. She would say it was normal – Anya has never been the easiest to get along with – but she almost stepped on Wednesday earlier as the cat hogged the watery puddle of sunlight in the hall and she didn’t even say sorry.

“It’s pumpkin spice season,” Lexa suggests in appeasement.

“Public ridicule season,” Anya corrects her bitterly, shooting a scathing look in the direction of the merrily grinning jack-o-lanterns gathered at the steps of the gazebo. It had been a strange transition into fall. The leaves on the outskirts of the square are frozen halfway between green and russet orange, but the town committee had descended on main street on the first of October regardless with the manic kind of excitement that came with the prospects of pumpkin carving and scoping out costume options at the dinky shop in the corner of the square that never seems to realise that Halloween isn’t a year-round event. Not that she would ever give Anya the satisfaction, but Lexa quietly loves the eeriness of the festival regardless, of the silly mockery it makes of them every once a year.

Anya folds her arms over her chest. “If I see one more pointy hat, I’ll be giving out hexes for free,” she promises darkly.

“Anya!” Lexa’s eyes saucer. She whips her head around to check if they have been overheard but this early people are too wrapped up in their eight a.m. hunt for coffee to notice the pair. She turns back to Anya, lowering her voice anyway. “You know Titus doesn’t like you saying that,” she scolds quietly.

Lexa was seven the first time she realised magic wasn’t commonplace. The enormity of such a secret was almost too large to understand for a girl who had grown up chanting Latin incantations and watching coven meetings through the rungs of the staircase when she should have been asleep, but Titus hadn’t wasted any time in sitting her down and drilling the importance of confidentiality into her. She had walked around tight-lipped and grey-faced for a week afterwards for fear of retribution.

Anya laughs shortly. “I think Titus would rather I didn’t say anything at all.”

“Anya…”

“You know it’s true,” her cousin insists, “I’m barely a Woods, god forbid I have any opinion that doesn’t reflect the coven’s.”

The truth sits uneasily on Lexa’s chest. She twists the braided silver band on her ring finger, feeling responsible.

“I’m here to watch you and that’s it,” Anya continues, “next year I’ll be out of a job.”

Anya is the outcast of their household. She’s prickly at the best of times, with all of angles and sharp lines of the Woods and none of the softness Lexa inherited from her mother. Lexa doesn’t think Titus ever forgave Anya’s father for his illicit liaisons with a witch from another coven, or for his disappearance – lord knows why, but Lexa has learnt that Titus is more paranoid old man than wise advisor she thought he was when she was seven-years-old and hanging iron off her bed to ward away fairies. He ostracised her when they were younger, and is even more reluctant now to give his twenty-two-year-old niece the responsibility that a witch of her age should have – especially considering their family name.

In turn, Anya has fully embraced the role of black sleep, vintage leather jackets and all.

“You’ll always have a job as long as I’m in charge,” Lexa vows, reaching across to take her cousins hand in hers.  

She couldn’t call her childhood conventional. Since her mother died her care had been transferred to Titus and the coven to raise her as they saw fit, which had meant a rigorous regime of magical theory, and strict practice on top of trying to maintain a normal existence. The normal existence part still has her stumped, but there’s never an excuse not to perform. She is after all, the eldest direct descendant of the Woods line, as far as the coven is concerned, she’s their property and amongst all the craziness, sometimes she thinks Anya is the only thing keeping her sane.

“Sap,” Anya accuses. The show of affection makes her squirm and she disentangles their hands to cuff Lexa around the head, feigning indifference. “Anyway,” she changes the subject swiftly, tucking her hands into her pockets and scanning the empty square while Lexa tends to her mussed hair. “It’s not about that. Titus can shove it up his own as far as I care. You’re going to be eighteen next year.”

“Is that why you’re walking with me?” Lexa prods.

Anya stiffens before she can help it and Lexa knows she has struck a nerve. It takes a conscious effort to disengage every muscle in her body, but when she does, she elongates her strides and Lexa jogs to keep up, hands tucked inside her pockets as the wind picks up. “You’re lying,” she accuses calmly.

Her cousin shifts under the scrutiny, “how’s Costia?”

“Anya!” Lexa snaps, taking her by the arm and forcing her to stop in the middle of the sidewalk. They level their stares at each other, unflinching for a moment before Anya gives up the childish competition and snatches her wrist back. “Fine,” she relents ungracefully, massaging the skin, then nodding in an indication they should keep walking.

Lexa acquiesces but eyes her warily with each step it takes to formulate her answer.

“There’s been another incident.”

“An incident?” Lexa pounces on the word.

Anya nods. “Titus and Indra didn’t want to tell you.”

Frustrated, she stifles a biting comment. For all they drill this ridiculous sense of responsibility into her – ‘you’re almost of age Lexa, the coven must be your focus from now on’ – Titus and the others tend to censor what she is told like she’s still the eight-year-old she was when her mother died. Hypocrisy at its finest.

Anya is agitated again as she glances around. She puts a hand on Lexa’s back and guides her roughly down the nearest walkway between the second-hand bookstore and the coffee house where it smells like decaying paper and stale dishwater. Anya’s hand twitches, then goes up to smooth her hair behind her ear and Lexa tries to regulate the uneasy throb in her chest.

For as long as she can remember Anya has never been afraid of consequences, especially where it meant disobeying Titus and her discomfort now is unnerving.

“Lincoln found a dead raven on the back steps this morning,” Anya relays quietly when she seems satisfied they aren’t being heard.

Lexa’s breakfast curdles in her stomach.

Anya pauses to fish something out of her pocket. “Next to it was this.”

The odd object sits against her hand as Anya holds it up for Lexa to see, the black ribbon it’s strung on tangled in her fingers as Lexa takes in the intricate design. It looks like a seal stamped into a round of metal, a pentagram inside three rings of tarnished Latin that, for all of her afternoons cooped up in the dining room translating ancient texts under Titus’ trained eye, Lexa can’t decipher.

“What is it?”

Anya shrugs but hands it over and Lexa lets it sit in her palm. She thinks the pattern is familiar.

“Titus thinks it was the Griffins.”

Lexa’s head snaps up in alarm. “No,” she argues stubbornly.

“Lexa…”

The door a few feet further down the alley opens and an acne covered teenager emerges with a black trash bag at his side. Anya falls silent while he throws it in the trash can and gives them a confused glance before returning inside. “It had their magic all over it,” she informs Lexa curtly when the boy is gone.

The only other magical – but not non-mortal – founding family of Polis, Connecticut, the Woods had been stuck in a power battle with the Griffin’s since the town was founded. Every other non-mortal family in the area had fallen into an alliance on either side, and the magical violence that was said to have gone on between them got so bad, the fatalities rivalled the Salem Witch Trials. Gustus used to tell Lexa stories of when he was young to scare Lexa into practicing her magic even though every part of her body felt drained and rubbed raw. Apparently, four mortals had to end up as collateral damage before Titus enacted the truce.

Any act of violence now would be like an act of treason.

“They wouldn’t dare,” she insists confidently. Titus has had her involved in magical politics since she was old enough to understand it; both covens agreed to the truce, neither would risk the consequences. The Griffin’s might be altogether too liberal with their magic but they aren’t stupid.

Anya purses her lips like she doesn’t agree. She keeps her eyes trained on the spot where the alley opens out onto the square like she’s worried hellfire will erupt out of the cobblestones if she continues to explain. “Did you know Clarke is back in town?”

Lexa’s heart leaps and she pretends it doesn’t. “You can’t be serious?” She scoffs instead, understanding what Anya is implying. “You think Clarke did this?” It’s ridiculous and not just because the Clarke Lexa knows is too preoccupied with practical magic and floating bottles of vodka from her parents’ stash up to her bedroom to be sending malicious omens to the Woods’ doorstep.

And then there’s the other thing.

Lexa doesn’t talk about the other thing.

Anya throws her hands open in an aggravated ‘who knows’ gesture and Lexa fights not to get defensive.

