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solavita · 2 months ago

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change (in the house of flies) — aegon targaryen

pairing ; aegon targaryen x fem!reader

words ; 2.0k

summary ; an in depth understanding into the relationship between you and aegon targaryen. you had known each other since you were children; you wanted each other, lusted for one another . . . a tumultuous pattern that went around and around like a wheel.

warning(s) ; very little fluff, swearing, sexual themes, mentions of smut but not explicit smut?, it's not yandere but it's definitely not a healthy relationship, angst?, targaryen realness, my professor says i write too many words so that's a warning in itself.

You knew that he would never be able to love you, not in the way love is meant to be.

There was something hauntingly transient about his presence, as though each moment with him was borrowed from a forbidden world, hidden like a secret too obscene to ever see the light. You knew it was wrong, his hand being taken by another woman entirely, a woman who deserved nothing but the entire world. Yet when his hands entangled in your hair all you could think about was him, the web that he was slowly winding you in getting bigger and greater, making it harder and harder for you to find your way out.

Not that you ever truly wanted to flee.

His hands gripped your sides, sending sparks of electricity in their wake as he touched you there, and there, and there. His kisses were all consuming, leaving you entrenched in the feeling of only him, only Aegon. If you were to pull away, he would only pull you closer, a constant push and pull, both of you wanting for something that seemingly was unattainable. To engulf one another inside your own skin, organs seemingly becoming one and bones breaking and clashing against the undercurrent of your shared blood. As if you could merge, skin to skin, bone to bone, until you were no longer two separate beings, but one pulsing, living entity. He pressed you further into the wall, enough to where you were trapped completely in his grasp, his hand coming for the arch of your neck. It was soft, almost gentle for the eldest Targaryen son, but underneath each of his rings you could feel a sense of something else. Authority. Power. Control.

Neither of you wanted to stop.

A wave of satisfaction spilled forward in your soul, a sweet, heady sensation as if your very soul was intertwining with his. Every touch, every sigh spilled between you like a prayer uttered to the gods, though you knew no gods would listen to a love so steeped in sin. At some point his kiss broke and he sent his mouth going lower and lower, against the soft skin of your collarbone, casually nipping at the skin that was exposed. With every brush of his lips you could feel yourself sinking lower and lower into ecstasy, hoping beyond praying that nothing would take you away from him. But even hope felt misplaced, too pure for something so scandalous. You and Aegon lived in the margins of decency, pushing past the fragile limits of what was deemed ‘proper’ for two unwed souls at the Targaryen court. His reputation was already drowned in rumors, whispers of indulgence and debauchery, but no one — not even those closest to him — knew how far you had fallen alongside him. How deeply you were drowning.

You wondered how you got here, pressed into the darkened corner of a hallway, on the outskirts of the Red Keep, hoping that no one would pass by and witness the outright sinful actions that you were partaking in. It wasn't the first time, and it surely wouldn't be the last. You learned quickly that once Aegon set his eyes on something, he wouldn't let it out of his sight until he had it. And when he looked at you, you supposed he saw a challenge. You were so virtuous, so pure, innocent, something fragile that he felt the need to break. He felt the need to take. It had been many years since he had set your eyes on him that you even wondered if there was a point where the two of you were ever just friends, or if he was always trying to win you. All those years ago when he would take your hand and lead you through the gardens of the Red Keep, was he just trying to win your favor? Was he counting down the days until he could pounce on his newfound prey?

And you let him, with not many thoughts opposed, never putting up a fight. Ever since he had kissed you, all you could think about was the next time that you would be kissed. Wondering, after each stolen moment, whether he would forget it all or if it would happen again. But it always did. Again and again, until you found yourselves in shadowed corners, away from the prying eyes of the court. Who would marry you if they knew? Who would want a woman who had succumbed to the desires of a man already promised to another?

You let out a breathy sigh, closing your eyes and thrusting your head back, allowing for him to have more access to your neck. As you opened your eyes, the soft dim light of the dying sun mixing with the embellished strands of his hair in a golden glow, the strands catching like threads. He came up to face you, nipping at your lips, violet eyes staring intently into your own. It was his way of asking if you were okay, even though he knew the answer.

"What is it?" You asked, your hand brushing against his cheek, brushing tenderly, always so tender when it came to you.

He shook his head, it wasn't important. Instead his hands reached under the skirts of your dress, skin grazing against the soft skin of your thigh. You gasped, rather loudly, making him capture your lips in another kiss to silence you.

His kisses were soft despite his tough exterior, but they were not without intention. Every time his lips made contact with a piece of your skin you could feel his want, his desire, like he couldn’t get enough of you no matter how hard he tried. It was like you were his church and he was on his knees, praying for forgiveness for his sins, praying to your body that he worshipped unlike all the faceless gods in the world. Your hands collided with his hair, intertwining the soft locks of silver and pulling on it, pulling him closer, always closer.

Eventually more clothes came off, more skin against skin. He found solace again in your tiny sighs and moans that left your lips when he kissed there and there . . . and especially there.

You found yourself lost in it, lost in the fire that he created around you. You were certain that you were always meant to burn together. To love him was to love the hot embers of a forest fire, pressing your hands farther and farther into the flames no matter how much your body screamed to let go. It was all consuming, a love that suffocated you like smoke and left you burning for days. He was always burning, and sometimes you wondered if you just got caught up in the flames.

But no matter how deeply his hands claimed you, how fiercely his kisses consumed your very breath, there was a truth neither of you could ignore: you would never truly be his. No matter how many nights you spent wrapped in each other’s arms, your bodies tangled in the dark corners of the Keep, there was a distance between you—an invisible thread tethering him to a destiny you could never change. It was a cruel twist of fate, one that had been woven long before you ever knew his name. The gods had marked him for another, and you, for all the ways he took you, could never alter that.

Yet Aegon defied it. With every touch, every whispered plea against your skin, he seemed to be waging war not just against the world but against the very gods themselves. As though, if he loved you fiercely enough, the heavens would bend to his will, that your union—illicit, forbidden—could somehow be made real, permanent. He kissed you like a man possessed, as though he could brand you as his own, a claim so absolute that no force in existence could deny it.

You felt it in the way he pressed you deeper into the cold stone, his hands tightening their hold on you, not with gentleness now, but with a hunger, a need to possess. His fingers bruised your skin, as if trying to leave an imprint that would never fade, marking you as his, even though you both knew the truth. There were other marks already upon him—the heavy chains of duty, the weight of a throne not yet his but ever looming, and the promises that tied him to another woman, another life.

You gasped as his lips found your throat again, his breath hot against your skin. His need for you was overwhelming, but it wasn’t born from love, not the kind you had always imagined. It was something darker, something more primal. You were his conquest, his defiance of the roles assigned to him. And in that defiance, in that rebellion against fate, you both found a twisted kind of comfort. His kisses became demands, not gentle offerings, but declarations to the gods themselves that you were his. That no matter what was written in the stars, he could change it—force it—if only he held you tightly enough.

“You’re mine,” he breathed against your skin, his voice a low growl, each word heavy with conviction. But the lie hung between you like the bitter taste of smoke. His, but never truly his. No matter how many times he said it, no matter how many times you let him take you, the truth was carved into the very bones of your existence. You could not belong to him. Not in the way he needed you to. He was the crown prince, the son of dragons, and even the gods should bow to him. And yet here, in this moment, he was powerless.

Your heart ached with the knowledge that he would never be satisfied, that no matter how many times he whispered your name, no matter how many nights he spent holding you close, the hunger in him would only grow. You could feel it in the way his body tensed against yours, in the wild look in his eyes when he pulled away to gaze down at you. His violet stare was almost frantic, searching your face as if trying to find something that could soothe the storm raging inside him.

But you were not the answer. You never had been.

Still, he clung to the illusion, refusing to let go of the idea that he could have you, that he could rewrite the rules of the world if he just loved you hard enough. His lips traced the curve of your neck, soft now, almost reverent, but you knew what lay beneath that gentleness—his refusal to accept what was beyond his control. He had always been like this, ever since he was a boy. Even back then, he had taken what he wanted, consequences be damned. But this… this was different. You were different. You weren’t some fleeting distraction. You were a symbol of everything he couldn’t control, everything that slipped from his grasp no matter how tightly he held on.

“You are mine,” he repeated, his voice lower now, softer, but no less determined. It was a plea, a prayer. Not to the gods, but to you.

But you weren’t his, and deep down, you both knew it. You were borrowed, fleeting, a moment stolen in the twilight, never meant to last. The weight of it pressed down on your chest, suffocating, as though the very air between you had turned to ash. Yet still, you let him believe. You let him continue this charade, because some part of you wanted to believe it too.

As his hands roamed your body, as his kisses became slower, more tender, the truth gnawed at the edges of your mind. No matter how fiercely he held you, no matter how much you burned for him, the gods would never allow it. The world would not bend to his will, no matter how much fire he tried to summon.

And in the end, you knew he would not be able to bear it.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon the second #hotd aegon #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen x female reader #aegon ii fanfic #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii x you #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #aegon ii targaryen smut #aegon targaryen smut #aegon x reader #aegon x you

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ludinusdaleth · 7 months ago

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bouncing off of this wonderful post mentioning how zathuda expects to be the main character because he would be in many current stories, as well as my own thoughts about fearne & her family ive had for a while: i think it is interesting how fearne is representative of the different ways folk portray fae in modern media.

first off, id like to note how many fae in cr feel like they are an homage to fae stories embedded in our cultural consciousness. for example, artagan was most definitely based off of jareth in labyrinth, and his moniker of the traveler may be an homage to the fable of the satyr & the traveller. so, what is fearne?

one of the first 4-sided dives featured ashley & matt discussing how they based fearne's story off of a guillermo del toro flick - and this definitely clicked to me. morrigan, ira, & all her bizarre animal friends at morri's mansion would fit so easily into a del toro film you wouldn't even blink at them. in del toro's work (namely pan's labyrinth & hellboy 2: the golden army) faeries are fundamentally strange, offputting, & wonderfully weird. they are goblins with wagons as legs, and trolls with talking tumors, and terrifyingly skinny entities with eyes in their hands that eat children. you can practically see doug jones in an intricate suit & makeup to play ira like he did the pale man or the faun (i swear matt's hand usage as ira is an homage to jones's iconic hands in costume), see the puppet of morrigan that weighs over a ton controlled by five folk at once. del toro's work as well as matt & ashley's plays into a fae that is more complicated than a human imagines at face value, something you must work to imagine & understand (& create). something playful, integrally bound to oaths, ancient, mischievous. it is happy & natural to be gross & incomprehensible and that is part of what makes these films (as well as other bizarre puppeteered dreamscapes like the dark crystal, labyrinth) almost comforting even when sad. pan's labyrinth also features a young girl as a protagonist, ofelia, who sees these creatures as respite & destiny, who is a fae princess amidst mortal war. fearne couldn't be more ofelia if she tried. (side note - god does the scene of the pale man eating the pixies in front of ofelia feel like fearne learning what lud does to her people. someone even made a meme of it.)

on the other hand, zathuda & birdie's story is obviously based on a fae romance novel that populates shelves today - sarah j maas's or holly black's work comes to mind. zathuda is (or was - he seems a ghost of it) clearly a looker, a fierce & sexy hunter, a handsome & strong unseelie royal who somehow takes in & courts a random nobody girl, birdie. but cr notably frames the love story narrative as a classist manipulation, that leaves birdie running for the rest of her life, falling for a weirdo nobody like her over zathuda, and leaves fearne without parents that would show her this incredibly popular kind of romance as an answer. she cannot fall back on a family of kisses drawing blood, of hunter & hunted as a beautiful meet-cute, of a throne & power. she can only fall back on the strange, the grotesque, the raw. they are ugly compared to a promise of a masquerade ball or leading a wild hunt, what folk expect of fae in a barnes & noble book haul - but they promise a safety in the outcast. because a guillermo del toro film will always fundamentally be about the human condition. "monsters are the patron saints of our blissful imperfections." every monster in his stories is a person as much as you or me is.

fearne was born of a fae romance novel but raised in a puppeteer-and-vfx fairytale film. she holds not only exandria's fate in her hands, but the feywild's, too. fae see themselves as higher beings while squabbling in courts as much as mortals do. they refuse to accept their chaos and try to maintain order & royalty with courts and bloodlines against each other. try to keep fae out of exandria because they cant know they are alike to their mortal counterparts. they cant be wild like a party of puppets at the end of labyrinth dancing with the human girl sarah. they wish to be as mysterious as if they lived in a ya dystopia. and it is clearly leaving them worse. fearne is the literal unity of all the ways fae are potrayed in a modern landscape. what will that mean for her and her home in the end?

#long post #critical role #critical role meta #fearne calloway #athion zathuda #birdie calloway #morrigan calloway #ira wendagoth #matthew mercer #ashley johnson #guillermo del toro #fae #campaign 3 #pan's labyrinth

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oristian · 6 months ago

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ELAIN IN BLACK

I want to do an analysis on the argument regarding Elain in black that is split heavily on both sides by Eluciens and Elriels.

I plan on touching a few different topics, as well as comparing Elain and Feyre’s interaction with Court fashion, in this post, so it may be long—just a warning before I get into it.

ACOSF CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN, page 580

Black is a staple color of the Night Court, worn heavily by Rhysand and others within both the Inner Circle and around Hewn City and Illyria. Night Court Black.

ACOSF CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN, page 578_581

The specific name of the black that everyone was wearing in Hewn City during this scene is described as “Night Court Black.” For Elain to have been described as plain, with the color she wore to have, “sucked the life out of her,” that cannot be read with any positive connotation. For Cassian, of all characters, to be the one to express this is just as telling—he pulled himself away from the scene long enough to describe in an entire paragraph just how out-of-place Elain looks in the staple color of the Court she swears that she is now part of. It was unnecessary to the overall scene to have brought that point up. The plan was to uplift Nesta enough to have Eris dance with her, not to express how plain Elain looks in black.