“I’m not saying she didn’t,” Anya retorts. “She’s a Griffin, Lexa.”

Lexa hates that that’s an accusation in itself. Mostly because ‘she’s a Woods’ has plagued her entire life; the excuse for lab partners and dodgeball team mates rejecting her. More than any of the curses that are cradled in the aging pages of the books Titus keeps in the upstairs hallway, Lexa thinks having your identity boiled down to nothing but your last name is the worst curse of all.

Anger at Anya simmers into frustration in the pit of her stomach and she slips the seal into her pocket and shoulders past her cousin onto the main street.

“Lexa,” Anya grouses, quiet guilt colouring her tone as her steps clack in her effort to catch her. “Wait.”

Lexa shakes her head. “I need to talk to Clarke.”

Polis is just as insignificant as Clarke left it four months ago, but somehow, it still feels better than the draughty colonial of her grandmothers that she spent the summer and then some shut up in. She’s pretty sure the only thing of note that has happened in four months is her poor house plants ultimately death on her windowsill – apparently the half-hearted self-watering charm she had uttered on her way out wasn’t long range. That, or her mother walked into her room one day to see her dinky tin watering can hanging in mid-air and had dismantled the thin spell with an eye roll.

Her parents have always had a liberal attitude to magic. As long as she wasn’t spell casting in the front yard or enchanting her stationery to write her biology essays, they were content to let her explore her it on her own terms.

She hadn’t known magical theory was something people practiced as actively as they did until her parents got tired of her quote unquote behaviour and sent to her study under the tuition of her mother’s mother. Or that’s what they told her when she came home on the last day of school to find her bags packed in the hallway – ‘you’re the heir Clarke, you need to learn to control your magic’.

In reality, she knows it was really a ploy to get her out of town after Abby interrupted Finn kissing her goodnight after homecoming.

Her parents had never been phased by her frivolous magic use in the past, and the Collins are notorious for being unreliable allies – evidently magical politics doesn’t take a break for school girl crushes.

The bell rings for the end of the period and Clarke rises from her desk, rubbing her thumb over the braided band on her ring finger. She doesn’t know what excuse her parents gave the school for her absence but she can feel the teacher’s hesitancy to bring the subject up as he waves her to the front of the class and it’s suffocating. The Griffins are formidable figures in the eyes of the town, and it feels like Mr. Walker is handling her with kid gloves as he hands her a sheet covering the last few weeks, tells her to read Macbeth and suggests she borrow a classmate’s notes. It feels too stiff and formal, and suddenly her whole life is being played out in front of her; a clinical rotation of coven meetings and maintaining magical politics that she isn’t ready for.

She nods into the panic bearing down on her chest and leaves as quickly as she can.

The building used to be a private residence before it was the high school. Like everything else in Polis the high arched ceilings, wrought iron embellishments and stained glass were leftovers from the gothic revival period that her history teacher – as old as the town itself – loves to go on about. In Junior year a rumour went around the back staircase was haunted by the ghost of the last owner, who’s grisly death in the late 1880’s had been enough to give The Tribune content for four months straight.

People seem to have gotten braver over summer though, because the staircase is packed again – likely because the ‘haunting’ stopped as soon as Bellamy had been busted by an Octavia intent on revenge for her broken curling iron and suspended from magic use for the summer. Either way, Clarke is unhappy to collide with a trio of rowdy Freshman with their shirts shredded and fake blood soaked. Agitated, she curses at them loudly for getting the concoction on her sweater, trying to pick it off with her finger nails to no avail before looking up in defeat and freezing.

Lexa stands halfway down the corridor, head in her locker as she diligently switches out her books and Clarke watches, feeling abruptly guilty as she tucks her hair behind her ear and twists the lock to scramble the combination.

She didn’t tell Lexa she was back.

She didn’t know if she was supposed to tell Lexa she was back.

There text conversations had switched abruptly from numerous and emoji filled, to once a week at most and strangely formal at the end of Sophomore Year. It left them in an awkward twilight zone of ‘just friends’ that neither of them quite knew how to navigate correctly.

When Lexa turns to walk to class Clarke raises her hand in a static wave, and an urgent expression passes over Lexa’s face.

“Clarke!”

Whipping her head around, she sees two girls narrowly miss being taken out by the backpack Octavia has slung over one shoulder as she barrels down the stone staircase, flinging it to the harlequin tiles to throw her arms around Clarke’s neck. The girls mutter something crude and following behind, Raven flips them off aggressively. “Freshmen,” she mutters, picking Octavia’s backpack up off the floor.

“Ignore her,” Octavia disentangles herself from Clarke and when she looks back down the hall, Lexa has gone. Octavia cards a hand through her hair, taking her backpack from Raven with an exasperated glance. “She’s cranky because her car got scratched.” Her fingers are full of stacking rings and black nail varnish chipped down to the cuticle, but the sight of her friend, in her Champion tee and black jeans ripped at the knee, just as chaotic as usual, is familiar in a way Clarke didn't know she needed. She feels the vestiges of irrational terror slink away.

Raven gives Octavia a pointed look. “Last time we take my car to the lake,” she informs the brunette curtly as she leans in to give Clarke a hug.

Clarke is appalled. “You went to the lake without me?”

“You dyed your hair back,” Octavia retorts smartly and Clarke winces.

“My grandmother wasn’t exactly a fan of cotton candy pink.”

‘Not exactly a fan’ is an understatement. The woman, who was still as spritely as Clarke remembered her being when she was five years old, had rolled her eyes at the audacity of ‘teenagers these days’ and marched Clarke into the dining room to sit her down and mutter Latin until the home done dye job leached out of her hair.

She hadn’t heard someone do a verbal spell in years.

“Boo,” Octavia pouts, reaching up to twist a lock of Clarke’s hair around her forefinger. “I’m not ready for serious Clarke.”

Pink starts to crawl up the coil but Clarke bats Octavia’s hand away in alarm, looking around wildly to check if they had been seen, the strictness of her grandmother still sits weirdly ingrained in her immediate reactions. She adjusts her hair over her shoulder and tucking the now pink-ended lock behind her ear where it isn’t noticeable. “I’m not serious,” she argues, “I’m Clarke. I am!” she insists when Octavia makes a comically sceptical face. “Look, we’re still going to Atom’s tonight, right?”

“His parents are out of town, everyone is,” Raven confirms and Clarke sits back on her heels, satisfied. “Great,” she decides, “then I’m going to be one hundred percent fun Clarke.”

Raven snorts, “God help us.”

Costia has a polaroid of them tucked inside the metal slit of her locker that Lexa notices as she listens to the redhead grumble about the Chemistry pop quiz sprung on her by an unsympathetic teacher, humming and then nodding when she is accused to not listening.

She doesn’t know what to make of them exactly. Her and Costia that is. A witch herself, she understands the complexities of the situation Lexa has been born into, and despite all the ways that that simple fact makes her more likeable, it also makes the prospect of “them” infinitely more complicated. Which is probably why they are hanging in an awkward dimension of hugs that last too long and walking each other to class every other day.

“I’m sure you did well anyway,” she says mindlessly.  

There are dollar store witch hats strung on fishing wire from the arched ceiling and poster paint cut outs of ghosts and the school initials tacked to the walls. She fixates on the stylised pentagram inside the ‘o’ of ‘All Hallows Eve’ on a poster advertising a Halloween party in town that no one will attend, and lets the trepidation that’s been clawing at her chest all day swell to a boiling point. The seal sits in her front jean pocket, conspicuous enough that she untucked her sweater from her waistband as she walked into advisory for her own piece of mind.

“Lexa?”

She straightens, “yeah?”

“You’re really out of it today,” Costia’s brow peaks in concern, as she dips her chin to try and catch Lexa’s eye. “Did something happen? Or…”    

Shaking her head, Lexa wills herself to engage. She hasn’t seen Clarke since Octavia and Raven had interrupted their almost-reunion but the need to speak to her grew more urgent with each minute the seal gathered weight sitting in her pocket. “Just a lot going on,” she explains pathetically and Costia slides a hand up her arm.

“Anything I can help with?”

Lexa opens her mouth to assure her that ‘no, it’s fine’, when a blonde firecracker struts up to them with a melodramatic sigh and a faux-hurt expression.

“Are you cheating on me Lexa?” Clarke demands flinging her hand over her heart like she’s in a soap. “Does this ring mean nothing to you?” She thrusts her ring finger under Lexa’s nose, indicating to the familiar silver band, and Lexa struggles to hide the amused quirk in her lips.

Costia rolls her eyes, taking her cue to leave, “I’ll see you tonight, Lexa,” she says sweetly, squeezing her hand, then looking over, “bye Clarke.”

“Bye, Costia.”

Clarke twists her ring like it isn’t sitting right under her knuckle and leans a shoulder against the locker. “I’m sorry,” she apologises when Costia has disappeared. “She likes you.” Lexa doesn’t know how she is meant to respond to that, grappling for a reply feels like reaching out into a muddy pond in search for answers.

“She’s not my fiancée,” she drawls instead.

Clarke snorts.

It’s ironic, Lexa thinks, that, for the amount of weight their so-called “engagement” holds within the magical community, it has become such a joke between the two of them. Since the ceremony four years ago – a date which Clarke likes to ironically mark in her calendar as their “anniversary” and give Lexa cards with ‘To My Loving Husband’ embossed across the front in scripted letters – Clarke in particular has taken every available moment to mock the sanctity of the fealty they swore to each other and their rival covens in a bid to stop the violence. And after a while, compelled by the ridiculousness of all of it, Lexa joined in.

“How was Maine?”

“Four months shut up in a library translating…” Clarke glances around, then lowers her voice, “incantations that haven’t been used since Salem isn’t my idea of a good time. I lit a sparkler on the Fourth,” she perks up, “but my grandmother was worried it would set fire to her herb garden so she put it out.”

All at once, Lexa remembers being five-years-old and standing on the front lawn with a kiddie-sparkler in hand. The sparks burn stone-cold and morph into technicolour from the spell her mother recites in her melodic voice – purples, blues, greens and oranges twisting in and out of each other wonderfully. It isn’t the Fourth, she thinks – they didn’t celebrate holidays like that before Lexa was school aged – but the sky is a watercolour of dusky pink. Midsummer perhaps.

Then, as quickly as the memory came, it vanishes, leaving an echoing ‘whoosh’ in the vacuum of her head. She blinks, dizzy.

“Lexa…”

“We need to talk.”

“Oh?” Clarke sings flirtatiously.

“It’s serious.”

Her face drops, “oh.”

The bell trills but Lexa learns into the nearest classroom to find it dark, the desks empty and blinds pulled, and she wills Clarke inside, waiting until she is perched on the edge of the nearest desk before pulling the seal out of her pocket.

“Do you know what this is?”

It looks oddly mundane hanging from her fingers. In this light, it’s hard to make out the tarnished Latin or the pentagram inside it, but it’s ice-cold despite the hours it has been sitting in her pocket and that’s enough to make her sceptical.

Clarke’s eyes saucer. Lexa takes careful note of her reaction.

“Where did you get that?”

She opens her palm and the seal sails into her hand.

Lexa has always been taken back by Clarke’s liberal approach to magic. While Titus has drilled into her that magic serves a purpose and that purpose is not her own personal needs, Clarke seems to find a need for it in every situation. Quietly, she thinks she admires the easiness she wields it with because, the truth is, Lexa is too scared of magic to do the same.

“Do you know what it is?” She dodges the question. “The Latin’s illegible, but it looks like a penta –”  

“It’s not,” Clarke shakes her head. She puts the seal flat on the desk, ribbon at the top, then turns it one hundred and eighty degrees so the pentagram is inverted. Suddenly, Lexa knows where she has seen it before. “This is dark, Lexa,” Clarke warns her, “like, black-magic-devil-worshipping dark.” There is an element of awe in her voice that twists in the put of Lexa’s stomach. “Where did you get it?”

“There was one on the cover of that book you used to have,” Lexa says calmly.

“Lexa.” Clarke insists.

She sighs. “Lincoln found it on the back steps.”

Clarke scrutinises her. “There’s more.”

“Anya thinks it was you.”

“What?”

“Did you do it?”

Clarke straightens, growing stony at the accusation. “Do you think I did?” She fires back.

There’s a whole host of replies Lexa could give, all of them laced with the political idiocy that Titus likes to spout around the dinner table, elitist bullshit about how the Woods are magically superior in the traditional sense of their craft, how the Griffins are liberal pretenders, imposters and manipulators. But none of it has ever translated to Clarke in her mind. When she looks at Clarke she sees herself, a freer version of herself maybe, but still, someone stuck in this mess other people have made for them and she can’t knowing blame her for something she doesn’t have the capacity to do.

“No,” she admits, hoping she is right.

Clarke deflates in relief. She lets out a heavy sigh and sifts her fingers through her hairline, shaking out blonde locks until Lexa can see a pink streak, the colour glimmers slightly like a mirage in a way she knows isn’t drugstore hair dye and fixates on it. “I didn’t,” Clarke promises in a voice so soft it’s barely there.

“I believe you.”

[yveschanceux]

Yves takes his time placing his objects into the simple stained box. A harmonica reed, a petrified flower, a small quill with the ink still staining the tip, a long blade of grass that could carry a whistle, a rock, a shell, a small coin, and a few other odds and ends. He tries to work quickly, so as not to dwell, but gently enough to tuck the small objects away where they won’t be rattled around too much. He wants nothing more than this to be over, and the debt to be paid.

Finally, he dives into his life to try and cut out the parts that Dahlia didn’t ask for, anything that doesn't directly provide context for his house and the way he is, he tries to remove.

In the end, he does an okay job, they aren't as cleanly cut as Dahlias, he watches the reel back, trying to force cold indifference. It’s hard, but not nearly as hard as it was the first time.  He does trust Dahlia, he supposes, but not enough to give more than asked, not yet, so he slaps the lid closed with a sigh and places the box on the table before her, nervous energy bouncing his leg.

With barely contained eagerness, Dahlia nods and opens the box.

Her vision blacks out, all she has are her other senses and it’s strange not being able to fall back on her mage’s vision. She feels his life thrumming in her veins.

Yves has always made the best of life, she can feel it in his ribs, knows that he’ll always be okay, as long as he has Felix.

It immediately feels like a dream.

-----

Dahlia wakes up on the stairs of the back porch, it's a late spring evening and shes reclined down the steps in an awkward but mostly comfortable daze watching the dust pick up and settle in the warm breeze. Even laying down, Yves body feels too long and wide on her consciousness. She can feel the high of fatigue holding down his limbs and the sun lulling him to sleep. Soft footfalls thump slowly in the house and then out onto the porch. Ilya drops down next to Yves, slightly higher up on the steps and takes his head into her lap to play with his hair and rubs a hand down his bare chest.

“Hey, babe.” “How are you feeling?” Ilya asks, looking out at the pollen swirling in the road. “Your fevers gone.”

“Mmhmm.” Yves lets her eyes flutter shut and grasps for Ilyas hand on his chest, the additional warmth of his wife lulling him further into a doze. “I’ll be back to work soon…”

“Let me know when you’re ready to finish the eel,” she traces the black and green lines across his shoulder.

He makes another content noise. “How’s Felix been?”

“Hmm. Felix is doing well in the city. He’s taken on an apprentice it seems, has high hopes for her. He’s glad to hear we’ve settled in and keeps threatening to visit.” She grins and plants a kiss at his damp temple. “We should clean up your old room for guests-”

Her voice cuts off as Yves falls into a soft sleep.

-----

They wake on the beach in the late afternoon, Dahlia is overcome with a moment of Deja Vu, but Yves seems content with the routine. Ilya rouses beside them, much less burnt and they sleepily gather their belongings and make the familiar journey up the bluff-side to watch the sunset.