I tend to see Elriels claim that Eris needed to be distracted from Elain so that he would choose to dance with Nesta, so Elain had to wear black and look awful compared to Nesta. A few thoughts on that —

1 — Elain is described as the most beautiful Archeron sister. No matter what she would have worn, her beauty would still have rivaled her sisters’. It was a pointed gesture to showcase how Night Court Black was ill suited for her to set up foreshadowing for Elain to leave the Night Court in her book.

2 — There is not a single canon scene prior to this chapter where anyone expressed that Elain had to dress down to make Nesta look all the more a prize for Eris. That is speculation and misinformation to spread as canon.

ACOSF CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN, page 580_583

What is actually said is that both sisters wore black and walked behind Feyre and Rhysand to showcase their relation to the Royal Family—that they both had magic of their own and that they were a formidable entity in this game. “They planned it that way,” has no indication that they planned for Elain to dress down for Nesta. On top of that, it was the color that was described to be plain on Elain, not the dress.

Nesta was always going to be the one to dance with Eris, as was planned. “Elain gave a passable impression of appearing interested.” Feyre was always going to redirect Eris’ attention to Nesta, no matter how appealing Elain may have looked to him in that moment. As for Eris’ “assessing” gaze over Elain, that is not a show of Elain stealing his attention.

An assessment is a judgement, or an observation. Eris’ gaze could have been made for a variety of reasons. He simply could have known that Elain is Lucien’s mate, or he could have been sharing the same sentiment with Cassian regarding Elain in black. There is no indication that he was physically attracted to her, nor that he was going to ask her to dance with him. Without his POV from that moment, all is speculation.

ACOSF CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT, page 595_596

A second major character expressing how Elain did not suit the Night Court Black gown that she had worn in the previous chapter. Instead, Nesta expressed how Elain “glowed with good health,” in a gown in the color of the Day Court. Juxtapose this scene with one from the High Lord’s meeting in —

ACOWAR CHAPTER FORTY-THREE, page 407

“All of them fit and gleaming with health.” It is very pointed the parallels between how the Day Court entourage and Elain after Hewn are described within their colors. I also find it interesting that cobalt is a color associated with Day. Elain in ACOMAF, upon meeting Azriel, Cassian and Rhysand for the first time, wore a cobalt dress. Many Elriels have speculated that to be foreshadowing for an endgame between she and Azriel, but could that have been hinting at Day, instead?

Now, I want to compare a bit of Feyre’s experience with Spring Court fashion in conjunction with Night Court fashion.

ACOMAF CHAPTER FIVE, page 47_52

Rhysand describing the wedding dress that Feyre wore when she was originally going to marry Tamlin—similar language to Cassian describing Elain in black. Feyre herself uncomfortable with the Spring Court attire. We know that this was foreshadowing for Feyre eventually leaving Tamlin, leaving the Spring Court, and becoming endgame with Rhysand and also High Lady of the Night Court.

Feyre prefers the Night Court clothing, describing it as warm and freeing—pants instead of dresses that she was not pleased to be wearing. Foreshadowing.

All in all, Elain being described as plain and out-of-place in Night Court Black is eluding to a future where she leaves. As she “glows with good health,” in Day Court colors—her mate being the only heir to the Day Court—that hints at she and Lucien making their home in Day.

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rinaxtaros · 5 months ago

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[07] | RED.

Summary: You settle into your new role within the Phantomhive Manor.

— deal with the devil (saying/phrase) The term "a pact with the devil" is also used metaphorically to condemn a person or persons perceived as having collaborated with an evil person or regime.

chapter 07

"Demons can make deals with other demons?" Ciel asks as he looks up from his pile of paperwork. Sebastian nods stiffly, eyeing his curious master.

"How does that work? Aren't you under contract to me?" He asks, setting his palms on the desk as he looks up at the two demons before him.

"Yes, I am, but a demon contract is different to a human contract.” Sebastian explains languidly.

You interrupt, "If I may speak, although it is a little confusing it is beneficial for demons as we basically live for the 'tit-for-tat' lifestyle.”

Ciel hums, swirling his cup of cold tea. He had barely touched the thing, swearing that Sebastian had made the tea wrong. You recalled laughing at the vein popping in Sebastian’s neck.

Sebastians hums "It's still a little taboo for.. us but us demons will do anything for our own benefits.”

Ciel understands that demons are selfish and possessive creatures but the thought of demons doing deeds for others is foreign to him. He assumed that they wanted nothing to do with each other if every demon had Sebastian’s attitude.

"We'll spare you the long and frankly boring details of a demon contract, but [Y/n] is now to listen to my commands as I have accepted a deal she had inquired about," Sebastian explains quickly. He could go on forever about contracts. Ciel nods and sees it as good enough.

Thankfully.

"I'm guessing you'll be staying here then" Ciel sends you a pointed look. You nod, seeing as Sebastian had practically explained you were now apart of the Manor team. It doesn’t seem to bother Ciel as he now has an extra person to do his dirty work. It’s not like you’re getting paid.

"You may go off and do your own duties.” Ciel sends you away with a flick of his hand. You watch as Sebastian obediently bows. The sight makes a laugh rumble in your throat, but you hold it back for the sake of not starting another argument.

As much as Sebastian is like a dog to Ciel, you’ve now become one for Sebastian as per the details of your contract. You can’t help but frown as you aimlessly follow the dark-haired demon who waves you along.

The door closes with a gentle click, accompanied by a quiet groan of the ages hinges. Sebastian already stands with a candle stick in hand, lighting the dim hallway. It’s amusing, as he doesn’t need the extra light to see within the dark halls. It seems Sebastian loves to keep up the façade, even when no one is watching.

"[Y/n], be a dear and remind me of who this demon is?" Sebastian purrs, leaning the flame towards your face. The radiated warmth across your face is quite conforming, but the shadow from the flame contorts his face into quite a lustfully sinister sight.

"I think he goes by Claude now.. although I'm not sure" You surmise, plucking your mind for any past interactions you’ve had with the prowling entity. From your knowledge, he’s used the same human name with his past few masters. He’s been hellbent on catching you as his mate ever since one mistaken moment together.

It’s a curse to be the sin of Lust sometimes.

"Sebastian?"

"Yes?"

"When my end of the deal is met…” You trail, eyes flickering towards the ground again. Sebastian simpers, sauntering silently ahead “We’ll see, my Dear.”

You dip, seeing as either situation would’ve had you stuck between a rock and a hard place. However, having Sebastian by your side would aid in your avail against Claude’s courting.

A demon courting is messy and bloody at times. Once a male has his eyes set, the woman can either give in or die trying to escape. On the off chance, the woman emerges victorious if the man is weaker. However, it is rare. Claude is strong and you’re certain he’s only gained more strength by completing odd jobs for whatever demented soul he’s serving.

Sebastian though, he has an unwavering strength that has gave you a boost in confidence. As long as you hold up your end of the deal, he has agreed to fight Claude off. Even if that means to kill him.

You hope it works anyway. The mark above your tainted heart hopes so.

The next day your new found trio had travelled into London to speak to a man named Abberline about the missing children. The interaction with Abberline left a sour taste in your mouth. Nothing particularly stood out about the man — he was an average investigator, though you knew he would most likely stand in the way of Ciel’s own investigation.

It’s making time with the two longer. Ugh.

As your group approaches the wooden carriage, Sebastian and Ciel started talking about the cases and the information they had somehow pulled from the nervous detective. You don’t pay much attention, barely looking at Sebastian even as he held the door open for you. He slides in a few moments later, slotting into the small seat next to you.

"I suppose we'll be paying him a call?"The rather distasteful emphasis on him peaks your interest. You scan Sebastian with a curious tinge swirling within your orbs.

"I don't like it any more than you do, but when needs must and all." Ciel answers loathfully. He taps the roof of the carriage with his cane to alert the driver to start moving.

It’s a rather short journey, though you spend most of your time watching the world go by. It would certainly be faster if you could travel at your own speed, but actually taking in your surroundings is nice. The bump of the wheels against the cobble stone street isn’t too pleasant, though.

"This is him?" You query as the carriage comes to a halt in front of a familiar building.

“Why, do you know him?” Sebastian questions, studying your face for any type of reaction as he exists the vehicle. He extends a hand, which you take so graciously. Though, you titter, “You could say that.”

Sebastian clicks his tongue to display his annoyance as you come to a stand. He drops his hand, signalling to the driver to wait. Sebastian steps back, allowing you step forward.

You try not to laugh as you allow your new (appropriate) dress to swipe along his legs flirtatiously.

Ciel, seemingly ignoring your interaction, walks to the cracked door. His hand leaves a feather-like touch against the skid, yet it screeches open. The ear-grating sound was sure to alert the shop owner of his presence "Undertaker? Are you about?"

There's no answer at first but Ciel takes the initiative to walk cautiously into the dark shop. Candles were littered across the shop’s floor and walls to provide an eerie - but on theme atmosphere.

Both of you follow behind, ignoring how your footsteps bounce off of the cobbled floors and concrete walls and back into their ears. The clicking of your heels surpasses the sound of the dull steps produced by Sebastian and Ciel’s flat shoes.

The shop door clicks closed behind the three, allowing the shop to now bask in the light from the candles. Only a few seconds pass before a creepy voice echoes through the shop, causing a shiver to ripple up the young Lord’s spine.

"Hello my Lord, it's so lovely to see you~" The Undertaker’s voice purrs out, kicking a disregarded skull. It rolls crudely towards the young masters legs, similar to a bowling ball to two pins. Ciel hisses, barely missing the barrelling object.

"What will it be then? Will I have the pleasure to fit you for one of my coffins?" The Undertaker goads blatantly. Though, his voice had travelled to behind the young master, causing Ciel to puff unexpectedly as the entrance to the shop is suddenly closed. The Undertaker lears as his hand presses firmly against the wood.

"Look you-" Ciel starts, only to be cut off by the Undertaker "Have a seat, I have a batch of biscuits still fresh from the oven!”

Though the behaviour would have you feeling unnerved a few years ago, the Undertaker has yet to shock you within this interaction. You’re quite astonished with Ciel’s ability to hide the fear that is absolutely spilling from his being.

You suppose you should end this odd stand-off.

"Stop teasing the poor boy.” You defend, placing a hand on Ciel’s shoulder. He tenses beneath the touch but quickly melts as he realises you’re defending him. Perhaps he’s too relieved to notice how casually you’re speaking to the creepy shop-keeper.

"You're acquainted with the brat, my Dear?" A frown settles on the Undertakers face. Sebastian shuffles from beside you, perhaps to gauge the interaction better. He’s been very openly scanning the surroundings of the shop.

“More than acquainted, actually.” Ciel’s head whips to meet your gaze. You glance down at the poor boy who looks as if he’s seen a ghost.

Whilst the Undertaker groans and says some off-handed comment about a literal child, Ciel is in complete guffaw “You know this creep?!”

It’s hard to hold back your laugh, so you chuckle and throw in a quick apology to the Undertaker. He seems more distracted by the fact you’re so close with the young boy who has caused him quite the stir over his years as the Queen’s Guard Dog.

“Yes. That is for another day, Ciel.”

Ciel nods - albeit still shocked - and tells the Undertaker the reason for their being (after trying to get through to the man for another 10 minutes.)

"Missing children, you say?" The Undertaker rubs his chin quizzically. You perch yourself against a staggered coffin, awaiting the long-winded story he’s bound to tell. The whole interaction has been quite boring, despite the comical expression Ciel had worn a few minutes ago.

"The authorities still consider them missing persons,” Sebastian informs "and no corpses turned up, do you know of any?"

"Well as tragic as it may be" The Undertaker lifts a bone shaped cookie and examines it under the candle light. Ever the dramatic.

“I don’t recall anything of the sorts.”

“I have their information here, look through these and tell me if you've taken care of any of these children.” Ciel ignores the Undertakers blatant lies. Sebastian thrusts the papers towards the mortician, ignoring how he complains that Sebastian is being too forceful.

"Hmm, have I seen this face before… I don't know...” He trails, “My memory would be right but sharper if I had myself a good laugh…”He acts coy.

Another pregnant ouse fills the air, “I think a good laugh would jog my memory!”

The two groan in agony as the conversation meets a stalemate. You’re certain this isn’t the first time he’s stuck them for a laugh in order to get the tiniest but of information on a case they could get elsewhere. You don’t want to stay much longer, though.

“Aren’t you being too stingray, Undertaker?” You hum, pushing yourself from the coffin, “I’m sure you don’t want to be here with the young master for much longer.”

“Young master…” He mocks, presumably rolling his eyes “Don’t tell me he has you calling him that pretentious title.”

You ignore his mocking and turn to Ciel “Let me do this. His humour is crude.” You warn.

Ciel quietly debates within his head.

"All you've got to do is give it to me! Just give me the gift of true laughter!" Like a bulb, the Undertakers behaviours switches as he slides himself across the coffin just a metre before Ciel’s body. He twists like a cat, extending his hands in front of him as if they were claws as he twists upside down "One laugh and all of my information is at your disposal!" He giggles.

Ciel looks to Sebastian, "See to it, will you?" He asks

The Undertaker takes the chance to jab at the boy "Having him do your dirty work then?" He asks, twisting upright.

“That's the trouble with you upper class blokes…Can't do anything without your butlers, ay?" Ciel fumes, clenching his fists. The better half of you wants to step in, but deep down you want to see if Ciel will crack.

“It’s all the same to me, I just want a laugh" The Undertaker shrugs.

Ciel thwacks his staff against the cobble floor, "I'll take care of this.”