They can see just the top of the farmhouse roof behind them. In the distance, the outlying docks of the town a mile away can be made out against the blue water, and facing directly into the ocean is the sun, seconds from setting. A small strip of exposed sandbar is the only obstruction breaking up the endless expanse in this direction, and the water surrounding the sliver of sand is aglow with glowing green algae and ocher and purple bioluminescent animals.

Ilya’s hand worms into theirs and Dahlia points out at the dim glow as the bright flashes of golden sun begin to cut across the water in a swath of dancing light. The few clouds above turn purple, pink, then red as the sun dips halfway below the horizon line. The purples and greens seem to intensify in its wake, and all along the darkening coast, the last flecks of orange light give way to purples and greens and intense sparkling gold all the way out to sea.

All Dahlia can see is Ilya’s face as she watches the lights replace each other, her dark skin catching each colour of the sea. She turns to make eye contact and all Dahlia can see are her green-grey eyes flecked with nearly imperceptible spots of gold, like sunbeams in a storm. Ilya cups her face and taps their foreheads together. “I love you.” She kisses Dahlia in the violet burn of the false sky with all of its glowing specks. Aside from a few grey clouds far off in the distance, the night sky and ocean seem to become one vast void of lights with no horizon to separate them.

Dahlia tries to think of something romantic to say to that but her eyes flutter shut and she focuses on the points of contact between them, on the heat of Ilya’s fingers running across her cheek and neck, still warm from the sun. She’s so happy she could cry.

“I love you too, smudge.” Dahlia grins as the kiss breaks and nuzzles into the crook of Ilyas neck, taking in the smell of sand and sun, of ink and paper. It smells like home.

They sit there forever as the lights sparkle and fade….

“I just think it’s dangerous what you’re doing.” Dahlia spits a little too harshly. She’s sitting up on the counter between the sink and the icebox while Ilya works furiously over the kitchen table. Paper and ink are spread everywhere in a map of words and glyphs, coded beyond anyone's comprehension. Ilya stops suddenly and looks up to her slowly, placing the quill down gently. “Yves, baby,” Ilya stands and walks over to Dahlia, forcing eye contact. “I understand,  But you’ve known for a long time that this is a huge part of me. Helping these people is a calling - especially-”

“-Because we’re in a position too, I know, I know, but still-” Dahlia interrupts the familiar...discussion, a swirl of bitter embarrassment wells up in her gut. “I just…there’s talk of a witch hunt in town this week. It’s got me on edge is all...I’m sorry smudge.”

“You are forgiven,” Ilya grins and runs her nimble stained fingers through Dahlia’s hair and cups her face. “I would never put either of us in danger, neither will Felix. I need you to trust me, and trust that I know what I’m doing.” She plants a kiss on her forehead and steps away back to her papers.

“I do.” Dahlia lies with a small smile. The guilt is thumping in time with her heartbeat, outmatched only by the dread building up in her chest, pooling hot and sickly just beneath her war wound - now scarred over. “I do.”

Outside the fall wind howls through the trees and splatters wet leaves against the shutters.

Dahlia knows in her soul, with unheard of clarity that she’ll always be okay, as long as she has Ilya.

------

Dahlia isn’t present for most of the winter. They don’t get snow as far south as they are but the freezing rains and grey skies take the warmth away. It's far too cold to swim and even the green grove at the beach is devoid of colour. Ilya is patient with her, used to the routine after three odd years of being together.

They work as a team maintaining the animals, even though there’s less to do on the farm it still takes much of the late morning before Ilya returns to her limited invoices and Dahlia can return to the comfort of the warm bedroom. She nestles into the covers and sleeps until she's woken by Ilya retiring to bed. This pattern continues for the whole season, broken only by the occasional illness, mostly on her part. But as the weeks proceed Ilya gets to bed later and later.

“Is everything alright?” Dahlia asks on one of her better days when her fever has gone down. “You seem so stressed, I’m sorry I haven't been he-” the apology is cut off by an abrupt kiss. Ilya holds her fast and close, a little tighter than necessary. She buries her head in the crook of Dahlia's neck in the centre of her chest and clings for a very long time.

“Hey, Ilya what’s wrong?” Guilt and fear swell up in her gut, she had been barely cohesive the past few months, and the idea that Ilya needed help while she was off living life underwater was wretched.

She clings a bit tighter, her voice muffled in Dahlia's chest. “...You know that I love you right? I love you and I would never do anything to hurt you?” She's shaking as she threads her hands under Dahlia's shirt for warmth, for proof of life. Dahlia is overcome with a deep sadness compounded by her recent emotional instability, a sob overcomes her and like a switch is flipped they are both sinking to the floor in a weepy embrace.

“Of course I know, and I love you too, of course I know.” Dahlia assures her as best as she can, “please Ilya, I love you so much but you’re kind of scaring me right now.” She holds Ilya out by her shoulders so they can look at each other. She looks exhausted, worn thin.

“Nothing’s wrong, baby, I’m just tired is all.” She seems to avoid eye contact but a smile comes to her lips trying to reassure. “I think we both need this winter to end.” Dahlia doesn’t know how to interpret this encounter and is really in no condition to, post-illness. At a loss, she also smiles and hugs her wife close. “Yeah.” They sit there for a while longer before the frigid air gets to  be too much, “common, let's go to bed, Smudge.” As Ilya proceeds, upstairs Dahlia takes a minute to lock up the house and close the curtains for the night. She glances at the documents on the table with little interest but can make nothing of the correspondence between Ilya and her customers. She slides away to lock the back porch, with one last look outside to make sure the barn door is closed.

Out on the lawn is a spot of red on the pale frosty grass. She steps outside to investigate in the as the sun dips below the trees. The shadows of the orchard reach out like long fingers towards the house. A line of ocher feathers connects the spattering of red to the treeline behind the fence. Beyond the thick oaks surrounding the property, something moves in the brush.

This isn’t the first time they’ve lost a chicken to wild animals, but the trail of gold feels so much like a bad omen that she can't help but shudder in the cold wind.

Dahlia inhales deeply, the sharp air cuts into her weakened lungs like glass. She diligently gathers water from the creek and washes most of the blood into the ground, then flicks the feathers off into the forest before turning in for the night. She double checks the locks on the door and doesn't tell Ilya about the chicken, she’s under enough stress already…

----

Spring rain comes, and with it a high the Dahlia still hadn’t gotten used too. She’s over-productive in many ways and a tad destructive in others but Ilya seems grateful to have her husband back in full health though she seems older despite high spirits.

“Let's plan a trip.” She suggests over lunch after the chores are done. “Oh yeah? Business or pleasure?” Dahlia looks away from the treeline, interested.

“Hmm…” Ilya leans over to rest her head on Dahlia’s shoulder, looking up into her dark eyes. “Most definitely pleasure.” She smiles and Dahlia couldn’t say no if she’d wanted too. “I think we should see the far west… just for a couple of weeks? Sebastien can watch the farm can’t he?”

“Why the sudden wanderlust, babe?”

Ilya inhales deeply, a weariness settling in her features, “I think we just need...a change of scenery is all…” they’d talked before, about going the way of Irene and Louann, shuttering the house and retiring to travel the countryside in their old age. Dahlia didn’t think would happen so soon, couldn’t fathom a nicer place to be, but something about this last winter had added years to Ilya’s face.

“If we butter him up first.” She kisses her wife on the head, noticing a grey hair here and there. “I think Sebas would be happy to get out of that dirt shack for a bit.”

“Oh yes, I think  so too.” Ilya agrees matter of factly, but Dahlia can hear the relief in her voice as they begin planning their trip...  

----

Two months before they leave something goes horribly wrong.

Dahlia wakes up alone for the first time in years. It's early spring, frost still threatens the grove, but the rains have started. It seems like a dream at first, she dresses like normal, an uncomfortable itch in the back of her throat. With sleep still clouding her vision, she makes it down the stairs to the first landing before she notices something is wrong. There’s mud tracked all over the stairs, looking up, she can see prints in the hallway as well. Not panicking she hurries downstairs.

“Smudge, is everything alright?” She yells as she descends, mind scrambling to come up with an explanation for the mess, perhaps they’d forgotten to take off their boots before tracking mud into the house last night? The papers on the tables are missing. “Ilya!”

Outside in the fresh spring mud are streaks of red and a trail of golden feathers.

The next few months are like one long nightmare, Dahlia can feel the life draining from her body every day.

She starts out fine. Terribly worried and angrier than she’s ever been in her life, but not panicked. Not for the first few hours.

It’s easy to piece together what happened. The boot tracks throughout the house, the missing cypher, the dead fowl. She begins the search on the grounds of the farm, fanning out from the house to circle the grove, then the property, then the beach. It's long after dark when she returns home shaking and wired and itching for violence. It’s not even a thought to grab at the bottles of wine on her way into the kitchen and spend the rest of the night awake, alternating between restless sleep and paranoid bargaining.

The rest of the week is a blur. She spends a great deal of time switching between overwhelming panic, unparalleled rage, and unwavering determination to find Ilya. She writes in a shaky hand to Felix and Sebastien, her words are basic and sharp and spelt wrong and barely legible, even to herself. Its nothing like Ilya’s deft grace and control. Dahlias used to not having the vocabulary to get her emotions across but the fact that she’s writing at all - she hopes - conveys the urgency that her words can’t.

She goes to town first, gives them the news, asks for help looking, for information, for sightings, for any kind of lead. Everyone offers their sympathies but remain ignorant of her whereabouts and no one seems to meet Dahlia's panic.  She has no new information and her sense of urgency only increases. Aside from the occasional comments about how she hasn’t quite been the same since ‘the accident’ Dahlia can’t find any trace outside of the farm that Ilya had ever existed at all.

Ilya is still in the house. Dahlia can see her sometimes, out of the corner of her eye, in the folds of the bedspread in the early morning, or in wafts of fresh ink that still circulate around the bannister. Like if she runs back upstairs, Ilya might be there, sitting at her desk by the window, crunching numbers and doodling in the margins of her notebook. She's not there though, not in any way that matters.

She tries to gather the remaining papers in Ilya’s study and the rest of the house. Whoever took her and her code didn’t seem to know it was there. It occurs to Dahlia that she likely can’t trust anyone, given the illegal nature of Ilya’s hobbies.

She trusts Felix with her life but stops herself from sending him the papers for fear that the information they hold will make him disappear into the night. She hides them instead when she’s sure no one is looking.

----

It’s been almost two weeks since Ilya’s been abducted and no one in town will mention her name. She hears people whispering behind their hands about how tragic it is that she’d been seduced by a witch and how tragic it is that she’s probably cursed, but mostly no one says anything at all and that feels worse. She knows she’s being watched, can see shapes in her peripheral but they always move before she can look at them.

Many of the memories are jumbled here, some of them could be dreams, many of them feel like hallucinations. There is one moment that stands out among the rest. Dahlia is sitting on the floor of her bedroom, unable to move. It feels like she's been through a meat grinder and one eye is swollen shut. She can feel a hot dripping down her face and neck. Above her stands a figure so still, it could be a shadow.

The figure snarls through an old gnarled scar across its nose. “Stop making trouble.” It warns as Dahlia’s vision fades out, then in again. It’s morning now, aside from her black eye there is no evidence that anyone else was in the house last night.

The dead animals keep piling up-it feels like one every day, one morning she wakes up to find the roof of the bard smouldering, the spring downpour likely smothered it in the night. She’s too stupid to stop asking questions, or care, or whatever.

They sneak into the house while she’s away or at night. They move things, take things, stand over her while she sleeps, weird shit like that. Sometimes she wakes up with bruises or cuts or really bad headaches, stuff that doesn’t just happen. Sebastien would probably say its stress, some kind of fucked up grieving process, but Dahlia knows better, she doesn’t give away where Ilya’s work is hidden.

Finally, they get sick of playing games and one night while she’s drunk off her ass because she can’t sleep anymore and her goddamn wife is missing, they break in and drag her out back behind the barn. They dig a hole and bury Dahlia in the mud. It’s not a whole six feet, but she sobers up pretty quick underground.

Dahlia hyperventilates for a long time. She watches her body struggle through someplace just above her, lodged in the fresh packed dirt above. The rain seeps down into the heavy soil and turns her grave into slick mud and the distant thunder rumbles the earth.  She doesn’t know how to get out, doesn’t know how close the surface is or even if she’s digging in the right direction. An unknowable amount of time passes but she can hear morning birds chirping through the roaring in her ears. Finally she breaks the surface, freezing and wet and delirious.

The morning mist collects and swirls at her feet. Her thin, quick breaths steam in the cool air as she vomits mud. Something is moving upstairs in the window of Ilya’s study. Trembling, she sloughs her mud-caked clothes off into a pile on the porch. She moves in slow motion through the house and stops at the bottom of the stairs. Shadows coalesce around an eerie red light striking the landing wall. Outside the sun is rising, there are no birds left to greet it.

It feels like it takes all morning to climb the stairs, she jumps and freezes at every noise. At the top, each step feels like walking through mud as she approaches the open study. Small tendrils of smoke curl upwards from burned spots in the floorboard. Nothing is on fire but the room smells of ash and ink. Her books are scattered around and torn up, her chair is knocked over and her utensils spilt. The smoke drifts from gouged lettering on the floor, and Dahlia has bad eyes but the words reach across the floor in terrible black letters.

S T O P

L O O K I N G

She can’t even clean it up, Dahlia just stomps out the wisps of smoke and shutters the window. She locks the door and hides the key away. It's impossible to be upstairs without seeing something out of the corner of her eye.

Thieve. Abductors. Undertakers. Ilya.

She stops going upstairs all-together, can’t even get near the bannister without dozens of eyes on her, peering out of the woodwork. Time bleeds together, she can’t sleep for the paranoia, for the bedsheets dragging her back underground, for Ilya watching her from the between the rails upstairs. she jumps at every sound regardless of the source. Her brain feels sick.

She keeps drinking and gets it into her head that maybe - well maybe if they had buried her, that they might have buried Ilya somewhere on the property. That maybe she was still alive underground this whole time, waiting for someone to find her.  Dahlia begins to dig holes in the yard because if they wouldn’t let her ask questions the least they could do was let her burn out trying to turn over the orchard looking for some kind of closure.

She knows it’s irrational but she feels hopeless and possessed, looking over the property they had built a life on and only seeing a ten-acre grave.

She digs during the day, at night she listens for intruders,  a part of her knows they will leave her alone now, knows that they’ve done all they need to do to keep her from asking questions, but the damage is done. In every shadow is a thief, every creaking floorboard warns him not to cause trouble.

----

Before Ilya became a cartographer she was raised on the bow. She’d been a decent shot but had ultimately preferred to explore over hunt, so she came to him with a lovely heirloom of a crossbow to be used as a party trick to win bets or scare off coyotes. Dahlia’s hands shake as she loads the bow, as she’d seen Ilya do a million times. She levels it at the door and waits through the night.

Sometimes when she’d drift off she would have dreams where it had all been a nightmare. Ilya would be next to her and she would just stay in bed and watch her sleep, watch her chest move when she breathed and the sun would cross the bedroom and then Ilya would wake with a mumble and Dahlia could think for just a minute that everything was alright.

They felt like a curse in her waking hours.

----

Days later Felix finds her, he’d been across the country working and dropped everything as soon as he’d gotten the letter, it still took weeks of travel to arrive. Dahlia has been beside herself for nearly a month and she almost puts a hole in her brother with her wife’s crossbow. She’s a terrible shot, but it gives Felix enough time to yank the bow from her hands and embrace her.  She panics at first, then realizes who it is. She cries for the first time in years.

Eventually, Sebastian arrives at Felix’s call.  The two pack up everything up while she mopes around and jumps at shadows. They try to get her to sober up too, but it doesn't take.  

She never sees the crossbow again.