"His humour is quite crude, my Lord" You warn once more. Ciel’s frame shakes with unbrittled anger, visibly wound up from the Undertakers relentless teasing. You’re sure it’s a build up of past interactions, but the sight is even unruly for you.

“I can do it for you—“

"Both of you, go outside!" Sebastian glances at you, then motions to the door. You look between the Undertaker and Ciel who glare at each other unwaveringly. You twist on your heel, accepting the pre-teens stubbornness. It’s one thing he must get from Sebastian.

As you step outside and adjust to the blinding light, Sebastian lets you know of the time. You stretch your arms, groaning as a loud pop follows.

“He’ll take forever.”

"Young Master, are you sure that a circus is a place for a noble like you?"You’re curious. Ciel had decided that both he and Sebastian would join the circus to learn of the disappearance of several children. The Undertaker had said that the missing children were coinciding with the location of the travelling circus and that a child had been snatched not long ago.

Ciel peers at you over the rim of his cup of tea. The light shines from his silver rings, causing you to wince for a slight second. He sets his cup down, smacking his lips to rid of any excess droplets.

"The Queen has asked me to look into the missing children cases and it seems everywhere this circus goes, children go missing along with it:” He explains shortly. You can’t do much but nod. It’s all you’ve done for the past few weeks, so you quietly smooth down the pinafore straps of your skirt to fill the silence of the room. Sebastian stands idle nearby.

It’s quite awkward, even for yourself. You find yourself having to occupy your hands more often. Perhaps it’s because you have another demon watching your every move — one that’s strong enough to easily take you down. You find yourself thinking about it at night and how you hadn’t felt such emotions while serving Anne before the last few weeks of her short life.

You despise the feelings. It’s too human. Too familiar.

"Young Master! Your carriage has arrived!" Mey-Rin bursts through the oak doors, hands slamming both of them open clumsily. Ciel, who had only swallowed another mouth full of tea, splutters.

“T-Thank you, Mey-Rin.”

Ciel orders you to file into the carriage alongside them. Though curious, you follow through seeing as Sebastian told you to listen to Ciel. You’re were wandering how you’re meant to follow Sebastian’s orders when he’s not around to give you any, so the ride to the circus should hopefully fill you in.

"I'm sending Sebastian to look through the circus, I'm sure you know that by now:” Ciel recaps. He had send Sebastian solo to scope out the circus before their arrival and subsequently left you in charge to pander to Ciel’s needs. He’s quite demanding and you understood why Sebastian seems to have a stick up his ass permanently when he’s not flirting.

"He gathered that there may be too many people around to carry out our investigation as a duo, so I need you to come as a decoy.” Ciel continues, “You’ll distract and keep people away from where we need to be. Do whatever you want as long as you don’t attract too much attention.”

This is certainly not what you expected, but one glance at disinterested Sebastian tells you that the two had thoroughly discussed the plan beforehand.

“Refrain from using formalities with me as we are pretending to be common folk.” Sounds about right.

You stay silent, processing the whole ordeal. You find it quite odd that you’re only being told this now, as if Sebastian and Ciel weren’t really decided in your addition. But then again, what is hiding within the circus to make them think they’ll need a permanent decoy?

#black butler fanfic #black butler imagines #black butler x reader #kuroshitsuji fanfic #kuroshitsuji imagines #sebastian michaelis x reader #black butler imagine #sebastian x reader #black butler scenarios #sebastian fanfic #sebastian x demon reader #sebastian michaelis fanfic #kuroshitsuji x reader

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beanzwrites · 2 years ago

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┃Coffee Please~┃☕

Pairing: Dean x Sister! reader x Sam

Description: The youngest Winchester wakes up exhausted from an awful night of sleep. She has never had coffee before but seeing her brothers have a cup, she wants to see if it will help perk her up too.

Warnings: slight swearing

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(Name) opens her eyes as a hand around her shoulder begins to shake her lightly. Her older brother, Dean, hovers over the bed she slept in, his face dim compared to the sun coming through the window behind him. Wrinkles form at the end of his eyes as a smile quirks onto his lips.

“Five more minutes,” (Name) mumbles while tugging the patterned quilt over her nose. Dean’s smile darkens, olive green eyes glimmering with mischief, and he took a step to the right. She hisses and shields herself from the beaming light with the back of her hand.

“Sammy will be back in a few minutes,” Dean says, chuckling at his sister’s reaction.

“So? Let me sleep until he gets here...” (Name) groans. She turns her back to him, hiding her face in the bicep of her arm.

“Alright then, but we’re leaving right when he does. I just thought you would like a bit of time to do your girly stuff,” Dean replies, leaning against the window and looking out. “Oh, here comes Baby,” he lies after getting a grumble as a response.

(Name) throws her covers off, grabbing her bag by the handle, and flounces into the motel bathroom with a slam of the door.

“Don’t stay in there too long,” Dean calls out.

“Shut it!”

(Name), back hunched forward, came out with a new set of clothes on. She throws her off-brand converse to the floor, taking a seat at the small dining table, and rubs her eyes harshly to rid of the tiredness.

“How did you sleep?” Dean asks in a serious tone when noticing her exhausted state.

“Like shit,” his sister replies while supporting her chin with the palm of her hands.

“Swear.”

“You and Sammy cuss all the time,” (Name) said in defense, crossing her bare feet on the wooden chair.

“Because we’re adults, you’re just a baby.”

“I’m fifteen!”

“And?” Dean shrugs, sitting at the end of one of the beds. He tugs his jacket over his shoulders, looking at his sister with the most salient expression.

“My god,”(Name) whispers to herself, trying to hide the small smile that twitched at the edge of her lips.

Dean opens his mouth say something else; however, the front door opens to reveal Sam with two steaming cups of coffee. Shutting the door with the heel of his shoe, he then passes Dean one of the cups to drink.

“Papers dating back to fifty years ago have retold occurrences where bodies were found mutilated on the outskirts of town, such as Emelia Roberts. A few locals reported to have seen a tall black entity hanging around the old gas station two miles north from the court house,” Sam explains before taking a sip of his beverage.

(Name) watched longingly at the perk up juice in his hand, wanting nothing more than to jug it down to wake herself up. She smacks her cheeks to help focus on her brothers’ conversation on the monster that has been terrorizing the people of the community they were inhabiting for a few days.

“Should we start there?” Sam asks, giving his sister a confusing glance before turning his attention back to Dean.

“We need to go back into town and ask around for any info we can get. We’ll head for the gas station near dark to avoid any run-ins with the owner,” Dean said while grabbing his gun from the bedside drawer and placing it into his jean pocket. Sam began to gather his things as well but (Name) keeps her position in the chair. Her head is pressed on the surface of the table, taking glimpses at the cup Dean had set down in front of her.

“(Name)-” Sam starts.

“Can I have some coffee too?”

The two brothers stopped in their tracks, looking at their sister with amusement. (Name) turns her head in their direction, a humdrum expression on her face.

“Uh, why?” Sam asks, removing his cup’s lid from his mouth.

“Because,” She replies with a lazy shrug.

“Okay?” Sam looks at Dean with an arched eyebrow.

“I’m exhausted,” she continues, “it seems to help you so maybe it will help me too.”

They laugh, humored with her pensive mood. Dean extends his hand towards his cup in front of her, gesturing for her to pick it up.

“Is it good?” (Name) asks, holding the Styrofoam between her hands, relaxing under the warm touch.

“I don’t know,” Dean says with a smirk, “You’re the one who wanted to try it so try it.”

(Name) presses the tip to her mouth, flinching as the hot liquid goes down her throat. She looks up at her brothers with a broadening smile.

“This is mine now,” She motions to the object in her hand before taking another sip.

“I don’t think so, chick.” Dean snatches it from her and cradles it in his armpit. Sam laughs again as (Name) lets out a long-noted groan.

“Here,” Sam replies, motioning for her to take his. “You can have mine.”

“No! You already drank half of yours,” she whines, slinging her arms like a child with a tantrum. “I want Dean’s.”

“Not gonna happen,” Dean dismisses.

“Why not?” (Name) argues, standing up to press her jaw against his shoulder.

“Cause it’s mine,” he responds, flicking her nose.

(Name) glares at him before giving Sam the best puppy eyes she could muster.

“There’s no need for that, (Name). When we head out, we’ll stop by somewhere and buy you one... and refill Dean’s now empty cup,” Sam says, pointing to their brother who was guzzling down the rest of his coffee.

“What? She drank most of it,” He states.

“You two are children,” Sam mutters, slipping his bag over his head.

“Hey, She’s the child,” Dean said, walking out the door.

“I’m fifteen!”

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#supernatural x reader #Dean Winchester x sister reader #Sam Winchester x sister reader

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theteasetwrites · 2 years ago

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Merciless Beauty

Chapter 3: The Wound Is Quick and Keen

❧ Pairing: Knight Daryl Dixon x Princess Reader ❧ Era: Medieval fantasy AU ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: mild swearing, scary situation, violence and gore, references to death and traumatic situations (including child abuse) ❧ Word Count: 6.6k

❧ Before You Read...

❧ Glossary

❧ In This Chapter: Sir Daryl escorts you outside the walls of Alexandria for the first time, and though the excursion is mostly pleasant, it is rife with danger. A close call leads the two of you to a secluded cottage that only Daryl knows of, where a bond begins to grow.

❧ A/N: The princess is free! Well, kind of. She is so cute I love her. And Daryl... UGH. Literally the best. I don't have much to say about this part, but I wanna give a quick shoutout to all my friends who have been beta-reading this series! @weretheones @finalgirlrick @darylspissslit @devnmon @purple-witch-23 @littlelovingideas @spncupcake thanks so much friends!! I appreciate you<3 Also pls check out their work because they also write TWD stuff and it's amazing

The long, dark, sepulchral tunnel seemed at once cavernous and claustrophobic, with the light of the knight’s torch only illuminating a few feet ahead, but the feeling of a much wider expanse of darkness, in which shadows that may or may not have really been there lurked within the blackest corners. It was no small wonder they had been not-so-lovingly dubbed The Tombs.

Though you were sure nothing was behind you, it felt as though an unseen entity stalked you, stepping on your heels despite no real physical weight overcoming you. There were always rumors around court about these tunnels, how they were haunted by the souls of those who perished in the first struggle against the Dead, but you tried not to pay mind to those rumors. After all, that would mean your own mother haunted these dank, miserable passages, and that was a fate worse than death, you thought.

But Daryl knew this tunnel now, having made sure the path was clear and snuck his horse out to meet you at the end of the underpass just an hour before. Still, you found yourself not straying more than a foot from him, his broad, cloaked back becoming a strange source of comfort to you in this abyss of darkness.

“You’re sure there are no dead ones in here?” you whispered. “It smells of… death.”

“I went through here twice… No walkers.”

“Walkers?”

“Dead ones.”

Oh. A colloquial term.

Silence settled in again, with only the echoes of globs of water dripping onto the rough cobbled stone to fill the eerie space where words had provided some relief. In that silence, your anxiousness caught up with you―what if Elizabeth’s lie fell through? She’d informed the guards not to disturb you in your chambers, that you had fallen ill and needed rest. She left strict instructions not to check on you, for fear of contagion. And with your father out of town, there shouldn’t have been any chance for disturbances. Even so, the only thing more terrifying than this tunnel was the idea of having less freedom than you already did. Being confined to your bedchamber for the rest of your life, surely, would’ve been the punishment if the king discovered your escape. He wasn’t a cruel man, but his overbearing nature could inadvertently lead to such a cruel decision.

When a horse’s neigh startled you from your thoughts, you stumbled forward to cling to the knight’s upper arm, which flexed and stiffened in response to your sudden movement. Your chest pressed firmly against his back, he felt you briefly shiver in fear, though as your senses came back to you, you chided yourself for your jumpiness.

“S-sorry, Sir Daryl.”

If he wasn’t caught in a rather serious situation, he might’ve let his internal amusement at your persistent formality manifest itself in the form of a chuckle, but he only huffed instead. “Just Daryl.”

Blinking hard, you loosened your grip on his arm, reluctantly pulling yourself away. He seemed to radiate warmth, and this tunnel was so cold and frightening. “Sorry. Daryl.”

He peered over his shoulder to speak again. “Stop sayin’ sorry.”

With a sniffle, you nodded your head. “Sor―” You stopped yourself. “All right.”

The further you traveled, the louder the sounds of Daryl’s horse, which provided some comfort now. It meant you were getting closer to getting out of here, and closer to fresh air.

At the end of the tunnel, Daryl placed his torch in the iron sconce hanging on the wall of a modest wooden door, with a thick bar placed across to prevent the Dead (or alive) from getting in. There stood the knight’s horse, too, hardly visible in the blackness that matched his sleek, shiny coat. From what you could see, though, the horse was beautiful, with a long crimped mane of ebony and a long forelock draping messily, yet gracefully, over his eyes. Upon each leg was a slight feathering, just above his hooves, nearly cloaking them.

“What a beautiful horse.” As he lifted the bar with a huff, he looked your way to see your hands caressing the animal’s neck, and his black nose buried in the loose tendrils of your hair. “Oh!” you laughed. “Friendly, too. What’s his name?”

Daryl wiped the sweat from his brow as he spoke bluntly. “Phantom.”

“Oh.” You sounded a little disappointed. “Well, that’s not a very friendly name for such a friendly horse.”

The knight scoffed as he took the horse’s reigns. “He ain’t friendly. He’s a warhorse.”

He didn’t expect such a look of excited curiosity to form upon your face. “Oh, a destrier? How grand.”

With one hand guiding the horse towards the door, the other unlatching the final lock, Daryl looked back at you. You could see a sliver of bright light pouring in through the thin line where the door was beginning to open. Of course, you’d seen light before, but not like this, not from this direction. Somehow, it was different.

“You wanna stand around talkin’ about horses all day or you wanna go outside?”

The last thing you wanted to do was spend more time inside this rotten intestine of a tunnel. “Lead the way, Sir―I mean, Daryl.”

Trying to avoid the inevitable smirk that formed on his face, he pushed the door open further, slowly guiding Phantom into the light of day, which allowed the horse’s coat to shine an almost reddish chestnut tone.

But the horse’s beauty was momentarily eclipsed by the magnificent glade of silver birch trees before you, a simple dirt path diverging through the forest. You’d seen these trees from high above, and from a great distance, outside your window, but never had you seen them so close, so almost within reach. Many times you’d reached your hand out, imagining you could touch the trees, but now, there was nothing standing between you and that forest.

As you stepped forward, you relished in the feeling of dirt and leaves underfoot. You’d felt the ground before, in the garden and the courtyard, but this was something different, something new. In fact, you wanted to feel it on your bare skin, the closeness of the earth.

While Daryl busied himself with readying the horse’s saddle, you were stripping yourself of your brown leather shoes, letting one bare foot take your first step as you worked on removing the other shoe.

The knight looked wide-eyed at you, your feet now sinking into the dirt beneath you. “What the hell are you doin’?”

To his surprise, you let out a sing-song laugh as you took several more steps towards the forest. With your head down, your hair draping all around the sides of your face, you were focused on the movements of your feet, as if you could feel the sensation through your eyes.

“I used to run around barefoot as a child,” you said, lifting your face to his. He was greeted by a wide, toothy grin, the likes of which he hadn’t seen upon your face. He’d seen the joyful expression upon your face when he offered to escort you outside the walls, but this was something else entirely, accompanied by bright, carefree eyes that captured the glow of the sunlight streaming down to consume the last of the early morning mist. “It’s just not the same in the courtyard at the castle.”

Your attention peeled away from the knight as you took in the trees all around you, tall and magnificent, surely hundreds of years old. The stories these trees could tell, the things they’d seen—you’d hoped that their knowledge would make up for your lack of it for the past ten years. If you couldn’t have seen such things, at least they had.

Absentmindedly, you meandered towards the trees, your arms outstretching the closer you got as you prepared to touch them. Daryl could only look on in slightly amused confusion at your wonderment for such mundane objects of nature, but he had to remember, it’d been a long time since you’d seen these things out in the wilds, outside of the manicured gardens and meticulously trimmed botanicals found within the walls of the castle to which you were confined. Still, the little laughs and sweet giggles that bubbled up from within you were undeniably delightful.

But Daryl couldn’t let you spend all day admiring a silver birch tree. He hopped upon Phantom and instructed the beast forward, until a blackness swallowed your peripheral vision. As you blinked your attention towards the knight, his hand now outstretched to you, you noticed your shoes had been stuffed carefully inside the saddlebag near his thigh.

“C��mon,” he said with a nod of his head. “There’s more than this.”

Your bare feet skipped delicately through waves upon waves of tall white beardtongue, the petals of which occasionally tickled your bare thighs when they got caught inside your gown. You had to admit the feeling gave you a rush so strong that you skipped faster through the meadow, careful not to trample over any of the wildflowers.

Daryl’s presence was a comfort to you, him standing at the edge of the meadow with Phantom’s reins in his hand, and your velvet teal cloak draped over the crook of his elbow as he watched dutifully. Though no walkers had come across your path yet, he worried most about the poor, soft soles of your feet being marred by the elements. These thoughts were always immediately dismissed, though, as his job wasn’t to fret over your cleanliness, but your life.

“Oh, Daryl!” you called out, alerting him a bit too well as he instinctively grasped for the hilt of the greatsword strapped to his belt. He huffed when he raised his eyes to see you entranced by the pale blue spotted butterfly resting upon your hand. “Look!”

Again, you let out a sweet laughter, the cadence of which tickled the knight’s spine like a feather being dragged languidly over each vertebra. With the tiny, delicate creature flapping its wings upon your hand, he admired your gentleness, how sweet your eyes turned when gazing upon the beautiful butterfly. It was strange—he’d been out here with you for almost two hours, and yet no walkers or bandits had crossed your path. It was almost as if your purity somehow deterred those things, those horrible things that plagued this land. Indeed, he’d never seen the world like this before, so much happier and sweeter than it had once been. Perhaps you didn’t need this world, but this world needed you. No, of course not. That was silly, he told himself, shaking his head to rid himself of his own thoughts. No one woman could change the world just by existing in it.

“Oh,” you sighed in a bittersweet tone. The butterfly flew away, your eyes following it for as long as it could before it disappeared beyond the hill.

Don’t be sad, princess, he found himself thinking, his own heart seeming to sink a little when your eyes turned just a little soft with sorrow. Please don’t be sad.

“Well,” you sighed again, your voice getting louder as you approached him, your hands lifting your gown just enough to allow you to step high over the tall flowers. As if by instinct, his eyes trailed to your bare ankles, then your calves, your knees, and just a sliver of your soft thighs…

Stop looking, that rational voice in his head commanded. But the improper, unabashed voice replied, But, oh, milady… What fine legs you have.

“This meadow is beautiful, but there must be more to see.” You took your cloak from him to swing it around your shoulders and clasp it around your neck, then circled around the horse to retrieve your shoes from its saddle. “Where are we going next?”

Daryl thought for a moment, but his immediate attention was directed towards the gracefulness of your movements, the way your fingers curled through Phantom’s forelock and tickled underneath his chin, and the way you nuzzled your nose against his… How gentle the warhorse was, as if you had some soothing effect upon him.

If Daryl was a superstitious man, he’d say you worked some kind of womanly magic upon your surroundings, wooing him and his horse and even the Dead. If he was a cruel man, he’d accuse you of being a witch, demanding to see if you bore the Devil’s mark or if you sank in water. Of course, he didn’t believe in sorcery or witches or Satan, but he did believe you had worked some kind of spell on him, one of a more corporeal nature.

“Daryl?”

He cleared his throat as his senses came back to him. “Yes, I, um… I know of a lake nearby. Would that, um, suit you, your highness?” He tried to speak in his best chivalric tone, though he knew not why. He never cared much for that before, until right this moment, and it seemed almost against his will. Maybe witches were real, afterall. Still, he wasn’t about to rid himself of this warm, ticklish feeling in the pit of his stomach, even if it was the work of the Devil.

A sweet, beautiful, kind agent of the Devil.

“A lake would be lovely,” you replied.

At length, you walked alongside Daryl, who let you guide Phantom this time. You’d insisted upon walking to the lake, giving the poor horse a break from carrying the weight of the two of you. It was no disappointment to the knight, who found that he quite liked spending more time with you, prolonging his time outside the walls to hold your cloak as you frolicked or to kneel and let you hold onto his strong shoulder as you brushed the dirt off your feet. It almost sickened him how much he relished in being of service to you.

And it was such a beautiful day, the perfect day for you to see the outside world. In your fascination, you were rendered quiet, turning in every direction to catch with your eyes every bird or deer or squirrel or insect that crossed your path. The woods were serene, too, much brighter and free of any pestilence that your father had so ominously warned you of.

Indeed, you wondered where the Dead were. It seemed too good to be true, considering the horrible memories you had of that night your mother died, of seeing her getting pulled into a swarm of walkers as she reached her hand out to you, calling for you. You still remembered how you struggled to reach for her, your fingers just grazing her trembling hand before you were yanked away by a guard.

Of course, you knew there was no way you could’ve saved her. Her neck and arms were already being feasted upon, spurts of blood shooting out and sprinkling in crimson globs upon your tear-stained cheeks, while her screams were increasingly drowned by the sound of her flesh tearing from her bones. When her body was taken in completely by the hoard, you heard one last scream—No, please, no!

As this memory inflicted itself upon you, the feeling akin to a knife in the chest, you stopped in your tracks, staring blankly at the vision before you that seemed to have crawled out of your head. Between the trees ahead of you, five or six of the dead lumbered clumsily over sticks and stones towards you.

When the knight pushed you behind him, drawing his sword, you studied the appearances of the dead men with shock. They wore clothes just like any commoner, one even wearing a blacksmith’s apron, another wearing a simple white linen coif upon her head, not unlike the ones you owned, except yours weren’t caked in dried blood, but the similarity was enough to send a shiver down your spine.

“Dar-Daryl…” Your voice faltered as you backed away, your hands clinging tight to the reins on the horse. “What do we do?”

It hadn’t occurred to him that you didn’t know the first thing about walkers, how to kill them, how to avoid them. He should’ve told you. He planned on telling you, but he got… distracted. So distracted he’d forgotten of the Dead’s existence altogether.

“Just stay behind me,” he said. “If one comes at you, you run.”

Run? Run where? I do not know these woods…

“All right.”

He held his sword with both hands, and you wondered how on Earth he could hold such a large thing, no doubt made of fine, heavy steel. He must’ve had a great deal of strength, not to mention the heavy armor he would carry in battle. Indeed, he was broad and seemed hearty enough to withstand almost anything.

A sparkle of sunlight reflected off the silver blade as it sliced through a walker’s neck, severing the head in one fluid motion that caused you to gasp in horror at the sight.

But Daryl moved so fluidly, with such ease and intensity. Every stroke was purposeful, and every kick and turn and step was made with confidence. As you watched in combined terror and amazement, you realized that he really was a great knight. His chivalry left much to be desired, but you could tell why he achieved his status as knight. Soon, the walkers were all headless, and he got to work plunging the blade of his sword directly into the creature’s severed heads, which appeared to still be alive.

You leaned forward in awe, curious about how the heads could still be alive when severed from the body.

But your thoughts ceased when a cold hand wrapped around your ankle, pulling you with great strength down to the forest floor. You came down with a yelp, both from the startling action and the feeling of your ankle twisting in an unnatural manner, creating an awful pain that traveled all the way up to the top of your head to send you nearly passing out.

But the lone, legless walker kept you awake, yanking at your leg with its teeth gnashing horribly, creating a terrible clicking sound with each attempt to take a bite of you.

You pulled away, kicking at the thing’s forehead to get it away from you, but it was relentless, and soon set its sights on your neck as its disgusting, rotting body began to climb up your torso, its mouth dripping foul blood over your surcote as you gasped and panted and screamed in fear.

In the distance, you heard the loud whinnying of Phantom, then the sound of his hooves against the dirt, getting further and further away.

All this happened in a matter of milliseconds, with the knight moving quickly to tear the dead man away from you, throwing its growling body several feet away from you. With a grunt, he swung his greatsword overhead, bringing it down to slice the creature’s head vertically with a horrid squelch.

The thing fell back in its final state of death, allowing Daryl to sheath his bloodied sword and hurry over to you, his gloved hands feeling all over your arms and legs and torso. Your eyes widened at the touches, how brazenly he handled you with his strong, filthy hands.

“You bit?” he asked.

Oh.

He kept feeling you, lifting your dress to examine your calves with a stoicism and seriousness you wouldn’t have expected from a man with his hands all over you. But then, this was a serious situation. Get your mind out of the gutter, you chided yourself.

“N-no, I’m fine…” Dizzied from the sudden fall, you raised your hand to your forehead, then stroked it through your now wild hair. As you became aware of your body once again, you realized the dull ache surrounding your right ankle. “Oh, my… my ankle. It hurts.”

He lifted your gown again to examine your ankle, the skin around it inflamed and swollen, and it was angled rather sharply inwards. A grimace contorted the knight’s face. “Sprained,” he said. He knew that well, having seen the very minor injury many times in battle. Of course, if the worst injury one received was a sprained ankle, that was a blessing.

As his hands cradled you underneath the underarms to lift you, he peered behind his shoulder with a deep huff. “Damn horse,” he cursed.

Struggling to help lift yourself with your good leg, you realized, too, that the horse had run off in the midst of the chaos. “Oh, no! How are we going to—Oh!”

You felt caught in a whirlwind as the knight somehow slung you over his shoulder, his arm wrapped around the backs of your legs to hold you in place as he began to walk, not wasting any time to catch up to the horse.

“What are you doing?!” you cried out in confusion. Your sight was momentarily shrouded in darkness as your face was buried in the wool of his cloak, but you lifted your head to see the ground moving beneath dizzyingly as you bounced against his back. “Are you… carrying me?”

“Gotta catch up to Phantom… Ain’t gettin’ anywhere very fast with you limpin’.” He punctuated his sentence with a strained grunt, then stopped briefly to bounce you until you were more securely draped over his broad shoulder.

“How do you know where he went?”

“There’s a cottage not far from here. He knows to go there.” That, and he could track the horse’s trail quite easily.

You remained quiet for a while, until he hitched you up again. “You know,” you remarked, “this is not how you carry a princess. A rather large sack of potatoes, yes, but not a princess.”

He tried to hinder his laughter. It was difficult.

“How did you find this place?” you asked, sat upon a dusty old floor pillow beside the warm, burning hearth.

The cottage was small, just one room. You’d never seen such a modest home, with straw blanketing the dirt floor and a small hole in the roof to allow the smoke from the hearth to escape, with only one small window to let in a tiny stream of afternoon light.

You watched Daryl crush some mix of pungent herbs, water, and oil with a mortar and pestle, his hair hanging like chocolate colored silken drapes over his concentrated face.

He looked up for a moment, his hooded eyes peeking out between those brunette strands of hair. He chewed his lip, eying your swollen ankle. The guilt hadn’t stopped washing over him since it happened. How could he be so negligent to let you get hurt?

“I, uh… Found it a long time ago, when the plague broke out.” With the herbs crushed into an oily paste, he carried the stone mortar over to you, kneeling down to lift your ankle onto his thigh. You watched curiously as his fingers scooped up a glob of the slightly purple-toned concoction, then spread the paste over your swollen ankle. “Was fighting the Dead,” he continued as he rubbed more of the coarse cream over your skin. “A swarm cornered me here. Wasn’t much safer, though… An old man and his wife, but the old man had turned, was just about to take a bite of the woman, but I put him down.”