It takes weeks to clean the mess, weeks to get Dahlia back into her right mind, Sebastien grounds her immensely with old stories while Felix makes arrangements. They are moving her off the farm, to the city with Felix. Dahlia watches numbly as they pack up everything into neat little boxes and scrape the dried mud from the floor. They leave the study alone.

-----

For the next few months, she lives with Felix in the city, recovering mostly, getting back into a normal sleep schedule. The noise helps, being around other people helps, Felix helps when he’s not at work. Slowly, she comes to accept that Ilya is gone, in order to live with that Dahlia also comes to accept that Ilya is dead, and takes the time to mourn properly.

Most of her time alone was something of a blur. She tries to explain to Felix what happened but so much of it was spent in the throes of a drunken paranoia that she isn’t really sure what was real and what was just a bad dream. Felix doesn’t force her to make the distinction even though that leaves a lot of gaps in the story.

In the end, Felix believes that there is some foul play at hand, but has no leads to pursue. Many words are explained, Dahlia has never yelled at her brother in genuine anger before but she's been so frustrated and scared and angry and drunk for weeks now and no one knows how to help. Felix takes it all with grace and pity on his face. He holds her close and she apologises.

They have a proper funeral at some point. Dahlia can’t remember it but she’s sure it was nice.

-----

Months pass and she slowly moves closer to herself. She doesn’t quite fit back into her body but the perspective is nearly the same, she thinks. Drinking helps somewhat.

Felix is very proud of her for finding her body again, though he doesn’t quite word it like that. He says things like “I am glad we are eating breakfast together,” or “It looks like you got some sun today!” In his cheery, relieved voice. Dahlia feels like a child, or a spooked animal being pitied, but something about Felix’s gentle way of handling her is comforting.

He wants her to stay as long as she needs too but Dahlia’s skin begins to crawl with wanderlust. She’s grateful for everything Felix has done for her but she feels like the world is stagnant now, with an absence of colour or sound. She bids Felix goodbye with solemn determination. Her brother is nervous and reluctant to let her go, but all the same optimistic that travel could be a good thing.

She knows that she’ll be okay, she always has Felix, after all.

----

She stops by the farmhouse before truly leaving, needs to say goodbye to it now that she’s said goodbye to Ilya. She goes in the middle of the day, alone. It stands solitary and warm in the summer sun, she can hear the creek babbling through the orchard and smell citrus on the breeze. Dahlia takes in the view, closes her eyes and inhales the smells of the property. She can still hear the wind-chime on the porch, made from small rocks and shells, there is laughter in the wind.

The holes she’d spent days digging up are still present, like scars on the property, though they have filled in somewhat from the rain and are grown over with grass now. In a few years, she knows, it will be like they were never there at all.

It feels like she’s just come home from the market as she slips in the backdoor easily, for just a moment, Ilya is sitting at the kitchen table, pouring over her work. She looks up with a smile on her face, they’re going on a trip soon.

Dahlia shudders and moves through the space, careful not to touch anything. It feels wrong how barren the rooms are, never in her years of living here has the place felt so empty, not even when the old birds had moved out. She avoids the stairs entirely to find some of Ilya’s papers in the spare room. Waves of melancholy wash over her, looking at their life together packed up in neat little boxes and stored away, it all feels so wrong.  She pulls a bundle of paper from a box, gently leafing through the parchment. It smells like home.

Dahlia spreads the papers over the kitchen table. She finds a vial of ink and a half dozen quills to place delicately between the pages of almanacs, half made maps, and first pass translations of various texts. She steps back with a nod, it isn’t quite the same as Ilyas organized chaos, but looking back at the kitchen as she locks the door, it feels like she’s still home, it feels less like bidding adieu and more like she’s just... going on a trip.  

----

The memory fades out and back in, she doesn’t experience first hand but knows that she spends the next few years wandering from city to city, revisiting old friends and customers from before the farm and the injury and the conscription. It’s easy to fall back into what she used to be, even if it doesn’t feel real. She stays out of the way of the law as best she can, avoids all talk of mages and witch hunts and crowns guards for fear of having to do it all over again. To repeat the last year of her life, she knows, will probably kill her.

She comes back into herself in a familiar apartment, a terrible melancholy interrupts her, a longing for this place that was her home inside a body that feels too tall, too wide, too different from hers. There is a resounding whiplash that stuns her as she sees her body, her real body leaning over her with a potion, pouring it into her leg wound that feels both numb and like white-hot pain at the same time.

She’s talking in a playful tone, telling him - telling Yves that she doesn’t need payment for the priceless potion in her hand.

“Just take me to that summer festival we talked about last night. Win me something nice, buy me snacks, whatever you can manage.”

Dahlia can tell Yves can’t remember what ‘last night’ means, but he doesn’t miss a beat in agreeing, Dahlia can feel in his gut that Yves will probably do whatever she asks of him (within reason) for the potion. But that's truly all she’d wanted at the time, and the world seems brighter for it, at least from his perspective.

The memory starts to fade there as if Yves had let it run too long on accident and hadn’t wanted her to see this far in. She fades out of his memory one last time and comes back into her real body, back in the kitchen. It feels like the breath has been knocked out of her for a long moment. Yves slaps the box shut the second she pulls away. He looks absolutely perplexed - on his end the whole thing took less than a minute, not the months that Dahlia had experienced.

“Is it really supposed to be that fast?” Yves mumbles to Namir, who is nearly in Dahlia's lap in worry, he paws her potion closer to her hands. “It feels so much longer from the other side.”

“Hey fireball, you doing alright?” He leans back a bit to give her some breathing room, remembering how claustrophobic he’d been coming out of her memory box.

[lumiereswig]

Please can I have a fic where Agathe gets amnesia? -singing anon

The first thing Belle notices when she wakes up are the snowflakes against the windowsill.

It’s June, she thinks. How I love a snowy June morning. Hot cocoa, curled up in the library, maybe a snowball fight later among the June roses….

She wakes up, and kicks Adam, and he finds himself sprawling across the frosty floor.

“Adam, Adam! How hairy you look!”

He checks his hands. “No I don’t. You’re delusional, darling.”

“Am I?” Belle looks at him. A mood—half disappointment, half pride—flickers over her face. “Oh. You’re just the same. But then—what the….”

“Has this floor always had a bit of a snowdrift in it?”

“So it’s not just me! It is snowing, isn’t it? Snowing in June? But the curse isn’t back, you look all clean shaven and normal…”

“I always count on you to be a paragon of affection, my dear.” He kisses her on the head. “I’ll grow the beard soon. Anyway, why the snow? You haven’t been spell-booking again, have you?”

“Mrs Potts hid the spell book so I’d stop.” Belle kicks out of bed and goes to the window. “And even if I could, I wouldn’t—oh, my—holy—”

Adam paws to the window, and sees why Belle can’t speak.

Part of the palace is covered in frost: his summer flowers caked in snow, a small blizzard raging over Mrs Potts’ herbs. Yet the far lawn is in deepest autumn—trees that never lived there shedding golden russet leaves onto the browning ground—and the gate hangs open, yawning, covered in trailing daffodils that should have died in May.

“That’s not quite right, is it?”

“The wood, Adam, look to the wood.”

The forest is raging—buzzing with moths, and fleeting into colors of the rainbow, and sparking up into flames that never quite alight. He sees the leaves all turn black, then blue, then the red of spilled blood. He sees wolves pacing, changing their face with every step, becoming lions and rabbits and gold-teethed fawns with all the prompting of a blink. The paths into the wood all twist and turn aside, and he sees the trees growing, and blooming, and turning into wooded walls.

“Get your cape. We have an adventure ahead of us, Belle.”

“I’ve already got mine on. You get yours, lazybones, and I’ll go rattle up the horses.” She’s already halfway down the stairs—her course brown boots clomping down freshly scrubbed marble—and Adam can’t help but grin.

Magic. He doesn’t like spells, and curses, and things that smell of singed fur and clawing bones—but a quest with Belle is more than he can resist.

“Look, all the magic is coming from the center of the wood.”