He noticed your shiver, then crossed the room to quickly procure a thick woolen blanket from the small straw bed.

“Here.” He draped the warm fabric over your shoulders. “Sorry it’s not much.”

“It’s quite all right… What happened to the old lady?”

He shook his head as he returned to his treatment of your wound. “She was already bit. I was too late… Cared for ‘er as long as I could, but no one knew back then that even just one bite means you’re dead. The fever killed ‘er… And then, I didn’t know she’d turn, too. Found out real quick that’s how it spreads, and that you gotta kill the brain.” He gestured accordingly to his own head. “And now this place is mine, I guess.”

“I thought you lived on your lord’s fief?” you asked. “You live here?”

He used his teeth to rip a piece of cotton gauze from its roll, then lifted your ankle from its place on his leg to wrap it and conceal the herbal remedy. “I travel between,” he said simply. “Stayin’ in one place never suited me.”

To an extent, you understood that. Though you always valued your home, you’d been stuck in one place for so long that it became less of a home and more of a hostage situation. “You must value your freedom,” you remarked. “Tell me, what did you put on my ankle?”

He scoffed through an ever-so-slight, crooked smirk. “You ask many questions, princess.”

A rosy pink blush bloomed upon your cheeks, accompanied by a gentle heat that wasn’t just radiating from the nearby flame of the hearth. “Well,” you said, straightening your back as his words reminded you of your status, “I think I’m entitled to know what kind of remedy you’ve applied to my wound, knight.”

He gently replaced your skirt over your ankles as he spoke, listing the ingredients. “Arnica, witch hazel, lavender… All good for pain and swelling.”

“Oh? You’re skilled in herbalism?”

“Another question…”

You tilted your head in faux offense at the observation. “I’m entitled to ask whatever questions I wish, knight.”

With a huff, he leaned back to scoot himself onto his own pillow, then kicked off his heavy leather boots. “I wouldn’t say ‘skilled’,” he replied at length. “Just… somethin’ I had to learn.”

Curiosity made you raise an eyebrow at that, and your prying was certainly nowhere near its end. “Why?”

Any other person had asked him this many questions about himself, he might’ve lost his nerve and said some rather vulgar things, but you were a lady. More than that, you were a princess. More than that, you were… something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He knew you were beautiful, of course. He had eyes. There was more that drew him to you, that made him care what you thought of him and made him care about you.

Despite his usual tendency to become frustrated at this kind of questioning, he couldn’t bring himself to feel agitated at all. In fact, he felt at ease, like he wanted to tell you about himself. Somehow, that look in your eyes told him you weren’t just asking because it seemed the proper thing to do—you were asking him these things because you cared to know about him. No one had cared in that way before. Maybe the duke came close, but he didn’t have this effect on the knight. It was unique to you, this wave of earnestness and openness. For such a closed-off man, he found it very hard to keep his guard up much longer.

Still, he wondered, if he let his guard down too far, could he stop himself from scaring you away? You were a sensitive thing, he’d realized. You were innocent, too. The things he’d seen and done would surely frighten you, chase you away from him when he’d only just begun to grow fond of you in some strange way. The more you knew about him, the more you’d find him repulsive, he thought. And yet, it was still so tempting.

“Left home when I was sixteen,” he said. “Had to learn how to take care of myself. Well, learned most of that when I was...” He had to stop himself, his lips hanging open slightly in midair. If he kept going, he might’ve revealed too much, how “pathetic” his life had been. Surely you wouldn’t understand. You’d think he was trying to earn your pity, but all he wanted, as he looked into your eyes and melted into them like they were two pools of warm liquid honey, was to know that you cared about the words that struggled to will themselves into existence. Those soft, warm eyes would prove successful in swallowing him whole, into an abyss of unabashed honesty. Why was he bearing his soul? What good would it do? He didn’t know. In fact, he was sure it would only cause you to look down upon him, but he was wise enough to know that no one before had ever really asked about these things. No one before had ever cared like this. That was why he was hesitant—it was simply uncharted territory. But, then again, everything about you was uncharted territory, and if you asked, it must’ve meant you cared.

“When I was a child, my mother died,” he said. “My father couldn’t handle it… Turned to the bottle, became a lousy sot.” He swallowed hard as a bit of bile came to rise in his throat. He wasn’t sure what came over him—except, well, he’d never spoken these words out loud before. Certainly not in front of a princess. You didn’t stop him, though. In fact, you held a soft gaze, encouraging him with your pleading eyes for him to continue, not with pity, but with sympathy. How strange, you opened him up with just your kind, understanding face. “He, uh, would hurt me… Enough to break skin.” He gestured loosely towards the leftover salve. “This stuff would help with the bruises. Needed other things for the cuts, but I know all of it. Helps in war, too.”

Understanding his hesitancy to speak more about his childhood, you inquired about that—war. Perhaps it wasn’t a much more cheerful subject, but there was something you’d been wondering about since you first met the mysterious knight.

“War… Is that how you got your scar?”

It took him a moment to register your question, as he had so many scars now, it was hard to keep track of them all, but you gestured your finger to point towards his face, and he cursed himself for not thinking of the long red stripe running down over his left eye, At times, you yourself had forgotten it was there, its pigment blending in with the tone of his tanned skin in certain lights, but it had intrigued you since you first saw him.

“It’s a battle scar,” he answered. “Yeah…”

“I read that battle scars are honorable to knights.”

“They are,” he responded quickly, as if defending himself, despite a lack of anything to really defend. But his tone soon shifted as he processed your words. “You… read about knights?”

Swallowing hard, you averted your gaze to try to find some respite from the embarrassment of admitting that you found his kind to be fascinating. To say you read about knights would be an understatement. Your father housed an impressive collection of literature in his cabinet, many of which you’d secretly take to the solar and read by candlelight in the wee hours of the morning when a particularly restless sleep became too much to bear. Among those books were the most popular chivalric romances—The Knight’s Tale, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Le Morte d’Arthur, Erec and Enide, Sir Eglamour of Artois… Daryl wasn’t like any of those knights, though. He was… better, you decided. He was real.

“I do,” you spoke shakily. “I—I… know a bit.” You never stuttered. Why were you stuttering? Eugene had all but trained you out of the habit in your public speaking lessons. He hadn’t prepared you for the intensity of Sir Daryl’s gaze, how it reduced your poise to a shiver. And yet still, you were the most poised woman he ever met.

In fact, he didn’t notice your stuttering at all. It was hard to let anything distract him from every word you said, every open and close of your plush lips that were made glossy and smooth from suet and marjoram, with just a touch of red wine to paint a delicious tint across the plump skin. The musky amber scent of civet oil mingled with the floral marjoram to tickle his nose so heavenly, even from this distance. Each movement of your lips only carried the scent further, like it was floating on angel’s wings to him, and only him. For a brief, anxious moment, he pondered upon the taste, and the texture… How his lips would feel against yours.

Lust is a sin, he told himself, despite having not paid a visit to a chapel since his knighthood. Still, a knight should respect the laws of God. Like all the knights in the stories you read, he was beginning to face temptation.

With a quiet huff, he yanked himself from his intrusive thoughts to face you with a slight smirk. “I guess you’re fond of Sir Lancelot?” he asked.

Not at all, you thought. I am more fond of Sir Daryl.

It was twilight when you arrived back at the castle, slipping through the Tombs and coming out into the gloomy dungeons in the dark underbelly of the keep. To distract the guards that stood near your chambers, Daryl alerted them to a “walker that must’ve slipped through the walls,” but used the opportunity to sneak you into your room.

The knight ushered you in the room with a frantically waving hand. With a slight limp from your injury, you stumbled in laughing. Giddy, that was the only way to describe it. You were giddy from adrenaline, and felt a surge of fiery energy flow through you like a match being struck. Indeed, the whole day had been exhilarating, though terrifying at points. Ultimately, it was everything you’d dreamed it would be, and more.

And you couldn’t help but admit that it felt wonderful to break the rules, to do something reckless for once. You were a little afraid it would become an addictive habit, but it was worth it. To see the things you saw, to behold new landscapes and to feel unburdened by the oppressive walls of that old gray castle… Oh, it was a wonderful feeling.

You couldn’t contain your excitement much longer—when the heavy wooden doors closed with a quiet clack of the latch, you opened your arms to rush towards the knight with an exuberant, but hushed, “We did it!”

His eyes widened as he felt your warm, soft arms around his torso, his chest pressed against yours so close that he could feel your swift heartbeat pounding against your ribcage. Whatever overcame you, it must’ve been born of your excitement, and he couldn’t hide the fact that he was excited, too. For what, he did not know. The day was over, his task was complete. He’d taken you outside the kingdom, allowed you to do as you please as he kept a watchful eye, keeping you safe from harm… Well, there were some slip-ups, but he was successful in his mission.

Perhaps he was excited because he, too, felt the adrenaline rush, the excursion having been the most treacherous crime he’d ever committed, and he’d committed a few. Petty theft and a few drunken brawls, to be specific, but you’d never know that. Not as long as he could help it.

Despite his hands and arms floating awkwardly around the curves of your waist, he didn’t dare touch you. There was an innate desire to, of course, but it wouldn’t be right. None of this was right, in truth, but there was no going back now, and he didn’t want to go back. He didn’t regret a thing, and that scared him a little bit. How on Earth could that scare him? Nothing scared him. His own feelings baffled him, especially when that musky amber scent came back with a succulent vengeance to assault his senses with the most indulgent perfume he’d ever had the pleasure of falling victim to. For a moment, he closed his eyes, taking in a quiet, deep inhale. That was the closest he could let himself get to doing anything he might’ve been wanting to do.

When you realized he wasn’t holding you back, you pulled away from the stoic man. Clarity returned to replace the intoxication of the adrenaline, and you cleared your throat to change the atmosphere back to that of knight and princess, not acquaintances of equal standing.

“Thank you, Sir Daryl,” you said. He winced for a moment at the title, having gotten a little accustomed to the simple name upon your lilted voice. Now, it was formal again, direct yet gentle. It still sounded beautiful, the way you spoke, but it was different. Only now, he noticed that it softened even more, as if your words were resting on downy pillows that filled with increasingly plush goose feathers each time you spoke to him. “Today was the best day of my life.”

Quite frankly, he found that very hard to believe. So hard to believe, in fact, that he let out a puff of air between lips that formed a wry smile. “What’re you talkin’ about, woman?”

“Woman?”

“That’s what you are, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes… What I mean to say is, what you’ve done for me today was what I’ve wanted for so long, and now I feel as though a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Thank you.”

A pregnant silence hung in the air between you before you turned to cross the room over to your vanity, where your jewelry casket sat. You rummaged through to once again procure his payment.

“No, your highness,” spoke the knight, his steps getting heavy as he approached you from behind. “I told you, I can’t accept that.”

You turned to face him with a smile, and a glimmering ruby brooch encrusted in silver filigree, characterized by delicate, swirling arabesques. “Nonsense,” you replied. “Please, knight. It would please me so for you to take this… And, there’s always more… For next time.”

Raising his eyes from the gem in your hand, he searched your gaze for earnestness. Indeed, you looked not unlike you had that night you begged him. You had that desperation in your eyes, that lust for freedom and exploration. The difference was, there was now a smile upon your face. That was even more tempting for him. A smile like that was dangerous, as he was sure you could just about convince him of anything.

“Next time?”

“Yes, next time my father is gone. Of course, if you’re agreeable to it.”

Agreeable to it? Your beauty was intoxicating, and exposure to it was like radiation—surely no good for him in the long run. That all being said, there was something tempting about the danger of it all, the wrongness. He hadn’t felt this way in so long, not since before he was bound by the laws of chivalry. It was wrong of him to do this with you, but it had an effect like theriac; it was both an antidote and an addiction.

With a hefty huff, he took the jewel from your hand, stuffing it into the simple embroidered chaneries hanging from his belt.

That night, he agreed to another excursion, whenever that might be. Now, he seemed to be officially at your every beck and call, waiting for the signal to come and rescue you from your entrapment. In a way, he himself had become trapped, a chaperon condemned to serve you until your whims ebbed and flowed away from him and his outside world that he knew so well. It wasn’t this in itself that frightened him, though—it was the fact that when he thought of the next time he’d have to be your escort, subject to your will, he smiled. This realization of his devotion to you made the subconscious depths of his mind aware of one important thing: you weren’t just any princess, you were his princess.

Thanks for reading! Likes, reblogs, and/or comments are always appreciated!

Series Masterlist Next Chapter ➳

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mirorbdangamachine · 4 months ago

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So I saw a Reddit post discussing who everyone picked to perform the Rite of the Covenant with in Unicorn Overlord, where someone in the comments talked about how he made the choice based on what would have given Alain the biggest political advantage. They listed some examples, and that then got me thinking “What is EVERYONE’S advantages to Alain were he to pick them?”.

So I wrote all of those out for each and every character recruitable in the main portion of the story, alongside some potential downsides too.

Spoilers below the cut up until the final battle of the main game!

Without further ado, I shall now present all of these in sections based upon where the in game library says the character counts as being from:

Cornia:

Scarlett: Not only secures peace with Albion, but also means Alain has direct influence onto the control of Palevian Orthodoxy, enabling religious backing, and the country of Albion itself.

Lex: Nothing politically gained beyond increased public morale.

Josef: This is his dad, the king’s guard are already secured with Alain because of this, same with all Liberation leaders. Don’t marry dad.

Chloe: Nothing politically gained beyond increased public morale.

Hodrick: This is kind of his uncle figure, probably shouldn’t do that. The king’s guard is already secured anyways.

Clive: Strengthens ties to the Ashen Blue Knights, potentially making the Ashen Blue region swear fealty to Alain directly instead of his grandfather Gerard.