“I hope you’re riding in front, Belle. I don’t want to be charged with a stray spell.”

“Think it’s time for another one of us to be the beast for a change?”

“You’ve got to be kidding, you’ve been one for years.”

Belle smacks his knee and hides her smile and urges Philippe forward. Now that they’re in the wood, she sees small details, evidence of magic, that weren’t visible from her window: wildflowers turned to pure gold, and patches of moss singing folk songs, and birds who speak Latin and preach Mass. And beyond that, more and more monstrosities: logs that show doors to other worlds, and creatures with three legs and five eyes watching from the shadows, and a sense that the wood is no longer a wood but a jungle—a desert—a cavern that yawns onto something dark and gold and blinking with eyes. 

When they reach the hollow in the center of the wood, Belle feels her heart shudder to a stop. It’s calm, here, and the magic is little; a rustling in the branches, a gentle silver rain, but nothing to compare with blood and wolves and shining leaves. And the dead tree in the center, tipped up on its side like a windblown birds nest, is calm as it ever was.

And Belle knows it ever was. She knows this tree.

She’s off her horse in a moment, fleeing over to it in her rough brown boots, calling out. “Agathe! Agathe! Are you all right? Are you in there?”

Adam follows, slower. He sees snakes creeping off the branches, only a few yards beyond the silent tree. He sees the grass hissing out golden sparks.

Belle finds her, sprawled on her side, sleeping apparently, though she breathes faster than she ought. A broken chair, split on its side, showing all Belle needs to know. “She’s fallen, she’s hurt herself. Adam, help me get her up on your horse. I know, I know, I wouldn’t ask you if I could, but now’s not a time to be afraid—we need to keep her safe.”

Adam bites back all the fright dancing on his tongue, the way his hands flinch away from touching the witch who cursed him. He doesn’t want to touch the magic; it reeks of danger, it brings back all the sense of breaking bones. But he would do anything for Belle…so he reaches down, and scoops up the creature who cast him in darkness for ten years, and turned his servants into wood and brass, and set a snowy curse all about his home. He feels her fragile bones. He’s shocked to feel how cool her cheeks are. 

“Hurry.” Belle is already readying her saddle, preparing to hold the Enchantress up on the ride back. “I’ll get some of her herbs—I don’t know what’s what, but maybe she can tell us what to heal her with when we wake up. And there’s always Pere Robert.” 

“Absolutely not.” Cogsworth is about to break a vein. “In the upstairs room? The good upstairs room? No! Can we keep her in, I don’t know, the shed?”

“Do you want to get cursed twice?” Lumiere is scraping things off the pantry shelf, unable to make up his mind what to put on the invalid’s tray. “What do you think, mon ami? Chocolate? Coffee? Toffees?”

“Don’t go in there! Have you seen the state of the garden? Four states of weather all at once, and the back labyrinth has a whale in it. She’s clearly gone around the bend, as we used to say.”

“I think I’ll take one tray of oranges and tea,” says Lumiere, his brow furrowed, “and maybe another with the coffee—merde, why are these trays so small?! I’m barely fitting the vase of peonies. Give us a hand?”

“It’s no thanks to her that I have hands.”

“Go on, Cogsworth, she won’t hurt you.” Plumette comes up, feather soft, and smiles at her loves. “She’s sleeping, now; she looks quite harmless. She’s even got a bit of jam smudged on her face.”

“Jam! I knew I was forgetting something. You’re an angel, Plumette. Cheer up, Cogs! Maybe her spells will be a good thing. Perhaps she’ll make me more overpoweringly handsome than I already am.”

“God help us,” whispers Cogsworth, and picks up a tray to take upstairs. 

Belle sits beside the bed. Plumette peeps over Lumiere’s shoulder at the figure on the bed. The beggar woman sleeps, restlessly, and magic sparks from her cold fingers, drifting to the window in curls of smoke.  

“She woke up once,” says Belle, “and I spoke to her, and she didn’t know me. She didn’t remember bread or jam, or Villeneuve, or any name I knew her by, and she didn’t know of her home in the woods.” 

Cogsworth sighs, and ticks, and coughs up a small gear he hides in his pocket.

“Does she know there’s gold dust seeping from her fingertips?” Lumiere goes to hold her hands—thoughtlessly, lovingly, rubbing his against hers as if to warm them. “Maybe she overdid herself with magic.”

“No. I don’t know if she even knows what magic is, anymore. I think that’s why everything is strange—she can’t remember to hold back. She doesn’t realize she’s the one letting all this happen.” Out the window, a passing cloud turns into fifteen milkmaids, who descend to earth with a thump. Nobody notices. 

“Have you called Pere Robert?”

“I don’t know if he’ll come—the message came back covered all over with feathers, and before I could read it, it turned into a black-eyed dove and flew away.” Belle gets up, and paces, and throws her hands in the air. “I’m out of my league. I can fix things that tick and whirr, and I can heal a broken arm, but I don’t know how to heal magic.”

“It’ll be all right.” Plumette takes Belle’s head onto her shoulder, and strokes her hair and holds her hands. “We’ll fix her up, the way we would any other human—for she is human, isn’t she, or was once? Maybe chicken soup and sandwiches will still work on her.” 

Belle sighs, and pats Plumette’s hands, and goes to take a scramble in the library. I must fix this, she thinks, I must fix this for my friend Agathe. 

[stopping here to let my friend @theteaisaddictive take over—we’re gonna try to write this together🔥 ]

[ariannnawinchester]

Purple eyes, desperate cries

Characters: Dean, Reader, Sam and three OFCs.

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Warnings: Swearing, violence, death. The usual angsty stuff.

Square Filled: Fairy abduction

Summary: The Reader is sort of new to the gig, Dean and her clash and she runs away. That’s when things take a turn for the worse. Feelings are left hanging in the air and when they finally settle it’s too late. There’s a reason why Dean hates ‘witches’.

A/N: This is for @spnangstbingo. I wrote this some time back. I just forgot about it. Feedback and constructive criticism is most welcomed.

“You’re joking right?” You scoff. The situation seems too far fetched for you to comprehend, let alone for you to take seriously. “There must be some other explanation for this.” You shake your head, walking over to the rickety chair to take a seat.

Fairies. That’s what you can’t wrap your head around. That’s what Sam’s been trying to convince you about for past 10 minutes. Like actual fairies. With cute flower petal dresses and shimmery wings. Just thinking about it makes you giggle.

“People are turning up dead. And you’re sitting here laughing?” Dean’s voice stops your laughter dead in its tracks. There’s a storm brewing in his green eyes, threatening to flatten anything in his path. For once, you don’t want to push his buttons. “I don’t care whether we’re up to our asses in sparkly purple fairy dust, we’re gonna solve this case.”

Sam clears his throat. The sound slashing through some of the tension. He gets off his chair and walks to stand in front of you and Dean. He’s thumbing at his tablet. You can see his mind is working at a million miles a second. “So get this, apparently all the people that have gone missing are believers. They believe in all this mumbo jumbo. That’s why the fairies can take them.”

“Biker Jack is a fairy believer?” You question, sarcasm dripping of your every word. “Can’t really imagine him skipping around his garden sprinkling fairy dust all over the place.”

“That would explain the children.” Dean says over you. Almost like he’s pretending you aren’t there. “How many kids were taken again? Just before we got here?”

“Uhhh...” Sam scrolls some more, “two.”

“What if it’s a Tulpa? Loads of people believe, it’s bound to come to life.” You pipe up.

“It’s probable.” Sam nods in your direction, “that would explain why it’s happening for the first time in this town.”

“You’re kidding right?” You’re taking her side.” Dean questions, his nostrils flaring. “It’s fucking fairies. We’ve dealt with them before. I blew one up in a microwave.”

You stalk up to Dean and push him. Hard enough for him to stumble. His jaw drops, wide eyes just blinking at you.