Rolf: Nothing politically gained beyond increased public morale.

Sharon: Strengthens ties with the Palevian Orthodoxy, garnering support from religious entities.

Mordon: Seemingly much older than Alain, perhaps not appropriate. Would strengthen support with mercenary groups, may face criticism of perpetual drunkenness.

Yahna: Unsure whether her power will enable her to continue to live forever or not. Served Alain’s mother as court sorceress, morally gray on whether this is appropriate. Would secure support from the southern swamp region of Cornia, and strengthen ties with Elheim.

Berenice: May garner support from mercenary groups and potentially the Ashen Blue Knights.

Selvie: Nothing politically gained beyond increased public morale.

Auch: Will secure allegiance with House Aubrey of Cornia. May potentially face criticism as a former commander of Zenoira.

Adel: Strengthens ties to the Ashen Blue Knights, potentially making the Ashen Blue region swear fealty to Alain directly instead of his grandfather Gerard.

Fran: Secures support from the Knights of the Rose, potentially able to rebuild the squadron and increase public morale as a result.

Nina: Secures support with a Cornian noble house, potentially may face criticism for former banditry work.

Miriam: Secures support from the Knights of the Rose, potentially able to rebuild the squadron and increase public morale as a result.

Kitra: Secures support from the Knights of the Rose, potentially able to rebuild the squadron and increase public morale as a result.

Melisandre: Secures allegiance of House Meillet of Cornia. May face criticism for swearing fealty to Zenoira during their invasion.

Colm: Significantly older than Alain, perhaps not appropriate. Would secure support of House Meillet.

Monica: Secures allegiance of House Nordheim of Cornia. May face criticism for swearing fealty to Zenoira during their invasion.

Renault: Nothing politically gained, will most likely face criticism as a former high ranking general of Zenoira.

Tatiana: Nothing politically gained, will most likely face criticism for engaging in inhumane experimentation.

Virginia: This is Alain’s cousin, he realistically shouldn’t marry her. Not like that’s stopped royalty before though. Would ensure that the Cornian royal bloodline is not split and thus cannot have a dispute of royal succession. Also ensures allegiance of the Knights of the Rose.

Gammel: Nothing politically gained. May garner support from some in Elheim, though most likely will face criticism for banditry.

Mandrin: Nothing politically gained. May garner support from some in Elheim, though most likely will face criticism for banditry.

Drakenhold:

Aubin: Garners support from the desert region of Drakenhold, strengthening ties between the two countries. May increase support from mercenary groups, but may face criticism for former banditry

Travis: Secures allegiance with House Zechshelm of Drakenhold, strengthening ties between it and Cornia. Also may garner support from mercenary groups.

Bruno: May increase support from mercenary groups. May face criticism as a former Zenoiran general.

Berengaria: Secures allegiance with House Zechshelm of Drakenhold, strengthens ties between the countries. May increase support from mercenary group, but may face criticism as a former general of Zenoira.

Leah: Strengthens ties with Drakenhold.

Primm: Strengthens ties with Drakenhold and the Palevian Orthodoxy.

Aramis: Secures peace with Drakenhold in secret.

Magellan: Garners support from the desert region of Drakenhold, strengthening ties between the two countries. May face criticism for former banditry and being a former commander of Zenoira.

Liza: Garners support from the desert region of Drakenhold, strengthening ties between the two countries. May face criticism for former banditry.

Gloucester: Strengthens ties with Drakenhold, though may face criticism as a former Zenoiran commander.

Hilda: Nothing politically gained, will most likely face criticism as a former Zenoiran commander and inhumane treatment of citizens.

Jeremy: Nothing politically gained. May increase support from mercenary groups.

Gilbert: Secures peace with Drakenhold, granting Alain direct influence on the country.

Bryce: Nothing politically gained. May face criticism for banditry.

Amalia: Nothing politically gained.

Elheim:

Rosalinde: Secures peace with Elheim, potentially giving Alain influence on the country.

Lhinalagos: Strengthens ties with Elheim.

Celeste: Strengths ties with Elheim.

Ithilion: Strengthens ties with Elheim.

Eltolinde: Secures peace with Elheim, giving Alain direct influence on the country.

Ridiel: Strengthens ties with Elheim.

Railanor: Strengthens ties with Elheim. May face criticism as a former Zenorian general.

Galadmir: Strengths ties with Elheim.

Bastorias:

Morard: Strengthens ties with Bastorias. While no one singular ruler has been selected yet for the country, he is one of the most likely candidates to take the position, which grants Alain direct influence on the country.

Yunifi: Strengthens ties with Bastorias. While no one singular ruler has been selected yet for the country, she is one of the most likely candidates to take the position, which grants Alain direct influence on the country.

Ramona: Strengthens ties with Bastorias. While no one singular ruler has been selected yet for the country, she is one of the most likely candidates to take the position, which grants Alain direct influence on the country. However, she is implied to be much older than Alain, so this may be questioned on whether it’s appropriate.

Dinah: Strengthens ties with Bastorias.

Bertrand: Strengthens ties with Bastorias. Questionable whether this is appropriate given his implied age due to having had a son.

Govil: Strengthens ties with Bastorias.

Albion:

Ochlys: Secures support from the Palevian Orthodoxy, strengthening ties with Albion.

Raenys: Strengthens ties with the Palveian Orthodoxy and Albion. Implied to be older based on her having been a lady-in-waiting for Scarlett as a child, so this may be questioned for whether it’s appropriate or not.

Jerome: Secures allegiance of the Largion region of Albion, strengthening ties with Albion. Seemingly much older than Alain, this may not be appropriate.

Umerus: Strengthens ties with the Palevian Orthodoxy, Albion, and the Heavenswing Knights.

Fodoquia: Strengthens ties with the Palevian Orthodoxy, Albion, and the Heavenswing Knights. Questionable whether this is appropriate given his implied age due to having had a son.

Sanatio: May strengthen support from the Palevian Orthodoxy, Albion, and the Heavenswing Knights. Will most likely face criticism due to his part in covering up the murder of Pontifex Arant and following Zenoiran command.

If you happen to think of any other benefits or downsides to the characters, it would be neat to see what you think!

#unicorn overlord #I may have gone just a wee bit insane with this one #I am sorry if some of teh copy and pasting was a bit annoying #there are just a lot of characters in this game #cross posted on reddit

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caffeinewitchcraft · 2 months ago

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The call from your New York restaurant comes at 2am their time which is a sensible 11pm your time.

“Boss, we need you,” the manager says. Hercules – the name he chose for himself when he first started working for you – doesn’t scare easily. He can’t, not while running three of your restaurants in the cesspool that is New York city. “Someone just drove a truck through the flagship.”

You’re already out of bed and out the door. “I’ll be there before the sun comes up.”

Hercules’ relief bleeds through the phone. “Thank you.”

“You’re my right arm, Hercules,” you say. You’re wearing the plaid pajama set Mercedes, your left arm and the woman who runs your LA restaurants, gave you for your birthday. You can buy clothes in New York. “Thank you.”

Your Thank yous are far and few between. They’ve always felt awkward in your mouth and worse leaving it. But Hercules is one of yours and it’s easy to volley the words back, to not accept his gratitude in the face of his loyalty. No thanks needed. You’re part of me.

Hercules swallows hard. He knows you well. “Boss.”

“Hercules.”

You hang up at the same time.

Los Angeles is still awake as you roar onto the streets. Your motorcycle is the same one you bought when your first restaurant started turning a profit. Prodigal. The name of it is carved into the body. The streets are damp from a rare spot of rain. You’d gotten caught in it while leaving Queen earlier. It had felt like a bad omen then and your lip curls as the moisture sprays up under your tires now.

You should always listen to your gut.

“Call Mercedes.”

The AI in your helmet sends the call through. It rings once before Mercedes picks up.

Music thumps in the background. Mercedes is still at Queen. “Boss?”

“Some idiot drove a truck through Court,” you say. “I need you to put Chicago, Houston, and Philadelphia on red alert. Everyone else on yellow.”

Mercedes swears in French. “I’ll get you the soonest ticket out. LAX?”

“For this, I’ll need the jet.”

“They’ll know you’re coming.”

Your grin is feral. Signs for the airport pass by. Her blurted statement means she’s thinking the same thing you are. “I want them to know.”

Mercedes is silent for a long moment. Despite being with you for so many years as your nearest equal, she doesn’t like to question you. “…does this have to do with the news you got last month?”

“Knowledge is power,” you say. Said power thrums in your chest. You didn’t know what it was before. But now that you know, you’re not surprised that others know too. “We’re used to being challenged.”

It’d been a challenge to build the culinary empire you have today. In a sea of celebrity chefs and multi-billion dollar corporate entities, it had been a battle to carve out your spot in the industry. What sets your restaurants apart has always been quality ingredients, your innovative recipes, a track record for good customer service and consistency.

And, apparently, fae magic.

“This is just another dog fight for the top,” you continue. You screech up to the fence separating the street from the tarmac. Already someone from the airport has cut a hole in it big enough for you to walk through. You duck under their arm with a nod. Your plane is waiting. “We’re good at winning those.”

“Boss,” Mercedes agrees. Then, “Just bought the flight plan. You’re good to take off.”

“Superb.” You jog up the stairs and into the jet. Absent-mindedly, you take the cup of coffee the flight attendant hands you. “Take care of LA for me, Mercedes.”

“Permission to contact our new friends for assistance?”

You pause. This is why you love Mercedes. She always finds the right resources for the right time. Your alliance with the Los Angeles Seelie Queen is new enough that you don’t know the strength of her commitments yet. This will be a wonderful time to test that strength. “Granted.”

Mercedes hums in satisfaction. “Have a good flight, Boss.”

“Mercedes.”

You both hang up as the cabin door closes.

----.

Hercules, like his name suggests, is a big man. His favorite game growing up was the caber toss. Where his cousins used saplings, he used pine in their tenth year. His strawberry blonde hair is cropped close behind his ears and there’re heavy bags under his eyes that disrupt the natural redness of his face.

You see him as you step through the hole in your restaurant. The debris has been completely cleared off the street – best not to be a nuisance in New York lest you lose your customer base – but the damage is extensive. You eye the columns that line the interior of your dining area. Without them, the truck might have hit your customers. The one in front of the hole was crashed into, sending spiderwebs of stucco racing up the entire thing. Underneath, steel gleams.

Hercules, sitting at a dust covered table, leaps to his feat at your arrival. His suit has lost its tie and his shirt is missing a button from around the neck. “Boss!”

“Told you I’d beat the sun.” It’s rising behind you, turning the deep shadows of night into grey ghosts. “What happened to your shirt?”

“Busted it helping move rocks,” Hercules says. He hurries to pull out a chair for you – he dusted your table off – and busies his hands with getting you a cup of coffee from the cart beside him. He’s even brought tomatoes to slice for your breakfast. “Cream?”

“And sugar.” You watch as his hands steady with the busy work. Hercules is your favorite chef (besides yourself). He know how to not overcomplicate a dish. You wait until he’s sliced your tomato and sprinkled it with just a bit of salt before you say, “You should go home.”

Hercules’ chin firms. “I’d like to stay and see this through, Boss.”

There are two people left in the world who can question you. Mercedes and Hercules. You smile. “This –” You gesture to the curls of exposed rebar and chunks of mortared brick “-- is our new friends, Hercules.”

“It’s my home,” Hercules says.

“It is.” You sip your coffee. Hercules added a tablespoon of sugar and it’s perfect. “How you can best help is to bring me my spare suit from the office and go home. You know I’m still learning my new powers.”

“Your aunt said you had impressive control.”

“I’m angry,” you say. You cut a bite of tomato and it’s so ripe that the juices bleed onto the plate. You let the implication hang in the air as you chew. You hate admitting weakness, but that’s what this is. I don’t know if I can control myself right now. “The suit will do, Hercules. The complicated one with the laces, you can suit me up for battle.”

Hercules still isn’t happy, but he says, “Boss.” He goes to fetch your clothes.

You watch the sunrise through the hole in your restaurant. Cars start slowly coasting down the road and gaping at the destruction. You know what the news articles will read because you told them what to say on the way over. Beloved landmark attacked. Because you are beloved and you want people to know that someone did this to you.

It will be easier to rally them later.

----------.

You’re laced and buckled up, situated behind the bar and out of sight of the street when the wolf man walks into Court. You’ve moved onto a bloody Mary which is the only passable drink you can make without Hercules. You bite into the celery stick loudly. “You’re late.”

The wolf man looks like a petty criminal. He’s wearing sweatpants to your meeting, a leather jacket, a black beanie that’s pulled down to his eyebrows. Without realizing it, you’ve become accustomed to the class of the LA court. He has a thick, black beard that makes the shape of his head longer and thinner than it actually is. His yellow eyes lock on you and he prowls forward, irritation in every step. “You hid this place.”

Actually, you obfuscated this place so nobody unknowing of the fae can stumble in here. You gesture to the newspaper spread across the bar. “We’re a ‘City Landmark.’ If you couldn’t find me from that, then I expected you’d at least be able to remember where you parked your truck last night.”

“Alpha Craig.” The man says. He stops five feet from the bar with his insolent hands in his pockets. “Or so they call me.”

Alpha. Does this mean werewolves are real too? Or is he another type of fae putting on a bit? You smell wolf coming from him in waves, your sensitive magic palate curling with distaste. If werewolves are real, does that make vampires real too?

Most of your restaurants do their own butchering. If there’s a market for blood dishes…

You drag your mind away from business. “I’ll confess, you weren’t on my list of suspects.”

You didn’t have a list of suspects. You thought that you must have stepped on the toes of another Court, like you did in LA. But you aren’t going to tip your hand to that.

Craig bristles. He bares his teeth and his hands come out of his pockets to show each finger is tipped with a razor sharp claw. “You fairy bastards are all the same. You think you’re the only ones with a right to hold a territory. You smell pretty young so I’ll tell you this; there’s a reason no Court lasts long in my city.”

His choice of words makes you laugh. “Actually, Court was established twenty years ago. That’s longer than most. Longer than you.”

It’s a guess, but it’s apparently a very good guess.

“I don’t know how you hid before, but you can’t hide now,” Craig says. His head jerks towards the damage. “That? That’s just the beginning. If you’re smart, you’ll sell and move on.”

“If I’m smart, hm?” You fold your arms and consider him. Craig reminds you of the worst type of chef; the ones just in it for the money. They’re like insects, crawling all over the culinary world in their artisanal food trucks and gastro-bistro pubs. “Walk with me.”

You don’t wait to see if Craig will follow. You leave the bar area and walk down the hall to the bathroom. There are newspaper articles there from each year you’ve been open. The grand opening was published locally. A few paragraphs and a grainy photo of Court with checkered tablecloths. Craig stops ten feet away from you, but you imagine he can still see the obviously cheaper design in the photo. “When I opened Court 20 years ago, I was terrified. All of my life savings turned into tables and ovens and product I didn’t know I would sell. The building was crumbling when I bought it. I patched every hole in the wall myself then. I’m not afraid to do it again now.”

“That was just a greeting,” Craig says. He grins to show sharp fangs. “It will only get worse.”

You hum and move down the hall. The articles now are from food critics. These are published in the local papers, yes, but also in food magazines. There’s one from a Philadelphia critic, a St. Louis one, even one from Atlanta. “My food received a lot of criticism. It took a lot of work to build the reputation I have. I had to compromise. Improve. Take feedback. There is only one dish on my menu that’s the same from 20 years ago. That dish has won awards across the nation.”

“Your sweet potatoes,” Craig says. He rolls his eyes. “This isn’t about food.”

You turn to face him. He’s closer now, five feet away from you and boiling with the need to fight. You smile like you did for all those critics and lean in. “Everything is about food.”

Something in your face must unnerve Craig. He jerks like he’s about to step back and then squares his footing. His eyes flash red. “Everything is about power.”

“That came later,” you say. You turn your back on the angry wolf to continue down the hallway. Now the articles are bigger. Full page spreads with your face on them or the chefs you trained. Your food is in glossy technicolor and accompanied by words like best and award-winning. “My food was recognized. I opened restaurants in all the major culinary hubs. It was a fight to get a footprint at first. I paid nearly eight digits for my restaurant in Vegas. But then they started calling me. ‘Please open a Court here.’ And I told them I would do them one better. I would give them restaurants with names only their city would ever have. Knight. Queen. Sentry. I never opened another Court. There has always been one.”

Craig misses what you’re telling him. “All of you fae never make any goddamn sense. I came today to tell you what’s what. The next time we meet, won’t be so nice.”

You watch Craig turn to go. His back is broad and radiating tension. The stink of wolf is ruining your palate.

“Alpha Craig, have you ever eaten at Court?”

Craig stops but doesn’t turn. “Before I knew it was run by fairies. Every New Yorker has.”

“Have you tried my Sweet Potato Pave?”

“It’s a complimentary appetizer.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

Craig finally turns. His eyes are blazing red. He laughs without humor. “Trying to convince me to spare you with potatoes?”

“You still don’t get it,” you say. “The Los Angeles Queen understood right away.”

“You lot and your riddles can go f—”

“You stood in my Court and you devoured the food I offered you of your own free will.”

Craig’s jaw clicks shut. His brow furrows. He’s finally getting it. “No. No, because we paid for it. There’s no debts to settle here.”

“You paid for the complimentary appetizer?” you ask lightly.

Craig goes still. It’s interesting because he doesn’t freeze in place like a human. Everything about him stills like prey. “Humans served us that food.”

“Made from my recipes using food in my court,” you say. You had this argument with the LA Queen as well. You gesture to the last photo on the wall. It’s a copy of your recipe, the one you carried with you since the beginning. The edges of it are stained with grease, sugar, and fat. The handwriting is pinched and tight. The entire page is littered with your corrections and notes and magic. “Every single one of my restaurants make it a hiring requirement. You learn this to the letter and, when you do, it becomes my food. Like a spell.”

“I would know,” Craig says. He shakes his head. “No, I would know if I or any of my pack were under fae enchantment.”

“My goal is not power,” you say. You think about your family finding you a month ago and how your awareness of what you are changed everything. You smile. “Though that came to me. No, I’m not like the ones you’ve dealt with before. Why would you ever feel your yoke? My goal has always been to feed people good food. And, like the lambs you are, you came and asked me to feed you.”

“I would feel it.” Craig is insistent. One hand tears at his shirt over his heart. “I would feel it here.”

“You will feel it now,” you say.

And he does.

Craig gasps as you let your power rise. He feels the weight of your work and the gravity of what you do. You give people what sustains them. You craft delight and joy and sustenance and life. People take it into their bodies and their pleasure comes back to you and your food becomes part of them.

Craig feels your rage.

“Nobody died,” Craig chokes out. He falls to his knees. His eyes are yellow as he looks up at you and begs. “Nobody got hurt.”

You dart forward and grab his jaw. Before you knew, you were strong from years in the kitchen carrying the weight a chef must carry. There are scars littered across your hands and callouses just as deep. You’re a lot stronger now. “I got hurt,” you hiss. “We got hurt.”

The restaurant breathes with you. You’ve touched every brick here. You’ve done many deals here. It is as much the ruler of this court as you are.

And it is angry with Craig too.

“I’m sorry,” Craig blubbers. How fast his rage has fled! Stark terror makes the scent of wolf more tolerable. “We—we’ll leave. Before the end of the day.”

“Leave? You can’t leave. You ate my food.” You smile as Craig’s eyes well at the truth of your words. “I will never allow you to leave.”

Craig trembles. “Then what do you want?”

“I want you to eat,” you say. You throw him away from you and he flies ten feet back into the dining room. “Every month, you and yours will come here to eat until your debt for your harm is paid.”

“I-I can pay for the damages—”

You will not be questioned by a wolf. “I told you how.”

Craig scrambles up. He stands stooped so this head is lower than yours. “I—I will do it.”

“Of course you will.” You wave your hand. “Go.”

Craig runs with his tail between his legs.

Will he try to run further? Away from your deal? You head back to the bar to make yourself another drink. It doesn’t matter if he does.

You have a restaurant in every city.

---

Thanks for reading! I'm still in love with anything and everything fae!

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You never knew your birth parents, growing up across the country in orphanages. While alone you learned to cook and shared your meals across the world, eventually owning your own business. One day you suddenly find out what your parents were. They were Fae… you’ve fed thousands Fae Food.

#my writing #the fae #original story #my fairytales #second person narration #second person pov #long post

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lucytara · 4 years ago

Note

Yeah I get wanting some variation in your writing and whatnot. Hmm.

Gold. "I defy you. I defy your god. The laws of the universe said my love was gone from me. I said watch me save her." Bumbleby.

Have fun!

it’s possible. that i went. a little overboard with this prompt.

"I defy you. I defy your god. The laws of the universe said my love was gone from me. I said watch me save her."

All four candles are lit in the corners of the small room, wicks burning purple and melting black wax. Her offering sits in a dish at the feet of the small statue - an old, worn piece of paper, bent and torn around its edges - and she herself kneels in the center of the floor, her hands clasped.

“I’ve never done this,” she begins, “but my name is Yang Xiao Long, and I humbly request an audience.”

Nothing happens, though she isn’t sure what she would’ve expected even if it had; the flames flicker with her unsteady heartbeat, the blood in her ears crashing as if waves in a storm. For some reason it’s embarrassing, calling on a higher entity who decides to put you through to voicemail.

She tries again, and aims for theatrical exaggeration; maybe the gods like a bit of a show. If she’s making a fool of herself, she might as well do it brilliantly. “O, Great Goddess! I call upon thee - All-Knowing Ruler of the Dead, Empress of the Night, Most Holy Lady of Darkness, Reigning Queen of Entropy--”

“I think that’s probably enough,” a voice comes from in front of her, amusement evident beneath its tone. “What was that one in the middle? ‘Empress of the Night’? I might keep that.”

Her head whips up towards the sound, and a woman in a deep purple cloak is leaning against her own statue, arms crossed and watching her performance with a look that can only be described as shameless delight. Gorgeous black hair framing golden eyes, like the sky wrapping itself around stars; the statue doesn’t do her justice.

“Oh my God,” Yang says, sitting back on her heels. All the preparation and rehearsing she’d done isn’t enough to conquer the shock of a beautiful, unearthly woman appearing in front of her and--

“Yes, I get that a lot.”

--mercilessly mocking her.

“Well, Yang Xiao Long?” the woman continues. “Why have you called upon me?”

“How do you know my name?” Yang says stupidly.

“I’m a god,” the goddess replies, a smile pulling at a corner of her mouth. “I’m the all-knowing ruler of the dead or whatever. Also, you said your name when you summoned me.”

“Fuck,” Yang says, struggling to regain her composure and failing spectacularly. “I - yeah. Right. Okay. Is it rude to swear in front of gods? And what do I call you?”

“I’ll allow it,” the woman says. “And you can call me Blake.”

“Blake,” Yang repeats; her hands open and close like a nervous tick. The name is a heavy weight in her mouth, settling her into steadiness. “I’ve come to request guidance.”

“Guidance?” Blake repeats, and gently lifts the note from the offering dish, turning it carefully around her hands without opening it to read it - she doesn’t need to. Yang registers faint surprise in her expression; yes, she’d assumed the sentimentality would fetch a rather large price. “This is quite the payment.”

“It’s the last note I have from someone who loved me,” Yang says. “I figured it would be sufficient.”

Those bright, inquisitive eyes glance over to her, and now the playing field has been reversed: intrigue and curiosity outweigh Yang’s atrocious initial delivery.

“Stand, please,” Blake commands softly. “I want to get a good look at you.”

Obediently, Yang rises to her feet, and with an odd jolt realizes she’s a few inches taller than the goddess. It’s unexpected, and it seems to unnerve Blake for a moment, too. Or maybe that’s the candlelight, throwing shapes and colors, turning the room cavernous. Maybe Blake is shrinking and she’s growing. Maybe once she was so tall the entire world trembled beneath her feet.

“You already have power,” Blake says, circling her curiously, and now she’s seeing what isn’t visible, looking for handprints on her soul. “You have been claimed. Whom do you answer to?”

“I didn’t receive this power from a god,” Yang says quietly. “I’ve had it as long as I can remember.”

“That’s impossible,” Blake says, and her gaze is piercing into Yang’s heart; she sees its strength, but she sees its scars, too. And its emptiness. There is plenty of that.

“Touch me,” Yang says. “You’ll find no prior claim.”

“I don’t need to.” Blake takes another step closer to her, the way you’d inspect a painting in a museum. Hands at her sides, cautious of glass and rope. “I can see your aura. But it’s impossible.”

“I’m looking for something,” Yang says, and Blake glances up, briefly meeting her eyes. “I don’t know what it is. But I’ve been looking for something for what feels like my entire life.”

Quizzical, now. One by one the candles are burning down. The room is collapsing in on them, or perhaps that’s simply the god in front of her, looking like she’d dive into Yang’s veins and unravel her if it were permitted.

“Why me?” Blake asks finally. “You know what I’m the goddess of, don’t you?”

“You guard death,” Yang says, her voice impossibly gentle; dusk flows river-like from her mouth. There is a world Blake can almost see. “But you can’t guard death without also guarding life, right? I don’t know what I’m looking for, but whatever it is, I imagine you encompass it.”

“Poetic,” Blake responds, and waits further. “I would like the truth, please. Our time is running short.”

There’s no point in playing games with gods. “The truth is stupid,” Yang says bluntly, and the corner of Blake’s mouth tilts again.

“Try me.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” Yang says, and Blake’s eyebrows raise in amusement. Bold, reckless, and absolutely pushing her luck to the furthest corners it can inhabit. “Accept me as yours, and when the time is right, I will tell you the truth.”

“Is the truth that powerful?” Blake says, curious despite herself.

The last candle flutters, throwing shadows from Yang’s eyelashes to her cheek. “I think it is.”

“Welcome back, Empress of the Night,” Ruby says upon her return to the Kingdom, giving her an exaggerated bow. “I hope you enjoyed your summon, My Lady of Perpetual Darkness.”

“What the hell was that about?” Weiss asks. “I haven’t even heard you crack a joke for, like, a millennia, and suddenly you’re the court jester?”

“She was amusing,” Blake says, shrugging. “Usually people are so timid and terrified. I felt like having some fun.”

“You?” Weiss says dubiously.

“Shut up, Weiss,” Ruby says. “You mustn’t speak that way to Our Patron Saint, Duchess of Death.”

“Now you’re not even trying.”

“Don’t you both have work to do?” Blake says, ending the interrogation before it can really begin. She’s not sure she’d have the answers for them, anyway.

Yang journeys east.

Find me again, Blake had said. The closer you get to my temple, the more I can see of you. She’d brushed aside Yang’s bangs, touched a single finger to her forehead. It felt like a teardrop, or a meteor shower. It felt like digging up a grave, or chiseling into stone. It felt like the last explosion. It felt like the first breath.

You are mine, Blake had said, and something about it had felt far too right.

She crosses from Sanus to Anima, spends days traversing forests and mountains, fending off bandits and monsters. Eyes flashing red and fire licking up her skin. Aura glowing golden before breaking. There is something wrong with the trees, she thinks; there is something wrong with the sky. Like I’m looking at them from the wrong side.

Nobody is there to answer her, and not for the first time, she wonders how she came to be so alone.

Blake watches Yang’s power unveil itself from above. Yang is hers, now, and though she can’t make house calls to the world below without a summon, she at least has instant access to her claims. There aren’t many of them, and Yang is different.