“I don’t get what’s your damn problem with me Dean. I’m trying to help. Excuse me, if I can’t wrap my head around shit. I got dragged into this crap because you needed a new goddamn prophet.” You yell, tears prickling at your eyes. “I’m trying. I’m fucking trying. But you know what I’m done. Goodbye.”

You snatch your navy jacket off the bed and head for outside. Slamming the door on your way out. The fragile windowpanes creaking in your wake. You faintly hear Sam’s voice calling your name but you keep walking.

It’s freezing out. Your breath coming in misty puffs right in front of your face, hugging your jacket tighter to your body, you keep walking. Trying to put enough distance between you and Dean. Your skin’s covered in goosebumps. Partially from the frosty air and partially from the sounds that are lurking in the dark edges of the leafy forest.

Something doesn’t feel right. You can tell. The hairs on your back are straight on end and your heart is thudding in your ears. Part of you kind of wishes that you hadn’t left like that. Dean maybe a pain in the ass right now but he has saved your ass more than you can count in the time that he knew you.

You swallow shallowly, coming to halt when you see a glowing light in the distance. It’s alluring, the warmth radiating from it drawing you in, almost like it is calling out to you. The icy air is blowing through the trees, making them dance to the enchanting song only you can hear. With an unwavering gaze, one foot in front of the other you make your way towards the light. There is something about it, promising you all that your heart desires. The closer you get the more it smells like him...

“Sam!” Dean shouts, on his haunches. The only brightness in the night coming from the Impala’s headlights. Dean’s fist is balled up tightly, his lips in a thin lip. “Sammy, it took her.”

Dean gets up, walking back to the car with his palm pressed against his forehead. That’s when Sam sees it. It shocks him. The ground is littered with purple glitter, glinting in the light. It makes Sam think of Jess, of school, of a life away from this.

“It make you feel anything?” Dean mumbles, leaning against the side of the car. He looks pale, like he’s about to heave, “I touched it and I saw her. And I didn’t just want her. I need her. Like without her I won’t be able to breathe.”

Sam didn’t hear much of what Dean said, only regaining his senses when the last of the glitter fell from his hand. “It’s no secret that you’re in love with her.” Sam smiles, putting his hands into his pockets, “when we save her you can tell her, yeah?”

“What if we can’t? What if we can’t save her?” Dean chokes, “Sammy, we have to find her.” He grabs Sam’s collar, expecting him to promise. But Sam, he didn’t want to admit it but he wants the magic too. The one the glitter promises.

You slowly blink your eyes open, trying to adjust to the bright white light dancing in front of your eyes. Your throat is hoarse, like you’d been shouting at a Led Zep concert, you’ll do just about anything for a drop of water.

“Greetings pretty one.” A musical voice fills your ear, “For a moment there I thought you weren’t going to wake up. I was about to rip Greta a new one for sprinkling too much dust.”

You can’t tell where the voice is coming from, frantically searching for it you find your wrists in shackles. Thick green vines sprouting purple orchids.

“Who are you?” You shout, twisting your arms, “what do you want?” The harder you struggle the tighter your restrains get. It’s making it hard to breath. The smell from the orchids almost lulling you into a deep sleep. “Dean’s..dean’s...gonna find me. He’s gonna find me.”

“Nauhh precious.” The voice fills your ear again, “I can’t have you fall asleep on me. Then it’s no fun.” It cackles, “as for your lover boy. We’ll see how far he gets. Wini get the broth!”

“Coming sister.” A squeaky softer voice answers.

You feel a hand grab your chin, with force holding your face straight. A wooden ladle is pressed against your mouth, almost as if it is forcing your lips to part. “No!” You scream, squeezing your eyes closed and sealing your lips shut.

“Come now dear.” The musical voice coax, “don’t make it hard for me.” The sweet voice has a a deadly sharp edge to it, “look at me! Look at me!” It commands, the booming voice echoing in your ears, “look at me and let me steal your heart. Let me steal your magic.”

Big fat tears are rolling down your feverish face. Your body trembling with fear and the trauma. You force your eyelids to open, stalling as you look at the dusty ground until the very last second. In time with your terrified heart you look up. And what you see shocks you to your core.

Beauty. Utter and absolute beauty. The musical voice is more beautiful than you could ever imagine. It actually hurts to look at them, her and who you can assume are her sisters. Wini and Greta.

“Who are you?” You whisper, completely enthralled by her gorgeous violet eyes. “What do you want from me?”

“Sybil. You can call me Sybil, pretty one.” She says, smiling at you. She kneels to your level, her soft finger tips brushing away stray strands of your hair, “and I want...I want-“

“Anything!” You blurt, wanting nothing more than to please her, “I’ll give you anything you want, I promise.”

“But,” she starts removing her velvet scarlet robes, “I don’t have your heart. He does.”

Slowly, violet eyes turn into brilliant green ones. Slender shoulders turn into proud squared ones. Soft creamy flesh turns into sun kissed freckled skin. And you can’t help but gasp. The sight of him takes your breath away.

“Dean.” You call out, “Dean you came for me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for hurting you and running off.”

“Hush pretty one.” The words don’t sound exactly right as it leaves his mouth, “I’m here to give you what you want. I’m here to help.” He assures, strong arm circling around your waist pulling you towards his solid body. “Now, drink.” He brings the wooden ladle to you lips, and you comply, drop by drop the purple liquid drips down your throat and you begin to feel like you’re floating.

“Dean.” You’re searching for his warmth but now, you’re just clutching at air, “Dean, I’m scared. What’s happening to me? Dean!” You begin to yell, but you’re choking on your words, the air snatched from your lungs.

“The louder you scream, the more it will hurt Y/N. Now, stop screaming. No one can hear you.”

“Tell me why you’re doing this!” You demand, barely able to see straight.

“Because we have to.” Wini, the shy one finally speaks out from behind Sybil, “or we die. We steal lives so we can live forever.”

“Shut-“ You hear the growl of Dean’s voice.

A gunshot explodes. Another one. And, another one.

Everything stills in their echo- the shuffling, the music even his, no her voice. In these seconds of stillness, your heart skips a few beats. You hear him again, the sound of his heavy footsteps sprinting towards you. With a panicked jerk, your heart’s in your throat, drowning out the furious whispers in your ears.

“Dean...” You murmur, feeling his strong arm around your waist, the other supporting your head, “you really came for me.” You manage a weak smile, “she tricked me, she made me think she was you. I know you’d never hurt me. You’d never hurt me.” You say furiously before the breath in your lungs run out, you’re squeezing his hand in yours, hoping he will feel it. Hoping he will realize that he is all you ever want.

“Stay with me Y/N.” He says, hushing you, brushing your matted hair off your sweaty forehead, “We’ll fix this alright. Sam’s gonna find away and you’ll be okay. We need you. I need you.” He chokes out his words, big fat tears rolling down his face.

“I’m sorr-“

“No!” Dean wails, clinging to your body, pressing his face into your loose hair, “No, no.” He keeps muttering, “this can’t be happening. This isn’t real.”

Dean doesn’t even react when Sam puts a hand on his shoulder. Sam has no words of comfort to offer. This has shocked him. Taken his speech away.

“She’s gone Sammy. Gone.” He sobs, not ready to let go of your body just yet. You’re still warm, color still in your skin. “I couldn’t save her.”

“Dean, we have to go. We have to take her home. Send her off the right way.”

Dean rubs the back of his hand across his face, smudging away the tears before he lets go of you.

“No. We are going to drive to the ocean and put her there. We’re going to do that. We have to give her what she wanted. It’s the least we can do.”

Sam freezes, shock contorting his sorrow. He grabs Dean’s arm, pointing to your body. The slightest movement of your fingers is enough to freeze Dean solid, his voice gets lodged in his throat.

“Y/N?” He calls.

But, it’s too late. Now, you’re the one with purple eyes.

Tags: @thedevilinthedetails @damn-sassalecki @akshi8278 @tia58 @laurwinchester @the-amaranthine @merci-is-screaming @pizzarollpatrol @torn-and-frayed @nightmaredean @captainemwinchester @sleep-silent-angel @kittenofdoomage