It reminds her of the God of Vengeance, almost - how he absorbs power before returning it, strike by vicious strike - but Yang’s is personal, sacrificial. She feels the pain before she can utilize it, and her anger is never cruel, her actions never misplaced. And she doesn’t complain.

Sometimes, Blake wishes she would: she can hear when she’s being talked to, even if she can’t respond. Every prayer, every curse, every devastation, every hope.

She waits for the sound of Yang’s voice, but it never comes.

There’s a small shrine in a village called Shion, which is still weeks out from the docks where she can potentially get a ferry to Menagerie, but the locals are kind, and honor her far too greatly for being touched by their ruling god. They direct her to their place of worship deep in the woods, and leave her without looking back. It’s a sacred thing, a bond between a god and their chosen, and law forbids them from watching her ceremony.

Yang pulls the candle from her pouch, lighting it at the foot of the shrine. She kneels down on the stone, worn with the imprints of a thousand prayers, and says, “Blake.”

“I was wondering when I’d hear from you again.” The voice comes almost immediately, as if its owner had been waiting to be beckoned.

It’s still a bit of a shock, though she’s much better prepared for it this time. “Hi,” Yang says, and stops there before she can fuck it up.

“Hi,” Blake says, and seems to be amused against her will. More guarded, less open. Yang can read the warning signs, but she’ll cut them off at the source.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and she means it, getting to her feet. “If I waited too long to contact you, I mean. I’m...not familiar with this area.”

“Don’t worry,” Blake says, lowering her arms. “It’s only been a few weeks. I won’t smite you until at least a month.”

Yang laughs, and unexpectedly to the both of them, Blake goes deadly still. Her body language says Yang’s done something wrong, but her expression says she’s hearing music.

The candle is burning. The moment can turn itself over gently, if Yang knows how to guide it. She keeps her smile on, but makes it quiet. “You know, I didn’t expect the Goddess of Death to have a sense of humor.”

It seems to work. “I like to surprise people,” Blake says, and moves closer. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“You never talk to me,” she says, pretending to be in control of something she clearly isn’t. “Why not?”

Only the forest speaks for a moment, branches creaking, leaves rustling. And then: “Do you want me to?” Yang asks.

“It’s...something people tend to do,” Blake says slowly. “But not you.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Yang says.

“It’s not a bother.” The words come out too quickly, tone too reassuring. Blake’s own want is what laces the conversation, rather than Yang’s uncertainty. That’s a new, dangerous line.

Yang takes a careful step forward, her eyes lowered to the ground as if in apology; they raise slowly, trailing over Blake’s form until meeting her gaze. Looking for lines she’s crossed, and should step back over; searching for lights that say go. Instead, she only finds an intense, hungry confusion - I want it without understanding what it is.

“You know,” she murmurs, “these statues - they never do you justice.”

And she lifts a hand to Blake’s cheek, hesitating over her skin - is that Blake’s catch of breath, or is it the wind? - before gently cupping it in her palm. She could lose an arm for this; touching a god without being explicitly asked is the greatest sin a mortal can commit, but Blake only stands there, unmoving, eyes wide and lips parted, the moon sitting in the hollow of her throat.

“Blake,” she whispers, and it can only be a god’s strength keeping her voice steady, “I’m never not thinking of you.”

The candle goes out.

Nobody is waiting for her when she returns. This is how gods give each other gifts - by saying, no, I see everything but I didn’t see you.

Yang starts talking to her, and changes her routes so that rather than taking the most direct path to Menagerie, she’s able to stop at some of the smaller shrines on the way. There are only two more, and she hasn’t called Blake since Shion. Yang hopes she’ll still come.

“Isn’t it strange,” Yang says, “how much easier it is to think about someone than to talk about them? I think about you differently than I can talk about you. I don’t even know if that makes sense.”

No response; not that she expects one. At this point, she assumes Blake’ll just kill her if she gets too annoying. Maybe a tree will fall on her, or she’ll do something embarrassing like trip over a rock and break her neck. “I can’t remember much about my life. I know there were people I loved, but I can’t see their faces. I must’ve traveled a lot; I don’t like sitting still. I don’t know how old I am, or even when my birthday is.” She’s never admitted this before; never admitted she came to lying on the ground, with only her name left ringing in her skull and a note in her pocket.

“I think you’re beautiful,” she tells the warm night air. “That’s what I was trying to say. Before. Blake, I think you’re beautiful.”

A star shoots across the sky, light trails leaving imprints against the swirling blue-purple-black of the galaxy, but it must be a coincidence.

Another shrine, another candle. This one burrowed into the side of a mountain, a dome of a room with a hand-woven rug for kneeling, several long benches behind. The statue sits against the far wall, centered.

“They’re getting better,” Yang says, getting to her feet. “This one, at least, gets your eyes right.”

“Hm,” Blake says, pressing her lips together. She moves to stand next to Yang rather than in front of her, and they both examine the statue together. “I suppose you’d know, wouldn’t you?”

“Were the compliments too much?” Yang asks, impressed with how light her voice sounds. She nudges Blake’s elbow with her own. Oh, she’ll see how much distance she can cross. She’s already walked miles - she’ll swim oceans, too. “You said you wanted me to talk to you.”

“I didn’t say that,” Blake denies unconvincingly, and then pauses. “And in regards to your first question - I didn’t say that, either.”

Yang could tease her - so even gods like being called pretty, huh - or she could be brave, turn to Blake, take her face in both of her hands and lean in--

“Yang,” Blake says, and does step one of that plan by turning to her. “What do you want from me?”

Maybe the idea’s overwhelmed her to the degree that she can no longer see its risks - its potentially horrible, literally life-ending consequences - and that's what drives her to do it. Maybe it’s that Blake is looking at her like a poem; something beautiful, not to be understood by anyone but the artist who made her.

“What would you do if I kissed you?” Yang says, as if it were merely an interesting, hypothetical concept to explore and not the end of the world. “Is that possible, even if you wanted me to?”

This room is warm and close and silent. The clay is cracking where the floor meets the walls. A tunneled-through skylight is the only thing that keeps Blake from swallowing the place in shadows, instead coating them in an amber, dream-like glow. Like if you mixed the two of them together, you’d still be left with light.

“I think,” Blake murmurs, “we’re both going to have to find that out.”

Step two of her plan. Both of her hands cupping Blake’s cheeks. She’s strangely aware of her lifelines - do they mean anything to you, she wants to ask, does my life mean anything to you now and if it doesn’t, will my death - she leans in, their noses brushing, Blake’s breathing as if she needs to, Yang isn’t and she does; teach me about magic, teach me about memory, tell me how I knew you before I knew myself--

Blake kisses her, tired of her caution and hesitancy, lips parting and fists knotting around the fabric of her shirt. Yang expects them to crash together, like comets. She expects them to crumble and collapse under the impact, buried in the ruins of each other and suffocating. She expects them to decay there, reveling in their own destruction.

What she doesn’t expect is sunlight.

Her skin set aflame, Blake’s tongue in her mouth, hands traveling from her face to her lower back and pressing close - somewhere a rule is being written about the gods and desperation - Blake pulls away, gasps, her fingers begging for Yang’s heart.

“This power,” she says, mesmerized, staring at things only she can see, golden gossamer roots running up Yang’s veins. “Where did you get it?”

“I don’t know,” Yang breathes out, and kisses her one last time before the candle burns out. “But I swear I’ve never felt closer to finding out.”

Nobody attempts to stop her from barging through God’s door. Weiss and Ruby, Sun and Neptune; they all avert their eyes. I see everything, but I do not see you.

“What is she?” Blake asks, standing before them with her head bowed. “Please, God. I need to know.”

“If you weren’t already sure,” God says, “you wouldn’t be here.”

She hates it when they’re right.

Yang hits the docks; situated on the outskirts of a fishing village called Ito, and with constant transport to Menagerie, their shrine to Blake is the largest one yet.

“And this one?” Blake asks, before Yang has even begun to pray.

“How did you do that?” Yang says, staring up at her, startled. “Are we, like, super close now?”

“Shut up,” Blake says, but she’s smiling. She extends a hand, helping Yang to her feet. “Your soul calls me. You barely even have to light the candle, anymore.”

The sound of the ocean knocks on the door; the smell tackles the windows. Above, the seagulls are crying out, angry at all the fish they can’t have. Yang says, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Blake says, and kisses her. Soft and chaste. Something so human and so immortal. “I missed you.”

“I’m your favorite, aren’t I?” Yang teases, her fingers catching Blake’s chin in her hands.

“No,” Blake says, and for the first time, smiles with her teeth. Oh, this is happiness. “I do this with everyone who requests my presence. I’m very popular.”

“I can imagine,” Yang says, brushing a thumb across her bottom lip. “So what else are you the god of?”

“You had a few of them right,” Blake says nonchalantly, settling against Yang’s body. She could be taller, if she wanted to be, but there’s so much beauty to see when looking up. “Night, and all things within it. Darkness, shadows. Death.”

“What else?” Yang says, watching her mouth shape every letter.

“Forgiveness, and justice,” Blake murmurs. Oh, there’s a fine print for this, and she’s violating every word. “Promises,” she continues. “Seduction.”

Hook, line - a heavy wave rattles the walls; oh, the sea, the sea! - Yang shudders against her mouth, salt sinking into her blood. Leaves her bouyant and floating, the earth bubbling up beneath her. Rising and rising and rising.

“Shockingly,” Yang says, letting Blake press kisses into the crook of her neck, “I don’t find that hard to believe.”

“God,” Blake finds herself standing before them once again, hands clasped and head bowed. She speaks formally in the presence of God, as is customary of respect. “Please, God. I am supposed to be guiding her, but I fear all I’ve done is lead her astray. I need to know where she came from, and where she is going.”

“Blake,” God says, and touches the top of her head with their hand, “she is close to your temple. Look at her, and tell me what you see.”

Menagerie is a busy, populated island, and Blake’s temple is the primary reason for that. Pilgrimages are made from around the world to pray at her shrine and leave offerings at her feet. Protect me from loss, help me navigate my grief, let me fulfill my promise.

Yang is none of those things. And when the keepers of the temple ask the reason for her journey, she says, “I am in love with her.”

“You have been touched,” one says, and bows to her upon entry. “You have as long as the goddess is willing to give you.”

The heavy doors close, but the room shimmers, firelight glittering over golden-accented walls. A large moon is carved into the marble floor, crossing over a sun. Before her is the largest, most intricately carved statue of Blake she’s ever seen, and it looks exactly like her.

Yang kneels.

“You know,” Blake says from behind her, “you don’t have to do that anymore.”

“No,” Yang says. “But it - it’s been a long journey. And I’m only here because of you.”

Blake’s footsteps echo, her boots stopping at the north point of the sun. “How do you feel?”

It’s enough to make Yang smile. “I know you heard me,” she says pointedly, but her amusement is apparent. “You hear everything I say.”

“I thought I’d give you the chance to tell me yourself.”

For the last time, Yang rises to her feet. Blake’s eyes glitter, mischievous and playful. She looks as she always has, but clearer, somehow; defined and resolute. She carries the truth in the way she extends a hand, in the way she searches for Yang’s mouth. When they kiss, Yang swears she can see another world.

“I’ll tell you something better,” Yang says. “The truth.”

She leans down, bumps their foreheads together. Blake’s arms loop around her neck automatically. Oh, Yang thinks, if I were the god of anything, I’d want it to be habits.

“So what’s the truth?” Blake asks.

“The truth,” Yang says unshakably, “is that it was you. I woke up with no memory and a note, and somehow, I knew I had to find you. The only thing I’ve been searching for is you.”

It’s you, she says. It’s you. You. You.

“God,” Blake says, and this time God is ready for her.

“Blake Belladonna,” God says, and inclines their head. “Come. Show me what you have.”

In her hands is a small slip of paper, worn and ripped around the edges. “It is a note,” she says, and unfolds it gingerly. “It is a note, God, in my handwriting.”

“And what does it say?” they ask.

“Find me,” Blake recites, “and I promise I’ll bring you home.”

“Well,” God says whimsically, “you are the Goddess of Promises.”

Tears build in the corners of her eyes, shipwrecks gaining water. “Yang,” Blake whispers, and now that she is close, she can see everything. Meteors falling from their showers; the day the sun went out. “Yang. I’m sorry. I’m so, so--”

“Shh,” Yang murmurs, pressing her lips into Blake’s hair. “What are you apologizing for? I found you, and you brought me home.”

“Oh, this is exciting,” God says. “I so rarely get to come to Remnant on business.”

“God,” Yang says, and bows her head. The temple doors remain locked; Blake’s hand is clutched tightly in her own. “It’s good to see you.”

“And you, Yang Xiao Long,” says God. “You fell in the last war, over five-hundred years ago. Do you remember this?”

“Yes,” she says. “I was trying to protect my sister.”

“And what happens when a god falls?”

“We forget them,” Blake says. “Their power is forfeit; they are erased from our memories, and our world.”

“It is not a law of justice, but a law of reality,” God says. “Or it was, previously. Only you did not forget immediately, Blake Belladonna. I did not know it was possible for two souls to be so intrinsically bound that they leave traces in the other, but you did not forget, just long enough to leave her a message. It took five hundred years for Yang to fall to earth, and when she awoke, she did not forget, either.

“Gods are made, and this means that what we are gods of can change,” they continue. “Blake, you were not previously the Goddess of Death. You became it because you believed that Yang had died, and no god had as strong a connection to loss as you. Your power became a beacon, just as it now will be a beacon for Remembrance.

“And you, Yang Xiao Long,” God says. “Goddess of the Sun, of Loyalty, of Sacrifice. You were many things. And now you are the Goddess of Rebirth.”

#Anonymous #bumbleby #rwby fic prompts #rwby fic

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